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ENCYCLOPEDIA BRITANNICA
SEVENTH EDITION.
5
'4
THE
ENCYCLOPAEDIA BRITANNICA
OR
DICTIONARY
OF
ARTS, SCIENCES, AND GENERAL LITERATURE.
SEVENTH EDITION,
WITH PRELIMINARY DISSERTATIONS ON THE HISTORY OF THE SCIENCES,
AND
OTHER EXTENSIVE IMPROVEMENTS AND ADDITIONS;
INCLUDING THE LATE SUPPLEMENT.
A GENERAL INDEX,
AND NUMEROUS ENGRAVINGS.
VOLUME XVIII.
ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK, EDINBURGH;
M.DCCC.XLIL
ENCYCLOPAEDIA BRITANNIC A
PLATA, LA.
Plata. T A PLATA is the name of an extensive tract of coun-
-V''w' try in South America, extending from the eastern de¬
clivities of the Chilian Andes, to the great rivers Paraguay,
Parana, and La Plata. During the latter period of Spanish
domination, it formed the viceroyalty of the Rio de la Pla¬
ta, or Buenos Ayres, having then annexed to it Bolivia or
Upper Peru, Paraguay, and the Banda Oriental. By sub¬
sequent changes these have been erected into independent
states, and the remaining territory has been constituted a
republic under the name of the Argentine Republic, or
the United Provinces of the Rio de la Plata. It is a fe¬
deral state, consisting of a number of provinces, of which
Buenos Ayres is the head. Before describing this country,
we shall briefly glance at its past history.
To the Spaniards belongs the honour of first discovering
this part of the South American continent. In the year
1515, Juan Dias de Solis or Salis, having been furnished by
the court of Spain with two ships for the purpose of explor¬
ing Brazil, arrived, on his voyage thither, at the mouth of
the Rio de la Plata. Touching on the north coast between
Maldonado and Monte Video, he took formal possession of
the land in name of his sovereign ; but, thrown off' his guard
by the deceitful friendship of the natives, he was slain,
along with a few attendants who had followed him on shore.
The coast was immediately abandoned by the survivors on
board of the vessels; but in the year 1526 a fresh expedi¬
tion, under the celebrated Sebastian Cabot, then in the
service of Spain, entered the river, and cast anchor opposite
the present site of Buenos Ayres. This took place at the
time when a Spanish captain called Garcia was making dis¬
coveries in other parts of the same river. Advancing about
a hundred and twenty leagues upwards, Cabot discovered
a fine river flowing into the main stream. Up this he sail¬
ed with his fleet, and disembarking his men, built a fort,
in which he left a garrison ; whilst he himself, with his re¬
maining followers, pursued his discoveries still farther up
the river. The Indians with whom he came in contact ex¬
hibited abundance of gold and silver plates, particularly the
latter, brought by them from the eastern parts of Peru;
but the circumstance led Cabot to believe that mines of
the precious metals existed in the country in which he
VOL. xvm.
then was, and accordingly he gave the name of Rio de la La Plata.
Plata, or River of Silver, to the noble stream by which it'—•'V—^
was watered. The Spaniards soon determined on coloniz¬
ing this valuable acquisition; and, to prevent any interfer¬
ence on the part of the other nations of Europe, Don Pe¬
dro de Mendoza, with two or three thousand followers, was
sent from Spain to secure the possession, and establish a re¬
lationship between it and the mother country. He landed
upon the western shore of the La Plata in the year 1535,
and founded the city of Buenos Ayres, which he so named
from the salubrity of the climate. Pursuing his way into
the interior, he conquered all the country as far as Potosi,
at which mines of silver were discovered nine years after¬
wards. The first settlers at Buenos Ayres were most un¬
fortunate ; their town was burned by the Indians, and after
suffering every privation, they were shortly afterwards com¬
pelled to abandon the place. Previously to this event, As¬
sumption, the capital of Paraguay, had been founded ; and
thither the wretched remains of the expedition retreated.
A second armament was fitted out, and an attempt made to
rebuild the town, in 1542; but it was overwhelmed by a ca¬
lamity similar to that which had overtaken the former. The
chief attention of the Spaniards was for some time directed
to forming settlements in Paraguay, in order to facilitate
their communication with the mines of Peru, where Pizar-
ro and his successors were gathering in a golden harvest.
Contentions with the Indians were frequent and bloody, for
the inhabitants of the vast plains upon either bank of the
La Plata proved much more difficult to subdue than the
timid and tractable Peruvians.
It was not until the year 1580 that the Europeans suc¬
ceeded in their attempts to found a town upon the site cho¬
sen by Mendoza. Before this period, however, they had es¬
tablished themselves at Santa Fe, Mendoza, and some other
places in the interior; so that, as Dr Southey observes, the
history of this part of South America differs from that of
any other colony in one remarkable circumstance: The
first permanent settlement was formed in the heart of the
country, and the Spaniards colonized from the interior to¬
wards the sea. But they were not permitted quietly to en¬
joy the success of their third attempt to found Buenos Ayres.
A
PLATA, LA.
La Plata. Stimulated by the recollection of their previous triumphs in
demolishing the works of the invaders on the same ground,
the Indians once more attacked it, and were so far success¬
ful as to set fire to the tents and temporary erections of the
settlers. Their leader, however, being slain, they were com¬
pelled to retreat with loss ; and before they were in a condi¬
tion to renew the work of demolition, the town was so well
fortified and garrisoned as to bid defiance to their efforts.
Again the leader of the savages fell, and his force was com¬
pletely defeated and put to flight. From this period the
city began to prosper, and the ship which carried to Cas-
tille the intelligence of its refoundation took home a cargo
of sugar, and the first hides with which Europe was sup¬
plied from the wild cattle which now began to overspread
the country, and soon produced a total change in the man¬
ners of all the adjoining tribes. The immense pampas of
La Plata appear to have been originally stocked with cattle
from a few which had been brought by the earliest settlers;
and so rapidly had they multiplied, that, about the year
1610, no less than a million is said to have been driven from
the country in the neighbourhood of Santa Fe into Peru.
In the year 1620 Buenos Ayres was erected into a bi¬
shopric ; but for nearly two centuries it continued to be a
place of little note, and comparatively scanty population.
From the first period of the colonization of this country till
the year 1778, the government was dependent on that of
Peru, although the chief of Buenos Ayres had the title of
captain-general. A false idea of what constitutes wealth
led Spain to estimate the value of her possessions by the
number and richness of their mines of gold and silver; and
Buenos Ayres being deficient in these, its more solid ad¬
vantages of a fertile soil and a salubrious climate were con¬
sequently overlooked. The pernicious system of political
economy practised by Spain towards her colonies was the
main cause why this city remained for such a length of time
almost entirely unknown to Europeans. Apprehensive lest
commodities might be introduced into Peru by way of
Buenos Ayres, and thus prejudice the sale of the cargoes
imported by the fleets which they sent to Panama, the
early traders solicited and obtained from the government
the prohibition of every kind of commerce by the Rio de
la Plata. Those whom this measure most nearly affected
put in a strong remonstrance against it, and were so far
successful that, in 1602, permission was granted them to ex¬
port for six years, in two vessels belonging to themselves,
and on their own account, a certain quantity of flour, tal¬
low, and jerked beef, but only to two ports. Upon the
expiration of the term an indefinite prolongation was soli-
. cited, with an extension to all kinds of merchandise, and
liberty to trade also with other ports. This application
was vehemently opposed ; but notwithstanding, in the year
1618, the inhabitants of the shores of the Rio de la Plata
were authorized to fit out two vessels, not exceeding one
hundred tons burden each. Several other vexatious re¬
strictions were imposed on them; and, to prevent any traffic
with the interior of Peru, a custom-house was established at
Cordova del Tucuman, where a duty of fifty per cent, was
levied upon all imports. This custom-house was also de¬
signed to prevent the transmission of the precious metals
from Peru to Buenos Ayres, even in payment for mules fur¬
nished by the latter city. By an order of 1622 this permis¬
sion was prolonged for an indefinite period; and, with a view
to promote the prosperity of the country, a royal audience
was established at Buenos Ayres in 1665.
Under such a miserable system of policy, it is not sur¬
prising that the provinces of the Rio de la Plata languished
in indigence and obscurity. But the resources of so exten¬
sive and fertile a territory could not remain for ever con¬
cealed. As the population and wealth of the country in¬
creased, the continual remonstrances of the people at last
opened the eyes of the Spanish government to the import¬
ance of the colony, and a relaxation took place in the sys- ba
tem of commercial monopoly, which had hitherto been ri-'''-’"
gorously adhered to. Indeed the absurd restrictions had
been followed by their natural consequence, smuggling ;
and to such a height was the contraband trade carried,
that, in order to put a stop to it, the government of Castille
gave permission to register ships to sail under a license
from the council of the Indies at any time of the year. The
flota which hitherto had embarked from Spain once a year,
and was the only legitimate means of communication with
America, dwindled away from 15,000 to 2000 tons of ship¬
ping ; and in 1748 it sailed for the last time to Cadiz, after
having carried on the trade of Spanish America for two cen¬
turies. The register-ships now supplied the market with
European commodities at a cheaper rate and at all seasons
of the year; and from that time Buenos Ayres gradually
rose into importance. Other relaxations in the mercantile
system followed soon afterwards. In the year 1774 a free
trade was permitted between several of the American ports ;
and this was subsequently followed by additional liberties.
The improvements which took place in Buenos Ayres by
this enlargement of its commercial relations were frequently
interrupted by circumstances which carry us back to an
early period of its history. The Spaniards and Portuguese
have, by a singular coincidence, been destined to be rivals,
not only in the Old, but in the New World. The neigh¬
bouring territory of Brazil belonged to Portugal, and bit¬
ter hostilities frequently took place between the two coun¬
tries. It is computed that, in the hostile incursions which the
Brazilians made into the Spanish possessions in this quar¬
ter of America, they destroyed upwards of four hundred
towns and villages. These marauders, born of Portuguese,
Dutch, French, Italian, and Brazilian women, were called
Mamelucos. Their principal object was to carry into slavery
the Indians whom the Jesuits had partially civilized; and
in exercising their inhuman trade they committed the most
horrid enormities. It is asserted, that in one hundred and
thirty years two millions of Indians were slain or carried
into captivity by the Mamelucos of Brazil, and that more
than one thousand leagues of country, as far as the river
Maranon, were almost depopulated. It may well be believed
that the settlements of the Rio de la Plata did not escape
the same cruel devastation. But it does not appear that
the acts of these marauders were authorized by the govern¬
ment which they professed to obey; for repeated decrees
were passed in favour of the oppressed Indians. These,
however, were seldom or never observed; and governors and
others, who profited by the captivity and sale of the native
tribes, winked at the traffic. But the rivalry and animosity
of the Portuguese were productive of other evils besides
those consequent on hostile incursions. We have alluded
to an extensive contraband trade, originating, in the first
instance, in the blind policy of Spain. This was chiefly
carried on by the Portuguese, who were enabled, by means
of the immense and thinly-inhabited territory of the Banda
Oriental, to organize a system of smuggling which ulti¬
mately almost annihilated legitimate commerce. But the go¬
vernment having gained over Artigas, one of the most daring
of the contrabandists, were at length enabled, with his as¬
sistance, to crush the illicit trade, and to put an end to the
atrocities which it had inflicted on the country.
In the year 1778, the provinces of the Rio de la Plata,
Paraguay, Tucuman, Los Charcos, and Chiquito, were
erected into a viceroyalty, of which Buenos Ayres was con¬
stituted the capital. At the same time it was thrown open
to free trade of every description, even with the interior
of Peru; and such was the effect of this wholesome mea¬
sure, that the number of vessels trading with South Ame¬
rica was at once augmented from fifteen to one hundred
and seventy. They kept gradually increasing from year to
year; and, in 1796, sixty-three vessels from Old Spain alone
Plata.
PLAT
La Plata, arrived in the single port of Buenos Ayres, with cargoes
valued at nearly three millions of piastres; and fifty-one
sailed from it for the mother country, fourteen to the Ha-
vannah, and eleven to the coast of Africa. The value of
the exports was about five millions and a half of piastres,
including upwards of four millions in gold and silver. Dur¬
ing the war which broke out between Great Britain and
Spain, the trade of this colony suffered severely ; indeed for
a time it was all but annihilated. Immense quantities
of hides and other native productions, pent up in the ware¬
houses of Buenos Ayres and Monte Video, were allowed to
rot, there beinff no outlet for them; whilst at the same time
many kinds of European goods rose to exorbitant prices,
or were not to be procured at any cost, d his situation of
affairs afforded the people of the United States of North
America an opportunity of carrying on a contraband trade,
by which the inhabitants of the provinces of the Rio de la
Plata were supplied with European commodities ; and this
traffic was connived at by the Spanish government. The
fortune of war, however, in a few years placed Buenos
Ayres for a short time in the hands of the British, and
an end was put to the trade with the great western re¬
public.
In the year 1806, a British squadron, under the com¬
mand of Sir Home Popham, appeared in the Rio de la
Plata. From this armament a body of troops was landed,
for the purpose of taking the capital. The British force
was small, but, by the culpable negligence of the viceroy,
the Marquis de Sombre Monte, who does not appear to
have made any attempt to defend this important city, Ge¬
neral Beresford accomplished his object on the 26th of
June. This rash and unauthorized enterprise was fortu¬
nate in the first instance, but exceedingly disastrous in its
issue. The viceroy having retired to Cordova, Don San¬
tiago Liniers, a Frenchman in the service of Spain, put him¬
self at the head of all the troops he could collect on both
banks of the Plata, and on the 12th of August attacked
the city at several points. So vigorous and successful was
the assault, that the British general and his troops were
compelled to surrender themselves prisoners of war. The
disgraceful retreat of the viceroy having completely alien¬
ated from him the esteem of those over whom he ruled,
they accordingly stripped him of his authority, and made
the most strenuous efforts to obtain the office for Liniers,
but without success. He was covered with honours, but
a new viceroy arrived from Spain. Never was there a more
favourable opportunity for these provinces entirely throw¬
ing off the yoke of the mother country; but no spirit of
revolt existed in the country. The fact is, that, at the pe¬
riod of this invasion, Spain nowhere possessed more faith¬
ful subjects than those who peopled the banks of the Rio
de la Plata. There cannot be a doubt, however, that this
successful repulse of an enemy common to both, taught
the people of Buenos Ayres “ a deep lesson and it ought
to be regarded as the first step to that revolution in which
the power of Spain in America was completely overthrown.
In the mean time, British reinforcements arrived from
the Cape of Good Hope, whence the original expedition
had sailed ; and Sir Home Popham, after making an unsuc¬
cessful attempt on Monte Video, took Fort Maldonado, at
the mouth of the river Plata. But the intelligence of the
first capture of Buenos Ayres was so well received by the
British public, that government resolved on maintaining
possession of the banks of the Plata ; and an armament was
therefore fitted out for effectually reducing the country.
The first body of troops, which were commanded by Sir
Samuel Auchmuty, enabled the British to undertake the
conquest of Monte Video, which was carried by storm in
February 1807. In May following, General Whitelocke
arrived at the head of a formidable force ; and about a
month afterwards these were joined by a further reinforce-
A, L A. 3
ment under General Crawford. The army now amounted La Plata,
to 8000 men, and the chief command was confided to Ge- “v--—''
neral Whitelocke, a man destitute alike of courage and abi¬
lity. The reduction of Buenos Ayres was now resolved upon;
but if the British had acquired sufficient local and political
knowledge of the counfly, they would never have attempt¬
ed the conquest of that city. The attacking army sailed
up the river, and, disembarking below the capital, marched
towards it, but met with a reception which was little anti¬
cipated. The inhabitants of Buenos Ayres had made every
preparation for a desperate resistance. The streets were
intersected by deep ditches, defended by cannon, and the
windows and house-tops were thickly planted with armed
men. No sooner had the British troops begun to penetrate
the streets in columns, than they were assailed by grape
and musketry, under which they perished in great numbers,
without being able to retaliate on the citizens. The cool,
determined valour of the troops, and the heroic energy of
the leaders of the several columns, were exerted in vain.
About one third of the British army was either killed,
wounded, or taken prisoners, without any material advan¬
tage having been gained. In these circumstances, it would
have been madness to persist in such a mode of operation;
and next day an armistice was concluded. A convention
followed, the terms of which were, that the British should
evacuate the possessions on the Plata in two months, and
that all prisoners taken on both sides should be restored.
By this capitulation, Monte Video, which might have been
safely maintained against any enemy, and which would
have afforded a secure depot for our manufactures, was also
lost.
But the events which were now passing on the conti¬
nent of Europe were destined to change completely the as¬
pect of affairs in South America. The unprincipled inva¬
sion of Spain by Napoleon in 1808 had placed that coun¬
try in a situation extremely critical. Ferdinand VII., in
concert with the emperor, had intrigued to wrest the scep¬
tre from the feeble hands of his father ; the French every¬
where overran the Peninsula, and numerous petty juntas
were formed. These began to extend their authority to
the colonies, and despatched several mandates to the New
World, demanding implicit obedience to the resolutions
which they contained. As far as possible, the provinces of
the Rio de la Plata conformed to their dictates, and sent
money and supplies of various kinds to repel the attempts
of the French, a nation peculiarly offensive to them.
Whilst the public mind at Buenos Ayres was thus kept
in a state of excitement by the aggression of Napoleon,
the transfer of the court of Lisbon to the Brazils inspired
the princess regent of Portugal with the ambition of estab¬
lishing herself in a similar manner at Buenos Ayres. Her
father and her brother having at Bayonne renounced their
right to the crown of Spain, she despatched emissaries
to La Plata to assert her contingent claim, and to con¬
cert measures for her residence in the capital. Her pro¬
posals were received with enthusiasm, not only by the peo¬
ple, but also by the most influential persons of the country.
But when her projects were on the point of being crown¬
ed with success, they were rendered abortive by the arri¬
val, in May 1809, of the viceroy Cisneros, who, having
touched at Monte Video in ascending the river Plata, there
concerted measures with the governor-general, Elio, who,
like himself, was a staunch supporter of the rights of Fer¬
dinand. In the mean time Napoleon, having turned his
attention to the colonies of Spain, had, like the princess al¬
ready mentioned, sent an emissary to Buenos Ayres to gain
over the inhabitants. Liniers, whom the course of events
had brought prominently forward, is said to have secretly
favoured the interests of France ; but he was deposed from
all authority, and banished to Cordova. In no instance was
Napoleon successful in seducing the American colonies from
PLATA, LA.
La Plata. Spain, although it is perfectly evident that the doubtful na-
ture of their allegiance, thus brought palpably before them,
was well calculated to afford a plausible pretext for their
adopting measures to secure their own individual indepen¬
dence, should circumstances hold out a well-grounded hope
of success. These were not long in arriving.
Cisneros, the new viceroy, exerted himself to the ut¬
most to fulfil the orders of the court of Madrid, and to close
the ports of the Plata against British traders, who, in spite
of reiterated prohibitions, continued to land their goods.
An intelligent native of the name of Don Mariano Moreno
addressed a pamphlet to the viceroy, demonstrating the
necessity of re-modelling antiquated institutions, no longer
compatible with national prosperity. rl he enlightened views
of Moreno, though strongly opposed by the privileged me ¬
diants of Cadiz and Buenos Ayres, were generally favoured
by his countrymen, and the necessity of a relaxation of he
prohibitory system, as the only means of replenishing the
exhausted treasury, at length compelled the reluctant ac-
qmescence ofperiod ^ principal supporters of tlie P™'
cess Carlota changed their views, and formed plans of dt -
mately setting up the standard of independence. A
some political struggles, they succeeded in deposing the
vicerov, and, on the 25th of May 1810, named junta gu-
bernaLa, composed of nine members, with Don Corneho
de Saavedra as their president, and Dean Funes and Do
Mariano Moreno as their secretaries.
Moreno, the secretary, possessing a genius fitted for the
times, became the life and soul of the new government.
As the eves of the people in the provinces were opened to
the daring nature of the step which had been taken, the
authority of the junta became more and more circumscrib¬
ed, and was soon reduced to the limits of Buenos Ayres
Monte Video did not recognise it at all. As the port of this
city contained a naval depot, there were there concentred
a Greater number of civil and military officers, who, be b
Spaniards, immediately took alarm, and decisive measures
were adopted to prevent the heresy from spreading beyond
the limits of Buenos Ayres, if not to crush lfc there. B
the Creoles viewed the matter very differently. They assem¬
bled at the municipality, and unanimously resolved that it
was expedient to join the party in the capital. But this wise
resolution was rendered abortive by the precaution of the
governor, Elio, and by the address and intrigue of an indi¬
vidual, Dr Obes by name, whose ambition was the original
cause of the misfortunes which befell the Banda Oriental.
He succeeded in drawing over many of his countrymen
• to his own views ; and ultimately an answer was transmit¬
ted to Buenos Ayres, the purport of which was, that the
Monte Videans could not give in their allegiance to an
authority not appointed in a legitimate way by the na¬
tion. But Moreno was nothing dismayed by this intelli¬
gence, and his measures became more decisive as the emer¬
gency increased. He succeeded in expelling the viceroy
and the oidores from the country ; and had not the junta
itself become infected by schism, such a man at the head
of affairs would have soon brought matters to an issue, it
became impossible for the junta to exist m its ^en dis¬
jointed state. Moreno and his party withdrew ; and he
having accepted a mission to England, unfortunately died
on his passage. ...
The people of Buenos Ayres having so far succeeded in
establishing their independence, considered themselves pow¬
erful enough to proselytize in the provinces. A division of
patriots under Ocampo was sent against Cordova, where a
formidable faction opposed to the new order of things had
been organized by Liniers; and this leader was taken prisoner
and shot, along with several other influential persons. Such
severe measures, however, not harmonizing with the mode¬
rate views of Saavedra and the junta, Ocampo was recaded,
and the chief command intrusted to Don Antonio de Bai-
carce. The history of La Plata is now for some years closely
interwoven with that of Upper Peru. In September ! 811
the junta gubernativa at Buenos Ayres was dissolved, and
Saavedra the ex-president compelled to fly. An executive
was thereupon vested in the hands of a triumvirate, Don Ma¬
nuel Sarratea being its head. Monte Video still stoutly main¬
tained the sinking cause of Spain ; the effort was unaval -
ing. Twice the soldiers of the fortress, in attacking the sol¬
diers of Buenos Ayres, were driven back. In one of these
the noted Artigas displayed his characteristic heroism, ant
at the head of his brave Gauchos performed prodigies of
valour in the patriot cause. But he had long displayed symp¬
toms of insubordination. About this period he withdrew from
the command of Rondeau, and, in acting independently,
evinced ever afterwards great dislike to the inhabitants of
Buenos Ayres. In October 1812 another change was ef¬
fected in the government, and in the January following a
sovereign constituent assembly was convened at Buenos
Ayres. It was not until now that the Spanish flag and
cockade were abolished, and replaced by the bicolor. Now
also the coinage bore the republican arms. I he assem¬
bly elected an executive consisting of three individuals,
and Don Carlos Alvear was chosen president of the assem¬
bly. But this form of government was as short-lived as any
that had preceded it. On the 31st of December 1813 it
was abolished, and Sehor Posadas was elected supreme di¬
rector of the republic, with a council of seven to act along
with him. „ , . .
Monte Video, which still held out for the mother country,
was soon afterwards taken, when between 5000 and 6000
royalist troops laid down their arms, and an immense quan¬
tity of military stores was likewise given up. But the re¬
fractory Artigas, who had assumed the title of chief of the
Banda Oriental, demanded possession of the place, which
being refused, he in a short time took it by force, and re¬
tained possession of the fortress until a Brazilian army eject¬
ed him in the year 1817. The mutations and changes v nc i
the government of Buenos Ayres underwent we need not
follow; and the civil dissensions by which the country was
afflicted are equally endless and uninteresting. In 181b
a new congress met at Tucuman, which named Pueyrrec on
director of the republic; in July it declared the countries
on the Plata independent, and, having transferred its ses¬
sions to Buenos Ayres, issued a declaration,2 containing a
list of twenty-eight articles. This remarkable document de¬
scribes the cruelties which the united provinces of the Kio
de la Plata, as well as other parts of America, had endured,
whilst under the yoke of Spain, and the motives whicn let
them to shake it off. , tt a t>.
The republic now assumed the title of the United ijO"
vinces of South America, and on the 3d of December 18
it proclaimed a reglamento provisorio, as preliminary to a
constitution. The congress chosen in compliance with the
reglamento was opened in February 1819, and on the *oth
of May the new constitution was published; but it after¬
wards underwent many important changes. It was on the
model of that of the United States, and secured personal
freedom and equality, liberty of conscience and of the press,
and the right of suffrage. The country, however, still con ¬
tinued in a disturbed state, and these troubles were increas¬
ed by the intrigues of France and Austria to impose upon
the natives of Buenos Ayres a Bourbon or an Austrian
prince; but the latter were happily defeated by the good
sense and patriotism of the people, notwithstanding the an-
‘ Memoirs of General Miller, vol. i. p. 60.
s Man’festacian Mstorica y politka de la Revolucicm de la America, Odr- 25.
PLATA, LA.
La Plata, archy which had reduced them to the brink of destruction.
^ To enumerate the factions which successively got the up¬
per hand at Buenos Ayres, or to describe their various in¬
trigues to maintain themselves in power, would be to draw
a most disgusting picture of the reign of anarchy. Nume¬
rous successive governors seized upon office, and retained
it but for a few weeks, and in some instances for a still
shorter period. These rapid changes were generally pre¬
ceded by sanguinary struggles, and followed by banishments
and proscriptions; but in no instance was confiscation of pro¬
perty resorted to, so far had public opinion wrought an im¬
provement. In October 1833 an attempt was made to ef¬
fect a revolution in Buenos Ayres, and in June of the year
following the government resigned spontaneously. The in¬
ternal provinces were as usual the theatre of petty dissen¬
sions and skirmishes. In March 1835 the chamber elected
General Don Rosas governor and captain-general of the
province of Buenos Ayres for five years; giving him ex¬
traordinary powers, whilst he was at liberty to resign when¬
ever he might judge fit, and only restricting him in one
point, by obliging him to maintain and uphold the Ca¬
tholic religion. The peace of the republic was disturbed
throughout the year by petty insurrections, and by an at¬
tempt in the province of Tucuman to foment a revolution
in favour of the Unitarians; but it was completely put down,
and during the year 1836 the republic remained in a com¬
paratively tranquil state. It is worthy of record, that on the
4th of December Spain acknowledged the independence of
La Plata, and of all the other provinces in America which
formerly belonged to her. Since then, up to the present time
(1838), no event of any moment has occurred, with the ex¬
ception of a declaration of war against Peru; but a peace
was concluded between the two powers before any blood
was shed on either side.
Boundaries La pjata js situated between 20° and 38° or 39° of south
auu exttnu* latitude, and between 55° 36' and 71° of west longitude.
Its extreme length is about 1400 miles, and in breadth
it varies from 500 to 800. It is bounded on the north
by Bolivia; on the east by Paraguay, Uruguay, and the
Atlantic Ocean; on the south by Patagonia and the At¬
lantic Ocean; and all along its western limits, the lofty
ranges of the Andes separate it from Chili. In the north¬
west, the eastern declivities of the Andes project a consi¬
derable way forwards, so that this district, which comprises
the provinces of Salta, Tucuman, Santiago, Mendoza, San
Juan, Rioja, and Catamarca, is a high and rugged table¬
land. All the rest of La Plata constitutes one continuous
plain, perhaps the most extensive and uniform in the whole
world. The geology of this country presents little variety,
and almost nothing that is interesting. Rocks are seldom
seen, except in the mountainous region. Some gypsum
occurs in the vicinity of Buenos Ayres, and limestone is
said to occur in several places. The stones used in paving
the streets, or in building, are brought from the island of
Martin Garcia, at the mouth of the Uruguay, or as ballast
in vessels from Europe.
Rivers. Of the rivers, the principal is that which gives name to
the region. The country, however, is traversed by several
other large streams, the general bearing of which is to the
south-east. Passing over the Pilcomayo, the Bermijo or
Rio Grande, and the Salado, which have been described in
the articles Paraguay and Parana, the next in importance
is the Saladillo. The course and extent of this river are
very imperfectly known. It appears to rise in the moun¬
tainous parts of Cordova, and after traversing the province
of Buenos Ayres, it falls into the sea at Rosas, in the bay
of Samborombon. The Tercero, which also rises in the
province of Cordova, and falls into the Parana, has been
5
proved to be navigable for barges as high as the Pass of Fe- La Plata,
reira, about thirty leagues below the city of Cordova. —y——'
Considerable light has recently been thrown on the hy¬
drography of the southern portion of the Argentine Repub¬
lic, by the publication of a journal kept by La Cruz, a Chi¬
lian gentleman, who, in the year 1806, undertook the com¬
mand of an expedition wffiich had for its object the disco¬
very of a more direct means of communication between
the southern provinces of Chili and Buenos Ayres, than
the old one by Mendoza. An abridged account of the hy¬
drographical facts which have resulted from this expedi¬
tion we shall give in the language of an able writer.
“ As we retrace his (La Cruz’s) route, proceeding from
east to west (from the frontiers of Buenos Ayres towards
the Andes), the first considerable body of water which we
meet with is the Desaguadero of the Diamante, in the mid¬
dle of the continent, fifteen leagues north of the lake in
which it terminates, and which is many leagues farther
south than has been hitherto supposed. We next find, at
a very short distance, the Chadileubu, which rises in the
cordillera of Melalgue, and flows into the Desaguadero.
Proceeding some leagues farther, we come on the Cobu-
leubu, or Rio Colorado, making a bold circuit eastward
through the Pampas, as it descends from the Andes near
Maule, before it turns southwards to the sea. As we ap¬
proach the Cordillera, we arrive at the Cudileubu and the
Neuquen, the latter receiving the Tocoman and Reingui-
leubu, all considerable rivers, the united w'aters of which,
under the name of Mucum-leubu, flow southwards into the
Rio Negro. The Neuquen and Cobuleubu both appeared
to him to be navigable downwards from the place where
he crossed them.
“ Respecting the Limayleubu, which La Cruz frequent¬
ly made the object of his inquiries, the accounts of the In¬
dians were positive and distinct. All concurred in stating
it to be the greatest river with which they wrere acquainted
on the eastern side of the Andes; that it was nowhere
fordable, and that it received the Neuquen, Cudileubu, and
all the other rivers of the Eastern Andes northwards to the
sources of the Rio Colorado. It issues, according to them,
from a beautiful lake called Alomini, of great size ; for the
cacique Manguel had travelled a day and a half along its
shores. It is situated between the Cordilleras Miguen and
Quenuco, and has an island in the middle of it. The river
Limayleubu is small at first, but is soon swelled by the ac¬
cession of a great many streams, of which the last in order,
as named by the Indians, is the Naguelguapi. This river
springs, they said, not from a lake, but from a morass of
the same name. Besides the lake Alomini, the Indian
chiefs also knew a lake called Guechulauguen, situated
farther south, and the waters of which flow into the Li¬
mayleubu.”1
This account differs somewhat from those which were
previously given by Falkner the Jesuit and others, and
which have found their way into all geographies, and vi¬
tiated all maps, thus giving rise to extreme confusion. The
conclusions to be deduced from the statements of La Cruz
we give in the language of the writer just quoted.
“ Thus it appears to us to be clearly established that the
main branch of the Rio Negro rises in the lake Alomini,
situated in the Cordilleras, east of Villarica; and that, is¬
suing thence under the name of Limayleubu, and being
joined by numerous streams, among others by the Naguel¬
guapi, mentioned by Falkner, it soon becomes a great ri¬
ver, of considerable width, and nowhere fordable. It after¬
wards receives the Cariguenague, coming from the north,
and lower down, the Mucumleubu, itself a great river ; the
numerous tributaries to which were crossed by La Cruz.
1 Edinburgh Review, No. cxxxi. p. 101-2,
6
PLATA, LA.
La Plata. The latter river is evidently the Sanguel, or Reed River of
 v ' Falkner. These united waters proceed southwards a short
way, till, meeting the southern branch of the Rio Megro,
they turn eastward to the ocean.n .. .
Lakes. Numerous rivers take their rise in the eastern declivities
of the Andes, and, after irrigating considerable tracts ot
country, are either absorbed by the soil or flow into in an
lakes. Amongst these may be mentioned the Rio Dolce,
which originates in the lofty mountains of lucuman, and,
after watering the capital of the same name, passing near
Santiago del Estero, capital of the province so named, and
traversing Cordova, is lost in a salt lake situated in that
province, and called “ lagunas saladas de los I orongos.
Lakes are distributed over the whole expanse of the Ram-
pas, and some of them are of considerable size, one in Entre
Rios being one hundred miles in length ; but they cannot
be said to correspond in grandeur to the other features o
this region. The soil is almost everywhere impregnated
with fossil salt; and the water of most of the lakes and
pools is brackish and disagreeable to the taste, bo plenti¬
fully is this saline matter distributed, that whole tracts of
country are covered with its efflorescence. But a want of
water is universally experienced; for, notwithstanding the
number of lakes and inferior rivers, many of them disappear
during the dry season. A growth of rushes overspreads their
bottoms, serving as lairs for the pumas, who he in wait for
the cattle that, perishing of thirst, fly to the green stagnant
water which lies on the marly surface, is as thick as refuse
oil, and swarms with myriads ot mosquitos.
Soil. The soil of this vast territory is a rich mould, perfectly
free from stones, not one being seen on its surface for many
hundred miles together. Though an uninteresting level,
devoid of picturesque scenery, it is divided into regions dif¬
ferent in climate and in produce. On leaving Buenos Ayres,
and proceeding in a westerly direction, the first of these
regions is covered for the space of 180 miles with clover
and thistles, or artichokes; the second region, which ex¬
tends for 450 miles, produces grass; and the third, winch
reaches the base of the cordillera, is a grove of low trees
and shrubs. The first region varies in a striking manner
with the seasons of the year. In winter the leaves of the
thistles are large and luxuriant, and the whole surface of
the country has the rough appearance of a turnip field.
The clover in this season is extremely rich and strong, and
amongst it the wild cattle graze at liberty. In spring the
clover disappears, the leaves of the thistles droop along the
ground, and the country has still the appearance of a rough
crop of turnips. But in less than a month the whole region
becomes a luxuriant wood of thistles in full bloom, and
reaching ten or even eleven feet in height. Summer, how¬
ever, is not over before another change takes place. I he
thistles suddenly lose their verdure and sap, their heads
droop, the stems become black and dead, and being levelled
by the pampero or hurricane, they are rapidly decomposed,
when the clover rushes up, and all again becomes a sea o
verdure. The second and third of these regions present
nearly the same appearance throughout the year; for the
trees and shrubs are evergreens, and the immense plain ot
grass only changes its colour from green to brown. Not a
weed is to be found throughout its vast extent; and over
its ever-verdant and luxuriant surface innumerable herds of
cattle range at large. The region of wood is equally re¬
markable. The trees are not crowded; but in their growth
such beautiful order is observed, that the traveller can ga -
lop between them in every direction.2
oi’matp The tropical climate which prevails in the northern dis¬
tricts disappears more and more towards the south, so that
snow and ice are not unknown. Upon the east coast the La PLt^
air is humid ; rain, thunder, and violent storms are not un- v
frequent; but in the western district the atmosphere is so
free from vapour, that at mid-day the planet Venus is often
distinguishable in the heavens, and the drought is so great
that dead bodies are actually parched into mummies. 1 fie
climate of the Pampas is subject to a great difference of
temperature in winter and summer, although the gradua
changes are very regular. The winter is about as cold as
November is in England, and the ground at sunrise is in¬
variably covered with white frost; but the ice is very t in.
In summer the sun is oppressively hot; and not only is ma¬
nual labour suspended during the middle of the day, but
even the wild horses and cattle are exhausted by it. ine
only great irregularity in the climate is the pampero, oi
south-west wind, which sweeps these plains with a velocity
and a violence which it is impossible to withstand. I nese
periodical visitations, however, produce beneficial effects,
the weather being particularly agreeable after they have
exhausted their fury; and, taken as a whole, the Pampas
may be said to enjoy as beautiful and as salubrious an at¬
mosphere as the most healthy parts of Greece and Italy,
and without being subject to malaria. With regard to hu¬
midity, the atmosphere is not uniform at places under t e
same latitude. In the provinces of Mendoza and San Luis,
or in the regions of wood and grass, the air is very dry, and
there is no deposition of dew at night. But in Buenos
Ayres a considerable quantity of moisture prevails in the
atmosphere, probably from the vicinity of the place to the
ocean. . . ,
The productions are gold and silver, copper, tin, leaa,produc-
and iron (of which large masses are often found), saltpetre, tions.
selenite (which is used instead of glass for windows and
lanthorns), marine salt, barrero (a loam impregnated with
salt, and greedily devoured by sheep and oxen) ; and there ^
are also numerous mineral springs, besides the saline lakes
already mentioned, from which salt can be procured. In
some parts of La Plata there are wooded tracts consisting
of palms, cedars, and other trees; but from the Rio de la
Plata to the Straits of Magelhaens, as well as throughout
the most part of the Pampas, we find neither tree nor
shrub. Of fruits there are sugar, vines, and others; of
grains, wheat and maize are especially cultivated ; melons,
pumpkins, beans, potatoes, and vegetables of all sorts, are
raised; as also rice, manioc, and a shrub resembling aloe, from
the fibres of which ropes and cordage are made; ricinus, earth
almonds, flax, hemp, rhubarb, indigo, vanilla, ipecacuanha,
tobacco, cotton ; monkshood, with which the Indians poison
their arrows; St John’s wort, capaiva, and others.
This country has long been celebrated for the abundance Animals,
of its cattle, oxen, horses, sheep, goats, asses, mules, and swine.
The horses are both wild and tame, and the number of them,
as well as that of the cattle, is immense. The inhabitants of
the Pampas who superintend the herds are called Gauchos, an
account of whom will be found in the article Buenos Aykes.
Amongst the w ild animals may be mentioned many species
of large wild cats, the jaguar, cougar, chibi-guazo; puma,
which may be said to represent the lion in the new world ;
different kinds of pole-cats, the zorillo, tajassu, tapir, arma¬
dillo, marten, wild dog, guanaco ; chameleon, sometimes of
an enormous size; monkey, deer, hare, rabbit, elk, rigua,
many species of serpents, as the boa, rattlesnake, great water-
serpent, viper, adder; crocodile, mosquito, wasp, ant, and so
on. Amongst the birds of this country may be mentioned
the white raven, the gold-coloured sparrow, the partridge,
as large as a domestic fowl, the ostrich, pigeon, wild turkey,
goose, and some others. There are seven kinds of bees,
ItghtteS during’some rapid journeys across the Pampas and amoag the Andes. By Captain F. B. Head
PLATA, LA.
7
La Plata, of which several produce honey that has a very consider-
v'—-' able, and sometimes alarming effect, when taken in large
quantities. Of fish there are sea-bream and gold-fish ; craw¬
fish, perch, shad ; whales and seals, which yield train oil and
fish-bone for exportation ; sharks, eighteen thousand of their
skins being annually exported; and turtles.
Inhabi- The inhabitants present the same national diversities here
touts. ag jn jj-jg other states of South America. Their number
has been variously estimated at from half a million to nearly
three millions; a sufficient proof of the uncertainty which
prevails regarding the exact amount of the population of La
Plata. In the Weimar Almanack for 183S they are stated
at 2,024,995, viz. Creoles of Spanish descent, 600,000;
Mestizoes, 600,000 ; Indians, “ fideles,” 800,000 ; negroes,
25,000. Of aboriginal Indians there are numerous nations ;
but, as will be seen, the whole do not comprise a popula¬
tion at all commensurate with the varieties of distinct tribes.
The Indians of the Pampas are said not to exceed eight or
ten thousand souls.
La Plata consists of the following provinces, most of
which have a capital city of the same name : Buenos Ayres,
Cordova, Entre Rios, Corrientes, Catamarca, Mendoza or
Cuyo, Rioja, Salta, Santiago del Estero, Santa Fe, San
Juan, San Luis, Tucuman, and Tarija. Missiones is some¬
times reckoned a province of La Plata, but it now belongs
to Paraguay. Buenos Ayres, the capital, having already
been described, we shall pass on to the other provinces.
Cordova. Cordova is bounded on the north by Santiago, on the
south by the Indian territory and Buenos Ayres, on the
east by Santa Fe, and on the west by San Luis. It ex¬
tends about 110 leagues from north to south, and about the
same distance from east to west. This is a fine province,
the soil being rich and fertile, and well irrigated. It is
pretty thickly set with trees, possesses excellent pasturage,
and abounds in fine clover. Cordova, the capital of the
province, is picturesquely situated in a deep valley, beside
a river surrounded by mountains, in lat. 31. 15. south, long.
62. 40. west. It was founded in 1573, and became a place
of considerable importance in the time of the Jesuits. In
1804 and 1810 attempts were made to render the river Ter-
cero, which passes near Cordova, navigable from this point
to its junction with the Parana; but the commerce of the
country was too limited, labour too dear, and overland car¬
riage too easy and cheap, to render this an eligible specu¬
lation, so that the attempt was abandoned. The population
of the whole province has been estimated at 315,000.
Entre Rios. Entre Rios is situated between the two great rivers
Parana and Uruguay, and is bounded on the north by the
province of Corrientes, and on the south by Buenos Ayres.
It possesses several peculiar advantages, and is one of the
most fertile and pleasing provinces in the whole republic.
Embraced on all sides but one by the two great rivers
just named, it is easily accessible by shipping ; and being
thus insulated, it is protected from the incursions of the In¬
dians. It is copiously irrigated, and the soil is distinguish¬
ed for its fertility. Wood is abundant, but small in size.
The pastures are extensive ; but the wild cattle, which for¬
merly abounded, are much reduced in number. There are
two small towns in the province, each of which is dignified
with the name of city ; one is Badaja, opposite to Santa Fe,
on the Parana, the other is Villa del Arroyo de la China,
on the Uruguay. Farther south, and nearer to Buenos
Ayres, there are two other towns, called respectively Gua-
leguay and Gualeguaychu, but they are still smaller than
the two former. The great natural advantages of Entre
Rios must ultimately raise it into a place of considerable
importance. At present the population is computed at
105,000.
Corrientes. Corrientes is situated to the north of Entre Rios, and
forms a continuation of that province, being also situated
between the rivers Parana and Uruguay. On the north
it is bounded by the state of Paraguay. It has an average Plata, La.
breadth of about two hundred miles, and its length may —v'-—'
exceed that, though the boundary line between it and
Entre Rios has not been laid down with accuracy. The
territory of Corrientes is intersected by several rivers, some
of which are navigable for a considerable distance. Be¬
sides the celebrated lake Ybera, there are in the province
numerous sheets of water, by which it is rendered one of
the most fertile countries on the face of the globe. Corri¬
entes, the capital, is admirably situated on the banks of the
Parana, near its junction with the Paraguay. It is a very
ancient city, but the population is inconsiderable. That
of the whole province is estimated at 140,000.
Santa Fe is situated between the river Parana and Cor-Santa Fe.
dova, which constitute its boundaries on the east and the
west. On the south it is bounded by Buenos Ayres, and
on the north by Santiago del Ostero. This fertile country
is irrigated by numerous rivers, some of which are of con¬
siderable size. The chief employment of the inhabitants
consists in the breeding of vicumras and horses, the skins
of which animals are conveyed to Buenos Ayres. Santa
Fe, the capital, is situated on the western part of the Pa¬
rana, at about eighty leagues from Buenos Ayres, and has
risen to importance by becoming a depot for goods on the
river. The inhabitants of the town amount to about 4000,
and those of the province to about 52,500.
San Luis is bounded on the east by the provinces ofSan Luis.
Buenos Ayres and Santa Fe, on the west by Mendoza, on
the south by the territory of the Pampas Indians, and on
the north by Cordova. This province is reckoned about a
hundred leagues in extent from north to south, and from
fifty to sixty in breadth from east to west. The soil is
uniformly productive, and the climate is salubrious, but the
inhabitants are very indolent, and agriculture is not pursued
to any extent. San Luis, the capital, is a very ancient
town, and the only place of any importance in the journey
between Buenos Ayres and Mendoza. It is situated in a
fertile valley at the foot of a range of hills, and the entrance
to it is through long lanes, having dead mud-walls on either
side. The population of the town has been estimated at
15,000, and that of the province at 103,000.
Mendoza or Cuyo is a well-irrigated and fertile plain, Mendoza,
bounded on the east by San Luis, on the west by the cor¬
dillera of the Andes, on the north by San Juan, and on
the south by the Indian territory. From north to south it
extends about a hundred and fifty leagues, and from east
to west rather more than a hundred leagues. The inhabi¬
tants of this province are very industrious, and they raise
wheat and maize for exportation. Their chief occupation,
however, is the cultivation of vines and clover grass. A
considerable quantity of wine is made, in which article an
extensive trade is carried on, and also in brandy and dried
fruits. One of the most productive branches of commerce
is the transport of mate to the various provinces of the re¬
public. Mendoza, the capital of the province, is a large
town, situated in an extensive and well-cultivated plain at
the foot of the Andes, between 32° and 33° of south latitude.
Its most remarkable feature is a fine alameda, or public pro¬
menade, of great length and beauty. The town covers a
considerable space of ground, as there is generally a vine¬
yard, orchard, and garden attached to every house. The
population of the city is estimated at 16,000. There are
several other towns of some note, such as San Carlos, to
the south, in the valley of Uco; Coricouto, to the east;
and another in the same direction, eleven leagues from
the city, called Los Barriales. Over the whole country
there are numerous establishments and farms for breeding
cattle and prosecuting various agricultural operations. The
population of the entire province may be estimated at
103,335.
San Juan is situated to the north of Mendoza, extending San Juan.
u
PLATA, LA.
La Plata, about a hundred and twenty leagues from north to south,
' v'---' and about the same distance from west to east, terminating,
like Mendoza, at the foot of the Andes. The country is re¬
markably fertile, producing wheat, maize, olives, and vines,
neral are of an inferior description ; but the place is memo¬
rable from its having taken a distinguished part in the re¬
volutionary struggle. The inhabitants, who amount to ten
or twelve thousand, are described as hospitable, honourable
La Plata.
Rioja.
maiKauiy leimc,  ' m,1Ph in thPir dealings, of a mild disposition, and much inclined
in abundance. The produce of the olive p an h . at_ to labour< The other towns are Monteros, Suares, Chiqiu-
esteemed in Buenos Ayres; but the na 1 , lieasta, Rio Chico, Francas, and Burroyaco, each of which
tention chiefly to the cultivation of the vin , £hirh constitutes a large parish, at the same time that it contains
luxuriantly, and to the making of wines and b-and^whieh ^pulat;on of the whole provinee is
SesXL‘^Td a^rSn of the eastern side of os— - HO 000 souls
the Rio de la Plata. The city of San Juan, situated in la- Salta is situated
titude 31. 15. south, and longitude 68. 35. west, was found¬
ed as early as 1560, and is consequently one ot the most
ancient places in the republic. It is now considered as t e
town which most closely follows Buenos Ayres in the march
of social reform. The mines of gold and silver which were
said to enrich this province have never yet been discover¬
ed. The population of the city of San Juan is estimated
at 19,000, that of the whole province at 103,330
umateu at ouuio. _ 4 D O Un
Salta is situated to the north of Tucuman, and is of con-Salta.,
siderable extent. Its western part belongs to the great
range of the Cordilleras, and is rich in metals. Here are
found gold and silver, copper, iron of various qualities, sul¬
phur, alum, vitriol; and there are also indications of t e
existence of tin and quicksilver. Many branches of moun¬
tains, off-shoots from the colossal chain of the Andes, ex¬
tend into the province, from which proceed pleasant and
beautiful valleys, intersected by numerous streams which
i»,uuu, tucu, ui n.c r*~ —T ' i nlen fl1. irrigate and fertilize the country. In one of the intervals
Rioja is situated to the north of San Juan, an between the low collateral branches of the Andes is situat-
the foit of the Andes. It is about one hundred and forty between frie^low eohatera^^ ^ the ^ the
leagues in length, by nearly the same in br . becomes flat and continues so to the borders of the Ber-
other provinces in this region, it is a mountain . ■ - pai a The city of Salta, the capital of the pro¬
land ; and it shares with Mendoza and San Juan m the in lat. 24 15. south, and long. 64. 0. west,
growth of vines, wTheat, and maize. Rioja, the cap , , ’ . j leading from Buenos Ayres to Lima by
small and unimportant city, situated in latitude 28.30 son h ta/of plsl. It wfs founded in 1582, and has long
and longitude 68. 35. west, two hundred and ninety jay of Potos^K - ^ ^ t),n|y.pe0), d
from Buenos Ayres. It contains about 3000 inhabitants, bee P , . amounts t0 about 9000 souls. The
and the population of the entire province is reckoned at region. 1 be population amou ^ ^ Vrnn_
87,500 souls
Catamarca. Catamarca is a tract of country extending about one hun¬
dred leagues in length and nearly as much in breadth, it
is situated near the foot of the Andes, under the twenty-
eighth degree of south latitude, and is bounded by iucu-
man and Salta on the north and east, by the Andes on
the west, and by Rioja on the south. It consists of a
mountainous table-land, but is noted for an extensive and
fruitful valley, called the Valley of Catamarca. The tem¬
perature of this district is of the most genial description,
and the country produces cotton of a very superior qua¬
lity The city of Catamarca is situated about sixty leagues
south-east of Tucuman, in latitude 27. 45. south, and lon¬
gitude 66. 0. west. It was founded more than a century
and a half ago, and stands in the beautiful valley which
Tucuman.
other towns in the province are Caldeva, Rosania de la r ron-
tera, Rosario de Serrillos, Chicoana, Atua, and a few small
villages. The population of the whole province is estimated
at 140,000 souls. canba(,o
Santiago del Estero is situated between Tucuman and1" ■ n
Cordova, being south of the former and north of the latter.
It is of great extent in all directions, and is one of the most
fertile of these provinces. Agriculture is the chief occu¬
pation of the inhabitants of Santiago. Wheat produces
eighty fold, and it requires little or no aid from art to raise
this heavy crop. All kinds of grain may here be brought
to perfection, yet the inhabitants are slow to avail them¬
selves of the advantages presented by nature. The city ot
Santiago, situated on the road to Bolivia through Cordova,
in 27. 55. south latitude, and 63. 20. west longitude, is
105,000 souls. Cortilp nrn aloni? with those of Tucuman and Cordova, are all bounded
Tucumam, 1 tfe ^t by that vast territory called Grand Chaco, ex-
vinces in the republic, is situated in tbe twenty s . i- vpnrp to tbe riVer Parana. It is the native coun-
in abundance, and is of a very superior T ^ t] The inhabitants of the Grand Chaco, although now
K ry much"in number'stm retoin their in<kpen-
Tarija is the most northerly province in the Argentine Tarija.
Republic, and consequently borders upon Bolivia, to which
it in reality belongs, although politically it forms one of the
provinces of the Rio de la Plata. It consists of a succession
of charming valleys, with a delightful climate and a fruitful
soil. Corn, maize, the yerba-mate of Paraguay, the cocoa,
flax, and every necessary of life, are produced here in the
dovsq'saiTLiiisj San Juan, Mendoza, and other cities. Fruits
of various sorts are abundant; and potatoes here attain an
enormous size. To the west of the city is a delightful
mountain, of great height, from which sixteen rivers de¬
scend to fertilize and beautify the surrounding territmy.
These streams unite and form the river Santiago del Es¬
tero. Along all the lower parts of this mountain are im¬
mense clusters of trees, and amongst them many of bitter
Th J. • surr0unded bv these woody tracts, greatest abundance. No part of America indeed seems to
oranges. Ihe city is surrounaea oy t e J some_ ge crior t0 tbis district of Tarija ; and the reason why it
which occupy a space of fifteen lea^s. f the is g0 known is> that, possessing no mineral treasures,
The houses in ge- attention. To the south-east of this province lies Jujuy,
P L A
Platsese which, in the event of Tarija being permanently united with
II. Bolivia, will be erected into a province of the Argentine Ite-
" riat!nt: - public ; indeed some recent writers reckon it such already.
It is of much the same character as Tarija, having a very
prolific soil, and producing abundance of similar produc¬
tions. There are some mines of gold in this territory, but
they have not been worked to advantage. The city of Ju-
juy lies on the road from Buenos Ayres to Upper Peru, and
is a very old place. The whole district contains from 50,000
to 60,000 inhabitants.
Executive i}on Juan de Rosas was in 1835 appointed dictator of
poweu repUblic for five years. There are four principal mini¬
sters, one for each of the foreign, home, finance, and war
departments. The state religion is the Roman Catholic,
which is under the direction of four bishops. The Jesuits,
who nearly three fourths of a century ago were expelled
from this and other parts of South America, have been al¬
lowed to return.
The commerce of the country, the state of education, and
its moral aspect generally, will be found described in the
article Buenos Ayres.
According to official accounts from Buenos Ayres, the
finances stood thus on the 7th of April 1836 : Income,
11,727,446 dollars; expenditure, 8,439,165 dollars; sur¬
plus, 3,288,281 dollars. On account of the public debt,
7,747,000 dollars fall to be deducted, thereby giving rise to
a deficiency, which was covered by the sale of 1200 leagues
of the states land. It appears, however, that these accounts
are little to be depended upon; for, according to the bud¬
get for 1837, the income was 12,000,000 dollars, and the
expenditure 18,315,124 dollars, thus making a deficit of
more than 6,000,000 of dollars. To cover these deficien¬
cies, and wipe out the accumulated debt, it is proposed to
P L A 9
obtain a native loan of 17,000,000 dollars. Altogether, the Plating,
accumulated debt of the Argentine Republic amounts to -v—'
42,000,000 dollars.
The constitution of this federal republic has not yet been Constitu-
completely organized. The head state, the seat of the con-ti¬
gress or legislative assembly, is Buenos Ayres. The num¬
ber of senators amounts to forty-eight, and that of deputies
to eighty-eight. The states are all at liberty to manage
their own affairs, each having a governor, with subordinate
functionaries. In all of them the principle of democracy
is recognised, but practically it is more acted upon in some
states than in others. Where the governor has great influence,
either from his wealth or from other circumstances, he is
frequently found to evince a distaste for legislative control.
Occasionally, indeed, they openly avow themselves abso¬
lute ; and as Buenos Ayres can exercise but a feeble au¬
thority over those provinces which are situated far in the
interior, they are not always called to a strict account of
their stewardship.
In conclusion, it may be observed, that the union of the
provinces forming this republic is far from being perfect.
They exercise too much individual independence, and are
too jealous of each other, and of the capital in particular,
heartily to entertain common views for the general good.
They are as yet but weakly cemented together, and a long
period will elapse before they are fused into one homoge¬
neous mass. This is no douht in part owing to their being
spread over a vast extent of country; but, when commu¬
nication between distant parts becomes more easy and fre¬
quent, which it will be when the rivers are rendered pro¬
perly navigable, so as to facilitate commerce, then a more
complete amalgamation of the whole may confidently be
anticipated. (r. r. r.)
PL ATJ5/E, in Ancient Geography, the name of a strong
town in Boeotia, which from its situation was exposed to
the north wind. It was burned to the ground by Xerxes ;
and it was famous for the defeat of Mardonius the Persian
general, as also for the signal victory of the Lacedaemonians
and other Greeks under Pausanias the Lacedaemonian, and
Aristides an Athenian general, in memory of which the
Greeks erected a temple to Jupiter Eleutherius, and insti¬
tuted games which they called Eleutheria. Plataeae stood at
the foot of Mount Cithteron, on the road to Athens and
Megara, and on the confines of Attica and Megaris.
PLATFORM, in the military art, an elevation of earth,
sometimes covered with planks of wood, upon which can¬
non are placed to fire on the enemy. On the ramparts
there is always a platform, where the cannon are mounted.
It is made by heaping up earth upon the rampart, or by an
arrangement of madriers, rising insensibly, for the cannon
to roll on, either in a casemate, or, on attack, in the out¬
works. All practitioners are agreed that no shot can be de¬
pended on unless the piece can be placed upon a solid plat¬
form ; for if the platform shakes with the first impulse of
the powder, the piece must likewise shake, which will alter
its direction, and render the shot uncertain.
Platform, in Architecture, is a row of beams which sup¬
port the timber-work of a roof, and lie on the top of a wall
where the entablature ought to be raised.
This term is also used for a kind of terrace or broad
smooth open walk at the top of a building, whence a fair
prospect may be obtained of the adjacent country. Hence
an edifice is said to be covered with a platform when it is
flat on the top, and has no ridge. Most of the oriental
buildings are covered in this manner, as were all those of
the ancients.
PLATINA is a metallic substance, the name of which
has an allusion to its colour. It is a diminutive of plata,
VOL. XVIII.
and signifies little silver. From its great specific gravity,
and other resemblances which it has to gold, it has been
called or blanc, or white gold; from its refractory nature,
diabolus metallorum ; and from some doubts entertained of
its character as a metal, juan bianco, white jack, white
rogue, or white mock metal. It has also received the ap¬
pellation of the eighth metal; and, probably from some dis¬
trict which affords it, has been called platina del Pinto.
PLATING is the art of covering baser metals with a
thin plate of silver, either for use or for ornament. It is
said to have been invented by a spur-maker, not for show,
but for real utility. Till then the more elegant spurs in
common use were made of solid silver, and, from the flexi¬
bility of that metal, they were liable to be bent into incon¬
venient forms by the slightest accident. To remedy this
defect, a workman at Birmingham contrived to make the
branches of a pair of spurs hollow, and to fill that hollow
with a slender rod of steel or iron. Finding this a great
improvement, and being desirous to add cheapness to uti¬
lity, he continued to make the hollow larger, and of course
the iron thicker and thicker, till at last he discovered the
means of coating an iron spur with silver in such a manner
as to make it equally elegant with those which were made
wholly of that metal. The invention was quickly applied
to other purposes; and to numberless utensils which were
formerly made of brass or iron are now given the strength
of these metals, and the elegance of silver, for a small ad¬
ditional expense.
The silver plate is generally made to adhere to the baser
metal by means of solder, which is of two kinds ; the soft
and the hard, or the tin and silver solders. The former of
these consists of tin alone, the latter generally of three
parts of silver and one of brass. When a buckle, for in¬
stance, is to be plated by means of the soft solder, the ring,
before it is bent, is first tinned, and then the silver-plate is
B
L,
10
Plato.
P L A
gently hammered upon it, the hammer employed being al-
' ways covered with a piece of cloth. The silver now forms
as it were, a mould to the ring, and whatever of it is not
intended to be used is cut off. This mould is fastened to
the ring of the buckle by two or three cramps of small iron
wire : after which the buckle, with the plated side under¬
most, is laid upon a plate of iron sufficiently hot to melt the
tin, but not the silver. The buckle is then covered with
powdered resin, or anointed with turpentine ; and, lest there
Should be a deficiency of tin, a small portion of rolled tin
is likewise melted on it. The buckle is now taken off with
a tongs, and commonly laid on a bed of sand, where the
plate and the ring, whilst the solder is yet in a state of fu¬
sion, are more closely compressed by a smart stroke with a
block of wood. The buckle is afterwards bent and finish¬
ed. Sometimes the melted tin is poured into the silver
mould, which has been previously rubbed over with some
flux The buckle ring is then put amongst the melted tin,
and the plating finished. This is called by the workmen
^But Then the hard solder is employed, the process is in
many respects different. Before, the plate is fitted to t ic
P L A
iron or other metal, it is rubbed over with a solution of bo¬
rax. Stripes of silver are placed along the joinings oMhe
plate, and instead of two or three cramps, as m the former
case the whole is wrapped round with small wire , the
solder and joinings are again rubbed with the borax, and
the who”e isputlnto a charcoal fire till the solder be m fu¬
sion. When*taken out, the wire is instantly removed, the
plate is cleaned by the application of some acid, and after¬
wards made smooth by the strokes of a hammer.
Metal nlating is when a bar of silver and another of cop
per are « at least one equal side The equal sides
are made smooth, and the two bars fastened together by
wire wrapped round them. These bars are then sweated m
a charcoal fire, and after sweating, they adher,e y
together as if they were soldered. After this theyare
tened into a plate between two rollers, when the copper
appears on one side and the silver on the other. This sort
of plate is named plated metal. . , . • ^
French plating is when silver-leaf is burnished on a piece
of metal in a certain degree of heat. When silver is dis¬
solved in aquafortis, and precipitated upon another metal,
the process is called silvering.
Plato.
PLATO.
The birth of Plato is nearly coincident with that great
epoch of Grecian history, the commencement of the Pe¬
loponnesian war. In the first year of that war, the Athe¬
nians, having ejected the unhappy people of vEgina, ap¬
portioned the island amongst colonists from themselves.
Amongst these Athenian occupants were Ansto, and Pe-
rictione. or Potona, as she is also called, the father and
motner of Plato. Their residence, however, in the island
was not permanent nor even long, as the intrusive colony
was in its turn ejected by the Lacedaemonians, on which
occasion his parents returned to Athens.1 2 It was during
this interval, and in the year 429 B. c., that the philosop ler
was born.3 .
From these circumstances, it has been commonly sup¬
posed that Plato was born in /Egina. They are not, how¬
ever, sufficient to establish such a conclusion. For a colo¬
nization of the kind here described did not necessarily
imply residence on the part of those persons to whom the
lands were allotted.4 Nor is the fact of the recovery of the
island by the Lacedaemonians from the hands of the Athe¬
nians, mentioned by the contemporary historian. Aigina
was still in the occupation of the Athenians in the fifth
year of the Peloponnesian war ;5 and in the eighth year
of the war we find that the poor exiles, who had mean¬
while obtained a refuge at Thyrea, were there cruelly ex¬
terminated by the Athenians.0 On the whole, it seems
more probable, from the constant designation of Plato as
“ the Athenian,” without any other addition, though this
alone, it must be allowed, is not decisive of the fact, that
Athens itself may claim the honour of having been his
birthplace.
It is remarkable that his proper name was not that
which his fame has immortalized, but Aristocles, after
his paternal grandfather.7 The name of Plato is said to
have been given to him by the person who was his master
in the exercises of the gymnasium, as characteristic of his
athletic frame in his youth.8 In this way, being familiarly
applied to him, it gradually prevailed, to the entire disuse
of his family name. ,
The philosopher was connected by descent with the
ancient worthies of Athens; on his mother’s side with
Solon, and on his father’s with the patriot king Codrus.
And thus, according to the notions of nobility prevalent
amongst the Greeks,10 he could trace up the honours of
his parentage to a divine founder, in the person of the god
A circumstance is related of his infancy, which, though
obviously fabulous, cannot properly be omitted in his bio¬
graphy, as a pleasing and appropriate tribute of the ima¬
ginative genius of the Greeks to their poet-philosopher.
Whilst he was sleeping when a babe, on Mount Hymet-
tus, in a bower of myrtles, during the performance of a
sacrifice by his parents to the muses and nymphs, bees,
it is said, lighted on him and dropped honey on his hps,
thus giving an evident augury of that peculiar sweetness of
style by which his eloquence would be distinguished.
For the same reason, a similar fancy, which has thrown
a poetical ornament over the account of his first devotion
to philosophy, must not be passed over in silence, bocra-
tes, it is related, was apprized beforehand, in a dream, of
the first visit of the gifted pupil, who was destined to carry
philosophy forth on the wings of his genius to its boldest
flights. Socrates was telling his dream to some persons
around him, how he seemed to see a young swan coming
from an altar in the grove of Academus, and first nestling
in his bosom, then soaring up on high, and singing sw eetly
as it rose in the air, when Aristo presented himself, leading
his son Plato, whom he committed to the instruction of the
6 Thucyd. iii. 72.
6 Ibid. iv. 56, 57-
1 Thucyd. ii. 27. 3 Diog. Laert in Vit. Plat.
2 Dioff. Laert. in Vit. Plat 4 Thucyd. iii. 50. . ^ „ 17
7 Aristocles was also a Spartan name, being the name of the brother of the king Pleistoanax. L hucy . . . others inter-
* As derived from broad. Laertius gives this explanation, which Seneca also adopts (E^t. Ivin. 27), but says others inter
preted the name as denoting a broad forehead; others, as characteristic of his style of eloquence. „ (( . Tyrants,’’
9 His family also is shewn to have been of rank, from its connection with some of the thirty, called * 7
established at Athens by the Lacedaemonians. See Plat. Ep. vii. 6
See Herodot. Euterp. 143. Clcer7> De Vmn‘
r
PLATO.
Plato, sage. Socrates, it is added, struck by the coincidence, im-
—' mediately recognized the fulfilment of his dream, and wel¬
comed Plato as the young swan from the altar, represented
to him in the vision.
The accounts of his early education, to which we should
naturally have looked with great interest, are extremely
meagre. We only know by general notices that he pass¬
ed through the usual course of education adopted amongst
the higher classes of the Greeks. That education was di¬
rected to the cultivation at once of the powers of the mind
and of the body, under the two great divisions of literature
and gymnastics. The youth was delivered to the charge of
the grammarian, the teacher of music, and the trainer.
From the grammarian he learned the art of reading and
writing his own language, and a knowledge of its authors,
especially its poets; from the teacher of music, skill in per¬
forming on the lyre and the flute, together with the prin¬
ciples of the science of music; from the trainer he acquired
strength and expertness in the several exercises of wrest¬
ling, and boxing, and running, by which it was intended
not only to mature the powers of the body, but to qualify
the youth for attaining eminence at the public games.
These were the schoolmasters of the accomplished Athe¬
nian, and with these he was occupied until he had reached
about his twentieth year. Accordingly, the names have
been transmitted to us of those who discharged these offices
for Plato; of Dionysius, as the grammarian under whom
he learned the elements of that command over his own
language, and its literary resources, which his matured elo¬
quence so richly displayed; of Draco of Athens, and Me-
tellus of Agrigentum, as his masters in music; and of
Aristo the Argive, as his master in gymnastics. It is added
that he also studied painting; but the name has not been
given of any individual who acted as his preceptor in the
art.
In evidence of his great proficiency in these early stu¬
dies, it has been stated, that he gave specimens of his ge¬
nius in every department of poetical composition ; that in
epic poetry he laboured after the highest excellence, and
only abandoned the attempt on comparing his efforts with
the poems of Homer, and despairing of reaching so high a
standard; that in dramatic poetry, he had prepared a te¬
tralogy, the four plays usually required of an author in order
to competing for the prize at the festival of Bacchus, but
changed his purpose only the day before the exhibition, in
consequence of impressions received from Socrates. And
even in gymnastics excellence has been claimed for him;
since it has been asserted that he actually entered the lists
at the Isthmian games.
Whatever credit we may give to these particulars, there
can be no doubt, that so inquisitive a mind as that of Plato,
and so resolute a spirit in the prosecution of its undertak¬
ings, received the full benefit of this preliminary culture;
and that he was thus amply prepared for entering on the se¬
verer discipline of those pursuits which engaged him when
he became a hearer of Socrates.
This preliminary education, in fact, was very imperfect
as a discipline of the mind. It gave the youth a forward¬
ness and fluency of knowledge, so that he was fain to fancy
himself, when he had scarcely attained manhood, equal to
undertake affairs of state, and to serve the highest offices
of the government. But it did not form his mind or cha¬
racter. He had yet to learn the nature of man ; to study
the principles of ethics and politics. This task of instruc¬
tion devolved on the sophist or the philosopher (as the same
person was at first indifferently called), into whose hands
the Greek youth was now delivered.
Plato, accordingly, at the age of twenty years, began to
11
be a regular attendant on the lessons of Socrates. The Plato,
reputation of Socrates as a teacher in this higher walk ofv—~v-’^
education, now eclipsed that of all other professors of phi¬
losophy. He had at once exposed the incompetence of
the sophists who preceded him, and superseded them in
their office. Plato would be conducted to him by his fa¬
ther, as the account states he was, very much in the way
which is depicted under caricature by the comic poet,1 as
to the most distinguished master of the day, to be qualified
for taking on him those public duties to which every citi¬
zen of Athens might be called; to enable him to distin¬
guish himself in counsel and argument, and obtain influence
and importance in society. From the numbers that resort¬
ed to Socrates, as well as to the sophists before him, it is
plain that, to obtain instruction in philosophy for its own
sake, or to become philosophers themselves, was not the
object with which he was sought by the generality. Here
and there the spark fell on a kindred genius, and lighted
up a flame of philosophy in the breast of a disciple. Thus
from the school of Socrates came the founders of several
other schools; and, on the whole, a greater impulse was
given by his teaching to the study of philosophy than had
ever been felt before in Greece. Still, as Socrates himself
did not profess to teach his hearers wisdom, so neither did
they in general come to him as learners of wisdom, or as
actuated by the pure love of wisdom, but to acquire prac¬
tical information which their previous studies had not given
them. We may imagine such a disciple as Plato first pre¬
senting himself amongst the multitude of hearers ; how he
would be struck by the first observation of the extraor¬
dinary manner of Socrates, especially at finding the very
person to whom he came to be taught professing that “ he
knew nothingand that he was only wiser than other
men on this account, that, whilst others knew not and pre¬
sumed they knew, he neither knew nor presumed that he
knew. The interest of such a mind as Plato’s could not
but be powerfully called forth by so strange an avowal on
the part of a man whom he had been led to look up to as
the wisest of men. To him it must naturally have prompt¬
ed the questions, what philosophy might be; what the na¬
ture and condition of man ; what the criteria of truth and
falsehood ; and thus have firmly laid hold of those tendencies
to speculation which we see fully developed in the mature
fruits of his genius. Again and again he is present at the
searching investigations carried on in the discussions of
which Socrates is the leader; soon he is himself interro¬
gated by Socrates; and we cannot doubt that he is thence¬
forward irrevocably become, not the disciple of Socrates
only, but the disciple and votary of philosophy.
That Plato was thus won over to philosophy from an
early period of his life, is evident from the statement of
Aristotle respecting him, that “ from his youth he had
been conversant with Cratylus, and the opinions of Hera¬
clitus,”2 and from the indications in two at least of his
dialogues (and these supposed to be the earliest in the
date of their composition, as written indeed during the life¬
time of Socrates), the Phcedrus and the Lysis, of his early
acquaintance with Pythagorean notions.
There seems, too, but little room to doubt that he had
begun at the same time to study the doctrines of the Ionic
school under Hermogenes, as well as those of Parmenides
and Zeno. For what he puts into the mouth of Socrates
in the Phcedo? respecting Anaxagoras, is probably (as So¬
crates himself was known to have had a strong aversion to
physical science) the expression of his own disappointment
and dissatisfaction at the outset of his studies, in the con¬
clusions of the school, of which Anaxagoras was then the
chief authority. Of Parmenides, again, he more than once
' Aristoph. Nubes.
3 Aristot. Metaph. i, 3.
3 Phced. pp. 220-225, ed. Bip.
2 P L A
Plato, speaks in terms of enthusiasm, as of a name with which he
had very early associations of reverence d here, as in the
instance of Anaxagoras, we are disposed to think, depict¬
ing, in the person of Socrates, a portion of the history ot his
own mind.
Judging indeed from the tenor of his writings, we should
conclude that his curiosity was excited, from a very early
period, to explore the whole field of philosophy; and that,
so far from resting on what he learned from Socrates him¬
self, he applied the lessons of Socrates to the extending and
perfecting those researches which he was carrying on at the
same time, by means of books, or oral instruction from others.2
Socrates was to him the interpreter, and commentator, and
critic, of the various philosophical studies in which he was
engaged. For this is the view which he has given us of
Socrates in his Dialogues. Socrates there seldom or never
appears as a didactic expounder of truth. lie is presented
as the critic of opinions and doctrines and systems, and the
judge to whom everything is to be submitted for approval,
or rejection, or modification, as the case may be.
Indeed, so exuberant and energetic a mind could not
have been satisfied with being simply a learner in any
school. It would eagerly seek the means of comparing
system with system, and of examining into points of agree¬
ment or disagreement in the theories proposed.. The doubts
raised by Socrates, the hints thrown out by him, the con¬
clusions to which he pointed, but which he yet left uncon¬
cluded, would to such a mind seem as so many points of
departure for its own excursions. They naturally sug¬
gest that much more must be done than merely to take
up what has been said by Socrates, in order to work out,
or even rightly to conceive, what had fallen from his lips.
For the conversations of Socrates wrere not framed to con¬
vey positive instruction, so much as to set the mind of the
hearer a-thinking, and to provoke further inquiry. In the
living pictures of them which Plato has drawn, they leave
off just at the point where we expect the teacher would
proceed to speak out more distinctly, and tell us precisely
what his view of the subject is. If these pictures^ repre¬
sent (as we may reasonably believe they do) the impres¬
sions received by Plato from the conversations of Socrates,
what stimulants to inquiry must he have felt in the several
particulars which he has so forcibly touched, in the mingled
lights and shadows of the scenes in which the great master
occupies the foreground. Well therefore may we con¬
ceive that, at the time when he enjoyed the guidance, and
control, and encouragement of Socrates, he was laying a
broad foundation of erudition for that vast and richly-orna¬
mented fabric of philosophy which the existing monuments
of his genius exhibit.
From Socrates himself this demand of the inquisitive
hearer could evidently not be supplied. Sociates was de¬
ficient in erudition properly so called. He had studied
men rather than books. His wisdom consisted of deep
and extensive observation accurately generalized, drawn
from passing things, and capable accordingly of ready ap¬
plication to the same course of things; forcibly convincing
his hearers by the point and propriety with which it met
each occasion, and giving experimental proof of its sound¬
ness and truth. Erudition, accordingly, was to be sought
elsewhere; and Plato therefore supplied this need from
T O.
other sources, infusing it into, and blending it with his own v J^tQ;
speculations, whilst the Socratic spirit mellows the whole
mass, and gives unity to the composition.
The death of Socrates, his tears over which Plato has
recorded in that affectionate and interesting memorial of
his master’s truth and dignity, the Dialogue of the Pha-
do, naturally excited alarms for their own safety amongst
those who were conspicuous disciples of the martyred sage*
They saw, by the violent extremity to which the spirit of
intolerance had proceeded, unchecked by any feeling of
humanity or regard for truth, that the wisdom, and gentle¬
ness, and benevolence of an enlightened philosophy were
no securities against the deadly hatred of bigotry. They
found that the malignant tongue of priestcraft could stoop
to employ any instrument, however mean, for the accom¬
plishment of its purpose ; that it could instigate the actor
on the scene of civil affairs to do its work of sycophancy,
whilst the prompter of the mischief, lurking in ambuscade,
wore the mask of concern for the public good, and even
arrogated the merit of sanctity, and truth, and tenderness.
Persecution has ever been the same. Its essential features
are vices of the human heart, not of any particular sys¬
tem of religion. We find it, accordingly, in several record¬
ed instances in the heathen world, displaying itseif very
nearly as in the dark times of anti-Christian corruption.
Athens itself had already furnished examples of its un¬
tiring and sure vengeance. In particular, the case of
Anaxagoras had been a striking illustration. When not
even the power and the eloquence of Pericles could save
Anaxagoras from a prison, and expulsion from Athens, on
account of his physical speculations; the very philosopher
whose system of physics raised an insuperable barrier against
atheism, by demonstrating the supremacy of mind; it was
but too evident that there was a mysterious agency work¬
ing in the heart of society, like secret fires in the depths
of the earth, capable of awing and paralyzing every other
power.
A more recent experience of the same truth, within the
memory of the youngest disciple of Socrates, was in the
dark proceedings consequent on the mutilation of the Her-
mse, the rude images of Mercury erected in the vestibules
of private houses as well as in the sacred places of Athens,
and on the discovery of the profanation of the Eleusinian
mysteries by the mock representation of them in private
houses.3 The secret information on which those proceed¬
ings were carried on; the indifterence shewn at the period
of alarm to everything else, even on an occasion of great
public interest, but the vindication of the popular super¬
stition ; the effect which the charge of being implicated
in these outrages had in checking the career of Alcibiades
at the moment of his triumph over his political opponents;
all shew'ed, that it was a vain hope to resist the secret ar¬
biters of public opinion on questions of religion. 1 hen came
the fearful consummation of this vengeance in the death
of Socrates by the poisoned cup; leaving no doubt in the
minds of any, that they who would follow his example in
boldly and honestly inquiring into current opinions, and de-
daring their convictions of the truth on matters affecting
the conduct of men, must either prepare themselves, for
exile (which alone was a great punishment in the ancient
world),4 or drink the hemlock.
1 Ms Wav *«v «*; *'vS 'a iv Xzyovr, to ^ frro,
mov; 'bi urn Quitirai to tou 'O^aw, ai’W te pot sTva< ap* bavos rf o-vpiroomf/.iloc yacj bn t*> atbp, oravu vsaf, oravu or^rgurn xai fioi $ [i
,   ~ ™ 137 13ft TW 72 ^
Ti lX£/v ‘TOOVTaoram y£vva;av. (Theatet. pp. 137, 138. Parmenid. p. 72.) r +i i o+o+amont whir'll rpnrpsents
* This evident early devotion of Plato to the pursuit of his whole hfe, argues the mere calumny of that stateme P
him to have at first sought his fortune by the profession of arms. The calumny is a current one, which has been apphed toother phdo-
sophers. He has also been absurdly represented as present at the battles of Tanagra and Dehum, when he was, in truth, a mere c .
a The performance of religious rites in private houses is forbidden in Plato’s Dialogue on Laws, x. p. 1L7-
4 Cicero says of exile, endeavouring to reconcile the feelings to it, “ jam vero exilium, si rerum ns
quzerimus, quantum demum a perpetua peregrinatione differt.” {Tuscul Qunst. v. 37.)
p. A l I •
naturam, non ignominiam nomini*
P L A T O. 13
Plato. Socrates himself had the courage to take the latter part
—v—^ of the alternative. To him it was the natural termination
of that energetic course which he had from the first adopt¬
ed. He w’ould have unsaid all his teaching; he wrould have
practically recanted the strong language in which he had,
through all his life, been discoursing of the worthlessness
of the body and of the present life, and of the immortality
and perfection of the soul. His philosophy kept him im¬
mured in his prison, and riveted the fetters on his limbs,
far more than the condemnation of his judges or the ham¬
mer of the jailor. For, as he says of himself in the words
in which Plato has naturally expressed his sentiments in the
prison, his “ sinews and bones would long ago have been at
Megara or in Boeotia,” had he not thought it “ best,” and
firmly fixed his resolution, to abide the issue there.1
But this was not the case with the hearers of Socrates.
They were not, like him, placed in a commanding post,
from which they could not retreat without being stigma¬
tized as deserters of their profession, and betrayers of the
truth. They might with honour and propriety consult for
their safety. Whilst, therefore, as is probable, the bulk of
those who had attended on the teaching of Socrates simply
withdrew from public notice, and retired to their homes at
Athens or elsewhere, the principal disciples of the school,
—those who were most known as followers and admirers of
Socrates,—left Athens, and sought an asylum for them¬
selves and for philosophy at Megara.
Amongst those whom Socrates drew around him were
several individuals of mature age, already trained in some
sect of philosophy, and eminent in their own walk of
science, yet desirous of availing themselves of the far-fam¬
ed wisdom of the sage of Athens. Of this class was the
philosopher Euclid, from whom the Megaric school de¬
rives its existence and celebrity.2 As a disciple he be¬
longed to the Eleatic school, and, trained by Zeno, the
great master of dialectic before him, had made that science
his especial study. He had shewn a singular zeal in at¬
tending on the lessons of Socrates ; for he continued to go
to Athens for that purpose, even when the obnoxious de¬
cree of exclusion against Megareans, on pain of death, had
been passed by the Athenians; setting out at night-fall on a
journey of more than twenty miles from Megara to Athens,
and assuming the disguise of female attire that he might
pass unnoticed.3 His conduct on the occasion of the dis¬
persion of the school of Socrates corresponded with this
zeal. He received the members of the school with open
arms, and gave them a home with him at Megara. There,
for a time at least, they gathered themselves, in shelter
from the storm which had driven them from Athens. But
the school, in fact, was broken up. It had subsisted and
been held together by the personal influence of Socrates
himself, and with him its principle of vitality, as a body,
was gone. He had not laboured to establish a sect or a
theory; and he left therefore no particular rallying point,
or symbol of union, around which a party might be formed.
He was himself the symbol of union to his disciples; bring¬
ing together around him the professors and disciples of every
different sect. There was yet to arise out of his society one
who, richly imbued with his doctrine and method, should
rekindle the extinct school with his own spirit, and bid it
live again in its genuine offspring; and that individual was
Plato. But the times were not yet ripe for this.
In the mean time Plato wras destined to spend several
years in journeying from place to place, at a distance from Plato,
the past and the future scene of his philosophical labours,
These were doubtless years of great importance to him,
for the perfect formation of the peculiar character of his
philosophy. In the course of them, we find him visiting
Megara, Gyrene, the Greek settlements on the coast of
Italy, Sicily, Egypt, “ exploring (as Cicero says of him in
oratorical language) the remotest lands,”4 after the man¬
ner of Solon and Pythagoras, and other wise men before
him, who had enlarged their minds by contemplations pur¬
sued in foreign travel. Thus did he singularly combine
in his studies the more ancient with the Socratic mode of
philosophizing. The method of Socrates was exclusively
domestic. He studied mankind within a small compass
(the circle of Athens itself), only with a more accurate and
searching eye than any one had ever done before him;
and therefore drew sound general conclusions from his ob¬
servations within that range of view. He evidently judged
it better thus to restrict the attention, and require men to
investigate closely what lay before them, than to encou¬
rage them to indulge the prevailing habit of more diffu¬
sive and vague observation. This is told us in other
words by Plato himself, where he introduces Socrates as
a stranger even to the beautiful scenery in the immediate
neighbourhood of Athens, and as one who appeared never
to have been out of the walls of the city ; and as owning
that, in his fondness for study, he was content to learn of
the men in the city, who could teach him what the fields
and the trees could not.5 But this method, good as a foun¬
dation, and necessary as a corrective of desultory and su¬
perficial habits of thought and study, was not sufficient for
the requirements of Plato’s mind. He observes in one of
his works that there is much to be gained from contempla¬
tion rightly directed in foreign travel both by land and
sea; that Ave are not only to look to our own country for
examples, but seek in the world at large for specimens of
the highest order of men, which, though rare, might, from
time to time, be found under every form of government;
and that no perfect civilization can be attained without
this means of observation and improvement.6 He describes,
in fact, the course which he had himself pursued, and the
benefit which he had found resulting from it.
Having sojourned for a time at Megara, together with
the other disciples of Socrates, and probably there, with
the assistance of Euclid, increased his acquaintance with
the writings of Parmenides and Zeno, as well as studied
more intimately the dialectic of their school, he appears to
have proceeded to Gyrene. Gyrene was the home, not
only of Aristippus, to whose school it afterwards gave its
name ; but of the venerable Theodorus, the most eminent
geometrician of his day. Theodorus had been occasionally
a resident at Athens, and an attendant on the teaching of
Socrates, whilst he was himself resorted to by the Athenian
youth for instruction in the science of geometry.7 Plato
no doubt had been amongst those who had thus availed
himself of the presence of Theodorus at Athens. His pre¬
dilection for mathematical studies is conspicuous through¬
out his writings. His skill in geometry, in particular, re¬
quires no other evidence than the interesting fact of his
ready solution, in that infant state of the science, of the
oracular problem which required the doubling of the cubic
altar at Delos.8 He has described Theodorus as present
at Athens at the time when the prosecution was instituted
1 See Phcedo, p. 224; also Crito.
2 Euclid the mathematician flourished about a century after him. 3 Thucyd. i. 139; Aul Cell. AToct Att. vi. 10.
judicavenmt ^CrLc^Q^iv 1]>^llag0ram’ Democritum> Hatonem, accepimus: ubi enim quid esset quod disci posset, eo veniendum
8 t Crit0~ ■ ® De LeSih- xiL P- 19<b ]9"- 7 Plat. TheaXel. p. 51, 52.
1 March. De Socrat. Gemo, p. 288, tom. 8, Reiske. The inscription said to have been over the portal of the Academia, “ Let no ona
enter who is not a geometrician, seems to belong rather to Pythagoras, or perhaps was imitated from the Pythagoreans.
14
PLATO.
Plato, against Socrates.1 He now went to Cyrene, probably with
■—~v “ J the view of following up that course of geometrical study
which had been so abruptly terminated ; whilst he regain¬
ed also the society of a friend for whom he evidently felt
respect and admiration.*
The course of his travels conducted him to the (jreek
settlements on the coast of Italy and Sicily, where the
colleges of the Pythagoreans were established. It may
readily be imagined with what eager curiosity Plato un¬
dertook this voyage, what delight he promised himself in
seeing the place itself where Pythagoras had taught, and
in personal conference with the living successors of the
mystic sage, and in obtaining a greater insight into the
doctrines of a school which had such charms for him. He
had much to observe also in the peculiar discipline by
which the Pythagoreans were formed into a distinct fra¬
ternity amongst themselves. Greece Proper had nothing
to exhibit like this. For though the different sects of phi¬
losophy were distinguished there by tbe names of founders
and places, they were not held together by any rules of
discipline. But the Pythagoreans at Tarentum, Crotona,
and elsewhere in Magna Graecia, had incorporated them¬
selves into synedria, or colleges; each individual giving
his property in common, and regarding the bond of con¬
nection with his brethren of the sect as closer than the ties
of kindred.3 Associations of this kind must have appeared,
at the first, as anomalies even to the philosophical Athenian,
accustomed as he was to regard the free intercourse of so¬
cial life as indispensable to his very existence.
It has been said that Plato was admitted to the secret
discipline of the Pythagoreans. Probably he was only re¬
ceived by them with great cordiality, and had access to
writings and information respecting their doctrines, which
would have been denied to one, who came less recom¬
mended to them by the sincere enthusiasm of philosophy,
and approximation to their views. There are no traces
certainly in his writings, or elsewhere, of his having been
a professed Pythagorean; although he undoubtedly was
greatly captivated by the Pythagorean doctrines, and has
introduced them largely into his own speculations.
Archytas, the greatest name of the Pythagorean school
after that of Pythagoras himself, was then flourishing at
Tarentum. It must have been an interesting occasion,
when there were assembled together at Tarentum, as Ci¬
cero relates,4 Pontius the Samnite, the father of that Pon¬
tius who defeated the Roman consul at the Fauces Cau-
dinae; Archytas the Pythagorean, discoursing against plea¬
sure ; and Plato the Athenian. The very place where they
met, a point of contact between the old empires of the
world, and the rising power destined to break them in
pieces,—in itself adds to the interest. Then the charac¬
ters of the two philosophers who thus met, further arrest
our attention :—Archytas, the representative of the old tra¬
ditionary theological systems now moulded into a scheme
of philosophy and a discipline of life; and Plato, the accom¬
plished artist, who was soon to take up the scheme of phi¬
losophy where the Pythagoreans left it, and consecrate, it
by the inspirations of his own genius to an eternal empire
on the throne of literature:—.Archytas, nurtured in the re¬
serve and mysticism of the Pythagorean discipline ; Plato,
formed to busy and importunate discussion by the ever-col- ^
loquial Socrates,—two philosophers so contrasted with each
other in many respects, and yet so concordant in their love
of ancient wisdom and indefatigable research after truth.
From the Pythagoreans Plato proceeded to Egypt to
converse with the priests of that ancient land, from which
Greece had derived her original civilization and science.
Since the settlement of the Greek colony in Egypt by
Psammetichus,5 there had existed a regular channel of in¬
tercourse between Greece and Egypt, and accurate means
of information to the Greeks respecting Egypt. Ihe his¬
tory of Herodotus must in itself have awakened the curio¬
sity of those who had any taste for such inquiries, to know
still more of a people from whom Greece had already
learned so much, and from whom evidently so much was
to be learned; and must have stimulated them to avail
themselves of the existing facilities of gratifying that taste.
To Plato, indeed, if we take the testimony of Herodotus,
that the Greeks, though they had endeavoured to appro¬
priate the discovery, derived the doctrine of the immor a-
lity of the soul from the Egyptians (who were the first,
he thinks, to teach the doctrine, accompanied with that
of transmigration),6 a visit to Egypt must have been most
attractive. Herodotus has given us an engaging view ot
the impression which such a visit produced on his mind.
What an animated picture might the still more philo¬
sophical mind of Plato have presented, of the result ot
his conversation with the priests ot Egypt. 1 houg i we
may not credit the account of his having had the myste¬
rious wisdom of the Hermetic Columns unfolded to him
by the priests, and of his being instructed in magic,7 on
this occasion ; we have intimations of the treasures which
he collected in Egypt scattered through his writings, and,
so far, some evidence that this visit was not without its in¬
fluence on the character of his philosophy. .
Indeed it has been further asserted, that, whilst in Egypt,
he had access to an existing Greek version of the Old Tes¬
tament, and that to this circumstance we must attribute
that purer and more elevated theology which his works ex¬
hibit, in comparison with those of other heathen philoso¬
phers. A strange oversight in chronology has also attri¬
buted to him a personal intercourse with the prophet Jere¬
miah.8 These statements are obviously mere suppositions,
by which Christians, over-zealous for Plato’s philosophy,
vindicated their admiration of it, whilst they asserted also
the originality and supremacy of Scripture truth. At the
same time, it is indisputable that Judaism diffused much
religious and moral truth beyond its own pale; and that
not only Plato, but the Egyptian priests, his instructors,
unconsciously derived much from the inspired sources, in
collecting, under the form of fable, or allegory, or maxim,
portions of truth which the sacred oracles had scattered
around them in their transmission.9
Having traversed Egypt, where he is said to have as¬
sumed the disguise of an olive-merchant, in order to jour"
ney more securely in a country not naturally tolerant of
strangers, he purposed penetrating into Persia and India.
But the disturbed state of those parts of Asia prevented
his fulfilling his intentions. He returned accordingly to
Mamia Graicia, once more to enjoy the society of the*Py-
Plato.
2 See Thecetet. throughout.
See'platof Bep. x. p. 293, Polyb. u. 39, Aul. Cell. i. 9; Origen. C. CeU. ii. p. 37, in. p. 142, ed Spenc.; JamWich. Pyth. Vi,.
\A , . . /"'ll v . mi 
17,
" OCC X 1CLLUj 7 * ~7     ' ^
’ *5De Senect. c. 12. Cicero says Plato was at Tarentum in the consulship of L. Camillus and Appius Claudius. There appears some
inaccuracy in the tradition, but we may believe its substantial truth. 6 Herodot> Eutl.rl), 123.
5 About b. c. 650. Herodot. Euterp. 154. . . ^ . v • „ ,
7 Pliny says that Plato went to Egypt for the purpose of learning magic. JVat. x • • • nec easdem scripturas legere, quse
8 Quapropter in ilia peregrinatione sua, Plato, nec Hieremiam yi Lit pouu clement of Alexandria, however, asserts that there
nondum fuerant in Graecam linguam translate. (Augustin. De Civ. Dei, vm. 11.) _ cle™e"t ot Alexandria, nov
existed a version of the Law prior to that of the Septuagint. ^ trwn. 1. , .use n r << -\yhat is Plato, but Moses in Attic Greek.”
9 Hence it was said by Numemus the Pythagorean, u i<rr< ruarwv, n Mums Atwo^v, \ ,
PLATO.
15
Plato, thagoreans. At length, having spent several years in these
travels, he turned his steps homeward. We have no means
of ascertaining the exact time which these travels occu¬
pied, or at what period of his life precisely he undertook
the office of teacher of philosophy at Athens. From the
epistle addressed to the friends of Dion, it appears that he
was scarcely forty years of age when he first went to Sy¬
racuse f so that probably not more than about ten years
were taken up in his wanderings.
The visit to Sicily here referred to, had for its object to
explore the crater of Mount iEtna, and therefore properly
belongs to that part of his history which we have just been
tracing. But it had also very important bearings upon the
future fortunes, both of himself and many others ; so im¬
portant, indeed, that Plutarch, following out a remark which
occurs in the supposed epistles of Plato, attributes it to a
providential arrangement, in order to the restoration of li¬
berty to the Syracusans.2 For it was at this time that he
became acquainted with the elder Dionysius, tyrant of Sy¬
racuse, and Dion, whose sister Dionysius had married. He
reclaimed Dion, who was then quite a youth, from a life
of vicious indulgence, to habits of sobriety, and inspired
him with an ardent love of philosophy. Thus began an in¬
timate friendship between the philosopher and Dion, which
subsisted unimpaired until the tragical death of the latter.
Through the influence of Dion, the tyrant Dionysius,
who was himself a literary man and a patron of literature,
was induced to receive Plato into the circle of his court.
The result, however, whether it was owing to the jealousy
of other philosophers who were then at the court of Syra¬
cuse, or to an excess of freedom of speech in Plato, and an
ebullition of temper and disappointed literary vanity upon
the part of Dionysius, was unfortunate. Dionysius was
affronted at some words that passed at an interview with
him, and was only prevented by the interposition of Dion
from slaying the philosopher at the moment of exaspera¬
tion. But still he did not remit his displeasure; for on
suffering him to depart, he instructed the Lacedaemonian
ambassador, Pollis, in whose vessel he was to be conveyed
from Sicily, either to slay him on the voyage or to sell him
as a slave; observing sarcastically, “ that being a just man,
he would be equally happy though reduced to slavery.”
Pollis is said to have so far lent himself to this cruel treach¬
ery, that he actually caused the philosopher to be sold as a
slave, by landing him at Algina at a time when a decree
was in force there, sentencing to death every Athenian
who should set foot in the island. From this shameful in¬
dignity, however, Plato was immediately relieved by the
generous kindness of Anniceris, a philosopher of Gyrene,
who happened to be at /Egina at the time, and paid the
twenty minae, the price of his redemption. And such, it is
added, was the noble concern which Anniceris felt for
him, that he could not be prevailed on to receive back the
money from the friends of Plato at Athens, but refused it,
saying “ that they were not the only persons interested in
the welfare of Plato.”3
The story is related with circumstantial particularity,
and so far bears the aspect of truth. Still it has been ques¬
tioned, as inconsistent with the character of Dionysius, who,
though despotic in the power which he possessed, and often
cruel in his use of it, was a man of education and courtesy,
and the patron of literary men. And the treachery of
Pollis, as thus exhibited, has been regarded as altogether
unlikely in the high-minded Spartan. Nor again do we
find any allusion in the writings of the philosopher him¬
self to so affecting an incident in his life. The story
may be thought still more improbable, if the account be
true that Dionysius presented him with a considerable
sum of money, with which he was enabled, during his re¬
sidence in Sicily, to purchase a treasure inestimable to him,
the books of Philolaus the Pythagorean. These argu¬
ments, however, may be pressed too far. Individuals pos¬
sessed of absolute power have often been found capable of
deeds from which their own feelings, apart from that great
temptation, would have shrunk: and sudden and most un¬
reasonable and absurd outbreaks of violence, inconsistent
with their general behaviour, are characteristics of such
power. And as for the Lacedaemonians, we know that at
the height of their civilization they were guilty of the acts
of barbarians. Their extreme cruelty to the poor debased
Helots is well known ;4 and in the Peloponnesian war
they slaughtered indiscriminately all whom they met with
at sea, even neutrals, and persons inoffensively engaged in
the business of commerce.5 Further, there are repeated
instances of Greeks selling as slaves the free inhabitants
of captured cities in their wars with each other.6 There
is no reason, at any rate, to question the general truth of
the story, whatever may be thought of the particulars.
There can be little doubt that the visit of Plato at Syra¬
cuse ended unsatisfactorily; that offence arose between the
tyrant and himself; that he was treated with great indig¬
nity, and that he returned to Athens in disgust.7
From this time we may contemplate him as pursuing,
with little interruption, the course of philosophical labour
for which his whole previous life had prepared him. The
term “ Academy” is now familiar to every one as synony¬
mous with a place of learning. How strongly does this
mark the celebrity of a school, which has thus immortaliz¬
ed in vernacular language the grove of the hero Academus
or Hecademus, the ground on which Plato walked, and, as
he walked, imparted to the throng around him the riches of
his genius, and taste, and learning! Here, in the most
beautiful suburb of Athens, the Ceramicus, Plato possessed
a small patrimony, a garden, where he fixed his abode, in
the immediate vicinity of the grove, his daily resort. Here,
amongst the tall plane-trees which shaded the walks, were
assembled, year after year, the master-spirits of the age,
whether in pursuit of knowledge for its own sake, or for
counsel in the direction of public or private life,—the phi¬
losopher, the statesman, and the man of the world,—to con¬
verse with the Athenian sage, and imbibe the wisdom which
fell from his lips. What an interesting assemblage must
that have been which comprized in it, amongst other in¬
fluential persons, and young men who afterwards rose to
importance in their respective states, Demosthenes, Hype-
rides, Aristotle, Speusippus, Xenocrates, Polemo, Dion!
At once you might see in the throng the young and the
gay by the side of the old and the sedate; the stranger
from some distant town of Asia Minor, or Thrace, or Mag¬
na Graecia, and the citizen of Athens; the tyrant of some
little state learning theories of government and laws from
the philosopher of the republic; and the haughty Lacedae¬
monian paying deference to the superior wisdom of an in¬
dividual of a country which his own had humbled in arms.8
Nor was the audience exclusively of the male sex. The
wives and daughters of Athenian citizens, indeed, were not
Plato.
1 LC‘ ?89' P‘ 93, Bip0nt ed- 1 Plutarch in Dion, tom. v. p. 262, Reiske.
7 rpf1' ln, Vf f. 4 Thucyd. iv. 80. 5 Ibid. « ibid.
w„. vprv <:-Jir“|uct ofQ Dlouyslus towards Philoxenus, the dithyrambic poet, for freely giving his opinion on the had poetry of Dionysius,
8 T fi Tvai'- See^Dmdorus Siculus, xv. 6, who also, in xv. 7, confirms the account of this treatment of Plato.
TJoro v J'>lal0£.uel1 on Laws> 11 * * is tlle Athenian stranger who instructs the Lacedaemonian and Cretan in the theory of legislation.
and I acea»m«Pr°bably a reprfsentatl0n, of what actually was seen in the Academia itself. Socrates is away; Plato speaks ^Cretans
ana Lacedaemonians, among others, are the auditors. F ’
16
PLATO.
Plato.
in that assembly; for custom excluded these. But the ac-
' complished courtezan, whom the unnatural exclusion of the
chaste matron from social intercourse had raised to impoi-
tance in Grecian society, was there, seeking the improve¬
ment of her mind by joining in the discussions and listen¬
ing to the instructions of the philosopher, and thus qua i-
fving herself for that part which she had to sustain as an inti¬
mate with the men of the highest rank and most intellectual
cultivation in Greece. The celebrated Aspasia had been at
once the intimate of Pericles, and a hearer of Socrates; and
Plato himself pays her the compliment of saying, that both
Pericles and Socrates had taken lessons in rhetoric from
her, as a most accomplished mistress of the art; to whom,
indeed, Pericles had been chiefly indebted tor his elo¬
quence.1 * So now in Plato’s own school of the Academia
were found, amongst others of the same class, the beautitul
Mantinean Lasthenea, and Axiothea of Phlius.
Socrates attracted persons around him from all parts ot the
Grecian world, by the charm of his engaging conversation,
and thus became in himself a great object of interest. Plato
made Athens itself also, even more than his own person,
an obiect of interest to the civilized world of his day; con¬
verting it, from being only the centre of political intrigue and
agitation to the cities of Greece, into a common university
and common home for all. Compare what was said ot
Athens about half a century before, “ that it was the na¬
ture of Athenians neither to keep quiet themselves, nor to
suffer other people to do so,”3 and its well-known charac¬
ter at that time of a “ tyrant state,”4 with the respect which
Plato had won for it, when it became, not through t e
versatility of its citizens, and its inexhaustible resources,
but by a truer title, through the lessons of virtue and wis¬
dom, which it freely imparted to all, pre-eminently the
School of Greece ;5—and what an exalted opinion does the
change now operated give us of the influence of Pl^o •
Isocrates had, at the same time, his school of rhetonc
overflowing with pupils. Aristippus, also trained m the
school of Socrates, was inculcating his scheme of ethics,
which maintained the theory of pleasure as the chief good.
But esteemed as Isocrates was for the gentleness ot ms
life, and his skill as a master of rhetoric; and acceptable
as the doctrines of Aristippus must naturally have been to
a corrupt society ; neither of these great names sufficed to
obscure the greater name of Plato, or could rival the pre¬
tensions of the Academia to be the great school ot philo¬
sophy, and literature, and civilization.
A mind so intensely occupied as that of Plato, would
scarcely find leisure for taking part in the political affairs
of his country. The profession of philosophy was not as
vet indeed become entirely distinct; but the teaciimg o
Socrates had greatly tended to render it so. The rigorous
method of interrogation which called forth the latent diffi¬
culties on other subjects, could not but produce great dis¬
trust in those who laid themselves fully open to it, as to
their own ability to manage the complex matters of public
concern, as well as impress them with despair of success
in that walk of exertion. Socrates himself avoided as far
as possible all interference in the politics of Athens. 1 lato
strictly followed his example. Accordingly, we find, in
several places of his writings, a contrast drawn between
the philosopher and the man of public life; and an indirect
apology for himself, as one who kept aloof from the public
assemblies and the courts.*1 He betrays indeed strong
disgust, not unmixed with contemptuous feeling, at the
state of misrule into which the democracy of Athens had
degenerated in his day, and he was evidently glad to avail
himself of the plea of philosophy to absent himself from
scenes so uncongenial to his taste. Doubtless, indepen¬
dently of any political bias, he was glad to escape from the
sycophancy and tumult of the popular assemblies at Athens
and to enjoy the calm shades of his beloved retreat. Th s
was the sphere of action for which nature and his whole
previous life had peculiarly fitted him. Here he could ef¬
fectually diffuse the salutary influence of his philosophy, in
counteracting, in some measure at least, the selfishness
the world. Here he could maintain an undisputed supre¬
macy over minds, which (such was the impatience of all
authority in those times) no mere external power could have
so entirely subjected to the direction of an individual.
Through the influence, however, of his I ythagorean
friends, with whom he appears to have held constant in¬
tercourse, Plato was prevailed upon at the age of sixty-
five years, to quit the retirement of his garden for a time,
and pay a second visit to Sicily.? It was the policy indeed
of the Pythagoreans, like that of the Jesuits in modern
times, to keep up an active intercourse with society, whilst
in their internal system they cultivated philosophy with
the ardour of exclusive devotees. Socrates wished to go¬
vern the conduct of men by an appeal to their reason -^con¬
vincing them of their errors and follies, and leading them
to seek the means of informing themselves aright. 1 ne Py¬
thagoreans, like the Jesuits, aspired to carry out their views
by a moral hold over men in society ; by taking part accorcl-
insly in the management of states, and by a secret influence
over those in power. The accession of the younger Diony¬
sius to the throne of Syracuse, and the opening presented
for producing an effect on him through Plato s influence
with Dion, the next in power to the tyrant, were opportuni¬
ties which would not be lost by their watchful zeal. Such
seems, if we may proceed on the authority of the EFstles>
to have been the occasion of this invitation of I lato to
Syracuse. We see, at the same time, that there was a
struggle of factions at Syracuse at this period. I he party
opposed to Dion, in order to counteract his influence, ob¬
tained the recall of Philistus, a man distinguished alike as
a statesman, a commander, and an historian, and a stre¬
nuous supporter of the existing government, but then in
banishment through the ingratitude and caprice of the
elder Dionysius. The result was, that though the recep¬
tion of Plato at Syracuse was most flattering, for he was
welcomed with the royal pomp of a decorated chariot, and
the celebration of a public sacrifice, his mission was ulti¬
mately fruitless.
At’first everything seemed prosperous. The change
wrought in the manners of the court is described as mar¬
vellous. Philosophy became the fashion; and the very
palace was filled with the dust stirred up by the number
of geometricians. Even the expulsion of Dion, which
soon followed, through the successful intrigues of his ene¬
mies, did not at once estrange Dionysius from the philoso-
Plato.
1 Plat. Menex. p. 277- „ , • conspiCuous part of the theatre to gratify the curiosity of the audience,
~ w* M ” ”*d‘n0tice “ “ be on
the stage. iElian. Var. Hist. ii. 13. 4 . ^4. 5 -^“7. ii. 41.
r> Pluedo. 145; The tv t. p. 115, et seq. ; Gorg. p. 82, et seq.; Repuh. )’*• P- p*orfrT,B. +0 f|ie principles of his Republic, hut
* rf*—»*•,he obi“t ofbis™it '“s,he
tonem cum Philisto et Thucydide comparares ? quos emm ne e Greecis quisquam imitan potest. ( ■ )
Ca-
PLATO.
Plato, pher. He would not indeed allow Plato to leave Sicily
" with Dion; but, using a gentle constraint over him, de¬
tained him within the precincts of the citadel; shewing
him at the same time all respect, and hoping at last, as it
seems, to bring him over to his interest. At length the
attention of Dionysius was called to preparations for war;
and Plato, released from his embarrassing situation, was
enabled to return to Athens.
He was not, however, deterred from once more making
the trial, how far an impression could be made on the
mind of Dionysius, and the restoration of Dion to his
country effected; and, as on the former occasion, so now,
he was chiefly induced to undertake the enterprise, by the
earnest intercession of his Pythagorean friends. Dion
himself was living at Athens, waiting the opportunity of
returning to his country; and his relatives at Syracuse
sent letters to Plato, urging him to use his exertions in
behalf of Dion. Even Dionysius himself wrote a letter
to him, entreating him to come, and promising satisfaction
at the same time in regard to Dion. He also sent a trireme
for him, with Archidemus, a disciple of Archytas, and others
with whom the philosopher was acquainted, to render the
voyage more agreeable to him.1 For a while Plato per¬
sisted in declining the invitation, pleading his advanced
age, for he was now sixty-eight years old ;2 but at length
he gave way to these united solicitations. Dionysius, in¬
deed, like his father, was fond of drawing around him men
of eminence for literature and philosophy. At this time,
amongst others of the same class at his court, were the
philosophers Diogenes, iEschines, Aristippus, and some
Pythagoreans. Plato might have not unreasonably hoped,
therefore, that a mind delighting in such society, or at
least ambitious of the reputation of being a patron of li¬
terature, might yet be influenced to sound philosophy.
He was, besides, desirous of making an attempt to pro¬
duce a reconciliation between Dionysius and Dion. Thus
did he pass the Straits of Sicily a third time, to be a third
time disappointed in the object of his voyage. Though
he was welcomed, as before, with great splendour and de¬
monstrations of respect, not only were his endeavours for
the restoration of Dion unsuccessful, but he incensed the
tyrant by venturing to intercede in behalf of Heraclides,
a member of the liberal party at Syracuse, who was under
suspicion of having tampered with the mercenaries. Still
Dionysius was desirous of retaining the friendship of the
philosopher. Plato was removed, indeed, from the garden
in which he lived, under the pretence of a sacrifice about
to be performed there by women, and placed in the quar¬
ter of the mercenaries. Such a situation was most unplea¬
sant to him; as he could not but feel himself in danger
amongst that lawless class, who naturally disliked him, as
an enemy of the power which gave them employment and
pay.3 But this indignity was probably more the effect of
the hostility of the opposite party against Dion, than an act
of the weak tyrant himself. Plato, in his perplexity, applied
to Archytas and the Pythagoreans at Tarentum, to extri¬
cate him from these difficult circumstances. At their in¬
stance, accordingly, Dionysius consented to the departure
ot Plato, and dismissed him with kindness, furnishing him
with supplies for his voyage.
Thus did Plato once more return to Athens, heartily
disgusted with the untoward result of his visits to Sicily.4
Though the friend of Dion, the head of one great party at
Syracuse, he had acted in Sicily consistently with his con¬
duct at Athens, in not taking any active part in political
affairs. Even Dionysius himself seems, throughout his
conduct towards him, to have been jealous rather of his
personal regard for Dion, than suspicious of any exertion
on his part in the cause of Dion against him, and to have
sought to detain him at Syracuse, not out of fear or ill will,
but for the honour of the presence of the philosopher at his
court. This is further evinced by the subsequent conduct
of Plato. For, in the expedition which Dion planned and
executed against Dionysius, he took no part; making an¬
swer to the invitation to join in it, “ that if invited to assist
in doing any good, he would readily concur; but as for
doing evil to any one, they must invite others, not him.”5
The remaining years of his life were gently worn away
amidst the labours of the Academia. These labours were
unintermitted to the very close of a long life ; for he died,
according to Cicero’s account, in the act of writing; his
death happening on the day in which he completed his
eighty-first year. “ Such,” adds Cicero, “ was the placid
and gentle old age of a life spent in quietness, and purity,
and elegance.”6 Another account, however, of his death
states that he died during his presence at a marriage-
feast.7 And another account besides (evidently the in¬
vention of some enemy to his fame), attributes his death to
a loathsome disease.8 On his first residence in the garden
of the Academia, his health had been impaired by a linger¬
ing fever, in consequence of the marshiness of the ground.
He was urged to remove his residence to the Lyceum, the
grove afterwards frequented by the school of Aristotle;
but such was his attachment to the place, that he prefer¬
red it, he said, even to the proverbial salubrity of Mount
Athos ; and he continued struggling against the disorder for
eighteen months, until at length his constitution successfully
resisted it.9 Adopting habits of strict temperance, he thus
preserved his health during the remainder of his life, amidst
the harassings of foreign travel, and the undermining assi¬
duities of days and nights of study.
Plato was never married. He had two brothers, Glauco
and Adimantus, and a sister, Potona, whose son, Speusip-
pus, he appears to have regarded with peculiar affection
and interest, as the destined successor to his school of phi¬
losophy. He inherited a very small patrimony, and he died
poor, leaving but three minae of silver, two pieces of land,
and four slaves, and a few articles of gold and silver to the
young Adimantus, the son, as it would seem, of his brother
of that name.10
In person he is described as graceful in his youth, and,
if the etymology of his name be correct, as remarkable for
the manly frame of his body.11 One circumstance, how¬
ever, is mentioned, which detracts in some measure from
his bodily accomplishments ; the imperfection of his voice,
which has been characterized as wanting in strength of tone.12
In regard to moral qualities, he was distinguished by
the gravity, and modesty, and gentleness of his demeanour.
He had never been observed from his youth to indulge in
excessive laughter.13 Several anecdotes are told of his
self-command under provocation; as, for example, his de¬
clining to inflict the due punishment on a slave when he
found himself under the excitement of anger.14 A pleasing
instance is given of his amiableness and modesty, at a time
1 Plat. Epist. vii. p. 124. * is. c. 361. 3 Plutarch, in Dion.
4 MtfAurtizuf rnv ngi 'ItziX/av irkeivvv xat uri>%iat. (Plato, Ep. vii. 149, Bip. ed.) 5 Ep. p. 149.
* Diog. Laert. in Vit. after Hermippus. ? j)e Senect. c. 5.
MS 'ii '•Opoiaii <t>iXwva fitn/Ltcysoiin vtgi rut TlXarutos fB-iifar, u( cvruf Stvrto riXturnravro;. (Diog. Laert. in Vlt*\
ii -®liai1- ... 10 Diog- Laert. in Vit.; Aul. Gell. Noc. Jtt. hi. 18.
Erat quidem corpus validum ac forte sortitus, et illi nomen latitude pectoris fecerat. (Seneca, Epist. 58.)
ni Diog. Laert. in Vit. 13 Diog. Laert. in Vit. after Heraclides.
Diog. Laert. in Vit. Seneca De Ira. The anecdotes themselves can hardly be regarded as original. Similar stories are told of
others, as of Archytas. Ex quo illud laudatur Archytse; qui cum villico factus esset iratior, “ Quo te modo, inquit, accepissem, nisi
iratus essem ?” (Cicero, Tusu. Qu. iv. 36.) .
VOL. XVIII. r
17
Plato;
18
Plato.
PLATO.
when his fame was at its height. Some strangers, into sion is which dte;;
' whose company he had been thrown at Olympia, coming eep cot up conclusiVe of corresponding immorality
afterwards to Athens, were received by him there with the regardmg them ^ c°nJh^ve ^ Country. They shew,
greatest courtesy. All the while, however, they were ig- o con writer has not escaped the contagion of
nonant who their host was. They merely knew that his ^ e ’ atmosphere which he breathed, and they are of
name was Plato. On their requesting him to conduct them the in our estimate of the purity of
to the Academia, and show them his namesake, the asso- cou se S " , , ter> But we ought to set off
ciate of Socrates, they were astonished to find, by his smi e ns sen i religious and moral feeling
and avowal of himself, that they had experienced so much against them ^ high tone ot r^g hil h . th|
unpretending kindness from the great philosopher himselfd ^ ^Jhe g^ of de^ng al.
Again, being asked by some one it there would be any say e, i an(j 0f the misery consequent on
in| recorded of him, he answered with the like modesty, ^ ^ slowinyg exhortation to
“ One must first obtain a name, and then there wdl be se- “^T^tTn extefn^ o? by aiming a, a
'"The gravity of his manner was by some interpreted as mere human stodatd of vtrwe, but by inter^^ ca
severity and gloom. The comic poet Ampins complained turn, and by ^ence of any reference to
of him, that “ he knew nothing but to look sad, and so- Much has been “eof^“ Xenyo|)hon, in his
lemnly raise the brow.” Aristippus charged him wit ar- - ('n 1 has snoken of Plato and alluded to the affec-
rogance. It is no wonder, indeed, that, in contrast with ^ But
the coarse freedom of Diogenes, and the excessive a a i- w* avaiied himself of any opportunity of paying
lity of Aristippus, he should appear haughty and reserved, « ^^Xent o Xenophon! This sileAce cannot,
But that this character did not really belong to him, we the hke for? witll0ut supposing that
may judge from the social humour which mingles even perhaps, be entirely ^
with Ihe sarcastic touches of his Dialogues and from the may partly ac-
anxiety which he shewed to correct such a disposition as a u Y onhon’s not appearino- as an interlocutor in
fault in Dion. His favourite pupil Speusippus was distin- * man of philosophical
guished by the opposite quality of a lively temper, a attended the teaching of Socrates, not to
his especial direction we find Plato sending Dion that he , ev^ntly Jf ^X^finduigeoce of a spe-
might learn, by the conversation and example of Speusip- curiosity When he philosophized, it was as a
pus, a more conciliatory and agreeable mode of address. cukave c ty. .P himJlf with human na-
The instance given of his vanity in putting himself for- man «f..of men, in order to
with that feeling of dismay for themselves, under which he, the dtalogue ot that name, and whom m some pomts he
in common with the rest, fled to Megara as an asylum; or
with his indisputable affection for the person of Socrates,
and veneration for his wisdom and talents.
Again, the strictness of Plato’s philosophical profession,
amidst the general dissoluteness of manners at Athens,
was construed by some who had an envious eye on his re~
putation, as only an affected austerity. It was complained
of him, that his life did not answer to the high requisitions
of his moral teaching.3 Two of his brother disciples in the
school of Socrates, Antisthenes and Aristippus, imputed to
him the grossest licentiousness. The former taking offence
at Pkto for objecting to a treatise, which he proposed to
read, on the Impossibility of Contradiction, vented his spleen
Plato.
resembled. He would not therefore naturally be selected
by Plato, in order to the carrying on of discussions intend¬
ed for the development of his philosophy. It is remarkable,
that Plato has only in two places even alluded to himself;
in the PJuedo, to explain his absence from the death-scene
in the prison ;5 and in the Apologia, as amongst those pre¬
sent at the trial of Socrates, and capable of giving evidence
as to the nature of those instructions which Socrates ad¬
dressed to the young.6 tt- j-
Such Was the character of this eminent man. His dis¬
tinguished career exposed him to the shafts of envy and
detraction; and the high aspirings of his mind were clog-
o-ed and weighed down by that corrupt heathenism with
which be wJ surrounded. Still his reputation for wisdom
ino- at once bv that term a satirical play on the name, and and virtue stands above all these attacks and cncumstance
a stigma on the character, of the philosopher. These ca- of disparagement. The more we converse with him in his
kmmieif are iif somemeasure supported by the tenor of writings, -the more we are charmed by the deep feeling of
certain epigrams attributed to Plato, and by passages of natural piety which pervades his philosophy as its master-
his Dialogues, which display a license of impure allusion, thought, and by the sound practical wisdom s
sacking to the feeHngs of Je reader, in these days at least, forth from them as the real character of the man, leclaim-
His calumniators then found occasion for their scandal, in
observing amongst those by whom he was surrounded, the
young and the handsome. But though we may see much
to reprobate in such passages, and painful as the impres¬
ing and subduing the wild aberrations of his speculative
fancy.
His remains were buried in the place which he had en¬
nobled whilst living. Nor were they unattended by the
. 2 Diog. Laert. in Vit. p. 23, Bip.
i iElian, Var. Hist. iv. 9. . . „ „ 1; • • ontimo cuique inimicissima, Platoni objectum est, objectum
== “ Aliter, inquit, loqueris; abter yms. Hoc, viverent, seel quemadmodum vivendum esset. (Seneca
Epicuro, obiectum Zenom. Omnes emm isti dicebant, non quemaamoaum iphi \i\t- , h
De Vit. Beat. c. 18.)
Xettoph. Mem. in. 6.
f (Phxio, § 6.) Tin, cfrcumst&nr* was perhaps thrown infcr faphjc effect. His own sorrow is too intense to
be depicted; therefore be is concealed from the view : his name is introduced, but me y
. , rrc T>'
: was not present.
6 Apol. p. 78, Bip. ed.
PLATO.
Plato’s customary tributes of honour and affection. Aristotle, who
had been his constant disciple during the last twenty years
*> h ' °' preceding his death, displayed his veneration for his pre-
v.J-LL' ceptor by consecrating an altar to him. A festival, called
after him Platonea, was instituted in honour of him, and
celebrated annually by his disciples. A statue, dedicated
to the Muses, was afterwards erected in the Academia by
Mithridates the Persian. He had not, indeed, been dead
but a very few years, when the great celebrity of his name
called forth from his nephew and successor, Speusippus, an
express work in his praise. Seneca further tells us of a
singular mark of honour which was paid to him on the very
day of his decease. There were some Magi, he relates, at
Athens at the time, who, struck by the singular circum¬
stance of his having exactly completed the perfect number
of nine times nine years, performed a sacrifice to him,
esteeming him on that account to have been more than
man.1 The story is evidently the invention of his later ad¬
mirers. It is referred to here, as a testimony of the enthu¬
siastic admiration with which his name has been ever at¬
tended. To the same feeling must be ascribed the fiction
of the discovery of his body in the time of Constantine the
Great, with a golden tablet on the breast, recording his
prediction of the birth of Christ, and his own belief in the
Saviour.2
plato’s writings and philosophy.
The writings of Plato obtained an early popularity. Al¬
ready, during his lifetime, copies of them appear to have
been circulated. An iambic line, Xoyo/ff/v 'Es/o.ooijjo; ifmo*
esusrou, proverbially applied, long after the time of Plato, to
those who made a traffic of the writings of others,3 shews
that there was an immediate demand for them in Greece.
The Hermodorus here referred to, was one of his hearers,
who is said to have sold the writings of the philosopher in
Sicily for his own profit. The fact of their early circula¬
tion is further evidenced, if it be true, as has been stated, that
complaints were made by some of the persons whose names
appear in the Dialogues, and even by Socrates himself, of
the manner in which they had been represented in them by
Plato.4 It is very probable, also, that during the long time
in which he was publicly teaching at Athens, and, doubtless,
recurring frequently to the same topics of discussion, con¬
siderable portions of what he delivered orally, were trea¬
sured up in the memory of some who heard them, and after¬
wards written down, and thus published to the world with¬
out having received the finishing touches of the author’s
hand. The practice, indeed, of thus carrying off the oral
lessons of the philosopher is alluded to by Plato himself in
passages of his writings, as in the Phcedo, and Thecetetus,
and Parmenides; where the dialogue is related by some one
remembering what has passed in conversation on a former
occasion. This circumstance may, at once, account for the
comparative inferiority of some of the Dialogues in point
of execution, and for the fact that some have been passed
under his name which are not really his; whilst we have,
at the same time, a very considerable collection of writings
authenticated by testimonies descending from his own times.
It is by no means necessary for our purpose here (which
is to obtain a just general view of the character of the phi¬
losopher and his writings), to enter into the criticisms by
19
which doubts have been thrown on particular Dialogues, Plato’s
and on different Dialogues by different critics, out of the Writings
number commonly included amongst the genuine works of an<*
Plato. We may only remark, that these doubts do not rest, _s°phy' .
on external testimony, but are drawn from considerations
of the internal character of particular writings, which have
been judged inferior to the rest in matter and execution.
Nor is it necessary that we should discuss the various theo¬
ries proposed for connecting the several Dialogues, and tra¬
cing in them the gradual formation and development of the
philosophical system of the author. This inquiry certainly
has its interest; and could we arrive at any clear results
in the prosecution of it, it would be valuable, for the light
which it would throw on the interpretation of the philoso¬
phy of Plato. But though we can discover a connection
between several of the Dialogues, like that of a series of
discussions on the same subject, it is not possible to decide
on the order in which the points discussed presented them¬
selves to the philosopher’s mind, or which we are to regard
as the more mature expression of his doctrines. This in¬
quiry further demands a decision of the agitated question
concerning the double teaching practised in the ancient
schools, known by the technical division into esoteric and
exoteric, or mystic and popular ; the former addressed to
the mature disciple, the latter to the novice or general
hearer. There are undoubtedly marks of a recognition of
this distinction throughout the w ritings of Plato ;5 and it is
also probably referred to by Aristotle, when he speaks of the
“ unwritten doctrines” of Plato.6 But we cannot practi¬
cally employ it in determining the relative value of parti¬
cular discussions or statements in his writings, without in
volving ourselves in a maze of theoretic disquisition, and
ending at last, perhaps, in absolute scepticism respecting
his doctrines.
But there is a particular class of writings attributed to
him, which would possess a peculiar interest for us, if we
could establish their genuineness; respecting which, how¬
ever, the severe verdict of modern criticism compels us to
hesitate in pronouncing on their genuineness. We mean
what are commonly published in the editions of his works as
the Epistles of Plato. By some the question has been regard¬
ed as settled beyond controversy, against their reception.7
The style of their composition has been judged to be quite
below the character of Plato’s mind. The apologetic tone of
the chief part of them has also been considered as evidence
of their having proceeded from friends or disciples of Plato,
vindicating his character from misrepresentations in regard
to his intercourse with the court of Syracuse. But though
we may allow weight to these considerations, they are not
sufficient peremptorily to decide the question against the
Epistles; particularly as we have in their favour the autho¬
rity, not only of Plutarch, who founds much of the narra¬
tive in his Life of Dion upon them, but of Cicero, referring
to them and quoting them expressly as writings of Plato.8
Perhaps no philosophical writer has ever received so
early and ample a recompense of his labours, not only in
the reception and circulation of his writings, but in the
still more glorious tribute of the spread of his philosophy,
as Plato has received. We have mentioned the ordinary-
marks of admiration which accompanied him during his
life and after his death. A more enduring monument was
reserved for him in the foundation of the school of Alex¬
andria, not many years after his voice had ceased to be
1 Senec. F.p. Iviii. 28. 2 Brucker, Hist. Grit. Phil. tom. i p. 654.
3 Die mihi, placetne tibi, primum, edere injussu meo ? Hoc ne Hermodorus quidem faciebat, is qui Platonis libros solitus est di-
vulgare ; ex quo Xoyonnv 'E^fto^afes. (Cicer. Ep. ad Att. xiii. 21.)
4 Athenaeus, xi. 113. Axiothea is said to have been induced to attend on the teaching of Plato, from having read the Republic.
5 See particularly Conviv. p. 245.. G Aristot. Phys. iv. 2. 7 Mitford, Hist, of Greece, vol. vi. ; Ritter, Hist, of Anc. Phil.
8 Est praeclara Epistola Platonis ad Dionis propinquos ; in qua scriptum est his fere verbis: “ Quo cum venissem, vita ilia beata
quae ferebatur,” &c. Tusc. Qu. v. 35 ; also DeOjftc. i. 7» and De Fin. iL 14.
20
PLATO.
and Philo- ^r^u. P„.J i.„:„.,,i >\,a r,L;i«annhv whirh had moulded tranquil labours of his school. .... sopby.
sophy.
themselves as interpreters of the doctrines ot Plato, whilst com g P u too?„ to which he replied)
they altered and disfigured those doctrines. ere’ f.11’ u When I served mv country in the field I underwent dan-
was erected the proper monument to his fame. Meanwhi e, Whe” 1 S cause of duty I undergo them for a
in the Academia, teachers in regular succession transmit- gers, and now in the cause ot duty un g
ted their inheritance of his name, by^ thon h we may ref„Se to believe this story, it is
those who are even slightly acquainted with the philosop i q re-action indeed had taken place in favour
SSSS?r2S?SSi
iSErSSHrES: S52SSSHSS
Stwfop.anbn, U£chiH in s,, ^bnt^Wielt
iEESsSStSS
a° ite height in the Church, and with it the study of Aris- opin.on had been corrupted
totle’s philosophy. Even then the theories of Plato main¬
tained their ground. The speculations pursued by mem¬
bers of the Church continued to be for the most part Pla¬
tonic in their principles, though they were conducted and
modified by the dialectical method of Aristotle.
What, then, was the character of this philosophy, it will
naturally be asked, which both rendered it so attractive to
those amongst whom it arose, and also secured for it such
an immortality ?
It is a very remarkable circumstance that, as far as we
know, Plato should have escaped all censure at Athens on
account of his philosophy, when other philosophers, who,
like him, became centres of popular attraction, were the ob¬
jects of extreme persecution. It is the more remarkable, as
not only his master experienced such persecution, but his
immediate disciple, Aristotle, was forced to fly from Athens
to escape the storm with which he was threatened. Coming
between these two, and enjoying, at the height of his po-
woruiy muiiupuiy  , ----- i. i
opinion had been corrupted by the false teaching, which
had been so long and extensively at work throughout
Greece. Erroneous principles of judgment and conduct
had taken root in the public mind; or, to describe the
case more correctly, all principles were unsettled, and the
state of the public mind was a state of inward anarchy
and insubordination. A philosopher, therefore, seriously
devoted to his profession, and pursuing it with a single
eye to the advancement of truth, was necessarily regarded
with suspicion and dislike. 1* or it is a natural propensity
of the mind to adhere to what is established, whether it
be good or evil, simply because the transition is easy, and
no effort of thought is required, no trouble of self-examina¬
tion imposed, no censure of self exacted; and what is in¬
veterate in their own minds passes with men for the old¬
ness of truth and nature. A reformer, therefore, is al¬
ways an object of aversion; and no reform is successfully
accomplished, until it has worked its way by subduing the
prejudices which it has to encounter at the outset. Not
. Augustin. De Chit. Del, viiL Chapter ate chapter is taken up in Eusebius’ Pruyuruti. Praugrte, in shewing the agreement of Plato
with the Scriptures. , - , , ,v , „ - n ISO - Ami P- 44; PolU. p. 92, et alib.
* Diog. Laert. in Vita Plat. 18. i OnS’ n Kvpaitrmi */», *• *. 1 h(Cd0’ P- J » i* I ‘
PLATO:
21
Plato's only was the opposition to sound philosophy produced in
Writings t}ie minds of the vulgar by this distemper of public opi-
sophy °* n’on » but even the better part of society, the more edu-
y..- y . - cated and reflecting members of the community, were in¬
fected by it. The majority of these would be deterred
from taking up a profession exposing them to so much dis¬
like and risk. Some of them, too, with a view of stand¬
ing well with the mass of those amongst whom they lived,
and promoting their own interest, would avail themselves
of the popular clamour against philosophy, cry down the
pursuit of it as innovation and danger, and make it their
business to exaggerate, instead of counteracting, vulgar pre¬
judices on the subject.
These obstructions to the teaching of philosophy are
pointedly referred to by Plato, as existing in his time, and
demanding his attention, in order to the success of that
mission of reform which he had undertaken. He treats
the vulgar prejudice against philosophy as not altogether
unreasonable,1 in consequence of the perverse opinions
which had been popularly inculcated; and endeavours to
disarm the public hostility, by alleging the causes of the
disrepute into which philosophy had unjustly fallen. Al¬
luding, as it seems, particularly to the instance of Alcibi-
ades, he points out, that it is not philosophy which corrupts
the young, but the passions of the young and noble spirit
which pervert the means of good to the greatest mischief.
None but those of the highest order of talent and natural
gifts are fully susceptible of its influence ; but then these
are the very cases, he observes, which are also capable of
the most mischief, through their greater susceptibility of
the seductions of the world. There cannot but be objec¬
tions against philosophy, he further observes, as long as
the mass of mankind is, as it is found, incapable of appre¬
ciating real essential good for its own sake ; and as long as
those of superior nature, who should be its devoted friends,
and examples of its influence, are drawn away from it in
pursuit of popular opinion. He endeavours, accordingly, to
evince that there is no just ground for alarm, at least in those
days, at the power of philosophy. It was now deserted
and helpless, fallen amongst those who were not its own
people. If disgrace now attached to philosophy, it must be
imputed to the unworthy alliance into which it had been
forced. The mean artisan, who has made his fortune,
now quits his prison, and decks himself out, and aspires to
the hand of the daughter of his master in her poverty and
destitution.2 It was no wonder, therefore, that such spu¬
rious fruits, of so unsuitable alliance, were then seen in
the world, and that the few who clung to the true profes¬
sion were like strangers in the world, living away from
public affairs, as unwilling to join in the general iniquity,
and unable to resist it effectually by their single strength.3
If Plato thought it necessary thus to apologize for the
pursuit of philosophy, it is clear that there was yet reason
to apprehend an outbreak of violence against its professors.
In fact, however, he appears not only to have escaped all
such outrage, but, whilst he propagated, by his oral teach¬
ing and his writings, a system of doctrines directly contrary
to the impure morality and superstition established around
him, to have enjoyed an esteem beyond that which any
other teacher on the same ground ever obtained.
The explanation of this is in a great measure to be sought
in the circumstances under which his philosophy was form¬
ed and matured, and to which it was peculiarly adapted.
What Ihemistocles admitted truly of himself when he
answered, that he should not have achieved his glorious
deeds if Athens had not been his country, was as truly ap- Plato’s
plied by Plato to himself, when he enumerated amongst his Writings
causes of gratitude to the Gods, that he was born an Athe- nn^
nian.4 For his philosophy was eminently Athenian. View- . ^ ,
ed at least as we have it in his writings, it was the expres¬
sion, by a master-mind, itself imbued with the spirit of the
age, but rising above that spirit by its intrinsic superiority,
of those tendencies of thought and action, which had been
working in Greece, and especially at Athens, the centre of
Grecian civilization.
The Peloponnesian war terminated with leaving Athens
humbled before the confederacy, which the hatred and jea¬
lousy of her power had leagued against her. But the loss
of her ascendency in Greece was not the worst evil brought
on Athens by the result of that war. The machinery of
faction, by which the war had been principally carried on,
produced the most mischievous effects on the character and
happiness of the Greeks at large; aggravating the symp¬
toms of evil already existing in the constitutions of the se¬
veral states, and, not least, in that of Athens. Not only did
the insolence of the Athenian democracy gain strength in
the result, and rise beyond all bounds, but the excesses in
which party spirit had indulged, drew into prominence the
selfishness and ferociousness of a demoralized people. Then
might be clearly seen the levity and licentiousness of men,
who, living amidst constant hazards, had learnt to regard
nothing beyond the enjoyment of the passing hour ; the
cunning and cruelty engendered by mutual distrust; and
the wanton contempt of all law and religion, prompted by
the sight of the calamities which the tempests of social life
scatter indiscriminately on the good and the evil. On this
stock of corruption, speculative irreligion, and speculative
immorality, had also grown up as its natural offshoots. Men
were found hardening themselves against the reproaches of
conscience and the fear of retribution, by arguing against
the fundamental truths of religion and morals. In religion,
it was contended that there were no Gods; or that if the
existence of a divine power were conceded, there was no
Providence over human affairs ; or, lastly, that if there were
a Providence, the wrath of the offended Deity was placable
by the prayers and sacrifices of the offender. In morals,
the question was debated, whether all was not mere mat¬
ter of institution, and the device of the weak against the
stronger power; and whether right might not change with
the opinions of men.
This state of things had produced and fostered a spuri¬
ous race of philosophers, familiarly known by the name of
the Sophists ; a name, not at first implying that disrespect,
by which it afterwards characterized the pretensions of
those to whom it was given. For the Sophists evidently
were not the primary corruptors of the public mind in
Greece, but themselves the offspring of that moral chaos,
which resulted from the internal disorders of the country,
and which they sustained, as its own children paying the re¬
compense of their nurture to their genuine parent. They
were an evidence of the corruption having reached the
higher classes of society ; for their instructions were sought
by those w ho could pay for them, and who desired to qua¬
lify themselves for office and power in the state. • Going
about from place to place, and domesticating themselves
wherever they could obtain a reception, they undertook to
render all that flocked to them adepts in the arts of go¬
vernment, and even in virtue. The pretension would have
been absurd and extravagant, but for the prevailing loose¬
ness of opinion on moral subjects.5 But when right was
ill?-***'"* V'7U' T rr T? xa^y^‘> ™ tv *iro,s UV ixxu x-^uuv^v^s,
Cfiivos mv ws IfiXopaSuxs diaZoknv, tvS*t*vt/£ ovs Xiyu( rout (piXtroQovf, x. r. X. (Rep. vi- p. 101.)
^ ^ "<V $**.**& xcu vitvrr/ ix hrpvy XtXvuwu, 5v jSaXtm,*
s ™ Suyarw* fvXXcrc; yay.ui (Rrp vi. p. 9 . )
P’ 95- 4 Lactant. Div. Inst. iii. s kep vi p 85
22
PLATO.
sopby.
puto’j understood as nothing ntore than what happened to be in- S.
Writings stituted and in fashion, there was an opening to ev y hibitionS of Ae Sophists themselves. His philosophy, a B01,ty.
and Philo- principled teacher to adapt his moral lessons to the varied in its way> t0 the drama of the comic poet, in-   
requirements of each distinct society.1 ctrnrfed the neople, at once, through their wisdom and their
At no place were these universal teachers more cordial- ^ted^e peopm to under the mask 0f
lv fecXed than at Athens. The anxiety with which an ex- fo y. ^ Anstopnaof wisdom
pected visit from any one of greater note among them was Y’ > go plat0j on the other hand, put on the
expected at Athens, and the zeal with which the young f th j and in grave irony ridiculed and exposed
hastened to see and hem- the wise man on his arrival, are ^ of ^is countrymen. Both were wiser
denicted in lively colours by Plato. At Athens, evidently, t e g , t Ythe outward observation ; as was in-
f Lvwhere the Sophist felt himself at his proper home, than they seeme h th addressed their
Tlmre"^^! his readiest market. Herodotus may justly have deed he dehcacy of perception and
been surprised at the success of so vulgar a decepUon ^ feSow-citizens, which would be flattered
Athens, the seat of literature, as that practise Y * A guch indirect modes of address, and would, at the same
tus, when he exhibited to the people a woman of great st y iate the jest of the one, and the irony of the
ture arrayed in full armour, and pompously borne in a cha- time, pp J freedom of the democratic spi-
riot intoTe city, as the goddess Minerva, reinstating him 0^her- Aristophanes is that of the privi-
in her own citadel.2 It would have been still stra"§®r ,l ^ *d • ter 0f the sovereign-people amidst festal scenes
these impersonations of Athenian wisdom had not succeed- of mirth. whilst Plato appeals to the
ed in imposing on the understanding of Athema • Athenian at the moment of quiet, serious reflection on the
their minds were in that fluctuating stete, which di^ ^ folly> and treats him as a contemplative specta-
them to receive every various form. 1 y General tor, rather than himself an actor in it.
chance-impressions from the last teacher. The g Before the time of Plato, there were no philosophical
cultivation of mind, and taste for iterature prepared th™ ^ ^ answcred the reqnisitions of the Atheman
for listening with pleasure to exhibitions ™ ^ aThere Were poems of the early philosophers. There
dialectical skill, such as the Sophists gave. And from admi- / writingS 0f the later Pythagoreans, and even
ration of the skill thus displayed, the transition was natural T, " discussing speculative questions. Anaxagoras, too,
o consider that, as the only wisdom, which was capable of chalog^scus^i gj 4 had bllshed a
maintaining both sides of a question with equal plausibility, ™se na q But none of these, d' they were
and that, the only virtue, which could shift and accommo- ^ accessd)le to the Athenian, were calculated to attract
date itself to every expedient with equal satisfaction. ^ attention> The philosophical poems differed nothing
Yet the Athenian was not entirely the creature b . h metre and were exceedingly dry and
circumstances, which had so considerably moMed his cha- fiom^ng to the general reader. The books of Pythago-
racter. He yet retained some traces of that high fee g g at least at thi8 time, and hardly known
s„ beautifully touched by his own tragic poet »he" th“ ™ ' but riJdevoted student of philosophy.* Nor would
speaks of “ the pious Athens, and appe^s to dialogues of Zeno or Euclid, concerned about mere lo-
associations of religion which consecrated the l«ii M. tte or the phj,sica, discussions of Anaxagoras,
gion indeed had acquired the name of superstit , f)0ssess anY charm for the lively Athenian. Even afterwards,
fear of supernatural powers, buaScii^oviu; but eve Flip instructive waitings of Aristotle did not obtain that re-
that there were soml who cherished though ^that degene- Le them from a temporary oblivion,
rate form, a veneration for the truths of^h^1V1"e ^thf: But the dialogues of Plato supplied exactly what was yet
■md the Divine agency in the world. Nor was the Athe . ? denartment of Athenian literature. They
nian ever insensible to his pride of birth, and rank among ^nti^ deFelopmentof the philosophical element in
those of the Grecian name.3 He dwelt on the recoil erto . P fPthe people. The shrewd practical talent of the
of a remote antiquity of origin, as distinguishing him amon ^ f ^ bFen strikingly exhibited in the successful
the members of the Greek family. He claimed to be the A1 generals and statesmen, and m
offspring of the Attic soil, whilst others were de- am0°gst the states of Greece at the
scended from successive immigrations of strangers. .-™1, tbe persian war. Their taste in arts, and poetry,
his fickleness, and susceptibility of every passing imp , (1 iiterature, had put forth splendid fruits m the
he yet felt himself strongly influenced by his veneration for and ge n artistg5 Athenian masters of the drama,
the past, and loved to connect himself with the ancient g o- w v their genius for abstract speculation
ries of his country. In the Athenian character accordingly, a"d of which itgcould claim as strictly its own.
may be observed the union of extremes; devoutness of deep as yet d g the bagis for sucb a work. During the
inward feeling, accompanied with superficial irrehgion and ^cr^enSt^de din the appearance of Plato as the lead-
profane dissoluteness of morals ; a mercurial tempera e , < schooFof philosophy, Socrates had been engaged as
ever eager for change, floating like a light cloud “TJ* f “[^““X&phyfkwakening the curioaity of naen;
deep-rooted reverence of antiquity, and the tradition o . thJr tj1<lu,,t,tsto reflection on themselves, as crea-
cestral wisdom and virtue. , endued with moral and intellectual faculties; and in-
Now, on accurately studying the writings of Plato, , jth longings after some information on ques-
find them, both, a reflexion of this state of the pubhe mmd ^^^'^ own nature, and a taste for discus-
at Athens, and a corrective of it. Full of imagina ion and t ons resolution 0f such questions. Plato
of severe subtile thought, they are formed to attract and fix ^ons add d and carried the philosophical spirit, now
the attention of the literary Athenian. Bringing the So- succeede , result. His works accordmg-
phist on the scene, and giving sketches of the social hfe of ^ Tts maturity; exemplifying at the
Athens, and making conversation the vehicle of his mstruc- ly display tms spi. __
, c X oqo 0^4 2 Herodot. Clio, 60.
t of Hah«s apeak.; when he recommend, the reading of .hem,
not only for their matter, but for their style. De V ett. Scr. Cens. iv.
P L A T O.
Plato’s same time that peculiar combination of qualities which
Writings formed the Athenian character. Thus are they at once
and Plulo- serjous arfo lively, abstract and imaginative ; full of deep
. ^ y‘_. thought and feeling intermingled with gaiety and humour ;
instinctive with the awe of religion and ancient wisdom,
whilst they present also an image of Athenian versatility, and
frivolity, and love of change. They convey indeed a strong
rebuke of the vices of the times. They draw, in no softened
colouring, outlines of the evil and misery resulting from the
profligacy of existing governments, and the excesses ot in¬
dividual cupidity; the two great causes assigned by 1 lato
for the prevailing evil of his times. But these lessons were
calculated rather to interest the hearer or reader by their
faithful representation of manners, than to alienate him, as
we might at first think, by the justness of the censure.
Athenians would give their attention to such descriptions,
as they did to the invectives of their orators,1 acknowledg¬
ing the general truth of the representation ; and each, at
the same time, taking no offence at what he applied to
others, and to every one rather than to himself. Philoso¬
phy too, taught, as by Plato, colloquially, was such as pe¬
culiarly to suit the taste of the Athenian, whose life was in
the agora, or the ecclesia, or the courts of law ; and who re¬
garded the interchange of words as no unimportant ingre¬
dient in everything that he had to do.2 Such conversa¬
tion, too, as that of Plato’s Dialogues, elegant conversation,
steeped in the well-spring of Grecian literature, and ex¬
pressed in language such as Jove, it was said, might use,
and adorned with the charms of an exquisite musical rhythm,
could not but be attractive to Athenian ears. We may
see, accordingly, in these circumstances, at once, an occa¬
sion for the existence of such writings as those ot Plato,
and a reason of the peculiar mould in which they were
cast, as well as of the success which attended them.
Not only, however, was the general character of his phi¬
losophy, as viewed in connection with the writings which
convey it, derived from such influences; but the internal
structure of it was the natural result of the peculiar educa¬
tion of such a mind as his, under the circumstances to
which we have referred. His philosophy w as essentially
dialectical or colloquial; an examination and discussion
of systems, and doctrines, and opinions. According to his
notion, the true philosopher is the dialectician; the investi¬
gator, who has fought his way, step by step, through every
argument capable of being adduced in support of a parti¬
cular opinion, refuting those that are unsound, until at
length he has found rest in some position that cannot be
shaken.3 Hence he is the disciple of no particular system
of philosophy, whilst he brings all systems under his survey,
and compels all to pay a tribute to his stock of truth, by
discussing them, and rejecting in them what w ill not abide
the test of examination. We have seen that he w7as en¬
gaged in studying the doctrines of Heraclitus, and of the
Pythagoreans, and of the other schools, whilst he wTas also
a hearer of Socrates. He had thus begun in early life to
analyse different systems by the searching method of So¬
crates ; and his mature philosophy was only the same pro¬
ceeding more deeply imbibed in his own mind, more ex¬
tensively carried on, and more vigorously applied. So far,
indeed, does the colloquial spirit predominate over his phi¬
losophy, so entirely dialectical is it in its whole internal
character, that it leaves on the mind of the reader more an
impression of a series of discussions, in order to the deter¬
mination of the questions considered, than the conviction
of any thing positively determined. Hence it is that Ci-
23
cero, speaking of Plato’s writings, says, that 41 in them no- Plato's
thing is affirmed; and much is discoursed on both sides ; ''Yovl'p
everything is inquired into; nothing certain is said.”4 So also ^ ^ °'
Sextus Empiricus raises the question, in w hat respect the ^ ^.
philosophy of Plato differs from that of the Sceptics.5 And
again his doctrines have been characterized as brilliant
clouds, which we seem at the point of grasping, w hen they
vanish from our hands. This effect is doubtless partly to
be ascribed to the disguise of his irony ; to the artist-de¬
sign which presides over his whole instruction. But it is
also the proper effect of that dialectical philosophy which
is worked out in the Dialogues. Whilst he is a consummate
artist throughout, he is also illustrating the lessons which he
had learnt from Socrates, by bringing false opinions to the
test of discussion, and leaving truth, for the most part, to
be collected from refutation of error, rather than positively
enunciating it, or exactly defining it.
For when wTe come to examine his philosophy more
closely, wre find, that it begins and ends, like the lessons of
Socrates, with a confession of the ignorance of man. So¬
crates had led him to perceive how much was taken for
granted in the popular opinions and systems of philosophy ;
how even those who had a reputation for wisdom and ta¬
lents took up principles which they had never examined, and
which they could not satisfactorily account for, or defend,
when pressed in argument. Imbibing, accordingly, the spirit
of the Socratic method, he did not endeavour to teach, in the
proper sense of the term, so much as to explore and test
the minds of men ; to ascertain, how far they really under¬
stood the doctrines and opinions which they professed.
The fundamental error of the Sophists was, that they as¬
sumed all current opinions to be true. They did not think
it necessary to examine this preliminary; whether the opi¬
nions on which they built their fabric of knowledge were
true or false. It was enough for them, that certain opinions
wTere actually held ; and to these, as given principles, they
directed their whole system of teaching. Their teaching,
accordingly, was entirely crgoj oo^av, relative to opinion ; and
it must, consequently, stand, or fall, as existing opinions
could be maintained or impugned. Now, with Plato, as
with Socrates, the investigation of this preliminary point
(that is, whether existing opinions are true or no), is every¬
thing. The presumption that they are true, is what he will
by no means admit. He demands a positive evidence of
them. And as the presumption of their truth is a bar to all
inquiry concerning them, he commences with the opposite
presumption of their falsehood, or at least a confession on
the part of the inquirer, that as yet,-—until he has investigat¬
ed,—he does not know the truth of his opinions.
For the same reason, he avoids all dogmatism in his con¬
clusions. Those might aspire to communicate the know¬
ledge of new truth to the mind, who, as the Sophists did, as¬
sumed that knowledge was entirely subjective; or who held
that any opinion which could be produced in the mind, was
simply true, was really known, because it was there. But as
Plato denied the truth of Opinion, if it had no other evi¬
dence, but that of its mere presence in the mind; so, neither
would he concede that any process of the mind in itself, or
any argumentative and persuasive instructions, could pro¬
duce, by their own force, a conviction of truth in the mind.
In other words, he required the student of philosophy, not
only to begin, but to end, with a confession of the ignorance
of man.
We have an apt illustration of this in the dialogue en¬
titled the First Alcibiades. There Socrates is introduced,
1 Thucyd. ill 38; Demosth. pnsshn.
- ’O:/ tou; Xoyoui rots i^yots /ZXaSfiv riyovfitvot, dXXos (/.to ^o}iiec^5iiyai [A.a.'k'ko'i Xor/of Tooriiot, ri ts-/ a Ou igyu ixSur, r. X. ( rhucyd. ii. 40 $
also iii. 42.)
3 Tlrorto in /teo%ri S/* ravrav iKiy%wy x. r. X. (Rep. vii. p. 1(>70 4 Cic. Aca.it. Quirst. i. 12.
5 Sex. Emp. Fyr. Hyp. i. 33; Diog. JLaert. in Vit. Plat. 33.
21
PLATO.
p„to, questioning Alcibiades concerning his plans of life and ing the ^ ~ ^
M\TA, the same is illustrated by the comparison of ^ ~
the effect of the searching questions of Socr.^ » * subjects tlte.mwas^ ^d.d supe^ K (M
mind of the person submitted to them, to that of the t p £ Jhp reas0n of every man, and oblige him to see
do. Meno says, he had thousands of fames, and to^man^ ££ ^ defcnd his opinions- And on this very ground
person, and with much credit to himself, as ^ ’ q t u a ueen attacked • for he was accused of cor-
spoken on the subject of virtue; but on conversing with
Socrates, he was quite at a loss now to say even vv p^t0 fully admifs that this practice, as pursued by the So-
"e same purport is the general application by So^ ^nteHeftotr^m to
crates in theof tlicOTadc remai„ under the guidance of some principles winch, though
the wisest of men. , ’ <{ true, served as restraints on their passions, than to re¬
ins name by way of example, as^^ ’ move everything from their minds, and leave no check what-
men 1 is the wisest of you, whoever, like Socrates, is c licentious indulgence. By a beautiful illustration, he
vinced, that he is in truth worthless m respect of wisdom produced by the sophistical method, to
The method of Plato, accordingly is the reverse of dh- ““P^“^d“Pht JdstwJlh,and luxury, and
dactic. The Sophists could a*d^“c7t*° ^iVt high connections, and die society of flatterers, but in igno-
cause they assumed principles as true, horn which t ey b rnnpp as to his real narentaee. Suppose, he observes, such a
proceed to argue and persuade. But this was precluded to has hitherto be-
Plato, assuming, as he did, that all opinions demande p ^ ^ be hig rents> are not s0, and at the same time not
vious examination. It was necessary for him to ^ reaj parents are. It is clear, that whilst in
confession of ignorance, to make men sensib e o £ - ^ of io.noranCePConcerning his supposed parents, he
culties belonging to a subject. It only remamed, tl f gattend to more than to his flatterers;
for him to proceed by Interrogation. In a. colloq p on findino-out his mistake, unless he were of a superior
phy, Interrogation is what experiment is m physica inqm y. racter gu^,h ag jg rareiy met with, he would attend to his
It is the mode of discovering what the real state p - ' ’ b t t]lose whom he once supposed to be
son’s mind is, in regard to the opinions which he professes e^Sn™0r^thwa^ he shews, whh one who
The whole art of S°crates consisted in pu ^ ^ bear_ gJd find out that the popular principles of morals in which
the person with whom he conversed, s° th . . b h h had been trained, were not the truth, without arriving, at
ing on the point in debate mignt be elicited , tnat tne ne ^ ^ ^ He nQ longer be
grounds on which a given opinion was held m,g y P controlled by those moral principles of which he had dis¬
pear ; and the person’s ^ answers nng open hi ^^d^ covered the ?alsehood . but having nothing to substitute in
see it in its proper light, rhis method Tla j . , h ld • afterwards, without reserve,
out in the interrogatory of his D,a ogues. Under such a
philosophv,the.ans”T^r|she hXeSo^’measurereSisW.< Inopposi-
S„ylh:h"nTwghTchnheypU?. He prLerU from “S
^ ^»—on evCTythins
gI The popular opponents of this method called it a method J^ meth^y winch he
of producing doubt; and ^fcareMv oSes suci a mind “tie cilh b/a ter^i conveying to aP Greek ear
misrepresentation e^bis fhe &iphist8^S,nm sit- irtidTuh E^n^
mere ettoit of gladiatorial ski . y I , . 2 as contrasted with the mere wisdom of opinion,
men apt to cavil and dispute “n 8"“ ^ ' whieh the Sophists inculcated, it was philosophy,
EfDiHSt jfi rfefsS
could only find materials on which to exercise dself In on^d w“ effect-
Stppwrthb^ “4f -Uist on the one hand, and the scepticsm o,
line of the mind. With the Sophists, it«» pe™ted» on wh;ch he founded the
strengthen that universal scepticism in »h l- j; ^,r | l e ,,| J f s „roceed;ng, was the fallaciousness of Opinion ;
plication oifhis^ethod^^tiie singfe8 purpos^on^vestigat- tiuT^iphists, on the contrary, assuming the truth of Opinion
I ■ n„,e i, W., on' 'O.™ i,*, « rofr.™ tin,, tin,, ^ I-.J-.,, if—„ ^ tiJ,,., i,.., tin, r,
log. s<tc. p 53.) . . . „ _ lfi9. Men0 r>. 347 : Polit.: Conv. 4 Hep- vu- PP- 174-178.
:™ i.^..n.o, oti JSZZ* r. - W, ^ f »* ) »*
aiuAiKTtxt;- i Ss f&n, (^CP- vii- P’
PLATO.
25
Plato’s universally. Whilst to the Sophists every opinion served
Writings as a ground of argument, and for them there was no need
an<1 to look beyond the apparent; it was necessary for Plato, to
■ -S.°PY " see^ f°r somc Criterion of Truth out of the region of mere
Opinion. Commencing with denying the sufficiency of what
metaphysicians call subjective truth, or the assumption that
whatever is perceived by the mind is true, because it is so
perceived; he had to search after objective truth, truth in¬
dependent of the mind of man, and exempt from the contin¬
gencies and variations of human judgment, as a foundation
of his system of knowledge.
The hypothesis, accordingly, of the fallaciousness of Opi¬
nion from which his Method set out, involved a correspond¬
ing hypothesis in philosophy of the fallaciousness of the
senses. It is the joint application of these two fundamental
principles that combines his Method and his Philosophy in
one master-science of dialectic. Opinion, according to
him, is the kind of knowledge derived from the information
of the senses, and is therefore no proper knowledge at all,
but mere belief or persuasion, w/ftr/j ; whereas true know¬
ledge is founded on that which is purely apprehended by the
intellect, without any intervention whatever of the senses.
Dialectic, as it is philosophy, is conversant about that which
is, or which has being, as contrasted with presentations to
the senses, which have only the semblance of Being ; as it
is a method, it investigates the reason, or account of the
Being of everything ;—the account of everything as it is,
and not as it appears ; not being satisfied, like its sophisti¬
cal counterpart, with opinions of which no account can be
given, but bringing all to the test of exact argument and de-
, finition.
In order, therefore, to give his Method a firm basis, and
his philosophy a distinct object, it was required, that he
should establish a sound theory of Being, or, in other words,
a sure Criterion of Truth. Such, then, was his celebrated
Theory of Ideas.
There are four distinct views embraced in this theory as
it is developed by Plato; four phases, as it w ere, under
which it is presented.
I. The first, and most strictly Platonic view of it, accord¬
ing to what we have already stated, is in its connection with
logical science. None of the great philosophers before Pla¬
to ; none, that is, of those wrho had speculated on the uni¬
verse at large, as Thales, Pythagoras, Heraclitus, Parme¬
nides, Anaxagoras, were conversant with logical science.
Zeno the Eleatic, and Euclid of Megara, were known in¬
deed as dialecticians. But the kind of logical science which
they professed, wras a rude and imperfect art, consisting
chiefly in the knowledge and use of particular fallacies, and
not founded in any deep study of the nature of thought and
reasoning. They were, besides, mere dialecticians, rather
than philosophers in the most extended sense of the term.
Plato’s mind, however, while it was engaged in logical stu¬
dies, was also no less intent on the investigation of the first
principles of all things. And, as has been often observed
in other cases, the favourite study of his mind gave its com¬
plexion to his theory of first principles, or doctrine of Ideas.
The term “ Idea” does not indeed convey to the under¬
standing of a modern any notion of a connection of the theory
with logical science. In our acceptation, it belongs exclu¬
sively to metaphysics. But in Plato’s view there was no
separation of the twm branches of logic and metaphysics.
Both wei e closely united in the one science to which he gave
the name of Dialectic, and which was accordingly at once
a science of the internal reason,—that is, of the processes of
the mind in its silent speculation on things ; and of the ex¬
ternal reason,—that is, of the processes of the mind in com¬
municating its speculations to others in words. The terms,
therefore, belonging to the one process, are indiscriminately
applied to the other. Thus, to “ give a reason” of the be- Plato’s
ing of a thing, bibrnat Xoyov rr,s nuSiag, was equivalent to a Writings
scientific view of it; and the w’ord Xoyog denoted at once aiK*
the terms of language by which that reason was expressed, ■ s°^ “V| ^
and the reason itself as it existed in the mind. Thus, too,
the word idzou, or ideas, was only a little varied from the
logical term e’fSjj, or species, which indeed is sometimes sub¬
stituted for it in the phraseology of Plato. The simplicity,
accordingly, and invariableness, and universality, which be¬
long to terms denoting the agreement of a variety of ob¬
jects in certain characteristics, were transferred to supposed
counterparts in the mind itself, or to the notions represent¬
ed by the terms which are the name oi the species. Hence
the idea, or eidos, was conceived to be, rot simply a result
of a process of the mind, but something in the mind, and
as having a being independent of the mind itself. As the
species expressed in words was universal, so its counterpart
in the mind was the universal nature in which the indivi¬
duals to which it referred, participated. In that, the mind,
perplexed by the variety and anomaly of individual objects,
found an invariable sameness. In the contemplation of it,
the mind no longer wavered and doubted, but obtained a
fixedness of view'. The idea, or species, therefore, was to
be explored and reached in order to a just theory of every¬
thing, and wras in itself that theory.
Further, as there is a relative classification of objects by
means of words ; some standing for characteristics common
to a greater number of objects, whilst others stand for cha¬
racteristics of only some out of that number ; this property
of words was in like manner conceived to have its counter¬
part in the mind. A graduated series of species was sup¬
posed to exist, fh'st in the mind, and then independent of
the mind, by means of which, as by steps, the mind might
rise to the highest species, the ultimate idea itself, in which
all others were comprehended. And hence there was no
real perfect science but that which penetrated to this ulti¬
mate nature or being ; and all other ideas, or theories, were
truly scientific only as they participated in this.
This notion of “ participation” of the ideas, was a still
further application of logical language to the business of
philosophy in general. For, as the several particulars be¬
longing to a species all possess those characteristics which
constitute their species, as well as those which connect them
with a higher species or genus of which they are the spe¬
cies, their logical description is made up of an enumera¬
tion of those characteristics, together with the name of the
higher class or genus under which the whole species is in¬
cluded. The higher class is an ingredient in the specifica¬
tion of a lower ; or, conversely, a lower class participates in
a higher. So Plato considered everything in the universe,
as being what it is, by a “ participation” of the Ideas ; and
consequently, that to explore its nature we must ascertain
the idea which thus constitutes it. The Pythagoreans be¬
fore him spoke of things as existing by “ assimilation” to the
essential being. Plato’s logical views occasioned this change
of phraseology; for he varied only the term, as Aristotle
observes, whilst he followed the Pythagoreans as masters
in the fundamental conception of his theory.1 Aristotle, in¬
deed, whilst he assigns the logical studies of Plato as the
occasion of the form of the ideal theory, more particularly
accounts for the theory, from Plato’s observation of the im¬
portance of definitions in the ethical discussions of Socrates.
Plato found how effectual an instrument Definition had been
in the hands of Socrates in silencing the impertinencies of
false opinion on moral subjects. As it had brought moral
questions to an issue, so it might be applied, he thought,
generally, as a stay to the extravagancies of opinion on all
subjects whatever. Accordingly he had only to generalize
the principle of definitions, and the result was the theory of
iL
VOL. XVIII.
1 Afistot. Metaph. i. 6.
D
26
PLATO.
Plato’s Ideas, or the universal science of reasons, and ultimate cn-
Writings terion of all truth. , , ,
and Philo- Tq understand, however, rightly how Plato was led y
logical considerations to his theory of Ideas we shou d ob-
more particularly what his view was the nature of
logic. We should greatly misapprehend him if we sup
posed that he had that notion of the science which h^ pre¬
vailed since the systematic exposition of it by Ar stotle.
As it was conceived by Plato, it answered strictly to its on
ginal name of dialectic, rather than to that °f logm , bemg
the art of discussion, or the art ot drawing forth the tiutl
from the mind by questioning, rather than the art o de
ducing consequences from given principles. It was a highe ,
more comprehensive science, than the art of Deduction For
it was conversant about the discovery and establishment o
principles ; whereas the logical science which is employed
about Deduction, assumes the principles in order to specu¬
late about their consequences. It left the latter inquiry
be pursued by subsequent research, whilst the more ambi-
douPs flight o/those Who fi-t speculated on the natm^
Discourse was directed to the discovery of truth. In Plato
hands it was an energetic reform of the
lo<ric, which was as yet known and practised in the schoo •
This logic had no concern for truth, but only for victory
and display. It consisted in a skill of wielding ce^m so¬
phisms, known by familiar names in the schools, andJ™ “
ed on he equivocations of words. An appearance of truth
being all that it aimed at, it did not exact of the student
any consideration of the nature of things. It was enough
that he could give the word reason, the mere logos, the
lymboior coU„L. He was not taught to go beyond this
le-erdemain of language, or to search out the reason of the
being of things, and correct the paralogisms involved m the
use of words, by reference to the realities represented by
them. This sophistical method affected indeed to be a c i-
IE; art; to Struct and furnish the mind PnnciP “
applicable to every subject ot discussion. !t considered,
forsooth, language as an universal science of nature already
constructed; and, proceeding on this supposition, profuse
to enable the student to apply the wisdom alre*dy e" ^ '
died in language, to the purpose of appearing w ^ hunse ,
and imparting to others the same apparent wisdom. But
o-oing no further than this, it ended in mere mere
opinfon. It produced, that is, in the result, only a waver¬
ing state of mind, subject to be changed by every new im¬
pression of opposite arguments, and imparted no steady
^irwa^a' great reform, then, which Plato undertook, in
following up the example proposed in the conversations ot
Socrates, and instituting a proper science ot Dialectic, a
science of the reason of the being of things. It was a
change from an empirical system, a vain art ot words, to a
scientific method or investigation of the reasons themselve ,
on which an instructive use of words must be founded.
For, we must observe, it was still a science of woids
which he teaches as the true logic or dialectic. It had
throughout a reference to discussion. Still !t was a real
science as compared with the verbal and technical logic ot
his predecessors. Though it was a science of words, it had
for its obiect the determination of such words as should fully
correspond to their intention as symbols, in characterizing
the proper being of the thing denoted. Ihese reasons ot
the being of things, the Xoyo/ rvs ovdiag, were the Ideas.
His logical method, accordingly, was an analytical, induc¬
tive method. Setting out on the assumption of the erro¬
neousness of opinion as such, it examines hypothesis alter
hypothesis on each subject proposed tor discussion, reject¬
ing and excluding, as it proceeds, everything irrelevant.
The scrutiny instituted consists in searching for the grounds
of contradiction with regard to each opinion, and shewn g and phi^
that opposite views on point after point in the matter sopliy
cwSecTare a. least as tenable as the aasumpbons c»nUmf __
in the given opinion or hypothesis. Hence it consists al
most entirely of refutation, or what both he and Anstot e
denominate ^elenchus, a process ot reasoning by which the
contradictory of a given conclusion is ndei re .
A method of this kind was calculated fully to put to the
test every unsound opinion. It collected everything that
could belaid either for or against a given opinion. It made
the maintainer of it state on what grounds he maintained
it, what consequences followed from it; and either forced
him to self-contradiction in his defence of it, ^ obhged h
to modify it according to the requisitions ot the argnimen
And the'result was, that whatever stood its gj°und
complete sifting of the question, might bc regarded as s
truth. When refutation had done its utmost and all the
points of difficulty and objection had been fully brought out,
the dialectical process had accomplished its purpose; and the
affirmative which remained after this discussion might be
"d as setting forth the truth of the question -der
consideration. For everything connected with it, and yet
not founded in the truth of things, was then remo^ed A
the result therefore might be accepted as a truth of
being, an object which the eye of the intellect might stea
toughout corresponds with the process of
investigation in modern philosophy. Only we must con-
celvftL dialectical investigation of Plato as "Othm* more
than an admirable scheme for clearing a question of every-
thin- foreign to it; whilst the latter draws out the true law
of nature from the promiscuous assemblage of phenomena
under which it is presented to observation, a«d ^l^i
until analysis has done its work on the mass. l he ™™
clature of the two methods varies accordingly. Argument
is the instrument of the former 5 experiment that of
latter. Refutation is the primary business of theforir t ,
reiection and exclusion of irrelevant phenomena that ot the
i L,.. nf words, as thev are signs ot the being
latter.10 Definitions of words, as they are signs of the being
of things, are the result of the former; whilst the latter de-
velopes laws of nature. „
Both processes are carried on by Interrogation, b
whereas the analysis which investigates a law »f ^re Pro-
ceeds by interrogation of nature, the analysis of Plato s tii
lectic proceeds by interrogation of the mind, m order
disc„vePrTe trJ being or idea of the thing disced
Therefore it was that Socrates called his art, in his o
playful manner, /xa/iu/ia, a kind of midwifery; a delivering o
the mind of the notions with which it was P^gnant. Jhus
the dialectic of Plato, being entirely directed to observa
tion on the mind, and not to external nature, takesthe state
of knowledge as it exists in the mind tor the ground °f ^
proceeding. It deals with things; that is, as they exist_i
the forms of thought; going, as Plato says, “ from sPeC1f2
to species, until it arrives at the principle of all things,
and following throughout the steps by winch the mmd ad¬
vances in obtaining an exact view of any object of its con¬
templation. It is, in fact, the true thought spoken out.
The process of thinking by which it is attained, is the
lectical process of interrogation. The decision ot the mm
when its conviction is settled, is the dialectical conclusion.
The chief logical instrument employed m this method is
division. The being able to divide according to genera,
and not to consider the same species as different, nor a dif¬
ferent one as the same, is stated to belong especially to dia¬
lectical science.4 In searching out the true definition ot
the being of a thing, this portion of the internal process
Soph. p. 274.
1 Theurtet.
Rep. vi. p. 124.
3 Thewtet. p. 15l.
PLATO.
27
Plato’s the mind would naturally strike the attention. General ideas
Writings being founded on general resemblances of objects, the first
and Philo- gtep jowarjs a more distinct idea of an object is to see that
- S0 y ‘' t^ie generalization is complete ; that it neither excludes nor
includes any objects which it ought not to exclude or in¬
clude. The true idea of any object would be that which
characterized every object belonging to the idea, and none
other. The analysis accordingly pursued by Plato is con¬
versant about Division, using the induction of particulars in
subordination to this.1 We find, indeed, a constant use of
Induction by Plato, after the manner of Socrates. But it
is always in reference to the main purpose of determining,
not a general fact, but the dominant Idea in every object
of thought.
At the same time, we may observe, the Dialectic of Plato
is truly a method of investigation, though it does not pene¬
trate to the depth of the modern analysis. It employed de¬
ductive reasonings; but these were not essential parts of
its method; since the whole was a process of ascent to the
theory of the Ideas.
Afterwards, indeed, Dialectic approximated to what is
now commonly understood by Logic. The transition was
first to the consideration of it as a method of drawing out
the probable conclusions deducible from given premises.
This was natural. For in Plato’s method every opinion was
admitted as an hypothesis to be examined, in order to re¬
jecting the falsehood and eliciting the truth that might be
contained in it; and so far his Dialectic might be regarded
as a speculation on probabilities. This transition prepared
the way for a further one, when Dialectic became strictly
the science of Deduction. Attention would be drawn more
and more to the use of words as instruments of reasoning,
when Dialectic was once exalted into the rank of a science.
The progress seems to be this. The science being cul¬
tivated primarily with a view to discussion, the importance
of language in order to reasoning could not fail, from the
first direction of the mind in this channel, to strike the
philosophical observer. The phenomena of sophistical ar¬
gument would suggest the necessity of inquiry into words
as tney are employed in reasoning. Philosophers, accord-
ingly, would be led to examine into the nature of words con¬
sidered as signs and representatives of thought. Thus they
would proceed to arrange words into classes, according to
their import in this respect. Thus would be obtained that
great division of words into those that denote an individual
alone, and those that stand both for many and for one, or
into singular and common;—the fundamental principle of
logic properly so called, or of logic as the science is now
considered. I he use of Division and Definition would soon
appear. These processes, indeed, would be naturally dis¬
covered in the very prosecution of discussions addressed to
the refutation of false opinions and popular fallacies. The
early dialectics, accordingly, abounded in the use of them.*
Afterwards, as the analytical power of language came to be
more particularly observed, the connections of words in pro¬
positions and arguments would attract speculation. The
possibility of exhibiting any given proposition or argument
under abstract formulae, in which unmeaning symbols were
substituted for the terms themselves of the proposition or
argument, would at length be discovered. Thus in the re¬
sult would be erected a formal science of logic, in which
language would be considered as an artificial system of signs,
and the validity of arguments would be explored, indepen¬
dently of the subject-matter about which they happen to be
conversant.
When Plato, however, drew his Theory of Ideas from the
logical speculations in which his mind was engaged, there
was no such system as that now found in treatises of logic.
There are the materials in the writings of Plato for con¬
structing a method of dialectic, such as the science pre¬
sented itself to his view; but that method remains, even to
this day, to be fully explored and stated. It is clear that
he had such a system, and that his writings proceed on re¬
gular method ; though he has nowhere accurately sketched
it, and perhaps never even proposed it to himself in the
form of a system. His thoughts were engaged in this, as
in other subjects, in giving the great outlines of his philo¬
sophy. It was enough for him to have seized the bearings
of logical truth on all truth ; and to this general view of the
science he has made everything secondary and subser¬
vient.
Plato’s
Writings
and Philo¬
sophy.
II. The next aspect under which the Theory of Ideas
should be considered, is that in which it sums up and mea¬
sures the infinites of the sensible world. In this point of
view it more immediately represented its Pythagorean pro¬
totype, than under its logical aspect. It is in reference to
this intention of the theory that Aristotle objects, that whilst
it professes to give the account of things, it introduces an
additional number of objects in the Ideas themselves; an
absurdity, he observes, like that of attempting to facilitate
a calculation by adding to the numbers to be calculated.3
It was, accordingly, an endeavour to reckon up the indivi¬
duals of the universe, and exhibit their sum in one state¬
ment. As Plato’s logical speculations gave their colour to
his whole philosophy, so the devotion of the Pythagoreans
to mathematics led them to form a mathematical theory of
the universe. The universal nature of number gave them
the ground for this application of their peculiar studies. For
all things are in number; and there is nothing from which
the notion of number may not be abstracted. That num¬
ber, then, which alone measures all other numbers,—Unity,
—would be regarded as the common measure of all things.
And thus the philosophy of the universe would be reduced
to a system of calculation ; and the infinity of existing things
summed up in definite proportions of numbers. The Greek
word logos, whilst it combined in it the notions of “ word”
and “ reason,” also further combined that of “ ratio,” and
reasoning and calculating were expressed by the one term
Xcyi&cftcu. This marks the connected trains of thought by
which the arithmetical theory of the Pythagoreans was
formed. The effects of this combination of thought are
seen, not only in the fundamental conception of the theory,
but in our ordinary phraseology on the subject of reason¬
ing even at this day; as, for example, in our use of the
word “ Term,’’—that is, “ limit,” or “ boundary,”—for
words, not only in their logical signification, but even in
their familiar use.4
It appears to have struck the mind of Plato that the
theory of the Pythagoreans was not sufficiently compre¬
hensive, or even ultimate, as an account of the Being of
things. The simplicity of Number did not adequately ex¬
plain the great variety of natures found in the universe;
and though the science of Arithmetic held almost the high¬
est place in his scale of knowledge, on account of its ab-
2 pKl-irra. xa, v^rov rn, p&ohv rawrnv n/xav, roZ xnr EiS» Wrav sTva< (.PoVU. p. 66.'I
22yZZ ZTk T.TIi TV nT‘^T ? ^
“ On Divisions,’’ not now extant.(/“- pP- 362’ 363’> Plato aPPears to have been the author of a work
4 “ r‘S iXarrotav pit ovruv, omiro p* 'SuvruritrS-tu, Sj Troiwat apiS-fioiv f Aristot Metanh \ 7 'i
vi«A mathematlcal P^seology throughout. Reasoning, with him,.is “ reckoning,” and words L “ counters.” (£,-
Hi
28
PLATO.
Plato’, stract nature, and its leading to the consideration of Being, constant production; being the momentary, ever-varying riajo^
Writings apart from the changeable Objects of sense i he still viewed results of the concourse of agent and g'® /r h ’ f and ™1<>
and Philo--/ nrarfirallv imnlicated with the physical sciences, and, example, as the object, and sight ot the colour n tne ey sophy.
soph,. ^^rtherXenM strictly and exclusively conversant as the sensation, are momentary relations simnltaneously^ 
ssssssas
its principles, and its truths consequently depend on assump
tions which in themselves demand evidence, cannot, he ob¬
serves, rank as perfect intelligence.
Perfect intelligence, VMjff/s, implies an absolute stay to
the thought; something beyond which no further inquiry
ground. It would be nothing but miserable trifling to try
to call forth those reasons of things which he conceived to
be in the mind, if knowledge were of this fluctuating cha-
racter.5 There could not, in fact, be then any such reasons.
There was nothing stable, nothing that remained in the
bim still cherishing the Pythagorean doctrine of Number, criterion was therefore wanted, '? w^h th®
by assigning to it the second place in his scale of knowledge, of sensatmn might be referred. 1 he theor, of Ideas,
nVonfy ^ ^^ “'S^iS^We perpetua, flux of sensa-
wtn t cTjtd7ed “look more closely into his tions and their objects, a, taught by Herachtua whdst he
sasssssss ^3Si^«=s2
sspmil liiil
contemplated in their inconstancy, admit ot no calculatio . ’ observed, that when the mind compares
To estimate them, we must hod the -“o ^ ‘hey ^ their similarity or difference;
the variable m !ts ’',p“n‘Yb7pto”Tm two tilings, there is a standard to which they are referred,
Aegen^noti^of^WfiwW,.™^-
becomhi^or'incipieiicy'; lieiri^a niei’e'de'relopmenfof^ic- being formed by the sensations, it is -ot snbjeet to to
cessive phenomena, displacing each other without cessa¬
tion. As duration is no positive existence as a whole, but
is made up of an infinite number of moments, each of which
is gone as the succeeding moment appears ; so was it as¬
serted generally in the doctrine of that school, that every
object in the universe was a mere collection of successive
phenomena. Of nothing could it be aflirmed that it is. The
very sensations, no less than the objects of them, were in
variableness. It remains unmoved, and the same, amidst
the flow of the sensations, or of the objects ot the sensa¬
tions ;—the standing criterion of all the judgments of the
mind to which it applies.8
Hence we may see the peculiar meaning ot the term
“ Idea” in Plato’s philosophy. It consists in its contrast with
the objects of sensation. The latter never attain to any
definite perfect form—to any clear outline, as it were, to
1 vi. The importance aligned to arithmetic in the early philosophy, is shewn in « Uno of ^schyhis K«, «*»
't •s;™;; ^ ».««*« «—«*»-*
s Ibid. p. 90. 0 Ibid. p. 82. > /«. pp. 139-144.
8 Phcedo, pp. 170, 230-236; Rep. vii. pp. 145-147; Thcadct.
Plato’s the eye. They flow and have vanished before they could
Writings attain to such form ; since, in the very succeeding one
md Philo- another, they not only pass away, but undergo alteration.
fp ^_ - But the standard to which they are referred in the mind, is
a positive defined shade, or form, or species, simple and uni¬
form, analogous to an object of sight of which we can clearly
trace the whole outline by the eye.1 For the like reason, the
term exemplar, va^adsiypa., is also applied to denote the Idea.
As the one perfect standard to which all the reports of the
senses are referred, it appears in the light of a pattern, to
which they would be conformed, but for that incessant mu¬
tability which necessarily belongs to them. I his, however,
was rather the Pythagorean view of general principles than
the Platonic, though Plato himself not unfrequently recurs
to it.
Plato, at the same time, in thus constituting Ideas the
sole absolute criteria of real existence, did not intend to
deny all reality whatever to conclusions drawn from our
sensible experience, such as those of the physical sciences.
But he means, in the first place, to shew the delusive cha¬
racter of all informations of sense which are not corrected
by the internal reason of the mind. In the next place, his
design is to point out the inferior knowledge which every
other kind of evidence conveys, but that which is drawn
from the intuitive perceptions of the mind. The mere in¬
formations of sense, he teaches, are only a knowledge of
semblances or idols, sixuaia, conjecture founded on mere
images of the truth. He describes this kind of knowledge
by an admirable illustration from a supposed case of men
placed in a long cavern, with their bodies so chained from
infancy, that they can only look before them, whilst the
light of a fire from behind casts on the side opposite to
them, the shadows of vessels, and statues of stone and wood,
carried along a track leading upwards from the cavern by
persons who are themselves concealed by a wall, like the ex¬
hibitors of puppets. As men so circumstanced would see
nothing of themselves, and of each other, or of the things
thus carried along, but the shadows, they would mistake the
shadows for the realities ; they would speak of the shadows
as if these were the things; and if any voice was heard
from the persons carrying along the figures, they would
think the sounds proceeded from the passing shadow.2 Just
like this, he declares, is the influence of education in the
lower world of sense on the minds of men. They must be
carried up from this cavern, in which they see everything
only by an artificial light, to the light of the sun itself, to
the region of Ideas, where alone objects are seen as they
are in themselves.
As to the knowledge conveyed by the physical sciences,
neither is this properly science. It amounts only, as he
states it, to belief or opinion. These are less intellectual
than the mathematical sciences, because they are conver¬
sant about human opinions and desires, or about the pro¬
duction and composition of things, or about the means of
sustaining things produced and compounded.3 They ai'e
therefore as unstable as the things about which they are.
But th#y are still not devoid of evidence, so far as they col¬
lect real informations of the senses, and do not learn
from*mere shadows. This is implied in his calling such
knowledge belief, and distinguishing it from conjecture;
though he is rigid in preserving the exclusive prerogative
of Truth to the knowledge of the Ideas.
The evidence of Experience was necessarily slighted in
such a philosophy, and condemned as insufficient for the dis¬
covery of truth. For what is Experience but the memory of
several similar previous informations of sense, combined into Plato’s
one general conclusion ? And though Aristotle allows that
such a general conclusion, in which the mind acquiesces, aI^ , °’
might be regarded as scientific,4 this could not be admitted. J ~ . .
by a philosopher who placed the objects of sensation out of
the pale of Being. It was not enough for Plato’s system to
answer in favour of the scientific value of Experience, that
though this and that particular instance of an information of
sense had no immoveable truth in it, yet, from the observation
of a number of similar instances, a general uniformity might
be inferred, and an immoveable general principle established.
He would grant that generalization was a corrective of ex¬
perience. For this he did when he granted some import¬
ance to the arts in education, and for the purposes of life.
But truth with him must be universal, not simply general:
it must be that which is always the same, not simply that
which is for the most part. And the highest degree of the
evidence of experience, even that which amounts to what
is called moral certainty, falls short of this absolute univer¬
sality. It might be urged, for example, that though what
was sw^eet to one person and at one time, might be bitter
to another person and at another time; and though what
seemed the same sensation of sweet, was not in fact the
same at two successive moments, but a reproduction ; still
it was possible, by combining recollections of many similar
instances, to form a general notion w hich should adequately
characterize that sensation. Still Plato would say, this was
only belief or opinion, and not science. The object of
science must be such as cannot be otherwise : it must be
absolutely one and the same permanent being: you must
altogether quit the stream of the world of sense, and land
on the rock of unchangeable eternal Being.
Thus Rhetoric is strongly reprobated by Plato, on the
very ground bn which it is systematically taught by Aris¬
totle, of its being nothing more than an instrument of per¬
suasion, or an art speculating on the means of persuasion.
Much of his invective indeed derives its point from its ap¬
plication to the servile rhetoricians of his day. Still we
find him condemning Rhetoric on the abstract ground of
its having no higher view than persuasion. In the modern
view of the subject, as in Aristotle’s, Rhetoric is a real
science, so far as it is framed on just conclusions respecting
those modes of speaking, or writing, which excite interest
and produce conviction. With Plato it is mere quackery ;
and for this reason, that it is founded on experience of w hat
persuades, being only an g/zcs/wa or rg/C/j, a knack acquired
by experience and converse with the world; an accom¬
plishment, learned by practice, without any real knowledge,
in flattering the passions of men. He in fact regarded Ex¬
perience as corresponding with what we call empiricism ;
contrasting it with the conclusions of abstract reason, as we
contrast an illiterate and unscientific use of experience
with that of the philosopher.5
Looking to that sort of experience on which the popular
teaching of the Sophists was founded, Plato, w e should say,
wras fully justified in his condemnation of the experimental
method of his day. It was in truth mere quackery. It was
content with shadows and images of the truth, and entirely di¬
rected to producing a desired effect, without caring for the ab¬
solute truth ;—a shallow philosophy of sensation, not found¬
ed in the nature of things. He had thus to contend against
a system, which distorted that criterion of truth, which man
has in himself, by the right use of his reason conjointly with
his experience, to the undermining of all truth and reality.
This empirical system was the crying evil of those times.
1 Hanc illi ideam appellabant, jam a Platone ita nominatam ; nos recte speciem possumus dicere. (Cicer. Acad. Qn. i. 8.) Forma; sunt,
quas Graeci loias vocant, &c. (Cicer. Topic. 7.)
2 Rep. vii. ad init. 3 p_ jg j.
4 ’E» S’ ri \x vravro; rii>ip.'/!<raiiros raw KaSoXov Iv t5? to^ craXAa,. o km $v ntratm sv ev») XKUtoti ra aura,
Km Wiirrvftyr lav /ium (rsj; yiMitriM gaV Ss vigt to on, Imffrnpns. (Aristot. Analyt. part ii. c. ult.)
5 Gorgias, p. 117, et seq. ; Phcedr.
30
Plato's
W ritings
and Philo¬
sophy.
PLATO.
It had infected politics, and education, and private inter¬
course, as well as philosophy. In opposition to it, he had
to take up an antithetical position ; to call in question the
, existing acceptation and use of the human criterion of
truth ; to limit it within its proper bounds, and guard against
its perversion. Accordingly the whole stress of his philo¬
sophy is on this point. It is a perpetual polemic against
the sophistical principle, that “ man is the measure of all
things.”1 * This amply accounts for his disparaging so much
as he does, the scientific value of Experience, and insisting
on the necessity of the existence of higher principles than
those of Experience, in order that the mind may duly re¬
ceive and appreciate the information of sense. He taught
men, at any rate, to perceive that the popular notion of that
evidence of truth which man has in his own nature was false
and deceptive, and that in all judgments and reasonings
there is also something more than is merely of man.
IV. The fourth leading point of view under which the
Theory of Ideas remains to be considered, is its aspect as
it is a theory of the Cause of the universe. Under this
aspect it is identified with the speculation into the Chief
Good. Here it is an account at once of the first principle
of motion, and of the end to which all things tend as their
perfection and ultimate good. According to Plato, there
was no other cause worthy of the name, or which really
accounted for the phenomena of the universe, but “ Hie
Good,” or, as it is technically called, the Final Cause. The
early speculations of philosophers had been chiefly directed
to the material phenomena of the universe, and had at¬
tempted to account for them in a rude manner, by refer¬
ring them to some one or more of the material elements.
Some indeed had introduced also moral influences into their
theory. The Pythagoreans combined with their specula¬
tion of the mvsterious Unity, the notion of Love as tne one-
making principle. The Ionic school, however, appears to
have led the opinion of philosophers in regard to the cause
of the universe at the time or Plato. And though Anaxa¬
goras asserted the ascendancy of mind, he had lost sight of
his great theory in the explanations from material causes,
to which he descended in the completion of his system.
Socrates began a strenuous opposition to the physical philo¬
sophers. Plato carried on that opposition, and, blending the
familiar ethics of Socrates with the moral and theological
mysticism of the Pythagoreans, established the Final Cause
or theory of “ the Good,” as supreme over the domain of
science.
Anaxagoras had certainly prepared the way for the the¬
ory. Plato took up his doctrine of a Divine Intelligence,
and gave it that development which, as it had been taught
by Anaxagoras himself, it yet waited to receive. It was
but a vain theory of a Supreme Mind (sublime and import¬
ant as the simple enunciation of the great truth was), which
did not also exhibit the Supreme Mind as operating in the
universe by design, and as diffusing the energy of its in¬
telligence and goodness, as well as of its power, throughout
its operations.
The Supreme Mind, therefore, according to Plato, must
be conceived, as exemplifying the attributes of its own nature
in the works which have proceeded from it. If it be granted
that there is a Supreme Mind, that must be the true measure
of all things in the universe. All things must have been
framed according to the scheme which such a mind would
contemplate in their production. As intelligence, it cannot
be regarded but as working for some object, svixa rov ; for by
this is intelligence distinguished from unintelligent force ;
and the only object to the supreme intelligence is the most
perfect nature, which is itself. The pattern of its own per¬
fections, therefore, must have been present to ib and mi
its design, in the construction of the universe. Jn other and Philo-
words, the Deity himself is not only the author of all things, SOp}jy.
but he has designed to exemplify in them his own attri-   
butes. The principle, accordingly, by which all true phi¬
losophy must hold, and which it must carry out into its
speculations, is, that “ God is the measure of all things. ~
And hence, whenever the proper being of any thmg is to
be explored, it must be studied in that light in which it is
seen as a work of the Supreme Mind, designed after the
pattern of the divine perfections. In such a contemplation,
the theory of the Best is the view by which philosophy
must be guided ; for, in ancient philosophy, an object ^ in_
telligent aim, and good, are equivalent terms. Ihe object
at which the most perfect intelligence aims, must be, there¬
fore, that which is best; and in tracing out, accordingly,
the workings of the Divine Mind in the world, we must
look for “ the best” in everything. That notion of every¬
thing by which it is “ best,” is both its real nature, and
the cause of its being produced.
But why is not everything, as it is actually seen, a work
of “ the best ?” why is not good visibly impressed on every¬
thing as it stands forth to the view ? why must we, in short,
resort to the Idea of good, in order to ascertain its nature,
instead of taking it simply as it appears ?
The antagonist force of unreason in the nature of that
which has body, and is apprehended by the senses, occasions
all the imperfection and evil in the world, as the world ac¬
tually exists. It subsisted already in the mass of disordti
and confusion which the Divine intelligence, by its opera¬
tion, had brought into order and regularity of motion ; and
it still subsists, though reduced into subordination to intel¬
ligence. It is overruled so as to minister to the designs of
mind, but still impedes by its contrariety of nature the de¬
velopment of good in the world. And thus Plato says that
it is impossible for evils to perish out of the voild, for
that there must ever exist a contrariety to good.3 Evil
pre-existed, and evil accordingly must be displaced by the
presence of good ; as contraries are displaced by contraries ,
and as all generation, or production, is carried on by a pro¬
cess from contrary to contrary. Thus, though evil retires
before good in the world of generated things, evil still ma¬
nifests itself in the very act of its retiring before good ; and
a perpetual opposition of good and evil remains. What we
see, accordingly, in the world, is not the perfect accom¬
plishment of good, but effort and tendency after good in all
things. The effects of a struggle between reason and un¬
reason are manifested, on the one hand, in the evanescent
imperfect nature of all sensible tnings ; and, on the othei
hand, in their constant renewing, or in that undying vigour
with which they flow on, and are reproduced, and aim at a
perfection beyond themselves.'*
Though, therefore, the Divine Artificer has designed
everything in the world for the best, they are not actually
the best as they are presented to our senses. They are the
best that such things can be, but they do not attain to the
Idea of good, according to which they have been made.
Time, for example, only imperfectly represents the divine
eternity, which is its true Idea. In eternity there is no
distinction of past, present, and future. But the bodily na¬
ture will not admit of this co-instantaneous development of
the divine Idea. Existence is here broken up into succes¬
sive moments; and these successive moments, marked by
the periodic motions of the heavenly bodies, introduce the
distinctions of number into the simple idea of duration.5
Again, the velocities of the heavenly bodies, which are ob¬
served by the astronomer, must be conceived as very in-
1 Havruv xgw/Aoirwv avS-gwwo;. (Thccctct. ; De Leg* iv.)
* ’AvoXiirSai ra Haxct, oCbutarot- breiiairiov yu.^, x- r- X- (De Leg. IV.
2 De Leg. iv.
4 T.niccits ; Po'iit. p. 30.
s Twiceut.
31
PLATO.
Plato’s adequate representatives of the “ real velocities performed
Writings ;n the true mimber and true figures,”1 which are the Ideas
and Philo. apter which they have been established. Or, again, it is
jop y. that the ideas of the good, and the just, and the ho¬
nourable, and the beautiful, as they are seen in the world
around us, are only imperfectly developed. Our thoughts
are distracted by the contemplation of them in the world, by
the multiplicity of forms under which they are apprehended
by men, and it seems to the superficial glance as if there
were no one perfect standard of each. At the same time,
we are able to trace evident signs of such a standard, when
we look thoughtfully at the course of things. We cannot
doubt, on such examination, that these principles exist, and
are working their way, and that the universe has been con¬
structed after the pattern of them. But all that the most
attentive study will disclose to us as actually observed, is
tendency towards these principles—a “ becoming” or inci-
piency of being.2 We do not see their full effect, or what
would be their effect, if the world were such as to give them
free scope and exercise, and if the impressions of sense did
not diversify and obscm-e the presentations of them to our
minds. Must we not say, then, that if we formed our no¬
tions of these principles from the visible world, and the im¬
pressions of sense, that we must estimate them improperly ?
And must we not rather elevate our minds to the Ideas
themselves, after which the universe has been constituted
in its present order, and take our measures of them from
the Divine Being, whose goodness, and truth, and beauty,
they represent ?
Thus did the Theory of Ideas serve as a moral explana¬
tion of the course of nature, and meet the demand of phi¬
losophy, by removing the perplexity of the mind on the con¬
templation of the apparent disorder of the world, and giving
a firm stay to the thought in this direction. This apparent
disorder has been the constant appeal of the atheist and
the sceptic in all ages. And in Plato’s time there was
need, we find from several passages of his writings, of an
answer on the part of philosophy to speculative objections
on this ground. The Theory of Ideas supplied this answer.
By the theory of a perfect model of good, imperfectly
wrought out in the visible universe, the existence of evil
was accounted for in some degree, and the eye of thought
was enabled to see a chain of goodness, and beauty, and
order, binding together the most untoward appearances of
the moral world. As the Pythagoreans enchained these
disjointed portions of the moral fabric, by supposing a fun¬
damental Unity pervading the whole, and reducing the mul¬
tiple and the unlimited to definite proportion—a sort of key¬
note, modulating the apparent discords of nature3—so Plato
made the one moral good the all-pervading moderator of
the system of the universe. The abstract notions, the ge¬
nera, and the species, and the definitions, which dialectical
science brought out by the aid of language, presented the
materials for extending the moral view to other notions be¬
sides those strictly moral; and thus a theological and mo¬
ral complexion was spread over the whole region of philo¬
sophy.
Ideas of evil were evidently excluded. “ The good”
could not be the cause of all things, but only of those that
were well constituted; of evils it was causeless.4 Evil, as
we have seen, had no exemplar or pattern in the nature of
the Author of the universe. It was a condition of that
bodily nature on which the good was actively displayed. Plato's
Evil arose from the nature of the “ diverse”5 inherent in ^r^,/lTs
body ; that nature in body by which it was contradistin- an . °'
guished from the “ sameness” belonging to the Ideas. v y
In considering the Theory of Ideas under the different as¬
pects which it presents, we have in fact taken a summary
view of the whole of Plato’s philosophy. This theory is
the cardinal principle of the whole. The speculations on
particular branches of philosophy are all included in this
one theory, which binds them together and explains them.
For when the mind had once risen to the contemplation of
the Ideas, it needed no further helps from observation or
study of nature to understand all knowledge. The mind
was then in possession of the only true principles of know¬
ledge ; and to enter into the consideration of material and
sensible phenomena, was only to return to the darkness and
the dreams from which the eye of the intellect had been
purified,—to quit the light of the sun for the cavern of
shadows.
Accordingly, all his writings are devoted to the establish¬
ment of this theory. Proceeding on that notion of the im¬
portance of the theory which he inculcates, he bends every
thought to this one point. No one science is set forth
by him in detail; no one subject obtains with him a
full and explicit consideration. All is resolved into its
most abstract and general view, that the mind may be led
to see the common principles of all truth; so intent is he
throughout on his theory of Ideas, whatever may be his im¬
mediate subject of discussion. He assumes hypotheses, and
examines them, and refutes them, in the way of argument,
without pronouncing on either side of a particular question,
as if indifferent about the establishment of any mere opinion,
and desirous only of clearing his way for the perception of
his theory.
But to place that theory in its full light, we should ad¬
vert to the theories of Knowledge and of the Soul, which are
intimately connected with it. These theories contain his
account of the origin of the Ideas.
Knowledge, according to Plato, is Reminiscence, ’Awx/a-
vtjcvs, a recovery of forgotten truth, which had been pos¬
sessed by the soul in a former state of existence. His dia¬
lectic professed to do nothing more than to lead the mind,
by apt interrogation, to perceive the Truth for itself. It
abandoned the attempt to communicate the Truth by di¬
dactic propositions. It only removed falsehood, and left the
truth to its own course, to suggest itself to the mind, nowr
disabused of its error and prejudice. It appealed to prin¬
ciples as certain criteria of truth, and yet confessed its in¬
ability to state those principles, and place them distinctly
before the mind of the learner. They were simply referred
to, as existing in every mind, whatever might be the pecu¬
liar opinions of the individual to whom the questions of the
dialectician were addressed. How, then, could those prin¬
ciples have been acquired ? No time in the present life
could be pointed out when they first appeared in the mind.
They are prior to the sensations, for the sensations are re¬
ferred to them ; and the sensations we have had from our
birth. These standard principles, then, must have been
acquired in a previous state of existence, and what is com¬
monly called learning, is, in fact, Reminiscence; and to
know, is, properly speaking, to remember.6
In proof of this account of the origin of the Ideas, Plato
1 Repub. vii. p. 158; also Philebus, p. 303.
® Tluvrx £v tcx-is auT^Yitniriv \xuvou n ogtyiTSti rouQ' o IffTtv ’urov text alrou ivSnirrioa \imv [Phocd. 170) ; tx'(>oQu[j.iitrui um ftxvTx to. toix^tu unxt
o)on ixuvo \<m di alrov QxuXor'^x (Ibid. 171). He goes on to say this applies to all subjects as well.
” Aicrpuii S o xxXXta'Tos, o; av xuroi xai rx ^vv'Soupiiix ori/xxXitrra iv vrciri, rovro Se vrupuziii x'txXoyix xxXXuttx a'TonriXun' oiforxv uoiQy.toy
rnZv, x. r- X. (Tiinccus, p. 307.) The Pythagoreans were fond of describing moral ideas by terms drawn from mathematics and music.
The good man, for example, was nrouywv^ unv -^oyou; and the words v-Xn/xpiXus, ippixZ;, and the like, known from their philosophy,
are familiarly used in a moral sense.
4 Ovx xrpx wxvrav y£ curiov to xyaSov, aXXa rut pit tv 1%ovtuv xitiov, ruv Ss kxkui/ ivuinov- (Rep. ii )
5 Qxr'.gov ipviris. (Tim. p. 315.)
Phxdo, pp. 106-174.
PLATO.
Plato’s
W ritinga
and Philo¬
sophy.
introduces Socrates making an experiment on the mmd of
an uneducated person. Socrates is-represented putting a
series of questions to a slave of Meno, and at length elicit¬
ing; from the youth, after repeated correction of his errors,
a right enunciation of a geometrical truth. Socrates then
points triumphantly to the instance, and bids Meno o sei'»t
how he had taught the youth nothing, but simply interro¬
gated him as to his opinions, and the youth had himself re¬
called for himself the knowledge thus evidently existing in
his mind.1 x ,
Again, in illustration of the same, Plato refers to instan¬
ces of association. Often, on the sensation of a particular
object, we are reminded of something else not present to
us. On seeing a lyre, or a dress, which one whom we love
has used, a thought occurs of the person to whom it be¬
longed. So also, on seeing pictures of objects, persons and
objects will be suggested to the mind, unlike as well as like
to the objects in the picture. Or one of two friends, being
presented to our view, we are reminded of the other who
is absent.2
Now the instances here referred to, both those of associ¬
ation, and those of the self-teaching of the mind by the ex¬
citement of its reflection, are highly interesting and import¬
ant in the history of the origin of ideas. But they do not
prove the point for which Plato adduces them, the case
of the slave interrogated by Socrates certainly shews, that
there are principles in the understanding, which are not de¬
rived from external information, but which only wait to be
developed by occasions apt to call them forth. And as to
the instances of association, we can only say, it is an ulti¬
mate fact of our mental constitution, that particular objects
serve to bring others before our thoughts. . All such in¬
stances are illustrations of the fact, that the mind is not pas¬
sive in its admission of truth, receiving knowledge simply as
something infused in it from without; but that its know¬
ledge is in great measure owing to its exertion of its facul¬
ties, and its bringing to bear on the instruction given its
own intuitive convictionsthat consequently the excellence
of all teaching consists, not so much in the positive mass of
instruction conveyed, as in stirring up the mind to learn
from itself. „ n . f
The stress of Plato’s argument in favour of the theory ot
Reminiscence, and of the previous existence of the Soul as
a consequence of it, is laid, we find, on the ground ot the
priority of the ideas compared with the several particular
sensations which are referred to them as criteria. But the
priority which he here claims for the Ideas, is not, in fact, a
precedence in the order of time, but of logic. In the process
of reasoning, general principles are prior to, and more known
than, the particulars which fall under them; because in pos¬
sessing them we possess the particulars, and the particulars,
as yet unknown, are known by deduction from them as al¬
ready known. Thus we familiarly speak of a conclusion as
following from the premises. Now, Plato appears to have
transferred a priority of this kind to the Ideas, and then to
have concluded their priority absolutely, as principles
existing in the mind independently of the occasions on
which they are called forth. But to establish a theory of
Reminiscence, it was further required to be shewn, that the
ideas are prior in the order of time,—that we possess them
antecedently to, and independently of, all experience. The
instance which he has given of the way in which a mathe¬
matical conclusion is reached by the simple leading of the
mind in the right track, is an instance of what has in mo¬
dern philosophy been more properly called “ Suggestion,”—
not of Reminiscence. So far from being an instance of Re¬
miniscence, it shews, on the contrary, that the general prin¬
ciples of the mind are developed subsequently to the par-
ticular occasions whidi suggest them. It shews, further, ^IstoV
that these principles are in some way dependent on such ^
occasions for their development, though not dependent on SOphy.
them for their truth and reality ; for the mind accepts them ——v—^
as true, and as the criteria of all other truth, at the mo¬
ment when they are presented to it. This, then, is what is
really illustrated in Plato’s instance in \he Meno. Geome¬
trical science is the best illustration of it, though it is
seen also in all our judgments and reasonings ; because the
remote conclusions to which we are brought by the chain
of demonstration in that science, from a few very simple
definitions, present the fact most strikingly. fhose con¬
clusions are clearly far beyond the compass of the defini¬
tions themselves. They are strictly deduced from them,
however, and with an irresistible cogency of argument.
The wonder is accounted for, by the fact to which Plato
has called our attention. The demonstration of the pro¬
blem appeals in every step to the intuitive convictions of
the mind. Ideas are suggested by which the statements
at each point of the proof are tested ; and we sanction the
conclusion, because the process by which we arrive at it,
has been approved throughout by clear principles ot our
own minds.
But though the theory of Reminiscence has not been sa¬
tisfactorily made out by Plato, he has the merit of having
distinctly noticed and marked, in speculating on the ongin
of the Ideas, a class of notions of which no previous account,
as it seems, had been given. The philosophy of sensation
had before his time chiefly engaged the attention of think¬
ing men, whether of those of the Eleatic school, who made
everything stationary, or of the Ionic, who made everything
flow.3 It had been carried into the extreme of refinement
bv the Sophists, its devotees, when Plato commenced his
antagonist system. He found that this philosophy was too
narrow a basis for the structure of science, and that it could
not stand alone. He saw that it left altogether unexplored
the perceptions of the mind itself, such, for example, as
the notions of equality, identity, time, causation, rignt, &c.;
and that these notions were, in truth, more important for the
establishment of science, than those which had previously
chiefly attracted the attention of philosophers. He applied
himself accordingly to examine and characterize these prin¬
ciples. The main thing to be accomplished in such an in¬
quiry, was to distinguish them accurately from the informa¬
tions of sense ; to shew that they were not included in, or
in any way derived out of, the informations of sense, but
developed by the workings of mind. This fact he has re¬
corded in his theory of Reminiscence,—a term expressing
the point of contrast in his method, to that of the empirica
philosophers before him exclusively founded on sensation.
The truth and importance, accordingly, of Plato’s Theory
of Ideas, appear in this ; that by that theory he laid a sta¬
ble foundation of science, in the principles themselves ot
the human mind. Plis error is, that he carried that theory
too far; that he included in it notions which are not part
of the fundamental principles of the mind, and thus involved
his theory in vagueness and paradox. The war of nomi¬
nalism and realism is well known to every one, who has
looked into the history of philosophy, or of theological opi¬
nion. This found its occasion in the wide generalization
of the Ideal Theory. Had Plato restricted his theory to
such notions as really exist in the mind; and had he not
extended it, without discrimination, to those which belong
to general terms, and which are purely notional; there
would not have been that ground for controversy on the
subject. As the case has been,—one class of disputants,
looking to the generalizations of language, the genera and
species of logic, took the nominalist view of the subject,—
Maw, pp. 352-361. 2 Phccdo. 3 Plato characterizes them; the one, as the roZ Ivros crcuou™ ; the others, as <u ftovni.
Thecet.
PLATO.
33
Plato’s imputing to the whole of the ideas the attribute of one por-
Writings tion of them ;—the other class of disputants, justly observ-
uul Phi o- -ng tjie reajity 0f certain general principles, became the ad-
. ^ , vocates of realism throughout. What has been already
said on the dialectical origin of the theory, will sufficiently
account for the confusion of two such dissimilar classes of
principles in Plato’s system.
How shall we wonder, therefore, that the great logical
philosopher who followed him should find it necessary to
combat the theory of Ideas in the undefined form in which
it had been left by its author. As thus left, it stood in the
way of those exact arrangements of the objects of thought
which the rigorous method of Aristotle required, and intro¬
duced a class of existences for which he could find no place
in his system.
Nor, further, will it be matter of wonder that controver¬
sies should have arisen in the schools respecting the nature
of the Ideas ; such as, whether they subsisted by themselves,
or were bodies, or actually separable from sensible things,
or only separable from them in thought; or whether they
were locally situated anywhere, or only in the Divine Mind.
The establishing of the theory in its general form was the
great business of Plato : it was enough for him to have pro¬
jected it above the horizon of philosophy. Others would
elaborate it after him with more or less skill. Various spe¬
culations would be raised concerning it; and controversy
would at length reduce it to more definite form, and a pre¬
cision beyond the contemplation of its author.
But, however just and important the Ideal Theory is in its
connection with metaphysical science, it is but too clear that
it retarded the advancement of sound physical philosophy, by
its substitution of final causes for physical, and consequent¬
ly withdrawing attention entirely from the latter. It would
follow, indeed, from the suspicion thrown over the informa¬
tions of sense, and the undervaluing of experience, that
physical science would be slighted under such a system of
philosophy. But the dominion of the theory of Ideas would
necessarily exclude any other consideration in order to the
truth, but that of tendencies or final causes. No other view of
nature, but that supplied by this theory, would be conceived
to possess the stability w'hich science demanded. According¬
ly, hypotheses would occupy the place of investigation here.
The philosopher would be speculating on what ought to be,
instead of observing accurately what is ; and assuming a
'priori notions of “ the best,” in order to determine the law of
physical facts. The principle, “ that all things are consti¬
tuted for the best,” no doubt holds good in physics as well
as in other studies of the divine workmanship ; but it is
here the termination of inquiry, not the commencement.
It may even be employed instrumentally in the process of
inquiry, to lead the mind to a point to which investigation
should be directed: and this it may effect in two ways.
Either, from considering the good intended in the structure
of some object, we may be led to see the parts of that struc¬
ture in a way which discloses their real organization, and
which we should otherwise not have observed; or, from
taking our view of an object, not as it is actually exhibited
in inferior specimens, or in those states of it in which it is
seen only in progress, or under distortion, but from the most
perfect specimens,—those most answerable to a divine in¬
tention or tendency to the best,—we may judge what it isy
by considering what it would or should be. But to lay down
final causes as principles from which the truths of physics
may be deduced, is, as Bacon says, to corrupt natural phi¬
losophy with theology, and to render it barren of all fruits.
Such, then, is the state of Plato’s natural philosophy. In
fact, though he asserts the importance of physics in his own
sense of the term, the science has no place in his philoso¬
phy. He goes so far indeed as to say that no art can flourish Plato’s
apart from a knowledge of physical truth ; and he attri-
butes the imperfect rhetoric of his day to its want of such an 1* °*
a foundation.1 But even whilst he imputes the superiority v ‘ .
of Pericles as an orator to his studies under Anaxagoras,2 he
strongly objects to the system of that philosopher, as we have
already seen, on account of his leaving out all consideration
of final causes.
Accordingly, in the dialogue which fills up this department
of his system, he speaks in the person of the Pythagorean,
Timseus, and strictly follows the Pythagorean notions. The
detail of this dialogue consists of a history of the order of the
foi’mation of the universe in all its parts ; commencing with
an account of the universe at large, and the hierarchy of the
heavens, and ending with a minute explanation of the struc¬
ture of man, in regard to his moral and intellectual, as well
as his physical powers. And here mathematical figures and
proportions are the principles into which the composition and
motions of all bodies are resolved. But the theory on which
the whole speculation turns, and which gives the explana¬
tion of the phenomena, is the theory of “ the Best.” It is
an account of Good operating throughout the universe, con¬
forming everything to itself, and constraining the untoward
nature of body to yield to its sovereign power. An intelli¬
gent and good author of all things is assumed ; and his or¬
der of proceeding is inferred from that which presents itself
to our view as “ the best.” Thus the Father of the universe
constructs it after the eternal unchanging pattern; “ for that
is the noblest of generated things, and the best of causes.”
He formed by his immediate operation whatever is of eter¬
nal unchanging nature. Nothing, indeed, but himself, is
immortal and indissoluble by its own nature ; but, good as
he is, he can never be disposed to destroy what is good.
And therefore the fabric of the universe and the celestial
beings, the generated and visible divinities included in it
(with the highest order of whom Plato’s description identi¬
fies the luminaries of the heavens), subsist eternally, not of
themselves, but by virtue of their participation of good.”3
Whatever is subject to death,—as the bodily nature of man
and brutes,—being imperfect, is the work of the generated
divinities, imitating the power of the Supreme. It is with
these secondary Gods that he connects the popular mytho¬
logy ; deriving from them the parentage of Saturn, and Jove,
and the other objects of heathen worship; and leaving the
further account of their origin to be given by the current
tradition. Thus the supreme God is described as the au¬
thor of all good throughout the universe ; and where any¬
thing of evil or imperfection is, the agency of the subordi¬
nate powers, and the irrational nature of body, are inter¬
posed to guard him from imputation of evil.
Derived as his history of the universe evidently is from
the early theogonies, it is very remarkable that it keeps
clear altogether of the oriental dualism. There is but one
active principle in his system of the universe, the principle
of Good ; and nothing forms or moves but that only. “ Let
us not,” indeed, he expressly says in another place, “ con¬
ceive that there are any two gods, of contrary sentiments,
causing the revolution of the universe.”4 He seems indeed
to personify the irrational force of body, where he describes
it under the name of uvayy.r\, necessity.5 But he is evident¬
ly only speaking in metaphorical language here (that lan¬
guage probably derived from personifications found in the
early cosmogonies), intending to represent that inert power
by which nature, as we speak, acts according to its laws.
It must have been observed all along how important a
place the nature of Body, tfw/iaroj/Ssf, occupies in Plato’s
philosophy. He has nowhere, however, attempted to give
any positive description of the nature of Body. It is, in
1 Phadrut.
4 Ulnr uv Sui nvs
VOL. XVIII.
QonvoZ-jn \avrois Uxvrix rrgtQav xurov-
2 Ibid.
(Pol. p. 30.)
3 Timceus, pp. 303, 325.
i Tivueus, p. 339.
E
PLATO.
Plato’s
Writings
and Philo¬
sophy.
truth, rather a condition in order to the development of the
ideal theory in connection with the phenomena of sensa¬
tion, than any positive nature, according to his conception
of it. He has left it in the most mysterious form: nor
does he seem indeed to distinguish it from Space, when
he shadows it out by negatives of the attributes of all actual
existence. In giving an analysis of production, ymtf/;, he
enumerates three principles as concerned in the process:
1. The thing produced ; 2. That in which it is produced ,
3. That from which the thing produced takes the pattern of
its production; depicting them under the analogy of the
father, the mother, and the offspring.1 The notion of body
is here represented by the intermediate term of the three,
namely, that in which the production takes place. “ The
nurse,”the general receptacle,” and “ the laboratory,” h/ia-
ytTov, are also expressions by which he endeavours to charac¬
terize it, as being in its own nature incapable of being pre¬
sented to the senses or the intellect. “ As a person, he
says, “ observing a perpetual succession of figures moulded
of gold, if asked during the process what was moulded,
could only safely answer, that it was gold ;”2 so we must be
content to speak of this nature, calling it only a receptacle
of forms or species, and not attributing to it any particular
species whatever. The tendency of this theory of Body is
obviously to remove all material phenomena from the class
of real existences. And it seems to point to the origin of
Plato’s ideal theory in some older philosophy avowedly
idealistic. At any rate, the speculation concerning body, as
it stands in his system, leaves a hiatus in the transition from
the world of Ideas to that of material existence.
The doctrine of Soul, as delivered by Plato, is properly
the connecting link between the worlds of being and sen¬
sation. Hence is derived the importance of the theory of
the immortality of the soul in his philosophy. For it is in
the soul that the eternal and immutable is found in the pre¬
sence of the incipient and evanescent; the intellectual idea
in contact, so to say, with the phenomena of sense. The
soul partakes of change, as it is connected with the bodily
nature : it is eternal and unchangeable, as it is the seat of
intelligence.
Soul, then, according to Plato, is the necessary condition
for the development of intelligence in the universe, as
Body is for the existence of sensation. Soul, therefore, was
necessarily prior to Body, as the first condition in older to
the constitution of the universe. It was the animating
principle by means of which the Deity, when he brought
the world out of the disorder and confusion of unreason,
communicated intelligence to it, fashioning it after the pat¬
tern of the eternal ideas. And not only is the whole uni¬
verse thus ensouled by the immediate agency of the Deity ;
but every particular system in it, in which any degree of
intelligence is found united with body, has in the very gift
of that intelligence a soul originally imparted to it by the
Father of the universe himself.
This is the ultimate account of that immortality which
Plato attributes to the soul of man. It is not as a human
soul that it is immortal; but it derives an eternal existence'
from its being among the original intelligent units of the ani¬
mated universe. see indeed a constant production of
living things in the world ; but it is not, as they have being,
that they are thus produced or generated. This is the result
of that “ diverse” nature which was blended in their origi¬
nal composition with their higher principles, viz. the natures
of “ sameness” and “ being.”
For these are the three principles into which Plato ana¬
lyses Soul,—the principles of the same and the diverse,
and being ;3 and by these he explains the phenomena of
its actual existence. No time can be assigned, then, to the ^
origin of that which by its nature is, and is the same es- sopjiy.
sentially. No one soul, therefore, can now begin to exist,
And again, whatever once exists can never cease to exist,
unless there is anything capable of destroying its prin¬
ciples of Sameness and Being. But Death, as he shews,
has no such power. It may disengage the soul from its
present body by dissolving the body ; but it cannot affect
the essential vitality which is in the soul. This essential vi¬
tality is the direct contrary to death. It therefore recedes
when death comes, according to that law of Contraiies,
which holds throughout the world of generation and cor¬
ruption, and which is the agent in all changes. But it still
lives as vigorously as ever, and returns to animate anothei
body in the course of Generation.4 Nor, for the same rea¬
son, can it maintain an unvaried perpetuity of existence. It
remains ever undestroyed ; but from that “ diverse prin¬
ciple which enters into its composition, it both alters in its
internal character, and only imperfectly imitates the eter ¬
nal nature by a successive re-appearance in the forms of
new bodies.5 Thus, whilst it returns to the sensible world,^
it migrates from the male to the female sex, or to forms of
the lower animals, according to that condition of purity in
which it departed from its last body, or its previous degree
of intellectual cultivation. For, as we may observe, there
is no original distinction, according to the theory, between
the soul of one man and another, and the soul of man and
brute. All are equal in intelligence and goodness, as the
immediate work of the Divine Author. The varieties in the
characters of souls arise from the operation of the inferior
deities who framed the bodies of men and brutes, and the
use which individuals may make of their circumstances in the
world. Whilst the number of souls, then, remains the same,
they are continually changing their habitations, and passing
by death from one body to another in the different forms of
animal life ; undergoing degradation with the forms of in¬
ferior animals, or elevation with those of superior nature,
according to their state in a former existence.6
The theory of the immortality of the soul thus rests en¬
tirely on the Theory of Ideas. It is the universality, and
being, and truth, and perfection of the Ideas which prove
the soul to be eternal.7 Ideas are -found existing in the
mind, but their acquisition cannot be traced to any parti¬
cular period of a man’s present life. They have been there
from time immemorial, for no one can say when they first ap¬
peared in his own mind. They were therefore born with us;
and if so, they must have had existence before our birth:
and who can limit that existence ? They have existed, for
ought we know to the contrary, from all eternity : and who,
then, shall limit their existence by any future period ? why
may they not be born with us in a life subsequent to the
present, as they were born with us in the present life, and
so on to all eternity in endless generations ? This is in
substance the train of reasoning by which Plato seeks to
establish the immortality of the soul. A similar argument
has been reproduced in modern metaphysical treatises, va¬
riously modified and stated, but the same in substance. How
little calculated it is to produce practical conviction, whilst
we admire its ingenuity, is evidenced by Giceios confes¬
sion, that whilst he wept over the PJnedo, his mind retain¬
ed no deep impressions from the argument.8
This brings us to the consideration of Plato’s ethical sys¬
tem, in its vital connection with his physical and metaphy¬
sical doctrines.
The two great principles on which his ethical system re-
i Timceus, pp. 342-344. _ , , ' P’ 344*
4 (5s ov yivopwov, aXX* oux, ctiwviov* {De Leg. X. p. lUo.^
6 ,Tima'us, p. 433 ; Phudo, ad Jin. , . , , / x
7 ’Ovkovv, u au n iknSni* ray oyruy itny iy rn uSayarpt a.y n un. {Meno, p. J01.;
3 Ibid.
4 Phcedo; Mem.
8 Cicero, Tusc. Qu. i. 11.
PLATO.
35
Plato’s poses, are; that no one is willingly evil2d, that every
Writings one has in his ow n will a power of inducing changes in his
anf character.2
^ s°^iyi'_ > These principles are only the counterpart ethical expres¬
sions of his theories of immutable Being, on the one hand,
and of the world of phenomena, or mere Becoming, on the
other.
For the soul of man, so far as it has any good or truth in
it, is framed after the pattern of the eternal Ideas of the
good and true. These Ideas, under the various moral as¬
pects which they present, constitute its moral nature. All
its desires, therefore, naturally tend to the Good and True.
These qualities are what the soul would be. They are the
mysterious realities to which it is striving to attain, in all
those various efforts after Pleasure which it makes in the
present life ;—unconscious it may be, as it is in fact in the
depraved, of the true nature of the objects to which its af¬
fections ultimately point. Still, if it be conceded that Ideas
are the only proper Beings, and that everything else is
phenomenal, or the mere product and offspring of the ge¬
nerating power of the eternal Ideas, it must also be admit¬
ted, that nothing else can be the real source of moral phe¬
nomena but the Good and True. In the moral, no less than
in the physical world, a constant succession of passing
events is found to take place. We perceive a variety of
affections in the nature of man as he is in the world, di¬
rected to a variety of objects, each aiming at some parti¬
cular gratification; one desire and its gratification passing
away, and others succeeding it in endless flow. All this
restless course, then, of moral events exhibited in the life of
man is phenomenal; not in the sense of its having no reali¬
ty whatever, but of its having no permanent reality—of its
being no more in the result than effort towards being—rest¬
less, endless effort towards that which may give rest and full
satisfaction, and stable being.
This ultimate object, then, however indistinctly sought,
is the aim of every individual soul of man. Some, indeed,
avowedly make mere sensual gratification the end of their
desires. They endeavour to satisfy themselves with the
limited and the evanescent. But the true cause of all that
perverted activity which they display, is the Good itself.
They know not what the Good is; but they love it in spite
of themselves, and bear evidence, by their life of unceasing
pursuit, that they are secretly actuated by the desire of
it,—and that they can find no rest in anything short of it.
Their soul, originally formed in the likeness of the Deity,
can never willingly be separated from its Divine image. In
the midst of its wildest aberrations, it feels the attraction of
like to like, impelling, and at the same time reclaiming it to
right.
This accordingly is Plato’s meaning in the principle,
which he so emphatically lays down, that “ no one is wil¬
lingly evil.” It is very different, we may observe, from
saying that no one commits evil willingly. And Plato
himself takes care to guard his theory from this miscon¬
struction. He readily grants, that acts of wrong are dis¬
tinguished by being voluntary and involuntary, without
which there could be neither merit nor demerit; but he
strenuously maintains that this distinction does not apply
to evil itself. It is in all cases involuntary. No one can
choose it in itself. It is necessarily the object of aversion,
as the good is invariably the object of choice and pursuit.
Howr is it, then, it will be inquired, that men do become
evil;—that whilst they are really seeking to be conformed
to a divine pattern, they practically do what is evil, and,
losing more and more of their likeness to the Eternal Being,
conform themselves rather to the fleeting character of the
world of sensation ?
The explanation is found in the other great principle of Plato’s
Plato’s philosophy, the theory of Becoming, to w’hich we ^ btings
have referred. Change is the characteristic of all that be- anf * A °~
longs to this subject; as immutability is the characteristic . _s_ >
of Being. The course itself of successive phenomena may
be varied by impressions from circumstances. In the soul
there is a principle of change in the power of regulating
the desires,—in indulging them to excess, or moderating
them, according to the will. And the circumstances in
which the soul is placed, as connected with the sensible
world by means of the body, present the occasion for such
change. The humours and distempers of the body produce
discomposure in the soul. It becomes diseased analogous¬
ly to the body. This state of disease is what is commonly
called folly, avo/a ; and it takes the form either of madness,
fjjavia, or of mere ignorance, Where even igno¬
rance only is the result, the internal harmony of the soul is
disturbed. Pleasures and pains are unduly magnified; the
democracy of the passions prevails ; and the ascendancy of
reason is cast down. In addition to these disturbances or
ailments through the body, come the influences of evil go¬
vernments, evil public lessons, evil education. Hence the
soul is changed from what it was w'hen it first came from the
hands of its Divine author. The eternal Ideas after which
it was framed are not effaced from it. This cannot be ;
for then it would cease to have being; but it loses distinct
apprehension of them,—mistakes appearances of good for
good itself,—and under that delusion willingly does evil,
and presumes on obtaining happiness by a course of evil
conduct.
But the same principle of change in the soul gives an
opening also for its moral restoration. As the soul is de¬
teriorated by the contagion of the body, so it may also be
restored to a sound state by remedial treatment. The yield¬
ing to every passing desire, and suffering the desires to
grow out of proportion, and destroy the harmony of the
soul, is the cause of men’s falling into that blindness which
hides the good from their mental eye. By restraining
them, and moderating the desires, the internal disorder is
gradually corrected ; reason resumes its ascendancy; the
soul once more “ sees and hears aright,” and thus returns
to that good to which its desires naturally tend. It is a
long process, indeed, by which the restoration is effected *,
a process of gradual purification, xaSa^cr/5, of the soul, by
chastisement and suffering. Nor is it accordingly completed
in a single life ; many courses of existence must be passed
through. Not only is the present life of the soul a conse¬
quence of its conduct in a former one; but it is destined to
many successive stages of existence, each adapted to the
character acquired at the stage next preceding, until its de¬
filements are purged away.
These ethical doctrines of the philosopher, when divest¬
ed of the extravagance of his theory, so far accord with the
truth both of inspiration and experience, as they indicate,
that the utmost man can do in the present life is insuffi¬
cient to restore in him the lost image of God. Whilst
they lay down this truth under the disguise of the reme¬
dial process of the transmigration of the soul, they further
agree with the inspired authority, and with experience, in
imposing on man the duty of commencing the process of re¬
storation, and in holding him strictly responsible for the
state of his mind and affections, through that power of self-
direction and capacity of improvement by discipline, with
which he has been endued. Thus does he also bear evi¬
dence both to the fact of the perfection of man at his crea¬
tion, and that of his existing corruption. But he differs
from the Scripture account of that corruption, in making
it originally a physical rather than a moral debasement,
1 Timoeus, 218; De Legilue, ix.
1 De I.egibtis, x.; Ibid. v. r- 212; Ibid. ix. p. 17 ; PMkb. p. 231.
36
PLATO.
itself, every desire of human nature.7 In the first view, it P^to s
is wisdom or philosophy ; in the latter, it is purification, JJ/pE.
and perfect virtue,—and discipline of immortality,—the re- gophy
semblance and participation of the Deity.8 " v *
These views of moral truth are in themselves certainly
grand and ennobling. As guides, however, to duty, they
are deficient in that particularity and homeliness of appli¬
cation, which are required for the real business of morality.
Their tendency, too, to contemplative mysticism is obvious,
left as they are by Plato in undefined outline, and clothed
in the charms of his imaginative eloquence. Nor shall we
wonder that they have easily combined with the feeling
of asceticism, so congenial to the human heart. The con¬
tempt which they throw over everything belonging to the
bodily nature of man,—the delusiveness imputed to the
senses, without any limitation of it, or guard against abuse
of the theory,—and the abstractedness from the world w hich
they propose,—admit of being construed into a theory of mor¬
tification of the body, and of the purifying efficacy of sell-
Plato’s and representing it as taking place by a gradual process.
Writings anJ not by a sudden and entire fall, the effect or a nrst
and Philo- tranScrression of a positive divine command.
sophy- , The Sophists, indeed, boasted of their power of trans¬
forming the characters of men, and accordingly made great
profession of “ teaching virtue.”1 But they coupled with
this pretension, the admission, that all opinions on moral, no
less than on other subjects, are equally true. All opinions m
morals, they said, are true; “ but all are not good. What
we would effect, therefore, is to lead men to such opi¬
nions as we know also to be both good and wise. tfut
this was a mere evasion ; for if all opinions are equally true,
then must also each man’s view of good be true, as well as
that which his instructor would inculcate on him ; and tliere
is no fixed standard to which he may be conformed. Plato s
theory of good, as the sole object of desire, or the inva¬
riable tendency of the will to good, and its invariable aver¬
sion from evil,—was a strong ground of opposition to the
sophistical doctrine. » infl'icted'punLtoe'nte’. "Prese tendencies,Indeed, of Plato's
ciple in man superior to mstructio , 1 t| ethical doctrines, were, not long after his time, exemplified
the accidents toCS to the a^hy aid austerity o! the Stoic morality. And
God-measure, the , d f ’ a reference it is well known to what extent they have been developed
moral teaching should be directed, and from a retuence h teachi and practice of religionists of all creeds. It
ters ; for that most men think themselves better than they ment. i d h pi„tn „s t]ie other
really are3 Thus does he apply to morals more particu- As bad education was legalded by Plato as the otner
^fca.^se^my mre to iearn himself, in
°l This 'therefore7 according to Plato, is the great purpose the desires, and curing the diseases produced by them in
for which philosophy must be cultivated. Philosophy alone the soul. His political discussions have for their immediate
can open the eyes to see the true value of things, and alone object, the laying down right principles of education^a^d
elevate the mind from the evanescent region of the pheno¬
menal world to the seat of true and eternal Being.
For the same reason Dialectic, as immediately^ conversant
about the Ideas of the good and true, is the ultimate study
of him that would seek to educate and improve the powers
of his soul to the utmost
enforcing them by the constitution, laws, and power 01 the
state.9 His two great works, the most elaborate of his writ¬
ings, the Dialogues of the Republic and the Laws., are ra¬
ther theories of Education than of Government and Laws.
The former indeed inquires more particularly into the prin¬
ciples on which a right government may be formed ; whilst
Philosophy and morality, in fact, in his system, perfectly the latter gives a systematic view of the principles of legis-
coincide. PThe love of truth is also the love of good, and lation. Both, however, have in view the improvement of
the love of good is the love of truth.5 The same process human nature by social institutions expressly framed for
by which the good man is effected, philosophically viewed, that purpose. It has been supposed that in the Republic
is a power of analysing pleasure and pains, an art of men- we have his theory of a perfect state, and in «
suration, enabling the mind to discriminate between Truth practical exemplification of the theory. But^is 18 cle^y
arid Good on the one hand, and their semblances on the a mistake. Both are doubtless intended by Plato as theo-
other, and distinctly to apprehend them, under whatever retical disquisitions on the political matters of which they
disguise they may be presented and obscured by the senses.8 treat, whi st the real matter m hand is Educatl°m * 8
Morally viewed, it is the one motive of the love of truth and is expressly asserted by Plato himself, when he compares his
good predominating over, and purifying, and absorbing into legislation to the method of the philosophical physician.
» Gortrias, however, laughed at the other Sophists for pretending to teach virtue. He professed only the art of words. 2
3 VLoX-j h tfXuaroi ys, to r^trot ddts iv rx7s rouriuv hn^rr.x.arn ajersjs, lo^ovrif fiiXnovi luvrovt, ovk ovrsy. hilcbuf,
285 ^
1 * Ta yv/tvh rwov, xtyus, 5 x. r. x. (Ibid. p. 284.) This is drawn out in a beautiful passage of the Charmides.
•n lystiys uvro frouro tpr.fu uvai <ro ytyvwaxiw isturov, x- t. X. (Charm, pp. 130—135.) ( _ , _ _ , Q _
* Mur’ us rivas aiQtXuus Ivurm/xav /IXi-^avrts, raxs luSoxt/xias, aXX’ tins -xiCQvxs. rris ouva^is re rou aXySou;, xcu vzvra
ivsxu revrou vgarruv. (Philebus, p. 305.)
6 Polit.; Protagoras. He also characterizes it as a knowledge of geometrical equahty, opposed to irXar/tha..
1 Conviv. p. 247, et seq * . *
8 A/o xoc, ■xuea'rSa, x?v hSsvh Uutl Qivyuv or/rc^/rra- Quyn h, oy.o.co^s xara. ro Savarov Ofcuums Ss, iixatui xai atm ftSTU. $»ovn<nu; yf
vur&ti, x- r- X. ( Thccetet. p. 121.)
9 De Lcgibus, vii. p. 354. _ , ^ -
19 In ovv Tgos rov Xayov, *a.ihuav r; •ror Hr/, xcti nm ^umy.iv yoej ravrns iTSuv umi roi s» r» vi/v,
Xayoi bQ' n/tuv, f*tXi‘ ‘rov xfixijrai. (Ibid. i. p. 41.)
PLATO.
37
Plato’s
Writings
and Philo¬
sophy-
When the mere empiric, he observes, should hear such a
physician discoursing to his patient of the origin of the dis-
’ ease, and ascending to the speculation on nature, he would
/ be disposed to object that such proceeding was folly; “ for
it was not healing the sick man, but rather educating him,
as if he wanted to become a physician, and not to be made
well.”1 The like objection, he says, might be applied to his
method of legislation ; for, “ whoever pursues the inquiry
concerning laws,” he adds, “ as we are doing now, educates
the citizens, but does not legislate.”2 And he goes on to
say, in the person of the chief speaker, addressing the other
interlocutors of the Dialogue, that in their work of legisla¬
tion they were at leisure, as speculators on the subject, to
consider, not what was most necessary, but what was best.3
We are not to suppose, then, that Plato had in view the
actual foundation of a state, according to the principles of
government and legislation laid down in his two famous
dialogues. His object wras to give an example of the most
perfect life,4 free from those impediments which all exist¬
ing governments and laws threw across the path of the vir¬
tuous man. As philosophy is the guide of private life, ele¬
vating it to the knowledge of the Good and True, so he
would have philosophy also seated on the throne of govern¬
ment, and exhibit the eternal Ideas of Good and Truth,
modifying society after their pattern. Hence it is that he
overlooks impossibilities in his arrangements; as is pointed
out by Aristotle in his acute comments on the leading
points of Plato’s political theories.5 All is sacrificed, in fact,
to the one great object of Plato’s mind, the sketching of
the Idea of the Good as a social principle, apart from the
evil influences of society.
The most extravagant hypotheses, accordingly, are put
forward in this part of his philosophy; not indeed with a
view of their being ever exemplified in any institutions of
real life, but in extreme contrast with the existing selfish¬
ness of human society, and as theoretic developments of
the unchangeable idea of good. Such, for example, is his
theory of a community of wives and children, and the train¬
ing of women to the hardiest exercises of the gymnasium
and of war. We justly take exception at the immorality
and unnaturalness of such hypotheses. But Plato looks
down upon man from the height of his sublime theory. He
sees everything in the unity and invariableness of that
theory, and overlooks distinctions deeply founded in the
nature of man. Thus it is that in his view man himself
becomes a thing of little consideration or importance,—a
sort of plaything of the Deity, bsou r/ Kuiyviov, scarcely worth
any serious attention. “ You disparage altogether the race
of man,” says an interlocutor in the Dialogue of the Laws.
“ Wonder not at it,” replies the Athenian ; “ but make al¬
lowance for me ; for it was from looking off to the Deity,
and under this impression, that I said what I have now ex¬
pressed. However, let it be granted that our race is not
insignificant, if you like, but worth some serious considera¬
tion.”6 It is in this spirit that he himself sports with hu¬
man nature, as if human beings were only so many chess¬
men, to be moved on the board, so as to display the admi¬
rable design of the disposing mind, and illustrate the work¬
ing of the eternal Ideas. His fault is the same as in his phy*
sical speculations, that of commencing from the final cause,
or the notion of the Best, and forming the world of social
life after that, instead of rising from the study of its actual
formation to the notion of the Best;—or at least in sup- Plato’s
posing, that he could arrive at a just view of the divine Writings
pattern of Good, by presenting a theoretic copy of it, after and Philo-
his own conceptions of the Best. But such extravagancies v _SQpl:-v^,
as those we have referred to, could only have proceeded
from so bold a mind as that of Plato,—a mind, not checked
by the repulsiveness of particular consequences from push¬
ing a theory to the utmost.
At the same time, this fundamental notion of the Divine
standard and pattern on which he proceeds, imparts a so¬
lemn dignity, in the midst of these excesses of the spirit of
theory, to the substance of his speculations on government
and laws.
Religion is thus secured as the basis of all right govern¬
ment and legislation. That government only which most
resembles a theocracy is, in Plato’s view, a true polity. All
others, popularly termed governments, as democracy, oli¬
garchy, aristocracy, monarchy, are merely settlements of
cities, and not Polities,’1 being called after that power which
has the ascendancy, in each over the other parts of the state.
So far as a state is truly such, it ought to be named, he says,
after the true God, the lord over all intelligent beings. Go¬
vernments, as they exist, are only the results of the strug¬
gles of contending factions : whence we find, as he observes,
one party in the ascendancy excluding and depressing ano¬
ther, in order to its own maintenance, and no concern taken
for the welfare of the whole community. To remedy this
general evil of existing governments, he would have the
simple and straightforward course of the divine procedure
brought before the minds of men, and a conformity with
that procedure inculcated on them as the only rule of life
and happiness. “ God,” he teaches, in an animated and
noble passage,8 “ as the ancient story is, holding the begin¬
ning, and end, and middle of all things that are, describes
a straight line, according to nature, as he walks his circuit.9
In his train ever follows Justice, the avenger of these that
are left behind by the divine law ; to which, he that would
be happy, keeping close, follows in the train, humble and
orderly; but whoever is puffed up with high boasting, or
elated with wealth, or honours, or grace of person, toge¬
ther with youthfulness and folly,—his soul burning with in¬
solence, as presuming, that he requires neither ruler nor
any guide, but is competent even to be a guide to others,—
is left, forsaken of God. And being left, and taking to
himself others besides, such as he is, he frolics, throwing
everything into promiscuous confusion. And to many he
seems to be some one ; but, after no long time, undergoing
a retribution, of which he cannot complain, to Justice, he
utterly subverts himself, and his house, and his city.”10
Here we have emphatically recognized the great truth,
that the foundations of all government and law are laid in
the unchanging nature of the Divine Being. The law of
right, as exemplified in the dominion of party, is the law
of the strongest, fluctuating with the accidents of power,
and never attaining to any permanent being. Such was
the law of right, as taught by the Sophists, from city to
city, and which was fully established in public opinion
throughout Greece,—not only as manifested in the factious
character of the particular governments, but avowedly de¬
clared and acted on as a principle of conduct. “ It is no¬
thing,” say Athenian ambassadors, “ out of the course of the
established opinion of men concerning the Divine Being, or
1 De Legibus, \x. p. 11. s /6W. 3 ^ 12
? !r,’X'‘r£'a>£1'vs»'T>>*s W*<ns r»Z xuXXitrrau xa, a^rov £,ou. {Ibid. vii. p. 380.) Tuvru ov xuSxVip ’l<rtus U uv§*, raw X(>yo-
.7/.v iv/Cccr yz ccgto-rec, hvrzg ytyvoiro tv •ra.a’oci; tfoXitn yiyvoiro a.v» (ibid. viii. p. 423.')
8 Anstot. app. 1, Ver. 4. 6 Be Legibus, vii. p. 353. 7 jbi^ jv>
p 179 ) T0U 'r<“0Vr0V rr,v 'rc>',v to roZ uXtiS-oZs rou ru» voZv s^avraiv htr*o%(>vre>s SteZ evopa XeyirS-ut. (Ibid.
*lIrL?M\lbJhiv8htm]ntilely mathematical: ‘r£ nXtvrxv xa> pw* rm Ivrm uvuvrm irtux* Xi^ivu xara <pur„ «r£?,-
*° Ibid. ' i'1V‘P‘
38
PLATO.
Plato’s their sentiments concerning themselves, that we expect or
Writings (]0i por we hold that the Divine Nature, so far as we can
and Philo- huW of it, and human nature, as we see clearly, by an in-
^ S0P y stinctive necessity, ever exercise power where they can o
tain the mastery. Nor are we the first, either to propose
the law, or to use it when laid down : it was in being when
we took it up ; and it will subsist for ever, for us to trans¬
mit to others after us; and we merely act upon it; con¬
vinced, that yourselves, no less than others, were you placed
in the same power in which we are, would do so.
then, is the law which belongs to the region of instability,
to that nature which is ever becoming, and never is. Con¬
trast with this Plato’s principle, which deduces the origin
of law from the eternal idea of good, and it will then be
more distinctly seen what the spirit of Plato’s legislation
It follows, indeed, from his principle, that all instituted
law is imperfect.2 And he admits, accordingly, that if a per¬
fectly virtuous ruler could be established on earth, it would
be best that the business of government should be carried
on by his will; which would in such a case be only the
copy of the Divine exemplar of right. But as this is past
hope in the present condition of human things, the substi¬
tute for the more perfect system is the institution of laws
framed after the eternal Idea of Good; not laws adapted
merely to the preservation of a particular form of polity, but
embodying in them the immutable principles of right. And
even such laws, as being matters of institution, are inferior
in dignity to unwritten laws—the principles of right—which,
themselves resting on no external sanction, are yet the con¬
serving principles of all positive laws.
Having his eye fixed on the eternal pattern of the good
and the true, Plato looked with a feeling of disappointment
and disgust at the several forms of polity which the states
of Greece exhibited. He is generally thought to have in¬
clined to a preference of aristocracy, and to have regarded
with aversion all popular government. But though it is
probable, that, from what he saw of the tyranny of an unre¬
strained democracy, he sighed in secret for a better order of
things, we cannot conclude from his political speculations
that he regarded any single polity as the best. He, in fact,
condemns all particular forms ;3 and when he asserts a pre¬
ference, it is for a polity such as was nowhere seen in his
times, combining in it monarchy, aristocracy, a.nd demo¬
cracy.4 But in his view, as governments then existed, they
were all one-sided ; the dominion of one part of a commu¬
nity over the rest, and not the dominion of good over the
whole. This dominion, as we have observed, was only to
be found in the government of God over the world, and to
it, therefore, he would have all human government con¬
formed. His sole preference, then, is for a theocracy, if such
could be realized on earth. His slighting manner of speak¬
ing of the lower orders of society, and of all indeed but
those who are gifted with superior talents and other natural
endowments, is to be ascribed to his general low estimate
of human nature, considered apart from that cultivation,
which the highest and most intellectual studies impart to it.
Respect for antiquity and prescriptive authority is strong¬
ly inculcated by Plato. In nothing was the changeable-^
ness of all generated things more evident than in the ever-
varying forms of the states of Greece, and especially of
Athens itself. The democracy of Athens had been an uni¬
versal market, ffavroTraiX/ov, as Plato terms an extreme de¬
mocracy of all sorts of polities.3 And laws had so far lost
their force there in the most corrupt times, that everything
was transacted by the decrees of the day; the variable de¬
terminations of popular assemblies being substituted prac- *-
tically in the place of the records of former experience and ^ phil^
wisdom. Early legislators had devised expedients for coun- sophy.
teracting this love of change on the part of their country- v 
men, as Solon, for instance, and Lycurgus, had done. And
in some instances, we find a temporary and partial expedient
adopted, by the popular assembly itself fixing the penalty
of death to the proposal of rescinding a measure before a
certain period.6 Plato’s expedient was supplied by the prin¬
ciple itself of his philosophy. If the Idea of Good was eter¬
nal and unchangeable, the constant pursuit of change must
lead men astrav from their happiness and the truth. I hey
must be called back, therefore, from that which is present
and passing, to the recollection of the past. They must not
look on wisdom as a thing which is dilterent to-day from
what it was yesterday, or in former times, but hold it as
what by its very nature is unalterable. Io regard it as
susceptible of improvement in the lapse of time, would be
to deny its proper Being, to reduce it to the condition ol
mere Becoming. A distrust in the wisdom of any existing
generation of men, and a sacred reverence for that of for¬
mer generations, and especially for the earliest traditions of
knowledge, would naturally be inculcated in such a philo¬
sophy. Thus he highly commends the Lacedemonian and
Cretan polities for the provision, that no young man should
inquire whether the laws were good or bad, but that all
should with one voice and with one mouth agree in declar¬
ing that everything in them is well appointed, as being
by the appointment of gods and that no other sentiment
should be allowed to be expressed. Further, not even does
he permit a young pefson to be present when such matters
are considered by the old.” In the same spirit, the Egyptian
immutability in the arts for thousands of years, is admired,
as a proof of admirable legislative and political wisdom.8
Even in regard to the fine arts, and to sports and amuse¬
ments, he reprobates the tendency to innovation, as dan¬
gerous to the serious institutions of a state, on the ground,
that changes in these lighter matters “ imperceptibly change
the manners of the young, and bring what is primitive into
disrepute, and what is modern into repute and that there
cannot be a greater mischief to states than such a habit of
i: blaming antiquity.”9
All this, which under certain limitations may be true, ap¬
pears, when thus broadly laid down by Plato, a misapplica¬
tion of the proper sanction of religious truth to truth in ge¬
neral. In religion, the only question being what is really
taught by its Divine author, there can be no addition made
in the course of time to the truths revealed, except by an¬
other divine revelation, though there may be advancement
in the exposition and teaching of it. What is primitive and
ancient, accordingly, in this subject, once fully ascertained
to be so, is the truth, and the whole truth. Only we must
not mistake antiquity of exposition and comment, for pri¬
mitiveness of the truth itself; for these admit of improved
knowledge by human study, when the original truth itself
does not. The contest between the advocates of tne re¬
spective claims of the past and of the present, in the matter
of knowledge, is doubtless much older than the time of Plato.
But his authority and eloquence have probably been mainly
instrumental in starting and sustaining the controversy in
modern times, through the early reception of his philosophy
into the literature of the Christian church.
But we may further see a reason for the stress which
Plato lays on the wisdom of prescription and authority, in
that state of public opinion to which he is addressing him¬
self. It was not, as might be supposed, a state of things
1 Thucyd. v. 105.
® 'Or; voftos ovx «v tfori Suvaira to rs aoiTTov xai to B<*a<3Tarov, x. t. k- [Polit. p. 82.)
3 ’Akka tuv Tpoo'nxovffo'.v auTYi riva tmii ovv kiyu; vokiTiiuv ou S rivTivocouv uxov, x- T- k- (Rep. \i. p. 00‘)
< De Leg. iii. pp. 137, 138.‘ 6 Thucyd. ii. 24.
5 Rep, viii, 7 De Legibus, i. 24, 25.
8 De Legibus, ii. p. 67.
9 Ibid. vii. pp. 338, 339.
PLATO.
Plato’s corresponding exactly to a demand for religious or civil
changes, in our days, under established governments and
an hy 0 institutions. The question of change is now gravely dis-
^ ^ ^ cussed, and deliberately carried or rejected, not with the
view of unsettling everything, but in order that some par¬
ticular institution or law may be established for the future.
Except in violent outbreaks of human passions long pent
up within artificial restraints, exasperated by resistance,
and at length forcing their way out, and levelling all bar¬
riers before them, as in the instance of the French revo¬
lution, it cannot be said with truth, of the struggles for par¬
ticular changes in modern institutions, that they have been
actuated by the mere desire of change, and the hatred of
everything established. The religion and the civilization
of modern times have in some measure presented a check to
this. But at the centre of movement in Greece, change was
the order of the day. Athens would neither rest itself, nor
suffer other states to rest. When its very demagogues are
forced on some occasions to endeavour to repress this inces¬
sant changeableness ; as Cleon was, when he told the Athe¬
nians it was better “ to have worse laws unmoved, than good
laws perpetually changed fl—it is evident that the spirit of
change was then developed in its most fearful form. For
we find the magician himself who had evoked it, starting in
terror at the apparition, and finding it too strong for his di¬
rection and control. AovXoi ovng rwv ecu otrovuv, i/TTigotfru/
8s rw uuSorm, “ Slaves of every new extravagance, but de-
spisers of accustomed things,”2 are the words with which
he attempts to exorcise it, and which the historian of the
times puts into the mouth of one who, as the creature of
the system, could most pointedly characterize it. Such
was that spirit, then, against which Plato had to contend.
It was an enemy not only to the existing government, but
to all government, and all law, and all religion and mora¬
lity. It demanded, therefore, the most forcible counter¬
action. It was to be met by inculcation of the opposite.
According to his own universal principle, contrary was to
be expelled by contrary. Everything that was ancient
was to be upheld, accordingly, as worthy of veneration and
acceptance, simply because it w^as ancient. The voice it¬
self of antiquity, though speaking without evidence, was
to be received with implicit acquiescence and submission.
Thus it is that Plato is found strenuously appealing to the
instinctive feeling of his countrymen, which they still re¬
tained in spite of the prevailing folly,—the feeling with
which they so fondly reverted to their early glories, and
delighted to view themselves in the past;—and labouring
to correct their vacillations of present opinion by recalling
them to the stable lessons of memory.
Political philosophy, then, according to Plato, is the his¬
tory of those changes which the will of man produces in
the matter ot government and lawrs, and an endeavour to
limit those changes by restoring in the social world the
primitive order and rule.
Education is the means by which those changes are
counteracted. It avails itself of that principle of contra¬
riety by which all changes are carried on; and endeavours
to expel the evil by inducing the good. The process by
which it carries on this effect is, a discipline of the intel¬
lect, prescribed by the state, and promoted by ail its insti¬
tutions and customs, framed, as these are supposed to be,
after the idea of the Sovereign Good. That discipline lays
down a course of exercise for the body as well as for the
intellect, that the body may be brought into the best con¬
dition, in order to the exercise of the intellect. The intel-
39
lect itself it conducts through the steps of the several scien- Plato’s
ces, from the bodily and sensible to the unembodied and Writings
intellectual,—from the phenomenal and changeable to that and phi5°-
which has real being, and is unchangeable. And thusN s0Phy’
in Plato’s system it is classed under the two comprehensive
heads of Gymnastics and Music ; the latter term being un¬
derstood, according to its derivation, to denote literature in
general. Philosophy itself was the ultimate attainment of
education,—the result of the whole intellectual training
of the accomplished man. Ostensibly, under this system,
there was no peculiar discipline of the heart. Indirectly
there was; so far .as it inculcated purification and self-de¬
nial. But the strengthening and elevating of the intellect
was its direct object. Its tendency was thus to exalt the
virtues of the intellect above those of the heart; and, in
opposition to the evidence of facts, to assert the power of
knowledge over the determinations of the will. Not that
Plato denies the existence of what we call self-command,
or that controlling of the passions which is the result of a
previous struggle with them. But he did not admit (as
Aristotle does, and urges against him3) that reason could
ever be overpowered by the passions, or that if there were
a distinct knowledge of the truth in the mind, it could give
way to passion.
In the matter of Religion, Plato’s theory of Ideas led him
to see that there were truths above the evidence belonging
to Experience, and which must be received solely on the
ground of the Divine authority. For whilst he taught that
the mind of man must work its way up to the Ideas by a
course of argument and examination of evidence, yet, hav¬
ing reached the Ideas themselves, it had attained the ulti¬
matum of truth ; no further evidence of these was to be
sought; they carried their own light in themselves. So,
when any truth was presented to the mind, which related
immediately to the Divine Being, it was not to be sup¬
posed capable of being examined in itself, and established
on any higher ground of internal evidence, but must at
once be admitted, if there were sufficient external authority
for it. The only question respecting such truths is, are
they historically true ? Is it certain, or at least highly proba¬
ble, that they have descended to us from the Father of Lights
himselt ? Have we reason to think that they were original¬
ly real divine communications,—and are they vouched to us
as such by a competent evidence ?4 Now, in regard to the
primary principles of the mind, such as we have before
spoken of, though they are not evidenced by any higher
principles, or by any conclusions from Experience, they
carry their own evidence, by their invariable presence in
the mind on certain occasions, being naturally suggested by
such occasions to every rational understanding. But the
truths of religion are of a different nature. They cannot
be authenticated by the mind itself to itself, as being out of
its range of thought. They must therefore be authenticated
from without. And in regard to these, accordingly, we
must appeal to the Reason and Word of God, as the sim¬
ple, and proper, and unanswerable vouchers of them.
This is the account of Plato’s disclaimer of all evidence,
either of demonstration or probability, on matters strictly
divine, and his frequent appeal to mythic traditions when
his discussion touches a mystery of the Divine Being or the
Divine conduct. He resolves the whole authority of such
matters into the evidence of “ ancient story,” craXa/og Xoyog,5 
and “primitive hearing,” d^a/adxojj,—and “learning hoary
with time,” %fovw woX/o».6 In speaking of the genera¬
tion of the subordinate divinities, in the Timceus, he makes
■ Thucyd. iii. 37. a .
near^coincid^s^withlLi'ne11" C0ntr0Verti^ the extreme view of the doctrine of Pkto on this point, in the result
Xa‘ ™ r-* W™ ytymuiSt wrr, ^ rev; alrov; airoT;
pwv, awpSu/tuoui Xayaus avodouvKi, M Suv/u.ows, x. r. )c. (Timceus. p. 304.)
0»!T£j ci •7ca.Xa.1ct ts *«; actyot Atyourm’ c cpoio; ry opotu. (Gorgias, p. 137-)
6 Timceus, p. 291.
40
Plato’s
Writings
and Philo¬
sophy.
PLATO.
an observation applicable to the whole subject of divine things
as treated by him. Instead of entering into explicit accounts
of them, he observes that the subject is too gjeat ^r us,
, and that we must believe those who have spcken before,
being: the offspring of gods, in the way in which they said
it, and because they must be conceived to ^iave th^
own ancestorsadding, that we cannot refuse credit to the
“ sons of gods, although they speak without probabilities
and necessary demonstrations, but must f011^ the ru e
believing them on their word, as declaring what belongs to
them.”1 He commends, too, the primitive generation of
men for their docility in following rules of life founded on
oral tradition,—their “ holding as true what was said ra Xs-
yoaera, concerning both gods and men.”* Again, speaking of
Jhe state of the dead, and their interest m the concerns of
men on earth, he appeals to the same kind of evidence.
“ We must believe,” he says, “ the voices of others in such
matters, so current as they are, and so extremely ancient;
and it is enough for our belief that legislators, unless they
be proved absolutely unwise, have asserted them. So just¬
ly does he insist on the reasonableness of being content
w ith the voice of a declaratory authority m matters incap¬
able, by their nature, of a direct evidence from our reason.
By the heathen philosopher, in the absence of an authen¬
tic revelation, the authority for such truths was naturally
sought in ancient traditions,-traditions mounting up be¬
yond all memory of their origin, and therefore referable to
times when the world was yet fresh from the hand of God.
The voice of remote and undefined antiquity, indeed, by a
natural delusion, represents itself to the mmd as but little
different from the sanction of eternal truth. For it .s but
a slight and imperceptible transition from the indefinite to
the infinite. Many such traditions were found in the hea¬
then mythology, connecting themselves with another order
of things, when gods conversed with men on eartn. bo e
of them, certainly, were full of absurdity and profaneness j
and all were disfigured with the colouring of fable ; but still
there were some, beautiful in the conception, and sublime
and impressive in the doctrine. Of this latter character,
for the most part, are those exquisite mythical legends, with
which Plato has diversified his discussions, throwing the
solemnity of religion over truths which he would especially
enforce. • v
Thus, though he has elaborately argued the immortality
of the soul, he is not content to leave the question on those
abstract grounds of conviction. He feels that the convic¬
tion which may practically influence the conduct, must be
drawn from another source,—that of a simple belief in some
authority declaring it,—when he closes the discussion, as in
the Phocdo, and in other places, with a scenic representa¬
tion, from the legends of ancient tradition, of the doctnnes
which he has been enforcing. The whole of the limans,
in fact, is a legend rather than a philosophical inquiry, it
appeals, for the reception of its truths, to the shadows wit
which it veils them, and the mystic echoes of sounds heard by
the listening ear from afar. In that legend, indeed, we have
very considerable evidence of the pure source, from whicti
the heathen world drew much of the sacred truth that was
wrapped up and disfigured in their fables. We perceive m
such a document of ancient philosophy, at once the sure an
wide-spread knowledge resulting from a scriptural Revela¬
tion, and the obscurity and fallibility of the information of
Tradition. To this effect are the description in the i imaus,
of the universe as the “ one” work of the “ one Supreme
Beinir” as the “visible likeness of one himself the ob- Flat-os
ject only of intellectual apprehension,”—as the “ only-gene-
J i »   4-Lo Tt'afhfir rvf nil fhincrs : and the Strong  i
iectoniyoiinieiieuLuaiaPFi^^ ,, —and Phil
rated,” urnymi, of the Father of all things; and the strong sophv_
assertion of the goodness, and beauty, and perfection of the.  
universe; and particularly, in reference to this, that strik¬
ing passage, “ When the Father who generated it, per¬
ceived, both living and moving, the generated glory of the
Everlasting Divinities, he was filled with admiration, and,
being delighted, he further contemplated the working it
still more to a resemblance of the pattern.”4 Add to these
instances the simple and magnificent words which he has
put into the mouth of the Father of the Universe, as an ad¬
dress to the generated gods, respecting the formation of
the bodies of men and other living creatures.5 The attri¬
buting to Him a speech at the first formation of man, is
alone sufficiently remarkable; and the plural address with
which it opens, makes the correspondence still closer to
the sacred words, “ And God said, Let us make man in our
image, after our likeness.” The order of the generation of
things, it may be further observed, agrees with the order
of the creation. First the heavens and the earth are pro¬
duced, and then the living creatures; and among these
Man, designated as “ the most religious of animals. But
at the same time there is much confusion and degradation
of the high subject. We look in vain for those sublime
features of the inspired account, that the creation arose out
of nothing, by the word of God. This is darkly intimated
in the shadowy nature which the narrative assigns to Body;
but, though it be but a shadow, Body still subsists in his
system, as the co-eternal contrary of the Divine Intelligence.
Traces of the descent of holy truth, in the like disguise, ap¬
pear in the references found in Plato to early deluges and
genealogies;? to the notion of God as the shepherd of his
people;« and to accounts of variations in the course of the
rising and setting of the sun.9 . . .
Such, then, is the character of Plato’s philosophy, both m
its o-eneral method, and in its results, as a theory of the uni¬
verse, and an information respecting the leading branches
of human knowledge. _ . ,
It was concerned, we find, more in investigating and
establishing first principles, than in drawing out results;
in exciting the love of wisdom, rather than in aiding in the
research after it. With him, indeed, philosophy and its
method of inquiry, as we have seen, are one; and, in like
manner, philosophy and its several branches coalesce m his
system into one. We have spoken of his logical, and phy¬
sical, and ethical doctrines, as if they were distinct subjects;
but in his mind the one theory of Ideas held these several
doctrines in its embrace, and made them indissolubly one with
itself. For his design throughout is, to establish universal
principles common to every subject, and on these to build a
structure of philosophy,—a counterpart in the human mind
to the universe itself, and comprehending therefore all that
relates to the Deity, to man, and to the world. He would
place the mind of the philosopher far above the scenes m
which man lives, and endue him with a keenness and range
of vision, extending over the whole region of speculation, and
leaving no part, either from its largeness or from its minute¬
ness, unexplored. The problem which he undertakes to
solve is, how all things are both one and many; how, amidst
the multiplicity of phenomena with which we are surround¬
ed, a real unity still subsists and pervades the whole. lie
proceeds on the conviction, that to attain to this unity,
so far at least as our faculties will enable us to attain to it
——    4 jetT pj in 3 De Les; x1’ 150‘
1 Timms, p. 324. „ . 5 I'ytnnsas n, Wt,a* '"i”
4 'Xlf Se KivfiSiv rt auro kxi ?>v mvoMt rav icidiuv Bicjv ytym, uyaA.[*a y
in-MW km^yaaa.<,^a.i. (/Wrf. pp. 316, 317-) .
5 ©£,; :w ut \yu on/j-iovoyc;,' ^ar^o -rs epyav, x. r. X. {join. p. o- ./ 7 p0jitt p_ 290 ; De Leg. i.
t IZ W«. g» ” ‘"r a-TT. ZZ, ♦"■**"** “i™’ (,m P' ^
y Polit. p. 28. The same are evidently referred to by Herodotus m Euterpe, 14—
PLATO.
Plato’s (for in itself it is incomprehensible and ineffable), is to find
Writings t}lc c]iue to that maze of sensible things which bewilders
and 1 hi o- jriurnan observation. He was not intent, therefore, on distin-
. ^ ^^ .P-nishing and arranging the several branches of knowledge,
but on bringing all into subjection to his commanding theory
of the perfect unity. He has not, in fact, elaborated, or
even sketched, any one particular science. He has shewn
how the sciences may be distributed, or rather furnished
hints for such a distribution. But he has left the task of
doing so to others after him, as subordinate agents, filling up
the details and supplying the omissions of his system. His
was characteristically a one-making mind. It analysed,—
not, however, for the purpose of finding and arranging the
component elements of a subject, bjd in search of the one
vivifying principle, which gives form, and truth, and good¬
ness, and beauty, to everything. He omits, accordingly, to
examine with minuteness into secondary agencies, which are
the proper study of the particular sciences, in order that he
may direct attention to the master-principle, by which all
subordinate principles are held together, and by which they
work as concurring causes in the infinite variety of actual
phenomena with such energy and constancy of operation.1
It was left for his pupil Aristotle to take up the business
of philosophy where he had designedly left it unfinished,
and, by a more rigorous method, to introduce order into the
field of science, by assigning to each particular science its
distinct objects and office.
It required, indeed, some philosopher worthy of such a
master to take up the subject where Plato had left it, and
to carry it out to the fulness of an instructive method, and
a systematic exposition of truth ; and such a successor was
found in Aristotle. Aristotle, as controverting the Theory
of Ideas, may perhaps be regarded by some as an antagonist,
rather than a successor, to Plato. But every succeeding
system of philosophy is partly a polemic against its prede¬
cessor, by whose labours it nevertheless .has profited. So
it was with the great movement of mind commenced by
Plato. It languished under Speusippus and Xenocrates,
and the still more remote successors in the Academia. But
in the Lyceum, the rival school in name, but the rival only
as the vigorous offspring of the declining parent, a crowd
of hearers such as that whom the great magician of the
Academia had called around him, was once more assembled,
and Athens again assumed the form of an university. In
Aristotle’s system, accordingly, we see the productiveness
of those germs of philosophy which the genius of Plato had
planted and reared. Others cultivated the germs them¬
selves; and some fostered them into a wild luxuriance. It was
by being engrafted on the sturdy stock of Aristotle’s mind,
that they received fresh vigour, and produced fruits, though
not strictly their own, yet partaking of their life and richness.2
If we take Plato’s philosophy as a whole in its complex
form, not simply as a system of philosophy, but a system in
which philosophy, and eloquence, and poetry, and deep
religious and moral feeling, are harmoniously combined, it
stands alone in the history of literature. There is nothing
which approaches to it under this point of view, nothing
which may be properly regarded as a continuation of it. It
is a splendid work of rare genius, like the Homeric poems
or the Minerva of Phidias, which no other artist has ever
equalled. Philosophical dialogues have been written in
imitation of those of Plato ; but how unlike to them, how
altogether inferior to them in conception and execution!
There is learning, and eloquence, and grace, in whatever
the accomplished mind of Cicero has touched. But com¬
pare his most finished specimens in this way with the Dia¬
logues of Plato, and what a deficiency appears! Dignity
41
and refinement of mind, and an acquaintance with the stores Plato’s
of philosophy, shine forth in the Dialogues of Cicero. But Writings
we miss altogether the depth and the exquisiteness ofam!
thought, the range and the minuteness of vision, the exact-. -
ness of reasoning, the lively sketches of character and man¬
ners, which interest and astonish us by their combination
in the Dialogues of Plato. Xenophon had great knowledge
of human nature, and has thrown an air of great natural¬
ness over his simple descriptions, whether it is conversations
and moral lessons that he relates, or stirring scenes of his¬
tory. But his Socratic dialogues do not admit of comparison
with the elaborate efforts of Plato. They were clearly in¬
tended only as accounts of what Socrates had taught, and
did not aim at any artist-like eftect, as compositions. Or, if
we turn to the Symposium of Plutarch, there, again, much as
the author admired and studied Plato, we observe an entire
want of that tact in the management of the dialogue, which
so engages our attention amidst the subtilties of Plato’s
discussions. If we compare, again, the imitations of Plato
in the Dialogues of Berkeley and Shaftesbury, we find the
like contrast as in those of Cicero. Superior as these are
in composition to other efforts of the kind in our language,
they still give no proper representation of the spirit or the
form of the Platonic Dialogue. There is no life in the in¬
terlocutors of these Dialogues; and the author himself is
scarcely concealed behind their masks. Nor are there any
touches of natural feeling or incident to connect the argu¬
ment with the personality of the speakers ; such as those in
the Phcedo, where the discussion opens with the loosing of
the chains from the limbs of Socrates, his bending and rub¬
bing his leg, and expressing the pleasure arising from the
contrast of his pain before; circumstances, not merely thrown
in by way of dramatic interest, but leading, in immediate
application, to the argument in hand. As we have said,
then, the philosophy of Plato taken in connection with the
admirable compositions in which it is contained, stands alone
in the history of literature. It is due to the charm of the
composition, that the interest of the reader is sustained
amidst much of dry abstract speculation, requiring the
closest attention, and considerable acquaintance with the
subjects of philosophical discussion, in order to follow it. It
was this charm in great measure, doubtless, which rendered
the writings of Plato, in spite of their abstruseness and sub-
tilty in many parts, so acceptable to Grecian taste. He had
his critics also and censors; but all seem to have concur¬
red in placing him at the head of the philosophical writers
of Greece. Objection was taken by some to the severity
of his sarcasm against the leading Sophists and other great
names. Complaint, too, was made of his putting sentiments
and words into the mouth of Socrates which Socrates had
never used ; and of his anachronisms, in bringing together
in conversation, persons, who, from the period at which they
flourished, could never have met. But these were merely
minute criticisms. It was seen by those who entered into
the spirit of his writings, that he was still the great master
throughout,—that he was not giving, in his Dialogues, a
history of individuals or of the times, but a general charac¬
ter of classes of men, and the prevailing tone, both of phi¬
losophical discussion and of popular opinion. The en¬
lightened critic saw that Socrates, for example, is not pour-
trayed by him simply as Socrates, but as the characteristic
spokesman of the system on which he is engaged;—and in
like manner, that when he brings together persons of dif¬
ferent periods, he overlooks the anachronism, that he may
enunciate the doctrines inquired into, in their proper person.
The perfection to which he wrought the style of his
most elaborate Dialogues, will be apparent to those who
1 taZr ov'i tkvt' sj, ran %aiiairia>i, ots Bios umgriraviri xgttrau, run rou aourrov xara. ro 'Svvarav idsav iirariXaiv. (Tim. p. 336.) The genesis of
the universe is from the union of vov; and and the dominion of »ou; over avnyKn causes «vay*» to bring ran yiyvopnan ra nXttrra
in ro (St/.T/5-av. (Tim. p. 339.)
* Dionysius ot Halicarnassus speaks justly of Aristotle, as » yvnnairaro; nirou /uxSvrn;. (Ep- ad Cn. Pomp.)
VOL. XVIII.
F
42
P L A
Plauen.
Platonic study them accurately under this point cf view- S° fas
" tidious, indeed, is the taste with which they have been
/ wrought into their present form, that it
preciated without an accurate an even clause
tibn. Every word seems chosen with care, and every c ause
of his periods made to flow with its proper rhythm and this
effect at the same time is produced out ^ ^e o d y
materials of the language. The
of conversation, and the way in which they are Put tT?
seems at the first view, to be as unstudied as meie con
sationl But the result is an exquisite composition, in e-
„ard to which we are at a loss to pronounce, whether t e
depth and the elegance of the thought, o^thejrace ^and
propriety of expression, most prevail. f were we
that he was not the first to compose Dialogues, vvere^
to look simply to the finished form in which his uia
logues have been executed. They are, ou t^ss, no
first efforts in that way. But the school of Elea had jire
cededhim inthisstyle. More particular!^
that AVamenus of Teos was the first to write laia
loiues; or at least his is the earliest name to which, on the
testimony of Aristotle, in a work now os , ™ q
orminatine the Dialogue has been assigned. But v\ e nec
S no further than to the Greek drama for the first thought
of the Platonic Dialogue. The Mimes of Sophron, and the
Comedies of Epicharmus, probably furoished mater,* W
which he was enabled, if not to mould, at least to ennch h s
Dialogues. The Mimes of Sophron, indeed, it is said, found
a place under his pillow.’ And what are the P^ajras
the Gorgias, and the Symposium, it may be asked, t e
particular Dialogues in which he has most fully displaye
his dramatic power, but philosophical comedies in p ose,
analogous to the Clouds of Aristophanes, and only differ
ing from that play, as addressed to a higher class of hearers
ami as intended, not to call forth the applause of spectators,
but to elicit thought from a reader.
Nor, in touching upon the peculiar excellence
p L A
Dialogues, ought we to omit to notice especially, under this ^ Phnua^
point of view, the delightful mythic narratives, with which
he has adorned and relieved his abstract discussions.. I ne
art with which he has introduced them is most admirable.
They are openings of rich scenery, suddenly presented to
the view when least expectedtales of an Arabian night
succeeding to a morning’s pastime of disputation in some
school of Greecesolemn shadows from an unseen world,
castino- their majestic forms over some ordinary incident
of daify life. But they are not to be regarded only as em¬
bellishments and reliefs to the argument. They bear an
important part in the teaching itself of his philosophy.
They soften down the outline of his reasonings, -taking from
them that positive didactic form in which they might appear,
amidst the strife of debate, and as wrought out by discussion.
The knowledge which his theory aims at imparting, is that of
Reminiscence, as we have shewn; and he would not, accor¬
dingly, have the results of his inquiry present themselves as
anything else but Reminiscence. We are, indeed, to search
out the reasons of things. We are not to rest in mere opi¬
nion, but to battle our way against error and falsehood, un¬
til we rise to the eternal Ideas, the causes of all knowledge,
as they are the causes of all Being. Still, we are not to
suppose that we can distinctly comprehend the eternal Ideas
in themselves. Though they are at last intellectually dis¬
cerned, it is only “ at the last,” and that “ scarcely. 3 tor
they carry up the eye of the soul to the fountain of all know¬
ledge —theDivine Being himself, who cannot be conceived,
much less defined in words.4 The mythic legends admira¬
bly combine with the refutative form of the discussions to
leave this impression of indefiniteness on the mind. Whilst
the mind’s eye is directed steadily to the objects which can
alone give stability and certainty to its knowledge, we are
thus throughout reminded by Plato, that vre live amidst sha¬
dows and darkness, and that our eye must be purified and
endued with heavenly light before it can look undazzled on
the truth itself. v1, 1'J
PLATONIC, something which relates to Plato, his phi¬
losophy, his opinions, or the like. Thus, Pkitomc love de¬
noted a pure and spiritual affection, for which Plato was a
great advocate, sa subsisting between the different sexes
abstracted from all carnal appetites, and regarding no other
object but the mind and its beauties ; or it is even a s -
cere, disinterested friendship subsisting between persons of
the same sex, abstracted from any selfish views, am
garding no other object than the person, if any such love
or friendship has aught of a foundation in nature.
Platonic Year, or the Great Fear, is a period of time
determined by the revolution of the equinoxes, or the space
wherein the stars and constellations return to their former
places in respect of the equinoxes. The Platonic year, ac¬
cording to Tycho Brahe, is 25,816 ; according to Ricciolus,
25,910 ; and according to Cassini, 24,800 years. This pe¬
riod once accomplished, it was an opinion amongst the an-
. cients that the world would begin anew, and the samesenes
of things return in the same order as before.
PLAUEN, a city of the kingdom of Saxony, in the circle
of Voightland, and the capital of a bailiwick of the same
name. It is situated in a beautiful valley upon the banks
of the Elster, is surrounded with walls, and contains bOS
houses, with 7200 inhabitants, more than one half of whom
are employed in making muslins and other kinds of cotton
goods of fine quality. Woollen cloths, paper, and hosiery,
are also extensively fabricated.
PLAUTUS, M. Attics, the father of Roman comedy,
was born of humble parents, in the Umbrian village of Sar-
sina. He flourished during the second Punic war ; and his
death happened b. c. 184, when Terence had reached his
ninth year. Of his private circumstances we are entirely
ignorant; but fortune, which had blessed him with extraoi -
efinarv talents, does not appear to have been very bountiful
in worldly goods. To gain a livelihood, he was compelled
to have recourse to the most laborious employments; yet
still he contrived to write comedies, by the sale of which
he added something to his enjoyments. The number ol
comedies composed by Plautus, or at least known un er
his name, was, according to Aldus Gellius, about one hun¬
dred and thirty, of which L. JEYms considered only twenty-
five as genuine productions. Gellius imagines that the
others, if they were not composed by Plautus, belong at
least to the poets of that period, and had been read and
amended by him ; so that in this manner they had acquired
his style and character. Varro considered as genuine only
twenty-one, which were hence called Varronianes ; and per¬
haps a few others, from their similarity of style. Changes
in the text and in the arrangement, which were brought
about at the will of the sediles, to whom he sold the plays,
and even of the actors who were employed in performing
them, became still more frequent after the death of the
poet. The substitution, too, of the plays of another un¬
known poet, Plautius, for those of Plautus, has increased
‘ of with which he touched ^ ** ^ ^ ^
hT^r£“’,e clause= ^ w- <.«*■ - »• *rim- *m
43
P L A
Plautus, the difficulty of distinguishing the genuine productions of
the poet from those erroneously ascribed to him. rl bus we
find grammarians and critics, such as Julius, Volcatius, Se-
digitius, Claudius, and Aurelius, writing treatises respect¬
ing the genuine pieces of Plautus. The number of comedies
which have been preserved, though by no means quite per¬
fect, amounts, according to Varro, to twenty. The Quero-
lus or Aulularia, written in prose, though found in the ma¬
nuscripts of Plautus, and even cited by Servius as belonging
to him, is considered by some as of a later date, probably of
the time of the younger Theodosius. Vossius and I irlemont
considered Claudius Rutilius Numatianus as the author,
whilst Vincent was rather inclined to suppose it the produc¬
tion of Phccdrus, the celebrated writer of fables. All the
manuscripts of Plautus which have yet been discovered, with
the exception of the Palimpsest of the Ambrosian Library,
seem to be of a recent date, and must have flowed from a
common source, as the same passages are corrupt in all.
It is usually supposed that we are indebted to the gram¬
marian Priscian for the order in which we find these twenty
plays arranged ; and he, too, is the author of the short argu¬
ments prefixed to each comedy in some of the old manu¬
scripts. The purity of the language proves their remote
antiquity, even though we be inclined to think that Plautus
is not the author. The plays are found generally in the fol¬
lowing arrangement. Amphitrus, called by Plautus himself
in the prologue a tragi-comedy, because gods and princes
are the principal characters, and tragic events are brought
upon the comic stage; it has been imitated by Boccacio,
Moliere, and Dryden. Asinaria, in imitation of the Greek
play 'Ovaygog of Demophilus, exhibiting in strongly-marked
characters the corruption of Greek manners. Aulularia,
one of the best, distinguished by its Roman colouring ; but
its end is wanting: it is the foundation of Moliere’s Avare.
Captivi, according to the opinion of the poet himself, one
of his most successful efforts, which is recommended parti¬
cularly by the moral feeling that pervades it. The sub¬
ject is more grave, and the coarse licentiousness and extra¬
vagance which disgust us in his other plays are here thrown
into the back-ground, whilst a purely moral character steps
forward, without any diminution in the comic vigour and
genius of the poet, who must have written it in the latter
years of his life. Curculio, from the name of the parasite
who acts the chief part. Casina, in imitation of the KXjj-
gou'M'jci of Diphilus. Cistellaria. Epidicus, a play highly
thought of by the author. Chrysolus or Bacchides, in which
the prologue and beginning are wanting: the copy which
Lascaris pretended to have found in Sicily is not considered
as genuine, being probably the work of Petrarch. Phasma,
or Mostellaria, in modern times imitated by Reynard and
Addison. Mencechmus, also imitated by Reynard, and even
by Shakspeare in some parts. Miles Gloriosus, one of his
most successful pieces, which reminds us of Holbein’s Bra-
marbas. Mercator, in imitation of the ’E/cwrogo; of Phile¬
mon. Pseudolus, one of the favourites of the poet, as appears
from Cicero. Pcenulus, represented probably about 191,
and therefore to be numbered amongst the latest plays of
Plautus. This is proved by the labour he has bestowed up¬
on it, the superior manner in which it delineates character,
and the skilful arrangement of the whole. It is remarkable
for the introduction of Carthaginian words, the only monu¬
ment of the language which remains, with the exception
of coins and inscriptions; and it has therefore been fre¬
quently referred to by the learned of ancient and modern
times. Persa, from which Pliny quotes some verses that
are not found in the play which has come down to us. Bu-
dens, a beautiful play, in imitation of the Greek of Diphilus.
Stichus. Trinummvs, in imitation of the of Phile¬
mon : after the Captivi, it is the most remarkable play, both
in regard to the design of the whole, and the delineation
of character, as well as in the skilful arrangement of indi-
P L A
vidual parts. Truculentus, also a favourite of the poet. Plautus.
Besides these, we have likewise the names and fragments
of many other comedies.
These comedies belong to the class of Comadm Palliatce,
and are so far to be considered as free imitations of the
works of the Greek comedians of the new school; yet it
would be doing injustice to the talents of Plautus to suppose
that he imitated slavishly the Greek originals, and copied
their works without asserting his own intellectual powers,
or making changes both in relation to the form and design
of the whole, as well as of its individual parts. The bold
manner in which he made use of the Greek materials, by
which the poet was able to bring into play his natural ge¬
nius and vein of comic humour, and the frequent introduction
of Roman characters and customs, even into the midst of
Greek plays, distinguished Plautus from the polished Te¬
rence, who adhered much more closely to the Greek origi¬
nals. It marks him as the genuine poet of the people, who
knew how to create a popular drama, and thereby to fur¬
nish amusement for the lower ranks of life. He sold his
plays to the sediles, and therefore must have written them
expressly for the diversion of the people. We need scarcely
doubt that the poet would have taken a still wider range, and
have exhibited still more of the true national character of
the Romans, if he had not had before his eyes the fate of
Naevius, to warn him from the dangerous path on which
hg was entering. The entire loss of the Greek originals
prevents us from being able to decide how much of his ma¬
terials the poet borrowed, and how far he imitated them in
the design and conduct of his plays. Plautus must have made
more use of the productions of the Attic comic wu-iters
than of those of the Sicilian poets. Yet Epicharmus and
some others he had evidently read with much care, and
may also have imitated them, as he certainly did in respect
to Theocritus. The prologue, which is generally thought
to have been wanting to the Greek comedy, was peculiar
to him and his imitators. The poet was chiefly distin¬
guished by the raciness of his wit, and the original and spi¬
rited manner in which he treated his subjects. But as it was
not the higher and more polished classes of society for
whom he wrote, but rather for those in humble life, from
which he himself had sprung, we may expect to find in his
comedies much low buffoonery, as well as many words and
expressions bearing a double meaning; and here and there
he oversteps the bounds of modesty and decency, which
may however be forgiven, in return for the rich vein of hu¬
mour which will always stamp Plautus as one of the most
original of the comic poets of Rome. For this reason,
however, much caution ought to be used in introducing
the young to an acquaintance with the writings of Plautus.
The language of Plautus is natural and forcible, though
not always harmonious and musical. Neither is it free
from a certain harshness and ruggedness, apparent in the
rise of old forms of words and expressions, which became
obsolete in later times, though we may ascribe this to the
still uncultivated state of the language. The form of the
verse is not regular; indeed the prosody and metre are
both treated with so much carelessness, that we are almost
inclined to believe that the poet either refused to submit to
the trammels of a regular metre, or was unacquainted with
the laws and rules of prosody. Yet of late a more minute
examination of his writings, and a more profound study of
the principles of Latin prosody and metrical laws, have led
writers to take a different view of the subject. Many of
the ancients bestowed unmeasured praise on the language of
Plautus; yet we need not be surprised at the less favour¬
able opinion pronounced by Llorace, whose taste was form¬
ed upon a purer Greek model.
The earliest edition of Plautus is that of Venice, 1472;
and the best is that published by Brunck, Bipont, 1788,
in three vols. 8vo.
PLAYFAIR
PLAYFAIR, John, a mathematician and philosopher
of great eminence and celebrity; and so peculiarly a bene¬
factor to this publication, as would have made it nt that
some memorial of him should be preserved in these pages,
even if it could have been surmised that it might not have
been found in any other place. There are few names, how¬
ever, in the recent history of British science that are more
extensively or advantageously known, or of which the lew
particulars that remain to be recorded will be more ge¬
nerally interesting. His life, like most others that have
been dedicated to the silent pursuits of learning and science,
does not abound in incidents or adventures ; but it is tull
of honour, both for the individual and the studies to which
he was devoted, and may be read with more profit than
many more ambitious histories. .
He was the eldest son of the Reverend James 1 layiair,
minister of Benvie, in Forfarshire; in which place he was
born on the 10th of March 1748. tie resided at home,
under the domestic tuition of his father, until the age of
fourteen, when he entered at the University of St Andrews,
and was almost immediately distinguished, not merely for
his singular proficiency in mathematical learning, but for
the extent of his general knowledge, the clearness of his
judgment, and the dignity and propriety of his conduct.
A remarkable testimony to this effect has been made pub¬
lic in an early letter of Principal George Hill, who was at
this time one of his fellow-students, and was himself so
remarkable for early talent, that we find it recorded of
him, that he had privately composed an excellent sermon in
the tenth year of his age. A youth of this description cannot
be supposed to have been very indulgent in his estimate of
the merits of his competitors ; and it could therefore have
been no ordinary measure of ability that called forth the
following ingenuous avowal, in a confidential letter to his
mother : “ Playfair has very great merit, and more know¬
ledge and a better judgment than any of his class-fel¬
lows. I make no exceptions ; my parts might be more
showy, and the kind of reading to which my inclination led
me was calculated to enable me to make a better figure at
St Andrews; but in judgment and understanding I was
greatly inferior to him.”1 It isscarcely a stronger, though un¬
doubtedly a very different proof of his rare attainments, that
when the professor of natural philosophy, Wilkie, the once
celebrated author of the Epigoniad, wras prevented by in¬
disposition from delivering the regular lectures, he used
generally to delegate the task of instruction to his youth¬
ful pupil. Wilkie, besides being a scholar and philoso¬
pher of no mean note, was a man of primitive benevolence
and integrity, and of great vivacity in conversation; and
the friendship which, in spite of the disparity of their
years, was speedily formed between him and young Play¬
fair, speaks as much for the social and moral character of
the latter, as his substitution of him in the class-room does
for his early proficiency in science. On this last subject
we shall mention but one fact more. In 1766, when only
eighteen years of age, he offered himself, with the appro¬
bation of his instructors at St Andrews, as candidate for
the professorship of mathematics in Mareschal College,
Aberdeen, and sustained, with the most distinguished cre¬
dit, an examination or comparative trial, which lasted eleven
days, and embraced nearly the whole range of the exact
sciences. Out of the six competitors who entered the
lists against him, two only were judged to have excelled
him, the Reverend Dr Trail, who was appointed to the
office, and Dr Hamilton, who afterwards succeeded to and
long filled it with much reputation.
In 1769, he removed to Edinburgh, where his merit and
modesty very soon introduced him to the friendship of Dr
Robertson, Adam Smith, Dr Matthew Stewart, Dr Black,
and Dr Hutton ; with all of whom he continued on terms Playfair,
of the utmost cordiality during the whole period of their"
lives. In 1772, he was a candidate for the professorship
of natural philosophy at St Andrews, vacant by the death
of his friend Dr Wilkie. There was no comparative trial
on this occasion ; and he was again unsuccessful, under
circumstances which have led one of the most dutiful sons
of that university (Dr Cook, in his Life of Principal Hill)
to remark, “ how much it suffered in thus losing a man
by whose talents its reputation would have been so highly
promoted.” In the course of the same year, the death of
his father suddenly devolved upon him the burden of sup¬
porting the family, and admonished him no longer to delay
the final election of a profession. He had been educated
with a view to the church, and was every way qualified to
accept a living on the establishment; but his decided pre¬
dilection for science had hitherto made him hesitate about
engaging in a vocation, the duties of which, he felt, if con¬
scientiously discharged, would necessarily interfere, to a
great extent, with the studies he was loth to abandon. In
this emergency, however, he thought himself no longer
entitled to indulge in those predilections, and accordingly
made application to Lord Gray, the patron, for a presen¬
tation to the livings of LifF and Benvie, which had been
filled by his father. His lordship was too well aware of
his merits to hesitate about conferring so great a benefit
on the parishioners; and immediately issued a presentation
in his favour, although, from some challenge of his right
to the patronage, induction was not obtained until late in
the year 1773.
From this period until 1782 Mr Playfair wras constantly
resident at Liff, and occupied almost exclusively with the
pastoral duties of his office. In this retreat his leisure
hours were dedicated to the education of his younger bro¬
thers, and to a very close and intimate correspondence
with Mr Robertson (afterwards Lord Robertson), the son of
the illustrious historian, to whom he seems to have confined
the remarks that occurred to him upon the different authors
he perused, and the subjects of speculation which they sug¬
gested. We cannot help hoping, that some selection from
this correspondence may one day be given to the public.
In the year 1779, he contributed to the Transactions of
the Royal Society of London a paper on the Arithmetic of
Impossible Quantities, which exhibits, within a very small
compass, a striking example of the rare and admirable ta¬
lent of detaching the sound spirit of science from what may
be termed its mysticism, and circumscribing, by the most
precise and luminous boundaries, the vague and unlimited
inquiries into which many mathematicians had been se¬
duced by the nature of the instruments they employed.
In the year 1782 he was induced, by very advantageous
offers, to resign his charge, and to superintend the edu¬
cation of Mr Ferguson of Raith, and his brother Sir Ro¬
nald; an arrangement which restored him, in a great mea¬
sure, to the literary and scientific society of Edinburgh,
and enabled him to gratify himself by a personal introduc¬
tion to several of the most eminent cultivators of science
in London. He had repeatedly visited Dr Maskelyne,
astronomer royal, whilst that ingenious mathematician was
busied, in 1774, in making a series of observations in Perth¬
shire, on the attraction of mountains; and,whilstsharingthe
shelter of his tent on the side of Schehallien, contracted
with him a cordial friendship, which continued unbroken
for the remainder of their lives. Under these honourable
auspices he made his first appearance in London in 1782,
and was speedily introduced to all those in whom he was
likely to take most interest. He seems to have kept a
pretty full and correct journal of all that he observed dur¬
ing this journey to the metropolis; and a portion of it,
1 Dr Cook’s Life of Principal Hill.
FLAY
Playfair, which is prefixed to the late collection of his works, is, in
—'v'"—' our judgment, one of the most interesting parts of that
publication. It is not only written with great elegance
and accuracy, but affords, in the free, candid, and pointed
observations which it contains on the different individuals
with whom he comes in contact, a very remarkable proof
of his quick and sagacious perception of character, and his
power of selecting and turning to account, even in the
fever and distraction of a first visit to such a scene, all
that was really worthy of careful observation or permanent
remembrance.
In 1785 he was received into the University of Edin¬
burgh, in consequence of an arrangement between his two
illustrious associates, Dr Adam Ferguson and Mr Dugald
Stewart. Mr Stewart exchanged the chair of mathema¬
tics, in which he had succeeded to his father, for that of
moral philosophy, which had been long filled by Dr Fer¬
guson ; who, finding that the delicate state of his health
would prevent him from discharging the active duties of
the mathematical professor, immediately devolved them
upon Mr Playfair, for whom he procured the appointment
of joint professor in that department.
In 1788 he published, in the Transactions of the Royal
Society of Edinburgh, a Biographical Account of Dr Mat¬
thew Stewart, which is remarkable, not only for the ease
and purity of the style, but also as containing a singularly
clear and interesting account of the labours of Dr Simson
in the restoration of the ancient geometry, and of the suc¬
cess both of him and Dr Stewart in adapting the elegant
simplicity of the Greek methods of investigation to pro¬
blems which had previously been regarded as insoluble ex¬
cept by the aid of the modern analysis. He also published,
in the same year, a paper on the Causes which affect the
Accuracy of Barometrical Measurements, which is written
with all the perspicuity, caution, and sagacity that con¬
stitute the great excellence and the great difficulty of such
disquisitions, where scientific principles are employed to
give precision to physical observations.
In 1790 he published in the same Transactions a paper
of still greater interest and delicacy, on the Astronomy of
the Brahmins; a subject which had been recently recom¬
mended to the notice of the European scientific world by
the curious and learned observations of M. Bailly, in his
General History of Astronomy, but had never met with so
minute and scrupulous an investigation as it now received
at the hands of Mr Playfair. The whole treatise is writ¬
ten with a beautiful perspicuity, in an admirable spirit of
candour and ingenuity, and in a style more elegant and
spirited than had yet lent its attraction to subjects so re¬
condite and abstruse. The publication accordingly attract¬
ed very general notice, both in Europe and in Asia; and
gave rise to much discussion and research, the final value
and result of which does not seem yet to be ascertained.
This was followed in 1794 by a learned and very beauti¬
ful treatise on the Origin and Investigation of Porisms, in
which the obscure nature of the very comprehensive and
indefinite theorems to which this name was applied by the
ancient geometers, is explained with the most lucid sim¬
plicity ; and the extraordinary merits of Dr Simson, in
deducing their true theory from the very vague and scanty
notices of them which had come down to his time, are
commemorated with a noble spirit of emulation.
In 1795 he published his Elements of Geometry, for the
use of the pupils attending his class; a work which has
since been held in such estimation by the public, as to have
gone through five editions of a thousand copies each, four
of which were called for since the work ceased to be used as
a class-book in the University of Edinburgh. In 1797 he
composed a sequel to his first paper on the Indian Astro¬
nomy, in the shape of Observations on the Trigonometrical
Tables of the Brahmins; and also a masterly collection of
F A I R. 45
Theormson the Figure of the Earth. It is also understood Playfair,
that he occupied himself a good deal at this time in the
preparation of an Essay on the Accidental Discoveries made
by Men of Science while in Pursuit of some other Object;
although we find no portion of this curious discussion in
the collection of his works.
His excellent and ingenious friend Dr Hutton died in
the year last mentioned ; and Mr Playfair, having under¬
taken to draw up a biographical account of him for the
Royal Society, was first led to study his ingenious but
somewhat crude speculations on the Theory of the Earth,
and afterwards to lend them the assistance of his own
powerful pen in his Illustrations of the Huttonian Theory.
This work, upon which he bestowed more time and labour
than on any of his other productions, did not appear till
1802; and it was not till 1803 that he presented to their
associates his admirable memoir of their departed friend.
Whatever opinion may be formed, now or hereafter, of
the truth or soundness of the suppositions by which Dr
Hutton endeavoured to explain the actual state and con¬
dition of our globe, it is impossible to doubt that Mr Play¬
fair’s illustration of that theory must always be ranked
amongst the most brilliant and powerful productions of phi¬
losophical genius. The beautiful clearness and captivating
eloquence with which the system itself is unfolded and
explained, the spirit and force of reasoning with which
all the objections to it are combated, the skill with which
the infinite variety of facts which it brought into view are
combined into one grand and legitimate introduction, and
the judgment and extent of learning by which so many
large and profound views of nature are brought to bear
upon the points in discussion, and blended into one large
and discursive argument, uniting the utmost logical preci¬
sion with the richest variety of topics, and the highest
graces of composition—are merits which have been univer¬
sally acknowledged in this performance, even by those who
have not been convinced by its reasonings, and have ex¬
torted, even from the fastidious critics of France, the ac¬
knowledgment that “ Mr Playfair writes as well as Buffon,
and reasons incomparably better.”
The biographical account of Dr Hutton is by far the
best of Mr Playfair’s productions in this line, and contains
not only an eloquent and luminous account of the specu¬
lations in which he was engaged, but, what is too often for¬
gotten in this species of biography, a charming portrait of
the individual, drawn, no doubt, by a favourable hand, but
gaining far more in grace and effect than it can possibly have
lost in correctness, from the softening colours of affection.
In 1805 he quitted the chair of mathematics to succeed
Professor Robison in that of natural philosophy. The
appointment of Mr Leslie as his successor in the chair of
mathematics was opposed at the time by a majority of the
presbytery of Edinburgh, and made the subject of very
angry discussion, as well in various publications as in the
General Assembly of the Church of Scotland. From both
these fields of contention the opponents of Mr Leslie retired
discomfited, and, in the opinion, we believe, of many of the
lookers on, disgraced. Amongst the heaviest blows they
had to sustain were those that parted from the hand of Mr
Playfair. He first addressed a Letter to the Lord Pro¬
vost, in which, alter asserting, with infinite spirit and free¬
dom, the dignity of the science in question, he openly im¬
putes the new-sprung zeal for orthodoxy, which had prompt¬
ed the attack on Mr Leslie, to a wish or design on the
part of some of the clergymen of Edinburgh to obtain for
themselves a number of the chairs in that university, which
had hitherto afforded sufficient occupation to the undis¬
tracted industry of laymen : And when this denunciation
brought upon him a series of acrimonious and unhandsome
attacks, he replied to them all in a pamphlet of greater
bulk, written in a style of which the high polish and ele-
46
PLAYFAIR.
Plavfair. gance only serve to give a keener edge to the unsparing
 1 'severity of the exposures which it conveys.1 We do not
know, indeed, where to find a more perfect model of po¬
lemical or controversial writing; and, much as it was to be
regretted that an occasion should have arisen for employ¬
ing such a pen and such a mind as Mr Playfairs on any
temporary or personal theme, it is impossible not to admire
the extraordinary talent and vigour with which, when the
occasion did arrive, he could turn talents, exercised in fai
other studies, to the purposes suggested by the emergency.
In 1807 he was elected a fellow of the Royal society of
London, and soon afterwards presentedt0 that learned body
his Lithological Survey of Schehalhen. In 1809 he contri¬
buted to the Edinburgh Transactions an excellent papei
on Solids of the greatest Attraction, and in 181- another
on the Progress of Heat in Spherical Bodies. .
In 1814 he published, in two volumes 8vo, for the use
of his class, an elementary work of great value, under the
title of Outlines of Natural Philosophy. For some years
before this, he had been much occupied in digesting the
plan and collecting the materials for a greatly enlarged
edition of his Illustrations of the Huttoman Theory ; with
a view to which, he had not only carefully perused and ex¬
tracted a vast body of voyages and travels, but had made
various journeys, and very minutely examined almost all
the places in the British dominions the structure of which
promised to throw any light on the subject of his researches.
No part of the work, however, was actually written, when
the preparation for it was suspended by his being induced
to draw up for this publication an introductory Dissertation
on the Progress of Mathematical and Physical Science ;
a treatise which, though its author had written nothing
else, would itself suffice to carry down his name with dis¬
tinction to the latest posterity. The soundness of judg¬
ment, the beauty of the writing, the extent of knowledge,
the candour and precision of the estimates of character,
and the noble spirit of liberality and generous admiration
for genius which breathes throughout the whole peifoim-
ance, give it an attraction which is rarely to be found in
works of the same erudition, and render it not only one of
the most instructive, but one of the most interesting pub¬
lications that philosophy has ever bestowed on the world.
In 1815 he drew up for the Royal Society of Edinburgh
a very interesting Memoir of his distinguished predecessoi
Dr John Robison, a philosopher in whose early life there
was more adventure, and in his later days more political
prejudice, than we usually find to diversify the history of
men of science. Nothing can be more spirited and inte¬
resting than Mr Playfair’s account of the former; nothing
more manly and tender than his reluctant but decided pro¬
testation against the excesses of the latter.
After the general peace in 1815 had at last opened the
Continent to British inquirers, Mr Playfair, at the age of
sixty-eight, undertook a long journey through France and
Switzerland into Italy, and did not return for a period
of nearly eighteen months. His principal attention was
directed to the mineralogical and geological phenomena of
the different regions which he visited; and he made many
notes with a view to the great object which he was not
destined to accomplish, namely, the extension and new-
modelling of his Illustrations of the Huttonian Theory.
Every object of liberal curiosity, however, had for him an
attraction as fresh as in his earliest youth ; and the social
simplicity and benevolence of his character and manners
insured him a favourable reception in every new society to ,
which he was introduced. ■
On his return from this expedition, he employed himself
chiefly in preparing the Second Part of the Dissertation to
which we have alluded ; and he also drew up a Memoir on
the Naval Tactics of Mr Clerk of Eldin, which was pub¬
lished after his death in the Philosophical Transactions,
though only a fragment of a projected life of Mr Clerk,
which he did not live to complete. His health had been
occasionally broken for several years by the recurrence of a
painful affection of the bladder, which appeared with in¬
creased severity in the early part of 1819, but was so far
got under as to enable him to complete his course of lec¬
tures in the spring. It returned, however, in a still more
distressing form in the summer, and at last put a period to
his life on the 19th of July. Though suffering great pain
during the last part of his confinement, he retained not only
his intellectual faculties quite unimpaired, but also the se¬
renity and mildness of his spirit, and occupied himself till
within a few days of his death in correcting the proof-
sheets of the Dissertation, the printing of the Second Part
of which had commenced some time before his last illness.?
Before concluding these notices of Mr Playfairs scien¬
tific and literary labours, we have still to mention, that,
from the year 1804, he was a frequent contributor to. the
Edinburgh Review; and that though most of his articles
were of a scientific description, he occasionally diverged
into the field of general literature, or indulged in the re¬
finements of metaphysical speculation. Many of his scien¬
tific articles attracted great attention on the Continent as
well as at home; and several of them are written with a
force and beauty that might well entitle them to a higher
place than the pages of a periodical publication. There
is no general account of the great facts and principles of
astronomy so clear, and comprehensive, and exact, nor
half so beautiful or majestic in the writing, as his account
of Laplace’s Mecanique Celeste, in the eleventh volume of
the publication just mentioned. >
In this brief sketch of the events of Mr Playfair’s life,
we have purposely omitted any general account, either of
his personal character, or of the distinguishing features of
his intellectual powers and habits; thinking it better to
give those by themselves, in the words in which they were
recorded, to the satisfaction, we believe, of most of those
who knew him intimately, in a periodical journal wherein
they appeared a short time after his death. The portrait
there given has been pronounced by one of the earliest and
most illustrious of his surviving friends, “ a faithful and
perfect resemblance ;”3 and has accordingly been allowed
a place in the prefatory memoir which his nephew Iras
prefixed to the collection of his works.
“ It has struck many people, we believe, as very extraor¬
dinary, that so eminent a person as Mr Playfair should have
been allowed to sink into his grave in the midst of us, with¬
out calling forth almost so much as an attempt to comme¬
morate his merit, even in a common newspaper; and that
the death of a man so celebrated and so beloved, and, at
the same time, so closely connected with many who could
well appreciate and suitably describe his excellencies, should
be left to the brief and ordinary notice of the daily obituary.
No event of the kind certainly ever excited more general
sympathy; and no individual, we are persuaded, will be
longer or more affectionately remembered by all the classes
of his fellow-citizens; and yet it is to these very circum-
• This piece is entitled Letter to the Author of the Examination of Mr Stewart’s Short Statement of Facts relative to the Election
of Professor Leslie, 8vo, Edin. 1806. It has not been reprinted in the collection of his works.
* Besides the Dissertation, Mr Playfair contributed the valuable biographical account of iEpixus, and the still more valuable.
U ^Letter tVomCMr Dugald Stewart to Dr Playfair, in the Appendix to the Biographical Account of Professor Playfair, prefixed to
the collection of his works, published at Edinburgh in 1822, in 4 vols. 8vo.
PLAY
lPlayfair, stances that we must look for an explanation of the appa-
■—-v''-"' rent neglect by which his memory has been followed. His
humbler admirers have been deterred from expressing their
sentiments by a natural feeling of unwillingness to encroach
on the privilege of those whom a nearer approach to his
person and talents rendered it more worthy to speak of
them ; whilst the learned and eloquent amongst his friends
have trusted to each other for the performance of a task
which they could not but feel to be painful in itself, and
not a little difficult to perform as it ought to be ; or per¬
haps have reserved for some more solemn occasion that
tribute for which the public impatience is already at its
height.
“ We beg leave to assure our readers, that it is merely
from anxiety to do something to gratify this natural impa¬
tience that we presume to enter at all upon a subject to
which we are perfectly aware that we are incapable of
doing justice; for of Mr Playfair’s scientific attainments,
of his proficiency in those studies to which he was peculi¬
arly devoted, we are but slenderly qualified to judge. But
we believe we hazard nothing in saying that he was one
of the most learned mathematicians of his age, and among
the first, if not the very first, who introduced the beautiful
discoveries of the later continental geometers to the know¬
ledge of his countrymen; and gave their just value and
true place, in the scheme of European knowledge, to those
important improvements by which the whole aspect of the
abstract sciences has been renovated since the days of our
illustrious Newton. If he did not signalize himself by any
brilliant or original invention, he must, at least, be allowed
to have been a most generous and intelligent judge of the
achievements of others ; as well as the most eloquent ex¬
pounder of that great and magnificent system of knowledge
which has been gradually evolved by the successive labours
of so many gifted individuals. He possessed, indeed, in
the highest degree, all the characteristics both of a fine and
a powerful understanding; at once penetrating and vigi¬
lant, but more distinguished, perhaps, for the caution and
sureness of its march, than for the brilliancy or rapidity of
its movements; and guided and adorned through all its
progress by the most genuine enthusiasm for all that is
grand, and the justest taste for all that is beautiful, in the
truth or the intellectual energy with which he was habitu¬
ally conversant.
“ To what account these rare qualities might have been
turned, and what more brilliant or lasting fruits they might
have produced, if his whole life had been dedicated to the
solitary cultivation of science, it is not for us to conjecture;
but it cannot be doubted that they added incalculably to
his eminence and utility as a teacher, both by enabling
him to direct his pupils to the most simple and luminous
methods of inquiry, and to imbue their minds, from the
very commencement of the study, with that fine relish for
the truths it disclosed, and that high sense of the majesty
with which they wrere invested, that predominated in his
own bosom. Whilst he left nothing unexplained or unre¬
duced to its proper place in the system, he took care that
they should never be perplexed by petty difficulties, or be¬
wildered in useless details, and formed them betimes to
that clear, masculine, and direct method of investigation
by which, with the least labour, the greatest advances might
be accomplished.
“ Mr Playfair, however, was not merely a teacher ; and
has fortunately left behind him a variety of works, from
which other generations may be enabled to judge of some
of those qualifications which so powerfully recommended
and endeared him to his contemporaries. It is, perhaps,
to be regretted that so much of his time, and so large a
proportion of his publications, should have been devoted
to the subjects of the Indian Astronomy, and the Huttonian
Theory of the Earth. For though nothing can be more
FAIR. 47
beautiful or instructive than his speculationsonthosecurious Playfair,
topics, it cannot be dissembled that their results are less s—"v—
conclusive and satisfactory than might have been desired ;
and that his doctrines, from the very nature of the subjects,
are more questionable than we believe they could possibly
have been on any other topic in the whole circle of the
sciences. To the first, indeed, he came under the great dis¬
advantage of being unacquainted with the eastern tongues,
and without the means of judging of the authenticity of
the documents which he was obliged to assume as the ele¬
ments of his reasonings ; and as to the other, though he
ended, we believe, with being a very able and skilful mi¬
neralogist, we think it is now generally admitted that that
science does not yet afford sufficient materials for any po¬
sitive conclusion, and that all attempts to establish a theory
of the earth must, for many years to come, be regarded as
premature. Though it is impossible, therefore, to think
too highly of the ingenuity, the vigour, and the eloquence
of those publications, we are of opinion that a juster esti¬
mate of Mr Playfair’s talent, and a truer picture of his
genius and understanding, is to be found in his other writ¬
ings ; in the papers, both biographical and scientific, with
which he has enriched the Transactions of our Royal So¬
ciety ; his account of Laplace, and other articles which
he is understood to have contributed to the Edinburgh
Review; the Outlines of his Lectures on Natural Philoso¬
phy ; and, above all, his Introductory Discourse to the Sup¬
plement to the Encyclopaedia Britannica, with the final cor¬
rection of which he was occupied up to the last moments
that the progress of his disease allowed him to dedicate to
any intellectual exertion.
“ With reference to these works, we do not think we
are influenced by any national, or other partiality, when
we say that he was certainly one of the best writers of his
age; and even that we do not now recollect any one of his
contemporaries who was so great a master of composition.
There is a certain mellowness and richness about his style,
which adorns without disguising the weight and nervous¬
ness, which is its other great characteristic ; a sedate grace¬
fulness and manly simplicity in the more level passages,
and a mild majesty and considerate enthusiasm where
he rises above them, of which we scarcely know where to
find any other example. There is great equability, too,
and sustained force, in every part of his writings. He
never exhausts himself in flashes and epigrams, nor lan¬
guishes into tameness and insipidity; at first sight you
would say that plainness and good sense were the predomi¬
nating qualities, but by and by this simplicity is enriched
with the delicate and vivid colours of a fine imagination,
the free and forcible touches of a most powerful intel¬
lect, and the lights and shaeds of an unerring and harmo¬
nizing taste. In comparing it with the styles of his most
celebrated contemporaries, we would say that it was more
purely and peculiarly a written style, and, therefore, re¬
jected those ornaments that more properly belong to ora¬
tory. It had no impetuosity, hurry, or vehemence,—no
bursts or sudden turns or abruptions, like that of Burke ;
and though eminently smooth and melodious, it was not
modulated to an uniform system of solemn declamation
like that of Johnson; nor spread out in the richer and more
voluminous elocution of Stewart; nor still less broken into
that patchwork of scholastic pedantry and conversational
smartness which has found its admirers in Gibbon. It is
a style, in short, of great freedom, force, and beauty; but
the deliberate style of a man of thought and of learning,
and neither that of a wit throwing out his extempores with
an affectation of careless grace, nor of a rhetorician think¬
ing more of his manner than his matter, and determined
to be admired for his expression, whatever may be the
fate of his sentiments.
“ His habits of composition, as we have understood, were
48
PLAYFAIR.
Playfair, not perhaps exactly what might have been expected from
 v 'their results. He wrote rather slowly, and his first
sketches were often very slight and imperfect, hke t is
rude chalking for a masterly picture. His chief effort and
greatest pleasure was in their revisal and correction ; and
there were no limits to the improvement which resulted
from this application. It w^as not the style mere y, or in
deed chiefly, that gained by it; the whole reasoning, and
sentiment, and illustration, were enlarge an new mo
delled in the course of it, and a naked outline became gradu¬
ally informed with life, colour, and expression, It was not at
all like the common finishing and polishing to which caie-
ful authors generally subject the first draught of their com¬
positions, nor even like the fastidious and tentative alter¬
ations with which some more anxious writers assay their
choicer passages. It was, in fact, the great filling in o
the picture, the working up of the figured weft on the
naked and meagre woo/that had been stretched to receive
it: and the singular thing in his case was, not only that he
left this most material part of his work to be performed
after the whole outline had been finished, but that he could
proceed with it to an indefinite extent, and enrich and im ¬
prove as long as he thought fit, without any risk either of
destroying the proportions of that outline, or injuring tie
harmony and unity of the design. He was perfectly aware,
too, of the possession of this extraordinary power ; an it
was partly, we presume, in consequence of this conscious¬
ness that he was not only at all times ready to go on with
any work in which he was engaged, without waiting for
favourable moments or hours of greater alacrity, but that
he never felt any of those doubts and misgivings as to his
being able to get creditably through w ith his undertaking,
to which we believe most authors are occasionally liable.
As he never wrote upon any subject of which he was not
perfectly master, he was secure against all blunders in the
substance of what he had to say; and felt quite assured,
that if he was only allowed time enough, he should finally
come to say it in the very best way of which he was capa¬
ble. He had no anxiety, therefore, either in undertaking
or proceeding with his tasks; and intermitted and resumed
them at his convenience, with the comfortable certainty,
that all the time he bestowed on them was turned to good
account, and that what was left imperfect atone sitting
might be finished with equal ease and advantage at another.
Being thus perfectly sure both of his end and his means,
he experienced, in the course of his compositions, none of
that little fever of the spirits with which that operation is
so apt to be accompanied. He had no capricious visitings
of fancy, which it was necessary to fix upon the spot or to
lose for ever; no casual inspiration to invoke and to wait
for; no transitory and evanescent lights to catch before
they faded. All that was in his mind vyas subject to his
control, and amenable to his call, though it might not obey
at the moment; and whilst his taste was so sure, that he
was in no danger of overworking anything that he had
designed, all his thoughts and sentiments had that unity
and congruity, that they fell almost spontaneously into har¬
mony and order; and the last added, incorporated, and as¬
similated with the first, as if they had sprung simultaneously
from the same happy conception.
“ But we need dwell no longer on qualities that may be
gathered hereafter from the works he has left behind him.
They who lived with him mourn the most for those which
will be traced in no such memorial; and prize far above
those talents which gained him his high name in philoso¬
phy, that personal character which endeared him to his
friends, and shed a grace and a dignity over all the society
in which he moved. The same admirable taste which is
conspicuous in his writings, or rather the higher principles
from which that taste was but an emanation, spread a simi¬
lar charm over his whole life and conversation, and gave
to the most learned philosopher of his day the manners ^ Playfair,
and deportment of the most perfect gentleman. Nor was v"
this in him the result merely of good sense and good tem¬
per, assisted by an early familiarity with good company,
and a consequent knowledge of his own place and that of
all around him. His good breeding was of a higher de¬
scent; and his powers of pleasing rested on something bet¬
ter than mere companionable qualities. With tl*e greatest
kindness and generosity of nature, he united the most
manly firmness, and the highest principles of honour; and
the most cheerful and social dispositions, with the gentlest
and steadiest affections. Towards women he had always
the most chivalrous feelings of regard and attention, and
was, beyond almost all men, acceptable and agreeable in
their society, though without the least levity or preten¬
sion unbecoming his age or condition ; and such, indeed,
was the fascination of the perfect simplicity and mildness
of his manners, that the same tone and deportment seemed
equally appropriate in all societies, and enabled him to de¬
light the young and the gay with the same sort of conver¬
sation which instructed the learned and the grave. There
never, indeed, was a man of learning and talent who ap¬
peared in society so perfectly free from all sorts of preten¬
sion or notion of his own importance, or so little solicitous
to distinguish himself, or so sincerely willing to give place
to every one else. Even upon subjects which he had tho¬
roughly studied, he was never in the least impatient to
speak, and spoke at all times without any tone of authority,
whilst, so far from wishing to set oft what he had to say
by any brilliancy or emphasis of expression, it seemed ge¬
nerally as if he had studied to disguise the weight and ori¬
ginality of his thoughts under the plainest form of speech
and the most quiet and indifferent manner; so that the
profoundest remarks and subtlest observations were often
dropped, not only without any solicitude that their value
should be observed, but without any apparent conscious¬
ness that they possessed any. Though the most social of
human beings, and the most disposed to encourage and
sympathise with the gaiety and joviality of others, his own
spirits were in general rather cheerful than gay, or at least
never rose to any turbulence or tumult of merriment; and
whilst he would listen with the kindest indulgence to the
more extravagant sallies of his younger friends, and prompt
them by the heartiest approbation, his own satisfaction
might generally be traced in a slow and temperate smile,
gradually mantling over his benevolent and intelligent fea¬
tures, and lighting up the countenance of the sage with
the expression of the mildest and most genuine philan¬
thropy. It was wonderful, indeed, considering the measure
of his own intellect, and the rigid and undeviating propriety
of his own conduct, how tolerant he was of the defects and
errors of other men. He was too indulgent, in truth, and
favourable to his friends, and made a kind and liberal
allowance for the faults of all mankind; except only faults
of baseness or of cruelty, against which he never failed
to manifest the most open scorn and detestation. Inde¬
pendently, in short, of his high attainments, Mr Playfair was
one of the most amiable and estimable of men ; delightful
in his manners, inflexible in his principles, and generous
in his affections, he had all that could charm in society or
attach in private ; and whilst his friends enjoyed the free
and unstudied conversation of an easy and intelligent asso¬
ciate, they had at all times the proud and inward assurance
that he was a being upon whose perfect honour and ge¬
nerosity they might rely with the most implicit confidence,
in life and in death,-—and of whom it was equally impos¬
sible that, under any circumstances, he should ever per¬
form a mean, a selfish, or a questionable action, as that his
body should cease to gravitate or his soul to live.
“ If we do not greatly deceive ourselves, there is nothing
here of exaggeration or partial feeling, and nothing with
P L A
Playhouse, which an indifferent and honest chronicler would not con-
'—"-y'"'"'' cur. Nor is it altogether idle to have dwelt so long on
the personal character of this distinguished individual. For
we are ourselves persuaded, that this personal character
has done almost as much for the cause of science and phi¬
losophy amongst us as the great talents and attainments
with which it was combined; and has contributed in a very
eminent degree to give to the better society of Edin¬
burgh that tone of intelligence and liberality by which it is
so honourably distinguished. It is not a little advantageous
to philosophy that it is in fashion ; and it is still more ad¬
vantageous, perhaps, to the society which is led to confer
on it this apparently trivial distinction. It is a great thing
for the country at large,—for its happiness, its prosperity,
and its renown,—that the upper and influencing part of
its population should be made familiar, even in its untasked
and social hours, with sound and liberal information, and
be taught to know and respect those who have distinguished
themselves for great intellectual attainments. Nor is it,
after all, a slight or despicable reward for a man of genius
to be received with honour in the highest and most elegant
society around him, and to receive in his living person that
homage and applause which is too often reserved for his
memory. Now, those desirable ends can never be effectu¬
ally accomplished, unless the manners of our leading phi¬
losophers are agreeable, and their personal habits and dis¬
positions engaging and amiable. From the time of Hume
and Robertson, we have been fortunate in Edinburgh in
possessing a succession of distinguished men, who have kept
up this salutary connection between the learned and the
fashionable world; but there never, perhaps, was any one
who contributed so powerfully to confirm and extend it,
and that in times when it was peculiarly difficult, as the
lamented individual of whom we are now speaking; and
they who have had the best opportunity to observe how
superior the society of Edinburgh is to that of most other
places of the same size, and how much of that superiority
is owing to the cordial combination of the two aristocra¬
cies of rank and of letters (of both of which it happens
to be the chief provincial seat), will be best able to judge
of the importance of the service he has thus rendered to
its inhabitants, and through them, and by their example,
to all the rest of the country.” (p. p.)
PLAYHOUSE. The most ancient English playhouses
were the Curtain in Shoreditch, and the Theatre. In the
time of Shakspeare, who commenced dramatic writer in
1592, there were no less than ten theatres open. Four of
these were private houses, namely, that in Blackfriars, the
Cockpit or Phoenix in Drury-Lane, a theatre in White-
friars, and one in Salisbury Court. The other six were
called public theatres, namely, the Globe, the Swan, the
Rose, and the Hope, on the Bank-side ; the Red Bull, at
the upper end of St John’s Street; and the Fortune in
W hite-Cross Street. The two last were chiefly frequented
by citizens. Mr Malone gives a pretty copious account of
these playhouses, in a supplement to his last edition of Shak¬
speare, which account we shall here insert.
“ Most, if not all,” says he, “ of Shakspeare’s plays were
performed either at the Globe, or at the Theatre in Black-
friars. It appears that they both belonged to the same
company of comedians, viz. his majesty’s servants, which
title they assumed, after a license had been granted to
them by King James in 1603, having before that time been
called the servants of the lord chamberlain.
“ The theatre in Blackfriars was a private house; but
the peculiar and distinguishing marks of a private playhouse
it is not easy to ascertain. It was very small, and plays
were there usually represented by candle-light. The Globe,
situated on the southern side of the river Thames, was a
hexagonal building, partly open to the weather, partly co-
veied with reeds. It was a public theatre, and of consi-
VOL. XVIII
P L A 49
derable size, and there they always acted by daylight. On Playhouse,
the roof of the Globe, and the other public theatres, a pole v-—-''
was erected, to which a flag was affixed. These flags were
probably displayed only during the hours of exhibition;
and it should seem, from a passage in one of the old come¬
dies, that they were taken down during Lent, in which sea¬
son no plays were presented. The Globe, though hexa¬
gonal at the outside, was probably a rotunda within, and
perhaps had its name from its circular form. It might,
however, have been denominated only from its sign, which
was a figure of Hercules supporting the Globe. This theatre
was burnt down in 1613, but it was rebuilt in the follow¬
ing year, and decorated with more ornament than had been
originally bestowed upon it. The exhibitions at the Globe
seem to have been calculated chiefly for the lower class of
people; those at Blackfriars for a more select and judicious
audience.
“ A writer informs us, that one of these theatres was a
winter and the other a summer house. As the Globe was
partly exposed to the weather, and they acted there usu¬
ally hy daylight, it was probably the summer theatre. The
exhibitions here seem to have been more frequent than at
Blackfriars, at least till the year 1604 or 1605, when the
Bank-side appears to have become less fashionable and less
frequented than it formerly had been. Many of our an¬
cient dramatic pieces were performed in the yards of car¬
riers’ inns; in which, in the beginning of Queen Elizabeth’s
reign, the comedians, who then first united themselves in
companies, erected an occasional stage. The form of these
temporary playhouses seems to be preserved in our modern
theatre. The galleries are in both ranged over each other
on three sides of the building. The small rooms under the
lowest of these galleries answer to our present boxes ; and
it is observable that these, even in theatres which were
built in a subsequent period expressly for dramatic exhibi¬
tions, still retained their old name, and are frequently call¬
ed rooms by our ancient writers. The yard bears a suffi¬
cient resemblance to the pit as at present in use. We may
suppose the stage to have been raised in this area, on the
fourth side, with its back to the gate-way of the inn, at
which the money for admission was taken. Hence, in the
middle of the Globe, and I suppose of the other public
theatres, in the time of Shakspeare, there was an open yard
or area, where the common people stood to see the exhibi¬
tion ; from which circumstance they are called by our au¬
thor groundlings, and by Ben Johnson ‘ the understanding
gentlemen of the ground.’
“ In the ancient playhouses there appears to have been
a private box, of which it is not easy to ascertain the situ¬
ation. It seems to have been placed at the side of the stage,
towards the rear, and to have been at a lower price; in this
some people sat, either from economy or singularity. The
galleries, or scaffolds as they are sometimes called, and that
part of the house which in private theatres was named the
pit, seem to have been at the same price ; and probably in
houses of reputation, such as the Globe, and that in Black¬
friars, the price of admission into those parts of the theatres
was sixpence, while in some meaner playhouses it was only
one penny, in others only twopence. The price of admis¬
sion into the best rooms or boxes was, I believe, in our au¬
thor’s time, one shilling; though afterwards it appears to
have risen to two shillings and half-a-crown.
“From several passages in our old plays, we learn, that
spectators were admitted on the stage, and that the critics
and wits of the time usually sat there. Some were placed
on the ground; others sat on stools, of which the price was
either sixpence or one shilling, according, I suppose, to the
commodiousness of the situation ; and they were attended
by pages, who furnished them with pipes and tobacco, which
was smoked here as well as in other parts of the house; yet
it should seem that persons were suffered to sit op the stage
G
-
50
PLAYHOUSE.
which were hung on the stage, four at either side; and
these within a few years were wholly removed by Mr (jar-
rick, who, on his return from France, first introduced the
present commodious method of illuminating the stage by
‘^The^stageTwas strewed with rushes, which, as we lean, lights not visMe tortte ^udien^ Itay of
,m Hentzner and Cains do Eph?n,era, was, rndte tune of “fP^er^tranta bal’cn which £ ftteVan
empire was supposed to depend w'as decided by half a do
zen combatants. It appears to have been a common prac¬
tice in their mock engagements to discharge small pieces
of ordnance on the stage. Before the exhibition began,
three flourishes or pieces of music were played, or, in the
ancient language, there were three soundings. Music was
likewise played between the acts. The instruments chie y
used were trumpets, cornets, and hautboys. Ihe band,
which did not consist of more than five or six performers,
sat in an upper balcony, over what is now called the stage-
“ The person who spoke the prologue was ushered in by
trumpets, and usually wore a long black velvet cloak, which,
I suppose, was considered as best suited to a supplicatory
address. Of this custom, whatever might have been its
origin, some traces remained till very lately, a black coat
having been, if I mistake not, within these few years the
constant stage habiliment of our modern prologue speakers.
The dress of the ancient prologue speaker is still retained
in the play that is exhibited in Hamlet before the king and
court of Denmark. The performers of male characters
generally -wore periwigs, which in the age ot Shakspeaie
were not in common use. It appears from a passage in
Puttenham’s Art of English Poesy, 1589, that vizards were
on some occasions used by the actors of those days ; and it
may be inferred, from a scene in one of our author 8 c0‘
medies, that they were sometimes worn in his time by those
who performed female characters; but this I imagine was
very rare. Some of the female part of the audience like¬
wise appeared in masks. The stage-dresses, it is reason¬
able to suppose, were much more costly at some theatres
than at others; yet the wardrobe of even the king’s ser¬
vants at the Globe and Blackfriars was, we find, but scan¬
tily furnished ; and our author’s dramas derived very little
aid from the splendour of exhibition.
« It is well known, that in the time of Shakspeare, and
for many years afterwards, female characters were repre¬
sented by bovs or young men. Sir William d’Avenant, in
imitation of the foreign theatres, first introduced females in
the scene, and Mrs Betterton is said to have been the first
w'oman that appeared on the English stage. Andrew 1 en-
nycuike played the part of Matilda in a tragedy of Daven¬
port’s, in 1655; and Mr Kynaston acted several female
parts after the Restoration. Downes, a contemporary ot
his, assures us, ‘that being then very young, he made a
complete stage beauty, performing his parts so well, parti¬
cularly Arthiope and Aglaura, that it has since been dis-
i i i * ,vP smtW’ss fShaksneare’s') putable among the judicious whether any wmman that sue-
^ Le,/. J u<. m™—»•>«•••
i  writ.inp*
Playhouse, only in the private playhouses, such as Blackfriars, &c.
where the audience was more select, and of a higher class;
and that in the Globe and other public theatres no such li¬
cense was permitted
trewea \
from Hentzner and Caius de Epheme , _
Shakspeare, the usual covering of floors in England. 1 lie
curtain which hangs in the front of the present stage, drawn
up by lines and pulleys, though not a modern invention, tor
it was used by Inigo Jones in the masks at court, was yet
an apparatus to which the simple mechanism of our ancient
theatres had not arrived, for in them the curtains opened
in the middle, and were drawn backwards and forwards on
an iron rod. In some playhouses they were woollen, in
others made of silk. Towards the rear of the stage theie
appears to have been a balcony, the platform of which was
probably eight or ten feet from the ground. I suppose it
to have been supported by pillars. From hence, in many
of our old plays, part of the dialogue was spoken; and in
the front of this balcony curtains likewise were hung.
« A doubt has been entertained whether, in our ancient
theatres, there were side and other scenes. The question
is involved in so much obscurity, that it is very difficult to
form any decided opinion upon it. It is certain, that m the
year 1695 Inigo Jones exhibited an entertainment at Ox¬
ford, in which moveable scenes were used; but he appears
to have introduced several pieces of machinery in the masks
at court, with which undoubtedly the public theatres were
unacquainted. A passage which has been produced from
one of the old comedies proves, it must be owned, that
even these were furnished with some pieces of machinery,
which were used when it was requisite to exhibit the de¬
scent of some god or saint; but, from all the contemporary
accounts, I am inclined to believe that the mechanism o
our ancient stage seldom went beyond a painted chair or a
trap-door, and that few, if any of them, had any moveable
scenes. When King Henry VIII. is to be discovered by
the Dukes of Suffolk and Norfolk, reading in his study, the
scenical direction in the first folio, 1623, which was printed
apparently from playhouse copies, is ‘ the king draws the cur¬
tain (i. e.“draws it open), and sits reading pensively ; tor,
besides the principal curtains that hung in the front of the
stao-e, they used others as substitutes for scenes. It a bed¬
chamber is to be exhibited, no change of scene is mention¬
ed ; but the property-man is simply ordered to thrust forth
a bed. ' When the fable requires the Roman capitol to be
exhibited, we find two officers enter, ‘ to lay cushions, as it
were, in the capitol,’ &c. On the whole, it appears, that
our ancient theatres in general were only furnished with
curtains, and a single scene composed of tapestry, which
were sometimes, perhaps, ornamented with pictures ; and
some passages in our old dramas incline one to think, that
when tragedies were performed the stage was hung with
black
“ Both the prompter, or book-holder as he was some¬
times called, and the property-man, appear to have been re¬
gular appendages of our ancient theatres. No wnter that
I have met with intimates, that in the time of Shakspeare
it was customary to exhibit more than a single dramatic
piece in one day. The Yorkshire tragedy, or Alls One,
indeed, appears to have been one of four pieces that were
represented on the same day ; and Fletcher has also a piece
called Four Plays in One; but probably these were either
exhibited on some particular occasion, or were ineffectual
r r-r ~ . , ctfnrts tn introduce a new species of amusement; for we do
suspended across the stage to represent the heavens. other instances of the same kind. Had any
“ It is probable that the stage was formerly hghte y been exhibited after the principal perform-
two large branches, of a form similar to those now hung P f h probabiy would have been printed ; but
extant of ail earlier date than the tin* of
clF U UiXill LcLllV^^ VV Ll/ll      -
to have been supplied by the simple expedient of writing
the names of the different places where the scene was laid
in the progress of the play, which were disposed in such a
manner as to be visible to the audience. The invention of
trap-doors, however, appears not to be modern; for in an
old Morality, entitled All for Money, we find a marginal
direction which implies that they were very early in use.
The covering or internal roof of the stage was anciently
termed the heavens. It was probably painted of a sky-blue
colour, or perhaps pieces of drapery tinged with blue were
PLAYHOUSE.
51
Playhouse, the Restoration. The practice, therefore, of exhibiting two
dramas successively in the same evening, we may be as¬
sured was not established before that period. But though
the audiences in the time of our author were not gratified
by the representation of more than one drama in the same
day, the entertainment was diversified, and the populace di¬
verted, by vaulting, tumbling, slight of hand, and morris¬
dancing, a mixture not much more heterogeneous than that
with which we are daily presented, a tragedy and a farce.
“ The amusements of our ancestors, before the com¬
mencement of the play, were of various kinds, such as read¬
ing, playing cards, drinking ale, or smoking tobacco. It
was a common practice to carry table-books to the theatre,
and, either from curiosity or enmity to the author, or some
other motive, to write down passages of the play that was
represented ; and there is reason to believe that the imper¬
fect and mutilated copies of some of Shakspeare’s dramas,
which are yet extant, were taken down in short-hand during
the exhibition. At the end of the piece, the actors, in no¬
blemen’s houses and in taverns, where plays were frequently
performed, prayed for the health and prosperity of their pa¬
trons ; and in the public theatres for the king and queen.
This prayer sometimes made part of the epilogue. Hence,
probably, as Mr Steevens has observed, the addition of Vi-
vant rex et regina to the modern play-bills.
“ Plays, in the time of our author, began at one o’clock
in the afternoon ; and the exhibition was usually finished
in two hours. Even in 1667 they commenced at three.
When Gosson wrote his School of Abuse, in 1579, it seems
the dramatic entertainments were usually exhibited on Sun¬
days. Afterwards they were performed on that and other
days indiscriminately. It appears from a contemporary
writer, that exhibiting plays on Sunday had not been abolish¬
ed in the third year of King Charles I.
“ The modes of conveyance to the theatre, anciently as at
present, seem to have been various ; some going in coaches,
others on horseback, and many by water. To the Globe
playhouse the company probably were conveyed by water ;
to that in Blackfriars the gentry went either in coaches or
on horseback, and the common people on foot. In an epi¬
gram to Sir John Davis, the practice of riding to the theatre
is ridiculed as a piece of affectation or vanity, and there¬
fore we may presume it wras not very general.
“ The long and whimsical titles that are prefixed to the
quarto copies of our author’s plays, I suppose to have been
transcribed from the play-bills of the time. A contempo¬
rary writer has preserved something like a play-bill of those
days, which seems to corroborate this observation ; for if it
were divested of rhime, it would bear no very distant re¬
semblance to the title-pages that stand before some of our
author’s dramas:
Prithee, what’s the play ?
(The first I visited this twelvemonth day)
They say, “ A new invented play of Purle,
That jeoparded his neck to steal a girl
Of twelve; and lying fast impounded for’t.
Has hither sent his beard to act his part;
Against all those in open malice bent,
That would not freely to the theft consent:
Feigns all to’s wish, and in the epilogue
Goes out applauded for a famous rogue ”
•— Now hang me if I did not look at first
For some such stuff, by the fond people’s thrust.
“ It is uncertain at what time the usage of giving authors
a benefit on the third day of the exhibition of their pieces
commenced. Mr Oldys, in one of his manuscripts, inti¬
mates that dramatic poets had anciently their benefit on the
first day that a new play was represented ; a regulation
which would have been very favourable to some of the
ephemeral productions of modern times. But for this there
is not, I believe, any sufficient authority. From D’Avenant,
indeed, we learn, that in the latter part of the reign of Queen
Elizabeth the poet had his benefit on the second day. As Playhouse,
it was a general practice in the time of Shakspeare to sell
the copy of the play to the theatre, I imagine in such cases
an author derived no other advantage from his piece than
what arose from the sale of it. Sometimes, however, he
found it more beneficial to retain the copyright in his own
hands ; and when he did so, I suppose he had a benefit. It
is certain that the giving authors the profit of the third
exhibition of their play, which seems to have been the usual
mode during almost the whole of the last century, was an
established custom in the year 1612; for Decker, in the
prologue to one of his comedies printed in that year, speaks
of the poet’s third day. The unfortunate Otway had no
more than one benefit on the production of a new play ;
and this, too, it seems, he was sometimes forced to mort¬
gage before the piece was acted. Southerne was the first
dramatic writer who obtained the emoluments arising from
two representations; and to Farquhar, in the year 1700,
the benefit of a third was granted. When an author sold
his piece to the sharers or proprietors of a theatre, it re¬
mained for several years unpublished ; but when that was
not the case, he printed it for sale, to which many seem to
have been induced, from an apprehension that an imperfect
copy might be issued from the press without their consent.
The customary price of the copy of a play in the time of
Shakspeare appears to have been twenty nobles, or six
pounds thirteen shillings and fourpence. The play when
printed was sold for sixpence ; and the usual present from
a patron in return for a dedication was forty shillings. On
the first day of exhibiting a new play, the prices of admis¬
sion appear to have been raised; and this seems to have
been occasionally practised on the benefit-nights of authors
to the end of the last century. The custom of passing a
final censure on plays at their first exhibition is as ancient
as the time of our author, for no less than three plays of
his rival Ben Jonson appear to have been damned; and
Fletcher’s Faithful Shepherdess, and the Knights of the
Burning Pestle, written by him and Beaumont, underwent
the same fate.
“ It is not easy to ascertain what were the emoluments
of a successful actor in the time of Shakspeare. They had
not then annual benefits, as at present. The performers at
each theatre seem to have shared the profits arising either
from each day’s exhibition, or from the whole season, among
them. From Ben Jonson’s Poetaster we learn, that one
of either the performers or proprietors had seven shares and
a half; but of what integral sum is not mentioned. From
the prices of admission into our ancient theatres, which
have been already mentioned, I imagine the utmost that
the shares of the Globe playhouse could have received on
any one day was about L 35. So lately as the year 1685,
Shadwell received by his third day, on the representation
of the Squire of Alsatia, L.130; which, Downes the prompt¬
er says, was the greatest receipt that had been ever taken
at Drury-Lane playhouse at single prices. It appears from
the manuscripts of Lord Stanhope, treasurer of the cham¬
bers to King James I. that the customary sum paid to John
Heminge and his company for the performance of a play at
court was twenty nobles, or six pounds thirteen shillings
and fourpence. And Edward Alleyn mentions in his Diary,
that he once had so slender an audience in his theatre call¬
ed the Fortune, that the whole receipts of the house amount¬
ed to no more than three pounds and some odd shillings.
“ Thus scanty and meagre were the apparatus and ac¬
commodations of our ancient theatres, on which those dra¬
mas were first exhibited that have since engaged the at¬
tention of so many learned men, and delighted so many'
thousand spectators. Yet even then, we are told by a writer
of that age, ‘ that dramatic poesy was so lively expressed
and represented on the public stages and theatres of this
city, as Rome in the age of her pomp and glory never saw
52
Plea
i!
Pleasure.
P L E
it better performed; in respect of the action and art, not
of the cost and sumptuousness.’ ” ^ i ■
PLEA, in Law, is what either party alleges for himselt
in court, in a cause there depending; and in a more re¬
stricted sense, it is the defendant’s answer to the plainti a
declaration. „ . ,
Pleas are usually divided into those of the crown and
common pleas. Pleas of the crown are all suits in tne ing s
name, or in the name of the attorney-general in behalf ot
the king, for offences committed against his crown and dig¬
nity, and against his peace ; as treason, murder, felony, &c.
Common pleas are such suits as are carried on between
common persons in civil cases. Ihese pleas are o t\vO
sorts ; dilatory pleas, and pleas to the action. Dilatory pleas
are such as tend merely to delay or put off the suit, by
questioning the propriety of the remedy rathei than by c e-
nying the injury; pleas to the action are such as dispute
the very cause of suit.
PLEASURE is a word so universally understood that it
needs no explanation. Lexicographers, however, who must
attempt to explain every word, call it “ the gratification of
the mind or senses.” It is directly opposed to pain, and
constitutes the whole of positive happiness, as that does ot
The Author of Nature has furnished us with many plea¬
sures, as well as made us liable to many pains ; and we are
susceptible of both in some degree as soon as we have life
and are endowed with the faculty of sensation. A trench
writer, in a work1 which once raised high expectations, con¬
tends that a child in the womb of its mother feels neither
pleasure nor pain. “ These sensations,” says he, “ are not
innate; they have their origin from without; and it is at
the moment of our birth that the soul receives the first im¬
pressions ; impressions slight and superficial at the begin¬
ning, but which by time and repeated acts leave deeper
traces in the sensorium, and become more extensive and
more lasting. It is when the child sends forth its first cries
that sensibility or the faculty of sensation is produced, which
in a short time gathers strength and stability by the im¬
pression of exterior objects. Pleasure and pain not being
innate, and being only acquired in the same manner as the
qualities which we derive from instruction, education, and
society, it follows that we learn to suffer and enjoy as we
learn any other science.”
This is strange reasoning and strange language, i liat
sensations are not innate is universally acknowledged ; but
it does not therefore follow that the soul receives its fust
impressions and first sensations at the moment ot birth.
The child has life, the power of locomotion, and the sense
of touch, long before it is born ; and every mother will tell
this philosopher that an infant unborn exhibits symptoms
both of pain and of pleasure. That many of our organs ot
sense are improved by use is incontrovertible ; but it is so
far from being true that our sensible pleasures become more
exquisite by being often repeated, that the contrary is ex¬
perienced in far the greater part of them; and though ex¬
ternal objects, by making repeated impressions on the senses,
certainly leave deeper traces on the memory than an object
once perceived can do, it by no means follows that these
impressions become the more delightful the more tarmliai
that they are to us. That we learn to suffer and enjoy as
we learn any other science, is a most extravagant paradox,
for it is self-evident that we cannot live without being ca¬
pable in some degree both of suffering and enjoyment,
though a man may certainly live to old age in profound ig¬
norance of all the sciences.
The same writer assures us, indeed, that sensation is not
necessary to human life. “ Philosophers,” says he, “ make
P L E
mention of a man who had lost every kind of feeling in ^Pleasur
every member of his body ; he was pinched or pricked to
no purpose. Meanwhile this man made use of all his mem¬
bers ; he walked without pain, he drank, ate, and slept,
without perceiving that he did so. Sensible neither to plea¬
sure nor pain, he was a true natural machine.”
To the tale of these anonymous philosophers the author
before us gives implicit credit, whilst at the same instant he
favours us with the following argumentation, which com¬
pletely proves its falsehood. “ It is true that sensation is
a relative quality, susceptible of increase and diminution;
that it is not necessary to existence, and that one might
live without it; but in this case he would live as an auto¬
maton, without feeling pleasure or pain; and he would
possess neither idea, nor reflection, nor desire, nor passion,
nor will, nor sentiment; his existence would be merely
passive, he would live without knowing it, and die without
apprehension.”
But if this man of the philosophers, whom our author
calls an automaton, and a true natural machine, had neithei
idea, nor desire, nor passion, nor will, nor sentiment (and
without sensation he certainly could have none of them),
what induced him to walk, eat, or drink, or to cease from
any of these operations after they were accidentally begun .
The instances of the automata which played on the flute
and at chess are not to the purpose for which they' are pro¬
duced ; for there is no parallel between them and this na¬
tural machine, unless the philosophers wound up their man
to eat, drink, walk, or sit, as Vacanson and Kempeler wounc
up their automata to play or cease from playing on the tier-
man flute and at chess.
The author having for a while sported with these hai m-
less paradoxes, proceeds to put the credulity of his reader
to the test in regard to others of a very contrary tendency.
He institutes an inquiry concerning the superiority, in num¬
ber and degree, of the pleasures enjoyed by the different
orders of men in society; and labours, not indeed by ^rSu*
ment, but by loose declamation, to propagate the belief that
happiness is very unequally distributed. The pleasures of
the rich, he says, must be more numerous and exquisite
than those of the poor ; the nobleman must have more en¬
joyments than the plebeian of equal wealth ; and the magi
according to him, must be the happiest of all men. He
owns, indeed, that although birth, rank, honours, and dig¬
nity add to happiness, a man is not to be considered as
miserable because he is born in the loy/er conditions 01
life. A man may be happy as a mechanic, a merchant, ei
a labourer, provided he enters into the spirit of his piofes-
sion, and has not imbibed, by a misplaced education, those
sentiments which make his condition insupportable. UaP"
piness is of easy acquisition in the middling stations of life,
and though perhaps we are unable to know or to estimate
exactly the pleasure which arises from contentment and me¬
diocrity, yet happiness being a kind of aggregate of de¬
lights, of riches, and of advantages more or less great, every
person must have a share of it; the division is not exactly
made, but, all other things being equal, there will be more in
the elevated than in the inferior conditions of society; the
enjoyment will be more felt, the means of enjoying more
multiplied, and the pleasures more varied. Birth, rank,
fortune, talents, wit, genius, and virtue, are then the great
sources of happiness ; those advantages are so considerable,
that we see men contented with any one of them ; but their
union forms supreme felicity.
“ There is so vast a difference, says Voltaire, between
a man who has made his fortune and one who has to make
it, that they are scarcely to be considered as creatures of
the same kind. The same thing may be said of birth, the
1 Encyclopedic Mithodiqnc, articles Logiquc, Mdaphysiquc, ct Mg'! ale, tom. iv.
PLEA
Pleasure, greatest of all advantages in a large society; of rank, of
honours, and of great abilities. How great a difference is
made between a person of high birth and a tradesman ;
between a Newton or Descartes and a simple mathemati¬
cian ! Ten thousand soldiers are killed on the field of
battle, and it is scarcely mentioned ; but if the general fall,
and especially if he be a man of courage and abilities, the
court and city are filled with the news of his death, and the
mourning is universal.
“ Frederick the Great, king of Prussia, felt in a more
lively manner than perhaps any other man the value of
great talents. I would willingly renounce, said he to Vol¬
taire, every thing which is an object of desire and ambi¬
tion to man; but I am certain if I were not a prince I
should be nothing. Your merit alone would gain you the
esteem, and envy, and admiration of the world ; but to se¬
cure respect for me, titles, and armies, and revenues, are
absolutely necessary.”
For what purpose this account of human happiness was
published, it is not for us to say. Its obvious tendency, how¬
ever, is to make the lower orders of society discontented
with their state, and envious of their superiors ; and it is
not unreasonable to suppose, that it contributed in some
degree to excite the ignorant part of the author’s coun¬
trymen to the commission of those atrocities of which they
have since been guilty. That such was his intention, the
following extract will not permit us to believe ; for though
in it the author attempts to support the same false theory
of human happiness, he mentions virtuous kings with the
respect becoming a loyal subject of the unfortunate Louis,
whose character he seems to have intentionally drawn, and
whose death by the authority of a savage faction he has in
effect foretold.
“ Happiness, in a state of society, takes the most vari¬
able forms; it is a Proteus susceptible of every kind of
metamorphosis; it is different in different men, in differ¬
ent ages, and in different conditions. The pleasures of
youth are very different from those of old age ; what af¬
fords enjoyment to a mechanic, would be supreme misery
to a nobleman ; and the amusements of the country would
appear insipid in the capital. Is there, then, nothing fixed
with regard to happiness ? Is it of all things the most
variable and the most arbitrary ? Or, in judging of it, is
it impossible to find a standard by which we can deter¬
mine the limits of the greatest good to which man can
arrive in the present state ? It is evident that men form
the same ideas of the beautiful and sublime in nature,
and of right and wrong in morality, provided they have
arrived at that degree of improvement and civilization of
which human nature is susceptible ; and that different opi¬
nions on these subjects depend on different degrees of
culture, of education, and of improvement. The same
thing may be advanced with regard to happiness: all men,
it equal with respect to their organs, would form the very
same ideas on this subject if they reached the degree of
improvement of which we are presently speaking; and,
in fact, do we not see in the great circles at Rome, at
Vienna, at London, and at Paris, that those who are call¬
ed people of fashion, who have received the same educa¬
tion, have nearly the same taste, the same desires, and the
same spirit for enjoyment ? There is doubtless a certain de¬
gree of happiness to be enjoyed in every condition of life;
but as there are some conditions preferable to others, so
aie there degrees of happiness greater and less; and if
we were to form an idea of the greatest possible in the
present state, it perhaps would be that of a sovereign,
master of a great empire, enjoying good health and a mo-
erate spirit ; endowed with piety and virtue; whose
whole life was employed in acts of justice and mercy, and
who governed by fixed and immoveable laws. Such a
king is the image of the Divinity on earth, and he must be
SURE. 5^
the idol of a wise people. His whole life should present Pleasure,
a picture of the most august felicity. Although such so-
vereigns are rare, yet we are not without examples of
them. Ancient history affords us Titus and Marcus Au¬
relius, and the present age can boast of piety and munifi¬
cence in the character of some of its kings. This state
of the greatest happiness to which man can reach not be¬
ing ideal, it will serve as a standard of comparison by
which happiness and misery can be estimated in all civi¬
lized countries. He is as happy as a king, is a proverbial
expression, because we believe with justice that royalty
is the extreme limit of the greatest enjoyments; and, in
fact, happiness being the work of man, that condition
which comprehends all the degrees of power and of glory,
which is the source of honour and of dignity, and which
supposes in the person invested with it all means of en¬
joyment either for himself or others, leaves nothing on this
earth to which any reasonable man would give the prefer¬
ence.
“ We can find also in this high rank the extreme of
the greatest evils to which the condition of nature is ex¬
posed. A king condemned to death and perishing on a
scaffold, by the authority of a faction, while at the same
time he had endeavoured, by every means in his power, to
promote the general happiness of his subjects, is the most
terrible and striking example of human misery ; for if it be
true that a crown is the greatest of all blessings, then the
loss of it, and at the same time the loss of life by an igno¬
minious and unjust sentence, are of all calamities the most
dreadful.
“ It is also in the courts of kings that we find the most
amiable and perfect characters; and it is there where true
grandeur, true politeness, the best tone of manners, the
most amiable graces, and the most eminent virtues, are
completely established. It is in courts that men seem to
have acquired their greatest improvement. Whosoever
has seen a court, says La Bruyere, has seen the world in
the most beautiful, the most enchanting, and attractive
colours. The prejudices of mankind in behalf of the great
are so excessive, that if they inclined to be good they would
be almost the objects of adoration.”
In this passage there are doubtless many just observa¬
tions. But there is at least an equal number of others both
false and dangerous. That a crown is the greatest of all
earthly blessings, and that it is in the courts of kings that
we meet with the most amiable and perfect characters,
are positions which a true philosopher will not admit, ex¬
cept with great limitations. The falsehood of the author’s
general theory respecting the unequal distribution of hap¬
piness in society, we need not waste time in exposing. It
is sufficiently refuted in other articles of this work. (See
Moral Philosophy.) He enters upon other speculations
respecting the pleasures and pains of savages, which are
ingenious, and worthy of attention ; but before we proceed
to notice them, it will be proper to consider the connection
which subsists between pleasure and pain.
“ That the cessation of pain is accompanied by pleasure,
is a fact, “ says Dr Sayers,” which has been repeatedly ob¬
served, but perhaps not sufficiently accounted for. Let us
suppose a person in a state of indifference as to heat. Upon
coming near a fire, he will experience at first an agreeable
warmth, that is, pleasure. If the heat be increased, this
state of pleasure will, after a time, be converted into one of
pain, from the increased action upon the nerves and brain,
the undoubted organs of all bodily sensations. Let the heat
now be gradually withdrawn ; the nervous system must ac¬
quire again, during this removal, the state of agreeable
warmth or pleasure ; and after passing through that state
it will arrive at indifference. From this fact then we may
conclude that a state of pleasure may be pushed on till it
is converted into one of pain; and, on the other hand, that
-54
PLEASURE.
Pleasure, an action which produces pain will, if it go ^ S^ually,
 ' induce at a certain period of its decrease a state ot p ea
sure. The same reasoning which has thus been applied
to the body may be extended also to the mu . <
languor of mind is not so pleasant as a certain degree of
action or emotion; and emotions pleasant at one period
may be increased till they become painful at another
whilst painful emotions, as they gradually expire, wdh at a
certain period of their decrease, induce a state of pleasure.
Hence then we are able to explain why pleasure should
arise in all cases from the gradual cessation ot any action
or emotion which produces pain.”
The same author maintains, that from the mere remova
of pain, whether by degrees or instantaneously, we always
experience pleasu/e ; Ind if the pain removed was exqur-
site, what he maintains is certainly true. To account for
this phenomenon he lays down the follownng law of na ure,
which experience abundantly confirms, viz. that the te
porary withdrawing of any action from the body or m nd
invariably renders them more susceptible ot that action
when again produced.” Thus, after long fasting, the body
is more susceptible of the effects of food than if the sto¬
mach had been lately satisfied ; the action of strong hquo
is found to be greater on those who use them seldom than
on such as are in the habit of drinking them. Thus, too,
with respect to the mind; if a person be deprived for a
time of his friend’s society, or of a favourite amusement,
the next visit of his friend, or the next renewal of h s
amusement, is attended with much more pleasure than
they had never been withheld from him.
To apply this law to the case of a person suddenly re¬
lieved from acute pain. While he labours with such pain
his mind is so totally occupied by it, that he is umib c
attend to his customary pursuits or amusements He be¬
comes therefore so much more susceptible of their action,
Z when they are again presented to him, he is raised
above his usual indifference to positive pleasure. But af
pains do not proceed from an excess of action. Many ot
[hem arise from reducing the body or the mmd to a state
below indifference. Thus, if a person have just sufficient
warmth in his body to keep him barely at ease or in a state
of indifference, by withdrawing this heat, a state of uneasi¬
ness or pain is produced; and if in a calm state of m
one be made acquainted with a melancholy event, his quiet
is interrupted, and he sinks below indifference, into a pain¬
ful state of mind. If, now, without communicating any new
source of pleasure, we remove m the former case the co ,
and in the latter the grief, the persons from whom they are
removed will experience real pleasure. Thus, then, w e-
ther pain arises from excess or deficiency of action, the
0-radual or the sudden removal of it must be in all cases at¬
tended with pleasure.”1 It is equally true that the gradual
or sudden removal of pleasure is attended with pain.
We are now prepared to examine the French author s
account of the pleasures and pains of savages Every
age,” says he, “ has its different pleasures ; but if we were to
imagine that those of childhood are equal to those of con¬
firmed age, we should be much mistaken m our estimation
of happiness. The pleasures of philosophy, either natura
or moral, are not unfolded to the infant; the most per e
music is a vain noise; the most exquisite perfumes and
dishes highly seasoned offend his young organs instead ot
affording delight; his touch is imperfect; forty days elapse
before the child gives any sign of laughter or of weeping; f’ledsm,
his cries and groans before that period are not accompanie
with tears; his countenance expresses no passion, the
parts of his face bear no relation to the sentiments of e
soul and are moreover without consistency. Children are
but little affected with cold ; whether it be that they fee
less or that the interior heat is greater than in adults. In
them all the impressions of pleasure and pam are transitory,
their memory has scarcely begun to unfold its powers,
they enjoy nothing but the present moment; they weep
laugh, and give tones of satisfaction without consciousness,
or ft least without reflection; their joy is confined to he
indulgence of their little whims, and constraint is the
greatest of their misfortunes ; few things amuse, and
thing satisfies them. In this happy condition of early in¬
fancy nature is at the whole expense of happiness , and the
only point is not to contradict her. What desires have
children ? Give them liberty in all then-movements, and
they have a plenitude of existence, an abundance of that
kind of happiness which is confined in some sort to all t ie
objects which surround them ; but if all beings were appy
on the same conditions, society would be at no expense in
procuring the happiness of the different individuals who
compose^it. Sensation is the foundation of reflection ; it
is the principal attribute of the soul; it is by this that man
is elevated to sublime speculations, and secures his domi¬
nion over nature and himself. This quality is not station¬
ary, but susceptible, like all other relative qualities, of n-
crease and decay, of different degrees of strength and in¬
tenseness: it is different in d.fferent men ; and in the
same man it increases from infancy to youth, fiom yout
to confirmed manhood: at this period it stops, and gra¬
dually declines as we proceed to old age and to second
childishness. Considered physically, it varies according to
age, constitution, climate, and food ; considered in a moral
point of view, it takes its different appearances from indi¬
vidual education, and from the habits of society ; fo* man
in a state of nature and society, with regard to sensation
and the unfolding of his powers, may be considered as t v
distinct beings ; and if one were to make a calculation o
pleasure in the course of human life, a man of fortune an
capacity enjoys more than ten thousand savages.
“ Pleasure and pain being relative qualities, they may
be almost annihilated in the moment of vehement passion
In the heat of battle, for example, ardent and animated
spirits have not felt the pain of their wounds; and mindt-
strongly penetrated with sentiments of religion, enthusiasm,
and humanity, have supported the most cruel torments with
courage and fortitude. The sensibility of some persons is
so exquisitely alive, that one can scarcely approacbthem
without throwing them into convulsions. Many disease,
show the effect of sensibility pushed to an extreme ; such
as hysteric affections, certain kinds of madness, and some
of those which proceed from poison, and from the bite o
sting of certain animals, as the viper and the tarantula.
Excessive joy or grief, fear and terror, have been known to
destroy all sensation, and occasion death. ~
Having made these preliminary observations on pleasure
and pain in infancy, and as they are increased or diminished
by education, and the different conditions of body and
mind, the same author proceeds to consider the capability ot
savages to feel pleasure and pain. “ By savages he under-
stands all the tribes of men who live by hunting and fish-
* Disquisitions Metaphysical and Literary. f fue I10;#e 0f thunder, without being touched. A man frightened In the
* There are instances of persons who have died in consequence o ■ • undice M le Cat mentions a young person on whom
fall of a nailery in which he happened to be, was immediately seized wit J Vpllow and then changed into black, in such a mam
the taXS of another made ISch an impression, that his Itatefor four months without an,
“r that in less than eight days he appeared to wear a m»k of black face sweated blood, which, like ord,nary sweat,
other symptom of bad health, or may ^^mL™ ilkd in"Kb cite, a similar case of a girl who had been <**»-
o physicians, produces madness and eptlcpsy.
PLEA
Pleasure, ing, and on those things which the earth yields without cul-
'' tivation. Those tribes who possess herds of cattle, and
who derive their subsistence from such possessions, are not
to be considered as savages, as they have some idea of pro¬
perty. Some savages are naturally compassionate and hu¬
mane, others are cruel and sanguinary. Although the phy¬
sical constitution of man be everywhere the same, yet the
varieties of climate, the abundance or scarcity of natural
productions, have a powerful influence to determine the in¬
clinations ; even the fierceness of the tiger is softened under
a mild sky. Now nature forms the manners of savages just
as society and civil institutions form the manners of civilized
life. In the one case climate and food produce almost the
whole effect; in the other they have scarcely any influence.
The habits of society every moment contend with nature,
and they are almost always victorious. The savage de¬
votes himself to the dominion of his passions; the civilized
man is employed in restraining, in directing, and in modi¬
fying them : so much influence have government, laws,
society, and the fear of censure and punishment, over his
soul.
“ It is not to be doubted that savages are susceptible
both of pleasure and pain; but are the impressions made
on their organs as sensible, or do they feel pain in the
same degree with the inhabitants of a civilized country ?
“ Their enjoyments are so limited, that if we confine our¬
selves to truth, a few lines will be sufficient to describe
them: our attention must therefore be confined to pain,
because the manner in which they support misfortune, and
even torture, presents us with a view of character unequal¬
led in the history of civilized nations. It is not uncommon
in civilized countries to see men braving death, meeting it
with cheerfulness, and even not uttering complaints under
the torture; but they do not insult the executioners of
public vengeance, and defy pain in order to augment their
torments ; and those who are condemned by the laws suffer
the punishment with different degrees of fortitude. On
those mournful occasions, the common ranks of mankind
in general die with less firmness: those, on the other hand,
who have received education, and who by a train of un¬
fortunate events are brought to the scaffold, whether it be
the fear of being reproached with cowardice, or the con¬
sideration that the stroke is inevitable, such men discover
the expiring sighs of self-love even in their last moments ;
and those, especially of high rank, from their manners and
sentiments, are expected to meet death with magnanimity :
but an American savage in the moment of punishment ap¬
pears to be more than human ; he is a hero of the first
order, who braves his tormentors, who provokes them to
employ all their art, and who considers it his chief glory to
bear the greatest degree of pain without shrinking. The
recital of their tortures would appear exaggerated, if it were
not attested by the best authority, and if the savage nations
among whom those customs are established were not suf¬
ficiently known ; but the excess of the cruelty is not so
astonishing as the courage of the victim. The European
exposed to sufferings of the same dreadful nature would
rend heaven and earth with his piercing cries and horrible
groans; the reward of martyrdom, the prospect of eternal
life, could alone give him fortitude to endure such torments;
but the savage is not animated with this exalted hope.
What supports him, then, in scenes of so exquisite suffer¬
ing ? The feeling of shame, the fear of bringing reproach
on his tribe, and giving a stain to his fellows never to be
wiped away, are the only sentiments which influence the
mind of a savage, and which, always present to his imagina¬
tion, animate him, support him, and lend him spirit and re¬
solution. At the same time, however powerful those mo¬
tives may be, they would not be alone sufficient, if the sa¬
vage felt pain in the same degree with the European. Sen¬
sibility, as we have already observed, is increased by edu-
SURE. 55
cation ; it is influenced by society, manners, laws, and go- Pleasure,
vernment; climate and food work it into a hundred different
shapes; and all the physical and moral causes contribute
to increase and diminish it. The habitual existence of a
savage would be a state of suffering to an inhabitant of
Europe. You must cut the flesh of the one, and tear it
away with your nails, before you can make him feel in an
equal degree to a scratch or prick of a needle in the other.
The savage, doubtless, suffers under torture, but he suffers
much less than an European in the same circumstances:
the reason is obvious ; the air which the savages breathe is
loaded with fog and moist vapours; their rivers not being
confined by high banks, are by the winds as well as in floods
spread over the level fields, and deposit on them a putrid
and pernicious slime ; the trees, squeezed one upon another
in that rude and uncultivated country, serve rather as a
covering to the earth than an ornament. Instead of those
fresh and delicious shades, those openings in the woods, and
walks crossing each other in all directions, which delight
the traveller in the fine forests of France and Germany;
those in America serve only to intercept the rays of the
sun, and to prevent the benign influence of his beams.
The savage participates of this cold humidity; his blood
has little heat, his humours are gross, and his constitution
phlegmatic. To the powerful influence of climate it is
necessary to join the habit of his life. Obliged to traverse
vast deserts for subsistence, his body is accustomed to fa¬
tigue ; food not nourishing, and at the same time in no
great plenty, blunts his feelings ; and all the hardships of
the savage state give a rigidity to his members which makes
him almost incapable of suffering. The savage in this state
of nature may be compared to our water-women and street-
porters, who, though they possess neither great vigour nor
strength, are capable of performing daily, and without com¬
plaint, that kind of labour which to a man in a different
condition of life would be a painful and grievous burden.
Feeling, in less perfection with the savage, by the effects
of climate and food, and the habits of his life, is still farther
restrained by moral considerations. The European is less
a man of nature than of society: moral restraints are power¬
ful with him, whilst over the American they have scarcely
any influence. This latter, then, is in a double condition of
imperfection with regard to us; his senses are blunted, and
his moral powers are not disclosed. Now, pleasure and
pain depending on the perfection of the senses and the un¬
folding of the intellectual faculties, it cannot be doubted,
that in enjoyments of any kind savages experience less
pleasure, and in their suffering less pain, than Europeans
in the same circumstances. And, in fact, the savages of
America possess a very feeble constitution. They are
agile without being strong ; and this agility depends more
on their habits than on the perfection of their members:
they owe it to the necessity of hunting; and they are more¬
over so weak, that they were unable to bear the toil which
their first oppressors imposed on them. Hence a race of
men in all respects so imperfect could not endure torment
under which the most robust European would sink, if the
pain which they feel were really as great as it appears to
be. Feeling is, then, and must necessarily be, less in the
savage condition; for this faculty disclosing itself by the.
exercise of all the physical and moral qualities, must be less
as they are less exercised. Everything shows the imper¬
fection of this precious quality, this source of all our affec¬
tions, in the American savages.
“ All the improvements in Europe have had a tendency
to unfad sensibility ; the air is purified that we may breathe
more freely; the morasses are drained, the rivers are regu¬
lated in their courses, the food is nourishing, and the houses
commodious With the savages, on the contrary, every¬
thing tends to curb it; they take pleasure even in harden¬
ing the organs of the body, in accustoming themselves to
56
pleasure.
Pleasure, bear by degrees the most acute Pain^^3eTS wV^equhTthe grelt^ ^
between them, to try which of them can ^gest suffer he ^P^st^onsiderable of our pleasures can pro-
heat; and the warriors who asprre to the honour of being ^ ^an Um m Great pain may continue for any length
chief, undergo a course of suffenng ; SsTve pleasures are almost momentary. Plea-
of torture inflicted on the greatest cnmin P carried to an extreme becomes painful; but pain,
These observations on the pleasures and pains of savage s tinff or diminishing it, never becomes
appear to be well founded, and, as the att,e"^ agreeable. ' For the moment, the pleasures of the senses
perceive, are perfectly agreeable to the ^eory of Dr bay agreeab£ ro^ satisfactory ; but in point of duration,
ers. If, indeed, that theory be just, as we beheve t to be, jre pe h p Y infinitely preferable. All
it will follow, that the few pleasures of sense which the bose °t ^heart ^ fi.iendshipi of gratitude,
American enjoys, he ought to enjoy mol^ C°IXom Y This and of generosity, are sources of enjoyment for man in a
any European, because to him they recur but se . ^ of civilization. The damned are exceedingly unhappy,
rSsX SiS aand haJte of 1,is life’, said St Cathenoede Sienna, if they are incapable of lov.ng
rendered more rigid than those ot the civihzed pait o nu 01 u pif g^re, continued for a great length of time, pro¬
inhabitants of Europe. But if we agree with ^ author m and e0xcites sleep ; the continua-
in what he says of the pains an P easu the tion of pain is productive of none of these effects. Many
cannot admit, without many excep > . . t tjiat suffer pain for eight days, and even a month, without inter-
direct contrary must have been “^™d by ever^ man at- caston dja ^ ^ ^ wifll regard to pleasure
tentive to the operations of the infant mind, which is ai . . appears long when we suffer, and short when
With everything new and often ““P enjoy.’ if Tore «x4d no regular and uniform move-
the merest trifle. The pleasures of philosophy are n ^ ^ J.n> naturej we would not be able from our sensations
deed unfolded to the infant» but it y much as alone to measure time with any degree of exactness, for
that he does not enjoy his rattle and . d in iengthens and pleasure abridges it. From the languor
the philosopher enjoys his telescope and his aupoP, ^ p time |;as arisen the proverb expressive of our
if there be any truth in the scienc i P Y K H . desire to kill it. It is a melancholy reflection, and at the
happiness of the former - ~ t!,at WhjCh T ef'
than that of the latter. _ 1 hat the ^ . d fectuallv secure us from pain for the remainder of our lives ;
vain noise to an infant, is far from ei g ’ p hile there are examples of evils which hold men in con-
less the author confines the state of infancy ^a ^>7 few their whole existence. Such,
**”»* f then, is the imperfection of the one and the power of the
exquisite perfumes and highly-seasoned dishes as muc 1 ot and pain are the sources 0f morality ; an ac-
to the sum of human felicity. . d or otherwise, only as its natural
But however much we disapprove of ma«] of re tendency is to prodvm! suffering or enjoyment to mankind,
flections, the following we C',))1UI - f ^ No crime could be committed against a being altogether
“ If we compare ” says our author ‘ he nor could any good be bestowed on it. Unless
with those which are purely intellectua , j were endowed with the desire of pleasure and the ap-
the latter are infinitely superior to the former, ^t. Jn.ehension 0f pain, man, like an automaton, would act from
be enjoyed at all times and m every situ . I and necessity, without choice and without determination,
arethepleasuresof the table, says Cicero, o s Aii'our passions are the development of sensibility,
of women, compared with the delight of study . „ 1 possessed of feeling, we should be destitute
increases wttli "aKSbmty is augmented by civiliZa,io„.
out knowledge and study, says Lato, me is a 1 b • multiplied; more active and vigorous in an
of death.2 The pleasures of the soul are auch^ that .Us ^ tUan ln a smali smte ; more
frequent enough to see men pieserve the g y o the latter than among barbarous nations ; and more m
an example ot this. iJalzac, sptdK.m0 ui , 1 . upnusp evervthinff which serves to ex-
Prometheus, Hercules, and Philoctetes, in pro ane, an 1 P d is aiwayS in those countries in the
rtSSKo! S:-S“IS“A"=” £S tt SKffil-v -* - -
and eloquence, accompanying affliction i but he ,s the only ; ions are muklplied, the sources of
WMmmmrnmm
whicl, he h,s ” P-» h,PPineS5’ “J™ “ “ t“Ve
% Stetoof good actions, of an upright intention, and of promises winch we have kept.
r L E P L E 57
Plebeian, more, owing to the variety of tempers and education, about
 v~m-' which they dift’er. Every man forms ideas of enjoyment
relative to his character ; and what pleases one may be ut¬
terly detested by another. In proportion as a nation is
civilized and extensive, those differences are remarkable.
Savages, who are not acquainted with all the variety of
European pleasures, amuse themselves with very few ob¬
jects. Owing to the want of civilization, they have scarcely
any choice in the objects of taste. They have fewr pas¬
sions ; w e have many. But even in the nations of Europe,
pleasure is infinitely varied in its modification and forms.
Those differences arise from manners, from governments,
from political and religious customs, and chiefly from edu¬
cation. Meanwhile, however different and variable the ideas
of pleasure may be amongst nations and individuals, it still
remains a fact, that a certain number of persons in all civi¬
lized states, whether distinguished by birth, or rank, or for¬
tune, or talents, as they have nearly the same education, so
they form nearly the same ideas of happiness ; but, to pos¬
sess it, a man must give his chief application to the state of
his mind ; and, notwithstanding all his efforts, it is of uncer¬
tain duration. Happiness is the sunshine of life ; we enjoy
it frequently at great intervals, and it is therefore neces¬
sary to know how to use it. All the productions of art
perish ; the largest fortunes are dissipated ; rank, honour,
and dignity, pass aw^ay like a shadow ; the memory is im¬
paired ; all the faculties of the soul are extinguished; the
body sinks under the infirmities of old age ; and scarcely
has one reached the boundaries of happiness marked out
by his imagination, when he must give place to another,
and renounce all his pleasures, all his hopes, all his illu¬
sions, the fugitive images of which had given happiness to
the mind.
There are pleasures, however, on which the mind may
securely rest, and which elevate man above himself, dignify
his nature, fix his attention on spiritual things, and render
him worthy of the care of Providence. These are to be
found in true religion, which procures for those who prac¬
tise its duties, inexpressible happiness in a better country,
and is in this world the support of the weak and the con¬
solation of the unfortunate.
PLEBEIAN, any person of the rank of the common
people. It is chiefly used in speaking of the ancient Ro¬
mans, who were divided into senators, patricians, aud ple¬
beians. The distinction was made by Romulus, the founder
of the city, who confined all dignities, civil, military, and
sacerdotal, to the rank of patricians. But, to prevent the
seditions wdiich such a distinction might produce, through
the pride of the higher order and the envy of the lower,
he endeavoured to engage them one to another by reci¬
procal ties and obligations. Every plebeian was allowed
to choose, out of the body of the patricians, a protector,
who should be obliged to assist him with his interest and
substance, and to defend him from oppression. These pro¬
tectors were called patrons ; the protected, clients. It was
the duty of the patron to draw up the contracts of the
clients, to extricate them out of their difficulties and per¬
plexities, and to guard their ignorance against the artful¬
ness of the crafty. On the other hand, if the patron was
poor, his clients were obliged to contribute to the portions
of his daughters, the payment of his debts, and the ran¬
som of him and his children if they happened to be taken
in war. The client and patron could neither accuse nor
bear witness against each other; and if either of them
was convicted of having violated this law, the crime was
equal to that of treason, and any one might with impunity
slay the offender as a victim devoted to Pluto and the in-
ernal gods. For more than six hundred years we find no
issensions or jealousies between the patrons and their
clients; not even in the times of the republic, when the
peop e frequently mutinied against the great and powerful.
VOL. xviii. ° 1
PLECTRUM, Greek, <rX5jxrgov, a small implement of Plectrum
wood, horn, ivory, metal, &c. employed to strike the strings , II
of certain musical instruments used among the ancient Egyp- vpletborH-
tians, Greeks, and Arabians. It was of various shapes, often v-*-1'
consisting of a heart-shaped head, and a short handle. In
some of the ancient Egyptian paintings at Thebes, are re¬
presentations of a three-stringed guitar, with an oval body
and long neck, having a plectrum attached by a string to
the neck, close to its junction with the body. Several fo¬
reign stringed instruments are still played with a plectrum,
and amongst them the Tamboora of Hindustan.
PLEDGE (plegius), in common law, a surety or gage,
either real or personal, which the plaintiff' or demandant is
to find for his prosecuting the suit.
To Pledge, in drinking, denotes to warrant, or to be
surety to one, that he shall receive no harm whilst he is
taking his draught. The phrase is referred by antiquaries
to the practice of the Danes heretofore in England, who
used frequently to stab or cut the throats of the natives
whilst they were drinking.
PLEDGERY, or Pleggery, in Law, suretiship, or an
undertaking or answering for another.
PLEIADES, in fabulous history, the seven daughters
of Atlas king of Mauritania, and Pleione, who were so
called from their mother. They were Maia, Electra, Tay-
gete, Asterope, Merope, Halcyone, and Celceno, who were
also called Atlantides, from their father Atlas. These prin¬
cesses were carried off by Busiris king of Egypt; but
Hercules, having conquered him, delivered them to their
father. Y et they afterwards suffered a new persecution from
Orion, who pursued them five years, until Jupiter, being
prevailed on by their prayers, took them up into the hea¬
vens, where they form the constellation which bears their
name.
Pleiades, in Astronomy, an assemblage of seven stars,
in the neck of the constellation Taurus.
Tnese Stars are so called from the Greek crXs/v, navigare, to
sad; as being terrible to mariners, by reason of the rains
and storms which frequently rise with them. The Latins
called them vergdiw, from ver, spring ; because of their
rising about the time of the vernal equinox. The largest is
of the third magnitude, and is called lucida Pleiadum.
PLENARY, something complete or full. Thus we say
the pope grants plenary indulgences, that is, full and entire
remissions of the penalties due to all sins.
PLENIPOTENTIARY, a person vested with full pow er
to do any thing.
PLENITUDE, the quality of a thing that is full, or that
fills another. In medicine, it chiefly denotes a redundancy
of blood and humours.
PLENUM, in Physics, denotes, according to the Carte¬
sians, that state of things in which every part of space is
supposed to be full of matter, in opposition to a vacuum,
which is a space supposed to be devoid of all matter.
PLEONASM, a figure in Rhetoric, by which w’e may use
words seemingly superfluous, to express a thought with the
greater energy; such as, “ I saw it with my own eyes,” “ I
heard it with my owm ears,” and the like.
PLETHORA, in Medicine, from vXr,6os, plenitude. A
plethora is, when the vessels are too much loaded wdth fluids.
The plethora may be sanguine or serous. In the former
there is too much crassamentum in the blood, in the latter
too little. In the sanguine plethora, there is danger of a
fever, inflammation, apoplexy, rupture of the blood- vessels,
and obstructed secretions; in the serous, of a dropsy, and
other affections. A rarefaction of the blood produces all
the effects of a plethora; it may accompany a plethora, and
should therefore be distinguished from it. Mr Bromfield
observes, that a sanguine plethora may be known to be pre¬
sent by the pulse. An artery overcharged wfith blood is as
incapable of producing a. strong full pulse, as one that con-
H
58
Plexus
Plinius
Stc nidus
P L I
tains a deficient quantity; so that in both cases there will
be a low and weak pulse. To distinguish rightly, the pulse
must not be felt with one or two fingers on the carpal artery;
but if three or four fingers cover a considerable length ot
’ the artery, and we press hard for some time on it, and then
suddenly raise all these fingers except that which is near¬
est to the patient’s hand, the influx of the blood, if there is
a plethora, will be so rapid as to raise the other finger,
and make us sensible of the fulness. The sanguine ple¬
thora is relieved by bleeding; the serous by purging, diu¬
retics, and sweating. u i
PLEXUS, amongst anatomists, a bundle of small vessels
interwoven in the form of network. Thus a congeries of ves¬
sels within the brain is called plexus choroides, reticularis,
or retiformis. A plexus of nerves is the union of two or
more nerves forming a sort of ganglion or knot.
PLICA Polonica, or Plaited Hair, is a disease peculiar
to Poland, and hence the name. Mr Coxe, who gives a
short account of it, attempts likewise to assign the physical
causes which are supposed to produce it. Many causes ot
this kind, he tells us, have been supposed to concur in ren¬
dering the plica more frequent in those regions than in
other parts. It would be an endless task to enumerate
the various coniectures by which each person has enuea-
voured to support his favourite hypothesis. I he most pro¬
bable are those assigned by Dr Vicat. The first cause is
the nature of the Polish air, which is rendered insalubrious
bv numerous woods and morasses, and occasionally derives
an uncommon keenness, even in the midst of summer, from
the position of the Carpathian Mountains ; for the south and
south-easterly winds, which usually convey warmth in other
regions, are in this chilled in their passage over the snowy
summits of this range. The second is unwholesome water;
for although Poland is not deficient in good springs, yet the
common people usually drink that which is nearest at hand,
taken indiscriminately from rivers, lakes, and even stagnant
pools. The third cause is the gross inattention of the na¬
tives to cleanliness. Indeed experience shows, that those
who are not negligent in their persons and habitations, are
less liable to be afflicted with the plica than others who are
deficient in these particulars. Thus persons of the higher
ranks are less subject to this disorder than those of inferior
stations, the inhabitants of large towns less than those of
small villages, the free peasants less than those in an ab¬
solute state of vassalage, the natives of Poland Proper less
than those of Lithuania. Whatever we may think as to the
possibility of all or any of these causes, by themselves, or
in conjunction with others, originally producing the disor¬
der, we may venture to assert, that they all, and particularly
the last, assist its propagation, inflame its symptoms, and pro¬
tract its cure. In a word, the plica polonica appears to be
a contagious distemper, which, like the leprosy, still pre¬
vails amongst a people ignorant in medicine, and inattentive
to check its progress, but is rarely known in those countries
where proper precautions are taken to prevent its spreading.
PLINIUS Secundus, C., a celebrated Roman writer,
but who is to be distinguished from his nephew, Pliny the
youno-er. He was born A. D. 23, in the tenth year of Tibe¬
rius, and died on the 2d of November, a. d. 80, the first year
of the Emperor Titus, and the day after the eruption of
Mount Vesuvius. Two cities contend for the honour of giv¬
ing birth to him ; but the inhabitants of Novum Comum,
now Como, seem to have a better claim to him as their fel¬
low-citizen than those of Verona. His earlier years were
spent under the profligate reign of Caligula and Claudius,
but he does not appear to have mingled in the dissolute
scenes of those times. Though he devoted himself to the
study of literature, he did not withdraw himself from the
active business of life. It appears that he served his first
military campaign in Africa, probably about his twenty-
tliird year, and that he afterwards spent some time in Ger-
V L I
many, under his friend and commander L. Pomponius Se-
cundus, whom we find in Tacitus to have triumphed over^—-
the Catti. It was about this time, a. d. 48, that he pub¬
lished his work entitled De Jaculatione Equestn; and
as Pomponius died shortly after his triumph, Pliny per¬
formed the mournful though pleasing duty of transmitting
to posterity the transactions of his friend, in a work en¬
titled Pomponii Vila. He next devoted himself to forensic
duties, and displayed the same activity and zeal m defend¬
ing the causes of his fellow-citizens, as he had before done
in maintaining the honour of his country by arms. It
seems probable that at this time he published his work
Studiorum Tres Libri, divided into six volumes, which
was a manual for the formation of an orator, a subject which
was subsequently treated by Quintilian. He also pubhs i-
ed another work, Germanica Bella, in which he gave a de¬
tailed account of the wars of Drusus and Germamcus. In
the reign of Nero, Pliny was employed in Spain as Procu¬
rator Csesaris ; an equestrian dignity, but with the duties o
which we are by no means well acquainted. He employed
his leisure hours in making a selection of passages from
various authors, called Electorum Commentaru, which on his
death he left, to the number of one hundred and sixty, to
his nephew. He also published, about a. d. 67, a gramma¬
tical work, Dubii Sermonis Libri Octo; and thirty-one books
of History, which was a continuation of that of Autidius
Bassus, who seems to have written an account of the civil
Pliny became the intimate friend of Vespasian and
his son Titus ; and it was in the reign of the former, a. D.
77, that he published his celebrated work, Histona Aatw-
ralis, in thirty-seven books. Two years afterwards, Phny
was stationed at Misenum, in Campania, in command of the
fleet; and when the eruption of Vesuvius broke out, he hur¬
ried towards it, to assist his friends, and to examine more
minutely this wonderful phenomenon of nature. But he fell
a victim to his thirst for knowledge; being suffocated by
the sulphureous exhalations, as he was approaching the
mountain from the side of Stabiae, now Castellamare.
The work for which he is most distinguished is his Na¬
tural History, the materials for which he has drawn from
upwards of two thousand authors, which have generally
disappeared. It was divided into thirty-six books, with a
dedication to Titus, and a kind of index of the whole; but
these are now considered as the first book. 1 he second
book contains introductory remarks on astronomy and me¬
teorology ; and from the third to the sixth inclusive we
have a description of the earth, the lands and their inhabi¬
tants, being a sort of universal geography, though it is fre¬
quently nothing more than a simple enumeration of names.
Then follows the Natural History, beginning with the
animal kingdom, which occupies from the seventh to the
eleventh books; then botany from the twelfth to the nine¬
teenth. With the twentieth begins his account of the medi¬
cinal qualities of various herbs, which extends to the twenty-
seventh; and then of the medicines which may be prepared
from animals, to the thirty-second. The remaining books
are occupied with the mineral kingdom, in which he takes
occasion to introduce much curious information respecting
the fine arts, sculpture, painting, &c.; and concludes with
an account of the most celebrated artists and their works.
Cuvier, who was so well able to judge of the value of such
a work, thus expresses himself. “ Ce grand ouvrage est
le seule de Pline qui soit arrive jusqu’a nous. II est en
meme temps Tun des monumens les plus precieux que
Tantiquite nous ait busses, et la preuve d’une erudition bien
gtonnante dans un homme de guerre et un homme d’etat.
Pour apprecier avec justice cette vaste et celebre composi¬
tion, il est necessaire d’y distinguer le plan, les faits, et le
style. Le plan en est immense. PTme ne se propose point
d’ecrire seulement une Histoire Naturelle dans le sens re-
streint oii nous prenons aujourd’hui cette science, c’est-a-
P L I
FLO
59
Plinius dire, un traite, plus ou moins detaille, des animaux, des
Cscilius p]antes, et des mineraux; il embrasse Pastronomie, la phy-
(icu.i us^ sjqUGf |a geographie, I’agriculture, le commerce, lamedecine,
Y " et les arts, aussi bien que PHistoire Naturelle proprement dite;
et il mele sans cesse a ce qu’il en dit des traits relatif, a
la connaissance morale de Phomme, et a Phistoire des peo¬
ples, en sorte qu’a beaucoup d’egards on a pu dire de cet
ouvrage qu’il etait PEncyclopedie de son temps Pline
n’a point ete un observateur tel qu’Aristote ; encore moins
un homme de genie, capable, comme ce grand philosophe,
de saisir les lois et les rapports d’apres lesquels la nature a
co-ordonne ses productions. Il n’est en general qu’un com-
pilateur, et meme le plus souvent un compilateur qui, n’ay-
ant point par lui-meme d’idee des choses sur lesquelles il
rassemble les temoignages des autres, n’a pu apprecier la
verite de ces temoignages, ni meme toujours comprendre
ce qu’ils avaient voulu dire Si Pline a pour nous au-
jourd’hui peu de merite comme critique et comme natural-
iste, il n'en est pas de meme de son talent comme ecrivain,
ni du tresor immense de termes et de locutions Latines dont
Pabondance des matieres Pa oblige de se servir, et qui ont
fait de son ouvrage Pun des plus riches depots de la langue
des Romains. Malgre les defauts que nous sommes obliges
de lui reconnaitre quand nous le considerons comme natu-
raliste, nous ne le regardons pas moins comme Pun des
auteurs les plus recommandables et les plus digues d’etre
places au nombre des classiques parmi ceux qui ont ecrit
apres le regne d’Auguste.”
The best edition of Pliny is that edited by Cuvier, assist¬
ed by other learned men in France, and published by Le-
maire, Paris, 1827-1832, ten vols.
PLINIUS CaiciLius Secundus, C., a celebrated Roman
orator, was the son of L. Caecilius, and Plinia, the sister of
Pliny the elder, and born in the village of Como, in Cisalpine
Gaul, though others have considered Verona as the place
of his birth. He was born a. d. 62, in the eighth year of
the reign of Nero, the same year in which the poet Persius
died; and there seems every reason to believe that he died
a. D. 107, in the forty-fifth year of his age, and in the tenth
year of the reign of Trajan. Having been left fatherless
at an early age, he was adopted by his uncle; and, through
his care and that of Virginius Rufus, received the best edu¬
cation that Rome could furnish. Amongst others, he deriv¬
ed much advantage from the talents of Quintilian ; and he
seems at a very early age to have devoted his attention to
poetry. In his fourteenth year he had already written a
Greek tragedy, though he does not venture to affirm that
it was of much value. He had no sooner finished his youth¬
ful studies than we find him in Syria, acting as military tri¬
bune ; and in his eighteenth year, a. d. 80, he was living
with his uncle atMisenum, in Campania, where he was com¬
mander of the fleet at the moment of the eruption of Vesu¬
vius, which proved fatal to him. Of the calamity, and the
phenomena attendant on it, he gives a very affecting and
beautiful account, in two letters to the historian Tacitus.
On his return to Rome he commenced his career as an
orator, and soon became one of the most distinguished or¬
naments of the Roman bar. He rose gradually through
different ranks till he reached the office of praetor; but to¬
wards the end of the reign of Domitian, he drew upon him¬
self the indignation of that monarch, by his able defence of
Helvidius, whom Domitian had doomed to destruction ; and
he was only saved from sharing the fate of many others by
the death of the emperor. About the period of Nerva’s
accession (a. id. 96) he lost his wife, the step-daughter of
Vectius Proculus, and the following year married Calpur-
nia, of an illustrious family, with whom he lived very happi¬
ly, though by neither of his wives had he any children.
Trajan raised him, a. d. 100, to the rank of consul suffec-
tus, upon which occasion he delivered that celebrated pa-
negyric on the emperor which has been preserved to us.
The second year after his consulship he was appointed by Plinth
Trajan to the administration of the province of Bithynia ; N
and it was whilst he was in this office that he wrote that let- v oc
ter to the emperor which bears such honourable testimony
to the Christian religion, and which induced Trajan to mi¬
tigate the laws which bore so heavily on those who profes¬
sed that faith. On his return from his province he seems
only to have survived a few years, which were probably
spent in retirement in his magnificent villas, of which he
possessed several in different parts of Italy.
He was of the most amiable disposition, kind to his infe¬
riors, generous and hospitable to his friends, amongst whom
he numbered Quintilian, Suetonius, Silius Italicus, Martial,
and Tacitus. He was the active and zealous patron of learn¬
ing, dividing his time between his professional employ¬
ments and the pursuits of literature. He has been accus¬
ed of being jealous of the reputation of some of his friends ;
and there is no doubt that he was vain of his own acquire¬
ments. Next to Cicero there is certainly no orator so dis¬
tinguished ; yet of his numerous orations not one has been
preserved except his Panegyric on Trajan, in which he
returns thanks for having raised him to the consulship. It
was received with great applause, and is without doubt one
of the most beautiful specimens of Roman eloquence that
we possess. He exhibits before us Trajan, invested, not
merely with the majesty of a prince and commander, but
with all the virtues which dignify a private character. His
noble spirit, his integrity, his love of learning, are all beau¬
tifully pourtrayed; but in his praise he sometimes exceeds
the bounds of propriety, so as to give it the appearance of
flattery. He has also too great fondness for antithesis, and
too constant a repetition of particular expressions. In his
language, also, we have sometimes to regret the simplicity
which distinguishes the works of an earlier age.
His epistles are addressed to different persons, upon a va¬
riety of occasions, and are divided into ten books, of which
the last contains only those to Trajan, with his answers.
As Sidonius Apollinaris speaks only of nine books, some
liave thereby been induced to consider the tenth as not the
genuine production of Pliny ; and indeed others have also
refused to include the ninth. The subject-matter of these
letters is of a very pleasing character. The reader is inte¬
rested not more by the variety of circumstances presented
to the mind, than by the agreeable manner in which they
are told. They possess also great historical value, from
being memorials of a period of which we have only a few
unimportant hints. We refer more particularly to the two
letters on the life and death of Pliny the elder, and that to
Trajan on the character of the Christians. As the letters
of Cicero are of great value in elucidating the events of the
later years of the republic, and in making us more intimate¬
ly acquainted with the leading statesmen of that time, so
those of Pliny are equally valuable in admitting us to an
acquaintance with the very difl’erent times of the empire.
The best edition is that of Schofer, with the notes of
Gesner and Ernesti, Leipzig, 1805, two vols. 8vo.
PLINTH, Orle, or Orlo, in Architecture, a flat square
member, in the form of a brick. It is used as the founda¬
tion of columns, being that flat square table under the mould¬
ing of the base and pedestal at the bottom of the whole
order. It seems to have been originally intended to keep
the bottom of the original wooden pillars from rotting. Vi¬
truvius also calls the Tuscan abacus plinth.
Plinth of a Statue is a base, either flat, round, or square,
which serves to support it.
Plinth of a Wall denotes two or three rows of bricks
advancing out from a wall; or, in general, any flat high
moulding which serves, in a front-wall, to sustain the eaves
of a wall, or support the larmier of a chimney.
PLOCK, a province or waiwodschaft of Poland, which
has been formed out of the ancient division of that name,
60 P L O
Ploermel and the addition of part of Massovia. It extends in north
} I! latitude from 52. 14. to 53. 27., and in east longitude from
1 lotinus. ^ t0 22. 30., and comprehends 6842 square miles.
* v ' jj. con^ajns forty-five cities and towns, 3399 villages, with
346,500 inhabitants, of whom 14,000 are Protestants, 24,000
Jews, and the remainder adhere to the Catholic religion.
The capital of the province, and of a circle of its name, is
the city of Plock. It stands upon the banks of the Vistula,
is surrounded with walls, and is the see of a bishop, whose
cathedral is here, as well as eleven other churches, and se¬
veral collegiate and monastic institutions. It contains
960 houses, with 7500 inhabitants, who carry on consider¬
able trade by the river. Long. 19. 42. E. Lat. 52. 33.
3. N.
PLOERMEL, an arrondissement of the department of
Morbihan,in France, extending over 682 square miles. It
is divided into eight cantons, and these into sixty-one com¬
munes, with a population of 84,150 inhabitants. The ca¬
pital is the city of the same name, situated in a fruitful dis¬
trict, watered by the river Oust. It contains 4720 inhabi¬
tants, who carry on manufactures of coarse woollens.
PLOMO, in Metallurgy, is a name given by the Spa¬
niards who have the care of the silver mines, to the silver
ore when found adhering to the surface of stones, and in-
crusting their cracks and cavities like small and loose grains
of gunpowder. Though these grains be few in number,
and the rest of the stone have no silver in it, yet they are
always very happy when they find it, as it is a certain token
that there is a rich vein somewhere in the neighbourhood.
And if in digging forwards they still meet wuth these grains,
or the plomo, in greater quantity, it is a certain sign that
they are getting nearer and nearer the good vein.
PLOT, Du Robert, a learned antiquary and philoso¬
pher, was born at Sutton-Barn, in the parish of Borden,
Kent, in the year 1641. He studied in Magdalen Flail,
and afterwards in University College, Oxford. In 1682
he was elected secretary of the Royal Society, and pub¬
lished the Philosophical Transactions from No, 143 to No.
166 inclusive. The next year Mr Elias Ashmole appoint-'
ed him first keeper of his museum, and about the same
time the vice-chancellor nominated him primarius profes¬
sor of chemistry in the university of Oxford. In 1687 he
was made secretary to the earl marshal; and the following
year received the title of historiographer to James II. In
1690 he resigned his professorship of chemistry, and like¬
wise his place of keeper of the museum, to which he pre¬
sented a very large collection of natural curiosities, which
he had described in his histories of Oxfordshire and Staf¬
fordshire ; the former published at Oxford in 1677, folio,
and reprinted with additions and corrections in 1705, and
the latter printed of the same size in 1686. In January 1694-
1695, Henry Howard, earl marshal, nominated him Mo-
bray-herald extraordinary ; two days after which he was
constituted register of the court of honour; and, on the
30th of April 1696, he died of the stone, at his house at
Borden.
As Dr Plot delighted in natural history, the above works
were designed as essays towards a Natural History of Eng¬
land ; and he had actually formed a design of travelling
through England and Wales for that purpose. Fie accord¬
ingly drew up a plan of his scheme, in a letter addressed to
Bishop Fell, which is inserted at the end of the second
volume of Leland’s Itinerary, in the edition of 1744.
Amongst several manuscripts which he left behind him
were large materials for the Natural History of Kent, Mid¬
dlesex, and the city of London. Besides the above works,
he published De Origine Fontium Tentamen Philosophi-
curn, 8vo, and nine papers in the Philosophical Transactions.
PLOTINUS, a Platonic philosopher of the third cen¬
tury. He was born at Lycopolis, a city of Egypt, in 204;
and began very early to show a great singularity both in his
P L O
taste and in his manners. At eight years of age, when he Plotinw.
went to school, he used to run to his nurse, and uncover her'^v-*-
breast to suck; and would have continued that practice
longer if he had not been discouraged by her. At the age
of twenty-eight he had a strong desire to study philosophy,
on which occasion he was recommended to the most famous
professors of Alexandria. He was not satisfied with their
lectures; but upon hearing those of Ammonius, he con¬
fessed that this was the man he wanted. He studied for
eleven years under that excellent master, and then went
to hear the Persian and Indian philosophers. In 243, when
the Emperor Gordianus intended to wage w’ai against the
Persians, he followed the Roman army, but probably re¬
pented of it; for it was wuth difficulty he could save his
life by flight after the emperor had been slain. He was
then thirty-nine. The year following he went to Rome,
and read philosophical lectures in that city ; but avoided
following the example of Erennius and Origen, his fellow-
pupils, who, having like him promised not to reveal some
hidden and excellent doctrines wrhich they had received
from Ammonius, had nevertheless broken their pledge.
Plotinus continrred ten years in Rome without writing any¬
thing ; but in his fiftieth year he obtained as his scholar
Porphyry, who, being of an exquisitely fine genius, was
not satisfied with superficial answers, but required to have
all difficulties thoroughly explained; and therefore^ Ploti¬
nus, to treat things with greater accuracy, was obliged to
write more books. He had previously written tw'enty-one
books, and during the six years of Porphyry’s sojourn with
him he wrote twenty-four, and nine after Porphyry left
Rome, making in all fifty-four. The Romans had a high
veneration for him ; and he passed for a man of such judg¬
ment and virtue, that many persons of both sexes, when
they found themselves dying, intrusted him, as a kind of
guardian angel, with the care of their estates and children.
Fie was the arbiter of numberless lawsuits; and constant¬
ly behaved with such humanity and rectitude, that he did
not create a single enemy during the twenty-six years he
resided in Rome. He did not meet with the same justice,
however, from all of his own profession; for Olympias, a
philosopher of Alexandria, being envious of his glory, used
his utmost endeavours, though in vain, to ruin him. I he
Emperor Gallienus and the Empress Salonina had a very
high regard for him; and if it had not been for the oppo¬
sition of some jealous courtiers, they would have caused
the city of Campania to be rebuilt, and given it to him, w'ith
the territory belonging to it, to establish a colony of philo-^
gophers, and to govern it according to the ideal laws of
Plato’s commonw'ealth. He laboured under various dis¬
orders during the last year of his life, which obliged him to
leave Rome, when he was carried to Campania, to the heirs
of one of his friends, who furnished him with everything
necessary; and he died there in the year 2/0, at the age
of sixty-six, in the noblest manner that an heathen philoso¬
pher could expire. “ I am labouring with all my might,”
said he, “ to return the divine part of me to the Divine
Whole which fills the universe.”
W7e have already remarked that the ideas of Plotinus
were singular and extraordinary; and we shall now show
that they were so. He was ashamed of being lodged in a
body, for which reason he did not care to tell the place of
his birth or family. The contempt he had for all earthly
things was the reason why he would not permit his picture
to be drawn ; and when his disciple Amelius urged him to
do so, “ Is it not enough,” said he, “ to drag after us,
whithersoever we go, that image in which nature has shut us
up ? Do you think that we should likewise transmit to fu¬
ture ages an image of that image, as a sight worthy of their
attention ?” On the same principle, he refused to attend to
his health ; for he never made use of preservatives or baths,
and did not even eat the flesh of tame animals. He ate but
P L O
!Plotinus, little, and often abstained from bread; which, joined to his
'-—V—^ intense meditation, prevented him from sleeping. In short,
he thought the body altogether below his notice, and had
so little respect for it, that he considered it as a prison, from
which it would be his supreme happiness to be freed. When
Amelins, after his death, inquired of the oracle of Apollo
about the state of his soul, he was told that it was gone to
the assembly of the blessed, where charity, joy, and a love
of the union with God, prevail. And the reason given for
this, as related by Porphyry, is, “ that Plotinus had been
peaceable, gracious, and vigilant; that lie had perpetually
elevated his spotless soul to God; that he had loved God
with his whole heart; that he had disengaged himself, to
the utmost of his abilities, from this wretched life; that,
elevating himself with all the pow-ers of his soul, and by the
several gradations taught by Plato, towards that Supreme
Being which fills the universe, he had been enlightened by
him, had enjoyed the vision of him without the help or in¬
terposition of ideas, and, in short, had often been united
to him.” This is the account of Porphyry, who also tells
us that he himself had once been favoured with the vision.
We need scarcely add, however, that little credit is due to
such a story, which agrees pretty much with modern en¬
thusiasm and the reveries of Behmenists. Plotinus had
his familiar spirit, as well as Socrates; but, according to
Porphyry, it was not one of those called demons, but of the
order of those wdro are called gods; so that he was under
the protection of a spirit superior to that of other men.
The superiority of his genius puffed him up not a little ;
>r when Amelins desired him to share in the sacrifices
wdiich he used to offer up on solemn festivals, “ It is their
business,” replied Plotinus, “ to come to me; not mine to
go to them.”
Porphyry put the fifty-four books of Plotinus in order,
and divided them into six nonades. The greater part of them
turn on the most high-flown ideas in metaphysics; and this
philosopher seems, in certain points, to differ but little from
Spinoza. He wrote two books to prove that all being is one
and the same ; which is, in fact, the very doctrine of Baruc
Spinoza. He inquires, in another book, whether there are
many souls, or only one. His manner of composing par¬
took of the singularity of his nature. He never read over
his compositions after he had WTitten them ; he wrote a bad
hand, and was not exact in his orthography; he stood in
need, therefore, of a faithful friend to revise and correct his
writings; and he chose Porphyry for this purpose in pre¬
ference to Amelius, who had been his disciple twenty- four
years, and was very much esteemed by him. Some have
accused Plotinus of plagiarism with regard to Numenius;
a slander which Amelius refuted. Longinus was once much
prejudiced against this philosopher, and wrote against his
Treatise of Ideas, and against Porphyry’s answer in defence
of that treatise. He afterwards conceived a high esteem
for Plotinus; sought industriously for all his books; and, in
order to have them correct, desired Porphyry to lend him
his copy. At the same time he wrote to the latter in the fol¬
lowing manner. “ I always observed to you, when we were
together, when we were at a distance from one another,
as well as when you lived at Tyre, that I did not compre¬
hend many of the subjects treated of by Plotinus; but I
was extremely fond of his manner of writing, the variety
of his knowledge, and the order and disposition of his ques¬
tions, which are altogether philosophical.” This single pas¬
sage, says Bayle, shows the exalted genius, the exquisite
discernment, and judicious penetration of Longinus. It
cannot be denied that most subjects which this philosopher
examines are incomprehensible; nevertheless, we discover
in his works a very elevated, fruitful, and capacious genius,
and a close way of reasoning. Had Longinus been an in-
judicious critic, had he not possessed an exalted and beau-
tuul genius, he would not have been so sensible of Ploti-
P L U 61
mis’s obscurity; for no persons complain less of the obscu- Plough
rity of a book, than those whose thoughts are confused, and II
whose understanding is shallow. Marsilius Ficinus, at the v Tluche.
request of Cosmo de’ Medici, executed a Latin version of v
the works of Plotinus, with a summary and analysis of
each book; which was printed at Basil, first by itself in 1559,
and afterwards with the Greek in 1580, folio. His life was
written by Porphyry, the most illustrious of his disciples.
PLOUGH, in Agriculture, a machine for turning up the
soil by the action of cattle, contrived to save the time, la¬
bour, and expense, which must otherwise have been em¬
ployed in digging the ground, and fitting it for receiving
all sorts of seed. See Agriculture.
PLOWDEN, Edmund, sergeant at law, descended from
an ancient family in Shropshire, was born in 1517, and was
first a student of the university of Cambridge, where he
spent three years in the study of philosophy and medicine.
He then removed to Oxford, where, having continued his
former studies about four years more, he was in 1552 ad¬
mitted to the practice of physic and surgery; but probably
finding the practice of the healing art less agreeable than
the study of physic, he entered himself of the Middle
Temple, and began to read law. Wood says, that in 1557
he was summer reader to that society, and Lent reader three
years afterwards, being then sergeant and oracle of the law.
He died in the year 1584, aged sixty-seven ; and was bu¬
ried in the Temple church. He wrote, 1. Commentaries or
Reports of divers Cases in the reigns of Edward VI., Mary,
and Elizabeth, London, 1571, 1578, 1599, and 1613, writ¬
ten in the old Norman language; and, 2. Queries, or a Moot-
book of Cases, translated, methodized, and enlarged, by H.
B. of Lincoln’s-Inn, London, 1662, in 8vo.
PLUCHE, Antony, a celebrated French writer, was
born at Rheims in 1688; and having distinguished himself
by his engaging manners and proficiency in the belles
lettres, was appointed professor of humanity in the univer¬
sity of that city. Two years afterwards he obtained the
chair of rhetoric, and was admitted into holy orders. The
Bishop of Leon, informed of his talents, conferred upon him
the direction of the college of his episcopal city. By his
industry and superior knowledge, a proper order and sub¬
ordination w ere soon established in it; but some peculiar
opinions respecting the affairs of the time disturbed his
tranquillity, and obliged him to resign his office. The in-
tendant of Rouen, at the request of the celebrated Rollin,
intrusted him with the education of his son. Abbe Pluche
having filled that situation with success and great honour
to himself, left Rouen and went to Paris, where, by the
patronage of some literary friends, and his own excellent
writings, he acquired a distinguished reputation for learn¬
ing. He published, 1. Le Spectacle de la Nature, in nine
volumes 12mo. This work, w hich is equally instructive and
entertaining, is written with perspicuity and elegance; but
the form of dialogue which is adopted has rendered it some¬
what prolix. The interlocutors are not distinguished by
any striking or characteristic features ; and though the au¬
thor has given the conversations a pretty ingenious turn,
and even some vivacity, yet now and then they assume the
tone of the college. 2. Histoire du Ciel, or History of the
Heavens, in two vols. 12mo. In this performance we find
two parts almost independent of each other. The first con¬
tains some learned inquiries into the origin of the poeti¬
cal heavens. It is nearly a complete mythology, founded
upon ideas which are new and ingenious. The second is
the history of the opinions of philosophers respecting the
formation of the world. The author shows the inutility,
inconsistency, and uncertainty of the most esteemed sys¬
tems ; and concludes with pointing out the excellence and
sublime simplicity of the Mosaic account. Voltaire called
this work Fable, du Ciel. 3. De Linguarum Artificio, a
work which he translated under the title of Le Mecanique
mk
62 P L U
Plug des Langues, in 12mo. In this treatise he proposes a short
II and easy method of learning languages, which is by the use
v lu“1l)cr.v- 0f translations instead of themes or exercises. 4. Har¬
mony of the Psalms and the Gospel,.or a translation of the
Psalms and Hymns of the Church, with notes relative to
the Vulgate, the Septuagint, and Hebrew Text, printed at
Paris in 1764, in ^mo. In 1749, Abbe Pluche retired to
Varenne St Maure, where he gave himself up entirely to
devotion and study. Having become so deaf that he could
not hear without the help of a trumpet, the capital afforded
him little enjoyment. It was in this retreat that he died of
an apoplexy, on the 20th of November 1761, at the age of
seventy-three years. He possessed those qualities which
form the scholar, the honest man, and the Christian ; tem-
perate in his meals, true to his word, an affectionate parent,
a sensible friend, and a humane philosopher, he gave les¬
sons of virtue in his life as wTell as his writings. His sub¬
mission to all the dogmas of religion was profound. Some
deists having expressed surprise that, in matters of faith, he
should think and speak like the vulgar, his answer was, “ I
glory in doing so; it is infinitely more rational to believe
the word of God, than to follow the glimmering lights of a
reason which is limited and subject to error.”
PLUG, a certain piece of timber, formed like the frus¬
tum of a cone, and used to stop a hause-hole, or a breach made
in the body of a ship by cannon-balls. Plugs used for the
former purpose are therefore called hause plugs, and those
for the latter shot-plugs ; and they are formed of various
sizes, in proportion to the holes made by the different sizes
of shot which may penetrate the ship’s sides or bottom in
battle. Accordingly they are always ready for this purpose.
PLUKENET, Leonard, a physician who flourished in
the reign of Charles II., was one of the most excellent and
laborious botanists of that or any other age. He was au¬
thor of the Phytographia Plukenetiana, the Almagesti-
cum Britannicum, and other works of a similar kind, on
which he spent the greater part of his life and fortune. His
Phytography is mentioned with the highest praise in the
Philosophical Transactions for February 1696-1697. His
Opera Botanica, with cuts, were printed at London, in six
vols. folio, in 1720.
PLUMBERY, the art of casting and working lead, and
using it in building.
As this metal soon melts, and with little heat, it is easy
to cast it into figures of any kind, by running it into moulds
of brass, clay, plaster, or other material. But the chief ar¬
ticle in plumbery consists of sheets and pipes of lead ; and
as these form the basis of the plumber’s work, we shall here
describe the process of making them.
In casting sheet-lead, a table or mould is made use of,
consisting of large pieces of wood well jointed, and bound
with bars of iron at the ends ; on the sides of which runs a
frame, consisting of a ledge or border of wood, three inches
in thickness, and four inches in height from the mould, called
the sharps. The ordinary width of the mould, within these
sharps, is from four to five feet; and its length is sixteen,
seventeen, or eighteen feet. This should be something
longer than the sheets are intended to be, in order that the
end where the metal runs off from the mould may be cut
off, because it is commonly thin, or uneven, or ragged, at
the end. It must stand very even or level in breadth, and
something falling from the end in which the metal is pour¬
ed in, viz. about an inch or an inch and a half in the length
of sixteen or seventeen feet or more, according to the
thickness of the sheets wanted; for the thinner the sheet,
the more declivity the mould should have. At the upper
end of the mould stands the pan, which is a concave trian¬
gular prism, composed of two planks nailed together at
right angles, and two triangular pieces fitted in between
them at the ends. The length of this pan is the w hole
breadth of the mould in which the sheets are cast. It stands
P L U
with its bottom, which is a sharp edge, on a form at the Plumber
end of the mould, leaning with one side against it; on the
opposite side is a handle to lift it up by, in order to pour
out the melted lead ; and on that side of the pan which is
next the mould are two iron hooks to take hold of the
mould, and prevent the pan from slipping whilst the melted
lead is pouring out of it into the mould. This pan is lined
on the inside with moistened sand, to prevent it from being
fired by the hot metal. The mould is also spread over,
about two inches thick, with sand sifted and moistened,
which is rendered perfectly level by moving over it a piece
of wood called a strike, and smoothing it over with a smooth¬
ing plane, which is a plate of polished brass about one
fourth of an inch thick, and nine inches square, turned up
upon all the four edges, and with a handle fitted on to the
upper or concave side. The sand being thus smoothed, it
is fit for casting sheets of lead. But if they would cast a
cistern, they measure out the bigness of the four sides, and
having taken the dimensions of the front or fore part, make
mouldings by pressing long slips of wood, which contain
the same mouldings, into the level sand; and form the fi¬
gures of birds, beasts, or anything else, by pressing in the
same manner leaden figures upon it, and then taking them
off, and at the same time smoothing the surface where any
of the sand is raised up by making these impressions upon
it. The rest of the operation is the same in casting either
cisterns or plain sheets of lead. But before wTe proceed to
mention the manner in which that is performed, it will
be necessary to give a more particular description of the
strike.
The strike, then, is a piece of board about five inches in
breadth, and something longer than the breadth of the mould
on the inside; and at each end is cut a notch about two
inches deep, so that wrhen it is used it rides upon the sharps
with those notches. Before they begin to cast, the strike
is made ready by tacking on two pieces of an old hat on
the notches, or by slipping a case of leather over each end,
in order to raise the under side about one eighth of an inch
or something more above the sand, according as they wmuld
have the sheet to be in thickness; then the under edge of
the strike is tallowed and laid across the mould. The lead
being melted, it is put into the pan with ladles, in which,
when there is a sufficient quantity for the present purpose,
the scum of the metal is swept off with a piece of board to
the edge of the pan, letting it settle on the sand, which is
by this means prevented from falling into the mould at the
pouring out of the metal. When the lead is cool enough,
which must be regulated according to the thickness of the
sheets wanted, and is known by its beginning to stand with
a shell or wall upon the sand round the pan, two men take
the pan by the handle, or else one of them lifts it by the
bar and chain fixed to a beam in the ceiling, and pour it
into the mould, whilst another man stands ready with the
strike, and as soon as they have done pouring in the metal,
puts on the mould, sweeps the lead forward, and draws the
overplus into a trough prepared to receive it. The sheets
being thus cast, nothing remains but to roll them up or cut
them into any measure wanted. But if it be a cistern, it is
bent into four sides, so that the two ends may join the
back, where they are soldered together; after which the
bottom is soldered up.
We shall next describe the method of casting pipes with¬
out soldering. To make these pipes, they have a kind of
little mill, with arms or levers to turn it withal. The moulds
are of brass, consist of two pieces, which open and shut by
means of hooks and hinges, their inward calibre or diameter
being, according to the size of the pipe, usually two feet
and a half. In the middle is placed a core or round piece
of brass or iron, somewhat longer than the mould, and of
the thickness of the inward diameter of the pipe. This core
is passed through two copper rundles, one at each end df
P L U
plummet the mould, which they serve to close; and to these is join-
1! . ed a little copper tube about two inches long, and of the
[’lunnmng^ t]le leaden pipe is intended to be of. By means
" of these tubes the core is retained in the middle of the ca¬
vity of the mould. The core being in the mould, with the
rundles at its two ends, and the lead melted in the furnace,
the latter is taken up in a ladle, and poured into the mould
by a little aperture at one end, made in the form of a fun¬
nel. When the mould is full, a hook is passed into the end
of the core, and, by turning the mill, is drawn out; and
after opening the mould, the pipe is also taken out. If they
desire to have the pipe lengthened, they put one end of it
in the lower end of the mould, and pass the end of the core
into it; then shut the mould again, and apply its rundle
and tube as before, the pipe just cast serving for a rundle,
&c. at the other end. Things being thus replaced, they
pour in fresh metal, and repeat the operation till they have
got a pipe of the length required.
For making pipes of sheet-lead, the plumbers have wood¬
en cylinders of the length and thickness required; and on
these they form their pipes by wrapping the sheet around
them, and soldering up the edges all along them.
The lead which lines the Chinese tea-boxes is reduced
to a thinness which, we are informed, European plumbers
cannot imitate. The following account of the process by
which the plates are formed was communicated to a writer
in the Gentleman’s Magazine, by an intelligent officer of an
/ East Indiaman. The caster sits by a pot containing the
melted metal; and has two large stones, the under one fix¬
ed, the upper moveable, directly before him. He raises the
upper stone by pressing his foot upon the side of it, and
with an iron ladle pours in the opening a proper quantity of
the fluid metal. He then immediately lets fall the upper
stone, and by that means forms the lead into a thin irregu¬
lar plate, which is afterwards cut into a proper shape. The
surfaces of the stones, where they touch each other, are ex¬
actly ground together.
PLUMMET, Plumb-rule, or Plumb-line, an instru¬
ment used by carpenters, masons, and others, in order to
judge whether walls or beams be upright planes, horizon¬
tal, or the like. It is so called from a piece oflead fasten¬
ed to the end of a cord, which usually constitutes this in¬
strument. Sometimes the string descends along a wooden
ruler, raised perpendicularly on another; in which case it
becomes a level.
PLUMMING, amongst miners, is the method of using
a mine-dial, in order to know the exact place of the work
where to sink down an air-shaft, or to bring an adit to the
work, or to know which way the lode inclines when any
flexure happens in it.
It is performed in this manner. A skilful person, with an
assistant, and provided with pen, ink, and paper, a long line,
and a mine-dial, after his guess of the place above ground,
descends into the adit or work, and there fastens one end
of the line to some fixed thing in it; then the incited needle
is let to rest, and the exact point where it rests is marked
with a pen. The person in question then goes on farther
in, the line being still fastened, and at the next flexure of
the adit he makes a mark on the line, by a knot or otherwise,
and, letting down the dial again, he there likewise notes
down that point at which the needle stands in this second
position. In this manner he proceeds, from turning to
turning, marking down the points, and marking the line,
till he comes to the intended place. This being done, he
ascends and begins to work on the surface of the earth
what he did in the adit, bringing the first knot in the line
to such a place where the mark of the place of the needle
will again answer its pointing; and continues this till he
come to the desired place above ground, which is certain
to be perpendicular over the part of the mine into which
the air-shaft is to be sunk.
P L U 63
PLUMOSE, something formed in the manner of a Plumose
feather, with a stem and fibres issuing from it on each side: II
such are the antennas of certain moths, butterflies, and other v F|llItarch*
insects. -y—^
PLURAL, in Grammar, an epithet applied to that num¬
ber of nouns and verbs which is used when we speak of
more than one thing.
PLUS, in Algtbra, a character marked thus, -f-, used for
the sign of addition. See Algebr a.
PLUSH, in commerce, a kind of stuff having a sort of
velvet knap or shag on one side, composed regularly of a
woof of a single woollen thread and a double warp; the
one wool, of two threads twisted, the other goat’s or camel’s
hair; t hough there are some plushes entirely of worsted, and
others composed wholly of hair.
PLU I ARCH, one of the most celebrated writers of an¬
tiquity, was a native of Chaeroneia, in Bceotia. The exact
date of his birth and death is unknown; but as he tells us that
he studied philosophy under Ammonius at Delphi, when Nero
made a tour through Greece, and as we know this circum¬
stance to have taken place a. d. 66, we may place the birth
of Plutarch towards the latter years of the reign of Claudius
(a. d. 48-53). He was sprung from an honourable family,
which had often been invested with the highest offices of
the magistracy. He speaks of having seen his great-grand¬
father Nicarchus, from whom he learned, as from an eye¬
witness, the miseries which his country had suffered from
the oppressions of Antony. His grandfather Lamprias wras
distinguished for his eloquence and imagination; and his
father is praised for his modesty, his acquaintance with the
theology of his time, and his knowledge of the works of the
poets. Plutarch had two brothers, Timon and Lamprias; of
the former of whom he says, that he has no obligations to
fortune so great as the enjoyment of his brother Timon’s
invariable friendship and kindness. Under Ammonius, of
whom we know little more than what his pupil has told us,
he acquired the doctrines of that humane and rational philo¬
sophy for which he was afterwards so distinguished. Upon
what occasion he visited Italy is uncertain, but it is suppos¬
ed to have been on some public business of the Cha?roneians.
W hilst he remained at Rome, he found his house resorted
to by all the principal citizens, and his lectures on philoso¬
phy attended by the most illustrious of the Romans. Sos-
sius Senecio, who was four times consul, once under Nerva
and thrice under Trajan, was his most intimate friend. To
him he addresses his Lives, except that of Aratus, which is
inscribed to Polycrates of Sicyon, the grandson of Aratus.
WTether he remained in Italy till all philosophers were
banished from that country by a decree of Domitian, is a
point of which we have no means of determining; butwe know
that he spent the greater part of his time in his native city.
Here he devoted himself to the discharge of such humble
duties as the magistrates of Chasroneia were required to
perform; and we find that he also joined to his magisterial
character the office of priest of Apollo. Suidas states that
he was preceptor to Trajan; but he was so nearly contem¬
porary with that emperor, that little credit is due to this
assertion. Plutarch was married to a lady of his native
city, called Timoxena, and in his matrimonial connection he
seems to have been particularly fortunate. By her he had
five children, four sons, and a daughter, who died young;
and on this occasion he addressed a beautiful letter of con¬
solation to his wife, which is highly honourable to both par¬
ties. Two only of his sons survived, Plutarch and Lam¬
prias, the latter of whom appears to have been a philoso¬
pher ; and it is to him that we are indebted for a catalogue of
his father’s writings. His nephew Sextus was of consider¬
able eminence, and taught the Greek language to Marcus
Antoninus. We have no particular account either as to
the manner or the time of his death, only it is evident that
he lived to a good old age. The most probable conjecture
84 PLY
Pluto is that of Fabricius, who says he died in the fifth year of
Plymouth ^a^r’an’ at t^le a£e °f seventy.
v ' ! His works have been divided, and they admit of a pretty
equal division, into Lives and Morals; the former of which,
in his own estimation, were to be preferred, as more noble
than the latter. His style has been excepted to with some
reason. He has also been criticised for some mistakes in
Roman antiquities, and for a partiality to the Greeks. On
the other hand, he has been justly praised for the copious¬
ness of his fine sense and learning, for his integrity, and for
a certain air of goodness which appears in all be wrote.
His business was not to please the ear, but to instruct and
charm the mind; and in this none ever excelled him. Of
his moral writings it is to be regretted that we have no good
English translation. An English version of his Lives, exe¬
cuted with fidelity and spirit, was presented to the public
by the Langhomes in 1770. The best edition of his works
is that of Reiske, in twelve volumes 8vo, 1774-82.
PLUTO, in Pagan worship, the king of the infernal re¬
gions, was the son of Saturn and Ops, and the brother of
Jupiter and Neptune. This deity, finding himself childless
and unmarried, mounted his chariot to visit the world; and,
arriving in Sicily, fell in love with Proserpine, whom he saw
gathering flowers with her companions in the valley of
Enna, near Mount .Etna; when, forcing her into his cha¬
riot, he drove her to the river Chemarus, through which he
opened for himself a passage back to the realms of night.
Pluto is usually represented in an ebony chariot drawn
by four black horses, sometimes holding a sceptre, to denote
his power; at others, a wand,*with which he drives away
the ghosts; and at others, some keys, to signify that he had
the keys of death. Homer observes, that his helmet had
the quality of rendering the wearer invisible, and that Mi¬
nerva borrowed it in order to remain concealed from Mars
when she fought against the Trojans. Pluto was greatly
revered both by the Greeks and Romans, who erected to
him both temples and altars. To this god sacrifices were
offered in the night, and it was not lawful to offer them by
day.
PLUTUS, in Pagan worship, the god of riches, is fre¬
quently confounded with Pluto. He was represented as
appearing lame when he approached, but provided with
wings at his departure, to show the difficulty of amassing
wealth and the uncertainty of its enjoyment. He was also
represented blind, to show that he often bestowed his fa¬
vours on the most unworthy, and left in necessity those
who had the greatest merit.
PLL \ IUS, a surname of Jupiter. He was invoked by
that name amongst the Romans whenever the earth was
parched by continual heat, and in want of refreshing rains.
He had an altar in the temple on the Capitol.
PL YE RS, in fortification, denotes a kind of balance used
in raising or letting down a drawbridge. They consist of
two timber levers, twice as long as "the bridge they lift,
joined together by other timbers, framed in the form of a
St Andrew’s cross, to counterpoise them. They are sup¬
ported by two upright jambs, on which they swing; and the
bridge is raised or let down by means of chains joining the
ends ot the plyers and bridge.
PLl ING, in nautical language, the act of making, or
endeavouring to make, a progress against the direction of
the wind. Hence a ship that advances well in her course
in this manner ot sailing, is said to be a wood plyer.
PL\ MOL TH. a town at the western extremity of the
county of Devon, on the southern shore of England. It is a
place which lias grown to its present importance from the
natural advantages of maritime access, and the capability
Oi defence arising from local circumstances, which have
been extended by liberal expenditure under the direction
of men of the most scientific attainments.
The entrance to the harbour, or more properly harbours,
PLY
of Plymouth, is not without its dangers, consisting of rocks PlyB’ou*:
and shoals. Ot the former are the Mewstcme, the Shagstone,
and the Itenny ; and of the latter the Tinker, the Shovel,
the Knap, and the Panther ; but their position is so well
known, and so accurately pointed out by buoys, that in all
but the most tempestuous and foggy weather they are easi¬
ly avoided, and few^er accidents to ships occur here than in
almost any other harbour. The first object deserving no¬
tice in the water-access to Plymouth is that part called
the Sound, a most capacious anchoring place, capable of
affording shelter and protection to fifty sail of the line.
The Sound has been rendered secure by that prodigious
display of human labour known by the name of the Break¬
water. As a full and scientific description of that work has
been given in a former volume (see vol. v. page 219), we
refer to it; only adding, that since the trial of the storms
of 1816 and 1817, the strength as well as the utility of
the work has^ been proved by a storm which took place on
toe i3d of November 1824, when the whole southern coast
of England was bestrew ed with wreck and desolation. The
tide then rose to the frightful height of twenty-six feet two
inches, whilst the mean rise of its height at spring-tides is
usually only eighteen feet. The greater part of the surface
of the Breakwater was on that occasion completely over¬
turned, and huge stones of from two to five tons each were
carried from the outer and deposited on the inner slope.
The centre and western ends suffered most, and the land¬
ing-place was destroyed. It is, however, considered that
the advantage gained to the work by the shock, causing
the blocks to settle down more firmly, will amply compen¬
sate for the derangement of the surface. On the whole,
therefore, this occurrence may be considered as a most sa¬
tisfactory proof of the utility and durability of this national
barrier. It need scarcely be remarked, that those liabili¬
ties to injury to which such a work as the Breakwater is
subject whilst in progress, will not exist in an equal degree
when the work is completed. Thus, in a hurricane of Ja¬
nuary 1828 not a single stone of the finished part of the
work was removed from its position. The fears entertain¬
ed by some persons that the erection might ultimately
prove detrimental to the Sound and to the harbour within,
by causing an increased deposit of mud and silt, are satis¬
factorily proved to be groundless; no perceptible altera¬
tion having taken place in the depth of water in any of
those places, or any change in the strength or the set of
the tides.
Within the Breakwater there are many indentations, the
mouths ot which terminate in the Sound, and form excel¬
lent harbours, some of them adapted for the largest class of
ships. The easternmost of these inlets is at first called
Catwater, and extends to the Lake of Saltram, being cross¬
ed by the Lary Bridge, an elegant work, erected between
the years 1824 and 1827, about 500 feet in length. The
small river Plym, which gives its name to the town, emp¬
ties its water into the Lake of Saltram. It is a stream of
short course, rising from the Dartmoor Mountains. The
next to Catw ater is a capacious harbour, called Sutton Pool,
which is capable of receiving a thousand sail. It is used
chiefly by the largest class of merchant-ships, and by the
steam-packets ; and it has several yards for repairing or
building merchant-vessels. The next harbour" is called
Mill Bay ; it is chiefly used for commercial purposes, and
has some good quays, some ship-building yards, and good
moorings for steam-boats. Beyond that, at the extreme
west, which it separates from Cornwall, is that indentation
which is of the most importance to the British navy. It is
the harbour of Hamoaze, one of the finest in the world. It
is open to the full force of the tide, but receives the stores
of fresh water which fall into it from the rivers Tavy, Ta-
mar, Lynher, and St Germains. It is the place where the
men of war in ordinary are moored ; and on its border are
IvTaonth. the extensive dock*yard, the gun-wharf, and the powder-
' magazine, which, with other objects, will hereafter be no¬
ticed. In Hamoaze, the admiral commanding the port has
the flag displayed on his ship ; and when surrounded, as he
commonh is, by a hundred sail of vessels, a most impressive
spectacle is presented to view afloat, whilst the picturesque
objects on the shore tend to increase the effect.
Within the Breakwater is an island, sometimes called
Drake's, sometimes St Nicholas’. It is surrounded with
rocks, has a strong castle and other fortifications, and is
provided with furnaces for heating balls, and with other
means of defence ; and it is of great importance, as com¬
manding the entrance into Hamoaze, Catwater, and the
other harbours.
Little is known of Plymouth prior to the time of the Nor¬
man conquest, when it was called South Town or Sutton.
In the reign of Edward I. it was called Sutton Prior and
Sutton \ alletort, the northern parts being situated on the
lands of the prior of Plympton, and the southern parts on
the estates of the Valletorts. At that period it was chiefly
inhabited by fishermen. Under the fostering care of
the priors the place made considerable advances, and the
more appropriate name of Plym-mouth was given to it. The
growing prosperity of the town excited the jealousy of
France; and in 1389 a force from thence landed and at¬
tempted to bum it. They succeeded in burning a portion,
but were ultimately repulsed, with the loss of 500 men, bv
Hugh Courtenay. Similar attempts were subsequently
made at various times, but with no great result; and after
each, the fortifications were extended and strengthened.
During the civil war between Charles I. and the parlia-
ment, Plymouth was held by the troops of the latter party,
who, though besieged, and almost reduced by famine, re¬
sisted for three years every effort of the royalists. After
th’e™r-efit0rati°n’ the citadei was erected; and in the reign
of '> illiam III. the dock-yard and the naval arsenal were
established towards the west, upon the eastern shore of Ha¬
moaze. Since that time it has gone on increasing; but the
greatest progress has been made during the present cen¬
tury, in which it has assumed a new character, in the intel¬
ligence and wealth of the inhabitants, as well as in the ar-
dutectural style of its buildings both public and private.
I he buildings collectively called Plymouth are comprehend¬
ed in three divisions, now known, the first by that name, the
second by that of Stonehouse, and the third by that of De-
vonpori The name of the latter was till August 1824
rlymouth-Dock, when, on an application from the inhabi¬
tants, the present name was given by royal authority, on
which occasion a column of 125 feet in height was erected
to commemorate the introduction of the new name.
The population of the three ports, at the respective de¬
cennial enumerations, has been as follows:
PLYMOUTH.
65
1801.
Plymouth  16,040
Stonehouse 
Devonport 
3,407
23,747
1811.
20,803
5,174
30,083
1821.
1831.
21,591
6,043
33,578
31,080
9,571
34,883
43,194 ' 56,060 | 61,212
75,534
Presuming as we fairly may, that the increase between
1831 and the present time (1838) has been at the same rate
, l ?rf-en^g Penods’ the actual Population will be
upwards of 8o,000, or nearly double of what it was thirty-
six years ago. J
inLCOrP°rated as a borough in the year
trifli ’ and by that obarter, and subsequent alterations of a
mflrng nature, was governed till 1835, when, by the law
nade to reform mmiapal corporations, it was divided into
six wards, each choosing six councillors, who elect tv. th e
aldermen, out of which one is appointed mavor; and, be- Plymouth,
sides the mayor, it has six justices of the peace, who are v
nominated by the king. Two members for this borough
are returned to the House of Commons. The town is in
the hundred of Roborough, and consists of two parishes,
which are within the deanery of Plympton and the archdea¬
conry of Totness, in the diocese of Exeter. The church of
the parish of St Andrews is interesting to the admirers of
ancient architecture. It formerly belonged to a monastery ;
and many alterations having been made since its erection
in 1440, various styles are exhibited in the building, which
thus as a whole appears incongruous; and, though hand¬
some in parts, it wants, as regards the body of the church,
that altitude which is the most essential ingredient of Go¬
thic architecture. The windows are of the pointed style.
The tower, containing a fine peal of eight bells, must be
admitted to be of good general proportions, and it is crown¬
ed by a pinnacled compartment of remarkable beauty.
The other church, of the parish of Charles, w as biiilt in
the reign of the first king of that name. The tower and
spire have an agreeable outline, but otherwise the exterior
of the building can only be described as in the debased
Gothic style of a degenerate period. Each of these church¬
es has a chapel attached to it, under the respective cler¬
gymen, w hich together contain sittings for 2700 persons.
There are two other episcopal chapels, one in the citadel
and the other on the Hoe, which afford sittings for about
3000 persons. The several sects of Methodists, Baptists,
Independents, Quakers, Roman Catholics, and Unitarians,
have their respective places of religious worship; but the
first mentioned have by far the most numerous body of ad¬
herents. The Hoe or Howe at Plymouth is an eminence
on the south side of the town. It is a healthfiil and pleas¬
ing promenade, stretching from Catwater to Mill Bay, on
the eastern extremity of which is built the principal defence
of this most important place, called the Citadel. The en¬
trance to this work, on the side of the town, is through two
gateways of a bad specimen of architecture. The buddings
consist of houses for the governor and other officers, of bar-
mcks, an hospital, a magazine, an armoury, and a chapel.
1 he fortification consists of three regular and two irregular
bastions; the curtains of the regular bastions being strength¬
ened by two ravelins and horn-w orks; on the east, north,
and west sides are a deep ditch, counterscarp, and covered
way, palisadoed, and the parapets are pierced for 120 can-
non. The lower fort is connected with the Citadel, and is
chiefly intended to defend the Sound.
{ Amongst the public buildings of Plymouth, the most im¬
posing is a noble pile, which comprehends the royal hotel
the assembly-rooms, and the theatre. The foundation was
laid in September 1811; and the expense of the erection
amounting to L.60,000, was defrayed partly by the corpo¬
ration and partly by the institution of a tontine.
The theatre is constructed with not less regard to the
safety than to the accommodation of the audience. The
roof and entire frame-work of the boxes are of iron, and
the auditorium is of a magnitude fully equal to the purpose
of the legitimate drama-
The Athenaeum is a fine building erected by the Phi¬
losophical Institution, and completed in the vear 1819.
The portico exhibits four columns appropriate to the cha¬
racter of a building devoted to literature and art In
connection with the institution a public library has been
established, the building of which exhibits great taste and
judgment.
The custom-house, a recent building, is worthy of the
town, and convenient for its commerce. It exhibit a front
of granite, suitable, solid, and well proportioned. The in-
tenor is well arranged for business. On the ground floor are
the offices of the principal surveyor, the tide-surveyor, the
lanaing waiter, the searchers, and others. A granite stair-
i
66
PLYMOUTH.
Plymouth, case leads to the long room, which is fifty-four feet in length,
v"“—twenty-six in width, and twenty-two in height. This building
was completed in 1820, at an expense of L.8000.
The royal baths is a pileof buildingbetween Plymouth and
Stonehouse, the appearance of which excites much admira¬
tion. It is most appropriately furnished with hot and cold
baths of fresh or of sea water, of hot air, of sulphur, and of
vapour. The front is in the Doric style of architecture. It
has within it a pump-room, where a medicinal water is sup¬
plied fi’om a spring, which is chiefly composed of chloride of
sodium, muriate of magnesia, and muriate of lime, combined
with small proportions of sulphate and carbonate of lime,
and a very minute portion of carbonate of iron. It is per¬
haps the best arranged institution of the kind in England ;
and the luxuries it provides are administered at very low
rates. It belongs to a joint-stock company, incorporated by
charter in 1828.
A new public edifice, begun in 1835, for the benevolent
purpose of establishing a hospital and dispensary for bouth
Devon and East Cornwall, is approaching to its completion.
At present the central part only is erecting ; but in the plan
it is contemplated to erect two wings, as soon as sufficient
funds flow in for the purpose. These would double the
capacity of the building as to beds, and supply other con¬
veniences. There are in the centre part a theatre for ope¬
rations and lectures, and wards for forty beds, with appro¬
priate rooms for nurses and other attendants. Few towns
have advanced so much within the last twenty years, in re¬
spect to its public buildings, as Plymouth. That advance is
still progressive, and new erections are now constructing,
one intended as a guild-hall, instead of the old building,
another as a new prison, and also one by a society for hor¬
ticultural and other exhibitions. With all the improve¬
ments here noticed, it must be observed, that the principal
thoroughfares are irregular in their disposition, and that the
most bustling street is the narrowest of the town; and though
there are excellent shops of every description, some of them
exhibiting fronts of chaste architectural character, yet near
them are houses of very antique date and style. The north¬
ern part of the town consists of small but neat houses; but
the best masses of buildings are at the west end, and they
are chiefly occupied by legal, medical, and other professional
persons.
Plymouth is, upon the whole, a healthy place. The climate
is mild but rainy: whilst frosts are gentle, and snow rarely
remains on the ground. It is well supplied with fresh water,
which is brought by pipes from a stream on Dartmoor, at
twenty-four miles distance, and from a reservoir distributed
in the several streets ; the annual charge for the supply of
water is sixteen shillings for each house. Provisions are un¬
commonly cheap, and of the best quality. The market for
fish is very remarkable, both for the variety, the excel¬
lence, and the cheapness of that description of food. The
market-days are Mondays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, and
the market-place is spacious, comprehending nearly three
acres.
The maritime commerce of Plymouth is extensive. A
great trade in timber is carried on with the Baltic, with
America, and the Mediterranean, and there is a direct in¬
tercourse with the West Indies and Mauritius, which se¬
cures a good supply of tropical commodities. It is a bond¬
ing port for many articles, and especially for tobacco. There
are also large importations of timber, hemp, tallow, and
other articles, for the use of the dock-yard. The coasting
trade is carried on principally with London, Newcastle,
Newport in Monmouthshire, and Bristol. Great quantities
of manganese are shipped to Scotland, lead to Bristol, and
some wool to Hull. The amount of duties paid at the
custom-house was, in the year ending 5th January 1836,
L.93,462. 3s. lid., and at 5th January 1837, L.103,423.
7s. 4d. The ships and their tonnage that entered the port
in the year ending January 1837, were, British two bun- Plymom:
dred and nineteen ships, 20,890 tons ; and foreign thirty-
seven ships, 4779 tons. The whole number of ships owned
by Plymouth are three hundred and fifty, the tonnage of
which amounts to 30,000 tons. Besides these, there are
more than fifty decked boats, called trawlers, employed in
the extensive fishery at sea, which take such quantities of
fish as to enable the captors to send them to Exeter, Bath,
and even London. The building and repairing of ships
gives occupation to a great number of persons.
Plymouth was in 1834 constituted a stannary town. The
neighbouring tin and other mines are numerous and pro¬
ductive. The vicinity also abounds in quarries of granite,
slate, and marble ; the latter being highly esteemed for its
veining and susceptibility of polish. The export of granite
and the other stone is much facilitated by the railroad,
twenty-four miles in length, which extends fi’om the inte¬
rior of Dartmoor to the quays of Catwater and Sutton Pool
harbours. By the same means coal, lime, and manure are
conveyed from the port to the interior. This railroad
was executed by a joint-stock company formed in the year
1818, and was completed in 1820. The Exchange for the
merchants, erected in 1813, is near the custom-house ; and,
amongst other institutions, it has a chamber of commerce,
a marine insurance office, a steam-packet office, the oil-gas
company’s office, and an appropriate reading-room.
Plymouth abounds with benevolent institutions, both of
ancient and modern foundation, which, from the great num¬
ber of them, can only be but slightly noticed. The work-
house, a corporate establishment, founded by several acts
of parliament, provides for a great number of paupers of
both sexes and of all ages. Charles’s alms-houses, Joy’s
alms-houses, the Household of Faith, the new alms-houses,
the Mendicity Society, the Female Benevolent Society,
and some others, are supported either by bequests, or by
voluntary contributions, or by annual subscriptions. Most
of the places of worship have schools attached to them; and
there are a few endowed schools, and one grammar-school,
from whose funds exhibitions are given to students at Ox¬
ford. Besides the hospital already noticed, there is a large
public dispensary, and an infirmary for diseases of the eye.
There is a medical society, with a professional library for
the members of the healing art, embracing the entire field
of medical literature. In 1815, a law library was esta¬
blished, the members of which consist exclusively of bar¬
risters and attorneys. The books are open to the refer¬
ence of any subscriber to the general library, to whose col¬
lection they have been recently united. The amusements
of Plymouth are the stage, music, balls, annual races, and,
what is more appropriate to the situation, regatta or marine
races, in which the assistance of the Naval Yacht Club is
afforded.
Stonehouse, the centre town of the group, received the stonehou:
name from Joel de Stonehouse, the lord of this domain in
the reign of Henry III. before which it was called Hippes-
ton. It is now descended to the Earl of Mount Edgecumbe,
who, by gsgnting leases on liberal terms, has assisted in that
great increase of the town which the state of the population
at four periods has manifested. These leases are granted
on lives, renewable for ever at a fixed fine, and subject to
an annual conventional rent. The town is joined with Ply¬
mouth by a thoroughfare street, and it occupies nearly the
same level. The southern part is most on the increase,
and is almost entirely occupied by genteel families, chiefly
those of naval and military officers, and other persons hold¬
ing situations under the government.
Stonehouse was constituted a township by the reform
act, and exercises the elective franchise in connection with
the borough of Devonport. It is divided into two wards,
the east and the west, by the line of Brownlow Street. It is
under the jurisdiction of a bench of magistrates, who sit
PLYMOUTH.
67
Plymouth, weekly at a town-hall. The poor are under the manage-
''—'y'—^ ment of a governor, visitors, and guardians, in a work-
house, attached to which is a prison for vagrants and petty
offenders, who are detained till they can be removed by the
orders of the magistrates. The chief trade by water is in
coals and timber ; and the vessels discharge their cargoes
on quays in the Pool, in which are accommodations for
building ships.
There are two parochial chapels, St George’s and St
Pauls, besides one in the Royal Naval Hospital, which to¬
gether provide sittings for 2500 persons, and maintain a
large national school. The Roman Catholics, Independ¬
ents, both kinds of Methodists, and the Baptists, have also
places of worship; and most of them have schools for the
instruction of those attending the public services of them.
An object that strikes every one in passing from Ply¬
mouth into Stonehouse is the establishment of the United
Gas Company, at Mill Bay, by which the three towns in
a direct line of nearly four miles are supplied with light.
The edifices belonging to the government are the most
prominent objects in Stonehouse. One of these, the Ma¬
rine Barracks, is on the western shore of Mill Bay, where
there is a convenient landing-place. The buildings form
an oblong square, in front of which are the apartments for
the privates, whilst those of the officers are on the two sides.
On the west side are the entrance gate and a newly erect¬
ed guard-house. These barracks are handsomely and re¬
gularly built, have an hospital, and accommodate about
1000 men. The mess apartments are spacious and well
furnished, and the officers have a very good library.
The Royal Naval Hospital is situated in the north-east
part of Stonehouse. This important institution for the re¬
ception of sick and wounded marines and seamen was found
ed in 1762. It occupies a rising ground, and the area of
the whole is about twenty-four acres, of which thirteen are
formed into a delightful place of exercise-ground for the
convalescent patients. It consists of ten buildings, sur¬
rounding an extensive quadrangle, each containing six wards
calculated to receive sixteen patients ; but in cases of emer¬
gency the number can be extended to twenty. Thus as
many as twelve hundred patients can be accommodated at
one time. The vast importance of this establishment may
be seen by an authentic account, which shows, that in ten
years from 1805 to 1815 no less than 48,452 seamen and
marines were received into the hospital, and a very great pro¬
portion of them returned again to the service as effective
men. The superior officer is of the rank of post-captain in
the navy, and has under him two lieutenants. The other
officers are a physician, a surgeon, a steward, a dispenser,
four hospital-mates, several extra mates, and a chaplain.
The most remarkable object at Stonehouse is one only
finished during the last reign, and hence bearing the name
of the Royal William Victualling Yard. It is situated close
to the shore, upon which a most extensive marine terrace
has been constructed, fifty feet broad and nearly 1500 feet
in length. It is entered from the land side by a magnifi¬
cent gateway, under an arch surmounted by a statue of his
majesty, and two lateral ways. The whole of the building
is of beautiful granite; and the shafts of the columns form¬
ing the internal avenue are each of one stone thirty-six feet
high. After passing the gateway on the left are the neat
granite-fronted residences of the two principal resident offi¬
cers. On the right is the baking-establishment, compris¬
ing a quadrangular range of buildings 250 by 200 feet, en¬
closing an architectural chimney-shaft of granite 150 feet
in height. Further on is the Melville quadrangle, 240 feet
square, with its rusticated granite archway (twenty-eight
eet high), and the clock-chamber, of the same material,
making together an elevation of ninety-five feet, and form¬
ing a magnificent centre-piece sixty-one feet in width. Op¬
posite to this is the basin, 250 by 200 feet in extent, sur¬
rounded by quays of granite, save where an iron swing-bridge Plymouth,
vaults over an opening of forty-five feet into Stonehouse
Pool. Answering the great bake-house, on the opposite of
the basin, is the brew-house, similar in dimensions and in
external character to the former, and having a correspond¬
ing chimney-shaft. Passing onwards in a direct line from
the entrance, the irregular quadrangle of the cooperage is
on the left, and beyond that the Clarence stores, which run
along the quay of that name 340 feet. There is also a reservoir
for fresh water, elevated above most of the buildings, being
fifty feet in height, neatly finished with granite and an iron
railing, which contains 7000 tons. The Melville quadrangle
includes the offices of the establishment, and, with the Cla¬
rence stores, are used as depots for wet and dry provisions,
and for slops for the seamen. In the brew-house a steam-
engine is used in the operation of grinding malt, in mash¬
ing, and pumping. A similar engine is employed in the
bake-house, where there are twenty-five pair of millstones,
affording the means of grinding a thousand bushels of meal
in ten hours. In the same period flour is converted in the
bake-house into ship-biscuit, to the extent of 2450 pounds
weight. The entire premises of this establishment occupy an
extent of about thirteen acres, of which one half have been
recovered from the sea, and the remainder excavated from
the rock, the stone taken from which has been made use
of to build a strong wall to defend the whole against the
sea.
Devonport, the third town of the group, is divided from Devonport.
Stonehouse by an arm of the sea, or inlet, over which there
is now a bridge. It is the most populous of the three ; but
within the last thirty years there has not been so rapid an
increase of the inhabitants of this division as of the other
two. It is in the parish of Stoke Damerel; and the ground
on which it stands is for the most part the property of the
St Aubyn family, whose steward holds a court-leet and a
court-baron annually at Michaelmas, when a jury is sworn
in, to prevent nuisances, and to appoint and swear in con¬
stables. Having been constituted a borough by the reform
act, it now retilrns two members to parliament; but the
right of voting for them is also extended to the householders
of Stonehouse. The town has neither mayor nor aider-
men, but is governed by a board of 150 commissioners,
elected chiefly from the inhabitants, vacancies being filled
once a year; amongst them are the lord and steward of the
manor, the commissioner of the dock-yard, the port-admiral,
and some other official men. The act of parliament by
which this body is constituted has vested in it the manage¬
ment of the watching, lighting, and cleaning the streets, of
the poor, and the power of granting licenses to porters and
watermen. The mayor, aldermen, and recorder of the
borough of Plymouth and Saltash are also qualified to act
on the licensing commission. A bench of resident magis¬
trates hold petty sessions at the town-hall on every Wed¬
nesday.
The town of Devonport is supplied w ith water by a com¬
pany established by act of parliament 33 George III., which,
by means of pipes, have brought a stream of water from the
Dartmoor Hills, which winds amongst the hills for thirty-
seven miles, when it reaches a reservoir on the higher part
of the town, whence it is distributed to the several streets and
houses. The streets of the town are clean, and the whole
has an appearance of great neatness; and two or three of these
streets are of very handsome architecture. Several of the
public buildings, though upon a small scale, are distinguish¬
ed for the classical elegance of their architectural designs.
The town-hall is distinguished by a Doric portico, in which
the depth of the pronaos, and the elevation of the entrance-
door upon a second internal landing, are features exciting
great admiration. The columns are twenty-seven feet six
inches in height, and the lower diameters five feet six
inches. The hall is seventy-five feet in length, forty feet
68 PLY
Plymouth, in width, and thirty-one feet in height. Within the build-
ing are cells for prisoners, offices for parochial business, and
apartments occupied by the Mechanics’ Institute. The li¬
brary is an elegant erection, like the town-hall, of recent
construction, having been executed in 1823. The cele¬
brated Denon, on seeing the design for this facade, pro¬
nounced it the best attempt to appropriate Egyptian archi¬
tecture to domestic purposes that had ever come under his
notice. The institution is designated the Civil and Mili¬
tary Library. It has a news-room, committee-room, and
spacious library already containing between 4000 and 5000
volumes, constantly augmenting; and, besides, it possesses
a comprehensive and valuable collection of minerals, pre¬
sented by Sir John St Aubyn.
When the name of Devonport was given to this town, a
column was erected to commemorate the grant, which now
forms one of its chief architectural ornaments. This noble
monument is of granite, fluted, and of Doric proportions ;
not quite six diameters in height; measuring sixty-five feet
four inches from the bottom of the shaft to the top of the
capital; and making, with its inferior and crowning pedes¬
tals a total altitude of 101 feet. Its height above the street,
including the rock on which it stands, is 124 feet. A stair¬
case of 140 steps leads to the gallery, the prospect from
which will well repay any one for the labour of ascending
to it.
The church of Stoke Damerel, the mother church of this
very populous parish, being small, sevex*al chapels of ease
have been erected. Mount Zion chapel exhibits an inge¬
nious adaptation of Mahommedan architecture to Chris¬
tian purposes. Though it has a strange, it has also a pic¬
turesque appearance; and the interior is capacious and com¬
modious. St Aubyn’s chapel is distinguished by its stone
spire. It was built by subscription, under an act of parlia¬
ment, in 1771. St John’s chapel was built in the same way,
eight years later, at a cost of L.7700. The arrangement of
the interior is curiously amphitheatrical. The roof em¬
braces a clear span of seventy feet, the length of the cha¬
pel being ninety feet. Besides these episcopal chapels, a
large one was built in the dock-yard by government in
1821. It was chiefly intended for the accommodation of
the officers, civil, naval, and military, together with the ope¬
ratives and soldiers belonging to the yard; but it is also
open to the public. Besides the established churches, the Cal¬
vinist and Arminian Methodists, and the Independents and
Baptists, have their places of w orship, as well as the smaller
sects of the Moravians and the Unitarians or Socinians.
The government-house, on Mount Wise, near the grand
parade, commands a southern view, of much beauty. It
contains every accommodation for carrying on the military
government, and for the family of the governor. The front
extends 200 feet. A large brass cannon, at the principal
entrance, was taken from the Turks in the engagement of
the Dardanelles. The port-admiral’s house is near to it,
on the north-west side, and comprises all the offices for the
transaction of naval business, except that of courts-martial,
which are always held on board the flag-ship in Hamoaze.
At a short distance from it, on the top of the hill, is the
semaphore, by which a constant communication is main¬
tained between the office and the flag-ship, and which forms
the first of a chain of telegraphs communicating with the
Admiralty in London. To illustrate the perfection of the
telegraphic system, it will be sufficient to state, that a mes¬
sage has been sent to, and an answer received irom Lon¬
don, in fifteen minutes. The parade with its martial pomp
and music, and Mount Wise with its charming walks anti
prospects, form a great source of pleasure to the inhabi¬
tants. To these may be added Richmond Walk at the
foot of Mount Wise, which leads to the public baths con-
P L Y
structed at the joint expense of the navy and ordnance de- Plymptoir
partments, and to the king’s stairs, erected for access to the E!irls
shore in 1820, _ . PlynteriJ
The most important object in Plymouth and its vicinity v
is the dock-yard. In the eighth volume of this work, under
the article Docks, is a general description of this establish¬
ment, to which the reader is referred. To what is there
stated, we may add, that the whole dock-yard extends over
seventy-five acres of land, of which about one sixth is the
property of the crown, and the remainder of Sir John St
Aubyn, under a lease for twenty-one years, renewable every
seven years with a fine of L.534. 4s. 6d., and an annual
ground-rent of thirty shillings per acre.
The operations carried on within the yard give employ¬
ment to upwards of 4000 men in time of w^ar, and 1500 in
time of peace ; and in the latter case the number of indivi¬
duals depending on it for subsistence exceeds 7000. The
chapel of the dock-yard is a fine building, the foundation of
which was laid in 1814. The interior is elegantly fitted up.
It is one hundred feet in length and seventy-five in breadth,
and has a tower with a set of bells. The erection is said to
have cost L.24,000. In the year 1834 a police force was
established as a civil guard to the dock-yard, consisting of
a director, three inspectors, three sergeants, and forty con¬
stables.
The gun-wharf is an important part of this naval arsenal,
on the north side of the dock-yard. It covers five acres of
land. It contains storehouses filled with the various instru¬
ments of destruction; vast quantities of muskets, pistols,
and cutlasses are deposited in chests or arranged in racks,
or on the walls in the form of stars, circles, and crescents.
Near these storehouses is the blacksmith’s shop, and other
buildings used as depositories for gun-carriages, and the
implements of the field-train. The intervals between the
different edifices are occupied by piles of ordnance belong¬
ing to the ships in the harbour, with their respective names
painted on the cannon. There are also large quantities of
shot arrayed in pyramidical heaps, marked with the num¬
ber contained in each pile. The vast portion of stores seen
here, together with the armoury, form a sight worthy of at¬
tention.
Access is granted to the national depositories, on an ap¬
plication to the presiding officer, with the name, residence,
and profession of the applicant. (g.)
Plymouth. See New England.
PLYMPTON EARLS, or Plympton Maurice, a
borough and market-town of the county of Devon, in the
hundred of the same name, 217 miles from London and
five from Plymouth. It is one of the stannary towns for
stamping tin. It is governed by a mayor, recorder, and
seven aldermen, and returned two members to parliament till
1832, when it was disfranchised. The population amount¬
ed in 1801 to 604, in 1811 to 715, in 1821 to 762, and in
1831 to 804.
PLYNTERIA, a Grecian festival in honour of Aglauros,
or rather of Minerva, who received from the daughter of
Cecrops the name of Aglauros. The word is derived from
n'hvviiv, lavare, because during the solemnity they undressed
the statue of the goddess and washed it. The day on which
it was observed the people looked upon as unfortunate and
inauspicious; and therefore no person was permitted to ap¬
pear in the temples, which were purposely surrounded with
ropes. The arrival of Alcibiades in Athens on that day was
thought very unfortunate, but the success which ever after¬
wards attended him proved it to be otherwise. It was cus¬
tomary at this festival to bear in procession a cluster of figs,
thus intimating the progress of civilization amongst the pri¬
mitive inhabitants of the earth, as figs served them for food
after they had contracted a dislike for acorns.
69
PNEUMATICS.
Definition.
Extent of
the science
No precise
limit to the
diflferent
classes of
bodies.
\ir the
nost fami-
iar eom-
tressible
luid.
iififerent
roperties
t' air.
According to the present usage of our language, this term is
restricted to that part of natural philosophy which treats of
mechanical properties of elastic fluids. The word, in its
original meaning, expresses a quality of air, or more pro¬
perly of breath. Under the article Physics we observed,
that in a great number of languages the term employed to
express breath was also one of the terms used to express the
animating principle, nay, the intellectual substance, the soul.
We have extended the term Pneumatics to the study
of the mechanical properties of all elastic or sensibly com¬
pressible fluids, that is, of fluids whose elasticity and com¬
pressibility become an interesting object of our attention ;
as the term Hydrostatics is applied to the study of the
mechanical properties of such bodies as interest us by their
fluidity or liquidity only, or whose elasticity and compressi¬
bility are not familiar or interesting, though not less real or
general than in the case of air and all vapours.
There is no precise limit to the different classes of natural
bodies with respect to their mechanical properties. There
is no such thing as a body perfectly hard, perfectly soft,
perfectly elastic, or perfectly incompressible. All bodies
have some degree of elasticity intermixed with some degree
of ductility. Water, mercury, oil, are compressible; but
their compressibility need not be attended to in order per¬
fectly to understand the phenomena consequent on their
materiality, fluidity, and gravity. But if we neglect the
compressibility of air, we remain ignorant of the cause and
nature of its most interesting phenomena, and are but im¬
perfectly informed with respect to those in which its elasti¬
city has no share ; and it is convenient to attend to this
distinction in our researches, in order to understand those
phenomena which depend solely or chiefly on compressi¬
bility and elasticity. This observation is important; for
here elasticity appears in its most simple form, unaccom¬
panied with any other mechanical affection of matter (if we
except gravity), and lies most open to our observation,
whether employed for investigating the nature of this very
property of bodies, or for explaining its mode of action. We
shall even find that the constitution of an avowedly elastic
fluid, whose compressibility is so very sensible, will give us
the distinctest notions of fluidity in general, and enable us
to understand its characteristic appearances, by which it is
distinguished from solidity, namely, the equable distribution
of pressure through all its parts in every direction, and the
horizontality which its surface assumes by the action of
gravity: phenomena which have been assumed as equivalent
to the definition of a perfect fluid, and from which all the
laws of hydrostatics and hydraulics have been derived. And
these lawshave been applied to the explanation of thepheno-
mena around us; and water, mercury, oil, &c. have been deno¬
minated fluid only because their appearances have been found
to tally exactly with these consequences of this definition,
while the definition itself remains in the form of an assumption,
unsupported by any other proof of its obtaining in nature.
Of all the sensible conpressible fluids air is the most fa¬
miliar, wras the first studied, and has been the most minutely
examined. It has therefore been generally taken as the ex¬
ample of their mechanical properties, whilst those mechani¬
cal properties which are peculiar to any of them, and there¬
fore characteristic, have usually been treated as an appendix
to the general science of pneumatics.
But although the mechanical properties are the proper
subjects of our consideration, it will be impossible to avoid
considering occasionally properties which are more of a che¬
mical nature ; because they occasion such modifications of
the mechanical properties as would frequently be unintelli- Air.
gible without considering them in conjunction with the
other; and, on the other hand, the mechanical properties
produce such modifications of the properties merely chemi¬
cal, and of very interesting phenomena consequent on them,
that these would often pass unexplained unless we give an
account of them in this place.
By mechanical properties we mean such as produce, or Mechanical
are connected with, sensible changes of motion, and which properties,
indicate the presence and agency of moving or mechanical
powers. They are therefore the subject of mathematical
discussion ; admitting of measure, number, and direction.
We shall therefore begin with the consideration of air.
It is by no means an idle question to put, What is this air what is
of which so much is said and written? We see nothing, we air ?
feel nothing of it. We find ourselves at liberty to move about
in any direction without any obstacle or hinderance. Whence,
then, the assertion, that we are surrounded with a matter
cal’ed air ? A few very simple observations and experi¬
ments will show us that this assertion is well founded.
We are accustomed to say, that a vessel is empty when Proofs that
we have poured out of it the water which it contained, it is matter
Take a cylindrical glass jar, hav¬
ing a small hole in its bottom; and Fig. 1.
having stopped this hole, fill the
jar with water, and then pour out
the water, leaving the glass empty,
in the common acceptation of the
word. Now, throw a bit of cork,
or any light body, on the surface
of water in a cistern ; cover this
with the glass jar A held in the
hand with its bottom upwards, and
move it downwards, as at B, keep¬
ing it all the while in an upright
position. I he cork will continue to float on the surface of
the water in the inside of the glass, and will most distinctly
show whereabouts that surface is. It w ill thus be seen,
that the water within the glass has its surface considerably
lower at C than that of the surrounding water ; and however
deep we immerge the glass, we shall find that the water
will never rise in the inside of it so as to fill it. If plunged
to the depth of 32 feet, the water will only half fill it; and
yet the acknowledged laws of hydrostatics tell us, that the
water would fill the glass if there were nothing to hinder it.
1 here istherefore something already withintheglasswhichpre-
vents the water from getting into it; manifesting in this man¬
ner the most distinctive property of matter, viz. the hindering
other matter from occupying the same place at the same time.
W hile things are in this condition, pull the stopper D Possesst d
out of the hole in the bottom of the jar, and the water willof impul-
instantly rise in the inside of the jar, and stand at an equal sive lon:e,
height within and without. This is justly ascribed to the
escape through the hole of the matter which formerly ob¬
structed the entry of the water; for if the hand be held be¬
fore the hole, a puff will be distinctly felt, or a feather held
there will be blown aside; indicating in this manner that
what prevented the entry of the water, and now escapes,
possesses another characteristic property of matter, impul¬
sive force. I he materiality is concluded from this appear¬
ance, in the same manner that the materiality of water is
concluded from the impulse of a jet from a pipe. We also
see the mobility of the formerly pent up, and now liberated
substance, in consequence of external pressure, viz. the pres¬
sure of the surrounding water.
70
PNEUMATICS.
Air. Also, if we take a smooth cylindrical tube, shut at one
>^,~\^ate/end, and fit a plug or cork to its open end, so as to slide a-
Impenetra- long it, but so tightly as to prevent all passage by its sides ;
bility, an[i :f tiie piUg ]-)e wen SOaked in grease, we shall find that
no force whatever can push it to the bottom of the tube.
There is therefore something within the tube preventing by
its impenetrability the entry of the plug, and therefore pos¬
sessing this characteristic of matter.
Elasticity, In like manner, if, after having opened a pair of common
bellows, we shut up the nozzle and valve hole, and try to
bring the boards together, we find it impossible There is
something included which prevents this, in the same man¬
ner as if the bellows were filled with wool; but on opening
the nozzle we can easily shut them, viz. by expelling this
something; and if the compression be forcible, the something
will issue with considerable force, and very sensibly impel
any thing in its way.
Inertia, and It is not accurate to say, that we move about without any
mobility, obstruction : for we find, that if we endeavour to move a
large fan with rapidity, a very sensible hinderance is per¬
ceived, and a sensible wind is produced, which will agitate
the neighbouring bodies. It is therefore justly concluded
that the motion is possible only in consequence of having
driven this obstructing substance out of the way ; and that
this impenetrable, resisting, moveable, impelling substance,
is matter. We perceive the perseverance of this matter in
its state of rest when we wave a fan, in the same manner that
we perceive the inertia of water when we move a paddle
through it. The effects of wind in impelling our ships and
mills, in tearing up trees, and overturning buildings, are equal
indications of its perseverance in a state of motion. To this
matter,when at rest,we give the name air; and when it is in
motion we call it wind.
Air a ma- Air, therefore, is a material fluid ; a fluid,because its parts
teriul fluid. ave easily moved, and yield to the smallest inequality of pres¬
sure. Air possesses some others of the very general, though
not essential, properties of matter. It is heavy. This ap¬
pears from the following facts.
1. It always accompanies this globe in its orbit round the
sun, surrounding it to a certain distance, under the name of
atmosphere, wliich indicates the being connected with the
earth by its general force of gravity. It is chiefly in con¬
sequence of this that it is continually moving round the
earth from east to west; forming what is called the trade-
wind, to be more particularly considered afterwards. All
that is to be observed on this subject at present is, that, in
consequence of the disturbing force of the sun and moon,
there is an accumulation of the air of the atmosphere, in the
same manner as of the waters of the ocean, in those parts
of the globe which have the moon near their zenith or na¬
dir : and as this happens successively, going from the east
to the west, by the rotation of the earth round its axis in
the opposite direction, the accumulated air must gradually
flow along to form the elevation. This is chiefly to be ob¬
served in the torrid zone ; and the generality and regulari¬
ty of this motion are greatly disturbed by the changes which
are continually taking place in different parts of the atmos¬
phere from causes which are not mechanical.
2. It is in like manner owing to the gravity of the air that
it supports the clouds and vapours which we see constantly
floating in it. We have even seen bodies of no inconsi¬
derable weight float, and even rise, in the air. Soap bub¬
bles, and balloons filled with inflammable gas, (hydrogen or
gas obtained from oil or coal,) rise and float in the same
manner as a cork rises in water. This phenomenon proves
the weight of the air, in the same manner that the swim¬
ming of a piece of wood indicates the weight of the water
which supports it.
Familiar 3. But we are not left to these refined observations for
proofs of the proof of the air’s gravity. We observe many familiar
its u eigu . phenomenaj which must be immediate consequences of
the supposition that air is a heavy fluid, and, like other hea- Air.
vy fluids, presses on the outsides of all bodies immersed in
or surrounded by it. Thus, for instance, if we shut the
nozzle and valve hole of a pair of bellows after having squeez¬
ed the air out of them, we shall find that even some hun¬
dred pounds, are necessary for separating the boards. They
are kept together by the pressure of the heavy air which
surrounds them in the same manner as if they were immer¬
sed in water. In like manner, if we stop the end of a sy¬
ringe after its piston has been pressed down to the bottom,
and then attempt to draw up the piston, we shall find a con¬
siderable force necessary, viz. about fifteen or sixteen pounds
for every square inch of the sec- Fig. 2.
tion of the syringe. Exerting this
force, we can draw up the pis¬
ton to the top, and we can hold
it there; but the moment we
cease acting, the piston rushes
down and strikes the bottom. It
is called a suction, as we feel
something as it were drawing in
the piston; but it is really the
weight of the incumbent air
pressing it in. And this obtains
in every position of the syringe ;
because the air is a fluid, and
presses in every direction. Nay,
it presses on the syringe as well
as on the piston; and if the piston be hung by its ring on
a nail, the syringe requires force to draw it down, just as
much as to draw the piston up ; and if it be let go, it will
spring up unless loaded with at least fifteen pounds for every
square inch of its transverse section. See fig. 2.
4. But the most direct proof of the weight of the air is It may
had by weighing a vessel empty of air, and then weighing even be
it again when the air has been admitted ; and this, as it is weighed,
the most obvious consequence of its weight, has been assert¬
ed as long ago as the days of Aristotle. If we take a very
large and limber bladder, and squeeze out the air very
carefully, and weigh it, and then fill it till the wrinkles
just begin to disappear, and weigh it again, we shall
find no difference in the weight. But this is not Aristotle’s
meaning; because the bladder, considered as a vessel, is
equally full in both cases, its dimensions being changed.
We cannot take the air out of a bladder without its imme¬
diately collapsing. But what would be true of a bladder
would be equally true of any vessel. Therefore, take a round
vessel A, (fig. 3,) fitted with a stopcock B, and 3
syringe C. Fill the whole with water, and
press the piston to the bottom of the syringe.
Then keeping the cock open, and holding the
vessel upright, with the syringe undermost,
draw down the piston. The water will fol¬
low it by its weight, and leave part of the ves¬
sel empty. Now shut the cock, and again
push up the piston to the bottom of the sy¬
ringe, the water escapes through the piston
valve, as will be explained afterwards ; then
opening the cock, and again drawing down
the piston, more water will come out of the
vessel. Repeat this operation till all the wa¬
ter have come out. Shut the cock, unscrew
the syringe, and weigh the vessel very accu¬
rately. Now open the cock, and admit the
air, and weigh the vessel again, it will be
found heavier than before, and this additional weight is the
weight of the air which fills it; and it will be found to be
523 grains, about an ounce and a fifth avoirdupois, for
every cubic foot that the vessel contains. Now since a
cubic foot of water would weigh 1000 ounces, this experi¬
ment would show that water is about 840 times heavier than
PNEUMATICS.
71
Air.
The most
convenient
method of
doing this.
This pro¬
perty of
air denied
by the Pe¬
ripatetics.
air. The most accurate judgment of this kind of which we
' have met with an account, is that recorded by Sir George
Shuckburgh, in the sixty-seventh volume of the Philosophi¬
cal Transactions, (p.560.) From this it follows, that when the
air is of the temperature 53, and the barometer stands at
29^ inches, the air is 836 times lighter than water. But
the experiment is not susceptible of sufficient accuracy for
determining the exact weight of a cubic foot of air. Its
weight is very small; and the vessel must be strong and
heavy, so as to overload any balance that is sufficiently nice
for the experiment.1
To avoid this inconvenience, the whole may be weighed
in water, first loading the vessel so as to make it preponder¬
ate an ounce or two in the water. By this means the ba¬
lance will be loaded only with this small preponderancy. But
even in this case there are considerable sources of error,
arising from changes in the specific gravity of the water and
other causes. The experiment has often been repeated with
this view, and the air has been found at a medium to be
about 840 times as light as water, but with great variations,
as may be expected from its very heterogeneous nature, in
consequence of its being the menstruum of almost every
fluid, of all vapours, and even of most solid bodies; all which
it holds in solution, forming a fluid perfectly transparent,
and of very different density according to its composition.
It is found, for instance, that perfectly pure air of the tem¬
perature of our ordinary summer is considerably denser
than when it has dissolved about half as much water as it
can hold in that temperature; and that with this quantity
of water the difference of density increases in proportion as
the mass grows warmer, for damp air is more expansible by
heat than dry air. We have had occasion to consider this
subject when treating of the connection of the mechanical
properties of air with the state of the weather.
Such is the result of the experiment suggested by Aris¬
totle, evidently proving the weight of the air ; and yet the
Peripatetics uniformly refused it this property. It was a
matter long debated among the philosophers of the last cen¬
tury. The reason was, that Aristotle assigns a different
cause to many phenomena which any man led by common
observation would ascribe to the weight of the air. Of this
kind is the rise of water in pumps and syphons. Aristotle had
asserted that all nature was full of being, and that nature
abhorred a void. He adduces many facts, in which it ap¬
pears, that if not absolutely impossible, it is very difficult,
and requires great force, to produce a space void of matter.
When the operation of pumps and syphons came to be
known, the philosophers of Europe, found in this fancied
horror a ready solution of the phenomena. We shall state
the facts that every reader may see what kind pj ^
Construc¬
tion of
pumps in
the last
century.
of reasoning was received not two centuries ago.
Pumps were then constructed in the follow¬
ing manner: A long pipe GB was set in the
water of the well A. This was fitted with a
sucker or piston C, having a long rod CF, and
was furnished with a valve B at the bottom,
and a lateral pipe DE at the place of delivery,
also furnished with a valve. The fact is, that
if the piston be thrust down to the bottom,
and then drawn up, the water will follow
it; and upon the piston being again push¬
ed down, the water shuts the valve B by its
weight, and escapes or is expelled at the valve
E; and on drawing up the piston again the valve
E is shut, the water again rises after the piston,
and is again expelled at its next descent.
T
The Peripatetics explain all this by saying, that if the
water did not follow the piston there would be a void be- Air.
tween them. But nature abhors a void ; therefore the wa-
ter follows the piston ; this reasoning is overturned by one
observation. Suppose the pipe shut at the bottom, the
piston can be drawn up, and thus a void produced.
Galileo seems to have been the first who seriously as- Galileo
cribed this to the weight of the air. Many had supposed first pre¬
air heavy; and thus explained the difficulty of raising the dieted the
board of bellows, or the piston of a syringe, &c. But he height to
distinctly applies to this allowed weight of the air all the
consequences of hydrostatical laws; and he reasons as fol-rise
lows. The heavy air rests on the water in the cistern, and
presses it with its weight. It does the same with the wa¬
ter in the pipe, and therefore both are on a level: but if
the piston, after being in contact with the surface of the
water, be drawn up, there is no longer any pressure on the
surface of the water within the pipe ; for the air now rests
on the piston only, and thus occasions a difficulty in draw -
ing it up. The water in the pipe, therefore, is in the same
situation as if more water were poured into the cistern,
that is, as much as would exert the same pressure on its
surface as the air does. In this case we are certain that
the water will be pressed into the pipe, and will raise up
the water in it, and follow it till it is equally high within
and without. The same pressure of the air shuts the valve
E during the descent of the piston. He did not wait for
the very obvious objection, that if the rise of the water was
the effect of the air’s pressure, it would also be its measure,
and w ould be raised and supported only to a certain height.
He directly said so, and adduced this as a decisive experi¬
ment. If the horror of a void be the cause, says he, the
water must rise to any extent however great; but if it be
owing to the pressure of the air, it will only rise till the
weight of the water in the pipe is in equilibrio with the
pressure of the air, according to the common laws of hy¬
drostatics. And he adds, that this is well known ; for it is
a fact, that pumps will not draw water much above forty
palms, although they may be made to propel it, or to lift
it to any height. He then makes an assertion, which, he says,
if true, will be decisive. Let a very long pipe, shut at one
end, be filled with water, and let it be erected perpendicu¬
larly with the close end uppermost, and a stopper in the
other end, and then its lower orifice immersed into a vessel
of water ; the water will subside in the pipe upon remov¬
ing the stopper, till the remaining column is in equiiibrio
with the pressure of the external air. This experiment he
proposes to the curious; saying, however, that hs thought
it unnecessary, there being already such abundant proofs of
the air’s pressure.
It is probable that the cumbersomeness of the necessary His predic-
apparatus protracted the making of this experiment. An-“°“ ven'
other equally conclusive, and much easier, was made in 1642
after Galileo’s death, by his zealous and learned disciple To-
ricelli. He filled a glass tube, close
at one end, with mercury ; judging,
that if the support of the water was
ow ing to the pressure of the air, and
was the measure of this pressure,
mercury would in like manner be
supported by it, and this at a height
which was also the measure of the
air’s pressure, and therefore thirteen
times less than water. He had the
pleasure of seeing his expectation
verified in the completest manner ;
the mercury descending in the tube
AB, and finally settling at the height
tig. 5.
This method as here stated requires a strong vessel, and consequently overloads a delicate balance; but the objection does not apply
when water is not used, and the flask weighed, first w'hen full of air, and again when the air has been exhausted by the air-pump to a known
amount; in this way the specific gravity of any gas may be determined.
"2
PNEUMATICS.
Air.
f B of 29f Roman inches: and he found, that when the
' tube was inclined, the point/was in the same horizontal
plane with/in the upright tube, according to the received
laws of hydrostatical pressure. The experiment was often
repeated, and soon became famous. About three years
afterwards the same experiment was published, at Warsaw
in Poland, by Valerianus Magnus, as his own discovery :
but it appears from the letters of Roberval, not only that
Toricelli w as prior, and that his experiment was the gene¬
ral topic of discussion among the curious ; but also highly
probable that Valerianus Magnus was informed of it when
at Rome, and daily conversant with those who had seen it.
He denies, however, even having heard of the name of To¬
ricelli.
Origin of This was the era of philosophical ardour ; and we think
the Royal that it was Galileo’s invention and immediate application of
Society. the telescope which gave it vigour. Discoveries of the most
wonderful kind in the heavens, and which required no ex¬
tent of previous knowledge to understand them, were thus
put into the hands of every person who could purchase a
spy-glass ; whilst the high degree of credibility which some
of the discoveries, such as the phases of Venus and the ro¬
tation and satellites of Jupiter, gave to the Copernican sys¬
tem, immediately set the whole body of the learned in mo¬
tion. About the years 1642 and 1644 we find clubs of gentle¬
men associated in Oxford and London for the cultivation of
knowledge by experiment; andbefore 1655 all the doctrines of
hydrostatics and pneumaticswere familiar there, and establish¬
ed by experiment. Mr. Boyle procured a coalition of these
clubs under the name of the Invisible and Philosophical So¬
ciety. In May 1658 Mr. Hooke finished for Mr. Boyle an
air-pump, which had employed him a long time, and occa¬
sioned him several journeys to London for things which the
workmen of Oxford could not execute. He speaks of this
as a great improvement on Mr. Boyle’s own pump, which he
had been using some time before. Boyle therefore must
have invented his air-pump, and was not indebted for it to
Schottus’s account of Otto Guericke’s, published in the Mc-
chanica Hydraulo-pneumatica of Schottus in 1657, as he as¬
serts Techniea Curiosa. The Royal Society of London arose
in 1656 from the coalition of these clubs, after fifteen years’
co-operation and correspondence. The Montmorine Socie¬
ty at Paris had subsisted nearly about the same time ; for
we find Pascal in 1648 speaking of the meetings in the Sor-
bonne College, from which we know that society originat¬
ed. Nuremberg, in Germany, was also a distinguished se¬
minary of experimental philosophy. The magistrates, sen¬
sible of its valuable influence in many manufactures, the
source of the opulence and prosperity of their city, and many
of them philosophers, gave philosophy a professed and mu¬
nificent patronage, furnishing the philosophers with a copi¬
ous apparatus, a place of assembly, and a fund for the expence
of their experiments ; so that this was the first academy of
sciences out of Italy under the patronage of government.
In Italy, indeed, there had long existed institutions of this
kind. Rome was the centre of church-government, and the
resort of all expectants for preferment. The clergy was the
majority of the learned in all Christian nations, and particu¬
larly of the systematic philosophers. Each, eager to recom¬
mend himself to notice, brought forward every thing that
was curious ; and they were the willing vehicles of philoso¬
phical communication. Thus the experiments of Galileo
and Toricelli were rapidly diffused by persons of rank, the
dignitaries of the church, or by the monks their obsequious
servants.
Toricellian All now agree in giving Toricelli the honour of the first
experiment, invention ; and it universally passes by the name of the To-
ir?various rice^ian Experiment. The tube is called the Toricellian
forms. tube ; and the space left by the mercury is called the Tori-
cellian Vacuum, to distinguish it from the Boylean Vacuum,
which is only an extreme rarefaction. The experiment was
Air.
repeated in various forms, and with apparatus which enabled
philosophers to examine several effects which the vacuum
produced on bodies exposed to it. This was done by mak¬
ing the upper part of the tube terminate in a vessel of some
capacity, or communicate with such a vessel, in which were
included along with the mercury bodies on which the experi¬
ments were to be made. When the mercury had run out,
the phenomena of these bodies were carefully observed.
An objection was made to the conclusion drawn from To- An objec-
ricelli’s experiment, which appears formidable. If the To- tion to the
ricellian tube be suspended on the arm of a balance, it is conclusion
found that the counterpoise must be equal to the weight both
of the tube and of the mercury it contains. This could not
be, say the objectors, if the mercury were supported by the
air. It is evidently supported by the balance ; and this gave
rise to another notion of the cause different from the Peri-
patetic/k/a vacui. A suspensive force, or rather attraction,
w as assigned to the upper part of the tube.
But the true explanation of the phenomena is most easy
and satisfactory. Suppose the mercury in the cistern and
tube to freeze, but without adhering to the tube* so that the
tube could be freely drawn up and down. In this case the
mercury is supported by the base, without any dependence
on the pressure of the air ; and the tube is in the same con¬
dition as before, and the solid mercury performs the office of
a piston to this kind of syringe. Suppose the tube thrust
down till the top of it touches the top of the mercury. It
is evident that it must be draw n up in opposition to the pres¬
sure of the external air, and it is precisely similar to the sy¬
ringe in fig. 2. The weight sustained therefore by this arm
of the balance is the weight of the tube and the downward
pressure of the atmosphere on its top.
The curiosity of philosophers being thus excited by this Galileo’s
very manageable experiment, it wras natural now to try the original ex'
original experiment proposed by Galileo. Accordingly Ber- pei iment
ti in Italy, Pascal in France, and many others in different Perfonne“-
places, made the experiment with a tube filled with water,
wine, oil, &c., and all with the success which might be ex¬
pected in so simple a matter: and hence the doctrine of
the weight and pressure of the air was established beyond
contradiction or doubt. All this wras done before the year
1648. A very beautiful experiment was exhibited by Au-
zout, which completely satisfied all who had any remaining
doubts.
A small box or vial EF GH, had two glass tubes,
AB, CD, three feet long, inserted into it in such
a manner as to be firmly fixed in one end, and to
reach nearly to the other end. AB was open at
both ends, and CD was close at D. This ap¬
paratus was completely filled with mercury, by
unscrew ing the tube AB, filling the box and the
tube CD ; then screwing in the tube AB, and
filling it; then holding a finger on the orifice A,
the whole was inverted and set upright in the
position represented in the figure /S, immersing
the orifice A (now a of fig. /3,) in a small vessel
of quicksilver. The result was, that the mercury
ran out at the orifice a, till its surface in n with¬
in the phial descended to the top of the tube ba.
The mercury also began to descend in the tube
dc (formerly DC,) and run over into the tube
b a, and run out at a, till the mercury in <i c
was very near equal in a level with m n. The mercury de¬
scending in b a till it stood at k, 29^ inches above the sur¬
face op of the mercury in the cistern, just as in the Tori¬
cellian tube.
The rationale of this experiment is very easy. The whole
apparatus may first be considered as a Toricellian tube of an
uncommon shape, and the mercury would flow out at a. But
as soon as a drop of mercury comes out, leaving a space
above m n, there is nothing to keep up the mercury in the
Fig.
&
A decisive
experiment
by Auzout.
W
PNEU M
Air. tube d c. Its mercury, therefore, descends also ; and run-
ning over into b a, continues to supply its expence till the
tube c is almost empty, or can no longer supply the waste
of b a. The inner surface therefore falls as low as it can,
till it is level with b. No more mercury can enter b a, yet
its column is too heavy to be supported by the pressure of
the air on the cistern below ; it therefore descends in b a,
and finally settles at the height ko, equal to that of the mer¬
cury in the Toricellian tube.
The prettiest circumstance of the experiment remains.
Make a small hole g in the upper cap of the box. The ex¬
ternal air immediately rushes in by its weight, and now pres¬
ses on the mercury in the box. This immediately raises the
mercury in the tube d c to l, 29% inches above m n. It
presses on the mercury at k in the tube b a, balancing the
pressure of the air in the cistern. The mercury in this tube
therefore is left to the influence of its owm weight, and it
descends to the bottom. Nothing can be more apposite or
decisive.
The gravi- And thus the doctrine of the gravity and pressure of the
ty of the air is established by the most unexceptionable evidence; and
cal Vin^1" We are en^ed t° assume it as a statical principle, and to
dole”11" a®rm ^priori all its legitimate consequences.
And in the first place, we obtain an exact measure of the
pressure of the atmosphere. It is precisely equal to the
weight of the column of mercury, of water, of oil, &c. which
it can support; and the Toricellian tube, or others fitted
up upon the same principle, are justly termed baroscopes
and barometers with respect to the air. Now it is observed
that water is supported at the height of 32 feet nearly : the
weight of the column is exactly 2000 avoirdupois pounds on
every square foot of base, or 13T%- on every square inch.
The same conclusion very nearly may be drawn from the
column of mercury, which is nearly 29^ inches high when
in equilibrium with the pressure of the air. We may here
observe, that the measure taken from the height of a co¬
lumn of wrater, wine, spirits, and the other fluids of consi¬
derable volatility, as chemists term it, is not so exact as that
taken from mercury, oil, and the like. For it is observed,
that the volatile fluids are converted by the ordinary heat
of our climates into vapour when the confining pressure of
the air is removed ; and this vapour, by its elasticity, exerts
a small pressure on the surface of the water, &c. in the pipe,
and thus counteracts a small part of the external pressure ;
and therefore the column supported by the remaining pres¬
sure must be lighter, that is, shorter. Thus it is found,
that rectified spirits will not stand much higher than is com¬
petent to a weight of 13 pounds on an inch, the elasticity
of its vapour balancing about of the pressure of the air.
We shall afterwards have occasion to consider this matter
more particularly.
A difficulty As the medium height of the mercury in the barometer
wived. is 29^ inches, we see that the whole globe sustains a pres¬
sure equal to the whole weight of a body of mercury of this
height; and that all bodies on its surface sustain a part of
this in proportion to their surfaces. An ordinary sized man
sustains a pressure of several thousand pounds. How comes
it then that we are not sensible of a pressure which one
should think enough to crush us together ? This has been
considered as a strong objection to the pressure of the air ;
for when a man is plunged a few feet under water, he is
very sensible of the pressure. The answer is by no means
so easy as is commonly imagined. We feel very distinctly
the effects of removing this pressure from any part of the
body. If any one will apply the open end of a syringe to
his hand, and then draw up the piston, he will find his hand
sucked into the syringe with great force, and it will give
pain ; and the soft part of the hand will swell into it, being
pressed in by the neighbouring parts, which are subject to
the action of the external air. If one lays his hand on the
top of a long perpendicular pipe, such as a pump filled to
vojl. xvni.
A T I C S. 73
the brim with water, which is at first prevented from run- Air.
ning out by the valve below; and if the valve be then open-
ed, so that the water descends, he will then find his hand
so hard pressed to the top of the pipe, that he cannot draw
it away. But why do we only feel the inequality of pres¬
sure ? There is a similar instance wherein we do not feel
it, although we cannot doubt of its existence. When a man
goes slowly to a great depth under water in a diving-bell,
we know unquestionably that he is exposed to a new and
very great pressure, yet he does not feel it. But those facts
are not sufficiently familiar for general argument. The hu¬
man body is a bundle of solids, hard‘or soft, filled or mixed
with fluids, and there are few or no parts of it which are
empty. All communicate either by vessels or pores ; and
the whole surface is a sieve through which the insensible
perspiration is performed. The whole extended surface of
the lungs is open to the pressure of the atmosphere; every
thing is therefore in equilibrio ; and if free or speedy access
be given to every part, the body will not be damaged by the
pressure, however great, any more than a wet sponge would
be deranged by plunging it any depth in w ater. The pressure
is instantaneously diffused by means of the incompressible
fluids writh which the parts are filled; andif any parts are filled
writh air or other compressible fluids, these are compressed till
their elasticity again balances the pressure. Besides, all our
fluids are acquired slowly, and gradually mixed with that
proportion of air wrhich they can dissolve or contain. The
whole animal has grown up in this manner from the first
vital atom of the embryo. For such reasons the pressure
can occasion no change of shape by squeezing together the
flexible parts ; nor any obstruction by compressing the ves¬
sels or pores. We cannot say what would be felt by a man,
were it possible that he could have been produced and grown
up in vacuo, and then subjected to the compression. We
even know that any sudden and considerable change of ge¬
neral pressure is very severely felt. Persons in a diving-
bell have been almost killed by letting them down or draw¬
ing them up too suddenly. In drawing up, the elastic mat¬
ters within have suddenly swelled, and not finding an im¬
mediate escape, have burst the vessels. Dr. Halley expe¬
rienced this, the blood gushing out from his ears by the ex¬
pansion of air contained in the internal cavities of this or¬
gan, from which there are but very slender passages.
A very important observation recurs here. The pressure The vvea-
of the atmosphere is variable. This was observed almost ther-gla!,s*
as soon as philosophers began to attend to the bardfiieter.
Pascal observed it in France, and Descartes observed it in
Sweden in 1650. Mr. Boyle and others observed it in Eng¬
land in 1656. And before this, observers, who took notice
of the concomitancy of these changes of aerial pressure with
the state of the atmosphere, remarked, that it was general¬
ly greatest in winter and in the night; and certainly most
variable during winter and in the northern regions. Fami¬
liar now with the weight of the air, and considering it as
the vehicle of the clouds and vapours, they noted with care
the connection between the weather and the pressure of the
air, and found that a great pressure of the air was general¬
ly accompanied with fair weather, and a diminution of it
with rain and mists. Hence the barometer came to be con¬
sidered as an index not only of the present state of the air’s
weight, but also as indicating by its variations changes of
weather.
In the next place, we may conclude that the pressure of The pres-
the air will be different in different places, according tosureof,!ie
their elevation above the surface of the ocean ; for if air bea11' ‘I1 iJlu"
a heavy fluid, it must press in some proportion according to {be ^Uwa-
its perpendicular height. If it be a homogeneous fluid oftion
equal density and weight in all its parts, the mercury in the
cistern of a barometer must be pressed precisely in propor¬
tion to the depth to which that cistern is immersed in it;
and as this pressure is exactly measured by the height of
K
PNEUMATICS.
Air. the mercury in the tube, the height of the mercury in the
Toricellian tube must be exactly proportional to the depth
of the place of observation under the surface of the atmos¬
phere.
This prov- The celebrated Descartes first entertained this thought,
ed by expe- (Epist. 67. of Pr. III.) and soon after him Pascal. His oc-
riments. eUpati0n in Paris not permitting him to try the justness of
his conjecture, he requested Mr. Perrier, a gentleman of
Clermont in Auvergne, to make the experiment, by observ¬
ing the height of the mercury at one and the same time at
Clermont and on the top of a very high mountain in the
neighbourhood. His letters to Mr. Perrier in 1647 are still
extant. Accordingly, Mr. Perrier, in September 1648, fill¬
ed two equal tubes with mercury, and observed the heights
of both to be the same, viz. 26^\ inches, in the garden of
the convent of the Friars Minims, situated in the lowest part
of Clermont. Leaving one of them there, and one of the
fathers to observe it, he took the other to the top of Puy de
Dome, which was elevated nearly 500 French fathoms above
the garden. He found its height to be 23?\ inches. On
his return to the town, in a place called Font de VArbre,
150 fathoms above the garden, he found it 25 inches; when
he returned to the garden it was again 26g\, and the per¬
son set to watch the tube which had been left, said that it
had not varied the whole day. Thus a difference of eleva¬
tion of 3000 French feet had occasioned a depression of Sc¬
inches ; from which it may be concluded, that 3|- inches of
mercury weighs as much as 3000 feet of air, and one-tenth
of an inch of mercury as much as 96 feet of air. The next
day he found, that taking the tube to the top of a steeple
120 feet high, made a fall of one-sixth of an inch. This
gives 72 feet of air for one-tenth of an inch of mercury ; but
ill agreeing with the former experiment. But it is to be
observed, that a very small error of observation of the baro¬
meter would correspond to a great difference of elevation,
and also that the height of the mountain had not been mea¬
sured with any precision. This has been since done (Mem.
Acad. par. 1703,) and found to be 529 French toises.
Pascal published an accountof this great experiment,!and
it was quickly repeated in many places of the world. In
1653, it was repeated in England by Dr. Power (Power’s
Exper. Phil.) and in Scotland in 1661, by Mr. Sinclair, pro¬
fessor of philosophy in the university of Glasgow, who ob¬
served the barometer at Lanark, on the top of mount Tinto
in Clydesdale, and on the top of Arthur’s seat at Edinburgh.
He found a depression of two inches between Glasgow and
the top of Tinto, three quarters of an inch between the bot¬
tom and top of Arthur’s seat, and Aj of an inch at the ca¬
thedral of Glasgow on a height of 126 feet.1 2
Hence a Hence we may derive a method of measuring the heights
method of 0f mountains. Having ascertained with great precision the
measuring e|evation corresponding to a fall of one-tenth of an inch of
‘elg ^ mercury, which is nearly 90 feet, we have only to observe
the length of the mercurial column at the top and bottom of
the mountain, and to allow 90 feet for every tenth of an
inch. Accordingly this method has been practised with
great success; but it requires an attention to many things
not yet considered ; such as the change of density of the
mercury by heat and cold; the changes of density of air
from its compressibility; a change immediately connected
with or dependent on the very elevation we wish to mea¬
sure.
Alsoamea- These observations give us the most accurate measure of
Mire of the the density of air and its specific gravity. This is but vague-
density of jy though directly measured by weighing air in a bladder
the air. or yggggp The weight of a manageable quantity is so small,
that a balance sufficiently ticklish to indicate even very sen¬
sible fractions of it is overloaded by the weight of the ves- Air.
sel which contains it, and ceases to be exact; and when we
take Bernouilli’s ingenious method of suspending it in wa¬
ter, we expose ourselves to great risk of error by the va¬
riation of the water’s density. Also it must necessarily be
humid air which we can examine in this way: but the propor¬
tion of an elevation in the atmosphere to the depression of
the column of mercury or other fluid, by which we mea¬
sure its pressure, gives us at once the proportion of this
weight or their specific gravity. Thus since it is found that
in such a state of pressure the barometer stands at 30 inches,
and the thermometer at 32°, 87 feet of rise produces one-
tenth of an inch of fall in the barometer, the air and the
mercury being both of the freezing temperature, we must
conclude that mercury is 10,440 times heavier or denser
than air. Then, by comparing mercury and water, we get
nearly for the density of air relative to water ; but this
varies so much by heat and moisture, that it is useless to
retain any thing more than a general notion of it; nor is it
easy to determine whether this method or that by actual
weighing be preferable. It is extremely difficult to observe
the height of the mercury in the barometer nearer than -2
of an inch ; and this will produce a difference of even five
feet, or ^ of the whole. Perhaps this is a greater propor¬
tion than the error in weighing.3
From the same experiments we also derive some know- Height of
ledge of the height of the aerial covering which surrounds the atmos-
our globe. When we raise our barometer 87 feet above phere.
the surface of the sea, the mercury falls about one-tenth of
an inch in the barometer ; therefore if the barometer shows
30 inches at the sea-shore, we may expect that, by raising it
300 times 87 feet or five miles, the mercury in the tube will
descend to the level of the cistern, and that this is the height
of our atmosphere. But other appearances lead us to sup¬
pose a much greater height. Meteors are seen with us much
higher than this, and which yet give undoubted indication
of being supported by our air. There can be little doubt,
too, that the visibility of the expanse above us is owing to
the reflection of the sun’s light by our air. Were the hea¬
venly spaces perfectly transparent, we should no more see
them than the purest water through which we see other ob¬
jects ; and we see them as we see water tinged writh milk
or other faeculae. Now it is easy to show, that the light
which gives us what is called twilight must be reflected from
the height of at least 50 miles ; for we have it when the sun
is depressed 18 degrees below our horizon.
A little attention to the constitution of our air will con- Why this
vince us, that the atmosphere must extend to a much great- knowledge
er height than 300 times 87 feet. We see from the most18 notac'
familiar facts that it is compressible; we can squeeze it incurate*
an ox-bladder. It is also heavy ; pressing on the air in this
bladder with a very great force, not less than 1500 pounds.
We must therefore consider it as in a state of compression,
existing in smaller room than it would assume if it were not
compressed by the incumbent air. It must therefore be in
a condition something resembling that of a quantity of fine
carded wool thrown loosely into a deep pit; the lower stra¬
ta carrying the weight of the upper strata, and being com¬
pressed by them ; and so much the more compressed as they
are further down, and only the upper stratum in its uncon¬
strained and most expanded state. If we shall suppose this
wool thrown in by a hundred weight at a time, it will be
divided into strata of equal weights, but of unequal thick¬
ness ; the lowest being the thinnest, and the superior stra¬
ta gradually increasing in thickness. Now, suppose the pit
filled with air, and reaching to the top of the atmosphere,
the weights of all the strata above any horizontal plane in
1 Grande Experience sur la Pesanteur de l'Air.
* See Sinclair’s Ars Nova et Magna Gravitatis et Levitatis; Sturmii Collegium Experimentale, and Schotti Technica Curlosa.
s Barometers are now made by which accurate observations may be made to the T-(J’ijgth part of an inch.
Air.
PNEUMATICS.
it is measured by the height of the mercury in the Toricel- pressing it forward, and at the moment of its discharge is
lian tube placed in that plane ; and one-tenth of an inch of brought to a state of rapid motion ; so the ball from a pop-
mercury is just equal to the weight of the lowest stratum gun or wind-gun is gradually accelerated along the barrel
87 feet thick ; for on raising the tube 87 feet from the sea, by the pressure of the air during its expansion from its com-
the surface of the mercury will descend one-tenth of an pressed state, and finally quits it with an accumulated ve-
inch. Raise the tube till the mercury fall another tenth, locity. d hese two motions are indications perfectly similar
75
Air.
of the elasticity of the bow and of the air.
Thus it appears that air is heavy and elastic. It needs Fluidity of
little consideration to convince us in a vague manner that *1^ a‘r
it is fluid. 1 he ease With which it is penetrated, and driven experimpn-
about in every direction, and the motion of its pipes andtallyproved
channels, however crooked and intricate, entitle it to this
character. But before we can proceed to deduce conse-
Fig. 7.
This stratum must be more than 87 feet thick : how much
more we cannot tell, being ignorant of the law of the air’s
expansion. In order to make it fall a third tenth, we must
raise it through a stratum still thicker; and so on conti¬
nually.
All this is abundantly confirmed by the very first experi¬
ment made by the order and directions of Pascal. For by  ...   (nu.ccu lu utuuee eunse-
carrymg the tube from the garden of the convent to a place quences from its fluidity, and to offer them as a true account
150 fathoms higher, the mercury fell inches, or 1.2916 ; of what will happen in these circumstances, it is necessary
which gives about 69 feet eight inches of aerial stratum for to exhibit some distinct and simple case, in which the cha-
To of an inch mercury ; and by carrying it from thence racteristic mechanical property of a fluid is clearly and une-
to a place 350 fathoms higher, the mercury fell Iff, or quivocally observed in it. That property of fluids is, that
1.9167 inches, which gives 109 feet seven inches for ^ of any pressure applied to any part of them is propagated
an inch of meicury. These experiments wrere not accur- through the whole mass in every direction ; and that in con-
ately made. It is evident, however, from the whole tenor sequence of this diffusion of pressure, anv two external forces
of them, that the strata of air decrease in density as we as- can be put in equilibrio by the interposition of a fluid, in the
C6nti through the atrnosphcrc; but it remained to be dis- same way as they can be put in equilibrio by the interven-
covered what is the force of this decrease, that is, the law tion of any mechanical engine.
of the airs expansion.^ Till this be done we can say no-|; Let a close vessel ABC (fig. 7.), of any form, have two
thing about the constitution of our atmosphere ; we can- upright pipes EDC, GFB, inserted into
not tell in what manner it is fittest for raising and support- any parts of its top, sides, or bottom, and
ing the exhalations and vapours which are continually arising let water be poured into them, so as to
from the inhabited regions; not as an excrementitiouswaste, stand in equilibrio with the horizontal sur-
but to be supported, perhaps manufactured, in that vast la- faces at E, D, G, F, and let D d, F f, be
boratory of nature, and to be returned to us in beneficent horizontal lines, it will be found that* the
showers. We cannot use our knowledge for the curious, height of the column E <7 is sensibly equal
and frequently useful, purpose of measuring the heights of to that of the column G/ This is a fact
mountains and taking the levels ofextensiveregiorts; inshort, universally observed in whatever way the
without an accurate knowledge of this, we can hardly ac- pipes are inserted. Now the surface of the
quire any acquaintance with those mechanical properties water at D is undoubtedly pressed upwards
which distinguish air from those liquids which circulate here with a force equal to a column of water,
r below. ( having its surface for its base, and E d
SZ of ™HaVing here/?r C°fner71 at S10me lenS;h the leadinS for its height 5 ^ is therefore prevented from rising by some
tZ consequences of the air s fluidity and gravity, let us consider opposite force. This can be nothing but the elasticity of
its compressibility with the same care ; and then, combining the confined air pressing it down. The very same thino- must
the agency of both, we shall answer all the purposes of phi- ■ be said of the surface at F ; and thus there are two external
iosophy, discover the laws, explain the phenomena of na- pressures at D and F set in equilibrio by the interposition
tUr!liai!? imProve art- e, Pr°ceed therefore to consider of air. The force exerted on the surface D, by the pressure
a little the phenomena which indicate and characterise this of the column E d, is therefore propagated to the surface
°t er property of the air. All fluids are elastic and com- at F; and thus air has this characteristic mark of fluidity,
pressible as well as air; but_ in them the compressibility In this experiment the weight of the air is insensible
makes no figure, or does not interest us while we are con- when the vessel is of small size, and has no sensible share
siclenng their pressures, motions, and impulsions. But in in the pressure reaching at D and F. But if the elevation
air the compressibility and expansion draw our chief atten- of the point F above D is very great, the column E d will
non, and make it a proper representative of this class of be observed sensibly to exceed the column G f. Thus ifF
A familiar
phenome¬
non.
. ... . , I)e 70 feet higher than D, Ed will be an inch longe7than
Nothing is more familiar than the compressibility of air. the column G/: for in this case there is reacting at D not
tt is seen in a bladder filled with it, which we can forcibly only the pressure propagated from F, but also the weight of
squeeze into less room ; it is seen in a syringe, of which we a column of air, having the surface at D for its base and 70
can push the plug farther and farther as we increase the pres- feet high. This is equal to the weight of a column of water
sure. i>ut these appearances bring into view another, and one inch high.
t le most interesting, property of air, viz. its elasticity. When It is by this propagation of pressure, this fluidity that the
we have squeezed the air in the bladder or syringe into less pellet is discharged from a child’s pop-gum It'sticks fast
oom, we find that the force with which we compressed it is in the muzzle ; and he forces in another pellet at the other
press rLetheTitw'T T* that if W6 CeaSfi° ‘fd’ which he Presses forward with the rammer, condensing
p ess it together, it will swefl out and regain its natural di- the air between them, and thus propagating to the other
as a mats ^ ^ a b°?y pellet the preSSUre which he exert^ till the friction is over-
comnressed m ’tT llke’whlch remain in the come, and the pellet is discharged by the air expanding and
compressed state to which we reduce them. There is some- following it. 1 n
th^mnTefmneneiriX^S^ C0raPreSS!0n diffefnt fr1(mi , There 7 a philosophical toy which illustrates this property Hero’s
opposesmeZnSfnr^ i ^ 18 sometl.mg tllat of air, and which we shall have occasion to consider as con-founts
duces mofinn nni I 7 thero is something too which pro- verted into a useful hydraulic machine. This is what is
back tircomnr^Lt hJ f compression, but pushing usually called Herdsfountain. It consists ofWvessels
it As anTrCrir^ ^ c™mcating motion to KLMN (fig. 8.), OPQR, which are close on all sides. The
As an arrow is gradually accelerated by the bow-string tube AB, having a funnel a-top, passes through the upper-
76
PNEUMATICS.
Air. most vessel without communicating with it, being soldered
into its top and bottom. It also passes through the top
of the under-vessel, where it is also soldered, and reaches
almost to its bottom. This tube is open at
both ends. There is another open tube ST, Fig. 8.
which is soldered into the top of the under
vessel and the bottom of the upper vessel,
and reaches almost to its top. These two
tubes serve also to support the upper vessel.
A third tube GF is soldered into the top of
the upper vessel, and reaches almost to its
bottom. This tube is open at both ends,
but the orifice G is very small. Now sup¬
pose the uppermost vessel filled with wTater
to the height EN, E e being its surface a
little below T. Stop the orifice G with the
finger, and pour in water at A. This will
descend through AB, and compress the air
in OPGR into less room. Suppose the
water in the under vessel to have acquired
the surface C c, the air which formerly oc¬
cupied the whole of the spaces OPQR, and KLeE will now
be contained in the spaces o P c C and KL e E ; and its
elasticity will be in equilibrio with the weight of the column
of water, whose base is the surface E e, and whose height
is A c. As this pressure is exerted in every part of the air,
it will be exerted on the surface E e of the water of
the upper vessel; and if the pipe FG were continued up¬
wards, the water would be supported in it to an height eH
above E e, equal to A c. Therefore if the finger be now taken
from off the orifice G, the water will spout up to the same
height as if it had been immediately forced out by a column
of water A c without the intervention of the air, that is,
nearly to H. If instead of the funnel at A, the vessel have
a brim VW which will cause the water discharged at G to
run down the pipe AB, this fountain will play till all the
water in the upper vessel is expended. The operation of
this second fountain will be better under¬
stood from fig. 9? which an intelligent Fig. 9.
reader will see is perfectly equivalent to
fig. 8. A very powerful engine for rais¬
ing water upon this principle has long
been employed in the Hungarian mines;
where the pipe AB is about 200 feet
high, and the pipe FG about 120 ; and the
condensation is made in the upper vessel,
and communicated to the lower at the
bottom of the mine, by a long pipe.
We may now then apply to air the laws
of hydrostatics and hydraulics, in per¬
fect confidence that their legitimate con¬
sequences will be observed in all its situa¬
tions. We shall in future substitute, in
place of any force acting on a surface of
air, a column of water, mercury, or any
other fluid whose weight is equal to
this force ; and as we know distinctly from theory what will
be the consequences of this hydrostatic pressure, we shall
determine a priori the phenomena in air; and in cases
where theory does not enable us to say with precision
what is the effect of this pressure, experience informs us
in the case of water, and analogy enables us to transfer this
to air.
More re- From such familiar and simple observations and experi-
fined expe- ments, the fluidity, the heaviness, and elasticity, are discov-
timents ereci 0f the substance with which we are surrounded, and
which we call air. But to understand these properties, and
completely to explain their numerous and important conse¬
quences, we must call in the aid of more refined observa¬
tions and experiments, which even this scanty knowledge
of them enables us to make ; we must contrive some me-
Laws of
hydrosta¬
tics appli¬
cable to air
Fig. 10.
thods of producing with precision, any degree of condensa¬
tion or rarefaction, of employing or excluding the gravitat-{
ing pressure of air, and of modifying at pleasure the action
of all its mechanical properties.
Nothing can be more obvious than a method of compress¬
ing a quantity of air to any degree. Take a cylinder or
prismatic tube AB (fig. 10.) shut at one end, and fit it with
a piston or plug C, so nicely that no air
can pass by its sides. This will be best
done in a cylindric tube by a turned stop¬
per, covered with oiled leather, and fitted
with a long handle CD. When this is
thrust down, the air which formerly oc¬
cupied the whole capacity of the tube is
condensed into less room. The force ne¬
cessary to produce any degree of com¬
pression may be concluded from the
weight necessary for pushing down the
plug to any depth. But this instrument
leaves us little opportunity of making in¬
teresting experiments on or in this con¬
densed air; and the force required to make
any degree of compression cannot be mea¬
sured with much accuracy ; because the
piston must be very close, and have great
friction, in order to be sufficiently tight.
And
d
Air.
HC
□)b
as
the com¬
pression
isincrea¬
sed, the
leather is more squeezed to the side
of the tube ; and the proportion of
the external force, which is employ¬
ed merely to overcome this variable
and uncertain friction, cannot be as¬
certained with any tolerable preci¬
sion. To get rid of these imperfec¬
tions, the following addition may be made to the instrument,
which then becomes what is called the condensing syringe.
The end of the syringe is perforated with a very small hole
ef, and being externally turned to a small cylinder, a narrow
slip of bladder, or of waxed silk, must be tied over the hole
atjfi Now letus suppose the piston pushed down to the bottom
of the barrel, to which it applies close ; when it is drawn up
to the top, it leaves a void behind, and the weight of the ex¬
ternal air presses on the slip of bladder, which therefore
clasps close to the brass, and thus performs the part of a
valve, and keeps it close, so that no air can enter. But the
piston having reached the top of the barrel, a hole F in
the side of it is just below the piston, and the air rushes
through this hole, and fills the barrel. Now push the pis¬
ton down again, it immediately passes the hole F, and no
air escapes through it; it therefore forces open the valve
a.tf and escapes while the piston moves to the bottom.
Now let E be any vessel, such as a glass bottle, having
its mouth furnished with a brass cap firmly cemented to it,
having a hollow screw which fits a solid screw p p, turned
to the cylindric nozzle of the syringe. Screw the syringe
into this cap, and it is evident that the air forced out of the
syringe will be accumulated in this vessel; for upon draw¬
ing up the piston, the valve f always shuts by the elasti¬
city or expanding force of the air in E ; and on pushing it
down again, the valve will open as soon as the piston has
got so far down that the air in the lower part of the barrel
is more powerful than the air already in the vessel. Thus
at every stroke an additional barrelful of air will be forced
into the vessel E; and it will be found, that after every
stroke the piston must be farther pushed down before the
valve will open. It cannot open till the pressure arising
from the elasticity of the air condensed in the barrel, is su-
PNEUMATICS.
Air.
Elasticity
of the air
increased
perior to the elasticity of the air condensed in the vessel;
''that is, till the condensation of the first, or its density,is some¬
what greater than that of the last, in order to overcome the
straining of the valve on the hole, and the sticking occasion¬
ed by the clammy matter employed to make it air-tight.
Sometimes the syringe is constructed with a valve in the
piston. This piston, instead of being of one piece, and so¬
lid, consists of two pieces perforated. The upper part i k
n m, is connected with the rod or handle, and has its lower
part turned down to a small cylinder, which is screwed into
the lower part k l o n, and as a perforation g h going up in
the axis, and terminating in a hole h in one side of the rod,
over this hole at y there is a valve similar to the valve at f
When the piston is drawn up, and a void left below it, the
weight of the external air forces it through the hole g h,
opens the valve g, and fills the barrel. Then, on pushing
down the piston, the air being squeezed into less room,
presses on the valveg', shuts it; and none escaping through
the piston, it is gradually condensed as the piston descends,
till it opens the valve f and is added to that already accu¬
mulated in the vessel E.
Having in this manner forced a quantity of air into the
vessel E, we can make many experiments in it in this
by conden-State con^ensati°n- We are chiefly concerned at pre-
sation. "sent> with the effect which this produces on its elasticity.
We see this to be greatly increased ; for we find more and
more force required for introducing every successive bar¬
relful. When the syringe is unscrewed, we see the air rush
out with great violence, and every indication of great ex¬
panding force. If the syringe be connected with the ves¬
sel E, in the same manner as the syringe in No. 17, viz.
by interposing a stopcock B between them (see fig. 3.) and
if this stopcock have a pipe at its extremity, reaching near
to the bottom of the vessel, which is previously half filled
with water, we can observe distinctly when the elasticity
of the air in the syringe exceeds that of the air in the
receiver; for the piston must be pushed down a certain
length before the air from the syringe bubbles up through
the water, and the piston must be farther down at each
successive stroke before this appearance is observed. When
the air has thus been accumulated in the receiver, it presses
the sides of it outward, and will burst it if not strong
enough. It also presses on the surface of the water ; and
if we now shut the cock, unscrew the syringe, and open the
cock again, the air will force the water through the pipe
with great velocity, causing it to rise in a beautiful jet.
When a metal-receiver is used, the condensation may be
pushed to a great length, and the jet will then rise to a
great height; which gradually diminishes as the water is
expended, and room given to the air to expand itself.
Methods of We judge of the condensation of air in the vessel E, by
judging °f t}le number of strokes, and the proportion of the capacity of
sationVc"'the syrinSe to tllat of tlie vessel. Suppose the first to be
’ ‘ one-tenth of the last; then we know, that after ten strokes
the quantity of air in the vessel is doubled, and therefore
its density double, and so on after any number of strokes.
Let the capacity of the syringe (when the piston is drawn
to the top) be a, and that of the vessel be h, and the num¬
ber of strokes be n, the density of air in the vessel will be
b-\-na
b
The condensation therefore is never nearly equal to what is
here determined. <
It is accurately enough measured by a gage fitted to the
instrument. A glass tube GH of a cylindric bore, and close
at the end, is screwed into the side of the cap on the mouth
of the vessel E. A small drop of mercury is taken into this
tube by warming it a little in the hand, which expands the
contained air, so that when the open end is dipped into
mercury, and the whole allowed to cool, the mercury ad¬
vances a little into the tube. The tube is furnished with
a scale divided into small equal parts, numbered from the
close end of the tube. Since this tube communicates with
the vessel, it is evident that the condensation will force the
mercury along the tube, acting like apiston on the air beyond
it, and the air in the tube and vessel will always be of one
density. Suppose the number at which the drop stands
before the condensation is made to be c, and that it stands
at d when the condensation has attained the degree requir¬
ed, the density of the air in the remote end of the gage, and
consequently in the vessel, will be —.
77
Air.
. . , na
•or’+T-
But this is on the supposition that the piston accurately
fills the barrel, the bottom of the one applying close to that
of the other, and that no force is necessary for opening either
of the valves ; but the first cannot be insured, and the last
is very far from being true- In the construction now de¬
scribed, it will require at least one-twentieth part of the
ordinary pressure of the air to open the piston valve ; there¬
fore the air which gets in will want at least this proportion
of its complete elasticity; and there is always a similar
part of the elasticity employed in opening the nozzle valve.
Sometimes there is used any bit of tube close at one end,
having a drop of mercury in it, simply laid into the vessel
E, and furnished with a scale ; but this can only be used with
glass vessels, and these are with difficulty made strong enough
to resist the pressure arising from great condensation. In
such experiments metalline vessels are generally used, fitted
with a variety of apparatus for different experiments.
It must be observed in this place, that very great con- Syringes
densations require great force, and therefore small syringes, for great
It is therefore convenient to have them of various sizes, andcondeDsa*
to begin with those of a larger diameter, which operate more t*ons*
quickly ; and when the condensation becomes fatiguing, to
change the syringe for a smaller.
For this reason, and in general to make the condensing
apparatus more convenient, it is proper to have a stop-cock
interposed between the syringe and the vessel, or, as it is
usually called, the receiver. This consists of a brass pipe,
which has a well-ground cock in its middle, and has a hol¬
low screw at one end, which receives the nozzle screw of
the syringe, and a solid screw at the other end, which fits
the screw of the receiver. (See fig. 3.)
By these gages, or contrivances similar to them, we have Instances
been able to ascertain very great degrees of condensation °f great
in the course of some experiments. Dr. Hales found, that ^"densa-
when dry wood was put into a strong vessel, which it almosttion'
filled, and the remainder was filled with water, the swelling
of the wood, occasioned by its imbibition of water, condensed
the air of his gage into the thousandth of its original bulk.
He found that pease, treated in the same way, generated
elastic air, which, pressing on the air in the gage, condensed
it into the fifteen-hundreth part of its bulk. This is the
greatest condensation that has been ascertained with preci¬
sion. although in other experiments it has certainly been
carried much farther; but the precise degree could not be
ascertained.
Another important observation is, that in every state ofSomeopin-
density in which we find it, it retains its perfect fluidity, ionsrespec-
transmitting all pressures which are applied to it with undi- dng elasti-
minished force, as appears by the equality constantly ob-city» &c-
served between the opposing columns of water or other fluid
by which it is compressed, and by the facility with which
all motions are performed in it in the most compressed states
in which we can make observations of this kind. This fact
is totally incompatible with the opinion of those who ascribe
the elasticity of air to the springy ramified structure of'its
particles, touching each other like so many pieces of sponge
or foot-balls. A collection of such particles might indeed
be pervaded by solid bodies with considerable ease, if they
were merely touching each other, and not subjected to any
external pressure. But the moment such pressure is exert*-
78
PNEUMATICS.
Air.
o
ed, and the assemblage squeezed into a smaller space, each
'presses on its adjoining particles: they are individually com¬
pressed, flattened in their touching surfaces, and before the
density is doubled they are squeezed into the form of per¬
fect tubes, and compose a mass, which may indeed propa¬
gate pressure from one place to another in an imperfect
manner, and with great diminution of its intensity, but will
no more be fluid than a mass of soft clay.
Conse- We have seen the air is heavy and compressible, and
quences of might now proceed to deduce in order the explanation of
die air’s the appearances consequent on each of these properties,
elasticity, as }ias been already observed, the elasticity of air mo¬
difies the effects of its gravity so remarkably, that they would
be imperfectly understood if both qualities were not com¬
bined in our consideration of either. At any rate, some
farther consequences of its elasticity must be considered,
before we understand the means of varying at pleasure the
effects of its gravity.
Its great Since air is heavy, the lower strata of a mass of air must
expansibili- support the upper ; and, being compressible, they must be
ty proved by condensed by their weight. In this state of compression the
experiment, elasticity of the lower strata of air acts in opposition to the
weight of the incumbent air, and balances it. There is no
reason which should make us suppose that its expanding
force belongs to it only when in such a state of compression.
It is more probable that, if we could free it from this pres¬
sure, the air would expand itself into still greater bulk. This
is most distinctly seen in the following experiment.
Into the cylindric jar ABCD, (fig. 11,) which Fig. 11.
has a small hole in its bottom, and is furnished with
an air-tight piston E, put a small flaccid bladder,
having its mouth tied tight with a string. Haying
pushed the piston near to the bottom, and noticed A
the state of the bladder, stop up the hole in the
bottom of the jar with the finger, and draw up the
piston, which will require a considerable force.
You will observe the bladder swell out, as if air had
been blown into it; and it will again collapse on
allowing the piston to descend. Nothing can be
more unexceptionable than the conclusion from
this experiment, that ordinary air is in a state of
compression, and that its elasticity is not limited
to this state. The bladder being flaccid, shews b
that the included air is in the same state with the air which
surrounds it; and the same must be affirmed of it while it
swells but still remains flaccid. We must conclude that the
whole air within the vessel expands, and continues to fill it,
when its capacity has been enlarged. And since this is ob¬
served to go on as long as we give it more room, we con¬
clude, that by such experiments we have not yet given it
so much room as it can occupy.
Attempts It was a natural object of curiosity to discover the limits
to discover of this expansion ; to know what was the natural uncon-
the limits strained bulk of a quantity of air, beyond which it would
of this ex- not eXpanci though all external compressing force were re¬
moved. Accordingly philosophers constructed ^
instruments for rarefying the air. The common
water-pump had been long familiar, and appeared
very proper for this purpose. The most obvious
is the following.
Let the barrel of the syringe AB communi¬
cate with the vessel Y, with a stopcock C be¬
tween them. Let it communicate with the ex¬
ternal air by another orifice D, in any conven¬
ient situation, also furnished with a stopcock.
Let this syringe have a piston very accurately
fitted to it so as to touch the bottom all over
when pushed down, and have no vacancy about
the sides.
Now, suppose the piston at the bottom, the
cock C open, and the cock D shut, draw the pis-
©
ton to the top. The air which filled the vessel V will ex¬
pand so as to fill both that vessel and the barrel AB ; and, -
as no reason can be given to the contrary, we must suppose
that the air will be uniformly diffused through both. Call¬
ing V and B the capacity of the vessel and barrel, it is
plain that the bulk of the air will now be Y + B ; and since
the quantity of matter remains the same, and the density
of a fluid is as its quantity of matter directly and its bulk
V
inversely, the density of the expanded air will be y^-g,
the density of common air being 1 ; for V-f-B; Y = 1 ;
V
Y+B*
The piston requires force to raise it, and it is raised in
opposition to the pressure of the incumbent atmosphere ;
for this had formerly been balanced by the elasticity of the
common air ; and we conclude from the fact, that force is
required to raise the piston, that the elasticity of the ex¬
panded air is less than that of air in its ordinary state; and
an accurate observation of the force necessary to raise it
would shew how much the elasticity is diminished. When
therefore the piston is let go, it will descend as long as the
pressure of the atmosphere exceeds the elasticity of the air
in the barrel; that is, till the air in the barrel is in a state
of ordinary density. To put it further down will require
force, because the air must be compressed in the barrel;
but if we open the cock D, the air will be expelled through
it, and the piston will reach the bottom.
Now shut the discharging cock D, and open the cock C,
and draw the piston. The air which occupied the space
y
V, with the density y—[y will now occupy the space
V-j-B, if it expands so far. To have its density D, say,
As its present bulk V-J-B is to its former bulk T, so its
former density —^5 to its new density ; wdiich will there-
pansion.
fore be
V + B
Y + V
or
V
the piston will be
after the fourth it will be
V
V + B
Thus,
Air.
V+B+V+B V+B'
It is evident, that if the air continues to expand, the
density of the air in the vessel after the third drawing up of
and after any number of strokes n will be
if the vessel is four times as large as the barrel, the density
after the fifth stroke will be ^ff, nearly ^ of its ordinary
density.
On the other hand, the number n of strokes necessary for
log D
reducing air to the density D is Iog y_log (V + B)‘
Thus we see that this instrument can never abstract the Some in¬
whole air in consequence of its expansion, but only rarefy itconveni-
continually as long as it continues to expand ; nay, there is ^esin°stru.
a limit beyond which the rarefaction cannot go. When the
piston has reached the bottom, there remains a small space
between it and the cock C filled with common air. When
the piston is drawn up, this small quantity of air expands,
and also a similar quantity in the neck of the other cock ;
and no air will come out of the receiver V till the expanded
air in the barrel is ox a smaller density than the air in the
receiver. This circumstance evidently directs us to make
these two spaces as small as possible, or by some contrivance
to fill them up altogether. Perhaps this may be done effec¬
tually in the following manner.
1
Air.
Let BE represent the bottom of the
■^barrel, and let the circle HKI be the
section of the key of the cock, of a
large diameter, and place it as near to
the barrel as can be. Let this com¬
municate with the barrel by means of
a hole FG widening upwards, as the
frustum of a hollow obtuse cone. Let
the bottom of the piston bfhgehe
shaped so as to fit the bottom of the
barrel and this hole exactly. Let the
cock be pierced with two holes. One
of them, HI, passes perpendicularly
through its axis, and forms the com¬
munication between the receiver and
barrel. _ The other hole, KL, has one
extremity K on the same circumference with H, so that
when the key is turned a fourth part round, K will come
into the place of H: but this hole is pierced obliquely
into the key, and thus keeps clear of the hole HI. It
goes no further than the axis, where it communicates
with a hole bored along the axis and terminating at its ex¬
tremity. This hole forms the communication with the
external air, and serves for discharging the air in the barrel.
(A side view of the
key is seen in fig. pjo-,
14.) Fig. 13 shows
the position of the
cock while the piston
is moving upwards,
and fig. 14 shows its
position while the pis¬
ton is moving dowrn-
wards. Whenthepis-
ton has reached the
bottom, the conical piece//* g of the piston, which may be
of firm leather, fills the hole FHG, and therefore completely
expels the air from the barrel. The canal KL / of the cock
contains air of the common density ; but this is turned aside
into the position KL (fig. 13), while the piston is still touch¬
ing the cock. It cannot extend into the barrel during the
ascent of the piston. In place of it the perforation HLI
comes under the piston, filled with air that had been turned
aside with it when the piston was at the top of the barrel
•and therefore of the same density with the air of the receiver
It appears therefore that there is no limit to the rarefaction
as long as the air will expand.
This instrument is called an Exhausting Syringe. It is
more generally made in another form, which is much less
expensive, and more convenient in its use. Instead of be¬
ing furnished with cocks for establishing the communications
and shutting them, as is necessary, it has valves like those
of the condensing syringe, but opening in the opposite di¬
rection from those in fig. 10. 1
This syringe is evidently more easy in its use, requirino-
no attention to the cocks to open and shut them at the
proper times. On this account this construction of an ex¬
hausting syringe is much more generally used.
But it is greatly inferior to the syringe with cocks, with
respect to its power of rarefaction. It is evident that no
air will come out of the receiver unless its elasticity exceed
that of the air in the barrel by a difference able to lift up
le valve fig. 10. A piece of waxed silk tied across this
o e can hardly be made tight and certain of clapping to the
hole without some small straining, which must therefore be
overcome. It must be very gentle indeed not to require a
orce equal to the weight of two inches of water, and this
is equal to about the 200th part of the whole elasticity of
the ordmary air ; and therefore this syringe, for this reason
alone, cannot rarefy air above 200 times, even though air
were capable of an indefinite expansion. In like manner
PNEUMATICS.
Fig. 13.
79
nrLI? m c X P1S1 °n Cann0t be raiSed without a Similar Air-pump,
prevalence of the elasticity of the air in the barrel above
he weight of the atmosphere. These causes united, make it
difficult to rarefy the air more than 100 times, and very few
such syringes will rarefy it more than 50 times; whereas
raiefyTK'umer ’ ^ in g00d 0rd,!r’ wil1
But, on the other hand, syringes with cocks are much
more expensive, especially when furnished with apparatus
for opening and shutting the cocks. They are more diffi-
cu t to make equally tight, and (which is the greatest objec¬
tion) do not remain long in good order. The cocks, by so
frequently opening and shutting, grow loose, and allow the
tfii- e^aPe’ No method has been found of preventing
othor mUStn tight ^ means of emei7 °r
other cutting powders. Some of these unavoidably stick in
the metal, and continue to wear it down. For this reason
philosophers, and the makers of philosophical instruments,
a\ e turned their chief attention to the improvement of the
syringe with valves. 1
OF THE AIR-PUMP.
jibing but an exhausting syringe ac- Invention
Pd hm°n?ftedn0 3 Vanety of experiments. It was first invent- of the air-
ea by utto Guericke, a gentleman of Magdeburgh in Ger-pumP hy
many, about the year 1654. We trust that it will not be Guericke‘
unacceptable to our readers to see this instrument in its first
orm, and to trace it through its successive steps to its pre¬
sent state of improvement. ^
Guericke gave a minute description of all his pneumatic
apparatus to Caspar Schottus, professor of mathematics at
n temberg, who immediately published it with the author’s
consent, with an account of some of his performances, first
tfipn- i •11VrUi/, Mech®mca Hydraulico-pneumatica ; and
then in Ins Techmca Curiosa, in 1664.
Otto Guericke’s
Fig. 16.
Construc¬
tion of his
pump.
air-pump consists
of a glass receiver
A of a form nearly
spherical, fitted up
with a brass cap
and cock B. The
nozzle of the cap
was fixed to a sy¬
ringe DE, also of
brass, bent at D
into half a right
angle. This had a
valve at D, open¬
ing from the re¬
ceiver into the sy-  
rmge, and shutting when pressed in the opposite direction
In the upper s.de of the syringe there is 'another ralve F
opening from the syringe into the external air, and shutting
when pressed inwards. The piston had no valve. The sy?
ta f ds e™0hl,Bi “ithe j°int ”f the t"be’ — tamerSd
cistern filled with water. From this description, it is
easy to understand the operation of the instrument. When
the p.ston was drawn up from the bottom of the syringe, the
Irf'the ?? Cpn ShUt b>itl,e Pressure of Ae external’ a£
receiver When T™' bVh? ”fthe ^ ^
eceiver. When it was pushed down again, the valve D
syrTngt^lnd1111^7 thf.SuPerior elasticity of the air in the
* nge > and when this was sufficiently compressed it
hfwater^h n F' anil WaS barged, ^t was^mmersed
cocks a‘r might find itS Wa>' throu8h ‘he joints or
fo/ Guericke H vs 7CWne 7f ”0t ^ Pettits imper.
evacuation nf yS’ 11 11 t0°k severaI 1;iours to produce an factions,
evacuation of a moderate-sized vessel; but he says, that
w ten i was in good order, the rarefaction was so great, that
80
Air-pump, when the cock was opened, and water admitted, it filled the
receiver so as sometimes to leave no more than the bulk of
a pea filled with air. This is a little surprising ; for if the
valve F be placed as far from the bottom of the syringe, as
in Schottus’ figure,1 it would appear that the rarefaction
could not be greater than what must arise from the air in
DF, expanding till it filled the whole syringe i because, as
soon as the piston in its descent passes F, it can discharge
no more air, but must compress it between F and the bot¬
tom, to be expanded again when the piston is drawn up.
It is probable that the piston wTas not very tight, but that
on pressing it down, it allowed the air to pass it; and the
water in which the whole was immersed prevented the re¬
turn of the air when it was drawn up again ; and this ac¬
counts for the great time necessary for producing the de¬
sired rarefaction.
His im- Guericke added a part to the machine, which saved his
provement numerous visitants the trouble of hours’ attendance, before
°* they could see the curious experiments p. ^
with rarefied air. He made a large copper
vessel G (fig. 17.), having a pipe and
cock below, which passed through the
floor of the chamber into an under apart¬
ment, where it wras joined to the syringe
immersed in the cistern of water, and
worked by a lever. The upper part of
the vessel terminated in a pipe, furnished
with a stopcock H, surrounded with a
small brim to hold water for preventing
the ingress of air. On the top was ano¬
ther cap I, also filled with water, to pro¬
tect the junction of the pipes with the
receiver K. This great vessel was always
kept exhausted, and workmen attended
below. When experiments were to be
performed in the receiver K, it was set
on the top of the great vessel, and the cock H was opened.
The air in K immediately diffused itself equally between
the two vessels, and was so much more rarefied as the re¬
ceiver K was smaller than the vessel G. When this rare¬
faction was not sufficient, the attendants below immediately
worked the pump.
Guericke’s method of excluding air from all the joints of
his apparatus, by immersing these joints in water, is the
only method that has to this day been found effectual; and
there frequently occur experiments where this exclusion for
a long time is absolutely necessary. In such cases it is ne¬
cessary to construct little cups or cisterns at every joint, and
to fill them with water or oil. In a letter to Schottus,
1662-3, he describes very ingenious contrivances for pro¬
ducing complete rarefaction after the elasticity of the re¬
maining air has been so far diminished that it is not able to
open the valves. He opens the exhausting valves by a
plug, which is pushed in by the hand ; and the discharging
valve is opened by a small pump placed on its outside, so
that it opens into a void instead of opening against the pres¬
sure of the atmosphere.2 These contrivances have been
lately added to air-pumps by Haas and Hurter as new in¬
ventions.
Merits of It must be acknowledged, that the application of the
Guericke, pump or syringe to the exhaustion of air was a very obvious
thought on the principle exhibited in fig. 3 ; and in this
way it was also employed by Guericke, who first filled the
receiver with water, and then applied the syringe. But
this was by no means either his object or his principle. His
PNEUMATICS.
exhaust the air which wras already in it; and his principle Air-pump,
was the power which he suspected to be in air of expanding
itself into a greater space when the force was removed
which he supposed to compress it. He expressly says,3 that
the contrivance occurred to him accidentally when occupied
with experiments in the Toricellian tube, in which he found
that the air would really expand, and completely fill a
much larger space than what it usually occupied, and that
he had found no limits to the expansion, evincing this by
facts which we shall perfectly understand by and bye. This
was a doctrine quite new, and required a philosophical mind
to view it in a general and systematic manner ; and it must
be owned, that his manner of treating the subject is equally
remarkable for ingenuity and for modesty.
His doctrine and his machine were soon spread over Progress of
Europe. It was the age of literary ardour and philosophical experimen-
curiosity ; and it is most pleasant to us, who, standing on Pbl oso'
the shoulders of our predecessors, can see far around us, to p
observe the eagerness with which every new, and to us fri¬
volous, experiment was repeated and canvassed.
About this time the foundations of the Royal Society of Ardour of
London were laid. Mr. Boyle, Mr. Wren, Lord Brounker,Mr- Boyle*
Dr. Wallis, and others, held meetings at Oxford, in which
were received accounts of whatever was doing in the study
of nature; and many experiments were exhibited. The
researches of Galileo, Toricelli, and Pascal, concerning the
pressure of the air, greatly engaged their attention, and
many additions were made to their discoveries. Mr. Boyle,
the most ardent and successful studier of nature, had the
principal share in these improvements, his inquisitive mind
being aided by an opulent fortune. In a letter to his ne¬
phew Lord Dungarvon, he says that he had made many at¬
tempts to see the appearances exhibited by bodies freed from
the pressure of the air. He had made Toricellian tubes,
having a small vessel a-top, into which he put some bodies
before filling the tubes with mercury ; so that when the
tube was set upright, and the mercury run out, the bodies
were in vacuo. He had also abstracted the water from a
vessel by a small pump, by means of its weight, in the
manner shewn in fig. 3, having previously put bodies into
the vessel along with the water. But all these ways were
very troublesome and imperfect. He was delighted when
he learned from Schottus’ first publication, that Guericke
had effected this by the expansive power of the air ; and
immediately set about constructing a machine from his own
ideas, no description of Guericke’s being then published.
It consisted of a receiver A,
(fig. 18.) furnished with a stop¬
cock B, and syringe CD placed in
a vertical position below the re¬
ceiver. Its valve C was in its
bottom, close adjoining to the en¬
try of the pipe of communication;
and the hole by which the air is¬
sued was farther secured by a
plug which could be removed.
The piston was moved by a wheel
and rack-work. The receiver of
G uericke’s pump was but ill adapt¬
ed for any considerable variety of
experiments ; and accordingly ve¬
ry few were made in it. Mr. Boyle’s
receiver had a large opening EF,
with a strong glass margin. To
this was fitted a strong brass cap,
Fig. 18.
His air-
pump.
object was not solely to procure a vessel void of air, but to pierced with a hole G in its middle, to which was fitted a
1 In Guericke’s own account of these discoveries, published in 1672, eight years after the Technica Curiosa, the valve is represented
at A close to the bottom of the syringe ; hence it would appear that the representing it in the middle at F was a blunder of Schottus.—Ed.
2 See Schotti Technica Curiosa, p. 68—70.
8 Tractatus de Experimentis Magdeburgicis, et Epistolcc ad Schottunu
PNEUMATICS.
Pneumatics plug ground into it, and shaped like the key of'a cock. The valves of oiled silk are so oh,cod „„ r.,
'—^extremity of this key was furnished with a screw, to which of the air from the received to thrswini™ rta^e|Ph,of
ing what was to be examined in the S e XT^Tiststo be 21FS*™, ■ ^
ing various motions within it, without admitting fhe air.
Ihis was farther guarded against by means of oil poured found in the lower portion of the barrel until the^irnt!
™“d,ohIke.y:."'here,1.t,"as ^red »y «he MW cup-like receiver, by its elastic forci, o^enteg the valve V or ft
lushes in, distributing itself equally betwixt the barrel and
form of the cover. With all these precautions, however,
Mr. Boyle ingenuously confesses, that it was but seldom, and
with great difficulty, that he could produce an extreme de¬
gree of rarefaction ; and it appears by Guericke’s letter to
Schottus that in this respect the Magdeburgh machine had
the advantage. But most of Boyle’s very interesting expe¬
riments did not require this extreme rarefaction ; and the
variety of them, and their philosophic importance, compen¬
sated for this defect, and soon eclipsed the fame of the in¬
ventor to such a degree, that the state of air in the receiver
was generally denominated the vacuum Boyleanum, and
the air-pump was called machina Boyleana.
His contri- Mr. Boyle found, that to make a vessel air-tight, it was
vances to sufficient to place a piece of wet or oiled leather on its brim
make air- and to lay a flat plate of metal on this. Thp nrpC«nr« J' u U1 U1C area or cne pist0n.
vesseis the external air squeezed the two solid bodies so hard toge- otlmrV'Ts at die ton of If, ^ !)0tto,m,of the barre1’ the
V£h'- ther, that the soft leather eflectuallv excluded it Thl " ,i ,s at“e,t0P .ofbarrel, and the air below PMs
enabled him to render the whole machine incomparabiy more Ther?fore tl'e pres-
convenient ror a variety of experiments. He caused the
conduit-pipe to terminate in a flat plate which he covered
with leather, and on this he set the glass ball or receiver,
which had both its upper and lower brim ground flat. He
covered the upper orifice in like manner with a piece of oiled
leather and a flat plate, having cocks and a variety of other
perforations and contrivances suited to his purposes. This
he found infinitely more expeditious, and also tighter than
the clammy cements which he had formerly used for secu¬
ring the joints.
DrHooke’s He was now assisted by Dr. Hooke, the most ingenious
improve- and inventive mechanic that the world
receiver, but as the pistons are furnished with valves P anti
P similar to and opening in the same direction as VV'; on
the descent of the piston the air which occupies the space
betwixt the piston and bottom of the barrel being prevent¬
ed from returning to the receiver by the valve V or V'
opens the valve in the piston and escapes into the apart¬
ment, with the air of which the piston valve communicates,
ibis evidently doubled the expedition of the pumn’s oper¬
ation ; but it also greatly diminished the labour of pump¬
ing ; for it must be observed, that the piston P must be
drawn up against the pressure of the external air, and when
the rarefaction is nearly perfect, this requires a force of
nearly fifteen pounds for every inch oftheareaofthe piston.
ment of
Boyle’s
air-pump
has ever seen. This person made a
great improvement on the air-pump,
by applying two syringes A A, (fig.
19), whose pistons P and P' are both
worked by one wheel, O pitching in
the racks or piston rods R and R', the
pistons being thus raised and depressed
alternately by turning the winch W
backwards and forwards. In the bot¬
tom of each of the barrels there is an
opening communicating with the re¬
ceiver or bell glass B, placed on the
plate A, (fig. 20). Over these openings
Fig. 20.
sure of the external air on the piston P'is nearly equal to that
on the piston P. Both, therefore, are acting in opposite direc¬
tions on the wheel which gave them motion ; and the force
necessary for raising P is only the difference between the
elasticity of the air in the barrel P, and that of the air in
the barrel P'. This is very small in the beginning of the
stroke, but gradually increases as the piston P' descends, and
becomes equal to the whole excess ofthe air’s pressure above
the elasticity ofthe remaining air of the receiver, when the
air at P of the natural density begins to open the piston
va ve8, ^Ln accurate attention to the circumstances will
show us that the force requisite for working the pump is
greatest at first, and gradually diminishes as the rarefaction
advances; and when this is nearly complete, hardly any
more force is required than what is necessary for overcom-
mg the friction ofthe pistons, except during the discharge
of the air at the end of each stroke. This is therefore the
ff>nn Oi the air-pump which is most generally used over all
Furope; though in the various modifications some traces
of national prepossession remain. We shall give a descrip¬
tion of Boyle’s air-pump as finally improved by Hawkesbee,
which, with some small accommodations to particular views
continued for many years the most approved form.
It consists of two brass barrels
a a, (fig. 21.) twelve inches
high, and two wide. The pistons
are raised and depressed by turn
ing the winch b. This is fasten
ed to an axis passing through
a strong toothed wheel, which
lays hold of the teeth of the
racks c c. Then the one is
raised while the other is depress¬
ed; by which means the* valves,
which are made of limber bladder,
fixed in the upper part of each
piston, as well as in the openings
into the bottom of the barrels,
perform their office of discharg¬
ing the air from the barrels, and
admitting into them the air from  
the receiver to be afterwards discharged ; and when the re
ceiver comes to be pretty well exhausted of its air, the
pressure of the atmosphere in the descending piston is near¬
ly so great, that the power required to raise the other is
htt.e more than is necessary for overcoming the friction
of the piston, which renders this pump preferable to all
Hawkes¬
bee’s im-
proveinenta
vou. xviii.
82
PNEUMATICS.
Pneumatics others, which require more force to work them as therare-
' faction of the air in the receiver advances.
The barrels are set in a brass dish about two inches deep,
filled with water or oil to prevent the insinuation of air. The
barrels are screwed tight down by the nuts e e, which
force the frontispiece//down on them, through which the
two pillars g g pass ; for the sake of distinctness these are
omitted in the figure.
From between the barrels rises a slender brass pipe h h,
communicating with each by a perforation in the transverse
piece of brass on which they stand. The upper end of this
pipe communicates with another perforated piece of brass,
which screws on underneath the plate i i, of ten inches
diameter, and surrounded with a brass rim to prevent the
shedding of water used in some experiments. This piece
of brass has three branches. 1st, An horizontal one com¬
municating with the conduit pipe h h. 2d, An upright one,
screwed into the middle of the pump plate, and terminating
in a small pipe k, rising about an inch above it. 3d, A
perpendicular one, looking downwards in the continuation
of the pipe k, and having a hollow screw in its end receiv¬
ing the brass cap of the gage-pipe l /, which is of glass,
thirty-four inches long, and immersed in a glass cistern
m filled with mercury. This is covered a-top with a cork
float, carrying the weight of a light wooden scale divided
into inches, which are numbered from the surface of the
mercury in the cistern. This scale will therefore rise and
fall with the mercury in the cistern, and indicate the true
elevation of that in the tube.
There is a stop-cock immediately above the insertion of
the gage-pipe, by which its communication may be cut off.
There is another at n, by which a communication is open¬
ed with the external air, for allowing its readmission ; and
there is sometimes another immediately within the inser¬
tion of the conduit-pipe for cutting off the communication
between the receiver and the pump. This is particularly
useful when the rarefaction is to be continued long, as there
are by these means fewer chances of the insinuation of air
by the many joints.
The receivers are made tight by simply setting them on
the pump-plate, with a piece of wet or oiled leather be¬
tween ; and the receivers, which are open a-top, have a brass
cover set on them in the same manner. In these covers
there are various perforations and contrivances for various
purposes. The one in the figure has a slip wire passing
through a collar of oiled leather, having a hook or a screw
in its lower end, for hanging any thing on, or producing a
variety of motions.
Sometimes the receivers are set on another pl^te, which
has a pipe screwed into its middle, furnished with a stop¬
cock and a screw, which fits the middle pipe k. When the
rarefaction has been made in it, the cock is shut, and then
the whole may be unscrewed from the pump, and removed
to any convenient place. This is called a transporter plate.
It only remains to explain the gage ll. In the ordin¬
ary state of the air, its elasticity balances the pressure of
the incumbent atmosphere. We find this from the force
that is necessary to squeeze it into less bulk in opposition
to this elasticity. Therefore the elasticity of the air in¬
creases with the vicinity of its particles. It is therefore
reasonable to expect, that when we allow it to occupy more
room, and its particles are further asunder, its elasticity will
be diminished though not annihilated; that is, it will no
longer balance the whole pressure of the atmosphere,
though it may still balance part of it. If thei'efore an up¬
right pipe have its lower end immersed in a vessel of mer¬
cury, and communicate by its upper end with a vessel con¬
taining rarefied, therefore less elastic air, we should expect
that the pressure of the air will prevail, and force the mer¬
cury into the tube, and cause it to rise to such a height
that the weight of the mercury, joined to the elasticity of
the rarefied air acting on its upper surface, shall be exactly Pneumatics
equal to the whole pressure of the atmospheie. The height ~
of the mercury is the exact measure of that part of the
whole pressure which is not balanced by the elasticity of
the rarefied air, and its deficiency from the height of the
mercury in the Toricellian tube is the exact measure of this
remaining elasticity. . . _
It is evident, therefore, that the pipe will be a scale of
the elasticity of the remaining air, and will indicate in some
sort the degree of rarefaction ; for there must be some an¬
alogy between the density of the air and its elasticity ; and
wre have no reason to imagine that they do not increase
and diminish together, although we may be ignorant of the
law, that is, of the change of elasticity corresponding to a
known change of density. This is to be discovered by ex¬
periment ; and the air-pump itself furnishes us with the
best experiments for this purpose. After rarefying till the
mercury in the gage has attained half the height of that in
the Toricellian tube, shut the communication with the bar¬
rels and gage, and admit the wrater into the receiver. It
will go in till all is again in equilibrio with the pressure of
the atmosphere ; that is, till the air in the receiver has col¬
lapsed into its natural bulk. This we can accurately ^mea¬
sure, and compare with the whole capacity of the receiver ;
and thus obtain the precise degree of rarefaction corre¬
sponding to half the natural elasticity. We can do the
same thing with the elasticity reduced to one-third, one-
fourth, &c. and thus discover the whole law.
This gage must be considered as one of the most inge¬
nious and convenient parts of Hawkesbee s pump ; and it
is well disposed, being in a situation protected against acci¬
dents ; but it necessarily increases greatly the size of the
machine, and cannot be applied to the table-pump repre¬
sented in fig. 20. When it is wanted here, a small plate is
added behind, or between the barrels and receiver ; and on
this is set a small tubulated (as it is termed) receiver, cov¬
ering a common weather-glass tube. This receiver being
rarefied along with the other, the pressure on the mercury
in the cistern arising from the elasticity of the remaining
air, is diminished so as to be no longer able to support the
mercury at its full height; and it therefore descends till
the height at which it stands puts it in equilibrio with the
elasticity. In this form, therefore, the height of the mer¬
cury is dhectly a measure of the remaining elasticity ; while
in the other it measures the remaining unbalanced pressure
of the atmosphere. But this gage is extremely cumber¬
some, and liable to accidents. We are seldom much inter¬
ested in the rarefaction till it is great; a contracted form
of this gage is therefore very useful, and was early used. A
syphon ABCD (fig. 22.) each branch of
which is about four inches long, close
at A and open at D, is filled with boil¬
ing mercury till it occupies the branch
AB, and a very small part of CD, hav¬
ing its surface at O. This is fixed to a
small stand, and fixed into the receiver,
along with the things that are to be ex¬
hibited in the rarefied air. When the
air has been rarefied till its remaining
elasticity is not able to support the
column BA, the mercury descends in
AB, and rises in CD, and the remain¬
ing elasticity will always be measured by the elevation of
the mercury in AB above that in the leg CD. Could the
exhaustion be perfected, the surfaces in both legs would be
on a level. Another gage might be put into the same foot,
having a small bubble of air at A. This would move from ^ comp]ete
the beginning of the rarefaction ; but our ignorance of theexjjallstiori
analogy between the density and elasticity hinders us from „ot effected
using it as a measure of either. by the air
Fig. 22.
     ^
It is enough for our present purpose to observe, that thelminP*
Various
improve¬
ments of
this ma¬
chine.
Pneumatics barometer gage is a perfect indication and measure of the
performance of an air-pump, and that a pump is, eerier is
paribus, so much the more perfect, as it is able to raise the
mercury higher in the gage. It is in this way that we dis¬
cover that none can produce a complete exhaustion, and
that their operation is only a very great rarefaction: for
none can raise the mercury to that height at which it stands
in the Toricellian tube, well purged of air. Few pumps will
bring it within one-tenth of an inch. Hawkesbee’s, fitted
up according to his instructions, will seldom bring it within
one-fifth. Pumps with cocks, when constructed according
to the principles mentioned when speaking of the exhaustino-
syringe, and new and in fine order, will in favourable cir*
cumstances bring it within one-fortieth. None with valves
fitted up with wet leather, or when water or volatile fluids
are allowed access into any part, M ill bring it nearer than
one-fifth. Nay, a pump of the best kind, and in the finest
order, will have its rarefying power reduced to the lowest
standard, as measured by this gage, if we put into the re¬
ceiver the tenth part of a square inch of white sheep-skin,
fresh from the shops, or of any substance equally damp.
This is a discovery made by means of the improved air-pump,
and leads to very extensive and important consequences in
general physics, some of which will be treated of under this
article; and the observation is made thus early, that our
readers may better understand the improvements which have
been made on this celebrated machine.
It would require a volume to describe all the changes
which have been made on it. An instrument of such mul¬
tifarious use, and in the hands of curious men, each diving
into the secrets of nature in his favourite line, must have re¬
ceived many alterations and real improvements in many par¬
ticular respects. But these are beside our present purpose ;
which is to consider it merely as a machine for rarefying
elastic or expansive fluids. We must therefore confine oui^
selves to this view of it; and shall carefully state to our
readers every improvement founded on principle, and on
pneumatical laws. All who used it perceived the limit set
to the rarefaction by the resistance of the valves, and tried
to perfect the construction of the cocks. The Abbe Nollet
ands’Gravesande, two of the most eminent experimental phi¬
losophers in Europe, were the most successful.
Mr. s’Gravesande justly preferred Hooke’s plan of a double
sande’s im-pump, and contrived an apparatus for turning the cocks by
provement. the motion of the pump’s handle. This is far from either
being simple or easy in working; and occasions great jerks
and concussions in the whole machine. This, however, is
not necessarily connected with the truly pneumatical im¬
provement. His piston has no valve, and the rod is connect¬
ed with it by a stirrup D (fig. 23), as
in a common pump. The rod has a
cylindric part cp, which passes through
the stirrup, and has a stiff motion in it
up and down of about half an inch ;
being stopped by the shoulder c above
and the nut below. The round plate
supported by this stirrup has a short
square tube n d, which fits tight into
the hole of a piece of cork F. The
round plate E has a square shank g,
which goes into the square tube n d
A piece of thin leather/soaked in oil,
is put betM-een the cork and the plate
E, and another betMeen the cork and
the plate which forms the sole of the
stirrup. All these pieces are screwed
together to form the piston by the nail
e, whose flat head covers the hole n.
Suppose, therefore, the piston touching
the bottom ofthe barrel, and the winch
turning to raise it again, the friction of
PNEUMATICS.
83
s’Grave-
the piston on the barrel keeps it in its place, and the rod is Pneumatics
drawn up through the stirrup D. Thus the wheel has liberty
to turn about an inch; and this is sufficient for turning the cock,
so as to cut off the communication with the external air, and
to open the communication with the receiver. This being
done, and the motion of the winch continued, the piston is
raised to the top of the barrel. When the winch is turned in
the opposite direction, the piston remains fixed till the cock
is turned, so as to shut the communication with the receiver,
and open that with the external air.
This is a pretty contrivance, and does not at first appear
necessary ; because the cocks might be made to turn at the
beginning and end of the stroke without it. But this is just
possible ; and the smallest error of adjustment, or wearing
of the apparatus, M'ill cause them to be open at improper
times. Besides, the cocks are not turned in an instant, and
are improperly open during some very small time; but this
contrivance completely obviates the difficulty.
The cock is precisely similar to that formerly described,
having one perforation diametrically through it, "and another
entering at right angles to this, and after reaching the cen¬
tre, it passes along the axis of the cock, and comes out to
the open air.
It is evident, that by this construction of the cock, the Its incon-
ingenious improvement of Dr, Hooke, by M’hich the pressure verriem-es
of the atmosphere on one piston is made to balance, in great reinefheci.
part, the pressure on the other, is given up: for, whenever
the communication with the air is opened, it rushes in, and
immediately balances the pressure on the upper side ofthe
piston in this barrel; so that the whole pressure in the other
must be overcome by the person working the pump. Grave-
sande, aware of this, put a valve on the orifice of the cock ;
that is, tied a slip of M*et bladder or oiled leather across it;
and now the piston is pressed down, as long as the air in the
barrel is rarer than the outward air, in the same manner as
when the valve is in the piston itself.
This is all that is necessary to be described in Mr.s’Grave-
sande’s air pump. Its performance is highly extolled by
him, as far exceeding his former pumps with valves. The
same preference was given to it by his successor Muschen-
brock. But, while they both prepared the pistons and valves
and leathers of the pump, by steeping them in oil, and then
in a mixture of water and spirits of wine, we are certain that
no just estimate could be made of its performance. For
with this preparation it could not bring the gage within one-
fifth of an inch ofthe barometer. We even see other limits
to its rarefaction : from its construction, it is plain that a
very considerable space is left between the piston and cock,
not less than an inch, from which the air is never expelled ;
and if this be made extremely small, it is plain that the pump
must be worked very slow, otherwise there will not be time
for the air to diffuse itself from the receiver into the barrel,
especially towards the end, when the expelling force, viz.
the elasticity of the remaining air, is very small. There is
also the same limit to the rarefaction, as in Hooke’s or
Hawkesbee’s pump, opposed by the valve, which will not
open till the air below the piston is considerably denser than
the extei nal an ^ and this pump soon lost any advantages it
possessed when fresh from the workman’s hands, by the
cock s groM ing loose and admitting air. It is surprising that
Gi avesande omitted Flawkesbee’s security against this, bv
placing the ban els in a dish filled with oil; which would
effectually have prevented this inconvenience.
M e must not omit a seemingly paradoxical observation Advant.ve
or s Giavesande, that in a pump constructed with valves, and of short °
worked with a determined uniform velocity, the required barrels,
degiee of rarefaction is sooner produced by short barrels
than by long ones. It would require too much time to give
a geneial demonstration of this, but it M ill easily be seen by
an example. Suppose the long barrel to have equal capa¬
city with the receiver, then at the end ofthe first stroke the
84
PNEUMATICS.
The valve
pump im¬
proved by
i'meaton
Pneumatics air in the receiver will have one-half its natural density.
Now, let the short barrrels have halt this capacity : at the
end of the first stroke the density of the air in the receiver
is two-thirds, and at the end of the second stroke it is four-
ninths, which is less than one-half, and the two strokes of
the short barrel are supposed to be made in the same time
with one of longest, &e.
Hawkesbee’s pump maintained its pre-eminence without
rival in Britain, till about the year 1750, when it engaged
the attention of Mr. John Smeaton. He was then a maker
of philosophical instruments, and made many attempts to
perfect the pumps with cocks, but found, that whatever per¬
fection he could bi'ing them to, he could not enable them to
preserve it; and he never would sell one of this construction.
He therefore attached himself solely to the valve pumps.
The first thing was to diminish the resistance to the entry of
the air from the receiver into the barrels; and this he rendered
almost nothing, by enlarging the surface on which this fee¬
bly elastic air was to press. Instead of making these valves
to open by its pressure on a circle of one-twentieth of an
inch in diameter, he made the valve-hole one inch in diame¬
ter, enlarging the surface 400 times ; and, to prevent this
piece of thin leather from being burst by the great pressure
an it, when the piston in its descent was approaching the
bottom of the barrel, he supported it by a delicate but
strong grating, dividing the valve- Fig. 24.
hole like the section of a honey-comb,
as represented in fig. 24; and the
ribs of this grating are seen edgewise
in fig. 25, at a b c.
The valve was a piece of thin
membrane or oiled silk, gently strain¬
ed over the mouth of the valve-hole,
and tied on by a fine silk thread
wound round it in the same manner
that the narrow slips had been tied on formerly. This done,
he cut with a pointed knife the leather round the edge,
nearly four quadrantal arcs, leaving a small tongue between
each, as in fig. 24. The strained valve immediately shrinks
inwards, as represented by the shaded parts ; and the strain
by which it is kept down is now greatly diminished, taking
place only at the corners. The gratings being reduced
nearly to an edge (but not quite, lest they should cut), there
is very little pressure to produce adhesion by the clammy
oil. Thus it appears, that a very small elasticity of the air
in the receiver will be sufficient to raise the valve ; and Mr.
Smeaton found, that when it was not able to do this at first,
when only about ^ of the natural elasticity, it would do
it after keeping the piston up eight or ten seconds, the air
having been ail the while undermining the valve, and gra¬
dually detaching it from the grating.
Unfortunately he could not follow this method with the
piston valve. There w7as not room round the rod for sucn
an expanded valve ; and it wrould have obliged him to have
a great space below the valve, from which he could not ex¬
pel the air by the descent of the piston. His ingenuity hit
on a way of increasing the expelling force through the com¬
mon valve. He inclosed the rod of the piston in a collar of
leather D C (fig. 25,) through which it moved freely with¬
out allowing any air to get past its sides. I’or greater se¬
curity, the collar of leather was contained in a box termi¬
nating in sa cup filled with oil. As this makes a material
change in the principle of construction of the air-pump, and
indeed of pneumatic engines in general, and as it has been
adopted in all the subsequent attempts to improve them, it
merits a particular consideration.
Structure The piston itself consists of two pieces of brass fastened by
of his pis- screws from below. The uppermost, which is of one solid
ton- piece with the rod GH (fig. 25), is of a diameter somewhat
less than the barrel; so that when they are screwed together,
a piece of leather soaked in a mixture of boiled oil and tallow,
is put between them ; and when the piston is thrust into Pneumatics
the barrel from above, the leather
comes up around the side of the Fig, 25.
piston, and fills the barrel, makingT
the piston perfectly air-tight. The^
lower half of the piston projects
upwards into the upper, which has
a hollow g b c d \,o receive it.
There is a small hole through the
lower half at a to admit the air ;
and a hole c d \n the upper half
to let it through, and there is a slip
of oiled silk strained across the
hole a by wjy of valve, and there
is room enough left at Z» c for this
valve to rise a little when pressed
from below. The rod GH passes
through the piece of brass which
forms the top of the barrel so as
to move freely, but without any
sensible shake: this top is formed
into a hollow box, consisting of
two pieces ECDF and CNOD, which screw together at CD.
This box is filled with rings of oiled leather exactly fitted to
its diameter, eachhavingahole in it for the rod to pass through.
When the piece ECDF is screwed down, it compresses the
leathers ; squeezing them to the rod, so that no air can pass
between them; and, to secure us against all ingress of air, the
upper part is formed into a cup EF, which is kept filledwith oil.
The top of the barrel is also pierced with a hole LK,
which rises above the flat surface NO, and has a slip of oiled
silk tied over it to act as a valve ; opening when pressed
from below, but shutting when pressed from above.
The communication between the barrel and receiver is
made by means of the pipe ABPQ; and there goes from
the hole K in the top of the barrel a pipe KRST, which
either communicates with the open air or with the receiver,
by means of the cock at its extremity T. The conduit pipe
ABPQ has also a cock at Q, by which it is made to com¬
municate either with the receiver or with the open air.
These channels of communication are variously conducted
and terminated, according to the views of the maker. I he
sketch in this figure is sufficient for explaining the princi¬
ple, and is suited to the general form of the pump, as it has
been frequently made by Nairne and other artists in London.
Let us now suppose the piston at the top of the barrel, Superiority
that it applies to it all over, and that the air in the bar-of thb con*
rel is very much rarefied : In the common pump the piston structioi
valve is pressed hard down by the atmosphere, and contin¬
ues shut till the piston gets far down, condenses the air be¬
low it beyond its natural state, and enables it to force up
the valves. But here, as soon as the piston quits the top
of the barrel, it leaves a void behind it; for no air gets in
round the piston rod, and the valve at K is shut by the
pressure of the atmosphere. There is nothing now to op¬
pose the elasticity of the air below but the stiffness of the
valve be; and thus the expelling (or more accurately the
liberating) force is prodigiously increased.
The superiority of this construction will be best seen by
an example. Suppose the stiffness of the valve equal to the
weight of 1-10th of an inch of mercui'y, when the barome¬
ter stands at 30 inches, and that the pump-gage stands at
29'9 ; then, in an ordinary pump, the valve in the piston
will not rise till the piston has got within the 300th part of
the bottom of the barrel, and it will leave the valve-hole
filled with air of the ordinary density. But in this pump
the valve will rise as soon as the piston quits the top of the
barrel; and when it is quite down, the valve-hole a will
contain only the 300th part of the air which it would have
contained in a pump of the ordinary form. Suppose, far¬
ther,. that the barrel is of equal capacity with the receiver.
PNEUMATICS.
Pneumatics and that both pumps are so badly constructed, that the
space left below the piston is the 300th part of the barrel.
In the common pump the piston valve will rise no more,
and the rarefaction can be carried no farther, however de¬
licate the barrel valve may be; but in this pump the next
stroke will raise the gage to 29-95, and the piston valve will
again rise as soon as the piston gets half way down the barrel.
The limit to the rarefaction by this pump depends chiefly
on the space contained in the hole LK, and in the space
b c d o? the piston. When the piston is brought up to the
top, and applied close to it, those spaces remain filled with
air of the ordinary density, which will expand as the piston
descends, and thus will retard the opening of the piston
valve. The rarefaction will stop when the elasticity of this
small quantity of air, expanded so as to fill the whole barrel
(by the descent of the piston to the bottom), is just equal
to the force requisite for opening the piston valve.
Another advantage attending this construction is, that in
drawing up the piston, wTe are not resisted by the whole
pressure of the air; because the air is rarefied above this
piston as well as below it, and the piston is in precisely the
same state of pressure as if connected with another piston
in a double pump. The resistance to the ascent of the pis¬
ton is the excess of the elasticity of the air above it over
the elasticity of the air below ; this, toward the end of the
rarefaction, is very small, wdhle the piston is near the bot¬
tom of the barrel, but gradually increases as the piston rises,
and reduces the air above it into smaller dimensions, and
becomes equal to the pressure of the atmosphere, wdien the
air above the piston is of the common density. If w e should
raise the piston still farther, we must condense the air above
it; but Mr. Smeaton has here made an issue for the air by
a small hole in the top of the barrel, covered with a deli¬
cate valve. This allows the air to escape^.and shuts again
as soon as the piston begins to descend, leaving almost a
perfect void behind it as before.
This pump has another advantage. It may be changed
in a moment from a rarefying to a condensing engine, by
simply turning the cocks at Q, and T. Whilst T communi¬
cates with the open air and Q,with the receiver, it is a rarefy-
ing engine or air-pump; but when T communicates with the
receiver, and Q with the open air, it is a condensing engine.
| description Fig. 26 represents Mr. S meat on’s air-pump as it was usu-
of Smea-
; ton’s pump. Fig. 26.
ally made by Nairne. Upon a solid base or table are set Pneumatics
up three pillars F, H, H ; the pillar F supports the pump-^-Y-w
plate A, and the pillars H, H, support the front or head,
containing a brass cog-wheel, which is turned by the handle
B, and works in the rack C fastened to the upper end of
the piston rod. The whole is still farther steadied by two
pieces of brass n and h, which connect the pump-plate
with the front, and have perforations communicating be¬
tween the hole a in the middle of the plate and the barrel,
as will be described immediately. DE is the barrel of the
pump, firmly fixed to the table by screws through its upper
flanch ; e f d c \s a slender brass tube screwed to the bot¬
tom of the barrel, and to the under side of the horizontal
canal n. In this canal there is a cock zra, which opens a
communication between the barrel and the receiver, when
the key is in the position represented here ; but when the
key is at right angles with this position, this communication
is cut off. If that side of the key which is here drawn next
to the pump-plate be turned outward, the external air
is admitted into the receiver ; but if turned inwards, the
air is admitted into the barrel.
g h is another slender brass pipe, leading from the dis¬
charging valve at g to the horizontal canal h k, to the under
side of which it is screwed fast. In this horizontal canal
there is a cock n which opens a passage from the barrel
to the receiver when the key is in the position here
drawn ; but opens a passage from the barrel to the ex¬
ternal air when the key is turned outwards, and from tbe
receiver to the external air when the key is turned inwards.
This communication with the external air is not immediate
but through a sort of box i ; the use of this box is to re¬
ceive the oil which is discharged through the top valve g.
In order to keep the pump tight, and in working order, it
is proper sometimes to pour a table-spoonful of olive oil
into the hole a of the pump-plate, and then to work the
pump. The oil goes along the conduit bed f e, gets into
the barrel and through the piston-valve, when the piston is
pressed to the bottom of the barrel, and is then drawn up,
and forced through the discharging valve g along the pipe
g/i, the horizontal passage h n, and finally into the box t.
This box has a small hole in its side near the top, through
which the air escapes.
From the upper side of the canal n there arises a slen¬
der pipe which bends outward and then turns downwards,
and is joined to a small box, which cannot be seen in this
view. From the bottom of this box proceeds downwards
the gage-pipe of glass, which enters the cistern of mercury
G fixed below.
On the upper side of the other canal there is a small
stud, having a short pipe of glass projecting horizontally
from it, close by and parallel to the front piece of the pump,
and reaching to the other canal. This pipe is close at the
farther end, and has a small drop of mercury or oil in it.
This serves as a gage in condensing, indicating the degree
of condensation by the place of the drop ; for this drop is
forced along the pipe, condensing the air before it in the
same degree that it is condensed in the barrel and receiver.
In constructing this pump, Mr. Smeaton introduced a Method of
method of joining together the different pipes and other joining to-'
pieces, which has great advantages over the usual manner getlier tlie
of screwing them together with leather between, and which differet,t
is now much used in hydraulic and pneumatic engines. WepipeS’ &c‘
shall explain this to our readers by a description of the man¬
ner in which the exhausting gage is joined to the horizontal
duct c b.
I he piece h i p, in fig, 27, is the same with the little
cylinder observable on the upper side of the horizontal canal
n, in fig. 26. The upper part h i is formed into an out¬
side screw, to fit the hollow screw of the piece deed. The
top of this last piece has a hole in its middle, giving an easy
passage to the bent tube c b a, so as to slip along it with
86
PNEUMATICS.
Fig. 27.
Pneumatics freedom. To the end c of this bent
' tube is soldered a piece of brass c f
g, perforated in continuation of the
tube, and having its end ground flat
on the top of the piece h ip, and also
covered with a slip of thin leather
strained across it and pierced with a
hole in the middle.
It is plain from this form, that if
the surface fg be applied to the top
of h i, and the cover deed be
screvved down on it, it will draw or
press them together, so that no air
can escape by the joint, and this
without turning the whole tube c b
a round, as is necessary in the usual
way. This method is now adopted for joining together the
conducting pipes of the machines for extinguishing fires, an
operation which was extremely troublesome before this im¬
provement.
The conduit pipe E ef c (fig. 26), is fastened to the bot¬
tom of the barrel, and the discharging pipe g h to its top,
in the same manner. But to return to the gage ; the bent
pipe cb a (fig. 27), enters the box s t near one side, and
obliquely, and the gage-pipe qris inserted through its bot¬
tom towards the opposite side. The use of this box is to
catch any drops of mercury which may sometimes be dashed
up through the gage-pipe by an accidental oscillation. 1 his,
by going through the passages of the pump, would corrode
them, and would act particularly on the joints, which are
generally soldered with tin. When this happens to an air-
pump, it must be cleaned with the most scrupulous atten¬
tion, otherwise it will be quickly destroyed.
This account of Smeaton’s ptyaip is sufficient for enabling
the reader to understand its operation and to see its supe-
this pump, riority. It is reckoned a very fine pump of the ordinary
construction which will rarefy 200 times, or raise the gage
to 29’85, the barometer standing at 30. But Mr. Smeaton
found, that his pump, even after long using, raised it to
29,9o, which we consider as equivalent to rarefying 600
times. When in fine order, he found no bounds to its rare¬
faction, frequently raising the gage as high as the barome¬
ter ; and he thought its performance so perfect,1 that the
barometer-gage was not sufficiently delicate for measuring
the rarefaction. He therefore substituted the syphon-gage
already described, which he gives some reasons for prefer-
ing ; but even this he found not sufficiently sensible.
.Another con^rivec^ another, which could be carried to any de-
contrivance gree °f sensibility. It consisted of a glass body A (fig. 28),
of Smea- of a pear shape, and was therefore called the
ton’s. pear-gage. This had a small projecting ori¬
fice at B, and at the other end a tube CD,
whose capacity was the hundredth part of
the capacity of the whole vessel. This was
suspended at the slip-wire of the receiver,
and there was set below it a small cup with
mercury. When the pump was worked, the
air in the pear-gage was rarefied along with
the rest. When the rarefaction was brought
to the degree intended, the gage was let
down till B reached the bottom of the mer¬
cury. The external air being now let in,
the mercury was raised into the pear, and
stood at some height E in the tube CD. The
length of this tube being divided into 100
parts, and those numbered from D, it is evi-
DE
dent that will express the degree of rare-
Great
powers of
28.
faction which had been produced when the gage was 5m- Pneiimari
mersed into the mercury; or if DC be of the whole
capacity, and be divided into 100 parts by a scale annexed
to it, each unit of the scale will be of the whole.
This was a very ingenious contrivance, and has been the
means of making some very curious and important disco¬
veries. By this gage Mr. Smeaton found, that his pump
frequently rarefied a thousand, ten thousand, nay, an hun¬
dred thousand times. But though he in every instance saw
the great superiority of his pump above all others, he fre¬
quently found irregularities which he could not explain, and
a want of correspondence between the pear and the baro¬
meter gages which puzzled him. The pear-gage frequently
indicated a prodigious rarefaction, when the barometer-gage
would not show more than 600.
These unaccountable phenomena excited the curiosity of
philosophers, who by this time were making continual use
of the air-pump in their meteorological researches, and much
interested in everything connected with the state or constitu¬
tion of elastic fluids. Mr.Nairne, a most ingenious and ac¬
curate maker of philosophical instruments, made many curi¬
ous experiments in the examination and comparison of Mr.
Smeaton’s pump with those of the usual construction, at¬
tending to every circumstance which could contribute to
the inferiority of the common pumps or to their improve¬
ment, so as to bring them nearer to this rival machine.
This rigorous comparison brought into view several circum¬
stances in the constitution of the atmospheric air, and its
relation to other bodies, which are of the most extensive
and important influence in the operations of nature. We
shall notice at present such only as have a relation to the
operation of the air-pump in extracting air from the re¬
ceiver.
Mr. Nairne found, that when a little water, or even a bit Experi-
of paper damped with water, was exposed under the re- ments wit
ceiver of Mr. Smeaton’s air-pump, when in the most perfect11 ^r'
condition, raising the mercury in the barometer-gage toISaluie’
29*95, he could not make it rise above 29*8 if Fahrenheit’s
thermometer indicated the temperature 47°, nor above 29*7
if the thermometer stood at 55°; and that to bring the gage
to this height and keep it there, the operation of the pump
must be continued for a long time after the water had
disappeared or the paper become perfectly dry. He
found that a drop of spirits, or paper moistened with spi¬
rits, could not in those circumstances allow the mercury
in the gage to rise to near that height; and that similar
effects followed from admittting any volatile body what¬
ever into the receiver or any part of the apparatus.
This showed him at once how improper were the dhec-
tions which had been given by Guericke, Boyle, Grave-
sande, and others, for fitting up the air-pump for experi¬
ment, by soaking the leather in water, covering the joints
with water, or in short, admitting water or any volatile body
near it.
He therefore took his pumps to pieces, cleared them of
all the moisture which he could drive from them by heat,
and then leathered them anew with leather soaked in a
mixture of olive oil and tallow, from which he had expelled
all the water it usually contains, by boiling it till the first
frothing was over. When the pumps were fitted up in this
manner, he uniformly found that Mr. Smeaton’s pump rare¬
fied the gage to 29*9o, and the best common pump to 29*87,
the first of which he computed to indicate a rarefaction to
600, and the other to 230. But in this state he again
found that a piece of damp paper, leather, wood, &c. in the
receiver, reduced the performance in the same manner as Remark-
before. able pheno-
But the most remarkable phenomenon was, that when he nienon.
’ This can only be explained by supposing that Mr. Smeaton employed an imperfect barometer.
PNEUMATICS.
87
Pneumatics made use of the pear-gage with the pump cleared from all
moisture, it indicated the same degree of rarefaction with
the barometer-gage ; but when he exposed a bit of paper
moistened with spirits, and thus reduced the rarefaction of
the pump to what he called 50, the barometer-gage stand¬
ing at 29‘4, the pear-gage indicated a rarefaction exceed¬
ing 100,000. In short, it was not measurable; and this
phenomenon was almost constant. Whenever he exposed
any substance susceptible of evaporation, he found the rare¬
faction indicated by the barometer-gage greatly reduced,
whilst that indicated by the pear-gage was prodigiously in¬
creased ; and both these effects were the more remarkable as
the subject was of easier evaporation, or the temperament of
the air of the chamber w as warmer.
This uniform result suggested the true cause. Water
boils at the temperature of 212°, that is, it is then convert¬
ed into a vapour w hich is permanently elastic while of that
temperature, and its elasticity balances the pressure of the
atmosphere. If this pressure be diminished by rarefying
the air above it, a low temperature will not allow it to be
converted into elastic vapour, and keep it in that state.
Water w ill boil in the receiver of an air-pump at the tem¬
perature of 96°, or even under it. Philosophers did not
think of examining the state of the vapour in temperatures
lower than what produced ebullition. But it now appears,
that in much lower heats than this the superficial water is
converted into elastic vapour, which continues to exhale
from it as long as the water lasts, and, supplying the place
of air in the receiver, exerts the same elasticity, and hin¬
ders the mercury from rising in the gage in the same man¬
ner as so much air of equal elasticity would have done.
Experi- When Mr. Nairne was exhibiting these experiments to
ments illus-the Hon. Henry Cavendish in 1770, this gentleman inform-
tnative of etl him that it appeared from a series of experiments of his
father Lord Charles Cavendish, that when water is of the
temperature 72°, it is converted into vapour, under any pres¬
sure less than three-fourths of an inch of mercury, and at
41° it becomes vapour when the pressure is less than one-
fourth of an inch: even mercury evaporates in this manner
when all pressure is removed. A dewy appearance is fre¬
quently observed covering the inside of the tube of a baro¬
meter, where we usually suppose a vacuum. This dew,
when viewed through a microscope, appears to be a set of
detached globules of mercury, and upon inclining the tube
so that the mercury may ascend along it, these globules will
be all licked up, and the tube become clear. The dew
which lined it was the vapour of the mercury condensed by
the side of the tube ; and it is never observed but when
one side is exposed to a stream of cold air from a window,
&c.
To return to the vapour in the air-pump receiver; it must
be observed, that as long as the water continues to yield it,
we may continue to work the pump ; and it will be contin¬
ually abstracted by the barrels, and discharged in the form
of water, because it collapses as soon as exposed to the ex¬
ternal pressure. All this while the gage will not indicate
any more rarefaction, because the thing immediately indi¬
cated by the barometer-gage is diminished elasticity, which
does not happen here. When all the water which the tem¬
perature of the room can keep elastic has evaporated under
a certain pressure, suppose half an inch of mercury, the gage
standing at 29’5, the vapour which now fills the receiver
expands, and by its diminished elasticity the gage rises, and
now some more water which had been attached to bodies
by chemical or corpuscular attraction is detached, and a new
supply continues to support the gage at a greater height;
and this goes on continually till almost all has been ab¬
stracted. But there will remain some which no art can take
away ; for as it passes through the barrels, and gets between
this ac¬
count.
the piston and the top, it successively collapses into tvater Pneumatics
during the ascent of the piston, and again expands into va-
pour when we push the piston down again. Whenever
this happens there is an end of the rarefaction.
Whilst this operation is going on, the air comes out along Air ami va-
with the vapour ; but we cannot say in what proportion.pour not
If it were always uniformly mixed with the vapour, it would u,!'f°rinly
diminish rapidly ; but this does not appear to be the case.mix,ec*to"
There is a certain period of rarefaction in which a transientge ler‘
cloudiness is perceived in the receiver. This is watery va¬
pour formed at that degree of rarefaction, mingled with, but
not dissolved in or united with, the air, otherwise it would
be transparent. A similar cloud will appear if damp air be
admitted suddenly into an exhausted receiver. The va¬
pour, which formed an uniform transparent mass with the
air, is either suddenly expanded and thus detached from
the other ingredient, or is suddenly let go by the air, which
expands more than it does. We cannot affirm with proba¬
bility which of these is the case. Different compositions of
air, that is, air loaded with vapours from different substan¬
ces, exhibit remarkable differences in this respect. But we
see from this and other phenomena, which shall be men¬
tioned in their proper places, that the air and vapour are
not always intimately united ; and therefore will not always
be drawn out together by the air-pump. But let them be
ever so confusedly blended, we see that the air must come
out along with the vapour, and its quantity remaining in the
receiver must be prodigiously diminished by this association,
probably much more than could be, had the receiver only
contained pure air.
Let us now consider what must happen in the pear-gage. Consequen-
As the air and vapour are continually drawn off from the ces of this,
receiver, the air in the pear expands and goes off with it.
We shall suppose that the generated vapour hinders the gage
from rising beyond 29’5. During the continued working
of the pump, the air in the pear, whose elasticity is 05,
slowly mixes with the vapour at the mouth of the pear, and
the mixture even advances into its inside, so that if the
pumping be long enough continued, what is in the pear is
nearly of the same composition with what is in the receiver,
consisting perhaps of 20 parts of vapour and one part of air,
all of the elasticity of OA. When the pear is plunged into
the mercury, and the external air allowed to get into the
receiver, the mercury rises in the pear-gage, and leaves not
1
1200
of it filled with common air, the
1 , 1
60’ ut 60 x 20
vapour having collapsed into an invisible atom of water.
Thus the pear-gage will indicate a rarefaction of 1200, while
the barometer-gage only showed 60, that is, showed the
elasticity of the included substance diminished 60 times.
The conclusion to be drawn from these two measures (the
one of the rarefaction of air, and the other of the diminu¬
tion of elasticity) is, that the matter with which the receiver
was filled, immediately before the readmission of the air,
consisted of one part of incondensible air, and or 20
parts of watery vapour.
The only obscure part of this account is what relates to Difficulty
the composition of the matter whiqh filled the pear-gage act:ouiit-
before the admission of the mercury. It is not easy to seein& for .
how the vapour of the receiver comes in by a narrow mouth
while the air is coming out by the same passage. Accord¬
ingly it requires a very long time to produce this extreme
rarefaction in the pear-gage ; and there are great irregu¬
larities in any two succeeding experiments, as may be seen
by looking at Mr. Nairne’s account of them.1 Some va¬
pours appear to have mixed much more readily with the air
than others ; and there are some unaccountable cases where
1 Phil Trans, vol. Ixvii.
88
PNEUMATICS.
Two new
improve¬
ments.
Improve¬
ments in
Air-pump, vitriolic acid and sulphureous bodies were included, in which
the dimunition of density indicated by the pear-gage was
uniformly less than the diminution of elasticity indicated by
the barometer-gage. It is enough for us at present to have
established, by unquestionable facts, this production of elas¬
tic vapour, and the necessity of attending to it, both in the
construction of the air-pump, and in drawing results from
experiments exhibited in it.
Mr. Smeaton’s pump, when in good order, and perfectly
free from all moisture, will in dry weather rarefy air about
600 times, raising the barometer-gage to within ^gth ot an
inch of a fine barometer. This was a performance so much
superior to that of all others, and by means of Mr. Nairne’s
experiments opened so new a field of observation, that the
air-pumps once more became a capital instrument among
the experimental philosophers. The causes of its superio¬
rity were also so distinct, that artists were immediately ex¬
cited to a farther improvement of the machine ; so that this
becomes a new epoch in its history.
There is one imperfection which Mr. Smeaton has not
attempted to remove.. The discharging valve is still open-
actem necT C(^ against the pressure of the atmosphere. An author of
a emp e . gwe(]jsp academy adds a subsidiary pump to this valve,
which exhausts the air from above it, and thus puts it in the
situation of the piston valve. We do not find that this im¬
provement has been adopted so as to become general. In¬
deed the quantity of air which remains in the passage to this
valve is so exceedingly little, that it does not seem to me¬
rit attention. Supposing the valve hole ^pth of an inch wide
and as deep (and it need not be more), it will not occupy
more than y A^th part of a barrel twrelve inches long and
twro inches wide.
Mr. Smeaton, by his ingenious construction, has greatly
diminished, but has not annihilated, the obstructions to the
passage of the air from the receiver into the barrel. His
success encouraged farther attempts. One of the first and
most ingenious was that of Professor Russell of the Univer¬
sity of Edinburgh, who, about the year 1770, constructed a
pump in which both cocks and valves were avoided.
The piston is solid, as represented in fig. 28, and its rod
Fig. 28.
passes through a collar of leather on the top of the barrel.
This collar is divided into three portions by two brass rings
a, b, which leave a very small space round the piston rod.
The upper ring a communicates by means of a lateral per¬
foration with the bent tube, l m n, which enters the barrel
at its middle n. The lower ring b communicates with the
bent tube c d, which communicates with the horizontal pas¬
sage d e going to the middle e of the pump plate. By the
w'ay, however, it communicates also with a barometer gage Air-pump.
p o, standing in a cistern of mercury o, and covered with
glass tube close at the top. Beyond e, on the opposite cir¬
cumference of the receiver plate, there is a cock or plug/
communicating with the atmosphere.
The piston rod is closely embraced by the three collars
of leather; but, as already said, has a free space round it in
the two brass rings. To produce this pressure of the lea¬
thers to the rod, the brass rings which separate them are
turned thinner on the inner side, so that their cross section
along a diameter would be a taper wedge. In the side of
the piston rod are two cavities q r, t s, about one-tenth of
an inch wide and deep, and of a length equal to the thifck-
ness of the two rings a b, and the intermediate collar of
leathers. These cavities are so placed on the piston-rod,
that when the piston is applied to the bottom of the barrel,
the cavity £ s in the upper end of the rod has its upper end
opposite to the ring a, and its lower end opposite to the ring
b, or to the mouth of the pipe c d. Therefore, if there be a
void in the barrel, the air from the receiver will come from
the pipe c d, into the cavity in the piston-rod, and by it will
get past the collar of leather between the rings, and thus
will get into the small interstice between the rod and the
upper ring, and then into the pipe l m n, and into the empty
barrel. When the piston is drawn up, the solid rod imme¬
diately shuts up this passage, and the piston drives the air
through the discharging valve k. When it has reached the
top of the barrel, and is closely applied to it, the cavity q r
is in the situation in which t s formerly was, and the com¬
munication is again opened between the receiver and the
empty barrel, and the air is again diffused between them.
Pushing down the piston expels the air by the lower dis¬
charging pipe and valve h i; and thus the operation may
be continued.
This must be acknowledged to be a most simple and in¬
genious construction, and can neither be called a cock nor
a valve. It seems to oppose no obstruction whatever; and
it has the superior advantage of rarefying both during the
ascent and the descent of the piston, doubling the expedi¬
tion of the performance, and the operator is not opposed by
the pressure of the atmosphere except towards the end of
each stroke. The expedition, however, is not so great as
one should expect; for nothing is going on while the piston
is in motion, and the operator must stop a while at the end
of each stroke, that the air may have time to come through
this long, narrow, and crooked passage, to fill the barrel.
But the chief difficulty which occurred in the execution
arose from the clammy oil with which it was necessary to
impregnate the collar of leathers. These were always in a
state of strong compression, that they might closely grasp
the piston rod, and prevent all passage of air during the
motion of the piston. Whenever therefore the cavities in
the piston rod come into the situations necessary for con¬
necting the receiver and barrel, this oil is squeezed into
them, and choaks them up. Hence it always happened that it
was some time after the stroke before the air could force its
way round the piston rod, carrying with it the clammy oil
which choaked up the tube l m n ; and when the rarefac¬
tion had proceeded a certain length, the diminished elasti¬
city of the air was not able to make its way through these
obstructions.
Mr. Cavallo1 has given the description of an air-pump
contrived and executed by Messrs Hans and Hurter, in¬
strument makers in London, where these artists revived
Guericke’s method of opening the barrel-valve during the
last strokes of the pump by a force acting from without.
We shall insert as much of this description as relates to the
distinguishing circumstance of its construction.
1 PM Trans, vol. Ixxiii.
PNEUMATICS.
89
Air-pump. Fig. 29 represents a section of the bottom of the bar-
rel, where AA is the barrel, and BB the bottom, which
has in its middle a hollow cylin¬
der CCFF, projecting about half
an inch into the barrel at CC,
and extending a good way down¬
wards to FF. The space be¬
tween this projection and the sides
of the barrel is filled up by a
brass ring DD, over the top of
which is strained a piece of oiled
silk EE, which performs the office
of a valve, covering the hole CC.
But this hole is filled up by a
piece of brass, or rather an as¬
semblage of pieces screwed toge-
getherGG,HH,II. It consists of
three projecting fillets or should¬
ers GG, HH, II, which form two hollows between them,
and which are filled with rings of oiled leather 00, PP,
firmly screwed together. The extreme fillets GG, II, are
of equal diameter with the inside of the cylinder, so as
to fill it exactly, and the whole stuffed with oiled leather,
slide up and down without allowing any air to pass. The
middle fillet HH is not so broad, but thicker. In the up¬
per fillet GG there is formed a shallow dish about £ of an
inch deep and | wide. This dish is covered with a thin
plate, pierced with a grating like Mr. Smeaton’s valve plate.
There is a perforation VX along the axis of this piece, which
has a passage out at one side H, through the middle fillet.
Opposite to this passage, and in the side of the cylinder
CC,FF, is a hole M, communicating with the conduit pipe
MN, which leads to the receiver. Into the lower end of
the perforation is screwed the pin KL, whose tail L passes
through the cap FF. The tail L is connected with a lever
RQ, moveable round the joint Q. This lever is pushed
upwards by a spring, and thus the whole piece which we
have been describing is.kept in contact with the slip of oiled
silk or valve EE. This is the usual situation of things.
Now suppose a void formed in the barrel by drawing up
the piston ; the elasticity of the air in the receiver, in the
pipe MN, and in the passage XV, will press on the great
surface of the valve exposed through the grating, will raise
it, and the pump will perform precisely as Mr. Smeaton’s
does. But suppose the rarefaction to have been so long
continued, that the air is no longer able to raise the valve;
this will be seen by the mercury rising no more in the pump-
gage. When this is perceived, the operator must press with
his foot on the end R of the lever RQ. This draws down
the pin KL,and with it the whole hollow plug with its grated
top. And thus, instead of raising the valve from its plate,
the plate is here drawn down from the valve. The air now
gets in without any obstruction whatever, and the rarefac¬
tion proceeds as long as the piston rises. When it is at the
top of the barrel, the operator takes his foot from the lever,
and the spring presses up the plug again and shuts the valve.
The piston rod passes through a collar of leather, as in Mr.
Smeaton’s pump, and the air is finally discharged through
an outward valve in the top of the barrel. These parts have
nothing peculiar in them.
This is an ingenious contrivance, similar to what was
adapted by Guericke himself; and we have no doubt of these
pumps performing extremely well if carefully made ; and it
seems not difficult to keep the plug perfectly air-tight by
supplying plenty of oil to the leathers. We cannot say, how¬
ever, with precision, what may be expected from it, as no
account has been given of its effects, besides what Mr.
Cavallo published in the Philosophical Transactions for
j 7 83, where he only says, that when it had been long used,
it had, in the course of some experiments, rarefied 600
times.
vol. xvin.
Fig. 29.
Fig. 30.
Aiming still at the removing the obstructions to the entry Air-pump,
of the air from the receiver into the barrels, Mr. Prince, an
American, has constructed a pump in which there is no valve Prince,
or cock whatever between them. In this pump the piston
rod passes through a collar of leather, and the air is finally
discharged through a valve, as in the two last. But we are
chiefly to attend, in this place, to the communication be¬
tween the barrel and the receiver. The barrel widens be¬
low into a sort of cistern ABCD,
communicating with the receiver
by the pipe EF. As soon, there¬
fore, as the piston gets into this
wider part, where there is a vacan¬
cy all round it, the air of the re¬
ceiver expands freely through the
passage FEE into the barrel, in
which the descent of the piston had
made a void. When the piston is
again drawn up, as soon as it gets
into the cylindric part of the bar¬
rel, which it exactly fills, it carries
up the air before it, and expels it
by the top valve; and, that this
EBjgHjil
may be done more completely, this valve opens into a se¬
cond barrel or air-pump whose piston is rising at the same
time, and therefore the valve of communication (which is
the discharging valve of the primary pump) opens with the
same facility as Mr. Smeaton’s piston valve. While the
piston is rising, the air in the receiver expands into the
barrel; and when the piston descends, the air in the barrel
again collapses till the piston gets again into the cistern,
when the air passes out, and fills the evacuated barrel, to
be expelled by the piston as before.
No distinct account has yet been given of the perform¬
ance of this pump. W e only learn that great inconveniences
were experienced from the oscillations of the mercury in the
gage. As soon as the piston comes into the cistern, the
air from the receiver immediately rushes into the barrel, and
the mercury shoots up in the gage, and gets into a state of
oscillation. The subsequent rise of the piston will frequent¬
ly keep time with the second oscillation, and increase it.
The descent of the piston produces a downward oscillation,
by allowing the air below it to collapse ; and by improperly
timing the strokes, this oscillation becomes so great as to make
the mercury enter the pump. To prevent this, and a greater
irregularity of working as a condenser, valves were put in the
piston ; but as these require force to open them, the addi¬
tion seemed rather to increase the evil, by rendering the
oscillations more simultaneous with the ordinary rate of
working.
• It appears, however, of very difficult execution. It has
many long, slender, and crooked passages, which must be
drilled through broad plates of brass, some of them appear¬
ing scarcely practicable. It is rare to find plates and other
pieces of brass without air-holes, which it would be very dif¬
ficult to find out and to close; and it must be very difficult
to clear it of obstructions; so that it appears rather a sug¬
gestion of theory than a thing warranted by its actual per¬
formance.
M. Lavoisier, or some of the naturalists who were oc- Lavoisier,
copied in concert with him in the investigation of the dif¬
ferent species of gas which are disengaged from bodies in
the course of chemical operations, contrived an air-pump
which has great appearance of simplicity, and, being very
different from all others, deserves to be taken notice of.
It consists of two barrels l m, (fig. 31) with solid pistons k k.
The pump plate a i, is pierced at its centre c with a hole which
branches towards each of the barrels, as represented by e e?, c e.
Between the plate and the barrels slides another plate h i,
pierced in the middle with a branched hole f dg, and near
the ends with two holes h h, i i, which go from its under
M
90
PNEUMATICS.
Fig. 31
Air-pump, side to the ends. The holes in these two plates are so ad-
justed, that when the plate A i
is drawn so far towards A that
the hole i comes within the bar¬
rel m, the branch df of the hole
in the middle plate coincides with
the branch cd of the upper plate,
and the holes e g are shut.
Thus a communication is esta¬
blished between the barrel l and
the receiver on the pump-plate,
and between the barrel m and
the external air. In this situa¬
tion the barrel l will exhaust, and
m will discharge. When the pis¬
ton of l is at its mouth, and that
of m touches its bottom, the slid¬
ing plate is shifted over to the
other side, so that m communicates with the receiver through
the passage gd, ec, and l communicates with the air by the
passages A A.
It is evident that this sliding plate performs the office of
four cocks in a very beautiful and simple manner, and that
if the pistons apply close to the ends of the barrels so as to
expel the whole air, the pump will be perfect. It works,
indeed, against the whole pressure of the external air. But
this may be avoided by putting valves on the holes A i;
and these can do no harm, because the air remaining in them
never gets back into the barrel till the piston be at the far¬
ther end, and the exhaustion of that stroke completed. But
the best workmen of London think that it will be incompa¬
rably more difficult to execute this cock (for it is a cock of
an unusual form), in such a manner that it shall be air-tight
and yet move with tolerable ease, and that it is much more
liable to wearing loose than common cocks. No accurate
accounts have been received of its performance. It must
be acknowledged to be ingenious, and it may suggest to an
intelligent artist a method of combining common conical
cocks upon one axis so as to answer the same purposes much
more effectually ; for which reason we have inserted it here.
Cuthoert- The last improvement which we shall mention, is that
son’ published by Mr. Cuthbertson. His pump has given such
evidences of its perfection, that we can hardly expect or
wish for any thing more complete. But we must be allowed
to observe, beforehand, that the same construction was in¬
vented, and in part executed, before the end of 1779, by
Dr. Daniel Rutherford, then professor of botany in the Uni¬
versity of Edinburgh, who was at that time engaged in ex¬
periments on the production of air during the combustion of
bodies in contact with nitre, and who was vastly desirous of
procuring a more complete abstraction of pure aerial matter
than could be effected by Mr. Smeaton’s pump. The com¬
piler of this article had then an opportunity of perusing the
Doctor’s dissertation on this subject, which was read in the
Philosophical Society of Edinburgh. In this dissertation he
appears fully apprised of the existence of pure vital air in
the nitrous acid, as its chief ingredient, and as the cause of
its most remarkable phenomena, and to want but a step to
the discoveries which have ennobled the name of M. La¬
voisier. He was particularly anxious to obtain apart this
distinguishing ingredient in its composition, and, for this
purpose, to abstract completely from the vessel in which he
subjected it to examination, every particle of elastic matter.
The writer of this article proposed to him to cover the bot¬
tom of Mr. Smeaton’s piston with some clammy matter,
which should take hold of the bottom valve, and start it
when the piston is drawn up. A few days after, the Doc¬
tor showed him a drawing of a pump, having a conical me¬
tal valve in the bottom, furnished with a long slender wire,
sliding in the inside of the piston-rod with a gentle friction,
sufficient for lifting the valve, and secured against all chance
of failure by a spring a-top, which took hold of a notch in Air-pump,
the inside of the piston-rod about a quarter of an inch from
the lower end, so as certainly to lift the valve during the
last quarter of an inch of the piston’s motion. Being an ex¬
cellent mechanic, he had executed a valve on this principle,
and was fully satisfied with its performance. But having
already confirmed his doctrines respecting the nitrous acid
by incontrovertible experiments, his wishes to improve the
air-pump lost their incitement, and h® thought no more of
it; and not long after this the ardour of the philosophers of
the Teylerian Society at Haerlem and Amsterdam excited
the efforts of Mr. Cuthbertson, their instrument maker, to
the same purpose, and produced the most perfect air-pump
that has yet appeared. We shall give a description of it,
and an account of its performance, in the inventor’s own
words.
Cuthbertson'sAir-Pump.—Onfig.32isa perspective view
Fig. 32.
Fig. 33.
of Cuthbertson’s pump, with its two principal gages screwed
into their places. These need not be used together, except
in cases where the utmost exactness is required. In com¬
mon experiments one of them is removed, and a stop-screw
put in its place. When the pear-gage is used, a small round
plate, on which the receiver may stand, must be
first screwed into the hole at A ; but this hole is
stopped on other occasions with a screw. When all
the three gages are used, and the receiver is ex¬
hausted, the stop-screw B, at the bottom of the
pump, must be unscrewed, to admit the air into
the receiver; but when they are not all used, either
of the other stop-screws will answer this purpose.
Fig 33 represents a cross bar for preventing
the barrels from being shaken by working the pump
or by any accident. Its place in fig. 32 is repre¬
sented by the dotted lines.
C
c
PNEUMATICS.
Air-pump. Fig. 34 is a section of one of the barrels, with all its in-
ternal parts ; and figs. 35, 36, 37, and 38, are different parts
of the piston, proportioned in size to one another.1
In fig. 34 CD represents the barrel, F the collar of lea¬
thers, G ahollow cylindrical vessel to contain oil, R is also
an oil-vessel to receive the oil which is drawn, along with
the air, through the hole a a, when the piston is drawn up¬
wards ; and, when this is full, the oil is carried over with
the air, along the tube T, into the oil-vessel G, c c is a wire
which is driven upwards from the hole a a by the passage
of the air; and as soon as this has escaped, it falls down
again by its own weight, shuts up the hole, and prevents
all return of the air into the barrel. At dd are fixed two
pieces of brass, to keep the wire c c in a vertical direction,
that it may accurately shut the hole. H is a cylindrical wire
or rod which carries the piston I, and is made hollow to
receive a long wire g g, which opens and shuts the hole L ;
and on the other end of the wire O is screwed a nut, which,
by stopping in the narrowest part of the hole, prevents the
wire from being driven up too far. This wire and screw
are more clearly seen in figs. 35 and 39 ; they slide in a
collar of leather r, figs. 35 and 38, in the middle piece of
the piston. Figs. 37 and 38 are the two main parts which
91
filled with oiled leathers with holes through which gg can Air-pump,
slide stifly. There is also a male screw with a hole in it,'
fitted to g g, serving to compress the leathers r. In fig. 37,
aaaa is the outside of the piston, the inside of which is
turned so as exactly to fit the outside of fig. 38 ; 5 5 are
round leathers about 60 in number, c c is a circular piece
of brass of the size of the leathers, and is a screw serv¬
ing to compress them. The screw at the end of fig. 36 is
made to fit the screw in fig. 38. Now if fig. 39 be pushed
into fig. 38, this into fig. 37, and fig. 36 be screwed into
the end of fig. 38, these will compose the whole of the pis¬
ton, as represented in fig. 34. H, in fig. 34, represents the
same part as H in fig. 35, and is that to which the rack is
fixed. If, therefore, this be drawn upwards, it will cause
fig. 38 to shut close into fig. 37, and drive out the air above
it; and when it is pushed downwards it will open as far as
the shoulder a a will permit, and suffer air to pass through.
AA (fig. 40) is the receiver plate, BB is a long square piece
Fig. 40.
Fig. 34.
Fig. 35. Fig. 36.
Fig. 38.
Fig 39.
compose the piston, and when the pieces 36 and 39 are add¬
ed to it the whole is represented by fig. 35. Fig. 38 is a
piece of brass of a conical form, with a shoulder at the bot¬
tom. A long hollow screw is cut in it, about two-thirds of
its ength, and the remainder of the hole, in which there is
no screw, is of about the same diameter with the screwed
part, except a thin plate at the end, which is of a width ex¬
actly equal to the thickness of g g, fig. 34. That part of
e inside of the conical brass in which no thread is cut, is
of brass, screwed into the under side of the plate, through
which a hole is drilled corresponding to that in the centre
of the receiver-plates and with three female screws a, b, c.
The rarefaction of the air in the receiver is effected as
follows. Suppose the piston at the bottom of the barrel.
The inside of the barrel, from the top of the piston to a,
(fig. 34) contains common air. When the rod is drawn up,
the outer part of the piston sticks fast in the barrel till the
conical part connected with the rod shuts the conical hole,
and its shoulder applies close to its bottom. The piston is
now shut, and therefore the whole is drawn up by the rack-
work, driving the air before it through the hole a c, into the
oil-vessel at R, and out into the room by the tube T. The
piston will then be at the top of the barrel at a, and the wire
gg will stand nearly as represented in the figure just raised
from the hole L, and prevented from rising higher by the
nut O. During this motion the air will expand in the re¬
ceiver, and come along the bent tube m into the barrel.
Fhus the barrel will be filled with air, which, as the piston
rises, will be rarefied in proportion as the capacity of the re¬
ceiver, pipes, and barrel, is to the barrel alone. When the
piston is moved down again by the rack-work, it will force
the conical part (fig. 38) out of the hollow part (fig. 37) as
far as the shoulders aa ; fig. 35 will rest on a a (fig. 37)
which will then be so far open as to permit the air to pass
freely through it, while at the same time the end of ^ is
forced against the top of the hole, and shuts it, in order to
prevent any air from returning into the receiver. Thus the
piston, moving downwards, suffers the air to pass out be¬
tween the sides of figs. 37 and 38 ; and, when it is at the
bottom of the barrel, will have the column of air above it ;
and, consequently, when drawn upwards it will shut, and
drive out this air, and, by opening the hole L at the same
time, will give a free passage to more air from the receiver.
This process being continued, the air of the receiver will be
rarefied as far as its expansive power will permit. For in
this machine there are no valves to be forced open by the
everJo^doublTsize. 316 1 65 inCheS in diameter> in proportion to which the scale is drawn.
Figures 35,36, 37, and 38, are, how-
CD <
2
PNEUMATICS.
ir pump, elasticity of the air in the receiver, which at last it is unable oil into the inside of the rod, which gets at the collar of lea- Air-pmtp.
i       . J n •   —4- onrl L-ppns tnp wirp nn air-tip-ht.
’ to effect. There is therefore nothing to prevent the air from
expanding to its utmost degree.
It may be suspected here, that as the air must escape
thers rr, and keeps the wire gg air-tight.
When the pump is used for condensation at the same time
that it rarities, or separately, the piece
through the discharging passage ac, fig. 34, against the press- containing the bent tube T must be re- Fig. 41
ure of a column of oil and the weight of the wire, there will moved, and fig. 41 put into its place, and
remain in this passage a quantity of air of considerable den- fixed by its screws. Fig. 41, as drawn
sity, which will expand again into the barrel during the de- in the plate, is intended for a double¬
scent of the piston, and thus put a stop to the progress of barrelled pump. But for a single barrel
rarefaction. This is the case in Mr. Smeaton’s pump, and only one piece is used, represented by
all which have valves in the piston. But it is the peculiar baa, the double piece being cut off at
excellency of this pump, that whatever be the density of the the dotted line a a. In this piece is a
air remaining in ac, the rarefaction will still go on. It is female screw to receive the end of a long
worth while to be perfectly convinced of this. Let us sup- brass tube, to which a bladder (if sum-
pose that the air contained in ac is ^th part of the com- cient for the experiment of condensa-
monairwhich would fill the barrel, and that the capacity of turn,) or a glass, properly secured for
the barrel is equal to that of the receiver and passages, and this purpose, must be screwed, ihen
that the air in the receiver and barrel is of the same den- the air which is abstracted from the re-
sity, the piston being at the bottom of the barrel: the bar- ceiver on the pump-plate will be forced
rel will therefore contain P^ts of its natural quantity, ^ 'w‘tW R"t,f
and the receiver Now let the piston be drawn up
No air will be discharged at ac, because it will contain the tube screwed on at c.
whole air which was in the barrel, and which has now col¬
lapsed into its ordinary bulk. But this does not in the least
hinder the air of the receiver from expanding into the bar¬
rel, and diffusing itself equally between both. Each will
now contain Tc55g of their ordinary quantity when the pis-
+ 5c" of anrl nr will P.OTltain aS before. Or -.-Lllr:.
into the bladder or glass. But if the pump
be double, the apparatus fig. 41 is used, and the long brass
Fig. 42.
ton is at the top, and ac will contain as before, or
Now push down the piston. The hole L is instantly shut,
and the air in ac expands into the barrel, and the barrel now
contains -iJoC* When the piston has reached the bottom,
let it be again drawn up. There will be 'ro5ot> discharged
through c, and the air in the receiver will again be equally
distributed between it and the barrel. Therefore the re¬
ceiver will now contain
a
1000
121
When the piston reaches the
bottom, there will be ^Mn the barrel. When again drawn
21
up to the top, there will be discharged, and the re-
^ • and when the piston reaches the
ceiver will contain
1000’
Hi
bottom, there will be —1-. At the next stroke the receiver
1000
o-l
Figs. 42 and 43 represent
the two gages, which will be
sufficiently explained after¬
wards. Fig. 42 is screwed
into b, or into the screw at
the other end c, fig. 40, and
fig 43 into the screw a,
fig. 40.
If it be used as a single
pump, either to rarefy or
to condense, the screw K,
which fastens the rack to
the piston rod H, must be
taken out. Then turning
the winch till H is depress¬
ed as low as possible, the
machine will be fitted to ex¬
haust as a single pump;
and if it be required to condense, the direction in No. 8 must
be observed with regard to the tube T, and fig 41.
“ I took,” says Mr. Cuthbertson, “ two barometer Fig.43.
tubes of an equal bore with that fixed to the pump.
These were filled with mercury four times boiled.
They were then compared, and stood exactly at the
same height. The mercury in one of them was boil¬
ed in it four times more, without making any
change in their height; they were therefore judged
very perfect. One of these was immersed in the
cistern of the pump gage, and fastened in a posi-
will contain only &c. &c.
Thus it appears, that notwithstanding the which al _   _
ways expands back again out of the hole ac into the barrel, tion parallel to it, and a sliding scale of one inch
the rarity of the air in the receiver will be doubled at every was attached to it. This scale, when the gage is
stroke. There is therefore no need of a subsidiary air-pump
at c, as in the American air-pump, and in the Swedish at¬
tempt to improve Smeaton’s.
In using this air-pump no particular directions are ne¬
cessary, nor is any peculiar care necessary for keeping it in
order, except that the oil-vessel A be always kept about
half full of oil. When the pump has stood longwithout being
used, it will be proper to draw a table-spoonful of olive-oil
through it, by pouring it into the hole in the middle of the
receiver-plate when the piston is at the bottom of the bar¬
rel. Then by working the piston, the oil will be drawn
through all the parts of the pump, and the surplus will be
driven through the tube T into the oil-vessel G. Near the
top of the piston rod at H, there is a hole which lets some
was attached to it.
used, must have its upper edge set equal with the
surface of the mercury in the boiled tube after ex¬
haustion, and the difference between the height of
the mercury in this and in the other barometer
tube may be observed to the of an inch ; and
being close together, no error arises from their not
being exactly vertical, if they are only parallel. This
gage will be better understood by inspecting fig. 43.
“ I used a second gage, which I shall call a dou- i [I i
ble syphon. (See fig. 42.) This was also prepared bliO
with the utmost care. I had a scale for measuring the dif¬
ference between the height of the columns in the two legs.
It was an inch long, and divided as the former, and kept in
a truly vertical position by suspending it from a point with
1 An air-pump of this description is by far too delicate to be employed without risk of injury in experiments on condensed air.
PNEUMATICS. g3
Air-pump, a weight hung to it, as represented in the figure. Upon The performance of the pump may be judged of from Air
comparing these two gages I always found them to indicate thefourfollowingexperiments': The twogagelbSscrewed
^r,LdT„ 'iwr^i rm“rplaces’rdthenho,e in ^ ^-^"4
the pump was made to exhaust as far as it could. The mer¬
cury in the legs of the syphon was only
though the most imperfect of all, in order to repeat the cu¬
rious experiments of Mr. Nairne and others.”
When experiments require the utmost rarefying power
of the pump, the receiver must not be placed on leather,
either oiled or soaked in water, as is usually done. The
pump plate and the edge of the receiver must be ground
very flat and true, and this with very fine emery, that no
roughness may remain. The plate of the pump must then
be wiped very clean and very dry, and the receiver rubbed
with a warm cloth till it become electrical. The receiver
being now set on the plate, hog’s lard, either alone or mix¬
ed with a little oil which has been cleared of water by boil¬
ing, must be smeared round its outside edge. In this con¬
dition the pump will rarefy its utmost, and whgt still re-
- o  jr  —j is of an inch out of
me level, and that in the boiled barometer-tube sV of an inch
higher than in the one screwed to the pump. A standard
barometer then stood at 30 inches, and therefore the pump
rarefied the permanent air 1200 times. This is twice as
much as Mr. Nairne found Mr. Smeaton’s do in its best state.
Mr. Cavallo seems disposed to give a favourable account of
Haas and Hurter’s pump, and it appears never to have ex¬
ceeded 600 times. Mr. Cuthbertson has often found the
mercury within tis of an inch of the level in the syphon-
gage, indicating a rarefaction of 3000.1
^'° ,one en(l a glass tube, two inches diameter and
thirty inches long, was fitted a brass cap and collar of leather,
through wTiir»h a  t
mains in the receiver will be permanent air Or a little of through’which" a ^e ™“i^T
Jis composition may be thinly smeared on the pump plate ; inches within the tube. This was connected SiththecZ
this will prevent all risk of scratching it with the edge of the ductor of an electric machine. The other end was ground
receiver. Leather of very uniform thickness, long dried be- flat and set on the pump plate. When the gages indicated
a rarefaction of 300, the fight became steady and uniform,
be cleared of all water by the first boiling, will answer very of a pale colour, though a little tinged with purple ; at 600
nrPei r8’ to^e(luently fight was of a pale dusky white ; whenP1200 it disap-
shifted. Other leathers should be at hand soaked in a com- peared in the middle of the tube, and the tube conducted
po tmn contammg a little rosin This gives it a clammi- so well that the prime conductor only gave sparks so to
ness which renders it impermeable to air, and is very proper and short as to be scarcely perceptibll After tog off
at all joints of the pump, and all apparatus for pneumatic the tube, and making it as dry as possible, it was again c'on-
expenments. As it is impossible to render the pear-gage nected with the conductor, which was giving sparks two
as dry as other parts of the apparatus, there will be gene- inches long. When the air in it was rarefied ten times, the
^reiVanar bet™een this and the other gages. sparks were of the same length. Sometimes a pencil of
When it is only intended to show the utmost power of fight darted along the tube. When the rarefaction wts
the pump, without mtendmg to ascertain the quality of the 20, the spark did not exceed an inch, and fight streamed
residuum, the receiver may be set on wet leather. If, in the whole length of the tube. When the rarefaction was
nhon^td T11’ air be rarf,fielaS/ar f P°fsible’ tbe Sy‘ 30’ the sparks were half an inch, and the fight rushed along
fen th Tef gage mdlCat? a Ie|f deg"ee °trare' the tube in &reat breams. When the rarefaction was 100,
faction than m the former experiments. But when the air the sparks were about £ long, and the fight filled the tube
is let m again, the pear gage will point out a rarefaction in an uninterrupted body. When 300, the apnearances
some thousands of times greater than it did before If the were as before. When 600, the sparks were £ and the
* of PerKmanent T after+ex^ustion be required, light was of a faint white colour in 'the middle, but tinged
the pear gage will be nearest the truth ; for when the air with purple toward the ends. When 1200, the fight was
is rarefied to a certain degree, the moistened leather emits hardly perceptible in the middle, and was much fainter at
an expansible fluid, which, filling the receiver, forces out the the ends than before, but still ruddy. When 1400 which
permanent an-; and the two first gages indicate a degree was the most the pump could produce, six inches of the
of exhaustion which relates to the whole elastic matter re
maining in the receiver, viz. to the expansible fluid toge¬
ther with the permanent air; whereas the pear gage points
out the degree of exhaustion, with relation to the perman
middle of the tube were quite dark, and the ends free of
any tinge of red, and the sparks did not exceed ^ of an
inch.3
en« air atane which remains in ,ho receiver , iWby iw
ranomisrfihmeHtnW1"611 1"t“ tIle, fec<:,v.er> the eh“c matKm "'hich it gives will be of great use to every person m/nts of
p u is reduced to its former bulk, which is imperceptible, much engaged in pneumatic experiments, and help him inthe air-
Many bodies emit this elastic fluid when the pressure of the contrivance and construction of the necessary appara-pump macie
the air is much diminished ; a piece of leather, in its ordin- tus. We may be indulged in one remark, that although thisin Britain*
ary damp state, about an inch square, or a bit of green or noble instrument originated in Germany, all its improve-
dry wood, will supply this for a great while. When such ments were made in this kingdom. Both the mechanical
musTbpJffr fT generated !? any experiments, the pump and pneumatical principles of Mr. Boyle’s construction were
must be carefully cleared of them, for they remain not only extremely different from the German, and, in respect ofex-
e receiver, but in the barrels and passages, and will again pedition and conveniency, much superior. The double
expand when the exhaustion has been carried far. barrel and gage by Hawkesbee were capital improvements,
G J be- hAd °f deanng the PumP 18 t0 take a very and on principle ; and Mr. Smeaton’s method of making the
large receiver, and, using every precaution, to exhaust it as piston work in rarefied air made a complete chan«-e in the
far as possible. Then the expansible matter lurking in the whole process. 1 ° in me
barrels and passes will be diffused through the receiver also, Aided by this machine, we can make experiments estab- tut, ,
or will be carried off along with its air. It will be as much fishing and illustrating the gravity and elasticity of the air the
receivp/h ^ bffore’ a? the ag^egate capacity of the in a much more perspicuous manner than coukfbe done by pump.*
receiver, barrels and passes is larger than that of the two last, the spontaneous phenomena of nature. It allows us in the
corresponds withThl besttforrationwe^ve eX^ri'nen.titwhere ™ is fted f <*e limit of exhaustion, particularly as this result
* Sinee tliic a,,- i • - n °n ^ ^ave keen able to obtain, regarding the performance of various very fine instruments
article was originally written, a mathematical instrument maker of Edinburgh has invented an Zr-pump, possessing all the ad-
PNEUMATICS.
Fig. 44.
first place to show the materiality of air in a very distinct
manner. Bodies cannot move about in the atmosphere with¬
out displacing it. This requires force ; and the resis¬
tance of the air always diminishes the velocity of bodies
moving in it. A heavy body therefore has the velocity
of its fall diminished; and if the quantity of
air displaced be very great, the diminution
will be very considerable. This is the
reason why light bodies, such as feathers,
fall very slowly. Their moving force is
very small, and can therefore displace a
great quantity of air only with a very small
velocity. But if the same body be drop¬
ped in vacuo, when there is no air to be
displaced, it falls with the whole veloci¬
ty competent to its gravity. Fig. 44 re¬
presents an apparatus by which a guinea
and a downy feather are dropped at the same
instant. If this be done after the air has
been pumped out, the guinea and the fea¬
ther will be observed to reach the bottom
at the same instant.
Fig. 45 represents another apparatus for
showing the same thing. It consists of
two sets of brass vanes put on separate
axles, in the manner of windmill sails.
One set has their edges placed in the di¬
rection of their whirling motion, that is, in
a plane to which the axis is perpendicular.
The planes of the other set pass through
the axis, and they are therefore trimmed
so as directly to front the air through which they move
Two springs act upon pins projecting from the axis; and
Fig. 45.
are disengaged in vacuo, the two sets continue in motion An^p p.
equally long. If they are disengaged in the air, the vanes
which beat the air with their planes will stop long before
those which cut it edgewise.
We can now abstract the air most completely irom a
dry vessel, so as to know the precise weight of the air which
filled it. The first experiment we have of this ti°"e
with accuracy, is that of Dr. Hooke, February 10, 1664,
when he found 114 pints of air to weigh 945 grains. One
pint of water was 8^ ounces. This gives for the specific
gravity of air very nearly. . „ . , . f1
b Since we are thus immersed in a gravitating fluid,lt; fo1’Jhe ^
lows, that every body preponderates only with the excess^ ^
of its own weight above that of the air which it displaces >of bodies
for every body loses by this immersion the weight ot t e iramersed
displaced air. A cubic foot loses about 521 grains in frosty in it_
weather. We see balloons even rise in the air, as a piece
of cork rises in water. A mass of water
which really contains 850 pounds will load
the scale of a balance with 849 only, and
will be balanced by about 849|- pounds of
brass. This is evinced by a very pretty
experiment, represented in fig. 46. A
small beam is suspended within a receiver.
To one end of the beam is appended a thin
glass or copper ball, close in every part.
This is balanced by a small piece of lead
hung on the other arm. As the air is
pumped out of the receiver, the ball will
gradually preponderate, and will regain its
equilibrium when the air is re-admitted.
Some naturalists have proposed, and actually used, a large
globe of light make, suspended at a beam, for a barometer.
Fig. 46.
Two springs act upon pins projecting iromtne axis, auu j^ a cubic foot, 1-^ grains will indicate the
their strength or tensions are so adjusted, that when they It its capacity ue a cuuu. , ^ &
vantages of Mr. Cuthbertson’s, with this other in addition, that it is much simpler in its construction. Fig. 1 presents a view of this pump. AA
are the barrels, B the pipe leading from them to C, the re-
ceiver plate D the barometer gage, E a stop cock for re- Tig. 1- *•
admitting the air, or for attaching a syphon gage, or other piece
of apparatus. Fig. 2 is a section of the piston, and of the
under part of one of the barrels, shewing the whole of the
internal construction; A A, a a is the barrel, O N the piston,
G I the piston rod containing the rod r, which slides in the
collar of leathers T, and opens the valve t; c; in this respect it
is precisely the same as Cuthbertson’Sj but the maker dis-
penses with all the apparatus at the top of Cuthbertson’s
barrels, and has only an oiled silk valve S, in the piston, which
is exposed to the atmosphere, as in Hook’s pump. Ihe
exclusion of the atmosphere from the piston valve, the maker
considers as unnecessary. From the account previously given
of the performance of Cuthbertson’s, and of the other pumps
described, as well as from his own experience, he is of opi¬
nion that the action of the best air pump is stopped, either
by the formation of elastic vapour from the oil necessarily
present, or from some unknown property of the air itself, long
before it has been so much rarefied as as to be unable to open
the piston valves. His reason for this opinion is, that the ca¬
pacity of the barrels of any well-constructed pump is several
thousand times greater than the space which exists between
the valves, when the piston has reached the bottom of the
barrel; in short, this may be limited to the small hole
S N- For example, in an air-pump, the length of the stroke
of which is 12 inches, the diameter of the barrels 2| in. the
diameter of the hole S N ^th of an inch, and its length one
sX“ypo?rbf,;,Va«^
of the3 piston, become of the same density, but as it is known from the performance of Hook s pump, that air TS3th P^of thede y
the atmosphere has sufficient elastic force to open an oil silk valve, it follows that the pump we have supposed, wdlerA^
but as this degree of exhaustion has nev er yet been attained, it is evident that some other reason must be sough for ^ explanation of this,
than the imperfection of the mechanical arrangement. A metallic valve T p, may be placed in the
ha vine a n electing point p to open it, on the piston reaching the bottom of the barrel, and a space OT filled with oil ^P.®ve'j.
the return of the air during ihe time which elapses betwixt the commencement of the ascent of the piston and the complete shutting of
the valve.
l§f
PNEUMATICS.
Experi¬
ments to
shew the
effects of
Air-pump, same change that is indicated by A of an inch of an ordin-
'-^V-^/ary barometer. But a vessel of this size will load a balance
too much to leave it sufficiently sensible to small changes
of density. Besides, it is affected by heat and cold, and
would require a very troublesome equation to correct their
effects.
It may perhaps be worth while to attend to this in buy¬
ing and selling precious commodities; such as pearls,
diamonds, silk, and some drugs. As they are generally sold
by brass or leaden weights, the buyer will have some ad¬
vantage when the air is heavy and the barometer high. On
the other hand, he will have the advantage in buying gold
and mercury when the air is light. It is needless to con¬
fine this observation to precipus commodities, for the ad¬
vantage is the same in all in proportion to their levity.
There is a case in which this observation is of conse¬
quence to the philosopher: we mean the measuring of time
by pendulums. As the accelerating force on a pendulum
is not its whole weight, but the excess of its weight over
that of the displaced air, it follows that a pendulum will vi¬
brate more slowly in the air than in vacuo. A pendulum
composed of lead, iron, and brass, may be about 8400 times
heavier than the air which it displaces when the barometer
is at 30 inches and the thermometer is at 32°, and the ac¬
celerating force will be diminished about T5|oo* This wil1
cause a second pendulum to make about five vibrations less
in a day than it would do in vacuo. In order therefore to
deduce the accelerative power of gravity from the length of
a pendulum vibrating in the air, we must make an allowance
of 0".17, or of a second per day, for every inch that the
barometer stands lower than 30 inches. But we must also
note the temperature of the air; because when the air is
warm it is less dense when supporting by its elasticity the
same weight of atmosphere, and we must know how much
its density is diminished by an increase of temperature. The
correction is still more complicated ; for the change of den¬
sity affects the resistance of the air, and this affects the time
of the vibration, and this by a law that is not yet well ascer¬
tained. As far as we can determine from any experiments
that have been made, it appears that the change arising from
the altered resistance takes off about 2-5 ths of the change
produced by the altered density, and that a second pendulum
makes but three vibrations a-day more in vacuo than in the
open air. This is a very unexpected result; but it must be
owned that the experiments have neither been numerous
nor very nicely made.
. The air-pump also allows us to shew the effects of the
air’s pressure in a great number of amusing and instructive
phenomena.
When the air is abstracted from the receiver, it is strong-
y pressed to the pump-plate by the incumbent atmosphere,
and it supports this great pressure in consequence of its cir-
the pres- • ar ^orm- Being equally compressed on all sides, there
sure of the !s n? Face where it should give way rather than another ;
iir- but it; be thin, and not very round, which is sometimes the
case, it will be crushed to pieces. If we take a square thin
vial, and apply an exhausting syringe to its mouth, it will
not fail being crushed.
As the operation of pumping is something like sucking,
many of these phenomena are in common discourse ascrib-
ed to suction, a word much abused; and this abuse misleads
the mind exceedingly in its contemplation of natural pheno¬
mena. Nothing is more usual than to speak of the suction
ot a syringe, the suction and draught of a chimney, &c. The
tollowmg experiment puts the true cause of the strong ad¬
hesion of the receiver beyond a doubt.
Place a small receiver, or cupping-glass on the pump-
p a e without covering the central hole, as represented in
Fig 47.
Fig. 48.
95
fig. 47, and cover it with a larger receiver. Exhaust the air Air-pump,
from it; then admit it as suddenly as possible.
The outer receiver, which, after the rarefaction,
adhered strongly to the plate, is now loose, and
the cupping-glass will be found sticking fast to
it. While the rarefaction was going on, the air
in the small receiver also expanded, escaped from
it, and was abstracted by the pump. When the
external air was suddenly admitted, it pressed on
the small receiver, and forced it down to the
plate, and thus shut up all entry. The small receiver must
now adhere; and there can be no suction, for the pipe of
the pump was on the outside of the cupping-glass.
This experiment sometimes does not succeed, because
the air occasionally finds a passage under the brim of the
cupping-glass. But if the cupping-glass be pressed down
by the hand on the greasy leather or plate, every thing will
be made smooth, and the glass will be so little raised by the
expansion of its air during the pumping, that it will instant¬
ly clap close when the air is re-admitted.
In like manner, if a thin square phial be furnished with a
valve, opening from within, but shutting when
pressed from without, and if this phial be put
under a receiver, and the air be abstracted from
the receiver, the air in the phial will expand
during the rarefaction, escape through the
valve, and be at last in a very rarefied state
within the phial. If the air be now admitted
into the receiver, it will press on the flat sides
of the included phial and crush it to pieces.
(See fig. 48.)
If a piece of wet ox-bladder be laid over the top of a
receiver whose orifice is about four inches wide, and the
air be exhausted from within it, the incumbent atmosphere
will press down the bladder into a hollow
form, and then burst it inward with a prodi¬
gious noise. (See fig. 49.) Or if a piece of
thin flat glass be laid over the receiver, with
an oiled leather between them to make the
juncture air-tight, the glass will be broken
downwards. This must be done with cau¬
tion, because the pieces of glass sometimes
fly about with great force.1
If there be formed two Fig. 50.
hemispherical cups of brass,
with very flat thick brims,
and one of them be fitted
with a neck and stopcock, as
represented by fig. 50, the air
may be abstracted from them
by screwing the neck into
the hole in the pump-plate.
To prevent the insinuation
of air, a ring of oiled leather
may be put between the rims.
Now unscrew the sphere from the pump, and
fix hooks to each, and suspend them from a
strong nail, and hang a scale to the lowest. It
will require a considerable weight to separate
them; namely, about 15pounds for every square
inch of the great circle of the sphere. If this
be four inches diameter, it will require near 190
pounds. This pretty experiment was first made
by Otto Guericke, and on a very great scale.
His sphere was of a large size, and when ex¬
hausted, the hemispheres could not be drawn
asunder by 20 horses. It was exhibited, along with many
others equally curious and magnificent, to the emperor of
Fig. 51.
working, in spite of theSutmostnski]irobfe tffo^erator.^11 3 ^ PUmP 5 ^ fragments of the glass will get into the pump and impair its
96
PNEUMATICS.
Experi- Germany and his court, at the breaking up
menu on Gf t}ie 0f Ratisbon in 1654. If a
loaded syringe be suspended by its pis¬
ton from the hook in the top plate of the re¬
ceiver, as in fig. 51, and the air be abstrac¬
ted by the pump, the syringe will gradually
descend (because the elasticity of the air,
which formerly balanced the pressure of the
atmosphere, is now diminished by its ex¬
pansion, and is therefore no longer able to
press the syringe to the piston), and it will at
last drop off. If the air be admitted before
this happens, the syringe will immediately rise
again.
Screw a short brass pipe into the neck of
a transporter, on which is set a tall receiv¬
er, and immerse it into a cistern of water. On
opening the cock, the pressure of the air on the
surface of the water in the cistern will force
it up through the pipe, and cause it to spout
into the receiver with a strong jet, because
there is no air within to balance by its elas¬
ticity the pressure of the atmosphere. (See
fig. 52.)
By this It is in the same way that the gage of the
pressure air-pump performs its office. The pressure of
the gage of j-jie atmosphere raises the mercury in the gage
an air- ^ the weight of the mercury, together with
the remaining elasticity of the air in the re¬
ceiver, are in equilibrio with the whole pres¬
sure of the atmosphere : therefore the height
and weight of the mercury in the gage is the
excess of the weight of the atmosphere above
the elasticity of the included air ; and the de¬
ficiency of this height from that of the mer¬
cury in the Toricellian tube is the measure of
this remaining elasticity.
If a Toricellian tube be put under a tall re¬
ceiver, as shown in fig. 53, and the air be ex¬
hausted, the mercury in the tube will descend,
while that in the gage will rise ; and the sum
of their heights will always be the same, that
is, equal to the height in an ordinary barome¬
ter. The height of the mercury in the receiver
is the effect and measure of the remaining elas¬
ticity of the included air, and the height in the
pump-gage is the unbalanced pressure of the
atmosphere. This is a very instructive ex¬
periment, perfectly similar to Mr. Auzout’s,
and completely establishes and illustrates
the whole doctrine of atmospheric pressure.
Waterrises We get a similar illustration and confirma-
in pumps, tion (if such a thing be now needed) of the
cause of the rise of water in pumps, by screw¬
ing a syringe into the top plate of a receiver,
which syringe has a glass pipe plunging into
a small cup of water. (See fig. 54.) When the
piston-rod is drawn up, the water rises in the
glass pipe, as in any other pump, of which
this is a miniature representation. But if the
air has been previously exhausted from the
receiver, there is nothing to press on the wa¬
ter in the little jar ; and it will not rise in the
Fig. 52.
Fig. 53.
n
Fig.54.
^4.
glass pipe though the piston of the syringe be drawn to the
top.
It moves Analogous to the rise of water in pumps is its rise and
in syphons, motion in syphons. Suppose a pipe ABCD, fig. 55, bent
at right angles at B and C, and having its two ends immer¬
sed in the cisterns of water A and D. Let the leg CD be
longer than the leg BA, and let the whole be full of water.
The water is pressed upwards at A with a force equal to
Fig. 56.
the weight of the column of air EA reaching to the top
of the atmosphere ; but it is pressed downwards by
the weight of the column of water BA.
The water at D is pressed downwards by
the weight of the column CD, and upwards
by the weight of the column of air FD
reaching to the top of the atmosphere. The
two columns of air differ very little in their
weight, and may without any sensible error
be considered as equal. Therefore there is a
superiority of pressure downwards at D, and
the water will flow out there. The pressure ol
the air will raise the water in the leg AB, and
thus the stream will be kept up till the ves¬
sel A is emptied as low as the orifice of the
leg BA, provided that the height of AB is
not greater than what the pressure of the atmosphere can
balance, that is, does not exceed 32 or 33 feet for water,
30 inches for mercury, &c.
A syphon then will always run from that vessel whose
surface is highest; the form of the pipe is indifferent, be¬
cause the hydrostatical pressures depend on the vertical
height only. It must be filled with water by some other
contrivance, such as a funnel, or a pump applied a-top; and
the funnel must be stopped up, otherwise the air would get
in, and the water would fall in both legs.
If the syphon have equal legs, and be
turned up at the ends, it will remain full
of water, and be ready for use. One end
of it need only be dipped into any vessel of
water, and the water will then flow out at
the other end of the syphon. This is called
the Wirtemberg syphon, and is represented
in fig. 56.
What is called the syphon fountain, con¬
structed on this principle, is shown in fig.
57, where AB is a tall receiver, standing in
a wide bason DE, which is supported on the
pedestal H, by the hollow pillar FG. In
the centre of the receiver is a jet pipe C,
and in the top a ground stopper A. Near
the base of the pillar is a cock N, and in the
pedestal is another cock O.
Fill the bason DE with water within half
an inch of the brim. Then pour in water
at the top of the receiver (the cock N being
shut) till it is about half full, and then put
in the stopper. A little water will run out
into the vessel DE. But before it runs over,
open the cock N, and the water will run in¬
to the cistern H ; and by the time that the
pipe C appears above water, a jet will rise
from it, and continue as long as water is
supplied from the bason DE. The passage
into the base cistern may be so tempered
by the cock N that the water within the re¬
ceiver shall keep at the same height, and
what runs into the base may be received
from the cock O into another vessel, and re¬
turned into DE, to keep up the stream.
This pretty philosophical toy may be constructed in the Manner of
following manner. BB, (fig. 58,) is the ferril or cap into its con-
which the receiver is cemented. From its centre descends struction
the jet pipe C«, sloping outwards, to give room for the dis-and °Pera'
charge pipe hd of larger diameter, the lower extremitytl0n'
of which d fits tightly into the top of the hollow pillar FG.
The operation of the toy is easily understood. Suppose
the distance from C to H (fig. 57,) three feet, which is about
.J.L 0f the height at which the atmosphere would support a
column of water. The water poured into AB wrould de¬
scend through FG (the hole A being shut) till the air has
The sy¬
phon foul
tain.
Fig. 57.
PNEUMATICS.
97
j’ft, and then it would
Fi". 58.
Syplions
tare ofen
used thus.
expanded
stop. If the pipe Ca be now
opened, the pressure of the air
on the surface of the water in
the cistern DE will cause it to
spout through C to the height of
three feet nearly, and the water
will continue to descend through
the pipe FG. By tempering
the cock N so as to allow the
water to pass through it as fast
as it is supplied by the jet, the
amusement may be continued
a long time. It will stop at last,
however; because, as the jet
is made into rarefied air, a little
air will be extricated from the water, which will gradually
accumulate in the receiver, and diminish its rarefaction,
which is the moving cause of the jet. This indeed is an in¬
convenience felt in every employment of syphons, so much
the more remarkably as their top is higher than the surface
of the water in the cistern of supply.
Cases of this employment of a syphon are not unfrequent.
When water collected at A (fig. 59,) is to be conducted in a
Fig. 59-
pipe to C, situated in a lower part of the country, it some¬
times happens that the intervening ground is higher than
the fountain-head as at B. A forcing pump is erected at
A, and the water forced along the pipe. Once it runs out
at C, the pump may be removed, and the water will con¬
tinue to run on the syphon principle, provided BD do not
exceed 33 feet. But the water in that part of the conduit
which is above the horizontal plane AD, is in the same
state as in a receiver of rarefied air, and gives out some of
the air which is united with it. This gradually accumu¬
lates in the elevated part of the conduit, and at last choaks
it entirely.
The air- This combination of air with water is very distinctly seen
pump dis- by means of the air-pump. If a small
covers the glass containing cold water, fresh drawn Fig. 60.
cornbina- from ^be spring, be exposed, as in fig.
tion of air cn j h, B . 1 , ,, v
with water under t'ie receiver, and the air
’rarefied, small bubbles will be ob¬
served to form on the inner surface
of the glass, or on the surface of any
body immersed in it, which will in¬
crease in size, and then detach them¬
selves from the glass and reach the
top ; as the rarefaction advances, the
whole water begins to show very mi¬
nute air-bubbles rising to the top ;
and this appearance will continue for
a very long time, till it be completely
disengaged. Warming the water will occasion a still far¬
ther separation of air, and a boiling heat will separate all
that can be disengaged. The reason assigned for these
air-bubbles first appearing on the surface of the glass, &c.
is, that air is attracted by bodies, and adheres to their sur¬
face. This may be so. But it is more probably owing to
the attraction of the water for the glass, which causes it to
quit the air which it held in solution, in the same manner
as we see it happen wdien it is mixed with spirits-of-wine,
with vitriolic acid, &c., or when salts or sugar are dissolved
in it. For if we pour out the water which has been purged
vol. xvm.
of air by boiling in vacuo, and fill the glass with fresh water, Experi-
we shall observe the same thing, although a film of the ments on
purified water was left adhering to the glass. In this case air-
there can be no air adhering to the glass.
Water thus purged of air by boiling (or even without
boiling) in vacuo, will again absorb air when exposed to the
atmosphere. The best demonstration of this is to fill with
this water a phial, leaving about the size of a pea not filled.
Immerse this in a vessel of water, with the mouth under¬
most, by which means the air-bubble will mount up to the
bottom of the phial. After some days standing in this con¬
dition, the air-bubble Avill be completely absorbed, and the
vessel quite filled with water. A glass of beer placed un¬
der the receiver and treated in the same way will be almost
wholly converted into froth by the escape of its fixed air,
and will have lost entirely the prickling smartness which is
so agreeable, and become quite vapid.
The air-pump gives us, in the next place, a great variety Experi-
of experiments illustrative of the air’s elasticity and ex-meats illus-
pansibility. The very operation of exhaustion, as it is Native of
called, is an instance of its great expansibility. But this ^ e^as"
is not palpably exhibited to view. The following experi-tlclty
ments show it most distinctly. First, put a flaccid bladder, ^a0nfS1the
of which the neck is firmly tied with a thread, under a air.
receiver, and work the pump. The bladder will gradually
swell, and will even be fully distended. Upon readmitting
the air into the receiver, the bladder gradually collapses
again into its former dimensions; while the bladder is
flaccid, the air within it is of the same density and elasti¬
city with the surrounding air, and its elasticity balances the
pressure of the atmosphere. When part of the air of the
receiver is abstracted, the remainder expands so as still to
fill the receiver ; but by expanding, its elasticity is plainly
diminished ; for we see by the fact, that the elasticity of the
air of the receiver no longer balances the elasticity of that
in the bladder, as it no longer keeps it in its dimensions.
The air in the bladder expands also ; it expands till its di¬
minished elasticity is again in equilibrio with the diminished
elasticity of the air in the receiver ; that is, till its density
is the same. When all the wrinkles of the bladder have
disappeared, its air can expand no more, although we con¬
tinue to diminish the elasticity of the air of the receiver by
further rarefaction. The bladder now tends to burst; and
if it be pierced by a point or knife fastened to the slip-wire,
the air will rush out, and the mercury descend rapidly in
the gage.
If a phial or tube (fig. 61) be partly
filled with water, and immersed in a ves¬
sel of water with the mouth downwards,
the air will occupy the upper part of the
phial. If this apparatus be put under a
receiver, and the air be abstracted, the
air in the phial will gradually expand,
allowing the water to run out by its
Aveight till the surface of the water be on
a level within and without. When this
is the case, we must grant that the den¬
sity and elasticity of the air in the phial
is the same with that in the receiver.
When we Avork the pump again, Ave shall
observe the air in the phial expand still
more, and come out of the water in bub¬
bles. Continuing the operation, we shall see the air con¬
tinually escaping from the phial; Avhen this is over, it shows
that the pump can rarefy no more. If we now admit the
air into the receiver, we shall see the AArater rise into the
phial, and at last almost completely fill it, leaving only a
very small bubble of air at the top. This bubble had ex¬
panded so as to fill the whole phial.
Every one must have observed a cavity at the big end
of an egg betAveen the shell and the white. The white and
Fig. 61.
98
PNEUMATICS.
Experi¬
ments on
air.
yolk are contained in a thin membrane or bladder which
adheres loosely to the shell, but is detached from it at
that part; and this cavity increases by keeping the egg
in a dry place. One may form a judgment ot its size,
and therefore of the freshness of the egg, by touching it
with the tongue; for the shell, where it is not in contact
with the contents, will presently feel warm, being quickly
heated by the tongue, whilst the rest of the egg will feel
cold.
If a hole be made in the opposite end of the egg, and it
be set on a little tripod, and put under a receiver, the ex¬
pansion of the air in the cavity of the egg will force the
contents through the hole till the egg be quite emptied ; or,
if nearly one-half of the egg be taken away at the other
end, and the white and yolk taken out, and the shell be put
under a receiver, and the air abstracted, the air in the cavity
of the egg will expand, gradually detaching the membrane
from the shell, till it causes it to swell out, and gives the
whole the appearance of an entire egg. In like manner
shrivelled apples and other fruits will swell in vacuo by the
expansion of the air confined in their cavities.
If a piece of wood, a twig with green leaves, charcoal,
plaster of Paris, &c. be kept under water in vacuo, a pro¬
digious quantity of air will be extracted ; and if we readmit
the air into the receiver, it will force the water into the
pores of the body. In this case the body will not swim in
water as it did before, showing that the vegetable fibres are
specifically heavier than water. It is found, however, that
the air contained in the pith and bark, such as cork, is not
all extricated in this way; and that much of it is contained
in vesicles which have no outlet; being secreted into them
in the process of vegetation, as it is secreted in the air-
bladder of fishes, where it is generally found in a pretty
compressed state, considerably denser than the surrounding
air. The air-bladder of a fish is surrounded by circular
and longitudinal muscles, by which the fish can compress
the air still further ; and, by ceasing to act with them, al¬
low it to swell out again. It is in this manner that the fish
can suit its specific gravity to its situation in the water, so
as to have no tendency either to rise or sink; but if the fish
be put into the receiver of an air-pump, the rarefaction of
the air obliges the fish to act more strongly with these con¬
tracting muscles, in order to adjust its specific gravity; and
if too much air has been abstracted from the receiver, the
fish is no longer able to keep its air-bladder in the proper
degree of compression. It becomes therefore too buoyant,
and comes to the top of the water, and is obliged to strug¬
gle with its tail and fins in order to get down ; frequently
in vain. The air-bladder sometimes bursts,
and the fish goes to the bottom, and can no
longer keep above without the continual ac¬
tion of its tail and fins. When fishes die,
they commonly float at top, their contrac¬
tive action being now at an end. All
this may in some degree be illustrated by
a small half-blown bladder, to which is ap¬
pended a bit of lead, just so heavy as to
make it sink in water ; when this is put un¬
der a receiver, and the air abstracted, the
bubble will rise to the top ; and, by nicely
adjusting the rarefaction, it may be kept at
any height.
The playthings called Cartesian devils are similar to this.
They are hollow glass figures, having a small aperture in the
lower part of the figures, as at the point of the foot; their
weight is adjusted so that they swim upright in water.
When put into a tall jar filled to the top, and having a piece
of leather tied over it, they will sink in the water, by press¬
ing on the leather with the ball of the hand. This, by com¬
pressing the w ater, forces some of it to enter into the figure,
and makes it heavier than the water ; for which reason it
Fig. 62,
sinks, but rises again on removing the pressure of the hand. Experi.
(See figs. 63 and 64.) men.tso«
If a half-blown ox-bladder be put into a box, and great. air'
weights laid on it, and the whole be put under a receiver,
and the air abstracted; the air will, by expanding, lift up
the weights, though above an hundred pounds. (See fig. 65.)
Fig. 63.
Fig. 64.
Fig. 65.
By such experiments, the great expansibility of the airis Compressi-
abundantly illustrated, as its compressibility was formerly e“aynsiy.
by means of the condensing syringe. We now see that the ^ are in
two sets of experiments form an uninterrupted chain ; and n0 gtatB 0{
that there is no particular state of the air’s density where the air very
the compressibility and expansibility are remarkably dissi- dissimilar,
milar. Air in its ordinary state expands; because its or¬
dinary state is a state of compression by the weight of the
atmosphere ; and if there were a pit about thirty-three miles
deep, the air at the bottom would probably be as dense as
water ; and if it were fifty miles deep, it would be as dense
as gold, if it did not become a liquid before this depth ; nay,
if a bottle with its mouth undermost were immersed six
miles under water, it would probably be as dense as water ;
we say probably, for this depends on the nature of its com¬
pressibility ; that is, on the relation which subsists between
the compression and the force which produces it.
This is the circumstance of its constitution, which we now Relation
proceed to examine ; and it is evidently a very important betwee^
circumstance. We have long ago observed, that the great
compressibility and permanent fluidity of air, observed in a^ force
vast variety of phenomena, is totally inexplicable, on the pr0(]ucing
supposition that the particles of air are like so many balls of it,
sponge or so many foot-balls. Give to those what compres¬
sibility you please, common air could no more be fluid than
a mass of clay ; it could no more be fluid than a mass of such
balls pressed into a box. It may be demonstrated, that before
a parcel of such balls, just touching each other, canbe squeezed
into half their present dimensions, their globular shape will
be entirely gone, and each will have become a perfect cube,
touching six other cubes with its whole surface ; and these
cubes will be strongly compressed together, so that motion
could never be performed through among them by any so¬
lid body without a very great force. Whereas we know
that in this state air is just as permeable to every body as
the common air that we breathe. There is no way in which
we can represent this fluidity to our imagination, but by con¬
ceiving air to consist of particles, not only discrete, but dis¬
tant from each other, and actuated by repuls've forces, or
PNEUMATICS.
99
Density ex¬
plained as
applied to
dr.
"urtber
xplana-
ion.
Inalogy.
something analogous to them. It is an idle subterfuge, to
which some naturalists have recourse, saying, that they are
kept asunder by an intervening ether, or elastic fluid of any
other name. This is only removing the difficulty a step far¬
ther off; for the elasticity of this fluid requires the same ex¬
planation ; and therefore it is necessary, in obedience to the
rules of just reasoning, to begin the inquiry here; that is,
to determine from the phenomena what is the analogy be¬
tween the distances of the particles and the repulsive forces
exerted at these distances, proceeding in the same way as
in the examination of planetary gravitation. We shall learn
the analogy by attending to the analogy between the com¬
pressing force and the density.
For the density depends on the distance between the par¬
ticles ; the nearer they are to each other, the denser is the
air. Suppose a square pipe one inch wide and eight inches
long, shut at one end, and filled with common air; then sup¬
pose a plug so nicely fitted to this pipe that no air can pass
by its sides ; suppose this piston thrust down to within an
inch of the bottom : it is evident that the air which former¬
ly filled the w hole pipe now occupies the space of one cu¬
bic inch, which contains the same number of particles as
were formerly diffused over eight cubic inches.
The condensation would have been the same if the air
which fills a cube whose side is two inches had been squeez¬
ed into a cube of one inch, for the cube of two inches also
contains eight inches. Now, in this case it is evident that
the distance between the particles would be reduced to its
half in every direction. In like manner, if a cube whose
side is three inches, and which therefore contains 27 inches,
be squeezed into one inch, the distance of the particles will
be one-third of what it was: in general the distance of the
particles will be as the cube-root of the space into which
they are compressed. If the space be jfo, &c.
of its former dimensions, the distance of the particles will
be j, See. Now the term density, in its strict sense,
expresses the vicinity of theparticles; thus, <7^5* arbores are
trees growing near each other. The measure of this vici¬
nity therefore is the true measure of the density; and when
27 inches of air are compressed into one, we should say that
it is three times as dense ; but we say, that it is 27 times
denser.
Density is therefore used in a sense different from its
strictest acceptation ; it expresses the comparative number
of equidistant particles contained in the same bulk. This is
also abundantly precise, when we compare bodies of the
same kind, differing in density only ; but we also say, that
gold is 19 times denser than water, because the same bulk
of it is 19 times heavier. This assertion proceeds on the
assumption, or the fact, that every ultimate atom of terres¬
trial matter is equally heavy. A particle of gold may con¬
tain more or fewer atoms of matter than a particle of water.
In such a case, therefore, the term density has little or no
reference to the vicinity of the particles ; and is only a
term of comparison of other qualities or accidents. But
when wre speak of the respective densities of the same
substance in its different states of compression, the wrord
density is strictly connected writh vicinity of particles, and
we may safely take either of the measures. We shall abide
by the common acceptation, and call that air eight times as
dense which has eight times as many particles in the same
bulk, although the particles are only twice as near to each
other.
Thus then we see, that by observing the analogy between
the compressing force and the density, we shall discover the
analogy between the compressing force and the distance of
the particles. Now tiie tbree which is necessary for com- Experi-
pressing two particles of air to a certain vicinity is a proper ments on
measure of the elasticity of the particles corresponding to air-
that vicinity or distance ; for it balances it, and forces which
balance must be esteemed equal. Elasticity is a distinctive
name for that corpuscular force which keeps the particles
at that distance; therefore observations made on the ana¬
logy between the compressing force and the density of air
will give us the law of its corpuscular force, in the same
way that observations on the simultaneous deflections of
the planets towards the sun gives us the law of celestial gra¬
vitation.
But the sensible compressing forces which we are able to
apply is at once exerted on unknown thousands of particles,
whilst it is the law of action of a single particle that we want
to discover. We must therefore know the proportion of the
numbers of particles on which the compressing force is ex¬
erted. It is easy to see, that since the distance of the par¬
ticles is as the cube root of the density inversely, the num¬
ber of particles in physical contact with the compressing
surface must be as the square of this root. Thus, when a
cube of eight inches is compressed into one inch, and the
particles are twice as near each other as they were before,
there must be four times the number of particles in contact
with each of the sides of this cubical inch ; or, when we have
pushed down the square piston of the pipe spoken of above
to within an inch of the bottom, there will be four times
the number of particles immediately contiguous to the pis¬
ton, and resisting the compression ; and in order to obtain
the force really exerted on one particle, and the elasticity
of that particle, we must divide the whole compressing force
by 4. In like manner, if we have compressed air into ^7th
of its former bulk, and brought the particles into jrd of their
former distance, we must divide the compressing force by 9.
1
In general, if d express the density, will express the
distance x of the particles ; or c?3 will express the vi¬
cinity or real density; and r/3 will express the number of
particles acting on the compressing surface ; and if/*ex-
f
press the accumulated external compressing force, will
(P
express the force acting on one particle ; and therefore the
elasticity of that particle corresponding to the distance x.
\\ e now proceed to consider the experiments by which Compressi-
the law of compression is to be established.1 In order bility of air.
to examine the compressibility of air that is not
rarer than the atmosphere at the surface of the Fig;.66.
earth, we employ a bent tube or syphon ABCD
(fig. 66), hermetically sealed at A, and open at D.
The short leg AB must be very accurately divided
in the proportion of its solid contents, and fitted
with a scale whose units denote equal increments,
not of length, but of capacity. There are various
ways of doing this; but it requires the most scrupu¬
lous attention, and without this the experiments are
of no value. In particular, the arched form at A
must be noticed. A small quantity of mercury must
then be poured into the tube, and passed backwards
and forwards till it stands (the tube being held in
a vertical position) on a level at B and C. Then
we are certain that the included air is of the same
density with that of the contiguous atmosphere. EL
Mercury is now poured into the leg DC, which will fill it,
The first experiments to this purpose were those made by Mr. Boyle, published in h\s Defensio Doctrince de Aere contra Linum, and
exhibited before the Royal Society the year before. Mariotte made experiments of the same kind, which were published in 1676 in
his Essai sur la Nature de l’Air, and Trait/; des Mouvemem desEaux. The most copious experiments are those by Sulzer (Mem. Berlin, ix.)
those by Fontana ( Opuscula Physico-MathematicaJ, and those by Sir George Shuckburgh and General Roy in the Philosophical Transactions.
100
PNEUMATICS.
J Mi +Ua oirjnrn n emnllpr snare Mr. Sulzer. The column E in each set of experiments ex- Experi-
Expen- suppose to G, and will compress the air into a smaller sp c thp pnlnmn (TFT the unit beinn FH, 0161119 on
meats on AE. Draw the horizontal line EF; the new bulk ol the presses the length of the column DH, the unit being Vtl, ^
compressed air is evidently AE, measured by the adjacent i t) exnresses
'scale, and the addition made to the compressing force of whilst the column D expresses A£
the atmosphere is the weight of the column GF. Produce
GF downwards to H, till FH is equal to the height shown
by a Toricellian tube filled with the same mercury ; then
the whole compressing force is HG. This is evidently the
measure of the elasticity of the compressed air in AE, for
it balances it. Now, pour in more mercury, and let it rise
to q, compressing the air into A e. Draw the horizontal
line ef and make fh equal to FH ; then A e will be the new
Experi¬
ments of
bulk of the compressed air, - - will be its new density, and
h q will be the measure of the new elasticity. This opera¬
tion may be extended as far as we please, by lengthening
the tube CD, and taking care that it be strong enough to
resist the great pressure. Great care must be taken to keep
the whole in a constant temperature, because the elasticity
of air is greatly affected by heat, and the change by any
increase of temperature is different according to its density
or compression.
The experiments of Boyle, Mariotte, Amontons, and
iricnis ui others, were not extended to very great compressions, the
Boyle, &c. density Gf t]ie air not having been quadrupled in any of
them ; nor do they seem to have been made with very great
nicety. It may be collected from them in general, that the
elasticity of the air is very nearly proportioned to its den¬
sity ; and accordingly this law was almost immediately ac¬
quiesced in, and was called the Hoylean law s it is accoid-
ingly assumed by almost all writers on the subject as exact.
Of late years, however, there occurred questions in which
it was of importance that this point should be more scru¬
pulously settled, and the former experiments were repeated
and extended. Sulzer and hontana have cairiedthem far¬
ther than any other. Sulzer compressed air into one-eighth
of its former dimensions.
Varieties in Considerable varieties and irregularities are to be observ-
these ex- ed in these experiments. It is extremely difficult to pre-
periments. serve the temperature of the apparatus, particularly of the
leg AB, which is most handled. A great quantity of mer¬
cury must be employed ^ and it does not appear that philo¬
sophers have been careful to have it precisely similar to that
in the barometer, which gives us the unit of compressing
force and of elasticity. The mercury in the syphon as well
as in the barometer should be pure and boiled. If the mer¬
cury in the syphon is adulterated with bismuth and tin,
which it commonly is to a considerable degree, the com¬
pressing force, and consequently the elasticity, will appear
greater than the truth. If the barometer has not been nice¬
ly filled, it will be lower than it should be, and the compress¬
ing force will appear too great, because the unit is too
small; and this error will be most remarkable in the smaller
compressions.
The greatest source of error and irregularity in the expe¬
riments is the very heterogeneous nature of the air itself.
Air is a solvent of all fluids, all vapours, and perhaps of many
solid bodies. It is highly improbable that the different
compounds shall have the same elasticity, or even the same
law of elasticity ; and it is well known, that air loaded with
water or other volatile bodies, is much more expansible by
heat than pure air ; nay, it would appear from many expe¬
riments, that certain determinate changes both of density
and of temperature, cause air to let go the vapours which it
holds in solution. Cold causes it to precipitate water, as
appears in dew; so does rarefaction, as is seen in the re¬
ceiver of an air-pump.
   In general, it appears that the elasticity of air does not
city of air. increase quite so fast as its density. This will be best seen
by the following tables, calculated from the experiments of
Heteroge¬
neous na¬
ture of the
air.
First set.
1-000
1-100
1-222
1-375
1-571
1-692
1- 833
2- 000
2-288
2- 444
3- 143
3- 666
4- 000
4-444
4- 888
5- 500
5-882
1-000
1-093
1-211
1-284
1-559
1-669
1-796
1- 958
2- 130
2-375
2- 936
3- 391
3- 706
4- 035
4-438
4- 922
5- 522
Second set.
1-000
1-236
1-294
1-375
1-466
1-571
1- 692
2- 000
2- 444
3- 143
3- 666
4- 444
5- 500
7-333
1-000
1-224
1-288
1-332
1.417
1-515
1-647
1- 964
2- 392
3- 078
3- 575
4- 320
5- 096
6- 694
Third set..
1-000
1-091
1-200
1-333
1-500
1- 714
2- 000
2- 400
3- 000
4- 000
6-000
8-000
1-000
1-076
1-183
1-303
1-472
1- 659
1-900
2- 241
2- 793
3- 631
5- 297
6- 835
There appears in these experiments to be sufficient grounds
for calling in question the Boylean law ; and the writer ot
this article thought it incumbent on him to repeat them
with some precautions, which probably had not been at¬
tended to by Mr. Sulzer. He was particularly anxious to
have the air as free as possible from moisture. For this
purpose, having detached the short leg of the syphon, which
was 34 inches long, he boiled mercury in it, and filled it
with mercury boiling hot. He took a tinplate vessel of suf¬
ficient capacity, and put into it a quantity of powdered
quicklime just taken from the kiln ; and having closed the
mouth, he agitated the lime through the air in the vessel,
and allowed it to remain there all night. He then emptied
the mercury out of the syphon into this vessel, keeping the
open end far within it. By this means the short leg of the
syphon was filled with very dry air. The other part was
now joined, and boiled mercury put into the bend of the
syphon ; and the experiment was then prosecuted with mer¬
cury which had been recently boiled, and was the same
with which the barometer had been carefully filled.
The results of the experiments are expressed in the fol¬
lowing table :
First set.
1-000
2-000
3- 000
4- 000
5- 500
6- 000
7-620
Second set.
1-000
1- 957
2- 848
3- 737
4- 930
5- 342
6- 490
1-000
2-000
3- 000
4- 000
5- 500
6- 000
7-620
1-000
1-920
3-839
3-726
5-000
5- 452
6- 775
Third set.
1-000
2-000
3- 000
4- 000
5- 500
6- 000
7-620
1-000
1- 909
2- 845
3- 718
5-104
5- 463
6- 812
The elasti-
Here it appears again in the clearest manner that the elas¬
ticities do not increase as fast as the densities, and the dif¬
ferences are even greater than in Mr. Sulzer’s experiments.
The second table contains the results of experiments which
PNEUM
Experi- were made on very damp air in a warm summer’s morning,
meats on in these it appears that the elasticities are almost precisely
air' proportional to the densities + a small constant quantity,
nearly Oil, deviating from this rule chiefly between the
densities 1 and 1*5, within which limits we have very nearly
D=E1‘0017. As this air is nearer to the constitution of at¬
mospheric air than the former, this rule may be safely fol¬
lowed in cases where atmospheric air is concerned, as in
measuring the depths of pits by the barometer.
The third table shows the compression and elasticity of
air strongly impregnated with the vapours of camphire.
Here the Boylean law appears pretty exact, or rather the
elasticity seems to increase a little faster than the density.
Dr. Hooke examined the compression of air by immers¬
ing a bottle to great depths in the sea, and weighing the
water which got into it without any escape of air. But
this method was liable to great uncertainty, on account of
the unknown temperature of the sea at great depths.
Mode of ex- Hitherto we have considered only such air as is not
aminingtherarer than what we breathe; we must take a very diffe-
elasticity ofrent method for examining the elasticity of rarefied air.
rarefied air. Let ^ be a jong tubej
formed a-top into a cup, and of suf- Fig* Gl- Fig.68.
ficient diameter to receive another
smaller tube af open at first at both
ends. Let thie outer tube aud cup
be filled with mercury, which will
rise in the inner tube to the same
level. Let af now be stopped at a.
It contains air of the same density
and elasticity with the adjoining at¬
mosphere. Note exactly the space
a b which it occupies. Draw it up
into the position of fig. 68, and let
the mercury stand in it at the height
de, whilst ce is the height of the
mercury in the barometer. It is
evident that the column <2 e is in
equilibrio between the pressure of the
atmosphere and the elasticity of the
air included in the space a d. And
since the weight of e e would be in
equilibrio with the whole pressure of
the atmosphere, the weight of c d is
equivalent to the elasticity of the in¬
cluded air. Whilst therefore ce is
the measure of the elasticity of the
surrounding atmosphere, c d will be
the measure of the elasticity of the
included air; and since the air originally occupied
the space a b, and has now expanded into a d, Fig. 69*
ab
'Jd
//L
/ „
■An easie
method.
we have ^ for the measure of its density. N.B.
c e and c d are measured by the 'perpendicular
heights of the columns, but a b and a d must be
measured by their solid capacities.
By raising the inner tube still higher, the mer¬
cury will also rise higher, and the included air
will expand still farther, and we obtain another
c d, and another —and in this manner the re¬
act
lation betw'een the density and elasticity of rare¬
fied air may be discovered.
This examination may be managed more easi¬
ly by means of the air-pump. Suppose a tube
ae (fig.69) containing a small quantity of air a b,
set up in a cistern of mercury, which is support¬
ed in the tube at the height e b, and let e c be
the height of the mercury in the barometer. Let
this apparatus be set under a tubulated receiver
f
i
LO
A T I C S. 10]
on the pump-plate, and let gnhe the pump-gage, and m n Experi-
be made equal to c e. ments on
Then, as has been already shown, c 6 is the measure of air-
the elasticity of the air in a b, corresponding to the bulk a
Now let some air be abstracted from the receiver. The
elasticity of the remainder will be diminished by its expan¬
sion ; and therefore the mercury in the tube a e will de¬
scend to some point d. For the same reason, the mercury
in the gage will rise to some point o, and m o will express
the elasticity of the air in the receiver. This would sup¬
port the mercury in the tube a e at the height e r, if the
space a r were entirely void of air. Therefore r dis the ef¬
fect and measure of the elasticity of the included air when it
has expanded to the bulk ad; and thus its elasticity, under a
variety of other bulks, may be compared with its elasticity
when of the bulk a b. When the air has been so far abstract¬
ed from the receiver that the mercury in a e descends to e,
then m o will be the precise measure of its elasticity.
In all these cases it is necessary to compare its bulk a b
with its natural bulk, in which its elasticity balances the
pressure of the atmosphere. This may be done by laying
the tube a c horizontally, and then the air will collapse in¬
to its ordinary bulk.
Another easy method may be taken for this examination. Another
Let an apparatus a b c d e f (fig. 70,) be made, consisting method.
Fig. 70.
of a horizontal tube a e of even bore, a ball d g e of a large
diameter, and a swan-neck tube k f Let the ball and part
of the tube g e b be filled with mercury, so that the tube
may be in the same horizontal plane with the surface d e
of the mercury in the ball. Then seal up the end a, and
connecty with an air-pump. When the air is abstracted
from the surface d e, the air mab will expand into a larger
bulk a c, and the mercury in the pump-gage will rise to
some distance below the barometric height. It is evident
that this distance, without any farther calculation, will be
the measure of the elasticity of the air pressing on the sur¬
face d e, and therefore of the air in a e.
The most exact of all methods is to suspend in the re- The most
ceiver of an air-pump a glass vessel, having a very narrow exact mode,
mouth, over a cistern of mercury, and then abstract the air
till the gage rises to some determined height. The differ¬
ence e between this height and the barometric height de¬
termines the elasticity of the air in the receiver and in the
suspended vessel. Now, lower down that vessel by the slip-
wire till its mouth is immersed into the mercury, and admit
the air into the receiver ; it will press the mercury into the
little vessel. Lower it still further down, till the mercury
within it is level with that without; then stop its mouth,
take it out and weigh the mercury, and let its weight be w.
Subtract this weight from the weight v of the mercury,
which would completely fill the whole vessel; then the natural
bulk of the air will be v—w, whilst its bulk, when of the
elasticity e in the rarefied receiver, was the bulk or capacity
tv of the vessel. Its density therefore, corresponding to
this elasticity e, was And thus may the relation be¬
tween density and elasticity in all cases be obtained.
A great variety of experiments to this purpose have been various ex-
made, with different degrees of attention, according to the Pear™^ts
interest which the philosophers had in the resuh- jo8-6 this pur-
made by M. de Luc, General Boy, Mr. Trembley, and bn p0ge>
George Shuckburgh, are by far the most accurate; but they
are all confined to very moderate rarefactions, f ne gene-
102
PNEUMATICS.
Boylean
Law.
ral result has been, that the elasticity of rarefied air is very
nearly proportional to its density. We cannot say with con¬
fidence that any regular deviation from this law has been
observed, there being as many observations on one side as
on the other; but we think that it is not unworthy the at¬
tention of philosophers to determine it with precision in the
cases of extreme rarefaction, where the irregularities are
most remarkable. The great source of error is a certain ad¬
hesive sluggishness of the mercury when the impelling forces
are very small; and other fluids can hardly be used, because
they either smear the inside of the tube and diminish its
capacity, or they are converted into vapour, which alters the
law of elasticity.
Let us, upon the whole, assume the Boylean law, viz.
that the elasticity of the air is proportional to its density,
may be as- The ]aw deviates not in any sensible degree from the truth
sumed. in those cases wjdch are of the greatest practical importance,
that is, when the density does not much exceed or fall short
of that of ordinary air.
Let us now see what information this gives us with re¬
spect to the action of the particles on each other. The
investigation is extremely easy. We have seen that a
force eight times greater than the pressure of the atmos¬
phere will compress common air into the eighth part of its
common bulk, and give it eight times its common density;
and in this case we know, that the particles are at half their
former distance, and that the number which are now act¬
ing on the surface of the piston employed to compress them
is quadruple of the number which act on it when it is of the
common density. Therefore, when this eightfold com¬
pressing force is distributed over a fourfold number of
particles, the portion of it which acts on each is double. In
like manner, when a compressing force 27 is employed, the
air is compressed into 57 of its former bulk, the particles are
at ij of their former distance, and the force is distributed
among 9 times the number of particles; the force on each
Height of
the atmos¬
phere.
24
°rTFo°f
The Boy¬
lean law
Investiga¬
tion.
is therefore 3. In short, let — be the distance of the par-
x
tides, the number of them in any given vessel, and there¬
fore the density will be as a;3, and the number pressing by
their elasticity on its whole internal surface will be as x1.
Experiment shews, that the compressing force is as x3, which
being distributed over the number as x'2, will give the force
on each as x. Now, this force is in immediate equilibrium
with the elasticity of the particle immediately contiguous to
the compressing surface. This elasticity is therefore as x ;
and it follows from the nature of perfect fluidity, that the
particle adjoining to the compressing surface presses with
an equal force on its adjoining particles on every side.
Hence we must conclude, that the corpuscular repulsions
exerted by the adjoining particles are inversely as their dis¬
tances from each other, or that the adjoining particles tend
to recede from each other with forces inversely proportional
to their distances.
Sir Isaac Sir Isaac Newton was the first who reasoned in this man-
Newton ner from the phenomena. Indeed he was the first who had
first reason-tfm patience to reflect on the phenomena with any precision,
ed proper y. pjig (]jscoverjes in gravitation naturally gave his thoughts
this turn, and he very early hinted his suspicions that all the
characteristic phenomena of tangible matter were produced
by forces which were exerted by the particles at small and
insensible distances. And he considers the phenomena of
air as affording an excellent example of this investigation,
and deduces from them the law which we have now demon¬
strated ; and says, that air consists of particles which avoid
the adjoining particles with forces inversely proportional to
their distances from each other. From this he deduces (in the
second book of his Principles) several beautiful propositions,
determining the mechanical constitution of the atmosphere.
Limits. . But it must be noticed that he limits this action to the
adjoining particles; and this is a remark of immense con¬
sequence, though not attended to by the numerous experi
menters who adopt the law.
It is plain that the particles are supposed to act at a dis¬
tance, and that this distance is variable, and that the forces
diminish as the distances increase. A very ordinary air-
pump will rarefy the air 125 times. The distance of the par¬
ticles is now 5 times greater than before ; and yet they still
repel each other ; for air of this density will still support the
mercury in a syphon-gage at the height of
an inch ; and a better pump will allow this air to expand
twice as much, and still leave it elastic. Thus we see that
whatever is the distance of the particles of common air, they
can act five times further off. The question comes now to
be, Whether, in the state of common air, they really do act
five times further than the distance of the adjoining parti¬
cles ? Whilst the particle a acts on the particle b with the
force 5, does it also act on the particle c with the force 2-5,
on the particle dwith the force 1-667, on the particle e with
the force 1-25, on the particle /with the force 1, on the
particle g with the force 0.833, &c.
Sir Isaac Newton shows in the plainest manner, that this
is by no means the case ; for if this were the case, he makes
it appear that the sensible phenomena of condensation would
be totally different from that we observe The force ne¬
cessary for a quadruple condensation would be eight times
greater, and for a monuple condensation the force must be
27 times greater. Two spheres filled with condensed air
must repel each other, and two spheres containing air that
is rarer than the surrounding air must attract each other,
&c. &c. All this will appear very clearly, by applying to
air the reasoning which Sir Isaac Newton has employed in
deducing the sensible law of mutual tendency of two spheres,
which consist of particles attracting each other with forces
proportional to the square of the distance inversely.
If we could suppose that the particles of air repelled each
other with invariable forces at all distances within some
small and insensible limit, this would produce a compressi¬
bility and elasticity similar to what we observe. For if we
consider a row of particles, within this limit, as compressed
by an external force applied to the two extremities, the ac¬
tion of the whole row on the extreme points would be pro¬
portional to the number of particles, that is, to their distance
inversely and to their density : and a number of such par¬
cels, ranged in a straight line, would constitute a row of any
sensible magnitude having the same law of compression.
But this law of corpuscular force is unlike every thing we
observe in nature, and to the last degree improbable.
We must therefore continue the limitation of this mutual
repulsion of the particles of air, and be contented for the
present with having established it as an experimental fact,
that the adjoining particles of air are kept asunder by forces
inversely proportional to their distances; or perhaps it is
better to abide by the sensible law, that the density of air is
proportional to the compressing force. This law is abun¬
dantly sufficient for explaining all the subordinate pheno¬
mena, and for giving us a complete knowledge of the me ¬
chanical constitution of our atmosphere.
And, in the first place, this view of the compressibility The height
of the air must give us a very different notion of the height pf the air
of the atmosphere from what we deduced on a former oc- inyesti-
casion from our experiments. It is found, that when the^a e *
air is of the temperature 32° of Fahrenheit’s thermometer,
and the mercury in the barometer stands at 30 inches, it
will descend one-tenth of an inch if we take it to a place
87 feet higher. Therefore, if the air were equally dense
and heavy throughout, the height of the atmosphere would
be 30 X 10X87 feet, or 5 miles and 100 yards. But the
loose reasoning adduced on that occasion was enough to
PNEUMATICS.
103
Height
uf the at¬
mosphere.
ixpen-
nent fixes
10 limit to
he air’s ex-
'.msibility.
Farther ob
iervations.
show us that it must be much higher; because every stratum
as we ascend must be successively rarer as it is less com¬
pressed by incumbent weight. Not knowing to what degree
' air expanded when the compression was diminished, we
could not tell the successive diminutions of density and con¬
sequent augmentation of bulk and height; we could only
say, that several atmospheric appearances indicated a much
greater height. Clouds have been seen much higher; but
the phenomenon of the twilight is the most convincing proof
of this. There is no doubt that the visibility of the sky or
air is owing to its want of perfect transparency, each particle,
whether of matter purely aerial or heterogeneous, reflect¬
ing a little light.
Let b (fig. 71) be the last particle of illuminated air
which can be seen in the hori¬
zon by a spectator at A. This
must be illuminated by a ray
SD 6, touching the earth’s sur¬
face at some point D. Now
it is a known fact, that the de¬
gree of illumination called twi¬
light is perceived when the sun
is 18° below the horizon of the
spectator, that is, when the an¬
gle E 6 S or ACD is 18 de-
grees; therefore 6 C is the secant of 9 degrees (it is less,
viz. about 8^ degrees, on account of refraction). We know
the earth’s radius to be about 3970 miles: hence we con¬
clude 6 B to be about 45 miles ; nay, a very sensible illu¬
mination is perceptible much farther from the sun’s place
than this, perhaps twice as far, and the air is sufficiently dense
for reflecting a sensible light at the height of nearly 200 miles.
We have now seen that air is prodigiously expansible.
None of our experiments have distinctly shown us any limit.
But it does not follow that it is expansible without end;
nor is this at all likely. It is much more probable that there
is a certain distance of the parts in which they no longer
repel each other; and this would be the distance at which
they would arrange themselves if they were not heavy. But
at the very summit of the atmosphere they will be a very
small matter nearer to each other, on account of their gra¬
vitation to the earth. Till we know precisely the law of
this mutual repulsion, we cannot say what is the height of
the atmosphere.
■ But if the air be an elastic fluid whose density is always
proportionable to the compressing force, we can tell what
is its density at any height above the surface of the earth:
and we can compare the density so calculated with the
density discovered by observation : for this last is measured
by the height at which it supports mercury in the barome¬
ter. This is the direct measure of the pressure of the ex¬
ternal air ; and as we know the law of gravitation, we can
tell what would be the pressure of air having the calculat¬
ed density in all its parts.
Let us therefore suppose a prismatic or cylindric column
of air reaching to the top of the atmosphere. Let this be
divided into an indefinite number of strata of very small
and equal depths or thickness; and let us, for greater sim¬
plicity, suppose at first that a particle of air is of the same
weight at all distances from the centre of the earth.
The absolute weight of any one of these strata will on
these conditions be proportional to the number of particles
or the gravity of air contained in it; and since the depth of
each stratum is the same, this quantity of air will evi¬
dently be as the density of the stratum. But the density of
any stratum is as the compressing force ; that is, as the
pressure of the strata above it; that is, as their weight; that
is, as their quantity of matter: therefore the quantity of air
in each stratum is proportional to the quantity of air above it.
The quantity in each stratum, however, is the difference be¬
tween the column incumbent on its bottom and on its top ;
therefore these differences are proportional to the quantities Height
of which they are the differences. But when there is a of tbe a(>
series of quantities which are proportional to their own dif- iriosPbere-
ferences, both the quantities and the differences are in con-'
tinual or geometrical progression: for let a, b, c, be three
such quantities that b: c=a—b : b—c, then by alterna¬
tion and composition a : b=b : c, therefore the densities of
these strata decrease in a geometrical progression ; that is,
when the elevations above the centre or surface of the earth
increase, or their depths under the top of the atmosphere
decrease, in an arithmetical progression, the densities de¬
crease in a geometrical progression.
Let ARQ (fig. 72), represent
the section of the earth by a plane Fig. 72.
through its centre O, and let
mOAM be a vertical line, and
AE perpendicular to OA will be
a horizontal line through A, a
point on the earth’s surface. Let
AE be taken to represent the
density of the air at A ; and let
DH, parallel to AE, be taken to
AE as the density at D is to the
density at A : it is evident, that
if a logistic or logarithmic curve
EHN be drawn, having AN for
its axis, and passing through the
points E and H, the density of
the air at any other point C, in
this vertical line, will be repre¬
sented by CG, the ordinate to
the curve in that point: for it is
the property of this curve, that if
portions AB, AC, AD, of its axis
to be taken in arithmetical pro¬
gression, the ordinates AE, BF,
CG, DH, will be in the geometrical progression.
It is another fundamental property of this curve, that if
EK or HS touch the curve in E or H, the subtangent AK
or DS is a constant quantity.
And a third fundamental property is, that the infinitely
extended area MAEN is equal to the rectangle KAEL of
the ordinate and subtangent; and, in like manner, the area
MDHN is equal to SD x DH, or to KA x DH ; conse¬
quently the area lying beyond any ordinate is proportional to
that ordinate.
These geometrical properties of this curve are all analo¬
gous to the chief circumstances in the constitution of the at¬
mosphere, on the supposition of equal gravity. The area
MCGN represents the whole quantity of aereal matter
which is above C. For CG is the density at C, and CD is
the thickness of the stratum between C and D ; and there¬
fore CGHD will be as the quantity of matter or air in it;
and in like manner of all the others, and of their sums, or
the whole area MCGN; and as each ordinate is propor¬
tional to the area above it, so each density, and the quan¬
tity of air in each stratum, is proportional to the quantity of
air above it; and as the whole area MAEN is equal to the
rectangle KAEL, so the whole air of variable density above
A might be contained in a column KA, if, instead of being
compressed by its own weight, it were without weight, and
compressed by an external force equal to the pressure of
the air at the surface of the earth. In this case, it would
be of the uniform density AE, which it has at the surface
of the earth, making what we have repeatedly called the
homogeneous atmosphere.
Hence we derive this important circumstance, that the
height of the homogeneous atmosphere is the subtangent of
that curve, the ordinates of which are as the densities of the
air at different heights, on the supposition of equal gravity.
This curve may with propriety be called the atmospherical
104
PNEUMATICS.
Height logarithmic ; and as the different logarithmics are all cha-
of the at- racterised by their subtangents, it is of importance to de-
mosphere. termine this one.
'**»^s,'-***S It may be done by comparing the densities of mercury
and air. For a column of air of uniform density, reaching
to the top of the homogeneous atmosphere, is in equilibrio
with the mercury in the barometer. Now, it is found, by
the best experiments, that when mercury and air are of the
temperature of 32° of Fahrenheit’s thermometer, and the
barometer stands at 30 inches, the mercury is nearly 10440
times denser than air. Therefore the height of the homo¬
geneous atmosphere is 10440 times 30 inches, or 26100
feet, or 8700 yards, or 4350 fathoms, or 5 miles wanting
100 yards.
Or it may be found by observations on the barometer. It
is found, that when the mercury and air are of the above
temperature, and the barometer on the sea-shore stands at
30 inches, if we carry it to a place 884 feet higher it will
fall to 29 inches. Now, in all logarithmic curves having
equal ordinates, the portions of the axes intercepted be¬
tween the corresponding pairs of ordinates are proportional
to the subtangents. And the subtangents of the curve be¬
longing to our common tables is 0'4342945, and the differ¬
ence of the logarithms of 30 and 29, (which is the portion
of the axis intercepted between the ordinates 30 and 29),
or 0-0147233, is to 0-4342945 as 883 is to 26068 feet, or
8686 yards, or 4343 fathoms, or 5 miles wanting 114 yards.
This determination is 14 yards less than the other, and it is
uncertain which is the more exact.' It is extremely difficult
to measure the respective densities of mercury and air ; and
in measuring the elevation which produces a fall of one inch
in the barometer, an error of l-20th of an inch would pro¬
duce all the difference. We prefer the last, as depending
on fewer circumstances.
But all this investigation proceeds on the supposition of
equal gravity, whereas we know that the weight of a parti¬
cle of air decreases as the square of its distance from the
centre of the earth increases. In order, therefore, that a
superior stratum may produce an equal pressure at the sur¬
face of the earth, it must be denser, because a particle of it
gravitates less. The density, therefore, at equal elevations,
must be greater than on the supposition of equal gravity,
and the law of diminution of density must be different.
Make OD : OA=OA : Orf;
OC : OA=OA : Oc ;
OB : OA=OA ; Ob ; &c. ;
so that Oe£, Oc, Ob, OA, may be reciprocals to OD, OC,
OB, OA; and through the points, A, b, c, d, draw the per¬
pendiculars AE, bf, eg, dh, making them proportional to the
densities in A, B, C, D : and let us suppose CD to be ex¬
ceedingly small, so that the density may be supposed uni¬
form through the whole stratum. Thus we have
OD x Od=OA2,=OC X Oc
and Oc : Od : OD : OC ;
and Oc : Oc—Od =OD : OD—OC,
or Oc : cd=00 : BC ;
and cc?: CD=iO c : OD ;
or, because OC and OD are ultimately in the ratio o
equality, we have
cd: CD=Oc : OC=OA2 : OC2,
and c<f= CD x
OA2
OC2’
and cd X cg=0D Xcgx
OA2
OC2
; but
^vxcgx (y^_
solute weight of the stratum CD. For this weight is as the
bulk, as the density, and as the gravitation of each particle
jointly. Now CD expresses the bulk, eg the density, and
mosphere
OA2
-qqv tl16 gravitation of each particle. Therefore, cdy.cg
is as the pressure on C arising from the weight of the stra-
tum DC ; but cd X eg is evidently the element of the cur-
vilineal area A»mE, formed by the curve E fg h n and the
ordinates AE, bf, eg, ah, &c. mn. Therefore the sum of all
the elements, such vs, c d h g, that is, the area c m n g be¬
low eg, will be as the whole pressure on C, arising from the
gravitation of all the air above it; but, by the nature of air,
this whole pressure is as the density which it produces, that
is, as eg. Therefore the curve E w is of such a nature that
the area lying below or beyond any ordinate eg is propor¬
tional to that ordinate. This is the property of the loga¬
rithmic curve, and E <7 rc is a logarithmic curve.
But farther, this curve is the same with EGN. For let
B continually approach to A, and ultimately coincide with
it. It is evident that the ultimate ratio of BA to Ab, and
of BF to bf, is that of equality ; and if EFK, Efh, be drawn,
they will contain equal angles with the ordinate AE, and
will cut off equal subtangents AK, Ah. The curves EGN,
Egn are therefore the same, but in opposite positions.
Lastly, if OA, Ob, Oc, Od, &c. be taken in arithmetical
progression decreasing, their reciprocals OA, OB, OC, OD,
&c. will be in harmonical progression increasing, as is well
known ; but, from the nature of the logarithmic curve, when
OA, Ob, Oc, Od, &c. are in arithmetical progression, the
ordinates AE, bf, eg, dh, &c. are in geometrical progression.
Therefore when OA, OB, OC, OD, &c. are in harmonical
progression, the densities of the air at A, B, C, D, &c. are
in geometrical progression; and thus may the density of the
air at all elevations be discovered. Thus, to find the den¬
sity of the air at K the top of the homogeneous atmosphere,
make OK : OA=OA : OL, and draw the ordinate LT, LT
is the density at K.
The celebrated Dr. Halley was the first who observed the
relation between the density of the air and the ordinates of
the logarithmic curve, or common logarithms. This he did
on the supposition of equal gravity ; and his discovery is ac¬
knowledged by Sir Isaac Newton in his Principia, u.prop. 22,
schol. Halley’s dissertation on the subject is in No. 185 of
the Philosophical Transactions. Newton, with his usual
sagacity, extended the same relation to the true state of the
case, where gravity is as the square of the distance inverse¬
ly ; and showed that when the distances from the earth’s
centre are in harmonic progression, the densities are in geo¬
metric progression. He shows, indeed, in general, what pro¬
gression of the distance, on any supposition of gravity, will
produce a geometrical progression of the densities, so as to
obtain a set of lines OA, Ob, Oc, Oe?,'&c. which will be lo¬
garithms of the densities.1
An important corollary is deducible from these principles, Finite den-
viz. that the air has a finite density at an infinite distance sity of tbe
from the centre of the earth, namely, such as will be repre- air at an in*
sented by the ordinate OP drawn through the centre. It*™1® (lis‘
may be objected to this conclusion, that it would infer antance*
infinity of matter in the universe, and that it is inconsistent
with the phenomena of the planetary motions, which appear
to be performed in a space void of all resistance, and there¬
fore of all matter. But this fluid must be so rare at great
1 The subject was afterwards treated in a more familiar manner by Cotes in his Hydrostatic Lectures, and in his Harmonia Mensurarum
by Dr. Brook Taylor, in his Methodus Increment.; by Wolf in his Aerometria; by Herman in his Phoronomia ; and by Horsley in the Phi"
bsophical Transactions, tom. bdv.
PNEUMATICS.
105
Atmo¬
sphere of
the other
planets.
The atmO'
phere of
Vlars.
distances, that the resistance will be insensible, even though
the retardation occasioned by it has been accumulated for
ages. Even at the very moderate distance of 500 miles, the
rarity is so great that a cubic inch of common air expanded
to that degree would occupy a sphere equal to the orbit of
Saturn ; and the whole retardation which this planet would
sustain after some millions of years would not exceed what
would be occasioned by its meeting one bit of matter of half
a grain weight.
This being the case, it is not unreasonable to suppose the
visible universe occupied by air, which, by its gravitation,
will accumulate itself round every body in it, in a propor¬
tion depending on their quantities of matter, the larger bo¬
dies attracting more of it than the smaller ones, and thus
forming an atmosphere about each. And many appearances
warrant this supposition. Jupiter, Mars, Saturn, and Venus,
are evidently surrounded by atmospheres. The constitu¬
tion of these atmospheres may differ exceedingly from other
causes. If the planet has nothing on its surface which can
be dissolved by the air or volatilized by heat, the atmos¬
phere will be continually clear and transparent, like that of
the moon.
Mars has an atmosphere which appears precisely like our
own, carrying clouds, or depositing snows ; for when, by
the obliquity of his axis to the plane of his eliptic, he turns
his north pole towards the sun, it is observed to be occu¬
pied by a broad white spot. As the summer of that region
advances, this spot gradually wastes, and sometimes vanishes,
and then the south pole comes in sight, surrounded in like
manner with a white spot, which undergoes similar changes.
This is precisely the appearance which the snowy circum¬
polar regions of this earth will exhibit to an astronomer on
Mars. It may not, how ever, be snow that we see; thick clouds
will have the same appearances.
3f Jupiter. The atmosphere of the planet Jupiter is also very similar
to our own. It is diversified by streaks or belts parallel to
his equator, which frequently change their appearance and
dimensions, in the same manner as those tracks of similar
sky which belong to different regions of this globe. There
is a certain kind of weather that more properly belongs to
a particular climate than to any other. This is nothing but
a certain general state of the atmosphere which is prevalent
there, though with considerable variations. This must ap¬
pear to a spectator in the moon like a streak spread over that
climate, distinguishing it from others. But the most remark¬
able similarity is in the motion of the clouds on Jupiter.
They have plainly a motion from east to west relative to
the body of the planet; for there is a remarkable spot on
the surface of the planet, which is observed to turn round
the axis in 9h. 51' 16" ; and there frequently appear vari¬
able and perishing spots in the belts, which sometimes last
for several revolutions. These are observed to circulate in
9h. 55' 05". These numbers are the results of a long se¬
ries of observations by Dr. Herschel. This plainly indi¬
cates a general current of the clouds westward, precisely
similar to what a spectator in the moon must observe in our
atmosphere arising from the trade winds. Mr. Schroeter
lias made the atmosphere of Jupiter a study for many years;
and deduces from his observations that the motion of the
variable spots is subject to great variations, but is always
from east to west. This indicates variable winds.
The atmosphere of Venus appears also to be like ours,
loaded with vapours, and in a state of continual change of
absorption and precipitation. About the middle of the seven¬
teenth century the surface of Venus was pretty distinctly
seen for many years chequered with irregular spots, which
are described by Campani, Bianchini, and other astronomers in
the south of Europe, and also by Cassini at Paris, and Hooke
and Townley in England. But the spots became gradually
Of Venus.
more faint and indistinct; and, for near a century, have dis- Atmo-
appeared. The whole surface appears now of one uniform sphere of
brilliant white. The atmosphere is probably filled with a ^ other
reflecting vapour, thinly diffused through it, like water faintly ( p anets*
tinged with milk. A great depth of this must appear as
white as a small depth of milk itself; and it appears to be
of a very great depth, and to be refractive like our air. For
Sir William Herschel observed, by the help of his fine te¬
lescopes, that the illuminated part of Venus is considerably
more than a hemisphere, and that the light dies gradually
away to the bounding margin. This is the very appearance
that the earth would make if furnished with such an atmos¬
phere. The boundary of illumination would have a penum¬
bra reaching about nine degrees beyond it. If this be the
constitution of the atmosphere of Venus, she may be in¬
habited by beings like ourselves. They would not be daz¬
zled by the intolerable splendour of a sun four times as big
and as bright, and sixteen times more glaring than ours ;
for they would seldom or never see him, but instead of him
an uniformly bright and white sky. They would probably
never see a star or planet, unless the dog-star and Mercury ;
and perhaps the earth might pierce through the bright haze
which surrounds their planet. For the same reason the in¬
habitants would not perhaps be incommoded by the sun’s
heat. It is indeed a very questionable thing, whether the
sun would cause any heat, even here, if it were not for the
chemical action of his rays on our air. This is rendered
not improbable by the intense cold felt on the tops of the
highest mountains, in the clearest air, and even under a ver¬
tical sun in the torrid zone.
The atmosphere of comets seems of a nature totally dif- And of co.
ferent. This seems to be of inconceivable rarity, even when mets.
it reflects a very sensible light. The tail is always turned
nearly away from the sun. It is thought that this is by the
impulse of the solar rays. If this be the case, we think it
might be discovered by the aberration and the refraction
of the light by which we see the tail; for this light must
come to our eye with a much smaller velocity than the sun’s
light, if it be reflected by repulsive or elastic forces, which
there is every reason in the world to believe ; and therefore
the velocity of the reflected light will be diminished by all
the velocity communicated to the reflecting particles. This
is almost inconceivably great. The comet of 1680 went
half round the sun in ten hours, and had a tail at least a
hundred millions of miles long, which turned round at the
same time, keeping nearly in the direction opposite to the
sun. The velocity necessary for this is prodigious, approach¬
ing to that of light. And perhaps the tail extends much
farther than we see it, but is visible only as far as the ve¬
locity with which its particles recede from the sun is less
than a certain quantity, namely, what would leave a suffi¬
cient velocity for the reflected light to enable it to affect
our eyes. And it may be demonstrated, that although the
real form of the visible tail is concave on the anterior side
to which the comet is moving, it may appear convex on
that side, in consequence of the very great aberration of
the light by which the remote parts are seen. All this may
be discovered by properly contrived observations: and the
conjecture merits attention. But of this digression there
is enough; and we return to our subject, the constitution
of our air.
We have shown how to determine a priori the density T{ie l)aro_
of the air at different elevations above the surface of themeter used
earth. But the densities may be discovered in all acces- in measur-
sible elevations by experiments ; namely, by observing the ing heights,
heights of the mercury in the barometer. This is a direct
measure of the pressure of the incumbent atmosphere; and
this is proportional to the density which it produces. See
Barometeb and Barometrical Instruments.1
1 For a table of the heights of the most remarkable mountains, many of which have been determined by the Barometer, see Physical
Geography.
VOL. XVIII.
O
PNEUMATICS.
We have thus given an elementary account of the dis¬
tinguishing properties of air as a heavy and compressible
1 fluid, and of the general phenomena which are immediate
consequences of these properties. This we have done in a
set of propositions analogous to those which form the doc¬
trines of hydrostatics. It remains to consider it in another
point of view, namely, as moveable and inert. The phe¬
nomena consequent on these properties are exhibited in the
velocities which air acquires by pressure, in the resistance
which bodies meet with to their motion through the air,
and in the impression which air in motion gives to bodies
exposed to its action.
Doctrine of We shall first consider the motions of which air is suscep-
air acted on tible when the equilibrium of pressure, whether arising
by equal frorn its weight or its elasticity, is removed; and, in the
and parallel next p]ace> we shau consider its action on solid bodies ex-
gravity. p0sej to its current,' and the resistance which it makes to
their motion through it. In this consideration we shall avoid
the extreme of generality, which renders the discussion too
abstract and difficult, and adapt our investigation to the cir¬
cumstances in which compressible fluids, of which air is
taken for the representative, are most commonly found. We
shall consider air therefore as it is commonly found in ac¬
cessible situations, as acted on by equal and parallel gra¬
vity ; and we shall consider it in the same order in which
water is treated in a system of hydraulics.
In that science the leading problem is to determine with
what velocity the water will move through a given orifice
when impelled by some known pressure ; and it has been
found, that the best form in which this most difficult and
intricate proposition can be put, is to determine the velocity
of water flowing through this orifice when impelled by its
weight alone. Having determined this, we can reduce to
this case every question which can be proposed, for in place
of the pressure of any piston or other mover, we can always
substitute a perpendicular column of water or air whose
weight shall be equal to the given pressure.
The veloci- The first problem, therefore, is to determine with what
velocity air will rush into a void when impelled by its weight
alone. * This is evidently analogous to the hydraulic prob¬
lem of water flowing out of a vessel. And here we must
he contented with referring our readers to the solutions
which have been given of that problem, and the demon¬
stration that it flows with the velocity which a heavy body
would acquire by falling from a height equal to the depth
of the hole under the surface of the water in the vessel.
In whatever way we attempt to demonstrate that proposi¬
tion, every step, nay, every word, of the demonstration ap¬
plies equally to the air, or to any fluid whatever. Or, if
our readers should wish to see the connexion or analogy of
the cases, we only desire them to recollect an undoubted
maxim in the science of motion, that “ when the moving
force and the matter to be moved vary in the same propor¬
tion, the velocity will be the same.” If therefore there be
similar vessels of air, water, oil, or any other fluid, all of the
height of a homogeneous atmosphere, they will all run
through equal and similar holes with the same velocity; for
in whatever proportion the quantity of matter moving through
the hole be varied by a variation of density, the pressure
which forces it out, by acting in circumstances perfectly
similar, varies in the same proportion by the same variation
of density. We must therefore assume it as the leading
proposition, that “ air rushes from the atmosphere into a
void with the velocity which a heavy body would acquire
by falling from the top of a homogeneous atmosphere.”
It is known that air is about 840 times lighter than wa¬
ter, and that the pressure of the atmosphere supports water
at the height of 33 feet nearly. The height therefore of a
homogeneous atmosphere is nearly 33 x 840, or 27,720 feet.
Moreover, to know the velocity acquired by any fall, recol¬
lect that a heavy body by falling one foot acquires the ve-
Air in
motion.
ty with
which air
ushes into
a void.
locity of 8 feet per second; and that the velocities acquired
by falling through different heights are as the square roots
of the heights. Therefore to find the velocity correspond- ’
ing to any height, expressed in feet per second, multiply
the square root of the height by 8. We have therefore in
the present instance V=s/27,220, =8 X 166.493, =1332
feet per second. This therefore is the velocity with which
common air will rush into a void j and this may be taken
as a standard number in pneumatics, as 16 and 32 are
standard numbers in the general science of mechanics,
expressing the action of gravity at the surface of the
earth.
It is easy to see that greater precision is not necessary
in this matter. The height of a homogeneous atmosphere
is a variable thing, depending on the temperature of the air.
If this reason seems any objection against the use of the
number 1332, we may retain SVH in place of it, where H
expresses the height of a homogeneous atmosphere of the
given temperature. A variation of the barometer makes
no change in the velocity, nor in the height of the homo¬
geneous atmosphere, because it is accompanied by a pro¬
portional variation in the density of the air. When it is
increased for instance, the density is also increased ^ ;
and thus the expelling force and the matter to be moved
are changed in the same proportion, and the velocity re¬
mains the same. Observe, we do not here consider the ve¬
locity which the air acquires after its issuing into the void
by its continual expansion. This may be ascertained by
the 39th proposition of Newton's Principia, book first. Nay,
which appears very paradoxical, if a cylinder of air, com¬
municating in this manner with a void, be compressed by
a piston loaded with a weight, which presses it down as the
air flows out, and thus keeps it of the same density, the ve¬
locity of efflux will still be the same, however great the
pressure may chance to be ; for the first and immediate
effect of the load on the piston is to reduce the air in the
cylinder to such a density that its elasticity shall exactly
balance the load ; and because the elasticity of air is pro¬
portional to its density, the density of the air will be in¬
creased in the same proportion with the load, that is, with
the expelling power, for we are neglecting at present the
weight of the included air as too inconsiderable to have
any sensible effect. Therefore, since the matter to be
moved is increased in the same proportion with the pres¬
sure, the velocity will be the same as before.
It is equally easy to determine the velocity with which The velo-
the air of the atmosphere will rush into a space containing city vvith
rarer air. Whatever may be the density of this air, its ^
elasticity, which follows the proportion of its density, will^8 ecsec0Ii.
balance a proportional part of the pressure of the atmos-tajnjng
phere ; and it is the excess of this last only which is the rarer air.
moving force. The matter to be moved is the same as be¬
fore. Let D be the natural density of the air, and S the
density of the air contained in the vessel into which it is
supposed to run, and let P be the pressure of the atmos¬
phere, and therefore equal to the force which impels it in¬
to a void ; and let n be the force with which this rarer air
would run into a void. We have D: 8=P : n, and 7r=
PS
jy. Now the moving force in the present instance is P—t,
or P-
P3
D’
Lastly, let V be the velocity of air rushing in¬
to a void, and v the velocity with which it will rush into
this rarefied air.
It is a theorem in the motion of fluids, that the pressures
are as the squares of the velocities af efflux.
P8 •
Therefore P: P— -jy = V2: v2. Hence we derive »2=V2
PNEUMATICS.
107
l—A, and v x V = y 1—^
. We do not here con-
The motion ceases when the air in the vessel has ac¬
quired the density of the external air; that is, when S=D,
C C
X \/D, — Therefore the
Air in
motion.
4-y/HO
sider the resistance which the air of the atmosphere will or when t= -
meet with from the inertia of that in the vessel which it 4VllO\/D
must displace in its motion.
Here we see that there will always be a current into the time °f completely filling the vessel is
vessel while 5 is less than D.
We also learn the gradual diminution of the velocity as
the vessel fills; for 8 continually increases, and therefore
1-
continually diminishes.
It remains to determine the time t expressed in seconds,
in which the air of the atmosphere will flow into this ves¬
sel from its state of vacuity till the air in the vessel has ac¬
quired any proposed density 5.
For this purpose let H, expressed in feet, be the height
through which a heavy body must fall in order to acquire
the velocity V, expressed also in feet per second. This
we shall express more briefly in future, by calling it the
height producing the velocity V. Let C represent the ca¬
pacity of the vessel, expressed in cubic feet, and O the area
or section of the orifice, expressed in superficial or square
feet; and let the natural density of the air be D.
Since the quantity of aerial matter contained in a vessel
depends on the capacity of the vessel and the density of
the air jointly, we may express the air which would fill this
vessel by the symbol CD when the air is in its ordinary
state, and by C8 when it has the density 8. In order to
obtain the rate at which it fills, we must take the fluxion
of this quantity C8. This is CS; for C is a constant quan¬
tity, and S is a variable or flowing quantity.
But we also obtain the rate of influx by our knowledge
of the velocity, and the area of the orifice, and the density.
The velocity is V, or at the first instant; and when
the air in the vessel has acquired the density 8, that is, at
the end of the time t, the velocity is Sv'H^/1—
8VH
/D-
D
5, or
Vd
D’
or
The rate of influx therefore (which may be conceived as
measured by the little mass of air which will enter during the
time t with this velocity) will be
VD
or
4v/HO
Let us illustrate this by an example in numbers.
Supposing then that air is 840 times lighter than water,
and the height of the homogeneous atmosphere 27,720
feet, we have 4VH=666. Let us further suppose the ves¬
sel to contain 8 cubic feet, which is nearly a wine hogs¬
head, and that the hole by which the air of the ordinary
density, w hich we shall make =1, enters, is an inch square,
or yjj of a square foot. Then the time in seconds of com-
O/ 1 1
pletely filling it will be —or or 1.7297"* If
bub
the hole is only of a square inch, that is, if its side is
T\r of an inch, the time of completely filling the hogshead
will be 173" very nearly, or something less than three mi¬
nutes.
If we make the experiment w ith a hole cut in a thin plate,
we shall find the time greater nearly in the proportion of
63 to 100, for reasons obvious to all who have studied hy¬
draulics. In like manner w^e can tell the time necessary for
bringing the air in the vessel to |ths of its ordinary density. The
only variable part of our fluent is the coefficient —V^D—8,
or —8. Let 8 be=f, then V' 1—8= V|=^, and
VI—8==5 5 and the time is 86|-" very nearly when the
hole is y's of an inch wide.
Let us now suppose that the air in the vessel ABCD
(fig. 73.) is compressed by a weight acting on
the cover AD, which is moveable down the
vessel, and is thus expelled into the external A
air.
The immediate effect of this external pres¬
sure is to compress the air and give it ano¬
ther density. The density D of the external
air corresponds to its pressure P. Let the
additional pressure on the cover of the vessel
be p, and the density of the air in the vessel B
be d. We shall have P : P -j-jD=D : d; and
therefore p—F X Then, because the
Fig. 73.
The velo¬
city of air
W’ith the
impulse of
a weight
moving
down the
vessel.
pressure
8VHOVDVD—81, multiplying the velocity by the ori¬
fice and the density.
Here then we have two values of the rate of influx. By
stating them as equal we have a fluxionary equation, from
which we may obtain the fluents, that is, the time t in se¬
conds necessary for bringing the air in the vessel to the
density S, or the density 8 which will be produced at the
end of any time t. We have the equation 8VHOVD
. . . C S
V D—S t=C8. Hence we derive f-gVHOvD X vf3‘
which expels the air is the difference between the force
which compresses the air in the vessel and the force which
compresses the external air, the expelling force is p. And
because the quantities of motion are as the forces which simi¬
larly produce them, we shall have P: P x = MV :
Of this the fluent is t—
4VHOVD
A is a conditional constant quantity. The condition which
determines it is, that t must be nothing when 8 is nothing,
that is, when —8=y/D ; for this is evidently the case
at the beginning of the motion. Hence it follows, that the
constant quantity is x^D, and the complete fluent, suited
to the case, is
C   
4VHOVD X x/D—x/D—S*
mv ; where M and m express the quantities of matter ex¬
pelled, V expresses the velocity with which air rushes into
a void, and v expresses the velocity sought. But because
the quantities of aerial matter which issue from the same
orifice in a moment are as the densities and velocities joint-
X x/D^5 4. A, in which ty’ we sha11 have : ™W=DVV : cfo;=DV2 : eh;2.
Therefore P = DV2
D
dv. Hence we deduce
V=V
y
d—I)
We may have another expression of the velocity with¬
out considering the density. We had P : P-j-j9==D : e?;
therefore d— > and d—Y>— ^ —D, =
108
Air in
motion.
The effect
of the air’s
elasticity
considered.
Quantity
of air issu
ing into a
void, and
density.
PNEUMATICS.
DxP+P—DP d—T> DxP+7>—DP P+^—p
— =r j and———— _  , y —— .
P d DxP+iJ P+P
j therefore v=zV X sf > which is a very sim-
p+i,» —— - ’ ^ p+^|
pie and convenient expression.
Hitherto we have considered the motion of air as pro¬
duced by its weight only. Let us now consider the effect
of its elasticity.
Let ABCD (fig. 73) be a vessel containing air of any
density D. This air is in a state of compression; and if
the compressing force be removed, it will expand, and its
elasticity will diminish along with its density. Its elasti¬
city in any state is measured by the force which keeps it
in that state. The force which keeps common air in its
ordinary density is the weight of the atmosphere, and is
the same with the weight of a column of water 33 feet
high. If therefore we suppose that this air, instead of being
confined by the top of the vessel, is pressed down by a
moveable piston carrying a column of water 33 feet high,
its elasticity will balance this pressure as it balances the
pressure of the atmosphere ; and as it is a fluid, and pro¬
pagates through every part the pressure exerted on any
one part, it will press on any little portion of the vessel by
its elasticity in die same manner as when loaded with this
column.
The consequence of this reasoning is, that if the small
portion of the vessel be removed, and thus a passage be
made into a void, the air will begin to flow out with the
same velocity with which it would flow when impelled by
its weight alone, or with the velocity acquired by falling
from the top of a homogeneous atmosphere, or 1332 feet in
a second nearly.
But as soon as some air has come out, the density of the
remaining air is diminished, and its elasticity is diminished ;
therefore, the expelling force is diminished. But the matter
to be moved is diminished in the very same proportion, be¬
cause the density and elasticity are found to vary according
to the same law; therefore the velocity will continue the
same from the beginning to the end of the efflux.
This may be seen in another way. Let P be the pres¬
sure of the atmosphere, which being the counter-balance
and measure of the initial elasticity, is equal to the expell¬
ing force at the first instant. Let D be the initial density,
and V the initial velocity. Let d be its density at the end
of the time t of efflux, and v the contemporaneous velocity.
It is plain that at the end of this time we shall have the ex¬
pelling force 77=^; for D : eL=P : 71-^=
These forces are proportional to the quantities of motion
which they produce ; and the quantities of motion are pro¬
portional to the quantities of matter M and m and the ve-
Yd
locities V and v jointly: therefore we have P : yy =: MV :
mv. But the quantities of matter which escape through a
given orifice are as the densities and velocities jointly; that
Yd
is, M : m=DV: dv ^therefore P : ~ = DV2 : dv\ and P
X dvi =
PdDV2
has been said above) the bulk 8VHO< (for the velocity V
is constant); and therefore the quantity SVYiOdt. On the
other hand, the quantity of air at the beginning was CD, C
being the capacity of the vessel; and when the air has ac¬
quired the density d, the quantity is Cd; therefore the
quantity which has run out in the time t must be the flux¬
ion of CD—Ce/, or —Cd. Therefore we have the equation
—C^ C d
D
Air in
motion.
Sv^HOcfe = —Cd, and t =
The fluent of this is
SVHOc/
C
"8VHO
log. <2. This fluent must
8\/HO
be so taken that t may be =0 when tfc=D. Therefore the
C , D . , D
correct fluent will be tzz„ /rT— log. -j, for log. = log.
8VHO ‘~0' D D
1, =0. We deduce from this, that it requires an infinite
time for the whole air of a vessel to flow out of it into a
void. N.B. By log. d, &c. is meant the hyperbolic logarithm
of d, &c.
Let us next suppose that the vessel, instead of letting out W}ien ^
its air into a void, emits it into air of a less density, which re- vessei £mits
mains constant during the efflux, as we may suppose to be it into rarei
the case when a vessel containing condensed air emits it air.
into the surrounding atmosphere. Let the initial density
of the air in the vessel be 5, and that of the atmosphere D.
PD, and
8
Then it is plain that the expelling force is P—:
Yd PD
8 8 ‘
MV: mv, —8V2 : dip. Whence we
that after the time t it is
_ • p (i_p i)
8 : 8 8
We have therefore P
derive r=V
y
8 d—U
d 8—D
From this equation we learn that the motion will be at
an end when d=Y) : and if 8=D there can be no efflux.
To find the relation between the time and the density, ^ejatjon
let H, as before, be the height producing the velocity V. between
The height producing the velocity of efflux v must be H the time
and density.
and the little parcel of air which will flow out
8d—D
d8—D
in die time t will =8v'HOefe
J 8d—D
On the other
(it)—D|
hand, it is =: —Cd.
• Cj 8—D
Hence we deduce the fluxionary equation t—
—d
' Jdt—Vd
The fluent of this corrected so as to make t—O
when d—8, is t—
CV8-
8—iD-fVs2—D<^
d—|D-p —Dtr
— YdV2, and V2—v2, and V—v, and the
SVHOVS
And the time of completing the efflux, when cZ=D, is £=
8—|D + */s2—
Fig. 74.
CV8—D
X loi
velocity of efflux is constant. Hence follows, what appears
very unlikely at first sight, that however much the air in
the vessel is condensed, it will always issue into a void with
the same velocity.
In order to find the quantity of aerial matter which will
issue during any time t, and consequently the density of
the remaining air at the end of this time, we must get the
rate of efflux. In the element of time t there issues (by what
SUHOVS
Lastly, let ABCD, CFGH (fig.
74) be two vessels containing airs
of different densities, and commu¬
nicating by the orifice C, there
will be a current from the vessel
containing the denser air into that
containingtherarer; suppose from
ABCD into CFGH.
Let P be the elastic force of
[8>
When issu¬
ing from
denser int°
rarer air.
*7
PNEUMATICS.
109
the air in ABCD, Q its density, and V its velocity, and D
the density of the air in CFGH. And, after the time £,
let the density of the air in ABCD be q, its velocity
v, and the density of the air in CFGH be 5. The ex-
PD
pelling force from ABCD will be P   at the first in-
Q
P‘7
slant, and at the end of the time t it will —yy
P8
a*
Therefore we shall have
P_?P
Q
P?
a
PS
_lT=QVa:^3
Q
which gives «=V x yjS^andthemotlonwillcease
when S—
In this way it will quickly sink down, compressing the air,
till its density and corresponding elasticity exactly balance
the weight of the piston. After this the piston will descend
equably, and the blast will be uniform. These observations
and theorems will serve to determine the initial velocity of
the air in all important cases of its expulsion. The philoso¬
pher will learn the rate of its efflux out of one vessel into
another; the chemist will be able to calculate the quantities
of the different gases which are employed in the curious ex¬
periments of the ingenious but unfortunate Lavoisier on
combustion, and will find them extremely different from
what he supposed; the engineer will learn how to propor¬
tion the motive force of his machine to the quantity of serial
matter which his bellows must supply. But it is not enough,
for this purpose, that the air begin to issue in the proper
Air in
motion.
Let A be the capacity of the first vessel, and B that of quantity; we must see whether it be not affected by the cir-
the second. We have the second equation AQ+BD= cumstances of its subsequent passage
Substituting
A(G—g)-f-BD
Ag-)-B8, and therefore S= —'
this value of S in the former value of e, we have X
/5Pg
—D)—A(Q—g)]
, which gives the relation be-
qB(Q,—D)
tween the velocity v and the density q.
In order to ascertain the time when the air in ABCD
has acquired the density q, it will be convenient to abridge
the work by some substitutions. Therefore make G(B+A)
N
—M, BQD-j-BQ.2=N, BO—BD=R and Then,
M
proceeding as before;
Vm?
we obtain the fluxionary equation
S^HOg-
-N
VRVg
i— ACT—g = —Ag, whence
AVR
Sv'HOv'M ' V q-—mg
of which the fluent, complet¬
ed so that t—o when g = Q, is tz
AVR
SV'HOV'M
X.log-
/Q—^m+V(Q^mQ)j
\ g—+V,(g2mg)
i Vhen air Some of these questions are of difficult solution, and they
3 expelled ^ not °f frequent use in the more important and usual ap-
iy force, plications of the doctrines of pneumatics, at least in their
present form. The cases of greatest use are when the air
is expelled from a vessel by an external force, as when bel¬
lows are worked, whether of the ordinary form or consisting
of a cylinder fitted with a movement piston. This last case
merits a particular consideration ; and, fortunately, the inves¬
tigation is extremely easy.
Let AD (fig. 73) be considered as a piston moving down¬
ward with die uniform velocity f and let the area of the
piston be n times the area of the hole of efflux, then the ve¬
locity of efflux arising from the motion of the piston be nf.
Add this to the velocity V produced by the elasticity of the
air in the first question, and the whole velocity will be V-f «/.
It will be the same in the other. The problem is also freed
from the consideration of the time of efflux. F or this depends
now on the velocity of the piston. It is still, however, a very
intricate problem to ascertain the relation between the time
and the density,even though the piston is moving uniformly;
for at the beginning of the motion the air is of common density.
As the piston descends, it both expels and compresses the
air, and the density of the air in the vessel varies in a vqry
intricate manner, as also its resistance or reaction on the
All the modifications of motion which are observed in Passa?re of
water conduits take place also in the passage of air through3^
pipes and holes of all kinds. There is the same diminution l>ipes’ ’c>
of quantity passing through a hole in a thin plate that is ob¬
served in water. We know that, abating the small effect
of friction, water issues with the velocity acquired by fall¬
ing from the surface; and yet if we calculate by this velocity
and by the area of the orifice, we shall find the quantity of
water deficient nearly in the proportion of 63 to 100. This
is owing to the wrater pressing towards the orifice from all
sides, which occasions a contraction of the jet. The same
thing happens in the efflux of air. Also the motion of water
is greatly impeded by all contractions of its passage. These
oblige it to accelerate its velocity, and therefore require an
increase of pressure to force it through them, and this in
proportion to the squares of the velocities. Thus, if a ma¬
chine working a pump causes it to give a certain number of
strokes in a minute, it will deliver a determined quantity of
water in that time. Should it happen that the passage of
the water is contracted to one half in any part of the ma¬
chine, a thing which frequently happens at the valves, the
water must move through this contraction with twice the
velocity that it has in the rest of the passage. This will re¬
quire four times the force to be exerted on the piston. Nay,
if no part of the passage is narrower than the barrel of the
pump, but on the contrary a part much wider, and if the con¬
duit be again contracted to the width of the barrel, an addi¬
tional force must be applied to the piston to drive the water
through this passage, which would not have been necessary
if the passage had not been widened in any part. It will
require a force equal to the weight of a column of water of the
height necessary for communicating a velocity, the square of
which is equal to the difference of the squares of the velocities
of the water in the wide and the narrow part of the conduit.
The same thing takes place in the motion of air, and there¬
fore all contractions and dilatations must be carefully avoid¬
ed, when we want to preserve the velocity unimpaired.
Air also suffers the same retardation in its motion along A'r su^ers
pipes. By not knowing, or not attending to that, engineers retardation
of the first reputation have been prodigiously disappointed3 °Iit’
in their expectations of the quantity of air which will be de¬
livered by long pipes. Its extreme mobility and lightness
hindered them from suspecting that it would suffer any sen¬
sible retardation. Dr. Papin, a most ingenious man, pro¬
posed this as the most effectual method of transferring the
action of a moving power to a great distance. Suppose, for
instance, that it was required to raise water out of a mine
by a water-machine, and that there was no fall of wTater
nearer than a mile’s distance. He employed this water to
drive a piston, which should compress the air in a cylinder
piston. For this reason, a piston which moves uniformly by
means of an external force, will never make an uniform blast
by successive strokes; it will always be weaker at the be- communicating, by a long pipe, with another cylinder at the
ginning of the stroke. The best way for securing an uniform mouth of the mine. This second cylinder had a piston in
blast is to employ the external force only for lifting up the it, whose rod was to give motion to the pumps at the mine,
niston, and then to let the piston descend by its own weight. He expected, that as soon as the piston at the water-machine
no PNEUM
Air in had compressed the air sufficiently, it would cause the air in
the cylinder at the mine to force up its piston, and thus work
the pumps. Dr. Hooke made many objections to the me¬
thod, when laid before the Royal Society, and it wras much
debated there. But dynamics was at this time an infant
science, and very little understood. Newton had not then
taken any part in the business of the society, otherwise the
true objections would not have escaped his sagacious mind.
Notwithstanding Papin’s great reputation as an engineer and
mechanic, he could not bring his scheme into use in Eng¬
land ; but afterwards, in France and in Germany, where he
settled, he got some persons of great fortunes to employ him
in this project; and he erected great machines in Auvergne
and Westphalia for draining mines. But, so far from being
effective machines, they would not even begin to move. He
attributed the failure to the quantity of air in the pipe of
communication, wdiich must be condensed before it can con¬
dense the air in the remote cylinder. This indeed is true,
and he should have thought of this earlier. He therefore
diminished the size of this pipe, and made his water-machine
exhaust instead of condensing, and had no doubt but that
the immense velocity with which air rushes into a void would
make a rapid and effectual communication of power. But
he was equally disappointed here, and the machine at the
mine stood still as before.
Nearly a century after this, a very intelligent engineer
attempted a much more feasible thing of this kind at an iron-
founderyin Wales. He erected a machine at a powerful fall
of water, which worked a set of cylinder bellows, the blow¬
pipe of which w as conducted to the distance of a mile and
a half, where it was applied to a blast furnace. But not¬
withstanding every care to make the conducting pipe very
air-tight, of great size, and as smooth as possible, it would
hardly blow out a candle. The failure was ascribed to the
impossibility of making the pipe air-tight. But, what was
surprising, above ten minutes elapsed after the action of the
pistons in the bellows before the least wind could be per¬
ceived at the end of the pipe; whereas the engineer ex¬
pected an interval of six seconds only.
No very distinct theory can be delivered on this subject;
but we may derive considerable assistance in understanding
the causes of the obstruction to the motion of water in long
pipes, by considering what happens to air. The elasticity
of the air, and its great compressibility, have given us the
distinctest notions of fluidity in general, shewing us, in a
way that can hardly be controverted, that the particles of a
fluid are kept at a distance from each other, and from other
bodies, by the corpuscular forces.
How fluids The writers on hydrodynamics have always considered the
are ob- obstruction to the motion of fluids along canals of any kind,
moving ^ 418 ou?n» t0 something like the friction by which the motion
along ca- so^ bodies on each other is obstructed ; but we cannot
aalsf f°rm t0 ourselves any distinct notion of resemblance, or even
analogy between them. The fact is, however, that a fluid
running along a canal has its motion obstructed ; and that
this obstruction is greatest in the immediate vicinity of the
solid canal, and gradually diminishes to the middle of the
stream. It appears, therefore, that the parts of fluids can no
more move among each other than among solid bodies, with¬
out suffering a diminution of their motion. The parts in phy¬
sical contact with the sides and bottom are retarded by these
immoveable bodies. The particles of the next stratum of
fluid cannot preserve their initial velocities without over¬
passing the particles of the first stratum; and it appears from
die fact that they are by this means retarded. They retard
in the same manner the particles of the third stratum, and
so on to the middle stratum or thread of fluid. It appears
from the fact, therefore, that this sort of friction is not a
consequence of rigidity alone, but that it is equally compe¬
tent to fluids. Nay, since it is a matter of fact in air, and
is even more remarkable there than in any other fluid, as we
A T I C S.
shall see by the experiments which have been made on the Air it
subject; and as our experiments on the compression of air
shew us the particles of air ten times nearer to each other ^
in some cases than in others (viz. when we see air a thousand
times denser in these cases), and therefore force us to ac¬
knowledge that they are not in contact; it is plain that this
obstruction has no analogy to friction, which supposes rough¬
ness or inequality of surface. No such inequality can be
supposed in the surface of an aerial particle ; nor would it
be of any service in explaining the obstruction, since the
particles do not rub on each other, but pass each other at
some small and imperceptible distance. We must therefore
have recourse to some other mode of explication. We shall
apply this to air only in this place; and, since it is proved
by the incontrovertible experiments of Canton, Zimmerman,
and others, that water, mercury, oil, &c., are also compres¬
sible and perfectly elastic, the argument from this principle,
which is conclusive in air, must equally explain the similar
phenomenon in hydraulics.
The most highly polished body which wre know must be Particles
conceived as having an uneven surface when we compare it of air resist
with the small spaces in which the corpuscular forces are a change
exerted ; and a quantity of air moving in a polished pipe may from a rec
be compared to a quantity of small shot sliding down a chan- tillIleaJ t]°
nel with undulated sides and bottom. The row of particles ting mo-4
immediately contiguous to the sides will therefore have an ti'on.
undulated motion: but this undulation of the contiguous
particles of air will not be so great as that of the surface
along which they glide ; for not only every motion requires
force to produce it, but also every change of motion. The ’
particles of air resist this change from a rectilineal to an un- . I 1
dulating motion ; and, being elastic, that is, repelling each
other and other bodies, they keep a little nearer to the sur¬
face as they are passing over an eminence, and their path is
less incurvated than the surface. The difference between
the motion of the particles of air and the particles of a fluid
quite unelastic is, in this respect, somewhat like the differ¬
ence between the motion of a spring-carriage and that of a
common carriage. When the common carriage passes along
a road not perfectly smooth, the line described by the cen¬
tre of gravity of the carriage keeps perfectly parallel to that
described by the axis of the wheels, rising and falling along
with it. Now" let a spring body be put on the same wheels
and pass along the same road. When the axis rises over an
eminence perhaps half an inch, sinks down again into the
next hollow", and then rises a second time, and so on, the
centre of gravity of the body describes a much straighter
line ; for upon the rising of the wheels, the body resists the
motion, and compresses the springs, and thus remains lower
than it w^ould have been had the springs not been inter¬
posed. In like manner, it does not sink so low as the axle
does when the wheels go into a hollow". And thus the mo¬
tion of spring-carriages becomes less violently undulated
than the road along which they pass. This illustration will,
w-e hope, enable the reader to conceive how- the deviation
of the particles next to the sides and bottom of the canal
from a rectilineal motion is less than that of the canal itself.
It is evident that the same reasoning will prove that the
undulation of the next row of particles will be less than that
of the first, that the undulation of the third row will be less
than that of the second, and so on,
as is represented in fig. 75. And Fig. 75.
thus it appears, that whilst the mass
of air has a progressive motion
along the pipe or canal, each par-
tide is describing a waving line, of which a line parallel to
the direction of the canal is the axis, cutting all these un¬
dulations. This axis of each undulated path will be straight
or curved as the canal is, and the excursions of the path on
each side of its axis vrill be less and less as the axis of the
path is nearer to the axis of the canal.
*T
PNEUMATICS.
Ill
on is a
al ob-
ruction.
Let us now see what sensible effect this will have ; for all
the motion which we here speak of is imperceptible. It is
demonstrated in mechanics, that if a body moving with any
velocity be deflected from its rectilineal path by a curved
and perfectly smooth channel, to which the rectilineal path
is a tangent, it will proceed along this channel with undi¬
minished velocity. Now the path, in the present case, may
be considered as perfectly smooth, since the particles do not
touch it It is one of the undulations which we are consi¬
dering, and we may at present conceive this as without any
subordinate inequalities. There should not, therefore, be
any diminution of the velocity. Let us grant this of the ab¬
solute velocity of the particle ; but what we observe is the
velocity of the mass, and we judge of it perhaps by the mo¬
tion of a feather carried along by it. Let us suppose a sin¬
gle atom to be a sensible object, and let us attend to two
such particles, one at the side, and the other in the middle:
although we cannot perceive the undulations of these parti¬
cles during their progressive motions, we see the progressive
motions themselves. Let us suppose, then, that the middle
particle has moved without any undulation whatever, and
that it has advanced ten feet. The lateral particle will also
have moved ten feet; but this has not been in a straight
line. It will not be so far advanced, therefore, in the direc¬
tion of the canal; it will be left behind, and will appear to
us to have been retarded in its motion; and in like manner
each thread of particles will apparently be more and more
retarded, as it recedes farther from the axis of the canal, or
what is usually called the thread of the stream.
'he undu- And thus the observed fact is shewn to be a necessary
tory m°- consequence of what we know to be the nature of a com¬
pressible or elastic fluid; and that without supposing any
diminution in the real velocity of each particle, there will
be a diminution of the velocity of the sensible threads of the
general stream, and a diminution of the whole quantity of
air which passes along it during a given time.
Let us now suppose a parcel of air impelled along a pipe,
which perfectly smooth, out of a larger vessel, and issuing
from this pipe with a certain velocity. It requires a certain
force to change its velocity in the vessel to the greater ve¬
locity which it has in the pipe. This is abundantly demon¬
strated. How long soever we suppose this pipe, there will
be no change in the velocity, or in the force to keep it up.
But let us suppose that about the middle of this pipe there
is a part of it which has suddenly got an undulated surface,
however imperceptible. Let us further suppose that the
final velocity of the middh^ thread is the same as before.
In this case it is evident that the sum total of the motions
of all the particles is greater than before, because the abso¬
lute motions of the lateral particles is greater than that of
the central particle, which we suppose the same as before.
This absolute increase of motion cannot be without an in¬
crease of propelling force: the force acting now, therefore,
must be greater than the force acting formerly. Therefore,
if only the former force had continued to act, the same mo¬
tion of the central particle could not have been preserved,
or the progressive motion of the whole stream must be di¬
minished. And thus we see that this internal insensible
undulatory motion becomes a real obstruction to the sen¬
sible motion which we observe, and occasions an expense
of power.
Let us see what will be the consequence of extending
)nal force this obstructing surface further along the canal. It must
■cessary evidently be accompanied by an augmentation of the mo-
rpreserv-tion produced, if the central velocity be still kept up ; for
^gressive t^ie Partieles which are now in contact with the sides do not
otion. continue to occupy that situation. The middle particles
moving faster forward get over them, and in their turn come
next the side ; and as they are really moving equally fast,
but not in the direction into which they are now to be forced,
force is necessary for changing the direction also ; and this
Air in
motion.
n addi-
is in addition to the force necessary for producing the un¬
dulations so minutely treated of. The consequence of this
must be, that an additional force will be necessary for pre-'
serving a given progressive motion in a longer obstructing
pipe, and that the motion produced in a pipe of greater length
by a given force will be less than in a shorter one, and the
efflux will be diminished.
There is another consideration which must have an in¬
fluence here. Nothing is more irrefragably demonstrated
than the necessity of an additional force for producing an
efflux through any contraction, even though it should be
succeeded by a dilatation of the passage. Now both the
inequalities of the sides and the undulations of the motions
of each particle are equivalent to a succession of contrac¬
tions and dilatations ; although each of these is next to in¬
finitely small; their number is also next to infinitely great,
and therefore the total effect may be sensible.
We have hitherto supposed that the absolute velocity of There are
the particles was not diminished; this we did, having as- other ob-
sumed that the interval of each undulation of the sides wasstruct‘°'fS’
without inequalities. But this was gratuitous; it was a^soasperities^
gratuitous that the sides were only undulated. We have
no reason for excluding angular asperities. These will pro¬
duce, and most certainly often produce, real diminutions in
the velocity of the contiguous particles; and this must ex¬
tend to the very axis of the canal, and produce a diminu¬
tion of the sum total of motion; and in order to preserve
the same sensible progressive motion, a greater force must
be employed. This is all that can be meant by saying that
there is a resistance to the motion of air through long pipes.
There' remains another cause of diminution, viz. the want
of perfect fluidity, whether arising from the dissemination
of solid particles in a real fluid, or from the viscidity of the
fluid. We shall not insist on this at present, because it
cannot be shown to obtain in air, at least in any case which
deserves consideration. It seems of no importance to de¬
termine the motion of air hurrying along with it soot or
dust. The effect of fogs on a particular modification of the
motion of air will be considered under another head. What
has been said on this subject is sufficient for our purpose, as
explaining the prodigious and unexpected obstruction to
the passage of air through long and narrow pipes. We are
able to collect an important maxim from it, viz. that all
pipes of communication should be made as wide as circum¬
stances will permit; for it is plain that the obstruction de¬
pends on the internal surface, and the force to overcome it
must be in proportion to the mass of matter which is in mo¬
tion. The first increases as the diameter of the pipe, and
the last as the square. The obstruction must therefore bear
a greater proportion to the whole motion in a small pipe
than in a large one.
It were very desirable to know the law by which the re- The law of
tardation extends from the axis to the sides of the canal, retardation
and the proportion which subsists between the lengths ofunknown-
the canal and the forces necessary for overcoming the ob¬
structions when the velocity is given ; as also whether the
proportion of the obstruction to the whole motion varies
with the velocity; but all this is unknown. It does not,
however, seem a desperate case in air ; we know pretty dis¬
tinctly the law of action among its particles, viz. that their
mutual repulsions are inversely as their distances. This
promises to enable us to trace the progress of undulation
from the sides of the canal to the axis.
We can see that the retardations will not increase so fast Jlie rate °f
as the square of the velocity. Were the fluid incompres-^"c^se no,:
sible, so that the undulatory path of a particle were invari- gf}uare
able, the deflecting forces by which each individual particle tl}ie Veloci-
is made to describe its undulating path would be precisely ties,
such as arise from the path itself and the motion in it; for
each particle would be in the situation of a body moving
along a fixed path. But in a very compressible fluid, such
112
PNEUMATICS.
Bossut’s
experi¬
ments on
pipes and
canals.
Wind.
as air, each particle may be considered as a solitary body,
actuated by a projectile and a transverse force, arising from
the action of the adjoining particles. Its motion must de¬
pend on the adjustment of these forces, in the same man¬
ner as the elliptical motion of a planet depends on the ad¬
justment of the force of projection, with a gravitation in¬
versely proportional to the square of the distance from the
focus. The transverse force in the present case has its ori¬
gin in the pressure on the air which is propelling it along
the pipe ; this, by squeezing the particles together, brings
their mutual repulsion into action. Now it is the property
of a perfect fluid, that a pressure exerted on any part of it
is propagated equally through the whole fluid; therefore
the transverse forces which are excited by this pressure are
proportional to the pressure itself; and we know that the
pressures exerted on the surface of a fluid, so as to expel
it through any orifice, or along any canal, are proportional
to the squares of the velocities which they produce. There¬
fore, in every point of the undulatory motion of any par¬
ticle, the transverse force by which it is deflected into a
curve is proportional to the square of its velocity. When
this is the case, a body would continue to describe the same
curve as before; but, by the very compression, the curva¬
tures are increased, supposing them to remain similar. This
would require an increase of the transverse forces ; but this
is not to be found; therefore the particle will not describe
a similar curve, but one which is less incurvated in all its
parts ; consequently the progressive velocity of the whole,
which is the only thing perceivable by us, will not be so
much diminished ; that is, the obstructions will not increase
so fast as they would otherwise do, or as the squares of the
velocities.
This reasoning is equally applicable to all fluids, and is
abundantly confirmed by experiments in hydraulics, as we
shall see when considering the motion of rivers. We have
taken this opportunity of delivering our notions on this sub¬
ject ; because, as wre have often said, it is in the avowed
discrete constitution of air that we see most distinctly the
operation of those natural powers which constitute fluidity
in general.
We wrould beg leave to mention a form of experiment
for discovering the law of retardation with considerable ac¬
curacy. Experiments have been made on pipes and canals.
M. Bossut, in his Hydrodynatnique, has given a very beauti¬
ful set made on pipes of an inch and two inches in diameter,
and 200 feet in length ; but although these experiments are
very instructive, they do not give us any rule by which we
can extend the result to pipes of greater length and differ¬
ent diameters.
Let a smooth cylinder be set upright in a very large ves¬
sel or pond, and be moveable round its axis ; let it be turn¬
ed round by means of a wheel and pulley with an uniform
motion and determined velocity. It will exert the same
force on the contiguous wTater which would be exerted on it
by water turning round it with the same velocity ; and as
this water would have its motion gradually retarded by the
fixed cylinder, so the moving cylinder will gradually com¬
municate motion to the surrounding water. We should ob¬
serve the water gradually dragged round by it; and the
vortex would extend farther and farther from it as the mo¬
tion is continued, and the velocities of the parts of the vor¬
tex will be less and less as we recede from the axis. Now,
we apprehend, that when a point of the surface of the cy¬
linder has moved 200 feet, the motion of the water at dif¬
ferent distances from it will be similar and proportional to,
if not precisely the same with, retardations of water flow¬
ing 200 feet at the same distance from the side of a canal;
at any rate, the two are susceptible of an accurate compari¬
son, and the law of retardation may be accurately deduced
from observations made on the motions of this vortex.
Air in motion is a very familiar object of observation ; and
it is interesting. In all languages it has got a name; we Velocity cj
call it wind; and it is only upon reflection that we consider win(f
air as wind in a quiescent state. Many persons hardly know ■ y'^’
what is meant when air is mentioned; but they cannot re¬
fuse that the blast from a bellows is the expulsion of what
they contained ; and thus they learn that wind is air in mo¬
tion.
It is of consequence to know the velocity of wind; but The velo-
no good and unexceptionable method has been contrived for c'ty of wind
this purpose. The best seems to be by measuring the space
passed over by the shadow of a cloud ; but this is extremely
fallacious. In the first place, it is certain, that although we
suppose that the cloud has the velocity of the air in which
it is carried along, this is not an exact measure of the cur¬
rent on the surface of the earth ; we may be almost certain
that it is greater; for air, like all other fluids, is retarded by
the sides and bottom of the channel in which it moves. But,
in the next place, it is very gratuitous to suppose, that the
velocity of the cloud is the velocity of the stratum of air
between the cloud and the earth ; we are almost certain that
it is not. It is abundantly proved by Dr. Hutton of Edin¬
burgh, that clouds are always formed wdien two parcels of
air of different temperatures mix together, each containing
a proper quantity of vapour in the state of chemical solu¬
tion. We know that different strata of air will frequently
flow in different directions for a long time. In 1781, whilst
a great fleet rendezvoused in Leith Roads during the Dutch
war, there was a brisk easterly wind for about five weeks ;
and, during the last fortnight of this period, there was a brisk
westerly current at the height of about three-fourths of a
mile. This was distinctly indicated by frequent fleecy clouds
at a great distance above a lower stratum of these clouds,
which wrere driving all this time from the eastward. A gen¬
tleman who was present at the siege of Quebec in 1759, stat¬
ed that one day whilst there blew a gale from the west, so
hard that the ships at anchor in the river were obliged to
strike their topmasts, and it was with the utmost difficulty
that some wTell-manned boats could row against it, carrying
some artillery stores to a post above the town, several shells
w'ere thrown from the town to destroy the boats; one of the
shells burst in the air near the top of its flight, which was
about half a mile high. The smoke of this bomb remained
in the same spot for above a qaarter of an hour, like a great
round ball, and gradually dissipated by diffusion, w ithout re¬
moving many yards from its place. When, therefore, two
strata of air come from different quarters, and one of them
flows over the other, it will be only in the contiguous sur¬
faces that a precipitation of vapour wall be made. This will
form a thin fleecy cloud; and it will have a velocity and di¬
rection which neither belongs to the upper nor to the lower
stratum of air which produced it. Should one of these strata
come from the east and the other from the west with equal
velocities, the cloud formed between them will have no mo¬
tion at all; should one come from the east, and the other
from the north, the cloud will move from the north-east with
a greater velocity than either of the strata. So uncertain
then is the information given by the clouds either of the
velocity or the direction of the wind. A thick smoke from
a furnace will give us a much less equivocal measure ; and
this, combined with the effects of the wind in impelling bo¬
dies, or deflecting a loaded plane from the perpendicular, or
other effects of this kind, may give us measures of the dif¬
ferent currents of wind with a precision sufficient for all
practical uses.
The celebrated engineer, Mr. John Smeaton, has given, The result
in the 51st volume of the Philosophical Transactions, the of Smea-
velocities of wind corresponding to the usual denominationston s 0^
in our language. These are founded on a great number 0fS€rvatlons'
observations made by himself in the course of his practice
in erecting wind-mills. They are contained in the follow¬
ing table:—
PNEUMATICS.
11:
Miles
per hour.
1
2
3
4
5
10
15
20
25
30
35
40
45
50
60
80
100
Names.
Light airs.
Breeze.
Brisk gale.
Fresh gale.
Strong gale.
Hard gale.
Storm.
J Hurricane, tearing up trees,
^ overturning buildings, &C.1
Fig. 76.
relocity of Miles Feet
wind. per hour. per second.
1*47
2*93 )
4- 40 f
5- 87 )
7-33 f
14-67 \
22- J
29-34 j
36-57 /
44-01 |
51-34/
58-68 ^
66-01 J
73-35 /
88-02 /
117-36
146-70
ccount of One of the most ingenious and convenient methods for
r. Lind’s measuring the velocity of the wind is to employ its pressure
lemome- in supporting a column of water, in the same way as Mr.
r- Pitot measures the velocity of a current of water. We be¬
lieve that it was first proposed by Dr. James Lind of Wind¬
sor, a gentleman eminent for his great knowledge in all the
branches of natural science, and for his ingenuity in every
matter of experiment or practical application.
His anemometer consists of a glass tube of
the form ABCD (fig. 76), open at both ends,
and having the branch AB at right angles
to the branch CD. This tube contains a few
inches of water or any fluid (the lighter the
better) ; it is held with the part CD upright,
and AB horizontal and in the direction of the
wind ; that is, with the mouth A fronting the
wind. The wind acts in the way of pressure J?'
on the air in AB, compresses it, and causes it
to press on the surface of the liquor ; forcing J
it down to F, whilst it rises to E in the other
leg. The velocity of the wind is concluded from
the difference Ef between the heights of the liquor in the
legs. As the wind does not generally blow with uniform
velocity, the liquor is apt to dance in the tube, and render
the observation difficult and uncertain; to remedy this, it is
proper to contract very much the communication at C be¬
tween the two legs. If the tube has half an inch of diameter,
and it should not have less, a hole of l-50th of an inch is
large enough ; indeed the hole can hardly be too small, nor
the tubes too large.
This instrument is extremely ingenious, and will undoubt¬
edly give the proportions of the velocities of different cur¬
rents with the greatest precision; for in whatever way the
pressure of wind is produced by its motion, we are certain
that the different pressures are as the squares of the veloci¬
ties ; if, therefore, we can obtain one certain measure of the
velocity of the wind, and observe the degree to which the
pressure produced by it raises the liquor, we can at all other
times observe the pressures and compute the velocities from
them, making proper allowances for the temperature and the
height of the mercury in the barometer; because the velo¬
city will be in the subduplicate ratio of the density of the
air inversely when the pressure is the same.
It is usually concluded, that the velocity of the wind is
that which would be acquired by falling from a height which
is to E/as the weight of water is to that of an equal bulk
of air. Thus, supposing air to be 840 times lighter than
water, and that E/‘is 9-10ths of an inch, the velocity will
be about 63 feet per second, which is that of a very hard
gale, approaching to a storm. Hence we see by the bye,
that the scale of this instrument is extremely short, and that Velocity of
it would be a great improvement of it to make the leg CD wind,
not perpendicular, but very much sloping ; or perhaps the ’
following form of the instrument will give it all the perfec¬
tion of which it is capable. Let
the horizontal branch AB (fig. Fig. 77.
77) be contracted at B, and con¬
tinued horizontally for several
inches BG of a much smaller
bore, and then turned down
for two or three inches GC, e
and then upwards with a wide
bore. To use the instrument, /
hold it with the part DC per¬
pendicular ; and (having shel¬
tered the mouth A from the
wind) pour in water at D till it
advances along GB to the point B, which is made the be¬
ginning of the scale ; the water in the upright branch stand¬
ing at F in the same horizontal line with BG. Now, turn
the mouth A to the wind ; the air in AB will be compress¬
ed and will force the water along BG to F, and cause it to
rise from/to E ; and the range/E will be to the range BF
on the scale as the section of the tube BG to that of CD.
Thus, if the width of DC be half an inch, and that of BG
l-10th, we shall have 25 inches in the scale for one inch of
real pressure E /
But it has not been demonstrated in a very satisfactory
manner, that the velocity of the wind is that acquired by
falling through the height of a column of air whose weight
is equal to that of the column of water E/ Experiments
made with Pitot’s tube in currents of water show that seve¬
ral corrections are necessary for conducting the velocity of
the current from the elevations in the tube : these correc¬
tions may however be made, and safely applied to the pre¬
sent case; and then the instrument will enable us to con¬
clude the velocity of the wind immediately, without any
fundamental comparison of the elevation, with a velocity ac¬
tually determined upon other principles. The chief use
which we have for this information is in our employment of
wind as an impelling power, by which we can actuate ma¬
chinery or navigate ships. These are very important appli¬
cations of pneumatical doctrines, and merit a particular con¬
sideration ; and this naturally brings us to the last part of
our subject, viz. the consideration of the impulse of air on
bodies exposed to its action, and the resistance which it op¬
poses to the passage of bodies through it.
This is a subject of the greatest importance, being the This sub¬
foundation of that art which has done the greatest honourject impor-
to the ingenuity of man, and the greatest service to humantant t,ut
society, by connecting together the most distant inhabitants
of this globe, and making a communication of benefits which
would otherwise have been impossible ; we mean the art of
Navigation or Seamanship. Of all the machines which hu¬
man art has constructed, a ship is not only the greatest and
most magnificent, but also the most ingenious and intricate ;
and the clever seaman possesses a knowledge founded on
the most difficult and abstruse doctrines of mechanics. The
seaman probably cannot give any account of his own sci¬
ence ; and he possesses it rather by a kind of intuition than
by any process of reasoning ; but the success and efficiency
of all the mechanism of this complicated engine, and the
propriety of all the manoeuvres which the seaman practises,
depend on the invariable laws of mechanics ; and a thorough
knowledge of these would enable an intelligent person not
only to understand the machine and the manner of working
it, but to improve both.
Unfortunately this is a subject of very great difficulty; and
although it has employed the genius of Newton, who has con-
1 See also some valuable experiments by him on this subject, Philosophical Transactions, 1760 and 1761.
VOL. XVIII.
114
PNEUMATICS.
Velocity of sidered it with great care, and his followers have added more
wind, [q ])is labours on this subject than on any other, it still remains
in a very imperfect state. A minute discussion of this subject
cannot therefore be expected in a work like this ; we must
content ourselves with such a general statement of the most
approved doctrine on the subject as shall enable our readers
to conceive it distinctly, and judge with intelligence and con¬
fidence of the practical deductions which may be made from it.
Suppose then a plane sur¬
face, of which aC (fig. 78), is Fig. 78.
the section, exposed to the ac¬
tion of a stream of wind blow¬
ing in the direction Q,C, per¬
pendicular to aC. The motion
of the wind will be obstructed,
and the surface aC pressed for¬
ward. And as all impulse or
pressure is exerted in a direc¬
tion perpendicular to the sur¬
face, and is resisted in the opposite direction, the surface
will be impelled in the direction CD, the continuation of
QC. And as the mutual actions of bodies depend on their
relative motions, the force acting on the surface aC will be
the same, if we shall suppose the air at rest, and the surface
moving equally swift in the opposite direction. Ihe resis¬
tance of the air to the motion of the body will be equal to
the impulse of the air in the former case. Thus resistance
and impulse are equal and contrary.
Air moving If the air be moving twice as fast, its particles will give a
with a dou- double impulse ; but in this case a double number of parti¬
ble velocity cies win exert their impulse in the same time. The impulse
generally therefore be fourfold, and in general it will be as the
the''square scluare °- velocity ; or if the air and body be both in
of that ve- motion, the impulse and resistance will be proportional to
locity. the square of the relative velocity. This is the first propo¬
sition on the subject, and it appears very consistent to rea¬
son. There will therefore be some analogy between the
force of the air’s impulse or the resistance of a body, and
the weight of a column of air incumbent on the surface ;
for it is a principle in the action of fluids, that the heights
of the columns of fluid are as the squares of the velocities
which their pressures produce. Accordingly, the second
proposition is, that the absolute impulse of a stream of air,
blowing perpendicularly on any surface, is equal to the
weight of a column of air which has that surface for its base,
and for its height the space through which a body must fall in
order to acquire the velocity of the air.
Thirdly, Suppose the surface AC equal to aC no longer
to be perpendicular to the stream of air, but inclined to it
in the angle A CD, which we shall call the angle of inci¬
dence ; then, by the resolution of forces, it follows, that the
action of each particle is diminished in the proportion of ra¬
dius to the sine of the angle of incidence, or of AC to AL,
AL being perpendicular to CD.
Again: Draw AK parallel to CD. It is plain that no
air lying farther from CD than KA is will strike the plane.
The quantity of impulse therefore is diminished still farther
in the proportion of aC to KC, or of AC to AL. There¬
fore, on the whole, the absolute impulse is diminished in
the proportion of AC2 to AL2 : hence the proposition, that
the impulse and resistance of a given surface are in the pro¬
portion of the square of the sine of the angle of incidence.
Fourthly, This impulse is in the direction PL, perpendi¬
cular to the impelled surface, and the surface tends to move
in this direction : but suppose it moveable only in some other
direction PO that we wish to employ this impulse, its action
is therefore oblique ; and if we wish to know the intensity
of the impulse in this direction, it must be diminished still
farther in the proportion of radius to the cosine of the angle
LPO or sine of CPO. Hence the general proposition : The
effective impulse is as the surface, as the square of the velo¬
city of the wind, as the square of the sine of the angle o/Velocity (i
incidence, and as the sine of the obliquity jointly, which we wai(i-
may express by the symbol R=S- V2' sin?’ I* sin. O ; and's^^V^*
as the impulse depends on the density of the impelling fluid,
we may take in every circumstance by the equation R=S‘
D-V2- sin?’ !• sin. O. If the impulse be estimated in the
direction of the stream, the angle of obliquity ACD is the
same with the angle of incidence, and the impulse in this
direction is as the surface, as the square of the velocity, and
as the cube of the angle of incidence jointly.
It evidently follows from these premises, that if AC A' be
a wedge, of which the base AA7 is perpendicular to the
wind, and the angle ACA' bisected by its direction, the
direct or perpendicular impulse on the base is to the oblique
impulse on the sides as radius to the square of the sine of
half the angle ACA'.
The same must be affirmed of a pyramid or cone AC A',
of which the axis is in the direction of the wind.
If ACA' (fig. 79,) represent the section of a solid, pro¬
duced by the revolution of a curve line
APC round the axis CD, which lies in the
direction of the wind, the impulse on this
body may be compared with the direct im¬
pulse on this base, or the resistance to the
motion of this body through the air may
be compared with the direct resistance of
its base, by resolving its surface into ele¬
mentary planes Pp, which are coincident
with a tangent plane PR, and comparing
the impulse on P p with the direct impulse
on the corresponding part K A of the base.
In this way it follows that the impulse on a sphere is one
half of the impulse on its great circle, or on the base of a
cylinder of equal diameter.
We shall conclude this sketch of the doctrine with a very
important proposition to determine the most advantageous
position of a plane surface, when required to move in one
direction while it is impelled by the wind blowing in a dif¬
ferent direction. Thus,
Let AB (fig. 80) be the sail of a ship, CA the direction Inference
from this
doctrine.
Fig. 80.
in which the wind blows,
and AD the line of the
ship’s course. It is requir¬
ed to place the yard AC
in such a position that the
impulse of the wind upon
the sail may have the
greatest effect possible in
impelling the ship along AD.
Let AB, Ab, be two positions of the sail very near the
best position, but on opposite sides of it. Draw BE, b e,
perpendicular to CA, and BF, b f perpendicular to AD,
calling AB radius ; it is evident that BE, BF, are the sines
of impulse and obliquity, and that the effective impulse is
BE2 x BF, or e2 X & f This must be a maximum.
Let the points B, b, continually approach and ultimately
coincide; the chord b B will ultimately coincide with a
straight line CBD touching the circle in B ; the triangles
CBE, c b e are similar, as also the triangles DBF, T) b f:
therefore BE2: b e2=BC2: b c2, and BF: b f—BD : b t>;
and BE2 x BF : 6 e2 X 6 /= CB2 x BD : c 62 x 6D. There¬
fore when AB is in the best position, so that BE2 X BF is
greater than b e2 x b f we shall have CB x BD greater than
Cb2 X &D, or cB2 x BD is also a maximum. This we know
to be the case when CB—2BD : therefore the sail must be
so placed that the tangent of the angle of incidence shall
be double of the tangent of the angle of the sail and keel.
In a common windmill the angle CAD is necessarily a
right angle ; for the sail moves in a circle to which the wind
is perpendicular: therefore the best angle of the sail and
axle will be 54° 44' nearly.
7
PNEUMATICS.
115
I Velocity of Such is the theory of the resistance and impulse of the
vvh1<h air. It is extremely simple and of easy application. In all
physical theories there are assumptions which depend on
other principles, and those on the judgment of the natur¬
alist ; so that it is always proper to confront the theory with
experiment. There are even circumstances in the present
case which have not been attended to in the theory. When
a stream of air is obstructed by a solid body, or when a
solid body moves along in air, the air is condensed before it
and rarefied behind. There is therefore a pressure on the
anterior parts arising from this want of equilibrium in the
elasticity of the air. This must be superadded to the force
arising from the impetus or inertia of the air. We cannot
tell with precision what may be the amount of this conden¬
sation ; it depends on the velocity with which any conden¬
sation diffuses itself. Also, if the motion be so rapid that
the pressure of the atmosphere cannot make the air im¬
mediately occupy the place quitted by the body, it will sus¬
tain this pressure on its fore part to be added to the other
forces.
The prin- Experiments on this subjects are by no means numerous ;
pal expe- a|. ]easf sucp, experiments as can be dependend on for the
iiTsiibject foundation of any practical application. The first that have
this character are those published by Mr. Robins in 1742,
in his Treatise on Gunnery. They were repeated with some
additions by the Chevalier Borda, and some account of them
published in the Memoirs of the Academy of Sciences in
1763. In the Philosophical Transactions of the Royal
Society of London, vol. Ixxiii., there are some experi¬
ments of the same kind on a larger scale by Mr. Edge-
worth. These were all made in the way described in our
account of Mr. Robins’s improvements in gunnery. Bo¬
dies were made to move with determined velocities, and
the resistances were measured by weights. In all these ex¬
periments the resistances were found very exactly in the
proportion of the squares of the velocities; but they w'ere
found considerably greater than the weight of the column
of air, whose height would produce the velocity in a fall¬
ing body. Mr. Robins’s experiments on a square of 16
inches, describing 25.2 feet per second, indicate the resis¬
tance to be to this weight nearly as 4 to 3. Borda’s ex¬
periments on the same surface state the disproportion still
greater.
The resistances are found not to be in the proportion of
the surfaces, but increase considerably faster. Surfaces of
9, 16, 36, and 81 inches, moving with one velocity, had re¬
sistances in the proportion of 9> 17-j, 42£, and 104|.
Now as this deviation from the proportion of the surfaces
increases with great regularity, it is most probable that it
continues to increase in surfaces of still greater extent; and
these are the most generally to be met with in practice in
the action of wind on ships and mills.
Borda’s experiments on 81 inches show that the impulse
of wind moving one foot per second is about of a pound
on a square foot. Therefore to find the impulse on a foot
corresponding to any velocity, divide the square of the ve¬
locity by 500, and we obtain the impulse in pounds. Mr.
Rouse of Leicestershire made many experiments, which are
mentioned with great approbation by Mr. Smeaton. His
great sagacity and experience in the erection of windmills,
oblige us to pay a considerable deference to his judgment.
These experiments confirm our opinion, that the impulses
increase faster than the surfaces. The following table was
calculated from Mr. Rouse’s observations, and may be con¬
sidered as pretty near the truth :
Velocity
in feet.
0
10
20
Impulse on a
foot in pounds.
0,000
0,229
0,915
Velocity
in feet.
30
40
50
Impulse on a
foot in pounds.
2,059
3,660
5,718
Velocity
in feet.
60
70
80
90
100
Impulse on a
foot in pounds.
8,234
11,207
14,638
18,526
22,872
Velocity
in feet.
110
120
130
140
150
Impulse on a
foot in pounds
27,675
32,926
38,654
44,830
51,462
Velocity of
wind.
If we multiply the square of the velocity in feet by 16,
the product will be the impidse or resistance on a square
foot in grains, according to Mr. Rouse’s numbers.
The greatest deviation from the theory occurs in the
oblique impulses. Mr. Robins compared the resistance of
a wedge, whose angle was 90°, with the resistance of its
base ; and instead of finding it less in the proportion of
to 1, as determined by the theory, he found it greater
in the proportion of 55 to 68 nearly ; and when he formed
the body into a pyramid, of which the sides had the same
surface and the same inclination as the sides of the wedge,
the resistance of the base and face were now as 55 to 39
nearly ; so that here the same surface with the same incli¬
nation had its resistance reduced from 68 to 39 by being
put into this form. Similar deviations occur in the experi¬
ments of the Chevalier Borda; and it may be collected from
both, that the resistances diminish more nearly in the pro¬
portion of the sines of incidence than in the proportion of
the squares of those sines.
The irregularity in the resistance of curved surfaces is as
great as in plane surfaces. In general, the theory gives the
oblique impulses on plane surfaces much too small, and the
impulses on curved surfaces too great. The resistance of a
sphere does not exceed the fourth part of the resistance of
its great circle, instead of being its half; but the anomaly
is such as to leave hardly any room for calculation. It
would be very desirable to have the experiments on this
subject repeated in a greater variety of cases, and on larger
surfaces, so that the errors of the experiments may be of
less consequence. Till this matter is reduced to some rule,
the art of working ships must remain very imperfect, as
must also the construction of windmills.
The case in which we are most interested in the know- resjs_
ledge of the resistance of the air is the motion of bullets tance 0f a{r
and shells. Writers on artillery have long been sensible in the mo-
of the great effect of the air’s resistance. It seems to have tion of pro-
been this consideration that chiefly engaged Sir Isaac New-jecthes'
ton to consider the motion of bodies in a resisting medium.
A proposistion or two would have sufficed for showing the
incompatibility of the planetary motions with the supposi¬
tion that the celestial spaces were filled with a fluid mat¬
ter ; but he has with great solicitude considered the motion
of a body projected on the surface of the earth, and its de¬
viation from the parabolic track assigned by Galileo. He
has bestowed more pains on this problem than any other in
his whole work; and his investigation has pointed out al¬
most all the improvements which have been made in the
application of mathematical knowledge to the study of na¬
ture. Nowhere does his sagacity and fertility of resource
appear in so strong a light as in the second book of the
Principia, which is almost wholly occupied by this problem.
The celebrated mathematician John Bernoulli engaged in
it as the finest opportunity of displaying his superiority. A
mistake committed by Newton in his attempt to a solution
was matter of triumph to him ; and the whole of his per¬
formance, though a piece of elegant and elaborate geometry,
is greatly hurt by his continually bringing this mistake, which
is a mere trifle, into view. The difficulty of the subject is
so great, that subsequent mathematicians seem to have kept
aloof from it; and it has been entirely overlooked by the
many voluminous writers who have treated professedly on
military projectiles. They have spoken indeed of the re¬
sistance of the air as affecting the flight of shot, but have
116
PNEUMATICS.
Resistance
of air in
gunnery.
Ignorance
in this re¬
spect of
writers on
artillery.
Mr. Ro¬
bins’s expe¬
riments on
this subject
saved themselves from the task of investigating this effect
(a task to which they were unequal), by supposing that it
was not so great as to render their theories and practical
deductions very erroneous. Mr. Robins was the first who
seriously examined the subject. He showed, that even the
Newtonian theory, which had been corrected, but not in
the smallest degree improved or extended in its principles,
was sufficient to show that the path of a cannon ball could
not resemble a parabola. Even this theory showed that
the resistance was more than eight times the weight of the
ball, and should produce a greater deviation from the para¬
bola than the parabola deviated from a straight line.
This simple but singular observation was a strong proof
how faulty the professed writers on artillery had been, in
rather amusing themselves with elegant but useless appli¬
cations of easy geometry, than in endeavouring to give
their readers any useful information. He added, that the
difference between the ranges by the Newtonian theory and
by experiment was so great, that the resistance of the air
must be vastly superior to what that theory supposed. It
was this which suggested to him the necessity of experi¬
ments to ascertain this point. We have seen the result of
these experiments in moderate velocities; and that they
were sufficient for calling the whole theory in question, or
at least for rendering it useless. It became necessary there¬
fore to settle every point by means of a direct experiment.
Here was a great difficulty. How shall we measure either
these great velocities which are observed in the motions of
cannon-shot, or the resistances which these enormous ve¬
locities occasion ? Mr. Robins had the ingenuity to do
both. The method which he took for measuring the velo¬
city of a musket-ball was quite original; and it was sus¬
ceptible of great accuracy. We have already given an ac¬
count of it under the article Gunnery. Having gained
this point, the other was not difficult. In the moderate
velocities he had determined the resistances by the forces
which balanced them, the weights which kept the resisted
body in a state of uniform motion. In the great velocities,
he proposed to determine the resistances by their immedi¬
ate effects, by the retardations which they occasioned. This
was to be done by first ascertaining the velocity of the ball,
and then measuring its velocity after it had passed through
a certain quantity of air. The difference of these veloci¬
ties is the retardation, and the proper measure of the resist¬
ance ; for, by the initial and final velocities of the ball, we
learn the time which was employed in passing through this
air with the medium velocity. In this time the air’s resis¬
tance diminished the velocity by a certain quantity. Com¬
pare this with the velocity which a body projected directly
upwards would lose in the same time by the resistance of
gravity. The two forces must be in the proportion of their
effects. Thus we learn the proportion of the resistance of
the air to the weight of the ball. It is indeed true, that
the time of passing through this space is not accurately had
by taking the arithmetical medium of the initial and final
velocities, nor does the resistance deduced from this calcu¬
lation accurately correspond to this mean velocity; but both
may be accurately found by the experiment by a very trou¬
blesome computation, as is shown in the fitlh and sixth pro¬
positions of the second book of Newton’s Principia. The
difference between the quantities thus found and those
deduced from the simple process is quite trifling, and far
within the limits of accuracy attainable in experiments of
this kind ; it may therefore be safely neglected.
Mr. Robins made many experiments on this subject; but
unfortunately he has published only a very few, such as
were sufficient for ascertaining the point he had in view.
He intended a regular work on the subject, in which the
gradual variations of resistance corresponding to different
velocities should all be determined by experiment; but he
was then newly engaged in an important and laborious em¬
ployment, as chief engineer to the East India Company, in Resistancn
whose service he went out to India, where he died in less a'r in
than two years. It is to be regretted that no person has £unnery-
prosecuted these experiments. It would be neither labori- v'-SPV^>k
ous nor difficult, and would add more to the improvement
of artillery than any thing that has been done since Mr.
Robins’s death, if we except the prosecution of his experi¬
ments on the initial velocities of cannon-shot by Dr. Charles
Hutton, royal professor at the Woolwich Academy. It is to
be hoped that this gentleman, after having with such effect
and success extended Mr. Robins’s experiments on the ini¬
tial velocities of musket-shot to cannon, will take up this
other subject, and thus give the art of artillery all the sci¬
entific foundation which it can receive in the present state
of our mathematical knowledge. Till then we must con¬
tent ourselves with the practical rules which Robins has
deduced from his own experiments. As he has not given
us the mode of deduction, we must compare the results
with experiment. He has indeed given a very extensive
comparison with the numerous experiments made both in
Britain and on the continent; and the agreement is very
great. His learned commentator Euler has been at no
pains to investigate these rules, and has employed himself
chiefly in detecting errors, most of which are supposed, be¬
cause he takes for a finished work what Mr. Robins only
gives to the public as a hasty but useful sketch of a new
and very difficult branch of science.
The general result of Robins’s experiments on the retar- General
dation of musket shot is, that although in moderate veloci- results,
ties the resistance is so nearly in the duplicate proportion
of the velocities that we cannot observe any deviation, yet
in velocities exceeding 200 feet per second the retardations
increase faster, and the deviation from this rate increases
rapidly with the velocity. He ascribes this to the causes
already mentioned, viz. the condensation of the air before
the ball and to the rarefaction behind, in consequence of
the air not immediately occupying the space left by the
bullet. This increase is so great, that if the resistance to
a ball moving with the velocity of 700 feet in a second be
computed on the supposition that the resistance observed
in moderate velocities is increased in the duplicate ratio of
the velocity, it will be found hardly one-third part of its
real quantity. He found, for instance, that a ball moving
through 1670 feet in a second lost about 125 feet per se¬
cond of its velocity in passing through 50 feet of air. This
it must have done in the ^ of a second, in which time it
w-ould have lost one foot if projected directly upwards; from
winch it appears that the resistance was about 125 times
its weight, and more than three times greater than if it had
increased from the resistance in small velocities in the du¬
plicate ratio of the velocities. He relates other experiments
which show similar results. See Gunnery.
The first mathematicians of Europe have employed them- f]is.
selves in improving the theory of the motion of bodies in acussions of
resisting medium ; but their discussions are such as fewar-mathema-
tillerists can understand. The problem can only be solved ticians not
by approximation, and this by the quadrature of very com- eas‘'y aP*
plicated curves. They have not been able therefore to de- ^ le
duce from them any practical rules of easy application, and
have been obliged to compute tables suited to different cases.
Of these performances, that of the Chevalier Borda, in the
Memoirs of the Academy of Sciences for 1769, seems the
best adapted to military readers, and the tables are undoubt¬
edly of considerable use ; but it is not too much to say, that
the simple rules of Mr. Robins are of as much service, and
are more easily remembered; besides, it must be observed,
that the nature of military service does not give room for
the application of any very precise rule. The only advan¬
tage that we can derive from a perfect theory would be an
improvement in the construction of pieces of ordnance, and
a more judicious appropriation of certain velocities to cer-
PNEUMATICS.
nr
Indication tain purposes. The service of a gun or mortar must always
of air. be regulated by the eye.
There is another motion of which air and other elastic
Indication £[uic|s are SUSCeptible, viz. an internal vibration of their par-
of air- tides, or undulation, by which any extended portion of air
is distributed into alternate parcels of condensed and rare¬
fied air, which are continually changing their condition
without changing their places. By this change the con¬
densation which is produced in one part of the air is gradu¬
ally transferred along the mass of air to the greatest distan¬
ces in all directions. It is of importance to have some dis¬
tinct conception of this motion. It is found to be by t is
means that distant bodies produce in us the sensation ot
sound. Sir Isaac Newton treated this subject with his ac¬
customed ingenuity, and has given us a theory of it in the
end of the second book of his Principia. This theory has
been objected to with respect to the conduct of the argu¬
ment, and other explanations have been given by the most
eminent mathematicians. Though they appear to ditter
from Newton s, their results are precisely the same ; but,
on a close examination, they differ no more than John Ber¬
noulli’s theorem of centripetal forces difters from Newton s,
viz. the one being expressed by geometry and the other by
literal analysis. The celebrated Lagrange reduces New¬
ton’s investigation to a tautological proposition or identical
equation; but Mr. Young of Trinity College, Dublin, has,
by a different turn of expression, freed Newtons method
from this objection.
This has But since Newton published this theory of aerial undula-
>een used tions, and of their propagation along the air, and since the
0 explain tbeorY iias been so corrected and improved as to be receiv-
1 varie,ty ofed by the most accurate philosophers as a branch of natu-
iheriomena. ral philosophy susceptible of rigid demonstration, it has been
freely resorted to by many writers on other parts of natural
science, who did not profess to be mathematicians, but made
use of it for explaining phenomena in their own line on the
authority of the mathematicians themselves. Learning from
them that this vibration, and the quaquaversum propagation
of the pulses, were the necessary properties of an elastic
fluid, and that the rapidity of this propagation had a certain
assignable proportion to the elasticity and density of ttie
fluid, they freely made use of these concessions, and have
introduced elastic vibrating fluids into many facts, where
others would suspect no such thing, and have attempted to
explain by their means many abstruse phenomena of na¬
ture. iEthers are everywhere introduced, endued with
great elasticity and tenuity. Vibrations and pulses are sup¬
posed in this aether, and these are offered as explanations.
The doctrines of animal spirits and nervous fluids, and the
whole mechanical system of Hartley, by which the opera¬
tions of the soul are said to be explained, have their foun¬
dation in this theory of aerial undulations. If these fancied
fluids, and their internal vibrations, really operate in the
phenomena ascribed to them, any explanation that can be
given of the phenomena from this principle must be nothing
else then showing that the legitimate consequences of these
undulations are similar to the phenomena ; or, if we are no
more able to see this last step than in the case of sound,
(which we know to be one consequence of the aerial un u-
lations, although we cannot tell how), we must be aole to
point out, as in the case of sound, certain constant relations
between the general laws of these undulations and the ge¬
neral laws of the phenomena. It is only in this w ay that we
think ourselves entitled to say that the aerial undulations
are causes, though not the only causes, of sound ; and it is
because there is no such relation, but, on the contrary, a
total dissimilarity, to be observed between the laws of elas¬
tic undulations and the laws of the propagation of light, thar
we assert with confidence that ethereal undulations are not
the causes of vision. .
Explanations of this kind suppose, therefore, m the first
place, that the philosopher who proposes them understands Undulation
precisely the nature of these undulations £ in the next place,
that he makes his reader sensible of those circumstances of
them which are concerned in the effect to be explained ;
and, in the third place, that he makes the reader understand
how this circumstance of the vibrating fluid is connected
with the phenomenon, either by showing it to be its me¬
chanical cause, as when the philosopher explains the re¬
sounding of a musical chord to a flute or pipe which gave
the same tone ; or by showing that this circumstance ot the
undulation always accompanies the phenomenon, as when
the philosopher shows that 233 vibrations of air in a second,
in whatever manner or by whatever cause they are produced,
alw ays are followed by the sensation of the tone C in the
middle of the harpsichord.
We propose now to give some account of the motion c. Howelas-
elastic fluids ; and the first thing incumbent on us is to show
how these fluids differ from the unelastic in the propagation lastic fluid^
of any agitation of their parts. When a long tube is filled
with water, and any one part of it pushed out of its place,
the whole is instantly moved like a solid mass. But this
is not the case with air. If a door be suddenly shut, the
window at the farther end of a long and close room will rat¬
tle ; but some time w ill elapse between the shutting of the
door and the motion of the window. If some light dust be
lying on a braced drum, and another be violently beat at a
little distance from it, an attentive observer will see the dust
dance up from the parchment; but this will be at the in¬
stant he hears the sound of the stroke on the other drum,
and a sensible time after the stroke. Many such familiar
facts show that the agitation is gradually communicated
along the air; and therefore that when one particle is agi¬
tated by any sensible motion, a finite time, however small,
must elapse before the adjoining particle is agitated in the
same manner. This would not be the case in water if wa¬
ter be perfectly incompressible. We think that this may
be made intelligible with very little trouble.
Aa B6 C D
Let A, B, C, D, &c- be a row of aerial particles, at such
distances that their elasticity just balances the pressure
of the atmosphere; and let us suppose (as is deducible
from the observed density of air being proportional to
the compressing force) that the elasticity of the particles, by
which they keep each other at a distance, is as their dis¬
tances inversely. Let us farther suppose that the particle
A has been carried, with an uniform motion, to a by some
external force. It is evident that B cannot remain in its
present state ; for being now nearer to a than to C, it is
propelled towards C by the excess of the elasticity of A
above the natural elasticity of C. Let E be the natural elasti¬
city of the particles, or the force corresponding to the distance
BC or BA, and let F be the force which impels B towards C,
and let/be the force exerted by A when at «. We have
E :/=B« : BC=Ba, BA ;
and E : /—E=rBa : BA—Ba=Ba : Aa ;
or E : F=Ba : Aa.
Now', in fig. 81, let ABC be the
line joining three particles, to which
draw FG, PH parallel, and IAF,
HBG perpendicular. Take IF or
HG to represent the elasticity cor¬
responding to the distance AB. Let
the particle A be supposed to have
been carried with an uniform mo¬
tion to a by some external force,
and draw RaM perpendicular to
RG; and make FI: RM=Bc!: BA.
We shall then have FI : PM—Ba :
Aa; and PM will represent the force
Fig. 81
118
PNEUMATICS
Undulation with which the particle B is urged towards C. Suppose
° air' (this construction to be made for every point of the line AB,
and that a point M is thus determined for each of them,
mathematicians know that all these points M lie in the curve
of a hyperbola, of which FG and GH are the asymptotes.
It is also known by the elements of mechanics, that since
the motion of A along AB is uniform, Aa or IP may be
taken to represent the time of describing Aa ; and that the
area IPM represents the whole velocity which B has ac-
quired in its motion towards C when A has come to a, the
force urging B being always as the portion PM of the or¬
dinate.
Take GX of any length in HG produced, and let GX
represent the velocity which the uniform action of the na¬
tural elasticity IF could communicate to the particle B du¬
ring the time that A would uniformly describe AB. Make
GX to GY as the rectangle IFGH to the hyperbolic space
IFRM, and draw YS cutting MR produced in S, and draw
FX cutting MR in T. It is known to the mathematicians
that the point S is in a curve line FSs, called the logarith¬
mic curve ; of which the leading property is, that any line
RS parallel to GX is to GX as the rectangle IFGH is to
the hyperbolic space IFRM, and that FX touches the curve
in F.
This being the case, it is plain, that because RT increases
in the same proportion with FR, or with the rectangle
IFRP, and RS increases in the proportion of the space
IFRM, TS increases in the proportion of the space IPM.
Therefore TS is proportional to the velocity of B when A
has reached a, and RT is proportional to the velocity which
the uniform action of the natural elasticity would commu¬
nicate to B in the same time. Then since FT is as the
time, and TS is as the velocity, the area FTS will be as the
space described by B, urged by the variable force PM;
while A, urged by the external force, describes Aa ; and
the triangle FRT will represent the space which the uni¬
form action of the natural elasticity would cause B to de¬
scribe in the same time.
And thus it is plain that these three motions can be com¬
pared together : the uniform motion of the agitated particle
A, the uniformly accelerated motion which the natural elas¬
ticity would communicate to B by its constant action, and
the motion produced in B by the agitation of A. But this
comparison, requiring the quadrature of the hyperbola and
logarithmic curve, would lead us into most intricate and te¬
dious computations. Of these we need only give the re¬
sult, and make some other comparisons which are palpable.
Let Aa be supposed indefinitely small in comparison of
AB. The space described by A is therefore indefinitely
small; but in this case we know that the ratio of the space
FRT to the rectangle IFRP is indefinitely small. There
is therefore no comparison between the agitation of A by
the external force, and the agitation which natural elasti¬
city would produce on a single particle in the same time,
the last being incomparably smaller than the first. And
this space FRT is incomparably greater than FTS; and
therefore the space which B would describe by the uniform
action of the natural elasticity is incomparably greater than
what it would describe in consequence of the agitation of A.
From this reasoning we see evidently that A must be
sensibly moved, or a finite or measurable time must elapse
before B acquires a measurable motion. In like manner,
B must move during a measurable time before C acquires
a measurable motion, &c.; and therefore the agitation of
A is communicated to the distant particles in gradual suc¬
cession.
By a further comparison of these spaces we learn the
time in which each succeeding particle acquires the very
agitation of A. If the particles B and C only are consi¬
dered, and the motion of C neglected, it will be found that
B has acquired the motion of A a little before it has de¬
scribed one-third of the space described by A ; but if the Undulatio
motion of C be considered, the acceleration of B must be of
increased by the retreat of C, and B must describe a greater
space in proportion to that described by A. By computa¬
tion it appears, that when both B and C have acquired the
velocity of A, B has described nearly one-half of A’s mo¬
tion, and C more nearly one-third. Extending this to D,
we shall find that D has described still more nearly one-
fourth of A’s motion. And from the nature of the compu¬
tation it appears that this approximation goes on rapidly ;
therefore, supposing it accurate from the very first particle,
it follows from the equable motion of A, that each succeed-
ing particle moves through an equal space in acquiring the
motion of A.
The conclusion which we must draw from all this is, that
when the agitation of A has been fully communicated to a
particle at a sensible distance, the intervening particles, all
moving forward with a common velocity, are equally com¬
pressed as to sense, except a very few of the first particles ;
and that this communication, or this propagation of the ori¬
ginal agitation, goes on with an uniform velocity.
These computations need not be attended to by such as
do not wish for an accurate knowledge of the precise agi¬
tation of each particle. It is enough for such readers to
see clearly that time must escape between the agitation of
A and that of a distant particle ; and this is abundantly ma¬
nifest from the incomparability (excuse the term) of the
nascent rectangle IFRP with the nascent triangle FRT,
and the incomparability of FRT with FTS.
What has now been shown of the communication of any Newton’s
sensible motion A a must hold equally with respect to any demonstra.
change of this motion. Therefore if a tremulous motion oftion on this
a body, such as a spring or bell, should agitate the adjoin-subject-
ing particle A by pushing it forward in the direction AB,
and then allowing it to come back again in the direction
BA, an agitation similar to this will take place in all the
particles of the row one after the other. Now if this body
vibrate according to the law of motion of a pendulum vi¬
brating in a cycloid, the neighbouring particle of air will
of necessity vibrate in the same manner ; and then Newton’s
demonstration in the article Acoustics needs no apology.
Its only deficiency was, that it seemed to prove that this
would be the way in which every particle would of neces¬
sity vibrate; which is not true, for the successive parcels of
air will be differently agitated according to the original
agitation. Newton only wants to prove the uniform pro¬
pagation of the agitations, and he selects that form which
renders the proof easiest. He proves, in the most unex¬
ceptionable manner, that if the particles of a pulse of air
are really moving like a cycloidal pendulum, the forces
acting on each particle, in consequence of the compression
and dilatation of the different parts of the pulse, are pre¬
cisely such as are necessary for continuing this motion, and
therefore no other forces are required. Then since each
particle in a certain part of its path, is moving in a cer¬
tain direction, and with a certain velocity, and urged by a
determined force, it must move in that very manner. The
objection started by John Bernoulli against Newton’s de¬
monstration of the elliptical motion of a body urged by a
force in the inverse duplicate ratio of the distance from the
focus, is precisely the same with the objection against New¬
ton’s demonstration of the progress of aerial undulations, and
is equally futile.
It must, however, be observed, that Newton’s demonstra¬
tion proceeds on the supposition that the linear agitations
of a particle are incomparably smaller than the extent of
an undulation. This is not strictly the case in any instance,
and in many it is far from being true. In a pretty strong
twang of a harpsichord wire, the agitation of a particle may
be near the 50th part gf the extent of the undulation. This
must disturb the regularity of the motion, and cause the
r
PNEUMATICS.
onfirmed
|f experi-
ents on
unds.
ndulation agitations in the remote undulations to differ from those
of air. in the first pulse. In the explosion of a cannon, the break-
of an exhausted bottle, and many instances which may
be given, the agitations are still greater. The commenta¬
tors on Newton’s Principia, Le Sueur and Jacquier, have
shown, and Euler more clearly, that when the original agi¬
tations are very violent, the particles of air will acquire a
subordinate vibration compounded with the regular cycloi¬
dal vibration, and the progress of the pulses will be some¬
what more rapid; but the intricacy of the calculus is so
great, that they have not been able to determine with any
tolerable precision what the change of velocity will be.
All this, however, is fully confirmed by experiment on
sounds. The sound of a cannon at 10 or 20 miles distance
does not in the least resemble its sound when near. In
this case it is a loud instantaneous crack, to which we can
assign no musical pitch. At a distance, it is a grave sound,
of which we can tell the note ; and it begins softly, swells
to its greatest loudness, and then dies away growling. The
same may be said of a clap of thunder, which we know to
be a loud snap of still less duration. It is highly probable
that the appreciable tones which those distant sounds afford
are produced by the continuance of these subordinate vibra¬
tions which are added together and fortified in the succes¬
sive pulses, though not perceptible in the first, in a way
somewhat resembling the resonance of a musical chord.
Newton’s explanation gathers evidence therefore from this
circumstance. And we must further observe, that all elas¬
tic bodies tremble or vibrate almost precisely as a pendu¬
lum swinging in a cycloid, unless their vibrations are un¬
commonly violent; in which case they are quickly reduced
to a moderate quantity by the resistance of the air. The
only very loud sounds which we can produce in this way
are from great bells; and in these the utmost extent of the
vibration is very small in comparison with the breadth of
the pulse. The velocity of these sounds has not been com¬
pared with that of cannon, or perhaps it would be found less,
and an objection against Newton’s determination removed.
He gives 969 feet per second, (experiment 1142.)
,1C But it is also very probable, that in the propagation
on in the through the air, the agitation gradually and rapidly ap-
iccessive pr0aches to this regular cycloidal form in the successive
ulses pro- pU}seg) jn the same way as we observe that whatever is the
mes Tcy f°rm °f agitation in the middle of a smooth pond of water,
loicial form, the spreading circles are always of one gentle form without
asperities. In like manner, into whatever form we throw a
stretched cord by the twang which we give it, it almost im¬
mediately makes smooth undulations, keeping itself in the
shape of an elongated trochoid. Of this last we can de¬
monstrate the necessity, because the case is simple. In the
wave, the investigation is next to impossible ; but we see
the fact. We may therefore presume it in air. And ac¬
cordingly we know that any noise, however abrupt and jar¬
ring near at hand, is smooth at a distance. Nothing is
more rough and harsh than the scream of a heron ; but at
half a mile’s distance it is soft. The ruffle of a drum is also
smooth at a distance.
Fig. 82, shows the successive situations of the particles
of a row. Each line of the figure shows the same parti¬
cles marked with the same letters ; the first particle a being
supposed to be removed successively from its quiescent
situation and back to it again. The mark X is put on that
part of each line where the agitated particles are at their
natural distances, and the air is of the natural density. The
mark | is put where the air is most of all compressed, and:
where it is most of all dilated; the curve line drawn through
the lowest line of the figure is intended to represent the
density in every point, by drawing ordinates to it from the
straight line. The ordinates below the line indicate a rarity,
and those above the line a density, greater than common.
It appears that when a has come back to its natural situa-
119
tion, the part of greatest density is between the particles i Undulation
and k, and the greatest rarity between c and d. of air-
'he agita-
Fig. 82.
f g h
> Jr T
f S h
f g h
,d e f
df f
d
g h
e f g h
l
-X
d e' f<g A i A l
-X-
JF gli i l
,,fg A: i k l
g^-dt-drlilZ
- —♦—-t-—-—
We have only to add, that the velocity of this propaga¬
tion depends on the elasticity and density of the fluid. If
these vary in the same proportion, that is, if the fluid has
its elasticity proportional to its density, the velocity will re¬
main the same. If the elasticity or density alone be changed,
the velocity of the undulations will change in the direct sub¬
duplicate ratio of the elasticity and the inverse subduplicate
ratio of the density ; or should the elasticity be quadrupled,
the quantity of motion produced by it in any given time
will be quadrupled. This will be the case if the velocity^
be doubled; for there would then be double the number ot
particles doubly agitated. Should the density be quadru¬
pled, the elasticity remaining the same, the quantity of mo¬
tion must remain the same. This will be the case it the
velocity be reduced to one half; for this will propagate halt
the agitation to half the distance, which will communicate
it to twice the number of particles, and the quantity ot mo¬
tion will remain the same. The same may be said ot other
proportions, and therefore V=—-• Therefore a change
in the barometer will not affect the velocity of the undula¬
tions in air; but they will be accelerated by heat, which
diminishes its density, or increases its elasticity. The velo¬
city of the pulses in inflammable air must be at least thrice
as great, because its density is but one-tenth of that ot air
when the elasticity of both are the same.
Let us now attend a little to the propagation of aerial Further
pulses as they really happen ; for this hypothesis of a single consi era
row of particles is nowhere to be observed. Suppose a^ , es
sphere A, fig. 83, filled with condensed air, and that the
vessel which contains it is suddenly an¬
nihilated. The air must expand to its
natural dimensions, suppose BCD. But
it cannot do this without pressing aside
the surrounding air. We have seen that
in any single row of particles this can¬
not be at once diffused to a distance,
but must produce a condensation in the
air adjoining; which will be gradually
propagated to a distance. Therefore
this sphere BCD of the common density will form round
it a shell, bounded by EFG, of condensed air. Suppose
that at this instant the inner air BCD becomes solid. The
shell of condensed air can expand only outwards. Let it
expand till it is of the common density, occupying the shell
HIK. This expansion must, in like manner, produce a
shell of condensed air without it; and at this instant let HIK
become solid. The surrounding shell of condensed air can
expand only outward, condensing another shell without it.
It is plain that this must go on continually, and the central
agitation will be gradually propagated to a distance in all
directions. But, in this process, it is not the same numeri¬
cal particles that go to a distance. Those ot the original
120
PNEUMATICS.
Undulation sphere go no further than BCD, those of the next shall go
of air. no further than HIK, &c. Further, the expansion outwards
of any particle will be more moderate as the diffusion ad¬
vances ; for the whole motion of each shell cannot exceed
wave there is no permanent progressive motion of the water Undulation
from the centre. Throw a small bit of cork on the surface, of air-
and it will be observed to popple up and down without the
least motion outwards. In like manner, the particles of air
the original quantity of motion ; and the number of particles are only agitated a very little outwards and inwards, which
in each successive shell increases as the surface, that is, as motion is communicated to the particles beyond them, whilst
the square of the distance from the centre ; therefore the they themselves come to rest, unless agitated afresh ; and
agitation of the particles will decrease in the same ratio, or this agitation of the particles is inconceivably small. Even
will be in the inverse duplicate ratio of the distance from the explosion of a cannon at no great distance will but
the centre. Each successive shell, therefore, contains the gently agitate a feather, giving it a single impulse out-
same quantity of motion, and the successive agitations of wards, and immediately after another inwards or towards the
the particles of any row out from the centre will not be cannon. When a harpsichord wire is forcibly twanged at
equal to the original agitation, as happens in the solitary a few feet distance, the agitation of the air is next to
row. But this does not affect the velocity of the propaga- insensible. It is not, however, nothing , and it differs
from that in a watery wave by being really outwards and
inwards. In consequence of this, when the condensed shell
reaches an elastic body, it impels it slightly. If its elasti¬
city be such as to make it acquire the opposite shape at the
instant that the next agitation and condensed shell of air
touches it, its agitation will be doubled, and a third agita¬
tion will increase it, and so on, till it acquire the agitation
competent to that of the shell of air which reaches it, and
it is thrown into sensible vibration, and gives a sound ex¬
tremely faint indeed, because the agitation which it acquires
tion, because all agitations are propagated equally fast.
We supposed the air A to become solid as soon as it ac¬
quired the common density ; but this was to facilitate the
conception of the diffusion. It does not stop at this bulk ;
for while it was denser it had a tendency to expand. There¬
fore each particle has attained this distance with an accel¬
erated motion. It will, therefore, continue this motion like
a pendulum that has passed the perpendicular, till it is
brought to rest by the air without it; and it is now rarer
than common air, and collapses again by the greater elasti- „ . „ ■ i i - j
city of the air without it. This outward air, therefore, in is that corresponding to a shell of air considerably removed
regaining its natural density, must expand both ways. It from the original string. Hence it happens that a musical
expands towards the centre, following the collapsing of the chord, pipe, or bell, will cause another to resound, whose
air within it; and it expands outwards, condensing the air vibrations are isochronous with its own ; or if the vibra-
beyond it. By expanding inwards, it will again condense tions of the one coincides with every second, or third, or
the air within it, and this will again expand ; a similar mo- fourth, &c. of the other ; just as wre can put a very heavy
tion happens in all the outward shells ; and thus there is pendulum into sensible motion by giving it a gentle puff
propagated a succession of condensed and rarefied shells of with the breath at every vibration, or at every second, third,
air, which gradually swell to the greatest distance. or fourth, &c. A drum struck in the neighbourhood of
Applica- B may be demonstrated, that when the central air has another drum will agitate it very sensibly ; for here the
tion of the for the second time acquired the natural density, it will be stroke depresses a very considerable surface, and produces
factofdrop-at rest, and be disturbed no more; and that this will happen an agitation of a considerable mass of air ; it wdll even agi-
ping a peb-t0 a]] the shells in succession. But the demonstration is tate the surface of stagnant water. The explosion of a
hie into
water.
much too intricate for this place ; and we must be contented
Avith pointing out a fact perfectly analogous. When we
drop a small pebble into water, we see it produce a series
of circular waves, which go along the surface of smooth
water to a great distance, becoming more and more gentle
as they recede from the centre ; and the middle, where the
agitation was first produced, remains perfectly smooth, and
this smoothness extends continually; that is, each wave
when brought to a level remains at rest. Now these waves
are produced and propagated by the depression and eleva¬
tion made at the centre. The elevation tends to diffuse it¬
self ; and the force with which each particle of water is ac¬
tuated is a force acting directly up and down, and is propor¬
tional to the elevation or depression of the particle. This
hydrostatical pressure operates precisely in the same way
as the condensation and rarefaction of the air; and the
mathematical investigation of the propagation of the circu¬
lar undulations on smooth water is similar in every step to
that of the propagation of the spherical waves in still air.
For this we appeal to Newton’s Principia, or to Euler’s
cannon will even break a neighbouring window. The shell
of condensed air which comes against the glass has a great
sux-face and a great agitation ; the best security in this case
is to throw up the sash ; this admits the condensed air into
the room, which acts on the inside of the window, balanc¬
ing part of the external impulse.
It is demonstrated in every elementary treatise of natural Waves of
philosophy, that when a wave on water meets any plane air and of
obstacle, it is reflected by it from a centre equally removed water in
behind the obstacle ; that waves radiating from the focus
of a parabola are reflected in waves perpendicular to its mijari
that waves radiating from one focus of an ellipse are
made to convei'ge to the other focus, &c. All this may be
affirmed of the aerial undulations ; that when part of a wave
gets through a hole in the obstacle, it becomes the centre
of a new series of a waves ; that waves bend round the ex¬
tremities of an obstacle ; all this happens in the aerial un¬
dulations. And lastly, that when the surface of water is
thrown into regular undulations by one agitation, another
agitation in another place will produce other regular waves,
Opuscula, where he gives a very beautiful investigation of which will cross the former without distui-bing them in the
the velocity of the aerial pulses; and to some memoirs of smallest degree. The same thing happens in air ; and ex-
Lagrange in the collections of the academies of Berlin
and Turin. These two last authors have made the inves¬
tigation as simple as seems possible, and have freed it from
every objection which can be stated against the geometri¬
cal one of their greater teacher Newton.
Flaving said this much respecting the similarity between
the waves on water and the aerial undulations, we shall have
. recourse to them, as affording us a very sensible object to
in ^tkose'" rePresent many affections of the other which it would be
ofair.056 extremely difficult to explain. We neither see nor feel the
aerial undulations ; and they behoved, therefore, to be de¬
scribed very abstractedly and imperfectly. In the watery
The waves
of water
are useful
periments may be made on water which will illustrate in
the most perfect manner many other affections of the aerial
pulses, which we should otherwise conceive very imperfect¬
ly. We would recommend to our curious readers to make
some of these experiments in a large vessel of milk. Take
a long and narrow plate of lead, which, when set on the
bottom of the vessel, will reach above the surface of the
milk; bend this plate into a parabola, elliptical, or other
curve. Make the undulations by dropping milk on the
focus from a small pipe, which will cause the agitations
to succeed with rapidity, and then all that we have said
will be most distinctly seen, and the experiment will be
P N E U M A T I C S.
ohesion
,':o sur-
ices, See.
Effects of very amusing and instructive, especially to the musical
be pres- reader.
ure^ofthe We shall now proceed to explain a number of natural
j- ^ ^ appearances, depending on the pressure and the elasticity of
the air ; appearances not sufficiently general, or too compli¬
cated for the purposes of argument, whilst we were em¬
ployed in the ihvestigation of these properties, but too im¬
portant to be passed over in silence.
The pres. It is owing to the pressure of the atmosphere that two
lire of the surfaces which accurately fit each other cohere with such
force. This is a fact familiarly known to the glass-grind-
°nS 16 0fers’ P°^shers of marble, &c. A large lens or speculum,
ground on its tool till it becomes very smooth, requires
more than any man’s strength to separate it directly from
the took If the surface is only a square inch, it will re’
quire fifteen pounds to separate them perpendicularly, though
a very moderate force will make them slide along each other.
But this cohesion is not observed unless the surfaces are
wetted or smeared with oil or grease; otherwise the air
gets between them, and they separate without any trouble.
I hat this cohesion is owing to the atmospheric pressure, is
evident from the ease with which the plates may be separ¬
ated in an exhausted receiver. To the same cause we
must ascribe the very strong adhesion of snails, periwinkles,
limpets, and other univalve shells, to the rocks. The ani¬
mal forms the rim of its shell, so as to fit the shape of the
rock to which it intends to cling. It then fills its shell, if
not already filled by its own body, with water. In this
condition it is evident that we must act with a force equal
to fifteen pounds for every square inch of touching surface
before we can detach it. This maybe illustrated by filling
a drinking-glass to the brim with water, and having cover¬
ed it with a piece of thin wet leather, whelm it on a table,
and then try to pull it straight up ; which will require a con¬
siderable force. But if we expose a snail adhering to a
stone in the exhausted receiver, we shall see it drop off by
its own weight. In the same manner do the remora, the
polypus, the lamprey, and many other animals, adhere with
such firmness. Boys frequently amuse themselves by pull¬
ing out large stones from the pavement by means of a cir¬
cle of stiff wetted leather fastened to a string. It is owing
to the same cause that the bivalve shell fishes keep them¬
selves so firmly shut. We think the muscular force of an
oyster prodigious, because it requires such force to open it;
but it we grind oft a bit of the convex shell, so as to make
a hole in it, though without hurting the fish in the smallest
degree, it opens with great ease, as it does also in vacuo.
Hher ef- The pressure of the air, operating in this way, contri-
•cts of thebutes much to the cohesion of bodies, where we do not
cTair^ ° susPec^ influence. The tenacity of our mortars and ce¬
ments would frequently be ineffectual without this assis¬
tance. It is owing to the pressure of the atmosphere that
a cask will not run by the cock unless a hole be opened in
some other part of the cask. If the cask is not quite full,
some liquor indeed will run out, but it will stop as soon as
the diminished elasticity of the air above the liquor is in
equilibrio, together with the liquor, with the atmospheric
pressure. In like manner, a teapot must have a small hole
in its lid to ensure its pouring out the tea. If indeed the
121
It seems principally owing to the pressure of the air Effects of
Fig. 84.
tlie pres¬
sure of the
Why frosts
instantly
occasion a
scarcity of
water.
that frosts immediately occasion a scantiness
of water in our fountains and wells. This
is erroneously accounted for, by supposing
that the water freezes in the bowels of the
earth. But this is a great mistake. The most
intense frost of a Siberian winter would not
freeze the ground two feet deep ; but a very
moderate frost will consolidate the whole sur¬
face of a country, and make it impervious to
the air; especially if the frost has been pre¬
ceded by rain, which has soaked the surface.
When this happens, the water which was
filtering through the ground is all arrested
and kept suspended in its capillary tubes by
the pressure of the air, in the very same man¬
ner as the spirits are kept suspended in the in¬
strument just now described by the thumb’s ^
shutting the hole A. A thaw melts the su¬
perficial ice, and allows the water to run in the same man¬
ner as the spirits run when the thumb is removed.
Common air is necessary for supporting the lives of most The nece3_
animals. If a small animal, such as a mouse or bird, beputsityofeom-
under the receiver of an air-pump, and the air be exhaust- mon air to
ed, the animal will quickly be thrown into convulsions and31'!1113! fife-
fall down dead ; if the air be immediately readmitted, the
animal will sometimes revive, especially if the rarefaction *
has been briskly made, and has not been very great. We
do not know that any breathing animal can bear the air to
be reduced to one-fourth of its ordinary density, nor even
one-third ; nor have we good evidence that an animal will
ever recover if the rarefaction is pushed very far, although
continued for a very short time.
But the mere presence of the air is by no means suffi¬
cient for preserving the life of the animal; for it is found,
that an animal shut up in a vessel of air cannot live in it
for any length of time. If a man be shut up in a box, con¬
taining a wine hogshead of air, he cannot live in it much
above an hour, and long before this he will find his breath¬
ing very unsatisfactory and uneasy. A gallon of air will
support him about a minute. A
box EF (fig. 85,) may be made,
having a pipe AB inserted into
its top, and fitted with a very
light valve at B, opening up¬
wards. This pipe sends off a
lateral branch aD ,dC, which
enters the box at the bottom,
and is also fitted with a light
valve at C opening upwards. If
a person breathe through the
pipe, keeping his nostrils shut, it
is evident that the air which he
expires will not enter the box by
the hole B, nor return through
the pipe CT>d; and by this con¬
trivance he will gradually em¬
ploy the whole air of the box.
Fig. 85.
iw viiouic ilo puujiug uul uie tea. xi mueeu me With this apparatus experiments can be made without any
hole in the cask is of large dimensions, it will run without risk or inconveniency, and the quantity of air necessary for
anv other, beeanae m’r w,;!! <rot n, ot a given time of easy breathing maybe accurately ascertained.
How the air of our atmosphere produces this effect, is a
question which does not belong to mechanical philosophy to
any other, because air will get in at the upper side of the
hole while the liquor runs out by the lower part of it. On
the same principle depends the performance of an instru¬
ment used by the spirit-dealers for taking out a sample of
their spirits. It consists of a long tinplate tube AB (fig. 84,)
open a-top at A, and ending in a small hole at B. The
end B is dipped into the spirits, which rises into the tube;
then the thumb is clapt on the mouth A, and the whole is
lifted out of the cask. The spirit remains in it till the
thumb be taken off; it is then allowed to run into a glass
for examination.
VOL. XVIli.
investigate or determine. WT can, however, affirm, that it
is neither the pressure nor the elasticity of the air which is
immediately concerned in maintaining the animal functions.
We know that we can live and breathe with perfect free¬
dom on the tops of the highest mountains. The valley of
Quito in Peru, and the country round Gondar in Abyssi¬
nia, are so far elevated above the surface of the ocean, that
the pressure and the elasticity of the air are one-third less
Ui
Effects of than in the low countries; yet these are populous and heal- “nl1 d [ ^ JiU not v0l,ch ibr the truth of >l>s P™-
the pres. t],y places. And, on the other hand, we know, that when J^l^ly take a full inspiration of fi*eds“"a»; ‘k'
sure of the an animal l-,as breathed in any quantity of air for a certa , /the n0ge be shut; and that unless these ^
. time without renewal, it will not only be but an- “’^Sdated by the fixed air, it is not instantane-
other animal put into this air wdl die immediately - I nrtal But these are questions out of our present
do not find either the pressure or elasticity o 16 al line of inouirv They belong to physiology, and are treat-
niarkably diminished ; it is indeed diminished, but by a very '‘"e “*’Xfolaces^f thk work Our business is to ex-
sraall quantity. Restoring the former pressure and elastr- ed of n other e and elosticity of the air>
^r^sr^sssss tszsSssXxla**-**-*-
set on water, the pressure of the atmosphere acts completely on ing. . , „
the included air,andpreservesitinthe Stame state of elasticity. II
The nature In short, it is known that the air which has already serv-
of air that et[ to maintain the animal functions has its chemical and
alimentary properties completely changed, and is no longer
fit for this purpose. So much of any mass of air as has really
been thus employed is changed into what is called^ed
by Dr. Black, or carbonic acid by the chemists of the school
of Lavoisier. Any person may be convinced of this by
breathing or blowing through a pipe immersed in lime wa¬
ter. Every expiration will produce white clouds on t e wa- ‘ITiate"contact with the air ; and it would seem that
ter, till all the lime which it contains is precipitate i serous part of it which is acted on by the
form of pure chalk. In this case we know that the lime has “„f Ihe vS or pores, where it staniby
combined with the tixed air. . ativartinn Dr Priestlev found, that venous blood
i sjrtfsrsK- *-—■ — -
ing ; and he put several diaphragms ^ &c. of thin woo 1-
en stuff into the box, and moistened them with various li¬
quids. He found nothing so efficacious as a solution of po¬
tash. We now understand this perfectly. If the solution
is not already saturated with fixed air, d will take it up as
PNEUMATICS.
air.
has been
pired,
altered.
Id is well ascertained, that the secretion is made from the
mass of blood during its passage through the lungs. Ihe
blood delivered into the lungs is of a dark blackish colour,
and is there changed into a florid red. In the lungs it is
exposed to the action of the air in a prodigiously extended
surface ; for the lungs consist of an inconceivable numoer
of small vessels or bladders, communicating with each other
and with the windpipe. These are filled with air in every
inspiration. These vessels are everywhere in contact with
minute blood-vessels. The blood does not in toto come
damp, and must have acquired this moisture in the lungs.
It is immaterial whether this secretion of water or lymph, as
the anatomists call it, be furnished by mere exudation
through simple pores, or by a vascular and organic secre¬
tion ; in either case, some ingredient of the blood comes in
tion of caustic alkah therefore will have this effect fill rt .s ^^r co,,^ ea, and that by every
How i. " ThSe experiments have been “HtStinfi^alrof ^metog from
comes to be many circumstances, m order to asceitain whether this fix proauceu assi„-ned bv many as the source of
changed, ed air w as real,, emitted by the ungs o^ '^a tat We tl^'onlel thi/gs in a very transi-
substance from the lungs, it does not appear bow a lenewal lungs,
of the air into which it is emitted is necessary, for this does
.i^o* # __ . -i .
si sisiSbii
of all the fixed air emitted; but, on the contrary, it is a
little diminished. We must therefore adopt the otliei opi
mon; and the discoveries in modern chemistry enable us
to give a pretty accurate account of the whole process.
Fixed air is acknowledged to be a compound, of which one
ingredient is found to constitute bhout three-eightns of the
whole atmospheric fluid, we mean vital air or the oxygen
of Lavoisier. When this is combined with phlogiston, ac¬
cording to the doctrine of Stahl, or with charcoal, accord¬
ing to Lavoisier, the result is fixed air or carbonic acid.
The change therefore which breathing makes on the air is
the solution of this matter by vital air ; and the use of air
in breathing is the carrying off this noxious principle in the
way of solution. When therefore the air is already so far
saturated as not to dissolve this substance as fast as it is se¬
creted, or must be secreted in the lungs, the animal suffers
the pain of suffocation, or is otherwise mortally affected.
Suffocation is not the only consequence ; for we can remain
for a number of seconds without breathing, and then we be¬
gin to feel the true pain of suffocation ; but those who have
been instantaneously struck down by an inspiration of fixed
Clllo VV XI/ XO ~ ~ —J ~ 7 ~ J
of the ribs, and by the action of the diaphragm and other mus¬
cles of the abdomen. The thorax or chest is a great cavity,
completely filled by the lungs. The sides of this cavity are
formed by the ribs. These are crooked or arched, and each
is moveable round its two ends, one of them being inserted
into the vertebra of the back, and the other into the ster¬
num or breast-bone. The rib turns in a manner resem¬
bling the handle of a drawer
Fig. 86.
The inspection of fig. 86
will illustrate this matter a
little. Suppose the curves
a c e, b k f cl g, &e. to re¬
present the ribs moveable
round the extremities. Each
succeeding rib is more bent
than the one above it, and
this curvature is both in the
vertical and horizontal direction. _ ,,
as to project a little over its inferior like the tiles of a roof.
It is evident, that if we take the lower one by its middle,
and draw it out a little, moving it round the line np, it will
Suppose each so broad
bring out the next dm/i along with it. Also, because the dis-
PNEUMATICS.
123
[Effects of tance of the middle point o from the axis of motion np is
Ithe pres- greater than the distance of m from the axis dh, and be-
'irea°r 1 ie cause o will therefore describe a portion of a larger circle
than m does, the rib nop will slide up a little under the rib
dmh, or the rib dmh will overlap nop a little more than be*
fore ; the distance om will therefore be diminished. The
same must happen to all the superior ribs ; but the change
of distance will be less and less as we go upwards. Now,
instead of this great breadth of the ribs overlapping each
other, suppose each inferior rib connected with the one
above it by threads or fibres susceptible of contraction at
the will of man. The articulations e, a, of the first or up¬
per rib with the spine and sternum are so broad and firm,
that this rib can have little or no motion round the line ae ;
this rib therefore is as a fixture for the ends of all the con¬
tracting fibres: therefore, whenever the fibres which con*
nect the second rib with the first rib contract, the second
must rise a little, and also go outward, and will carry the
lower ribs along with it; the third rib will still rise farther
by the contraction of the muscles which connect it with
the second, and so on ; and thus the whole ribs are raised
and thrown outward (and a little forward, because the arti¬
culation of each with the spine is considerably higher than
that with the sternum), and the capacity of the thorax is
enlarged by the contraction of its muscular covering. The
direction of the muscular fibres is very oblique to the direc*
tion of the circular motion which itproduces; from which cir¬
cumstance it follows, that a very minute contraction of the
muscles produces all the motion which is necessary. This in¬
deed is not great; the whole motion of the lowest ribs is less
than an inch in the most violent inspiration, and the whole
contraction of the muscles of the twelve ribs does not ex¬
ceed the eighth part of an inch, even supposing the inter¬
costal muscles at right angles to the ribs; and being oblique,
the contraction is still less. It would seem, that the inten¬
sity of the contractive power of a muscular fibre is easily ob¬
tained, but that the space through which it can be exerted is
very limited ; for in most cases nature places the muscles
in situations of great mechanical disadvantage in this re¬
spect, in order to procure other conveniences.
But this is not the whole effect of the contraction of the
intercostal muscles; since the compound action of the two
sets of muscles, which cross each other from rib to rib like
the letter X, is nearly at right angles to the rib, but is ob¬
lique to its plane, it tends to push the ribs closer on their
articulations, and thus to press out the two pillars on which
they are articulated. Thus, supposing a f (fig. 87) to re¬
present the section of one of the verte¬
brae of the spine, and c d a, section of
the sternum, and a b c, f e d, two oppo¬
site ribs, with a lax thread b e connect¬
ing them. If this thread be pulled up¬
wards by the middle g till it is tight,
it will tend to pull the points b and e
nearer to each other, and to press the
vertebra a f and the sternum c d outwards. The spine be¬
ing the chief pillar of the body, may be considered as im¬
moveable in the present instance. The sternum is suffi¬
ciently susceptible of motion for the present purpose. It
remains almost fixed a-top at its articulation with the first
rib, but it gradually yields below ; and thus the capacity
of the thorax is enlarged in this direction also. The whole
enlargement of the diameters of the thorax during inspir¬
ation is very small, not exceeding the fiftieth part of an
inch in ordinary cases. This is easily calculated. Its quies¬
cent capacity is about two cubic feet, and we never draw
in more than fifteen inches. Two spheres, one of which holds
two cubic feet and the other two feet and fifteen inches,
will not differ in diameter above the fiftieth part of an inch.
The other method of enlarging the capacity of the tho¬
rax is very different. It is separated from the abdomen by
a strong muscular partition called the diaphragm, which is Effects of
attached to firm parts all around. In its quiescent or re- tbe re¬
laxed state it is considerably convex upwards, that is, to-sure .of the
wards the thorax, rising up into its cavity like the bottom, _air;
of an ordinary quart bottle, only not so regular in its shape.
Many of its fibres tend from its middle to the circumfer¬
ence, where they are inserted into firm parts of the body.
Now suppose these fibres to contract. This must draw
down its middle, or make it flatter than before, and thus
enlarge the capacity of the thorax.
Physiologists are not well agreed as to the share which
each of these actions has in the operation of enlarging the
thorax. Many refuse all share of it to the intercostal mus¬
cles, and say that it is performed by the diaphragm alone.
But the fact is, that the ribs are really observed to rise
even while the person is asleep ; and this cannot possibly
be produced by the diaphragm, as these anatomists assert.
Such an opinion shows either ignorance or neglect of the
laws of pneumatics. If the capacity of the thorax were
enlarged only by drawing down the diaphragm, the pres¬
sure of the air would compress the ribs, and make them de¬
scend. And the simple laws of mechanics make it as evi¬
dent as any proposition in geometry, that the contraction
of the intercostal muscles must produce an elevation of the
ribs and enlargement of the thorax ; and it is one of the
most beautiful contrivances of nature. It depends much on
the will of the animal what share each of these actions
shall have. In general, the greatest part is done by the
diaphragm ; and any person can breathe in such a manner
that his rib shall remain motionless; and, on the contrary,
he can breathe almost entirely by raising his chest. In the
first method of breathing, the belly rises during inspiration,
because the contraction of the diaphragm compresses the
upper part of the bowels, and therefore squeezes them out¬
wards ; so that an ignorant person would be apt to think
that the breathing was performed by the belly, and that the
belly is inflated with the air. The strait lacing of the wo¬
men impedes the motion of the ribs, and changes the natur¬
al habit of breathing, or brings on an unnatural habit. When
the mind is depressed, it is observed that the breathing is
more performed by the muscles of the thorax ; and a deep
sigh is always made in this way.
These observations on the manner in which the capacity
of the chest can be enlarged were necessary, before we can
acquire a just notion of the way in which the mechanical
properties of air operate in applying it to the mass of blood
during its passage through the lungs. Suppose the thorax
quite empty, and communicating with the external air by
means of the trachea or windpipe, it wrould then resemble
a pair of bellows. Raising the boards corresponds to the
raising of the ribs ; and we might imitate the action of the
diaphragm by forcibly pulling outwards the folded leather
which unites them. Thus their capacity is enlarged, and
the air rushes in at the nozzle by its weight in the same
manner as water would do. The thorax differs from bel¬
lows only in this respect, that it is filled by the lungs, which
is a vast collection of little bladders, like the holes in a piece
of fermented bread, all communicating with the trachea,
and many of them with each other. When the chest is
enlarged, the air rushes into them all in the same manner
as into the single cavity of an empty thorax. It cannot be
said with propriety that they are inflated ; all that is done
is the allowing the air to come in. At the same time, as
their membranous covering must have some thickness, how¬
ever small, and some elasticity, it is not unlikely that, when
compressed by expiration, they tend a little to recover
their former shape, and thus aid the voluntary action of the
muscles. It is in this manner that a small bladder of ca¬
outchouc swells again after compression, and fills itself with
air or water. But this cannot happen except in the most
minute vesicles ; those of sensible bulk have not elasticity
124
PNEUMATICS.
Air taken
in, not by
our own ac
Effects of enough for this purpose. The lungs ot birds, however,
the pres- ]iave some very large bladders, which have a very consi-
sure of the ^erable elasticity, and recover their shape and size with
alr‘ great force after compression, and thus fill themselves with
air. The respiration of these animals is considerably dif¬
ferent from that of land animals, and their muscles act chief¬
ly in expiration. This will be explained by and by as a
curious variety in the pneumatic instrument.
This account of the manner in which the lungs are filled
with air does not seem agreeable to the notions we enter-
uui vw..«v.-ta|n ^ We seem to suck in the air; but although it
S-nM^be true that we act, and exert force, in order to get air m-
JeSsure. to our lungs, it is not by our action, but by externa pressure,
that it does come in. If we apply our mouth to the top m a
bottle filled with water, we find that no draught, as we call it,
of our chest will suck in any of the water, but if we suckm the
very same manner at the end of a pipe immersed in water, it
follows immediately. Our interest in the thing makes us con¬
nect in imagination our own action with the effect, without
thinking on the many steps which may intervene in the train
of natural operations ; and we consider the action as the im-
mediate cause of the reception of the air into the lungs. It is
as if we opened the door, and took in by the hand a person
who was really pushed in by the crowd without. If an inci¬
sion be made into the side of the thorax, so that the air can
get in by that way, when the animal acts in the usual man¬
ner, the air will really come in by this hole, and fill the
space between the lungs and the thorax ; but no air is suck¬
ed into the lungs by this process, and the animal is as com¬
pletely suffocated as if the windpipe were shut up. And,
on the other hand, if a hole be made into the lungs without
communicating with the thorax, the animal will bieathe
through this hole, though the windpipe be stopped. This
is successfully performed in cases of patients whose trachea
is shut up by accident or by inflammation ; only it is neces¬
sary that this perforation be made into a part ot the lungs
where it may meet with some of the great pulmonary pas¬
sages ; for if made into some remote part of a lobe, the air
cannot find its way into the rest of the lungs through such
narrow passages, obstructed too by blood, txc.
Nature of We have now explained, on pneumatical principles, the
expiration, process of inspiration. The expiration is chieflv peifoimed
by the natural tone of the parts. In the act ot inspiiation
the ribs were raised and drawn outwards in opposition to
the elasticity of the solids themselves; for although the
ribs are articulated at their extremities, the articulations
are by no means such as to give a free and easy motion
like the joints of the limbs. This is particularly the case
in the articulations with the sternum, which are by no
means fitted for motion. It would seem that the motion
really produced here is chiefly by the yielding of the car¬
tilaginous parts and the bending of the rib ; when theie-
fore the muscles w'hich produced this effect are allowed to
relax, the ribs again collapse. Perhaps this is assisted a
little by the action of the long muscles which come down
across the ribs without being inserted into them. 1 hese
may draw them together a little, as we compress a loose
bundle by a string. In like manner, when the diaphragm
was drawn down, it compressed the abdomen in opposition
to the elasticity of all the viscera contained in it, and to the
elasticity and tone of integuments and muscles wdiich sur¬
round it. When therefore the diaphragm is relaxed, these
parts push it up again into its natural situation, and in doing
this expel the air from the lungs.
It requires If this be a just account of the matter, expiration should
no effort, be performed without any effort. This accordingly is the
case. We feel that, after having made an ordinary easy
inspiration, it requires the continuance of the effort to keep
the thorax in this enlarged state, and that all that is neces¬
sary for expiration is to cease to act. No person feels any
difficulty in emptying the lungs ; but weak people often
feel a difficulty of inspiration, and compare it to the feeling Effects of
of a weight on their breast; and expiration is the last m°- “*!«*■■
tion of the thorax in a dying person. But nature has also ^
given us a mechanism by which we can expire, namely * the ^ ^^
abdominal muscles; and when we have finished an ordi¬
nary and easv expiration, we can still expel a considera¬
ble bulk of air—nearly half the contents of the lungs—by
contracting the abdominal muscles. These, by compress¬
ing the body, force up its moveable contents against the
diaphragm, and cause it to rise further into the thorax, act¬
ing in the same manner as when we expel the faeces per
anum. When a person breathes out as much air as he can
in this manner, he may observe that his ribs do not collapse
during the whole operation.
There seems then to be a certain natural unconstrained A certain
state of the vesicles of the lungs, and a certain quantity of quantity of
air necessary for keeping them of this size. It is probable
that this state of the lungs gives the freest motion to thethe lungso{
blood. Were they more compressed, the blood-vessels a natural
would be compressed by the adjoining vesicles ; were they size.
more lax, the vessels would be more crooked, and by this
means obstructed. The frequent inspirations gradually
change this air bv mixing fresh air with it, and at eiery
expiration earn ing off some ot it. In catarrhs and inflam¬
mations, especially when attended with suppuration, the
small passages into the remote vessels are obstructed, and
thus the renewal of air in them will be preiented. The
painful feeling which this occasions, causes us to expel the
air with violence, shutting the windpipe, till ue ha\e ex¬
erted strongly with the abdominal muscles, and made a
strong compression on the lower part ot the thorax. W e
then open the passage suddenly, and expel the air and ob¬
structing matter by violent coughing.
We have said, that birds exhibit a curious variety m the Proee;« of
process of breathing. The muscles of their wings being so breathing
very great, required a very extensive insertion, and this is^ birds,
one use of the great breast bone. Another use ot it is, to
form a firm partition to hinder the action of these muscles
from compressing the thorax in the act ot flying; there¬
fore the form of their chest does not admit of alternate en¬
largement and contraction to that degree as in land ani¬
mals. Moreover, the muscles of their abdomen are also
very small; and it would seem that they are not sufficient
for producing the compression on the bowels " inch is ne¬
cessary for carrying on the process of concoction and di¬
gestion. Instead of aiding the lungs, tney receive help
from them.
In the ostrich, the lungs consist of a fleshy part A, A, (fig. b8)
composed of vesicles like those of
'sire
"if
Fig. 88.
land animals, and, like theirs, serv¬
ing to expose the blood to the ac¬
tion of the air. Besides these,
they have on each side, four large
bags, B, C, D, E, each of which
has an orifice G, communicating
with the trachea; but the se¬
cond, C, has an orifice, H, by
which it communicates with an¬
other bag F, situated below the
rest in the abdomen. Now, when
the lungs are compressed by the
action of the diaphragm, the air
in C is partly expelled by the tra¬
chea through the orifice G, and
partly driven through the orifice
H into the bag F, which is then
allowed to receive it; because the same action which com¬
presses the lungs enlarges the abdomen. When the tho¬
rax is enlarged, the bag C is partly supplied with fresh air
through the trachea, and partly from the bag F. As the
lungs of other animals resemble a common bellows, the
PNEUMATICS.
125
Ifeczs of lanes of birds resemble the smith’s bellows with a partition ;
pres- and anatomists have discovered passages from this part of
mre ot int0 their hollow’ bones and quills. We do not
know all the uses of this contrivance; and only can ob-
- serve, that this alternate action must assist the muscles of
the abdomen in promoting the motion of the food along the
alimentary canal, See. We can distinctly observe in birds
that their belly dilates when the chest collapses, and vice
versa, contrary to what we see in the land animals. An¬
other use of this double passage may be to produce a cir¬
culation of air in the lungs, by which a compensation is
made for the smaller surface of action on the blood ; for the
number of small vesicles, of equal capacity with these large
bags, give a much more extensive surface.
If we try to raise mercury in a pipe by the action of the
chest alone, we cannot raise it above two or three inches ;
and the attempt is both painful and hazardous. It is pain¬
ful chiefly in the breast, and it provokes coughing. Pro¬
bably the fluids ooze through the pores of the vesicles by
the pressure of the surrounding parts. On the other hand,
we can bv expiration support mercury about five or six
inches high ; but this also is very painful, and apt to pro¬
duce extravasation of blood. This seems to be done en¬
tirely by the abdominal muscles.
'"he opera- The operation properly termed sucking, is totally differ-
;oa of ent from breathing, and resembles exceedingly the action of
a common pump. Suppose a pipe held in the mouth, and
its lower end immersed in water. We fill the mouth with
the tongue, bringing it forward, and applying it closely to
the teeth and to the palate ; w’e then draw it back, or bend
it downwards from the palate behind, thus leaving a void.
The pressure of the air on the cheeks immediately depresses
them, and applies them close to the gums and teeth ; and
its pressure on the water in the vessel causes it to rise
through the pipe into the empty part of the mouth, which
it quickly fills. We then push forward the tip of the
tongue, below the water, to the teeth, and apply it to them
all round, the water being above the tongue, which is kept
much depressed. We then apply the tongue to the palate,
beginning at the tip, and gradually going backward in this
application. By this means the wrater is gradually forced
backward by an operation similar to that of the gullet in
swallowing. This is done by contracting the gullet above,
and relaxing it below’, just as we would empty a gut of its
contents, by drawing our closed hand along it. By this
operation the mouth is again completely occupied by the
tongue, and we are ready for repeating the operation. Thus
the mouth and tongue resemble the barrel and piston of a
pump ; and the application of the tip of the tongue to the
teeth, performs the office of the valve at the bottom of the
barrel, preventing the return of the water into the pipe.
Although usual, it is not absolutely necessary, to withdraw
the tip of the tongue, making a void before the tongue.
Sucking may be performed by merely separating the tongue
gradually from the palate, beginning at the root. If we
withdraw the tip of the tongue a very minute quantity, the
water flows back above the tongue.
The action of the tongue in this operation is very pow¬
erful ; some persons can raise mercury 25 inches; but this
strong exertion is very fatiguing, and the soft parts are
prodigiously swelled by it. It causes the blood to ooze
plentifully through the pores of the tongue, fauces, and pa¬
late, in the same manner as if a cupping-glass and syringe
were applied to them ; and, when the inside of the mouth
is excoriated or tender, as is frequent with infants, even a
very moderate exertion of this kind is accompanied with
extravasation of blood. When children suck the nurse’s
breast, the milk follows their exertion by the pressure of
the air on the breast; and a weak child, or one that with¬
holds its exertions on account of pain from the above men¬
tioned cause, may be assisted by a gentle pressure of the
hand on the breast. The infant pupil of nature, without Effects of
any knowledge of pneumatics, frequently helps itself by ^ Pres-
pressing its face to the yielding breast. sure ^
In the whole of this operation the breathing is perform-. _>_air'
ed through the nostrils ; and it is a prodigious distress to ^
an infant w'hen this passage is obstructed by mucus. We
beg to be forgiven for observing by the way, that this ob¬
struction may be almost certainly removed for a little while,
by rubbing the child’s nose with any liquid of quick evapo¬
ration, or even with water.
The operation in drinking is not very different from that Of drink-
in sucking. We have indeed little occasion here to suck,ing*
but we must do it a little. Dogs, and some other animals,
cannot drink, but only lap the water into their mouths with
their tongues, and then swallow it. The gallinaceous birds
seem to drink very imperfectly. They seem merely to dip
their head into the water, up to the eyes, till their mouth is
filled with water, and then holding up the head, it gets in¬
to the gullet by its weight, and is then swallowed. The
elephant drinks in a very complicated manner. He dips
his trunk into the water, and fills it by making a void in
his mouth. This he does in the contrary way to man.
After having depressed his tongue, he begins the applica¬
tion of it to the palate at the root, and by extending the
application forward, he expels the air by the mouth which
came into it from the trunk. The process here is not very
unlike that of the condensing syringe without a piston
valve, in which the external air, corresponding to the air
in the trunk, enters by the hole in the side, and is ex¬
pelled through the hole in the end of the barrel; by this
operation the trun k is filled with water ; then he lifts his
trunk out of the water, and bringing it to his mouth, pours
the contents into it, and swallows it. On considering this
operation, it appears that, by the same process by which
the air of the trunk is taken into the mouth, the water
could also be taken in, to be afterwards sw allowed; but
we do not find, upon inquiry, that this is done by the ele¬
phant ; we have always observed him to drink in the man¬
ner now described. In either way it is a double operation,
and cannot be carried on any way but by alternately suck¬
ing and swallowing, and while one operation is going on,
the other is interrupted; whereas man can do both at the
same time. Nature seems to delight in exhibiting to ra¬
tional observers her inexhaustible variety of resource ; for
many insects which drink w ith a trunk, drink without in¬
terruption ; yet we do not call in question the truth of the
aphorism, Natura maxime simplex et semper sibi consona,
nor doubt but that, if the whole of her purpose were seen,
we should find that her process is the simplest possible ; for
Nature, or Nature’s God, is wise above our wisest thoughts,
and simplicity is certainly the choice ot wisdom ; but, alas ’
it is generally but a small and the most obvious part of her
purpose that we can observe or appreciate. \\ e seldom
see this simplicity of nature stated to us, except by some
system-maker, who has found a principle which somehow
tallies with a considerable variety of phenomena, and then
cries out, Frustra sit per plura quod fieri potest per pan¬
dora.
There is an operation similar to that of the elephant, which Mode of
manyfindagreatdifficulty in acquiring; namely, keeping up a keePin& UP
continued blast with a blow-pipe. We would desire our che-^ast witha
mical reader to attend minutely to the gradual action of hisblow pjpc
tongue in sucking, and he will find it such as we have described.
Let him attend particularly to the way in which the tip of
the tongue performs the office of a valve, preventing the
turn of the water into the pipe ; and the same position of the
tongue w ould hinder air from coming into the mouth. Next
let him observe, that in swallowing what water he has now-
got lodged above his tongue, he continues the tip of the
tongue applied to the teeth ; now let him shut his mouth,
keeping his lips firm together, the tip of the tongue at the
126
PNEUMATICS.
Nature of
the land
and sea-
breeze in
warm
countries.
Effects of teeth, and the whole tongue forcibly kept at a distance from
the pres- t}ie palate; bring up the tongue to the palate, and allow
sure of the j.jie ^jp separate a little from the teeth, this will expel
air* the air into the space between the fauces and cheeks, and
^ wjp blow up the cheeks a little ; then, acting with the tip
of the tongue as a valve, hinder this air from getting back,
and depressing the tongue again, more air from the nos¬
trils will get into the mouth, which may be expelled into
the space without the teeth as before, and the cheeks will
be more inflated. Continue this operation, and the lips will
no longer be able to retain it, and it will ooze through as
long as the operation is continued. When this has become
familiar and easy, take the blow-pipe, and there will ^be no
difficulty in maintaining a blast as uniform as a smith’s bel¬
lows, breathing all the while through the nostrils. The
only difficulty is the holding the pipe. This fatigues the
lips ; but it may be removed by giving the pipe a conve¬
nient shape, a pretty flat oval, and wrapping it round with
leather or thread.
Another phenomenon depending on the principles al¬
ready established, is the land and sea-breeze in the warm
countries. We have seen that air expands exceedingly by
heat; therefore heated air, being lighter than an equal bulk
of cold air, must rise in it. If we lay a hot stone in the
sunshine in a room, we shall observe the shadow of the
stone surrounded with a fluttering shadow of different de¬
grees of brightness, and that this flutter rises rapidly in a
column above the stone. If we hold an extinguished candle
near the stone, we shall see the smoke move towards the
stone, and then ascend from it. Now, suppose an island
receiving the first rays of the sun in a perfectly calm morn¬
ing ; the ground will soon be warmed, and will warm the
contiguous air. If the island be mountainous, this effect
will be more remarkable ; because the inclined sides of the
hills will receive the light more directly. The midland air
will therefore be most warmed. The heated air will rise,
and that in the middle will rise fastest; and thus a current
of air upwards will begin, which must be supplied by air
coming in from all sides, to be heated and to rise in its
turn ; so that the morning sea-breeze is produced, and
continues all day. This current will frequently be revers¬
ed during the night, by the air cooling and gliding down
the sides of the hills, and we shall have the land-breeze.
Circulation It is owing to the same cause that we have a circulation
of air in of air in mines which have the mouths of their shafts of un-
mines. equal heights. The temperature under ground is pretty
constant through the whole year, while that of the atmos¬
phere is extremely variable. Now, suppose a mine having
a long horizontal drift, communicating between two pits or
shafts, and that one of these shafts terminates in a valley,
while the other opens on the brow of a hill perhaps 100 feet
higher. Let us further suppose it summer, and the air
heated to 65°, while the temperature of the earth is but
45° ; this last will be also the temperature of the air in the
shafts and the drift. Now, since air expands nearly 24 parts
in 10,000 by one degree of heat, we shall have an odds of
pressure at the bottom of the two shafts equal to nearly the
20th part of the weight of a column of air 100 feet high
(100 feet being supposed the difference of the heights of
the shafts.) This will be about six ounces on every square
foot of the section of the shaft. If this pressure could be
continued, it would produce a prodigious current of air
down the long shafts, along the drift, and up the short shaft.
The weight of air acting through 100 feet would commu¬
nicate to it the velocity of 80 feet per second : divide this
by */20, that is, by 4-5, and we shall have 18 feet per se¬
cond for the velocity : this is the velocity of what is called
a brisk gale. This pressure would be continued, if the
warm air which enters the long shaft were cooled and con¬
densed as fast as it comes in ; but this is not the case. It
is however^cooled and condensed, and a current is produced
sufficient to make an abundant circulation of air along the Effects of
whole passage ; and care is taken to dispose the shafts and the pres^
conduct the passages in such a manner that no part of thesureal,r e
mine is out of the circle. When any new lateral drift is
made, the renewal of air at its extremity becomes more im¬
perfect as it advances: and when it is carried a certain
length, the air stagnates and becomes suffocating, till either
a communication can be made with the rest of the mine, or
a shaft be made at the end of this drift.
As this current depends entirely on the difference of
temperature between the air below and that above, it must
cease when this difference ceases. Accordingly, in the
spring and autumn, the miners complain much of stagna¬
tion ; but in summer they never want a current from the
deep pits to the shallow, nor in the winter a current from
the shallow pits to the deep ones. It frequently happens
also, that in mineral countries the chemical changes which
are going on in different parts of the earth occasion differ¬
ences of temperature sufficient to produce a sensible current.
And this naturally leads us to consider a very important The nature
effect of the expansion and consequent ascent of air by heat,
namely, the drawing, as it is called, ot chimneys. I he air ltl
which has contributed to the burning of fuel must be i^1" chimneys,
tensely heated, and will rise in the atmosphere. This will
also be the case with much of the surrounding air which
has come very near the fire, although not in contact w ith
it. If this heated air be made to rise in a pipe, it will be
kept together, and therefore will not soon cool and collapse :
thus we shall obtain a long column of light air, which will
rise with a force so much the greater as the column is long¬
er or more heated. Therefore the taller we make the chim¬
ney, or the hotter we make the fire, the more rapid will be
the current, or the draught or suction, as it is injudiciously
called, will be so much the greater. The ascensional force
is the difference between the weight of the column of heat¬
ed air in the funnel and a column of the surrounding at¬
mosphere of equal height. We increase the draught, there¬
fore, by increasing the perpendicular height of the chimney.
Its length in a horizontal direction gives no increase, but,
on the contrary, diminishes the draught by cooling the air
before it gets into the effective part of the funnel. We in¬
crease the draught also by obliging all the air which enters
the chimney to come very near the fuel; therefore a low
mantle-piece will produce this effect; also filling up all the
spaces on each side of the grate. When much air gets in
above the fire, by having a lofty mantle-piece, the general
mass of air in the chimney cannot be much heated. Hence
it must happen that the greatest draught will be produced
by bringing down the mantle-piece to the very fuel; but
this converts a fire-place into a furnace, and by thus send¬
ing the whole air through the fuel, causes it to burn with
great rapidity, producing a prodigious heat; and this pro¬
ducing an increase of ascensional force, the current becomes
furiously rapid, and the heat and consumption of fuel im¬
mense. If the fire-place be a cube of a foot and a half, and
the front closed by a door, so that all the air must enter
through the bottom of the grate, a chimney of fifteen or
twenty feet high, and sufficiently wide to give passage to
all the expanded air which can pass through the fire, wall
produce a current which will roar like thunder, and a heat
sufficient to run the whole inside into a lump of glass.
All that is necessary, however, in a chamber fire-place,
is a current sufficiently great for carrying up the smoke and
vitiated air of the fuel. And as we want also the enliven¬
ing light and flutter of the fire, we give the chimney-piece
both a much greater height and width than what is merely
necessary for carrying up the smoke, only wishing to have
the current sufficiently determinate and steady for counter¬
acting any occasional tendency which it may sometimes
have to come into the room. By allowing a greater quan¬
tity of air to get into the chimney, heated only to a mode-
PNEUMATICS.
jTects of rate degree, we produce a more rapid renewal of the air of
e pres- the r0om : did we oblige it to come so much nearer the fire
ire ot t0 pro(juce the same renewal of the air in consequence
ail‘_ of a more rapid current, we should produce an inconveni-
ent heat. But in this country, where pit-coal is in general
so very cheap, we carry this indulgence to an extreme; or
rather we have not studied how to get all the desired ad¬
vantages with economy. A much smaller renewal of air
than we commonly produce is abundantly wholesome and
pleasant, and we may have all the pleasure of the light and
flame of the fuel at much less expense, by contracting greatly
the passage into the vent. The best way of doing this is
by contracting the brick-work on each side behind the man¬
tle-piece, and reducing it to a narrow parallelogram, having
the back of the vent for one of its long sides. Make an
iron plate to fit this hole, of the same length, but broader,
so that it may lie sloping, its lower edge being in contact
with the foreside of the hole, and its upper edge leaning on
the back of the vent. In this position it shuts the hole en¬
tirely. Now let the plate have a hinge along the front or
lower edge, and fold up like the lid of a chest. We shall
thus be able to enlarge the passage at pleasure. In a
fire-place fit for a room of 24 feet by 18, if this plate be
about 18 inches long from side to side, and folded back
within an inch or an inch and a half of the wall, it will
allow passage for as much air as will keep up a very cheer¬
ful fire; and by raising or lowering this register, the fire
may be made to burn more or less rapidly. A free passage
of half an inch will be sufficient in weather that is not im¬
moderately cold. The principle on which this construction
produces its effect is, that the air which is in the front of
the fire, and much warmed by it, is not allowed to get into
the chimney, w’here it would be immediately hurried up
the vent, but rises up to the ceiling and is diffused over the
whole room. This double motion of the air may be dis¬
tinctly observed by opening a little of the door and holding
a candle in the way. If the candle be held near the floor,
the flame will be blown into the room ; but if held near the
top of the door, the flame will be blown outward.
'scrip- But the most perfect method of warming an apartment
n of a in the temperate climates, where we can indulge in the
've-grate cheerfulness and sweet air produced by an open fire, is what
chapelfc. we cal] a stove-grate, and our neighbours on the Continent
call a chapelle, from its resemblance to the chapels or ora¬
tories in the great churches.
In the great chimney-piece, which, in this case, ma.y be
made even larger than ordinary, is set a smaller one fitted
up in the same style of ornament, but of a size no greater
than is sufficient for holding the fuel. The sides and back
of it are made of iron (cast iron is preferable to hammered
iron, because it does not so readily calcine), and are kept
at a small distance from the sides and back of the main
chimney- piece, and are continued down to the hearth, so^
that the ash-pit is also separated. The pipe or chimney of
the stove grate is carried up behind the ornaments of the
mantle-piece till it rises above the mantle-piece of the main
chimney-piece, and is fitted with a register or damper-plate
turning round a traverse axis. The best form of this re¬
gister is that which we have recommended for an ordinary
fire-place, having its axis or joint close at the front; so that
when it is open or turned up, the burnt air and smoke strik¬
ing it obliquely, are directed with certainty into the vent,
without any risk of reverberating and coming out into the
room. All the rest of the vent is shut up by iron-plates or
brick-work out of sight.
The effect of this construction is very obvious. The
fuel, being in immediate contact with the back and sides of
the grate, heats them to a great degree, and they heat the
air contiguous to them. This heated air cannot get up the
vent, because the passages above these spaces are shut up.
It therefore comes out into the room; some of it goes into
127
the real fire-place and is carried up the vent, and the rest Effects of
rises to the ceiling and is diffused over the room. the pres-
It is surprising to a person who does not consider it withsure.0^ t^ie
skill, how powerfully this grate warms a room. Less than a11,
one-fourth of the fuel consumed in an ordinary fire-place
is sufficient; and this with the same cheerful blazing hearth jts con_
and salutary renewal of air. It even requires attention tostruction.
keep the room cool enough. The heat communicated to
those parts in contact with the fuel is needlessly great; and
it will be a considerable improvement to line this part with
very thick plates of cast-iron, or with tiles made of fire-clay
wThich will not crack with the heat. These, being very bad
conductors, will make the heat, ultimately communicated
to the air, very moderate. If, with all these precautions,
the heat should be found too great, it may be brought un¬
der perfect management by opening passages into the vent
from the lateral spaces. These may be valves or trap-doors
moved by rods concealed behind the ornaments.
Thus we have a fire-place under the most complete re¬
gulation, where we can always have a cheerful fire without
being for a quarter of an hour incommoded by the heat;
and we can as quickly raise our fire, when too low, by hang¬
ing on a plate of iron on the front, which shall reach as low
as the grate. This in five minutes will blow up the fire
into a glow; and the plate may be sent out of the room,
or set behind the stove-grate out of sight.
The propriety of inclosing the ash-pit is not so obvious ;
but if this be not done, the light ashes, not finding a ready
passage up the chimney, will come out into the room along
with the heated air.
Under this head we shall next give a general account Mod# of
and description of the method of warming apartments by warming
stoves. A stove in general is a fire-place shut up on all apartments
sides, having only a passage for admitting the air to support ^ stoves-
the fire, and a tube for carrying oft' the vitiated air and
smoke ; and the air of the room is warmed by coming into
contact with the outside of the stove and flue. The gene¬
ral principle of construction, therefore, is very simple. The
air must be made to come into as close contact as possible
with the fire, or even to pass through it, and this in such
quantities as just to consume a quantity of fuel sufficient
for producing the heat required; and the stove must be so
constructed, that both the burning fuel and the air which
has been heated by it shall be applied to as extensive a sur¬
face as possible of furnace, all in contact with the air of the
room ; and the heated air within the stove must not be al¬
lowed to get into the funnel which is to carry it off till it
is too much cooled to produce any considerable heat on the
outside of the stove.
In this temperate climate no great ingenuity is necessary
for warming an ordinary apartment; and stoves are made
rather to please the eye as furniture than as economical
substitutes for an open fire of equal calorific power. But
our neighbours on the Continent, and especially towards
the north, where the cold of winter is intense and fuel very
dear, have bestowed much attention on their construction,
and have combined ingenious economy with every elegance
of form. Nothing can be handsomer than the stoves of
Fayencerie that are to be seen in French Flanders, or the
Russian stoves at St. Petersburg, finished in stucco. Our
readers will not, therefore, be displeased with a description
of them. In this place, however, we shall, only consider a
stove in general as a subject of pneumatical discussion, and
refer our readers to the article Stove for stoves as articles
of domestic accommodation.
The general form, therefore, of a stove, and of which General
all others are only modifications adapted to circumstan-form of a
ces of utility or taste, is as follows:.—MIKL (fig. 79-) isstove-
a quadrangular box of any size in the directions MILK.
The inside width from front to back is pretty constant,
never less than 10 inches, and rarely extending to 20;
128
PNEUMATICS.
Effects of included space is divided by a great many partitions,
the pres- •pjjg iowest chamber B is the
sureaj)r 1 e receptacle for the fuel, which
dies on the bottom of the stove
without any grate ; this fire¬
place has a door AO turning
on hinges, and in this door
is a very small wicket P : the
roof of the fire-place extends
to within a very few inches of
the farther end, leaving a nar¬
row passage B for the flame.
The next partition c C is about
eight inches higher, and reaches
almost to the other end, leaving
a narrow passage for the flame
at C. The partitions are re¬
peated above, at the distance
of eight inches, leaving pass¬
ages at the ends, alternately disposed as in the figure ; the
last of them H communicates with the room vent. This
because the heat communicated to the partitions of the Effects of
stove does no good. By diminishing their breadth, the pro- tbe pro¬
portion of useful surface is increased. The whole body ofsur<\r’f th«
the stove may be considered as a long pipe folded up, and. ^
its effect would be the greatest possible it it really were so;
that is, if each partition cC, dl), &c. were split into two,
and a free passage allowed between them for the air of the
room. Something like this will be observed afterwards in
Borne German stoves.
It is with the same view of making an extensive applica¬
tion of a hot surface to the air, that the stove is not built
in the wall, not even in contact with it, nor with the floor;
for by its detached situation, the air in contact with the
back, and with the bottom, where it is hottest, is warmed,
and contributes at least one-half of the whole effect; for
the great heat of the bottom makes its effect on the air of
the room at least equal to that of the two ends. Sometimes
a stove makes part of the wall between two small rooms,
and is found sufficient.
It must be remarked, on the wdiole, that the effect of a
stove depends much on keeping in the room the air already
heated by it. This is so remarkably the case, that a small
ilk
tin]
1
ai
Will
ilffi
communication may be regulated by a plate of iron, which ^
be slid across it by means of a rod or handle which open fire in the same room will be so far from increasing
. •.J ^ i* ..,;n airmiv»ior, • ii will £>vpn clravv
Aim and
effects of
this con¬
struction.
comes through the side. The more usual way of shutting
up this passage is by a sort of pan or bowl of earthen ware,
which is wdielmed over it with its brim resting in sand con¬
tained in a groove formed all round the hole. This dam¬
per is introduced by a door in the front, which is then shut.
The whole is set on low pillars, so that its bottom may be
a few inches from the floor of the room. It is usually placed
in a corner, and the apartments are so disposed that their
chimneys can be joined in stacks as with us.
Some straw or wood shavings are first burnt on the hearth
at its farther end. This wrarms the air in the stove, and
creates a determined current. The fuel is then laid on
the hearth close by the door, and pretty much piled up.
It is now kindled; and the current being already directed
to the vent, there is no danger of any smoke coming out
into the room. Effectually to prevent this, the door is shut,
and the wicket P opened. The air supplied by this, being
directed to the middle or bottom of the fuel, quickly kindles
it, and the operation goes on.
The aim of this construction is very obvious. The flame
its heat, that it will greatly diminish it; it will even
the warm air from a suite of adjoining apartments. This
is distinctly observed in the houses of the English mer¬
chants in St. Petersburg; their habits of life in Britain
make them uneasy without an open fire in their sitting
rooms ; and this obliges them to heat all their stoves twice
a-day, and their houses are cooler than those of the Russians,
who heat them only once. In many German houses, es¬
pecially of the lower class, the fire-place of the stove does
not open into the room, but into the yard or a lobby, where
all the fires are lighted and tended ; by this means is avoid¬
ed the expense of warm air which must have been carried
off by the stove ; but it is evident, that this must be very
unpleasant, and cannot be wholesome. We must breathe
the same quantity of stagnant air loaded with all the va¬
pours and exhalations which must be produced in every in¬
habited place. Going into one of these houses from the
open air, is like putting one’s head into a stew-pan or under
a pie-crust, and quickly nauseates us who are accustomed to
fresh air and cleanliness. In these countries it is a matter
(an
P8
and heated air are retained as long as possible within the almost of necessity, to fumigate the rooms with frankincense
body of the stove by means of the long passages ; and the and other gums burnt. The censer in ancient worship was
narrowness of these passages obliges the flame to come in in all probability an utensil introduced by necessity for
contact with every particle of soot, so as to consume it com- sweetening or rendering tolerable the air of a crowded
pletely, and thus convert the whole combustible matter of place ; and it is a constant practice in the Russian houses
the fuel into heat. For want of this, a very considerable for a servant to go round the room after dinner, waving a
portion of our fuel is wasted by our open fires, even under censer with some gums burning on bits of charcoal.
the very best management. The soot which sticks to our
vents is very inflammable, and a pound weight of it will
give as much if not more heat than a pound of coal. And
what sticks to our vents is very inconsiderable in compari¬
son with what escapes unconsumed at the chimney top. In
fires of green wood, peat, and some kinds of pit-coal, nearly
one-fifth of the fuel is lost in this way ; but in these stoves
there is hardly ever any mark of soot to be seen ; and even
this small quantity is produced only after lighting the fires.
The volatile inflammable matters are expelled from parts
much heated indeed, but not so hot as to burn ; and some
of it charred' or half-burnt cannot be any further consumed,
being enveloped in flame and air already vitiated and unfit
for combustion. But when the stove is well heated, and the
current brisk, no part of the soot escapes the action of the air.
The hot air retained in this manner in the body of the
stove is applied to its sides in a very extended surface. To
increase this still more, the stove is made narrower from
front to back in its upper part; a certain breadth is neces¬
sary below, that there may be room for fuel. If this breadth
were preserved all the way up, much heat would be lost,
The account now given of stoves for heating rooms, and Of hot
of the circumstances which must be attended to in theirwalb^1"
construction, will equally apply to hot walls in gardening,^ e
whether within or without doors. The only new circum¬
stance which this employment of a flue introduces, is the
attention which must be paid to the equability of the heat,
and the gradation which must be observed in different parts
of the building. The heat in the flue gradually diminishes
as it recedes from the fire-place, because it is continually
giving out heat to the flue. It must therefore be so con¬
ducted through the building by frequent returns, that in
every part there may be a mixture of warmer and cooler
branches of the flue, and the final chimney should be close
by the fire-place. It would, however, be improper to run
the flue from the end of the floor up to the ceiling, where
the second horizontal pipe would be placed, and then re¬
turn it downward again and make the third horizontal flue
adjoining to the first, &c. This would make the middle of
the wall the coldest. If it is the flue of a greenhouse, this
would be highly improper, because the upper part of the
wall can be very little employed ; and in this case it is bet-
PNEUMATICS.
: tJects of ter to allow the flue to proceed gradually up the wall in its
e pres- different returns, by which the lowest part would be the
ii e of th® warmest, and the heated air will ascend among the pots
air'_ and plants; but in a hot wall, where the trees are to re-
ceive heat by contact, some approximation to the above
method may be useful. In the hypocausta and fudaria
of the Greeks and Romans, the flue was conducted chiefly
under the floors.
alt-kilns Malt-kilns are a species of stove which merit our atten-
ipecies oftion. Many attempts have been made to improve them on
ive. the principle of flue stoves ; but they have been unsucess-
ful, because heat is not what is chiefly wanted in malting;
it is a copious current of very dry air to carry off the moisture,
f the cur- All that is to be attended to in the different kinds of
it of air melting furnaces is, that the current of air be sufficiently
melting rapid, and that it be applied in as extensive a surface as
•naces. p0SSible to the substance to be melted. The more rapid
the current it is the hotter, because it is consuming more
fuel; and therefore its effect increases in a higher propor¬
tion than its rapidity. It is doubly effectual if twice as hot;
and if it then be twice as rapid, there is twice the quantity
of doubly hot air applied to the subject; it would therefore
be four times more powerful. This is procured by raising
the chimney of the furnace to a greater height. The close
application of it to the subject can hardly be laid down in
general terms, because it depends on the precise circum¬
stances of each case.
rrent in In reverberatory furnaces, such as refining furnaces for
i erbera- gold, silver, and copper, the flame is made to play over the
ity fuma- surface of the melted metal. This is produced entirely by
the form of the furnace, by making the arch of the furnace
as low as the circumstances of the manipulation will allow.
See Furnace. Experience has pointed out in general the
chief circumstances of their construction, viz. that the fuel
should be at one end on a grate, through which the air en¬
ters to maintain the fire; and that the metal should be
placed on a level floor between the fuel and the tall chim¬
ney which produces the current. But there is no kind of
furnace more variable in its effect, and almost every place
has a small peculiarity of construction, on which its pre¬
eminence is rested. This has occasioned many whimsical
varieties in their form. This uncertainty seems to depend
much on a circumstance rather foreign to our present pur¬
pose ; but as we do not observe it taken notice of by mi-
neralogical writers, we beg leave to mention it here. It is
not heat alone that is wanted in the refining of silver by
lead, for instance. We must make a continual application
to its surface of air, which has not contributed to the com¬
bustion of the fuel. Any quantity of the hottest air, al¬
ready saturated with the fuel, may play on the surface of
the metal for ever, and keep it in the state of most perfect
fusion, but without refining it in the least. Now, in the
ordinary construction of a furnace, this is much the case.
If the whole air has come in by the grate, and passed
through the middle of the fuel, it can hardly be otherwise
than nearly saturated with it; and if air be also admitted
by the door, which is generally done or something equiva¬
lent, the pure air lies above the vitiated air, and during the
passage along the horizontal part of the furnace, and along
the surface of the metal, it still keeps above it, at least there
is nothing to promote their mixture. Thus the metal does
not come into contact with air fit to act on the base metal
and calcine it, and the operation of refining goes on slowly.
Trifling circumstances in the form of the arch or canal may
tend to promote the jumbling of the airs together, and thus
render the operation more expeditious; and as these are
but ill understood, or perhaps this circumstance not attend¬
ed to, no wonder that we see these considered as so many
nostrums of great importance. It were therefore worth
while to try the effect of changes in the form of the roof
directed to this very circumstance. Perhaps some little
VOL. XVIII.
129
prominence down from the arch of the reverberatory would Effects of
bave this effect, by suddenly throwing the current into con- the pro¬
fusion. If the additional length of passage do not cool the Sl,re of t!ie
air too much, we should think that if there were interposed air‘
between the fuel and the refining floor a passsage twisted
like a cork-screw, making just half a turn, it would be most
effectual; for we imagine, that the two airs, keeping each
to their respective sides of the passage, would by this means
be turned upside down, and that the pure stratum would
now be in contact with the metal, and the vitiated air would
be above it.
The glass-house furnace exhibits the chief variety in the Current in
management of the current of heated air. In this it is ne- the glass-
cessary that the hole at which the workman dips his pipe house fur-
into the pot shall be as hot as any part of the furnace. Thisnaces‘
could never be the case, if the furnace had a chimney situ¬
ated in a part above the dipping-hole; for in this case cold
air would immediately rush in at the hole, play over the
surface of the pot, and go up the chimney. To prevent
this the hole itself is made the chimney ; but as this would
be too short, and would produce very little current and very
little heat, the whole surface is set under a tall dome. Thus
the heated air from the real furnace is confined in this dome,
and constitutes a high column of very light air, which will
therefore rise with great force up the dome, and escape at
the top. The dome is therefore the chimney, and will pro¬
duce a draught or current proportioned to its height. Some
are raised above a hundred feet. When all the doors of
this house are shut, and thus no supply given except through
the fire, the current and heat become prodigious. This,
however, cannot be done, because the workmen are in this
chimney, and must have respirable air. But notwithstand¬
ing this supply by the house-doors, the draught of the real
furnace is vastly increased by the dome, and a heat produced
sufficient for the work, and which could not have been pro¬
duced without the dome.
This has been applied with great ingenuity and effect to Cotterel’s
a furnace for melting iron from the ore, and an iron finery, improve-
both without a blast. The common blast iron furnace ismen^ for
well known. It is a tall cone with the apex undermost.
The ore and fluxes are thrown into this cone mixed inti-the ore
mately with the fuel till it is full, and the blast of most
powerful bellows is directed into the bottom of this cone
through a hole in the side. The air is thrown in with such
force, that it makes its way through the mass of matter,
kindles the fuel in its passage, and fluxes the materials,
which then drop down into a receptacle below the blast-
hole, and thus the passage for the air is kept unobstructed.
It was thought impossible to produce or maintain this cur¬
rent without bellows ; but Mr.Cotterel, an ingenious foun¬
der, tried the effect of a tall dome placed over the mouth
of the furnace, and though it was not half the height of
many glass-house domes it had the desired effect.
The last application which we shall make of the currents Currents of
produced by heating the air is to the freeing mines, ships, air applied
prisons, &c. from the damp and noxious vapours which fre-t0.free
quently infest them. As a drift or work is carried on in the noxious
mine, let a trunk of deal boards, about six or eight inches air
square, be laid along the bottom of the drift, communicating
with a trunk carried up in the corner of one of the shafts. Let
the top of this last trunk open into the ash-pit of a small fur¬
nace, having a tall chimney. Let fire be kindled in the fur¬
nace ; and when it is well heated, shut the fire-place and ash¬
pit doors. There being no other supply for the current pro¬
duced in the chimney of this furnace, the air will flow into
it from the trunk, and will bring along with it all the offen¬
sive vapours. This is the most effectual method yet found
out. In the same manner may trunks be conducted into
the ash-pit of a furnace from tile cells of a prison or the
wards of an hospital.
In the account which we have been giving of the manage-
K
130
Pneumatic ment of air in furnaces and common fires, we have frequently
engines- mentioned the immediate application of air to the burning
fuel as necessary for its combustion. T his is a general fact.
Air neces- |-n order that any inflammable body may be readily inflamed,
sary for the anc| comkustikie matter consumed and ashes produced,
of'Tuel- 10n ^ *s no^ enou»h that the body be made hot. A piece of
charcoal inclosed in a box of iron may be kept red hot for
ever, without wasting its substance in the smallest degree.
It is further necessary that it be in contact with a particu¬
lar species of air, which constitutes about three-fourths of
the air of the atmosphere, viz. the vital air or oxygen of
Lavoisier. It was called empyreal air by Scheele, who first
observed its indispensable use in maintaining fire ; and it
appears, that, in contributing to the combustion of an in¬
flammable body, this air combines with some of its ingredi¬
ents, and becomes fixed air, suffering the same change as
by the breathing of animals. Combustion may therefore
be considered as a solution of the inflammable body in air.
This doctrine was first promulgated by the celebrated Dr.
Hooke in his Micrographia, published in 1660, and after¬
wards improved in his Treatise on Lamps. It is now com¬
pletely established, and considered as a new discovery. It
is for this reason, that in fire-places of all kinds we have
directed the construction, so as to produce a close applica¬
tion of the air to the fuel. It is quite needless at this day
to enter into the discussions which formerly occupied phi¬
losophers about the manner in which the pressure and elas¬
ticity of the air promoted combustion. Many experiments
were made in the seventeenth century by the first members
of the Royal Society, to discover the office of air in com¬
bustion. It was thought that the flame was extinguished
in rare air for want of a pressure to keep it together ; but
this did not explain its extinction when the air was not re¬
newed. These experiments are still retained in courses of
experimental philosophy, as they are judiciously styled; but
they give little or no information, nor tend to the illustra¬
tion of any pneumatical doctrine ; they are therefore omit¬
ted in this place. In short, it is now fully established, that
it is not a mechanical but a chemical phenomenon. We
can only inform the chemist, that a candle will consume
faster in the low countries than in the elevated regions of
Quito and Gondar, because the air is nearly one half denser
below, and will act proportionally faster in decomposing the
candle.
Curious We shall conclude this part of our subject with the ex¬
effect of the planation of a curious phenomenon observed in many pla-
pressure of ces. Certain springs or fountains are observed to have
the air. periods of repletion and scantiness, or seem to ebb and flow
at regular intervals; and some of these periods are of a
complicated nature. Thus a well will have several returns
of high and low water, the difference of which gradually
increases to a maximum, and then diminishes, just as we
observe in the ocean. A very ingenious and probable ex¬
planation of this has been given in No. 424 of the Philo¬
sophical Transactions, by Mr. Atwell.
Let ABCD (fig. 90,) represent a cavern, into which
water is brought by the subterraneous passage OT. Let
Fig. 90.
it have an outlet MNP, of a crooked form, with its highest
PNEUMATICS.
part N considerably raised above the bottom of the cavern, Pneumatic
and thence sloping downwards into lower ground, and ter- engines,
minating in an open well at P. Let the dimensions of this
canal be such that it will discharge much more water than
is supplied by TO. All this is very natural, and may be
very common. The effect of this arrangement will be a
remitting spring at P ; for when the cavern is filled higher
than the point N, the canal MNP will act as a syphon ; and,
by the conditions assumed, it will discharge the water faster
than TO supplies it; it will therefore run it dry, and then
the spring at P will cease to furnish water. After some
time the cavern will again be filled up to the height N, and
the flow at P will recommence.
If, besides this supply, the well P also receive water from
a constant force, we shall have a reciprocating spring. The
situation and dimensions of this syphon canal, and the
supply of the feeder, may be such, that the efflux at P
will be constant. If the supply increase in a certain de¬
gree, a reciprocation will be produced at P with very short
intervals ; if the supply diminishes considerably, we shall
have another kind of reciprocation with great intervals and
great differences of water.
If the cavern have another simple outlet R, new varie¬
ties will be produced in the spring P, and R will afford a
copious spring. Let the mouth of R, by which the water
enters into it from the cavern, be lower than N, and let the
supply of the feeding spring be no greater than R can dis¬
charge, we shall have a constant spring from R, and P will
give no water. But suppose that the main feeder increases
in winter or in rainy seasons, but not so much as will sup¬
ply both P and R, the cavern will fill till the water gets
over N, and R will be running all the while ; but soon
after P has begun to flow, and the water in the cavern
sinks below R, the stream from R will stop. The cavern
will be emptied by the syphon canal MNP, and then P will
stop. The cavern will then begin to fill, and when near
full R will give a little water, and soon after P will run
and R stop as before, &c. Desaguliers shows (vol. ii. p. 177,
&c.) in what manner a prodigious variety of periodical
ebbs and flows may be produced by underground canals,
which are extremely simple and probable.
We shall conclude this article with the descriptions of Account of
some pneumatical machines or engines which have not beensom.e P1'61,
particularly noticed under their names in the former vol- en
umes of this work.
Bellows are of most extensive and important use ; and it
will be of service to describe such as are of uncommon con¬
struction and power, sufficient for the great operations in
metallurgy.
It is not the impulsive force of the blast that is wanted
in most cases, but merely the copious supply of air, to pro¬
duce the rapid combustion of inflammable matter ; and the
service would be better performed in general if this could
be done with moderate velocities, and an extended surface.
What are called air-furnaces, where a considerable surface
of inflammable matter is acted on at once by the current
which the mere heat of the expended air has produced, are
found more operative in proportion to the air expended than
blast furnaces animated by bellows ; and we doubt not but
that the method proposed by Mr. Cotterel, which we have
already mentioned, of increasing this current in a melting
furnace by means of a dome, will in time supersede the
blast furnaces. There is indeed a great impulsive force re¬
quired in some cases ; as for blowing off the scoriae from
the surface of silver or copper in refining furnaces, or for
keeping a clear passage for the air in the great iron fur¬
nace.
In general, however, we cannot procure this abundant
supply of air any other way than by giving it a great velo¬
city by means of a great pressure, so that the general con¬
struction of bellows is pretty much the same in all kinds.
pr.eui
w*-
PNEUMATICS.
131
; jumatic The air is admitted into a very large cavity, and then ex-
•igines. pelled from it through a small hole.
The furnaces at the mines having been greatly enlarged,
it was necessary to enlarge the bellows also ; and the lea¬
thern bellows becoming exceedingly expensive, wooden ones
were substituted in Germany about the beginning of the
seventeenth century, and from them became general through¬
out Europe. They consist of a wooden box ABCPFE,fig.91,
Fig. 91-
which has its top and two sides flat or straight, and the end
BAE formed into an arched or cylindrical surface, of
which the line FP at the other end is the axis. This box
is open below, and receives within it the shallow box
KHGNML, fig. 92, which exactly fills it. The line FP
Fig. 92.
T,
a
of the one coincides with FP of the other, and along this
line is a set of hinges on which the upper box turns as it
rises and sinks. The lower box is made fast to a frame fix¬
ed in the ground. A pipe OQ, proceeds from the end of it,
and terminates at the furnace, where it ends in a small pipe
called the fewer or tuyere. This lower box is open above,
and has in its bottom two large valves V, V, fig. 93, opening
Fig. 93.
inwards. The conducting pipe is sometimes furnished with
a valve opening outwards, to prevent burning coals from
being sucked into the bellows when the upper box is drawn
up. The joint along PF is made tight by thin leather nail¬
ed along it. The sides and ends of the fixed box are made
to fit the sides and curved end of the upper box, so that
this last can be raised and lowered round the point F P with¬
out sensible friction, and yet without suffering much air to
escape ; but as this would not be sufficiently air-tight by
reason of the shrinking and warping of the wood, a farther
contrivance is adopted. A slender lath of wood, divided
into several joints, and covered on the outer edge with very
soft leather, is laid along the upper edges of the sides and
ends of the lower box. This lath is so broad, that when
its inner edge is even with the inside of the box, its outer
edge projects about an inch. It is kept in this position by
a number of steel wires, which are driven into the bottom
of the box, and stand up touching the sides, as represented
in fig. 94, where ah c are the wires, and e the lath, pro-
engines.
jecting over the outside of the box. By this contrivance Pneumatic
the laths are pressed close to the sides and
curved end of the moveable box, and the
spring wires yield to all their inequalities.
A bar of wood RS, fig. 91, is fixed to the
upper board, by which it is either raised by
machinery, to sink again by its own weight,
having an additional load laid on it, or it is
forced downward by a crank or wiper of the
machinery, and afterwards raised.
The operation here is precisely similar to that of blow¬
ing with a chamber-bellows. When the board is lifted up)
the air enters by the valves V, V, fig. 93, and is expelled
at the pipe OQ. by depressing the boards. There is there¬
fore no occasion to insist on this point.
These bellows are made of a very great size, AD being
16 feet, AB five feet, and the circular end AE also five
feet. The rise, however, is but about 3 or 3* feet. They
expel at each stroke about 90 cubic feet of air, and they
make about 8 strokes per minute.
Such are the bellows in general use on the continent.
We have adopted a different form in this kingdom, which
seems much preferable. We use an iron or wooden cylin¬
der, with a piston sliding along it. This may be made with
much greater accuracy than the wooden boxes, at less ex¬
pense, if of wood, because it may be of cooper’s work, held
together by hoops ; but the great advantage of this form is
its being more easily made air-tight. The piston is sur¬
rounded with a broad strap of thick and soft leather, and it
has around its edge a deep groove, in which is lodged a
quantity of wool. This is called the packing or stuffing,
and keeps the leather very closely applied to the inner sur¬
face of the cylinder. Iron cylinders may be very neatly
bored and smoothed, so that the piston, even when very
tight, will slide along it very smoothly. To promote this,
a quantity of black lead is ground very fine with water, and
a little of this is smeared on the inside of the cylinder from
time to time.
The cylinder has a large valve, or sometimes two, in the
bottom, by which the atmospheric air enters when the pis¬
ton is drawn up. When the piston is thrust down, this air
is expelled along a pipe of great diameter, which termin¬
ates in the furnace with a small orifice.
This is the simplest form of bellows which can be con¬
ceived. It differs in nothing but size from the bellows used
by the rudest nations. The Chinese smiths have a bellows
very similar, being a square pipe of wood ABCDE, fig. 95,
Fig. 95.
with a square board G which exactly fits it, moved by the
handle FG. At the farther end is the blast pipe HK, and
on each side of it a valve in the end of the square pipe,
opening inwards. The piston is sufficiently tight for their
purposes without any leathering.
The piston of this cylinder bellows is moved by machi¬
nery. In some blast engines the piston is simply raised by
the machine, and then let go, and it descends by its own
weight, and compresses the air below it to such a degree,
that the velocity of efflux becomes constant, and the piston
descends uniformly; for this purpose it must be loaded
with a proper weight. This produces a very uniform blast,
except at the very beginning, whilst the piston falls sudden¬
ly and compresses the air ; but in most engines the piston
rod is forced down the cylinder with a determined motion,
by means of a beam, crank, or other contrivance. This
PNEUMATICS.
132
Pneumatic gives a more unequal blast, because the motion of the pis-
engines. jon js necessarily slow in the beginning and end of the
’ stroke, and quicker in the middle.
But in all it is plain that the blast must be desultory.
It ceases while the piston is rising; for this reason it is
usual to have two cylinders, as it was formerly usual to have
two bellows which worked alternately, feometimes three
or four are used, as at the Carron iron-works. This makes
a blast abundantly uniform.
But an uniform blast may be made with a single cylin¬
der, by making it deliver its air into another cylinder, which
has a piston exactly fitted to its bore, and loaded with a suf¬
ficient weight. The blowing cylinder ABCD, fig. 96, has
its piston P worked by a rod NP,
connected by double chains with
the arched head of the working
beam NO, moving round a gud¬
geon at R. The other end O of
this beam is connected by the
rod OP, with the crank PQ. of a
wheel machine; or it may be
connected with a piston of a steam-
engine, &c. See. The blowing cy¬
linder has a valve or valves E
in its bottom, opening inwards.
There proceeds from it a large
pipe CF, which enters the regu¬
lating cylinder GHKI, and has
a valve at top to prevent the air
from getting back into the blowing cylinder. It is evident
that the air forced into this cylinder must raise its piston L,
and that it must afterwards descend, while the other piston
is rising. It must descend uniformly, and make a perfect¬
ly equable blast.
Observe, that if the piston L be at the bottom when the
machine begins to work, it will be at the bottom at the end
of every stroke if the tuyere T emits as much air as the
cylinder ABCD furnishes ; nay, it will lie a while at the
bottom, for, while it was rising, air was issuing through T.
This would make an interrupted blast. To prevent this,
the orifice T must be lessened; but then there will be a
surplus of air at the end of each stroke, and the piston L
will rise continually, and at last get to the top, and allow
air to escape. It is just possible to adjust circumstances,
so that neither shall happen. This is done easier by put¬
ting a stop in the way of the piston, and putting a valve on
the piston, or on the conducting pipe KST, loaded with a
weight a little superior to the intended elasticity of the air
in the cylinder. Therefore, when the piston is prevented
by the stop from rising, the snifting valve, as it is called, is
forced open, the superfluous air escapes, and the blast pre¬
serves its uniformity.
It may be of use to give the dimensions of a machine
of this kind, which worked for many years at a very great
furnace, and given satisfaction.
The diameter of the blowing cylinder is 5 feet, and the
length of the stroke is 6. Its piston is loaded with 3^ tons.
It is worked by a steam-engine whose clyinder is 3 feet 4
inches wide, with a six-feet stroke. The regulating cylin¬
der is 8 feet wide, and its piston is loaded with 8^ tons,
making about 2.63 pounds on the square inch ; and it is
very nearly in equilibrio with the load on the piston of the
blowing cylinder. The conducting pipe KST is 12 inches
in diameter, and the orifice of the tuyere was -g ths of an inch
when the engine was erected, but it has gradually enlarged
by reason of the intense heat to which it is exposed. The
snifting valve is loaded with 3 pounds on the square inch.
When the engine worked briskly, it made 18 strokes per
minute, and there was always much air discharged by the
snifting valve. When the engine made 15 strokes per mi¬
nute, the snifting valve opened but seldom, so that things
were nearly adjusted to this supply. Each stroke of the Pneumatic
blowing cylinder sent in 118 cubic feet of common air. eng'I1e8.
The ordinary pressure of the air being supposed 14| pounds
on an inch, the density of the air in the regulating cylinder
must be =1.1783, the natural density be-
14.75
ing ^ .
This machine gives an opportunity of comparing the ex¬
pense of air with the theory. It must, at the rate of 15
strokes, expel 30 cubic feet of air in a second through a
hole of 1|- inches in diameter. This gives a velocity of
near 2000 feet per second, and of more than 1600 feet for
the condensed air. This is vastly greater than the theory
can give, or is indeed possible ; for air does not rush into a
void with so great velocity. It shows with great evidence,
that a vast quantity of air must escape round the two pis¬
tons. Their united circumferences amount to above 40
feet, and they move in a dry cylinder. It is impossible to
prevent a very great loss. Accordingly, a candle held near
the edge of the piston L has its flame very much disturbed.
This case, therefore, gives no hold for a calculation ; and it
suggests the propriety of attempting to diminish this great
waste.
This has been very ingeniously done, in part at least, at
some other furnaces. At a certain foundery, near Glasgow,
the blowing cylinder, also worked by a steam-engine, de¬
livers its air into a chest without a bottom, which is im¬
mersed in a large cistern of water, and supported at a small
height from the bottom of the cistern, and has a pipe from
its top leading to the tuyere. The water stands about five
feet above the lower brim of the regulating air-chest, and
by its pressure gives the most perfect uniformity of blast,
without allowing a particle of air to get off by any other
passage besides the tuyere. This is a very effectual regu¬
lator, and must produce a great saving of power, because a
smaller blowing cylinder will thus supply the blast. We
must observe, that the loss round the piston of the blowing
cylinder remains undiminished.
A blowing machine was erected many years ago at Chas-
tillon in France on a principle considerably different, and
which must be perfectly air-tight throughout. Two cylin¬
ders A, B,(fig. 97) loaded with great weights, were suspended
Fig. 97.
at the ends of the lever CD, moving round the gudgeon E.
From the top F, G of each there was a large flexible pipe
which united in H, from whence a pipe KT led to the
tuyere T. There were valves at F and G opening out¬
wards, or into the flexible pipes; and other valves L, M,
adjoining to them in the top of each cylinder, opening in¬
wards, but kept shut by a slight spring. Motion was given
to the lever by a machine. The operation of this blowing
machine is evident. When the cylinder A was pulled down,
or allowed to descend, the water, entering at its bottom,
compressed the air, and forced it along the passage FHKT.
In the mean time, the cylinder B was rising, and the air
entered by the valve M. We see that the blast will be very
unequal, increasing as the cylinder is immersed deeper. It
is needless to describe this machine more particularly, be¬
cause we shall give an account of one which we think per-
P N E U M
s |ieumatic feet in its kind, and which leaves hardly any thing to be
f< ngines- desired in a machine of this sort.
^ ABCD (fig.98) is an iron cylinder, truly bored within,and
Fig. 98.
evasated a-top like a cup. EFGH is another, truly turned
both without and within, and a small matter less than the in¬
ner diameter of the first cylinder. This cylinder is close
above and hangs from the end of a level moved by a machine.
It is also loaded with weights at N. KILM is a third cy¬
linder, whose outside diameter is somewhat less than the
inside diameter of the second. This inner cylinder is fixed
to the same bottom with the outer cylinder. The middle
cylinder is loose, and can move up and down between the
outer and inner cylinders without rubbing on either of them.
The inner cylinder is perforated from top to bottom by
three pipes OQ, SV, PR. The pipes OQ, PR have valves
at their upper ends O, P, and communicate with the ex¬
ternal air below. The pipe SV has a horizontal part VW,
which again turns upwards, and has a valve at top X. This
upright part WX is in the middle of a cistern of water fhkg.
Into this cistern is fixed an air-chest aYZ b, open below,
and having at top a pipe ede terminating in the tuyere at
the furnace.
When the machine is at rest, the valves X, O, P, are
shut by their own weights, and the air-chest is full of wa¬
ter. When things are in this state, the middle cylinder
EFGH is drawn up by the machinery till its lower brims
F and G are equal with the top RM of the inner cylinder.
Now pour in water or oil between the outer and middle cy¬
linders ; and it will run down and fill the space between the
outer and inner cylinders. Let it come to the top of the
inner cylinder.
Now, let the loaded middle cylinder descend. It can¬
not do this without compressing the air which is between
its top and the top of the inner cylinder. This air being
compressed, will cause the water to descend between the
inner and middle cylinders, and rise between the middle and
outer cylinders, spreading into the cup ; and as the middle
cylinder advances downwards, the water will descend far¬
ther within it, and rise farther without it. When it has got
so far down, and the air has been so much compressed, that
the difference between the surface of the water on the in¬
side and outside of this cylinder is greater than the depth
of water between X and the surface of the water/V/, air
will go out by the pipe SVW, and will lodge in the air-
chest, and will remain there if c be shut, which we shall
suppose for the present. Pushing down the middle cylin¬
der till the partition touch the top of the inner cylinder, all
the air which was formerly between them will be forced in¬
to the air-chest, and will drive out water from it. Draw up
the middle cylinder, and the external air will open the
valves O, P, and again fill the space between the middle
and inner cylinders ; for the valve X will shut, and prevent
the regress of the condensed air. By pushing down the
A T I C S. 13.3
middle cylinder a second time, more air will be forced into Pneumatic-
the air-chest, and it will at last escape by getting out be- engines,
tween its brims Y, Z, and the bottom of the cistern; or ifv,^V'^^
we open the passage c, it will pass along the conduit c d e
to the tuyere, and form a blast.
The operation of this machine is similar to Mr. Haskins’s
quicksilver pump, described by Desaguliers.1 The force
which condenses the air is the load on the middle cylinder.
The use of the wrater between the inner and outer cylin¬
ders, is to prevent this air from escaping ; and the inner
cylinder thus performs the office of a piston, having no fric¬
tion. It is necessary that the length of the outer and mid¬
dle cylinders be greater than the depth of the regulator-
cistern, that there may be a sufficient height for the water
to rise between the middle and outer cylinders, to balance
the compressed air, and oblige it to go into the air-chest.
A large blast-furnace will require the regulator-cistern five
feet deep, and the cylinders about six or seven feet long.
It is in fact a pump without friction, and is perfectly air¬
tight. The quickness of its operation depends on the small
space between the middle cylinder and the two others ; and
this is the only use of these two. Without these it would
be similar to the engine at Chastillon, and operate more
unequally and slowly. Its only imperfection is, that if the
cylinder begin its motion of ascent or descent rapidly, as it
will do when worked by a steam engine, there will be some
danger of water dashing over the top of the inner cylinder,
and getting into the pipe SV ; but should this happen, an
issue can easily be contrived for it at V, covered with a
loaded valve v. This will never happen if the cylinder'is
moved by a crank. One blowing cylinder only is repre¬
sented here, but two may be used.
We do not hesitate in recommending this form of bel¬
lows as the most perfect of any, and fit for all uses where
standing bellows are required. They will be cheaper than
any other sort for common purposes. For a common smith’s
forge they may be made with square wooden boxes instead
of cylinders. They are also easily repaired. They are
perfectly tight; and they may be made with a blast almost
perfectly uniform, by making the cistern in which the air-
chest stands, of considerable dimensions. When this is the
case, the height of water, which regulates the blast, will
vary very little.
This may suffice for an account of blast machines. The
leading parts of their construction have been described as
far only as was necessary for understanding their opera¬
tion, and enabling an engineer to erect them in the most
commodious manner. Views of complete machines might
have amused, but they would not have added to our read ¬
er’s information.
But the account is imperfect unless we show how their
parts may be so proportioned that they shall perform what
is expected from them. The engineer should know what
size of bellows, and what load on the board or piston, and
what size of tuyere, will give the blast which the service
requires, and what force must be employed to give them
the necessary degree of motion. We shall accomplish these
purposes by considering the efflux of the compressed air
through the tuyere. The propositions formerly delivered
will enable us to ascertain this.
That we may proportion everything to the power em¬
ployed, we must recollect, that if the piston of a cylinder
employed for expelling air, be pressed down with any force
p, it must be considered as superadded to the atmospheric
pressure P on the same piston, in order that we may com¬
pare the velocity v of efflux with the known velocity V with
which air rushes into a void. By what has been formerly
delivered, it appears that this velocity v=\ X —— ,
Experimental Philosophy, vol. ii. p. 491; and Philosophical Transactions, 1728, vol. xxxii. p. 5.
134 PNEUMATICS. ||
Pneumatic where P is the pressure of the atmosphere on the piston, evident: we do not know precisely the quantity of air ne- p™«ic
engines. and „ the additional load laid on it. This velocity is ex- cessary for animating a furnace ; but this calculation tells engines,
'pressed in feet per second; and, when multiplied by the us what force must be employed for expelling the air that
area of the orifice (also expressed in square feet) it will give may be thought necessary^. If we have fixed on the strength
us the cubical feet of condensed air expelled in a second ; of the blast, and the diameter of the cyhnder, we learn the
but the bellows are always to be filled again with common weight with which the piston must be loaded ; the length
air, and therefore we want to know the quantity of common of the cylinder determines its capacity, the above calcula-
air which will be expelled ; for it is this which determines tion tells the expense per second ; hence we have the time
the number of strokes which must be made in a minute, in of the piston’s coming to the bottom. This gives us the
order that the proper supply mav be obtained. Therefore number of strokes per minute. The load must be lifted up
recollect that the quantity expelled from a given orifice by the machine this number of times, making the time ot
with a given velocity, is in the proportion of the density; and ascent precisely equal to that of descent; otherwise the
that when D is the density of common air produced by the machine will either catch and stop the descent of the pis-
pressure P, the density d produced by the pressure P-pp> ton, or allow it to lie inacthe for a while of each stioke.
is Dx
P+P
or if D be made i, we have d-
P+P
p ’  ' P
Therefore, calling the area of the orifice expressed in
square feet O, and the quantity of common air,^ or the
cubic feet expelled in a second Q, wre have X O X
/
P
P+P
P
These circumstances determine the labour to be performed
by the machine, and it must be constructed accordingly.
Thus the engineer will not be affronted by its failure, nor
will he expend needless power and cost.
In machines wdiich force the piston or bellowTs board with
a certain determined motion, different from what arises from
their own weight, the computation is extremely intricate.
When a piston moves by a crank, its motion at the begin-
ning and end of each stroke is slow, and the compression
It will be sufficiently exact for all practical purposes, to and efffrix is continually changing. We can however ap-
suppose P to be 15 pounds on every squaie inch of tiepin- proximate to a statement of the force required,
ton; andp is then conveniently expressed by the pounds Even,7 time the piston is drawn up, a certain space of the
of additional load on every square inch. W e may also take Cy];nder js filled again with air of the common density ;
V—1332 feet. . . and this is expelled during the descent of the piston. A
As the orifice through which the air is expelled is gene- certajn number of cubic feet of common air is therefore ex¬
rally very small, never exceeding three inches in diameter, peiied wdij a velocity which perhaps continually varies ;
Uo — tn ovnrp^ it in snnnrP inohes : ^ ^ & medium velocity with which it might have
been uniformly expelled, and a pressure corresponding to
this velocity. " To find this, divide the area of the piston
by the area of the blast-hole (or rather by this area multi¬
plied by 0-613, in order to take in the effect of the con¬
tracted jet), and multiply the length of the stroke perform¬
ed in a second by the quotient arising from this division;
the product is the medium velocity of the air (of the natu¬
ral density). Then find by calculation the height through
which a heavy body must fall in order to acquire this velo¬
city ; this is the height of a column of homogeneous air
which would expel it with this velocity. The w7eight of
this column is the least force that can be exerted by the
engine : but this force is too small to overcome the resist¬
ance in the middle of the stroke, and it is too great even
for the end of the stroke, and much too great for the begin¬
ning of it. But if the machine is turned by a very heavy
water-wheel, this will act as a regulator, accumulating in
it will be more convenient to express it in square inches
which being the T^?th of a square foot, we shall have the
cubic feet of common air expelled in a second, or Q=
1332
144
O
p
V+p
*p+/>
A p ’
=0 x9-25 X
y:
p+p
p+P\ r
and this seems to be as simple an expression as we can obtain.
This will perhaps be illustrated by taking an example in
numbers. Let the area of the piston be four square feet,
and the area of the round hole through which the air is ex¬
pelled, be two inches, its diameter being 1.6, and let the
load on the piston be 1728 pounds; this is three pounds
on every square inch. We have P=15, p=3, P-(-p=
18, and 0=2 ; therefore we will have Q=2 X 9.25 x
18
X —, =9-053 cubic feet of common air expelled in
15
18,
a second. This will however be diminished at least one-
third by the contraction of the jet; and therefore the sup¬
ply will not exceed six cubic feet per second. Supposing itself the superfluous force during the too favourable posi-
therefore that this blowing machine is a cylinder or prism tions of the crank, and exerting it by its vis insita during
of this dimension in its section, the piston so loaded would,
after having compressed the air, descend about 15 inches
in a second. It would first sink one-fifth of the whole
length of the cylinder pretty suddenly, till it had reduced
the air to the density j-f, and would then descend uniform¬
ly at the above rate, expelling six cubic feet of common
air in a second.
The computation is made much in the same way for bel¬
lows of the common form, with this additional circumstance,
that as the loaded board moves round a hinge at one end,
the pressure of the load must be calculated accordingly.
The computation, however, becomes a little intricate, when
the form of the loaded board is not rectangular. It is al¬
most useless when the bellows have flexible sides, either
like smith’s bellows or like organ bellows, because the change
of figure during their motion makes continual variation on
the compressing powers. It is therefore chiefly with re¬
spect to the great wooden bellows, of which the upper
board slides down between the sides, that the above calcu¬
lation is of service.
The propriety, however, of this piece of information is
the time of greatest effort. A force not greatly exceeding
the weight of this column of air will therefore suffice. On
the other hand, if the strength of the blast be determined,
which is the general state of the problem, this determines
the degree of condensation of the air, and the load on the
square inch of the piston, or the mean force which the ma¬
chine must exert on it. A table, which will be given pre¬
sently, determines the cubic feet of common air expelled
in a second, corresponding to this load. This combined
with the proposed dimensions of the cylinder, will give the
descent of the piston or the length of the stroke.
These general observations apply to all forms of bellows ;
and without a knowledge of them no person can erect a
machine for working them without total uncertainty or ser¬
vile imitation. In order, therefore, that they may be use¬
ful to such as are not accustomed to the management of
even these simple formulae, we insert the following short
table of the velocity and quantity of air discharged from a
cylinder whose piston is loaded with the pounds contained
in the first column on every square inch. The second co¬
lumn contains the velocity with which the condensed air
PNEUMATICS.
135
1-3umatie rushes out through any small hole ; and the third column
igines. is the cubic feet discharged from a hole whose area is a
square inch ; column fourth contains the mean velocity of
air of the common density ; and column fifth is the cubic
feet of common air discharged; the sixth column is the
height in inches at which the force of the blast would sup¬
port a column of water if a pipe were inserted into the side
of the cylinder. This is an extremely proper addition to
such machines, showing at all times the power of the ma¬
chines, and teaching us what intensity of blast is employed
for different purposes. The table is computed from the
supposition that the ordinary pressure of the air is 15 pounds
on a square inch. This is somewhat too great, and there¬
fore the velocities are a little too small; but the quantities
discharged will be found about one-third too great, without
affecting the velocities, on account of the convergency of
the stream.
This table extends far beyond the limits of ordinary use,
very few blast-furnaces having a force exceeding 60 inches
of water.
We shall conclude this account of blowing machines with
a description of a small one for a blow-pipe. ABCD, (fig.
99) is a vessel containing water, about
two feet deep. EFGH is the air-box of
the blower open below, and having a pipe
ILK rising up from it to a convenient
height; an arm ON which grasps this
pipe carries the lamp N: the blow-pipe
LM comes from the top of the upright
pipe. PKQ. is the feeding-pipe reaching
near to the bottom of the vessel.
Water being poured into the vessel be¬
low, and its cover being put on, which
fits the upright pipe, and touches two
studs a, a, projecting from it, blow in a
quantity of air by the feeding pipe PO;
this expels the water from the air-box,
and occasions a pressure which produces
the blast through the blowr-pipe M.
In a preceding part of this article, we mentioned an appli¬
cation which has been made of Hero’s fountain, at Chemnitz
in Hungary, for raising water from the bottom of a mine. We
shall now give an account of this very ingenious contrivance.
In fig. 100, B represents the source of water elevated
above the mouth of the pit 136 feet. From this there is
led a pipe B6CD four inches diameter. This pipe enters
the top of a copper cylinder b c d e, feet high, five feet
diameter, and two inches thick, and it reaches to within four
inches of the bottom ; it has a cock at C. This cylinder
has a cock at F, and a very large one at E. From the top b c
proceeds a pipe GKH' two inches in diameter, which goes
down the pit 96 feet, and is inserted into the top of another
brass cylindery^/u, which is 6^ feet high, four feet diame¬
ter, and twro inches thick, containing 83 cubic feet, whiich is
very nearly one-half of the capacity of the other, viz. of 170
Fig. 99-
cubic feet. There is another pipe NI of four inches diameter, Pneumatic
Fig. 100.
which rises from
within four inches
of the bottom of
this lower cylin¬
der, is soldered in¬
to its top, and rises
to the trough NO,
which carries off
the water from
the mouth of the
pit. This lower
cylinder commu¬
nicates at the bot¬
tom with the wa¬
ter L which col¬
lects in the drains
of the mine. A
large cock K
serves to admit or
exclude this wa¬
ter ; another cock
M, at the top of
this cylinder,com¬
municates with
the external air.
Now, suppose the cock C shut, and all the rest open; the
upper cylinder will contain air, and the lowrer cylinder will
be filled with water, because it is sunk so deep that its top
is below the usual surface of the mine-waters. Now, shut
the cocks F, E, M, K, and open the cock C. The water of
the source B must run in by the orifice D, and rise in the
upper cylinder, compressing the air above it and along the
pipe GHH', and thus acting on the surface of the water
in the lower cylinder. It will therefore cause it to rise
gradually in the pipe IN, where it will always be of such
a height that its weight balances the elasticity of the com¬
pressed air. Suppose no issue given to the air from the
upper cylinder, it would be compressed into one-fifth of
its bulk by the column of 136 feet high ; for a column of
34 feet nearly balances the ordinary elasticity of the air.
Therefore, when there is an issue given to it through the
pipe GHH', it will drive the compressed air along this pipe,
and it will expel water from the lower cylinder. When
the upper cylinder is full of water, there will be 34 cubic-
feet of water expelled from the lower cylinder. If the
pipe IN had been more than 136 feet long, the water would
have risen 136 feet, being then in equilibrio with the wa¬
ter in the feeding pipe B6CD, by the intervention of the
elastic air; but no more water would have been expelled
from the lower cylinder than what fills this pipe. But the
pipe being only 96 feet high, the water will be thrown- out
at N with a very great velocity. If it were not for the great
obstructions which water and air must meet with in their
passage along pipes, it would issue at N with a velocity of
more than 50 feet per second. It issues much more slow¬
ly, and at last the upper cylinder is full of water, and the
water would enter the pipe GH and enter the lower cylin¬
der, and without displacing the air in it, would rise through
the discharging pipe IN, and run off to waste. To prevent
this there hangs in the pipe HG a cork ball or double cone,
by a brass wire which is guided by holes in two cross pieces
in the pipe HG. When the upper cylinder is filled with
water, this cork plugs up the orifice G, and no water is
wasted ; the influx at D now stops. But the lower cylin¬
der contains compressed air, which would balance water in
a discharging pipe 136 feet high, whereas IN is only 96.
Therefore the water will continue to flow at N till the air
has so far expanded as to balance only 96 feet of water, that
is, till it occupies one-fourth of its ordinary bulk, that is,
one-fourth of the capacity of the upper cylinder, or 421?
cubic feet. Therefore 42^ cubic feet will be expelled, and
engines.
136
PNEUMATICS.
Pneumatic the efflux at N will cease ; and the lowercyhnder isabout
engines, one-half full of water. When the attending workman ob-
' serves this, he shuts the cock C. He might have done this
before, had he known when the orifice G was stopped; but
no loss ensues from the delay. At the same time the at¬
tendant opens the cock E, the water issues with great vio¬
lence being pressed by the condensed air from the lower
cylinder. It therefore issues with the sum of its own weight
and of this compression. These gradually decrease toge¬
ther, bv the efflux of the water and the expansion of the
air; but this efflux stops before all the water has flowed
out; for there is 42^ feet of the lower cylinder occupied by
air. This quantity of water remains, therefore, in the up¬
per cylinder nearly ; the workman knows this, because the
discharged water is received first of all into a vessel con¬
taining three-fourths of the capacity of the upper cylinder.
Whenever this is filled, the attendant opens the cock E
by a long rod which goes down the shaft ; this a ows
the water of the mine to fill the lower cylinder, allows
the air to get into the upper cylinder, and this allows the
remaining water to run out of it. And thus every thing
is brought into its first condition; and when the attendant
sees no more water come out at E, he shuts the cock
E and M, and opens the cock C, and the operation is re¬
peated
with a mill. And, lastly, let it be noticed, that such » 1 F
machine can be used where no mill whatever can be put -
in motion. A small stream of water, which would not
move any kind of wheel, will here raise one-third of its
own quantity to the same height, working as fast as it is
*For all these reasons, we think that the Hungarian ma¬
chine eminently deserves the attention of mathematicians
and engineers, to bring it to its utmost perfection, and into
general use. There are situations where this kind of ma¬
chine may be very useful. Thus, where the tide rises 17
feet, it may be used for compressing air to seven-eighths of
its bulk ; and a pipe leading from a very large vessel in¬
verted in it, may be used for raising the water from a ves¬
sel of one-eighth of its capacity 17 feet high ; or it this ves¬
sel has only one-tenth of the capacity of the large one set
in the tide-way, two pipes may be led from rt* °ne into the
small vessel and the other into an equal vessel 16 feet higher,
which receives the water from the first. Thus one-sixteenth
of the water may be raised 34 feet, and a smaller quantity
to a still greater height, and this with a kind of power that
can hardly be applied in any other way. Machines of this
kind are described by Schottus, Sturmius, Leupold, an
other old writers; and they should not be forgotten, because
opportunities may offer of making them highly useful. A
UU1JU1      O
vciy     ~
this engine. When the efflux at N has stopped, if the cock
F be opened, the water and air rush out together with pro¬
digious violence, and the drops of water are changed into
hail or lumps of ice. It is a sight usually shown to stran¬
gers, who are desired to hold their hats to receive the blast
of air : the ice comes out with such violence as frequently
to pierce the hat like a pistol bullet. This rapid congela¬
tion is a remarkable instance of the general fact, that air
by suddenly expanding, generates cold, its capacity foi heat
being increased. Thus the peasant cools his broth by
blowing over the spoon, even from warm lungs ; a stream
of air from a pipe is always cooling. , .
The above account of the procedure in working this en¬
gine shows that the efflux both at N and E becomes very
slow near the end. It is found convenient therefore not to
wait for the complete discharges, but to turn the cocks when
about 30 cubic feet of water have been discharged at N :
more work is done in this way. A gentleman of great ac¬
curacy and knowledge of these subjects took the trouble, at
our desire, of noticing particularly the performance of the
machine. He observed that each stroke, as it may be call¬
ed, took up about three minutes and one-eighth ; and that
32 cubic feet of water were discharged at N, and 66 were
expended at E. The expense, therefore, is 66 feet of water
falling 136 feet, and the performance is 32 raised 96, and
they are in the proportion of 66 X 136 to 32x96, or of 1
to 0’3422, or nearly as 3 to 1. This is superior to the per¬
formance of the most perfect undershot mill, even when all
friction and irregular obstructions are neglected, and is not
much inferior to any overshot pump-mill that has yet been
erected. When we reflect on the great obstructions which
water meets with in its passage through long pipes, we
may be assured that, by doubling the size of the feeder and
discharger, the performance of the machine will be greatly
improved ; we do not hesitate to say, that it would be in¬
creased one-third: it is true that it will expend more wa¬
ter, but this will not be nearly in the same proportion, for
most of the deficiency of the machine arises from the need¬
less velocity of the first efflux at N. The discharging pipe
ought to be 110 feet high, and not give sensibly less water.
Then it must be considered how inferior in original ex¬
pense this simple machine must be to a mill of any kind
which would raise 10 cubic feet 96 feet high in a minute,
and how small the repairs on it need be, when compared
water by a machine that will cost little* and hardly go ou
of repair. . c .
The last pneumatical engine winch we shall speak ot at
present is the common fanners, used for winnowing grain,
and for drawing air out of a room ; and we have but few
observations to make on them.
The wings of the fanners are enclosed in a cylinder or
drum, whose circular sides have a
large opening BDE, (fig. 101),
round the centre, to admit the air.
By turning the wings rapidly round,
the air is hurried round along with
them, and thus acquires a centrifu¬
gal tendency, by which it presses
strongly on the outer rim of the
drum: this is gradually detached
from the circle as at KI, and ter¬
minated in a trunk IHGF, which
goes off in a tangential direction ; •—— 
the air therefore is driven along
this passage.1
If the wings were disposed in planes passing through the
axis C, the compression of the air by the anterior surface
would give it some tendency to escape in every direction,
and would obstruct in some degree the arrival of more air
through the side holes. They are therefore reclined a little
backward, as represented in the figure. It may be shown
that their best form would be that of a hyperbolic spiral
ah c ; but the straight form approaches sufficiently near to
the most perfect shape.
Much labour is lost, however, in carrying the air round
those parts of the drum where it cannot escape. The fan¬
ners would either draw or discharge almost twice as much
air if an opening were made all round one side. This could
be gradually contracted, where required for winnowing, by
a surrounding cone, and thus directed against the falling
grain ; as has been verified by actual trial. When used
for drawing air out of a room for ventilation, it wTould be
much better to remove the outer side of the drum entirely,
and let the air fly freely off on all sides ; but the flat sides
are necessary, in order to prevent the air from arriving at
the fanners any other way but through the central holes, to
which trunks should be fitted leading to the apartment
which is to be ventilated. (b. b. b.)
A machine precisely similar is now extensively used instead of bellows by engineers, smiths, &e.
P 0 c
P 0 c
137
Po PO, Padus, Eridanus, one of the great rivers of Eu-
II rope, which traverses the north of Italy from west to east.
cockc. jt jts source in Monte Yiso, one of the Cottian Alps,
flows north-east to Turin, passes that capital, holds an east¬
erly course throughout the whole length of Lombardy, se¬
parating Austrian Italy from Parma, Modena, and the Ec¬
clesiastical States, and discharges itself by a number of
mouths into the Adriatic, about thirty miles to the south of
Venice. In its course, which, including its windings, is
upwards of 500 miles, it receives a great number of rivers,
flowing in full current from the Alps on the north, and in
less copious but equally rapid streams from the Apennines
on the south. Of these tributary waters the principal are,
the Dora Riparia, the Dora Baltea, the Stura, the Oreo, the
Sesia, the Tanaro, the Ticino, the Adda, the Olona, the
Oglio, the Mincio, the Crostolo, and the Panaro. The Po,
rising in a very mountainous country, soon becomes a large
river, and is sufficiently deep to float boats and barges at
thirty miles from its source; but its current is often so ra¬
pid that the navigation is at all seasons difficult, and not un-
frequently hazardous. Hence, though it passes in its pro¬
gress more than fifty towns, little advantage comparatively
is derived from it for the conveyance of merchandise. Its
volume of water is subject to sudden increase from the melt¬
ing of the snows, and from heavy falls of rain, the rivers that
flow into it being almost all mountain streams ; and in the
flat country, in the lower part of its course, this would
have been attended with very destructive effects, if great
dykes had not been constructed to confine it within its chan¬
nel. The gravel rolled down from the mountains has pro¬
gressively raised the bed of the river, and the protecting
mounds have also been correspondingly elevated ; so that
the Po, in the lower part of its course, presents the singular
spectacle of a vast body of water, the level of which is higher
than that of the adjoining country. Its borders, interspers¬
ed with trees and villages, display great luxuriance of ve¬
getation, and are extremely pleasant, though by no means
picturesque. This river, like the Rhine, is crossed by fly¬
ing bridges. A post is fixed in the middle of the stream,
and a rope conveyed from it to the passage raft, by means
of a number of small boats which form the connecting links ;
and these boats being pressed on by the current, guide the
raft to the opposite side, with no other assistance than that
of an oar. The raft usually consists of two barges boarded
over, and encompassed with a rail. Lastly, the basin of the
Po has been the theatre of some of the most remarkable
military operations of modern times ; more particularly of
the campaigns of Eugene, Napoleon, and Suwarof, who, each
in his turn, decided, for the time, the fate of Italy.
POBASSOO’S Island, a small island on the norlh coast
of New Holland; forming, with Cotton’s Island, a secure
shelter for shipping, which Captain Flinders called Malay
Road. Long, of this road 136. 27. E. Lat. 11. 53. S.
POCKLINGTON, a market-town of Yorkshire, in the
east riding, and the wapentake of Harthill, 193 miles from
London. It is situated on a small stream that falls into the
river Derwent, and has a market, which is held on Saturday.
The population amounted in 1801 to 1502, in 1811 to 1539,
in 1821 to 1962, and in 1831 to 2048; but the whole parish,
which comprehends three other townships, had at the last
census 2265 inhabitants.
POCOCK’S Island is situated in the Eastern Seas.
Long. 118. 12. E. Lat. 6. 2. S.
POCOCK’S Point, on the east coast of New Zealand,
was formerly the north-west point of the Bay of Islands. It
is four miles west of Cape Brett.
POCOCKE, Dr Edward, a learned English divine, and
the first oriental scholar of his time, was the eldest son of
Edward Pococke; and born in November 1604, at Oxford,
where he was also educated. In 1628 he was admitted
probationer-fellow of his college, and about the same time
VOL. xvm.
he had prepared an edition of the second Epistle of St Peter, Pococke
the second and third of St John, and the Epistle of St Jude,
in Syriac and Greek, with a Latin translation and notes.
In 1629 he was ordained priest, and appointed chaplain to
the English merchants at Aleppo, where he arrived in Oc¬
tober 1630, and continued for five or six years, during
which he distinguished himself by his zeal and fortitude,
particularly whilst the plague raged there in 1634. At
length returning to England, he was in 1636 appointed
reader of the Arabic Lectures, founded by Archbishop Laud.
Three years afterwards he went to Constantinople, where
he prosecuted his studies of the eastern tongues, and pro¬
cured many valuable manuscripts. After a residence of
nearly four years in that city, he embarked in 1640 ; and
taking Paris in his way, visited Gabriel Sionita the famous
Maronite, and also Hugo Grotius. In 1643 he was pre¬
sented to the rectory of Childrey, in Berkshire ; and about
three years afterwards married the daughter of Mr Thomas
Burdett. About the middle of 1647 he obtained the res¬
titution of the salary of his Arabic Lecture, which had been
detained from him about three years. In 1648, Charles
I., being then prisoner in the Isle of Wight, nominated Mr
Pococke to the professorship of Hebrew, and the canonry
of Christ-Church annexed to it; but in 1650 he was ejected
from his canonry for refusing to take the engagement, and
soon afterwards a vote passed for depriving him of his He¬
brew and Arabic professorships. But several governors of
houses, and others, having presented a petition in his favour,
he was suffered to enjoy both these places. He had some
years before published his Specimen Historice Arabum, a
very learned work, and now appeared his Porta Mosis ; and
soon afterwards the English Polyglot edition of the Bible,
to which he had largely contributed, and also Eutychius’s
Annals, with a Latin version, gave evidence of his industry
and learning. At the Restoration he was reinstated in the
canonry of Christ-Church, and also received the degree of
doctor of divinity. He then published his Arabic version
of Grotius’s Treatise of the Truth of the Christian Religion;
and an Arabic poem entitled Lamiato VAjam or Carmen
Abu-Ismaelis Tograi, with a Latin translation and notes.
Soon afterwards he published Gregory Abulfaragius’s His-
toria Dynastiarum; but this work did not meet with much
encouragement from the public, a circumstance which his
biographer accounts for in a manner not very creditable to
the reign, of Charles II. as compared with the protectorate,
when solid learning was appreciated and rewarded. The
fact seems to be, that the love of Arabic learning was now
growing cold; and Pococke himself, in his correspondence
with Mr Thomas Greaves, appears to be not only sensible
that such was the case, but very much hurt by the decline
of sound literary taste. The same circumstance also may
in some measure account for this distinguished scholar not
having obtained higher preferment at the period of the Re¬
storation, when such numbers of vacant dignities were con¬
ferred on far inferior men. Perhaps he was almost the only
instance of a clergyman, then at the highest pitch of emi¬
nence for learning, and every other merit proper to his pro¬
fession, who lived throughout the reign of Charles II. with¬
out the least regard from the court, except the favour some¬
times done him of being called upon to translate Arabic
letters from the princes of the Levant, or the credentials
of ambassadors coming from thence ; a service for which we
do not find that he obtained any recompense, besides fair
words and hollow compliments. But his modesty equalled
his merit; and after presenting Abulfaragius to the king, he
ceased to obtrude his claims on the attention of royalty. In
1674 he published an Arabic version of the principal parts
of the Liturgy of the Church of England; and a few years
afterwards appeared his Commentary on the Prophecies of
Micah, Malachi, Hosea, and Joel. This truly great man
died in 1691, after having been for many years confessedly
s
Pococke the first orientalist in Europe; and he was no less worthy
ll of admiration for his uncommon modesty and humility, and
Podgorod- a]j ^jle vjrtues which can adorn a Christian. His theologi-
v_, cal works were republished at London in 1740, in two vo¬
lumes folio.
Pococke, Richard, distantly related to the preceding,
was the son of Mr Richard Pococke, head master of the free-
school at Southampton, where he was born in the year 1704.
He received his school-learning under his father, and his
academical education at Corpus Christi College, Oxford,
where he took his various degrees. He commenced his
travels in the East in 1737, and returned in 1742. In
1743, he published his Observations on Egypt, under the
general title of a Description of the East and some other
Countries. In 1744, he was made precentor of Waterford;
and in 1745, he printed the second volume of his Travels,
under the title of Observations on Palestine or the Holy
Land, Syria, Mesopotamia, Cyprus, and Candia, which he
dedicated to the Earl of Chesterfield, then lord-lieutenant
of Ireland, whom he attended in the capacity of domestic
chaplain. In 1756, Dr Pococke was promoted to the
bishopric of Ossory, vacant by the death of Dr Edward
Maurice; in July 1765, he was translated to the see of
Meath, which had been originally intended for the Bishop
of Elphin, who, however, declined taking out his patent;
and he died suddenly in September following, having been
carried off by apoplexy, whilst engaged in visiting his dio¬
cese. As a traveller Dr Pococke was equally distinguished
for research, learning, and accuracy, to which ample justice
has indeed been done by Jablonski, in the preface to part
third of his Pantheon JEc/yptiorum. He penetrated no far¬
ther up the Nile than the island of Philae, called by the
Arabs the Temple Island; whereas Norden, in 1737, pro¬
ceeded as far as Derre, between the first and second cata¬
ract. The two travellers are supposed to have met on the
Nile, in the neighbourhood of Esneh, in January 1738;
but, according to another account, they passed in the night
without recognition.
Bishop Pococke visited other parts besides the East, and
described some remarkable objects both in Scotland and
Ireland. According to Cumberland, he was a man of mild
but peculiar manners, and of primitive simplicity. “ Having
given the world,” says this writer, “ a full detail of his re¬
searches in Egypt, he seemed to hold himself excused from
saying anything more about them, and observed, in general,
an obdurate taciturnity. In his carriage and deportment
lie appeared to have contracted something of the Arab cha¬
racter ; yet there was no austerity in his silence, and though
his air was solemn, his temper was serene.” Cumberland
adds : “ When we were on our road to Ireland, I saw from
the window's of the inn at Daventry a cavalcade of horse¬
men approaching on a gentle trot, headed by an elderly
chief in clerical attire, who was followed by five servants at
distances geometrically measured and most precisely main¬
tained, and who, upon entering the inn, proved to be this dis¬
tinguished prelate conducting his horde with the phlegmatic
patience of a scheik.” Cumberland’s delineation, however,
must be received with some caution, particularly in the lat¬
ter part, which bears evident marks of exaggeration.
PODALIRIUS, son of Aisculapius and Epione, was one
of the pupils of the centaur Chiron, under whom he made
himself such a master of medicine, that during the Trojan
war the Greeks invited him to their camp to check a pesti-
lence wdiich had baffled the skill of all their physicians.
On his return Podalirius was shipwrecked upon the coast of
Caria, where he cured of epilepsy a daughter of the king of
the place. He fixed his habitation there; and built two
towns, one of which he called after his wife Syrna. On his
death, the Carians built him a temple, and paid him divine
honours.
PODGORODKOI, a fortress of Asiatic Russia, in the
government of Oufa, on the Oural. It is ninety-two miles
east of Orenburg.
PODEM, a village of Asiatic Turkey, in Trebisond, thirty
miles east of Trebisond.
PODEMNO, a village of Tobolsk, in Asiatic Russia,
forty-four miles east of Kemskoi.
PODENDA, a village of Asia Minor, at the junction of
the Sihoun with the Adana, thirty-three miles north of
Adana.
PODOL, a town of Russia, in the province of Moskau,
the capital of a circle of the same name, which extends over
590 square miles, and contains 58,800 inhabitants. The
town is situated on the river Pochra, 508 miles from St Pe¬
tersburg, and contains only 1100 inhabitants, who carry on
some silk manufactures. Long. 37. 25. E. Lat. 55. 25. N.
PODOLIA, a province or government of the Russian
empire, formerly a part of Poland, acquired by Russia at the
first dismemberment of that unfortunate kingdom. It ex¬
tends in north latitude from 47. 23. to 49. 44., and in east
longitude from 26.16. to 30. 41.; and it is bounded on the
north by Volhynia, on the north-east by Kiew, on the east
and south-east by Cherson, on the south by Bessarabia, and
on the west by the Austrian kingdom of Gallicia. It is
20,796 miles in extent, is divided into twelve circles, and
contains 121 towns, 2429 villages, with 1,450,000 inhabi¬
tants, a great part of whom are Poles, but many are Rus¬
sians ; and the Jews are numerous. The majority are of the
Greek church, but the nobility and higher classes commonly
adhere to the Roman Catholic worship.
The province is situated on the northern slope of the
Carpathian Mountains, several of the spurs of which project
into it, but none are more than 500 feet in height. It is a
well-watered district, part of the streams of which fall into
the Dniester, and part into the Bug ; the former of which is
at all seasons navigable, but the latter only one portion of the
year. The climate is pure and healthy, but it is not produc¬
tive of wine, which is supposed to arise from the w’ant of cal¬
careous earth. Mulberry-trees have been lately planted, and
seem hitherto to have succeeded. The soil is generally fer¬
tile, yielding always a great surplus of grain, especially of
wheat, some of which finds a vent at Odessa, and some at
Dantzig. It is peculiarly adapted to pasture, and feeds nu¬
merous horses, and a breed of cows, which are highly prized,
and supply a large extent of country with young cattle and
fat oxen, even as far as a part of Germany. The sheep are
abundant, but their wool is coarse; and few merinos have
hitherto been introduced to improve the breed. Flax and
hemp are raised to an extent equal to the consumption of
the inhabitants. The manufactures are chiefly for domes¬
tic use { but some potash, pitch, and tar, are made for ex¬
portation. Though possessing a fruitful soil, and means of
communication with both the north and the south, there is
little trade, except occasionally that of corn.
PODSTEPNOI, a fortress of Asiatic Russia, in the go¬
vernment of Kolivan, on the Irtisch, two hundred miles
south-east of Omsk.
PODSPUSKNOI, a fortress of Asiatic Russia, in the
government of Kolivan, 220 miles south-west of Kolivan.
PGECILE was a famous portico at Athens, which re¬
ceived its name from the variety (wo/x/Xos) of paintings which
it contained. Zeno kept his school there ; and there also
the Stoics received their lessons; whence their name, from
ffroa, a porch. Amongst other things, the Pcecile was adorn¬
ed with a picture of the siege and sacking of Troy, ano¬
ther of the battle of Theseus with the Amazons, and a third
of the fight between the Lacedaemonians and Athenians at
(Enoe in Argolis. It was also accounted a great distinc¬
tion to have one’s portrait placed in this national gallery.
In fact, the only reward which Miltiades obtained after the
battle of Marathon, was to have his picture drawn more con¬
spicuously than those of the rest of the officers who fought
'cestum. with him on that occasion, in the representation which was
made of the engagement, and to have it hung up in the
Poecile in commemoration of that celebrated victory. This
was accounted glory enough for so great and memorable an
achievement.
PQESTUM, or P^sTum, a celebrated city of Italy, now
in ruins, but anciently a place of great opulence and mag¬
nitude. Its remains stand on a fertile plain, considerably
to the south of the city of Salerno, being bounded on the
west by the Tyrrhenian Sea, and about a mile distant by
five hills, amongst which the town of Acropoli is embo¬
somed ; on the north by the Bay of Salerno; and on the
east by two hills, which still retain their ancient names of
Callimara and Cantena. The walls of the city remain. In
some places they are five, and in others twelve feet in
height. They are formed of solid blocks of stone, and ap¬
pear to have been furnished with towers at intervals ; but
the archway of only one gate stands entire. This rampart
encloses a space of about four miles in circumference ; but
of the splendid cluster of buildings which it once enclosed,
only three temples rise, like the mausoleums of the ruined
city, dark, silent, and majestic, to attest the ancient magni¬
ficence of the place. They are the admiration of all who
visit them, and are considered as the purest and most per¬
fect specimen in existence of the foreign Doric order of
architecture. The first temple which presents itself to the
view of the traveller is the smallest. It consists of six pil¬
lars at each end, and thirteen at each side, counting the an¬
gular pillars in both directions ; and it is one hundred and
seven feet in length, by forty-seven feet in breadth. The
architrave is pretty entire, as is the pediment at the west
end, with the exception of the corner stones and triglyphs,
which are fallen, and the first cornice, which is worn away.
At the east end, part of the pediment remains, and also
much of the frize and cornice. The cella occupied more
than one third of the length, and had a portico of two rows
of columns, the ruins of which, now overgrown with vege¬
tation, encumber the area of the temple.
The second edifice has six columns at each end, and
fourteen on each side, including those of the angles. The
entablature and the pediments are entire. A double row
of columns adorned the interior of the cella, and supported
each another row of small pillars; the upper being sepa¬
rated from the lower by an architrave only, without frize
or cornice. A number of these pillars on each side remain
standing. The cella had two entrances, one at each end, with
a portico formed of two pillars and two antae. The foun¬
dation and part of tlie wall of this cella still remain: under¬
neath it there was a vault. The third edifice is the largest,
being one hundred and ninety-five feet four inches in length,
by seventy-eight feet ten inches in breadth. It has nine
pillars at each end, and eighteen on each side, including
the angular columns as before. Nor is its size its only
claim to distinction. A row of pillars, extending from the
middle pillar at one end to the middle pillar at the other,
divides it into two equal parts, and is considered as a proof
that it was not a temple. What it was intended for is yet
a disputed point amongst the learned. In the centre there
appears to have been an aperture in the pavement, and at
some distance another, both leading, it is said, to subter¬
ranean vaults.
Such appear to be the peculiar features of each of these
edifices. They are all raised upon substructions forming
three gradations (for they are too high to be called steps),
intended solely to give due elevation and relief to the build¬
ing ; the columns of all rise without bases from the upper¬
most of these degrees. They are all fluted, between four Pcestum.
and five diameters in height, and taper as they ascend aboutv'—■"'v'"**"
one fourth } the capitals of the whole are very flat and
prominent; the intercolumniation is a little more than one
diameter ; the order and the ornaments in all are the same ;
the pediment is almost invariably low ; and, finally, they
are all built of a porous stone, of a light or rather yel¬
low-grey colour, and in many places perforated and worn
away. In the open space between the first and second tem¬
ple there were two other large edifices, built of the same
stone, and of nearly the same size ; but they are totally
overthrown^. All these temples stand in a line, and border
a street which ran from gate to gate, and divided the town
into two nearly equal parts. A hollow space, scooped out
in a semicircular form, seems to be the traces of a theatre ;
and as it lies in front of the temples, gives reason to sup¬
pose that other public buildings might have ornamented
the same side, and made it correspond in grandeur with
that opposite; in which case few cities could have sur¬
passed Pcestum in the splendour of its appearance.
Although the city has left such magnificent monuments
of its existence, considerable obscurity hangs over its ori¬
gin and general history. According to the learned Maz-
zochi, Pcestum was founded by a colony of Dorians, from
Dora, a city of Phoenicia. It was first called Posetan or
Postan, which in Phoenician signifies Neptune, to whom it
was dedicated ; but it was afterwards invaded, and its primi¬
tive inhabitants expelled, by the Sybarites. This event is
supposed to have taken place about five centuries before
the Christian era. Under its new possessors the city as¬
sumed the Greek appellation Posidonia, of the same im¬
port as its Phoenician, because it was a city of great opu¬
lence and magnitude, and is supposed to have extended
from the present ruin southward to the hill on which stands
the little town of Acropoli. The Lucanians afterwards ex¬
pelled the Sybarites, and checked the prosperity of Posi¬
donia, which was in its turn deserted and left to moulder
imperceptibly away. Vestiges of it are still visible all over
the plain of Spinazzo or Saracino. The original city then
recovered its ancient name, and not long afterwards it was
taken and colonized by the Romans. From this period
Pcestum is mentioned almost solely by the poets; indeed,
from Virgil to Claudian, they all delight to expatiate upon
the beauty of its gardens, and to celebrate the bloom, the
sweetness, and the fertility of its roses ; and to this day the
roses are remarkable for their fragrance. A few bushes,
the remnants of biferi rosaria Pcesti, flourish here and there
neglected, and still blossom twice a year, in May and De¬
cember, as if to support their ancient fame, and justify the
descriptions of the poets.1 Pcestum was subsequently plun¬
dered by the Saracens and the Normans; and its remaining
inhabitants were at length compelled to flee for refuge to
the mountains. The Dorians appear to have the fairest
claim to the erection of the majestic monuments which we
have described. “ But at what period were they erected ?”
says Mr Eustace. “ To judge from their form, we must
conclude that they are the oldest specimens of Grecian ar¬
chitecture now in existence. In beholding them and con¬
templating their solidity, bordering upon heaviness, we are
tempted to consider them as an intermediate link between
the Egyptian and Grecian manner, and the first attempt to
pass from the immense masses of the former to the grace¬
ful proportions of the latter. In fact, the temples of Pces¬
tum, Agrigentum, and Athens, seem instances of the com¬
mencement, the improvement, and the perfection of the
Doric order.” (r. r. r.)
1 Virgil and Ovid just mention the Pocstan roses; Propertius introduced them as an emblem of mortality; Claudian employs them
to grace a complimentary comparison. Ausonius alone presents them in all their beauty and freshness.
Vidi Pcestano gaudere rosaria cultu
Exoriente novo roscida Lucifero.
140
POETRY.
Poetry. The difficulty of giving a definition of poetry, which shall
s y '"- ” include all that essentially belongs to it, and exclude all that
Definition. jg forejgn or accidental to it, has been long felt and admit¬
ted. The definition of the ancients, which makes poetry
“ an imitative art,” is obviously exposed to the double ob¬
jection of being at once too comprehensive, since it would
equally apply to the other imitative arts of pointing and
sculpture ; and too limited, since it would exclude many
departments of poetry, in which, as in the lyrical, the art is
not properly imitative, but expressive ; not copying in any
sense the thoughts and actions of others, but presenting to
the sympathy of the reader the emotions of the poet him¬
self. Not less objectionable is the definition, that poetry
is “ the art-of expressing our thoughts by fiction which,
while it is equally applicable to the novel and the romance,
is, in fact, not necessarily true of poetry at all, except in
this sense, that in all high poetry a certain transforming and
beautifying power of imagination is excited, which in some
measure transmutes the forms of things from their actual pro¬
saic aspect,
Clothing the palpable and the familiar
With golden exhalations of the dawn.
Still less can verse or metrical form be regarded as con¬
stituting the essence, or even one of the essentials, of poetry.
It no doubt heightens its effect; it increases its charm and
power of pleasing, by enlisting the aid of musical sound and
cadence on the side of imaginative language or touching
sentiment; but it must yet be regarded as amongst the exter¬
nals of poetry,—something which will never make poetry of
itself, and without which poetry is not only conceivable, but
has in fact existed, and that in very striking and impres¬
sive forms.
Object of Poetry may perhaps be defined to be an art which has
poetry the creation of intellectual pleasure for its object, which attains
communi- its end by the use of language natural in an excited state
intellectual the imagination and, the feelings, and generally, though
pleasure. not. necessar>ly> formed into regular numbers. The proper
antithesis, therefore, to poetry, as Mr Coleridge has remark¬
ed, is not prose, but science. The proper antithesis to prose
is verse. Science seeks to instruct, to discover and to com¬
municate truth; “ the proper and immediate object of poe¬
try is the communication of immediate pleasure.” Poetry
may indeed incidentally instruct, as science may indirectly
communicate pleasure ; but the object of each must be ga¬
thered from its main direction and bearing, and in this sense
the production of intellectual enjoyment is unquestionably
the aim and the proper province of poetry.
Thisaplea- so closely are the intellectual and refined pleasures
sure con- of man connected with his moral qualities ; so much does
morahhv0 ^ relish for the higher and more spiritual pleasures of the
y‘ imagination depend on a sound and healthy state of mora¬
lity in the first instance, and so much is this state in turn
promoted and encouraged by stimulating and keeping alive
the activity of the imagination and the sensibilities of the
heart, that poetry, though generally avoiding the form of
direct instruction, may yet be said, with justice, to be the
most important handmaid and assistant of moral education,
by its appeals to those affections which are apt to become
indolent and dormant amidst the commerce of the world,
and the revival of those purer and more enthusiastic feel¬
ings which are associated with the earlier and least selfish
period of our existence. Immersed in business, which, if
t sharpen the edge of intellect, leaves the heart barren;
toiling after material wealth or power, or struggling with
fortune for existence; seeing selfishness reflected all Lund
us from the hard and glittering surface of society, as from Poetry,
a cold and polished mirror ; it would go hard with man inVs—"v-,~
adversity, perhaps still more in prosperity, if some resource
were not provided for him, which, under the form of an
amusement and a recreation, administered a secret but
powerful balm in the one case, and an antidote in the other.
This resource is afforded us by the influences of poetry.
“ Whatever withdraws us from the power of the senses;
whatever makes the past, the distant, and the future, pre¬
dominate over the present, advances us in the dignity of
human beings.” Sometimes, no doubt, poetry openly as¬
sumes the garb of morality, but it is generally least instruc¬
tive when most directly didactic, and practically attains the
end of instruction with most success when the instructor is
himself unconscious of the lesson he conveys. In an indi¬
rect form, however, and through the medium of the feel¬
ings and the imagination rather than the mere reason, its
efficiency as a moral agent is great and undeniable. And
as upon the intellectual worth and nobleness of individuals
depends the standard of a national morality, it may with
truth be said that the fame and character of nations,—those
qualities the presence of which makes the smallest state
conspicuous in the world’s eye, and the absence of which
renders the widest empire, on which the sun never sets, in¬
significant ; namely, national pride, honour, fidelity to en¬
gagements, courage to act, fortitude to suffer, a generous
and far-seeing policy, disdaining all mean or questionable
advantages; are to some extent derived, and, at all events,
continually cherished and fostered, by the influence of a
pure and ennobling national poetry. If Plato had succeed¬
ed in banishing poets from his ideal republic, he would as¬
suredly have conferred no benefit upon morals. He would
have created a hard and utilitarian frame of society, inac¬
cessible to generous feeling, and incapable of those great
efforts, either of action or of endurance, which have their
source only in enthusiasm, and cannot be suggested by any
principle of expediency, however enlarged may be the ba¬
sis of calculation.
It is the conviction of this intimate though indirect con- No poetry
nection between poetry and morality, and the consequent permanent-
bearing of the former upon human welfare, that explains ^
the veneration which mankind have always felt for those g','immoral
poets who, acting under an impression df the sacredness ofIiatUre.
the task committed to them, and of the power of the talisman
which genius has placed in their hands, have devoted their
labours to the purest forms of poetry, and to the excitement
of emotions, either virtuous in themselves, or conducive to
virtue. It is this conviction which accounts for the aver¬
sion which they have never failed in the end to manifest
against all those who have made the fascinations of poetry
and wit subservient to the gratification of baser feelings or
meaner propensities. For men taken in the mass judge
rightly, even when they act wrongly ; and moral opinion, so
variable and wavering when applied to our own case or that
of our friends, is found a safe and steady guide when ap¬
plied to the mere representation of human thought and ac¬
tion in the forms with which they are invested by the poet.
Hence the feelings of all men are enlisted and warmly ex¬
cited on the side of virtue in fictitious composition, and still
more in the most fascinating form of fictitious composition,
poetry. 1 or here the tendency of tlie poem is felt to be no
mere speculative question, but a real dispute “ pro aris et
focis; a contest whether, as is said to be often the case in
India, poison is to be conveyed into the wells from which
pure and refreshing water ought to be drawn. And this
practical bearing upon important interests, of the abuse of
POETRY.
141
Poetry, a fine art, is more felt, and justly, in poetry than in any
other. In painting, for instance, Parrhasius, Julio Roma¬
no, Annibal Caracci, and Titian, have ministered by their
pictures to the promotion of vice ; some have even en¬
deavoured to pervert the pure marble into a vehicle of im¬
pure representations : but the circle of their operation is
limited ; to the mass of men their iniquities of this nature
are even unknown: but poetry, multiplied indefinitely by
printing, finding its way into every quarter of the globe,
and penetrating into the humblest as well as the highest
class of society, has a sphere of operation bounded only by
the globe itself, and a practical influence, through their
sympathies, upon men’s habits of thought, and consequently
upon their morality and their happiness, which is not the
less certain and extensive, that its limits do not admit of
any precise or distinct determination.
Hence it is a remarkable fact in the history of poetry,
that no work essentially immoral, or even exhibiting a mere
indifference to moral feeling, has ever maintained a perma¬
nent popularity. The low ribaldry which deforms the splen¬
did talents of Aristophanes will always render the perusal of
his plays a painful task; the witty licentiousness of the Pu-
celle is already all but forgotten ; and the next generation,
while they treasure the better parts of Byron, will assuredly
consign to oblivion much of his gloomy reasonings, his con¬
tempt for human nature, and his ridicule of generous feel-
ings. The poets who are found to retain their hold over all
hearts, and whose influence even appears to extend with
the progress of ages, Homer, Shakspeare, Milton, Spenser,
Calderon, Tasso, are those who have done their utmost to
elevate rather than to depress the spirit and the hopes of
men ; to make existence brighter about us, and to embody
in their strains the principles of faith and hope, of purity
and universal charity. For it need hardly be observed, that
we are not to condemn a work as immoral on account of
a few brief passages, in which the poet, led away by a too
lively imagination, has admitted scenes or images of an ob¬
jectionable kind. Such, indeed, are to be found in Shak¬
speare, and in the pure and religious poems of Spenser; more
rarely also in Tasso ; but the general strain of the poem, and
the obvious aim of the poet, being to promote the cause of
virtue, the few objectionable particulars are lost in the ge¬
neral effect, and cease to be dangerous from their proximity
to so much that is calculated to purify and to elevate the
mind.
~ . ^ ke difficult to give an accurate definition of poetry,
poetry; it is still more difficult to describe that precise combination
nmon to m.enta* an(i moral qualities which are required for its pro-
j, duction, so as to distinguish these from the qualities required
for perfection in the other imitative arts. The sensibility
to natural and moral beauty ; the study both of the outward
world and of the mind of man; imagination and fancy to
furnish the materials; judgment and taste to select and ar¬
range them; these are common to the great poet and the
great painter. W hat determines these energies and capa¬
bilities to the one direction more than to the other, and
makes one man paint to the bodily eye in cblours, the other
to the eye of the mind in words, is that secret undefinable
instinct which we call genius, which it is impossible to re¬
solve into any mere result of the force of circumstances,
and which, all experience teaches us, is born with the artist,
and, like an instinct, directs his after-course. A genius for
poetry or for painting is as certainly dependent on an or¬
ganization mental and physical, with which we come into
the world, as a musical ear; no education can give them ;
uo general superiority of intellect will enable a man to turn
with equal success to either; nature made him with the
elements of a poet or a painter, and what she has so framed,
art and education will never alter.
- But though it is difficult to enumerate any quality requi¬
site to form a great poet which is not necessary also to form
ating
a great painter, it is easy to see, that from the nature of the Poetry,
materials with which they deal, as well as their modes of v—
operation; the one producing its effects by a momentary
impression, the other by a continuous exertion ; the degree
in which the different component qualities of mind are em¬
ployed in these respective arts is materially different.
Foremost amongst the qualities that constitute the poet is Im •
imagination, that creative principle of the mind which forms tion^
new conceptions out of previously existing materials; “ con¬
ceptions not absolutely justifiable by the rules of logic, but
quite intelligible to the mind when duly elevated; intelligible
through our sympathies or sensibilities, though not sufficient¬
ly definite nor strictly coherent to stand the cold survey of
our reason.” This is indeed the most essential gift of the
poet, “ where either he must live or have no lifewith it, he
may triumph over every other defect; without it, no combi¬
nation of qualities will ever render him a great poet. This
is the power which emancipates the poet from the trammels
of space and time; carries him back into the spirit of past
ages ; enables him to create and to endow with coherent
attributes beings of a nature different from our own, and
yet having for us a real existence, so far as our sympathies
are concerned: to conceive and consistently to follow out the
thoughts, and words, and passions of imaginary actors, and
all this not by a metaphysical analysis of the emotions or
passions, nor by a course of induction from actual observa¬
tion in the world about him, but by a secret consciousness,
flashing upon his mind, in a concentrated shape, the result
of all philosophy, embodying all, which conception, abstrac¬
tion, and judgment would have separately furnished. It
supersedes the necessity of observation in every special case,
because it furnishes him with those primary elements of our
nature which give the formula for the solution of all. The
value of patient observation and study of life and character,
in addition to the suggestions of the imagination, we do not
dispute ; we shall afterwards see, that within certain limits,
and for certain departments of poetry, they are indispensable.
But we may be assured, that for those elemental concep¬
tions of character which are unmodified by mere manners,
local position, or age; the conception, for instance, of a Lear
or a Miranda, a Caliban, an Ariel, or a Hamlet; no obser¬
vation of human character in the actual world, nor dissec¬
tion of the component passions and sympathies that make
up character, would have sufficed. We have but to look at
the range of Shakspeare’s characters to be at once satisfied
of this. Pre-eminent amongst these are his characters of wo¬
men ; and yet from what analysis of character, or observa¬
tion of society, could these have been drawn ? Where
could a youth, whose chief companions had been deer-stalk¬
ers, actors, or play-writers of no high repute, and to whom
female society, at least in its most refined form, must have
been unknown, have gleaned the materials which enable
him to pourtray, with equal mastery, the fierce overbearing
spirit of Lady Macbeth and Constance, the tranquil regal
dignity of Hermione and Katharine of Aragon, or the totally
dissimilar aspect of female character presented in the pas¬
sion of Juliet, the purity of Miranda, the simplicity of Ophe¬
lia, or the tender submission and wife-like confidence of
Imogen and Desdemona ? No prototypes existed in the
society around him from which these could be drawn. The
streets and taverns of London might indeed furnish him
with Bardolphs and Pistols; his acquaintance with Lord
Southampton, or with the other gallants of the court, might
afford the outlines of his Prince Henry or Hotspur; but
his female creations are obviously drawn from no other
sphere but his own breast. They are the offspring of an
imagination “ all compact,” not elaborately constructing,
but almost unconsciously creating.
I he power of imagination is shown in its most imposing
form in the conception of character, incident, situation, and
scenery,—in the general scope and design of the poem; but
Poetry, its value and importance as an element of poetry is scarce-
' v- ' ly less felt in the details, in the manner in which it informs
and transforms the whole language ol the poem ; studding
it with imagery, simple or complex, often making a single
word act like a spell, and conjure up a host of magical as¬
sociations. Its province in this respect is not to be con¬
founded with that lower department of the poetical art
which is called diction, and which, when the idea is form¬
ed, simply dictates the selection of the word most appro¬
priate to express the precise idea to be conveyed. Imagi¬
nation supplies the idea itself, or fasciculus of ideas, to be
embodied in the word; and in the number, novelty, and
judicious selection of associations which can be suggested
to the mind within any equal space, lies the chief difference
between the work of a great poet and an inferior one, be¬
tween an original or an imitative mind.
The images suggested by the imagination, we have said,
are frequently complex. It seems to fuse many in one, to
divide one into many, and to present the mass to the mind
in a form which suggests all the particulars of which it is
composed. It is certain, too, that many of the images which
it suggests, and the effect of which upon the mind is imme¬
diately felt by all lovers of poetry to be beautiful, can by no
means be justified upon the principles of logic, or their co¬
herence made clear to the understanding. “ When Milton
tells us of ‘ darkness visible,’ ” says a writer on poetry, “ we
feel that he has uttered a fine paradox ; we feel its truth, but
cannot prove it. And when in that appalling passage where
the poet stands face to face with Night and Chaos in their
dark pavilion, ‘ spread wide on the wasteful deep,’ and says
that
By them stood
Orcus and Ades, and the dreaded name
Of Demogorgon,
how is it possible to reconcile such expressions to a mere
prosaic understanding ? Darkness is, strictly speaking, ab¬
sence of light. How then shall we say that it is visible,
when we see only by the aid of light ? And with respect
to the ‘ name' of Demogorgon, which stands by Orcus and
Ades, how can such a phrase be justified by the rules of
reason ? Nevertheless it is as magnificent as words can
make it. It is clothed in a dark and spectral grandeur, and
presses upon our apprehensions like a mighty dream.”1 Take
another instance also from Milton, where he speaks of music
At every fall smoothing the raven down
Of darkness till it smiled.
Here also it is impossible to perceive the mere logical con¬
nection of the images; for, allowing darkness to be em¬
bodied under the notion of some bird with glossy and raven
plumage, it would certainly puzzle any critic to show how
musical sounds could smooth such plumage ; and yet we
should have little hesitation in putting this passage to any
one as a test whether he possessed a feeling or sense of
poetry, or whether his mind was entirely of a prosaic cha¬
racter. In these, and a thousand similar instances, particu¬
larly in Shakspeare, it is clear that the poetical effect can
be explained upon no ordinary principle of reason. The
metaphors are what are called broken ; they cannot logi¬
cally be united, and yet they have a sufficient poetical co-
heience. How this x’esult is produced we shall only be en¬
abled to explain when the whole law’s which govern the fa¬
culty of imagination, as yet most imperfectly understood,
shall be discovered.
It is somewhat difficult to establish a plain and practical
distinction between fancy and imagination, so far as regards
the imagery oi ornaments of poetry; though, as we have
already said, the higher efforts of conception, and the gene¬
ral design, fall almost entirely, in serious and heroic poetry,
under the province of imagination. From Milton’s line, Poetry
“ Sweetest Shakspeare, Fancy’s child,” it would seem that v—
the words fancy and imagination had then been used as
having the same meaning; for certainly any one now endea¬
vouring to describe the most remarkable of Shakspeare’s
qualities would refer to his imagination rather than his fancy.
Yet fancy may perhaps be said to be imagination at a lowrer
point of excitement; not dealing with passions, or creating
character; nor pouring out unconsciously, under the influ¬
ence of strong feeling, images as they arise massed and
clustered; but going in search of comparisons and illustra¬
tions, and when it invests them with personality, as in meta¬
phors, still adhering much more closely to the logical fit¬
ness and sequence which govern similar ornaments in prose.
It seems to act like a colder and weaker species of imagi¬
nation, furnishing the thoughts which “ play round the head,
but do not touch the heartpleasing the eye and the ear;
creating or heightening the idea of the beautiful, much more
than of the sublime. It is not careful, like imagination, to
make the whole bear on the general design, and heighten the
main impression sought to be produced, but rather strives to
excite our pleasure, and to bespeak our admiration for the
images themselves which it suggests. Its natural field, so far
as regards the general design, is in poems like the Rape of the
Lock, or the Lutrin, where the object is to give a poetical
dress to a subject essentially prosaic, and excluding passion
or high imagination. To these it lends an airy machinery, in¬
genious comparisons, imagery of a lively and pleasing cast in
harmony with the level tone of the subject, and thus brings
them within the domain of poetry. Some have represented
the distinction between the effects of imagination and fancy
to consist in this, “ that the former altogether changes and
remodels the original idea, impregnating it with something
extraneous; the latter leaves it undisturbed, but associated
with things to which, in some view or other, it bears a re¬
semblance.” But this distinction cannot be admitted; fancy,
though in a less degree, does create, or change and remodel
ideas; the difference between them must be sought more
in the sort of ideas on which they operate, and the purposes
to which they apply them, than in the plastic power sup¬
posed to be exercised in the one case and not in the other.
“ Fancy,” says Mr Wordsworth, in a fine passage in his pre¬
face, “ depends upon the rapidity and profusion with which
she scatters her thoughts and images, trusting that their
number, and the felicity with which they are linked together,
will make amends for the want of individual value; or she
prides herself upon the curious subtilty and the successful
elaboration with which she can detect their lurking affini¬
ties. If she can win you over to her purpose, and impart
to you her feelings, she cares not how mutable and transi¬
tory may be her influence, knowing that it will not be out
of her power to resume it upon an apt occasion. But the
imagination is conscious of an indestructible dominion ; the
soul may fall away from it, not being able to sustain its
grandeur ; but if once felt and acknowledged, by no act of
any other faculty of the mind can it be relaxed, impaired,
or diminished. Fancy is given to quicken and to beguile
the temporal part of our nature, imagination to incite and
support the eternal. Yet it is not the less true, that fancy,
as she is an active, is also, under her own laws and in her
own spirit, a creative faculty. In what manner fancy am¬
bitiously aims at a rivalship with the imagination, and ima¬
gination stoops to work with the materials of fancy, might
be illustrated from the compositions of all eloquent writers,
whether in prose or verse, and chiefly from those of our own
country. Scarcely a page of the impassioned parts of Bishop
Taylor’s works can be opened that shall not afford examples.
Referring the reader to these inestimable volumes, we will
content ourselves writh placing a conceit, ascribed to Lord
1 Edinburgh Review, 1825.
POETRY.
M3
Poetry. Chesterfield, in contrast with a passage from the Paradise
The dews of the evening most carefully shun ;
They are tears of the sky for the loss of the sun.
After the transgression of Adam, Milton, with other appear¬
ances of sympathizing nature, thus marks the immediate
consequence.
Sky lowered, aud, muttering thunder, some sad drops
Wept at completion of the mortal sin.
The associating link is the very same in each instance; dew
and rain, not distinguishable from the liquid substance of
tears, are employed as indications of sorrow. A flash of
surprise is the effect in the former case ; a flash of surprise
and nothing more ; for the nature of things does not sustain
the combination. In the latter, the effects of the act, of
which there is this immediate consequence and visible sign,
are so momentous, that the mind acknowledges the justice
and reasonableness of the sympathy in nature so manifest¬
ed ; and the sky wreeps drops of water, as if with human eyes,
as earth had before trembled from her entrails, and nature
given a second groan.” It is evident, that in the parallel
passages thus opposed to each other by Wordsworth, the
creative or remodelling operation produced by fancy in the
former case, and by imagination in the latter, is the same;
in both the sky is endowed with personality and human
feeling ; it is the propriety of the action attributed to the
imaginary being in the one case, and its unreasonableness
in the other, which makes the former merely fanciful, the
latter highly imaginative.
Danger of it will readily be perceived, from what has here been said
of fancy> t^le nature °f fancy, that when unregulated by a strong
judgment, and unwarmed by strong passion, it is one of the
most dangerous qualities w hich a poet can possess. To the
predominance of this quality, indeed, to the consciousness
of a facility of finding ingenious analogies or subtile dis¬
tinctions, of- conjuring up a multitude of fantastic resem¬
blances, pleasing in themselves, but in no way heightening
the leading impression sought to be conveyed, are to be
ascribed many of the errors of taste by which modern poe¬
try has been deformed. To this must be ascribed those
conceits, from which scarcely a single Italian writer prior to
the eighteenth century is free, and which reached their con¬
summation in Marino ; to this the similar extravagancies of
Gongora, Quevedo, and their followers in Spain ; the affect¬
ed taste introduced by Voiture and Balzac in France, and
exploded by the good sense of Moliere; and the similar ex¬
travagancies of our own metaphysical poets. An excess of
imagination cannot lead to bad taste in style; an excess of
fancy is but too apt to produce that effect.
Judgment. Of judgment, which is the regulating and controlling
power by which the active and creative faculties of imagi¬
nation and fancy are guided, checking the too daring flight
of the one, and pruning the excesses of the other, it is
needless to speak ; since it is a quality not more peculiarly
requisite in poetry than in oratory, or any of those depart¬
ments of intellectual exertion which depend not on demon¬
stration, but on the balance of probabilities. In fact, the
highest range of imagination has invariably been found to
be accompanied by a corresponding depth and comprehen¬
siveness of judgment; or rather, perhaps, it would be more
philosophical to say, that judgment is involved and consti¬
tutes one of the component parts of high imagination. For
the imagination, as is justly remarked by Mr Stewart, is a
complex power. “ It includes conception or simple appre¬
hension, w hich enables us to form a notion of those former
objects of perception or knowledge, out of which we are to
make a selection (in the fine arts) ; abstraction, which se¬
parates the selected materials from the qualities and cir¬
cumstances which are connected with them in nature ; and
judgment or taste, which selects the materials, and directs
their combination.” It is only in minds where imagination is Poetry,
limited, and where its possessor tries by effort and strainingv—
to enlarge it beyond its appointed bounds, that the judg¬
ment is generally found defective. Homer and Shakspeare,
the most inventive and imaginative of poets, are also the
most sagacious, the most practical, the most abounding in
wisdom, both of a worldly and of a higher kind.
But, in addition to the natural gifts of sensibility to feel, Study ne-
memory to retain impressions, imagination and fancy to cessary to
fashion new conceptions, and judgment to blend in harmony forma Poet-
all the materials which have been thus accumulated, study
is just as essential for the formation of the poet as for the
acquisition and practice of the most mechanical art. That
study regards both the materials of poetry and the language
by which they are to be communicated in a sensible form to
others. Study of men in the different conditions of life, and
the habit of observing and systematising these observations ;
study of external nature, so as to mark the peculiarities w hich
escape common eyes; the accustoming the mind to search
for resemblances among things different, and to lay them up
in the memory as in a treasury ; these are assistances which
no poet can overlook, and without which the imaginative
faculty is deprived of its due nourishment, and of half its
power. For even imagination does not strictly create out
of nothing; it must be quickened and set in motion by
something external, and demands materials on which it can
try its processes of change or recombination. All great
poets, therefore, have steadily pursued this course of study
of nature, both moral and physical ; though, after the ha¬
bit is once formed, these mental operations are carried on
almost unconsciously, and the treasures of poetical observa¬
tion grow upon their possessor, w ithout his being conscious
of any effort in their accumulation. A remarkable instance
of the attention paid by great poets to the minutest peculi¬
arities of external nature, and of course equally applicable
to the study of mental phenomena, is afforded by the case
of Sir Walter Scott. Every one know's the graphic truth
as well as the wonderful variety of his descriptions of scenery,
which, by their selection of every thing that is charac¬
teristic, embody the very spirit of the ^lace, and call back
to our minds the impression with which we had first view¬
ed it, and which had faded away and become forgotten. It
is evident that in such descriptions Scott trusted little to
the imagination, as able to compensate the observation of
reality. Mr Morritt mentions, that whilst he was engaged
in the composition of Rokeby, he observed him noting dow n
even the peculiar little wild flowers and herbs that acciden¬
tally grew round and on the side of a crag near his intend¬
ed cave of Guy Denzil; and on his saying that he need not
have taken the trouble, since daisies, violets, and primroses,
would have suited his purpose as well as the humble plants
he was examining, the poet replied, “ that in nature herself
no two scenes are exactly alike, and that whoever copied
truly what was before his eyes, would possess the same va¬
riety in his descriptions, and exhibit apparently an imagina¬
tion as boundless as the range of nature in the scenes he re¬
corded ; whereas, whoever trusted to imagination would soon
find his own mind circumscribed and contracted to a few fa¬
vourite images, and the repetition of these would, sooner or
later, produce that very monotony and barrenness which had
always haunted descriptive poetry in the hands of any but
the patient worshippers of truth.”
The other department of the poet’s study relates to the use Diction,
of the medium through which his ideal creations are to be con¬
veyed to others; in other words, diction, or the choice and
arrangement of the words most appropriate to convey the
precise shade of meaning, and to convey it divested of all
those associations of a low or ludicrous character, which
usage sometimes connects with words, and assisted by all the
charms of musical sound. All men who seek to command
the minds of others through speech must by study learn to
144
POETRY.
Poetry, aj
apprehend the power and perfect force, as affecting thought,
  'imagination, and passion, of every word winch his fellow-
men have used for ages as the vivid image of some concep¬
tion of the soul. They must acquire a perception ot the
value of words, at once exact, delicate, and passionate.
This careful and fond study of language, however, is pe¬
culiarly requisite to the poet, and has been carried to higher
perfection by them than by prose writers ; “ because, m tne
composition of poetry, the mind, attempered to delight, teels
more sensitively the exquisite form into which the mate¬
rial expression of its conception is wrought. The very
shackles imposed by metre and rhyme, though they may
occasionally tempt an inferior poet into the use of a word
which is not the one most apt to express his conception,
unquestionably only operate as a stimulus to the great poet
to make himself master of all the resources of words which
the language supplies, so as to comply with the neces¬
sities of rhyme and musical sound without sacrificing any
portion of the substance of his conception. Without this
thorough command of the whole armament of language, and
the utmost patience and perseverance in its use, we may be
assured that no poet has ever succeeded in attaining a gene¬
ral and permanent popularity. Verse cannot leap full arm¬
ed from the brain of the poet. The steps which lead from
the rudeness of the first conception to the elegance of the
last, though they cannot be seen, are undoubtedly many.
The ideas must be patiently wrought into shape; words
weighed and rejected; shades of meaning of the nicest kind
discriminated ; associations foreseen and guarded against;
and an arrangement of words throughout preserved, which,
while it differs from that of prose, never allows the inver¬
sions which are admitted in poetry to obscure the mean¬
ing. The practice of the greatest poets we know to have
been in conformity to these rules. We find Virgil dic¬
tating a number of verses in the morning, spending the
day in revising, connecting, and reducing them, and com¬
paring himself, as Aulus Gellius mentions, to a she-bear
licking her misshapen offspring into shape. We see Pe¬
trarch returning day after day to his sonnets, to alter some
single word, or make some trifling change in the arrange¬
ment of a line. The manuscripts of Ariosto, whose style
appears the very perfection of ease, and an almost sponta¬
neous emanation, still exist at Ferrara, and show that many
of the favourite passages in the Orlando were written eight
times over. Scarcely less attention was bestowed upon the
stanzas of the Gerusalemme by Tasso. Milton’s study of
English speech, and mastery of the artifice of language, as
well as the critical care with which he built up “ the lofty
rhyme,” are well known.
He with difficulty and labour hard
Moved on; with difficulty and labour he.
The specimens of Pope’s Iliad given in Johnson’s Life, ex¬
hibiting the successive changes which the lines underwent
before they assumed that compact and harmonious form in
which they appeared before the public, must be in the re¬
collection of every reader. And we see from the letters of
Lord Byron, that the same laborious process of polishing
was not disdained even by his impetuous mind. It is indeed
scarcely too much to say, that no composition of any length,
which has attained a permanent popularity, was ever thrown
off at a heat; and that the nearer the work approaches to
the appearance of spontaneity, the greater has in general
been the extent of the labour which has been employed
upon it.
Qualities Such being the qualities and habits of mind that make
“’,umi0I11 to the poet, it may be asked what are the common qualities to
be found in all poetry which has permanently commanded
the admiration of mankind. Milton has endeavoured to
Poetry, he says, must be Poetry.
all good
poetry.
condense these into a sentence.
“ simple, sensuous, passionate. , , , v
By the first quality, simplicity, which applies both to the Poetry
matter and the language, he seems to indicate the neces-must be
sity of dealing in poetry with the simple elements of human simPle-
nature; keeping the broad highways of feeling, avoiding
affectation of sentiment, over-refinement, or morbid pecu¬
liarity of any kind. “ It distinguishes poetry from the ardu¬
ous processes of science labouring towards an end not yet
arrived at, and supposes a smooth and finished road on
which the reader is to walk onward easily, with streams
murmuring by his side, and trees, and flowers, and human
dwellings, to make his journey as delightful as the object
of it is desirable, instead of having to toil with the pioneers,
and painfully to make the road on which others are to tra¬
vel.”1 And unquestionably it is the fact, that the works of
the greatest poets are the simplest, the most level to ordi¬
nary apprehension, the most adapted to ordinal y sympa¬
thies. Homer, in whose works nature is reflected without
change, is understood and relished equally by the youth and
the man, by nations the most distant from each other both
in space and time. Shakspeare, in like manner, in whose
works we can detect no subjective influence produced by
his own mind, and who seems to range like the universal
sun over the provinces of emotion, enlightening all alike,
produces the same deep impression on the learned and the
unlearned. Both concur in this, that they do not paint the
exceptional, but the customary; not the peculiarities, but
the common features of humanity ; and that they paint
these broadly and simply, instead of endeavouring, by a com¬
plex apparatus of singular traits and colours, to display their
own artistic skill.
The second of the qualities enumerated by Milton is, Sensuous,
that poetry must be “ sensuousthat is, that it shall have
that character of sensible reality, which shall prevent its
degenerating into mere dreams and abstractions; that it
shall be so far connected with the world about us, and with
our actual interests and pursuits, as not to appear altoge¬
ther the creature of another sphere; and this both as to
the nature of the subject and the definite nature of the
imagery employed upon it. The right understanding and
application of this rule w ould have saved the world from
many of those hazy poetical abstractions, or attempts to
transmute political or metaphysical theories into poetry,
with which, in the present age in particular, the public has
been inundated. It is the neglect of it which renders the
metaphysical poetry of the sixteenth century, with all its
grandeur and force of thought, so often unreadable ; which
has made the poetry of Keats, abounding, as it does, in ex¬
quisite beauties of conception, a sealed book to the mass
of readers ; and which, more even than its irreligious ten¬
dency, has obstructed the popularity of the poems of Shelley.
The third requisite of poetry is that it be passionate. It Passionate'
is not enough that thought and imagery be sensuous, or
objective and definite; the passio vera of humanity, as
Coleridge remarks, must animate both. It is by our sym¬
pathies that poetry lays its strongest hold on us; and it is
by the representation of passion that these must be set in
motion. Even the lower and more level departments of
poetry must be warmed by it; of the epic, and still more
the dramatic, it constitutes the mainspring. Didactic and
descriptive poetry would become wearisome were they not
enlivened by the occasional introduction of scenes awaken¬
ing the feelings of love or pity. In lyric poetry, the song
constantly exhibits its condensed expression; in fact, so
powerful is its influence, that genuine passion will often
support a poem which has but slender claims to fancy or
imagination. The mere literal and truthful exhibition of
1 Coleridge’s Literary Remains, vol. ii. p. 10.
POE
Poetry, the greater passions of our nature so stirs within us the
sense of the sublime or the terrible, so rouses our curiosity
and suspense, that for a time we are willing to dispense
with the more ethereal colouring which imagination might
impart to them. \\ e say, however, for a time only ; for a
literal picture of human passions, if prolonged through a
whole drama, and unrelieved by imagery, or the expression
of calmer thought, is felt to be painful and harrowing to
the mind. Such is the effect produced by the Newgate
Calendar dramas of Lillo, George Barnwell, Arden of Fe-
versham, and the Fatal Curiosity, and by the similar tra¬
gedy of Werner, the Twenty-Ninth of February. So great
was the effect produced by the scene in Lillo’s play repre¬
senting the murder of Arden, that the audience, unable to
endure the excitement of the representation, rose up with
one accord and interrupted it. Appeals to our passions,
presented in this bleak and naked reality, have the same
painful effect upon the mind which exhibitions of crime and
suffering have in real life. To make them produce a pleas¬
ing effect in poetry, at least for any length of time, they
must be blended with associations of a less vulgar and less
agitating kind; and the pain which attends our sympathy
must be tempered by the soothing imagery suggested by
the imaginative and reflective faculties.
• 'try The qualities enumerated by Milton may be considered
< nges as fixed and inherent in all good poetry; beyond these it is
(' s0' difficult to point out any which are of permanent and uni-
versal necessity, lhat poetry which seeks to please through
our sympathies must shift and vary, both in its themes and
in the manner of treating them, with the changes of society,
is a truism on which it is needless to enlarge. If the opinions
of men change, if their habits and the objects and associa¬
tions which interest them alter, poetry must adapt itself to
this altered state of things. It does so indeed unconsciously;
it cannot avoid doing so, for the poet’s own nature has par¬
taken of the change.
Ihct of It is a more important question, whether the progress of
j society, the advancement in civilization, and the moral ha-
t ooetry.1 and intellectual constitution which accompany it, ope¬
rate favourably or unfavourably on poetry; in other words,
Is there reason to believe that the imaginative faculty in
poets, and the sensibilities of their readers, decline with the
progress of refinement in the arts; or that the imagination
no longer finds the same materials in actual life on which
its plastic power can be excited ?
I he tendency of most of the late inquiries into the ques¬
tion has been towards the opinion of its unfavourable influ¬
ence. The faculty of imagination is supposed to decline
as knowledge becomes more exact; the turn for analysis,
which is the characteristic of advancing civilization, and
which shows itself in the philosophical character which lan¬
guage assumes, is maintained to be destructive of that in¬
dividuality and distinctness which is the life of poetry ; sub¬
stituting general abstractions for particulars, vague phrases
instead of images, and personified qualities instead of men.
In a half-civilized state of society, too, life is a romance, a
tissue of adventures, powerfully exciting the feelings of fear,
wonder, and enthusiasm. In more refined periods these
sources of excitement cease; and, even where they exist,
they are veiled by the caution which the fear of ridicule pro¬
duces, a restraint which in the ruder periods of society is
comparatively unknown. Hence both the imagination of
the poet and the sensibilities of the reader of poetry are
chilled. “ Poetry,” says one of the ablest exponents of this
unfavourable view of the effects of civilization on the arts,
produces an illusion on the eye of the mind, as a magic
lantern produces an illusion on the eye of the body. And
as the magic lantern acts best in a dark room, poetry effects
its purpose most completely in a dark age. As the light
of knowledge breaks in upon its exhibitions—as the outlines
o* certainty become more and more definite, and the shades
VOL. XVIII.
TRY. H5
of probability more and more distinct—the hues and linea- Poetry,
ments of the phantoms which it calls up grow fainter and ^
fainter. We cannot unite the incompatible advantages of
reality and deception, the clear discernment of truth and the
exquisite enjoyment of fiction.”
Yet these observations, though true to some extent, must
be received also with some qualification. If language loses
something in picturesqueness, it becomes far more pliant,
far better adapted to convey the exact idea intended; if
phrases which originally conveyed images have by long use
ceased to be metaphorical, we see that genius is constantly
creating and giving currency to new combinations. Know¬
ledge and learning and mechanical improvements, if they
tend to repress enthusiastic feeling, at least supply poetry
with a host of illustrations unknown to earlier periods ; but,
above all, it may be doubted whether the enthusiastic and
imaginative faculties within us can ever be materially affected
by the changes of society, however their outward manifes¬
tations may be repressed. Whilst men feel that they are
connected with eternity, mysteriously surrounded by influ¬
ences which they feel and acknowledge though they cannot
account for them ; whilst love still holds a place in the heart,
and carries the spirit of romance into the barest realities of
existence ; whilst men have a country to honour and de¬
fend ; whilst they can still be animated to enthusiastic con¬
cert in the cause of humanity; whilst the strange accidents
by which even our decorous and conventional course of life
is at times broken, still present to them a thousand scenes of
joy or calamity ; there seems little reason to apprehend that
the imaginative faculty can ever be so impaired from want
of external nutriment or inward vigour, but that a truly
great poet will always find the means of speaking to the
hearts and sympathies of men, in different language it may
be, but with undiminished power.
Still less reason is there for the apprehension, that the
materials for description and illustration which external na¬
ture offers to the poet are likely to be in time exhausted,
or even materially encroached upon. Certainly the first
and the more obvious of its features are caught by the first
labourers in the field of poetry, with a truth and liveliness
which no subsequent efforts are likely to surpass ; and if
poetical imitation were, like literal landscape or portrait paint¬
ing, a mere transcript of the scene before us, there might
be reason to think that all the more striking aspects and
points of view would, in the course of time, come to be ex¬
hausted, and the poet driven either to mere repetition in a
feebler form, or to seek tor novelty by endeavouring to turn
to account the materials which his predecessors had thrown
aside as least fit for their purposes. But when it is recol¬
lected how infinite are the varieties and combinations of
which the objects of moral and material nature are suscep¬
tible, how largely, too, a creative and changing power is ex¬
ercised in poetical imitation; and in howr many different lights,
independently of this process of imaginative change, the
objects around us are placed by natural differences of asso¬
ciations in the person who contemplates them; it may be
safely assumed that the materials of poetry are inexhaus¬
tible.
That poetry must have existed from the very earliest
periods is undoubted. As the expression in language, of
that feeling of excitement and elevation produced either by
moral or material grandeur or beauty, it had its seat and
origin in human nature itself; and in its simplest form must
necessarily have existed as soon as man felt the desire of
recording his impressions, or communicating them to others.
In its first shape it may have been destitute either of rhythm
or metre ; although so close is the connection between that
state of the imagination which gives birth to poetical con¬
ceptions, and a tendency to assist the effect of these by
certain intonations of the voice approaching to musical
sounds, that it is far more probable that even from the first
T
146
Poetry.
POETRY.
something of measure was imparted to it, probably without
effort or consciousness on the part of the reci er. c y
•rate, the power of measure as an assistant to memory, ant
as furnishing a species of gratification to the ear. apart fro
the mere effect of the ideas upon the mind, could not fail to
be soon perceived and acted upon. At first, in fact, poetry
and music seem to have been constantly associated, for
the study of music, as something separate from the accom¬
paniment of words, is one which arises only at a later pe¬
riod ; and in all the poetical compositions which have de¬
scended to us, the elements of versification, or division of
lines into certain measures, are discernible.
Hebrew The poetry of the Hebrews is the oldest in the world. It
Poetry, stands apart from all the rest, in solitary grandeur, like a
pillar of fire in the poetical wilderness. The poetry of
Greece, for instance, only begins to exist centuries after the
noblest efforts of the Hebrew muse had been produced and
committed to writing. Even the oldest poetry of the Ara¬
bians, whose language is a kindred one to the Hebrew, is
of far more recent date than the Jewish Scriptures, in fact
not much older than the time of Mahommed. The He¬
brew poetry, as it has come down to us, seems limited in
its field, though within that field it has attained a mastery
never excelled. Almost all its compositions are lyrical,
and chiefly in the highest department of the lyric, resem¬
bling, though in a less regular and artful form, the ode of
the classical poetry. Its characteristics appear to be un¬
equalled majesty of thought and expression, a fervour and
flow which, more than in any other poetry in existence, sug¬
gest the idea of an inspiration or divine afflatus, dictating,
through the poet as a mere organ, the sublimest ideas in
words of corresponding weight and grandeur; a profusion
of imagery and illustration, which, though it at first appears
excessive and overpowering to the critic of modern times,
and colder climes, is seen upon further study to be in the
emsest harmony with the Hebrew character, and that of
all the oriental nations, and is remarkable for the absence
of any thing farfetched or elaborate ; a rapid desultory
movement from one train of thought or illustration to an¬
other, without formally supplying the links in the chain of
association which have led to the new topic,—as if the poet
relied upon a corresponding excitement in his readers or
hearers to supply that elevation and reach of poetical vision
necessary for tracing the chain of ideas from first to last.
It is certain, however, that to the Hebrews themselves there
was much less of abruptness and want of connection in
their lyrics than at first sight appears to us ; and that slight
hints were sufficient to awaken trains of associations to which,
from our altered circumstances and character of mind, we
have now no clue; and this observation, in fact, applies
equally to the Hebrew and to great part of the classical
poetry of Greece and Rome.
Circum- When we look to the Hebrew character and poetry, and
stances to the local situation and manners of the country, we per-
ce^ve a combination of circumstances highly favourable to
its peculiar ^le growth and development of that department of poetry
character. *n which alone they can be said to have attained distin¬
guished eminence. All the elements out of which a great
national lyric poetry is formed existed amongst the Hebrews,
both as regarded the impulses of the mind and the external
influences by which they were surrounded and daily acted
on. They had been selected as God’s peculiar people from
among the nations; they held as it were a commission from
heaven, giving them authority over the world ; they looked
upon themselves as the race from which its Saviour Was
to spring. rl hey had triumphed, by the divine aid, over
the kings, and princes, and Pharaohs of the earth ; they
had the recollection of all their strange wanderings, their
miraculous deliverances, their acquisition of the promised
land, and their law given amidst audible thunders and vi¬
sible smoke from Mount Sinai, in the presence of assembled Poet;,
myriads. They had a religion which, excluding the wor-^ ^
ship of the Deity under visible symbols, only made the
image of the Deity more deeply and impressively worship¬
ped within the temple of the heart and the imagination :
while the connection of religion with all the affairs of life ;
the constant rites and ceremonies and festivals of rejoicing
or humiliation; the presence of the Deity, kept before their
thoughts by the ark, which was supposed to be his pecu¬
liar seat, and the sacredness of which had been more than
once guarded or avenged by prodigies; prevented that re¬
ligion from becoming a mere abstraction, and gave to their
conceptions of the Deity a warmth and life peculiarly suit¬
ed to the poetry of devotion, as blending the ideas of the
visible and the spiritual, without any admission of those
palpable, material, and degrading conceptions which mingle
with and deform, to our associations, the mythological or
religious poetry of Grecian polytheism. No commercial
pursuits tended to excite among the earlier Hebrews the
prosaic love of gain. They were shepherds, husbandmen,
or warriors, deriving subsistence from the soil, and attach¬
ed to it by a train of recollections. Frequent public cere¬
monies, festivals, jubilees, gave occasion for the assem¬
blage of the people in large masses, for a common purpose ;
the occasion of all others most likely to call forth, by a
common sympathy, the enthusiasm which stimulates the
imagination into poetical activity. Add to these a climate
bright and cheerful, but admitting also of every variation
and interchange of serenity or tempest; a country, the
external aspect of which presented the strongest contrasts
of barrenness and luxuriance ; fertile plains, with moun¬
tain ranges of the most bleak and desolate grandeur ; gar¬
dens like those of Damascus, with dreary lakes like the
Dead Sea, whose stagnant waters still spoke of the fall
of the cities of the plain, or wildernesses haunted by the
lion, the rhinoceros, and the serpent; and it would indeed
be matter of surprise if the Hebrew sacred poetry were
not characterized by a remarkable feeling of national pride,
of sublimity, simplicity, and natural pathos in its senti¬
ment, and by a peculiar freshness, truth, and boldness in
its pictures of nature, or illustrations derived from external
scenery. The parched plains of Judaea, the rocky top of
Sinai, the towers of Damascus, and the gardens of Lebanon
and Carmel, supply them with figures or allusions which
have an unspeakable charm of picturesqueness and beauty.
The climate is vividly brought before us in the allusions to
the wellsprings that water the desert, and to the shadow
of the great rock in a weary land. We see the simple
character of their life in their pastoral images, so constantly
derived from the tending of flocks and herds ; imagery so
congenial to their minds, that it is employed by the Author
of our faith in some of the most touching passages of the
New Testament. Such is the character of those books of
the Hebrew Scriptures which are on all hands admitted to
be poetical, though we know too little of the laws of He¬
brew prosody to be able to say whether they are written in
verse, though a species of rhythm, and apparent equality in
the divisions of portions of the sentences, appear to indi¬
cate that they are. Such are the Book of Psalms; one of
which (the ninetieth) is even ascribed to Moses, whilst seve¬
ral others were the production of predecessors or contempo¬
raries of David. It is certain, however, that those ascribed to
him are the finest and the most affecting of the whole, though
perhaps not the most magnificent in point of stateliness of
diction and imagery. “ Nor is it in tragic so much as in joyous
expression,” says Mr Campbell, “ that I conceive the power
of his genius to consist. Its most inspired aspect appears to
present itself when he looks abroad on the universe with the
eye of a poet and with the breast of a glad and grateful
worshipper. When he looks up to the starry firmament,
his soul assimilates to the splendour and serenity which he
POETRY.
147
Poetry, contemplates. His lofty but bland spirit of devotion peculi-
arly reigns in the eighth and in the nineteenth psalms. But,
above all, it expands itself in the 10 4th into a minute and
richly diversified picture of the creation. Verse after verse
in that psalm leads on the mind through the various objects
of nature, as through a mighty landscape ; and the atmo¬
sphere of the scene is coloured, not with a dim or mystic,
but with a warm and clear light of religious feeling. He
spreads his sympathies over the face of the world, and re¬
joices in the power and goodness of its protecting Deity.
The impressions of that exquisite ode dilate the heart with
a pleasure too instinctive and simple to be described.”1
Such also are the Song of Solomon, the Proverbs, Eccle¬
siastes, the Lamentations, and the Book of Job, with large
portions of the prophetic books, and occasional passages
even in the narrative books, such as the Song of Moses
and Miriam, Jacob’s dying prophecies to his sons, the tri¬
umphal chant of Deborah, Balak’s involuntary blessing on
the people whom he came to curse, and, above all, the ex¬
quisitely pathetic and beautiful lamentation of David over
Saul and Jonathan. Amongst the Hebrew prophets, view¬
ing their writings apart from their divine inspiration, and
merely in the light of poetical compositions, the highest
rank is universally ascribed to Isaiah ; and that on account
of the union of excellencies which his sacred poetry exhi¬
bits. Deeply pathetic in some portions, as in those where
he paints the destruction which is about to fall upon Judah ;
awfully sublime in others, as where he describes the de¬
scent of the Assyrian king into the regions of hell, while
all the dead monarchs of the earth rise up to greet him
with reproaches; he rises with equal ease to themes of rap¬
turous exultation, or spreads out in minute portraiture all
the tranquil and soothing images of a coming millennium.
“ Joel,” says Mr Campbell, “ may be deemed to surpass him
in continuity, and both Joel and Habakkuk are at moments
more sublime. But their compositions are much shorter
than his, and give us not the same conception of copious
and unwearied inspiration. Isaiah’s genius goes farther on
an even wing, and burns longer with an unwavering fire.
When he has merely to relate, his language has the utmost
plainness; and his expositions are remarkably clear, consi¬
dering the nature of oracidar poetry. He unites the same
simplicity with his rich and high visionary scenes, which are
neither meagre like Jeremiah’s, nor ambitiously overwrought
and complex like Ezekiel’s. A deliberate air, a divine self-
possession, turns the very scorn and w rath of his spirit into
movements of grace and beauty.”
Jeremiah and Ezekiel belong to the declining period of
Hebrew literature. They had fallen upon the evil days of
their country, and the influence which its misfortunes and
degradation produced on the mind, is peculiarly visible in
the melancholy strains of Jeremiah. “ His genius seems
to bend, his voice to falter, under the burden of prophecy;
and though sometimes pleasingly aftecting, he generally
prolongs the accents of grief to monotony, and seldom
avoids tautology except where he abridges the works of other
prophets.” Ezekiel is the last great prophetic poet of the
Hebrew line; and opinions have been divided as to the
poetical rank to which he is entitled. Dr Lowth thinks
that he is not excelled in sublimity even by Isaiah himself;
Michaelis, on the contrary, that he displays more luxuriance
in amplifying and decorating his subject than is consistent
with true poetical fervour. Mr Campbell adopts the view
of Michaelis, but adds, that the fancy of Ezekiel is daring
and ingenious. Ingenious hardly appears to be the term
applicable to the imagination of Ezekiel, which revels with
peculiar pleasure in visions of a mystical, and, it must be
admitted, somewhat confused sublimity. Some passages,
however, are most powerfully impressive, such as the vision Poetry,
of the four cherubim* in the first chapter, and the resur-s—-v—«■
rection of the dry bones in the thirty-seventh, when there
wras “ a noise and a shaking, and the bones came together,
bone unto his boneand the prophet calls unto the wind,
“ Come from the four winds, O breath, and breathe upon
these slain, that they may live; and they stood up on their
feet, an exceeding great army.”
But whilst the Hebrew poetry equals, and indeed far ex¬
cels, that of any other nation in the sacred lyric, it is singu¬
larly defective in the other departments. The Song of Solo¬
mon, laying aside its spiritual meaning, maybe admitted to be
a fine specimen of the pastoral: but of dramatic and narrative
poetry the Hebrews have left no specimens; for, though
the book of Job has to a certain extent a dramatic form, it
has clearly nothing of the essential qualities of the drama.
This has been ascribed mainly to the theocratic nature of
the Jewish constitution, in which the Levites or priesthood
formed the sole and literary aristocracy; thus devoting
poetry exclusively to religious themes. But, considering
the ample field which the Jewish national religious history
afforded, it is not easy to see why, if the genius of the
people had inclined toward narrative or dramatic poetry,
the Exodus, the wanderings in the desert, the wars carried
on under the judges, and the many other striking events
which gave interest to their annals, should not have been
embodied in verse, as they were in prose, in the narrative
books of the Old Testament.
But, though the poetry of the Hebrews is the first in the
order of time, it cannot properly be regarded as the foun¬
tain-head of that literature, the course and connection of
which we trace in an unbroken series of great works down
to the present time.
The sacred poetry of the Hebrews, no doubt, impressed
upon the literature of Christianity some strong and remark¬
able features ; but it was from the fountain of classical litera¬
ture that the genius of modern Europe first drew its inspi¬
ration. It is therefore to Greece that we must turn, as the
head of that great family of literature with which we feel
ourselves connected by relationship of thought and asso-?
ciation.
On turning from the poetry of the Hebrews to that of Greek
Greece, we are immediately struck with one distinctive fea- Poetry.
ture, which, as applicable to the whole of its poetry, we may
notice before adverting to the different departments into
which it is subdivided, viz. the more palpable, material, and
distinct character of all its conceptions and imagery. This
immaterial, vague, and spiritual character of the Hebrew
poetry, dwelling more on emotions of the mind than on ac¬
tions, and on the invisible rather than the outward and vi¬
sible, is unquestionably to be ascribed in a great measure
to the predominance, in the national mind, of a pure and
elevating religious creed. On the other hand, the Grecian
mind, formed under the influence of a mythology which
was in fact a mere deification of the material world, and
which certainly exercised no strong influence save on the
fancy, banished those themes and trains of thought which lod
beyond the visible diurnal sphere, and, concentrating its
attention upon the present, gave to all its imagery a distinct¬
ness of outline, a simplicity and pellucid clearness in the
thought, which, if less suited than the Hebrew to the ex¬
citement of the evidences of the sublime, was certainly in
a corresponding degree favourable to the creation of beau¬
ty. The Hebrew poetry, therefore, is contemplative and
subjective ; the Grecian plastic and objective,
In an outline like the present, of the progress of poetry,
it is needless to dwell upon the subject of the anti-homeric
* Campbell’s Lectures on Poetry, i.
148 POE
Poetry, poets of Greece. That there were poets before Homer,
we know; and this is really the extent of what is known
on the subject. That the ort of poetry had been cultivated
to a considerable extent, that its principles had been sub¬
jected to reflection and experiment, when Homer lived, is
as clear as internal evidence in any case can make it..
Poetry improves only as painting and sculpture rise to
perfection. u In sculpture,” says Herder, a what a track
must it have travelled over in passing from the figures on
the chest of Cypselus to the decorations of the Propyleia
and the Minerva of Phidias, or from the sculptures of Dae¬
dalus to the Olympic Jupiter. A like track was travelled
by poetrv in advancing from the rude lays in honour of
gods and chiefs to the Homeric Epos.” We know, indeed,
that many of the minstrels before Homer had sung theogo-
nies and cosmogonies, the adventures of Titans and heroes,
of Hercules, Theseus, and the Argonauts; and in all proba¬
bility the legends of the siege of Troy, and the return of
the chiefs engaged in that enterprise, had formed the sub¬
ject of many a ballad or rhapsody, ere a Homer arose to
give them unity, proportion, and poetic life. All these
have faded and been forgotten, for the tablet of human
memory is narrow, and, to give room for the last and best,
the older and ruder inscriptions must be erazed. Not one
of these, accordingly, has descended to us in any authentic
form ; whilst the spuriousness of most of the Orphic poetry
is unquestionable. Whether even an Orpheus ever existed,
w'as doubted by Aristotle; and Herodotus distinctly states
his belief, that the poets given out as older than Homer
were in fact of more recent date.
We do not enter into the details of the question whether
the works which bear the name of Homer were the produc¬
tions of one man, and written in their present form at the
period commonly ascribed to them, namely, nine hundred
years before Christ, or whether they were originally the work
of many rhapsodists, in portions separate and distinct, and
afterwards woven together in a collected form about the
time of Solon and Pisistratus. The question is, in fact, of less
importance in reference to the history of poetry than might
at first sight appear. For whatever view may be adopted, it
is clear that the spirit, the tone, and the manners which are
described in the separate lays, supposed to have been ulti¬
mately incorporated in one, are those of the earlier and not
of the later period, and that the Iliad paints the Grecian
mind and character as it appeared three or four hundred
years before the time of Solon, and that from draughts made
at the time. If so, the only way in which the adoption of
the modern theory of Wolff affects the question is, that it
deprives Homer of the merit of one grand general design,
consistently followed out. It is certain, however, that what¬
ever difficulties may attend the supposition of the Iliad and
Odyssey being written by one man, in their present form,
and at the early date ascribed to them, and preserved in the
absence of writing by mere oral tradition, the difficulties on
the other side are infinitely greater. To suppose that a set of
scattered lays, composed by a number of unconnected min¬
strels, should ever have been made to cohere so smoothly
and compactly, evincing such perfect unity of plot and pur¬
pose ; that they should have been confined to so small a
portion of the Irojan legendary history, and have given
such prominence to a single Thessalian hero ; seems a sup¬
position far more startling than any that attends the belief
that the Iliad is the work of a single author. “ For inspi¬
ration is a solitary creative spirit; and it is not to knots and
groups, or accidental fabricators, that she has ever intrust¬
ed those great conceptions in poetry or painting, or the fine
arts, that have commanded the permanent homage of man-
in Many smaller additions, by other hands, in the same
spirit and style, may have been afterwards superinduced
upon the original work of Homer. (See the article Ho¬
mes.)
TRY.
The two great poems of Homer are the first specimens of Poetry
The Epic, or narrative poem. It is, in fact, fiom the Iliad in ^ \ vr^_
particular that our conceptions of an epic poem have been de-
rived, and its canons deduced. What Homer has done has1
been'consecrated as establishing inviolable rules to be ob¬
served by his successors. The epic is, upon the whole, the
noblest form of poetry ; that which demands the highest and
most sustained power of imagination, combined with the
simplest and purest taste. The power of tragedy is greater
for the moment; for its presentations, assisted by action and
visible form, are more vivid ; but the epic, possessing a wider
compass, and painting only by words to the eye of the mind,
has a more diversified, enduring, and tranquil operation. Ra¬
pidity, strength of passion, vehement and animated dialogue,
are the essential requisites of tragedy ; a calm, sustained,
progressive, and sober majesty the characteristic of the
epic. “ Of dramatic pieces,” says Herder, “ we remember
sentences; the characters move before our eyes, we feel
their emotions with them. But this emotion being stronger,
is also briefer; it passes away. The epopee, with its more
quiet working, with its proportions too vast for any stage to
compass, fills the soul, and there abides.” The other points
noticed by Aristotle, “ revolutions of fortune, recognitions,
characters, passions,” are common to both, as well as to fic¬
titious composition in prose. Every romance written on any
high principle is, in fact, a prose epic ; the epopee in verse
merely adds to the other sources of interest the charm of
poetical diction, and of those elaborate ornaments of figures
and similes, which, though stately and appropriate in verse,
only produce a bombastic and ridiculous effect in the prose
of Fenelon, or still more in that of Macpherson.
An epic, then, is the poetical development, in narrative, Essentials
of some great and interesting event, or series of events, suf-°f ffieePic
ficiently separate from what goes before or follows, to pos¬
sess the character of a whole; having, therefore, a clear and
distinct beginning, middle, and end; an action simple at
first, leading into a complication of plot, and terminating in
a natural and soothing solution. These are its essentials ;
amongst its accidental features are the employment of super¬
natural agency as a medium either of heightening emotion
or of conducting the plot; the introduction of episodes, of
formal addresses, invocations, and similes; matters which
have no essential connection with epic poetry, and the pro¬
priety of the introduction of w hich varies with the theme, the
age, and the national associations of the poet.
To the confusion of these accidental qualities, many of How far
which are certainly quite unsuited to the taste of modern suited to
times, with those essential features which must have an equal
interest for all time, must be ascribed the numerous failures
wffiich in modern times have thrown a certain discredit and
air of ridicule upon the epic poem; as well as the belief
that appears to prevail, that the time for epic poetry is past.
Unquestionably any epic now written which deals with fa¬
bulous mythologies or exploded superstitions, and employs
in the nineteenth century the long elaborate speeches, the
minutely touched similes, the formal enumeration of ships,
and muster-rolls of regiments, which suited the primitive
times of Plomer, when description was new, will probably
share the fate of Leonidas or the Epigoniad. But in the
hands ot a poet selecting a theme of sufficient natural and
human interest, remote enough to allow play for the ima¬
gination, yet near enough to make us understand and sym¬
pathise with his actors, and treating it, not in a slavish spirit
of imagination, but with the vigour and independence of
original thought, we are persuaded that the epic would be
found to have lost none of its power. It seems to be an en¬
tirely mistaken opinion, that the epic is only the production
of an early and comparatively simple state of society, and
therefore unlikely to harmonize with the more complex na¬
ture and critical taste of more advanced civilization. On
the contrary, the Jerusalem of Tasso, the Paradise Lost of
POETRY.
1-iO
ind their
■'.hanicteris-
Poetry. Milton, and the Lusiad of Camoens, the only three modern
v—^ epics which deserve the name, are the productions of what
may be termed the golden age in point of taste in each
country, and of individuals uniting to poetical inspiration all
the stores which the widest reading and most sedulous cul¬
tivation of learning could supply.
ThfiHome- The great powers of Homer are distinguished from all
ic epics, modern epics, by their wonderful air of truth, their broad
clear portraiture of character, infinitely varied, and yet not
antithetically contrasted; their perfect absence of all affec¬
tation, false sentiment, or exaggeration, either in character
or sentiment; their calm and impartial spirit; their serenity,
cheerfulness, and good sense. Such a union is indeed not
to be expected in a modern state of society ; after poetical
description has already traced all the leading outlines both
of moral and material nature, and when men, insensibly and
unavoidably subjecting the influences from things without
to a process of intellectual chemistry from within, and thus,
connecting them with peculiar associations, cease to have
either the power or the inclination of simply reflecting back
on their verses, as in a mirror, the impressions of nature as
they fall upon the mind. Neither, although the power of
delineation existed, can it ever be expected that such ma¬
terials for broad, simple, and effective painting can be found
in modern times, when differences of character are veiled,
if not in a great measure obliterated, by community of edu¬
cation and habits, or are converted into mere humours or
peculiarities, to which the shades of distinction are too
minute for any grand poetical effect.
Even the greatest of our modern epic poets, in painting the
manners and the moral habitudes to which chivalry gave
birth, laboured under the disadvantages of pourtraying feel¬
ings which, springing, as they had done, out of a visionary
and unreal, because exaggerated, sentiment, had a tendency
to run into caricature, and to give a monotonous and hyper¬
bolical cast to their delineations of human character. The
beings painted by Homer, who himself lived upon the out¬
skirts of the heroic times of Greece, were in their features
the men whom he saw around him; beings natural, open, and
unsophisticated, both in their good and bad qualities: the
manners simple, primitive, and homely, yet not without a
touch of grave courtesy and refinement; the scenery which
forms the foreground or background of his human groups
as yet undepicted, the incidents through which they pass
unhackneyed; all nature was before him where to choose:
while the language which was to be employed as the me¬
dium of his art, neither debased by vulgar associations, nor
diluted from its original freshness and strength by meta¬
physical refinements; which diminish its picturesqueness,
in proportion as they render it more complex and philoso¬
phical, affected the mind with all the distinctness of sounds
and colours, and stamped upon it an impression fresh and
immediate, as from the signet of nature.
The power of invention displayed by Homer in his two
great poems, in the conception of character, can only be
fully appreciated when we recollect, that the germ or out¬
line of almost every character which has since figured in
epic poetry is to be found in the Iliad. Now, though the
wonderful variety of his incidents, his battles, sieges, and
storms, his nocturnal adventures, his combats of gods and
men, and his scenes of enchantment, may have been in a
considerable degree derived from his predecessors, and, in
fact, the hereditary and traditional 'properties of the ballad
minstrels of Greece, it is impossible to conceive that he
could have derived much aid from this source in giving in¬
dividuality and life to character. And yet, with the excep¬
tion of characters under the influence of the passion of
love, such as Dido, Armida, and Erminia, scarcely any sub¬
stantial addition has been made to the picture gallery of
Homer by later epic poets. His characters, in fact, have
been like stereotypes, from which newr impressions are con¬
stantly reproduced. Achilles, with his union of ferocity and Poetry,
gentleness, generosity and vindictive feeling, has been the '
model of all our mixed characters of passion since, and re¬
appears in Turnus and Rinaldo ; just as the kingly Agamem¬
non, with his grave dignity, has formed the archetype of
those which represent the ascendency of reflection, and the
moral power of sustained and tranquil grandeur, as in the
Godfrey of Tasso’s poem.
The characters of the Iliad are naturally the more varied, The Iliad,
because its subject was a great public event, and the actors
were the congregated princes and heroes of Greece and
Asia; the Odyssey is the poem of domestic life, the tale of
the fortunes of a single hero, to whom all the other per¬
sonages are purposely placed in subordination, but whose
character, by this isolation, gains a degree of distinctness
and natural truth absolutely unequalled in fiction, save in
some of the creations of Shakspeare. The remarks of Mr
Campbell on the characters of the Iliad are so just and beau¬
tiful, that we cannot deny ourselves the pleasure of quoting
them.
“ Achilles, in the centre, is of the order of spirits that
electrify and command mankind. His alarming and sensi¬
tive being is the soul of the Iliad, and his very absence and
repose are the causes of its disastrous action. He is un¬
questionably ferocious, but his quarrel is just; he is wrong¬
ed, high minded, hating falsehood like the gates of hell,
young, beautiful, and predestined to fall. Casual glimpses
of his manners are also given, that interestingly soften our
conception of him. He is the only hero of the Iliad who
amuses himself with music and poetry. The deputies of
the army find him in his tent playing on his lyre, and
chanting heroic songs; and, though he knows their hate¬
ful errand, he receives them w ith a calm and manly benig¬
nity. Horace does him injustice w hen he calls him a dis¬
claimer of laws, and inexorable ; for he melts into tears at
the prostrate gray hairs of Priam, the father of the slayer of
his friend, though he had lately withstood all the eloquence
of Nestor.
“ It show s the security of Homer in his inspiration to have
introduced such an opponent to Achilles as Hector. But
when he leads us to Troy, he makes us Trojans in our af¬
fections, and almost seems to become so himself. Prodigal
in sympathy with the events and agents which he conjures
up, his imagination as tenderly conceives the lamentations
of Hecuba, and the heart-sick swroon of Andromache, as it
makes itself impetuously congenial with the vengeance of
Achilles. Like nature, he is fruitful in creating charac¬
ters, and, like her, impartial in distributing and intrusting
virtues to contending parties. Conscious that Achilles could
shine by his own light, he fears not to show us his image
through tears for the fate of Hector. In delineating Hec¬
tor by the eulogies of his weeping country and friends, the
climax is exquisitely perfected by Helen. All others who
had bewailed him, she says, were bound to him by reci¬
procal ties ; but hers was the grief of gratitude for the un¬
deserved and gratuitous kindness of his mighty heart. He
had interposed when others had reproached her; he had
soothed her when her tears flowed at their reproaches.
“ Tineas creates a less ardent, though still respectable in¬
terest ; and it is increased by a hint, w hich is thrown out
with an air of minute historical probability, that Priam w as
jealous of his greatness, and that his virtues had been par¬
tially thrown into the shade. What expression in every
figure of this mighty tablet! What diversity even between
men incompetent to great actions; as between the abject
coward and vulgar braggart Thersites, and the gay good-
natured Paris, whose spirit, though sunk in luxury, still
shows some traces of his noble breed! The stout heart and
arm of Ajax stand him in lieu of all piety, craft, or sensibi¬
lity ; whilst Sarpedon, bleeding in warfare not his own,
spends his last generous breath in exhorting the brave to
150
POE
Poetry, rally the battle. Homer Is above all artificial antithesis in
——'/-■—■''the painting of character ; but in describing natures remote¬
ly different, he could not avoid exhibiting contrasts ; and
that which is visible between Achilles and Ulysses is as per¬
fect as heroic nature can afford.
“ The youthful Diomed is, among the Greeks, next to
Achilles, the apparent favourite of the poet: all spirit and
lustre, his valour burns like ‘ the unwearied fire that plays
on his shield and crest.’ Like Achilles, he is insulted by
Agamemnon, who charges him with cowardice on the eye
of battle ; but he is wise as well as warlike, and it is not till
his actions have belied the imputation, that he retaliates
upon his commander. When the Greeks have been worst¬
ed, and when Agamemnon proposes abandoning toe siege,
Diomed, the youngest of all the chiefs, rises in the coun¬
cil, and gives him a dignified rebuke. Agamemnon him¬
self is not without the virtues of fraternal affection, and
willingness to listen to able counsellors. He has also his
day of distinction in the field. But his importance alto¬
gether is more royal than personal, and his faults are made
conspicuous by his supremacy. Alternately presumptuous
and despondent, he is the readiest to tax others with defi¬
cient courage, and the first himself to despair under public
reverses. He is also unmerciful in victory. 1 he cry for
quarter is addressed to him in vain, and he makes two of
the most atrocious refusals to spare that occur in the Iliad.
It has been remarked, that Homer speaks as a friend to
royal government; but still he describes it as too limit¬
ed, or rather as too undefined, to be despotic ; and the
chiefs in the councils of the Iliad present us with a sort of
Greek picture of Gothic feudalism. And if he shows re¬
spect for monarchy, he makes his kings no monopolists of
virtue. In poetical justice, he seems to have thought it
sufficient to give Agamemnon the diadem, and a few good
qualities, as his share of importance in the poem, leaving
brighter heroic endowments to chiefs subordinate in politi¬
cal power.
“ Amidst these forms which the Iliad exhibits in the bloom
or strength of heroism, the aged characters are no less
happily distinguished. Nestor looks back on a life of great¬
ness and wisdom :—he has no rival in venerable years ; his
powers have reached the last ripeness of experience, but
they have also something of the mellow tint that precedes
decay. He dwells on his own exploits with an egotism and
fulness that could only be endured in the most ancient of
men. Phoenix, the friend of Achilles, on the other hand,
is also old, but his youth had been embittered by misery
and vindictive passions ; and when he comes to exhort the
hero against excessive resentment, he confesses his early
errors in a tone very different from the self-complacency of
Nestor.
“ Priam is neither very wise nor energetic ; but his heart
is warm with natural affections, and his woes and years sus¬
tain our reverence and solicitude. When the wail of the
Trojans bursts from their walls, at the sight of Hector
dragged in triumph by his conqueror, when the frantic fa¬
ther implores his friends to let him go forth and implore
the pity of the destroyer, the struggle of his people to de¬
tain him, and the voice of his instinctive agony, surpass
almost everything in the pathos of poetry, and affect us
more like an event passing before our eyes, than a scene of
fictitious calamity. Never was the contrast of weakness
and strength more fearful, than when he throws himself at
the feet of Achilles, whilst his feeble perspicacity makes us
tremble at every moment, lest he should light up the in¬
flammable temper of Achilles, fluctuating between wrath
and compassion. Yet, hallowed by paternal sorrow, age
and weakness prevail. The old man accomplishes his point,
and the terrific victor condescends to the delicacy of even
veiling Hector’s corpse from his view.”
The Odyssey, with certain common resemblances to the
TRY.
Iliad, is marked also by striking differences ; so great, in- Poetr
deed, as to afford room for believing, not that it was the
work of several hands, but that it may be the work of a “e M
different poet from the author of the Iliad. None of the
o-ods and goddesses who play a part both in the Iliad and
Odyssev appear the same in the latter poem as in the for¬
mer. Jupiter, the representative of force or power, and
the arbiter of all things in the Iliad, resigns the conduct of
the hero to Minerva, the personification of wisdom. Mene-
laus, Helen, and Ulysses himself, leave a different impression
on the mind. Manners and morals have changed. There
is a perceptible advance in knowledge and the mechanical
arts. There seems a decline in physical strength. The
chivalrous spirit of the Iliad is exchanged for a more pru¬
dential and calculating one. Voyaging and wandering
come in place of warfare. The qualities most valued are
no longer the wild strength and energy of Achilles, but
the self-possession, energy, forecast, invention, and elo¬
quence of Ulysses. The agency of Magic, in room of a
purely divine agency, a power of which we have no hint in
the Iliad, finds a place. Wonders and prodigies are scat¬
tered with a profusion unknown to the Iliad. Many por¬
tions of the Odyssey have an air of resemblance to the
Arabian Nights ; and Sinbad would seem to have borrowed
more than one of his adventures from Ulysses. It is not
even difficult to perceive that the vocabulary and syntax of
the language have in some measure altered. Each poem
seems, as Herder remarks, to have its peculiar atmosphere,
its sky, its panorama of objects in the upper, the middle,
and the nether world.
Ulysses, the hero of the latter poem, is a conception
more in harmony with ancient than modern views of hero¬
ism. Our ideas on the subject have been so strongly in¬
fluenced by those notions of the point of honour introduced
by chivalry, that we do not easily sympathize with a hero
who, though not deficient in bravery, is always more ready
to employ craft than courage, and only appeals to arms
when artifice is found to be ineffectual. The character embo¬
dies, as Mr Coleridge observes, the idea of an accomplished
man of the world, after the manner of ancient paganism;
and it is therefore with some effort that we, whose ideal of
such a personage is so different, interest ourselves in his
fate. Yet he does make his way at last into our affections.
His character grows upon us like the gradual influence of
good sense. Human traits peep forth under the guise of
impassive constancy and caution. His home-sick longings
for Ithaca, his abandonment to the power of love under
the influence of Circe, remind us of our common humanity.
He bears his trials so firmly, he steers through difficulties
with such tact and skill, and meets danger, when it must
be met, with such self-reliance and courage, that he gra¬
dually acquires our admiration ; and when we become more
familiar with the kindly and warm affections which, after
all, burn on in his breast beneath the crust of stoicism, he at
last engages our sympathy and our love.
The poems of Homer are at once the first and the last Hesiod,
great specimens of heroic song in Grecian poetry ; for it
were out of place, in an outline like this, to allude to the
middle school of the epic, while even the attempt to revive
heroic poetry in the Alexandrian period only proved that
its life and soul was extinct. Even in the Odyssey, as al¬
ready mentioned, we perceive a decline of the enthusiastic
and chivalrous spirit, a tendency towards the commercial
and the peaceful. Imagination is gradually “ fading into
the light of common day.” This tendency appears, how¬
ever, far more remarkable in the works of Homer’s imme¬
diate successor, Hesiod. We say successor, because, although
some authorities represent him as older than Homer, and
Herodotus speaks of him as Homer’s contemporary, the
balance of evidence is clearly in favour of the superior an¬
tiquity of Homer. The precise date of his appearance,
POETRY.
151
Poetry, however, cannot be fixed with more precision than as hav-
—V’"’' ing been between eight and nine hundred years before Christ.
The works which bear his name consist of the Weeks and
Days, the Theogony, and the Shield of Hercules, of which
the latter is generally regarded as spurious. Looking to
the subjects and character of his poems, which are of a do¬
mestic and peaceful character; to his style, which, though
highly natural and simple, is, in the main, flat, level, and
uninspired by high imagination ; we should almost ima¬
gine that a full century must have elapsed between the
Odyssey and the Weeks and Days. The time, adventures,
battles, moving accidents by flood and field, and expeditions
undertaken to recover some fair runaway “ that enchants
the world,” seem to be for ever gone. In their stead we
have an account how labour fell to the lot of man, the
story of Pandora, our gradual degeneracy from the gold to
the iron age, precepts of agriculture and commerce, moral
and religious admonitions, which have much the air of trite
proverbs and commonplaces of what deserves no better
name than cunning and worldly wisdom; every thing, in
short, indicates the triumph of the spirit of peace over that
of war. The Theogony is in a somewhat more ambitious
style; and, as a catalogue or muster-roll of the Grecian
divinities, with a regular deduction of their genealogies, is
curious. Unfortunately, however, its finest passage, the
battle of the gods and Titans, a piece of genuine vigour
and sublimity, appears so different from the style of He¬
siod, that it would rather seem interpolated at a later time
by some scholar, whose work has in this case very far sur¬
passed his master’s. On the whole, Quinctilian has criti¬
cised Hesiod with judgment and fairness. “ Raro assur-
git Hesiodus, magnaque pars ejus in nominibus est occu-
pata; tamen utiles circa praecepta sententiae lenitasque ver-
borum et compositionis probabilis, daturque ei palma in
illo medio genere dicendi.”
The Homeric hymns, a series of compositions in praise
of the gods, and probably of a date a little later than the
age of Hesiod, seem to bridge over the passage from the
epic and heroic poetry to the lyrical. The steps of the
transition may even be in some measure traced, in the
gradual ascendency acquired by the musical accompani¬
ment which had from the first been employed in the recita¬
tion of the epic, but to which a greater prominence was
given in the hymns, thus leading on to the decided influence
of the lyre and pipe, and conseqiient accommodation both
of the form and character of the poetry to that lyric mould
in which it was thenceforward to be cast. Terpander him¬
self composed the music for these Homeric rhapsodies; and
Hesiod is said to have been denied admittance to the Py¬
thian games because he could not accompany his verses
on the harp. These hymns, strange, quaint, some almost
comic ; others, like that to Hermes (the finest of all), full
of a wild and dancing gaiety; almost all treating the inha¬
bitants of Olympus with a free and easy familiarity; abound¬
ing in rapid transitions, invocations, and reflections or sen¬
timents of the writer; prepared the way for the more re¬
gular lyric, as it appeared in the strains of Archilochus
(about 700 b. c.), to whom is assigned the distinction of
being the father of the Grecian lyric.
The perfection of the Greek lyric had growm out of the
intimate connection of poetry with music, fusing the finest
results of both into a whole, which, charming the senses
and the soul at once, hurried away the listener with an ir¬
resistible sweep of enthusiasm. Every thing in the circum¬
stances of Greece contributed to its rapid development
Itnd unfailing effect. A spirit of gaiety and social enjoy¬
ment wras the national characteristic, heightened by the
influence of a delightful climate, and by a religion whose
airy and fantastic character interposed no gloomy reflec¬
tion to check the enjoyment of the present. The public
and family festivals, sacrifices, games, and poetical con¬
ic Ho-
;ric
e lyric
1 try of
iece.
tests, assembling multitudes together, exciting the spirit of Poetry,
rivalry, and gratifying the poet as it were with a fore-
taste of his poetical immortality, the high honours and dis¬
tinctions everywhere paid to song, rapidly advanced the
art to perfection. It is probable, that if the whole mass of
the Greek lyric poetry could now be recovered, not only
would Horace, Catullus, and the Latin lyric w riters, be un¬
questionably shorn of many of their finest passages, but, in
all probability, w e should be presented with the noblest and
most varied collection that the world has ever produced.
For if the light luxurious Bacchanalian spirit of the time be
imaged in the graceful trifling of Anacreon’s festive songs,
we know how the deeper and more gloomy sentiments of a
genuine passion were embodied in the burning lines ot Sap¬
pho ; the ardour of military enthusiasm in him wLo sang his
verses to the Spartan fife, Tyrtseus; the inspiring themes
of patriotism in “ Alcaeus, fancy drest, singing the sword in
myrtles dressed the touching tenderness of maternal af¬
fection in the Danae of Simonides, weeping over her child
in her frail and sea-beaten prison ; and, above all, the lofti¬
est strains of religious fervour, the praises of demigods and
heroes, all the pride, pomp, and circumstance of human ex¬
istence, in the odes of the greatest master of the Grecian
lyre, Pindar. But, unfortunately, of the works of the nine
who are enumerated by the ancients as forming the con¬
stellation of the lyric writers, and embracing the period
from the death of Hesiod down to the great era of the Per¬
sian war, viz. Pindar, Bacchylides, Sappho, Anacreon, Stesi-
chorus, Simonides, Ibycus, Alcaeus, and Aleman, some
have completely perished, and of others only the most trifling
fragments remain. Anacreon and Pindar are the only two
of which we possess any considerable specimens.
Judging from the few fragments wre possess of Sappho, Sappho,
the loss of her works is particularly to be deplored ; for she
appears to have possessed not merely that wild fire and
hurry of passion which predominate in her celebrated ode
(with which every one is familiar in the version of Phillips),
but a tenderness of heart, a power of presenting imagery in
a line or a word, not surpassed by any of the ancient writers,
and justly entitling her to the lofty title of the Tenth Muse,
bestowed upon her by antiquity. How exquisite, for instance,
is the fragment preserved by Demetrius Phalereus,
’EtrTSgi •xu.'nu. tp’.^us
«mv, tys/tus atya
If sous ftccrsgi vraiSac.
Thus expanded, yet scarcely improved, by Lord Byron:—
O Hesperus, thou bringest all good things
Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer,
To the young bird* the parent’s brooding -wings,
The welcome stall to the o’erlaboured steer;
Whate’er of peace about our hearthstone clings,
Whate’er our household gods protect of dear,
Are gathered round us by thy look of rest;
Thou bringst the child too to the mother’s breast.
Pindar unquestionably occupied the highest place among Tindar.
the Greek lyrists ; and though it is certain that we are in
possession of only a small part ot his works, for he appears
to have written on every variety of theme, enough remains
to satisfy us that the judgment of antiquity, which raised
him to the lyric throne, was well founded. Forty-five tri¬
umphal lays, in honour of the victors in the public games,
have descended to us, and the character and peculiar me¬
rits of these have been described with such eloquence, and
at the same time critical justice, by Sir Daniel Sandford, in
his able sketch of the rise and progress of literature, that we
quote the passage in preference to any remarks of our ow n.
“ The most careless reader of these odes must be struck
by the excessive admiration of wealth, magnificence, and
every species of greatness, to which we have alluded as a
characteristic of Pindar’s mind. Splendour was the passion
of his soul; splendour of achievement, splendour of renown.
POETRY.
152
Poetry, splendour of station and outward circumstances. His very
pride seems to have suggested to him that nothing but splen¬
dour was worthy of his muse. His genius, to use a figure
of his own, was the eagle of Jove, that would not be severed
from the sceptre and the god. These aristocratic predilec¬
tions, this enthusiastic attachment to munificent monarchs
and chiefs of ancient fame, were in perfect unison with the
whole tenor of his destiny; born as he was in the midst of
the Pythian festival, living surrounded by shows of solemn
pomp, and dying, as he had lived, in the full blaze of pub¬
lic ceremony, in the centre of a theatre, and while rapt in
those emotions of rejoicing sympathy which such scenes
were sure to awaken in his bosom. To those, however, who
may deem apology requisite for the indulgence of so stately
a temper, it may be urged in behalf of Pindar, that, as in^
the case of many remarkable poets, the abstract feeling of
veneration was predominant in his mental constitution, and
that it was called forth not merely by rank and opulence
among mankind, but even more powerfully by the contem¬
plation of the divine attributes. Hence that glow of piety
which shines so brightly in his odes, sometimes breaking out
in expressions of the deepest awe, or in sublime pictures of
deity, and sometimes assuming an aspect of moral beauty,
adding force and lustre to the lessons of wisdom. The lat¬
ter modification of religious feeling has given birth to some
of the noblest passages in the poetry of Pindar. He was
well aware that emotion does not exclude sentiment; that
the ethics of the heart are not less sound than those of the
brain ; and that nature is often hurried, in moments of ex¬
citement, into the innermost shrines of truth. But he knew
likewise, that the philosophy of such moments is prompt and
peremptory ; oracular, not syllogistic; and this knowledge
has secured him from frequently offending against the ge¬
nuine character of lyric song by lengthened trains of moral
to find the appearance of the bucolic or pastoral poetry, so Poetry j
late in comparison with the heroic, the lyrical, and the dra- Sw^v^*j
matic. As it seems to paint a primitive period of human
nature, we are led to think that it would be one of the first
forms in which poetry would appear. Jlie truth is, how¬
ever, that it has generally made its appearance, and has al¬
ways been most popular, in ages of great social refinement,
when excess of luxury in the life of cities drives the mind
back upon the supposed simplicity of rural life and its occu¬
pations. Such was the case with the Greek Idylls of Theo¬
critus, with the Bucolics of Virgil; with the pastoral dramas
of Tasso, Guarini, and Bonarelli; and with the pastorals of
Pope and Phillips. They are all the growth of a period of
great literary refinement. Frederick Schlegel observes just¬
ly, however, that there is an essential error in isolating pas¬
toral poetry, as is generally done, and viewing the country
life abstracted from its due situation in that picture of the
world and of human life which it is the province of poetry
to unfold. “ Let us reflect for a moment on those passages
in the heroic poems of antiquity, or in the chivalric ro¬
mances of the moderns, which afford us glimpses of the
simplicity and repose of rural manners. Their simplicity ap¬
pears still more innocent, and their repose still more peace¬
ful, from the situation in which they are placed in the midst
of the guilty tumult of wars, and the fierce passions of he¬
roes. Here everything appears in its true and natural con¬
nexion, and the poetry is as varied as the world and the men
which it professes to represent.” It is certain that this treat¬
ment of the rural life as a department of life, by narrowing
within the most confined limits the materials of the poet, is
the cause of that monotony which is generally found to per¬
vade pastoral poetry. Nothing, in fact, becomes more weari¬
some than the repetition of Arcadian descriptions of the
golden age,
reflection.”
When the lyric poetry of Greece had reached its perfec¬
tion in Pindar, its drama rose into shape and grandeur in
the tragedies of fEschylus. But for the history of the pro¬
gress and decline of the Greek drama, tragic and comic, the
reader is referred to the article Drama in this work.
Decline of Little remains to be said of the declining portion of Greek
Greek poe- poetry. General corruption, introduced by luxury, and the
Alexand ' ev^ P™C'P^(;S °f the sophists ; loss of liberty, when all the
an school1" Powers °f Greece had yielded to the sway of Alexander ;
the introduction of a tumid oriental taste into eloquence and
composition in general; such are the features which mark the
period from the rise of Alexander the Great to the extinc¬
tion of the poetical literature of Greece. After the death of
Alexander, indeed, a strong effort was made by the Ptole¬
mies to render Alexandria the rival of Athens, and to as¬
semble about their court poets, orators, and men of science.
In the latter point only their efforts were successful. Science
continued to flourish, and long after Greece had ceased to
produce any great works in the fine arts, we find geometrical
invention carried to a height by Euclid, whilst the wonder¬
working science of Archimedes struck the Romans at the
siege of Syracuse with terror and astonishment. But elo¬
quence remained, as before, hollow and pompous, whilst poe¬
try was in a great measure wasted in the vain attempt to
give life and interest to the abstractions of science. This
was the period of the learned or didactic poetry. Mytholo-
gy, astronomy, botany, were the favourite subjects to which
the art of the poet was devoted. One attempt, however, to
revive the epic taste is visible in the elegant Argonautics of
Apollonius Rhodius. He cannot indeed be regarded as an
epic poet, for he wants fire and originalitv; but he is a grace¬
ful compiler of traditions, the effect of which he heightens by
occasional touches of tenderness.
Pastoral. Ihe most interesting, however, and by far the most ori-
Theocri- ginal, of the works of the decline of Greek poetry, are the
tas. Idylls of Theocritus (270 b. c.). One is at first surprised
Lactis uberes
Cantare rivos atque truncis
Lapsa cavis iterare mella.
But this fault is more prominent amongst the modern, parti¬
cularly the Italian pastoral writings, than in Theocritus, who
has in general painted his shepherds and peasants with a na¬
tural and manly simplicity, approaching even, as it seems to
modern ideas, to coarseness. His Idylls, as indeed the name
implies, are little poetical pictures or representations in mi¬
niature, sometimes of mythological subjects, at other times
of matters of common life, but almost always amatory in
their purpose and termination. With Theocritus may be
classed, though far inferior to him in vigour, the “ showy
Bion and the delicate Moschus,” the last names of any note
which precede that period of exhaustion, when, the days of
high imagination and great works being over, those of mere
cleverness and neatness of execution, of slender trifles, epi¬
grams, and anthologies, commenced.
But as the genius of one nation, yielding to the force of Latin
circumstances, declines, nature seems to provide a principle Poetky.
of compensation in the development of that of another. Thelts nse'
course of literature and poetry appears to resemble an arctic
summer, in which the sun scarcely dips in one quarter of
the horizon before he re-appears in another. While the crea¬
tive energies of Greece either sink into barrenness or ex¬
pand into a rank and unwholesome luxuriance, as her mo¬
rals are corrupted, and her liberties impaired and at last ex¬
tinguished, we perceive in the Italian peninsula the rise of a
national character and a literature, destined, alike in arts and
arms, in polity or in literature, to give laws to the world.
Yet Italy, free and independent as she was, and animat-This not
ed by a consciousness of national pride and growing power,
exhibits during the first five centuries of her history the exist
b. c. to 253 b. c.) a mere blank, so far as poetry is concern-ence of
ed. I hat she may have possessed legendary ballads found-Rome,
ed on those various mythic or semi-historical traditions which
P
Liii
tot
P O E
Poetry, were afterwards interwoven by Livy into his history of Home,
'-’"v"'—'' is not improbable ; but of the nature of these we know no¬
thing, of their existence at all we have no certain traces ;
and nothing can be more fanciful than the extent to which
Niebuhr, Sehlegel, and other German writers have carried
their conjectures on this subject.
Livius An- In fact, we know nothing of Roman poetry prior to the
Ironicus. introduction of the Greek language and literature, through
the conquest of Tarentum (272 b. c.) and Magna Gracia;
soon after which the rude attempts of a Greek slave, Livius
Andronicus, to translate the Odyssey of Homer into Latin
(240 b. c.), first gave the victors some idea of the poetical
treasures of that nation, to which, though victors in the field
of warfare, the Homans felt their inferiority in the more
peaceful domain of literature. His preferring the wilder
and more homely of Homer’s poems to his more imposing,
elaborate, and dignified performance, only showed that he
rightly apprehended the tendencies of an infant taste. Chil¬
dren as they were in poetry, the power of the marvellous
had attractions for the Homans, which that of simple yet he¬
roic truth would probably not have possessed. The efforts
of Andronicus to diffuse a taste for Greek literature did not
stop here ; for he was the translator also of several speci¬
mens both of the tragic and the comic drama of Greece,
innius. He was succeeded by a Homan poet of original though
coarse and unequal genius, Ennius (239 b. c.). Yet, with
strong originality of mind, he was a worshipper of Greek
literature ; and his influence on his successors is probably
owing in a higher degree to what he transplanted from the
soil of Greece, than what he reared from the independent
stores of his mind. He attempted by turns, epic, tra¬
gic, satiric, epigrammatic, didactic, and even acrostic poe¬
try. He versified the Roman Historical Chronicles, a poem
of which few specimens survive, but these calculated to ex¬
cite much regret that a work, executed with so much force
and feeling in parts, should have been irrecoverably con¬
signed to oblivion. His vigorous and forcible style, with
all its rudeness, conceits, and ridiculous jingles, appears in
its better parts to have possessed great charms for the best
judges of diction at an after period; for we find that Vir¬
gil, Lucretius, and Ovid, and particularly the first, have
availed themselves most liberally, not only of the ideas, but
of the precise expressions, and frequently whole lines, of
Ennius ;l while Horace, who seems to have had a warm
feeling of the poetical fire that lay under the rude crust of
the verses of Ennius, after citing two of his lines, says that
the “ disjecta membra poetae would appear visible,” however
their arrangement might be transposed; a result which, he
fairly admits, would not be the case with regard either to
the satirical works of Lucilius or his own.
lautus Neither in Ennius, however, nor in his dramatic succes-
d'fe- sors, Plautus (died 184 b. c.) or Terence (born 195, died
jncB. ]59 B> c ^ (j0 we meet with much that is truly national. In
all we are in fact perusing Greek compositions in Roman
forms; for the plays of Plautus and Terence present to us,
not the aspect of Homan life, but the state of Greek so¬
ciety, pretty much as it had appeared in the days of Me¬
nander. In the former we perceive more vigour, more va¬
riety, broader humour, but at the same time more coarse¬
ness ; in the latter a limited invention, and characters re¬
ducing themselves to a few limited classes, generally an
over-indulgent father, a profligate son, a rapacious mistress,
and a knavish slave ; to which Plautus is fond of adding
some Bobadil or parasite, by way of relief. Yet in Terence’s
case we perceive the traces of genius, notwithstanding the
close imitation by which he is fettered. His characters
have a truthful air, his dialogue is always free from af¬
fectation, and sometimes touching and tender in the high-
T It Y. . 153
est degree. In fact, a few of his best passages in this style Poetry,
are models of apparently artless and yet consummately art-
ful and beautiful expression.
Tw o other individuals of distinguished genius precede Lucretius,
what is called the Augustan period of Homan poetry, Lu¬
cretius and Catullus ; the one the most distinguished of the
Roman didactic poets, the other unequalled in the short
and tender lyric. Lucretius contended with an absolutely
unmanageable subject; one which, from its unimaginative
character, from the dreary details, psychological, meteoro¬
logical, geological, which it necessitated, the inherent feel¬
ing of discomfort which it leaves behind, and the irreli¬
gious character of the opinions which it involves, neces¬
sarily interposed the most formidable difficulties in the way
of the poet, which it is no disgrace even to the most distin¬
guished genius, and such Lucretius possessed, not to have
entirely overcome. It is, in fact, the highest proof of the
ability and genuine inspiration of Lucretius, that he has in¬
fused a poetical vitality even into the dry bones of that phi¬
losophical mummy which he was attempting to animate; that
he has treated w ith a feeling of poetical enthusiasm the
coldest and most heartless of all creeds, the Epicurean ; so
that the very strains which he has employed in combating
the belief of the immortality of the soul, bear upon their
face the stamp of immortality. “ In inspiration and in su¬
blimity,” says Frederick Schlegel, “ he is the first of Ro¬
man poets ; as a painter and worshipper of nature, he is the
first of all the poets of antiquity whose writings have come
down to us.”
In Catullus the Epicurean theory, which wears a majes- Catullus,
tic aspect in Lucretius, appears in a less dignified but more
probable form. Carpe diem is the motto which might be
inscribed over all his compositions ; yet with this enjoyment
of the present mingles not absolutely a melancholy, but a
pensive feeling, which gives a peculiar interest to them all.
For compositions of a higher mood and more extended plan,
Catullus apparently had as little ability as inclination ; his
taste was Grecian, and formed in the school of Alexandria;
slight performances, epigrams, elegies, little lyric effusions
expressive of individual feelings, like the charming lines to
Sirmio, or the lament for the sparrow, and polished with
the most exquisite felicity of diction, were the subjects to
w hich his talents were devoted. There is, in fact, every rea¬
son to believe that his more ambitious performances, such
as the Epithalamium of Helens and Thetis, and the Atys,
were simply editions in a Latin form of Greek originals.
The poets hitherto mentioned belong to the period of
the republic ; in their successors, the poets of the Augustan
period, we perceive a considerable change both of spirit and
expression. Under the calm but firm sway of Augustus,
which had reduced all the contending parties under one
powerful dominion, and conferred upon the country the
blessings of peace, the art of poetry was peculiarly cultivat¬
ed and patronized. And it is at this period that the Roman
poetry first displays in its fullest extent that feature which
Frederick Schlegel considers its truly national and original
trait, namely, that exaltation of Home and of the Roman
character; that feeling of the unrivalled energies, the rapid
growth and ever-increasing dominion of their country, which
formed, to the imagination of the poet at least, an ample
compensation for the loss of that liberty which, since the com¬
mencement of the troubles of the Gracchi, or the contests
of Sylla and Marius, had been little better than a political
phantom, or a party watchword with no real meaning.
The great representatives of this Augustan period of Virgil
poetry are Virgil and Horace. No two poets could be more
dissimilar in the direction of their tastes, and yet it would
be difficult to say to whom the palm of greater genius
VOL. XVIII.
1 Dunlop, History of Roman Literature, vol. i. p. 21.,
u
154
POETRY.
Poetry, ought justly to be assigned. Even in his Pastoral, though
—v—Nearly work, the leading qualities of Virgil s mind his
exquisite taste and fine sensibility, are apparent, though
they can hardly be considered in any other light than as
graceful adaptations, and, it may be safely added, improve¬
ments, of the subjects and manner of Theocritus. In these
he was painting from a painting; he was copying a Greek
landscape in the colouring of the Latin tongue. But in is
Georgies he drew from his own observation of Italian na¬
ture ; and, bringing the native excellencies and qualities ot
his mind to bear upon imagery and events and associations
which nature and experience had dictated, presenting us with
delicious landscapes varied by all the natural occupations
of the Italian agricultural life, gilded by sunshine, clouded
by storm, or darkened and disturbed by tempests ; combin¬
ing these in the most dexterous manner with striking allu¬
sions to well-known events and catastrophes of Roman his¬
tory, such as the prodigies which portend the death of Caesar,
or with old mythological traditions; and making the di lest
details of husbandry, such as the grafting of trees or the
breeding of bees, prolific of imagery or of fable consecrated
by early associations; the result is one of the most, oiigi-
nal and at the same time delightful poems which exists.
The iEneid was a great, but, it must be admitted, unsuc¬
cessful attempt to do that for Rome and the Roman people
which Homer had done for Greece, namely, to give the Ro¬
mans a great national poem. No one felt this failure more
than Virgil. His reluctance to give publicity to the /Eneid
is well known. He could only be prevailed upon to read to
Augustus the first, second, fourth, and sixth books. Seve¬
ral causes may be obviously assigned for its want of suc¬
cess. ls£, Not only did Virgil, from the intense admiration
he felt for Homer, copy in many respects his characters and
design; but he endeavoured to combine the distinct and
almost incompatible characters of the Iliad and the Odys¬
sey', the grand and warlike character of the former with the
wandering and adventurous character of the latter poem.
2d, Although the notion of grafting the adventures of /Eneas
upon the origin of the Roman nation, was in itself a happy
one ; and the mythological traditions connected with it
might have been brought to bear with much effect upon
the subject; Virgil committed the great error from which
Tasso has also suffered, of making an epic poem a mere in¬
strument of political flattery, by identifying the character
of his hero with that of Augustus. By depriving himself of
the open and untrammelled field which the traditional cha¬
racter of yEneas presented, and making that character a
mere portrait, en beau, of the cold-blooded, calculating, and
critical emperor, he lost at once all hold over the sympathies
of the reader in the fortunes of his hero, a cardinal point in
all poems that pretend to the character of epic. 3c/, Nay,
he even enlisted those sympathies against him; for, as Vol¬
taire, who is seldom wrong in what may be called the logic
of poetry, observes, he represents him as a mere adven¬
turer, who in the first place is guilty of the most shameless
want of feeling in regard to Dido, whose sole object is to
acquire a settlement in Italy; who, in breaking off the
match of Turnus with Lavinia, is instigated, not by passion,
but by policy; and who would in all probability have most
willingly surrendered the Latian princess to his brave and
generous though cruel rival, if he would have resigned the
kingdom of Old Latinus to a Trojan stranger, and taken La¬
vinia, like Cordelia, without a dower.
infinite advance which the delineation of the passion of J^etry
love has made since the time of Homer. Virgil has be-'
eun to comprehend that feellhg, with the world of emo¬
tions to which it gives birth. And if he has not painted it
with all that purity and depth which was imparted to it
bv Christianity, he has exhibited its leading traits with a
warmth and sensibility which make all the other classical
delineations of passion both cold and lifeless beside that ot
^Horace exhibits the singular specimen of a poet borrow-Horace,
ing half his thoughts from the lyric writers of Greece, and
m akin o' his odes a mosaic formed from the gems of other
countries as well as his own, and yet imparting to the com-
bination a high degree of unity, and a decided originality
of character. Calm wisdom, shrewd penetrating observa¬
tion of life, a sober enthusiasm, and most refined taste, are
the qualities which most distinguish him, imparting to all
his compositions extreme point, terseness, and occasionally,
in themes of a higher cast, particularly those connected
with the elder worthies of Rome, or the lofty position she
then occupied in the eye of the world, a stately and solemn
grandeur. This admirable balance of mind which distin¬
guishes Horace, and informs all his writings with such preg¬
nant good sense, renders him a peculiar favourite in a
country like our own, whose national character is marked
by not a few of those features that distinguished the mind
of the poet. Hence his odes are more read and quoted,
particularly by men of business and practical sagacity, than
the works of any of the classic poets.
But the merits of Horace, though most conspicuous-as a
lyric poet, are great also as a satirist. Lucilius had indeed
made the first approach to the regular form of Roman sa¬
tire ; but his rude and harsh effusions can no more be com¬
pared to the polished and graceful productions of Horace, ^
than the rugged verses of Donne can be compared with the
satires and epistles of Pope. In Horace all follies and lighter
vices of the day (for he seemed to think satire scarcely a fit
weapon when directed against the darker vices) are touched
on in a strain of the most urbane ridicule, which insinuates
reproof. As compared with those either of Lucilius who
preceded, or of Persius and Juvenal who succeeded him,
the tone of the Horatian satire is light and playful. . It has
been correctly observed, that these satires filled up for Ro¬
man literature exactly the department which in our times
is occupied by the stage. For as the plays of Plautus and
Terence truly represented Greek and not Roman man¬
ners, it was in the light form of satire that all those humor¬
ous follies and oddities of Roman society, which properly
fall within the range of the comic, were displayed and ex¬
posed. .
The elegiac poets of this period, Tibullus and Proper- The ele-
tins, wrote with purity and good taste; the former withgiacPoe
more of tenderness, the latter with more of force and men¬
tal vigour. But in the extravagant luxuriance and frequent
conceits of Ovid, we perceive the commencement of that
decline of poetry, which, relieved only by the manly vigour
of Juvenal’s satires, goes on in rapidly-increasing progres¬
sion to the extinction of the Roman empire. For the ama¬
tory and elegiac poems of Ovid little can be said; they^
want heart and passion as much as delicacy or propriety of
sentiment. But the praise of a teeming fancy cannot be
denied to him; he is a mine from which thoughts and
expressions may be dug without end ; and his Metamor-
(X VAUVVC1* CA|JI UtJ W ILllUULt LI HI 9 clllU IIIO 1TJL t: lcuxiv/i
Only one substantial addition has been made by Virgil phoses, as a graceful exposition of the finest mythological
to the characters of Homer, and for that character he may tales of antiquity, will always retain their interest for modern
~         Ct-HVA Illclt nidi clLI/CA 11L Illciy
have received some hints from the Ariadne of Catullus ;
but it must be admitted to be one of the most deeply in¬
teresting in poetic fiction, we mean that of Dido. The
great night-picture of the sack of Troy, and the episode of
Dido, are indeed the finest things in the /Eneid. In the
character of the Carthaginian princess, we perceive the
times.
We pass over the so-called tragedies of Seneca, the works Juvei a
of a mere school rhetorician ; and the satires of Persius, ob¬
scure and rugged, though not without a masculine energy.
But the name of Juvenal must be mentioned as the last
great poetical name that illustrates this period of decline.
POETRY.
155
Poetry. In the finer portions of his satires, for it must be admitted
■—they contain a good deal that is level and prosaic enough,
he displays the highest talents for this species of poetry ;
the strength of his language, the fire of his invective, cor¬
respond with the gigantic character of the vices which he
exposes. But a certain air of exaggeration mingles with and
alloys the effect of his censures; we are led to think of the
doubtful character of his own life, and to question the title
of the moralist to raise the scourge which he applies with
such severity to others. A tinge, in short, of that rhetorical
and formal character which his mind appears to have con¬
tracted in the schools of declamation attaches to his poetry,
and leaves an impression of hollowness and insincerity upon
the mind.
ucan Lucan’s Pharsalia, it must be recollected, was a compa¬
ratively boyish effort; but it seems plain, from the charac¬
ter of his mind, that he wanted the highest of the poetical fa¬
culties, imagination. He uttered bold and striking thoughts
occasionally in the happiest words. No poems afford finer
specimens of single lines for quotation than Lucan. But
the whole is destitute of poetical warmth ; it blazes only
with a phosphoric fire. Quinctillan has, in fact, hit with ad¬
mirable tact the character of Lucan’s mind in the remark,
“ Si dicam quod sentio, oratoribus magis quam poetis annu-
merandus.”
We shall not here touch upon the remaining writers who
feebly kept alive the vestal fire of poetry up to the period
of the overthrow of the Roman empire of the west; Statius,
Claudian, or Ausonius. Even the introduction of Christi¬
anity, much as it did towards improving morality, not only
among its votaries, but amongst the Pagan nations them¬
selves, could not re-animate to new life the worn-out and
enervated frame of literature. That could only be effected
by sweeping away entirely the old landmarks, making a new
heaven and a new earth, creating new associations in all
the ideas of men, giving them new hopes, aspirations, and
pursuits, and thus restoring that elastic principle of moral
and mental vigour, of faith and enthusiastic feeling, out of
which all high poetry must spring. From the rude but
warlike and uncorrupted nations of the North, was to come
that influence which was to give a new aspect to society ;
at first, like the descent of a deluge, sweeping the remains
of cultivation before it, but ultimately depositing and car¬
rying deep into fhe bosom of the soil the elements of a
reviving and healthy fertility.
Poetry of From the fall of the Roman empire of the West, about
Modern the close of the fifth century after Christianity, to the ap-
2drope. pearance of the first great poet of modern Europe, Dante,
an interval of seven dreary centuries elapses, a -period cha¬
racterized in popular language by the epithet of the dark
ages. During this period the chaos resulting from the
overthrow of the old Pagan constitution in religion, govern¬
ment, laws, and social institutions, was gradually settling
into shape ; the new religion was incorporating itself with
and imparting a new form to social life ; new laws super¬
seding the subtile and complex jurisprudence of Rome, new
languages growing out of its ruins. During the greater
part of the period to which we have alluded, literature, in
any high sense of the word, did not exist; but the materials
of new literatures were accumulating, and the spirit which
was to give them breath and vitality, when language should
be sufficiently settled for the purpose, was developing itself,
though manifesting itself in other fields and departments
than that of poetry. When poetry re-appeared in the thir¬
teenth century, the influence of the intermediate changes
which the human mind had undergone became visible in
certain marked traits, separating by thq broadest distinctive
lines the character of the modern European from the an¬
cient classical poetry. A few of these, as applicable to all
the modern literatures of Europe, though with differences in
degree, may be indicated before proceeding to any notice Poetry,
of these separate literatures. ''“■“V""
1. The first and most important is the influence of the
Christian religion on the productions of the imagination.
The Pagan religions were mere religions of the fancy;
they were nothing but the poetry of humanity. They dealt
only with the palpable and the material; and by the combina¬
tion of the finest features of the actual, they produced an
ideal which each moulded to his owti fancy. The concep¬
tions of the infinite and the immaterial they avoided. The
solemn and the mournful found no place in their thoughts,
or, if such ideas did intrude, they were made use of as ar¬
guments for present enjoyment. Let us eat and drink,
seems the moral of paganism; let us eat and drink, for to¬
morrow we die.
From this materialism of the ancient mythology, and its
purely imaginative character, the results were, Isf, great
clearness in all its conceptions and its expressions, that
clearness which is imparted by the absence of all that is
not palpable to sense; 2d, a light and cheerful tone, the
natural product of that mental indifference, and absence of
serious reflection, which the disbelief, or as least doubt of
immortality, would produce ; 3c7, the feeling of beauty as
the object aimed at and accomplished, and the vital prin¬
ciple of all the classical creations.
Very different were the character and the influence of
Christianity. This was a revelation, not a creation of the
fancy. It spoke to the heart, to the hopes and fears of men,
not merely to their imaginations. The outlines of the
Christian theology were communicated in a fixed and settled
form, with which fancy could not deal at will, or mould
them in accordance with its notions of beauty. It exclud¬
ed at once that plastic power which had formed the excel¬
lence of Greek art and literature, and banished mere beauty
as the aim of the poet, or the principle of modern inspi¬
ration.
To the clearness, the sunny lightness of touch, the cheer¬
ful levity of tone, which distinguish the classic poetry, it was
equally unfavourable. It made the mind familiar with the
ideas of infinity and eternity; it accustomed it to abstract
conceptions beyond the pale of sense, or the scope of dis¬
tinct expression; it forced upon its consideration the im¬
material and the invisible, as constantly as the Pagan theo¬
logy had confined the attention of its votaries to the visible
and the actual. The Pagan clearness of portraiture, and
smiling lightness of tone, were incompatible with the de¬
scription of regions and states of being, sights and sounds,
which eye had not seen, nor ear heard, and which it had not
entered into the mind of man to conceive. The Christian
poet, before whom, instead of a natural and visible Olympus
and Acheron, there stretched out in dim but awful vision the
conception of heaven and hell, encompassed by an eternity on
this side and on that,—a conception impressed by the sense of
moral responsibility, and of eternal punishment or happiness,
and animated by a principle of faith based upon things not
seen,—could not but carry into the literature which was
the expression of his thoughts, and hopes, and fears, some
shadow of that solemnity and mystery with which human
life was now surrounded. He left this narrow spot of earth,
already in the possession of his predecessors, to open up the
new and undiscovered country of the abstract and the in¬
visible ; and the principle of poetical inspiration which they
sought in beauty, he found in grandeur and sublimity. Hence
earnestness and profundity are the means of effect in the
literature of Christianity; and elevation rather than beauty
may be said to be the aim of the higher poetry of the mo¬
derns.
2. The superstitions which grew out of the corruptions of
Christianity, and which assumed a systematic form after the
crusades had opened to Europe a communication with the
East; the belief in spectres, fairies, witchcrafts, and the di-
156
POETRY.
Poetry, rect interposition of evil spirits in the affairs of mcii . gave
Perseus’s deliverance of Andromeda, the Argonautic expe-^
different" character'to t?ie modern literature of Europe^
It is true, that in the Canidia ot Horace, the huic 10 o u i -1, thivalrv prescribed to the members of its
can, the Thessalian scenes of enchantment m the Golden explo.ts ™'ch nytPJ'le„ in which chivalry gave a
Ass of Apuleius, and occasionally in other passages of the .T^^hnSnls of the age, and a new impulse
classical writers, we have allusions “P'!Pu;‘‘r(“l'P"* ‘jajn t0 literature, was in the altered position which it gave to
Poetr, I
somewhat analogous to our own;
ouixit-wniao ^ - - . - hnt nf noetical women. It is certain, that before chivalry was known, nay,
that these are not matters of serious belief, but ot poetical u o e introduced, a peculiar reverence
and of a principle of evi{ which, with limited powers, was etiam sanctum ahquid et providum putant. The mtroduc-
and ot a principle ol eyii,wc,^ of chr5stianit ratlhed and consecrated this feeling ox
of
not
But chivalry went a step farther. It
reversed the relations in which the sexes had stood ouring
the classical times, and exalted, in theory at least, the softer
sex above the stronger and the more warlike. As the best
means of arming the helpless against the powerful, it sur-
nprmittpdrto oppose the principle of good. These concep- tion of Christianity , . .
CX™SbetagSPdistinct from men, but influencing respect. It made woman the equal and compamon
their actions, assumed a reality and appearance of probability, the slave, ot man
which soon rendered the belief in their existence one ot
strong practical influence upon society, and ot couise upon
literature. Hence the gloomy and superstitious character
iTXt'du”^^ bounded them with an angeUc~atmosphere of sacredness:
centuries, manifested itselfin such fearful action in theatre- and converted love into adoration, respect into religion,
cities of the trials and executions for witchcraft. Here, too, there was something affected, but much more
3. Whilst the Pagan mythology affected only the imagi- that was genuine. I Ins feeling, exaggerated as it see
nation, Christianity appealed to the conscience, and was to us, did unquestionably influence m a high degree t e
calculated to operate practically upon conduct. We see, opinions of the age, their tastes, their modes ot expression,
accordingly, in the history of the middle ages, that religion Its effect upon modern literature has been most remark-
was not, as it becomes in after ages, a mere profession, able. It has rendered the principle ot romantic love ai-
often assumed from habit, but a principle of faith, of con- most the mainspring of modern poetry, and ot imaginative
viction, and of serious action. We see, through this invi- composition in general. It forms almost the sole subject
sible but powerful agency, a spiritual throne established at of the poems of the Troubadours, the minstrels ot the south
Rome, to which, weak and insignificant as it appeared in of France, Spain, and Italy, with whose compositions the
physical and economical resources, the most powerful mo- history of modern poetry properly ..commences. Dante,
narchs in Europe were content to bow with implicit obe- the father of the Italian language “and poetry, finds the
dience. During the middle ages, the possession of the source of the inspiration which dictates his sonnets and
keys of St Peter was found a more effectual instrument of canzoni, and at last The Divina Commedia itself, in this
supremacy than the temporal sword. We perceive the/species of romantic adoration for a deceased mistress. Pe-
clergy looked upon as a superior race ; their persons and trarch’s poetry, and his deification of Laura, are one and
possessions considered as sacred; the rudest and boldest the same thing. The lyric poets of the fifteenth and six
nobles of the time trembling at the thought of their ana¬
themas, courting absolution at their hands^^icitipg. dis¬
pensations, founding monasteries and cathedrals, undertak¬
ing penances, pilgrimages, and crusades ; and we see them
often, in the midst of the fierce Qareer of warfare, as if
struck by some sudden inward but irresistible impression,
throwing down the sword, exchanging the helmet for the
cowl, and wearing out, as is told of our own Guy of War¬
wick, the evening of a stormy life in the peaceful cell of tragedy, it proved totally unsuccessful, until this principle
the hermit. There was in all this much of error, much of was admitted into the drama to give it warmth and life,
impure feeling and doubtful character ; but there was also Of that species of composition which in its proper sense is
much of truth, much of earnestness,;' aijd hence faith and pecqliar to the moderns, viz. the novel and romance, it forms,
devotion are as visibly stamped upon the literature of the as we all knpw, the moving powrer. In short, it influences,
middle ages, Us ‘they unquestionably were influential upon rnofe or less, every department in which the imagination has
its life. ‘ exerted itself with success since the revival of literature.
4. Apart from the influence of religion, althougli not un- ’ 5. Another point in the social institutions of the time,
connected with it, there were other social changes which - - -
teenth centuries of Italy seem to have scarcely conceived
that any other course than that of imitating Dante and Pe-
trarch in this chivalrous Platonism was open to them. Ihe
principle of romantic love is carried by Pulci, Boiardo, and
Ariosto to an excess which communicates to it an air of the
ludicrous; a reproach, however, from which it is again re¬
deemed by the serious and enthusiastic Jerusalem of Tasso.
When in modern times the attempt was made to revive
had strongly affected the course of feeling and opinion, and
could not fail to render themselves visible in literature as
soon as it began to assume a regular form. The most im¬
portant of these was the institution of chivalry, growing
which affects in a considerable degree the spirit of the lite¬
rature of the European nations in the outset, is the rela¬
tion of feudal vassalage, the degraded condition of the mass
of the people, and the subdivision of the state into so many
separate baronies, within each of which its feudal lord ex-
out of, and affording an imperfect remedy for, the defects ercised supreme authority. This subdivision annihilates
and eviis ot feudalism ; an attempt, in fact, to create a spe- that inspiration of patriotism, or attachment to country or
cies of police or constabulary, founded upon those prin- state, which is very visible in the Roman literature, and
ciples ot generosity and honour which were frequently more faintly in the Greek, and introduces in its stead the
found associated in the human mind with cruelty or been- principle of loyalty or implicit obedience to the individual
tiousness, during those stormy days of feudal dominion. superior to whom fortune had given the right of disposing
It was not, hovvever, on its warlike and serious side that of the destinies of his vassal. Submission to authority under
chivalry exlnbited any very novel features ; for, as far as all circumstances, without remonstrance, is represented as
regarded merely its spirit of adventure, numerous parallels the highest of virtues; and a violation of this principle cannot
might be found m ancient story to the exploits of its vota- be palliated by any exhibition of courage or self-devo-
nes. Ihe feats of Theseus with the Minotaur, the story of tion. A fine illustration of this principle in the moral code
POETRY.
Poetry, of the feudal times occurs in Schiller’s fine ballad of the
-v-’-'' Fight with the Dragon, founded on a story given as authen¬
tic by Vertot, in his History of the Knights of Malta.
Rhodes was laid waste by a monstrous serpent, which has
already destroyed not a few of the knights of St John, who
had been rash enough to engage in copibat with it. The
grand-master, accordingly, had strictly prohibited any of
the order from engaging in the apparently hopeless attempt.
One young knight, unable to witness with patience the
spectacle of the misery and distress daily caused by the ra¬
vages of the monster, ventured to despise the prohibition,
and, by dint of art and valour combined, delivers the island
from its persecutor. He was conducted in triumph to the
hall, where the knights were met in council. The grand¬
master received him in gloomy silence, reminded him that
obedience under the Christian creed was the first of virtues,
and banished him from the island. The knight, conscious
of his error, bowed in silence, divested himself of his knight¬
ly mantle, kissed the hand of the master, and was about to
go. The stern superior was softened; he called him back,
and, presenting him again with his sword and mantle, in¬
formed him that his prompt submission and penitence has
restored him to the rank which his disobedience had for¬
feited.
6. One other feature is strikingly characteristic of the
earlier literature of Europe, although good taste at a later
period has pretty well weeded out its traces, viz. the sin¬
gular and incongruous mixture of science with poetry.
The literary men of the time w7ere learned men, familiar
with theology and w ith the writings of the ancients, and de¬
lighted with the abstractions and refinements of a mystical
theology and a scholastic logic ; and that which interested
them in reality, they unconsciously incorporated with their
■ poetry. This tendency tinges the whole Italian poetry,
from Dante to Ariosto. Petrarch, even while singing of
love, cannot allow the subject to pass without some learned
and complimentary allusions to Aristotle. The Spanish
lyric poetry of Boscan, Garcilaso, and their successors, is a
sort of versified Platonism. The verses of Ilonsard, and the
other worthies composing that poetical constellation w hich
arrogated to itself the name of the Pleiades, are so full of
learned allusions as to be absolutely unintelligible ; and the
influence of this somewhat pedantic exhibition of ancient
literature is undeniable even in our own Milton.
Poetry Having premised these remarks on some of the charac-
riuring the teristic features of distinction which separate the religious,
middle reflective, warlike, and mystic poetry of modern Europe,
from the airy, graceful, and transparent spirit of the classi¬
cal, we may observe, that although, as w e mentioned, nearly
seven centuries elapsed before the appearance of any poet
of permanent European reputation, poetry was not entirely
idle during the intervening period; but, on the contrary,
towards its close at least, in a state of high activity and fer¬
tility of production. Scarcely, indeed, had the different
languages of Europe begun to arrange themselves into form,
before poetry in a rude form made its appearance. Perhaps
in Germany the cradle of the modern poetry of Europe may
most probably be found. By the time of Charlemagne, it is
certain that country contained a vast mass of legendary poe¬
try, which was carefully collected, committed to writing by
I the directions of the emperor, with a view to px*eservation,
but of which scarcely a traditional fragment now remains.
Earlier than the time of Charlemagne (a. d. 740 to 814), in
all probability, were the lays of the Nibelungen and the Hel-
denbuch composed, though they have descended to us only
in the altered form given to them when recast by Henry of
Afterdingen. The former carries back its scenes to the days
of Attila the Hun; and in truthful simplicity and vividness of
painting, its homely and nervous verses are even yet worthy
of admiration. A fund of bold and rich invention is, in like
manner, displayed in the Sagas of Scandinavia, the mytho-
157
logy of which, at a later date, came to exert a strong influ- Poetry,
ence over the poetry of Europe. ^
The Provencal language, the first-born of European Provenyal.
tongues, in which Thebaut afterwards sung, and Cceur de
Lion expressed his complaints in prison, we find moulded
into form about the close of the ninth century. The Pro¬
vencals had undoubtedly borrowed many things besides
rhyme from the Arabian literature of the Peninsula, for an
oriental spirit is visible in many of their compositions, and
much of their imagery. But, on the other hand, they added
much from their independent stores; they widely extended
the domain of poetry, gave it spirit as well as refinement;
they even rendered it, as Villemain observes, a substitute for
the liberty of the press; while their forms of versification,
canzoni, sonnets, sestine, madrigals, &c. soon became the
patterns adopted by all the southern languages of Europe.
Their compositions, introduced into Germany through the
Hohenstauffen emperors, instantly communicated a marked
impulse to German poetry: the numerous band of the Min¬
nesingers of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries are, in fact,
the Provencals of Germany.
In the north of France, again, arises, during the same pe- Trouveres.
riod, the literature of the Trouveres; a literature of satires
and legends, and tales of knavery, licentious gallantry and
adventure, destined afterwards strongly to influence the di¬
rection of the genius of Boccacio, and his successors the
Italian novelists, and to furnish the amplest materials for
later writers of fiction. Nor during this creative period were
fictions of a higher cast v/anting.
Three leading cycles of romance may indeed be pointed Three
out, which owe their origin to this period. The first con-<;f
sists of the legends of Gothic, Frankish, and Burgundian
heroes, during the times of the great northern emigrations,
of which the Nibelungen and the Heldenbuch are the de¬
positories ; legends breathing a purely northern spirit, and
generally having some foundation in history: the second,
those which embody the traditions as to Charlemagne’s
wars against the Saracens, the achievements of his court of
Paladins, and the “ dolorosa rotta” at Itoscesvalles, where
he is represented as perishing with all his peerage. In
these Charlemagne is strangely represented, not as a most
warlike and energetic monarch, but rather in the garb of
a lazy and luxurious eastern sultan ; a perversion of his¬
torical truth which, Frederick Schlegel thinks, must be ac¬
counted for by the poems which refer to the emperor hav¬
ing been chiefly written by Normans, who drew their no¬
tions of Charlemagne from some of those faineant monarchs
of their own days, whom they saw in possession of his
throne. It is certain, at all events, that the legends con¬
nected with Charlemagne soon became largely interw oven
with incidents of a comic cast, and with a mass of absurd
and fantastic machinery. The third class of romantic tradi¬
tions then first embodied in poetry are those relating to the
fabulous Arthur, “ begirt with British and Armoric knights
by far the most interesting of which is the celebrated le¬
gend of a pathetic and elegiac character, which bears the
name of Tristan or Tristram. “ Among all the great and
epic poems of love and chivalry in the middle ages,” says
Frederick Schlegel, “ the first place is given by all nations
to Tristram; but that we may not be fatigued with unifor¬
mity of fiction, the airy and lively legend of Launcelot is.
placed by the side of its more grave and elegiac represen¬
tations.” He traces also in these legends of Arthur and the
Round Table a double purpose ; an allegorical character,
viz. an attempt to shadow forth the ideal of a spiritual and
Christian knighthood, imparting to them in general a higher
character than to the corresponding traditions of Charle¬
magne.
One other class of the compositions of the middle ages The Monk*
may be alluded to, their monkish hymns, written in Latin, ish hymns,
that is to say, the bastard Latin of the period, and general-
Poetry.
Poetry
Italian
Poetry.
Dante.
of pu^ose,whetW in describing xde^ of terror or pty, and th and such episodes are the passages
wS Unger in the — of a., a„d give to the poen,
mind" No one can be insensible to the awful grandeur of of Dante its mam hold over the heart.
rkN4^-}.ichR™a:!r^
S^A,‘A“»Xe<SS^UaC even dhrowd led. the burning tombs, and cities alive with flame and
of the charms of Pergolesi’s music, speaks to the heart. Of valleys of the shadow of death, where serpents torture their
nearly equal beauty are the Jam mcesta quiesce querela of victims, and the ever-deepening descent through the cn-
Prudentius; and the Ave Maris Stella, being an invocation cles of hell, contrasted with the cheering light which be-
to the Virgin, which may still be traced in the songs of the gins to break upon us in the ascending circles ol purga-
boatmen of the Mediterranean. The forcible impression tory, and the refulgence of the visions which greet the
made by these simple sacred hymns on the mind of Dante wanderer on his entrance into paradise, when he exchanges
is obvious, from the manner in which lines or portions of theguidance of Virgil for that of Beatrice,
lines from them, are here and there woven into the terza
rima of his great poem.
It cannot therefore be said that the middle ages were an
unpoetical period. On the contrary, there was then a very
general diffusion of poetic feeling. But the poetry to which
it gave rise was not marked by any of those works of ex¬
cellence rising conspicuously above the rest, which attract
attention to the names of the authors. Its productions
are chiefly anonymous ; its poets have died and made no
sign. A great genius was still wanting to form an epoch
in the annals of poetry; but that genius was found in Dante,
about a century after the Tuscan dialect had assumed a
predominance over the other dialects of Italy.
The Divine Comedy of Dante (born 1265, died 1321) is
the first work of distinguished and original genius which
graces the literature of modern Europe; and it is in many
respects a most striking and remarkable production. It is
not, as the name would import, a drama ; as little does it re¬
semble an epic poem ; it is an allegorical pilgrimage through
heaven, hell, and paradise, which the poet has peopled with
human shapes, human passions and crimes. He has made
his poem an instrument through which he vents his political
loves and hatreds, his vast and undigested learning, his
scholastic acuteness, his mystical philosophy, his reverence
for the ancients, his sympathy with the spirit of freedom,
the enterprise, the enthusiasm of the moderns. It resem¬
bles, in fact, the Homeric poems in its encyclopsediac cha¬
racter. The poet stands, as it were, on an isthmus, from
which he can cast back his glances across the tumultuous
and still heaving chaos of the middle ages, into the serener
regions of the past, and forward into a futurity of which he
foresees and foretells the coming glories. Many, no doubt,
had been the allegorical compositions which went before
him; the Roman de la Rose, indeed, still survives, in the
translation of which Chaucer wasted so much of his earlier
powers; but all have been thrown into shade, and it may
be said effaced, by the grasp, magnificence, and sombre
power, combined with deep human feeling, of the great
allegorical pageant of Dante. For in this last quality, quite
as much as in the attributes of sublimity and grandeur,
which are universally conceded to him, lies the secret of
that perennial charm of freshness which still gives interest
to the Divina Commedia. Amidst the darkest scenes of
inferna. punishment some soothing objects or images are
constantly introduced to lighten our pilgrimage, and flowers
are made to spring up beneath our feet, as if to freshen
the path “ over the burning marie.” His wearisome me¬
taphysics have long ceased to please ; his mystic raptures,
his pictures of the celestial occupations of the saints, appear
Distinct as the imagery in the foreground is, the pros¬
pect fades away on all sides into the illimitable, and the
imagination has full room to expand itself in the sphere of
the mysterious and indefinite. Dante’s poem may, indeed,
be well compared to that “ wild and hoary wood” in which
he describes himself as losing his way in the outset, with
here and there a path cut through the trees, where the sun¬
shine pours in and shows spots of verdure or still waters,
but backed on all sides by dusky labyrinths, inhabited by
beasts of prey, into the gloom of which the eye can hardly
pierce, and the immemorial stillness of which the sound of
human footsteps has never broken.
The style of Dante’s poem is scarcely less remarkable
than its spirit. Obscure and unyielding, as might be ex¬
pected, in some parts, it has, nevertheless, a picturesqueness
without parallel in modern literature. It makes every ob¬
ject palpable or sensible; flashing images upon the mind
with the rapidity and the splendour of lightning. “ Ihey
are,” says Ugo Foscolo, “ the bold and prominent figures of
an alto-relievo, which, it seems, we might almost touch, and
of which the imagination readily supplies those parts that
are hidden from the view.” It fixed the Italian language, so
that at this moment it remains less changed since the time
of Dante than any other European tongue.
As Dante is the head of the Italian allegorical poetry, so Petraich
Petrarch may be regarded as the founder of the lyrical;
borrowing indeed his manner, and not a little of his matter
also, from the Provencals, but by a refined taste acquired
from the deepest study of the classic poetry, and a sensibi¬
lity, the liveliness of which was quickened by a real passion,
investing their strains with a character of tenderness and
perfect finish, which really appear to confer on them a dif¬
ferent character. The monotony disappears of which we
are conscious in reading the compositions of the Trouba¬
dours and Minnesingers, “ qui toujours d’un meme ton sem-
blent salmodierand a wonderful variety of emotions are
seen to arise out of a theme which, in their hands, had
appeared limited and barren. No one has ever drawn
a finer poetical ideal of female loveliness, purity, and
worth, than Petrarch has done in Laura. “ Every lover,”
says Herder, “ will find his Laura in that of Petrarch;
he will find his own heart, with all its weakness, and that
beneficent influence which the female character in its pu¬
rity can erect over the disposition of the youth and the
man.” The verbal subtilties and plays on words which
disfigure many of the lyrics of Petrarch no doubt detract
from their effect, and excite surprise that one whose taste
was in general so pure should have given admittance to
such conceits; but, like the puns and equivoques of Shak-
speare’s time, they were part of the fashion of the day. Pe-
almost ludicrous; his demons and his Satan grotesque rather trarch found them imbedded, as it were, in the Provenqal
than impressive; but the deep pathos °f story of Fran- poetry from which he drew, and he yielded, like Shak-
cesca of Rnnim, the thrilling scenes m the town of Hunger; speare, to the evil influence of the time. Upon the whole,
Si! ffmhikTnP.leaSi!8 w f1 th! St?ry of Madonna della however, the services rendered bv him as an Italian poet
* , imbibing a slow but certain death among the swamps (for we need not here allude to his great and most bene-
POE
Poetry, ficial influence on the taste of Europe, by his exertions
•'•y'—" on behalf of classical literature) have been very great; he
sensibly added to the polish, grace, and pliancy, of the Ita¬
lian tongue ; and of the Platonic poetry of love, a love ex¬
isting rather as a lambent glow than as a flame, and living
on as a sentiment after it has ceased to be a passion, Pe¬
trarch still remains the purest and the most charming re¬
presentative. (See the article Petrarch.)
he Pe- It is a remarkable fact, that though the genius of Dante
irchists. wa.s unquestionably far more masculine, original, and im¬
posing than that of Petrarch, the former left no succes¬
sors, while Petrarch turned for nearly two centuries the
whole current of poetry into the direction of the amatory
lyric. Dante was found to be unapproachable; within
the circle he had formed, none durst walk but he ; but the
Platonism of Petrarch, and the apparent simplicity and
brevity of the medium through which his tranquil and gen¬
tle inspiration was conveyed, appear to have tempted every
one into imitation of his lyrics. Hence, until the fifteenth
century in Italy was well advanced, its poetry consisted
of little else than imitations of Petrarch. But, in truth,
though this was not perceived, all the finer essence of Pe¬
trarch’s poetical character was nearly as incommunicable as
that of Dante ; and accordingly we find, among the latter
Petrarchists, that much of the delicacy and truth of Pe¬
trarch, that feeling which gives a tempered warmth to his
expressions, and calms without chilling the heart, disap¬
pears. The raptures of love, and that struggle of passion
and reason which so constantly recurs in Petrarch’s poetry,
are pitched in an exaggerated and falsetto key; the con¬
ceits grow more numerous as the feeling grows less intense
and real; till at last, of all which their great original had
produced, little is found transplanted into their imitations,
save the indestructible harmony of the versification.
The fifteenth century, which followed the death of Pe¬
trarch, is fruitful in learned men, in grammarians and phi¬
losophers, but barren in poetry. The excessive cultivation
of classical literature, and the admiration excited by its
great models, created a feeling of distaste for Italian com¬
position. Traces, no doubt, of a teeming fancy appear in
the unfinished stanze of Politian ; and the rustic and car-
nivaiesque songs, both of the great Lorenzo and of Ma-
chiavelli, have a merit independently of the interest attach¬
ed to their authorship. Machiavelli’s comedy of the Man-
dagola has been pronounced by a competent judge to be
amongst the best specimens of the comic which the Italians
possess. But till the rise of that branch of poetry which
may be regarded as the peculiarly national poetry of Italy,
namely, the serio-comic romance of chivalry, nothing of a
marked or original character appears. We turn, therefore,
at once to the dawn of that school in the rough poem of
Pulci.
‘rio-co- There seems little doubt that feudalism, with that at-
c ro- tendant spirit of chivalry which was born of its union with
ivalry re%i°n> never obtained any great influence in Italy. Pe¬
trarch even speaks of the warlike fictions of romance with
dislike and contempt; and indeed, from the earliest periods,
we can perceive the traces of a commercial much more
than a military spirit; inclining the nation, in the adoption
of foreign models, to turn with far greater interest to the
gay, lively, and licentious tales of the Trouveres, or the
dreamy reveries of the Provencal poets, than to those tales
of chivalry, the “ romans de longue haleine,” which form¬
ed the study and the delight of the rest of Europe.
Before the period, too, when the Italians first thought of
resorting to the fictions of chivalry as the materials of poe-
try, the feeling of chivalry itself was generally on the de¬
cline throughout. Europe, and its high-flown sentiments
and extravagances in action were beginning to be looked
upon as a superannuated and exploded fashion. Hence
the consciousness of a certain air of ridicule attaching itself
TRY. 159
to themes of this kind must from the first have been pre- Poetry,
sent to the minds of the Italian poets ; and accordingly the ^
chief puzzle connected with the work of Pulci, the Mor-
gante Maggiore, is, whether the work be of a serious na¬
ture, or an elaborate jest; or whether, as seems more pro¬
bable, it be not a jumble of both.
All the Italian poets who have adopted these fabulous
themes of chivalry seem, in fact, to have perceived that,
in their own country at least, the taste for romance, if it
ever existed, had gone by, and that a serious poem, in the
style of the prose romances of chivalry, would have met
merely with ridicule or neglect. Their aim, therefore,
seems to have been to avail themselves merely of the fic¬
tions and machinery of romance, as affording a new source
of poetical embellishment; to address no higher feeling
than the principle of curiosity aroused by complicated ad¬
venture ; and to anticipate, by a tone of levity, and a
gaiety approaching to the comic, that ridicule with which
they felt that the spirit of chivalry had begun to be asso¬
ciated. They wrote “ as if they mocked themselves, that
could be moved to sigh at any thing.” This aim is visible
in them all; they differ only in the degree of art, taste, and
genius with which the result at which they aimed has been
accompanied.
In the rude poem of Luigi Pulci (born 1431, died 1487), pulci.
there is no harmony whatever between the extremes of
the tragic and comic. The poet appears to be in one page
sincerely devout; in the next he seems a profligate and
scoffer. The broadest farce in the adventures of the good-
natured but stupid giant Morgante, alternates with the ele¬
vated and the pathetic in the really chivalrous enthusiasm
of the battle of Iloncesvalles and the death of Orlando;
the dreariest platitudes are succeeded by occasional out-
breakings of devotional enthusiasm or fine sentiment. The
effect of the whole is disjointed and painful, and such as
to excite our surprise that the accomplished companion and
favourite of the great Lorenzo should have produced a work
so enigmatical and unsatisfactory.
With more invention and greater variety than Pulci (for Boiardo.
in the construction of plots, and in sketching the outline of
characters, Boiardo left little for Ariosto to perform), and
with far less of that disposition to caricature in which Pulci
unconsciously indulges, the Orlando Innamorato of Matteo
Maria Boiardo (1430 to 1494) still wants that airy grace and
ease of movement, that unconscious flow, like the marvel¬
lous tale of an Arabian improvisatore, without, which this
species of poem,—a “ chartered libertine,” in as far as re¬
gards the ordinary canons of criticism,—can have no perma¬
nent success. In Boiardo’s hands it moves laboriously and
stiffly; his verse wants harmony ; his style wants pruning,
polishing, and lightening. This, together with the infusion
into the poem of a most peculiar species of grave humour,
was the service afterwards performed for Boiardo by Berni,
with such perfect success, indeed, that the rifaccimento has
superseded and almost obliterated the recollection of the
original.
It remained, however, for Ariosto (1474-1533) to hit the Ariosto,
happy medium between the poco meno and poco piu ; to
blend the tragic and comic in the proper proportions suited
to the serio-comic epic; to give life and natural movement
to the mere machines of his predecessors ; to throw over his
recitals an air of simplicity and bonhornmie, which gives pro¬
bability to the wildest marvels; and to invest the whole airy
tissue of romance, with a style, the peculiar charm of yvhich,
though most clearly felt, appears almost indescribable ; so
clear, so popular and translucent, as to charm the most un¬
educated ; so correct and classical as to satisf^the most cri¬
tical taste. To compare Ariosto to Tasso as a poet of feel¬
ing, is to compare objects absolutely disparate, and unsuit¬
ed to comparison. Probably the native cheerfulness and
easy temper of his mind was not consistent with strong
POETRY.
emotion; but it is equally clear, that the expression of haps the point m which Tasso has been more completely Poet
strong emotion was inconsistent with his plan. To have successful, is the skill with which the spirit of a religious
orafted the deep and serious interests and passions of men chivalry is breathed into the classic framework; and all
upon so gossamer a groundwork as that which he has adopt- the incidents which he liberally borrows from Homer or
ed would have been like building an edifice of marble Virgil, are made to harmonize with that prevailing tone of
upon the unsubstantial basis of a summer cloud. In the devotion, valour, and tenderness, which is spread like an
department he assigned to himself he has employed the atmosphere of purity over the Jerusalem Delivered,
most appropriate instruments with corresponding success. Whilst the general plan of the Jerusalem, perhaps, bears The e
After Homer he has been, on the whole, the favourite poet too close a resemblance to that of Homer, in the retirement sodes
of Europe. Above sixty editions of the Orlando were pub- of Rinaldo, like Achilles, from the army, which is made the
lished in the course of the sixteenth century alone. “ The nodus of the poem, the singular beauty of its episodes
Orlando Furioso,” says Mr Hallam, in summing up a most has been always felt and admitted. In fact, it is by the
iust and discriminating criticism of Ariosto, in his Introduc- episodes that we chiefly remember the poem. Tasso has
tion to the Literature of Europe, “ as a single great poem, thrown the whole tenderness of his soul into such passages
has been very rarely surpassed in the living records of as those where he describes Sofronia and Olindo at the
poetry. Ariosto must yield to three, and only three, of his stake, the “ pastoral melancholy” of Erminia’s residence
predecessors. He has not the force, simplicity, and truth with the shepherds, or Clorinda perishing by the hand of
^ J— him who would willingly have died to save her. The turn
of his mind, in fact, was fully more towards the lyrical than
the epic, and, in passages like these, the lyrical tendency
breaks forth with peculiar force and flow.
In his characters Tasso has not made any very substan- Cliara
to nature, of Homer, the exquisite style and sustained ma
jesty of Virgil, nor the originality and boldness of Dante.
The most obvious parallel is Ovid, whose Metamorphoses,
however, are far excelled by the Orlando F urioso, not in
fertility of invention, or variety of images and sentiments
but in purity of taste, in grace of language, and harmony of tial addition to the picture gallery of the ancients, though
versification.” even in this respect he is superior to Ariosto, who in most
The incongruous elements of devotion and ribaldry, ca- cases contents himself with a few general types without
ricature and tragic emotion, which had been left unblended distinctive traits. Tasso’s male characters, with one excep-
bv Pulci, which?'Boiardo partly rejected and partly harmo- tion, that of Tancred, are judicious adaptations of Homer’s
nized, had received from the pen of Ariosto the last graces outlines of character to other times, manners, and religious
of which such a poem was susceptible. In him there is even creeds. Tancred, however, is an original conception ; per-
a o-entle pathos combined with a sort of enthusiasm of va- haps the more striking that its outline was drawn in some
lour, which gives sincerity and elevation to the fantastic, measure from within ; for in Tancred, the brave, visionary,
But the serious and brooding fancy of his successor Tasso melancholy Tancred, the victim of a hopeless passion, we
(born 1544, died 1595) could not be contented to sing, like probably see a dim reflection of the poet himself.
Ariosto, “ le donne, i cavalier, 1’arme, gli amori,” in the same The same broad line of distinction which divides Ariosto
lio-ht, and at times half-mocking strain. He determined to and Tasso as to the conception of their subjects, may be
present the serious side of the romantic epic, as Ariosto had traced in the whole details of their execution. Ariosto is
done the comic. Whether the dull “ Gazette in verse,” by throughout a painter. It is with external things that he
Trissino, the Italia Liberata, in any way suggested to him chiefly deals ; with colour, arrangement, form, and grouping,
the idea of a historical subject, we know not. Certain it is, rather than with their internal spirit. But Tasso cannot
however, that his earnestness of purpose, his deep and at paint this objectively. Every image, every feeling, as it
last morbid sensibilities, impelled him to the selection of a passes through his mind, receives the stamp of his own pe-
theme where reality should give steadiness and human culiar habits of thought, and issues forth impressed with
interest to the creations of imagination ; and where the the image and superscription of his own tender and loving
spirit of the Christian religion should be the moving prin- soul,
ciple, instead of a phantasm which played round the head Though Tasso is best known by his great epic, his Pastor,
rather than touched the heart. This theme he sought and Aminta deserves notice as the finest of those. pastoral dra- and pa:
successfully found in the delivery of the Holy Sepulchre mas which were so common in Italy in the sixteenth cen-rd r
by the crusaders ; an event more interesting to Christiani- tury and the commencement of the seventeenth. It was
ty than had been the Trojan expedition to the assembled not indeed the earliest, for the Sagrifizio of Agostino Bec-
princes of Asia; and satisfying that essential condition of cari (1510-1590) had preceded it. And even Beccari’s
a good epic, that its action, whatever its importance, shall
be one springing from enthusiastic feeling rather than po¬
litical motives. His poem was written while the European
monarchs still flattered themselves with the hope of re¬
gaining the lost conquests of Godfrey in the Holy Land,
and the glorious exploits at Malta, at Rhodes, at the Go-
letta, and Lepanto, showed the strength of the feeling that
still prevailed “ against the general enemy, Ottoman ;” and
dealing as it did with a topic of religious interest, placed
among scenes hallowed by the most aftecting recollections,
and presenting the finest natural features for the pencil of
work had grown out of those pastorals, frequently in dia¬
logue, of which the fifteenth century was so fruitful, and
of which the Arcadia of Sannazzaro (1458-1530) affords
the finest example. Tasso’s, however, of all the Italian
pastoral dramas, is the most inspired by the spirit of poetry.
The Pastor Fido of Guarini (1537-1612) certainly has the
advantage of a far more stirring plot; it rouses more cu¬
riosity and attention, but it wants the charm, the truly Ar¬
cadian repose, which Tasso has spread over his Aminta.
Here also, as in his Tancred, the feelings of the poet gave
vivacity and truth to the poem; for it is not difficult to see,
the poet; admitting, from the remoteness of the period to that under the disguise of Amyntas, and in the form of al-
which it related, and the faith which then prevailed, the lusions to the joys and sufferings of the pastoral life, or in¬
introduction of a fabulous agency, contrasting with the im- vectives against that influence of rank and honour by which
pressive machinery which the Christian religion afforded, it the natural feelings of the heart are suppressed, the lover
is difficult to conceive a theme uniting more features of in- of Leonora is pleading his own cause, or his own apology,
terest, or affording a richer or more picturesque groundwork For an account of the Italian drama, which took its rise
for an epic poem. in the Sophonisba of Trissino (born 1478, died 1550), the
Tasso has conceived his plan in the spirit of antiquity, reader is again referred to the article Drama in this work,
and in the grand and enlarged style of the classic epic ; but One species of poetry, which is almost peculiar to Italy, Bernes
he has executed it in the spirit of the middle ages; and per- distinguishes or rather disgraces this period, viz. that massP0e J.'
.i.
POETRY.
161
flintry. of poems entitled Capitoli, &c. which obtained the name of
Wy-—'' Bernesque from the poet who first set the example of these
specimens of reckless and indecent drollery, Francesco
Berni (died about 1543). His quiet, grave humour, the host
of ludicrous associations which he conjures up, and frequent
felicities of expression, at first render even his ribaldry amus¬
ing ; but when similar themes were taken up and hunted
down by Molza, Casa, Firenzuola, and their followers, it
became oppressive and revolting in the highest degree.
?j Lja, We now approach the period of decline in Italian poetry.
Ili, and The sixteenth century had been its golden period: in the
Ifin. seventeenth we drop at once into the age of brass, or the
age of tinsel. Chiabrera (born 1552, died 1637) indeed
exhibits lyric fire, and, by discarding the hackneyed and
outworn form of the Italian versification of the Provencal
school, and approximating to the metres of the ancients,
gave a character of originality to his odes. Yet, granting
the boldness of his imagery, and a certain fervour and en¬
thusiasm, which raise his lyric poetry above the slumbrous
and monotonous beauty of most of his predecessors who were
of the school of Petrarch, it is yet impossible to subscribe
to the excessive eulogiums bestowed upon him by Tirabos-
chi, who almost seems to think he had combined in Italian
the graces of Anacreon with the majesty of Pindar. More
impressive, more affecting, though occasionally, and particu¬
larly in his sonnets, more deformed by the conceits and ex¬
aggerations which give an evil distinction to the poets of
this period, whom the Italians have branded with the title
of Seicentisti, are the lyrics of the senator Filicaja (born
1642, died 1707), whose religious canzoni, particularly the
noble triumphal hymn on the deliverance of Vienna from the
Turks by John Sobieski, are amongst the finest specimens
of this class of poetry of which Italy has to boast. In his
sonnets he is less pure and less natural; even his famous
sonnet on Italy is, in its second quatrain, disfigured by one of
the poorest and coldest of conceits. One other name must
be mentioned, as preserving a pure and classic taste amidst
the general corruption which, under the influence of Marini,
was now pervading and perverting the whole spirit of Italian
poetry. We refer to Fulvio Testi (1593-1646), the Italian
Horace, as he has been called, a title certainly quite un¬
merited, so far as regards the power or brilliancy of his imagi¬
nation, but not inappropriate, if limited to the purity and
terseness of his style. The greater corrupter of this de¬
clining period of Italian literature is the once famous Marini
(born 1569, died 1625), the author of the Adone, a poem
which is an absolute chaos of brilliant antitheses and exag¬
gerated language, plays of wit and ingenious imagery, but
heaped together without the slightest direction of any go¬
verning judgment, and producing a tiresome and chilling,
instead of an exciting effect. In his own days his writings
were differently estimated. For a time, indeed, his popu¬
larity in his own country was boundless, and his influence
on the literature of other countries, particularly that of
Spain, as powerful as it was mischievous. But good sense
and good taste shortly resumed their sway, and Rousseau,
if one may judge from the frequent quotations from Marini
in his Heloise, would almost appear to be the last person
of any literary distinction who was familiar with the once
celebrated and now completely forgotten Adone.
Ti oni. In comic poetry, however, the seventeenth century was
more successful. To this period belongs the Secchia Ra-
pita of Tassoni (1565-1635), the first specimen of that style
which was afterwards carried to perfection in the Lutrin
and the Rape of the Lock. The imitations of Tassoni need
not be mentioned. Instead of improving on his model, they
degraded and vulgarized it.
Excepting in the drama, which was distinguished by the
great and strongly contrasted genius of Metastasio and Al-
fieri, the eighteenth century in Italy can boast of little in
poetry. Some graceful fables by Pignotti, imitations of
VOL. XVIII.
Pope by Parini, and of Gray and Young by Pindemonte,
redeem it from the charge of utter barrenness, but cannot
entitle it to the praise of originality. Nor, with the excep¬
tion of Manzoni, has the nineteenth century produced any
poem which can justly be said to have attained a European
reputation.
Poetry.
Of all the languages formed from the ruins of the Latin, Spanish
the Spanish approaches the nearest to the Italian. The Poetry.
spirit of the two literatures differs extremely; but so closely
do the words resemble each other, that translations have been
executed by Spaniards from the Italian, as in the case of
Jauregui’s translation of Tasso’s Aminta, w here even whole
lines are found to correspond with the original. The lan¬
guage, as it now exists, is the dialect of Castille, polished
and purified, the Catalonian or Limousin having long ceased
to be the language of poetry.
One feature peculiarly marks the whole of the Spanish Its oriental
poetry with a character unknown to that of the rest of Europe, character,
viz. the strong traces of orientalism which it exhibits, a ten¬
dency to the pompous and the exaggerated, and a strange
compound of strong passion, combining with a great wanton¬
ness and luxuriance of fancy. More or less this feature is to
be traced through all the changes which its poetry has un¬
dergone ; subdued, no doubt, and kept down by the good
taste of such men as Garcilaso or Cervantes, but re-appear¬
ing in the e&tilo culto of Calderon, and reaching its height in
the ludicrous extravagancies of the Spanish Marini, Gongora.
Considering, indeed, the intimate connection which sub¬
sisted between Spain and Arabia from the eighth down to
the close of the fourteenth century, a connection which,
though one of hostility in the field, appeared to have ad¬
mitted of many of the ties of friendship and mutual respect,
and the natural admiration which the brilliant poetry of
Arabia was likely to exercise over the minds of a ruder
people, the Asiatic character of the Spanish poetical genius
appears exactly what, under such relations, might have been
expected.
The earliest monument of the Spanish poetry is the old Chronicle
Chronicle of the Cid, a cycle of romantic legends, founded 6;e Cid.
upon the exploits and misfortunes of that Don Rodrigo Lay-
nez who, after exalting the glory of the Spanish arms under
Ferdinand king of Castille, and his son Don Sancho, was
treated with such ingratitude by Alfonso VI., the son of the
latter, that he fled to the Moorish court, where, from 1081
to 1085, he gained many brilliant victories over the Christian
arms. Again recalled to the Spanish court by Alfonso, who
began to feel his value, he was a second time disgraced, and
banished about 1090. The Chronicle, which, both from in¬
ternal and external evidence, appears to be as old as the
twelfth century, relates to this second banishment; and
though its language is rude, and its rhymes most imperfect,
there is a captivating freshness in the scenes which it pre¬
sents, in its vivacity of movement, and in the occasional traits
of poetry which seem to escape almost involuntarily from
the w riter, that raise it considerably above the ordinary level
of such chronicles.
From the date of the poem of the Cid to the reign ofB&llad
John II. (1407-1454), the only monuments of Spanish Poetry*
poetry, at least the only specimens possessing the slightest
interest, consist in that vast mass of popular or ballad poetry
in which Spain is richer than any other country in Europe.
Fortunately the process of collecting and preserving these
relics of an adventurous and enthusiastic period, “ ere po¬
lity, sedate and sage, had quenched the fires of feudal rage,”
was commenced at a very early period, the first collection
having appeared in 1510, under the title of the Cancionero
General. Not only in numbers, however, but in merit, the
Spanish ballad poetry appears superior to that of any other
nation of Europe. Everything, in fact, united to give to
this species of poetry its freest development. A national
x
162
POETRY.
Poetry, character of strong sensibility, excitable yet constant; na-
—tional pride, in the feeling that they had so long formed the
advanced guard of Europe against the Moors, and were daily
driving backward the tide of invasion; a life of adventure an
gallantry ; a strong passion for music and the dance ; a de¬
licious climate ; a language rich in rhymes, and admitting
a species of versification (the assonance), in which “ bponte
sua carmen numeros veniebat ad aptos,” were heie ™un'
united. The result has been a collection of ballads ot all
kinds, warlike, amatory, Moorish (these last chiefly com¬
posed after the conquest of Granada by Ferdinand and Isa¬
bella in 1492), and satirical, marked by a degree of taste
and poetical beauty, of which very tew of our English or
Scottish ballads have to boast. The Moorish ballads have
a peculiar charm, from the richness of the colouring with
which they are invested, and their style, which has hit the
happy medium between the boldness of some of the old his¬
torical ballads, and the over-refinement and affectation oi
those which were composed after the introduction of the
Italian taste into Spanish poetry. The picturesque charac¬
ter of the Moorish life, the natural beauties and artificial
magnificence of Granada, the quarrels of the rival families
of the Zegris and the Abencerrages, the tournaments, feasts
of canes, and other amusements of the luxurious court of
Boabdil, afford in these ballads inexhaustible materials for
descriptive poetry, a tendency which is hardly to be traced
in the earlier ballads. “ It is wonderful,” says a very emi¬
nent Spanish critic, Quintana, “ with what vigour and bre¬
vity they paint scenes, personages, and feelings. In one it
is the Alcayde of Molina, who enters, rousing the Moors
against the Christians, who are ravaging their fields ; in an¬
other, the unfortunate Aliatar, borne back with the gloom
of a funeral procession, through the gate from which he had
issued with such gaiety the day before ; now it is a simple
country maiden, who, having lost the ear-rings her lover
had given her, weeps at the prospect of the reproaches
which await her; and now a shepherd, who, solitary and
forsaken, grows indignant at the sight of two turtles cooing
in a neighbouring poplar, and drives them away with a
stone.” Besides the ballads descriptive of incidents, these
collections contain many charming little songs and lyrical
snatches, vague and undefined, indeed, but often pleasing
us even by this very vagueness, which merely suggests a
hint to the mind, and leaves the rest to be filled up by the
imagination. With few exceptions, the authors of these ly¬
rics are unknown. A few are attributed to the great Don
Juan Manuel (who died in 1362), but on doubtful evidence;
the writers of the others have died and made no sign.
Though the Spaniards date the rise of their classic poetry
from the reign of John II., it is certain this period contains
little which has any interest for foreign readers. The pe¬
dantic and tedious labyrinth of Juan de Mena (1412-1456),
a cold and lifeless imitation of Dante’s great poem, possesses
nothing of a more classical nature than the older poetry, save
its form. One poem only of this period, viz. the noble
stanzas or coplas written by Don Jorge Manrique on the
death of his father, and a few graceful redondillas by the
accomplished Marquis of Santillana, afford some relief from
the pretension and pedantry which generally characterize
this period of Spanish poetry.
Intrcduc- A great revolution, however, was about to be effected in
tion of the Spanish taste, by the introduction at once of the measures
and of the spirit of the Italian poetry. The close relation
into which Spain was brought with Italy during the reign
of Charles V. had led to a general knowledge of the trea¬
sures of Italian poetry ; while many changes in the political
constitution and habits of the Spaniards themselves con¬
curred to weaken their attachment to their old and natural
romantic poetry, and disposed them to adopt the more re¬
gular and polished strains of their Italian neighbours. This
change was introduced by Don Juan Boscan (from about
1500 to 1544), who, though he had at first composed and Poetn
published a volume of poems in the old Spanish manner, ''-"v-'
had been led, by his acquaintance with the Venetian am¬
bassador Navagero, to the study of the Italian classics, and
in consequence formed the design, in conjunction with his
friend Garcilaso de la Vega (1500-1536), of introducing
to his countrymen the refinements of the Italian versifica¬
tion, and the superior polish of the style of the Petrarchists.
But with all Boscan’s careful study of the Italian poets,
which is evident from the perpetual imitations which his
poetry contains, of Petrarch, Bembo, and Sannazzaro, he
never could acquire their elegance of taste, nor divest him¬
self of the national tendency to orientalism. Something of
the old leaven of impetuosity and hyperbole attaches to his
poetry, producing a feeling of incoherence between the
matter itself and the medium through which the ideas are
conveyed.
But what Boscan attempted and imperfectly performed, Gaicilas:
Garcilaso accomplished with complete success. He was
equally distinguished in the field of warfare and of litera¬
ture. “ One hand the sword employed, and one the pen
and he fell at last, crowned at once with the laurels of poe¬
try and war. In Garcilaso the Italian poets found a rival,
if not a superior; for while he adopted their best points, he
avoided in a great measure that subtilty of taste which had
grown out of the study of the later Platonists, and intro¬
duced a metaphysical and reasoning style into those sub¬
jects where it was the most out of place. Garcilaso has
written little, but that little (at least his Eclogues, for his
Sonnets are not of equal merit) is of the highest class ; for
he has contrived so finely to temper the subtilty of the Ita¬
lian poets by the more natural warmth of the Spanish, and
to clothe his sentiments in words at once so simple and so
classically pure, that the result is something superior to any
thing that is to be found in his models. In all of them, no
doubt, the classic reader will recognize at every turn resem¬
blances to the Latin poets ; but these imitations are intro¬
duced with so much taste, and fitted with such art into a
Spanish framework, that the knowledge that they are imita¬
tions rather increases than diminishes our sense of the talent
Pojt
Italian
taste.
Boscan.
of the poet.
A third personage was associated with Boscan and Garcilaso Mendoza
in this poetical triumvirate, the famous 11 tyrant of Sienna,
the accomplished warrior, statesman, historian, novelist, and
poet, Diego de Mendoza (1500—1575). Mendoza’s Epistles,
however, betray more rudeness of manner than even the
verses of Boscan ; and indeed the chief feature of interest
which they possess, is the singular spectacle they present ot
a stern and hardhearted warrior of the school of the Duke
of Alva breathing out to his friends Boscan and Zuniga the
most fervent aspirations after the domestic happiness of a
rural life, or longings for the enjoyment of a philosophical so¬
litude. This feature indeed more or less marks the whole
poetry of the period. Whilst the Spanish warriors were dis¬
tinguished all over Europe for their ferocity, presenting, as
Sismondi says, “ to the enemy a front of iron, and to the
unfortunate an iron heart,” we find all their poetry marked
with a dreamy, tender, and melancholy spirit. In Mendoza,
Garcilaso, and Montemayor, all of whom were soldiers, and
conversant with scenes little calculated to soften the affec¬
tions, we observe this union of practical ferocity with theo¬
retical innocence ; nay, even the terrible Duke of Alva ap¬
pears to have been inspired by the same tastes, and appears
in the poetry of the time, not as the ferocious governor of
the Low Countries and the organ of the Inquisition, but
as the discerning critic, the lover and the patron of litera-
ture. .
This tendency to themes of an Arcadian cast gave rise to Mon e-
the Pastorals of Montemayor (1520-1561) and his succes-ma5°“
sors. The Diana of Montemayor, a pastoral romance, in¬
terspersed with ballads and canzoni in the style of Sannaz-
53
POETRY.
etry.
H.'ra.
Lu de
Lei
Dra
zaro’s Arcadia, was once amongst the most popular produc-
^ tions of Europe. Its influence may be traced, not only in
the host of Spanish pastorals which succeeded it, but in the
literature of other countries, in the Astrea of D’Urfe, and
in the Arcadia of our own Sir Philip Sydney. Cervantes
bestows upon it a sort of qualified praise in his review of
Don Quixote’s Library, but is disposed to give the prefer¬
ence to the continuation by Gil Polo over the original.
Montemayor labours, in fact, under the fault of all his coun¬
trymen of the time; he cannot compress; he pours out a
stream of musical language, “ which runs, and, as it runs, for
ever would run onbut he gives us few ideas that are at
once natural and new, and none that stir the heart or
strongly awaken the imagination.
The works of Herrera, another poet of this period (1500-
1578), on whom the Spaniards have, with questionable pro¬
priety, bestowed the title of “ the Divine,” are in a totally
different strain. His themes are religious and warlike, such
as the triumph of the Christian arms at Lepanto, or the fa¬
tal defeat of Sebastian in his expedition to Africa, Of all
the Spanish poets, Herrera, whose mind was deeply imbued
with the beauties of the sacred writings, possesses the lof¬
tiest style of expression; but the majesty of his diction is
often obscured by strange and new creations or combina¬
tions of words, •while his elevation not unfrequently explodes
in palpable bombast. There is a strong resemblance be¬
tween Herrera and the Italian Chiabrera, both in their beau¬
ties and their faults.
The greatest of the Spanish lyrical writers is Luis Ponce
de Leon (1527-1591). “ More earnest and enthusiastic
than Boscan; tender as Garcilaso, but with a soul whose
tenderness was engrossed by heavenly, not earthly love;
pure and high-hearted, with the nobility of genius stamp¬
ed upon his brow, but with religious resignation calm¬
ing his heart, he is different from his predecessors, but more
complete; a man Spain only could produce, for in Spain
only had religion such sovereign sway as wholly to reduce
the rebel inclinations of man, and, by substituting supernal
for terrestrial love, not diminish the fulness and tender¬
ness of' passion, but only give it another object.”1 The
most remarkable feature of Luis de Leon’s poetry, is the
union of a mystical and religious enthusiasm with the
most perfect clearness and transparency of expression.
Never was a high and soaring imagination more perfectly
under the control of a cool judgment and a critical taste.
Whilst a religious Platonism forms the fond of his odes,
the style exhibits all the terseness, precision, and finish, of
that of Horace, of whom, notwithstanding the great dif¬
ferences in their poetical character, he continually reminds
us, by the sententious air of his odes, and that serene
moral wisdom which drops from him in common with the
Epicurean poet, whatever subject he touches on. But the
odes of the Spanish poet have a moral grandeur far ex¬
ceeding those of Horace. The spirit of present enjoy¬
ment, or indifference to futurity, which not unnaturally
pervades the latter, was revolting to the warm sympathies
and devout belief of Luis de Leon. Accordingly, the ideas
and images which, to the Epicurean poet, only afford in¬
ducements to devote the hours to pleasure, such as the
shortness of life, the fading of flowers, or the instability of
fortune, the Spanish moralist holds out as inducements
to the cultivation of those higher faculties which raise the
soul above this world of mutability and misfortune, and
prepare it for that purer abode, which he regarded as its
appointed home.
The close of the reign of Charles V. is adorned by the
great name of Cervantes (1547-1616), more distinguished,
however, as a prose writer than as a poet; and by the rise
of the dramatic literature of Spain. For a general account
of the peculiarly national and remarkable character of the
Spanish theatre, which, while it is connected with our own
by so many common features, has yet some striking points
of distinction, which render its study peculiarly interesting
to the admirers of our older British theatre, we refer to
the article on the drama. Cervantes, we must admit, ap¬
pears to mark its childhood; for the plots of his dramas
are loose, disjointed, and scarcely deserving of the name,
though the gloomy grandeur of the Numantia gives it a
painful fascination, like the scenes in the town of Hunger
in the Inferno. . Lope is identified with its boyhood; Cal¬
deron, with its maturity and perfection; Moreto, Roxas,
De Solis, Mira da Mescua, Da Hoz, and others, who wrote
during the reign of Philip IV., with its decline. Inven¬
tion, high poetry in parts, the power of exciting and main¬
taining curiosity and suspense, must be accorded to the
Spanish theatre. Against these must be set religious bi¬
gotry and mysticism, often painfully predominant in the
plays of Calderon, particularly in those autos which the
German critics have especially selected as the themes of
their admiration; the affected and redundant style into
which most of their poets were led by the facility of their
versification, combined with the habit of working for the
stage; and the practice which, upon the Spanish stage, is
almost universal, of painting manners and general types of
character, rather than discriminating its shades, or giving
individuality to the personages represented.
We may here notice, in connection with Spanish litera¬
ture, the solitary great name of which the kindred litera¬
ture of Portugal has to boast, Luis de Camoens (1524-
1578), who conferred upon his countrymen that which
Spain has in vain essayed to produce; for the Araucana
of Ercilla certainly does not deserve the title of an epic
poem. Viewed in this light, too, it must be admitted that
even the Lusiadas of Camoens is most objectionable; the
action flags miserably; the mythology is ludicrous; the
morality of some portions of the poem, as, for instance, the
scenes on the island which Venus prepares for the refresh¬
ment of the returning Portuguese, is more than question¬
able ; but, with all these, the work is inspired and support¬
ed by the true spirit of poetry; and its continued popula¬
rity and reputation prove how little the real charm or suc¬
cess of an epic depends on the mere plan or machinery of
a poem. That which will always render Camoens delight¬
ful, is the tenderness of heart which overflows in such epi¬
sodes as that of Ignez de Castro; and the pride and zeal¬
ous endeavour with which he labours to embody in im¬
mortal verse the spirit of those days in the annals of Por¬
tugal, when learning and commerce, warlike enterprise and
success, went hand in hand; when De Gama braved the
terrors of the Cape, and Alvarez and Albuquerque first
launched their gallies into the Atlantic.
From the seventeenth century to the present time, theGongora
literature of Spain has been one of decline. Three names Que¬
enly, amongst the many whose works are found quoted in ve(!o-
Anthologies and Parnasos, deserve notice ; those of Gon-
gora (1561-1627), Quevedo (1580-1645), and Villegas
(1595-1669). The real talents and rich imagination pos¬
sessed by Gongora make us lament that, like Marini (from
whom indeed he borrowed his manner), he applied them
only to corrupt and pervert the public taste. Some of his
little Anacreontic verses, songs, and letrillas, written at an
earlier period of his life, are models of natural grace and
felicity of expression ; contrasting most painfully with the
ridiculous jargon of language, and galimatias of sentiment,
which he employed in his later days. The same evil ten¬
dency is visible in Quevedo. We have great invention,
1 Literary and Scientific Men of Italy, vol. iii. p. 70.
164
POETRY.
Poetry.
Villegas
much acuteness and comic humour, but a lamentable defi-
ciency of feeling and taste. His works have been most
justly compared by Bouterwek to a massive ornament of
jewellery, in which the setting of some parts is exquisitely
skilful, of others extremely rude, and in which the number
of false stones and of valuable gems is nearly equal.
A purer taste occasionally appears in Villegas, the Ana¬
creon of Spain, though he, too, seems to labour under the
mania of the day, and now and then to run into extrava¬
gances worthy of the very wildest of the Cultoristos. Af¬
ter Villegas there appeared no Spanish poet of any origi¬
nality ; for the verses and the pastoral comedy of Melen¬
dez Valdez, founded on the episode of the marriage of Ca¬
macho in Don Quixote, do not rise above mediocrity ; the
fables of Yriarte have merely the merit of brevity and neat¬
ness of expression; and the comedies of the younger Mo-
ratin, the last dramatic wrorks which have attracted any
attention, are merely ingenious imitations of Moliere. At
the present moment Spanish poetry would seem to be ab¬
solutely effete ; nor does there appear much reason to an¬
ticipate its speedy revival.
tical allegoric dreams; and, with much monotony, their
poetry certainly presents an elevated and imposing exte-'
The Trouveres were generally men of an inferior
Poeti
nor.
French
Poetry.
The present language of France has sprung from that
northern dialect which was spoken in Normandy, and known
by the name of the Walloon. The earliest compositions in
that dialect were romances, founded on some fabulous his¬
tory, such as Brut of England, which appeared about 1155.
Romances. To these succeeded the romances of chivalry, from about
1130 to 1190, of which, unless the Portuguese romance of
Lobeira, Palmerin of England, be supposed to have appear¬
ed before this time, it would seem the Norman-French are
fairly entitled to claim the invention. Taking them as a
whole, there is no disputing that much fancy and ingenuity
are expended upon these now-forgotten performances, though
the style is invariably flat and lumbering. They are sus¬
tained merely by the high spirit which they breathe, and
the happy incidents which the chronicler occasionally intro¬
duces.
Allegorical The taste for the allegorical romance was of a date some-
romance. what posterior. Of these singular compositions, the most
remarkable is the once celebrated Roman de la Rose, be¬
gun by William de Lorris, and concluded by Jean de Me-
un, a poem which was received with boundless admiration,
and which continued for a century strongly to influence
the literature of Europe. It was at once a romantic and an
allegorical poem ; a new edition of the art of love, adapted
to the moral and metaphysical creed of the middle ages ;
of dreary length, and yet enlivened here and there by al¬
legorical portraits of imaginary personages, drawn with
considerable vivacity and spirit, and by those strokes of sa¬
tire, or lessons of practical philosophy, which, together writh
the art of narration, very early began to characterize the
literature of France. The conclusion, by Jean de Meun,
is inferior to the commencement; it is deformed by a ribald¬
ry and coarseness which justifies the term “ niedrige polis-
sonerie,” or low blackguardism, applied to it by Bouterwek.
But by far the most striking and characteristic part of
the early French literature consists in that vast collection
of short tales entitled Fabliaux, which were almost exclu¬
sively the production of the French provinces lying to the
north of the Loire, and which are well deserving of atten¬
tion, whether their own merits and originality be regard¬
ed, or their general influence on fiction. The period of
their appearance extends from the last half of the twelfth,
through the whole of the thirteenth and part of the four¬
teenth century, but the greater number are supposed to
have been written during the reign of St Louis (1226 to
1270). The compositions of these minstrels differ extreme¬
ly in character from those of their Provencal brethren of
the south of France. The poets of Provence were gene¬
rally knights and nobles; their themes love or war, or mys-
The Fab¬
liaux.
grade, sprung from the lower ranks of life, in fact literally
wandering minstrels. Yet the position they occupied in
society was particularly favourable to the promotion of those
habits of satirical observation and comic description which
constitute the chief attraction of the Fabliaux. Men, in
general, of acute and vigorous minds, though destitute of
learning and delicacy, and too often of principle ; welcome
guests in all society from their powers of amusing, yet re¬
spected in none, experiencing every extreme of life, and
making themselves at home in all; sometimes helping to
dispel the ennui of baronial castles, at others courting the
society of the humblest vassals, they rambled over the
world, harp in hand, as it were, picking up everywhere the
materials of their art, and thus painting with a truth and
freshness otherwise unattainable, the full-length portrait
of French manners during the thirteenth and fourteenth
centuries. These light and joyous compositions turn
chiefly on subjects of a familiar nature, and consist of stories
of knavery and intrigue, and occasionally of those Asiatic le¬
gends with which the crusades had by this time rendered
Europe familiar. Except, therefore, in invention of inge¬
nious incidents and comic imbroglios, and in a certain tinge
of humour and vivacity, which breathes of the sunny skies
and vine-covered hills of France, they have little preten¬
sions to poetry. And yet this opinion must be taken with
exceptions, for they have occasionally shown that they could
excel in themes of a higher kind; and the beautiful and
well-known fabliau of Aucassin and Nicollette, by its ten¬
der and natural spirit, combined with the deep interest of
its situations, throws into the shade the greater part of the
more ambitious and elaborate chivalrous romances. We
perceive in it all the romantic spirit and deep feeling of the
old Spanish ballads, heightened by the graceful naivete pe¬
culiar to the early French poetry.
The period from the commencement of the fifteenth to
the sixteenth century is regarded by the French as the tran¬
sition period of their poetry from infancy to maturity ; and
the three leading names of the period are Marot, Ron sard,
and Malherbe.
Clement Marot (born 1495, died 1544) is the creator of Marot,
that school of naive poetry which was afterwards carried to
its perfection by La Fontaine and Voltaire. With a play¬
ful unambitious grace, he gives a happy turn to every
subject, and delights to put the world in good humour
with itself. It is justly observed by a French critic, Nisard,
that the naivete of Marot differs from that of any previous
poet. In the older strains of the Trouveres and their suc¬
cessors, what we call naivete often arises merely from the
imperfection of the language, and not from any peculiarity
in their turn of mind. But Marot wears this air of uncon¬
sciousness even in giving expression to ideas the most sub¬
tile and recherche; his naivete seems independent of the
language, independent almost of the ideas; it is an emana¬
tion of the peculiar genius and idiosyncrasy of the man.
It is amusing to contrast the fame of Ronsard during his Ronsa'1
life (1524-1585) with his reputation at the present moment.
His own age elevated him to honours almost divine : in the
present how many are acquainted even with a single page of
his poems ? He was considered the presiding luminary of
that constellation of genius which arrogated to itself the title
of the French Pleiad; whose great object it was to transplant
into French the form and the manner of the lyrics of anti¬
quity ; but who succeeded only, as Boileau says, in making
a jumble of everything {brouiller tout), a patchwork, in short,
of Greek and Latin ideas with Italian subtilty of thought
and French naivety of expression.
“ Enfin Malherbe vint,” says Boileau (1558-1628), likeMal^1
Ronsard a classicist, but endeavouring, and not without
POETRY.
165
• >etry. success, to seize rather the spirit of the ancients than their
' ' forms. Of the higher inspiration of the ode he had little;
his march is stately enough, but it is measured and slow;
he has little or no enthusiasm, but, in all that regarded the
judicious treatment of a subject, or the minutiae of language
or versification, he was well fitted to be the legislator of
that new and more sober school of composition which su¬
perseded in France the extravagances of Ronsard and his
satellites. The three pieces of Malherbe which appear to
indicate the highest talent, approaching indeed to genius,
are the Ode to Henry IV. on the taking of Sedan, the Ode
to the Queen-Mother, and the beautiful verses addressed
to the Councillor Duperier on the sudden death of his daugh¬
ter. Few lines could be selected more beautiful than the
following stanza from the latter :
Mais elle estoit du monde oil les plus belles choses
Out le pire destin;
Et Rose, elle a vecu ce que vivent les roses,
L’espace d’un matin.
But she was of a world where fairest things
Have foulest doom:
Rose as she was, she had a rose’s life,
A morning’s bloom.
7 > of We now arrive at the period which is, or rather was, con-
I iisXIV. sidered by the French as the golden age of their poetical
literature, the long reign of Louis XIV. Everything at this
time concurred to impress on poetry that stamp of stateli¬
ness, polish, and courtier-like adoration of monarchy, which
at that time pervaded French society, and which exerted so
powerful an influence on the general tastes of Europe. The
French monarchy had now been consolidated by the firm
hand of Richelieu, who, whilst he unrelentingly pursued his
design of lowering the aristocracy and exalting the throne,
was not insensible to the claims or the importance of litera¬
ture, and had been the first to give it the support which a
corporate character appeared likely to afford, by the forma¬
tion of the celebrated academy. The troubles of the Fronde
were over. The heats and animosities of rival religions had
been appeased by the edict of Nantes. The personal cha¬
racter of Louis was well suited to effect his main object,
which was to render his court a model for the imitation of
the world. Of limited abilities, without talent either for
warfare or diplomacy, he possessed tact enough to perceive
at once his deficiencies and his advantages ; and, endowed
with many of the most attractive outward graces and ac¬
complishments of a king, he played the part of a dignified
monarch with much discretion and ability. Thus w ielding,
without opposition, the energies of a powerful kingdom,
and collecting around him at his court all that France con¬
tained of intellectual ability, a tone of courtly polish and
extreme refinement was imparted to society, which soon
impressed its traces upon literature, 'partly for good, and
partly for evil. The influence exercised by French man¬
ners and French literature upon other countries became
paramount and unprecedented, superseding the most inve¬
terate usages, overturning the strongest national prejudices,
and establishing a despotism more universal than had been
known in literature since the downfall of Greece and Rome.
The most imposing shape in which poetry appears during
this supposed Augustan period of French literature, is in
that of the drama ; which, commencing with the rude plays
of Jodelle (who died in 15fl0), reached its perfection during
the close of the reign of Louis XIII. and the reign of Louis
XIV., in the tragedies of Corneille and Racine, and the ex¬
quisite comedies of Moliere. For a full account of the French
stage we refer to the article Drama.
It cannot be said that, in any other department of poetry
except that of the drama, the age of Louis XIV. was pre¬
eminently distinguished; for the artificial and hollow refine¬
ment of the time seemed unfavourable to that vigorous and
natural feeling which should speak in poetry, with a corre¬
sponding strength and originality of expression. Yet two Poetry.
names impress themselves, by their strongly discriminated " v '
traits, upon the memory,—La Fontaine (1621-1695) as the
reviver of the old naive style of Marot, though with a degree
of polish and grace of which Marot had no conception ; and
Boileau, as the representative of that school of terse mora¬
lity, sound sense, and wit, mingled with and heightened by
fancy, of which Pope is the best example in English poetry.
With all the levity and licentiousness which deform the La Fon-
Contes, there is no denying to La Fontaine many of thetaine.
best qualities of the poet; knowledge of the world, which
yet does not impair his bonhommie and kindness of heart;
a humour playful, gentle, continuous, never pushed to ex¬
cess, combined with tenderness, with a disposition to re¬
verie and pensiveness; a strong sensibility to the beau¬
ties of the country, of which his descriptions, though short,
are always striking, and marked by that just selection of
points and clear local portraiture which we find in Crabbe,
and which show that he made his studies for them on the
spot; the whole heightened and set off by a style appa¬
rently simplicity itself, but which must have been, as we
know it was, the result of the most laborious polishing and
elimination : all these give an extreme charm to the Contes,
and perhaps still more to the Fables, of La Fontaine ;
for the Contes, though their licentious gaiety has made
them more generally known, display to less advantage the
peculiar qualities of La Fontaine’s genius.
Boileau, again (1636-1711), pleases and must always Boileau.
please, although by qualities the most opposite to those of La
Fontaine ; namely, by awakening a calm emotion of intel¬
lectual satisfaction, rather than by any excitement of the ima¬
gination or the feelings. As Racine represents the tender and
voluptuous side of French manners and character during the
age of Louis XIV.; as La Fontaine embodies in his tales and
fables its easy tone of moral indifference and malice, mask¬
ing itself under the disguise of simplicity ; so in Boileau we
find, arrayed in a dignified and philosophical dress, its bet¬
ter points, its good sense and sagacity, its lively perception
of the eccentric and ridiculous, its love of external decency,
order, and propriety, both in morality and in literature.
In his Lutrin he even displays a considerable degree of
invention, though chiefly of a comic kind ; for, though not
destitute of a sense and feeling of high poetry, he was essen¬
tially deficient in any actual power of dealing with such
themes ; and, with that tact and judgment which distin¬
guished him, he has rarely, save in his most unfortunate
Ode on the taking of Namur, which has been so justly but
so unmercifully parodied by Prior, ventured within this pro¬
vince of poetry. Within his proper field of moral censor¬
ship, or of the mock heroic, arrayed in all the graces of ele¬
gant diction and classic allusion,—or the poetical abridg¬
ment, in the most condensed and pointed form of the ap¬
proved critical canons of the time,—he is assuredly without
a rival in French poetry, and, with the exception of Pope,
in European literature.
The literature of the eighteenth century in France is Eighteenth
more distinguished by its prose than its poetry. Prior to century.
Voltaire, at least, in whom great and versatile powers 0fKousseaiu
mind, approaching if not attaining to high genius, must be
admitted, it added nothing of substantial value to the con¬
tributions of the age of Louis XIV. At one time indeed
the odes of J. B. Rousseau (1669-1741) were extolled to
the skies, as models of lyric poetry; and Voltaire certainly
speaks of them in terms of extravagant praise. To any one
now perusing them, with the recollection of the great mo¬
dels of antiquity before him, or even testing them by the
simpler process of his own feelings, they will assuredly ap¬
pear totally deficient in genuine inspiration. The enthu¬
siasm is imitative and factitious ; the imitation dexterous,
no doubt, but yet palpable to every one who possesses any
real poetical sensibility ; the thought is often propped up
166 POE
Poetry, by the words, not the words elevated and quickened un-
' V ' consciously by the vital grandeur of the thought. What
true lyric enthusiasm, indeed, could reside in a mind which
busied itself alternately in the composition of rapturous re¬
ligious odes, and epigrams of disgusting obscenity ?
ciiaulieu Much more of real poetry, because accompanied by na-
and Gres- ture and simplicity, is to be found in Chaulieu s pastoral
set. lyrics; in some of the little romances of Moncrif, such as
Alexis and Alix, which abounds with lines that by their
truth and simplicity of expression have become proverbial;
or in Gresset’s pleasing stanzas on the golden age, or even
in his livelv tale of Vert-Vert.
Voltaire. The reputation of Voltaire (1694-1778) at the present
day rests more upon his witty and amusing prose than
upon his poetry. That didactic tendency which was the
spirit of the age, that attempt to make all the creations of
poetry subservient to inculcating certain philosophical opi¬
nions, appears in all the poetry of Voltaire ; it speaks even
in Mahomet and in Zane, as much as in his graceful oc¬
casional verses, his Tales in the manner of La Fontaine,
or his epistles. “ Les Francois n ont pas la tete Epique,”
was his own expression; and the Henriade certainly went
far to prove the fact. It is the mere simulacrum of an
epic ; hard, laboured, soulless. It is most unfortunate for
Voltaire, that the poem in which his versatile abilities have
been displayed to the greatest advantage, is one which its
indecencies and impieties have in a great measure banish¬
ed beyond the pale of literature.
About 1770 may be noticed the rise of the descriptive
school of poetry, in the poems of St Lambert and Delille ;
an importation in all probability from England, where a
similar taste had been introduced by the success of the Sea¬
sons of Thomson. From 1730 to the commencement of
the present century, numerous attempts were also made to
confer on France something that should merit the title of
an epic poem; but without the slightest success.
During the despotism of Napoleon, poetry appeared to
be almost silent. With the restoration of the Bourbons
appears the rise of that romantic school, the growth of the
fermentation of the revolution, and -of that removal of the
old landmarks both in polity and opinions which it caused;
a school which, both in theory and practice, repudiates the
principles of the old French classicists, and has certainly
effected a complete revolution in the literary tastes of the
time. Whether much or anything has been gained by
the change, is in the highest degree questionable. Calm
observers think the French have injudiciously sacrificed
their reputation for correct and classic execution, for wit and
good sense, in the search after those higher qualities of lyri¬
cal inspiration or epic grandeur which nature appears to
have denied to them. We do not speak of the revolting ex¬
travagances in which the leaders of the romantic school, at
the head of whom stands Victor Hugo, have indulged. The
public taste of Europe, and latterly of France, has so
strongly revolted against this convulsionary school, that it
cannot long maintain any hold over the national mind;
but we fear that, even when the worst extravagances of the
new school are retrenched, there will remain a pei'manent
injury to the national taste, in the loose, disjointed, and
barbarous style, with the total want of all logical plan in
composition, which these innovators have introduced.
B2ranger. Yet it is pleasing to close this short notice of French poe¬
try with the name of one who, though partaking of all the
modern influences of his time, is yet within his own de¬
partment, that of song, a genuine classic. In this depart¬
ment of the lyric, France has always been distinguished.
In that country not only has it constituted, as elsewhere,
the amusement of the lower classes, but it has long attain¬
ed the dignity of a powerful political agent; its monarchy
was justly described by Champfort as a despotism temper¬
ed by songs. Of all the modes in which poetry can be
TRY.
made subservient to purposes like these, song is the most Poetry,
effective, universal, and immediate in its operation. It'>—
speaks not to a particular class, but to all; its brevity fixes
it in the memory; the creature of the moment, it avails
itself of every allusion, every passion, every prejudice of
the day; while its outward form appears so trivial and
harmless, that even despotic governments are deterred,
by the fear of ridicule, from attempting to interfere with
it. Beranger, whilst he selects the simplest, the most uni¬
versal feelings, the most familiar sentiments and images, pro¬
vided they are true, unforced, and natural, yet, by the tact
and skill which he employs in their treatment, and the fe¬
licity of their expression, invests them with quite an ori¬
ginal character. The oftener a thought has occurred to
others, so much the better with him ; for it is an evidence
of its truth, and of its power of affecting the heart. What
remains for him, and what he performs, is to impart to this
thought, so familiar to all, though perhaps vaguely and in¬
definitely, form, colour, expression, so that when present¬
ed by him to our notice, it is felt at once to be an old ac¬
quaintance, and yet awakens all the curiosity and interest
with which we regard a new one. His originality, in short,
lies entirely in his application of the idea, and the point
and compactness with which the image is brought out by
his hands. His success in these respects is great; but it
is a success attained, as may be imagined, by the most pa¬
tient revision. He is said to be an extremely slow com¬
poser, frequently laying aside the subject on which he is
employed for weeks, and patiently waiting, till, by dint of
long reflection on the subject, and careful polishing, by the
selection of the happiest allusions, by the studious elimi¬
nation of every phrase or illustration that appears recherche
or ornate, he has given to the whole that unity and ap¬
pearance of ease and simplicity at which he constantly aims.
We have noticed the early development of German German
heroic song in the Nebelungen and the Heldenbuch; and Poetry.
the introduction of the Provencal taste under the Sua-
bian emperors in the poetry of the Minnesingers. In all
its leading features the poetry of this period (1138 to
1346) corresponds with that of the French Troubadours,
with this unfavourable distinction, that the poetry of the
Minnesingers (love-singers) is much more exclusively de¬
voted to amatory themes than that of the Provencals,
which blended with these, warlike and patriotic or satirical
effusions. Hence their monotony of effect, when we per¬
use any of these collections at once, is undeniable. Schil¬
ler has, accordingly, in a passage of unusual severity, de¬
nounced their poverty of ideas, and says, that if the spar¬
rows were to compose an “ almanack of love and friend¬
ship,” it would probably bear a close resemblance to these
cloying strains of the Minnesingers. But against this
sarcastic remark must be placed the observations of Fre¬
derick Schlegel. “ The impression of uniformity arises
from our seeing these poems bound together into large
collections, a fate which was probably neither the design
nor the hope of those who composed them. But, in truth,
not only love-songs, but all lyrical poems, if they are really
true to nature, and aim at nothing more than the expression
of individual feelings, must necessarily be confined within a
very narrow range both of thought and sentiment. The
truth is, that great variety in lyrical poetry is never to be
found, except in those ages of imitation when men are
fond of treating of all manner of subjects in all manner of
forms. Then, indeed, we often find the tone and taste of
twenty different ages and nations brought together within
the same collection, and observe that the popularity of the
poet is increased exactly in proportion as he descends
from his proper dignity, when simplicity is sacrificed to
conceits and epigrams, and the ode sinks into an occasional
copy of verses.”
POETRY.
Wallenstein. In one particular he most rank fat higher
than Goethe; in the elevated aim winch he always had m ^ooUf^thos^ rencl^ aheg^ ^ ^ ^ ^ nearlyCW
view; the attainment of noble ends hy no ^e're half his lifej as Mr Campbell remarks, was passed amongst
rendering poetry what it always ought to be, , emblems flower-worshippings, and courts and
specimen of plastic ingenuity, but something Y ^ IC1 parliaments of love, of that visionary and tiresome school,
soul feels itself refined and the hear made better. His 0_^°r ’ of bef0're he commenced the
enthusiasm, impetuous, and yet tender and affection , ' yT1 y- which alone the peculiarities of his
clothed all the universe, moral and material with forms of ^ ^ its extent, cPan be said to be
grandeur, and gave to all he uttered the stamp of purity g ’ ^ Th!^ late discovery of the true
a^d truth. “ His greatest faculty,” says the most eloquent complet^ ^ tr Ch S appeal pe!
of hi, biographers, “ was a half poefcal, hf pMosophical bentjf h^powers « amg , ^ ^.^P ^ P^
imagination, a faculty teeming w'‘h .amid le' yf but of clear observation of life, and of practical
hancy; now adorning or aiding to erect a ta y p> g J Canterbury Tales, which were obviously
of scientific speculation, now brooding over the abysses of aims In Lanterbu ^y lf Decamero^ ^
thought and feeling, till thoughts and feelings else u g? Y display of the various quali-
terable were embodied in expressive forms, and palaces ^st ;0f ^ real knowledge of
and landscapes, glowing ^ ethereal beauty, rose li -e j.fe ^ experience of society> in aii its aspects,
halations from the bosom of the deep. d high and low, from the palace to the cottage, at home and
Of Goethe we have already so very g^Y ^Pr^se“ ° in abbroad) had suppiied his mind. His clear observation, and
opinion (see the article Goethe), that we shall not again ^ ’ ding P^ of clear painting? giving the most
enter upon the subject. Gorman noetrv is not vivid picturesqueness to all his delineations; his quiet and
At the present day ^talent unobtrusive humour; his satirical power, at once forcible
forthTMiihXrorJgend^ TaH to rtul hlcommul and delicate (a combination peculiarly rare in that smge
toi tbe Manrcnen, or i^egenuary , struggling and imperfect civilization); his imagination
su®c4f&rtVit7yZgteichygmaLrs
for prose and polemical discussion. Uhland and Euckert a cheerful contented tone /ff n«’Jr“c"
are at this moment tha most eminent among the German impartial towards all the w-or d, a power either ot creat
iVric poets- for the effusions of Heine, wretched attempts ing character, or of so artfully and harmoniously putting
to intuse a sneering imitation of Byronism into lyric poetry, together the result of his actual studies of men, as togiveto
have akerfv we believe, survived their popularity. The these all the free and natural effect of a creation; all these
host of poe£ besides these, is numerous but not of any qualities found fit scope for their e“rc'se ,n ^
marked excellence or originality. Judging from a few of varied canvass he selected, which, by means of its inge
his composMons we si,odd be disposed” m say there was nious framework of a plgrimage embracing persons of
more of poetical genius in Leopold Schefer, than in almost both sexes and of all ranks, and enlivened by tales told to
any of his contemporaries.
English It is not our intention to enter into any minute details
Poetry, as to English poetry, with which we shall conclude the pre¬
sent sketch. Since we have already noticed, under separate
heads, most of the individuals by whom it was adorned, we
shall merely attempt to indicate generally the directions
taken by poetical taste at different periods of our annals.^
Even prior to the Norman conquest, we know from Wil¬
liam of Malmesbury, that England, like all the Gothic na¬
tions, had been possessed by a large mass of ballads, writ¬
ten in Anglo-Saxon, though, as no fragments of these re¬
main, we know nothing of their poetical merit. This ear¬
lier minstrelsy must soon have sunk into discredit, or been
entirely suppressed, by the Norman conquest.
The English language, as it now exists, grew out of the
mixture of the Anglo-Saxon with the Norman, and seems
to have acquired a complete form by the middle of the
relieve the tedium of the way, admitted equally of the
comic and the tragic, the high and low ; themes of chi¬
valry and mythology, like the Knight’s Tale ; tales of
wonder, blending oriental marvels with the romance of
the West, like the Squire’s; or stories of English low life,
like the Miller’s or the Reve’s. The versatility of talent,
indeed, displayed in the Canterbury Tales is astonishing;
and, as in the case of his Italian rival, Boccacio, it is dif¬
ficult to say whether it is in the comic or the tragic that
Chaucer most excels.
In invention, so far as regards incident, the English poet
and the Italian novelist may be placed nearly on a par; the
woodland freshness and beauty of Chaucer’s forest scenes,
may be equalled by the charming country landscapes in
which Boccacio places his interlocutors; but in power of
characteristic delineation, particularly by those minute
strokes of Dutch painting which present the exterior of
objects, or those happily selected traits which at once mark
to nave acquneu a cumpieie luun uy uie imuuic me  rr-j  . , . •
thirteenth century. In 1297, we have the Rhyming Chro- the individual, Boccacio cannot sustain the least comparison
nicle of Robert of Gloucester, the first undoubted compo- with the father of English poetry. He has many tauits,
sition in the English tongue. but they are the faults of his age;_ the faults of coarseness
From the Norman conquest to the time of Edward III., of taste and manners, of inartificial plans, o pro ixi y o
the literature and poetry of England consists of little else style; the natural errors to which the infancy o poe ry,
than translations from, or imitations of, the Norman ro- destitute of models, and struggling with an un orme an
mances and chronicles; and, judging from the ridicule with guage, was exposed. Against these must be placed t le a
which they have been assailed by Chaucer in his Rhyme vantages of a vocabulary in which words are pictures, o
of Sir Thopas, they must have been of slender merit, since subjects of description, unhackneyed, and bright witi a
they are represented as shocking the taste, of course not their primitive freshness; the wisdom or grave humour o
particularly refined, of the host of the Tabard. The dis- the philosophic observer blending most cunningly with tie
tance, at all events, which separates all our English versi- bonhommie and the garrulous graces of the narrator, an
fiers of this period from Chaucer (born 1328, died 1406), easy abandon, both as to matter and manner, which has its
is such as justly to entitle him to the honour of being the charm, however little reconcileable with the more arti
first of English poets, the sun that “flames in the fore- cial treatment which criticism would suggest; nature pamt-
head of the modern sky;” throwing out a splendour that ed without exaggeration, as without disguise; and wit a
showed at once his own lustre, and the dreary wastes that that feeling of unity imparted to the wRole, which ma es
spread far and wide towards the literary horizon. the most discordant elements unite in kindly harmony, an
ry. which is never found except in the productions of the high-
est minds.
The appearance of Chaucer in English poetry has been
well com{)ared by barton to the early appearance of a
bright and genial day in an English spring; exciting the
brighter hopes of a speedy and balmy summer,—hopes
which are almost immediately blasted by the return of frost
and tempest, and the settling down of winter, as bleak and
blighting as before. In English poetry that effect was pro¬
duced by the disastrous period of the wars of the Roses.
From the time of Chaucer almost to that of Spenser, cer¬
tainly no progress is made; or rather, if the language in some
degree advances, the spirit of poetry retrogrades. Gower
was his contemporary, Lydgate followed immediately after
him ; but they belong, so far as regards poetical genius, nay
even poetical dexterity, to a previous century. In truth, the
first introduction of learning into England appears to have
been unfavourable to poetry, giving rise to pedantic imi¬
tation in place of independent efforts of genius; a tenden¬
cy which, indeed, to some extent, is visible even in the
finest poetry of the Elizabethan period. By far the most
distinguished name, indeed, between Chaucer and Spenser,
is that of the Scottish poet Dunbar, who, in humour and
power of character-painting, greatly surpasses Gower, and
approaches to Chaucer. The poems of Surrey, and Wyatt,
and Sackville, who followed during the reign of Henry
VIII., can be regarded only as proofs that the love of poe¬
try had not ceased to exist, and that in some shape, how¬
ever rude, its voice was struggling to make itself heard in
that calmer and more settled state of the political atmo¬
sphere which had followed the union of the rival houses in
the persons of Henry VII. and Elizabeth of York.
.Ej. But when Spenser arose to enrich English literature
with another great work of original genius, many causes,
w’hich had probably at first acted unfavourably for the
progress of poetry, were beginning to exercise a more sa¬
lutary operation. The Reformation, which had at first pro¬
duced tumult, bloodshed, and wide-extended distress, by
the suppression of those great hospitals, the monasteries,
was now beginning to bring forth its better fruits, in the
shape of a free and inquiring spirit, carried into all de¬
partments of thought and imagination. That acquain¬
tance with the treasures of ancient learning, or the classic
poetry of modern Italy, which had at first tended to over¬
power and confuse the national mind, was now turned to
better account; it had insensibly refined the taste, and
made the purest models of preceding times familiar to the
poet and the scholar. The spirit of chivalry, still lingering
in the English character, had been aroused into new and
active existence by the triumphs which had attended the
national arms during the reign of Elizabeth. A love of
adventure had been generated by the frequent expeditions
into remote countries and climes, as to which, in that im¬
perfect state of geographical and physical knowledge, mar¬
vels were believed, as incredible as any that figure in the
pages of Sir John Mandeville. There was, in short, at
this period, a remarkable union, in the English character,
of the sober qualities of strong intellect with deep convic¬
tions and high imagination; a character which manifests
itself in every department both of poetry and literature.
Born in this happy period, and educated under such in¬
fluences, Spenser (1510-1598) produced his great poem of
the Fairy Queen. Familiar with Italian literature, as well
as with the best learning of antiquity, it was from the
works of Ariosto and Tasso that he had derived his bent
towards chivalrous poetry. But the deeper earnestness of
his character prevented him from treating his subject with
the levity of Ariosto. Chivalry was to him a principle of
faith, a part of religion, not the mere fantastic framework
in w hich successive pageants of love and war, or luxurious
description, were to be enclosed. In England it had not
vol. xvm.
POETRY.
169
assumed that outworn and almost comic air which it wore Poetry,
when Ariosto first took up the entangled threads of Boi- '---'v—
ardo. It had still a vital influence on society, and ran
like a thread of silver tissue through the coarser web of
life. Nay, even the religious spirit in wdiich Tasso had
conceived the Jerusalem, scarcely satisfied the mind of
Spenser. He would render every incident which he de¬
scribed a step in some high argument or moral demon¬
stration ; every character the embodied representation of
some virtue and vice; all the visions of imagination sub¬
servient to the cause of religion. He would enlist all the
restless and excursive intellect, and adventurous feelings of
an ardent and romantic age, under the banner of purity and
goodness.
That with the glory of so goodly sight,
The hearts of men that fondly here desire
Fasre seeming shews, and feed on vain delight.
Transported with celestial desire
Of those fair forms, may lift themselves up higher.
And learn to love, with zealous humble duty,
Th’ eternal fountain of that heavenly beauty.
And so deeply does this principle pervade his poems, that,
whilst wandering among the scenes of enchantment with
which he surrounds us in that spiritual region to which he
gives the name of Fairy Land, we can never forget that
they have a spell beyond their first outward significance,
nor be insensible to that still small voice of piety and wis¬
dom, which speaks through all those creations of his ge¬
nius, and whispers that the place whereon we are standing
is holy ground.
It must be admitted, however, that if this under-current
of allegory gives a degree of solemnity and moral grandeur
to Spenser’s poem, its effects in other respects are unfa¬
vourable. It does occasionally interfere with the natural
movements of the imagination, gives a formal and meta¬
physical air to the conceptions of the poet, and, by render¬
ing the characters abstractions of moral qualities, impairs
their individuality as human beings. So far the injurious ef¬
fect of Spenser’s allegorical plan can hardly be denied; but
it is absux-d to speak of the allegory in Spenser. being so
obtrusive and continuous as altogether to destroy the inte¬
rest of the poem as a representation of romantic life. The
fact is quite different. Occasionally, no doubt, in the per¬
sonifications of Envy or Pride, or the siege of the Castle
of Temperance, in which the barriers of hearing, sense,
smell, taste, and touch are represented as successively
assailed by troops of monsters from without, the allegory
is too prominent; but assuredly it sinks entirely out of view,
and is perceived only on subsequent reflection, in the deep
human interest of all the finer passages of the poem, such
as the remorse of the Red Cross Knight, his temptation
by Despair; the wanderings of Una, with her angel face
“ making a sunshine in the shady place;” Guyon’s visit to
the cave of Mammon, and his trial in the gardens of
Acrasia; the combat of Campbel with the three brothers;
or the many other passages, which must be impressed upon
the memory of every reader.
An extreme sensibility, almost amounting to a luxurious
love of beauty, a flush of colour in his descriptions, which
has led Mr Campbell to compare him to Rubens, and a
fancy of the most remarkable exuberance, are the leading
qualities of Spenser’s mind. In this prodigality of fancy,
indeed, lies at once the strength and the weakness of
Spenser: for while it infuses life into all his pictures,
making the plumes of Prince Arthur wave like the almond-
tree on the top of Selinis; or the face of Britomart, when
she raises her vizor, like the moon breaking forth in dark¬
some night from behind the noisome cloud in which she
was enveloped; so, on the other hand, it leads him occa¬
sionally to revel in images and traits which are painful, or
even physically revolting, such as the portrait of Gluttony,
Y
170
POETRY.
Poetry, the loathsome vomit of Envy, or the minute description of
'''“’“V""*’' the operation of Diet and Appetite, Concoction and Diges¬
tion, with some other inmates of Castle Temperance. His
fancy may indeed be compared to the Nile in its over¬
flow, disdaining the confinement of banks, and spreading
around a luxuriance of soil, alike productive of the flower
an(j klig weed.
In the portraiture of the allegorical beings introduced,
Spenser is admitted to be.without a rival. In his hand
they almost cease to be mere abstractions of good and
evil qualities, so life-like is the form in which they are
presented, so picturesque the garb and accompaniments
with which they are invested, so natural the gestures, ac¬
tions, and occupations, attributed to them. They appear
the natural inhabitants of this realm of enchantment, raised
as it is many degrees above the level of reality, bright in
the near ground, with the sunniest tints of fancy, and fad¬
ing away in the distance into the most aerial and heavenly
hues. .
The language of Spenser seems to be steeped in music;
he is the greatest master of the difficult art of employing
alliteration with success; his versification unites in the
highest degree melody with majesty. It is formed on the
principle of the Italian ottava rima ; but, by the addition
of the Alexandrine, it possesses a sonorous grandeur in
the close which the Italian stanza wants. “ It has not,
says Mr Hazlitt, “ the bold dramatic transitions of Shak-
speare’s blank verse, nor the high varied tone of Milton’s;
but it is the perfection of harmony, dissolving the soul in
pleasure, or holding it captive in the chains of suspense.
Spenser is the poet of our waking dreams ; and he in¬
vented not only a language, but a music of his own for
them. The modulations are infinite, like those of the
waves of the sea; but the effect is still the same, lulling
the senses into a deep oblivion of all the jarring noises of
the world.”
In the hands of Spenser, the allegorical form appears in¬
vested with all the brightest colours of the fancy. In the
works of most of his contemporaries it appears lifeless and
pedantic. A disagreeable mixture of stilted expression
and false learning blends with and alloys most of the
poetry of the time. It deforms the otherwise noble lines
of Sir John Davies, and renders Silvester unreadable.
Shakspeare is not free from it; for it was deeply inwoven
with the national taste of the time, and showed itself in the
language of ordinary conversation no less than in poetry.
Yet it is delightful to find the greatest dramatist also the
greatest lyrical poet of his age; for, after Spenser, what
work of that time will bear the least comparison with
Shakspeare’s sonnets ? Sonnets they are not, in the
strict Italian sense; but for condensation of imagery, for
natural thoughts, clothing themselves in the aptest ex¬
pressions either of majesty or melody, without any redun¬
dance of expletives, or rank luxuriance of epithets, they
leave Petrarch and his imitators at a distance. A singu¬
lar grace, and even dreamy beauty, surprises us in the
masques of Ben Jonson; because it contrasts so strangely
with the otherwise hard and saturnine turn of his mind.
A few gems, amidst much that is coarse or quaint or in¬
different, may be gleaned from the pages of Herrick;
power and vigour, mixed with sectarian gloom, and de¬
formed by extreme ruggedness of versification, are visible
in Quarles. The rise of satire appears in the works of
Hall and Donne, of pastoral in Browne ; while sacred
poetry finds no unworthy representatives in Giles Fletcher
and Crashaw. A lighter and gayer taste, a more level,
but natural expression, shows itself in the compositions of
the cavalier poets of the court of Charles I., in the grace¬
ful little airs and verses of Carew, Lovelace, Davenant,
and Suckling. In particular, to them we are indebted for
some of the best of the few good songs we possess in Eng¬
lish ; witness the “ He that loves a rosy cheek” of Carew, Poete
and the song written by Lovelace during his confinement
in Westminster, “ When love with unconfined wings ho¬
vers within my gates.” To Denham and Waller, particu¬
larly the latter, have been ascribed by Johnson the glory
of improving our English numbers. It would be more just
to say, that they had the good sense to perceive the im¬
portance of this element of poetry, as Spenser had done,
while their contemporaries too much neglected it. Almost
all the poets above mentioned have been classed by John¬
son under the title of the metaphysical poets; a title of
doubtful application as to any of them, but which, if it be
applicable to Cowley, whom he considers their chief, can
scarcely be very accurate when applied to Suckling and
Waller. Cowley is simply a poet in whom the fancy, while
it is teeming and fertile, is seldom warmed by passion
or directed by judgment; whose miscellaneous learning
oppresses and buries his taste; and who therefore wearies
us even at the moment he impresses us with the conscious¬
ness of his great resources and his mental powers.
A great change in the character and spirit of poetry Change
followed the con vulsions which closed abruptly the reign produce*
of the first Charles. The poetry of that court leant to-^heci
wards the elegant, the romantic, the fanciful, the brilliant,war'
and witty; but the stronger passions which had been awa¬
kened, the deeper interests which had been put in hazard,
by the civil war, had soon impressed a character of solem¬
nity on all literature, and made poetry itself, following the
fashion of the time, assume a polemical, ascetic, sometimes
mystical, yet grand and enthusiastic character. In those
whose tastes were formed only after the change, this pole¬
mical character, and this proscription of certain subjects
or associations, to which puritanism led, would probably
have damped the wing and narrowed the flight of imagina¬
tion ; and accordingly no great poet appears to have been
reared in that rigid and prosaic school. But the tastes of
Milton, the great poet of this period, had all been formed
in an age and a school more favourable to the exercise ot
the imaginative powers; his exquisite lyrics, and his Co-
mus, had already been written before he visited Italy in
1638, at the very time when Carew, and Suckling, and Da¬
venant were in the height of their popularity and reputa¬
tion. Ere his great epic poem appeared, he had witness¬
ed and deeply shared in the agitating struggle which had
ended in the temporary subversion of the monarchy, and
the stern but imposing despotism of Cromwell; and thus
educated in the former period, and as yet witnessing the
best bloom and flush of the latter, he united the chival¬
rous recollections of the Elizabethan age, and the classic
associations with which his early education had filled his
mind, with the enthusiasm of principle and intensity ot
will which characterised the men of the Parliament. Mil-
ton represents more vividly than any other the wide sweep
and overpowering force of those political and religious sen¬
timents which agitated the age; for all his earlier leanings
were visibly directed towards the romantic and gorgeous as¬
sociations of the past, towards the pride and pomp of chi¬
valry, the well-trod stage, the throngs of knights and barons
bold, the stateliness of feudal castles, the solemnity of mins¬
ters, the pomp of tournaments, the peal of organs, and the
dim religious light of painted windows. Such was the poet
of Lycidas, of Comus, of the Allegro, and the Penseroso, the
two most perfect gems of contemplative lyric poetry of which
Britain has to boast; and yet we see these tastes abandon¬
ed or repressed as he advances in life and in party spirit,
till at last he views them only as unnatural corruptions of
primitive liberty and simplicity. Still, with Milton, though
a taint of bigotry pervades his views, everything is pure,
high minded, and disinterested. “ Nought he does in
hate, but all in honour.” He stands at an immense dis¬
tance from the sect to whom he had allied himself, but with
POETRY.
tn,
whom, after all, he had little in common. In no one does
poetry more conspicuously appear a part of religion. He
regards it as a sacred trust, not to be sadrificed on the al¬
tar of vanity, not to be purchased for a price, not to be ap¬
plied to any unworthy or even trifling end.
Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt,
And in clear dream and solemn vision
Telling of things which no gross ear can hear;
Till oft converse with heavenly habitants
Begin to cast a beam on the outer shape,
The unpolluted temple of the mind,
And turn it by degrees to the soul’s essence,
Till all be made immortal.
It would be absurd, at the present day, to enter on any
formal criticism of his great work of Paradise Lost, the
most original, if not the most successful, of modern epics.
About no poem perhaps are opinions more agreed ; every
one feels its sustained loftiness, combined with so much of
tenderness, in the scenes of Eden, but always suggesting
the idea of effort and labour,—the wonderful art with which
learning itself is rendered poetical in his hands; for even the
visions of mythology, and the fantastical traditions of chi¬
valry, are made to heighten the effect of a sacred poem
dealing with the mystery of the fall of man;—and, lastly,
the consummate artifice of the versificadon, which, as Haz-
litt remarks, seems to float up and down, as if on wings.
Milton represents the more imposing side of the Puri¬
tans, and he is almost the solitary poet of whom they can
boast. The other side of their character, their hypocrisy,
and their narrow and coarse tastes, are exposed in the
merciless and consummately clever Hudibras of Butler.
The poem is now, no doubt, in a great measure obsolete,
like every application of poetry to the exposure of the pe¬
culiarities or vices of a particular age; yet its masculine
vigour, its condensation of thought, and its wit, entitle
Butler to a very high rank among the broad humourists of
poetry.
From the oppressive wit and subtilty of Cowley and his
fellows, it is delightful to turn to the manliness, the com¬
mon sense, the “ long-resounding march and energy di¬
vine,” of Dryden, who marks the point of transition from
the metaphysical poetry to the critical. He had himself
in youth been strongly influenced by the pervading taste
for conceit; and it must be admitted, that in the greater
part of his dramatic writings this taint clings to him to the
last. As a dramatist, indeed, we can admire in him no¬
thing but the nerve and vigour of his dialogue, and that
power of reasoning in verse in which he so much excelled.
But in his other works, such as the Absalom and Achito-
phel, he threw aside this rage for conceits, he was natural,
transparent, vigorous; his illustrations, instead of being
sought for, as in the case of Cowley, on account of their
remoteness and apparent inaptitude, are such as at once
adorn and elucidate, and are felt to be close and familiar
without being common. High imagination he did not pos¬
sess, and for his purpose it was scarcely needed. He has,
in fact, scarcely written a line which is pathetic, and few
that can be considered sublime. Yet in fancy he was not
deficient, for it supplies him with inexhaustible imagery;
his Ode shows that he could be raised at times into a true
lyrical enthusiasm, whilst his judgment rarely fails him, ex¬
cept, indeed, in those bombastic plays, which he had framed
by jumbling together an imbroglio of two inconsistent mo¬
dels, the F'rench school, from which he borrowed his rhymes
and his affectation of sentiment; and the Spanish, to which
he was indebted for the exaggeration of his passionate scenes,
and the complexity of his plots. Had he known nothing of
these, and been left to form himself on the model of Spenser
171
and Milton and Shakspeare, and in a less artificial state of Poetry,
society, he might at least have avoided the gross want ofv “ y'”"*"
nature evinced in these rhyming plays, though we can hard¬
ly persuade ourselves that, by any process of tuition, he
could ever have become a great dramatist. “ The gene¬
ral soundness and healthfulness of his mental constitution,
his information of vast superficies though of small volume,
his wit scarcely inferior to that of the most distinguished
followers of Donne, his eloquence grave, deliberative, and
commanding, could not save him from disgraceful failure
as a rival of Shakspeare, but raised him far above the level
of Boileau. His command of language was immense. With
him died the secret of the old poetical diction of England,
the art of producing rich effects by familiar words. In
the following century it was as completely lost as the Go¬
thic method of painting glass, and was but poorly supplied
by the laborious and tesselated imitations of Mason and
Gray. On the other hand, he was the first writer undef
whose skilful management the scientific vocabulary fell
into natural and pleasing verse. In this department he
succeeded as completely as his contemporary Gibbons suc¬
ceeded in the similar enterprise of carving the most de¬
licate flowers from heart of oak. The toughest and most
knotty parts of language became ductile at his touch. His
versification, in the same manner, while it gave the first
model of that neatness and precision which the following
generation esteemed so highly, exhibited at the same time
the last examples of nobleness, freedom, variety of pause,
and cadence.”1
Pope is the last great writer of that school of poetry, the Pope,
poetry of the intellect, or rather of the intellect mingled
with the fancy, which occupies the period from the Re¬
storation to the close of the eighteenth century. In Dry-
den’s satires and miscellaneous poems, we perceive the
reasoning poetry brought to its perfection, as far as re¬
gards vigour of conception and force of expression. In
these respects nothing remained to be added. But Pope
possessed that quick tact and intuitive discernment, both of
the range and limit of his own powers, and also of the taste
of the age, which showed him the solitary direction in
which, so far as regarded this philosophic and critical school
of poetry, there yet remained an opening for himself. He
felt that the qualities of his mind did not fit him to sur¬
pass, and scarcely to contend on equal terms, with Dry¬
den, so far as regarded grasp or force; but he conceived,
that in the way of polish, refinement, grace, and choice
of expression, something yet remained to be done, and
that that something he was able to afford. Selecting, by
a natural preference, themes of a moral and didactic rather
than passionate character, adopting the idea that every¬
thing should be polished to the highest pitch, and that
artifice was the fundamental principle of poetry, that ar¬
tifice, he thought, could hardly be carried too far; and,
accordingly, with Pope we find habitual that attention to
words which is only occasional with Dryden. If in Dry¬
den we perceive a tendency to substitute logic and reflec¬
tion for feeling, to exhibit pictures of conventional and ar¬
tificial rather than of general nature, and to borrow his il¬
lustrations much oftener from science and art than from
natural objects, this tendency appears still more decided
and uniform in Pope, who is pre-eminently the poet of a
period of high intellectual culture and limited poetical sen¬
sibilities ; the poet who wrought to its last perfection the
pure but limited vein which this contemplative and pre¬
ceptive style of poetry afforded. After Dryden nothing
new could have been achieved for this style of poetry, save
what has been done by Pope; and what he attempted he
perfected.
r Edinburgh Review
112
POETRY.
Poetry.
Addison,
Swift.
Thomson.
It is indeed impossible to award to him a rank in poe¬
try of the same kind with that which had been occupied by
our Miltons, Spensers, and Shakspeares. In the highest
departments of poetry, the epic and dramatic, he has at¬
tempted nothing. In the lyrical he has failed. In trans¬
lation his example has tended to corrupt the national taste,
and to substitute a glittering, false, and metaphrastical
version for a true translation. His forte is essentially the
didactic and satirical; moral instruction or censure en¬
forced with all the charms or all the point of which such
subjects are susceptible. M ithin that range he has never
yet found his equal; for to the logical and reasoning power
and condensation of Dryden and of Boileau, he adds at
times, as in his Rape of the Lock, an excursiveness and
brilliancy of fancy, a compact strength with perfect har-
mony, a quiet, graceful, continuous humour, altogether
without parallel. Yet, whilst speaking of the harmony of his
versification, it must be added, that he carried this prin¬
ciple to excess; that his system of terminating the sense
invariably with the line, and his pauses, placed almost al¬
ways on the fourth or sixth syllable, led to a monotony the
most painful when contrasted with the varied pauses and
lines flowing into each other, which were so happily em¬
ployed by our elder writers; and that, finally, in regard to
rhymes, Pope, though he was singularly limited as to range,
was even within that range far from correct.
“ The best,” says an eminent critic, “ of what we co¬
pied from the continental school, is copied in the lighter
pieces of Prior. 'I hat tone of polite raillery, that airy,
rapid, picturesque narrative, mixed up of wit and naivete,
that style, in short, of good conversation, concentrated
into flowing and polished verses, was not within the vein
of our native poets, and probably never would have been
known among us, if we had been left to our own resources.
It is lamentable that this, which alone was worth borrow¬
ing, is the only thing which has not been retained. I he
tales and little apologues of Prior are still the only examples
of this style in our language.”
As we advance through the eighteenth century, wre per¬
ceive that the critical school of poetry had evidently at¬
tained its perfection in Pope, and was destined, at no dis¬
tant period, to sink into mere prose, disguised under the
appearance of verse. At least, after Pope, there is a vi¬
sible decline, until the appearance of the first germs of a
new taste, with which the intellect had less to do, whilst
the feelings obtained a more decided supremacy.
Addison’s poetry is so flat, and cold, and destitute of ima¬
gination, that, but for the exquisite grace and refined taste
of his prose works, it would not now be mentioned; and
Swift, though a most clever versifier, and endowed with no
ordinary talents for libel in the shape of epigram or sa¬
tire, can hardly, by any stretch of favour, be regarded as a
poet.
The first symptoms of the change which had been gra¬
dually going on, appears in the return to a taste for simple
instead of artificial nature; for as yet the revival of strong
feeling or passion would have met with no sympathetic
feeling on the part of the public. In Thomson are to be
traced the first symptoms of the reviving taste for the
“ simple-natural.” True it is, his field is limited. When
he attempts narrative, when he indulges in properly di¬
dactic poetry, his style appears cumbrous, and his ideas
commonplace enough. “ Liberty,” says Dr Johnson, “ when
it first appeared, I tried to read, and soon desisted.” Few
at the present day will even make the trial. But when he
comes to deal with the matters which lie within his proper
sphere, and are congenial to his quiet, contemplative, and
indolent turn of mind, he is an original and a striking poet.
We must never forget, in speaking of Thomson at the pre¬
sent day, that his poem was the first of its kind, and even
yet, like Milton’s Eve, it is the fairest of its daughters.
Even now we must admire the painter-like skill with which, Poetrr
in his rural descriptions, he selects his point of view, the v W’
art with which hb seizes the characteristic, and drops the
less marking features of the landscape; the infinite variety
of little circumstances connected with animate and inani¬
mate nature, unnoticed by his predecessors, but which his
quick tact detects and sets before our eyes; the soft, bland,
Claude-like glow which he spreads over all he touches; the
spirit of love, and benevolence, and philanthropy, w hich he
awakens; qualities which give to his Seasons a fascination
which, though felt most strongly in childhood, is yet not
materially abated by the judgment of cooler years. His
faults are cumbrousness of diction, and occasional vulgarity
of taste.
The same sweet and natural tastes, though 01 a moreGoldsE
refined kind, the same philanthropical spirit, and the same
gentle inspiration of poetry, are visible in Goldsmith. He
has not indeed Thomson’s sympathy with the sublime and
terrible in nature; his mind habitually turned towards its
milder and more smiling aspects, the fertility and richness
of cultivation, the tranquillizing tone of village^ life, “ the
short and simple annals of the poor.’ “ He is refined,
says Mr Campbell, “ without false delicacy, and correct
without insipidity. Perhaps there is an intellectual com¬
posure in his manner, which may in some passages be said
to approach to the reserved and prosaic; but he unbends
from this grave strain of reflection to tenderness, and even
to playfulness, with a peculiar grace, and connects exten¬
sive and philosophic views of the happiness and interests 01
society with pictures of life that touch the heart by their
homeliness and familiarity....His whole manner has a still
depth of feeling and reflection, which gives back the image
of nature unruffled, and minutely. He has no redundant
thoughts or false transports, but seems on every occasion
to have weighed the impulse to which he surrendered him¬
self ; and whatever ardour or casual felicities he may have
thus sacrificed, he gained a high degree of purity and self-
possession.”
The names of Blair and Ramsay deserve notice, the first Biair,
as the author of a poem gloomy and homely, but withR^Jj
a decided character, and a picturesqueness of imageiy,
which redeem it from vulgarity, and which have been
justly compared to the powerful expression of a counte¬
nance without regular beauty ; the latter as the writer of
a true pastoral drama, in a style totally different from the
hackneyed mythological models on the subject, and deli¬
neating the natural and simple manners of the peasantiy of
Scotland, with a truth, a comic archness and tenderness,
which entitle the Gentle Shepherd to an honourable rank in
British poetry.
A mournful interest attaches itself to the names of ha-W
vage and Chatterton, both the victims of misfortunes caus-
,.ton.
ed, in some degree, by their irregularities of conduct 01
deficiency of principle. In the latter, in particular, the
seeds of a mind of considerable power are evidently dis¬
cernible, choked indeed with many rank weeds of evil ten¬
dency, but which, pruned and weeded by years and expe¬
rience, might have rendered him an ornament to the lite¬
rature of the eighteenth century.
Collins wrote but little, yet that little was of first-rate Co111
merit. His Oriental Eclogues may be regarded as only a
boyish production ; but the rest of his lyrics suffer only by
comparison with those of Milton, and that chiefly through
a certain obscurity of diction, into which he was led by en¬
deavouring to avoid the commonplaces of expression. Iu
proportion to the neglect which they encountered on their
first appearance, has been their popularity since. The Ode
on the Passions, in particular, has become a universal fa-
vourite, by its admirable personations, the flush of beauti¬
ful colouring with which it is invested, and the richness
of the versification, which adapts itself with such art to
POETRY.
* i.otry. the themes of sadness and gaiety, or deep gloom, which al-
v.v—^ ternate throughout the poem.
Clrchill, There is strength and nerve, but nothing more, in the
A aside, ferocious satires of the dissipated Churchill; an undeni-
> able, though very often turgid and unsubstantial, grandeur
gtt'stonf' ab°ut Akenside’s Pleasures of the Imagination ; but there
Fi oner, ’ *s a^so perfect truth in Johnson’s remark, that the words
Gl er. are multiplied till the sense is hardly perceived, and that
attention deserts the mind and settles on the ear. Some
pleasing pictures in Dyer and Armstrong, and a natural
grace in Shenstone (which, however, sometimes borders on
childishness), w ill preserve a certain popularity to Grongar
Hill, the Art of Preserving Health, and the School-Mistress.
The mei’its of Falconer’s Shipwreck have, we think, been
overrated. Its technicalities frequently appear tedious, and
few poets have dealt more in needless expletives and mere
commonplaces of description. Of Glover, whose Leonidas
was once compared to Milton’s Paradise Lost, the world
now remembers nothing except his clever ballad of Hozier’s
Ghost.
Yfig. Young is a poet of more fire, and of a decided though
perverted ingenuity. He exhibits a curious mixture of
the style of Queen Anne’s day with the more pensive and
meditative cast of our own. Few poems could be pointed
out in which so much point, rare wit, and brilliancy, have
been employed with so little effect. The whole poem is
a long epigram, a string of hyperboles. It is precisely
such a work, indeed, as we should expect to be produced
by a person naturally of a cheerful turn of mind, putting
on, for the sake of effect, the garb of melancholy, and mis¬
anthropy, and weariness of existence; and composing, as
he is said to have done, by the light of a candle stuck into
a human skull. It has the worst points of Lord Byron’s
manner, without the earnestness and verity of that feeling
of weariness of the world which speaks throughout Childe
Harold.
Gi Gray, in the delicacy, the classical neatness, and polish of
his verses, is closely associated with the writers of the age
of Anne. There is no doubt a certain wTant of ease and
spontaneity about Gray; his inspiration seems to flow slow¬
ly ; he rises with compulsion and laborious flight. His
poetical fire seems often cold and phosphorescent; but he
has a fine sensibility to the beautiful and sublime, a mind
richly stored with the beauties of the classical and Italian
poets, and he has combined his ideas of invention and recol¬
lection in a mosaic of singular delicacy and compactness.
Be ae, jn the Minstrel of Beattie, some of the features of mo¬
dern poetry become discernible, in its stronger sympathy
with nature; nay, even in the general idea of the poem,
which describes the solitary growth of a romantic and poeti¬
cal spirit, and which possesses high merits as a swreet pic¬
ture of still life, and a vehicle of unobtrusive morality.
Cd per. But the complete transition from the artificial style of
the writers of Queen Anne, to that which characterized
the poetry of the opening of the present century, first ap¬
pears visible in Cowper; wdio, throwing aside the trammels
of artificial refinement, and the imaginary requisites of a
conventional poetical diction and classical imagery, ven¬
tured to write as he thought, with the force and freedom
of an older and a better time. In no poet of the last cen¬
tury did a more vigorous and original cast of mind present
itself; and to no poet are we more indebted for awakening
that freer and more forcible spirit, that poetry of the heart
rather than the head, which has formed the marking fea¬
ture of our own times. His satirical and didactic poems,
though abounding with wit, and animated by the eloquence
of conviction, are indeed deformed by many defects, both of
indifferent poetry and bigotry of opinion; but in his descrip¬
tive poetry, in his charming pictures of in-door life, his
summer and winter landscapes (so different from Thom¬
son’s, by their minute detail), in those bursts of inspiration
which occasionally escape the poet, as in that where he Poetry,
audresses the stars in the fifth book of the Task, he has '-—v—
left us some of the most touching and spirit-stirring pas¬
sages of which the eighteenth century has to boast.
"I he same spirit appears, in Scotland, in the deep tender-Burns,
ness of the lyrics ot Burns. Much of his poetry, doubt¬
less, can only be remembered with regret, as the effusion of
a reckless and ungoverned spirit, mistaking coarseness for
foice, and conibunding genius with extravagance and irre¬
gularity. But he has left behind him a few strains which
are of a higher mood, nay, of the very highest order; fa¬
miliar and yet noble, tender and yet manly ; such as a pea¬
sant only could have written, but a peasant who was one
of nature s nobles. “ Scotland,” says an American critic,
“ owes a large debt of gratitude to Burns ; for he invested
the feelings and sentiments of its peasantry, their joys and
sorrows, with dignity and beauty; he redeemed their lan¬
guage from neglect, if not from contempt; he made the
heart of every true Scot burn within him as he thought of
the hills and valleys of his native land ; he first guided the
footstep of the pilgrim to the scenes of her traditionary
glories, and he sung those glories in strains so simple, yet
sublime, that the world stood still to listen.”
Although, in the poetry of Burns, there are abundant
traces of that stern force and strong passion with which
we have been of late rather too familiar, the general tone
of the poetry of the eighteenth century may be described
as quiet and contemplative. But the great and terrible
events which darkened its close, exciting the minds of men
throughout Europe, introduced into the literature of all
nations a spirit of restlessness and doubt, a love of strong
agitation and stimulus, which either manifested themselves
in a longing retrospection and veneration for the past, or in
wild discontent with the present, and delusive visions of the
future. This tendency appears in the publication of our
ancient ballads, and the enthusiastic admiration which
their rough vigour, their simple pathos, and their spirit-
stirring pictures of love or war awakened; in the undis¬
criminating republication and study of our older dramatists
of the school of Shakspeare, and our lyrical poets of the
period which immediately followed; in the popularity and
influence which the works of Goethe and Schiller, stamped
with the character of the time, immediately obtained, when
introduced to us through the means of wretched transla¬
tions ; and in that mixture of scepticism, moody discon¬
tent, and wild enthusiasm which had been painted in such
gloomy and forcible colours in the Werther, the Faust, and
the Robbers.
On the poetry of the present century, however, we do not
intend to enter at all. Many of its most distinguished writers
are yet alive; and we are still too near to others to enable
us to appreciate their merits with calmness or impartiality.
We shall merely remark, that the leading directions which
poetry has taken during that period seem reducible to
three: The chivalrous poetry of Scott and his school, the
taste for which has in a great measure disappeared; the
glocmy and sceptical, but most forcible, and occasionally
touching poetry of Byron, which may be said to have ex¬
pired with the great original; and, lastly, the contempla¬
tive and philosophical poetry of Wordsworth, the better
parts of which are animated by a natural tenderness, and
sustained by a moral grandeur, of which the others can¬
not boast, and which, though its influence over the public-
mind has been more gradual, promises to maintain a more
enduring popularity than either. Crabbe and Campbell
alone seem to have been but little influenced by the ge¬
nius either of Scott, Byron, or Wordsworth, and to have
pursued an independent course. In the other poets of the
nineteenth century, the influence of one or other of these
master-minds, and sometimes of more than one, is too
prominent and palpable to be mistaken. (w. w. w. w.)
174
Poggio
!!
Point de
Galle.
P O I
POGGIO Bracciolini, a man of great parts and learn¬
ing, who contributed much to the revival ot letters in4|u_
rope, was born at the little town of Terranova, near hlo-
, rence, in 1380. His first public employment was that ot
writer of the apostolic letters, which he held for ten years,
after which he was made apostolic secretary, and in that ca¬
pacity he officiated, under seven popes, for a period ot torty
years. In 1453, when he had attained the age of seventy-
two, he accepted the employment of secretary to the repub¬
lic of Florence, and he died in 1459. Poggio visited seve¬
ral countries, and searched many monasteries to recover an¬
cient authors, numbers of which he brought to light. His
own works consist of moral pieces, orations, letters, and a
history of Florence from 1350 to 1455, which is the most
considerable of them all. In 1802, the Rev. Dr Shepherd
published, in one volume quarto, a Life of Poggio, contain¬
ing much curious information in literary history.
POGGY Islands. See Nassau Isles.
POGROMNAIA RECA, a small river of Asiatic Rus¬
sia, in the district of Nertschinsk. It has on its banks a
spring of mineral water, which is successfully employed in
the cure of several diseases.
POICTIERS. See Poitiers.
POINT, a term used in various arts.
Point, in Grammar, is a character used to mark the di¬
visions of discourse. A point proper is what is otherwise
called a. period ox full stop. See Punctuation.
Point, in Geometry, according to Euclid, is that which
has neither parts nor magnitude.
Point, in Music, a mark or note anciently used to dis¬
tinguish the tones or sounds. Hence we still call it simple
counterpoint, when a note of the lower part answers exactly
to that of the upper ; and figurative counterpoint when any
note is syncopated, so that one of the parts makes several
notes or inflections of the voice, whilst the other holds on
P O I
Point
Gordwa
A point is still used to raise the value of a note, and pro¬
long its time by one half. Ihus a point added to a semi¬
breve, instead of two minims, makes it equal to three ", and
so of the other notes.
Point, in Astronomy, a term applied to certain points or
places marked in the heavens, and which are distinguished
by proper epithets.
The four grand points or divisions of the horizon, name¬
ly, the east, west, north, and south, are denominated the
cardinal points.
The zenith and nadir are the vertical points; the points
in which the orbits of the planets cut the plane of the eclip¬
tic are called the nodes ; the points in which the equator
and ecliptic intersect are called the equinoctial points ; that
whence the sun ascends towards the north pole being called
the vernal point', and that by which he descends to the
south pole the autumnal point. The points of the ecliptic,
where the sun’s ascent above the equator, and descent be¬
low it, terminate, are called the solstitial points ; the former
being the estival or summer point, and the latter the brumal
or winter point.
Point is also used to signify a cape or headland jutting
out into the sea. Thus seamen say two points of land are
in one another when they are in a right line against each
other, so that the innermost is prevented from being seen
by the outermost.
Point, in Perspective, is used for various poles or places,
with regard to the perspective plane.
Point, in Poetry, denotes a lively brisk turn or conceit,
usually found or expected at the close of an epigram.
PoiNT-Plank, in Gunnery, denotes the shot of a gun
levelled horizontally, without either elevating or depressing
the muzzle of the piece.
POINT DE GALLE, a seaport and fortified town on
the south-western point of Ceylon, reckoned the third in
consequence in the island, whilst in point of trade it ranks
next to Columbo. The petlah or native town is extensive,
and enclosed with a wall, and the houses are superior to
those at Trincomalee. It has a good and spacious har¬
bour, especially the outer road ; whilst the inner harbour
is secure during a great part of the year, but the egress
is not so easy, as it requires the wind from a particular
quarter to carry the vessels out. During the season when
the roadstead from Columbo is unsafe, ships frequently
wait at Point de Galle till their cargoes are ready. The
fortress stands very high, but is much out of repair ; and not
above six families reside in it constantly, except when the
homeward-bound fleet is assembled there, when a much
greater number is collected. There is no regular rainy sea¬
son at Point de Galle ; but being open to both monsoons, it
has more rain than the continent of India. The shore, both
to the westward and in the vicinity of the port, is lined with
rocks ; and it is therefore advisable to keep in twenty-five
fathoms till near the entrance into the harbour. The ex¬
ports are cinnamon, cardamums, arrack, oil, salt fish, and
cotton. Fisheries are carried on to a considerable extent.
Cinnamon is also grown, but not to such an extent as about
Columbo. Near the fort is a colony of Chinese, established
by government as gardeners for The purpose of raising ve¬
getables, in which they have at length succeeded, and have
also thriving plantations of sugar-cane. At Billegam, about
twenty miles south-east from Point de Galle, is a celebrated
Buddhist temple, in which is a recumbent figure of Buddha.
There is also a gigantic four-handed figure of Vishnu, of a
dark colour ; and the walls are covered with painted figures
of Buddha. In a corner is another figure seated on a co¬
bra de capella snake coiled up, the hood of which forms a
canopy over his head. Point de Galle was occupied by the
Portuguese in 1517, and taken from them by the Dutch in
1640. It came into the possession of the British in 1796.
It is sixty miles south from Columbo. Long. 80. 15. E.
Lat. 6. N. •
POINT GORDWAR, a low point of land which pro¬
jects into the Bay of Bengal, at the mouth of the Godavery
River. The sea breaks heavily over it. Long. 82. 17. E.
Lat. 16.48. N. . „
POINT PEDRO, a town on the northern extremity ot
the island of Ceylon. Long. 80. 25. E. Lat. 9. o2. N.
POINTING, in Grammar, the art of dividing a dis¬
course by points into periods and members of periods, in or¬
der to show the proper pauses to be made in reading, and
to facilitate the pronouncing and understanding thereof.
POINTS, in Heraldry, are the several parts of an es¬
cutcheon, denoting the local positions of any figure.
Points, in Electricity, are those acute terminations ot
bodies which facilitate the passage of the electrical fluid
to or from such bodies.
POINTY, a town of Bengal, in the district of Mongier,
delightfully situated on the south bank of the Ganges, in
the view of the Rajemahl Flills, in a country abounding in
game. Long. 87. 26. E. Lat. 25. 20. N.
POISON, any substance which, acting on living bo¬
dies in small quantities, occasions serious disturbance of
their functions, and may cause death. I he science which
treats of poisons is termed toxicology.
Poisons have been known from remote antiquity; but
the notions entertained of their effects were generally fan¬
ciful and vague, so that it is often impossible now to dis¬
cover what the poisons of the ancients really were. In
modern times a great addition has been made to our know¬
ledge of them, both as regards their number and their ac¬
tion ; and it is only within the last thirty years that the
nature and the varieties of their action have been studied
scientifically and with success.
The number of poisonous substances now known is very
great, and there can be no doubt that very many still re-
P O I
>ison. main to be discovered, equally in the mineral, the animal,
" and the vegetable world, but more especially among vege¬
tables. Numerous, however, as they are, they present many
remarkable agreements in their effects or actions, so as to
admit of convenient classification.
Some poisons produce no other effects besides what de¬
pend on the local injury they give rise to. Of these, some
produce by their chemical properties absolute destruction
of the textures to which they are applied; and the result
depends less on the nature of the injury, than on the im¬
portance of the injured texture, and its sympathetic connec¬
tion with other parts of the body. The mineral acids, such
as sulphuric and nitric acid, and the mineral alkalis, potash
or soda, are the best examples of this kind. Others, again,
of those which act locally alone, produce inflammation, but
not chemical destruction, where they are applied; and all
the ordinary effects of inflammation may ensue ; of which
gamboge and colocynth are good illustrations. The action
of the former description of local poisons does not differ
essentially from that of mechanical injuries of the same
textures; the action of the latter is almost identical with
that of the natural causes of inflammation. A third descrip¬
tion of local poisons merely produce a peculiar impression
on the nerves of the part to which they are applied, without
either destroying or inflaming its texture. But there is no
pure instance of the kind yet known ; all such poisons like¬
wise act otherwise than locally. Opium and prussic acid
are examples.
Other poisons, and these by far the most numerous, act
upon remote organs and textures, on parts to which they
are not, nay, cannot be, directly applied ; and the effects of
this kind are often developed without any appreciable signs
of a direct local action. There is scarcely an important
organ in the body which may not be brought thus under the
influence of some poison or another. The brain is very
often so affected, as by opium, belladonna, prussic acid, and
charcoal fumes. The stomach and intestines are also fre¬
quently affected indirectly, as by arsenic. The spine is af¬
fected by nux-vomica, the kidneys and bladder by cantha-
rides, the lungs by tartar-emetic, the heart by oxalic acid,
the liver by manganese, the salivary organs by mercury,
and many of the glands by iodine. Many poisons possess
the property of acting on a great number of organs in this
remote or indirect way, of which arsenic and mercury are
perhaps the most remarkable instances. Arsenic introduced
by the skin has been known to act on the stomach, intes¬
tines, kidneys, heart, the lining membrane of the eyes, nose,
windpipe, and vagina, the nerves of voluntary motion, and
the skin at a distance from its place of application. Phy¬
siologists are still in doubt through what channel these re¬
mote effects are produced,—some believing that the poison
is carried in substance with the blood from the organ to
which it is applied, into the parts on which it acts; others,
that the operations are merely nervous, and consist of the
transmission of certain local impressions along the nerves
which communicate between one organ and another ; and
others, that both modes of action may exist, even for the
same, and still more for different, poisons. Two facts, how¬
ever, are clearly established, whatever theoretical deduc¬
tions may be drawn from them ; first, that very many poi¬
sons do enter the blood, and may be detected there ; and,
secondly, that these never enter except in very minute pro¬
portion, so that, unless very delicate tests are known for
them, they may readily escape detection. It seems not im¬
probable that some poisons are deposited by a species of
election in particular organs ; but of course their presence
in the blood will give them access more or less almost every¬
where, since there are few organs not traversed by blood¬
vessels, and minutely injected with blood.
The greater number of poisons produce their peculiar
effects, through whatever texture they are introduced into
SON.
175
the body. The effects of local poisons depend, as was Poison.
stated already, on the texture to which they are applied;' v—
but the far more numerous denomination of poisons which
act remotely, exert that action, to whatever part they are
applied, provided they fairly enter the body. They enter
the sound skin with extreme difficulty, unless in the form
of gas or vapour, or with the aid of friction. But they act
energetically through the surface of the true skin stripped
of its cuticle, through the cellular texture under the skin,
through the soft mucous membrane which lines the mouth,
nose, ears, stomach, intestines, windpipe, and organs of ge¬
neration, through the firm serous membranes which line the
interior of the belly and chest, and also when introduced
directly into the blood-vessels, more especially into the
veins. I hey generally act with greatest energy when in¬
jected into the blood directly, or when introduced into the
serous cavity of the chest or belly; but if they operate in
very minute doses, their effects are scarcely less prompt
when simply thrust into a fresh wound, or under the skin;
and there is no way in which they exert their action with
more swiftness and energy, than when inhaled into the
lungs, provided they assume the form of gas or vapour.
For the most part their activity is greatest when applied to
organs and textures where absorption is most prompt.
The action of poisons is greatly modified by an infinite
variety of collateral circumstances, without a thorough
knowledge of which toxicology cannot be well understood,
either as a branch of physiological science, or in its practical
bearings on medical practice, as well as medical jurispru¬
dence. These modifying circumstances cannot be accu¬
rately laid down here, but the most important are the fol¬
lowing': quantity or dose, chemical or mechanical form, the
texture directly acted on, habit, and peculiarity of consti¬
tution, either natural or induced by disease. By all of
these causes the effects of poisons may not merely be al¬
tered in degree, but likewise even modified in kind, or en¬
tirely neutralized. 1. Most substances which are poisonous
in moderate doses, are innocuous in small quantity; but
some are amazingly energetic even in very minute quanti¬
ties,—such as prussic acid or strychnia, the active principle
of nux-vomica, either of which may prove fatal to a man in
favourable circumstances in the dose of one grain,—or still
more the poisonous secretion of venomous snakes, or the
secretions of the human body in some diseased states, which
will prove fatal in quantities inappreciably small if intro¬
duced into a wound. 2. As to mechanical form, poisons
must be, or must become, either gaseous or liquid before
they act; mixture and dilution weaken their activity, though
there are exceptions to this rule; and some, which are ra¬
ther insoluble, such as arsenic, are rendered nearly inert
when mixed with insoluble powders of great tenuity, such
as charcoal, magnesia, and the like. 3. Chemical changes
materially affect their actions ; corrosives becoming inno¬
cuous by neutralization, purely local irritants being thereby
much enfeebled, and all of them being rendered more feeble,
or even inert, if they are converted into substances inso¬
luble in the secretions of the textures to which they are
applied. Poisons that act through the blood on remote
organs are little influenced by chemical changes, except in
so far as their solubility is affected ; a very important ge¬
neral principle, which ought never to be overlooked in the
search for antidotes. Arsenic, mercury, prussic acid, opium,
and numberless other poisons, are almost equally active in
all their chemical combinations, provided they continue so¬
luble. 4. The effect of the texture acted on in modifying
the influence of poisons has been already adverted to. As
examples of this, it may be mentioned that prussic acid has
little or no effect through the sound skin, nor snake-poison
when swallowed; and that strychnia, the active principle
of nux-vomica, has no effect through the skin, while one or
two grains might prove fatal if swallowed, and a third of a
17G
POISON.
Poison, grain would probably kill a man in a few minutes if inject-
ed in a state of solution into a wound, into the cavity ot the
chest, or into a vein. 5. Habit weakens the effects of many
poisons, as in the familiar instances of opium and ardent
spirits, of which ten or twenty times what is sufficient to
prove fatal in ordinary circumstances may be taken with
impunity by those who have long used them. Mineral poi¬
sons are less under the influence of this modifying circum¬
stance than vegetable poisons; and of the latter those are
most influenced which act chiefly upon the brain. It is
very difficult to account for the varying effect of habit on
the energy of vegetable poisons. Strychnia, for example,
the active principle of nux-vomica, seems altogether ex¬
cluded from the modifying effect of habit; while another
principle, analogous in elementary composition and in che¬
mical properties, morphia, the active principle of opium,
may through habit be taken without injury in a dose fifteen
times as great as what might in ordinary cases prove fatal.
6. Peculiarity of constitution commonly operates in render¬
ing the body more than usually sensible to the action of
poisons, as in the case of opium, mercury, and cantharides,
medicinal doses of w hich act with poisonous violence on
some. In a fewr instances original peculiarity deadens the
activity of certain poisons, and this is observed still more
remarkably during the constitutional state of certain dis¬
eases, such as hydrophobia, locked jaw, mania, delirium tre¬
mens, and excessive loss of blood. In some constitutions
substances not injurious to mankind generally produce all
the phenomena of poisoning. Thus there is scarcely any
article of food or drink, except the great staple commodi¬
ties, beef, mutton, and the simple kinds of bread, which are
not at times observed to act poisonously on some people.
But the most remarkable substances of the kind are red
fish, shell-fish, mushrooms, bitter almonds in small quantity,
and eggs.
Ckssifica- It has been stated that poisons are exceedingly nume-
tion. rous, but that they possess only a limited number of ac¬
tions. As these aciions consist of derangement of the func¬
tions of certain organs and textures of the body, it follows
that the outward signs of these derangements must be cir¬
cumscribed within certain bounds, and that many poisons
must agree with one another in producing the same, or
nearly the same, outward signs. This general fact consti¬
tutes the basis of the most approved classification. For¬
merly physiologists endeavoured to arrange poisons accord¬
ing to certain theoretical notions of their nature, or accord¬
ing to certain mysterious properties imputed to them ; and
subsequently most were content with distributing them in
three classes, according to the kingdom of nature whence
they happen to be derived. Every classification, however,
should have some practical bearing; and as the most im¬
portant objects in the present instance are the decision of
the question of poisoning in a general sense, the discovery
of the particular poison, and the treatment of its effects,
these points ought to be invariably kept in view. With
this understanding, the best classification is obviously that
which is founded on the external signs of poisoning, that
is, the grouping of the symptoms produced by each. Such
is the basis of all the most esteemed modern arrangements.
The whole wonderful multiplicity of poisons, when thus
viewed, may be considered as either exciting irritation in
particular organs, or disordering the functions of the brain
and spinal marrow, or as uniting both these properties. The
first are called irritants, the second narc.otics, the third nar-
cotico-irritants, or more usually narcotico-acrids. The ir¬
ritants comprise chiefly the free acids and free alkalis, with
many of their compound salts, several earths with their salts,
many compounds of the metals, acrid vegetables, and acrid
animal substances. These all agree in producing, as their
principal phenomenon, destruction or inflammation, some¬
times of the part to which they are applied, such as the
skin, mouth, throat, intestines, and so forth,—and at other Poison. f ;(.
times of organs at a distance from their place of appli-
cation, such as the stomach, intestines, kidneys, bladder,
lungs. And the symptoms they produce are those inci¬
dental to inflammation generally, grouped, however, in so
peculiar a manner, either in order, kind, or complexity, as in
many instances to distinguish the cause which occasions
them from any natural cause of inflammation. Many sub¬
stances arranged among irritants produce effects which would
also associate them with the class of narcotics ; but still in¬
flammation and irritation are their leading consequences.
The narcotics comprise principally opium, prussic acid, the
volatile oils of bitter almond, cherry-laurel, and other dru¬
paceous plants; henbane, thorn-apple, deadly nightshade,
and certain poisonous gases, such as carbonic acid, carbonic
oxide, carburetted hydrogen, cyanogen, sulphuretted hydro¬
gen. These agree in acting either upon the brain, or upon
the spinal marrow, or upon both these parts of the nervous
system at once. The symptoms thus arising are stupor
and coma, delirium, convulsions, paralysis, with a great va¬
riety of less important yet often very significant phenomena.
When coma is the chief result, the brain is considered to
be chiefly acted on ; when convulsions or paralysis occur
without stupor or coma, the spinal marrow must alone suf¬
fer ; and where both sets of phenomena present themselves,
it is probable that the whole nervous system partakes more
or less of the injury. The narcotico-acrids comprehend
hemlock and other deleterious plants of the family Umbel-
liferse, black and w’hite hellebore, meadow-saffron, fox-glove,
ipecacuan, nux-vomica, cocculus indicus, camphor, poison¬
ous fungi, and all ethereal and alcoholic fluids, besides many
others of less note, or not so familiar. It is difficult some¬
times to separate the individuals of this class from the nar¬
cotics on the one hand and the irritants on the other. But
for the most part they produce in different circumstances
either narcotism or inflammation alone, or both conjunctly,
and that either simultaneously or in succession.
It may be well to illustrate these statements by a brief Examples ;
sketch of the effects of a few familiar or interesting species of the‘ri*i f
belonging to each class.
The purest examples of irritant poisons are the strong
mineral acids and alkalis, namely, sulphuric, nitric, and
muriatic acids, and potash and soda. These, when applied to
the external parts of the body for a sufficient length of time,
cause corrosion and consequent destruction ; and life may
be thus brought into imminent danger, either from the ex¬
tent of the injury and the consequent sympathetic derange¬
ment of the vital functions, or from a variety of less direct
or incidental disorders. Of such a course of things the
public in this country have lately had too many illustra¬
tions, resulting from the execrable crime of throwing sul¬
phuric acid over the person. When swallowed, the strong
mineral acids and alkalis sometimes act in a great measure
on the throat and gullet, more frequently on the stomach
and intestines. In the former case there is instant and hor¬
rible sense of burning in the mouth, throat, and neck, eruc¬
tation of acid matter, often bloody, or mixed with dark
masses, excessive tenderness of the injured parts, incapabi¬
lity of swallowing, difficult, husky breathing; and the suf¬
ferer may either die suffocated, or from the depressing sym¬
pathetic impression produced on the heart; or he may sur¬
vive for a length of time, perishing, however, miserably in
the end, from stricture of the gullet and starvation, or he
may recover after the discharge of more or less of the lining
membrane of the throat, and a tedious and precarious con¬
valescence. Where the stomach and intestines are acted
on by the acids or alkalis, there is in general violent vomit¬
ing, often of blood, and, especially after swallowing anything
burning pain in the pit of the stomach, extending over the
belly, with excessive tenderness and eventually swelling,
frequently profuse purging and gripes, and extraordinary
POISON.
prostration of the pulse and of the strength; and the issue
may be either recovery, more or less prompt, or far more
generally death, at times from the sympathetic depression
of the heart and general system, more rarely from gradual
exhaustion, occasioned partly by constant irritation, partly
by inanition, on account of extensive injury of the internal
membrane of the stomach,—on which digestion, probably, in
a great measure depends for its integrity. These pheno¬
mena are purely the results of local corrosion and irritation.
No remote phenomena arise except exhaustion of the heart,
from sympathy with the local injury ; in particular, there is
no disturbance of the function of the brain, spine, or nerves,
except what arises simply from exhaustion of the circulation.
The "most remarkable of all the irritants for subtilty and va¬
riety of action conjoined is arsenic. It is not, however, an
absolutely pure irritant; for, though irritation of a multi¬
farious nature is its most prominent result, it also disturbs
the functions of the nervous system. When applied for
some time to the surface of the body, denuded of the
scarf-skin, it kills the part to some depth ; at least a por¬
tion is thrown olf by the process of sloughing, showing
either that the part had been killed, or that inflammation is
produced, of a kind which leads to its death. Both in this
manner, and with much greater certainty if it is applied to
a fresh wound, or introduced into any of the external open¬
ings of the body, or injected in solution into the cavity of
the chest or belly, it excites irritation and inflammation,
not merely where it touches, but likewise in various distant
organs. The stomach and intestines suffer the most inva¬
riably, giving rise to violent vomiting, especially of all ar¬
ticles swallowed, burning pain in the bowels, tenderness,
griping, purging, and excoriation of the anus. The kid¬
neys, bladder, and organs of generation, are also often af¬
fected, causing strangviry, suppression of urine, pains in the
loins, tenderness in the lower belly, &c. The lining mem¬
brane of the air-passages likewise frequently partakes in the
injury, as is indicated by hoarseness, cough, difficult breath¬
ing, expectoration, and deep-seated pain in the chest. Not
unfrequently the investing membrane of the nostrils and
.mouth presents signs of derangement, such as redness,
aphtha1, and constant discharge. These symptoms are
also generally attended with extraordinary depression of
the action of the heart, which is the most frequent cause of
death ; and this sometimes forms the only prominent effect,
the sufferer dying in a few hours, with scarcely any other
symptom but mortal faintness. Recovery may take place
even though the complicated effects which have been de¬
scribed may have been developed. But after these primary
disorders have disappeared, there are important secondary
risks to be encountered, such as dropsy, gradual emacia¬
tion from constant disturbance of digestion, and, above all,
epilepsy, palsy, and other affections characteristic of an ac¬
tion upon the nervous system. Of the symptoms thus in¬
dicating a narcotic action, the most pointed and most re¬
markable are epileptic convulsions and local partial palsy.
To these illustrations of the phenomena of internal poison¬
ing produced by the irritants, it may be well to add a short
sketch of the very striking effects produced by many of them
as external poisons, when they have been introduced into
the substance of the skin or its subjacent cellular tissue,
through a wound. Of poisons of the kind now alluded to
the most familiar are snake-poison, and the fluids of the dead
human body after certain diseases or in some peculiar un¬
known state; but similar effects are also produced by many
acrid vegetables. The affection produced is diffuse inflam¬
mation of the cellular tissue, so called because it diffuses
itself rapidly along that texture, without any tendency to
become circumscribed, as in ordinary inflammation similarly
seated. It is attended with some puffy elevation and ten¬
derness of the skin over the inflamed part, but not always
with redness—with pain, not always acute, usually of that
VOL. XVIII.
177
kind called burning pain—and with excessive depression of Poison,
the action of the heart; and death may ensue either in a'—
few hours from the derangement of the function of the heart,
or more slowly from extensive injury of the cellular tissue,
which terminates in gangrene.
Of the phenomena produced by the narcotics, the purest
and most familiar example is to be found in the eftects of
opium. This drug produces a great variety of interesting
nervous phenomena when taken in small medicinal doses.
AVhen taken in a poisonous dose, it first occasions languor,
giddiness, weakness, and drowsiness, afterwards deep sleep,
attended in general with complete repose, soft, slow breath¬
ing, and highly contracted pupils, and then profound coma,
or insensibility, which cannot be dispelled by any stimulants,
and which usually proves fatal if it be permitted to be fully
formed. In particular cases these symptoms are varied with
delirium in the early stage, and convulsions in the advanced
stage; but such deviations from the ordinary rule are rare.
Uelladonna, or deadly nightshade, is another narcotic which
produces eftects somewhat different. Its berries, which are
sometimes eaten by mistake by children and other ignorant
people, although they have a mawkish and by no means se¬
ductive taste, occasion in the first instance a singular state
of very active delirium, in which the individual performs a
series of incoherent and extravagant acts with much viva¬
city, or falls into the condition of somnambulism; and after
some hours this is succeeded by a state of deep sopor or coma,
as from opium, though more frequently intermingled with
convulsions than in the case of that drug. Death is some¬
times the result, and would be more frequent were it not
that the precursory stage of active delirium often leads to
the discovery of the offending cause, and its removal by fit
treatment. Prussic acid, another pure narcotic, which is
now almost as familiar as opium among poisons, rivals them
all in subtilty and rapidity of action. Small animals, such
as rabbits, have been killed with it in the brief space of four
seconds. A single drop has killed a cat in half a minute, and
one grain, or about four drops, has repeatedly proved fatal
to man within three quarters of an hour. These statements
apply to the pure acid, which is seldom seen; but the com¬
mon acid of the shops, which is used in medicine, is equally
energetic in larger doses; and so are the distilled waters and
essential oils of the bitter almond, peach-kernels, cherry-
laurel leaves, rowan-tree root, and apple-seeds, which all
owe their poisonous qualities to the same cause. The eftects
produced by all these poisons are immediate, dreadful alarm,
giddiness, and hurried breathing, speedily followed by con¬
vulsions, insensibility, one or two fits of deep convulsive re¬
spiration, and death. The narcotic gases act very much in the
same manner with opium, as is well exemplified by the fumes
of burning charcoal, and other forms of carbonic acid. AVhen
in a pure or concentrated state, carbonic acid extinguishes
life immediately, in part by suffocation, on account of the ex¬
clusion of respirable air, and partly by its narcotic operation.
But when breathed in a diluted state, as in an ill-ventilated
mine, or in a confined chamber heated by charcoal, it in¬
duces giddiness, fulness of the features, ringing in the ears,
gradually increasing stupor, and at length profound insen¬
sibility, commonly attended with lividity of the face, glis¬
tening of the eyes, and occasional convulsions, which often
prove fatal, and always if not speedily relieved by fresh air
and other suitable treatment.
The narcotico-acrids may be exemplified by a great va¬
riety of well-known and powerful poisons. Hemlock, which
is believed to have been a familiar poison for more than two
thousand years, but whose effects are very generally mis¬
understood, ought scarcely to be arranged in this class,
where it is commonly placed. Its irritant properties are
very ill defined. But it is a powerful and very remarkable
narcotic, and its active principle, named coma, is scarcely
inferior to prussic acid in celerity of operation, or in the
178
POISON.
Poison, smallness of its dose. It seems to act by paralyzing the
-‘'•v—'' muscles of voluntary motion and of respiration, without af¬
fecting the brain; and the symptoms are weakness of the
limbs, gradually pervading the rest of the body, and termi¬
nating in loss of the power of motion, while at the same time
the respiration, at first laborious, gradually becomes more and
more circumscribed and slower, till at length it ceases, the
heart all the while acting vigorously, and the sensation con¬
tinuing unaffected. A better instance of a narcotico-acrid
poison is nux-vomica, and its principle strychnia. These
are counterparts in action to hemlock and conia. I hey
powerfully stimulate the spinal marrow, producing violent
convulsions, like those which attend locked jaw or tetanus,
and without impairing the sensibility. The first symptoms
are restlessness, undefinable uneasiness, and alarm, speedi¬
ly followed by fits of stiffness of the jaw and neck, and then
by violent paroxysms of muscular contraction, in which the
limbs and arms are extended, the features hideously distort¬
ed, and the head, body, and legs bent backward forcibly;
and the third or fourth fit commonly proves fatal. Strych¬
nia, the source of these dreadful effects, is on a par with
prussic acid and conia in energy ; for a third of a grain will
kill a wild boar in ten minutes, and one grain properly ad¬
ministered would certainly kill a man in half that time. So
far this genus of poisons acts like the narcotics; but, in
frequent instances, where the narcotic symptoms pass away,
they are succeeded by the signs of inflammation in the
stomach and intestines, namely, pain, vomiting, purging,
and swelling of the belly, which affection, too, may prove
fatal. Such irritant effects, however, are rare, perhaps be¬
cause in the great majority of cases, death is brought about
in the early stage by narcotism. A better example still of
a narcotico-acrid is fox-glove. A most valuable and safe
medicine in small doses, this plant nevertheless acts as a
very dangerous poison in large doses; and it sometimes
produces in the same case both deep coma with convul¬
sions, and likewise profuse diarrhoea, with tormina and ten¬
derness of the abdomen, while at the same time it occa¬
sions suppression of urine, and extreme depression of the
action of the heart. By far the most characteristic illustra¬
tions, however, of the narcotico-acrid poisons are to be found
in the deleterious fungi, or poisonous mushrooms as they
are sometimes called. These differ from most other poi¬
sons in their effects being often put off (though to this
rule exceptions exist) for several hours, apparently because
time must be allowed for the digestion of substances on the
whole difficult of digestion. The effects are singularly va¬
rious ; for it has been often observed, that among a num¬
ber of persons who have partaken of the same poisonous
stew, some had only giddiness, confusion, delirium, stupor,
coma, and convulsions; while others suffered only from vo¬
miting and purging, distension of the belly, tenderness, and
griping; and a third party were seized at first with the for¬
mer class of symptoms, and on these passing partially off,
were attacked severely with the latter.
Besides the irritant, narcotic, and narcotico-acrid poisons,
some writers on the subject admit a fourth class, under the
name of Morbid poisons, comprising those poisonous secre¬
tions which are engendered in the body by disease, and
possess the property of reproducing by contact or inocula¬
tion the same disease to which they owed their own pro¬
duction. The most important of these are hydrophobia,
the venereal disease, small-pox, and cow-pox. Authors on
toxicology, however, whether physiological or practical,
have generally agreed of late in discarding these from the
toxicological system, and in arranging the phenomena of
their action where they are more philosophically placed,
namely, among natural diseases.
In a work like the present, it is not easy to decide how
much ought to be introduced of a subject so comprehensive
as toxicology, or the science of poisons. The sketch given
above will convey some idea of the objects of which it treats, Poison,
more especially as a branch of physiology. Farther details
on the subject at large seem uncalled for. But there are
two departments which may be enlarged on with some ad¬
vantage, namely, the Evidence of poisoning, and the Treat¬
ment of the effects of poisons. Poisoning, both criminal
and accidental, has become so common and so notorious in
recent times, that there are probably few persons who have
not turned their thoughts to these two branches of the sub¬
ject ; and it is desirable for many reasons that correct views
should be entertained of them, even by unprofessional per¬
sons,-—more correct views, at least, than what generally pre¬
vail.
Till a very recent date, most erroneous notions were en- Evidence,
tertained, alike by the vulgar as by scientific men, of the
evidence of poisoning. Proofs of the most unsubstantial
kind were considered infallible tests of death by poison;
and, under the authority of grievous professional error, we
now know that courts of law must have sanctioned many a
judicial murder. It is not uninteresting to trace these dog¬
mas of antiquity, abandoned as they now are by the scien¬
tific, still obstinately adhered to by the unprofessional world
as articles of popular belief, and leading, as of old, to con¬
stant blunders, which it is now the business and glory of
the toxicologist to check, whilst it was formerly his fate to
foster and give effect to them.
The evidence of poisoning cannot be thoroughly under¬
stood in all its bearings, without a minute knowledge of the
multifarious phenomena produced by all ordinary poisons t
and, in judicial cases, it is in the end viewed commonly in
reference to the supposed administration of a particular
substance. It would be out of place to attempt embracing
this wide field here. All which can be ventured on is a
view of the evidence of poisoning in a general sense, that
is, without reference to any special poison,—a topic of great
interest in relation to the first suspicions and earliest inves¬
tigation of supposed cases of poisoning, whether criminal
or accidental. The evidence of poisoning in this compre¬
hensive sense is derived from symptoms, from appearances
in the dead body, from experiments on animals, from cer¬
tain moral circumstances, and from chemical analysis.
1. The symptoms are naturally the first particulars to
attract attention and excite suspicion. They were once
thought adequate to decide singly any question of poison¬
ing. Now we know that natural diseases imitate so close¬
ly the phenomena of poisoning, that the symptoms will
rarely yield more than presumptive, and only in* rare and
very peculiar circumstances, absolute evidence. There is
nothing in the kind of symptoms taken generally which
will distinguish poisoning from certain natural diseases. The
natural diseases, indeed, which imitate the effects of one
great class of poisons, namely, the irritants, are on the whole
rare ; yet they are scarcely less a source of fallacy, at least
in judicial cases, where certainty, or something like it, must
be aimed at. But there are a number of collateral circum¬
stances connected with the symptoms, which, if taken to¬
gether, will often supply a very powerful criterion in sup¬
posed cases. Thus, in the instance of by far the greater
number of poisons, and of almost all which are used for a
homicidal or suicidal purpose, the symptoms begin soon
after food, drink, or medicine has been taken, commonly
within an hour, often much sooner; and in respect of not
a few common poisons, such as the mineral acids, mineral
alkalis, hartshorn, prussic acid, oxalic acid, they must com¬
mence immediately. In general, too, the symptoms begin
suddenly, advance quickly, and prove speedily fatal. For
the most part they are steady in their progress, exclusive
of the influence of treatment. They are upon the whole
uniform in their nature. And they appear in the great ma¬
jority of cases abruptly during a state of good health. The
consideration of these characters wall not unfrequently en-
POISON.
i( on. able the man of experience to pronounce that suspicions
' which have prevailed of poisoning are wholly unfounded ;
but, taken singly, they will never justify, on the other hand,
more than a presumption in favour of poisoning. It must
at the same time be observed, that when these general cha¬
racters are all applicable, and concur with a certain com¬
plicated grouping of the symptoms in particular cases, the
presumption becomes very strong; and when other articles
of general evidence are added, the proof may be all but
complete, nay, absolutely so. Such is clearly the state of
the case in not a few instances of poisoning with the mine¬
ral acids and alkalis, with arsenic, corrosive sublimate, nux-
vomica, oxalic acid, prussic acid, alcoholic fluids. 2. The
same confident reliance was long placed in the appearances
of the body after death, as in the symptoms, and with even
less reason. The discovery of certain morbid appearances
may prove poisoning to have been impossible; and yet
even here an opinion should not be formed without reserve,
because the discovery of the effects of natural disease in
the body, even in an advanced stage, is no absolute proof
of death from that disease. Poison, as in many authentic
cases, may have been nevertheless administered, and have
proved the real occasion of death. But there is never any¬
thing in the appearances after death which will bear out a
general charge of poisoning, as was once universally thought.
It should be particularly known, that the vulgar prejudice,
which discovers poison wherever the skin becomes unusu¬
ally livid after death, or wherever the body undergoes
prompt decomposition, is utterly without support from sci¬
entific experience. Nay, in regard to the latter character,
evidence has been proved in recent times to be deducible
from the very opposite condition, or the unusual preserva¬
tion of the body from decay, which is now well known to
occur in many cases of poisoning with arsenic. There are
certain morbid appearances in the dead body, especially
upon the skin, and in the throat, gullet, and stomach, which
will furnish the strongest presumption, nay, according to
good authorities, almost absolute proof, of poisoning with
certain substances, for example the mineral acids ; but the
details cannot be entered upon here, because a full enume¬
ration, and much professional skill, are required for appre¬
ciating precisely their import. 3. Experiments on domes¬
tic animals, made with suspected articles, were once sup¬
posed to furnish the best of all evidence ; and this was pro¬
bably the best evidence to be had in the days when che¬
mistry and chemical analysis wrere all but unknown. Now,
however, such experiments are not admitted, either by me¬
dical or legal authorities, to be of any weight, except under
particular circumstances. They are admissible, and indeed
clearly indispensable, for deciding questions in toxicological
physiology w'hich may arise during trials. They ought
also to be allowed some weight when they have been ob¬
served accidentally, as, for example, when the remains of
suspected articles have been devoured incidentally by do¬
mestic animals, especially by a number of them, and above
all by the dog or cat, with the effect of producing in them
symptoms and appearances after death similar to what were
witnessed in the suspected case in the human subject. The
objection drawn against such evidence, that the effects of
many poisons on the brute creation are different from their
effects on man, though fundamentally sound, has been al¬
lowed to operate far too sweepingly in modern times. The
differences in respect to many common poisons are by no
means so great as was thought not very long ago ; and
upon two animals, the dog and the cat, the effects of. most
poisons are almost identical with those observed in man,
due attention being paid to differences in dose, and to the
singular facility with which these animals discharge poisons
by powerful early vomiting. But the objection here stated
may be allowed sufficient force to put an end to experi¬
ments made expressly on animals with suspected articles.
179
There is, however, a more urgent objection to such expe- Poison,
riments,—that they involve the consumption for doubtful
evidence of the materials from which decisive evidence may
be obtained by other means ; for if there is poison enough
left to affect sensibly the lower animals, there is amply suf¬
ficient for detection by chemical analysis. Accordingly,
express experiments with remains of suspected food, drink,
or medicine, are now abandoned by all good authorities in
toxicology. 4. There are certain moral circumstances which
may also be often taken into account in the evidence of poi¬
soning in a general sense, when viewed as a scientific ques¬
tion, because they cannot be correctly appreciated except by
a scientific man, and consequently they belong in some mea¬
sure to the scientific or toxicological proof. The chief par¬
ticulars are as follows. It may be proved that poison has
been purchased, of a kind which may produce the symp¬
toms observed. A suspicious article may be proved to
have been administered, either from its taste, or from its
having been recommended for properties either absurd in
nature, or such as the pretended article is not thought even
by unprofessional people to possess, or from a comparative
analysis of the materials for making the suspected article,
showing that something injurious must have been added at
a particular time, and by a particular person. It may be
proved that exacerbations of the symptoms have repeatedly
occurred soon after articles were given in a suspicious man¬
ner. It may be proved that the person poisoned, or a se¬
cond party under suspicion, exhibited by words or deeds
an intention to administer poison, as by assigning impossible
properties to what is administered, or by manifestly chang¬
ing medicine which has been prescribed. A highly impor¬
tant circumstance is the simultaneous and similar illness of
several individuals who have partaken of the same meal,
coupled perhaps wfith the degree of their illnesses concurring
with their respective shares, and probably also united wfith
the escape of others of the same company who did not par¬
take of the meal, or of particular dishes or liquors. Many
other moral circumstances might be here alluded to, by
which the question of poisoning in a general sense may be
often materially cleared; but as they do not belong to the
scientific view of the question, either directly or indirectly,
they may be passed over. 5. The chemical evidence is
justly considered the best of all the departments of proof;
for it not only establishes poisoning in a general sense, but
likewise points out the particular poison. 1 here is no de¬
partment of toxicology which has made such amazing pro¬
gress in recent times as that of toxicological analysis. A
century ago, the search for the remains of poison in sus¬
pected dishes, or in the dead body, was scarcely ever at¬
tempted, and, owing to the ignorance of the chemical pro¬
perties of poisons, could not have been successful. Even
no more than five-and-twenty years ago, the method of
analysis was in all cases crude and unsatisfactory, and for
many poisons good processes continued unknown ; so that
it was no uncommon thing for charges of poisoning to break
down, solely on account of the dubious quality of the che¬
mical evidence. But at present, the proof of poisoning is
scarcely ever defective in the chemical branch; the evi¬
dence of death by poison is usually complete; and how
can it fail to be so in competent hands, when the chemist
can detect in the most complex mixtures the minute quan¬
tity of a twentieth or fiftieth of a grain of the common poi¬
sons, and when many years of interment frequently cannot
withdraw the crime of the poisoner from the keenness of
his search ? It has been proved by careful experiments,
that the mineral acids, arsenic, corrosive sublimate, blue
vitriol, opium and its principle morphia, strychnia the prin¬
ciple of nux-vomica, cantharides, and other less familiar
substances, may be discovered in the body of animals poi¬
soned with them, though buried for nine months ; and in¬
stances have occurred of the detection of arsenic in man
180 POISON.
Poison, after interment for two, four, and even seven years. It basis of observation, tnat ceitain antidotes, such as vinegar, loisot.|
''■—"'V"'—' does not absolutely follow that death has been occasioned milk, oils, and the like, which are really not amiss in some V^v^,|
by poison because poison is found within the body after forms of poisoning, were equally efficacious in all. These il-
death ; for it may have been feloniously introduced after- lusions have been dispelled, even among professional people,
wards, for the purpose of falsely imputing poison; or, though only within a very few years ; and among the unprofes-
poison has been swallowed, death may nevertheless have sional they still have currency. I he clearing away of the
arisen either from natural disease, or some other kind of mists of error has been attended with the discovery of
violence. Instances of such extraordinary occurrences are many real and most valuable remedies. The improvement
absolutely not uncommon, sufficiently so at least to require which has taken place has been owing partly to the im-
being kept always in view. The determination of them provements made in chemistry ; but in this way nothing
involves too refined an inquiry to be considered here. On could have been ultimately effected without the aid of phy-
the other hand, the non-discovery of poison after death is siological experiment, and more especially of experiments
still farther from being evidence that death was not oeca- on animals, a method of inquiry, nevertheless, which it has
sioned by poison. For many poisons are still undiscover- been too much the practice of an ignoiant or spurious fin¬
able by any method of analysis ; others are soon decom- manity to decry.
posed within the body after death, such as prussic acid; The treatment of poisoning is directed to three objects,
others are quickly absorbed from the stomach during life, the removal of the poison, the administration of an anti-
so as to prove fatal without leaving any remains behind, as dote, and the cure of the disorders which have been pro¬
in many instances of poisoning with opium ; others may be duced.
expelled by vomiting, and nevertheless have, in the first in- 1. ihe first object, in every instance, is the prompt re-
stance, occasioned injury enough to prove fatal, as some- moval of what may remain of the poison. If it had been
times happens in the case of arsenic, and very commonly in applied outwardly to a sore or wound, it must be carefully
poisoning with mineral acids. It has, however, been made wiped or wrashed away. When introduced deep into or
a subject of question, whether the evidence of poisoning can under the skin by a puncture, it is to be withdrawn by suc-
ever be considered as complete, so as to involve a convic- tion with the mouth, and, still better, with a cupping-glass,
tion in a criminal case, unless poison be found either in the the efficacy of which is insured, as in the case of snake-
body or in the remains of a suspected article which has poison, by a bandage being applied above the wound, so as
been swallowed. It appears absurd, however, to insist on to obstruct the return of blood from the veins to the heart,
the absolute necessity of such evidence. For were the but without compressing the arteries. Another plan, which
poisoner to choose his means skilfully, and avoid over-doses, has been found effectual in the like circumstances, is sim-
he would, on such principles, almost constantly escape, ply to apply the bandage above the wound, and then to
And the best scientific authorities, in the most recent times, open a vein between the wound and bandage, so that the
seem inclined to allow that the general evidence, from the poison is drawn from the wound with the blood, and dis-
various sources detailed above, may be often so strong as charged outwardly from the orifice in the vein. Some-
to leave scarcely any scientific doubt of the occurrence of times it is useful to make deep scarifications before apply-
poisoning; and the conjunction of the circumstances of ing the cupping-glass; yet in this way the bottom of the
ordinary evidence may, in a legal sense, entirely remove wound may be missed; and, on the whole, if incisions are
what little doubt may have existed of a scientific nature, to be made at all, it seems better to calculate the pro-
Accordingly there have been instances of condemnation bable depth of the wound, and to remove a portion of the
lately in this and other countries, where poison could not texture with the knife all around it. The bleeding which
be discovered. It may be right to add, that it is most sin- follows commonly effects the discharge of the remaining
gular how effectually and how quickly poisons are some- poison ; but some afterwards add the use of an incandes-
times removed beyond the reach of analysis by incidental cent iron for cauterizing the whole adjacent parts. I he
causes, even those poisons v/hich may be detected in other removal of the poison, when taken internally, may be va-
circumstances in extremely minute quantities, and where riously managed. But, first, care must be taken not to
the methods of analysis are well understood. Prussic acid attempt its removal wffien nature may have already looked
is seldom to be detected if life be prolonged for half an after this step in the treatment, as in the case of profuse,
hour, while in the ordinary cases of death in a few minutes and frequent, and full vomiting. All that is necessary
it may be discovered with ease. Arsenic, which in the in such circumstances, is to give occasional draughts of
great majority of cases adheres obstinately to the stomach, lukewarm water, or milk and water, to render vomiting
and may in consequence be detected there though life has easy, and to aid in washing out the stomach. \V hen vo-
been prolonged under frequent vomiting for twro days and miting does not occur, or is not free, an emetic ought to
upwards, has been known to be removed beyond the reach be promptly given. Whatever is nearest should be first
of analysis in the short space of five hours. tried, mustard, for example ; but the most effectual is white
Treatment. f he treatment of poisoning, like all other branches of vitriol, in the quantity of a scruple or half a drachm, dis-
toxicology, has, within a few years, been prodigiously im- solved in a large wine-glass-full of water, to be repeated
proved. It may be said, indeed, to have been understood in fifteen minutes if necessary. Where the symptoms in-
only within the last quarter of a century. In ancient times dicate narcotic poisoning,—for instance, with opium,—it is
the notions entertained of the treatment were not less crude essential to keep the person roused after giving the emetic,’
than those formed of the nature and action of poisons, otherwise it will hardly act. Emetics, when they do ope-
Among other errors, it was strangely supposed that certain rate, are greatly preferable to the stomach-pump, which
counter-poisons existed, w’hich not only possessed the pro- has been of late currently substituted for them. The sto-
perty of curing the effects of all poisons indifferently, but mach-pump, however, is one of the most important addi-
which likewise, when taken for a length of time, had the tions which have been made to the healing art in modern
faculty of impregnating the constitution, and rendering it times. In very many instances of narcotic poisoning no
proof against the influence of any poison. Princes and emetics will operate ; and all such cases, till of late, inevi-
others often lived thus for years under the care of their tably perished where the quantity of poison was consider-
physicians, or protected against their treachery, by being able. The stomach-pump insures the prompt removal of
charged with conservative antidotes. After these notions almost all poisons ; so that when used in time recovery is
were exploded, other erroneous practices came into vogue; next to certain, where formerly a large majority of cases
and, in particular, it was believed to be established on the proved fatal. 2. By all such means, however, the poison
POISON.
181
is often but partially removed. Some of it pervades the
system ; more of it impregnates the tissues with which it
was in contact, and is ready for absorption ; much of it often
passes down into the intestines; occasionally it adheres with
obstinacy to the inner membrane of the stomach, and can¬
not be dislodged either by emetics or by washing through
means of the stomach-pump. The second object, then, is
to administer an antidote. Antidotes have usually been
conceived to be of two kinds. Some, by changing the che¬
mical form of poisons, render them inert, and are called che¬
mical antidotes. Others are thought to subdue the morbid
action of poisons by exciting a counter-action, and are term¬
ed constitutional antidotes. In ancient times, and likewise
until the recent improvements in toxicology, scarcely any
other antidotes were known, except what belonged to the
constitutional class. But it is now thought that in correct
language scarcely any such antidote exists. European phy¬
siologists are not acquainted with any decided constitutional
antidote for any of the numberless multitude and variety of
poisons now familiar to the scientific. It is very generally
believed, however, that savages in all quarters of the world
are in possession of remedies of this nature, more especially
for the effects of snake-poison. Apparently authentic ac¬
counts have been published, of a considerable variety of an¬
tidotes known to the natives in different parts of North and
South America for the bite of venomous snakes. But none
of these supposed antidotes have been found to stand the
test of scientific investigation ; natives who put trust in
them have been seen to perish in the usual way; there is
no difficulty in accounting for their apparent occasional suc¬
cess ; and those who give faith to the marvels of travellers
on the subject ought to consider how very extraordinary
it would be, if, in every part of the globe where there are
savages, discoveries of this kind should be made in regard
to their poisons, while, with all the advantages of science
to aid them in the search, no civilized people have yet
contrived to stumble on a similar discovery in relation to
any of the innumerable poisons with which they have long
been familiar. If constitutional antidotes are still much
wanted, there is no want of excellent antidotes of the che¬
mical class. Some of these act by neutralizing the chemi¬
cal qualities on which the properties of the poison depend,
others by simply rendering the poison insoluble. Thus sul¬
phuric acid is rendered inert by magnesia, because it be¬
comes thereby a neutral salt, soluble, indeed, but no longer
capable of corroding the animal textures, or of exciting
violent irritation. In like manner potash is rendered inert,
or nearly so, by lemon-juice or vinegar, or, though less
easily, by oil, because it is converted into neutral salts, which
are feebly irritant and not at all corrosive. On the other
hand, oxalic acid is rendered inert by magnesia, partly be¬
cause its corrosive qualities are neutralized by chemical
neutralization, but chiefly because these, in common with
its not less formidable effects on the nervous system through
absorption, are prevented by a substance resulting which
is insoluble. So, too, arsenic becomes inert when brought
thoroughly in contact with the hydrated peroxide of iron,
because an insoluble compound is formed, the arseniate of
iron. In using and searching for antidotes of the chemical
kind, several important general rules should be attended
to. For, first, where a poison is a pure local irritant, des¬
titute of action through the blood or remote organs, it is
usually sufficient that it be neutralized ; because the result¬
ing compound is commonly but a feeble irritant, although
soluble. One condition, however, must be observed, namely,
that the antidote shall be itself innocuous, otherwise harm
may be done by the antidote before it comes in contact
with the poison, or because it is given in excess. Thus the
mineral acids are unfit antidotes for neutralizing the mineral
alkalis, and the latter for neutralizing the former. But,
secondly, when the poison is of a kind which acts on remote
organs through the medium of absorption, it is not enough Poison,
that it be chemically neutralized. For all such poisons act-y-~-
as such throughout their soluble compounds; their com¬
pounds act on the whole in proportion to their solubility ;
and those only are inert which are insoluble, and insoluble
not merely in water, but likewise in the animal fluids of the
stomach. Hence oxalic acid and arsenious acid (common
arsenic) are not neutralized in their physiological actions
by being neutralized with potash ; prussic acid similarly
treated remains as energetic as ever; and the powerful
vegetable alkaloids, morphia, strychnia, conia, and the like,
instead of becoming inert by neutralization with acids, are
rendered positively more active, because they are made more
soluble. In the case of every poison, then, it is advanta¬
geous, and in very many it is indispensable, that the chemi¬
cal change effected shall be such as to impart to the com¬
pound insolubility ; and care should be taken that this in¬
solubility shall exist in regard to the natural juices of the
stomach, which are commonly acidulous. But, thirdly, the
antidotal tendency of such chemical remedies, even when
of undoubted virtue, is often counteracted where the poi¬
son is a fine rather insoluble powder ; for it adheres forci¬
bly to the inner coat of the stomach, irritates it to throw-
out tough mucus, which covers the powder, and defends it
against the approach of the neutralizing agent. Frequent
instances of such a course of things occur in the case of
poisoning with arsenic. 3. The last object of the treatment
of poisoning is the cure of the disorders which the poison
has produced. These disorders, since they are substantially
natural diseases, must be treated as such. But there are
certain circumstances which render them in some measure
peculiar, and consequently modify the treatment. These
are chiefly as follows. Treatment will obviously be of little
use for such disorders, until what remains of the poison be
removed or rendered inert; and as this object is often unat¬
tainable, ultimate success is frequently beyond reach. Eva¬
cuation of the poison is in this point of view of primary im¬
portance, as well as for its own sake. In the case of poison¬
ing with the irritants, the treatment is often exceedingly
embarrassing, because it must be simultaneously directed
towards two opposite ends, the suppression of inflammation
by evacuating, and consequently debilitating measures, and
the removal of depression of the heart and general system
by stimulating remedies. These two contrary and incom¬
patible objects are often the cause why the best treatment
proves inefficacious. The treatment ot narcotic poisoning
is somewhat differently circumstanced. The remains of the
poison being removed, there is only the induced disorder to
combat. These disorders are in the great majority of cases
functional only; that is, no structural injury has been occa¬
sioned. Hence, the offending cause having been withdrawn,
there may be expected to prevail in the constitution a na¬
tural tendency to throw off the functional disorder,—a ten¬
dency towards recovery. Experience shows that such is
actually the fact. If in narcotic poisoning the remains of
the poison can be removed, and life can be preserved for a
moderate length of time, success is highly probable in a
great majority of cases. Thus very few die of poisoning
w'ith opium, and perhaps still fewer ought to die in skilful
hands, who survive for eighteen hours. In narcotic poison¬
ing, then, the treatment for subduing the disorders induced
consists mainly in employing, in some instances, sedatives
for subduing irritation of the nervous system, but much
more commonly stimulants, for the purpose of keeping the
person roused, and in applying various means for supporting
artificial respiration where the natural breathing fails. Ex¬
cellent methods for accomplishing the first object are now
in familiar use, such as loud talking, agitation of the body,
injecting water into the ears, tickling the nostrils, dashing
cold water over the head and shoulders, applying sinapisms
to the calves, blistering the head with boiling water, and
182
POISON.
Poison, internally ammonia, ether, and spirits. But the best method
of supporting artificial respiration has not yet been discover¬
ed ; there are practical objections to all the methods yet
devised ; and it is only when these shall be perfected, that
the treatment of narcotic poisoning will be rendered sub-i
stantially superior to what it is at present. It is not un¬
likely that galvanism will be found a material part of the
most efficacious method,—applied, however, not continue
ously, as is often practised, but interruptedly, so as not to
disturb the alternate contractions and relaxations of the re¬
spiratory muscles.
Action on In the preceding observations on the effects and treat-
vegetables. ment of poisoning, poisons have been regarded solely in
their operation on the animal body. But they were de¬
fined at the outset as acting on living bodies generally ;
and upon vegetables their action is not less remarkable
than upon animals. This branch of the subject has been
hitherto little studied; but what is already known of it
seems full of interest both in a physiological and in a prac¬
tical point of view. It appears that in a general sense there
is a close analogy between the actions exerted by poisons
on both divisions of the living world. As there are two
leading effects produced in animals, so are there two great
classes of phenomena developed in vegetables, those of irri¬
tation and those of narcotism, or at least of an action close¬
ly analogous. The apparent phenomena of both kinds are
indeed much simpler in vegetable than in animal beings,
partly because the organs and functions of the former are
more simple than those of the latter, partly because physi¬
ologists have not yet ascertained with precision the special
changes that are induced. Still, however, it is easy to
trace in vegetables the leading effects produced by irri¬
tants and by narcotics respectively, upon animals. The
former occasion partial or general disorganization or death
of the organs of plants to which they are directly applied,
and the plant may eventually either recover or perish, ac¬
cording to the extent of the injury or the importance of
the organ injured. The latter seem to act upon the vita¬
lity of the plant, without in general producing any marked
change of a local nature, or such as may be referred to a
direct impression, at least until the first signs of vital de¬
pression appear; and it is commonly observed, that so
soon as such signs of depression do make their appearance,
however slight they may be, they quickly pervade the whole
plant, which in consequence perishes irrevocably. The ir¬
ritants appear to act topically, and from without inwards;
the narcotics act more generally, and from within outwards,
being probably first absorbed.
Poisons act upon vegetables, through whatever channel
they are introduced, and to whatever organ they are ap¬
plied, provided the texture be such as to admit of their
passage to those parts which are more or less directly
connected with life. The organs through which they act
with greatest energy are the leaves and the roots. Liquid
poisons act with most energy through the roots ; gaseous
poisons are probably most energetic when applied to the
leaves. Partial action is sometimes produced by the topi¬
cal application of a general or narcotic poison ; thus arsenic
introduced into the axilla of a leaf of the dipsacus fullo-
num kills the whole superior part of the plant on the side
corresponding with the leaf. Vegetable poisons are not
less energetic than mineral poisons. Nay, however extra¬
ordinary it may appear, there seems no question that plants
may be promptly killed by their own poisons,—that the
poison produced by a particular species may kill that spe¬
cies as readily as it will others, if applied to the root so as
to be absorbed into the nutritive juices. This singular
phenomenon may depend on the poison being secreted and
confined in particular receptacles in the ordinary state of
the plant. But another and more intelligible explanation
in regard to certain poisons may be drawn from the well-
ascertained fact, that some vegetable poisons, and probably Poison;
more of them than the physiologist may at present be in-
dined to admit, do not exist ready formed in the plants
whence they are obtained, but are produced only when
certain principles, existing naturally apart in distinct re¬
ceptacles, are brought in contact by mechanical force or
chemical manipulations. A remarkable instance in point
is the essential oil of the bitter-almond kernel, or cherry-
laurel leaf, which does not exist ready formed, otherwise
it would bq betrayed, like other essential oils, by its pow¬
erful odour, but is formed only when certain principles,
named amygdalin and emulsin, are brought in contact with
each other and with water.
No poisons are better fitted for illustrating the pheno¬
mena of poisoning in vegetables, or better deserve the at¬
tention of physiologists and practical men, than those which
are gaseous in their nature. Most of them seem to act in
excessively minute quantities and proportions. A tenth
part of a cubic inch of muriatic acid gas, which is equiva¬
lent to the twenty-fifth part of a grain by weight, will in no
long time destroy a small plant, although the gas be dilut¬
ed with twrenty thousand times its volume of air ; and the
devastating effects produced on surrounding vegetation by
all manufactories where this acid is thrown abundantly
into the atmosphere, as in the manufacture of black-ash
and soda from sea-salt, abundantly show that far less pro¬
portions will prove equally deleterious when applied conti¬
nuously. Sulphurous acid gas acts with nearly as great
intensity. The effect of either of these poisons is simply
to shrivel and wither the leaves and buds, like the action of
frost in spring ; and the plant will eventually recover if re¬
moved in time from the influence of the noxious agent, but
with the loss of its foliage. Other gases, such as sulphu¬
retted hydrogen and cyanogen, produce no visible change
until the leaves begin to bend and droop; after which the
drooping quickly extends, till at length the whole plant be¬
comes flaccid, so as to present exactly the same appear¬
ance as when deprived of moisture ; and it perishes inevi¬
tably.
Some substances which are poisonous to animals are not
poisonous to vegetables. The experiments which have
been made on this subject are neither sufficiently extensive
nor sufficiently exact to warrant any general deductions.
A very remarkable instance is carbonic acid gas, a small
proportion of which in the atmosphere will speedily extin¬
guish animal life, but which is innocuous to vegetables in
almost any proportion, nay, on the contrary, is commonly
thought to supply them with aliment.
Poisons are by no means without their uses in the eco-Uses.
nomy of nature. It is in the first place not improbable that
vegetable poisons serve some purpose in the economy of
the plants which produce them. On this point we are
still much in the dark, in consequence of the little advance¬
ment which has been hitherto made in vegetable physiolo¬
gy. But one purpose of the kind seems to be the perpe¬
tuation and extension of such plants, by rendering them
unfit for the food of herbivorous animals and frugivorous
birds, which by instinct commonly avoid them. In the
case of certain poisons of the animal kingdom, their pur¬
pose is obviously to preserve the animals which are endow¬
ed with them, by enabling them to destroy their prey and
their enemies. Another important use to which poisons
from every kingdom may be applied, is for the treatment
of diseases. A very close connection subsists between me¬
dicinal and poisonous action. This is sufficiently shown
perhaps by the undoubted fact, that, with very few ex¬
ceptions, our best medicines are active poisons; and, con¬
versely, that there are few active poisons which have not
been turned to account as useful medicines. Besides, in
the greater number of instances, the two properties, medi¬
cinal virtue and poisonous influence, are plainly nothing
1 frci'
t
i
1
J
s
t
)
[
I
I
P O I
Jpon* else than manifestations of the same action, differing mere*
ly somewhat in degree, which is well exemplified by most
purgatives and emetics, by opium, henbane, prussic acid,
and other anodynes, and by counter-irritants, or substan¬
ces employed for irritating the skin. In other instances,
again, where the poisonous and medicinal actions are to
appearance different and unconnected, the existence of
some relationship between them seems to be pointed out by
the activity of the substances as drugs being proportioned
to their energy as poisons. Another purpose to which
some poisons are applied is for the destruction of the lower
animals for the use of man. In most parts of the world,
where the primitive habits of mankind have not been ma¬
terially modified by civilization, poisons of great energy are
familiarly employed for the destruction of game, and in
some countries also for killing beasts and birds of prey. In
civilized countries they have hitherto been used chiefly
for the more ignoble purpose of getting rid of vermin.
But they are susceptible of far more important applications
of the same nature; which, however, have been as yet en¬
tirely overlooked. (x. x. x. x.)
Poison- Thee of Java, called in the Malayan language
Bohun Upas, is a tree which has often been described by
naturalists; but its existence has been very generally doubt¬
ed, and the descriptions given of it, containing much of the
marvellous, have been treated as idle fictions. M. Foersch,
however, in an account of it, written in Dutch, asserts that
it does exist, that he made the most particular inquiries, and
that he found it was situated in the island of Java, about
twenty-seven leagues from Batavia. The poison procured
from the Upas is said to be a gum, issuing from between
the bark and the tree, and brought by malefactors who have
been condemned to death.
But a variety of circumstances conspire to prove that
Foersch’s account of the tree is extremely suspicious. Al¬
though he had letters of introduction, he went to no con-
POL 183
siderable house, and afterwards withdrew amongst the Eno-- Poitiers
fish. The distances given to mark the situation of the tree II
are not accurate. The execution of criminals is different Polacre
from what he represents. There were no such disturbances   
in 1775 as those stated by Foersch, the tract to which he al¬
ludes having submitted to the Dutch East India Company
as early as 1756. And, lastly, the assertions and pretended
facts of Foersch are supported by no collateral evidence.
Sir George Staunton, during his stay at Batavia, made the
most particular inquiries concerning the Upas, but found that
the existence of such a tree had never been known thereJ
POITIERS, an arrondissement of the department of the
Vienne, in France. It extends over 792 square miles, and
comprehends ten cantons, divided into 101 communes, and
containing 88,600 inhabitants. The capital is the city of the
same name, the seat of the departmental government and of
the courts of law. It is an elevated spot, almost surrounded
by lofty rocks, at the foot of which run the river Elain on the
east side, and the river Boivre on the west; both of which
streams unite to the north of the city. It is surrounded with
ancient u alls, and is built in an antique style and irregular
manner. It is the see of a bishop, and has an old cathedral
and several other churches, three hospitals, an academy, a
lyceum, a public library, 4160 houses, and about 19,500
inhabitants. It is a place of little commerce, chiefly con¬
fined to making a few woollen cloths, some hosiery, leather,
and distilling brandy. Near to it are some Celtic and some
Roman antiquities. It is celebrated for the battle which
bears the name of the city, though fought at Beauvoir, be¬
tween Edward the Black Prince of England, and King John
of France, in the year 1356, when the latter was made pri¬
soner. Long. 0. 15. 43. E. Lat. 46. 34. 50. N.
POL A, or Otewhei, one of the Navigators’ Islands, in
the South Pacific Ocean. Long. 172. 20. W. Lat. 13. 52. S.
POLACRE, a ship with three masts, usually navigated
in the Levant and other parts of the Mediterranean.
1 In the Edinburgh Philosophical Journal (vol. xii. p. 102) we find the following account of a visit to the Valley of Death, extracted
trom a journal ot a tour through the islands of Java and Madara, by Mr A. Loudon, in the year 1830.
“ Balor, 3d Jw/ylSSO—This evening, while walking round the village with the Patteh (native chief), he told me that there was a
valley oniy three miles from Balor, that no person could approach without forfeiting their lives, and that the skeletons of human beings,
an all sorts ot beasts and birds, covered the bottom of the valley. I mentioned this to the commandant, Mr Van Spree wenberg, and pro¬
posed that we should go to see it. Mr Daendels, the assistant-resident, agreed to go with us. At this time I did not believe all that the
Javanese chief told me. I knew there was a lake close to this, and that it was dangerous to approach too near, but I had never heard of
the Valley of Death.
“ Balor, 4th Jn/y.^—Early this morning we made an excursion to the extraordinary valley called by the natives Gutvo Upas, or Poison¬
ed Valley, it is three miles from Balor, on the road to the Djienz. Mr Daendels had ordered a footpath to be made from the main road
to the valley. We took with us two dogs and some fowls, to try experiments in this poisonous hollow. On arriving at the foot of the
mountain, we dismounted and scrambled up the side, about a quarter of a mile, holding on by the branches of trees ; and we were a good
deal fatigued before we got up the path, being very steep and slippery from the fall of rain during the night. When within a few yards
of the valley, we experienced a strong, nauseous, suffocating smell; but on coming close to its edge, this disagreeable smell left us. ' We
were now all lost in astonishment at the awful scene before us. The valley appeared to be about half a mile in circumference, oval, and
the depth from thirty to thirty-five feet; the bottom quite flat; no vegetation; some very large (in appearance) river-stones; and the
whole covered with the skeletons of human beings, tigers, pigs, deer, peacocks, and all sorts of birds. We could not perceive any
vapour or any opening in the ground, which last appeared to us to be of a hard sandy substance. It was now proposed by one of
the party to enter the valley; but at the spot where we were this was difficult, at least for me, as one false step would have brought
us to eternity, seeing no assistance could be given. We lighted our cigars, and with the assistance of a bamboo, we went down
within eighteen feet of the bottom. Here we did not experience any difficulty in breathing, but an offensive, nauseous smell an¬
noyed us. We now fastened a dog to the end of a bamboo, eighteen feet long, and sent him in; we had our watches in our hands,
and in fourteen seconds he fell on his back, did not move his limbs or look round, but continued to breathe eighteen minutes. We
then sent in another, or rather he got loose from the bamboo, and walked in to where the other dog was lying; he then stood quite still,
and in ten seconds he fell on his face, and never afterwards moved his limbs; he continued to breathe for seven minutes. We now tried
a fowl, which died in a minute and a half. We threw in another, which died before touching the ground. During these experiments we
experienced a heavy shower of rain; but we were so interested by the awful scene before us, that we did not care for getting wet. On
the opposite side, near a large stone, was the skeleton of a human being, who must have perished on his back, with the right arm
under his head. From being exposed to the weather, the bones were bleached as white as ivory. I was anxious to procure this skeleton,
but any attempt to get at it would have been madness. After remaining two hours in this Valley of Death we returned, but found some
difficulty in getting out The human skeletons are supposed to be those of rebels who had been pursued from the main road, and taken
refuge in the different valleys; as a wanderer cannot know his danger till he is in the valley, and, when once there, he has not the
power or ^he presence of mind to return.”
Mr Loudon conceives that there is a great difference between this valley and the Grotto del Cane, near Naples. In the Grotto
the air is confined to a small aperture, whilst in the valley the circumference is fully half a mile, and not the least smell of sulphur,
nor any appearance of an eruption having taken place near it, although the whole chain of mountains is volcanic, and there are two
craters which constantly emit smoke, at no great distance from the side of the road at the foot of the Djienz. It thus appears that the
story told by Foersch is an entire fabrication, and that the notion of a poison-tree is a pure romance; but, like most fictions, it has a
thread of truth interwoven in its texture, some of the circumstances agreeing with those above stated, but at the same time proving that
Eoersch had never visited the Valley of Death,
184
S-tory
POLAND.
History. Poland, a country of Europe, was, in its largest extent,
^ bounded on the north-west by the Baltic Sea, with the ports
of Dantzig, Elbing, Libau, and Windau ; on the north and
east by Muscovy, and the rivers Dwina and Dnieper, form¬
ing part of the frontier of the two countries; on the. south
by the possessions of the Turkish empire, Wallachia and
Moldavia, and Hungary, separated by the Carpathian Moun¬
tains ; and on the west by Silesia, and the possessions of the
duchy of Brandenburg, the present kingdom of Prussia.
Before the year 1772, that is, prior to the first partition,
the boundaries of Poland were not materially altered. At
that period, the whole territory included under this deno¬
mination comprised more than 13,000 square geographical
miles, and upwards of 15,000,000 of inhabitants. Except¬
ing the palatinates of Podolia, some parts of Volhynia, Gal-
licia, Sandomir, and Cracow, this tract of land presents in
the greater part one immense plain, where a mountain or
a hill is scarcely to be met with. But in the southern part
of Poland, the ground rises to a certain degree of elevation,
until it reaches the chain of the Carpathian Mountains, which
at one extremity abuts on the Rhine, and at another on the
Danube. The highest summit of this range is the Great
Krapak, the elevation of which has been ascertained to be
10,220 feet above the level of the sea.
The Poles, considered as a nation, are not of very ancient
date. Prior to the niijth century, they were divided into a
multitude of independent tribes, each governed by its re¬
spective chief; and, except in cases of invasion, where the
necessity of self-defence produced combination, they ac¬
knowledged no general head or chief. Like most other
people, however, they lay claim to an antiquity sufficiently ve¬
nerable, and trace their origin back to one of the immediate
descendants of Noah, who, according to them, colonized this
part of ancient Sarmatia. But the absurdity of such a claim
being too obvious to be long supported, especially amongst
a people who never had even a fabulous history, less extra¬
vagant chroniclers were content with assigning to Lech or
Lesko, wdio is said to have reigned about the middle of the
sixth century, the honour of their incorporation as a nation.
Nor can it be doubted that even this era is much too early.
As the laws of historical evidence became better under¬
stood, it was accordingly given up as untenable, and the
authentic opening of Polish history has been brought down
three centuries ; that is, to the accession of Ziemowitz, in
the year 860. Lastly, it was reserved for the Polish writers
of our own time, Lelewel, Niemcewitz, Golembrowski, Zie¬
linski, and others, to abstract another century from the
national existence, and to proclaim Miecislas I. as the true
founder of the Polish monarchy.1
Polish so- The sovereigns of Poland had at first the title of dukes
vereigns at or generals, as if their office had been only to lead the
first only armies into the field. The first of these is new generally
allowed to have been Lech or Lecht; and to this day Po¬
land is called by the Tartars the kingdom of Lech. Busch-
ing, however, gives a different account of the origin of the
Poles. Sarmatia, he observes, was an extensive country,
inhabited by a variety of nations of different names; as he
supposes the Poles to be the descendants of the ancient
Lazi, a people who lived in Colchis, on the Euxine; hence
the Poles are sometimes called Polazi. Having crossed
several rivers, they entered Posnania, and settled on the
borders of the Warta, whilst their neighbours the Zechi
settled on the Elbe, in the 550th year of Christ.
styled
dukes.
Of the transactions of Lech during the time he enjoyed Historj.
the sovereignty we have no certain account. Hi§ succes- ^
sor was named Viscimar, and is generally supposed to have
been the nephew of Lech. He was a warlike and success¬
ful prince, who subdued many provinces of Denmark, and
built the city of Wismar, so called from the name of the
sovereign. But the Danish historians take no notice of his
wars with their country, nor do they even mention a prince
of this name.
After the defeat of Viscimar, the nobility were upon the Change ir
point of electing a sovereign, when the people, sufferingtlie
under the burdens occasioned by the wTars of Viscimar,
unanimously demanded another form of government. At
first the nobility pretended to yield, though with great re¬
luctance ; but they afterwards determined on such a form
of government as threw all the power into their own hands.
Twelve palatines, or vayvodes, were chosen ; and the Po¬
lish dominions divided into as many provinces. But these
palatines exercised a despotic authority within their seve¬
ral jurisdictions, and aggravated the misery of the people
by perpetual wars; wherefore the Poles, worn out with op¬
pression, resolved to return to their ancient form of govern¬
ment. For this purpose many assemblies were held; but,
by reason of the opposition of the vayvodes, they all came to
nothing. At last, however, the people cast their eyes upon
one Cracus, whose wealth and popularity had raised him
to the highest honours amongst his countrymen. Accord¬
ing to the Poles, he was a native of Poland, and one of
the twelve vayvodes; the Bohemians, however, affirm that
he was a native of their country; but both agree in main¬
taining that he wras descended from the ancient family of
the Gracchi in Rome ; a paternity which insured assent
by reason of its absurdity. Cracus, however, is said to have
signalized himself against the Franks, whom he overthrew
in some desperate engagements, and afterwards founded the
city of Cracow, whither he transferred the seat of his go¬
vernment. He did not enlarge his dominions, but he did
more than this; he made his subjects happy by many ex¬
cellent laws and regulations. At last, after a long and glo¬
rious reign, he was assassinated by a nobleman who aspired
to the crown.
Cracus left three children ; Cracus, Lech, and a daughter
named Wenda. The first succeeded to the dukedom in
virtue of his birthright, but was soon afterwards murdered
by his brother Lech. The latter, however, did not long
profit by this fratricide. His crime having been discovered,
he wras deposed and banished by his subjects, and his sister
Wenda was declared duchess. This princess was beautiful
and accomplished; and soon after she had been raised to
the sovereignty, Rudiger, a German prince, sent an am¬
bassador demanding hef in marriage, and threatening war if
his proposals were refused. Wenda marched in person
against him at the head of a numerous army ; but the
event proved fatal both to Rudiger and herself. The troops
of Rudiger having abandoned him without striking a blow,
he killed himself in despair ; and \\ enda was so much con¬
cerned for his death that she is said to have drowned her¬
self in the Vistula.
The family of Cracus having become extinct by the death
of Wenda, and the Poles being again at liberty to choose
a new sovereign and a new form of government, through
a natural levity restored the vayvodes, notwithstanding all
that they had formerly suffered from them. The conse-
1 The word Pole is not older than the tenth century, and seems to have been originally applied not so much to the people as to the
region they inhabited; Polska, in the Sclavonic language, signifying a field or plain.
POL
fc ory. quences were precisely the same as before. The vayvodes
abused their power; the people were oppressed; and the
state was distracted between foreign wars and civil conten¬
tions. The Hungarians and Moravians had invaded Poland,
and were opposed only by a handful of men almost ready
to surrender at discretion. Subjugation and ruin appeared
inevitable; when one Prezemislas, a private soldier, con¬
trived a stratagem by which the numerous forces of the
enemy were overthrown, and for his valour was rewarded
with the dukedom. We are ignorant of the other transac¬
tions of his reign; but historians inform us that he died
deeply regretted, leaving no issue.
On the death of Prezemislas several candidates appear¬
ed for the throne; but the Poles determined to prefer him
who should overcome all his competitors in a horse-race.
A stone pillar was erected near the capital, on which were
laid all the ensigns of the ducal authority; and a herald pro¬
claimed, that he who first arrived at that pillar from a river
at some distance, named Pradnik, should obtain the prize.
A Polish lord named Lech or Lesko resolved to secure the
victory by artifice ; for which purpose he caused iron spikes
to be driven all over the course, reserving only a path for
his own horse. The fraudulent design took effect; all the
rest of the competitors were dismounted, some being severe¬
ly hurt by their fall; and Lesko was about to be proclaim¬
ed victor, when, unluckily for him, a peasant who had found
out the artifice opposed the ceremony. An examination
of the fact immediately took place; Lesko was torn in
pieces, and the ducal authority conferred upon the peasant.
The name of the new monarch was also Lesko. Having
thus attained the sovereignty, he conducted himself with
great wisdom and moderation. Though he possessed the
qualities of a great warrior, and extended his dominions on
the side of Moravia and Bohemia, yet his chief delight was
to render his subjects happy by cultivating the arts of
peace. In the decline of life he was obliged to engage in
a war with Charlemagne, and is said by some to have fallen
in battle ; though others assert that he died a natural death,
at an advanced age, when the springs of life were quite
worn out.
Lesko II. was succeeded by his son Lesko III. who in¬
herited all his father’s virtues. He suppressed an insurrec¬
tion in the Polish provinces ; and having led his army
against the Greek and Italian legions who had overrun
Pannonia, he gained a complete victory over his enemies.
Nor was his valour more conspicuous in the battle than his
clemency in the victory. He dismissed all his prisoners
without ransom, demanding no other conditions than that
they should never again disturb the peace of Poland, or
the allies of that kingdom. This duke is said to have been
endowed with many virtues, and is charged only with the
vice of incontinence. He left twenty natural children, and
only one legitimate son, named Popiel, to whom he be¬
queathed the sovereignty. The latter removed the seat of
government from Cracow to Gnesna, and was succeeded by
his nephew Popiel II. then a minor.
This young king behaved with great propriety as long as
he was under the tuition of others ; but as soon as he had
got the reins of government into his own hands the face of
affairs was altered. Lesko III. had promoted his illegitimate
children to the government of different provinces; and they
had discharged the duties of their offices in such a manner
as showed that they were worthy of the confidence reposed
in them. But as soon as he came of age, Popiel, seduced
by his wife, an artful and ambitious woman, removed them
from their posts, treated them with the utmost contempt,
and at last found means to poison them all at an entertain¬
ment. A dreadful punishment, however, is said to have
awaited his treachery and cruelty ; and he perished miser-
ably, with all his house.
The nation now became a prey to civil discord, at the
VOL. XVIII.
AND. 185
same time that it was harassed by a foreign enemy; and History,
the state seemed to be on the verge of dissolution, when~V'-—^
Piast was proclaimed duke in 842. The reign of Piast was
the golden age of Poland. He engaged in no foreign wars ;
he was harassed with no domestic commotions; respect
and honour met him without, abundance and contentment
within. This excellent monarch, from whom those of du¬
cal or regal dignity were called Piast, died in the year 861,
and was succeeded by his son Ziemowitz, who was of a more
warlike disposition than his father, and first introduced re¬
gular discipline amongst the Polish troops. He maintained
a respectable army, and took great pains to acquire a perfect
knowledge of the art of wyar. Lienee he was victorious in
all his battles, retook from the Germans and Hungarians all
that they had gained by conquest, and, at the same time,
greatly enlarged his own dominions.
After his death nothing remarkable happened in Poland Christia-
till the time of Miecislas I., who attained the ducal autho-nity iutro-
rity in 964. He was born blind, and continued so for seven ^j.ce<?
years, after which he recovered his sight without using any' eci!l as*
medicine; a circumstance so extraordinary, that in those
times of ignorance it was accounted a miracle. In his reign
the Christian religion was introduced into Poland. The
most probable account of the manner in which Christianity
was introduced is, that Miecislas having by ambassadors
paid his addresses to Dombrowka, daughter of the king of
Bohemia, the lady rejected his offer unless he should suffer
himself to be baptized. To this the duke consented, and,
after having been instructed in the principles of Christia¬
nity, he was baptized. He founded the archbishoprics of
Gnesna and Cracow; and appointed St Adelbert, who had
been sent by the pontiff to propagate Christianity in Po¬
land, primate of the whole kingdom. On the birth of his
son Boleslas he redoubled his zeal, founding several bishop¬
rics and monasteries, and ordering that, when any part
of the Gospel was read, the hearers should half draw their
swords, in testimony of their readiness to defend the faith.
But he was too devout to attend to the duties of a sove¬
reign, and suffered his dominions to be ravaged by the so¬
vereign of Russia. Yet, with all his devotion, he could
not obtain the title of king from the pope, though he had
warmly solicited it. That title was afterwards conferred on
his son, who succeeded to all his dominions.
Boleslas I. surnamed Chobry, or the Valiant, succeeded Boleslas I.
to the sovereignty in 999. Lie also professed and cherished king of Fo-
Christianity, and was a man of great valour and prudence. an
The first transaction of his reign, however, savoured much
of the fanciful piety of those times. He removed from
Prague to Gnesna the relics of a saint, which he had pur¬
chased at a considerable price. The Emperor Otho HI.
made a pilgrimage to the tomb of this saint, where he was
hospitably received by Boleslas, whom, in return, Otho in¬
vested with the regal dignity; an act which was confirmed
by the pope. But this new dignity added nothing to the
power of Boleslas. He now indeed affected more state
than before ; his body-guards were considerably augment¬
ed ; and, whenever he stirred out of his palace, he was con¬
stantly attended by a numerous and splendid retinue. In
this way he inspired his people with an idea of his great¬
ness, and also of their own importance, which was per¬
haps necessary for the accomplishment of a design he had
formed, namely, an offensive war with Russia; but when
he was on the point of setting out on this expedition, he
was prevented by the breaking out of a war with the Bo¬
hemians.
The elevation of Boleslas to the regal dignity had excited Conquest
the envy of the Duke of Bohemia, who having solicited the ^ olle'
same honour for himself, had been refused; and his jea¬
lousy was further excited by the connection between Boles¬
las and the emperor, the former having married Rixa, the
emperor’s niece. Without any provocation, therefore, or
186
POLAND.
History.
Other ad¬
vantages
gained by
him.
Swianto-
pelk raised
to the
throne of
Russia.
giving the least intimation of his design, the Duke of Bohe¬
mia entered Poland at the head of a numerous army, com¬
mitting everywhere the most dreadful devastations. Boleslas
immediately marched against him, and the Bohemians re¬
tired with precipitation. Scarcity of provisions, however,
and the inclemency of the season, prevented Boleslas at that
time from pursuing; but as soon as these obstacles were
removed, he entered Bohemia at the head of a formidable
army, with a fixed resolution to inflict ample vengeance.
The Bohemians were altogether unable to resist; neither
had they the courage to venture a battle. So great, indeed,
was the cowardice of the duke or his army, that they suf¬
fered Prague, the capital of the duchy, to be taken after a
siege of two years, having never, during that time, ven¬
tured to raise the siege by attacking the Polish army. Ihe
taking of this city was quickly followed by the reduction of
places of inferior note; but though Boleslas was in pos¬
session of almost all the fortresses in Bohemia, he could
not believe his conquests complete until he became mas¬
ter of the duke’s person. This unfortunate prince had
shut himself up with his son in his only remaining fortress
of Wissogrod, where he imagined he would be able to foil
all the attempts of the Polish monarch. In this, however,
he was deceived. Boleslas invested the place, and made
his approaches with such rapidity, that the garrison, dread¬
ing a general assault, resolved to capitulate, and persisted
in their resolution notwithstanding all the entreaties and
promises of the duke. This unhappy prince therefore fell
into the hands of his enemies, and had his eyes put out by
Boleslas; after which his son Jaromir was sent into con¬
finement.
From Bohemia Boleslas marched towards Moravia, and
no sooner had he arrived on the frontier than the whole
province submitted without a blow. He then resumed his
intention of invading Russia, for which he had now a fair
opportunity, by reason of a civil war which raged with vio¬
lence amongst the children of the Grand Duke Vladimir.
The chief competitors were Jarislas and Swiantopelk. The
latter, having been defeated by his brother, was obliged to
take refuge in Poland, where he used all the arguments in
his power in order to induce Boleslas to avenge his cause.
Boleslas having already an intention of invading that coun¬
try, needed but little entreaty; and therefore marched to¬
wards Russia at the head of a numerous army, giving out
that he had no other design than to revenge the injustice
done to Swiantopelk. He was met on the banks of the
river Bug by Jarislas at the head of an army much superior
in number to his own ; and for some days the Polish army
was kept in check by the Russians. At last Boleslas, grow¬
ing impatient, resolved to pass the river at all events ; and
therefore forming his cavalry in the best manner for break¬
ing the torrent, he exposed his own person to its utmost
force. Encouraged by his example, the Poles advanced
breast-deep in the water to the opposite shore, whence the
enemy made every resistance in their power. In spite of
all opposition, however, the Poles reached the bank, and
soon gained a complete victory, Jarislas being obliged to fly
to Kiow. This city was immediately invested ; but Jarislas
retired farther into the country to recruit his army, leaving
the city to its fate. The garrison made a brave defence, but
were at last compelled to surrender at discretion.
Though the king of Poland had now become master of
the greater part of Russia, he knewr that the only means of
keeping the country in subjection was by placing a natural
sovereign over the inhabitants. For this reason he rein¬
stated Swiantopelk, though his pretensions were still dis¬
puted by Jarislas. The latter had formed a flying camp,
and meditated a scheme of surprising and carrying off his
brother ; but having failed in this attempt, he retired to
Novogorod, where the attachment of the inhabitants en¬
abled him to make some resistance, till at last he was again
defeated by Boleslas, which seemed to give the finishing History,
blow to his affairs. In the perfidious and ungrateful Swi-s^
antopelk, however, the king of Poland now experienced Death of
a more dangerous enemy than he had found in Jarislas. Boleslas.
The Russian prince, imagining himself a dependent on Bo¬
leslas, formed a conspiracy, which had for its object nothing
less than the destruction of Boleslas and his whole army.
The massacre was already begun when Boleslas received in¬
telligence of this daring and profligate scheme. The ur¬
gency of the case admitted of no delay. The king there¬
fore mounted his horse, and having with the utmost haste
assembled part of his army, fell upon the traitors with such
fury that they were obliged to betake themselves to flight,
and Boleslas got safe back into Poland. But in the mean
time Jarislas, assembling fresh forces, pursued the Polish
army ; and having come up with them just as one half
crossed the Borysthenes, attacked them with the utmost fury.
Boleslas defended himself with the greatest resolution ; but,
by reason of his forces being divided, victory remained for
a long time doubtful. At last, when the army had wholly
crossed, the Russians were entirely put to the rout, and a
terrible carnage ensued. The victory, however, though
complete, was not decisive; wherefore Boleslas thought pro¬
per to continue his retreat, without attempting to conquer
a country too extensive ever to be kept in subjection.
Boleslas, still unsated with victory, now meditated the
conquest of Prussia, and also Pomerania, which had, in the
former wars, been dismembered from Poland. His arms
were attended with equal success in both attempts; indeed
the terror of his name seemed to serve all the purposes of
a formidable army. These, however, seem to have been
designed as his last warlike enterprises ; for he now applied
himself to enact wholesome laws for the benefit of his people.
But whilst he wras thus occupied, Jarislas assembled a nu¬
merous army, with which he appeared on the frontiers ot
Poland. Boleslas, though now advanced in years, marched
against his adversaries, and met them on the banks of the
Borysthenes, where, attacking the enemy before they had
time to draw7 up in order of battle, he totally defeated them.
The Russians being seized with a panic, Jarislas was hur¬
ried away, and almost trampled to death by the fugitives.
Many thousand prisoners were taken, but Boleslas released
them on very easy conditions; contenting himself with
an inconsiderable tribute, and endeavouring to engage the
affections of the people by his kindness. I his well-timed
clemency produced such a happy effect, that the Russians
voluntarily submitted to his jurisdiction, and became once
more his subjects. Soon after this he died, in the year 1025,
after having greatly extended his dominions, and, as some
say, rendered his subjects happy.
Boleslas was succeeded by his son Miecislas II.; but the Miecism
latter possessed none of the great qualities of his father, be- fl¬
ing indolent, corrupt, and debauched in his behaviour. In the
beginning of his reign, the Russians, Bohemians, and Mora¬
vians revolted; but as the spirit and discipline introduced
by Boleslas still remained in the Polish army, Miecislas
found no great difficulty in reducing them again to obe¬
dience ; after which, having devoted himself entirely to vo¬
luptuousness, he was seized with a frenzy, which put an end
to his life in the year 1034.
' (feisir
mcid
I
and
The bad qualities of this prince proved very detrimental Ri*^
to the interest of his son Casimir, though the latter had re- h"r 1
simir> n*'
ceived an excellent education, and possessed many virtues.
Instead of electing him king, therefore, the Poles chose
Rixa, his mother, queen-regent. But she proved tyrannical,
and so partial to her countrymen the Germans, that a re¬
bellion ensued; and she was forced to fly to Germany,
where she obtained the protection of the emperor, by means
of the immense treasures of Boleslas, which she had caused
to be transported thither. Her insolent behaviour and con¬
sequent expulsion proved still more fatal to the affairs of
m
POL
Caiflir
reeled
an ,uado
kii
Bo:,las II.
Casimir than even that of his father. He was immediately
driven out Oi the kingdom ; and aa a civil war took place,
there appeared a great many pretenders to the crown. To
the miseries thus occasioned were added those of a foreign
war. Ihe Bohemians and Russians invaded the kingdom
in different places, committing the most dreadful ravages;
and the consequence of these accumulated distresses was,
that the nobility came at last to the resolution of recalling
Casimir, and electing him sovereign.
I he only difficulty was where to find the fugitive prince;
for he had been gone five years, and nobody knew the
place of his retreat. At length, by sending an embassy to
his mother, it was found out that he had at first retired into
France, where he applied closely to study at the university
of Paris ; that afterwards he went to Italy, where, for the
sake of subsistence, he took upon him the monastic habit;
and that having returned to France, he had obtained some
preferment in the abbey of Clugny. Nothing now obstructed
the prince’s return but the sacred function with which he
was invested. A dispensation was, however, obtained, by
which he was released from his ecclesiastical engagements,
on condition that he and all the kingdom should become
subject to the capitation tax, called Peter’s pence. Some
other conditions of less consequence were added, such as,
that the Poles should shave their heads and beards, and
wear a white linen robe at festivals, like other professors of
the Catholic religion. Great preparations were also made
for the reception of the young prince ; and he was met on
the frontier by the nobility, clergy, and forces of the na¬
tion, by whom he was conducted to Gnesna, and crowned
by the primate with more than usual solemnity. He proved
a virtuous and pacific prince, equal to the difficulties of his
situation, worthy of the confidence of the people, and
anxious to repair the evils which had so long afflicted his
country. Casimir, however, evinced his courage in subdu¬
ing the banditti by which the country was infested, in re¬
establishing order, and in restoring the dominion of the laws.
By marrying the Princess Mary, sister of the Duke of Rus¬
sia, all quarrels with his most formidable enemies were for
the time extinguished. In a word, the kingdom flourished
during his reign, and, from the wisdom and stability of the
administration, became more respectable than it could have
been rendered by many victories. After a happy reign of
sixteen years, he died beloved and regretted by all his sub¬
jects.
By the happy administration of Casimir the kingdom
recovered sufficient strength to carry on successful wars
against its foreign enemies. Boleslas II., the son of Casi¬
mir, an enterprising and valiant prince, succeeded to the
throne, and soon rendered himself so famous that three
unfortunate princes took refuge at his court, having been
expelled from their dominions by their rebellious subjects.
Ihese were, Jaromir, brother of Wratislas duke of Bohe¬
mia ; Bela, brother of the king of Flungary ; and Zaslaf
duke of Kiow, eldest son of Jarislas duke of Russia, and
cousin to the king of Poland. Boleslas determined to re¬
dress all their grievances ; but whilst he deliberated upon
the most proper means of so doing, the Duke of Bohemia,
dreading the consequences of Jaromir’s escape, assembled
an army, and, without any declaration of war, marched
through the Hercynian forest, desolated Silesia, and laid
waste with fire and sword the frontiers of Poland. Boles¬
las marched against him with a force greatly inferior; but,
by dint of superior capacity, cooped up his advei'sary in a
wood, where he reduced him to the greatest distress. In
this extremity the duke sent proposals for accommodation;
but these were rejected writh disdain by Boleslas; upon
which the former, ordering fires to be kindled in his camp,
as if he designed to continue there, removed with the ut¬
most silence in the night-time, and marching through nar¬
row defiles, advanced several leagues before Boleslas re-
A N D.
187
ceiyed intelligence of his retreat. The king pursued the History,
fugitive, but in vain; and, after ravaging the frontiers of Mo- 's—~
ravia, he returned to his own dominions. The next year
Boleslas entered Bohemia with a numerous army ; but the
duke, unwilling to encounter such a formidable adversary,
submitted to such terms as Boleslas thought proper to dic¬
tate. In these the king of Poland stipulated for certain
conditions in favour of Jaromir, which he took care to see
punctually executed; and he next determined to march to¬
wards Hungary, to assist the fugitive prince Bela.
This prince had for some time been solicited by a party
of disaffected nobility to return, his brother, the reigning
king, having, by his tyrannical behaviour, alienated the hearts
of his subjects. As soon, therefore, as Boleslas had finish¬
ed the war in Bohemia, he was solicited by Bela to em
brace the present favourable opportunity for putting him in
possession of the kingdom of Hungary. This the king readily
complied with ; and both princes entered Hungary, by dif¬
ferent routes, each at the head of a numerous body. The
king of that country, however, was not disconcerted by
such a formidable invasion; and, being largely assisted by
the emperor, advanced against his antagonists with a great
army, in which there wTere a numerous body of Bohemians,
who had come to his assistance in direct violation of the
treaty subsisting between the duke and the king of Poland.
A decisive battle was at length fotight, in which the Germans
behaved with the greatest valour, but were entirely defeated
through the treachery of the Hungarians, who in the heat
of the battle deserted and went over to Bela. Almost all
the foreign auxiliaries wrere killed on the spot; the king
himself was seized, and treated with such cruelty that he
died of a broken heart; and Bela was placed on the throne
■without further opposition, except from a revolt of the
peasants, which was soon quelled by the Polish army.
Boleslas, having thus succeeded in two great enterprises, Boleslas
began to look upon himself as invincible ; and, instead ofprojects
designing only to assist Zaslaf, as he had at first intended, die con-
now projected the subjugation of the whole country. He
had indeed a claim to the sovereignty in virtue of his des- *
cent from Mary, queen of Poland, the sister of Jarislaf; and
this he endeavoured to strengthen by marrying a Russian
princess. Having, therefore, assembled a numerous and well-
disciplined army, he entered the duchy of Kiow, and was
there opposed by Uscheslaf, who had usurped the sovereign¬
ty, with a great body of forces. Boleslas, however, conti¬
nuing to advance, the Russian prince, intimidated by the
number and order of his enemies, deserted his owrn troops,
and fled privately with a slender retinue, upon which his force
dispersed. The inhabitants of the city of Kiow now called to
their assistance two brothers of Uscheslaf; but these princes
acting the part of mediators, procured pardon for the inhabi¬
tants from Zaslaf, their natural sovereign; and with the same
facility the two princes recovered all the other dominions
belonging to Zaslaf. In the mean time the king of Hun¬
gary died ; a revolt immediately ensued; and the two sons
of Bela were on the point of being deprived of their pater¬
nal dominions. This Boleslas no sooner heard of than he
marched directly into Hungary, where, by the terror of his
name alone, he re-established tranquillity, and confirmed the
princes in the enjoyment of their kingdom. In the mean
while Zaslaf was again driven from his territories; all the
conquests that had formerly been made were lost; and his
brothers became more powerful than ever. The king’s
vigour, however, soon disconcerted all their measures. He
ravaged the territories composing two palatinates, reduced
the strong city of Wolyn, and transported the booty to Po¬
land. The campaign was finished by a battle, which proved
so bloody, that though Boleslas proved victorious, his army
was so weakened that he could not pursue his conquests.
In the winter he made numerous levies, and returning in the
spring to Kiow, reduced it by famine. But on this occasion,
188
POLAND.
History.
Civil war.
Religious
conten¬
tions.
instead of treating the inhabitants with cruelty, he commend¬
ed their valour, and strictly prohibited his troops from pil¬
laging or insulting them ; distributing provisions amongst
them with the utmost liberality.
This clemency procured the highest honour to the king of
Poland. But his stay here was productive of a great disaster.
Kiow being the most dissolute as well as the richest city
in the north, the king and his soldiers gave themselves up
to the pleasures of the place. Boleslas himself affected all
the state of an eastern monarch, and contracted an inclina¬
tion for the grossest debaucheries. This Russian Capua prov¬
ed almost fatal to Poland. The Hungarian and Russian wars
having continued for seven years, during that time the king,
had never been at home, excepting for the short space of
three months. In the mean time the Polish women, exas¬
perated at hearing that their husbands had neglected them,
and connected themselves with the women of Kiow, raised
their slaves to the beds of their masters; in other words, con¬
spired in one general scheme of prostitution, in order to be
revenged for the infidelity of their husbands.1 Advice of this
strange revolution w7as soon received at Kiow, where it ex¬
cited violent commotions. The soldiers blamed the king
for their dishonour, forgetting how much they had to accuse
their own conduct in giving their wives such provocation.
The effect of these discontents was a general desertion, and
Boleslas saw himself suddenly left almost alone in the heart
of Russia ; the soldiers having unanimously resolved to re¬
turn home, in order to take vengeance upon their wives and
their paramours.
A dreadful kind of civil war now ensued. The women,
knowing that they had no mercy to expect from their hus¬
bands, persuaded their paramours to take arms in their de¬
fence. They themselves fought by the side of their gal¬
lants wdth the utmost fury, and sought out their husbands
in the heat of battle, in order to secure themselves from all
danger of punishment by their death. T hey were, how¬
ever, on the point of being subdued, when Boleslas arrived
with the few remaining Poles, assisted by an army of Rus¬
sians, with whom he resolved to take equal vengeance on
the women, their gallants, and his own soldiers who had de¬
serted him. This produced a carnage more dreadful than
ever. The soldiers united with their former wives and their
gallants against the common enemy, and fought against Bo¬
leslas and the Russians with the fury of lions. At last, how¬
ever, the fortune of the king prevailed ; the rebels were to¬
tally subdued; and the few who escaped the sword were
tortured to death, or perished in prison.
To add to the calamities of this unhappy kingdom, the
schisms which for some time had prevailed in the Church of
Rome found their way also into Poland; and the animosity
of parties became aggravated in proportion to the frivolous
nature of their differences. But, as generally happens, the
matter at length came to be a contention for wealth and
power between the king and clergy. Bloodshed followed.
The Bishop of Cracow was, like another Thomas a-Becket,
massacred in the cathedral whilst he wTas performing the
duties of his office. Violence filled the land, and anarchy
reigned supreme. This and other crimes in a short time
brought on signal vengeance. Pope Gregory VII. thun¬
dered out anathemas against the king, released his subjects
from their allegiance, deprived him of the titles of sove¬
reignty, and laid the kingdom under a general interdict.
To this sentence Boleslas in vain opposed his authority, and
recalled the spirit which had formerly rendered him so for¬
midable. The minds of the people were so impressed with
the power of the church, that they deemed it a less heinous
crime to rise in rebellion against their sovereign than to History,
oppose the authority of the holy see. Conspiracies were '''■
daily formed against the person and government of Boles¬
las ; and the whole kingdom became a scene of confusion,
so that the king could no longer continue with safety in his
own dominions. He therefore fled with his son Miecislas,
and took refuge in Hungary . But here also the holy ven¬
geance of the clergy pursued him, nor did they cease perse¬
cuting him till he was brought to a miserable end. Authors
differ respecting the manner of his death. Some say that he
was murdered by the clergy as he was hunting; others, that
he killed himself in a fit of despair; whilst one author informs
us that he wandered about in the woods of Hungary, lived
like a savage upon wild beasts, and was at last devoured
by dogs. The greatest number, however, allege, that being
driven from place to place by the persecutions of the cler¬
gy, he was at last obliged to become a cook in a monastery
at Carinthia, where in this mean occupation the king of Po-
land ended his days, probably in peace.
The destruction of Boleslas was not sufficient to allay The inter,
the papal resentment. It extended to the whole kingdom ^reiIiOV-
of Poland. Miecislas, the son of Boleslas, was not sufferede
to ascend the throne; the kingdom continued under a severe
interdict, which could be removed only by the most abject
concessions ; and, besides the tax called Peter’s pence, new
impositions w7ere added of the most oppressive nature ; until
at length the pontiff, having impoverished the country, con¬
sented that the brother of the deceased monarch should be
raised to the sovereignty, but only with the title of duke.
This prince, named Uladislas, being of a meek disposi- UladMas.
tion, w7ith little ambition, thought it his duty to acquiesce
implicitly in the will of the pope. Having therefore accept¬
ed the terms offered, he sent an embassy to Rome, earnestly
entreating the removal of the interdict. The request wras
granted; but all his endeavours to recover the regal dig¬
nity proved fruitless, the pope having, in conjunction with
the emperor of Germany, conferred that honour on the
Duke of Bohemia. This was extremely mortifying to Ula¬
dislas, but it was absorbed in considerations of the utmost
consequence to himself and his dominions. Russia availed
itself of the recent disturbances to throw off the yoke ; and
this revolt drew after it that of Prussia, Pomerania, and seve¬
ral other provinces. The smaller provinces, however, were
soon reduced; but the duke had no sooner returned to Po-
land than they again rebelled, concealing their families in
impenetrable forests. Uladislas marched against them with
a considerable army ; but was entirely defeated, and obliged
to return in disgrace. Next year, however, he had better
fortune. Having led against them a more numerous army
than before, he compelled them to submit, and deliver up
the ringleaders of .the revolt to be punished as the duke
thought proper.
But no sooner were the Pomeranians reduced, than civil
dissensions took place. Sbigniew, the son of Uladislas by a
concubine, w7as placed by the discontented nobility at the
head of an army to subvert his father’s government, and
dispute the title of Boleslas, the legitimate son of Uladis¬
las, to the succession. The war was terminated by the de¬
feat and captivity of Sbigniew, who was at first confined,
but afterwards released on condition that he should join his
father in punishing the palatine of Cracow. Before this could
be effected, however, the palatine found means to effect a
reconciliation with the duke ; and the young princes being
displeased with this, a war ensued between them and their
father. At length, however, the palatine of Cracow w7as
banished, and the princes submitted ; after w hich, Uladis-
poife
tin
IE.
'! t
1 This prostitution or bigamy must have been all but universal, since only one lady is mentioned who had the virtue to resist the
strange epidemic passion with which the Polish matrons appear to have been seized. Her name, which history has been careful to pre¬
serve, was Margaret, the wife of Count Nicolas de Zembosin
ll
POLAND
L tory. las, having chastised the Prussians and Pomeranians, who
'■Hv'--'' had again revolted, died in the year 1103, in the fifty-ninth
year of his age.
Bwslas Uladislas was succeeded by his son Boleslas III. who
II divided his dominions equally between his brother Sbigniew
and himself. But the former being dissatisfied with his
share, raised cabals against his brother; and a civil war was
for some time prevented by the good offices of the primate.
At last, Sbigniew, having privately stirred up the Bohe¬
mians, Saxons, and Moravians, against his brother, made
such formidable preparations as threatened the conquest of
all Poland. Boleslas, unprovided with forces to oppose such
a formidable power, had recourse to the Russians and Hun¬
garians, who readily embraced his cause, in expectation of
turning it to their own advantage. Ultimately, however,
Sbigniew was defeated, and might have easily been obliged
to surrender at discretion, had not Boleslas generously left
him in quiet possession of the duchy of Mazovia. This kind¬
ness the ungrateful Sbigniew repaid by entering into another
conspiracy ; but the plot being discovered, he was seized,
banished, and declared a traitor if ever he again set foot in
Poland. Even this severity, however, did not produce the
desired effect. Sbigniew having persuaded the Pomera¬
nians to arm in his behalf, was defeated, taken prisoner, and
again banished. All the nobility now solicited the king
to put the ungrateful traitor to death; but that generous
prince could not think of polluting his hands with the death
of his brother. He even took him back to Poland, and ap¬
pointed him a maintenance suitable to his rank; but he
soon had reason to repent of his kindness. His unnatural
brother soon began to raise fresh disturbances, and at length
met with the death which he had so well deserved.
W with Boleslas was scarcely freed from the intrigues of his bro-
tlu i.mpe- thcr, when he found himself in greater danger than ever,
roi enry from qie amBition of the Emperor Henry V. The empe¬
ror had attacked the king of Hungary, with whom Boles¬
las was in close alliance, and from whom he had received
assistance in his greatest distress. The king of Poland de¬
termined to assist his friend, and therefore made a powerful
diversion in Bohemia, where he repeatedly defeated the im¬
perialists. The emperor then collecting all his forces, ra¬
vaged Silesia, and even entered Poland, where he laid siege
to the strong town of Lubusz ; but he was at last obliged
to abandon the enterprise, after having sustained severe loss.
Henry, in no degree discouraged, penetrated still farther
into Poland, and was laying waste all before him, when the
superior skill of Boleslas compelled him to retire. Enraged
at this disappointment, Henry laid siege to Glogau, in hopes
of drawing the Poles to an engagement before he should
be obliged to evacuate the country. The fortifications of
the place were weak, but the spirit of the inhabitants sup¬
plied their deficiencies. At last, however, they were on the
point of surrendering, and had actually agreed to give up
the place, provided they did not receive any succours with¬
in a definite time. But Boleslas, determined not to allow so
brave a garrison to fall a sacrifice to their loyalty, prevailed
on the besieged to break the capitulation rather than sur¬
render when they were on the point of being delivered. All
this was transacted with so much secrecy, that the emperor
advanced, without thoughts of meeting any resistance, to
take possession of the city; but being received by a furious
discharge of arrows and javelins, he was so incensed that he
resolved to storm the place, and not give any quarter. On
the approach of the army, the imperialists were astonished to
see not only the breaches filled up^ but new walls, secured
by a wet ditch, reared behind the old, and erected during
the suspension of hostilities by the industry of the besieged.
The attack, however, went on ; but the inhabitants, ani¬
mated by despair, defended themselves with incredible va¬
lour, and at last obliged the imperialists to raise the siege.
Next day Boleslas arrived, and pursued the emperor with
189
such vigour that he obliged him to retreat with disgrace in- History,
to his own country. This soon brought on a peace, which
was confirmed by a marriage between Boleslas and the em¬
peror’s sister.
Hitherto the glory of Boleslas had equalled, or perhaps Boleslas
even eclipsed, that of his namesake and predecessor Boleslas bmaght
the Great; but about the year 1135 he was brought into dif-11110.^'-
ficulties, and even disgrace, by his own credulity. Imposedculties‘
on by an artful story trumped up by a certain Hungarian,
who had insinuated himself into his affections, he conferred
on that adventurer the government of Wislica, a strong
town on the river Nida. But the traitor gave up the place
to the Russians, who pillaged and burned it, at the same
time carrying the inhabitants into slavery. Boleslas, in¬
censed, immediately entered into a war with Russia, by
which he only heaped one calamity upon another. Having
received a deputation from the inhabitants of Halitz to im¬
plore his assistance, Boleslas marched to their relief with a
choice body of troops; but as he was preparing to enter
the town he was attacked by the whole Russian army, and,
after a most violent conflict, entirely defeated. The unfor¬
tunate prince was so much afflicted by this reverse, that in
a short time he died, after having reigned thirty-six years.
Boleslas, by his will, divided his dominions equally Poland di-
amongst his four sons. Uladislas, the eldest, had the pro-vided
vinces of Cracow, Sieradz, Lencsysa, Silesia, and Pomerania,
Boleslas, the second son, had for his share the palatinates of0f j30”e ^!
Culm and Kujavia, with the duchy of Mazovia. The pala¬
tinates of Kalszh and Posen fell to Miecislas, the third son ;
and to Henry, who was the fourth, were assigned those of
Lublin and Sandomir. Casimir, the youngest child, then
an infant in the cradle, was entirely forgotten, and no pro¬
vision made for him. There have been but very few in¬
stances where dominions were thus divided, that the princes
remained satisfied with their respective shares ; neither did
the sons of Boleslas long continue at peace with one ano¬
ther. By the will of the duke, all the brothers were ob¬
liged to own the supremacy of Uladislas, who was declared
duke of Poland; they were restrained from forming al¬
liances, declaring war, or concluding peace, without his ap¬
probation ; they were obliged to take the field with a cer¬
tain number of troops whenever the duke required it; and
they were forbidden to meddle with the guardianship of
the infant Prince Casimir, his education being left entirely
to the sovereign.
The harmony of the princes was first disturbed by the A civil
ambition of Christina, the wife of Uladislas, who formed awar-
scheme to get possession of all Poland, and deprive the
younger children of the benefit of their father’s will. Hav¬
ing obtained her husband’s concurrence, she assembled the
states of Poland, and made a long speech, showing the dan¬
gers which might arise from a partition of the ducal do¬
minions amongst so many ; and concluded with attempting
to show the necessity of revoking the ratification of the late
duke’s will, in order to insure the obedience of the princes
and the tranquillity of the republic. Many of the nobility
expressed their resentment against this speech, and fully
refuted every article in it. But all were afterwards gained
over or intimidated by Uladislas, and none appeared to
take the part of the young princes except a noble Dane,
who lost his life for this generous interference.
Uladislas having now got the nobility on his side, first Conduct
drove Boleslas from his territories, and next marching and fate of
against Henry, dispossessed him also, forcing both to takeUladislas-
refuge with Miecislas in Posnania, where all the three bro¬
thers were besieged. Several of the nobility interposed, and
employed all their influence to effect a reconciliation, but
in vain. Uladislas, as inexorable as if he had received an
injury, insisted that the besieged princes should surrender
at discretion, and submit to the will of the conqueror. Thus
driven to despair, the brothers sallied out, attacked the
190
History.
POLAND.
duke’s army, and having obtained a complete victory, took
all his baggage and valuable effects. Next, to improve
their victory, they laid siege to Cracow. 1 he Russians, who
had at first assisted Uladislas, now abandoned him, and eva-
dren of Uladislas; and, to take away all pretence for re- History.. g ot
newing the civil discords of Poland, they were a second —v~vjv-^'
time invested with the duchy of Silesia, which for the time
lauxsias iiuw - ,  put an end to all disputes. After this, Boleslas applied him-
cuated Poland. This obliged him to shut himself up in self to promote the happiness of his subjects, and continued
Cracow, whence, finding the inhabitants little disposed to thus occupied until the period of his death, which happened
stand a siege, he retired into Germany to solicit assistance, in the year 1174. I
But in the mean time the city of Cracow surrendered, Ula- On the death of Boleslas, the states raised his brother^
disks was formally deposed, and his brother Boleslas raised Miecislas to the ducal throne. But the moment that Mie-
J 1 cislas ceased to be a subject he became a tyrant, and the
Boleslas.
Poland in¬
vaded by
the Em¬
peror Bar-
barossa.
t0 The new duke began his administration with an act of slave of almost every vice ; so that m a short time he was
generosity towards his brother Uladislas, on whom he con- deposed, and his brother Casimir elected m his steady
ferred the duchy of Silesia, which was thus separated from, Casimir was a prince remarkable for his justice and be- Casiimr.
and has never since been re-annexed to Poland. But this nevolence. He set himself about securing peace and es- Con^
had no other effect upon Uladislas than putting him in a tabhshmg tranquillity in all parts of his dominions. He re¬
condition to raise fresh disturbances; and he now found dressed grievances, suppressed exorbitant imposts, and as-
means to persuade the Emperor Conrad to invade Poland, sembled a general Diet, in which it was proposed to rescue
- - ■ ^ • 1 1 • 1 the peasants from the tyranny of the nobility. 1 his last
was an affair of such consequence, that the duke hesitated
to engage in it of his own authority, even though support¬
ed by the clergy. Yet it proved less difficult than had
been imagined to persuade the nobility to relinquish certain
privileges of a kind extremely detrimental. Influenced by
Boleslas, however, so harassed and fatigued his army by
marches, ambuscades, and skirmishes, that he was soon ob¬
liged to return to his own country ; and for some years
Poland enjoyed profound tranquillity. During this interval
Henry entered on a crusade; and though he lost almost his
whole army in that enthusiastic undertaking, yet he is cele
brated, by the superstitious writers of the age, as the bul- the example of their sovereign, they immediately granted
wark of the church, and one of the greatest Christian heroes, all that he required ; and, to secure this concession in fa-
Soon after the return of Henry, Poland was invaded by the vour of the peasants, the archbishop of Gnesna thundered
Emperor Frederic Barbarossa, who had been persuaded to out anathemas against all who should endeavour to reclaim
make the attempt by Uladislas and his wife Christina. The the privileges they had just renounced ; whilst, to give still
number of the imperialists was so great, that Boleslas and greater weight to this decision, the acts of the Diet were
his brothers did not think proper to oppose them in the open transmitted to Rome, and formally confirmed by the pope,
field; they contented themselves with cutting off the con- But though the nobility in general consented to the partial
voys, placing ambuscades, harassing them on their march, retrenchment or limitation of their power, it occasioned
and keeping them in perpetual alarm by false attacks and discontent amongst some, who for this reason immediately
skirmishes. With this view the three brothers divided their became the partisans of the deposed Miecislas. lhat un¬
forces, laid waste the country before the enemy, and burned fortunate prince was now reduced to such indigence, that
all the towns and cities which were in no condition to stand his brother Casimir, affected by the accounts e a re-
a siege. Thus the emperor, advancing into the heart of a ceived, proposed, in an assembly of the Diet, to resign t ;e
desolated country, where he could not subsist, was at last sovereignty in favour of Miecislas. To this proposition,
reduced to such a situation that he found himself obliged however, the states replied in the most peremptory man-
to solicit a conference with Boleslas. The latter was too ner; desiring him never again to mention the subject to
prudent to irritate him by an unseasonable haughtiness, them, lest they should be under the necessity of deposing
and therefore went to the German camp, attended only him; and intimating their determination^ that^ his^brother
by his brothers and a slight guard. This instance of con¬
fidence proved so agreeable to the emperor, that a treaty
was soon entered into, and confirmed by a marriage be¬
tween Adelaide, niece of the emperor, and Miecislas, duke
of Posen
should never more have the dominion of Poland. Casimir,
however, was so much concerned on account of his bro¬
ther’s misfortunes, that he tried every method to relieve
him, and even connived at the arts that were practised by
some discontented noblemen to restore him. But this
Boleslas having thus happily escaped from imminent dan- generous and amiable conduct was repaid by the grossest
ger, resolved to attempt the conquest of Prussia, the inhabi- ingratitude. Miecislas used every art to wrest from is
tants of which were still heathens. Having unexpected- brother the whole of his dominions, and actually conqueret
ly invaded the country with a very numerous army, he sue- the provinces of Mazovia and Cujavia ; but of these he was
ceeded in his enterprise. Great numbers of infidels were soon dispossessed, and only some places in Lowrer Polan
converted, and many churches erected ; but no sooner had were left him. Nor was this all. On occasion of a report
Boleslas withdrawn, than the inhabitants returned to their that Casimir had been poisoned in an expedition into j^us‘
old religion. Upon this Boleslas again advanced against sia, he surprised the city of Cracow. But the citadel refused
them with a formidable power; but being betrayed by to surrender, and his hopes were entirely blasted by the
some Prussians whom he had taken into his service and return of Casimir himself. The last action of this amiable
raised to posts of honour, his army was led into defiles prince was the conquest of Russia, which he effected rather
and almost entirely cut off. Duke Henry was killed, whilst by the reputation of his wisdom and generosity than by the
Boleslas and Miecislas escaped with great difficulty
This misfortune was quickly followed by another. The
children of Uladislas now laid claim to all the Polish do¬
minions which had been possessed by their father, and the
ifii
Hid
i
force of his arms. The people of that country voluntarily
submitted to a prince so famed for his benevolence, jus¬
tice, and humanity. Soon after his return he died at Cra¬
cow, lamented as the best prince that had ever filled the
greater part of which had been bestowed upon Casimir; and throne of Poland.
they were supported in their pretensions by a great num- Casimir left one son, named Lesko, an infant; but the civil
her of discontented Poles, together with a considerable body states, dreading the consequences of a long minority, hesi-betwee^
~cn n;'™:— Boleslas, finding himself unable to tated to appoint him sovereign. At last, however, Lesko ^ .
of German auxiliaries.  J    x ^ w
withstand his enemies by force, had recourse to negotia- was nominated, chiefly through the interest he had ob-
tion, by which he gained time to recruit his army and re- tained by reason of his father’s virtues. The consequence
pair his losses. An assembly of the states was then held, was precisely what might have been expected. Miecislas
before which the duke fully refuted the claims of the chil- formed an alliance against him with the Dukes of Oppeln,
Miedsl*
POL
Ip tory. Pomerania, and Breslau ; and having raised all the men in
''-'•y—'' Lower Poland fit to bear arms, took the road to Cracow
with a numerous army. On the banks of the river Moz-
garva a sanguinary conflict ensued; but both sides were so
much weakened that they were forced to retire for some
time, in order to repair their losses. Miecislas was first
ready for action, and therefore had the advantage. But he
thought proper to employ artifice rather than force ; and
having attempted in vain to corrupt the guardians of Lesko,
he entered into a compact with the Princess Helen, his
mother. Representing in the strongest manner the miseries
which would ensue from her refusal of the conditions he
proposed, he stipulated to adopt her sons Lesko and Con¬
rad as his own; to surrender the province of Cujavia for
their present support; and to declare them heirs to all his
dominions. The principal nobility opposed this accommo¬
dation ; but it was accepted by the duchess in spite of all
their remonstrances; and Miecislas was once more put in
possession of the capital, after having taken a solemn oath
to execute punctually every article of the treaty.
Mi slas It is not to be supposed that a prince of such a perfidious
re&red. disposition as Miecislas would pay much regard to the ob¬
ligations of a simple contract. It was a maxim with him,
that a sovereign is no longer obliged to observe his oath than
whilst it is neither safe nor beneficial to break it. Having
therefore got all the power into his hands, he behaved in
the same manner as if no treaty with the Duchess Helen
had ever subsisted. The princess, perceiving herself duped,
•formed a strong party, and having excited a general insur¬
rection, the rebellion proved successful. Miecislas was ex¬
pelled from Cracow, and on the point of being reduced to
his former indigence, when he found means to foment a
quarrel between the duchess and the palatine of Cracow,
and thus once more turned the scale in his favour. The
forces of Miecislas now became superior, and he regained
possession of Cracow ; but did not long enjoy his prosperity.
He fell a victim to intemperance, and Lesko was restored
to the sovereignty in the year 1206.
Po d fa- The government of Lesko was the most unfortunate of
vas by any of the sovereigns of Poland. In his time the Tartars
tarf ^ ma^e an Eruption into that country, and everywhere com¬
mitted the most cruel ravages. At last they came to an
engagement with the Poles, assisted by the Russians, and,
after an obstinate conflict, obtained a complete victory. This
incursion, however, terminated as precipitately as it had
commenced. Without any apparent reason, they retired, just
as the whole kingdom was preparing to submit; but the
devastations they had committed produced a famine, which
was soon followed by a plague that depopulated one of the
most populous countries of the north. In this unhappy
situation of affairs, death ended the misfortunes of Lesko,
who was assassinated by his own subjects. A civil war fol¬
lowed his death ; and the history of Poland is for some time
so confused that it is difficult to say who was his successor.
During this unfortunate state of the country, the Tartars
made a second irruption, laid all waste before them, and
were advancing towards the capital, when they were attack¬
ed and defeated with great slaughter by the palatine of Cra¬
cow, with only a handful of men. The power of the enemy,
however, was not broken by this victory. Next year the
Tartars returned, and committed barbarities such as can
scarcely be imagined. Whole provinces were ravaged, and
every one of the inhabitants massacred. They were re¬
turning, laden with spoil, when the palatine fell upon them
a second time, but not with the same success as before. Af¬
ter a most obstinate engagement, he was defeated, and all
Poland thus laid open to the ravages of the barbarians. The
nobility fled into Hungary, and the peasants sought an
asylum amongst rocks and impenetrable forests. Cracow',
being thus left entirely defenceless, was soon taken, pillaged,
and burnt; after which the barbarians, penetrating into
AND. 191
Silesia and Moravia, desolated these countries, destroying History.
Breslau and other cities. Nor did Hungary escape the
fury of their barbarity. The king, having given battle to
the Tartars, was defeated with great slaughter, and had the
mortification to see his capital laid in ashes, and above one
hundred thousand of his subjects perish by fire and sword.
The arms of the Tartars proved invincible. Nothing could
withstand the prodigious force they brought into the field,
and the fury with wdiich they fought. Fixing their head¬
quarters on the frontiers of Hungary, they spread their de¬
vastations on every side, with a celerity and success that
threatened the destruction of the whole empire, as well as
that of the neighbouring kingdoms.
Poland was reduced to this dreadful situation when Bo- Knights of
leslas, surnamed the Chaste, obtained the sovereignty. But*!*6 Teuto-
this, so far from putting an end to the troubles, only super-
added a civil war to the other calamities with which the jntb() p0_
country was afflicted. Boleslas was opposed by his uncle land.
Conrad, the brother of Lesko, who was provoked at becom¬
ing the subject of his own nephew. Having assembled a
powerful army, he gained possession of Cracow', assumed
the title of Duke of Poland, and might possibly have kept
possession of the sovereignty, had not his avarice and pride
offended equally the nobility and the peasants. Hence they
unanimously invited Boleslas, who had fled into Hungary,
to return home and head the insurrection which now broke
out in every quarter. On his arrival, he was joyfully re¬
ceived in the capital. But Conrad still headed a powerful
party ; and it is reported that on this occasion the knights
of the Teutonic order were first called into Poland, to dis¬
pute the pretensions of Boleslas. All endeavours of Con¬
rad, however, proved unsuccessful. He was defeated in two
pitched battles, and forced to live in a private situation ;
though he never ceased to harass his nephew, and make
fresh attempts to recover the crown. Of the reign of Bo¬
leslas, however, we have little information, except that he
made a vow of perpetual continency, and imposed the same
on his w ife; that he founded nearly forty monasteries ; and
that after a long reign he died in 1279, having previously
adopted Lesko, duke of Cujavia, and procured a confirma¬
tion of his choice by the free election of the people.
The reign of this last prince was one continued scene of Poland
foreign and domestic trouble. On his accession he was at- overrun by
tacked by the united forces of Russia and Lithuania, assist- *!ie
ed by the Tartars; but he had the good fortune to defeat^"s’afidar
the confederate barbarians in a pitched battle. By this Lithuar.i-
victory the enemy were obliged to quit the kingdom ; but ans.
Lesko was so much weakened, that civil dissensions imme¬
diately afterwards ensued, and increased to such a degree
that he was obliged to fly to Hungary, the common re¬
source of distressed Polish princes. The inhabitants of Cra¬
cow alone remained firm in their duty ; these brave citizens
having stood all the fatigue and danger ol a tedious siege,
until they were at last relieved by Lesko at the head of a
Hungarian army, who defeated the rebels, and restored to
his kingdom a legitimate government. But scarcely had
he re-ascended the throne when the united forces of the
Russians, Tartars, and Lithuanians made a second irruption
into Poland, and desolated the country with the most savage
barbarity. Their forces were now rendered more terrible
than ever by their having along with them a vast number of
large dogs trained to join in their attacks. With an army
much inferior, however, Lesko obtained a complete victory,
the Poles being animated by all the fury of despair. Soon
after this, Lesko died, with the reputation of a wise, warlike,
but, on the wdiole, an unfortunate prince.
As this prince died without issue, his crown was contest- Uladislas
ed; a civil war again ensued; and the affairs of the state con- Lokietek.
tinued in a very declining condition till the year 1296, when
Prezemislas, the duke, resumed the title of king. How¬
ever, they did not revive in any considerable degree till
192
POLAND.
History, the year 1305, when Uladislas Lokietek, who had seized the foreign prince, they were not happy under his administra- History
-^Srore in 130b7 and afterwards been driven out, was re- tion. Indeed a coldness between this monarch and his'—v-
stored The first transaction of his reign was a war with people took place even before he ascended the throne, for
thTTeutonic kn ghts, who, during the recent disturbances, in thereto cmvenUx, to which the Polish monarchs were
had usurped the greater part of Pomerania. They had been obliged to swear, a great number of unusual articles w^re
settled in the territory of Culm by Conrad, duke of Mazo- inserted. I his probably was the reason why he left Po-
via, but soon extended their dominion over the neighbour-
province", and had even obtained possession of the eity him the crown sceptre, globe, and sword of state, to pre-
ofeDantzig, where they massacred a number of Pomeraniim vent the Poles from electing another prince during hs jib-
gentlemen in cold blood; an atrocity which so terrifled the sence. He left the government in the hands of his mother
neighbouring towns, that^they submitted without a struggle. Elizabeth, who would have been agreeable to the people
° v v '  : had she possessed sufficient capacity for government. At
The knights were commanded by the sovereign pontifi to
renounce their conquests; but they set at nought all his
thunders, and even suffered themselves to be excommuni¬
cated rather than part with their acquisitions. As soon as
this happened, the king marched into the territories of the
Marquis of Brandenburg, who had pretended to sell to the
Teutonic knights a right to those countries, although he
had none to them himself. Uladislas next entered the ter¬
ritory of Culm, which he laid waste with fire and sword;
and although opposed by the joint forces of the marquis,
the knights, and the Duke of Mazovia, he obtained a com¬
plete victory, after a desperate and bloody engagement.
Without following up the blow, however, he returned to
that time, however, the state of Poland was too disturbed
to be governed by a woman. The country was overrun
with robbers and other gangs of villains, who committed
the most horrid disorders; the kingdom was likewise in¬
vaded by the Lithuanians; the province of Black Russia
had revolted ; and the land was universally filled with dis¬
sension. The Poles, displeased to see their towns occu¬
pied by Hungarian garrisons, sent a message to the king,
informing him that they thought he had been sufficiently
honoured in being elected king of Poland himself, without
suffering the kingdom to be governed by a woman and his
Hungarian subjects. Upon this Louis raised a numerous
Poland, where he recruited his army ; and being reinforced army, intending to subdue the refractory spirit of his sub-
bv a body of auxiliaries from Hungary and Lithuania, he jects. His first operations were directed against the Rus-
dispersed the enemy’s forces, and a second time ravaged sians, whom he defeated, and again reduced to subjection,
all the dominions of the Teutonic knights. Had he im- He then turned his arms against the Lithuanians, expelled
proved this advantage, he might easily have exterminated them from the kingdom, and re-established public tran-
the whole order, or at least reduced them so low that they quillity. Instead of being satisfied with this, however, and
could never again have caused disturbances in the state, removing the Hungarian garrisons, he introduced many
But he suffered himself to be soothed and cajoled by the more, and raised Hungarians to all the chief offices of go-
promises which they made, without any design of keeping vernment. His credit even went so far as to get a successor
their engagements, and concluded a treaty under the medi- nominated who was disagreeable to the whole nation, name-
ation of the kings of Hungary and Bohemia. In a few ly, Sigismund, marquis of Brandenburg. After the death
months, however, he was convinced of the perfidy of the
knights, who not only refused to evacuate Pomerania, as
had been stipulated in the treaty, but even endeavoured to
extend their usurpations, and for this purpose assembled a
very considerable army. Uladislas, enraged at their treach¬
ery, once more took the field, and gave them battle with
such success, that four thousand knights were left dead on
the ground, and thirty thousand auxiliaries killed or taken
prisoners. Yet though the king had it once more in his
power to destroy the whole order, he satisfied himself with
obtaining the territories which had occasioned the war, after
w hich he spent the remainder of his life in tranquillity and
peace.
Black ILus ■ Uladislas was succeeded by his son Casimir III. surnamed
sia con- the Great. Having in a single campaign subdued the pro¬
spered by vince called Black Russia, he turned his arms against Ma-
Great ^ ^ zov^a’ which he overran with great rapidity, and annexed as
Jiea a province to the crown. He then applied himself to do¬
mestic affairs, and was the first who introduced a written
code of laws into Poland. He wras a most impartial judge,
a rigid observer of justice, and the most submissive to the
law's of any potentate mentioned in the history of Europe.
The only vice with which he is charged is that of inconti¬
nence ; but even this the clergy declared to be a venial sin,
amply compensated by his other virtues, particularly the
great liberality which he showed to the clerical order. Ca¬
simir was a great patron of industry as well as an eminent
legislator, and through his encouragement numbers flocked
into his kingdom from various parts of Germany. He for¬
tified many of his chief towns, which he also embellished;
whilst colleges, hospitals, churches, and other public build¬
ings, attested alike his genius, his magnificence, and his pa¬
triotism. His reign is considered as the golden age of Po¬
land.
Casimir was succeeded in 1370 by his nephew Louis,
king of Hungary; but as the Poles looked upon him as a
of Louis, however, this election wras set aside; and Hed-
wig, daughter of Casimir the Great, w as proclaimed queen.
This princess married Jagellon, duke of Lithuania, who Hed\vi?
was converted to Christianity, and baptized by the name marries
of Uladislas. By this marriage, the duchy of Lithuania, as ’
well as the vast provinces of Samogitia and Black Russia, Lithuanii
were annexed to the crown of Poland. Such a formidable
accession of power excited the jealousy of the Teutonic
knights. They were sensible that Uladislas was now bound
to undertake the reduction of Pomerania, and revenge all
the injuries which Poland had sustained for a great number
of years ; and from his first accession, considering this mo¬
narch as their greatest enemy, they endeavoured to prevent
his designs, by effecting a revolution in Lithuania in favour
of his brother Andrew. The prospect of success was the
greater, as most of the nobility were discontented wdth the
marriage ; and Uladislas had proposed to effect a revolution
in religion. Two armies, therefore, marched suddenly to¬
wards the frontiers of the duchy, which they penetrated;
laying waste the whole country, and seizing upon some im¬
portant fortresses, before the king of Poland had any no¬
tice of the matter. As soon as he received advice of these
ravages, Uladislas raised forces with the utmost celerity,
which he committed to the care of his brother Skirgello;
who, having defeated the Teutonic knights, obliged them
to abandon all their conquests. . ^
Having secured the tranquillity of Poland, Uladislas vi-Troubles11 ^ ,
Unhappy
reign of
Louis.
sited Lithuania, attended by a great number of the clergy, Lthuai
in order to convert his subjects. This he effected without
much difficulty ; but he left the care of the duchy to his bro¬
ther Skirgello, a man of a cruel, haughty temper, and who
immediately began to abuse his power. Along with him
the king sent his kinsman Vitowda, a prince of a generous,
brave, and amiable disposition, to be a check upon his con¬
duct ; but the barbarity of Skirgello soon obliged this prince
to take refuge amongst the Teutonic knights. For some
POLAND.
193
Hr>ry- time, however, he did not assist the knights in their designs
against his country ; but having in vain applied to the king
for protection, he at last joined in the schemes formed by
the knights for the destruction of Poland. Entering Li¬
thuania at the head of a numerous army, he took the ca¬
pital by storm, burned part of it, and destroyed fourteen
thousand persons in the flames, besides a great number who
were massacred in attempting to make their escape. The
upper part ot the city, however, was vigorously defended,
so that the besiegers were at last obliged to abandon all
thoughts of making themselves masters of it, and to con¬
tent themselves with desolating the adjacent country. The
next year Vitowda renewed his attempts upon the city, but
with the same want of success; though he got possession
of some places of less importance. As soon, however, as
an opportunity offered, he came to an accommodation with
the king, who conferred on him the government of Lithua¬
nia. During the first years of his government, he bestow¬
ed great attention on domestic affairs ; but at last his im¬
petuous valour prompted him to engage in a war with Ta¬
merlane, after the victory gained by the latter over Bajazet
the Turkish emperor. Prior to this time Vitowda had been
at war with the neighbouring Tartars, and had been con¬
stantly victorious. Uladislas, however, dissuaded him from
attacking the whole strength of the nation under such a
celebrated commander as Tamerlane ; but Vitowda was ob¬
stinate in his determination to fight. He encountered an
army of four hundred thousand Tartars under Ediga, Ta¬
merlane’s lieutenant, with only a tenth part of their num¬
ber, and the battle continued for a whole day ; but at last
Vitowda was surrounded by the numbers of his enemy, and
in the utmost danger of being cut in pieces. However, he
cleared his way with prodigious slaughter on both sides,
and came off without a total defeat, having killed a number
of the enemy equal to the whole of his own army,
vith] During the absence of Vitowda, the Teutonic knights had
uto-penetrated into Lithuania, committing everywhere dreadful
;ut8. ravages. On his return he attacked and defeated them,
making an irruption into Livonia, to punish the inhabitants
of that country for the assistance which they had given to
the Teutonic order. This was succeeded by a long series
of wars between Poland and Prussia, in which it became
necessary for Uladislas himself to take the field. The
knights having now got possession of Samogitia, Mazovia,
Culm, Silesia, and Pomerania, Uladislas resolved to punish
them before they became too pow erful; and with this view
he assembled an army composed of several different nations.
He then penetrated into Prussia ; took several towns; and
was advancing to Marienburg, the capital of Pomerania,
when he was met by the army of the Prussian knights, who
determined to hazard a battle. When the engagement be¬
gan, the Poles were deserted by all their auxiliaries, and
obliged to stand the brunt of the battle. But the courage
and conduct of their king so animated them, that after a
most desperate struggle, they obtained a complete victory;
near forty thousand of the enemy being killed in the field,
and thirty thousand taken prisoners. This terrible over¬
throw, however, was less fatal to the affairs of the Prussian
knights than might have been expected. Uladislas did not
improve his victory, and a peace was concluded upon easier
terms than his adversaries had any reason to hope for.
Uladislas V. died in 1435, and was succeeded by his son
Uladislas VI., at that time only nine years of age. He had
scarcely ascended the throne, when the kingdom was in¬
vaded by the Tartars, who defeated the general of the Po¬
lish forces ; and, committing everywhere dreadful ravages,
returned to their own country loaded with booty. A few
years afterwards the nation was involved in a war with
Amurath, the sultan, who threatened to break into Hun¬
gary. But before all things were prepared for the young
king taking the field, a strong body of auxiliaries was des-
vol. XVIII.
Wa
the
nick.
nadj.iS
VI.
patched under John Hunniades, waywode of Transylvania, History,
to oppose the Turks, and likewise to support the election of '
Uladislas to the crow n of Hungary. This detachment sur¬
prised the Turkish army near the river Morava, and de¬
feated Amurath with the loss of thirty thousand men ; after
which Hunniades retook all the places which had been con¬
quered by Amurath, the sultan was forced to sue for peace,
and Uladislas wras raised without opposition to the crown
of Hungary. A treaty was concluded, by which the Turks
promised to relinquish their designs upon Hungary, to ac¬
knowledge the king’s right to that crown, and to give up
all their conquests in Bosnia and Servia. This treaty was
sealed by mutual oaths; but Uladislas broke it at the per¬
suasion of the pope’s legate, who insisted, that now was the
time for humbling the power of the infidels, and produced
a special commission from the pope, absolving the king
from the oath he had taken at the late treaty. The result
of this perfidy was, that Uladislas was entirely defeated
and killed at Varna, and the greater part of his army cut in
pieces.
Uladislas VI. was succeeded by Casimir IV. in whose Casimir
reign the Teutonic knights were subdued, and obliged to IV.
yield up the territories of Culm, Michlow, and the duchy/^u^on'c
of Pomerania, together with the towns of Elbing, Marien-
burg, 1 alkmith, Schut, and Christburg, to the crown of Po¬
land. On the other hand, the king restored to them all
the other conquests he had made in Prussia; granted a seat
in the Polish senate to the grand-master; and endowed him
with other privileges, on condition that, six months after
his accession, he should do homage for Prussia, and take an
oath of fidelity to the king and republic. This success
raised the spirits of the Polish nation, which had drooped
ever since the battle of Varna. The Diet did not, however,
think proper to renew the war against the Turks.
About this time the crown of Bohemia having become Crowns of
vacant, and the people being desirous of being governed by Bohemia
one of the princes of Poland, the barons were induced toant1- ' ■
bestow' the crown upon Uladislas, eldest son of Casimir, info^hat off
opposition to the intrigues of the king of Hungary. Not Poland,
satisfied with this acquisition, however, Uladislas took ad¬
vantage of the dissensions in Hungary, in order to unite
that crown to his own, which he also effected, and thereby
greatly augmented his power, though not the happiness of
his people. Numerous foreign expeditions had exhausted
the treasury, and oppressed the peasants with taxes ; the
gentry were greatly diminished by a number of bloody en¬
gagements ; agriculture was neglected, and the country al¬
most depopulated. But before a proper remedy could be
applied for these evils, Casimir died in 1492. In the reign
of this prince, the deputies of the provinces first appeared
at the Diet, and assumed to themselves the legislative
power; all laws before that time having been framed by
the king in conjunction with the senate.
During the succeeding reigns of John Albert and Alex-Exploits of
ander, the affairs of Poland fell into decline, the kingdom Sigismund.
being harassed by continual ware with the Turks and Tar¬
tars. But they were retrieved by Sigismund I. who as¬
cended the throne in 1507. This monarch, having reform¬
ed some internal abuses, set about rendering the kingdom
as formidable as it had formerly been. He first quelled an
insurrection which broke out in Lithuania; after which, he
drove the Walachians and Moldavians out of Black Russia,
and defeated the Russians in a pitched battle, with the loss
of thirty thousand men. In this engagement he was ob¬
liged to cause his cavalry to swim across the Borysthenes
in order to begin the attack, whilst a bridge was preparing
for the infantry. These orders were executed with asto¬
nishing celerity, notwithstanding the rapidity of the stream,
the steepness of the banks, and the enemy’s opposition.
The onset was led by the Lithuanians, who were directed
to retreat gradually, with a view of drawing the enemy
194
P O L A 14 D.
History.
Sigismimd
Augustus.
within reach of the cannon. This the Russians mistook for
a real flight; and as they were pursuing with eagerness,
Sigismund opened his line to the right and left, pouring in
grape-shot from the artillery with dreadful success. The
Russian general, and several noblemen of the first distinc¬
tion, were taken prisoners, whilst the whole loss of the royal
army did not amount to three hundred men.
After this victory, the king turned his arms against the
Teutonic knights, who had elected the Marquis of Branden¬
burg as their grand-master ; whilst this prince not only re¬
fused to acknowledge the sovereignty of the crown of Po¬
land, but even invaded the Polish territories. Sigismund
marched against him, and gained possession of several im¬
portant places in Brandenburg ; but as he was pursuing his
conquests, the marquis, reinforced by fourteen thousand
Germans led by the Duke of Schonenburg, ventured to
lay siege to Dantzig, after having ravaged the neighbouring
country. The Dantzigers, however, defended themselves
so bravely, that the besiegers were soon obliged to relin¬
quish their enterprise; whilst in their retreat they were at¬
tacked by a strong detachment of Polish cavalry, who made
prodigious havoc amongst them, compelling the wretched
remains to take shelter in Pomerania, where they were mas¬
sacred by the peasants. Soon after this the marquis was
obliged to submit to the clemency of the conqueror. To
secure him in his interest, however, Sigismund granted him
half the province of Prussia as a secular duke, dependent
on the crown of Poland.
In the reign of Sigismund, the kingdom of Poland may
be considered as having attained its greatest pitch of glory.
This monarch possessed, in his own person, the republic of
Poland, the great duchies of Lithuania, Smolensko, and Sa-
veria, besides vast territories lying beyond the Euxine and
the Baltic ; whilst his nephew Louis possessed the kingdoms
of Bohemia, Hungary, and Silesia. But this glory received
a sudden check in 1548, by the defeat and death of Louis,
who perished in a battle fought with Solyman the Great,
sultan of the Turks. The daughter of this prince married
Ferdinand of Austria, an alliance by which the dominions
of Hungary, Bohemia, and Silesia, became inseparably con¬
nected with the hereditary dominions of the Austrian fa¬
mily. This misfortune is believed to have hastened the
death of Sigismund ; though, being then in the eighty-fourth
year of his age, he could not, by the ordinary course of
nature, have lived long. He did not, however, survive the
news many months, but died of a lingering disorder, leav¬
ing behind him the character of a complete general, an
able politician, a good prince, and one of the strongest men
in the north.
Sigismund Augustus, who succeeded his father Sigis¬
mund I. proved also a very fortunate prince. At that time
the most violent and bloody wars were carrying on in Ger¬
many, and indeed throughout other parts of Europe, on ac¬
count of religion; but Sigismund wisely avoided interfering
in these disputes. He would not admit into his dominions
any of those divines who were taxed with holding hetero¬
dox opinions, nor even allow his people the liberty of cor¬
responding with them ; yet he never persecuted, nor em¬
ployed any other means for the preservation of the state
than those of a well-conducted and regular policy. Instead
of disputing with his subjects about speculative opinions,
Sigismund applied himself diligently to the reforming of
abuses, enforcing the laws, enriching the treasury, promot¬
ing industry, and redeeming the crown-lands where the
titles of the possessors appeared illegal. Out of the revenue
recovered in this manner he raised a formidable standing
army without laying any additional tax upon his subjects;
and though he preferred peace to war, he was always able
to punish those who offered indignities to his person or his
crown.
His knowledge of the art of war was soon tried in a con¬
test with the Russians, who, encouraged by the disputes History,
I • i 1 T 1 ’ ~.j J l*. rF i rrV» f cr on/1 f n '^*mm**. ^
Jagellon
which had subsisted between the Teutonic knights and the
archbishop of Riga, cousin of Sigismund, had made an ir¬
ruption into Livonia. The province was at that time di¬
vided between the knights and the prelate ; and the Rus¬
sians, under pretence of assisting the former, had seized
great part of the dominions of the latter. 1 he archbishop
had recourse to his kinsman the king of Poland, who, after
fruitless efforts to accommodate matters, marched towards
the frontiers of Livonia with an army of a hundred thou¬
sand men. The knights wrere in no condition to resist such
a formidable power; and therefore, deserting their allies,
they put themselves under the protection of the king of Po¬
land. But the czar, John Basilides, though deserted by the
knights, did not lose his courage ; nay, he even insolently
refused to return any answer to the proposals of peace made
by Sigismund. His army consisted of three hundred thou¬
sand men, with whom he imagined himself able to reduce
all Livonia, in spite of the utmost efforts of the king of Po¬
land ; but having met with some checks in that quarter, he
directly invaded Poland with h;s whole army. At first he
carried everything before him ; but the Poles soon made a
vigorous opposition ; and the Russians, though everywhere
defeated, still continued their incursions, which Sigismund
at last revenged by invading Russia in his turn.
These mutual desolations and ravages at last made both Extinct*
parties desirous of peace, and a truce for three years was ^ hie
agreed on ; but during the continuance of the armistice thehouseot
king of Poland died, and with him was extinguished the
house of Jagellon, which had governed Poland for nearly
two hundred years. On the death of Sigismund, Poland
became a prey to intestine divisions ; and intrigues were
set on foot at the courts of Vienna, France, Saxony, Swe¬
den, and Brandenburg, each of them endeavouring to esta¬
blish a prince of their own nation on the throne of Poland.
The result of all this was, that the kingdom became one
universal scene of corruption, faction, and confusion. Ihe
members of the Diet consulted only their own interest, and
were ready on every occasion to sell themselves to the best
bidder. The Protestants had by this time got a consider¬
able footing in the kingdom, and thus religious disputes
were intermingled with political ones. One good effect,
however, flowed from this confusion. A law was passed,
by which it was enacted that no difference in religious opi¬
nions should occasion any contention amongst the subjects
of the kingdom ; that all the Poles, without discrimination,
should be capable of holding public offices and trusts under
the government; and that the future kings should swear
expressly to cultivate the internal tranquillity of the realm,
and to cherish without distinction their subjects of all per¬
suasions.
Whilst the candidates for the throne were severally at-Duke of
tempting to support their own interest in the best manner Anjoui
they could, John Crasoski, a Polish gentleman of great me-senkl"=
rit, but diminutive stature, had just returned from k ranee,
whither he had travelled for improvement. His humour,
wit, and diverting size, had rendered him universally agree¬
able at the court of France, and in a particular manner en¬
gaged the esteem of Catharine de’ Medicis, which the little
Pole had the address to make use of for his own advantage.
He owed many obligations to the Duke of Anjou, whom,
out of gratitude, he represented in such favourable terms,
that the Poles began to entertain thoughts of making him
their king. These sentiments were confirmed and encou¬
raged by Crasoski, who returned into France by order of
several leading men in Poland, and acquainted the king and
queen-mother that nothing was wanting except the forma¬
lity of an embassy to procure the crown for the Duke of An¬
jou, almost without opposition. Charles IX. king of France,
at that time also promoted the scheme ; being jealous ot
the Duke of Anjou’s popularity, and willing to have him re-
11)0*5
bn
1 ’
P O L A N D.
I> >ry.
i wl' is
depfd.
Ste]|>n
! iatf,
choMi
kinfi>
moved to as great a distance as possible. The parties ac¬
cordingly came to an agreement, in which it was stipulat¬
ed that the Duke of Anjou should maintain the laws, liber¬
ties, and customs of the kingdom of Poland, and of the
grand duchy of Lithuania; that he should transport all his
effects and annual revenues in France into Poland ; that the
French monarch should pay the late king Sigismund’s debts;
more alert; for whilst Maximilian was disputing about cer¬
tain conditions which the Poles required for the security of
their privileges, he entered Poland, married the princess,
and was crowned on the 1st of May 1576. No opposition
was made to the authority of Batory, except by the inha¬
bitants of Dantzig, who adhered to the interest of Maximi-
han, even after he was dead, and had the presumption to
that he should maintain a hundred young Polish gentlemen demand from the king an oath acknowledging their abso-
^ ^ ^ lute freedom and independence. Batory referred them to
the senate, declaring that he had no right to give up the
privileges of the republic; but he admonished the citizens
to avoid all occasion of a civil war, which must necessarily
terminate in their disadvantage. The obstinate citizens,
at his court, and fifty in other places; that he should send
a fleet to the Baltic to assist Poland against the Russians;
and, lastly, that Flenry should marry the Princess Anne,
sister of the late king Sigismund, though this article Henry
refused to ratify till his return to Poland. Everything being
thus settled, the young king quitted France, attended by a however, construing the king’s lenity into fear, shut the
splendid retinue, and was accompanied by the queen-mo- gates against the ambassador, seized upon the fortress of
ther as far as Lorraine. He was received by his subjects Grebin, and published a manifesto against the king and the
on the frontiers of Poland, and conducted to Cracow, where republic. The king, incensed at these proceedings, march-
lie was soon afterwards crowned.1 The affections of the ed against Grebin, retook the castle, and ravaged certain
Poles were soon engaged by the youth and accomplish- territories belonging to the people of Dantzig ; who, on the
ments of Henry; but scarcely had he been seated on the other hand, retaliated by burning to the ground a monas-
throne, when, by the death of Charles IX., he became heir tery named Oliva, to prevent the Poles from taking posses-
i„ n   Being informed of this by re- sion of so important a position. Batory now renewed over-
to the crown of France,
peated messages from Catharine, he repented his having
accepted the crown of Poland, and resolved to leave it for
that of France. But being sensible that the Poles would
oppose his departure, he kept his intentions secret, and
watched an opportunity of stealing out of the palace in dis¬
guise during the night-time. The Poles, as might well be
expected, were irritated at being thus abandoned, from the
mere motive of interest, by a prince whom they had so much
loved and honoured. Parties were despatched after him
by different roads; and Zamoski, a nobleman who headed
one of these parties, overtook him some leagues distant
from Cracow. All the prayers and tears of that nobleman,
however, could not prevail on Henry to return; he rode
tures of accommodation, but to no purpose. The people
of Dantzig were deaf to these proposals ; and it was not un¬
til after suffering severely that they were at length induced
to submit.
The war with Dantzig had no sooner been ended than the Cruelty of
king directed his whole strength against the czar of Mus-^e ^us-
covy, who had laid siege to Revel, and made himself mas-sians-
ter of several important cities in Livonia. The czar be¬
haved everywhere with the greatest cruelty, slaughtering
without distinction all who were able to bear arms, and
abandoning the women and children to the brutality of the
Tartars who served in his army. The Russians were al¬
lowed to proceed in this manner till the whole province of
post to Vienna, and then passed into France by the way of Livonia, excepting Riga and Revel, had suffered the bar-
Italy.
In the mean time the Poles were so much exasperated
against Henry and his nation, that all the French in Cra¬
cow would have been massacred if the magistrates had not
placed guards in the streets. Henry, however, had fore¬
seen the consequences of his flight, and therefore endea¬
voured to apologise for his behaviour. But nothing could
satisfy the Poles, who now acquainted their king, that if he
did not immediately return, they would be obliged to di¬
vest him of the royal dignity, and to choose another sove¬
reign. Henry began to excuse himself on account of the
wars in which he was engaged, and promised to send men
of unexceptionable integrity to govern Poland till he should
barities of this insulting conqueror. But at length, in 1578,
a body of forces was despatched into the province; the
towns of Wender and Dwinaburg were surprised; and an
army sent by the czar to surprise the former was defeated.
At this time the Muscovites w’ere not the only enemies
who opposed the king of Poland and oppressed Livonia.
That unhappy province was also invaded by the Swedes,
who professed themselves to be enemies equally to both
parties, and who in cruelty were scarcely inferior to the
Russians themselves. The king, however, was not daunt¬
ed by the number of his adversaries. Having made great
preparations, and called to his assistance Christopher, prince
of Transylvania, with all the standing forces of that coun¬
return. But no excuses were accepted ; and on the 15th of try, he took the field in person against the Muscovites, and
July 1575, he was in full Diet solemnly divested of the re- laid siege to Polocz, a town of great importance, situated on
gal dignity, and the throne declared vacant. the river Dwina. 1 he Russians no sooner heard of the ap-
After the deposition of Henry, commotions and factions proach of the Polish army than they resolved to put all the
again occurred, but the contending parties were now re- citizens to death, thinking by this means to strike terror in¬
duced to two; one who supported the interest of Maximi
lian, emperor of Germany; and the other, who were for
electing the Princess Anne, and marrying her to Stephen
Batory, prince of Transylvania. The latter prevailed
to the enemy. When Batory came near the town, the most
shocking spectacle presented itself. The river appeared
dyed with blood, and a vast number of human bodies, fast¬
ened to planks, and terribly mangled, were carried down
through the courage of one gentleman, who, in imitation the stream. But this barbarity, instead oi intimidating ihe
of the power assumed by the Roman tribunes, stood up in Poles, irritated them to such a degree that nothing could
the full senate, and opposed the proclamation of Maximi- resist them. Finding that their cannon made little impres-
lian, declaring that his election was violent and illegal. In
this situation of affairs, it was obvious that strength and ce¬
lerity must determine which election was legitimate; and
both parties wrote to the princes whose cause they had es¬
poused, entreating them to hasten with all possible expedi¬
tion to take possession of the throne. Batory proved the
sion upon the walls of the city, which were constructed of
w'ood, they advanced to the assault w ith burning torches
in their hands, and would soon have reduced the fortifications
to ashes, had not a violent storm of rain prevented them.
The design, however, was put in execution as soon as the rain
slackened ; and the Russian barbarians w ere obliged to sur-
1 Henry of Valois, afterwards Henry III. of France, when he was elected king of Poland, was the first who swore to the celebrated
pacta conventa, a document containing certain obligations on the pare of the king in regard to the liberties of the nation.
196
POLAND.
History.
Russia ra¬
vaged by
Batory.
Consequen¬
ces of Bato
ry’s death.
Sigismund
HI.
render at discretion. It reflects the highest honour on Ba¬
tory, that, notwithstanding the dreadful instances of cruelty
which he had before his eyes, he did not suffer his soldiers
to retaliate. Indeed the atrocities committed by the Rus¬
sians on this occasion seem almost to have authorized any
revenge that could possibly have been taken.
After the reduction of Polocz, Batory continued the war,
and with great success. Two detachments fiom the army
penetrated the enemy’s country by different roads, wasted
all before them to the gates of Smolensk©, and returned
with the spoils of two thousand villages which they had
pillaged and destroyed. In the mean time the Swedes
and Poles thought proper to come to an accommodation;
and though John, king of Sweden, was at that time pre¬
vented from bearing his share of the war, yet Batory re¬
duced such a number of cities, and committed such devas¬
tations, in the Russian territories, that the czar was obliged
to sue for peace, which he obtained on condition of relin-
quishing Livonia, after having throwrn away the lives of more
than four hundred thousand of his subjects in attempting
to conquer it.
Batory being thus freed from a most destructive and cruel
war, applied himself to the internal government of his king¬
dom. He regulated the Polish cavalry in such a manner
that they became formidable to the Turks and other neigh¬
bouring nations; and this is the military establishment to
which the Poles have given the name of quciTliennc, be¬
cause a fourth part of the revenue was employed in support¬
ing them. Batory sent this body of cavalry towards the
frontiers of Tartary, to check the incursions of the barba¬
rians inhabiting that country; and by its means the Ukraine,
a vast tract of desert country, was filled with flourishing
towns and villages, and became a strong barrier against the
Turks, Tartars, and Russians. The last memorable action
of Batory was his attaching to Poland the Cossacks, whom
he civilized and instructed in the arts of war and peace.
All kinds of manufactures at that time known in Poland were
likewise established amongst the Cossacks ; the women were
employed in spinning and weaving woollen cloths, whilst the
men were taught agriculture, and other arts proper for mas¬
culine cultivation.
Whilst Batory was employed in this manner, the Swedes
broke the convention into which they had entered with
Poland, and were on the point of obtaining possession of
Riga. To this, indeed, Batory himself had given occasion,
by attempting to impose the Catholic religion upon the in¬
habitants, after having promised them entire liberty of con¬
science ; a proceeding which so irritated them, that they
revolted, and were on the point of admitting a Swedish
garrison into the city, when the king became informed of
what was going forward. He resolved to take a most ex¬
emplary vengeance on the inhabitants of Riga; but be¬
fore he could execute his intention, he died, in 1586, the
fifty-fourth year of his age, and tenth of his reign.
The death of Batory involved Poland in fresh troubles.
Four candidates appeared for the crown ; the princes Er¬
nest and Maximilian of the house of Austria, Sigismund
prince of Sweden, and Theodore czar of Muscovy. Each of
these had a separate party ; but Sigismund and Maximilian
managed matters so cleverly, that in 1587 both of them were
elected. The result was a civil war, in which Maximilian
was defeated and taken prisoner; and thus without opposi¬
tion Sigismund III., surnamed Vasa, became master of the
throne of Poland. He waged a successful war with the Tar¬
tars, and was otherwise prosperous; but though he suc¬
ceeded to the crown of Sweden, he found it impossible for
him to retain both kingdoms, and he was formally deposed
from the Swedish throne. In 1610 he conquered Russia,
and placed his son on the throne of that country ; but the
Polish conquests of that country have always been short¬
lived. Accordingly, the young prince was soon afterwards
deposed; and the Russians not only regained their liberty, History,
but began to make encroachments on Poland itself. A very “v-.
unfortunate war also took place with Sweden, which was
now governed by the great Gustavus Adolphus; but the
particulars of that contest, with the other exploits of that
renowned warrior, are elsewhere related. At last Sigismund,
worn out with cares and misfortunes, died in 1629.
After Sigismund’s death the affairs of Poland seemed to Uladislas
revive a little under Uladislas VIE, who obliged the Rus-VI1-
sians to sue for peace, and Sweden to restore some of her
conquests; but an attempt being made to abridge the liberty
of the Cossacks, they revolted, and gave the Poles several
terrible defeats ; nor did the war terminate in the lifetime
of Uladislas, who died in 1648. His successor, John Casi-
mir, concluded a peace with these dangerous enemies; but
the war was soon after renewed ; and whilst the kingdom
was distracted between the hostility of the Cossacks and the
discontents of its own inhabitants, the Russians took the
opportunity of invading and pillaging Lithuania.
In a little time afterwards, the whole kingdom was sub-Poland
dued by Charles Gustavus, successor to Christina, queen subduedhj
of Sweden. Happily for Poland, however, a rupture took
place between the courts of Sweden and Copenhagen, and J Ul'
the Poles were thereby enabled to drive out the Swedes
in 1657. This was succeeded by civil wars and contests
with Russia, which so much vexed the king that he resign¬
ed the crown in 1668. For two years after the resigna¬
tion of Casimir, the kingdom was filled with confusion;
but on the 17th of September 1760, one Michael Kori-
buth Wisnowiecki, collaterally descended from the house
of Jagellon, though in a very mean situation at that time,
was chosen king. Llis reign continued only for three years,
during which time John Sobieski, a celebrated Polish ge¬
neral, gave the Turks a dreadful overthrow, though their
army consisted of more than three hundred thousand men;
and if this blow had been followed up, the Cossacks would
not only have been entirely subdued, but very advantageous
terms might have been obtained from the sultan. 01 that
vast multitude of Turks, no more than fifteen thousand made
their escape, the rest being all either killed or taken. How¬
ever, the Polish soldiers, being only bound by the laws oi
their country to stay a certain time in the field, refused to
pursue this signal victory, and suftered the king to make
peace on any terms he could procure.
Wisnowie^ki died before the news of this transaction John So-
reached Cracow; and after his death a new scene of con- bieski re-
fusion ensued, till at last the fortune ot John Sobieski pro-^™^
iff
vailed, and he was elected king of Poland in 1674. A
most magnanimous and heroic prince, it was he who, by
his valour and good conduct, retrieved the affairs of Poland,
and entirely checked the progress of the Turks westward.
These barbarians were everywhere defeated; but notwith¬
standing his great qualities, Poland was now so thoroughly
corrupted, and pervaded by such a spirit of disaffection, that
the latter part of this monarch’s reign was involved in trou¬
bles, through the ambition and contention of some powerful
noblemen. Sobieski died in 1696, and with him the glory
of Poland descended into the tomb.
Most violent contests took place about the succession,
but the recital of these would far exceed our limits. At
last Frederic Augustus, elector of Saxony, prevailed; but
as some of the most essential ceremonies were wanting in
his coronation, because the primate, who was in an oppo¬
site interest, would not perform them, he found it extreme¬
ly difficult to keep his subjects in proper obedience ; and, to
add to his misfortunes, having engaged in a league with
Denmark and Russia against Sweden, he was attacked with
irresistible fury by Charles XII. Though Augustus had
not been betrayed, as indeed he almost always was, he was
by no means a match for the ferocious Swede. The parti¬
culars of this war, however, as they form great part of the
the Poles-
|
J|
POLAND.
Kory.
w.-—-
Dej |ie-
rac rf the
Pol-.
Inte:1-
renof
forei
po\^ in
liehi!; of
the I ssi-
dent:
Cons
(iueni , of
this i,;r.
feren
exploits of that northern hero, more properly fall to be re-
' lated under the head of Sweden. Here, therefore, we shall
only observe, that Augustus was reduced to the humiliat¬
ing necessity of renouncing the crown of Poland on oath,
and even of congratulating his rival Stanislas upon his ac¬
cession to the throne. But when the powrer of Charles
was broken by his defeat at Pultowa, the fortune of Augus¬
tus again prevailed; Stanislas was driven out; and the for¬
mer, being absolved from his oath by the pontiff, resumed
possession of the throne of Poland.
Since that time the Polish nation has made no figure, ex¬
cept in the history of political iniquity. Surrounded by
great and ambitious powers, it has sunk under the pressure,
and now scarcely exists as a nation. On the 5th of Octo¬
ber 1763, Augustus III., elector of Saxony and king of Po¬
land, died, and was succeeded by Count Poniatowski, a Po¬
lish grandee, who, on the 7th of September 1764, was pro¬
claimed king by the name of Stanislas Augustus, and crown¬
ed on the 25th of November the same year. During the
interregnum which took place between the death of Augus¬
tus III. and the election of Stanislas, a decree had been
passed by the convocation-diet of Poland, with regard to
the Dissidents, as they were called, or dissenters from the
Catholic faith, by which they were prohibited the free ex¬
ercise of their religion, and excluded from all offices and
places under the government. On this occasion several
of the European powers interposed, and the courts of
Russia, Prussia, Great Britain, and Denmark, tendered
remonstrances to the Diet; but, notwithstanding these, the
decree was confirmed by the coronation-diet held soon
after the king’s election.
On- the 6th of October 1766, an ordinary Diet was as¬
sembled. Here declarations from the courts above men¬
tioned were presented to his Polish majesty, requiring the
re-establishment of the Dissidents in their civil rights and
privileges, and the peaceable enjoyment of their modes of
worship secured to them by the laws of the kingdom, w hich
had been observed for two centuries. These privileges, it
was alleged, had been confirmed by the treaty of Oliva,
concluded by all the northern powers, and could not now
be altered except by the consent of all the contracting par¬
ties. The Catholic party contended strongly for a confir¬
mation of some decrees against the Dissidents, made in the
years 1717, 1723, and 1736. The deputies from the foreign
powers replied, that those decrees had passed in the midst
of intestine troubles, and were contradicted by the formal
protestations and express declarations of those powers. At
last, after a violent contest, the matter was referred to the
bishops and senators for their opinion; and upon a report
from them, the Diet came to a resolution that they would
maintain the Dissidents in all the rights and prerogatives
to which they were entitled by the laws of their country
and by treaties; and that as to their complaints with re¬
gard to the exercise of their religion, the college of arch¬
bishops and bishops, under the direction of the prince pri¬
mate, would endeavour to remove all those difficulties in a
manner conformable to justice and charity. In the mean
time, the court of Russia, resolved to enforce her remon¬
strances, marched a body of troops to within a few miles of
Warsaw. These resolutions of the Diet were by no means
agreeable to the Dissidents. The latter dated the begin¬
ning of their sufferings from the year 1717. Referring their
grievances to the archbishops and bishops was looked upon
as a measure the most unreasonable that could be imagin¬
ed, as that body of men had always been their opponents,
and in fact the authors of the evils which had befallen them.
When matters came to be considered in this view, an ad¬
ditional body of Russians, to the number of about fifteen
thousand, entered Poland.
The Dissidents, being now pretty sure of the protection
of foreign powers, entered, on the 20th of March 1767, into
197
two confederacies, at Thorn and Sluck. One of these was History.
signed by the Dissidents of Great and Little Poland, and' v-—
the other by those of the grand duchy of Lithuania. The
purpose of these confederacies was, an engagement to ex¬
ert themselves in the defence of their ancient privileges,
and the free exercise of their religion; professing at °the
same time the utmost loyalty to the king, and resolving to
send to him a deputation to implore his protection. They
even invited those of the Catholic communion, and all true
patriots, to unite with them in maintaining the fundamental
laws of the kingdom, the peace of religion, and the rights
of men in society. They also claimed, by virtue of public
tieaties, the protection of the powers who were guarantees
of their liberties, namely, Russia, Sweden, Great Britain,
Denmark, and Prussia. And they protested, that they had
no intention of acting to the detriment of the Roman Ca¬
tholic religion, which they duly respected, but only asked
liberty for their own, and the re-establishment of their an¬
cient rights. The three cities of Thorn, Elbing, and Dant-
zig, acceded to the confederacy of Thorn on the 10th of
April; as did the duke and nobles of Courland to that of
Sluck on the 15th of May. In the mean time the empress
of Russia and the king of Prussia continued to issue forth
new declarations in favour of the Dissidents ; and the Rus¬
sian troops in Poland were gradually augmented to thirty
thousand men. Great numbers of other confederacies were
also formed in different parts of the kingdom ; but these at
first took little part in the affair of the Dissidents. They
complained chiefly of the administration of public affairs, in
which they alleged that innovations had been introduced,
and were therefore for some time called Confederations of
Malcontents. All these confederacies published manifes¬
tos, in which they recommended to the inhabitants to re¬
ceive and treat the Russian troops as the defenders of the
liberties of Poland.
The different confederacies of malcontents formed in the General
twenty-four districts of Lithuania united at Wilna on the confede-
22d of June ; and that general confederacy re-established racy-
Prince Radzivil, who had married the king’s sister, in his
liberty, estates, and honour, of which he had been deprived
in 1764 by the states of that duchy. On the 23d of June
Prince Radzivil was chosen grand marshal of the general
confederacy of all Poland, which then began to be called
the National Confederacy, and was said to be composed of
seventy-two thousand noblemen and gentlemen. The gene¬
ral confederacy now took such measures as appeared most
proper for strengthening their party. They sent to the se¬
veral waywodes of the kingdom, requiring that all the gen¬
tlemen who had not signed the confederacy should do it
immediately; that all the courts of justice should subsist as
formerly, but not judge any of the confederates ; that the
marshals of the crown should not pass any sentence without
the participation of at least four of the confederates ; and
that the marshals of the crown and the treasurers should be
immediately restored to the possession of their respective
rights. In the mean time the Catholic party were not idle.
The bishop of Cracow sent a letter to the Diet assembled
at Warsaw on the 13th of August, in which he exhorted
them to arm their nuncios with courage, by giving them
orthodox and pious instructions, that they might not grant
the Dissidents new advantages beyond those which were se¬
cured to them by the constitutions of the country and the
treaties with foreign powers. The pope also sent briefs to
the king, the great chancellor, the nobility, the bishops of
the kingdom, and to the prince primate, with such argu¬
ments and exhortations as were thought most calculated to
ward off the impending danger. Councils in the mean time
were frequently held at the bishopof Cracow’s palace, where
all the prelates at Warsaw assembled. On the 26th of Sep¬
tember 1767 the confederacy of Dissidents was united w'ith
the general confederacy of malcontents in the palace oi
POLAND.
Tumults in
the Diet.
Violent
proceed¬
ings of the
Russians.
Confedera¬
cy of Bar.
Prince Radzivil, who on that occasion expressed great
friendship for the Dissidents. In a few days afterwards the
Russian troops in the capital were reinforced, aiul a con¬
siderable body of them was posted at about five miles dis-
^On the 5th of October an extraordinary Diet was held.
But the affair of the Dissidents met with such opposition,
that it was thought necessary to adjourn the meeting till
the 12th, during which interval every expedient was used
to gain over those who opposed Prince Radzivd s plan. T
was, to appoint a commission furnished with full power
enter into conference with Prince Repnin, the Russian am¬
bassador, concerning the affairs of the Dissidents. But not¬
withstanding all the pains taken, the meeting of the 12th
proved exceedingly tumultuous. 1 he bishops of Cracow and
Kiow, with some other prelates, and several magnates, de¬
clared that they would never consent to the establishment
of such a commission ; and at the same time they spoke with
more vehemence than ever against the pretensions of the
Dissidents. Some of the deputies replied with great warmth ;
and this occasioned such animosities, that the meeting was
again adjourned till the 16th.
On the 13th the bishops of Cracow and Kiow, the pala¬
tine of Cracow, and the starost of Domski, were carried oft
by Russian detachments. The crime alleged against them,
in a declaration published next day by Prince Repnin was,
that they had been wanting in respect to the dignity of the
empress of Russia, by attacking the purity of her intentions
towards the republic ; though she was resolved to continue
her protection and assistance to the general confederacy
united for preserving the liberties of Poland, and correcting
all the abuses which had been introduced into the govern¬
ment of that country.
It was probably owing to this violent proceeding of the
Russians that Prince Radzivil’s plan was at last adopted,
and several new regulations were made in favour of the Dis¬
sidents. These innovations, however, soon produced a cm
war, which at last ended in the ruin of the kingdom. In
the beginning of the year 1768, a new confederacy was
formed in Podolia, a province bordering on I urkey ; it was
afterwards called the Confederacy of Bar, and the inten¬
tion of it was to abolish, by force of arms, the new consti¬
tutions, particularly those in favour of the Dissidents. 1 ie
members of the new confederacy likewise expressed great
indignation at the carrying away the bishops of Cracow,
Kiow, and others, and still detaining them in custody.
Podolia wras reckoned the fittest place tor the purpose of
the confederates, who imagined that the Russians could not
attack them there without giving umbrage to the Ottoman
court. Similar confederacies, however, were quickly enter¬
ed into throughout the kingdom. The clergy excited all
ranks of men to exert themselves in defence of their religion;
and so effectual did their exhortations prove, that even the
king’s troops could not be trusted to act against these com¬
binations. The empress of Russia threatened the new-con¬
federates as disturbers of the public tranquillity, and de¬
clared, that if they persisted, her troops would act against
them. It was some time, however, before the Russian
troops were considerably reinforced; nor did they at first
seem inclined to act with the vigour that they might have
exerted. A good many skirmishes soon occurred between
the contending parties, in which the confederates weie for
the most part defeated. In one of these encounters, the lat¬
ter being worsted, and hardly pressed, a number of them
passed the Dniester and took refuge in Moldavia. I his
province had formerly belonged to Poland, but was now
subject to the grand signior. The Russians, however, pur¬
sued their enemies into Moldavia; but in order to prevent
any offence being taken by the Porte, Prince Repnin wrote
to the Russian resident at Constantinople, that the conduct
of the Russian colonel who commanded the party was quite
History,
Hie1'
.r
contrary to the orders of his court, and that he w’ould there
fore be dismissed. . . . . .
Great cruelty was in the mean time exercised against thenar be-
rPcJrlents where there were no Russian troops to protect tween tfe
Sem Towards the end of October 1768, Prince Martin
Lubomirski, one of the southern confederates, who had been Russians
driven cut of Poland, and had taken shelter with some of
his adherents amongst the mountains of Hungary, caused a
manifesto to be posted up on several of the churches of Cra¬
cow in which he invited the nation to a general revolt, as¬
suring them of the assistance of the Ottoman Porte, with
whom he pretended to have concluded a treaty. The un¬
happy kingdom of Poland became the first scene of this war,
and in a short time it was reduced to the most deplorable
situation. In the end of the year 1768, the peasants of the
Greek faith in the Ukraine took up arms, and committed
the greatest ravages, having, as they pretended, been threat¬
ened with death by the confederates unless they would be¬
come Roman Catholics. Against these insurgents the Rus¬
sians employed their arms, and made great numbers of them
prisoners. The rest took refuge amongst the Haidamacks,
by whom they were soon joined, and in the beginning o
1769 they entered the Ukraine, committing everywhere the
most horrid massacres. Here, however, they were at last
defeated by the Polish troops, at the same time that several
of the confederacies in Poland were severely chastised.
Soon afterwards, the khan of the Crim Tartars having been
repulsed with loss in an attempt on Servia, entered the 1 ohsh
territories, where he left frightful marks of his inhumanity;
which, with the cruelties exercised by the confederates, in¬
duced the Polish Cossacks of Braclau and Kiovia, amount-
ino; to near thirty thousand effective men, to join the. Rus¬
sians, in order to defend their country against these destroy¬
ers. Matters continued much in the same state during the
rest of the year 1769; and in 1770 skirmishes frequently
occurred between the Russians and confederates, in which
the latter were almost always worsted ; but they took care
to revenge themselves by the most barbarous cruelties on
the Dissidents, wherever they could find them. In 17 /0,
a considerable number of the confederates of Bar, who had
joined the Turks, and been excessively ill used by them,
came to an accommodation with the Russians, who took
them under their protection upon very moderate terms. In
the mean time agriculture had been so much neglected, that
the crop of 1770 proved deficient. This encouraged a num¬
ber of desperadoes to associate, who, under the denomina¬
tion of Confederates, were guilty of still greater excesses
than those who had been under some kind of regulation ;
and thus a great part of the country was at last reduced to a
mere desert, the inhabitants being either exterminated, or
carried off to stock the remote Russian plantations.
In the year 1771, the confederacies, which appeared toNe**
have been extinguished, sprang up afresh, and increased to
a u-reat degree. This was occasioned by their having been
secretly encouraged and supplied with money by France.
A great number of French officers also engaged as volun¬
teers in their service; and having introduced discipline
amongst their troops, they acted with greater vigour than
formerly, sometimes proving more than a match for their
enemies. But these gleams of success served only to light
them on to their ruin. The Russians were reinforced and
properly supported. The Austrian and Prussian troops en¬
tered the country, advancing on different sides ; and in a
short time the confederates found themselves entirely sur¬
rounded by enemies, who seemed to have nothing less in
view than an absolute conquest of the country, and sharing
it amongst themselves.
Before matters came to this crisis, however, the confede-At r
rates had formed a design of assassinating the king, c“ ^ k®:
count of his supposed attachment to the Dissidents. ^\Fo-
lish nobleman, named Pulaski, a general in the army Oi t e
POL
Hfpry. confederates, was the person who planned the enterprise ;
and the conspiratoi’s who carried it into execution were
about forty in number, headed by three chiefs, named re¬
spectively Lukawski, Strawenski, and Kosinski. These chiefs
had been engaged and hired for the purpose by Pulaski,
who obliged them to swear in the most solemn manner,
either to deliver the king alive into his hands, or, in case
that was found impossible, to put him to death. On the
2d of September they obtained admission into Warsaw,
unsuspected and undiscovered. On Sunday night, the 3d
of September 1771, a few of these conspirators x-emained
in the skirts of the town ; but the others repaired to the
place of rendezvous, the street of the Capucins, wdxere his
majesty was expected to pass about his usual hour of re¬
turning to the palace. The king had been to visit his
uncle Prince Czartoryski, grand chancellor of Lithuania, and
was on his return from thence to the palace between nine
and ten o’clock. He was in a coach, accompanied by at
least fifteen or sixteen attendants, besides an aide-de-camp
in the carriage. Scarcely was he at the distance of two
hundred paces from Prince Czartoryski’s palace, when he
was attacked by the conspirators, who commanded the
coachman to stop on pain of instant death. They fired se¬
veral shots into the carriage, and almost all the other per¬
sons who preceded and accompanied his majesty were dis¬
persed ; the aide-de-camp having also abandoned him, and
attempted to conceal himself by flight. Meanwhile the
king had opened the door of his carnage with the design
of effecting his escape under cover of the night, which was
extremely dark, when the assassins seized him by the hair,
exclaiming in Polish, “ We have thee now ; thy hour is
come.” ;One of them discharged a pistol at him, so vei*y
near that he felt the heat of the flash ; whilst another cut
him across the head with his sabre, wdxich penetrated to
the bone. They then laid hold of him by the collar, and
mounting on horseback, dragged him along the ground
between their horses at full gallop for nearly five hundred
I paces through the streets of Warsaw. But finding that he
was incapable of following them on foot, and that he had
already almost lost his resphation from the violence with
which they had dragged him, they set him on horseback,
and then redoubled their speed for fear of being overtaken.
When they came to the ditch which surrounds Warsaw,
they obliged him to leap his horse over .the obstacle.
They had no sooner crossed the ditch than they began
to rifle the king, tearing off the order of the Black Eagle
of Prussia, which he wrore round his neck, and the diamond
cross attached to it. Having thus plundered him, a great
number of the assassins retired, probably intending to no¬
tify to their respective leaders the success of their enterprise,
and the king’s aridval as a prisoner. Only seven remained
with him, of whom Kosinski was the chief. The night was
exceedingly dark ; they were absolutely ignorant of the way;
and, as the horses could not keep their legs, they obliged
his majesty to follow them on foot. They continued to
wander through the open meadow's, without following any
certain path, and without getting to any distance trom
Warsaw. After some time, they again mounted the king on
horseback, two of them holding him on each side; and in
this manner they wTei’e proceeding, when his majesty, finding
they had taken the road which led to a village called Bura-
* kow, warned them not to enter it, because there were some
Russians stationed in that place, who might probably at-
1 tempt to rescue him. From the time they had passed the
ditch, they repeatedly demanded of Kosinski, their chief, if
i it was not yet time to put the king to death; and these de-
! mands were reiterated in proportion to the obstacles and
difficulties they encountered, till they were suddenly alarm-
K j ed by a Russian patrole or detachment. Instantly holding
1 council, four of them disappeared, leaving the king with
the other three, who compelled him to walk on. Scarcely a
AND. 199
quarter of an hour after, a second Russian guard challenged History,
them anew. Two of the assassins then fled, and the king ^
remained alone wfith Kosinski. His majesty, exhausted with
the fatigue w'hich he had undergone, implored his con¬
ductor to stop, and suffer him to take a moment’s repose.
Kosinski refused, at the same time informing him, that be¬
yond the wood they should find a carriage. They con¬
tinued their walk till they came to the door of the convent
of Bielany. Kosinski appeared lost in thought. “ I see you
are at a loss which way to proceed,” said the king. “ Let
me enter the convent of Bielany, and do you provide for
your own safety.” “ No,” replied Kosinski; “ I have sworn.”
They proceeded till they came to Mariemont, a small
palace belonging to the house of Saxony, not above half a
league from Warsaw. Here Kosinski betrayed some satis¬
faction at finding where he was, and the king still demand¬
ing an instant’s repose, he at length consented. They sat
down together on the ground, and the king employed these
moments in endeavouring to soften his conductor, and in¬
duce him to favour or permit his escape. His majesty re¬
presented the atrocity of the crime he had committed in
attempting to murder bis sovereign, and the invalidity of an
oath taken to perpetrate so heinous an action. Kosinski
lent attention to this discourse, and began to betray some
symptoms of remorse. The king pursued the advantage
he had gained, overcame the fears of Kosinski, and was at
length x-econducted to the capital. Upon his return to War¬
saw he wTas received with the utmost demonstrations of joy.
But neither the virtues nor the popularity of the sovereign
could allay the factious spirit of the Poles, nor prevent the
dismemberment of his kingdom.
The partition of Poland was first projected by the king First parti,
of Prussia. Polish or Western Prussia had long been antionof Po-
object of his ambition. Exclusively of its fertility, com-laiui‘
merce, and population, its local situation rendered it high¬
ly valuable to that monarch ; it lay between his German
dominions and Eastern Prussia, and, whilst in the possession
of the Poles, it cut off' at their will all communication be¬
tween them. The period had now arrived when the situ¬
ation of Poland seemed to promise the easy acquisition of
this valuable province. Frederic, however, pursued it with
all the caution of an able politician. On the commence¬
ment of the troubles, he showed no eagerness to interfere
in the affairs of this country ; and although he had con¬
curred with the empress of Russia in raising Stanislas Au¬
gustus to the throne of Poland, yet he declined taking any
active part in his favour against the confederates. After¬
wards, when, in 1769, the whole kingdom became convulsed
with civil commotions, and desolated by the plague, he,
under pretence of forming lines to prevent the spreading ot
the infection, advanced his troops into Polish Prussia, and
occupied the wdxole of that district. Though now com¬
pletely master of the country, and by no means apprehen¬
sive of any formidable resistance from the disunited and
distracted Poles, yet, as he w^as well aware that the security
of his new acquisition depended upon the acquiescence of
Russia and Austria, he planned the partition of Poland.
He communicated the project to the emperor, either upon
their interview at Niess in Silesia in 1769, or in that of the
following year at Nieustadt in Austria, and from him the
overture met with a ready concurrence. To induce the
empress of Russia to acquiesce in the same project, he des¬
patched to St Petersburg his brother Henry, who suggested
to the empress, that the house of Austria was forming an
alliance with tlxe Porte, with which she was then at war;
that if such alliance took place, it would create a most for¬
midable combination against her; that, nevertheless, the
friendship of that house was to be purchased by acceding
to the partition ; that, upon this condition, the emperor was
willing to renounce his connection with the grand signior,
and would suffer the Russians to prosecute the war with-
200
POLAND.
History, out interruption. Catharine, anxious to push her conquests
against the Turks, and dreading the interposition of the
emperor in that quarter; perceiving, likewise, from the inti¬
mate union between the courts of \ ienna and Berlin, that
it would not be in her power, at the present juncture, to
prevent the intended partition; closed with the proposal,
and selected no inconsiderable portion of the Polish terri¬
tories for herself. The treaty was signed at St Petersburg
in the beginning of February 1772, by the Russian, Aus¬
trian, and Prussian plenipotentiaries. It would be tedious
to enter into a detail of the pleas urged by the three powers
in favour of their several demands ; nor would it be less un¬
interesting to lay before the reader the answers and remon¬
strances of the king and senate, as well as the appeals to
the other states which had guaranteed the possessions of
Poland. The courts of London, Paris, Stockholm, and Co¬
penhagen, remonstrated against these usurpations ; but re¬
monstrances without assistance could be ot no effect. Po¬
land submitted to the dismemberment, not without the most
violent struggles; and now for the first time that unhappy
country felt and lamented the fatal effects of faction and
discord.
A Diet being demanded by the partitioning powers, in
order to ratify the cession of the provinces, it met on the
19th of April 1773; and such was the spirit of the mem¬
bers, that, notwithstanding the deplorable situation of their
country, and the threats and bribes of the three powers, the
partition-treaty was not carried through without much dif¬
ficulty. For some time the majority of the nuncios appear¬
ed determined to oppose the dismemberment, and the king
firmly persisted in the same resolution. The ambassadors
of the three courts enforced their requisitions by the most
alarming menaces, and threatened the king with deposition
and imprisonment. They also gave out by their emissaries,
that in case the Diet continued refractory, Warsawr should
be pillaged. This report was industriously circulated, and
made a sensible impression upon the inhabitants. By me¬
naces of the same sort, by corrupting the marshal of the
Diet, and by bribes, promises, and threats, the members
were at length prevailed on to ratify the dismemberment.
The partitioning powers, however, did less injury to the
republic by dismembering its fairest provinces, than perpe¬
tuating the principles of anarchy and confusion. Under
pretence of amending the constitution, they confirmed all
its defects, and took effectual precautions to render this un¬
happy country incapable of ever emerging from the deplo¬
rable state into which it had fallen ; as was seen in the fail¬
ure of the most patriotic attempt ever made by a king to re¬
form the constitution of his kingdom.
The kings The kings of Poland were anciently hereditary and
of Poland absolute, but afterwards became elective and limited. In
originally t]ie 0f Louis, towards the end of the fourteenth cen-
iiereaitarv 0
hut after- tury, several limitations were imposed on the royal prero-
wards elec- gative. In that of Casimir IY. who ascended the throne
tive. in 1446, representatives from the several palatinates were
first called to the Diet; the legislative power till then hav¬
ing been lodged in the states, and the executive in the king
and senate. On the decease of Sigismund Augustus, it was
enacted by law, that for the future the choice of a king
should perpetually remain free and open to all the nobles
of the kingdom ; and this law was accordingly observed, to
the great injury of the kingdom.
As soon as the throne became vacant, all the courts of jus¬
tice, and other parts of the machine of government, remained
in a state of inaction, and the authority was transferred to the
primate, who, in quality of interrex, had in some respects
more power than the king himself; and yet the republic
took no umbrage at this, because he had not time to render
himself formidable. He notified the vacancy of the throne
to foreign princes, which was in effect proclaiming that a
crown was to be disposed of; he issued the universctlia, or
circular letters for the election ; he gave orders to the sta- History,
rosts, a sort of military officers who had great authority, and
whose proper business it was to levy the revenue, to keep a
strict guard upon the fortified places, and enjoined the grand
generals to do the same upon the frontiers, towards which
the army marched.
The place of election was the field of Vola, at the gates
of Warsaw ; and all the nobles of the kingdom had a right
of voting. The Poles encamped on the left side of the Vis¬
tula, and the Lithuanians on the right, each under the ban¬
ners of their respective palatinates. The field of election
was surrounded by a ditch provided with three gates ; one
to the east for Great Poland, another to the south for Little
Poland, and a third to the west for Lithuania. In the middle
of the field was erected a great building of wood, named
the szopa, or hall of the senate. All who aspired openly to
the crown were expressly excluded from the field of elec¬
tion, that their presence might not constrain the voters. The
king must be elected nemine contradicente, by all the suf¬
frages without exception. The law which prescribed una¬
nimity was founded upon this principle, that when a great
family adopts a father, all the children have a right to be
pleased. The idea seems plausible in speculation ; but if it
w’ere rigorously adhered to, Poland could never have had
such thing as a lawful king. They therefore gave up a real
imnnimitv. and rnntpnted themselves with the anDearance
or semblance of concord.
No election could possibly be carried on with more order,
decency, and appearance of freedom. The primate in few
words recapitulated to the nobles on horseback the respec¬
tive merits of the candidates ; he exhorted them to choose
the most worthy, invoked heaven, gave his blessiqg to the
assembly, and remained alone with the marshal of the Diet,
whilst the senators dispersed themselves into the several
palatinates to promote an unanimity of sentiment. If they
succeeded, the primate himself went to collect the votes,
at the same time naming again all the candidates. “ Szoda,”
answered the nobles, “ that is the man we choose and in¬
stantly the air resounded with his name, together with cries
of vivat, and the noise of pistols. If all the palatines agreed
in their nominations, the primate got on horseback, and
then, the profoundest silence succeeding to the greatest
noise, he asked three times if all were satisfied, and, after a
general approbation, three times proclaimed the king; upon
which the grand marshal of the crown repeated the procla¬
mation three times at the three gates of the camp.
Before the king was proclaimed, the pacta conventa were The^
read aloud to him, which, on his knees at the altar, he swore
to observe. This contract, which had been drawn up, me¬
thodized, and approved by the senate and nobility, was
deemed the great charter of Poland. It provided that the
king should not attempt to encroach on the liberty of the
people, by rendering the crown hereditary in his family;
that he should preserve all the customs, laws, and ordinances
respecting the freedom of election ; that he should ratify all
treaties subsisting with foreign powers, which were approv¬
ed by the Diet; that it should be his chief study to culti¬
vate peace, preserve the public tranquillity, and promote the
interest of the realm ; that he should not coin money ex¬
cept in the name of the republic, or appropriate to himself
the advantages arising from coinage ; that in declaring war,
concluding peace, making levies, hiring auxiliaries, or ad¬
mitting foreign troops upon any pretext within the Polish
dominions, the consent of the Diet and senate should be
necessary ; that all offices and preferments should be given
to the natives of Poland and Lithuania, and that no pre¬
tence should excuse or palliate the crime of introducing
foreigners into the king’s council or the departments of the
republic ; that the officers of his majesty’s guards should be
Poles or Lithuanians, and that the colonel should abso¬
lutely be a native of Poland, and of the order of nobility;
POLAND.
201
.fflbiy- that all the officers should be subordinate to the authority
of the marshal; that no individual should be invested with
more employments than the law allows; that the king should
not marry without the approbation of the senate; that the
sovereign should never apply his private signet to acts and
papers of a public nature ; that the king should dispose of
the offices both of the court and of the republic, and regu¬
late with the senate the number of forces necessary for the
defence of the kingdom ; that he should administer justice
by the advice of the senate and his council; that the ex¬
penses of his civil list should be the same with those of his
predecessors ; that he should fill up all vacancies in the
space of six weeks ; that this should be his first business in
the Diet, obliging the chancellor to publish his appoint¬
ments in due form ; that the king should not diminish the
treasure kept at Cracow, but, on the contrary, endeavour
to augment it, as well as the number of the crown jewels ;
that he should not borrow money without the consent of the
Diet; that he should not equip a naval force, without the
consent and full approbation of the republic ; that he should
profess the Roman Catholic faith, and promote, maintain,
and defend it, throughout all the Polish dominions; and,
finally, that all their several liberties, rights, and privileges,
should be preserved to the Poles and Lithuanians in gene¬
ral, and to all the districts and provinces contained within
each of these great divisions, without change, alteration, or
the smallest violation, except by the consent of the repub¬
lic. To these articles a variety of others were added, ac¬
cording to circumstances and the humour of the Diet; but
what has been recited formed the standing conditions, which
were scarcely ever altered or omitted.
Th netof The Diet of Poland was composed of the king, the senate,
P61J. bishops, and the deputies of the nobility or gentry of every
palatinate, called, in their collective capacity, comitia toga-
ta, that is, when the states assembled in the city without
I arms and horses ; or comitia paludata, when they met in
the fields armed, as during an interregnum, at the Diet of
election. It was a prerogative of the crown to assemble
the Diet at any particular place, except on occasion of a co¬
ronation, which the custom of the country required should
be celebrated at the capital. For a number of years, indeed,
the Diet assembled regularly at Warsaw; but, on complaints
being made by the Lithuanians, it was agreed that every
third Diet should be held at Grodno. 'When it w^as pro¬
posed to hold a general Diet, the king, or, in case of an in¬
terregnum, the primate, issued writs to the palatines of the
several provinces, specifying the time and place of the meet¬
ing. A sketch likewise was sent of the business to be de¬
liberated on by the assembly; the senate was consulted in
this particular, and six weeks were allowed the members to
prepare themselves for the intended session. It is remark¬
able, that the Diet never sat more than six weeks in the
most critical conjunctures and pressing emergencies ; nay,
they have been known to break up in the middle of an im¬
portant debate, and to leave the business to a future meeting.
This custom has been justly esteemed one of the greatest
defects of the Polish constitution ; but it probably owed its
origin to convenience, and was afterwards superstitiously
observed from whim and caprice. On receipt of the king’s
writ, the palatine communicated the meeting of the Diet
to all the castellans, starosts, and other inferior officers and
gentry within his jurisdiction ; requiring them to assemble
on a certain day to elect deputies, and take into considera¬
tion the business specified in the royal summons. These
meetings were called petty diets, dietines, or lantage, in the
language of the country, every gentleman possessing three
acres of land having a vote, and matters being determined
by a majority; whereas in the general Diet decrees were
only valid when the whole body was unanimous. Every
palatinate had three representatives, though the business
devolved on one called a nuncio, who was elected on ac-
VOL. XVIII.
count of his ability and experience ; and the other two were History.
added only to give weight to this leading member, and by" 
their magnificent appearance do honour to the palatinate
which they represented. As these deputies, since the reign
of Casimir III. had seats in the Diet, it naturally divided
the general assembly into two bodies, the upper and lower;
the one being composed of the senate, the superior clergy,
and the great officers ; and the other of the representatives
of the palatinates, who prepared all business for the superior
body.
1 he first business of the assembly was to choose a mar- Absurd
shal, upon which occasion the debates and tumults often ran customs ob-
high. After his election the marshal kissed the king’s hand ;|frv^5? *n
and the chancellor, as the royal representative, reported the 16 '
matter to be deliberated by the Diet. Then the marshal
acquainted the king with the instructions the deputies had
received from their constituents, the grievances which they
would have redressed, and the abuses they required to be
remedied. He likewise requested his majesty to fill up the
vacant offices and benefices according to law ; and he was
answered by a formal speech from the chancellor, who re¬
ported the king’s inclination to satisfy his people, as soon
as he had consulted his faithful senate. In certain customs
observed by the Polish Diet, there was something peculiarly
absurd and preposterous. One in particular merits atten¬
tion. Not only was an unanimity of voices necessary to pass
any bill, and constitute a decree of the Diet, but every bill
likewise required to be unanimously assented to, or none
could take effect. Thus, if out of twenty bills one happen¬
ed to be opposed by a single voice, called the liberum veto,
all the rest were thrown out, and the Diet had met, deli¬
berated, and debated, during six weeks, to no purpose what¬
ever.
To add to the inconveniences which attended the con-Its venality
stitution of the Diet of Poland, a spirit of venality in thean(^ .cor~
deputies, and a general corruption, had seized all ranks andmPtl0n'
degrees in that assembly. There, as in some other coun¬
tries, the cry of liberty was kept up for the sake of private
interest. Deputies came with a full resolution of profiting
by their patriotism, and not lowering their voice without a
gratification. Determined to oppose the most salutary mea¬
sures of the court, they either withdrew from the assembly,
and protested against all that should be transacted in their
absence, or else excited such a clamour as rendered it neces¬
sary for the court to silence them by some lucrative pen¬
sion, donation, or employment. Thus the business of the
assembly was not only obstructed by its own members, but
frequently by largesses from neighbouring powers, and some¬
times by the liberality of an open enemy, who had the art
of distributing his money with discretion.
Perhaps the most respectable department of the Polish The Senate
government was the senate, composed of the bishops, pala- of Poland, •
tines, castellans, and ten officers of state, who derived a
right from their dignities of sitting in that assembly, and
amounting in all to a hundred and forty-four members, who
were styled “senatorsofthekingdom,”or“ counsellors of the
state,” and had the title of excellency, a dignity supported
by no pension or emoluments necessarily annexed to it.
The senate presided over the execution of the laws, and was
the guardian of liberty, the judge of right, and the protector
of justice and equity. All the members, except the bi¬
shops, who were senators ex officio, were nominated by the
king, and took an oath to the republic before they were per¬
mitted to enter upon their functions. Their honours conti¬
nued for life. At the general Diet they sat on the right
and left of the sovereign, according to their dignity, with¬
out regard to seniority. They were the mediators between
the monarch and the subject, and, in conjunction with the
king, ratified all the laws passed by the nobility. As a se¬
nator was bound by oath to maintain the liberties of the
republic, it was thought no disrespect to majesty that they
202
POLAND.
History, reminded the prince of his duty. They were his counsel-
y'-—' lors, and this freedom of speech constituted an inseparable
prerogative of their office.
Such was the constitution of Poland before being new-
That it was in all re-
But those
The Per¬
manent
Council.
modelled by the partitioning powers
spects a very bad one, needs no proof whatever
foreign reformers did not improve it. For two centuries
at least, the Poles had with great propriety denominated
their government a republic, because the king was so ex¬
ceedingly limited in his prerogative that he resembled
more the chief of a commonwealth than the sovereign of a
powerful monarchy. That prerogative, already too con¬
fined to afford protection to the peasants, groaning under
the tyranny of the nobles, was, after the partition-treaty,
still further restrained by the establishment of the Perma¬
nent Council, which was vested with the whole executive
authority, leaving to the sovereign nothing but the name.
The permanent council consisted of thirty-six persons, elect¬
ed by the Diet out of the different orders of nobility ; and
though the king, when present, presided in it, he could not
exert a single act of pow er without the consent of the ma¬
jority of persons, who might well be called his colleagues.
That the virtuous and accomplished Stanislas should have
laboured to extricate himself and the great body of the
people from such unparalleled oppression, and that the more
respectable portion of the nation should have wished to
give to themselves and their posterity a better form of go¬
vernment, was surely very natural and very meritorious.
The influence of the partitioning powers was indeed exert¬
ed to render the king contented with his situation. His
revenues, which before did not exceed L. 100,000, were now
increased to three times that sum. The republic likewise
agreed to pay his debts, amounting to upwards of L.4-00,000.
It also bestowed on him, in hereditary possession, four sta-
rosties or governments of castles, with the districts belong¬
ing to them, and reimbursed him for the money which he
had laid out on account of the state. It was likewise agreed
that the revenues of the republic should be raised to thirty-
three millions of florins, or nearly two millions sterling ; and
that the army should consist of thirty thousand men. Soon
after the conclusion of peace with Turkey, the empress
of Russia also made the king a present of 250,000 rubles,
as a compensation for that part of his dominions which
had fallen into her hands.
A new con- These bribes, however, were not sufficient to blind the
stitution penetration of Stanislas, nor to cool the ardour of his pa-
established triotism. He laboured for posterity, and with such ap¬
parent success, that on the 3d of May 1791, a new consti¬
tution of the government of Poland was established by the
king, together wdth the confederate states assembled in
double number to represent the Polish nation. That this
constitution was perfect, we are far from asserting ; but it
was probably as much so as the inveterate prejudices of the
nobles would admit of. It deviated as little as possible
from the ancient forms, and consisted of eleven articles re¬
specting the government of the republic, to which were
added twenty-one sections, regulating the dietines or pri¬
mary assemblies of Poland.
The first article of this constitution established the Ro-
-
in 1791.
Substance
of the first man Catholic faith, with its various privileges and imtnu-
five arti
cles
nities, as the dominant national religion ; but to all other
people, of whatever persuasion, it secured peace in matters
of faith, and the protection of government. The second
article guaranteed to the nobility or the equestrian order all
the privileges w'hich it enjoyed under the kings of the house
of Jagellon. The third and fourth articles granted to the
free royal towns internal jurisdictions of their own ; and ex¬
empted the peasants from slavery, declaring every man free
as soon as he set his foot on the territory of the republic.
The fifth article, after declaring, that in civil society all
power should be derived from the will of the people, enact¬
ed that the government of the Polish nation should be com- Hietc ^
posed of three distinct powers ; the Legislative, in the states s v
assembled ; the Executive, in the king and the council of
inspection; and the Judicial power, in the jurisdictions
existing or to be established. The sixth and seventh ar¬
ticles, as being of more importance, we shall state the sub¬
stance of at greater length.
According to the former, the Diet, or the legislative power, The I
was to be divided into two houses, viz. the House of Nuncios to con
or deputies, and the House of Senate, where the king was tot wok
preside. The former, being the representative and central
point of supreme national authority, was to possess the pre¬
eminence in the legislature ; therefore all bills were to be
decided first in this house.
Within the competency of the House of Nuncios were House
included all general laws, constitutional, civil, and criminal, Nunc,
besides perpetual taxes; matters concerning which the king
was to issue his propositions by the circular letters sent be¬
fore the dietines to every palatinate and to every district for
deliberation, and which, coming before the house with the
opinions expressed in the instructions given to their repre¬
sentatives, should be taken the first for decision. Next,
particular laws, viz. temporal taxes; regulations of the
mint; contracting public debts ; creating nobles, and other
casual recompenses ; reparation of public expenses, both or¬
dinary and extraordinary ; concerning war and peace, with
the ratification of treaties both political and commercial
all diplomatic acts and conventions relative to the laws of
nations ; examining and acquitting different executive de¬
partments, and similar subjects arising from the accidental
exigencies and circumstances of the state ; in all which tne
propositions coming directly from the throne into the house
of nuncios, were to have a preference in discussion before
the private bills.
In regard to the House of Senate, it was to consist oflliei
bishops, palatines, castellans, and ministers, under the pre-of kn
sidency of the king, wTho should have but one vote, and the
casting voice in case of parity, which he might give eithei
personally or by a message to the house. Its power and
duty were clearly defined, hirst, every general law that
passed formally through the house of nuncios was to be
sent immediately to this, which either accepted or suspend¬
ed it till further national deliberation, by a majority of votes,
as prescribed by law. If accepted, it became a law in all
its force ; if suspended, it might be resumed at the next
Diet, and if it was then agreed to again by the house of
nuncios, the senate must submit to it. Secondly, in every
particular law or statute of the Diet touching the matteis
above specified, as soon as it had been determined by the
house of nuncios, and sent up to the senate, the votes ot
both houses should be jointly computed, and the majority,
as described by law, should be considered as the will of the
nation. Those senators and ministers who, from their share
in the executive power, were accountable to the republic,
had no active voice in the Diet, but might be present in
order to give necessary explanations to the states.
These ordinary legislative Diets were to have an unin-Tk '■
terrupted existence, and be always ready to meet. The™”!.
length of sessions was to be determined by the law con¬
cerning Diets. If convened upon some urgent occasion out
of ordinary session, they were only to deliberate on the
subject which occasioned such a call, or on circumstances
which might arise out of it. No law or statute enacted by
such ordinary Diet could be altered or annulled by the same.
The majority of votes M as to decide everything and every¬
where ; therefore the liberum veto was utterly abolished,
together with all sorts of confederacies and confederate
Diets, as contrary to the spirit of the constitution, as under¬
mining the government, and as being ruinous to society.
The framers of this constitution, willing to prevent violent
and frequent changes in the national constitution, yet consi-
’’abolish,!
IlBl
POL
I itory. dering the necessity of perfecting it after experiencing its
^ y—" effects on public prosperity, determined the period of every
twenty-five years for an extraordinary constitutional Diet,
to be held for the revision of the constitution, and making
such changes and alterations as might be found requisite,
piers of The seventh article proceeds on the principle that the
tl king most perfect government cannot exist or endure without an
Bleouncil effectual executive power. The happiness of the nation
o; uspec- Spends on just laws> but the good effects of laws flow only
from their execution. The framers of this constitution,
therefore, having secured to the Polish nation the right of
enacting laws for themselves, the supreme inspection over
the executive power, and the choice of their magistrates,
intrusted to the king and his council the highest power of
executing the laws. This council was to be called Siraz,
or the Council of Inspection. The duty of such executive
power was to watch over the laws, and to see them strictly
executed according to their import, even by means of pub¬
lic force, should it be found necessary. All departments and
magistrates were bound to obey its directions. This exe¬
cutive power could not assume the right of making laws, or
of interpreting them. It was expressly forbidden to con¬
tract public debts ; to alter the repartition of the national
income, as fixed by the Diet; to declare war ; to conclude
definitively any treaty, or any diplomatic act; it was only
allowed to carry on negotiations with foreign courts, and fa¬
cilitate temporary occurrences, always with reference to the
Diet.
T crown. The crown of Poland w'as declared to be elective in
regard to families, and it was so settled for ever. But it
was resolved to adopt hereditary succession to the throne.
Therefore it was enacted and declared that, after the expi¬
ration of the present king’s life, the elector of Saxony should
reign over Poland, and in his person should the dynasty of
future kings of Poland commence,
nation Every king, on his accession to the throne, was to take
a solemn oath to God and the nation, to support the present
constitution, and to fulfil the pacta convmta. The king’s
person was sacred and inviolable. As no act could proceed
immediately from him, he could not in any manner be re¬
sponsible to the nation; he was not an absolute monarch,
but the father and the head of the people ; and his revenues,
as fixed by the pacta conventa, were to be sacredly pre¬
served. All public acts, the acts of magistracies, and the
coin of the kingdom, were to bear his name. He had the
right of pardoning those who were condemned to death, ex¬
cept the crimes were against the state ; and in time of war
he had the supreme command of the national forces, but he
might appoint the commanders of the army, with the con¬
sent of the states. The nomination to all offices and digni¬
ties was vested in him.
T j Coun- The king’s Council of Inspection was to consist of the
sprio'" Pr*mate as t^ie head of the clergy, and the president of the
1011, commission of education, or the first bishop in ordine ; of
five ministers, viz. those of police, justice, war, finances, and
foreign affairs; of two secretaries to keep the protocols, one
for the council, and another for the foreign department;
but both without a decisive vote. The hereditary prince, on
coming of age, and having taken the oath to preserve the
constitution, might assist at all sessions of the council, but
could have no vote therein. The marshal of the Diet had
also a right to sit in this council, without taking any share
in its resolves, in order that he might call together the
Diet, always existing ; for, should he deem the convoca¬
tion of the Diet absolutely necessary, and should the king
refuse to do it, the marshal was bound to issue his circular
letters to all nuncios and senators, adducing real motives
for such meeting. The cases demanding such convocation
of the Diet were the follow ing: First, in a pressing neces¬
sity concerning the law of nations, and particularly in case
of a neighbouring war; secondly, in case of an internal
AND.
203
commotion, menacing the country with revolution, or of a History,
collision between magistrates ; thirdly, in an evident dan-
ger of general famine ; fourthly, in the orphan state of the
country, by demise of the king, or in case of the king’s dan¬
gerous illness. All the resolutions of the council of inspec¬
tion were to be examined by the rules above mentioned.
If it should happen that two thirds of secret votes in both
houses demanded the changing of any person, either in the
council, or any executive department, the king was bound
to nominate another; and w hen these ministers were de¬
nounced and accused before the Diet, of any transgression
of positive law, they were answerable with their persons
and fortunes. Such impeachments being determined by a
simple majority of votes, collected jointly from both houses,
were to be tried immediately by the comitial tribunal,
wffiere the accused were to receive their final judgment and
punishment if found guilty, or to be honourably acquitted
on sufficient proof of innocence.
In order to form a necessary organization of the execu-Commis-
tive power, there were established separate commissions, sions of
connected with the above council, and subject to its ordi-education>
nations. These were commissions of education, of police, &c‘
of war, and of treasury.
I he eighth article regulated the administration of jus- Admini-
tice. It constituted primary courts of justice for each pa- stration of
latinate or district, composed of judges chosen at the die-)ustice-
tine ; and appointed higher tribunals, one being erected in
each of the three provinces into which the kingdom was
divided, with which appeals might be lodged from the pri¬
mary courts. It likewise appointed for the trial of persons
accused of crimes against the state, one supreme general
tribunal for all classes, called a comitial tribunal, or court
composed of persons chosen at the opening of every Diet.
The ninth article provided a regency during the king’s mi¬
nority, in case of his settled alienation of reason, or upon
the emergency of his being made a prisoner of war.
The regulation of the dietines contained nothing that can The elec-
be interesting to a British reader, except what related totion and
the election and duties of nuncios or representatives to the duties of
general Diet. And here it was enacted, that persons hav-nuncaos'
ing a right to vote must all be nobles of the equestrian or¬
der ; that is, all hereditary proprietors of landed property, or
possessed of estates by adjudication for a debt, paying ter¬
ritorial tax to government; brothers inheriting estates be¬
fore they have shared their succession ; all mortgagees who
paid a hundred florins of territoi’ial tax per year from their
possessions ; and all life-holders of lands paying territorial
tax to the same amount. AH nobles in the army possessed
of such qualifying estates had a vote in their respective dis¬
tricts in time of peace, and when absent on leave during
war ; and legal possession was understood to qualify when
it had been acquired and actually enjoyed for twelve calen¬
dar months previously. Persons who had no right to vote
were those of the equestrian order that were not actual¬
ly possessed of a property as described in the foregoing
article ; such as held royal, ecclesiastical, or noble lands,
even with right of inheritance, but on condition of some
duty or payment to their principals ; gentry possessing es¬
tates on feudal tenure, called ordynachie, as being bound to
certain personal service thereby ; all renters of estates that
had no other qualifying property ; those that had not at¬
tained eighteen years of age ; persons crimine notati, and
those that were under a decree passed in default, even in
the first instance, for having disobeyed any judicial court.
Every person of the equestrian order that paid territorial Persons
tax to government for his freehold, let it be ever so small, eligible and
was eligible to all elective offices in his respective district, not eligible.
Gentlemen actually serving in the army, even possessed of
landed hereditary estate, must have served six complete
years before they could be eligible to the office of nuncio
only. But this condition was dispensed with in favour of
204
POLAND.
History.
This con¬
stitution
those that had before filled some public function. Who- accounts, and in behalf of the emigrant Poles, her imperial Histo:
ever waf not personally present at the dietine ; whoever majesty had ordered her troops to enter the terntones ot'—v
hadToTeoniDleted twentv-three years of age; whoever had the republic. At the moment when this declaration was
St beenTanv public function, nor passed the biennial of- delivered to the Diet, the Russian troops, accompanied by
flee of t commissary in the orderly commission; those that Counts Potocki, Rzewuski, Bramcki, and a few Polish re-
m e 01 u cuiimussu y j „ . z nega(Jes, appeared upon the frontiers, and, before the close
of the month, entered the territories of the republic in se¬
veral columns.
The spirit manifested by the nobility was truly honour-Spirit ■
able to that body. Some of them delivered in their plate the no
to the mint. Prince Radzivil engaged voluntarily to fur¬
nish ten thousand stand of arms, and another noble offered
iurT'1
rT'
were not exempted by law from obligations of scarta bella-
lus, which subjected all newly-nobilitated persons to cer¬
tain civil restrictions until the next generation ; and, lastly,
all those against whom might be objected a decree in con¬
tumaciam in a civil cause, were not eligible.
Such were the heads of the Polish constitution established
shluuuh by the king and the confederates in 1791. It will not bear a -r, „ f,
opposed by comparison with systems which have been matured by long to provide a tram of artillery. The courage of the new and
the Rus- experience ; but it is surely infinitely superior to the mot- hastily embodied^oldiers^corresponded with the patriotism
General
rising.
ley form of government which, for a century previous, ren¬
dered Poland a perpetual scene of war, tumult, tyranny,
and rebellion. Many of the corrupt nobles, however, per¬
ceiving that it would curb their ambition, deprive them of
the base means which they had long enjoyed of gratifying
their avarice by setting the crown to sale, and render it im¬
possible for them to continue with impunity their tyranni¬
cal oppression of the peasants, protested against it, and
withdrew from the confederates. This was nothing more
than what might have been expected, or than what the
king and his friends undoubtedly expected. But the mal¬
contents were not satisfied with a simple protest; they pre¬
ferred their complaints to the empress of Russia, who, ever
ready on all occasions, and on the slightest pretence, to in¬
vade Poland, poured her armies into the republic, and sur¬
rounding the king and the Diet with ferocious soldiers, com¬
pelled them, by the most indecent menaces, to undo their
glorious labour of love, and to restore the constitution as
settled after the partition-treaty.
On the 21st of April 1792, the Diet received the first no¬
tification from the king, of the inimical and unjust intentions
of Russia. He informed them that, without the shadow of
pretence, this power had determined to invade the territory
of the republic with an army of sixty thousand men. This
formidable force, commanded by Generals Soltikof, Mi-
chelson, and Kosakowski, was afterwards to be supported by
a corps of twenty thousand, and by the troops then acting
in Moldavia, amounting to seventy thousand. The king,
however, professed that he was not discouraged; and he
-declared his readiness to put himself at the head of the na¬
tional troops, and to terminate his existence in a glorious
contest for the liberties of his country. Then, and not be¬
fore, the Diet decreed the organization of the army, and its
augmentation to a hundred thousand. The king and the
council of inspection were invested with unlimited autho¬
rity in everything that regarded the defence of the king¬
dom. Magazines were ordered to be constructed when it
was too late, and quarters to be provided for the army. The
Diet and the nation rose as one man to maintain their in¬
dependence. All private animosities were obliterated, all
private interests were sacrificed; the greatest encourage¬
ments were held forth to volunteers to enroll themselves un¬
der the national standard ; and it was unanimously decreed
by the Diet that all private losses should be compensated
out of the public treasury.
Russian <le- On the 18th of May the Russian ambassador delivered
claration. a declaration worthy of such a cause. It asserted that this
of their chiefs. Prince Poniatowski, nephew of the king
was appointed commander-in-chief; and though his force
was greatly inferior to the enemy, it must be confessed that
he made a noble stand.
The perfidy, the meanness, and the duplicity manifested Conduti
by Prussia on this occasion is probably without a parallel the com
in history. By the treaty of defensive alliance, solemnly0^er^
contracted between the republic of Poland and the king of
Prussia, and ratified on the 23d of April 1790, it is express¬
ly stipulated, that the contracting parties shall do all in their
power to guarantee and preserve to each other reciprocal¬
ly the whole of the territories which they respectively pos¬
sess ; that, in case of menace or invasion from any foreign
power, they shall assist each other with their whole force,
if necessary ; and that if any foreign power whatever should
presume to interfere in the internal affairs of Poland, his
Prussian majesty would consider this as a case falling with¬
in the meaning of the alliance, and assist the republic ac¬
cording to the tenor of the above article, that is, with his
whole force. What, then, was the pretext for violating this
treaty ? It was this, that the empress of Russia had shown
a decided opposition to the order of things established in
Poland on the third of May 1791, and was provoked by
Poland presuming to put herself into a posture of defence.
It is ascertained, however, by the most authentic documents,
that nothing was effected on the 3d of May 1791, to which
Prussia had not previously assented, and which she did not
afterwards sanction ; and that Prussia, according to the as¬
sertion of her own king, did not intimate a single doubt re¬
specting the revolution till several months after it had taken
place; in short, to use the king’s own words as explanatory
of his double politics, “ not till the general tranquillity of
Europe permitted him to explain himself.” Instead, there¬
fore, of assisting Poland, Prussia insultingly recommended
to Poland to retrace her steps ; in which case, she said that
she would be ready to attempt an accommodation in her
favour. But this attempt was never made, and probably
never intended; for the empress pursued her measures with¬
out opposition.
The duchy of Lithuania was the great scene of action in War m
the beginning of the war. But the Russians had madekussia'
little progress before the middle of the month of June. On
the 10th of that month, General Judycki, who commanded
a detachment of the Polish troops between Mire and Swi-
erzna, was attacked by the Russians ; but, after a combat
of some hours, he obliged them to retire with the loss of
five hundred men dead on the field. The general was de¬
wanton invasion, which was evidently against the sense of sirous of profiting by this advantage, by pursuing the ene-
■almost every individual Pole, was intended solely for the
good of the republic. It censured the precipitancy with
which the new constitution had been adopted, and ascribed
the ready consent of the Diet to the influence of the mob
of Warsaw. It represented the constitution as a violation
of the principles on which the Polish republic was found¬
ed ; complained of the licentiousness with which the sa-
my, but was prevented by a violent fall of rain. On the
succeeding day, the Russians rallied again to the attack;
and it then too fatally appeared that the Poles, being young
and undisciplined, were unable to contend with an inferior
force against experienced troops and able generals. By a
masterly manoeuvre, the Russians contrived to surround
their antagonists, at a moment when the Polish general
ered name of the empress was treated in some speeches of supposed that he had obliged the enemy to retreat; and
the members ; and concluded by professing, that on these
though the field was contested with the utmost valour by
' Hiiry-
POLAND.
The| ng
Piffles
subi .
sionr
the troops of the republic, they were at length compelled
'to give way, and to retire towards Nieswiesz.
On the 14th another engagement took place near Lu-
bar, on the banks of the river Sluez, between a detachment
of the Russian grand army and a party of Polish cavalry
despatched by Prince Joseph Poniatowski to intercept the
enemy. The patriotic bravery of the Poles proved victo¬
rious in this contest; but upon reconnoitring the force of
the enemy, the prince found himself incapable of making a
successful stand against such superior numbers. He, there¬
fore, gave orders to strike the camp at Lubar, and com¬
menced a precipitate retreat. During their march, the
Polish rear was harassed by a body of about four thousand
Russians. The Polish army next directed its course to¬
wards Zielime, where meeting, on the 17th, with a rein¬
forcement from Zaslow, it halted to give battle to the
enemy. The Russians were upwards of seventeen thou¬
sand strong, with twenty-four pieces of cannon, and the
force of the republic much inferior. After a furious contest,
from seven in the morning till five in the afternoon, the
Russians were at length obliged to retreat, and leave the
field of battle in possession of the patriots.
Notwithstanding these exertions, the Poles were obliged
gradually to retire before their numerous and disciplined
enemies. Nieswiesz, Wilna, Minsk, and several other places
of less consequence, fell one after another into their hands.
On a truce being proposed to the Russian general Koch-
owski, the proposal was haughtily rejected; whilst the de¬
sertion of vice-brigadier Rudnicki and some others, who
preferred dishonour to personal danger, proclaimed a tot¬
tering cause. The progress of the armies of Catharine was
marked with devastation and cruelty ; whilst such was the
aversion of the people, both to the cause and the manner
of conducting it, that, as they approached, the country all
around became a wilderness, where scarcely a human being
wras to be seen.
In the mean time, a series of petty defeats, to which the
inexperience of the commanders, and the intemperate va¬
lour of newly-raised troops, appear to have greatly contri¬
buted, served at once to distress and dispirit the defenders
of their country. Prince Poniatowski continued to retreat;
and on the 17th of July, his rear being attacked by a very
superior force, it suffered a considerable loss, although the
skill and the courage of General Kosciuszko enabled him to
make a most respectable defence. On the 18th, a gene¬
ral engagement took place between the two armies. The
Russian line extended opposite Dubienka, along the river
Bug, as far as Opalin ; and the principal column, consisting
of fourteen thousand men, was chiefly directed against the
division of General Kosciuszko, which consisted only of five
thousand men. After a most vigorous resistance, in which
the Russians lost upwards of four thousand men, the troops
of the republic wrere compelled to give way before the su¬
perior numbers of the enemy, and to retire further into the
country.
This unequal contest was at last prematurely terminat¬
ed. Ihe king, whose benevolent intentions were, perhaps,
overpowered by his mental imbecility, and whose age and
infirmities, probably, rendered him unequal to the difficul¬
ties and dangers which must attend a protracted war, in¬
stead of putting himself at the head- of his army, determin¬
ed at once to surrender at discretion. On the 23d of July
he summoned a council of all the deputies at that moment
in \V arsaw, and laid before them the last despatches from
the empress, which insisted upon total and unreserved sub-
inission. He pointed out the danger of a dismemberment
of the republic, should they delay to throw themselves up¬
on the clemency of the empress, and to entreat her protec¬
tion. He also mentioned the fatal union of Austria and
russia with Russia, and the disgraceful supineness ma¬
nifested by every other court in Europe. Four citizens,
205
the intrepid Malachowski, and the Princes Sapieha, Rad- History,
zml, and Soltan, vehemently protested against these das-''—n—-'
tardly proceedings ; and the following evening a company
of gentlemen from the different provinces attended for the
same purpose. The assembly immediately waited upon
these four distinguished patriots, and returned them their
acknowledgements for the spirit and firmness with which
they had resisted the usurpations of despotism. The sub¬
mission of the king to the designs of Russia wTas no sooner
made known than Poland was bereft of all her best and
most respectable citizens. Malachowski, as marshal of the
Diet, and Prince Sapieha, grand marshal of Lithuania, en¬
tered on the journals of the Diet strong protests against
these proceedings, and declared solemnly that the Diet le¬
gally assembled in 1788 was not dissolved'.
On the second of August a confederation was formed at The former
Warsaw, of which the renegade Potocki was chosen mar- constitu-
shal. The acts of this confederation were evidently the *’on r,e*
despotic dictates of Russia, and were solely calculated tostore('
restore the ancient abuses, and to place the country under
the aggravated oppression of a foreign yoke. It is remark¬
able, however, that at the very moment when Poland was
surrendering its liberties to its despotic invaders, the gene¬
rous sympathy of Great Britain was evinced by a liberal
subscription, supported by the most respectable characters
in the nation, of every party and of every sect, for the pur¬
pose of assisting the king and the republic to maintain their
independence; and though the benevolent design was frus¬
trated, yet the fact remains on record as a noble testimony
ot the spirit by which Britons are animated in the cause of
freedom, of the indignation which fills every heart in this
empire at the commission of injustice, and of the liberality
with which all are disposed to assist those who suffer from
the oppression of tyrants.
Not satisfied with restoring the old wretched constitu- Part of the
tion, the empress of Russia seized upon part of the terri- Polish ter-
tory which, at the last partition, she and her coadjutors hadntory seize '
left to the republic; and her ambassador entering into the
Diet with a crowd of armed men, compelled the king and
that assembly to grant the form of legality to her usurpa¬
tions. The nation, however, did not submit.
In February 1794 General Kosciuszko appeared in the Gallant ef-
neighbourhood of Cracow with a small force of armed pea-
sants. He beat some detachments of Russians and Prus- CIUsZ 0‘
sians, compelled them to evacuate Cracow, and there pro¬
claimed the constitution of 1791. Everywhere the people
and the nobles flew to arms. The Russians, who occupied
Warsaw with fifteen thousand men, began to seize suspect¬
ed persons, and demanded possession of the arsenal. But
at that moment the news arrived of a defeat sustained by a
corps of six thousand Russians, with the loss of a thousand
killed, and their general, Woronzow, made prisoner. En¬
couraged by this event, the people rose on the garrison,
and after forty-eight hours’ hard fighting, drove them out,
with the loss of six thousand killed, three thousand prison¬
ers, and fifty pieces of cannon. The whole country was
now in arms. Russia and Prussia, however, sent a hun¬
dred and ten thousand men into Poland. Kosciuszko, press¬
ed by superior forces, made an able retreat upon Warsaw.
The king of Prussia, after besieging the city during three
months, was compelled to retire towards his own territories
with the loss of twenty thousand men. Here he was harassed
for some time by Madalinsky with a small corps of cavalry.
Kosciuszko, relieved from the Prussians, marched against the
new Russian armies, which, during the siege of Warsaw,
had reconquered Lithuania and Volhynia. But the battle of
Noezylac, on the 10th of October 1794, in which the Poles
fought with heroic resolution against overpowering num¬
bers, proved fatal to their unhappy country. Kosciuszko
was made prisoner and carried to St Petersburg, where he
languished in a dungeon until the death of Catharine. The
206
POLAND.
Treaty of
partition.
History. Russians, after this event, united their forces and marched drance; to repress the indignant efforts of the sufferers,
 V ' upon Warsaw, where the Poles had named Wawrzecky ge- to crowd their prisons with the best and bravest, who had —
neral-in-chief. He had only ten thousand men to oppose to either distinguished themselves in the recent struggle, 01
fifty thousand, but an obstinate resistance was nevertheless had ventured to express dissatisfaction with the new state
offered. The last remains of the national army were con- of things ; to aisarrn the inhabitants of the great towns, and
centrated at Praga, on the right bank of the Vistula, im- to establish formidable garrisons of foreign troops who were
mediatelv onposite Warsaw; but they were soon broken by ready to crush the very first attempt at insurrection,
the furious charges of the Russian general Suwarof, who The Poles had no longer a country to fight for or de- ComH
gratified his natural cruelty bv the most frightful carnage, fend ; they had lost everything but honour and the fee mg
The fate of Poland was now decided. After the capture of revenge. I hey earned all they had left, namely, their
of Pra^a, Warsaw capitulated. Nine thousand Poles fell in valour, into the market, and soon entered into a compact
the fight; thirty thousand persons of all ages and either with republican trance. At Cracow was formed a secret
sex were destroyed in cold blood; and thirty thousand confederation, the members of which offered to the French
more, who still refused to submit, were suffered to leave Directory to sacrifice their lives at the first call of the re-
the place, and afterwards hunted down by the soldiery, public. Nor was this a vain or futile offer. Hundreds of
The most distinguished chiefs were carried away to distant the warlike nobles, escaping from bondage at home, pro¬
provinces ; and the wretched king was sent to Russia, where ceeded to Venice or to Pans, and under Dombrowski, their
he ended his days in 1798. . brave leader, were formed Polish legions m aid of the
The two powers were proceeding to divide the remaining newly-created Italian republics, and ready to act whei ever
provinces between them, when Austria interfered, and de- their services might be required. Their pay and subsist-
clared that she would not permit the destruction of Poland ence were to be furnished by the Italian states ; they pre-
unless she received a share. At that moment it was not served their national arms and dress ; and, taking as their
thought prudent to raise up a new enemy ; and Austria ob- motto that all freemen are brothers, tliey fully participate
tained a considerable addition of territory, without having in that daring spirit which then shook Europe to its centre,
struck a blow or expended a florin. The negotiation con- That they were allured by the prospect which had been held
tinued till 1795, when the definitive treaty of partition was out to them of their country s restoration, is well known ;
signed, which closed a series of transactions unparalleled and if their faith was rather the measure of their own ar-
for perfidy, cruelty, and infamy in the history of Europe, dent hopes than the result of any rational orwell-grounded
\ustria received Cracow, with the country lying between conviction, it may at least be pleaded in their favour, that
the Pilitsa, the Vistula, and the Bug. Prussia had the ca- the unfortunate are naturally credulous, and that a true Pole
pital, with the territory as far as the Niemen. The lion’s can never eradicate from his heart the belief that all his
share, as usual, fell to Russia. After an existence of near fondest wishes will one day be gratified. But be this as it
ten centuries, the republic was thus erazed from the list of may, their martial prowess contributed essentially to the
nations. No people on earth, perhaps, have ever shown so success of the republican cause. Their number was in-
much personal bravery as the Poles. Their whole history creased by fresh recruits, which more than compensated
indeed is full of wonderful victories. But with such a vi- the casualties of the field ; their brilliant valour shone re-
cious frame ofsociety as we have already described, the most splendent in every battle where they were engaged; pa-
chivalrous valour, and the most splendid military successes, triotism and revenge alike nerved their arms for the con-
could avail nothing. It could not enforce obedience to the flict. But they soon had occasion to distrust the fair pre¬
laws, nor maintain domestic tranquillity; it could not pre- fessions of the republican hero. When anxious, by his
serve the proud nobles from dissipation, nor prevent them means, to preserve an entrance to the congress of Kastadt
from receiving bribes to repair their shattered fortunes ; it for a representative of Poland, they were coolly told that
could not restrain the powers which lavished the means of the hearts of all friends of liberty were for the brave Poles,
corruption from interfering in the affairs of the kingdom ; but that time and destiny alone could restore them as a
it could not dissolve the union of these powers with the nation. Still they did not despair. If the day of regene-
malcontents at home; it could not infuse vigour into a go- ration was deferred, might it not yet arrive, perhaps at no
vernment corrupted by foreign gold, nor avert the invasion distant period, when a more favourable conjuncture of cir-
of foreign armies to support the factious and rebellious; it cumstances would render it impossible for the French go-
could not, while divided against itself, uphold the indepen- vernment any longer to evade urging their claims ? Where
dence of the nations against foreign and domestic treason; justice, and freedom, and independence were concerned,
in a word, it could not effect impossibilities, and though it they could not believe that fortune would always frown on
might dazzle by its glory, it could not counteract those slow their cause, or that iniquity in high places would secure for
but sure-working causes which determined the inevitable itself an immunity from all retribution.
doom of Poland. The connection of the Polish legions with France exm-Thenar
This great The extinction of the Polish republic afforded ample bits the same unvaried picture of gallant services perform-
crime com-SCOpe for political declamation. The tribunes of France, ed, and of hope deferred. Their loyalty was sustained by^^fra
fitted, with the pariiament 0f England, and the press of both countries, a strong passion for military fame ; to them the tent was
unpuni y. resoun(je(j with eloquent invectives against the perfidy and their home, the battle-field their country; and though they
violence of the partitioning powers, and general sympathy suffered severely, particularly during the absence of Napo-
was awakened in favour of a people whose great actions leon in Egypt, yet they repaired their losses with astonish-
were entitled to admiration, whilst their misfortunes moved ing promptitude, and, in the year 1801, amounted to fifteen
our commiseration. But complete impunity awaited the de- thousand. But their blood flowed in vain. In every treaty
spoilers of that unhappy country. The troubled state of af¬
fairs throughout Europe did not permit any power to inter¬
fere in behalf of the oppressed. A selfish and shortsighted
policy paralysed every arm, and chilled every heart. The
great cause of public justice and national independence
found no advocates, whilst the attention of all was absorb¬
ed in a narrow and confined struggle for their own preser-
which their valour had been instrumental in winning, their
services were overlooked, and their country was forgotten.
In Italy and on the Danube, Generals Dombrowski and
Kniaziewicz, with their legions, represented the Polish na¬
tion, and maintained its ancient renown in arms, though to
little purpose, as far as regarded their country. For five
years, their bravery proved unavailing, in as far as concern-
vation. The three potentates were therefore enabled to ed the main object for which they had fought and bled,
perfect their common wickedness without the slightest hin- But with the year 1806 new hopes began to revive. The
POLAND.
I ory. .
tifiaign*
Sli06
an 11807-
Gi (1
(ll! v'Of
AV aw.
tic
®c' ’tions
°,n spar,
stora-
brilliant campaign of that year, the- simultaneous victories
of Jena and Auerstadt, and the advance of the French ar¬
my into Poland, seemed an earnest of future success, a sure
pledge of approaching restoration. A general burst of en¬
thusiasm followed. Polish regiments were organized with
amazing rapidity, and the approach of Kosciuszko was pro¬
claimed. On the 27th of November, Napoleon entered
Posen in triumph ; in December Warsaw received him with
not less enthusiasm ; a commission of government was im¬
mediately organized; and as his purpose was announced,
his armies were recruited by thousands of the best troops
in Europe. The battle of Eylau had been a mere butchery,
unproductive of any result; but on the field at Friedland,
Dombrowski had given signal proofs of his own talents and
the valour of the heroes he commanded ; and the opening
of the negotiations at Tilsit was hailed by the Poles as the
dawning of a bright and auspicious futurity. But the re¬
sult proved that they had been far too sanguine in their an¬
ticipations. Napoleon in effect, though not probably in in¬
tention, betrayed them, and at the same time lost the op¬
portunity of erecting a powerful barrier against the en¬
croachments of Russia. Instead of restoring the kingdom
of Poland in something like its ancient power and dimen¬
sions, he contented himself with forming a small portion of
his conquests into the grand duchy of Warsaw, which he
united with Saxony.
The duchy of Warsaw, thus established, consisted of the
departments of Posen, Kalisch, Plock, Warsaw, Lomza, and
Bydgoszcz, with a population somewhat exceeding two mil¬
lions. With this shred and mockery of a country the Poles
were highly dissatisfied. They had been taught to expect that
die ancient kingdom, if not Lithuania itself, would become
irrevocably their own; and their mortification may there¬
fore be conceived on finding that Prussia was to retain se¬
veral palatinates, that Austria was guaranteed in her Polish
possessions, that the provinces east of the Bug were to re¬
main in the power of Russia, and that a considerable por¬
tion of the ancient republic west of that river, as far as the
department of Bialystok, was ceded in perpetual sovereignty
to the czar. Still the establishment of this duchy was pro¬
bably intended as a point of departure in a new order of
things, the ultimate term of which should be the restoration
of Poland. By the new constitution, the Catholic religion
was declared to be the religion of the state; but ample to¬
leration, and even a community of civil rights, were allow¬
ed to the Dissidents. Serfage was abolished. In the king
of Saxony, as grand duke of Warsaw, was vested the ini¬
tiative of all bills or projects of law, the selection of sena¬
tors, the nomination of the presidents of the dietines and
the communal assemblies, and the appointment of all offi¬
cers, civil and military ; and the Code Napoleon was sub¬
sequently admitted as the basis of all judicial proceedings.
Something had thus been gained, though the arrange¬
ment was far from being satisfactory; indeed, by some the
peace of Tilsit was regarded as the grave of all their hopes.
But the greater number, reposing an unexhausted faith in
the justice of their cause, consoled themselves with the be¬
lief that eventually Poland would be recalled into political
existence, and her independence re-established upon a sure
foundation. Accordingly, in the war with Austria in 1809,
jhey rendered the most important services to Napoleon,
i, hey conquered Gallicia, without the smallest aid from
fiance; they reduced Cracow and the adjoining territory ;
they regained possession of the capital, which the archduke
had temporarily occupied; and they humbled their enemies
on every side. What their own arms had won, they con¬
ceived that they had a right to retain, and they regarded as
inevitable the incorporation of these conquests with their in¬
ant state. But they were destined to be speedily unde-
Not a foot of ground were they allowed to retain
207
capital and the Austrian frontier was wrested from their History,
hands. Four departments were indeed incorporated with ——
ceived.
m Gallicia; and half of their other conquests between the
the grand duchy, viz. Cracow, Pradom, Lublin, and Siedlec.
I his acquisition, however, afforded but a small compensa¬
tion for the sacrifices which had been made, the forcible
loans which had been raised, the lives which had been wast¬
ed, and the misery which afflicted every class of the inhabi¬
tants. In truth, the policy pursued by Napoleon in regard
to the Poles bore traces of doubt and hesitation ; it w as al¬
ways timid, seldom judicious, never generous. He had not
the courage to break through the entanglements of diplo-
macy, by which his inclinations were fettered, and to do a
£i eat act of retributive justice, leaving the consequences to
Providence. He suffered himself to be paralyzed by con¬
flicting pretensions, and sacrificed his owm glory to conciliate
powers who took the earliest opportunity of betraying him.
Nevertheless, when the wrar with Russia became inevi-Invasion of
table, Napoleon, with the view of interesting the Poles in Russia in
his behalf, had recourse to all the arts of popular excitement, *lS^-
and, strange as it may seem, with his usual success. The
more reflecting portion, wearied out and disgusted, refused
to be again deluded. “We are flattered when our services
are required,” said they. “ Is Poland always to be fed on
hope alone ?” The mass, however, swayed by their feel¬
ings, listened to the representations of the imperial agents,
and a great body of Poles took the field, whilst a general
confederation of nobles declared the republic restored, the
declaration being signed by the king of Saxony, in whose
house the hereditary monarchy was to be vested. But the
enthusiasm thus excited proved short-lived. The reply of
Napoleon to the Polish deputation, which had followed him
to Wilna, at once dissolved the spell, by showing the de¬
puties that he had guaranteed to the Emperor Francis the
integrity of the Austrian possessions in Poland. Illyria there¬
fore could not, as they had hoped, be exchanged for Gallicia;
and as to Lithuania, Napoleon not only considered, but even
proclaimed it a hostile country, and treated it accordingly.
But still the deputation erred egregiously in giving up all
for lost. Everything depended on the success of the expe¬
dition, which w ould have enabled Napoleon to give the law
to Austria as well as to Russia; and hence, when he exhorted
them to fight for their own independence, and assured them
that if all the palatinates combined they might reasonably
expect to attain their object, he gave them advice which they
wrould have done well to follow. At a moment so critical he
could not give Austria a fair pretence for betraying him on
the occurrence of the very first reverse ; this w ould indeed
have been the height of folly in one who had risked every¬
thing upon the issue of a single campaign. But, on the other
hand, the success of the expedition must have proved highly
beneficial to Poland; and, in chilling the national enthusiasm
at this time, the deputation were innocently instrumental in
inflicting the greatest evils on their unhappy country.
This is not the place to dwell on the unexampled disas- Results,
ters of the Russian campaign, which were greatly aggravat¬
ed by the apathy of the Poles, and their refusal to co-ope¬
rate in covering the retreat of the French army. The de¬
tails are in the memory of all. The work of Napoleon was
destroyed; the grand duchy of Warsaw ceased to exist; the
king of Saxony was stripped at once of it and of a portion of
his hereditary dominions; the allied, who were also the par¬
titioning powers, again took possession of the towns which
they had held previous to the invasion of Napoleon ; and
in this state matters remained, awaiting the meeting of a
congress, which was to assemble to decide, amongst other
things, the fate of this unhappy country.
The negotiations which commenced with the downfall of Treaty of
Napoleon, and were completed by the treaty of Paris in Paris.
1814, necessarily embraced the future condition of Poland,1 olam1,
which, though then occupied by Russian troops, had from
previcms cession to France become a fit subject of arrange-
208
POLAND.
History, mebt, not for the eventual benefit of Russia alone, but for
'-''v''*'-"'' that of the whole European commonwealth. Public opinion,
the interests of rulers, and the sympathies of the governed,
were all in favour of the re-establishment of the kingdom in
its ancient integrity; and the side of justice, policy, and
humanity was powerfully advocated by France and Eng¬
land, whose ministers regarded the Polish question as one
in comparison of which all others were of but secondary
importance. But neither of these powers, nor both of them
united, were in a situation to control the views of those in¬
terested in maintaining the state of things created by the
successive dismemberments of Poland. France, exhausted
by long wars, and now restricted within her ancient limits,
had no longer a voice potential in the decision. Britain, with
the right of remonstrance, which her minister freely exer¬
cised, was in no condition to brave two great military powers;
and although Austria not only expressed a desire for Polish
independence, but a readiness to surrender part of her Gal-
lician provinces in order to endow the new kingdom, yet all
this might have been easily counteracted by the predomi¬
nant influence of Russia and Prussia. At that period, in¬
deed, the Emperor Alexander displayed or affected a spirit
of liberality, which appears to have owed its origin to vari¬
ous circumstances; but whether he was sincere or the con¬
trary, “ an accident,” as Madame de Stael described him,
or merely the impersonation of hypocrisy and perfidy, it was
certain the genius of the Russian system would govern the
ultimate determinations of his policy on a subject of so much
importance to his empire.
The king- At this juncture, however, Napoleon escaped from Elba,
dom of Po- an(j the whole question assumed a new phasis. In the corn-
land. rnon danger, Poland was scarcely remembered; and the
czar, finding that his aid would be indispensable in the ap¬
proaching contest, was enabled to insist on a measure which
he had long contemplated, namely, the union of the grand
duchy with Russia as a separate kingdom. The facility
with which he carried his object proves the alarm that had
been occasioned by the re-appearance of Napoleon, and the
anxiety felt to adopt any measure calculated to prevent
Polish partisanship from swelling the ranks of the invader.
It was therefore decided that the grand duchy of Warsaw
should be attached to the empire of Russia, under the name
of the kingdom of Poland, and that it should be governed
by separate institutions. “ The duchy of Warsaw, with
the exception of those provinces and districts which are
otherwise disposed of, is united to Russia. It shall be ir¬
recoverably bound to the Russian empire by its constitu¬
tion, to be enjoyed by his majesty the emperor of all the
Russias, his heirs and successors, for ever.” Such are the
expressions employed in an article relating to this point in
the treaty of Vienna. The two sovereignties were united
by the constitution alone, and not otherwise. This was the
connecting link which bound them together. Austria and
Prussia acceded to a similar arrangement, and also agreed
to confer on their Polish subjects a national representation
and national institutions. The concessions required by
public opinion were made, and certain bases were solemnly
sanctioned by the treaty of Vienna.
These were four in number. In the first place, Gallicia
and the salt-mines of Wieliczka were restored to Austria.
Bases of
the union             
between Secondly, the grand duchy of Posen, forming the western
Prussiaan palatinates bordering on Silesia, and containing a popula¬
tion of about eight hundred thousand souls, was surrender¬
ed to Prussia; which power was also confirmed in the con¬
quests made at the period of the first partition. Thirdly,
the city and district of Cracow, about twenty geographical
miles in extent, and containing a population exceeding an
hundred thousand souls, was formed into a free and inde¬
pendent republic, under the guarantee of the three powers.
Fourthly, the remainder of ancient Poland, comprising the
chief part of the recent grand duchy of Warsaw, with a
population of about four millions, reverted to Russia, and Hist]
was to form a kingdom irrecoverably bound, by the consti-'
tution which the czar had engaged to confer upon it, to
the Russian empire. “ The kingdom of Poland,” said the
Emperor Alexander, “ shall be united to the empire of
Russia by the title of its own constitution, on which I am
desirous of founding the happiness of the country.” Thus
a part of Poland was re-established as a separate state, by
the act of all the powers of Europe; and although the em¬
peror of Russia was to be king of that state, still the indepen¬
dence and separate existence of the kingdom were not only
recognised in the fullest manner, but at the same time so¬
lemnly guaranteed.
The new kingdom of Poland was proclaimed on the 20th The
of June 1815, and on the 24th of December following atution!
constitutional charter was granted to the Poles. The ar-c arI‘
tides of this charter, by which Poland became united to
Russia, were of so liberal a nature as to astonish all Europe.
According to some, they prove that, at the time of their pro¬
mulgation, Alexander was no enemy to liberal institutions.
But the more probable supposition seems to be, that the
earnest and loyal interposition of Great Britain and France,
favoured by the declared disposition of Austria, and strength¬
ened by the public opinion of Europe, had more effect on
the mind of the czar than any presumed inclination towards
liberal institutions, of which he afterwards became the most
uncompromising opponent. The principle articles, which
are now only matter of history, were as follow.
The Catholic religion was declared to be the religion of The
the state; but all dissidents were placed on a footing of per- pal £
feet equality as to civil rights, with the professors of the“™s'
established faith. The liberty of the press was recognisedter•
in its fullest extent. It was provided that no subject could
be arrested prior to judicial conviction. The inviolability of
person and property was, in the strictest sense, guaranteed.
All public business was to be transacted in the Polish lan¬
guage ; and all offices, civil or military, were to be held by
natives alone. The national representation was to be vested
in two chambers, one of senators and another of deputies.
The power of the crown was not greater than seemed neces¬
sary to give due weight to the executive. All kings of Po¬
land were to be crowned at Warsaw, at the same time swear¬
ing to maintain the full observance of the charter ; and du¬
ring the absence of the sovereign for the time being, the
chief authority was to be vested in a lieutenant and coun¬
cil of state. The great public departments of the state were
to be presided over by responsible ministers. 1 he legislative
power was vested in the king and the two chambers; an or¬
dinary Diet to be held every two years, and to sit thirty days,
and an extraordinary Diet to be convened whenever this
should be judged necessary by the king. No member of the
Diet could be arrested during a session, except for great of¬
fences, and not even then without the concurrence of the as¬
sembly. The deliberations of the Diet extended to all pro¬
jects submitted to it by the ministry, affecting the laws and
the whole routine of internal administration. The delibera¬
tions of the Diet were to be public, except when committees
were sitting. All projects of law originated with the coun¬
cil of state, and were laid before the chambers by order of
the king; such projects, however, being previously examined
by committees of both houses. In the case of all projects
or bills, the majority of votes was to decide. The senators
were to be nominated by the king, and to exercise their
functions during life. The deputies, a hundred and twenty-
eight in number, were seventy-seven for as many districts,
and fifty-one for communes, or about double the number
of senators. To become a member of the second or lower
chamber, the qualifications were, citizenship, the age of
thirty, possession of some portion of landed property how¬
ever small, and the payment in annual contributions to the
state of a hundred Polish florins. No public functionary
POL
y J ory.
Eflirks
thion.
I:
F
t
Pel
Rn
C(
ly of
a.
;an-
tie
was eligible to a seat without the consent of the head of
his department. The nobles of each district were to meet
in dietines for the purpose of electing one of their body to
the general Diet, and returning two members to the pa¬
latine assemblies, all dietines being convoked by the king.
The class of electors was numerous, comprising, first, all
landowners, however small, who paid any contribution to¬
wards the support of the state ; secondly, every manufac¬
turer or shopkeeper possessing a capital of ten thousand
florins; thirdly, all rectors and vicars ; and, lastly, all ar¬
tists or mechanics distinguished for talent. The electors
required to be enrolled, and to have attained the age of
twenty-one years. The tribunals were to be filled with
judges partly nominated by the king, and partly elected by
the palatinates; the former being appointed for life, and
removeable only for misconduct, or judicial iniquity, in the
discharge of their functions.
Such were the principal provisions of the charter which
was thus conferred on the Poles, and received by them as
the first instalment of that restitution which they hoped
would one day be made effectual and complete. Its great¬
est defect consisted in the incompetency of either chamber
to propose laws, the initiative being confined exclusively to
the executive, or the king and the council of state, and an
effectual check thereby applied to legislative amelioration.
Nor was any provision made in the charter for the esta¬
blishment of trial by jury, an institution which, however
suitable to our habits and modes of thinking, may not have
been equally so to those of the Poles. But it is neverthe¬
less certain that Alexander, on his return from witnessing
the prosperity of this country, which he attributed in part
to our judicial system, ordained the establishment of trial
by jury throughout Poland within six months; being in this
carried by mere impulse, without any regard to the fitness
or unfitness of the institution to the wants, habits, and pre¬
judices of the people amongst whom he proposed to natura¬
lize it. It is not thus that national benefits are really con¬
ferred, or that new systems can ever be advantageously in¬
troduced.
from the re-establishment of the kingdom in 1815, until
the year 1820, the affairs of Poland were conducted appa¬
rently in conformity with the constitution. The benefits of
the government had to a certain extent disarmed the pre¬
judices and antipathies of the people ; the opposition to mi¬
nisters in the lower chamber was comparatively trifling;
the emperor’s lieutenant, Count Zayonczek, a Pole, endea¬
voured to attach the Poles to his sway ; and Alexander,
congratulating himself on the liberal policy which he had
adopted towards his new subjects, declared in full senate at
Warsaw, that he only waited to try the effect of the free in¬
stitutions he had given them, in order to extend those in¬
stitutions over all the regions which Providence had placed
under his sway. But all this fair promise proved hollow
and deceptive. From the very first there had been per¬
petual breaches in the constitution ; and after the Spanish
revolution of 1820, followed as it speedily was by the esta¬
blishment of the Holy Alliance, all disguise was thrown
aside, and an attempt made to suppress entirely the spirit
of national independence in Poland. Count Zayonczek
was only nominally the king’s lieutenant. The real power
was invested in the Grand Duke Constantine, who held
the appointment of commander-in-chief of the army. This
personage, who played so conspicuous a part in the affairs
of Poland, is deserving of notice, in consequence of the po¬
sition in which he was placed. Although possessed of con¬
siderable talents, he was, in fact, an untamed tiger, giving
way on all occasions to the most violent paroxysms of pas¬
sion. He had a strong sense of the rights of his order, and
old as nought the feelings of every other class. As soon,
t erefore, as he found that his brother was no longer the
iberal patron of constitutional rights, he gave the most un-
vol. xvm.
AND.
209
restrained license to his natural violence and caprice. The History
outrages ascribed to him display a mixture of ferocity, cruel-
ty, and cowardice, altogether unparalleled. With him no
right was respected, and no condition safe. Females were
insulted, abused, sometimes kicked; shaving the heads of
such women as displeased him was a common occurrence;
and to this was added tarring and feathering, a favourite
recreation of the commander-in-chief, whose delight it was
to witness these barbarities. He kept in his employment a
legion Oi spies; and the liberty or life of every man was at
the mercy of a common informer. With him suspicion was
a sufficient warrant to exclude the proof of innocence, and
accusation led at once to conviction.
But whilst acts of private oppression were calling forth Political
all that hatred of Russia which is the birthright of every tyranny sir*
Pole, political tyranny was superadded, as if it were desir-Pera(Hed
able to concentrate upon one point the entire indip-nation ofto private
a brave and devoted people. The liberty of the press was 0ppreSS1°n’
abolished, and a censorship established, in violation of ar¬
ticle sixteenth of the constitutional charter. This was ef¬
fected by an ordinance dated the 31st of July 1819 ; and
not long afterwards the patriotic association formed by Ge¬
neral Dombrowski, who had modelled it almost after the
recommendation of Alexander, was suppressed, and a mi¬
litary commission appointed, which tried and condemned
civilians w ithout any of the prescribed formalities. “ What
have we to hope,” exclaimed Dombrowski; “ what have we
not to fear ? This very day might we not tremble for the
fate which may await us to-morrow?” Meanwhile, the secret
police pursued its fatal career, and arbitrary arrests, followed
by hidden condemnations, the banishment of many and the
imprisonment of more, signalized its hateful activity. The
university of Wilna wras also visited with severity by the agents
of this dreaded institution. T wenty of its students were seized,
and subjected to different punishments. Nor were those of
Warsaw treated with greater leniency. A state-prison was
likewise erected in the capital, and its dungeons were soon
crowded with inmates, victims of the execrable system
adopted by the government. Nor were these the only griev¬
ances of which the people had reason to complain. Al¬
though the constitutional charter had provided that Russian
troops, when required to pass through Poland, were to be
maintained at the sole charge of the Russian treasury, yet
for years they had been stationed at Warsaw, and paid by
the inhabitants of the capital, whom they were employed
to overawe. Further, independently of the violations of in¬
dividual liberty, the difficulty of procuring passports, the
misapplication of the revenue to other objects than those
for which it had been raised (as the maintenance of the se¬
cret police), and the nomination of men as senators, without
the necessary qualifications, or any other merit than that of
being mere creatures of the government, were infractions of
the charter as wanton as they were intended to be humili¬
ating. But the worst of all yet remains to be told. In the
dietines Russian money and influence were unblushingly
employed to procure the return to the general Diet of such
members only as were known to care less for the honour of
their country than the advancement of their own fortunes.
Instead of a Diet being held every two years, in accordance
with article eighty-seventh of the charter, none was con¬
voked from 1820 to 1825, and only one from the year 1825
until after the accession of Nicolas in 1829. Finally, an or¬
dinance issued as early as 1825 had abolished the publica¬
tion of the debates in the two chambers; and on one occa¬
sion, the most distinguished members of opposition were for¬
cibly removed from Warsaw the night preceding the open¬
ing of the Diet. Add to all this the constant irritation pro¬
duced by the ungovernable temper and consequent excesses
of Constantine ; the useless but vexatious manoeuvres he in¬
troduced into the army; his rigorous mode of exercise, ex¬
ceeding the ordinary measure of human strength and endu-
210
History.
POLAND.
Universal
discontent.
Favourable
moment for
rising lost.
Revolution
of Paris,
July 1830.
ranee; his overbearing manner towards the best and high¬
est officers in the service; and, above all, that progressive
increase in cruelty which a regimen of terror presupposes
and almost necessitates : take these matters into considera¬
tion, along with all the other circumstances of grievous op¬
pression which have already been stated as afiecting the
mass of the people, and it will easily be seen that it was
vain to whisper peace, and that the grand duke was trea¬
suring up to himself wrath against the day of wrath.
It has been matter of some surprise to foreigners that the
Poles did not take advantage of the Russo-Turkish war to
erect the standard of independence. The reverses expe¬
rienced by the Russian army on the Danube in the cam¬
paign of 1828, were so great, that an insurrection in Poland
at that critical and perilous moment would have had almost
every chance in its favour. But at that period the plan of
the Poles had evidently not been matured. That it was even
so in November 1830 may reasonably be doubted. In fact,
no preparations seem to have been made, and when the ex¬
plosion actually took place, it was wholly unexpected by the
leading patriots, who conceived that the propitious moment
had not yet arrived. At the same time it must be confessed,
that the French Revolution of July 1830 produced an al¬
most electric effect on the whole Polish nation, and, by its
daring character and its splendid success, disposed the ini¬
tiated to anticipate the time for a general rising. Besides, it
is generally believed that emissaries fiom Warsaw had held
confidential meetings with the leaders of the Revolution of
July, and were instigated to rouse their countrymen by the
promise of immediate aid from the government of the citi¬
zen king; and that such aid was confidently relied on by
the Polish patriots themselves, must be known to all who
have conversed with those who acted a prominent part in
the national insurrection, and seems to be further confirmed
by the universal impression of the people. Two other cir¬
cumstances also contributed to accelerate the catastrophe.
The army began to entertain a notion, not altogether un¬
founded, that it was to be removed to the south of Europe, to
assist in extirpating freedom in France and other countries;
and that its place was to be supplied by a native Muscovite
force. The students of the military school likewise found
ample cause of apprehension in the previous arrest of several
of their number, upon suspicion of being connected with
secret associations, which had for their object to promote a
general rising. The repugnance of the army to the service
intended for them; the apprehensions of the students, who
had everything to fear from the grand duke, should he try
their companions by martial law, as he had threatened to
do, and most probably meditated; the conviction that the
whole populace of the capital were friendly to the project
of an insurrection; the secret encouragement held out by
France ; the eagerness of the enterprising to court danger
for its own sake; the number of those who had personal
wrongs or insults to avenge; and, lastly, the presumed, or
rather the certain, approbation of the free in all countries
towards the insurrection itself, if not towards the time and
the circumstances: all these, therefore, concurred to hasten
the opening of the great tragedy, the enacting of which all
Europe regarded with such deep and thrilling interest.
The first object of the actors in this enterprise was to
seize the person of the grand duke, their most obnoxious
enemy, and to detain him as a hostage for their own safety
in the event of failure. The students of the military school
were the voluntary leaders of the movement, which burst
forth on the 29th of November 1830. Early in the even¬
ing of that day, several of them repaired to their barrack,
in accordance with a preconcerted plan; and having address¬
ed their comrades, summoned them to take up arms. The
call thus made was instantly obeyed. On their w ay to the
residence of Constantine, who had established himself at the
palace of Belvedere, in the outskirts of the city, their num¬
ber was increased by the students of the university, and the Histm
young men attending the public schools. Constantine had
no troops about his residence, but at a short distance from
it were the barracks of three regiments of Russian guards.
The hour chosen for the attack was seven o’clock, and at
that time the assailants proceeded to the bridge of Sobies-
ki, where the main body posted themselves, whilst some of
the most determined pressed forward to complete their ob¬
ject. They forced their way into the palace, where they
were first opposed by the director of the police, Lubowi-
dizki, who, on being wounded, took to flight. Next they
encountered the Russian general, Gendre, a man obnoxious
for his cruelties and crimes, who was killed in the act of
resisting. Lastly, when on the point of reaching the bed¬
chamber of the grand duke, whom the alarm had just awak¬
ed from his evening siesta, they were stopped by a valet,
Kochanowski, who, closing a secret door, thus enabled his
master to escape undressed through a window. Constan¬
tine fled to his guards, who instantly turned out. Disap¬
pointed in their prey, the devoted band rejoined their com¬
panions at the bridge of Sobieski, where they had been
awaiting the result of the attack on the palace. On finding
that their first object had failed, they now resolved to gain
the city, and at once proclaim a general insurrection. Their
retreat wras opposed by the Russian guards, close to whose
barracks it was necessary to pass. But such was the spirit
which animated them, such were the skill and courage they
displayed, that they killed three hundred of their opponents,
and triumphantly effected their retreat. On reaching the
city, they instantly liberated every state-prisoner, and were
joined by the school of engineers and the students of the
university. A party entered the only two theatres which
were open, calling out, “ Women, home; men, to arms.”
Both requisitions were instantaneously complied with. The
arsenal was next forced, and in less than two hours from
the first movement, so electrical was the cry of liberty, forty
thousand men of all descriptions were in arms. The sap¬
pers and the fourth Polish regiment declared early in favour
of the insurrection ; and by eleven o’clock the remainder
of the Polish troops in Warsaw, with the exception of twro
regiments of guards wdiom Constantine had forced along
with him, espoused the popular cause, declaring that their
children wrere too deeply compromised to be abandoned.
Never perhaps was any popular movement more universal
or more triumphant.
By the morning of the 30th of November the commotion
had subsided, and the results could be calmly surveyed.
Besides the troops of the line which had joined the patriots,
nearly thirty thousand citizens had taken up arms, and now
swelled their dense ranks. In twrelve hours the revolution
had been begun and completed. In vain did the grand duke,
w’ho lay w ithout the waflls, meditate the recovery of the in-
trenchments and fortifications. His isolated though des¬
perate efforts to re-enter the city were repulsed with serious
loss; and finding it hopeless to contend with the mass op¬
posed to him, he not only desisted from all further attempts
of the kind, but removed to a greater distance from the
wralls. In the excitement consequent on this extraordinary
commotion, no one will be surprised to learn that, notwith¬
standing the regularity with which every part of it was
conducted on the part of the principal actors, some exces¬
ses were committed. But these were neither many in num¬
ber nor aggravated in character; and although some Rus¬
sians lost their lives, as did also several Poles, who were
known to have been on terms of intimacy with Constantine,
yet these men courted their fate by recklessly interming¬
ling amongst an excited population when their passions were
inflamed by the heat of battle, the tumult of victory, and
the feverish excitement of revolution.
The functionaries of the government having abandoned
their posts, an administrative council was immediately form-
LAND.
y. eel to preside over the destinies of the new state. It con-
sisted of men distinguished for their talents, their charac¬
ter, or their services, and numbered amongst its members
Czartoryski, Radzivil, Niemcewicz, Chlopicki, Pac, Kocho-
nowski, and Lelewel. But no good resulted from this hete¬
rogeneous assemblage of persons professing moderate and
ultra opinions, or what may be called Whigs and Radicals.
The former were not men made for revolutions, though in
this instance they obtained the direction of the moveijient;
and, in the hope of accommodation, which, from the first, was
desperate, they allowed the grand duke to retire under a
convention, when they might have captured his entire
army, and detained himself as a hostage. At first they evi¬
dently entertained no intention of throwing off their alle¬
giance to the czar. AH their proclamations ran in his
name, and their claims were confined to a due execution of
the charter. On the part of the provisional government,
however, this seems to have been the very excess of weak¬
ness. Men who engage in revolutions, if they hope or wish
to succeed, should, when they draw the sword, throw away
the scabbard. Besides, as nothing less than unconditional
submission would gratify the czar, it is obvious that nego¬
tiation was at once a waste of time, and a confession of in¬
decision. The next blunder of the council was in the op¬
posite direction. As their patriotism appears to have risen
with their success, they at length insisted on the incorpo¬
ration of Lithuania, and the other Polish provinces subject
to Russia, with the kingdom ; and, as if this had not been
enough, they some months afterwards declared the throne
vacant, an act which, upon their own principles, was equally
rash and impolitic. But, what was worst of all, they lost pre¬
cious time. The force of the first impulsion was wasted.
Ihe great and sudden outburst of national enthusiasm was
allowed to exhaust itself. Russia had been braved at a time
when all her energies might be concentrated to enforce sub¬
mission ; when neither foreign war nor domestic disturbance
distracted her councils or divided her means; yet, so far
from profiting by the only advantage resulting from the
wild improvisation so rapidly nationalized, the provisional
government acted as if their sole object had been to forego
the chances which the national movement had, in the first
instance, accumulated in their favour.
But all these errors were nobly redeemed. When it ap¬
peared that negotiation was vain, and that nothing but un¬
conditional submission would satisfy the czar, they gallant¬
ly prepared themselves for the unequal struggle. Their
plans were evidently not matured. Neither from Lithuania,
nor from any of the other Polish provinces incorporated
with Russia, did they receive the aid on which they had
relied; yet the honours of the first campaign wTere exclu¬
sively their own. Their efforts wrere stupendous, and their
bravery was worthy the age of Boleslas and Sobieski. The
laurels which Diebitsch Zabalkanski had reaped in his
campaign against the Turks, protected by mountains and
fortresses, were blighted and withered in the plains of Po¬
land. On the 25th of February 1831, his dense masses, first
brought into contact with the patriotic forces at Grochow,
recoiled from the shock, after one of the most unequal and
sanguinary conflicts of modern times. March was illus¬
trated by the victories of Dembewielki and Wawr ; and in
May was fought the celebrated battle of Ostrolenka, where,
after performing prodigies of valour, the Polish army re¬
tired from the field, unpursued, towards Modlin. In the
mean time, Diebitsch had perished, the victim of disease,
chagrin, and fatigue. Paskewitsch, distinguished by his Ar¬
menian campaigns, succeeded, and, following the example
of his predecessor Suwarof, concentrated all his means for an
attack on the capital. On the 5th, 6th, and 7th of Septem¬
ber was fought the ever-memorable battle of Warsaw, which
ended in the defeat of the patriot forces, and the loss of
that city, after a struggle unparalleled in history. This blow
211
proved decisive. European interference had been hoped Population.
tor, but in vain ; the faith of treaties had been appealed to " 
without effect; the interests and the sympathies of the civi¬
lized nations of the west and the south had been invoked
to no purpose. A powerful force still remained, and, for a
time at least, a partisan warfare might have been carried on ;
but thus abandoned to its own resources, Poland must at
last have yielded to her gigantic antagonist. That country
had no mountain fastnesses, where her children, when over¬
powered by numbers, might take shelter; it had no for¬
tresses capable of arresting and breaking the force of her
assailants. Nothing could have saved her but a prompt and
active interposition, founded on the treaty of Vienna; and
such was the situation of France and England at the time,
that neither judged it safe or expedient to interfere, other¬
wise than by remonstrance. What then remained, but the
miserable alternative of submission or annihilation?
The Poles did submit. With reluctance they laid down
those arms, which they had taken up in the hope of recon¬
quering their national independence, and which they had so
gloriously employed in many a hard-fought field. But all
former experience of Muscovite vengeance could scarcely
have prepared them for the miseries which have since been
accumulated, in new and fearful forms, on their unhappy
country. To say nothing of proscription and confiscation,
her plains have been covered with ruins, her resources ex¬
hausted, her industry and commerce destroyed; abundance
has given place to wretchedness and want; the countenances
of her children, once so happy, are now wan, squalid, and
despairing; she has no longer a name or a place amongst the
nations; her language, her literature, and her history can¬
not any more be publicly taught in her schools; terror reigns
throughout all her borders; and the victorious czar, using
the utmost license of success, has even attempted to break
down the ineffaceable distinctions of race, in the hope of
destroying that sentiment of nationality which is part of
the inheritance of every Pole. And all this has been done,
or is now doing, in the face of the public guarantee of the
powers of Europe, if not without remonstrance, at least
without any effectual opposition, and with a systematic per¬
severance and determination which in time must produce
a marked and decisive change in the national character of
the people.
The history of the little republic of Cracow forms an ap¬
propriate sequel to that of the unhappy kingdom of Poland.
That small state, created by the treaty of Vienna, and hav¬
ing its independence guaranteed by the same general com¬
pact, enjoyed the constitution which had been conferred
on it by the three powers, until the year 1835, w hen, on the
most frivolous pretences, it was occupied by the troops of
these powers. A greater outrage against every principle
of public law or public faith was never probably perpetrat¬
ed. But, as in the case of the kingdom of Poland, the crime
has been committed with complete impunity; and we are
now given to understand that the military occupation of
the republic is to be followed by its dissolution, and the
last remnant of Polish independence thus annihilated. This
proceeding needs no comment expository of its real cha¬
racter. It is an act of naked despotism, done in defiance
of the other powers of Europe, and in open contempt of the
most sacred principles of public law and public justice.
STATISTICAL VIEW OF POLAND.
Population.
The valuable work of Mr Stanislas Plater, published at
Posen in one volume octavo, under the title of The Geo¬
graphy of the East of Europe, gives the best and most ela¬
borate statistical description of all parts of the ancient king¬
dom of Poland that has yet appeared. There have been
212
POLAND.
Population.more recent works (Mr Plater’s having appeared in 1825),
^ ^ but we are not aware of the existence of any on which the
same reliance can be placed. It is accordingly from it that
the following particulars have, in a great measure, been
compiled.
L In West Prussia, formed by the first partition of Po¬
land under Frederick II., we find, on a space of 400 square
Polish miles, a population of 700,000 inhabitants, viz. 350,000
Poles,330,000Germans,and20,000 Jews; of whom 320,000
are Catholics, 350,000 Protestants, 20,000 Israelites, and
10,000 Menonites. West Prussia is divided into two sub¬
divisions ; that of Dantzig, which contains eight districts,
and that of Marienwerder, which comprises thirteen.
2. The grand duchy of Posen, as it now exists, with the
boundaries of the surrounding states as fixed by the treaty^
of Vienna, contains, on 540 square miles, a population of
980,000 inhabitants, viz. 640,000 Poles, 270,000 Germans,
and 70,000 Jews, of whom 580,000 are Catholics, 330,000
Protestants, and 70,000 Israelites. The grand duchy of
Posen is divided into two subdivisions; that of Posen, which
includes seventeen districts, and that of Bromberg, com¬
prising ten districts.
3. The kingdom of Gallicia, as at present annexed to the
Austrian dominions, on a space of 1500 square miles, con¬
tains 4,000,000 inhabitants, viz. 1,700,000 Poles, 1,800,000
Ilusniaks, 150,000 Walaques, 50,000 Germans, and 300,000
Jews, of whom 1,480,000 are Catholics, 2,000,000 Greek
Catholics, 200,000 Ilusso-Greeks, 20,000 Protestants, and
300,000 Israelites. The kingdom of Gallicia is divided
into nineteen districts.
4. The republic of Cracow, whilst it existed, contained,
on a space of twenty square miles, a population of 120,000
inhabitants.
5. The kingdom of Poland, as established by the treaty
of Vienna, contained, on a space of 2270 square miles, a
population of 4,128,289, of whom 3,440,357 were Roman
Catholics, whilst the remainder, 787,930, belonged to other
religions. Of these, about 3,000,000 were Poles, 200,000
Lithuanians, 100,000 Rusniaks, 300,000 Germans, and
400,000 Jews. The population of the towns is to that of
the country as one to five; in other words, there live in
villages 3,200,000, and in towns 887,000. This kingdom
was divided into eight palatinates, thirty-nine circuits, and
seventy-seven districts.
6. Russian Poland, comprising Lithuania, Samogitia,
White Ruthenia, Volhynia, Podolia, and Polish Ukraine,
contains, on a surface of 7600 square miles, 8,800,000 in¬
habitants, viz. 700,000 Poles, 880,000Lithuanians, 5,520,000
Rusniaks, 180,000 Russians, 50,000 Tartars, 120,000 Let-
tons, 50,000 Moldavians, and 1,300,000 Jews; of whom
2,400,000 are Roman Catholics, 1,640,000 Greek Catholics,
3,233,000 Russo-Greeks, 180,000 Raskolniks (old Russian
sectaries), 50,000 Mahommedans, and 1,300,000 Israelites.
Russian Poland is divided into the governments of Wilna,
Grodno, Minsk, Volhynia, Podolia, Kiow, Mohilew, Witcbsk,
and the province of Bialystok, comprising four districts.
7. Courland and Semigallia, an integral part of the re¬
public of Poland until the epoch of its dismemberment in
1795, forms, in the actual political state of the Russian em-
From the numerical statements above given, we find,Cominer«
that no inconsiderable portion of the population of Poland
consists of Jews. Their first settlement in that country took
place in the tenth century, when they removed thither from
various parts of Germany and Bohemia, to escape persecu¬
tion. In 1264 Boleslas II. granted to them a charter, which
was afterwards renewed and greatly amplified by Casimir
the Great. Their treatment has varied according to the
temper of the times, the character of the reigning sovereign,
and the degree of hatred borne towards them at particular
periods. But the circumstance which has most surprised
the Poles is the numerical increase of this people, whose fe¬
cundity, compared with that of Christians, is said to be as
two or even three to one. Sigismund Augustus was asto¬
nished at this fact; and other sovereigns have been appre¬
hensive that they would in time outnumber the Christian po¬
pulation. It has always been the policy of the Jews to con¬
ceal their numbers, by every means in their power ; and it
seems quite certain that every return yet obtained is much
below the truth. There is no trade too vile, or even too
dangerous, for a Polish Jew, provided he can profit by it.
In 1806 and 1812, they were hired as spies of the French
and Polish armies; and they are charged, we fear on good
grounds, with betraying their employers whenever they
found it their interest to do so. To the Russians, whom
they were employed to watch, they rendered far more sig¬
nal services than either to the French or the Poles; and
their perfidy in this particular is believed to have greatly
aggravated the disasters of the retreat from Moscow. The
amazing fecundity of the Jews has been ascribed to their
early marriages; most of them being parents at a very
early age, and grandfathers before many Englishmen even
think of marrying. But it may very reasonably be doubt¬
ed whether early marriages are favourable to population;
though there can be no question, that one consequence re¬
sulting from them is the deterioration of the offspring. In
Poland, the proportion they bear to Christians is viewed
with alarm, because they are not producers, but live on the
produce raised by others; and it is loudly proclaimed by
all the native writers, that they have been a curse to the
country.
and
Agricul.
ture.
leratii
mill
StiflW)!
Commerce and Agriculture.
The insignificance of the actual commerce of Poland is
no doubt owing to her political position. In former times,
the natural resources of the country, and liberal commer¬
cial regulations, opened a wide field for the activity and en ¬
terprise of foreign merchants. During the fourteenth, fif¬
teenth, and sixteenth centuries, Poland not only carried on
a lucrative commerce with the Levant, the Black Sea, and
the Mediterranean, and maintained a commercial intercourse
with the Italian republics, particularly Venice; but she also
exported her corn and other raw materials to the western
countries of Europe, especially Holland, Sweden, and Den¬
mark, and formed an entrepot of oriental merchandise for
the northern part of Germany and the countries adjoining.
Owing to their commercial activity, Cracow and Dantzig
were at an early period admitted into the Hanseatic League.
Besides wood, flax, tallow, and some other products, corn
pire, the government of Courland, which, on a surface of has always been the principal article of export. Accord-
450 square miles, contains 600,000 inhabitants, and com
prebends ten districts.
It thus appears that, on a surface of about 13,000 Polish
square miles, there is a population exceeding 20,000,000.
But a much higher estimate is given in the Polish Monthly
ing to Cellarius, who wrote in the sixteenth century, the
amount of corn exported in one year was 10,950,000 kor-
zec, or 4,380,000 English quarters. Opalinski, a writer of
the seventeenth century, states, that in his time, Dantzig
alone received from the interior of the country more than
Magazine, which states the superficial extent of Poland at 6,000,000 korzeg, or 2,400,000 English quarters, of different
28,276 geographical square miles, and the population at kinds of grain for exportation. The importation of foreign
33,962,235, or nearly 14,000,000 more than the number produce was of course proportioned to the exportation of
above mentioned. The latter, however, so far exceeds every home produce ; and it was abundantly supplied to Poland
other estimate we have seen, that there is reason to believe both by national and foreign bottoms. Holland and Venice
it to be greatly exaggerated. were extensively engaged in trade with this country. But
POLAND.
with the political misfortunes of Poland its commercial im¬
portance declined; and its destruction has been completed
/In consequence of the system of monopoly pursued by the
governments of Russia, Prussia, and Austria. In that part
of Poland which is under the dominion of Russia, the con¬
sumption of every article of foreign produce is strictly pro*.
Inbited, and every branch of industry is discouraged ; whilst
the governments of Austria and Prussia overwhelm their
Polish subjects with disproportionate taxes, in the hope of
thereby retaining them in more complete subjection. The
consequence is, that the farmers have no motive or interest
to produce more grain than they require for their own con¬
sumption ; and hence, if any unforeseen contingency should
occur, a famine must ensue. During the last few years this
has actually happened in some parts of Volhynia, Podolia,
and the Ukraine ; countries the soil of which is perhaps the
most fertile of any in Europe.
The trade of Poland is at present almost entirely in the
hands of Jews and Russians. The exportation of corn, flax,
wood, or any other article, whether by the Baltic or the
Black gea, can only be effected by these two classes, who,
from the condition of the country, possess an entire mono¬
poly, and being often directly assisted by the government,
can fix any price which they deem proper to exact. And
as regards importation, no produce can be introduced into
Poland, except from Russia, Prussia, or Austria, or after
having paid a transit duty amounting to a prohibition. Thus
the part of Poland under the dominion of Russia must re¬
ceive from the Russian manufacturer calicoes and all other
cotton goods, beet-root sugar, cutlery, glass-work, paper,
tea and coffee, salt (which is obtained from the Polish salt¬
mines of Wieliczka, now in the possession of Austria, but
the trade in this article is, in Russian Poland, a monopoly
held by the government), salt fish, and other, articles. The
case is precisely the same in those parts of Poland which
are respectively under the dominion of Austria and Prussia.
Every English or French article, and all colonial produce
destined for Poland, is subject to a heavy transit duty at
Dantzig, at Odessa, or on the Austrian frontier.
Poland has never been, and never will be, a great manu¬
facturing country. Her natural resources consist in the pro¬
duce of her soil, and her commerce in exchanging these for
the cheaper and superior manufactures of other countries.
With more than 80,000 square miles of fine wood; with
the richest mines of salt Europe possesses at Bochnia and
Wieliczka ; with the fertile plains of the Ukraine, Podolia,
Volhynia, and Landomierz, with the flax of Samogitia, so
much employed in the English manufactures, the wool of
Great Poland imported into Saxony, fine cattle and horses,
abundance of tallow and other products ; Poland possesses
resources which leave no doubt that, under a good govern¬
ment, she will one day become, not indeed a manufacturing,
but certainly one of the most commercial nations of Europe.
Literature and Science.
Before the introduction of Christianity, in the ninth cen¬
tury, the Polish language could boast of numerous tradi¬
tional tales, warlike songs, and pastoral poems, which have
been collected by Wodrich, and show that this language,
having already attained to some degree of perfection, had
consequently taken the lead of almost all the other Sclavonic
idioms. It is no doubt true that the introduction of Chris¬
tianity at first retarded the natural improvement of the lan-
guage, by an admixture of foreign terms; but it enlarged and
purified the ideas of Polish writers, and opened a new and
attractive field for their talents and genius. It may ap¬
pear surprising to some, that from the ninth till the end of
the sixteenth century, Poland should have produced such
a number of writers in the native idiom and in Latin; espe¬
cially considering the continual wars in which she was en¬
gaged for the defence of her frontiers. But the wonder
213
Will cease when it is known that schools and colleges were Literature
then thrown open to every one; that education was eager- and
ly sought after and freely imparted; that the order of St Science*
Benedict, assisted by other religious communities, devoted
their whole time and attention to the gratuitous education
of every class, implanting in all a love of science and lite¬
rature, a taste for the arts, a knowledge of the classics, and
an affection for the muses ; and that, under these same or¬
ders, the youth of the country were, both by precept and
example, trained up to the practice, and excited to aspire to
everything that was liberal, generous, and manly. Hence,
prior to the foundation of the university of Cracow, which
took place during the reign of Casimir the Great, in 1347,
and preceded that of the universities of Prague, Vienna,
and Leipzig, Poland possessed several historians, and other
learned men, whose writings still survive to attest the early
cultivation of literature in that country.
Amongst these the first place is due to the chroniclers.
Gallus wrote his Chronicle of Poland between 1110 and
1135. Matthias Choleva, bishop of Cracow, who wrote a
chronicle of Poland, died in 1165. Kadlubek Vincent, bom
at Cracow in 1160, enjoyed the favour of Casimir surnamed
the Just, and officiated as tutor to Leszek the Fair. He
wrote his chronicle under the title of Historia Polonica,
which was first published in 1612. Godislas Reszko, dean
of Cracow, composed Annals of Great Poland. Martinus
Polonus is known by his numerous writings, and particular¬
ly by his Chronicles of the Popes and Emperors. He died
at Bologna in 1278. To this period also belong several
men of science. Amongst these may be mentioned Oc-
tavian Wolener, of Cracow, an architect, who, a little be¬
fore 1044, was invited to Vienna, to erect the church now'
called St Stephen’s. Ciolek, in Latin Vitellio, a native of
Cracow, was celebrated as a naturalist and mathematician.
He lived in the middle of the thirteenth century, and was
considered as having contributed to improve and extend
the science of optics. His works were printed for the first
time at Nuremberg, in 1533, under the title of Vitellionis
Perspectivce libri decent.
But whilst the intellectual superiority of Poland at this
period was owing to her frequent aud direct intercourse
with Italy, it is to be observed that after the foundation of
the university of Cracow, about the middle of the four¬
teenth century, she herself became the centre and source
of civilization to the neighbouring nations. From this
time Hungarians, Bohemians, Germans, Swedes, and Danes,
who formerly used to repair to Italy for study, resorted al¬
most exclusively to the university of Cracow. Of those
who added celebrity to the university, there were some
whose reputation was not confined to their own country.
George of Sanok, born about 1400 and died in 1477, was
first professor of moral philosophy in the university of Cra¬
cow, and afterwards archbishop of Leopol. His biography
was written by Buonacorsi, surnamed Callimachus, a cele¬
brated Italian philosopher. John of Glogau, born in 1440
and died in 1477, was also a professor in the university of
Cracow, and left numerous manuscripts on different subjects,
but mostly on the Aristotelian philosophy, several of which
were afterwards published. Dlugosz, in Latin Dlugossius,
born in 1415 and died in 1480, was a statesman and histo¬
rian. As great treasurer of Poland, he, on many occasions,
rendered important services to his native country ; he also
protected science, established hospitals, and founded an ex¬
hibition or bursary in the university of Cracow. Of his nu¬
merous writings, the most important is his History of Po¬
land. Brudzewski, born in 1445 and died in 1497, studied
at Cracow, and afterwards became professor of mathematics
in that university, where he had the distinction of being the
master of Copernicus. He left several works, the principal
of which treat of astronomical subjects and the construction
of the astrolabe. Nicolas Copernik, called in Latin Coper-
214
POLAND.
Science.
Literature nicus, born in 1473 and died in 1543, studied at Cracow,
an(i and by divining through the mists of error, rendered vene¬
rable by time, the true system ot the world, established .or
himself a name which will live whilst sun ana moon endure.
Martin of Olkusz, the school-fellow and friend ot Coperni¬
cus, died in the year 1530. , . , ,
These men, however, with all their individual merits, were
only the precursors or harbingers of a period of higher excel-
lence and greater refinement. Free at home, and powertul
abroad, Poland, during the sixteenth century, occupied a dis¬
tinguished place amongst the states of Europe; and the pe¬
riod of her political glory was also the golden age of her lite¬
rature. Amongst the poets of this period the first place be¬
longs to John Kochanowski, born in 1530 and died in 1584,
who is justly regarded as the father of Polish literature. He
was the author of works both lyrical and dramatic, and trans-
lated Anacreon, Horace, some parts of the Iliad, and aLo
the Psalms of David, which are remarkable for purity and
vigour of stvle. Hey of Naglowice also wrote several works
in verse and prose ; whilst Peter Kochanowski left transla¬
tions of Tasso’s Gerusalemme Liberata, and Ariostos Or¬
lando Furioso, which were printed at Cracow in the year
1618. Miaskowski, Sarzynski, Ptybinski, Grochow'ski, and
Klonowitz, were likewise eminent as poets. As prose writers
may be mentioned, Michowita, w7ho wrote several impoit-
ant works, particularly on Polish history; Kromer, the son
of a peasant, who by his talents obtained the highest eccle¬
siastical dignity in Poland (that of Prince-Bishop of War-
mia), and left important works on the history of his coun¬
try ; Bieliski, who wrote on subjects of moral philosophy
and history; Gornicki, an eminent writer on politics and
history, and whose style is remarkable for its purity; Stryj-
kowski, a poet and historian ; and Orzechowski, an apostate
priest, but a distinguished writer and speaker, who, by his
defence of the principles of the Dissidents, attracted the
notice of Pope Julius III., with whom he maintained a long
and animated controversy.
This period also produced several men distinguished in
law, ethics, mathematics and astronomy, the natural sciences,
medicine, and agriculture. Amongst the lawyers and juris¬
consults may be mentioned Herbert, secretary of Sigis-
mund Augustus, who published a collection of statutes and
privileges ; IVIalecki, who wrote a book entitled The Law¬
ful Marriage of Bishops, Priests, and Monks ; Groicki, a
civilian of eminence, the author of a wTork on the statute
law of Magdeburg; besides lanuszewski, Lazarowitz, and
Smiglecki. In ethics, Hey, Koszucki, and particularly
Petrycy, distinguished themselves, though in different de¬
grees. Petrycy translated the Ethics of Aristotle, and also
the Policy of the same author, which he published at Cra¬
cow in 1618, along with his own commentaries. In mathe¬
matics and astronomy, Poland could boast some of the most
distinguished men of the age; but as most of them published
their works in Latin, it is only necessary to mention here
those who wrote in Polish. These were Klos, author of a
treatise on Arithmetic, published at Cracow in 1538; Grzeb-
ski, professor in the university of Cracow, whose works on
Geometry wrere published in 1656 ; and the astronomers
Latos, Rosciszewski, Zebrowski, and Bernat. Nor were the
cultivators of the natural sciences either few in number or
inferior in zeal and knowledge. Amongst the more eminent
may be mentioned Spiezynski, who wrote several works on
Botany, published at Cracow; Martin of Urzadow ; Fali-
mierz Syrenski, professor of medicine in Cracow, whose
work on the properties and uses of plants, published after
his death, is highly esteemed; Peter of Kobylny, Andrew
Glader, Valenti of Lubiin, Oleszko, and Umiastowski, skil¬
ful physicians, who published important works on different
maladies ; Trzecieski, author of several works on agricul¬
ture and husbandry, published at Cracow in 1540 and 1571 ;
and Dubrawski, whose work on fishes, published in 1600, is
am
Scier
still considered as a work of great merit. There were also Litera
during this period several writers on the art of war, amongst
whom may be mentioned Strubiez, Paprocki, and Cielecki. ^
This, the golden age of Polish literature, continued from
the middle of the fifteenth until the commencement of the
seventeenth century. But from the reign of Stephen Ba-
tory in 1586 we may date the temporary decline of Polish
literature, and the corruption of the Polish language. Du-
rino- the seventeenth century the introduction of the Latin
language into official transactions, and the great political
crisis which Poland had to undergo, obstructed the tendency
of the national literature, and directed the energies of the
Poles towards one great object, namely, the preservation of
their political existence. Amidst growing internal disorder,
at once the cause and the effect of national calamity, the
peaceful pursuits of science were neglected ; and under the
two princes of the house of Saxony, Augustus II. and his
son Augustus III., Poland sunk into a state ox both politi¬
cal and" intellectual degradation; nor was it until towards
the end of the eighteenth century that the national mind
awakened from its long trance, and a reform was effected
which has since produced good fruit. Whilst Konarski
and a few others began to combat that maccaronic mixture
of Latin and Polish which was then so much in fashion, a
number of distinguished men, such as Krasicki, arcnbishop
of Warmia, a poet and political writer; Naruszewicz, aich-
bishop of Luck, a poet and historian ; the two brothers
Augustus and Michael Czartoryski, Albertandy, Zamojski,
Potocki, Kollontay, Czacki, and many others, opened a new
career for Poland; and by the impulse thus given the Rege¬
neration of literature was assured, although the liberties ot
the nation have been destroyed.
The first place amongst modern Polish writers is common¬
ly assigned to John Paul Woronicz, born in 1757 and died
in 1829, the archbishop of Warsaw, metropolitan primate ot
the kingdom of Poland, and an eminent poet and prose
writer. Julian Ursyn Niemcewicz, distinguished alixe as a
poet, an historian, and a statesman, has been elevated by his
tales to a high place amongst modern Polish writers; whffit in
some of his other productions, particularly YnsPowrot 1 osla,
or the Return of a Deputy to his Home, he has exhibited a
most lively and animated picture of Polish habits and man¬
ners. Karpinski is the Burns of Poland; and Broazins i,
Felinski, and Ossolinski, are likewise popular poets. Of the
patriotic bards, Adam Mickiewicz is the head and prince.
His effusions are generally of a plaintive character, except
when they dwell with rapture on the past glories of Poland.
The muse of freedom is indeed the idol of his poetical wor¬
ship; and, like Schiller and Goethe in Germany, Byron and
Moore in England, Lamartine and Delavigne in trance, he
has taken from the altar of liberty that hallowed fire the
divine flame of which warms and animates his strains. Last¬
ly, in the class of modern historical writers, no one can claim
precedence of Joachim Lelewel, a name venerable in itera
ture, and honourably known for his strict regard to truth,
and the liberality of his political writings.
Lastly, in closing this survey, a melancholy reeling is
awakened in the mind. We are in fact writing of the pash
without almost any reference to the present. Since the
failure of the insurrection of 1830 and 1831, literature may
be said to have expired in Poland, or rather to have been
destroyed by the barbarous despot who has sought to pro¬
scribe her history, and even to eradicate her language ; but
amongst the exiles there are many men of distinguished
literary acquirements, whose talents and learning enab e
us to form a tolerable estimate of the general state of edu¬
cation in their native country previously to the revolu¬
tion ; and we know from history that high mental cultiva¬
tion has long co-existed in Poland with that chiyahous
heroism for which they have always been pre-eminent y
distinguished.
215
POLAR SEAS.
Er
an
of
K<
Ian
U
!!,
Seas, The rapid progress which has been made within the
last half century in physical science and geography, has
thrown a deeper interest on whatever concerns the polar
regions, than belongs to the mere commercial speculation
in which originated the earliest attempts for discovering a
passage through the North Polar Ocean to India and Chi¬
na. It is not here intended, however, to enter into any
detail concerning the new objects of natural history, the
atmospherical phenomena of temperature, electricity, and
magnetism, and various other points of scientific research,
which the late expeditions have been the means of col¬
lecting and communicating; but to exhibit a sketch of
the various attempts which have been made to explore
those regions of darkness, long supposed not only to be
uninhabitable, but unapproachable, and to take a very con¬
cise view of the progressive discovery and geographical in¬
formation which have resulted from those attempts.
NORTH POLAR SEA.
daries We are now able to draw, with nearly geographical ac-
xtent curacy, the boundaries of the North Polar Sea. A very
large portion of the northern shores of Europe, Asia, and
a ' America, which circumscribe it, have been visited; and
the position of most of their bays, headlands, and rivers,
geographically ascertained. By casting our eye over the
north polar chart, it will be seen that the Polar Sea of
that hemisphere is an immense circular basin, which com¬
municates with the two great oceans of the world, the At¬
lantic and the Pacific, by two channels, the one separating
America from Europe, and the other America from Asia.
It will be seen that few points of the coasts of Europe and
Asia, which occupy a full half of the circumscribing circle,
extend much beyond the seventieth parallel of latitude ;
and all these points have been passed by water, though at
different times and by different persons, with the single
exception of the Cape Cevero Vostochnoi, which, on the
charts, is made to extend to the latitude 75|°. The north¬
ern coast of America, with Old Greenland, and the two
channels above mentioned, complete the circle, America
extending about 80° of longitude, or just two ninths of the
whole circle ; and of this portion the whole coast has now
been ascertained, with the exception of that part which lies
between Cape Turnagain of Franklin, and the land at the
bottom of Prince Regent’s Inlet, which the gentlemen of
the Hudson’s Bay Company are now (1838) exploring. This
being accomplished, we shall have the whole line of the
northern coast of America completed. We may therefore
state, that the average of the degree of latitude of this coast
is about the same as, or rather lower than, that of Europe
and Asia, and the extent of the North Polar Sea may be
considered as about 2400 geographical miles in diameter, or
7200 in circumference.
s of The interior or central parts of this sea are very little
i. known. Several islands are scattered over its southern ex¬
tremities, the largest of which is Old Greenland, whose
northern limit has not yet been passed; the others are,
Spitzbergen, Nova Zembla, the islands of Liakhov, or, as
some have been pleased to call them, New Siberia; the
North Georgian Islands of Parry, and those which form
the western land of Baffin’s Bay ; to which may be added
the Boothia Felix of Ross, which there is little doubt is an
island. Besides these, there are a number of small al¬
luvial islands formed at the mouths of the several rivers of
the two continents; but whether any, or what number
of islands may exist nearer to the pole, we must of course Polar Seas,
remain ignorant till the Polar Sea has been further explor- -y——^
ed.
For the little which is known of this sea, we are indebt-Object of
ed to that spirit of discovery wdiich showed itself imme- early v°y-
diately after a passage to the East Indies had been effected age*,to the
round the Cape of Good Hope; not so much, it is true, Iceland
for the sake of geographical discovery, as that of shorten- Greenland,
mg the passage by sea to the eastern parts of the world. &c. disco-
It was obvious that, if a ship could proceed from the At- vered•
lantic to the Pacific, on a great circle of the sphere, or
nearly so, the distance, compared with the circuitous pas¬
sage round Southern Africa or Southern America, would
be prodigiously shortened. The voyage of Columbus had
that object; but it was soon discovered that, from the
Straits of Magelhaens to the Gulf of St Lawrence, there was
one uninterrupted continuity of land. Of the northern re¬
gions, the information obtained has been scanty and discou¬
raging for such an enterprise. One of the Scandinavian pi¬
rates had indeed been driven by stress of weather, as early
as the middle of the ninth century, upon an island to the
north-west, to which, from its appearance, he gave the
name of Snowland, which was afterwards changed to that
of Iceland by the leader of the Norwegian colonists who ’
took refuge on that inhospitable spot; but it was not till
more than a century after this that Eric Rauda discover¬
ed the southern part of Old Greenland ; and there are
grounds for believing that, in the year 1001, some of these
colonists discovered Newfoundland and the coast of Labra¬
dor.
The colony of Iceland continued to flourish in spite of Greenland
the storms and tempests, the chilling temperature, the colonies,
earthquakes and volcanoes, which shook to its centre this
Ultima Thule of the inhabitable world ; but the Greenland
colonies were less fortunate. For some time that on the
west is said to have succeeded so well as to number one
hundred villages, divided into four parishes; but having en¬
gaged in hostilities with the natives, whom they named
Skrcelings (the same people as the present Esquimaux), the
latter compelled them to abandon their settlements. The
eastern colony is supposed to have shared a more deplor¬
able fate; a stream of ice having fixed itself to the coast,
about the year 1406, and rendered the whole of it, from
that time to this, utterly inaccessible. The existence, how¬
ever, of any such colony has of late years been called in
question ; and it is now supposed that all the Danish and
Norwegian settlements were confined to the western side of
Cape Farewell.
The voyages and adventures of the two brothers Nicolo The voy-
and Antonio Zeno in 1380, though they added but little to ages of Ni-
the knowledge of northern geography, are extremely cu- c°l0 and
rious, and throw considerable light on the state of Green- ^Jn^and
land, Labrador, and the Feroe Islands (Friesland), at that0f pcr.
early period. It may be doubted, however, if any of thetuguese.
voyages hitherto made were undertaken for purposes of
discovery and the benefit of navigation. The Portuguese
have unquestionably the merit of being the first to send out
expeditions with these views; and it is to their successful
discovery of a passage round the Cape of Good Hope that
we owe the bold enterprise of Christopher Colon, better
known as Columbus, to find out a passage to the East Indies
by steering directly to the westward.
It was not till the year 1496 that England was engaged Of John
in nautical discoveries. In that year, Henry VII. encour-Cabota.
aged John Cabota, a citizen of Venice, to make discover¬
ies, by granting him a patent to search for unknown lands,
216
POLAR SEA S.
Polar Seas, and to conquer and settle them. His son Sebastian, either
’“v"'**'' alone or in company with his father, discovered Newfound¬
land, to which was given the name of Pritrta Vista, “ the
first seen.” We say discovered; for although the testi¬
monies are in favour of the Scandinavians having settled
colonies upon this island, no vestige then remained or has
since been found of any such colonies. The object of
the voyage was, as stated by himself, that, “ undei stand¬
ing, by reason of the sphere, that if I should sail by way
of north-west, I should by a shorter tract come into India,
I thereupon caused the king to be advertised of my de¬
vise, who immediately commanded two caravels to be fur¬
nished with all things appertaining to the voyage.” He
states in his report that he reached the fifty-sixth degree,
but finding no opening in the coast, he despaired of a pas¬
sage, and returned.
Of the Cor- A claim, however, has been set up for the discovery of
tereals. Terra de Bacalhaos, or the Land of Codfish, afterwards
called Newfoundland, by John Vaz Costa Cortereal, a
Portuguese gentleman belonging to the household of the
Infanta Don Fernando, who is said to have touched at that
island in the year 1463 or 1464, in an attempt to find a
route to India and the Spice Islands by sailing westward
round the northern extremity of America. This claim
rests on the testimony of Cordeira, and on a patent com¬
mission, granting to Cortereal the captaincy of 1 erceira, in
1464, as a reward for his important discovery. The Por¬
tuguese certainly not only fished on the banks, but formed
establishments on the island of Newfoundland, towards the
end of the fifteenth century.
In the summer of 1500, two ships sailed from Lisbon,
under the command of Gaspar Cortereal, on northern dis¬
covery. According to Ramusio, they arrived at a region of
extreme cold; and, in the latitude of 60° north, discovered
a river filled with ice, to which they gave the name of Rio
Nevado, that is, Snow River. This land was Labrador,
which on an old chart is named Corterealis. In returning
he discovered the Gulf of St Lawrence. Gaspar Cortereal
w'as so satisfied of the existence of a north-west passage to
India, that he again left Lisbon in May 1501 with two ves¬
sels ; but his own was separated on the coast of Terra Verde,
and never more heard of. A second brother went out the
following year, but his ship was also supposed to be lost,
and all hands perished. A third expedition was sent out
in search of the unfortunate navigators, but no tidings could
be obtained of their fate.
Of Auber- The French are the only maritime people who have seen,
ton Car- with apparent indifference, the exertions made by other na-
tier. tions for the discovery of a passage to India either by the
north-east or the north-west. Auberton Cartier’s voyages
to Newfoundland and the Gulf of St Lawrence, between
1508 and 1534, can hardly be considered as voyages of dis¬
covery ; and the subsequent voyages of Roberval and of the
Marquis de la Roche had no other object than the discovery
of gold, or of a desirable spot for establishing a colony on
the coast of America.
OfEstevan In the year 1524, the jealousy of the Spaniards would
Gomez. seem to have taken the alarm at the attempts which were
making by other nations to discover a shorter way to China
and the Indies by the north; for it appears that a skilful
navigator who had been with Magelhaens, of the name of
Estevan Gomez, sailed in that year from Coruna, with the
view of discovering a northern passage from the Atlantic to
the Moluccas. Gaspar, the only author who has recorded
this voyage, enters into no details; but it is supposed he
reached no farther than the coast of Labrador, from which
he brought away some of the natives. On his return he
was asked by a friend what success he had met with ? The
answer was esclavos (slaves), which the inquirer mistook for
clavos (cloves), and spread the report of his having made,
as Purchas calls it, a “ spicy discovery.” It is evident, how¬
ever, that his voyage was a complete failure, of which, as Polar jW :
the voluminous compiler just mentioned observes, “ little is v ^ -A'j !»s
left us but a jest.” |1
The alarm of the Spaniards spread to the Pacific; and Oft!
Cortez, the conqueror and viceroy of Mexico, on receiving Spai;l
intelligence of the voyages of the Cortereals, fitted outontMw
three ships, under the orders of Francisco Ulloa, to look for j
the supposed Strait of Anian, through which they u'ere to 1
pass. In 1542, the viceroy Mendoza sent one expedition
by land and another by sea from Mexico to the northward.
No discoveries wTere made by any of these voyages. Two
years after this the court of Spain ordered another expedi¬
tion along the western coast of America, the conduct of
which was intrusted to Juan Rodrigues de Cabrillo, a Por¬
tuguese in the service of Spain. He reached the latitude of
44° N., and gave the name of Cape Mendocino to the land,
about the latitude 42° N., in compliment to the viceroy.
England in the mean time was not inactive. At the sug-First . j
gestion of Mr Robert Thorne of Bristol, King Henry VUI.lishvo
caused to be sent forth “ two faire ships, with divers cun- . j
ning men, to seek strange regions,” which left the Thames I
in 1527. All that Hakluyt could discover of these ships
and the cunning men was, that the name of one of them
wras Dominus Vobiscum, and that a canon of St Paul’s of
London, a great mathematician and wealthy man, went on
the expedition. One of these ships was cast away in the
great opening betwreen the north parts of Newfoundland
and Meta Incognita, supposed to be Greenland.
In the year 1536, two ships, the Trinitie and the Minion, Secnr
were set forth by Master Hore of London, “ a man of good- Ell?ll:
ly stature and of great courage, and given to the studie ofv0-a-
cosmographie.” Six score persons, wre are told, embarked
on this expedition, whereof thirty were gentlemen. They
reached no higher than Newfoundland; but there is a cu-
rious account of their proceedings by Hakluyt, which he
procured from Mr Oliver Dawbeny, merchant of London,
who was one of the adventurers on board the Minion.
On the return of Sebastian Cabot to England, he was Voyae
constituted Grand Pilot, and “ Governor of the Mysterie
and Companie of the Merchants Adventurers for the Dis-^.1
coverie of Regions, Dominions, Islands, and Places un¬
known.” At his suggestion a voyage was undertaken, in
the year 1553, for the discovery of a north-east passage to
Cathaia, consisting of three vessels, the crews of which, in- *
eluding eleven merchants, amounted to 113 persons. Nume- 1
rous candidates stood forward for the command of this expe-
dition; but Sir Hugh Willoughby was appointed captain-
general of the fleet, “ both by reason of his goodly per¬
sonage (for he was of tall stature), as also for his singular |
skill in the services of warre.” The fate of this expedition
was most disastrous. Sir Hugh Willoughby, with his brave
associates, as well as the crew of the second ship, to the
number of seventy persons, miserably perished from cold
and hunger on the coast of Lapland, at the mouth of a river
called Arzina, not far from the harbour of Kegor. The
third ship, under Master Richard Chancelor, had parted
company, and, by putting into Wardhuys, in Norway, escap¬
ed the fate of his companions; and in the following year
discovered the port of Archangel, and opened the first in-
tercourse with Russia.
In the years 1555 and 1556, two ships were sent out toOfSte5
Archangel to carry commissioners to the court of Moscow, Burroi
and, having landed them, to prosecute discoveries, and “ to
use all wayes and meanes possible to learne howe men may
passe from Russia, either by land or sea, to Cathaia.” Ste¬
phen Burrough, in the Serchthrift, proceeded easterly as ,
far as the island of Waygatz, where he was stopped by the
constant north-east and northerly winds, thick weather, and
abundance of ice. The neighbouring country was inhabit¬
ed by Samoieds, who had no houses, but only tents made
of deer’s skins.
POLAR SEAS.
ar Seas. The rapid progress made from this time by land through
'7jv 7 J Russia to Persia and India revived the ardour for disco-
bishen very by S.ea’ and th.e Pens of the most learned and ingeni¬
ous men in the nation were employed to prove the exist¬
ence, the practicability, and the great advantages which
would result from the discovery of a north-west passage.
Amongst others, Martin Frobisher had laboured for fifteen
years, but without the means of setting forth an expedition,
till at last, in the year 1576, by the assistance of Dudley’
earl of Warwick, and a few friends, he wras enabled to fit
out two small barks, the Gabriel of thirty-five, and the
Michael of thirty tons, and a small pinnace of ten tons. On
the 11th of July this little squadron came in sight of Fries¬
land, “ rising like pinnacles of steeples, and all covered with
snow.” This Friesland, being in 61° latitude, was proba¬
bly the southern part of Old Greenland. He entered a
strait which now bears his name, in latitude 63° S' N., and
had communication with the Esquimaux, whom he de¬
scribes as “ like to Tartars, with long black hair, broad
faces, and flatte noses.” He brought home one of these
“ strange infideles, whose like was never scene, read, nor
heard of before ; and Frobisher had the satisfaction to find
himself “ highly commended of all men for his greate and
notable attempt, but speceally famous for the great hope he
brought of the passage to Cathaia.”
ond Some of the crew having brought home a stone which
• “ glistend with a bright marquesset of gold,” Queen Eliza¬
beth now gave countenance to a second attempt, and add¬
ed to the expedition “ one tall ship of hir majesties, named
the Ayde.” In this voyage they proceeded to Mount War¬
wick, on Resolution Island, in latitude 63^-0 north, whence
they sailed on their return home on the“22d of August,
having lost only one man by sickness, and another who
fell overboard.
Though Frobisher brought home neither gold nor silver,
but something which had the appearance of both, the queen
and her court, pleased in “ finding that the matter of the
gold ore had appearance, and made show of great riches
and profit, and the hope of the passage to Cathaia by this
last voyage greatly increased,” determined to establish a
colony on Meta Incognita; for which purpose fifteen ships
were prepared, carrying 100 persons to form the settle¬
ment, with whom three of the ships were to remain, and
twelve to bring back cargoes of gold ore. The fleet sailed
on the 31st of May 1578; part of it entered Frobisher’s
Strait, and part were driven towards the coast of Greenland.
On the 30th of August, the ships having re-assembled off
Hatton s Fleadland, on Resolution Island, and all hands dis¬
heartened by the cold and tempestuous wreather, they re-
solved to make sail for England, where they all arrived at
different ports about the beginning of October, with the
^ loss, by deaths, of about forty persons.
- rt and The progress made by land to the eastward induced the
ussian Company to fit out two ships, under the command
o Pet and Jackman, to make another attempt at a north¬
east passage. They left Harwich on the 30th of May 1580,
reached Wardhuys on the 23d of June, and the coast of
•Nova Zembla on the 16th of July; passed the Strait of
Waygatz, but were obliged to return on account of the ice.
Sir Humphry Gilbert and his brother obtained from
Queen Elizabeth, in 1578, a patent for making western dis¬
coveries, by which they established a corporation under the
name of “ The Colleagues of the Fellowship for the Disco-
vene of the North-west Passage.” In 1583 Sir Humphry
set out to take possession of Newfoundland, but the voyage
proved most disastrous; and on his return his little bark
oundered at sea, when he and all that w'ere in her perished.
217
third
6 ir
T Ini J?llnJPaVis Was Sent out by the merchants of Polar Seas.
London, for the discovery of the north-west passage. Two" '
baiks, the Sunshine and the Moonshine, one of fifty the ^ John
other of thirty-five tons, were fitted out for this purpose.I)avis* *
On the 6th of August, Davis had proceeded so high up the
strait which now bears his name as latitude 60° 40', and
anchored in Exeter Bay, under “ a brave mount,” to which
he gave the name of “ Mount Raleigh, the cliffs whereof
were as orient as gold.” On the 8th of August they re-
t!le soutbward, and arrived in Dartmouth on the
50th of September.
In lob6 Davis set sail a second time, and coasted the His second
westein shore of Greenland up to the latitude of 66° 33', voyage,
stood^rom thence across to the westward, made the land
in 66° 19', and, turning to the southward, along the coast
and numerous islands, anchored in a bay on the coast of
Labrador, in latitude 56°, and, sailing from thence, arrived
m England in the month of October.
A third voyage being determined on, Davis sailed from His third
Dartmouth on the 19th of May, made the land on the west voyage,
coast of Greenland in latitude 64° on the 14th of June, had
advanced as high as latitude 67° on the 24th, and, on the
30th, was in latitude 72° 12'. From thence he crossed to
the westward in an open sea, but being driven, as he sup¬
posed, by a current, found himself, on the 19th, abreast of
Mount Raleigh. After this, Davis advanced sixty leagues
up the strait he had discovered on the former voyage, now
called Cumberland Strait; passed through Lumley’s Inlet,
the same, it is supposed, which Frobisher had discovered,
and known as Frobisher’s Strait; and, standing to the south¬
east, discovered Cape Chidley, and, returning homewards,
arrived in England by the middle of September.1
Of the voyage of Maldonado in 1588, and of Jan de Fuca
in 1592, it is not necessary to say anything; the latter being
at best but problematical, and the former altogether spu¬
rious.
The next attempts we find in chronological order were Voyages of
three voyages for the discovery of a north-east passage, un- William
dertaken by the Dutch, in which William Barentz was chiefBarentz*
pilot. The first of these was set forth in 1594; proceeded
easterly as far as Waygatz, then along the western coast of
Nova Zembla as high as latitude 77° 25'; and returned to
the Texel on the 16th of September. Qn the second voyage,
the following year, they did not reach Nova Zembla till
the 17th of August, when finding it impossible, on account
of the great quantity of ice, and “ the weather being misty,
melancholie, and snowie,” they returned to the westward,
and arrived in the Maes on the 18th of November.
The third voyage of Barentz is intensely interesting.
The ships left the Texel in May, and on the 9th of June,
after sailing amongst much ice, they discovered Bear (since
called Cherry) Island. Proceeding northerly, they disco¬
vered Spitzbergen, along the western coast of which they
had advanced, on the 19th, as high as 80° 11', opposite the
point since known as Hakluyt’s Headland. Returning to
the southward, Barentz made for the coast of Nova Zem¬
bla ; doubled the northern extremity; then found himself
compelled, by the pressure of the ice and bad weather, to
seek for refuge in a small bay, which they called Ice Ha¬
ven ; and here they passed “ their cold, comfortlesse, darke,
and dreadful winter,” in about the seventy-sixth parallel of
latitude. The ship was wholly wrecked, and the surviving
part of the crew, fifteen in number, left this spot the fol¬
lowing year in two open boats; and after an exertion of
forty days, in which they suffered the greatest fatigue, fa¬
mine, and cold, and in which Barentz and two others died,
they reached Kilduin in Lapland, a distance of a thousand
p account °f the proceedings of this able and intrepid navigator, by himself, is contained in a very rare and curious little
hook called The World* Hydrographical Description, 1595.
VOL. XVIII.
2 £
218
Polar Seas.
POLAR SEAS.
Of George
Weymouth,
Of Hall
and Knight
Of John
Knight.
The voy¬
ages of
Henry
Hudson.
Of Tho¬
mas But¬
ton.
Of James
Hall.
miles and more from the bay in which they had passed the
The merchants of England seem to have lost all hope of
a northern passage to the East Indies, till they were once
more roused by a supposed piece oTinformation of Captain
James Lancaster, that the passage was in the north-west
of America, in latitude 62° 30'. Accordingly, in 1602, the
Muscovy and Turkey Companies fitted out two fly-boats,
the Discovery and Godspeed, the command of which was
given to Captain George Weymouth. This voyage, how¬
ever, proved a complete failure. It is difficult to make out
precisely the utmost limit at which it arrived; it was no
much beyond Resolution Island in Hudson s Strait; but,
to use the words of a subsequent sagacious navigator, Luke
Fox, “ Davis and Weymouth lighted Hudson into his straits.
In 1605, the king of Denmark sent out an expedition ot
discovery, in which two Englishmen, James Hall and John
Knight, were employed. The ships proceeded along e
west coast of Greenland, but reached no higher than about
latitude 66° 55'; gave the names of Christians hiorc., and
Queen Anne’s Cape; traded and quarrelled with the na¬
tives ; left two malefactors amongst them, and returned to
Elsineur. This expedition was followed up by two others in
the two following years, neither of which was productive of
any discoveries; the first having advanced only to bb
on the coast of Greenland, and the latter not farther than
Cape Farewell.
In 1606, the merchants of London sent out the Hope-
well, under the directions of John Knight. In latitude 56
48', on the coast of Labrador, Knight, with his mate and
four others, went on shore, and were supposed to be mur¬
dered by the natives, as none of them were ever afterwards
heard of. The ship returned home.
Henry Hudson made no fewer than four voyages ot dis¬
covery. The first, in 1607, was along the eastern coast of
Greenland, when he reached, in 78° 56', a higher degree
of latitude on that coast than has since been ascended.
The second, in 1608, was an attempt to the eastward,
where, as in all preceding attempts, he was stopped at "W ay-
o-atz Strait. Of the third little is known. Its northern li¬
mits appear to have been the North Cape on one side, and
Newfoundland on the other.
The fourth voyage was fatal to Hudson, but it opened
the way to the coast of America in a higher degree of la¬
titude than it had yet been approached. He left the
Thames in the Discovery of fifty-five tons, on the 17th of
April 1610, and reached the Isle of Godsmercie, in the
strait which bears his name, on the 6th of July ; on the 2d
of August he discovered land, which he named Cape Wol-
stenholm ; and near it, on a cluster of islands, Cape Digges .
And here ends Hudson’s narrative ; for his crew hav¬
ing mutinied, they put Hudson, his son, and seven otheis,
into an open boat, which was never more heard of. The
ship returned to England, and, what is most remarkable,
the inhuman and atrocious act does not appear to have
caused any sensation, nor was any inquiry instituted into
the proceedings of the mutineers.
Two of them, in fact, Abacuk Pricket and Robert Bylot,
were employed under Captain (afterwards Sir Thomas) But¬
ton, appointed to prosecute the discovery of a north-west
passage, in two ships, the Resolution and Discovery. But¬
ton followed the tract of Hudson, and succeeded in reach¬
ing the coast of America, where he wintered in Nelson’s
River, in latitude 57° 10'. The following year they stood
to the northward, and discovered Southampton Island, as
high up as latitude 65° ; made some discoveries of islands,
and returned to England in the autumn of 1613.
In 1612, w e find James Hall employed on an expedition
up the western coast of Greenland, where he was slain by
one of the natives, at Hamel’s Point, in latitude 67°. The
account of the voyage is written by William Baffin, who w as
pilot, in which he relates the method of determining thePokij^
longitude by an observation of the time when the moon v V
came upon the meridian ; the first navigator probably who
practised this method.
In 1614, Captain Gibbon was sent out in the Discovery, Of qjL
at the recommendation of Sir Thomas Button. He encoun- Gila |
tered much ice at the opening of Hudson s Strait, returned
to the southward, and was shut up in a bay on the coast of
Labrador for five months; and returned without making
any progress in north-western discovery. To this bay the
ship’s company are said to have given, in derision, the name
of “ Gibbon’s his Hole.”
In 1615, the Discovery was fitted out a fourth time, and Of I®t
the command of her given to Robert Bylot, who took \\ il- and
liam Baffin as his mate. They visited Button’s Islands,
Savage Islands, and Mill Islands, and proceeded along the
east coast of Southampton Island to Cape Comfort, in lati¬
tude 65°. From thence they returned to the southward,
and reached England in the month of September.
In 1616, Bylot and Baffin again set out in the bark Dis¬
covery, in search of a north-west passage ; and, following
their instructions, proceeded up Davis s Strait to Hope Saun-
derson, the extreme point of Davis’s progress, between 72°
and 73° of latitude, which they reached as early as the 30th
of May. A little to the northward was a group of islands, to
which, finding females only, they gave the name of Wo¬
men’s Islands. From hence they stood northerly, between
the ice and the land, passing in succession Horn Sound,
Wolstenholm’s Islands, Whale Sound, Sir Thomas Smith’s
Sound, in latitude 78°, and at the northern extremity of
what has since been called Baffin’s Bay ; and following the
direction of the land, they passed, on the western shore, Al¬
derman Jones’s Sound, and lastly,. Lancaster Sound; whence
the ice compelled them to leave the land, and they there¬
fore shaped their course homewards. This last voyage of
Baffin is the most important that had yet been made ; and
it is quite surprising that the discovery of so many immense
openings, which he calls sounds, for want of a better word,
should°not have been followed up, and that not one of
them should have been examined until the expedition sent
out under that intelligent and enterprising officer Captain
Parry.
In 1619, the Danes sent out an expedition under Jensof.s
Munck, who penetrated as high up on the coast of America Mm
as Chesterfield Inlet, which he named Munck’s Winter Har¬
bour ; for he wintered in it, and all his people, except two,
perished of cold, disease, and famine. Munck and these
two survivors with great difficulty fitted out the smaller of
the two vessels, and reached Denmark, where they were
considered as men risen from the dead. Munck is said to
have received the indignity of a blow from the king, on
which he took to his bed, and died of a broken heart; but
there is an air of romance in the account of this voyage,
which makes its authenticity doubtful.
In 1631, Captain Luke Fox, who quaintly calls himself Of >
the “ North-west Fox,” prevailed on some merchants oftoi
London to procure from King Charles I. his countenance,
and the loan of one of his ships, for attempting the disco¬
very of a north-west passage. Fox was undoubtedly niore
shrewd and intelligent than all former navigators ; and if,
when he reached w hat he calls Fox’s Farthest, he had stood
across to the westward, the probability is, that he wmuld
have got upon the northern coast of America, and succeed¬
ed in working his way into the Pacific, by the very route
which Parry since pursued. w
In the same year the merchants of Bristol fitted out the Of Pl |
Maria of seventy tons, the command of which was given to an
Captain James. In proceeding up Hudson’s Strait, some-
where about Resolution Island, he got his ship entangled
in the ice ; and from that spot to Charlton Island, at the
bottom of Hudson’s Bay, in latitude 52°, he details a senes
POLAR SEAS.
219
i Polar Seas.
ar Seas, of disasters which never happened to any navigator before vessels were fitted out, and the command of them given to
or since. Here he passed the winter, and returned the Captain William Moor and Captain Francis Smith,
following year, without making the least progress in disco- Their first examination was thatof the Wager River, which Of Moor
tvery. was found to terminate in a broad rapid, beyond which were aml Smith.
Captain In 1652>the kinS of Denmark again set forth an expedi- two unnavigable rivers. They then proceeded northerly, till
iiel. tion under Captain Daniel, to explore the eastern coast of they came to Captain Middleton’s “ frozen strait,” or opening
Greenland. He stood to the northward of Iceland, but he into Repulse Bay, when a difference of opinion arose amongst
could not approach the land on account of the ice, though the the officers, whether they were authorized by their instruc-
mountains were visible at least sixty miles. The most north- tions to examine this bay. The fact appears to be, that the
ern cape seen was in 65° 30', to which he gave the name of officers and men had no taste for the business, and were un-
Cape King Frederick. From this point to Cape Farewell der no kind of discipline. Instead, therefore, of proceeding,
the ice lay between him and the shore, which in no part he they began to murmur; and although only the 7th of Aicmst^
could approach within twenty miles ; of course, no disco- they urged the lateness of the season, and wished to return
very was made by him. home. After this nothing was done or even attempted; and
Wood After the lapse of more than a century, a paper admitted Repulse Bay remained, till the second voyage of Captain
I Flaws, into the Transactions of the Royal Society of London in Parry, unexamined.
1675 tended to revive the attempt at a north-east passage No farther attempts at either passage appear to have been Of Phipps
in England. It contained an account of a Dutch ship, fitted made by any of the maritime nations for nearly thirty years.and L1'1-
out by a company of merchants in Holland, having passed But the Honourable Daines Barrington having, jn the year widSe-
to the north-eastward of Nova Zembla several hundred 1773, presented to the Royal Society a series of papers on
leagues, between the parallels of 70° and 80° ; and the sea the practicability of approaching the North Pole, the pre¬
in that direction was found to be perfectly open and free sident and council of that society made application to the
from ice. About the same time it was reported that Spit*- first lord of the Admiralty (then Lord Sandwich) to send
bergen had been circumnavigated, and that a Dutch shi^Ji out a ship or ships, to try how far navigation might be prac-
had proceeded within one degree of the pole. Upon the ticable towards that quarter. The Racehorse and Carcass
strength of these reports, Captain John Wood addressed a bombs were accordingly prepared, and the command given
memorial to the king, assigning seven reasons and three ar- to Captain the Honourable Constantine Phipps and Cap-
guments for the existence of a north-east passage. Accord¬
ingly, two ships were fitted out under Captains Wood and
Flaws. They left the Nore in May 1676 ; on the 22d of June
had reached the latitude 75° 79', and on the 26th got sight
of the west coast of Nova Zembla. Three days after this,
Wood lost his ship amongst the ice, and after some perils,
and the loss of two men in reaching the shore, they were
picked up by the other ship, and returned homewards with¬
out making the least discovery; when Wood published many
peremptory and ill-founded reflections on former navigators,
and now found out seven reasons and three arguments against
the passage to the north-east.
tain Skiffington Lutwidge. They left the Nore on the
10th of June, passed along the western coast of Spitzbergen,
and advanced to latitude 80° 48', in sight of the Seven
Islands ; here they were beset in the ice on the 1st of Au¬
gust, and on the 10th, after being forced through it by a
north-east wind, they proceeded to the southward, and ar¬
rived at the Nore on the 25th of September.
The hopes of a north-west passage were not abandoned Of Cook
by this failure ; but it was resolved to make the attempt by and Clerke.
a different route to any that had yet been attempted ; that
is to say, from the Pacific to the Atlantic. Captain Cook
was selected for this enterprise, and two ships, the Resolu¬
tion and Discovery, were fitted out for the purpose, the
Captain Of the voyages of Knight, Barlow, Vaughan, and Scroggs,
Idleton. from the Hudson’s Bay Company’s settlements, along the latter being commanded by Captain Clerke. An amended
eastern coast of America, little else need be said, than that act was passed for granting the reward of L.20,000 for the
they did not extend the knowledge of that coast beyond discovery of “ any northern passage” by sea, between the
Whale Point; but the observations they made on the strong Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, and also the reward of L.5000
tide flowing down the Welcome induced a gentleman of the
name of Dobbs to press the Board of Admiralty to appro¬
priate a ship of the navy to make discoveries in this quar¬
ter. Two ships were accordingly fitted out; the Furnace
to any ship which should approach the North Pole within
one degree. Captain Cook left England in July 1776;
entered Behring’s Strait on the 9th of August 1779; and on
the 17th of August reached latitude 70° 4P N., and saw the
bomb, and the Discovery pink, commanded by Captain highest point of America, surrounded with ice, and there-
Middleton and Mr William Moor. They left England in fore named by him Icy Cape, in latitude 70° 29', longitude
1741, and wintered in Churchill River, in latitude 58° 56'; 198° 20'. The main body of the ice drifting down towards
remained there till the 1st of July ; proceeded northerly to the ships, and the weather becoming foggy, they stood to
the latitude 65° 23', and entered Wager River, which they the southward ; and as the season was far advanced, Cap-
examined in an imperfect manner. They then stood to the tain Cook determined to pass the winter at the Sandwich
northward as far as Cape Hope, in latitude 66° 14', longi- Islands, and to renew the attempt at an earlier period the
tude 86° 28' W.; and, most unaccountably, abandoned all following year. By his death at this place, Captain Clerke
farther search, having seen, or fancied they saw, “ a frozen became the commanding officer. I hat he should have
strait” between them and the point round which they had failed in reaching as far north as Cook had done, is not at
to proceed to the westward. Middleton had been an old all surprising, after an absence of three years from home,
servant of the Hudson’s Bay Company, who were supposed and all hands, as is avowed, “ heartily sick of a navigation
to be jealous of any discoveries in their neighbourhood, and full of danger.” A small vessel had been sent in the year
averse from encouraging them ; and he was accused of hav- r.'76 up Davis’s Strait, under Lieutenant Pickersgill, and
ing taken a bribe from them to defeat the object of the ex- the same vessel again in \ t il, under Lieutenant Young, to
pedition. The lords of the Admiralty refused to approve render any assistance that might be required, in the event
of his proceedings; and to evince the feeling of the govern- of Captain Cook’s reaching Baffin’s Bay; but neither of
ment, an act was passed the very year after his return, of- these officers made a progress beyond the 73d degree of
fering a reward of L.20,000 to the person or persons, being latitude.
subjects of his majesty, who should discover a north-west In 1786 and 1787, the king of Denmark, at the sugges- mua
passage through Hudson’s Strait to the Pacific. Dobbs, tion of Bishop Egede, sent out an expedition under Cap- re¬
turning these circumstances to the advantage of his favourite tain (afterwards Admiral) Lowenorn, for the purpose of re-
project, got up a large subscription, and in 1746 two other discovering the eastern coast of Greenland. This officer per-
220
POLAR SEAS.
Mr Dun¬
can’s voy¬
ages.
the attempt the following year. An accident, however, Polar
which occurred on his second entrance of the strait, though ^—vj-'
personal only, put an end to the expedition.
This voyage of Kotzebue would alone have been suffi-Of Rci‘
cient to stimulate England to attempt once more to accom- and if
plish the almost only interesting discovery in geography that^j* ’
Polar Seas, severed for two years, but with no better success than his
predecessors. They saw the coast at various points, as high
up as 661°, but could not approach it on account of the ice.
No discovery, therefore, of importance resulted from this
expedition.
On the part of England, all further attempts appeared x . - - - mu
to be abandoned after the failure of Captain Cook. One remains to be made ; but other circumstances were reported jjn
gentleman, however, Mr Alexander Dalrymple, hydrogra- in the year 1817, which determined the government to fit
pher to the Admiralty, considering that three points of the out two expeditions for northern discovery. A ship from
northern coast of America had been clearly established, viz. Hamburg, in the summer of that year, made the eastern
Icy Cape, by Cook; the north of the Copper Mine River, coast of Greenland, which was supposed to have been shut
in 1772, bv Hearne; and the mouth of Mackenzie River, up with ice for four centuries, in the 70th parallel of lati-
by the traveller whose name it bears, in 1789; which tude, continued along it to the 80th degree, and stood
three points were supposed to be in or about the 70th paral- along that parallel to the coast of Spitzbergen. For three
lei of latitude, and that they comprehended within them years before this, the post-office packets, and other vessels
fully two thirds of the whole of that coast; and combining crossing the Atlantic, had fallen in with very unusual quan-
these discoveries with other circumstances, he was decidedly tities of ice floating to the southward. This breaking up
of opinion that a north-west passage did exist, and that it of the ice was deemed favourable for the prosecution of
was practicable. On the strength of this opinion he pre¬
vailed on the governor of the Hudson’s Bay Company to
employ Mr Charles Duncan, a master in the navy, on the
discovery. He left England for this purpose in 1790, to
join a sloop of the name of the Churchill, then in Hudson’s
Bay; but he soon discovered that the crew were averse
to the intended enterprise, and set up so systematic an
opposition to proceeding upon it, that he deemed it pru¬
dent to leave them, and to return to England. The gover¬
nors of the company expressed their regret; and, to prove
how much they were in earnest, fitted out a strong ship
called the Beaver, and Mr Duncan set out a second time.
He wintered in Churchill River, where he remained till the
15th of July, and entered Chesterfield Inlet; but his crew
mutinied, encouraged by his first officer, who was a servant
of the Hudson’s Bay Company ; and thus ended his second
voyage.
Of the Rus- We have said nothing of the Russian voyages along the
sian voy- northern coast of Asia. That no one person has performed
ages. the whole, either at once or by successive trials, is quite
clear; but, with the single exception of one “ sacred pro¬
montory,” called Cape Cevero Vostochnoi, between the
Yenisei and the Lena, the whole has been navigated by
various persons at different times. In the years between
1734 and 1738, Lieutenants Moroviof, Malgyn, and Skura-
kof, succeeded in proceeding from Archangel to the Bay
of Obe; and in the latter year, Offzin and Koskelef pro¬
ceeded from that bay to the mouth of the Yenisei. In
1735, Lieutenant Prontshistshef set out in the contrary di¬
rection from the Lena, but was stopped by the promontory
above mentioned; though some affirm that he passed it, —r_  
and reached as far as Taimura. From the Lena eastward July had succeeded in crossing the ice of Baffin’s Bay, and
to the Kowyma the voyage has frequently been performed, reaching the opening of Sir James Lancaster’s Sound, just
and Shaularoff, in 1671, succeeded in reaching the Shelat- one month earlier than in the preceding year. To the ex-
skoi-noss, but could not double it; and the only instance amination of this sound Mr Parry was particularly directed
of its having been passed is that of Deshnef, as far back as by his instructions. In proceeding along it to the west-
the year 1648, who sailed from the Kowyma, through Beh- ward, he met with little obstruction from the ice (though
ring’s Strait, to Anadyr. he was evidently navigating through an archipelago ox
OfLieute- The immense distance by sea from St Petersburg to islands, where it usually most abounds) until he came to
isant Kotze* Kamtschatka, and the Russian settlements on the north- the western extremity of what he calls Melville Island, the
k'ae- west coast of America, would render the discovery of a last that was visible on the northern side of the strait or
north-west passage of infinite importance to Russia. Im- passage through which he had proceeded. Beyond this he
pressed with the magnitude of this importance, an indivi- struggled in vain, till the 20th of Septembei’, to get to the
dual of that nation, the Count Romanzoff, fitted out at his westward, when the severity of the weather made it prxx-
own expense a small vessel, named the Rurick, the com- dent to look out for a secure spot to pass the winter ; and,
mand of which was given to Lieutenant Kotzebue. She after cutting a canal through the ice upwards of two miles
left the Baltic in 1815, passed Cape Horn, and in 1817 en- in length, tracked the two ships into \Vinter Harbour, the
tered a deep inlet on the eastern side of Behring’s Strait, in crews “ hailing the event with three loud and hearty
which he passed the remaining part of the summer. He cheers.” The following year, when released from their icy
found no ice, neither in the strait nor the inlet, and saw prison, every effort was again made to pass the western ex¬
nothing to prevent his proceeding up the American coast tremity of Melville Island, but in vain; and, after many
to Icy Cape but the lateness of the season ; and therefore fruitless attempts, the ships returned to the eastward, and
returned to the southward, with the intention of renewing reached England in safety, bringing back every man who
northern discovery. For this purpose two separate expedi¬
tions were put in preparation. One was intended to pro¬
ceed by the North Pole, as the nearest route, and, if no in¬
terruption from land occurred, probably the most pi'acti-
cable, to Behring’s Strait; the other, to attempt a passage
by some of the openings leading out of Baffin’s Bay. To
each were assigned two ships. Those destined for the
polar passage were the Dorothea, of 370 tons, commanded
by Captain David Buchan, and the Trent, of 250 tons, by
Lieutenant John Franklin. Those for the north-west were
the Isabella, of 382 tons, commanded by Captain John
Ross, and the Alexander, of 252 tons, by Lieutenant Wil¬
liam Edward Parry. The polar expedition was rendered
abortive by the disabling of the Dorothea in the ice ; the
other circumnavigated Baffin’s Bay, and ascertained that
the narrative of that able navigator whose name it bears is
substantially true; and that the chart appended to the
Voyage of the North- West Fox is in fact the chart of Baffin,
and wonderfully correct for the time in which it was laid
down. Not one, however, of the many great openings
which appear in that chart, and were ascertained to exist,
was examined ; and the only one that was entered was
abandoned in a most unaccountable manner, and on grounds
which were at once suspected, and subsequently proved, to
be utterly without foundation.
Another expedition was, therefore, immediately fitted Of Pa:|
out, consisting of two ships, the Hecla bomb and Griper and Li
gun-brig, and the command of it given to Lieutenant Parry, 0I1'
Lieutenant Liddon being appointed to that of the Griper.
They dropped down the river on the 4th of May 1819 ; saw
Cape Farewell on the 15th of June ; and by the^SOth of
POLAR SEAS.
•ry
/on
Seas.had embarked on the expedition, with the exception of one,
who carried out with him an incurable complaint.
The farthest point reached by Lieutenant, now Captain,
Parry in the Polar Sea, was latitude 74. 26. 25. north, and
longitude 113. 46. 43. west; a point of western longitude
which, by an amended act of parliament, dividing the sum
of L.20.000 into a graduated scale, entitled the discoverers
to L.5000.
On their return to England, there was not an officer or
man in the whole expedition that was not satisfied with the
practicability of a western passage from the Atlantic to the
Pacific, though in some other line of direction, either to
the northward or the southward of the extensive group of
islands amongst which they had been navigating. The lords
of the Admiralty appear to have entertained the same feel¬
ings, and accordingly gave directions for two bombs, the
Fury and the Hecla, to be prepared for the prosecution of
the discovery. To Captain Parry was given, as was justly
due, the command of the expedition, and to Captain Lyon
that of the Hecla. They left England in May 1821, and
on the 2d of August arrived in the channel formed between
Southampton Island and the coast of America; passed the
Frozen Strait of Middleton, and unconsciously entered Re¬
pulse Bay, “ wherein was not a piece of ice to be seen.”
They found it entirely surrounded by land. Proceeding
to the northw ard along the coast of America, they examin¬
ed several inlets, all of which terminated at short distances
from their entrance. The arrival of the 1st of October gave
sufficient indications of the necessity of finding some place
to pass the winter in; and after much research, to a small
island selected for that purpose, Parry gave the name of
Winter Island. Its latitude was observed to be 66|°, the
lowest temperature, during the winter, was — 40°.
On the 2d of July they left Winter Island, proceeded up
Fox’s Channel, in which, from the strength of the current,
and the floating masses of ice, both ships had a narrow es¬
cape from being nipped, that is, crushed between the huge
hummocks. At length they reached the latitude of 67° lb',
where they found a considerable opening in the land of
America, out of which a strong current was observed to set
into the sea. It turned out, on examination, to be the
mouth of a fresh-water river. Proceeding still northerly
along the coast of America, they came to a strait which had
been previously indicated by a party of Esquimaux at Win¬
ter Island, and which one of the women, of a very superior
cast, had marked down on a chart, with extraordinary cor¬
rectness. Near it was the island of Igloolik, where (the 30th
of October having arrived) they resolved to take up their
second winter quarters. Its latitude was 69^°, the lowest
temperature 45° below zero. That horrible disease, the
scurvy, having, in the following spring, made its appear¬
ance, both amongst the officers and the crews, which, how¬
ever, yielded to the universal specific, lemon-juice, Captain
Barry, by the advice of the surgeons, deemed it expedient,
as soon as the ships could be liberated, to make the best of
his way home, where he arrived on the 18th of October, hav¬
ing lost, in the course of the voyage, and the two winters
he was shut up in the ice, five of his crew, three by sick¬
ness, one of previous disease, and one killed, out of the
two ships’ companies amounting to 118 men.
The result of this voyage forms a valuable and import¬
ant addition to our geographical knowledge. The strait
near which they wintered was named by Parry the Fury
and Hecla Strait. The north-eastern termination of the
continent of America was for the first time ascertained to
be the southern point of land forming its entrance, and is
in latitude 69° 4P north, longitude 82° 35' west. The
narrowest part of the strait is about two miles across; its
length about sixty geographical miles, where it joins Prince
Regent’s Inlet. It is through this strait that the waters of
the Polar Sea are poured, in a perpetual current, into the
221
Welcome and Fox’s Channel, carrying with them those Polar Seas,
fields and hummocks of ice that accumulate in the Frozen'“v'—-"
Strait, and amongst the narrows between the islands that oc¬
cur from this point down to Hudson’s Bay. The strait itself
is so choked with ice, adhering to its two shores, as to ren¬
der it unfit for navigable purposes, otherwise it would be the
nearest and most direct line to pursue to get into the Polar
Sea through the lower portion of Prince Regent’s Inlet.
A third attempt was made in the Hecla and Fury in the
years 1824-1825, the least successful of all. In this voyage
Parry entered Lancaster Sound, and, instead of proceeding
westerly, as he had before done, towards Melville Island,
he deemed it expedient to strike off to the southward,
down Prince Regent’s Inlet, on the supposition, that hav¬
ing reached the current which he had previously ascer¬
tained to pass through the Fury and Hecla Strait, he would
find himself in the direct line of the passage that would
bring him to Icy Cape. It was, however, with much dif¬
ficulty he was enabled to reach Port Bowen on the eastern
shore of the inlet, on account of the vast masses of ice that
almost filled up this strait or inlet; and it was then so late
in the season that he resolved to winter in this port. On
the 20th of July following, the ships were released from
their winter quarters by the disruption of the ice ; but such
was the pressure of the vast masses by which they soon
found themselves surrounded, that both ships were driven
on shore, and the Fury was finally wrecked. Parry was
therefore under the necessity of taking on board the crew
of the Fury, and as much of her provisions as he could
stow, and of making the best of his way to England.
Parry was not in the least disconcerted by the unsuc-Of Parry
cessful issue of the last voyage. Fie offered his services and Ross,
on a new plan of discovery, which indeed had already been
proposed by Sir John Franklin. This was to proceed to
the northern extremity of Spitzbergen, and from thence,
with boats, to make the attempt to reach the North Pole.
These northern voyages had always been popular from the
earliest periods of British navigation. The president and
council of the Royal Society addressed a letter to Lord
Melville, signifying their approval of Parry’s proposal, and
stating their opinion, that such an enterprise could not fail to
afford many valuable scientific results, and to settle points
of philosophical inquiry. The Hecla was again put in com¬
mission for this service. She left the Nore the beginning
of April 1827, and on the 14th of May was abreast of Hak¬
luyt’s Headland, and in June was anchored in a bay in la¬
titude 79° 55' north, longitude 16° 54' east. From thence
Parry proceeded in two sledge-boats, which he named the
Enterprise and Endeavour ; Parry in the one, and Lieu¬
tenant (now Captain) Ross in the other. At first they had
to contend with loose and rugged ice, amongst which were
pools of water; they then came to floe or field-ice, in
places rugged, and sometimes covered with snow. Over
these the boats were to be hauled, which proved a most
severe and laborious task, the result of which was a pro¬
gress of four or five miles a day due north, seldom more.
But the most mortifying circumstance of all was, that when
they thought they had advanced some ten or twelve miles
to the northward, they found that they had retrograded as
many miles to the southward, the floe on which they were
exerting themselves having been carried by the current
in that direction. In this way they struggled for thirty-
five days, when, having expended half their provisions,
and the season approaching to its termination, it was re¬
solved they should return to the ship, the farthest point
that they had reached being only 82° 45' north, longitude
19° 25' east.
It has been observed, that this unsuccessful attempt “ is
of so bold and daring a character, that it must stand as a
record to the latest posterity, of the patient, persevering,
energetic, and undaunted conduct which British seamen
222
POLAR SEAS.
Polar Seas.
Of Ross.
Expedi¬
tions of
Beechey,
Franklin,
Richard¬
son, Simp¬
son, Back,
&c.
are capable of displaying in the most difficult, discourag¬
ing, and dangerous circumstances, when under the com¬
mand of prudent and intelligent officers, in whom they
have entire confidence. On their return they met with
open water to a considerable extent, and they reached the
Hecla in sixty-one days from the time they had left her.
If any future attempt to reach the pole be undertaken, it
should not be made by boats, which are at the mercy of
every current, and of every floe of ice with which they may
come in contact; but in a small sailing vessel, that can take
advantage of the open water, which every breeze from the
northward affords to a vast extent. The distance is so short,
that the success of an expedition of this kind is far from im¬
probable.
Of Captain (now Sir John) Ross’s expedition little need
be said. It was a bold but inconsiderate undertaking, and
every soul who embarked on it must have perished, but for
the ample supplies they received from the Fury, or rather
from the provisions and stores which, by the providence of
Captain Parry, he had ordered to be carefully stored up on
the beach; for the ship herself had entirely disappeared.
He proceeded down Regent’s Inlet as far as he could in
his little ship, the Victory; placed her amongst the ice cling¬
ing to the shore, and after two winters left her there; and,
in returning to the northward, by great good luck fell in
with a whaling-ship, which took them all on board, and
brought them home. Captain James Ross, by his inde¬
fatigable exertions, collected some geographical informa¬
tion, and proceeded along the eastern coast of the land
which Sir John Ross has named Boothia, out of compli¬
ment to his generous friend Booth, who bore the expenses
of the expedition; and in this journey Ross came to the
spot on which, he informs us, the magnetic pole was then
situated.
Captain Beechey was employed on a surveying expedi¬
tion along the western coast of North America, and when
he had reached Behring’s Strait he despatched his master,
in the long-boat, round Icy Cape, to endeavour to fall in
with Sir John Franklin, who was proceeding westerly from
Mackenzie’s River towards Icy Cape. These two officers,
uncertain of their respective situations, returned each the
way they had come, when about one hundred and tw’enty
miles distant from each other. At the same time Dr Rich¬
ardson had proceeded easterly and surveyed the American
coast as far as Hearne’s River, Franklin on a previous ex¬
pedition having surveyed from thence to Cape Turnagain.
The interval between the point reached by Beechey’s mas¬
ter and that by Franklin on the second journey was, in the
summer of 1837, accurately surveyed by Mr Simpson and
the servants of the Hudson’s Bay Company, who, with
a zeal and spirit that cannot be too strongly approved, are
in the present summer of 1838 engaged in completing that
part betw een Cape Turnagain and the bottom of Regent’s
Inlet, which Captain Back was sent by land to complete,
but was too late in reaching the coast for the party to un¬
dertake it. Captain Back in the year 1837 was sent, in
the Terror, to land at Wager River or Repulse Bay, w ith
the view of accomplishing what the Hudson’s Bay servants
are in the present year engaged upon ; but his attempt was
a complete failure, owing to the ship being immoveably
fixed in the ice which adhered to the shore of Southampton
Island.
Probability The sketch here given of the various attempts which
      *
of a pas- have been made for the discovery of a north-west, a north
„ . , east, and polar passage, is purely historical. The results
ination°ob- ^ave ^een uniformly unsuccessful; but though they have
tained. failed in the main object, it must not be concluded that
they have been useless. On the contrary, they have been
the means of accumulating a stock of information of the
highest importance in almost every department of science,
so as to entitle those who, at the expense of every personal Pok!
comfort, embarked in them, to the gratitude of mankind.
From the present state of our knowledge thus acquired, a
very probable conjecture may now be formed of the prac¬
ticability, or otherwise, of a navigation through some part
of the Polar Sea.
In the first place, it has been distinctly ascertained that
human beings can winter with impunity to their health in
the highest possible degree of cold which can exist in any
part of the earth’s surface ; for there is every reason short of
actual proof to believe, that the temperature of the atmo¬
sphere on the pole itself is not lower than, perhaps not so low
as, in the parallel of 75°, where Parry wintered; the spirit
in the thermometer having there descended to 55° below
zero. So little, indeed, is a high parallel of latitude the sole
cause of a decreased temperature, that, in 65° north, ten de¬
grees less than Parry’s winter-quarters, Lieutenant Franklin
had the spirit in the tube down to 57°, two degrees lower
than Parry. This officer, therefore, left England with the
impression that he should experience no injury, nor much
inconvenience, from passing a second winter in the Polar
Sea, if it should be found necessary.
In the second place, it has now been ascertained in what
situations it w ould be a waste of time to look for a passage,
and where the only remaining points are deserving of ex¬
amination. That a communication, if not a practicable pas¬
sage, does exist between the Atlantic and the Pacific Oceans,
through the medium of the Polar Sea, very little doubt can
remain. The constant current which the old navigators
Button, Fox, Middleton, and since their time Parry, Lyon,
and Back, found setting down the Welcome, and which also,
in a less degree, prevails in Baffin’s Bay and Davis’s Strait, to¬
gether with the current which as constantly sets up Behring’s
Strait, as appears from the journal of Cook, Clerke, Glottof,
and Kotzebue, testifies to this position. The fact of this
circumvolving current, which we have no doubt contributes
to those permanent movements everywhere existing in the
great oceans, has been called in question, because, forsooth,
Sir John Ross found it running as much one way as the
other in Baffin’s Bay. Sir John Ross had no further know¬
ledge of currents than of those which are generally found
to agitate the surface of the sea, and which are known to
change with every wind. Superficial currents, however,
are not here meant, but the uniform motion of that great
body of water, which, in spite both of winds and superficial
currents, and in the teeth of both, carry icebergs many
hundred feet immersed below the surface, and bear them
along the coast of America, in direct opposition to the
strongest and most extensive current that we know of, the
Gulf Stream. How happens it, then, it may be asked, that
none of these icebergs, so very commonly met with in the
Atlantic, ever come across to the coast of Norw’ay or Den¬
mark, Scotland or Ireland, with the spread of the said
Gulf Stream, after it reaches the banks of Newfoundland,
and carries with it so many other matters, floating on the
surface, to these coasts ? Or wrhy do all the bottles which
have been launched in Davis’s Strait leave the direction
taken by the icebergs, and turn up on some of the above-
mentioned coasts ? Clearly, because there is a body of wa¬
ter acting on those parts of the icebergs under the surface
(and which are at least thirty times the magnitude of the
parts above the surface) in a contrary direction to that
which is in motion above. The fact is so obvious as not
to require another word on the subject. It is the icebergs
only that are subject to this law. The field-ice, which is in¬
fluenced and drifted about according to the winds and the
currents on the surface, gives no indication of the direction
in which the great body of water is moved.
In the same manner, we may be satisfied of the constant
rush of wrater from the Pacific, through Behring’s Strait,
into the Polar Sea, to supply the constant stream which
e*
POLAR SEAS.
223
flows down the Welcome into Hudson’s Bay. It is this
‘ eas/‘ current which, according to the observations of Kotzebue
and the naturalist Chamisso, brings the great quantity of
drift-wood found in Behring’s Strait and Kotzebue’s Inlet.
It is the same current by which, on the same authority, we
are told, the icebergs and fields of ice, which are formed
and break up in the sea of Kamtschatka, “ do not drift, as
in the Atlantic, to the south, but into the strait to the
north and the strength of this set of the sea is stated to
be from two and a half to three miles an hour, and that
even in the teeth of a strong northerly wind. The conclu¬
sion drawn by M. Kotzebue is this, that the constant
north-east direction of the current of Behring’s Strait
proves that the water meets with no opposition, and, con¬
sequently, that a passage must exist (to the Atlantic),
though perhaps not adapted to navigation. Observations
have long been made that the current in Baffin’s Bay runs
to the south ; and thus no doubt can remain that the mass
of water which flows into Behring’s Strait takes its course
round the northern shore of America, and returns through
Baffin’s Bay into the ocean. But we have still more direct
and positive information. Two Russian ships doubled the
Icy Cape in 1821, and proceeded some forty or fifty miles
beyond the point reached by Captain Cook ; and such was
the strength of the current to the eastward, that it was with
the utmost difficulty they could stem it on their return,
which a want of provisions, and of every requisite to pass
the winter or encounter ice, compelled them to do; but
they had no doubt whatever of a practicable passage.
An idea has heedlessly been started, that the superficial
current in Baffin’s Bay, and that which descends along the
coast of Labrador, may be owing to the melting of the ice
in summer; but if so, why does not the summer current at
least descend through Behring’s Strait instead of perpetu¬
ally ascending it ? But the supposition is altogether with¬
out foundation ; for the quantity of ice destroyed above the
surface will be replaced by very nearly the same quantity
rising from below the surface; and, therefore, the water
produced by the melting of the ice will merely supply the
place of the latter, and not raise the surface of the sea
above its usual level, nor produce any current. Be it ob¬
served, too, that in the arctic regions little or no increase
of the ice is occasioned by the fall of rain or snow, which
are of trifling amount.
Another objection, equally frivolous, was taken against a
communication of the waters of Hudson’s Bay and Behring’s
Strait, on the ground that the continent of Asia overlap¬
ped and was united to America, making Behring’s Strait to
terminate in a great bay. That question, however, has
been set at rest for ever, even with those who were dispos¬
ed to doubt of the voyage of Deschreff. The Russian go¬
vernment has recently employed several men of science to
determine points of doubtful position on the northern coast
of Siberia. In February 1821, Baron Wrangel, a distin¬
guished officer in their service, left his head-quarters on the
Nishey Kolyma, to determine, by astronomical observa¬
tion, the position of Shelatskoi-noss, or the north-east cape
of Asia, which was found to be in latitude 70° 5' north,
considerably lower than it is usually placed on the maps.
He then proceeded over the ice directly north for eighty
miles, without perceiving any other object than a boundless
field of ice. The supposed continuation, therefore, of Asia
to the eastward, may be considered as an idle speculation.
But the perpetual current from Behring’s Strait has been
Fury. These facts, then, being established, it may be as-Polar Seas.
sumed that a water communication does exist between the ''■"“v-"*"'
Atlantic and Pacific ; and that, from the low latitude of
the coast of America, may be inferred the probability
that this communication is a navigable one. The ques- '
tion, then, is narrowed to the direction in which it is most
probable a passage will be found ? The north-eastern route
may be given up, were it only for the great distance (just
one half of the whole circumference of the Polar Sea) that
it would be necessary to navigate, more or less, amongst
ice.
Ihe tract pursued by Parry on his first voyage through Probable
Barrow’s Strait, and amongst the islands, must obviously be direction of
given up as hopeless. The prevailing north-westerly windstlle Pas'
wedge in amongst the islands such a mass of ice, whichsage'
never melts, as to render all attempts to penetrate it at the
western opening of the funnel impracticable ; but beyond
this ice, Captain Parry had no doubt there was an open
sea, as it was observed, that, whenever the wind came to
the eastward, the whole body of the ice kept moving to
the westward for several days together. And this open
sea is probably not inaccessible from some other quarter.
Indeed we now know, that from the concurring reports of
those who have examined the line of coast which terminates
America, and from Captain James Ross when on the
western shore of Boothia, that neither land nor ice was
visible to the northward in the first case, nor to the west¬
ward in the second. It is clear, then, that to effect a pas¬
sage to Behring’s Strait, the route should be through Lan¬
caster Sound (always free from ice), along Barrow’s Strait,
to the first opening beyond that of Regent’s Inlet, proceed¬
ing in a slanting direction to the south-west till the coast of
America be in sight, and then westerly to Icy Cape. It is
much to be wished that a trial were made of this passage.
The attempts hitherto made have taught us that straits, and
islands, and shores, should be avoided, as the ice is gene¬
rally found to block up the first, and by grounding to ad¬
here to the others, and render navigation impracticable.
Parry, and Lyon, and Back found that to be the case in
the straits through which they in vain attempted to pass;
wffiilst, as all the Greenland fishermen know, there is little
obstruction in the field-ice of the open sea, which breaks
up and is scattered in all directions by moderate breezes
of w ind.
Sir David Brewster, in an ingenious and interesting pa-Probable
per on the Mean Temperature of the Globe, has shown, in mean tem-
a satisfactory manner, by comparing the results of the late P®ratu|'e of
expeditions with those he had drawn from a preconceived e
theory, “ that the mean temperature of the north pole of
the globe will be about 11°,” which, he says, is “ incompa¬
rably warmer than the regions in w hich Captain Parry spent
the winter.” The mean annual temperature of this spot,
according to a series of accurate observations for twelve
months, was actually 1° 33'; and on shore could not have
been more than 1° below zero.
In fact, the whole surrounding coast of the North Polar Coast of
Sea is inhabited ; the European part with Laplanders and the Polar
Finns; the Asiatic shores with Ostiacks, Samoieds, Yuck-
agires, Tchutskies, and Koriacks, who derive their subsist-0
ence from the rein-deer and dried fish. The Tchutskoi
bordering on Behring’s Strait are a superior kind of Esqui¬
maux, and are no doubt the same race which extend along
the northern coast of America, the shores and islands of
Baffin’s Bay, Davis’s and Hudson’s Straits, and the coast of
traced along the whole extent of the northern coast of Labrador; and as high up on the coast of Old Greenhmd
America into Hudson’s Bay (with the exception of some as latitude 78°, the highest habitable spot, in all probability,
200 miles not yet examined), by Beechey, Franklin, Rich- on the face of the globe. All these people, distantly as they
ardson. Back, and the Hudson’s Bav Comoanv, and so dis- are removed from each other, speak the same language,
ardson, Back, and the Hudson’s Bay Company,
tinctly, as not to leave a doubt on the subject; and Parry
found it discharging itself impetuously into Fox’s Channel,
and down the Welcome through the Strait of the Hecla and
wear the same dress, subsist in the same manner, and in all
their habits and appearance are precisely the same people.
Spitzbergen has no permanent inhabitants; but English,
224
POLAR SEAS.
Polar Seas. Dutch, Danes, and Russians, have frequently wintered
—v~—' there; and, even as high as 80° north, many hundreds,
some say thousands, of graves are met with in two or three
particular spots where it was usual with the Dutch and
other nations to extract the oil from the w’hale and other
marine animals furnishing blubber. On Nova Zembla, the
body of which is five or six degrees lower in latitude, no
inhabitants are found, nor, with the exception of Barentz
and his associates, have any been known to pass the win¬
ter even in the more southerly parts. Such, indeed, is the
difference of climate on the same parallels, that whilst on
the southern part of Nova Zembla, in latitude 69°, not a
shrub is to be found, at Altengoord, in Norway, in latitude
70°, trees grow to a considerable size. Old Greenland,
and the islands on the western shore of Baffin’s Bay, of
Davis’s Strait, and of Hudson’s Bay, down to the 55th
degree of latitude, are barren of trees and shrubs ; whilst
on the western side of America, as high up as the 60th
and even 65th degree, the firs and birch grow to a con¬
siderable size. Even in the short distance which sepa¬
rates America from Asia across Behring’s Strait, Kotzebue,
in passing from the former to the latter, experienced a
change like that of summer and winter; in the former all
was verdure, in the latter a complete surface of ice and
snow. On the south side of Melville Island, in 75° of lati¬
tude, the moment that the snow had departed, the ground
was enamelled with a variety of brilliant flowers.
Animals of Nor are these dreary regions entirely destitute of ani-
the nortli- mated nature. Rein-deer are met with on the northern-
ern regions. most part of Spitzbergen. The polar bear, the wolf, the
arctic fox, the polar hare, the ermine, the lemming or Hud¬
son’s Bay mouse, the musk-bull, and the rein-deer, were
all caught on Melville Island, the first six being perpetual
residents, the two last migratory. Grouse, ptarmigan, plo¬
ver, and a great variety of water-fowl, frequent in vast
numbers the straits and islands of the Arctic Seas. The
following picture, drawn by the naturalist who accompa¬
nied Kotzebue, is correct and interesting. “ As, on the
one hand, in proportion as you advance farther on the
land towards the north, the woods become less lofty, the
vegetation gradually decreases, animals become scarcer,
and lastly (as on Nova Zembla), the rein-deer and the
glires vanish with the last plants, and only birds of prey
prowl about the icy streams for their food; so, on the
other hand, the sea becomes more and more peopled. The
algcB, gigantic species of tang, form inundated woods round
the rocky coasts, such as are not met with in the torrid
zone. But the waters swarm with animal life,—the medu¬
sa and zoophytes, molluscce and Crustacea, innumerable
species of fish, in incredibly crowded shoals; the gigantic
swimming mammalia, whales, physeters, dolphins, morse,
and seals, fill the sea and its shores, and countless flights of
water-fowl rock themselves on the bosom of the ocean, and
in the twilight resemble floating islands.”
SOUTH POLAB SEA.
Confined Of the South Polar Sea little or nothing may be said to
knowledge be known. Captain Cook, in the years 1773 and 1774,
of the crossed the antarctic circle in jive places only ; in longi-
iar's'A0" tude 391° east, where he advanced to latitude 67-f°, and
a‘ met with fields and detached pieces of ice ; in longitudes
101° and 110° west, between which he proceeded to lati¬
tude 71° 10' south, the farthest progress made by him to¬
wards the south pole, where he was stopped, or at least
deemed it prudent to return, on account of the fields and
mountains of ice which were scattered over the surface of
the sea; and in longitudes 136° and 148° west, between
which he descended to latitude 68°, and saw many floating
ice islands. There are, therefore, still remaining about Polar
340 degrees of longitude in which the antarctic circle hass,"“'\
not been crossed, and full half the circumference of the
globe which has not been visited lower to the southward
than the parallel of 60° south latitude.
Mr Weddell, a master in the navy, proceeded some three
degrees farther south than Cook; and since that, two ships
of Mr Enderby discovered a long tract of land, the extent
of which they did not determine. It is understood this
spirited gentleman either has or is about to send out other
ships to prosecute at the same time the whale-fishery and
maritime discovery.
There was little doubt of the existence of high land in
the South Polar Sea, though Cook discovered none beyond
the Southern Thule, or Sandwich Land, on the parallel of
60°. Without high precipitous land, those large icebergs
which he met with floating amongst the fields of ice could
not have been formed; the hummocks of ice, occasioned
by the agitation of the sea and the meeting of the jields or
flaws in opposite directions, seldom rise to the height of
twelve or fifteen feet above the surface. The Russians,
indeed, on a recent voyage of discovery, are said to have
fallen in with many islands about the seventieth parallel of
latitude: they also circumnavigated the Sandwich Land,
which was left undetermined by Cook, and conjectured
that it might be a part of the great southern continent,
which occupied so much of the attention of the geographers
and philosophers of the last century. This idea was re¬
newed by the recent discovery of a very considerable ex¬
tent of land to the southward of Cape Horn, in latitude
63°, and seen extending from longitude 55° to 65° west.
As the eastern extremity had not been seen, and the
winding of the coast was to the north-east, it was conjec¬
tured that it might unite with the Southern Thule of Cook,
and form the long-sough t-for southern continent. It is
said, however, that the Russians have also circumnavigat¬
ed this land, and that it is composed of a great cluster of
islands.
The land in question has been called South Shetland,
but it is no new discovery. In the account of the voyage
of the Five Ships of Rotterdam, under the command of
Jacob Mahu and Simon de Cordes, to the South Seas, in
the year 1599, it is stated, that, on approaching the Strait
of Magelhaens, the yacht, commanded by Dirk Gherritz,
w as separated from all the other ships, and wras carried by
tempestuous weather to the south of the strait, to 64° south
latitude, where they discovered a high country, with moun¬
tains which were covered with snow, like the land of Nor¬
way. This land of Gherritz was marked on some of the
old charts, but discontinued on the more modern ones,
from the uncertainty of its position with regard to longi¬
tude. There can be no doubt of its identity with the mo¬
dern South Shetland. It answered to the description of
the mountains of Norway, covered with snow, and is wholly
barren, having neither tree nor shrub of any kind. It is
unnecessary to say that it is uninhabited, there being no
such people in the southern hemisphere as the Esquimaux;
and it may be remarked, that no human beings are found
in the Southern Ocean below the fifty-fifth parallel of lati¬
tude, and none beyond the fiftieth, except on Patagonia
and Tierra del Fuego. On the shores, the seals and sea¬
horses, which had remained from the creation undisturbed,
were so numerous, that, on the first notice of the redis¬
covery, a whole fleet of vessels from England and North
America crowded thither on speculation ; but the loss of
several, from tempestuous weather and a dangerous navi¬
gation, and the destruction and alarm of the objects of
their cupidity, will probably cause it, for some time at
least, to remain as much a land of desolation as it had been
before. (M0
0
Ito
ikt
225
POLARISATION OP LIGHT.'
j.risa- Until a very few years since, the greater number of na-
i of tural philosophers, and almost all mathematical opticians,
■,ht- were agreed in considering the rays of light as composed of
'' extremely minute molecules, darted, in every possible di¬
rection, by a luminous body, with very great velocities.
The form of these molecules remained undetermined; but
as it was inferred from some observations, made long ago,
that certain rays had not the same properties in every part
of their circumference, it was natural to compare them to
little magnets, and to suppose them possessed of poles.
Hence the appellation of a polarised ray was applied to
every ray of light so modified as to exhibit the polar pro¬
perties of its molecules. We shall begin this article by de¬
scribing the different methods that have been discovered
for obtaining polarised rays.
SECT. I.—OF DOUBLE REFRACTION, CONSIDERED AS A MODE
OF POLARISING LIGHT.2
Supposing a pencil of natural light, that is to say, of light
coming directly from a luminous body, without having un¬
dergone any change by refraction or by reflection, to fall
upon a crystal of carbonate of lime, perpendicularly to one
of its surfaces, either natural or artificial: This pencil will
in general undergo a bifurcation as it enters the crystal;
one half of the incident light continuing its course in a right
line, according to the ordinary laws of refraction, and the
other exhibiting a very remarkable phenomenon, and as¬
suming an oblique direction, notwithstanding its original
perpendicularity. The former half is called the ordinary
pencil or ray, the latter the extraordinary pencil or ray.
The plane passing through these two pencils must obvious¬
ly be perpendicular to the surface of the crystal: this plane
is of great importance in the phenomena of polarisation,
and it is denominated the principal section of the crystal.
According to this definition, it appears that every ray of
light, at each point of incidence on a given crystal, will
have a principal section corresponding to it; and we have
only to observe, that all these sections will be parallel to
each other. In a rhomboid of Iceland spar, the principal
section cuts the natural faces of the crystal in a line paral¬
lel to the diagonal joining the obtuse angles of the paral¬
lelogram, and dividing it into two equal parts.
Now, the ordinary and extraordinary rays both acquire
within the crystal new properties, not inherent in the direct
light. In order to show this, it will be sufficient to remark
what happens to these rays when they fall on a second
crystal which has the properties of double refraction ; and,
first, with respect to the ordinary ray, which has preserved
its rectilinear direction without deviation.
If the principal section of the second crystal is parallel
to the principal section of the first, the ray will undergo no
double refraction in the second, but will continue its course
without any subdivision. But if the principal sections of
the two crystals are perpendicular to each other, the ray
which was ordinarily refracted in the first crystal, will be¬
come an extraordinary ray in the second, and will be re¬
fracted obliquely when its incidence is perpendicular. But
wrhen the principal sections are neither perpendicular nor
parallel to each other, this same ordinary ray will be sub¬
divided in the second crystal, but its portions 11111 be of
different intensities, excepting when the sections form an Polarisa.
angle of 45° with each other. tion of
The extraordinary pencil exhibits phenomena of a simi- Li^ht.
lar nature. It remains an extraordinary pencil in every' v"'—
crystal of which the principal section is parallel to that of
the crystal which has transmitted it, and becomes an ordi¬
nary pencil when the principal sections are at right angles
to each other. It is subdivided into two pencils of equal
intensity if the two sections make an angle of 45° with
each other, and, in every other position, into two pencils of
unequal intensities.
It is extremely easy to verify these propositions by expe¬
riment. \\ e place on a horizontal table a piece of black
paper, and draw two very fine lines at right angles to each
other, with a white spot of a certain magnitude at their in¬
tersection ; and we lay on the paper a rhomboid of calca¬
reous spar, and with our eye immediately above the spot
we see two images of it, situated in a line parallel to the
shorter diagonal of the upper face of the rhomboid. One
of these images is seen in the true place of the spot, as is
easily ascertained by two lines which cross in it, and of
which the portions not covered by the crystal point at it;
these rays have therefore undergone no deviation, and have
been ordinarily refracted. The other rays have been bent,
since they do not pass through the true place of the spot,
and therefore afford the extraordinary image.
We now place a second crystal on the first, in such a
manner that the shorter diagonals of the faces in contact may
be parallel; and we still find only two images of the white
spot, but they are more remote from each other. The one
retains its natural situation ; whence it follows, that the rays
which afford it are no more deflected from their course in
the second crystal than they are in the first, and that they
have always remained ordinary rays. With regard to the
second image, since it is more remote from the true place
of the object than when seen through the first crystal only,
it is obvious that the rays, which have already been extra¬
ordinarily refracted in the lower rhomboid, have undergone
the same kind of refraction in passing through the upper.
If we only turn the upper rhomboid round the vertical
line, so as to remove its principal section from its parallel
position, each of the two images will be subdivided into
two others. The new images will at first be very weak; but
their intensity will augment by degrees at the expense of
the original images, in proportion as the angle formed by
the two sections becomes greater; and at last, when it is a
right angle, the two primitive images will have disappeared,
and the new images alone will remain. One of them will
be at a distance from the true place of the spot, in the di¬
rection of the shorter diagonal of the upper rhomboid,
about equal to the result of the double refraction of the
second crystal if it were separate from the first. This im¬
age is therefore formed by rays which have been refracted
ordinarily in the first crystal, and extraordinarily in the
second. And it will be equally manifest that the other
image is derived, on the contrary, from rays refracted at
first extraordinarily, and then ordinarily, in the respective
crystals.3
As it is difficult to procure very thick rhomboids of car¬
bonate of lime that are quite transparent, the same experi¬
ments may be performed by means of two prisms, cut out
Thjs artidc was written by M. Arago of the French Institute, and obligingly translated by his friend the late Dr Thomas Young,
° a ’e Supplement to the previous editions of this work. Some additions were, with M. Arago's permission, made by the translator.
see tne article Optics, vol. xvi. p. 461. 3 Ibid. p. 461, 462. *
. VOL. Win, 2 F
226
POLARISATION OF LIGHT.
Polarisa- of doubly refracting crystals, and rendered achromatic by
tion of combining them with prisms of common glass placed with
Light. bases in opposite directions. Through two such acluo-
^ , J"~Y ' matic prisms placed on each other, the image of a candle
appears quadruple or double, according to the relative po¬
sitions of the principal sections. We thus see very distinct- rence
ly that the images which disappear are not contounded with
the other two, but that they become fainter gradually, whilst
the others increase in intensity by the same degrees.
It appears, then, first, that the direct light is always di¬
vided into two pencils in its passage through the natural
faces of a crystal of carbonate of lime ; and, on the contrary,
tnat the light of which either of the two pencils is compos¬
ed. when submitted to the action of such a crystal, in some
particular positions of the principal section, is not divided,
and gives but a single pencil
When natural philosophers say of a loadstone or a mag¬
net that it has poles, they merely understand by this ex¬
pression that certain points about the circumference of the
magnet possess properties which do not belong, either at all,
or in the same degree, to the other parts of the circumfe-
It was then equally correct to say of the ordinary
and extraordinary rays derived from the subdivision of na¬
tural light in the crystals of carbonate of lime, that they
had poles, or were polarised. It is only necessary to re¬
mark, in order to avoid extending the analogy between the
rays of light and the magnet beyond its proper bounds, that
for every element of the ray, the sides or poles diametrical¬
ly opposite to each other, that is, in the position here sup¬
posed for illustration, the north and south poles of the or¬
dinary ray, appear both to possess exactly the same proper¬
ties ; and it is at the angular distance of 90° from these
points, that is, on a perpendicular to the line that joins
• Secondly, the two images furnished by the direct light , , ,rr
have always un equal degree of brightness ; but the light of them, that we find in the same ray poles possessed of dif-
the ordinary or extraordinary pencils, when it undergoes a ferent properties; and if we compare with each other the
further double refraction, gives almost always images of two pencils transmitted by a given crystal, the poles pos¬
sessed of the same properties will be situated in directions
perpendicular to each other.
Let us once more consider the two rays transmitted by
unequal intensities
Hence it follows, that in the act of double refraction this
last light has received some new properties, by which it
may always be distinguished from natural light. But are
these properties necessarily of such a nature as to be inex¬
plicable without supposing the elementary molecules of the
rays to possess certain poles ? This is a question which we
are now to examine.
We will suppose that a rhomboid of carbonate of lime is
placed horizontally ; that the incident light falls perpendi¬
cularly on its upper surface, and that the principal section,
which will be vertical, is in the plane of the meridian, or
that it runs north and south ; observing, however, that these
directions are only chosen to facilitate our comprehension
of the facts.
The ordinary pencil afforded by this crystal when it is
submitted to the action of a new rhomboid similarly placed,
a crystal of which the principal section is supposed to be in
the plane of the meridian. There is no reason whatever
for assigning the denomination of poles to the north and
south sides of the ordinary ray rather than to the east and
west; but as it is necessary to make some distinction, it
has been generally agreed to apply the name of poles to the
north and south sides. Hence it has been usual to say, that
the ordinary ray is polarised in the plane of the principal
section ; which is as much as to say that the different ele¬
ments of the ray have the faces, which we have called poles,
situated in that plane. The extraordinary ray is polarised
perpendicularly to the principal section; its poles are si¬
tuated perpendicularly to that plane, since it becomes per¬
fectly similar to the ordinary ray when it is made to de-
that is to say, having also its principal section in the plane scribe a fourth of a revolution round itself.
of the meridian, passes through it, as we have seen, with¬
out lateral refraction, and continues its course in a right
line, remaining as an ordinary ray.
But when the principal section of the second crystal,
being still vertical, is directed from east to west, the ordi¬
nary ray, transmitted by the first crystal, will be refracted
laterally in it, although it falls perpendicularly on the sur¬
face, and will become an extraordinary ray.
In the first case, the principal section of the second rhom¬
boid intersected the ray, or the luminous molecules sup¬
posed to compose it, from north to south; in the second,
these molecules were intersected from east to west. It may
be remarked, that this is the only circumstance in which
the cases differ from each other, the ray falling in both
cases on the same point of the crystal, and in the same an¬
gular direction. It must therefore be concluded, that in
the ray of light, or in the elements of which it is formed,
When we have arrived thus far, it becomes natural to ask
whether we are to suppose that the separation of the light
within the crystal has given poles to the molecules, or that
the poles, already pre-existing, have merely been turned to¬
wards the same points of space. This question is a very
difficult one ; but we shall find hereafter, if not a demon¬
stration of the second hypothesis, at least some plausible
reason for adopting it. It will be here sufficient to remark,
that the modification undergone by the rays is entirely in¬
dependent of the nature of the crystal, provided that it only
produce a double image ; and that the phenomena present¬
ed by two rhomboids of calcareous spar, placed on each
other, would be reproduced, with their minutest details, if
we combined, for example, one of these rhomboids with a
crystal of carbonate of lead ; or if the first crystal were ot
sulphur, and the second of quartz or of sulphate ot baryta.
But it is not only in the phenomena of double refraction Polar:*-
the north and south sides must have different properties that the particular properties of polarised rays are exhibit- ^ ^;
from those of the east and west. ed; the reflection of these rays, at the surfaces oi transpar ^olK
When we analyse the extraordinary pencil with the se- rent bodies, affords also a method of distinguishing them
cond crystal, if the principal section intersects this pencil from common light.
from north to south, it undergoes the extraordinary refrac- When a pencil of natural light falls on a transparent mil¬
lion, but it follows the ordinary course when this same plane ror, with any inclination whatever, it is divided into two
intersects it from east to west, which is exactly the contrary parts ; the one passes through the substance of the mirror,
of what occurs with the ordinary pencil. The north and the other is reflected. This latter portion is always found
south sides of this pencil have therefore the properties of in the plane passing through the primitive pencil, and the
the east and west sides of the extraordinary pencil, and the line perpendicular to the surface, which is called the plane
reverse ; nor is there any other difference between the pen- of reflection, and which must be carefully distinguished from
cils ; the sides possessed of similar properties are only dif- the reflecting surface.
ferently directed, so that if we could cause an extraordi- If we now place the principal section of a doubly-refract-
nary ray transmitted by any crystal to make a quarter of a ing crystal in a vertical position, and throw a pencil of corn-
revolution on itself, it would be impossible to distinguish it mon light perpendicularly on its surface, receiving the two
from the ordinary ray that has been separated from it. emerging pencils on the horizontal surface of some water;
POLARISATION OF LIGHT.
P< isa- and let us suppose the ordinary pencil to make with the
t surface of the liquid an angle of 37° 15' [the crystal being
*held in a position inclined to the horizon] ; this pencil will
undergo a partial reflection like the direct light, while the
extraordinary pencil, when its angle of incidence is also
37° 15', will enter the liquid completely, without the reflec¬
tion of any of its molecules ; a character which constitutes
a marked distinction between this pencil and the natural
light.
All other circumstances of the experiment remaining
the same, let us now cause the crystal to make one fourth
of a revolution round the incident pencil, so as to bring
the principal section into a position perpendicular to its
first situation; we shall then find that the ordinary pen¬
cil alone will be entirely transmitted by the liquid ; the
other will undergo a partial reflection, exactly equal to that
which we had first observed in the ordinary ray; the ex¬
periment affording a new proof, that the two rays only dif¬
fer in the direction which is assumed by their correspond¬
ing sides.
We find also, that in all positions of the principal section,
intermediate between these two, the two pencils will both
undergo a partial reflection so much the stronger, for the
ordinary pencil, as the principal section is the nearer to a
coincidence with the plane of reflection, and for the ex¬
traordinary pencil, as these planes are more nearly perpen¬
dicular to each other.
We shall finish this section with an account of the ma¬
thematical law which appears to determine the compara¬
tive intensities of the ordinary and extraordinary pencils
into which polarised light is separated when it is analysed
with a doubly refracting crystal. Let Fq be the intensity
of the ordinary pencil transmitted by any crystal, and F^
and Foe the intensities of the ordinary and extraordinary
pencil derived from it in passing through the second
crystal: let i be the angle formed by the two principal
sections: then w’e shall have F — F cos.2 i; F — F
. oo o oe o
sin.- i.
In particular cases we shall have from these formulas,
if* = F,„ = F'F'. = 0; ifi = 90°, Fm = 0, =F,;
and if. = 45°,^ = ^, ^ J F.
These three consequences of the formula, as we have
seen, are conformable to observation. It will not, how¬
ever, be proved to be mathematically exact, until we have
also verified it for some values of i, intermediate between
these limits.
The formulas belonging to the extraordinary ray are
equally simple : Fg being the intensity of this ray, and Fgo
an^ ^ee th°Se °f the two ordinary and extraordinary pencils
; into which it is divided by the crystal, i preserving its
former signification, we shall have F = F sin.2 i, and
Fee = cos.21. If * = 0, Feo = 0, and Feg - Fg ; and
in fact there is no ordinary ray in this case, the whole
light following the extraordinary path : if * — 90°, F
~ Fg, and Fee = 0; which is again confirmed by observa¬
tion, since the extraordinary ray, coming from a certain
crystal, follows only the ordinary course in passing through
another, of which the principal section is perpendicular to
at of the first. Ihe same agreement between the cal-
CR i.0n and tIle exPeriment wiU be found when i = 45°;
which, however, does not supersede the necessity of veri-
ymg these formulas, as well as the former, by direct expe-
nments at intermediate angles.1
SECT. II.—OF REFLECTION, CONSIDERED AS A MODE OF PO- P°lan9£*
LARISING LIGHT.
Reflection, at the surface of a transparent body, affords,
as we have seen, a criterion for the distinction of polarised
from ordinary rays: we must also add, that such a reflec¬
tion is also capable of polarising ordinary light.
Throwing, for example, a pencil of natural rays on a
mirror of common glass in a horizontal position, in such
a manner that the inclination of the ray to the surface may
be about 35° ; we shall find that a part of the pencil will
pass through the glass, the other part will be reflected,
and the reflected portion will be polarised in the same
manner as the ordinary pencil transmitted by a crystal of
w hich the principal section coincides with the plane of re¬
flection.
In fact, if we analyse the light thus partially reflected,
by the assistance of a crystal of which the principal section
coincides with the plane of reflection, it is not subdivided,
and affords only a single ordinary image. Nor is it again
subdivided in passing through the crystal when the prin¬
cipal section is perpendicular to the plane of reflection ;
but in this case it only affords an extraordinary image. In
every other position we have both an extraordinary and an
ordinary image, the intensity of the latter being expressed
by the formula, F cos.2 i ; in w hich F is the total inten¬
sity of the pencil subjected to the experiment, and i the
angle formed by the principal section of the crystal with
the plane of reflection. This formula obviously coincides
with that which we have given for the ordinary pencil in
the case of two crystals combined. The plane of reflection
here performs the office of the principal section of the first
crystal; it is therefore in this plane that the ray has be¬
come polarised by the reflection.
Before we assert, however, that there is an identity in
the species of polarisation effected by partial reflection
with given inclinations, at the surface of a transparent body,
and that which results from double refraction, we must
submit the ray polarised by a first reflection to the test of
new reflections.
These second reflections will obviously throw the light
downwards if the mirror is above the ray, or upwards if
below; from right to left if the mirror receives the ray on
its [left-hand] surface, and the reverse if on the [right]
surface.
Now, if the second mirror is above or below the ray,
so that the new plane of reflection coincides with the old,
there is a partial reflection at all incidences. But when,
on the contrary, this mirror is presented to the ray on
the left or the right side, and in such a manner that the
new plane of reflection may be perpendicular to the old
one, all reflection ceases at the inclination of about 35°,
already mentioned. In the intermediate positions of the
mirror, and with the constant inclination of 35°, the inten¬
sity of the reflection varies in proportion to the square of
the cosine of the angle formed by the two planes of re¬
flection with each other.
The least attention will show how much analogy this
experiment has with those which have been made with a
rhomboidal crystal. In those experiments, in order to see
if the ordinary ray had the same properties with respect to
each point of its circumference, we caused the crystal to
revolve round the ray as an axis, so as to bring in succes¬
sion its principal section, and consequently the poles con¬
tained in it, into a vertical direction, from right to left, and
so forth ; in these different positions we threw the ray on
a transparent substance. Here we left the first plane of
reflection immoveable, and the second turned round the
1 See the article Optics, p. 462.
228
Polarisa¬
tion of
Light.
ray, which was thrown on its different sides. This trial is
evidently similar to the former, and the result is identical.
, We may therefore now affirm, that the ray which is re¬
flected at the upper surface of the glass, writh an inclina¬
tion of about 35°, possesses in all respects the same pioper-
ties as a ray transmitted by a crystal of which the princi¬
pal section coincides with the plane of reflection.
We have supposed the substance employed in this expe¬
riment to be transparent; but we must add, that some
opaque bodies, such as black marble, ebony, and some var¬
nishes, possess in an equal degree the property of polaris¬
ing rays which are reflected at their surface. . Ihese suo-
stances, when made to revolve round a polarised ray, ex¬
hibit the same effect, with regard to the reflected hgnt, as
the transparent substances which have been considered.
SECT. III.—OF BAYS PARTIALLV POLARISED.
Hays partially polarised are those which possess proper¬
ties that may be called intermediate between the proper¬
ties of ordinary light and of light completely polarised.
They are distinguished from polarised light by affording
always two pencils in their passage through a crystal pos¬
sessed of the property of double refraction; they diffei fiom
natural light in not affording always two pencils of the same
intensity, in all positions of the principal section of the
same crystal. . . , . ,
It may be asked, if a ray partially polarised may not be
considered as consisting of a portion A of polarised and a
portion B of natural light. This latter portion would al-
Ways be equally divided into an ordinary and an extraor¬
dinary pencil, in its passage through a crystal possessing
the properties of double refraction; the other would pass
sometimes entirely as an ordinary or an extraordinary pen¬
cil. In a certain position of the principal section, there-
fore, the comparative intensities of the two pencils would
be IZ? + J, and \B ; and, after one fourth of a revolution,
, they would become \B and %B f A respectively. In
all other positions, A would be divided between the two
images; the portion belonging to the ordinary image being
expressed by A cos.2 i, i being the angle contained bj the
* plane of polarisation of A and the principal section of the
crystal; and when i = 45°, the two images would be of
equal intensity. ... ,
All these consequences of the hypothesis that we have
assumed are conformable to experiment; and we may
therefore suppose that a ray partially polarised is composed
of two separate portions, the one, B, in its natural state,
the other, A, totally polarised. (Sir David Brewster’s experi¬
ments on partial polarisation will be mentioned hereafter.)
In every pencil reflected perpendicularly by a transpa¬
rent substance, the portion A vanishes : it acquires greater
and greater values in proportion as the angle of incidence
increases ; but at the angular situation of complete polari¬
sation B vanishes, and A comprehends the whole pencil.
Still farther from the perpendicular, we find again in the
pencil natural light B, and polarised light A. Lastly,
when the incident and reflected light sweeps, as it were,
the surface of the mirror, A is again very inconsiderable
with respect to B.
Metallic mirrors do not completely polarise the rays that
they reflect at any angle of incidence. As in the case of
transparent substances, A is evanescent for perpendicular
rays ; but it becomes sensible in every other case, and the
light becomes partially polarised. The angle of polarisa-
POLARISATION OF LIGHT.
There exist also some transparent bodies, such as the Pol:
diamond and sulphur, which never produce complete polari- tio,
sation of the light that is reflected at their surfaces; but
the quotient ~ acquires, at least, much greater values for
their substances than for the metals.
The mathematical law which connects the value of A
with that of the angle of incidence, and of the refractive
form of the mirror, has not yet been discovered. It is only
known, that at regular angular distances above and below
the angle of complete polarisation, the proportion of A to
^4 + iZ is nearly the same, although the absolute value of
A and B may have changed very considerably.
Thus, in the case of the glass of St Gobin, for example,
in which the complete polarisation takes place when the
inclination of the ray to the surface is about 35°, we find
that the reflected pencils contain the same proportion of
polarised light at the following angles :—
V 65° 42' 63° 54' 60° 18'
and 7 12 7 55 II 40
mean 36 27 35 55 35 59
For water, the relation of A to A-\-B \s nearly the
same at the angles 3° 29' and 73° 48'; the mean of these,
38° 36', exceeds by lj° only the true inclination of com¬
plete polarisation, though it is deduced from angles which
differ from it more than 30°.
In the same manner, therefore, as astronomers deter¬
mine the instant of the passage of a luminary over the
meridian, by corresponding altitudes, observed before and
after that passage, we may obtain, with tolerable preci¬
sion, the angle of complete polarisation, by taking the half
sum of the inclinations corresponding to equivalent partial
polarisations, especially if we take care not to deviate
too far from the angle required; and this method has its
advantages, when we make the experiment on bodies which
do not polarise the rays of light completely at any inci¬
dence.
SECT. IV.—OF THE LAWS WHICH CONNECT THE REFRACTIVE
DENSITIES OF BODIES WITH THE ANGLES OF POLARI¬
SATION.2
B
tion of a metal is that which makes the quotient a
It is sufficient to look over the tables which liave been
published, of the angles of complete polarisation for rays
reflected by substances of various kinds, in order to observe
that these angles, reckoned from the perpendicular, ap¬
proach so much the more to right angles, as the refractive
densities of the substances are greater ; but it was not so
easy to detect the remarkable connection which exists be¬
tween these two elements, and which we shall now proceed
to examine.
When a ray of light, 10, passes from a vacuum into a
certain medium, SS', it is refract¬
ed at the point of incidence O,
approaches to the perpendicular
PQ, and follows, for example, the
direction OR; the angles POI
and 0,0R being for each medium
connected by the proportion sin.
POI: sin. OOR r= /« : 1, in which
the quantity m. is constant for all
values of the angles. This quan¬
tity, which is always greater than
unity, has been called the index
of refraction, appropriate to the medium. It is necessary
to distinguish it carefully from the refractive power, a nu-
maximum.
merical expression depending on m, and on the density*
1 See the article Optics, p. 4G0, col. 2; and p. 469, col. 1.
* JVid. pp. 463, 405.
POLARISATION OF LIGHT.
ansa-
:m of
iiight.
and chiefly relating to the particular properties attributed
to refractive substances in the theory of emission.
229
of specular iron ore, in which the phenomena is very strik- Polarisa-
and the oil of cassia, of which the great dispersive fl°n of
This being understood, if the angle of incidence be sup- power renders it also perfectly distinct. It may be added
posed such, that the reflected ray Oh may be completely too, that there is every reason to hope, that more accurate
Light.
polarised, it is found that the tangent of the angle of inci
■dence will be equal to the index of refraction.
In the following table, the angles of polarisation, deter¬
mined by experiment, are compared with those which re¬
observations made with homogeneous light from different
parts of the spectrum, and more precise measurements of
the quantities of light that escape polarisation at inclina¬
tions approaching to that of complete polarisation, will here-
than may be attributed to the unavoidable error of obser
vation.1
Substances.
Air 
Water 
Fluor spar 
Obsidian 
Sulphate of lime...
Rock-crystal 
Topaz 
Iceland crystal 
Ruby spinel 
Zircon 
Glass of antimony.
Sulphur 
Diamond 
Chromate of lead..
Observed
Angle.
Computed
Angle.
Differ¬
ence.
45° to 47°
52 45'
suit from the general law ; and the errors are not^greater after remove the slight appearance of disagreement between
experiments and a law too nearly approaching to the whole
mass of the phenomena to be considered as otherwise than
rigorously accurate.
The table already inserted contains the names of several
mediums, such as the diamond and sulphur, which do not
completely polarise light; the law of the tangent seems
therefore applicable to such mediums as these, provided
that we understand, by the angle of polarisation, that in
which the reflected pencil contains the greatest proportion
of polarised light. In this case, the observation of this
angle for metals would be the more important, as their re¬
fractive density has not been hitherto determined.
The angles of greatest polarisation, measured from the
perpendicular, appear to be, for mercury, 76|0 ; for steel,
above 71° ; hence the index of refraction for mercury and
for steel ought to be 4'16 and 2*85. [The oxide colouring
the surface of heated steel has been found to give about
2* l for its index, which agrees sufficiently well with this ex¬
periment.]
We have hitherto only spoken of the polarisation which
takes place at the first surface of transparent surfaces en¬
tered by the light; the second surfaces possess analogous
properties with respect to light passing out of them.
The angle measured from the perpendicular at which
light is polarised when it is on its passage from a vacuum
into a refractive medium, is greater than that in which the
same phenomenon is observed when the light coming from
the medium tends to pass into the vacuum ; it is also shown
by experiment that the sine of the former angle is to the sine
of the latter as the index of refraction is to unity. We
might express the same fact by saying, that at the second
surface, as well as at the first, the ray completely polarised
by reflection is perpendicular to the refracted ray. It fol¬
lows, also, that if a medium is contained between two pa¬
rallel surfaces, and if we throw a pencil of rays on the first
surface, in the angle which affords complete polarisation,
the transmitted portion of the pencil will also fall on the
second surface in the angle which again produces complete
polarisation.
Thus, if MN, RS, be the parallel surfaces, OR the in¬
cident ray, n the in-
54
56
56
57
58
58
60
63
64
64
68
67
50
3
28
22
40
23
16
8
45
10
2
42
45°
53 IV
55 9
56 6
56 45
56 58
58 34
58 51
60 25
63 0
64 30
63 45
68 1
68 3
[1°]
— 26'
— 19
— 3
— 17
+ 24
+ 6
— 28
— 9
+ 8
+ 15
+ 25
+ 1
— 21
This law is capable of being expressed in other two re¬
markable forms.
Since in all cases sin. POI: sin. QOR z= m : 1, we have
universally sin. POI = m sin. QOR; but for the angle of
complete polarisation tang. POI w, and since tang,
sin. sin. POI . .
— —  ——- — m, and sin. POI = m cos. POI = m
cos. cos. POI
sin. QOR, and sin. QOR =r cos. POI, consequently QOR
+ POI 90° ; hence, when the polarisation is complete,
the inclination of the incident ray to the surface is equal to
the angle of refraction ; and the reflected and refracted rays
are perpendicular to each other.
It is of consequence to examine some objections which
have been made to the accuracy of the law in question. If
it were mathematically accurate, the rays of different co¬
lours, it has been observed, would not be polarised exactly
at the same time, since they enter the refractive medium
in different directions. Hence it would follow, that in the
usual mode of investigating this angle of complete polarisa- .
tion by analysing the reflected light with the assistance of dex of refraction, and
a doubly refractive crystal, we ought not, in any case, to lose O V the refracted ray;
sight of one of the images; that when we arrived, for in- rpfmrHon
stance, at the angle which causes all the red light of the
mixed pencil to be polarised, and to pass into the ordinary
pencil, the observer ought to see an extraordinary image
formed of the white wanting the red, that is, green ; and the
same for the other colours. Notwithstanding this, it has
been added, in the greater number of cases, the crystal
being properly arranged, one of the images is weakened by Now, according to t ic
little and little, as we approach to the appropriate inclina- assigned ^law^ jvhen
tion, and at last disappears entirely without presenting any 1 °
visible traces of colour.
It may be answered, in the first place, that there actually
the angle of refraction
VOP' will always be
equal to the angle
OVZ, formed by the
refracted ray with VZ,
the perpendicular to
the second surface.
POR is the angle of
complete polarisation
for the first surface, sin. POR : sin. angle of polarisation
are substances in which this appearance of colour is mani- at the second surface ■= n : l, whence sin. POR = n sin.
fest; and which, therefore, do not polarise the rays of dif- angle of polarisation at the second surface. But from the
ferent kinds at the same angle, but accord with the law of law o the sines, as in the other cases, we have sin. POll.
the tangent. Among others may be adduced the instance sin. \ Ol — n. , theiefore sin. n sin-
J See the article Optics, p. 4G4.
/
230
POLARISATION OF LIGHT.
Polarisa¬
tion of
Light.
= n sin. ZVO; an equation which, combined with the
former, gives the angle of complete polarisation at the se-
, cond surface = ZVO. , .
Hence it follows, that if the incident ray, being previously
polarised, is such as to escape all partial reflection at its
entrance into a substance terminated by parallel surfaces,
it will also escape reflection upon its passage out of t ic
substance.
If ROP has the appropriate value, OF becomes com¬
pletely polarised, and VK likewise : the subsequent refrac¬
tion in K makes no alteration in this ray; so that when we
wish to procure polarised light by reflection from a trans¬
parent plate, there is no occasion to blacken the second
surface of the plate; supposing it parallel to the first, the
polarisation will be equally complete, and the reflected pen¬
cil will be brighter. It will only be proper to take care, by
placing at a distance from the plate a black substance, as a
piece of velvet, for example, to intercept the rays which
might be transmitted by the plate from other objects be-
y The law from which these consequences have been de¬
duced is only a particular case of a more general law, which
may be thus enunciated.
The sine of the angle at which a pencil must be reflected
at the first surface of a refractive medium, in order that it
may contain a certain proportion of polarised light, is
to the sine of the angle at which a reflection at the second
face only would cause an equivalent polarisation in
the same pencil, as the sine of incidence to the sine of refrac¬
tion.
It has been found by experiment, that the sine of the
angle at which a certain proportion of a natural pencil is
reflected at the first surface of a transparent substance, is
to the sine of the angle at which an equal proportion of the
same pencil would be reflected at the second surface, if it
arrived there immediately, as the sine of incidence to the
sine of refraction. This law of photometry, combined with
the former, leads to a very simple enunciation.
The first and second surface of a transparent substance
polarise light in an equal degree, at the same angles which
enable them to reflect light in an equal degree.
We have now seen in what manner light is polarised,
either in passing from a vacuum into a given substance, or
in returning out of the substance into the vacuum. We
must next examine the laws relating to the polarisation
which occurs at the surface separating two mediums pos¬
sessed of unequal refractive powers.
Let m and m! be the indices of refraction for the two
mediums: suppose m to be greater than'm!; it is proved
by experiment that the tangent of the angle of complete
but at certain obliquities it occasions at least a partial po- P«krii 1
larisation ; for, in examining the rays transmitted obliquely
by a plate of glass with parallel surfaces, by means of a
crystal possessed of the property of double refraction, it is
found that the two images differ sensibly in intensity.
Let Ar be the part of the transmitted pencil which is po¬
larised, B' the portion of the same pencil not so modified,
and A and B the analogous portions of the pencil reflected
at the same incidence.
We have already said that A is polarised as an ordinary
ray would be, transmitted by a crystal having its principal
section coinciding with the plane of reflection ; the poles
of A', on the contrary, are placed like those of the extra¬
ordinary ray of the same crystal. If we analyse with a
rhomboid the light reflected by a plate of glass, we find,
for example, when in a certain position of the principal sec¬
tion, the image on the right hand is the more brilliant; and
the relative position of the plate, the crystal, and the eye,
remaining unaltered, it will be the opposite image, on the
left hand, that will become the most conspicuous when we
examine the transmitted light. All these results may be
thus enumerated.
The plane which contains the poles of the transmitted
light is perpendicular to that which contains the poles of the
refected light.
These different pencils are therefore polarised in direc¬
tions at right angles to each other.
If we submit the reflected light A B to the action of
a crystal of carbonate of lime, of which the principal sec¬
tion coincides w ith the plane of reflection, the intensities of
the ordinary and extraordinary pencil will become A1B
and 12?.
In the same position of the plate and of the crystal, the
intensities of the same images, furnished by the transmit¬
ted pencil, will be | B' and Ar f \ B'.
A will therefore ~be the quantity by which the ordinary
image, furnished by the reflected pencil, surpasses the
extraordinary image, while A' will express, for the trans¬
mitted pencil, the quantity by which the extraordinary
image will surpass the ordinary. With respect to this
phenomenon, a remarkable result of experiment may
here be noticed; that is, that in every possible inclina¬
tion A — A', or, in other terms, that the intensities of the
two images afforded by the crystal differ in the same de¬
gree, whether we consider the reflected or the transmitted
pencil
polarisation at the common surface is equal to —- [w hich in
fact is the index of refraction for that surface].
Hence it follows that the reflected and refracted rays are
perpendicular to each other, as in other cases of complete
polarisation.
Let us suppose that
a plate of glass ED is
placed in the position
that the figure repre¬
sents, before a me¬
dium AB of a uniform
tint, for instance a
sheet of fine white pa¬
per. The eye placed
SECT. V.—OF REFRACTION CONSIDERED AS A MODE OF PO¬
LARISING LIGHT.1
It was believed for some time that the rays of light were
only polarised by transparent substances in the act of re¬
flection, and that the refracted pencil always retained the
properties of ordinary light. But this opinion was erro¬
neous. It is true, that the simple transmission of light
through one or even two surfaces of any known substance
is not sufficient for completely polarising a pencil of light;
at O will receive simultaneously the ray 10, reflected at I,
and the ray BIO transmitted at the same point. Place at
mn an opaque diaphragm, blackened, and perforated by a
small hole at S. Lastly, let the eye be furnished with a
doubly refracting crystal, C, which affords two images of the
aperture.
If, now, by means of a little black screen placed between
B and I, we stop the ray BI, which w-ould have been trans¬
mitted, the crystal, properly placed, will give an ordinary
image = A + % B, and an extraordinary image = % B.
But if the screen were placed between A and I, and the
ray AI were intercepted, wre should still have two images
of the hole, and their intensities would be B' and A*
1 See the article Optics, p. 470-473.
POLARISATION OF LIGHT.
respectively. Consequently, without any screen, if the that the quantity of natural light reraainint; will be / 2J
whole of the reflected hght AIO and the transmitted BIO which we may call = Then the pSl' + jTji^
are allowed to arrive at the eye, we shall have for the or- on a second plate parallel to the / + A o g
tory image, A + i B + i B', and for the extraordinary, the same a^as’
' il appears, from actually making the experiment, be found entoftaX^
hat the two images are perfectly equal, whatever may be plate; /' will be divided in the same manner i /wTll
the angle formed by the ray AI with the plate of glass, first; a portion A' of I- is polarised by reflectimi the re
y 6 ,S “yS ellUal ,0 C°n- Tini,ng l’°rtion 11 ~A'is "-ansmitted! and w'li contl A-
que y’ 7 . , . T ot polarised rays, so that the natural light, after nassino-
The qwmMy of polartsed IxgU contained in the pencil through the second plate, will be reduced to and
transmitted by a transparent plate, is exactly equal to the the quantity polarised by refraction will be A + A' foT
’ ,sfoundin ins7'-^thriifh,,/'+a+a”i"t
ihepencil reflected by Vie same plate. Passage through a third plate, parallel to the two former
Hence it follows that at the angle of complete polar,sa- a new quantity A" of light polarised by retraction, wS
tion by reflection, the two images of the transmitted pencil will be added to A + A? and so forth
given by a crystal properly placed, differ in intensity by a _ The pencils, /, T, 1’, ’and so forth, 'consisting of natural
quantity equal to the whole of the reflected pencil. So light, are polarised in equal trropartmis by the respective
that if ever a body should be discovered that could reflect a A> A» F
half of the light incident at this angle, the pencil transmit- plates : the quotients 4, will constantly have the
ted, at the same inclination, would also be completely po- 1 *
lansed. . same value. If, for instance, ^th part of the pencil /is po-
In order to simplify this reasoning, we have supposed larised by reflection at the surfaces of the first plate, J-th
throughout that there was only one efficient surface in the of T will be polarised at the surfaces of the second, -]-th of
plate ED ; it would be entering into too much detail if we /* by the third, and so forth ; and the pencils transmitted by
proceeded to demonstrate in what manner this supposition these same plates will contain respectively of natural light,
might be justified; and it will be sufficient to remark, that or of light possessing the same properties, fths of/, iths of/
the experiment in question succeeds equally well when ED fths of /', and so forth. Hence, whatever may be the num-
is a simple plate of glass with parallel surfaces, which im- ber of plates employed, the pencil ultimately transmitted
plies that the second surface polarises also equal quantities will contain, mathematically speaking, a certain quantity of
of light by reflection and by refraction. But, lastly, in or- natural light; but this quantity will be rapidly diminished,
der to remove every doubt respecting the accuracy of these and will finally become completely insensible. [Sir David
results, it may be added, that when some natural light, and Brewster, on the contrary, maintains that it wholly disap-
some light that had passed through a rhomboid of carbonate pears after transmission through a finite, and even a mo-
of lime, was thrown on a plate of glass reflecting at one of derate number of plates.]
its surfaces, or at both, it was found that the reflected light It may be said, in this sense, that a pile of parallel plates
contained the same quantity of polarised rays in both cases, polarises the light which passes through them, in a direction
Now the reflecting plate exercises no particular action on
the two equal pencils of light transmitted by tbe rhomboid,
and polarised in directions perpendicular to each other ; it
perpendicular to the plane in which the rays would be po¬
larised by reflection at the same surfaces.
We have here supposed the incident light to meet the
only divides them unequally; and if the reflected pencil plate of glass at the inclination capable of polarising it
contains an excess of rays polarised in one direction, there completely by reflection ; but the same result is obtained
will be found in the transmitted pencil an excess precisely
equal, of rays polarised in the direction perpendicular to
it. In this case, the law here laid down must necessarily
be true; and in order to extend it to natural light, it is
sufficient to have assured ourselves, as we have done,
whatever the inclination may be. It is only necessary that
it should be composed of a number of elements, so much
the greater as the direction of the rays is nearer to the per¬
pendicular.
With a given inclination, the number of plates necessary
y ciioou-j. wLliodVCOj do W C lid V C LIUIltfj »» 1L11 d llll^lllldLHJllj 1/llCv llllilllLICl J^ldlCO HcL t-oodi y
that it is affected in the act of reflection and in that of to produce by transmission a polarisation nearly complete,
refraction, precisely in the same manner as the combina- depends also on their reflective power: we have already
tion of two equal pencils polarised at right angles to each observed, for example, that a single plate, capable of reflect-
°ther. ing half the incident light at the angle of polarisation, would
One of the best modes of verifying the accuracy of phy- of itself be sufficient to constitute a pile,
sical laws is, to inquire what their results are in extreme There are certain natural bodies, the agate, for example,
cases. The law now in question, supposing it universally which modify the transmitted light precisely as a pile of
true, leads us, for example, to this conclusion, that where plates would do. If we cut a plate of agate sufficiently
there is no transmission of light, there can be no polarisa- thick, in a direction perpendicular to that of its laminae, the
tion ; and, in fact, if we cause a pencil of light to fall on light which passes through it acquires a polarity in the di-
the interior surface of a prism, at an inclination which pro- rection of the plates. A similar property is observed in
duces complete reflection, we shall find no trace of polari- the tourmaline, and it is here the more remarkable, as this
sation in the reflected pencil, although, at incidences but mineral, when pure, exhibits no lamellar structure what-
little different, a considerable part of the light, and even ever. If the two opposite faces of a prism of tourmaline
the whole, may have been polarised. are polished so as to form it into a plate with parallel sur-
Let us represent by A the part of the pencil I which is faces about ^jth of an inch in thickness, the light trans-
polarised by reflection, at the angle of 35° from the two mitted by it, whatever its angle of incidence may be, will
surfaces of a plate of glass ; the pencil transmitted will be be polarised in a direction perpendicular to the axis of the
/—A: now in this quantity of light there will be, accord- column.
ing to the law laid down, A rays of which the plane of po- It will be proper to mention here the phenomena exhi-
larisation is perpendicular to that of the reflected rays, so bited by piles of plates when they are exposed to rays that
231
Polarisa¬
tion of
Light.
1 See the article Optics, p. 473.
232
POLARISATION OF LIGHT.
Polarisa¬
tion of
Light.
have been previously polarised : supposing always that the
pile is formed of parallel plates of glass ; and, besides, that
, the angle of inclination to the first surface is about 35°,
reckoning from the surface itself. . .,
If the primitive plane of polarisation of the incident ray
coincides with the plane drawn through this ray and the
perpendicular to the first plate at the point of incidence,
a part of this ray more considerable than if we employed
natural light will be reflected; at the point of incidence
on the second plate, the luminous pencil transmitted by
the first will undergo reflection in the same proportion as
the former pencil; the same effect vail take place in the
third plate, and so forth. The transmitted ray, however in¬
tense it may have been in the first instance, will thus be
gradually weakened in a geometrical progression, and at
last will become insensible ; so that if we look at the pile on
the opposite end, it will appear to be an opaque body, per¬
fectly impervious to light.
Everything else remaining in the same state, if we turn
the pile round the ray as an axis through an angle of 90°,
the new plane of reflection will be perpendicular to the
former, and the plate will have reached the situation which
has been already mentioned, in which the reflective pro¬
perty wholly disappears, and the whole of the light will
pass through it. But the second plate, the third, and all
the following plates, which are parallel to the first, will be
found in the same circumstances possessing the same pro-
perties, and will not reflect any of the incident light; so
that, setting aside the effect of absorption, the apparatus ac¬
tually transmits light without weakening it.
The pile of plates possesses, therefore, with respect to
polarised light, the singular property of being either com¬
pletely opaque or perfectly transparent, according to the
side which it presents to the light, notwithstanding that the
inclination of the light to the first surface remains con¬
stantly 35°. In the intermediate positions the quantity of
transmitted light increases gradually as we proceed fiom
that in which nothing is transmitted, to the other extreme
in which the light is only weakened by absorption.
Tourmalines and agates appear to be true piles of plates,
so that they must produce similar effects; and, in fact, a
plate cut, for example, in a direction parallel to the axis of
a column of tourmaline, transmits rays which are polarised
in a plane perpendicular to the axis, and totally stops, on
the other hand, rays of which the primitive plane of polari¬
sation is parallel to that axis.
When we place such a plate between the eye and a re¬
flecting surface of water or glass situated in the open air,
and look at it with an inclination producing complete po¬
larisation, it appears either fully enlightened or quite dark,
or in intermediate states, according to the situation of the
plate in its own plane. A circumstance which adds to the
singularity of this experiment is, that it succeeds com¬
pletely even when the incidence on the plate is perpendi¬
cular ; while for a pile properly so called, unless it be com¬
posed of an immense number of plates, it is necessary that
the distance of the ray from the perpendicular should be
very considerable.
Whatever may be the cause of these phenomena, it re¬
sults evidently, from what has been mentioned, that two
plates of tourmaline placed so that their axes form a right
angle, must compose a system perfectly opaque with respect
to light of all kinds. If, for example, the incident light is
in its natural state, it is obvious that the portion transmit¬
ted will be polarised in the direction of the axis of the
plate, and that the second plate, situated in a perpendicu¬
lar direction, will consequently stop the whole of the light
so polarised.
SECT. VI. OF THE DEPOLARISATION OF LIGHT.1
After having examined in wdiat manner ordinary light is s
converted into polarised light, we must now proceed to
study the modifications which this latter undergoes in its
turn when it is subjected to reflection or refraction at sur¬
faces of different natures, and differently situated with re¬
spect to its poles.
W7hen a polarised pencil falls on the surface of a well-
polished mirror, in such a manner that its plane of pola¬
risation coincides with the plane of reflection, or is per¬
pendicular to it, the light regularly reflected at this sur¬
face is completely polarised, like the incident pencil, in a
direction parallel or perpendicular to the plane of reflec¬
tion ; and this happens whatever the nature of the mirror
may be. , , ■
But whenever the primitive plane of polarisation of the
incident pencil is any otherwise situated, it will be found
that the reflected pencil is modified, and the modification
will depend on the nature of the mirror.
When we employ for these experiments a mirror either
transparent or opaque, which is capable of completely pola¬
rising natural light, the rays previously polarised which
fall on this surface will again be completely polarised, after
their reflection, but not in the plane of their primitive po¬
larisation. This deviation of the plane of polarisation of a
luminous pencil, produced by its reflection at the first sur¬
face of a transparent mirror, depends both on the angle of
incidence and on the direction of the plane of reflection with
regard to the poles of the ray.
Eor given inclination, the deviation is so much more
considerable as the plane of reflection makes with the plane
of primitive polarisation an angle more nearly approaching
to 45°. ...
Let us first suppose, in order to assist the imagination,
that the reflecting surface is horizontal; that the eye of
the observer, and the rhomboid which is to furnish the po¬
larised pencil, remain constantly situated, the one to the
north, the other to the south of the point of reflection, so
that the plane of reflection may always coincide with the
meridian : and that, lastly, the principal section of the crys¬
tal, which contains in its plane the poles of the ordinary
pencil, makes an angle of 45° with the meridian.
When this ordinary pencil falls perpendicularly on the
mirror, it will be reflected without any deviation of its plane
of polarisation : so that this plane, having at first formed,
by the suppositions, an angle of 45° with the meridian, the
inclination to the meridian wall remain the same after the
reflection.
If w^e cause the direction of the incident light to vary
more and more from the perpenuicular, we shall first re¬
mark that the plane of polarisation of the reflected light ap¬
proaches by degrees to the plane of reflection, and that it
coincides exactly with it when we have arrived at the angle
of complete polarisation ; that afterwards the reflected ray
is polarised in a plane which is more remote from the plane
of reflection in proportion as it forms a smaller angle with
the surface of the mirror; and that at last, when the ray i»
nearly parallel to the surface, its plane of polarisation coin¬
cides with that of the incident light, as it did when the in¬
cidence was perpendicular.
Let us call the angle of incidence, reckoned from the per¬
pendicular, i, the corresponding angle of refraction for the
substance concerned, i'; the tangent of the angle formed
by the plane of polarisation of the reflected light w ith the
Polari
tion
Ligi
, cos. (* + *')
plane of reflection will be expressed by C0S ^_Jjy
1 See the article Optics, p. 470.
POLARISATION OF LIGHT.
This formula may be illustrated by applying it to parti-
cular cases. If i — 0, i' being also — 0, C-S‘. ^ l')— j . but
cos. (i—*') ’
the angle of which the tangent is unity is an angle of 45°.
Consequently, if the formula is correct, the plane of polari¬
sation for the reflected ray, when the incidence is perpen¬
dicular, must coincide with the primitive plane of polarisa¬
tion of the light employed; and this is conformable to ob¬
servation.
The angle of which the tangent is g_os- (HO kecomes
cos. (t—i')
parallel to the surface concerned, since then cos. (*-f f) r=
— cos. i', and cos. (?—f) — -j- cos. ir. The light preserves,
therefore, in this case also, its primitive plane of polarisa¬
tion, as the experiment had shown.
If 90°, the angle of *, as it has already been ob¬
served (Sect. III.), is that of complete polarisation, and
cos. (i + f) .
cor (j,' i'j 18 := ^ ’ 80 ^le P^ane of polarisation of the
reflected ray coincides with the plane of reflection, which
has already been shown by experiment.
The following table will show that, for intermediate angles
of incidence, the agreement between this mode of calcula¬
tion and the observation is as satisfactory as it was possible
to expect.
On Glass.
233
It is easy to observe, that, in the most material cases, this Polarisa-
tormri a correctly corresponds with the experiments ; but we tion of
are still in want of an experimental demonstration of its truth LiSht-
tor any very diversified combinations of the values of a and i.1' x'"—'
I he deviations of the planes of polarisation follow the
same gradations when the reflection takes place at the se¬
cond surface of transparent mirrors, from the position of
perpendicular incidence to that of the beginning of total re¬
flection. But beyond that inclination the phenomenon ac¬
quires a character totally different: we have then no longer
a simple change of the direction of the primitive poles of
the ray ; for unless the plane which contains the poles either
ako 45° whpn ? — QO° • tW ooxr ^ 9 101 unless tne P^ne which contains the poles either
surface —l&S frtr'V116 tne 0f rrfeC,ti0,',OT be ‘ to
1   ’ en cos- the ray will undergo a true depolarisation, so that how
Angles of
Incidence.
Observed De¬
viation of the
Plane of Pola¬
risation.
Computed De¬
viation.
Difference.
24°
39
49
561
60
70
80
85
87
88
89
38°
24
II
0
5
19
32
38
40
41
44
55'
35
45
0
15
52
45
55
55
15
35
37°
24
10
0
5
20
33
39
41
42
43
54'
38
52
0
29
24
25
19
36
44
52
+ lc
— 0
+ 0
0
— 0
— 0
— 0
— 0
— 0
— 1
+0
1'
3
53
0
14
32
40
24
41
29
43
On Water.
Angles of
Incidence.
53°
60
70
80
85
Observed De¬
viation.
0° 0'
10 20
25 20
36 20
40 50
Computed De¬
viation.
0° 0'
10 51
24 48
35 49
40 32
Difference.
0° O'
— 0 31
— 0 32
+ 0 31
-f 0 18
The formula, thus compared with experiment, supposes
that the primitive plane of polarisation of the light employ¬
ed makes an angle of 45° with the plane of reflection ; but
a slight addition is sufficient to accommodate it to all other
cases. If we make a the angle of which the particular value
is here assumed 45°, * and f retaining their values, the tan- Anese Iaws reiau, LU Ult3 rays u, llgm in ineir namrai
gen o the angle expressing the deviation of the plane of state ; if we employ polarised light, we obtain results which,
po ansation of the incident pencil, after reflection, will in independently of the numerous applications of which they
general be represented bv cos- (HO are susceptible, deserve for their singularity to arrest our
J cos. (i—i') ' attention.
ever we place the rhomboid through which we cause it to
pass, we shall always observe that two images are formed.
The same happens also when the mirror is metallic. The
particular and very remarkable modifications which the light
undergoes in these two cases will shortly be mentioned.2
SECT. VII OF THE PHENOMENA OF INTERFERENCE, SO FAR
AS THEY ARE MODIFIED BY A PREVIOUS POLARISATION
OF LIGHT.3
It has long been known [having, however, first occurred
to tlie translator of this article in the room and at the table
on which he is now writing], that if, after having cut in a
thin plate of metal two very fine slits very near to each
other, we cause them to be enlightened by a pencil pro¬
ceeding from the same radiating point, we may observe
behind the plate a formation of iridescent fringes, derived
from the action exerted by the rays scattered from the left-
hand slit on the rays scattered from the right-hand slit, in
the points where these two parcels of rays are intermixed.
This experiment, when studied in-all its details, has led
to the simple law, which maybe thus enunciated : Two rays
of homogeneous light, proceeding from the same source, and
arriving from a given point of space by two different routes,
a little unequal in length, co-operate with each other, or
are destroyed, and form, on a screen which receives them,
either a bright or a dark spot, according to the magnitude
of the difference of their routes.
The two rays always co-operate completely when they
are united after passing through a route of equal length. If
the smallest difference of routes, which will cause them
again to co-operate, be called d, they will co-operate where-
ever the distance is any member of the series 2d, ?>d, M...;
and the intermediate values 0 + |rf, d-\-^d, 2d-\-^d..., will
show the cases in which the two rays, when combined, pro¬
duce darkness. The magnitude of the quantity d varies
with the species of light concerned, and with the nature of
the medium which transmits it.
If tw o rays destroy each other after having passed through
routes differing, for example, by the quantity d', they will
also destroy each other after having passed through, either
perpendicularly, or with the same obliquity, two plates of
the same nature, and of the same thickness.
A difference of thickness, or of refractive density, in the
two plates interposed, may produce the effect of an ine¬
quality in the routes described: the difference will give
rise, in certain cases, to a displacement only of the fringes;
but in others they will entirely disappear.
These laws relate to the rays of light in their natural
1 Suck experiments will be found in the article Optics, p. 465, 466; and in the same article the reader will find a new formula, con¬
firmed by numerous experiments, exhibiting the deviations’of the planes of polarisation produced by refraction.
See the article Optics, p. 505. 3 Ibid. p. 426 and 497.
VOL. XVIII. 2 G
234
Polarisa¬
tion of
Light.
POLARISATION OF LIGHT.
Let us first suppose, that instead of enlightening the two slits from rays polarised in the same direction into rays po- Polari*,
slits of the plate of metal with natural rays, we employ po- larised in directions at right angles to each other ; and that, t’onB
- - - -   ' i. • i .1  before the interference of the rays, we bring them back to ^
a similar polarisation, either by the assistance of a third pile,
or by that of a tourmaline, as in the former experiment:
the observer will then find, and no doubt with great sur-
larised light, the fringes will be formed equally in both cases.
If we then try the effect of the light polarised in one di
rection and transmitted by one of the slits on the light po
larised in a perpendicular direction, and transmitted by tne
other ; an arrangement which may be obtained by placing prise, that the rays are again susceptible of interference,
two piles properly directed in the passage of the different
rays; we shall find, that when the directions are correctly
perpendicular, there is no trace of fringes behind the per¬
forated plate.
It has been remarked, that any material difference in the
mediums through which the two rays pass, is sufficient to
annihilate the effects of interference which would otherwise
be observable. The experiment now mentioned would
therefore be wholly inconclusive, if we had not previously
assured ourselves that the piles, which are supposed to be
of the same nature, are also exactly of the same thickness.
The best mode of ascertaining this is evidently to render
the two planes of polarisation parallel: if in this case wre
perceive fringes, and if, after having turned one of the piles
one fourth of a revolution round its axis without changing
their mutual inclination, we find that they disappear, we
may fairly conclude that this disappearance must be attri¬
buted to the direction of the polarisation of the rays of light
concerned.
This experiment would be a very difficult one to make
with success if the piles had any considerable thickness ; but
they may be made very thin by means of plates of mica, or
of bits of glass blown in a lamp ; and then, by dividing them
in the middle, we may obtain a pair of piles of thicknesses
perfectly equal. Besides, nothing prevents our varying
gradually the inclination of one of the piles, so as to com¬
pensate in this manner for the effect of a slight difference
of thickness, if it exists.
But there is another mode of observation which is more
convenient. We take a crystal of tourmaline cut in a di¬
rection parallel to its axis, so as to form a plate with paral¬
lel surfaces ; we divide it into two parts, and apply the two
portions, one to the slit on the right hand of the plate, and
the other to that on the left. We then find that fringes
are produced when the two axes of the fragments are pa¬
rallel, and that no traces of them are left when they are
perpendicular to each other; and that in changing the po¬
sitions of the portions of tourmaline from one of these rela¬
tions to the other, the intensity of the fringes gradually dis¬
appears.
Supposing now the piles to remain fixed to the slits in
perpendicular directions, so that no fringe may be visible ;
and placing a third pile before the eye of the observer, in
a plane that forms an angle of 45° with the planes of inci¬
dence of the two former; this last plane must reduce to a
similar polarisation the rays coming from the two slits, which
before they met were polarised at right angles; so that
there seems to be no reason why the rays should not again
interfere: and yet whatever pains we take in the experi¬
ment, we shall discover no trace of fringes. [Might there
not, however, be fringes if the rays met behind the third
pile rather than before it ? Tr.]
It is unnecessary to remark, that a tourmaline of any
or that in mixing together they produce a very visible group
of iridescent fringes.
The series of experiments here related leads us to the
following conclusions.
1. Two pencils converted from natural light into light
polarised in the same direction, retain, after this modifica¬
tion, the property of interfering with each other.
2. Two pencils, which are made to pass directly from
the state of natural light to that of light polarised in two
perpendicular directions, are no longer capable of interfer¬
ence, either while they remain in this state, or after they
have been restored to a similar polarisation.
3. Two pencils polarised in contrary directions do not
interfere, whatever may have been the modifications that
they have undergone before they arrive at this state from
that of natural light; but when restored to a similar state
of polarisation, they become capable of interfering, provided
that, in their passage from the natural state to that of po¬
larised light, the first planes of polarisation of the two
pencils were parallel.
Thus it appears, that in these phenomena the mode of
action of the rays does not depend on what they are only
when they meet, but also on what they have previously been.
SECT. VIII. OF THE KIND OF POLARISATION WHICH IS EX¬
HIBITED IN THE APPEARANCE OF COLOURS, AND WHICH
HAS THEREFORE BEEN CALLED COLOURED POLARISA¬
TION.1
We may first examine the nature of the new modifica¬
tion of light that is concerned in these appearances; and,
secondly, the means of producing it.
Supposing a ray of direct light to be polarised in any ot
the ways that have been described, and then to pass through
a plate of rock-crystal cut perpendicularly to the edges of
the hexaedral prism, about a quarter of an inch in thickness,
and having both its surfaces perpendicular to the ray : w hen
it emerges from the surface, it wrill no longer possess the
properties of common polarised light; and yet it will not
have re-assumed the characters of direct light: for if we
submit it to the action of a rhomboid of carbonate of lime,
instead of affording one image only in a particular position
with respect to the principal section of the crystal, it will
be constantly subdivided into two pencils ; so that it cannot
be identical with common polarised light.
Neither is it simply natural light; for a white pencil of
natural light is always divided, by a doubly refracting crys¬
tal, into two white pencils of equal intensity. The white pen¬
cil which has passed through the plate of quartz, on the con¬
trary, gives always two images, but they are distinguished
by the most vivid colours. If the ordinary image is red,
the extraordinary is green, and the reverse: and the case
is the same with regard to the other prismatic colours; that
kind may be substituted for the third pile, as the two for- of the ordinary pencil is complementary to the tint of the
mer may be exchanged for the two halves of a piece of extraordinary pencil, and they both vary according to the
tourmaline with parallel surfaces: the result will be precise- position of the principal section of the rhomboid which causes
ly the same. the separation.
Let us lastly suppose, in order to exhaust all possible The prismatic telescope of M. Itochon affords an appa-
combinations, that the plate of metal is illuminated with po- ratus perfectly adapted to the performance of these experi-
larised light, and that two piles or two tourmalines are so ments, and which requires to be mentioned, first, because it
placed as to transform the rays passing through the two exhibits the tints with great brilliancy; secondly, because
1 See the article Optics, p. 476-501.
POLARISATION OF LIGHT.
ilarisa-
non of
Light.
it gives us the means of assuring ourselves that the images
viewed lose nothing of their distinctness by the interposition
/ of the plate, and that its effect is not owing to any irregu¬
lar dissipation of the light concerned ; and, thirdly, on ac¬
count of the facility with which it allows us to show that
the tints are complementary to each other.
This instrument is nothing more than an ordinary tele¬
scope, furnished, between the object-glass and the eye-glass,
with a prism of rock-crystal or of carbonate of lime render¬
ed achromatic. This prism being moveable at pleasure
along the axis of the telescope, the observer is enabled to
separate more or less, at his pleasure, the two images of the
object which he is viewing.
Having, then, before the object-glass of this telescope the
plate of quartz in question, and adapting besides to the eye¬
glass a greenish dark glass of a particular kind, which is
much employed by astronomers because of its property of
absorbing a good deal of light, without sensibly colouring
the transmitted pencil; if we observe the sun directly with
this instrument, we shall see two images of the sun, both
white, and of equal brightness, whence it follows that the
plate produces no particular effect on natural light; but if,
on the contrary, we look at the sun’s image as reflected by
a plate of glass not silvered, we shall perceive two more
suns, each of them coloured; and whilst the telescope per¬
forms half a revolution on its axis, they wall both run through
nearly the whole series of the prismatic colours. Thus, the
image that was red, will become successively orange, yel¬
low, greenish-yellow, bluish-green, and violet: and at this
period the telescope will have made half a turn ; its move¬
ment being continued, the violet image will become first
red, then orange, and so forth. The second image will al¬
ways give us the complementary colour ; for if, instead of
completely separating the images, we allow them to over¬
lap each other, the part common to both the discs will re¬
main constantly white, while the remaining lunular por¬
tions will exhibit the most vivid colours.
i he reflection of a transparent plate may also be employ¬
ed for more directly exhibiting the distinctive properties of
the light transmitted by the plate of quartz.
If we cause a plate of glass to turn round a pencil of na¬
tural light forming with its surface an angle of about 35^°,
the reflected pencil will be directed in succession to all
the points of the horizon, but it will constantly preserve the
same intensity.
But if the incident pencil is polarised, we shall find, on
the contrary, two positions diametrically opposite to each
other, in which the mirror will not reflect a single ray.
Making, now, a similar experiment with the light that
has been transmitted by a plate of rock-crystal, we shall
see that it becomes coloured by reflection, though it falls
white on the plate, and that the nature of the colour de¬
pends on the side of the ray that is presented to the reflect¬
ing surface. These reflected colours succeed each other
during the revolution of the plate, in the same order as in
the prismatic spectrum; and they are also observed in the
transmitted light, being always complementary to those of
the light reflected at the same time.
If the properties of polarised rays depend, as is supposed
by the partisans of the system of emission, on the particular
arrangements assumed by the molecules of which they are
formed, it will be easy to describe the intimate composition
ot the ordinary polarised ray, and that of the same ray after
it has passed through the plate of rock-crystal: in the for¬
mer, the axes of all the molecules of the different colours
must be parallel; in the latter, the molecules of different
tints must have their poles turned towards different parts of
space.
It now becomes necessary to examine according to what
aw the direction of these poles is varied, both as they de¬
pend on the particular, tint of each molecule, and on the
235
greater or less thickness of the crystal that they have passed Polarisa-
through.
If we employ homogeneous polarised light, we shall rea¬
dily find, that, supposing a given plate of quartz to turn the
poles of a certain ray of light through an arc of 20° from
their primitive direction, a plate of the same crystal twice
as thick will cause a double deviation, and will turn the pole
through an arc of 40° ; a plate of thrice the thickness will
cause a triple deviation, amounting to 60°; and so forth,
without limit.
ith regard to the simple rays of different colours, in
passing through a given plate, they undergo deviations so
much the more considerable as they are more refrangible,
and this in the inverse proportion of the numbers which
Newton calls the lengths of the fits; or, what comes to the
same result, in the inverse proportion of the quantities
which have been designated in this article by the letter d.
(Sect. VII.)
V, hen, therefore, we know the deviation for a given plate,
we may find the effect of a thicker or thinner plate of the
same substance by a simple proportion.
Table of the Deviations of the Planes of Polarisation of the
different “ Homogeneous" Rays in passing through a
Plate of Rock- Crystal perpendicular to the Axis of the
Prism, of which the thickness is a millimetre, or -03937
E. I. [^according to the Newtonian division of the spec-
trumf
Extreme red 17-500
Limit of red and orange 20*48
  orange and yellow 22*31
...... yellow and green 25*68
  green and blue 30*05
  blue and indigo 34*57
  indigo and violet 37*68
Extreme violet 44*08
There is no reason to suppose that the angular deviations
will undergo any alteration in their values when all the
molecules pass through the crystal at the same time. Con¬
sequently, in the white pencil transmitted by a plate of a
millimetre, the axes of the elementary red rays will form an
angle of 8° with the axes of the first orange rays, of about
5° with those of the first yellow rays, and of 26*5° with the
axes of the extreme violet rays ; and if we analyse this
white pencil by means of a rhomboid, the differently co¬
loured rays will not be divided in the same proportions be¬
tween the two images : hence there will necessarily be ap¬
pearances of colour. It is obvious, for example, that when
the rhomboid is so placed that its principal section shall
coincide with the poles of the red ray, this ray will remain
altogether in the ordinary pencil, and the red tint will be
wholly wanting in the extraordinary image.
We may obtain an exact idea of the modification which
a plate of quartz produces in a white pencil of polarised
light, by conceiving a combination of red rays polarised by
reflection at the surface of a certain transparent substance,
of orange rays polarised by a second surface placed in a
different angular situation, of yellow rays polarised by a
third surface, and so forth. The necessity of the intimate
mixture of all these kinds of molecules in each line of white
light, and some other obstacles, would render it impossible
to realise this fiction without a very complicated apparatus;
while a simple plate of quartz is sufficient, on the other
hand, to give to the different constituent parts of the white
pencil these individual polarisations situated in different
azimuths.
The phenomena which have been described are produ¬
ced by plates of quartz with parallel surfaces cut perpendi¬
cularly to the axis of the hexaedral prism. Now, in a di¬
rection perpendicular to these surfaces, quartz exhibits no
double refraction; so that the causes which in this case
tion of
Light.
236
Polarisa- produce the deviation of the planes of polarisation of the
tion of luminous molecules, are different from the causes which oc-
POLARISATION OF LIGHT.
Light.
casion the separation of the two pencils in other sections of
the crystal. And it is remarkable that the properties of
these plates have been found in bodies not possessed of re¬
gular crystallization, as flint-glass, and even in perfect
fluids, such as the essential oils of turpentine and of lemons,
or the solution of camphor in alcohol, the simple syrup of
sugar, and so forth. The only difference is in the absolute
value of the thicknesses which afford the same tints, the
other laws remaining the same. Thus the thickness of oil
of turpentine must be sixty-nine times as great as that of a
plate of rock-crystal to produce the same effect; and the
action of the oil of lemons is to that of the oil of turpentine
as seventeen to ten [or to that of crystal as one to forty-
one].
We have seen that a plate of quartz a millimetre in
thickness causes the poles of the red molecules to describe
an arc of 17-5°. We may suppose this motion to have
taken place from right to left: then every other plate, of
whatever thickness, cut out of the same crystal, will cause
the poles to deviate still farther in the same direction, that
is, to turn still from right to left; whilst other plates, on the
contrary, cut out of a different crystal, may turn them from
left to right. This phenomenon, at first sight, must appear
very singular ; but if we reflect that the rays pass through
the plates in a direction which affords no double refraction,
we shall be aware that a deviation of the poles directed
constantly the same way in every specimen of the crystal
would be not at all less astonishing.
It has not hitherto been possible to point out any exte¬
rior signs which shall indicate the direction of the deviation
that will be produced by a given crystal, except in one very
remarkable case. In some varieties of quartz, the solid
angles, situated at the base of the pyramid by which the
prism is terminated, are replaced by as many facets placed
obliquely with respect to the edges. Now the direction of
the deviation which these plagiedral crystals give to the
poles of the luminous molecules, is constantly that of the
obliquity of these little facets.
When a polarised ray passes successively through two
plates producing contrary rotations, the ultimate deviation
of the poles is the difference of the effects which each plate
would have produced separately. The ray exhibits exact¬
ly the same tints as if it had passed through a single plate,
of a thickness equal to the difference of the thicknesses of
the two plates.
If the plates thus combined are equal in thickness, the
pencil transmitted, having been turned first in one direc¬
tion, and then turned back in the contrary direction, seems
not to have its polarisation ultimately changed.
The essential oil of turpentine causes the axes of the
molecules of the polarised ray to turn from the right to the
left of the observer receiving the ray ; the essential oil of
lemons from left to right. These fluids do not lose their
peculiar properties when they are mixed; so that if their
proportions in the mixture are inversely as their rotatory
forces, the ray which has passed through them retains its
primitive polarisation.1
SECT. IX ON THE PHENOMENA OF DEPOLARISATION, AND
OF COLOURS PRODUCED BY CRYSTALLIZED PLATES NOT
CUT PERPENDICULARLY TO THE AXIS OF DOUBLE RE¬
FRACTION.2
We are next to inquire how a white pencil, polarised in
a single direction, is modified in passing through a crystal¬
line plate possessed of double refraction.
For this purpose we may place the principal section of a
rhomboid of calcareous spar in the plane of polarisation of
a white pencil, which of course will be subjected to thev
ordinary refraction only : we may then place the plate in
question before the rhomboid, so that the rays may pass
through it perpendicularly. If now the principal section
of this plate is parallel to that of the rhomboid, we shall
still see but one white image ; and the same will happen if
the principal sections are perpendicular to each other;
but in every other situation of the plate, the rhomboid will
furnish two'pencils, and they will be distinguished by com¬
plementary tints.
The motion of the plate in its own plane does not alter
the nature of the tints: their brightness only varies, and
becomes greatest when the angle formed by the two sec¬
tions is equal to 45°.
These tints vary with the thickness of the plate, and de¬
generate into perfect whiteness when the thickness becomes
considerable. In the sulphate of lime, the appearances are
no longer observable when the thickness is about halt a
millimetre, or one fiftieth of an inch.
Supposing O to be the tint of the ordinary pencil, and E
that of the extraordinary ; the experiment shows that the
tint E is nearly that of one of the coloured rings seen in
the light reflected from twm object-glasses touching each
other, as in the celebrated experiments of Newton ; and
that the tint O is that of the corresponding transmitted
ring. This rule, however, is not perfectly general; for in
many crystals the tints E by no means resemble those of
the rings.
When the regular sequence of the Newtonian rings is
observable, the successive thicknesses of the same crystal,
which afford the respective colours E, are proportional to
those which Newton has assigned for substances not crys¬
tallized : it is only found that, for any given density, the
absolute values of these thicknesses greatly surpass the
thicknesses shown in the Newtonian tables.
We find also a remarkable relation between the tint E,
the thickness of the plate, and the elements of its double
refraction, which it is important to point out. The image
E only appears when the principal section of the plate is
neither parallel nor perpendicular to the primitive plane of
polarisation of the ray which passes through it. If we sup¬
pose this plate to possess only the ordinary properties of
double refraction, the ray will in general be divided by it
into two pencils, one of which w ill be refracted ordinarily,
the other extraordinarily; so that two pencils from the
same origin meet, after having passed through different
routes, and interfere. There is a certain inequality of the
lengths of these paths at which the red rays destroy each
other; at another interval the yellow rays, the green, the
blue, and so forth. If we determine, from these principles,
the tint resulting from the interference of the different rays,
taking into account the thickness and the intensity of the
double refraction of the plate, we shall always find a very
satisfactory agreement between the calculation and the ex¬
periment. (See the article Chromatics.)
The singular deviation which these thin plates seem to
produce in the poles of the molecules of different colours
which constitute white light, was extremely difficult to be
discovered; and nothing shows this difficulty better than
the general assent of natural philosophers to the laws which
have been the foundation of the theory of moveable polari¬
sation. It is not therefore sufficient to explain here the
true principles on which these phenomena are founded:
the confutation of an erroneous theory becomes absolutely
necessary in this stage of the investigation, especially
when it is plausible in appearance, and when it is brought
Polariw
tion o:ij
Light.
* See the article Optics, p. 504, col. 2.
s Ibid. p. 476.
POLARISATION OF LIGHT.
forward with confidence in the latest works, notwithstand¬
ing the decisive objections which had been opposed to it.
The fundamental theorem of this moveable polarisation
has been thus enunciated. “ When a ray of natural light,
polarised in a certain fixed direction, passes perpendicular¬
ly through a crystallized plate, which is parallel to the axis
of double refraction, the molecules of light penetrate at first
to a certain distance without losing their primitive polari¬
sation : after this they begin to perform periodical oscilla¬
tions round their own centres, so that their axis of polarisa¬
tion is carried alternately on each side of the principal sec¬
tion of the crystal, or of the line perpendicular to it, like a'
pendulum passing from one side to the other of the verti¬
cal line which is its quiescent position. Each of these os¬
cillations is performed in a given thickness 2e, twice as
great as that in which the molecule had made its excursion
in one direction. Thus, from the thickness zero to a certain
fundamental thickness e', the homogeneous molecules of which
the ray passing through the crystal is composed, are affect¬
ed, after their emergence, as if they had not quitted tlvir pri-
237
when the effect of the difference of velocity is 0, nd, or
{n + l)d, n being a whole number, a pencil previously
polarised, and transmitted by the plate, will appear en¬
tirely polarised in the primitive plane, or in the azimuth 2i,
as the principles of the doctrine of moveable polarisation
require.
When the plate has such a thickness that the difference
of the paths described by the ordinary and extraordinary
pencils is included in the general formula {n -f-L) d, the
transmitted light will appear to have become common light,
if the principal section of the plate makes an angle of 45°
with the primitive plane of polarisation of the incident
light, which, as we have already seen, by no means agrees
with the doctrine of moveable polarisation.
Lastly, when the thickness of the plate employed is not
comprehended in any of the preceding expressions, the
completely polarised rays, which pass through it, emerge
with the characters of a partial polarisation. This result
is no less inconsistent than the former with the laws of
moveable polarisation ; since, according to these laws, the
they had assumed a new polarisation, differing from the for¬
mer by the azimuth 2i; i being the angle which the princi¬
pal section of the plate forms with the original plane of their
polarisation ; and they appear, in short, alternatively polar¬
ised in their former azimuth, and in an azimuth at the dis¬
tance 2« from it.”
To this law it may be objected, first, that whenever the
light emerging from a crystal with one axis, whether thin
or thick, is composed of twu distinct pencils, we find that
they are polarised in directions at right angles to each
other, whether the incident light may have been natural
or polarised; and no exception to this rule has yet been
discovered. Now it is difficult, if not impossible, to con¬
ceive, in the system of moveable polarisation, how the
transition can be made from that state into the state of
polarisation in two directions at right angles, which, for
the sake of distinction, has been called the fixed polarisa¬
tion.
But there is a still more direct objection to this theory.
If we place a plate of sulphate of lime in such a manner
that its principal section may make an angle of 45° with
the primitive plane of polarisation of homogeneous light
that is to pass through it, the angle 2i being then equal to
90°, the transmitted pencil, according to the doctrine of
moveable polarisation, would be entirely polarised either
in the primitive plane or in the plane perpendicular to it,
and, when analysed by means of a rhomboid, it would ex¬
hibit, in two positions of the principal section of this crys¬
tal, only a single image. But this is so far from being true,
that if the plate is of a proper thickness, the pencil will
be constantly divided into two images of equal intensities,
whatever the direction of the principal section of the rhom¬
boid may be.
When two pencils, derived from the same origin, and
possessing the same velocity, are made to intersect each
other at a very small angle, after having travelled by dif¬
ferent paths, of which the lengths are slightly different,
they may destroy each other completely, as we have al¬
ready seen; and this destruction would as readily take
place if they came by the same path with different veloci
posing it ?
The reader will now have conjectured, that, in order to
ties. Let d be the difference of the paths which deter- elucidate these mysterious phenomena, it will require to
mines, in the first case, the periodical series of the points be proved, first, that two pencils are actually formed in
of space in which two rays of a certain homogeneous light the thin plates of crystallized substances, as well as in
produce complete darkness by their interference; the same thicker crystals, polarised at right angles to each other ;
letter d will express, in the second case, the quantity by and, secondly, that these pencils, when they are mixed,
which one of the rays will require to be more advanced may exhibit the appearance of a polarisation intermediate
than the other by the excess of its velocity, in order that between the two separate directions. Such, then, is the
the light may again be destroyed. When, in a crystallized object of the very delicate experiments which are now to
plate, the difference of the tracks described by the ordi- be related.
nary and extraordinary rays of a given kind of light, or A pencil of homogeneous solar light being concentrated
Polarisa¬
tion of
Light.
mitive polarisation; from e to 2e they are affected as if polarised incident ray ought always to emerge completely
.-j 7 ^ ■' ^ polarised, with a simple change of the azimuth of its poles.
It is not, therefore, generally true, that a pencil of polar¬
ised homogeneous light, which passes through thin crys¬
tallized plates, either preserves its primitive polarisation,
or assumes a new one at the angular distance of 2i; and
with this falls the wdiole fabric of the oscillatory motions
attributed to the molecules of light. With respect to the
objection already made to this theory, regarding the con¬
nection to be established between the phenomena of thin
plates and those of thick crystals, it seems to retain its full
force, since it has not been established by experiment that
the rays concerned in the phenomena of thin plates are po¬
larised in two rectangular directions.
Supposing, however, for a moment, that this were the
case, and that a luminous pencil, passing through a thin
plate of sulphate of lime, is divided into two rays, the one
ordinary and the other extraordinary, polarised at right
angles: let us examine what would be the consequence.
Mathematically speaking, these two rays follow in general
different routes within the crystal; but it is not possible to
separate them physically, because the imperfection of our
organs forces us to contemplate objects of a certain ex¬
tent. The advocates of a moveable polarisation will ex¬
amine this light in a mass. They will find in certain
cases that it appears to have preserved its primitive pola¬
risation, and in others that it seems to be polarised in an
azimuth differing by 2i, and they will hence conclude that
thin plates act very differently from a thick crystal.
This conclusion, however, may be disputed. When we
make use of a thick crystal, the ordinary and extraordi¬
nary images are separated ; we study the properties of
each apart. In the case of the thin plates the observer
has to do w ith light which is mixed and complicated. Now,
who can affirm, without having made the experiment, that
two rays really polarised at right angles, will not seem, in
cases of interference, to have lost their primitive polari¬
sations, and will not exhibit an intermediate polarisation,
the result of the others, which might be considered as com-
POLARISATION OF LIGHT.
238
Polarisa- into a very small point, by the aid of a lens of a short fo-
tion of CUSj fixe(j in the shutter of a dark room, the pencil of di-
^ verging rays is to be received on two plates of glass slight-
^v ^ ly inclined to each other, and making an angle with the
ray of about 35°: the pencils reflected by the two plates
will then be completely polai’ised, and where they inter¬
sect each other they will form light and dark stripes ; and
whatever the position of the plates may be, the stripes will
be polarised in the same direction as the two pencils which
afford them.
If we now take a very transparent plate of sulphate of
lime, and divide it in the middle, so as to have two plates
of exactly the same thickness; if we fix one of the halves
of this plate before the mirror, in such a situation that it
may transmit that pencil only which is reflected by the
first mirror, and so that the principal section may make an
angle of 45° with the primitive plane of polarisation ; and
then the other half of the plate in the way of the polarised
light reflected by the other mirror, but with its principal
section at right angles to that of the other plate, and mak¬
ing an angle of 45° with the primitive plane in a contrary
direction : then, if these plates act in the same manner as
thick plates, however small the measure of their double re¬
fraction may be, they must divide the reflected rays which
pass through them into two pencils of the same intensity,
and polarised at right angles to each other ; but, in the
positions here assigned to them, it will evidently happen,
that the plane of polarisation of the ordinary pencil, coming,
for example, from the right-hand plate, will be parallel to
the plane of polarisation of the extraordinary pencil of the
left-hand plate ; and the same will be true of the two re¬
maining pencils of the respective plates.
This being admitted, it is easy to see what will happen
at the points in which the two pencils intersect each other.
The ordinary rays of the right-hand plate will at once in¬
terfere with the extraordinary rays of the left-hand plate,
since they are polarised in the same direction, and will form
a group of light and dark stripes ; and a second group will
be afforded by the extraordinary rays of the right-hand
plate and the ordinary of its companion. The two groups
will be the farther separated from each other as the plates
are thicker, and as their double refraction is more strongly
marked. In the intermediate space we find the rays of the
same description furnished by the two plates ; but as they
have now received contrary polarities, they intersect each
other without exhibiting any of the phenomena of inter¬
ference, and the eye has the sensation of a uniform light
only.
A fact which is no less evident than the existence of
the two systems of stripes, is, that when we employ the
sulphate of lime, each of the systems is completely polar¬
ised in a plane perpendicular to the principal section of the
plate which is nearest to it.
Now, there is no one of the consequences of the suppo¬
sition with which we set out, that is, the supposition that
every plate divides polarised light passing through it into
two pencils polarised at right angles, that is not fully con¬
firmed by this experiment. The truth of the hypothesis
is therefore demonstrated; for every other mode of separa¬
tion or of polarisation of the rays, that for example which
is deduced from the principles of moveable polarisation,
would lead to phenomena totally different from those which
have been described.
A little attention to the passages (Sect. VII.) contain¬
ing an account of the circumstances under which polar¬
ised rays are capable of occasioning appreciable effects of
interference, will be sufficient to convince the reader that
the two systems of stripes which have been the subjects
of these experiments, can only have been the result of the
interference of the ordinary rays of one plate with the ex¬
traordinary rays of the other. But if any doubts were en¬
tertained on this subject, they might be removed in the Polani
following manner. ^on >
We might substitute for the two thin plates which have
been employed, two thick crystals, for example two rhom¬
boids of carbonate of lime, in which the double refraction
would be manifest. As we might then follow separately
the course of each pencil, and intercept them in turn by
screens, it might thus be proved, by the most direct evi¬
dence, that, for the formation of the two groups of stripes,
it is necessary and sufficient that the ordinary pencil of one
of the crystals should meet the extraordinary pencil of the
other, and the reverse. The direction of the polarisation
of these fringes, determined by the aid of a rhomboid,
would also be exactly the same as in the case of the em¬
ployment of thin plates. The only remarkable difference
between the two experiments would be in the degree of
separation of the two groups of fringes. This distance,
depending on the difference of the paths described by the
ordinary and extraordinary rays, would be “ greater" [or
rather smaller] with the crystals than with the plates. It
might even happen, if the crystals were very thick, that in
order to “ bring the stripes within the field of view” [or to
render them visible], it would be necessary to compensate
for a part of the difference of the lengths of the paths,
or of the velocities, by the assistance of a plane glass,
fixed in the way of one of the pencils ; but in every case
the results of the experiment would be equally clear and
decisive.
It may also be added, in the last place, as a full answer
to every objection that might be raised against this expla¬
nation of the formation of the two groups of stripes in the
thin plates, that the interval which separates the two sys¬
tems is always so dependent on the double refraction of the
plates, that its exact numerical value may always be dedu¬
ced from the elements of the double refraction, as obtained
by experiments on other portions of the same substance.
(See the article Chromatics.)
We must now consider how it will be possible to recon¬
cile the experiment which has been related, and which
proves the subdivision of the light into two pencils, polar¬
ised at right angles to each other, with the other fact,
which seems to be opposed to it, that when the plate is
of a proper thickness, the whole group of polarised rays
that pass through it shall appear to be polarised either in
the primitive plane or in another making with it an angle
of 2i.
We make, in a dark room, a very small radiant point of
homogeneous light, by means of a lens, as already men¬
tioned. We receive the diverging pencil on a plate of
glass, having its posterior surface covered with a black var¬
nish ; supposing the plate to be in a vertical position, and
the diverging pencil to be nearly horizontal, and to make an
angle with the surface not much differing from that of com¬
plete polarisation : when this arrangement is completed, we
place in the way of the reflected light a rhomboid of calca¬
reous spar, its principal section making with the horizon, or
with the plane of reflection, an angle of 45°. In this posi¬
tion of the rhomboid the light passing through it is divided
into two pencils, the one ordinary and the other extraordi¬
nary, polarised at right angles, and of equal intensity. After
having passed through the first rhomboid, the two pencils
fall on another rhomboid of the same thickness, but having
its principal section perpendicular to that of the former.
The ordinary pencil will then be subjected to the extraor¬
dinary refraction in it, and the reverse; and the two pen¬
cils will emerge from the second rhomboid, one polarised in
the plane of its principal section, and the other perpendi¬
cularly to it.
Let us now follow the course of each of the pencils. In
the first place, it is evident, that on account of their diver¬
gence they will intersect each other in a space so much the
a c
POLARISATION OF LIGHT.
wider as they become more remote from the rhomboid:
their points of emergence being distinct and sensibly sepa¬
rated, the observer may intercept, in turn, with a screen, ei¬
ther the ordinary or the extraordinary pencil, and enlighten
at pleasure any other object, either with the one or the
other separately, or with both at once.
This delicate and complicated experiment being so far
advanced, let us place a glass slightly roughened in a part
of the field of view common to the two pencils; marking,
by a very fine opening in an opaque plate covering the
glass, the precise spot on which we fix our attention ° and
employing, as usual, a doubly-refracting crystal to analyse
the different kinds of light, which, after passing through the
slit in the diaphragm, depict an image within the eye.
It will now easily be observed that the ordinary ray,
when it arrives alone at the aperture, wherever it may be
placed, undergoes no modification, and remains polarised as
it w as before ; and the same is true of the extraordinary ray:
but if both these rays intersect each other in the slit, and
enter the eye together, the phenomenon is by no means so
simple, and its nature changes according to the place occu¬
pied by the slit; so that moving this slit gradually by means
of a screw, we soon find the point where the light, compos¬
ed of the two pencils that pass through it, seems to be
wholly polarised, in the same manner as the pencil was at
its first reflection from the plate of glass ; further on, the
plane of polarisation seems to be perpendicular to the pri¬
mitive plane ; and in a position intermediate between these
the rays transmitted afford no material traces of polarisation
at all.
This experiment, therefore, offers us the singular pheno¬
menon of two pencils, polarised at right angles, which, after
having intersected each other in the ground glass, unite
within the eye, and form together, as the test of the rhom¬
boid shows, a pencil polarised sometimes in one direction
and sometimes in an opposite one, or sometimes without
any sensible trace of polarisation, according to the magni¬
tude of the difference of the paths described by the two
pencils.
It is only to assist the imagination that the piece of
ground glass has been supposed to be employed, for its
presence is not necessary to the success of the experiment.
A lens alone may be used for observing the stripes formed
in the air by the interference of the luminous pencils. If,
however, we merely placed ourselves with this lens before
the two rhomboids, the eye would only receive a uniform
and continued light; but as soon as a doubling crystal is
perfectly interposed between the lens and the rhomboids, or
between the lens and the eye, we shall observe two sys¬
tems of dark and bright stripes, the bright stripes of one of
the images corresponding always with the dark stripes of
the other. Ihe middle stripes, for example, will be bright
in the ordinary image, if the principal section of the inter¬
posed crystal is parallel to the primitive polarisation of the
Toys on the blackened glass ; and in the same case the mid¬
dle stripe will be dark in the extraordinary image. The
pomt of space occupied by the middle of the image seems
therefore to transmit to the eye, through the crystal, only
such light as is polarised in the primitive plane, because it
affords only an ordinary image of the light; and this cir¬
cumstance shows also that the effects of interference in the
239
contained only homogeneous light, so that it produced only Polarisa-
nrignt and dark stripes. But if we employ white light the tion of
stripes will be coloured; because d has different values for IjiSht-
the rays of different tints, and these tints are precisely the"^"1'  
same as are developed by polarised light in their passage
through crystallized plates of all possible thicknesses.
A few words will now be sufficient to show the mode of
action of these plates in the phenomena of the colours first
described.
A polarised ray passing through a crystallized plate which
possesses the power of double refraction is divided by it,
mathematically speaking, into two pencils polarised at right
angles ; but two pencils of this description do not inter¬
fere; the plate will therefore not exhibit colours to the
naked eye, whatever its thickness may be, even when it is
only exposed to polarised light; and this result is confirm¬
ed by experiment.
Each of the ordinary and extraordinary pencils transmit¬
ted by the plate will again be divided into two when it
passes through an achromatic prism of crystal, or a rhom¬
boid of calcareous spar. Of these four emergent pencils,
the two which follow the ordinary path will be no more
separated than they were at their emergence from the
plate; and the same is true of the two extraordinary pen¬
cils, so that the eye will ultimately perceive but two dis¬
tinct images.
Or the two pencils which thus concur in the formation
of the ordinary image, the one was ordinary in its passage
through the plate, and has remained ordinary in the rhom¬
boid placed near the eye, while the action of this rhomboid
has been required for bringing the other pencil from the
extraordinary to the ordinary refraction. The different
kinds of rays have different velocities in crystals capable of
double refraction ; and an inequality of velocity gives rise
to the phenomena of interference, as well as an inequality
of distance described. If, in the plate employed, the dif¬
ference between the velocities of the ordinary and extraor¬
dinary ray corresponds, either on account of its thickness
or of the diversity of the two refractions, to a certain quan¬
tity, d, or its multiple, the kind of rays of which the inter¬
val nd determines the destruction, n being a whole num¬
ber, will be wanting in the ordinary image transmitted by
the rhomboid. And this effect, it must again be repeated,
depends on the interference of the two pencils of which this
image is really formed, and which, in the plate, possessed
different velocities.
If the experiment with the two rhomboids had not taught
us, that, in order to calculate the mutual actions of the lu¬
minous rays, which in passing through different crystals
possessed of doubly refractive powers, have several times
changed their planes of polarisation, the ordinary laws of
interference require some modification, we should have
found ourselves arrested by a considerable difficulty.
The difference of the velocities being the same for the
two pencils of which the extraordinary image afforded by
the rhomboid consists, and for the two which concur in the
formation of the ordinary image, it would seem that the
rays of the same colour ought to be destroyed at once in
both the images, and that they ought to exhibit the same
tint; but if we recollect that, after having calculated for one
of the images the effect of interference corresponding to the
—mat Luc. cntuLs ui iiiteiitrence m me ui me uiiagcs me cnee* vi nitciicicncc cui i c&jjunuiiig tu me
extraordinary image require, for their computation, the ad- difference d in the path, we are obliged, when we proceed
UltlOn of" kd f” O f” F O /L-flL 4-1 1-v y-v sT X- y-v y-* y-k4-T»1 O T /'ll ■•/I f'/'X 4* rt 1 y-\ CM « 1 1 4-I'V 1
^ to ^le difference of the paths described.
When the principal section of the crystal interposed be-
ween the eye and the rhomboid is perpendicular to the
original plane of polarisation, the two kinds of pencils in-
eichange their effects; and in this case the central stripe
° the ordinary image is bright, and that of the extraordi-
naXl irnage is completely dark, as if the difference of the
paths of the rays forming it were
t has been hitherto supposed that the original pencil
M***»_y»    X '   © ? ~  
to the other image, in order to obtain results conformable
to experiment, to add Id to the difference of the paths, or
to the effect of the difference of the velocities, this difficulty
will disappear. Supposing “ d” [rad] in the ordinary image
to occasion the destruction of the red rays, “ d + l/f’
[nd + will correspond, on the contrary, to their most
complete agreement in the extraordinary image, and these
two images will exhibit tints rigorously complementary to
each other, as the experiment shows.
240
Polarisa¬
tion of
Light.
POLARISATION OF LIGHT.
The colours developed by polarised light, in passing
through crystallized plates being only, to speak correctly,
. portions of stripes produced by interference, we must ex¬
pect to find in them, by varying the thicknesses of the
plates, the same apparent deviations of the planes of pola¬
risation as we found in the experiment on the narrow stripes
produced by means of the rays transmitted by two plates
of sulphate of lime, of which the principal sections were
perpendicular to each other; and it has already been re¬
marked that this analogy is supported by observation.
It can scarcely be doubted that this explanation will rea¬
dily be adopted as fully satisfactory, by all those who will
give themselves the trouble to examine it with sufficient at¬
tention ; and the subject may now be concluded with the
formulas which express the intensities of the ordinary and
extraordinary images for the case of a polarised ray which
has passed through one or two crystallized plates, with a
perpendicular incidence, whatever may be the situation of
their principal sections.
For a single plate, making unity the intensity of the pri¬
mitive homogeneous pencil; i the angle made by the prin¬
cipal section of the plate with the primitive plane of pola¬
risation ; s the angle made by this same plane with the prin¬
cipal section of the rhomboid or of the achromatic prism,
by means of which we analyse the emergent light; o — e
the difference of the paths of the ordinary and extraordi¬
nary rays at their emergence; d the interval already ex¬
plained ; and cr the circumference of the circle of which the
diameter is unity: we shall then have,
for the ordinarv image, cos.2 s — sin. 2i sin. 2 (i — s) sin."
for the extraordinary image, sin.2 s + sin. 2i sin. 2 (i — s)
sin. 2t cos. 2i sin. 2 (/ + e — s) sin.2 tt
o' — d
2(t -j- i — s) sin.2
2 (< + i — s) sin.2 <x.
d
o — e + o' — ef
When the polarised pencil has passed through two plates,
there must be an additional element in the formula, that is,
the angle formed by the principal section of this second
plate with the primitive plane of polarisation. Let this angle
be t, all the others retaining the same symbols, and let
o’ — e' be the difference of the paths belonging to the se¬
cond plate *, the intensity of the ordinary image afforded by
a pencil of homogeneous light will then be represented by
O ■ 6
cos.2 s + sin. 2t sin. 2i cos. 2(t + i — s) sin.2 w — 
- cos.21 sin. 2i
e — (o' — d)
+ sin.2 t sin. 2i
and the inten-
The phenomena of these thin plates, therefore, which
seemed to some persons to afford an unexceptionable de¬
monstration of the system of emission; which seemed to >s
require the assistance of the most singular oscillations of
the molecules of light; which seemed to enable them to
discover, in those particles, an axis of rotation, a pair of
poles, and an equator ; and even a kind of precession of the
equinoctial points: these phenomena are in fact only, as
we have just seen, the immediate and unavoidable conse¬
quences of the simple but inexhaustible laws of interfer¬
ence.
SECT. X ON CIRCULAR POLARISATION.1
The kind of polarisation which is now to be considered
differs essentially from those which have been hitherto ex¬
amined.
Suppose that, having polarised a pencil of
light, we cause it to undergo twice over, at
the angle of 54°, a total reflection within a
parallelepiped of glass, as seen in the figure ;
the new planes of reflection being also sup¬
posed to be inclined at an angle of 45° to
the plane of primitive polarisation; the emer¬
gent pencil will then have acquired some par¬
ticular properties, which are very remark¬
able.
When this emergent pencil is analysed with
a rhomboidal crystal, it is constantly decom¬
posed into two rays of the same intensity,
whatever may be the direction of the prin¬
cipal section. From this circumstance it
might be supposed that it had resumed the character of or¬
dinary light; but if it be transmitted through a crystallized
plate before it is subjected to the action of the rhomboid,
we shall soon perceive a distinction : for, in this case, com¬
mon white light would afford two white images of the same
intensity, while the light of the parallelepiped is divided
into two pencils, both strongly coloured.
This new kind of rays has also some other peculiarities.
It has already been remarked (Sect. V.), that one or more
total reflections make no difference in the properties of or¬
dinary light; but they modify, on the contrary, in a re¬
markable manner, the pencil which has passed through
the parallelepiped: for this pencil resumes all the qualities
of polarised light when it has been subjected to two total
reflections similar to the first, whatever may be the azi¬
muth of the latter planes of reflection with regard to the
former.
The pencil of light in question is decomposed, then, into
two coloured images, when it is only analysed by a rhom¬
boid after having been transmitted through a crystallized
plate ; but it must be remarked, that the colour of each of
these images, on the chromatic circle of Newton, is about
one fourth of the circumference distant from the place which
the colour of the same image would have occupied if we
had employed only common polarised light.
It may also be added, as another distinguishing charac¬
ter, that this last kind of light gives rise to no phenomena
of colour after being transmitted through plates of rock-
crystal perpendicular to the axis, or through columns of oil
of turpentine, or of other essential oils.
A polarised ray, modified by two total reflections, has
therefore some very particular characters, which distinguish
it equally from a direct ray and from an ordinary polarised
ray; and as these characters have no relation to the dif-
sity of the extraordinary image is found by subtracting this
expression from unity.
If we calculate separately, according to these formulas,
the intensities of the rays of the different colours which
compose white light, we obtain the tint of the ordinary or
of the extraordinary pencil, whether the light, previously
polarised, has passed through one or two crystallized plates;
and if, in this calculation, we employ for o — e and for
o' — d the values corresponding to the individual double
refractions to which the different species of rays are sub¬
ject, we shall find the most perfect agreement between the
formulas and the experiments, even in those crystals which
afford tints that appear to bear no resemblance to those of ferent sides of the ray, the modification thus obtained has
the coloured rings of Newton. received the name of circular polarisation. If any person
1 See the article Optics, p. 501.
POLARISATION OF LIGHT.
should think the denomination too little supported by the
facts described, he may be informed, that it has been partly
derived from some theoretical considerations, which appear
to justify it.
The mode of obtaining the circular from the ordinary
polarisation by means of two total reflections having been
described, there remains to be mentioned a very remark¬
able method of procuring the circular polarisation more
immediately from common light.
We cut out of a column of rock-crystal a very obtuse
prism, with its two faces forming an angle of about 150°,
and equally inclined to the axis of the column, and we make
it achromatic as well as we can, with two prisms of glass
cemented to its opposite faces : or, since this method must
always be imperfect, we employ, instead of the glass, two
other prisms of rock-crystal, taken from pieces which pos¬
sess the opposite qualities which have been described in
speaking of plagiedral crystals ; and this arrangement has
also the advantage of a separation of the images to a double
distance. We obtain by means of this little combination
the effects of double refraction; but the two pencils to
which it gives birth, when they have been transmitted in
a direction parallel to the axis of the column, have not ac¬
quired the same modification which Iceland spar, for ex¬
ample, would produce in them, but they are circularly
polarised. Thus, if we analyse them with a rhomboid,
they are always divided into two pencils of equal inten¬
sity ; and when they have undergone two total reflections
within a parallelepiped of glass at an angle of incidence
of 54°, they are found completely polarised in two planes
inclined 45° to the plane of reflection, the plane of polari¬
sation of the one being to the right, and that of the other
to the left.
There exists, therefore, a particular kind of double re¬
fraction, which communicates to the rays of light a circular
polarisation, as the double refraction of the Iceland crystal
produces in them the ordinary polarisation.
It follows, besides, from all the phenomena of this class,
and from the general laws of interference, that a pencil cir¬
cularly polarised may be considered as composed of two or¬
dinary pencils polarised at right angles, one of them, how¬
ever, being supposed to be retarded in its path, in compa¬
rison with the other, by a quarter of the interval which has
been already noted by d.
The properties of rays circularly polarised afford us a
very curious mode of reproducing exactly all the pheno¬
mena of colours, that we have observed in the plates of
rock-crystal cut perpendicularly to the axis, and in certain
liquids.
For this purpose we must place a thin crystallized plate
between two parallelepipeds of ordinary glass crossed at
right angles, and similar to that which has been already
represented by a figure. A pencil, passing perpendicularly
through the first parallelopiped, undergoes within it two to¬
tal reflections at the angle of 54° ; after its emersion, it is
transmitted by the crystallized plate, and further on it en¬
ters the second parallelepiped, and is again twice reflected
within it, but in a plane perpendicular to that of the for¬
mer reflections: at last it emerges into the air, perpendicu¬
larly to the last surface of the parallelepiped. Now we may
always obtain, in the emergent ray, the appearances of a
polarised ray which passed through a plate of rock-crystal
cut perpendicularly to the axis, or a certain depth of the
essential oil of turpentine; and it will be sufficient for this
purpose, that the pencil incident upon the first parallelepiped
should be previously polarised, and that the axis of the in¬
terposed crystalline plate should make an angle of 45° with
the two planes of the total reflections.
241
[sect. XI. ENUMERATION OP THE PRINCIPAL MINERALS Polarisa-
WHICH ARE POSSESSED OF PARTICULAR PROPERTIES WITH tion of
RESPECT TO POLARISATION. ADDED BY THE TRANSLA- Fight
TOR.1
i. All such regular crystals as belong to the rhomboidal
or pyramidal systems of crystallization, described by Mohs,
are found to have one axis of double refraction, coincident
with the crystallographic axis of these solids.—(Edinburgh
Encyclopaedia, article Optics, p. 572.) The axis of a re¬
fraction governed by the law of the oblate spheroid is called
by Sir David Brewster a negative axis, by M. Biot a repul¬
sive axis, and the axis of the oblong spheroid a positive or
an attractive axis; the crystals are distinguished by the signs
— and + respectively.
1. Rhomboid with obtuse summit.
— Carbonate of lime. + Dioptase.
— Carbonate ot lime and mag- — Carbonate of lime and iron.
nesia. — Tourmaline.
— Ilubellite. Ituby silver.
2. Rhomboid with acute summit.
— Ruby.
Cinnabar.
— Corundum.
— Sapphire.
3. Regular hexaedral prism.
— Emerald. — Nepheline, or Sommite.
— Beryl. — Arseniate of copper.
— Phosphate of lime. — Arseniate of lead.
4. Octaedron with a square base.
4- .Zircon. — Mellite.
+ Oxyd of tin. —Molybdate of lead.
+ Tungstate of lime. — Octohedrite.
5. Right prism with a square base.
+ Titanite. — Meionite.
— Idocrase. Uranite.
— Wernerite.
6. Bipyramidal dodecaedron.
+ Quartz. — Phosphato-arseniate of
— Phosphate of lead. lead.
ii. Besides the crystals belonging to these classes, there
are others of which the primitive form has not been deter¬
mined, but in which the position of the single axis of double
refraction has been ascertained.
Crystals.
— Mica from Kariat.
— Mica with amianthus.
— Hydret of strontia.
— Arseniate of potass.
— Muriate of lime.
— Muriate of strontia.
— Nitrate of soda.
— Subphosphate of potass.
— Sulphate of nickel and copper.
— Hyposulphate of lime {Her- \
schel). )
+ Boracite.
+ Apophyllite from Uton.
-(- Apophyllite surcomposee.
+ Sulphate of potass and iron.
+ Superacetate of copper and )
lime. j
+ Hydrate of magnesia.
+ Ice.
Axis of Double Refraction.
Perpendicular to the laminze.
Perpendicular to the laminae.
J Perpendicular to the quad-
j rangular plate.
Axis of quadrangular prism.
Axis of hexaedral prism.
Axis of hexaedral prism.
Axis of obtuse rhomb.
Axis of quadrangular prism.
Axis of quadrangular prism.
Axis of hexagonal tables.
Axis of cubical rhomb.
Axis of prism.
Perpendicular to the plate.
Axis of hexaedral prism.
Axis of prism.
Perpendicular to the laminae,
f Axis of hexaedral prism or
( rhomb.
iii. The crystals which have been enumerated appear to
be symmetrical with respect to a single axis, so as to have
similar properties in every plane passing through that axis;
but Sir David Brewster discovered, in 1816, that in a great
multitude of crystals the refractive powers are different in
See the article Optics, p. 457.
VOL. xvm.
2 H
242
Polarisa¬
tion of
Light.
POLARISATION OF LIGHT.
different planes passing through the principal axis ; the phe¬
nomena and the laws of refraction being such as may be ex¬
plained from the combined effects of two axes perpendicu¬
lar to each other, and unequal in the ellipticity of the sphe¬
roids to which they belong.
“ All regular crystals which belong to the primitive sys¬
tem of Mohs, or whose primitive forms are the right prism,
with its base a rectangle, a rhomb, or an oblique paralle¬
logram ; the oblique prism, with its base a rectangle, a
rhomb, or an oblique parallelogram; or the rectangular
and rhomboidal octaedron ; have two axes of double refrac¬
tion, coincident with some permanent line in the primitive
form.”
1. Thus, all the combinations of the sulphuric, tartaric,
and acetic acids, with single earthy, metallic, and alkaline
bases, have two axes of double refraction.
2. The two apparent axes of crystals with two axes [or
the lines in which the double refraction seems to be neu¬
tralised] have no symmetrical relation either with the faces
or prominent lines of the primitive or secondary forms of
minerals.
3. The two rectangular axes, the principal one of which
is in the same plane with the two apparent axes, and equi¬
distant from them, have a constant symmetrical relation to
the faces and axes of the primitive forms in which they crys¬
tallize.
4. The line exhibited at any point of the sphere, by the
joint properties of two axes, is represented by the diagonal
of a parallelogram, of which the sides correspond to the
tints belonging to the separate axes, and make w ith each
other an angle twice as great as the angle formed by the
planes passing through the given point and the twro axes ;
and the increment or decrement of the square of the velo¬
city of the light may be computed in the same manner as
this line representing the tint.
iv. The necessity of any very minute investigation of the
properties of particular substances, with regard to double
refraction, is in great measure superseded by the very im¬
portant facts, first observed by Sir David Brew'ster in 1814
and 1815, relating to the effects of heat and compression in
producing double refraction and polarisation. He found
that compression was capable of producing colour when a
soft animal jelly was only touched by the finger ; and that
when a “ negative” crystal, like that of the carbonate of
lime, is compressed in the direction of the axis, the tints
that it affords “ descend,” and that they “ rise” wrhen it is
dilated : whence it seems to follow, that simple dilatation
of a homogeneous substance in a given line will constitute
that line the axis of an oblate spheriod; but the results
require to be distinguished by a greater variety of experi¬
ments. M. Fresnel has succeeded in exhibiting not only
colours by a strong pressure, but a very manifest reduplica¬
tion of the image of a line, seen through a piece of glass
strongly compressed by screws; and he performed this ex¬
periment very successfully at a meeting of the Parisian Aca¬
demy of Sciences in 1822.]
SECT. XII HISTORICAL DETAILS RESPECTING THE DIS¬
COVERY OF THE DIFFERENT PROPERTIES OF LIGHT CON¬
CERNED IN POLARISATION.
It will now be necessary to enumerate the natural phi¬
losophers to whom we are indebted for the discoveries of
which the importance has been explained in this article ;
and it will be convenient to do this in the order of the sec¬
tions.
i. Huygens appears to be the first person that observed,
in the two pencils derived from a single one, by means of
double refraction, the existence of particular properties af¬
ter their passage through the crystal, which they did not Polar,, |
possess when they entered it. “ It seems,” he says, “ that bomj
we are obliged to conclude, that the undulations of light, by v ^ 1^
passing through the first crystal of Iceland spar, acquire a 'v | *
certain form, or a certain disposition, by which, when they
fall on the substance of a second crystal, in a certain posi- [I 1
tion, they are enabled to affect both the kinds of matter
which serve for the two species of refraction ; and when they | !
fall on it in another position, they only act on one of these
substances.” ,
Thus, according to this great philosopher, in the act of
double refraction, the undulation, or the ray, changes its *
form, and loses its symmetry, so as to give room for the dis- | •
tinction of its different sides, or, changing the expression '
only, its different poles.
Huygens is therefore the first that observed a phenome¬
non of polarisation, and this discovery wTas made in 1678,
though it was not published till 1690. From the time of
Huygens to the year 1809, no observer, with the exception a
of the immortal author of the Opticks, had studied the sub¬
ject of double refraction in this point of viewr; and it must
even be acknowledged that, with respect to the facts in a
question, nothing wras added by Newton to what the Dutch
mathematician had discovered. He only insisted much
more strongly on the necessity of admitting poles in each li
of the rays derived from the subdivision which light un¬
dergoes in passing through an Iceland crystal. To Malus s
belongs the honour of having brought back the attention a
of natural philosophers to the properties of light which form n
the subject of this article. It was he that first pointed out 1
the singular phenomena exhibited by the ordinary and ex¬
traordinary rays when they meet with transparent reflect¬
ing surfaces at certain inclinations ; and it is to him that t
we are indebted for the mathematical law which appears s
to connect intensities of the different pencils into which
the light is divided when it passes through two rhomboids s
of the spar in succession.1
ii. The anecdote, which has been often told, of the for¬
tunate circumstance that led Malus to the discovery of the
polarisation of light by reflection from transparent sub¬
stances, is perfectly correct. This philosopher, so early ar¬
rested in his pursuit of science by a premature death, and
so universally lamented by his friends, has often related to
the author of this article, that as he happened to be decom¬
posing, by means of a rhomboid of carbonate of lime, to¬
wards the end of the year 1808, the light of the setting
sun, reflected from the glass of the windows of the Lux¬
embourg, he first observed the difference of the intensity
of the two images in different positions of the rhomboid;
but it is not true, as has sometimes been stated, that one
of the images actually disappeared in this observation ; for
the polarisation of the light, at the moment of the experi¬
ment, was only partial. A similar difference of intensity
must have been before the eyes of mineralogists whenever
they had been trying to examine the double refraction of
crystals, and had projected the needle which they used for
an object of view on a clear and serene sky, which affords
a curtain of polarised light. But the fact had not excited
their attention. Malus observed it, was struck with all its
importance, completely analysed it in all its forms, with the
most singular sagacity, and thus became the creator of a
new branch of optics. It is to this celebrated observer that
we are indebted for all the experiments related in the se¬
cond section."
iii. The measurements related in the third section, which
appear to show that, at equal angular distances above and
below the angle of complete polarisation, the reflected rays
contain nearly equal quantities of polarised light, were ob¬
tained by M. Arago.
® Ibid. ii.
1 Manohcs d'Atcueil, ii. 8vo, Par. 1809.
] insa-
i! n of
ght.
POLARISATION OF LIGHT.
243
iv. It was Sir David Brewster that discovered the re¬
markable law which connects the angle of complete pola¬
risation with the refractive density of the substance. It was
communicated to the Royal Society on the 16th March
18 lib1
The relation of the angle of complete polarisation, at the
second surface of a transparent medium, to the angle be¬
longing to the first surface, had before been shown by
Malus.2 The same relation may be extended to the angles,
at the same surfaces, which alford polarisation of equal
proportions of the light falling on them. So that the rule
given by Malus is only a particular case of a general theo¬
rem, which M. Arago has deduced from a long series of
experiments that have not been published.
v. It was discovered also by Malus, that the pencil trans¬
mitted by a transparent plate is partially polarised in a
plane at right angles to the plane of polarisation of the re¬
flected pencil. This fact was communicated to the Insti¬
tute on the 11th March 1811, and published the next day
in the Moniteur. See also the Memoirs of the Mathema¬
tical Class for 1810. The photometrical experiments of
M. Arago have established a relation between these two
kinds of polarisation which had been unobserved by Ma¬
lus ; it is contained in this simple enunciation. “ The
quantity of polarised light contained in the pencil which
any transparent plate transmits, is exactly equal to the
quantity polarised in the contrary direction, which is found
in the light reflected by the same plate.” These experi¬
ments were made in 1812, but they wrere first published
in 1814* by M. Biot, to whom M. Arago had communicated
them.3
It follow s from this law, as M. Arago had also observed,
that at the angle of total reflection, and at all greater ob¬
liquities, the light wholly escapes polarisation.
The phenomena exhibited by piles of plates were ana¬
lysed by Malus immediately after his discovery of polarisa¬
tion by refraction.
The observation that some natural bodies, agates, for ex¬
ample, act on light precisely like these piles of plates, is due
to Sir David Brewster.4
vi. The laws and experiments related in the sixth sec¬
tion belong to M. Fresnel. Malus had before attempted to
discover in what manner the planes of polarisation changed
their directions ; but there are several inaccuracies in the
results which he has published.5 The formulae of M. Fres¬
nel are some of the most valuable additions that have been
made of late to the science of optics. A general account
of the deviations undergone, in reflection, by the plane of
polarisation of a ray previously polarised, is found in two
memoirs presented to the academy by M. Fresnel, on the
24th November 1817, and the beginning of January 1818;
but the mathematical laws of the phenomena were not dis¬
covered and published till 1821.6
vii. M. Arago and M. Fresnel are hitherto the only phi¬
losophers who have examined the effect of polarisation in
modifying the phenomena of interference. The memoir
in which they first recorded the results which are inserted
in the seventh section, appeared in the Annales de Chimie
for 1819, vol. x.
viii. It was M. Arago that first observed the changes in
the properties of polarised rays when they pass through
crystalline plates. He showed that they acquire the proper¬
ty of being divided by calcareous spar into two coloured
pencils, and of being reflected by transparent substances
with tints which vary according to the angular position of Pohrisa-
their surfaces. His memoir was read to the Institute on fi°n of
the 11th of August 1811, and printed in the volume of the
Memoires of that year. ^
Sir David Brewster published some similar experiments
in his Treatise on Philosophical Instruments, which appear¬
ed in 1813.
The phenomena exhibited by plates cut perpendicularly
to the axis were also described by M. Arago in the same
memoir.
We are indebted to M. Biot for the rule, according to
which the deviation of the poles is effected, whether on ac¬
count of the particular kind of “ each luminar molecule,” or
on account of the more or less considerable thicknesses of
the plates by which these “ molecules” have been trans¬
mitted. His memoir was read to tbe Institute in Septem¬
ber 1818, and printed shortly afterwards.
Mr Herschel is the author of the curious observation re¬
lating to the facets of plagiedral crystals.7
The extension of the properties of plates perpendicular
to the axis, by which they are assigned to the strata of cer¬
tain liquids, was made by M. Biot in 1815.8
ix. The laws of the depolarisation produced by crystal¬
lized plates, parallel to the axis, are reduced to the three
following.
1. The motion of the plate in its plane does not alter the
tints of the images furnished by a rhomboid. This result
is implicitly comprehended in the first memoir of M. Arago ;
since in the description of all the motions which cause a
change of the tints, the motion of the plate in its own plane
is not included.
2. The tints of the two images are those of the coloured
rings of Newton, seen by reflection or by transmission.
This law had been laid down by M. Biot; but Mr Herschel
has shown in the Cambridge Transactions that it is not uni¬
versally true,9 so that its theoretical importance is lost.
3. In a crystal of variable thickness, the same phenomena
of polarisation are reproduced at thicknesses which form a
series like that of the coloured rings of Newton. When
we examine with a rhomboid a crystal cut in a proper man¬
ner, so that two of its faces form an angle, and which is
projected on a back ground affording polarised light, each
image appears bordered by regular streaks, parallel to the
angular edge of the prism, and separated by equal spaces.
M. Arago, when he described this phenomena in August
1811, advanced it as a sufficient proof of this third law.
The Academy of Sciences, and M. Laplace in particular,
did not admit the conclusion as demonstrated, and a direct
admeasurement of the thicknesses was required. Count
llumford, who was present, offered the use of an instru¬
ment which he had employed for some other purposes, and
which seemed to promise a sufficient degree of precision :
the common comparer was also mentioned as proper for the
purpose. M. Arago, upon these suggestions, undertook to
make these further experiments. But M. Biot anticipated
him ; and he has therefore a claim to the first direct demon¬
stration of the law of the thicknesses.
4. The brilliant tints of each of these images may be
calculated from the laws of interference, according to the
difference of the paths and of the velocities of the ordinary
and extraordinary rays. This important remark is due to
Dr Thomas Young, who is believed to have published it in
the Quarterly Review, xi. 1814, p. 42-49.
It affords the true key of all these phenomena. It must
1 Philosophical Transactions, 1815.
2 Mini. d'Arcueil, ii.
8 See Recherches Experimentalcs et Maihtmatiques sur les JMouvemcns des Molecules de Lumisre, 11114-
4 Treatise on New Philosophical Instruments, 8vo, Edinburgh, 1813. 5 Mem. Inst. 1810.
fi See Annales de Chimie et de Physique, xvii.
7 Transactions of the Philosophical Society of Cambridge, i.; see also the article Optics, p. 502.
8 Bulletin des Sciences, Dec. 1815; see also the article Optics, p. 504.
* Phil. Trans. 1818, p. 243, 252; see also the article Optics, p. 487-
244
POLARISATION OF LIGHT.
Light.
Polarka- however be added, that Dr Young had not explained either
tion of jn what circumstances the interference of the rays can take
, place, nor why we see no colours unless the crystallized
plates are exposed to light previously polarised. The new
properties which required to be combined with the ordi¬
nary laws of interference, in order to obtain a complete ex¬
planation of the facts, were discovered by M. Arago and
M. Fresnel, as they have been described in the seventh
section. The dates of the memoirs in which M. Fresnel
published this explanation are 1816 and 1818.
The ingenious and delicate experiments which have been
employed as tests of the inaccuracy of the theory of move-
able polarisation are also due to M. Fresnel, one of the
most inventive theorists as well as one of the most skilful
experimenters that have devoted themselves to science in
this or in any age: the formulae found at the end of the
section are also M. Fresnel’s.
x. The phenomena of circular polarisation were disco¬
vered by M. Fresnel, who described and analysed them in
a memoir read to the Academy of Sciences in November
1817 and in January 1818. His later researches on this
subject are inserted in the Bulletin of the Philomathic So¬
ciety, December 1822 and February 1823.
There are a few other particulars, relating to the develop¬
ment of tints by repeated reflections at the surfaces of me¬
tallic mirrors,1 to the rings seen in crystallized plates cut
perpendicularly to the axis when examined with a rhom¬
boid held very near them, and to the phenomena of the
absorption of polarised light by certain crystals.2 The first
have hitherto been reduced to no direct analogy with other
affections of polarised light; the second seem to be derived
from a modification of the laws already explained in the
ninth section; and the discovery of the scattered pheno¬
mena belonging to the third head has been disputed by M.
Biot and Sir David Brewster, but they appear to have been
first observed by M. Arago in 1814.3
[sect. XIII THEORETICAL INVESTIGATIONS INTENDED TO
ILLUSTRATE THE PHENOMENA OF POLARISATION. ADDED
BY THE TRANSLATOR.
forces which are proportional to them. But when the elas¬
ticity is less in one direction than in the other, the corre¬
sponding side of the parallelogram expressing the forces,
must be diminished, in the ratio which we may call that of 1
to m ; and the diagonal of the parallelogram will no longer
coincide in direction with the line of actual displacement,
so that the particle displaced wall also produce a lateral
pressure on the neighbouring particle of the medium, and
will itself be urged by a lateral force. This force will,
however, have no effect in promoting the direct propagation
of the undulation, being probably employed in gradually
changing the direction of the actual motions of the succes¬
sive particles; and the only efficient force of elasticity will
be that which acts in the direction in which the undulation
is advancing, and which is expressed by the portion of the
line of displacement, cut off by a perpendicular falling on
it from the end of the diagonal of the parallelogram of
forces; and the comparative elasticity will be measured by
this portion, divided by the whole line of displacement.
Calling the tangent of the angle formed by the line of dis¬
placement with the line of greatest elasticity t, the radius
being 1, the force in this line being also 1, the transverse
force will be expressed by mt, the line of displacement by
PoU
tioW
Ft,
—
[A
A
We are led, from the facts which have been enumerated
in the eleventh section, to the remarkable coincidence be¬
tween the discoveries of Sir David Brewster respecting crys¬
tals with two axes, and a theory which had been published
a few years earlier in order to illustrate the propagation of
an undulation in a medium compressed or dilated in a given
direction only, and to prove that such an undulation must
necessarily assume a spheroidal form, upon the mechanical
principles of the Huygenian theory. As every contribution
to the investigation of so difficult a subject may chance to
be of some value, it will be worth wdiile to copy this demon¬
stration here, from the Quarterly Review for November
1809, vol. ii. p. 345.
“ The proposition to be demonstrated was this: An im¬
pulse is propagated through every perpendicular section of a
lamellar elastic substance in the form of an elliptic undula¬
tion.
“ When a particle of the elastic medium is displaced in
an oblique direction, the resistance produced by the com¬
pression is the joint result of the forces arising from the
elasticity in the direction of the laminae, and in a transverse
direction; and if the elasticities in these two directions
were equal, the joint result would remain proportional to
the displacement of the particle, being expressed, as well
in magnitude as in direction, by the diagonal of the paral¬
lelogram, of whicn the sides measure the relative displace¬
ments, reduced to their proper directions, and express the
y' (1 tt), its diminution by the diminished
portion, which measures the force, by \/(l -f- tt)-
(1—m)tt
and the elasticity, in the given direction, by
*/(!+«)’
1 m tt
1 -{■ tt
Hence it follows, that the velocity of an impulse, moving
in that direction, will be expressed by
1 + «
“ It is next to be proved, that the velocity of an ellipti¬
cal undulation, increasing so as to remain always similar,
by means of an impulse propagated always in a direction
perpendicular to the circumference, is such as would take
place in a medium thus constituted. It is obvious that the
increment of each of the diameters of the increasing figure
must be proportional to the whole diameter; and this incre¬
ment, reduced to a direction perpendicular to the curve,
will be proportional to the perpendicular falling on the con¬
jugate diameter, which will measure the velocity. We are
therefore to find an expression for this perpendicular when
it forms an angle with the greater axis, of which the tan¬
gent is t. Let the greater semiaxis be 1, and the smaller
n ; then the tangent of the angle formed with the greater
axis by the conjugate diameter being -, the tangent of
the angle subtended by the corresponding ordinate of the
circumscribing circle is found —, and the semidiameter
nt
itself, equal to unity, reduced in the ratio of the secants of
these angles, that is, to n ^ ; but, by the known
1 -f- mitt
property of the ellipsis, the perpendicular required is equal
to the product of the semiaxis, divided by this semidiame-
1 t Witt
ter, that is, to a/ 1~ri——; we have therefore only to
1 + «
make nn — m, and the velocity in the given medium will
always be such as is required for the propagation of an un¬
dulation, preserving the form of similar and concentric sphe¬
roids, of which the given ellipsis represents any principal
section.
“ If the whole of the undulation were of equal force, this
See the article Optics, p. 505. * Ibid. p. 493.
3 See Biot’s Recherches sur les Mouvemens ties MotZcules de Lumiere, 4to, Pads, 1814, p. Ixxxvi.
p.; p |nsa-
f
POLARISATION OF LIGHT. C) " ^
reasoning would be sufficient for determining its motion ; fluence, and the beams of light are divided by it into two Polaris*
but when one part of it is stronger than another, this supe- portions, the intensity of each may be calculated, by su^- tion oT
, nonty of pressure and motion will obviously be propagated posing the polar motion to be resolved instead of being re- LiSht-
m the direction of the actual resistance produced by the fleeted, the simple velocities of the two portions being as^  
displacement of the particles, since it is this resistance thecosinesoftheanglesformedbythenewplanesofmo-
which carries on the pressure, and consequently propagates tion with the old, and the energies, which are the true
the motion. It is very remarkable that the direction of measure of the intensity, as the squares of the sines. We
the resistance will be found, on the supposition which has
been advanced respecting the constitution of the medium,
to coincide everywhere with the diameters of the ellipsis
when the displacement is perpendicular to the surface.
For it is proved by authors on conic sections, that the sub¬
normal of the ellipsis is to the absciss as the square of the
lesser axis is to the square of the greater, that is, in this
case, as mi to 1, or as m to 1 ; but if we divide the ordi¬
nate to the same ratio of m to 1, and join the point of di¬
vision with the extremity of the subnormal, this line, which
will evidently be parallel to the diameter, will express, as
we have already seen, the direction of the force when the
normal represents that of the displacement. An imme¬
diate displacement in the direction of any diameter, mak¬
ing an angle with the axis of which the tangent is t, would
give a velocity of while the increment of the
1 tt
m + mtt
which
diameter would require a velocity of y' ^ ^
does not vary in the same proportion. It must, however,
be remembered, that the rectilinear direction of the beam
is not supposed to depend on this circumstance alone.
Huygens considers each point of the surface of the crystal,
on which a beam of light impinges, as the centre of a new
undulation, which spreads in some measure in every di¬
rection, but produces no perceptible effect except where it
is supported by, and co-operates with, the neighbouring un¬
dulations, that is, in the surface which is a common tan¬
gent of the collateral undulations; but if this principle were
applied to extraordinary refraction without the assistance
of the obliquity of force, which may be deduced from the
supposition of a stratified medium, it would lead us to ex¬
pect that the elementary impulses, being propagated in a
curvilinear trajectory, might be intercepted by an object
not situated in the rectilinear path of the beam ; a conclu¬
sion which is not warranted by experiment.”
However satisfactorily this mode of viewing the extraor¬
dinary refraction may be applied to the subsequent disco¬
veries relating to the effects of heat and compression, there
is another train of ideas, which arises more immediately
from the phenomena of polarisation, and which might lead
us to a more distinct notion of the separation of the pencil
into two or more portions, though it does not seem to com¬
prehend so entirely the phenomena depending on spheroi¬
dal undulations.
We may begin this mode of considering the subject in
the words which have already been employed in the article
Chromatics, vol. vi. p. 649. “J[f we assume as a mathema¬
tical, postulate, in the undulatory theory, without attempting of particles which has been displaced, towards its original
to demonstrate its physical foundation, that a transverse situation, by the resistance of the particles surrounding the
motion may be propagated in a direct line, we may derive line, and at the same time to impel these particles in its
from this assumption a tolerable illustration of the subdivi- own direction, and in that direction only, or principally,
sion of polarised light by reflection in an oblique plane, while the aggregate effect is propagated in concentric
Supposing polarisation to depend on a transverse motion surfaces.
in the given plane ; when a ray completely polarised is sub- This hypothesis of M. Fresnel is at least very ingenious,
Jected to simple reflection in a different plane, at a surface and may lead us to some satisfactory computations ; but it
which is destitute of any polarising action, and which may is attended by one circumstance which is perfectly appal-
be said to afford a neutral reflection, the polar motion may ing in its consequences. I he substances on which M. Sa¬
ke conceived to be reflected, as any other motion would be vart made his experiments were solids only, and it is only
reflected, at a perfectly smooth surface, the new plane of to solids that such a lateral resistance has ever been attri-
the motion being always the image of the former plane ; buted ; so that if we adopted the distinctions laid down by
and the effect of refraction will be nearly of a similar na- the reviver of the undulatory system himself in his Lec¬
ture. But when the surface exhibits U new' polarising in- tures. it might be inferred that the luminiferous ether per-
are thus insensibly led to confound the intensity of the sup¬
posed polar motion with that of the reflected light itself;
since it was observed by Malus, that the relative intensity of
the two portions into which light is divided under such cir¬
cumstances, is indicated by the proportion of the squares
of the cosine and sine of the inclination of the planes of
polarisation. The imaginary transverse motion might also
necessarily be alternate ; partly from the nature of a con¬
tinuous medium, and partly from the observed fact, that
there is no distinction between the polarisations produced
by causes precisely opposed to each other in the same
plane.” Another analogous hint is found in the Philoso¬
phical Transactions for 1818, p. 273. “ Supposing the
experiments to be perfectly represented by [Dr Brewster’s]
general law, it will follow that the tint exhibited depends
not on the difference of refractive densities in the direction
of the ray transmitted, but on the greatest difference of re¬
fractive densities in directions perpendicular to that of the
ray. These two conditions lead to the same result where
the effect of one axis only is considered, but they vary ma¬
terially where two axes are supposed to be combined 
There can be little doubt that the direction of the polari¬
sation, in such cases, must be determined by that of the
greatest and least of the refractive densities in question
a “ supposition” which Dr Brewster finds “ quite correct.”
We may add again to these hints the consideration, that
when simple pressure or extension in the direction of any
given axis produces a spheroidal undulation in a medium
before homogeneous, this state is always accompanied by
the condition, that a ray describing the axis, while the den¬
sities in all transverse directions remain equal, undergoes
no subdivision; but that a ray moving in the plane of the
equator, to which the perpendiculars are the axis and ano¬
ther equatorial diameter, undergoes the greatest possible
separation into parts that are respectively polarised in the
planes passing through these directions.
From these phenomena we are led to be strongly im¬
pressed with the analogy of the properties of sound, as in¬
vestigated cursorily by Mr Wheatstone, and in a more ela¬
borate manner by the multiplied experiments of M. Savart,
which have shown that, in many cases, the elementary mo¬
tions of the substances transmitting sound are transverse
to the direction in which the sound is propagated, and that
they remain in general parallel to the original impulse.
The next transition carries us from the mathematical
postulate here mentioned, to the physical condition assumed
by M. Fresnel, that the relative situation of the particles
of the ethereal medium with respect to each other, is such
as to produce an elastic force tending to bring back a line
246
POL
POL
Pol de
Leon
Pole,
Reginald.
vading all space, and penetrating almost all substances, is
not only highly elastic, but absolutely solid. Ihe passage
in question is this :—
“ The immediate cause of solidity, as distinguished from
liquidity, is the lateral adhesion of the particles to each
other, to which the degree of hardness or solidity is always
proportional. This adhesion prevents any change of the
relative situation of the particles, so that they cannot be
withdrawn from their places, without experiencing a consi¬
derable resistance from the force of cohesion, while those
of liquids may remain equally in contact with the neigh¬
bouring particles, notwithstanding their change of form.
When a perfect solid is extended or compressed, the par¬
ticles, being retained in their situations by the force of la¬
teral adhesion, can only approach directly to each other, or
be withdrawn farther from each other ; and the resistance
is nearly the same as if the same substance, in a fluid state,
were enclosed in an unalterable vessel, and forcibly com¬
pressed or dilated. Thus the resistance of ice to exten¬
sion or compression is found by experiment to differ very
little from that of water contained in a vessel; and the
same effect may be produced even when the solidity is not
the most perfect that the substance admits ; for the imme¬
diate resistance of iron or steel to flexure is the same, whe¬
ther it may be harder or softer. It often happens, however,
that the magnitude of the lateral adhesion is so much li¬
mited as to allow a capability of extension or compression,
and it may yet retain a power of restoring the bodies to
their original form by its re-action. This force may even
be the principal or the only source of the body’s elasticity.
Thus, when a piece of elastic gum is extended, the mean
distance of the particles is not materially increased...and
the change of form is rather to be attributed to a displace¬
ment of the particles than to their separation to a greater
distance from each other, and the resistance must be de¬
rived from the lateral adhesion only. Some other sub¬
stances, also, approaching more nearly to the nature of li¬
quids, may be extended to many times their original length,
with a resistance continually increasing; and in such cases
there can scarcely be any material changes of the specific
gravity of these substances. Professor Robison has men¬
tioned the juice of bryony as affording a remarkable in¬
stance of such viscidity.
“ It is probable that the immediate cause of the lateral
adhesion of solids is a symmetrical arrangement of their
constituent parts. It is certain that almost all bodies are
disposed, in becoming solid, to assume the form of crystals,
which evidently indicates the existence of such an arrange¬
ment ; and all the hardest bodies in nature are of a crystal¬
line form. It appears, therefore, consistent both with rea¬
son and with experience to suppose, that a crystallization
more or less perfect is the universal cause of solidity. We
may imagine, that when the particles of matter are disposed
without any order, they can afford no strong resistance to
a motion in any direction ; but when they are regularly
placed in certain situations with respect to each other, any
change of form must displace them in such a manner as to
increase the distance of a whole rank at once ; and hence
they may be enabled to co-operate in resisting such a
change. Any inequality of tension in a particular part of a
solid is also probably so far the cause of hardness, as it tends
to increase the strength of union of any part of a series
of particles which must be displaced by a change of form.”
It must, however, be admitted, that this passage by no
means contains a demonstration of the total incapability of
fluids to transmit any impressions by lateral adhesion, and
the hypothesis remains completely open for discussion, not¬
withstanding the apparent difficulties attending it; which
have appeared to bring us very near to the case stated in
the same lectures as a possible one, that there may be in¬
dependent worlds, some existing in different parts of space,
others pervading each other unseen and unknown in the
same space. We may perhaps accommodate the hypothe¬
sis of M. Fresnel to the phenomena of the ordinary and
extraordinary refraction, by considering the undulations as
propagated through the given medium in two different
ways ; some by the divergence of the elementary motions
in the direction of the ray, and others by their remaining
parallel to the direction of the impulse or of the polarisa¬
tion. The former must be supposed to furnish the sphe¬
roidal, the latter the spherical refraction. It would indeed
follow that the velocity of the spherical undulation ought
to vary by innumerable degrees, within certain limits, ac¬
cording to the direction of the supposed elementary mo¬
tion ; whilst in fact the actual velocity of the spherical un¬
dulations seems to be uniformly equal to the velocity in the
direction of the axis ; but this objection may be obviated
by supposing the surface so constituted, that for some un¬
known reason the parallel elementary motion can only be
propagated in the regular manner when it takes place in
the direction of the axis, or when it is made to assume that
direction ; a condition not very simple or natural, but by
no means inconceivable, unless we saw any reason to con¬
sider the adhesion as a constant force, independent of the
direction, and equal to the least or greatest elasticity, or
unless it were possible to derive the phenomena of two
supposed axes of polarisation, which M. Fresnel has ex¬
plained on the hypothesis of tw o spheroids, from the sup¬
position of two spherical undulations propagating oblique
elementary motions in the direction of the actual polarisa¬
tion, as already determined for these crystals.
If these conjectures should be found to afford a single
step in an investigation so transcendently delicate, it will
be best to pause on them for a time, and to wait for fur¬
ther aid from a new' supply of experiments and observa¬
tions.] (t. t. t. t.)
POL DE LEON, a city of France, in the department of
Finisterre, and arrondissement of Morlaix. It is situated
on a hill near the sea, about a mile from its haven Pen-
pont, which is accessible to small vessels. It is the see of a
bishop, and has a cathedral and other churches, 1005 houses,
and 6150 inhabitants, who make linen goods, and some
pottery ware. Long. 3. 53. 26. W. Lat. 48. 40. 55. N.
POLE, Reginald, cardinal, and archbishop of Canter¬
bury, a younger son of Sir Richard Pole, Lord Montague,
was born at Stoverton Castle, in Staffordshire, in the year
1500. At seven years of age he was sent to a Carthusian
monastery at Shene, near Richmond, in Surrey ; and thence,
when he was about twelve years old, removed to Magdalen
College, in Oxford, where, by the instruction of the cele¬
brated Linacre and Latimer, he made considerable progress
in learning. In 1515 he took the degree of bachelor of arts,
and was admitted to deacon’s orders some time afterwards;
in 1517, he was made prebendary of Salisbury, and in 1519
dean of Wimborne and dean of Exeter. We are not sur¬
prised at this young nobleman’s early preferments, when we
consider him as the kinsman of Henry VIII. and that he
was bred to the church by the king’s special command.
Being now about the age of nineteen, he was sent, ac¬
cording to the fashion of the times, to finish his studies at
Padua, in Italy, where he resided some time in great splen¬
dour, having a handsome pension from the king. In 1525
he returned to England, where he was most graciously
received at court, and universally admired for his talents
and address; but preferring study and sequestration to
the pleasures of a court, he retired to the Carthusian con-
POL
vent at Shene, where he had continued about two years,
' when the pious king began to divulge his scruples of con¬
science concerning his marriage with Catharine of Spain.
Pole foresaw that this affair would necessarily involve him
in difficulties; he therefore determined to quit the king¬
dom, and accordingly obtained leave to visit Paris. Having
thus avoided the storm for the present, he returned once
more to his convent at Shene ; but his tranquillity was again
interrupted by the king’s resolution to shake off the pope’s
supremacy, of which Pole’s approbation was thought indis¬
pensably necessary. How he managed in this affair is not
very clear. However, he obtained leave to revisit Italy,
and his pension was continued for some time.
The king, having now divorced Queen Catharine, mar¬
ried Anne Boleyn ; and being resolved to throw off the pa¬
pal yoke, ordered Dr Richard Sampson to write a book in
justification of his proceedings, which he sent to Pole for
his opinion. To this Pole, secure in the pope’s protection,
wrote a vehement answer, entitled Pro Unitate Ecclesiasi-
ca, and sent it to the king, who was so much offended with
the contents, that he withdrew his pension, stripped him of
all his preferments, and procured an act of attainder to be
passed against him. In the mean time, Pole was created a
cardinal, and sent in quality of nuncio to different parts of
Europe. Henry made several attempts to have him secured
and brought to England, but all of them proved abortive.
At length the pope fixed him as legate at Viterbo, where
he continued till the year 1543, when he was appointed le¬
gate at the council of Trent, and was afterwards employed
by the pope as his chief counsellor.
Pope Paul III. having died in 1540, Pole was twice
elected his successor, and, we are told, twice refused the
papal dignity; the first time, because the election was made
in too great haste ; and the second, because it was done in
the night. Cardinal Maria de Monte obtained the triple
crown ; and Pole, having kissed his slipper, retired to the
convent of Magazune, near Verona, where he continued till
the death of Edward VI. in the year 1553. On the acces¬
sion of Queen Mary, Pole was sent as legate to England,
where he was received by her majesty with great venera¬
tion, and conducted to the archbishop’s palace at Lambeth,
Thomas Cranmer being at that time prisoner in the Tower.
He immediately appeared in the House of Lords, where he
made a long speech ; and this being reported to the Com¬
mons by their speaker, both these houses concurred in an
humble supplication to be reconciled to the see of Rome.
Ihey presented it on their knees to her majesty, who inter¬
ceded with the cardinal, and he graciously condescended to
give them absolution. This business being ended, the le¬
gate made his public entry into London, and immediately
set about the extirpation of heresy. The day after the exe¬
cution of Cranmer, which he is falsely said to have advised,
he was consecrated archbishop of Canterbury. In the same
year, 1556, he was elected chancellor of the university of
Oxford, and soon afterwards of Cambridge ; both which he
visited, by his commissioners. He died of a double quartan
ague, in the year 1558, about sixteen hours after the death
of the queen, and was buried in the cathedral of Canter¬
bury.
As to his character, the Catholic writers ascribe to him
every virtue under heaven ; and even Bishop Burnet is la¬
vish in his praise, attributing the cruelties of Mary’s reign
to the advice of Gardiner. In this Mr Hume agrees with
the bishop, and represents Pole as the advocate of tolera¬
tion. By every impartial account, he seems to have been a
man of mild manners and of real worth, though undoubt¬
edly a zealous member of the church of Rome. He wrote,
Pro Uvitate Ecclesiastica, De Ejusdem Potestate, a Trea¬
tise on Justification, and various other tracts.
Pole, in Astronomy, that point in the heavens round
which the whole sphere seems to turn. It is also used for
POL 247
a point directly perpendicular to the centre of the plane of Pole-axe
any circle, and distant from it by the length of a radius. il
Pole-Axe, a sort of hatchet, nearly resembling a battle-Polianthes*
axe, and which is principally employed in sea-fights, to cut S'~'v '
away and destroy the rigging of any adversary who endea¬
vours to board.
POLEIN, in English antiquity, is a sort of shoe, sharp
or piked at the point. This fashion took its rise in the time
of William Rufus; and the pikes were so long that they
were tied up to the knees with silver or golden chains. But
they were forbidden by statute 4, Edward IV. cap. 7.
POLEMARCHUS, a magistrate at Athens, who had un¬
der his care all the strangers and sojourners in the city, over
whom he had the same authority as the archon had over the
citizens.
POLEMICAL, in matters of literature or theology, an
appellation given to books of controversy.
1 OLEMO, who succeeded Xenocrates in the direction
of the academy, was an Athenian of distinguished birth, but
in the earlier part of his life a man of loose morals. The man¬
ner in which he was reclaimed from the pursuit of infamous
pleasures, and brought under the discipline of philosophy,
affords a memorable example of the power of eloquence
employed in the cause of virtue. As he was, one morning
about sunrise, returning home from the revels of the night,
he passed by the school of Xenocrates, and saw him sur¬
rounded with his disciples. Unable to resist so fortunate
an opportunity of indulging his sportive humour, he rushed
without ceremony into, the school, and took his place amongst
the philosophers. The whole assembly was astonished at
this intrusion, and all but Xenocrates discovered signs of
resentment. Xenocrates, however, preserved perfect com¬
mand of his temper, and turning his discourse from the sub¬
ject on which he was treating to the topics of temperance
and modesty, he recommended them with such strength of
argument and energy of language, that Polemo was con¬
strained to yield to the force of conviction. Instead of turn¬
ing the philosopher and his doctrine to ridicule, as he at first
intended, he became sensible of the folly of his former con¬
duct ; was heartily ashamed of the contemptible figure which
he had made in so respectable an assembly; assumed a se¬
date and thoughtful aspect; and resolved from that hour to
relinquish his licentious pleasures, and devote himself to the
pursuit of wisdom.
POLES IN A, a delegation of Austrian Italy, in the pro¬
vince of Milan. It is bounded on the north by Padua, on
the east by Venice, on the south by the papal states, and on
the west by Mantua and Verona. It is 434 square miles in
extent, and contains 135,200 inhabitants. It is a level dis¬
trict, without woods; but abounding in lakes and morasses,
which render it unhealthy. The district is enclosed by the
rivers Po and Etsch ; and the interior is drained by the
Adigetto, Tar taro, Castognaro, and many canals. The soil is
very fruitful, and yields abundantly of maize, oats, wheat,
and rice ; and also much fruit, hemp, flax, wine, and good
silk. The soil likewise furnishes abundance of nitre, the
preparation of which affords much employment. The only
other manufactures are those of leather, bricks, and tiles.
The capital is Rovigio. In the time of the Romans this
district was a marsh, known as Paludes Padusce. It is now
divided into seven districts, which are subdivided into fifty-
six communes.
POLET/E were ten magistrates of Athens, who, with
three that had the management of the money allowed for
public shows, were empowered to let out the tribute-money
and other public revenues, and to sell confiscated estates ;
all which transactions were ratified by their president, or in
his name.
POLIANTHES, the Tuberose, a genus of plants be¬
longing to the hexandria class ; and in the natural method
ranking under the tenth order, Coronarice.
POLICE.
Police. The Word Police has two meanings. According to the
firSt, it is the science of regulating whatever belongs to the
internal economy of a state; according to the second, or
limited meaning, it is merely a system of preventive justice.
General The first definition may appear so extensive, as to make
definition, it possible to confound the idea or the science of police with
that of politics, or government, as defined by Aristotle to
consist of the ordering of all things in the state towards the
ultimate end, namely, the common happiness. But the dis¬
tinction mav be understood, by comparing the operation of
police regulations in society, to that of a system of domestic
order in a family. The members of a commonwealth, like
those of a family, must conform their conduct to certain
conventional rules, which the chief authority enforces amongst
them, for their mutual advantage, in addition to the moral
duties which belong to them in common with all men. A
breach of an economical law of this description, is an offence
against police. Thus, whilst an assault, or a theft, is an of¬
fence against the person, or property, of a citizen ; treason,
one against the sovereign power; or perjury, one against
the administration of justice; vagrancy, gaming, bigamy,
and the like, are understood to be offences against the pub¬
lic police, upon the ground that the tendency of such acts,
without reference to the question of their immorality, is in¬
jurious to the economy of society.1 *
But it is the office of ponce, taken in a large sense, to go
farther than forbidding certain injurious acts. It may em¬
ploy indirect means to prevent the commission of crimes. It
may seek to avert the will of the citizen from a breach of
the law, by turning his inclinations into a direction confor¬
mable to the public interests. Thus, it may avoid the use
of any punishment containing ingredients which might make
it an object of desire ; it may take all possible care that
punishment shall be certain ; it may cultivate religious sen¬
timents in the people; it may instruct them in their moral and
social duties, and provide them with the means of agreeable
recreation.9 The object of such precautions is the same
with that of punishment, namely, the prevention of crime ;
inasmuch as they tend to impress the citizens with a sense of
right, acting educationally upon them, like the virtuous
principles which a good father instils into the minds of his
children. Hence the science of police has been described
by a contemporary authority, as “ the moral education of a
people towards self-government.”3
It is pretty clear, that police, in this extended sense of
internal polity, comprehends the protection of society against
not only physical, but also moral evils. The regulation of
the highways, and internal navigation ; the care of the pub¬
lic health ; poor laws or corn laws, may be classed under it
with no less propriety than public instruction, or religious
establishments. The true ground on which an established
church is defensible, is, its value as an instrument of police
in this elevated sense ; and the same test is applicable to na¬
tional education, and other institutions, affecting the moral
welfare of society.
The present state of moral and political science is not
such as to enable us to define police with anything like
precision. But if what has been said, does not convey an
accurate notion of that which it is, it may point more plainly PoiieJ
at that which it is not. No one, for instance, will expect'^y. ^
to hear of police in relation to the external defence, or fo¬
reign policy, of a state. Few will confound its objects with
those of the dispensations of justice which are directed to
the maintenance of private rights, or to the security of the
state itself, as a social existence. |
The second, or limited definition, of police, considers it Limited
as that branch of the administration of justice, which ope- definite <
rates directly for the prevention and detection of crime. It
is the judicial function to hear and determine between right
and wrong, and to sentence the offender to the punishment
which the law has awarded him. But the judge cannot be
brought into action, without an auxiliary power for securing
the persons of offenders for justice ; for checking crimes in
the act of commission ; and for watching the observance, or
breach, of the laws. This is the -preventive branch of jus¬
tice ; and the system of operations destined for the perform¬
ance of these services, goes, in ordinary language, under the
name of police. The object of such operations is of course
included within those of the term police, in a larger sense, | ,
and preventive justice is therefore their more appropriate
name. Under a good system of law, the powers, means,
and ends, of preventive justice, would be carefully defined;
so that they should, in no case, be confounded with those
of penal or executive justice, nor the same individuals be
employed in the performance of duties essentially different.
But this important distinction has rarely been attended to as
it ought, and the efficiency of police establishments has been
thereby not unfrequently impaired. At the present time
there is, we believe, no instance of the police of a large city
which, as a whole, can be said to be merely a preventive
system ; but a variety of functions are associated under the
name of police, contributing to the preservation of the public
peace, health, and convenience, but the classification of which
is, for the most part, defective. There are, therefore, few per¬
fect systems of police, either in the wide or the limited sense
which, it has been seen, properly belongs to that word.
Before we proceed to point out the essential requisites of
a good police system, it will be useful to take a review of
some existing institutions of this nature.
From the earliest times, all nations which have established Ancient
regular laws, have had amongst them police regulations.
They form a prominent part of the institutions of the an-6
cient Egyptians and Greeks, and also of the Mosaic law. A
special branch of the Roman law was applied to police. The
Emperor Augustus, as is well known, introduced important
changes into the police of the city of Rome, by withdrawing
the powers previously exercised by the Praetors and Ediles,
and constituting a magistrate under the title of Prafectus
urbis, under whom were the magistratns minores, or cura-
tores urbis, assigned for the protection of the several quar¬
ters into which the city was divided. In the reigns of Con¬
stantine, Theodosius, and Justinian, very severe laws were
enacted against female prostitution. The capitularies of
Charlemagne are remarkable for the heavy penalties they
inflict upon the same offence, which seems also to have
been a favourite subject of regulation with Saint Louis, and
1 See an enumeration of offences treated by the English law as “ against the public police or economy,” in Blackstone’s Commentaries,
book 4, chap. 13; and Stephen’s Summary of the Criminal Z«u>, chap. 11.
9 See, on the indirect means of preventing crimes, Bentbam, Principles of Legislation, penal code, part 4.
3 Conversations*Lexicon, vol. viii. 1835, art. PolizeL
Police.
iMd law of
jigland.
POLICE.
Charles VI. of France. In 1502, we find police regulations
established at Nuremburg, relating principally to the cen¬
sorship of books ; and there are extant,, ordinances of police
of the German empire, of the dates of 1548 and 1577, con¬
taining distinct ordinances for the empire, the circles, the
counties, and the towns. Towards the end of the seven¬
teenth century, the science of police acquired a new develop¬
ment, by the introduction into France of the system of se¬
cret police, to which we shall presently refer. There does
not appear any particular advantage in detailing at length
the police legislation of antiquity, or of the middle ages. It
will, we think, be more instructive to confine our statements
to modern times.
The provision made for preventive justice by the old law
of England, consisted in the powers which it vested in jus¬
tices of the peace and constables, as also in individuals,
when present at the commission of crime, or summoned by
the hue and cry. The office of constable existed in the
time of the Saxons, and the statute of Winchester (13th
Edward I.) expressly directed that two constables should
be chosen in every hundred ; that suspicious night-walkers
should be arrested and detained by the watch; and that in
walled towns the gates should be closed from sun-setting to
sun-rising. These are called high constables ; in addition
to whom petty constables were instituted for every town and
parish in the reign of Edward III. and especially empowered
by the statute 5th Edward III. cap. 44, “ to arrest persons
suspected of manslaughter, felonies, and robberies, and to
deliver them to the sheriff, to be kept in prison till the com¬
ing of the justices.” The hue and cry is the raising an
alarm, and making continuous pursuit through the country,
upon the commission of a felony, and was used as far back
as the reign of Edward L, when it was comparatively easy
by such means to discover a criminal flying from the law.
At the present day, when the hue and cry is raised, every
person, by command of the constable, is legally obliged, on
pain of fine and imprisonment, to join in pursuit of the felon
from county to county, or until they come to the sea; but
it is now so rarely put in practice, that it may be considered
as having almost fallen into desuetude. It is further an old
rule of law, that every person present when a felony is com¬
mitted, is authorized and required to arrest the offender.
In early times, it seems to have been the custom for the
freeholders of each county to elect “ de probioribus et po-
tentioribus comitatas” to be keepers of the peace ; but the
statute 1st Edward III., cap. 16, gave such appointments to
the crown, by whom they still continue to be made. When
the keepers of the peace became authorized by the statute
34th Edward III. to try felonies and misdemeanours, they
acquired the title of justices; and their judicial functions
have been so vastly extended by modern statutes, that the
mere conservation of the peace is now by no means the
most important part of their duties. Such were the ordinary
courses available, under the law of England, for the pre¬
vention of crime, and for bringing offenders to justice.
As population and property increased, it was found that
the ordinary magisterial and constabulary force became
more and more inadequate for the public protection. It is
not necessary to refer to the Newgate Calendar, or the life
of Jonathan Wild, to prove the total absence of any effec¬
tual security to individuals, in the last century, against out¬
rage and depredation. It is within the remembrance of per¬
sons now living, that a journey could not be undertaken from
one part of England to another without risk of highway-
robbery. The extent of crime in the metropolis at the close
of the last century would be incredible, if it were not re-
249
corded upon respectable authority. Colqunoun, writintr in Polk*,
the ear 1 bOO,1 estimated the value of the property purloin- ^^y"*1**
ed and pilfered in various ways, in and about the metropo¬
lis, at two millions sterling in one year. Some of the in¬
stances given would now appear very curious.2 The same
writer furnishes a statement of the number of prisoners dis¬
charged from the metropolitan gaols and hulks in the eight
years, 1792 to 1799, the total of which is 21,893, being, on
an average, 2734 yearly; a very considerable number in pro¬
portion to the then population. The almost innumerable
ramifications of crime in London, as detailed by Colquhoun,
may excite surprise at the little effort that was made in any
quarter before he wrote to repress it.
1 he public office in Bow Street was for some time the Police of
only place in the metropolis where a police magistrate sat Lo^on.
regularly, without the jurisdiction of the city of London.
Seven additional police offices were established in 1792, by
the act 32d Geo. III. cap. 53, and the Thames police-office
in 1798. Previously to their establishment, the magistrates
of the county of Middlesex, and city of Westminster, acted
as occasion required, in the same way as the magistrates
ordinarily act in other parts of the country.
The constabulary force of the metropolis, comprising that
of the cities of London and Westminster, the borough of
Southwark, and parts adjacent, is stated by Colquhoun at
883 ; that consisting of the constables attached to the police
offices and the Thames establishment, at 157; and, adding
to these 2044 beadles, watchmen, and patroles, employed by
the city, and by the numerous parishes and trusts, the civil
force of the metropolis, available for purposes of police,
amounted, in the aggregate, to 3084 men.
The Parliamentary Finance Committee of 1798, in their
Twenty-eighth Report, took a general view of the Police
Establishment, in reference principally to its expense ; but
although that committee recommended several important
reforms, and, in the same year, the Government had under
its consideration a proposition of Mr. Colquhoun for the es¬
tablishment of a central police board, and other remedial
measures, no result followed. The progress of crime and
demoralization, however, began gradually to attract the at¬
tention of the Legislature, and Parliamentary Committees
inquired into the subject of police in the years 1812, 1816,
1817, 1822, and 1828. At the latter date the necessity for
a new system had become very urgent. The metropolis was
subdivided into a number of petty jurisdictions, each acting
independently, and frustrating the efforts of the other; the
local functionaries were miserably inefficient; the absence
of union in the constabulary power offered facilities to crime
and disorder; and in the event of any real or anticipated
tumult, it was necessary to preserve the peace of the town
by a military force. In 1829, the act 10th Geo. IV. cap.
44, was passed, “ for improving the police in and near the
metropolis and pursuant to that act, a central office was
established in London, and two commissioners appointed for
the administration of a system of centralization, in lieu of
the local functionaries. The metropolitan police district,
according to that act, consists of about ninety parishes, and
ultra-parochial places, in and surrounding the metropolis,
comprising a population at present amounting to 1,515,592,
but exclusive of the city of London and the river Thames.
The active force employed under the commissioners at the
close of the year 1837, was as follows :—
17 Superintendents at L.200 per annum each.
70 Inspectors at L.l, 10s. 6d. per week each.
342 Sergeants at L.l, 2s. 6d. per week each.
2992 Constables at 19s. per week each.
1 Treatise on the Police of the Metropolis, by P- Colquhoun, LL.D-, magistrate, &c. London, 1806, seventh edition.
t The following is one :—“ The wife of a well-known sharper, lately upon the town, is said to have appeared at court, dressed in a style
of peculiar elegance; while the sharper himself is supposed to have gone in the dress of a clergyman. According to the information of a
noted receiver, they pilfered to the value of L.1700 on the king’s birthday (1705), without discovery or suspicion.”
VOL. XVIIJ, ~ 1
Horse pa¬
trol.
Offices.
250
Police. The horse patrol, formerly attached to Bow Street, and
recently1 placed under the commissioners, consists of seven¬
ty-six men, mounted and armed.
There are at present in London nine police-offices, to each
of which three magistrates are attached. These are, Bow
Street, Queen Square, Marlborough Street, Marylebone,
Hatton Garden, Worship Street, Whitechapel, Union Hall,
and the Thames Police. Constables are specially attached
to each office, sixty-three altogether, besides twenty-two
surveyors, and seventy river constables, belonging to the
Thames police.
The total expense of these establishments appears by the
latest returns to be as follows:—
Metropolitan Police Establishment, exclu- ) l,209,754 ^
sive of Commissioners’ salaries, year 1837 f ’ s2
Horse Patrol, do  10,289 )
Salaries of two commissioners   1,600
Police-offices,including theRiverForce,(1835) 51,724 3
POLICE.
The subjoined table, compiled from official returns, will
shew the extent to which the central police force is brought'
into action in the course of the year.
Expense.
police.
Police.
Total... L.272,367
The expenses of the metropolitan force are defrayed prin¬
cipally by a rate levied with the poor rate, upon the inhabi¬
tants. A certain proportion, however, is paid out of the con¬
solidated fund; but the advances by the treasury are limited
to L.60,000 per annum. The expenses of the nine offices,
including the Thames service, and also the commissioners’
salaries, are wholly defrayed out of the consolidated fund.
City police The city of London is not included within the metropo¬
litan district, but retains its separate police, acting under the
municipal authorities. Upwards of 1000 persons are em¬
ployed as marshalmen, watchmen, and constables, and the
total annual cost is returned at L.43,862, of which L.34,924
was levied by rates upon the inhabitants, and the residue
paid out of the city revenue.4
Functions The functions of the metropolitan police force are exer-
of the me- cised under the control partly of the commissioners, and
tropolitan partly 0f the magistrates. They are distributed throughout
the district in seventeen divisions, distinguished by the let¬
ters A to V. In each division there are one or more sta¬
tion houses, in which prisoners are lodged in the first in¬
stance, on their being given in charge, or taken into cus¬
tody, until they can be brought before the magistrates at
the police offices. Prisoners consequently remain in the
station-houses during the night, and also during Sundays.
When the case comes on before the magistrate, he deals
with it as the law requires, either by discharging the offend¬
er, committing him for trial or further examination, convic¬
ting him summarily, or holding him to bail.
When a complaint is made to a police magistrate, he is¬
sues his warrant as he sees occasion, either to a constable
attached to his office, or to one of the metropolitan force.
The commissioners of police, although as magistrates they
have the legal power to do so, are not in the habit of grant¬
ing warrants ; and the policemen cannot arrest without war¬
rant, unless a charge is made, or an offence is committed in
their presence. They have in fact little powrer beyond that
of an ordinary constable, except that the police acts contain
more express authority for the apprehension of suspected per¬
sons, than the laws which apply to the kingdom in general.
The means of detecting crime have been greatly augment¬
ed by the action of the central police establishment, but it
may be doubted whether its operation is as efficient as it
might be made towards the hindrance of crime, or the pre¬
venting its commission. Numerous receivers of stolen goods
continue to carry on their business with impunity, and flash-
houses still exist in the metropolis, where thieves are known
to congregate to concert their plans. There are no autho¬
rised informers belonging to the police force.
Years.
Number of
persons
taken into
custody by
Police.
Number
discharged
by the ^Ma¬
gistrates.
1834
1835
1836
1837
Total
Average of
the last
four years.
64,269
63,474
63,384
64,416
255,543
63,885
34,499
32,544
29,776
33,043
129,862
32,915
Number
summarily
convicted
or held to
bail
Number
committed
for trial.
26.302
27,817
30,453
28,345
112,897
28,228
3,468
3,113
3,175
3,028
12,783
3,196
The circumstance of more than half of the persons taken
into custody, having been discharged without punishment,
cannot fail to be remarked as indicating unnecessary deten¬
tion to a serious extent. The remedy for this lies in an im¬
proved system of bail and recognizances.
Of the 64,416 persons apprehended in the year 1837, it Numlierof
appears that 5643 were charged with offences against the offenders
person, 180 with violent offences against property, 15,289 apprehend-
with larcenies and other offences against property cotnmit- ed.
ted without violence, 1727 with malicious offences against
property, 884 with forgery and offences against the cur¬
rency, and 40,684 with offences of a miscellaneous cha¬
racter. Of this latter class, it is worthy of remark, that
21,426 were charged with drunkenness, 3103 as disorderly
prostitutes, and 6842 as reputed thieves, suspicious charac¬
ters, and vagrants. It should be borne in mind that these
offenders are exclusive of those apprehended by the city po¬
lice, and the constables attached to the offices.
The police magistrates are occupied not only in the dis¬
posal of the offenders brought before them, but in some mat¬
ters not of a criminal character, such as the administration
of the poor-laws, and other duties conferred by particular
statutes. A reference to Burn’s Justice will shew the wide
range of a magistrate’s duty. They have some few, but very
limited, powers, in civil cases. They act, in some mea¬
sure, ministerially, in planning the detection of offenders,
and shaping the evidence towards their conviction. There
are, however, good reasons for desiring that the magistrates
should be entirely confined to their judicial functions.
The law of England has never entrusted the constabu- Vagrants,
lary, nor has it armed the central police, with any general
power of personal surveillance over the people. The law
which is the most stringent against disorderly or suspicious
persons, is the vagrant act,5 which in fact authorises the ma¬
gistrate to punish, without any direct proof of the commis¬
sion of a crime; and the metropolitan police acts6 have some¬
what extended the description of persons who may be ap¬
prehended and dealt with as rogues and vagabonds, accord¬
ing to the first mentioned act. In so populous and wealthy
a city as London, it is indispensable that summary powers
should be vested in the magistracy for the protection of the
public against those who live by depredation, and who have
neither “ a local habitation nor a name,” as securities for
their good behaviour. It is officially recorded that in the
year 1837, the number of depredators, offenders, and sus¬
pected persons, within the cognizance of the central police,
was 19,919, being in the ratio of 1 to each 83 of the popu-
Under Act 6th and 7th, Will. IV. cap. 50.
See Parliamentary Return, lOth June 1836.
2 See Parliamentary Return, 16th Feb. 1838. 3 Ibid, 13th June 1836.
8 5th Geo. IV. cap. 83. 6 10th Geo. IV. cap. 44, and 3d Will. IV. cap. 19-
POLICE.
folire.
Li'-es
I.’ical
lation ; and as the average length of the career of each offen¬
der is estimated at about four years, the danger to property
from the existence of such a floating mass of crime is suffi¬
ciently apparent. Far from the apprehension of peril to the
liberty of the subject, from a further extension of the
summary powers of the magistrates, the better opinion seems
at present to be, that they might be extended with advan¬
tage even to all cases of larceny.
(| mbling There are in London at present about thirty common gam¬
bling-houses known to the police, and the average number of
persons daily resorting to each is about twenty. The police
has not, however, any summary control over them, but they
are subject to indictment by any common informer. Colqu-
houn reckoned forty-three gambling-houses, including seven
subscription-houses of the first class, and supposed the yearly
aggregate of money won and lost in them to be L.7,225,000.
There are no means of knowing what may be the amount
of play in the club-houses of the present day, but we enter¬
tain no doubt whatever that Colquhoun’s estimate was alto¬
gether an exaggeration. The number of persons charged
with gambling in London in the year 1837 was 366.
There exists no medical police in this country of the kind
which we find specially established in some parts of the con¬
tinent. The exercise of the medical profession is subject
to conditions imposed by law. We have quarantine laws,
under the superintendence of the officers of the customs re¬
venue ; and the laws which prohibit the sale of unwholesome
food are rather enforced by the officers of markets, than by
any branch of the police service. A Board of Health was
appointed for a special purpose, during the late visitation
of the cholera, but there has never been any permanent es¬
tablishment of this nature. The inquiry, how far such an
establishment would be expedient, suggests itself chiefly as
regards female prostitution. The existing law only sub¬
jects prostitutes to punishment as in case of disorderly con¬
duct, and houses of ill-fame are only liable to indictment,
not to summary visitation. The consideration of protect¬
ing the public against the spread of diseases, has not hith¬
erto entered into the policy of our legislation, so as to sub¬
ject prostitutes to any medical visitation ; nor are they re¬
stricted from walking the streets, or frequenting places of
public amusement. We shall presently notice the very dif¬
ferent way in which this matter is treated in France. In
the mean time, it is satisfactory to mention, that the extent
of prostitution in London is, in truth, nothing like that which
the notions of some writers have formed of it. Instead of
there being 50,000 prostitutes in the metropolis, as esti¬
mated by Colquhoun, the actual number known to the po¬
lice in 1837 was as follows :—
251
Prostitutes, well-dressed, living in brothels........ 895
Ditto, well-dressed, walking the streets, 1612
Ditto, low, infesting low neighbourhoods,...3864
rm iitions kingdom.
Total, 6371
The number of brothels, in which prostitutes are kept, was
933, having an average number of four in each; the num¬
ber of houses of ill-fame to which they resort, 848 ; and that
of houses in which they lodge, 1554. Such appears from
the best authority to be the real state of the case.1
A daily police report of the proceedings, and of the in¬
formations received at the several police-offices, is printed
for the use of the magistrates and officers; and an official
newspaper, called the Hue and Cry or Police Gazette,
is also circulated amongst the authorities, throughout the
co' littt'c
During the sessions of 1837 and 1838, a select commit¬
tee of the House of Commons, appointed on the motion
of Mr. Hawes, inquired into the state of the metropo- Police,
is police, and recommended various important improve-
ments in its management. Amongst these are the consoli¬
dation of the several constabulary forces of the metropolis
and the river Thames, including those of the city of Lon-
on, under one authority ; the confinement of the magis¬
trates to judicial duties ; the extension of their summary
jurisdiction to all cases of larceny, and also to many civil
cases; the augmentation of the officer’s power to arrest;
the improvement of the bail system ; and the better regu¬
lation of the police-offices, with a view to the public accom¬
modation. Our limits do not permit us to discuss the ad¬
vantages of these reforms. Suffice it to say, that they are
of the utmost importance to the efficiency of the police ser¬
vice ; and that until they are effected, the metropolis will
not be adequately protected against crime and disorder.2
The English rural police is of two kinds ; that establish- Rural po-
ed in the principal cities and towns, and that of the rural lice,
districts properly so called. In the former case, it is exer¬
cised by the municipal magistracies, and the constabularies
acting under them ; in the latter, it is vested in the justices
of the peace, and constables acting under the old law to
which we have adverted.
The cities and towns in which a police has been establish¬
ed upon the same system as that of the metropolis, are,
Liverpool, Bristol, Bath, Hull, and Newcastle-upon-Tyne.
Other towns have their police, more or less efficient, but
regulated upon plans of their own, either prescribed by the
municipalities, or by local Acts of Parliament.
1 he only instance that we are aware of, in which a spe¬
cial rural police has been established in England, is in
Cheshire, by an act passed in 1829,3 entitled “ An Act to
enable the magistrates of the county palatine of Chester to
appoint special high constables for the several hundreds or
divisions, and assistant petty constables for the several town¬
ships of that county.” This act has provided the county
with a comparatively efficient constabulary, whose duties
and conduct are prescribed and superintended with more
accuracy and vigilance than in any other part of the country.
But, however efficient, within an isolated district, may be
this or that police establishment, it will have little effect
towards the prevention or hindrance of crime in the aggre¬
gate, unless a regular chain of communication be maintain¬
ed throughout the country ; unless vigilance be made to cir¬
culate ; unless, in short, there be centralization. This con¬
sideration induced the Government to issue a commission, dat¬
ed the 20th of October 1836, the commissioners under which
were directed to inquire into the best means of establishing
a constabulary force in the English counties, with an espe¬
cial view to the prevention of offences, and with regard to
any proceedings before trial by which the detention and
apprehension of offenders might be rendered more certain ;
also to inquire into the public services which might be ob¬
tained from such a force, either in the preservation of peace,
and due protection of property, or enforcing the more re¬
gular observance of law; and into the manner in which such
force should be appointed and paid. At the time we write,
the commissioners have not made their report, but there is
reason to believe that a very valuable one will soon be pro¬
duced.
That it is perfectly practicable to organize a constabulary Advanta-
force for the whole kingdom, acting under a central autho-ges of or-
rity in the metropolis, and governed by a gradation of su-£UIllzufioa-
perior and responsible officers, cannot be doubted. Nor is
it much less clear, that the public morality, and the interests
of property would be greatly promoted by such a measure.
It especially deserves notice, that, in the rural districts, the
1 The statistics throughout this paper are quoted an the authority of official documents.
4 See the valuable Report of this Committee (Session 1838); also the Edinburgh Review, No. 134, Art
* 11th Geo. IV. cap. 97.
Police of the Metropolis.’’
252
POLICE.
Police, delinquents are almost entirely of the vagrant class, he mg
either habitual depredators, or vagrants asking alms. ISow,
the only law for the constant control of these habitual de¬
linquents, is the vagrant act before cited, which experience
has shewn to be by no means sufficient. Few offences are
committed within the view of a constable ; theiefore the
constabulary seldom acts but upon information, and as there
is no special obligation upon any one to communicate infor¬
mation, the enforcement of the law is so far dependent up¬
on chance. Then, the ancient practice of pursuit by hue
and cry having fallen into disuse, the vagrant depredators
referred to, go from county to county, taking up their tem¬
porary abode in common lodging-houses, the number ot
which has much increased of late years, and so pursue their
career with impunity. Of the habitual depredators within
the cognizance of the metropolitan police in 1837, 2712
were known to be vagrant; in Bristol 605 were so known ; in
Hull 303 ; and in Newcastle 454. From 18,000 to 20,000
vagrants are annually committed to prison throughout the
country. They assume different names as occasion requires,
and to identify them, or ascertain their real history, is usu¬
ally a matter of great difficulty.
Expedien- One of the indirect means enumerated by Bentham for
cy of plac- the prevention of crime, was a system of proper names, by
ing dis- which an appellation should be assigned to each individual,
charged indicative of his family and birth-place, and distinguishing
criminals from a][ other persons whatsoever. Bentham also re¬
lice Control commended, in certain cases, the affixing marks on the skin,
such as are imprinted by sailors on their bodies, with gun¬
powder, at the present day. The old law of England brand¬
ed all laymen who had once been admitted to the benefit of
clergy, by burning them with a hot iron in the brawn of
the left thumb, in order to distinguish their persons for the
future. Now, it is worthy of consideration, whether the
rationale of branding is not still applicable to the cases of all
offenders once convicted of crime ? It is very desirable that
all persons of suspicious character should, for a limited pe¬
riod after their liberation, be so distinguished from others, as
to enable the police to have a knowledge of their move¬
ments. It is also desirable, for their own sake, as well as
that of the public, that such individuals should, as far as pos¬
sible, be kept away from immediate incentives to crime. 1 o
whatever perfection prison-discipline may eventually be
brought, it is vain to expect that its reformatory influence
can invariably be such as to subdue the frailty of human na¬
ture, and the seductions of present opportunities. 1 he law
of France has, therefore, as we shall presently show, placed
the criminal, for a limited period after his discharge, under
a certain surveillance of the Haute police, as a part of his
punishment. The expediency of introducing such a system
into the English law to any, and to what extent, is a point
deserving of serious reflection.
Such a proposal must of course be understood as applica¬
ble only to persons actually convicted of offences. Any
thing resembling a passport system for the whole popula¬
tion, innocent as wrell as guilty, would not only be incom¬
patible with free institutions, but invincibly repugnant to
tiie spirit and feelings of the British people. The question
therefore resolves itself into one of punishment, the problem
being to find that punishment, which having regal'd to the
habits of the criminal, shall contain within it the maximum
of prevention, combining the direct with the indirect me¬
thod of hindering crime. Now, assuming, as the fact is,
that imprisonment, according to the present system of se¬
condary punishments, has not the qualities required, but is
often neither deterring, nor reformatory, might not police-
supervision be substituted, in some cases partially, in others
entirely, for such imprisonment? Would not such police su¬
pervision be a peculiarly appropriate punishment for vagrants Police
and other petty offenders, the terms of whose imprisonment^^-
are very short ? and might it not be advantageous, even in
the cases of graver offenders, to permit the commutation,
under certain regulations, of a portion of the imprisonment,
into police-supervision ? We think that the principle of such
alterations might be demonstrated to be beneficial, but then
it would remain to be considered of what the proposed su¬
pervision ought to consist.
The liberated convict, who might be thus placed under
police control, might properly be required to inform the po¬
lice from time to time of his place of residence ; to present
himself to an officer periodically ; to avoid all disorderly or
tumultuous assemblies, and all places of public resort of a
vicious character, to be specified to him by the police ; not
to enter any towns or districts, specially prohibited by the
police, such as in many cases the metropolis, or other po¬
pulous towns, or the localities of large fairs, or races, would
be; and, above all, not to associate with other liberated con¬
victs. Any breach of these conditions should subject the
offender to summary imprisonment.
Such regulations might be objected to upon the one hand
as too irksome, and, on the other, as not sufficiently strin¬
gent. It might be suggested to add to their severity, by
prescribing absolutely the place of residence of the delin¬
quent, by prohibiting him from all places whatever of pub¬
lic amusement, and the like. Care, however, must be taken
not to draw the restraining cord so tight as to debar the
convict from that which is harmless in itself, and may by
possibility have a beneficial influence upon his character.
But we acknowledge the difficulty of fixing the limits of re¬
striction, a difficulty which occurs in every branch of po¬
lice, and, until our knowledge of the science shall be ad¬
vanced by experience, will continue to meet us at every
step in legislation.
Whilst the formation of a general rural police in Eng¬
land is under consideration, it will answer little purpose to
describe the nature of the constabulary, which now serves
as a substitute for it. Its inefficiency is notorious. The fatal
riot which took place at Canterbury1 is a flagrant instance
of the mischiefs which a single individual may bring upon
society, when society has not taken measures of ordinary
prudence for its own protection.
The constabulary of Scotland is under the control of the Scotland
magistrates of the municipalities and counties, in the same
way as in those parts of England where the principle of the
central police has not been introduced. It is consequently
wanting in almost all the requisites of an efficient system.
A regular police force was first established throughout Ire- Ireland,
land under an act passed in 1814,2 “ to provide for the bet¬
ter regulation of the laws in Ireland, by appointing superin¬
tending magistrates and additional constables in certain cases.
Several other acts followed, which were consolidated by the
act of 1836,3 and by this latter the constabulary is at pre¬
sent regulated. The lord-lieutenant appoints stipendiary
magistrates and constables in the several towns, counties,
and baronies in the proportions prescribed by the act, with
an inspector-general and sub-inspectors for their superin¬
tendence. The following qualification for the constables is
illustrative of the state of society in Ireland. They are re¬
quired to be “of a sound constitution, able-bodied, and
under the age of forty years, able to read and write, of a
good character for honesty, fidelity, and activity, not a game-
keeper, wood-ranger, tithe-proctor, viewer of tithes, bailiff,
or parish clerk, or a hired servant, or keeping any house for
the sale of beer, wine, or spirituous liquors by retail.” The
stipendiary magistrates are fifty in number, with salaries va¬
rying from L.400 to L. 1000 per annum. The office of inspec-
1 We refer to the proceedings of Courtenay, otherwise Thom, in May 1838.
* 54 Geo. III. c. 131. 3 6 Will. IV. e. 13.
POLICE.
253
1 , police, tor-general is considered as a highly responsible one ; his
1 I ^salary is L.1500 per annum. The following is a summary of
the total amount of police force employed on the 1 st of Jan¬
uary 1838 ; distinguishing the proportion of expenses borne
respectively by the consolidated fund, and by the counties,
cities, and towns, pursuant to the provisions of the act d
1 Inspector-general
2 Deputy inspectors-general
4 County inspectors
3.3 Sub-inspectors
109 Chief constables
105 Do. 2d rate
35 Head constables
216 Do. 2d class
1037 Constables
5211 Sub-constables
1439 Do. 2d class
50 Magistrates
18 Paymasters
1 Receiver
8263
It will be observed that the above force contains a varie¬
ty of gradations of officers ; and this is a principle of great
importance in the organization of police establishments. It
both regulates responsibility, and holds out the prospect of
promotion as the reward of merit.
The lord-lieutenant is empowered to establish an addi¬
tional special police force in any county or district declared
to be in a state of disturbance. The peculiar condition of
Ireland has rendered this provision requisite ; but it is well
known that it has not hitherto superseded the necessity of
the large military force which, as an instrument of mere
police, continues to be stationed in that country.
I ilin. The City of Dublin has a special police force, with an
office and two magistrates, acting for that metropolis and a
certain surrounding district. Its powers and duties are ana¬
logous to those of the London central police ; and it acts
under the immediate authority of the chief secretary to the
Lord-Lieutenant. It was established by act of Parliament
in the year 1836.1 2
llks, &c. There are, in various parts of the United Kingdom, offi¬
cers possessing limited powers of police for special purposes,
such as the police of docks, railways, &c. whose authority
is defined by the particular statutes under which they act.
I ice. The nation, in whose history the operations of the police
have been the most conspicuous, is modern France. A know¬
ledge of the extent and effects of the police agency for the
last century and a half is indispensable to a right under¬
standing ofFrench history, and there are ample materials for
an elaborate wrork upon the subject.3 Our present limits do
not permit us to do more than trace superficially the origin
of existing institutions.
I orical From the commencement of the feudal regime^ the pro-
vost of Paris was the highest municipal authority. He not
only carried the sword at the head of a military force, but
presided in the robe of a judge at the Chatelet, that ancient
and venerable building to which the administration of justice
was so long wholly confined. One of the ten chambers, or
courts, of the Chatelet, w as that of police, to which reports
were made of all infractions of the police regulations of the
city. The provost had under him two officers of the second
rank, called the lieutenant-civil, and the lieutenant-criminel,
besides the judicial and ministerial staff of the Chatelet.
There was also an independent police authority, called the
bureau de ville, which took cognizance of all that related to
die water, the quays, the ramparts, and the public festivals of Police.
1 ans, and whose principal officer was styled the provost of
merchants. For along period, the parliament of Paris moder¬
ated these conflicting jurisdictions, and in 1667, their re¬
commendations gave rise to the edict made by Louis XIV.
in that year, w hereby the functions of police were withdrawn
from the civil and criminal lieutenants, and conferred on a
new magistrate, who, under the name of lieutenant de po¬
lice, became the representative of that jurisdiction which
had previously been exercised by the authorities of the
Chatelet, Thebureaude ville, however, continued its func¬
tions as before. In 1674, the title of the new magistrate
was declared by the king to be that Lieutenant-General
de Police, which continued to the Revolution.
The first of these officers was De la Reynie, famous for
being charged with the execution of the edict which revoked
that of Nantes in 1685. To him succeeded the Marquis
D Argenson in 1697, the creator of the system of secret
police, which has ever since been more or less acted upon
in France. D’Argenson employed espionage largely. He
is described by Fontenelle, as having unparalleled powers
of divination, and was undoubtedly a man of unusual saga¬
city. He had the merit of refusing to execute in Paris, the
measures of persecution against the Protestants, which were
being carried on in the provinces. The succeeding lieu-
tenants-general were, Machault d’Arnouville (1718), Count
d’Argenson (1720), Taschereau de Baudry (1720), Ravot
d’Ombreval (1724), Rene Herault (1725), De Marville
(1739), Berryer (1747), Bertin (1754), De Sartine (1759).
The activity of the last mentioned officer was very remark¬
able. He chose his inferior agents with judgment, and some
curious proofs are on record, how accurately he knew all
that was passing in Paris.4 He was in the habit of furnish¬
ing to Louis XV. reports of a licentious character, describ¬
ing the most scandalous indecencies committed in the capi¬
tal, and a collection of them was found in the Bastille at the
capture ofthat fortress-prison, in July 1789. The secret po¬
lice wras brought to great perfection by De Sartine, and he
had his emissaries in every European state. He seems to
have been both feared and hated by the people. The French
police about this time excited the attention of other govern¬
ments; and both the Empress Catherine II. of Russia, and
Maria Theresa of Austria, having applied to the French go¬
vernment for information on the subject, De Sartine made for
their use a collection of the ordinances and regulations then
subsisting, which is still extant. An unfortunate event is
recorded to have happened during De Sartine’s administra¬
tion, which is illustrative of the evils of conflicting jurisdic¬
tions in matters of police. A fete, with fire-works and il¬
luminations, was held in the Place Louis XV. on 30th of May
1770, in celebration of the marriage of the Dauphin with
Marie Antoinette. The responsibility of the arrangements
was divided between De Sartine and the provost of Mer¬
chants, and the consequence was, that a scene of confusion
ensued, in which 132 persons were killed, and as many
wounded. The parliament reprimanded both functionaries,
and additional powers were soon afterwards conferrred on
the lieutenant-general. To De Sartine, succeeded Le Noir
(1774), D’ Albert (1775), Le Noir, (second administration
1776), and De Crosne (1785), who closed with the Revo¬
lution the list of lieutenants of police. Their office, and
that of the provost of Merchants, merged in the comite
permanent, who re-organized the municipality of Paris, and
laid the foundation of the existing institutions, which take
Consolidated fund L.227,306
Counties and towns 152,661
Total expense L.380,268
1 See Parliamentary Return, 11th May 1838. 2 See act 6 and 7 Will. 4, cap. 29.
5 See especially the following works: De la Marre, Traile de la Police. Dessessart’s Dictionnaire Urr.versel de Police de 17c6 d 1791.
Peuchet, Archives de Police, 6 vols. Nouveau Diclionnaire de Police, par Elouin, .Trebueliet, et Lalmt, Paris 1835 ; an iiitercsting and
valuable account of the whole of the internal arrangements of society in France. De la Prostitution dans la \ille de Paris, par A. J. 1>.
Parent-Duchatelet. Paris 1836.
4 See two anecdotes cited by Colquhoun, chapter 17.
254
Police.
POLICE.
their origin principally from the legislation of the revolu¬
tionary period. The secret or haute police, was acted on,
as is well known, by the General Directory, and afterwards,
with terrible effect, under the Emperor Napoleon. The unfor
milted in ports or naval arsenals, whether committed by
persons in the naval service or otherwise, are cognizable by v
the maritime tribunals established for the purpose. The
crews of all ships of w ar in port, are amenable to these tri-
Offences
Polic
tunate Due d’Enghien w'as one of its victims. The life of the bunals for all offences against naval discipline,
celebrated Fouche, is full of interest and instruction under against maritime police are described to be; first, all such
this head. Not the least remarkable circumstance in Fouche’s as are committed against public order, and the service of
career, is the fact of Napoleon having been in the habit of the arsenals, or in the contravention of the special rules made
employing several branches contre-police, to watch the for the port; and, second, simple thefts below the value of
proceedings of his own police-minister.1 Thus, he had a six francs, committed in the arsenals. The penalties which
distinct police of the palace under the grand-marshall, of the tribunals of police are empowered to inflict, are, im-
the city of Paris under the military governor, and of all prisonment not exceeding three months, compensation un-
France under the inspector-general of (jendarmerie. The der 100 francs, loss of wages, and expulsion from the service
gendarmes throughout France had to transmit daily bulle- of the arsenal.6 7
tins of all that took place, for the information of the Em- The rural police of France is exercised by the juges de
peror. The general police under Fouche was evidently paix, and the mayors, under the superintendence of the
considered by Napoleon as a sort of rival of the Imperial prefets and sous-prefets, by the aid of gendarmerie.'1 The
prefets are the chief magistrates of the departments, and are
appointed by the king. The duties of a prefect are so com¬
prehensive, as to have been thus described by a legal writer,
“ Surveiller, reparer, feconder, voila sa tache.” He watches
power.
T>r'«cription The law of France declares the police to be instituted
of French “ to maintain order and public tranquillity, liberty, property,
■system. and individual security.” Its principal characteristic is de¬
clared to be “ vigilancethe objects of its solicitude are
society en masse.2
It is divided into administrative &x\<\ judicial police. The
administrative has for its object, the maintenance of public
order everywhere, and in every part of the general adminis¬
tration. Its tendency is to the prevention of crime, and it
causes to be executed all public laws, ordinances and regu¬
lations. It is exercised throughout France by the minister
of the interior, in cases of general measures. In the de-
especially over the property of the state, and the public
security ; the roads, rivers, and other objects of common
use ; and is the agent of all the operations of government in
his department.8 He has the power of requiring the aid of
the officers of the judicial police, for all purposes relating to
the prevention of crime. The rural police punishes thefts
or injuries to natural productions, regulates gleaning, the
fixing of boundaries betw een lands, the interment of dead
animals, and a variety of matters affecting the cultivation of
partments, and in the communes, it is under the direction ot land, and likely to give rise to disputes amongst a population
the prefets, sous-prefets, and maires, and in Paris, under of small proprietors. Offenders against rural police are
that of the prefet de police. These magistrates may pre- punishable by imprisonment, and by
the enforcement of com¬
pensation, as amends for injuries done.
The principle of centralization, it will be perceived, ex¬
ists in the rural police of France to a considerable degree.
The mayors and local magistrates, being under the imme¬
diate supervision of the prefects, who are controlled directly
by the Minister of the Interior, there are the means of ob¬
taining a certain unity of action in its proceedings. But
the chain of communication throughout France, for purpo¬
ses of police, would probably be improved if the machin¬
ery were less complicated, and the number of subordinate
functionaries were smaller. Complaints are frequent, in
cases where local improvements or changes are requir¬
ed, or where individuals have to petition for the redress of
a grievance, or for permission from Government to do some
act, of the great number of hands through which such ap-
and public places, the public edifices and monuments, the plications must pass, in order to their being consulted, be-
course of commerce, and collection of taxes.4 * It seems to fore the requisite authority can be obtained. The public
comprise, with some additions, the functions of the ancient thus suffers inconvenience and delay, from the want of sim-
bureau de ville. plicity in the arrangement of the system. It is not in the
The judicial branch of police is engaged in detecting the administration of rural police, properly so called, that the
perpetrators of the crimes and offences, the commission of French system suggests much worthy of consideration, but
which has not been prevented by the administrative branch, rather in respect of the Haute Police, whereby convicted of-
scribe such measures as are not contrary to the existing law,
and make such orders, in respect of local police, as circum¬
stances may require, any infraction of which is punishable
according to the penal code.
The administrative is subdivided into general and muni¬
cipal police. The latter term includes also the rural police.
The general administrative police, comprises the regula¬
tion of passports, mendicity and vagrancy, prisons and public
institutions, the press, religious worship, seditious language,
public provocation to crimes, defamation of authorities, de¬
sertion, &c.3 To this head belongs the haute police, to
which we shall presently advert. The objects of munici¬
pal police are the preservation of the public security, health,
and tranquillity, in the public streets and passages, in re¬
gard to fires, inundations, the exchange, markets, theatres,
It collects evidence, arrests offenders, and delivers them
to the tribunals authorised to try and punish them. It is
exercised under the authority of the cours royalest Al¬
though this branch is termed judicial, it would seem more
coi'rect to describe it, as that which secures offenders for
fenders are brought immediately under official surveillance
in all parts of the country. In Paris, the “ prefet de po¬
lice” is charged with the whole administration of his de¬
partment.9 As regards the municipality, he exercises all
the functions of the mayors in the communes, but is sub¬
justice, in contradistinction to the operations by which the ject to no other control than that of the Minister of the In-
act of crime itself is hindered from commission. terior. The expenses of the prefecture are charged upon
A special police service is established in the French ports, the city of Paris, but its jurisdiction extends throughout
under the name olpolice maritime. All offences com- the Department of the Seine. The prefect is empowered to
1 See Memoires de Fuuchc, Paris 1834. Temoiijnages Historiques, ou quinze ans de Haute Police sous Napoleon, par Desmarets, Paris 1833.
5 Code des Delils et des Peines, du 3m* Brumaire, an 4, hvi t i. art 1G and 17.
3 See Arrete du 5 Brumaire, an. 9, and Decree of ‘25th March 1811.
4 See the Arreti. and Decree above cited, and the Laws of August 1790, and July 1791.
b Code d’Instruction Criminelle, art 8 and 9 ; also Code du 3 Brumaire, an. 4, art. 20.
6 See Law of‘20th September 1792, and several Decrees and Oidonnuiices, especially those of 12th Nov. 1806, and 14th Oct. 1818.
7 See Law 6th October 1791. 8 See Law 28 Pluvoise, an. 8, (1800), art- la.
s See Law of 28th Pluviose, an. ,8, art. 16.
POLICE
oliee. make such regulations as he deems expedient, consistently
with the existing laws. A summary of his functions will
perhaps, be the best mode of conveying a notion of the ex¬
tent of police interference in the French metropolis.
In respect of the general police, it is at the prefecture
that passports are issued to travellers, and are visa'd on
their arrival at Paris. Travellers remaining in Paris more
than three days require permission for that purpose. All
public establishments for the relief of the poor, or charita¬
ble purposes, are subject to police inspection. The pre¬
fecture may arrest all vagrants and mendicants. It super¬
intends the police arrangements of the metropolitan prisons,
and appoints certain of their officers. It carries into effect
the regulations in force relating to hotels, lodging-houses,
gaming-houses, and brothels. It prevents tumultuous as¬
semblies, and coalitions of workmen. It puts in force the
laws affecting the press, and restraining indecency and ob¬
scenity ; superintends the construction of theatres, and
keeps order within them ; attends places of worship to pre¬
vent disorders there ; takes cognisance of the distribution
of gunpowder, and the use of arms ; arrests deserters, and
makes the arrangements at public fetes.
The duties of the prefet and his officers in regard to the
municipal police, are still more multifarious than those of
the general. The care of all roads and passages, not being
the great roads of the kingdom, (la petite voirie) and of the
shops and stalls; the construction of scaffoldings, and the
demolition of ruinous buildings ; are committed wholly to
the prefecture of police. Thus the police causes the streets
and gutters to be cleaned ; seizes dangerous animals; re¬
gulates the speed of carriages; and prevents their stopping
the way. It preserves health, as far as possible, by remov¬
ing all filthy or noxious accumulations; takes measures to
prevent fire; and secures the requisite supply of water to the
city. It verifies weights and measures ; enforces the regu¬
lations of the markets, baths, hackney coaches, pawnbrokers,
and the numerous other places and things in Paris which
are subject to special rules ; guards from injury the public
buildings, monuments, fountains, &c., and requires their re¬
pair, when needful, by the proper authorities. In short,
there is scarcely any part of the materiel of society, which
isnot subjected to the supervision of the prefecture of police.
The establishment of the prefect consists of a numerous
body of commissaires, inspectors, and peace-officer’s, in due
gradation ; and the gendarmerie are at his absolute dispo¬
sal, who answer the best to the description of the consta¬
bles of the London central police. It will be observed that
the functions of the prefect of Paris and his officers are
principally administrative ; but they also act judicially, as
the French law terms it, to a certain extent, in securing and
collecting evidence against such offenders as are amenable
to the jurisdiction of the tribunals of correctional police.
The French executive government has long exercised,
and still seems to possess the right of exercising what is
called the haute police administrative, in all cases where
an individual has done an act considered by the executive
as dangerous to the public safety, although not contrary
to the existing law. This is the undefined power that has
instituted the odious system of secret police, and has been
made the instrument of so much tyranny and injustice. It
is, in truth, no part of the established police system, but ra-.-
tlier an arbitrary power of ex post facto legislation com¬
mitted to the Government, for supposed cases of danger
which the law may not have foreseen. The “ haute po¬
lice administrative” is usually exercised by the Minister of
the Interior, through the prefet de police, and occasionally
by the Council of State.
255
The law has, however, clearly defined that department of Police,
the Haute Police, which takes under its control offenders
discharged from prison, and watches over their conduct for
a specified time. This constitutes a part of the punishment
to which certain offenders may be sentenced, pursuant to
the penal code.1 It extends to both the higher and lower
classes of delinquents. The effect of it is to give to the
Government the right to determine certain places in which
the offender is forbidden to appear after his discharge from
prison. He is, besides, required to declare, before he is set
at liberty, in what place he intends to reside ; and there¬
upon he receives an order regulating his route to such place.
On his arrival he must present himself within twenty-four
hours, before the mayor of the commune, and cannot change
his residence without informing the mayor three days be¬
forehand, of the place to which he desires to remove, and
receiving from him a new order prescribing his route thither.
In case of breach of these regulations, the offender is liable
to imprisonment not exceeding five years. The terms of
surveillance vary according to the crime ; but vagrants and
mendicants are specially subjected to a surveillance of not
less than five, nor more than ten years.
The provisions of the penal code of France have lately
been modified, by dispensing with those enactments which
required prisoners, on their discharge, to find security for
their good behaviour, and in default assigned them a fixed
place of residence. It was found, in practice, that very
few indeed were able to find the security, and the restric¬
tion of the convict to a particular locality rendered him so
notorious as to make it impracticable for him to obtain a
livelihood. Some were actually reduced to such destitution
as to be under the necessity of begging a temporary admis¬
sion into prison. We have seen that, at present, the go¬
vernment only reserves the right of prohibiting certain
places ; and the list of such places comprises, Paris and its
suburbs, Lyons, Marseilles, Bordeaux, Lisle, Strasbourg,
Nantes, Brest, Toulon, Rochfort, L’Orient, and Cherbourg.
Even to these places the convict is allowed access for any
special reasons approved by the police. The number of
discharged convicts thus under the surveillance of the Haute
Police throughout France, was in 1833, about 40,000.2
It has has been already suggested, whether a system of
police-supervision might not be introduced into the Eng¬
lish criminal law with good effect, and, in particular, as a
valuable instrument of rural police. The working of the
French Haute Police would afford, without doubt, some
useful lessons towards fixing the proper limit of restriction.
It demonstrates, especially, the wisdom of interfering as
little as possible with the market for the labour of the dis¬
charged convict; and this is of the more importance in Eng¬
land in proportion to the greater density of population.
In the United States, where the demand for labour is bound¬
less, the emancipated convict transports himself to a distance
from the seat of his crime, and obtains immediate employ¬
ment without a stigma on his character. But in England
and France the difficulty of earning a livelihood is com¬
paratively so great, that caution is requisite, lest the ten¬
dency of any system of police surveillance to be established,
should be to abridge the means of subsistence of the crim¬
inal population. The difficulty, however, is by no means one
against which it seems impracticable to guard successfully.
The French medical police consists of the restrictions im- prostitiuion
posed by law upon the exercise of the medical profession,
and the vending of secret remedies, which are liable to ex¬
amination before they can be sold. The subject of prosti¬
tution belongs also principally to this head.
The law of France visits with punishment “ every per-
1 Code Penal, art-. 11. ,
2 Cirru/aire da Micutm de llnterieur d* 18 JuiUet 1833, sur la Surveillance Legale des Condanmes Liber, s;
of reference
a document well worthy
256
POLICE.
Police.
Belgium.
son who shall have committed a public outrage on modes¬
ty.”1 But the law being silent in all such cases of pros¬
titution as do not thus constitute a public violation ot de¬
cency, the administration is placed in the delicate P1181"
tion of having to determine what may amount to such a
violation. The police, therefore, whilst it prohibits the open
scandal of prostitution ; not allowing immodest women to
appear in the street, or in public places, or any indecency
to be openly committed ; acts upon the principle of tolerat¬
ing houses of debauchery, and preventing by \ts surveillance,
as much as possible ot the injury arising to the public fi om
such establishments. These houses are therefore licensed, and
the number of them in Paris is about 220. Every female hv-
ino- in habitual prostitution is required to be registered by
the police. Such as reside at their own houses are obliged
to present themselves regularly, at stated periods, at the pub¬
lic dispensary for medical examination ; and those inhabit¬
ing the maisons de tolerance, are also regularly visited by
the medical authorities. Every female carries with her a
ticket, upon which the medical inspections are noted from
time to time. All females known to the police as prosti¬
tutes, but unregistered (insoumises), are liable to arrest, and
are brought to the dispensary for examination.
The number of registered prostitutes in Paris appears to
have gradually increased, from a monthly average of 1293,
in the year 1812, to an average of 2902 in the year 1822, and
of 3558 in 1832.2 In the year 1834, the monthly average
was 3786.3 It does not of course follow, that the actual
number of prostitutes has increased commensurately with
the numbers registered ; on the contrary, there is reason
to believe it has diminished. But to determine this point
accurately, we should have before us the comparative num¬
bers, both registered and unregistered, for a series of years
back; which, it would seem, there are no means of ascertaining.
There can be no doubt that the effect of these regula¬
tions has operated very beneficially upon the health of the
registered prostitutes. It appears that the monthly average
of disease amongst the registered women, wherever resident,
upon a series of years, from 1812 to 1832, has varied from
one in seventeen to one in thirty-four,1 and that in 1834,
it did not exceed one in 43 ;5 whilst the proportion of the
total number of the unregistered, or insoumises, arrested by
the police from 1816 to 1828, who were found diseased, was
as high as one in four,4 and upon a monthly average of the
year 1834, it was even higher.5 The police regulations,
therefore, confine the existence of disease in a great degree
to the class of prostitutes who receive their visitors private¬
ly, without any official cognizance. There are no means of
knowing the actual extent of licentiousness amongst the fe¬
male population of Paris ; but the police is, of course, not
responsible for the disease resulting from it; and although
it might be objected that the removal of disease, as a result
of prostitution, is a sort of encouragement to immorality,
still it must be remembered, that prostitution is, in large
towns, an inevitable evil; that it is, to a large class of persons,
an industry, and a resource against want; and that, it being
wholly out of the power of police regulations to prevent it,
the more it can be divested of its power of injuring society
physically and morally, the lighter will be the evil of its ex¬
istence.
In Belgium there is no centralized police, but it is sub¬
ject to the local authorities. A recent law has placed dis¬
charged convicts under the temporary supervision of the po¬
lice, in the same way as in France.6
The police of Prussia is also a matter belonging to sepa- PoV
rate jurisdictions throughout the kingdom. The landraths
in the rural districts exercise powers resembling those ofPru^u
our justices of the peace. In the cities special boards are
appointed, under the direction of which the regulation of build¬
ings, sewers, and supplies of water and of food are placed7
The police superintends the examination of medical practi¬
tioners ; the insurance offices; and the fire-engines. It exer¬
cises the usual functions for the prevention of crimes, and
keeps a certain degree of surveillance over vagrants and men¬
dicants. Brothels are subject to visitation, and prostitutes to
medical examination. There is no secret system of police
in Prussia, analogous to that of France which we have de-^
scribed; nor does it, we believe, now exist, in any part of
Germany.
The length at which we have described the police insti¬
tutions of England and France, will render the less neces¬
sary a particular reference to those of the other European
states, because little is to be learned from them; and in all
countries, the institutions of which are inarrear of civilization,
the distinction between police, and other branches ofadminis-
tration, is marked less and less strongly, until we descend to
the point of barbarism, at which there is a confusion ot all
the functions of government, internal and external, civil and
military, legislative, judicial, and ministerial, in one absolute
sway ; with comparatively inadequate security against foreign
aggression, and none whatever for domestic peace. A good
police system is, on the contrary, a distinguishing mark of
the supremacy of organized law in the country where it is
in force.
Having thus endeavoured to present such a sketch of ex¬
isting institutions as our space will admit, it only remains
to point out what we consider as the indispensable requisites
of a good police system. These are,—
1st, Centralization, under one superintending authority, ReqnisiM
which may keep up a regular and certain channel of com-of a good
munication, throughout every part of the country, may secure H|ce •!' -
uniformity of administration, and enforce vigilance and ac- e
tivity in the officers employed.
2d, The powers and duties of the police force should be
so correctly defined, as to leave no room for doubt, wffien
action is required. The wdiole charge, both of preventing
the perpetration of crime, and securing oftenders for justice,
should be committed to it, with such miscellaneous func¬
tions as the legislature may properly entrust to it in addition.
No person ought ever to act both ministerially in aid ot po¬
lice, and also judicially as a magistrate.
3d, The utmost care and caution are needful in fixing
the extent of police interference, so that the amount ot pub¬
lic advantage derivable trom it, shall exceed that ot the in¬
convenience sustained. This task is a delicate and difficult
for police interference has, in some instances, been so
one .
wrongly applied as to defeat its own end.
4th, A good system of secondary punishments is essen¬
tial to the efficiency of a police establishment. If the ten¬
dency of imprisonment is such as to excite to crime, it coun¬
teracts the most important object of police, namely, its pre¬
vention.
Other matters will probably have suggested themselves
to the reader; but our limits do not permit us to discuss
them at length. The requisites above stated may be consi¬
dered as cardinal points, which cannot be disregarded with¬
out impairing the efficiency of any system of police to which
they are wanting. (u. u. u. u.)
Parent-Duchatelet, de la Prostitution, &c. 3 Nouveau-Dictiomaire de Police.
5 Nouveau Dictiomaire. 6 Zoi sur la surveillance des condemn's hberes, du 31 Decembre l»~0.
1 Code Penal, art. 330.
4 Parent-Duchatelet. ° JMouveau Dictionnaire. ” J-oi sur ia aurunnmiux uco> wiuuan,. o
7 Several German works on medical pulice may be consulted, especially, Franks, System einer vollstundigen Medicmiscnen uicf1’ .
1784 to 1825. Niemann’s Medicinische Policei Wissenchaft, Leipsig, 1829. Consbruch and Libromaiers AUgememe h.ncg opee J
Atzte. bd. 10. Conversations Lexicon, vol. viii. art. Medicinische-Policei.
cy
an.
POL
POLICY of Insurance, or Assurance, of ships, is a
contract or convention, by which a person takes upon him-
, self r‘sks of a sea-voyage; obliging himself to make
good in part or in whole the losses and damages that may
befall the vessel, its equipage, tackle, victualling, lading, &c.
either from tempests, shipwrecks, pirates, fire, war, reprisals,
in consideration of a certain sum, more or less, according to
the risk; which sum is paid down to the assurer by the as-
suree upon his signing the policy.
POLIGNA, Melchior de, a French cardinal, was born
of an ancient and noble family at Puy, the capital of Velay,
in 1662. He was sent by Louis XIV. as ambassador ex¬
traordinary to Poland, where, on the death of Sobieski, he
formed a project of procuring the election of the prince of
Conti; but failing in this, he returned home under some dis¬
grace. When restored to favour, he was sent to Rome as
auditor of the Rota. He acted as plenipotentiary during the
congress at Utrecht, at which time Clement I. created him
cardinal; and upon the accession of Louis XV. he was ap¬
pointed to reside as minister of France at Rome, where he
remained till the year 1732, and died in the year 1741. He
left behind him a manuscript poem, entitled Anti-Lucretius,
seu De Deo et Natura, the plan of which he is said to have
formed in Holland in a conversation with Bayle.
POLIGNY, an arrondissement of the department of the
Jura, in Franee, extending over 496 square miles. It com¬
prehends seven cantons, divided into 161 communes, and
contains ✓ 2,650 inhabitants. The capital is a city of the
same name, situated on the river Elantine. It is well built,
and in a fertile district, in which some good red wine is pro¬
duced. It contains 1150 houses, with 5620 inhabitants, who
make porcelain, tan leather, and refine much saltpetre.
POLISHER, or Burnisher, amongst mechanics, an in¬
strument for polishing and burnishing things proper to take
a polish.
POLITENESS means elegance of manners, or good
breeding. Lord Chesterfield denominates it the art of pleas¬
ing. It has also been called an artificial good nature; and
indeed good nature is the foundation of true politeness, for
without it art will make but a very indifferent figure, and
generally defeat its own ends. Where compliance and as¬
sent, caution and candour, arise from a natural tenderness
of disposition and softness of nature, as they sometimes do,
they are almost always amiable, and certainly excusable ;
but as the effects of artifice, they must be despised. The
persons who possess them are often indeed themselves dupes
of their own deceit, when they imagine others are deluded
hy it; for excessive art always betrays itself.
A variety of excellent rules for acquiring politeness, with
strictures on particular kinds of impoliteness, may be found
m the Spectator, Rambler, Idler, Lounger, Mirror, and
other periodical works of that kind ; in Knox’s Essays, and
among Swift’s works. Chesterfield’s Art of Pleasing, and
18 letters, are also worthy of perusal, provided the reader
be on his guard against the insincerity and the false maxims
which these books are calculated to infuse.
POLITIAN, Angelo, was born at Monte Pulciano in
i uscany, in the year 1454. He studied the Greek language,
°f ti !)ecame a complete master, under Andronicus
o fhessalonica. He is said to have written verses both in
reek and in Latin when he was not more than twelve years
o age. He also studied the Platonic philosophy under
Marsilius Ficinus, and that of Aristotle under Argyropylus.
ohtian was one of the most learned and polite writers
o his time. The first work which gained him a reputa-
ion was a poem on the tournament of Julian de’ Medicis.
e account he wrote, some time afterwards, of the con¬
spiracy of the Pazzi, was also very much esteemed. He
composed many other pieces which merit approbation ; and
a he lived longer, he would have enriched the republic
0 letters with many excellent works. Pie died at the age
vOL. XVIII.
POL
257
th H,k Tra'S ans5fred t,le homeliness of his face Political
rather than the beauty of his genius; for Paul Jovius in- II
orms us, that he was a man of singularly awkward and per- Political
verse manners, of a countenance by no means open and libe- Arithmetic*
ral, a nose remarkably large, and squinting eyes. “ He was v' '
crafty, satirical, and full of inward malice; for his constant way
was to sneer and ridicule the productions of other men, anil
never to allow any criticism, however just, upon his own.”
Nevertheless, Politian was a man of consummate erudi¬
tion ; and not only so, but a very polite and elegant writer.
Erasmus, m his Liceronianus, calls him a rare miracle of
nature, on account of his excelling in every kind of writing.
Pateor angelum prorsus angelica fuisse mente, rarum
naturae miraculum, ad quodcunque script! genus applicaret
ammum. Some of his poems were so much admired, that
several learned men have made it their business to com-
0uut!'em: , It: has often been rePorted that he spoke
ot the Bible with contempt; and that, having read it but
once, ne complained that he had never spent his time so
u uUt not Probable; for it must be remembered
that he was a priest and canon of Florence, and we learn
from one of his epistles that he preached during a whole
Lent. It does not indeed follow from this that he did not
t ink contemptuously of the Bible, because many of his
church, especially amongst the better sort, have not been very
orthodox believers, and he might be one of these ; but it
is not likely he would speak out so freely. “ I could much
more easily believe,” says Bayle, “ the judgment he is said
to have pronounced on the Psalms of" David and the
Odes of Pindar. He did not deny that there are many
good and fine things in the Psalms ; but he pretended that
the same things appear in Pindar with more brightness and
sweetness.” The two Scaligers have spoken highly of Poli¬
tian. The elder has preferred a consolatory elegy of his to
that which Ovid sent to Livia upon the death of Drusus,
and says he would rather have been the author of it; the
younger calls him an excellent poet, but thinks the style of
his epistles too inflated and declamatory.
The first edition of the works of Politian is that of Al¬
dus, Venice, 1498, in folio, which was followed by those of
Paris, Badius, 1512 and 1519, in the same form, and Ly¬
ons, Gryphes, 1528, 1533, and 1545, in two volumes 8vo.
But the most complete edition is that which appeared at
Basil in 1553, and is the only one that contains the his¬
tory of the Conspiracy of the Pazzi, which had been pub¬
lished separately in 1472, in 4to, probably at Florence, and
which J. Adimari reprinted at Naples in 1769, 4to. The
original edition of the Miscellanea, Florence, 1489, in folio,
is in greater request than those of Brescia, 1496, Venice,
1508, and Basil, 1522, all in folio. The Stanze were re¬
printed at Bologna with the Orfeo, 1494, in 4to; and many
other editions followed, till 1820, when they were inserted
in the Bibliotheca Poelica Italiana.
POLITICAL, from froX/s, a city, signifies any thing that
relates to policy or civil government.
POLITICAL ARITHMETIC is the art of reasoning
by figures upon matters relating to government; such as
the revenues, number of people, extent and value of land,
taxes, trade, &c. in any nation. These calculations are
generally made with a view to ascertain the comparative
strength, prosperity, and resources of any two or more na¬
tions. With this view, Sir William Petty, in his Political
Arithmetic, entered into a variety of calculations concerning
the different countries of Europe. With these calculations
Dr Davenant was dissatisfied; and, therefore, from the obser¬
vations of Mr Gregory King, he advanced others of his own.
(See his Essay on Trade.) The advancement of society has
entirely superseded the calculations of these writers; but
their works are deserving of notice, as marking the progress
of knowledge in this branch of political science. See the
articles Insurance, Mortality, and Statistics.
2 K
258
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
Political The subordinate parts of the science of political econo-
Economy. my have been treated in separate articles oi t is wor , wi
v—-V'-'' the fulness which their importance seemed to require. I he
present article, therefore, will be principally confined to an
attempt to define the objects and limits of the science to
trace its progress—to exhibit and establish the fundamental
principles on which it is founded—and to point out the re¬
lation and dependence of its different parts. In doing this,
we shall have occasion to examine some of the more pro¬
minent theories advanced in this field of inquiry; our ob¬
ject being, not merely to lay before the reader what we con¬
ceive to be a true theory of the science, but also to pre¬
sent him with as full an exposition as our limits will allow
of the doctrines advocated by the more celebrated of its
professors.
Definition
of the
science.
PART I.
DEFINITION AND HISTORY.
Definition of the Science-Causes of its being neglected m Greece
and Rome, and in the Middle Ages.—Species of Evidence on which
its Conclusions are founded.—Rise of the Science m Modern Eu¬
rope.—Mercantile System.—Progress of Commercial Philosophy
in England in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries.—Sys¬
tem of Quesnay and the French Economists..—Publication of the
“ WahHI) of Nations.”—Distinction between Politics and btatis-
'111 V u-iiva ‘    . . j O i- 4-*
Wealth of Nations.”—Distinction between Politics and Statis¬
tics, and Political Economy.
Political economy1 is the science of the laws which regu¬
late the production, distribution, and consumption of the pro¬
ducts necessary, useful, or agreeable to man, which it requiies
some portion of voluntary labour to produce, procure, or pre-
This definition has been framed so as to exclude all
reference to articles existing independently of man, and
which may be obtained in unlimited quantities without any
laborious exertion. Had such been the case with all the
articles required to satisfy our wrants and desires, this
science would either not have existed, or would have been
cultivated only as a source of amusement, w ithout any view
to utility. Political economy is exclusively conversant with
objects which come under the observation of every man,
and are continually modified by human interference. It is,
in fact, the science of values ; and nothing destitute of ex¬
changeable value, or which will not be accepted as an
equivalent for something else that is either wholly or par¬
tially the produce of labour, can come within the scope of
its inquiries. It is obvious, however, that an article may
be possessed of the highest degree of utility, or, as it is
sometimes termed, of intrinsic worth, and yet be wholly
destitute of value in exchange. Without utility nothing
will ever be an object of demand; but how necessary so¬
ever any article may be to our comfort, or even existence,
and however great the demand for it, still, if it be a spon¬
taneous production of nature, if it exist independently of
human agency, and if every individual have an indefinite
command over it, it can never become the subject of an
exchange, or afford any basis for the reasonings of the econo¬
mist. It cannot justly be said, that the food with which wre
appease the cravings of hunger, or the clothes by which we
are defended from the inclemency of the weather, are more
useful than atmospheric air; and yet they are possessed ofDe'
that value of which it is totally destitute. The reason is,
that food and clothes are not, like air, gratuitous products;
they cannot be had at all times without any exertion ; they
axe obtainable only by labour; and as none will voluntarily
sacrifice the fruits of their industry without an equivalent,
they are truly said to possess exchangeable value.
The word value has, w e are aware, been very generally Distinr
employed to express, not only the exchangeable worth of abetweei
commodity, or its capacity to exchange for or buy other
commodities, but also to express its utility, or its capacity an(j ^
of satisfying our wants, and of contributing to our comforts
and enjoyments.. But it is obvious that the utility of com¬
modities that the capacity of bread to appease hunger, or
of water to quench thirst—is a totally diffeient and distinct
quality from their capacity to exchange for or buy other
commodities. Dr Smith perceived this difference, and
showed the importance of carefully distinguishing between
the utility, or, as he expressed it, the “ value in use,” of
commodities, and their value in exchange. But he did not
always keep this distinction in view, and it has been fre¬
quently lost sight of by later writers. We have no doubt,
indeed, that the confounding of these opposite qualities has
been one of the principal causes of the confusion and ob¬
scurity in which many branches of the science, not in them¬
selves difficult, are still involved. When it is said that wa¬
ter is highly valuable, the phrase has a very different mean¬
ing from what is attached to it when it is said that gold
is valuable. Water is indispensable to existence, and has,
therefore, a high degree of utility, or of “ value in use
but being generally obtainable in large quantities, without
much labour or exertion, it has, in most places, but a very
low value in exchange. Gold, on the other hand, is of com¬
paratively little utility; but as it exists only in limited
quantities, and as a great deal of labour is necessary to pro¬
cure it in small supplies, it has a high value in exchange,
and will be readily accepted as an equivalent for a large
quantity of most other things. To confound these differ¬
ent sorts of value would evidently lead to the most erro¬
neous conclusions. And, therefore, to avoid all chance of
error from mistaking the sense of so important a word as
value, we shall not use it except to signify exchangeable
worth, or value in exchange; and shall employ the word
utility to express the power or capacity of an article to sa¬
tisfy our wants and desires.
A few words will suffice to show the necessity and im¬
portance of distinguishing between utility and value. \\ ere
they identical, or were they regulated by the same laws, it
would necessarily follow, that whatever increased the utility
of any article would also increase its value, and vice versa.
But the fact is distinctly and completely the reverse. The
utility of a commodity is never increased by merely raising
its value. A deficient harvest increases the exchangeable
value of corn, but most certainly it does not increase its
utility. Were such an improvement made in the manufac¬
ture of hats as should enable them to be produced for half
the expense it now takes to bring them to market, their
value, and consequently their price, would very soon be
also reduced a half. Each individual would be able to buy
two hats for the same sum it formerly required to buy one;
and while the utility of no single hat would be impaired by
this fall of value, it is plain that the sphere of their utility
be said to be
1 Economy, from o house, or family, and a law—the government of a family. Hence political economy may
to the state what domestic economy is to a family.
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
i Ith.
j;tuition.'would be greatly extended, and that they would be brought
Nwithin the reach of a large proportion of those whose po¬
verty might previously have hindered their obtaining them.
The grand object, in fact, of this science is to discover the
means by w hich the value of commodities may be reduced
to the lowest possible limits. For, the more their value is
reduced, the more obtainable they become, and the greater,
consequently, is the amount of necessaries, conveniencies,
and luxuries at the disposal of every individual.
I inition Political economy has frequently been defined to be “ the
«pe term science which treats of the production, distribution, and con¬
sumption of wealth and if by wealth be meant those ma¬
terial products which possess exchangeable value, and are
necessary, useful, or agreeable to man, the definition is quite
unexceptionable. But those who have adopted this defini¬
tion have attached a different, and a much too extensive,
meaning to the term wealth. They have sometimes, for
example, considered wealth as synonymous with “ all that
man desires as useful and agreeable'.' But if political eco¬
nomy were to embrace a discussion of the production and
distribution of all that is useful and agreeable, it would in¬
clude within itself every other science; and the best Ency¬
clopaedia would really be the best treatise on political eco¬
nomy. Good health is useful and delightful, and therefore,
on this hypothesis, the science of wealth should compre¬
hend the science of medicine ; civil and religious liberty
are highly useful, and therefore the science of wealth should
comprehend the science of politics; good acting is agree¬
able, and therefore, to be complete, the science of wealth
should embrace a discussion of the principles of the histrio¬
nic art, and so on. Such definitions are obviously worse
than useless. Their only effect is to generate confused and
perplexed notions respecting the objects and limits of the
science, and to prevent the student ever acquiring a dis¬
tinct idea of the nature of the inquiries in which he is
engaged.
Mr Malthus defined wealth to consist of “ those ma‘e-
rial objects which are necessary, useful, and agreeable to
man.” (Principles of Political Economy, p. 28.) But waiv¬
ing the objections that may justly be made to the introduc¬
tion of the word “ material,” it is still too comprehensive to
be made use of. Atmospheric air, and the heat of the sun,
are both material products, and are highly useful and agree¬
able. But their independent existence, and incapacity of
appropriation, exclude them, as has been already seen, from
the investigations of this science.
Dr Smith has not explicitly stated the precise meaning
he attached to the term wealth ; but he most commonly
describes it to be “ the annual produce of land and labour.”
It has, however, been justly objected to this definition, that
it refers to the sources of wealth before it is known what
wealth is, and that it includes all the useless products of
the earth, as well as those appropriated and enjoyed by
man.
The above definition is not liable to any of these objec¬
tions. By confining the science to a discussion of the laws
regulating “ the production, distribution, and consumption
of those products which have exchangeable value, and are
necessary, useful, or agreeable,” we give it a distinct and
definite object. When thus properly restricted, the re¬
searches of the economist occupy a field which is exclusively
his own. He runs no risk of wasting his time in inquiries
which belong to other sciences, or in unprofitable investi¬
gations respecting the production and consumption of arti¬
cles which cannot be appropriated, and exist independently
of human industry.
Capacity of appropriation is indispensably necessary to
constitute wealth. And we shall invariably employ this
term to distinguish those products obtainable only by the
intervention of human labour, and which consequently may
be appropriated by one individual, and consumed exclu-
259
sively by him. A man is not said to be wealthy because Definition,
he has an indefinite command over atmospheric air, thisw_v~—^
being a privilege he enjoys in common with every one else,
and which can form no ground of distinction ; but he is
said to be wealthy, according to the degree in which he
can afford to command those necessaries, conveniencies, and
luxuries which are not the gifts of nature, but the products
of human industry. It must, however, be carefully ob¬
served, that although the possession of value be necessary
to the existence of wealth, they cannot be confounded with¬
out leading to the most erroneous conclusions. Wealth
and value are as widely different as utility and value. It is
plain that every man will command a much greater quantity
of those necessaries and gratifications of which wealth con¬
sists, when their value declines, than when it increases.
Wealth and value vary inversely,—the one increasing as the
other diminishes, and diminishing as the other increases.
Wealth is greatest where the facility of production is greatest,
and value is greatest where the difficulty of production is
greatest.
The science of political economy is exclusively conver-Importance
sant with that class of phenomena which the exertion of0*.4*16
human industry exhibits. Its object is to ascertain thescience*
means by which this industry may be rendered most pro¬
ductive of the necessaries, luxuries, and enjoyments which
form wealth; the laws which determine its distribution
among the different classes of society; and how it may be
most profitably consumed. To enter into lengthened ar¬
guments to prove the importance of a science having such
objects in view, would be worse than useless. The consump¬
tion of wealth is indispensable to existence ; but the eter¬
nal law of Providence has decreed that it can only be pro¬
cured through the intervention of industry—that man must
earn his bread in the sweat of his brow. This twofold ne¬
cessity renders the production of wealth a constant and
principal object of the exertions of the vast majority of the
human race. It has subdued the natural aversion of man
from labour, given activity to indolence, and armed the pa¬
tient hand of industry with zeal to undertake, and perseve¬
rance to overcome, the most difficult and disagreeable tasks.
But when wealth is thus necessary, when the desire to ac¬
quire it is sufficient to make us submit to the greatest pri¬
vations, it is plainly impossible to doubt the utility and im¬
portance of the science which teaches the modes by which
its acquisition may be facilitated, and by which the great¬
est amount of wealth may be obtained with the least diffi¬
culty. There is no class of persons to whom a knowledge
of this science can be considered as extrinsic or superflu¬
ous. There are some, doubtless, to whom it may be of
more advantage than to others ; but it is of the utmost con¬
sequence to all. The prosperity of individuals, and con¬
sequently of nations, does not depend nearly so much on
salubrity of climate, or fertility of soil, as on their power
to apply labour with perseverance, skill, and judgment.
Industry can balance almost every other deficiency. It
can render regions naturally inhospitable and unproduc¬
tive, the comfortable abodes of an intelligent and refined, a
crowded and wealthy population; but where it is wanting,
the choicest gifts of nature are of no value; and countries
possessed of the greatest capabilities of improvement, with
difficulty furnish a miserable subsistence to the scanty po¬
pulation of hordes distinguished only by their barbarism and
wretchedness.
The possession of wealth being thus necessary to indivi- Causes of
dual existence and comfort, and to the advancement of na" ^et}||ggiect
tions in the career of civilization, it may well excite asto- gCjen|.se jn
nishment that so few efforts should have been made to dis-ant;[iUjtj.
cover its sources and facilitate its acquisition, and that the and the
study of political economy was not early considered as form-middle
ing a principal part in a comprehensive system of educa- ages*
260 POLITICAL
Causes of tion. Two circumstances, to which we shall now briefly
*ke n<jgl.ect advert, seem to have been principally instrumental in oc-
Econo-ny casi°ning t,ie neglect of this science—the institution of
^ ltl— ^ _ h flompstir. slavery in the ancient world, and the darkness of
the period when the plan of education in the universities of
modern Europe was first organized.
The citizens of Greece and Rome considered it degrad¬
ing to employ themselves in those occupations which form
the principal business of the inhabitants of modern Eu¬
rope. In some of the Grecian states they were prohibited
from engaging in any species of manufacturing or commer¬
cial industry ; and in Athens and Rome, where this pro¬
hibition did not exist, these employments were universally
regarded as mean, mercenary, and unworthy of freemen,
and wrere in consequence carried on exclusively by slaves,
or the very dregs of the people.1 Agriculture was treated
with more respect. Some of the most distinguished cha¬
racters in the earlier ages of Roman history had been ac¬
tively engaged in rural affairs; but notwithstanding their
example, in the flourishing period of the republic, and un¬
der the emperors, the cultivation of the soil was usually
carried on by slaves, belonging to the landlord, and em¬
ployed on his account. The mass of Roman citizens were
eitheT engaged in the military service,2 or derived a preca¬
rious and dependent subsistence from the supplies of corn
furnished by the conquered provinces. In such a state of
society the relations subsisting in modern Europe between
landlords and tenants, and masters and servants, were un¬
known ; and the ancients were in consequence entire stran¬
gers to all those interesting and important questions arising
out of the rise and fall of rents and wages, which form so
important a branch of economical science. The philoso¬
phy of the ancient world was also extremely unfavourable
to the cultivation of political economy. The luxurious or
more refined mode of living of the rich, was regarded by
the ancient moralists as an evil of the first magnitude.
They considered it as subversive of those warlike virtues,
which were the principal objects of their admiration, and
in consequence they denounced the passion for accumula¬
tion as fraught with the most injurious consequences. It
was impossible that this science should become an object of
attention to men imbued with such prejudices ; or that it
should be studied by those who held the objects about which
it is conversant in contempt, and spurned the labour by
which wealth is produced.
At the establishment of our universities, the clergy be¬
ing almost the exclusive possessors of the little knowledge
then in existence, their peculiar feelings and pursuits natu¬
rally exercised a marked influence over the plans of edu¬
cation they were employed to frame. Grammar, rhetoric,
logic, school divinity, and civil law, comprised the whole
course of study. To have appointed professors to explain
the principles of commerce, and the means by which la¬
bour might be rendered most effective, would have been
considered as equally superfluous and degrading to the dig¬
nity of science. The prejudices against commerce, manu-
ECONOMY.
factures, and luxury, generated in antiquity, had a power- Canges of
ful influence in the middle ages. None were possessed of the nedec '
any clear ideas concerning the true sources of wealth, hap-0f Politics
piness, and prosperity. The intercourse between different ^onomy,
countries was extremely limited, and was rather confined to
marauding excursions, and a piratical scramble for the pre¬
cious metals, than to a commerce founded on the gratifica¬
tion of real or reciprocal wants.
These circumstances sufficiently account for the slow
progress of this science, and the little attention paid to it,
down to a very recent date. And since it became an ob¬
ject of more general attention and liberal inquiry, the op¬
position between the theories and opinions that have been
espoused by the most eminent of its professors—a neces¬
sary and inevitable result of its recent cultivation—has
proved exceedingly unfavourable to its progress, and ge¬
nerated a disposition to distrust its best established con¬
clusions. This prejudice is, however, extremely ill found¬
ed ; and notwithstanding the diversity of the theories that
have been formed to explain its various phenomena, it un¬
doubtedly admits of as much certainty in its conclusions as
any science not exclusively dependent on mere relation.
A brief exposition of the principles on wdiich it is founded,
and of the mode in which its investigations should be con¬
ducted, will evince the correctness of this statement.
Political economy is not a science of speculation, but ofpr;ncipie9
fact and experiment. The principles on which the produc-of the
tion and accumulation of wealth and the progress of civili-science,
zation depend, are not the offspring of legislative enact-
ments. Man’s existence depends on his exerting himselfdenceon
to produce wealth; and the desire implanted in his breast, whicli it3
of rising in the world and improving his condition, impels conclusk*i
him to save and accumulate. The principles which form are found-
the basis of this science make, therefore, a part of the con-cd-
stitution of man and of the physical world, and their ope¬
rations, like those of the mechanical principles, may be
traced by the aid of observation and analysis. There is,
however, a material distinction between the physical and
the moral and political sciences. The conclusions of the
former apply in every case, while those of the latter apply
only in the majority of cases. The principles on which the
production and accumulation of wealth depend are inherent
in our nature, but they do not exercise the same influence
over every individual; and the theorist must satisfy him¬
self with framing his rules so as to explain their operation
in the majority of instances, leaving it to the sagacity ot
the observer to modify them so as to suit individual cases.
Thus it is an admitted principle in morals, as well as in po¬
litical economy, that by far the largest proportion of the
human race have a much clearer view of what is conducive
to their own interests, than it is possible for any other man,
or select number of men, to have, and consequently that it
is sound policy to allow individuals to follow the bent of
their inclination, and to engage in any branch of industry
they think proper. This is the general theorem; and it is
one which is established on the most comprehensive expe-
1 The force of the prejudices on this head may be learned from the following quotations : “ Illiberales autem et sordidi, Cicero
says, “ questus mercenariorum, omniumque quorum operae, non quorum artes emuntur. Rst enim iliis ipsa merces auctoramentuin
servitutis. Sordidi etiam putandi, qui mercantur a mercatoribus quod statim vendant, nihil enim prqficiunt, nisi admodum mentiantur.
Opificesque omnes in sordida arte versantur, nec enim quidquam ingenunm potest habere officina ATercatura autem, si tenuis est, sor-
dida putanda est; sin autem magna et copiosa, multa undique apportans, multisque sine vanitate impertiens, non est admodum vitu-
peranda.” {Tie OJjiciit, lib. i. sect. 42.) _ _ ] .
“ Vulgaris opificum, qiue manu constant, et ad instruendam vitam occupatae sunt; in quibus nulla decoris, nulla honesti simulatio
est.” (Senecae Episiolce, ep. 89.)
A hundred similar quotations might be produced ; but the one from Cicero is sufficient to establish the accuracy of what has been
advanced. The strength of the prejudice against commerce and the arts is proved by its exerting so powerful an influence over so
cultivated a mind. For a further discussion of the opinions of the Romans on this subject, see the Disscrtazione del Commerdo &e
Romani of Mengotti, which received a prize from the Academy of Paris in 1787; and the Memoria Apolegetica del Commercio de Ro¬
mani of Torres, published at Venice in 1788.
* “ Rei militaris virtus praestat caeteris omnibus; haec populo Romano, haec huic urbi aeternam gloriam peperit.” (Cicero
Murena.)
Jlilence
dWhich
t : Con-
cl: 3ns of
JJitical
I momy
ai lound-
W\ 2d.
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
rience. It is not, however, like the laws which regulate
the motions of the planetary system, universally applicable;
it will hold good in nineteen out of twenty instances, but
the twentieth may be an exception. But it is not required
of the economist that his theories should quadrate with the
peculiar bias of a particular person. His conclusions are
^ drawn from contemplating the principles found to deter¬
mine the condition of mankind, as presented on the large
scale of nations and empires. His business is with man in
the aggregate, with states, and not with families, with the
passions and propensities which actuate the great bulk of
the human race, and not with those which are occasionally
found to influence a solitary individual.
This distinction should be kept constantly in view. No¬
thing is more common than to hear it objected to some of
the best established truths in political and economical
science, that they are at variance with certain facts, and
that therefore they should be rejected. But these objec¬
tions very often originate in an entire misapprehension of
the nature of the science. It would be easy to produce a
thousand instances of individuals who have been enriched
by monopolies and restrictions, and even by robbery and
plunder; though it would certainly be rather rash thence
to conclude that society may be enriched by such means!
This, however, is the single consideration to which the
economist has to attend; and, until it can be shown that
monopolies and restrictions are not destructive of national
wealth, and that what is gained by the monopolist is not
lost by the public, he is justified in considering them in¬
jurious. lo arrive at a well-founded conclusion in this
science, it is not enough to observe results in particular
cases, or as they affect a few individuals; we must fur¬
ther inquire whether these results be constant and univer¬
sally applicable,—whether the same circumstances which
have given rise to them in one instance, would in every
instance, and in every state of society, be productive of the
same or similar results. A theory inconsistent with a uni¬
form and constant fact, must be erroneous; but the ob¬
servance of a particular result at variance with customary
experience, and when we may not have the means of dis¬
criminating the circumstances attending it, should not make
us hastily modify or reject a principle which accounts sa¬
tisfactorily for the greater number of appearances.
The example of the few arbitrary princes, distinguished
by their equity, humanity, and generosity, is not enough to
overthrow the principle which teaches that it is of the es¬
sence of irresponsible power to debauch and vitiate its pos¬
sessors, to render them haughty, cruel, and suspicious; nor
is the example of those who, attentive only to present en¬
joyment and careless of the future, lavish their fortune in
boisterous dissipation or vain expense, sufficient to invali¬
date the general conclusion, that the passion for accumula¬
tion is stronger and more powerful than the passion for ex¬
pense. Had this not been the case, mankind could never
have emerged from the condition of savages. The stu¬
pendous improvements made in different ages and nations,
the forests that have been cut down, the marshes and lakes
that have been drained and cultivated, the harbours, roads,
and bridges that have been constructed, the cities and edifices
that have been raised, are all the fruit of a saving of income,
and establish, in despite of a thousand instances of prodi¬
gality, the ascendency and superior force of the accumu¬
lating principle.
The want of attention to these considerations has occa¬
sioned much of the error and misapprehension with which
this science has been and still is infected. Almost all the
absurd theories and opinions which have successively ap¬
peared have been supported by an appeal to facts. But a
knowledge of facts, without a knowledge of their mutual
relation, without being able to show why the one is a cause
and the other an effect, is, to use the illustration of M. Say,
261
no better than the indigested erudition of an almanac maker, Rise of the
and affords no means of judging of the truth or falsehood of Scieilce in,
a general principle. Modem
But, though we are not to reject a received principle
because of the apparent opposition of a few results, with
the circumstances of which we are unacquainted, we should
have no confidence in its solidity, unless it be deduced from
a very comprehensive and careful induction. He who
would arrive at a true knowledge of the laws regulating
the production, distribution, and consumption of wealth,
must draw his materials from a very wide surface; he
snould study man in every different situation—should have
recourse to the history of society, arts, commerce, and ci¬
vilization, to the works of philosophers and travellers, to
everything, in short, that can throw light on the causes
which accelerate or retard the progress of civilization. He
should observe the changes which have taken place in the
fortunes and condition of the human race in different re¬
gions ana ages of the world; should trace the rise, pro¬
gress, and decline of industry; and, above all, he should
carefully discriminate the effect of different political mea¬
sures, and the various circumstances wherein an advancino-
and declining society differ from each other. Such inves¬
tigations, by disclosing the real causes of national opu¬
lence and refinement, and of poverty and degradation, fur¬
nish the means of satisfactorily solving almost all the im¬
portant problems in the science of wealth, and of devising
a scheme of public administration calculated to insure the
continued advancement of society in the career of improve¬
ment.
It should be kept in mind, that it is no part of the busi¬
ness of the economist to inquire into the means by which
individual fortunes may be increased or diminished, except
to ascertain their general operation and effect. The ■public
interests should always form the exclusive objects of his at¬
tention. He is not to frame systems, and devise schemes,
for increasing the wealth and enjoyments of particular
classes; but to apply himself to discover the sources of na¬
tional wealth, and universal prosperity, and the means by
which they may be rendered most productive.
Those who reflect on the variety and extent of the pre¬
vious knowledge required for the construction of a sound
theory of political economy, will cease to feel any surprise
at the errors into which economists have been betrayed, or
at the discrepancy of the opinions still entertained on some
important points. This science is of very recent origin.
Though various treatises of considerable merit had pre¬
viously appeared on some of its separate parts, it was not
treated as a whole, or in a scientific manner, until about
the middle of last century. This circumstance is of itself
enough to account for the number of erroneous systems
that have since appeared. Instead of deducing their gene¬
ral conclusions from a comparison of particular facts, and a
careful examination of the phenomena attending the opera¬
tion of different principles, and of the same principles under
different circumstances, the first cultivators of almost every
branch of science begin by framing their theories on a
very narrow and insecure basis. Nor is it really in their
power to go to work differently. Observations are scarcely
ever made or particulars noted for their own sakes. It is
not till they begin to be in request as furnishing the only
test by which to ascertain the truth of some popular theory,
that they are made in sufficient numbers and with suffi¬
cient accuracy. It is, in the peculiar phraseology of this
science, the effectual demand of the theorist that occasions
the production of the facts or raw materials he is after¬
wards to work into a system. The history of political
economy strikingly exemplifies the truth of this remark.
Being, as already observed, entirely unknown to the an¬
cients, and but little attended to by our ancestors down
to a comparatively late period, those circumstances which
262
POLITICAL ECONOMY
Mercantile would have enabled us to judge with the greatest precision,
System. 0f the wealth and civilization of the more celebrated states
  * ' of antiquity, and of Europe during the middle ages, have
either been thought unworthy of notice by the historian, or
have been very imperfectly and carelessly detailed. Ihose,
therefore, who first began to trace the principles of the
science had but a comparatively scanty experience on which
to build their conclusions. Nor did they even avail them¬
selves of the few historical facts with which they might
easily have become acquainted, but almost exclusively con¬
fined their attention to those which happened to fall within
the sphere of their own observation.
Mercantile Agreeably to what has now been stated, we find that the
system. theories advanced by the early economical
formed on the most contracted basis, and were obly htted
to explain a few of the most obvious and striking pheno¬
mena. The mercantile theory, for example, was entirely
bottomed on the popular and prevalent opinions respecting
money. The precious metals having been long used, both
as standards by which to ascertain the comparative value of
different commodities, and as the equivalents for which they
were most frequently exchanged, acquired a fictitious im¬
portance, not merely in the estimation of the vulgar, but in
that of persons of the greatest discernment. The simple
consideration, that all buying and selling is really nothing
more than the bartering of one commodity for another
of a certain quantity of corn or wool, for example, for a
certain quantity of gold or silver, and vice versa, was en¬
tirely overlooked. The attention was gradually transferred
from the money’s worth to the money itself; and the wealth
of individuals and of states came to be measured, not by
the abundance of their disposable products,—by the quan¬
tity or value of the commodities with which they could af¬
ford to purchase the precious metals,—but by the quantity
of these metals actually in their possession. It is on this
flimsy and fallacious hypothesis that the theories of almost
every writer on economical subjects antecedent to the ap¬
pearance of the works of Child, North, and Locke, in Eng¬
land, and of Gournay and Quesnay in France, are found¬
ed ; and, what is of infinitely greater moment, it is on this
same hypothesis that the different civilized countries have
proceeded to regulate their intercourse with each other.
Their grand object has not been to facilitate the produc¬
tion of necessaries, comforts, and luxuries, but to monopo¬
lize the largest possible supply of gold and silver. And, as
these could not be obtained in countries destitute of mines,
except in exchange for exported commodities, various
schemes were resorted to for encouraging exportation, and
for preventing the importation of most products other than
the precious metals. In consequence, the excess of the
value of the exports over that of the imports was long con¬
sidered as the most infallible test of the progress of a coun¬
try in the career of wealth. This excess, it was believed,
could not be balanced otherwise than by an equivalent im¬
portation of gold or silver, that is, of the only real wealth
it was then supposed a country could possess.
These principles and conclusions, though absolutely false
and erroneous, afford a tolerable explanation of a few very
obvious phenomena, and are in perfect unison with the po¬
pular prejudices on the subject. It was natural, therefore,
that they should be espoused by the merchants or practical
men, who were the earliest writers on this science. They
did not consider it necessary to subject the principles they
assumed to any refined analysis or examination. But, reck¬
oning them as sufficiently established by the common con¬
sent and agreement of mankind, they applied themselves
exclusively to the discussion of the practical measures cal¬
culated to give them the greatest efficacy.
Balance of “ Although a kingdom,” says one of the earliest and
trade. ablest writers in defence of the mercantile system, “ may
be enriched by gifts received, or by purchase taken, from
some other nations, yet these are things uncertain, and Mercs,
of small consideration when they happen. The ordinary ^ Systej
means, therefore, to increase our wealth and treasure, is by fo- |
reign trade, wherein we must ever observe this rule,—to sell
more to strangers yearly than we consume of theirs in value.
For, suppose, that when this kingdom is plentifully served
with cloth, lead, tin, iron, fish, and other native commodi¬
ties, we do yearly export the overplus to foreign countries
to the value of L.2,200,000, by which means we are en¬
abled, beyond the seas, to buy and bring in foreign wares
for our use and consumption to the value of L.2,000,000:
By this order duly kept in our trading, we may rest assur¬
ed that the kingdom shall be enriched yearly L.200,000,
which must be brought to us as so much treasure ; because
that part of our stock which is not returned to us in wares,
must necessarily be brought home in treasure.” (Mun’s
Treasure by Foreign Trade, orig. ed. p. 11.)
The gain on our foreign commerce is here supposed to
consist exclusively of the gold and silver which, it is taken
for granted, must necessarily be brought home in payment
of the excess of exported commodities. Mun lays no stress
whatever on the circumstance of foreign commerce en¬
abling us to obtain an infinite variety of useful and agree¬
able products, which it would either be impossible to pro¬
duce at all, or to produce so cheaply, at home. We are
desired to consider all this accession of wealth,—all the vast
addition made by commerce to the motives which stimu¬
late, and to the comforts and enjoyments which reward,
the labour of the industrious, as nothing, and to fix our at¬
tention exclusively on the balance of L.200,000 of gold
and silver! This is much the same as if we were desired
to estimate the comfort and advantage derived from a suit
of clothes, by the number and glare of the metal buttons
by which they are fastened! And yet this rule for esti¬
mating the advantageousness of foreign commerce was long
regarded by the generality of merchants and practical states¬
men as infallible; and, until very recently, we were an¬
nually congratulated on the excess of our exports over our
imports!
But there were other circumstances, besides the errone-Manufa
ous notions respecting the precious metals, which led to the taring*
establishment of the mercantile system, and to the enactingtem-
of regulations restrictive of the freedom of industry. The
feudal governments established in the countries that had
formed the western division of the Roman empire, early de¬
generated into a system of anarchy and lawless oppression.
The princes, unable of themselves to restrain the usur¬
pations of the greater barons, or to control their violence,
endeavoured to strengthen their influence and consolidate
their power by attaching the inhabitants of cities and towns
to their interests. For this purpose, they granted them
charters, enfranchising the citizens, abolishing every exist¬
ing mark of servitude, and forming them into corporations,
or bodies politic, to be governed by councils and magis¬
trates of their own selection. The order and good govern¬
ment that were thus established in the cities, and the se¬
curity enjoyed by their inhabitants, when the rest of the
country was a prey to rapine and disorder, stimulated their
industry, and gave them a vast ascendency over the cul¬
tivators of the soil. It was from them that the princes de¬
rived the greater part of their supplies of money; and it
was by means of their co-operation that they were enabled
to control and subdue the pride and independence of the
barons. But the citizens did not render this assistance to
their sovereigns merely by way of compensation for the ori¬
ginal gift of their charters. They were continually soliciting
and obtaining new privileges. And it was not to be ex¬
pected that princes, whom they had laid under essenti
obligations, and who must have regarded them as forming
by far the most industrious and deserving portion of thei
subjects, should be at all disinclined to gratify their wishes.
POLITICAL
atile To enable them to obtain their provisions cheap, and to
carry on their industry to the best advantage, the exporta-
' tion of corn, and of the raw materials of their manufactures,
was strictly prohibited; at the same time that heavy du¬
ties and absolute prohibitions were interposed to prevent
the importation of manufactured articles from abroad, and
to secure the monopoly of the home market to the native
manufacturers. These, together with the privilege granted
to the citizens of corporate towns, of preventing any indivi¬
dual from exercising any branch of business without leave
from them, and a variety of subordinate regulations intend¬
ed to force the importation of the raw materials required
in manufactures, and the exportation of the manufactured
goods, form the principal features of the system of public
economy adopted, in the view of encouraging manufacturing
industry, in every country of Europe, in the fourteenth, fif¬
teenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth centuries. The freedom
of industry recognised by their ancient laws was almost to¬
tally destroyed. It would be easy to mention a thousand in¬
stances of the excess to which this artificial system was car¬
ried in England and other countries ; but as many of these
must be familiar to the reader, we shall only observe, as il¬
lustrative of its spirit, that by an act passed in 1678, for the
encouragement of the English woollen manufacture, it was
ordered that all dead bodies should be wrapped in woollen
shrouds!
But the exclusion of foreign competition, and the mono¬
poly of the home-market, did not satisfy the manufacturers
and merchants. Having obtained all the advantage they
could from the public, they attempted to prey on each other.
Those possessed of most influence, procured the privilege
of carrying on particular branches of industry, to the ex¬
clusion of every one else. This abuse was carried to a
most oppressive height in the reign of Elizabeth, who grant¬
ed an infinite number of new patents. At length the griev¬
ance became so intolerable as to make all classes join in
petitioning for its abolition ; and this, after much opposi¬
tion on the part of government, who regarded the power of
erecting monopolies as a very valuable branch of the pre¬
rogative, was effected by an act passed in the 21st of James
I. But this act did not touch any of the fundamental prin¬
ciples of the mercantile or manufacturing system ; and the
exclusive privileges of all bodies corporate were exempted
from its operation.
In France the interests of the manufacturers were warm¬
ly espoused by Colbert, the justly celebrated minister of
finance during the most splendid period of the reign of
Louis XIV.; and the year 1664, when the tariff, compiled
under Colbert’s direction, was promulgated, has been some¬
times considered, though improperly, as the aera of the ma¬
nufacturing system.
1 hese restrictions were zealously supported by the writers
in defence of the mercantile system and the balance of
trade. 1 he facilities given to the exportation of manufac¬
tured goods, and the obstacles thrown in the way of their
importation, seemed to them to be particularly well fitted
for making the exports exceed the imports, and procuring a
favourable balance. Instead, therefore, of regarding these
regulations as the offspring of a selfish monopolizing spirit,
they looked on them as having been dictated by the soundest
policy. Ihe manufacturing and mercantile systems were
naturally blended together. The acquisition of a favour¬
able balance of payments was the grand object to be ac¬
complished ; and heavy duties and restrictions on importa-
ECONOMY.
tion from abroad, and bounties and premiums on expor- Mercantile
tation from home, were the means by which it was to be System.
attained ! It cannot excite surprise that a system having"   '
so many popular prejudices in its favour, and which afr
forded a plausible and convenient apology for the exclusive
privileges enjoyed by the manufacturing and commercial
classes, should have early attained, or that it should still
preserve, notwithstanding the overthrow of its principles, a
powerful practical influence. Melon and Forbonnais in
France—Genovesi in Italy—Mun, Sir Josiah Child, Dr Da-
venant, the authors of the British Merchant, and Sir James
Steuart, in England—are the ablest writers who have es¬
poused, some with more and some with fewer exceptions,
the leading principles of the mercantile system.
“ It is no exaggeration to affirm, that there are but few
political errors which have produced more mischief than
the mercantile system. Armed with power, it commanded
and forbid where it should only have protected. The re¬
gulating mania which it inspired tormented industry in a
thousand ways, to force it from its natural channels. It
made each nation regard the welfare of its neighbours as
incompatible with its own ; hence the reciprocal desire of
injuring and impoverishing each other; and hence that
spirit of commercial rivalry which has been the immediate
or remote cause of the greater number of modern wars.
This system stimulated nations to employ force or cunning
to extort commercial treaties, productive of no real advan¬
tage to themselves, from the weakness or ignorance of
others. It formed colonies that the mother country might
enjoy the monopoly of their trade, and force them to resort
exclusively to her markets. In short, where it has been
productive of the least injury, it has retarded the progress
of national prosperity ; everywhere else it has deluged the
earth with blood, and has depopulated and ruined some of
those countries whose power and opulence it was supposed
it would carry to the highest pitch.” (Storch, Trade d’Eco¬
nomic Politique, tome i. p. 122.)
The greater attention which began to be paid, in the Progress of
seventeenth, and in the earlier part of the last century, to commercial
subjects connected with finance, commerce, and agricul-!™ei?ce l11
ture, gradually prepared the way for the downfall of the ng ail< ‘
mercantile system. The English writers preceded those of
every other country, in pointing out its defects, and in dis¬
covering the real nature and functions of money, and the
true principles of commerce. The establishment of a direct
intercourse with India did much to accelerate the progress
of sound opinions. Until very recently the precious metals
have always been one of the most advantageous articles of
export to the East.1 And when the East India Company
was established in 1600, power was given them annually to
export foreign gold coins or bullion, of the value of L.30,000;
the Company being bound to import, within six months
after the termination of every voyage, except the first, as
much gold and silver as should together be equal to the
value of the silver they exported. But the Company’s
enemies contended that these regulations were not com¬
plied with, and that it was contrary to all principle, and
highly injurious to the public interests, to permit the ex¬
portation of any quantity of bullion. The merchants and
others interested in the India trade, among whom we have
to reckon Sir Dudley Digges, whose defence of the Com¬
pany was published in 1615, Mr Mun, who published a very
able pamphlet in defence of the Company in 1621,2 Mr
Misselden, and more recently Sir Josiah Child, could not
1 fliny, when enumerating the spices, silks, and other eastern products imported into Italy, says, “ Minimaque computatione mil-
cap ^Tr m^*a sestertium annis omnibus, India et Seres, peninsulaque ilia (Arabia) imperia nostro demunt.” (Hist. Nat. lib. xii.
Charles V. used to say that the Portuguese, who then engrossed almost the whole commerce of the East, were the common ene-
imes of Christendom, inasmuch as they drained it of its treasure to export it to infidels ! (Misselden on Free Trade, p. 24.)'
■this pamphlet, which is now become extremely rare, is printed in Purchas’s Pilgrims, vol. i. p. 732.
264
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
Progress of controvert the reasoning of their opponents, without openly
Coinmer- impugning some of the commonly received opinions regard-
h^Enfflarcf raoney. In such circumstances it is easy to see that
y - ^ y prejudice would be forced to give way to interest. At first,
however, the advocates of the Company did not contend,
nor is there, indeed, any good reason for thinking that they
were of opinion, that the exportation of gold or silver to
the East Indies was beneficial, on the ground that the com¬
modities brought back were of greater value. They con¬
tended that the Company did not export a greater quan¬
tity of bullion than their charter authorized ; and they fur¬
ther contended that this exportation was advantageous, be¬
cause the commodities imported from India were chiefly re¬
exported to other countries, whence a greater quantity of
bullion was obtained in exchange for them.1 But even this
was an immense advance in the progress to a sounder theo¬
ry. (Test tovjours le premier pas qui coute. The advocates
of the Company began gradually to assume a higher tone;
and at length boldly contended that bullion was nothing
hut a commodity, and that its exportation should be as free
as that of anything else. Nor were these opinions con¬
fined to the partners of the East India Company. 1 hey
were gradually communicated to others; and many emi¬
nent merchants were taught to look with suspicion on se¬
veral received maxims, and were in consequence led to ac¬
quire more correct and comprehensive views regarding com¬
mercial intercourse. The new ideas ultimately made their
wyay into the House of Commons ; and in 1663 the statutes
prohibiting the exportation of foreign coin and bullion were
repealed, and full liberty given to the East India Company
and to private traders to export them in unlimited quan-
_
In addition to the controversies respecting the East In¬
dia trade, the foundation of the colonies in America and
the West Indies, the establishment of a compulsory provi¬
sion for the support of the poor, and the acts prohibiting
the exportation of wool and the non-importation of Irish
cattle, &c. drew an extraordinary portion of the public at¬
tention to questions connected with the domestic policy of
the country. In the course of the seventeenth century, a
more than usual number of tracts were published on com¬
mercial and economical subjects. And although the doc¬
trines of the greater number are strongly tinctured with the
prevailing spirit of the age, it cannot be denied that seve¬
ral of their authors rose far above the prejudices of their
contemporaries, and have an unquestionable right to be re¬
garded as the founders of the modern theory of commerce;
as the earliest teachers of those sound and liberal doctrines,
by which it has been shown that the prosperity of states can
never be promoted by restrictive regulations, or by the de¬
pression of their neighbours—that the genuine spirit of com¬
merce is inconsistent with the selfish and shallow policy of
monopoly—and that the self-interest of mankind, not less
than their duty, requires them to live in peace, and to cul¬
tivate friendship with each other.
Mr Man. We have already referred to Mun’s treatise entitled
England’s Treasure by Foreign Trade. Ihis treatise was
first published in 1664; but there is good reason to sup¬
pose that it had been written many years previously. Mr
Mun’s son, in the dedication to Lord Southampton, prefixed
by him to the work, says that his father “ was, in his time,
famous among merchants,” a mode of expression which he
would hardly have used had not a considerable period elap¬
sed since his father’s death; and Misselden, in his Circle
of Commerce, published in 1623 (p. 36), refers to Mun’s
tract on the East India trade, and speaks of its author asProgre
being an accomplished and experienced merchant. Perhaps,
therefore, we shall not be far wrong if we assume that the^ ^
treatise on Foreign Trade was written so early as 1635 or.
1640. At all events, it is certain that the doctrines which
it contains do not differ much from those which he had pre¬
viously maintained in his pamphlet in defence of the East
India Company, and some of the expressions are literally
the same with those of the petition presented by that body to
parliament in 1628, which is known to have been written by
Mr Mun.2 The extract we have previously given shows,
that Mun’s opinions, in so far as regards the question re¬
specting the balance of trade, were identical with those of
his contemporaries. But we believe he was the first who
endeavoured to show, and who, in point of fact, success¬
fully showed, that a favourable balance could not be pro¬
cured by restrictive regulations ; that the exportation and
importation of bullion, coin, and every other commodity,
should be freely permitted; and that violent measures will
never bring gold or silver into a kingdom, or retain them in
it. (Pp. 27, 92, &c. original ed.) Mun also distinctly lays
it down, “ that those who have wares cannot want money,”
and that “ it is not the keeping of our money in the king¬
dom, but the necessity and use of our wares in foreign coun¬
tries, and our want of other commodities, that causeth the
vent and consumption on all sides, which causeth a quick
and ample trade.” (P. 43.)3 Nor are these detached and
incidental passages thrown out at random. They breathe
the same spirit which pervades the rest of Mun’s book, and
constitute and form a part of his system. His observations
in answer to Malyne’s, on some rather difficult questions
connected with Exchange, are both accurate and ingenious.
The first edition of Sir Josiah Child’s celebrated work ong;r j05:
trade (A New Discourse of Trade, &c.) was published in Child,
1668 ; but it was very greatly enlarged in the next edition,
published in 1690. There are many sound and liberal doc¬
trines advanced in this book. The argument to show that
colonies do not depopulate the mother country, is as con¬
clusive as if it had proceeded from the pen of Mr Malthus;
and the just and forcible reasoning in defence of the natu¬
ralization of the Jews is highly creditable to the liberality
and good sense of the writer, and discovers a mind greatly
superior to existing prejudices. Sir Josiah has also many
judicious observations on the bad effects of the laws against
forestalling and regrating, on those limiting the number of
apprentices, and on corporation privileges.
When treating of the laws relating to the exportation of
wool, Sir Josiah lays it down as an axiom, “ that they that
can give the best price for a commodity shall never fail to
have it by one means or other, notwithstanding the oppo¬
sition of any laws, or interposition of any power by sea or
land; of such force, subtilty, and violence, is the general
course of trade.”
The radical defect of Sir Josiah Child’s treatise consists
in its being chiefly written to illustrate the advantages
which he labours to show would result from reducing the
legal rate of interest to four per cent.; an error into which
he was led by mistaking the low interest of Holland for the
principal cause of her wealth, when it wras in truth the ef¬
fect of her comparatively heavy taxation.
It is, however, worthy of remark, that this error wTas very
soon detected. In the same year (1668) that Sir Josiah’s
treatise first appeared, a tract was published, entitled Inte¬
rest of Money mistaken, or a treatise proving that the
Abatement of Interest is the Effect, and not the Cause, of
1 Those who have not the original pamphlets may consult Macpherson’s History of Commerce, vol. ii. pp- 207, 31o, , -
pherson’s Account of the European Commerce with India, pp. 04, 104 ; and Mr Itobert Grant’s Sketch of the Hiatory ot t e -o
pany, p. 44 ; where they will find an ample confirmation of what is stated above. _
2 This petition, and the reasons on which it is founded, were so well esteemed as to occasion its being reprinted m lb41.
^ These expressions are in the petition of the Company, presented to parliament in 1028.
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
Pi tress of the Riches of a Nation. The author of this tract main-
( imer- tains the opinion afterwards held by Locke and Montes-
dl BandU clu*eu’ that the interest of money does not depend on sta-
' ^D-^tetory regulations, but that it varies according to the com¬
parative opulence of a country; or rather according to the
scarcity and abundance of money, increasing when the sup¬
ply of money diminishes, and diminishing when it increases.1
Having endeavoured to establish this principle, the author
successfully contends that Sir Josiah Child had totally mis¬
taken the cause of the wealth of the Dutch, of which he
shows the lowness of interest was merely a consequence.
Si jHlliam In 1672 Sir William Petty published his celebrated tract
I7’9 f°' entitled the Political Anatomy of Ireland. In this work,
lit Aiiy.- the absurdity of the act passed in 1664, prohibiting the im-
0 portation of cattle, beef, &c. from Ireland into Britain, is
ably exposed, and the advantage of an unconstrained inter¬
nal commerce clearly set forth. “ If it be good for Eng¬
land,” says Sir William, “ to keep Ireland a distinct king¬
dom, why do not the predominant party in parliament, sup¬
pose the western members, make England beyond Trent
another kingdom, and take tolls and customs upon the bor¬
ders Or why was there ever any union between England
and Wales? And why may not the entire kingdom of
England be further cantonised for the advantage of all par¬
ties?” (P. 34, ed. 1719.)
The great defect in the writings of Mun, Misselden,
Child, and others, does not consist so much in their notions
about the superior importance of the precious metals, or
the balance of trade, as in those respecting the advantages
they supposed were derivable from importing durable ra¬
ther than rapidly perishable commodities and luxuries. This,
however, was an extremely natural opinion; and we need
not be surprised that the early writers on commerce fell
into an error, from which neither the profound sagacity of
Locke, nor the strong sense of Mr Harris, has been able
to preserve them. But even so early as 1677, the fallacy
of this opinion was perceived. In that year there appear¬
ed a small tract, entitled England’s Great Happiness; or,
a Dialogue between Content and Complaint; in which the
author contends, that if there be a demand for wine, fruit,
and such like articles, their importation in exchange for
money is advantageous; and, on this ground, he defends
the French trade, which was loudly declaimed against by
the practical men of that day. We shall make a short ex¬
tract from this remarkable tract:
“ Complaint.—You speak plain ; but what think you
of the french trade, which draws away our money by
wholesale ? Mr Fortrey,2 whom I have heard you speak
well of, gives an account that they get L. 1,600,000 a year
from us.
“ Content.—’Tis a great sum ; but, perhaps, were it put
to a vote in a wise council, whether for that reason the
trade should be left off, ’twould go in the negative. For
paper, wine, linen, Castile soap, brandy, olives, capers,
prunes, kid-skins, taffaties, and such like, we cannot be
without; and for the rest, which you are pleased to style
Apes and Peacocks (although wise Solomon ranked them
with gold and ivory), they set us all agog, and have increas¬
ed among us many considerable trades I must con-
ess, I had rather they’d use our goods than money ; but if
not, I would not lose the getting of ten pound because I
can t get an hundred ; and I don’t question but when the
french get more foreign trade, they’ll give more liberty
265
to the bringing in foreign goods. I’ll suppose John-a-Progress of
JNokes to be a butcher, Dick-a-Styles to be an exchange Commer-
man, yourself a lawyer ; will you buy no meat or ribbands, fial S('ience
or your wife a fine Indian gown or fan, because they willin EnSlan(b
not truck with you for indentures which they have need of? '
I suppose no; but if you get money enough of others, you
care not though you give it away in specie for these things.
I think ’tis the same case.”
The spirit of this tract may perhaps be better inferred
fiom the titles of some of the dialogues. Among others,
we have “ To export money our great advantage
“ The French trade a profitable trade“ Variety of
wares for all markets, a great advantage “ High living,
a great improvement to the arts “ Invitation of foreign
arts, a great advantage—“ Multitudes of traders, a great
advantage,” &c. &c. But its influence was far too feeble
to arrest the current of popular prejudice. In the year af¬
ter its publication (1678) the importation of French com¬
modities was prohibited for three years. This prohibition
was made perpetual in the reign of William HI. when the
French trade was declared to be a nuisance !—a principle,
if we may so call it, which has been acted upon down almost
to this very hour.
In 1681 a pamphlet was published in defence of the
East India Company, under the signature of “ Philopatris,”
but evidently the production of Sir Josiah Child. In the
introduction to this pamphlet the following principles are
laid down:—
“ I hat all close monopolies (Sir Josiah contends that
the East India Company does not come under this descrip¬
tion), of what nature or kind soever, are destructive to trade,
and consequently obstructive to the increase of the value
of our lands.”
“ That silver or gold, coined or uncoined, though they
are used for a measure of all other things, are no less a
commodity than wine, oil, tobacco, cloth, or stuffs; and
may, in many cases, be exported as much to the national
advantage as any other commodity.”
“ That no nation ever mas, or will be, considerable in
trade, that prohibits the exportation of bullion.” (P. 3.)
In Sir William Petty’s Quantuiumcungue, published in sir Wil-
1682, the subject of money is treated with great ability, liam Pet-
and the idea of draining England of her cash, by an unfa- ly’s
vourable balance, successfully combated. “ If some Eng- tulum:un~
lish merchants,” it is said, “ should be so improvident as
to carry out money only, then the foreign merchants would
buy up such English commodities as they wanted with
money brought into England from their respective coun¬
tries, or with such commodities as England likes better
than money ; for the vending of English commodities doth
not depend on anything else but the use and need which
foreigners have of them.” Sir W. denies that “ a coun¬
try is the poorer for having less money and concludes by
strongly condemning the laws regulating the rate of inte¬
rest ; observing, that there may as well be laws to regulate
the rate of exchange and of insurance. (See pp. 3, 6, 8,
original edition.)
But a tract entitled Discourses on Trade, principally g;r Dudley
directed to the Cases of Interest, Coinage, Clipping, and North.
Increase of Money, written by Sir Dudley North, and pub¬
lished in 1691, unquestionably contains a far more able
statement of the true principles of commerce than any that
had then appeared.
It has been generally supposed that Hume was the first who showed (in his Essay on Interest) the fallacy of this opinion, and
wno proved that the rate of interest does not depend on the abundance or scarcity of money, but on the abundance or scarcity of
1 lsP09able capital compared with the demands of the borrowers, and the rate of profit. This, however, is a mistake, the doctrine in
question having been fully demonstrated in a pamphlet written by Mr Massie, entitled Essay on the Governing Cause of the Na-
ur8ai jtete of Interest, published two years before Mr Hume’s Essay appeared.
Air Fortrey’s pamphlet has been much referred to. It was published in IG63, and reprinted in 1G73. It contains a very good
argument in favour of enclosures. The reference in the text sufficiently explains the opinions of the writer in regard to commerce.
v’OL. xvm. 2 L
<2qq POLITICAL
Progress of We regret that our limits will not permit our giving so
Commer- fu]] an account as we could have wished of this extraordi-
cial Science nary tract> The author is a most intelligent and consist-
in England. ^ advocate 0f tpe great principles of commercial freedom.
Pie is not, like the most eminent of his predecessors, well
informed on one subject, and erroneous on another. He
is throughout sound and liberal. His system is consenta¬
neous in its parts, and complete. He shows, that in com¬
mercial matters, nations have the same interests as indivi¬
duals ; and exposes the absurdity of supposing that any
trade advantageous to the merchant can be injurious to the
public. His opinions respecting the imposition ot a seig¬
norage on the coinage of money, and the expediency of
sumptuary laws, then in great favour, are equally enlight¬
ened.
We subjoin from the preface to this tract an abstract of
the general propositions maintained in it:
“ That the whole world as to trade is but as one na¬
tion or people, and therein nations are as persons.
“ That the loss of a trade with one nation is not that
only, separately considered, but so much of the trade ot
the world rescinded and lost; for all is combined together.
“ That there can be no trade unprofitable to the pub¬
lic ; for if any prove so, men leave it off; and wherever
the traders thrive, the public, of which they are a part,
thrive also.
“ That to force men to deal in any prescribed manner,
may profit such as happen to serve them; but the pub¬
lic gains not, because it is taking from one subject to give
to another.
“ That no laws can set prices in trade, the rates of which
must and will make themselves. But when such laws do
happen to lay any hold, it is so much impediment to trade,
and therefore prejudicial.
“ That money is a merchandise, whereof there may be
a glut, as well as a scarcity, and that even to an inconve¬
nience.
“ That a people cannot want money to serve the or¬
dinary dealing, and more than enough they will not have.
“ That no man will be the richer for the making much
money, nor have any part of it, but as he buys it for an
equivalent price.
“ That the free coynage is a perpetual motion found out,
whereby to melt and coyn without ceasing, and so to feed
goldsmiths and coyners at the public charge.
“ That debasing the coyn is defrauding one another, and
to the public there is no sort of advantage from it; for that
admits no character or value but intrinsick.
“ That the sinking by alloy or weight is all one.
“ That exchange and ready money are the same, nothing
but carriage and re-carriage being saved.
“ That money exported in trade is an increase to the
wealth of the nation ; but spent in war, and payments
abroad, is so much impoverishment.
“ In short, that all favour to one trade or interest is an
abuse, and cuts so much of profit from the public.”
Unluckily this admirable tract never obtained any con¬
siderable circulation. There is good reason, indeed, to
suppose that it was designedly suppressed.1 At all events,
it speedily became excessively scarce ; and we are not
aware that it has ever been referred to by any subsequent
writer on commerce.
The disordered state of the coin, and the proceedings
relative to the great recoinage, in the reign of William III.,
led to a great deal of discussion both in and out of parlia¬
ment, and contributed, in no ordinary degree, to diffuse
juster notions respecting money and commerce. It was
ECONOMY.
then that Mr Locke published his well-known tracts on Progress Jl :
Money.2 They immediately obtained a very extensive^™1™-i?
circulation ; and though infected with some very grave er-^™J
rors, had a powerful influence in preventing the success of
Mr Lowndes’s proposal for degrading the standard of the
coin, and in contributing to establish the true theory of
money. The restoration of the currency was not, how¬
ever, effected without great opposition. A large minority
in parliament supported Lowndes’s views; and they were
also supported by a number of writers. Of these, Mr Ni-MrBarboal
cholas Barbon seems to have been one of the ablest. In
his tract entitled A Discourse concerning Coining the
New Money Lighter, published in 1696, he detected seve¬
ral of the errors into which Locke had fallen ; and he had
the further merit of ably demonstrating the fallacy of the
popular opinions respecting the balance of trade; and of
showing that no bullion could ever be sent abroad in pay¬
ment of an unfavourable balance, unless it were at the time
the cheapest and most profitable article of export.
The inferences deduced by Barbon from his investiga¬
tions into the balance of trade and foreign exchange are :
“ That a trading nation is made rich by traffic and the
industry of the inhabitants—and that the native stock of a
nation can never be wasted.
“ That no sort of commodities ought to be totally pro¬
hibited—and that the freer trade is, the better the nation
will thrive.
“ That the poverty and riches of a nation does not de¬
pend on a lesser or greater consumption of foreign trade,
nor on the dilference of the value of those goods that are
consumed.
“ That the balance of trade is a notion that serves rather
to puzzle all debates of trade, than to discover any parti¬
cular advantages a nation may get by regulating of trade.
“ That the balance of trade (if there be one) is not the
cause of sending away the money out of a nation: But
that proceeds from the difference of the value of bullion in
several countries, and from the profit that the merchant
makes by sending it away more than by bills of exchange.
“ That there is no occasion to send away money or bul¬
lion to pay bills of exchange, or balance accounts.
“ That all sorts of goods, of the value of the bill of ex¬
change, or the balance of the account, will answer the bill,
and balance the account as well as money.” (P. 59.)
It is singular', that a writer possessed of such sound and
enlarged opinions respecting the principles of commercial
intercourse, and who had shown that bullion differed in no
respect from other commodities, should have maintained
that the value of coined money depended on the stamp af¬
fixed to it by government. This gross and unaccountable
error destroyed the effect of Barbon’s tract; and was, most
probably, the cause of the oblivion into which it very soon
fell, and of its never having attracted that attention to
which, on other accounts, it was justly entitled.
The commercial writings of Dr Davenant, inspector-p)r Dave-
general of imports and exports, were published in the in-nant.
terval between 1695 and 1711. Though a partisan of the
mercantile system, Dr Davenant had emancipated himself
from many of the prejudices of its more indiscriminate and
zealous supporters. He considered a watchful attention to
the balance of trade, and its “ right government,” as of the
highest importance ; but he did not consider wealth as con¬
sisting exclusively of gold or silver; or that prohibitions
and restrictions should be rashly imposed, even on the in¬
tercourse with those countries with which the balance was
supposed to be unfavourable. But we are far from think¬
ing that his commercial writings deserve the eulogies that
1 See the Honourable Roger North's Life of his brother, the Honourable Sir Dudley North, p. 179.
the Value of^lonev" Ct lnterest and liaisinS the Value of Money, 1G91. Further Considerations concerning Raising
POLITICAL
rogress ofhave been bestowed on them, or that they had any mate-
r;aj effect in accelerating the progress of sound commercial
fEnSandL sc*ence* ^ *leY nob hi fact, contain a single principle
not to be found in the work of Sir Josiah Child. Some of
Dr Davenant’s paragraphs are exceedingly good ; but the
treatises of which they form a part are remarkably incon¬
clusive, and are for the most part pervaded by narrow and
contracted views. There is no evidence to show that he
was at all aware of the influence of commerce in facilitating
the production of wealth, by giving rise to the territorial
division of labour, and enabling each people to devote itself,
in preference, to those employments for the successful pro¬
secution of which they have some natural advantage.1
acob Van- jn 1734^ Jacob Vanderlint, who describes himself as a
r 111 * tradesman, published his tract entitled Money answers all
Things. Dugald Stewart has referred to it in the Ap¬
pendix to his Life of Dr Smith, and has quoted some pas¬
sages illustrative of the advantages of commercial free¬
dom, which, he truly says, “ will bear a comparison, both
in point of good sense and of liberality, with what was so
ably urged by Mr Hume twenty years afterwards, in his
Essay on the Jealousy of Trade.” Vanderlint closes his
pamphlet with an argument in favour of the substitution of
a territorial tax in place of every other; an idea borrowed
from Locke, and subsequently adopted by the French eco¬
nomists.
>r Mat- In 1741,2 Sir Matthew Decker, an extensive merchant,
un'- published an Essay on the Causes of the Decline of Foreign
ec er' Trade. This essay has been frequently referred to by Dr
Smith, and it deserved his notice. Sir Matthew is a most
intelligent and decided enemy of restrictions, monopolies,
and prohibitions. To give full freedom to industry—he
proposed that corporation privileges should be abolished ;
and that the existing taxes should be repealed, and replaced
by a single tax laid on the consumers of luxuries, proportion¬
ally to their incomes. The following extracts will give an
idea of the spirit and ability which pervades Sir Matthew’s
work:—
“ In the Memoirs of De Witt, it is said, ‘ that restraint
is always hurtful to trade the reason whereof is plain ; for
nature has given various products to various countries, and
thereby knit mankind in an intercourse to supply each
other’s wants. To attempt to sell our products, but to buy
little or none from foreigners, is attempting an impossibility,
acting contrary to the intent of nature, cynically, and ab¬
surdly, and, as ours is a populous manufacturing country,
might be prejudicial to our interests ; for, could we raise all
necessaries and vanities within ourselves, this intercourse
designed by nature would be destroyed ; and then, howr is
our navy, our only bulwark, to be maintained ?” (P. 147.)
“ Trade cannot, will not, be forced; let other nations
prohibit, by what severity they please, interest will prevail;
they may embarrass their own trade, but cannot hurt a na¬
tion whose trade is free, so much as themselves. Spain has
prohibited our woollens ; but had a reduction of our taxes
brought them to their natural value only, they would be
the cheapest in Europe of their goodness, consequently
must be more demanded by the Spaniards, be smuggled
into their country in spite of their government, and sold at
better prices ; their people wrould be dearer clothed, with
duties and prohibitions, than without, consequently must
sell their oil, wine, and other commodities dearer ; whereby
other nations, raising the like growths, would gain ground
ECONOMY. 267
upon them, and their balance of trade grow less and less. Progress of
But should we, for that reason, prohibit their commodities ? P0J»mer-
By no means ; for the dearer they grow, no more than what ^g^land3
are just necessary will be used ; their prohibition does their v . ^ ^ \
own business ; some may be necessary for us; what are so,
we should not make dearer to our own people ; some may
be proper to assort cargoes for other countries, and why
should we prohibit our people that advantage ? Why hurt
ourselves to hurt the Spaniards ? If we would retaliate ef¬
fectually upon them for their ill intent, handsome premiums
given to our plantations to raise the same growths as Spain
might enable them to supply us cheaper than the Spaniards
could do, and establish a trade they could never recover.
Premiums may gain trade, but prohibitions will destroy it.”
(P. 163.)
Sir Matthew applies the same argument to expose the
absurdity and injurious effect of the restraints on the trade
with France. “ I allow,” he says, “that Britain should be
alwrays vigilant over the designs of France, but need not be
afraid of her power ; her wise regulations in trade should
be the objects we should keep our eyes upon, and out-do
her if possible; or else, as she rises, we must sink. But it is
our comfort, that our remedy is always in our own hands;
nor can there be any solid reason for the nation’s paying
dearer to other countries for goods we could buy cheaper
in France. Would any wise dealer in London buy goods
of a Dutch shopkeeper for 15d. or 18d. when he could have
the same from a French shopkeeper for Is.? Would he
not consider, that, by so doing, he would empty his own
pockets the sooner, and that, in the end, he would greatly
injure his own family by such whims ? And shall this na¬
tion commit an absurdity that stares every private man in
the face ? The certain way to be secure is to be more
powerful, that is, to extend our trade as far as it is capable
of; and as restraints have proved its ruin, to reject them,
and depend on freedom for our security ; bidding defiance
to the French, or any nation in Europe, that took umbrage
at our exerting our natural advantages.” (P. 184.)
We do not know that the impolicy of restrictions on the
importation of foreign corn has ever been more ably and
triumphantly exposed than in the following passage: “ Every
home commodity, in a free trade, will find its natural value;
for, though that fluctuates, as of necessity it must, accord¬
ing to the plentifulness or scarcity of seasons, yet, for the
home consumption, every home commodity must have great
advantage over the foreign, as being upon the spot, and
free from freight, insurance, commission, and charges,
which on the produce of lands, being all bulky commodities,
must in general be about 15 per cent., and a greater ad¬
vantage cannot be given without prejudice ; for 15 per
cent, makes a great difference in the price of necessaries
between the nation selling and the nation buying, and is a
great difficulty on the latter, but, arising from the natural
course of things, cannot be helped ; though it is a sufficient
security to the landholder, that foreigners can never import
more necessaries than are absolutely required ; and I pre¬
sume, in such cases, they have more charity than to starve
the people merely for an imaginary profit, which yet would
prove their ruin in the end ; for it is a fallacy and an ab¬
surdity to think to raise the value of lands by oppressions
on the people that cramp their trade ; for if trade declines,
the common people must either come upon the parish, or
fly for business to our neighbours : in the first case, they
1 The progress of enlarged and liberal opinions with regard to commerce seems to have been in no small degree counteracted by
the publication of the British Merchant. This work was written by some of the first merchants of their time," to expose the alleged
defects in the commercial treaty with France, negotiated by Queen Anne’s Tory administration in 1713. It consists of a series of
papers published weekly, and afterwards collected in three volumes. Public opinion being very much against the treaty, the British
Merchant enjoyed a large share of popularity. Its authors appear to have been thoroughly imbued with all the prejudices of the
mercantile sect ; and the work is now only deserving of notice as containing the fullest exposition of their peculiar doctrines.
s We quote from the edition of the Essay published at Edinburgh in 1756. It appears from the work itself (p. 4), that it had been
written in 1740 ; the first edition was in 4to.
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
Mr Hume.
268
Progress of become a heavy tax on the rich, and, instead of buying the
Commer- pr0(juce 0f their lands, must have it given them ; and in
cial Science ^ second case, when the consumers are gone, what price
m ngan ^jjj Reproduce of land bear ?” (P. 56.)
Of a work so well known as Mr Hume’s Political Es¬
says (published in 1752) it is almost superfluous to speak.
The ability with which he has combated the prejudice
against the French trade, and ridiculed the fear of being
deprived of a sufficiency of bullion ; the liberality and ex¬
pansion of his views respecting commerce; and the beau¬
ty of his illustrations, cannot be too highly praised. It
did not, however, enter into his plan to give a systematic
view of the influence of commerce, nor has he instituted
Mr Harris, any analysis of the sources of wealth. Mr Harris endea¬
voured to supply the latter deficiency; and his Essay on
Money and Coins, published in 175/, is, perhaps, on the
whole, the best economical treatise that appeared pre¬
viously to the publication of the Wealth of Nations. M e
have already noticed Harris’s mistake of supposing that it
was more profitable to import durable rather than rapidly
consumable commodities ; and, as a writer on commerce,
he is undoubtedly very inferior to Sir Dudley North and
Sir Matthew Decker. But the comprehensive and able
manner in which he has treated the subject of money, the
skill with which he has illustrated the effects of the division
of labour in facilitating production and increasing wealth,
and the near approach he has made to some of the funda¬
mental doctrines of Dr Smith, if they do not give him a
pre-eminence, certainly place him in the first rank among
his precursors.
Early Ita- We have been induced to treat of the progress of com-
lian writers mercial science in England at considerable length, partly
on com- on account 0f the interest and importance of the subject,
merce. ^ • i • i
and partly because we are not acquainted with any work
in which it has been investigated. Say and other con¬
tinental writers contend that the Italians and French were
the first who discovered and established the just principles
of commercial intercourse. But the details now given
prove the indisputable priority of the English. The eco¬
nomical works of Davanzati, Serra, Turbolo, and Scaruffi,
are almost wholly occupied with a discussion of the effects
of a forced reduction of the standard of money. They
deserve credit for having opposed all tampering with the
currency; but the arguments they employ to show its in¬
justice and impolicy are stated with much greater brevi¬
ty and force in Sir Robert Cotton’s speech in the Privy
Council in 1626. The Discurso Economico of Bandini,
the earliest writer on commerce whose works have been
thought worthy of a place in the voluminous collection of
Italian works on Political Economy,1 2 3 was published so
late as 1737. Belloni and Algarotti’s Essays on Commerce,
both very inferior to the works of Sir Josiah Child or Sir
Dudley North, were published, the former in 1750, and the
latter in 1763.
The French have still less claim than the Italians to be
considered the discoverers of the true principles of com- Early
merce. There are many just and striking observations on ^!'enci-
the injury France sustained from the want of a free inter- Co“ ”esr ^
nal traffic, and the oppressiveness of taxation, in the Dixme^^.^
Royale of Marshal Vauban, written in 1698. But Vincent
de Gournay, whom the French state to be one of the ear¬
liest of their authors who entertained comprehensive and
liberal notions regarding commerce, was born so late as
1712.2 Gournay published translations of the treatise of
Sir Josiah Child, and of a tract of Sir Thomas Culpepper,
at Paris, in 1752. So slow was the progress of economical
science in France, that even Montesquieu has a chapter
entitled “ A quelles nations il est desavantageux de faire le
commerce.”*
But neither the efforts of the English nor French wri-System o'
ters in favour of the freedom of commerce and industry the Frem:
had any considerable influence on the mercantile system. ^I1°'
Their opinions respecting the nature of wealth, and the
causes of national opulence, being confused and contradic¬
tory, their arguments in favour of a liberal system of com¬
merce had somewhat of an empirical appearance, and failed
of making that impression which is always made by argu¬
ments founded on well-established principles, and shown
to be consistent with experience. Locke, as will be after¬
wards seen, entertained correct opinions respecting the
paramount influence of labour in the production of wealth ;
but he did not prosecute his investigations in the view of
elucidating the principles of this science, and made no re¬
ference to them in his subsequent writings. Harris adopt¬
ed Locke’s views, and deduced from them some practical
inferences of great importance ; but his general reasonings
are merely introductory to his Treatise on Money, and are
not illustrated with that fulness of detail, or in that compre¬
hensive and systematic manner, necessary in scientific
works. The celebrated M. Quesnay, a physician attached M. Ques-
to the court of Louis XV., was the first who attempted to nay-
investigate and analyse the sources of wealth, with the in¬
tention of ascertaining the fundamental principles of politi¬
cal economy, and who, consequently, gave it a systematic
form, and raised it to the rank of a science. Quesnay’s fa¬
ther was a small proprietor, and having been educated in
the country, he was naturally inclined to regard agricul¬
ture with more than ordinary partiality. At an early pe¬
riod of his life, being struck with its depressed state in
France, he set himself to discover the causes which had
prevented its making that progress which the industry ot
the inhabitants, the fertility of the soil, and the excellence
of the climate, seemed to insure. In the course of this in¬
quiry, he speedily discovered that the prohibition of export¬
ing corn to foreign countries, and the preference given by
the system of Colbert to the manufacturing and commer¬
cial classes over the agriculturists, had formed the most
powerful obstacle to the progress and improvement of agri¬
culture. But Quesnay did not satisfy himself with expos¬
ing the injustice of this preference, and its pernicious con¬
sequences. His zeal for the interests of agriculture led him,
1 Scrittori Classici Italiani di Economia Politico. The publication of this collection of the works of her economical writers does honour
to Italy, or rather to Napoleon, by whom it was liberally patronised. It was begun in 1803 and finished in 1805, in 50 volumes 8vo.
2 See Dupont’s edition Dcs CEuvres dc M. Turgot, tom. hi. p. 311.
3 Maupertuis, in his Eloge of Montesquieu, candidly admits that France is indebted for the science of commerce, finance, and
population, to England. The passage is curious : “ Comme le plan de Montesquieu,” he observes, “ renfermoit tout ce qui peut
etre utile au genre humain, il n’a pas oublie cette partie essentielle qui regarde le commerce, les finances, la population ; science si
nouveUe parmi nous, qu’elle n’y a encore point de nom. C’est chez nos voisins qu'dle est nee ; et die y demeura jusque d ce que M. Melon
lui Jit passer le mer."
Melon’s work, Essai Politique sur le Commerce, was published in 1734. It is entirely founded on the principles of the mercantile
system. Mr Bindon translated it into English, and published it, along with some rather valuable annotations and remarks, at Dub¬
lin, in 1739.
Melon had advocated the ruinous policy of raising the denomination of the coin. This gave occasion to the publication of an acute
work by Dutot, entitled Rjlexions Politiques sur les Finances et le Commerce, 2 tomes 12mo, 1738. Dutot’s work was in its turn very
ably criticised by Duverney, in his Examen des llijlcxions Politiques sur les Finances, &c. 2 tomes 12mo, 1740. These works contain a
great deal of curious and interesting information respecting French finance. Duverney’s account of the Mississippi Scheme is parti¬
cularly good.
POLITICAL
stem of
French
'cono-
mists.
not merely to place it on the same level with manufac¬
tures and commerce, but to raise it above them, by endea¬
vouring to show that it was the only species of industry
which really increased the riches of a nation. Founding
on the fact, that everything which either ministers to our
wants, or gratifies our desires, must be originally derived
from the earth, Quesnay assumed as a self-evident truth,
that the earth is the only source of wealth, and held that
industry is altogether incapable of producing any new value,
except when employed in agriculture, including therein
fisheries and mines.1 His observation of the striking effects
of the vegetative powers of nature, and his inability to ex¬
plain the real origin and causes of rent, confirmed him in
his opinion. The fact, that of all who engage in laborious
undertakings, none but the cultivators of the soil pay rent
for the use of natural agents, appeared to him an incontro¬
vertible proof that agriculture is the only species of indus¬
try which yields a nett surplus (produit net) over and above
the expenses of production. Quesnay allowed that manu¬
facturers and merchants are highly useful; but as they
realize no nett surplus in the shape of rent, he contended
they did not add any greater value to the raw material of
the commodities they manufacture or carry from place to
place, than the mere equivalent of the capital or stock con¬
sumed in these operations. These principles once estab¬
lished, it followed that landlords, farmers, and labourers em¬
ployed in agriculture, were the only productive classes in
a state; and that the labour of manufacturers and traders
being unproductive, their means of subsistence and wealth
were wholly derived from the agriculturists. It further
followed, that the expenses of government, and the various
public burdens, however imposed, must be defrayed out of
the produit net, or rent of the landlords; and, consistently
with this principle, Quesnay proposed that all the exist¬
ing taxes should be repealed, and that a single tax (I'impot
unique), levied directly from the produce of the land, should
be imposed in their stead.
The economical table of M. Quesnay—“ Cette formule
etonnante,” says Dupont, “ qui peint la naissance, la dis¬
tribution, et la reproduction des richesses, et qui sert a cal-
culer avec tant de surete, de promptitude, et de precision,
I’effet de toutes les operations relatives aux richesses”—was
published at Versailles in 1758.
But, however much impressed with the importance of
agriculture over every other species of industry, Quesnay
did not solicit for it any exclusive favour or protection. He
successfully contended, that the interests of the agricul-
ECONOMY.
269
turists, as of all other classes, would be best promoted by System of
establishing a system of perfect freedom. He showed thatt,le, F«'nch
it could never be the interest of the proprietors and culti- Ec.ono*
vators of the soil to fetter or discourage the industry of mer- v ,
chants, artificers, and manufacturers; for the greater the
liberty they enjoyed, the greater would be their competition,
and their products would, in consequence, be sold so much
the cheaper. Neither, on the other hand, could it ever be
the interest of the unproductive classes to harass and op¬
press the agriculturists, either by preventing the free expor¬
tation of their products, or by imposing on them any restric¬
tive regulations. When the cultivators enjoy the greatest
degree of freedom, their industry, and consequently their
surplus produce—the only fund from which any accession
of national wealth can be derived—will be carried to the
greatest possible extent. According to this “ liberal and
generous system” ( Wealth of Nations, p. 3032), the estab¬
lishment of perfect liberty, perfect security, and perfect
justice, is the only, as it is the infallible, means of securing
the highest degree of prosperity to all classes of society.
“ On a vu,” says the commentator of this system, M.
Mercier de la Riviere, “ qu’il est de 1’essence de I’ordre que
I’interet particulier d’un seul ne puisse jamais etre separee
de I’interet commun de tous; nous en trouvons une preuve
bien convaincante dans les effets que produit naturellement
et necessairement la plenitude de la liberte qui doit regner
dans le commerce, pour ne point blesser la propriete. L’in-
teret personnel, encouragee par cette grande liberte, presse
vivement et perpetuellement chaque homme en particulier,
de perfectionner, de multiplier les choses dont il est ven-
deur, de grossir ainsi la masse des jouissances qu’il peut pro¬
curer aux autres hommes, afin de grossir, par ce moyen, la
masse des jouissances que les autres hommes peuvent lui
procurer en echange. Le monde alors va de lui-meme ; le
desir de jouir, et la liberte de jouir, ne cessant de provoquer
la multiplication des productions et 1’accroissement de In¬
dustrie, ils impriment a toute la societe un mouvement qui
devient une tendance perpetuelle vers son meilleur etat pos¬
sible.” (Tome ii. p. 44A.)3
We shall have other opportunities of fully examining the
principles of this theory. At present, it is sufficient to re¬
mark, that, in assuming agriculture to be the only source of
wealth, because the matter of which commodities are com¬
posed is originally derived from the earth, Quesnay and his
followers mistake altogether the nature of production, and
really suppose wealth to consist of matter. But, in its na¬
tural state, matter is very rarely possessed of utility, and is
1 “ Cherchant d’oix vient les richesses des nations. Quesnay trouva qu’elles ne naissent que des travaux dans lequels la Nature et
la Puissance Divine concourent avec les efforts pour produire ou faire recueillir des productions nouvelles : de sorte qu’on ne peut
attendre I’augmentation des ces richesses que de la cultivation, de la peche, et de 1’exploitation des mines, et des carriers.” (See the
Notice sur les Economistes, by one of the most zealous of the sect, Dupont de Nemours, in the CEuvres de Turgot, tom. iii. p. 312.)
8 M‘Culloch’s edition, 1 vol. 8vo.
3 That Quesnay is entitled to the merit of originality cannot, we think, be disputed. He had certainly, however, been anticipated
in several of his peculiar doctrines by some English writers of the previous century. The fundamental principles of the economical
system are distinctly and clearly stated in a tract entitled Reasons for a Limited Exportation of ool, published in 1677* “ That
it is of the greatest concern and interest of the nation,” says the author of the tract, “ to preserve the nobility, gentry, and those to
whom the land of the country belongs, at least, much greater than a few artificers employed in working the superfluity of our wool,
or the merchants who gain by the exportation of our manufactures, is manifest—1. Because they are the masters and proprietaries of
the foundation of all the wealth in this nation, all profit arising out of the ground, which is theirs : 2. Because they bear all taxes and
public burdens ; which, in truth, are only borne by those who buy, and sell not; all sellers raising the price of their commodities, or
abating of their goodness, according to their taxes.” (Not being able to procure the pamphlet itself, we quote from the extract given
in Mr Smith’s Memoirs of Wool, vol. i. p. 254.)
In 1896, Mr Asgill published a treatise entitled Several Assertions Proved, in order to Create Another Species of Money than
Gold, in support of Dr Chamberlayne’s proposition for a Land Bank. We extract from this treatise the following passage, breath¬
ing, as Dugald Stewart has justly observed, the very spirit of Quesnay’s philosophy.
“ What we call commodities is nothing but land severed from the soil. Man deals in nothing but earth. The merchants are the
factors of the world, to exchange one part of the earth for another. The king himself is fed by the labour of the ox; and the cloth¬
ing of the army and the victualling of the navy must all be paid for to the owner of the soil, as the ultimate receiver. All things in
the world are originally the produce of the ground, and there must all things be raised,” (I his passage has been quoted in Lord
Lauderdale’s Inquiry into the Nature and Origin of Public Wealth, 2d ed. p. 109.)
These passages are interesting, as exhibiting the first germs of the theory of the Economists. But there is no reason whatever
to suppose that Quesnay was aware of the existence of either of the tracts referred to. The subjects treated in them were of too
local a description to excite the attention of foreigners ; and Quesnay was too candid to conceal his obligations, had he really owed
270
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
mists.
System of always destitute of value. It is only by means of the la¬
the French ^our bestowed in the appropriation of matter, and in fitting
Ft oi,°- an(j preparing jt for use, that it acquires exchangeable va-
i lue, and becomes wealth. Human industry does not pro¬
duce wealth by making any additions to the matter of our
globe, this being a quantity susceptible neither of augmen¬
tation nor diminution. Its real effect is simply to produce
wealth by giving utility to matter already in existence ; and
it will be hereafter seen, that the labour employed in ma¬
nufactures and commerce is as productive of utility, and
consequently of wealth, as that employed in agriculture.
Neither is the cultivation of the soil, as Quesnay sup¬
posed, the only species of industry which yields a surplus
over the expenses of production. When none but the best
soils are cultivated, and when, consequently, agriculture is
most productive, no rent, or produit net, is obtained from
the land; and it is only after recourse has been had to
poorer soils, and when the productive powers of the labour
and capital employed in cultivation begin to diminish, that
rent begins to appear; so that, instead of its being any
proof of the superior productiveness of agricultural indus¬
try, rent is a consequence of its becoming less productive !
The opinion of Quesnay, that man derives no assistance from
the productive powers of nature, unless when employed in
agriculture, is totally destitute of foundation ; and, in a sub¬
sequent part of this article, it will be shown that the manu¬
facturer and merchant derive fully as much assistance from
these powers as the agriculturist, fisher, or miner.
Though the theory of the French economists, considered
in reference to the fundamental principles of the science,
was equally erroneous with that to which it was opposed,
its novelty and ingenuity, its systematical and consenta¬
neous form, the liberal system of commercial intercourse
which it recommended, and the benevolent and excellent
character of its founder, speedily obtained for it a very high
degree of reputation. The opinions of Quesnay were early
communicated to, and zealously espoused by, his friends the
Marquis de Mirabeau, Mercier de la Riviere, Dupont de
Nemours, and others; and were afterwards advocated by
Turgot, one of the most distinguished statesmen of whom
France has to boast ;L and byLetrosne, Condorcet, Raynal,
and most of the succeeding French writers on commerce
and finance. Their practical influence on the legislation of
the country has also been considerable. In 1763 the free
transportation of corn from one province to another was
permitted; and in 1764 liberty was given to export it to System t
foreign countries whenever the home price did not exceedth® Frei‘e
thirty livres the septier (48s. the quarter). This last edict,
after being suspended in 1770, was again revived in 1778w^>_
during the administration of Turgot. But the facility given
to the imposition of the contribution fonciere should cer¬
tainly be considered as the greatest practical achievement
of the economists ; and there is but too much reason to fear
it will long continue to afford a palpable demonstration of
the fallacy of their doctrines.2
Notwithstanding the defects of their theory, the labours
of the French economists contributed powerfully to acce¬
lerate the progress of economical science. In reasoning on
subjects connected w ith national wealth, it was now found to
be necessary to subject its sources, and the laws which re¬
gulate its production and distribution, to a more accurate
and searching analysis. In the course of this examination,
it was speedily ascertained that the mercantile and econo¬
mical theories were alike erroneous and defective; and that
to establish the science on a firm foundation, it was neces¬
sary to take a much more extensive survey, and to seek
for its principles, not in a few partial and distorted facts,
or in metaphysical abstractions, but in the connection sub¬
sisting among the various phenomena manifested in the pro¬
gress of civilization. The Count di Verri, whose Medita¬
tions on Political Economy were published in 1771, point¬
ed out the fallacy of the opinions entertained by the French
economists respecting the superior productiveness of agri¬
culture ; and showed that all the operations of industry
really consist of modifications of matter already in exist¬
ence.3 But Verri did not trace the consequences of this
important principle ; and, possessing no clear and definite
notions of what constituted wealth, he did not attempt to
discover the means by which labour might be facilitated.
He made several valuable additions to particular branches
of the science, and had sufficient acuteness to detect the
errors in the systems of others; but the task of construct¬
ing a better system in their stead required talents of a far
higher order.
At length, in 1776, our illustrious countryman, Adam Wealth of
Smith, published the Wealth of Nations—a w ork which has Notions,
done for political economy what the Principia of Newton
did for physics, and the Esprit des Loix of Montesquieu for
politics. In this work the science was, for the first time,
treated in its fullest extent, and many of its fundamental
them any. It is probable he may have seen Locke’s treatise on Raising the Value of Money, where the idea is thrown out that
all taxes fall ultimately on the land. But there is an immeasurable difference between the suggestion of Locke and the well-
digested system of Quesnay.
1 Turgot’s Reflexions sur la Formation et la Distribution des Richesses, published in 1771, is certainly the best of all the works
founded on the principles of the Economists, and is, in some respects, the best work on Political Economy published previously to
the Wealth of Nations.
8 Exclusive of the Reflexions of Turgot, the following are the principal works published by the French Economists :—
Tableau Econoniiquc, et Maximes Generates du Gouvernemcnt Economique, par Francois Quesnay, 4to. Versailles, 1758.
Thiorie de Vlmpot, par M. de Mirabeau, 4to, 1760.
L'Ami des Hommes, par M. de Mirabeau, seven tomes, 1760, &c.
EVmerits de la Philosophic Rurale, par M. de Mirabeau, three tomes 12mo, 1763.
L'Ordre Mature! et Essentiel des Societes Politiques, par Mercier de la Riviere, 4to, and two tomes 12mo, 1767-
Sur I'Origine et Progres d’une Nouvelle Science, par Dupont de Nemours, 1767«
La Physiocratie, ou Constitution Naturelle du Gouvernemcnt le plus avantageux avxgenre humain, par Quesnay, two tomes, 1767*
„ Lettres d'un Citoyen d tin Magistral, sur les Vingtitmes et les autres Impots, par 1’Abbe Baudeau, 1768.
Alcuni benemeriti scrittori, rattristatidai gravi disordini, che soffrono i popoli per le gabelle, sono passati all’estremo de conside-
rare ingiusto e mal collocate il tributo se non ripartito sui fondi di terra, e colla creazione di un linguaggio ascetico, hanno eretta la
setta degli economisti, presso la quale ogni uomo che non adoperi 1'aratro, e un essere sterile, e i manifattori si chiamano una
classe sterile. Rispettando il molto di vero e di utile che da essi e stato scritto, io non saprei associarmi alia loro opinione ne sul tri¬
buto, ne su di questa pretesa classe sterile. La riproduzione e attribuibile alia manifattura ugualmente, quanto al laroro de campi.
1 utti i tenomini dell’ universe, sieno essi prodotti dalla mano dell’uomo o vero dalle universal! leggi della fisica, non ci danno idea di
attuale creazione, ma unicamente di una modificazione della materia. Aceostare e seperarc sono gli unici dementi che 1’ingegno umano
ritroya anahzando 1 idea della riproduzione ; e tanto e riproduzione di valore e di richezza se la terra, 1’aria, e 1’aqua ne’eampi si trasmu-
tino in grano, come se colla mano dello uomo il glutine di un insetto si trasmuti in velluto, o vero alcuni pezzetti di metallo si orga-
nizzino a tormare una ripetizione. . Degli intieri citta, e degli stati intieri campano non d’altro che sul prodotto di questa fecondis-
sima classe sterile, la. di cm riproduzione comprende il valore della materia prima, la consumazione proporzionata delle mani impiega-
6'ir' e ,.1 JnU c^ei a Porzione A*6 arrichire chi ha intrapresa la fabbrica e chi vi ^impiega con felice talento.” (Mcditazioni sulla Eco-
nomia Politico, § 3.) 1 ° v
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
271
ealth of principles placed beyond the reach of cavil and dispute. In
Un+mna. 0pp0Siti0n to tiie French economists, Dr Smith showed that
labour is the only source of wealth, and that the desire in¬
herent in the breast of every individual to improve his for¬
tune and rise in the world is the cause of its accumulation.
He next traced the means by which the powers of labour
may be rendered most elfective, and showed that it is pro¬
ductive of wealth when employed in manufactures and com¬
merce, as well as in the cultivation of the land. Having
established these principles, Smith showed, in opposition to
the commonly received opinions of the merchants and states¬
men of his time, that wealth did not consist in the abun¬
dance of gold and silver, but in that of the various neces¬
saries, conveniencies, and enjoyments of human life ; he
showed that individuals are always the best judges of w’hat
is for their own interest, and that in prosecuting branches
of industry advantageous to themselves, they necessarily
prosecute such as are advantageous to the public.1 Thence
Dr Smith drew his grand inference, that every regulation
intended to force industry into particular channels, or to
determine the commercial intercourse to be carried on be¬
tween different parts of the same country, or between dis¬
tant and independent countries, is impolitic and pernicious
—injurious to the rights of individuals, and adverse to the
progress of real opulence and lasting prosperity.
The fact that traces of most of these principles, and that
the distinct statement of some of the more important, may
be found in the works of previous writers, detracts but
little from the merits of Dr Smith. In adopting the dis¬
coveries of others, he made them his own; he demon¬
strated the truth of principles on which his predecessors
had, in most cases, stumbled by chance ; separated them
from the errors by which they were encumbered; traced
their remote consequences; pointed out their limitations;
showed their practical importance and real value,—their
mutual dependence and relation ; and reduced them in¬
to a consistent and well-compacted system. We do not
mean to say that Smith produced a perfect work. Un¬
doubtedly there are errors, and those, too, of no slight im¬
portance, in the Wealth of Nations. The principles to
which we have just referred, and which form the basis of
the work, are unimpeachable. Smith, however, has not al¬
ways reasoned correctly from them, and he has occasional¬
ly introduced others, which a more careful observation and
analysis has shown to be ill founded. But, after every al¬
lowance has been made for these defects, enough still re¬
mains to justify us in considering him as the real founder of
the science. If he has not left a perfect work, he has at
all events left one which contains a greater mass of useful
and universally interesting truths than have ever been given
to the world by any other individual; and he has pointed
out and smoothed the route, by following which, subsequent
philosophers have been enabled to perfect much that he
had left incomplete, to rectify the mistakes into which he
fell, and to make many new and important discoveries.
Whether, indeed, we refer to the soundness of its leading
doctrines, to the liberality and universal applicability of its
practical conclusions, or to the powerful and beneficial in¬
fluence it has had on the improvement and progress of eco¬
nomical science, and on the policy and destiny of nations,
Smith’s work must be placed in the foremost rank of those
that have done most to liberalise, enlighten, and enrich
mankind.
The practical part of the science of political economy Distinction
was long confounded with that of politics; and it is un- beDveen
doubtedly true that they are very intimately connected, I,pli]t.1<;sa!t<i
and that it is frequently impossible to treat those questions Economy,
which strictly belong to the one without referring more or ■-— y >
less to the principles and conclusions of the other. But, in
their leading features, they are sufficiently distinct. The
laws which regulate the production and distribution of
wealth are the same in every country and stage of society.
Those circumstances wffiich are favourable or unfavourable
to the increase of riches and population in a republic may
equally exist, and will have exactly the same effects, in a
monarchy. That security of property, without which there
can be no steady and continued exertion,—that freedom of
engaging in every different branch of industry, so necessary
to call the various powers and resources of human talent
and ingenuity into action,—and that economy in the pub¬
lic expenditure, so conducive to the accumulation of na¬
tional wealth,—are not the exclusive attributes of any par¬
ticular species of government. If free states have gene¬
rally made the most rapid advances in wealth and popula¬
tion, it is an indirect rather than a direct consequence of
their political constitution. It results more from the great¬
er security which a popular government presents, that the
right of property will be held sacred,—that the freedom of
industry will be less fettered and restricted,.—and that the
public income will be more judiciously levied and expend¬
ed, than from the circumstance of a greater proportion of
the people being permitted to exercise political rights and
privileges. Give the same securities to the subjects of an
absolute monarch, and they will make the same advances.
Industry does not require to be stimulated by extrinsic ad¬
vantages. The additional comforts and enjoyments which
it procures have always been found sufficient to insure the
most persevering and successful exertions. And whatever
may be the form of government, those countries always
advance in the career of improvement, in which the pub¬
lic burdens are moderate, industry free, and every indivi¬
dual permitted peaceably to enjoy the fruits of his labour.
It is not, therefore, so much on its political organization, as
on the talents and spirit of its rulers, that the wealth of a
country is principally dependent. Economy, intelligence,
and liberality on the part of those in power, have frequent¬
ly elevated absolute monarchies to a very high degree of
opulence and prosperity ; while all the advantages derived
from a more liberal system of government have not been
able to preserve free states from being impoverished and
exhausted by the extravagance, intolerance, and short¬
sighted policy of their rulers.
Politics and political economy are, therefore, sufficiently
distinct. The politician examines the principles on which
government is founded, he endeavours to determine in
whose hands the supreme authority may be most advanta¬
geously placed, and unfolds the reciprocal duties and obli¬
gations of the governing and governed portions of society.
The political economist does not take so high a flight. It
is not of the constitution of the government, but of its acts
only, that he presumes to judge. Whatever measures affect
the production or distribution of wealth, necessarily come
within the scope of his observation, and are canvassed by
him. He examines whether they are in unison with the
principles of economical science. If they are, he pronounces
them to be advantageous, and shows the nature and extent
1 It is of importance to observe, that Dr Smith does not saj’ that, in prosecuting such branches of industry as are most advanta¬
geous to themselves, individuals necessarily prosecute such as are at the same time most advantageous to the public. His leaning to
the system of the Economists—a leaning perceptible in every part of his work—made him so far swerve from the principles of his
own system, as to admit, that individual advantage is not always a true test of the public advantageousness of different employments.
He considered that agriculture, though not the only productive employment, is the most productive of any ; that the home trade is
more productive than a direct foreign trade; and the latter than the carrying trade. It will be hereafter seen that there is no foun¬
dation for these distinctions.
272
Distinction of the benefits of which they will be productive ; if they
between are not, he shows in what respect they are defective, an
Politics and to what extent their operation will be injurious. But he
Economy. does this without inquiring into the constitution of the go-
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
. _J,.. . vernment by which these measures have been adopted.
The circumstance of their having emanated from the privy
council of an arbitrary monarch, or the representative as¬
sembly of a free state, though in other respects of supreme
importance, cannot affect the immutable principles by which
he is to form his opinion upon them.
Distinction Besides being confounded with politics, the practical part
between 0f political economy has frequently been confounded with
statistics ; but they are still more easily separated and dis¬
tinguished. The object of the statistician is to describe
the condition of a particular country at a particular period;
while the object of the political economist is to discover the
causes which have brought it into that condition, and the
means by which its wealth and riches may be indefinitely
increased. He is to the statistician what the physical as¬
tronomer is to the mere observer. He takes the facts fur¬
nished by the statistician, and after comparing them with
those furnished by historians and travellers, he applies him¬
self to discover their relation. By a patient induction,—
by carefully observing the circumstances attending the ope
ration of particular principles, a:—offiwc r,
statistics
and politi
cal' econo¬
my.
peculiar shape, without which it may be totally useless, and Labour tfe
incapable of either ministering to our necessities or our 0Idy W
comforts. The coal used in our fires is buried deep in the x° vve8ttill
bowels of the earth, and is absolutely worthless until the
miner has extracted it from the mine, and brought it into
a situation where it may be used. The stones and mortar
of which our houses are built, and the rugged and shape¬
less materials from which the various articles of conve¬
nience and ornament with which they are furnished have
been prepared, were, in their original state, alike destitute
of value and utility. And of the innumerable variety of
animal, vegetable, and mineral products which form the
materials of our food and clothes, none were originally ser¬
viceable, while many were extremely noxious to man. His
labour has given them utility, has subdued their bad quali¬
ties, and made them satisfy his wants, and minister to his
comforts and enjoyments. “ Labour was the first price,
the original purchase-money, that was paid for all things.
It was not by gold or by silver, but by labour, that all the
wealth of the world was originally purchased.” {Wealth of
Nations, p. 14.)
Those who observe the progress and trace the history of
the human race in different countries and states of society,
     will find their comfort and happiness always pretty nearly
■he discovers the^eftects of proportioned to their expertness in appropriating the raw
which they are really productive, and how far they are li- products of nature, and in fitting and adapting them to their
able to be modified by the operation of other principles. It use. The savage, whose labour is confined to the gathering
is thus that the relation between rent and profit,—between of wild fruits, or to the picking up of the shell-fish on the sea
profit and wages, and the various general laws which regu- coast, is placed at the very bottom of the scale of civilization,
late and connect the apparently conflicting, but really har- and is, in point of comfort, decidedly inferior to many of the
monious interests of every different order of society, have lower animals. rY\\e first step in the progress of society is
been discovered and established with all the certainty of
demonstrative evidence.
PART II.
PRODUCTION OF WEALTH.
Sect. I.—Definition of Production Labour the only
Source of Wealth.
Definition
of produc¬
tion.
All the operations of nature and of art are reducible to,
and really consist of, transmutations,^—of changes of form
and of place. By production in this science, we are not to
understand the production of matter, for that is exclusively
the attribute of Omnipotence, but the production of utility,
and consequently of exchangeable value, by appropriating
and modifying matter already in existence, so as to make
it satisfy our wants, and contribute to our enjoyments.
The labour which is thus employed is the only source of
made when man learns to hunt wild animals, to feed himself
with their flesh, and clothe himself with their skins. But la¬
bour, when confined to the chase, is extremely barren and
unproductive. Tribes of hunters, like beasts of prey, whom
they closely resemble in their habits and modes of subsist¬
ence, are but thinly scattered over the surface of the coun¬
tries which they occupy ; and, notwithstanding the fewness
of their numbers, any unusual deficiency in the supply of
game never fails to reduce them to the extremity of want.
The second step in the progress of society is made when
the tribes of hunters and fishers apply their labour, like the
ancient Scythians and modern Tartars, to the domestica¬
tion of wild animals and the rearing of flocks. Their sub¬
sistence is much less precarious than that of hunters ; but
they are almost entirely destitute of the comforts and ele¬
gancies which give to civilized life its chief value. The
third and most decisive step in the progress of civilization
—in the great art of producing the necessaries and con-
veniencies of life—is made when the wandering tribes of
hunters and shepherds renounce their migratory habits, and
It is then, pro-
become agriculturists and manufacturers.
wealth.1 Nature spontaneously furnishes the matter of perly speaking, that man begins fully to avail himself of
which commodities are made ; but, independently of labour, his productive powers. He then becomes laborious, and,
matter is rarely of any use, and is never of any value, by a necessary consequence, his wants are then, for the
Place us on the banks of a river, or in an orchard, and we first time, fully supplied, and he acquires an extensive com-
shall infallibly perish of thirst or hunger, unless, by an ef- mand over the articles necessary to his comfort as well as
fort of industry, we raise the water to our lips, or pluck the his subsistence.
fruit from its parent tree. It is seldom, however, that the However paradoxical the assertion may at first sight ap- The cart
mere appropriation of matter is sufficient. In the infinite pear, it is notwithstanding true that the earth does not gra-
majority of cases, labour is required not only to appropriate tuitously supply a single atom of wealth. It is a powex’ful0 v*
it, but to convey it from place to place, and to give it that machine given by Providence to man ; but without his
„ This point has been well stated by M. Destutt Tracy. “Non seulement,’’ says he, “ nous ne creons jamais rien, mais 11 nous est
meme impossible de concevoir ce que e’est que creer ou andantir, si nous entendons rigoureusement par ces mots, faire quelque
c lose e nen5 leduire quelque chose a rien; car nous n’avons jamais vu un etre quelconque sortir du neant ni y rentrer. De la
ce axiome at mis par toute Tantiquite: rien ne vient de rien, et ne peut re'devenir rien. Que faisons-nous done par notre travail,
par no re action sur tous les etres qui nous entourent ? Jamais rien qu’operer dans ces etres des changements de forme ou de lieu qui
es approprient a notre usage, qui les rendent utiles a la satisfaction de nos besoins. Voilh ce que nous devons entendre par pro-
in^? \ C 6St d°1nner aux choses une utilite qu’elles n’avoient pas. Quel que soit notre travail, s’il n’en resulte point d’utilitd, il est
infructeux ; s d eu resulte, il est productif.” (Eltmem d’Ideologic, tome iii. p. 162.)
POLITICAL ECONOMY
abonr the
••ly Source
f Wealth.
pinion of
ubbes.
Inin ion of
labour it would be altogether useless, and would for ever
stand idle and unemployed. It is through the intervention
of labour that the products of the earth become valuable
and useful. Its surface is, in its natural state, covered with
fruits and game; its bowels contain an infinite variety of
mineral products ; its seas and rivers are stored with fish ;
and it is endowed with inexhaustible vegetative and pro¬
ductive powers; but all these powers and products are
plainly of no use, and have no value, until the labour of
man renders the former subservient to his purpose, and ap¬
propriates the latter, and gives them the peculiar form re¬
quired to fit them to support his existence and increase his
enjoyments.
The importance of labour in the production of wealth
was very clearly perceived both by Hobbes and Locke.
At the commencement of the 24th chapter (entitled Of
the Nutrition and Procreation of a Commonwealth) of the
Leviathan, published in 1651, Hobbes says, “ The nutri¬
tion of a commonwealth consisteth in the plenty and distri¬
bution of materials conducing to life.
“ As for the plenty of matter, it is a thing limited by na¬
ture to those commodities which, from (the two breasts of
our common mother) land and sea, God usually either
freely giveth, or for labour selleth to mankind.
“ For the matter of this nutriment, consisting in animals,
vegetables, minerals, God hath freely laid them before us,
in or near to the face of the earth; so as there needeth no
more but the labour and industry of receiving them : in¬
somuch that plenty dependeth (next to God’s favour) on the
labour and industry of man.”
But Locke had a much clearer apprehension of this doc¬
trine. In his Essay on Civil Government, published in
1689, he has entered into a lengthened and able analysis
to show that the products of the earth owe almost all their
value to labour. “ Let any one consider,” says he, “ what
the difference is between an acre of land planted with to¬
bacco or sugar, sown with wheat or barley, and an acre
of the same land lying in common, without any husban¬
dry upon it, and he will find that the improvement of la¬
bour makes the far greater part of the value. I think it
will be but a very modest computation to say, that of the
products of the earth useful to the life of man, nine tenths
are the effects of labour ; nay, if we will rightly consider
things as they come to our use, and cast up the several ex¬
penses about them, what in them is purely owing to na¬
ture, and what to labour, we shall find, that in most of
them ninety-nine hundredths are wholly to be put on the
account of labour.
“ There cannot be a clearer demonstration of anything,
than several nations of the Americans are of this, who are
rich in land, and poor in all the comforts of life ; whom na¬
ture having furnished as liberally as any other people with
the materials of plenty, i. e. a fruitful soil apt to produce
in abundance what might serve for food, raiment, and de-
%ht, yet, for want of improving it by labour, have not one
hundredth part of the conveniencies we enjoy ; and the king
of a large and fruitful territory there feeds, lodges, and is
worse clad than a day-labourer in England.
“ To make this a little clear, let us but trace some of the
ordinary provisions of life through their several progresses,
before they come to our use, and see how much of their
value they receive from human industry. Bread, wine, and
cloth, are things of daily use, and great plenty; yet, not-
'27,
withstanding, acorns, water, and leaves or skins, must be Labour the
our bread, drink, and clothing, did not labour furnish us onkv Source
with these more useful commodities ; for whatever bread is0* health,
more worth than acorns, wine than water, and cloth or silk' ^
than leaves, skins, or moss, that is solely owing to labour
and industry ; the one of these being the food and raiment
which unassisted nature furnishes us with; the other, pro¬
visions which our industry and pains prepare for us ; which
how much they exceed the other in value, when any one
hath computed, he will then see how much labour makes
the far greatest part of the value of things we enjoy in this
world ; and the ground which produces the materials is
scai ce to be reckoned on as any, or, at most, but a very
small part of it.
“ An acre of land that bears here twenty bushels of wheat,
and another in America which, with the same husbandry,
would do the like, are, without doubt, of the same natural
intrinsic value. But yet the benefit mankind receives from
the one in a year is worth L.5, and from the other possibly
not worth one penny ; if all the profit an Indian received
from it were to be valued and sold here, at least, I may truly
say, not Tis labour, then, which puts the greatest
part of value upon land, without which it would scarcely be
worth anything: ’tis to that we owe the greatest part of
its useful products; for all that the straw, bran, bread, of
that acre of wheat, is more worth than the product of an
acre of good land, which lies waste, is all the effect of la¬
bour. For ’tis not merely the ploughman’s pains, the reap¬
er’s and thrasher’s toil, and the baker’s sweat, is to be count¬
ed into the bread we eat; the labour of these who broke the
oxen, who digged and wrought the iron and stones, who
felled and framed the timber employed about the plough,
mill, oven, or any other utensils, wdnch are a vast number,
requisite to this corn, from its being seed to be sown, to its
being made bread, must all be charged on the account of
labour, and received as an effect of that; Nature and the
earth furnishing only the almost worthless materials as in
themselves. ’Twould be a strange catalogue of things that
industry provided and made use of about every loaf of bread,
before it came to our use, if we could trace them: Iron,
wood, leather, barks, timber, stone, brick, coals, lime, cloth,
dyeing drugs, pitch, tar, masts, ropes, and all the materials
made use of in the ship that brought away the commodities
made use of by any of the workmen, to any part of the
work ; all which, it would be almost impossible, at least too
long, to reckon up.” {Of Civil Government, book ii. § 40,
41, 42, and 43.)1
Had Locke carried his analysis a little further, he could
not have failed to perceive that neither water, leaves, skins,
nor any of the spontaneous products of nature, have any
value except what they owe to the labour required to ap¬
propriate them. The value of water to a man placed on
the bank of a river depends on the labour necessary to raise
it to his lips ; and its value, when carried ten or twenty
miles off, is equally dependent on the labour necessary to
convey it there. All the rude products, productive powders,
and capacities of nature, are gratuitously offered to man.
Nature is not niggardly or parsimonious. She neither de¬
mands nor receives an equivalent for her favours. An ob¬
ject which it does not require any portion of labour to ap¬
propriate or to adapt to our use, may be of the very highest
utility ; but, as it is the free gift of nature, it is impossible
it can have the smallest value.2
1 This is a very remarkable passage. It contains a far more distinct and comprehensive statement of the fundamental doctrine,
that labour is the constituent principle of value, than is to be found in any other writer previous to Smith, or than is to be found even
in the Wealth of Nations. But Locke does not seem to have been sufficiently aware of the value of the principle he had elucidated,
and has not deduced from it any important practical conclusion. On the contrary, in his tract on the Raising of the Value of Mo-
ney, published in 1691, he lays it down broadly that all taxes, however imposed, ultimately ,/a// on the land; whereas it is plain he
should, consistently with the above principle, have shown that they would fall, not exclusively on the produce of land, but generally
on the produce of industry, or on all species of commodities.
3 Bishop Berkeley entertained very just opinions respecting the source of wealth. In his Querist, published in 1735, he asks,—
VOL. XVIII. t 2 M.
274
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
Labour the « Si ie retranche,” to use a striking illustration of this
only Source doctrine given by M. Canard, “ de ma montre, par la pensee,
WeaIth- tons les travaux qui lui ont ete successivement appliquees,
il ne resterai que quelques grains de mineral placees dans
1’interieur de la terre, d’ou on les a tires, et ou ils nont
aucune valeur. De meme, si je decompose le pain que je
mange, et que j’en retranche successivement tons les tra¬
vaux successifs qu’il a re^us, il ne restera que quelques tiges
d’herbes, graminees, eparses dans des desertes inculcates,
et sans aucune valeur.” (Principes dEconomic Politique,
P’ Itis to labour, therefore, that man owes everything pos¬
sessed of exchangeable value. Labour is the talisman that
has raised him from the condition of the savage that has
changed the desert and the forest into cultivated fields,
that has covered the earth with cities and the ocean with
ships—that has given us plenty, comfort, and elegance, in¬
stead of want, misery, and barbarism.
Having established this fundamental principle—haying
shown that labour alone gives value to commodities—it is
plain that the great practical problem of this science must
resolve itself into a discussion of the means by which laboiu
may be rendered most efficient, that is, by which the great¬
est amount of necessary and desirable products may be ob¬
tained with the least, outlay of labour. Wealth, as already
seen, is always increased by every diminution of the la¬
bour required to produce the articles of which it consists.
Every measure and invention that has any tendency to save
labour, or to reduce the cost of producing commodities, adds
proportionally to our power of obtaining wealth and riches ;
while every measure or regulation that has any tendency to
waste labour, or to raise the cost of producing commodities,
equally lessens this power. This is the simple and decisive
test by which we are to judge of every measure affecting
the wealth of the country, and of every invention. If they
render labour more productive—if they tend to reduce the
value of commodities, to render them more easily obtain¬
able, and, consequently, to bring them within the command
of a greater portion of society—they are advantageous ; but
if their tendency be different, they are as certainly disad¬
vantageous. Considered in this point of view, that great
branch of the science which treats of the production of
wealth will be found to be abundantly simple, and easily
understood.
Labour, according as it is applied to the raising of raw
produce—to the fashioning of that raw produce, when rais¬
ed, into articles of utility, convenience, or ornament—and
to the conveyance of raw and wrought products from one
country and place to another—is said to be agricultural,
manufacturing, and commercial. An acquaintance wdth
the particular processes, and most advantageous methods,
of applying labour in each of these great departments of in¬
dustry, forms the appropriate study of the agriculturist, ma¬
nufacturer, and merchant. It is not consistent with his ob¬
jects for the political economist to enter into the details of
particular businesses and professions. He confines himself
to an investigation of the means by which labour generally
may be rendered most productive, and how its powers may
be increased in all departments of industry.
Sect. II. Means by which the Productive Powers of La- Keans 1
hour are increased—Security of Property—Division of J
Labour.—Accumulation and Employment of Capital. '
Labour
The most careless and inattentive observer of the pro- may bf
gress of mankind from poverty to affluence must have early mcreasei.
perceived, that there are three circumstances whose conjoint
operation is necessary to stimulate and improve the produc¬
tive powers of industry. The first, and most indispensable,
is the security of property, or a strong conviction in the mind
of every individual that he will be allowed to dispose at
pleasure of the fruits of his labour. The second is the in¬
troduction of exchange or barter, and the consequent ap¬
propriation of particular individuals to particular employ¬
ments. And the third is the accumulation and employment
of the produce of previous labour, or, as it is more commonly
termed, of capital, or stock. Every improvement that either
has been or that may yet be made, in the great art of pro¬
ducing the necessaries, comforts, and conveniencies of hu¬
man life, will be found to be resolvable into the more judi¬
cious and successful application of one or more of those
means of stimulating labour, and adding to its power. To
give a full exposition of the nature and influence of each
would far exceed the limits of this article; and we must
content ourselves with such observations as may suffice to
give a general idea of their operation.
Security of Property is the first and most indispen-Security c:
sable requisite to the production of Wealth. Its utility inProPert)' j
this respect is so obvious and striking, as to make it be
more or less respected in every country, and in the earliest
and rudest periods of society. All have been impressed
with the reasonableness of the maxim which teaches that
those who sow should be permitted to reap; that the labour
of a man’s body and the work of his hands should be
considered as exclusively his own. No horde, how barba¬
rous soever, has been discovered in which the principle of
meum and tuurn was not recognised. Nothing, it is plain,
could ever tempt any one to engage in any laborious em¬
ployment—he would neither domesticate wild animals, nor
clear and cultivate the ground, if, after months and years
of toil, when his flocks had become numerous, and his har¬
vests were ripening for the sickle, a stranger were allowed
to rob him of the produce of his industry. No wonder,
therefore, that the utility of some general regulations, se¬
curing to every individual the peaceable enjoyment of the
produce he had raised, and of the ground he had cultivated
and improved, suggested itself to the first legislators. The
author of the book of Job places those w ho removed their
neighbours’ landmarks at the head of his list of wicked
men ; and some of the earliest profane legislators subjected
those guilty of this offence to a capital punishment. (Go-
guet, De 1’ Origine des Loix, &c. tom. i. p. 30, 4to ed.)
Dr Paley has said that the law of the land is the real
foundation of the right of property. But the obvious uti¬
lity of securing to each individual the property acquired by
his industry, has undoubtedly formed the irresistible reason
which has induced every people emerging from barbarism
to establish this right. It is, in truth, the foundation on
which all the institutions of society rest. Until property
Whether it were not wrong to suppose land itself to be wealth ? And whether the industry of the people is not first to be considered
as lat which constitutes wealth, which makes even land and silver to be wealth, neither of which would have any value but as means
an motives to industry ?” “ Whether, in the wastes of America, a man might not possess twenty miles square of land, and yet want
his dinner, or a coat to his back.” (Querist, Numbers 38 and 39.)
We shall afterwards notice Sir William Petty’s opinion on this subject.
. j1/ ^PPe,ar® t0 . (Discours Prtliminaire, p. 37), that Galiani was the first to show, in his treatise Della Moncta, published in
*: Uiat'labour is the only source of wealth. But the passages we have now laid before the reader prove the erroneousness of this
opinion, (jaliani has entered into no analysis or argument to prove the correctness of his statement; and as it appears from other
parts o ns woik t lat he was well acquainted with Locke’s Tracts on Money, a suspicion naturally arises that he had seen the Essay
on ivi Government, and that he was really indebted to it for a knowledge of this principle. This suspicion derives strength from
the circumstance of Gaham being still less aware than Mr Locke of the value of the discovery. See Trattato della Moneta, p. 39, ediz.
r *
* vrw*
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
275
• I urity ofhas been publicly guaranteed, men look on each other as
tlHoperty- enemies rather than as friends. The idle and improvident
ir| are always desirous of seizing on the earnings of the labo¬
rious and frugal; and were they not restrained by the
strong arm of the law from prosecuting their attacks, they
would, by generating a feeling of insecurity, effectually
vyl check both industry and accumulation, and sink all classes
to the same level of hopeless misery as themselves. The
security of property is quite as necessary to accumulation
as to production. No man ever denies himself an imme¬
diate gratification when it is within his power, unless he
think that by doing so he has a fair prospect of obtaining,
at some future period, a greater accession of comforts and
enjoyments, or of avoiding some considerable evil. Where
the right of property is vigilantly protected, an industrious
man, who produces as much by one day’s labour as is suf¬
ficient to maintain him two days, instead of idling away
the second day, accumulates the surplus which exceeds
his wants as a capital; the increased consequence and en¬
joyments which the possession of capital brings along with
it being, in the great majority of cases, more than suffi¬
cient to countervail the desire of immediate gratification.
But wherever property is insecure, we look in vain for the
operation of this principle. “ It is plainly better for us,”
is then the invariable language of the people, “ to enjoy
while it is in our power, than to accumulate property we
shall not be permitted to use, and which will either ex¬
pose us to the extortion of a rapacious government, or to
the depredations of those who exist only by the plunder of
their more industrious neighbours.”
The security of property is not violated merely when a
man is deprived of the power of peaceably enjoying the
fruits of his industry ; it is also violated, and perhaps in a
still more unjustifiable manner, when he is prevented from
using his powers, in any way not injurious to others, that
he considers most beneficial for himself. Of all the spe¬
cies of property a man can possess, the faculties of his mind
and the powers of his body are most particularly his own.
He should, therefore, be permitted to enjoy, that is, to
use or exert these powers at discretion. And hence the
right of property is as much, or more, infringed upon, when
a man is interdicted from engaging in a particular branch
of business, as it is when the property he has produced and
accumulated is forcibly taken from him. Every monopoly
which gives to a few individuals the exclusive power of car¬
rying on certain branches of industry, is thus, in fact, esta¬
blished in direct violation of the right of property of every
one else. It prevents them from using their natural capaci¬
ties or powers in the way they might have considered best;
and as every man who is not a slave is justly held to be the
best, and, indeed, only judge of what is advantageous for
himself, the principles of natural law and the right of pro¬
perty are both subverted when he is excluded from any em¬
ployment. In like manner, the right of property is violated
whenever any regulation is made to force an individual to
employ his labour or capital in a particular way. The pro¬
perty of a landlord is violated when he is compelled to adopt
any system of cultivation, even supposing it to be prefer¬
able to that which he would otherwise follow. The pro-
perty of the capitalist is violated when he is obliged to ac-
! cept a particular rate of interest for his stock; and the pro-
|i. perty of the labourer is violated whenever he is obliged to
employ himself in any particular occupation.
1 ct* of The finest soil, the finest climate, and the finest intellec-
1 'curity- tual powers, can prevent no people from becoming barba-
poor, and miserable, if they have the misfortune to be
subjected to a government which does not respect the right
of property. This is the greatest of all calamities. The
ravages of civil war, of pestilence, and of famine, may be
Repaired; but nothing can enable a nation to contend against
the deadly influence of an established system of violence
V
and rapine. The want of security, of a lively and well- Security of
founded expectation of being permitted freely to dispose of Property,
the fruits of industry, is the principal cause of the wretched ^
state of the Ottoman dominions in the present day, as it
was of the decline of industry and arts in Europe during
the middle ages. When the Turkish conquerors overran
those fertile and beautiful countries in which, to the disgrace
of the other European powers, they are still permitted to
encamp, they parcelled them among their followers, on con¬
dition of their performing certain military services, on a
plan corresponding, in many important particulars, to the
feudal system of our ancestors. But these possessions are
not hereditary. They do not descend to the children or
legatees of the present possessors, but on their death revert
to the sultan. Among the occupiers of land in Turkey
there is, therefore, no thought of futurity. No one feels
any interest about the prosperity of an unknown successor,
and no one ever executes any improvement unless he ex¬
pect to reap all the advantage during his own life. This
is the cause why the Turks are so extremely careless about
their houses. They never construct them of solid or du¬
rable materials. And it would be a gratification were they
assured that they would fall to pieces the moment they have
breathed their last. Under this miserable government the
palaces have been changed into cottages, and the cities
into villages. The long-continued want of security has
extinguished the very spirit of industry, and destroyed not
only the power, but even the desire, to emerge from bar¬
barism.
Had it been possible for arbitrary power to profit by the
lessons of experience, it would long since have perceived
that its own wealth, as well as that of its subjects, would
be most effectually promoted by maintaining the inviolabi¬
lity of property. Were the Turkish government to esta¬
blish a vigilant system of police, to give to each indivi¬
dual full power to dispose of the fruits of his labour, and
to substitute a regular plan of taxation for the present
odious system of extortion and tyranny, industry would
revive, capital and population would be augmented, and
moderate duties, imposed on a few articles in general de¬
mand, would bring a much larger sum into the coffers of
the treasury than all that is now' obtained by force and vio¬
lence. The stated public burdens to which the Turks are
subject, are light when compared with those imposed on the
English, the Hollanders, or the French. But when the lat¬
ter have paid the taxes due to government, they know they
will be permitted peaceably to enjoy or accumulate the
remainder of their earnings ; whereas the T.urk has no se¬
curity but that the moment after he has paid his stated
contribution, the pasha, or one of his satellites, may strip
him of every additional farthing he possesses. Security is
the foundation, the principal element, in every well-digest¬
ed system of finance. W hen maintained inviolate, it en¬
ables a country to support, without much difficulty, a very
heavy load of taxes; but where there is no security, where
property is a prey to rapine and spoliation, to the attacks
of the needy, the powerful, or the profligate, the smallest
burdens are justly regarded as oppressive, and uniformly
exceed the means of the impoverished and spiritless inha¬
bitant.
The Jews have been supposed to afford an instance of a Case of the
people whose property has been long exposed to an al-Jews.
most uninterrupted series of attacks, and w'ho have, not¬
withstanding, continued to be rich and industrious. But
when rightly examined, it will be found that the case of
the Jews forms no exception to the general rule. The ab¬
surd prejudices with which the Jews have been almost uni¬
versally regarded, prevented their acquiring any property
in land, and excluded them from participating in the cha¬
ritable institutions of the different countries among which
they are scattered. Having therefore no adventitious sup-
POLITICAL
Security of port on which to depend, in the event of their becoming
Property. infjrm 0r destitute, they had a powerful additional motive
" to save and accumulate; and being excluded from agricul¬
ture, they were of necessity compelled to addict themselves,
in preference, to commerce. In an age when the profes¬
sion of a merchant was generally looked upon as something
mean and sordid, and when, of course, they had compai a-
tively little competition, they must have made considerable
profits ; but these have been very greatly exaggerated. It
was natural that those indebted to the Jews should re¬
present their gains as enormous ; for this inflamed the ex¬
isting prejudices against them, and afforded a miserable pre¬
text for defrauding them of their just claims. There are a
few rich Jews in most of the large cities of Europe ; but
the majority of that race are, and always have been, as poor
as their neighbours.
Let us not, therefore, deceive ourselves by supposing
that it is possible for any people to emerge from barbarism,
or to become wealthy, populous, and civilized, without the
security of property. From whatever point of the political
compass we may set out, this is the principle to which we
must come at last. Security is indispensable to the suc¬
cessful exertion of the powers of industry. Where it is
wanting, it is idle to expect either riches or civilization.1
Rousseau and some other sentimental writers have made
an objection to the right of property, which has been in
some measure sanctioned by the Marquis Beccaria.2 They
iT fouuded a^ow that the security of property is advantageous for those
who possess it; but they contend that it is disadvantageous
for those who are poor and destitute. It has condemned,
they affirm, the greater portion of mankind to a state of
misery, and has provided for the exaltation of the few by
the depression of the many ! The sophistry of this reason¬
ing is so apparent, as hardly to require being pointed out.
The right of property has not made poverty, but it has
made wealth. Previously to the institution of this right,
those nations which are now most civilized were sunk to
the same level of wretchedness and misery as the savages
of New Holland and Kamtschatka. All classes have been
benefited by the change; and it is mere error and delusion
Objections
of Rous¬
seau and
Beccaria
to suppose that the rich have been benefited at the expense
of the poor. The right of property gives no advantage to
any one man over any other man. It deals out justice im¬
partially to all. It does not say, “ labour, and I shall reward
youbut it says, “ labour, and I shall take care that none
be permitted to rob you of the produce of your exertions.”
This right has not made all men rich, because it could not
make all men frugal and industrious. But it has done more
than all the other institutions of society put together to pro¬
duce that effect. It is not, as it has been sometimes igno¬
rantly or knavishly represented, a bulwark thrown up to pro¬
tect and secure the property of a few favourites of fortune.
It is a rampart raised by society against its common ene¬
mies,—against rapine and violence, plunder and oppression.
\V ithout its protection, the rich man would become poor,
and the poor man would never be able to become rich,—
all would sink to the same bottomless abyss of barbarism
and poverty. “ The security of property has overcome the
natural aversion of man from labour, given him the empire
of the earth, a fixed and permanent residence, and has
implanted in his breast the love of country and of pos¬
terity. To enjoy immediately,—to enjoy without labour,-—
ECONOMY.
is the natural inclination of every man. This inclination Security,]
must be restrained ; for its obvious tendency is to arm all Property
who have nothing against those who have something. The
law which restrains this inclination, and which secures to
the humblest individual the quiet enjoyment of the fruits
of his industry, is the most splendid achievement of legis¬
lative wisdom,—the noblest triumph of which humanity has
to boast.” (Bentham, Traite de Legislation, tom. ii. p. 37.)
Division of Labour.—The division of labour naturally Division o
divides itself into two separate branches: \st, The division labour,
of labour among individuals; and, 2d, its division among
nations.
1. Individual Division of Labour—The division of la¬
bour can only be imperfectly introduced in rude societies
and thinly-peopled countries. But in every state of socie¬
ty, in the rudest as well as in the most improved, we may
trace the operation and effects of this principle. The va¬
rious physical powers, talents, and propensities with which
men are endowed, naturally fit them for different occupa¬
tions ; and a regard to mutual interest and convenience
necessarily leads them, at a very early period, to establish
a system of barter and a separation of employments. Each
individual finds that he may obtain a greater quantity of all
sorts of commodities by devoting himself to some particular
business, and exchanging bis surplus produce for such parts
of the produce of other people’s labour as he may have
occasion for, and they may be disposed to part with, than
if he attempted directly to produce all the articles which
he consumes. As society advances, this division becomes
more and more extended. In process of time, one man
becomes a tanner or dresser of skins, another a shoemaker,
a third a weaver, a fourth a house-carpenter, a fifth a
smith, and so on. Each endeavours to cultivate and bring
to perfection whatever talent or genius he may possess for
the species of industry in which he is employed. The
wealth and comforts of all classes are, in consequence, pro¬
digiously augmented. In a country where the division of
labour is carried to a considerable extent, agriculturists do
not spend their time in clumsy attempts to manufacture
their own produce ; and manufacturers cease to interest
themselves about the raising of corn and the fattening of
cattle. The facility of exchanging is the vivifying principle
of industry. It stimulates agriculturists to adopt the best
system of cultivation, and to raise the largest crops, be¬
cause it enables them to exchange whatever portion of
the produce of their lands exceeds their own wants for
other commodities conducing to their comforts and enjoy¬
ments ; and it stimulates manufacturers and merchants to
increase the quantity and to improve the quality of their
goods, that they may obtain a greater supply of raw pro¬
duce. A spirit of industry is thus universally diffused ; and
the apathy and languor which characterize a rude state ot
society entirely disappear.
But it is not the mere facility of exchanging, or the being
able to barter the surplus produce of one’s own labour for
such parts of the produce of other people’s labour as w'e
may wish to have and they may choose to part with, that
venders the separation of employments of such signal ad¬
vantage. The introduction of barter and the division of
labour not only enables .each individual to betake himself
in preference to those departments which suit his taste and
disposition, but it makes a large addition to the efficacy of
cst
re-
. F Y n <^U<i J‘l 011 lcs pmpristes sont assures, oh Temploi des capitaux est abandonnd au clioix de ceux qui les possedent; ce n
.a’ '!tje’ •eS Par^lcu^lers seront encourages a se soumettre aux privations le plus dures pour compenser par leurs e'pargnes les
w nnvNin ^>r0 us110n ( j1 gouverneinent pent apporter aux progres de la riehesse national. Si 1’Angleterre, naalgre ses guerres ruineuses,
Tn ‘ ju v e ? un .aut <legre d opulence ; si, malgre les contributions enemies dont le people y est charge, son capital est pourtant accrue
L J e s, n<1'e P,ir e<onomie des particuliers, il ne faut attribuer ees elfets qu’a la liberte des personnes, et !i la surete des proprietes qui
3 * CVpluS p.ays de f’Europe, la Suisse exeeptd.” (Storch, Trait? d'Economic PMtique, tom. i. p. 317.)
f. f ’ eccar|a calls it “ 11 delitto di quella infeliee parte di uoaiini a eui it diritto diproprieta (tenibite, e forte non r.e~
ccstarw dintto), non ha lasciato, die una nuda estistenza." (Ed Dditti c ilcile Pcnc, § 22.)
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
27.7
ivision of his powers, and enables him to produce a much greater
Labour, quantity of commodities than he could do did he engage
“'~'vindiscriminately in dilferent employments. Smith, who has
treated this subject in the most masterly manner, has class¬
ed the circumstances which conspire to increase the pro¬
ductive powers of industry, when labour is divided, under
the following heads :—First, The increase of the skill and
dexterity of the workman ; second, the saving of time, which
is commonly lost in passing from one employment to ano¬
ther ; and, third, the circumstance of the division of employ¬
ments having a tendency to facilitate the invention of ma¬
chines and processes for abridging and saving labour. We
shall make a few observations on each of these heads,
ivisionof 1st, As respects the improvement of the skill and dexterity
hour in- of the labourer, it is sufficiently plain, that when a person’s
eases the w}10]e attention is devoted to one branch of business, when
;llJ ^ ofall the energies of his mind and powers of his body are made
e work- to converge, as it were, to a single point, he must attain to
(m. a degree of proficiency in that particular branch, to which
no individual engaged in a variety of occupations can be
expected to reach. A peculiar play of the muscles, or
sleight of hand, is necessary to perform the simplest opera¬
tion in the best and most expeditious manner ; and this can
only be acquired by constant practice. Smith has given a
striking example, in the case of the nail manufacturer, of
the extreme difference between training a workman to the
precise occupation in w hich he is to be employed, and train¬
ing him to a similar and closely allied occupation. “ A
common smith,” says he, “ who, though accustomed to
handle the hammer, has never been used to make nails, if,
upon some particular occasion, he is obliged to attempt it,
wall scarce, I am assured, be able to make above two or
three hundred nails in a day, and those very bad ones. A
smith who has been accustomed to make nails, but whose
sole or principal business has not been that of a nailer, can
seldom, with his utmost diligence, make more than eight
hundred or a thousand nails in a day. But I have seen se¬
veral boys under twenty years of age, who had never exer¬
cised any other trade but that of making nails, who, when
they exerted themselves, could make, each of them, upwards
of two thousand three hundred nails in a day or nearly
three times the number of the smith w ho had been accus¬
tomed to make them, but who was not entirely devoted to
that particular business!
wes time. 2t/, The influence of the division of labour in preventing
that waste of time in moving from one employment to another,
which necessarily takes place when an individual is engaged
in different occupations, is as obvious as its influence in im¬
proving the skill and dexterity of the labourer. When the
same individual carries on different employments, in differ¬
ent and perhaps distant places, and with different sets of
tools, it is plain he must lose a considerable portion of time
in passing from one to another. If the different businesses
in which a labourer is to be engaged were carried on in the
same workshop, the loss of time would be less, but even in
that case it would be considerable. “ A man,” as Dr Smith
has justly observed, “ commonly saunters a little in chang¬
ing from one business to another. When he first begins
his w ork, he is seldom keen or hearty ; his mind is said not
to go along with it, and for some time he rather trifles than
applies himself to good purpose. The habit of sauntering,
and of indolent, careless application, which is naturally,
or rather necessarily, acquired by every country workman,
who is obliged to change his work and his tools every half
hour, and to apply his hand in twenty different ways almost
every day of his life, renders him almost always slothful and
lazy, and incapable of any vigorous application, even on the
most pressing occasions. Independent, therefore, of his de¬
ficiency in point of dexterity, this cause alone must always
reduce considerably the quantity of work which he is ca¬
pable of performing.” ( Wealth of Nations, p. 5.)
3t/, As respects the influence of the division of employ- Division of
ments '\\\ facilitating the invention of machines, and processes labour.
for abridging and saving labour, it is obvious that those en- ^ '
gaged in any branch of industry will be more likely to dis-theinvenf
cover easier and readier methods of carrying it on, when tion of ma-
their whole attention is devoted exclusively to it, than ifchines,
they had to attend to a variety of objects. But it is a mis¬
take to suppose, as has been sometimes done, that the in¬
ventive genius of workmen and artificers is alone whetted
and improved by the division of labour. As society ad¬
vances, the study of particular branches of science and phi¬
losophy becomes the principal or sole occupation of the
most ingenious men. Chemistry becomes a distinct science
from natural philosophy ; the physical astronomer separates
himself from the astronomical observer, the political econo¬
mist from the politician, and each meditating exclusively,
or principally, on his peculiar department, attains to a de¬
gree of proficiency and expertness in it, which the general
scholar seldom or never reaches. And hence, in labouring
to promote our ow n ends, we all necessarily adopt that pre¬
cise course which is most advantageous for all. Like the
different parts of a well-constructed engine, the inhabitants
of a civilized country are all mutually dependent on and
connected with each other. Without any previous concert,
and obeying only the powerful and steady impulse of self-
interest, they universally conspire to the same great end,
and contribute each in his respective sphere to furnish the
greatest possible supply of necessaries, conveniencies, and
enjoyments.
But it is necessary to observe, that the advantages de-Division of
rived from the division of labour, though they may be, andhfiour li-
in fact are, partially enjoyed in every country and state
society, can only be reaped in their full extent where there 0f t^e mar_
is a great power of exchanging, or an extensive market, ket.
Many employments cannot be separately carried on out of
the precincts of a large city; and, in all cases, the division
becomes more perfect, according as the demand for the pro¬
duce of the workmen is extended. It is stated by Smith
that ten labourers employed in different departments in a
pin manufactory can produce 48,000 pins a day; but it is
evident that were the demand not sufficiently extensive to
take off this quantity, it would be impossible to carry the
division- so far. The same principle holds in every case. A
cotton-mill could not be constructed in a small country, hav¬
ing no intercourse with its neighbours. The demand and
competition of Europe and America has been necessary to
carry the manufactures of Glasgow, Manchester, and Bir¬
mingham to their present state of improvement.
The influence of the division of labour in increasing the
quantity and perfection of the products of industry was no¬
ticed by several of the writers who preceded Dr Smith, and
especially by Harris and Turgot. But neither of these
writers has done what Smith did. None of them fully ana¬
lysed and exhibited its various effects, or showed that the
power of engaging in different employments depends on
the power of exchanging; and that, consequently, the ad¬
vantages derived from the division of labour are necessarily
dependent on, and regulated by, the extent of the market.
This is a principle of great importance, by establishing which
Smith shed a new light on the whole science, and laid the
foundation of many important practical conclusions. “ Pre¬
sentee de cette maniere,” says M. Storch, “ 1’idee de la di¬
vision du travail etoit absolument neuve ; et 1’effet qu’elle
a fait sur les contemporains de Smith, prouve bien qu’elle
1’etoit reellement pour eux. Telle qu’elle se trouve in-
diquee dans les passages que je viens de citer, elle n’a fait
aucune impression. Developpee par Smith, cette idee a
d’abord saisi tous ses lecteurs; tons en ont senti la verite
et 1’importance ; et cela suffit pour lui en assurer tout 1’hon-
neur, lors meme que son genie ait ete guide par les indica¬
tions de ses devanciers.” (Tome vi. p. 10.)
278 POLITICAL
Territorial 2. Territorial Division of Labour, or Commerce—Be-
Division of g^gg that sort 0f division of labour which enables each in-
Labour. dividual in a limited society to confine himsell to a parti-
^ ^v cular employment, there is another and most important
branch of the division of labour, which not only enables
particular individuals, but the inhabitants of entire districts,
and even nations, to addict themselves in preference to cer¬
tain branches of industry. It is on this territorial division
of labour, if we may so term it, that the commerce carried
on between different districts of the same country, and
between different countries, is founded. The various soils,
climates, and capacities of production of the different dis¬
tricts of an extensive country, fit them for being appropri¬
ated to certain species of industry. A district where coal
is abundant, which has an easy access to the ocean, and a
considerable command of internal navigation, is the natural
seat of manufactures. Wheat and other species of grain
are the proper products of rich arable soils; and cattle,
after being reared in mountainous districts, are most advan¬
tageously fattened in meadows and low grounds. Nothing
is more obvious than that the inhabitants of these different
districts, by confining themselves to those branches for the
prosecution of which they have some peculiar natural ca¬
pability, must produce an infinitely greater quantity of use¬
ful and desirable articles than they could do were they to
employ themselves indiscriminately in every different em¬
ployment. It is impossible to doubt that a vastly greater
supply of manufactured goods, corn, and cattle, are pro¬
duced by the inhabitants of Glasgow, the Carse of Gowrie,
and Argyleshire, respectively, confining themselves to ma¬
nufactures, agriculture, and the rearing of cattle, than if
each endeavoured directly to raise these various products.
But it is easy to see that foreign trade, or the territorial
division of labour between different and independent coun¬
tries, contributes to increase the wealth of each in precisely
the same manner that the trade between different provinces
of the same kingdom contributes to increase their wealth.
There is a still greater difference between the productive
powers with which nature has endowed different and dis¬
tant countries than there is between the productive powers
of the provinces of the same country. The establishment
of a free intercourse between them must, therefore, be pro¬
portionally more advantageous. It would evidently cost
infinitely more to raise the wines of France or Spain in
England, than to make Yorkshire yield the same products
as Devonshire. Indeed there are a multitude of products,
and some of them of the very greatest utility, that cannot
be raised except in particular situations. Were it not for
commercial intercourse, we should not be able to obtain the
smallest supply of tea, sugar, raw cotton, raw silk, gold bul¬
lion, and a thousand other equally useful and valuable com¬
modities. Providence, by giving different soils, climates,
and natural productions to different countries, has evidently
provided for their mutual intercourse and civilization. By
permitting the people of each to employ their capital and
labour in those departments in which their geographical si¬
tuation, the physical capacities of their soil, their national
character and habits, fit them to excel, foreign commerce
has a wonderful influence in multiplying the productions of
art and industry. When the freedom of commerce is not
restricted, each country necessarily devotes itself to such
employments as are most beneficial for itself. This pur¬
suit of individual advantage is admirably connected with
the good of the whole. By stimulating industry, by re¬
warding ingenuity, and by using most efficaciously the par¬
ticular powers bestowed by nature, commerce distributes
labour most effectively and economically; while, by in¬
creasing the mass of necessary and useful products, it dif¬
fuses opulence, and binds together the universal society of
nations by the common and powerful ties of mutual interest
and reciprocal obligation. Commerce enables each parti-
ECONOMY.
cular state to profit by the inventions and discoveries of Territorial
every other state. It creates new tastes and new appetites, Priori of
and it also gives the means and the desire of gratifying, a ou|\
them. The progress of domestic industry is accelerated
by the competition of foreigners. Commerce has either
entirely removed, or greatly weakened, a host of unworthy
prejudices. It has shown that nothing can be more illibe¬
ral and absurd than that once prevalent dread of the pro¬
gress of others in wealth and civilization ; and that the true
glory and real interest of each particular people will be
more certainly advanced by endeavouring to emulate and
outstrip its neighbours in the career of science and civiliza¬
tion, than by labouring to attain a barren pre-eminence in
the bloody and destructive, though necessary, art of war.
The influence of commerce in giving increased efficacy Effect of
to labour, and augmenting national wealth, may be easily ^ temto-
illustrated. Thus, in the case of the intercourse, or terri-^j^1^
torial division of labour, carried on between England andaUgment.
Portugal, our superior wool, and our command of coal, ing nation,
skilful workmen, improved machinery, and of all the in-al wealth,
struments of manufacturing industry, enable us to produce
cloth at a much cheaper rate than the Portuguese; but, on
the other hand, the soil and climate of Portugal being pe¬
culiarly favourable for the cultivation and growth of the
grape, she is able to produce wine at an infinitely less cost
than it can be produced here. And hence it is obvious,
that England, by confining herself to the manufacture of
cloth, in which she has a natural advantage, and exchanging
it with the Portuguese for wane, will obtain a vastly larger
supply of that commodity than if she attempted to cultivate
the grape at home ; and Portugal, by exchanging her wine
for the cloth of England, will obtain a much greater quan¬
tity of cloth than if she attempted to counteract the inten¬
tion of nature, by converting a portion of her capital and
industry from the raising of wine, in which she has an ad¬
vantage, to the manufacture of cloth, in which the advantage
is on the side of another.
What has been already stated is sufficient to expose the Sophism of
sophism of the French economists, who contended, that as**16 Fraich
an equivalent must be always given for commodities brought suj,.
from abroad, it is impossible foreign commerce should be aject0fcom*
means of increasing wealth. How, they asked, can the wealth merce.
of a country be increased by giving equal values for equal
values ? They admitted, that commerce might be the
means of making a better distribution of the wealth of the
world; but as it did nothing more than exchange one sort
of wealth for another, they denied that it could make any
addition to its amount. At first sight, this sophistical and
delusive statement appears sufficiently conclusive; but a very
few words will be sufficient to demonstrate its fallacy. The
advantage of commerce does not consist in its enabling
either of the parties who carry it on to obtain articles of
greater value than those they give in exchange. It may
have cost as much to produce the cloth with which the Eng¬
lish merchant purchases the wine of Portugal, as it did to
produce the latter, or it may have cost more. But then it
must be observed, that in making the exchange, the value
of the wine is estimated by what it takes to produce it in
Portugal, which has peculiar capabilities for that species of
industry, and not by what it would take to produce it in
England were the trade put an end to; and, in like man¬
ner, the value of the cloth is estimated by what it takes to
produce it in England, and not by what it would take to
produce it in Portugal. The advantage of the intercourse
consists in this, that it enables each country to obtain com¬
modities, for the production of which it has no natural ca¬
pability, and which it would, therefore, cost vastly more to
produce directly at home, at the price required to produce
them in the most favourable circumstances, and with the
least possible expense. The gain of the one party is not
the loss of the other. Both benefit by the intercourse ; for
fei
fir
Li
POLITICAL
j rritorial it enables both to save labour and expense in the produc-
rision of tjon 0f commodities, so that the wealth of the two countries
^aoour^ jg not onjy {jetter distributed, but is also greatly increased,
by the territorial division of labour established between
them.
To set this important principle in a clearer point of view,
let it be supposed that in England a given number of men
can, in a given time, manufacture 10,000 yards of cloth
and raise 1000 quarters of wheat, and that the same num¬
ber of men can, in a given time, manufacture in Poland
5000 yards of cloth and raise 2000 quarters of wheat. It
is plain, that the establishment of a free intercourse between
the two countries would, in these circumstances, enable
England, by manufacturing cloth and exporting it to Po¬
land, to obtain twice the quantity of corn in exchange for a
given outlay of capital and labour that she would obtain in
return for the same outlay on cultivation at home ; and Po¬
land would, on her part, be enabled to obtain tivice as much
cloth in exchange for her corn as she would have done had
she attempted directly to manufacture it. How ridiculous
then to contend, that commerce is not a means of adding
to the efficacy of labour, and, consequently, of increasing
wealth ! Were the intercourse between England and Por¬
tugal and the West Indies put an end to, it would require,
at the very least, a hundred, or perhaps a thousand times
the expense to produce port wine, sugar, and coffee, di¬
rectly in this country, that it does to produce the equiva¬
lents sent to Portugal and the West Indies in exchange for
them. And no outlay, however great, could directly sup¬
ply us with teas, spices, and fifty other most important ar¬
ticles.
“ The commerce of one country with another is merely
an extension of that division of labour by which so many
benefits are conferred on the human race. As the same
country is rendered richer by the trade of one province
with another; as its labour becomes thus infinitely more
divided and more productive than it could otherwise have
been ; and as the mutual interchange of all those commo¬
dities which one province has and another wants, multiplies
the accommodations and comforts of the whole, and the
country becomes thus in a wonderful degree more opulent
and happy ; so the same beautiful train of consequences is
observable in the world at large, that vast empire of which
the different kingdoms may be regarded as the provinces.
In this magnificent empire, one province is favourable to
the production of one species of produce, and another pro¬
vince to another. By their mutual intercourse, mankind
are enabled to distribute their labour as best fits the genius
of each particular country and people. The industry of
the whole is thus rendered incomparably more productive;
and every species of necessary, useful, and agreeable ac¬
commodation is obtained in much greater abundance, and
with infinitely less expense.” (Mill’s Commerce Defended,
p.38.)
To enter into a more enlarged discussion of this interest¬
ing and important subject, would be inconsistent alike with
the objects and limits of this article. In the articles on Co¬
lonies, and the Corn Trade and Corn Laws, we have
examined the policy of the restrictions on the colonial and
corn trades; and in the article Exchange we have pointed
out the circumstances which regulate the importation and
exportation of the precious metals; and have shown, that,
instead of the excess of exports over imports being any cri¬
terion of an advantageous commerce, it is quite the reverse,
and that it is by the excess of the value of the imports over
that of the exports that the gain of the merchants, and con¬
sequently of the community, is to be estimated. In the
fourth bopk of the Wealth of Nations, Dr Smith has exa¬
mined and refuted the various arguments in favour of re¬
strictions on commerce, in the most able and masterly man¬
ner, and with an amplitude of illustration which leaves no-
ECONOMY
279
thing to be desired. A very complete exposure of the so- Territorial
phisms of the French economists, on the subject of com- Division of
merce, may be found in the pamphlets of Mr Mill (Com- ^at3CUr-
merce Defended) and Colonel Torrens (Economists Refut- '-““v-"—'
ed), in answer to Mr Spence’s pamphlet entitled Britain In¬
dependent of Commerce. And ample information on most
points relating to the practice, theory, and history of com¬
merce, will be found in the Commercial Dictionary, by the
author of this article.
When the division of labour was first introduced, barter Money.
wras the only method of exchanging commodities. But ac¬
cording as society advanced, as the division of employments
was extended, and exchanges became more numerous, the
advantage of using one article as a common medium of ex¬
change,—as an equivalent for all other commodities, and as
a standard by which to ascertain their values,—soon became
obvious. But this is a subject of which wTe have elsewhere
treated at considerable length; and we beg to refer the
reader, for a full investigation of the nature and functions
of the common medium of exchange, to the articles Money,
and Paper Money and Banks, in this work.
Accumulation and Employment of Capital.—Ca-Accumuk-
pital may be defined to be “ that portion of the produce option and
labour saved from immediate consumption, which is employedem'P'My~t
to maintain productive labourers, or to facilitate production.'’
Its accumulation and employment is indispensably neces-
sary to the successful prosecution of almost every branch
of industry. Without that species of capital which chiefly
consists of tools and engines, and which has been denomi¬
nated fixed, labour could never be rendered considerably
productive; and without that species of capital which chief¬
ly consists of the food and clothes required for the consump¬
tion of the labourer during the time he is employed in pro¬
duction, and which has been denominated circulating, he
never could engage in any undertaking which did not yield
an almost immediate return. An agricultural labourer, for
example, might have an ample supply of carts and ploughs,
of oxen and horses, and generally of all the instruments and
animals used in his department of industry; but wrere he des¬
titute of circulating capital, or of food and clothes, he would
be unable to avail himself of their assistance, and, instead of
tilling the ground, would have to betake himself immediately
to some species of appropriative industry. And, on the other
hand, supposing the husbandman to be abundantly supplied
with provisions, what could he do without the assistance of
fixed capital, or tools ? What could the most skilful agri¬
culturist perform without his spade and his plough ? a weav¬
er without his loom ? or a house-carpenter without his saw,
his axe, and his planes ? The accumulation and employ¬
ment of fixed and circulating capital is indispensable to the
elevating of every nation in the scale of civilization. And
it is only by their conjoined and powerful operation that
wealth can be largely produced and universally diffused.
The division of labour is a consequence of the previous
accumulation of capital. Before labour can be divided,
“ A stock of goods of different kinds must be stored up
somewhere, sufficient to maintain the labourer, and to sup¬
ply him with the materials and tools of his work. A wea¬
ver cannot apply himself entirely to his peculiar business,
unless there is beforehand stored up somewhere, either in
his own possession or in that of some other person, a stock
sufficient to maintain him, and supply him with the mate¬
rials and tools of his work, till he has not only completed,
but sold his web. This accumulation must evidently be
previous to his applying his industry for so long a time to
such a peculiar business.” ( Wealth of Nations, p. 119.)
As the accumulation of stock must precede the division
of labour, so its subsequent division can only be extended
as capital is more and more accumulated. Accumulation
and division act and re-act on each other. The quantity
of raw materials which the same number of people can
POLITICAL ECONOMY
280
Employ- work up increases in a great proportion as labour comes to
ment of more and more subdivided; and according as the ope-
^ Capital. rations 0f each workman are reduced to a greater degree
V of identity and simplicity, he has, as already explained,^ a
greater chance of discovering machines and processes for
facilitating and abridging labour. I he quantity of indus¬
try, therefore, not only increases in every country with the
increase of the stock or capital which sets it in motion, but,
in consequence of this increase, the division of labour be¬
comes extended, new and more powerful implements and
machines are invented, and the same amount of labour is
made to produce a much greater quantity of commodities.
Besides its effect in enabling labour to be divided, capi¬
tal contributes to facilitate labour and produce wealth, in
the three following ways :
Modes in First.—It enables work to be executed that could not
which the be executed, or commodities to be produced that could not
employ- he produced, without it.
me?t 0*' Second.—It saves labour in the production of almost
HHtltesk-everY sPecies of commodities.
hour. Third.—It enables work to be executed better, as well
as more expeditiously.
Irf Itena- With regard to the first of those modes in which we are
hies us to benefited by the employment of capital, or to its enabling
produce commodities to be produced that could not be produced with-
coinuiodi- out ^ jt js p]a;n that the production of such commodities as
"oulcLnot reclu*rc a considerable period for their completion, could
beV-oduc-not attempted unless a stock of circulating capital, or of
ed without food and clothes sufficient for the maintenance of the la-
it. bourer while employed on them, were previously provided.
But the employment of fixed is frequently as necessary to
production as the employment of circulating capital. It
would be impossible to produce a pair of stockings without
the aid of wires; and though the ground might be culti¬
vated without the aid of a plough, it could not be culti¬
vated without the aid of a spade or hoe. If we run over
the vast catalogue of the various arts practised in a polished
and civilized country, it will be found that there are very
fqw that can be carried on by the mere employment of the
fingers, or tools with which man is furnished by nature. It
is almost always necessary to provide ourselves with the
results of previous industry, and to strengthen our feeble
hands, by arming them, if we may so speak, “ with the force
of all the elements.”
2<i, It saves In the second place, the employment of capital not only
labour in enables many species of commodities to be produced that
the pro- could not be produced without its co-operation, but it also
duction of ena10les labour to be saved in the production of many others,
and, by lowering their price, brings them within the reach
of a far greater number of consumers. We have been so
long accustomed to make use of the most powerful ma¬
chines, that it requires a considerable effort of abstrac¬
tion to render ourselves fully aware of the extent of the
advantages we derive from them. But if we compare
the arts practised alike by civilized man and the savage,
we cannot fail to be convinced, that it is to the employ¬
ment of fixed capital that we owe a very large portion of
our superior comforts and enjoyments. Consider the ad¬
vantages derived from the employment of the lower ani¬
mals, w hich, in an economical point of view, are to be re¬
garded only as machines! Consider the advantages de¬
rived from the formation of roads, bridges, harbours, and
canals—the effect they have had in facilitating the convey¬
ance of commodities, in distributing them most advantage¬
ously, and in reducing their price to the consumer ! Con¬
sider the advantages derived from the construction of ships,
and the improvement of navigation! But it is in vain to
attempt even to glance at the numberless benefits which
the employment of tools and machines has conferred on
society, by cheapening and multiplying necessaries, conve-
niencies, and luxuries. It is by their means that our fields
commo¬
dities.
are cultivated, our houses constructed, our clothes manu- Employ,
factored, our ships built, and the treasures of knowledge ment of
and of art conveyed from one hemisphere to another ! If Capital,
we consult the history of the human race—if we trace their
slow and gradual advancement from barbarism to refine¬
ment we shall be convinced that their progress from their
lowest and most abject, to their highest and most polished,
state, has been always accompanied, and chiefly promoted,
by the accumulation of fresh capital, and the invention and
improvement of tools and engines.
The third advantage derived from the employment of ;W jten_
capital consists in the circumstance of its enabling work to aj,ies u310
be done better, as well as more expeditiously, than it could execute
be done without it. Cotton, for example, might be spun work bet-
by the hand; but the admirable machinery invented by ^er’ as weli
Hargreaves, Arkwright, and others, has not only enabled expeJti.
a hundred or a thousand times more yarn to be produced 0u-.lv.
than could be spun by means of a common spindle, but it
has also improved its quality, and given to it a degree of
fineness, and of evenness, or equality, in its parts, which
was never previously attained. It would require a painter
months, or it might be years, to paint with a brush the cot¬
tons or printed cloths used in the hanging of a single room;
and it would be very difficult, if not impossible, for the best
artist to give the same perfect identity to his figures that is
given to them by the admirable machinery now used for
that purpose. Not to mention the other and more import¬
ant advantages derived from the invention of moveable
types and printing, it is certain that the most perfect ma¬
nuscript—one on which years of patient and irksome labour
have been expended—is unable, in point of delicacy and
correctness, to match a well-printed work, executed in the
hundredth part of the time, and at a hundredth part of the
expense, required to copy the manuscript. The great fo¬
reign demand for English manufactured goods results no
less from the superiority of the manufacture, than from
their greater cheapness; and for both these advantages
we are principally indebted to the excellence of our ma¬
chinery.
There are other considerations which equally illustrate The power
the extreme importance of the accumulation and employ-to employ
ment of capital. The produce of the labour of a nation lobom- de-
cannot be increased otherwise than by an increase in theP™^1™^
number of its labourers, or of their productive powers. But ot- capital
without an increase of capital, it is in most cases impossi¬
ble to employ another workman with advantage. If capi¬
tal be not augmented, and if the food and clothes destined
for the support of the labourers, and the tools and machines
with which they are to operate, be all required for the
maintenance and efficient employment of the labourers in
existence at any given period, there can be no additional
demand for them. In such circumstances the rate of wages
cannot rise ; and if the number of inhabitants be increased,
they must be worse provided for. Neither can the produc¬
tive powers of the labourer be augmented, without a pre¬
vious increase of capital. It is only by the better educa¬
tion and training of workmen, by the greater subdivision of
their employments, or by an improvement of machinery,
that their productive powers can ever be materially in¬
creased. But in almost all these cases additional capital is
required. It is only by its means that workmen can be better
trained, or that the undertaker of any work can either pro¬
vide his workmen with better machinery, or make a more
proper distribution of employment among them. When the
work to be done consists of a number of parts, to keep every
man constantly employed in a particular part requires a
much larger stock than where every man is occasionally
employed in different parts of the w ork. “ When,” says Dr
Smith, “ we compare the state of a nation at two different
periods, and find that the annual produce of its land and
labour is evidently greater at the latter than at the former,—
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
Employ¬
ment of
Capital.
281
that its lands are better cultivated, its manufactures more But however high the rate of profit, had men always Accumula-
numerous and more flourishing, and its trade more exten- lived up to their incomes, that is, had they always con-tion of Ca-
sive,—we may be assured that its capital must have increased sumed the whole produce of their industry in the gratifica- pitaL
during the interval between these two periods, and that tion of their immediate wants and desires, it is obvious p—>  
more must have been added to it by the good conduct of there could have been no such thing as capital in the world. neJeSy7
some, than had been taken from it, either by the private High profits are advantageous, because they afford the to accumu-
misconduct of others, or by the public extravagance of go- means of amassing capital; but something more is neces-lation-
vernment.” {Wealth of Nations, p. 152.) It is therefore sary to make us use these means, and this is the accumu-
apparent that no country can ever reach the stationary lating principle. The desire implanted in the breast of
state, so long as she continues to add to her capital. So every individual of rising in the world, and improving his
long as she does this, she will have an increasing demand condition, has prompted mankind to save a portion of their
for labour, and will be constantly augmenting the mass of income, or of the produce of their industry, from imme-
necessaries, luxuries, and convenieneies, and consequently diate consumption, and to set it apart as a fund, or capital,
\raiTnula-
ion of ca-
iltal.
Advantage
if high
irotits,
also the numbers of her people. But with every diminu¬
tion of the previous rate at which capital had been accu¬
mulating, the demand for labour will decline. When no
additions are made to capital, no more labour will be, or,
indeed, can be employed. And should the national capital
be diminished, the condition of the great body of the people
would be greatly deteriorated—for the wages of labour
would be reduced, and pauperism, with its attendant train
of vice, misery, and crime, would spread its ravages through¬
out the largest portion of society.
Having thus endeavoured to point out the vast import¬
ance of the employment of capital, and the manner in which
it co-operates in facilitating production, we proceed to ex¬
plain the circumstances most favourable for its accumula¬
tion. Now, as capital is nothing but the accumulated pro¬
duce of previous industry, it is evident that its increase will
be most likely to be most rapid where industry is most pro¬
ductive, or, in other words, where the profits of stock are
highest.1 * * * The man who can produce a bushel of wheat in
three days, may accumulate twice as fast as the man who,
either from a deficiency of skill, or from having to cultivate
a bad soil, is forced to labour six days to produce the same
quantity; and the capitalist who can invest stock so as to
yield him a profit of ten per cent., has it equally in his
power to accumulate twice as fast as he who can only obtain
five per cent, for his capital. Experience, too, shows, that
while high profits afford greater means of saving, they act
as incentives to accumulation. Hence it is found that, in
those countries most rapidly increasing in wealth and popu¬
lation, the rate of profit is always comparatively high. Thus
in the United States the rate of profit is usually twice as
high as in Great Britain or France; and it is to this that
the more rapid advancement of the former in wealth and
population is entirely to be ascribed. We do not mean to
say that high profits are necessarily and in every instance
accompanied by a great degree of prosperity. Countries
with every other advantage for the profitable employment
of industry and stock, may be subjected to a despotical
government, which does not respect the right of property ;
and the want of adequate security thence resulting may be
sufficient to paralyse all the exertions of those who are
otherwise placed in the most favourable situation for the
accumulation of capital. But we have no hesitation in lay¬
ing it down as a principle which holds in every case, and
from which there is really no exception, that, if the govern¬
ments of any two or more countries be about equally libe¬
ral, and property in each about equally well secured, their
comparative prosperity will depend on the rate of profit.
Wherever profits are high, there is a great demand for la¬
bour, and the society rapidly augments both in population
and riches. On the other hand, wherever they are low,
the demand for labour is proportionally reduced, and the
progress of society rendered so much the slower.
to assist them in their future undertakings. It is to this
principle, therefore, or rather to its effect, parsimony, that
we owe capital; and it is to capital that we owe almost all
our comforts and enjoyments. Without its assistance and
co-operation, labour could not have been divided; arts
could not have made any progress; and mankind must
have continued to shelter themselves, as in the earliest ages,
in caves and forests, and to clothe themselves with the
skins of wild animals. All the accumulated riches of the
world,—the cities which cover its surface, the ships which
traverse its seas, and the innumerable variety of improve¬
ments,—owe their origin to this principle,—to the desire to
rise in the world, and consequently to save and amass.
It has been wisely ordered, that this principle should
be as powerful as it is advantageous. “ With regard to
profusion,” says Smith, “ the principle which prompts to
expense is the passion for present enjoyment; which,
though sometimes violent, and very difficult to be restrain¬
ed, is in general only momentary and occasional. But the
principle which prompts to save is the desire of bettering
our condition ; a desire which, though generally calm and
dispassionate, comes with us from the womb, and never
leaves us till we go into the grave. In the whole interval
which separates these two moments, there is scarce perhaps
a single instance in which any man is so perfectly and com¬
pletely satisfied with his situation as to be without any wish
of alteration, or improvement of any kind. An augmenta¬
tion of fortune is the means by which the greater part of
men propose and wish to better their condition. It is the
means the most vulgar and the most obvious; and the
most likely way of augmenting their fortune is to save and
accumulate some part of what they acquire, either regular¬
ly and annually, or upon some extraordinary occasion.
Though the principle of expense, therefore, prevails in al¬
most all men upon some occasions, and in some men upon
almost all occasions, yet in the greater part of men, taking
the whole course of their life at an average, the principle
of frugality seems not only to predominate, but to predo¬
minate very greatly.” ( Wealth of Nations, p. 151.)
It is this principle which carries society forward. The
spirit of parsimony, and the efforts which the frugal and
industrious classes make to improve their condition, in most
instances balance not only the profusion of individuals, but
also the more wasteful profusion and extravagance of go¬
vernment. The spirit of economy has been happily com¬
pared by Smith to the unknown principle of animal life—
the vis medicatrix natures—which frequently restores health
and vigour to the constitution, in spite both of disease and
of the absurd prescriptions of the physician.
But, however great the capacity of the principle of ac¬
cumulation to repair the waste of capital, we must take care
not to fall into the error of supposing, as very many have
done, that its operations are in all cases promoted by a
1 To avoid all chance of misconception, it is necessary to observe, that this refers to nett profit, or to the sum which remains to the ca-
pitalist after all his outgoings are compensated, including therein a sum sufficient to insure his capital against risk, and to make up or
whatever may be peculiarly disagreeable in bis business.
VOL. XVIII. ^ N
POLITICAL
Accumula-large public expenditure. To a certain extent, indeed,
tion of Ca- ^js true. A moderate increase of taxation has the same
^ pi tel. effect on the habits and industry of a nation, that an in-
_u_" crease of his family, or of his necessary and unavoidable
expenses, has upon a private individual. Man is not in¬
fluenced solely by hope; he is also powerfully operated
upon by fear. Taxation brings the latter principle into
the field. To the desire of rising in the world, inherent in
the breast of every individual, an increase of taxation su¬
peradds the fear of being cast down to a lower station, of
being deprived of conveniencies and gratifications which
habit has rendered almost indispensable ; and the combined
influence of the two principles produces efforts that could
not be produced by the unassisted agency of either. They
stimulate individuals to endeavour, by increased, efforts of
industry and economy, to repair the breach taxation has
made in their fortunes; and it not unfrequently happens
that their efforts do more than this, and that consequently
the national wealth is increased through the increase of
taxation. But we must be on our guard against the abuse
of this doctrine. To render an increase of taxation a cause
of greater exertion, economy, and invention, its increase
should be slow and gradual; and it should never be car¬
ried to such a height as to incapacitate individuals from
meeting the sacrifices it imposes on them, by such a mo¬
derate degree of increased exertion and economy as it may
be in their power to make, without requiring any very
violent change in their habits. The increase of taxation
must not be such as to render it impracticable to overcome
its influence, or to induce the belief that it is impracti¬
cable. Difficulties that are seen to be surmountable shar¬
pen the inventive powers, and are readily grappled with ;
but an apparently insurmountable difficulty, or such an ex¬
cessive weight of taxation as it was deemed impossible to
meet, would not stimulate, but destroy exertion. Instead
of producing new efforts of ingenuity and economy, it
would produce only despair. Whenever taxation becomes
so heavy that the produce it takes from individuals can no
longer be replaced by fresh efforts, these efforts uniformly
cease to be made; the population becomes dispirited, in¬
dustry is paralysed, and the country rapidly declines.
Ambition to rise is the animating principle of society.
Instead of remaining satisfied with the condition of their
fathers, the great object of mankind in every age has been
to rise above it, to elevate themselves in the scale of wealth.
To continue stationary, or to retrograde, is not natural to
society. Man from youth grows to manhood, then decays
and dies ; but such is not the destiny of nations. The arts,
sciences, and capital of one generation become the patri¬
mony of that which succeeds them, and in their hands are
augmented and rendered more efficient; so that, if not
counteracted by the want of security, or by other adventi¬
tious causes, the principle of improvement would always
operate, and would secure the constant advancement of na¬
tions in wealth and population.
To this same principle we owe the discovery and im¬
provement of machinery. In every period, men endea¬
vour to increase their productive powers, and improve
their condition, by availing themselves of natural agents,
and making them assist in performing tasks which must
otherwise be performed by the hand only. The savage
employs a club and a sling to facilitate the acquisition of
game; and the same principle which prompted him to con¬
struct and use these rude instruments, never ceases to ope¬
rate. It is always producing some new improvement, and,
in an advanced and refined period, substitutes ships for
canoes, muskets for slings, steam-engines for clubs, and
cotton-mills for distaffs. “ The hand of man,” says Colonel
Poiiens, ‘ is not armed with any efficient natural instru¬
ment, such as the beak of the bird, or the claw of the quad¬
ruped, for operating directly upon the materials presented
ECONOMY.
to him ; but it is admirably adapted for receiving and ap- Accumula.
plying artificial implements, and for employing the powersti0n of Ca-
of one substance to produce the desired changes in an- ^ P1
other. Hence almost all the grand results in manufac¬
turing industry are brought about by means of capital.
Throughout the world there are no very striking inequali¬
ties in the muscular force by which direct labour is per¬
formed ; and it is mainly owing to the differences in the
quantity of capital, and in the skill with which it is applied,
that in one country man is found naked and destitute, and
that in another all the rude productions of the earth, and
all the forces of nature, are made to contribute to his com¬
fort, and to augment his power.” {On the Production of
Wealth, p. 89.)
Sect. Ill Different Employments of Capital and Indus¬
try.—Manufactures and Commerce shown to be equally
advantageous as Agriculture—Rate of Profit true Test of
Individual and Public Advantage.
In the previous section, we endeavoured to show that the Different
increase and diminution of capital is the pivot on which employ-
national prosperity principally hinges ; that an increase of™^0^
capital proportionally increases the means of supporting and
employing labour, and that its diminution can hardly fail to
lessen the comforts and enjoyments, and perhaps also the
necessaries, of the productive classes, and to spread poverty
and misery throughout the land; and we also endeavoured
to show that the rise and decline of the rate of profit is the
great cause of the increase and diminution of capital. But
if such be the case, it seems impossible not to conclude,
that such employments as yield the greatest profit, or in
which industry is most productive, are the most advan¬
tageous. Dr Smith, however, with Mr Malthus and others,
have objected to this standard. They allow that if two
capitals yield equal profits, the employments in which they
are engaged are equally beneficial to their possessors; but
they contend, that if one of these capitals be employed in
agriculture, it will be productive of greater public advantage.
We believe, however, notwithstanding the deference due
to the authorities referred to, that this opinion rests on no
good foundation ; and that the average rate of profit is the
test by which we should always judge which employment
is most and which is least advantageous.
A capital may be employed in four different ways, viz.
first, in the production of raw products; or, secondly, in
manufacturing and preparing these raw products for use
and consumption; or, thirdly, in transporting the raw and
manufactured products from one place to another, according
to the demand; or, fourthly, in dividing particular portions
of either into such smaller parcels as may suit the conve¬
nience of those who want them. The capital of all those
who undertake the improvement or cultivation of lands,
mines, or fisheries, is employed in the first of these ways;
that of all master manufacturers in the second; that of all
wholesale merchants in the third ; and that of all retailers
in the fourth. It is difficult to conceive that a capital should
be employed in any way which may not be classed under
some one or other of these heads.
It is unnecessary to enlarge on the importance of employ- Employ¬
ing capital in the acquisition of raw produce, and especially ment or w-
in the cultivation of the soil. It is from the latter, includ-
ing therein mines and fisheries, that the matter of all com¬
modities that minister to our necessities, comforts, or en¬
joyments, must be originally derived. The industry which
appropriates the raw or spontaneous products of the earth
preceded every other. But these are always extremely li¬
mited. And it is by agriculture only, that is, by the united
application of immediate labour and of capital to the culti¬
vation of the ground, that large supplies of those species of
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
Different raw produce which form the principal part of the food of
merits of can ^ not quite certain whether any
Anita!'and0* t*ie Pr'nc|Pa* bread corns, as wheat, barley, rye, oats, &c.
industry, have been discovered growing spontaneously. But although
this must originally have been the case, their extreme
scarcity, and the labour required to raise them in consider¬
able quantities, prove beyond all question that it is to agri¬
culture we are almost exclusively indebted for them. The
transition from the pastoral to the agricultural mode of life
is decidedly the most important step in the progress of
society. Whenever, indeed, we compare the quantity of
food, and of other raw products, obtained from a given sur¬
face of a well-cultivated country, with those obtained from
the same extent of an equally fertile country, occupied by
hunters or shepherds, the powers of agricultural industry in
increasing useful productions appear so extraordinary, that
we cease to feel surprise at the preference which has been
so early and generally given to agriculture over manufac¬
tures and commerce ; and are disposed to subscribe without
hesitation to the panegyric of Cicero when he says, “ Om¬
nium autem rerum ex quibus aliquid acquiritur, nihil est
agricultura melius, nihil uberius, nihil duleius, nihil homine
libero dignius?
Stofca. But are there any really just grounds for this preference ?
ital in ma. ^re not manufactures and commerce as advantageous as
ufacturing1 agriculture ? It is plain that without agriculture we should
idustry. never possess any considerable supply of the materials out
of which food and clothes are made; but is it not equally
plain, that without a knowledge of the arts by which they
are converted into food and clothes, the largest supply of
these materials could be of little or no service ? The la¬
bour of the miller and baker is as necessary to the produc¬
tion of bread, as that of the husbandman who tills the ground.
It is the business of the agriculturist to raise flax and wool;
but if the industry of the spinner and weaver did not give
them utility, and fit them for being made a comfortable dress,
they would be nearly, if not entirely, worthless. Without
the labour of the miner who digs the mineral from the
bowels of the earth, we should be destitute of the matter of
which many of our most useful implements and splendid
articles of furniture are made ; but if we compare the ore
when dug from the mine with the finished articles, we shall
certainly be convinced that the labour of the purifiers and
refiners of the ore, and of the artists who afterwards con¬
verted it to useful purposes, has been quite as advantageous
as the industry of the miner.
But not only is it certain that manufacturing industry,
or that species of industry which fits and adapts the raw pro-
idustry to 0111:6 nature to our use, is requisite to render its acquisi-
Ueim- tion of any considerable value ; but it is also certain, that
rovement without manufacturing industry this very raw produce could
ire’riCU" never have been obtained in any considerable quantity.
The mechanic who fabricates the plough contributes as effi¬
caciously to the production of corn as the husbandman who
guides it. But plough-wrights, mill-wrights, smiths, and all
those artisans who prepare tools and machines for the hus¬
bandman, are really manufacturers, and differ in no respect
from those employed to give utility to wool and cotton, ex¬
cept that they work on harder materials. Tools and ma¬
chines are the produce of the industry of the tool and en¬
gine manufacturer ; and without their aid it is impossible
that agricultural, or any other sort of labour, should ever
become considerably productive.
“ Distinguer,” says the Marquis Gamier, “ le travail des
ouvriers de 1’agriculture d’avec celui des autres ouvriers, est
une abstraction presque toujours oiseuse. Toute richesse,
dans le sens dans lequel nous la concevons, est necessaire-
ment le resultat de ces deux genres de travail, et la con-
^ecessity
| f manu-
| icturing
£83
sommation ne peut pas plus se passer de fun quede fautre. Different
Sans leur concours simultane il ne peut y avoir de chose Employ-
consommable, et par consequent point de richesse. Com- ™e.nts of
me.nt pourrait-on done comparer leurs produits respectifs,
puisque, en separant des deux especes de travail, on ne peut
plus concevoir de veritable produit, de produit consommable
et ayant une valeur reele ? La valeur du ble sur pied re-
sulte de findustrie du moissonneur qui recueillera, du bat-
teur qui le separera de la paille, du meunier et du boulanger
qui le convertiront successivement en farine et en pain, tout
comme elle resulte du travail du laboureur et du semeur.
Sa.ns le travail du tisserand le lin n’aurait pas plus le droit
d’etre compte au nombre des richesses que fortie, ou tout
autre vegetal inutile. A quoi pourrait-il done servir de
rechercher lequel de ces deux genres de travail contribue
le plus a favancement de la richesse nationale ? N’est-ce
pas comme si fon disputait pour savoir lequel, du pied
droit ou du pied gauche, est plus utile dans faction de
marcher ?”i
In fact, there is not at bottom any real distinction be- No real
tween agricultural and manufacturing industry. It is, as difference
already seen, a vulgar error to suppose that the operations bet.ween
of husbandry add anything to the stock of matter already and manu-
in existence. All that man can do, and all that he ever facturing
does, is merely to give to matter that particular form or industry,
shape which fits it for his use. But it wras contended by
Quesnay and the French economists, and their opinions have
in this instance been espoused by Smith, that the labour of
the husbandman in adapting matter to our use is powerfully
facilitated by the vegetative powers of nature, w hile the la¬
bour of the manufacturer has to perform everything itself
without any such co-operation. “ No equal quantity of pro- Opinion of
ductive labour, employed in manufactures,” says Dr Smith, Dr Smith
“ can ever occasion so great a reproduction (as if it were respecting
emploved in agriculture). In them nature does nothing,tlie supe"
man does all; and the reproduction must always be in proper- ductiveness
tion to the strength of the agents that occasion it. The ca- of agricul-
pital employed in agriculture, therefore, not only puts into ture.
motion a greater quantity of productive labour than any
equal capital employed in manufactures, but, in proportion,
too, to the quantity of productive labour which it employs,
it adds a much greater value to the annual produce of the
land and labour of the country, to the real wealth and re¬
venue of its inhabitants. Of all the ways in which a ca¬
pital can be employed, it is by far the most advantageous
to the society.” ( Wealth of Nations, p. 162.)
This is perhaps the most objectionable passage in the Error of
Wealth of Nations; and it is really astonishing that so this opi-
acute and sagacious a reasoner as Smith should have main- ^on.
tained a doctrine so manifestly erroneous. It is unques¬
tionably true, that nature powerfully assists the labour of
man in agriculture. The husbandman prepares the ground
for the seed, and deposits it there; but it is nature that
unfolds the germ, that feeds and ripens the growing plant,
and brings it to maturity. But does not nature do as much Nature co-
for man in every other department of industry ? The powders operates
of water and of wind, which move our machinery, support .with man
our ships, and impel them over the deep,—the pressure of
the atmosphere, and the elasticity of steam, which enable cominerCe.
us to work the most stupendous engines,—are they not
spontaneous gifts of nature ? In fact, the advantage of
machinery consists exclusively in its having enabled us to
press the powers of nature into our service, and to make
them perform the principal part of what would otherwise
have been wholly the work of man. In navigation, for ex¬
ample, is it possible to doubt, that the powers of nature,—
the buoyancy of the water, the impulse of the wind, and
the polarity of the magnet,—contribute fully as much as
1 Discours Preliminaire, p. 58, 2d ed. of trans. of the Wealth of Nations.
284 POLITICAL
Different the labour of the sailor to waft our ships from one hemi-
Employ- sphere to another. In bleaching and fermentation the
ments of whole processes are carried on by natural agents. And it
* Lidif'tn/1 is to the influence of heat in softening and melting metals,
^ > preparing food, and warming houses, that we owe many of
our most powerful and convenient instruments, and that
these northern climates have been made to afford a com¬
fortable habitation. So far, indeed, is it from being true
that nature does much for man in agriculture, and nothing
in manufactures, that the fact is more nearly the reverse.
There are no limits to the bounty of nature in manufac¬
tures, but there are limits, and those not very remote, to
her bounty in agriculture. The greatest possible amount
of capital may be expended in the construction of steam-
engines, or of any other sort of machines, and after they
have been multiplied to infinity, the last will be as power¬
ful and efficient in saving labour and producing commodi¬
ties as the first. Such, however, is not the case with the
soil. Lands of the first quality are speedily exhausted;
and it is impossible to apply capital indefinitely, even to the
best soils, without obtaining a progressively diminishing
rate of profit. The rent of the landlord is not, as Smith
supposed, the recompense of the work of nature remaining,
after all that part of the product is deducted which can be
regarded as the recompense of the work of man. But it
is, as will be hereafter shown, the excess of produce ob¬
tained from the best soils in cultivation, over that which is
obtained from the worst; it is a consequence, not of the in¬
crease, but of the diminution of the productive power of the
labour employed in agriculture.
Employ- But if the giving utility to matter be, as it really is, the
meat of ca- exclusive object of every species of productive industry, it
Commercial *S I^a'n ^ie caphal and labour employed in carrying
industry013 commodities from where they are produced to where they
are to be consumed, and in dividing them into minute por¬
tions, so as to suit the wants of the consumers, are really
as productive as if they were employed in either agricul¬
ture or manufactures. The miner gives utility to matter,
to coal, for example, by bringing it from the bowels of the
earth to its surface; but the merchant, or carrier, who
transports this coal from the mine whence it has been
dug, to the city or place where it is to be burned, gives
it a further and perhaps a more considerable value. We
do not owe our fires exclusively to the miner or coal-mer¬
chant. They are the result of the conjoint operations of
both, and also of the operations of all those who have fur¬
nished them with the tools and implements used in their
respective employments.
Advantage Not only, however, must commodities be brought from
ot retail where they are produced to where they are to be con-
dealers. Sumed, but it is further necessary that they should be di¬
vided into such small and convenient portions, that each
individual may be able to purchase the precise quantity he
is desirous to obtain. “ If,” says Dr Smith, “ there was
no such trade as a butcher, every man would be obliged to
purchase a whole ox or a whole sheep at a time. This
would generally be inconvenient to the rich, and much
more so to the poor. If a poor workman was obliged to
purchase a months’ or six months’ pi'ovisions at a time, a
great part of the stock which he employs as a capital in the
instruments of his trade, or in the furniture of his shop,
and which yields him a revenue, he would be forced to
place in that part of his stock which is reserved for imme¬
diate consumption, and which yields him no revenue. No¬
thing can be more convenient for such a person than to be
able to purchase his subsistence from day to day, or even
from hour to hour, as he wants it. He is thereby enabled
to employ almost his whole stock as a capital. He is thus
enabled to furnish work to a greater value, and the profit
which he makes by it in this way much more than com¬
pensates the additional price which the labour of the re-
ECONOMY.
tailer imposed upon the goods. The prejudices of some Differed
political writers against shopkeepers and tradesmen are al- ^pioy.
together without foundation. So far is it from being ne_ Capital anil
cessary either to tax them or to restrict their numbers, that industry. I
they can never be multiplied so as to hurt the public in- v —— yj
terests, though they may so as to hurt one another. The
quantity of grocery goods, for example, which can be sold
in a particular town, is limited by the demand of that town
and its neighbourhood. The capital, therefore, which can
be employed in the grocery trade, cannot exceed what is
sufficient to purchase that quantity. If this capital is di¬
vided between two different grocers, their competition will
obviously tend to make both of them sell cheaper than if
it were in the hands of one only; and if it were divided
among twenty, their competition would be just so much
the greater, and the chance of their combining together in
order to raise the price just so much the less. Their com¬
petition might perhaps ruin some of themselves; but to
take care of this is the business of the parties concerned,
and it may safely be trusted to their discretion. It can
never hurt either the consumer or the producer ; on the
contrary, it must tend to make the retailers both sell
cheaper and buy dearer than if the whole trade was mono¬
polized by one or two persons. Some of them, perhaps,
may occasionally decoy a weak customer to buy what he has
no occasion for. This evil is, however, of too little impor¬
tance to deserve the public attention, nor would it neces¬
sarily be prevented by restricting their numbers.” ( Wealth
of Nations, p. 160.)
Thus it appears that all the modes in which capital can Agricul.
be employed in productive industry, or, in other words, ture, manu*
that the raising of raw produce, the fashioning of this raw factures,
produce, after it is raised, into useful and agreeable articles,
the carrying of the raw and manufactured products from eqUaiiy &!.
one place to another, and retailing them in such portions yantageous.
as may suit the public demand, are equally advantageous ;
that is, the capital and labour employed in any one of
these departments contributes, equally with that employed
in the others, to increase the mass of necessaries, conve-
niencies, and luxuries. Without a previous supply of raw
produce, we should have no manufactures; and without
these and commercial industry, the greater part of this raw
produce would be entirely w orthless, and would neither sa¬
tisfy our wants nor contribute to our comforts. Manufac¬
turers and merchants are to the body politic what the di¬
gestive powers are to the human body. We could not
exist without food ; but the largest supplies of food cannot
lengthen our days when the machinery by which nature
prepares and adapts it for our use, and incorporates it with
our body, is vitiated and deranged. Nothing therefore can
be more silly and childish than the estimates so frequently
put forth of the comparative advantages of agricultural,
manufacturing, and commercial industry. They are all
intimately connected, and depend upon, and grow out of,
each other. “ Land and trade,” to borrow the just and
forcible expressions of Sir Josiah Child, “ are tw ins, and
have always, and ever will, wax and wane together. It
cannot be ill with trade but lands will fall, nor ill with
lands but trade will feel it.” This reasoning cannot be
controverted; and on its authority we are entitled to con¬
demn every attempt to exalt one species of industry, by
giving it factitious advantages at the expense of the rest,
as being alike impolitic and pernicious. No preference
can be given to agriculturists over manufacturers and mer¬
chants, or to the latter over the former, without occasion¬
ing the most extensively ruinous consequences. Men, in
every instance, should be allowed to follow their own in¬
clinations in the employment of their stock and industry.
Where industry is free, the interests of individuals can
never be opposed to those of the public. Those who suc¬
ceed best in increasing their own wealth, must necessarily
POLITICAL
liferent also succeed best in increasing the wealth of the state of
Employ- which they are subjects.1
iptedand mutual dependence of the different branches of in¬
dustry- dustry on each other, and the necessity of their co-opera-
—y-w tion to enable mankind to make any considerable progress
in civilization, have been ably illustrated in an early num¬
ber of the Edinburgh Review. “ It may safely be con¬
cluded, that all those occupations which tend to supply the
necessary wants or to multiply the comforts and pleasures
of human life, are equally productive, in the strict sense of
the word, and tend to augment the mass of human riches,
meaning, by riches, all those things which are necessary,
or convenient, or delightful to man. The progress of so¬
ciety has been productive of a complete separation of em¬
ployments originally united. At first, every man provided,
as well as he could, for his necessities as well as his plea¬
sures, and for all his wants as well as all his enjoyments.
By degrees a division of these cares was introduced; the
subsistence of the community became the province of one
class, its comforts of another, and its gratifications of a
third. The different operations subservient to the attain¬
ment of each of these objects w^ere then intrusted to dif¬
ferent hands; and the universal establishment of barter
connected the whole of these divisions and subdivisions to¬
gether—enabled one man to manufacture for all, without
danger of starving by not ploughing or hunting, and ano¬
ther to plough or hunt for all, without the risk of wanting
tools or clothes by not manufacturing. It has thus become
as impossible to say exactly who feeds, clothes, or enter¬
tains the community, as it would be to say which of the
many workmen employed in the manufacture of pins is the
actual pin-maker, or which of the farm-servants produces
the crop. All the branches of useful industry work toge¬
ther to the common end, as all the parts of each branch co¬
operate to its particular object. If you say that the farmer
feeds the community, and produces all the raw materials
which the other classes work upon, we answer, that unless
those other classes w orked up the raw materials, and sup¬
plied the farmer’s necessities, he would be forced to allot
part of his labour to this employment, whilst he forced
others to assist in raising raw produce. In such a compli¬
cated system, it is clear that all labour has the same effect,
and equally increases the whole mass of wealth. Nor can
any attempt be more vain than theirs who would define the
particular parts of the machine that produce the motion,
which is necessarily the result of the whole powers combin¬
ed, and depends on each particular one of the mutually con¬
nected members.” (Vol. iv. p. 362.)
Much has been said respecting the extraordinary morta¬
lity of large manufacturing establishments. The ready com¬
munication of contagion where people are crowded toge¬
ther,—the want of sufficient ventilation,—the confinement
of children,—and the positive unhealthiness of some par¬
ticular processes,—are circumstances from which most wri¬
ters have been led to infer that the mortality in manufac¬
turing cities mast be unusually great, without giving them¬
selves the trouble to inquire whether it really was so. The
returns under the population acts have shown the fallacy of
these opinions. Great Britain wras infinitely more of a ma¬
nufacturing country in 1820 and 1830 than in 1780 ; but,
notwithstanding the vast increase during the intermediate
period of what we have been in the habit of considering
unhealthy employments, the average mortality in England
and Wales during the five years ending with 1820, wras one
in every fifty-five, and during the five years ending with
1830 it was one in every fifty-one, of the existing popula¬
tion, whereas in 1780 it was one in every forty. It may per¬
haps be said, that this increased healthiness is owing to
ECONOMY. 285
improvements in agriculture,—to the drainage of bogs and Different
marshes, the inclosure and cultivation of commons and Employ-
wastes,—and not to the extension of manufactures. But of,
suppose this were admitted, still we should have to inquire
what had occasioned these extraordinary improvements in v — v —. ^
agriculture. And a moment’s reflection would suffice toManufac-
convince us that they have principally resulted from theturesnot
improvement of manufactures,—from the increased demand 170^uc^e
of the manufacturing population for the raw produce of^1^^'
the soil. In point of fact, however, it is certain, that muchiity.
of this diminution of mortality is a direct, and not an indi¬
rect, consequence of the improvement and extension of ma¬
nufactures. Every one knows the vast importance in re¬
spect of health, of the people having the means of providing
themselves with comfortable clothes at a cheap rate. And
this is one of the many advantages which improvements
in manufacturing industry bring along with them. The
reduction in the price of cotton goods only, occasioned by
the greater facility with which they are now produced, has
enabled the poorest classes to clothe themselves in a com¬
fortable and elegant dress ; and has been productive of an
increase of enjoyment, of which it is extremely difficult for
us, who have so long experienced its beneficial effects, to
estimate the extent.
The effect of the extreme subdivision of labour in ma- Division of
nufacturing establishments, and the exclusive attention it labour does
requires the workman to bestow on one operation, has been notc*e£ra^e
supposed to exert a most pernicious influence over his men-^e ^al',our"
tal faculties. The genius of the master is said to be culti¬
vated, but that of the workman to be condemned to per¬
petual neglect. Most mechanical arts, we are told, succeed
best under a total suppression of sentiment and reason. A
habit of moving the hand or the foot is said to be indepen¬
dent of either ; and the workshop has been compared to an
engine, the parts of which are men ! (Ferguson on Civil
Society, p. 303.) Smith, who has given so admirable an
exposition of the benefits resulting from the division of la¬
bour, has notwithstanding concurred with the popular pre¬
judices on this subject; and has gone so far as to affirm
that constant application to a particular occupation in a
large manufactory, “ necessarily renders the workman as
stupid and ignorant as it is possible to make a human being.”
Nothing can be more marvellously incorrect than these re¬
presentations. Instead of its being true that the workmen
employed in manufacturing establishments are less intelli¬
gent and acute than those employed in agriculture, the fact
is distinctly and completely the reverse. The weavers and
other mechanics of Glasgow, Manchester, and Birmingham,
possess infinitely more general and extensive information
than is possessed by the agricultural labourers of any coun¬
ty of the empire. And this is really what a more unpre¬
judiced inquiry into the subject would have led to antici¬
pate. The variety of occupations in which the husband¬
man has successively to engage, their constant liability
to be affected by so variable a power as the weather, and
the perpetual change in the appearance of the objects which
meet his eyes, and with which he is conversant, occupy
his attention, and render him a stranger to that ennui and
desire for extrinsic and adventitious excitement which must
ever be felt by those who are constantly engaged in bur¬
nishing the point of a pin, and in performing the same
endless routine of precisely similar operations. This want
of excitement cannot, however, be so cheaply or effectual¬
ly gratified in any other way as it may be by cultivating,
that is, by stimulating, the mental powers. The generality
of workmen have no time for dissipation ; and if they had,
the wages of labour in all old-settled and densely-peopled
countries are too 1owt, and the propensity to save and ac-
1 For an examination of Smith’s opinion with respect to the advantages of different species^of commerce, see Ricardo’s Principles of
Political Economy and Taxation, 1st ed. p. 497; and the Edinburgh Review for July 1819, p. 7E
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
286
Different cumulate too powerful, to permit any very large portion of
Employ- them seeking to divert themselves by indulging m no
ment® of , and excess. Thev are thus driven to seek for recreation
Capital and in mental excitement. and the circumstances in which
vJ^Li^they are placed afford every possible facility for their amus¬
ing and diverting themselves in this manner. l>y working
together, they have constant opportunities of entering into
conversation; and a small contribution from each enables
them to obtain a large supply of newspapers and ot the
cheaper class of periodical publications. But whatever dif¬
ference of opinion may exist respecting the cause, there
can be no doubt of the fact, that the workmen employed m
manufactures have become more intelligent according as
their numbers have increased, and as their employments
have been more and more subdivided. We do not believe
that they ever were less intelligent than the agriculturists,
but, whatever may have been the case formerly, none will
now venture to affirm that they are inferior to them in in¬
tellectual acquirements, or that they are mere machines
Euloffium’ without sentiment or reason. Mr Malthus, whose leanings
of Mr Mai- were all on the side of agriculture, has justly observed,
thus on ma- t]lat « Most of the effects of manufactures and commerce
nufactures. on the generai state of society are in the highest degree
beneficial. They infuse fresh life and activity into all
classes of the state, afford opportunity for the inferior or¬
ders to rise by personal merit and exertion, and stimulate
the higher orders to depend for distinction upon other
grounds than mere rank and riches. They excite inven¬
tion ; encourage science and the useful arts ; spread intel¬
ligence and spirit; inspire a taste for conveniencies and
comforts among the labouring classes ; and, above all, give
a new and happier structure to society, by increasing the
proportion of the middle classes,—that body on which the
liberty, public spirit, and good government of every coun¬
try must mainly depend. {Observations on the Effects of
the Corn Laws, p. 29.)
Rate of Thus then we arrive, by a different route, at the same
profit true result we have already endeavoured to establish. The in¬
test of the extinguishable passion for gain—the auri sacra fames—
of different will a'waYs lead capitalists to employ their stocks in those
employ-™ branches of industry which yield, all things considered, the
ments. highest rate of profit. And it is clear to demonstration,
that employments yielding the highest profits are those in
which it is most for the public interest that capital should
be invested. The profits of a particular branch of indus¬
try are rarely raised except by an increased demand for its
produce. Should the demand for cottons increase, there
would be a greater competition for them; and as their
price would, in consequence, be augmented, the manufac¬
turers would obtain comparatively high profits. But the
rate of profit in different employments has a natural ten¬
dency to equality ; and it can never, when monopolies do
not interpose, continue either permanently higher or lower
in one than in the rest. As soon, therefore, as the rise in
the price of cottons had taken place, additional capital
would begin to be employed in their production. The ma¬
nufacturers engaged in the cotton trade would endeavour
to borrow additional capital, and the capitalists engaged in
less lucrative employments would gradually contract their
businesses, and transfer a portion of their stock to where
it wrould yield them a larger return. The equilibrium of
profit would thus be again restored. For the additional
capital employed in the production of cottons, by propor¬
tioning their supply to the increased demand, would infal¬
libly reduce their price to its proper level. Such is the
mode in which the interests of individuals are, in every
case, rendered subservient to those of the public. High
profits attract capital; but high profits in particular busi¬
nesses are the effect of high prices ; and these are always
reduced, and the commodities brought within the command
of a greater number of purchasers, as soon as additional
capital has been employed in their production. It is clear, Different
therefore, that that employment is the best which yields ^pby
r.  a /'•orvitalc 'snaln ominl “cxii/s yj
Liit:i tiui me*.!, it j , • i j i ments of
the greatest profit; and hence, if two capitals yield equal Capital and
profits, it is a proof that the departments of industry in in(ius^ry_
which they are respectively invested, how much soever
they may differ in many respects, are equally beneficial.
Nothing can be more nugatory than to apprehend that the
utmost freedom of industry should attract capital to a com¬
paratively disadvantageous employment. If capital flow
to manufactures or commerce rather than to agriculture, it
is only because it has been found to yield larger profits to
the individual, and consequently to the state.
PART III.
distribution of wealth.
Having thus endeavoured to trace the various methods
by which that labour which is the only source of wealth
may be rendered most productive, and to exhibit the rela¬
tion and dependence of the different kinds oi industry, we
proceed to the second division of our subject, oi to an in¬
vestigation of the laws regulating the proportions in which
the various products of art and industry aie distributed
among the different classes of the people.
Sect. I.—Primary Division of the Produce of Industry.
 Value of Commodities measured in the Earliest Stages
of Society by the Quantities of Labour expended in their
Production.
It is evident that onlv three classes—labourers, capital- Primary
ists, and proprietors of "land, are ever directly concerned
in the production of commodities. It is to them, there- of in(lustrj,
fore, that all that is derived from the surface of the earth,
or from its bowels, by the united application of immediate
labour and of capital, must primarily belong. The other
classes of society have no revenue except what they derive,
either voluntarily or by compulsion, from these three classes.
But although there be no state of society in which any
class besides labourers, landlords, and capitalists, partici¬
pates directly in the produce of industry, there are states
of society in which that produce belongs exclusively to one
only of these classes; and others in which it belongs to
two of them, to the exclusion of the third. The reason
is, that, in the earliest stages of society, there is little or
no capital accumulated, and the distinction between la¬
bourers and capitalists is, in consequence, unknown ; and
that, in all newly-settled and unappropriated countries,
abundance of fertile land may be obtained without paying
any rent.
In that remote period which preceded the establishment Quantity
of a right of property in land, and the accumulation of ca" pu^regu1-
pital or stock—when men roamed, without any settled ha-jatjngprin.
bitations, over the surface of the earth, and existed by cjpie of
means of the labour required to appropriate its spontane- value,
ous productions—the whole produce of labour would belong
to the labourer, and the quantity of labour expended in pro¬
curing different articles w ould plainly form the only standard
by which their relative worth or exchangeable value could
be estimated. “ If among a nation of hunters,” says Dr
Smith, “ it usually costs twice the labour to kill a beaver
that it does to kill a deer, one beaver would naturally ex¬
change for or be worth two deer. It is natural, that what
is usually the produce of two days’ or tw o hours’ labour,
should be worth double of what is usually the produce of
one day’s or one hour’s labour.
“ If the one species of labour should be more severe than
the other, some allowance will naturally be made for this
superior hardship ; and the produce of one hour’s labour in
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
Primary the one'way, frequently exchanges for that of two hours’ la-
^thTpro b°Ur in the 0ther•
nce^f In- “ ^ t^ie on® sPecies of labour requires an uncommon
dustry. degree of dexterity and ingenuity? the esteem which men
have for such talents will naturally give a value to their
produce, superior to what would be due to the time em¬
ployed about it. Such talents can seldom be acquired but
in consequence of long application, and the superior value
of their produce may frequently be no more than a reason¬
able compensation for the time and labour which must be
spent in acquiring them. In the advanced state of society,
allowances of this kind, for superior hardship and superior
skill, are commonly made in the wages of labour; and
something of the same kind must probably have taken place
in the earliest and rudest period.
“ In this state of things, the whole produce of labour be¬
longs to the labourer ; and the quantity of labour pommon-
ly employed in acquiring or producing any commodity, is the
only circumstance which can regulate the quantity of labour
(of other commodities) which it commonly ought to purchase,
command, or exchange for.” ( Wealth of Nations, p. 22.)
Thus far there is no room for doubt or difference of opi¬
nion. When there are none but labourers, all the produce
of labour must obviously belong to them ; and the quan¬
tity of labour required to produce commodities forms the
only standard by which their exchangeable worth or value
can be estimated. It is at this point, therefore, that we
are to begin the investigation of the laws regulating the di¬
vision of the produce of industry among the three great
classes of labourers, capitalists, and landlords ; and we shall
do this by endeavouring, in the first place, to acquire a
knowledge of the laws which regulate the exchangeable
value of commodities in an advanced period of society,
when circulating and fixed capital are employed in their
production, and when land is appropriated and rent paid.
A previous acquaintance with the circumstances which de¬
termine the value of commodities will be found to be in¬
dispensable to enable us to ascertain the principles which
regulate their distribution.
Sect. II.—Preliminary Considerations.—Equality of Wa¬
ges and Profits.—Inquiry into the Effect of Variations
oj Demand and Supply on Price.— Cost of Production
shown to be its regulating Principle.
limb If the popular opinions on this subject were well found-
si af" e^’ inTlirY 0,1 which we are now about to enter might
°ns. be disposed of in a very few words. The exchangeable
value of commodities, when compared with each other, and
their value or price when compared with money, is held
almost universally to depend on their abundance or scarcity
m the market, compared with the demand. We believe,
however, that this opinion rests on no good foundation, and
that the cost of production is the grand regulating principle
of price. But before proceeding further, it may be proper,
the better to facilitate our investigations in this and the fol¬
lowing sections, to premise, that wherever industry is free,
the rate of wages earned by the labourers engaged in any
particular department, and the rate of profit derived from
the capital vested in it, cannot, for any considerable pe¬
riod, either fall below, or rise above, the rates of wages and
profits accruing to the labourers and capitalists engaged in
other departments.
Ejhlity of With regard to doo first of these positions, or to the
fa ’ ]'1jPS eTiality ^e wages earned by those engaged in different
tfebour- emPloyments> if is n°t meant to infer that all labourers re-
*r ngaged ce^vf Precisely the same sum of money, or the same pro-
j" i'erent portion of the produce of their labour. Such an opinion
Acs °f would be equally at variance with fact and with principle.
nry. Wages are a compensation made to the labourer for the
exertion of his physical powers, or of his skill or ingenuity.
, 287
They must, therefore, vary according to the greater inten- Equality of
sity of the labour to be performed, and to the degree of skill Wages ‘and
and ingenuity required. Wages would not be equal if Profits-
a jeweller or engraver, for example, received no higher'
rate than a common farm-servant or scavenger. A long
course of training is required to instruct a man in the
businesses of jewellery and engraving; and if this were not
compensated by a higher rate of w ages, none would choose
to learn so difficult an art, and all persons would addict them¬
selves, in preference, to such employments as hardly require
any training. 1 he cost of producing artificers or labourers
regulates the wages they obtain, in the same way that the
cost of producing commodities regulates their value. A
man who practises a difficult or nice business loses all the
time spent in his apprenticeship, and generally all the clothes
and provisions he consumes during the same period. He
should, therefore, besides receiving the same rate of wages
as husbandry labourers, and those who do not require to
serve an apprenticeship, receive an additional rate, propor¬
tional to the extra time and expense spent in learning his
business. If he did not obtain this additional rate, it is plain
he would not be so wrell paid as the husbandry labourers; and
if he obtained more than a fair and reasonable compensation
for the greater expense to which he had been put, there
would be an influx of labourers into that particular business,
and competition would not fail to reduce wages to their
proper level.
Besides this prominent cause of apparent inequality, wrages
vary in amount proportionally to the ease and hardship, the
agreeableness and disagreeableness, the constancy and in¬
constancy, of employment. In the greater part of manu¬
factures, a journeyman may, except in periods of general
distress, usually obtain constant employment. But there
are several businesses, such, for example, as those of ma¬
sons and bricklayers, that can neither be carried on in hard
frost nor foul weather. Their earnings should, therefore,
be able not only to maintain them while they are employed,
but also while they are idle, and to make them some com¬
pensation-for those anxious and desponding moments which
the thought of so precarious a situation must sometimes oc¬
casion. Hence, says Dr Smith, “ where the computed earn¬
ings of the greater part of manufacturers are nearly upon
a level with the day-wages of common labourers, those of
masons and bricklayers are generally from a half more to
double those wages. Where common labourers earn four
and five shillings a week, masons and bricklayers frequently
earn seven and eight; and where the former earn nine or
ten, as in London, the latter commonly earn fifteen and
eighteen.” {Wealth of Nations, p. 47.)
But these variations, instead of being inconsistent with
the principle we have been endeavouring to establish, plainly
result from it. Wages are equal, not when each workman
earns the same m^nber of shillings or of pence in a given
space of time ; but when each is paid in proportion to the
severity of the labour he has to perform, to the degree of
previous education and of skill that it requires, and to the
other causes of variation. So long, indeed, as the principle
of competition is allowed to operate without restraint, or
while every one may employ himself as he pleases, the hig¬
gling of the market will always adjust the rate of wages in
different employments on the principle now mentioned, and
it will, taking everything into account, be very nearly equal.
If the rate of wages in one department were depressed below
the common level, labourers would leave it to go to others ;
and were it to rise above this common level, labourers would
be attracted from those departments wherewageswere lower,
until the increased supply had sunk them to their just level.
A period of greater or less duration, according to the circum¬
stances of the country at the time, is always required to
bring about this equalization. But aH theoretical inquiries, ^
and such as have the establishment of principles for their
288
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
nesses..
Equality ofobiect, either are, or should be, founded on periods of a -
Wages andra;L duration ; and whenever such is the case, we may al'
Profits- ways, without occasioning the slightest error, assume that
 the wages earned in different employments are, all things
considered, about equal. _ v
Equality of In like manner, the profit accruing to the caP‘^lstS e?\
the profits gaged in different businesses varies proportionally to the
of the capi- ,rreater or less risk, and other circumstances specially at-
tai employ-Acting the capital they employ in them. It is obvious, in-
ed m differ- ^ have not attained their level until they
out oust- deed, I*. ^ go ag to baknce these different advan¬
tages and disadvantages. None would engage m unusually
hazardous undertakings, did the capital employed in them
only yield the same profit that might be obtained by em-
oloying it in more secure businesses. No one will volun¬
tarily place his fortune in a situation of comparative dan¬
ger. Extraordinary risk must be compensated. And hence
the well-known distinction between gross and nett profit.
Gross profit varies according to the risk, respectability, and
agreeableness of different employments, whereas nett profit
is at any particular period the same, or very nearly the same,
in them all. A gunpowder manufacturer, for example, must
obtain as much profit, over and above that obtained from
the capital engaged in the securest businesses, as will suf¬
fice to guarantee or insure his capital from the extiaordi-
nary risk to which it is exposed in a business of such ex-
ireme IirzstcL Were Iig to obtain viove than this ratGy acl-
ditional capital would be attracted to his business, and were
he to obtain less, capital would be withdrawn from it. The
constantly-acting principle of competition, or, which is the
same thing, the self-interest of every individual, will not
permit the wages or profits of any particular set of work¬
men or capitalists, taking all things into account, to con¬
tinue either long below or long above the common and ave¬
rage rate of wages and profits obtained by those who are
employed, or have capital vested in other businesses. It
is by this common standard that the wages and profits of
particular businesses are always regulated ; they can never
diverge considerably from it; they have a constant ten¬
dency to equalization ; and may, in theoretical inquiries, be
supposed, without occasioning any error of consequence,
exactly to coincide.
The equality, or rather the constant tendency to equali¬
ty, of the wages earned by the labourers, and of the profits
derived from the capital employed at the same time in the
various branches of industry, was pointed out by Mr Har¬
ris, and also by Mr Cantillon in his work entitled The Ana¬
lysis of Trade, &c. published in 1759 ; but it was first fully
demonstrated in the eighth, ninth, and tenth chapters of
the first book of the Wealth of Nations. I he establish¬
ment of this principle was one of the greatest services ren¬
dered by Dr Smith to the science. Nothing can be more
convincing and satisfactory than his reasoning on this sub¬
ject. The equality of wrages and of profits has, since the
publication of his work, been always assumed as admitted
and incontestible.
Variations The equality of wages and profits once established, it is
of demand easy to see that variations in the demand and supply of
and supply commodities can exert no lasting influence over price. The
t pnualitv. It is plain that no man Equality of
a constant tendency to equa y p Wages and
will continue to produce commodities if they sell for less ^
than the cost of their production ; that is, for less than will s 
Way the outlay .^n the^iuc h.d.up the - We of
IS on the rapital employed* This is a lhuit bdow which
It is obvious prices cannot be permanently reduced; and it
is tt^uaHy* obvious that were tlley, for any considerable pe-
riod! to rise above it, additional capital would be attracted
exert no cost 0f production, denominated by Smith and the Mar-
fntluence A1115 Gamier necessary or natural price, is the ultimate re-
on price.
OVA *JlA1V VII lldLLll til JJIIV/C-J 13 l/llv; 111 IV/
gulator of the value' of every commodity not subject to a
monopoly, and which may be indefinitely increased in quan¬
tity by the application of fresh capital and labour to its pro¬
duction. That the market price of such commodities and
their cost do not always coincide, is certain ; but they can¬
not, for any considerable period, be far separated, and have
rioci, to rise auuve n., — , „ .
to the advantageous business, and the competition of the
P"Jd"X3; must be such as will coverTh, -
the expense of production, if it be insufficient to do this, and the^
it cannot make commodities be produced and broug toP^^
market. A real demander must have the power, a.s well as necessary
the will, to purchase. A person with a sovereign in hiStoconsti-
pocket may be as anxious—nay, he may be ten times moretutc de-
anxious—to become the purchaser of a coach than of a hat,
why then does he not obtain the one as readily in exchange
for his sovereign as the other? The reason is obvious; a
sovereign will pay the expense of producing the one, but
it will not pay the expense of producing the other. W ere
such an improvement made in the art of coachmaking as
should enable coaches to be manufactured as cheaply as
hats, then a sovereign would buy a coach as easily as it can
now buy a hat. The demand for any particular commo¬
dity may become ten or twenty times more extensive, or it
may decline in the same proportion ; but if the cost of its
production continue the same, no permanent variation will
be occasioned in its price. Suppose, for example, that the
demand for hats were suddenly doubled: that circumstance
would undoubtedly occasion a rise, of price, and the hatters
would, in consequence, make large profits; but this rise
would only be of very limited duration ; for the large pro¬
fits would immediately attract additional capital to the hat
manufacture; an increased supply of hats would be brought
to market, and if no variation took place in the cost of pro¬
duction, their price would infallibly sink to its former leve .
Suppose, on the other hand, that the demand for hats is
increased tenfold, and that the cost of their production is
diminished in the same proportion: we should, notwith¬
standing the increased demand, be able, in a very short
time, to buy a hat for the tenth part of what it now costs.
Again, suppose the demand for hats to decline, and the cost
of producing them to increase, the price would, notwith¬
standing the diminished demand, gradually rise, till it had
reached the point at which it would yield the hatters t le
common and average rate of profit on the capital employe
in their business. It is admitted that variations of deman
and supply occasion temporary variations of price. But i
is essential to remark, that these variations are only tem¬
porary. The cost of production is the grand regulator o
price—the centre of all those transitory and evanescent os¬
cillations on the one side and the other ; and wherever in¬
dustry is free, the competition of the producers w ill always
elevate or sink prices to this level.
In certain branches of industry, such, for example, aS Cost of
agriculture, which are liable to be seriously affected by va-pro uuo.
riations of the seasons, and from which capital cannot be prin.
easily withdrawn, there is a somewhat longer interval than ^ of
in others before the market price of produce and the cost price,
of its production can be equalized. But that such an equa¬
lization will be brought about in the end is certain. No
farmer, and no producer whatever, will continue to bring
corn or other products to market, unless they sell for sue
a price as will pay the expense of their production, inclu '
ing therein the common and average rate of profit on the
capital employed.1 An excess of supply occasionally de-
1 Some of the advocates of the agricultural interest have represented this as one of the “ dangerous dogmas” of the Scotch Econonus
But it can boast of a much more remote origin:—“ Nemo enim sanus," says Yarro, “ debet vellc impentam ac sumptum facere in culturam,
ti videt non pone ref.ci." {De Re Rustiea, lib. i. § 2.)
POLITICAL
I list of presses the prices of corn and other farm produce below
Pi action ]evel; and the occupiers of land are, in consequence,
tj|£gulat- jnvoive(j ;n (jie greatest difficulties; but such gluts do not
M Price, continue. The cultivators of the worst soils are driven
L-v,-—from their employment; a smaller supply is, in consequence,
brought to market; and prices are adjusted so as to yield
the customary rate of profit, and no more, to the agricul¬
turists who continue the cultivation of the poorest soils.
The interest of the cultivators will not permit prices to be
permanently depressed below this level; and the interest
of the public will not permit them to be permanently raised
above it; for, if they were raised above it, the cultivators
would gain more than the common and average rate of pro¬
fit, and capital would, of course, be immediately attracted
to agriculture, and would continue flowing in that direction,
until the natural equilibrium of profit had been restored—•
that is, as will be afterwards seen, until the price of agri¬
cultural produce had fallen to such a sum as would yield
the average rate of profit to the cultivators of the worst
soils, or the improvers of the best. This is the point at
which average prices continue stationary, or about which
market prices oscillate, until the cost of production in¬
crease or diminish. Were any great discovery made in
agriculture—such a one, for instance, as would reduce the
cost of cultivation a half, the price of agricultural produce
would speedily fall in the same proportion, and it would
continue to sell at that reduced rate until the increase of
population forced recourse to soils of a decreasing degree
of fertility. Whenever this took place, prices would again
rise, unless the influence of the decreasing fertility were
countervailed by some new improvement. Why is the price
of corn almost invariably higher in England than in France?
Is it because we have a greater demand for it, or because
of the greater cost of production in this country ?
iison A pound-weight of gold is at present worth about fifteen
) ' 8°^ pounds of silver. It cannot, however, be said that this is
v a consequence of the demand for gold being greater than
t a silver, that for silver, the reverse being the fact. Neither can it
be said to be a consequence of an absolute scarcity of gold;
for, those who choose to pay a sufficient price for it may
obtain it in any quantity they please. The cause of this
difference in the price of the two metals consists entirely
in the circumstance of its costing about fifteen times as
much to produce a pound of gold as to produce a pound of
silver. That this is really the case, is plain from the ad¬
mitted fact, that the producers of gold do not gain any
greater profit than the producers of silver, iron, lead, or any
other metal. They have no monopoly of the business.
Every one may send capital to America, and become a pro¬
ducer of gold ; and wherever this is the case, the principle
of competition will always force the product to be sold at
such a price as will pay the expenses of its production, and
no more. Were a gold-mine discovered of equal produc¬
tiveness with the silver-mines, the production of gold would
immediately become the most advantageous of all busi¬
nesses ; an immense supply of that metal would, in conse¬
quence, be thrown upon the market, and its price would, in
no very lengthened period, be reduced to the same level as
silver.
| *son In further illustration of this principle, take the case of
1 s have co^ons* None can deny that the demand for them has
' lined in been prodigiously augmented within the last fifty or sixty
Ife. years ; and yet their price, instead of increasing, as it should
have done had the popular theory of demand and supply
been well founded, has been constantly and rapidly diminish¬
ing. If it be said that this is a consequence of the supply
of cottons having augmented in a still greater ratio than the
demand, we answer that this is not enough to explain the
fall of price. The supply could not have been brought to
market, had not the diminution of prices, which has been
constantly going on since the invention of spinning-jennies
VOL. XVIII.
ECONOMY. 289
in 1767, been balanced by an equal diminution of the cost Cost of
of production. It is to this principle—to the vastly in- Production
creased facility of production, occasioned by the stupendous^6
inventions and discoveries of Hargreaves, Watt, Arkwright, pi^0f PricJ
Crompton, and others—that the lower price and increased 
demand for cottons is exclusively owing. The increased
facility of production has brought them within reach of all
classes; and enabled the poorest individuals to clothe them¬
selves in a dress which, at the accession of George III., was
fully as expensive as silk.
If a set of men were brought together from various coun- Competi-
tries, ignorant of each other’s wants, and of the labour and tion of the
expense necessary to produce the commodities which each producers
possesses, these would be bought and sold according to the
wants and fancies of the parties. In such circumstances, a wjq aiwaya
pound of gold might be given for a pound of iron, and a sink prices
gallon of wine for a gallon of small beer. As soon, how-to the cost
ever, as a commercial intercourse is established, and as the0! Pr°duc-
wants of society and the powers of production come to bellon'
well and generally known, an end is put to this method of
bartering. Thousands of sellers then enter the market.
But when such is the case, it is no longer possible to sell a
pound of gold for a pound of iron ; and why ? because the
producers of iron will undersell each other until they have,
by their competition, reduced its price to such a sum as
will suffice to pay the expense of its production. This is
in every civilized society the pivot on which exchangeable
value always turns. A civilized man may obtain articles
from a savage, in exchange for toys or trinkets, which it
cost infinitely less to produce ; but if he try to obtain the
same advantage over his own countrymen, a very short ex¬
perience will satisfy him that they are quite as clear-sighted
and attentive to their own interests as he is.
Thus, then, it appears, that no variation of demand, un¬
accompanied by a variation in the cost of production, has
any lasting influence over price. If the cost of production
be diminished, price will equally decline, though the demand
should be increased to any conceivable extent. If the cost
of production be increased, price wall equally rise, though
the demand should sink to the lowest possible limit.
It must always be remembered, that this reasoning ap-Influence
plies only to those commodities on which competition is al- of mono-
lowed to operate without restraint, and whose quantity may P01^*-
be indefinitely increased by the application of fresh capital
and industry to their production. When a particular indi¬
vidual, or class of individuals, obtains the exclusive privilege
of manufacturing certain species of goods, the principle of
competition is suspended with respect to them, and their
price must, therefore, entirely depend on the proportion in
which they are brought to market compared with the de¬
mand. If monopolists supplied the market liberally, or kept
it always as fully stocked as it would be were there no mo¬
nopoly, the commodities produced by them wTould sell at
their natural price, and the monopoly would have no fur¬
ther disadvantage than the exclusion of the public from an
emplovment which every one should have power to carry
on. In point of fact, however, the market is never fully
supplied with commodities produced under a monopoly. All
classes of producers endeavour to obtain the highest pos¬
sible price for their commodities; and when they are pro¬
tected by a monopoly, against being undersold by others,
they either keep the market understocked, or supply it with
inferior articles, or both. Under such circumstances, the
price of the commodity, if it cannot be easily smuggled from
abroad, or clandestinely produced at home, will be elevated
to the highest point to wffiich the competition of the buy¬
ers can raise it, and may, in consequence, be sold for five,
ten, or twenty times the sum it would fetch w-ere competi¬
tion permitted to operate in its production. The wi/l and
power of the purchasers to offer a high price forms the only
limit to the rapacity of monopolists.
290
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
Cost of Besides the articles produced under artificial monopolies,
Production tpere js another class whose quantity cannot be increased
theregulat-bv human industry, and whose price is not, therefore, de-
nkofPrice.pendent on the cost of production. Ancient statues, vases,
- y —i -■ and gems, the pictures of the great masters, some species
of wines produced in limited quantities only from soils of a
particular quality and exposure, and a few otner articles,
come under this description. As their supply cannot be
increased, their price varies inversely as the demand, and
is totally unaffected by anything else.
But with these exceptions, which, when compared to the
great mass of commodities, are but few and unimportant,
Average
price al-
ways coin- wherever industry is unfettered and competition allowed to
cident with ~ ~ 1
j , Vlt“ operate, the averaqe price of the various products of art and
costol pro-. I, .   ..i:,j uu *1  
tiuction.
Opinion of
the Mar¬
quis Gar-
nier.
industry always coincides with the cost of their production
Should a fall take place in the market price of any commo¬
dity, it cannot be said whether it is really advantageous, or
whether a part of the wealth of the producers be not gra¬
tuitously transferred to the consumers, until it be learned
whether the cost of production has been equally diminished.
If this be the case, the fall of price will not be disadvan¬
tageous to the producers, and will be permanent; but if this
be not the case—if the cost of production continue the same
—the fall must be injurious to the producers, and prices will,
in consequence, again attain their former level. It is the
same with a rise of prices. No rise can be permanent un¬
less the cost of production be proportionally increased. If
that cost have remained stationary, or have not increased
in a corresponding ratio, prices will decline as soon as the
ephemeral causes of enhancement have disappeared.
The extreme importance of having correct opinions re¬
specting the regulating principle of price, and the discord¬
ant and erroneous opinions so very prevalent with regard
to it, will, we hope, be deemed a sufficient apology for the
length of the previous remarks, and for the insertion of the
following paragraph from the Histoire de la Monnuie of the
Marquis Gamier, in which the doctrine we have been en¬
deavouring to establish is enforced with equal ability and
eloquence.
“ Mais les producteurs tendent continuellement a regler
la quantite des productions sur la somme des demandes; ils
ne resteront pas au-dessous de ce point, sans etre tentes
d’accroitre la masse de leurs produits ; et ils ne peuvent le
depasser sans s’exposer a perdre. Ces deux quantites, celle
des produits et celle des demandes, s’efforcent done a se
mettre en equilibre 1’une avec 1’autre. II existe done un
point de repos vers lequel dies gravitent chacune de son
cote; un point qui est leur niveau, et e’est ce point qui
constitue le prix naturel de la chose venale. Quelle est
la limite au-dela de laquelle le producteur ne peut porter
la quantite de ses produits ? C’est le prix naturel; car,
s’il ne peut obtenir ce prix pour tout son produit, il sera
en perte. Quelle est la borne des demandes du consom-
mateur ? C’est le prix naturel; car il ne veut pas donner
plus que 1’equivalent de ce qu’il revolt. Si, par une decou-
verte, ou par un perfectionnement de 1’industrie, le produc¬
teur est mis a meme d’etablir Particle sur lequel il s’exerce
a moins de temps et de depense, alors le prix naturel baissera,
mais aussi la somme des demandes accroitra dans une propor¬
tion pareille, parce que plus de consommateurs seront en Cost of
etat de payer ce prix naturel, moins eleve que I’ancien. Pro<luctio
Le prix naturel sera toujours, pour chaque chose venale, la ^ r^.llla
limite commune au-dela de laquelle la somme des demandes p]egof™""
de cette chose et la quantite de sa production ne devront ^ y _
plus faire de progres. Quand le prix courant est le prix
naturel, le producteur et le consommateur se donnent reci-
proquement I’equivalent de ce qu’ils resolvent. Quand le
prix courant s’ecarte du prix naturel, ou c’est la consomma-
tiori qui souffre au profit de la production, ou c’est la produc¬
tion qui souftre au profit de la consommation. Get etat de
souffrance ne peut durer, et de-la precedent les variations
du prix courant. Ces variations, que Smith a expliquees
et analysees avec une si parfaite lucidite, ne sont autre chose
que les efforts pour revenir au prix naturel. Tenter d’expli-
quer ces variations, sans reconnaitre 1’existence d’un prix
naturel, ce serait vouloir expliquer les oscillations du pendule
sans convenir de sa tendance vers un centre de gravitation
ce serait supposer un effort sans but et sans mobile; ce
sei-ait admettre le mouvement et nier le repos; enfin, en
voyant les phenomenes du cours des fluides et de 1’equilibre
des solides, ce serait contester les lois du niveau et de la
pesanteur. Si les choses venales n’ont point de prix naturel,
alors les mouvements de la circulation seront diriges par
une force aveugle et inconnue ; les prix moyens ne seront
plus que le resultat de chances purement fortuites ; il n’y
aura plus d’equivalent reel; les valeurs n’auront plus de
mesure naturelle; 1’economie politique ne pourra plus aspirer
a etre au rang des sciences, puisqu’elle manquera du carac-
tere essentiel qui les constitue telles, et que les faits dont
elle traite ne seront plus fondes sur les lois immuables de
la nature.” (Tome i. Introduction, p. 62.)
Having thus shown that the cost of production is the re¬
gulating principle of price, we shall now proceed to invest
tigate the elements which enter into and constitute this cost
in an advanced state of society, when rent is paid for land,
and circulating and fixed capital employed to facilitate the
labour of the workman. This is, of all others, the most im¬
portant, as it is the most radical inquiry in the science of
the distribution of wealth ; and it is indeed impossible, with¬
out possessing accurate notions on this subject, to advance
a single step without falling into errors. We shall begin by
endeavouring to ascertain whether rent enters into the cost
of production.
Sect. Ill—Nature, Origin, and Progress of Pent.—Not
a Cause, but a Consequence, of the High Value of Raw
Produce Does not enter into Price.—Distinction be¬
tween Agriculture and Manufactures.1
Rent is properly “ that portion of the produce of the Definition
earth which is paid by the occupier to the landlord for the of rent,
use of the natural and inherent powers of the soil.” If
buildings have been erected on a farm, or if it have been en¬
closed, drained, or in any way improved, by an expenditure
of capital and labour, the sum which a farmer will pay to
the landlord for its use will be composed, not only of what
is properly rent, but also of a remuneration1 for the use of
the capital laid out on its improvement. In common lan-
1 1 he theory of rent explained in this chapter was first promulgated and satisfactorily established in a tract on the Corn Laws.
Edinburgh, 1777 (see p. 45-47). The author of this original and most important theory. Dr James Anderson, was a native of
Hermaiidston in Mid-Lothian, and subsequently editor of the Bee and other publications; in one of which (Observations on Agricul¬
ture and Natural History, &c. v. pp. 401-405), he gave a new exposition of his theory. But notwithstanding the clear and able
manner in which he explained his doctrines, and their ingenuity and importance, they do not appear to have attracted the least at¬
tention, and seem to have been completely forgotten. So much so was the case, that when Mr Malthus* and Sir Edward West-f
pubhshed tracts in 1815, explaining the nature and origin of rent, they were universally believed to be the authors of the theory,
i here is, vye believe, no doubt as to their originality. Still, however, they were merely expositors of what had been clearly and
ably explained about forty years previously to the publication of their pamphlets.
* An Inquiry into the Nature and Progress of Rent.
-}• Essay on the Application of Capital to-Land, by a Fellow of University College, Oxford (Sir E. West).
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
201
11'in of
r .
][ ure and guage these two sums are always confounded, under the
j -uses of name 0f rent; but in an inquiry of this nature, it is neces-
J vei‘t' , sary to consider them as perfectly distinct. The laws by
I which rent and profits are regulated being totally different,
those which govern the one cannot be ascertained if it be
not considered separately from the other.
If rent On the first settling of any country abounding in large
F1 outh6 tracts of unappropriated land, no rent is ever paid ; and for
T ser" the obvious reason, that no person will pay rent for what
c r.try. may Pr°cured in unlimited quantities for nothing. Thus,
in New Holland, where there is an ample supply of unap¬
propriated land, it is certain, that, until the best lands are
cultivated, no such thing as rent will ever be heard of. Sup¬
pose, however, that tillage has been carried to this point,
and that the increasing demand can, in the actual state of
the science of agriculture, be no longer supplied by the best
lands ; it is plain, in this case, that either the increase of
population must cease, or the inhabitants consent to pay
such an additional price for raw produce as will enable
the second quality of land to be cultivated. No advance
short of this will procure them another bushel of corn ; and
competition will not, as will be immediately seen, allow
them to pay more for it. They have, therefore, but one
alternative. If they choose to pay a price sufficient to cover
the expense of cultivating land of the second quality, they
will obtain additional supplies; if they do not, they must
want them. Suppose, now, that the consumers offer such
a price as will pay the expense of producing corn on soils
which, in return for the same expenditure as would have
produced 100 quarters on lands of the first quality, will
only yield 90 quarters ; it is plain it will then be indif¬
ferent to a farmer whether he pay a rent of ten quar¬
ters for the first quality of land, or farms the second qua¬
lity, which is unappropriated and open to him, without
gress of paying any rent. If the population went on increasing,
lands which would yield only 80, 70, 60, 50, &c. quar¬
ters in return for the same expenditure that had obtained
100 quarters from the best lands, might be successively
brought under cultivation. And when recourse had been
had to these inferior lands, the rent of the higher qualities
would plainly be equal to the difference, or the value of the
difference, between their produce and the produce of the
worst quality under cultivation. Suppose, for example, that
the worst quality under cultivation yields 60 quarters,
then the rent of the first quality will be 40 quarters, or
100 — 60; the rent of the second quality would, in like
manner, be equal to the difference between 90 and 60, or
30 quarters ; the rent of the third quality would be equal
to 80 — 60, or 20 quarters, and so on. But it is material
to remark, that the produce raised on the land last culti¬
vated, or with the capital last applied to the soil, is always
sold at its necessary ‘price, or at that price which is just suf¬
ficient to yield the cultivators the common and average
rate of profit, or, which is the same thing, to cover the cost
of its production. If the price were above this level, then
agriculture would be the best of all businesses, and tillage
would be immediately extended; while, on the other hand,
if the price fell below this level, capital would be with¬
drawn from the soil, and the poorer lands thrown out of
cultivation. Under such circumstances, it is clear that no
rent would enter into the price of the produce raised by
means of the capital last applied to the soil. Its price is
exclusively made up of wages and profits. The proprietors
of the superior lands obtain rent; but this is the necessary
result of their greater fertility. The demand cannot be
supplied without cultivating inferior soils ; and, to enable
them to be cultivated, their produce must fetch such a
price as will afford the ordinary rate of profit to their culti¬
vators. This price will, however, yield a surplus over and
above the ordinary rate of profit to the cultivators of the
more fertile lands, and this surplus is rent.
An increase of rent is not, therefore, as is very generally Nature and
supposed, occasioned by improvements in agriculture, or Causes of
by an increase in the fertility of the soil. It results from Rent-
the necessity of resorting, as population increases, to soils
of a decreasing degree of fertility, and from the inability to
apply capital indefinitely to the best land, without a dimi¬
nished return. Rent varies in an inverse proportion to the
amount of produce obtained by means of the capital and
labour employed in cultivation ; that is, it increases when
the profits of agricultural labour diminish, and diminishes
when they increase. Profits are at their maximum in coun¬
tries like New Holland, Indiana, and Illinois, and generally
in all situations in which no rent is paid, and the best lands
only cultivated ; but it cannot be said that rents have at¬
tained their maximum so long as capital yields any surplus
in the shape of profit.
A quarter of wheat may be raised in the Vale of Glou¬
cester, or the Carse of Gowrie, at perhaps a fourth or a
fifth part of the expense necessary to raise it on the worst
soils in cultivation. There cannot, however, be at the same
time two or more prices for the same article in the same
mai’Ket. And it is plain, that unless the average market
price of wheat be such as will indemnify the producers of
the portion of the crop raised on the worst soils, they will
cease bringing it to market, and the required supplies will
no longer be obtained ; and it is equally plain, that if the
market price of wheat exceed this sum, fresh capital will be
applied to its production, and competition will soon sink
prices to their natural level—that is, to such a sum as will
afford the common and ordinary rate of profit to the rais¬
ers of that portion of the required supply which is pro¬
duced in the most unfavourable circumstances, and with
the greatest expense. The cost of producing this portion
will always determine the average price of all the rest.
And therefore it is plainly indifferent to the consumers
whether, in an advanced stage of society, the excess of re¬
turn over the cost of production on lands of the first qua¬
lity belong to a non-resident landlord or an occupier. It
must belong to the one or the other. Com is not high be¬
cause a rent is paid, but a rent is paid because corn is high
—because the demand is such that it cannot be supplied
without cultivating soils of a diminished degree of fertility,
as compared with the best. Suppose there is an effectual
demand for ten millions of quarters, and that owe million of
them must be raised on lands which yield nothing but the
common and average rate of profit to their cultivators ; it is
clear that the relinquishing of the rents payable by the su¬
perior lands would be no boon to the cultivators of the in¬
ferior lands. It would not lessen their expenses; that is,
it would not lessen the amount of capital and labour neces¬
sary to produce the portion of the required supply raised
under the most unfavourable circumstances; and, unless it
reduced this expense, it is quite impossible, supposing the
demand not to decline, that it should lower prices. Al¬
though, therefore, landlords were to give up the whole of
their rents, their doing so would have no influence upon
the price of corn. Such an act would turn farmers into
landlords, and landlords into beggars; but there its effect
would stop. But the case is altogether different when the
cost of production varies. If it be diminished, the compe¬
tition of the producers will infallibly sink prices in an equal
proportion. If it be increased, no supplies will be brought
to market, unless the price rise to a corresponding level.
In no case, therefore, whether the demand be great or
small—whether for one or a million quarters—can the price
of raw produce permanently exceed or fall below the sum
required to pay the cost of producing that portion of the
necessary supply that is raised on the worst land, or with
the last capital laid out on the soil.
Two objections have been made to this theory. In the Objections
first place, it has been said that, though it may hold in a to tino
theory
292
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
Nature and country like New Holland, where land is not appropriated,
Causes of yet that the worst land in every civilized and appropriated
Ilent‘ country, like England, always yields some small rent to the
proprietor; and that, therefore, it cannot be said that the
price of produce is, in such countries, determined by the
cost of raising it on that quality of land which pays no rent.
It has been justly observed of this objection, that even
were it well founded, it would not practically affect any of
the conclusions we have endeavoured to establish. There
are in England and Scotland thousands upon thousands of
acres of land which do not let for L.100; but to cultivate
them would require an outlay of many millions, and the
rent would consequently bear so small a proportion to the
expenses of production, as to become altogether evanescent
yield less than this common and average rate of profit, it ^ature and
will be withdrawn, until, by the rise of price, the last re-
maining capital yields this common rate. In every case,
therefore, whether the last quality of land taken into culti¬
vation yields rent or not, the last capital applied to the soil
yields only the common and average rate of. pront, and,
consequently, the price of the produce which it yields, and
which regulates the price of all the rest, is totally unaffect¬
ed by rent. ✓
It has, in the second place, been objected to this account Does not
of the nature and causes of rent, that it takes for granted, suppose
that, in all extensive countries, landlords permit the farmers
of the worst lands to occupy them without paying any rent.allow f'r
But it is easy to see that this is a mistake. The price ofmers to oc.
Land in
every ex¬
tensive
country
which
yields no
rent.
- > ,, uraw produce is kept down to its necessary price by the com-cupy their
anTherePcan be 'no doubt, however, that there is in this/^petition of farmers, and not by that 'a^?r*n-ceT11““^“pavS
and most other extensive countries, a great deal of land fl.2 be* aid worst""-
soils, the gradation from the one extreme to the other
is gradual, and almost imperceptible. The best differ but
little from those immediately inferior to them, and the worst
from those immediately above them. And hence it is quite
which yields no rent. In the United States and Russia
such is unquestionably the case ; and yet no one presumes
to say that the laws which regulate rent in these countries
are different from those which regulate it in England and
France. The poorest lands are always let in immense
tracts.
If it were attempted to let particular portions of as impossible to point out the precise point where the first
, , i , , ‘ . u-.i. .i— cor*rmri Lpo-int;. nr where the second
that rent
does not
enter into
price.
these tracts separately, they would bring no rent; but they
appear to yield rent, because rent is paid, not for them, but
Payment of for the more fertile spots intermixed with them. But al-
rent on all though it were really true that every rood of land in Bri-
soils notin-^ajn pa-[(j a hjgh rent, it wrould still be true that such rent
withthe did not> and could not> enter int0 the Price °S raW Produce*
principle The rent of a country consists of the difference, or the
value of the difference, between the produce obtained from
the capital first applied to the land, and that which is last
applied to it. It would, as has been already seen, be exactly
the same thing to the cultivator, whether he paid a rent of
ten quarters for land yielding, with a certain outlay, a hun¬
dred quarters of corn, or employed the same capital in culti¬
vating inferior land yielding only ninety quarters, for which
he paid no rent. Were it possible always to obtain a hun¬
dred quarters for every equal additional capital applied to the
superior soils, no person, it is obvious, would resort to those
of inferior fertility. But the fact that, in the progress of so¬
ciety, new and less fertile land is always brought into cul¬
tivation, demonstrates that additional capital and labour can¬
not be indefinitely applied with the same advantage to the
old land. The state of society in any particular country may
be such, the demand for agricultural produce may be so great,
that every quality of land actually yields rent; but it is in¬
different, if there be any capital employed on land which
yields only the return of stock with its ordinary profits,
wdiether that capital be employed on old or new land. Now,
that there is a very large amount of capital employed in such
a manner in this and every other country, is abundantly cer
tain ^ 1 ‘ ‘‘ i -j *—1
quality ends and the second begins, or where the second
ends and the third begins, as it is to point out the precise
point where the contiguous colours of the rainbow differ.
Now, suppose that the numbers 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, &c. de*
signate the different qualities of soil in an extensive coun¬
try, and suppose that the effectual demand for raw produce
is such as will afford the common and average rate of pro¬
fit to those who cultivate land of the fifth degree of ferti¬
lity, or that represented by No. 5; when such is the case,
there can be no doubt that No. 5 will be cultivated; for,
besides the peculiar attractions which agriculture possesses,
it would be quite as advantageous to cultivate it as to en¬
gage in any other business. It would not, however, be
more advantageous ; for its produce would yield no surplus
in the shape of rent. But suppose that a combination took
place among the proprietors of Nos. 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5, to
withhold a portion of their produce from market; and that,
in consequence of this or any other cause, the price of corn
is raised a little above the expense of its production on No.
5; in that case it is obvious that soils of the very next de¬
gree of fertility, or that that portion of No. 6 which, in
point of productive powder, differs extremely little from No.
5, would be brought under cultivation ; and the increased
supply would infallibly sink prices to the level that would
alibi’d the average rate of profit, and no more, to the culti¬
vators of No. 5, or of the poorest soils which the supply ot
the effectual demand renders it necessary to cultivate. It
is quite the same, therefore, in so far as price is concerned,
as
[lanner in uus aim every orner country, is auunuanuy cer- whether a country be appropriated or not. When it is ap-
n. A farmer who rents a farm, besides employing on it preprinted, prices are kept down to their lowest limit by
 much capital as will, at the existing prices of raw pro- the competition of the landlords. And it is by the same
duce, enable him to pay his rent, to obtain the average rate principle—the cost of producing that portion of the neces-
of profit, and to replace his stock previously to the expiration sary supply raised under the most unfavourable circum-
of his lease, will employ additional capital, if it will only re- stances—that the price of raw produce is determined in
place itself, and afford the ordinary rate of profit. His em- England and France, and in New Holland and Illinois
fora
IP U.WV'I 14.1 LJCll jr idl/C- v/l jJAWllt/* AJLiO in
ploying this additional capital depends entirely on the price
of raw produce being such as will repay his expenses and
profits; for he knows he will have no additional rent to pay.
Even at the expiration of his lease, his rent will not be
raised; for it the landlord should require rent because an
additional capital had been employed, he would withdraw *      .—j    
it; since, by employing it in agriculture, he gets only the great deal to produce it, when a redundant supply is brought
same profits he might get by employing it in any other de- to market. Suppose, as before, that the effectual demand
partment of industry. It the capital last applied to the soil for corn in Great Britain is such as will enable lands ot the
But then it is said that this reasoning involves a contra-Does not
diction ; that it accounts for a rise and a fall of price in the aocmut
same way, or by an extension of cultivation! In point °*
fact, however, it does no such thing. The market price ot in
corn will always be low where it is cheaply produced, as m the same
Poland; and it will occasionally be low where it costs a way
parunentoi muusrry. it tne capital last applied to the soil tor corn m Great Britain is such as will enable lai
yield more than the common and average rate of profit, fresh fifth degree of fertility to be cultivated ; but that,
capital will be vested in agriculture, and competition will variable harvests, to injudicious encouragement hi _ .
sink prices to a level that will enable them to yield this the legislature, the ardour of speculation, the miscalculation
n n .1 -i -i . 1 . A ^ r»
_ 7  , owing to
iragement held out by
   i  uiciu iu yieiu tins uie legislature, tue aiuour oi speculation, inc -
rate, and no more; ii the capital last applied to the soil of farmers, or any other cause, lands of the sixth degree ot
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
293
Rent.
>ure and fertility have been cultivated; the increased quantity of
uises of produce that must thus be thrown on the market will plainly
J,'t‘ depress prices to such an extent that, instead of yielding
average profits to the cultivators of No. 6, they will not
yield them to the cultivators of No. 5. But they will yield
more to them than to the cultivators of No. 6. The latter,
therefore, will be first driven from their business; and when
they have retired, prices will rise, not indeed to such a
height as to enable No. 6 to be cultivated, but so high as
to enable the cultivators of No. 5 to continue their busi¬
ness ; that is, as has been already shown, to such a sum as
will enable the raisers of the last portion of the necessary
supply to obtain the common and average rate of profit.
Should the demand, instead of continuing stationary, in¬
crease so that it could not be supplied without cultivating
Nos. 6 and 7, the price will rise in proportion to the in¬
creased expense of their cultivation. But to whatever
extent the demand might increase, still, were such an im¬
provement made in agriculture, or in the art of raising corn,
as would enable the supply to be obtained from No. 1 only,
the price would infallibly fall to the sum that paid the ex¬
penses of its cultivators, and rent would entirely disappear,
[stinction This analysis of the nature and causes of rent discovers
ween a fundamental distinction between agricultural and com-
l mam!'0 merc*a^ and manufacturing industry. In manufactures, the
worst machinery is first set in motion, and its powers are
progressively improved by new inventions; and it is ren¬
dered capable of yielding a greater amount of produce with
the same expense. And as no limits can be assigned to the
quantity of improved machinery that may be introduced;
as a million of steam-engines may be constructed for the
d mami-
;tures
1 com-
rce.
indency
■naency
agricul-
'ai pro¬
mts to
ein
namitac- same, or rather for a less, proportional expense than would
rts to fall be required for the construction of one; the competition of
price, capitalists never fails to reduce the price of manufactured
commodities to the sum which the least expensive method
of production necessarily requires for their production.
In agriculture, on the contrary, the best machinery, that
is, the best soils, are first brought under cultivation, and re¬
course is afterwards had to inferior soils, requiring a greater
price, expenditure of capital and labour to produce the same sup-
^ plies. The improvements in the construction of farming
implements, and meliorations in agricultural management,
which occasionally occur in the progress of society, coun¬
tervail to a greater or less extent the decreasing fertility ot
the soil. But the fall of price, which is permanent in ma¬
nufactures, is only temporary in agriculture. A fall in the
price of raw produce, by enabling every class to obtain
greater quantities than before for their products or their la¬
bour, raises the rate of profit, and leads, of course, to an in¬
creased accumulation of capital; and this necessarily leads
to a greater demand for labour, to higher wages, to an in¬
creased population, and, consequently, to a further demand
for raw produce and an extended cultivation. Agricultural
improvements check for awhile the necessity of having re¬
course to inferior soils and the rise of rents; but the check
cannot be lasting. The stimulus which they at the same
time give to improvement and population is sure in the end
to raise prices, and, by forcing recourse to poor lands, to
raise rents.
Malthus, in illustrating this important distinction between
agricultural and manufacturing industry, set the doctrine
senes oi ren^ a staking point of view. “ The earth,” he ob-
ichines serves, “ has been sometimes compared to a vast machine,
dowed presented by nature to man for the production of food and
th differ-raw materials; but, to make the resemblance more just, as
t pro- far as they admit of comparison, we should consider the
wers so^ as a present to man of a great number of machines, all
susceptible of continued improvement by the application
of capital to them, but yet of very different original quali¬
ties and powers.
“ This great inequality in the powers of the machinery
irth corn-
red by
althus to,
employed in procuring raw produce, forms one of the most Nature and
remarkable features which distinguishes the machinery of ^auses ol
the land from the machinery employed in manufactures. . Rent.
“ When a machine in manufactures is invented which " v”
will produce more finished work with less labour and capi¬
tal than before, if there be no patent, or as soon as the pa¬
tent is over, a sufficient number of such machines may be
made to supply the whole demand, and to supersede en¬
tirely the use of all the old machinery. The natural con¬
sequence is, that the price is reduced to the price of pro¬
duction from the best machinery; and if the price w'ere to
be depressed lower, the whole of the commodity would be
withdrawn from the market.
“ The machines which produce corn and raw materials,
on the contrary, are the gifts of nature, not the works of
man ; and we find by experience that these gifts have very
different qualities and powers. The most fertile lands of a
country, those which, like the best machinery in manufac¬
tures, yield the greatest products with the least labour and
capital, are never found sufficient to supply the effective
demand of an increasing population. The price of raw
produce, therefore, naturally rises till it becomes sufficiently
high to pay the cost of raising it with inferior machines,
and by a more expensive process; and as there cannot be
two prices for corn of the same quality, all the other ma¬
chines, the working of which requires less capital compared
with the produce, must yield rents in proportion to their
goodness.
“ Every extensive country may thus be considered as
possessing a gradation of machines for the production of
corn and raw materials, including in this gradation not only
all the various qualities of poor land, of which every large
territory has generally an abundance, but the inferior ma¬
chinery which may be said to be employed when good land
is further and further forced for additional produce. As
the price of raw produce continues to rise, these inferior
machines are successively called into action; and as the
price of raw produce continues to fall, they are successive ¬
ly thrown out of action. The illustration here used serves
to show at once the necessity of the actual price of corn to
the actual produce, and the different effect which would
attend a great reduction in the price of any particular ma¬
nufacture, and a great reduction in the price of raw pro¬
duce.
“ I have no hesitation, then, in affirming, that the reason
why the real price of corn is higher and continually rising
in countries which are already rich, and still advancing in
prosperity and population, is to be found in the necessity
of resorting constantly to poorer land,—to machines which
require a greater expenditure to work them,—and which
consequently occasion each fresh addition to the raw pro¬
duce of the country to be purchased at a greater cost;—in
short, it is to be found in the important truth, that corn is
sold at the price necessary to yield the actual supply ; and
that, as the production of this supply becomes more and
more difficult, the price rises in proportion.
“ I hope to be excused for having dwelt so long, and
presented to the reader in various forms, the doctrine that
corn, in reference to the quantity actually produced, is sold
at its necessary price, like manufactures, because I consider
it as a truth of the highest importance, which has been en¬
tirely overlooked by the economists, by Dr Smith, and all
those writers who have represented raw produce as selling
always at a monopoly price.” {Inquiry into the Nature and
Progress of Rent, p. 37.)
It appears, therefore, that in the earliest stages of society,
and when only the best lands are cultivated, no rent is paid.
The landlords, as such, do not begin to share in the pro¬
duce of the soil until it becomes necessary to cultivate lands
of an inferior degree of fertility, or to apply capital to the
superior lands with a diminished return. Whenever this
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
Value of
commodi¬
ties regu¬
lated by the
294
Nature and is the case, rent begins to be paid ; and it continues to in-
Causes of crease according as cultivation is extended over poorer
v Rent- S0ilSj and diminishes according as they are thrown out of
v'” 'cultivation. Rent, therefore, depends exclusively on the
extension of tillage. It is high where tillage is widely ex¬
tended over inferior lands, and low where it is confined to
the superior descriptions only. But in no case does rent
enter into price; for the produce raised on the poorest
lands, or with the capital last applied to the soil, determines
the price of all the rest; and this produce yields no surplus
above the common and average rate of profit.
It being thus established that the circumstance of land
being appropriated, and rent paid to the landlords, does
not affect the price of commodities, or the principle which
regulates their exchangeable value in the earliest stages of
society, we have, in the next place, to inquire into the ef¬
fects of the accumulation and employment of capital, and
of the rise and fall of wages on the value of commodities.
Sect. IV.— Influence of the Accumulation and Employment
of Capital, and of Fluctuations in the Rate of Wages on
Exchangeable Value.
It will be remembered, that the quantity of labour re¬
quired to produce commodities, and bring them to market,
formed, in the earliest stages of society, and before ca-
mnount ofL phal was accumulated, the standard by which their ex-
immediate changeable value was regulated. But capital is merely
labour and the accumulated produce of anterior labour; and when it
capital ex- js employed in the production of commodities, their value
their^rt)1 's determined, not by the quantity of immediate labour only,
duction.0" but by the total quantity of immediate labour and of accu¬
mulated labour, or capital, necessarily laid out on them.
Suppose that an individual can by a day’s labour, without
the assistance of capital, kill a deer ; but that it requires a
day’s labour to construct the weapons necessary to enable
him to kill a beaver, and another day’s labour to kill it; it is
evident, supposing the weapons to have been rendered use¬
less in killing the beaver, that it took as much labour to kill
the latter as was required to kill two deer, and the beaver
must, therefore, be worth the two deer. The durability of
the weapons, or capital of the beaver hunter, is obviously an
element of the greatest importance in estimating the value
of the animals he has killed. Had the weapons been more
durable than has been supposed,—had they served, for
example, to kill twenty beavers instead of one, then it is
plain the quantity of labour required to kill a beaver would
only have been one twentieth part, or five per cent., more
than that required to kill a deer, and the animals would, of
course, have been exchanged in that proportion. With
every extension of the duration of the weapons, the value
of the deer and the beaver would obviously be brought still
nearer to equality.
It appears, therefore, inasmuch as capital is nothing but
the produce of anterior labour, that its accumulation and
It does not, however, seem that there is much room for Exchange-
these differences. Suppose that a certain quantity of goods, ableValue.
twenty pairs of stockings, for example, manufactured by^J^w^
independent workmen, freely exchange for forty pairs ofplo®^
gloves also manufactured by independent workmen; theyof work.
w’ould necessarily continue to do so, provided the quantity men by ca-
oflabour formerly required for their production continuedpitalists
invariable, though the workmen were employed by some d(?es j104
master manufacturer. In the first case, it is true, as Dr o{.e
Smith has observed, that the whole goods produced by the c0mmo(ii.
workmen belonged to themselves, and that, in the second ties,
case, they had to share them with others. But it must be
recollected, that in the first case the capital made use of in
the production of the commodities also belonged to the
workmen, and that in the latter case it has been furnished
them by others. The question then comes to be,—does
the circumstance of labourers voluntarily agreeing to give a
portion of the commodities produced by them, as an equi¬
valent or compensation for the wages, that is, for the capital
furnished them by others, afford any ground for raising the
value of commodities ? It is evident it cannot. The pro¬
fits of stock are only another name for the wages of accu¬
mulated labour. They make a part of the price of every
commodity in whose production any portion of capital has
been wasted. But whether the capital belong to the la¬
bourer, or is supplied to him by another, is obviously of
no consequence. When the capital does not belong to
the labourer, the commodities he produces are divided into
two specific portions, whereof one is the return for the im¬
mediate labour, and the other for the capital, or accumu¬
lated labour, expended on their production. But the value
of the commodities is the same, into how many portions
soever they may be divided. A shoemaker who manufac¬
tures shoes on his own account, must obtain the same rate
of profit on their sale, that would accrue to a master-shoe¬
maker were he employed by him as a workman. He must
possess a capital adequate to maintain himself and his fa¬
mily until his shoes are disposed of, and he must also be
able to provide himself with a workshop and tools, to ad¬
vance money to the tanner to pay his leather, and to pro¬
vide for various other outgoings. If he did not, exclusive
of the ordinary wrages of labour, realize a rate of profit, or
a return for his capital, equal to the profit obtained by the
master-shoemaker, it would obviously be for his advantage
to lend his capital to the latter, and to work on his account;
and it is plain, inasmuch as his shoes could not be sold for
a higher price than those of the capitalist, that he could
not realize a greater rate of profit.
It appears, therefore, that the circumstance of the accu¬
mulated labour or capital, and the immediate labour re¬
quired to produce commodities, being furnished by differ¬
ent classes of people, makes no difference whatever on the
principle which shows that their value depends on the to¬
tal quantity of labour necessary for their production. It
now only remains to trace the influence of fluctuations in
the rate of wages on price. When this is done, the sub¬
employment cannot affect the principle which makes the
value of commodities depend on the quantities of labour ject will be exhausted.
required for their production. A commodity may be alto- To simplify this inquiry, we shall divide it into two Effect of
gether produced by capital, without the co-operation of any branches. We shall inquire,whether fluctuations in fluctu3-
immediate labour ; and if so, its value will be determined the rate of wages have any, and, if any, what effects, on the ^
by the quantity of capital, that is, of antecedent labour, ex- value of commodities produced by the aid of capitals ofr^se0” ex.
pended in its production : or it may be partly produced by equal degrees of durability; and, second, whether these Changeable
capital, and partly by immediate labour, and then its value fluctuations have any, and, if any, what effects, when the value:—
will be proportioned to the sum of the two, or, which is the capitals employed are of unequal degrees of durability,
same thing, to the total quantity oflabour bestowed upon
it. The principles now laid down are almost self-evident,
and we are not aware that they have been disputed by any
economist of consideration; but a considerable difference
of opinion is entertained respecting the influence on value
of the employment of workmen by capitalists, and of fluc¬
tuations in the rate of wages.
I. When all classes of producers employ fixed or circu¬
lating capitals, of precisely the same degree of durability,
they must be all equally affected by a rise or fall of wages.
This is a principle assented to by every one, and is indeed
self-evident. But when such is the case, it is plainly im¬
possible that a rise or fall of wages should occasion any
variation in the value of commodities. To revert to our
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
xchange- former example, let it be supposed that wages, at the rate
bleValue. 0f a shilling a day, were paid by the stocking manufacturer,
one pair of whose stockings exchanged for two pairs of
these gloves> and that, from some cause or other, the wages of his
uctua- work-people have been doubled, or raised to two shillings;
( ons when the question is, will he now obtain a greater quantity of
ie capitals gloves in exchange for his stockings? It is obvious he
11!r°’duc wil1 n0t‘ cannot urge the fact of his having to pay a
onareof Sreater amount of wages to his workmen, as a reason why
ie same the glove manufacturer should give him more gloves in
?gree of exchange for his stockings; for the latter would have it
| -liability, in his power to reply, that the same rise of wages affected
him to precisely the same extent! If, therefore, one pair
of stockings were previously worth two pairs of gloves, they
would continue to preserve; this relation to each other, so
long as the quantities of labour required for their produc¬
tion were not varied, whatever might be the fluctuation
of wages—whether they fell to a sixpence, or rose to five
shillings, a day. Even if the price of commodities rose,
which it could not, when wages rose, that would be of no
advantage to the producers. Commodities are always
bought by commodities, or by labour. Of what conse¬
quence, then, would it be to a capitalist, when wages rose,
to sell his commodities at an equal advance ; when he, in
his turn, would be obliged to give so much more for every
article which he purchased ? Were wages to rise fifty per
cent, a producer, a farmer, for example, would be precisely
in the same condition, whether he sold his corn for fifty
per cent, advance, and gave an additional fifty per cent., as
he would be obliged to do, for his hats, shoes, clothes, &c.
&c. or sold his corn at its former price, and bought all the
commodities which he consumes at the prices he had for¬
merly paid for them.
In order farther to illustrate this principle, we may be
allowed to make a supposition, which, although it can never
actually take place, will serve to set this doctrine in a clear¬
er point of view. Should the quantities of labour required
for the production of every species of commodities be in¬
creased in exactly the same proportion, it is plain their
exchangeable values would remain unaltered. Their cost
would, however, be augmented. A bushel of corn would not
then exchange for a greater quantity of muslins or of broad
cloth than it did before the increased expense of its pro¬
duction ; but each would be the produce of more than
the former quantity of labour. Under such circumstances,
the prices of commodities would remain stationary, while
the wealth and comforts of the society would be materially
diminished. Every person would have to make greater
exertions to obtain a given quantity of any one commodity ;
. but as the expense of producing all commodities is, by the
supposition, equally increased, it would not be necessary
to make any greater exertions to obtain one than another,
and their values, as compared with each other, would be
totally unaffected.
In this statement it is taken for granted that the value of
money has been all the while invariable, that is, that the
same quantity of labour continues necessary to produce
the same quantity of money. If the value of money fluc¬
tuate,—if it become either more or less difficult of produc¬
tion,—then, undoubtedly, both the rate of wages and the
price of commodities will vary. But they will do so, not
because the labourer gets a greater or less amount of
wages, but because the value of the commodity, or stand¬
ard in which wages and prices are estimated, has varied.
Wages, though most commonly paid in money, really con¬
sist of a portion of the produce of the industry of the la¬
bourer ; consequently, they bear a high proportional, or
cost value, when the labourer gets a comparatively large
share of the produce of his industry, and a low proportion¬
al value when he gets a comparatively small share of that
produce. Instead of being identical with wages estimated
295
in money or commodities, proportional wages are often Exchange-
lowest when money wages are highest, and they are often devalue,
rising at the moment that money wages are falling, and '''-—n'-—'
vice versa. And hence, in order to avoid falling into end¬
less mistakes, it is best, in all theoretical investigations
with respect to value, to consider wages in the light of a
certain proportion of the produce of industry ; as being
really invariable, so long as this proportion continues un¬
changed ; and as having really risen when it is increased,
and really fallen when it is diminished.
The mistaking of fluctuations in the rate of money wa¬
ges for fluctuations in the rate of proportional wages, has
been the source of much error and misapprehension. A
man whose wages are one shilling a day, must get two
shillings to keep them at the same level, should the value
of money decline a half; and the hat which now sells for
ten shillings must then, for the same reason, sell for twen¬
ty shillings. It is obviously false to call this a real rise, ei¬
ther of wages or prices : this, however, is what is general¬
ly done. The manufacturer who gives sixpence a day
more to his men, and who sells his goods at a proportion¬
ally higher price because of a fall in the real value of mo¬
ney, rarely suspects that there has been any such fall, and
almost invariably concludes that the rise of wages has
been the cause of the rise of prices, overlooking entirely
the real cause of the rise of both—the decline in the value
of the money or commodity in which wages and prices are
estimated.
It has been seen that a general and equal increase of the
labour required for the production of commodities cannot
alter their relation to one another; and it is consequently
obvious that this relation cannot be altered by a general
and equal increase of the w ages paid for that labour. Fluc¬
tuations in the rate of wages affect the proportion in which
the produce of industry, under deduction of rent, is divided
between capitalists and labourers—diminishing the propor¬
tion belonging to the capitalists when they rise, and increas¬
ing it when they fall. But as these changes in the distri¬
bution of commodities neither add to nor take from the
quantity of labour required to produce them and bring
them to market, they do not affect either their real or ex¬
changeable value.
II. We have seen by the investigation under the pre-2rf, Effect
ceding head, that, where the capitals employed in produc-°f these
tion are of equal degrees of durability, fluctuations in the ductua-
rate of wrages affect all classes of producers to the same ^1)ons ie,n
extent, and have, therefore, no influence on the value ofemp]0ye(j
commodities, or on their price. But when the capitals em-in produc-
ployed are of different degrees of durability, this is not the tion are of
case. Fluctuations in the rate of wages do not, in such de¬
cases, equally affect all classes of producers, and the natu-
ral equilibrium of profit cannot be maintained without a “ 11 7-
variation in the value of their products. To illustrate this,
let it be supposed that a certain quantity of goods, the pro¬
duce of fixed capital or machinery fitted to last many years,
freely exchanges for a certain quantity of other goods en¬
tirely produced by manual labour. It is plain they would
not be exchanged on this footing after a rise or fall of wages :
for the proprietor of the machinery would be very little
affected by such fluctuations, whereas they would very se¬
riously affect the proprietor of the goods produced by ma¬
nual labour. And, therefore, when wages fluctuate, the
values of the goods produced by capitals of different de¬
grees of durability must also fluctuate—that is, they must
be adjusted so that they may continue to yield the same
common and average rate of profit. Let us endeavour to
trace the mode in which this adjustment is effected.
The arguments now brought forward, to show the impos¬
sibility of fluctuations in the rate of wages affecting the
value of commodities produced by capitals of the same du¬
rability, were first advanced by Mr Ricardo. He, tco, was
296
Exchange¬
able Value.
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
If a rise of
wages low¬
ers profits,
it must
lower the
value of
gools
chiefly pro¬
duced by
fixed capi¬
tal or ma¬
chinery.
the first who endeavoured to analyse and discover the in¬
fluence of fluctuations in the rate of wages on commodities,
when the capitals employed in their production were not of
the same degree of durability. The results of his resear cites
in this more difficult branch of the science were still more
important, and more at variance with the previously re¬
ceived opinions of political economists. Mr Ricardo not
only showed that it was impossible for any rise of wages to
raise the price of all commodities ; but he also showed, that
in many cases a rise of wages necessarily led to a ot
prices, and a fall of wages to a rise of prices ! 1 he novelty
of these opinions, and the talent and ingenuity wiLi which
they were supported, immediately recommended them to
general notice; and the repeated examinations to which
they have been subjected have confirmed their truth, and
set them in a still clearer point of view.
Suppose a manufacturer has a machine worth L.^U,uuu,
of a high degree of durability, and which can, without the
assistance of any, or with but little, manual labour, produce
commodities: If profits were at ten per cent., the commo¬
dities annually produced by this machine would sell for
L.2000, together with a small addition to replace its wear
and tear.1 * * Now, it is quite clear, that if, from any cause
whatever, profits either rise or fall, the price of the goods
produced by this machine would also rise or fall. If profits
were to rise to fifteen per cent., the price of the goods pro¬
duced by the machine must, in order that its owner may
obtain the same profit with other capitalists, rise to L.3000 ;
and if, on the other hand, profits fall to five per cent., the
price of his goods must, for the same reason, fall to L.1000.
If, therefore, it can be shown that a rise of wages reduces
the rate of profits, it is plain it must also reduce the price
of such commodities as are chiefly produced by machinery,
or fixed* capital of a considerable degree of durability, or
by circulating capital returnable at distant periods, and vice
versa. But it is not difficult to see that this is really the
case, and that, in point of fact, profits, supposing other things
to continue the same, fall when wages rise, and rise when
wages fall.
It is plain, from what has been previously stated, that to
whatever extent wages might rise, it would be impossible
for any class of producers, whether their capitals were re¬
turnable in a day, a week, or any other period, to obtain a
larger share of the commodities produced by others of the
s'Wie class,—that is, whose capitals were returnable in equal
periods with their own. Suppose wages rise ten or twenty
per cent., that wmuld not enable the holder of a capital
returnable every month, or every twelve months, to obtain
any additional value in exchange for his commodities from
such of his fellow-capitalists as were affected to the same
extent with himself by the rise of wages,—that is, whose
capitals were returnable in the same period as his own.
This is as impossible as it is to change the relation of pro¬
portional numbers by multiplying or dividing them by the
same number ; and, therefore, it cannot be true that a rise
of wages will raise the price of any one commodity, as
compared with all other commodities.
But if a rise of wages cannot do this, it is demonstrably
certain it must lowrer profits. Suppose that the numbers 1,
2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, and 10, represent capitals of corre¬
sponding degrees of durability: When w7ages fluctuate, the
proprietors of the least durable capitals, numbers 1, 2, 3, 4,
and 5, are plainly more affected thereby than the proprie¬
tors of the more durable capitals, numbers 6, 7, 8, 9, and
10. Suppose, now, that wages rise, and let us endeavour
to discover what would be the effect of this rise on the
holder of a capital of the tenth degree of»durability. It
has been already seen that, whatever might be the amount Exchange.
of the rise—whether it were one, ten, or a hundred per cent, Value.
 the holder of such capital could not obtain any additional
quantity of the commodities belonging to other producers
whose capitals were also of the tenth degree of durability;
and in so far, therefore, as this class of commodities is con¬
cerned, profits will be reduced to the precise extent that
w ages have risen. But the holders of the other capitals are
all of them more affected by the rise of wages than the
holders of No. 10; and if we took any one of them as a
standard by which to measure profits, they w ould appear to
have fallen in a still greater proportion.
Hence it is plain, that while other things remain the same, Profitsvar.
profits vary inversely as wages ; that is, they fall when wages
rise, and rise wdien wages fall. But, owing to the different 13
and ever-varying proportions in which fixed and circulating
capital and immediate labour are employed in the produc¬
tion of commodities, it is extremely difficult to discover the
precise extent to which any given fluctuation in the rate of
wages affects profits. W e shall, howTever, state three dif¬
ferent cases, which will briefly, and, it is hoped, satisfacto¬
rily, elucidate the manner in which fluctuations in the rate
of wages always operate, and the method to be followed in
estimating their influence on profits.
1. If all commodities were produced by immediate labour, Method of
or by capital employed in the payment of wages, it is ob-^g
vious that every Vise of wages would cause an equal fall of
profits. A capitalist who employed L.1000 in the payment ^j0Ilsin ^
of wages must, if profits were at ten per cent., sell the com- rate of
modities for L.l 1 DO. But when wages rise five per cent., wapes on
or to L.1050, he would not be able to sell his commodities Protlts'
for more than L.l 100 ; for money is itself a commodity,
and as, by the supposition, all commodities are produced by
immediate labour, the rise of wages would affect the pro¬
ducers of money in the same degree that it affects other
producers. In this case, therefore, it is plain every rise of
wages will equally sink profits, and every fall of wages will
equally raise them.
2. If all commodities were produced, one half by im¬
mediate labour, and the other /i«// by capital, profits would
only fall to half the extent that wages rose. Suppose a
capitalist employs L.500 in the payment of wages, and L.oOO
as a fixed capital, when profits are at ten per cent., the
commodities produced must, as before, sell for L.l 100. If
wages rose five per cent., the capitalist would have to pay
L.525 as wages, and would, consequently, only retain L.75
as profits. In this case, therefore, a rise of wages to the
extent of five per cent, would, because of the employment
of equal quantities of capital and immediate labour in the
production of commodities, only sink profits two and a half
per cent.
3. If all commodities were produced by capital of a high
degree of durability, the capitalists, it is obvious, would not
be at all affected by a rise of wages, and profits would, of
course, continue as before.
Now, suppose that commodities, instead of being wholly
produced by immediate labour, as in the first case, or
wholly by equal quantities of immediate labour and of ca¬
pital, as in the second, or wholly by fixed capital, as in
the third, are partly produced in the one mode and partly
in the other, and let us see what effect this increase of five
per cent, in the rate of wages would have on their relative
values. To facilitate this inquiry, we shall distinguish these
three descriptions of commodities by the Nos. 1, 2, and 3.
Now, it is quite evident that the rise of wages has affected
No. 1 two and a half per cent, more than it has affected No.
2, and five per cent, more than it has affected No. 3. No. 1
1 So small a sum as two shillings and elevenpence would be sufficient for tnis purpose, if the machine would last for 100 years;
for an annuity of two shillings and elevenpence, accumulating for 100 years at ten per cent., would at the end of that period amount
to L.20,000.
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
rcchange-
le Value.
neral
e on the
oject of
liuctua-
must, therefore, as compared with No. 2, have risen two
and a half per cent, in value, and, as compared with No. 3,
it must have risen five per cent.; No. 2 must have fallen
two and a half per cent, as compared with No. 1, and risen
two and a half per cent, as compared with No. 3 ; and No.
3 must have fallen five per cent, as compared with No. 1,
and two and a half per cent, as compared with No. 2. If
wages, instead of rising, had fallen, the same effects would
obviously have been produced, but in a reversed order. The
proprietors of the commodities of the class No. 1 would gain
five per cent, by the fall, those of No. 2 would gain two
and a half per cent., and those of No. 3 nothing ; and the
relative values of their commodities would be adjusted ac¬
cordingly.1 *
Thus, then, it appears, inasmuch as any commodity taken
for a standard by which to estimate the values of other
commodities, must itself be produced by capital return¬
able in a certain period, that when wages rise, commodities
produced by less durable capitals than those which pro¬
duce the commodity taken for a standard, will rise in ex¬
changeable value, and those produced by more durable
capitals will fall; and conversely when wages are reduced.
Suppose, as before, that the Nos. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9,
and 10, represent capitals of corresponding degrees of du¬
rability : If a commodity produced by the least durable
capital, No. 1, and which may be supposed to be wholly
employed in the payment of wages, be taken for a stand¬
ard, all commodities whatever produced by the other and
more durable capitals would fall in value when wages rose ;
and if we suppose those produced by No. 2 to decline one
per cent., those produced by No. 3 would decline two per
cent., those produced by No. 4, three per cent., and so on
until we arrive at No. 10, which will have fallen nine per
cent. If, on the other hand, a commodity produced by the
most durable capital, No. 10, and which may be supposed
to consist wholly of highly durable machinery, be made the
standard, when wages rise, all the commodities produced
by the other less durable capitals would also rise ; and if
those produced by No. 9 rose one per cent., those produced
by No. 8 would rise two per cent., and those produced by
No. 1, nine per cent. If a commodity produced by capital
of a medium degree of durability, as No. 5, and which
may be supposed to consist half of circulating capital em¬
ployed in the payment of wages, and half of fixed capital
or machinery, be taken as a standard, the commodities pro¬
duced by the less durable capitals, Nos. 4, 3, 2, and 1, will
rise with a rise of wages, on the former hypothesis, the
first, or No. 4, one per cent., the second, or No. 3, two per
cent., &c.; while those produced by the more durable ca¬
pitals, Nos. 6, 7, 8, 9, and 10, will fall, the first, or No. 6,
one per cent., the second, or No. 7, two per cent., See. ex¬
actly the reverse of the other.
Hence it is obvious that the influence which variations in
the rate of wages have on price will principally depend on
the nature of the capital employed in the production of
gold and silver. Whatever may be the proportions of cir¬
culating and fixed capital employed in the production of
money, all commodities produced by the agency of a greater
quantity of labour, and with less fixed capital and machinery,
will rise when wages rise, and fall when wages fall ; but
those that are produced by the agency of a less quantity
of labour, and with more fixed capital or machinery, will
fall when wages rise, and rise when wages fall; and those
that are produced in nearly the same circumstances, or by
the agency of the same quantities of circulating and fixed
capital as money, will not be affected by fluctuation of
wages.
It should be observed, however, that variations in the
297
exchangeable value of most commodities, caused by va- Exchange-
nations in the rate of proportional wages, are confinedublc Value.
within comparatively narrow limits. It has been already  
seen, that were all commodities produced wholly by im- Vfariat}ons
mediate labour, or wholly by capital, or wholly by equal geaMe va-'
quantities of both, no variation in the rate of wages would lue caused
have any influence on their value. But, in point of fact, aby
very large class of commodities are produced by means of a,tions in .
nearly equal portions of fixed and circulating capital; and! ^ ^
as every rise of proportional wages that may take place fined with-
must, under such circumstances, be balanced by a fall in in narrow
the rate of profit, or by a proportional increase in the pro- haats.
ductiveness of industry, it is evident that the value of the
commodities in question, as compared with each other,
would remain nearly stationary. Although, therefore, a
rise of wages has a necessary tendency to raise the ex¬
changeable value of one class of commodities, and conse¬
quently to lower that of another, the fall of profits, which
must inevitably follow every rise of wages that is not ac¬
companied by an increased productiveness of industry, has
a contrary effect, and tends to sink the value of the com¬
modities which the increased rate of wages would raise,
and to elevate the value of those which the same increased
rate would sink. And it is only in extreme cases, or in
the case of commodities produced almost wholly by direct
manual labour on the one hand, or in that of those pro¬
duced almost wholly by the aid of fixed capital or machi¬
nery on the other, that a variation in the rate of propor¬
tional wages occasions a considerable variation in their re¬
lative values.
It must also be observed, that though fluctuations in the
rate of wages occasion some variation in the exchangeable
value of particular commodities, they neither add to nor
take from the total value of the entire mass. If they in¬
crease the value of those produced by the least durable
capitals, they equally diminish the value of those produced
by the more durable capitals. Their aggregate value con¬
tinues, therefore, always the same. And though it may
not be strictly true of a particular commodity, that its ex¬
changeable value is directly as its cost or real value, or as
the quantity of labour required to produce it and bring it to
market, it is most true to affirm this of the mass of commo¬
dities taken together.
In thus endeavouring to trace the cost of all descriptions
of non-monopolized commodities to the quantity of labour
required for their production, it is not meant to deny that a
very large portion of the useful or desirable qualities of such
commodities may be the result of the action or labour of
natural agents. But it is, as was previously seen, the pe¬
culiar and distinguishing feature of natural agents or powers,
that they render their services gratuitously. Whatever they
do is done without fee or reward. And hence, though
their co-operation be necessary to the production of every
species of useful and desirable articles, they add nothing
to their value. This is a quality that can be communi¬
cated only by the labour of man, or by the instrumentality
of capital appropriated or accumulated by his labour. In
estimating the value of a quantity of corn, for example,
we include only the labour of the individuals employed, as
ploughmen, reapers, thrashers, &c. the value of the corn
used as seed, and the value of the services rendered by
the horses and instruments made use of in the different
operations. Nothing whatever is set down to account of
the aid derived from the vegetative powers of nature, and
the action of the sun and showers ; for though without
them the crop could not be obtained, and our utmost ex¬
ertions would be altogether fruitless, yet, as they are the
free gift of Providence, they add nothing to the value of the
VOL.
1 These examples are substantially the same with those given by Mr Milk
xvm.
See Elements of Political Economy, p. 77-
2 p
298
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
Exchange- produce, that is, they add nothing to its power of exchun¬
able Value, ^ng for or buying labour, or other things procured by the
s " intervention of labour. . ...
. It mav be thought, perhaps, that this principle is at va¬
riance with what is observed to take place in the produc¬
tion of certain descriptions of commodities. Ihus, it a
cask of new wine be kept for a definite period, or till it ar¬
rive at maturity, it will acquire a higher value : now, as the
change produced on the wine is entirely brought about by
the operation of natural agents, and as, without the change,
the wine would have no higher value, it has been contend¬
ed that this is a case in which the labour of natural agents
is plainly productive of an increased value. But it is easy
to see that this is a mistake. The cask of wine is a capi¬
tal, or is the result of the labour employed in cultivating,
gathering, pressing, and otherwise preparing the grapes
irom which it was made. But it is necessary, in order to
give time for the processes of fermentation, decomposition,
&c. to effect the desired changes in the wine, that it should
be laid aside until they are completed. The producer of
wine would not, however, employ his capital in this way,
unless it were to yield the same return that is derived from
capital employed in other businesses. And hence it follows,
that though the processes carried on by nature render the
wine more desirable, or bestow on it a greater degree of
utility, they add nothing to its value ; the additional value
which it acquires being a consequence of the profit accru¬
ing.on the capital required to enable the processes to be
carried on. .
Besides the objection now stated, it has been contended
by Colonel Torrens, in his valuable work on the Produc¬
tion of Wealth, in opposition to the theory we have been
endeavouring to establish, that, after capital has been ac¬
cumulated, the value of commodities is no longer, as in the
early stages of society, determined by the total quantities
of labour required to bring them to market, but by the
quantities of capital required for that purpose. At bottom,
however, this theory is identical with that now explained.
Capital is the accumulated produce of anterior labour ; and
its value, like that of everything else, is estimated by the
quantity of labour required to procure it. In this respect,
too, there is no difference, as has been already seen, be¬
tween labourers and any other species of machines. A la¬
bourer is himself a portion of the national capital, and may,
without impropriety, be considered, in theoretical investiga¬
tions of this sort, in the light of a machine which it has re¬
quired a certain outlay of labour to construct; the wrages
which he earns may be looked upon as a fair remuneration
for his services, or, if we may so speak, they yield him the
common and ordinary rate of profit on his capital, exclusive
of a sum to replace its wear and tear, or to supply the place
of the old and decayed labourers with new ones. Whether,
therefore, a commodity have been produced by the outlay
of a capital which it cost a certain quantity of labour to pro¬
vide, or whether it have been produced by the expenditure
of that amount of labour directly upon it, is of no moment.
In either case it is the result of the same outlay of labour,
or, if it be deemed a better phrase, of capital. There is,
in truth, no substantial difference between the manual labour
of man and the action of machinery. Men are themselves,
in so far as their mere physical powers are concerned, and
it is of such only that we are now talking, to be looked upon
as capital, or to be considered in the same point of riew aaM™,
the tools or engines with which they perform their tasks ^weValnei
and to say that the exchangeable value of commodities de¬
pends on'the quantities of capital expended on their pro¬
duction, is not to contradict, but is, in fact, only another
way of expressing the identical proposition we have been
endeavouring to illustrate.1
Sect. V. Division of the Produce of Industry, under de¬
duction of Pent, between Capitalists and Workmen—De¬
finition of Profits.—Mr Ricardos Theory of Profits ;
'sense in which it is true—Causes tchich occasion a Rise
or a Fall of Profits.—Influence of the Decreasing Fer¬
tility of the Soil and of Taxation on Profits.
Before attempting to investigate the circumstances which Dirisoii cE
determine the rate of profit, it is necessary to be aware ofthe Pro-
those which determine the proportions in which the whole ^
produce of industry, under deduction of rent, is divided be-
tween labourers and capitalists. capitalists
This preliminary inquiry may be disposed of in a few and work-
words. We have seen, that the whole produce of the landmen,
and labour of every civilized society is always divided, in
the first instance, into three, and not more than three, por¬
tions ; the first of which goes to the labourers, the second
to the capitalists or proprietors of stock, and the third to
the landlords ; and we have also seen, that the portion of
the produce of industry, or of rent, which belongs to the
landlords, as proprietors of the soil, and not as capitalists,
is altogether extrinsic to the cost of production ; and that
the circumstance of the landlords’ consenting to give it up,
would not occasion any change in the productiveness of in¬
dustry, or any reduction in the price of raw produce. Sup¬
posing, then, that rent is deducted or set aside, it is obvi¬
ous that all the remaining produce of the land and labour
of every country must be primarily divided between the
two great classes of labourers and capitalists. And it is
further obvious, that were there no taxes in a country, or
were the rate of taxation invariable, the proportion of the
whole produce of industry, under deduction of rent, falling
to the share of the labourers, could not be increased except
by an equivalent reduction in the proportion falling to the
share of the capitalists, and vice versa. Suppose, still bet¬
ter to illustrate this proposition, that the whole produce ot
industry in Great Britain is represented by the number
1000; suppose farther, that the landlords get 200 of this
sum as rent, and that the remaining 800 is divided in equal
portions between labourers and capitalists. L nder these
circumstances, it is quite obvious that nothing could be add¬
ed to the proportion of the produce, or to the 400, falling
to the labourers, except at the expense of the capitalists;
nor to the proportion or 400 falling to the latter, except at
the expense of the former.
Whether the 800 were increased to 1600, or reduced to
400, so long as those between whom it must be divided re¬
ceive each a half, their relative condition must continue the
same. And hence the propriety of the distinction between
proportional and real wages, or wages estimated in parts ot
the produce raised by the labourer, and those estimated in
definite quantities of money or produce. If the productive¬
ness of industry were to diminish, proportional wages might
rise, notwithstanding that real wages, or the absolute quan-
1 Sir V, illiam Petty stated, so early as 1GG7, that the value of commodities is always regulated by the quantity of labour required
to produce them ; there is, however, the same difference between his statements and the analysis and investigations of Mr Ricardo,
whom we have principally followed in this section, that there is between the conjectures of Pythagoras respecting the true system
ofthe world and the demonstrations of Newton. But as the statement of Petty is curious, we subjoin it:
If,” says he, “ a man can bring to London an ounce of silver out of the earth in Peru in the same time that he can produce a
bushel of corn, then one is the natural price of the other ; now, if, by reason of new and more easie mines, a man can get two ounces
of silver as easily as formerly he did one, then corn will be as cheap at 10s. the bushel- as it was before at 5s. ccetcris paribus.' (Trea¬
tise of Taxes and Contributions, ed. 1G79, p. 31.)
POLITICAL
Division tity of the products of industry received by the labourer,
tofln-111‘»ht be diminished ; and if, on the other hand, the pro-
ustrv be- ductiveness of industry were to increase, proportional wages
,veeii Ca- might be diminished, while real wages might, at the same
pitaiists time, be increased.
>d Work- It is plain, therefore, that were taxation unknown or
men'^ y constant, the whole produce of industry, under deduction of
rent, would be divided between capitalists and labourers ;
and that the proportion of that produce falling to either
party would vary inversely as the proportion falling to the
other—that is, the proportion falling to the capitalists would
be increased when that falling to the labourers was dimi¬
nished, and diminished when it was increased,
efinition Profits must not, however, be confounded with the pro-
proiits. duce 0f industry primarily received by the capitalists. They
really consist of the produce, or the value of the produce,
remaining to those who employ capital in industrious un¬
dertakings, after all their payments to others have been de¬
ducted, and after the capital wasted or used in the under¬
takings has been replaced. If the produce derived from an
undertaking, after defraying the necessary outlay, be insuf¬
ficient to replace the capital expended, a loss will have
been incurred; if the capital be merely replaced, and there
is no surplus, there will neither be loss nor profit; and the
greater the surplus, the greater of course will be the profit.
Profits are not measured by the proportion which they bear
to the rate of wages, but by the proportion which they bear
to the capital by the agency of which they have been pro¬
duced. Suppose an individual employs a capital equiva¬
lent to 1000 quarters of corn in the cultivation of a farm,
and that he expends 700 quarters in the payment of wages,
and 300 in seed and other outgoings: suppose now that
the return to this capital is 1200 quarters. Under these cir¬
cumstances, the proportion of the produce falling to the
labourers as wages, will be to that falling to the capitalists
as seven to two ; for of the 1200 quarters that fall, in the
first instance, to the capitalist, 200 only are profits, 1000
being required to replace the capital he has expended. In
this case, therefore, the rate of profit would be said to be
twenty per cent., meaning, that the excess of produce be¬
longing to the cultivator, after the capital employed in its
production was fully replaced, amounted to twenty per cent,
upon that capital.
■ Ricar- We have been thus particular with respect to the defini-
- theory tion of profits, because, from not keeping it sufficiently in
profits. vieW) yir Ricardo has been led to contend, that the rate of
profit depends on the proportion in which the produce of
industry, under deduction of rent, is divided between capi¬
talists and labourers; that a rise of profits can never be
brought about except by a fall of proportional wages, nor a
fall of profits except by a corresponding rise of proportional
wages. It is evident, however, that this theory is true only
in the event of our attaching a radically different sense to
the term profit from what is usually attached to it, and
supposing it to mean the real value of the entire portion of
the produce of industry falling, in the first instance, to the
share of the capitalist, without reference to the proportion
which this produce bears to the capital employed in its
production. If we understand the terms in this sense, Mr
Ricardo’s theory will hold universally ; and it may be af¬
firmed, that so long as the proportion in which the produce
of industry, under deduction of rent, is divided between
capitalists and labourers, continues the same, no increase
or diminution of the powers of production will occasion any
variation in the rate of profit. But if we consider profits
in the light in which they are invariably considered in the
real business of life—as the produce accruing to the capita¬
lists, after the capital expended by them in payments and
outgoings of all sorts is fully replaced—it will immediately
be seen, that there are innumerable exceptions to Mr Ri¬
cardo’s theory.
ECONOMY. 299
It w ill facilitate the acquisition of clear and precise ideas Profits and
respecting the circumstances which determine the average Wages.
rate of profit in different employments, as that term is com- ^
monly understood, if we confine our attention, in the first m
place, to those that determine profits in agriculture,—bothture^
because the latter admit ot being accurately measured, and
because they may be taken as representing profits in other
businesses. Agriculture is a branch of industry that must
be carried on at all times, and under all circumstances; but
it would not be carried on, if it did not, at an average,
yield as great a return to the capital vested in it as other
businesses ; nor would these other businesses be carried on
if they yielded a less return than is derived from agricul¬
ture. It necessarily follows, therefore, that the returns ob¬
tained Irom agricultural industry, or agricultural profits,
may, in ordinary cases, be considered as identical with the
returns or profits obtained from other businesses. When¬
ever, for example, the average return to an outlay of capi¬
tal or labour worth a hundred quarters of wheat, employed
in the cultivation of the soil, amounts to a hundred and ten
quarters, we may safely infer that L. 100 employed in ma¬
nufactures is also yielding L.110: for a regard to their
own interest will not permit those engaged in such depart¬
ments to prosecute them for less profit than is obtained in
agriculture, and the competition of the agriculturists will
not permit them to obtain more.
Taking, then, as we are entitled to do, agricultural pro-Circum-
fits as a standard of all other profits, let us suppose that asta)ffes
landlord employs a capital equal in value to i 0,000 quar- whkh oc-
ters, or L. 10,000, in the cultivation of an estate; that he^j^^L,
expends 5000 quarters, or L.5000, of this capital in seed, 0f profits,
in the keeping of horses, and in defraying the wear and
tear of implements and machines ; and 5000 quarters, or
L.5000, in paying the wages of his labourers. Suppose,
now, that the return obtained by this landlord is 12,000
quarters, or L.12,000 ; of which 10^000 quarters, or L. 10,000,
go to replace his capital, and 1000 quarters, or L.1000, to
pay his taxes, leaving 1000 quarters, or L.1000, as profits,
being ten per cent, on the capital employed : it is plain
from this case (and this case is, in point of principle, the
actual case of all cultivators), that the rate of profit may be
increased in three, but only in one or other of three, ways,
viz. 1, by a fall of wages ; 2, a fall of taxes ; or, 3, an in¬
creased productiveness of industry.
Thus, it is obvious, 1, that if wages were reduced from
5000 to 4000 quarters, profits, supposing other things to be
invariable, would be increased from 1000 to 2000 quarters,
or from ten to twenty per cent.: if, 2, the burden of tax¬
ation were reduced from 1000 to 500 quarters, profits would
be increased from 1000 to 1500 quarters, or from ten to
fifteen per cent.: and if, 3, owing to the introduction of
an improved system of agriculture, the return to a capital
of 10,000 quarters were increased from 12,000 to 13,000
quarters, profits, supposing wages still to amount to 5000
and taxes to 1000 quarters, would be increased to 2000
quarters, or to twenty per cent.; and though, in this case,
after the productiveness of industry had been increased,
wages would form a less proportion of the whole produce
of industry than they did previously, it is to be observed,
that this diminished proportion is the consequence, and not
the cause, of profits having risen; and, therefore, in such
cases as this, and they are of very frequent occurrence, it is
true to say, that proportional wages fall because profits rise :
but the converse of the proposition is not true ; for the rise
of profits was occasioned by causes that had nothing what¬
ever to do with wages, and which were, in fact, totally in¬
dependent of them.
It is indeed true, inasmuch as the rise of profits is the
result of an increased productiveness of industry’, that the
real value of the 13,000 quarters will not exceed the real
value of the 12,000 previously obtained by the same quan-
300 POLITICAL
Profits andtity of labour ; but profits, in the sense in which they are
Wages, practically understood, and as we understand them, do not
''—  depend on real values, but on the excess of the commodi-
ties produced above the capital expended in their produc¬
tion ; and whenever this excess is augmented, without any
previous depression in the rate of wages, the rate of profit
must evidently be increased by the operation of causes ex¬
trinsic to variations in that rate.
Nor is this all. The rate of profit may remain stationary,
or rise, though the proportion of the produce of industry
falling to the share of the labourer be actually increased.
Suppose, to exemplify this, that a landlord employs 1000
quarters of wheat as a capital, 500 of which are expended
in seed, keep of horses, &c. and 500 in paying wages ; if
the produce be 1200 quarters, and the taxes to which he
is subjected 100, his profits will amount to 100 quarters, or
ten per cent.: suppose now that, owing to the introduction
of improved machinery, or improved methods of culture, he
only requires to expend 400 quarters in seed, keep of horses,
&c. but that wages rise from 500 to 550 quarters, and that
the same return is obtained ; in this case, supposing tax¬
ation to be constant, the profits of the landlord will be in¬
creased from ten to fifteen three fourths per cent., though
proportional wages have risen from five twelfths to five and
a half twelfths of the whole produce.
It may be said, however, that if this increased produc¬
tiveness were confined to agriculture, and did not extend to
most other important businesses, the price of agricultural
produce would fall, while that of other produce would re¬
main stationary; and that, in such a case, the profits of
agricultural industry, if estimated in money, or in any com¬
modity other than corn, would be diminished in consequence
of the rise of wages. This is true; but Mr Ricardo has
made no exception, in laying down his theory, in favour of
those possible, and indeed frequently occurring cases, when,
from any single circumstance, or combination of various
circumstances, industry becomes generally more productive,
and when, consequently, profits, estimated in money, corn,
cloth, or any commodity in extensive demand, would have
risen, without their rise having been occasioned by a fall
of wages. And it is also true, that an increased produc¬
tiveness of agricultural industry, whether it have been caused
by the introduction of an improved system of agriculture,
or by the repeal of restrictions on the importation of corn
into a comparatively populous country, most commonly ex¬
tends itself to other businesses, and has the effect of bringing
about a universal rise of profits; for, as raw produce forms
the principal part of the labourer’s subsistence, and as he
obtains a larger quantity in exchange for the same amount
of money, after it has fallen in price, his condition is in so
far improved; and a stimulus being, in this way, given to
population, and the supply of labour increased, wages are
reduced, and the rate of profit universally raised.
When industry, instead of becoming more productive,
becomes less so, the opposite effects follow. Profits then
fall, without any fall having previously taken place in the
rate of wages. It is evident, therefore, that the proposition
that a rise of profits cannot be brought about otherwise than
by a fall of wages, nor a fall of profits otherwise than by a
rise of wages, is true only in those cases in which the pro¬
ductiveness of industry and the burden of taxation remain
constant. So long as this is the case, or, which is the same
thing, so long as the same capital is employed, and the same
quantity of produce has to be divided between capitalists
and labourers, the share of the one cannot be increased
without that of the other being equally diminished; and
it is also true, that if profits depended on the proportion
in which the produce of industry is divided between ca¬
pitalists and labourers, they could not be affected by va¬
riations in the productiveness, but would be determined
wholly by the state of proportional wages. But profits de-
ECONOMY.
pend, as has been already seen, on the proportion which Profits an j
they bear to the capital by which they are produced, and I
not on the proportion which they bear to wages. Suppose ^ v’'*i
an individual employs a capital of 1000 quarters, or L.1000,
in cultivation; that he lays out half this capital in the pay¬
ment of wages, and obtains a return of 1200 quarters, or
L.1200 : in this case, assuming he is not affected by taxa¬
tion, his profits will amount to 200 quarters, or L.200, be¬
ing at the rate of twenty per cent., and will be to wages
in the proportion of two to five. Suppose, now, that the
productiveness of industry is universally doubled, and let it
be farther supposed, that the additional 1200 quarters, or
L.1200, is divided between the capitalist and his labourers
in the former proportion of two to five, or that the capitalist
gets 343 quarters, or L.343, of additional profits, and the
labourers 857 quarters, or L.857, of additional wages: in
this case, both parties will still obtain the same proportions
of the produce of industry as before; and if we look only
to them, we must say that neither profits nor wages have
risen. But when we compare, as is invariably done in es¬
timating profits, the return obtained by the capitalist with
the capital he employs, it will be found, notwithstanding
the constancy of proportional wages, that the rate of profit
has increased from twenty to fifty-four per cent.
Thus, then, it appears, as was previously stated, that pro¬
fits rise in one or other of the three following ways, viz. 1,
from a fall of wages; or, 2, from a fall cff taxes directly
or indirectly affecting capitalists; or, 3, from an increased
productiveness of industry : and they fall, 1, from a rise of
wages; or, 2, from an increase of taxes ; or, 3, from a dimi¬
nished productiveness of industry. But they can neither
rise nor fall, except from the operation of one or more of
the causes now stated.
It is consistent with universal experience, that profits are Influence o|
invariably much higher in colonies, and thinly-peopled coun-jk0^™5
tries, than in countries that have been long settled, and where
the population is comparatively dense ; and that (referring 0)1 projjts
to periods of average duration) their tendency is to fall in
the progress of society. This sinking of profits in rich and
populous countries has been ascribed by Dr Smith to the
competition of capitalists. He supposes that when capital is
augmented, its owners endeavour to encroach on each other’s
employments ; and that, in furtherance of their object, they
are tempted to offer their goods at a lower price, and to
give higher wages to their workmen; which has a twofold
influence in reducing profits. This theory was long univer¬
sally assented to. It has been espoused by MM. Say, Sis-
mondi, and Storch, by the Marquis Gamier, and, with some
trifling modifications, by Mr Malthus. But, notwithstand¬
ing the deference due to these authorities, it is easy to see
that competition can never bring about a general fall of
profits. It prevents any one individual, or set of individuals,
from monopolizing a particular branch of industry, and re¬
duces the rate of profit in different businesses nearly to the
same level; but this is its whole effect. Most certainly it
has no tendency to lessen the productiveness of industry, or
to raise the average rate of wrages or the rate of taxation;
and if it do none of these things, it is quite impossible it
should lower profits. So long as an individual, employing
a capital of 1000 quarters, or L.1000, obtains from it a re¬
turn of 1200 quarters, or L.1200, of which he has to pay
100 quarters, or L.100, as taxes, so long will his profits con¬
tinue at ten per cent., whether he have the market to him¬
self, or have 50,000 competitors. It is not competition, but
it is the increase of taxation, and the necessity under which
a growing society is placed of resorting to soils of less fer¬
tility to obtain supplies of food, that are the great causes of
that reduction in the rate of profit which usually takes place
in advanced periods. When the last lands taken into cul¬
tivation are fertile, there is a comparatively large amount
of produce to be divided between capitalists and labourers;
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
'refits and and both profits and real wages may, consequently, be high.
Wages. But with every successive diminution in the fertility of the
soils to which recourse is had, the quantities of produce ob¬
tained by the same outlays of capital and labour necessarily
diminish.1 And this diminution will obviously operate to
reduce the rate of profit—1, by lessening the quantity of
produce to be divided between capitalists and labourers;
and, 2, by increasing the proportion falling to the share of
the latter.
The influence of the decreasing productiveness of the
soil, as well on the condition and fortunes of society, as on
the rate of profit, is so very powerful, that we shall endeavour
to trace and exhibit its operation a little more fully. It
has been shown over and over again, that the principle of
increase in the human race is so very strong, as not only
to keep population steadily up to the means of subsistence,
but to give it a tendency to exceed them. It is true, that
a peculiar combination of favom-able circumstances occa¬
sionally causes capital to increase faster than population,
and wages are in consequence augmented. But such aug¬
mentation is rarely permanent, at least to the whole ex¬
tent; for the additional stimulus it is almost sure of giving
to population seldom fails, by proportioning the supply of
labour to the increased demand, to reduce wages to their
old level, or to one not much above it. If, therefore, it
were possible always to employ additional capital in rais¬
ing raw produce, in manufacturing that produce when
raised, and in conveying the raw and manufactured pro¬
ducts from place to place, with an equal return, it is evi¬
dent, supposing taxation to continue invariable, that, speak¬
ing generally, the greatest increase of capital would not oc¬
casion any considerable fall in the rate of profit. So long
as labour may be obtained at the same rate, and as its pro¬
ductive power is not diminished, so long must the profits of
stock continue unaffected. It is evident, then, that the
mere increase of capital has, by itself, no lasting influence
on wages, and it is obviously the same thing, in so far as the
rate of profit is concerned, whether ten or ten thousand
millions be employed in the cultivation of the soil, and in
the manufactures and commerce of this or any other king¬
dom, provided the last million so employed be as produc¬
tive, or yield as large a return, as the first. Now, this is
invariably the case with the capital employed in manufac¬
tures and commerce. The greatest amount of capital and
labour may be employed in fashioning raw produce, and
adapting it to our use, and in transporting it from where it
is produced to where it is to be consumed, without a dimi¬
nished return. Whatever quantity of labour may now be
required to build a ship or construct a machine, it is abun¬
dantly certain that an equal quantity will, at any future pe¬
riod, suffice to build a similar ship, or to construct a simi¬
lar machine ; and although these ships and machines were
indefinitely multiplied, the last would be as well adapted to
every useful purpose, and as serviceable, as the first. The
probability, indeed, or rather the certainty, is, that the last
would be much more serviceable than the first. It is not
possible to assign limits to the powers and resources of ge¬
nius, nor consequently to the improvement of machinery,
and of the skill and industry of the labourer. Future Watts,
Arkwrights, and Wedgwoods, will arise ; and the stupen¬
dous discoveries of the last 'and present age will doubtless
be equalled, and most probably surpassed, in the ages that
are to come. It is therefore clear, that if equal quantities
of capital and labour always raised equal quantities of raw
produce, the greatest additions that might be made to them
would not lessen the capacity of employing them with ad¬
vantage, or sink the rate of profit. But here, and here only,
the bounty of nature is limited, and she deals out her gifts Profits and
with a frugal and parsimonious hand, ° Wages.
   Pater ipse colendi
Haud facilem esse viam voluit.
Fqual quantities of capital and labour do not always pro¬
duce equal quantities of raw produce. The soil is of limit¬
ed extent and limited fertility; and this limitation is the
real check—the insuperable obstacle—which prevents the
means of subsistence, and consequently the inhabitants, of
every country, from increasing in a geometrical proportion,
until the space required for carrying on the operations of
industry has become deficient.
It is plain that the decreasing productiveness of the soils
to which every improving society is obliged to resort, will
not, as was previously observed, merely lessen the quantity
of produce to be divided between profits and wages, but
will also increase the proportion of that produce falling to
the share of the labourer. It is quite impossible to go on
increasing the cost of raw produce, the principal part of the
subsistence of the labourer, by forcing good or taking in¬
ferior lands into cultivation, without increasing wages. A
rise of wages is seldom indeed exactly coincident with a
rise in the price of necessaries, but they can never be very
far separated. The price of the necessaries of life is in
fact the cost of producing labour. The labourer cannot
work, if he be not supplied with the means of subsistence;
and though a certain period of varying extent, according
to the circumstances of the country at the time, must ge¬
nerally elapse, when necessaries are rising in price, before
wages are proportionally augmented, such an augmentation
must, in all ordinary cases, be brought about in the end.
It is plain, therefore, inasmuch as there is never any fall¬
ing off, but a constant increase, in the productiveness of
the labour employed in manufacturing and commercial in¬
dustry, that the subsistence of the labourer could not be
increased in price; and, consequently, that it would not be
necessary to make any additions to his natural wages, or
the wages required to enable him to subsist and continue
his race, were it not for the diminished power of agricultu¬
ral labour, originating in the inevitable necessity under
which man is placed, of resorting to inferior soils to obtain
larger supplies of raw produce. The decreasing fertility of
the soil is, therefore, at bottom, the great and only neces¬
sary cause of a fall of profits. The quantity of produce
forming the return to capital and labour would never dimi¬
nish, but for the diminution that uniformly takes place in
the productiveness of the soil; nor is there any other phy¬
sical cause why the proportion of wages to profits should be
increased, and the rate of profit diminished, as it uniformly
is, in the progress of society.
We have thus endeavoured to exhibit the ultimate influ¬
ence which the necessity of resorting to poorer lands for
supplies of food has on profits and wages. But though this
cause of the reduction of profits be “ of such magnitude
and power as finally to overwhelm every other,”2 its ope¬
rations may be, and indeed commonly are, counteracted or
facilitated by extrinsic causes. It is obvious, for example,
that every discovery or improvement in agriculture, which
enables a greater quantity of produce to be obtained for the
same expense, has a similar effect on profits, as if the ex¬
tent of superior soils were increased, and may, for a length¬
ened period, increase the rate of profit.
Had the inventive genius of man been limited in its
powers, and had the various machines and implements used
in agriculture, and the skill of the husbandman, speedily
attained to their utmost perfection, the rise in the price of
1 This supposes, of course, either that no improvements are made, or that their influence has been taken into account.
2 Malthus’ Principles of Political Economy, &c. p. 317.
302 POLITICAL
Prolits and raw produce, and the fall of profits consequent to the in-
Wages. crease of population, would have been so apparent as to
s Y " ^ force themselves on the attention of every one. \\ hen, in
such a state of things, it became necessary to resort to
poorer soils to raise an additional quantity of food, a coi re¬
sponding increase of labour would have been required ; for,
supposing the perfection of art to be attained, nothing ex¬
cept greater exertion can overcome fresh obstacles. Not
only, therefore, would additional labour have been neces¬
sary to the production of a greater quantity of food, but it
would have been necessary in the precise proportion in
which the difficulty of its production was increased ; so that,
had the arts continued stationary, the price of raw produce
would have varied directly with every variation in the qua¬
lities of the soils successively brought under tillage.
But the circumstances which really regulate the value of
raw produce are extremely different. It is true, indeed,
that even in those societies that are most rapidly improv¬
ing, it has, as was previously shown, a constant tendency to
rise ; for the rise of profits consequent to every invention,
by occasioning a greater demand for labour, gives a fresh
stimulus to population ; and thus, by increasing the demand
for food, again inevitably forces the cultivation of poorer
soils, and raises prices. But it is evident that improve¬
ments render these effects of this great law of nature, from
whose all-pervading influence the utmost efforts of human
ingenuity cannot enable man to escape, far less palpable
and obvious. After inferior soils are cultivated, more la¬
bourers are, in most cases, required to raise the same quan¬
tities of food ; but as the powers of labourers are gradually
improved in the progress of society, a much smaller num¬
ber is required, in proportion to the whole work that is per¬
formed, than if no such improvement had taken place. The
natural tendency to an increase in the price of raw produce
is in this way counteracted. The productive energies of
the earth gradually diminish, and we are compelled to re¬
sort to less fruitful soils ; but the productive energies of the
labour employed in their tillage are as constantly augment¬
ed by the discoveries and inventions that are always being
made. Two directly opposite and continually acting prin¬
ciples are thus set in motion. From the operation of fixed
and permanent causes, the increasing sterility of the soil is
sure, in the long run, to overmatch the improvements that
occur in machinery and agriculture, prices experiencing a
corresponding rise, and profits a corresponding fall. Oc¬
casionally, however, these improvements more than com¬
pensate, during lengthened periods, for the deterioration in
the quality of the soils successively cultivated; and a fall of
prices and rise of profits take place, until the constant pres¬
sure of population has again forced the cultivation of still
poorer lands.
In so far as the general principle is concerned, the pre¬
vious reasoning is applicable alike to the commercial world
or to a single nation. It is plain, however, that the fall in
the rate of profit, and the consequent check to the progress
of society, originating in the necessity of resorting to poorer
soils, will be more severely felt in an improving country,
wdiich excludes foreign corn from her markets, than in one
which maintains an unfettered intercourse with her neigh¬
bours. V- ere a highly manufacturing and commercial coun-
try, like England, to deal with all the world on fair and li¬
beral principles, she might avail herself of all those capa¬
cities of production which Providence has given to different
countries ; and besides obtaining supplies of food at the
cneapest rate at which they can be raised, the numberless
markets to which she could resort would prevent her from
feeling any very injurious consequences from the occasional
failure of her own harvests, or from deficiencies in one or
a few of the sources whence she drew her foreign supplies ;
so that she would thus go far to secure herself constant
plenty, and, what is of hardly less importance, constant stea-
ECONOMY.
diness of price. Such a nation would have the foundations Profits si
of her greatness established on a broad and solid basis ; for ^ a?es
they would rest, not on the productive powers of her own 'v'"
soil only, but on those of all the countries of the world.
And supposing her not to be involved to an unusual degree
in war, or subjected to comparatively heavy taxes, her pro¬
fits w'ould not be reduced, nor would she get clogged in
her progress, until the increase of population forced the cul¬
tivation of inferior soils in the countries whence she was in
the custom of importing corn. And even then she would
not be surpassed by her neighbours ; her progress being re¬
tarded by a cause which equally affects them, her relative
power would not be impaired; and should new markets be
opened, or new discoveries made, in any quarter of the world,
she wrould reap her full share of the advantage, and be re¬
novated and strengthened for a new career of exertion.
But the case would be very different were foreign raw-
produce excluded from the markets of a nation like Eng¬
land, which has made an unusual progress in commerce and
manufactures, and whose population is therefore compara¬
tively dense. A government which prevents its subjects
from exchanging their manufactured goods for the corn of
more fertile or less densely-peopled countries, compels them
prematurely to resort to poor soils at home ; and profits be¬
ing consequently reduced, the country is made to approach
the stationary state at a period when, had the legislature
acted on more enlarged principles, she might have been ad¬
vancing with the same rapidity as before in the career of
improvement.
It is needless here to advert to the influence of restric¬
tions on the corn trade in aggravating the evils of scarcity,
and occasioning fluctuations of price. Their operation in
this respect is too w7ell established to admit of any doubt.
But supposing it wrere otherwise, still it must be obvious,
for the reasons stated above, that such restrictions cannot
fail to be exceedingly injurious. It may, one should think,
be laid down as an axiom, that government should either
not interfere at all with industrious undertakings, or inter¬
fere only in the view7 of rendering them more secure or more
productive. But to exclude any article, and particularly
one so important as corn, when it may be imported cheaper
from abroad than it can be raised directly at home, is really
to adopt the means most effectual for rendering industry
least secure and least productive ! It is not merely contra¬
dicting the best established principles, but it is employing
the power of government to arrest the natural progress of
opulence and prosperity, and to accelerate the period of old
age, decrepitude, and decay! If we could, by laying out
L.1000 on the manufacture of cottons or hardware, produce
a quantity of these articles that .would exchange for 400
quarters of Polish or American wheat; and if the same sum,
when expended in cultivation in this country, would not
produce more than 300 quarters; the prevention of impor¬
tation occasions an obvious sacrifice of 100 quarters out of
every 400 consumed in the empire ; or, which is the same ^
thing, it occasions an artificial advance of twenty-five per
cent, in the price of corn. It is not even true that a sys¬
tem of this sort is, in any respect, advantageous to the land¬
lords or farmers; and to suppose that it can be advanta¬
geous to those who are obliged to buy their produce, is too
contradictory to merit one moment’s attention.
Practically, however, we are not disposed to think that
the influence of the existing restrictions on the importation
ot corn into Great Britain is nearly so injurious as is fre¬
quently represented. The fact is, that our average prices
have been during the last seven years rapidly approximating
to those of the Continent. Owing to the great increase in
the imports from Ireland, and still more to the extraordi¬
nary improvement made in agriculture since 1825, partly
by the greater facilities afforded by steam-navigation for
bringing the produce of the more remote districts to market,
POLITICAL
refits and and partly and principally, perhaps, by the influence of a
Wages, better system of draining, and of the application of bone-
manure, &c., production has latterly shot a-head of popu¬
lation. During the seven years ending with 1837, prices
were comparatively low, and were, indeed, taking quality
into account, but little, if anything, above their level in
the principal markets in the western parts of continental
Europe supplied with corn brought from a distance. The
pernicious influence of the corn-laws is now principally felt
in scarce years, or when the crop is deficient; and as their
tendency is to render the country dependent on its own
resources, and to hinder corn from being grown abroad for
our markets, they must necessarily aggravate, in no common
degree, all the mischievous consequences resulting from a
bad harvest. Sound policy would, therefore, suggest their
repeal, under the conditions, and in the way pointed out, in
the article Corn Laws.
PART IV.
CONSUMPTION OF WEALTH.
Having in the previous sections endeavoured to explain
the means by which labour is facilitated, and wealth pro¬
duced, and to investigate the laws which regulate its dis¬
tribution among the various classes of society, we come now
to the third and last division of the science, or to that which
treats of the Consumption of Wealth.
Definition of Consumption.— Consumption the end of Pro¬
duction— Test of Advantageous and Disadvantageous
Consumption—Error of Dr Smith’s Opinions with re¬
spect to Unproductive Consumption Error of those who
contend, that to facilitate Production, it is necessary to en¬
courage Consumption.— Cause of Gluts.— Consumption
of Government.— Conclusion.
ifinition It was formerly seen, that by production in this science,
is not meant the production of matter, that being exclu-
I p ' sively the prerogative of Omnipotence, but the giving to
matter such a shape as might fit it for ministering to our
wants and enjoyments. In like manner, by consumption is
not meant the consumption or annihilation of matter, that
being as impossible as its creation, but merely the consump¬
tion or annihilation of the qualities which render commodi¬
ties useful and desirable. To consume the products of art
or industry, is to deprive them of the utility, and conse¬
quently of the value, communicated to them by labour. And
hence we are not to measure'wnsumption by the magni¬
tude, weight, or number of the products consumed, but ex¬
clusively by their value. Large consumption is the de¬
struction of large value, however small the bulk in which it
may happen to be compressed.
: n^ho^" Consumption, in the sense in which the word is used by
Id of pro- peliiieaL economists, is synonymous with use. We produce
I cfion. QMl&nodities only that we may use or consume them. Con-
sumptiaPfs the end and object of human industry ; pro¬
duction is merely a means to attain that end. All the pro¬
ducts of art and industry are destined to be consumed, or
made use of; and if the consumption of a commodity fit to
be used be deferred, a loss is incurred. Products are in¬
tended to satisfy the wants or to add to the enjoyments of
their producers; or they are intended to be employed as
capital, and made to reproduce a greater value than them¬
selves. In the first case, by delaying to use them, we either
refuse to satisfy a want, or deny ourselves a gratification ;—
and in the second, by delaying to use them, we allow the
instruments of production to lie idle, and lose the profit de¬
rivable from their employment.
But though commodities are produced only to be con-
ECONOMY. 303
sumetl, we must not fall into the error of supposing, that all Consump-
consumption is equally advantageous to the individual or tion of
the society. If an individual employ a set of labourers to ^ ealti,•
build him a house the one summer, and to pull it down the
next, theiriabour, or the capital paid them in exchange for vantageoua
it, and which they consumed during the time they wTere en-consump-
gaged in this futile employment, is evidently destroyed for how¬
ever, and absolutely lost both to their employer and the
public; whereas, had he employed them in the raising of
corn, or the production of any species of valuable produce,
he would have obtained products equal to, or more valuable
than, the capital he gave them. The value of the return,
or the advantage obtained from the consumption, is, there¬
fore, the true test of advantageous and disadvantageous, or,
as it is more commonly termed, of productive and unproduc¬
tive consumption. Commodities are consumed productively
when the advantage or benefit accruing in consequence to
their possessors, or when the value of the products obtained
in their stead, exceeds their value ; and they are consumed
unproductively when the value of the advantage or benefit,
or that of the new commodities, is less than their value. The
prosperity or decay of every nation depends on this balance
of consumption and reproduction. If, in given periods, the
commodities produced in a country exceed those consumed
in it, the means of increasing its capital will be provided,
and its population will increase, or the actual numbers will
be better accommodated, or both. If the consumption in
such periods fully equals the reproduction, no means will be
afforded of increasing the stock or capital of the nation, and
society w ill be at a stand. And if the consumption exceed
the reproduction, every succeeding period wall see the so¬
ciety worse supplied ; its prosperity and population will evi¬
dently decline, and pauperism will gradually spread, itself
over the whole country.
It is impossible, however, to fix on any standard by a
comparison with which to obtain even a tolerable approxi¬
mation to the value or advantage of different kinds of con¬
sumption. This is a point on winch the sentiments of no
two individuals ever exactly coincide. The opinions of
each will always depend more or less on the situation in
which he is placed. The rich man will naturally be in¬
clined to give a greater extension to the limits of advanta¬
geous consumption than the man of middling fortune ; and
the latter than he who is poor. And it is undoubtedly true
that a man’s expenses should always bear some proportion
to his fortune and condition in society; and that what
might be proper and advantageous expenditure in one case,
might be exceedingly improper and disadvantageous in
another. It is, therefore, quite impracticable to frame any
system of rules on the subject of expenditure applicable to
the case of every individual; and even if it were practi¬
cable, there is no ground for thinking that they would be
of the smallest utility. The state has no right whatever to
control individual expenditure ; nor, if it had such a right,
could it exercise it without serious injury. The public in¬
terest requires that the national capital should, if possible,
be constantly kept on the increase ; or, which is the same
thing, that the consumption of any given period should be¬
come the means of reproducing a greater value. But it
has been sufficiently proved that this cannot, under any cir¬
cumstances, be the result of a system of surveillance and
restriction. Industry and frugality never have been, and
never can be, promoted by such means. To render a man
industrious, secure him the peaceable enjoyment of the
fruits of his industry :—to wean him from extravagance,
and make him frugal and parsimonious, allowr him to reap
all the disadvantage of the one line of conduct, and all the
advantage of the other. The poverty and loss of station
that inevitably result from improvident and prodigal con¬
sumption are a sufficient security against its ever becoming
injuriously prevalent. Wherever the public burdens are
tion of
Wealth
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
provided it be confined within proper limits, be Consump.
1 - - - * ’ 1 tion of
Wealth.
304
consump- moderate, property protected, tustiy ’c0‘„sidered as either disadvantageous‘or unproduc- don of
tive.
of the great body of the people to rise in
prove their condition occasion the continued increase oi na¬
tional wealth. It is idle to expect that all unproductive and r .
unprofitable expenditure should ever be avoided; but the tion will be disadvantageous
oXrie^ce of S tolerably well governed states proves, that happen if he consume a greater quantity of necessaries than
P - - i ic alwavs much preater he can afford. I he mischief does not consist in the species
of articles consumed, but in the excess of their value over
If, indeed, a man consume more luxuries than his.
It is idle to expect that all unproductive and labour or his fortune enable him to command, his consump-
It is luie cApct. r , .. Ml 1„ But the same thing will
thewealth froduciiveW'enpcnded, is always much greater he can afford. The mischief does not consist in the species
the means of'purchasing them possessed by the consumers.
This, however, is a fault which should always be left to be
corrected by the self-interest of those concerned. The po¬
verty and degradation caused by indulging in unproductive
consumption is a sufficient guarantee against its ever being
To attempt to lessen un¬
is equivalent
than that expended unproductively
Luxury not It was long a prevalent opinion among moralists, that the
disadvan- labour bestowed on the production of luxuries, and conse-
tageous. quentiy their consumption, was unproductive. But this
opinion is now almost universally abandoned. Unless, in¬
deed, all comforts and enjoyments are to be proscribed,^ it
is impossible to say where necessaries end and luxuries can-ied to an injurious extent. To attempt t
begin. But if we are to understand by necessaries such productive consumption by proscribing luxury,
absolutely required for the support to attempting to enrich a country by taking away some of
begin
products only as are absolutely required tor me support to attempting luemwu*
of human life, everything but wild fruits, roots, and wa- the most powerful motives to production,
ter must be deemed superfluous ; and in this view of the Dr Smith has given another criterion of productive and Dr Smith’s
matter, tile peasantry of Ireland, who live only on potatoes unproductive consumption ; but his opinions on this point, ente„.n »f
and butter-milk, must be considered as having much more though exceedingly ingenious, and supported with his usualP^ ^
of the character of productive labourers than those of Bri- ability, appear to rest on no solid foundatmn. He divides ductive
tain' The mere statement of such a doctrine is sufficient society into two great classes. The first consists of those consump.
for its refutation Everything that stimulates exertion is who fix, or, as he terms it, “ realize their labour in some tion.
advantageous. The mere necessaries of life may be ob- particular subject, or vendible commodity, which lasts for
tained with comparatively little labour: and those savage and some time at least after that labour is pastthe second, of
uncivilized hordes, who nave no desire to possess its com- those whose labour leaves nothing m existence after the
‘ ’ moment of exertion, but perishes in the act of performance.
The former are said by Smith to be productive, the latter
unproductive, labourers. Not that, in making this distinc¬
tion, Smith meant to undervalue the services performed by
the unproductive class, or to deny that they are often of
the highest utility ; for he admits that such is frequently
forts, are proverbially indolent and dissipated. 1 o make
men industrious,—to make them shake off that lethargy
which is natural to them,—they must be inspired with a taste
for the luxuries and enjoyments of civilized life. When
this is done, their artificial wants become equally clamorous
with those that are strictly necessary, and they increase
exactly as the means of gratifying them increase. Wher¬
ever a taste for comforts and conveniencies is generally
diffused, the wants and desires of man become altogether
illimitable. The gratification of one leads directly to the
formation of another. In highly civilized societies, new
the case: but he contends, that these services, however
useful, do not augment the wealth of the country; and,
consequently, that the commodities consumed by this class
ai’e unproductively consumed, and have a tendency to im¬
poverish, not to enrich, society. But, to avoid all chance of
products and new modes of enjoyment are constantly pre- misrepresentation, we shall give Dr Smith’s opinions in his
senting themselves as motives to exertion, and as means of own words.
rewarding it. Perseverance is, in consequence, given to “ There is one sort of labour,” says he, “ which adds to
all the operations of industry ; and idleness, and its attend- the value of the subject upon which it is bestowed; there
ant train of evils, almost entirely disappear. “ What,” asks is another which has no such effect. The former, as it
Dr Paley, “ can be less necessary, or less connected with produces a value, may be called productive, the latter un-
the sustentation of human life, than the whole produce of productive, labour. Thus the labour of a manufacturer
the silk, lace, and plate manufactory ? Yet what multitudes adds, generally, to the value of the materials which he
labour in the different branches of these arts! What can works upon, that of his own maintenance, and of his mas-
be imagined more capricious than the fondness for tobacco
and snuff? Yet how many various occupations, and how
many thousands in each, are set at work in administering
to this frivolous gratification !” The stimulus which the
desire to possess these articles gives to industry renders
ter’s profit. The labour of a menial servant, on the con¬
trary, adds to the value of nothing. Though the manufac¬
turer has his wages advanced to him by his master, he, in
reality, costs him no expense, the value of those wages
being generally restored, together with a profit, in the im-
their introduction advantageous. The earth is capable of proved value of the subject upon which his labour is be-
furnishing food adequate for the support of a much great- stowed. But the maintenance of a menial servant never
er number of human beings than can be employed in its is restored. A man grows rich by employing a multitude
cultivation. But those who are in possession of the soil of manufacturers; he grows poor by maintaining a multi¬
will not part with their produce for nothing; or rather, tude of" menial servants. The labour of the latter, how-
they will not raise at all what they can neither use them- ever, has its value, and deserves its reward, as well as that of
selves nor exchange for what they want. As soon, how- the former. But the labour of the manufacturers fixes and
ever, as a taste for conveniencies and luxuries is introduced, realizes itself in some particular subject, or vendible com-
the occupiers of the ground raise from it the utmost that it modity, which lasts for some time at least after that labour
can be made to produce, and exchange the surplus for such is past. It is, as it were, a certain quantity of labour stock-
conveniencies and gratifications as they are desirous of ob- ed and stored up, to be employed, if necessary, upon some
taining; and, in consequence, the producers of these articles, other occasion. That subject, or, w hat is the same thing,
though they have neither property in the soil, nor any con- the price of that subject, can afterw ards, if necessary, put
cern in its cultivation, are regularly and liberally supplied into motion a quantity of labour equal to that which had
w ith its produce. In this w7ay, the quantity of necessaries, originally produced it. The labour of the menial servant, on
as w ell as of useful and agreeable products, is vastly increased the contrary, does not fix or realize itself in any particular
by the introduction of a taste for luxuries ; and the people subject or vendible commodity. His services generally
are, in consequence, not only better provided for, but their perish in the very instant of their performance, and seldom
numbers are proportionally and greatly augmented. leave any trace or value behind them for which an equal
It is plain, therefore, that the consumption of luxuries quantity of service could afterwards be procured.
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
305
Consump- “ The labour of some of the most respectable orders in
Wealth t*le society *s’ that of menial servants, unproductive of
ea w any value, and does not fix or realize itself in any perma¬
nent subject or vendible commodity, which endures after
that labour is past, and for which an equal quantity of la¬
bour could afterwards be procured. The sovereign, for
example, with all the officers both of justice and war who
serve under him, the whole army and navy, are unproduc¬
tive labourers. They are the servants of the public, and
are maintained by a part of the annual produce of the in¬
dustry of other people. Their service, how honourable,
how necessary, or how useful soever, produces nothing for
which an equal quantity of service can afterwards be pro¬
cured. The protection, security, and defence of the com¬
monwealth, the effect of their labour this year, will not
purchase its protection, security, and defence for the year
to come. In the same class must be ranked some both of
the gravest and most important, and some of the most fri¬
volous professions: churchmen, lawyers, physicians, men
of letters of all kinds; players, buffoons, musicians, opera-
singers, opera-dancers, &c. The labour of the meanest of
these has a certain value, regulated by the very same prin¬
ciples which regulate that of every other sort of labour;
and that of the noblest and most useful produces nothing
which could afterwards purchase or procure an equal quan¬
tity of labour. Like the declamation of the actor, the ha¬
rangue of the orator, or the tune of the musician, the work
of all of them perishes in the very instant of its production.”
( Wealth of Nations, p. 146.)
)r Smith’s It will not, we think, be very difficult to show the fallacy
istinction of the distinction Dr Smith has here endeavoured to esta-
‘ie differ between the labour, and consequently also the cou¬
nt
Wealth.
j f society
I aown to
e ill
funded.
dashes sumption, of the different classes of society. To begin with
the case of the menial servant:—Smith says that his labour
is unproductive, because it is not realized in a vendible
commodity, while the labour of the manufacturer is produc¬
tive, because it is so realized. But of what, may we ask, is
the labour of the manufacturer really productive ? Does
it not consist exclusively of comforts and conveniencies re¬
quired for the use and accommodation of society ? The ma¬
nufacturer is not a producer of matter, but of utility only.
And is it not obvious that the menial servant is also a pro¬
ducer of utility ? If, for example, the labour expended in
converting the wool when in the fleece into a coat be, as it
unquestionably is, productive, then surely the labour expend¬
ed in cleaning and brushing the coat, and rendering it fit to
be worn, must be so too. It is universally allowed, that the
labour of the husbandman in raising corn, beef, and other
articles of provision, is productive ; but if so, why is the la¬
bour of the menial servant who performs the indispensable
task of preparing and dressing these articles, and fitting them
to be used, to be stigmatized as unproductive ? It is clear
there is no difference whatever between the two species of
labour—that they are either both productive, or both un¬
productive. To produce a fire, is it not quite as necessary
that coals should be carried from the cellar to the grate, as
that they should be carried from the bottom of the mine to
the surface of the earth ? And if it be said that the miner
is a productive labourer, must we not say as much of the ser¬
vant employed to make and mend the fire ? The whole of
Dr Smith’s reasoning proceeds on a false hypothesis. He has
made a distinction where there is none, and can be none.
The end of all human exertion is the same—that is, to increase
the sum of necessaries, comforts, and enjoyments; and it
must be left to the judgment of every man to determine
what portion of these he will have in the shape of menial
services, and what in the shape of material products. It is
an error to suppose that a man is impoverished by main¬
taining menial servants, any more than by indulging in any
other species of expense. It is true, he will be ruined if he
keep more servants than he has occasion for, or can afford
VOL. XVIII.
to pay ; but his ruin would be equally certain were he to Consump-
purchase an excess of food or clothes, or to employ more fi°n °f
workmen in any branch of manufacture than are required (
to carry it on, or than his capital could employ. The
keeping of two ploughmen when one only might suffice, is
as improvident and wasteful as the keeping of two footmen to
do the business of one. It is in the extravagant quantity of
the commodities we consume, or of the labour we employ,
and not in the particular species of commodities or labour,
that we must seek for the causes of impoverishment.
The same reasoning applies to all the other cases men-Case of the
tioned by Smith. Take, for example, the case of the phy- physician-
sician. He tells us that he is an unproductive labourer,
because he does not directly produce something that has
exchangeable value. But if he do the same thing indi¬
rectly, what is the difference ? If the exertions of the phy¬
sician be conducive to health, and if, as is undoubtedly the
case, he enable others to produce more than they could do
without his assistance, he is indirectly, at least, if not di¬
rectly, a productive labourer. Dr Smith makes no scruple
about admitting the title of the workman employed to re¬
pair a steam-engine to be enrolled in the productive class;
and yet he would place a physician, who had been instru¬
mental in saving the life of an Arkwright or a Watt, among
those that are unproductive ! It is impossible that these
inconsitsencies and contradictions should have occurred to
Smith ; and the errors into which he has fallen in treating
this important branch of the science, show in the strongest
manner the necessity of advancing with extreme caution,
and of subjecting every theory, how ingenious soever it
may appear when first stated, to a severe and patient ex¬
amination.
The amusements furnished by players, singers, and so
forth, come under the description of luxuries, and have
the same effect on the public wealth as the introduction of
a taste for tobacco, tea, or other superfluities. They create
new wants, and, by so doing, stimulate industry to procure
the means of gratifying them. They are really, therefore,
a means of production ; and while they furnish elegant and
amusing recreation, they add to the mass of useful material
products.
The productiveness of the higher class of functionaries Public
is still more obvious. Far, indeed, from being unproduc-
tive, they are, when they discharge properly the duties of juctiv.Tla-
their high station, the most productive labourers in a state, bourers.
Smith says, that the results of their service, that is, to use
his own words, “ the protection, security, and defence of
the commonwealth any one year, will not purchase its pro¬
tection, security, and defence for the year to come.” But
this is plainly an error. We do not say that the protec¬
tion and security afforded by good government is directly
a cause of wealth ; but it is plain that, without it, the pro¬
ductive powers of industry could not be brought into effi¬
cient action. Smith allows that the material products pro¬
duced by the society one year, form the means of produ¬
cing its supplies of necessaries, conveniencies, and enjoy¬
ments during the following year. But without the secu¬
rity and protection afforded by government, these products
would either not exist at all, or their quantity would be very
greatly diminished. How, then, is it possible to deny that
those whose labour is necessary to afford this security are
productively employed ? Take the case of the labourers
employed to construct fences ; no one ever presumed
to doubt that their labour is productive ; and yet they do
not contribute directly to the production of corn or any
other valuable product. The object of their industry is to
give protection and security ; to guard the fields that have
been fertilized and planted by the husbandman from de¬
predation ; and to enable him to prosecute his employments
without having his attention distracted by the care of watch¬
ing. But if the security and protection afforded by hedg-
306
Consump- ers
tion of those
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
and ditchers justly entitle them to be classed among chase the commodity he wishes to possess; or, i
se who contribute to enrich their country, on what prin- words, he must be able to offer an equivalent for
in other Consump-
it. It is b°n o*
Wealth.
Wealth. can tiie labours of those public servants who protect not in the nature of things that there can be any limits to,
—v~' Xertv in the mass and render every portion of it secure our wish to possess the products of art and industry. The
agauist" hostile aggression, and the attacks of thieves and power to give effect to our wishes, or to furnish equivalents
plunderers, be said to be unproductive ? If the labourers for the things we are desirous to obtain, is the only desi-
who moSct a single corn-field from the neighbouring deratum. The more, therefore, tha this power is increased,
crowsPand cattle be productive, then surely the judges that is the more “d“tt'Of i»d'«duals become, then
means of buying the products of others will be proportion¬
ally increased, and the market rendered so much the more
extensive.
M. Sismondi and Mr Malthus have indeed contended, in Unproduc.
opposition to this doctrine, that the productiveness of in- five con-
i .i . i   Kiirr.ntinn
and magistrates, the soldiers and sailors, who protect every
field in the empire, and to whom it is owing that every
class of inhabitants feel secure in the enjoyment of their
property, rights, and privileges, have a right to be classed
among those whose services are supereminently productive, ^  ,  sumotion
That much wealth has been unproductively consumed dustry may be carried to excess, and t.ia,t where tl e e e ^ neces_
by the servants of the public, both in this and other coun- great facilities of production, a large unproductive con- ytopre>
tries, it is impossible to doubt. But we are not to argue, sumption is necessary to stimulate industry, and prevent Vent gluts,
from abuses extrinsic to a beneficial institution, against the the overloading of the market. But if we attend to t le
institution itself. If the public pay their servants exces- motives which ma*e men engage in any branch of mdus-
sive salaries, or employ more than are required for the try, we shall be satisfied that the apprehensions of these
purposes of good government and security, it is their own writers are unfounded, and that the utmost facility of pro-
fault. Their conduct is similar to that of a manufacturer duction can never be productive of a permanent glut of
who should pay his labourers comparatively high wages, the market, or require to be counteracted by means o un-
and employ more of them than he has occasion for. But productive expenditure. In exerting his productive powers,
though a state or an individual may act in this foolish every man’s object is either directly to consume t le pro-
and extravagant manner, it would be not a little rash duce of his labour himself, or to exchange it for such com-
thence to conclude that all public servants and all manu- modifies as he may wish to get from others. If he do the
facturing labourers are unproductive ! If the establishments first,—if he directly consume the produce of his industry,
which provide security and protection be formed on an there is an end of the matter, and it is evident that no con-
extravagant scale, if we have more judges or magistrates, ceivable increase of such produce could occasion a glut:
more soldiers or sailors, than are necessary, or if we pay If he do the second,—if he bring the produce of his
them larger salaries than would suffice to procure the ser- industry to market, and offer it in exchange for ot er
vices of others quite as competent to discharge their du- things, then, and then only, there may be glut; but why;
ties, let their numbers and their salaries be reduced. The Not because there has been an excess of production, but
excess, if there be any, is not a fault inherent in the nature because the producers have not properly adapted their
of such establishments, but results entirely from the extra- means to their ends. rIhey wanted, for example, to obtain
silks, and they offered cottons in exchange for them; the
holders of silks being, however, already sufficiently sup¬
plied with cottons, wanted broad cloths. The cause of the
glut is therefore obvious. It consists not in over-produc¬
tion, but in the production of cottons, which were not
of'stimulat" tenancing the erroneous and infinitely more dangerous doc- wanted, instead of broad cloths, which were. Let this er-
ing produc- trine of those who contend that consumption, even when ror be rectified, and the glut will disappear. Even sup-
tion. most unproductive, should be encouraged as a means of posing the proprietors of silks to be not only supplied with
stimulating production, and of increasing the demand for cottons, but with cloth and every other commodity that
labour! The consumption of the classes mentioned by the demanders could produce, it would not invalidate the
Smith is advantageous, because they render services in re- principle for which w e are contending. If those who want
turn, which those who employ them, and who are the only silks cannot get them from the holder by means of an ex¬
proper judges in such a case, consider of greater value change, they have an obvious resource at hand,—let them
than the wages they pay them. But the case would be cease to produce the things which they do not want, and
totally different were government, and those who employ directly produce the silks which they do want, or substi-
labourers, to do so, not in order to profit by their services, tutes for them. It is plain, therefore, that the utmost faci-
but to stimulate production by their consumption. It is a lity of production can never be a means of overloading the
fallacy and an absurdity to suppose that production is ever market. Too much of one thing may occasionally be pro-
encouraged by a wasteful consumption of the products of duced ; but it is quite impossible that there should be too
industry. A man is stimulated to produce when he finds great a supply of everything. For every excess on the one
a ready market for the produce of his labour, that is, when hand there is a corresponding deficiency on the other. J. he
he can readily exchange them for other products. And
hence the true and only encouragement of industry con¬
sists, not in the increase of wasteful and improvident con¬
sumption, but in the increase of production. Every new pro
vagant scale on which they have been arranged
Ccnsunip- But, in showing that Dr Smith was mistaken in consi-
tion ought dering the consumption of menial servants, and of lawyers,
not to be physicians, and public functionaries, unproductive, we must
encouraged |3eware 0f falling into the opposite extreme, and of coun
torthesake ° -*.1 . . .
fault is not in producing too much, but in producing com¬
modities which do not suit the tastes of those with whom
we wish to exchange them, or which we cannot ourselves
If we attend to these two grand requisites, we
duct necessarily forms a new equivalent for, or a new means may increase the power of production a ten or a twenty
of, purchasing some other product. It must always be re- times, and w-e shall be as free of all excess as if we dimi-
membered, that the mere existence of a demand, how in- nished it in the same proportion. Unproductive consump-
tense soever it may be, cannot of itself be a means of en- tion is not therefore required to prevent the overloading of
couraging production. To become a real demander, a man the market; and though it were, no government would be
must not only have the will, but also the power, to pur- justified in carrying it on for such a purpose.1
M. Say was the first who showed, in a satisfactory manner, that effective demand depends upon production. (See his chapter
De Debouches.) But the principles from which his conclusions are drawn had been stated so early as 1752, in a tract of Dean Tucker,
entitled Queries on the late Naturalization Bill. As this tract is now become of rare occurrence, we subjoin the queries referred to.
POLITICAL
jCotisump- It must, however, be remembered, consistently with what
tioii ot |ias |:)een previously advanced, that in deciding as to the
\\ ealt i. ^ c]iaracter of the consumption or expenditure of any quan-
tity of wealth, we must look at its indirect and ultimate, as
well as its direct and immediate, effects. An outlay of ca¬
pital or labour which, if we take its immediate results only
into account, we should pronounce improvident and un¬
productive, may yet be discovered, by looking at it in its
different bearings, and in its remote influences, to be dis¬
tinctly the reverse; and it is also true, that cases fre¬
quently occur. in which that expenditure which is ruinous
to the individual may not be injurious, but beneficial, to
the state.
Montesquieu has said, “ Si les riches ne depensent pas
beaueoup, les pauvres mourront de faim.”1 The truth of
this proposition has, however, been disputed; nor is this to
be wondered at, as it may be either true or false according
to the sense in which it is understood. If it be construed
to mean that a rich man will be able directly to employ a
greater number of servants or labourers if he spend his
revenue in luxurious accommodations than if he lay out a
part of it on the improvement of his estate, or accumulate
it as a provision for his younger children, it is plainly erro¬
neous. The demand for labour cannot be sensibly increas¬
ed without an increase of capital; and it is quite impossible
for those who spend their whole revenue on immediate gra¬
tifications to amass any capital, or consequently to employ
an additional individual. But the proposition advanced by
Montesquieu should not be interpreted in this confined
sense, or as referring only to the influence of the expen¬
diture of wealthy individuals on their own demand for la¬
bour, but as referring to its influence on that of the so¬
ciety ; and if we so interpret it, and suppose it to mean
that the lavish expenditure and luxury of the great and
the affluent becomes a means of materially benefiting the
poor, by exciting the emulation of others, who cannot ex¬
pect, except through an increase of industry and economy,
to be able to indulge in a similar scale of expense, it will,
we apprehend, be found to be perfectly correct. To sup¬
pose, indeed, that the passion for luxurious gratifications
should decline amongst the rich, and that men should not¬
withstanding continue equally industrious, is a contradic¬
tion. Riches are desirable only because they afford the
means of obtaining these gratifications; and so powerful is
the influence of a taste for them, that it may be doubted
whether the extravagance which has ruined so many indi¬
viduals, has not been, by giving birth to new arts and new
efforts of emulation and ingenuity, of material advantage
to the public.
These remarks are not made in the view of countenan¬
cing extravagant expenditure, but merely to show that
those who attempt to decide as to the influence, in a pub¬
lic point of view, of any outlay of wealth, without endea¬
vouring to appreciate and weigh its remote as well as its
immediate effects, must, when they are right in their con¬
clusions, be so only through accident. But without insist¬
ing farther on this point, it is abundantly certain that
there is nothing to fear from the improvidence of indivi¬
duals. There is not, as has been already observed, an in¬
stance of any people having ever missed an opportunity to
save and amass; and in all tolerably well governed coun-
ECONOMY. 307
tries the principle of accumulation has alwrays had a marked Con sump-
ascendency over the principle of expense. fi°n oi
Individuals are fully sensible of the value of the articles.
they expend; for in the vast majority of instances they are y v
the produce of their own industry and frugality; and they
rarely consume them unless in order to subsist, or to ob¬
tain some equivalent advantage. Such, however, it must
be allowed, is not often the case with the consumption
of governments and their servants. They do not con¬
sume their own wealth, but that of others; and this cir¬
cumstance prevents them from being so much interested
in its profitable outlay, or so much alive to the injurious
consequences of wasteful expenditure, as their subjects.
But economy on the part of governments, though more dif¬
ficult to practise, is of infinitely greater importance than
economy on the part of individuals. A private gentleman
may, inasmuch as he is master of his own fortune, dispose
of it as he pleases. He may act on the erroneous principle
of profusion being a virtue, or he may attempt to excite
the emulation and industry of his fellow-citizens by the
splendour of his equipages and the magnificence of his mode
of living. But government can with propriety do none of
these things. It is merely a trustee for the affairs of others;
and it is consequently bound to administer them as econo¬
mically as possible. Were the principle admitted that go¬
vernment might raise money, not for the protection and
good government of the state, but in order to excite indus¬
try and ingenuity by the pressure of taxation, or the luxury
of public functionaries, an avenue would be opened to every
species of malversation. It is indeed pretty certain that no
people woidd submit to be taxed for such purposes; but if
they did, the flagrant abuses to which it would inevitably
lead could scarcely fail of ending either in revolution or in
national poverty and degradation. Economy in expendi¬
ture is, upon all occasions, the first virtue of a government,
and the most pressing of its duties.
We have now seen how labour may be rendered most Conclusion,
productive of wealth—how that wealth is distributed among
the various classes of society—and how it may be most ad¬
vantageously consumed. We have seen the indissoluble
connection between private and public opulence; that what¬
ever has any tendency to increase the former, must, to the
same extent, increase the latter; and that security of
PROPERTY, FREEDOM OF INDUSTRY, AND MODERATION IN
the public expenditure, are the only, as they are the
certain, means by which the various powers and resources
of human talent and ingenuity may be called into action,
and society made continually to advance in the career oi
wealth and civilization. Every increase of security or of
freedom is a benefit, as every diminution, whether of the
one or the other, is an evil. It is by the spontaneous and
unconstrained efforts of individuals to improve their condi¬
tion and rise in the world, that nations become rich and
powerful. The labour and the savings of individuals are at
once the source and the measure of national opulence and
public prosperity. They may be compared to the drops
of dew, which invigorate and mature all vegetable nature.
None of them has singly any perceptible influence ; but we
owe the foliage of summer and the fruits of autumn to their
combined action. (c. c.)
“ Whether it is possible, in the nature of things, for all trades and professions to be overstocked ? And whether, if you were to
remove any proportional number from each calling, the remainder would not have the same grounds of complaint they had before ?
u Whether, in fact, any tradesman thinks there are too many of other occupations to become his customers; though narrow selfish
views lead him to wish there were fewer of his own trade ?
“ If a particular trade be at anytime overstocked, will not the disease cure itself? That is, will not some persons take to other
trades, and fewer young people be bred up to that which is least profitable ? And whether any other remedy but this is not, in fact,
curing one transient disorder by bringing on many which are dangerous, and will grow inveterate ?
“ Whether it is not an infallible maxim, that one man’s labour creates employment for another ?” (P. 13 )
For a farther demonstration of the same principle, see Mill’s Commerce Defended, p. 80.
' Esprit de Loi.v, liv. vii. cap. 4.
308 POL
Poll POLL, a word used in ancient writings for the head,
li Hence to poll is either to vote, or to enter down the names
v 01 UXi * °f those persons who give their.votes at an election.
Vow*-Money, or Capitation, a tax imposed by authority
of parliament on the person or head, either on all indif¬
ferently, or according to some known mark or distinction.
Thus by the statute 18 Car. II. every subject in the king¬
dom was assessed by the head, or poll, according to his
degree; a duke L.100, a marquis L.80, a baronet L.30, a
knight L.20, an esquire L.10, and every single private per¬
son 12d. This was no new tax, as appears by former acts
of parliament.
POLLARD, or Crocard, the name given to a sort of
base money current in Ireland in the time of Ldward I.
(See Simon’s History of Irish Coins, p. 15.)
POLLEN, the fecundating or fertilizing dust contained
within the antherae or tops of the stamina, and dispersed
upon the female organ when ripe, for the purposes of im¬
pregnation. (See Botany.)
POLLICIS Pressio, and Pollicis Yersio, were used
at the combats of gladiators as signals of life or death to
the vanquished combatant; in other words, to the victor to
spare or take the life of his antagonist. The pollicis pres¬
sio, by which the people granted life to the prostrate gla¬
diator, was no more than a clenching of the fingers of both
hands together, and so holding upright the two thumbs
close together. The pollicis versio, which authorized the
victor to kill the vanquished as a coward, was the bending
back of the thumbs. Such is the opinion of Dacier; but
others say that the pollicis pressio was when the people held
up one hand with the thumb bent, and the pollicis versio
when they showed the hand with the thumb raised. Au¬
thors, however, are not perfectly agreed on this matter;
though the phrases pollicem premere and pollicem vertere
frequently occur in the Latin classics as indications of the
people’s will that a gladiator should live or die.
POLLIO, Caius Asinius, a celebrated Latin poet and
orator, was of consular dignity, and composed some trage¬
dies which were much esteemed, but are now unfortunately
lost. He was the first who opened at Rome a library for
the use of the public. Being the friend of Mark Antony,
he was prevented from complying with the solicitations of
Augustus, who pressed him to embrace his party. At length
Augustus having written some verses against Pollio, he was
urged to answer them ; upon which he observed, “ I shall
take care of writing against a man who has the power of
proscribing us.” He is praised by Virgil and Horace, both
of whom he patronized.
There wras another Pollio, a friend of Augustus, who
used to feed his fishes with human flesh. This cruelty was
discovered when one of his servants broke a glass in the
presence of Augustus, who had been invited to a feast.
The master ordered the servant to be seized, but he threw
himself at the feet of the emperor, and begged him to in¬
terfere, and not suffer him to be devoured by fishes. Upon
this the grounds of his apprehension were examined ; and
Augustus, astonished at the barbarity of his favourite, caused
the servant to be dismissed, all the fish-ponds to be filled
up, and the crystal glasses of Pollio to be broken in pieces.
POLLOOR, a town of Hindustan, in the Carn air. si -
venty-seven miles south-west from Madras. Long. 79.15.
E. Lat. 12. 30. N.
POLLUX, the son of Tyndareus king of Amyclae, and of
Leda, according to the tradition followed by Homer, was
by late writers, along with his sister Helen, made the child
of Jupiter, who gained the affections of Lydia in the form
of a swan. He was the brother of Castor and Clytem-
nestra, and was born in the island Pephnos, on the coast
of Laconia. Pollux was distinguished for his skill in box¬
ing and wrestling, whilst Castor was famed for his horse¬
manship. They both took an active part in the hunt of the
POL
Calydonian boar, and joined Jason in his search for the Pollux
golden fleece. On their return they were invited by their 11
cousins Lynceus and Idas, the sons of Aphareus, to at-. °
tend their marriage with Phoebe and Hilseira, daughters of
Leucippus, prince of Messene. They, however, became so
enamoured of the two brides, that they forcibly attempted
to carry them off, when Castor was killed by Idas. Jupiter,
enraged at this proceeding, struck Idas with a thunderbolt;
and, to comfort Pollux, offered him his choice of immorta¬
lity, or, if he preferred it, to live and die alternately with
his brother. He chose the latter. Another tradition makes
Pollux show his fraternal love by dividing his immortality
in such a way that Castor lived one day and Pollux the next;
but Homer does not allude to this. Pollux was said to have
married Phcebe, daughter of Leucippus, and to have had
by her Mnesileus. Having had a dispute with his cousin
Idas respecting the division of some spoil they had driven
from Messenia, he is represented by one tradition as having
perished by the hands of Idas.
Pollux, Julius, a Greek writer of antiquity, was born at
Naucrates, a town in Egypt, and flourished in the reign of
the Emperor Commodus. He was educated under the So¬
phists, and made great progress in grammatical and critical
learning. Having taught rhetoric at Athens, he became so
famous that he was made preceptor of the Emperor Com¬
modus. He drew up for the use of the latter, and inscrib¬
ed to him, whilst his father Marcus Antoninus was living,
an Onomasticon, or Greek vocabulary, which he divided
into ten books. It is extant, and contains a vast variety of
synonymous words and phrases, ranged under the general
classes of things. It was intended to facilitate the know¬
ledge of the Greek language to the young prince ; and it is
still very useful to all who have a mind to be perfect in that
tongue. The first edition of the Onomasticon was printed
at Venice by Aldus in 1502, and a Latin version was after¬
wards published along with it; but there was no correct and
handsome edition of this work till that of Amsterdam, 1706,
in lolio, by Lederlinus and Hemsterhusius. Lederlinus
went through the first seven books, and corrected the text
and the version, subjoining his own along with the notes of
Salmasius, Vossius, Valesius, and Kuhnius. Pollux wrote
many other things, none of which remains. He lived to the
age of fifty-eight. Philostratus and Lucian have both treat¬
ed him with much contempt and ridicule. (Philostrat. de
Vit. Sophist, lib. ii.; and Lucian in Rhelorum Proeceplore.)
POLO, a small island, one of the Philippines, off the
western coast of Luzon, about the fifteenth degree of north
latitude. It is twenty-five miles in length by three in ave¬
rage breadth.
POLOONSHAH, a small town and district of Hindus¬
tan, in the pi'ovince of Hyderabad, tributary to the nizam.
It is situated in a rich and luxuriant valley, and has a fort
300 yards square, with a large round tower at each angle.
It is seventy miles north-west from Rajahmundry. Long.
81. 10. E. Lat. 17. 35. N.
POLTROON, or Poltron, a coward or dastard, want¬
ing the courage requisite to perform anything great or no¬
ble. The w ord is borrowed from the French, who, accord¬
ing to Salmasius, derived it a pollice truncato ; because an¬
ciently those who wished to avoid going to the wars cut off
their thumb. But Menage, with more probability, derives
it from the Italian poltrone, and that from poltro, a bed;
because timorous and pusillanimous people take pleasure in
lying a-bed. Others, again, derive the word from the Ita¬
lian poltro, a colt, because of that creature’s readiness to
run away.
POLYiENUS, the name of many famous men recorded
by the ancient writers. Amongst them was Julius Polyaenus,
of whom we have some Greek epigrams extant in the first
book of the Anthologia. The Polyaenus whom it most con¬
cerns us to know about, is the author of the eight books of
POL
’olyan- the Stratagems of Illustrious Commanders in War. He
thca was probably a Macedonian, and perhaps a soldier in the
Dlvbius. earlY Part of 1118 life ’ but tbis there is no certainty. He
was undoubtedly a rhetorician and a pleader of causes ; and,
from the dedication of his work to the Emperors Antoninus
and Yerus, he appears to have lived towards the latter part
of the second century. The Stratagemata were published
in Greek by Isaac Casaubon, with notes, 1589, in 12mo ;
but no good edition of them appeared till that of Leyden,
published in 1690, in 8vo.
We have in this work the various stratagems employed by
above three hundred captains and generals of armies, chiefly
Greeks and barbarians, for the Romans seldom resorted to
such arts; and, besides, Polyaenus has shown that he was
little acquainted with Roman affairs. A great number of
these stratagems appear to us to be ridiculous or imprac¬
ticable ; and neither the generals, nor even common sol¬
diers, of our days, would be found simple enough to be
caught by them. Few of the latter order indeed are ca¬
pable of reading Polyaenus’s Stratagems; and if they were,
they would reap but little benefit from the book. It is
useful, however, to such as study the Greek language and
antiquity ; for many things will be found in it illustrative
of the customs and opinions of ancient times. The sixth
and seventh books are both imperfect.
Polyaenus composed several other works besides the Stra¬
tagemata. Stoboeus has produced some passages out of a
book De Republica Macedonum; and Suidas mentions a
piece concerning the Thebans. If death had not prevent¬
ed him, he would have written Memorabilia of the Empe¬
rors Antoninus and Verus, which he promised to undertake
in the preface to his sixth book of Stratagems. Casaubon,
in the dedication of Polyaenus to Mornaeus, calls him an
elegant, acute, and learned writer.
POLYANTHEA, a collection of common-places ar¬
ranged in alphabetical order, for the use of orators, preach¬
ers, and others. The word is formed from the Greek ttoXu;,
»2we/*,and avdog, flower, and has much the same meaning with
anthology or florilege. The first author of the Polyanthea
was Dominic Nanni di Mirabellio, whose labour has been
improved on by Amantius and Torsius ; and since their
time by Langius, under the title of Polyanthea Nova, 1613.
POLYBIUS, a celebrated Greek historian, was the son
of Lycortas, a native of Megalopolis, in Arcadia, who suc¬
ceeded Philopcemen in the chief direction of the Achaean
league. His father, therefore, must have been one of the
most distinguished men of his time; and we find him ac¬
cordingly taking part in the principal transactions of his
country. The exact date of his birth is unknown, but it is
generally believed that it took place between b. c. 210-200 ;
and his death was, therefore, not earlier than b. c. 129, as
he lived to the advanced age of eighty-two. Plutarch tells
us that the character of Polybius was formed under the eye
of Philopcemen ; and that at the funeral of that general he
carried the urn which contained his ashes, b. c. 182. The
following year he was, along with his father and the son of
the celebrated Aratus, appointed as ambassador, to return
thanks to Ptolemy Epiphanes for the assistance which he had
offered to the Achaeans ; but the death of that prince took
place before the ambassadors left the Peloponnesus. In the
war which arose between the Romans and Perseus king of
Macedonia, the opinion of Polybius and his father Lycortas
was, that the Achaeans should observe a strict neutrality;
but they were overruled, and the Achaeans were implicated
in the ruin of Perseus. To break the spirit of the Achaeans,
and to prevent any further attempts at insurrection, more
than a thousand of the principal citizens were sent to Rome,
and afterwards dispersed throughout the different cities of
Italy. Polybius was one of these exiles ; but he was so far
favoured that he was allowed to remain in Rome, where he
resided for sixteen years, from b. c. 167 to 151. He became
POL 309
the intimate friend and instructor of Scipio the younger, Polybius,
at that time only eighteen years old, and who afterwards
showed how much benefit he had derived from the care
Polybius bestowed on his education. At last, through the
influence of Scipio and Cato, the senate was prevailed on
to allow the Achaean exiles to return to their country ; but
of the original thousand only three hundred survived to en¬
joy the permission thus granted to them. Polybius seems
now to have employed his time chiefly in travelling, with the
view of acquiring more accurate notions of geography. He
examined with great care and minuteness the passes of the
Alps, that he might be enabled to give a correct account
of the passage of Hannibal. He afterwards visited Gaul,
Spain, and Africa, to which latter country he accompanied,
Scipio, b. c. 146, when that general took and destroyed
Carthage. But the calamities of his own unhappy country
called him away, and he hurried to the Peloponnesus, where
his presence, however, was unable to save Corinth from the
fate which had overtaken Carthage. He did all in his power
to prevail on his countrymen to submit to a fate which they
only made worse by resistance ; and the Roman deputies
felt such reliance on his good intentions, that they appoint¬
ed him to the office of judge in all disputes that might
arise in any part of the Peloponnesus. He gradually ac¬
quired the esteem of his countrymen, and many of the ci¬
ties of Greece erected statues to his honour. He subse¬
quently extended his travels into Egypt, which he visited
in the reign of Ptolemy Physcon. Whether he was pre¬
sent with Scipio at the siege of Numantia, B. c. 134, we are
nowhere told; but he left behind him a work on the sub¬
ject. He also wrote a biographical sketch of Philopcemen,
a work on Military Tactics, and another on the Equatorial
Regions.
His principal work, however, was entitled General His¬
tory, though it referred more particularly to a space of
fifty-three years (from 220 to 168 b. c.), from the com¬
mencement of the second Punic war, where the historian
Timaeus, and Aratus of Sicyon, had stopped, to the defeat
of Perseus, king of Macedonia, by the Romans. It was di¬
vided into forty books, of which we now only possess the
first five entire, and rather long fragments of most of the
others. The first two books are occupied with introduc¬
tory matter, giving a sketch of the events that happened
anterior to the second Punic war. He explains the causes
which gave vise to the first Punic war, and then relates the
various events which took place during the twenty-four
years it lasted. He gives also some account of the con¬
test which arose between the Carthaginians and their sti¬
pendiaries. The second book contains the wars of the JEo-
lians, Illyrians, Achseans, the expeditions of the Romans
against the Illyrians and Gauls, and the transactions of An-
tigonus king of Macedonia, and Cleomenes king of Sparta,
occupying a period of seventeen years, from b. c. 237 to
220. The third book enters into what is more properly the
subject of his history, and, after explaining what he consi¬
ders to be the true causes of the second Punic war, follows
the path of Hannibal’s victories as far as the battle of
Cannae, b. c. 216. Yet it would appear that he was defec¬
tive in method, as the fourth book carries us back to ante¬
rior events, which had happened in 220, 219, 218, b. c.
After a sketch of the people of the East during the reign of
Philip, son of Demetrius king of Macedonia, of Ariarathes
king of Cappadocia, of Antiochus king of Syria, and Pto¬
lemy Philopator king of Egypt, this book traces the history
of wars and seditions in Greece. In the fifth book we have
the victories of Philip, the wars in Syria between Antio¬
chus and Ptolemy, and the confederated arms of Greece
turned against Rome. It would be useless to give any de¬
tailed account of the fragments of the thirty-five books that
have been preserved; but we know that the thirty-ninth
book ended with the destruction of Corinth, b. c. 146
310 POL
Polycarp. There have been many editions of this work, but the most
'—-'y'—-'' critical is that of J. Schweighiiuser, eight vols. 8vo, Leipzig.
1789-1795. It has been translated into English by Hamp¬
ton ; into French by Folard, six vols. Par. 1727, with nu¬
merous plates and critical annotations; into Geiman by
Chr. Seybold, Lemgo-, 1779-1783, and by L. Storch, Prenzl.
1828. See Polybii et Appiani Historiarum Excerpta Vati-
cana recognita a J. !'• Lucht, Altona, 1830.
POLYCARP, one of the most ancient Fathers of the
Christian church, was born towards the end of the reign of
Nero, probably at Smyrna, where he was educated at the
expense of Caiista, a noble matron distinguished alike by her
piety and charity. He was unquestionably a disciple of St
John the Evangelist, and he conversed familiarly with others
of the apostles. When of a proper age, Bucolus ordained
him a deacon and a catechist of his church ; and upon his
death he succeeded Bucolus in the bishopric, to which he is
said to have been consecrated by St John, who also direct¬
ed his Apocalypse, amongst others, to him, under the title
of “ the angel of the church of Smyrna.” When the con-
troversy about the observation of Easter began to run
high between the eastern and western churches, he went to
Rome to discourse with those who were of the opposite
party. The Roman see was then occupied by Anicetus,
with whom he had many conferences, which were carried
on in the most amicable manner ; and though neither of
them could bring the other to embrace his opinion, they
both retained their own sentiments without violating that
charity which is the great law of religion.
Whilst at Rome he particularly opposed the heresies of
Marcian and Valentinus. His conduct on this occasion is
related by Irenseus, who informs us, that when Polycarp
passed Marcian in the street without speaking, Marcian
said, “ Polycarp, own us to which he replied with indig¬
nation, “ I own thee to be the first-born of Satan.” Ire-
naeus adds, that when any heretical doctrines were spoken
in his presence, he would stop his ears and say, “ Good
God, to what times hast thou reserved me, that I should
hear such things,” and immediately left the place. He was
accustomed to mention, that St John, going into a bath at
Ephesus, and finding in it Cerinthus the heretic, imme¬
diately started back without bathing, crying out, “ Let us
run away, lest the bath should fall upon us whilst Cerinthus,
the enemy of truth, is in it.” Polycarp governed the church
of Smyrna with apostolic purity, till he suffered martyrdom
in the seventh year of Marcus Aurelius. The manner of
his death is thus related. The persecution waxing hot at
Smyrna, and many having sealed their faith with their
blood, the general cry was, “ Away with the impious ; let
Polycarp be sought for.” Upon this he privately withdrew
into a neighbouring village, where he continued for some
time praying day and night for the peace of the church.
He was thus employed, when one night he fell into a trance
and dreamed that his pillow took fire, and was burned to
ashes. When he awoke, he told his friends the circum¬
stance, and pronounced it a presage that he should be
burned alive for the cause of Christ. Three days after¬
wards, in order to escape the incessant search after him, he
retired into another village. His enemies, however, were
at hand, and having seized upon two youths, one of whom
they forced by stripes to confess, they were by these lads
conaucted to his lodging. He might have saved himself by
getting into another house ; but he submitted, saying, “ The
will of the Lord be done.” He therefore came down from
his bed-chamber, and saluting his persecutors with a serene
and cheerful countenance, he ordered a table to be set before
P O L'
them with provisions, invited them to partake, and only re- Polycarp,
quested for himself one hour for prayer ; after which he was
set upon an ass, and conducted towards Smyrna. On the
road he met Herod, a justice of the province, and his father,
who were the principal instigators of the persecution. He¬
rod took him up into his chariot, and strenuously endea¬
voured to undermine his constancy ; but having failed in
the attempt, he thrust him out of the chariot with so much
violence and indignation, that his thigh was bruised by the
fall. When at the place of execution, there came, as is
said, a voice from heaven, saying, “ Polycarp, be strong,
and quit thyself like a man.” When before the tribunal he
was urged to swear by the genius of Caesar. “ Repent,” said
the proconsul, “ and say with us, take away the impious.”
Upon this the martyr, looking round at the crowd with a
severe and angry countenance, beckoned with his hand,
and looking up to heaven, said with a sigh, in a very dif¬
ferent tone from what they expected, “ Take away the im¬
pious.” At last, having confessed himself to be a Christian,
the crier thrice proclaimed his confession, and the people
shouted, “ This is the great doctor of Asia, and the father
of the Christians; this is the destroyer of our gods, who
teaches men not to do sacrifice to, or worship, the deities.”
When the fire was prepared, Polycarp requested not to be
nailed, as usual, but only tied to the stake; and after a
short prayer, which he pronounced w ith a clear and audible
voice, the executioner blew up the fire, which increasing
to a mighty flame, “ Behold a wonder seen by us, who
were purposely reserved,” says the relator, “ that we might
declare it to others ; the flames, disposing themselves into
the resemblance of an arch, like the sails of a ship swelled
with the wind, gently encircled the body of the martyr,
who stood all the while in the midst, not like roasted flesh,
but like the gold or silver purified in the furnace, his body
sending forth a delightful fragrance, which, like frankin¬
cense or some other costly spices, presented itself to our
senses. The infidels, exasperated by the miracle, com¬
manded a spearman to run him through with a sword;
which he had no sooner done, than such a vast quantity
of blood flowed from the wound as extinguished the fire,
and then a dove was seen to fly from the wound, which
some suppose to have been his soul, clothed in a visible
shape at the time of its departure.”1 The Christians endea¬
voured to carry off his body entire, but were not allowed
by the irenarch or justice, who commanded it to be burned
to ashes. The bones, however, were gathered up, and de¬
cently interred by the Christians.
Thus died St Polycarp, on the seventh of the kalends of
May, in the year 167. The amphitheatre on which he suffer¬
ed was mostly remaining not many years ago ; and his tomb,
which is in a little chapel in the side of a mountain, on the
south-east of the city, was solemnly visited by the Greeks
on the festival day; whilst, for maintaining and repairing it,
travellers w ere wont to throw a few aspers into an earthen
pot which stands there for the purpose. He wrote some
homilies and epistles, which are now lost, except that to
the Philippians, which is a truly pious and Christian pro¬
duction, containing short and useful precepts and rules of
life, which St Jerome informs us was even in his time read
in the public assemblies of the Asiatic churches. It is sin¬
gularly useful in proving the authenticity of the books of
the New Testament; for he has cited several passages and
expressions from St Matthew, St Luke, the Acts, St Paul’s
Epistles to the Philippians, Ephesians, Galatians, Corin¬
thians, Romans, Thessalonians, Colossians, the first Epistle
to Timothy, first Epistle of St John, and first Epistle of
• V}* r^cuh,TllsTPart °f this account is ridiculed by Dr Middleton in his Free Inquiry and Defence of it; but something is offered
m its favour by Mr Jorton, who observes, “ The circumstances are sufficient only to create a pause and a doubt.” (Remarks on Eccle¬
siastical History, vol. i )
POL
'oychord Peter; and makes particular mention of St Paul’s Epistle
Ivcrota t0 the EPhesians- Indeed the whole of this epistle consists
y 'of phrases and sentiments taken from the New Testament.
POLYCHORD, from the Greek abow instru¬
ment resembling the double-bass, but smaller. It had ten
strings, and a compass from C the second space in the
bass clef, to C the third space in the treble clef. Its finger¬
board could be lengthened or shortened at pleasure, in order
to tune the instrument. It was invented in 1799, by Hil-
mer, at Leipzig.
POLIlCLETUS, a celebrated statuary and architect,
who is said to have been a native of Sicyon, and a disciple
of Ageladas. He was the fellow-disciple of Myron. But
it seems doubtful v/hether he was born at Sicyon, since
Plato, who was his contemporary, calls him in his dialogue
entitled Protagoras, a native of Argos, and Maximus of Tyre
expressly says that the statue of Juno was a work of Poly-
cletus of Argos. He is not, however, to be confounded with
another statuary of Argos, who lived at a later period. It
is believed that he was born about 480 n. c., and was still
alive 405 b. c., after the battle of (Egos-potamos, as Pau-
sanias states that he executed one of the bronze tripods
which the Spartans consecrated in the temple of Apollo at
Amyclse. By far the most celebrated of his statues was that
of the Argive Juno, which is thought to have been executed
about 416 b. c., eighteen years after the consecration of
Jupiter of Olympia, and twenty or twenty-four years after
that of the Minerva of the Parthenon. The statue of Juno
was colossal, and seated on a golden throne, in a majestic
attitude; the head, breast, arms, and feet, were of ivory, and
the drapery of gold. She had a crown on her head, on
which the artist had represented the Hours and Graces. In
one hand she held a sceptre, with a cuckoo seated on it; in
the other she bore a pomegranate. Her mantle was orna¬
mented with vine branches, and her feet rested on the skin
of a lion. Another celebrated statue was called Canon, or
the Rule, because it was so perfect that it was looked upon
as the model after which all others ought to be made. Ga¬
len says, that he composed a treatise on the proportions
which constitute the harmony, and consequently the beauty
of the human body, and that his statue was designed to illus¬
trate his work. Winckelman suspects that this statue was
also called Doryphorus, as Lysippus states that he formed
his taste principally by studying it. The group called Ca-
nephorse, two young girls carrying sacred baskets on their
heads, formed part of the plunder of Verres, carried off from
Messana in Sicily. It is believed that we have still a copy
of his Diadumenos, in a young athlete attaching to his fore¬
head a garland as the sign of victory, which is now in the
Museo Borbonico at Naples. This Diadumenos was sold
for about one hundred talents. As an architect, Polycletus
is known to have constructed two buildings at Epidaurus,
which are highly spoken of; the Tholus, a circular build¬
ing, and a theatre, of which considerable remains are still to
be seen. Varro thought that he had too much sameness in
his statues ; and Quintilian says that he never was able to
represent the awful majesty of the gods, probably meaning
such statues asthe Jupiterand Minerva of Phidias. Amongst
his pupils were Asopodorus, Aristides, Dinon, Athenodorus,
and Pericletus the brother of Naucydes.
POLYCROTA, in the naval architecture of the ancients,
a word used to express such of their galleys as had three,
four, five, or more tiers of benches, seated at different heights.
Ifiey were distinguished by this term from the monocrota,
or those which had only single rows of oars. The number
of rows of benches in the polycrote galleys has given occa¬
sion to some to suppose that those vessels were of such a
height above the water as is scarcely credible. Commen-
P O L
311
tators, however, are not at all agreed as to the construction Polydorus
of these vessels. j,
POL1DORE Virgil. See Virgil. Polygamy.
POI^YDORUS, a son of Priam by Hecuba, or, accord-
mg to others, by Laothe, the daughter of Altes, king of
Pedasus. Being young and inexperienced when Troy was
besieged by the Greeks, his father removed him to the
court of Polymnestor, king of Thrace, to whose care he in-
trusted the greater part of his treasures, until his country
should be freed from foreign invasion. On the death of
I fiam, Polymnestor made himself master of the riches which
were in his possession; and to insure them the more, he
murdered the young prince, and threw his body into the
sea, where it was found by Hecuba. According to Virgil,
Ins body was buried near the shore by his assassin; and
there grew on his grave a myrtle, the boughs of which drop¬
ped blood, when Tineas, going to Italy, attempted to tear
them from the tree.
POLYGAMIA (toXuj, many, and yaga, marriage) is a
teim expressing an intercommunication of sexes, and is ap¬
plied by Linnaeus both to plants and to flowers. A polyga¬
mous plant is that which bears both hermaphrodite flowers,
and male or female, or both.
POLYGAMY, a plurality of wives or husbands, in the
possession of one man or woman at the same time.
Polygamy is so universally esteemed unlawful, and even
unnatural, throughout Europe, and in all Christian countries,
that we have generally reasoned upon this conviction. Both
religion and reason appear at first sight at least to condemn
it; and with this view of the subject mankind in general
remain satisfied. But some bolder geniuses have taken the
opposite side of the question, cast off the prejudices of edu¬
cation, and attempted to show that polygamy is not unlaw¬
ful, but that it is just and necessary, and would be a public
benefit. Such writers recur to the common subterfuge, of
which every setter up of strange gods, and every conscien¬
tious troubler of the public peace, have artfully availed
themselves, to silence the clamour of expostulation.
Dr Percival1 has very justly observed, that the practice
is brutal, destructive to friendship and moral sentiment, in¬
consistent with one great end of marriage (the education of
children), and subversive of the natural rights of more than
half of the species. Besides, it is injurious to population,
and therefore can never be countenanced or allowed in a
well-regulated state ; for though the number of females in
the world may considerably exceed the number of males,
yet there are more men capable of propagating their species
than women capable of bearing children ; and it is a well-
known fact, that Armenia, in which a plurality of wives is
not allowed, abounds more with inhabitants than any other
province of the Turkish empire.
Indeed it appears, that in several countries where it is al¬
lowed, the inhabitants do not take advantage of it. “ The
Europeans,” says M. Niebuhr,2 “ are mistaken in thinking
the state of marriage so different amongst the Mussulmans
from what it is with Christian nations. I could not dis¬
cern any such difference in Arabia. The women of that
country seem to be as free and as happy as those of Europe
possibly can be. Polygamy is permitted, indeed, amongst
Mahommedans, and the delicacy of our ladies is shocked at
this idea; but the Arabians rarely avail themselves of the
privilege of marrying four lawful wives, and entertaining
at the same time any number of female slaves. None but
rich voluptuaries marry so many wives, and their conduct
is blamed by all sober men. Men of sense, indeed, think this
privilege rather troublesome than convenient. A husband
is by law obliged to treat his wives suitably to their condi¬
tion, and to dispense his favours amongst them with perfect
1 Phil. Trans, vol. Ixvi. part i. p. 163.
3 Niebuhr’s Travels.
312
POLYGAMY.
Polygamy, equality ; but these are duties not a_ little disagreeable t
v ^ - most Mussulmans ; and such modes of luxury are too expen¬
sive to the Arabians, who are seldom in easy circumstances.
I must, however, except one case; for it sometimes hap¬
pens that a man marries a number of wives in the way ot
commercial speculation. I know a Mullah, in a town near
the Euphrates, who had married four wives, and was sup¬
ported by the profits of their labour.”
1 Selden has proved, in his Uxor Hebraica, that plurality
of wives was allowed, not only amongst the Hebrews, but
also amongst all other nations, and in all ages. It is true,
the ancient Homans were more severe in their morals, and
never practised it, though it was not forbidden amongst
them ; and Mark Antony is mentioned as the first who took
the liberty of having two wives.
From that time it became pretty frequent in the empire
till the reigns of Theodosius, Honorius, and Arcadius, who
first prohibited it by express law in 393. Alter this the
Emperor Valentinian, by an edict, permitted all the subjects
of the empire, if they pleased, to marry several wives. Nor
does it appear, from the ecclesiastical history of those times,
that the bishops made any opposition to the introduction o
polygamy. In effect, there are some even amongst the
Christian casuists who do not look on polygamy as in itself
criminal. Jurieu observes, that the prohibition of polygamy
is a positive law, but from which a man may be exempted
by sovereign necessity. Baillet adds, that the example ot
the patriarchs is a powerful argument in favour of polygamy.
Of these arguments we shall speak hereafter.
It has been much disputed amongst the doctors of the
civil law whether polygamy be adultery. In the Roman
law it is denominated stuprum, and punished as such, that
is, in some cases capitally. But a smaller punishment is
more consistent with the Jewish law, in which the prohibi¬
tion of adultery is perpetual, but that of polygamy tempo¬
rary only.
Bernardus Ochinus, general of the order of Capucins,
and afterwards a Protestant, published, about the middle of
the sixteenth century, Dialogues in favour of Polygamy,
which were answered by Theodore Beza. And about tile
close of the last century, an artful treatise was published at
London in behalf of a plurality of wives, under the title of
Polygamia Triumphatrix, the author of which assumes the
name of Theophilus Aletheus, though his true name was
Lyserus. He was a native of Saxony, and his work has
been answered by several writers.
A new argument in favour of polygamy has been ad¬
duced by Mr Bruce, on the principle, that in some parts of
the w orld the proportion of female children is much greater
than that of the males. “ From diligent inquiry,” says he,
“ into the south and scripture part of Mesopotamia, Arme¬
nia, and Syria, from Mousul or Nineveh, to Aleppo and An¬
tioch, I find the proportion to be fully two women to one
man. There is indeed a fraction over, but it is not a con¬
siderable one. From Latikea, Laodicea ad mare, down the
coast of Syria to Sidon, the number is nearly three, or two
and three fourths, to one man. Through the Holy Land,
the country called Horan, in the Isthmus of Suez, and the
parts of the Delta unfrequented by strangers, it is some¬
thing less than three. But from Suez to the Straits of Ba-
belmandel, which contains the three Arabias, the proportion
is fully four women to one man ; which, I have reason to
believe, holds as far as the line, and 30° beyond it. The
imam of Sama was not an old man when I was in Arabia
Felix in 1769; but he had eighty-eight children then alive,
of w hom fourteen only were sons. The priest of the Nile
had seventy and odd children; of whom, as I remember,
above fifty were daughters.
“ It may be objected, that Dr Arbuthnot, in quoting the
bills of mortality for twenty years, gave the most unexcep¬
tionable grounds for his opinion; and that my single ex¬
ception of what happens in a foreign country, without fur- Poiv^v,
ther foundation, cannot be admitted as equivalent testi-
and I am ready to admit this objection, as there
areno’bdis of mortality in any of these countries. I shall
therefore say in what manner I attained the knowledge
which I have just mentioned. Whenever I went into a
town, village, or inhabited place, dwelt long in a mountain,
or travelled journeys with any set of people, I always made
it mv business to inquire how many children they had, or
their” fathers, their next neighbours or acquaintance. I
then asked my landlord at Sidon, suppose him a weaver,
how many children he has had ? He tells me how many
sons and how many daughters. The next I ask is a tailor,
a smith, &c., in short every man who is not a stranger, from
whom I can get the proper information. I say, therefore,
that a medium of both sexes, arising from three or four
hundred families, indiscriminately taken, shall be the pro¬
portion in which one differs from the other ; and this, I
am confident, will give the result to be three women in 50°
of the 90° under every meridian of the globe.”
The same author corroborates his argument by sup¬
posing that Mahommed perceived this disproportion, and
that upon it he founded his institution allow ing one man to
have four wives. “ With this view he enacted, or rather
revived, the law w7hich gave liberty to evei \ indhidual to
marry four wives, each of whom was to be equal in rank
and honour, without any preference but what the predilec¬
tion of the husband gave her.”
Having thus established, as he supposes, the necessity ot
polygamy in the East, Bruce proceeds to consider whether
there is not some other reasons why it should not be prac¬
tised in Britain further than the mere equality in numbers
of the sexes to one another. This reason he finds in the
difference between the constitutions of the Europeans and
eastern nations. “ Women in England,” says he, “ are ca¬
pable of child-bearing at fourteen; let the other term be
forty-eight, when they bear no more ; thirty-four years
therefore an English woman bears children. At the age
of fourteen or fifteen they are objects of our love ; they are
endeared by bearing us children after that time ; and none,
I hope, will pretend, that at forty-eight and fifty an Eng¬
lishwoman is not an agreeable companion. The Arab, on
the other hand, if she begins to bear children at eleven,
seldom or never has a child after twenty. The time, then,
of her child-bearing is nine years ; and four women, taken
altogether, have then the term of thirty-six. So that the
English woman that bears children for thirty-four years has
only two years less than the term enjoyed by the four wives
whom Mahommed has allowed ; and if it be granted that
an English wife may bear at fifty, the terms are equal.
But there are other grievous differences. An Arabian girl
at eleven years old, by her youth and beauty, is the object
of man’s desire: being an infant, however, in understand¬
ing, she is not a rational companion for him. A man mar¬
ries there, say at twenty ; and before he is thirty, his wife,
improved as a companion, ceases to be the object of his
desires and a mother of children: so that all the best and
most vigorous of his days are spent with a woman he can¬
not love ; and with her he would be destined to live forty
or forty-five years, without comfort to himself by increase
of family, or utility to the public. The reasons, then,
against polygamy, which subsist in England, do not by any
means subsist in Arabia; and that being the case, it would
be unworthy of the wisdom of God, and an unevenness in
his ways, which we shall never see, to subject two nations
under such different circumstances absolutely to the same
observances.” .
To all this argumentation, however, it may be repne >
that whatever we may now suppose to be the constitution
of nature in the warmer parts of the globe, it certainly was
different at the beginning. We cannot, indeed, ascertain
POLY
Polygamy, the exact position of the Garden of Eden ; but it is with
—  ' reason supposed not to have been far from the ancient seat
of Babylon. In that country, therefore, where Mr Bruce
contends that four women are necessary to the comfort of
one man, it pleased God to grant only one to the first man ;
and that, too, when there was more occasion for population
than ever there has been since, because the whole earth
was to be peopled from a single pair. Matters were not
altered at the Flood ; for Noah had but one wife. And this
is the very argument used by our Saviour himself when
speaking of divorce without any sufficient cause, and then
marrying another woman, which is a species of polygamy.
Again, with respect to the alleged multiplicity of females
in the eastern part of the world, it is by no means probable
that the calculations of Mr Bruce or any other person can
be admitted in this case. History mentions no such thing
in any nation ; and considering the vast destruction amongst
the male part of the human species more than that of the
females, by war and other accidents, we may safely say, that
if four women children were born for every single male,
there would in such countries be five or six grown-up wo¬
men for every man ; a proportion which we may venture to
affirm does not, and never did, exist anywhere in the world.
That it was not so in former times, we can only judge
from the particular examples recorded in history, and these
are but few. We read in the Greek history, indeed, of the
fifty daughters of Danaus; but these are matched by as
many sons of another man. Job had only one wife, yet had
seven sons and but three daughters. Jacob had two wives,
who bore twelve sons, and only one daughter. Abraham
had only one child by his first wife, and that was a son.
By his second wife Keturah he had six sons ; and, consider¬
ing his advanced age at the time he married her, it is by
no means probable that he could have twenty-four daugh¬
ters ; nay, if, as Mr Bruce tells us, the women in the east¬
ern countries bear children only for nine years, it was im¬
possible she could have so many. Gideon, who had many
wives, had no fewer than seventy sons by these wives, and
even his concubine had a son ; so that if all these women
had produced according to Mr Bruce’s proportion, of near¬
ly three females to one male, he must have had almost two
hundred and eighty-four children ; a more numerous family
probably than any of which Mr Bruce’s eastern acquaint¬
ance can boast.
With regard to the subject, however, it must be observ¬
ed, that the procreation of male or female children depends
in some degree on the health and vigour of the parents.
It is by no means improbable, therefore, that the eastern
voluptuaries, whose constitutions are debilitated by their
excesses, may have many more female than male children
born to them.
The boldest defence of polygamy that has appeared in
modern times is that by the Rev. Mr Madan, who publish¬
ed a treatise artfully vindicating and strongly recommend-
ing it, under the title of Thelyphthora, or a Treatise on
Female Ruin, in its Causes, Effects, Consequences, Preven¬
tion, and Remedy. Marriage, according to this writer,
simply and wholly consists in the act of personal union, or
actus coitus. Adultery, he says, is never used in the sa¬
cred writings but to denote the defilement of a betrothed
or married woman, and to this sense he restricts the use of
the term; so that a married man, in his opinion, is no adul¬
terer, if his commerce with the sex be confined to single
women, who are under no obligations by espousals or mar¬
riage to other men; but, on the other hand, the woman
who should dare to have even but once an intrigue with
any other man besides her husband, let him have as many
wives as Solomon, would, ipso facto, be an adulteress, and
ought, together with her gallant, to be punished with im¬
mediate death. This, he boldly says, is the law of God,
and on this foundation he limits the privilege of polygamy
VOL. XVIII.
GAMY. 313
to the man ; in support of which he refers to the polyga- Polygamy,
mous connections of the patriarchs and saints of the Old
Testament, and infers the lawfulness of their practice from
the blessings which attended it, and the laws which were
instituted to regulate and superintend it. He contends for
the lawfulness of Christians having, like the ancient Jews,
more wives than one, and labours much to reconcile the
genius of the evangelical dispensation with an arrangement
of this sort. With this view he asserts, that there is not a
single text in the New Testament that even hints at the
criminality of polygamous connection ; and he wrould infer
from St Paul’s direction, that bishops and deacons should
have but one wife, that it was lawful for laymen to have
more. Jesus Christ, he says, was not the giver of a new
law; but the business of marriage, polygamy, and divorce,
had been settled before his appearance in the world, by an
authority which could not be revoked. Besides, this writer
not only thinks polygamy lawful in a religious, but advan¬
tageous in a civil light, and highly politic in a domestic view.
In defence of his notion of marriage, which, he says, con¬
sists in the union of man and woman as one body, the ef¬
fects of which in the sight of God no outward forms or ce¬
remonies of man’s invention can add to or detract from, he
grounds his principal argument on the Hebrew words made
use of in Genesis (ii. 24) to express the primitive insti¬
tution of marriage, viz. inwio psi, rendered by the Seventy
xgoffx.o\kri()r}fcrcii oto; vjjv yuvococa ccvrou, which translation is
adopted by the evangelist (Mat. xix. 5), with the omission
only of the superfluous preposition (ngos) after the verb.
Our translation, “ shall cleave to his wife,” does not, he
says, convey the idea of the Hebrew, which is literally, as
Montanus renders the words, “ shall be joined or cement¬
ed in his woman, and they shall become (by this union) one
flesh.” But on this criticism it is well remarked, that both the
Hebrew and Greek terms mean simply and literally attach¬
ment or adherence ; and are evidently made use of in the
sacred w ritings to express the whole scope of conjugal fide¬
lity and duty, though he would restrain them to the grosser
part of it.
W ith respect to the Mosaic law, for which Mr Madan is
a warm advocate, it was certainly a local and temporary
institution, adapted to the ends for which it was appointed,
and admirably calculated, in its relation to marriage, to
maintain and perpetuate the separation of the Jewish peo¬
ple from the Gentiles. In attempting to depreciate the
outward forms of marriage, this writer would make his
readers believe, that because none are explicitly described,
therefore none existed ; and consequently that they are
the superfluous ordinances of human policy. But it is evi¬
dent, from comparing Ruth (iv. 10, 13) with Tobit (vii.
13, 14), and from the case of Dinah, related in Genesis
(xxxiv.), that some forms were deemed essential to an ho¬
nourable marriage by the patriarchs and saints under the
Old Testament, exclusive of the carnal knowledge of each
other’s persons. It is also evident in the case of the woman
of Samaria, whose connection with a man not her husband
is mentioned in John, iv., that something besides cohabita¬
tion is necessary to constitute marriage in the sight of God.
Having stated his notion of marriage, the same writer
urges, in defence of polygamy, that, notwithstanding the se¬
venth commandment, it was allowed by God himself, who
made laws for the regulation of it, wrought miracles in sup¬
port of it by making the barren woman fruitful, and declar¬
ed the issue legitimate to all intents and purposes. God’s
allowance of polygamy is argued from Exodus, xxi. 10, and
particularly from Deut. xxi. 15, which, he says, amounts to
a demonstration. This passage, however, at the utmost,
only presupposes that the practice might have existence
amongst so hard-hearted and fickle a people as the Jews;
and therefore wisely provides against some of its more un¬
just and pernicious consequences, such as tended to affect
314 POL
Polygars’ the rights and privileges of heirship. Laws enacted to le-
Territory. gUiate it cannot be fairly urged in proof of its lawfulness,
^ on author’s own hypothesis ; because laws were also
made to regulate divorce, which Mr Madan condemns as ab¬
solutely unlawful, except in cases of adultery. Besides, it
is more probable that the “ hated wife” had been dismiss¬
ed by a bill of divorcement, than that she was retained by
her husband ; and, moreover, it is not certain but that the
two wives, so far from living with the same husband at the
same time, might be dead ; for the words may be render¬
ed thus, “ If there should have been to a man two wives,
&c. The words expressing the original institution of mar¬
riage (Genesis, ii. 24), compared with Matthew (xix. 4, 5,
8), afford insuperable objections against Mr Madan’s doc¬
trine of polygamy. . . r .
If we appeal on this subject from the authority of Scrip¬
ture to the writings of the earliest Fathers in the Christian
church, there is not to be found the faintest trace of any¬
thing resembling a testimony to the lawfulness of poly¬
gamy ; on the contrary, many passages occur in which the
practice of it is strongly and explicitly condemned.
In a word, when we reflect that the primitive institution
of marriage limited it to one man and one woman; that
this institution was adhered to by Noah and his sons,
amidst the degeneracy in which they lived, and in spite of
the examples of polygamy which the accursed race of Cain
had introduced;—when we consider how very few, compa¬
ratively speaking, were the examples of this practice amongst
the faithful; how much it brought its own punishment along
with it; and how dubious and equivocal those passages are
in which it appears to have the sanction of divine appro¬
bation ;—when to these reflections we add another, respect¬
ing the limited views and temporary nature of the more an¬
cient dispensations and institutions of religion ; how often
the imperfections and even vices of the patriarchs and peo¬
ple of God, in the olden time, are recorded, without any ex¬
press notification of their criminality; how much is said
to be commanded, which our reverence for the holiness of
God and his law will only suffer us to suppose were, for wise
ends, permitted; how frequently the messengers of God
adapted themselves to the genius of the people to whom
they were sent, and the circumstances of the times in which
they lived ;—above all, when we consider the purity, equity,
and benevolence of the Christian law ; the explicit decla¬
rations of our Lord, and his apostle St Paul, respecting the
institution of marriage, its design and limitation ;—when we
reflect, too, on the testimony of the most ancient fathers,
who could not possibly be ignorant of the general and
common practice of the apostolic church;—and, finally,
when to these considerations we add those which are found¬
ed on justice to the female sex, and all the regulations of
domestic economy and national policy,—we must wholly
condemn the revival of polygamy, and thus bear our honest
testimony against the leading design of this and all similar
publications.
POLYGARS’ Territory. This is a district in the
Southern Carnatic, and it is situated between the tenth and
eleventh degrees of north latitude. To the north it is
bounded by Trichinopoly, to the south by Marawas and
Madura, to the east it has Tanjore and the sea, and to
the west Dindigul. The Polygars, amongst whom this
country is divided, are military chieftains, resembling the
Zemindars of Bengal. Their estates are called Pallams.
The country, before it was finally subdued by the Bri-
P O L
tish, having been long the scene of violence and disorder,
where might was the rule of right, these Polygars were ex¬
tremely averse to the British yoke, and defended their in¬
dependence and their properties with resolution. Theyv
were, however, brought under subjection by the irresisti¬
ble power of the British arms, and forced to yield to what¬
ever terms were imposed upon them. Those who resisted
the demand of tribute imposed on them, or showed signs
of turbulence, were made prisoners, and deprived of their
lands; others fled to the hills, where they made inroads
on the lower country, collecting the tribute of their lands,
or marauding and plundering the country. They have been
now, however, mostly subdued, and the country has been
restored to tranquillity, under the rule of the British.
POLYGLOTT, amongst divines and critics, denotes a
Bible printed in several languages. See Bibliography.
POLYGNOTUS, a famous painter of Thasos, flourish¬
ed about 422 years before the Christian era, and was the
son and scholar of Aglaophon. He adorned one of the
public porticoes of Athens with his paintings, in which he
had represented the most striking events of the Trojan
war. The Athenians were so pleased with him, that they
offered to reward his labours with whatever he pleased
to accept; but he declined the offer ; and the Amphicty-
onic council, which was composed of the representatives
of the principal cities of Greece, ordered that Polygnotus
should be maintained at the public expense wherever he
went. Of the talents of Polygnotus, much honourable
mention is made by many of the best authors of antiqui¬
ty, as Aristotle and Plutarch, Dionysius of Halicarnassus,
Pliny, and others. Pausanias speaks of his pictures of the
events of the Trojan war, and, in his tenth book, introduces
a long description of other pictures by the same artist, paint¬
ed also from Homer, in the temple at Delphos. The pas¬
sage, however, gives but a confused and imperfect idea ot
the painter’s performance. How much the art is indebted
to this ancient master, what grace and softness he gave to
the human countenance, what embellishments he added to
the female figure and dress, are much more happily describ¬
ed by Pliny. See also the article Painting.
POLYGON, in Geometry, a figure with many sides,
or one the perimeter of which consists of more than four
sides at least; such are the pentagon, hexagon, heptagon,
and others.
POLYGRAPHY, Polygraphia, or Polygraphice, the
art of writing in various unusual manners or ciphers; as
also that of deciphering the same. The word is formed
from the Greek croXu, signifying much, and ygaipr,, scriptura,
writing. *
POLYHYMNIA, in the Pagan mythology, one of the
nine muses, thus named from the Greek words tgAu, much,
and {jivuci, memory. She presided over history, or rather
rhetoric, and is represented with a crown of pearls and a
white robe ; her right hand in action as if haranguing, and
holding in her left a caduceus, or sceptre, to show her
power.
POLYHEDRON, in Geometry, denotes a body or so¬
lid comprehended under many sides or planes.
Polyhedron, in Optics, is a multiplying glass or lens,
consisting of several plane surfaces disposed into a convex
form.
POLYMATHY denotes the knowledge of many arts
and sciences. The word is derived from the Greek, itohu,
multum, and /jluvOclvw, disco.
Polyglot;:
It
Polyma J
thy. 1
315
POLYNESIA.
plynesia. Polinesia is a name given by several early writers on
geography, but first, we believe, by De Barros, to the nu-
aaracte- merous islands scattered over the Pacific Ocean, or, as it was
Son!' usualIy calle.d’ the Great South Sea. It is the name which
is now applied by most modern geographers to the sixth
great division of the earth’s surface; a division which will
probably appear, on examination, less arbitrary than some
others; for whether we consider it in a political, physical,
or moral point of view, the separation from America on the
one hand, and from Australasia and the Asiatic islands on
the other, is marked by very strong and distinct features.
A considerable portion of the two last, for instance, have,
ages ago, been invaded and taken possession of by foreign¬
ers, and many of them have more recently been colonized by
Europeans. No colonies have yet been planted in Polyne¬
sia, with the exception of that on one of the Ladrone Islands
by Spain. Of late, however, many of these islands have
been visited by European missionaries, for the purpose of
spreading amongst the natives the light of the gospel; and in
many cases their efforts have been so far successful that they
have established permanent settlements in these islands,
and have instructed the natives, not only in the doctrines
of the Christian religion, but in all the mechanical arts and
other improvements of civilized society. The inhabitants
have no political connection with any of the other divisions
of the earth, and little or none exists between any two of
its groups or separate islands, each being governed by its
own chiefs, and confining its friendships or hostilities to
some neighbouring group or island,
ysically Physically considered, the line of separation is almost as
isi ere . distinct as their political seclusion. If a line be draw n in a
south-easterly direction along the eastern extremity of the
Philippine Islands, Mindanao, Papua or New Guinea, New
Ireland, and Solomon’s Archipelago, and from thence con¬
tinued southerly along the eastern shores of the New He¬
brides and New Zealand, this line will mark with sufficient
precision the separation of the Asiatic islands (mostly to
the northward of the equator) and Australasia (to the south-
W’ard of the equator) from Polynesia. Besides, the geolo¬
gical structure of the islands which constitute the last-men¬
tioned divisions is, generally speaking, essentially differ¬
ent, consisting chiefly of lofty mountains of primary or se¬
condary formation, partaking of the same structure as those
on the continent of Asia, with which some of them indeed
may probably have once been connected, their rugged sides
presenting as it w ere a broken barrier to the Great Paci¬
fic; whereas Polynesia exhibits a series of low, flat islands,
scarcely rising above the level of the sea, which, with the
exception of a few of the larger groups of volcanic forma¬
tion, are the labours of minute sea animals, and are usually
distinguished by the name of Coral Islands or Reefs.
ra% 1° a moral point of view, the distinctive character of the
51 eiea’ Polynesians is as strongly marked as the physical structure
of the islands which they inhabit. In the Eastern Archi¬
pelago, or the Asiatic islands, and in Australasia, two dis¬
tinct races of men have been traced, the black and the
brown. In the archipelago, and more particularly in the
Philippine Islands, a few individual families of the negro
race were discovered by the early European visitors; in
New Guinea and the Papuan Islands the whole population
appears to consist of this race. They differ in some re¬
spects from the negroes of the western coast of Africa, re¬
sembling rather those which are found on the eastern coast,
particularly in the hair, which is strongly twisted into small
tufts, and very different from that of the negro of Guinea.
None of these negroes have been discovered on any of
the islands of Polynesia, all the inhabitants being of the pf]
brown race, and evidently derived from the same common v
stock to which the Tartars, the Chinese, the Japanese, and Natives of
the Malays, owe their origin. In this opinion Sir William Polynesia.
Jones, Dr Buchanan, Dr Hunter, Mr Marsden, and Sir
Stamford Raffles, unanimously concur. This race, modi¬
fied, of course, by the circumstances of climate, occupa¬
tions, and habits, may thus be described :—Their persons
short, squat, and robust; their lower limbs large and heavy;
their arms fleshy ; hands and feet small; face somewhat of
a lozenge shape, the forehead and chin rather sharpened,
but broad across the cheek-bones, which are high, and the
cheeks hollow; the eyes black, small, narrow, and placed
obliquely in the head, the external angle being the highest;
nose broad, but not flat, and nostrils open and circular;
mouth rather wide ; hair harsh, lank, and quite black.
Dispersed as the Polynesians are, and rarely and purely Language,
accidental as any communication between distant islands
must be, it is perfectly certain that the different dialects
spoken, from the shores of India and Africa to those of
America, are the derivatives of one common language, which,
according to Marsden, still forms the primitive portion of
the Malay language, mixed as it now is with Sanscrit and
Arabic. “ The Malayan,” says this learned and accurate
writer, “ is a branch or dialect of the widely extended lan¬
guage prevailing throughout the islands of the archipelago
to which it gives name, and those of the South Sea, com¬
prehending, between Madagascar on the one side and Easter
Island on the other, both inclusive, the space of full two
hundred degrees of longitude. This consideration alone is
sufficient to give it claim to the highest degree of antiquity,
and to originality, as far as that term can be applied.”
Not less remarkable is the general accordance of the Po- Religion,
lynesians in manners, superstitions, and religious observ¬
ances. The conversion of the Malays of the archipelago
to Mahommedanism has obliterated nearly their ancient
faith, but enough still remains on some of the Asiatic islands,
and still more on the Asiatic continent, to trace the source
whence the Polynesians have derived their notions and
practices on matters of this kind.
These preliminary observations on the physical form, fea- General
tures, language, and religion of the Polynesians, are made view of the
with a view to assert their common origin, and may be^an^3'
taken as a general description of the natives of the various
groups of islands which are scattered over the surface of
the vast Pacific Ocean. These groups are exceedingly dif¬
ferent in their extent, both as to number and size, as well
as in their composition. Sometimes single islands are met
with, surrounded by rocky reefs. These islands and reefs are
dispersed, as already observed, over the whole of the Pacific
Ocean, but chiefly between the thirtieth degree of northern
and the thirtieth degree of southern latitude. The follow¬
ing classification will be found to embrace the greater part
of those islands which are comprehended under the geogra¬
phical division Polynesia:
In the Northern Hemisphere.
1. The Marian or Ladrone Islands.
2. The Carolinas, including the Pellew Islands.
3. The Sandwich Islands. <*
4. The numerous reefs and coral islands scattered over
the Pacific in both hemispheres.
In the Southern Hemisphere.
1. The Friendly Islands, including the group of the
Tonga Islands.
Classifica¬
tion of the
islands.
Ladrones.
Visited by
Magel-
haeas.
2. The Navigators’ Islands.
3. The Society Islands. rr i • •
4. The Georgian Islands, including Otaheite or Tahiti,
and the great range extending as far as Pitcairn s Island.
5. The Marquesas.
6. Easter Island.
IN THE NORTHERN HEMISPHERE.
1. The Ladrone Islands were first discovered by Magel-
haens on the 6th of March 1521. This name, by which they
are generally known, was given to them by the Spaniards
on account of the thievish disposition of the natives. They
also called them Islas de los Velos Latinas, in reference
to the sails of their canoes. By some they were called Los
Jardinas (the Gardens), and by others Dosprazeres (the
Delightful Islands) ; and when missionaries were first sent
thither in 1668, under the patronage of Mary-Anne of Aus¬
tria, queen of Philip, they took the name of Las Marianas,
in honour of that lady. They consist of four larger and se¬
veral smaller islands. The former are called Saypan, Ti¬
nian, Zarpan or Rosa, and Aguigan, or rather Guahan.
Saypan has a lofty peak, evidently volcanic, but the rest
are of a moderate height, and are surrounded by rocks of
coral formation. They lie between latitude 13° and 15|°
N., longitude about 144° E.
On approaching these islands, Magelhaens perceived that
they were inhabited, and the natives presently came off to
the ships with cocoa-nuts, yams, and rice. They were
stout, well-made people, of a pale-yellow complexion, long
black hair, and their teeth dyed red or black ; an apron of
the bark of a tree was their only covering, a lance pointed
with a fish-bone their only weapon. Their boats had lat-
teen or shoulder of mutton sails, with outriggers to pre¬
vent their upsetting, and they sailed with great swiftness.
The captain-general was so delighted with the appearance
POLYNESIA.
of the natives, and hung upon the spot three wounded pri- Polynesi
soners.
No kind of atfimal was found on the island, nor would
the natives taste any other animal food except fish. “ But
that which caused most admiration,” says Friar Caspar,
“ was, that they would drink salt water, and were such ex¬
pert swimmers, and passed so much of their time in the
water, that, as among other animals, some are amphibious,
in like manner it seemed as if these people were in their
nature amphibious.”
In 1588, our countryman Candish or Cavendish came in Visited b -
sight of the Ladrones, and sailed along the coast of Guahan, Cavendisn.
from which a number of canoes came off with fruits and
vegetables, which were exchanged for pieces of iron ; but
the natives became so troublesome, that, in order to get
rid of them, Cavendish ordered muskets to be fired at
them.
In 1600, Olivier Van Noort made the Ladrone Islands, By Olmec
and stopped near Guahan for two days, from which island Van Noort
above two hundred canoes came off to the ships with fish,
fruits, and rice, to exchange for iron; and fowls are also
mentioned, for the first time, in this voyage. In the same
year, the Santa Margarita, a Spanish ship, having lost her
captain and many of her crew by sickness, anchored olf
Saypan, and was taken possession of by the natives, who
killed some of the crew, and took others of them on shore,
where they were kindly treated, and such as survived were
afterwards taken off by a Spanish ship which had been sent
for the purpose.
In 1616, Spilbergen made the Ladrone Islands, and stop- By Spilber
ped two days to traffic with the natives for provisions ofgf^1™
fruit, fowls, and fish, in exchange for bits of iron. In 1625,
the fleet under Prince Maurice of Nassau refreshed at
Guahan, and were supplied by a hundred and fifty canoes,
with immense quantities of cocoa-nuts, yams, bananas, rice
Nassau
fleet.
of the country, that he intended to refresh his crew amongst and fowls, which were of infinite service, as the scurvy had
them ; but such numbers of the inhabitants flocked on board
his ships, and were so addicted to thieving, that, being un¬
der the necessity of driving them away by force, hostilities
ensued, and several of the natives were killed. Magelhaens
had one of his boats stolen, which so exasperated him that
he landed with ninety of his people, set fire to their houses,
which were of wood, and carried off all the provisions he
could find.
By Loyosa. The expedition of Loyosa, commanded, after his death,
by Sebastian del Cano, and at his decease by Alonzo de
Salazar, touched at the Ladrone Islands in 1526, and being
received in the most friendly manner, procured water and
provisions in plenty for the sickly squadron. To the great
surprise of the Spaniards, a countryman of theirs, named
Gonzalo de Vigo, came to them from one of the islands,
having deserted from one of the ships of Magelhaens ; two
others, he said, had deserted at the same time, but were
put to death by the natives. They found no quadrupeds
on the island, but plenty of excellent fruits, fish, and rice.
The only birds were turtle-doves, of which the islanders
appeared to be so fond, that they kept them in cages, and
taught them to speak.
By Lopex In 1565, the Ladrone Islands were again visited by Lo¬
de Legaspe. pez de Legaspe. Whilst the ships were yet two leagues from
the shore, the natives came off in their canoes, but kept at
a distance from the ships. The general put knives and
other articles on a plank, and floated it off, and the natives
showed fruits, patting their bellies, and pointing to the
shore, to induce the Spaniards to land. This they did the
following day on the island of Guahan, and exchanged bits
of iron for provisions ; but notwithstanding the regulations
made by Legaspe in order to prevent quarrels, skirmishes
took place, and one of the seamen, who had strolled into
the woods, being found murdered, the Spaniards landed in
force, set fire to their houses and canoes, wounded several
made such havoc among the crews, that in some of the ships
they had scarcely strength enough to manage the sails.
In the year 1668, the Spaniards established a mission on OftheSpa
the island Guahan, consisting of P. Servitores and five other nish Je-
fathers, with several lay-assistants, most of them natives ofbUI s‘
the Philippine Islands, and well acquainted with the Tagul
language, the same as that spoken by the natives of the
Ladrone Islands. For some time the chiefs of the islands
behaved with great kindness to the Jesuits, and gave them
ground for building a church. From this seat of the mis¬
sion the fathers spread themselves amongst the other islands,
where they were received with equal kindness. In short,
P. Servitores says, that in the first year they had baptized
more than thirteen thousand islanders, and instructed twenty
thousand, in the eleven islands which they had visited. As
usual, however, the imprudent zeal of the missionaries ruin¬
ed their cause, by shocking the prejudices of the natives.
These simple people took it into their heads that, as an
infant had died shortly after being baptized, its death had
been occasioned in consequence of that ceremony; and such
was the terror of mothers on seeing a missionary approach,
that they seized their children and ran off with them into
the woods. This opinion gathered ground from the eager¬
ness of the Jesuits to get hold of infants for the purpose of
baptizing them, and more than one of these holy fathers fell
martyrs to their imprudent zeal. Several murders ensued;
and, as the Spaniards had taken care to strengthen the mission
with a body of troops well armed, with the obvious intention
of taking possession of the Ladrones as an important outpost
to the Philippine Islands, after a great number of the na¬
tives had been put to death, the rest submitted to the yoke
of the Spaniards; though most of the missionaries suffered
in the contest, and last of all Servitores, who was killed by
the man to whom he had been the greatest benefactor, be¬
cause the missionary insisted on baptizing his child. 1 bus,
I
POLYNESIA.
Polynesia, at the age of forty-five, this pious and good man, for such
 he certainly was, fell by the hand of an assassin, after hav¬
ing, as we are told, “ established the faith in thirteen islands,
founded eight churches, established three seminaries for
the instruction of youth, and baptized nearly fifty thousand
of the islanders.” From this time constant revolts and
massacres ensued, and the most inhuman cruelties were
inflicted on the unhappy islanders; so that, in 1681, the
island of Guahan, which, on the first landing of the Spa¬
niards, counted forty thousand inhabitants (some accounts
make them more), had become so completely depopulated,
that it was found necessary to bring inhabitants from the
northern islands to cultivate the soil.
Visited by In the year 1685, the ship of John Eaton, the bucaneer,
he buca- touched at Guahan, the crew of which quarrelled with the
leers. natives, and killed some of them. Having satisfied the Spa¬
nish governor that it was done in their own defence, “ he
gave us toleration,” says Cowley in his narrative, “ to kill
them all if we could.”...“ We took four of these infidels
prisoners,” continues the narrator, “ and brought them on
board, binding their hands behind them ; but they had not
been long there, when three of them leaped overboard into
the sea, swimming away from the ship, with their hands
tied behind them. However, we sent the boat after them,
and found a strong man, at the first blow, could not pene¬
trate their skins with a cutlass ; one of them had received,
in my judgment, forty shots in his body before he died ;
and the last of the three that was killed had swam a good
English mile first, not only with his hands behind him, as
before, but also with his arms pinioned.” We are told by
the late Captain Burney, that it is stated in Cowley’s ma¬
nuscript in the British Museum, that “ the boat coming
up with them, our carpenter, being a strong man, thought
with his sword to cut off the head of one of them, but he
struck two blows before he could fetch blood.”
| j) Dam- In 1686, Dampier touched at Guahan, and states the
ier. number of natives not to exceed a hundred. He gives a
particular description of their “ flying proas,” with their
outriggers, which, he says, “ sail the best of any boats in
the world; that he tried the swiftness of one by his log,
and that she ran twelve knots out before the half-minute
glass was half out.” “ I believe,” says Dampier, “ she would
run twenty-four miles an hour.” Woodes Rogers, who
visited the Ladrones in 1710, states it as his opinion that
one of these proas would sail at the rate of twenty miles an
hour.
b Anson. In the month of August 1742, Commodore Anson an¬
chored before the island of Tinian. It was deserted, but
cattle to the number of at least ten thousand, hogs and
fowls, were running about wild. Cocoa-nuts in innumerable
quantities, bread-fruit, oranges, limes, water-melons, and
other tropical fruits, were in the greatest abundance. The
island swarmed with rats, and the flies, mosquitoes, and
ticks or bugs, were very troublesome ; but it was a para¬
dise to the crew of the Centurion, in the horrible state of
scurvy in which they arrived. Though now deserted, Ti¬
nian, on the arrival of the Spaniards, is said to have con¬
tained thirty thousand inhabitants. Ruins of buildings, con¬
sisting of pyramidal pillars of considerable dimensions, were
met with in all parts of the island,
y Byron. Commodore Byron anchored in the year 1765 before
Tinian, and found the island overgrown with large trees
and underwood, amongst which were most of the tropical
fruits. He complains bitterly of the bad anchorage, brack¬
ish water, and venomous insects, from which they suffered
so severely, that “ we were afraid,” he says, “ to lie down in
our beds;” and though his crew recovered fast from the
scurvy, he lost two by fevers, being the first deaths in his
ship since leaving England. “ I am indeed of opinion,”
says the commodore, “ that this is. one of the most un¬
healthy spots in the world, at least during the season in
317
which we were hereyet it was in the same month that Polynesia,
it had been visited by the Centurion. '
The latest account of these islands is that of Lieutenant By Kotze-
Kotzebue, who visited Guahan in 1817. No canoes norbue.
proas, nor happy islanders, greeted his approach ; the whole
race of natives had long been extirpated. “ We looked,”
he says, “ in vain for a canoe or a man on the shore ; and it
almost seemed as if we were off an uninhabited island. The
sight of this lovely country deeply affected me. Formerly
these fertile valleys were the abode of a nation, who passed
their days in tranquil happiness; now only the beautiful
palm groves remained to overshadow their graves; a death¬
like silence everywhere prevailed.” Soon, however, a per¬
son appeared from the Spanish governor, and piloted the
ship into the harbour; and after this, Kotzebue proceeded
to the town of Agana, situated upon a beautiful plain, some
hundred paces from the shore, in the midst of fine palm
groves, some of the houses being built of coral rock, others
of bamboo. It has a church and a convent, and two for¬
tresses, one to protect the town from the seawards, and the
other to keep the Indians in awe. The town contains about
200 houses, and 1500 inhabitants, who derive their origin
from Mexico and the Philippines. The population of the
island is about five thousand souls. “ There is but one man
and his wife,” says Kotzebue, “ on the whole island of the
original stock ; with the death of these two people, the race
of the old Ladrones will be totally extinguished.” “ The
present race,” says Chamisso, “ no longer know the sea,
are no mariners, no sw immers; they have ceased to build
boats. They now scarcely hollow out, without skill, the
trunks of trees to fish within the breakers.” All the other
islands to the north of Guahan are entirely uninhabited,
and overrun with wild cattle, hogs, and goats, which afford
a supply to the American vessels trading to the Sandwich
Islands and the north-w est coast of America. Indeed it is
said that some of these people have been allowed to settle
themselves in Agrigan, on condition of acknowledging their
allegiance to Spain, and that they are peopling the island
by kidnapping the natives of the Sandwich Islands.
2. The Carolinas, or Caroline Islands.—In 1686, a Spa- Carolina*,
nish ship, being near the meridian of the Ladrones, fell
in with an island, which her commander, Don Francisco
Lazeano, named La Carolina, in honour of the king of
Spain, Carlos II. This island has given the name to a very
extensive chain spreading over a space of not less than six
degrees of latitude and twenty-five degrees of longitude,
the western extremity being the group of the Palaos or
Pellew' Islands, in latitude 7° north, longitude 135° east,
and the easternmost island, that of Hogolen, in latitude
9° north, longitude 155° east. The whole group, as far as
is known, which, however, is very imperfectly, consists of
at least a hundred and fifty separate islands, and may be
nearly twice as many, besides various coral reefs with islets
upon them. Yet, numerous as they are, being somewhat
out of the direct and usual route of the Spaniards in their
voyages from South America to the Philippines, they had
the good fortune to escape any intimate connection with
them ; a connection which has proved equally baneful to
others, whether established by the cross or the sword, by
their professions of friendship or avowals of hostility. Go-
bien, the historian of the desolating progress of the Spa¬
niards in the Ladrones, says that Quiroga, the governor,
made search for the island of Carolina, “ wishing to extend
the faith to its infidel inhabitants, and, for that purpose,
sent some soldiers, and with them the chanionis (or chief),
Don Alonzo Soon; but after a fruitless search, and much
pains, they returned without finding the object of their re¬
search.”
Some of these islands, however, and especially those
towards the western extremity of the group, had been seen
by various navigators long before that of Carolina was no-
318
POLYNESIA.
Polynesia, ticed and named by Lazeano. The Portuguese, Da Ro-
''—■"'•v'—'' cha, fell in with islands in 9° or 10° north latitude, in
which he named Sequeira, after his pilot; and, in 16<;8,
Saavedra, a Spaniard, in his passage to the Philippines,
discovered islands in latitude 11°, which he named os
Reyes. In 1579, our countryman Drake saw some islands,
to which he gave the name of the Islands of Thieves,
which, from his description, have been supposed to be the
Pellew Islands. In 1595, one of the islands, in about 6°
north, was seen by Mendana; but two proas full of peo¬
ple, driven by the violence of the wind from a group ot
islands in the'east, as far as Samal, roused the attention of
the College of Jesuits at Manilla, who made several un¬
successful attempts to establish missions on those islands,
which the wrecked natives described to consist of thirty-two
in number. In the year 1710, the two fathers, Duberron
and Cortel, embarked in the San Trinidad, with a crew
of eighty-six men, to establish themselves on the Pellew
Islands. They landed on Sonsorol, with the quartermaster
and ensign of the troops, in all sixteen persons; but the
ship being driven off by the current, made for another of
the islands, called Panloque, at the supposed distance of
fifty leagues from the Sonsorolles. On approaching the
island, several boats came off, and some of the Palaos peo¬
ple swam from them to the ship, and coming on board, at¬
tempted to steal whatever they could lay their hands on.
In consequence of this, they were ordered away ; and hav¬
ing reached their boats, began to shoot arrows at the ship,
which were answered by a discharge of musketry. The
ship now returned to the Sonsorolles to inquire after the
two missionaries and the boat; but the strong winds and
currents would not suffer them to anchor, nor could they
see or hear anything of their companions, though they
stood in towards the shore within cannon shot. A storm
coming on, left them no alternative except “ to return to
Manilla, with the sorrowful news of what had happened.”
What became of the missionaries was never ascertained.
The following year, however, P. Serano departed from Ma¬
nilla, in a ship fitted out for the purpose, in search of the
two fathers and their companions ; but she foundered three
days after she departed from Manilla, and every person on
board perished, except one Spaniard and two Indians, who
brought back the melancholy intelligence.
In the Lettres Edifiantes et Curieuses is a letter and
chart from P. Juan Antonio Cantova, a missionary at Gua-
han, addressed to the king of Spain’s confessor in 1722, in
which is given a more particular account of the Carolinas
than any which had before or has since been published.
It states that, in the preceding year, a bark, with eleven men,
seven women, and six children, arrived on the east side of
Guahan; and that, two days after, another canoe, with
four men, one woman, and child, came to the opposite side
of the island. The two parties, on being brought toge¬
ther, recognised each other with great joy. It appeared
they had been dispersed by a gale of wind, and driven
about for twenty days, without knowing where they were.
Cantova thus describes them : They wore a garment open
at the sides, but covering the shoulders and breast, and ex¬
tending down to the knees. The women had a piece of
cloth round the waist, falling, like a petticoat, to the mid¬
dle of the leg. Their hair was curly, the nose large, the
eyes large and penetrating, and the beards of the men mo¬
derately thick. Some had the pure colour of the Indians;
others were apparently of a mixed breed between Spa¬
niards and Indians, and others between a negro and an In¬
dian. Cantova succeeded in learning their language, and
obtained from them the following particulars respecting
their islands.
The Carolinas are divided into five provinces. Begin¬
ning at the east, the first is named Cittac ; the principal
island, Hogolen, is much larger than Guahan ; its inhabitants
are negroes, mulattoes, and whites. There are eighteen pfin- Polynesia.j
cipal islands in this province, besides a multitude of small- y-
er ones. The second province consists of about twenty-
six islands, of which Ulee and Lamurree are the principal
ones. The third province consists of a grbup of islands, of
which Feis is the principal, being very populous and fer¬
tile ; but the chief of the group resides at Mogmog, and
all the proas which approach this island lower their sails in
token of respect to this chief. Of the fourth province, Yap
is the principal island, about a hundred and twenty miles in
circuit, very populous, and fruitful. The fifth province is
the most westerly, and is named Panleu (the Palaos, or
Pellew Islands), of which there are seven principal islands.
It is remarkable that the inhabitants of these islands so
far differ from the Carolinians in general, and from the
account given of them in the romance of Mr Keats, drawn
up by that ingenious gentleman from the documents fur¬
nished by Captain Wilson, that they are represented as a
most barbarous race, both men and women going entirely
naked, and feeding on human flesh. We are told by the
naturalist of Kotzebue’s expedition, that a Spaniard, who
had lived nine months on the Pellew Islands, and whom
they met with at Cavite, gave him a horrible account of the
natives ; that they were wholly without shame, that hus¬
bands lend their wives for a mere trifle, that the women
are without modesty, and that they certainly eat human
flesh ; a great part of which was confirmed by a native of
the Carolinas, who had been at the Pellew Islands.
Cantova further learned from the islanders, that to the
eastward were a great number of other islands, the inhabi¬
tants of which pay adoration to the shark; that most of
them are negroes, and of savage dispositions. It is sup¬
posed that Cantova returned with these islanders in the
year 1722, though no account of any such voyage is on re¬
cord; but in 1731 he embarked for the islands of the third
province, in company with another father, of the name of
Walter, from which the former never returned. The
latter, however, returned to procure certain articles of which
they stood in need, was driven to the Philippines, re-em¬
barked in 1732, and was wrecked. Walter again embarked
in May 1733, along with forty-four persons. On the ninth
day they approached thq island, and tired cannon to inform
Cantova of their arrival, but no boat appeared. Standing
within a musket-shot of the shore, they observed that their
former habitation had disappeared, as well as the cross
which had been erected near the sea-shore. Four small
canoes at length approached the vessel, bringing cocoa-
nuts. On inquiring after Cantova and his companions, the
islanders were evidently embarrassed, and said they were
gone to Yap. Being fearful, by their manner, that the
good father had fallen by the hands of the barbarians, and
willing to be satisfied on this head, they seized one of the
islanders, upon which the rest swam ashore. After the
strongest assurances that no harm should be done to him,
provided he would tell the truth, he confessed that shortly
after the departure of Walter, the natives put the Father
Cantova to death, and all his companions, fourteen in num¬
ber. Cantova, it seemed, from this man’s account, went,
with his interpreter and two soldiers, to the island Mog¬
mog, to baptize, whilst the rest remained at Falalep. He
had scarcely set his foot on shore when he was surrounded
and pierced through and through with lances, the natives
crying out that he was come to take away the old law, and
give them a new one. They gave his body a decent bu¬
rial, but the bodies of his companions were put into a ca¬
noe, which was then turned adrift upon the ocean. The
same people then went over to the island of Falalep, and
put to death the remainder of the companions of Cantova.
Since that time, little or no information has been pro¬
cured respecting the Carolinas, with the exception of that
which is contained in the narrative of Mr Keats, from the
POLYNESIA.
Their pro¬
ductions,
uid the
limners of . i j
he natives, gar-cane grew wild.
Polynesia, materials of Captain Wilson, who, when commander of the
Antelope packet, in the service of the East India Company,
was wrecked on Oroolong, one of the Pellew Islands. What¬
ever their general character may be, the crew of the Ante¬
lope found them a friendly, hospitable, and humane people.
They were stout, well made, rather above the middle size,
and their colour approaching to a deep brown ; their hair
long, some wearing it loose, and others turned up. The
men were entirely naked ; the women contented themselves
with two little aprons or fringes, made of the fibres of the
cocoa-nut husk, about ten inches deep and seven wide, one
of which was worn before, and the other behind. Both
sexes were tattooed ; the men had one ear perforated, the
women both, and they wore beads, tortoise-shell, or leaves,
as suited their fancy; the cartilage of the nose was also
bored, and a little sprig or blossom of some plant was ge¬
nerally stuck in the hole ; their teeth were dyed black by
a paste prepared of certain herbs, which, it is pretended,
caused severe sickness for five days, the time required to
complete the operation.
Fish and cocoa-nuts are the chief articles of food, but the
islands afford an abundant supply of yams, plantains, oranges,
lemons, bread-fruit, carambola, and the areca-nut; the su-
No quadruped, except rats, was found
on the islands ; of birds, the pigeon was the most abundant,
and the domestic fowl ran wild in the woods. The natives
were wholly unacquainted with the use of salt. Their usual
beverage consisted of the milk of the cocoa-nut. Their
houses were of bamboo and plank, raised upon stones from
the ground. The husk of the cocoa-nut supplied them
with nets and cordage, and the tortoise-shell with hooks
to catch fish. Their knives were made of mother-of-pearl,
shells, or split bamboo ; the cocoa-nut served them for cups,
the plaintain leaf for plates, and the fibres of this plant for
mats to sleep on. Their weapons were spears of wood, darts,
and slings. Their boats were canoes made of the trunks of
large trees, and some of them sufficiently capacious to hold
from twenty to thirty persons. In the day-time they seemed
to live as much in the water as on shore, and both sexes
were admirable swimmers. The women mixed freely with
the other sex, and their conduct was not strictly inquired into
by their husbands. They seemed to have little sense of any
religious duties, except in the ceremonies attending the
burial of the dead, which takes place in spots set apart for
that purpose, and with great solemnity ; but they have some
faint notion that the soul survives the body. Their graves
very much resembled those in a country church-yard of
England, some having earth heaped up in the same man¬
ner, and others covered with flat tombstones, and protected
by fences of wicker-work.
The larger of the Pellew Islands are of a moderate height,
rising into beautiful hills, well clothed with forest trees.
The natural history still remains unknown, but being about
the same parallel and of the same formation with the nume¬
rous group visited by Kotzebue, the plants and animals are
in all probability much the same. The smaller islands are
the productions of the coral-making animals, with which the
larger are also surrounded to a great distance from their
shores.
3. The Sandwich Islands.—This fine group of islands in
the Northern Pacific had the good fortune to escape the
visits of the old navigators, and the discovery of them was
reserved for Captain Cook, who first touched at them in the
year 1778, and lost his valuable life there in 1779. M.
Fleurieu, in his introduction to Marchand’s Voyage, is dis¬
posed to dispute this claim, and to assign the first discovery
of these islands to Mendana, for no other reason but that it
appears he passed at no great distance from Owyhee, but
without seeing it, on his return voyage in 1568; and be¬
cause he finds an island named Mesa laid down on the nine¬
teenth parallel of latitude, on the obscure and iinauthenti-
319
andwich
i slands.
cated chart of Galion de Manille. It is almost unnecessary Polynesia,
to add, that the name by which they are now known wasv^—v'-—'
given to them by Captain Cook, in honour of the Earl of
Sandwich, under whose naval administration geography was
enriched with many important discoveries.
According to Captain King, the group consists of eleven Extent and
islands. But the missionaries only enumerate ten; and they population,
reduce the population below the estimate of former voya¬
gers. The following is the estimated length, breadth, and
superficial contents of these islands. The names are given
according to the orthography of the missionaries.
Length Breadth Square Popula-
in Miles, in Miles. Miles. tion.
Hawaii (Owyhee) 97 78 4000 85,000
Maui (Mowhee) 48 29 600 
Tahurawa 11 8 60 
Ranai 17 ,9 100 
Morokai (Morotoi) 40 7 170 
Oahu, or Woahoo 46 23 520 20,000
Tanai  33 28 520 
Niihau 20 7 80 
TT ciui*ci
Morokiiii J Little else than barren rocks.
The missionaries estimate the whole population at 130,000.
Others raised it to 400,000. We have no data for any ac¬
curate calculation. But if Oahu and Owyhee contain, as
the missionaries state, 105,000, their estimate of 130,000
for the whole must be under-stated. They are situated
between latitude 18. 54. north (the south point of Owy¬
hee), and 22. 2. north (the latitude of Woahoo), and be¬
tween the longitude 199. 36. (the small island of Tahurawa),
and 205. 6. (the eastern extremity of Owyhee).
The island of Owyhee is described as rising majestically
in grand unbroken lines from the ocean, and forming three
several mountain peaks, on two of which lies snow for the
greater part of the year. They are as under :
Height.
Mouna Roa (Great Mountain) 2482 toises.
Mouna Kuah (Little Mountain) 2180
Mouna Wororai 1687
These measurements, as given by Kotzebue, agree within
a few toises with those of Marchand, The whole group is
of volcanic origin, and on the summit of Mouna Wororai is
an immense crater. The last eruption from the side of this
mountain took place in 1801. The chain of mountains runs
from the north-west point of Owyhee, over the islands Mow¬
hee, Morotoi, and Woahoo. On Mowhee is a peak as high
nearly as that of Wororai, but the latter is the only volcano
in a state of activity.
These islands, though volcanic, are surrounded by coral Desciip-
reefs, and the plains next the sea, which are raised only a few 6011.
feet above it, were once of the same description, and cover¬
ed with water. These plains are generally naked and sun¬
burnt, but the valleys amongst the mountains are beautifully
picturesque and fertile, and the sides of the hills are cover¬
ed with magnificent forests. The most fertile and best cul¬
tivated of the group is Woahoo, on which is the safe and
capacious harbour of Hana-rura, protected by a coral reef,
through a break of which lies the entrance to it. In one of
the mountains a diamond mine was supposed to exist, but
the products turned out to be only quartz crystals. In the
Pearl River of this island oysters have been found contain¬
ing pearls, but none of much value.
Amongst the indigenous plants mentioned by Chamisso, Natural
the naturalist of Kotzebue’s expedition, are the acacia, me-produc-
trosideros, pandanus, santalum, aleurites, draccena, amomi-tl0lls-
um, curcuma, tacca. The families of rubiaceae, contortae,
and urticae, predominate. From the latter, as well as fi-om
the paper mulberry (Broussonelia papyrifera), are made
their cordage and cloths. The acacia tree, used for their
boats and canvass, grows only in mountains, which is the case
320
POLYNESIA.
Polynesia, also with the sandal-wood, the principal article of export
x  ' from the islands. . .
Cultiva- The plants mostly in use for domestic purposes are the
tion- banana-tree, the cocoa-nut tree, the bread-fruit, sugar-cane,
yam, batatos, and the taro-root (Arum esculentum), of indi¬
genous growth; besides which have been introduced the
tobacco plant, the melon, and water-melon, rice, and the
vine, the last of which will unquestionably thrive well on
the sides of the volcanic mountains; also cucumbers, cab¬
bages, beans, and the cloth plant, together with a few oranges
and pine* apples. The cultivation of the taro-root has the
greatest share of attention bestowed on it; and, in tact, it
constitutes a considerable portion of the food of the people.
The fields or ponds in which this root is planted are enclosed
with stones in the form of regular squares, from a hundred
to two hundred feet each side ; these squares are connected
by sluices to convey the water from one to the other, pretty
much in the same manner that the Chinese manage their
rice-fields. “ I have seen,” says Kotzebue, “ whole moun¬
tains covered with such fields, through which the water gra¬
dually flowed; each sluice formed a small cascade, which
ran through avenues of sugar-cane, or banana, into the next
pond, and afforded an extremely picturesque prospect.
Distillation A convict from New South Wales has taught the people
of spirits, of these islands the art of distilling ardent spirits from sugar¬
cane, and a plant called the tee-root (the Dracaena termi¬
nal's). And, as every chief has now his still, it is probable
that the use of the pernicious hava will give way to that
of the almost equally pernicious spirituous liquors. This
hava is the liquor or juice of a root of the pepper tribe
(Piper methysticum), chewed and spit out into a large bowl,
and then diluted with water, and this exquisite beverage is
prepared for the sole use of the king and the nobles, the
women being prohibited from tasting it. The baneful ef¬
fects of this liquor have been noticed by most voyagers;
the bodies of those w-ho swallow it are, in process of time,
covered with a white scurf, their eyes become red and in¬
flamed, their limbs emaciated, and their whole frame trem¬
bling and paralytic.
Quadra- When Captain Cook first discovered these islands, the
peds. oniy quadrupeds upon them were hogs, dogs, and rats. They
have now horses, asses, horned cattle, many of them run¬
ning wild in the mountains, and goats. Hogs are exceed¬
ingly abundant. “ They are so large,” says Kotzebue, “ that
the whole crew could not eat one in two days; and the fla¬
vour, from being fed on sugar-cane, is very superior to Eu¬
ropean pork. Fowls, ducks, and geese, are equally abundant.
Progres- The Sandwich Islands, though last discovered, have been
sive civili- niore frequently visited by Europeans and Americans, and
satiQn. particularly by the latter, than any other group of islands in
the whole range of Polynesia ; and they have made greater
advances in civilization than any other of the Polynesian
islands. They were indebted for this superiority to the en¬
terprising character of their monarch, Tamehameha I., who
seems fully to have appreciated the advantages of European
improvements. When Captain Vancouver visited these
islands in 1792, the king being desirous of having a vessel
of European construction, this able navigator laid down the
keel of one, which was speedily finished. Ten or twelve
years after this, when Mr Turnbull visited the islands, he
had a naval force of twenty vessels or upwards, from twenty-
ty-five to fifty tons, which traded amongst the islands. He
had built a house for himself, after the European manner,
with windows of glass, and he imitated the English in his
dress. By means of English and American seamen and ar¬
tificers, some of whom deserted from ships touching there,
and others obtained regular permission to remain on the
islands, most of the trades exercised in Europe were par¬
tially introduced into the Sandwich Islands.
The attention of Tamehameha, though he was a decided Polynesia,
reformer, was chiefly directed to the improvement of his' r
dress and dwelling, to the building ef forts for the protection
of his islands, and to the training of his soldiers in the Euro¬
pean mode of discipline. But he was not equally solicitous
for intellectual improvements ; and he adhered most tena¬
ciously to the faith and to all the customs of his forefathers.
In a visit to the Morai, pointing to the large wooden statues,
he said to Kotzebue, “ These are our gods, whom I worship.
Whether I do right or wrong I do not know, but I follow
my faith, which cannot be wicked, as it commands me never
to do wrong.” Such sentiments do honour to the savage ;
and the man who entertains them is capable of being in¬
structed in better things.
During his reign, also, the women continued to be degrad¬
ed and despised ; and, notwithstanding the frequent inter¬
course with strangers, and the improvements which un¬
doubtedly have been introduced, the sex do not appear to
have gained a single step in the estimation of the men, or
lost any part of their grossness of behaviour since they were
first visited by Captain Cook. That “ offensively conspi¬
cuous wantonness,” which Vancouver deplores, and to which
he found no parallel in the whole of Polynesia, appears to
have suffered no abatement. When Campbell, the seaman,
was on the island of Woahoo, the kings brother died, on
which occasion, as part of the general mourning, a public
prostitution of the women took place. The captain of a
ship then in the harbour remonstrated with the king, who
coolly observed, it was their custom, and he could not pi e-
vent it. The women, too, it seems, are more addicted to
drinking than the men. The governor of Woahoo invited
Kotzebue and his officers to witness a dance of the natives,
at which he was not present, but sent an apology to say,
that his lady was so drunk that he could not leave her. 1 he
women are also great smokers of tobacco, and continue it
sometimes till they fall down senseless.
Though the women are so far degraded that they cannot
eat in the same house with their lords and masters, and must
not taste at all of certain articles, yet if the latter be sick,
they must howl and make lamentations, tear their hair, la¬
cerate their cheeks ; and if he should die (provided he be
a Jerrie, Eree, or noble), the favourite wife must die with
him. The victims, both men and women, who are to be sa¬
crificed at the death of Tamehameha, are well known; nor is
it concealed even from themselves, and they glory in the dis¬
tinction. “ I have myself,” says Kotzebue, “ seen one of the
devoted victims in Woahoo, a man who was always cheer¬
ful and happy.” On the death of the king, these people
will be led bound into the royal Morai (temple and burning
place), where, after the prescribed ceremonies, they will suf¬
fer death at the hands of the priests. The ancient system ot
idolatry was calculated to operate on the fears of its votaries.
“ Its requisitions,” says one of the missionary writers,1 “ were
severe, and its rites cruel and bloody. Grotesque and hor¬
rid wrooden figures, animals, and the bones of chiefs, were
the objects of worship. Human sacrifices were offere
whenever a temple was to be dedicated, or a chief was sic ',
or a war was to be undertaken, and these occasions were
frequent. The apprehensions which the people have of a
future state were undefined and fearful. The lower orders
expected to be slowly devoured by evil spirits, or to dwel
with the gods in burning mountains. The several profes¬
sions, such as that of the fisherman, the tiller of the ground,
and the builder of canoes and houses, had each their pre¬
siding deities. Household gods are also kept, which the
natives worshipped in their habitations ; the volcanoes had
moreover a superintending power. One merciful provision,
however, had existed from time immemorial, and that was
sacred enclosures, places of refuge, into which those who
1 Evangelical Magazine, No. 37, January 1826, p. 30.
POLYNESIA.
Polynesia, fled from war or from any violent, pursuer mieht enter and
Y-—^'there be safe.”
To violate the sanctity of the Morai is one of the greatest
crimes of Avhich a man can be guilty. Campbell was pre¬
sent at the execution of a man who had committed this
offence, in getting drunk and running out of the Morai du¬
ring tabboo time. He was taken back to the Morai, where
his eyes were put out; in this state he remained two days,
when he was strangled and his body exposed before the
image of Etooah, or Eatooah, the principal deity, who, ac¬
cording to their belief, is the creator of the universe, and
who afterwards destroyed it by an inundation that covered
the whole earth except Mouna Roa, on the top of which
one single pair had the good fortune to save themselves,
from whom the present race of men, that is, the Sandwich
Islanders, sprung.
That singular superstition by which the king, the nobles,
and the priests, under the name of tabboo, have contrived
to render sacred and inviolable whatever they may wish to
appropriate to their own use, and which is in universal ope¬
ration through the whole of Polynesia, is practised to a great
extent in the Sandwich Islands. By means of it, a whole
people are contented to be robbed of their property, and to
suffer any privations that may be imposed on them, without
murmuring. When their houses are tabbooed they dare not
enter them ; when their taro-roots or their hogs are tab-
booed, they surrender them without a struggle ; but in re¬
turn, it must be owned, they are not scrupulous in appro¬
priating to themselves whatever is not tabbooed.
Amongst the customs which they inveterately retain, is that
of tattooing the body; this operation being also universal
amongst the islanders of the Pacific. The hands and arms
of the women, in particular, are marked with peculiar ele¬
gance of figure, and many of the women have the tip of the
tongue tattooed. Contrary, however, to the common prac¬
tice of the islanders, they do not paint their bodies, nor
wear ornaments of any kind in the ears ; but the women de¬
corate their hair, which is cut short, with wreaths of flow¬
ers, and wear necklaces, bracelets, and anklets of shells,
coral, and other substances. The common dress of the men
is the maro, a piece of cloth about a foot wide, which,
passing between the legs, is tied round the waist; that of
the women is a short petticoat, reaching about half-way
down the thigh. The chiefs, on days of ceremony, and on
particular occasions, wear cloaks made of the most beauti¬
ful feathers, with an elegantly-shaped helmet to correspond.
They are ambitious, however, to appear in the dress of
Europeans, to enable them to do which, great quantities of
old laced coats are carried out to the Sandwich Islands as
articles of commerce.
The character of these islanders, like that of all savages
in their natural state, is stained with every degrading vice.
The missionaries who were stationed in the island, and who
had the best opportunities of estimating the dispositions of
the natives, describe them as lamentably debased; being
in the continual practice of theft, treachery, drunkenness,
gross licentiousness, and infanticide, and strangers to every
social and domestic virtue. Polygamy is the common cus¬
tom ; and murder by poison is believed by the natives to be
very frequent. Great improvements have, however, been
effected by the instructions of the missionaries, who have
persevered in this, as in the other islands, with an enthu¬
siasm that has at length been crowned with success, and
has laid the foundation of a great moral change in the con¬
dition of these barbarous islanders. The system of idolatry,
so far as it was connected with the government, was abo¬
lished by Rhio-Rhio, or Tamehameha II., the son and suc¬
cessor of Tamehameha I., who laid the foundation of social
improvement amongst his subjects. This took place in 1819,
before any Christian missionaries came into his dominions. He
was induced to adopt this policy from various causes, namely,
VOL. XVIII.
321
a desire to improve the condition of his wives, who were sub- Polynesia,
ject, along with all other females, to many inconveniences,—v—-'
from the operation of the tabboo already explained. 2dly, Se¬
veral foreigners and intelligent chiefs advised the change ;
and the report of what had been done by Pomare, king of
Otaheite, in the Georgian Islands, had great weight with
him. Some disturbances took place in consequence of the
abolition of idolatry ; but the insurgents were defeated, and
peace was restored. In 1820, missionaries were, after some
difficulty, allowed to settle, some at Kairua, but the greater
number at Honororu, on the island of Oahu or Woahoo.
They had to encounter difficulties, moral as well as phy-
sicjfl, in their ignorance of a rude unwritten language,
which they mastered, however, by perseverance, and con¬
structed an alphabet, and finally a grammar and spellinp--
book, which was in great demand amongst the natives.
In the year 1822 they had made such proficiency that Mr
Ellis began to preach in the native language; and six mis¬
sionary stations were established, at each of which a church
was erected, and worship regularly celebrated on the Sun¬
day. In 1824, the king and queen of the Sandwich Islands
embarked, amidst the sighs and tears of their subjects, on a
voyage to Great Britain, where they died the same year.
Their bodies, with their surviving attendants, were brought
to the Sandwich Islands in the Blonde frigate, under the com¬
mand of Lord Byron. Kamkeoli, the brother of the king,
was unanimously acknowledged as his successor, under whose
protection the missionaries continued their labours, often
under great discouragements, in establishing schools, plant¬
ing churches, training native teachers and missionaries, and
in instructing the people in industry and the mechanical arts.
The church at Oahu was resorted to by great numbers. It
contains only seven hundred, and two thousand were often
assembled without doors. According to late accounts, sixty-
three schools, containing 1583 scholars, and under the super¬
intendence of native teachers, had been visited; besides
others in the vicinity of Honororu. Spelling-books to the
amount of thirteen thousand had been distributed amongst
the people. Amongst those who paid attention to the in¬
structions of the missionaries, numbers made an open pro¬
fession of the Christian faith ; and amongst all a stricter
morality prevailed. They became more humane, more in¬
dustrious and honest; the females no longer, as formerly, re¬
sorted for prostitution to British ships; they adopted a dif¬
ferent dress, after the European fashion, and many were
baptized. This sudden change, however, appears to have
been owing as much to the love of novelty as to the influ¬
ence of a purer faith ; and, accordingly, it has been found in
this, as in the other islands, that the gloss of novelty having
worn off, many of the wholesome restraints imposed upon
their unbridled passions have been thrown off, and they
have relapsed into their former barbarous and profligate
habits. Still the seeds of civilization have been scattered
far and wide, and in due time, we may be assured, they will
bear fruit. The people may relapse to a certain degree, but
they will never sink to their former state of barbarism.
There is no doubt, in short, that since the missionaries
have established themselves in these islands, and our ships
of war have frequented them, a great change has taken
place in the habits and moral character of the natives. “ I
was glad,” says Captain Bruce of the Imogene, “ that, at
the spot where the intrepid navigator Cook met his untime¬
ly end, his memory is cherished with the greatest venera¬
tion, and that the prevalence of Christianity is now general
throughout the island.” The same observation will apply
to the Society Islands, and indeed to all those where the
missionaries have established themselves. The odious part
of the habits and manners of the people is fast disappearing.
4. Coral Islands and Reefs The number and position Coral
of the multitude of low islands, sometimes found in groups, islands and
and sometimes solitary, are by no means yet ascertained j but,reefs*
2 s
322
Polynesia.
POLYNESIA.
from the various tracts of ships, it is known that ^ ' hoie
that part of the Pacific lying between the equator and the
tenth degree of north latitude, and from the Pellew Islands
to 180° longitude, being at least forty-five degrees o ongi-
tude, is completely studded with low coral islands and eefs
in countless numbers, some of them inhabited, an<l ot '^
not; and in different stages, from the circular reef, with
islets rising upon it like the beads of a necklace, wnh a la¬
goon in the centre, to the complete consolidation, into one
firm island. About the tenth parallel, and proceedin^east¬
erly from the Carolinas, we have Button,
and Gilbert’s Islands; and about the longitude 175 east, a
whole group, extending to the southward of the equator,
named on some charts “ Lord Mulgraves Range, on others
“ Scarborough’s Range;” some of the individual islands of
which are Smith’s, Allen’s, Gillespie’s, Toulmin s, Hopper s,
Chatham’s, Calvert’s, Robertson’s, Arrowsmi h s, Daniel s,
Marshall’s, Pott’s, near to which are Kingmills Gicup an
Bvron’s Island, all of coral formation.
“Various accounts have been given by Cook, Forster, Flin¬
ders, and others, of the progressive formation of these low
specks of land, with which the Pacific is studded, but the
best and most satisfactory is that by Kotzebue and t e
naturalist Chamisso. They not only saw the Lord Mul-
gravc’s chain of islands, which extend from 1 to 12 north,
of which Gilbert’s Islands form the northern and Mai shall s
Island the southern extremity, but they discovered and ex ¬
amined minutely many other groups and detached islanus.
Between the eighth and tenth degrees of north latitude, and
between longitude 188. 48. and 190. 46., they encountered
no less than six distinct groups, to which they understood
the natives applied the name of Radack; and they learned
that to the westward were nine other groups, and tlnee
detached islands, called Ralick, besides four groups to the
southward. The Radack chain probably includes those which
were seen by Captain Marshall in 1788, and to which he
gave the name of Chatham and Calvert Islands, though
Kruzenstern thinks that these are the same as the Ralick
chain. It is not of much importance in a geographical
point of view, whatever it might be for the benefit of navi¬
gation.
The small size of Kotzebue’s vessel gave him the advan-
tage of sailing through the openings in the circular ree s,
and of examining the lagoons within them. I' rom his ac¬
count, it would seem that the coral-making animals do not
commence their labours at the very depth of the ocean,
as has been supposed, but on rocky shoals, the summits,
in all probability, of submarine mountains, round which
they lay the foundation of their extraordinary fibres, form¬
ing an united chain, irregular in shape, but generally ap¬
proaching, more or less, to a circle. The greatest depth at
which they are able to derive a sufficient degree ot light
and heat for their operations has not yet been ascertained;
but w e know that marine animals have been drawn up in a
living state from the depth of a thousand fathoms, and from
a temperature very little above that of the freezing point.
The outer edge of the reef exposed to the surf of the sea is
the first that shows itself above the water; in process of
time it becomes indurated, breaks, and crumbles, by the
action of the sea, and at length forms a sort of barrier, with¬
in the sloping sides of which the living animals are seen
carrying on their operations. Those observed by Chamisso
were the Tubipora musica, the Millepora ccendea, obsticho-
pora, actimas, and various kinds of the polypus. He found
the living branches of the lythophytes generally attached to
the dead stems ; many of the latter, however, crumbled into
sand, which, accumulating on the inner declivity, consti¬
tutes no inconsiderable part of the surface of the new islands
that rise out of this reef, and are gradually united into one
island, having in its centre a salt-water lake, that alternately
growrs up by a silent and slow progress, till what was at first
a chain of islets, has become one connected mass of land. Polynesia.
The progress towards a state fit for the habitation of man
has beenVell described by Chamisso. .
« As soon as it has reached such a height that it remains
almost dry at low water, at the time of ebb, the corals leave
off building higher; sea-shells, fragments of coral, sea-
hedgehog shells, and their broken-ofl prickles, aie united
by the burning sun, through the medium of the cementing
calcareous sand, which has arisen from the pulverization of
the above-mentioned shells into one whole or solid stone,
which, strengthened by the continual throwing up of new
materials, gradually increases in thickness, till it at last be¬
comes so high that it is covered only during some seasons
of the year by the high tides. Fhe heat of the sun so pe¬
netrates the mass of stone when it is dry, that it splits in
manv places, and breaks off in flakes. These flakes, so se¬
parated, are raised one upon another by the waves at the
time of high water. The always active surf throws blocks
of coral (frequently of a fathom in length, and three or four
feet thick) and shells of marine animals between and upon
the foundation stones; after this, the calcareous sand lies
undisturbed, and offers to the seeds of trees and plants, cast
upon it by the waves, a soil upon which they rapidly giow,^
to overshadow its dazzling white surface. Lntire trunks of
trees, which are carried by the rivers from other countries
and islands, find here, at length, a resting place, after their
long wanderings ; with these come some small animals, sue i
as lizards and insects, as the first inhabitants. Even befoie
the trees form awood, the real sea-birds nestle there; stiajed
land-birds take refuge in the bushes ; and, at a much latei
period, when the work has been long since completed, man
also appears, builds his hut on the fruitful soil formed by
the corruption of the leaves of the trees, and calls himself
lord and proprietor of this new creation.
IN THE SOUTHERN HEMISPHERE.
1. The Friendly Islands.—The Friendly Islands, amongst Friendly
which may also be included the beejee Islands, were first
discovered by Abel Jansen Jasman in 1643, to three of
which he gave the names of Amsterdam, Middleburgh, and
Rotterdam. The first of these islands is that which was
afterwards visited by Captain Cook, and described by him
under the name of Tongataboo ; more properly, as we since
learn from Mr Mariner, Tonga, the annexed word Tabboo,
so extensively used throughout Polynesia, being expressive
only of its sacred character. From the inhabitants of this
island Tasman received yams, cocoa-nuts, bananas, hogs,
and fowls, in exchange for iron, nails, beads, and pieces ot
linen. They had also plenty of sugar-canes. Women as
wTell as men swam off to the ship, -and it was observed that
all the elder dames had the little finger of both hands cut
off, but the young women had not. They wore round the
middle a covering of mat-work, which reached down to then
knees ; the rest of the body naked. None of the men
would taste wine, and they were ignorant of the use of to¬
bacco ; they had no arms of any kind, which led I asman
to conclude that they lived in perpetual peace and friend¬
ship. .
Tasman next touched at Ammomooka, or, as he called it,
Amsterdam Island, in the hope of meeting with better wa¬
ter than on the first, where it was bad and scanty. On
landing, they perceived some sixty or seventy persons sit¬
ting quietly on the shore, who had no arms of any kind,
and appeared to be a harmless and peaceable people. There
were, besides, many women and children, the former clothed
like those on Amsterdam Island; but they were of a larger
size, and as strong in their bodies and limbs as the men.
The party was shown to a piece of fresh water not a mile
from the shore, about a quarter of a mile in circumference,
and about a musket-shot from the north side ot the islanu,
POLYNESIA.
Polynesia, where there was a good sandy bay. Here they watered
-"N'-—^ their ships, and received abundance of provisions, the same
in kind as those of the other island. The inhabitants are
described as being great thieves, but very friendly. They
have large vessels with masts, sails, and outriggers, as well
as canoes, and on going into the interior of the island it was
observed that all their plantations were laid out in neat and
regular order. “ There was not,” says Captain Cook, “ an
inch of waste ground ; the roads occupied no more space
than was absolutely necessary; the fences did not take up
above four inches each, and even this was not wholly lost,
for in many were planted some useful trees or plants. It
was everywhere the same ; change of place altered not the
scene; nature, assisted by a little art, nowhere appears in
more splendour than here.” The missionaries, too, in 1797,
found these islands in as high a state of cultivation and
beauty as they appeared to Tasman and to Cook.
’evolution A woful difference in their peaceable habits, according
i the go- to Mr Mariner, has taken place since the visits of these
jrnment. Enr0peans. In 1799 a revolution took place, and from that
time bloody wars and most savage slaughter have desolated
these beautiful islands. They were first commenced, as it
would appear, by a most atrocious savage, in whom the
kingly power was vested, who not only practised the most
barbarous cruelties on his subjects, but seized upon the sa¬
cred or ecclesiastical power, which had always, as in Japan,
been kept separate from the secular arm. The sacred spell
being thus broken, which rested solely on public opinion, a
complete revolution followed, and from that hour these once
happy islands have been the scene of slaughter, famine, and
every species of horror and misery. We must not, however,
give implicit credit to all that has been stated by Dr Mar¬
tin, the writer of Mariner’s account of these islands, but
rather consider it as a romantic exaggeration of facts and
descriptions, similar to that of the Pellew Islands by Mr
Keats. There are shades of difference merely between the
inhabitants of these and of the neighbouring islands.
In 1833, missionaries were detached from Tahiti, the centre
of all the settlements in the South Seas, to these islands.
They experienced on their arrival difficulties and discourage¬
ments from the barbarous inhabitants ; but by perseverance
they expect to obtain a footing, and to introduce amongst
them the blessings of civilization, as w'ell as into the other
islands among these seas.
The Harvey Islands1 are situated between 19° and 22° south
latitude, and 160° west longitude, and are between 500 and
(iOQ miles south-west by west from Otaheite or Tahiti. They
consist of the island Manaia or Mangeea, a small island con¬
taining only 1000 or 1500 inhabitants; Rarotonga, a much
larger island, containing from 6000 to 7000 inhabitants;
Aitutake; Mantii or Mante; Mitiaro, a very small island ;
Atui. Three of these islands are not laid down in any chart.
The missionaries, when they first visited them, met with
every discouragement, and could scarcely preserve them¬
selves and their wives from the violence of the king. Two
missionaries, however, visited these islands in 1823, and two
native teachers w'erealso left in 1824 ; and in the course of
two months they had made a hundred and tw'enty converts.
In 1825, these islands were visited by missionaries from this
country, and it wras found that great progress had been made
in civilizing and instructing the inhabitants. Many had
learned to read; whilst their idolatrous and cruel practices,
such as infanticide, had been abolished. More decent cloth¬
ing had been adopted by the w omen, who were no longer so
ready to offer themselves for prostitution to crews of foreign
vessels when they arrived. An attempt that was made to
plant the Christian religion in the Feejee Islands had failed.
But a vessel from New South Wales having touched at La-
gebain 1829 or 1830, the captain had a friendly conversa¬
tion with the chief, who requested that a missionary might Polynesia,
be sent. A teacher, accordingly, set sail from Otaheite, and
landed on these islands in 1830.
In 1830, two missionary teachers were left on theFriendly
Islands, in which, though distinct, the Feejee Islands have
been included. They were kindly received, but were in¬
formed by the king that he could not embrace Christianity
until after he had consulted with all the chiefs of the other
islands; that they had been erecting a most extensive
Morai, about seventy-six feet in height, all of stone, which
had given way three times, and which misfortune they as¬
cribed to the power of the new God. One chief, convert¬
ed by native missionaries, expressed his adherence to the
Christian faith, amidst the scoffs, jeers, and even threats of
his countrymen.
2. Navigator^ Islands.—To the north-east of the Fee-Navigators’
jee, Tonga, or Friendly Islands, are situated the Bauman Islands,
or Navigators’ Islands. The first name was given to them
after Captain Bauman, of the Teinhoven, by Jacob Rogge-
wein, by whom they were discovered, in 1722; and the latter
name was conferred by Bougainville, who passed them in
1768. La Perouse likewise visited these islands, and is of
opinion that they are not the same as Bauman’s Islands,
because their geographical position does not agree with
that assigned to them by Roggewein. Burney, howTever,
has no doubt that they are identical, the only difference
being in their supposed longitude, which, in the time of
Roggewein, was frequently set down erroneously by several
degrees.
These islands form an archipelago, consisting, according Description
to La Perouse, of ten in number, of which Maouna, Oyo- of the
lava, and Pola are the largest and most beautiful. The islands and
parallel of 14° south latitude, and the meridian of 190°, passnatlves‘
through the centre of the group. According to the mis¬
sionaries, these islands, which they also designate as the
Samoa Islands, are eight in number, four in the windward
group, and four in the leeward group, two much larger than
Otaheite, two others noble islands, and the remaining four
small, though full of inhabitants. To the largest they gave
the appellation of Savai and Upola. They are said by La
Perouse to be volcanic, but surrounded by coral reefs.
Roggewein describes the hills and valleys as affording a de¬
lightful prospect. The natives came off in boats neatly
made and carved, bringing fish, cocoa-nuts, and plantains.
They are said to have white skins, but tanned by the sun,
to be gentle in their manners towards each other, lively and
good-humoured ; their bodies were neither painted nor mark¬
ed, and they were clothed from the waist downwards ; the
cultivated grounds were all enclosed ; and, in short, they are
described by the writer of Roggewein’s voyage as the most
civilized and honest people they had met with amongst the
islands of the South Sea. We may conclude, indeed, from
his account, that they were equally v'ell cultivated, and
the inhabitants equally mild and peaceable, with those of the
Friendly Islands.
Very different, however, is the account given of them by
La Perouse. Ferocious in the highest degree, he describes
them as utterly destitute of gratitude and every good moral
feeling; that a look of disdain is stamped on all their coun¬
tenances ; and that they are eternally fighting with each
other, so that their bodies are covered with scars occasion¬
ed by the blows of clubs. Tall in stature, their limbs are
of colossal proportions ; and their bodies are tattooed to
such a degree as to make them appear clothed, though
they have only a girdle of sea-wreeds round their loins,
which reaches to the knee. The size of the women cor¬
responds with that of the men, and their whole behaviour
is represented as highly indecent and disgusting. They
had no desire for iron, preferring their owm adzes and other
i Missionary Chronicle for September 1826.
POLYNESIA.
Fertility.
Society
Islands.
t0°,S ^ hUtS ^ *'"d^anl "7’ ltT„hS“Te .hose of .he Navigators’
carved. Xheir matting and cloth were exceedingly
tiful • the latter woven with thread made from the nettle,
and a species of flax. The sails of their boats or canoes
were made of this cloth. The islands are so intersected
with creeks that they travel from place to place almost uni¬
versally in canoes, which have outriggers to prevent them
from upsetting.
All the islands wrere clothed with trees up to the very
summit of the hills, many of them laden with fruit. The
v
fall
In these islands, the missionaries, though long disap¬
pointed, and though their lives were frequently endangered
by the contests and revolutions which agitated the country,
at last succeeded, by their perseverance and intrepidity, in
establishing stations in Huaheine, Ulietea or Raiatea, la-
ha or Otaha, and Borabora or Bolabola. It was about the
about their houses in flocks of many hundreds. Sugar-cane
growls abundantly and without culture. Their animals are
pigs, dogs, and the domestic fowl; these, and the flsh, which
they catch with great expertness, afford them an abundant
supply of food. These islands were visited for the first time _ . ....... . , , • t? • *
bv the missionaries in 1830, who placed eight teachers on year 1817 that a missionary, Williams, landed in Raiatea,
the laro-e island of Savai. They were kindly received by the where he has laboured ever since with perseverance and
& - - •’ ’ - — fidelity. The inhabitants of Taha are strongly attached to
their ancient idolatrous worship. They opposed the intro¬
duction of Christianity, and even went to w’ar with the
king of Raiatea because he had agreed to renounce idolatry.
But they were worsted in the contest, and the king was
taken prisoner. Instead, however, of being put to death,
as formerly, with cruel tortures, he was humanely treated,
which made such a deep impression on his mind that he
embraced Christianity ; and in 1824, in Raiatea, 178 chil¬
dren had been baptized, and 140 taught to read. In Hua¬
heine, missionary stations were also established, and the
preachers laboured with success in the conversion of the
natives. In 1830, at the public examination of the schools,
370 children were present, all very neatly dressed in Euro¬
pean cloth ; and many of the chiefs and parents were pre¬
sent on the occasion. The same success attended the ef¬
forts of the missionaries in Borabora. But the progress of
chiefs; and they considered that their prospects of civilizing
these islands, and of reclaiming them from idolatry, were very
favourable. A fierce war was waging at the time the mis¬
sionaries landed, between the islands of Upola and Savai,
which they interposed with their counsels to appease ; and
the chiefs promised that they would terminate it, and come
and learn from the missionary teachers the word of God.
These islands were visited, in 1834, by five missionaries
from Otaheite. They were kindly received by the natives,
who still continued to express the strongest desire for their
instructions, and several of whom had made an open pro¬
fession of the Christian faith. Four additional missionaries
arrived in these islands at the close of the year 1835 ; and
as their reception was friendly, they had commenced their
labours amidst a population of 50,0t)0, with every prospect
of success.
3. Society Islands—The first account of these islands
tion. The indolent dispositions of the people, from habit
or from the heat of the climate, indisposed them to indus¬
try ; and, from the introduction of spirits, both in Raiatea,
Borabora, Huaheine, and in the other islands, they relapsed
into all their gross excesses. One of the old chiefs, who
had favoured the introduction of the missionaries, having
Descrip¬
tion.
is given in the voyage of Jacob Roggew'ein, who touched this moral reformation experienced some serious interrup
at Ulietea in the year 1722 ; at least it is conjectured by
Burney, on probable grounds, that the Yerquickking or
Recreation Island of that navigator is the same. On send¬
ing a boat on shore, the inhabitants assembled on the beach,
and advanced into the water armed with lances to oppose
their landing. The Hollanders fired upon them, and hav- <
ing dispersed them, landed on the beach, and the inhabi- died, his successor, who had resided at Huaheine, was much
tants returned in a friendly manner, and brought them addicted to intemperance; and a person from Botany Bay
cocoa-nuts and other articfes of food. The Hollanders having brought ashore a cask of spirits, the slumbering ap-
then advanced up a valley towards the mountains ; but some petite w'as rekindled, and the people, encouraged by their
thousands of the natives coming out of the glens and ere- chief, gave way to almost universal dissipation ; and though
vices, made signs to them to return. The Hollanders, how- the introduction of spirits had been prohibited before, they
ever, paid no regard, but proceeded, upon which showers now began to erect stills for distillation in various quarters,
of stones were hurled at them, by which some were killed The missionaries did all they could to repress this flood of
and others wounded. These volleys were answered by a dissipation; and they succeeded at last in putting a stop foi
discharge of musketry, which killed many of the islanders, a time to the use of spirits. In Borabora and Maupiti, the
who, nevertheless, continued the action, and finally drove chief, Mai, desirous of having more than a single wife, left
the Dutchmen into their boats. Many of the latter subse- the missionary settlement, attended by a great part of his
quently died of the wounds they had received, in conse- people; and at their new settlement they abandoned the
quence of the bad state of their constitutions, being severely profession of the Christian religion, and commenced the
affected with the scurvy. distillation of ardent spirits. The missionaries, however,
Captain Cook visited these islands in 1769, and again in do not relax in their labours; though the encouragements
1777. They consist of six in number (besides small coral are not so great as could be desired, yet they hazard every-
islets), the names of which are Ulietea and Otaha (both thing, even life itself, in the hope of spreading their doc-
encompassed by the same coral reef), Huaheine, Bolabola, trines among distant nations. They so far prevailed, that
Tubai, and Maurua. They extend from about IG0" to 17°
south latitude, and from 151° to 152° west longitude. The
climate, the productions, and the inhabitants, resemble so
nearly those of Otaheite, that the same description will ap-
and the hills are finely Polynesia
nJceWand allTheir wood-work was highly polished“and wooded. The inhabitants, like those of the Navigators
Th“!' Lttino and cloth were txceedingly beau- Islands, are generally of a larger stature than the Otahei-
tans. The late Sir Joseph Banks measured one of the na¬
tives of Huaheine, and found him to be six feet three inches
and a half in height; and the women are described as ge¬
nerally more handsome and somewhat fairer than those of
Otaheite. Bolabola differs from the rest of the islands by
having a lofty double-peaked mountain near its centre, ap¬
parently volcanic. In Ulietea there is a large Moral, in
which a number of jaw-bones are kept as trophies of war.
dllages Pranged a'irn'g the m^ginof ih'e'sir'eams which The coral reefs which everywhere surround these islands
fall from the mountains, and are built in the midst of groves form numerous safe and commodious harbours for shipping,
of cocoa, banana, guava, and other fruit-trees common to the and refreshments of hogs, fowls, plantains, cocoa-nuts, and
South Sea Islands. The woods abound with wild pigeons yams, are generally to be had in great abundance
and turtle-doves, which are tamed by the natives, and kept
the people agreed to give up the use of spirits ; and a law
was enacted, inflicting a heavy penalty on any one who
should be found engaged in distillation.
4. The Georgian Islands, including Otaheite, §c.—
ply to both. The surfaces of all the islands are uneven heite is the chief island of this vast group, which extends
POLYNESIA.
325
Polynesia, over fifteen degrees of longitude, in the direction of south-
'-~v^,^east. The extreme point is Pitcairn’s Island, lately be¬
come interesting on account of the discovery of the descen¬
dants of the mutineer Christian and some of his associates.
The natives of this vast chain of islands, and particularly of
Otaheite, may probably be considered as the most civilized,
but, at the same time, the most sensual people in all Polyne¬
sia. It was first discovered by Quiros in 1606, and received
from him the name of Sagittaria. The natives received
the strangers with great kindness, gave them cocoa-nuts
and other fruits, and a general interchange of civilities and
presents soon took place. This good understanding remain¬
ed uninterrupted, and the Spaniards, for once, left the island
without having quarrelled with the inhabitants. In their
zeal, however, they committed an act which, if discovered,
might have been attended with unpleasant circumstances.
The place at which they first landed was uninhabited, but
in passing through a wood they discovered a Morai, in which
they concluded “ the enemy of mankind residedand,
under this impression, cut down a tree, which they formed
into a cross, and planted in the midst of the sacred building.
In 1765, Commodore Byron discovered two low islands
to the northward of Otaheite, which, in honour of his ma¬
jesty, he named George’s Islands, one of which, afterwards
visited by Cook, is called Tiookea. The natives of these
islands were very dark coloured, robust, and apparently
ferocious; and their bodies were marked with the figure
of a fish.
In 1767, Captain Wallis touched at Otaheite, and went
through the ceremony of taking possession of the island in
the name of his sovereign ; but the flag was removed by
the natives in the night. Various squabbles occurred be¬
tween the seamen and the natives, who, however, behaved
on the whole with great kindness and hospitality. Most of
the quarrels were owing to the licentious intercourse of the
seamen with the native women. In 1768, M. de Bougain¬
ville visited Otaheite, and was most hospitably received; in
return for which several murders were committed by the
French seamen. Captain (then Lieutenant) Cook anchored
in Matavai Bay in April 1769. It is from this and his se¬
veral subsequent visits, together with a missionary voyage
in the ship Duff, commanded by Captain Wilson, 1796-
1798, that Otaheite is so well known to us.
eite. }sianc[ consists of two peninsulas, connected by a
low isthmus, about three miles in width, covered with brush¬
wood. The larger, Otaheite Nove, is about ninety miles
in circumference, and nearly circular; the smaller, Tiara-
boo, is about thirty miles ; the whole nearly surrounded by a
low belt of land, from a furlong to a mile in width, which
is prolonged by a gradual rise to the valleys, which run up
to the foot of the lofty central mountain. These valleys
and their intermediate ridges are beautiful, clothed with a
great variety of trees to their very summits ; in the valleys
are mostly met with clear streams of water, which, in the
rainy season, become mountain-torrents. The island, being
surrounded with coral reefs, is dangerous to approach, and
the only safe harbour is that of Matavai, on the northern
side, in latitude 17. 30. south, longitude 149.13. west. This
too is not free from danger from December to March.
The climate is delightful, the thermometer seldom rising
above 80° in summer, and ranging from 62° to 72° in
winter.
The island is so fertile as to produce everything in
abundance, and without toil, for the sustenance of man.
The bread-fruit is here superior to that which grows on
the other islands. The fruit affords them a most nutritive
food, either for present use, or made into a paste called
mahie, which will keep till the following season ; the trunk
supplies them with timber for their buildings and canoes.
It exudes a gum, which serves for pitch ; and from the inner
bark is manufactured a substantial cloth. They reckon no
less than thirty varieties of this most useful tree, which, Polynesia.
with the different exposures to the trade-winds, and the'— 1
difference of elevation above the sea, afford to the natives
a bread-fruit harvest at almost all seasons of the year. The
cocoa-nut, next to the bread-fruit, supplies them with
meat, drink, cloth, and oil. Of plantains, they reckon fif-
teen different sorts. \ arns and sweet potatoes, taro-root
of different kinds, and various other edible roots and fruits,
are most abundantly produced ; to which our missionaries
have added the pine-apple, the grape, and various culinary
vegetables of Europe ; but the natural and spontaneous
productions of the soil, and the consequent indolence of
the people, are unfavourable to their success.
I he animals found on the island are hogs, dogs, and Animals,
rats. Several attempts have been made to introduce the
horse, and^ horned cattle, sheep, and goats, but without
success. The latter are so disliked for their smell and the
mischief they did to their plantations, that they drove them
into the mountains, where they run wild. The breed of
cats has succeeded, and they are found to be extremely
useful; and rabbits have been introduced, but we know
not with what success. Common poultry are abundant,
and the woods supply vast quantities of wild pigeons and
parrots. The tropical bird builds its nest in the steep cliffs,
and as its long feathers are highly valued, it is taken on
the nest by lowering down a man seated across a stick,
by a rope, to the depth of thirty or forty fathoms; in
which situation, by means of a long pole, he swings himself
from side to side, examining all the holes as he descends,
in order to take the bird on her nest. The shores abound
with sea-fowl, and the sea with excellent fish, which they
take with great expertness by hook and line, or by the net.
Dolphins are caught at a distance from the shore, by bait¬
ing the hook with a real or artificial hying fish. Their fish¬
ing-tackle displays the greatest ingenuity, and can only be
exceeded by their skill in using it. Their hooks are made
of pearl-shells, bone, and hard wood. The coast abounds
with lobsters, crabs, and various kinds of shell-fish.
The colour of the natives is that of olive, or light copper. Inhabi-
The men are above the middle size ; the chiefs are almosttants.
uniformly tall, muscular, and well limbed, measuring from
five feet nine inches to six feet four inches, and continue
healthy and vigorous to a good old age. The women of
the upper ranks are likewise tall, with limbs finely turned.
Their skins are soft and delicate ; their eyes black, sparkling,
and full of expression ; their teeth beautifully white and
even; their hair jet black, and generally ornamented with
flowers ; and in their gait they are firm, but easy and grace¬
ful. From a custom of compressing the face when infants,
they can scarcely be called beauties; yet, according to the
account of Captain Wilson, they possess feminine graces in
an eminent degree ; “ their faces never being darkened
with a scowl, or covered with a cloud of sullenness or sus¬
picion.” They are affable and engaging ; mild, gentle, and
unaffected ; courteous to each other and to strangers. The
whole of the body to the middle of the leg is clothed ; but
there is a singular custom which compels a woman to un¬
cover her shoulders and breasts in the presence of a chief,
or in passing a Morai or sacred place. The lower classes
have always been described as extremely licentious, but
Captain Cook says they have been much calumniated. “ It
is too true,” say the writers of the Missionary Voyage,
“ that, for the sake of gaining our extraordinary curiosi¬
ties, and to please our brutes, they have appeared immo¬
dest in the extreme. Yet they lay the charge wholly at
our door, and say the Englishmen are ashamed at nothing,
and that we have led them to public acts of indecency ne¬
ver before practised amongst themselves.” It must be ad¬
mitted, however, that the most abandoned conduct is free¬
ly indulged by the women of the Arreoy society, who, to
the crime of unbounded licentiousness, add that of mur-
POLYNESIA.
dering their children the moment they are born. In re¬
cent accounts, however, it is stated that this horrible prac¬
tice has been abolished, and that Christianity is making a
rapid progress amongst these interesting islanders. As wives,
the Otaheitan women are tenderly affectionate to their hus¬
bands and children, nursing and attending the latter with
the utmost care. They never, on any occasion, strike a
child. A melancholy instance of the fidelity and affection
of one of these women is given in the Missionary Voyage.
“ The history of Peggy Stewart marks a tenderness of heart
that never will be heard without emotion. She was dauglv
ter of a chief, and taken for his wife by Mr Stewart, one ot
the unhappv mutineers of the Bounty. They had lived with
the old chief in the most tender state of endearment; a
beautiful little girl had been the fruit of their union, and
was at the breast when the Pandora arrived, seized the
criminals, and secured them in irons on board the ship.
Frantic with grief, the unhappy Peggy flew with her infant
in a canoe to the arms of her husband. The interview was
so affecting and afflicting, that the officers on board were
overwhelmed with anguish ; and Stewart himself, unable to
bear the heart-rending scene, begged she might not be ad¬
mitted again on board. She was separated from him by
violence, and conveyed on shore in a state of despair and
grief too big for utterance. Withheld from him, and for¬
bidden to come any more on board, she sunk into the deep¬
est dejection ; it preyed on her health, she lost all relish for
food and life, rejoiced no more, and pining under a rapid
decay of two months, fell a victim to her feelings, dying li¬
terally of a broken heart.”
The Otaheitans are generous even to a fault; they seem
to be utterly unable to resist importunities, and always
ready to share their last morsel with their neighbours. Po¬
verty is no reproach, but affluence with covetousness brings
contempt on the possessor. Should any one, indeed, refuse
to share his property in cases of distress, the chances are
that it will be destroyed, and his house pulled down over
his head. The office of king is hereditary in one family;
the chiefs resemble our ancient barons; under them are
the vassals, and below them the villeins or labourers. The
king and queen enjoy many privileges, one of which is, to
be carried about everywhere on men’s shoulders ; and the
reason of this is, that whatever soil they tread upon becomes
sacred, and belongs to them ; so also, if they enter a house,
it is rendered sacred, and becomes their property. Iheir
domestics and attendants are also raa, or sacred, and for
thieving, plunder, and all manner of licentiousness, they
are said to be the worst on the island.
In the Missionary Voyage an account is given of the
ceremony of investing the new sovereign with the royal
maro, when each chief of the island, amounting to nearly
one hundred, brings one, two, or three human victims, to
offer up on the occasion. They are brought before the so¬
vereign in a lifeless state, having first been stoned to death,
or knocked on the head with clubs. From each of these
victims the priest scoops out an eye, and presents it to the
king on a plantain leaf, and the bodies are then carried
away and interred in the Morai. The reason assigned for
this oblation is, that the head being accounted sacred, and
the eye the most precious part, it is presented to the king
as the head and eye of the people. During the presenta¬
tion, the king holds his mouth open, as if devouring it,
whereby it is imagined he receives additional wisdom and
discernment. The royal maro, and the sacred canoes
which brought the human sacrifices, are then deposited in
the Morai; after which a series of feasts begin, which con¬
tinue for two months. These abominable rites, if not en¬
tirely abolished, have in a great degree ceased by the in¬
fluence of the missionaries.
In their language and their deities may be traced their
Hindu origin ; and though their religion is a tissue of su¬
perstitious and brutal ceremonies, they never draw near to Polynesia,
their Eatova with carelessness and inattention. Captain '' v '
Cook testifies to the decorous conduct of an Otaheitan on
such occasions: “ He is all devotion ; he approaches the
place of worship with reverential awe, uncovers when he
treads on sacred ground, and prays with a fervour that
would do honour to a better profession.”
The early visits of the European navigators to these
islands produced no advantages whatever to the inhabit¬
ants, who were only contaminated by* the vices, without
participating in the blessings, of civilized life. But, in later
years, the visits of the missionaries to this and the other
islands were solely for the purpose of improving the inha¬
bitants, and of spreading among them the light of know-
ledp-e and of truth. A great improvement has in conse¬
quence taken place in the manners as well as in the morals
of these savages. It was in the year 1796 that the Lon¬
don Missionary Society sent out their first missionaries to
Otaheite, and to the South Seas. Their object was to
communicate the knowledge of Christianity to the nati\es,
who gladly received them, as well as several others who
were afterwards sent out in the year 1800. The mission¬
aries were, however, involved in serious trouble in 1799,
from the thievish habits and riotous dispositions of the na¬
tives ; and several of them were compelled to take refuge
in New South Wales, whence they afterwards returned to
Otaheite. Their prospects were for a long time uncertain
and precarious ; and they laboured with very little success
to draw the attention of the natives from their cruel rites
and superstitions to the purer faith of the gospel. About
the year 1814, they began, however, to make some con¬
verts. In the neighbouring island of Eimeo, about fifty per¬
sons voluntarily renounced idolatry, and embraced Christia¬
nity. These first converts were continually increased by
new accessions, until the great body of the inhabitants, as
well as those in seven or eight of the neighbouring islands,
embraced Christianity, and renounced their former impure
and idolatrous rites. They now assemble regularly for pub¬
lic worship, as decently attired as they can afford, in con¬
gregations of four or five hundred, and occasionally seven
or eight hundred persons. Their imitation ot the European
dress is not, however, always the most successful. They are.
extremely fond of gaudy colours ; and the cast-off clothes ot
soldiers are in particular request. Sometimes a coat is worn
without a shirt or any other article of European apparel; and
frequently not fitting, the effect is rather ludicrous. Along
with religion, they are also instructed in all the mechanical
trades of Europe; they are taught to read, write, and to
cast accounts, the natives with singular industry teaching
each other. Great numbers have been taught to read in
the Tahitian language, which the missionaries have redu¬
ced to writing; and the Scriptures have also been trans¬
lated into the native language of the island, in which lan¬
guage also the missionaries began to preach in 1824. A
great reformation has followed the propagation of Christia¬
nity throughout the island. The bloody, ferocious, and pro¬
fligate practices of the Arreoy societies have been abolish¬
ed ; the crime of infanticide has disappeared ; and human
sacrifices are also abandoned, with many other idolatrous and
degrading superstitions and practices. Many of the other
improvements of civilized life have been adopted. 4 he
dwellings of the chiefs have been enlarged and beautified ;
a distinct house has been assigned to each family, in place
of their being, as formerly, all crowded into one house.
Land has been cultivated, and the sugar-cane raised in
some districts; and the cotton cultivation has also been
commenced. This island is now frequently visited by Eu¬
ropean ships, and civilization is advancing.
It wras in the year 1815 that idolatry was formally abolished
in this island, under the influence of Pomare, the king, who,
though his character was defective in many points, being
POLYNESIA.
olynesia. addicted to intemperance and other vices, was nevertheless
steady in his friendship to the missionaries, and protected
them in their efforts to introduce civilization into the coun¬
try. He was anxious also to be instructed in reading and
writing; and his example has contributed to diffuse a de¬
sire for knowledge among others. Schools have been esta¬
blished by the wives of the missionaries, where instruction
is given in sewing, in reading, and writing. In these ac¬
complishments many of the females have made considerable
proficiency ; and, shsce 1815, reading and writing has be¬
come general among the natives. A great change has also
been made in the costume ; the English dress has, as far
as possible, been invariably adopted, by the women espe¬
cially, who appear with frills round their necks, with caps on
their heads, and stockings and shoes on their feet; and their
other garments are also of European materials. The men,
however, showed great awkwardness in first adopting the
European costume; sometimes wearing stockings on their
arms, or thrusting their arms through the legs of a pair of
pantaloons, and wearing them on their shoulders, or wear¬
ing a coat without a shirt, as observed by the Russian na¬
vigators, or wearing a shirt on the outside of the dress. The
progress of improvement, however, is begun, and will ad¬
vance ; and in time society in these islands will assume the
aspect of civilized life. Pomare, the king of Otaheite, and
the first convert to Christianity, which he professed in 1812,
was born about the year 1774. He died in the year 1821,
and was immediately succeeded hy his son Pomare III., who
was crowned with no small pomp in 1824, being then only
four years of age. Shortly after his coronation he was
placed at the South Sea academy in the island of Eimeo,
under the care of Mr and Mrs Orsmund, for the purpose of
receiving, with the children of the Missionaries, an English
education. He died in 1827, of a lingering disorder, then
prevalent in the islands, and was succeeded by a daughter
of Pomare II., who still reigns. The monarchy is des¬
potic, nor does it afford any adequate security for life or
property. Even Pomare, notwithstanding all his apparent
religious zeal, occasionally plundered his subjects, and
seized their property by main force. A long era of moral
improvement must elapse before any proper form of civil
order, or anything like free institutions, can be established
in these islands.1
The missionaries accordingly experienced, after the gloss
of novelty had worn off their religion, a considerable de¬
fection of their proselytes ; and for a time their fair pros¬
pects of usefulness were overcast. At first the natives
appeared zealous in their attachment to the Christian creed,
and schools and congregations multiplied in all quarters.
The same success attended the efforts of the missionaries
in the neighbouring islands of Eimeo and Huaheine. In a
short time, however, the people began to relapse into their
former course of licentiousness, and other evil practices; Polynesia,
and the letters of the missionaries themselves contain as'“—v—
full and candid account of these defections. Many of the
converts, they observe, grew weary of the restraints W'hich
Christianity imposed on their passions ; and the introduc¬
tion of ardent spirits, the licentious example and the de¬
bauchery of the European sailors when vessels touched at
the islands, the propagation of delusions among the people
by visionaries, and finally a bloody war which broke out in
Otaheite, completed the corruption and the defection of
many converts. Another difficulty has arisen from the pre¬
vious irregular and indolent habits of the natives. “ A state
of society,” it is observed, “ more dissolute, and opposed to
steady application and industry, than that which prevailed
among them prior to the renunciation of idolatry, cannot
well be imagined; and although the general and continu¬
ed operation of those propensities which heathenism had
nurtured and matured was restrained almost universally
when the islanders first professed Christianity, numbers
being influenced by the excitement of feeling in favour of
the new religion, which then appeared to pervade all classes,
many afterwards relapsed into their former evil practices,
and have remained destitute of everything connected with
Christianity excepting the name. These found, as might
have been expected, their former inclinations too strong
to be restrained by the feeble resistance which public opi¬
nion interposed ; and though they did not revive the wor¬
ship of the idols or cruelties of human sacrifices, they re¬
turned, in a great degree, to their former indolence and
vices.”2 The missionaries have spared no pains to coun¬
teract this tendency to vice. They have established through¬
out the island temperance societies, and have prevailed on
the chiefs to restrain the importation of spirits. The Queen
Pomare, and most of the chiefs, who show an ardent desire
for the instruction of the people, have joined these societies,
and have countenanced the efforts of the missionaries, who
have in some degree succeeded in stemming the torrent of
profligacy which was inundating these countries, and was
fast sweeping away all traces of that purer morality which
had been planted among the natives. “ The demon of in¬
temperance,” says one of the missionaries, “ which brought
moral sterility and desolation, nipping and stunting the
young plants of promise, has again disappeared; our fears
have been dispelled.”3 But, even after all the defections
that have taken place, a letter, dated April 1836, mentions
that there are two thousand natives in church-fellowship;
that two thirds of the people can read; that a great num¬
ber have learned to write; and that the schools and cha¬
pels are well attended. In the different islands there are
thirty-nine stations, thirty-seven schools, seven thousand
scholars, and thirty-nine congregations consisting of twenty-
two thousand attendants. A letter from one of the mis-
1 Missionary Chronicle for April 1835, p. 168, Letter of Mr Williams.
2 See the Evangelical Magazine, and also the Missionary Chronicle for September 1832, p. 407. In the Evangelical Magazine for Novem¬
ber 1833, the difficulties of the missionaries are very fairly stated. “ The difficulties,” it is observed, “ attending the progress of the work in
wrhich our brethren are engaged have been frequently stated to the friends of the society. These have arisen from the natural indolence and
fickleness of the natives, the effects of their former notorious licentiousness, which so many attempts have been made to revive; and the
appearance of gross and visionary heresies, whereby a number of individuals, disaffected towards the requirements of the gospel, have sought,
by pretended supernatural revelation, to counteract or destroy the effects which the word of God was producing among the people, in
elevating the tone of moral feeling, and improving their social character and habits. In recent years, difficulties more formidable than
any produced by these causes have arisen from other quarters; the increasing number of ships resorting to the islands for refreshments
and traffic, and, with the increase of commerce, consequent profligacy, from the increased intercourse of seamen with the most depraved
portions of native society; and the large importations of ardent spirits in English and American vessels, chiefly the latter, consisting of
what is denominated New England rum, many vessels conveying this, and, with the exception of fire-arms and ammunition, no other ar¬
ticle of barter with which to traffic among the natives. The activity and perseverance manifested in promoting the sale and use of
these pernicious drugs, by hawking them about the islands, inducing the chiefs to engage in trade, and the establishment, by foreign¬
ers who have left ships touching at the islands, of a number of grog-shops on the shore, have occasioned the missionaries much perplexity
and distress. By the retail of ardent spirits, these houses become the greatest pests in the country, the resort of the most abandoned in
the islands, and the most indolent and depraved among the crews of the shipping, proving alike seductive and injurious to all within their
influence, and exhibiting, in the conduct of foreigners, scenes of outrage and bloodshed unknown amongst the natives since their renuncia¬
tion of paganism.”
1 Evangelical Magazine for August 1837, p. 395.
328
POLYNESIA.
Polynesia.
The Mar¬
quesas.
Descrip¬
tion.
Manners.
sionaries mentions that he had seen Queen Pomare in the
midst of a group of little girls, teaching them words ot one
and two syllables. , , , ^ ,
One most important benefit which has been conferred up¬
on these islands, and a great step in the progress of improve¬
ment, has been the commencement of trade and manufac¬
tures. A number of natives have been taught to spin, and
to weave the cotton into cloth, to make soap and salt, to
prepare tobacco, to manufacture sugar; also a knowledge
of rope-making, turnery, carpentry, and the art of work¬
ing in iron. Some are employed as smiths, others in the
preparation of lime, and in the construction of neat and
comfortable dwellings, and also in boat and ship-building,
in which many of them are adepts.
They have also begun to carry on commerce. A num¬
ber of small vessels, built by the natives, of from twenty to
thirty-five tons burden, are employed in fetching from a
group of islands, situated two or three hundred miles east¬
ward, cargoes of pearl-shell, which they dispose ot to the
English and American traders. The last returns of the
trade to Otaheite mention 154 arrivals in 1836 at the port
of Honolu, the capital, of which eighty are brigs and
schooners belonging to the country, fifty-six to the United
States, and seventeen to Great Britain.
5. The Marquesas This cluster of islands was discovered
by Alvarode Mendana in 1595, and named by him Las Mar¬
quesas de Mendoza, in honour of the viceroy of Peru. Four
onlv are described by Quiros the pilot, under the names of
La Dominica, Santa Christina, San Pedro, and La Mada-
lena. The Spaniards anchored in a port of Santa Chris¬
tina, to which they gave the name of Madre de Dios, well
protected from the trade-wind, and which has two excellent
streams of fresh water flowing into it. I he people are de¬
scribed as being an elegant race; the women in particular
as remarkably beautiful, their complexions and general ap¬
pearance being said to excel those of the women of Lima.
Their dress consisted of a cloth made of the leaves of a
palm-tree, with which they were covered from the breast
downwards; and so civilly disposed were they, that a
beautiful native woman seated herself by the side of Donna
Isabel, the wife of Mendana, and began to fan her. But
the Spaniards, as usual, found means to quarrel with the
natives, and to drive them with their fire-arms into the
woods.
The produce of the islands was hogs, fowls, fish, cocoa-
nuts, sugar-canes, plantains, and the bread-fruit, which is
described for the first time by the writer of this voyage.
Subsequent discoveries have made us nearly as well ac¬
quainted with the Marquesas as with Otaheite. Captain
Cook visited them ih 1774, and Captain Wilson in 1797.
From these we know that they consist of eight in num¬
ber, besides some smaller islands to the westward, which
being seen by an American master of the name of Ingra¬
ham, he called them Washington’s Islands. They had pre-
viously been seen, however, by Marchand in 1789, and may
fairly be grouped as part of the Marquesas. The centre of
the group may be reckoned in about the latitude of 9. 30.
south, and longitude 139. 30. west.
The manners, the religious ceremonies, the Morais, and
the general appearance of the natives, are so similar to those
of Otaheite, that a description of them would amount to little
more than a repetition of what has already been said. They
have all the good qualities of the natives of that island, and
most of their bad ones ; but, owing probably to a more re¬
stricted communication with strangers, a greater degree of
simplicity was observable in their manners, on the first ar¬
rival of the missionaries amongst them, than in the people of
Otaheite. Scarcely had they anchored in Resolution Bay
(Madre de Dios), when two women, though it was dark, swam
off to the ship, in the hope of meeting a favourable reception, Polynesi
calling out in a piteous tone, when they found they could
not be admitted on board, Waheene, waheene ! “We are
women, we are women.” The next morning the visit was
repeated, and is thus described in the Missionary Voyage :
“ Our first visitors from the shore came early ; they were
seven beautiful young women, swimming quite naked, ex¬
cept a few green leaves tied round their middle; they kept
playing round the ship for three hours, calling Waheene,^
until several of the native men had got on board; one of
them, being the chief of the island, requested that his sister
might be taken on board, which was complied with. She
was of a fair complexion, inclining to a healthy yellow, with
a tint of red in her cheek; was rather stout, but possessing
such symmetry of features, as did all her companions, that
as models for the statuary and painter their equals can sel¬
dom be found.” Captain Wilson says, that an Otaheitan
woman which they had on board was far eclipsed by the
Marquesan woman; but she was shocked to see a woman
quite naked walking the deck, and threw over her a dress
of Otaheitan cloth ; but as for the rest of these females, the
goats, it seems, soon stripped them of their green leaves,
and left them in a state of complete nudity. On shore the
women clothe themselves in decent habits.
The Marquesans are so far superior to the Otaheitans,
that they sacrifice hogs only to their deities, and never men.
Their houses, canoes, their dress, and the cultivation of
their land, are at least equal to those of Otaheite, and they
have none of those infamous Arreoy societies. Captain Por¬
ter of the American frigate Essex, after brutally massacring
a number of these people upon the most frivolous pretext,
charges them with cannibalism, though, from his own ac¬
count, there does not appear to be the slightest ground for so
injurious an imputation. To all unprejudiced navigators they
have appeared as an amiable people, entertaining a great
respect for old age, fond of their children instead of mur¬
dering them, as in Otaheite and some other islands, and
living in peace and harmony with each other, and with their
families.
These islands were visited by the missionaries, several
of whom have settled amongst the natives. But it does not
appear that their labours, though zealously pursued, have
hitherto been attended with the desired success. The
state of the people, it is said in the Missionary Maga¬
zine for April 1837, “ is not that of open opposition or
enmity against the gospel, but of apathy and unconcern,
strengthened by deeply-rooted habits of worldliness and
vice ;” and the journals of the missionaries entirely agree
with this account. It is with difficulty that they procure,
at their several stations, a congregation of above eight
persons on Sundays; sometimes they amount to twenty,^
but generally they pay little attention to the instructions ot
their teacher, and scarcely preserve decorum during the
worship, conversing with each other about their ordinary
concerns, and pursuing all their worldly occupations after
the worship is finished. The missionaries are, however,
resolved to persevere in their plans, in the hope that they
may, as in the other islands, succeed in time in making an
impression on the barbarous natives.1 The distillation of
spirits, which the people had been taught by a native of the
Sandwich Islands, proved an additional obstacle to the suc¬
cess of the missionaries, as their eagerness to plunge into
this vice shut their ears to all spiritual instruction.
6. Easter Island.—This small island, not thirty miles in Easter
length, is only deserving of notice from its solitary position, Island-
its great distance from any of the islands of the Pacific,
its comparative proximity to the coast of South America,
and its being inhabited by a race of men who differ no
more from the rest of the Polynesians than they do from
Missionary Magazine for April, May, August, 1837, p> 195, 231, 395.
POL
POL
329
Polyphe¬
mus
I
Polyplec-
tron-
one another ; having the same language, the same features,
the same religious notions, and Morais constructed as they
generally are in other islands. On the platforms of the latter
are erected shapeless and uncouth masses of stone, carved
' in imitation of the human bust, with rude faces four or five
feet in length, set on trunks of ten or twelve feet in height.
Kotzebue, the last visiter to this island, looked, however, in
vain for any traces of these statues on the spots where they
are described by Cook and La Perouse.
This island is supposed to have been discovered by the
bucaneer Davis, in 1687, although some have contended
for the Dutch Admiral Roggewein being the discoverer,,and
he it was who gave it the name of Paaschen or Easter Island,
having first seen it on the day of that feast. Its latitude is
27. 5. south, and longitude 109. 46. west.
It is not remarkably fertile ; but few trees are found on it,
and no running stream. The natives are very industrious
in raising food for their support, which consists chiefly of
bananas, taro-roots, sugar-canes, sweet potatoes, and yams.
By some navigators they are described as a very savage peo¬
ple, and by others as a mild and amiable race. The fact is,
that their conduct has always corresponded with the treat¬
ment they received from strange visiters. Thus their de¬
cided hostility to Kotzebue, when he attempted to land on
the island, was explained on his arrival at the Sandwich
Islands. An American, commanding a schooner called the
Nancy, from New London, had observed a vast multitude of
seals on the shores of the small uninhabited island of Massa-
fuero, to the westward of Juan Fernandez; and thinking
it might turn out an excellent speculation, if a small estab¬
lishment were formed on the island, to carry on the fishing,
he set about the means of carrying this project into effect.
His own crew was but just sufficient to navigate the vessel,
and, there being no anchorage off the island, no part of it
could be spared to catch seals. The brutal wretch there¬
fore proceeded to Easter Island, and landing at Cook’s Bay,
seized and carried off twelve men and ten women to people
his new colony. For the first three days they were con¬
fined in irons, and were not released till fairly out of sight
of land, when the first use they made of their liberty was
to jump overboard, choosing rather to perish in the waves
than to be carried away they knew not whither, or for
what purpose. The women, who were with difficulty re¬
strained from following them, were carried to Massafuero, Polypus,
but what ultimately became of these poor creatures M. Kot-■
zebue does not relate. No wonder, then, that such base
and inhuman practices should have driven the natives to
acts of hostility against all foreign intruders.
Since this general view of the Polynesian Islands was
prepared, every voyager across the Pacific has made the
discovery of additional groups of coral islands or reefs, or
single islets just emerging above the surface of the ocean.
The progressive increase of these wonderful fabrics would
seem to require time only to choak up the whole Pacific.
The reflections made by Kotzebue, on viewing these new
creations, are as just as they are natural. “ The spot on
which I stood filled me with astonishment, and I adored in
silent admiration the omnipotence of God, who had given,
even to those minute animals, the power to construct such
a work. My thoughts were confounded, when I considered
the immense series of years that must elapse before such
an island can rise from the fathomless abyss of the ocean,
and become visible on the surface. At a future period they
will assume another shape ; all the islands will join and
form a circular slip of earth, with a pond or lake In the
circle ; and this form will again change, as these animals
continue building, till they reach the surface, and then the
water will one day vanish, and only one great island be
visible. It is a strange feeling to walk about on a living
island, when all below is actively at work. And to what
corner of the earth can we penetrate where human beings
are not already to be found ? In the remotest regions of
the earth, amidst mountains of ice, under the burning sun of
the equator, nay, even in the middle of the ocean, on islands
which have been formed by animals, they are met with.”
But not to islands alone are the operations of these zoo¬
phytes confined. Flinders found the coral reefs extending
for seven hundred miles along the eastern coast of Austra¬
lia, and Torres Strait is nearly choked up with them, and
must in time become unnavigable. As Captain Fitzroy
crossed the Pacific in the Beagle, it is to be hoped that his
attention has been drawn to this curious and interesting
subject; and that in his forthcoming work, or that of Mr
Darwen, who accompanied him, the public will receive ad¬
ditional information respecting these little animals and their
operations. (M0
POLYPHEMUS, a celebrated Cyclops, and king of all
the Cyclops in Sicily, was the son of Neptune and Thoosa,
the daughter of Phorcys. He is said to have been a mon¬
ster of great strength, very tall, and with only one eye in
the middle of the forehead. He ate human flesh, and kept
his flocks on the coasts of Sicily, when Ulysses, on his re¬
turn from the Trojan war, was driven thither. Ulysses, to¬
gether with twelve of his companions, visited the coast, and
along with them was seized by the Cyclops, who confined
them in his cave, and daily devoured two of them. Ulysses
would have shared the fate of the rest, had he not intoxi¬
cated the Cyclops, and put out his eye with a firebrand
when he was asleep. Polyphemus was awakened by the
sudden pain, and stopped the entrance of his cave; but
Ulysses escaped by creeping between the legs of the rams
of the Cyclops, as they were led out to feed on the moun¬
tains. Polyphemus became enamoured of Galatea; but
his addresses were disregarded, and the nymph shunned
his presence. The Cyclops became still more earnest;
and when he saw Galatea surrender herself to the plea¬
sures of Acis, he crushed his rival with a piece of a broken
rock.
POLYPLECTRON, from the Greek woXu, much, and
‘rXijy.rgo’, a musical instrument invented by Dietz about ten
years ago, and played upon in the manner of a piano-forte.
▼OL. XVIII.
Its sounds are produced by the friction of numerous nar¬
row slips of leather made to revolve upon a cylinder and
over pullies, and brought into contact with the strings by
pressing down the finger-keys. The powers of this instru¬
ment were highly commended by Prony, Savart, Cherubini,
Paer, and others, after they had made trial of it on the 11th
of July 1828. According to the touch, firm and legato, or
light and staccato, the quality of the tone varied. The lower
sounds and medium ones closely resembled those of the dou¬
ble bass, violoncello, and viola. Dietz had not succeeded
in imitating the sounds of a violin. The orchestrino of
Poulleau, and some other instruments on the same princi¬
ple, preceded Dietz’s polyplectron.
POLYPUS, a species of fresh-water insects. The name
of hydra was given to them by Linnaeus, on account of the
property they have of reproducing themselves when cut in
pieces, every part soon becoming a perfect animal. Dr Hill
called them biota, on account of the strong principle of life
with which every part of them is endowed. These animals
were first discovered by Leeuwenhoeck, who gave some ac¬
count of them in the Philosophical Transactions for 1703 ;
but their wonderful properties were not thoroughly known
till the year 1740, when Mr Trembley began to investigate
them. Previously to his discoveries, indeed, Leibnitz and
Boerhaave, bv reasonings a pi'iori, had concluded that ani-
2 T
330 POL
Poly- vnals might be found which would propagate by slips like
theism, plants. Their conjectures have been verified.
' ' Marine Polypus is different in form from the fresh-wa¬
ter polypus already described, but is nourished, increases,
and may be propagated after the same manner ; Mr Ellis
having often found, in his inquiries, that small pieces cut
off from the living parent, in order to view the several parts
more accurately, soon gave indications that they contained
not only the principles of life, but likewise the faculty of in¬
creasing and multiplying into a numerous issue. It has been
proved by Peyssonel, Ellis, Jussieu, Reaumur, Donati, and
others, that many of those substances which had formerly
been considered by naturalists as marine vegetables or sea-
plants, are in reality animal productions; and that they are
formed by polypuses of different shapes and sizes, for their
habitation, defence, and propagation. To this class may be
referred the corals, corallines, keratophyta, eschara, sponges,
and alcvonium ; nor is it improbable that the more compact
bodies, known by the common appellations of star-stones,
brain-stones, petrified fungi, and the like, brought from
various parts of the East and West Indies, are of the same
origin. To this purpose Mr Ellis observes, that, in all the
warmer latitudes, the ocean, near the shore, and wherever
it is possible to observe, abounds so much with animal life,
POL
that no inanimate body can long remain in it unoccupied by Polyse-
some species. In these regions ships’ bottoms are soon co- ma8m
vered with the habitations of thousands of animals ; rocks,
stones, and everything lifeless are instantly covered with theigm
them; even the branches of living vegetables which hang —
into the water are immediately loaded with the spawn of
different animals, shell-fish of various kinds ; and shell-fish
themselves, when they become impotent and old, are the
basis of new colonies of animals, from whose attacks they
can no longer defend themselves.
POLYSEMASIA, from the Greek tfoXu and o^atf/ce, a
term applied to such intervals and chords in harmony, as
produce upon the ear the same effect, although they may
differ from each other in notation ; for example, b B G
$AG; BDFbA, BDjtEffG, &e. Also such chords
as, although expressed by the same notes, are yet referrible
to different harmonic foundations.
POLYSPERMOUS, from ttoau, much, andseed, in
Botany, is applied to such plants as have more than four seeds
succeeding each flower, without any certain order or number.
POLYSYLLABLE, in Grammar, a word consisting of
more than three syllables. When a word consists of one,
two, or three syllables, it is called a monosyllable, a dissyl¬
lable, or a trisyllable.
POLYTHEISM.
Definition.
Source of
religious
principles
traced.
Polytheism is the doctrine of a plurality of gods, or in¬
visible powers superior to man.
“ That there exist beings, one or many, powerful above
the human race, is a proposition,” says Lord Karnes,1 “ uni¬
versally admitted as true in all ages and among all nations.
I boldly call it universal, notwithstanding of what is re¬
ported of some gross savages ; for reports that contradict
what is acknowledged to be general among men, require
more able vouchers than a few illiterate voyagers. Among
many savage tribes there are no words but for objects of
external sense; is it surprising that such people are inca¬
pable of expressing their religious perceptions, or any per¬
ception of internal sense ? The conviction that men have
of superior powers, in every country where there are words
to express it, is so well vouched, that in fair reasoning it
ought to be taken for granted among the few tribes where
language is deficient.”
These are judicious observations, of which every man will
admit the force who has not some favourite system to build
upon the unstable foundation which his lordship overturns.
Taking it for granted, then, that our conviction of superior
powers has long been universal, the important question is,
from what cause it proceeds. The same ingenious author
shows, with great strength of reasoning, that the operations
of nature and the government of this world, which to us
loudly proclaim the existence of a Deity, are not sufficient
to account for the universal belief of superior beings amongst
savage tribes. He is therefore of opinion that this univer¬
sality of conviction can spring only from the image of Deity
stamped upon the mind of every human being, the ignorant
equally with the learned. “ Nothing less,” he says, “ is
sufficient; and the original impression which we have of
Deity must proceed,” he thinks, “ from an internal sense,
which may be termed the sense of Deity”
We have elsewhere expressed our opinion of that philo¬
sophy which accounts for every phenomenon in human na¬
ture by attributing to it a particular instinct; but to this
instinct or sense of Deity, considered as complete evidence,
many objections, more than usually powerful, force them¬
selves upon us. All nations, except the Jews, were once
polytheists and idolaters. If, therefore, his lordship’s hypo¬
thesis be admitted, either the doctrine of polytheism must
be true theology, or this instinct or sense is of such a na¬
ture as, at different periods of the world, to have misled all
mankind. All savage tribes are at present polytheists and
luolaters ; but amongst savages every instinct appears in
greater purity and vigour than amongst people polished by
arts and sciences; and instinct never mistakes its object.
The instinct or primary impression of nature, which gives
rise to self-love, affection between the sexes, love of pro¬
geny, &c. has in all nations, and in every period of time, a
precise and determinate object, which it inflexibly pursues.
How then comes it to pass that this particular instinct,
which, if real, is surely of as much importance as any other,
should have uniformly led those who had no other guide to
pursue improper objects, to fall into the grossest errors and
the most pernicious practices ? To no purpose are we told,
that the sense of Deity, like the moral sense, makes no ca¬
pital figure amongst savages. There is reason to believe that
the feeling or perception, which is called the moral sense,
is not wholly instinctive ; but whether it be or not, a single
instance cannot be produced in which it multiplies its ob¬
jects, or makes even a savage express gratitude to a thou¬
sand persons for benefits which his prince alone had power
to confer.
For these and other reasons which might easily be as¬
signed, we cannot help thinking, that the first religious
principles must have been derived from a source different
as well from internal sense as from the deductions of rea¬
son ; from a source which the majority of mankind had ear¬
ly forgotten, and which, when it was banished from their
minds, left nothing behind it to prevent the very first prin¬
ciple of religion from being perverted by various accidents
or causes, or, in some extraordinary concurrence of circum¬
stances, from being perhaps entirely obliterated. This
source of religion every consistent theist must believe to be
revelation. Reason, it is acknowledged, could not have
introduced savages to the knowledge of God ; and we have
1 Sketches of the History of Man.
POLYTHEISM.
Theism, just seen that a sense of Deity is an hypothesis clogged with
insuperable difficulties. Yet it is undeniable that all man¬
kind have believed in superior invisible powers ; and if rea¬
son and instinct be set aside, there remains no other origin
of this universal belief than primeval revelation, corrupted,
indeed, as it passed by oral tradition from father to son, in
the course of many generations. It is no slight support to
this doctrine, that if there really be a Deity,1 it is highly
presumable that he would reveal himself to the first men ;
creatures whom he had formed with faculties to adore and
to worship him. To other animals the knowledge of a Deity
is of no importance; to man it is of the first importance.
Were we totally ignorant of a Deity, this world would ap¬
pear to us a mere chaos. Under the government of a wise
and benevolent Deity, chance is excluded; and every event
appears to be the result of established laws. Good men
submit to whatever happens without repining, knowing that
every event is ordered by Divine Providence ; they sub¬
mit with entire resignation, and such resignation is a sove¬
reign balsam for every misfortune or evil in life.
Admitting, then, that the knowledge of Deity was origi¬
nally derived from revelation, and that the first men pro¬
fessed pure theism, it shall be our business in the present
article to trace the rise and progress of polytheism and ido¬
latry ; and to ascertain, if we can, the real opinions of the
pagan world concerning that multitude of gods with which
they filled heaven, earth, and hell. In this inquiry, though
we shall have occasion to appeal to the writings of Moses,
we shall attribute to them no other authority than what is
due to records of the earliest ages, more ancient and au¬
thentic than any others that are now extant.
Whether we believe, with the author of the book of Ge¬
nesis, that all men have descended from the same progeni¬
tors, or adopt the hypothesis of modern theorists, that there
have been successive creations of men, and that the Euro¬
pean derives his origin from one pair, the Asiatic from an¬
other, the woolly-headed African from a third, and the cop¬
per-coloured American from a fourth, polytheism and ido¬
latry will be seen to have arisen from the same causes, and
to have advanced nearly in the same order from one degree
of impiety to another. On either supposition, it must be
taken for granted, that the original progenitors were in¬
structed by their Creator in the truths of genuine theism;
and there is no room to doubt that those truths, simple
and sublime as they are, would be conveyed pure from fa¬
ther to son as long as the race lived in one family, and were
not spread over a large extent of country. If any credit be
due to the records of antiquity, the primeval inhabitants of
this globe lived to so great an age, that they must have in¬
creased to a very large number long before the death of the
common parent; who would of course be the bond of union
to the whole society, and whose dictates, especially in what
related to the origin of his being and the existence of his
Creator, would be listened to with the utmost respect by
every individual of his numerous progeny,
ircum- Many causes, however, would conspire to dissolve this
"hioh^ed family> after the death of its ancestor, into separate and in-
) poly.6 dependent tribes, of which some would be driven by vio-
jmcio. lence, or would voluntarily wander, to a distance from the
rest. From this dispersion great changes would take place
in the opinions of some of the tribes respecting the object
of their religious worship. A single family, or a small tribe,
banished into a desert wilderness, such as the whole earth
must then have been, would find employment for all their
time in providing the means of subsistence, and in defend¬
ing themselves from beasts of prey. In such circumstances
they would have little leisure for meditation, and being con¬
stantly conversant with objects of sense, they would gra¬
331
dually lose the power of meditating upon the spiritual na- Origin of
ture of that Being by whom their ancestors had taught them IJqly-
that all things were created. The first wanderers would v thei3m- ^
no doubt retain in tolerable purity their original notions of Y_w
Deity, and they would certainly endeavour to impress those
notions upon their children. But, in circumstances infinitely
more favourable to speculation than theirs could have been,
the human mind dwells not long upon notions that are pure¬
ly intellectual. We are so accustomed to sensible objects,
and to the ideas of space, extension, and figure, which they
are perpetually impressing upon the imagination, that we find
it extremely difficult to conceive any being without assign¬
ing to him a form and a place. Hence a learned writer2
has supposed that the earliest generations of men, even those
to whom he contends that frequent revelations were vouch¬
safed, may have been no better than anthropomorphites in
their conceptions of the Divine Being.
Be this as it may, it is not conceivable but that the mem- First steps
bers of those first colonies would quickly lose many of the111 ^1U Pro'
arts and much of the science which perhaps prevailed in the Srei::s-
parent state ; and that, fatigued with the contemplation of
intellectual objects, they would relieve their overstrained
faculties, by attributing to the Deity a place of abode, if
not a human form. To men totally illiterate, the place fit¬
test for the habitation of the Deity would undoubtedly ap¬
pear to be the sun, the most beautiful and glorious object
of which they could form any idea; an object, too, from
which they could not but be sensible that they received the
benefits of light and heat, and which experience must soon
have taught them to be in a great measure the source of
vegetation. The great spirit, therefore, inhabiting the sun,
which they would consider as the power of light and heat,
was in all probability the first object of idolatrous adoration.
From looking upon the sun as the habitation of their god, The spirit
they would soon proceed to consider it as his body. Of of light the
pure mind entirely separated from matter, men in their cir-*11^ &0(1 01
cumstances could not long retain the faintest notion ; but pagai"am'
conscious each of power in himself, and experiencing the
effects of power in the sun, they would naturally conceive
that luminary to be animated as their bodies were animated.
They would feel his influence when above the horizon ;
they would see him moving from east to west; they would
consider him when set as gone to take his repose; and those
exertions and intermissions of power being analogous to
what they experienced in themselves, they would look up¬
on the sun as a real animal. Thus would the Divinity ap¬
pear to their untutored minds to be a compound being like
man, partly corporeal and partly spiritual; and as soon as
they imbibed such notions, though perhaps not before, they
may be pronounced to have been absolute idolaters.
When men had once got into this train, their gods would The spirit
multiply upon them with wonderful rapidity. Darkness and ^°'^r ot
cold they could not but perceive to be contrary to light andtl"
heat; and not having philosophy enough to distinguish be¬
tween mere privations and positive effects, they would con¬
sider darkness and cold as entities equally real with light
and heat, and attribute these different and contrary effects
to different and contrary powers. Hence the spirit or power
of darkness was in all probability the second god in the pa¬
gan calendar ; and as they considered the power of light as
a benevolent principle, the source of all that is good, they
must have looked upon the contrary power of darkness as
a malevolent spirit, the source of all that is evil.
This we know from authentic history to have been the Polytheism
belief of the Persian Magi, a very ancient sect, who called °fFer-
their good god Yazdun, and also Ormuzd, and the evil god1,11111'
Ahriman. Considering light as the symbol, or perhaps as
the body, of Ormuzd, they always worshipped him before
1 See Sketches of the History of Man.
Bishop Law, in his Considerations on the Theory of Religion.
332
POLYTHEISM.
Magianism. the fire, the source of light, and especially before the sun,
'—~ the source of the most perfect light; and for the same rea¬
son fires were kept continually burning on his altars. That
they sometimes addressed prayers to the Evil Principle,
we are informed by Plutarch in his Life of Themistocles;
but with what particular rites he was worshipped, or where
he was supposed to reside, it is not so evident. Certain it
is, however, that the worshippers held him in detestation ;
and when they had occasion to write his name, they always
inverted it, to denote the malignity of his nature. The
principles of the Magi, though widely distant from pure
theism, were much less absurd than those oi other ido¬
laters. It does not appear that they ever worshipped their
o-ods through the medium of graven images, or had any
other emblems of them than light and darkness. Indeed
we are told by Diogenes Laertius and Clemens Alexandii-
rived from the Hebrew word Tsaba, which signifies an host Tsabaisn?
or army; and this class of polytheists was so called, because
they worshipped the host of heaven, or the Tsaba hesemim,
against which Moses so pathetically cautions the people of
Israel.2
This species of idolatry is thought to have first prevailed Tsabaism
in Chaldaea, and to have been that from which Abraham arose in
separated himself, when, at the command of the true God,Uialda:a-
he “ departed from his country, and from his kindred, and
from his father’s house.” But as it nowhere appears that
the Chalda-ans had fallen into the savage state before they
became polytheists and idolaters, and as it is certain that
they were not savages at the period of the call of Abraham,
their early Tsabaism may be thought inconsistent with the
account which we have given of the origin of that species
of idolatry. If a great and civilized nation was led to
their instigation Xerxes was said to have burned all the
temples of Greece, because the builders ot those edifices
impiously presumed to enclose within ■walls the gods, to
whom all things ought to be open and free, and whose pro¬
per temple is the whole world. 1 o these authorities we may
add that of all the historians, who agree, that when the creed
of the Magi was the religion of the court, the Persian mo-
narchs made war upon images, and upon every emblem of
idolatry different from their own.
Tsabaian The Magi, howrever, were but one sect, and not the lar-
polytheism. gest, of ancient idolaters. The worship of the sun, as the
source of light and heat, soon introduced into the calendar
of divinities the other heavenly bodies, the moon, the pla¬
nets, and the fixed stars. Men could not but experience
great benefit from those luminaries in the absence of their
chief god ; and when they had proceeded so far as to admit
two divine principles, a good and an evil, it was natural for
minds clouded with such prejudices to consider the moon
and the stars as benevolent intelligences, sent to oppose the
power of darkness whilst their first and greatest divinity
was absent or asleep. It was thus, as they imagined, that
he maintained a constant superiority over the Evil Prin¬
ciple, Though to astronomers the moon is. known to be
an opaque body of very small dimensions when compared
with a planet or a fixed star, yet to the vulgar eye she
appears much more magnificent than either. By those early
idolaters she was considered as the divinity second in rank
and in power; and whilst the sun was worshipped as the
king, she was adored as the queen, of heaven.
The earth, considered as the common mother of all things;
the ocean, the waters of which are never at rest; the air,
the region of storms and tempests; and indeed all the ele¬
ments, were gradually added to the number of divinities.
Not that mankind in this early age had so far degenerated
from the principles of their ancestors as to worship brute
matter. If such worship was ever practised, which to us is
hardly conceivable, it must have been at a later period,
when it was confined to the very lowest of the vulgar, in
nations otherwise highly civilized. The polytheists of whom
we now treat conceived everything in motion to be ani¬
mated, and animated by an intelligence powerful in pro¬
portion to the magnitude of the body moved.
This sect of idolaters, which remains in some parts of the
East to this day, was known by the name of Tsabaians,
which they pretended to have derived from a son of Seth;
and amongst the books in which their sacred doctrines are
contained, they have one which they call the Book of Seth.
We need hardly observe, that these are senseless and ex¬
travagant fables. The epithet Tsabaian is undoubtedly de-
sition to ascertained facts.
True ; but we beg leave to reply, that our account of the
origin of polytheism is opposed by no fact, because we have
not supposed that the worship of the host of heaven arose
amongst savages only. That savages, between whom it
is impossible to imagine any intercourse to take place,
have universally worshipped, as their first and supreme di¬
vinities, the sun, moon, and stars, is a fact evinced by every
historian and by every traveller; and we have shown how
their rude and uncultivated state naturally leads them to
that species of idolatry. But there may have been cir¬
cumstances peculiar to the Chaldaeans, which led them like¬
wise to the worship of the heavenly host, even in a state of
high civilization. We judge of the philosophy of the an¬
cients by that of ourselves, and imagine that the same re¬
fined system of metaphysics was cultivated by them as by
the followers of Descartes and Locke. But this is a great
mistake ; for so gross w ere the notions of early antiquity,
that it may be doubted whether there was a single man,
uninspired, who had any notion of mind as a being distinct
and entirely separated from matter. From several passages
in the books of Moses, we learn, that when in the first ages
of the world the Supreme Being condescended to manifest
his presence to men, he generally exhibited some sensible
emblem of his pow er and glory, and declared his will from
the midst of a preternatural fire. It w-as thus that he ap¬
peared to the Jewfish lawgiver himself, when he spoke to
him from the midst of a bush ; it was by a pillar of cloud
and fire that he led the Israelites from Egypt to the Land
of Promise ; and it was in the midst of smoke, and fire, and
thunderings, that the law was delivered from Mount Sinai.
That such manifestations of the divine presence would oc¬
casionally be made to the descendants of Noah who settled
in Chaldaea soon after the Deluge, must appear extremely
probable to every one who admits the authority of the
Hebrew Scriptures; and he who questions that authority
has no right to make the objection to which we now re¬
ply, because it is only from the book of Genesis that we
know the Chaldaeans to have been a civilized people when
they fell into idolatry. All histories agree in representing
the inhabitants of Chaldaea as at a very early period cor¬
rupted by luxury, and sunk in vice. When this happened,
we must suppose that the moral governor of the universe
would withdraw from them those occasional manifestations
of himself, and leave them to. their own inventions. In
such circumstances, it wras not unnatural for a people ad¬
dicted to the study of astronomy, who had been taught to
believe that the Deity frequently appeared to their ances¬
tors in a flame of fire, to consider the sun as the place of
* De Lcgikus, lib. ii. § 10.
* Dent. iv. 19.
POLYTHEISM.
333
Tsabaism. his permanent residence, if not as his body. But when either
'-'-y'——^ opinion was firmly established, polytheism would be its in¬
evitable consequence, and the progress of Tsabaism woidd,
in the most polished nation, be such as we have traced it
amongst savage tribes.
It passed From Chaldsea the idolatrous worship of the host of hea-
into Egypt, yen spread itself over all the East, passed into Egypt, and
&c* thence found its way into Greece; for Plato affirms,1 that
“ the first inhabitants of Greece seemed to him to have wor¬
shipped no other gods but the sun, moon, earth, stars, and
heavens, as most barbarous nations,” continues he, “ still do.”
That Tsabaism, or the worship of the host of heaven, was the
first species of idolatry, besides the probability of the thing,
and the many allusions to it in sacred Scripture, we have
the positive evidence of the most ancient pagan historians
of whose writings any part has been transmitted to us.
Herodotus,2 speaking of the religion of the Persians, says
that “ they worship the sun, moon, and earth, fire, water,
and the winds ; and this adoration they have all along paid
from the beginning.” He testifies the same thing of the
savage Africans, of whom he affirms,3 that they all worship¬
ped the sun and moon, and no other divinity. Diodorus
Siculus, writing of the Egyptians,4 tells us that “ the first
men, looking up to the world above them, and terrified and
struck with admiration at the nature of the universe, sup¬
posed the sun and the moon to be the principal and eternal
gods.” And Sanchoniathon the Phoenician, a more an¬
cient writer than any of these, informs us, in the fragment
of his history preserved by Eusebius, that “ the two first
mortals were dEon and Protogonus, and their children
Genos and Genea, who inhabited Phoenicia; and when
they were scorched with the heat, they lifted up their hands
to the sun, whom they believed to be the lord of heaven,
and called him Baahamen, the same whom the Greeks call
Zsuj.”
Statue- Hitherto those divinities were worshipped in person, or,
worship, as Dr Prideaux expresses it, in their sacella, or sacred ta¬
bernacles ; for the votaries of each directed their devotions
towards the planet which they supposed to be animated by
the particular intelligence whom they meant to adore. But
these orbs, by their rising and setting, being as much below
the horizon as above it, and their grossly ignorant worship¬
pers not supposing it possible that any intelligence, however
divine, could exert its influence except in union with some
body, statues or pillars were soon thought of as proper em¬
blems of the absent gods. Sanchoniathon, in the fragment
already quoted, informs us, that “ Hyspouranios and his
brother Ousous, Phoenician patriarchs, erected two pillars,
the one to fire, and the other to air or wind, and worshipped
those pillars, pouring out to them libations of the blood of
the wild beasts hunted down in the chase.” As these early
monuments of idolatry were called fiourvXiu, a word evi¬
dently derived from the Hebrew Bethel, the probability is,
that they were altars of loose stones, such as that which was
built by Jacob,5 and from him received the same name. As
his was consecrated to the true God, theirs were consecrated
to the host of heaven ; and the form of consecration seems
to have been nothing more than the anointing of the stone
or pillar with oil,6 in the name of the divinity whom it was
intended to represent. When this ceremony was performed,
the ignorant idolaters, who fancied that their gods could
not hear them except when they were visible, supposed that
the intelligences by which the sun and planets were ani¬
mated took possession, in some inexplicable manner, of the
consecrated pillars, and were as well pleased with the prayers
and praises offered up before those pillars, as with the devo¬
tions which were addressed towards the luminaries them- Statue-
selves. Hence Sanchoniathon calls them animated or Iw- Worship.
ing stones, Xi6ovg from the portion of the divine
spirit which was believed to reside in them; and as they
were dedicated to the host of heaven, they were generally
erected upon the tops of mountains, or, in countries which,
like Egypt, were low and level, they were elevated to a
great height by the labour of men.
It has been supposed that this practice of raising the The idola-
pillars on high places proceeded from a desire to make the try of high
objects of worship conspicuous and magnificent. But we plares.
are strongly inclined to believe, that the erectors of fiairv-
Xiz had something further in view', and that they thought of
nothing less than to bring the sacred stone or pillar as near
as possible to the god whom it represented. But whatever
there be in this, we know that the practice itself prevailed
universally throughout the East; and that there w’as nothing
which the Jewish legislator more strictly enjoined his people
to destroy, than the altars, statues, and pillars erected for
idolatrous worship upon mountains and high places. “Ye
shall utterly destroy,” says he, “ all the high places wherein
the nations which ye shall possess served their gods, upon
the high mountains, and upon the hills, and under every
green tree. And ye shall overthrow their altars, and break
down their pillars, and burn their groves with fire.”7
The mention of groves by the Hebrew lawgiver brings
to our recollection another species of idolatry, which was
perhaps the second in order, as men deviating from the
principles of pure theism became more and more entangled
in the labyrinths of error. The Chaldseans, Egyptians, and
all the eastern nations who believed in a superintending pro¬
vidence, imagined that the government of this world, the
care of particular nations, and even the superintendence of
groves, rivers, and mountains, in each nation, was commit¬
ted by the gods to a class of spirits superior to the soul of
man, but inferior to those heavenly intelligences which ani¬
mated the sun, the moon, and the planets. These spirits
were by the Greeks called baigovig, dcemons, and by the Ro¬
mans genii. Timaeus the Locrian, who flourished before
Plato, speaking of the punishment of wicked men, says,8 all
these things has Nemesis decreed to be executed in the
second period, by the ministry of vindictive terrestrial dae¬
mons, w'ho are overseers of human affairs; to which daemons
the Supreme God, the ruler over all, has committed the go¬
vernment and administration of this world, which is made
up of gods, men, and animals.
Concerning the origin of these intermediate beings, scho- Origin of
lars and philosophers have framed various hypotheses. The daemon-
belief of their existence may have been derived from five worship,
different sources.
Firstly, it seems to have been impossible for the limited
capacities of those men, who could not form a notion of a
God divested of a body and a place, to conceive how the.
influence and agency of such a being could every instant
extend to every point of the universe. Hence, as we have
seen, they placed the heavenly regions under the govern¬
ment of a multitude of heavenly gods, the sun, the moon,
and the stars. But as the nearest of those divinities was at
an immense distance from the earth, and as the intelligence
animating the earth itself had sufficient employment in re¬
gulating the general affairs of the whole globe, a notion in¬
sinuated itself into the untutored mind, that these superior
governors of universal nature found it necessary, or at least
expedient, to employ subordinate intelligences or daemons,
as ministers to execute their behests in the various parts of
their widely extended dominions.
1 In Cratylo.
3 Lib. i. cap. 131.
“ Hence the proverb of a superstitious man, iruiru, rdo* rivavav ^^orxuvei, lie kisses or adores every »  
Inbricatam h’pidcm, ct cx olivi unguine for didatum. Stillingileet’s Origincs Sacra.
Deut. xii. 23. 8 De dnima MunAi, inter scnptores a T. Gale editos
3 Lib. iv. cap. 188. 4 Eib. i. 5 Genesis, chap. xxxv.
anointed stone ; which Arnobius calls
m POLYT
D«mons. Secondly, such an universal and uninterrupted course of
action as was deemed necessary to administer the affairs of
the universe, would be judged altogether inconsistent with
that state of indolence which, especially in the East, was
held an indispensable ingredient in perfect felicity. It was
this notion, absurd as it is, which made Epicurus deny the
providence, whilst he admitted the existence, of gods. And
if it had such an effect upon a philosopher who in the most
enlightened ages had many followers, we need not surely
wonder if it made untaught idolaters imagine that the go¬
vernor or governors of the universe had devolved a great
part of their trouble on deputies and ministers.
Thirdly, when men came to reflect on the infinite distance
between themselves and the gods, they would naturally form
a wish that there might somewhere exist a class of inter¬
mediate intelligences, whom they might employ as media¬
tors and intercessors with their far-distant divinities. But
what men earnestly wish for, they very readily believe.
Hence the supposed distance of their gods would, amongst
untutored barbarians, prove a fruitful source of intermedi¬
ate intelligences, more pure and more elevated than human
souls.
Fourthly, these three opinions may be denominated po¬
pular ; but that which we are now to state, wherever it may
have prevailed, was the offspring of philosophy. On this
earth we perceive, a scale of beings rising gradually above
each other in perfection, from mere brute matter through
the various species of fossils, vegetables, insects, fishes, birds,
and beasts, up to man. But the distance between man and
God is infinite, and capable of admitting numberless orders
of intelligences, all superior to the human soul, and each
rising gradually above the other till they reach that point,
wherever it may be, at which creation stops. Part of this
immense chasm the philosophers perceived to be actually
filled by the heavenly bodies; for in philosophical poly¬
theism there was one invisible God, supreme over all these ;
but still there was left an immense vacuity between the
human species and the moon, which was known to be the
lowest of the heavenly host; and this they imagined must
certainly be occupied by invisible inhabitants of different
orders and dispositions, which they called good and evil
daemons.
Fifthly, there is yet another source from which the uni¬
versal belief of good and evil daemons may be derived, with
perhaps greater probability than from any or all of these.
If the Mosaic account of the creation of the world, the
peopling of the earth, and the dispersion of mankind, be ad¬
mitted as true (and a more consistent account has not as yet
been given or devised), some knowledge of good and evil
angels must necessarily have been transmitted from father
to son by the channel of oral tradition. But this tradition
would be corrupted at the same time, and in the same man¬
ner, with others of greater importance. When the true God
was so far mistaken as to be considered, not as the sole
governor of the universe, but only as the self-existent power
of light and good, the devil wrould be elevated from the rank
of a rebellious created spirit to that of the independent power
of darkness and evil; the angels of light would be trans¬
formed into good daemons, and those of darkness into dae¬
mons that are evil. This account of the origin of daemono-
l°gy receives no small support from Plato, who derives one
branch of it wholly from tradition. “ With respect to those
daemons, says he,1 “ who inhabit the space between the
earth and the moon, to understand and declare their gene¬
ration is a task too arduous for my slender abilities. In this
case w7e must ci edit the report of men of other times, who,
according to their own account, were the descendants of
the gods, and had, by some means or other, gained exact
H E I S M.
intelligence of that mystery from their ancestors. We must Damons,
not question the veracity of the children of the gods, even'^-
though they should transgress the bounds of probability,
and produce no evidence to support their assertions. We
must, I say, notwithstanding, give them credit, because they
profess to give a detail of facts with which they are inti¬
mately acquainted, and the laws of our country oblige us to
believe them.”
Though these daemons were generally invisible, they were
not supposed to be pure disembodied spirits. Proclus, in
his commentary upon Plato’s Timceus, tells us, “ that every
daemon superior to human souls consisted of an intellectual
mind and an ethereal vehicle.” Indeed it is very little pro¬
bable, that those who gave a body and a place to the Su¬
preme God, should have thought that the inferior orders of
his ministers were spirits entirely separated from matter.
Plato himself divides the class of daemons into three orders;
and whilst he holds their souls to be particles or emanations
from the divine essence, he affirms that the bodies of each
order of daemons are composed of that particular element
in which they for the most part reside. “ Those of the first
and highest order are composed of pure ether; those of the
second order consist of grosser air; and daemons of the third
or lowest rank have vehicles extracted from the element of
water. Daemons of the first and second orders are invisible
to mankind. The aquatic daemons, being invested with ve¬
hicles of grosser materials, are sometimes visible and some¬
times invisible. When they do appear, though faintly ob¬
servable by the human eye, they strike the beholder with
terror and astonishment.” Daemons of this last order were
supposed to have passions and affections similar to those of
men; and though all nature was full of them, they were be¬
lieved to have local attachments to mountains, rivers, and
groves, where their appearances were most frequent. The
reason of these attachments seems to be obvious. Poly¬
theism took its rise in countries scorched by a burning sun;
and daemons by their composition being necessarily subject
in some degree to the influence of heat and cold, it was na¬
tural to suppose that they, like men, would delight in the
shady grove and in the purling stream. Hence the earliest
altars of paganism were generally built in the midst of groves,
or on the banks of rivers; because it was believed that in
such places were assembled multitudes of those intelligences,
whose office it was to regulate the affairs of men, and to
carry the prayers and oblations of the devout to the far-dis¬
tant residence of the celestial gods. Hence too are to be
derived the mountain and river gods, with the dryads and
hamadryads, the satyrs, nymphs, and fauns, which held a
place in the creed of ancient paganism, and make so con¬
spicuous a figure in the Greek and Roman poets.
These different orders of intelligences, which, though Deification
worshipped as gods or demigods, were yet believed to par-of departed
take of human passions and appetites, led the way to the heroes,
deification of departed heroes, and other eminent benefac¬
tors of the human race. By the philosophers all souls were
believed to be emanations from the divinity ; but <£ grati¬
tude and admiration, the warmest and most active affections
of our nature, concurred to enlarge the object of religious
worship, and to make man x*egard the inventors of arts and
the founders of society as having in them more than a com¬
mon ray of the divinity. So that god-like benefits, bespeak¬
ing as it were a god-like mind, the deceased parent of a
people was easily advanced into the rank of a daemon. When
the religious bias was in so good a train, natural affection
would have its share in promoting this new mode of adora¬
tion. Piety to parents would naturally take the lead, as it
was supported by gratitude and admiration, the primum
mobile of the whole system ; and, in those early ages, the
Timccus.
POLYTHEISM.
Hero- natural father of the tribe often happened to be the politi-
Worship. (^1 father of the people, and the founder of the state. Fond-
ness for the offspring would next have its turn ; and a dis¬
consolate father, at the head of a people, would contrive to
soothe his grief for the untimely death of a favourite child,
and to gratify his pride under the want of succession, by
paying divine honours to its memory.”1 “ For a father af¬
flicted with untimely mourning, when he had made an image
of his child recently taken away, now honoured him as a god,
who was then a dead man, and delivered to those that were
under him ceremonies and sacrifices.”2 That this was the
origin and progress of the worship of departed souls, we
have the authority of the famous fragment of Sanchoniathon,
already quoted, where the various motives for this species
of idolatry are recounted in express words. “ After many
generations,” says he, “ came Chrysor; and he invented
many things useful to civil life, for which, after his decease,
he was worshipped as a god. Then flourished Ouranos and
his sister Ge, who deified and offered sacrifices to their
father Hypsistos, when he had been torn in pieces by wild
beasts. Afterwards Kronos consecrated Muth his son, and
was himself consecrated by his subjects.”
In the reign of Kronos there flourished a personage of great
reputation for wisdom, who by the Egyptians was denomi¬
nated Thoth, by the Phoenicians Taautos, and by the Greeks
Hermes. According to Plutarch, he was a profound poli¬
tician, and chief counsellor of Osiris, then the king, and
afterwards the principal divinity, of Egypt; and we are told
by Philo Byblius, the translator of Sanchoniathon, “ that it
was this Thoth or Hermes who first took the matters of re¬
ligious worship out of the hands of unskilful men, and brought
them into due method and order.” His object was to make
religion serviceable to the interests of the state. With this
view he appointed Osiris and other departed princes to be
joined with the stars and worshipped as gods ; and being
by Kronos made king of Egypt, he was, after his death,
worshipped himself as a god by the Egyptians. To this ho¬
nour, if what is recorded of him be true, he had indeed a
better title than most princes ; for he is said to have been
the inventor of letters, arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and
hieroglyphics, and was therefore one of the greatest bene¬
factors of the human race which any age or country has ever
produced.
That the gods of Greece and Rome were derived from
Egypt and Phoenicia, is so universally known, that it is need¬
less to multiply quotations in order to prove that the pro¬
gress of polytheism amongst the Greeks and Romans was
the same with that which we have traced in more ancient
nations. The following account, given by Hesiod, of the
deification of departed heroes, is so just, and in our opinion
bo beautiful, that we cannot refrain from introducing it in
this place.
The gods who dwell on high Olympus’ hill,
First fram’d a golden race of men, who liv’d
Under old Saturn’s calm auspicious sway.
Like gods they liv’d, their hearts devoid of care,
Beyond the reach of pain and piercing woes ;
Th’ infirmities of age nor felt nor fear’d.
Their nerves with youthful vigour strung, their days
In jocund mirth they past, remote from ills.
Now when this godlike race was lodg’d in earth,
By Jove’s high will to demigods they rose,
And airy dasmons, who benign on earth
Converse, the guides and guardians of mankind.
In darkness veil’d, they range earth’s utmost bound,
Dispensing wealth to mortals. This reward
From bounteous Jove awaits illustrious deeds.3
National The deification of departed heroes and of statesmen was
^tutelar that which in all probability introduced the universal belief
of national and tutelar gods, as well as the practice of wor¬
335
shipping those gods through the medium of statues cut into Hero-
a human figure. When the founder of a state, or any Worship,
other public benefactor, was elevated to the rank of a god, "v—
as he was believed still to retain human passions and affec¬
tions, it was extremely natural to suppose that he would re¬
gard with a favourable eye that nation for which he had
done so much upon earth ; that he would oppose its ene¬
mies, and protect the laws and institutions which he.him¬
self had given it. By indulging the same train of senti¬
ment, each city, and even every family of consequence,
found Lares and Penates amongst their departed ancestors,
to whom they paid the warmest adoration, and under
whose protection they believed their private affairs to be
placed. As those national and household gods were be¬
lieved to be in their deified state clothed with airy bodies,
so those bodies were supposed to retain the form which
their grosser bodies had upon earth. The image of a de¬
parted friend might perhaps be formed by the hand of sor¬
rowful affection, before the statue or the shrine of a deity
was thought of; but when that friend or benefactor became
the object of religious adoration, it was natural for his vo¬
taries to enliven their devotion by a view of his similitude.
Maximus Tyrius tells us,4 that “ there is no race of men,
whether barbarian or Grecian, living on the sea-coast or
on the continent, wandering in deserts or living in cities,
which has not consecrated some kind of symbol or other
in honour of the gods.” This is certainly true ; but there
is no good evidence that the first symbols of the gods were
statues of men and women. Whilst the sun and other
heavenly bodies continued to be the sole objects of religious
worship, the symbols consecrated to them were pillars of a
conical or pyramidal figure; and if such pillars are ever
called graven images by Moses and other ancient writers,
it was probably on account of the allegorical figures and
characters, or hieroglyphical writing, with which they were
inscribed.
Hitherto we have considered the souls of departed he- Hero-wor-
roes as holding the rank only of daemons or demigods; butshipen'
they generally rose in the scale of divinities, until they de- on
throned the heavenly bodies, and became themselves the ^ ^ ane "
dii majorum gentium. This revolution was effected by
the combined operation of the prince and the priest; and
the first step taken towards it seems to have been the com¬
plimenting of their heroes and public benefactors with the
name of that being which was most esteemed and worship¬
ped. “ Thus a king for his beneficence was called the sun,
and a queen for her beauty the moon. Diodorus relates,
that Sol first reigned in Egypt, called so from the luminary
of that name in the heavens. This will help us to under¬
stand an odd passage in the fragment of Sanchoniathon,
where it is said that Kronos had seven sons by Rhea, the
youngest of whom was a god as soon as born. The mean¬
ing probably is, that this youngest son was called after
some luminary in the heavens to which they paid divine
honours ; and these honours came in process of time to be
transferred to the terrestrial namesake. The same his¬
torian had before told us, that the sons of Genos, mortals
like their father, were called by the names of the elements,
light, fire, and flame, of which they had discovered the
use.”
“ As this adulation advanced into an established wor¬
ship, they turned the compliment the other way, and called
the planet or luminary after the hero, the better to accus¬
tom the people, even in the act of planet-worship, to this
new adoration. Diodorus, in the passage already quoted,
having told us, that by the first inhabitants of Egypt the
sun and moon were supposed to be the principal and eter¬
nal gods, adds, that the former was called Osiris, and the
3 E^yur xcu 'Hfaguv, lib. i. verse 100, &c.
* Dissert. 38.
1 Warburton’s Divine Legation of Moses.
2 Wisdom of Solomon, xiv. 15.
336
POLYTHEISM.
Hero- latter Isis. This was indeed the general practice ; for we
Worship. iearn from Macrobius, that the Ammonites called the sun
Moloch; the Syrians, Adad; the Arabs, Dionysus ; the
Assyrians, Belus; the Phoenicians, Saturn, the Carthagi¬
nians, Hercules; and the Palmyrians, Elagabalus. Again,
by the Phrygians the moon was called Cybele, or the mo¬
ther of the gods ; by the Athenians, Minerva; by the Cy¬
prians, Venus; by the Cretans, Diana; by the Sicilians,
Proserpine; by others, Hecate, Bellona, Vesta, Urania,
Lucina, &c. Philo Byblius explains this practice. . It
is remarkable,’ says he, £ that the ancient idolaters im¬
posed on the elements, and on those parts of nature which
they esteemed gods, the names of their kings ; for the na¬
tural gods which they acknowledged were only the sun,
moon, planets, elements, and the like ; they being now in
the humour of having gods of both classes, the mortal and
the immortal.’
“ As a further proof that hero-worship was thus superin¬
duced upon the planetary, it is worthy of observation, that
the first statues consecrated to the greater hero-gods, or
those who were supposed to be supreme, were not of a hu¬
man form, but conical or pyramidal, like those which, in
the earliest ages of idolatry, were dedicated to the sun and
planets. Thus the scholiast on the Vespcs of Aristophanes
tells us, that the statues of Apollo and Bacchus were conic
pillars or obelisks ; and Pausanias, that the statue of Jupi¬
ter Meilichius represented a pyramid; that of the Argive
Juno did the same, as appears from a verse of Phoronis
quoted by Clemens Alexandrinus J and indeed the prac¬
tice was universal, as well amongst the early barbarians as
amongst the Greeks. But it is well known that the ancients
represented the rays of light by pillars of a conical or pyra¬
midal form ; and therefore it follows, that when they erect¬
ed such pillars as representatives of their hero-gods, these
latter had succeeded to the titles, rights, and honours of
the natural and celestial divinities.”1 2
Progress of But though it seems to be certain that hero-worship was
this revo- thus engrafted on the planetary, and that some of those he¬
roes in process of time supplanted the planets themselves,
this was such a revolution in theology as could not have
been suddenly effected by the united influence of the
prince and the priest. We doubt not the fact that Sol
was believed to have reigned in Egypt, and was afterwards
worshipped under the name Osiris ; but it was surely im¬
possible to persuade any nation, however stupid or prone
to idolatry, that a man, whom they remembered discharging
the duties of their sovereign and legislator, was the identi¬
cal sun whom they beheld in the heavens. Osiris, if there
was in Egypt a king of that name, may have been deified
immediately after his death, and honoured with that wor¬
ship which was paid to good daemons ; but he must have
been dead for ages before any attempt was made to per¬
suade the nation that he was the Supreme God. Even then
great address would be requisite to render such an attempt
successful. The prince or priest who entered upon it would
probably begin with declaring, on the authority of an oracle,
that the divine intelligence which animates and governs the
sun had descended to earth and animated the person of the
renowned legislator; and that, after their laws were fram¬
ed, and the other purposes served, for which the descent
wras made, the same intelligence had returned to its origi¬
nal residence and employment amongst the celestials. The
possibility of this double transmigration from heaven to
earth and from earth to heaven, would without difficulty
be admitted in an age when the pre-existence of souls
was the universal belief. Having proceeded thus far in
the apotheosis of dead men, the next step taken in order
to render it in some degree probable that the early found- P6™;
ers of states, and inventors of arts, were divine intelligences Worship,
clothed with human bodies, was to attribute to one such be¬
nefactor of mankind the actions of many of the same name.
Vossius, who employed much time and great erudition on
the subject, has proved, that before the era of the Trojan
wars, most kings who were very powerful, or highly re¬
nowned for their skill in legislation, were called Jove ; and
when the actions of all these were attributed to one Jo\e
of Crete, it would be easy for the crafty priest, supported
by all the power and influence of the state, to persuade an
ignorant and barbarous people, that he whose wisdom and
heroic exploits so far surpassed those of ordinary men must
have been the Supreme God in human form.
This short sketch of the progress of polytheism and ido- Vices of
lution in
theology.
latry will enable the reader to account for many circum-tkepag-au
stances recorded of the pagan gods of antiquity, which at g0Un(-e(j
first view seem very surprising, and which at length brought for.
the whole system into contempt amongst the philosophers
of Athens and Rome. The circumstances to which we al¬
lude are the immoral characters of those divinities, and the
abominable rites with wdiich they were worshipped. Jupi¬
ter, Apollo, Mars, and the whole rabble of them, are de¬
scribed by the poets as ravishers of women and notorious
adulterers. Hermes or Mercury was a thief, and the god
of thieves. Venus was a prostitute, and Bacchus a drunk¬
ard. The malice and revenge of Juno were implacable;
and so little regard was any of them supposed to pay to the
laws of honour and rectitude, that it was a common prac¬
tice of the Romans, when besieging a town, to evoke the
tutelar deity, and to tempt him by a reward to betray his
friends and votaries.3 In a word, they were, in the language
of the poet,
Gods partial, changeful, passionate, unjust,
Whose attributes were rage, revenge, and lust.
This was the natural consequence of their origin. Having
once animated human bodies, and being supposed still to
retain human passions and appetites, they w ere believed, in
their state of deification, to feel the same sensual desires
which they had felt upon earth, and to pursue the same
means for their gratification. As the men covdd not well
attempt to surpass the gods in purity and virtue, they were
easily persuaded by artful and profligate priests, that the
most acceptable w orship which could be rendered to any
particular deity was to imitate the example of that deity,
and to indulge in the practices over which he presided.
Hence the worship of Bacchus was performed during the
night by men and wromen mixing in the dark after intem-
perate eating and drinking. Hence, too, it was the prac¬
tice in Cyprus and some other countries to sacrifice to Ve¬
nus the virginity of young wromen some days before their
marriage, in order, as was pretended, to secure their chas¬
tity ever afterwards; and, if Herodotus may be credited,
every woman amongst the Babylonians wras obliged once in
her life to prostitute herself in the temple of the goddess
Mylitte or Venus, that she might thenceforward be proof
against all temptation.
The progress of polytheism, as far as we have traced it, has Progress
been regular ; and the enormous error of forsaking the wor-i(’° d '•v‘
ship of the true God being once admitted, every subsequent
step appears to be natural. It would be no difficult task to
prove that it has likewise been universal. Sir William Jones,
the learned president of the Asiatic Society, discovered such
a striking resemblance between the gods of ancient Greece
and those of the pagans of Hindustan,4 as puts it beyond a
doubt that those divinities had the same origin. The Ga-
1 St: om. lib. i.
2 Warburton’s Divine Legation, book iii. sect. 6.
J T. Livii, lib. v. c. 21; and Macrob. Saiur. lib. iii c. 9.
1 Asiatic Researches, vol. i.
POLYTHEISM.
337
Hero-
Worship.
I 'andina-
an and
won ido-
|try.
nesa of the Hindus he has clearly proved to be the -Janus
of the Greeks and Romans. As the latter was represented
' with two and sometimes with four faces, as emblems of
prudence and circumspection, the former is painted with
an elephant’s head, the well known symbol amongst the In¬
dians of sagacious discernment. The Saturn of Greece and
Rome appears to have been the same personage with the
Menu or Satyavrataof Hindustan, whose patronymic isVai-
vaswata, or child of the sun; a name which sufficiently marks
his origin. Amongst the Romans there were many Jupi-
ters, one of whom appears from Ennius to have been no¬
thing more than the firmament personified.
Aspice hoc sublime candens, quem invocant omnes Jovem.
But this Jupiter had the same attributes with the Indian god
of the visible heavens, called Indra or the king, and Dives-
petir, or the lord of the sky, whose consort is Sachi, and
whose weapon is vajra or the thunderbolt. Indra is the
regent of winds and showers ; and though the East is pecu¬
liarly under his care, yet his Olympus is the north-pole, al¬
legorically represented as a mountain of gold and gems.
With all his power he is considered as a subordinate deity,
and far inferior to the Indian triad Brahma, Vishnu, and
Mahadeva or Siva, who are three forms of one and the same
godhead. The president having traced the resemblance be¬
tween the idolatry of Rome and India through many other
gods, observes, that “ we must not be surprised at finding,
on a close examination, that the characters of all the pagan
deities melt into each other, and at last into one or two; for
it seems a well-founded opinion, that the whole crowd of
gods and goddesses in ancient Rome, and likewise in Hin¬
dustan, mean only the powrers of nature, and principally
those of the sun, expressed in a variety of ways, and by a
multitude of fanciful names.”
Nor is it only in Greece, Rome, Egypt, and India, that
the progress of idolatry has been from planetary to hero-
worship. From every account which modern travellers
have given us of the religion of savage nations, it appears
that those nations adore, as their first and greatest gods,
the sun, moon, and stars; and that sxich of them as have
any other divinities have proceeded in the same road with
the celebrated nations of antiquity, from the worship of the
heavenly bodies to that of celestial daemons, and from celes¬
tial daemons to the deification of dead men. It appears, like¬
wise, that they universally believe their hero-gods and de¬
migods to retain the passions, appetites, and propensities of
men.
That the Scandinavians and our Saxon ancestors had
the same notions of the gods with the other pagans whose
opinions we have stated, is evident from their calling the
days of the week by the names of their divinities, and from
the forms of the statues by which those divinities were re¬
presented. The idol of the Sun, from which Sunday is de¬
rived, amongst the Latins dies Solis, was placed in a temple,
where he was adored and sacrificed to ; for they believed
that the sun did co-operate with this idol. He was repre¬
sented like a man half naked, with his face like the sun,
holding a burning wheel with both hands on his breast,
signifying his course round the world ; and by its fiery
gleams, the light and heat with which he warms and
nourishes all things.
The idol of the Moon, from which comes our Monday, or
dies Lunce, anciently Moonday, appears strangely singular,
being habited in a short coat like a man. Her holding a
moon expresses what she is; but the reason of her short
coat and long-eared cap is lost in oblivion.
Tuisco, the most ancient and peculiar god of the Ger¬
mans, represented in his garment of skin, according to
their ancient manner of clothing, was, next to the Sun and
Moon, the idol of highest rank in the calendar of northern Hero,
paganism. To him the third day in the week was dedicat- Worship,
ed ; and hence has been derived the name Tuesday, ancient- '"““'v'—
ly Tuisday, called in Latin dies Martis, though it must be
confessed that Mars does not so much resemble this divi¬
nity as he does Odin or Woden.
Odin or Woden was a valiant prince amongst the Saxons.
His image was prayed to for victory over their enemies;
which, if they obtained, they usually sacrificed to him the
prisoners taken in battle. Our Wednesday, anciently Wo-r
densday, is derived from his name. The northern histories
represent him as the father of Thor, by Friga his wife.
Thor was placed in a large hall, sitting on a bed canopied
over, with a crown of gold on his head, surmounted by twelve
stars, and holding a sceptre in his right hand. To him was
attributed power over both heaven and earth; and, as he
was pleased or displeased, he could send thunder, tempests,
plagues, earthquakes, or fair and seasonable weather, and
cause fertility. From him our Thursday derives its name,
anciently Thorsday, and amongst the Romans dies Jovis,
as this idol may be substituted for Jupiter.
Friga represented both sexes, holding a drawn sword in
the right hand and a bow in the left; denoting that women
as well as men should fight in time of need. She was ge¬
nerally taken for a goddess ; and was reputed the giver of
peace and plenty, as well as the cause of love and amity.
Her day of worship was called by the Saxons Frigedeag,
now Friday, or dies Veneris; but the habit and w’eapons
of this figure have a resemblance to those of Diana rather
than Venus.
Sealer, or Crodo, stood upon the prickly back of a perch.
He was thin-visaged and long-haired, with a long beard,
bare-headed and bare-footed, carrying in his right hand a pail
of water, wherein are fruit and flowers, and holding up a
wheel in his left, his coat being tied with a long girdle. His
standing on the sharp fins of this fish signified to the Saxons,
that by worshipping him they should pass through all dan¬
gers unhurt; by his girdle flying both ways was shown the
Saxons’ freedom ; and by the pail with fruit and flowers was
denoted that he would nourish the earth. From him, or
from the Roman deity Saturn, comes Saturday.
Such were the principal gods of the northern nations.
But these people had at the same time inferior deities, who
were supposed to have been translated into heaven for their
heroic deeds, and whose greatest happiness consisted in
drinking ale out of the skulls of their enemies in the Hall
of Odin. But the limits prescribed to the present article
do not permit us to pursue this subject; nor is it necessary
that we should do so. The attentive reader of the article
Mythology, of the histories given in this work of the va¬
rious divinities of paganism, and of the different nations by
whom those divinities were worshipped, will perceive that
the progress of polytheism and idolatry has been uniform
over the whole earth.
There is, however, one species of idolatry more wonder- Animal¬
ful than anything that has yet been mentioned, and of which worship of
our readers will certainly expect some account. It is the^^T*
worship of brutes, reptiles, and vegetables, amongst the ^
Egyptians. To the Greeks and Romans, as well as to us,
that superstition appeared so monstrous, that to enumerate
every hypothesis, ancient and modern, by which philoso¬
phers have endeavoured to account for it, would swell this
article beyond all proportion. Animal-worship prevailed at
so early a period in Egypt, that the philosophers of antiqui¬
ty whose writings have descended to us, had little or no
advantage over the moderns in pursuing their researches
into its origin; and, amongst the modern hypotheses, those
of Mosheim and War bur ton appear to be as plausible as
anv that we have seen.1 The former of these learned
1 There is, however, another hypothesis which is worthy of some attention, if it were only for the learning and ingenuity of its
thor. The celebrated Cudworth infers, from the writings of Philo and other Platomsts of the Alexandrian school, that the an-
2 u
author
VOI.
XVIII.
P 0 L Y T
Animal- writers attributes it wholly to the policy of the prince and
Worship. the craft 0f tiie priest. The latter contends, with much
~ J“~Y earnestness and ingenuity, that it resulted from the use
of hieroglyphical writing. We are strongly inclined to be¬
lieve that both these causes contributed to the produc¬
tion of so portentous an effect; and that the use of hiero
glyphics as sacred symbols, after they were laid aside in
civil life, completed that wonderful superstition which the
craft of the priest and the policy of the prince had undoubt¬
edly begun.
We learn from Herodotus,1 that in his time the number
of useful animals in Egypt was so small as to be hardly
sufficient for tillage and the other purposes of civil life;
whilst serpents and other noxious animals, such as the cro¬
codile, wolf, bear, and hippopotamus, abounded in that coun¬
try. From this fact Mosheim very naturally concludes,2
that the founders of society and government in Egypt would
by every art endeavour to increase the number of useful
animals as the number of inhabitants increased ; and that
with this view they would make it criminal to kill or even
to hurt sheep, cows, oxen, or goats, whilst they would wage
perpetual war against the noxious animals and beasts, of
prey. Such animals as were assisting to them in carrying
on this warfare would be justly considered as in a high de¬
gree useful to society. Hence the most grievous punish¬
ments were decreed against killing, or so much as wound¬
ing, the ichneumon and ibis ; because the former was
looked upon as the instinctive enemy of the crocodile,
and the latter of every species of serpents. The learned
writer, however, observes, that in Egypt, as in other coun¬
tries, people would be tempted to sacrifice the good of the
public to the gratification of their own appetites, and some¬
times even to the indulgence of a momentary caprice. He
thinks it was found necessary to strengthen the authority
of the laws enacted for the preservation of useful animals
by the sanctions of religion ; and he says, that with this view
the priests declared that certain animals were under the
immediate protection of certain gods, that some of those
animals had a divine virtue residing in them, and that they
could not be killed without the most sacrilegious wickedness,
and incurring the highest indignation of the gods. When
once the idolatrous Egyptians were persuaded that cer¬
tain animals were sacred to the immortal gods, and had a
divine virtue residing in them, they could not avoid view¬
ing those animals with some degree of veneration ; and the
priests, taking advantage of the superstition of the people,
H E I S M.
appointed for each species of sacred animals appropriate Anima J
rites and ceremonies, which were quickly followed with t>r!iii l
building shrines and temples, and approaching them with
oblations and sacrifices, and other rites of divine adoration.
To corroborate this hypothesis, he observes that, besides
the animals sacred over all Egypt, each province and each
city had its particular animal to which the inhabitants paid
their devotions. This arose from the universal practice
amongst idolaters of consecrating to themselves Lares and
Penates; and as the animals which were worshipped over
the whole kingdom were considered as sacred to the Dii
majorum gentium, so the animals the worship of which w7as
confined to particular cities or provinces, were sacred to the
Lares of those cities and provinces. Hence there was in
Upper Egypt a city called Lycopolis, because its inhabi¬
tants worshipped the wolf; wdiilst the inhabitants of Thebes,
or Heliopolis, paid their devotions to the eagle, which was
probably looked upon as sacred to the Sun. Our author,
how'ever, holds it as a fact which will admit of no dispute,
that there was not one noxious animal or beast of prey
worshipped by the Egyptians till after the conquest of their
country by the Persians. That the earliest gods of Egypt
were all benevolent beings, he appeals to the testimony of
Diodorus Siculus; but he quotes Herodotus and Plutarch
as agreeing that the latter Egyptians worshipped an evil
principle under the name of Typhon. This Typhon was
the inveterate enemy of Osiris, just as Ahriman was of
Ormuzd ; and therefore he thinks it in the highest degree
probable that the Egyptians derived their belief of two
self-existent principles, a good and an evil, from their Per ¬
sian conquerors, amongst whom that opinion had prevailed
from the earliest ages.
From w hatever source their belief was derived, Typhon
w7as certainly worshipped in Egypt, not with a view of ob¬
taining from him any good, for there was nothing good in
his nature, but in hopes of keeping him quiet, and averting
much evil. As certain animals had long been sacred to all
the benevolent deities, it was natural for a people so besot¬
ted with superstition as the Egyptians to consecrate emblems
of the same kind to their god Typhon. Hence arose the
worship of serpents, crocodiles, bears, and other noxious
animals and beasts of prey. It may, indeed, seem at first
sight very inconsistent to deify such animals, after they
had been in the practice for ages of worshipping others for
being their destroyers; but it is to be remembered, that
long before the deification of crocodiles, &c. the real origin
cient Egyptians held the Platonic doctrine of ideas existing from eternity, and constituting, in one of the persons of the godhead,
the intelligible and archetypal world. Philo, he observes, did not himself consider those ideas as so many distinct substances and
animals, much less as gods; but he mentions others who deified the whole of this intelligible system, as well as its several parts.
Hence, when they paid their devotions to the sensible sun, they pretended only to worship the divine idea or archetype of that luminary;
and therefore our learned author conceives that the ancient Egyptians, in falling down to bulls, and cows, and crocodiles, meant at
first to worship only the divine and eternal ideas of those animals. He allows, indeed, that as few could entertain any thoughts at all
of those eternal ideas, there were scarcely any who could persuade themselves that the intelligible system had so much reality in it as
the sensible things uf nature; and hence he thinks the devotion which was originally paid to the divine ideas had afterwards no higher
object than the animals and vegetables of which those ideas were the eternal patterns.
This hypothesis, however, is more ingenious than satisfactory. There is no evidence that the mysterious doctrine of Plato concern¬
ing ideas had anywhere been thought of for ages after animal-worship was established in Egypt. Of the state of Egyptian theology at
that early period, Philo, and the other philosophers of the Alexandrian school, had no better means of forming a judgment than we
have; and they laboured under many Greek prejudices, which must have prevented them from judging with impartiality.
It must be confessed, however, that a pretty close approximation is here made to what seems to us to be the true explanation ot the
origin of animal-worship. The earliest form of idolatry was Tsabaism, or the worship of the host of heaven. Of this there can be no
doubt whatever. But the observation of the sun, moon, and stars preceded the adoration of the heavenly host. Astronomy was the
most early cultivated of all the sciences, and traces of the ancient classification still remain to attest the circumstances of its ori¬
gin. The celestial bodies being first observed in pastoral countries, their groups were, from fancied resemblances to the figures ot
certain known animals, marked out and distinguished by the names of those animals ; and, when they became objects of idolatrous
worship, it w'as under the denominations which had thus been applied to them. In process of time, however, when Tsabaism,
from a sublime idolatry, descended to a vulgar and degrading superstition, the sign was mistaken for the thing signified ; the emblem
w'as confounded with its archetype; and the animals themselves became the objects of that worship originally intended for the celes¬
tial signs or heavenly host, represented and classed in the manner already described. Such appears to us to have been the true
origin of animal-worship, at least in Egypt, where almost every sign, emblem, or symbol, has either an astronomical or mythologi¬
cal import; and there can be no doubt that the superstition which excited the ridicule of the Roman satirist was a gross corruption
of the earliest form of idolatry known in the world.
1 Lib. ii. cap. 65. * Cudworth’s Intellectual System, cap. iv. No. 158.
POLYTHEISM.
inimal-
rorship
■)atinued
v means
fhiero-
•Ivphieal
■riling.
Animal- of animal-worship was totally forgotten by the people, if
Worship, they were ever acquainted with it. The crafty priest
who wishes to introduce a gainful superstition, must at first
employ some plausible reason to delude the multitude;
but after the superstition has been long and firmly estab¬
lished, it is obviously his business to keep its origin out of
sight.
Such is Mosheim’s account of the origin and progress of
that species of idolatry which was peculiar to Egypt; and
with respect to the rise of animal-worship, it appears per¬
fectly satisfactory. But the Egyptians worshipped several
species of vegetables ; and it surely could be no part of the
policy of w'ise legislators to preserve them from destruction,
as vegetables are useful only as they contribute to animal
subsistence. We are, therefore, obliged to call in the aid of
Warburton’s hypothesis to account for this branch of Egyp¬
tian superstition.
That learned and ingenious author having proved,1 with
great clearness and strength of argument, that hieroglyphi-
cal writing preceded the invention of alphabetical charac¬
ters, and having traced that kind of writing from such rude
pictures as those which were in use amongst the Mexicans,
through all the different species of curiological, tropical,
and symbolical hieroglyphics (see the article Hierogly¬
phics), shows, by many quotations from ancient authors,
that the Egyptian priests wrapped up their theology in the
symbolical hieroglyphics, after alphabetical characters had
banished from the transactions of civil life a mode of com¬
municating information necessarily obscure. These sym¬
bols were the figures of animals and of vegetables, denoting,
from some supposed or imaginary analogy, certain attri¬
butes of their divinities; and when the vulgar, forgetting
this analogy, ceased to understand them as a species of writ¬
ing, and were yet taught to consider them as sacred, they
could not well view them in any other light than as em¬
blems of the divinities whom they adored. But if rude
sculptures upon stone could be emblematical of the divini¬
ties, it was surely not unnatural to infer, that the living ani¬
mals and vegetables which those sculptures represented
must be emblems of the same divinities more striking and
more sacred. Hence, the learned author thinks, arose that
wonderful superstition peculiar to the Egyptians, which led
them to worship not only animals and vegetables, but also
a thousand chimeras of their own creation, such as figures
with human bodies, and the heads or feet of brutes, or with
the bodies ofbrutes and the heads and feet of men.
These two hypotheses combined have been thought to
account sufficiently for the idolatry of Egypt, monstrous as
it was. We are persuaded that, with respect to the origin
of animal-worship, Mosheim is in the right ;2 and it was a
very easy step indeed for people in so good training to
proceed upon the crutches of hieroglyphics to the worship
of plants, and those chimeras which, as they never had
a real existence in nature, could not have been thought
of as emblems of the divinity, had they not been used in
that symbolical writing which Warburton so ingeniously at¬
tempts to explain.
To this account of the origin of animal-worship we are
. fully aware that some objections may occur. Animal-worship,
Tdi'a. int°1*' has been said, was not peculiar to Egypt. The Hindus,
it is well known, have a religious veneration for the cow and
the alligator ; but there is no evidence that in India the
number of useful animals was ever so small as to make the
interference of the prince and the priest necessary for their
339
i Wied
preservation ; neither does it appear that the Hindus adopt- AnimaJ-
ed from any other people the worship of a self-existent prin- Worship,
ciple of evil.
To this, however, it may be answered, that there is every
reason to believe that animal-worship was introduced into
India by a colony of Egyptians at a very remote period.
'I hat between these two nations there was an early inter¬
course, is universally allowed. And although the learned
president of the Asiatic Society has laboured to prove, that
the Egyptians derived all that wisdom for which they were
famed, as well as the rudiments of their religious system,
from the natives of Hindustan, he does not appear to us to
have laboured with success. To examine his arguments at
length would swell this article beyond its due proportion; and
we have noticed some of them elsewhere (see the article
Philology). At present we shall only observe, that Sesos-
tris undoubtedly made an inroad into India, and conquered
part of the country, whilst we nowhere read of the Hindus
having at any time conquered the kingdom of Egypt. Now,
though the victors have sometimes adopted the religion of
the vanquished, the contrary has happened so much more
frequently, and is in itself a process so much more natural,
that this single circumstance affords a very strong presump¬
tion that the Egyptian monarch would rather impose his gods
upon the Hindus than adopt theirs and carry them back
with him to Egypt. Animal-worship might likewise be intro¬
duced into Hindustan by those vast colonies of Egyptians
who took refuge in that country from the tyranny and op¬
pression of the shepherd kings. That such colonies did
settle on some occasion or other in India, seems undeni¬
able, from monuments still remaining in that country, with
forms which could hardly have occurred to a native of
Asia, though they are very natural as the workmanship of
Africans.
We may admit that the Hindus have never adopted from
the Persians or Egyptians the worship of an independent
principle of evil, and yet dispose of the other part of the ob¬
jection with very little difficulty. It will be seen by and
by, that the Brahmins believe a kind of triad of hypostases
in the divine nature, of which one is viewed as the De¬
stroyer, and known by several names, such as Siva and Is-
wara. WThen animal-worship was introduced into Hindus¬
tan, it was not unnatural to consider the alligator as emble¬
matical of Iswara; and hence in all probability it is that
the Hindus believe that a man cannot depart more happily
from this world than by falling into the Ganges, and being
devoured by one of those sacred animals. Upon the whole,
the animal-worship of the Hindus, instead of militating
against our account of this monstrous superstition as it pre¬
vailed in Egypt, seems to lend no small support to that ac¬
count, as there was unquestionably an early intercourse be¬
tween the two nations, and as colonies of Egyptians settled
in India.
Having thus traced the rise and progress of polytheism Polytheists
and idolatry as they prevailed in the most celebrated na-acknow-
tions of antiquity, we now proceed to inquire into the real
opinions of those nations concerning the nature of the gods ^from
whom they adored. And here it is evident from the wri- the
tings of Homer, Hesiod, and the other poets, who were the other divi-
principal theologians amongst the Greeks and Romans, thatnities were
though heaven, earth, hell, and all the elements, were filledSenerated-
with divinities, there was yet one who, whether called Jove,
Osiris, Ormuzd, or by any other title, was considered as
supreme over all the rest. “ Whence each of the gods
1 Divine Legation, book iv. sect. 4. , . , . - .
1 To prove that it was merely to preserve and increase the breed of useful animals in Egypt, that the prince and the pries irs
taught the people to consider such animals as sacred, he argues thus : u Haec ita esse, non ex eo tan turn liquet, quod pau o an e o >-
servavi, nulias bestias universo jEgvptiorum populo sacras fuisse, praeter eas, quae manifestam region! utihtatem comparen , se< m e
quoque apparet, quod longe major ’ratio habita fuit famellarum inter animalia, quam marium. ISoves dns immolare liceDat, vaecas
nullo modo. Canes focminae contumulahantur, non item nlarec.’,
340
POLYTHEISM.
Theogony. was generated,” says Herodotus,1 “ or whether they have
  V 'all existed from eternity, and what are their forms, is a
thing that was not known till very lately ; for Hesiod and
Homer were, as I suppose, not above four hundred years
my seniors ; and these were they who introduced the theo¬
gony amongst the Greeks, and gave the gods their several
names.” Now Hesiod,2 towards the beginning of his Theo¬
gony, expressly invokes his muse to celebrate in suitab e
numbers the generation of the immortal gods who had
sprung from the earth, the dark night, the starry heavens,
and the salt sea. He calls upon her likewise to say, “ in
what manner the gods, the earth, the rivers, ocean, stars,
and firmament, were generated, and what divine intelli¬
gences had sprung from them of benevolent dispositions
towards mankind.” From this invocation, it is evident that
the poet did not consider the gods of Greece as self-existent
beings. Neither could he look upon them as creatures ; foi
of creation the ancient Greeks had no conception (see the
article Metaphysics) ; but he considered them as ema¬
nations coeval with the earth and heavens, from some su¬
perior principles; and by the divine intelligences sprung
from them, there cannot be a doubt but that he understood
benevolent daemons. The first principles of all things, ac¬
cording to the same Hesiod, ivere Chaos, and Tartaius, and
Love, of which only the last being active,^ must undoubted¬
ly have been conceived by this father of Grecian polytheism
to be the greatest and only self-existing god. This, we say,
must undoubtedly have been Hesiods belief, unless by fai-
tarus we here understand a self-existent principle of evil;
and in that case his creed will be the same with that of the
ancient Persians, who, as we have seen, believed in the self¬
existence of Ahriman as w ell as of Ormuzd.
Hesiod is supposed to have taken his theology from Or¬
pheus ; and it is evident that his doctrine concerning the
generation of the gods is the same with that taught in cer¬
tain verses3 * 5 usually attributed to Orpheus, in which Love
and Chaos are thus brought together. “ We will first sing,”
says the poet, “ a pleasant and delightful song concerning
the ancient Chaos, how the heavens, earth, and seas were
formed out of it; as also concerning that all-wise Love, the
oldest and self-perfect principle, which actively produced
all these things, separating one from another.” In the origi¬
nal passage, Love is said to be not only of much
wisdom or sagacity, and therefore a real intelligent sub¬
stance ; but also to be ‘TT^sjSvraroi and durorsX^g, the oldest
and self-perfect, and therefore a being of superior order to
the other divinities, wrho were generated together with the
elements over which they were conceived to preside.
With the theology of Homer our readers of all descrip¬
tions are so well acquainted, that we need not swell the ar¬
ticle wfith quotations to prove that the father of epic poetry
held Jove to be the father of gods and men. But the doc- Theogon
trine of the poets wras the creed of the vulgar Greeks and ^
Romans ; and therefore we may conclude that those nations,
though they worshipped gods and lords innumerable, ad¬
mitted but one, or at the most two, self-existent principles,
the one good and the other evil.4 It does not indeed ap¬
pear that in the system of vulgar paganism the subordinate
gods were accountable to their chi el for any part of their
conduct, except when they transgressed the limits of the
provinces assigned them. Venus might conduct the amouis
of heaven and of earth in whatever manner she pleased;
Minerva might communicate or w ithhold w isdom from any
individual with or without reason ; and we find, that in Ho¬
mer’s battles the gods w^ere permitted to separate into par¬
ties, and to support the Greeks or Trojans, according as
they favoured the one or the other nation. Jove indeed
sometimes called them to order ; but his interference was
thought partial, and an instance of tyrannical force rather
than of just authority. The vulgar Greeks, therefore, al¬
though they admitted but one, or at most two, self-existent
principles, did not consider the inferior divinities as me¬
diators between them and the supreme, but as gods to
whom their worship was on certain occasions to be ulti-
timately directed.
The creed of the philosophers seems to have been differ-Creed of
ent. Such of them as were theists, and believed in the
administration of Providence, admitted of but one god, to
whom worship was ultimately due; and they adored the
subordinate divinities as his children and ministers, by whom
the course of Providence was carried on. With respect to
the origin of those divinities, Plato is very explicit, where
he tells us,5 that “ when all the gods, both those who move
visibly round the heavens, and those who appear to us as
often as they please, were generated, that God, who made
the whole universe, spoke to them after this manner: ^e
gods of gods, of whom I myself am father, attend.” Cicero
teaches the very same doctrine with Plato concerning the
gods;6 and Maximus Tyrius, who seems to have under¬
stood the genius of polytheism as thoroughly as any man,
gives us the following clear account of that system as re¬
ceived by the philosophers. “ I will now more plainly de¬
clare my sense by this similitude: Imagine a great and
powerful kingdom or principality, in which all agree freely
and with one consent to direct their actions according to
the will and command of one supreme king, the oldest and
the best; and then suppose the bounds and limits of this
empire not to be the river Halys, nor the Hellespont, nor
the Meotian Lake, nor the shores of the ocean ; but the
heavens above and the earth beneath. Here, then, let that
great king sit immoveable, prescribing to all his subjects
laws, in the observance of which consists their safety and
1 Lib. ii. c. 51. 2 Vers. 104-112. * Argonautica, p. IT, edit. Steph.
4 Plutarch is commonly supposed, and we think justly, to have been a believer in two self-existent principles, a good and an evi.
His own opinion, whatever it was, he declares (de I side et Osiride) to have been most ancient and universal, and derived trom t eo o-
gers and lawgivers, by poets and philosophers. “ Though the original author of it be unknown, yet, ’ says he, “ it has been so hi m y e-
lieved everywhere, that traces of it are to be found in the sacrifices and mysteries both of the barbarians and the Greeks. Ihere is a
confused mixture of good and evil in everything, and nothing is produced by nature pure. Wherefore it is not one only dispenser o
things, who, as it were, out of several vessels, distributes these several liquors of good and evil, mingling them together, and das ing
them as he pleases; but there are two distinct and contrary powers or principles in the world, one of them always leading, as it were,
to the right hand, but the other tugging the contrary way. For if nothing can be made without a cause, and that which is good canno
be the cause of evil, there must needs be a distinct principle in nature for the production of evil as well as good.
That this is palpable Manicheism appears to us so very evident as to admit ot no dispute. It appeared in the same light o
learned Cudworth; but that author labours to prove that Plutarch mistook the sense of Pythagoras, Empedocles, Heraclitus, Anaxa
goras, and Plato, when he attributed to them the same opinions which were held by himself. Mosheim, on the other hand, has place i
beyond a doubt, that whatever was Plutarch’s belief respecting the origin of evil, and the existence of two independent principles, it was
taken implicitly from the writings of Plato. But the chancellor of Gottingen, actuated by the same motives with Cudworth, wis es
to persuade his readers that by Plato and Plutarch nothing active was understood by their evil principle, but only that tendency o
confusion which was then deemed inseparable from matter. But that something more was meant seems undeniable. For nnmedia y
after the words which we have quoted, Plutarch proceeds to affirm that the wisest men declare tiiov; tweet La xutia.Tte avrm^vw, 14
there are two gods, as it were, of contrary trades or crafts,” of which one is the author of all good and the other of all evil. See Mosheim s
edition of Cudworth’s Intellectual System, lib. i. cap. 4, § 13.
5 Timceus, 6 Tusc. Quest, lib. i. c, 29, and Z)e JVat. Dcorum, passim.
POL YT
Theogony.happiness. The partakers of his empire being many, both
-y"*""' visible and invisible, are gods; some of them that are nearest
and immediately attending on him, are in the highest regal
dignity, feasting as it were at the same table ; others, again,
are their ministers and attendants; and a third sort are in¬
ferior to them both : And thus you see how the order and
chain of this government descends down by steps and de¬
grees from the Supreme God to the earth and men.” In this
passage we have a plain acknowledgement of one Supreme
God, the sovereign of the universe, and of three inferior or¬
ders of gods, who were his ministers in the government of
the world; and it is worthy of observation, that the same
wTiter calls these intelligences dious, Qeov vaibxg xai tpiXoug,
gods, the sons and friends of gods. He likewise affirms,
that all ranks of men, and all nations on earth, whether bar¬
barous or civilized, held the same opinions respecting one
Supreme Numen, and the generation of the other gods.
“ If,” says he, “ there were a meeting called of all these
several professions, a painter, a statuary, a poet, and a phi¬
losopher, and all of them were required to declare their
sense concerning the god; do you think that the painter
would say one thing, the statuary another, the poet a third,
and the philosopher a fourth ? No ; nor the Scythian nei¬
ther, nor the Greek, nor the Hyperborean. In other things
we find men speaking very discordantly, all men as it were
differing from all. But amidst this war, and contention, and
discord, you may find everywhere, throughout the whole
world, one uniform law and opinion, that there is one God,
the king and father of all, and many gods, the sons of
God, who reign with God. These things both the Greek
and the barbarian affirm, both the inhabitants of the conti¬
nent and of the sea-coast, both the wise and the unwise.”1
; Creed of This account of philosophical polytheism receives no
the Brah- smaii support from the Asiatic Researches of Sir William
Jones. “ It must always be remembered,” says that ac¬
complished scholar, “ that the learned Indians, as they are
instructed by their own books, acknowledge only one Su¬
preme Being, whom they call Brahm, or the Great One,
in the neuter gender. They believe his essence to be in¬
finitely removed from the comprehension of any mind but
his owm; and they snppose him to manifest his power by
the operation of his divine spirit, whom they name Vishnu,
the pervader, and Nerdyan, or moving on the waters, both
in the masculine gender ; whence he is often denominated
thefirst male. When they consider the divine power as ex¬
erted in creating or giving existence to that which existed
| hot before, they call the deity Brahma; when they view
him in the light of destroyer, or rather changer of forms,
they give him a thousand names, of which Siva, Iswara, and
Mahadeva are the most common ; and when they consider
him as the preserver of created things, they give him the
name of Vishnu. As the soul of the world, or the pervad¬
ing mind, so finely described by Virgil, we see Jove repre¬
sented by several Roman poets ; and with great sublimity
by Lucan in the well-known speech of Cato concerning the
Ammonian oracle, ‘ Jupiter is wherever we look, wherever
we move.’ This is precisely the Indian idea of Vishnu ;
for since the power of preserving created things by a super¬
intending providence belongs eminently to the godhead,
they hold that power to exist transcendently in the pre¬
serving member of the triad, whom they suppose to be every¬
where always, not in substance, but in spirit and energy.”
This supreme god Brahm, in his triple form, is therefore
the only self-existent divinity acknowledged by the philo¬
sophical Hindus. The other divinities are all looked upon
HE ISM. 34i
either as his creatures or his children, and of course are Theogony.
worshipped only with inferior adoration. v——^
It was upon this principle of the generation of the gods, Why the
and of their acting as ministers to the Supreme Numen, thatPhho-o-
all the philosophers of Greece, who were not atheists, wor- t)llers 'vor-
shipped many divinities, though they either openly con-j^^^
demned or secretly despised the traditions of the poets re-vinities. ^
specting the amours and villanies of Jupiter, Venus, Mer¬
cury, and the rest of the tribe. It was the same principle
sincerely admitted, and not an ill-timed jest, as has been
absurdly supposed, that made Socrates, after he had swal¬
lowed the poison, request his friend to offer a votive cock
for him to JEsculapius.
But a theogony was not peculiar to the Greeks, Romans,
and the Hindus ; it formed part of every system of poly¬
theism. Even the Egyptians themselves, the grossest of all
idolaters, believed in one self-existing God, from whom all
their other divinities descended by generation. This ap¬
pears probable from the writings of Horus Apollo, Jambli-
cus, Porphyry, and many other ancient authors ; but if the
inscription on the gates of the temple of Neith, in Sais, as
we have it from Plutarch and Proclus, be genuine, it will
admit of no doubt. This famous inscription, according to
the last of these writers, was to this purpose : “ I am what¬
ever is, whatever shall be, and whatever has been. My
veil no man has removed. The offspring which I brought
forth was the Sun.”2
The Persian Magi, as we have seen, believed in two self-
existent principles, a good and an evil. But if Diogenes
Laertius deserves to be credited, they held that fire, earth,
and water, which they called gods, were generated of these
two. It was observed in the beginning of this article, that
the first object of idolatrous worship was probably the sun,
and that this species of idolatry took its rise in Chaldaea or
Persia. But when it became the practice of eastern mo-
narchs to conceal themselves wholly from their people, the
custom, as implying dignity, was supposed to prevail in hea¬
ven as well as on earth ; and Zoroaster, the reformer of the
Persian theology, taught,3 that “ Ormuzd was as far re¬
moved from the sun as the sun is removed from the earth.”
According to this modification of Magianism, the sun was
one of the generated gods, and held the office of prime mi¬
nister or vicegerent to the invisible fountain of light and
good. Still, however, a self-existent principle of evil was
admitted; but though he could not be destroyed or anni¬
hilated by any power, it was believed that he would at last
be completely vanquished by Ormuzd and his ministers, and
rendered thenceforward incapable of producing any further
mischief.
From this short view of polytheism, as we find it deli-Vulgar po-
neated by the best writers of antiquity, we think ourselves lytheists
warranted to conclude that the whole pagan world believed1^
in but one, or at most two, self-existent gods, from whom PJj
they conceived all the other divinities to have descended gophers,
in a manner analogous to human generation. It appears,
however, that the vulgar pagans considered each divinity
as supreme and unaccountable within his own province, and
therefore entitled to worship which rested ultimately in
himself. The philosophers, on the other hand, seemed to
have viewed the inferior gods as accountable for every part
of their conduct to him who was their sire and sovereign,
and to have paid to them only that inferior kind of devo¬
tion which the church of Rome pays to departed saints.
The vulgar pagans were sunk in the grossest ignorance,
from which statesmen, priests, and poets, exerted their ut-
1 Dissert, i. s 5 . .. ^
2 la avra, *«/ ra ’uro^iva, xai <ra 'ysyoyura, lyu tifii. Tuv ^<T*/va iuh/s arrsxa^v\f'£V. 0» iytvxaptrav, rXio, iv.vir/i. ?i 'Lr
this inscription is admitted by Cudworth, denied by Mosheim, and doubted by Jablonski. The reader who wishes to know their ar¬
guments mayconsult Mosheim’s edition of the Intellectual System, and Jablonski s Pantheon /E^t/pUornm.
3 Plutarch, de Isicle et Osiride.
342 POM
Pombal most influence to keep them from emerging ; for it was a
H . maxim which, however absurd, was universally received,
Pomerania. tha(. « there were rnany things true in religion,1 which it
” N was not convenient for the vulgar to know ; and some things
which, though false, it was yet expedient that they should
believe.” The polytheism and idolatry of the vulgar, there¬
fore, were their misfortune rather than their fault. But the
POM
philosophers were wholly “ without excuse ;2 because that Pomfret,
when they knew God, they glorified him not as God, neither
were thankful, but became vain in their imaginations, andp
their foolish heart was darkened. Professing themselves ^
wise, they became fools, and worshipped and served the
creature more than the Creator, who is God blessed for
ever.” (h. h. h. h.)
POMBAL, a city of Portugal, in the province of Estre-
madura, and the corregimiento of Leiria. It stands on a
hill, near to which are the striking ruins of an ancient castle.
It contains but one church, which is much frequented by
pilgrims as well as by inhabitants, on account of a supposed
holy image to which miraculous virtue is ascribed. Pombal
has 860 houses, with about 4000 inhabitants, some of whom
are employed in making hats. The most celebrated, or, ac¬
cording to some, the most profligate, statesman of Portu¬
gal, long at the head of the ministry, took his title of mar¬
quis from this place.
POMERANIA, a province of Prussia, extending along
the southern shore of the Baltic Sea, from long. 12. 29. to
17. 51. It is bounded on the east by West Prussia, on the
south by Brandenburg, and on the west by the duchies of
Mecklenburg-Schwerin and Mecklenburg-Strelitz. It ex¬
tends over 12,450 square miles, but in it are included se¬
veral lakes and extensive estuaries, called Haffs, which oc¬
cupy more than one tenth of the whole surface. Pomerania
was an independent duchy until 1637, when, by the death
of the reigning prince, it descended to the elector of Bran¬
denburg ; but as, during the life of that prince, in the course
of the thirty years’ war, Sweden had possessed itself of the
eastern part of Pomerania, including the island of Rugen
and the city of Stralsund, it retained that portion till, by the
treaty of 1815, the Swedish territories in Germany were
ceded to Prussia, in consideration of that state having gua¬
ranteed the cession of Norway to Sweden. It was formerly
divided into East and West Pomerania, the river Oder being
the line of division between them ; but since the whole has
been under the Prussian king, it has been formed into three
provincial governments, namely, Stettin, Stralsund, and Kos-
lin. By the census of 1817 the population amounted to
689,486, and by that of 1826 it had increased to 846,722.
Of these, 16,700 were military, 6700 Catholics, and 4170
Jews ; the remainder were Protestants.
The whole province is a continued plain, mostly a sandy
soil, covered with heaths, and occasionally with pines, and
intermixed with numerous lakes of difterent dimensions.
There are but few elevations of one hundred feet, and only
one, near Koslin, which exceeds two hundred feet. The
gteater portion of the soil is far from fruitful, and barely
produces sufficient grain and potatoes for the subsistence
of the inhabitants. The chief corn is rye ; very little wheat
is raised ; and the quantity of barley is much less than of
oats. There are, however, on the banks of the Oder, and
on those of some of its tributary streams, strips of land of
such natural fertility as to afford good grass, both for fodder
to cattle, and also for making butter and cheese. The ma¬
nufactures are of the domestic kind, and mostly upon a con¬
tracted scale. The chief occupation is spinning flax, in
which all females and many males are employed during the
long winter evenings. Some coarse woollen cloths are made;
and the breweries and distilleries are numerous. On the
coast there are several of the town’s establishments for
building vessels of various descriptions. The climate in
winter, though occasionally very cold, may be more properly
described as variable, having severe frosts alternating with
sudden thaws ; but the unexampled increase of the popula¬
tion seems to show that it cannot be an insalubrious district.
POMFRET, John, an English poet, son of the rector of
Luton, in Bedfordshire, was born in 1667, and educated at
Cambridge ; after which he took orders, and was presented
to the living of Malden, in Bedfordshire. About 1703 he
went to London for institution to a larger and more consi¬
derable living ; but he was stopped for some time by Comp¬
ton, then bishop of London, on account of four lines of his
poem entitled the Choice.
And as I near approach’d the verge of life,
Some kind relation (for I’d have no wife)
Should take upon him all my worldly care,
While I did for a better state prepare.
The parenthesis in these lines were so maliciously repre¬
sented, that the good bishop wras made to believe that Pom¬
fret preferred a mistress to a wife. But he was soon con¬
vinced that this representation w as the mere effect of malice,
as Pomfret at that time was actually married. The oppo¬
sition which his slanderers had made to him, however, pro¬
duced its effect; for, being thereby obliged to stay in Lon¬
don longer than he intended, he caught the small-pox, and
died of this disease at the age of thirty-five.
He published, in 1699, a volume of his poems with a very
modest and sensible preface. Two pieces of his were pub¬
lished after his death by his friend Philalethes ; one entitled
Reason, and written in 1700, when the disputes about the
Trinity ran high ; and the other Dies Notissima, or the
Last Epiphany, a Pindaric ode. Plis versification is not un¬
musical, but his writings want that force which is neces¬
sary to constitute a poet. A dissenting teacher of his name,
and who published some rhymes upon spiritual subjects,
subjected him to the imputation of fanaticism ; but his
friend Philalethes has vindicated him from that charge.
Pomfret had a very strong tincture of devotion, but no fa¬
naticism, in his composition.
“ The Choice,” says Dr Johnson, “ exhibits a system of
life adapted to common notions, and equal to common ex¬
pectations ; such a state as affords plenty and tranquillity,
without exclusion of intellectual pleasures. Perhaps no
comjxjsition in our language has been oftener perused than
Pomfret’s Choice. In his other poems there is an easy vo¬
lubility ; the pleasure of smooth metre is afforded to the
ear, and the mind is not oppressed with ponderous or en¬
tangled with intricate sentiment. He pleases many ; and
he who pleases many must have merit.”
POMME, or Pommette, in Heraldry, is a cross having
one or more balls or knobs at each of the ends.
POMMEL, or Pummel, in the Manege, a piece of brass
or other matter at the top and in the middle of the saddle¬
bow.
POMGSRIUM, in Roman antiquity, was, according to
Livy, that space of ground, both w'ithin and without the
walls, which the augurs, at the first building of cities, so¬
lemnly consecrated, and on which no edifices were allowed
to be raised. Plutarch gives this account of the ceremony
of drawing the pomoerium : “ They dug a trench, and threw
into it the first-fruits of all things, either good by custom.
1 Yarro apud D. Augustinum dc Civitate Dei.
3 Homans, i. 20, 21, 22, 26.
P O M
Pompeii.
or necessary by nature ; and every man taking a small turf
of earth of the country from whence he came, they cast
them in promiscuously. Then making this trench their
centre, they described the city in a circle round it. After
this, the founder, yoking a bull and a cow together, plough¬
ed a deep furrow, with a brazen ploughshare, round the
bounds. The attendants took care that all the clods fell
inwards, that is, toward the city. This furrow they called
Pomcerium, and built the wall upon it.” In this account
Plutarch is to be understood as speaking of Rome.
POMPEII, an ancient city of Italy, situated in that part
of the country to which the ancients gave the name of Cam¬
pania. It lies at the bottom of the Gulf of Cumae, known
in modern times as the Bay of Naples, five miles from the
volcanic mountain of Vesuvius, and thirteen miles south¬
east of the city of Naples. Pompeii was in no particular
manner distinguished for its magnificence or its historical
renown ; but the destiny which overtook it, as remarkable
as it is happily rare, renders it one of the most interesting
spots on the face of the globe. Near the commencement
of the Christian era it was overwhelmed by a deluge of
ashes, water, and mud, discharged from the neighbouring
volcano ; and, alter lying buried for about seventeen cen¬
turies, its streets and houses, with its temples and theatres,
have again been laid open to the light of day, and retra¬
versed by the busy foot of man.
Of the early history of Pompeii little is known. It is
said to have been founded by Hercules, and that its name
is derived from Pompa, in allusion to the pomp with which
that hero celebrated his victories whilst awaiting his fleet
at the mouth of the river Sarnus, after his reputed conquest
ot Spain. This refuge in mythology, to which men have
betaken themselves in accounting for the origin of Pom¬
peii, is a sufficient proof that the obscurity in which it is
hidden is too profound to be penetrated. Strabo, however,
asserts that these towns w^ere founded by Pelasgians and
iyrrhenians; and this statement is by no means destitute of
plausibility. We may indeed conclude, with some degree
of confidence, that the foundations of Pompeii were laid
long before those of Rome itself. The early history of the
city is nearly as uncertain as the date of its foundation and
the etymology of its name. It is first mentioned in the ac¬
count of the Social or Marsic War, which broke out ninety-
one years before the birth of Christ, as one of the towns of
Campania that had revolted. It escaped the punishment
with which some other places wrere visited; and the only
subsequent event of any moment which is related of it, is a
quarrel between its inhabitants and those of Nuceria, now
Nocera, in which the latter were worsted.
This transaction occurred a. d. 59. Four years after¬
wards, Pompeii was almost destroyed by an earthquake, the
terrible effects of which are recorded by Seneca. A great
part of the town was reduced to ruins; and Herculanum
was likewise considerably injured. Similar alarms, the usual
presages of an approaching eruption, were repeated, until
the memorable 23d of August a. d. 79, when the first re¬
corded volcanic paroxysm of Vesuvius occurred. We are
fortunately in possession of a faithful and striking narrative
of the event, contained in two letters of Pliny the younger
to Tacitus. He was an eye-witness of the catastrophe, and,
besides a description of it, he gives an account of the death
of his uncle, who fell a victim to his inquiring spirit and hu¬
manity.
It was not lava, but showers of stones, cinders, and mud,
which overwhelmed Pompeii; pouring down for more than
a week, and much of the matter having been deposited in a
liquid state. Nor was it by one eruption alone that the cities
were covered to their present depth. Successive layers are
clearly to be traced, and the lowest bears marks of having
been moved, whilst the others are untouched ; a plain proof
that some time elapsed between their deposition, and that
P O M 343
the inhabitants had made excavations in search of their Pomp.ii.
more valuable property. The bed of ashes and stones which ' v  
covered Pompeii varied in depth from twelve to fourteen
feet. Under this it remained for one thousand six hundred
and seventy-six years ; for although indications of its ruins
were observed in 1689, the excavations did not commence
till 1755. The disappointment experienced on the failure
of the attempt to excavate Herculanum to any extent has
thus been compensated; for whilst the thick layers of lava
which covered the latter city rendered the undertaking too
difficult to be persevered in, the light friable mass which
entombed Pompeii was easily removed. The upper stories
of the buildings, which were probably composed of wmod,
were either burned by the red-hot matter which fell upon
them, or forced inwards by the weight of the enormous su¬
perincumbent mass, or the violence with which it descend¬
ed. With this exception, we see a beautiful and once flou¬
rishing city, just as it existed nearly eighteen centuries ago.
The buildings stand as they were originally designed, un-
yiolated by time or fashion; the paintings are as fresh as
if they had newly come from the easel; and, in some in¬
stances, memorials of a more impressive character bear sad
testimony to the suddenness and completeness of the cala¬
mity which overwhelmed the city.
Pompeii was originally situated upon the sea-shore, as is
proved by shells and sea-sand being found on the side ad¬
joining the Bay of Naples; and it is even said that rings have
been discovered close to the ruins, intended, as is supposed,
for the mooring of vessels. By the gradual elevation of
the coast, it is nowr at some distance inland; and the river
Sarnus, which, it is not improbable, was once capable of
receiving the vessels of the ancients, has shrunk to a mere
rivulet, and is diverted from its original course. The city
stood on an insulated spot formed by the Java which, at
some remote period, the action of subterranean fire seems
to have thrown up in various directions around the foot of
Vesuvius. Thus situated, it combined all the advantages
of mercantile convenience with the security of a military
station, and the romantic beauty of a spot celebrated in a'l
ages for its surpassing loveliness, and which was a favourite
resort of strangers for health or recreation. The city was
surrounded by a wall, the whole, or nearly the whole, of
which has been traced ; and six gates and twelve towers
have been counted. Its greatest length is little more than
three quarters of a mile, its breadth is less than half a mile,
and its circumference is nearly two miles. Its general figure
is irregularly oval, and it occupied an area of about one hun¬
dred and sixty-one acres. There have been excavated above
eighty houses, an inynense number of small shops, the pub¬
lic baths, two theatres, two basilica;, eight temples, the pri¬
son, the amphitheatre, and other public buildings, besides
fountains and tombs. The streets are paved with large
irregular pieces of lava, neatly dovetailed into one another.
This pavement had been deeply rutted by the chariot-wheels
which formerly rattled over it. In general, the streets are
so narrow that they may be crossed at one stride. Where
they were of greater breadth, a stepping-stone was placed
in the middle, it is supposed for the convenience of foot-
passengers. On each side there is a foot-path, along which
run curb-stones to prevent the encroachments of the biga
or chariot. From the position of the town, and the dis¬
coveries made by the excavators, it seems clear that only
three principal roads could have led to it. The first, which
was on the western side, led to Naples ; the second joined
the Popilian way at Nola; and the third crossed the Sar¬
nus, and afterwards divided into two branches, of which
the principal led to Nocera, and the other to Stabia. The
city is generally approached by the first road, because it
was the ancient route from Rome to Herculanum, and the
chief entrance of Pompeii. The first object of interest
met with is the Street of Tombs, now completely exca-
POMPEII.
344
Pompeii, vatetl, which rises by an easy ascent to the city-gate, called
—v--the Gate of Herculanum. The road is flanked by tombs
of much beauty and interest, as well as by other buildings,
amongst wdiich is a hostelry. We quote the following de¬
scription of Pompeii, as entered by this gate, from an in¬
teresting work on the subject. “ On entering, the visiter
finds himself in a street running a little east of south,
which leads to the Forum. To the right stands a house
formerly owned by a musician, to the left a opoliuni or
shop for hot drinks; beyond is the house of the vestals, be¬
yond this the custom-house, and a little further on, where
another street runs into this one from the north, at a very
acute angle, stands a public fountain. In the last-named
street is a surgeon’s house, at least one so named from the
quantity of surgical instruments found in it, all made of
bronze. On the right or western side of the street by
which we entered, the houses are built on the declivity of a
rock, sloping down to where the sea formerly came, anu are
several stories in height. Fhe fountain is about one hun¬
dred and fifty yards from the city-gate. About the same
distance further on, the street divides into two, the right-
hand turning seems a by-street, the left-hand turning con¬
ducts you to the Forum. Ihe most important feature in
this space is a house called the house of ballust, or of Ac-
tteon, from a painting in it representing that hunter’s death.
It stands on an area about forty yards square, and is en¬
compassed on three sides by streets, by that, namely, which
we have been describing, by another nearly parallel to it,
and by a third perpendicular to these two. East of this
island of houses is an unexcavated space, beyond which is
another broad street, running parallel to the first, the limit
of the excavations in this quarter. Between these two are
indications of another street, which is cleared out, south of
the transverse street. Still further south these streets all
terminate in a transverse street. Thus the whole quarter
already described is divided by four longitudinal and two
transverse streets, into what the Romans called islands, or
insulated masses of houses. One of these is entirely occu¬
pied by the house of Pansa, which, with its court and gar¬
den, is about a hundred yards long by forty wide. The
average interval between the western and eastern street is
not more than a hundred and fifty yards. The island im¬
mediately east of the house of Pansa has three houses of
considerable interest, called the house of the tragic poet,
from dramatic paintings on the walls; the cloth-dyer’s house,
from paintings illustrating the processes and utensils of that
trade; and the house of the mosaic fountains.
“ From the transverse street which bounds these islands
on the south, two streets lead to the corners of the Forum ;
between them are the baths, occupying nearly the whole
island. Among other buildings are a milk-shop and gladi¬
atorial school. At the north-east corner of the Forum was
the triumphal arch. At the end of the broad eastern street,
and higher up in the same street, another triumphal arch is
still to be made out,, so that this was plainly the way of
state into the city. The Forum was distant from the gate
of Herculanum about four hundred yards. Near the south¬
eastern corner two streets enter it, one running to the
south, the other to the east. We will follow the former for
about eighty yards, when it turns eastward for two hun¬
dred yards, and conducts us to the quarter of the theatres.
The other street, which runs eastward from the Forum, is
of more importance, and is called the Street of the Silver¬
smiths.... The quarter of the theatres comprises a large
temple of Hercules, a temple of Isis, a temple of iEscula-
pius, two theatres, and two spacious porticoes enclosing open
areas. On the north and east it is bounded by streets; to
^ the south and w7est it seems to have been enclosed partly
by the town, partly by its own walls. Here the continuous
excavation ends, and we must cross nine yards to the am¬
phitheatre, distant from the theatre about five hundred and
fifty yards, in the south-east corner of the city, close to the Pompeii
walls, and in an angle formed by them. On the other side
are traces of walls, supposed to have belonged to cattle-
markets. Near at hand a considerable building, called by
the Italians the palace of Giulia Felice, has been excavated
and filled up again. A considerable distance to the westward
is the first excavation, made near the centre of the city; it
is surrounded by vines, which hang in festoons from the pop¬
lars on which they are trained; it is small, and appears to
have been abandoned on account of the few coins and vessels
discovered. From the amphitheatre we return along the
Street of Silversmiths towards the Forum; but, before we ar¬
rive at the latter, turn up a street running parallel to it. Ar¬
riving at the end of it, we turn to the right, and soon reach
the triumphal arch of the Forum, having now7 traversed the
whole excavated portion, except a few insignificant streets.”
This account of the general aspect of Pompeii renders it Forum,
less necessary to give any description of particular places and
buildings. The Forum was the focus of business, the resort
of pleasure, and the scene of all political and legal contention.
Entering at the gate of Herculanum, the main street of
the town leads the visiter to the north-west corner. Flere
he gains admittance by a flight of steps leading downwards
through an arch in a brick-wall. Upon entering, the spec¬
tator finds himself in a large area surrounded by columns
and the ruins of temples, triumphal arches, and other pub¬
lic buildings, the particular uses of w hich can in general
be only conjectured. There are also a number of pedestals,
which once supported statues; and around the west, south,
and east sides, there runs a Doric colonnade in the Grecian
style. At the end by which the place is entered stands a
building, called by some the temple of Jupiter, and by others
the Senaculum or council-chamber. It is prostyle, and of
the Corinthian order, and stands upon an elevated basement,
which was ascended by a flight of steps. Those near the
columns, which served for ornament, and also for supporting
the upper part of the building, run along the whole front of
the portico. The interior had been painted; red and black
are the prevailing colours. Fragments of a colossal statue,
and a sun-dial, were discovered. Near this temple are the
ruins of what has been conjectured to have been the gra¬
nary. Adjacent to this building is the prison, where were
found the skeletons of two men, their leg-bones still within
the shackles. On the opposite side of the temple of Jupi¬
ter stands an edifice, which has been called the Pantheon,
from its having had in the centre of its area an altar en¬
circled with twelve pedestals, and which, it is supposed,
once supported statues of the aristocracy of Italian mytho¬
logy. The area is a hundred and twenty feet in length by
ninety feet in breadth. To this building are attached nu¬
merous cells, in all probability for the accommodation of
priests. Near to this building were discovered ninety-three
brass coins and statues of Nero and Messalina.
On the northern side of the Pantheon there runs a street
named the Street of Dried Fruits, from the quantity of
fruits of various kinds preserved in glass vases which have
been found in it. Scales, money, and moulds for pastry and
bread, were discovered in the shops ; and a bronze statue of
Fame was also found. On the western side of the Forum
are the Basilica, a temple supposed to have been dedicated
to Venus, and the granary and prison already noticed. The
Basilica, or court of justice, is the largest building in Pom¬
peii. It is of an oblong form, two hundred and twenty feet
in length by eighty feet in breadth, and corresponds in some
particulars with the ancient description of that building.
The temple of Venus is the only remaining building of im¬
portance connected with the Forum. It possessed the usual
apartments, in one of which was found a painting of Bac¬
chus and Silenus in a state of perfect preservation. In
most of the paintings the colours are as vivid as when they
were first laid on.
POM
Pompeii. Amongst other objects of interest there is a broad street,
—y'—”' which, from various articles of jewellery having been found
there, is called the Street of the Silversmiths. On the walls
of the shops several inscriptions appear, one of which has
been thus translated: “ The scribe Issus beseeches Marcus
Cerrinius Vatia, the mdile, to patronise him ; he is deserv¬
ing.” At the end of this street was discovered a skeleton, sup¬
posed to have been that of a priest of Isis. In the hand was
a bag of coarse linen, not entirely destroyed, containing
three hundred and sixty silver coins, forty-two of copper,
and six of gold. Near him were also found various articles
belonging to the worship of Isis.
Isatbs. The baths of Pompeii were excavated in the year 1824.
They surpass all the other buildings of Pompeii in magni¬
ficence, decoration, good taste, arrangement, and the state
of preservation in which they I’emain. They occupy a con¬
siderable space, and are divided into three separate com¬
partments ; one was for fire-places and for the use of ser¬
vants, another was for the men, and a third for the wo¬
men. The walls of the frigidarium are ornamented with
figures, and the apartment is round, and altogether remark¬
able for its beauty. The basin is twelve feet ten inches in
diameter, and two feet nine inches deep, and is entirely
lined with white marble. The tepidarium is divided into a
number of compartments, and has also been highly orna¬
mented. The ceiling is adorned with figures and carvings
in stucco. In the bronze frame of the window were four
beautiful panes of glass, from which it is evident that win¬
dows of glass were in use amongst the ancients. Glass-
blowing seems to have been better understood by them
than many of the learned are inclined to admit. This is
proved by the quantities of bottles, vases, glasses, and other
utensils made of the same material, which have been dis¬
covered in this subterranean city. The caldarium, the third
and last description of bath made use of by the Romans,
is an apartment in all respects as highly finished and deco¬
rated as the others.
Theatres. Two theatres have been excavated in Pompeii, a large
one and a small one; both displaying the remains of con¬
siderable magnificence. They are constructed after the
usual plan of a Roman theatre, and need not therefore be
described here. In the large theatre there must have been
sufficient space for five thousand persons. This theatre ap¬
pears to have been entirely covered with white marble, al¬
though only a few fragments remain. The other theatre
nearly resembles the one here mentioned, but is much small¬
er, and appears from an inscription to have been permanent¬
ly roofed.
Adjoining the theatres there is an edifice which, from the
style of its architecture, has been called the Greek temple,
or the temple of Hercules. It is supposed by some to be of
great antiquity, and is in a very dilapidated state. In this
quarter also is situated the temple of Isis. It is also one of
the most perfect examples now extant of the parts and dispo¬
sition of an ancient temple. In one of the rooms was found
the skeleton of a priest. Near his i-emains lay an axe, from
which it would appear that he had delayed his departure
till the door was choked up with the falling ashes, and so
had attempted to force his way through the walls with the
hatchet. He had already penetrated through two, but before
he could break through the third, death arrested his flight.
A number of other skeletons were here found, and also
some paintings of the priests of Isis, together with a statue
of the deity herself. In this neighbourhood stands the
temple of /Esculapius, where were found three terra-cotta
statues of Aesculapius, Hygeia, and Priapus. Near this is
one of the most interesting buildings discovered in Pom¬
peii, not for its beauty, but for its contents, which prove it
to have been the abode of a sculptor. There were found
statues, some half finished, others just begun, with blocks
of marble, and all the tools required by the artist, as mallets,
VOL. xvm.
P E I I. 345
compasses, chisels, saws, and the like. The amphitheatre, Pompeii.
which has been excavated, does not differ from other Ro-" v 
man buildings of the same kind. It was calculated to con¬
tain ten thousand persons.
In a street which conducts to the Forum, and is called the Various
Street of Fortune, an immense number of utensils have been utensils
found. Amongst these were vases, basins with handles, *oun(b
bells, elastic springs, hinges, buckles for harness, a lock,
an ink-stand, gold ear-rings, a silver spoon, an oval cal¬
dron, a sauce-pan, a mould for pastry, a number of lamps
(about one thousand were found at the baths), and three
boxes with a slit to admit money, one of which contained
coins of Titus Vespasian and other Roman emperors. Here
also were found seven glazed plates packed in straw, a pair
of scales, and a steelyard. In other parts of the city were
discovered fishing-nets, some of them quite entire, and linen
with the texture well defined. In the shop of a baker there
was found a loaf, still retaining its original form, and with
the maker’s name stamped upon it. On the counter of
an apothecary’s shop lay a box of pills, and by the side of
it was a small cylindrical roll, evidently waiting to be cut
up. This mode of administering medicine, therefore, is of
very high antiquity. In various parts of Pompeii have
been dug up a number of bronze helmets, greaves, and
other warlike furniture; more than one candelabrum, bra¬
ziers of various sorts, vases, cooking vessels and other kitchen
utensils, glass vessels, articles of dress, female ornaments,
and other articles of luxury.
But the relics most calculated to interest our feelings are Skeletons,
the remains of the human beings who perished in the great
catastrophe. A comparatively small number of skeletons
have as yet been brought to light; and hence it is clear that
most of the inhabitants had found time to make their escape.
Besides those already mentioned, there were discovered in
the vaults of a house in the suburbs of Pompeii, the skele¬
tons of seventeen individuals, who appear to have sought in
vain an asylum there from the tempest of ashes which poured
down from the sky. There was likewise preserved in the
same place a perfect cast of a woman, supposed to have been
the mistress of the house, with an infant locked in her arms.
Her form was imprinted upon the consolidated mass in which
she was entombed, but of her body only the bones remain¬
ed. To these a chain of gold was suspended, and rings
with jewels were upon the bones of the fingers. The re¬
mains of a soldier were found in a niche, where in all pro¬
bability he was performing the office of sentinel. His hand
still grasped a lance, and the other military accoutrements
worn at the time were found beside him or upon his bones.
The architecture of Pompeii is not always in the best Arcliitec-
taste ; yet there is much to be admired in it, both for designture ailli
and execution. At the same time, except in those quartershouses'
where the public buildings were situated, there could have
been nothing striking or magnificent in the appearance of
the city as a whole. The houses were of small height, and
externally gloomy; the lower part being usually a blank wall
plastered over, and often painted with different colours, and
the upper pierced with small windows to light the apart¬
ments on the first floor. Internally there is very little costly
decoration to be found, with the exception of mosaic pave¬
ments, which are numerous and extremely beautiful; and
even in the public buildings marble is of rare occurrence.
Its place, however, was not inadequately supplied by a stucco
of great beauty, equally adapted to receive paintings or to
be modelled into bas-reliefs; and these have been found in
great abundance. The paintings are in general in a state
of perfect preservation, and have all the freshness of recent
finishing. In the Pompeian houses every species of ma¬
sonry described by Vitruvius may, it is said, be met with ;
but the cheapest and least durable sorts have been gene¬
rally preferred; and by far the greater part of the private,
and many of the public edifices, are built of bricks, or of the
2 Y
P O M
PON
Fountains,
sewers,
and tombs,
Manu¬
scripts.
rough masonry which is called opus incertum. Hence arises
their rapid decay on being exposed to air. Coppei, iron,
lead, and other metals, have been found employed for the
same purposes as those for which we now use them, so
that the articles discovered need not be enumerated. Al¬
most all the door-ways are nearly of the same size and form,
a little more or less care in the execution of capitals an
entablatures making all the difference between them. It
is rare in Pompeii to see a whole house set apart for pur¬
poses of trade, a portion of it almost invariably furnishing
an abode for the owner. The houses of the richer classes
were usually surrounded by shops. Ihroughout the streets
numerous signs are to be seen upon the shops,^ indicative of
the trades which were pursued within. One of these repre¬
sents two men carrying an amphora, and probably served
as the sign of a wine-shop. And there is a painting of a
boy mounted upon the back of another, and undergoing a
process of flagellation ; an ominous indication to all idlers
that the schoolmaster was at home.
Fountains are very numerous both in the streets and
houses of Pompeii, but it is not knowm from what source
' or sources the city was supplied with water. But, however
obtained, the waters once brought to the city were distri¬
buted to its different quarters by conduits of masonry, lead,
or baked earthen pipes. Fountains, which appear to have
been jets d’eau, have been found in several houses; and
there is a painting of one representing a broad vase with a
jet of water rising from the centre. Of the manner in which
the town was drained, and the numberless impurities carried
off, little is known satisfactorily ; but remains of a consider¬
able sewer, with minor drainages converging to it, have been
observed. The tombs line the approach to the city through
the gate of Herculanum. They are numerous, and almost
all those which have been found are raised upon a platform
of masonry above the level of the footway. I hey are them¬
selves solid, elegant, and in many instances highly orna¬
mented structures.
No perfect manuscripts, nothing but mere fragments, have
been found at Pompeii. It may be mentioned, that most of
the houses have received their names from the paintings on
the walls'; but some have been designated from persons of
rank being present at their excavation, and from other ac¬
cidental circumstances. (R» k- R>)
POMPEY the Great, Cneius Pompeius Magnus, the
renowned rival of Julius Caesar. Being defeated at the
battle of Pharsalia, owing to the defection of his cavalry,
Pompey fled by sea to Egypt, where he was basely assas¬
sinated by order of Theodotus, prime minister to Ptolemy
the younger, then a minor, 48 b. c. See Home.
Pompey's Pillar, vulgarly so called, a celebrated column
near Alexandria, in Egypt, 114 feet in height, and of which
the shaft, composed of a single piece of granite, is ninety feet.
POMPONATIUS, Peter, an eminent Italian philoso¬
pher, was born at Mantua in 1462. He Was of so small a
stature that he was little better than a dwarf; yet he pos¬
sessed an exalted genius, and was considered as one of the
greatest philosophers of the age in which he lived. He
taught philosophy with the highest reputation, first at Pa¬
dua, and aftenvards at Bologna. He had frequent dispu¬
tations with the celebrated Achillini, whose puzzling ob¬
jections would have confounded him, had it not been for
his skill in parrying them by some joke. His book De Im-
viortalitate Animce, published in 1516, made a great noise.
He maintained, that the immortality of the soul could not
be proved by philosophical reasons ; but solemnly declared
his belief of it as an article of faith. This scrimp precau¬
tion did not, however, save him. Many adversaries rose
up against him, who did not scruple to treat him as an
atheist; and the monks caused his book, although he wrote
several apologies for it, to be burned at Venice. His work
upon Incantations was also thought very dangerous. In it
he shows that he believed nothing of magic and sorcery; and
he lays a prodigious stress on occult virtues in certain men,
by which they produced miraculous effects. Of this he
gives a great many examples, but his adversaries do notv^
admit them to be true, or free from magic. Paul Jovius
says, that he died in 1525, in his grand climacteric. He
was three times married, and had but one daughter, to whom
he left a large sum of money. He used to apply himself
so verv intensely to the solution of difficulties, that he fre¬
quently forgot to eat, drink, sleep, and perform the ordi-.
nary functions of nature.
PONARUM, a town of the south of India, in the Car¬
natic, fifty-five miles south-west from Pondicherry. Long.
79. 20. E. Lat. 11. 26. N.
POND AH, a town and celebrated fortress of Hindustan,
in the province of Bejapore, which stands at the foot of the
Western Ghauts, and commands the most frequented pass
into the interior from Goa and Soondah. It was taken by
the Mahrattas under Sevajee in 1673 ; and being afterwards,
in 1683, besieged by the Portuguese, it was relieved by
Sambajee, who, observing that they had made greater pro¬
gress in battering the fortifications in ten days, than his fa¬
ther had done in three months, ordered them to be razed.
Long. 73. 56. E. Lat. 15. 23% N.
PONDI, a small island in the Eastern Seas, separated
from Madura by a channel a mile in width, with a small bay
which affords a safe anchorage for shipping. It is well cul¬
tivated, and has a pleasant appearance. Long. 114. 23. E.
Lat. 6.57. S.
PONDICHERRY, a city on the sea-coast of the south
of India, in the province of the Carnatic, and once the most
splendid city in the East. But it has never recovered from
the destruction inflicted on it by the British in 1761. It stands
on a sandy plain, not far from the sea-shore, which produces
only palm-trees, millet, and a few herbs. It was formerly
a village, which, with a slip of land about five miles in length,
was purchased by the French from the king of Bejapore in
1672. Under their rule it became a populous and thriving
settlement. It was taken by the Dutch in 1693, who im¬
proved the town and enlarged the fortifications. It wTas re¬
stored at the peace of Ryswick to the French ; and in the
course of half a century a handsome and regular tovyn was
built, the houses in general being two stories high,, wuth flat
roofs, and colonnades in front. The town, thus improved
and enlarged, became the capital of the French settlements
in the East. Having no natural advantages as a commercial
town, when the French were expelled from India it^fell
into decay. When it was occupied by the British in 1761,
the fortifications were completely destroyed, and the ditch
was filled up by the earth of the glacis. These devasta¬
tions were also extended, by the animosity of the Madras
government, to the buildings, public as well as private;
and it is mentioned by Lord Valentia, that the Jesuits
College, and some of the public buildings, still remain, me¬
morials of their resentment. The private houses, however,
have been completely repaired, and the same traveller con¬
siders Pondicherry as the handsomest town he had seen in
India, with the exception of Calcutta. It is better fitted for
a maritime station than Madras, as, during the south-west
monsoon, the season of naval warfare, it is to the windward,
which was found by the French to be of great advantage
during the wars of the last century. In the middle of the
square are still seen the pillars and other ornaments of a
pagoda of black stone richly ornamented with carving. They
remain strewed on the ground, no unfit emblem, Lord Va¬
lentia adds, of the fallen power of the French in this coun¬
try. On the 26th of August Pondicherry was besieged by
Admiral Boscawen, who was compelled to raise the siege in
the following October, after losing about 1000 Europeans,
M. Lally landed at this place in 1758, and succeeded Du-
pleix as governor, when an action was commenced between
Ponarur-i
Pondi¬
cherry.
PON
Pondimar- the British and the French, which ended in the total ruin
of the French power in India, and Pondicherry surrendered
Punt Colonel Coote on the 16th of January 1761. At the peace
Audemer. of 1763 this fortress was restored to the French, with the
v—' fortifications in a very dilapidated condition. By the skill
of the French engineers the fortifications were repaired and
considerably strengthened. In 1778 Pondicherry surren¬
dered to Colonel Munro, after an obstinate defence. At the
peace of 1783 it again devolved to the French ; and on the
breaking out of hostilities surrendered to the British on the
23d of August 1793. It was restored at the peace of Amiens,
when the population was estimated at 25,000, and the reve¬
nue at 40,000 pagodas. Bonaparte sent out as a garrison
1400 European troops, with a large military staff, in the
view, it was supposed, of prosecuting schemes of ambition
in India; but w hatever were his plans, they were frustrat¬
ed by the short duration of the peace, and Pondicherry was
again occupied by the British in 1803. Pondicherry still
continues the capital of the French settlements* in India,
but is no longer considered as a place of consequence, either
politically or commercially. The travelling distance from
Madras is 100 miles, from Seringapatam 260, from Hyde¬
rabad 452, from Delhi 1400, from Calcutta 1130, from Naj-
poor 773, from Poonah 707. Long. 74. 0. E. Lat. 18.30. N.
PONDIMARKA, a seaport of Hindustan, in the North¬
ern Circars, and district of Cicacole, which contains a small
bay, only capable of receiving small boats. Long 83. 0. E.
Lat. 17. 37. N.
PONDONG, a small island in the Eastex*n Seas, near
the south-east coast of Siao. Long. 125.10. E. Lat. 2.40. N.
PONIARD, a little pointed sharp-edged dagger, borne
in the hand or at the girdle, or hidden in the pocket. The
wrord is formed from the French poignard, and that from
poignee, handful. The poniard wras anciently in constant
use; but it is now laid aside, except amongst assassins.
Sword and poniard were the ancient arms of duellists, and
are said to continue so still amongst the Spaniards. The
practice of sword and poniard forms part of the exercise
taught by the masters of defence.
PONS, St, an arrondissement of the department of He-
rault, in France, extending over 488 square miles. It com¬
prises five cantons, and is divided into forty-four communes,
containing 40,160 inhabitants. The oipital is the city of
the same name, usually distinguished as Saint Pons de
Thomiers. It is situated in a valley surrounded by lofty
mountains, watered by the river St Jean, and contains 5340
inhabitants, who are occupied partly in cotton-spinning and
tanning. Long. 2. 53. E. Lat. 43. 32. N.
PONT-A-MOUSSON, a city of France, in the depart¬
ment of the Meurthe, and the arrondissement of Nancy.
It is a neat place, situated in a charming valley, through
which flows the river Moselle. It is fortified, and contains
four churches, 925 houses, and 6680 inhabitants, who car¬
ry on the trades of spinning cotton by machinery, and of
tanning leather. Long. 5. 57. 1. E. Lat. 48. 54. 19. N.
PONTARLIER, an arrondissement of the department
of the Doubs, in France, extending over 531 square miles.
It is divided into five cantons, and these into ninety com¬
munes, containing 43,100 inhabitants. The capital is the
city of the same name, situated in a mountainous district
on the banks of the river Doubs. It contains 640 houses,
and 4100 inhabitants.
PONT AUDEMER, an arrondissement of the depart¬
ment of the Eure, in France. It is 390 square miles in
extent, and comprehends eight cantons, divided into 143
communes, and has a population of 94,650 persons. The
capital is a city of the same name, situated on the river
Nille. It is surrounded with walls, stands in a fertile spot,
and contains 1450 houses, with 5800 inhabitants, who are
employed chiefly in making cotton goods. Long. 0. 31. E.
Lat. 49. 22. N.
PON 347
PONT DE BAUX, a city of France, in the department Ponte
of the Ain, and arrondissement of Bourg. It is situated on de
the river Reyssouse, is well built, and contains a hospital, II.
a fine corn-hall, 320 houses, and 3050 inhabitants, who Ponllv.v*
carry on a brisk trade in hemp, flax, corn, and wine, by
means of the canal, which leads to the Soane. Long. 4.
47. E. Lat. 46. 25. N.
PON1E-CORVO, a city of Italy, in the papal terri-
tory, and province ot Frosinone, the see of a bishop, and
situated on the banks of the river Garigliano. It contains
six churches, and, including a small district, 5600 inhabit¬
ants. Bonaparte created Bernadette prince of Ponte-Corvo.
PONTEFRACT, a market and borough town of the
west riding of Yorkshire, in the wapentake of Osgold-
cross, and 178 miles from London. It is a corporate town,
now governed by a mayor, a recorder, four aldermen, and
twelve councillors, and it returns two members to the House
of Commons. The soil around it is remarkably fertile, and
produces abundance of liquorice-roots, from the juice of
which the medicine called pomfret-cakes is made. There
are still to be seen ruins of an ancient castle, which is re¬
markable for the bloody tragedies exhibited within its walls.
There Thomas earl of Lancaster was beheaded by Edward
II. after the battle of Borough Bridge ; Richard II. w as long
confined in it as a prisoner, and is said to have been mur¬
dered there ; and the Earl of Rivers and Sir Richard Grey
were executed there by order of King Richard III. During
the civil wars it was held and ably defended by the party of
Charles I., but ultimately taken, and soon afterwards de¬
molished. It is now a well-built town, wdth a fine market¬
place and elegant market-cross. The church is a large build¬
ing. The population of the town amounted in 1801 to 3097,
in 1811 to 3605, in 1821 to 4447, and in 1831 to 4832 ; but
the parish, containing five other townships, contained at the
last census 9254 inhabitants.
PONTE VICO, a city of Austrian Italy, in the delega¬
tion of Brescia, and province of Milan. It is situated on
the river Oglio, at the place where the Strone falls into it.
It is fortified, and has a castle near it. The inhabitants
amount to 5268,
PONTIANA, a Dutch settlement, on a river of the same
name, on the western coast of the island of Borneo. It car¬
ries on a considerable trade. The imports are piece-goods
and opium ; the exports diamonds, gold-dust, pepper, and
birds’ nests. It is situated upon a fine navigable river, near¬
ly under the equator. Long. 109. 30. E. Lat. 3. S.
PONTIFEX, Pontiff, or High Priest, a person who
has the superintendence and direction of di vine worship, as
the offering of sacrifices and the celebration of other religi¬
ous solemnities. The Romans had a college of pontiffs,
over which was a sovereign pontiff, or pontifex maximus, in¬
stituted by Numa, wEose function it was to prescribe the ce¬
remonies with which each god was to be worshipped, com¬
pose the rituals, direct the vestals, and perform the business
of augury, until, on some superstitious occasion, he was pro¬
hibited intermeddling therewith. The office of the college
of pontiffs was to assist the high priest in giving judgment
in all causes relating to religion, inquiring into the lives and
manners of the inferior priests, and punishing them if they
saw occasion to do so. The Jews, too, had their pontiffs ;
and amongst the Catholics the pope is styled the sovereign
pontiff.
PONTIFICATE is used to signify the state or dignity
of a pontiff or high priest; but by modern writers it is chief¬
ly applied to the reign of a pope.
PONTIVY, an arrondissement of the department of
Morbihan, in France, extending over 632 square miles. It
is divided into seven cantons and forty-six communes, and
has a population of 90,600 persons. The capital is the city
of the same name, situated on the river Blavet, and con¬
tains 5100 inhabitants, whose chief trade consists in corn.
348
PON
Pont PONT L’EVEQUE, an arrondissement of the depart-
1 Lveque ment 0f Calvados, in France, extending over 301 square
p ^ miles, containing five cantons and 135 communes, with
. _01> US1- 64,350 inhabitants. The capital, a city of the same name,
is situated on the river Touques, has a good trade, and
contains 510 houses, with 2520 inhabitants. Long. 0. 3. E.
Lat. 49. 17. N.
PONTOISE, an arrondissement of the department of
the Seine and Oise, in France, extending over 478 square
miles, divided into seven cantons and 175 communes, with
87,500 inhabitants. The capital is the city of the same
name, situated at the junction of the river Biorne with the
Oise. It contains 800 houses, and 5400 inhabitants. The
church of St Martin’s, a fine Gothic structure, forms its most
distinguished ornament. It is celebrated for its veal, which
is sent to Paris. Long. 12. 1. E. Lat. 49. 3. N.
PONTOON, in TVar, a kind of flat-bottomed boat, the
body of which is composed of wood lined without and with¬
in with tin. Pontoons serve for the construction of bridges
over rivers, to facilitate military operations. The French
pontoons, and those of most other powers, are made of cop¬
per on the outside ; and though these cost more at first, yet
they last much longer than those of tin, and, when worn out,
the copper sells nearly for as much as it originally cost;
whereas when ours are rendered useless, they sell for no¬
thing. Our pontoons are twenty-one feet in length, five
feet in breadth, and in depth within two feet L5 inches.
Pontoon-Carnage is made with two wheels only, and
two long side pieces, the fore ends of which are supported by
a limber ; and it serves to carry the pontoon, boards, cross-
timbers, anchors, and every other thing necessary for mak¬
ing a bridge.
Pontoox-JBridf/e consists of pontoons slipped into the
water, and placed about five or six feet asunder, each fas¬
tened with an anchor when the river has a strong current;
or to a strong rope that goes across the river, running
through the rings of the pontoons. Each boat has an an¬
chor, cable-baulks, and chests. The baulks are about five
or six inches square, and twenty-one feet in length. The
chests are boards joined together by wooden bars, about
three feet in breadth and twelve feet in length. The baulks
are laid across the pontoons at some distance from one ano¬
ther, and the chests upon them are joined close; which
in a very short time makes a bridge capable of supporting
any weight.
Etymology PONTUS, the name of an ancient kingdom of Asia,
ot the name, originally a part of Cappadocia, and which was bounded
on the east by Colchis, on the west by the river Halys, on
the north by the Euxine Sea, and on the south by Ar¬
menia Minor. Some derive the name of Pontus from the
neighbouring sea, commonly called by the ancients Pontus
Euxinus, and others from an early king named Pontus,
who imparted his name both to the country and the sea ;
whilst Bochart deduces it from the Phoenician word bot-
no, signifying a filbert, as if that nut had abounded in the
country. But this derivation seems to be very far-fetched ;
and the common opinion that the country derived its name
from the sea seems by far the most probable. The king¬
dom was divided into three parts ; the first named Pontus
Galaticus, extending from the river Halys to the Thermo-
don ; the second, named Pontus Polemonaicus, extended
from the I hermodon to the borders of Pontus Cappadoci-
cus ; and this last, extending from Pontus Polemonaicus to
Colchis, had Armenia Minor and the upper stream of the
Euphrates for its southern boundary.
Artabazes. It is commonly believed that the original inhabitants of
PON
Pontus were descended from Tubal. In process of time, Eontus
however, they mixed with Cappadocians, Paphlagonians, y1^-
and other foreign nations, besides many Greek colonies
which settled in those parts, and maintained their liberty
till the time of Mithridates the Great and Pharnaces. The
first king of this country whom we find mentioned in his¬
tory is Artabazes, who had the crown bestowed on him by
Darius Hystaspes.1 The next was Rhodobates,who reign¬
ed in the time of Darius Nothus. After him came Mith¬
ridates, who, having refused to pay the usual tribute to the
Persians, was defeated by Artaxerxes Mnemon ; but a peace
was soon afterwards concluded by the mediation of Tissa-
phernes. Besides this, we hear nothing farther of him, ex¬
cept that he was treacherously taken prisoner by Clearchus,
afterwards tyrant of Heraclea, and obliged to pay a large
sum for his ransom.
Mithridates I. was succeeded by Ariobarzanes, who be- Mithrida-
ing appointed by Artaxerxes governor of Lydia, Ionia,tes 1*
and Phrygia, employed the forces that were under his care
in extending his own dominions, and subduing those of his
natural prince. The king of Persia sent against him Auto-
phrodates; but Ariobarzanes, having prevailed on Age-
silaus, and Timothaeus the Athenian, to come to his assist¬
ance, obliged Autophrodates to retire. He then reward¬
ed Agesilaus with a large sum of money, and bestow¬
ed on Timothaeus the cities of Sestos and Abydos, which
he had lately taken from the Persians. He used his ut¬
most endeavours to reconcile the Lacedaemonians and The¬
bans ; but not being able to bring the latter to any rea¬
sonable terms, he assisted the Lacedaemonians with large
sums of money. The Athenians showed so much respect
for this prince, that they not only made him free of their
city, but granted both to him and to his children whatever
they asked. He was murdered in the twenty-eighth year
of his reign, by one Mithridates, w’hom authors suppose to
have been his son. This happened at the time when Alex¬
ander the Great invaded Asia, so that Pontus for a time fell
under the power of the Macedonians.
In the reign of Antigonus, Mithridates the son of Ario- Mithrkla-
barzanes shook off the Macedonian yoke. Antigonus hav-tes ii.
ing dreamed that he had a field in which gold grew after
the manner of corn, and that Mithridates cut it down and
carried it into Pontus, began to be very suspicious ot his
designs, and ordered him to be put to death privately. But
Mithridates, having got notice of the king’s intention, with¬
drew into Paphlagonia, attended only by six horsemen.
Here, being joined by many others, he possessed himselt
of Ciniatum, a stronghold situated near Mount Olgasys,
whence, as his army continually increased, he made an ir¬
ruption into Cappadocia; and having driven the comman¬
ders of Antigonus from that part which borders upon Pon¬
tus, he entered his paternal kingdom, which, in spite ot
the utmost efforts of Antigonus, he kept possession of for
the space of twrenty-six years, and transmitted to his pos¬
terity.
Under the reigns of Mithridates III. Ariobarzanes IL
and Mithridates IV. the immediate successors of Mithri¬
dates IL, nothing remarkable occurred. But Mithridates
V. made war upon the inhabitants of Sinope, a city on the
coast of Paphlagonia. He made himself master of all the
adjacent places; but finding the whole peninsula on which
Sinope itself stood well fortified and garrisoned, not only
by the inhabitants, but also by their allies the Rhodians,
he abandoned the enterprise. This prince afterwards prov¬
ed a great friend of the Rhodians, and assisted them with
money to repair the losses which they had sustained by an
I his country, together with the adjacent provinces, was at different periods under the dominion of the Assyrians, Medes, and
ersians ; the last ot whom divided Cappadocia into satrapies or governments, and bestowed that division which was afterwards call¬
ed 1 ontus on one of the ancestors ot Mithridates. This regulation was effected in the reign of Darius the son of Hvstaspes, and has
been regarded as the date of the kingdom. °
PON
Pontus. earthquake. - He also entered into a strict alliance with An-
—~v—•' tiochus the Great, who married one of his daughters, named
Laodice.
rharnaces I. After the death of Mithridates V., his son Pharnaces L,
having attacked the city of Sinope, unexpectedly took it
by storm. On this the Rhodians sent ambassadors to
Rome, complaining of the behaviour of the king of Pon¬
tus ; but Pharnaces was so far from being intimidated by
their threats, that he invaded the territories of Eumenes,
their great ally. The latter sent ambassadors to Rome,
and entered into an alliance with Ariarathes king of Cap¬
padocia ; Pharnaces, in his turn, also sent ambassadors to
Rome, complaining of Eumenes and Ariarathes ; and their
representations being at variance, some Romans were sent
into Asia to inquire into the state of matters. These en¬
voys found Eumenes and his associates willing to accommo¬
date the difference, but Pharnaces in a quite opposite dis¬
position, which they accordingly reported at Rome.
In the mean time a war was commenced between Eu¬
menes and Pharnaces; but the latter', being disappointed of
assistance from Seleucus king of Syria, whom the Romans
would not permit to join him, was at last forced to sue for
peace, which was granted him upon certain conditions. It
was stipulated that he should forthwith withdraw his for¬
ces from Galatia, and disannul all engagements and allian¬
ces with the inhabitants of that country ; that he should in
like manner evacuate Paphlagonia, and send back such as he
had from thence carried into slavery; that he should re¬
store to Ariarathes all the places which he had taken during
the war, the hostages of both kings, all their prisoners with¬
out ransom, and moreover deliver up to them such of their
subjects as from the breaking out of the war had fled to
him; that he should restore to Morzias, a petty king in
these parts, and to Ariarathes, nine hundred talents which
he had seized in the war, and pay down three hundred more
to Eumenes as a fine for invading his dominions without
provocation. Mithridates, king of Armenia, having in this
war joined Pharnaces, was, by the articles of the treaty,
obliged to pay three hundred talents to Ariarathes for hav¬
ing assisted his enemy, contrary to an alliance at that time
subsisting between them. Soon afterwards Pharnaces
died, and left the kingdom to his son Mithridates VI. more
weakened by this peace than by the most destructive war.
The new king entered into an alliance with the Romans,
and proved such a faithful friend that he was rewarded by
the senate with Phrygia Major, and honoured with the title
of the friend and ally of the people of Rome. After a long
and prosperous reign, he was murdered by some of his inti¬
mate acquaintance, and was succeeded by his son Mithri¬
dates VII. surnamed the Great.
Mithri- The new prince, though not exceeding thirteen years of
utes,tlie aSe> began his reign with most inhuman acts of cruelty to
rea' his mother and nearest relations. His father, by his last
will, had appointed him and his mother joint heirs to the
kingdom; but he, claiming the whole, threw her into pri¬
son, where she soon died in consequence of the hard usage
she had met with. Those to whom the care of his education
was committed, observing him to be of a cruel and unruly
temper, made various attempts on his life; but could never
effect their design, as the king was always on his guard, and
armed against all kinds of treachery, without showing the
least diffidence.
His extra- In his youth Mithridates took care to inure himself to
ordinary hardships, passing whole months in the open air, employed
^uaities. ;n (-}le exercj[se of hunting, and often taking his rest amidst
the frozen snow. When he came of age, he married his
sister named Laodice, by whom he had a son named Phar¬
naces. After this lie took a journey through many differ¬
ent kingdoms of Asia, having nothing less in view than the
whole continent. He learned their different languages, of
which he is said to have spoken twenty-two; took an esti-
T U S. 349
mate of their strength ; and, above all, viewed narrowly their Pontus.
strongholds and fortified towns. In this journey he spent
three years, during which time, a report being spread
abroad that he was dead, his wife Laodice had criminal con¬
versation with one of the lords of her court, by whom she
had a son. When her husband returned, she presented
him with a poisoned bowl; but Mithridates had accustom¬
ed himself to take poison from his infancy, so that it had
now no other effect than to hasten the destruction of his
wife, which soon afterwards took place, together with all
those who had been in any way accessory to her disloyalty
and incontinence.
The king now began to carry into effect his schemes of His ex¬
conquest. Nothing could be more unwise than to attack pl°hs*
those nations which were immediately under the protec¬
tion of Rome, and thus provoke that powerful people to
fall upon him. Beginning with Paphlagonia, which the
Romans had declared a free state, he easily reduced this
country, which he divided between himself and Nicomedes
king of Bithynia, at that time his ally. The Romans re¬
monstrated ; but Mithridates, instead of paying any regard
to their remonstrances, invaded Galatia, which w as imme¬
diately under their protection. This he also reduced, and
then turned his eyes to Cappadocia. But as the kingdom
of Cappadocia was at that time held by Ariarathes, who
was a great favourite of the Romans, and married to the
sister of Mithridates, the latter hired an assassin to despatch
his brother-in-law, after w hich he thought he might suc¬
ceed better in his designs. After the death of Ariarathes,
Cappadocia was invaded by Nicomedes king of Bithynia,
who drove out the son, and married the widow of Aria¬
rathes. This gave Mithridates a plausible pretence for in¬
vading Cappadocia, and driving Nicomedes out of that coun¬
try. Thus he gained considerable reputation, not only as a
warrior, but as a just and good-natured prince ; for as it was
not know n that he had had any hand in the murder of Aria¬
rathes, every one conceived that he had undertaken the war
against Nicomedes merely to revenge the quarrel of his
nephew, and to restore him to his rights. To keep up the
farce a little longer, Mithridates actually withdrew his
troops from the country, and left the young prince master
of the kingdom. In a short time, however, he began to
press the young king of Cappadocia to recall the assassin
Gordius, who had murdered his father. But this the king
of Cappadocia indignantly refused ; and Mithridates, being
determined on a quarrel at all events, took the field with
an army of eighty thousand foot, ten thousand horse, and
six hundred chariots armed with scythes.
With this force he imagined he should carry all before him; Assassina
but finding the king of Cappadocia ready to oppose himtionofhis
with an army not inferior to his own, he had recourse to0^'11 ne-
treachery ; and, inviting his nephew to a conference, stab-H
bed him, in the sight of both armies, with a dagger which
he had concealed in the folds of his garment. This barba¬
rous and unexpected piece of treachery had such an effect
on the Cappadocians that they threw down their arms, and
suffered Mithridates, without opposition, to seize upon all
their strongholds. The latter, however, resigned the king¬
dom to his son, a child of eight years of age, and commit¬
ted to Gordius the care of the young prince and of the
w'hole kingdom ; but the Cappadocians, disdaining to be
ruled by an assassin, placed on the throne the brother of
Ariarathes, who had kept himself concealed in some part of
Asia. His reign, however, was of short duration ; for being
soon afterwards driven out by Mithridates, the Cappado¬
cians were again reduced. The unhappy prince died of
grief; and in him ended the family of Pharnaces, who had
ruled Cappadocia from the time of Cyrus the Great.
Nicomedes, king of Bithynia, afraid of Mithridates, and
supposing that his own dominions would next fall a prey to
the ambitious conqueror, suborned a youth of a comely and
350 PON
Pontus. majestic aspect to pretend that he was a third son of Aria-
rathes, to repair to Rome, and to demand the kingdom of
Attempt ofCappadocia as his just right. He was received by the se-
kinv of fitnate witl1 the greatest kindness; and Laodice, the wife of
thynia to Nicomedes, confirmed the deceit by her oath. But in the
deceive the mean time Mithridates, having obtained intelligence of the
Romans, plot, sent notice of it to the Romans by Gordius, so that
the imposture soon became known at Rome. The conse¬
quence was, that the senate commanded Mithridates to re¬
linquish Cappadocia, and enjoined Nicomedes to give up
that part of Paphlagonia which he possessed, declaring both
these countries free. The Cappadocians protested that they
could not live without a king, and were allowed to choose
one of their own nation. Mithridates used all his interest
in favour of Gordius ; but the latter being excluded by the
Romans, one named Ariobarzanes was chosen by a majority
of votes.
Ariobar- To enforce this election, Sylla was sent into Cappadocia,
zanes. jje ^a(j cliaracter of ambassador, but the real intention
of his embassy was to disappoint the ambitious designs of
Mithridates. With a handful of forces he defeated a nu¬
merous army of Cappadocians and Armenians commanded
by Gordius, and settled Ariobarzanes on the throne. But
no sooner was Sylla gone than Mithridates stirred up Ti-
granes king of Armenia against Ariobarzanes, who, with¬
out making any resistance, fled to Rome, and Tigranes re¬
stored the kingdom to Ariarathes the son of Mithridates.
At the same time died the king of Bithynia; and upon his
death Mithridates immediately invaded that country, and
drove out Nicomedes, the natural son of the deceased king.
But the expelled prince fled to Rome, and being assisted
by that powerful republic, the king of Pontus was soon
obliged to abandon Bithynia and Cappadocia.
War of Mi- The Romans having now become exceedingly jealous of
thridates the power and ambition of Mithridates, resolved to humble
Roman?0 at an^ sacr^ce* F°r this purpose they sent ambassa-
. jors t0 ^g kjngS 0f Bithynia and Cappadocia, desiring them
to make inroads into the territories of Mithridates, and treat
them as they pleased, at the same time assuring them of
powerful assistance in case they should have occasion. Ario¬
barzanes could not by any means be induced to provoke
sc powerful a neighbour; but Nicomedes being induced to
comply, partly by promises and partly by menaces, entered
Pontus, where he laid waste whole provinces with fire and
sword. Mithridates complained to the Roman legates ; but
they replied that he had himself been the aggressor, that
Nicomedes had only paid him in his own coin, and that they
would not allow him to hurt their friend and ally. Upon
this Mithridates, having entered Cappadocia with a nume¬
rous army, put to flight the united forces of Ariobarzanes
and Altinius the Roman legate, thus making himself once
more master of that kingdom. In the mean time he sent
ambassadors to Rome, complaining of the proceedings of
Nicomedes. But his ambassadors met with a very indif¬
ferent reception, being enjoined to tell their master that he
must either restore the kingdom of Cappadocia to Ariobar¬
zanes, and make peace with Nicomedes, or be accounted
an enemy of the Roman people. With this answer they
were commanded to depart the city that very day, and told
that no more ambassadors could be admitted till their com¬
mands were obeyed.
In the mean time both parties prepared for war. The
Roman legates in Asia drew together all the forces they
could muster in Bithynia; Cappadocia, Paphlagonia, and Ga-
latia ; and, being joined by Cassius, governor of Asia, took
the field against Mithridates in the year 89 before Christ.
They divided their army into several small bodies. Cassius
encamped on the confines of Bithynia and Galatia; Ma-
mus Aquihus with his division possessed himself of the ave¬
nues leading from Pontus into Bithynia; Quintus Oppius
secured the entrance into Cappadocia; and the admirals
TUB.
Minucius Rufus and C. Popilius lay with a fleet of three Ponte,
hundred sail at Byzantium, to prevent the enemy from en- ''■“■'v'"-
tering the Euxine Sea. Each of the generals had under
his command an army of forty thousand men, besides a
body of fifty thousand foot and six thousand horse brought
to their assistance by Nicomedes.
On the other hand, Mithridates having invited several ot
the neighbouring nations to join him, collected an army of
two hundred and fifty thousand foot, fifty thousand horse,
and a hundred and thirty chariots armed with scythes, be¬
sides three hundred ships and a hundred galleys. Part of
this force he detached against Nicomedes, and utterly de¬
feated him, though much superior in number, whilst obey¬
ing the order of Cassius in taking possession of an advan¬
tageous post. Another part he detached against Manius
Aquilius, whom he also defeated with the loss of ten thou¬
sand killed on the spot, and three thousand taken prison¬
ers. On this the other Roman generals abandoned their
posts, the fleet also dispersed, and most of the ships were
either taken or sunk by the admirals of Mithridates.
The king of Pontus having now resolved to improve the
opportunity for driving the Romans entirely out of Asia,
overran all Phrygia, Mysia, Asia Proper, Caria, Lycia,
Pamphylia, Paphlagonia, and Bithynia, with the rest of the
countries which had either belonged to or sided with the
Romans, as far as Ionia. He wTas everywhere received with
the greatest demonstrations of joy ; the inhabitants flock¬
ing to him in white garments, and calling him their father,
deliverer, and sole lord of all Asia. What gained him the
affections of the people was his kind usage of the prisoners
he had taken in the two engagements above mentioned,
whom he not only sent home without ransom, but furnish¬
ed with provisions and money sufficient to defray their ex¬
penses by the way. Ambassadors flocked to him from all
parts, and amongst these some came from Laodicea on the
Lycus, to which the king had promised his protection, pro¬
vided the people delivered up to him Q. Oppius, governor
of Pamphylia, who had fled thither for protection. This re¬
quest was readily complied with ; and Oppius was sent to him
in chains, with lictors walking before him in derision of the
Roman pride and ostentation. Mithridates was overjoyed
to see a Roman general and proconsul in his power ; and his
joy was soon afterwards increased by the arrival of Manius
Aquilius, whom the Lesbians, having revolted against the
Romans, sent to him in fetters, together with many other
Romans of distinction who had taken shelter amongst them.
As Aquilius had been the chief author of the war, Mithri¬
dates led him about with him wherever he went, either
bound on an ass, or on foot coupled with Bastarnes, a pub¬
lic malefactor, compelling him to proclaim to the crowds
who came to see him, that he was Manius Aquilius the Ro¬
man legate. When he arrived at Pergamus, he caused
Aquilius to be first publicly whipped, then to be put on the
rack, and lastly he ordered molten gold to be poured down
his throat.
Mithridates being now looked upon as invincible, all the Cruel mas-
free cities of Asia received him as their sovereign, contri- sacre of the
buting large sums towards defraying the expenses of the ^°,mans 111
war, by which means he became possessed of treasures which As‘a’
enabled him to keep for years several armies in the field,
without levying any taxes upon his subjects. As many Ro¬
man citizens were dispersed in the provinces which Mithri¬
dates had subdued, he considered these as so many spies,
who would not fail to send an account of his proceedings to
Rome. For this reason he resolved to cut them off at once
by a general massacre; a barbarous policy, which, it is said,
had never been heard of till his time, but has since been
practised by other nations. He despatched private letters
to all the governors and magistrates of the cities where the
Romans resided, enjoining them, on pain of death, and the
entire destruction of their country, to cause the whole Ita-
P O N T U S.
351
Pontus. lian race, women and children not excepted, to be murder-
ed on tlie thirtieth day from the date of his letters, and to let
their bodies remain unburied in the open fields. One moiety
of their goods was to be forfeited to the king, and the other
bestowed as a reward on the assassins. Whatever slave
murdered his master w^as to receive his liberty, and one
half of the debt was to be remitted to the debtor who should
kill his creditor. Whoever concealed an Italian, under any
pretence whatever, was to be punished with immediate
death. On the fatal day, all the gates of the cities being
shut, and the avenues guarded by soldiers, the king’s orders
were proclaimed; which caused an universal horror, not only
amongst the unhappy victims themselves, but amongst those
who had any feelings of humanity, at seeing themselves
obliged either to betray and murder their innocent guests,
friends, and relations, or to become liable to a cruel death.
However, as most of the Asiatics bore a mortal hatred of the
Romans, and were besides animated by the promise of an
ample reward, the orders were without delay put into exe¬
cution. The inhabitants of Ephesus, where Mithridates then
resided, dragged such as had taken sanctuary in the temple
of Diana from the very statue of the goddess, and put them
to the sword. The Pergamenians discharged showers of
darts upon them as they embraced the statues in the temple
of fEsculapius. At Adramyttium, in Mysia, many were mur¬
dered in the water, whilst they were attempting to swim
across to the island of Lesbos with their children on their
backs. The Caunians, who not long before had been de¬
livered from the yoke of the Rhodians, and restored to
their ancient privileges, excelled all others in cruelty. As
if they had apostatized from human nature, they took plea¬
sure in tormenting and butchering the innocent children
before their mothers’ eyes ; some of them running distract¬
ed, and others dying with grief at a sight which nature
could not endure. The Trallians were the only people on
the continent who had not the cruelty to imbrue their
hands in the blood of the innocent Italians. However, as
the king’s orders were peremptory, they hired one Theophi-
lus, a Paphlagonian, to despatch the few Romans who lived
amongst them; and he, having shut them all up together
in the temple of Concord, first cut off their hands as they
embraced the statues of the gods, and then hacked them in
pieces. Many Romans were saved on the floating islands
of Lydia, called Calamince, where they concealed them¬
selves till such time as they found an opportunity of escap¬
ing out of Asia. According to Plutarch and Dion, a hun¬
dred and fifty thousand Roman citizens were nevertheless
massacred upon that day; but, according to others, only
eighty thousand.
Reduction Mithridates having now got rid of those whom he was in
^rca^ on ^ie continent, embarked great part of his forces
in order to reduce the islands of the Archipelago. At Cos
he was gladly received, and had delivered up to him the
young Alexander, son of Alexander king of Egypt, who
being driven out of that country, was killed by Chareas, a
sea-captain, as he was retiring in a small vessel to Cyprus.
With the young prince, they put into the king’s hands vast
sums of money, besides all the golden vessels and jewels,
to an immense value, which his grandmother Cleopatra had
for years been amassing. To the young prince Mithridates
gave an education suitable for a king’s son, but kept the
treasures to himself. Here likewise he found eight hun¬
dred talents in ready money, which, at the first breaking
out of the war, had been deposited by the Jews of Asia,
and were designed for the temple of Jerusalem.
' a>'ure of From Cos Mithridates steered his course for Rhodes,
ipoiftem^t where at that time all the Romans who had escaped the
Rhodes massacre above mentioned found a sanctuary, and, amongst
others, L. Cassius the proconsul. The Rhodians, however,
being very expert in maritime affairs, Mithridates did not
think proper to venture an engagement. As the enemy’s
fleet advanced, therefore, he retired; but six of the Rho- Pontus.
dian ships coming up with twenty-five of his, a sharp ac- 'v-—
tion ensued, in which the Rhodians sunk two of the king’s
ships, and put the rest to flight. In this encounter, though
Mithridates had never seen a sea-fight before, he behaved
w ith great intrepidity ; but one of the ships of his own
squadron falling foul of that which carried him, he was very
near being taken prisoner. From this time he abhorred
the sea, and took an aversion to the Chians, because the
pilot of the ship was a Chian. However, he again appeared
before the island ; but was forced anew to leave it with dis¬
grace, and to abandon all thoughts of reducing it.
Mithridates now retired into Asia with a design to settle Greece re¬
tire civil government of the countries which he had con- duced by
quered, committing the care of the war to his generals.*11® geile*
Archelaus, his generalissimo, was sent into Greece with an™ s‘
army of a hundred and twenty thousand men ; w here, by
treachery, he made himself master of Athens, and either
put to the sword or sent to Mithridates all those who fa¬
voured or were suspected of favouring the Romans. From
Athens he despatched parties to reduce the neighbouring
castles and the island of Delos, which they accordingly ef¬
fected ; but Orobius, a Roman general, hearing that the
enemy kept no guards, and passed their time in carousing
and debauchery, fell upon them unexpectedly, and cut off
the whole party, except Apellicon the commander.
In the mean time Metrophanes, another of the king’s
generals, entering Euboea, laid waste the whole country,
directing his rage chiefly against the cities of Demetrias
and Magnesia, which refused to open their gates to him.
But as he was sailing off with a great booty, Bryttius, the
prmtor or governor of Macedonia, having come up with
him, sunk some of his ships, and took others, putting all
the prisoners to the sword. Upon the news of this loss,
Mithridates sent his son Ariarathes with a powerful army
to invade Macedonia, which he soon reduced, together with
the kingdom of Thrace, driving the Romans everywhere
before him. The generals whom he sent into other quar¬
ters were not less successful; so that Mithridates had, ac¬
cording to Aulus Gellius, twenty-five different nations who
paid him homage. The same author adds, that he was skilled
in every one of their various languages, and could converse
with the natives without an interpreter. Amongst these
nations we find the Rhoxani, now the Russians or Musco¬
vites, whom Diophantes, one of the king’s generals, brought
under subjection, after having slain in an engagement some
fifty thousand of the barbarians.
During all this time the Romans had been too much qccu- Sylla sent
pied with their own domestic quarrels to take such effectual against
measures as they otherwise would have done for checking^11"11'1'
the progress of Mithridates. But at last, having received
certain advice that the king designed to invade Italy, and
that he had even been solicited to do so by some of the re¬
volted Italians, they sent against him Lucius Sylla, who had
already given sufficient proofs of his courage, conduct, and
experience in war. Sylla had with him only five legions and
a few cohorts. But with this inconsiderable force he landed
in Attica, and in a short time made himself master of the
capital; Archelaus not daring, or, according to others, not
caring, to engage him. As Sylla had but a few frigates, he
sent Lucullus to the island of Rhodes, with orders to the
Rhodians to join him with their fleet. The undertaking
was very dangerous, as the king’s fleet in a manner cover¬
ed the sea. However, Lucullus, despising all danger, ven¬
tured out, and sailed, without meeting with any accident,
to Syria, Egypt, Libya, and Cyprus; whence he returned
with such supplies of ships and experienced mariners, as
enabled Sylla, after their junction wTith the Rhodians, to act
offensively by sea as well as by land. Archelaus now de¬
spatched messengers to Taxiles, who commanded in 1 brace
and Macedonia, desiring him to join with all his forces; and
352
P O N T U S.
Pontus.
Victories
of Sylla.
experienced commanders, and to return at the head of a Pontus
numerous army into Asia; not doubting that the inhabi- »
tants, thus harassed by Fimbria, would shake off the Ko-
Taxiles having obeyed, they mustered an army ol a hun¬
dred and twenty thousand men. Sylla met them near Che-
ronaea with only fifteen thousand foot and fifteen hundred
horse ; but gave them a dreadful overthrow, no fewer than man yoke when they saw such a powerful army in the field
a hundred fnd ten thousand of the Asiatics having fallen ready to protect them. But Fimbria, distrusting the Asia-
in battle, whilst the Romans lost only a few men. tics, marched out to meet the enemy, and offered them battle
This success having excited envy and jealousy against before they entered the province. As the king^s army was
Svlla in Rome, the senate sent Lucius Valerius Flaccus, greatly superior to the Romans in number, the atter suffered
the consul of that year, with two legions, into Asia; appa- severely in the engagement^ but held out until night put an
rently to attack Mithridates on that side, but in reality with
private instructions to fall upon Sylla himself, if they found
him disaffected to the senate. But as 1' laccus was a man
of no experience in war, C. Fimbria, a senator of great re¬
pute amongst the soldiery, was appointed to attend him in
the character of legate and lieutenant-general. Sylla was
at that time in Bceotia ; but, hearing what had occurred at
Rome, he marched with all expedition into Thessaly, de¬
signing to encounter Flaccus, who, he expected, was to
land in that province. But no sooner had he left Bceotia,
than the country was overrun by an army of Asiatics, under
command of Dorylaus, the chief favourite of the king. On
learning this, Sylla returned into Bceotia, where he gained
two signal victories, which put an end to the war in Greece.
In the first of these Dorylaus lost a hundred and fifty thou¬
sand men according to some authors, or twro hundred thou¬
sand according to others; and in the next all the remainder.
In this last engagement twenty thousand were driven into a
river, where they perished to a man ; an equal number were
pursued into a marsh, and entirely cut off; and the remain¬
der were killed in the heat of the battle, the Romans giving
no quarter to men who had treated their fellow-citizens in
such a cruel and barbarous manner in Asia. Plutarch tells
us, that the marshes were dyed with blood; that the course of
the river was stopped by the dead bodies; and that even in his
time, that is, near tw o hundred years afterw ards, a great num¬
ber of bows, helmets, coats of mail, and swords, w ere found
buried in the mud. Archelaus, who had joined Dorylaus
with a body of ten thousand men a few days before the
battle, lay three days stripped amongst the slain, until he
found a small vessel which canaed him to Euboea, where
he collected what forces he could, but was never again able
to take the field. Indeed Livy tells us, that Archelaus be¬
trayed the king’s cause ; and Aurelius Victor says that the
king’s fleet was intercepted by Sylla through the treachery
of Archelaus. That there was a good understanding between
the two commanders, says the latter, was plain from Sylla’s
bestowing upon Archelaus ten thousand acres of land near
the city of Chalcis in Euboea. Strabo also informs us, that
Archelaus was afterwards greatly esteemed and caressed by
Sylla and the senate ; but Sylla himself in his Commentaries,
and Dio Cassius, endeavour to clear Archelaus from all sus-
picion of treachery.
Flaccus put In the mean time, Sylla having given up Boeotia to be
to death by plundered by his soldiers, marched into Thessaly, where he
Fimbria, took up his winter-quarters, and caused his old ships to be
refitted and several new ones built, in order to pass over
into Asia in the beginning of the spring, that he might
drive from thence not only Mithridates, but also his rival
Flaccus, whom the senate, out of opposition to him, had
appointed governor of that province. But before he ar¬
rived, some differences having arisen between Flaccus and
fimbria, the latter was deprived of his command by the
consul. Upon this Fimbria, having gained over the sol¬
diery, made war upon the consul, took him prisoner, put him
to death, and assumed the command of all the Roman forces
in Asia. In this situation he behaved with the greatest
cruelty, insomuch that his name became more odious than
even that of Mithridates himself. This hatred the king of
Pontus endeavoured to improve to his own advantage ; and
therefore he commanded his son, also called Mithridates, to
join Taxiles, Diophantes, and Menander, three of his most
end to the contest, when they withdrew to the opposite side
of a river, which was at a small distance from the field of
battle. Here they designed to intrench themselves; but a
violent storm having in the mean time arisen, Fimbria laid
hold of that opportunity to repass the river and surprise the
enemy, of whom he made such havock, that only the com¬
manders and some few troops of horse escaped. Amongst
these was the king’s son, who, attended by a few horsemen,
got safe to Pergamus, where his father resided. But Fimbria,
pursuing him day and night without intermission, entered
Pergamus sword in hand; and, hearing that both Mithridates
and his son had fled from thence a few hours before, con¬
tinued his pursuit, and would have taken the king himself,
had he not entered Pitane with a considerable body of horse.
The place was closely invested by Fimbria; but as he had
not ships to blockade it by sea, he sent a messenger to Lu-
cullus, who commanded the Roman navy in Asia, entreat¬
ing him, as he tendered the welfare of the republic, to make
what haste he could to Pitane, and assist him in taking the
most inveterate enemy of Rome. But Lucullus, prefer¬
ring the gratification of a private pique to the good ot his
country, refused to put to sea; and thus allowed the fleet
of Mithridates to carry him in safety to Mitylene.
Soon after the king’s departure, Fimbria took Pitane hyPeacecon
storm, and reduced most of the cities of Asia, particularly ciude(].
Troy, which he also took by assault, putting most of the
inhabitants to the sword, because they had sent an embassy
to Sylla, offering to submit to him rather than to F imbria.
To add to the misfortunes of Mithridates, his fleet w’as en¬
tirely defeated in two engagements by Lucullus; so that he
began to be weary of the war, and therefore desired Arche¬
laus to conclude a peace, upon as honourable terms as he
could. The king himself also had afterwards a conference
with Sylla, and a peace was concluded in the year 85 be¬
fore Christ. The terms were, that Mithridates should re¬
linquish all his conquests, and content himself with his pa¬
ternal dominions, which were confined within the limits of
Pontus; that he should immediately resign Bithynia to Nico-
medes, and Cappadocia to Ariobarzanes, and release with¬
out ransom all the prisoners he had taken during the war;
that he should pay to the Romans two thousand, or, as others
will have it, three thousand talents, and deliver up to Sylla
eighty ships with all their arms and ammunition, besides
five hundred archers ; and, lastly, that he should not molest
such cities or persons as had during the war revolted from
him and sided with the Romans.
Sylla, having thus concluded the wrar with great glory to
himself and equal advantage to the republic, turned his army
against Fimbria ; but the latter, finding himself in no con¬
dition to oppose his rival by force, had recourse to treachery,
and attempted to get Sylla assassinated. The plot miscar¬
ried, however, and Fimbria put an end to his own life. Sylla,
having nowr an uncontrolled pow er in Asia, declared the Chi¬
ans, Rhodians, Lycians, Magnesians, and Trojans, free, and
friends of the people of Rome, by way of reward for their
having sided with the Romans; but on the other cities he im¬
posed heavy fines, condemning them in one year to pay twen¬
ty thousand talents, and quartering his soldiers in the houses
of those who had shown disaffection to the Romans. Each
private man was to receive from his landlord sixteen drachms
a day, and each officer fifty; and, besides, both were to be
supplied with provisions, not only for themselves, but also for
PON
Pontus. such of their friends as they thought proper to invite. By
—these impositions most of the people of Asia were reduced
to beggary ; especially the inhabitants of Ephesus, who,
above all others, had shown hatred against the Romans.
Having collected immense treasure, Sylla then set sail for
Italy; leaving behind him Lucullus in the character of quaes¬
tor, and Muracna in that of praetor. The two legions which
Fimbria had commanded were given to Muraena, because
Sylla suspected them of an inclination to the faction of Ma¬
rius, whose party he was going to crush at Rome.
The na- In the mean time Mithridates had no sooner returned
.ions that into Pontus, than he set about the reduction of those na-
:ad revolt-tions which had revolted against him during the war. He
ilithuda* began w'th the Colchians, who immediately submitted, upon
escrushed condition that Mithridates would give them his son for king.
iy him. This was complied with ; but the old king had thencefor¬
ward a jealousy of his son, whom, accordingly, he first im¬
prisoned and then put to death. Soon after this, the king hav¬
ing made great preparations under pretence of reducing the
Bosphori, a warlike nation who had revolted against him, the
Romans began to be jealous; and their suspicion was fur¬
ther increased by Archolaus, who, having fled to them, as¬
sured them that the preparations of Mithridates were not
at all designed against the Bosphori. On hearing this, Mu¬
raena invaded Pontus without any further provocation. The
king reminded him of the articles of peace concluded with
Sylla; but Muraena replied that he knew of no such articles ;
for Sylla had set down nothing in writing, but contented
himself with the execution of what had been agreed upon.
Having given this answer, the Roman general began to lay
waste and plunder the country, without sparing even the
treasures or temples consecrated to the gods. Having put
all to fire and sword on the frontiers of Pontus towards Cap¬
padocia, he passed the river Halys, and on that side pos¬
sessed himself, without opposition, of four hundred villages ;
for Mithridates was unwilling to commit any hostilities be¬
fore the return of an ambassador whom he had sent to Rome
to complain of the conduct of Muraena. At length the am¬
bassador returned, and along with him one Callidius, who, in
a public assembly, commanded Muraena to forbear molesting
a friend and ally of the Roman people ; but afterwards, call¬
ing him aside, he had a private conference with him, in
which it is supposed, as he brought no decree of the senate,
that he encouraged him to pursue the war. Whatever there
might be in this, however, it is certain that Muraena still
continued to practise the same hostilities, and even made
an attempt on Sinope, where the king resided and the royal
treasures were deposited. But as the town was well fortified,
he was forced to retire with some loss. In the mean time,
Mithridates himself taking the field, appeared at the head
of a powerful army, drove the Romans out of their camp,
and forced them with great slaughter to save themselves by
flying across the mountains into Phrygia. This sudden vic¬
tory again induced many cities to join Mithridates, and gave
him an opportunity of once more driving the Romans out
of Cappadocia.
(itbridates In the mean time, Sylla, having been created dictator at
'gages m a Rome, sent a messenger to Mursena, charging him in his
ith the name n°t to molest Mithridates, whom he had honoured
i jomans. w*th the title of a friend and ally of Rome. Muraena did
not think proper to disregard this message ; and therefore
immediately abandoned all the places he had seized, whilst
Mithridates again renounced Cappadocia, giving his own
son as an hostage of his fidelity. Being then at leisure to
pursue his other plans, Mithridates fell upon the Bosphori;
and, having soon subdued them, appointed Machares, one of
his sons, king of the country. But leading his army from
thence against the Achaeans, a people bordering on the
Colchians, and originally descended from the Greeks, who,
returning from Troy, had mistaken their way into Greece,
and settled there, he was defeated with the loss of three
vol. xvm.
T U S. 353
fourths of his men. On his return to Pontus, however, he Pontus.
recruited his army, and made vast preparations to invade' v-'—'
them anew; but, in the mean time, hearing of Sylla’s death,
he came to the imprudent resolution of entering into a se¬
cond war with the Romans. Having therefore induced his
son-in-law, I igranes, king of Armenia, to invade Cappado¬
cia, he himself entered Paphlagonia at the head of a hun¬
dred and twenty thousand infantry disciplined after the Ro¬
man manner, sixteen thousand horse, and a hundred chariots
armed with scythes. This country readily submitted, after
which the king marched into Bithynia, which also submit¬
ted without opposition ; and the province of Asia followed
the example, for these countries, being oppressed with ex¬
orbitant taxes, looked upon him as their deliverer. In en¬
tering the cities ot Asia, he caused M. Marius or Varius,
whom Sertorius had sent him from Spain to discipline his
troops, walk before him with the ensigns of consular dig-
nity, as if he was the chief magistrate ; the king following
as one of his attendants. He made several cities free, but
at the same time acquainted the inhabitants that they were
indebted to Sertorius for their liberty ; and thus, by the
connivance of that general, many cities revolted from the
Romans without knowing that they had done so. But in
the mean time, Julius Caesar, being at that time at Rhodes,
whither he had gone to study oratory, and hearing what ha-
vock the king’s officers had made in the adjacent countries,
collected what troops he could, and falling unexpectedly
upon them, expelled them from the province of Asia.
The Roman senate, now finding a war unavoidable, ap- Lucullus
pointed Lucullus to conduct it. The other consul, Cotta,and Cotta
having solicited an employment in this war, was sent with aSadlsfc
a fleet to guard the Propontis and defend Bithynia. Lu- 1
cullus having raised one legion in Italy, passed over with it
into Asia, where he was joined by four others, two of which,
as they had served under Fimbria, proved at first very mu¬
tinous and refractory ; nor were the others much better dis¬
posed, having been immersed in, and demoralised by, Asiatic
luxuries. The disciplining of these troops consumed a con¬
siderable time, which proved prejudicial to the Roman af¬
fairs ; for almost all the Asiatics were ready to revolt, and
Mithridates was making the greatest preparations. One of
his armies was ordered to march into Cappadocia, under the
command of Diophantes Matharus, in order to oppose Lu¬
cullus if he should attempt to enter Pontus on that side;
another, commanded by Mithridates in person, consisted of
one hundred and fifty thousand infantry, twelve thousand
horse, and a hundred chariots armed with scythes ; a third
army, commanded by Marius and Eumachus, two generals
of great experience in war, was encamped in the neighbour¬
hood of Heraclea in Pontus.
The beginning of the war proved favourable to Mithri-Mithrida-
dates. Cotta, being desired by Lucullus to keep his fleet tes at first
within the harbour, as being inferior to that of Mithridates,succebS u *
resolved to take the first opportunity of fighting the king
by land, not doubting of an easy victory. Having for this
purpose collected all the forces he could, Cotta despatched
his lieutenant, P. Rutilius, with a considerable body, to ob¬
serve the motions of the enemy. This commander being
met by Marius and Eumachus, an engagement ensued, in
which "the Romans were defeated, and the greater part of
them, with their commander, cut in pieces. The same mis¬
fortune befell several other officers of distinction sent to op¬
pose Mithridates, who, elated with success, ordered his ad¬
miral to sail into the very harbour, and set fire to the Roman
fleet. This was accordingly performed without the least
opposition from Cotta ; and sixty ships were taken, sunk,
or burned, on that occasion.
These victories, having increased the rebellious disposi-His re-
tion of the Asiatics, induced Lucullus to hasten his march, verses,
in order to stop the progress of the enemy. But finding
the king’s army much more numerous that he expected, he
354
Pontus. thought proper to decline an engagement
veral skirmishes happened, in which the Romans had always
so much the advantage, that they became impatient for a
general engagement. But Lucullus did not at this time
choose to run so great a risk; and therefore Mithridates, see¬
ing that he could not force the Romans to a battle, decamped
in the night-time, and by day-break reached Cyzicum, an
important city, warmly attached to the Romans. Lucullus
pursued him ; and, falling on his rear, killed ten thousand,
and took thirteen thousand prisoners. After this, the Ro¬
man general, by a manoeuvre, gained an important pass,
which enabled him to cut off all communication between
the army of Mithridates and the neighbouring country. The
king, seeing himself thus in danger of famine, redoubled his
efforts to gain the city ; but finding that he could not bat¬
ter down the walls, he resolved to undermine them. In
this also he was unsuccessful; the besieged sunk counter¬
mines, and had very nearly taken the king himself in one
of his own mines. In the mean time, winter coming on,
the army of Mithridates was so distressed for want of pro¬
visions, that many died of hunger, whilst the survivors were
forced to feed on the.flesh of their dead companions. The
famine was followed by a plague, which destroyed such
numbers that Mithridates was obliged to think of a retreat;
and even this had become very dangerous. However, he
laid hold of the opportunity when Lucullus proceeded to be¬
siege a neighbouring castle, and sent off the greater part of
his cavalry in the night, ordering them not to halt till they
were out of the reach of the enemy. But Lucullus having
got intelligence of their march, suddenly returned, and pur¬
sued them so closely that he came up with them as they
were passing a river, took six hundred horse, all their beasts
of burden, fifteen thousand men, and put the rest to the
sword. On his return he fell in with Aristonicus, the king’s
admiral, whom he took, just as that commander was ready
to sail with a large sum of money designed to bribe the Ro¬
man army. In the mean time, Mithridates, finding himself
reduced to the last extremity, embarked in the night-time
with the greater part of the forces, whilst Marius and Eu-
machus, with thirty thousand men, made the best of their
way to Lampsacus. But being closely pursued by the Ro¬
mans, they were overtaken at the river iEsopus, which at
that time was not fordable, from having been swelled by
heavy rains. Twenty thousand were killed on the spot; nor
would a single man have escaped, had not the Asiatics scat¬
tered great quantities of gold and silver in the way, that
the march of the Romans might be retarded by their stop¬
ping to gather it up. Lucullus on his return entered Cyzi¬
cum amidst the acclamations of the citizens, who afterwards
instituted public sports in honour of him, which they called
Lucullea. The city was declared free, and all the privileges,
exemptions, and immunities, which were enjoyed by the in¬
habitants of Rome itself, were bestowed upon the citizens.
Orat vie- From Cyzicum, Lucullus marched along the coast of the
tory gained Hellespont until he came to Troas, where he equipped his
hv Lucul- and put to sea in quest of Marius, Alexander, and
Dionysius, three of the king’s generals, who had a fleet of
fifty ships, with ten thousand soldiers on board. Lucullus
came up with them near the island of Lemnos, took thirty-
two of their ships, and put a great number of their troops
to the sword. The day after the engagement the three
generals were discovered in a cave, where they had con¬
cealed themselves, and dragged from thence to Lucullus,
who, after having severely upbraided Marius for fighting
against his country, caused him to be put to death. Alex¬
ander and Dionysius were reserved for the triumph ; but
the latter poisoned himself to avoid that disgrace. Lucul¬
lus then steered his course for Bithynia, on receiving in¬
telligence that Mithridates had appeared with his fleet upon
those coasts. But the king having received notice of his
approach, made what haste he could to gain Pontus, and
PONTUS.
However, se- arrived at Heraclea on board a pirate named Selemus, with Pontus.
las.
whom he was obliged to trust himself, his fleet being dis¬
persed by a violent storm, and the ship that carried him
cast away.
In the meanwhile Mithridates was no less unfortunate by Further
land than by sea. Triarius, one of the officers of Lucullus, ™ccessesof
reduced the cities of Apamea, Prusa, Prusias, and Nicaea,AjUCU
and marched thence with all expedition to Nicomedia,
where the king himself was, and near which place Cotta lay
encamped. But before the two armies could effect a junc¬
tion, Mithridates escaped, first to Heraclea, which was be¬
trayed to him, and then to Sinope. Nor did Lucullus him¬
self remain all this time inactive. Having reduced all Pa-
phlagonia and Bithynia, he marched into Cappadocia, and
joined Cotta and Triarius at Nicomedia, with a design to in¬
vade Pontus ; but hearing that Lleraclea was in the hands
of Mithridates, he despatched Cotta to reduce that city.
Triarius was ordered to proceed with the fleet to the Hel¬
lespont and Propontis, to intercept the king’s fleet, which
was daily expected from Spain with supplies from Sertorius.
Lucullus himself, with the main strength of the army, pur¬
sued his march into Pontus. His army was greatly harassed,
especially in the narrow passes between Cappadocia and
Pontus, by flying parties of the enemy. But the greatest
.inconvenience was the want of provisions, as the king’s
troops had laid waste all the country around ; insomuch that
Lucullus, having lost almost all his beasts of burden, was
obliged to take along with the army thirty thousand Gala¬
tians, each of them carrying a sack of corn on his back. At
last, however, he gained the plains of Pontus, where provi¬
sions were so plentiful that an ox was sold for a drachma,
and everything else in proportion.
The Roman general having now carried the war into the
enemy’s country, divided his forces, and at the same time
invested a very strong town named Amisus ; another called
Eupatoria, built by Mithridates, and made the place of his
residence ; and a third named Themiscyra, situated on the
banks of the Thermodon. Eupatoria was soon taken, but
Themiscyra made a vigorous resistance, and the townsmen
galled the Romans to such a degree, that, not daring to ap¬
proach the walls openly, they contented themselves with un¬
dermining them. But in this, too, they met with no small
difficulty, for the enemy countermined, and often engaged
them under ground, letting into the mines bears and other
wild beasts, with swarms of bees, which obliged them to
abandon their works. However, the town was at last obliged
to surrender for want of provisions. As for Amisus, Lucul¬
lus himself sat down before it. But finding it strongly for¬
tified, and garrisoned with the flower of the king’s troops,
the Roman general thought proper to reduce it by famine;
and on this occasion his countrymen first complained of him
as protracting the war for his own advantage. _ .
In the mean time, Mithridates having recruited his shat-
tered army, advanced to Cabirae, a city not far distant from^*™-^
Amisus ; and Lucullus, leaving part of the army to continue ;m(i
the siege, marched at the head of the rest to oppose Mith-flight of
ridates. But the king having drawn his cavalry into a the king-
general engagement, defeated them with considerable loss,
and drove them back to the mountains, through the passes
of which Lucullus had lately marched to attack him. I his
check obliged the Roman general to retire to a rising ground
near to the city of Cabirse, where the enemy could not force
him to an engagement. Here provisions beginning to grow
scarce, Lucullus sent out strong parties from his army into
Cappadocia, the only place whence he could receive sup¬
plies. One of these parties entirely dei’eated Taxiles and
Diophantes, two of the king’s generals, who had been sta¬
tioned there to prevent Lucullus from having any commu¬
nication with the country. The king, on receiving the news
of this defeat, resolved to break up his camp and to retire,
not doubting that Lucullus would attack him as soon as his
P O N T U S.
'ontus. forces returned. This resolution he no sooner imparted to
—v""~/ his nobles, than they began privately to send away their
most valuable property ; and when it was discovered by the
soldiers, they were so much displeased that they plundered
their baggage, and put those who had the care of it to the
sword. After this they betook themselves to flight, crowd¬
ing out of the gates in the utmost confusion. The king
hastened to stop their flight; but nobody showing him the
least respect, he was carried away by the crowd, and in
great danger of being trampled to death. Having with dif¬
ficulty made his escape, he retired with a small retinue,
first to Cabirae, and then to his son-in-law Tigranes, king of
Armenia. Lucullus despatched the best part of his cavalry
in pursuit of the fugitives, whilst he himself, with the rest,
invested the camp of Mithridates, where those only remain¬
ed who could not fly with the rest. The camp was easily
taken ; but most of the soldiers made their escape, whilst
the Romans, contrary to their general’s orders, were busied
in plundering. Lucullus then closely pursued the king,
who, being overtaken by a company of Galatians, caused a
mule loaded with part of his treasures to be driven in
amongst them, by which means he made his escape, whilst
they quarrelled about the booty. Mithridates, remember¬
ing in his flight that he had left his sisters, wives, and con¬
cubines at Pharnacia, despatched an eunuch named Bacchus
or Bacchides with orders to put them all to death, lest they
should fall into the hands of the enemy; and this cruel or¬
der was accordingly obeyed.
i'lxcss of After the flight of Mithridates, the Romans no longer
1 Ro- met with any opposition ; the king’s governors flocking
--i-from all parts to place themselves under the protection of
the conqueror. Amongst these were the grandfather of
Strabo the geographer, whom the king had disobliged by
putting to death his cousin-german Tibias, and his son
Theophilus. He wras a man of such credit, that no sooner
had he abandoned the king’s party, than fifteen other com¬
manders delivered up to Lucullus the places with which
they had been intrusted ; and about the same time Triarius,
falling in with the king’s fleet near the island of Tenedos,
obtained a complete victory, having either taken or sunk
sixty of the enemy’s ships.
During all this time Cotta had been employed without
success in besieging Heraclea, which he could never have
reduced without the assistance of Triarius. That com¬
mander, having defeated the fleet, reduced the town to such
distress, that a third part of the garrison died of hunger;
upon which the governor, Conacorix, privately agreed with
Triarius to deliver up one of the gates to him. This was ac¬
cordingly done ; and the Romans entering, made a terrible
slaughter of the helpless inhabitants. But in the mean
time Cotta, provoked at seeing himself deprived both of
all share of the booty and the honour of reducing a place
which he had so long besieged, fell upon his countrymen as
they were busied in plundering ; a proceeding which would
have occasioned a great deal of bloodshed, had not Triarius
promised to divide the booty equally. Conacorix, to con¬
ceal his treachery, after marching out of Heraclea, seized
on two forts belonging to the Romans ; and Triarius being
sent to recover them, Cotta, in his absence, plundered the
city anew, rifled the temples which the other had spared,
put all the citizens he could meet with to the sword, and
having carried off everything valuable, at last set fire to
the city in several places, by which means it was soon re¬
duced to ashes. Cotta then, having no further occasion for
his troops, dismissed the auxiliaries, resigned his legions to
Lucullus, and put to sea himself in order to return to Rome.
But he had scarcely got out of the harbour, when part of
his ships, being overloaded with the spoils of the city, sunk ;
and the others, driven by a violent north wind, were dash¬
ed against the shore, which occasioned the loss of a great
part of the booty. Upon his return to Rome, however, he
was highly applauded by the senate, and honoured with the Pontus.
title of Ponticus. -
Lucullus, having now reduced Pontus, marched against
the Chaldaeans, Tibarenians, and inhabitants of Armenia
Minor, who voluntarily submitted to him, and put him in
possession of all their strongholds. From Armenia he re¬
turned to Amisus, which still held out; Callimachus, go¬
vernor of the place, having harassed the Romans to such a
degree, by engines of his own contrivance, that they had
given over their assaults, and contented themselves with
blocking it up by land, though the garrison was at the same
time plentifully supplied with provisions by sea. Lucullus,
on his arrival, summoned the city to surrender, offering the
inhabitants honourable terms ; but these being refused, he
made a general assault at the time when he knew that Cal¬
limachus used to draw off the greater part of his troops to
give them some respite. The Romans applying their scaling
ladders, got over the wall before Callimachus could come
to the assistance of those whom he had left to guard it;
however, by setting the city on fire, he found means in
the confusion to make his escape. Lucullus commanded
his men to use their utmost endeavours to save the city;
but being intent only upon plundering, they regarded no¬
thing except the furniture. At last the fire was extin¬
guished by a violent shower; and Lucullus, having with
difficulty restrained his soldiers from committing any fur¬
ther excesses, in some measure repaired the city before he
left it, and suffered the inhabitants to enjoy their possessions
in peace.
Nothing was now wanting but the captivity of Mithri¬
dates himself to put a final period to the war; and there¬
fore Lucullus demanded him from his son-in-law Tigranes.
But though that prince could not be prevailed on to see
Mithridates on account of his misconduct, he could as little
be induced to deliver him up to his enemies. After this
refusal, however, he for the first time condescended to see
his father-in-law, who had already resided for about a year
and eight months in his dominions. In a private conference
held by the two kings, it was agreed that Tigranes should
march against the Romans, and Mithridates, with ten thou¬
sand cavalry, return into Pontus, where he should make what
levies he could, and rejoin Tigranes, before Lucullus, who
was then employed in the siege of Sinope, could enter Ar¬
menia. But Sinope having, in the mean time, surrendered,
Lucullus marched with all possible expedition against 1 i-
granes, and having drawn him into a general engagement,
entirely defeated him.
Mithridates was marching to his assistance, when he met Defeats of
his son-in-law flying with a small retinue to shelter himselfTigranes
in some remote corner of the kingdom. He encouraged him anjl -mtlm.
to raise new forces, not doubting but that another campaign
would repair all former losses, provided he would commit to
his management everything relating to the war. To this
Tigranes acceded, and as he thought his father-in-law more
qualified to deal with the Romans than himself, orders were
issued for raising a new army, whilst all the Armenians
able to bear arms were summoned to meet at the place of the
general rendezvous. Out of these IMithridates chose seven¬
ty thousand foot and thirty-five thousand horse ; and hav¬
ing trained them during the winter, after the Roman dis¬
cipline, in the beginning of the spring he left part of them
with Tigranes, and marched himself with the rest into Pon¬
tus, where he recovered many important places, and over¬
came in a pitched battle M. Fabius, whom Lucullus had ap¬
pointed governor of that province. Flushed with his success,
as soon as the wounds he had received in the engagement
suffered him to move, he pursued Fabius, and beseiged him
in the city of Cabirse, whither he had retired ; but in the
mean time Triarius, who was marching from Asia to join
Lucullus, hearing of the distress of the Romans, hastened to
their relief, and appearing unexpectedly on the neighbour-
P O N T U S.
Defeat of
Tnarius.
ing hill, struck such terror into the enemy, that they raised
the siege, and made the best of their way into Cappadocia.
Triarius pursued them, and got so near that the two aimies
were separated only by a river. Here he halted, with a
design to pass the river after he had allowed his men some
rest, for they were tired out with long marches. But. Mi-
thridates was beforehand with him, and crossing the river
on a bridge, where he had placed a strong guard, attacked
the Romans with great resolution before they had time to
refresh themselves. The battle was bloody, and the event
doubtful, till the bridge breaking down with the weight of
the multitude that passed, the king’s troops who had en¬
gaged, relying chiefly upon their numbers, began to lose
courage, seeing they could receive no further assistance ;
and the Romans charging them with fresh vigour, they
betook themselves to flight. After this engagement, as
winter came on, both armies were glad to retire into winter
quarters.
During the winter, Mithridates raised new forces ; and
having received considerable supplies from Tigranes, took
the field early in the spring, in hopes of driving the Romans
quite out of Pontus, before Lucullus, who had work enough
upon his hands in Armenia, could come to their assistance.
With this view he marched straight against Triarius and
Sornatius, to whom Lucullus had committed the care and
defence of that province ; and finding them encamped near
the city of Gaziursa, he proffered them battle, which they
declined. He then set a strong detachment to besiege a
castle where the Romans had left all their baggage, hoping
they would rather venture an engagement to relieve the
place than lose all they had with so much toil and labour ob¬
tained during the war. Neither was he disappointed in his
hopes; for though Triarius intended to keep close in his
camp till the arrival of Lucullus, whom he daily expected,
having acquainted him with the danger, the soldiers, hear¬
ing that the castle was besieged, declared in a tumultuous
manner, that if he did not lead them they would march to
the relief of the place without his permission. Triarius being
thus forced by his own men to fight, drew out his forces
against the king, whose army wras three times his number;
but wdiilst they were upon the point of engaging, both ar¬
mies were forced, by a violent storm, to retire to their re¬
spective camps. Triarius having, however, that very day re¬
ceived intelligence of the approach of Lucullus, and fearing
he would snatch the victory from his hands, resolved to
make a bold push, and next morning by break of day to at¬
tack the king in his camp. If he conquered, the glory, he
thought, would be entirely his own ; if he were overcome,
the enemy could reap no great advantage from his victory,
Lucullus being at hand with a powerful army. The king
was surprised, but putting himself at the head of a few
troops of his guards, he sustained the shock of the Romans
till the rest of his army came to his relief, and attacked the
enemy with such fury, that the Roman infantry were forced
to give way, and driven into a morass, where they were sur¬
rounded, and great numbers of them cut in pieces.
The cavalry were likewise put to flight, and pursued with
great slaughter, till a Roman centurion in the king’s ser¬
vice, pitying his countrymen, attempted to kill him. The
king’s hie was saved by his breastplate ; but as he received
a deep wound in the thigh, he was obliged to discontinue
the pursuit himself, and those who were about him caused
the retreat to be sounded, which, as it was unexpected, oc¬
casioned great confusion in the army. The centurion was
immediately cut in pieces; but the Roman horse, getting
the start of the enemy, found means to make their escape.
Above seven thousand of the Romans were killed in that
battle ; amongst whom were one hundred and fifty centu¬
rions and twenty-iour tribunes, the greatest number of offi¬
cers that had ever before fallen in any engagement. Mith-
ndates being cured of his wound, in order that he might not
in future be exposed to such dangers, caused the Romans Pontus.
who served in his army to be formed into one body, as if'-—v-w
they were to be sent out on a party; and then ordered
them to retire to their tents, where they were all to a man
cut in pieces.
The king, how ever elated with success, yet would not en¬
gage Lucullus ; but by long marches hastened into Arme¬
nia Minor, and encamped on a hill near the town of Talaura,
expecting Tigranes, who was advancing with a strong army
to join him. Lucullus, in pursuit of Mithridates, marched
over the field of battle, leaving those unburied who had
fallen in the engagement, which alienated the minds of the
soldiery ; and they began to be very mutinous, being stir¬
red up by Appius Claudius, whom Lucullus had turned out
of his command for his vile behaviour, notwithstanding he
was a near connection, Lucullus having married his sister.
The discontent that prevailed in the army rose to such a
height that Lucullus was obliged to remain in his camp all
that summer; the soldiers declaring, in a mutinous manner,
that they would not follow him any longer, nor serve under
a general who refused to share the booty with them.
These complaints, and the general discontent which reign Lucullus
ed in the army, obliged the senate to recall Lucullus, and recalled,
appoint Manius Acilius Glabrio, consul of that year, in his
room. Glabrio, on arriving in Bithynia, gave notice by pub¬
lic criers to all the cities, that the senate had discharged
Lucullus and his army, and confiscated his goods, for pro¬
tracting the war and refusing to comply with their injunc¬
tions. Lucullus was accordingly abandoned by the greater
part of his army, and forced to retire into Galatia, not be¬
ing in a condition to make head against the joint forces of
the two kings, who, laying hold of that opportunity, reco¬
vered the best part of Pontus, Bithynia, Cappadocia, and
Armenia Minor. For although Glabrio had hastened into
Pontus, as if he had intended to engage the enemy and rob
Lucullus of the victory, yet, upon the first news of the ap¬
proach of the two kings, he thought fit to retire and leave
the country open on all sides to the enemy.
When this became known at Rome, a law was enacted Pompey
there by C. Manilius, a tribune of the people, whereby the
management of the war against Mithridates and Tigranes, ^ate>,
and likewise the provinces of Cilicia, then under Quintus
Marcius, and of Bithynia under Glabrio, were committed
to Pompey. By the same law he was continued in that un¬
limited power by sea, with which he had been invested when
he first set out against the pirates of Cilicia. In virtue ot
this law, Pcmpey, who had then just ended the war with
the Cilician pirates, took upon him the command of the
army, and directed the allies of the Roman people to join
him with all possible expedition. But before he took the
field, he renewed the alliance which Sylla and Lucullus had
concluded with Phrahates king of Parthia; and then sent
friendly proposals to Mithridates, who at first seemed in¬
clined to give ear to them, and accordingly despatched an
ambassador to the Roman army to treat of a peace. Pom¬
pey required of him, if he was in earnest, to lay down his
arms, and deliver up to him all those who had revolted from
the Romans during the war. This demand was no sooner
reported abroad in the king’s camp, than the deserters, who
were very numerous in the king’s army, betaking themselves
to their arms, threatened to put Mithridates himself to
death ; ami would have occasioned a great disturbance, had
not the king appeased the growing tumult, by assuring them
that he had sent ambassadors, not to treat of a peace, but
only, under pretence of suing for peace, to take a near view
of the enemy’s strength. He moreover obliged himself, by
a solemn oath, in presence of the whole army, never to en¬
ter into any treaty of friendship with the Romans, nor to
deliver up to them such as had ever served under him.
Pompey finding his proposals rejected, advanced against
the king with an army of thirty thousand foot and twenty
P O N T U S.
357
ie king
I sieged.
Pontus. thousand horse, as Plutarch writes, or thirty thousand, all
—chosen troops, as we read in Appian ; for he discharged
is propo- most 0f those who had served under Glabrio and Lucul-
bv Atith- lus* he entered Galatia, he was met by Lucullus, who
iates. endeavoured to persuade him to march back, the war be¬
ing nearly finished, and even deputies sent by the repub¬
lic to settle the province of Pontus ; but not being able to
prevail with him, after mutual complaints against each other,
they parted; and Pompey removing his camp, command¬
ed the troops that were with Lucullus to join him, except
sixteen hundred, whom he left to attend Lucullus in his
triumph. Lucullus then set out for Rome, where he was
received by the senate with great marks of esteem, most
men thinking him highly injured by the authors of the Mani-
lian law\ Pompey pursued his march into Pontus ; but find¬
ing that he could not by any means induce the king to risk
a battle, he marched back into Armenia Minor, with a design
either to reduce that province, or oblige Mithridates to ven¬
ture a battle in order to relieve it. Mithridates followed him
at some distance, and entering Armenia, encamped over
against the Romans, on a hill, where, by intercepting their
convoys, he reduced them to such distress that they were
obliged to remove to a more convenient place; the king
cutting off many in their rear, and harassing them with fre-
quent attacks, till he fell into an ambuscade prepared by
Pompey, whose personal courage and prudent conduct on
that occasion confirmed the king in his resolution not to
hazard a general engagement. The two armies encamped
over against each other ; Pompey on one hill, and the king
on another, near the city of Dastira, in the province of Aci-
silene, at a small distance from the Euphrates, which divides
Cisilene from Armenia Minor.
Here Pompey, seeing he could neither draw the king to
a battle, nor force his camp, which was pitched on a steep
and craggy mountain, began to block him up with a ditch,
which he carried round the bottom of the hill where the
king was encamped ; and meeting with no opposition, he
finished his work, thus cutting off the enemy’s communica¬
tion with the country. Pompey was amazed to see the king
thus tamely suffer himself to be shut up, and could not help
saying, that he was either a great fool or a great coward ; a
fool, if he did not apprehend the danger ; and a coward, if,
being apprised of it, he did not to the utmost of his power
endeavour to prevent it. By this ditch, which was one hun¬
dred and fifty furlongs in circuit, and defended by many
forts raised at small distances from each other, the king wras
so closely besieged, that he could neither send out parties to
forage, nor receive the supplies that came to him from Pon¬
tus. He was thus besieged for the space of forty-five or fifty
days, and his army reduced to such straits, that, having con¬
sumed all their provisions, they were at last forced to live
on their dead horses. Mithridates therefore resolved at all
events to break through the Roman fortifications; and ac¬
cordingly, having put to the sword all those who were sick
or disabled, that they might not fall into the enemy’s hands,
he attacked in the dead of the night the Roman guards, and
having overpowered them with numbers, got safe into the
open fields, and continued his march till night towards Ar¬
menia Major, where he was expected by Tigranes.
tlu-idates Pompey next morning by break of day pursued the ene¬
my with his whole army; and having with difficulty over¬
taken them, found the king encamped on a hill, to which
there was but one ascent, and that guarded by a strong
body of infantry. The Romans encamped opposite them ;
but Pompey, fearing the king would make his escape in the
night-time, decamped privately, and taking the same route
the enemy were to hold in order to gain Armenia, possessed
himself of all the eminences and defiles through which the
king was to pass. Mithridates, thinking that Pompey had
returned to his former camp, pursued his march, and about
the dusk of the evening entered a narrow valley, which was
Waken
d defeat
surrounded on all sides by Steep hills. On these hills the Pontus.
Romans lay concealed, expecting the signal to fall upon the -v—-
enemy, and attack them upon all sides at once, whilst they
were fatigued by their march, and apparently in great se¬
curity. Pompey was at first for delaying the attack till the
next morning, thinking it not safe to engage in the night¬
time amongst such steep and craggy mountains ; but he was
at last prevailed upon, by the earnest prayers and entreaties
of all the chief officers of the army, to fall upon the enemy
that very night. It was therefore agreed, that in the dead
of the night all the trumpets should at once sound the
charge, that this signal should be followed by an universal
shout of the whole army, and that the soldiers should make
what noise they could, by striking their spears against the
brass vessels that were used in the camp. The king’s army,
at this sudden and unexpected noise, which was echoed
again by the mountains, imagined at first that the gods
themselves were come down from heaven to destroy them ;
and the Romans charging them on all sides with showers
of stones and arrows from the tops of the hills, they took
themselves to flight; but finding all the passes beset with
strong bodies of horse and foot, they were forced to fly
back into the valley, where, for many hours together, they
wrere exposed to the enemy’s missiles, without being able,
in the confusion, either to attack them or defend themselves.
They attempted indeed to make some resistance when the
moon rose; but the Romans running down upon them from
the hills, did not give them time to form in order, and the
place w'as so narrow that they had not room even to make
use of their swords. The king on that occasion lost ten
thousand men according to Appian, and forty thousand ac¬
cording to Eutropius and others. On Pompey’s side there
fell between twenty and thirty private men, and two cen¬
turions.
Mithridates, at the head of eight hundred horse, broke Distress of
through the Roman army, and being after this effort aban- Mithrida-
doned by all the rest, because they were closely pursued te6‘
by the enemy, he travelled all night, attended by three per¬
sons only, viz. his wife or his concubine, Hypsicratia, his
daughter Dripetine, and an officer. At day-break he fell in
with a body of mercenary cavalry, and three thousand infan¬
try, who were marching to join him. By these he was es¬
corted to the castle of Sinoria, situated on the borders of the
two Armenias. As great part of his treasures was lodged
here, he rewarded very liberally those who accompanied him
in his flight ; and taking six thousand talents, withdrew into
Armenia. As soon as he passed the borders, he despatched
ambassadors to Tigranes, acquainting him of his arrival;
but that prince, who was then on the point of concluding
a separate peace with the Romans, clapped his ambassadors
in irons, pretending that his son Tigranes had, at the insti¬
gation of Mithridates, revolted first to the Parthians, and
then to the Romans. Mithridates finding himself thus
abandoned, even by his son-in-law, left Armenia ; and di¬
recting his course towards Colchis, which was subject to
him, and not as yet invaded by the Romans, passed the
Euphrates the fourth day, and got safe into his own terri¬
tories.
Pompey sent out several parties in pursuit of the king, His flight
but remained himself with the main body of the army inScy¬
the field of battle, where he built a city, calling it, from that
remarkable victory, Nicopolis. This city, with the adjoining tries
territory, he bestowed upon such of his soldiers as were old
or disabled ; and many flocking to it from the neighbouring
countries, it in a short time became a very considerable
place. This battle was certainly attended with very fatal
consequences for Mithridates, who, his army being either
entirely cut off or dispersed, was forced to abandon his own
dominions, and fly for shelter to the most remote parts ot
Scythia. Pompey having concluded a peace with 1 igranes,
and settled the affairs of that kingdom, began his march in
358
P O N T U S.
Pontus. pursuit of Mithridates through those countries which are si-
's-“-—tuated near the Caucasus. The barbarous nations through
which he passed, chiefly the Albanians and Iberians, at¬
tempted to stop his march, but were soon put to flight.. The
excessive cold and the deep roads, however, obliged him to
pass the winter near the river Cyrus. Early in the spring
he pursued his march ; but meeting writh great opposition
from the Iberians, a warlike nation, and entirely devoted to
Mithridates, most part of the summer was spent in reducing
them to subjection. In the mean time, Mithridates, who
had wintered at Dioscurias, on the isthmus between the
Euxine and Caspian Seas, and had there been joined by
such of his troops as had made their escape from the hate
unfortunate battle, continued his flight through the countries
of the Achseans, Zygians, Heniochians, Cercetans, Moschi-
ans, and Colchians. Of these nations some received him
kindly, and even entered into alliance with him; whilst he
was forced to fight his way through others with the sword.
Pompey’s Pompey took the same route, directing his course by the
further stars, especially in the northern parts of Scythia, and even
conquests. carrying wnh him a supply of water for the army in the vast
deserts through which he marched. He spent two years
in warring with these nations, and was often in danger of
losing both his life and his army. But at last he overcame
them all; and believing Mithridates, of whom he could ob¬
tain no account, to be dead, he marched back into Arme¬
nia Minor, where he allowed some rest to his soldiers, who
were quite worn out with the hardships they had endured
in the expedition. Having refreshed his army, he marched
into Pontus to reduce some strongholds which were still
garrisoned by the king’s troops. Whilst he was at Aspis in
Pontus, many of the king’s concubines were brought to him ;
but he sent them all home to their parents, without offering
them the least injury, and thereby gained the affections of
the chief lords of Pontus, whose daughters they were. The
strong castle of Symphori was delivered up to him by Stra-
tonix, one of the king’s concubines, upon no other terms
than that he would spare her son Xiphares, who was with
the king, in case he should fall into his hands. She like¬
wise discovered to him treasures hidden under ground,
which he, with great generosity, bestowed upon her, re¬
serving for himself only some vessels to set off his triumph.
Having taken another fort, called the New Castle, hitherto
regarded as impregnable, he found in it great store of gold,
silver, and other valuable things, which he afterwards con¬
secrated to Jupiter Capitolinus. Here, in looking over the
king’s manuscripts, he came to discover where the rest of
his treasures were concealed, what troops he could raise and
maintain, and what sums were yearly paid him by his sub¬
jects and tributaries, so that he could form a true estimate
of his whole power and wealth. Amongst other manu¬
scripts, he found some books of physic, written by Mithri¬
dates himself, which he commanded Lenaeas, a learned gram¬
marian, to translate into Latin.
Mitlirida- Pompey having thus reduced all Pontus, marched into
t«s appears Syria with a design to recover that kingdom, and, passing
b?ad of a!'0 throuS^ Arabia, to penetrate as far as the Red Sea. But
annv 1 whilst he was employed in this expedition, accounts were
brought him that Mithridates, whom he believed to be dead,
had appeared unexpectedly in Pontus at the head of a con¬
siderable army, and surprised Panticapaeum, a famous empo¬
rium at the mouth of the Euxine Sea. All this time he had
lain concealed in the territories of a Scythian prince, ad¬
joining to the Palus Mceotis; but hearing that Pompey had
left Pontus, and was engaged in other wars, he ventured out
of his hiding-place, resolved either to recover his paternal
kingdom, or perish in the attempt. He returned privately
into Pontus, and managed matters there so dexterously that
the Roman garrisons knew nothing of his arrival till he ap¬
peared with a considerable army in the field. He advanced
first to the castle of Symphori; and understanding that Stra-
tonix had delivered it up to Pompey, on condition that he Pontus.
would save the life of her son in case he should take him ‘ ■*“
prisoner, the king immediately caused the youth, who was
in his army, to be put to death, and his body to be left un¬
buried ; Stratonix beholding from the walls the cruel and
unnatural murder, for he was her son by Mithridates, and
had served him with great fidelity. At the same time he
sent ambassadors to Pompey to treat of a peace, offering
to pay a yearly tribute to the republic, upon condition of
being restored to his kingdom. Pompey replied, that he
would hearken to no proposals whatsoever, unless the king
came to treat with him in person, as Tigranes had done.
But this Mithridates looked upon as nowise consistent with
his dignity, and therefore, laying aside all thoughts of an ac¬
commodation, he began to make what preparations he could
for renewing the war.
He summoned all his subjects who were able to bear Recovers
arms to meet at an appointed place ; and having chosen out several
of the whole multitude sixty cohorts, each consisting of a Place£*
hundred men, he incorporated them with the regular troops
that were already on foot. Being now in a condition to act
offensively, for Pompey had left but a small number ot
troops in Pontus, he possessed himself of Phanagorium,
Chersonesus, Theodosia, Nymphseum, and several other im¬
portant places. But, in the mean time, Castor, whom Mi¬
thridates had appointed governor of Phanagorium, falling
out with Tripho, one of the king’s favourite eunuchs, killed
him, and, dreading the king’s resentment, stirred up the
inhabitants to a revolt. By this means Phanagorium was
again lost; but the castle, which was defended by four of
the king’s sons, Artaphernes, Darius, Xerxes, and Oxathres,
held out for some time. The king hastened to their relief;
but the castle being set on fire by the rebels, they were
forced to surrender to Castor before his arrival. These
four sons, with one of the king’s daughters, by name Cleo¬
patra, Castor sent to the Romans ; and fortifying himself in
the town, persuaded most of the neighbouring cities, which
were oppressed with heavy taxes, and greatly harassed by
the king’s collectors, to join in the rebellion.
Mithridates finding that he could neither rely upon the Disconteiit
soldiery, most of whom were forced into the service, nor on !>u
his other subjects, who were dissatisfied by reason of the^
exorbitant taxes, sent ambassadors to invite the princes of
Scythia to come to his relief, and with them his daughters, to
be bestowed in marriage on such as showed themselves most
inclined to assist him. But as the ambassadors he employ¬
ed on this occasion were eunuchs, a race of men no less ab¬
horred by the army than favoured by the king, over whom
they had a great ascendant, especially in his old age, the
soldiers who were sent to attend them on their journey put
them all to the sword as soon as they were out of the king’s
reach, and delivered his daughters up to the Romans. Mi¬
thridates, finding himself thus deprived of his children, be¬
trayed by his army, and forsaken even by those on whom
he chiefly relied, could not yet be induced to submit to the
Romans, though Pompey promised him honourable condi¬
tions, provided he came to treat with him in person.
In this desperate condition he left no stone unturned to His design
stir up the princes of Asia against the Romans, especially °f
the Parthians ; but finding them awed by the great opinion1 ■'
they all had of Pompey, he had recourse at last to the Eu¬
ropean Gauls, whom he understood to be at war with the
Romans ; and having sent some of his trusty friends to en¬
gage them in his favour, taking leave of his own kingdom,
he began his long march, designing to pass through Bospho¬
rus Cimmerius, Scythia, and Pannonia, and, joining the Gauls,
to pass the Alps, and invade Italy. This design was no
sooner known in the army, than the soldiers openly began
to complain and mutiny ; exaggerating the boldness of the
attempt, the length of the march, and the insurmountable
difficulties which must necessarily attend such a desperate
P O N T U S.
359
pontus* enterprise. The chief commanders did all that lay in their
power to divert him from it; representing to him, that if he
was not able to cope with the Romans in his own kingdom,
much less would he be a match for them in Italy or Gaul,
where they could daily receive new supplies; whereas he
would lose the greater part of his army in so long and dif¬
ficult a march, and the rest, perhaps, in the first engage¬
ment, without any possibility of repairing the loss. But all
was to no purpose. They found him so unalterably fixed
in his resolution, that he caused those to be put to death
who with most warmth remonstrated against it, not sparing
even his own son Exipodras, for dropping some unguarded
expressions on that occasion. Thus they were forced to
let him pursue his owrn measures, until they found a more
proper opportunity to oppose them, which soon afterwards
presented itself, as they were encamped at Bosphorus Cim-
merius, on their march into Scythia,
levolt of Here Pharnaces, the king’s favourite son, whom he had
is son appointed to succeed him, observing the general discontent
hamaces. reigned in the army, began to entertain thoughts of
placing the crown on his own head ; and not doubting but
the soldiery would stand by him, if he declared against the
intended expedition into Italy, openly protested amongst
the Roman deserters, who were a considerable part of the
army, that if they would follow him he would return into
Pontus. The Romans, who were well apprised of the dan¬
ger that attended such an undertaking, and had most of all
exclaimed against it, promised to support him to the utmost
of their power, and even encouraged him to assume the
title of king, a title which his father seemed determined to
hold till he had destroyed, by his rash and desperate at¬
tempts, himself, his friends, and his army. Pharnaces, find¬
ing he could depend upon the Romans, engaged the same
night most of the principal commanders in his party, and
by their means the greater part of the soldiery. It was
agreed, that next morning by break of day all those who
had declared in his favour should appear in arms, and with
a loud shout proclaim Pharnaces king. This was accord¬
ingly done, and the shout returned even by those persons
whom Pharnaces had not thought proper to let into the se¬
cret. The king, who had taken up his quarters in the city,
being awakened by the noise, sent out some of his domes¬
tics to ascertain what had happened in the army. Neither
did the officers or soldiers dissemble the matter, but boldly
answered, that they had chosen a young king instead of an
old dotard governed by eunuchs.
Hereupon Mithridates, mounting on horseback, and at¬
tended by his guards, went out to appease the tumult; but
his guards forsaking him, and his horse being killed under
him, he was obliged to fly back into the city, whence he
sent several of his attendants one after another to desire of
his son a safe-conduct for himself and his friends. But as
none of the messengers returned, some being slain, and
others siding writh the new king, Mithridates endeavoured
to move his son to compassion, by signifying to him from the
walls the distressed condition to which he was reduced by
a son whom he had favoured above the rest of his children ;
but finding him nowise affected by this speech, turning to
the gods, he beseeched them with many tears to make his
son know one day by experience the grief and agony which
a father must feel in seeing his love and tenderness requited
with such base and monstrous ingratitude. Having thus spo¬
ken, he thanked in a very obliging manner those who had
stood by him to the last, and exhorted them to make their
submission to the new king on the best terms they could
procure; adding, that as for himself, he was determined
not to outlive the rebellion of a son whom he had always
distinguished with particular marks of paternal affection,
itli of After this, he withdrew into the apartment of his wives
Urida- an(j concubines, where he first took poison himself, and
then presented it to them, and to his favourite daughters
Mithridatis and Nissa, who not long before had been be- Pontus.
trothed to the kings of Egypt and Cyprus. To the women
it proved immediate death ; but on the king, who from his
infancy had inured his constitution to poisonous potions, it
had so slow an operation, that he was forced, through fear of
falling into the rebels’ hands, to recur to his sword. Neither
did the wound, as he was greatly weakened by the poison,
prove mortal; so that the rebels, having in the mean time
stormed the town, and broken into the house, found the
king wallowing in his blood, but still alive, and in his senses.
Pharnaces, hearing this, sent some of those that were about
him to dress his wounds, with a design to deliver him up
to the Romans, and thereby ingratiate himself with Pom-
pey. But, in the mean time, a Gaul, who had served in
the army, by name Bitmtus, or Bithocus, entering the king’s
room in quest of booty, and being touched with compassion
at seeing him forsaken by all his friends, and struggling on
the bare ground in the agonies of death, drawing his sword,
put an end to his misery, and thus prevented the insults
which he apprehended if he should fall alive into his son’s
hands. The barbarian, when he first saw the king, is said
to have been so awed by the majesty of his countenance,
that, forgetful of his booty, he fled out of the room; but
being called back, and earnestly entreated by the dying
prince to put an end to his misery, he summoned all his
courage to perform that office, which he did with a trembling
hand ; and immediately retired without touching anything
that belonged to the king, though the hope of a rich booty
was the only motive that had led him thither.
Pompey, who was at that time engaged in a war with the Excessive
Jews, received the first notice of the death of Mithridates,joy of the
as he was on his march to Jerusalem. The messenger who R°nians at
brought the joyful tidings was sent by Pharnaces, and ap-^s ^ea^1-
peared unexpectedly before Pompey with the branch of a
laurel, as was customary on the like occasions, twisted round
the head of his javelin. When he heard what had happen¬
ed at Panticapaeum, he was so impatient to impart it to the
soldiery, that he could not even wait until they had raised
him a mount of turf from which to address the army, ac¬
cording to the custom of the camp, but ordered those who
were beside him to form a kind of mount with their saddles ;
and from thence he acquainted the soldiery that Mithridates
had laid violent hands on himself, and that his son Phar¬
naces was ready to acknowledge the kingdom as a gift of
the people of Rome, or resign it if they were unwilling he
should reign. This news was received with joyful shouts
by the whole army, and the day solemnized with feasts and
sacrifices throughout the camp, as if in Mithridates alone
all the enemies of the republic had expired. Pompey de¬
spatched without delay a messenger wfith letters to the se¬
nate, acquainting them with the death of Mithridates, and
the submission of his son Pharnaces. When his letters
vrere read, the senators wrere so overjoyed, that, at the pro¬
posal of Cicero, then consul, they appointed twelve days
for returning due thanks to the gods, who had delivered
them from such an insulting and powerful enemy: and the
tribunes of the people enacted a law, by which Pompey, in
consideration of his eminent service in the Mithridatic war,
was to wear a crown of laurel, with the triumphal gown at the
Circensian games, and a purple gown at the scenical shows.
Pharnaces, when he heard of his father’s death, caused Submis-
his body to be preserved in brine, proposing to present it sive em-
to Pompey, who had promised to return into Pontus after
the reduction of Judaea, and there settle matters to his sa¬
tisfaction. Accordingly, the latter, having taken the city
and temple of Jerusalem, set out with two legions for Pon¬
tus ; and on his arrival at Sinope, he was there met by am¬
bassadors from Pharnaces, acquainting him that their master
had forborne assuming the title of king till his will and plea¬
sure were known ; that he put both himself and the kingdom
entirely into his hands ; and that he w’as willing to attend
360
P O N T U S.
Pontus.
The king¬
dom of
him at any time or place which he might think fit to appoint.
The same ambassadors delivered up to Pompey those who
had taken Manius Aquilius the Roman legate, whom Mith-
ridates had put to a cruel death ; all the prisoners, hostages,
and deserters, whether Romans, Greeks, or barbarians ; and
the body of Mithridates, with his rich apparel and arms,
which were greatly admired by Pompey and the other Ro*
mans. Roth soldiers and officers flocked to see the king s
body; but Pompey declined that sight, saying that all en¬
mity between that great prince and the people of Rome had
ended with his life, and, returning the body to the ambassa¬
dors, caused it to be interred with the utmost pomp and mag¬
nificence amongst his ancestors in the burying-place of the
kings of Pontus, the Roman commander defraying all the
charges of the ceremony. With the body Pompey restored
his wearing apparel and armour ; but the scabbard of his
sword, which cost four hundred talents, was stolen by Rub-
lius, a Roman, and sold to Ariarathes king of Cappadocia;
and his cap or turban, which was a curious piece of work¬
manship, was privately taken by one Caius, who presented
it to Faustus the son of Sylla, in whose house it was kept,
and shown for many years afterwards amongst the rarities
which Sylla had brought out of Asia.
Pompey bestowed the kingdom of Bosphorus on Phar-
naces, and honoured him with the title of friend and ally of
Bosphorus the pe0pie 0f Rome. Pharnaces, being thus acknowledged
<m Phar- king of Bosphorus, sent orders to all the garrisons of Pon-
naces. tus to submit themselves, delivering up the castles and trea¬
sures with which they had been intrusted, to Pompey, who
by that means amassed an immense booty. In the city of
Talaura, which Mithridates used to call his wardrobe, he
found two thousand cups of onyx set in gold, with such store
of gold and silver vessels, of costly furniture, of saddles,
bridles, and trappings, set with jewels and precious stones,
that the Roman commissaries spent thirty days in taking an
inventory of the whole. Nor was this all. In another castle
he found three large tables with nine salvers of massive gold,
enriched with precious stones to an inestimable amount; the
statues of Minerva, Mars, and Apollo, of pure gold and most
curious workmanship ; and a pair of gaming-tables of two
precious stones, three feet broad and four feet long, on
which was a moon of gold weighing thirty pounds, with
their pieces, all of the same precious stone. In a fort si¬
tuated amongst the mountains, were also delivered up to
him the king’s statue of massive gold, eight cubits high, his
throne and sceptre, and the bed of Darius the son of Hys-
taspes. Most of these treasures had been transmitted to
him from his ancestors, chiefly from Darius king of Persia ;
some belonged to the Ptolemies of Egypt, and had been
deposited by Clecpatra in the hands of the Coans, who deli¬
vered them to Mithridates ; and great part of them had been
collected by the king himself, who was very fond of rich
and stately furniture.
Pompey having thus got entire possession of Pontus, and
reduced it to the form of a Roman province, marched into
Asia properly so called; and having wintered at Ephesus,
he early in the spring set out for Italy with a fleet of seven
hundred ships. As he brought over his army with him,
the senate was under no small apprehension lest he should
make himself absolute, and rule without control. But he
had no sooner landed at Brundusium, than he disbanded the
army, without waiting for any decree either of the senate
or people; a proceeding which neither his friends nor his
enemies had expected. His triumph lasted two whole days ;
and although he was attended in his triumphal chariot by
three hundred and twenty-four captives of distinction,
amongst whom were five sons and two daughters of Mith¬
ridates, yet he would not suffer any of them to be put to
death, as had been done by others, but sent them all back,
except such as were of royal extraction, to their respective
countries, and even supplied them with money to defray
the charges of their journey. After his triumph, he deli- Pontus.
vered into the treasury twenty thousand talents, though, at 'v—
the disbanding of the army, he had divided sixteen thou¬
sand talents amongst the tribunes and centurions, two
thousand sestertia amongst the quaestors, and had given to
each soldier fifty sestertia.
Pompey had no sooner left Asia, than Pharnaees fell un- Quarrel of
expectedly upon the Phanagorenses, a people of Bosphorus, Phornace*
whom Pompey had declared free, because they had been the
first to revolt against his father Mithridates, and by their
example had induced others to abandon the king’s party.
Pharnaces besieged their chief city Phanagoria, and kept
them blockaded till, for want of provisions, they were forced
to sally out, and put all to the issue of a battle ; and this
proving unsuccessful, they delivered up themselves and the
city to the conqueror. Some years afterwards, when the
civil war broke out between Ca;sar and Pompey, he laid
hold of that opportunity to recover the provinces which his
father had formerly possessed ; and, having raised a consi¬
derable army, overran Pontus, Colchis, Bithynia, Armenia,
and the kingdom of Moschis, where, as Strabo observes,
he plundered the temple of the goddess Leucothea. He
took the strong and important city of Sinope, but failed to
reduce Amisus. In the mean time, Cmsar, having vanquish¬
ed Pompey and his party, appointed Cn. Domitius Calvinus
governor of Asia, enjoining him to make war upon Pharna¬
ces with the legions which were quartered in that province.
Domitius immediately despatched ambassadors to Pharna¬
ces, commanding him to withdraw his troops from Arme¬
nia and Cappadocia. The king returned for answer, that
he was willing to abandon Cappadocia ; but as to the king¬
dom of Armenia Minor, it was part of his hereditary domi¬
nions, and therefore he would not resign it till he had an
opportunity of laying his pretensions before Caesar himself,
whom he was ready to obey in all things. Hereupon Do¬
mitius, drawing together all the forces he could collect,
marched into Cappadocia, which he recovered without op¬
position, Pharnaces having abandoned it to make a stand
in Armenia, which lay nearer his own dominions. Domi¬
tius pursued him thither, and having overtaken him nearNi-
copolis, found his army drawn up in battle array, and the
king ready to come to an engagement.
As Domitius did not decline the combat, both armies Romans
advanced, and the king, at the head of a chosen body ofdefeated.
men, fell upon the left wing of the Romans, consisting
mostly of raw and undisciplined Asiatics ; and having with
little difficulty put them to flight, he penetrated to the cen¬
tre, where the thirty-fifth legion, after a faint resistance,
gave ground, and, retiring to the neighbouring mountains,
left their allies to shift for themselves. The latter were all
cut off, and Domitius, with the remains of his scattered
army, marched back into Cappadocia, and thence, winter
being now at hand, into the province of Asia. The king,
elated with this victory, and hearing that Caesar, with the
flower of the Roman forces, wTas engaged in the siege of
Alexandria, appointed Asander governor of Bosphorus, and
marched into Cappadocia in pursuit of Domitius, with a
design of invading Asia, and recovering all the provinces
which had once been subdued by his father. Bithynia and
Cappadocia readily submitted; but Armenia the Lesser,
which was held by Dejotarus, made so vigorous a resist¬
ance that he was forced to abandon the enterprise, lest the
Romans should in the mean time strengthen themselves m
Asia, whither he was in haste to march, in hopes of meet¬
ing there with the same success as his father Mithridates
had done. But before he reached that province, he was in¬
formed that Asander had revolted, in hopes of gaining the
favour of the Romans, and obtaining from them the king¬
dom of Bosphorus for himself. At the same time, he received
intelligence that Caesar, having at last reduced Alexandria,
and settled the affairs of Syria, was marching into Armenia.
PON
’mitiis. Pharnaces, being not a little dismayed at this news, imme-
-~v"w'diately despatched ambassadors to sue for peace, hoping that
outwit C0esar’ who was liastening into Italy with a design to pass
UusC«-int0 Africa’ would willingly listen to any proposals of a pa¬
cific nature. Csesar courteously entertained the ambassa¬
dors ; and though he did not intend to agree to their con¬
ditions, yet, that he might come upon Pharnaces unawares,
he showed himself very desirous of entering into a treaty
of peace. But nevertheless he pursued his march with all
possible expedition; and, arriving on the confines of Pon-
tus, ordered all the troops that were quartered in the neigh¬
bouring provinces to join him ; having brought from Alex¬
andria only one legion, namely, the sixth, and that consist¬
ing of only a thousand men. Besides this veteran legion, he
found at the place of general rendezvous three others, but
all of them very indifferently armed, and worse disciplined.
With these forces, however, such as they were, he advan¬
ced against Pharnaces, who being greatly frightened at his
approach, by reason of the success which had attended him
in all his expeditions, again despatched ambassadors with a
crown of gold, offering him his daughter in marriage, and
promising to do whatever he should require. The ambas¬
sadors took care to let him know, that their master, though
highly obliged to Pompey, yet had never been prevailed
upon to send him any supplies during the civil war, as had
been done by Dejotarus, king of Armenia the Lesser, whom
he had honoured with his friendship. Caesar returned for
answer, that he was willing to conclude a peace with Phar¬
naces, provided he retired without delay from Pontus, re¬
stored all the captives and hostages, whether Romans or
their allies, and give back the goods of the Roman citizens
and publicans which he had seized since he first took up
arms. He added, that as to his not sending supplies to
Pompey, they ought rather to have concealed such an un¬
grateful proceeding of their master, than alleged it as any
merit, since the forsaking of one to whom he was indebted
for his crown bespoke him a man of mean, selfish, and un¬
worthy principles.
Peat of Pharnaces, on the return of his ambassadors, acquainted
irnaces. Caesar that he agreed to the conditions; but finding that
Caesar’s affairs called him into Italy, he required a longer
period of time for the performance of what was stipulated
between them, starting daily new difficulties, in hopes that
Caesar would in the mean time be obliged to depart, and
leave the affairs of Pontus in the same posture in which he
had found them. Caesar, disgusted at these evasions, and
unable any longer to brook the king’s deceitful behaviour,
determined to put himself at the head of his army, and at¬
tack the enemy in his camp when he least expected it. Ac¬
cordingly, having marched out in the night, he came by
break of day in sight of the king’s army ; and uttering these
words, “ Shall this treacherous parricide go unpunished ?”
broke into the camp at the head of a thousand horse. The
king’s chariots, which were armed with scythes, caused
some small disorder amongst Caesar’s horse; but in the
mean time the rest of his army coming up, he put the ene¬
my to flight, and obtained a complete victory. This battle
was fought near the place where Mithridates had routed
with great slaughter the Roman army under the command
of Triarius. Most of the king’s army were either taken or
cut in pieces ; but Pharnaces himself had the good luck to
make his escape whilst the Romans were occupied in plun¬
dering the camp. This victory was so quickly decided, that
Caesar, in a letter to his friend Anitius, at Rome, expressed
it in three words ; “ I came, I saw, I conquered.” He ever
afterwards used to call Pompey a fortunate rather than a
great commander, since he had gained his chief glory in
the Mithridatic war, fighting with so cowardly an enemy.
He divided amongst his soldiers the rich booty and the
spoils of the camp ; and because Mithridates had erected
a trophy near that place as a monument of his victory over
VOL. XVIII.
T U S. gel
Triarius, which, as it was consecrated to the gods, Cmsar Pontus.
did not think lawful to pull down, he set up another over /
against it, to transmit to posterity his victory over Pharna¬
ces. After this victory he recovered and restored to the
allies of the Roman people all the places which Pharnaces
had made himself master of during the war, declared Ami-
sus a free city, and appointed Mithridates Pergamenus king
of Bosphorus instead of Pharnaces.
Having thus settled the affairs of Pontus, he set sail for Death of
Italy, leaving Domitius Calvinus to pursue the war against I’harnaces.
Pharnaces if he should again appear in the field. After the
battle, Pharnaces had retired to Sinope with a thousand
horse, where he was quickly besieged by Domitius, to whom
he surrendered the town, upon no other condition than that
he should be suffered to retire into Bosphorus with the
small body that attended him. This Domitius willingly
granted, but caused all the king’s horses to be killed, since
he had asked a safe conduct only for his horsemen. With
these and a band of Scythians and Sarmatians he attempt¬
ed to recover the kingdom of Bosphorus; but being met
between Theodocia and Panticapseum, both which cities he
had reduced, by Asander, who was still in possession of the
kingdom, a sharp engagement ensued, in which the king’s
men, not being used to fight on foot, were put to flight,
and Pharnaces himself, who remained alone in the field,
was surrounded by the enemy, and cut in pieces, after hav¬
ing reigned in Bosphorus Cimmerius, the kingdom which
Pompey had bestowed upon him, fifteen or sixteen years.
Upon the death of Pharnaces the kingdom of Pontus was Pontus
again reduced into the form of a province, and so continu-ag»in made
ed till the triumvirate of Antony, who, after the battle ofa kingdom
Philippi, conferred it upon Darius the son of Pharnaces, for y n on'r*
his services during the civil war. He continued faithful to
the Romans, but during his reign performed nothing worth
mentioning.
Darius was succeeded in the kingdom by Polemon, who Polemon.
was likewise preferred to that honour by Mark Antony. He
was the son of Zeno, an orator of Laodicea, and greatly fa¬
voured by Antony. From him that part of Pontus which
borders on Cappadocia derived the name of Polemonaicus.
He attended Mark Antony in his expedition against the Par-
thians ; and being taken prisoner in the unsuccessful battle
fought by Statianus, he was sent by the king of the Medes,
an ally of the Parthians, to conclude a peace with the Ro¬
mans. In this embassy he acquitted himself so well that
Antony added the kingdom of Armenia to his other domi¬
nions. In the war between Antony and Augustus he join¬
ed the former; but after the battle of Actium he was re¬
ceived into favour by the latter ; and being sent by Agrip-
pa against Scribonius, who, upon the death of Asander had
usurped the kingdom of Bosphorus, he overcame him, and
reduced the kingdom of Colchis, which was bestowed upon
him by Agrippa, who likewise honoured him with the title
of “ friend and ally of the people of Rome.” He afterwards
waged war with the neighbouring barbarians refusing to
live in subjection to the Romans ; but was overcome, taken,
and put to death, by the Aspungitani, a people bordering
on the Palus Mceotis.
Upon his death, his son Polemon II. was by the Empe-Polemon II.
ror Caligula raised to the throne of Bosphorus and Pontus.
But the emperor obliged him to exchange the kingdom of
Bosphorus for part of Cilicia ; and Nero, with his consent,
reduced that part of Pontus which he enjoyed into the form
of a province. He fell in love with Berenice, daughter of
Agrippa, king of Judaea; and in order to marry her he
embraced the Jewish religion. But as she soon became
tired of his riotous way of living, and returned to her father,
so he renounced his new religion, and again embraced the
superstitions of paganism. Polemon dying without issue,
the ancient kingdom of Pontus was parcelled out into se¬
veral provinces, and added to those of Bithynia, Galatia,
362 PON
Pontypool and Cappadocia, that part of it only which was called Pon-
II tus Polemonaicus retaining the dignity of a distinct and se-
Ponza. rate province. During the civil discords between Ves-
'   ' !)asian and Yitellius, Anicetus, first a slave, afterwards freed-
man of Polemon, and lastly commander ot the royal navy,
took up arms with the design of rescuing the kingdom from
the Roman yoke; and, being joined by great multitudes
drawn together by the prospect of spoil, overran the coun¬
try, and possessed himself of Irapesund, a city founded by
the Grecians on the utmost confines of Pontus. Here he
cut in pieces a cohort formed of the inhabitants, but which
had been formerly invested with the privilege of Roman
citizens. He likewise burned the fleet, and, Mucianus hav¬
ing called to Byzantium most of the Roman galleys, swept
the seas. Hereupon Vespasian, who at that time was in
Syria, sent Verdius Gemnius into Pontus with a chosen body
of auxiliaries from the legions. The latter having assailed
the enemy whilst they were in disorder, and roaming about
in pursuit of prey, drove them into their vessels then with
some galleys chased Anicetus' into the mouth of the rivei
Chobus, where he thought himself safe under the protec¬
tion of Sedochus, king of the Lazians, whose alliance he had
purchased by large sums and rich presents. Sedochus at
first refused to deliver him up to the Romans; but was
soon prevailed upon, partly by threats, and partly by presents,
to surrender both him and all the other fugitives who had
taken sanctuary in his dominions. Thus ended that servile
war ; and the kingdom of Pontus continued to be a province
of the empire till the time of David and Alexis Comnenus,
who being driven from Constantinople by the French and
the Venetians in the year 1204, under the command of Bald¬
win earl of Flanders, settled, the one at Heraclea, and the
other at Trebisond. The troubles which arose amongst
the Latins gave Alexis Coranenus an opportunity of erect¬
ing here a new empire, which comprehended great part of
Pontus, and was known by the name of the Empire of 1 re-
bisond. The Comneni held it about 250 years, till the time
of Mahommed II. who carried David Comnenus, the last
emperor of Trebisond, prisoner to Constantinople, in the
year 1462, with all his family, and subjected his empire to
that of Constantinople.
PONTYPOOL, a market-town of the county of Mon¬
mouth, in the parish of Trevethan, and hundred of Aber¬
gavenny, 150 miles from London. It is situated at the foot
of a range of hills profusely rich in coal and iron. It was
formerly celebrated for its japan ware; but that trade has
been in some degree superseded by similar manufactures at
Birmingham, whilst the trade in iron and coal has vastly
extended, and increased the population within the last forty
years. The population of the whole parish amounted in
1801 to 1472, in 1811 to 2423, in 1821 to 3931, and in
1831 to 10,280.
PONZA, or Pontia, is the name of a small island of the
Tuscan Sea, well known as the place to which many illustri¬
ous Romans were banished. It is situated on the coast of
Italy, near Terracina, and in the neighbourhood of other
small islands or rocks. All these islands were visited by Sir
William Hamilton in the year 1785 ; and an account of his
journey is given in a letter to Sir Joseph Banks, which
appeared in the Philosophical Transactions (vol. Ixxvi. p.
365). Sir William arrived at Ponza on the 20th of August;
and, according to his account, it is situated about thirty miles
from \ entotienne. On the 21st he went round it in a
boat. Its length is about five miles, but its breadth is no¬
where above half a mile, and in some places not more than
five hundred feet. It is surrounded by a multitude of de¬
tached rocks, some of them very high, and most of them
composed of a compact lava. There are many irregularly-
formed basalts, but none in large columns. In some places
they have a reddish tinge, from iron ochre, are very small,
and irregularly laid over one another. Some stand perpendi-
P O 0
cularly, others obliquely, and some lie horizontally. The Poogu
.rocks themselves in which these masses are found are lava II
of the same nature with the basalts. At first sight they ,
appear like the ruins of ancient Roman brick or tile build-
ings. One rock is composed of large spherical basalts, and
in other places our author found the lava inclined to take
the like spherical form, though on a much smaller scale,
some of the former basalts being nearly two feet in diameter.
All these rocks, in our author’s opinion, have been detach¬
ed by the sea from this island, which is entirely composed
of volcanic matter, lavas, and tufas of various qualities and
colours, as green, yellow, black, and white. Some of these
matters are more compact in their texture than others ; and
in some parts great tracts seem to have undergone similar
operations, which still subsist at a spot called the Pisciarelli,
on the outside of the Solfatara, near Puzzoli, and where a
hot sulphureous vitriolic acid vapour converts all which it
penetrates, whether lavas, tufas, volcanic ashes, or pumice-
stones, into a pure clay, mostly white, or with a tint of red,
blue, green, or yellow.
In one part of this island there is a sort of tufa remark¬
ably good for the purpose of building. It is as hard as
Bath-stone, and nearly of the same colour, without any mix¬
ture of lava or pumice-stone, which usually abounds in the
tufas of Naples, Baiae, and Puzzoli.
The island of Palmarole, which is about four miles from
Ponza, is not much more than a mile in circumference. It
is composed of the same volcanic matter, and probably was
once a part of Ponza; but, in our author’s opinion, it looks
as if the island of Zannone, which lies about the same dis¬
tance from Ponza, was once likewise a part of the same ;
for many rocks of lava rise above water in a line between
the two last-mentioned islands, and the water there is much
more shallow than in the Gulf of Terracina.
Zannone is much larger and higher than Palmarole, and
the half of it next the continent is composed of a limestone
similar to that of the Apennines near it, whilst the other
half is composed of lavas and tufas, resembling in every
other respect the soil of the islands just described. Neither
Palmarole nor Zannone are inhabited; but the latter fur¬
nishes abundance of brushwood for the use of the inhabi¬
tants of Ponza, whose number, including the garrison,
amounts to near 1700. The uninhabited island of St Ste-
fano in like manner furnishes wood for the people of Ven-
totienne. It is probable that all these islands and rocks
may in time be levelled by the action of the sea. Ponza,
in its present state, is the mere skeleton of a volcanic island ;
little more than its hard or vitrified parts remaining, and
these seem to be slowly and gradually mouldering away. The
governor of the castle of Ponza, who had resided there fif¬
ty-three years, informed our author that the island was still
subject to earthquakes; that there had been one violent shock
there about four years before, and that the most violent one
he ever felt was on the very day and at the very hour when
Lisbon was destroyed. Two houses out of three which were
then on the island were thrown dowrn. “ This,” says our
author, “ seems to prove that the volcanic matter which gave
birth to these islands is not exhausted.”
POOGUL, a small town of Hindustan, in the province of
Mooltan and district of Bikaneer, in the midst of a sandy
desert. It has several brackish wells, and some reservoirs
of good rain-water vaulted over with brick, from the sale ot
which to travellers parched with thirst the inhabitants derive
a precarious income. They also rear camels and a few goats.
It is twenty-four miles north-west of Bikaneer.
POOL, a seaport of the county of Dorset, within the
hundred of Cogdean, and a county of itself, 106 miles from
London. It is situated on a peninsula stretching into a
large estuary at the mouth of the river Froome; and ves¬
sels drawing sixteen feet water can approach the quays.
The mouth of the estuary is defended by a castle on the
Poole
POO
island of Browsea; and near it, in Studland Bay, as well
as in Swanage Bay, there is good anchorage. The chief
pursuits are the fishery and the trade with Newfound¬
land, that give occupation to more than 200 sail of ves¬
sels, which repair to that island and load with salted cod and
other fish, a few for England, but mostly for the ports of
Spain, Portugal, and the Mediterranean; and the latter
return with the productions of the several countries where
they sell their fish. There is, besides, a considerable coast¬
ing trade, especially for coals; and within the estuary and
under the port, at a place called Russell’s Quay, the greater
part of the best pipe-clay, which is dug near it, is shipped for
the use of the manufacturers of china and pottery in Staf¬
fordshire. It must have been a considerable port in the
time of the Romans, as one of their roads may be traced
from Winchester to Pool. The town is incorporated, and
is governed by a mayor, who is an admiral within the port,
and holds an admiralty court, a recorder, sheriffs, and aider-
men, together with eighteen councillors. Till of late years
one of the judges on the western circuit went to Pool to try
criminals, but they are now tried at Dorchester. The town
returns two members to parliament. The markets are held
on Monday and Thursday. The old part of the town is ill
built, but many houses recently erected are good. The
population amounted in 1801 to 4761, in 1811 to 4816, in
1821 to 6390, and in 1831 to 6459.
POOLE, Matthew, a very learned writer in the seven¬
teenth century, was born at York in 1624. He was edu¬
cated at Emmanuel College, Cambridge, and afterwards in¬
corporated in the university of Oxford. He succeeded Dr
Anthony Tuckney in the rectory of St Michael de Quern,
in London, about 1648. In 1658 he set on foot a project
for maintaining youths of great parts at the universities, and
was honoured with the approbation of the heads of houses
in both of them. He solicited the affair with so much vi¬
gour, that in a short time L.900 per annum was procured
for that purpose ; but this design was laid aside at the Re¬
storation. In 1662 he was ejected from his living for non¬
conformity. He was ten years employed in composing his
Synopsis Criticorum ; and, besides this great work, he pub¬
lished several other pieces. When Titus Oates’s depositions
concerning the popish plot were printed, our author found
his name in the list of those who were to be cut off, so that
he was obliged to retire to Holland, where he died in 1679,
leaving behind him the character of a very able critic and
casuist.
POONAH, a city of Hindustan, in the province of Be-
japore, and capital of the peshwa, the chief of the Mahratta
state. Situated about thirty miles to the east of the Ghauts,
it is an open and defenceless town, covering little more than
two square miles, and indifferently built, so that it has rather
the appearance of a large village than that of a town. It
has long and narrow streets, and the houses are indifferently
built; the better sort are raised with large blocks of gra¬
nite to the height of about fourteen feet, after which the
superstructure is composed of timber frames, with slight
brick-walls. The ordinary houses are only one story high,
with tiled roofs. The lime which cements the bricks and
tiles is so bad, that the rain washes away any building that
does not depend on timber for its support. There is an an¬
cient palace or castle, in which the peshwa’s brother and
other members of the family reside; it is surrounded by
high and thick brick walls, with round towers at the angles,
and has only one entrance through a pointed arch. Here
the peshwa assembles the Brahmins, to whom he gives alms
at the great feast when the rainy season terminates, and
who are accustomed on this occasion to beg their way to
Poonah from all parts of India. The family of the peshwa
have, besides the castle, a modern house for their own resi¬
dence in another part of the town. In 1809 the peshwa
made arrangements for the erection of a palace, to be built
POO
363
by British architects. Poonah was, in the flourishing period Poonah.
of the Mahratta power, a great place of rendezvous tor the
different independent chiefs, with their numerous followers,
in order to consult on the general interests of the confede¬
racy, and, when at war, to settle the plan of operations.
These meetings were held about the middle of October, at
the end of the rainy season, and were sometimes attended
by 400,000 or 500,000 people, who were encamped in the
surrounding plain, and were well supplied with every ne¬
cessary, such as wood, grain, and fodder, which were brought
down the rivers. The inhabitants are w'ell provided from
extensive markets ; and in one long street a great variety
of articles are displayed, such as mirrors, globes, lamps, &c.
The slaughter of kine is prohibited ; and poultry is never
reared or eaten except by the very lowest castes. The
streets are named after mythological personages, with the
addition of worry, which is equivalent to street. Poonah
is situated at the confluence of the Moota with the Moola
River, their union forming the Mootamoola, which runs into
the Beemah; the latter river forms a junction with the
Krishna, and, during the rainy season, a journey by water
may be effected from within seventy-five miles’ distance of
the western coast of India to the Bay of Bengal. The MoOla
washes the city on the north side, where it is two hundred
yards in breadth, and in the dry season very shallow. In
one of the suburbs, called the Sungum, situated on the op¬
posite side of the Moota River, about two miles from the
city, the British ambassador with his suite resides, and
other British subjects. The cantonments for the subsidiary
force are also in this vicinity. Mythological excavations are
found to the eastward of the city, but greatly inferior to those
of Elora and Elephanta. The practice of sacrificing the
widow along with the deceased husband was common at
Poonah, and this cruel and barbarous rite was performed
at the confluence of the Moota and Moola Rivers, held sa¬
cred by the Hindus, and close to the British residency.
The burning of widow s is now' declared a crime by the Bri¬
tish government, and is prevented by the interference of
the civil power; so that these enormities under the name
of religion can no longer be practised under the eye of the
British authorities. The population of Poonah is estimated
at 100,000, on the most moderate computation.
The first notice of Poonah occurs in the early part of the
seventeenth century, when it was included in the jaghire
or estate of Thahjee, father of the famous Sevajee, who
built the palace there for his own residence. In 1740 the
office and the power of the peshwa was usurped by Ba-
jeerow, who having confined his master Ram Rajah to the
fortress of Sattara, fixed his residence at Poonah, and died
there in 1759. The dignity was transmitted to his grandson
Madhoorow, who died in 1772, and was succeeded by his
son Narrain Row, who was murdered by his uncle Rago-
ba ; and shortly afterwards a posthumous child of the de¬
ceased was placed on the throne. He died in 1795, and the
elder of the twm sons of Ragoba, named Bageerow, succeed¬
ed. During these disputes Scindia and Holkar interfered,
and seized the sovereignty. A treaty was in consequence
concluded between the peshwa and the British, who re-es¬
tablished his authority ; and tins good understanding con¬
tinued for nearly fifteen years. But in 1817, the peshwa,
anxious to emancipate himself from the bondage of the
British yoke, entered into the hostile combination which
was then formed amongst the native powers for the asser¬
tion of their independence. As the contest ended in the
triumph of the British armies, the peshwa was compelled
to fly, and, after a contest of nearly two years, he at last
consented to resign his office, and to retire on a pension to
Benares. A descendant of Ram Rajah was raised to the
nominal dignity of the peshwa, now become a mere pa¬
geant, and a pensioner on the British, on condition of his
residing at Sattara; and a British resident, denominated a
364 ‘ POO
Poonaklia commissioner, is now stationed at Poonah. The travelling
II distance from Bombay is 98 miles, from Hyderabad 387,
Poor- from Oojain 442, from Nagpoor 48G, from Delhi 913, and
v LaWfi'_ , from Calcutta by Nagpoor 1208 miles. Long. 74. E. Lat.
v 18. 30. N. , . t
POONAKHA, a town of Northern Hindustan, in the
province of Bootan, and situated on the Chantchieu River.
It is the winter residence of the Deb rajah, and the warmest
part of Bootan, and is therefore selected for the cultiva¬
tion of exotics. The palace is adorned with a handsome
gilt canopy. Long. 89. 45. E. Lat. 27. 56. N.
POONAR, a town and district of Hindustan, in the pro¬
vince of Berar, and territory of the nizam. The district is
mountainous and woody, and is situated between the twren-
ty-first and twenty-second degrees of north latitude. The
town is seventy-five miles south from Gluckpoor. Long.
78. 13. E. Lat. 20. 9. N.
POO
POONDY, a seaport town of Hindustan, in the province Poondy
of the Northern Circars, and district of Cicacole, situated on ll
a small river capable of being entered by boats, which there- La°^" j
by escape the surf so dangerous along this coast. Long. 84. ^ . __
27. E. Lat. 18. 40. N.
POOR, in law, an appellation given to all those who are
in such a low and mean condition that they either are or
may become a burden to the parish.
POORBUNDER, a town of Hindustan, on the south¬
west coast of the Gujerat peninsula. An agreement was
concluded in 1808, between the Bombay government and
the Rana Sertanjee and Coer Hallajee of Poorbunder, not
to connive at any act of piracy committed by any person
under their authority. Long. 69. 50. E. Lat. 21. 37. N.
POOR KNIGHTS, a cluster of islands in the Southern
Pacific Ocean, near the north-eastern coast of New Zealand.
Long. 174. 42. E. Lat. 35. 30. S.
POOR-LAW S.
Until very recently, the great interest felt in the body
of laws comprehended under the .above title, was derived
from the consciousness of the danger with which the man¬
ner of their administration in England threatened the pro¬
perty of the rich, and the morality of the whole people. As
the law continues fundamentally the same as it was before
the adoption of an improved administration, that source of
interest in these institutions remains; but the present sense
of security renders possible a calmer and more dispassionate
examination of their merits and demerits than could previ¬
ously to the year 1834 have been made by the most candid
persons acquainted with the rapid progress of the evils of
the system.
Origin and It was generally, and is now frequently, assumed by Eng-
objects of lish writers, that a legal system of compulsory relief to the
poor-laws. p00r was peculiar to the polity of England. No assump¬
tion could be less justified by the facts, as will presently be
shown. Wherever inquiry has been made, it has been found
that the same objects as were sought by the institution in
England have been sought by means which more strictly
resemble those adopted in England, in proportion as the
condition of the community resembles that of England in
the complexity of its social relations, and the progress of
its legal polity.
So general an adoption of analogous institutions amongst
independent communities was, of course, not fortuitous, nor
the mere result of imitation; and these institutions are every¬
where of too distinct and recent an origin to be traceable
to any of the primitive laws or customs of those people who
have descended from one common race.
On the contrary, it was the development of the like evils
in the progress of the civilization of each country which sug¬
gested the adoption of the like remedy. The evils, which
were sufficient to induce nations to try a remedy so obvi¬
ously fraught with great dangers both to the givers and to
the receivers, and requiring sacrifices so immediate and so
incapable of disguise, appear to have been at least as press¬
ing elsewhere as in England. The description of these evils
shows that they were and must be of universal prevalence,
and that they have their origin in the constitution of man¬
kind, and not in any such incidents as the dissolution of mo¬
nasteries, or in any other local or temporary incident.
There never was a time or place in which there were not
to be founa men anxious to avoid labour, and yet to live
in ease and enjoyment. I here never was a time in which
other men were not, from their sympathy, from their super¬
stition, and from their fears, ready with their bounty to as¬
sist the necessitous, and liable to be imposed upon and in¬
timidated, according as the beggar was crafty or bold. No
community is so poor as not to suffer in some degree from
the existence of a body of idle and worthless persons, sub¬
sisting profligately on the benevolence, the folly, or the fears
of its members.
And as the condition of the people is found to improve,
as progress is made in the arts and commodities of life,
there is, of course, found a greater disparity in the condi¬
tion of the people, and destitution more violently contrast¬
ed with opulence. Such a state of things, whilst it increas¬
es the means at the disposal of the benevolent and fortu¬
nate, increases the sympathy with the unfortunate, or those
who appear to be so, and at the same time presents wealth
in such masses as to serve as a temptation to those who may
prefer to live by fraud or violence. Mendicancy and depre¬
dation, wdiich are nearly impossible where a population is
scattered, and its moveable wealth in small quantity, become
easy in the contrary state of things.
It is accordingly found, in the progress of the civilization
of every country, that a period arrives when beggary in its
many forms, and with its whole train of consequences, ap¬
pears in an alarming extent, usually even professed by large
fraternities having some character of organization ; some¬
times connected by religious profession, like palmers, pil¬
grims, and various orders of mendicant friars, faquirs, der¬
vishes ; sometimes connected by supposed identity of race,
as the people known throughout the continent of Europe,
and largely in Asia, as Zingari, Gypseys, Bohemians: these,
with the unfortunate and dissolute of all classes, find a means
of living by practising various arts of amusement, and more
frequently by operating on the superstitious credulity, and
often on the fears, of the more wealthy and industrious part
of the community. All accounts of such a state of things,
wherever it may have prevailed, agree in showing that pre¬
datory habits almost invariably accompany, where occasion
offers, the habit of mendicancy.
Great as were the evils obviously connected with the ex¬
istence of such a mass of idlers, impostors, and depredators,
there were not wanting motives to the other classes to per¬
petuate and increase the evil. Individual benevolence, even
where accompanied by intelligence and prudence, although
its objects may be immediately selected from the really un¬
fortunate, would not withhold its indirect aid to this bad
effect, its respectable example seducing many to imitate the
act, without using the due precautions.
But a much greater share of the effect must always be
attributed to the incautious benevolence of the great mass
of those who have the power to give. It requires great
knowledge and sagacity to distinguish the cases in which
alms can be given without directly encouraging idleness, or
POO R-L A W S.
365
)rigin and some worse vice; and to direct these qualities effectively to
Object. each application would, in the state of things described, re-
qUire an amount of industry, and an expenditure of time, sel¬
dom or never possible. The ignorance and indolence, there¬
fore, of the benevolent, afford the largest encouragements
to the idle. Other influences are not wanting, especially
ostentation and the love of popularity, which, where many
live in idleness, never fail to create dependents and retain¬
ers to the full extent of the power or the will to maintain
them. Superstition, too, has in all times enforced alms¬
giving as a virtue, and, operating upon the consciences of
great criminals, has throughout the world created and en¬
dowed the largest and most magnificent of the so-called
charities.
In the above description will be recognised a state of
things partially exemplified, either in one set of its details
or in another, in every country in Europe, more especially
in those in which, like Spain, Naples, the Sardinian states,
Ireland, and other countries, no public or well-controlled
and systematic provision for the poor has been established.1
These observations will be well instanced in England
during the progress of the institutions of which a descrip¬
tion is about to be given.
CHAPTER I.
GENFRAL OBJECTIONS TO PUBLIC RELIEF AND TO PRIVATE
ALMS-GIVING.
of a regulated system of public relief, or the practical per- Objections
mission, whether avowed or not, to solicit private alms, ap- t0 Public
pears inevitable. Kchef, &e.^
It would be an evasion of the question to compare a well-
devised system of poor-laws with a system in which alms¬
giving was to be substituted. It is necessary, in order to do full
justice to the comparison, to assume a system of poor-laws
fraught with all the evils known to be derivable from such
a system, and administered with a degree of laxity not less
than that of which we have had a practical experience. A
system of public relief may be bad in principle, and yet judi¬
ciously administered; or it may be good in its principle, and
ill administered. For the present purpose, a system shall
be assumed, bad in its principle and bad in its administra¬
tion.
In this view, the law may give a claim to all persons not Operation
having means of independent subsistence, to be relieved, °fa bad
without subjecting the claimant to any harsh or disagreeable Poor'^aw'
condition. Such a claim, though never in fact countenanced
by the law, was practically allowed for above a quarter of a
century in many parts of England. A law of this kind would
obviously render all those who by their exertions could at
the utmost earn but a bare subsistence, averse to industry,
which in such a case would be a sacrifice of ease without
any increased advantage. If present industry were render¬
ed useless, so would thrift and forethought become a folly,
an abandonment of present enjoyment without an object.
Every present indulgence which the law allowed would wise¬
ly be enjoyed; good moral habits and bodily skill would
have little merit if the law should place those with them
and those without them in the enjoyment of the like bene¬
fits. What appears desirable for a man’s advantage, it is a
virtue in him to do also for his progeny. The paupers’ chil¬
dren would be themselves paupers, and the law would pre¬
sent to them every inducement to beget other paupers, and
no inducement to refrain. Such we have seen the English
pauper, slothful, thoughtless but of his parish pay, some¬
times living to see three generations of his progeny pau¬
pers, like to or worse than himself.2
But the idle pauper cannot be supported except from those
funds which must otherwise employ and reward the indus¬
trious. Every pauper, for his support, consumes that which
would maintain or nearly maintain an industrious labourer;
with this difference, that the consumption of the pauper is
never repaid, whilst the value of the labourer’s consump¬
tion is always reproduced with a profit, which again affords
the means of employing other industry. The pauper, there¬
fore, is constantly drawing those above him into his own
rank. The misfortune of those reluctantly becoming pau¬
pers produces a sympathy which extends to the voluntary
pauper, and the unfortunate and the idle become less and
less distinguishable.
If the law increases its bounty with the number of the
paupers’ offspring, all these evils are aggravated and acce¬
lerated. If the law, like the English bastardy law, renders
the reward for having a bastard child greater than the al¬
lowance to a legitimate child, another source of immoralit y
is opened, female virtue is at a disadvantage, and unchas-
titv, becoming a source of profit, becomes respectable.3
If the law takes the yet more insidious course of providing
The fact was adverted to in the beginning of this article,
that the existing state of the poor-laws enables us to take a
more dispassionate view of the abstract merits and defects of
a system of public relief than was formerly possible.
Hitherto the question has been embarrassed by the con¬
sciousness of the evils which we were suffering, and of those
towards which we were visibly making a rapid progress. On
the other hand, the evils of general mendicancy, and the other
painful and dangerous circumstances which are everywhere
found to prevail where a public law of relief has not been
established, are so little known in England, from whence
our poor-laws have long excluded them, that little of the
good really derived from our poor-laws was acknowledged,
whilst the whole of their positive mischief was so apparent
as to form almost alone the matter of every discussion of
the merits of the system.
Ims-giv- Before great accumulations of moveable wealth have ta-
'£• ken place in any community, depredation to any large ex¬
tent is scarcely possible, and mendicancy as a trade can¬
not be followed in such a community, especially where its
population is widely scattered. Alms-giving, in the usual
sense of the term, does not exist; but its place is often sup¬
plied by hospitality to the stranger and traveller, and by
the readiness to share with friends or relatives the means of
enjoyment which individuals may possess. But in countries
where comparatively great accumulations of wealth have ta¬
ken place, and where poor-laws have not been introduced,
or where, as in Ireland, they have not taken root, alms-giv-
ing and begging are either avowedly permitted or connived
at. And, for reasons hereafter to be shown, the alternative
1 Foravery ample detail of the state of mendicancy and vagrancy of private and public charitable institu tions, in the chief countries
of Europe and in the United States, the reader is referred to the Appendix (F) of Foreign Communications made to the Poor-Law
Commissioners, 1835, and especially to the interesting abstract of and comment upon these communications by Nassau W. Senior, Esq.
entitled, “ A Statement of the Provision for the Poor, and of the Condition of the Labouring Classes, in a considerable portion of Arne-
rica and Europe8vo, Fellowes, 1835. *• c    om
2 See Extracts from evidence received by the Commissioners of Inquiry : ‘We have cases of three generations o p P > P-- •
See at p. 218 an amusing instance of three generations of the same stock contemporaneously relieved, at the rate of L. P > > 7
a parish; see also pp. 220, 226, 358. . t . T. T . , r’.imKorlnn,!
:i See Extracts from the information received by the Commissioners of Inquiry into the 1 oor-Laws. A c ergym wtarri
speaks thus of the practice of that county : “ A very different description of women have of late years become the mothers ot bastard
POO R-L A W S.
366
Objections relief to those who live partly by regular industry, the evils
to Public described are enormously increased. In this way the whole
Rdief’ &c‘i industrious population may be destroyed, almost without
rendering the recipients conscious of their degradation. In
this way the forethought of the industrious man becomes of
as little value to him as it is to the pauper, and the whole of
the restraints on population are destroyed in the great bulk
of the people.
But relief to his workman is in fact for the moment re¬
lief to the master; the public undertaking a portion of the
maintenance of the servant, saves to that extent the wages
of the employer. The corruption of the system thus reaches
the master as well as the labourer, and each is equally in¬
duced, by his immediate interest, to secure and continue to
himself his portion of the benefit, unless we presume them
to be more provident than the law itself.
That such bad principles might be involved in a poor-
law, is undoubted; for although the English law never,
either in letter or spirit, contained all these elements to¬
gether, yet it at one period or another in succession con¬
tained them all, and a loose and in some measure a corrupt
administration gave, for a long time, prevalence to all their
influences together.
Evils of a This brings into view the evils of a bad administration of
bad admi- the law. Suppose its execution intrusted to officers who
lustration mustj jn a majority of cases, be necessarily ignorant of its
kw 6 P°Cr" c°mplicate objects, being ignorant of the common rudiments
of education f and let such officers be in no way distin¬
guished by their interests being made to accord with the
interests of the community in a good administration ; the
obvious consequence must be such as we have seen in Eng¬
land, that the best portions of the law must be badly adminis¬
tered, whilst the bad parts, by such instruments, can scarce¬
ly be expected to have these evils softened by a good admi¬
nistration. But a certain consequence would be, that those
whose interests were identical with the welfare of the com¬
munity, would be reluctant to serve the office, which would
thus be left to others who could best employ its provisions to
their own advantage. Thus in England the overseer was gene¬
rally found, even when zealous in the discharge of his duty,
blindly giving effect to the most pernicious part of the sys¬
tem. When merely weak, without being corrupt, we find
him a tool in the hands of those whose object it was to pro¬
cure labour at a low price, at the expense of the other rate¬
payers, and at the peril of the gradual though certain deterio¬
ration of the labourer and his posterity. Such an overseer
was also subject, as a matter of course, to the cajolery or inti¬
midation of the pauper, to the seduction of popularity, rea¬
dily to be got by the expenditure in mis-called charity of
other people’s contributions. But the natural operation of
the system was to find or to make its officers corrupt, as it
was natural that that class of men should be readiest to exe¬
crate the officer, whose circumstances best allowed them to
avail themselves, for their own advantage, of the law. In
England we found that the more pauperized the district, the
more certainly was the overseer an employer of pauper la¬
bour, or a supplier to the paupers, on his private account, of
the objects of their daily consumption, or the owner of the
habitations in which they lived, and for which the parish
guaranteed a certain and exorbitant rent.
Even these evils might be aggravated by parcelling the
country out into districts too small to allow of the procur- Objections !
ing of the necessary means even of an economical adminis- to Public I
tration. In England, few parishes or townships were large 1
enough to afford a workhouse or to contract for the supply v^w' !
of the articles of consumption for the poor. Many were so
small, that the cost of purchasing small books of account
was considered as an extravagance.
We have another important example of the way in which
the administration could be carried to the extreme of bad¬
ness ; namely, by the provision of a control which could
by its nature operate only to enforce an improvident admi¬
nistration, and which should have no authority to check it.
England, again, affords us an example of such a device in
the authority of the justices of the peace. The justice was :
enabled to enforce the giving of relief where the overseer
from any motive had refused it; but the justice of the
peace had no authority to interfere when the overseer was
profligately allowing relief.
, The effects of such a system, then, would inevitably be the Effects of
same as we have witnessed in England. Such have been, such a poor*
perhaps, too indiscriminately attributed to poor-laws gene-faw.
rally. These effects were, in a former article in this publi¬
cation, very distinctly and ably described and elucidated.
They were described, first, as a disturbance of the natural
course of population, which they increased without refer¬
ence to the means of support; and, indeed, in the inverse
direction, inasmuch as every addition to the number of the
non-productive or the partially productive paupers dimi¬
nished the means of living of the other portions of the
community. Secondly, as increasing the very pauperism
which it was their object to relieve. Thirdly, as produc¬
tive of improvidence in the poor, who saw no worse con¬
sequence of a dissolute and idle life, than an eventual re¬
liance, in common with millions of their fellow-subjects,
upon the parish for their support in sickness or old age, or
in the visitation of those calamities against which it is the
task of prudence to provide. A fourth effect, much dwelt
upon, was the misapprehension caused by these institutions
as to the real cause of poverty and distress, and the opera¬
tion of this misapprehension in producing a discontented
spirit in those who encourage the notion that they have a
right to relief, but entertain no equally definite notion of
their duty to provide for themselves. The fifth evil was
the encouragement which the system, as administered, was
found to give to every species of immorality : idleness in the
day, encouraging depredation, poaching, and smuggling by
night, facilitating the resort to the beer-shop again by day :
particularly the law of bastardy was observed to be rapidly
destroying the virtue of the females, and, by producing ill-
assorted marriages, the whole of those domestic virtues, both
of parents and children, which depend mainly on a happy
home. And it was also remarked, that the law of settle¬
ment had a large effect in lowering the character of all who
claimed a maintenance from the parish; it being notorious
that the most steady, industrious, and moral workmen, upon
whom the employer can place his surest reliance, are those
who do not legally belong to the parish in which they are
living.
Such is the description of an extensive system of poor-
laws, framed on a bad principle, and badly administered; and
such are their observed effects.
children. I* ormerly it was confined to the daughters of cottagers, and girls employed in farm-husbandry ; but of late very respectable
fcvrmers' daughters have been in that situation, and have applied to have their offspring taken care of by the parish.” (Captain Pringle’s
Report, p- 404.) The next extract is from the evidence of an overseer in the same county. “ We at this time, in our parish, are
supporting two bastard children, whose mothers have landed j)roperty of their own, and would not marry the fathers of their children.”
(Ibid.) “ Ihe daughters of some farmers, and even landowners, have bastard children. These farmers and landowners, and children with
them, regularly kept back their poor-rate, to meet the parish allowance for their daughter’s bastard.” (Ibid.) “ Captain Pringle
states, that in the neighbourhood of Carlisle, it was not unusual for the daughters of small farmers, or statesmen as they are here
called (men farming their own property), to have bastard children, and to come to the parish for allowance.” (Ibid. p. 403.)
&ee as to the illiterateness, general ignorance, and inefficiency of overseers, the volume of Extracts before cited, at the passages
referred to in the index, under the title “ Overseers.” ' / '
POO R-L A W S.
367
But it does not thence follow, that a poor-law well de¬
vised and well administered should find no place in the po¬
lity of a nation.
There appear to be at least two resources besides that of
adopting bad principles in such a law, or adopting a bad
constitution of officers for its administration. The first re¬
source is to exclude such an institution altogether.
Jtemative Some few countries taking their place by common esti-
f alms- mation amongst civilized nations, have made no public pro-
tvifg- vision for the poor. Ireland was practically, before the ses¬
sion of 1837-1838, without such a provision. England was
in the same condition until the reign of Elizabeth. In all
such countries rigorous enactments exist against mendicancy,
but everywhere such enactments are defeated by the com¬
mon co-operation of the whole people. It will be seen, that
in England the most ferocious penal enactments were re¬
peated, with every variation that ingenuity could devise, for
the purpose of suppressing mendicancy and vagrancy; and
yet at every stage of legislation it is avowed that the evil
was still increasing. Ireland had, up to the time of Hen¬
ry VIII. the English laws in this respect; and the san¬
guinary laws of Henry VIII. are still the laws of Ireland.
Until this day, a criminal who evades conviction for some
greater offence is occasionally transported under the va¬
grancy laws ; in all other cases the public opinion revolts
against the application of the penalty ; and the law, though
in the statute-book, is without effect.
It appears a preposterous expectation, that any people
will generally sympathise or co-operate with the law which,
whilst it leaves the unfortunate to perish, pretends to render
mendicancy a crime. So common is the sentiment against
such an attempt, that many systems of jurisprudence avowed¬
ly admit necessity, or the extreme danger of perishing for
want, as a legal excuse for some offences, and as a pallia¬
tion of any offence directly incited by the pressure of such
necessity. There appears, therefore, no means of preventing
mendicancy, but by a recognised provision of public relief.
Mendicancy is often expressly permitted by law ; some¬
times it is allowed to particular classes of persons, as dis¬
charged soldiers and sailors and their families, poor stu¬
dents, discharged prisoners, and such like. Sometimes a
limit is assigned to begging, a given route on the way
homewards, or a given district in which a party may have
been born or may have become otherwise domiciled. Even
in England, both these kinds of license and restriction
have, till within these few years, formed part of our statute-
law, and both species are still leading features in the law of
Ireland. The effect of such restrictions has nearly every¬
where been the same as in our own country, viz. to give
authority to mendicancy, without in any way operating to
diminish it.
mdican- Let us now examine the effects of mendicancy, whether
compar- permitted by the law or not; comparing it throughout with the
iperism 0Pei'atlon a bad system of poor-laws. In the jzrst place,
s * it, like pauperism, destroys industry, but the mendicant is
wholly and entirely idle, with no one responsible to see
him set to work, and, being for the most part unknown to
those who relieve him, is under no necessity even to affect, like
the pauper, a readiness to work. The mendicant’s progeny
is like himself in this respect, except that, being early bred
to the parent’s habits, industry becomes nearly impossible
to them ; whilst the occupation of both is such, that even
on the supposition that an inclination to adopt a life of in¬
dustry should be excited, few occupations could be found
to which they would be fitted, and still fewrer employers
who would engage them. In respect of the influences
upon industry, therefore, the individual mendicant is un¬
der worse influences than the individual pauper relieved by
the worst system of poor-laws. So with respect to the ge¬
neral morality of the mendicant. The pauper is under
some restraints, owing to his being settled amongst neigh¬
bours upon whose good opinion he is at least in some mea-Objections
sure dependent; he must be known to the officers of his to Public
parish, and by this alone is kept in contact with and in fear Relief
of the law. The local sphere for the exercise of his vices
is one of narrow limits. These restraints keep the pauper
under considerable subjection, both to law and to opinion.
But no such restraints operate upon the mendicant. No ir¬
regularity of conduct, no vice, can exclude him more from
general society than his daily mode of life already does ;
even if, amongst his fellows, any vice should be recognised
as sufficiently repulsive to exclude him from their compa¬
nionship, their unsettled life renders it impossible that the
reputation or the knowledge of his odious qualities coidd
very closely attend him. Add to this absence of restraint
the positive encouragement given by their more various and
adventurous life, the zest with which its frauds and its dar¬
ings are performed, and the glory with which they are re¬
counted ; these accompaniments have rendered the beggar’s
life popular, as the subject of romance, and occasionally as
the object of imitation amongst even the better educated and
more fortunate members of society. A pauper wras never
yet, as the beggar often is, the romantic hero of a ballad or
a legend. Here, again, the influences on the individual
mendicant are more pernicious than those on the pauper.
The same disadvantageous comparison exists when we
consider the unlimited opportunities afforded by the men¬
dicant’s mode of life for every species of petty theft and
depredation, habits which appear invariably to accompany
that of vagrancy.
In England we have a difficulty in conceiving the extent Extent of
to which the habits of mendicancy may be carried on, and Inendi-
the varieties in its practice. It would be comparatively a t'ancy-
small evil that a few mendicants should be found to be pre¬
eminently vicious characters; and this evil would bear no
comparison with the evil of a pauperism spread as widely
as that formerly in England. But some estimate may be
formed of the extent to which mendicancy may be carried
where there are no poor-laws, by a reference to the state of
Ireland, in which it is represented that, in a population of
eight millions, not less than 200,000 habitual mendicants
and vagrants exist, and where this number is annually re¬
inforced by the accession of the wives and families of those
labourers who have left their homes in search of work else¬
where, and which are represented, in the evidence collect¬
ed by the Commissioners of Poor-Laws Inquiry in Ireland,
to exceed a million of persons.
The evil of mendicancy, therefore, may even bear a com¬
parison in the extent and number of those practising it, with
the evil of pauperism even under a bad poor-law.
Now, let the operation upon the distributors in both Distribu-
cases be compared. No regular machinery is devised for tors of alms
the supply of the mendicant, but he is let loose upon the^ re‘
whole of society, to procure his living by every means by
which the sympathies, the virtues, the follies, the weak¬
nesses, or the vices of man may be attacked. Though much
of the relief given to the mendicant is prompted by the be¬
nevolence of the giver, much also has its origin in sympa¬
thies falsely excited; in folly, and especially in the vanity
and ostentation of him who dispenses the alms. Much, too,
of the alms given to mendicants, in alms-giving countries,
is given with the object of acquiring power over a disorderly
and reckless class. In all countries, in times of commotion,
we have seen this class unscrupulous instruments in the
hands of those who, by their largesses, or by the exciting of
expectations, had attached a large number of these classes.
An example is seen in Spain, where the merit chiefly pro¬
fessed by the distributors of the alms of enormous charities
is that of relieving the wants of armies of mendicants.
No instrument in the hands of ambitious and designing
persons has ever been found more effective than that ot
retaining large classes of ready-formed mendicants, and of
368
POO R-L A W S.
Objections bringing the poorer classes, under specious names, as near
to Public as p0SSible to the condition of receivers of alms.
Relief, &c. 1
' v " The effects upon the distributors has been equally to the
disadvantage of the practice of alms-giving, inasmuch as
the appointment of officers to administer the public fund
has not been, and cannot be conceived to be, as pernicious
as the innumerable institutions and fraternities of idle men
brought together for the purpose chiefly of distributing
alms. A portion of this operation may be seen and appre¬
ciated in the comparison between an ordinary overseer and
the trustees who usually have distribution of private chari¬
ties, the masses of which in England and W ales are shown by
the Reports of the Commissioners of Charity to have been
diverted from their proposed objects for the benefit of those
who had the control in their hands.
Another advantage which a system of poor-laws has over
alms-giving is this: Poor-laws are subject to the control
of the legislature. Their evils, as discovered, may one by
one be pruned away by the power which has created the
whole institution ; and they can also, at the will of the legis¬
lature, if such should appear to be an advisable course, be
at any time totally abolished. Mendicancy, on the other
hand, and alms-giving, are beyond the effective control of
the law. Where once established by habit, no interference
of the legislature can effectively modify them, no pro¬
hibition of the legislature can abrogate them. The sole
corrective appears to be a retreat from private alms, by the
adoption of a system of public relief as a means of discoun¬
tenancing the mendicant’s claim.
Thus far have been compared bad poor-laws with men¬
dicancy ; and it has been attempted to show that, even in
this comparison, private alms-giving is exposed to disadvan¬
tages greater than those attached to a system of public
relief. The comparison thus far with poor-laws has, as an
abstract question, become unfair, because it seems possible,
and recent experience appears to confirm the conclusion,
that a poor-law may be so devised and so administered as
to take away all plea for guilt founded upon absolute ne¬
cessity ; to diminish no man’s present motives to labour,
and bring up his offspring to industry; to offer the least
possible inducements to improvidence, so far as improvi¬
dence is involved in neglecting to make accumulations
against old age and other calamities. This appears to be
rendered possible by the administration of such relief that
those capable of working would reject it, as less desirable
than independent industry in the time of their health and
vigour, and less desirable than provisions secured by pru¬
dence for their old age.
CHAPTER II.
HISTORY OF ENGLISH POOR-LAWS TILL THE YEAR 1834.
The most authentic accounts, at least those which prove
most incontestibly the prevalence of the habits of mendi¬
cancy and vagrancy in England, and give the best evidence
of the extent to which their evils were recognised, may be
found in the expressions of our early statutes.
It will not be possible to give a detailed description,
either of the contents of the series of our statutes, or of
their effects. The number of statutes passed for the sup¬
pression of vagrancy, mendicancy, and idleness, and for the
relief of the poor, amount at the least to a hundred and
eighty-seven; those now in force, commencing with the
statute 43 Elizabeth, and including only the modifications
of that law, amount to a hundred and eighteen, and contain
matter of itself about equal to four average volumes of
the statutes at large. None, therefore, but the most sa¬
lient points in the legislation of the last four centuries and
a half will be adverted to in the following summary of History d
the progress of legislation upon these subjects. English
We first find indications of a general relaxation of the ,
industry of our population in the reign of Richard II. v 1
Civil discord had unquestionably its effect in producing the Restraint S
result; but a change in the habits of the population had of vagran. 1
been produced by the increase of commerce and of com- cy,
munication with other countries, and a large accession had
at this time been made to the disposable wealth of the
community. The large system of vagabondage, sanctified
by the name of pilgrimage, of which the expeditions known
as the Crusades were the most salient instance, had begotten
a spirit of restlessness and idleness in Europe, infecting even
our insular population. It was not so much the habit of beg¬
gary, as the desire of change and restlessness of life, that
the statute of the 12th Richard II. chap. 7, passed in the
year 1388, was intended to repress. This statute, though
entirely directed against habits characterized in that day rs
vagabondage, scarcely recognises beggary as an habitual
pursuit. Its main provisions are confined to the object of
restraining labourers from changing their abodes. It pro¬
hibits any labourer from departing from the hundred, rape,
wapentake, city, or borough, where he is dwelling, without
a testimonial showing reasonable cause for his going, to be
issued under the authority of the justices of peace. Any
labourer found wandering without such letter is to be put
in the stocks till he find surety to return to the town from
whence he came. So far are its enactments from affording
any evidence that able-bodied persons of either sex exer¬
cised by choice to any large extent the trade of mendican¬
cy, that the only other class besides labourers which it re¬
cognises are the impotent. As to impotent persons, it pro¬
vides that they are to remain in the towns in which they
be dwelling at the time of the act; or if the inhabitants are
unable or unwilling to support them, they are to with¬
draw to other towns within the hundred, rape, or wapen¬
take, or to the towns where they were born, and there abide
during their lives.
From the earliest periods, but from this time especially, of begging,
begging was an offence; yet the chief enactments of the
two succeeding centuries are rather confined to the object
of restraining the movements of labourers than to the re¬
straining of able-bodied beggars. The provisions of the
11th Henry VII. chap. 2, however, require beggars not able
to work to go to the hundred where last they dwelt, or
were best known, or born, without begging out of the hun¬
dred. The 19th Henry VII. chap. 12, passed eight years
afterwards (in 1504), requires them to go to the town, city, or
hundred where they were born, or to the place where they
last abode for the space of three years, without begging out
of the said city, town, hundred, or place.
The legislation affecting the classes of poor least able to
provide for themselves, had thus far been entirely re¬
strictive, and contained that element of the poor-laws by
which they are connected with police, almost to as great an
extent as is to be found in our most recent institutions.
They also indirectly contain a complete settlement law; Settlement
for, by confining the labourers, but especially the impotent law.
poor and beggars, to the places in which they dwelt at
the time of the act being passed, or in which they had been
born, or to the places of their last abode, they directly set¬
tled such persons on the places thus defined, and rendered
the districts chargeable with the burden, at least to the ex¬
tent to which the endowments of the church and the bene¬
volence of individuals could be applied to the purpose. At
length, especially after all the revenues of the church were
diverted from the purpose of maintaining the poor, legisla¬
tion becomes of a severe penal character, and is more im¬
mediately directed against those who practise mendicancy
as a trade, viz. “ able-bodied, sturdy, and valiant beggars.”
At the same time, the distinction becomes more apparent
POO R-L A W S.
Poor-
Laws.
I npul-
-tory of between the impotent poor and those whom the legislature
'nglish evidently regarded as voluntary poor, and whom the law
now subjects to heavy and even sanguinary penalties. The
22d Henry VII. chap. 12, passed in the year 1531, directs
the justices to assign to the impotent poor a limit within
which they are to beg. An impotent person begging out
of his limit is to be imprisoned for two days and nights in
the stocks, fed on bread and water, and then sworn to return
to the place in which he was authorized to beg. An able-
bodied beggar is to be whipped, and sworn to return to the
place where he was born, or last dwelt for the space of three
years, and there put himself to labour.
Thus far restrictions upon vagrancy, whether originating
relief. in misfortune or idleness, or more serious vice, had proved
unavailable. The evil had not been repressed ; it had evi¬
dently increased, and at length drove the legislature to the
adoption, not only of severer penalties, according to the old
policy, but of a new expedient.
With imperfect machinery for giving effect to its inten¬
tions, without security that where its intention was carried
into effect evils greater than those against which it was in¬
tended to provide might not arise, a system was now cre¬
ated which, in all its policy, is identical with that which
now exists in England, and is about to be introduced into
Ireland. The means employed, and not the policy itself,
alone distinguish the legislation of the two periods. In the
first place, beggary and vagrancy are still to be repressed,
but no one is to be driven, by absolute destitution, to an
infraction of the law; all excuse is to be taken away from
the beggar. In the next place, the sympathy of the com¬
munity with the law is to be secured by a provision at the
public expense against the evil consequences of individual
destitution. In the last place, the compulsory provision
thus made by the community is to be protected by compel¬
ling those capable of exertion, and seeking to avail them¬
selves of it, to accept it subject to the condition of woi’king
for the maintenance thus secured to them; a condition obvi¬
ously intended to be as hard or harder than that upon which
the independent man obtains his own support, and render¬
ing the alternative of independent industry preferable to that
of dependence on the public charity.1
The 27th Henry VIII. chap. 25, passed in the year 1536,
recites the act last mentioned, and adds, that no provision
is made for the support of the impotent, nor for the setting
and keeping in work of valiant beggars; and then enacts,
that the land-officers of every city, shire, town, and parish, to
which such poor creatures or sturdy vagabonds shall repair,
in obedience to that act, shall most charitably receive the
same, and shall keep the same poor people by way of vo¬
luntary and charitable alms, within the respective cities,
shires, towns, hundreds, hamlets, and parishes, by their dis¬
cretion, so that none of them, of very necessity, shall be
compelled to beg openly, and shall compel the said sturdy va¬
gabonds and valiant beggars to be kept to continual labour,
in such wise as they may get their own living by the con¬
tinual labour of their own hands, on pain that every parish
making default shall forfeit twenty shillings a month. Alms¬
giving otherwise than to these common boxes, or common
gatherings, or to fellow-parishioners, or prisoners, is prohi¬
bited on forfeiture of ten times the amount given. A sturdy
beggar is to be whipped the first time, his right ear crop¬
ped the second time ; and if he again offend, he is to be sent
to the next jail till the quarter-sessions, and there to be in¬
dicted for wandering, loitering, and idleness; and if con-
369
English
Poor-
Laws.
victed, shall suffer execution of death as a felon, and an ene- History of
my of the commonwealth.
As far as the policy of the succeeding legislation is con¬
cerned, its intention appears to be fully expressed by the    
terms of this statute. In all the succeeding period, we find
a very large variety of means adopted for the purpose still
of giving effect to the same policy ; sometimes an increase
of severity, even beyond the rigour of this statute, against
the beggar and vagrant; sometimes an improved machi¬
nery for succouring the impotent, especially for the assess¬
ment and levying of the funds, and for producing an effec¬
tive responsibility in the officers charged with this duty ;
and eventually a more comprehensive system devised for
effectuating the whole of the objects clearly contemplated
by the statute of Henry, without the adoption of any other
than those objects, but intended merely to prevent the evils
resulting from the defective means and instruments pre¬
viously employed for their attainment.
Accordingly we find in the statutes of the reign of Ed-
wrard V. “ the foolish pity and mercy of them which should
have seen to the execution of the goodly laws before enact¬
ed, and the perverse nature and long-accustomed idleness
of persons long given to loitering,” inveighed against in the
usual declamatory manner of preambles of that period ;
but we find indications of the growth of a conviction that
the excessive penalties of the previous legislation had de¬
feated the operation of the law. The enactments against
vagrancy are therefore rendered somewhat milder; an able-
bodied poor person who does not apply himself to some
honest labour, or offer to serve, though only for meat and
drink, if nothing more is to be obtained, shall be taken for
a vagabond, branded on the shoulder with the letter V, and
adjudged a slave for two years to any person who shall de¬
mand him, to be fed on bread and water and refuse meat,
and caused to work by beating and chaining, or otherwise.
If he run away within that period, he is to be branded on
the cheek w' h the letter S, and adjudged a slave for life ;
if he run away again, he is to suffer death as a felon. If
no one demand such loiterer, the place where he is born is
to keep him as a slave, and is to see him set to work; and
if it fail in this, it is to be mulcted in a penalty, a city for¬
feiting five pounds, a borough forty shillings.
By this statute the old settlement law had ingrafted on it Removal*,
a law of removal. The taking surety of the impotent poor,
that they would repair to the places where they were born,
or had dwelt for the last three years, had been found inef¬
fectual ; the officers were therefore directed to convey the
impotent poor on horseback, in cart, chariot, or otherwise,
to the next constable, and so from constable to constable,
till they be brought to the place where they were born, or
most conversant for the space of three years, there to be
kept and nourished of alms.
Gradual improvements were introduced in the detail by
several successive statutes. The 3d and 4th Edward VI.
provides for the keeping of a book in every city, corporate
town, and parish, containing the names of householders, and
of the impotent poor. It makes some approach to a special
organization of officers for the objects. The minister and
churchwardens are to appoint collectors of alms; the alms,
however, are voluntary, except to the extent to which they
can be enforced by the exhortation of the minister and
bishop; it being provided, that if any one able to further
this charitable work do obstinately and frowardly refuse to
give, or do discourage others, the minister and church-
1 With regard to the erroneous impression until recently prevalent in England, that poor-laws were institutions peculiar to this
country, it is important to observe, that the system of law for repression of mendicancy and relief of the poor here described, was a di¬
rect and palpable imitation of a continental institution. Six years before the enactment of the 27th Henry VIII. (that is, in the year
1530), the magistrates of Ypres, in Belgium, enacted a set of regulations, which, as stated by Mr Hallam, manifestly form the model
which was followed a few years afterwards bv the legislature of this country. The regulations in question appear to have, been
adopted in the adjacent provinces of the Netherlands, under the sanction of an edict of Charles V. See a paper by Mr Hallam in the
first volume of the Transactions of the Statistical Society.
VOL. xvm. A
370
POO R.-L A W S.
History of
English
Poor-
Laws.
Compul¬
sory tax.
License to
heg.
43 Eliz.
cap. 2.
wardens are to exhort him gently. If he will not be so
persuaded, the bishop is to send for him to induce and per¬
suade him by charitable ways and means, and so, according
to his discretion, to take order for the reformation thereof.
These provisions being made, beggary is still prohibited,
upon the pains limited in the previous statutes.
As might be expected, the gentle askings of the collec¬
tors, and the exhortations of the minister, the charitable ways
and means of the bishop, appear to have been without ef¬
fect in persuading the parishioners to intrust to the collec¬
tors the distribution of their alms. W e find, therefore,
twelve years afterwards (5th Elizabeth, chap. 3, passed in
1563), an attempt made to give additional effect to these
provisions, by enabling the bishop to bind any peison. to
appear at the next sessions, if his froward and wilful mind
should obstinately refuse to give weekly relief to the poor
according to his ability. Here the justices are to come
in to the aid of the bishop, and are charitably and gently
to persuade and move the said obstinate person to extend
his charity. If he will not be persuaded, the justices with
the churchwardens may tax the obstinate person according
to their discretion ; and on his refusal to pay, the justices,
on the complaint of the churchw ardens, are to commit him
to jail until he does pay the sum taxed, and arrears. 1 hus
was created a compulsory tax, though at first only as an alter¬
native where voluntary contributions wrere refused.
The important statute, 14th Elizabeth, represents in its
recitals, that “ all parts of this realm of England and Wales
be presently with rogues, vagabonds, and sturdy beggars
exceedingly pestered, by means whereof daily happeneth in
the same realm horrible murders, thefts, and other great
outrage.” The sense of these evils seems to have dictated
a resort to a new variety of punishments; all persons defined
in the act as rogues and vagabonds, or sturdy beggars, are
for the first offence to be grievously whipped and burned to
the gristle of the right ear with a hot iron, of the compass
of an inch about; for the second, they are to be deemed
felons; for the third, to suffer death as felons, without bene¬
fit of clergy. But now chiefly is to be observed the im¬
provements in assessing the burthen; the justices having
power to settle the poor for their abidings, and to set down
what portion the weekly charge towards the relief and sus-
tentation of the poor people would amount unto, and that
done, shall by their good discretions tax and assess all the
inhabitants dwelling within the divisions limited for the set¬
tling of the poor.
4 This statute contained, like some of its predecessors, an
enactment giving a limited license for begging, provided
that the poor people ask relief of victualling only in the
same parish where they do dwell, so the same be at the
time and in the manner directed by the churchwardens and
overseers of the poor. This license has been extended,
modified, and restrained, but still kept in existence, espe¬
cially in the case of discharged soldiers and prisoners, up
to recent times.
So far we have seen the gradual accumulation of all the
elements contained in the poor-laws up to the time of the
last amendment in the system made in the reign of the
late King William IV. The statute which permanently
fixed all these elements in one system was passed in the
last year of the reign of Elizabeth, the celebrated statute
the 43d Elizabeth, chap. 2. In this statute we find ex¬
treme severity abandoned, and its place supplied with a
reasonable test of destitution of such as may be presumed
to be voluntary beggars or idlers. The able-bodied, married
or unmarried, are to be set to work ; children may be ap¬
prenticed; only the “ lame, impotent, old, blind, and such
others among them, being poor and not able to work,” are to
have “ necessary relief,” without being set to work. For the
latter class of poor, habitations may be provided at the ex¬
pense of the parish, on the waste or common ; and for the
Poor-
Laws
support of these, but not of any who are able to work, History ol
natural relations, that is, father, mother, grandfather, grand- n8llst
mother, and children, may be compelled to contribute.
The voluntary contribution, and the co-operation of the
minister and bishop, are abandoned. A tax upon the inha¬
bitants, and upon the occupiers of property, strictly defined,
and upon the parson or vicar, is directed to be levied in
every parish; effectual means are given for the assessment,
collection, and levy of the tax; for appeal for remedy against
its unjust assessment; for the contribution of adjoining pa¬
rishes and hundreds, where the means of the single palish
failed; above all, a special authority is created for giv¬
ing effect to the provisions of the law. Overseers, not less
than two, nor more than four, are to be appointed in every
parish yearly, in Easter week, to act with the churchwardens,
subject to the orders of the justices, and liable to penal¬
ties for neglect of their office.
Such was the system in operation for above two cen¬
turies and a quarter, from 1601 to 1834, without material
modification : its whole provisions were extended in the
reign of Charles II. to town-lands; the law of settlement
was also extended and refined, in the same and subsequent
reigns; and the provision for setting the able-bodied to
work was rendered more effectual by the 9th George I. chap.
7, which enabled every parish to provide a workhouse, or,
if too small or too poor, to combine with others for the
purpose of maintaining a workhouse, and which rendered
the offer of relief in a workhouse a sufficient bar to the
claim to any other relief.
These statutes, aided by all those other causes which Dlminutiol
operated upon the morals and the general prosperity of the of vagran-
people, had produced the effect intended by their authors ; c> •
and whatever may have been the portion attributable to any
of the several causes in operation, the result unquestionably
was, that vagabondage and idleness wrere found in the last
half of the last century to prevail in England to a less ex¬
tent than in any of the larger states of Europe, with the
single exception of Holland. As the extremity of the evil
had formerly produced severity in the law, so the disappear¬
ance of the evil produced a disastrous relaxation in the re¬
strictions of which the experience and prudence of the pre¬
vious times had discovered the necessity.
About the middle of the last century, there began to be Relaxation
indicated in the acts of the legislature a growing opinion, ot the la"
that the severity of the tests applied to the recipients of
public charity required to be diminished. In the 7th year
of the reign of George III., guardians were especially ap¬
pointed in the city of London, the city of Westminster, the
bills of mortality, the liberties of the Tower, not with any
administrative or executive powers, but “ to guard against
the dangerous consequences which may arise from the false
parsimony, negligence, inadvertency, or the annual change
of parish officers.” These guardians were to protect the
poor children of the metropolitan districts'to which the act
applied, by visiting the places in which they were kept, re¬
porting on their condition, and calling on the assistance of
the magistracy where it might seem necessary.
Throughout the whole of the reign of George III. the ex¬
ample thus set was followed by constantly succeeding and
increasing relaxations of the rigour of the old law; some of
the most conspicuous instances of which are to be found in
Gilbert’s act, passed in the twenty-second year of that reign,
1782, which, instead of rendering the workhouse a means
of testing voluntary pauperism, by employing the able-
bodied, thereby deterring them from habits of pauperism,
by rendering their state less eligible than one of indepen¬
dence, reverses this principle entirely. It confines the use
of the workhouse to that of a mere receptacle for the aged,
impotent, and infant poor ; and provides, that the able-bo¬
died shall not be required to enter it; and proceeds to the
absurd extent in favour of the able-bodied pauper, of com-
'
POOR-LAWS. 371
History of pelling the guardians appointed under the act to find work
English near their own houses, for all applicants able and professing
Laws* t0 willing to work, but unable to get employment; and
y to make up any supposed deficiency of wages out of the
poor-rates.
The evils of able-bodied pauperism were now proceed¬
ing with alarming rapidity. The consummation of the false
policy of the legislature during this reign was attained in
East’s act, 55 Geo. III. chap. 137 (passed 1815). It con¬
sists of a complete abrogation of almost all the salutary por¬
tions of the 9th Geo. I. chap. 7. The relief was no longer
required to be received in the workhouse, it was to be paid
to any poor person or persons at his or her or their home or
homes, house or houses. Justices were empowered to order
this relief for any time they might be pleased to define, not
exceeding three months; and two justices might make
subsequent orders for relief for a period not exceeding six
months. The preambles and recitals in this statute consist,
as might have been anticipated from the previous course of
legislation, of descriptions of the grossest disorders on the
part of those maintained by the public charity.
The insolence and general demoralization of the pauper, the
most alarming deterioration in the industry of the labouring
classes, especially the agricultural labourers of the south of
England, the unscrupulous interference of the employers
with the wages and the mode of remuneration of the em¬
ployed, were abundantly shown by the committees of both
houses of parliament, appointed to inquire into the progress
of the poor-laws, especially by that appointed on the motion
of Mr Sturges Bourne (in 1817), and upon the report of
which the act known as Sturges Bourne’s act, passed in the
last year but one of this reign (the 59th Geo. III. c. 12),
was founded. This act does not entirely abandon the views
which dictated the dangerous provisions of East’s act. Ge¬
nerally, however, it was a salutary measure, providing for
the election of bodies of persons called select vestries, who
were to supersede the'overseers, and, in some measure, the
justices, more effectually to avoid the evils consequent upon
the administration being intrusted to annual and unpaid
officers. It made provision also for the performance of the
overseers’ duties, by paid and permanent assistant overseers.
From the end of George III.’s reign to the year 1834,
though legislative changes were not unfrequent, they were
confined to matters of detail, involving neither the aban¬
donment nor the adoption of any important principle.
CHAPTER III.
EFFECTS OF POOR-LAWS IN ENGLAND.
lects of
evious
Rslation.
jneficial
ects.
Commission of Inquiry.
In the course of the foregoing description of some of the
principal statutes, the useful or injurious principles involv¬
ed in them have been shortly referred to ; the effects ope¬
rated by the working out of those principles have been less
remarked upon. In the main, the good effects had consist¬
ed in reclaiming from a vagrant and profligate course of life
a large proportion of the population. The settlement laws
especially had been instrumental in this; for we find that
the creation of the claim to relief from the parish funds had
so far attracted the idle and dissolute from the practice of
common begging, that, in the reign of Charles II., after a
period of great commotions, when many disbanded soldiers
and sailors, and others, who, in a period of turmoil, are
either forced upon or voluntarily resort to an unsettled life,
had much swelled the mass of those who in previous times
would have been found in the ranks of sturdy and valiant
beggars, the same order of people were now found to be
systematic though rapacious paupers, making the parish fund
the means of levying their contributions on society.
We find in a statute of Charles II. in the second year of Operation,
the Restoration (13 and 14 Car. II. cap. 12), a multifarious "
law of settlement created, upon reasons thus expressed in
the recital: “ Whereas, by reason of some defects in the
law, poor people are not restrained from going from one
parish to another, and therefore do endeavour to settle them¬
selves in those parishes where there is the best stock, the lar¬
gest commons or wastes to build cottages, and the most
woods for them to burn and destroy ; and when they have
consumed it, then to another parish; and at last become
rogues and vagabonds, to the great discouragement of pa¬
rishioners to provide stocks, where it is liable to be de¬
voured by strangers.” From this period the whole of the
efforts of the legislation are incessantly made to prevent
the too easy settling of the poor upon the parish ; but they
all equally prove that settled pauperism had more and more
taken the place of vagrant mendicancy.
If to the poor-laws can be attributed this good effect,
they must also necessarily have the credit of preventing
that train of evils which follows upon the existence of a
large mass of mendicants and vagrants in any community.
The corruption, the demoralization, the inevitable bodily
misery, to the mendicant himself, his connections, and his
offspring ; the extortion, depredation, and the more violent
crime which such a class have almost unlimited opportunity
and frequent temptation to commit; next the deterioration
in the feelings and habits of those whom circumstances may
bring in contact with them; the refuge which they afford
to all who are inclined or tempted to fall off from the more
steady and respectable occupations of life, many of whom
are even tempted by the mere spirit of adventure to become
recruits ; add to these the alarm and practical annoyance,
which renders the industry and morality of all other classes
less a security for enjoyment; and we have some idea of
the train of evils the prevention of which was cut off when
vagrancy on the great scale was at length, in England, suc¬
cessfully suppressed, though to be replaced in a great mea¬
sure by voluntary and resolute pauperism.
The bad effects, as they arose in detail, usually led to the Injurious
successive modifications which we find the law in its pro-effects,
gress undergoing from time to time. Many of the evils
temporarily and partially felt might even now be described
with advantage, and as warnings to future legislators; but
generally their interest would at present be greater to the
historian and antiquary than in a practical point of view.
At no period had these laws attained such an influence on
the interests of the community of England and Wales, as
about the years 1831 and 1832, when the effects of the
whole system had reached a greater height than had ever
yet been attained.
In these years many of the anticipations of those who
had seen the evil tendency of the poor-laws, and had pro¬
phesied that the results of the system must be disastrous,
were realized in such a way as to produce a conviction in
the most supine, that either a remedy must be applied, or a
wide-spread ruin be submitted to. In an article in this
work, written in the year 1823, by one of the most humane
and enlightened men who had ever given their attention to
the subject, it was shown that a crisis was impending, and
could not be far removed; that, as the law then stood, the
poor-rates were increasing in the same ratio in which the
prudence and forethought of the receivers of relief were be¬
ing destroyed. It was shown, that “ whenever the charge
upon the land in support of those who do not add enough to
the annual produce of the country to support themselves is so
great that the land can be no longer cultivated with profit,
then of course it will be thrown up.” In 1832 was seen the
phenomenon of whole parishes of fertile land being aban¬
doned, “ the landlords giving up their rents, the farmers
their tenancy, the clergyman his glebe and the tithes.” We
find the paupers assembled and refusing to accept of the offer
372
POO R-L A W S.
Operation, of the whole land of the parish, avowing that “ they liked
^ the present system better.”1
In the article referred to, it had been shown that the sys¬
tem then in operation was fraught with the danger of dis¬
contented turbulence. “ Every one is brought up with the
belief that the state is bound to provide him with employ¬
ment and support. When, therefore, the employment as¬
signed him is such as he does not approve, and the recom¬
pense awarded him falls below his expectations (and when
the employment is a loss to the public, the recompense must
often be below even reasonable expectations), he becomes
an irritated and uneasy subject; and, unless he is restrained
by the fear of detection, or by the better influence of moral
principles, he vents his spleen by any mischief that is in his
power, and the burning of stackyards, or the destruction
of machinery, results from an unsatisfactory interview with
the overseer, or an ineffectual appeal to the bench of ma¬
gistrates.”
In the winter of 1831-1832 we find the practical exempli¬
fication of these remarks. In a period of great general pros¬
perity, we find that portion of England in which the poor-
laws had had their greatest operation, and in which by much
the largest expenditure of poor-rates had been made, the
scene of daily riot and nightly incendiarism; and we discover
a state of things which, in the sober language of statistics, is
thus described: “ Of ninety-three parishes in four ill-admi¬
nistered counties, the population is 113,147, and the expen¬
diture L.81,978, or fourteen and fivepence per head ; and
of eighty parishes in three well-administered counties, the
population is 105,728, and the expenditure L.30,820, or five
and ninepence per head ; and those counties in which the
expenditure is large are those in which the industry and
skill of the labourers are passing away, the connection be¬
tween the master and servant has become precarious, the
unmarried are defrauded of their fair earnings, and riots and
incendiarism have prevailed. The three counties in which
it is comparatively small are those in which scarcely any
instance of fire or tumult appears to have occurred; in
which mutual attachment exists between the workman and
his employer; in which wages depend not on marriage, but
on ability, and the diligence and skill of the labourers are
unimpaired or increased.”
The danger had become too real to be neglected if a
remedy could be found ; but parliamentary inquiries, both
in the upper and lower house, had repeatedly taken place
comparatively without result, the largest effect produced by
any committee of either house being that of the committee
appointed in 1817, which in the year 1819 produced Sturges
Bourne’s act; an act, as events proved, almost wholly un¬
productive of effect in checking the course of pauperism.
An effort of another kind was now felt to be necessary,
and was accordingly made. A Commission of Inquiry was
appointed, consisting of individuals remarkable alike for
their interest in the subject and their knowledge of its prin¬
ciples and details; its powers, though only those of ordi¬
nary commissioners of inquiry, far exceeding, for useful pur¬
poses, those of a parliamentary committee. Its labours were
continued incessantly for two years, uninterrupted by the
vacation or recess. Nor were these confined alone to the
examination of witnesses summoned from different parts of
the country. The commission were enabled to examine the
locality itself, the documentary evidence, the living wit¬
nesses, and the actual operation of the system on the spot,
and this by the members of their own body, as well as by
assistant-commissioners appointed to visit and examine all
parts of the country, some of whom extended their inqui¬
ries into Scotland, France, Flanders, and Guernsey, whilst
they also collected a vast mass of interesting evidence from Operation,
our ambassadors and diplomatic agents in different coun- 'S'““‘Y'W
tries of Europe and America.
The result was a scrutinizing and minute inquiry; which
was followed by the suggestion of amendments in the law,
the practical deductions from the experience, yet so syste¬
matic, that their operation could be calculated almost with
certainty, and which were, therefore, proportionally to be
relied upon. As the success in inquiring had been great,
so was the confidence of the legislature readily given; and
the most important statute upon the subject passed since
the statute of Elizabeth was carried through both houses by
large and confident majorities.
A description of the evils found in operation at the time
of the inquiry, of the remedies proposed for those evils, and
of the enactments actually adopted, will afford the most
complete and consistent view of the present system of Eng¬
lish poor-laws. The statement of the operation of the pre¬
vious law, and of the remedies proposed, will be condensed
from the Report of the Commissioners of Inquiry; that of the
enactments passed, from the Act for the Amendment and
better Administration of the Laws relating to the Poor in
England and Wales, being 4 and 5 William IV. cap. 76.
The poor entitled to relief consist,of those who are
impotent through old age or bodily infirmity, through infancy,
through accident, or through mental infirmity; and, secondly^
of the able-bodied poor.
I.—RELIEF OF THE ABLE-BODIED.
It was in the relief of the able-bodied that the greatest
pecuniary expenditure, and, above all, that the greatest mo¬
ral evils, were incurred. The relief granted was in a great
measure unconditional; in many districts it had superseded
the necessity of practising even the thrift and husbandry
necessary in expending the funds placed at the pauper’s
disposal.
The great source of abuse was found to be the out-door
relief afforded to the able-bodied on their own account, or
on that of their families. This was given either in kind or
in money.
1. Out-Door Relief of the Able-Bodied in Kind.
The out-door relief of the able-bodied, when given in
kind, was found to consist rarely of food, rather less unfre-
quently of fuel, and still less unfrequently of clothes, parti¬
cularly shoes ; but its most usual form was that of relieving
the applicants, either wholly or partially, from the expense
of obtaining house-room. This last mode of reliel was
extensively prevalent, and productive of important conse¬
quences, both direct and indirect.
Partial relief from the expense of obtaining house-room
was given, or professed to be given, whenever the occupant
of a cottage or an apartment was exempted on the ground
of poverty from the payment of rates. In a great number
of cases the labourer, if a parishioner, was not only exempt¬
ed from rates, but his rent was paid out of the parish funds.
2. Out-Door Relief of the Able-Bodied in Money.
The out-door relief afforded in money to the able-bodied
on their own account or on that of their families was found
to be still more prevalent. This was generally effected by
one or other of the five following expedients, which may be
concisely designated as, first, relief without labour; secondly,
the allowance system; thirdly, the roundsman system; fourth¬
ly, parish employment; and, fifthly, the labour-rate system.
Relief without Labour.—By the parish giving to those who
' See, as tc> the parish of Cholesbury in Berkshire, the Report from his Majesty’s Commissioners for Inquiring into the’Administration
and 1 radical Oneration of the Poor-Laws, 8vo Fellowe?, 1834. See also instances in Warwickshire, in Mr Yilliers’s Report, in Ap¬
pendix (A).
POO R-L A W S.
)peration. were or professed to be without employment, a daily or a week-
—v-*-^ ly sum, without requiring from the applicant any labour.
Sometimes relief, to an amount insufficient for a com¬
plete subsistence, was afforded, without imposing any fur¬
ther condition than that the applicant should shift, as it
was called, for himself, and give the parish no further trou¬
ble. In a still greater number of instances the relief was
found to have been given on the plea that the applicant had
not been able to obtain work, that he had lost a day or a
longer period, and was entitled, therefore, to receive from
the unlimited resources of the parish what he had not been
able to obtain from a private employer.
Allowance—By the parish allowing to labourers who
were employed by individuals, relief in aid of wages.
In some places allowance was found to have been given
only occasionally, or to meet occasional wants ; to buy, for
instance, a coat or a pair of shoes, or to pay the rent of a cot¬
tage or an apartment. In others, it was considered that a
weekly sum, or more frequently the value of a certain quan¬
tity of flour or bread, was to be received by each member
of a family.
The latter practice was found to have been sometimes
matured into a system, forming the law of a whole district,
sanctioned and enforced by the magistrates, and promul¬
gated in the form of local statutes.1 The allowance fixed
by these scales was usually called bread-money. Of this
kind of relief it was observed, that
“ No attention was paid to either the character of the
applicant or the causes of his distress. In fact, he was con¬
sidered as entitled to it without pleading any distress.
! . “ The bread-money was hardly looked upon by the labour¬
ers in the light of parish relief. They considered it as much
their right as the wages they received from their employers,
and, in their own minds, made a wide distinction between
‘ taking their bread-money’ and ‘ going on the parish.’ ”
It was further to be observed, that even in those parishes
in which the amount of allowance was supposed to depend
upon that of the applicant’s earnings, the inquiry as to the
amount of those earnings was never carried back further
373
than the current or the previous week or fortnight. The Operation,
consequence was, that many of those who at particular pe- ''-'"v—
riods of the year received wages far exceeding the average
amount of the earnings of the most industrious labourer,
received also large allowances from the parish.2
Again, there were other parishes in which no sort of in¬
quiry whatever was made respecting earnings; but the birth
of a child endowed the parent with an allowance, whatever
might have been his previous income.3 It was to be ob¬
served, also, that under the scale system a child was very
soon considered as an independent claimant for relief, and
entitled to it, though residing with his parents, and though
they might have been at full work on high wages.4
The Roundsman System.—By the parish paying the
occupiers of property to employ the applicants for relief at
a rate of wages fixed by the parish, and depending not on
the services but on the wants of the applicants, the em¬
ployer being repaid out of the poor-rate all that he had ad¬
vanced in wages beyond a certain sum. This was the house-
row, or roundsman, or billet, or ticket, or stem, system.
According to this plan, the parish in general made some
agreement with a farmer to sell to him the labour of one
or more paupers at a cei'tain price, and paid to the pauper
out of the parish funds the difference between that price
and the allowance which the scale, according to the price
of bread and the number of his family, awarded to him. It
had received the name of the billet or ticket system, from
a ticket signed by the overseer, which the pauper in general
carried to the farmer as a warrant for his being employed,
and took back to the overseer, signed by the farmer, as a
proof that he had fulfilled the conditions of relief. In other
cases the parish contracted with some individual to have
some work performed for him by the paupers at a given
price, the parish paying the paupers. In many places the
roundsman system was effected by means of an auction.5
Parish Employment.—By the parish employing and pay¬
ing the applicants for relief.
The 43d Elizabeth does not authorize relief to be afford¬
ed to any but the impotent, except in return for work. And
1 “ Town of Cambridge The churchwardens and overseers of the poor are requested to regulate the incomes of such persons as
may apply to them for relief or employment, according to the price of fine bread, namely,
“ A single woman, the price of...34 quartern loaves per week. “ A man and his wife and one child...94 quartern loaves per week.
“ A single man 44 ... ditto. “ Ditto ditto and two children 11 ... ditto.
“ A man and his wife 8 ... ditto. “ Ditto ditto and three ditto ..13 ... ditto.
“ Man, wife, four children and upwards, at the price of 2^ quartern loaves per head per week.
“ It will be necessary to add to the above income in all cases of sickness or other kind of distress, and particularly of such persons
or families who deserve encouragement by their good behaviour, whom parish-officers should mark both by commendation and reward.
u By order of the magistrates assembled at the town-hall, Cambridge,—A Chevell, clerk to the magistrates.—Nov. 27, 1829.”
(Report, p. 22.)
2 Mr Bishop found a parish in the Bedford Level, in which a recently drained tract of fertile land requires more labour than the
settled inhabitants can provide, and the average yearly earnings of a labourer’s family are from L.GO to L.70; but during a frost,
and generally from November to March, almost every labourer comes on the parish. AV hen they commented on these facts in their
conversation with a resident magistrate, his answer was, “ Why, what are we to do ? they spend it all, and then come and say they
are starving; and you must relieve them.” “ In our vestry,” says Mr Russell, “ which meets every Monday, the calculation is
confined to the earnings of the past fortnight. No further retrospect is ever taken either for or against the claimant. In some pa¬
rishes I believe the account is settled once a week instead of once a fortnight.” Sometimes the inquiry does not go back even to the
beginning of the week at the end of which the claim is made. (Ibid. p. 29.) _ .
3 In the northern division of Devonshire, says Mr Villiers, “ The practice of granting allowance for children is so general and
confirmed, that the pauper is in the habit of giving formal notice to the overseer ol the pregnancy ol his wire.. Should the over¬
seer refuse the application for the fixed sum allowed for the second, third, or fourth child, the magistrates single inquiry, on Ins ap¬
pearance before them under a summons, would have been as to the custom of the parish or the hundred. At what number does al¬
lowance begin with you ?’ was the common mode of putting the question, as I was repeatedly assured by overseers. Ihe previous
or present earnings of the pauper, or of any of his family, were never mentioned.” (Ibid. p. 31.)
4 At Friston, Suffolk, Mr Stuart states that “ a child is entitled to relief at the rate, ot three shillings a week on Ins own account,
from the age of fourteen.” “ At Bottisham, Cambridge,” says Mr Power, “ a boy of sixteen receives two shillings tnd sixpence lot
the week ; he lives at home with his father; the family consists of his father, mother, brother, and himself. Seventeen is the age at
which a young man is considered entitled to separate relief as an unemployed labourer ; his pay then is three shillings and sixpence.
The allowance to our single young men out of employ used to be two shillings and tenpence; according to scale, four quartern
loaves, present price eightpence-halfpenny. Last November they came to the sessions in a body to complain of the insufficiency,
and it was then raised to three shillings and sixpence. This sum they receive when above a certain age, although residing wit 11 .eir
families.” (Ibid. p. 31.) „ ,, , ,, i. . , . ,.,
5 Mr Richardson states that, “ in Sulgrave, Northamptonshire, the old and infirm are sold at the monthly meeting to ie ’eh
der, at prices varying, according to the time of the year, from one shilling and sixpence a week to three, shillings ; a a ai< y-
Hastings, all the unemployed men are put up to sale weekly; and that the clergyman of the parish told him that he lac seen en nit
the last week knocked down to one of the farmers for five shillings, and that there were at that time about seven y men e 1
this manner out of a body of 170.” (Ibid. p. 28.)
374
POO R-L A W S.
Operation, much as this part of the statute had been neglected, its \ a-
V"""'lidity was still recognised by the judges. In the King v.
Collett, 2, Barnewell and Cresswell, 324, Lord 1 enterden
decided it to be the duty of overseers to provide work, it
possible, before they afforded relief. And whatever might
have been the difficulty of finding profitable work, one
could scarcely suppose the existence of a parish in which it
would not be'possible to provide some work, were it merely
to dig holes and fill them again. But though such was the
law, it appears, from the parliamentary returns, that pay¬
ment for work was the most unusual form in which relief
was administered. The poor-rate returns for the year end¬
ed the 25th of March 1832 state, that out of L.7,036,968
expended in that year for the relief of the poor, less than
L.354,000, or scarcely more than one twentieth part, was
paid for work, including work on the roads and in the work-
houses. This might easily be accounted for.
In the first place, to afford relief gratuitously proved less
troublesome to the parochial authorities than to require
work in return for it. Wherever work was to be paid for,
there must have been superintendence ; but where paupers
were the work-people, much more than the average degree
of superintendence was necessary. In ordinary cases, all
that the superintendent inquired was, whether the workmen
had performed an average day’s work; and where the work
was piece-work, he needed not make even that inquiry.
The practice of his trade fixed the market-price of the
work, and he paid it without asking whether the workman
had been one hour or one day in performing it, or whether
it exceeded or fell below his wants. But the superinten¬
dent of pauper labourers had to ascertain, not what was an
average day’s work, or what was the market-price of a
given service, but what wras a fair day’s w7ork for a given
individual, his strength and habits considered ; at what rate
of pay for that wwk, the number of his family considered,
he would be able to earn the sum necessary for his and
their subsistence; and, lastly, whether he had in fact per¬
formed the amount which, after taking all these elements
into calculation, it appeared that he ought to have perform¬
ed. It will easily be anticipated that this superintendence
was very rarely given ; and that in far the greater number
of instances in which work was professedly required from
fiaupers, in fact no work was done. In the second place, col-
ecting the paupers in gangs for the performance of parish
work was found to be more immediately injurious to their
conduct than even allowance or relief without requiring any
work at all. Whatever might have been the general charac¬
ter of the parish labourers, all the worst of the inhabitants
were sure to be amongst the number ; and it is well known
that the effect of such an association is always to degrade the
good, not to elevate the bad. It was amongst these gangs,
who had scarcely any other employment or amusement than
to collect in groups, and talk over their grievances, that
the riots of 1830 appear to have originated. And, thirdly,
parish employment did not afford direct profit to any indi¬
vidual. Under the greatest part of the other systems of relief,
the immediate employers of labour could t^row on the pa- Operation
rish a part of the wages of their labourers. They preferred, y'*-
therefore, those modes of relief which they could turn to
their own account, and out of which they could extract pio-
fit under the mask of charity.1
In some of the agricultural districts, the prevalent mis¬
management in this respect had created in tne minds of
the paupers a notion that it was their right to be exempted
from the same degree of labour as independent labourers.
But in many places, whilst the labour required by the pa¬
rish was trifling, the pay equalled or exceeded that of the
independent labourer.2
The Labour-Rate System—By an agreement amongst the
rate-payers, that each of them should employ and pay out
of his own money a certain number of the labourers who
had settlements in the parish, in proportion, not to his real
demand for labour, but according to his rental or to his con¬
tribution to the rates, or to the number of horses that he kept
for tillage, or to the number of acres that he occupied, or
according to some other scale.
II OUT-DOOR RELIEF OF THE IMPOTENT.
The out-door relief to the impotent, using that word as
comprehending all except the able-bodied and their fami¬
lies, was subject to less abuse. The great source of poor-
law mal-administration was the desire of many of those who
regulated the distribution of the parochial funds, to extract
from it a profit to themselves. The out-door relief to the
able-bodied, and all relief which was administered in the
workhouse, afforded ample opportunities for effecting^ this
purpose; but no use could be made of the labour of the
aged and sick, and there was little room for jobbing if their
pensions were paid in money. Accordingly, it was found
that even in places distinguished in general by the most
wanton parochial profusion, the allowances to the aged and
infirm were moderate.
General Remarks on Out-door Relief.
We have dwelt at some length on out-door relief, be¬
cause it appears to be the relief which was most extensive¬
ly given, and because it appears to have contained in itself
the elements of an almost indefinite extension ; of an ex¬
tension, in short, which might ultimately have absoroed
the whole fund out of which it arose. Amongst the ele¬
ments of extension were the constantly diminishing reluc¬
tance to claim an apparent benefit, the receipt of which
imposed no sacrifice, except a sensation of shame, quickly
obliterated by habit, even if not prevented by example; the
difficulty, often amounting to impossibility, on the part of
those who administered and awarded relief, of ascertaining
whether any and what necessity for it existed; and the exist¬
ence in many cases of positive motives on their parts to grant
it when unnecessary, or themselves to create the necessity.
From the evidence collected by the Commissioners, it
will be seen how zealous must be the agency, and how in-
1 “ Either the work was completed bv two or three o’clock, and the rest of the day spent in idleness, or the men consumed the whole
day in the lazy performance of the work of a portion of the day.”...“ In Pollington, Yorkshire, they send many of them upon the
highways, but they only work four hours per day. This is because there is not employment sufficient in that way ; they sleep more
than they work, and if any but the surveyor found them sleeping, they would laugh at them. In Itancliffe they employed a man in
the winter of 1830-1831 to look over them ; but they threatened to drown him, and he was obliged to withdraw.”.In the parish ot
Mancetter, in the county of Warwick, the overseer stated that young able men received two shillings and sixpence a week, and the
magistrates would not allow the parish to employ them more than three days in the week, in order that they might get work lor them¬
selves. Upon inquiry, it appeared that their characters soon became so infamous, that no person would employ them, having devoted
their spare time to thieving and poaching. In the township of Atherstone, Mr Wellday, a manufacturer, impatient of contributing
his property to the encouragement of vice and idleness by paying men without exacting labour, purchased some water-carts himself,
for the purpose of giving employment to paupers. The magistrates refused to allow them to be used after twelve o’clock in the day,
in order that these men might procure work for themselves. They were also described as becoming the most worthless characters in
the town.” (Report, p. 37, 38.)
2 Eastbourne, in Sussex, was a striking example. In that place, in which the average wages earned from individuals by hard vyork
are twelve shillings a week, the parish pays for nominal labour as much as sixteen shillings a week. Two families alone received from
it, in the year ended Lady-day 1832, L.92. 4s.; and the wives of the few independent labourers regret that their husbands are not
paupers. (Ibid, p. 39.)
POO R-L A W S.
■peration. tense the vigilance, to prevent fraudulent claims from crowd-
-’’'v'--'' ing in under such a system of relief. But it would require still
greater vigilance to prevent the bona fide claimants from de¬
generating into impostors ; and it was an aphorism amongst
the active parish-officers, that “ cases which are good to¬
day are bad to-morrow, unless they are incessantly watch¬
ed.” A person obtained relief upon the ground of sickness ;
but when he became capable of returning to moderate work,
he was tempted, by the enjoyment of subsistence without
labour, to conceal his convalescence, and fraudulently ex¬
tend the period of relief. When it really depended upon
the receivers whether the relief should cease with its occa¬
sion, it was too much to expect of their virtue that they
should, in any considerable number of instances, voluntari¬
ly forego the pension.
Another evil connected with out-door relief, and arising
from its undefined character, was the natural tendency to
award to the deserving more than was necessary, or, where
more than necessary relief was afforded to all, to distinguish
the deserving by extx-a allowances. The scale which we
have already referred to, promulgated by the magistrates
for the town of Cambridge, as well as several others, all
directed the parish-officers to reward or encourage the de¬
serving. The whole evidence showed the danger of such
an attempt. It appeared that such endeavours to consti¬
tute the distributors of relief into a tribunal for the reward
of merit, out of the property of others, had not only failed in
effecting the benevolent intentions of their promoters, but
had become sources of fraud on the part of the distributors,
and of discontent and violence on the part of the claimants.
A common consequence was, that to satisfy the clamours
of the undeserving, the general scale of relief was raised;
but the ultimate result of such a proceeding appears always
to have been to augment the distress which it was intend¬
ed to mitigate, and to render still more fierce the discontent
which it was intended to appease. Profuse allowances ex¬
cited the most extravagant expectations on the part of the
claimants, who conceived that an inexhaustible fund_ was
devoted to their use, and that they were wronged to the
extent of whatever fell short of their claims. Such relief
partook of the nature of indiscriminate alms-giving in its ef¬
fects, as a bounty on indolence and vice ; but the apparent¬
ly legal sanction to this parochial alms-giving rendered the
discontent on denial the most intense. Wherever, indeed,
public charities are profusely administered, w e hear, from
those who are engaged in their administration, complaints
of the discontent and disorders introduced.
It appeared from all the Commissioners’ returns, that in
every district the discontent of the labouring classes was pro¬
portioned to the money disbursed in poor-rates or in volun¬
tary charities. The able-bodied unmarried labourers were
discontented, from being put to a disadvantage as compar¬
ed with the married. The paupers were discontented, from
their expectations being raised by the ordinary administra¬
tion of the system, beyond any means of satisfying them.1
Those who worked, though receiving good wages, being de¬
nominated poor, and classed with the really indigent, thought
themselves entitled to a share of the “ poor funds.” What¬
ever addition was made to allowances under these circum¬
stances excited the expectation of still further allowances,
increased the conception of the extent of the right, and
375
insured proportionate disappointment and hatred if that ex- Operation,
pectation were not satisfied. On the other hand, wherever ^ y
the objects of expectation had been made definite, where
wages, upon the performance of work, had been substituted
for eleemosynary aid, and those wages had been allowed to re¬
main matter of contract, employment had again produced con¬
tent, and kindness became once more a source of gratitude.
Ill IN-DOORS RELIEF.
In-doors relief, that which was given within the walls of
the poor-house, or, as it was usually, but very seldom proper¬
ly, denominated, the workhouse, was also subject to great
mal-administration. But in by far the greater number of
cases it was a large alms-house, in which the young were
trained in idleness, and ignorance, and vice; the able-bodied
maintained in sluggish and sensual indolence; the aged and
more respectable exposed to all the misery incident to dwell¬
ing in such a society, without government or classification;
and the whole body of inmates subsisting on food far exceed¬
ing, both in kind and in amount, not merely the diet of the
independent labourer, but that of the majority of the per¬
sons who contributed to their support.
The progress of pauperism, as far as it can be inferred Extent of
from the progress of expenditure, had been such as is ex- pauperism,
hibited in the following table; to which the prices of wheat,
and the quantities which might have been purchased by the
total sums expended, are added, for the purpose of checking,
in some measure, the misapprehension which might other¬
wise arise as to the true value of the sums expended through
the fluctuating values of money during the interval to which
the table extends.
1801
1803
1811
1814
1815
1818
1817
1818
1819
1820
1821
1822
1823
1824
1825
1828
1827
1828
1829
1830
1831
1832
1833
Sums expended
for Relief of the
Poor.
L.
4,017,871
4,077,891
6,656,105
6,294,581
5,418,846
5,724,839
6,910,925
7,870,801
7,516,704
7,330,256
6,959,249
6,358,702
5,772,958
5,736,898
5,786,989
5,928,501
6,441,088
6,298,000
6,332,410
6,829,042
6,798,883
7,036,968
6,790,799
Population o
England and
Wales.2
Average Price
of Wheat per
Quarter.
8,872,980
9,148,314
10,163,676
10,755,034
10,979,437
11,160,557
11,349,750
11,524,389
11,700,965
11,893,155
11,978,875
12,313,810
12,508,956
12,699,098
12,881,906
13,056,931
13,242,019
13,441,913
13,620,701
13,811,467
13,897,187
14,105,645
14,317,223
s. d.
115 11
57
92
72 1
63 8
76 2
94 0
83 8
72 3
65 10
54 5
43 3
51 9
62 0
66 6
56 11
56 9
60
66
64
66
58 8
52 11
Number of Quar¬
ters of Wheat for
which the money
could have been
exchanged.
693,234
1,428,751
1,440,455
1,746,474
1,702,255
1,503,240
1,470,409
1,881,466
2,080,748
2,226,913
2,557,763
2,940,440
2,231,094
1,850,612
1,740,447
2,083,221
2,26.9,987
2,084,855
1,911,671
2,125,772
2,049,916
2,398,966
2,566,601
e The numbers given in this column for the years 1801, 1811, 1821, and 1831,
are those ascertained at the enumeration of those years; those stated for the in¬
termediate and for subsequent years are computed from the baptisms and bu¬
rials, and from the rate of increase, as ascertained at each census.
1 “ They, as well as the independent labourers, to whom the term poor is equally applied, are instructed,” says Mr Chadwick,
“ that they have a right to ‘ a reasonable subsistence,’ or ‘ a fair subsistence,’ or ‘ an adequate subsistence.’ When I have asked of the
rate-distributors what ‘fair' or ‘ reasonable,' or ‘ adequate' meant, I have in every instance been answered differently; some stating
they thought it meant such as would give a good allowance of ‘ meat every day,’ which no poor man (meaning a pauper) should be
without; although a large proportion of the rate-payers do go without it.” It is abundantly shown in the course of this inquiry,.that
where the terms used by the public authorities are vague, they are always filled up by the desires of the claimants, and the desires
always wait on the imagination, which is the worst regulated and the most vivid in the most ignorant of the people. In Newbury and
Reading, the money dispensed in poor-rates and charity is as great as could be desired by the warmest advocate either of com¬
pulsory or of voluntary relief; and yet, during the agricultural riots, many of the inhabitants in both towns were under strong ap¬
prehensions of the rising of the very people amongst whom the poor-rates and charities are so profusely distributed. I he violence of
most of the mobs seems to have arisen from an idea that all their privations arose from the cupidity or fraud of those intrusted with
the management of the fund provided for the poor. (Report, p. 50.)
376
Operation.
POO R-L A W S.
The following represents the results of the above table
' at the periods of the decennial census.
Cost per head
on total
Population.
s. d.
Years
of the
Census.
Cost in Wheat
in the propor¬
tion of
1801
1811
1821
1831
141
25^
20
9
13
10
9
The foregoing table, however, can by no means be adopt¬
ed as indicating with any accuracy the real progress of the
evil. In the first place, the progress in the amount expend¬
ed only indicates an increased proportion of pauperism, in¬
asmuch as the increase in the sums expended exceeds the
increase in the population. Thus, from the year 1803 to
the year 1823, the population increased from nine to twelve
millions, whilst the sums expended for relief of the poor
increased from four to five and three-fourth millions. Ihis
indicates but a small increase in pauperism relatively to the
increase of population, and the number of paupers in every
hundred persons might have been nearly the same at the
two periods compared. We find, however, that the increase
in the value of the money expended, as reckoned in the
wheat purchaseable by it, was as fourteen to twenty-two,
that is, an increase in pauperism which would have exceed¬
ed the progress of the population in the proportion of twen¬
ty per cent.; and in this period it is to be supposed, either
that the numbers of paupers may have increased in the
proportion of twenty per cent., or that the effective relief,
that is, the quantity of commodities given on the one side
and received on the other, had at least increased in the
proportion of twenty per cent. But, during all this period,
other necessaries and commodities of life had diminished
in price in a still greater proportion. Thus it is calcu¬
lated by Mr Porter,1 from the extensive data contained in
his tables, that the sum of nine shillings and ninepence,
the amount of relief per head, in the year 1831, would have
purchased as much as seventeen shillings would have bought
in 1801.
The sums returned as expended in poor-rates, though,
since 1834) and at present, they represent the whole amount
of the burthen, did, in fact, up to the year 1834, include
hut a small part of the whole charge. Of the various modes
in which relief was given to the able-bodied labourer, or
rather extorted from a portion of the parishioners, two of
those above described, viz. relief on the roundsman system,
and that on the labour-rate system, were means of casting
the burthen of a man’s support upon a parishioner, without
the levying or expending of any rate. No means exist to
enable us to calculate the amount of the burthen thus in¬
curred by the occupiers ; and of course the means of calcu¬
lating the sacrifices of landlords, who made deductions of Operation,
rate in regard of these charges, are equally wanting. We
however find, that amongst the most conspicuous instances
in which the rents of a parish had been nearly or entirely
absorbed in the relief afforded by these two systems, very
small rates had been levied upon the occupiers in money.
The Commissioners’ evidence, particularly their Appendix
(D), is full of instances of this source of indirect and unre¬
corded loss.2
It must also be borne in mind, that in proportion as these
modes of relief to the able-bodied were extended, and as
the real amount of the burthen was thus concealed, the
deterioration of the labourer’s habits of industry, involving,
not a loss of the particular year, but a permanent destruc¬
tion of his utility as a labourer, as well as of his prudence and
morality, were proceeding in a ratio even more rapid than
the progress of these insidious forms of relief.
It might have been hoped, that, under such circumstances, Objectijiu
a general feeling would have arisen that these abuses wereto amenl1-
intolerable, and must be put an end to at any risk or at any menb
sacrifice. But many who acknowledged the evil seemed
to expect the cure of an inveterate disease without expos¬
ing the patient to any suffering, or even discomfort. They
exclaimed against the burthen as intolerable, but objected
to any amendment, if it appeared that it must be, or might
be, attended with any inconvenience. And amongst all
parties, labourers, employers of labourers, and owners of
property, many were to be found who thought that they
would suffer some immediate injury from any change which
should tend to throw the labouring classes on their own
resources.
The labourer felt that the existing system, though it ge-1. On the
nerally gave him low wages, always gave him easy work. It part of la.
gave him likewise, strange as it may appear, what he valued ourer!,>
more, a sort of independence. He needed not bestir him¬
self to seek work, he needed not study to please his master,
he needed not put any restraint upon his temper, he need¬
ed not ask relief as a favour. He had all a slave’s secu¬
rity for subsistence, without his liability to punishment. As
a single man, indeed, his income did not exceed a bare sub¬
sistence ; but he had only to marry, and it increased. Even
then it was unequal to the support of a family, but it rose
on the birth of every child. If his family were numerous,
the parish became his principal paymaster; for, small as
the usual allowance of two shillings a-head might be, yet,
when there were more than three children, it generally ex¬
ceeded the average wages given in a pauperised district. A
man with a wife and six children, entitled, according to the
scale, to have his wages made up to sixteen shillings a week,
in a parish where the usual wages paid by individuals did
not exceed ten shillings or twelve shillings, was almost an
irresponsible being. All other classes of society were ex-
1 See the Progress of the Nation, by G. It. Porter, Esq. small 8vo, 1836, p. 83. , .
2 Mr Cowell’s Iteport contains the examination of a large farmer and proprietor at Great Shelford, who, on 500 acres, situate in
that parish, pays ten shillings per acre poor-rate, or L.250 a year. In addition, though he requires for his farm only sixteen regu ar
labourers, he constantly employs twenty or twenty-one. The wages of these supernumerary labourers amount to L.150 a y^r,
and he calculates the value of what they produce at L.50 a year ; so that his real contribution to the relief of the poor is not E. o ,
the sum which would appear in the parliamentary returns, but L.350. In the same Iteport is to be found a letter from Mr \Y eu o
Royston, containing the following passages :—
“ An occupier of land near this place told me to-day that he pays I..100 for poor-rates, and is compelled to employ fourteen men
and six boys, and requires the labour of only ten men and three boys. His extra labour at ten shillings a week, which is the cur¬
rent rate for men, and half as much for boys, is L.130. .
*£ Another occupier stated yesterday that he held 165 acres of land, of which half was pasture. He was compelled to employ
twelve men and boys, and his farm required the labour of only five. He is about to give notice that he will quit. Every useless la¬
bourer is calculated to add five shillings an acre to the rent of a farm of 100 acres.”
It contains also a letter from Mr Nash of lloyston, the occupier of a farm in a neighbouring parish, stating that “ The overseer,
on the plea that he could no longer collect the money for the poor-rates without resorting to coercive measures, and that the unem¬
ployed poor must be apportioned amongst the occupiers of land in proportion to their respective quantities, had required him to take
two more men. Mr Nash was consequently obliged to displace two excellent labourers, and of the two men sent in their stead one
was a married man with a family sickly, and not much inclined to work ; the other a single man addicted to drinking.” ?
The subsequent history of these two men appears in Mr Power’s Report. One killed a favourite blood mare of Mr Nash’s, ana
the other he was obliged to prosecute for stealing his corn. (Report, p. 55.)
POO R-L A W S.
•Ejections posed to the vicissitudes of hope and fear; he alone had no-
o Amend- thing to lose or gain.1
. It appeared to the pauper, that the government had un¬
dertaken to repeal, in his favour, the ordinary laws of na¬
ture ; to enact that the children should not sulfer for the
misconduct of their parents, the wdfe for that of the hus¬
band, or the husband for that of the wife; that no one
should lose the means of comfortable subsistence, whatever
might be his indolence, prodigality, or vice; in short, that
the penalty which, after all, must be paid by some one for
idleness and improvidence, should fall, not on the guilty per¬
son, or on his family, but on the proprietors of the lands and
houses encumbered by bis settlement. Can we wonder if
the uneducated were seduced into approving a system w hich
aimed its allurements at all the weakest parts of our na¬
ture, which offered marriage to the young, security to the
anxious, ease to the lazy, and impunity to the profligate ?
On the The employers of paupers were attached to a system
art of em- which enabled them to dismiss and resume their labourers
myers; acC0rding to their daily or even hourly want of them, to
reduce wages to the minimum of what would support an
unmarried man, and to throw upon others the payment of
a part, frequently of the greater part, and sometimes al¬
most the w'hole, of the wages actually received by their la¬
bourers. And even if they paid in rates w hat they would
otherwise pay in wages, they preferred the payment of
rates, which occurred at intervals, and the payment of which
might from time to time be put off, to the weekly ready-
money expenditure of wages. High rates, too, were a ground
for demanding an abatement from rent; but high w^ages w ere
not.2 * 4
On the The owners of rateable property might, at least, have
fetors*'1'0" ^een exPecte(I t° be favourable to any change which should
16 s‘ avert their impending ruin. But of the property liable to
377
poor-rates, there is a portion, and a portion of considerable Objections
importance, less from its value, than from the number ofto Ameijd-
rate-payers amongst whom it is divided, and their influence ment’
in vestries, which not only is, in practice, exempted from ^ ' Y
contributing to the parochial fund, but derives its principal
value from the mal-administration of that fund. This pro¬
perty consists of cottages or apartments inhabited by the
poor. In almost all places the dwellings of the poor, or at
least of the settled poor, were exempted from rates, and, be¬
sides, the rent was, in a very large proportion, paid by the pa¬
rish. The former practice enabled the proprietor often to in -
crease the rent by the amount of rate remitted, and always
to be an owner of real property, and yet escape the princi¬
pal burdens to which such property was subjected. The
latter practice gave him a solvent tenant, and, if he had in¬
fluence with the vestry or with the overseer, a liberal one.
Of the higher classes of landlords, those who reside in
towns seldom took much part in parochial government, or
had any distinct ideas as to the extent or the effects of its
mismanagement; and the majority of those who had become
familiarized with the abuses of the villages seem to have
acquired habits of thinking and feeling and acting which
unfitted them to originate any real and extensive amend¬
ment, or even to understand the principles upon which it
ought to be based. I o suppose that the poor are the pro¬
per managers of their own concerns; that a man’s wages
ought to depend on his services, not on his wants; that the
earnings of an ordinary labourer are naturally equal to the
support of an ordinary family ; that the welfare of that fa¬
mily naturally depends on his conduct; that he is bound to
exercise any sort of prudence or economy; that anything
is to be hoped from voluntary charity; are views W’hich many
of those who have long resided in pauperised rural districts
seem to have rejected as too absurd for formal refutation.
1 Even in Barnard Castle, in Durham, Mr Wilson states, that if any remonstrance is made on account of the applicant’s bad cha¬
racter, the reply of the magistrate commonly is, u the children must not suffer for it.”
The following answers are specimens of the feeling and conduct in the southern districts :—“ The answer given by the magistrates,
when a man’s bad conduct is urged by the overseer against his relief, is, ( We cannot help that; his wife and family are not to suffer
because the man has done wrong.’ ”
” Too frequently petty thieving, drunkenness, or impertinence to a master, throw able-bodied labourers, perhaps with large fami¬
lies, on the parish funds, when relief is demanded as a right, and, if refused, enforced by a magistrate’s order, without reference to
the cause which has produced his distress, viz. his own misconduct, which remains as a barrier to his obtaining any fresh situation,
and leaves him a dead weight upon the honesty and industry of his parish.”
Mr Stuart states, that in Suffolk, children deserted by their parents are in general well taken care of, and that the crime of de¬
serting them is largely encouraged by the certainty that the parish must support the family. Even the inconvenience which might
fall on the husband by the punishment of his wife for theft, is made the subject of pecuniary compensation at the expense of the in¬
jured parish. Under what other system could there be a judicial instrument concluding thus:—
“ And whereas it appears to us that the wife of the said Bobert Heed is now confined in the house of correction at Cambridge, and
that he is put to considerable expense in providing a person to look after his said five children, we do therefore order the church¬
wardens and overseers of the poor of the said parish, or such of them to whom these presents shall come, to pay unto the said Robert
Reed the sum of eleven shillings weekly and every week, for and towards the support and maintenance of himself and family, for one
month from the day of the date hereof. Given under our hands and seals this twentieth day of February, in the year of our Lord
one thousand eight hundred aud thirty-three.” (Report, p. 59.)
8 In Mr Richardson’s instructive statement of the reforms effected by Mr Litchfield, in Farthingoe, Northamptonshire, we find
that Mr Litchfield has been opposed, not only by the labourers, but by the farmers ; first, because they grudged giving the labourer
with no children eight shillings a week; secondly, because they were afraid to displease the labourer who had two children, and pre¬
ferred head-money; and, thirdly, because they were fearful lest, if the rates were lowered, their rents would be raised ; and that
they encouraged the labourers, at first openly, and afterwards covertly, in their attempts to deter Mr Litchfield by menaces and
insult.
“ When;
have no leases),
4 I have nothingt       , — ^
as a bad custom, as it holds out an inducement to the farmer to prefer low wages and high rates, aenants at will, says Air Gogslnll,
too often think, the more poor-rates the less rent. Confidence between landlord and tenant seems quite lost. I have witnessed a
good deal of this.” . .
The following replies to question 36 of the Commissioners’ Rural Queries are further testimonies to the same effect.
“ I think the poor-laws have not diminished the capital, but rather the rent of the landlord, as the tenant considers rents and rates
as payment for the farm, and one can only be increased at the expense of the other.” .
“ The farmers are aware that, excepting in cases of long tenures and very sudden augmentation or rates, the burden does not at
all affect them. It is a rent paid to the parish instead of the landowner.” ,
“ It should be understood that poor-rates are deducted in all calculations for rent; and that landlords pay them, and not the
farmers.” _ .
“ Capital is decreasing, from the loose manner in which the laws are administered, and the tenants feeling that they t o no m
effect pay the rates, but the landlord. I cannot otherwise account forthe apathy with which they view, and the tenacity with which,
in many instances, they defend abuses.” (Report, pp. 60, 61, 62.)
. VOL. XVIII. ^ B
378
POO R-L A VV S.
Effects of Yet were the effects of the system such, that it might
System, reasonably have been expected that any plan affording a
^7TT'y’*'"T/ reasonable prospect of a remedy would have been welcom-
Effects ot ed by a]1 classes- The proprietors, who had been mulcted
proprietors every year of a larger and larger portion of their income,
were not only deprived of the benefits to their property na¬
turally dependent on a constant increase of the population
and in the consumption of produce, each such increase
bringing with it an accumulating charge of pauperism. In¬
stances of the total abandonment of the land had not yet
become numerous, but the approach towards it was in many
cases imminent, and in all certain and rapid ;l whilst every
diminution of cultivation was seen to have a double effect in
increasing the rate on the remaining cultivation, the number
of unemployed labourers being increased at the same instant
as the fund for payment of rates was diminished ; and the
abandonment of property once begun, gave induced cause
to proceed at an accelerated ratio.
The employers found the services of their labourers de¬
teriorated both by the loss of industry, skill, and intelli¬
gence, which can only be secured by a recognition, on the
part of the labourer, of the value to himself of such qualities;
and they had to contend with many other habits of insolence
and insubordination, the natural results of the labourer’s
ceasing to depend upon his good character.
But by far the severest sufferers were those for whose
buurers. benefit the system was supposed to have been introduced
and perpetuated; we mean the labourers and their families.
Amongst these, the effects were not confined to those ac¬
tually relieved. Instances were everywhere found in which
the prudence and forethought of a labourer became his
punishment instead of a reward. So onerous was the entire
support of a man with a large family, and entirely destitute,
that the rate-payers in agricultural parishes were generally
agreed in employing such a one, so as to keep his family off
the rates, in preference to another who had not married, or
who had no family, or who had the means, by greater pru¬
dence or by any good fortune, for a while to support him¬
self.2 The system, in short, was this.
Piece-work was refused to the single man, or to the mar¬
ried man, if he had any property, because they could exist
upon day-wages; it was refused to the active and intelligent
labourer, because he could earn too much. The enter¬
prising man, who had fled from the tyranny and pauperism
of his parish to some place where there was a demand and
a reward for his services, was driven from a situation which
suited him, and an employer to whom he was attached, by
on em¬
ployers,
11'lo
a labour-rate or some other device against non-parishion- Effects d
ers, and forced back to his settlement to receive as alms a System
portion only of what he was obtaining by his own exertions. v tj
He was driven from a place where he was earning, as a
free labourer, twelve or fourteen shillings a week, and was
offered road-work as a pauper, at sixpence a day, or per¬
haps to be put up by the parish authorities to auction, and
sold to the farmer who would take him at the lowest al¬
lowance.
Can we wonder, then, if the labourer abandoned virtues 01
which this was the reward ; if he gave up the economy in
return for which he had been proscribed, the diligence for
which he had been condemned to involuntary idleness, and
the prudence, if it can be called such, which diminished his
means just as much as it diminished his wants ? Can we
winder if, smarting under these oppressions, he considered
the law, and all who administered the law, as his enemies,
the fair objects of his fraud or his violence ? Can we won¬
der if, to increase his income, and to revenge himself on
the parish, he married, and thus helped to increase that
local excess of population which was gradually eating awTay
the fund out of which he and all the other labourers of the
parish were to be maintained ?
But though the injustice perpetrated upon the man who
struggled, as far as he could struggle, against the oppression
of the system, who refused, as far as he could refuse, to be
its accomplice, was at first sight the most revolting, the se¬
verest sufferers were those that had become callous to their
own degradation, who valued parish support as their privi •
lege, and demanded it as their right, and complained only
that it was limited in amount, or that some sort of labour
or confinement was exacted in return. No man’s princi¬
ples can be corrupted without injury to society in general;
but the person most injured is the person whose principles
have been corrupted. The constant war which the pauper
had to wrage with all who employed or paid him, was de¬
structive of his honesty and his temper ; as his subsistence
did not depend on his exertions, he lost all that sweetens
labour, its association with reward, and got through his
work, such as it was, wdth the reluctance of a slave. His
pay, earned by importunity or fraud, or even violence, was
not husbanded with the carefulness which would be given
to the results of industry, but wasted in the intemperance
to which his ample leisure invited him. The ground upon
which relief was ordered to the idle and dissolute was, that
the wife and children must not suffer for the vices ot the
head of the family ; but as that relief was almost alwrays
1 See the Commissioners’ Report, page G5, where instances like the following are given from all parts of the country.. The pre¬
sent is taken from Leicestershire, a county not within the range of the extreme operation of pauperism. “ Mr Pilkington s de¬
scription of several places in Leicestershire is equally alarming. In Hinckley he found the poor-rate exceeding one pound an acre,
and rapidly increasing, and a general opinion that the day is not distant when rent must cease altogether. On visiting M igston
Magna, in November 1832, he was informed that the value of property had fallen one half since 1820, and was not saleable even at
that reduction. It does not appear, indeed, that it ought to have sold for more than two or three years’ purchase, the net rental
not amounting to L.4000 a year, and the poor-rate expenditure growing at the rate of L.1000 increase in a single year. And on his
return to that neighbourhood, three months afterwards, the statement made to him was, that property in land was gone ; that even the
rates could not be collected without regular summons and judicial sales ; and that the present system must insure, and very shortly,
the total ruin of every individual of any property in the parish. We cannot wonder, after this, at the statement of an eminent so¬
licitor at Loughborough, that it is now scarcely possible to effect a sale of property in that neighbourhood at any price.”
The following answers, taken from a multitude of others of a similar nature, contained in Appendix (B), are to the same effect:
“ Annual value of the real property, as assessed April 1815, L.3390; annual value of the real property, as assessed November
1829, L.1959. 5s. It has undoubtedly fallen in value since the last valuation, i. e. in the last two years ; and the population has been
more than trebled in thirty years—1801, 306; 1811, 707 ; 1821, 897 ; 1831, 938 ; and that in spffe of an emigration of considerable
amount, at the parish expense, in 1829. The eighteen-penny children will eat up this parish in ten years more, unless some relief
be afforded us.” (Report, pp. 65, 66.)
* See striking evidences of these influences in the Report, page 78. <£ Will it be believed that such is not merely the cruelty, but
the folly, of the rate-payers in many places, that they prohibit this conduct (the anxiety of an independent labourer to make provi¬
sions for his family by his own exertions)—that they conspire to deny the man who, in defiance of the examples of all around him,
has dared to save, anil attempts to keep his savings, the permission to” work for his bread ? Such a statement appears so monstrous,
that we will substantiate it by some extracts from our evidence.”
Sir Harry Verney, in a communication which will be found in Appendix (C), says, “ In the hundred of Buckingham, in which I act
as a magistrate, many instances occur where labourers are unable to obtain employment, because they have property of their own.
For instance, in the parish of Steeple Claydon, John Lines, formerly a soldier, a very good workman, is refused employment because
he receives a pension. The farmers say that they cannot afford to employ those for whom they are not bound by law to provide.”
POO R-L A W S.
Effects of given into the hands of the vicious husband or parent, this
, 5^cm; - excuse was obviously absurd. It appears from the evi¬
dence that the great supporters of the beer-shops were the
paupers.
The worst of results, however, are still to be mentioned.
In all ranks of society, the great sources of happiness and
virtue were the domestic affections, and this was particu¬
larly the case amongst those who had so few resources as the
labouring classes. Now pauperism seems to have become
an engine for the purpose of disconnecting each member of
a family from all the others, and of reducing all to the state
of domesticated animals, fed, lodged, and provided for by
the parish, without mutual dependence or mutual interest.1
CHAPTER IV.
REMEDIAL MEASURES PROPOSED AND ADOPTED.
It has been a frequent subject of public remark, that the
remedial measures proposed by the Commissioners of In¬
quiry were the result of a process more deliberately and com¬
pletely inductive than was to be found in any other instance
of English, or indeed of any legislation. It is impossible to
give any impression of the extent and value of the evidence
upon which their conclusions were supported, otherwise
than by a repetition of nearly the whole of the Report in
which their remedial measures were detailed. This is im¬
possible in the space allotted to this article; but to those
interested, not only in the present question, but in acquaint¬
ing themselves with a most masterly example of legislative
investigation, no greater service can be done than to refer
them to the document itself, which has been characterized
by one of the most eminent, candid, and experienced of our
statesmen, as one of the ablest state-papers he ever read.
The following description will exhibit a mere summary
of the remedies proposed and adopted, with little more than
hints of the reasonings upon which they were founded.
The Commissioners by no means adopted the opinion that
a poor-law could, in a community like ours, be dispensed
with. 1 hey found that the most pressing of the evils of the
poor-laws were those connected with the relief of the able-
bodied, and to these they suggested their first remedies.
They assumed as their principle of administration, that the
public is warranted in imposing such conditions on the in¬
dividual relieved, as are conducive to the comfort either of
the individual himself, or of the country at large at whose
expense he is relieved.
nnciple of 1 hey proposed, then, as the first and most essential of all
'^relief1"" con<^ons re^e^ that the situation of the pauper, upon
e 16 ■ the whole, should not be made really or apparently so eli¬
gible as the situation of the independent labourer of the
379
lowest class. _ It was shown throughout the evidence, that Remedial
as the condition of the pauper class was elevated, the con- Measures.
cation of the independent class was depressed, their Indus-' v—'
tiy impaired, their employment rendered unsteady, and its
i enumeration diminished. Such persons, therefore, were
under the strongest inducements to quit the less eligible class
of labourers, and enter the wore eligible class of paupers.
ie Commissioners maintained that the converse would be,
and was found to be, the effect of placing the pauper class
in its proper position below the condition of the independent
labourer. 1 hey found, on a large examination of the cases
of strict administration of relief on the principle of letting
the labourer find in the parish the hardest taskmaster and
the worst paymaster he can have, that the parish had al¬
ways become his last, and not his first, resource ; and they
found largely exemplified those specific results which inva¬
riably ensue from such an administration.
/ *iC S j anc^ *mrnec^atc eff'ecb was the conversion of the Effects of
able-bodied paupers into independent labourers. The se- this,
cond result, indeed a corollary of the first, was the reduc¬
tion of the pafochial expenditure, constituting an increase
of the fund for the employment of independent labourers.
The third effect, closely connected with and following the
absorption of able-bodied paupers, and their conversion into
independent labourers, was the rise in wages. The fourth
class of the observed specific effects was the diminution,
n.ot only of pauper-marriages, but of those imprudent mar-
riages contracted with the knov/ledge and confidence that
the worst result to be apprehended was an eventual depen¬
dence upon the poor-rate. The fifth and last specific effect
dwelt upon by the Commissioners, and illustrated by their
evidence, was the diminution of crime, and the contentment
of the labourers increasing with their industry.
1 he Commissioners, in endeavouring to obtain the general
adoption of this principle, cautiously avoided the recommen¬
dation of speculative remedies; they dwelt anxiously and
emphatically upon the necessity and the safety of adopting
a course of legislation which may be considered as wholly
experimental. They propose, therefore, no changes in the
principle of the law, but confine their recommendations to
this, that the means which have been found the most effec¬
tive in practice, should be applied wherever it was found
applicable with the prospect of a beneficial result.
To secure this operation, they recommend the adoption
of a new and more responsible agency to co-operate with
and control that which had been found for the most part
inefficient, or greatly efficient for mischief. Some excres¬
cences in the law they propose to lop off, but no additions be¬
yond the improvement of the agency were proposed to be
introduced in the principle of the statute of Elizabeth, and
the succeeding legislation. They recommend, therefore,
“ that those modes of administering relief which have been
“ The effect of allowance,” says Mr Stuart, “ is to weaken, if not to destroy, all the ties of affection between parent and child.
Whenever a lad comes to earn wages, or to receive parish relief on his own account” (and this we must recollect is at the age of four¬
teen), “ although he may continue to lodge with his parents, he does not throw his money into a common purse, and board with them,
but buys his own loaf and piece of bacon, which he devours alone. The most disgraceful quarrels arise from mutual accusations of
theft; and as the child know’s that he has been nurtured at the expense of the parish, he has no filial attachment to his parents. The
circumstances of the pauper stand in an inverted relation to those of every other rank in society. Instead of a family being a source
of care, anxiety, and expense, for which he hopes to be rewarded by the filial return of assistance and support when they grow up,
there is no period in his life in which he tastes less of solicitude, or in which he has the means of obtaining all the necessaries of life
in greater abundance ; but as he is always sure of maintenance, it is in general the practice to enjoy life when he can, and no thought
is taken for the morrow. Those parents who are thoroughly' degraded and demoralized by the effects of ‘ allowance,’ not only take
no means to train up their children to habits of industry, but do their utmost to prevent their obtaining employment, lest it should
come to the knowledge of the parish-officers, and be laid hold of for the purpose of taking away the allowance.”
“ At Princes llisborough, we turned over the minute-book of the Select Vestry, and found the following entries :
“ ‘ Samuel Simmons’s wife applied to be allowed something for looking after her mother, who is confined to her bed ; the mother
now receives 3s. Cd. weekly. To be allowed an additional 6‘d. for a few weeks.’
“ ‘ David Walker’s wife applied to be allowed something for looking after her father and mother (old Stevens and his wife), now
ill, who receive Gs. weekly. To be allowed Is. weekly.’
“ ‘ Mary Lacy applies for something for waiting on her mother, now ill. Left to the governor.’
“ ‘ Elizabeth Prime applies to have something" allowed for her sister looking after her father, now ill. Left to the governor.’ “
(Report, pp. 06, 07-) _ .
i
380
Remedial tried and found beneficial, be generally enforced (Report,
Measures. p# 261) ; and “that the practice of giving relief in well-regu-
lated workhouses, and the abolition of partial relic! to the
able-bodied, having been tried and found beneficial, be ex¬
tended to all plac-es.” (Ibid. p. 262.)
Work- The first and chief specific measure recommended by
house re- them was thus describedFirst, That, except as to me-
commend- dical attendance, and subject to the exception respecting
ations. -- - ■ . . ^ n
POO R-L A W S.
apprenticeship hereinafter stated, all relief whatever to able
bodied persons, or to their families, otherwise than in well-
regulated workhouses (*. e. places where they may be set to
work according to the spirit and intention ot the 43d of
Elizabeth), shall be declared unlawful, and shall cease, in
manner and at periods hereafter specified ; and that all re¬
lief afforded in respect of children under the age of sixteen
shall be considered as afforded to their parents. (Ibid. p.
262.) .
This adoption of the workhouse and its restrictions as the
condition upon which relief was to be administered, was ad¬
vised, because it would operate, in the first place, as a self¬
acting test of the claim of the applicant, jt being urged
“ That it is demoralizing and ruinous to offer to the able-
bodied of the best characters more than a simple subsistence.
The person of bad character, if he be allowed anything, could
not be allowed less. By the means which we propose, the
line between those who do, and those who do not, need re¬
lief, is drawn, and drawn perfectly. If the claimant does not
comply with the terms on which relief is given to the desti¬
tute, he gets nothing; and if he does comply, the compliance
proves the truth of the claim, namely, his destitution. If,
then, regulations were established and enforced with the de¬
gree of strictness that has been attained in the dispauper-
ised parishes, the workhouse doors might be thrown open
to all who would enter them, and conform to the regulations.
Not only would no agency for contending against fraudu¬
lent rapacity and perjury, no stages of appeals (vexatious
to the appellants and painful to the magistrates), be requi¬
site to keep the able-bodied from the parish ; but the in¬
tentions of the statute of Elizabeth, in setting the idle to
work, might be accomplished, and vagrants and mendicants
actually forced on the parish, that is, forced into a condi¬
tion of salutary restriction and labour. It would be found
that they might be supported much cheaper under proper
regulations than when living at large by mendicity or de¬
predation.” (Ibid. p. 264.)
In the second place, it was observed by the Commission¬
ers, that “ Little need be said on the next effect of the abo¬
lition of partial relief (even independently of workhouse re¬
gulations), in drawing a broad line of distinction between
the paupers and the independent labourers. Experience
has shown, that it will induce many of those whose wants
arise from their idleness, to earn the means of subsistence ;
repress the fraudulent claims of those who have now ade¬
quate means of independent support; and obtain for others
assistance from their friends, who are willing to see their
relations pensioners, but would exert themselves to prevent
their being inmates of a workhouse.” (Ibid. p. 276.)
In the third place, it was relied on to remove much of
the evil arising from the situation of the distributors of re¬
lief, who, having many modes of relief at their disposal,
were rendered liable to odium and revenge when they chose
a more strict mode of administration, and were liable to be
seduced by all the motives which the love of popularity,
fear, or the cajolery, importunity, or menaces of the appli¬
cant presented, to adopt a lax administration.
How far These reasons appear to have entirely prevailed with the
adopted, legislature, who accordingly adopted them in principle, only
modifying them thus far in their form. Combining the ef¬
fect of this recommendation with the one subsequently to
be described, the institution of a central board, the legisla¬
ture—not fixing any determinate period, but bearing in mind
the magnitude of the amount of the existing out-door relief Remedial
to able-bodied men and their families, with the possibility Mca^'
that the means might not suffice at the periods to be speci-
fied, for affording all the workhouse relief that might be re¬
quired upon a sudden cessation of all other relief—adopted
the plan of leaving the determination of the period at which
out-door relief should cease, and relief in the workhouse
become the invariable rule, to the judgment of the central
board; that board having power to adopt a different course in
different districts, to adopt the workhouse relief entirely and
at once where the means existed, and in others to prepare
the way by procuring workhouses, and the gradual substitu¬
tion of relief in kind for relief in money, and by other inter¬
mediate and preparatory operations, (bee the Act, sect. 52.)
As a consequence of adopting this course, all restrictions
imposed by previous acts upon officers, with a view of pre¬
venting them from applying the workhouse to able-bodied
men, are repealed (sect. 53); and authority to direct the pur¬
chase, the furnishing, and the management of workhouses
is given to the central board.
The legislature adopted, without change, except by way Parents’
of addition, so much of this recommendation as has the ef- liability,
feet of identifying the relief to an unemancipated child with
the relief to the parent; the intended effect being to render
the parent as responsible for providing for his children as
for himself, and subject to the same consequences of neglect
in either case, so that he cannot seek relief for his child,
without submitting to the condition upon which alone he
could obtain it for himself, or otherwise. The legislature
adopted with this recommendation these expansions and ad¬
ditions : Relief of the wife is made relief to the husband; ot
the child, to the parent, to the father if living, or otherwise to
the widow (sect. 56) ; and of the bastard child, to the mother
(sect. 71). Moreover, a man marrying since the act, is made
liable to maintain the children which his wife has at the time
of her marriage, until they attain the age of sixteen, or until
her death (sect. 57); this last provision being made with the
view that the man is liable to all the civil obligations of
his wife existing at the time of her marriage, excepting this
obligation, which must commonly have been of all her ob¬
ligations the most notorious. As the law stood, a woman’s
family, legitimate or illegitimate, was, by her marriage, cast
on the parish for support, and the allowances made to them
constituted an annuity to the married couple, forming an
inducement of extraordinary frequency to marriages in all
other respects the most improvident.
The Commissioners’ second specific measure was thus Central
proposed :—“ We recommend, therefore, the appointmentcontro.
of a central board to control the administration of the
poor-laws, with such assistant commissioners as may be
found requisite; and that the commissioners be empower¬
ed and directed to frame and enforce regulations for the
government of workhouses, and as to the nature and amount
of the relief to be given and the labour to be exacted in
them; and that such regulations shall, as far as may be
practicable, be uniform throughout the country.” (Report,
p. 296.)
The reasons for the establishment of this agency are elo¬
quently and most instructively stated in the Report; espe¬
cially the reasons for relying rather upon a constantly act¬
ing agency, with the means of judging at every moment of
the extent to which its measures would then apply, in pre¬
ference to relying upon a mere legislative enactment, how¬
ever valuable the principle involved, or stringent its pro¬
visions might be. Instances of the most striking kind are
given, not only of the failure of such enactments, but of
their conversion to purposes directly contrary to their ob¬
ject, where no authority was erected responsible for con¬
ducting their operations. The other grounds for this re¬
commendation were chiefly the impossibility of choosing
a succession of overseers or other annual officers with ap-
POO R-L A W S.
Remedial
itleasures.
lion of
I fishes.
propriate knowledge, still less with the enlarged expe¬
rience of the means to be used, or an enlightened appre¬
ciation of the objects to be attained ; next, the short dura¬
tion of the office, which, even where able officers are occa¬
sionally found, prevents the continued application of their
experience, precisely at the time when their efficiency has
become the greatest; next, the division of the districts for
which they served, preventing co-operation or the disper¬
sion of the knowledge obtained on one spot over the others
to which it might be applicable. Scarcely an instance was
found of a parish being dispauperised, the example of which
was followed even by a single adjoining parish. Reference
was also made to the inadequacy of the motives of any officer
to support a sound administration : his responsibility little or
none,—his gain no more than that of every other rate-payer
occupying as largely as himself,—the loss of time and of ener-
gy,—the danger of misapprehension by those he sought to
serve, and of failure in the whole object, great,—the certainty
of odium from the pauper and from the prejudiced amongst
his fellow-parishioners, and of jealousy from rival officers, be¬
ing inevitable,—whilst, on the other hand, the strength of
the interests in abusive administration, by which one man
may make to himself a gain of the losses of many, whilst by
the best administration he can only save himself from the
loss falling to the share of one,—the confederacy of those who
recognise their interest in such corrupt gain,—the popularity
to be acquired by liberality in the disposal of funds contri¬
buted by others,—torm some few of the motives to uphold
the prevailing abusive administration. In these views the
Commissioners adopted the conclusion, that whatever might
be the intentions of the legislature, they would be best
carried out by a permanent authority, accumulating expe¬
rience in itself, independent of local control, uninterested
in favour of local abuse, but responsible for carrying into
effect the law which it was appointed to execute. This
recommendation was adopted by the legislature, according
to the spirit in which it was made. A board of three com¬
missioners was to be appointed by the king (sects. 1 to 11),
themselves appointing assistant commissioners, capable of
receiving the powers of the commission by delegation
(sects. 8 to 13) ; the commission having power to direct
and control the whole administration of relief throughout
England and Wales, and especially the government of work-
houses, and it bemg left to them to determine the extent
to which the measures to be carried out should be rendered
uniform.
But the districts for the administration of relief, that is,
parishes by the statute of Elizabeth, and town-lands by the
13th and 14th Charles II., had been fortuitously created,
sometimes containing but one householder, sometimes con¬
taining a population exceeding 100,000. There were in
1831, in England and Wales, fifty-six parishes containing
less than ten persons, and which may be therefore calcu¬
lated, one with the other, to contain but two adult Nmales;
a hundred and forty-eight parishes containing but from ten
to twenty persons, the largest of these on the average con¬
taining five adult males; and five hundred and thirty-three
parishes containing from twenty to fifty persons, the largest
of which would give less than twelve adult males per pa¬
rish. Taking into consideration the small number of our
adult male population who can read and write, a concep¬
tion may be formed of the absurdity of the expectation,
that every parish can adequately supply a constant succes¬
sion of annual officers competent to perform the very com¬
plicate and difficult duties of the levier and collector of
rates, and distributor of relief.
The evidence shows a large proportion of the overseers
exercising these functions, though unable otherwise to sign
their accounts than by their mark, attested by the justice’s
clerk. But if it was difficult to find a supply of officers for
these districts, it would have been preposterous to expect
381
that each district should supply itself with an efficient work- Remedial
nouse, however indispensable that should be as a means of Measures.
protection to its population. It was found, on an examina-" v  
tion of the largest, of the smallest, and of the intermediate
parishes, in the seven first counties in England, taken in al¬
phabetical order, that the largest districts gave the lowest
cost per head, the smallest gave the greatest cost per head,
and those of intermediate size an intermediate cost. The
results are thus stated in the Report: The sixty-seven lar¬
gest parishes gave 9s. O^d. per head in population; the
sixty-six intermediate gave 14s. 4d. per head in population ;
the sixty-seven least gave 14s. ll^d. per head in popula¬
tion ; whilst, if we take all England, there are the still more
sinking results, viz. the hundred absolutely largest parishes,
containing a population of 3,196,064, gave 6s. 7d. per head;
the hundred intermediate parishes, containing a population
of 19,841, gave 15s. per head ; the hundred least parishes
from which poor-rate returns are made, with a population
of If 08, gave L.l. 11s. 11 id. per head.
Such are the results as tested by the cost of administra¬
tion in the larger and in the smaller districts; but the mo¬
ral effects in producing pauperism were as disastrous in the
smaller districts. The Commissioners observe, that they
“ have no recent returns of proportions of paupers in the
parishes referred to in the preceding statement; but on re¬
ferring to the parliamentary returns of the number of pau¬
pers in each parish in the years 1803 and 1813, it appears
that the number of persons relieved in the large and small
parishes bore some proportion to their relative amount of
rates. In the three hundred parishes of which the compa¬
rative amount of the poor’s rates on the population has been
stated, the average number of persons relieved was, in the
hundred largest parishes, in 1803, 1 in 16, or 6| per cent.;
in 1813, 1 in 13, or 7| per cent.: in the hundred interme¬
diate ditto, in 1803, 1 in 10, or 10 per cent.; in 1813, 1 in
8, or \2\ per cent.; and in the hundred smallest ditto, in
1803, 1 in 6, or I6§ per cent.; in 1813, 1 in 4, or 25 per
cent.” And the progress of the disaster was shown to be
most rapid in the smallest districts : thus, “ the increase of
pauperism on population, from 1803 to 1813, was, in the
hundred largest parishes, 11 per cent.; in the hundred in¬
termediate ditto, 21 per cent. ; and in the hundred smallest
ditto, 8 J per cent.” The economy of extended management
was thus experimentally proved in every possible direction,
and the moral interests were shown to be the same with the
pecuniary.
The Commissioners entered largely into the examination
of this subject in all its bearings, and ended by recommend¬
ing “ that the central board be empowered to cause any
number of parishes which they may think convenient, to be
incorporated for the purpose of workhouse management,
and for providing new workhouses where necessary; to de¬
clare their workhouses to be the common workhouses of
the incorporated district, and to assign to those workhouses
separate classes of poor, though composed of the poor of
distinct parishes, each distinct parish paying to the support,
of the permanent workhouse establishment, in proportion to
the average amount of the expense incurred for the relief
of its poor for the three previous years, and paying sepa¬
rately for the food and clothing of its own paupers.” This
recommendation was adopted by the legislature in all points.
The common workhouses are provided for by sections 23,
24, 26 ; the maintenance of the workhouse and establish¬
ment charges is fixed in the proportion of the average ex¬
penditure of the three previous years by section 28, with
the power of taking future averages; the cost of the main¬
tenance of its individual paupers being borne by each parish,
under section 26.
The necessity of providing for a clear and uniform sys- Accounts,
tern of accounts was shown in an extraordinary manner in
the inquiries of the Commission ; but it is too obvious to re-
382
POO R-L A W S.
Remedial
Measures.
Paid and
permanent
officers.
quire further remark, and the previous observations show in
some measure the difficulty of obtaining efficient parochial
officers, and the necessity of resorting to further means to
attain the object. ,
The Commissioners recommended “ that the central board
be empowered and required to take measures for the gene¬
ral adoption of a complete, clear, and, as far as may be prac¬
ticable, uniform system of accounts.” This recommendation
was also adopted in full by the legislature, the Commission-
ers* powers being given by section 15, the audit being pro¬
vided for by sections 46 and 89.
Upon the subject of officers, the Commissioners recom¬
mend, “ that the central board be empowered to incorpo¬
rate, for the purpose of appointing and paying permanent
officers, and for the execution of works of public labour
and “ tliat the central board be directed to state the gene¬
ral qualifications which shall be necessary to candidates for
paid offices connected with the relief of the poor, to recom¬
mend to parishes and incorporations proper persons to act
as paid officers, and to remove any paid officers whom they
shall think unfit for their situations.”
This also is adopted in the 46th section of the act, ex¬
cept that the Commissioners have no power to recommend
the persons to act as paid officers, but have ample powers
to determine, by regulation, the qualification and remo¬
val of all paid officers. The chief remaining recommenda¬
tion affecting the general administration of the law by the
Commissioners was, “ that the board be required to submit
a report annually to one of your majesty’s principal secre¬
taries of state, containing, 1. an account of their proceed¬
ings ; 2. any further amendments which they may think it
advisable to suggest; 3. the evidence on which the sug¬
gestions are founded; 4. bills carrying those amendments,
. if any, into effect, which bills the board shall be empow¬
ered to prepare with professional assistance.”
This is also adopted, as far as the annual report is con¬
cerned, without, however, any definition in the act of the
subjects upon which the Commissioners are to report, that
being left to their discretion and to the condition of aftairs
to determine, section 5 ; they are to make a current record
of their proceedings, section 4 ; and they are bound to give
any information respecting their proceedings which the se- ^emed;3
cretary of state may at any time call for, section 6. f easiir'
The remaining recommendations of the Commissioners re- gett]emt
late chiefly to the law of settlement and that of bastardy. ]a^yi
These subjects were more important when all who could gain
a settlement might claim the benefit of that settlement, with¬
out any check. The improved administration, especially
the inducements which now act as restraints upon the ap¬
plications for relief, have diminished the motives to the vo¬
luntary pauper to fix his settlement in a good parish, and
have proportionally diminished the danger to parishes, both
from the attempts of the pauper, and from the exertions of
the officers of other parishes to shift their burthens, by giv¬
ing to their own poor the means to acquire a new settlement
elsewhere. The most important change in the settlement
law recommended and adopted, was that which repealed the
settlement by hiring and service; a settlement which impeded
the free circulation, the effects of which in restraining la¬
bourers to their parishes, and creating a reliance on their
parishes, was shown to constitute the great plague-spot of
the poor-law system as it then existed.1 This law of set¬
tlement was repealed by the 64th and 65th sections, as
were the settlement by occupation of a tenement without
payment of poor-rates by the 66th, and that by apprentice¬
ship to the sea-service by the 67th ; and improvements in
the whole law of removal, by which great wrong had been
mutually done by parishes one to the other, were introduced
by the 79th and following sections.
The bastardy law, which had made it a more prudent Bastard
speculation for a woman to have a family of bastard children foi.
than to have an equal number of legitimate children, by
enabling her to cast off the burthen of the children, which
the widow could not do, and thus to enforce from the pa¬
rish, and through the parish from whomsoever she charged
as the father, such a contribution as would induce her to
keep them. This law, also, by subjecting the person charged
as the father, and who could not give security to pay, to im¬
prisonment, was a means of terror by which a woman M as
often enabled to compel a marriage; a means to which re¬
course was had to an extent almost incredible.2
These demoralizing influences the legislature, by the re-
1 “ The Reverend It. R. Bailey, chaplain to the Tower, who has had extensive opportunities of observing the operation of the
poor-laws in the rural districts, was asked,—1 Can you give any instances within your own knowledge, of the operation or the existing
law of settlement ? I was requested by Colonel Bogson, Kesgrove House, to furnish him with a farming bailiff. I round a man in
all respects qualified for his situation ; he was working at nine shillings a week in the parish where I lived, 'lire man was not en¬
cumbered by a family, and he thankfully accepted my offer; the situation was, in point of emolument, and comfort, and station, a
considerable advance; his advantages would have been doubled. In about a week he altered his mind, and declined the situation, in
consequence, as I understood, of his fearing to remove from what was considered a good parish to a bad one, the parish to which u
was proposed to remove him being connected with a hundred house, in which there is more strict management. I was icqueste y
a poor man, whom I respected, to find a situation for his son in London. The son was a strong young man, working at that time at
about eight shillings a week. I eventually succeeded in getting him a good situation of one guinea per week in London, where ms
labour would have been much less than it was in the country ; but when the period arrived at which he was expected in London, he
was not forthcoming. It appeared he had altered his mind, and determined not to take the place; as I understood, his reason tor re-
fusing to accept it arose from a reluctance to endanger his settlement in his parish. Such are the instances which aie conUnua y
presented to my observation with respect to the operation of the present system of settlement. _ ,
u Among our present modes of conferring a settlement,” says Mr Russell, in the replies to which ive have already adverted,
<£ that by hiring and service is incomparably the most pernicious ; it tells the poor man that he shall encounter a prohibitoiy duty
in every market in which he attempts to dispose of the only commodity he must live by selling ; it shuts the door against the most
respectable and advantageous employment in which a servant can engage; by abridging the term, it impairs the strength of the
connection between him and his master; and it not only drives the servant from his place, but often betrays him, during the m-
.terval between his being discharged from one house and hired at another, into bad company', dissipation, and vice. (Report, p.
155-6.)
2 The following is an instance of the testimony as to the operation of the act, given in a letter from the overseer of Llanasa,
in the county of Flint, in answer to an inquiry from the board, Why the bastards in the parish are so few now ? I can only
observe, that, in the first place, wre never force the putative father to marry the mother; and wre compel the mother, as well as the
father, to pay her quota towards the maintenance of the child. This was our simple mode of treating the business. One tning I
must observe, and it tells well for the new poor-law act, that in our parish we have from fifteen to twenty weddings in the year, and
it seldom happened that at the ceremony the bride did not think it decent and requisite (I am now speaking of the lower order ot
persons) to conceal her shape under a cloak. But in the eighteen marriages which we have had since last August, all the ladies,
except one, retained their virgin shape, and appeared without the mantle.” (First Annual Report, pp- 57, 58.)
“ An unmarried girl, upon leaving the workhouse after her fourth confinement, said to the master, ‘ Well, if I have the good luck
to have another child, I shall draw a good sum from the parish; and, with what I can earn myself, shall be better oft than any mar¬
ried woman in the parish and the master added, that she had met with the good luck she hoped for, as she told him, a short time
before I was at Holbtach, that she was five months gone with child; I asked him what she had for each child ? Fie answered, two
POO R-L A W S.
«{j Remedial commendation of the Commissioners, deprived of further ef-
^ leasures. first, by rendering the mother of a bastard liable for its
maintenance, in the like manner as a widow for the mainten¬
ance of her legitimate children, section 71; secondly, by ren¬
dering it unlawful to pay to her any sums which the puta¬
tive father might be compelled to contribute for the reim¬
bursement of the parish; and, thirdly, by rendering it ne¬
cessary that evidence additional to that of the mother should
be required to corroborate her charge against the person
accused of being the father.
Such, in the main, were the recommendations of the Com¬
missioners, the views with which they were urged, and those
with which they were adopted by the legislature. Other
provisions were also adopted, necessary, indeed, to give ef¬
fect to these more important purposes, but not of sufficient
importance, or sufficiently characteristic of any great prin¬
ciple, to require remark here.
CHAPTER V.
EFFECTS OF THE AMENDED SYSTEM.
It has been seen that one of the duties with which the
Commissioners were charged was that of reporting annually
to the secretary of state. The Commissioners having super¬
intended the administration for four years from August
1834, have made four Reports, and have circulated them
largely. From them our chief infonnation must be drawn ;
lor although much discussion has taken place with respect
both to the principle of the measure and the mode in which
effect has been given to it, no enlarged examination of its
working has, with but one exception, been made. This
exception is found in the inquiry by the committees of
the House of Commons appointed to inquire into certain
charges made against the administration of the Commis¬
sioners. The evidence of these committees, taken during
the two sessions of 1836-37 and 1837-38, and the Report
made by the last, though they contain much valuable mat¬
ter, and especially a very detailed account of the operation
of the measure upon the morals and the condition of the la¬
bouring poor, are in the main corroborative of the Commis¬
sioners’ own Report, and in disaffirmance of the charges made
against the principle of the act, and the manner of its execu¬
tion. This evidence, therefore, has also the effect of referring
us again for information to the Reports of the Commissioners,
of It appears from the Reports of the Commissioners, that
in four years they have succeeded in uniting 14,811 pa¬
rishes, which they have arranged in 565 unions; and in
placing thirteen parishes under boards of governors, orga¬
nized and acting in a like manner as in unions. Of these, a
hundred and eleven were declared and organized in the first
year, two hundred and fifty-two in the second, two hundred
and five in the third year, and seventeen in the fourth year.
These unions have since become the districts of adminis¬
tration of the act for the registration of births, deaths, and
marriages. The presidency of the boards of guardians has
been taken by the nobility and leading gentry in their re¬
spective unions.1 Each union is administered by a board
of guardians, one guardian at least being elected for each
parish or town-land. This board meets in most cases week¬
ly ; but many instances exist where, by improved skill in the
performance of their functions, and by diminished pauper¬
ism, they are enabled to perform their duties efficiently by
meeting once a fortnight. Three hundred and twenty-
383
! >g;ress
| aniza-
>•
eight unions have workhouses completed and in opera- Amended
tion; a hundred and forty-one have workhouses building System.
or in course of alteration. Of the remaining unions, thirty-  '
eight boards of governors have taken no steps for provid¬
ing themselves with this requisite for good management.
Each union is provided with the following officers: A clerk,
usually a professional man, auditor, chaplain, medical offi¬
cers, relieving officers, master and matron of the workhouse,
schoolmaster and schoolmistress, and porter.
These arrangements involve a large expenditure, but Savings,
are indispensable to secure the advantages of an improved
administration, and of the vastly preponderating saving de¬
rivable only from a better system. Before the Poor-Law
Amendment Act was passed, the Commission of Inquiry had
excited universal attention to the abuses in the poor-laws.
The dispersion of their searching inquiries throughout the
kingdom; the visits of their assistant Commissioners; above
all, the startling picture of abuse contained in the extracts
from their information, and the inviting account contained
in the same extracts, of the effects, pecuniary and moral, re¬
sulting in Cookham, Uley, Southwell, Bingham, Swallow-
field, Hatfield, and some few other dispauperised parishes;
had produced a wide-spread inclination, a sanguine hope,
and in many places a vigorous effort, to reduce the abuses
everywhere recognised as now prevailing. The magistracy
and clergy especially aided this movement. We find, there¬
fore, the effects of the inquiry developing themselves before
the act was passed, and in some measure in the very way
in which the act itself was intended to operate. The years
1833 and 1834 thus present a reduction below the previous
years, as will be seen in the table at page 875, which is
here repeated, and completed up to the present year.
1801
1803
1811
1814
1815
1816
1817
1818
1819
1820
1821
1822
1823
1824
1825
1826
1827
1828
1829
1830
1831
1832
1833
1834
1835
1836
1837
1838
Sums expended
for Relief of the
Poor.
L.
4,017,871
4,077,891
6,656,105
6,294,581
5,418,846
5,724,839
6,910,925
7,870,801
7,516,704
7,330,256
6,959,249
6,358,702
5,772,958
5,736,898
5,786,989
5,928,501
6,441,088
6,298,000
6,332,410
6,829,042
6,798,888
7,036,968
6,790,799
6,317,255
5,526,418
4,717,630
4,044.741
4,123,604
Population of
England and
Wales.2
8,872,980
9,148,314
10,163,676
10,755,034
10,979,437
11,160,557
11,349,750
11,524,389
11.700.965
11,893,155
11,978,875
12,313,810
12,508,956
12,699,098
12,881,906
13,056,931
13,242,019
•13,441,913
13,620,701
13,811,467
13,897,187
14,105,645
14,317,229
14,531,987
14.749.966
14,971,214
15,195,782
15,423,7
I Number of Quar-
Average Price i ters of Wheat for
of Wheat per which the money
Quarter. could have been
exchanged.
s. a.
115 11
57 1
92 5
72 1
63 8
76 2
94 0
83 8
72 3
65 10
54 5
43 3
51 9
62 0
66 6
56 11
56 9
60
66
64
66 4
58 8
52 11
46 2
46
39
53 8
52 6
693,234
1,428,751
1,440,455
1,746.474
1,702,255
1,503,240
1,470,409
1,881,466
2,080,748
2,226,913
2,557,763
2,940,440
2,231,094
1,850,612
1,740,447
2,083,221
2,269,987
2,084,855
1,911,671
2,125,772
2,049,916
2,398,966
2,566,601
2.736,717
2,394,116
2,398,796
1,507,357
1,570,897
it The numbers given in this column for the years 1801, 1811, 1821, and 1831,
are those ascertained at the enumeration of those years; those stated for the in¬
termediate and for subsequent years are computed from the baptisms and bu¬
rials, and from the rate of increase, as ascertained at each census.
shillings; and that women in that neighbourhood could easily earn five shillings a week all the year through. Thus she will have fif¬
teen shillings a week.” {Ibid. p. 172.)
“ At Nuneaton, the solicitor to the parish, Mr Greenaway, stated, that his house looked into the churchyard ; that he was in the
habit purposely of watching the persons resorting to the church for marriage, and that he could confidently say, that seventeen out
of every twenty of the female poor who went there to be married were far advanced in pregnancy.” (Ibid. 173-)
. 1 See List of Officers, &c. in the Fourth Annual Report, Appendix (C), No. 2, pp. 209, et supra.
384
POO R-L A W S.
Amended
System.
To complete the view here given, the cost per head,
calculating the population of the year 1838 as 15,423, /18,
being at the average rate of increase ascertained by the
last census, will give this result, in which, for the pin poses
of comparison, the portion before given is here repeated.
9s. Id. each.
.13 1
.10 7
. 9 9
. 5
In 1800 the payments were.
1811.
1821.
1831.
1838 
For a connected view of the progress of expenditure, so
far as it can now be obtained, previously to the year of in¬
quiry, 1832, during that of the succeeding year, being that
of the enactment of the Poor-Law Amendment Act, and
thenceforward to the present time, reference may be had
to the following table, the details of which for each coun¬
ty mav be found at pp. 324, 325, 326, 32/, or tne 1 bird
Annual Report.
Amount of Money expended for the Relief of the Poor in
England and Wales in the several years for which Re¬
turns have been required by Parliament.
Average of the three yearsending at Easter ) j ggg
1748, 1749, and 1750 J
Tear ending at Easter 1776  I,5o0,800
Average of the three years ending at Easter 1 o qaa oqo
1783, 1784, and 1785  |
Year ending at Easter 1803
1813
1814
Yea’* ending on the 25th March 1815
1816
1817
1818
1819
1820
1821
1822
1823
1824
1825
1826
1827
1828
1829
1830
1831
1832
1833
1834
1835
1836
1837
1838
This table shows, that, in comparison with the parochial
vear ended March 1834, the savings in expenditure were—
1st year 1835.. L.790,838, or 13 per cent.
2d year 1836 1,599,625, or 25
3d year 1837 2,272,513, or 36
4th year 1838 2,193,650, or 35
making a total saving during the period the act has been in
operation of L.6,856,626, as compared with the year ended
March 1834.
The two following statements will show the amount of
money expended for the relief and maintenance of the poor
during the years ended Easter 1803, and 25th March 1818
and 1837, respectively, specifying the amount, rate per cent.,
and rate per head, of decrease in 1837, as compared with
the years 1803 and 1818 respectively; the former being
the year in which the smallest, and the latter the year in
which the largest sum of money was expended for the relief
4,077,891
6,656,106
6,294,581
5,418,846
5,724,839
6,910,925
7,870,801
7.516.704
7.330.254
6,959,251
6.358.704
5,772,962
5,736,900
5,786,989
5,928,505
6,441,089
6,298,003
6,332,411
6,829,042
6,798,888
7,036,968
6,790,799
6.317.254
5,526,416
4,717,629
4,044,741
4,123,604
of the poor, for which authentic parliamentary returns have Amended
been received : ^ System.
Population in 1801, 8,872,980 ; expended for relief, &c. of
the poor during the year ended Easter 1803, L.4,077, 891.
Population in 1821, 11,978,875; expended for relief, &c.
of the poor during the year ended 25th of March 1818,
L.7,870,801.
Population in 1831, 13,897,187 ; expended for relief, &c.
of the poor during the year ended 25th of March 1837,
L.4,044,741.
From this statement of the population and the expendi¬
ture at the periods described, the following results were ob¬
tained. The tables show, what is a striking exemplification
of the operation of the new system, that the amount ex¬
pended in 1837 was one per cent, less than that of the low¬
est year for which any official returns exist, apparently the
low est year in the present century. But when the increase
of population is considered, this comparison becomes vastly
more favourable to the improved administration. The ex¬
penditure in the year 1803, in comparison with the popula¬
tion of 1801, was as nine shillings and twopence per head,
whilst that of 1837 was, with comparison of the population of
1831, only five shillings and tenpence.
Amount of decrease in the year ended 25th of March 183/,
compared with 1803, L.33,150; ditto compared w ith
1818, L.3,826,060.
Decrease per cent, in 1837, compared with 1803, one ; ditto
compared with 1818, forty-nine.
Expenditure per head in 1803, with reference to population
in 1801, nine shillings and twopence ; ditto in 1818, with
reference to population in 1821, thirteen shillings and
twopence ; ditto in 1837, with reference to population in
1831, five shillings and tenpence.
Decrease per head in 1837, compared with 1803, three shil¬
lings and fourpence; ditto compared with 1818, seven
shillings and fourpence.
This, however, is still a very unfavourable view of the
operations of the new system, as it does not allow for the
great increase of population between the years 1831 and
1837. Estimating the population between the years 1801
and 1803 as increasing at the same rate per cent, as the in¬
crease shown in the census taken in 1811, and estimating
in like manner the increase between 1831 and 1837, in ac¬
cordance with the rate of increase as shown at the census
of 1831, we have these results.
Rate per head in the year 1803 8s. lid.
Ditto in 1837 5 4
In favour of 1837 3s/ 7d. per head.
The means of comparison between the state of the pauper Mora 1
and of the labouring population in the two periods preced-su
ing and succeeding the passing of the act, are not by any
means so abundant as those of making the comparison ot
expenditure. It is nevertheless clearly apparent, that in
proportion as the expenditure is diminished, the number ot
paupers maintained has diminished; and that the reliance
on the rate, the idleness which it rendered possible, and the
indulgence which it afforded, must have been on the whole
proportionally diminished. We have full evidence that the
diminution in enjoyment has not been at the expense ot
the aged, the infirm, or the impotent. The restrictive rules
applied by the Commissioners (see Appendix to their First
Report, p. 85) to various classes of able-bodied paupers,
with various degrees of strictness, carefully preserved to the
aged and impotent the benefits of the relief, such as might
have been given them under the old system, but which, as
shown by the Commissioners of Inquiry, was refused to them,
and lavished on the insolent and reckless of the able-bodied.
Now the returns show, that precisely in the places where
able-bodied pauperism most prevailed, there, at the same time,
the relief of the aged was least cared for; and they equally
POO R-L A W S.
385
Amended show, that with the diminution of relief to the able-bodied,
System, that to the aged and infirm has become more liberal. (See
Appendix to the Second Annual Report, p. 309, 311, 416.)1
[mproved The evidence as to the improvement of the labourer is
Industry. t00 abundant to allow us even to refer the reader to all the
passages in the Commissioners’ Reports; but conclusive
evidence will-be found in the passages referred to under
the title “ Labourers” in the index of the Second Annual
Report. These show a great improvement in the general
conduct of labourers when made dependent upon the good
opinion or good will of their employers ; a manifest im¬
provement in the labour of workmen when wages were sub¬
stituted for relief, and, what might be expected, a parallel
increased demand for the improved labour. Equally strong
is the evidence of the decrease of crime, and particularly
of those petty offences, such as poaching, snaring, and the
smaller kinds of depredation, for which the former unsteady
occupation of the farm-labourer afforded him facilities. The
illustration of these subjects will be found most abundant,
and in greatest detail, in the evidence given before the Se¬
lect Committees of the House of Commons in the sessions
1836—37 and 1837-38. There will also be found evidence Amended
of the diminution of improvident habits generally ; the in- System,
crease of benefit clubs, and of deposits in savings’ banks, T*"
though shown here, is made even more manifest by the re-
turns collected and observed upon by Mr Tufnell in the enCe’
Appendix to the Fourth Annual Report (p. 220-222), ex¬
tracts from which are here given.
“ With so many circumstances tending to retard the
prosperity of the labouring classes, it is gratifying to have
to observe, that, so far as can be collected from statistical
documents (and to figures, as being less capable of error, I •
am always desirous of referring), their welfare seems to
have been upon the whole in a state of steady advancement
since the enforcement of the regulations of the new poor-
law. As one proof of this I beg to refer to the following
table, which shows the deposits during the last seven years
in the savings’ banks in the two counties of Kent and Sus¬
sex, from friendly societies, and from the depositors of sums
under L.20. I have selected these two classes of deposi¬
tors, as amongst them, more than in any other class, the la¬
bouring population are chiefly to be found.
Date.
On the 20th November 1831
  1832.
  1833.
1834.
1835
1836,
1837.
In the Kent
Savings’ Banks.
L.
93,694
87,592
91,371
94,918
97,613
106.156
110.156
In the Sussex
Savings’ Banks.
L.
41,164
39,889
41,686
43,466
45,897
50,148
51,409
Observations.
f Years previous to the passing of the
Poor-Law Amendment Act.
J Poor-Law Amendment Act discussed
j and passed.
J Poor-Law Amendment Act brought
( into partial operation.
J Poor-Law Amendment Act brought
( into universal operation.
“ The three years previous to the passing of the Poor-Law spects those natural circumstances that affect the condition
Amendment Act were by no means unprosperous ones as re- of the labourers. Yet it will be perceived how slowly the
1 Mr Raper, clerk of the Westhampnett Union, gave much valuable evidence on the beneficial working of the amended system
before the committee of the House of Commons in session 1836-37, from which we make the following extracts :—
“ With reference to the aged and infirm, have you been in the habit of giving them relief out of the house ?—Certainly.
“ Have you ordered them into the house on any occasions, refusing them relief out of it ?—The order to an aged or infirm per¬
son to come into the house has been an exception ; the general rule has been to give the relief out.
“ What was the state of things in that respect before the new poor-law came into operation ?—The allowances to the aged and
infirm have been, generally speaking, increased since the union. _
“ With regard to going into the house or not?—I think there have been less aged and infirm ordered into the house since the
union than previously.” (3165-68.)
In the parish of Graff ham, in the same union, the payments made to aged persons under the old law are stated by Mr Sadler to
have been as follows :—
“ Bv reference to the poor-book I will describe the former payments ; the former allowance to this same couple, who now receive
five shillings a week, was two shillings a week ; the widow woman who now receives two shillings and sixpence a week used to re¬
ceive one shilling a week ; and the single man who now receives two shillings and sixpence, used to receive two shillings.
“ Then in the parish of Graffham the payment to the aged appears to have increased?—Doubled, exactly. (17,503-4.)
The extracts from the evidence of Mr Ellis, Mr Butt, and Mr Ford, each of whom is unfavourable to the regulations of the
amended svstem, all relate to the Pet worth Union :—
“ How has it (the new law) affected the aged and infirm?—The aged are taken care of now in their own parish, the same as they
were before the union. „ ■ „
“ Have many of the aged and infirm been removed into the workhouses?—Very few ; not more than we had before the union.
(349; Mr Ford.) _ , ,. . . , ^ ,,
“ Upon the aged and infirm paupers what do you think has been the effect of the act ?-I should think that they are full as well
off, and perhaps better, than they were before. , . „ ,
“ Do they receive out-door reiief?_Yes, mostly ; and if I might be allowed to say, that is one of the arguments that I make use
of when I ask that we may have the discretion with respect to the labourers with large families. Me have the discretion with re¬
spect to the aged, and therefore have used it, and enabled them to receive that comfort under this pooi-law that they had before, or
You^have'stated^that you consider the condition of the aged poor to be improved ; in what respect ?-I hardly stated that they
were improved ; I said that they were as well off, if not better. In the case of aged persons, we give them the choice whether they
will live out at a certain allowance, about two shillings and sixpence a week, or come into the old poor-house If they have a child
to live with, or any other person, they generally take the two shillings and sixpence insteat o coming in o le poor- louse.
“ Was not that the condition of the poor before the poor-law came into operation ? Yes, t le same. . . . ,»
“ Then in what way is their condition improved ?-L think that our allowance was rather more than was given by the parishes.
^Haie themed and infirm received the same amount of comforts, or a greater amount of comforts »
“ Has there been any severity exercised towards widows or children, or single women . i ot in our 11 , q
(2G64-5; Mr Butt.) r
VOL, XVIII. ^
386
POO R-L A W S.
Amended deposits increased in comparison to what they have done
System. sjnce the passing of the poor-law, and that in lod'4 there
was a large diminution.
“ The following table, showing the increase of the va¬
rious classes of depositors in the Tunbridge Wells savings
banks between 1831 and 1837, presents gratifying proof of
the greater prevalence of a spirit of providence, especially
amongst the poorer classes :—
In 183G. i In 1837.
Increase
per Cent.
Servants 
Agricultural labourers 
Children 
Journeymen and ap-1
prentices )
Charitable societies 
Benefit societies 
Small shopkeepers 
Small farmers, and)
others not described.}
361
46
357
39
14
4
8
54
483
137
388
57
26
5
16
68
Total.
883
1180
34
200
9
46
86
25
100
26
34
“ The increase of forethought in the labourers is perhaps
still more strikingly manifested by the increase of members
in friendly societies, which are now far more generally es¬
tablished on principles calculated to secure a certain provi¬
sion in sickness and old age, instead of those injurious in¬
stitutions, hitherto so prevalent, which seem intended only
to minister to the profit of publicans, and which are usual¬
ly founded on principles that must inevitably cause their
dissolution when old age overtakes the members, and con¬
sequently when the utility of such societies would be most
apparent, and their benefits most needed.
“ I have received the numbers that have annually be¬
longed to three benefit societies, and these I give below.
The first is a friendly society in the county of Sussex.
“ Number of members in 1831, 84; in 1832, 64; in
1833, 56 ; in 1834, 48 ;-in 1835, 49; in 1836, 64; in 1837,
98. N . . vs
“ The following are the returns from two Kentish friend¬
ly societies:— ,
“ Number of members in 1832, 378 ; in 1833, 363 ; in
1834, 356 ; in 1835, 353; in 1836, 420; in 1837, 478.
“ Number of members in 1831,461; in 1832,477; in 1833,
519; in 1834, 533; in 1835, 609; in 1836, 611; in 1837, 770.
“ It will be perceived that these figures indicate either
a very slow increase or an actual diminution previous to
the passing of the new law, and a rapid advancement since.
“ These contrasts, however, are far less favourable to
the present system than they would appear, had not the
failure of the crops and the hardness of the seasons during
the last year and a half pressed with peculiar severity on
the labouring classes of this district. Every natural cir¬
cumstance seems to have combined to test to the utmost
the soundness of the principles of the poor-laws, and put
their efficacy to the proof. In the two counties of Kent
and Sussex referred to in the above table of the deposits
in savings’ banks, upwards of a million of money has been
subtracted from the poor-rates since the regulations of the
Poor-Laic Amendment Act came into operation ; and if, in
the face of this large reduction, and of many adverse circum¬
stances, we are enabled to refer, not to obscure deductions
and conjectures, but to the unimpeachable testimony of
facts like the above, are we not entitled to assume that the
effect of the measure has not been hurtful to the interests
of the labourers or of society in general, and that the ap¬
prehensions entertained of it are not justified by the result ?
The most impressive proof that strong motives must have
been given to the able-bodied to resume the habits of ho¬
nest and independent industry, may be found in a return of
the operation of the law in the county of Sussex, a county
in which able-bodied pauperism appeared to have had the
firmest root, and the circumstances of which county afford¬
ed, at the passing of the act, the least hope of eradicating
this evil. It will be seen in the table, that almost in pro¬
portion as the rate of savings in the year are large, is the
effect most strikingly shown upon the able-bodied paupers.
Amended
System
Summary of what Sussex Pauperism was under the Old System, and what it is, after little more than One Year’s
experiment, under the New
“ Name of Union.
Uckfield 
Cuckfield 
Chailey 
Eastbourne 
Hailsham 
West Fisle 
Tinhurst 
Battle 
Lewes  
East Grinstead...
Hastings 
Rye 
Westbourne 
Steyning 
Thakham 
Horsham 
Medhurst 
Petworth 
West Hampnett.
Newhaven 
Popula¬
tion.
Average j Rates for the
Annual Rates Quarter,
at the | June—Sep-
Formationof tember
the Union. 1836
16,109
12,017
6,977
7,823
11,825
2,364
13,347
12,068
9,297
11,476
13,280
11,418
6,585
11,071
7,311
12,270
12,239
9,042
15,017
4,400
Total  205,936
16,643
17,139
9,576
11,964
18,351
2,957
10,915
14,235
5,770
12,053
6,969
11,588
8,095
9,339
9,796
14,663
17,536
12,226
16,457
3,371
Rate of
Saving on
Year.
229,643
1,479
2,136
1,114
1,410
No return.
539
1,569
1,413
912
3,162
1,319
1,377
1,753
1,120
1,313
1,776
1,478
995
1,687
492
Number of Able-
bodied Paupers
at the time of
forming the
Union.
Number of
Able-bodied
Paupers
in March
1836.
61|
461
30J
40
26
50
33
36
241
52
32
15
30
57
66
32
49
41
27,044
45
218
419
139
265
350
40
360
608
175
658
266
372
90
236
542
454
306
382
216
64
6160
8
45
33
12
69
15
12
4
43
13
42
6
11
25
51
20
71
18
11
Number of
Able-bodied
Paupers
in June
1836.
554
15
2
3
6
14
30
1
52
124”
POO R-L A W S.
Amended One of the moral effects most to be desired was the ren-
System^ dering marriage no longer a consideration of policy as re-
Marriaae Sar<^e^ chances of the couple to relief, or as a means
^ ‘ of obtaining an annuity with a family of ante-nuptial chil¬
dren ; an effect sought by the recommendations of the Com¬
missioners and the enactments described, and one which
appears to have been abundantly realised in the operation
of the measure* Dr Kay, assistant poor-law commissioner,
in his examination before the Committee of the House of
Commons in the last session, gave some valuable evidence
relative to the decrease in the number of marriages in the
counties of Norfolk and Suffolk, the counties under his su¬
perintendence, from which we have made some extracts.
“ Have you any return relative to marriages which have
taken place in Norfolk and Suffolk?—Last spring I in¬
structed the relieving officers of a great number of unions
to apply for returns of the marriages which occurred in the
parishes in their districts in the years 1833, 1834, 1835, and
1836. A considerable difficulty was experienced in procur¬
ing those returns. Where they were procured they were
given by the clergymen of the parishes very kindly, as a
favour to the relieving officers ; but they did not comprise,
in consequence of certain difficulties which were experi¬
enced, every parish in every officer’s district, but only cer¬
tain of the parishes ; but in every case in which the return
was obtained from any parishes, it included all those years.
“ From the return do you find that the number of mar¬
riages has increased or decreased in the period ?—I find in
this return that the marriages in the year 1833, in the dis¬
tricts to which it relates, were 762 ; in 1834 they were 771;
in 1835, 663; and in 1836, 549 ; which I believe may be
taken as evidence that there has been a considerable dimi¬
nution of improvident marriages in these districts.”
Bastardy. Unfortunately the question of pauper-marriage was too
much connected with the operation of the law of bastardy
(marriages sometimes brought about by the bribe of the
allowance to a family of such children, sometimes by the
threat of the jail directed against the man accused of being
the father) to allow the effects of the law in diminishing
marriages and in diminishing bastardy to be separated or
387
clearly distinguished; but the direct operation of the law Amended
in checking unchastity will be seen in the extracts from the System.
Commissioners’ Second Annual Report, as inserted below.1 '
An important indication of the improved working of the Litigation,
law, proving also an increased cordiality and recognition of
common interests between parishes, and showing still more
incontestably the benefit of the improvements in the settle¬
ment laws, is to be found in the rapid decrease of law-ex¬
penses. The sums expended in law-charges and the removal
of paupers amounted in the years ended 25th March 1834
to L.258,604, in 1835 to L.202,527, in 1836 to L. 172,482,
m 1837 to L. 126,951, and in 1838 to L.93,982.
This, however, does by no means give a sufficiently fa¬
vourable view of the effect of the law; for as the amount
stated includes all law-expenses, it comprises the expendi¬
ture, which has since the passing of the act been very large,
in the preparation and execution of contracts, and more
particularly of the conveyancing expenses connected with
the purchase and hire of lands for workhouses, and with the
sales of parish property, which have taken place to a large
extent, but which cannot be repeated.
It has often been asserted that the diminished cost and Prospects,
improved administration were owing, not so much to the
enactment of the Poor-Law Amendment Act, and the new
organization introduced by it, as to other general causes ; a
general improvement in intelligence being sometimes as¬
signed, the increase of certain modes of employment of the
people at other times, and innumerable other causes, ac¬
cording to the views of the person offering the explanation.
The Fourth Report of the Commissioners affords a very con¬
vincing instance of the fact, that where the improved organi¬
zation has not been effected, all the causes which formerly
operated to render the administration stationary, or to make
it retrograde, still operate with full effect. Birmingham
and Aston are adjoining parishes, with populations of the
same habits, and equally participating in every element of
prosperity or decline. The year 1837 severely tried the
operation of the act. A great failure in many branches of
trade and commerce, and two severe winters, had contri¬
buted to render the distress of the poor more urgent and
1 “ The Rev. Thomas Pitman, minister of Eastbourne, says, ‘ Among the labouring classes there is a decided and progressive al¬
teration. Even the farmers themselves have observed to me, that there is in the general conduct of the agricultural labourers a civi¬
lity of manner, and attention to their masters’ wishes, which of late years has been little perceptible. Perhaps the most marked differ¬
ence in the lower orders, observable by us as clergymen, is the almost total cessation of early and improvident marriages. I should not
forget also to mention, that, as far as I can form a judgment, there is also a decided improvement in the marriages that do take place.
'1 be altar is not now, as heretofore, disgraced by the appearance of a woman, to take upon her the solemn obligation of matrimony, in
the last stage of pregnancy ; a fact which, I think, goes far to show, that the morals of the people are undergoing a change for the
better, and promises that ere long we may hope for all that domestic happiness among our poorer neighbours which results from a
match of pure affection, in the place of all that wretchedness, discord, and misery which are the too sure produce of a marriage com¬
menced in sin, and fostered only by a hope of procuring a means from the parish of carrying on from time to time sinful indulgences.’
“ Reverend John Austin, minister of Pulborough, states that ‘ We now begin to look for moral and religious improvement, as
the hard-working men engaged in industry are become civil and attentive to their masters. Only two marriages have been solem¬
nized since December last, the yearly average being fifteen ; and only one bastard has been christened between July 12, 1835, and
May 17, 1836. (The population of this parish is 1976, according to the census of 1831.)’
“ It is satisfactory to us to observe, that the practice, which was at one time almost universal, of dealing with the mothers of bas¬
tard children differently from other paupers, is rapidly giving way ; and the sounder course of giving them relief only according to
the measure and character of their wants is more generally adopted.
“ The information which we have received on the subject of the clauses in the new act, with relation to bastardy, is confirmatory
of the facts and conclusions stated upon the subject in our last Annual Report. From the returns which we have received, it ap¬
pears that the whole number of bastards chargeable to the parishes of England and Wales was, in the year 1835, 71,298; the number
chargeable in the year 1836 was 61,826 ; being a decrease of 9472, or of thirteen per cent.
“ But the progressive operation of the bill appears in the numbers affiliated during the two years, which numbers were, in 1835,
12,381 ; in 1836, 7686 ; being a decrease of 4695, or of thirty-eight per cent.
“ We endeavoured to obtain an account of the numbers born during those years chiefly, as shown in the baptismal registers ; but
our respondents declare that these returns are extremely imperfect, and are so much at variance with other testimony, that no re¬
liance can be placed upon them for accuracy. In some parishes very many of the bastard children are never baptized; and in many
other parishes, where they have not been accustomed to baptize them before the passing of the act, children have been baptized sub¬
sequently, in consequence of the fact of a woman being known to have had a bastard not rendering her liable to the interference of the
parish-officer where she does not claim relief.
“ The evidence of midwives and parish-officers, and other witnesses, speaking upon their own knowledge of their respective parishes,
would prove that the diminution of the number of births was considerable.
“ The number returned as born in the year 1835, was 17,036; and in the year ended 25th March 1836, was 17,576. 3 his variation
between the two years is attributed to the more full registration in the last year.
“ According to the population returns, the number of bastards born in the year 1831 was 20,039, which, if allowance were made
for the increase of population since that year, would show a decrease of between 4000 and 5000 born in the last year.’ (Second
Annual Report, pp. 17, 18, 19.)
388
POP
Poornah more general than at any period since the passing of the act.
i! The high price of provisions during a very large part ot the
Popayan. iod enhanced these effects. The result has been, that
^ " although on the entire operations of the last year every rea¬
son appears for entertaining the belief that the improve¬
ments in the administration had not been less progressive
than in preceding years, the saving in money is, upon the
whole, very little greater than that of the year ending
March 1837. Birmingham has not yet been placed under
the control of the Commissioners’ regulations. Aston has
been placed under a board of guardians, and is governed
under the Commissioners’ regulations. It is difficult to sup¬
pose that Birmingham has not had its full share of any ad¬
vantage derivable from increased intelligence or increased
prosperity ; at all events, it is difficult to. suppose that As¬
ton, usually regarded as a part of Birmingham, can have
the advantage of any such general influence, and Birming¬
ham be deprived of it. The account shows that, under the
trial of circumstances to which each has been equally sub-
iected, the parish of Birmingham has been driven to an in¬
creased expenditure of forty-one per cent., while the parish
of Aston has successfully withstood the operation of t le
POP
like circumstances, and has effected a diminution upon its
previous expenditure of thirty-five per cent. The compari¬
son, t he whole of the details of which are given in the Commis¬
sioners’ Fourth Annual Report, pp. 362-64, stands thus :—
'Birmingham Parish.
L. s. d.
Expenditure in 1836-7 24,686 15 0
Ditto 1837-8 34,755 10
0
Increase L. 10,068 15 0, or 41 per cent.
Astoti Parish.
Expenditure in 1836-7  6,801 9 7
Ditto 1837—8...... 4,497 17 9
Decrease L.2,303 11 10, or 35 per cent.
A better proof can scarcely be found of the efficiency of
the amendments to protect the country against a return to
the state of things from which the law has so recently ex¬
tricated us. (A- A* A* A' A>)
POORNAH, a river of Hindustan, which rises in the In-
jardy Hills, whence it flows westward through Berar, and falls
into the Tuptee about twenty miles below Boorhanpoor.
POORPOOROO, a small island in the Eastern Seas,
near the north-eastern coast of Borneo. Long. 117. 54. E.
Lat. 6. 18. N. „T'
POORUNDER, a celebrated town and fortress of Hin¬
dustan, in the province of Bejapore. It belonged till lately
to the peshvva. It was in this fortress that the widow of
Narrain Row took refuge after the murder of her husband,
and where she brought forth her posthumous child, who
succeeded to the dignity of peshwa. It is seventeen miles
from Poonah. Long. 74. 5. E. Lat. 18. 16. N.
POORWAH, a town of Hindustan, in the nabob of
Oude’s territories, twenty-eight miles south-south-west from
Lucknow. Long. 80. 44. E. Lat. 20. 28. N.
POOSHKUR, or Phokor, a town of Hindustan, in the
province of Ajmeer, and situated on the shore of a romantic
lake. It contains a remarkable temple dedicated to Brahma,
with an image that has four heads and as many arms, besides
other temples dedicated to Vishnu and Seva. I he town con¬
tains about 700 houses, the inhabitants of which are mostly
Brahmins, who depend entirely on charity tor support. Here
is also a mosque, built by a Mahommedan nobleman, tutor
to the Emperor Akbar. It is four miles from Ajmeer.
POOTELLAM, a town of Hindustan, on the western
coast of Ceylon, celebrated for an extensive manufactory of
sea-salt, which formerly supplied Candy and the interior.
Long. 79. 51. E. Lat. 8. 5. N.
POOTI, a river on the east coast of Sumatra, which falls
into the Sea of Java. Long. 105. 45. E. Lat. 4. 38. S.
POPAY AN, a province included in the republic of New
Grenada, in South America. It is situated in the department
of Cauca, and is bounded on the south by Pasto, on the
west by Buenaventura and Choco, on the east by Neiva and
Bogota, and on the north by Antioquia. This province is
somewhat rugged and mountainous, but withal one of the
richest and finest districts in all America. The banks of
the river Cauca appear to present the greatest indications
of opulence, the soil being deep, and the pasturages rich
and fertile. Even the muleteers, proud of being whites, are
ashamed to go on foot, so that it is difficult to distinguish
the poor from the rich. This prosperity and opulence are to
be ascribed to a fertile soil, and to abundant gold mines,
though they are unskilfully worked.
Popayan, the capital of the province, is finely situated on
the banks of the Cauca, at the foot of the volcanic moun¬
tain of Purace. Mollien, who visited this city, speaks
highly in praise of its site. “ It is said,” he remarks, “ that
the position of Popayan seems to have been created by the
imagination of poets -, and in fact it is difficult to find one
more beautiful. It was selected by Benalcazar, who is less
known than either Pizzaro, Cortes, or Quesada, but de¬
serves to be more celebrated, as he was the founder ot
many towns, all delightfully situated.” It is. handsomely
built, and its elevation above the sea, which is 57o0 teet,
renders the climate mild and agreeable. rl his city suftered
greatly, as did the whole province, during the war of inde¬
pendence ; and in the year 1827 it was almost entirely de¬
stroyed by an earthquake, which was accompanied by an
eruption of the volcano of Purace, and an overflow of the
Cauca. Before this calamity, the inhabitants were estimated
at 20,000.
Amongst the other towns of this province may be men¬
tioned that of Purace, which is agreeably situated above
the valley of Popayan. It is a neat place, each house be-
infT built in the midst of an enclosure. Caly is another pret¬
tily-built town, situated on the declivity of the western cor¬
dilleras. Considerably further down the Cauca, almost at
the extremity of the great plain, is situated Carthago. It
stands near the point where the two cordilleras approach,
leaving only a narrow passage for the river, and is the en¬
trepot for the goods destined for Santa Fe, which arrive by
the Quindiu, and those for the Antilles or the ocean, which
come by way of No vita, situated near the Rio San Juan.
The population of the whole province of Popayan is esti¬
mated at about 107,000.
POPE, a name which comes from the Greek word Ua^j
and signifies father. In the East this appellation is given
to all Christian priests, and in the West bishops were call¬
ed by it in ancient times; but for many centuries it has
been appropriated to the bishop of Rome, whom the Roman
Catholics look upon as the common Father of all Christians.
Within the last two or three centuries, much has been
said and written, and many warm disputes have been car¬
ried on, concerning the Pope, and the power belonging to
him. After describing the manner of his election, we shall
here, without entering into controversy, lay down distinctly,
from the best authority, what the Roman Catholics really
believe concerning the Pope ; and we shall give some othei
particulars relating to this subject which seem to deserve
notice, and which, are not generally known in this country.
P o
Pope. All those in communion with the see of Rome unani-
—v-—mously hold that our Saviour Jesus Christ constituted St
Peter the apostle chief pastor under himself, to watch over
his whole flock here upon earth, and to preserve the unity
of the church, at the same time giving him the power re¬
quisite for these ends. They also believe that our Saviour
ordained that St Peter should have successors with the like
authority and power, to the end of time. Now, as they al¬
lege that St Peter resided for many years at Rome, and there
suffered martyrdom, they consider the bishops of Rome as
his successors in the dignity and office of the universal pas¬
tor of the whole Catholic Church.
There have been some varieties in the manner of choos¬
ing the bishop of Rome in different ages, as alterations may
be made in discipline ; but still the clergy of Rome have
always had the chief part in the election ; and that clergy
is now represented by, or in some manner consists of, the
cardinals, who have for several centuries been the sole elec¬
tors of the Pope.
These cardinals, or principal persons of the church of
Rome, are seventy in number, when the sacred college, as
it is called, is complete. Of these, six are cardinal bishops,
viz. the bishops of Ostia, Porto, Albano, Sabino, Tusculum
or Frascati, and Praeneste or Palestrina, which are the six
suburbicarian churches; fifty are cardinal priests, who have
all titles from parish churches in Rome ; and fourteen are
cardinal deacons, who have their titles from churches in
Rome of less note, called diaconias or deaconries. These
cardinals are created by the Pope when there happen to be
vacancies. Sometimes he names one or two only at a time;
but commonly he defers the promotion until there be ten
or twelves vacancies or more; and then at every second
such promotion, the emperor, the kings of Spain and France,
and of Great Britain when Catholic, are allowed to pre¬
sent one each, to be made cardinal, whom the Pope always
admits if there be not some very great and evident objec¬
tion. These cardinals are commonly promoted from amongst
such clergymen as have borne offices in the Roman court;
some are assumed from religious orders; and eminent eccle¬
siastics of other countries are likewise often honoured with
this dignity. Sons of sovereign princes have frequently been
members of the sacred college. Their distinctive dress is
scarlet, to signify that they ought to be ready to shed their
blood for the faith and the church, when the defence and
honour of either require it. They wear a scarlet cap and
hat. The cap is given to them by the Pope if they are at
Rome, and is sent to them if they are absent; but the hat
is never given but by the Pope’s own hand. These cardi¬
nals form the Pope’s standing council or consistory for the
management of the public affairs of church and state. They
are divided into different congregations for the more easy
despatch of business; and some of them hold the principal
offices in the pontifical court, as that of cardinal-vicar, pe¬
nitentiary, chancellor, camerlingo or chamberlain, prefect
of the signature of justice, prefect of memorials, and secre¬
tary of state. They have the title of eminence and most
eminent given them. But here we consider them principally
as the persons intrusted with the choice of the Pope.
On the demise of a Pope, his pontifical seal is imme¬
diately broken by the chamberlain, and all public business
is interrupted that can be delayed. Messengers are de¬
spatched to all the Catholic sovereigns to acquaint them of
the event, that they may take what measures they think
proper, and that the cardinals in their dominions, if any
there be, may hasten to the future election if they choose
to attend; whilst the whole attention of the sacred college
is turned to the preservation of tranquillity in the city and
state, and to the necessary preparations for the future elec¬
tion. The cardinal chamberlain, during the vacancy of the
holy see, possesses great authority; he coins money with his
own arms on it, lodges in the Pope’s apartments, and is at-
P E.
389
tended by body-guards. He, and the first cardinal bishop, Pope,
the first cardinal priest, and the first cardinal deacon, have, —v—^
during that time, the government almost entirely in their
hands, i he body of the deceased Pope is carried to St
Peters, where funeral service is performed for him with
gieat pomp during nine days, and the cardinals attend there
every morning. In the mean time, all necessary prepara¬
tions for the election are made ; and the place where they
assemble for that purpose, which is called the conclave, is
fitted up in that part of the Vatican palace which is nearest
St Peter’s church, as this has long been thought the most
convenient situation. Here is formed by partitions of wood
a number of cells or chambers equal to the number of car¬
dinals, with a small distance between every two, and a
broad gallery before them. A number is put upon every
cell, and small papers with corresponding numbers are put
into a box. Every cardinal, or some one for him, draws
out one of these papers, which determines in wffiat cell he
is to lodge. The cells are lined with cloth ; and there is a
part of each one separated for the conclavists or attendants,
of whom two are allowed to each cardinal, and three to car¬
dinal princes. They are persons of some rank, and gene¬
rally of great confidence; but they must carry in their mas¬
ter’s meals, serve him at table, and perform all the offices
of a menial servant. Two physicians, twro surgeons, an
apothecary, and some other necessary officers, are chosen
for the conclave by the cardinals.
On the tenth day after the Pope’s death, the cardinals
who are then at Rome, and in a competent state of health,
meet in the chapel of St Peter’s, which is called the Gre¬
gorian Chapel, where a sermon on the choice of a Pope is
preached to them, and mass is said for invoking the grace
of the Holy Ghost. Then the cardinals proceed to the
conclave in procession two by two, and take up their abode.
When all is properly settled, the conclave is shut up, hav¬
ing boxed wheels or places of communication in convenient
quarters ; and there are also strong guards placed all around.
When any foreign cardinal arrives after the inclosure, the
conclave is opened for his admission. In the beginning
every cardinal signs a paper, containing an obligation, that
if he shall be raised to the papal chair he will not alienate
any part of the pontifical dominion ; that he will not be pro¬
digal to his relations; and such other stipulations as may
have been settled in former times or framed for the occasion.
We come now to the election itself; and that this may be
effectual, two thirds of the cardinals present must vote for
the same person. As this is often not easily obtained, they
sometimes remain whole months in the conclave. They
meet in the chapel twice every day for giving their votes ;
and the election may be effected by scrutiny, accession, or
acclamation. Scrutiny is the ordinary method, and con¬
sists in this : Every cardinal writes his own name on the
inner part of a piece of paper, and this is folded up and
sealed. On a second fold of the same paper a conclavist
writes the name of the person for whom his master votes.
This, according to the practice observed for some centuries,
must be one of the sacred college. On the outer side of
the paper is written a sentence at random, which the voter
must well remember. Every cardinal, on entering into the
chapel, goes to the altar and puts his paper into a large
chalice.
When all are convened, two cardinals number the votes ;
and if they are more or less than the number of cardinals
present, the voting must be repeated. When that is not
the case, the cardinal appointed for the purpose reads the
outer sentence, and the name of the cardinal under it, so
that each voter hearing his own sentence and the name
joined with it, knows that there is no mistake. The names
of all the cardinals that are voted for are taken down in
writing, with the number of votes for each ; and when it
appears that any has two thirds of the number present in
390
POPE.
his favour the election is over ; but when this does not hap¬
pen, the voting papers are all immediately burned without
opening up the inner part. When several trials of coming
to a conclusion by this method of scrutiny have been mac e m
vain, recourse is sometimes had to what is called accession.
By it, when a cardinal perceives that one or very few votes
are wanting to any one for whom he had not voted at that
time, he may say that he accedes to the one who has nearly
the number of votes requisite ; and it his one vote suffices to
make up the two thirds, or if he is followed by a sufficient
number of new voters for the said cardinal, the election is
accomplished. Lastly, a Pope is sometimes elected by ac¬
clamation ; that is, when a cardinal, being pretty sure that
he wrill be joined by a sufficient number, cries out m the
open chapel, that such a one shall be Pope. It he is sup¬
ported properly, the election becomes unanimous; those
w ho wrould perhaps oppose it foreseeing that their opposi¬
tion would be fruitless, and rather hurtful to themselves. It
is to be observed, that the emperor ot Germany and the
kings of France and Spain claimed a right of excluding one
cardinal from being Pope at every election. Hence, w hen
the ambassador at Rome of any ot these sovereigns perceiv¬
ed that any cardinal disagreeable to his master was likely
to be made Pope, he demanded an audience ot the conclave,
was admitted, and there declared his masters will, which
was always attended to for the common good. But each of
those sovereigns was thus allowed to exclude only one at a
time ; and they unwillingly and seldom put this right in
execution.
When a Pope is chosen in any of the three above-men¬
tioned ways, the election is immediately announced trom
the balcony in the front of St Peter’s ; homage is paid to the
new pontiff; and couriers are sent off with the news to all
parts of Christendom. The Pope appoints a day for his coro¬
nation at St Peter’s, and for his taking possession of the pa¬
triarchal church of St John Lateran ; all which is perform¬
ed with great solemnity. He is addressed by the title of
Holiness, and Most Holy Father.
Let us now proceed to state what authority Roman Catho¬
lics attribute to the Pope thus chosen. They believe, then,
that the bishop of Rome is, under Christ, supreme pastor of
the whole church; and as such, is not only the first bishop
in order and dignity, but has also a power and jurisdiction
over all Christians, to preserve unity and purity of faith and
moral doctrine, and to maintain order and regularity in all
churches. Wherefore they hold, that when the Pope un¬
derstands that any error has been broached agamst faith or
manners, or that any considerable difference on such sub¬
jects has arisen in any part of Christendom, it belongs to
him, after due deliberation and consultation, to issue out
his pastoral decree, condemning the error, clearing up the
doubt, and declaring what has been handed down, and
what is to be believed. Some Catholic divines are of opi¬
nion that the Pope cannot err when he thus addresses him¬
self to all the faithful on matters of doctrine. They well
know, that as a private doctor he may fall into mistakes as
well as any other man; but they think, that when he teaches
the whole church, Providence must preserve him from error;
and they apprehend, that this may be deduced from the
promises of Christ to St Peter, and from the writings of the
ancient fathers. It is to be observed, however, that this
infallibility of the Pope, even when he pronounces in the
most solemn manner, is only an opinion, and not an article
of Roman Catholic faith. Wherefore, when he sends forth
doctrinal decrees, the other bishops, who are also guardians
of the faith in an inferior degree, may, with due respect, ex¬
amine these decrees; and if they find them agree with what
1ms always been taught, they either formally signify their ac¬
ceptance, or they tacitly acquiesce, which, considering their
duty, is equivalent to a formal approbation. When the Pope,
acceptation of the generality of the bishops has been ob- v”
tained, either immediately or after some mutual correspond¬
ence and explanation, the decrees of the Pope thus accept¬
ed come to be the sentence of the whole church, and are
believed to be beyond the possibility of error.
Sometimes it happens that the disputes and differences
may be so great and intricate, that, to the end it may be
seen more clearly what has really been delivered down,
and to give all possible satisfaction, it may appear proper to
convene all the bishops who can conveniently attend, at one
place, to learn from them more distinctly what has been
taught and held in their respective churches. Roman Ca¬
tholics believe that it belongs to the Pope to call such ge¬
neral councils, and to preside in them in person or by his
legates. They likewise hold, that when the Pope has ap¬
proved the decrees of such councils concerning faith or man¬
ners, such decrees become final, and must be received as
such by all Catholics. In all this they believe that the par¬
ticular assistance of the Floly Ghost is with the pastors of
the church, and that therefore “the gates of hell shall never
prevail against her.”
The see of Rome, according to the Roman Catholics, is
the centre of Catholic unity. All their bishops communicate
with the Pope, and by his means with one another, and so
form one body. However distant their particular churches
may be, they all meet at Rome either in person or by their
delegates, or at least by their letters ; and, according to the
discipline of the latter ages, though they are presented to
the Pope for their office from their respective countries, yet
from him they must receive their bulls of consecration be¬
fore they can take possession of their sees.
In matters of ecclesiastical discipline, the Pope, as chief
pastor, not only must take care that the canons actually in
force be observed in all churches, but he may also make
new canons and regulations when he sees it necessary or
expedient for the spiritual benefit of the faithful, according
to times and circumstances. But in doing this he must not
infringe the established rights or customs to the injury of
any person ; which if, through mistake or wrong informa¬
tion, he should ever do, the persons who think themselves
aggrieved may remonstrate with respect, and sue for redress.
He may establish new episcopal sees where there have been
none before, and he may alter the limits of former dioceses ;
but in such alterations he always of course consults the
temporal sovereign, if in communion with him. He sends
pastors to preach the gospel to all countries where the Ca¬
tholic religion is not by law established; and to him ap¬
peals may be made from all parts of Christendom in eccle¬
siastical causes of importance.
The Pope may dispense with the observation of ecclesi¬
astical canons when there are just reasons for it; he may
also dispense with vows w hen they are made with the ex¬
press or tacit condition1 that he really may dispense with
them ; he may also on some occasions declare that obliga¬
tions have really ceased when that is truly the case, from a
great alteration of circumstances. But he can never grant
any dispensation to the injury of any third person, and can
never allow any one to do what is unjust, or to say what he
knows to be false, whatever advantage might be expected
to accrue from it.
The reader who wishes to learn what may be urged for
and against the supremacy of the Pope, and who is fitted
by his knowledge of ecclesiastical history to understand the
nature of the question at issue, may consult, on the one
hand, the w orks of Bellarmine, with the chapter on Supre¬
macy in Milner’s Letters to a Prebendary; and on the
other, Barrow’s treatise on the Pope’s Supremacy, together
with Chillingw orth’s Religion of Protestants.
1 Any other man may unquestionably do the same when they are made .with that express condition.
391
POPE.
Pope. Pope, Alexander, the most brilliant of all wits who have
'at any period applied themselves to the poetic treatment
of human manners, to the selecting from the play of hu¬
man character what is picturesque, or the arresting what is
fugitive, was born in the city of London on the 21st1 day
of May in the memorable year ] 688; about six months,
therefore, before the landing of the Prince of Orange, and
the opening of that great revolution which gave the final
ratification to all previous revolutions of that tempestuous
century. By the “ city” of London the reader is to under¬
stand us as speaking with technical accuracy of that district
which lies within the ancient walls and the jurisdiction of
the lord mayor. The parents of Pope, there is good reason
to think, were of “ gentle blood,” which is the expression
of the poet himself when describing them in verse. His mo¬
ther was so undoubtedly; and her illustrious son, in speak¬
ing of her to Lord Harvey, at a time when any exaggeration
was open to an easy refutation, and writing in a spirit most
likely to provoke it, does not scruple to say, with a tone
of dignified haughtiness not unbecoming the situation of a
filial champion on behalf of an insulted mother, that by
birth and descent she was not below that young lady (one
of the two beautiful Miss Lepels) whom his lordship had
selected from all the choir of court beauties as the future
mother of his children. Of Pope’s extraction and imme¬
diate lineage for a space of two generations we know enough:
beyond that we know little : of this little a part is dubious ;
and what we are disposed to receive as not dubious, rests
chiefly on his own authority. In the prologue to his Satires,
having occasion to notice the lampooners of the times, who
had represented his father as “ a mechanic, a hatter, a farmer,
nay a bankrupt,” he feels himself called upon to state the
truth about his parents; and naturally much more so at a
time when the low scurrilities of these obscure libellers had
been adopted, accredited, and diffused by persons so dis¬
tinguished in all points of personal accomplishment and rank
as Lady Mary Wortley Montagu and Lord Harvey : “hard
as thy hearty was one of the lines in their joint pasquinade,
“hard as thy heart) and as thy birth obscured Accordingly he
makes the following formal statement: “ Mr Pope’s father
was of a gentleman’s family in Oxfordshire, the head of
which was the Earl of Downe. His mother was the daughter
of William Turner, Esq. of York : she had three brothers,
one of whom was killed; another died in the service of King
Charles [meaning Charles I.] ; the eldest, following his for¬
tunes, and becoming a general officer in Spain, left her what
estate remained after the sequestrations and forfeitures of
her family.” The sequestrations here spoken of were those
inflicted by the commissioners for the parliament; and
usually they levied a fifth, or even two fifths, according to
the apparent delinquency of the parties. But in such cases
two great differences arose in the treatment of the royalists;
first, that the report was coloured according to the interest
which a man possessed, or other private means for biassing the
commissioners; secondly, that often, when money could not
be raised on mortgage to meet the sequestration, it became
necessary to sell a family estate suddenly, and therefore in
those times at great loss ; so that a nominal fifth might be
depressed by favour to a tenth, or raised by the necessity
of selling to a half. And hence might arise the small dowry
of Mrs Pope, notw ithstanding the family estate in Yorkshire
had centred in her person. But, by the way, we see from
the fact of the eldest brother having sought service in Spain,
that Mrs Pope was a Papist; not, like her husband, by con¬
version, but by hereditary faith. This account, as publicly
thrown out in the way of challenge by Pope, was, however,
sneered at by a certain Mr Pottinger of those days, who,
together with his absurd name, has been safely transmitted
to posterity in connection with this single feat of having con¬
tradicted Alexander Pope. We read in a diary published
1 Dr Johnson, however, and Joseph Warton, for reasons not stated, have placed his birth on the 22d. To this statement, as op¬
posed to that which comes from the personal friends of Pope, little attention is due. Ituffhead and Spence, upon such questions,
must always be of higher authority than Johnson and Warton, and a fortiori than Bowles. But it ought not. to be concealed, though
hitherto unnoticed by any person, that some doubt after all remains whether any of the biographers is right. An anonymous writer,
contemporary with Pope, and evidently familiar with his personal history, declares that he was born on the 8th of June; and he
connects it with an event that, having a public and a partisan interest (the birth of that Prince of Wales who was known twenty-seven
years afterwards as the Pretender), would serve to check his own recollections, and give them a collateral voucher. It is true he
wrote for an ill-natured purpose ; but no purpose whatever could have been promoted by falsifying this particular date. What is still
more noticeable, however, Pope himself puts a most emphatic negative upon all these statements. In a pathetic letter to a friend,
when his attention could not have been wandering, for he is expressly insisting upon a sentiment which will find an echo in many a
human heart, viz. that a birthday, though from habit usually celebrated as a festal day, too often is secretly a memorial of disap¬
pointment, and an anniversary of sorrowful meaning, he speaks of the very day on which he is then writing as his own birthday; and
indeed what else could give any propriety to the passage ? Now the date of this letter is January 1, 1783. Surely Pope knew his own
birthday better than those who have adopted a random rumour without investigation.
But, whilst we are upon this subject, we must caution the readers of Pope against too much reliance upon the chronological accu¬
racy of his editors. All are scandalously careless; and generally they are faithless. Many allusions are left unnoticed, which a
very little research would have illustrated ; many facts are omitted, even yet recoverable, which are essential to the just appreciation
of Pope’s satirical blotvs ; and dates are constantly mis-stated. Mr Roscoe is the most careful of Pope’s editors; but even he is often
wrong. For instance, he has taken the trouble to wrrite a note upon Pope’s humorous report to Lord Burlington of his Oxford jour¬
ney on horseback with Lintot ; and this note involves a sheer impossibility. The letter is undated, except as to the month ; and Mr
Roscoe directs the reader to supply 1714 as the true date, which is a gross anachronism. Por a ludicrous anecdote is there put into
Lintot’s mouth, representing some angry critic, who had been turning over Pope s Homer, with frequent pshaws, as haying been
propitiated, by Mr Lintot’s dinner, into a gentler feeling towards Pope, and, finally, by the mere effect of good cheer, without an
effort on the publisher’s part, as coming to a confession, that what he ate and what he had been reading were equally excellent.
But in the year 1714 no part of Pope’s Homer was printed; June 1715 was the month in which even the subscribers first received
the four earliest books of the Iliad ; and the public generally not until July. This we notice by way of specimen ; in itself, or as an
error of mere negligence, it would be of little importance; but it is a case to which Mr Iloscoe has expressly applied his own conjec¬
tural skill, and solicited the attention of his reader. We may judge therefore of his accuracy in other cases which he did not tnink
worthy of examination. . , ,
There is another instance, presenting itself in every page, of ignorance concurring with laziness, on the part of all Pope s editors,
and with the effect not so properly of misleading as of perplexing the general reader. Until Loid Macclesfield s bill for altering ,e
style in the very middle of the eighteenth century, six years therefore after the death of Pope, there was a custom arising from the
collision between the civil and ecclesiastical year, of dating the whole period that lies between December 81st and .fare o ( o
days exclusively) as belonging indifferently to the past or the current year. This peculiarity had nothing to do with the old and new
style, but was. we believe, redressed by the same act of parliament. New in Pope’s time it was absolutely necessary that a man
392
Pope.
POPE.
by the Microcosm, “ Met a large hat, with a man under it.
' And so, here, we cannot so properly say that Mr Pottin-
ger brinss down the contradiction to our times, as that the
contradiction brings down Mr Pottinger. “ Cousin Pope,
said Pottinger, “ had made himself out a fine pedigree, but
he wondered where he got it:” and he then goes on to
plead in abatement of Pope’s pretensions, “ that an old
maiden aunt, equally related” (that is, standing m the same
relation to himself and to the poet), “ a great genealogist,
who was always talking of her family, never mentioned this
circumstance.” And again we are told, from another quar¬
ter, that the Earl of Guildford, after express investigation
of this matter, “ was sure that,” amongst the descendants of
the Earls of Downe, “ there was none of the name of 1 ope.
How it was that Lord Guildford came to have any con¬
nection with the affair, is not stated by the biographers of
Pope ; but we have ascertained that, by marriage with a
female descendant from the Earls of Downe, he had come
into possession of their English estates.
Finally, though it is rather for the honour of the Earls ot
Downe than of Pope to make out the connection, we must
observe that Lord Guildford’s testimony, if ever given at all,
is simply negative ; he had found no proofs of the connec¬
tion, but he had not found any proofs to destroy it; whilst,
on the other hand, it ought to be mentioned, though un¬
accountably overlooked by all previous biographers, that
one of Pope’s anonymous enemies, who hated him person¬
ally, but was apparently master ot his family history, and
too honourable to belie his own convictions, expressly at-
firms of his own authority, and without reference to any
claim put forw'ard by Pope, that he was descended fiom a
junior branch of the Downe family: which testimony has a
double value; first, as corroborating the probability ot Pope s
statement viewed in the light of a fact; and, secondly, as
corroborating that same statement viewed in the light of a
current story, true or false, and not as a disingenuous fic¬
tion put forward by Pope to confute Lord Harvey.
It is probable to us, that the Popes, who had been ori¬
ginally transplanted from England to Ireland, had in the
person of some cadet been re-transplanted to England; and
that having in that way been disconnected from all personal
recognition, and all local memorials of the capital house, by
this sort of postliminium, the junior branch had ceased to
cherish the honour of a descent which was now divided
from all direct advantage. At all events, the researches ot
Pope’s biographers have not been able to trace him farther
back in the paternal line than to his grandfather ; and he
(which is odd enough, considering the popery of his descend¬
ants) was a clergyman of the established church in Hamp¬
shire. This grandfather had two sons: of the eldest no¬
thing is recorded beyond the three facts, that he went to
Oxford, that he died there, and that he spent the family
estate.1 The younger son, whose name was Alexander,
had been sent when young, in some commercial character,
to Lisbon ;2 and there it was, in that centre of bigotry, that
he became a sincere and most disinterested Catholic-. He
returned to England; married a Catholic young widow;
and became the father of a second Alexander Pope, ultra
Sauromatas notus ct Antipodes.
By his own account to Spence, Pope learned “ very early
to read and writing he taught himself “ by copying from
printed booksall which seems to argue, that, as an only
child, with an indolent father and a most indulgent mother,
he was not molested with much schooling in his infancy.
Only one adventure is recorded of his childhood, viz. that
he was attacked by a cow, thrown down, and wounded in
the throat. . . . ,
Pope escaped this disagreeable kind of vaccination with-
should use this double date, because else he was liable to be seriously misunderstood. For instance, it was then always said that
Charles I. had suffered on the 30th of January ic£; and why ? Because, had the historian fixed the date to what it really was,
IfidO in that case all those fa very numerous class) who supposed the year 1C49 to commence on Lady day, or March 25, would have
understoS him to mem Sat fti/event happened’ in wlnAe call 165(1 for not until 1656
would have acknowledged as belonging to 1649, since th'U added to the year 104S all the days from Januan" 1 to M . *
other hand if he had said simply that Charles suffered in 1048, he would have been truly understood by the class we havejust men
tioned; but bv another class, who began the year from the 1st of January, he would have been ^ hat we^ ^
mean bv the year 1648. There would have been a sheer difference, not of one, as the reader might think at hrst s g j
entire years in the chronology of the two parties ; which difference, and all possibility of doubt, is met and remedied by
datei^l8; for that date says in effect it was 1648 to you who do not open the new year till Ladyday ; it was 1649 to you who
nnen it from January 1 Thus much to explain the real sense of the case ; and it follows from this explanation, that no part of the
year ever ca» have the Lthma oTdouble dEte except the interval from January 1 to March 24 inclusively. And
tf«d Inference, viz. that the very same reason, and no other, which formerly enjoined the use of the
the prevention of a capital ambiguity or dilemma, now enjoins its omission. 1 or in our day, when the double optmng 3, 0Se.
abolished, what sense is there in perplexing a reader by using a fraction which offers him a choice without directi g Yet
In fact, it is the denominator of the fraction, if one may so style the lower figure, which expresses to a modern < ye Wans- they
the editors of Pope, as well as many other writers, have confused their readers by this double date , and why . b mp y /.
were confused themselves. Man/errors in literature of large extent have arisen from this confusion
enough in the contemporary accounts, for instance in Lord Monmouth s Memoirs, that Queen Lhzabeth died on t ^ y
year 1602, for she died on the 24th of March; and by a careful writer this event would have been dated as March 24>y^- But
many writers, misled by the phrase above cited, have asserted that James L was proclaimed on the 1st ^ January 1603. Hebe^, bishop
of Calcutta, again, has ruined the entire chronology of the life of Jeremy Taylor and unconsciously vitiated the fac by not m ^
standing this fractional date. Mr Koscoe even too often leaves his readers to collect the true year as they can . thus, c. g.
of his Life, he quotes from Pope’s letter to Warburton, in great vexation for the surreptitious publication ot ms letters
under date of February 4, 174°. But why not have printed it intelligibly as 1741 ? Incidents there are in most men’s lives,
which are susceptible of a totally different moral value, according as they are dated in one year or another, i J* Lon-
and honourable liberality in 1740, which would be a fraud upon creditors in 1741. Lxile to a distance o en ^ January
don in January 1744, might argue, that a man was a turbulent citizen, and suspected of treason ; whi s le same ex i meet
1745 would simply argue that, as a Papist, he had been included amongst his whole body in a general measure o piecau ,jt;on3
the public dangers of that year. This explanation we have thought it right to make, both for its extensive app ica 10.1 ^
of Pope, and on account of the serious blunders which have arisen from the case when ill understood; and because, i noint
education, written jointly by Messrs Lant Carpenter and Shephard, though generally men of ability and learning,
is erroneously explained. .. ^ ^ iI e fit-hpr that
1 It is apparently with allusion to this part of his history, which he would often have heard from the lips ot ’
Pope glances at his uncle’s memory somewhat disrespectfully in his prose letter to Lord Harvey. conver-
Some accounts, however, say to Flanders, in which case, perhaps, Antwerp or Brussels would have the honou
sion.
O
P o
Pope- out serious injury, and was not farther tormented by cows
--y'—or schoolmasters until he was about eight years old, when
the family priest, that is, we presume, the confessor of his
parents, taught him, agreeably to the Jesuit system, the
rudiments of Greek and Latin concurrently. This priest
was named Banister ; and his name is frequently employed,
together with other fictitious names, by way of signature
to the notes in the Dunciad, an artifice which was adopted
for the sake of giving a characteristic variety to the notes,
according to the tone required for the illustration of the
text. From his tuition Pope was at length dismissed to a
Catholic school at Twyford, near Winchester. The selec¬
tion of a school in this neighbourhood, though certainly the
choice of a Catholic family was much limited, points appa¬
rently to the old Hampshire connection of his father. Here
an incident occurred which most powerfully illustrates the
original and constitutional determination to satire of this
irritable poet. He knew himself so accurately, that in after
times, half by way of boast, half of confession, he says,
But touch me, and no Minister so sore :
Whoe’er offends, at some unlucky time
Slides into verse and hitches in a rhyme,
Sacred to ridicule his whole life long,
And the sad burthen of some merry song.
Already, it seems, in childhood he had the same irresis¬
tible instinct, victorious over the strongest sense of personal
danger. He wrote a bitter satire upon the presiding peda¬
gogue, was brutally punished for this youthful indiscretion,
and indignantly removed by his parents from the school.
Mr Roscoe speaks of Pope’s personal experience as neces¬
sarily unfavourable to public schools; but in reality he
knew nothing of public schools. All the establishments for
Papists were narrow, and suited to their political depression ;
and his parents were too sincerely anxious for their son’s
religious principles to risk the contagion of Protestant as¬
sociation by sending him elsewhere.
From the scene1 of his disgrace and illiberal punish¬
ment, he passed, according to the received accounts, un¬
der the tuition of several other masters in rapid succes¬
sion. But it is the less necessary to trouble the reader with
their names, as Pope himself assures us that he learned no¬
thing from any of them. To Banister he had been indebt¬
ed for such trivial elements of a schoolboy’s learning as he
possessed at all, excepting those which he had taught him¬
self. And upon himself it was, and his own admirable fa-
393
culties, tnat he was now finally thrown for the rest of his Pope.
education, at an age so immature that many boys are then ' v'^-'
first entering their academic career. Pope is supposed to
have been scarcely twelve years old when he assumed the
office of self-tuition, and bade farewell for ever to schools
and tutors.
Such a phenomenon is at any rate striking: it is the more
so, under the circumstances which attended the plan, and
under the lesults which justified its execution. It seems,
as regards the plan, hardly less strange that prudent parents
should have acquiesced in a scheme of so much peril to his
intellectual interests, than that the son, as regards the exe¬
cution, should have justified their confidence by his final
success. More especially this confidence surprises us in
the father. A doating mother might shut her eyes to all
remote evils in the present gratification to her afi’ections;
but Pope s father was a man of sense and principle ; he
must have weighed the risks besetting a boy left to his owjr
intellectual guidance; and to these risks he would allow
the more weight from his own conscious defect of scholar¬
ship and inability to guide or even to accompany his son’s
studies. He could neither direct the proper choice of stu¬
dies ; nor in any one study taken separately could he sug¬
gest the proper choice of books.
The case we apprehend to have been this: Alexander
Pope the elder, was a man of philosophical desires and un¬
ambitious character. Quiet and seclusion and innocence
of life,—these were what he affected for himself; and that
which had been found available for his own happiness, he
might reasonably wish for his son. The two hinges upon
which his plans may be supposed to have turned, were,
first, the political degradation of his sect; and, secondly, the
fact that his son was an only child. Had he been a Pro¬
testant, or had he, though a Papist, been burthened with a
large family of children, he would doubtless have pursued
a different course. But to him, and, as he sincerely hoped,
to his son, the strife after civil honours was sternly barred.
Apostacy only could lay it open. And, as the sentiments
of honour and duty in this point fell in with the vices of his
temperament, high principle concurring with his constitu¬
tional love of ease, we need not wonder that he should early
retire from commerce with a very moderate competence, or
that he should suppose the same fortune sufficient for one
who was to stand in the same position. This son was from
his birth deformed. That made it probable that he might
P E.
1 This however was not Twyford, according to an anonymous pamphleteer of the times, but a Catholic seminary in Devonshire
Street, that is, in the Bloomsbury district of London ; and the same author asserts, that the scene of his disgrace, as indeed seems
probable beforehand, was not the first, but the last of his arenas as a schoolboy. Which indeed was first, and which last, is very
unimportant; but with a view to another point, which is not without interest, namely, as to the motive of Pope for so bitter a lam¬
poon as we must suppose it to have been, as well as with regard to the topics which he used to season it, this anonymous letter
throws the only light which has been offered ; and strange it is, that no biographer of Pope should have hunted upon the traces indi¬
cated by him. Any solution of Pope’s virulence, and of the master's bitter retaliation, even as a solution, is so far entitled to atten¬
tion ; apart from
To our thinking.
mean avenger of a childish insult by a bestial punishment,  _ „ - - , t, - ,
ticular statements which he makes with respect to himself and the young Duke of Norfolk of 1700, as two schoolfellows of Pope at
that time and place, together with his voluntary promise to come forward in person, and verify his account if it should happen to be
challenged,—are all, we repeat, so many presumptions in favour of his veracity. “ Mr Alexander Pope, ’ says he, before he had
been four months at this school, or was able to construe Tully’s Offices, employed his muse in satirizing his master. It was a libel of
at least one hundred verses, which (a fellow-student having given information of it) was found in his pocket; and the young satirist
was soundly whipped, and kept a prisoner to his room for seven days ; whereupon his father fetched him away, and I have been told
he never went to school more.” This Bromley, it has been ascertained, was the son of a country gentleman in Worcestershire, and
must have had considerable prospects at one time, since it appears that he had been a gentleman-commoner at C inst s Churc i, x-
ford. There is an error in the punctuation of the letter we have just quoted, which affects the sense in a way very important to the
question before us. Bromley is described as “ one of King James’s converts in Oxford, some years after that prince s abdication ;
but, if this were really so, he must have been a conscientious convert. The latter clause should be connected with what follows:
“ Some years after that prince's abdication he kept a little seminary that is, when his mercenary views m quittmg his religion were
effectually defeated, when the Boyne had sealed his despair, he humbled himself into a petty schoolmaster. These facts are interest,
ing, because they suggest at once the motive for the merciless punishment inflicted upon Pope. His own father was a I apist like
Bromley but a sincere and honest Papist, who had borne double taxes, legal stigmas, and public hatred for conscience sake. H s
contempt was habituallv pointed at those who tampered with religion for interested purposes. His son inherited these upright feel¬
ings. And we may easily guess what would be the bitter sting of any satire he would write on Brom ey. Such a topic was too true
to be forgiven, and too keenly barbed by Bromley’s conscience. By the way, this wnter, like ourselveo, tea si j
venture a prefiguration of Pope’s satirical destiny.
VOL. XVIII.
3 o
POPE.
394
Pope, not marry. If he should, and happened to have children,
a small family would find an adequate provision in the pa¬
trimonial funds; and a large one at the \vorst could on y
throw him upon the same commercial exertions to which he
had been obliged himself. "I he Roman Catholics, indeed,
were just then situated as our modern Quakers are: law to
the one, as conscience to the other, closed all modes of active
employment except that of commercial industry. Either
his son, therefore, would be a rustic recluse, or, like himself,
he would be a merchant.
With such prospects, what need of an elaborate educa¬
tion ? And where was such an education to be sought ?
At the petty establishments of the suffering Catholics, the
instruction, as he had found experimentally, was poor. At
the great national establishments his son would be a de¬
graded person; one who was permanently repelled from
every arena of honour, and sometimes, as in cases of pub¬
lic danger, was banished from the capital, deprived of his
house, left defenceless against common ruffians, and ren¬
dered liable to the control of every village magistrate.
To one in these circumstances solitude was the wisest
position ; and the best qualification for that was an educa¬
tion that would furnish aids to solitary thought. No need
for brilliant accomplishments to him who must never dis¬
play them; forensic arts, pulpit erudition, senatorial elo¬
quence, academical accomplishments—these would be lost
to one against whom the courts, the pulpit, the senate, the
universities, were closed. Nay, by possibility worse than
lost; they might prove so many snares or positive bribes
to apostacy. Plain English, therefore, and the high think¬
ing of his compatriot authors, might prove the best provi¬
sion for the mind of an English Papist destined to seclu¬
sion.
Such are the considerations under which we read and
interpret the conduct of Pope’s parents ; and they lead us
to regard as wise and conscientious a scheme which, under
ordinary circumstances, would have been pitiably foolish.
And be it remembered, that to these considerations, de¬
rived exclusively from the civil circumstances of the fami¬
ly, were superadded others derived from the astonishing
prematurity of the individual. That boy who could write
at twelve years of age the beautiful and touching stanzas
on Solitude, might well be trusted with the superintendence
of his own studies. And the strippling of sixteen, who
could so far transcend in good sense the accomplished
statesmen or men of the world with whom he afterwards
corresponded, might challenge confidence for such a choice
of books as would best promote the development of his
own faculties.
In reality, one so finely endowed as Alexander Pope,
could not easily lose his way in the most extensive or ill-
digested library. And though he tells Atterbury, that at
one time he abused his opportunities by reading contro¬
versial divinity, we may be sure that his own native activi¬
ties, and the elasticity of his mind, would speedily recoil
into a just equilibrium of study, under wider and happier
opportunities. Reading, indeed, for a person like Pope,
is rather valuable as a means of exciting his own energies,
and of feeding his own sensibilities, than for any direct ac¬
quisitions of knowledge, or for any trains of systematic re¬
search. All men are destined to devour much rubbish
between the cradle and the grave; and doubtless the man
who is wisest in the choice of his books, will have read
many a page before he dies that a thoughtful review would
pronounce worthless. This is the fate of all men. But the Pope,
reading of Pope, as a general result or measure of his ju- ''"“'"V"'
dicious choice, is best justified in his writings. They show
him well furnished with whatsoever he wanted for matter or
for embellishment, for argument or illustration, for example
and model, or for direct and explicit imitation.
Possibly, as we have already suggested, within the range
of English literature Pope might have found all that he
wanted. But variety the widest has its uses ; and, for the
extension of his influence with the polished classes amongst
whom he lived, he did wisely to add other languages; and
a question has thus arisen with regard to the extent of
Pope’s attainments as a self-taught linguist. A man, or even
a boy, of great originality, may happen to succeed best, in
working his own native mines of thought, by his unassisted
energies: here it is granted that a tutor, a guide, or even
a companion, may be dispensed with, and even beneficial¬
ly. But in the case of foreign languages, in attaining this
machinery of literature, though anomalies even here do arise,
and men there are, like Joseph Scaliger, who form their own
dictionaries and grammars in the mere process of reading
an unknown language, by far the major part of students
will lose their time by rejecting the aid of tutors. As there
has been much difference of opinion with regard to Pope’s
skill in languages, we shall briefly collate and bring into
one focus the stray notices.
As to the French, Voltaire, who knew Pope personally,
declared that he “ could hardly read it, and spoke not one
syllable of the language.” But perhaps Voltaire might dis¬
like Pope ? On the contrary, he was acquainted with his
works, and admired them to the very level of their merits.
Speaking of him after death to Frederick of Prussia, he
prefers him to Horace and Boileau, asserting that, by com¬
parison with them,
Pope approfondit ce qu’ils ont effleurt.
D’un esprit plus hardi, d’un pas plus assure,
II porta le flambeau dans I’aMme de 1’etre ;
Et rhomme avec lui seul apprit a se connoitre.
L’art quelquefois frivole, et quelquefois divine,
L’art des vers est dans Pope utile au genre humain.
This is not a wise account of Pope, for it does not ab¬
stract the characteristic feature of his power ; but it is a very
kind one. And of course Voltaire could not have meant
any unkindness in denying his knowledge of French. But
he was certainly wrong. Pope, in his presence, would de¬
cline to speak or to read a language of which the pronun¬
ciation was confessedly beyond him. Or, if he did, the
impression left would be still worse. In fact, no man ever
will pronounce or talk a language which he does not use,
for some part of every day, in the real intercourse of life.
But that Pope read French of an ordinary cast with fluen¬
cy enough, is evident from the extensive use which he
made of Madame Dacier’s labours on the Iliad, and still
more of La Valterie’s prose translation of the Iliad. Al¬
ready in the year 1718, and long before his personal know¬
ledge of Voltaire, Pope had shown his accurate acquaint¬
ance with some voluminous French authors, in a way which,
we suspect, was equally surprising and offensive to his noble
correspondent. The Duke of Buckingham1 had addressed
to Pope a letter, containing some account of the controversy
about Homer, which had then been recently carried on in
France between La Motte and Madame Dacier. This ac¬
count was delivered with an air of teaching, which was
very little in harmony with its excessive shallowness. Pope,
1 That is, Sheffield, and, legally speaking, of Ruckinghami/iire. For he would not take the title of Buckingham, under a fear that there
was lurking somewhere or other a claim to that title amongst the connections of the Villiers family. He was a pompous grandee,
who lived in uneasy splendour, and, as a writer, most extravagantly overrated ; accordingly, he is now forgotten. Such was his va¬
nity, and his ridiculous mania for allying himself with royalty, that he first of all had the presumption to court the Princess (after¬
wards Queen) Anne. Being.rejected, he then offered himself to the illegitimate daughter of James II., by the daughter of Sir Charles
Sedley. She was as ostentatious as himself, and accepted him.-
POPE.
Pope, who sustained the part of pupil in this interlude, replied in
'"V"’'' a manner that exhibited a knowledge of the parties con¬
cerned in the controversy much superior to that of the
duke. In particular, he characterized the excellent notes
upon Horace of M. Dacier the husband in very just terms,
as distinguished from those of his conceited and half-learn¬
ed wife; and the whole reply of Pope seems very much as
though he had been playing off’ a mystification on his grace.
Undoubtedly the pompous duke felt that he had caught a
Tartar. Now M. Dacier’s Horace, which, with the text,
fills nine volumes, Pope could not have read except in
French ; for they are not even yet translated into English.
Besides, Pope read critically the French translations of his
own Essay on Man, Essay on Criticism, Rape of the Lock,
&c. He spoke of them as a critic ; and it was at no time
a fault of Pope’s to make false pretensions. All readers of
Pope’s Satires must also recollect numerous proofs that
he had read Boileau with so much feeling of his peculiar
merit, that he has appropriated and naturalized in English
some of his best passages. Voltaire was, therefore, cer¬
tainly wrong.
Of Italian literature, meantime, Pope knew little or no¬
thing ; and simply because he knew nothing of the lan¬
guage. Tasso, indeed, he admired ; and, which is singular,
more than Ariosto. But we believe that he had read him
only in English; and it is certain that he could not take
up an Italian author, either in prose or verse, for the un¬
affected amusement of his leisure.
Greek, we all knowr, has been denied to Pope, ever since
he translated Homer, and chiefly in consequence of that
translation. This seems at first sight unfair, because cri¬
ticism has not succeeded in fixing upon Pope any errors
of ignorance. His deviations from Homer were uniformly
the result of imperfect sympathy with the naked simplicity
of the antique, and therefore wilful deviations, not (like
those of his more pretending competitors, Addison and
Tickell) pure blunders of misapprehension. But yet it
is not inconsistent with this concession to Pope’s merits,
that we must avow our belief in his thorough ignorance ot
Greek when he first commenced his task. And to us it
seems astonishing that nobody should have adverted to that
fact as a sufficient solution, and in fact the only plausible
solution, of Pope’s excessive depression of spirits in the
earliest stage of his labours. This depression, after he had
once pledged himself to his subscribers for the fulfilment
of his task, arose from, and could have arisen from nothing
else than, his conscious ignorance of Greek in connection
with the solemn responsibilities he had assumed in the face
of a great nation. Nay, even countries as presumptuously
disdainful of tramontane literature as Italy took an inte¬
rest in this memorable undertaking. Bishop Berkeley
found Salvini reading it at Florence; and Madame Da¬
cier even, who read little but Greek, and certainly no
English until then, condescended to study it. Pope s de¬
jection, therefore, or rather agitation (for it impressed by
sympathy a tumultuous character upon his dreams, which
lasted for years after the cause had ceased to operate) was
perfectly natural under the explanation we have given, but
not otherwise. And how did he surmount this unhappy
self-distrust ? Paradoxical as it may sound, we will venture
to say, that, with the innumerable aids for interpreting
Homer which even then existed, a man sufficiently ac¬
quainted with Latin might make a translation even criti¬
cally exact. This Pope was not long in discovering.
Other alleviations of his labour concurred, and in a ratio
daily increasing.
The same formula; were continually recurring, such as,
But him answering, thus addressed the swift-footed Achilles ;
Or,
But him sternly beholding, thus spoke Agamemnon the king of men.
Then, again, universally the Homeric Greek, from many
395
causes, is easy ; and especially from these two: l.sf, The Pope,
simplicity of the thought, which never gathers into those ''■““"v'"™-’'
perplexed knots of rhetorical condensation which we find
in the dramatic poets of a higher civilization : 2dly, From
the constant bounds set to the expansion of the thought by
the form of the metre ; an advantage of verse which makes
the poets so much easier to a beginner in the German lan¬
guage than the illimitable weavers of prose. The line or
the stanza reins up the poet tightly to his theme, and will
not suffer him to expatiate. Gradually, therefore, Pope
came to read the Homeric Greek, but never accurately;
nor did he ever read Eustathius without aid from Latin.
As to any knowledge of the Attic Greek, of the Greek of
the dramatists, the Greek of Plato, the Greek of Demos¬
thenes, Pope neither had it nor affected to have it. In¬
deed it was no foible of Pope’s, as we will repeat, to make
claims which he had not, or even to dwell ostentatiously
upon those which he had. And with respect to Greek in
particular, there is a manuscript letter in existence from
Pope to a Mr Bridges at Falham, which, speaking of the
original Homer, distinctly records the knowledge which he
had of his own “ imperfectness in the language.” Chap¬
man, a most spirited translator of Homer, probably had no
very critical skill in Greek; and Hobbes was, beyond all ques¬
tion, as poor a Grecian as he was a doggerel translator ; yet
in this letter Pope professes his willing submission to the
“ authority” of Chapman and Hobbes, as superior to his own.
Finally, in Latin Pope was a “ considerable proficient,”
even by the cautious testimony of Dr Johnson ; and in this
language only the doctor was an accomplished critic. If
Pope had really the proficiency here ascribed to him, he
must have had it already in his boyish years; for the trans¬
lation from Statius, which is the principal monument of his
skill, was executed before he was fourteen. W e have taken
the trouble to throw a hasty glance over it; and whilst we
readily admit the extraordinary talent which it shows, as do
all the juvenile essays of Pope, we cannot allow that it ar¬
gues any accurate skill in Latin, ihe word Malea, as we
have seen noticed by some editor, he makes Malea ; which
in itself, as the name was not of common occurrence, would
not have been an error worth noticing; but, taken in con¬
nection with the certainty that Pope had the original line
before him—
Arripit ex templo Maleae de valle resurgens,
when not merely the scanning theoretically, but the whole
rhythmus practically, to the most obtuse ear, w ould be an¬
nihilated by Pope’s false quantity, is a blunder which serves
to show his utter ignorance of prosody. But, even as a ver¬
sion of the sense, wfith every allowance for a poet’s license
of compression and expansion, Pope’s translation is defec¬
tive, and argues an occasional inability to construe the text.
For instance, at the council summoned by Jupiter, it is said
that he at his first entrance seats himself upon his starry
throne, but not so the inferior gods;
Nec protinus ausi
Coelicolae, veniam donee pater ipse sedendi
Tranquilla jubet esse manu.
In which passage there is a slight obscurity, from the ellip¬
sis of the word sedere, or sese locare ; but the meaning is
evidently that the other gods did not presume to sit down
protinus, that is, in immediate succession to Jupiter, and in¬
terpreting his example as a tacit license to do so, until, by
a gentle wave of his hand, the supreme father signifies his
express permission to take their seats. But Pope, manifest¬
ly unable to extract any sense from the passage, translates
At Jove’s assent the deities around
In solemn state the consistory crown'd ;
where at once the whole picturesque solemnity of the celes¬
tial ritual melts into the vaguest generalities. Again, at
396 P 0
Pope. y. 178, ruptcp.que vices is translated “ and all the ties of na~
1 • y~~~' turc broke bat by vices is indicated the alternate reign of
the two brothers, as ratified by mutual oaths, and subse¬
quently violated by Eteocles. Other mistakes might be
cited, which seem to prove that Pope, like most self-taught
linguists, was a very imperfect one.1 Pope, in short, never
rose to such a point in classical literature as to read either
Greek or Latin authors without effort, and for his private
amusement.
The result, therefore, of Pope’s self-tuition appears to us,
considered in the light of an attempt to acquire certain ac¬
complishments of knowledge, a most complete failure. As
a linguist, he read no language with ease; none with plea¬
sure to himself; and none with so much accuracy as could
have carried him through the most popular author with a
general independence on interpreters. But, considered with
a view to his particular faculties and slumbering originali¬
ty of power, which required perhaps the stimulation of ac¬
cident to arouse them effectually, we are very much dis¬
posed to think that the very failure of his education as an
artificial training was a great advantage finally for inclining
his mind to throw itself, by way of indemnification, upon
its native powers. Had he attained, as with better tuition
he would have attained, distinguished excellence as a scho¬
lar, or as a student of science, the chances are many that
he would have settled down into such studies as thousands
could pursue not less successfully than he ; wlulst as it was,
the very dissatisfaction which he could not but feel with his
slender attainments must have given him a strong motive
for cultivating those impulses of original power which he
felt continually stirring within him, and which were vivified
into trials of competition as often as any distinguished ex¬
cellence was introduced to his knowledge.
Pope’s father, at the time of his birth, lived in Lombard
Street ;2 a street still familiar to the public eye, from its ad¬
jacency to some of the chief metropolitan establishments,
and to the English ear possessing a degree of historical im¬
portance ; first, as the residence of those Lombards, or Mi¬
lanese, who affiliated our infant commerce to the matron
splendours of the Adriatic and the Mediterranean ; next,
as the central resort of those jewellers, or “ goldsmiths,” as
they were styled, who performed all the functions of mo¬
dern bankers from the period of the parliamentary war to
the rise of the Bank of England, that is, for six years after
the birth of Pope; and, lastly, as the seat, until lately, of
that vast Post Office, through which, for so long a period,
P E.
has passed the correspondence of all nations and languages, Pope
upon a scale unknown to any other country. In this street
Alexander Pope the elder had a house, and a warehouse,
we presume, annexed, in which he conducted the whole¬
sale business of a linen merchant. As soon as he had made
a moderate fortune he retired from business, first to Ken¬
sington, and afterwards to Binfield, in Windsor Forest. The
period of this migration is not assigned by any writer. It
is probable that a prudent man would not adopt it with any
prospect of having more children. But this chance might
be considered as already extinguished at the birth of Pope ;
for though his father had then only attained his forty-fourth
year, Mrs Pope had completed her forty-eighth. It is pro¬
bable, from the interval of seven days which is said to have
elapsed between Pope’s punishment and his removal from
the school, that his parents were then living at such a dis¬
tance from him as to prevent his ready communication w ith
them, else w e may be sure that Mrs Pope would have flown
on the wings of love and wrath to the rescue of her darling.
Supposing, therefore, as we do suppose, that Mr Bromley’s
school in London wras the scene of his disgrace, it would
appear on this argument that his parents were then living
in Windsor Forest. And this hypothesis falls in with ano¬
ther anecdote in Pope’s life, which we know partly upon his
own authority. He tells Wycherley that he had seen Dry-
den, and barely seen him. Virgilium vidi tantum. This
is presumed to have been in Will’s Coffee-house, whither
any person in search of Dryden would of course resort; and
it must have been before Pope was twelve years old, for
Dryden died in 1700. Now there is a letter of Sir Charles
Wogan’s, stating that he first took Pope to Will’s ; and his
wjords are, “ from our forest.” Consequently, at that pe¬
riod, when he had not completed his twelfth year, Pope was
already living in the forest.
From this period, and so long as the genial spirits of
youth lasted, Pope’s life must have been one dream of plea¬
sure. He tells Lord Harvey that his mother did not spoil
him ; but that was no doubt because there was no room for
wilfulness or waywardness on either side, when all was one
placid scene of parental obedience and gentle filial autho¬
rity. We feel persuaded that, if not in words, in spirit and
inclination, they would, in any notes they might have oc¬
casion to write, subscribe themselves “ your dutiful pa¬
rents.” And of what consequence in whose hands were the
reins which were never needed ? Every reader must be
pleased to know that these idolizing parents lived to see
1 Meantime, the felicities of this translation are at times perfectly astonishing; and it would be scarcely possible to express more
nervously or amply the words,
 jurisjac secundi
Ambitus impatiens, et summo dulcius unum
Stare loco 
than this child of fourteen has done in the following couplet, which, most judiciously, by reversing the two clauses, gains the power
of fusing them into connection :
And impotent desire to reign alone.
That scorns the dull reversion of a throne.
But the passage for which beyond all others we must make room, is a series of eight lines, corresponding to six in the original; .and
this for two reasons : First, Because Dr Joseph Warton has deliberately asserted, that in our whole literature, “ we have scarcely eight
more beautiful lines than theseand though few readers will subscribe to so sweeping a judgment, yet certainly these must be
wonderful lines for a boy, which could challenge such commendation from an experienced polyhistor of infinite reading. Secondly,
Because the lines contain a night-scene. Now it must be well known to many readers, that the famous night-scene in the Iliad, so
familiar to every school-boy, has been made the subject, for the last thirty years, of severe, and, in many respects, of just criticisms.
This description will therefore have a double interest by comparison ; whilst, whatever may be thought of either taken separately
for itself, considered as a translation, this which we now quote is as true to Statius as the other is undoubtedly faithless to Homer:
Jamqueper emeriti surgens eonfinia PhceU ’Twas now the time when Phoebus yields to night,
Titanis, late mundo suLcta silenti 4".CJ T1S^ Cynthia sheds her silver light;
Jlorifera gelidum tenuaverat aera biga. ™e .° er T!'1'1 in SOi?mn she drew
Jam pccudes volucresque tacent: jal somnus avaris f er airy chariot hung with pearly dew
Inserpit curis, pronusque per aera nut at, ^ blr^ alldbeast„s lle huslld‘ .. SlefeP S eals ^
Grata laboratce referens oblivia viice. The wild desires of men and toils of day ; .
<1.11 And brings, descending through the silent air,
. _ e . i. -J4 . a sweet forgetfulness of human care.
2 One writer of that age says, in Cheapside ; but probably this difference arose from contemplating Lombard Street as a prolon¬
gation of Cheapside.
P o
Pope, their son at the very summit of his public elevation ; even
his father lived two years and a half after the publication
of his Homer had commenced, and when his fortune was
made ; and his mother lived for nearly eighteen years more.
What a felicity for her, how rare and how perfect, to find
that he, who to her maternal eyes was naturally the most
perfect of human beings, and the idol of her heart, had al¬
ready been the idol of the nation before he had completed
his youth. She had also another blessing not always com¬
manded by the most devoted love ; many sons there are
who think it essential to manliness that they should treat
their mother’s doating anxiety with levity, or even ridicule.
But Pope, who was the model of a good son, never sw erved
in words, manners, or conduct, from the most respectful
tenderness, or intermitted the piety of his attentions. And
so far did he carry this regard for his mother’s comfort,
that, well knowing how she lived upon his presence or by
his image, he denied himself for many years all excursions
which could not be fully accomplished within the revolu¬
tion of a week. And to this cause, combined with the ex¬
cessive length of his mother’s life, must be ascribed the fact
that Pope never went abroad ; not to Italy with Thomson
or with Berkeley, or any of his diplomatic friends ; not to
Ireland, where his presence wmuld have been hailed as a na¬
tional honour; not even to France, on a visit to his admiring
and admired friend Lord Bolingbroke. For as to the fear of
sea-sickness, that did not arise until a late period of his life ;
and at any period would not have operated to prevent his
crossing from Dover to Calais. It is possible that, in his ear¬
lier and more sanguine years, all the perfection of his filial
love may not have availed to prevent him from now and then
breathing a secret murmur at confinement so constant. But
it is certain that, long before he passed the meridian of his
life, Pope had come to view this confinement with far other
thoughts. Experience had then taught him, that to no man
is the privilege granted of possessing more than one or two
friends who are such in extremity. By that time he had
come to view his mother’s death with fear and anguish.
She, he knew by many a sign, would have been happy to
lay down her life for his sake; but for others, even those
who were the most friendly and the most constant in their
attentions, he felt but too certainly that his death, or his
heavy affliction, might cost them a few sighs, but would not
materially disturb their peace of mind. “ It is but in a
very narrow circle,” says he, in a confidential letter, “ that
friendship walks in this world, and I care not to tread out
of it more than I needs must; knowing well it is but to two
or three (if quite so many) that any man’s welfare or me¬
mory can be of consequence.” After such acknowledge¬
ments, we are not surprised to find him writing thus of his
mother, and his fearful struggles to fight off' the shock of
his mother’s death, at a time when it was rapidly approach¬
ing. After having said of a friend’s death, “ the subject is
beyond writing upon, beyond cure or ease by reason or re¬
flection, beyond all but one thought, that it is the will of
God,” he goes on thus, “ So will the death of my mother
be, which now I tremble at, now resign to, now bring close
to me, now set farther off; every day alters, turns me about,
confuses my whole frame of mind.” There is no pleasure,
he adds, which the world can give “ equivalent to counter¬
vail either the death of one I have so long lived with, or of
one I have so long lived for.” How will he comfort him¬
self after her death ? “I have nothing left but to turn my
thoughts to one comfort, the last we usually think of, though
the only One we should in wisdom depend upon. I sit in
p E- 397
her room, and she is always present before me but when Pepe.
I sleep. I wonder I am so well. I have shed many tears ;
but now I weep at nothing.”
A man, therefore, happier than Pope in his domestic re¬
lations cannot easily have lived. It is true these relations
were circumscribed ; had they been wider they could not
have been so happy. But Pope was equally fortunate in
his social relations. What, indeed, most of all surprises us,
is the courteous, flattering, and even brilliant reception
which Pope found from his earliest boyhood amongst the
most accomplished men of the world. Wits, courtiers,
statesmen, grandees the most dignified, and men of fashion
the most brilliant, all alike treated him not only with point¬
ed kindness, but with a respect that seemed to acknow¬
ledge him as their intellectual superior. Without rank,
high birth, fortune, without even a literary name, and in
defiance of a deformed person, Pope, whilst yet only six¬
teen years of age, was caressed, and even honoured ; and
all this with no one recommendation but simply the know¬
ledge of his dedication to letters, and the premature expec¬
tations which he raised of future excellence. Sir William
Trumbull, a veteran statesman, who had held the highest
stations, both diplomatic and ministerial, made him his
daily companion. Wycherley, the old roue of the town, a
second-rate wit, but not the less jealous on that account,
showed the utmost deference to one whom, as a man of
fashion, he must have regarded with contempt, and be¬
tween whom and himself there were nearly “ fifty good
years of fair and foul weather.” Cromwell,1 a fox-hunting
country gentleman, but uniting with that character the
pretensions of a wit, and affecting also the reputation of a
rake, cultivated his regard with zeal and conscious inferio¬
rity. Nay, which never in any other instance happened to
the most fortunate poet, his very inaugural essays in verse
were treated, not as prelusive efforts of auspicious promise,
but as finished works of art, entitled to take their station
amongst the literature of the land ; and in the most worth¬
less of all his poems, Walsh, an established authority, and
whom Dryden pronounced the ablest critic of the age, found
proofs of equality with Virgil.
The literary correspondence with these gentlemen is in¬
teresting, as a model of what once passed for fine letter¬
writing. Every nerve w-as strained to outdo each other in
carving all thoughts into a fillagree work of rhetoric ; and
the amcebaean contest, was like that between two village-
cocks from neighbouring farms endeavouring to overcrow
each other. To us, in this age of purer and more mascu¬
line taste, the whole scene takes the ludicrous air of old
and young fops dancing a minuet with each other, prac¬
tising the most elaborate grimaces, sinkings and risings
the most awful, bows the most overshadowing, until plain
walking, running, or the motions of natural dancing, are
thought too insipid for endurance. In this instance the
taste had perhaps really been borrowed from France, though
often enough w’e impute to France what is the native
growth of all minds placed in similar circumstances. Ma¬
dame de Sevigne’s Letters were really models of grace. But
Balzac, whose letters, however, are not without interest,
had in some measure formed himself upon the truly mag¬
nificent rhetoric of Pliny and Seneca. Pope and his cor¬
respondents, meantime, degraded the dignity of rhetoric,
by applying it to trivial commonplaces of compliment;
whereas Seneca applied it to the grandest themes which life
or contemplation can supply. Lady Mary Wortley Mon¬
tagu, on first coming amongst the wits of the day, natu-
1 Dr Johnson said, that all he could discover about Mr Cromwell, was the fact of his going a hunting in a tie-wjg, but Gay has
added another fact to Dr Johnson’s, by calling him “ honest Aat/ess Cromwell with red breeches. I his epithet puzzle e
commentators; but its import is obvious enough. Cromwell, a, we learn iron, more than one peraon, »aa anjmus to he conariered
a fine gentleman, and devoted to women. Now it was long the custom in that age for such persons, g ,
  P, ...... i 3 t . . _j * k,, lYlnrlfluip dp Pomnadour hat in nancu ‘ f'T
a mie nenueman, ana uevuusu tu wuuien* r*uw   ,, V. , , ° 1 *
carry their hats in their hand. Louis XV. used to ride by the side of Madame de 1 ompadour hat in hai d.
398
Pope:
POPE.
rally adopted their style. She found this sort of euphuism
' established ; and it was not for a very yoiing woman to op¬
pose it. But her masculine understanding and powerful
good sense, shaken free, besides, from all local follies by
travels and extensive commerce with the wmrld, first threw
off these glittering chains of affectation. Dean Swift, by
the very constitution of his mind, plain, sinewy, nervous,
and courting only the strength that allies itself with home¬
liness, was always indisposed to this mode of correspon¬
dence. And, finally, Pope himself, as his earlier friends
died off, and his own understanding acquired strength, laid
it aside altogether. One reason doubtless was, that he
found it too fatiguing; since in this wray of letter-writing
he was put to as much expense of wit in amusing an indi¬
vidual correspondent as would for an equal extent have
sufficed to delight the whole world. A funambulist may
harass his muscles and risk his deck on the tight-rope, but
hardly to entertain his own family. Pope, however, had
another reason for declining this showy system of fencing ;
and strange it is that he had not discovered this reason
from the very first. As life advanced, it happened una¬
voidably that real business advanced; the careless condi¬
tion of youth prompted no topics, or at least prescribed
none, but such as were agreeable to the taste, and allowed
of an ornamental colouring. But when downright busi¬
ness occurred, exchequer bills to be sold, meetings to be
arranged, negotiations confided, difficulties to be explained,
here and there by possibility a jest or two might be scat¬
tered, a wdtty allusion thrown in, or a sentiment inter¬
woven ; but for the main body of the case, it neither could
receive any ornamental treatment, nor if, by any effort of
ingenuity, it had, could it look otherwise than silly and
unreasonable:
Ornari res ipsa negat, contenta doceri.
Pope’s idleness, therefore, on the one hand, concurring
with good sense and the necessities of business on the other,
drove him to quit his gay rhetoric in letter-writing. But
there are passages surviving in his correspondence which
indicate, that, after all, had leisure and the coarse per¬
plexities of life permitted it, he still looked with partiality
upon his youthful style, and cherished it as a first love.
But in this harsh world, as the course of true love, so that
of rhetoric, never did run smooth ; and thus it happened
that, with a lingering farewell, he felt himself forced to bid
it adieu. Strange that any man should think his own sin¬
cere and confidential overflowings of thought and feeling
upon books, men, and public affairs, less valuable in a lite¬
rary view than the legerdemain of throwing up bubbles
into the air for the sake of watching their prismatic hues,
like an Indian juggler with his cups and balls. We of this
age, who have formed our notions of epistolary excellence
from the chastity of Gray’s, the brilliancy of Lady Mary
Wortley Montagu’s during her later life, and the mingled
good sense and fine feeling of Cowper’s, value only those
letters of Pope which he himself thought of inferior value.
And even with regard to these, we may say that there is a
great mistake made ; the best of those later letters between
Pope and Swift, &c. are not in themselves at all superior to
the letters of sensible and accomplished women, such as
leave every town in the island by every post. Their chief
interest is a derivative one; we are pleased with any letter,
good or bad, which relates to men of such eminent talent;
and sometimes the subjects discussed have a separate inte¬
rest for themselves. But as to the quality of the discussion,
apart from the person discussing and the thing discussed,
so trivial is the value of these letters in a large proportion,
that we cannot but wonder at the preposterous value which Pope,
was set upon them by the writers.1 Pope especially ought''"—V*'
not to have his ethereal works loaded by the mass of trivial
prose which is usually attached to them.
This correspondence, meantime, with the wits of the
time, though one mode by which, in the absence of re¬
views, the reputation of an author was spread, did not per¬
haps serve the interests of Pope so effectually as the poems
which in this way he circulated in those classes of English
society whose favour he chiefly courted. One of his friends,
the truly kind and accomplished Sir William Trumbull, serv¬
ed him in that way, and perhaps in another eventually even
more important. The library of Pope’s father was com¬
posed exclusively of polemical divinity, a proof, by the way,
that he was not a blind convert to the Roman Catholic
faith; or, if he was so originally, had reviewed the grounds
of it, and adhered to it after strenuous study. In this dearth
of books at his own home, and until he was able to in¬
fluence his father in buying more extensively, Pope had
benefited by the loans of his friends ; amongst whom it is
probable that Sir William, as one of the best scholars of
the whole, might assist him most. He certainly offered
him the most touching compliment, as it was also the
wisest and most paternal counsel, when he besought him,
as one goddess-born, to quit the convivial society of deep-
drinkers :
Heu, fuge nate dea, teque his, ait, eripe malis.
With these aids from friends of rank, and his way thus
laid open to public favour, in the year 1709 Pope first
came forward upon the stage of literature. The same year
which terminated his legal minority introduced him to the
public. Miscellanies in those days were almost periodical
repositories of fugitive verse. Tonson happened at this
time to be publishing one of some extent, the sixth vo¬
lume of which offered a sort of ambush to the young aspi¬
rant of Windsor Forest, from which he might watch the
public feeling. The volume was opened by Mr Ambrose
Philips, in the character of pastoral poet; and in the same
character, but stationed at the end of the volume, and thus
covered by his bucolic leader, as a soldier to the rear by
the file in advance, appeared Pope ; so that he might win
a little public notice, without too much seeming to chal¬
lenge it. This half-clandestine emersion upon the stage of
authorship, and his furtive position, are both mentioned by
Pope as accidents, but as accidents in which he rejoiced,
and not improbably accidents which Tonson had arranged
with a view to his satisfaction.
It must appear strange that Pope at twenty-one should
choose to come forward for the first time with a work com¬
posed at sixteen. A difference of five years at that stage
of life is of more effect than of twenty at a later; and his
own expanding judgment could hardly fail to inform him
that his Pastorals were by far the worst of his works. In
reality, let us not deny, that had Pope never written any
thing else, his name would not have been known as a name
even of promise, but would probably have been redeemed
from oblivion by some satirist or writer of a Dunciad. Were
a man to meet with such a nondescript monster as the fol¬
lowing, viz. “ Love out of Mount JEtna by Whirlwind,” he
would suppose himself reading the Racing Calendar. Yet
this hybrid creature is one of the many zoological monsters
to whom the Pastorals introduce us :
I know thee, love ! on foreign mountains born,
Wolves gave thee suck, and savage tigers fed.
Thou wert from iEtna’s burning entrails torn,
Got by fierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born.
n ■^1® stranSe indeed to find, not only that Pope had so frequently kept rough copies of his own letters, and that he thought so
well of them as to repeat the same letter to different persons, as in the case of the two lovers killed by lightning, or even to two
sisters, Martha and Iherese Blount (who were sure to communicate their letters), but that even Swift had retained copies of A?/.
P o
Pope. But the very names “ Damon” and “ Strephon,” “ Phillis”
—and “ Delia,” are rank with childishness. Arcadian life is,
at the best, a feeble conception, and rests upon the false
principle of crowding together all the luscious sweets of ru¬
ral life, undignified by the danger which attends pastoral life
in our climate, and unrelieved by shades, either moral or
physical. And the Arcadia of Pope’s age was the spurious
Arcadia of the opera theatre, and, what is worse, of the
French opera.
The hostilities which followed between these rival wooers
of the pastoral muse are well known. Pope, irritated at
what he conceived the partiality shown to Philips in the
Guardian, pursued the review ironically; and, whilst af¬
fecting to load his antagonist with praises, draws into point¬
ed relief some of his most flagrant faults. The result, how¬
ever, we cannot believe. That all the wits, except Addison,
were duped by the irony, is quite impossible. Could any
man of sense mistake for praise the remark, that Philips
had imitated “ every line of Stradathat he had intro¬
duced wolves into England, and proved himself the first of
gardeners by making his flowers “ blow all in the same
season.” Or, suppose those passages unnoticed, could the
broad sneer escape him, where Pope taxes the other writer
(viz. himself) with having deviated “ into downright poetry;”
or the outrageous ridicule of Philip’s style, as setting up
for the ideal type of the pastoral style, the quotation from
Gay, beginning,
Hager, go vetch tlm kee, or else tha zun
Will quite bego before ch’ avs half a don !
Philips is said to have resented this treatment by threats of
personal chastisement to Pope, and even hanging up a rod
at Button’s coffee-house. We may be certain that Philips
never disgraced himself by such ignoble conduct. If the
public indeed were universally duped by the paper, what
motive had Philips for resentment ? Or, in any case, what
plea had he for attacking Pope, who had not come forward
as the author of the essay ? But, from Pope’s confidential ac¬
count of the matter, we know that Philips saw him daily, and
never offered him “ any indecorumthough, for some cause
or other, Pope pursued Philips with virulence through life.
In the year 1711, Pope published his Essay on Criticism,
which some people have very unreasonably fancied his best
performance ; and in the same year his Rape of the Lock,
the most exquisite monument of playful fancy that universal
literature offers. It wanted, however, as yet, the principle
of its vitality, in wanting the machinery of Sylphs and
Gnomes, with which addition it was first published in 1714.
In the year 1712, Pope appeared again before the public
as the author of the Tejnple of Fame, and the Elegy to the
Memory of an Unfortunate Lady. Much speculation has
arisen on the question concerning the name of this lady, and
the more interesting question concerning the nature of the
persecutions and misfortunes which she suffered. Pope ap¬
pears purposely to decline ansv/ering the questions of his
friends upon that point; at least the questions have reached
us, and the answers have not. Joseph Warton supposed
himself to have ascertained four facts about her : that her
name was Wainsbury; that she was deformed in person;
that she retired into a convent from some circumstances con¬
nected with an attachment to a young man of inferior rank;
and that she killed herself, not by a sword, as the poet in¬
sinuates, but by a halter. As to the latter statement, it may
very possibly be true ; such a change would be a very slight
exercise of the poet’s privileges. As to the rest, there are
scarcely grounds enough for an opinion. Pope certainly
speaks of her under the name of Mrs (i. e. Miss) W ,
which at least argues a poetical exaggeration in describing
her as a being “ that once had /it/es, honour, wealth, and
fameand he may as much have exaggerated her preten¬
sions to beauty. It is indeed noticeable, that he speaks
simply of her decent limbs, which, in any English use of
P E- 3S
the word, does not imply much enthusiasm of praise. She Pope.
appears to have been the niece of a Lady A ; and Mr v—
Graggs, afterwards secretary of state, wrote to Lady A 
on her behalf, and otherwise took an interest in her fate.
As to her being a relative of the Duke of Buckingham’s,
that rests upon a mere conjectural interpretation applied to
a letter of that nobleman’s. But all things about this un¬
happy lady are as yet enveloped in mystery. And not the
least part of the mystery is a letter of Pope’s to a Mr C ,
bearing date 1732, that is, just twenty years after the pub¬
lication of the poem, in which Pope, in a manly tone, jus¬
tifies himself for his estrangement, and presses against his
unknown correspondent the very blame which he had ap¬
plied generally to the kinsman of the poor victim in 1712.
Now, unless there is some mistake in the date, how are we
to explain this gentleman’s long lethargy, and his sudden
sensibility to Pope’s anathema, with which the world had
resounded for twenty years ?
Pope had now established his reputation with the public as
the legitimate successor and heir to the poetical supremacy
of Dryden. His Rape of the Lock was unrivalled in ancient
or modern literature, and the time had now arrived when,
instead of seeking to extend his fame, he might count upon
a pretty general support in applying what he had already
established to the promotion of his own interest. Accord¬
ingly, in the autumn of 1713, he formed a final resolution
of undertaking a new translation of the Iliad. It must be
observed, that already in 1709, concurrently with his Pas¬
torals, he had published specimens of such a translation ;
and these had been communicated to his friends some time
before. In particular, Sir William Trumbull, on the 9th of
April 1708, urged upon Pope a complete translation of both
Iliad and Odyssey. Defective skill in the Greek language,
exaggeration of the difficulties, and the timidity of a writer
as yet unknown, and not quite twenty years old, restrained
Pope for five years and more. What he had practised as a
sort of bravura, for a single effort of display, he recoiled from
as a daily task to be pursued through much toil, and a con¬
siderable section of his life. However, he dallied with the
purpose, starting difficulties in the temper of one who wishes
to hear them undervalued; until at length Sir Richard Steele
determined him to the undertaking, a fact overlooked by
the biographers, but which is ascertained by Ayre’s account
of that interview between Pope and Addison, probably in
1716, which sealed the rupture between them. In the
autumn of 1713, he made his design known amongst his
friends. Accordingly, on the 21st of October, we have Lord
Lansdown’s letter, expressing his great pleasure at the com¬
munication ; on the 26th, we have Addison’s letter encourag¬
ing him to the task; and in November of the same year oc¬
curs the amusing scene so graphically described by Bishop
Kennet, when Dean Swift presided in the conversation, and,
amongst other indications of his conscious authority, “ in¬
structed a young nobleman, that the best poet in England
was Mr Pope, who had begun a translation of Homer into
English verse, for which he must have them all subscribe:
for,” says he, “ the author shall not begin to print until I
have a thousand guineas for him.”
If this were the extent of what Swift anticipated from
the work, he fell miserably below the result. But, perhaps,
he spoke only of a cautionary arrha or earnest. As this
was unquestionably the greatest literary labour, as to profit,
ever executed, not excepting the most lucrative of Sir Wal¬
ter Scott’s, if due allowance be made for the altered value
of money, and if we consider the Odyssey as forming part of
the labour, it may be right to state the particulars of Pope’s
contract with Lintot.
The number of subscribers to the Iliad was 575, and the
number of copies subscribed for was 654. The work was to
be printed in six quarto volumes; and the subscription was
a guinea a volume. Consequently by the subscription Pope
400 p 0
Pope, obtained six times 654 guineas, or L.4218. 6s. (for tlm
'-'■“'v"—guinea then passed for 21s. 6d.); and for the copyright of
each volume Lintot offered L.200, consequently L. 1200 for
the whole six; so that from the Iliad the profit exactly
amounted to L.5310. 16s. Of the Odyssey, 574 copies were
subscribed for. It was to be printed in five quarto volumes,
and the subscription w^as a guinea a volume. Consequently
by the subscription Pope obtained five times 574 guineas, or
L.3085. 5s.; and for the copyright Lintot offered L.600.
The total sum received therefore by Pope, on account of the
Odyssey, was L.3685. 5s. But in this instance he had two
coadjutors, Broome and Fenton; between them they trans¬
lated twelve books, leaving twelve to Pope. The notes also
were compiled by Broome ; but the Postscript to the notes
was written by Pope. Fenton received L.300, Broome
L.500. Such at least is Warton’s account, and more pro¬
bable than that of Ruffhead, who not only varies the pro¬
portions, but increases the whole sum given to the assistants
by L.100. Thus far we had followed the guidance of mere
probabilities, as they lie upon the face of the transaction.
But we have since detected a written statement of Pope’s,
unaccountably overlooked by the biographers, and serving of
itself to show how negligently they have read the works of
their illustrious subject. The statement is entitled to the full¬
est attention and confidence, not being a hasty or casual no¬
tice of the transaction, but pointedly shaped to meet a ca¬
lumnious rumour against Pope in his character of paymaster ;
as if he who had found so much liberality from publishers
in his own person, were niggardly or unjust as soon as he
assumed those relations to others. Broome, it was alleged,
had expressed himself dissatisfied with Pope’s remuneration.
Perhaps he had. For he would be likely to frame his esti¬
mate for his own services from the scale of Pope’s reputed
gains; and those gains would, at any rate, be enormously
exaggerated, as uniformly happens where there is a basis
of the marvellous to begin with. And, secondly, it would be
natural enough to assume the previous result from the Iliad
as a fair standard for computation ; but in this, as we know,
all parties found themselves disappointed, and Broome had
the less right to murmur at this, since the arrangement with
himself as chief journeyman in the job was one main cause
of the disappointment. There was also another reason why
Broome should be less satisfied than Fenton. Verse for
verse, any one thousand lines of a translation so purely me¬
chanical might stand against any other thousand; and so
far the equation of claims was easy. A book-keeper, with
a pen behind his ear, and Cocker’s Golden Rule open be¬
fore him, could do full justice to Mr Broome as a poet every
Saturday night. But Broome had a separate account-cur¬
rent for pure prose against Pope. One he had in conjunc¬
tion with Fenton for verses delivered on the premises at so
much per hundred, on which there could be no demur, ex¬
cept as to the allowance for tare and tret as a discount in
favour of Pope. But the prose account, the account for
notes, requiring very various degrees of reading and research,
allowed of no such easy equation. There it was, we con¬
ceive, that Broome’s discontent arose. Pope, however, de¬
clares, that he had given him L.500, thus confirming the
proportions of Warton against Ruffhead (that is, in effect,
Warburton), and some other advantages which were not in
money, nor deductions at all from his own money profits,
but which may have been worth so much money to Broome
as to give some colourable truth to Ruffhead’s allegation of
an additional L.100. In direct money, it remains certain
that Fenton had three and Broome five hundred pounds. It
follows, therefore, that for the Iliad and Odyssey jointly he
received a sum of L.8996. Is., and paid for assistance L.800,
P E.
which leaves to himself a clear sum of L 8196. Is. And, in Pope
fact, his profits ought to be calculated without deduction,
since it was his own choice, from indolence, to purchase as¬
sistance.
The Iliad was commenced about October 1713. In the
summer of the following year he was so far advanced as to
begin making arrangements with Lintot for the printing; and
the first two books, in manuscript, were put into the hands of
Lord Halifax. In June 1715, between the 10th and 28th, the
subscribers received their copies of the first volume ; and in
July Lintot began to publish that volume generally. Some
readers will inquire, who paid for the printing and paper,
&c.? All this expense fell upon Lintot, for whom Pope was
superfluously anxious. The sagacious bookseller under¬
stood what he was about; and, when a pirated edition was
published in Holland, he counteracted the injury by print¬
ing a cheap edition, of which 7500 copies were sold in a
few weeks ; an extraordinary proof of the extended interest
in literature. The second, third, and fourth volumes of the
Iliad, each containing, like the first, four books, were pub¬
lished successively in 1716, 1717, 1718; and in 1720 Pope
completed the work by publishing the fifth volume, contain¬
ing five books, and the sixth, containing the last three, with
the requisite supplementary apparatus.
The Odyssey was commenced in 1723 (not 1722, as Mr
Roscoe virtually asserts at p. 259), and the publication of it
was finished in 1725. The sale, however, was much inferior
to that of the Iliad ; for which more reasons than one might
be assigned. But there can be no doubt that Pope him¬
self depreciated the wmrk, by his undignified arrangements
for w orking by subordinate hands. Such a process may an¬
swer in sculpture, because there a quantity of rough-hewing
occurs, which can no more be improved by committing it
to a Phidias, than a common shop-bill could be improved
in its arithmetic by Sir Isaac Newton. But in literature
such arrangements are degrading; and, above all, in a wrork
which was but too much exposed already to the presump¬
tion of being a mere effort of mechanic skill, or (as Curll
said to the House of Lords) “ a knack;” it was deliberately
helping forward that idea to let off parts of the labour.
Only think of Milton letting off by contract to the lowest
offer, and to be delivered by such a day (for which good
security to be found), six books of Paradise Lost. It is
true, the great dramatic authors wrere often collaborateurs,
but their case wras essentially different. The loss, however,
fell not upon Pope, but upon Lintot, w'ho, on this occasion,
was out of temper, and talked rather broadly of prosecution.
But that was out of the question. Pope had acted indis¬
creetly, but nothing could be alleged against his honour;
for he had expressly warned the public, that he did not, as
in the other case, profess to translate, but to undertake1 a
translation of the Odyssey. Lintot, however, was no loser
absolutely, though he might be so in relation to his expec¬
tations ; on the contrary, he grew rich, bought land, and
became sheriff of the county in which his estates lay.
We have pursued the Homeric labours uninterruptedly
from their commencement in 1713 till their final termina¬
tion in 1725, a period of twelve years or nearly; because
this w'as the task to which Pope owed the dignity, if not
the comforts, of his life, since it was this winch enabled
him to decline a pension from all administrations, and even
from his friend Craggs, the secretary, to decline the ex¬
press offer of L.300 per annum. Indeed Pope is always
proud to own his obligations to Homer. In the interval,
however, between the Iliad and the Odyssey, Pope listened
to proposals made by Jacob Tonson, that he should revise an
edition of Shakspeare. For this, w hich wTas in fact the first
1 The word undertake had not yet lost the meaning of Shakspeare’s age, in which it was understood to describe those cases where,
the labour being of a miscellaneous kind, some person in chief offered to overlook and conduct the whole, whether with or without
personal labour. The modern undertaker, limited to the care of funerals, was then but one of numerous cases to which the term
was applied.
POPE.
Po:>e.
attempt at establishing the text of the mighty poet, Pope
' obtained but little moiley, and still less reputation. He
received, according to tradition, only L.217. 12s. for his
trouble of collation, which must have been considerable,
and some other trifling editorial labour. And the opinion
of all judges, from the first so unfavourable as to have de-
m case he should ever accept that pension which had been
so often tendered but never sternly rejected.
In 1723 Pope lost one of his deafest friends, Bishop At-
terbury, by banishment; a sentence most justly incurred,
and mercifully mitigated by the hostile Whig government.
On the bishop’s trial a circumstance occurred to Pope which
predated the money-value of the book enormously, perhaps flagrantly cor'roborated his own belief in his natural disqua-
ftom a prepossess,on of the public m.nd agamst the fitness of lifieation for public life. He was summoned as an evidence
Pope for executing the dull labours of revision, has ever
since pronounced this work the very worst edition in exist¬
ence. For the edition we have little to plead; but for the
editor it is but just to make three apologies. In the first
place, he wrote a brilliant, preface, which, although (like
other works of the same class) too much occupied in dis¬
playing his own ability, and too often, for the sake of an
effective antithesis, doing deep injustice to Shakspeare, yet
undoubtedly, as a whole, extended his fame, by giving the
sanction and countersign of a great wit to the national ad¬
miration. Secondly, as Dr Johnson admits, Pope’s failure
pointed out the right road to his successors. Thirdly,
even in this failure it is but fair to say, that in a graduated
scale of merit, as distributed amongst the long succession
of editors through that century, Pope holds a rank propor¬
tionable to his age. For the year 1720, he is no other¬
wise below Theobald, Hanmer, Capell, Warburton, or even
Johnson, than as they are successively below each-other,
and all of them as to accuracy below Steevens, as he again
was below Malone and Read.
The gains from Shakspeare would hardly counterbalance
the loss which Pope sustained this year from the South Sea
bubble. One thing, by the way, is still unaccountably
neglected by writers on this question : how it was that the
great Mississippi bubble, during the Orleans regency in
Paris, should have happened to coincide with that of Lon¬
don. If this were accident, how marvellous that the same
insanity should possess the two great capitals of Christendom
in the same year ? If, again, it were not accident, but due
to some common cause, why is not that cause explained ?
Pope to his nearest friends never stated the amount of his
loss. The biographers report that at one time his stock
was worth from twenty to thirty thousand pounds. But
that is quite impossible. It is true, that as the stock rose
at one time a thousand per cent., this would not imply on
Pope’s part an original purchase beyond twenty-five hun¬
dred pounds or thereabouts. But Pope has furnished an
argument against that, which we shall improve. He quotes,
more than once, as applicable to his own case, the old pro¬
verbial riddle of Hesiod, crXsov ‘iruvrog, the half is more
than the whole. What did he mean by that? We under¬
stand it thus: that between the selling and buying, the
variations had been such as to sink his shares to one half of
the price they had once reached, but, even at that depreci¬
ation, to leave him richer on selling out than he had been
at first. But the half of L.25,000 would be a far larger sum
than Pope could have ventured to risk upon a fund confes¬
sedly liable to daily fluctuation. L.3000 -would be the ut¬
most he could risk; in which case the half of L.25,000
would have left him so very much richer, that he would
have proclaimed his good fortune as an evidence of his
skill and prudence. Yet, on the contrary, he wished his
friends to understand at times that he had lost. But his
friends forgot to ask one important question: was the
word loss to be understood in relation to the imaginary and
nominal wealth which he once possessed, or in relation to
the absolute sum invested in the South Sea fund ? The
truth is, Pope practised on this, as on other occasions, a
little finessing, which is the chief foible in his character. His
object was, that, according to circumstances, he might vin¬
dicate his own freedom from the common mania, in case his
enemies should take that handle for attacking him; or might
have it in his power to plead poverty, and to account for it,
VOL. XVIII.
on his friend’s behalf. He had but a dozen words to say,
simply explaining the general tenor of his lordship’s beha¬
viour at Bromley, and yet, under this trivial task, though
supported by the enthusiasm of his friendship, he broke
down. Lord Bolingbroke, returning from exile, met the
bishop at the sea-side ; upon which it was wittily remarked
that they were “ exchanged.” Lord Bolingbroke supplied
to Pope the place, or perhaps more than supplied the place,
of the friend he had lost; for Bolingbroke was a free-thinker,
and so far more entertaining to Pope, even whilst partially
dissenting, than Atterbury, whose clerical profession laid
him under restraints of decorum, and latterly, there is rea¬
son to think, of conscience.
In 1725, on closing the Odyssey, Pope announces his in¬
tention to Swift of quitting the labours of a translator, and
thenceforwards applying himself to original composition,
i his resolution led to the Essay on Man, which appeared soon
afterwards; and, with the exception of two labours, which
occupied Pope in the interval between 1726 and 1729, the
rest of his life may properly be described as dedicated to
the further extension of that Essay. The two works which
he interposed were a collection of the fugitive papers, whe¬
ther prose or verse, which he and Dean Swift had scattered
amongst their friends at different periods of life. The avow¬
ed motive for this publication, and, in fact, the secret mo¬
tive, as disclosed in Pope’s confidential letters, was to make
it impossible thenceforwards for piratical publishers like
Curll. Both Pope and Swift dreaded the malice of Curll
in case they should die before him. It wras one of Curll’s
regular artifices to publish a heap of trash on the death of
any eminent man, under the title of his Remains ; and .in
allusion to that practice it was that Arbuthnot most wit¬
tily called Curl! “ one of the new terrors of death.” By
publishing all, Pope wrould have disarmed Curll beforehand;
and that w^as in fact the purpose ; and that plea only could
be offered by two grave authors, one forty, the other sixty
years old, for reprinting jeux d’esprit that never had any
other apology than the youth of their authors. Yet, strange
to say, after all, some were omitted; and the omission of
one opened the door to Curll as w^ell as that of a score. Let
Curll have once inserted the narrow end of the wedge, he
would soon have driven it home.
This Miscellany, however, in three volumes (published in
1727, but afterwards increased by a fourth in 1732), though
in itself a trifling work, had one vast consequence. It drew
after it sw'arms of libels and lampoons, levelled almost ex¬
clusively at Pope, although the cipher of the joint authors
stood entwined upon the title-page. These libels in their
turn produced a second re-action ; and, by stimulating Pope
to effectual anger, eventually drew forth, for the everlasting
admiration of posterity, the very greatest of Pope’s works ;
a monument of satirical power the greatest which man has
produced, not excepting the MacFleckno of Dryden, name¬
ly, the immortal Dunciad.
In October of the year 1727, this poem, in its original
form, was completed. Many editions, not spurious altoge¬
ther, nor surreptitious, but with some connivance, not yet
explained, from Pope, were printed in Dublin and in Lon¬
don. But the first quarto and acknowledged edition was pub¬
lished in London early in “ 1728-9,” as the editors choose to
write it, that is (without perplexing the reader), in 1729: on
March 12 of which year it was presented by the prime minis¬
ter, Sir Robert Walpole, to the king and queen at St James’s.
3 E
402 P 0
I'ope. Like a hornet, who is said to leave his sting in the wound,
and afterwards to languish away, Pope felt so greatly ex¬
hausted by the efforts connected with the Dunciad (which
are far greater, in fact, than all his Homeric labours put to¬
gether), that he prepared his friends to expect for the future
only an indolent companion and a hermit. Events rapidly
succeeded which tended to strengthen the impression he
had conceived of his own decay, and certainly to increase his
disgust with the world. In 1732 died his friend Atterbury;
and on December the 7th of the same year Gay, the most
unpretending of all the wits whom he knew, and the one
with whom he had at one time been domesticated, expired,
after an illness of three days, which Dr Arbuthnot declaies
to have been “ the most precipitate” he ever knew. But
in fact Gay had long been decaying, from the ignoble vice
of too much and too luxurious eating. Six months after
this loss, which greatly affected Pope, came the last deadly
wound which this life could inflict, in the death of his mo¬
ther. She had for some time been in her dotage, and re¬
cognised no face but that of her son, so that her death was
not unexpected ; but that circumstance did not soften the
blow of separation to Pope. She died on the 7 th ol June
1733, being then ninety-three years old. I hree days alter,
writing to Richardson the painter for the purpose of urging
him to come down and take her portrait before the coffin
was closed, he says, “ I thank God, her death was as easy
as her life was innocent; and as it cost her not a .groan,
nor even a sigh, there is yet upon her countenance such an
expression of tranquillity” that “ it would aflord the finest
image of a saint expired that ever painting drew. Adieu,
may you die as happily.” The funeral took place on the
11th ; Pope then quitted the house, unable to support the
silence of her chamber, and did not return for months, nor
in fact ever reconciled himself to the sight of her vacant
apartment.
Swift also he had virtually lost for ever. In April 1727
this unhappy man had visited Pope for the last time. Du¬
ring this visit occurred the death of George I. Great ex¬
pectations arose from that event amongst the Tories, in
which, of course, Swift shared. It was reckoned upon as
a thing of course that Walpole would be dismissed. But
this bright gleam of hope proved as treacherous as all be¬
fore ; and the anguish of this final disappointment perhaps
it was which brought on a violent attack of Swift’s constitu¬
tional malady. On the last of August he quitted Pope’s
house abruptly ; concealed himself in London ; and finally
quitted it, as stealthily as he had before quitted Twickenham,
for Ireland, never more to return. He left a most affec¬
tionate letter for Pope; but his affliction, and his gloomy
anticipations of insanity, were too oppressive to allow of his
seeking a personal interview.
Pope might now describe himself pretty nearly as ulti¬
mas suorum ; and if he would have friends in future, he
must seek them, as he complains bitterly, almost amongst
strangers and another generation. This sense of desolation
may account for the acrimony which too much disfigures
his writings henceforward. Between 1732 and 1740, he
was chiefly engaged in satires, which uniformly speak a
high moral tone in the midst of personal invective; or in
poems directly philosophical, which almost as uniformly
speak the bitter tone of satire in the midst of dispassionate
ethics. His Essay on Man was but one link in a genera]
course which he had projected of moral philosophy, here
and there pursuing his themes into the fields of metaphy¬
sics, but no farther in either field of morals or metaphy¬
sics than he could make compatible with a poetical treat¬
ment. These works, however, naturally entangled him in
feuds of various complexions with people of very various
pretensions; and to admirers of Pope so fervent as we
profess ourselves, it is painful to acknowledge that the dig¬
nity of his latter years, and the becoming tranquillity of in-
P E.
creasing age, are sadly disturbed by the petulance and the Pope,
tone of irritation which, alike to those in the wrong and in
the right, inevitably besiege all personal disputes. He was
agitated, besides, by a piratical publication of his correspond¬
ence. This emanated of course from the den of Curll,
the universal robber and “ blatant beast” of those days ;
and, besides the injury offered to his feelings by exposing
some youthful sallies which he wished to have suppressed,
it drew upon him a far more disgraceful imputation, most
assuredly unfounded, but accredited by Dr Johnson, and
consequently in full currency to this day, of having acted
ccllusively with Curll, or at least through Curll, for the
publication of what he wished the world to see, but could
not else have devised any decent pretext for exhibiting.
The disturbance of his mind on this occasion led to a cir¬
cular request, dispersed amongst his friends, that they would
return his letters. All complied except Swift. He only
delayed, and in fact shuffled. But it is easy to read in his
evasions, and Pope, in spite of his vexation, read the same
tale, viz. that, in consequence of his recurring attacks and
increasing misery, he was himself the victim ol artifices
amongst those who surrounded him. What Pope appre¬
hended happened. The letters were all published in Dublin
and in London, the originals being then only returned
when they bad done their work of exposure.
Such a tenor of life, so constantly fretted by petty wrongs,
or by leaden insults, to which only the celebrity of their
object lent force or wings, allowed little opportunity to Pope
for recalling his powrers from angry themes, and converging
them upon others of more catholic philosophy. lo the
last he continued to conceal vipers beneath his flowers ; or
rather, speaking proportionately to the case, he continued
to sheath amongst the gleaming but innocuous lightnings
of his departing splendours, the thunderbolts which blasted
for ever. His last appearance was his greatest. In 1742
he published the fourth book of the Dunciad ; to which it
has with much reason been objected, that it stands in no
obvious relation to the other three, but which, taken as a
separate whole, is by far the most brilliant and the weight¬
iest of his works. Pope was aware of the hiatus between
this last book and the rest, on wrhich account he sometime
called it the greater Dunciad ; and it would have been eas)
for him, with a shallow Warburtonian ingenuity, to invent
links that might have satisfied a mere verbal sense of con¬
nection. ButT he disdained this puerile expedient. Ihe fact
was, and could not be disguised from any penetrating eye,
that the poem was not a pursuit of the former subjects ; it
had arisen spontaneously at various times, by looking at the
same general theme of dulness (which, in Pope’s sense, in¬
cludes all aberrations of the intellect, nay, even any defec¬
tive equilibrium amongst the faculties) under a different
angle of observation, and from a different centre. In this
closing book, not only bad authors, as in the other three,
but all abuses of science or antiquarian knowledge, or con-
noisseurship in the arts, are attacked: virtuosi, medalists,
butterfly-hunters, florists, erring metaphysicians, &c. are all
pierced through and through as with the shafts of Apollo.
But the imperfect plan of the work as to its internal eco¬
nomy, no less than its exterior relations, is evident in many
places ; and in particular the whole catastrophe of the poem,
if it can be so called, is linked to the rest by a most insuf¬
ficient incident. To give a closing grandeur to his work,
Pope had conceived the idea of representing the earth as
lying universally under the incubation of one mighty spirit
of dulness ; a sort of millennium, as we may call it, for ig¬
norance, error, and stupidity. This would take leave of the
reader with effect; but how was it to be introduced ? at
what era ? under what exciting cause ? As to the eras,
Pope could not settle that; unless it were a. future era, the
description of it could not be delivered as a prophecy; and,
not being prophetic, it would want much of its grandeur.
POPE.
403
Pope. Yet, as a part of futurity, how is it connected with our pre-
sent times ? Do they and their pursuits lead to it as a pos¬
sibility, or as a contingency upon certain habits which we
have it in our power to eradicate (in which case this vision
of dulness has a practical warning), or is it a mere neces¬
sity, one amongst the many changes attached to the cycles
of human destiny, or which chance brings round with the
revolutions of its wheel ? All this Pope could not deter¬
mine; but the exciting cause he has determined, and it is
preposterously below the effect. The goddess of dulness
yawns; and her yawn, which, after all,' should rather ex¬
press the fact and state of universal dulness than its cause,
produces a change over all nations tantamount to a long
eclipse. Meantime, with all its defects of plan, the’ poem,
as to execution, is superior to all which Pope has done ; the
composition is much superior to that of the Essay on Man,
and more profoundly poetic: the parodies drawn from Mil-
ton, as also in the former books, have a beauty and effect
which cannot be expressed ; and, if a young lady wished to
cull for her album a passage from all Pope’s writings, which,
without a trace of irritation or acrimony, should yet pre¬
sent an exquisite gem of independent beauty, she could not
find another passage equal to the little story of the florist
and the butterfly-hunter. They plead their cause separate¬
ly before the throne of dulness ; the florist telling how he
had reared a superb carnation, which, in honour of the
queen, he called Caroline, when his enemy, pursuing a but¬
terfly which settled on the carnation, in securing his own
object, had destroyed that of the plaintiff. The defendant
replies with equal beauty; and it may certainly be affirmed,
that, for brilliancy of colouring and the art of poetical nar¬
ration, the tale is not surpassed by any in the language.
This was the last effort of Pope worthy of separate notice.
He was now decaying rapidly, and sensible of his own decay.
His complaint w^as a dropsy of the chest, and he knew it to
be incurable. Under these circumstances, his behaviour
was admirably philosophical. He employed himself in re¬
vising and burnishing all his later works, as those upon
which he wisely relied for his reputation with future gene¬
rations. In this task he was assisted by Dr Warburton, a
new literary friend, who had introduced himself to the fa¬
vourable notice of Pope about four years before, by a de¬
fence of the Essay on Man, which Crousaz had attacked,
but in general indirectly and ineffectually, by attacking it
through the blunders of a very faulty translation. This
poem, however, still labours, to religious readers, under two
capital defects. If man, according to Pope, is now so ad¬
mirably placed in the universal system of things, that evil
only could result from any change, then it seems to fol¬
low, either that a fall of man is inadmissible ; or at least,
that, by placing him in his true centre, it had been a bless¬
ing universally. The other objection lies in this, that if
all is right already, and in this earthly station, then one ar¬
gument for a future state, as the scene in which evil is to
be redressed, seems weakened or undermined.
As the weakness of Pope increased, his nearest friends,
Lord Bolingbroke, and a few others, gathered around him.
The last scenes were passed almost with ease and tran¬
quillity. He dined in company two days before he died;
and on the very day preceding his death he took an airing
on Blackheath. A few mornings before he died, he was
found very early in his library writing on the immortality of
the soul. This was an effort of delirium; and he suffered
otherwise from this affection of the brain, and from inability Pope,
to think in his closing hours. But his humanity and good-
ness, it was remarked, had survived his intellectual faculties.
He died on the 30th of May 1744 ; and so quietly, that the
attendants could not distinguish the exact moment of his
dissolution.
We had prepared an account of Pope’s quarrels, in which
we had shown that, generally, he was not the aggressor;
and often was atrociously ill used before he retorted. This
service to Pope’s memory we had judged important, because
it is upon these quarrels chiefly that the erroneous opinion
has built itself of Pope’s fretfulness and irritability. And
this unamiable feature of his nature, together with a prone¬
ness to petty manoeuvring, are the main foibles that malice
has been able to charge upon Pope’s moral character. Yet,
with no better foundation for their malignity than these
doubtful propensities, of which the first perhaps was a con¬
stitutional defect, a defect of his temperament rather than
his will, and the second has been much exaggerated, many
writers have taken upon themselves to treat Pope as a man,
if not absolutely unprincipled and without moral sensibility,
yet as mean, little-minded, indirect, splenetic, vindictive,
and morose. Now the difference between ourselves and
these writers is fundamental. They fancy that in Pope’s
character a basis of ignoble qualities was here and there
slightly relieved by a few shining spots ; we, on the contrary,
believe that in Pope lay a disposition radically noble and
generous, clouded and overshadowed by superficial foibles,
or, to adopt the distinction of Shakspeare, they see nothing
but “ dust a little gilt,” and we “ gold a little dusted.” A
very rapid glance we will throw over tire general outline of
his character.
As a friend, it is noticed emphatically by Martha Blount
and other contemporaries, who must have had the best means
of judging, that no man was so warm hearted, or so much sa¬
crificed himself for others, as Pope ; and in fact many of his
quarrels grew out of this trait in his character. For once
that he levelled his spear in his own quarrel, at least twice he
did so on behalf of his insulted parents or his friends. Pope
was also noticeable for the duration of his friendships
some dropped him, but he never any throughout his life.
And let it be remembered, that amongst Pope’s friends wrere
the men of most eminent talents in those days; so that
envy at least, or jealousy of rival power, was assuredly no
foible of his. In that respect how different from Addison,
whose petty manoeuvring against Pope proceeded entirely
from malignant jealousy. That Addison was more in the
wrong even than has generally been supposed, and Pope
more thoroughly innocent as well as more generous, we have
the means at a proper opportunity of showing decisively. As
a son, we-need not insist on Pope’s pre-eminent goodness.
Dean Swift, who had lived for months together at Twick¬
enham, declares that he had not only never witnessed, but
had never heard of anything like it. As a Christian, Pope
appears in a truly estimable light. He found himself a
Roman Catholic by accident of birth ; so was his mother ;
but his father was so upon personal conviction and conver¬
sion, yet not without extensive study of the questions at
issue. It would have laid open the road to preferment,
and preferment was otherwise abundantly before him, if
Pope would have gone over to the Protestant faith. And
in his conscience he found no obstacle to that change; he
was a philosophical Christian, intolerant of nothing but into.
■ ... ^ ^ . „ ' . t nf Pnnp tn Savase. When all else forsook him, when all beside pleaded the in¬
sults of Savagelfor wfthdrawlng'their subscriptions, Pope sent his in advance. And whe^SaVage^
commanding him never “ to presume to interfere or meddie ^ hls Bristol (when he returned from Glamorganshire),
SgTh^^
usUSupposed to believe the lying legend of Savage; he was doubtless
no son of Lady Macclesfield’s, but an impostor, who would now be sent to the tread-mill.
404 P O
Pope, lerance, a bigot only against bigots. But be remained true
to his baptismal profession, partly on a general principle of
honour in adhering to a distressed and dishonoured party,
but chiefly out of reverence and affection to his mother.
In his relation to women, Pope was amiable and gentle¬
manly ; and accordingly was the object of affectionate re¬
gard and admiration to many of the most accomplished in
that sex. This we mention especially because we would
wish to express our full assent to the manly scorn with which
Mr Roscoe repels the libellous insinuations against Pope
and Miss Martha Blount. A more innocent connection we
do not believe ever existed. As an author, Warburton has
recorded that no man ever displayed more candour or more
docility to criticisms offered in a friendly spirit. F inally, we
sum up all in saying, that Pope retained to the last a true
and diffusive benignity; that this was the quality which sur¬
vived all others, notwithstanding the bitter trial which his
benignity must have stood through life, and the excitement
to a spiteful re-action of feeling which was continually press¬
ed upon him by the scorn and insult which his deformity drew
upon him from the unworthy.
But the moral character of Pope is of secondary interest:
we are concerned with it only as connected with his great
intellectual power. There are three errors which seem cur¬
rent upon this subject: First, that Pope drew his impulses
from French literature ; secondly, that he was a poet of in¬
ferior rank ; thirdly, that his merit lies in superior “correct¬
ness.” With respect to the first notion, it has prevailed by
turns in every literature. One stage of society, in every
nation, brings men of impassioned minds to the contempla¬
tion of manners, and of the social affections of man as exhi¬
bited in manners. With this propensity co-operates, no
doubt, some degree of despondency when looking at the
great models of the literature who have usually preoccupied
the grander passions, and displayed their movements in the
earlier periods of literature. Now it happens that the French,
from an extraordinary defect in the higher qualities of pas¬
sion, have attracted the notice of foreign nations chiefly to
that field of their literature in which the taste and the un¬
impassioned understanding preside. But in all nations such
literature is a natural growth of the mind, and would arise
equally if the French literature had never existed. The
w its of Queen Anne’s reign, or even of Charles II.’s, w7ere not
French by their taste or their imitation. Butler and Dry-
den were surely not French; and of Milton we need not
speak; as little was Pope French, either by his institution
or by his models. Boileau he certainly admired too much ;
and, for the sake of a poor parallelism with a passage about
Greece in Horace, he has falsified history in the most lu¬
dicrous manner, without a shadow of countenance from
facts, in order to make out that we, like the Romans, re¬
ceived laws of taste from those w'hom we had conquered.
But these are insulated cases and accidents, not to insist on
his known and most profound admiration, often expressed,
for both Chaucer, and Shakspeare, and Milton. Secondly,
that Pope is to be classed as an inferior poet, has arisen
purely from a confusion between the departments of poetry
which he cultivated and the merit of his culture. The first
place must undoubtedly be given for ever,—it cannot be re¬
fused,—to the impassioned movements of the tragic, and to
the majestic movements of the epic muse. We cannot alter
the relations of things out of favour to an individual. But
in his own department, whether higher or lower, that man
is supreme who has not yet been surpassed; and such a
man is Pope. As to the final notion, first started by Walsh,
and propagated by Warton, it is the most absurd of all
the three ; it is not from superior correctness that Pcpe is
esteemed more correct, but because the compass and sweep
of his performances lies more within the range of ordinary
judgments. Many questions that have been raised upon
Milton or Shakspeare, questions relating to so subtile a sub-
P E.
ject as the flux and reflux of human passion, lie far above Pope
the region of ordinary capacities; and the indeterminate-'''"—V''
ness or even carelessness of the judgment is transferred by
a common confusion to its objects. But waiving this, let
us ask, what is meant by “ correctness ?” Correctness in
what ? In developing the thought ? In connecting it, or
effecting the transitions? In the use of words? In the
grammar ? In the metre ? Under every one of these limita¬
tions of the idea, w'e maintain that Pope is not distinguished
by correctness ; nay, that, as compared with Shakspeare, he
is eminently incorrect. Produce us from any drama of
Shakspeare one of those leading passages that all men have
by heart, and show us any eminent defect in the very sinews
of the thought. It is impossible ; defects there may be, but
they will always be found irrelevant to the main central
thought, or to its expression. Now turn to Pope; the first
striking passage which offers itself to our memory, is the
famous character of Addison, ending thus :
Who would not laugh, if such a man there be,
Who but must weep if Atticus were he ?
Why must we laugh ? Because we find a grotesque assem¬
bly of noble and ignoble qualities. Very well ; but why
then must we weep ? Because this assemblage is found ac¬
tually existing in an eminent man of genius. Well, that
is a good reason for weeping; we weep for the degradation
of human nature. But then revolves the question, why
must we laugh ? Because, if the belonging to a man of
genius were a sufficient reason for weeping, so much we know
from the very first. The very first line says “ Peace to all
such. But were there one whose fires true genius kindles
and fair fame inspires.” Thus falls to the ground the whole
antithesis of this famous character. We are to change our
mood from laughter to tears upon a sudden discovery that
the character belonged to a man of genius; and this we had
already known from the beginning. Match us this prodi¬
gious oversight in Shakspeare. Again, take the Essay on
Criticism : it is a collection of independent maxims, tied to¬
gether into a fasciculus by the printer, but having no na¬
tural order or logical dependency; generally so vague as to
mean nothing: like the general rules of justice, &c. in ethics,
to which every man assents ; but when the question comes
about any practical case, is it just? the opinions fly asunder
far as the poles. And, what is remarkable, many of the
rules are violated by no man so often as by Pope, and by
Pope nowhere so often as in this very poem. As a single
instance, he proscribes monosyllabic lines; and in no Eng¬
lish poem of any pretensions are there so many lines of that
class as in this. We have counted above a score, and the
last line of all is monosyllabic.
Not therefore for superior correctness, but for qualities
the very same as belong to his most distinguished brethren,
is Pope to be considered a great poet; for impassioned think¬
ing, powerful description, pathetic reflection, brilliant nar¬
ration. His characteristic difference is simply that he car¬
ried these powers into a different field, and moved chiefly
amongst the social paths of men, and viewed their characters
as operating through their manners. And our obligations
to him arise chiefly on this ground, that having already, in
the persons of earlier poets, carried off the palm in all the
grander trials of intellectual strength, for the majesty of the
epopee and the impassioned vehemence of the tragic drama,
to Pope we owe it that we can now claim an equal pre¬
eminence in the sportive and aerial graces of the mock he¬
roic and satiric muse; that in the Dunciad we possess a
peculiar form of satire, in which (according to a plan unat¬
tempted by any other nation) we see alternately her festive
smile and her gloomiest scowl; that the grave good sense of
the nation has here found its brightest mirror ; and, finally,
that through Pope the cycle of our poetry is perfected and
made orbicular, that from that day we might claim the laurel
equally, whether for dignity or grace. (w. w.w.)
POP
Poporin- POPERINGHEN, a large market-town of Belgium, in
S1’611 the province of West Flanders and circle of Ypres. It
Popery. stanc^s on tlie river Schipuor, and contains two churches,
1400 houses, and 9080 inhabitants, who are employed in
making linen and woollen cloths, and thread-lace, and have
several oil mills. It is celebrated for the growth of hops
on the land around it, which is a valuable part of its trade.
POPERY, in Ecclesiastical History, is regarded by Ro¬
man Catholics as a term of reproach, but having been ge¬
nerally received amongst Protestants, now comprehends the
religious doctrines and practices adopted and maintained by
the church of Rome. The following summary, extracted
chiefly from the decrees of the council of Trent, continued
under Paul III., Julius III., and Pius IV., by successive ses¬
sions, from the year 1545 to 1563, and the creed of Pope
Pius IV. subjoined to it, and bearing date November 1564,
may not be unacceptable to the reader. One of the fun¬
damental tenets strenuously maintained by Catholic writers,
is the infallibility of the church of Rome ; and though they
are not agreed whether this privilege belongs to the pope
or a general council, or to both united, yet they pretend
that an infallible living judge is absolutely necessary to de¬
termine controversies, and to secure peace, in the Christian
church. Protestants, however, allege that the claim of in¬
fallibility in any church is not justified by the authority of
Scripture, much less does it appertain to the church of
Rome ; that it is inconsistent with the nature of religion,
and the personal obligations of its professors; and that it
has proved ineffectual to the end for which it is supposed
to have been granted, since popes and councils have dis¬
agreed in matters of importance, and, with the advantage of
this pretended i nfallibility, have been incapable of maintain¬
ing union and peace. Another essential article of the Ca¬
tholic creed is the supremacy of the pope, or his sovereign
power over the universal church.
Further, the doctrine of the seven sacraments is a pecu¬
liar and distinguishing doctrine of the church of Rome.
These are baptism, confirmation, the eucharist, penance, ex¬
treme unction, holy orders, and matrimony. The council of
Trent (sess. vii. can. 1) pronounces an anathema upon those
who say that the sacraments are more or fewer than seven, or
that any one of the above number is not truly and properly
a sacrament. And yet it does not appear that they amount¬
ed to this number before the twelfth century, when Hugo
de St Victoire and Peter Lombard, about the year 1144,
taught that there were seven sacraments. The council of
Florence, held in the year 1438, was the first council which
determined this number. These sacraments confer grace,
according to the decree of the council of Ti’ent (sess. vii. can.
8) ex opere operate, that is, by the mere administration of
them; three of them, viz. baptism, confirmation, and holy
orders, are said (can. 9) to impress an indelible character, so
that they cannot be repeated without sacrilege ; and the effi¬
cacy of every sacrament depends upon the intention of the
priest by whom it is administered (can. 11). Pope Pius
expressly enjoins that all these sacraments should be ad¬
ministered according to the received and approved rites of
the Catholic church. With regard to the eucharist in par¬
ticular, we may here observe, that the church of Rome
holds the doctrine of transubstantiation ; the necessity ox
paying divine worship to Christ under the form of the con¬
secrated bread, or host; and the propitiatory sacrifice of the
mass, according to the Catholic ideas of which Christ is
truly and properly offered as a sacrifice of propitiation as
often as the priest says mass. It likewise practises solitary
mass, in which the priest alone consecrates, communicates,
and allows communion only in one kind, namely, the bread,
to the laity. (Sess. 14.)
The doctrine of merits is another distinguishing tenet of
Popery, with regard to which the council of I rent has ex¬
pressly decreed (sess. vi. can. 32) that the good works of
POP 405
justified persons are truly meritorious, deserving not only Popery,
an increase of grace, but eternal life, and an increase of
glory; and it has anathematized all who deny this doctrine.
Of the same kind is the doctrine of satisfaction, which sup¬
poses that penitents may truly satisfy, by the afflictions they
endure under the dispensations of Providence, or by volun¬
tary penances to which they submit, forthe temporary penal¬
ties of sin, to which they are subject even after the remis¬
sion of their eternal punishment. (Sess. vi. can. 30 ; and sess.
xiv. can. 8 and 9.) In this connection we may mention the
distinction of venial and mortal sins. The greatest evils
arising from the former are the temporary pains of purga¬
tory ; but no man, it is said, can obtain the pardon of the
latter without confessing to a priest, and performing the pe¬
nances which he imposes.
The council of Trent (sess. xiv. can. 1) has expressly
decreed, that every one is accursed who shall affirm that
penance is not truly and properly a sacrament, instituted
by Christ in the universal church, for reconciling those
Christians to the divine majesty, who have fallen into sin
after baptism. And this sacrament, it is declared, consists
of two parts, the matter and the form ; the matter being
the act of the penitent, including contrition, confession, and
satisfaction ; the form, the act of absolution on the part of
the priest. Accordingly it is enjoined, that it is the duty
of every man who has fallen after baptism, to confess his
sins, once a year at least, to a priest; that this confession is
to be secret, for public confession is neither commanded
nor expedient; and that it must be exact and particular,
including every kind and act of sin, with all the circum¬
stances attending it. When the penitent has so done, the
priest pronounces an absolution, which is not conditional or
declarative only, but absolute and judicial. This secret or
auricular confession was first decreed and established in the
fourth council of Lateran, under Pope Innocent III. in 1215
(cap. 21); and the decree of this council was after w ards
confirmed and enlarged in the council of Florence and in ,
that of Trent, which ordains, that confession was instituted
by Christ, that by the law of God it is necessary to salva¬
tion, and that it has always been practised in the Christian
church. As for the penances imposed on the penitent by
way of satisfaction, they have been commonly the repeti¬
tion of certain forms of devotion, as paternosters or ave-
marias, the payment of stipulated sums, pilgrimages, fasts,
or various species of corporal discipline. But the most for¬
midable penance, in the estimation of those who belong to
the communion of the church of Rome, is the temporary
pains of purgatory. Yet under all the penalties which
are inflicted or threatened in that church, it has provided
relief by its indulgences, and by its prayers or masses for the
dead, performed professedly for relieving and rescuing the
souls that are detained in purgatory.
Another article which has long been authoritatively en¬
joined and observed in the church of Rome, is the celibacy
of her clergy. This was first enjoined at Rome by Gregory
VII. about the year 1074, and established in England^by
Anselm archbishop of Canterbury about the year 1175;
though his predecessor Lanfranc had imposed it upon the
prebendaries and clergy who lived in towns. And though
the council of Trent was repeatedly petitioned by several
princes and states to abolish this restraint, yet the obliga¬
tion of celibacy was rather established than relaxed by this
council; for they decreed, that marriage contracted after a
vow of continence is neither lawful nor valid, and thus de¬
prived the church of the possibility of ever restoring mar¬
riage to the clergy. If marriage, after a vow, be in itself
unlawful, the greatest authority upon earth cannot dispense
with it, nor permit marriage to the clergy, who have already
vowed continence. r u
To the doctrines and practices above recited may further
be added the worship of images, of which Protestants ac-
406 POP POP
Popery, cuse the Papists. But to this accusation the Papist replies,
that he keeps images by him to preserve in his mind the
memory of the persons represented by them, as people are
wont to preserve the memory of their deceased friends by
keeping their pictures. He is taught, he says, to use them
so as to cast his eyes upon the pictures or images, and
thence to raise his heart to the things represented, and
there to employ it in meditation, love, thanksgiving, and de¬
sire of imitation, as the object requires. These pictures or
images have this advantage, that they inform the mind by
one glance, of what in reading might require a whole chap¬
ter ; there being no other difference between them, than
that reading represents leisurely and by degrees, whilst a
picture does so at once. Hence he finds a convenience
in saying his prayers with some devout pictures before him,
the sight of which recalls his wandering thoughts to the
right object, and as certainly brings something good into
his mind, as an immodest picture disturbs his heart with
unclean thoughts. And because he is sensible that these holy
pictures and images represent and bring to his mind such
objects as in his heart he loves, honours, and venerates, he
cannot bat on that account love, honour, and respect, the
images themselves.1
The council of Trent likewise decreed, that all bishops
and pastors who have the cure of souls, do diligently in¬
struct their flocks that it is good and profitable to desire
the intercession of saints reigning with Christ in heaven.
And this decree the Papists endeavour to defend by many
arguments. They confess that wre have but one Mediator
of redemption, but affirm that it is acceptable to God that
we should have many mediators of intercession. Moses, say
they, w'as such a mediator for the Israelites ; Job for his
three friends ; Stephen for his persecutors. The Romans
were thus desired by St Paul to be his mediators ; so wTere
the Corinthians and the Ephesians, so almost every sick man
desires the congregation to be his mediators, by remember¬
ing him in their prayers. And so, too, the Papist desires the
blessed in heaven to be his mediators, that is, that they
would pray to God for him. But between these living and
dead mediators there is no similarity. The living mediator
is present, and certainly hears the request of those who de¬
sire him to intercede for them ; the dead mediator is as cer¬
tainly absent, and cannot possibly hear the requests of all
those who at the same instant may be begging him to in¬
tercede for them, unless he be possessed of the divine attri¬
bute of omnipresence ; and he who ascribes that attribute
to any creature is unquestionably guilty of idolatry. Besides,
as this decree is contrary to one of the first principles of
natural religion, so it receives no countenance from Scrip¬
ture, or any Christian writer of the first three centuries.
Other practices peculiar to the Papists are the religious
honour and respect that they pay to sacred relics, by which
they understand not only the bodies and parts of the bodies
of the saints, but any of those things that appertained to
them, and which they had touched; and the celebration of
divine service in an unknowm tongue, in regard to which the
council of Trent has denounced an anathema on any one
who shall say that mass ought to be celebrated only in the
vulgar tongue (session xxv. and session xxii. can. 9). Though
the council of Lateran under Innocent III. in 1215, had
(can. 9) expressly decreed, that as in several parts within
the same city and diocese there are many people of differ¬
ent manners and rites mixed together, but of one faith, so
the bishops ot such cities or dioceses should provide fit men
for celebrating divine offices, according to the diversity of
tongues and rites, and for administering the sacraments.
We shall only add further, that the church of Rome
maintains that unwritten traditions ought to be added to
the holy Scriptures, in order to supply their defect, and
should be regarded as of equal authority ; that the books of Pop ]
the Apocrypha are canonical Scripture ; that the vulgate f
edition of the Bible is to be deemed authentic; andv /yl
that the Scriptures are to be received and interpreted ac- v-
cording to that sense which the holy mother church, to
whom it belongs to judge of the true sense, has held, and
does hold, and according to the unanimous consent of the
Fathers.
Such are the principal and distinguishing doctrines of
Catholicism or Popery, most of which have received the
sanction of the council of Trent, and that of the creed of
Pope Pius IV. which is received, professed, and sworn to
by every one wdio enters into holy orders in the church of
Rome, as well as by all proselytes or converts : And at the
close of this creed, we are told that the faith contained in
it is so absolutely and indispensably necessary, that no man
can be saved without it.
POPHAM, Sir John, lord chief justice of the common
pleas in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, was the eldest son
of Mr Edward Popham of Huntworth, in Somersetshire,
and born in the year 1531. He was some time a student
of Baliol College, Oxford ; “being then,” as Anthony Wood
says, “ given at leisure hours to many sports and exer¬
cises.” After quitting the university, he established him¬
self in the Middle Temple, where, during his novitiate, he
is said to have indulged in that kind of dissipation to which
youth and a vigorous constitution more naturally incline,
than to the study of voluminous reports ; but, satiated at
length with what are called the pleasures of the town, he
applied sedulously to the study of his profession, was called
to the bar, and in 1568 became summer or autumn reader.
He was soon afterwards made serjeant at law, and solicitor-
general in 1579. In 1581 he was appointed attorney-gene¬
ral, and treasurer of the Middle Temple. In 1592 he was
made lord chief justice of the king’s bench, and the same
year received the honour of knighthood. In the year 1601
his lordship was one of the council detained by the unfor¬
tunate Earl of Essex, when he formed the ridiculous pro¬
ject of defending himself in his own house ; and, on the earl’s
trial, Sir John gave evidence against him relative to their
detention. Tie died in the year 1607, aged seventy-six, and
was buried in the south aisle of the church at Wellington
in Somersetshire, where he generally resided as often as it
was in his power to retire. He was thought somewhat se¬
vere in the execution of the law against capital offenders;
but his severity had the happy effect of reducing the num¬
ber of highway robberies. He wrote, 1. Reports and cases
adjudged in the time of Queen Elizabeth; 2. Resolutions
and judgments upon cases and matters agitated in all the
courts at Westminster in the latter end of Queen Elizabeth’s
reign.
POPILIUS, L^snas, Roman ambassador to Antiochus,
king of Syria. He was commissioned to order that monarch
to desist from hostilities against Ptolemy, king of Egypt,
ally of Rome. Antiochus attempted to elude him by eva¬
sive answers ; but Popilius, with a stick in his hand, made a
circle round him in the sand, and charged him, in the name
of the Roman senate and people, not to go beyond it till
he gave a decisive answer. This boldness intimidated An¬
tiochus, who immediately withdrew his garrisons from Egypt,
and desisted from his hostile attempts against Ptolemy.
POPLAR, a parish of the county of Middlesex, in the
hundred of Ossulton. It stands on the banks of the river
Thames, and was formerly a hamlet in the parish of Step¬
ney. It isextensive, and comprehends the Isle of Dogs, which
was formerly a rich marsh, but is now in part converted
into docks and canals. The construction of the West India
Docks has of late years tended very much to increase the
population, which consists chiefly of persons directly or in-
1 See Gother’s Papist Misrepresented and Represented.
POP
Popo
Popula¬
tion.
directly connected with shipping. In that part of the pa¬
rish known by the name of Blackwall is the largest private
establishment for ship-building in the kingdom. In it there
are also many manufactories for rope-making, anchor-forg¬
ing, and preparing the several other component parts of
vessels. There is also a commodious hospital for persons
who have been in the service of the East India Company.
The population amounted in 1801 to 4493, in 181.1 to
7708, in 1821 to 12,223, and in 1831 to 16,849.
POPO is the name of one of the states comprised in
what is denominated the Slave Coast, on the western shores
of Africa. In the strictest acceptation, the Slave Coast in¬
cludes the states of Coto, Popo, Widah, and Ardra, the
whole being subject to the king of Dahomey. The mari¬
time flat country here is broader than that of the Gold
Coast, and very fertile. The inhabitants are warlike, and
addicted to cheating and thieving. This state is divided
into the Great and Little Popo. The capital of the for¬
mer stands on an island at the mouth of a river, which is
rendered useless for the navigation of vessels, on account of
a formidable bar at its mouth. The capital of Little Popo
is situated on the shore near a small river or inlet of the
sea. Poultry are here in uncommon abundance ; and the
flocks of bats are so numerous that they darken the air
like dense clouds.
POP 407
Pofo /s/e, an island or cluster of islands in the East- Popo Isle
ern Seas, the chief of which is about fifty miles in circum- II
ference. They are distant five leagues from the islands of P°Pula*
Bo, and exceed them in height. They are inhabited, and
afford a supply of nuts and dried fish. Long. 130. 0. 15. E.
Lat. 19. 14. S.
POPOCA, Mount, one of the volcanoes on the sum¬
mits of the American Cordilleras. Its crater is said to be
half a league in circumference.
POPP 'E A, Sabina, a Homan matron, daughter of Titus
Ollius. She was married and had a son to Bufus Crispinus,
a Roman knight. Her beauty captivated Otho, one of Ne¬
ro’s favourites, who carried her off and married her; but
he was not long permitted to retain her, for Nero, having
heard her extolled for her accomplishments, sent Otho out
of Italy, under pretence of presiding over one of the Ro¬
man provinces, shortly after which Nero repudiated his wife
Octavia, and married Poppaea; but she did not long en¬
joy the imperial dignity, for Nero soon began to despise her,
and treat her with great barbarity. She bore him a son ;
and when she was again far advanced in pregnancy, he
struck her a blow with his foot, of which she died, about 65
a. d. It is said she was so anxious to preserve her beauty,
that five hundred she-asses were kept to afford milk, in
which she used daily to bathe.
POPULATION.
)bject of The population of the principal states, of which an ac¬
he article. count has been given in the course of this work, will be
found under their proper heads. The object of this article
is to explain the general laws which regulate the increase
or decrease of population, and the manner in which they
affect the state and condition of human society.
Pendency In taking a view of animated nature, we cannot fail to
ndanimals^6 s^ruc^ a prodigious power of increase in plants and
o increase8 anima,s* Their capacity in this respect is indeed almost
n a peome- infinitely various, according with the endless variety of the
deal pro- works of nature, and the different purposes which they seem
yession. appointed to fulfil. But, whether they increase slowly or
rapidly, if they increase by seed or generation, their natural
tendency must be to increase in a geometrical ratio, that
is, by multiplication; and at whatever rate they are in¬
creasing during any one period, if no further obstacles be
opposed to them, they must proceed in a geometrical pro¬
gression.
In the growth of wheat, a vast quantity of seed is una¬
voidably lost. When it is dibbled instead of being sown
in the common way, two pecks of seed wheat will yield as
large a crop as two bushels, and thus quadruple the pro¬
portion of the return to the quantity of seed put into the
ground. In the Philosophical Transactions for 1768, an
account is given of an experiment, in which, by separating
the roots obtained from a single grain of wheat, and trans¬
planting them in a favourable soil, a return was obtained
of above 500,000 grains. But, without referring to pecu¬
liar instances or peculiar modes of cultivation, it is known
that calculations have often been made, founded on positive
experience, of the produce of wheat in different soils and
countries, cultivated in an ordinary way, and making allow¬
ance for all ordinary destruction of seed.
Humboldt has collected some estimates of this kind, from
which it appears that France, the north of Germany, Po¬
land, and Sweden, taken generally, produce from five to
six grains for one ; some fertile lands in France produce
fifteen for one ; and the good lands in Picardy and the Isle
of France from eight to ten grains for one. Hungary, Cro¬
atia, and Sclavonia, yield from eight to ten grains for one.
In the Regno de la Plata, twrelve grains for one are pro¬
duced ; near the city of Buenos Ayres, sixteen for one ; in
the northern part of Mexico seventeen; and in the equi¬
noctial regions of Mexico twenty-four for one.1
Now, supposing that in any one country during a certain
period, and under the ordinary cultivation, the return of
wheat was six grains for one, it would be strictly correct to
say that wheat had the capacity of increasing in a geome¬
trical ratio, of such a nature as to sextuple itself every year.
And it might safely be calculated hypothetically, that if,
setting out from the produce of one acre, land of the same
quality could be prepared with sufficient rapidity, and no
wheat were consumed, the rate of increase would be such
as completely to cover the whole earthy surface of our globe
in fourteen years.
In the same manner, if it be found by experience that on
land of a certain quality, and making allowance for the or¬
dinary mortality^ and accidents, sheep will increase on an
average so as to double their numbers every two years, it
would be strictly correct to say, that sheep have the natu¬
ral capacity of increasing in a geometrical progression, of
which the common multiple is two, and the term two years;
and it might safely be said, that if land of the same quality
could be provided with sufficient rapidity, and no sheep
were consumed, the rate of increase would be such, that if
we were to begin with the full number which could be sup¬
ported on an acre of land, the whole earthy part of the globe
might be completely covered with sheep in less than seven¬
ty-six years.
If out of this prodigious increase of food, the full support
of mankind were deducted, supposing them to increase as
fast as they have ever yet increased in any country, the
deduction would be comparatively inconsiderable ; and the
rate of increase would still be enormous, till it was checked,
either by the natural want of will on the part of mankind
to make efforts for the increase of food beyond what they
could possibly consume, or, after a certain period, by their
absolute want of power to prepare land of the same quality,
so as to allow of the same rate of progress.
Owing to these two causes combined, we see that, not-
1 Nouvdle Esvagne, liv. iv. c. ix. p. 98.
408
POPULATION.
Popula¬
tion.
withstanding this prodigious power of increase in vegetables
and animals, their actual increase is extremely slow ; and it
' is obvious, that, owing to the latter cause alone, and long
before a final stop was put to all further progress, their ac¬
tual rate of increase must of necessity be very greatly ie-
tarded ; as it would be impossible lor the most enlightened
human efforts to make all the soil of the earth equal in fer¬
tility to the average quality ot land now in use ; while the
Here, then, we should expect to find that the natural
power of mankind to increase, whatever it may be, would
be most distinctly marked ; and here, in consequence, it ap¬
pears that the actual rate of the increase of population has
been more rapid than in any known country, although, in¬
dependently of the abundance of good land, and the great
demand for labour, it is distinguished by no other circum¬
stances which appear to be peculiarly favourable to the in-
Popula-
tion.
1
practicable approaches towards it would require so much crease of numbers.
time as to occasion, at a very early period, a constant and It has been stated that all animals, according to tne
oreat check upon what their increase would be if they could
exert their natural powers. _ .
Elevated as man is above all other animals by his intel¬
lectual faculties, it is not to be supposed that the physical
laws to which he is subjected should be essentially differ¬
ent from those which are observed to prevail in other parts
of animated nature. He may increase slower than most
other animals, but food is equally necessary to his support;
and if his natural capacity of increase be greater than can
be permanently supplied with food from a limited territory,
his increase must be constantly retarded by the difficulty
of procuring the means of subsistence.
The power The main peculiarity which distinguishes man from other
of pralu- animals, in the means of his support, is the power wdiich he
cing food p0ssesses of very greatly increasing these means. But this
limited by p0wer is obviously limited by the scarcity of land, by the
tv aml^na- great natural barrenness of a very large part of the surface
tore of the of the earth, and by the decreasing proportion of produce
soil
The natu-
to man
kind.
It
known law^s by which they are produced, must have a ca¬
pacity of increasing in a geometrical progression. And the
question with regard to man is, what is the rate of this geo¬
metrical progression ?
Fortunately, in the country to which we should naturally
turn our eyes for an exemplification of the most rapid rate
of increase, there have been four enumerations of the people,
each at the distance of ten years; and though the estimates
of the increase of population in the North American colo¬
nies at earlier periods were of sufficient authority, in the
absence of more certain documents, to warrant most im¬
portant inferences, yet as we now possess such documents,
and as the period they involve is of sufficient length to es¬
tablish the point in question, it is no longer necessary to re¬
fer to earlier times.
According to a regular census made by order of Con- Increase of
gress in 1790, which there is every reason to think is essen-population;
tially correct, the white population of the United States
was found to be 3,164-,148. By a similar census in *800,
it was found to have increased to 4,312,841. It had in¬
creased, then, during the ten years from 1790 to 1800, at a
rate equal to 36'3 per cent., a rate which, if continued,
would double the population in twenty-two years and about
four months and a half.
According to a third census, in 1810, the white popula¬
tion was found to be 5,862,092,1 which, compared with the
population of 1800, gives an increase in the second ten
years at the rate of nearly thirty-six per cent., which, if
continued, would double the population in about twenty-
two years and a half.
According to the fourth census, in 1820, the white popu-
^ lation was found to be 7,861,710,2 which, compared with
produce of the soil, we can have no other guide than past the population of 1810, gives an increase in the third ten
years at a rate per cent, of 34‘1, which, if continued,
would double the population in twenty-three years and
seven months.
If we compare the period of doubling according to the
rate of increase in the most unfavourable ten years of this
series, with twxenty-five years, we shall find the difference
such as fully to cover all the increase of population which
would have taken place from emigration. ,
It appears from a reference to the most authentic docu-
which must necessarily be obtained from the continual ad
ditions of labour and capital applied to land already in cul¬
tivation.
It is, however, specifically with this diminishing and li¬
mited powrer of increasing the produce of the soil, that we
must compare the natural power of mankind to increase, in
order to ascertain whether, in the progress to the full cul¬
tivation and peopling of the globe, the natural power of man¬
kind to increase must not of absolute necessity be constant¬
ly retarded by the difficulty of procuring the means of sub¬
sistence, and if so, what are likely to be the effects of such
a state of things.
In an endeavour to determine the natural power of man¬
ia! rate ot pjncj t0 increase as weli as their power of increasing the
increase 1 - . - - a
applicable
experience.
The great check to the increase of plants and animals,
we know from experience, is the want of room and nou¬
rishment ; and this experience would direct us to look for
the greatest actual increase of them in those situations where
room and nourishment were the most abundant.
On the same principle, wre should expect to find the
greatest actual increase of population in those situations
where, from the abundance of good land, and the manner
WliCltJ, 11U111 LliC tAJJUllUctllUt; U1 IrtllU, ailUL LHC llJclllild ±L llKJlli cl, Jdddil-G — pmimtlOIk
in which its produce is distributed, the largest portion of ments which can be collected on both sides of the Atlan- b
the necessaries of life is actually awarded to the mass of the
society.
Of the countries with which we are acquainted, the
United States of America, formerly the North American
colonies of Great Britain, answer most nearly to this de¬
scription. In the United States not only is there an abun¬
dance of good land, but, from the manner in which it has
been distributed, and the market which has been opened
for its produce, there has been a greater and more constant
demand for labour, and a larger portion of necessaries has
been awarded to the labourer, than in any of those other
tic, that the emigration to the United States, during the
last twenty-five years, falls decidedly short of an average of
10,000 a year. Dr Seybert, the best authority on the other
side of the water, states that, from 1790 to 1810, it could
not have been so much as 6000 a year. Our official ac¬
counts of the number of emigrants to the United States
from England, Ireland, and Scotland, during the ten years
from 1812 to 1821 inclusive, give an average of less than
7000, although the period includes the extraordinary years
1817 and 1818, in which the emigrations to the United
States were much greater than they were ever known to be
countries which possess an equal or greater abundance of before or since. The official American accounts, as far as
land and fertility of soil. they go, which is only for two years from the 30th Sep-
1 These numbers are taken from Dr Seybert’s Statistical Annals, p. 23.
5 This number is taken from the American National Calendar for 1022, and has since been compared with the original census
published for the use of the members of Congress.
as
POPULATION.
409
tember 1819, tend to confirm this average and, allowing
fully for the emigrants from other European countries, the
general average will still be under the ten thousand.
A new mode was, however, some time ago suggested of
estimating the amount of increase in any country derived
from emigration.2 It has been justly stated, that when a
census is taken every ten years, and the population is dis¬
tinguished into those above and those below ten years of
age, all above ten years of age, exclusive of emigrants,
must have existed in the census immediately preceding,
and, consequently, after having made a proper allowance
for the mortality during these ten years, the excess above
the remaining number must be attributed to emigration. If
we had the means of estimating with accuracy the loss
which would be sustained in America in ten years by a po¬
pulation not increased by additional births, this mode of es¬
timating the amount of emigration would be unobjection¬
able, and often very useful.
But unfortunately the means are deficient. Even the
annual mortality in the United States is not known. It
was supposed by Dr Price (vol. ii. p. 50, 7th edit.) to be
one in fifty; by Mr Barton, in the Transactions of the
Society at Philadelphia (vol. iii. No. 7), one in forty-five ;
and it is stated by Mr Bristed, in his work on America
and her Resources (p. 20), that the annual deaths average
throughout the United States one in forty, in the healthiest
districts one in fifty-six, and in the most unhealthy one in
thirty-five.
If, however, we could ascertain accurately the average
annual mortality, we should still be unable to ascertain the
amount of the loss in question ; as, under any given law of
mortality, it would depend so very much upon the rate at
which the population was increasing. The truth of this
observation will be placed in a striking light by the follow¬
ing short table, with which we have been favoured by a
very able calculator, Mr Milne, author of a well-known
Treatise on Annuities and Assurances. It is constructed
on the supposition that the population, in each case, is al¬
ways subject to the same law of mortality as that which
prevailed in all Sweden and Finland during the five years
ended with 1805, and that the number of births in the pre¬
sent year living in each case is 10,000.
Total population ten j
years since  J
Total above ten years |
of age now j
Died during the term j
of ten years, out of [
those living at its f
commencement )
Being one of.
The Po¬
pulation
constantly
the same.
393,848
320,495
, 73,353
5-3692
The Population in¬
creasing in geome¬
trical progression
for more than a
hundred years, so
as to double itself
every
Fifty
Years
Twenty-
five
Years.
230,005
144,358
195,566 I 126,176
34,439 I 18,182
6-6786 7-9396
We see from this table, that under the same law of mor- Popula-
tality, the difference of loss sustained in ten years, by a Un¬
people not increased by fresh births, would in the three
cases supposed, of a stationary population, a population
doubling in fifty years, and a population doubling in twen¬
ty-five years, be as one in 5-3692, one in 6-6786, and one
in 7-9396; and that when the population is doubling itself
in twenty-five years, the loss would be very little more than
one eighth.
But the censuses must be allowed to form a primafacie
evidence that the population of the United States has, for
a considerable time, been going on doubling itself in twen¬
ty-five years; and assuming this evidence to be true, which
we are warranted in doing till better evidence is produced
on the other side, it will appear that the amount of immi¬
gration, deduced from the rule here referred to, is less than
10,000 a year.
Thus the white population of the United States in 1800
was 4,312,841.3 This population, without further acces¬
sion of births, would in 1810 be diminished one eighth, or
reduced to 3,773,736. In 1810 the population above ten
years of age was 3,845,389 ; and, subtracting the former
number from the latter, the difference, or amount of emi¬
gration, will be 71,653, or 7165 a year.
Again, the white population of 1810 was 5,862,092,
which, diminished by one eighth in ten years, would be
5,129,331. The population above ten years of age in 1820
was 5,235,940.4 Subtracting the former from the latter,
the difference, or amount of emigration, is 106,608, or
10,660 a year; showing, as we should expect, a greater
amount of emigration from 1810 to 1820 than from 1800
to 1810, but, even in the latter ten years, and including
emigrations from Canada, as well as all other countries, lit¬
tle exceeding 10,000.
Altogether, then, we can hardly err in defect, if we al¬
low 10,000 a year for the average increase from emigration
during the twenty-five years from 1795 to 1820; and ap¬
plying this number to the slowest period of increase, when
the rate was such as to double the population in twenty-
three years and seven months, it may be easily calculated,
that in the additional year and five months a population of
5,862,000 would have increased to an amount much more
than sufficient to cover an annual emigration of 10,000 per¬
sons, with the increase from them at the same rate.
Such an increase from them, howrever, would not take
place. It appears from an account in the National Calen¬
dar of the United States for the year 1821, that of the 7001
persons who had arrived in America from the 30th of Sep¬
tember 1819 to the 30th of September 1820, 1959 only
were females, and the rest, 5042, were males ; a proportion
which, if it approaches towards representing the average,
must very greatly reduce the number from which any in¬
crease ought to be calculated.
If, however, we omit these considerations ; if we suppose
a yearly emigration from Europe to America of 10,000 per¬
sons for the twenty-five years from 1 i95to 1820, the greatest
part of which time Europe was involved in a most exten¬
sive scene of warfare, requiring all its population ; and fur¬
ther, if we allow for an increase of all the emigrants during
the w/wle period, at the fullest rate; the remaining numbers
will still be sufficient to show a doubling of the population
in less than twenty-five years.
The white population of 1790 was 3,164,148. This
population, according to the rate at which it was increas¬
ing, would have amounted to about 3,694,100 in 1795;
and supposing it to have just doubled itself in the twenty-
American National Calendar for 1821, p. 237; and North American l^view for October 1822, p. 304.
1 This mode was suggested by Mr Booth, in Mr Godwm s Answer to Mr MaUhus^ for 1822; p. 246.
Seybert s Statistical Annals, p. 2,6. 3 y
VOL. XVIII.
410
Popula¬
tion.
POPULATION.
five years from 1795 to 1820, the population in 1820
would have been 7,388,200. But the actual white popu¬
lation of 1820 appears, by the census then taken, to be
7,861,710, showing an excess of 473,510 ; whereas an emi¬
gration of 10,000 persons annually, with the increase from
them at three per cent., a rate which would double a po¬
pulation in less than twenty-four years, would only amount
to 364,592.
But the most striking confirmation of the censuses of
the United States, and the most remarkable proof of the
rate of increase being occasioned almost exclusively by pro¬
creation, have been furnished to us by Mr Milne. In his
work on Annuities and Assurances, which contains much
valuable and interesting information on the subject of po¬
pulation, he had noticed the effects of the frequent pres¬
sure of want on the labouring classes of Sweden, which, by
increasing the proportion of deaths, rendered the law of
mortality so accurately observed in that country by Pro¬
fessors Wargentin and Nicander inapplicable to other
countries more favourably circumstanced. But the law of
mortality was observed to be gradually improving from
the time that Dr Price constructed his Swedish table ;
and the period from 1800 to the end of 1805 was so free
from scarcities and epidemics, and the healthiness of the
country had been further so much improved by the intro¬
duction of vaccination, that he justly thought the law of
mortality, as observed during these five years, might suit
countries where the condition of the people was known to
be much better than it had generally been in Sweden. On
these grounds he applied the Swedish law of mortality,
during the term mentioned, to the hypothesis of a popula¬
tion which had been increasing by procreation, in geome¬
trical progression, for more than a hundred years, so as to
double every twenty-five years. Assuming this population
to be one million, he distributed it, by a process well
known to persons conversant with these subjects, into the
different ages referred to in the American censuses, and
then compared them with the same number of persons dis¬
tributed according to the actual returns of the ages in the
American censuses for the three periods of 1800, 1810, and
1820. The results are as follows:
Distribution of a Population of 1,000,000 Persons in ike
under-mentioned intervals of Age.
Between the
Ages of
0 and 10
10 and 16
16 and 26
26 and 45
45 and 100
0 and 100
Under 16
Above 16
According to
The Hypo¬
thesis.
337,592
145,583
186,222
213,013
117,590
1,000,000
483,175
516,825
United States.
Census of Census of Census of
1800. 1810. 1820.
334,556
154,898
185,046
205,289
120,211
1,000,000
489,454
510,546
344,024
156,345
189,227
190,461
119,943
1,000,000
500,369
499,631
333,995
154,913
198,114
191,139
121,839
1,000,000
488,908
511,092
The general resemblance in the distribution of the ages
in the three different censuses to each othei*, and to the
hypothesis, clearly proves,
ls^, That the distribution of the ages in the different
enumerations must be made with some care, and may,
therefore, be relied on as in the main correct.
2d!y, That the law of mortality assumed in the hypothe¬
sis cannot deviate essentially from the law of mortality Popula
which prevails in the United States ; and, tlcm-
%dly, That the actual structure of the American popula- Jl"r v'“'
tion differs very little from what it would be if it were in¬
creasing regularly from procreation only, in geometrical
progression, so as to double itself every twenty-five years ;
and that we may, therefore, safely infer that it has been
very little disturbed by immigration.
If to these proofs of the rapid increase of population
which has actually taken place, we add the consideration
that this rate of increase is an average applying to a most
extensive territory, some parts of which are known to be
unhealthy; that some of the towns of the United States
are now large ; that many of the inhabitants must be en¬
gaged in unwholesome occupations, and exposed to many of
those checks to increase which prevail in other countries;
and further, that in the western territories, where these
checks do not occur, the rate of increase is beyond compa¬
rison more rapid than the general average, after-making
the fullest allowance for immigration ; it must appear cer¬
tain, that the rate at which the population of the whole of
the United States has actually increased for the last thirty
years must fall very decidedly short of the actual capaci¬
ty of mankind to increase under the most favourable cir¬
cumstances.
The best proof that can be obtained of the capacity of The rate
mankind to increase at a certain rate, is their having really of increase
increased at that rate. At the same time, if any peculiarly
rapid increase which had appeared to take place in a parti- C011fjrme(l
cular country were quite unsupported by other evidence, by that of
we might be disposed to attribute it to error or accident, other coun-
and might scarcely be justified in founding important con-tues-
elusions upon it. But this is far from being the case in the
present instance. The rate of increase which has at times
taken place in other countries, under the operation of great
and obvious checks to the progress of population, sufficient¬
ly shows what might be expected if these checks were re¬
moved.
The countries most resembling the United States of Increase of
America are those territories of the new world which late-P^F^1011
ly belonged to Spain. In abundance and fertility of soiDg
they are indeed superior ; but almost all the vices in the
government of the mother country were introduced into
her colonial possessions, and particularly that very unequal
distribution of landed property which takes place under
the feudal system. These evils, and the circumstance of
a very large part of the population being Indians in a de¬
pressed state, and inferior in industry and energy to Euro¬
peans, necessarily prevent that rapid increase oi' numbers
which the abundance and fertility of the land would admit
of. But it appears, from the instructive and interesting ac¬
count of New Spain which M. Humboldt has not long
since given to the public, that for the last half of the eigh¬
teenth century the excess of the births above the deaths,
and the progress of the population, have been very great.
The following are the proportions of burials to baptisms in
the registers of eleven villages, the details of which were
communicated to M. Humboldt by the curates.
Burials. Baptisms.
At Dolores 100 253
Singuilucan 100 234
Calymaya 100 202
Guanaxuato 100 201
St Anne 100 195
Marsil 100 194
Queretaro 100 188
Axapuzco 100 157
Yguala 100 140
Malacatepec 100 130
Panuco 100 123
The mean proportion is 100 to 183.
POPULATION.
411
But the proportion which M. Humboldt considers as best
suited to the whole of the population is 100 to 170.
In some of the villages above mentioned, the proportion
of the births to the population is extraordinarily great, and
the proportion of deaths very considerable ; showing, in a
striking point of view, the early marriages and early deaths
of a tropical climate, and the more rapid passing away of
each generation.1
At Queretaro, it appears that the baptisms were to the
population as one to fourteen, and the burials as one to
twenty-six.
At Guanaxuato, including the neighbouring mines of St
Anne and of Marsil, the baptisms were to the population as
one to fifteen, and the burials as one to twenty-nine.
The general result from all the information which could
be collected was, that the proportion of births to the popu¬
lation, for the whole of the kingdom of New Spain, was
as one to seventeen, and of the deaths as one to thirty.
These proportions of births to deaths, if they were con¬
tinued, would double the population in twenty-seven and a
half years.
M. Humboldt further observes, that the information
which he had collected respecting the proportions of the
births to the deaths, and of these to the whole popula¬
tion, proves, that if the order of nature were not inter¬
rupted by some extraordinary and disturbing causes, the
population of New Spain ought to double itself every nine¬
teen years.2
It is known, however, that these causes do occur in the
actual state of things; consequently we cannot consider the
actual rate of the increase of population in New Spain as
greater than according to the former calculation. But a
rate of increase such as to double the population in twenty-
seven and a half years, in spite of all the obstacles enumerat¬
ed by M. Humboldt, is very extraordinary. It is next to the
increase of the United States, and greatly superior to any
that can be found in Europe.
Yet in Europe, the tendency to increase is always very
strongly marked, and the actual increase for periods of
some length is sometimes much greater than could be ex¬
pected beforehand, considering the obstacles to be over¬
come.
It appears from Sussmilch,3 that the population of Prus¬
sia and Lithuania, after the great plague in 1709 and 1710,
doubled itself in about forty-four years, from the excess ot
the births above the deaths enumerated in the registers.
In Russia, the whole population in 1763 was estimated,
by enumeration and calculation, at twenty millions, and in
1796 at thirty-six millions.4 This is a rate of. increase
which would occasion a doubling in less than forty-two
years.
In 1695, the population of Ireland was estimated at
1,031,000. According to the returns in 1821, it had in¬
creased to the prodigious amount of 6,846,949 ;5 and it is
thought that when the deficiencies have been supplied by
the final returns of the enumerators, it will be upwards of
seven millions. This is an example of an actual increase
for 125 years together, at a rate which would double the
population in about forty-five years; and this has taken
place under the frequent pressure of great distress among
the labouring classes of society, and the practice of frequent
and considerable emigration.
But for the proof of the power of population to increase
under great obstacles 'of the preventive, as well as of the Popula-
positive kind, we need not go out of Great Britain. The
rate of increase since our enumerations have commenced s'“—
has been very remarkable for a country which was consi¬
dered as well peopled before, and some of the details ac¬
companying the returns tend strikingly to illustrate the prin¬
ciple of population.
The population of Great Britain, according to the enu- Increase of
merations of 1821 and 1811, was, respectively, 10,942,646 P0^ati°n
and 12,596,80S.6 This is a rate of increase, during the ten j^ritafn
years, of rather above fifteen per cent., a rate which, if con-from 1800
tinned, would double the population in between forty-nine to 1821.
and fifty years.
By the enumeration of 1821, it appears that the popula¬
tion was 14,391,631,7 which, compared with the population
of 1811, gives a rate of increase during the ten years of 14*25
per cent., a rate which would double the population in about
fifty-two years.
According to these numbers, the rate of increase during
the last ten years was slower than that of the first; but it
appears, from the excess of the number of males above fe¬
males in the enumeration of 1811, so opposite to the state
of the population in 1801 and 1821, when the females ex¬
ceeded the males, particularly at the latter period, that of
the large number added to the population for the army,
navy, and registered merchant ships in 1811, a considerable
proportion must have been foreigners. On this account,
and on account of the further difficulty of knowing what
part of this number might properly belong to Ireland, it
has been proposed to estimate the rate per cent, at which
the population has increased in each of the ten years by
the females only ; and, according to this mode of compu¬
tation, the population increased during the first period at
the rate of 14*02 per cent., and during the second at the
rate of 15*82. (Preliminary Observations, p. 8.) This last
rate of increase would double the population in less than
forty-eight years.
The only objection to this mode of computation is, that
it does not take into consideration the greater destruction
of the males during the war. In 1801, the females exceed¬
ed the half of the population by 21,031, and in 1821 by
63,890, while, at the intermediate period, owing to the
causes above mentioned, the females fell short of the half
of the males by 35,685.
When, however, a proper distribution has been made of
the army and navy among the resident population, and taking
England and Wales alone, it appears that from 1801 to 1811
the population increased at the rate of fourteen and a halt
per cent., and from 1811 to 1821, at the rate of sixteen and
one third per cent. (Preliminary Observations, p. 32.) At
the former of these rates, the period of doubling would be
rather above fifty years ; at the latter, under forty-six years;
and, taking the whole period, the time of doubling would be
about forty-eight years. Yet in Great Britain there is a
much larger proportion of the population living in towns,
and engaged in occupations considered as unhealthy, than
in any other known country of the same extent. There are
also the best reasons for believing that in no other country
of the same extent is there to be found so great a propor¬
tion of late marriages, or so great a proportion of persons
remaining unmarried, as in Great Britain. It is further
known that the number of emigrants from Great Britain
greatly exceed those who come into the country. And if,
' Theie^lThiCw“kH™^Mt‘”/rVfilPcljSe°nThfprclE"»Sra”*ttemSireS“ofttt.etodwuICrst‘
2 Essai Politique sur le Royaume de la Nou-velle Espagne, hv. u. chap. iv. pp- — « MalthUs on Population, vol. i. p 439, 5th edit, j
3 Gottliche Ordnung, vol. i. table xxi. _ m nr,
5 Report of the Preliminary Proceedings under Population Act, ooth Leo. i . p.^ •
6 Population Abstract, 1821; Preliminary Observations, p. 8.
412
POPULATION.
Popula- under these circumstances, a demand for labour and an in-
tion. crease of the funds for its maintenance could for twenty
^ J,~ v '' years together occasion such a rate of increase as, if con¬
tinued, would double the population in forty-eight years, and
quadruple it in ninety-six years, it is in the highest degree
probable, that if the encouragements to marriage and the
means of supporting a family were as great as in Ameiica,
the period of doubling in Great Britain would not be more
than twenty-five years, even in spite of her great towns and
manufactories; and would be decidedly less if these ob¬
stacles were removed.
The lowest Taking therefore into consideration the actual rate of
rate of in- increase which appears from the best documents to have
crease that taken place over a very large extent of country in the
can be as- pjnjteci gtates Gf America, very variously circumstanced as
thenatural to healthiness and rapidity of progress; considering, further,
progress of the rate of increase which has taken place in New Spain,
population. and also in many countries of Europe, where the means of
supporting a family, and other circumstances favourable to
increase, bear no comparison with those of the United
States ; and adverting particularly to the great increase of
population which has taken place in this country during
the last twenty years, under the formidable obstacles to its
progress which must press themselves upon the attention
of the most careless observer ; it must appear, that the as¬
sumption of a rate of increase such as would double the po¬
pulation in twenty-five years, as representing the natural
progress of population, when not checked by the difficulty
of procuring the means of subsistence, or other peculiar
causes of premature mortality, must be very decidedly
within the truth.
It may be safely asserted, therefore, that population, when
unchecked, increases in a geometrical progression of such a
nature as to double itself every twenty-five years.
Different It would be unquestionably desirable to have the means
character of comparing the natural rate of the increase of population
of the rate when unchecked, with the possible rate of the increase of
of increase f00(j} in a limited territory, such as that in which man is
in the food actuaiiy placed ; but the latter estimate is much more dif-
territorvficult and uncertain than the former. If the rate of the in-
' ‘ crease of population at a particular period of some little ex¬
tent can be ascertained with tolerable exactness, we have
only to suppose the continuance of the same encourage¬
ments to marriage, the same facility of supporting a family,
the same moral habits, with the same rate of mortality ; and
the increase of the population at the same rate, after it had
reached a thousand millions, would be just as probable as
at any intermediate and earlier period; but it is quite ob¬
vious that the increase of food in a limited space must pro¬
ceed upon a principle totally different. It has been already
stated, that while land of good quality is in great abun¬
dance, the rate at which food might bs made to increase
would far exceed what is necessary to keep pace with the
most rapid increase of population which the laws of nature
in relation to human kind permit. But if society were so
constituted as to give the fullest scope possible to the pro¬
gress of cultivation and population, all such lands, and all
lands of moderate quality, would soon be occupied ; and
when the future increase of the supply of food came to de¬
pend upon the taking of very poor land into cultivation,
and the gradual and laborious improvement of the land al¬
ready cultivated, the rate of the increase of food would cer¬
tainly have a greater resemblance to a decreasing geome¬
trical ratio than an increasing one. The yearly increment
of food would, at any rate, have a constant tendency to
diminish, and the amount of the increase of each succes¬
sive ten years would probably be less than that of the pre¬
ceding.
Practically, however, great uncertainty must take place.
An unfavourable distribution of produce, by prematurely
diminishing the demand for labour, might retard the increase Popula-
of food at an early period, in the same manner as if cultiva- don,
tion and population had been further advanced ; while im-
provements in agriculture, accompanied by a great demand
for labour and produce, might for some time occasion a ra¬
pid increase of food and population at a later period, in the
same manner as if cultivation and population had been in
an earlier stage of their progress. These variations, how¬
ever, obviously arise from causes which do not impeach the
general tendency of a continued increase of produce in a
limited territory to diminish the power of its increase in
future.
Under this certainty with regard to the general tenden-Supposi-
cy, and uncertainty in reference to particular periods, it tion re-
must be allowable, if it throws light on the subject, to makesPectin£
a supposition respecting the increase of food in a limited
territory, which, without pretending to accuracy, is clearly ing food ’
more favourable to the power of the soil to produce the
means of subsistence for an increasing population, than any
experience which we have of its qualities will warrant.
If, setting out from a tolerably well-peopled country, such
as England, France, Italy, or Germany, we were to suppose
that, by great attention to agriculture, its produce could be
permanently increased every twenty-live years by a quan¬
tity equal to that which it at present produces, it would be
allowing a rate of increase decidedly beyond any probabi¬
lity of realization. The most sanguine cultivators could
hardly expect that, in the course of the next two hundred
years, each farm in this country on an average would pro¬
duce eight times as much food as it produces at present,
and still less that this rate of increase could continue, so
that each farm would produce twenty times as much as at
present in live hundred years, and forty times as much in
a thousand years. Yet this would be but an arithmetical
progression, and would fall short, beyond all comparison, ot
the natural increase of population in a geometrical pro¬
gression, according to which the inhabitants of any coun¬
try, in five hundred years, instead of increasing to twenty
times, would increase to above a million times their pre¬
sent numbers.
It will be said, perhaps, that many parts of the earth are
as yet very thinly peopled, and, under proper management,
would allow of a much more rapid increase of food than
would be possible in the more fully inhabited states of Eu¬
rope. This is unquestionably true. Some parts of the
earth would no doubt be capable of producing food at such
a rate as to keep pace for a few periods with an unrestrict¬
ed increase of population. But to put this capacity fully
into action, is of all things the most difficult. It it is to be
accomplished by the improvement of the actual inhabitants
of the different parts of the earth in knowledge, in govern¬
ment, in industry, in arts, and in morals, it is scarcely pos¬
sible to say how it ought to be commenced with the best
prospect of success, or to form a conjecture as to the time
in which it could be effected.
If it is to be accomplished by emigration from the more Insufficim
improved parts of the world, it is obvious that it must in-c>^J,ni
volve much war and extermination ; besides all the difficul- Ua
ties usually attendant upon new settlements in uncivilized
countries; and these alone are so formidable, and for a long
time so destructive, that, combined with the unwillingness
which people must always naturally feel to quit their own
country, much distress would be suffered at home before
relief would be sought for in emigration.
But, supposing for a moment that the object could be
fully accomplished, that is, supposing that the capacity ot
the earth to produce the necessaries of life could be put
fully into action, and that they were distributed in the pro¬
portions most favourable for the grow th of capital and the
effective demand for labour, the increase of population,
whether arising from the increase of the inhabitants of each
POPULATION.
413
Popula- country, or from emigrants issuing from all those countries
tion. which were more advanced in cultivation, would be so rapid,
  ' that, in a period comparatively quite short, all the good
lands would be occupied, and the rate of the possible in¬
crease of food would be reduced much below the arithme¬
tical ratio above supposed.
If, merely during the short period which has elapsed since
our Revolution of 1688, the population of the earth had in¬
creased at its natural rate when unchecked, supposing the
number of people at that time to have been only eight hun¬
dred millions, all the land of the globe, without making al¬
lowance for deserts, forests, rocks, and lakes, would on an
average be equally populous nith England and Wales at
present. This would be accomphshed in five doublings, or
a hundred and twenty-five years; and one or two doublings
more, or a period less than that which has elapsed since
the beginning of the reign of James I., would produce the
same effect from the overflowings of the inhabitants of those
countries where, owing to the further progress of cultiva¬
tion, the soil had not the capacity of producing food so
as to keep pace with the increase of an unrestricted popu¬
lation.
Whatever temporary and partial relief, therefore, may be
derived from emigration by particular countries in the ac¬
tual state of things, it is quite obvious, that, considering the
subject generally and largely, emigration may be fairly said
not in any degree to touch the difficulty. And, whether we
exclude or include emigration, whether we refer to parti¬
cular countries, or to the whole earth, the supposition of a
future capacity in the soil to increase the necessaries of
life every twenty-five years by a quantity equal to that
which is at present produced, must be decidedly beyond the
truth.
Effect of But if the natural increase of population, when uncheck-
.hetwodif-ed by the difficulty of procuring the means of subsistence,
erent rates or 0j-jier peculiar causes, be such as to continue doubling
Iwhen164186 ■ it® numbers in twenty-five years ; and the greatest increase
jrought to-of food, which, for a continuance, could possibly take place
.'ether. on a limited territory like our earth in its present state, be
at the most only such as would add every twenty-five years
an amount equal to its present produce ; it is quite clear that
a powerful check on the increase of population must be al¬
most constantly in action.
By the laws of nature man cannot live without food.
Whatever may be the rate at which population would in¬
crease if unchecked, it never can actually increase in any
country beyond the food necessary to support it. But, by
the laws of nature in respect to the powers of a limited ter¬
ritory, the additions which can be made in equal periods to
the food which it produces must, after a short time, either
be constantly decreasing, which is what would really take
place; or, at the very most, must remain stationary, so as
to increase the means of subsistence only in an arithmeti¬
cal progression. Consequently, it follows necessarily that
the average rate of the actual increase of population over
the greatest part of the globe, obeying the same laws as
the increase of food, must be totally of a different character
from the rate at which it would increase if unchecked.
The great question, then, which remains to be considered,
is the manner in which this constant and necessary check
upon population practically operates.
General If the soil of any extensive well-peopled country were
character equally divided amongst its inhabitants, the check would
assume its most obvious and simple form. Perhaps each
' copulation ^arm the well-peopled countries of Europe might allow
of one, or even two doublings, without much distress, but
the absolute impossibility of going on at the same rate is
too glaring to escape the most careless thinker. When, by
extraordinary efforts, provision had been made for four times
the number of persons which the land can support at pre¬
sent, what possible hope could there be of doubling the Popula-
provision in the next twenty-five years ? tion
Yet there is no reason whatever to suppose that any thing v 
besides the difficulty of procuring in adequate plenty the
necessaries of life, should either indispose this greater num¬
ber of persons to marry early, or disable them from rearing
in health the largest families. But this difficulty would of
necessity occur, and its effect would be either to discourage
early marriages, which would check the rate of increase by
preventing the same proportion of births ; or to render the
children unhealthy from bad and insufficient nourishment,
which would check the rate of increase by occasioning a
greater proportion of deaths ; or, what is most likely to
happen, the rate of increase would be checked, partly by
the diminution of births, and partly by the increase of mor¬
tality.
The first of these checks may, with propriety, be called
the preventive check to population ; the second, the positive
check; and the absolute necessity of their operation in the
case supposed is as certain and obvious as that man cannot
live without food.
Taking a single farm only into consideration, no man
would have the hardihood to assert that its produce could be
made permanently to keep pace with a population increasing
at such a rate as it is observed to do for twenty or thirty years
together at particular times and in particular countries. He
would, indeed, be compelled to acknowledge, that if, with
a view to allow for the most sanguine speculations, it has
been supposed that the additions made to the necessaries
produced by the soil in given times might remain constant,
yet that this rate of the increase of produce could not pos¬
sibly be realized; and that, if the capacity of the soil were
at all times put properly into action, the additions to the
produce would, after a short time, and independently of
new inventions, be constantly decreasing, till, in no very
long period, the exertions of an additional labourer would
not produce his own subsistence.
But what is true in this respect in reference to a single
farm, must necessarily be true of the whole earth, from
which the necessaries of life for the actual population are
derived. And what would be true in respect to the checks
to population if the soil of the earth were equally divided
among the different families which inhabit it, must be true
under the present unequal division of property and variety
of occupations. Nothing but the confusion and indistinct¬
ness arising from the largeness of the subject, and the vague
and false notions which prevail respecting the efficacy of
emigration, could make persons deny in the case of an ex¬
tensive territory or the whole earth, what they could not
fail to acknowledge in the case of a single farm, which may
be said fairly to represent it.
It may be expected, indeed, that in civilized and improv¬
ed countries the accumulation of capital, the division of
labour, and the invention of machinery, will extend the
bounds of production; but we know from experience that
the effects of these causes, which are quite astonishing in
reference to some of the conveniences and luxuries of life,
are very much less efficient in producing an increase of
food ; and although the saving of labour and an improved
system of husbandry may be the means of pushing cultiva¬
tion upon much poorer lands than could otherwise be
worked, yet the increased quantity of the necessaries of
life so obtained can never be such as to supersede, for any
length of time, the operation of the preventive and positive
checks to population. And not only are these checks as
absolutely necessary in civilized and improvpd countries, as
they would be if each family had a certain portion of land
allotted to it, but they operate almost exactly in the same
way. The distress which would obviously arise in the most
simple state of society, from the natural tendency of popu¬
lation to increase faster than the means of subsistence in a
414
POPULATION.
Popula- limited territory, is brought home to the higher classes
tion- of an improved and populous country, in the ditticulty
v—    which they find in supporting their families in the same
rank of life with themselves ; and to the labouring clo¬
ses, which form the great mass of society, in the msufti-
ciency of the real wages of common labour to bring up a
large family. . . .
If in any country the yearly earnings of the commonest
labourers, determined, as they always will be, by the state
of the demand and the supply of necessaries compared with
labour, be not sufficient to bring up in health the largest
families, one of the three things before stated must happen ;
either the prospect of this difficulty will prevent some and
delay other marriages; or the diseases arising from bad
nourishment will be introduced, and the mortality be in¬
creased; or the progress of population will be retarded,
partly by one cause and partly by the other.
Of the ef- According to all past experience, and the best observa-
fect of pri- tions which can be made on the motives which operate
vate pro- human mind, there can be no well-founded hope of ob-
p.erty or' taining a large produce from the soil, but under a system of
irress of do-private property. It seems perfectly visionary to suppose
pillation, that any stimulus short of that which is excited in man by
the desire of providing for himself and family, and of bet-
tering his condition in life, should operate on the mass of
society with sufficient force and constancy to overcome the
natural indolence of mankind. All the attempts which have
been made since the commencement of authentic history
to proceed upon a principle of common property, have either
been so insignificant that no inference can be drawn from
them, or have been marked by the most signal failures;
and the changes which have been effected in modern times
by education do not seem to advance a single step towards
making such a state of things more probable in future. We
may therefore safely conclude, that while man retains the
same physical and moral constitution which he is observed
to possess at present, no other than a system of private pro¬
perty stands the least chance of providing for such a large
and increasing population as that which is to be found in
many countries at present.
But though there is scarcely any conclusion which seems
more completely established by experience than this, yet
it is unquestionably true that the laws of private property,
which are the grand stimulants to production, do themselves
so limit it, as always to make the actual produce of the earth
fall very considerably short of the power of production. On
a system of private property no adequate motive to the ex¬
tension of cultivation can exist, unless the returns are suf¬
ficient, not only to pay the wages necessary to keep up the
population, which, at the least, must include the support of
a wife and two or three children, but also afford a profit on
the capital which has been employed. This necessarily ex¬
cludes from cultivation a considerable portion of land, which
might be made to bear corn. If it were possible to suppose
that man might be adequately stimulated to labour under a
system of common property, such land might be cultivated,
and the production of food and the increase of population
might go on, till the soil absolutely refused to grow a single
additional quarter, and the whole of the society was exclu¬
sively engaged in procuring the necessaries of life. But it
is quite obvious that such a state of things would inevitably
lead to the greatest degree of distress and degradation.
And if a system of private property secures mankind from
such evils, which it certainly does in a great degree, by se¬
curing to a portion of the society the leisure necessary for the
progress of the arts and sciences, it must be allowed that
such a check to the increase of cultivation confers on so¬
ciety a most signal benefit.
But it must perhaps also be allowed, that, under a system
of private property, cultivation is sometimes checked in a
degree and at a period not required by the interest of so¬
ciety. And this is particularly likely to happen when the
original divisions of land have been extremely unequal, and
the laws have not given sufficient facility to a better distri¬
bution of them. Under a system of private property, the
only effectual demand for produce must come from the
owners of property ; and though it be true that the effec¬
tual demand of the society, whatever it may be, is best sup¬
plied under the most perfect system of liberty, yet it is not
true that the tastes and wants of the effective demanders
are always, and necessarily, the most favourable to the pro¬
gress of national wealth. A taste for hunting and the pre¬
servation of game among the owners of the soil will, with¬
out fail, be supplied, if things be allowed to take their na¬
tural course; but such a supply, from the manner in which
it must be effected, would inevitably be most unfavourable
to the increase of produce and population. In the same
manner, the want of an adequate taste for the consumption
of manufactured commodities among the possessors of sur¬
plus produce, if not fully compensated by a great desire
for personal attendance, which it never is, would infallibly
occasion a premature slackness in the demand for labour
and produce, a premature fall of profits, and a check to cul¬
tivation.
It makes little difference in the actual rate of the increase
of population, or the necessary existence of checks to it,
whether that state of demand and supply which occasions
an insufficiency of wages to the whole of the labouring
classes be produced prematurely by a bad structure of so¬
ciety and an unfavourable distribution of wealth, or neces¬
sarily by the comparative exhaustion of the soil. The la¬
bourer feels the difficulty nearly in the same degree, and it
must have nearly the same results, from whatever cause it
arises ; consequently, in every country with which we are
acquainted, where the yearly earnings of the labouring
classes are not sufficient to bring up in health the largest
families, it may be safely said that population is actually
checked by the difficulty of procuring the means of sub¬
sistence. And, as we well know that ample wages, com¬
bined with full employment for all who choose to work, are
extremely rare, and scarcely ever occur, except for a cer¬
tain time, when the knowledge and industry of an old coun¬
try is applied, under favourable circumstances, to a new one;
it follows that the pressure arising from the difficulty of pro¬
curing subsistence is not to be considered as a remote one,
which will be felt only when the earth refuses to produce
any more, but as one which not only actually exists at pre¬
sent over the greatest part of the globe, but, with few ex¬
ceptions, has been almost constantly acting upon all the
countries of which wTe have any account.
It is unquestionably true, that, in no country of the globe
have the government, the distribution of property, and the
habits of the people, been such as to call forth, in the most
effective manner, the resources of the soil. Consequently,
if the most advantageous possible change in all these re¬
spects could be supposed at once to take place, it is certain
that the demand for labour and the encouragement to pro¬
duction might be such as for a short time in some coun¬
tries, and for rather a longer in others, to lessen the opera¬
tion of the checks to population which have been described.
It is specifically this truth constantly obtruding itself upon
our attention which is the great source of delusion on this
subject, and creates the belief that man could always pro¬
duce from the soil much more than sufficient to support
himself and family. In the actual state of things this power
has perhaps always been possessed. But for it we are in¬
debted wholly to the ignorance and bad government of our
ancestors. If they had properly called forth the resources
of the soil, it is quite certain that we should now have but
scanty means left of further increasing our food. If merely
since the time of William the Conqueror all the nations of
the earth had been well governed, and if the distribution of
Popula
tion.
POPULATION.
Popula¬
tion.
The laws
fnature
esponsible
or the ne-
essity of
hecks to
lopulation.
Jan re-
ponsible
' or the
| irevailing
haracter
f these
hecks.
property, and the habits both of the rich and the poor, had
been the most favourable to the demand for produce and
labour, though the amount of food and population would
have been prodigiously greater than at present, the means
of diminishing the checks to population would unquestion¬
ably be less. That difficulty in procuring the necessaries
of life which is now felt in the comparatively low wages of
labour almost all over the world, and is occasioned partly
by the necessary state of the soil, and partly by a pre¬
mature check to the demand for produce and labour,
would then be felt in a greater degree, and w'ould less ad¬
mit of any relaxation in the checks to population, because
it would be occasioned wholly and necessarily by the state
of the soil.
It appears, then, that what may be called the propor¬
tionate amount of the necessary checks to population de¬
pends very little upon the efforts of man in the cultivation
of the soil. If these efforts had been directed from the first
in the most enlightened and efficient manner, the checks
necessary to keep the population on a level with the means
of subsistence, so far from being lightened, would in all pro¬
bability be operating with greater force; and the condition
of the labouring classes, so far as it depends on the facility
of procuring the means of subsistence, instead of being im¬
proved, would in all probability be deteriorated.
It is to the laws of nature, therefore, and not to the con¬
duct and institutions of man, that we are to attribute the
necessity of a strong check on the natural increase of po¬
pulation.
But though the laws of nature which determine the rate
at which population would increase if unchecked, and the
very different rate at which the food required to support
population could be made to increase in a limited territory,
are undoubtedly the causes which render necessary the ex¬
istence of some great and constant check to population, yet
a vast mass of responsibility remains behind on man and the
institutions of society.
In the first place, they are certainly responsible for the
present scanty population of the earth. There are few large
countries, however advanced in improvement, the popula¬
tion of which might not have been doubled or tripled, and
there are many which might be ten, or even a hundred
times as populous, and yet all the inhabitants be as well
provided for as they are now, if the institutions of society
and the moral habits of the people had been for some hun¬
dred years the most favourable to the increase of capital,
and the demand for produce and labour.
Secondly, though man has but a trifling and temporary
influence in altering the proportionate amount of the checks
to population, or the degree in which they press upon the
actual numbers, yet he has a great and most extensive in¬
fluence on their character and mode of operation.
It is not in superseding the necessity of checks to popu¬
lation, in the progress of mankind to the full peopling of
the earth (which may with truth be said to be a physical
impossibility), but in directing these checks in such a way
as to be the least prejudicial to the virtue and happiness of
society, that government and human institutions produce
their great effect. Here we know, from constant experi¬
ence, that they have great power. Yet even here it must
be allowed that the power of government is rather indirect
than direct, as the object to be attained depends mainly
upon such a conduct on the part of individuals as can sel¬
dom be directly enforced by laws, though it may be power¬
fully influenced by them.
This will appear if we consider more particularly the na¬
ture of those checks which have been classed under the ge¬
neral heads of Preventive and Positive.
It will be found that they are all resolvable into moral
restraint, vice, and misery. And if, from the laws of na¬
ture, some check to the increase of population be absolute-
415
ly inevitable, and human institutions have any influence Popula-
upon the extent to which each of these checks operates, a tion-
heavy responsibility will be incurred, if all that influence, ’
whether direct or indirect, be not exerted to diminish the^116?6
amount of vice and misery. solvable8*
Moral restraint, in application to the present subject, int^moral
may be defined to be, abstinence from marriage, either for restraint,
a time or permanently, from prudential considerations, with and
a strictly moral conduct towards the sex in the interval. m^ser-v*
And this is the only mode of keeping population on a level
with the means of subsistence, which is perfectly consistent
with virtue and happiness. All other checks, whether of
the preventive or the positive kind, though they may great¬
ly vary in degree, resolve themselves into some form of vice
or misery.
The remaining checks of the preventive kind, are the
sort of intercourse which renders some of the women of
large towns unprolific ; a general corruption of morals with
regard to the sex, which has a similar effect; unnatural
passions, and improper arts to prevent the consequences of
irregular connections. These evidently come under the
head of vice.
The positive checks to population include all the causes
which tend in any way prematurely to shorten the duration
of human life; such as unwholesome occupations, severe
labour and exposure to the seasons, bad and insufficient
food and clothing, arising from poverty, bad nursing of
children, excesses of all kinds, great towns and manu¬
factories, the whole train of common diseases and epide¬
mics, wars, infanticide, plague, and famine. Of these
positive checks, those which appear to arise from the laws
of nature may be called exclusively misery ; and those
which we bring upon ourselves, such as wars, excesses of
all kinds, and many others, which it would be in our power
to avoid, are of a mixed nature. They are brought upon
us by vice, and their consequences are misery.
Some of these checks, in various combinations, and ope¬
rating with various force, are constantly in action in all the
countries with which we are acquainted, and form the im¬
mediate causes which keep the population on a level with
the means of subsistence.
Mr Malthus, in his work on this subject, has taken a
view of the checks of population in most of the countries
of which we have the best accounts. His object was evi¬
dently to trace in each country those checks which appear¬
ed to be most effective in repressing population ; and to
endeavour to answer the question generally which had
been applied particularly to New Holland by Captain
Cook, namely, By what means is the population of this
country kept down to the number which it can subsist ?
It was hardly to be expected, however, that the general Prudential
accounts of countries which are to be met with should con- restraint
tain a sufficient number of details of the kind required to011 mar-
enable us to ascertain what portion of the natural increase lia£e'
of population each individual check which could be traced
had the power to overcome. In particular, it was not to
be expected, that any accounts could inform us of the de¬
gree in which moral restraint prevails when taken in its
strictest sense. It is necessary, therefore, to attend chiefly
to the greater or smaller number of persons who remain
unmarried, or marry late ; and the delay of marriage, owing
to the difficulty of providing for a family, when the degree
of irregularity to which it may lead cannot be ascertained,
may be usefully called the prudential restraint on marriage
and population. And this will be found to be the chief
mode in which the preventive check practically operates.
But if the preventive check to population, that check
which can alone supersede great misery and mortality, ope¬
rates chiefly by a prudential restraint on marriage, it will
be obvious, as was before stated, that direct legislation can¬
not do much. Prudence cannot be enforced by laws, with-
416
POPULATION.
Popula¬
tion.
Causes
which prin-
cipally af¬
fect the ha
bits of the
labouring
classes.
out a great violation of natural liberty, and a great risk of
producing more evil than good. But still the very great
influence of a just and enlightened government, and the
perfect security of property in creating habits of prudence,
' cannot for a moment be questioned. The principal causes
.and effects of these habits are thus stated in Mr Malthuss
last work.1 .
“ From high wages, or the power of commanding a large
portion of the necessaries of life, two very different results
may follow ; one, that of a rapid increase of population, m
which case the high wages are chiefly spent in the main¬
tenance of large and frequent families ; and the other, that
of a decided improvement in the modes of subsistence, and
the conveniences and comforts enjoyed, without a propor¬
tionate acceleration in the rate of increase.
« In looking to these different results, the causes of them
will evidently appear to be the different habits existing
among the people of different countries, and at different
times. In an inquiry into the causes of these different ha¬
bits, we shall generally be able to trace those which pro¬
duce the first result to all the circumstances which contri¬
bute to depress the lower classes of the people, which make
them unable or unwilling to reason from the past to the fu¬
ture, and ready to acquiesce, for the sake of present gratifi¬
cation, in a very low standard of comfort and respectabi¬
lity ; and those which produce the second result, to all the
circumstances which tend to elevate the character of the
lower classes of society, which make them approach the
nearest to beings who “ look before and after,” and who,
consequently, cannot acquiesce patiently in the thought of
depriving themselves and their children of the means of
being respectable, virtuous, and happy.
“ Among the circumstances which contribute to the cha¬
racter first described, the most efficient will be found to be
despotism, oppression, and ignorance ; among those which
contribute to the latter character, civil and political liberty,
and education.
“ Of all the causes which tend to encourage prudential
habits among the lower classes of society, the most essen¬
tial is unquestionably civil liberty. No people can be much
accustomed to form plans for the future, who do not feel
assured that their industrious exertions, while fair and ho¬
nourable, will be allowed to have free scope ; and that the
property which they either possess or may acquire will be
secured to them by a known code of just laws impartially
administered. But it has been found by experience, that
civil liberty cannot be permanently secured without politi¬
cal liberty; consequently political liberty becomes almost
equally essential, and, in addition to its being necessary in
this point of viewr, its obvious tendency to teach the lower
classes of society to respect themselves, by obliging the
higher classes to respect them, must contribute greatly to
all the good effects of civil liberty.”
“ With regard to education, it might certainly be made
general under a bad form of government, and might be
very deficient under one in other respects good ; but it must
be allowed that the chances, both with regard to its quality
and its prevalence, are greatly in favour of the latter. Edu¬
cation alone could do little against insecurity of property ;
but it would powerfully assist all the favourable consequen¬
ces to be expected from civil and political liberty, which
could not indeed be considered as complete without it.”
The varying prevalence of these habits, owing to the
causes above referred to, combined with the smaller or
greater mortality occasioned by other customs, and the vary¬
ing effects of soil and climate, must necessarily produce great
differences in different countries, and at different periods,
in the character of the predominant checks to population,
and the force of each. And this inference, which inevit¬
ably follows from theory, is fully confirmed by experience.
Popula¬
tion.
It appears, for instance, from the accounts we have re" The p0su
ceived of ancient nations, and of the less civilized Parts 01 tive died
the world, that war and violent diseases were the predo-to popuk-
minant checks to their population. The frequency of wars, tion pre.
and the dreadful devastations of mankind occasioned by dominate,
them, united with the plagues, famines, and mortal epide-^
mics of which there are records, must have caused such a
consumption of the human species, that the exertion of the
utmost power of increase must, in many cases, have been
insufficient to supply it; and we see at once the source of
those encouragements to marriage, and efforts to increase
population, which, with inconsiderable exceptions, distin¬
guished the legislation and general policy of ancient times.
Yet there were some few men of more extended views, wno,
when they were looking to the settlement of a society in a
more improved state, were fully aware, that unaer the most
beautiful form of government which their imagination could
conceive, the greatest poverty and distress might be felt
from a too rapid increase of population. And the remedies
which they proposed were strong and violent in proportion
to the greatness of the evil which they apprehended. Even
the practical legislators who encouraged marriage, seemed
to think that the supplies of children might sometimes fol¬
low too rapidly for the means of supporting them ; and it
appears to have been with a view to provide against this
difficulty, and of preventing it from discouraging marriage,
that they frequently sanctioned the inhuman practice of in¬
fanticide. , ,
Under these circumstances, it is not to be supposed that
the prudential restraint on marriage should have operated
to any considerable extent. Except in a few cases where
a general corruption of morals prevailed, which might act
as a preventive check of the most vicious kind, a aige
portion of the procreative power was called into action, t ic
occasional redundancy from which was checked by violent
causes. These causes will be found resolvable almost whol¬
ly into vice and misery; the first of which, and a large
portion of the second, it is always in the power of man to
In a review of the checks to population in the different pruaena
states of modern Europe, it appears that the positive checks restrain
to population have prevailed less, and the preventive chec stlL
more, than in ancient times, and in the more uncultivated mm ^
parts of the world. The destruction occasioned by war haspopulatj,
unquestionably abated, both on account of its occurring, onin m(^t,
the whole, less frequently, and its ravages not being so fa-times,
tal, either to man or the means of his support, as they were
formerly. And although, in the earlier periods of the his¬
tory of modern Europe, plagues, famines, and mortal epi¬
demics were not unfrequent, yet, as civilization and im¬
provement have advanced, both their frequency and their
mortality have been greatly reduced, and in some count! ics
they are now almost unknown. This diminution of the
positive checks to population, as it has been certainly much
greater in proportion than the actual increase of food and
population, must necessarily have been accompanied by an
increasing operation of the preventive checks ; and proba¬
bly it may be said with truth, that in almost all the more
improved countries of modern Europe, the principal check
which at present keeps the population down to the level of
the actual means of subsistence, is the prudential restraint
on marriage. . „
Yet in comparing together the accounts and registers of
the different countries of modern times, we shall still find
a vast difference in the character and force of the checks
which are mainly in action ; and it is precisely in this point
1 Principles of Political Economy, c. iv. sect. 2.
POPULATION.
417
Popula- of view that these accounts afford the most important in-
tion. struction. Some parts of Europe are yet in an unimproved
'—v'"”'' state, and are still subject to frequent plagues and mortal
^ thecha0 epidemics. 1° these countries, as might be expected, few
racter and traces are to f°und of the prudential restraint on mar-
force of the riage. But even in improved countries, the circumstances
checks in may be such as to occasion a great mortality. Large towns
IdifFerent are known to be unfavourable to health, particularly to the
countries. jiea]jk of young children ; and the unwholesomeness of
marshy situations may be such as in some cases to balance
the principle of increase, even when nearly the whole of the
procreative power is called into action, which is seldom the
case in large towns.
Thus, in the registers of twenty-two Dutch villages given
by Sussmilch,1 and quoted by Mr Malthus, the mortality
(occasioned, as may be supposed, chiefly by the natural un¬
healthiness of the country) was as high as one in twenty-
two or twenty-three, instead of the more common propor¬
tion of one in thirty-five or forty ; and the consequence was,
that the marriages, instead of being in the usual proportion
of one in about 108 of the population, were in the extraor¬
dinary high proportion of one in sixty-four ;‘2 showing a
most unusual frequency of marriage, while, on account of
the great mortality, the number of inhabitants was nearly
stationary, and the births and deaths about equal.
On the other hand, in Norway, where the climate and
modes of living seem to be extremely favourable to health,
and the mortality was only one in forty-eight, the pruden¬
tial restraint on marriage was called more than usually into
action, and the marriages were only one in 130 of the po¬
pulation.
Gradualdi- These may be considered as extreme cases, but the same
minution result in different degrees is observable in the registers of
| in the pro- au countries ; and it is particularly to be remarked, that in
I ^r°n ot those countries where registers of births, deaths, and mar-
marnages. rjages ^ave been kept for a considerable time, the progres¬
sive diminution or mortality occasioned by the introduction
of habits more favourable to health, and the consequent di¬
minution of plagues and mortal epidemics, have been ac¬
companied invariably by a smaller proportion of marriages
and births. Sussmdch has given some striking instances of
the gradual diminution in the proportion of the number of
marriages during a part of the last century.3
In the town of Leipsic, in the year 1620, the annual mar¬
riages were to the population as 1 to 82 ; from the year
1741 to 1756, they were as 1 to 120.
In Augsburg, in 1510, the proportion of marriages to
the population was 1 in 86 ; in 1750 as 1 to 123.
In Dantzic, in the year 1705, the proportion was as 1 to
89; in 1745, as 1 to 118.
In the dukedom of Magdeburg, in 1700, the propor¬
tion was as 1 to 87; from 1752 to 1755, as 1 to 125.
In the principality of Halberstadt, in 1690, the propor¬
tion was as 1 to 88 ; in 1756, as 1 to 112.
In the dukedom of Cleves, in 1705, the proportion was
as 1 to 83 ; in 1755, as 1 to 100.
In the churmark of Brandenburg, in 1700, the propor¬
tion was as 1 to 76 ; and in 1755, as 1 to 108.
Instances of this kind are numerous, and they tend to
show the dependence of the marriages on the deaths in all
old countries. A greater mortality almost invariably pro¬
duces a greater number of marriages; and it must be equally
certain, that except where the means of subsistence can be
adequately increased, a greater proportion of marriages must
occasion a greater mortality.
The proportion of yearly births to the whole population Popula-
must evidently depend principally on the proportion of mar- tion-
riages; and it appears, consequently, from registers, that in '
countries which will not admit of any considerable increase DePen‘1*
of population, the births, as well as the marriages, are mainly bUths and
influenced by the deaths. When an actual decrease of po- marriao-es
pulation is not taking place, the births will always supply on the°
the vacancies made by death, and exactly so much more as deaths,
the increasing wealth of the country and the demand for
labour will admit. Evei’ywhere in the intervals of plagues,
epidemics, and destructive wars, the births considerably ex¬
ceed the deaths; but while from these and other causes the
mortality in different countries is extremely various, it ap¬
pears from registers that, with the exception above stated,
the births vary in the same proportion.4
Thus, in 39 villages of Holland, where the deaths, at the
time to which the registers refer, were about 1 in 23, the
births were also I in 23. In 15 villages round Paris, the
births bore the same or even a greater proportion to the
whole population, on account of a still greater mortality, the
births being 1 in 22T^Jths, and the deaths the same. In the
small towns of Brandenburg, which were in an increasing
state, the mortality was 1 in 29, and the births 1 in 24y70ths.
In Sweden, where the mortality was about 1 in 34f, the
births were 1 in 28. In 1056 villages of Brandenburg, in
which the mortality was about 1 in 39 or 40, the births
were about 1 in 30. In Norway, where the mortality was
1 in 48, the births were 1 in 34.
In all these instances the births are evidently measured
by the deaths, after making a proper allowance for the ex¬
cess of births which the state of each country will admit.
In such a country as Russia, this allowance must be great;
as, although the mortality might perhaps be taken as low as
1 in 48 or 50, the births were as high as 1 in 26, owing to
the increasing resources of the country, which admit of a
rapid increase of the population.
Of all the countries which Mr Malthus has reviewed, Depend-
there is none which so strikingly illustrates the most im-ence of the
portant fact of the dependence of the proportions of mar‘ th'e deaths
riages and births on the deaths, and the general principles.
of population, as Switzerland. It appears, that between ;n switZer-
1760 and 1770, an alarm prevailed respecting the continued land,
depopulation of the country ; and, to ascertain the point, M.
Muret, minister of Yevay, made a very laborious and care¬
ful search into the registers of different parishes from the
time of their first establishment. He compared the num¬
ber of births which had taken place during three different
periods of seventy years each, the first ending in 1620, the
second in 1690, and the third in 1760. And finding by this
comparison, that the number of births was less in the se¬
cond period than in the first, and less in the third pe¬
riod than in the second, he considered the evidence of a
continued depopulation of the country from the year 1055
as incontrovertible.5 But the accounts which he himself
produces clearly show, that, in the earlier periods to which
he refers, the mortality was very much greater than in the
latter; and that the greater number of births found in the
registers formerly, was not owing to a greater population,
but to the greater proportion of births which always ac¬
companies a greater mortality.
It appears from accounts which are entirely to be de¬
pended on, that during the last period the mortality was
extraordinarily small, and the proportion of children reared
from infancy to puberty extraordinarily great. At the time
when M. Muret wrote his paper, in 1766, the proportion of
1 Gottliche Ordnung, vol. i. c. iv. s. 57, p. 128. Malthus^ Essayn PopulaUon. b. m ^^sP(n4t^e ^th ^ust have been oc-
* This very large proportion of marriages could not all have been supp 3 Gottnche Qrdnung, vol. i. p. 134 et *eq.
cosioned in part by the influx of strangers. i : „ fifth <vtiHnn
4 Sussmilch, Gottliche Ordnung, vol. i. p. 225. Essay on Population, v0 • • P* p j ti ^ j pp 404 et )eq. fifth edition.
5 Mimuircs, $c. par la Societi Economic dc Berne, 17GG, pp. lo ct seq. E^say on Population, vol. 1. pp. <1 3 o
■vol. xvm.
418
Popula¬
tion.
POPULATION.
deaths to the population in the Pays de Vaud was 1 in 45,
of births 1 in 36, and of marriages 1 in 140. These are all
very small proportions of births, deaths, and marriages, com¬
pared with other countries; but the state of things must
have been totally different in the sixteenth and seventeenth
centuries. M. Mxiret gives a list of all the plagues which
had prevailed in Switzerland from 1520, from which it ap¬
pears that this dreadful scourge desolated the country at
short intervals during the whole of the first period, and ex¬
tended its occasional ravages to within twenty-two years of
the termination of the second. We may safely conclude,
that, in these times, the average mortality was very much
greater than at present. But what puts the question beyond a
doubt, is the great mortality which prevailed in the neigh¬
bouring town of Geneva in the sixteenth century, and its
gradual diminution in the seventeenth and eighteenth. It
appears from calculations, published in the Bibliotlie.que Bri-
tannique (tom. iv. p. 328), that in the sixteenth century the
probability of life, or the age to which half of the born lived,
was only 4-883, or under four years and eleven months ; and
the mean life, or the average number of years due to each
person, 18-511, or about eighteen years and a half. In the
seventeenth century, the probability of life in Geneva was
1T607, about eleven years and seven months ; the mean
life 23-358, or twenty three years and four months. In the
eighteenth century, the probability of life had increased to
27-183, twenty-seven years and two months ; and the mean
life to thirty-two years and two months.
There can be no doubt, from the prevalence of the plague,
and its gradual extinction, as noticed by M. Mxiret, that a
diminution of mortality of the same kind, though not per¬
haps to the same extent, must have taken place in Switzer¬
land ; but if, with a mortality which could not have been
less than one in thirty or thirty-two, the proportion of births
had been what it was when M. Muret wrote, it is quite evi¬
dent that the country would have been rapidly depopulated.
But as it is known, from the actual amount of births found
in the registers, that this was not the case, it follows as a
necessary consequence, that the greater mortality of former
times xvas accompanied by a greater proportion of births.
And this at once shows the error of attempting to deter¬
mine the actual population, either of different countries, or
of different periods in the same coxintry, by the amount of
the births ; and the strong tendency of population to fill up
all vacancies, and very rarely to be limited by any other
cause than the difficulty of supporting a family.
Swizerland and the Pays de Vaud afford other most strik¬
ing instances of the dependence of the births on the deaths ;
and the accounts of them are perhaps more to be depended
upon, as they appear to contradict the preconceived opinions
of the person who collected them.
Speaking of the want of fruitfulness in the Swiss women,
M. Mm-et says, that Prussia, Brandenbxxrg, Sweden, France,
and indeed every country the registers of which he had
seen, give a greater proportion of baptisms to the number
of inhabitants than the Pays de Vaud, where this proportion
is only as 1 to 36. He adds, that fronx calcxxlations lately
made in the Lyonnois, it appeared that in Lyons itself the
proportion of baptisms xvas I in 28, in the small towns 1 in
25, and in the villages 1 in 23 or 24. What a prodigious
xlifference, he exclaims, between the Lyonnois and the Pays
de Vaud, where the most favourable proportion, and that
only in two small parishes of extraordinary fecundity, is not
above 1 in 26, and in many parishes it is considerably less than
1 in 40. The same difference, he remarks, takes place in the
mean life. In the Lyonnois it is little above 25 years ; while
in the Pays de Vaud, the lowest mean life, and that only
in a single marshy and unhealthy parish, is 29^ years, and
in many places it is above 45 years. ^
“ But whence comes it,” he says, “ that the country
where children escape the best from the dangers of infancy,
and where the mean life, in whatever way the calculation is
made, is higher than in any other, should be precisely that in
which the fecundity is the smallest ? How comes it, again,
that, of all our parishes, the one which gives the mean life
the highest should also be the one where the tendency to
increase is the smallest P”1
To resolve this question, M. Muret says, “ I will hazard
a conjecture, which, however, 1 give only as such. Is it
not that, in order to maintain in all places a proper equili¬
brium of popxxlation, God has xvisely ordered things in such
a manner as that the force of life in each country should be
in the inverse ratio of its fecundity ? In fact, experience
verifies my conjectxire. Leyzin, a village in the Alps, with
a population of 400 persons, produces bxxt a little above
eight children a year. The Pays de Vaud, in general, in
px-oportion to the same number of inhabitants, produces
eleven, and the Lyonnois sixteen. But if it happen, that at
the age of txventy years, the eight, the eleven, and the six¬
teen are reduced to the same number, it will appear that
the force of life gives in one place what fecundity does in
another. And thus the most healthy countries, having less
fecundity, will not over-people themselves, and the un¬
healthy countries, by their extraordinary fecundity, will be
able to sustain their popxxlation.”
These facts and observations are fxill of the most import¬
ant instruction, and strikingly illustrate the principle of po¬
pulation. The three gradations in the proportions of births
which are here so distinctly presented to our view, may be
considered as repx-esenting that variety in the proportion of
births which is known to take place in different countries
and at different periods ; and the practical question is, whe¬
ther, when this variety prevails without a proportionate dif¬
ference in the rate of increase, which is almost universally
the case, we are to suppose, with M. Muret, that a special
providence is called into action to render women less pro¬
lific in healthy countries, and where improved habits of
cleanliness have banished plagues and mortal epidemics;
or to suppose, as experience warrants, that the smaller mor¬
tality of healthy and improved countries is balanced by the
greater prevalence of the prudential restraint on marriage
and population.
The subject is seen xvith particular clearness in Switzer¬
land, on account of the popxxlation of some of the districts
being stationary. The number of inhabitants on the Alps
was sxjpposed to have diminished. This xvas probably an
error ; but it is not improbable that they should have re¬
mained stationary, or nearly so. There is no land so little
capable of providing for an increasing population as moun¬
tainous pastures. When they have been once fully stocked
with cattle, little more can be done; and if there be nei¬
ther emigration to take off the superabundant numbers, nor
manufactures xvherewith to purchase an additional quantity
of food, the deaths mxxst equal the births.
This was the case xvith the Alpine parish of Leyzin be¬
fore referred to, where, for a period of thirty years, the
mortality and the proportion of births almost accxirately
kept pace xvith each other ; and where, in consequence, if
the positive checks to population had been unusually small,
the preventive checks must have been unusually great. In
the parish of Leyzin, according to M. Muret, the probabi¬
lity of life was as high as sixty-one years f but it is obvious
that this extraordinary degree of healthiness coxdd not pos¬
sibly have taken place under the actual circumstances of
Popula.
tion.
1 Menwires. S^c. par la Socletd Econoviiquc dc Berne, 1760. pp- 48 ei seq.
a Ibid, tabic v. p. 85 of the tables.
POPULATION.
419
Popula- the parish with respect to the means of subsistence, if it
tion. iiad not been accompanied by a proportionate action of the
—prudential restraint on marriage ; and accordingly the sub¬
sisting marriages, being late and unprolific, yielded only
one birth to every twelve ; the births were only one in
forty-nine, and the number of persons below sixteen was
only one fourth of the population.
There can be little doubt that in the present case the ex¬
treme healthiness of the people, arising from their situation
and employments, had more effect in producing the pru¬
dential check to population than the prudential check in
producing the extreme healthiness ; yet it is quite certain
that they must constantly act and re-act upon each other,
and that if, when the circumstances are such as to furnish
no adequate means for the support of an increased popula¬
tion, and no relief in emigration, the prudential check does
not prevail, no degree of natural healthiness could prevent
an excessive mortality. Yet to occasion such a mortality,
a much greater degree of poverty and misery must have
taken place than in districts less favourably circumstanced
with regard to health ; and we see at once the reason why,
in countries of mountainous pasture, if there be no vent in
emigration, the necessity of the prudential check should be
more strongly forced on the attention of the inhabitants,
and should in consequence prevail to a greater degree.
Differ- Taking countries in general, there will necessarily be
|ienees in differences as to natural healthiness in all the gradations,
the reps- from the most marshy habitable situations to the most pure
of and salubrious air. These differences will be further in-
countrL. creased by the nature of the employments of the people,
their habits of cleanliness, and their care in preventing the
spread of epidemics. If in no country was there any diffi¬
culty in obtaining the means of subsistence, these different
degrees of healthiness would make a great difference in the
progress of population ; and as there are many countries
naturally more healthy than the United States of America,
we should have instances of a more rapid increase than that
which has there taken place. But as the actual progress
of population is, with very few exceptions, determined by
the relative difficulty of procuring the means of subsistence,
and not by the relative natural powers of increase, it is
found by experience that, except in extreme cases, the ac¬
tual progress of population is little affected by unhealthiness
or healthiness; but that these circumstances show them¬
selves most powerfully in the character of the checks which
keep the population down to the level of the means of sub¬
sistence, and occasion that sort of variety in the registers
of different countries which wras noticed in the instances
mentioned by M. Muret.
Thus the population of two or three countries may be
increasing at nearly the same rate, but one may be increas¬
ing chiefly from a great proportion of births, another from
a small proportion of deaths, and a third from a more com¬
mon proportion of both, in which three different cases the
structure of the population, and the registers of births, deaths,
and marriages, will be essentially different.
The rate at which the population of Sweden and Norway
was increasing, at the time referred to by Mr Malthus, was
not far from the same; but their registers differed in al¬
most all points. While the births in Sweden were 1 in "28
of the population, the births in Norway were only 1 in 34 ;
while the marriages in Sweden were 1 in 112, in Norway
they were only 1 in 130; and while the mortality in Swe¬
den was 1 in 34^, in Norway it was only 1 in 48.1 Ihese
different proportions of births, deaths, and marriages, must
essentially alter the whole structure of the population. I he
proportion of persons living at different ages would be es- Popula-
sentially different; the generations in one country would t^on-
pass away sooner than the generations in the other; and
Sweden might be said to increase principally from the large
proportion of its births, and Norw ay from the small propor¬
tion of its deaths, or its small mortality.
A large proportion of births, when they have room to ex¬
pand themselves, is the most powerful element of increase,
and is absolutely necessary in order to effect the shortest
period of doubling with which we are acquainted ; but two
countries may have nearly the same proportion of births,
and yet the population of one be quite stationary, while the
population of the other is increasing with the greatest known
rapidity. The proportion of births in the Dutch villages
first noticed approaches towards that of the United States
of America; yet in the one case the population did not in¬
crease at all, and in the other it has increased so fast as to
be taken as a specimen of the natural progress of popula¬
tion when interrupted by the fewest checks to which hu¬
man society is subject. In this case, though the propor¬
tions of births and marriages to the whole population might
not be very unlike, and possibly no very great difference
might appear in the proportion of marriages to births, the
other points in the registers would be in the opposite ex¬
tremes. While the mortality in the Dutch villages was as
high as 1 in 22, it would probably be 1 in 41, or less, in
the United States. While the births and deaths in the
Dutch villages were in the ratio of equality, in the United
States they would be nearly in the proportion of 41 to 19.
In the same manner, two countries might have nearly
the same mortality, and yet, in other points, be very dif¬
ferent ; and while one was increasing most rapidly, the
other might be increasing very slowly. The proportion of
deaths to the population in the Pays de Vaud is not very
essentially different from that of the United States, but the
proportion of births and the structure of the population
present the most striking contrasts. The proportion of
births for the whole of the Pays de Vaud was, according
to M. Muret, 1 in 36, in many parishes it was considerably
less than 1 in 40, and in one parish as low as 1 in 49 ;
while, in the United States, it must be somewhere between
1 in 19 and l in 20. The structure of the population was
different accordingly. In the whole of the Pays de Vaud,
the proportion of the population under sixteen was one
third; in many parts, and in the whole of the Canton of
Berne, one fourth ; while in the United States, it is as high
as one half.
We have seen, that, according to M. Muret, the proba-Variations
bility of life, or the age to which half the born live, was, in in the age
the extraordinary parish of Leyzin, as high as 61 years.
On the same authority, it appears that in nine other pa- born live in
rishes of the Alps it was as high as 47 ; in 41 parishes of different
the Pays de Vaud and Jura 42 ; in 12 com parishes 40 ; countries,
in 18 parishes among the great vineyards 37, in one marshy
parish 24.2 From other authorities w^e learn, that in coun¬
try villages and parishes, the age to which half of the born
live is such, that the major part will probably live to marry.3
In the parish of Ackworth, in Yorkshire, it appears from an
exact account kept by Dr Lee, of the ages at which all died
there for twenty years from 1747 to 1767, that half the in¬
habitants live to the age of 46 (Price, vol. ii. p. 35, 7th
edit.); and if the same account had been kept in many of
the other healthy parishes in England, where the yearly
mortality, instead of being 1 in 47 as in Ackworth, was 1
in 60, 1 in 66, and even 1 in 75 (vol. ii. p. 224), half of the
born would be found to have lived to above 50 or 55. In
mad
420
Popula¬
tion.
POPULATION.
Popula-.'
tiou.
the whole of Sweden, where the annual mortality, at the twelve subsisting marriages yield only one annual birth; and
time referred to by Dr Price, was greater than 1 in 35, it the other in the parish of St Cergue, in the Jura, where mar-
appears from his tables, that half of the born must have riage is encouraged by the habit of emigration, and four
lived to above 33 (vol. ii. p. 413, 7th edit.) ; and in Great subsisting marriages are sufficient to yield one annual birth.
Britain o-enerally, where the mortality at present, after The proportion of the population under 16 years of age Different I
makincr due allowance for the omissions in the deaths, ap- to that above 16 seems to vary in different countries andpropor-
pears to be less than 1 in 51, it cannot be doubted that places, and under different circumstances, from one hah to^^.U
there is scarcely a village in the country tolerably well si- one fourth. In the United States, it appears by the late ^
tuated, where half of the born do not live till above 40. census that it is one half; while in the canton of Berne it
In towns the case is very different. According to the data is not much more than one fourth, and in the parish of
collected by Dr Price, one half of the born died in London Leyzin not more than one fourth.0
under three years of age, in Vienna and Stockholm under The mortality under the age of 15 varies in different Variation |
two, in Manchester under five, in Northampton under places and circumstances, from above two thirds to one ^ mu
ten (vol. ii. p. 33); and although in most of these towns, fifth. It appears from a table of Dr Price, that in Stock-^ >.mu
particularly those in England, a great improvement has holm above two thirds died under 15 (vol. ii. p. 418);
taken place in their healthiness of late years, yet still they while, according to M. Muret, the proportion of the deaths
will always fall far short of the healthiness of country si- under the age of 15 was, in the whole of the Pays de Vaud,
tuations. one third, in many parishes of the Alps one fourth, and in
The age to which half the born live appears, therefore, the extraordinary parish of Leyzin only one fifth.7
to vary in different countries and places, and under differ- Under these very great variations in the registers of dif-
ent circumstances, in the very extraordinary degree of from ferent countries and places, and in the structure of their
3 to 60.1 population, it is obvious that we might fall into the grossest
Variations The mean age of death, or the expectation of life, must possible errors, by applying the registers of one country to
in the ex- necessarily be more steady; yet it appears to vary from the population of another. Even if we could find a coun-
pectation about 16 or 17 to 50. * try which was near to a just mean between these opposite
In Stockholm, according to a table calculated by Dr extremes, and the registers of which were kept with the
Price, from the medium of three different enumerations in greatest accuracy, we could not apply such registers to any
1757, 1760, and 1763, the expectation of life for males at other country with a view to any important inferences,
birth was 14-25, and for females 18-10.2 Taken together, unless we knew that the two countries nearly resembled
the expectation of life w as a little above 16. In Vienna, each other, not only in one or two particulars, but in all
as appears from another table, it was 16i.3 While, ac- the main points relating to the structure of their popula-
cording to M. Muret, at Leyzin, the expectation of life at tion and the character of the prevailing checks to it.
birth w as, about the same period, 50 years.4 When attention was first directed to tables of mortality Firsttabl
u luiiuiis The annual mortality, which is different, both from the with a view to assurances on lives and survivorships, these of morta-
the an- age to which half of the born live, and the mean age of tables were almost universally formed from the registers 0^^°™
al mor- death, is found to vary in different places and countries, towns, and of the neighbouring villages influenced by them. ™^ters
from about 1 in 19 to about 1 in 70. In Stockholm, the Buffon, calculating the probability of life from the rpgis* towns,
annual mortality w as but 1 in 19 (Price’s Observations, ters of three parishes in Paris, and twelve country parishes
vol. ii. p. 136) ; and in some of the villages in England, in the neighbourhood, collected by M. Dupre de St Maur,
even at the time that Dr Price wrote, it was as low' as 1 in makes it appear that half of the born died under eight
70 and 1 in 75. years of age. The parishes in Paris seemed to be heal-
The proportion of births to the population appears to thier than the villages in the neighbourhood, which was.
oi'life in
different
countries.
Variations
in tb
nual
tality
Proportion
of births
to the po¬
pulation.
vary in different countries and under different circum- occasioned by the custom of sending the children from the
stances, from about 1 in 17 to l in 49. In New Spain, city to be nursed in the country. Other calculations from
according to Humboldt, it was 1 in 17. In New Jersey, the registers of Breslau by Dr Halley, of London by Mr
according to the rate of increase determined by the cen¬
sus taken in 1738 and seven years afterwards, the pro¬
portion of births must have been about 1 in 18. (Price,
vol. ii. p. 50.) At present, as far as can be collected from
scattered facts and inferences, the proportion of births in
the whole of the United States is about 1 to 19. In the
Simpson, and subsequently of Northampton, Warrington,
Chester, Norwich, &c. by Dr Price and other writers, all
concurred to convey the impression that more than half ol
the born die under the age of puberty; and though Dr
Price, in his two volumes of Observations on Reversionary
Payments, takes frequent opportunities of dwelling upon
table for Prussia and Lithuania given by Sussmilch, it ap- the prodigious difference in the mortality of towns and of
pears, that after the great plague of 1709 and 1710, and country situations, and produces abundance of evidence to
omitting the extraordinary year immediately subsequent, show that, taken together, in tlu^^utLstate of things, half
the proportion of births in the five years ending with 1716 of the born live much beyon<|'trhe-%e of puberty; yet,
w-as 1 in less than 17 ;5 wdiile, according to M. Muret, in among some persons who have n6t attended to the subject,
the parish of Leyzin, the proportion of births w7as only 1 in the former impression seems still to have remained; and,
49 of the population. what is more strange, it has been lately asserted that this
Variations The number of subsisting marriages which yields one must happen from the constitution and course of human na-
in the annual birth appears to vary from 12 to 4, and the two ex- ture (Godwin’s Answer to Malthus) ; which is going very
num.ber treme cases occur in what may be called the same country, much further than to say that it happens under the pover-
nun-Lpes anc^ are ^,0^1 n°ticed by M. Muret; the one in the parish ty, distress, and unhealthy occupations which are known to
to one an- °* Teyzin, which presents all the symptoms of the pruden- affect the mortality of a considerable body of people in all
nuai birth. check to population in the greatest excess, and where the nations with which we are acquainted.
1 This last number, stated by M. Muret for the parish of Leyzin, on the Alps, is so very extraordinary, that possibly it may not be
rreet.
3 Ibid. vol. ii. p. 128.
correct.
3 Observations on Reversionary Payments, vol. ii. p. 421, 7th edition.
4 Memoires, ftc. par la Societe Economique de Berne, 17«6, table v. p. 05.
5 Gottliche Ordnung, vol. i. table xxi. p. 83 of the tables. Malthus, vol. ii. p. 1G8, 5th edition.
6 Menurircs, <$r, par la Sdcittc Economique de Berne, 1706, pp. 11 and 12.
7 Ibid, table xiii. p. 12.
POPULATION.
Popula- The constitution and course of human nature can only
lion. ke determined by experience, and the analogies derived
,7 ^ from it; and the kind of experience necessary to determine
stitution ^ie P°‘nt question is to be obtained only by a reference
and course t0 registers which inform us of the ages at which the born
ot human have died. Now, from the evidence of registers of this kind
nature de- which have been carefully kept in country parishes, it ap-
terminable pears that the age to which half of the born live is much
only by ex- nearer t0 forty than to the age of puberty. Even in Swe-
" ' den, where the general mortality is unquestionably very
great, owing to the poverty of the labouring classes, and
the diseases brought upon them by bad and insufficient
food during seasons of scarcity, the age to which half of
the born live is, as before stated, above thirty-three ;l in
the whole of the Pays de Vaud it is forty-one; in many
particular parishes forty-seven ; in a parish in England not
so healthy as many others, forty-seven ; and as the expec¬
tation of life appears, by the late returns from the parish
registers of Great Britain, to be as high as in Switzerland,
there is little reason to doubt, from the evidence of regis¬
ters, that the age to which half of the born live in this
country can fall but little short of what it is in the Pays
de Vaud, that is, it must be somewhere near forty. But
it will hardly be contended that there is no premature mor¬
tality in Great Britain occasioned by the pressure of po¬
verty, and the effect of large towns and unwholesome oc¬
cupations. Consequently, unless we are prepared to say
that agricultural employments, airy and moderately-sized
towns, cleanliness, healthy occupations, and prudence, are
against the constitution and course of nature, as applied to
reasonable beings, we must acknowledge, that if the con¬
stitution and course of nature were carefully observed, and
the admonitions which they give properly attended to,
half of the born would, in healthy climates, live on an ave¬
rage to forty-five. Taking things, however, as they are,
it is obvious that, according to the testimony of the best
registers, more than half of the born might live to marry in
most countries, even if the average age of marriage was so
late as thirty.
Immediate The immediate cause of the increase of population is the
he?8 ^ excess °f the births above the deaths ; and the rate ot in¬
crease of crease> or the period of doubling, depends upon the pro-
population. portion which the excess of the births above the deaths
bears to the population.
The excess of births is occasioned by, and proportioned
to, three causes: Is/, the prolificness of the marriages ;
2dly, the proportion of the born which lives to marry ;
and, Sdly, the earliness of these marriages compared with
the expectation of life, or the shortness of a generation by
marriage and birth, compared with the passing away of a
generation by death.
In order that the full power of increase should be call¬
ed into action, all these^ircijmstances must be favourable.
The marriages must bC'-^-dfific, owing to their being con¬
tracted early ; the proportion of the born living to marry
must be great, owing both to the tendency to marriage,
and the great proportion of births rising to the age of pu¬
berty; and the interval between the average age of mar¬
riage and the average age of death must be considerable,
owing to the great healthiness of the country, and the ex¬
pectation of life being high. Probably these three causes,
each operating with the greatest known force, have never
yet been found combined. Even in the United States,
though the two first causes operate very powerfully, the
expectation of life, and consequently the distance between
Uie age of marriage and the average age of death, is not so
421
favourable as it might be. In general, however, the excess Popula-
of births which each country can admit being very far short bon.
of the full power of increase, the causes above mentioned '-““'v-'—"
contribute to the required supply in very various propor¬
tions, according to the different circumstances and habits of
each state.
It would be very desirable to know something of these Inferences
proportions, with a view to their influence on the happi-drawn from
ness of society. Our main sources of information on refPster8,
this subject are registers of births, deaths, and marriages;
but in order to draw just inferences from them, we must
consider well what they imply. The following observa¬
tions and rules, modified from Mr Malthus’s chapter on the
fruitfulness of marriages, may be useful for this purpose.
If we suppose a country where the population is station- proportion
ary, where there are no emigrations, immigrations, or ille-of births to
gitimate children, and where the registers are accurate,a marriage,
then the proportion of the annual births to the annual mar¬
riages will accurately express both the number of children
born to each marriage, including second and third mar¬
riages, and also the proportion of the born which lives to
marry once or oftener, while the annual mortality will ac¬
curately express the expectation of life.
But if the population be either increasing or decreas¬
ing, and the births, deaths, and marriages increasing or de¬
creasing in the same ratio, such a movement will necessa¬
rily disturb all the proportions, because the events which
are contemporary in the registers are not contemporary in
the order of nature.
In the first place, the births of any year cannot, in the
order of nature, have come from the contemporary mar¬
riages, but must have been derived principally from the
marriages of preceding years.
If we were to cut off a period of thirty years in the re¬
gisters of any country some time ago, and inquire what
was the number of births which had been produced by all
the marriages included in the period cut off, it is evident,
that with the marriages at the beginning of the period will
be arranged a number of births proceeding from marriages
anterior to it; and at the end a number of births produced
by the marriages included in the period will be found ar¬
ranged with the marriages of a succeeding period. Now,
if we could subtract the former number, and add the lat¬
ter, we should obtain exactly all the births produced by the
marriages of the period, and thus ascertain the real proli¬
ficness of marriages. If the population had been station¬
ary, the number of births to be added would exactly equal
the number to be subtracted, and the proportion of births
to marriages, as found in the registers, would exactly re¬
present the real prolificness of marriages. But if the po¬
pulation be increasing, the number to be added would be
m-eater than the number to be subtracted, and of course
the proportion of births to marriages, as found in the regis¬
ters, would always be too small to represent the true proli¬
ficness of marriages. A contrary effect would take place
in a decreasing population. The question therefore is, w hat
we are to add, and what to subtract, when the births and
deaths are not equal.
The average proportion of births to marriages in Europe,
as taken from registers, is about four to one. Let us sup¬
pose, for the sake of illustration, that each marriage yields
four children, one every other year. In this case, wherever
the period in the registers is begun, the marriages of the
preceding eight years will only have produced half their
births, and the other half will be arranged with the mar¬
riages within the period, and ought to be subtracted from
them. In the same manner the marriages of the last eight
, ^ x, • G:,irp his time the health of the country has increased, like that of
1 We allude to the registers and tables referred to by ]:,r J r,c ; ! ; j deaths jiave decidedly diminished,
most of the countries in Europe, and the proportions ol both the but
422
POPULATION.
Popula- years of the period will only have produced half their births,
ti°n. an(j the other half ought to be added. But half the births
of any eight years may be considered as nearly equal to all
the births of the succeeding three years and three quarters.
In instances of the most rapid increase it will rather exceed
the births of the next three years and a half, and in cases
of slow increase approach towards the births of the next
four years. The mean, therefore, may be taken at tin ee
years and three quarters. Consequently, if we subtract the
births of the first three years and three quarters, and add
the births of the three years and three quarters subsequent
to the period, we shall have a number of births nearly
equal to the number of births produced by all the marriages
included in the period, and, of course, the prolificness of
marriages. But if the population of a country be increas¬
ing regularly, and the births, deaths, and marriages con¬
tinue always to bear the same proportion to each other and
to the whole population, it is evident that all the births of
any period will bear the same proportion to all the births
of any other period of the same extent taken a certain
number of years later, as the births of any single year to
the births of a single year taken the same number of yea™
later. And, consequently, to estimate the prolificness of
marriages, we have only to compare the marriages of the pre¬
sent, or any other year, or the mean of five years, with the
births of a subsequent year, or the mean of five years ta¬
ken three years and three quarters later.
It has been supposed, in the present instance, that each
marriage yields four births; but the proportion of births
to marriages apparent in the registers of most of the coun¬
tries of Europe is four to one, and as the population of
most of the countries of Europe is known to be increasing,
the prolificness of marriages must be greater tnan four. If,
allowing for this circumstance, we take the distance of four
years instead of three years and three quarters, we shall still
be sure of not erring in excess. And though undoubted¬
ly the period which we take, whatever it may be, will not
answer exactly in different countries, yet its application
generally will not be so incorrect as we might at first ima¬
gine, because, in countries where the marriages are more
prolific, the births generally follow at shorter intervals, and
where they are less prolific, at longer intervals; and, with
different degrees of prolificness, the length of the period
might still remain the same.
Probably, however, the period here assumed, which is
the one taken by Mr Malthus, is too short. If, as he says,
there is reason to think, that, in almost all registers, the
omissions in the births and deaths are greater than in the
marriages, there ought to be a greater number of births to
each marriage, in which case it would take a longer time
to have them in ; and if, further, it is probable that a birth
every other year is too rapid a succession for those coun¬
tries where the marriages are frequently late, it may be
thought that the births at the distance of five years will
more nearly represent the prolificness of marriages than at
the distance of four years. But this matter must be left
to the judgment of the reader.
At all events, it will follow, from what has been said,
that the more rapid is the increase of population, the more
will the real prolificness of marriages exceed the proportion
of births to marriages in the registers.
The rule which has here been laid down attempts to es¬
timate the prolificness of marriages, taken as they occur;
but this prolificness should be carefully distinguished from
the prolificness of first marriages, and of married women,
and still more from the natural prolificness of women in
general, taken at the most favourable age. It is probable
Popula.
tion
that the natural prolificness of women is nearly the same in
most parts of the world ; but the prolificness of marriages
is liable to be affected by a variety of circumstances pecu¬
liar to each country, and particularly by the number of se¬
cond, and third, and late marriages. In all countries the
second and third marriages alone form a most important
consideration, and materially influence the average pro¬
portions. According to Sussmilch, in all Pomerania,
from 1748 to 1756 both included, the number of persons
who married were 56,956, and of these 10,586 were wi¬
dows and widowers.1 According to Busching, in Prussia
and Silesia, for the year 1781, out of 29,308 persons who
married, 4841 were widows and widowers;2 and, conse¬
quently, the proportion of marriages will be given fully one
sixth too much. In estimating the prolificness of mar¬
ried women, the number of illegitimate births would tend,
though in a slight degree, to counterbalance the over¬
plus of marriages; and as it is found that the number of
widowers who marry again is greater than the number of
widows, the whole of the correction should not, on this ac¬
count, be applied; but in estimating the proportion of the
born which lives to marry, which is what we are now about
to proceed to, the whole of this correction is always neces¬
sary.
To find the proportion of the born which lives to mar - Proport
ry, from registers, we must consider that the marriages of of the b
any year can never be contemporary with the births from^nwouv
which they have resulted, but must always be at such a dis- 1 ‘
tance from them as is equal to the average age of marriage.
If the population be increasing, the marriages of the
present year have resulted from a smaller number of births
than the births of the present year; and, of course, the
marriages, compared with the contemporary births, will al¬
ways be too few to represent the proportion of the born
which lives to marry, and the contrary will take place if the
population be decreasing ; and to find this proportion, after
having first made the proper correction for second and third
marriages, we must compare the marriages of any year with
the births of a previous year at the distance of the average
age of marriage.3
The third principal object which it is desirable to attain, Expecta
and of which some estimate may be formed from registers, tion ot b
is the expectation of life. It has before been stated, that,
in a country where the births and deaths are equal, the tatc
of the annual mortality will express the expectation of life,
or the average age of death. But it the population be in¬
creasing, the actual population of any one year will be
greater than would belong to the contemporary deaths, sup¬
posing the births equal to the deaths, and less than would
belong to the contemporary births, supposing the deaths
equal to the births. Consequently, if we divide the actual
population by the number of contemporary deaths in an in¬
creasing country, the result will be too high to express the
average age of death belonging to any given number of
births. If wfe divide the actual population by the number
of births, the result will be too low to express this average,
or, in other words, to express the expectation of life. And,
in order to approximate to the true proportion, we are di¬
rected by Dr Price (vol. ii. p. 39, seventh edition), in the
absence of better data, to divide the actual population
by a mean between the propoi’tions of deaths and births.
Consequently, when we know the proportion of births to
deaths in any country, and the proportions which they
usually bear to the whole population, we may form sonrn
estimate of the expectation of life, or the average age of
death.
If we attend to these observations in drawing our infer-
1 Gotiliche Ordnung, vol. i. tables, p. 98. * Malthus, vol. ii. p. 140.
2 It is a shorter and more obvious process to compare the marriages at once with the births of the earlier period, than with the
deaths, as Mr Malthus has done.
POPULATION.
rolific-
fSS of
arnages
Eng-
nd.
Popula- ences from registers, we shall generally be able to form an
tion. approximating estimate of the prolificness of marriages, the
'■"■'•''■“^proportion of the born living to marry, and the expectation
of life, in different countries and places, and under different
circumstances; or if we cannot do this satisfactorily, owing
to the varying rate of increase, and the inaccuracy of the
registers, we shall at least guard ourselves against drawing
incorrect inferences from them in their present state, and
reconcile many of the difficulties with which they appear to
be accompanied.
Thus, to estimate the prolificness of marriages in Eng¬
land, the proportion of the marriages to the births, ac¬
cording to the parochial returns ending with 1820, was
100 to 369; adding one sixth for the omissions in the
births, or on the present occasion only one seventh, in or¬
der to make full allowance for illegitimate births, the pro¬
portion of marriages to births will be as 100 to 422. These
births, at the rate at which the population was increasing
in England and Wales from 1810 to 1820, would, in about
four years and a half, increase ’07, which, added to 4*22,
makes 4*51. Consequently, the prolificness of marriages,
taken as they occur, and including second and third mar¬
riages, would be 4-51. If we wish to estimate the proli¬
ficness of married wromen, we must subtract from the
marriages those which consist of widows who have mar¬
ried again. According to some tables of Sussmilch, this
would be little less than one sixth, according to others
one eighth. If we take one seventh, and deduct it from
the marriages, the proportion will be 1 to 5’26, that is,
each married woman will have 5-26 births. But of these
married women, some have married at above forty-five
years of age, and many more above thirty-five, so that there
can be little doubt that, if the births could be collected
from all the marriages in which the age of the woman did
not exceed thirty-five, nor the age of the man forty-five,
the births w’ould appear to be nearly six ; and this number
would be still further increased if the average age of mar¬
riage for males was twenty-two, and for females twenty.
These conclusions are fully confirmed by some accurate
observations of M. Muret. At Vevay, where the propor¬
tion of marriages to births, in the registers, was as ten to
thirty-nine, he found that 375 mothers had had 2093 chil¬
dren born alive, by which it appears that each mother had
produced 5-55 births. But these, M. Muret observes, were
all mothers, which is not the case of all married women.
Allowing, however, for the usual proportion of barren wives
at Vevay, which was about twenty out of 478, it appears
that the married women, one with another, must have had
above 5’3 births. Yet this was in a town where he inti¬
mates that the inhabitants do not enter into the marriage
state at the time when nature calls them, nor, when mar¬
ried, always have as many children as they might have. It
is evident, therefore, that the proportions of marriages to
births, to be found in registers, require considerable and
important corrections, in order to deduce from them just
estimates of the prolificness of marriages, the prolificness of
married women, and the prolificness of women marrying at
the most favourable age. The instance here given is sufficient
to illustrate the mode in which the rule should be applied,
'^portion If we wish to apply the rule for estimating the proportion
* the born of the born living to marry in England, we must first take
; ^ the proportion of marriages to births in the registers. This
proportion, as before stated, was, during the ten years end¬
ing with 1820, as 100 to 369; which, increased by one
sixth, the supposed omissions in the registers of births will
be as 100 to 430. But the marriages of the present year
must have resulted, not from the births of the present year,
but from the births at such an earlier period in the regis¬
ters as is equal to the average age of marriage. Suppose
this age to be twenty-eight, then, at the rate at which the
population was increasing, the present marriages must have
iarry in
nglcind.
423
resulted from a number of births equal to about two thirds
of the present number, so as to be to the present marriages
in the proportion of 286 instead of 430 to 100. But of theS
200 persons forming the 100 marriages, more than one sixth
have been married before. Deducting, therefore, one sixth
from the marriages, the proportion of the marriages to the
births from which they have resulted will be as 100 to 343 ;
or, out of 343 births, 200 have lived to be married once or
oftener ; from which it would appear, that on account of the
late increase in the healthiness of the country, a greater
proportion had lived to marry than when Mr Malthus last
estimated it; which, together with a sligVt increase in the
prolificness of marriages apparent in the latter registers,
may account for the more rapid increase of the population
from 1810 to 1820. It should be recollected, however, that
as the rate of increase which prevailed from 1810 to 1820
had by no means prevailed during the whole twenty-eight
years, the births, from which 200 person had lived to marry
in 1820, were decidedly more than 343.
It will be observed how very important the correction
for second and third marriages is. Supposing each mar¬
riage to yield four births, and the births and deaths to be
equal, it might at first be thought necessary, that in order
to keep up the population, half of the born should live to
marry; but if, on account of the second and third marriages,
we subtract one sixth from the marriages, and then com¬
pare them with the births, the proportion will be as five to
twenty-four ; and it will appear, that instead of one half, it
will only be necessary, that out of twenty-four births, ten
should live to marry. Upon the same principle, if the births
were to the marriages as four to one, and exactly half of the
born lived to marry, it might be supposed at first that the
population would be stationary ; but if we subtract one
sixth from the marriages, and then compare them with the
births, it will be obvious that, on the supposition of half the
born living to marry, the births at the earlier period in the
registers, at the distance of the age of marriage, must be to
the present births as five to six, which would imply a mo¬
derate rate of increase.
To estimate the proportion of male births living to marry,
we must subtract full one fifth from the marriages; and,
according to this correction, if each marriage yielded four
births, it would only be necessary that two male children
out of five should live to marry, in order to keep up the
population. It is necessary, also, in estimating the propor¬
tion of male births living to marry, to make allowance for
the greater number of males born.
The foregoing illustrations and remarks show the error of
supposing that a country must be in a precarious state when
the proportion of births to marriages in the registers is less
than four to one. If, indeed, this observation were just,
the population of many countries in Europe would be in a
precarious state, as in many countries the proportion is less
than this. But it has been shown in what manner this pro¬
portion in the registers should be corrected, in order to
make it a just representation of the prolificness of mar¬
riages ; and if a large part of the born live to marry, and
the age of marriage be considerably earlier than the expec¬
tation of life, such a proportion in the registers is by no
means inconsistent with a rapid increase of population.
In Russia, the proportion of births to marriages is less
than four to one; yet, on account of the large proportion
of the born living to marry, the early age of marriage, and
the high expectation of life, it is one of the countries in
Europe which increases the fastest. In England, the popu¬
lation increases much more rapidly than in France ; yet in
England the proportion of births to marriages in the regis¬
ters, when allowance has been made for omissions, was, from
1800 to 1810, four to one, while in France it was four and
four fifths to one. (Malthus, vol. ii. p. 161. 5th edit.)
In England, indeed, for the ten years from 1810 to 1821,
Popula¬
tion.
L j
424
POPULATION.
Popula- the proportion of births to marriages seems slightly to have
tion- exceeded the former proportion, being about 4-22 to 1; but
this excess has been accompanied by such a rapidity of in¬
crease as would double the population in less than forty-
six years; and comparing this rapid rate of increase with
the slow increase of France, where the births were to the
marriages as four and four fifths to one, and in Sweden,
where these proportions were as four and one fourth to one,
it follows that the two other causes of the excess of births
above the deaths, besides the prolificness of marriages, must
have very great power* and that the pioportion of births
to marriages, as found in registers, when taken alone, is a
most uncertain criterion of increase.
Expecta- To apply the rule for estimating the average age of death,
tion of life or the expectation of life, in England, we must first ascei-
in Eng- ta;n from the registers the proportions which the births and
lanc1‘ deaths bear to the whole population. The annual average
of the births for the ten years from 1810 to 1821 was
325,506, of the deaths 200,999. Adding one sixth to the
births, and one twelfth to the deaths, for the omission in
the registers, the births will be 3/9,757, and the deaths
217,749. The population of England and Wales, ac¬
cording to the census taken in 1810, was 10,502,500,
in 1821, 12,218,500,1 the mean of which is 11,360,500.
The average births and deaths, compared with the mean
population, give ^ as the proportion of the births, and
TTjyi as ^ie P1’0P0rt‘0n ^ea^s» an^> according to Dr
Price, the mean between them, which in this case is forty-
one, will give the expectation of life. Phis rule, however,
is only a rough approximation, and, in the few cases where
sufficient data have been obtained in progressive countries
for calculating the expectation ol life more accurately, it
has turned out to be much nearer to the annual mortality
than to the mean here referred to; while, according to
the more correct estimates before adverted to, the annual
mortality might, with the same expectation of life, be
in different countries 1 in 39-38, 1 in 41‘97, or 1 in 4P09,
according as the population was stationary, or progressive
at various rates.
This appears in the table which Dr Price himself calcu¬
lated for Sweden (vol. ii. p. 410, 7th edit.), founded on data
which he considered as quite satisfactory. It also appears
in the table for Sweden and Finland, subsequently calcu¬
lated by Mr Milne from similar data, in his Treatise on An¬
nuities and Assurances, vol. ii. p. 569; and, further, in a
table for Sweden and Finland, published in this work,
under the head Mortality. We have also seen a cal¬
culation by Mr Milne, by which it appears that the differ¬
ence between the annual mortality and the expectation of
life goes on increasing with the rate of the increase of the
population to a certain point, but afterwards, owing to the
increasing proportion of young children included in the po¬
pulation, diminishes; and is less when the population doubles
in twenty-five years, than when it doubles in fifty years.
Thus, on the three different suppositions of a stationary po¬
pulation, a population doubling in fifty years, and a popu¬
lation doubling in twenty-five years (all subjected to the
same law of mortality as that which prevailed in Sweden
and Finland during the five years ended with 1805), in the
first case, both the expectation of life and the annual mor¬
tality would be 39’388, and, of course, the expectation of
life would be the same in all the cases ; but in the second
case, the annual mortality would be 1 in 41*971 ; and, in
the third, 1 in 41*096. It would be difficult, however, or
at least premature, without further data, to lay down a ge¬
neral rule, with a view to determine correctly the expec- Popuk.
tation of life at birth, in countries progressive at various v J-lon-
rates. But, from what has been stated, it may safely be -*■" v_%-' i
concluded, that the expectation of life lies very much nearer
the annual mortality, particularly in cases of very rapid in¬
crease, than to the mean proposed by Dr Price ; and that
both the expectation of life, and the age to which half ol
the born live, are, in most countries, and especially in Eng¬
land, at the present time, considerably higher than they
have generally been estimated.
It may be remarked here, in reference to England dur¬
ing the ten years from 1810 to 1821, that the omissions
assumed in the births and deaths do not give such propor¬
tions as to make the increase of population, from the excess
of births above the deaths, answer to the increase deter¬
mined by the two censuses ; an agreement which must ne¬
cessarily take place if both the enumerations and the regis¬
ters are accurate, and no external causes disturb the result.
An addition of one sixth to the births, and one twelfth to
the deaths, seemed to answer correctly for the interval from
1800 to 1810; but to produce the same coincidence under
the more rapid increase of the subsequent ten years, either
a greater allowance must be made for omissions in the
births, or a less allowance for the omissions in the deaths.
If we add one fifth instead of one sixth to the births, re¬
taining one twelfth for the deaths, the excess of births above
deaths in the ten years will be 1,728,587, the excess ac¬
cording to the censuses being 1,716,000; if we add only
one thirtieth to the deaths, retaining one sixth for the
births, the excess will be 1,720,502, within 4502 of the ex¬
cess, as shown by the censuses; whereas, under the ac¬
tual allowances which have been made for omissions, the
excess will be only 1,620,800, leaving a difference of95,200,
and on the wrong side. On account of the almost incredi¬
ble healthiness, considering our great towns and manufac¬
tories, which would be implied by supposing the deaths to
be only deficient one thirtieth, an increased omission in the
births might be thought more probable; but it is believed,
that since 1812 the omissions in the births have been dimi¬
nished rather than increased ; and under this uncertainty it
has been thought better to leave the question as it stands
at present, rather than attempt to determine it on insuffi¬
cient data. It should always be remembered, however, that
if the increase of population by the enumerations is differ¬
ent from the increase of population by the registers, one or
the other must be incorrect.
On the supposition that the omissions in the deaths were Expecta-
only one thirtieth, the average mortality, compared with thetion of life
average population, would be l in 54*7; and the proportion ^
of births, with the addition of one sixth, being, as before
stated, 1 in 29*9, the expectation of life, according to Drnottiie'
Price’s rule, would be 42*3. On the other supposition, ofsamewhen
an omission of one fifth of the births and one twelfth of thethepopu-
deaths, the births would be 1 in 29, and the deaths 1 filiation is
52*17, and the expectation of life would be 40*58.
It appears, then, that when the population of a country
is progressive, it would be erroneous to estimate its healthi¬
ness by the proportion which the annual mortality bears to
the whole population. Healthiness must be measured by
the expectation of life ; and if, with the same expectation of
life, the annual mortality is affected by the rate of increase,
it is obvious that the healthiness of different countries may
be different, with the same rate of annual mortality.
But whilst it is evidently necessary that we should be Mortuary
cautious in inferring that a country is healthy just in pro- ^
portion to the smallness of its annual mortality, we should
be still more cautious in inferring that it is unhealthy at all
the ages under puberty, on account of the number which
1 Preliminary Observations to Population Abstracts, p. 32.
POPULATION.
425
Popula- appear to die in mortuary registers under that age. Here,
tion. as in the preceding case, but in a much greater degree, the
excess of the births above the deaths has a powerful ef¬
fect, but exactly in the opposite direction. When we com¬
pare the annual mortality of an increasing country with its
actual population, we compare with it a number of deaths
which may be said, properly speaking, to belong to an ear¬
lier and smaller number of births, and must necessarily re¬
present the country as more healthy than it really is. On
the other hand, when, in a mortuary register, we compare
the deaths under puberty with those above, if the popula¬
tion be increasing, we evidently compare the deaths belong¬
ing to a much greater number of births than those which
have furnished the deaths above the age of puberty ; and,
consequently, these proportions must represent the country
as much less healthy than it really is.1 According to the
mortuary registers of Sweden for twenty-one years from
1755 to 1776, more than half of the deaths were under fif¬
teen, but it was by no means true that half of the born died
under fifteen.2 In the tables of mortality for Sweden dur¬
ing the same period, constructed by Dr Price, it appears
that half of the born lived to above thirty-three years.3
In the same manner, in drawing inferences from an ab¬
stract of the mortuary registers of the principal cities in
America, Baltimore, Boston, New York, and Philadelphia,
given by Dr Seybert,4 we must take care not to conclude
that the proportions of the deaths which take place under
twenty years of age represent the proportions of any given
number of births in these cities which die under twenty.
As, on account of the excess of the births above the deaths,
all the early ages of the population are more numerous in
proportion than the other, there will necessarily be a greater
proportion of the deaths at these ages than would naturally
belong to a given number of births, if each infant born
were traced to the age of its death.
In the present case, the abstract is only for a year, and
no safe conclusions therefore can be drawn from it; but, so
far as it goes, as even, notwithstanding the increase of po¬
pulation, these mortuary registers show that considerably
less than half of the deaths take place under twenty (on an
average only about 45^ per cent.), it would appear, that in
the early ages of life, even the towns of America are more
healthy than the whole of Sweden from 1755 to 1776. It
should, however, be considered, that though the towns in
America may be increasing fast by procreation, they are
increasing still faster by the influx of inhabitants from the
country; and as these inhabitants generally come to the
towns after the age of sixteen, this accession diminishes the
proportion of persons in the earlier ages of life so much,
that there is probably a larger proportion of mortality at
these ages in the country than in the towns,
riterion One of the most interesting and useful points of view in
the pre- which registers can be considered, is in the proofs which
I hence of they afford of the varying prevalence of the prudential
■straint^ c^ec^ to marriage and population in different countries and
places. It has been not an uncommon opinion, and has
even been strongly expressed of late years, although the
subject has been much better understood than formerly,
that the labouring classes of people, under the circumstances
in which they are placed, cannot reasonably be expected
to attend to prudential considerations in entering upon the
marriage state. But that this opinion does them great in¬
justice, is not only obvious to common observation, by
which we can scarcely fail to see that numbers delay mar- Popula-
riage beyond the period when the passions most strongly tion-
prompt to it, but is proved by the registers of different
countries, which clearly show, .either that a considerable
number of persons of a marriageable age never marry, or
that they marry comparatively late, and that their marriages
are consequently less prolific than if they had married ear¬
lier. As the prudential restraint on marriage may show
itself in either of these ways, it may prevail nearly in the
same degree with a different proportion of the whole popu¬
lation. But on the supposition of the same natural proli¬
ficness in the women of most countries, the smallness of
the proportion of births will generally indicate, with toler¬
able correctness, the degree in which the prudential check
to population prevails, whether arising principally from late,
and consequently unprolific marriages, or from a large pro¬
portion of the population dying unmarried.
Referring, then, to the different proportions of births in
different countries as the best criterion of the different de¬
grees in which the prudential restraint on marriage operates,
it will be recollected that these proportions vary from about
one in thirty-six to about one in nineteen or even seventeen,
in different countries, and in a much greater degree in dif¬
ferent parishes or districts.
A particular parish in the Alps has already been men¬
tioned, where the births were only a forty-ninth part of the
population ; and it appears by the late returns of the parish
registers of England and Wales, that the births in the coun¬
ty of Monmouth are only one in forty-seven, and in Brecon
one in fifty-three ;5 which, after making ample allowance
for omissions, would show the prevalence of the prudential
restraint on marriage in a high degree.
If in any country all were to marry at twenty or twenty-Effect of
one, the proportion of the births would probably be more the absence
than one in nineteen ; and this result would be still more of pruden-
certain if the resources of the country could not support antial .re¬
accelerated rate of increase, than if the means of subsistence!>traiin’
were in the greatest abundance, and the demand for labour
as effectual as it has ever been in the United States. Of
the latter supposition, taking the births at one nineteenth,
and the expectation of life the same as it is in England, the
effect would be to occasion a most rapid increase of popu¬
lation ; and the period of doubling, instead of being about
forty-six or forty-eight years, would be less than in America.
On the other hand, if the resources of the country could not
support a more rapid increase than that which has taken
place in England and Wales during the ten years previous
to the census of 1821, the effect would be a great diminu¬
tion in the expectation of life. If the births were one in
nineteen instead of one in nearly thirty, the same rate of
increase would take place as at present if the annual mor¬
tality were increased to about one in twenty-six and a half;
and in that case the expectation of life would be reduced
in the proportion of from forty-one, or, as is more probable,
from above forty-five, to less than twenty-six.6 This is the
kind of eftect which must inevitably follow the absence of
the prudential check to marriage and population ; and it
cannot be doubted, that a considerable part of the prema¬
ture mortality which is found to take place in all parts of
the world is occasioned by it. The laws of nature, in ap¬
plication to man as a reasonable being, show no tendency to
destroy half of the human race under the age of puberty.
This is only done in very particular situations, or when the
■ In the first ease, the effect is, in a considerable decree, counteracted by the large proportion of children under four years old,
tvhieh a rapid increase occasions. In the second case, the effect has no such d.aw ac . . St„tistica, Annal 48.
1 rice s Observations, vol. n. p. 405, 7th edit. 5 preiiminary observations, p. 27-
-ration ox me xnouun uy —- the same, does not differ very much from the annual mor-
. tlip ten vears from 1810 to 1820, after every abatement, appears to be not
tahty, and the annual mortality in this country dunng the tenjears^^ ^ ^ .a ni.nhnhlv ,Trpnt;r
Ibid, table xlv. vol. ii. p. 413
6 If, as it has appeared, the expectation of life, though by no means
rtality in this country during the ten years
more than one in fifty-one, the expectation of life cannot be less than forty-five, an is pro a y grea er.
VOL. XVIII.
3 H
426
POPULATION.
Popula¬
tion.
Objection
constant admonitions which these laws give to mankind are
obstinately neglected.
It has been said that a tendency in mankind to increase
to theprin-at such a rate as would double the population in twenty-five
ciple of years, and, if it had full scope, would fill the habitable globe
population pe0ple in a comparatively short period, cannot be the
law of nature, as the very different rate of increase which
mortality is actually found to take place must imply such an exces-
it must oc- give degree of mortality and destruction of life as to be
casion. quite irreconcileable with actual facts and appearances. But
the peculiar advantage of a law of increase in a geometri¬
cal progression is, that though its power be absolutely im¬
mense if it be left unchecked, yet, when this becomes im¬
possible, it may be restrained by a comparatively moderate
force. It can never of course happen that any considerable
part of that prodigious increase which might be produced
by an uninterrupted geometrical progression, should exist,
and then be destroyed. The laws of nature, which make
food necessary to the life of man, as well as of plants and
animals, prevent the continued existence of an excess which
cannot be supported, and thus either discourage the pro¬
duction of such an excess, or destroy it in the bud, in such
a way as to make it scarcely perceptible to a careless ob¬
server. It has been seen, that in some countiies of Europe
where the actual progress of the population is slower than
in many others, as in Switzerland and Norway, for in¬
stance, the mortality is considerably less. Here, then, the
necessity of a greater check to the natural progress of po¬
pulation produces no increase of mortality. And it appears
farther, that even the degree of mortality which in each
year would be sufficient to destroy that excess of births
which would naturally, be produced if all married young,
and all could be supported, might take place, and often does
take place in particular situations, and yet is very little no¬
ticed.' About the middle of last century, the mortality in
Stockholm and London was about one in nineteen and one
in twenty. This is a degree of mortality which would pro¬
bably keep the births on a level with the deaths, even
though all married at twenty. And yet numbers resorted
both to Stockholm and London from choice, the greater
part probably not aware that, by so doing, they would
shorten their own lives and those of their children ; and
the rest thinking that the difference was not worth attend¬
ing to, or was at least balanced by the advantages of socie¬
ty and employment which the town presented. There is
nothing, therefore, in the actual state of the mortality ob¬
served to take place in different countries and situations,
which, in the slightest degree, contradicts the supposition
of a natural tendency to increase quite as great as that
which has been stated.
Objection It has been further remarked, that as, in point of fact, it
that mere very rarely happens that mankind continue to increase in a
tendencies geometrical progression of any kind, and only in a single
are not to ;nstance in such a one as to double the population in twen-
dered”81" years, it is useless and absurd to lay any stress upon
tendencies which never for any length of time together
produce their natural effects. But it might really as well
be said, that we are not to estimate the natural rate of in¬
crease in wheat or sheep, as it is quite certain that their
natural tendency to increase has never practically continued
to develope itself for so long a time together as that of
mankind. Both as a physical and even economical ques¬
tion, it is curious and desirable to know the natural law of
increase which prevails among the most important plants
and animals. In the same view, it must be still more in¬
teresting to know the natural law of increase with respect
to man. It may be said, indeed, with truth, that the actual
appearances all around us,—the varying rate of increase in
different countries, its very slow progress or stationary state
in some, and its very rapid progress in others,—must be a
Popula.
tion.
t
mass of anomalies, and quite contrary to the analogies of
all the rest of animated nature ; if the natural tendency of
mankind to increase be not at the least as great as that
which is developed under the most favourable circum¬
stances, while in all others it is kept down by the varying
difficulties which the state of the soil and other obstacles
oppose to it. But the question, as it applies to man, as¬
sumes at once a tenfold importance, in reference to the
moral and political effects which must result from those
checks to increase, the existence and operation of which, in
some form or other, no human exertions can by possibili¬
ty prevent. A field is here opened for the most interest¬
ing inquiries which can engage the friends of human hap¬
piness.
But, as a preliminary to these inquiries, it is obvious that
we must know the degree of force to be overcome, and the
varying character of the checks which, in the different
countries of the world, are practically found to overcome
it; and, for this purpose, the first step must be an endea¬
vour to ascertain the natural law' of population, or the rate
at which mankind w7ould increase under the fewest known
obstacles. Nor can this tendency to increase ever safely
be lost sight of in the subsequent inquiries, which have for
their object the improvement of the moral condition of man
in society.
The existence of a tendency in mankind to increase, if Right of
unchecked, beyond the possibility of an adequate supply of the poor
food in a limited territory, must at once determine thefullsuP-. I
question as to the natural right of the poor to full support P^e£0IW' I
in a state of society where the law of property is recog¬
nised. The question, therefore, resolves itself chiefly into
a question relating to the necessity of those law's which
establish and protect private property. It has been usual
to consider the right of the strongest as the law7 of nature
among mankind as w'ell as among brutes ; yet, in so doing,
wre at once give up the peculiar and distinctive superiority
of man as a reasonable being, and class him with the beasts
of the field. In the same language, it may be said that the
cultivation of the earth is not natural to man. It certainly
is not to man, considered merely as an animal without rea¬
son. But to a reasonable being, able to look forward to
consequences, the law s of nature dictate the cultivation of
the earth, both as the means of affording better support to
the individual, and of increasing the supplies required for
increasing numbers; the dictates of those laws of nature
being thus evidently calculated to promote the general
good, and increase the mass of human happiness. It is
precisely in the same way, and in order to attain the same
object, that the laws of nature dictate to man the estab¬
lishment of property and the absolute necessity of some
power in the society capable of protecting it. So strongly
have the laws of nature spoken this language to mankind,
and so fully has the force of it been felt, that nothing seems
to be thought so absolutely intolerable to reasonable be¬
ings as the prevalence in the same society of the right of
the strongest; and the history of all ages shows, that if men
see no other way of putting an end to it, than by estab¬
lishing arbitrary power in an individual, there is scarcely
any degree of tyranny, oppression, and cruelty, which they
will not submit to from some single person and his satel¬
lites, rather than be at the mercy of the first stronger man
who may wish to possess himself of the fruit of their labour.
The consequence of this universal and deeply-seated feeling,
inevitably produced by the law's of nature, as applied to
reasonable beings, is, that the almost certain consequence of
anarchy is despotism.
Allowing, then, distinctly, that the right of property is
the creature of positive law, yet this law is so early and so
imperiously forced on the attention of mankind, that if it
cannot be called a natural law, it must be considered as
the most natural as well as the most necessary ot all posi-
POPUL
Popula- tive laws; and the foundation of this pre-eminence is its
tion. obvious tendency to promote the general good, and the ob-
vious tendency of the absence of it to degrade mankind to
the rank of brutes.
As property is the result of positive law, and the ground
on which the law which establishes it rests is the promo¬
tion of the public good and the increase of human happi¬
ness, it follows, that it may be modified by the same autho¬
rity by which it was enacted, with a view to the more com¬
plete attainment of the objects which it has in view. It
may be said, indeed, that every tax for the use of the go¬
vernment, and every country or parish rate, is a modifica¬
tion of this kind. But there is no modification of the law
of property having still for its object the increase of human
happiness, which must not be defeated by the concession
of a right of full support to all that might be born. It may
be safely said, therefore, that the concession of such a right,
and a right of property, are absolutely incompatible, and
cannot exist together.
To what extent assistance may be given even by law to
the poorer classes of society when in distress, without de¬
feating the great object of the law of property, is essentially
a different question. It depends mainly upon the feelings
and habits of the labouring classes of society, and can only
be determined by experience. If it be generally consider¬
ed as so discreditable to receive parochial relief, that great
exertions are made to avoid it, and few or none marry with
a certain prospect of being obliged to have recourse to it,
there is no doubt that those who were really in distress
might be adequately assisted, with little danger of a con¬
stantly increasing proportion of paupers ; and in that case
a great good would be attained, without any proportionate
evil to counterbalance it. But if, from the numbers of the
dependent poor, the discredit of receiving relief is so di¬
minished as to be practically disregarded, so that many
marry with the almost certain prospect of becoming pau¬
pers, and the proportion of their numbers to the whole po¬
pulation is in consequence continually increasing, it is cer¬
tain that the partial good attained must be much more than
counterbalanced by the general deterioration in the condi¬
tion of the great mass of the society, and the prospect of
its daily growing worse; so that, though, from the inade¬
quate relief which is in many cases granted, the manner in
which it is conceded, and other counteracting causes, the
operation of poor-laws such as they exist in England might
be very different from the effects of a full concession of the
right, and a complete fulfilment of the duties resulting from
it, yet such a state of things ought to give the most se¬
rious alarm to every friend to the happiness of society, and
every effort consistent with justice and humanity ought to
be made to remedy it. But whatever steps may be taken
on this subject, it will be allowed, that with any prospect of
legislating for the poor with success, it is necessary to be
fully aware of the natural tendency of the labouring classes
of society to increase beyond the demand for their labour,
or the means of their adequate support, and of the effect of
this tendency to throw the greatest difficulties in the way
of permanently improving their condition.
It would lead far beyond the limits which must be pre¬
scribed to this article, to notice all the various objections
which have been made by different writers to the princi¬
ples which have been here explained. Those which con¬
tain in them the slightest degree of plausibility have been
answered by Mr Malthus in various parts of the late edi¬
tions of his work, and particularly in the appendix to the
fifth edition, to which we refer the reader. We will only,
therefore, further notice the objection which has been made
by some persons on religious grounds; for, as it is certainly
of great importance that the answer which has been given
to it should be kept in mind, we cannot refuse a place to a
condensed statement of it at the end of this article.
A T I O N. 427
It has been thought that a tendency in mankind to in- Popula-
crease beyond the greatest possible increase of food which tion-
could be produced in a limited space, impeaches the good-
ness of the Deity, and is inconsistent with the letter and
spirit of the Scriptures. If this objection were wTell found-COnSjtjere(|
ed, it would certainly be the most serious one which has
been brought forward ; but the answer to it appears to be
quite satisfactory, and it may be compressed into a very
small compass.
First, It appears that the evils arising from the principle
of population are exactly of the same kind as the evils
arising from the excessive or irregular gratification of the
human passions in general, and may equally be avoided by
moral restraint. Consequently, there can be no more rea¬
son to conclude, from the existence of these evils, that the
principle of increase is too strong, than to conclude, from
the existence of the vices arising from the human passions,
that these passions are all too strong, and require diminu¬
tion or extinction, instead of regulation and direction.
Secondly, It is almost universally acknowledged, that
both the letter and spirit of revelation represent this wrorld
as a state of moral discipline and probation. But a state of
moral discipline and probation cannot be a state of un¬
mixed happiness, as it necessarily implies difficulties to be
overcome, and temptations to be resisted. Now, in the whole
range of the laws of nature, not one can be pointed out
which so especially accords with this scriptural view of the
state of man on earth ; as it gives rise to a greater variety
of situations and exertions than any other, and marks, in a
more general and stronger manner, and nationally as well
as individually, the different effects of virtue and vice, of the
proper government of the passions, and the culpable indul¬
gence of them. It follows, then, that the principle of popu¬
lation, instead of being inconsistent with Revelation, must be
considered as affording strong additional proofs of its truth.
Lastly, It will be acknowledged, that in a state of pro¬
bation, those laws seem best to accord with the views of a
benevolent Creator, which, while they furnish the difficul¬
ties and temptations which form the essence of such a state,
are of such a nature as to reward those who overcome them
with happiness in this life as well as in the next. But the
law of population answers particularly to this description.
Each individual has the power of avoiding the evil conse¬
quences to himself and society resulting from it, by the
practice of a virtue dictated to him by the light of nature,
and sanctioned by revealed religion. And as there can be
no question that this virtue tends greatly to improve the
condition and increase the comforts both of the individuals
who practise it, and through them of the whole society, the
ways of God to man with regard to this great law are com¬
pletely vindicated.
Subjoined are two tables, which may assist the reader in
calculating the rate of increase in different countries, under
different circumstances, and from different data. The first
is the table calculated by Euler, and printed in Mr Mal-
thus’s work, at the end of his chapter on the Fruitfulness
of Marriage; and the second has been calculated by Mr
Bridge of Cambridge, well known as an able mathematician,
and most useful elementary writer.
The first is to be used when it is wished to estimate the
rate of increase by the proportions of the births to the
deaths, and of these to the whole population. The yearly
increase of people, independently of immigration, is the
yearly excess of the births above the deaths ; and the yearly
rate of increase is measured by the proportion which this
excess bears to the whole population. The fraction ex¬
pressing the deaths must therefore be subtracted from the
fraction expressing the births, and the remainder will be
the fraction expressing the yearly rate of increase ; oppo¬
site to which will be found the number of years in which
k
POPULATION.
428
Popula- the population will double itself, supposing the yearly rate of
tion. increase to continue the same for a sufficient length of time.
v v—^ The second table is to be used when it is wished to
know the period of doubling, resulting from a given per
centage increase in ten years, determined by enumeration.
An estimate of population from births and deaths is always
liable to much uncertainty, on account of the varying pro¬
portions which they bear to the population. The only re¬
medy for this uncertainty is a census; and as the useful
custom of taking a census of the population every ten years Popula.
has latterly prevailed in some countries, the second table is boa
constructed to show the period of doubling, or general rate
of increase, which results from any given per centage in¬
crease in ten years. The first column represents the per
centage increase in ten years determined by two enumera¬
tions ; and the second column the number of years in which
the population will double itself, supposing it to proceed at
the same rate. (y.y.y.y.)
TABLE I.
The Propor¬
tion of the
Excess of
Births above
the Deaths
to the whole
of the Living.
Periods of
Doubling in
Years and
Ten Thou¬
sandth Parts
10
11
12
13
14
^ 15
16
17
18
19*
L20
1 : <1
f21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
7-2722
7- 9659
8- 6595
9- 3530
100465
10- 7400
11- 4333
12- 1266
12-8200
13- 5133
14- 2066
The Propor¬
tion of the
Excess of
Births above
the Deaths
to the whole
of the Living.
Periods of
Doubling in
Years and
Ten Thou¬
sandth Parts
1:
110
120
130
140
150
160
170
180
190
L200
14- 9000
15- 5932
16- 2864
16- 9797
17- 6729
18- 3662
19- 0594
19- 7527
20- 4458
21- 1391
f210
220
230
240
250
260
270
280
290
1300
76-5923
83-5230
90-4554
97-3868
104-3183
111-2598
118-1813
125-1128
132-0443
138-9757
145-9072
152-8387
159-7702
166-7017
173-6332
180-5647
187-4961
194-4275
201-3590
208-2905
1 :
('32
34
36
38
40
42
44
46
48
150
22- 5255
23- 9119
25- 2983
26- 6847
28- 0711
29- 4574
30- 8438
32- 2302
33- 6161
350029
1:
f 310
320
330
340
350
360
370
380
390
1400
215-2220
222-1535
229-0850
236-0164
242-9479
249-8794
256-8109
263-7425
270-6740
277-6055
1:
f 55
60
65
70
75
80
85
90
95
L100
38-4687
41-9345
45-4003
48-8661
52-3318
55-7977
59-2634
62-7292
66-1950
69-6607
1:
f 410
420
430
440
450
460
470
480
490
L500
284-5370
291-4685
298-4000
305-3314
312-2629
319-1943
326-1258
333-0573
339-9888
346-9202
1: 1000
693-49
TABLE II.
Per Cent,
age In¬
crease in
Ten Years.
Period of
Doubling.
Per Cent¬
age In¬
crease in
Ten Years.
Period of
Doubling.
1-
1- 5
2-
2- 5
3-
3- 5
4-
4- 5
5-
5- 5
6-
6- 5
7-
7- 5
8-
8- 5
9-
9-5
10-
10- 5
11-
11- 5
12-
12- 5
13-
13- 5
14-
14- 5
15-
15- 5
16-
16- 5
17-
17- 5
18-
18- 5
19-
19- 5
20-
20- 5
21-
21- 5
22-
22- 5
23-
Years.
696-60
465-55
350-02
280-70
234-49
201-48
176-73
157-47
142-06
129-46
118-95
110-06
102-44
95-84
90-06
84-96
80-43
76-37
72-72
69-42
66-41
63-67
61-12
58-06
56-71
54-73
52-90
51-19
49-59
48-10
46-70
45-38
44-14
42-98
41-87
40-83
39-84
38-91
38-01
37-17
36-36
35-59
34-85
34-15
33-48
23- 5
24-
24- 5
25-
25- 5
26-
26- 5
27-
27- 5
28-
28- 5
29-
29-5
SO-
SO-S
31-
31- 5
32-
32- 5
33-
33- 5
34-
34- 5
35-
35- 5
36-
36- 5
37-
37- 5
38-
38- 5
39-
39- 5
40-
41-
42-
43-
44-
45-
46-
47-
48-
49-
50-
Years.
32-83
32-22
31-63
31-06
30-51
29-99
29-48
28-99
28-53
28-07
27-65
27-22
26-81
26-41
26-03
25-67
25-31
24-96
24-63
24-30
23-99
23-68
23-38
2309
22-81
22-54
22-27
22-01
21-76
21-52
21-28
21-04
20-82
20-61
20-17
19-76
19-37
19-00
18-65
18-31
17-99
17-68
17-38
17-06
I or the population of the British Islands, see the articles England, Scotland, and Ireland.
POPULATION OF GREAT BRITAIN
For 1841.
COMPARATIVE STATEMENT
OF THE
POPULATION IN 1801, 1811, 1821, 1831, & 1841,
SHOWING THE INCREASE OR DECREASE IN EACH COUNTY.
ENGLAND.
Bedford
Berks
Buckingham
Cambridge
Chester
Cornwall
Cumberland
Derby
Devon
Dorset .
Durham
Essex
Gloucester
Hereford
Hertford
Huntingdon
Kent
Lancaster
Leicester
Lincoln
Middlesex
Monmouth
Norfolk
Northampton
Northumberland
Nottingham
Oxford
Rutland
Salop
Somerset
Southampton (Hants)
Stafford
Suffolk .
Surrey
Sussex
Warwick
Westmoreland
Wilts
Worcester
York (East Riding)
City of York and Ainstey
York (North Riding)
York (West Riding)
England
63.393
109.215
107444
89,34'I
191.751
188.269
117-230
161.142
343,001
115,319
160,361
226,437
250.809
89,191
97.577
37.568
307.624
672.731
130.081
208.557
818,129
45.582
273 371
131.757
157.10!
140.350
109,620
16 356
167,639
273,750
219,656
239.153
210.431
269,043
159.311
208,190
41.617
185,107
139 333
11 o.992
24.393
158.225
565,282
Increase
per Cent.
8,331,434
11
8
9
13
18
15
14
15
12
8
11
11
12
5
14
12
21
23
16
14
17
36
7
7
9
16
9
' 16 '
12
12
21
11
20
19
10
10
5
15
16
12
7
16
70.213
118 ,77
117.650
101,109
227,031
216,667
133.744
185,487
383.3<'8
124,693
177,625
252,473
285 514
94.073
111,654
42,208
373.095
828.309
150,419
237-891
953,276
62,127
291,999
141,353
172.161
162,900
119.191
16,380
194,298
303,180
245,080
295.153
234.211
323.851
190 083
228.735
45,922
193.828
160,546
134 437
27,304
169.391
655,042
9,538,827
Increase
per Cent.
19
11
14
20
19
19
17
15
15
16
17
15
18
10
16
15
14
27
16
19
20
15
18
15
15
15
15
13
6
17
15i
17
15
23
22
20
12
15
15
14
12
1)
22
17i
1821.
83,716
131.977
134,068
121.909
270,098
257.447
156,124
213,333
439,040
144,499
207,673
289.424
335 843
103.243
129,714
48.771
426 016
1,052 859
174 571
283.058
1,144,531
71,833
344.368
162.483
198965
186,873
136,971
18.487
206,153
355,314
283.298
345,895
270,542
398,658
233.019
274,392
51,359
222,157
184.424
154,010
30,451
187,452
801,274
Increase
pei Cent.
11,261,437
14
10
9
18
24
17
10
11
13
10
22
10
15
7
10
9
12
27
13
12
19
36
13
10
12
20
II
5
8
13
11
19
9
22
17
23
7
8
15
10
17
2
22
Increase
per Cent.
95,483
145,; 89
146,529
143.955
334,391
300 938
169,681
237.170
494.478
159.252
253,9)0
317,507
387,019
111,211
143,341
53,192
479.155
1,336,854
197,003
317,465
1,358,330
98,130
390,054
179,336
222,912
225,327
152.156
19,385
222.938
404,200
314,280
410 512
296 317
486.334
272,340
336.610
55,041
240.156
211,365
168,891
35.362
190,756
976,350
13,091,005
1841.
107,937
160,226
155,989
164,509
395,300
341,269
177,912
272.202
1533,731
174,743
324,277
344,995
431.307
11-1,438
157,237
58,699
548,161
1,667,064
215,855
362,717
1,576,616
134,349
412,621
199,061
250.268
249,773
161,573
21,340
239.014
436,002
354.940
510,206
315,129
582,613
' 299,770
402,121
56,469
260,007
233,484
193.676
38,322
204.662
1,154,924
14,995,508
WALES.
Counties.
Anglesey
Brecon
Cardigan
Carmarthen
Carnarvon
Denbigh
Flint
Glamorgan
Merioneth
Montgomery
Pembroke
Kadnor
Wales
33,806
31,633
42.956
67,317
41,521
60,352
39,622
71,525
27.506
47.978
56,280
19.050
541,546
Increase
per Cent.
37,045
37,735
50,260
77,217
49,336
64.240
46.518
85,067
30,924
51,931
60,615
20,900
611,788
Increase
per Cent.
1821.
45,063
43,603
57.784
90.239
57,958
76,511
53.784
101,737
34,382
59,899
74,009
22,459
717,438
Increase
per Cent.
48.325
47.763
64.780
100,740
66.448
83,629
60,012
126,612
35,315
66,482
81,425
24,651
806,182
Increase
per Cent.
5-3
11-8
5- 5
6-
22-
C-7
10'8
37-
11-1
41
79
21
13-
50,890
53,295
68,380
106,482
81,068
89,291
66.547
173,462
39,238
69,220
88 262
25,186
911,321
POPULATION FOR 1841
SCOTLAND.
Aberdeen
Argyll
Ayr
Banff .
Berwick
Bute .
Caithness
Clackmannan
Dumbai ton .
Dumfries
Edinburgh
Elgin (Moray) .
Fife
Forfar . ,
Haddington .
Inverness
Kincardine
Kinross
Kirkcudbright
Lan irk
Linlithgow
Nairn .
Orkney and Shetland
Peebles
Perth
Renfrew
Ross and Cromarty
Roxburgh .
Selkirk .
Stirling
Suthei land
Wigton
Scotland .
1801.
123.082
71.859
84 300
35.807
30,021
11,791
22,009
10,858
20.710
54.597
122.954
26.705
93.743
99.127
29,"86
74.292
26.349
6.725
29.211
146.699
17,844
8,257
46.824
8,735
126.360
78 050
55,343
33.682
5.070
50 825
23.117
22,918
1,599,068
Increase
per
Cent.
135.075
103.954
36.668
30.779
12,033
23,419
12,010
24.189
62,960
148.607
28.108
101.272
107,264
31,164
78.336
27,439
7,245
33,084
191.752
19,451
8.251
46.153
9.935
135,093
92,596
60,853
37.230
5.889
58,174
23.629
26.891
Increase
per
Cent.
1821.
155.387
97.316
127.299
43 56!
13,797
30 238
13.263
27.317
70,878
191.514
31 102
114,556
113.430
35,127
90,157
29,118
7,762
38.903
244,387
22,685
. 9.006
53.124
10,046
139,050
112.175
68,828
40.892
6,637
65,376
23.840
33,240
2,093,456
per
Cent.
1831.
177,657
100 973
145,055
48,604
31,048
14,151
31 529
14,729
33,211
73.770
219 345
34,131
128.839
139,600
36,145
94.797
31.431
9 072
40,590
316 819
23,291
9.354
58,239
10.578
142.894
133,443
74,820
43,663
6.833
72,621
25,518
2,365,114
Increase or Decrease
per Cent. 1841.
Increase. Decrease.
8-2
13-4
3-
IT
10-9
4- 8
29-7
33-3
2-2
8-9
22-
S'*
51
1-2
34-8
15-2
” 4-3
15- 9
5-5
5-3
16- 9
13T
3-4
192 283
97,140
164,522
50 076
34 427
15,695
36,197
19,116
44,295
72,825
225.623
34,994
140,310
170.400
35,781
97.615
3.3,052
8,763
41,099
427,113
26,848
9,218
60.796
10,520
138,151
154.755
78,980
46,003
7,989
82.179
24,666
39.179
2,620,610
ISLANDS IN THE BRITISH SEAS.
ISLA!*nS.
Jersey  
Guernsey, Alderney, Sark,7
Ilerm, and Jethou j
Man 
Total
Increase
per
Cent.
Increase
per
Cent.
28,600
20,827
40,081
89,508
Increase
per
Cent.
27 9
25-4
2 2
15-8
36,582
26,128
41.000
103,710
Increase
per
Cent.
30-
9-2
17-
19 6
47,556
28,538
47,985
124,079
SUMMARY.
GREAT BRITAIN, AND ISLANDS IN THE BRITISH SEAS.
COMPARATIVE POPULATION*
England
Wales ....
Persons ascertained to)
have been travelling |
by Railways and Ca- J-
nals during the night I
QfJuneO, 1841 . J
England and Wales
Scotland
Islands in the British-)
Seas . . . j
Great Britain
8,331,434
541,546
8,872,980
1,599,068
10,472,048
14)
13
1811-
Increase
per
Cent.
9,538.827
611 788
10,150,615
l,805,6s8
14-2 j 11,956,303
17
176t
1821.
11,261,457
717,438
il 978.875
2,093,456
89,508
14,161,839
Increase
per
Cent.
13,091.005
806,182
13.897.187
2,3 5,114
103,710
16,366,011
Increase or Decrease
per Cent. 1841.
Increase. Decrease.
14-5
13-
14-5
10-8
19 6
14-
14,995,508
911,321
4,896
15,911,725
2,620,610
124,079
18,656,414
This Return includes only such part of the Army, Navy, and Merchant Seamen as were at. the time of the Census within the Kingdom on shore,
t 1 or the purposes of comparison with the total of 1811, the Population of the Channel Islands, as taken in 1821, has been omitted.
POPULATION FOR 1841
POPULATION WITHIN EACH PARLIAMENTAPcY BOUNDARY IN SCOTLAND IN 1841.
Name op Cities
or Royal and Parliamentary
Burghs.
Cities returning TVio Members each:—
Edinburgh ....
Glasgow 
Cities and Towns returning One
Member each :—
Aberdeen 
Dundee 
Greenock* 
Paisley* .....
Perth 
Combined Burghs, and Towns or Dis
tricts. returning One Member :—
Ayr District—
Ayr, and Newton upon Ayr
Irvine 
Campbeltown ....
Inverary .....
Oban*  
Total  
Dumfries District—
Annan  
Dumfries and Maxwelltown .
Kirkcudbright
Lochmaben 
Sanquhar  
Total 
Elgin District—
Banff and Macduff
Cullen  
Elgin 
Inverury . . . .
Kintore 
Peterhead* ....
Total ......
Falkirk District—
Airdrie* . . .
Falkirk* 
Hamilton* 
Lanark   
Linlithgow .....
Total 
Haddington District—
Dunbar  
Haddington ....
Jedburgh ....
Lauder  
North Berwick ....
Total 
Inverness District—
Forres 
Fortroso .....
Inverness 
Nairn 
Total 
Males.
58,642
126,464
27.277
29,210
17 440
22,064
8,498
7,148
1,937
2,902
547
604
13,138
1,519
5.817
1,072
621
804
9,863
2,354
711
2,259
832
219
2,465
8,840
6,681
3,9a9
4,074
2,140
2 0j2
18.986
1,360
1,796
1,518
578
470
5,722
1,299
409
5,009
1,032
7,749
75,050
140,969
35,623
18,481
26,061
8,699
2,657
3,885
593
794
16,628
1,802
7,506
1,534
707
915
12,464
2,965
853
2,957
899
245
3,293
11,212
5,735
4.210
4,650
2.346
1,932
18,873
1,627
1,981
1,759
570
551
6,488
1,899
542
6,583
1,356
10,380
Totals.
133,692
267,463
62,900
34,615 j 63,825
35,921
48,125
18,281
15,847
4,594
6,787
1,140
1,398
29,766
3,321
13.353
2.606
1.328
1,719
22,327
5,319
1,564
5,216
1,731
464
5,758
20,052
12,416
8 209
8,724
4,486
4,024
37,859
2,987
3,777
3,277
1,148
1,021
12,210
3,198
951
11,592
2,388
18,129
Name op Cities
or Royal and Parliamentary
Burghs.
Kilmarnock District—
Dumbarton
Kilmarnock*
Renfrew
Rutherglen
Port Glasgow*
Total
Kirkaldy District—
Burntisland
Dysait
K inghorn .
Kirkaldy
Total
Leith District—
Le.th* .
Portobello*
Musselburgh*
Total . .
Montrose District—
Aberbrothwick or Arbroa
Brechin
Forfar .
Inverbervie or Bervie
Montrose
Total
St. Andrews District-
Anstruther, Easter
Anstruther, Wester
trail
Cupar
Kilrenny
Pittenweem
St. Andrews
Total
Stirling District-
Culross
Dunfermline
Inver keithing
Queensferry
Stirling
Total
Wick District—
Cromarty*
Dingwall .
Dornoch
Kirkwall .
Tain
Wick
Total
Wigton District¬
's Galloway
Stranraer
Whithorn
Wigtown
Total
Males.
2,163
9,189
949
2,816
3,134
18,251
811
3,228
666
2,634
7,339
11,979
1,403
2,958
16,340
6,781
2,675
3,659
424
6,130
19,669
448
148
520
2,341
791
576
1,947
6,771
237
6,741
840
589
5,022
13,429
809
764
201
1,222
839
2,595
6,430
212
2,166
681
848
3,907
Persons.
Females.
2.239
10,209
1,064
2,806
3,804
20,122
1,048
3,830
889
3,070
8,837
14,047
2,184
3,408
19,639
7,810
3,232
4,340
440
7,681
23,503
566
191
707
2,821
928
733
2,518
8,464
365
6,582
987
644
5,723*
14,301
1,130
962
250
1,819
1,028
2,927
8,116
218
2,723
832
1,022
4,795
Totals.
4,402
19,398
2,013
5,622
6,938
38,373
1,859
7,058
1,555
5,704
16,176
26,026
3,587
6,366
35,979
14,591
5,907
7.999
864
13,811
43,172
1,014
339
1,227
5,162
1,719
1,309
4,465
15,235
602
13,323
1,827
1,233
10,745
27,730
1,939
1,726
451
3,041
1,867
5,522
14,546
430
4,889
1.513
1,870
8,702
* Burghs which have a Parliamentary Representation, but are not Royal Burghs.
GREAT BRITAIN, AND ISLANDS IN THE BRITISH SEAS.
COMPARATIVE STATEMENT OF HOUSES.
England
Wales' . • • •
England and Wales
Scotland . . • ■
Islands in the British Seas
Great Britain
Inhabited
Houses.
2,326,022
155,522
Uninhabited
Houses.
2,481.544
369,393
15,658
2,866,595
113,885
6,030
119.915
12.719
697
133,331
Building.
23.462
1.297
24.759
2,568
226
27,553
Inhabited
Houses.
2,753.295
188,196
2,941,491
503,451
19,159
3,464,101
Uninhabited
Houses.
162,756
10,133
172.889
24,295
865
198,049
Building.
25,882
1,769
27,651
2,763
220
POPULATION OF THE UNITED STATES,
ACCORDING TO SIX ENUMERATIONS.
From the Official Revision.
States.
Maine
New Hampshire
Vermont
Massachusetts
Khode Island .
Connecticut
New York
New Jersey
Pennsylvania ,
Delaware
Maryland
Virginia
North Carolina
South Carolina '
Georgia
Alabama
Mississippi
Louisiana
Arkansas
Tennessee
Kentucky
Ohio
Michigan
Indiana
Illinois
Missouri
District of Columbia
Florida Teriitory
Wisconsin do.
Iowa do.
Total
1790.
1800.
96,540
141,899
85,416
378,717
69,110
238,141
340,120
184,139
434,373
59.098
319,728
748.308
393,751
249.073
82,548
35,791
73,077
151,719
183,762
154,465
423,245
69,122
251,002
586.756
211.949
602,365
64,273
341,548
880,200
478,103
345,591
162,101
8,850
105,602
220,955
45,365
' 4,875
' 14,093
3,929,827
5,305,925
1810.
1820.
228705
214,360
217,713
472,040
77,031
262,042
959,949
249,555
810,091
72,674
380,546
974,622
555,500
415,115
252 433
20,845
40,352
76,556
261,727
406,511
230,760
4,762
24,520
12,282
20,845
24,023
298,335
244.161
235,764
523,287
83,059
275,202
1,372,812
277,575
1,049,458
72,749
407,350
1,065,379
638,829
502,741
340,987
127,901
75,448
153,407
14,273
422,813
564.317
581,434
8,896
147,178
55,211
66,586
33,039
7,239,814
9,638,131
1830.
399,955
269,328
280,652
610,408
97,199
£97,665
1,918.608
320.823
1,348,233
76,748
447,040
1,211,405
737,987
581,185
516.823
309,527
136,621
215,739
30,388
681,904
687,917
937,903
31,639
343,031
157,455
140,445
39,834
34,730
1840.
501,793
284,574
291,948
737,699
108,830
309,978
2,428,921
373.306
1,724,033
78.085
469.232
1,239,797
753,419
594,398
691,392
590,756
375,651
352,411
97,574
829.210
779,828
1,519,467
212,267
685,866
476,183
383.702
43,712
54,477
30,945
43,112
12,866,920 | 17,062,566
SLAVES IN THE UNITED STATES,
ACCORDING TO SIX ENUMERATIONS.
Maine
New Hampshire
Vermont
Massachusetts
Rhode Island
Connecticut
New York
New Jersey
Pennsylvania
Delaware
Maryland
Virginia
North Carolina
South Carolina
Georgia
Alabama
Mississippi
Louisiana
Arkansas
Tennessee
Kentucky .
Ohio
Michigan
Indiana
Illinois
Missouri
District of Columbia
Florida Territory
Wisconsin do.
Iowa do.
Total
1790.
0
158
17
0
952
2,759
21,324
11,423
3,737
8,887
103,036
203,427
100,572
107,094
29,264
3,417
11,830
0
8
0
0
381
951
20,343
12,422
1,706
6,153
105,635
345,796
133,296
146 151
59,404
’ 3,489
13,584
40,343
135
3,244
697,897
893,041
0
0
0
0
103
310
15.017
10,851
795
4,177
111.502
392,518
168.824
196,365
105,218
17,088
34,660
44,535
80,561
24
237
168
3,011
5,395
1830.
1,191,364
0
0
0
0
48
97
10,088
7,657
211
4,509
107,398
425,153
295,017
258,475
149,656
41.879
32,814
69,064
1,617
80,107
126,732
190
917
10,222
6,377
1,538,064
0
0
0
0
17
25
75
2,254
403
3,292
102,294
469,757
245,601
315,401
217,531
117,549
65,659
109,588
4,576
141,603
165,213
0
32
0
*747
25,081
6,119
15,501
2,009,031
0
1
0
0
5
17
4
674
64
2,605
89,495
448,987
245,817
327,038
280,944
253,532
195,211
168,452
19,935
183,059
182,258
3
3
331
58,240
4,694
25,717
11
16
2,487,113
* Not slaves, but “ indented coloured servants.'
429
PORCELAIN.
Porcelain. Porcelain, in its more general signification, comprehends
a]l kinds of earthen ware, which are white, semitransparent,
and have some degree of a vitreous texture. Hence, in
this extensive meaning of the term, it includes all kinds of
pottery, stoneware, delft ware, &c. But in a more limited
sense, the word Porcelain is employed to denote only the
finer kinds of earthen ware ; and because this kind of ware
has been, from time immemorial, manufactured in the great¬
est degree of perfection in China, it has obtained the name
of Chinese Porcelain, or China Ware.
Periva- In the Chinese language, porcelain is denoted by the
tionofthe word tse-ki, so that the derivation of the term is not to be
name. sought for in that language ; and hence it is supposed to be
of European extraction, and to be derived from the Portu¬
guese, in which language the wordporcellano signifies a cup
or vessel.
Force- The first porcelain which was seen in Europe was brought
lain first from Japan and China. Itswhiteness, transparency, and fine-
brought nesg 0f texture, with its elegance and beautiful colours, soon
introduced it as an ornament of the tables of the rich and
&n ma powerful, whilst, at the same time, it excited the admiration
and industry of the European manufacturer. Attempts
were accordingly made to imitate this kind of ware, in dif¬
ferent countries of Europe. The first European porcelains
were made in Saxony. The manufacture was afterwards in¬
troduced into France, and successively into England, Ger¬
many, and Italy, where it has arrived at various degrees of
perfection, according to the nature of the materials which
can be obtained, and the industry and ingenuity of the artist
who superintends and directs it. But after all, to whatever
degree of perfection the manufacture of this ware has attain¬
ed in Europe, it must still yield, in excellence and perfec¬
tion, to the porcelain of eastern countries.
Antiquity Of the antiquity of the manufacture of porcelain in China,
of the Chi-little precise information can be expected from a people who
nese manu-kave always shown themselves so extremely averse to the
acture. freedom of intercourse with other nations. But it is said that
the village or town of King-te-ching has furnished the em¬
perors of China with porcelain since the year 442 of the
Christian era; and that it is an object of so much attention
to the Chinese government, that the manufacture is carried
on under the superintendence of one or two mandarins sent
from court.
1. History of the Manufacture of Porcelain in China.
The fullest account which has as yet been received in
Europe of the manufacture of Chinese porcelain, has been
given by Father D’Entrecolles, a Catholic missionary, who
lived for some time in the village or town where the prin¬
cipal manufactory was established. The account which lias
been given by the Jesuit of this village, and of the manu¬
facture of porcelain, is extremely interesting.
This village or town, which is celebrated as producing
the best porcelain of China, is in the province of Kiang-si,
and is said to be a league and a half in length, contain¬
ing not less than 1,000,000 of inhabitants. Other manu¬
factories, indeed, have been established in different parts of
. the Chinese empire, and particularly in those places which
are convenient for the European trade, as in the provinces
ofFo-kien and Canton ; but the porcelain produced at these
is said to be held in inferior estimation. A Chinese emperor
wishing to have a manufacture of porcelain under his own
inspection at Pekin, ordered workmen to be collected for
the purpose, with all the necessary materials and imple- Porcelain,
ments ; but after erecting furnaces and other expensive ope-
rations, the attempt failed, so that, in the time of D’Entre¬
colles, King-te-tching continued to be the most celebrated
place in China for beautiful porcelain; and from this it was
transported to all parts of the world.
The chief ingredients which enter into the composition Materials
of fine porcelain are petuntse and kaolin, two kinds of earth employed
from the mixture of which the paste is obtained. The pe-in its com-
tuntse is of a pure white, and, when fully prepared, is inPOSitlon-
the form of an impalpable powder, so that it is very fine to
the touch. The kaolin, he observes, is intermixed with small
shining particles. These materials are carried to the manu¬
factory in the shape of bricks. The petuntse originally con¬
sists of the fragments of rock dug out from certain quarries,
and reduced to powder ; and the colour of the stone which
answers the purpose best, according to the Chinese, inclines
somewhat to green. The fragments of rock are broken to
pieces with a large iron club ; they are then put into mor¬
tars, and by means of levers headed with hard stone, strong¬
ly secured with iron, they are reduced to the state of fine
powder. The levers, it is scarcely necessary to observe,
are moved either by the labour of men, or by water. J he
powder, which is afterwards collected, is then thrown into a
large vessel full of water, which is strongly agitated with an
iron shovel. When this mixture has been allowed to settle
for some time, a substance resembling cream rises to the
top, which is skimmed off, and poured into another vessel
also filled with water. The water in the first vessel is
again agitated, and the frothy substance which rises to the
surface is collected as before, and the same operation is re¬
peated till it appear that nothing remains but a coarse se¬
diment which falls to the bottom by its own weight. This
sediment is then carefully collected, and again subjected to
the process of pulverization.
The fluid in the second vessel is allowed to remain at rest
till a sediment is produced, forming a kind of crust at the
bottom ; and when the water above seems to be quite
transparent, it is poured off by gently inclining the vessel,
that the sediment may not be disturbed. The paste is then
put into large moulds, and allowed to dry slowly; but before
it becomes quite hard, it is divided into small square cakes,
which are sold by the hundred. This is the substance
wdiich is called by the Chinese petuntse, and the name is
said to be derived from the colour and form of this paste.
The kaolin, the other substance which is employed in
the fabrication of porcelain, requires fewer operations in its
preparation than the former, as it is found in nature in a
state almost ready for the manufacturer. Of this substance
it is said, that there are extensive mines in certain moun¬
tains the external strata of which are composed of a kind
of red earth. The kaolin is found in these mines in small
lumps, and it is formed into bricks by being subjected to a
similar process with the petuntse. , , .
The fine porcelain, it has been observed, derives its fa- Nature ot
brie and texture from the kaolin. It is to this that the quali-tlejbn^
ties which it possesses of resisting the most powerful heatT
is owing; whilst its strength and consistency is obtained by
fusion with the petuntse, which enables it to resist the ac¬
tion of the more powerful agents. D’Entrecolles relates an
anecdote which he received from a rich Chinese merchant,
that the English and Dutch having purchased a quantity ot
petuntse, conveyed it to Europe for the purpose of manu-
430
PORCELAIN.
Porcelain, facturing porcelain ; but having procured none of the kao-
iin> the attempt failed. They wanted, added the Chinese
with a smile, to form a body, the flesh of which would sup¬
port itself without bones.
Substitute It is said that the Chinese have latterly discovered a new
lor kaolin, substance which may be employed in the composition of
porcelain. This stone is called hoa-che, the first part
of the word signifying glutinous, because it is of a sapo¬
naceous quality. Porcelain made with this substance is
very rare, and bears a much higher price than any other.
The grain is extremely fine, and the painting with which
it is ornamented, when compared with that of common por¬
celain, appears to exceed it as much as vellum surpasses
paper. This variety of porcelain, it is added, is also re¬
markable for its lightness. It is besides much more brittle,^
and it is found very difficult to hit upon the proper degree of
heat for tempering it. This substance, we are farther in¬
formed, is but rarely employed in the fabrication of the
body of the porcelain ; the reason of which perhaps is, the
scarcity and high price of this precious article, in conse¬
quence of which the workman is contented with making it
into a fine size, into which the vessel is immersed when it is
dry, that it may receive a coat before.it is painted and glaz¬
ed ; and by this process he finds that he can commmunicate
to the ware a very high degree of beauty. The previous pro¬
cesses employed in the preparation of this substance are si¬
milar to those which are followed in the preparation of kao¬
lin. When hoa-che is extracted from the mine, it is washed
in rain or river water, for the purpose of separating a yellow¬
ish earth with which it is contaminated. It is then reduc¬
ed to powder, thrown into a vessel filled with water, and
then formed into cakes. The hoa-che prepared in this
manner, without the addition of any other earth, is said to
be alone sufficient in the fabrication of porcelain. It is em¬
ployed, as has already been noticed, as a substitute for kao¬
lin ; but, on account of its scarcity, it is much dearer. The
price of the former is three times that of the latter, and
from this circumstance the value of porcelain made with
hoa-che is much higher than that which is manufactured
with kaolin.
Material The principal ingredients in the fabrication of porcelain
for glazing are petuntse and kaolin; but to these must be added the
porcelain. glaze or varnish, or, as it is called in the account given of
Chinese porcelain, the oil, on which depend its splendour and
whiteness. This varnish is of a whitish colour, and is ob¬
tained from the same kind of stone which yields the pe¬
tuntse ; but for this purpose the whitest stone is always pre¬
ferred. The glaze is obtained by a process similar to that
which is followed in the preparation of petuntse. The stone
is first washed and reduced to powder ; it is then thrown into
a vessel filled with,water, and after being purified, a frothy
matter rises to the surface. To 100 pounds of this matter,
one pound of a substance called che-kao, is added. This
latter is a saline substance, somewhat like alum, which is
put into the fire, and allowed to remain till it become red ■
hot, when it is reduced to powder. By the addition of
this substance the glaze acquires a greater degree of con¬
sistence ; but at the same time a proper degree of fluidity
must be preserved. The glaze prepared in this manner is
not employed alone. Another glaze is mixed with it, which
is obtained from lime and ashes; to 100 pounds weight of
which is also added one pound of che-kao, or the alumin¬
ous substance mentioned above. When the two substances
are mixed, it is necessary to attend that they be nearly of
the same consistence, and the workman ascertains this point
by dipping into each of them some cakes of petuntse ; and
by a close examination of their surfaces after they are drawn
out, he is able to judge of the consistence of the fluids.
I he proportions oi the two which are usually employed, are
ten parts of the glaze obtained from the stone, to one of
that which is prepared from the lime and from ashes.
In the manufacture of the Chinese porcelain, the first Porcclai
process, after the separate preparation of the materials, is a
second purification of the petuntse and kaolin ; and when Proportk
these are found to be in a state of sufficient purity, the^1™'
workmen proceed to mix the two ingredients together. ingre(liei.'
The proportions employed for the finer kinds of porcelain
are equal parts of kaolin and petuntse ; for an inferior kind,
four parts of kaolin to six of petuntse are employed; and
in some kinds of porcelain, only one part of the former is
added to three of the latter. This is the smallest propor¬
tion of kaolin which is employed in the Chinese manufac¬
tories. When the proportions are fixed, and the mixture
finished, the mass is thrown into a large pit, which is well
paved and cemented. It is then trodden upon, and knead¬
ed till it become hard. This is the most fatiguing part of
the labour, for it must be continued without intermission.
From the mass prepared in this manner the workmen de¬
tach different pieces, which they spread out upon large
slates, where they knead and roll them in all directions,
taking care that no vacuum be left, and that there be no in¬
termixture of any foreign body. The whole work would be
entirely spoiled by the addition of a hair, or a particle of
sand. When the paste has been properly prepared, the
porcelain, when exposed to heat in the furnace, retains its
form without becoming soft, or entering into fusion, and
becomes semitransparent, without exhibiting cracks or su¬
perficial fissures ; but when there is any defect in the mix¬
ture or preparation, the porcelain cracks, and becomeswarp-
ed, or melts in the furnace.
The paste being thus prepared, the next operation is to Methods
form the vessels for which it. is designed. All kinds oftorming
plain ware are formed with the wheel. W hen a cup, for Porce am
instance, has undergone this operation, the outside ot the ware'
bottom is quite round. The workman first gives it the re¬
quisite height and-diameter, and it comes from his hands al¬
most the moment he has received it. Great dexterity and
expedition are absolutely necessary, on account of the low
price of labour in these manufactories. A workman, it is
said, scarcely receives a farthing per board, each board
containing no less than twenty-six pieces. The cup then
passes to a second workman, by whom the base is formed;
after which it is delivered to a third, who applies it to the
mould, and gives it the proper form. When it is taken off
the mould, it must be carefully turned, and not pressed more
to one side than the other; for without this necessary pre¬
caution it would become warped or disfigured. The busi¬
ness of the fourth workman is to polish it with the chisel, es¬
pecially round the edges, and diminish the thickness, in or¬
der to give it the proper degree of transparency. Having at
length passed through the different hands from whom it
receives its form and various ornaments, it then comes to the
last workman, who forms the bottom with a chisel. It is
wonderful, we are told, to see with how much dexterity and
expedition the workmen convey the vessels from one to
• another; and it is added, that a single piece of porcelain,
before it is completely finished, must pass through the
hands of no fewer than seventy different workmen. It*is
indeed, we may observe, to this minute division of labour
that its low price is owing; and on the same circumstance
depend the remarkable dexterity and expedition which have
already been noticed.
In the execution of large works of porcelain, different Of hrne
parts are first formed individually ; Rnd when all the pieces works,
are finished, and nearly dry, they are put together and
cemented with a paste formed of the same substance, and
softened with water. Some time afterwards the seams are
polished w ith a knife on both sides of the vessel, so that when
it is covered with a varnish, or glazed, they are so com¬
pletely concealed, that the least trace of them is not per¬
ceptible. It is in this way that spouts, handles, rings, and
other parts of a similar nature, are united. And in this way.
P O R C E L A I N.
orcelain.
ainting.
eined
hircelain
id f'ret-
ork.
ingular
fend of
orcelain.
particularly are fabricated those pieces which are formed
upon moulds, or by the hand, such as embossed works,
grotesque images, idols, figures of trees or animals, and
busts. All these are formed of four or five pieces joined
together, which are afterwards brought to perfection by
means of instruments proper for carving, polishing, and
finishing the different traces which the mould has left im¬
perfect. Flowers and ornaments which are not in relief,
are either engraved, or the impression is made by means of
a stamp ; but ornaments in relief are prepared separately,
and added to the pieces of porcelain to which they are des¬
tined.
The piece of porcelain being prepared according to the
operations now described, is next conveyed to the painter;
and in this art it is to be observed that the Chinese workmen
follow no certain rule, and seem to be unacquainted with
any of the principles of perspective. Their knowledge is
the effect of practice, guided often by a whimsical imagi¬
nation. The labour of painting porcelain in the Chinese
manufactories is also divided amongst a great number of
hands. The business of one man, for instance, is solely
limited to the tracing out the first coloured circle with which
the brim of the vessel is adorned ; another designs the flow¬
ers, and a third paints them. One delineates waters and
mountains, whilst it is the province of another to draw and
paint birds and other animals. Of the painting on Chinese
porcelain, it has been observed, that the human figure is
often most indifferently executed^
A peculiar kind of glaze or varnish, we are informed, is
obtained from white flint. This glaze, it is said, has the
singular property of making the pieces of porcelain to which
it is applied exhibit the appearance of veins distributed in
all directions. Vessels glazed with this material seem as if
the surface wrere cracked, without the fragments being se¬
parated or displaced. The colour of this glaze is whitish
gray ; and when it is applied to porcelain having an azure
blue ground, it communicates a beautifully-variegated ap¬
pearance. Vases of Chinese porcelain are sometimes fabri¬
cated in a different manner. They are ornamented with a
kind of fret-work, which has something of the appearance
of fine lace, in the middle of which is placed a cup proper
for holding any liquid; which constitutes one body with
the surrounding fret-work.
We are informed that the Chinese workmen formerly pos¬
sessed the secret of fabricating a kind of porcelain of a much
more singular nature. On the sides of the vessel thus
formed were painted the figures of fishes, insects, and other
animals, which could not be seen unless the vessel was filled
with water. It is said that this secret is in a great measure
lost; but the following is given as part of the process of
preparing this kind of porcelain. The vessel which is to
be painted, for the purpose of producing this peculiar effect,
must be extremely thin and delicate. When it is dry, the
colour is laid on, not upon the outside, however, as is usually
the case, but upon the inside of the vessel; and it is laid on
pretty thickly. The figures which are painted upon it are
usually fishes, as being more characteristic of the element
in which they live. When the colour is perfectly dry, it is
then coated over wfith a kind of glaze, composed of porcelain
earth, so that the azure is thus enclosed between two layers
of earthy matter ; and when the glaze becomes dry, the
workman pours some oil into the vessel, and putting it upon
a mould, applies it to the lathe. Porcelain fabricated
in this manner, having received its consistence and body
within, it is the object of the workmen to make it as thin
as possible on the outside, without penetrating to the colour.
The external surface is then dipped into a mixture for glaz¬
ing, and when it is dry it is baked in a common furnace.
This kind of porcelain is known by the name of hia-tsing,
signifying pressed azure. It is supposed that the Chinese
do not at present possess the art of making porcelain of
431
this description, which requires a great deal of dexterity Porcelain,
and delicate management; and it isadded,that they have im-
perfectly succeeded in the attempts which have been occa¬
sionally made to discover the secret of this curious process.
The next process in the manufacture of porcelain is bak- Chinese
ing ; but before we describe the method of arranging and furnaces,
managing the furnaces employed for this purpose, we sha.ll
give a short account of their construction. The Chinese
furnaces for baking porcelain are furnished with a long
porch, for the purpose of conveying air, and in some mea^-
sure as a substitute for bellows. This porch answers the
same purpose as the arch of a glass-house ; but the furna¬
ces which, as the author from whom the account is taken
observes, were formerly only six feet in height, and the
same in length, are now constructed upon a much more
extensive plan. They are twelve feet in height, and nearly
four in breadth ; and the roof and sides are so thick, that the
powerful heat which is applied internally does not penetrate
to the outside, at least so much as to be inconvenient to
bear it on the application of the hand. The dome or roof
is in the form of an inverted funnel, having a large aperture
at the top by which the smoke escapes. Beside the prin¬
cipal aperture, there are five others of smaller dimensions,
which are covered with broken pots in such a manner that
the workman can increase or diminish the heat as he finds
it necessary. Through these apertures also he is able to
see the progress of the baking of the porcelain, and can
judge when it is completed. By uncovering the hole which
is nearest the principal opening, he opens with a pair of
pincers one of the cases containing the pieces of porcelain,
and if he perceives a bright fire in the furnace, and all the
pieces brought to a red heat, as well as the colours of the
porcelain appearing with a full lustre, he concludes that the
process is finished. He then diminishes the fire, and en¬
tirely shuts up the mouth of the furnace for some time. In
the bottom of the furnace there is a deep hearth about two
feet in breadth, over which a plank is laid, in order that
the workmen may enter to arrange the porcelain. When
the fire is kindled on the hearth, the mouth of the furnace
is immediately closed up, and an aperture is left only suffi¬
cient for the admission of faggots, about a foot in length,
but very narrow. The furnace is first heated for a day
and a night, after which two men keep continually throw¬
ing wood into it, and relieve each other by turns. One
hundred and eighty loads are consumed for one baking.
As the porcelain is burning hot, the workman employs for
the purpose of taking it out, long scarfs or pieces of cloth,
which are suspended from his neck.
Having thus given a concise account of the construction of Method of
the Chinese furnaces, we proceed now to lay before our read - bajn.nS Por"
ers an account of the method of baking porcelain which isce ain'
followed in that country. After the porcelain has received
its proper form, its colours, and all the intended ornaments, it
is transported from the manufactory to the furnace, which is
sometimes situated at the other end of the village already
mentioned. In a kind of portico, which is erected before
it, may be seen vast numbers of boxes and cases made of
earth, for the purpose of inclosing the porcelain. Each
piece, however inconsiderable it may be, has its own case ;
and the Chinese workman, by means of this procedure,
imitates nature, which, in order to bring the fruits of the
earth to maturity, clothes them in a covering, to defend
them from the excessive heat of the sun during the day,
and from the severity of the cold during the night.
A layer of fine sand is put into the bottom of these boxes,
which is covered over with the powder of kaolin, to pre¬
vent the sand from adhering too closely to the bottom of
the vessel. The piece of porcelain is then placed upon
this bed of sand, and pressed gently down, in order that the
sand may take the form of the bottom of the vessel, which
does not touch the sides of its case; but the case has no cover.
432
PORCELAIN.
Different
kinds of
Porcelain. A second, prepared in the same manner, and containing its
' —   ‘'vessel, is fitted into the first, so that it entirely shuts it,
without touching the porcelain which is below ; and thus
the furnace is filled up with piles of cases, which defend
the pieces they contain from the direct action of the fiie.
With regard to small pieces of porcelain, such as tea¬
cups, they are inclosed in common cases about four inches
in height. Each piece is placed upon a saucer of earth
about twice as thick as a crown piece, and equal in breadth
to its bottom. These small cases are also sprinkled over
with the dust of the kaolin. When the cases are large, the
porcelain is not placed in the middle, because it w-ould be
too far removed from the sides, and consequently from the
action of the fire.
These piles of cases are put into the furnace, and placed
upon a bed of coarse sand six inches in thickness ; those by
which the middle space is occupied are at least seven feet in
height. The two boxes which are at the bottom of each pile
remain empty, because the fire acts too feebly upon them,
and because they are partly covered by the sand. For the
same reason, the case which is placed at the top of each pile
is also allowed to remain empty. The piles containing the
finest porcelain are placed in the middle part of the furnace ;
the coarsest are put at its farthest extremity; and those pieces
which have the most body and strongest colouring are near
its mouth. These different piles are placed very closely in
the furnace; and they materially support each other by
pieces of earth, which bind them at the top, bottom, and mid¬
dle, but in such a manner, that a free passage is left for the
flame to insinuate itself everywhere around them.
The Chinese divide their porcelain into several kinds or
classes, distinguishing each according to the different de-
porcelain. grees of beauty and fineness. The whole of the first or
most perfect kind is reserved for the emperor ; none of it,
we are assured, ever comes into the hands of the public, un¬
less, on account of blemishes or imperfections, it is unwor¬
thy of being presented to the sovereign. Many have doubt¬
ed whether at any time the largest and finest porcelain of
China has ever been brought to Europe. None of that kind,
at least, is offered for sale at Canton. The Chinese, who
are apt to undervalue the productions of other countries,
entertain a favourable opinion of the Dresden porcelain, and
hold in still higher estimation the porcelain which is produ¬
ced in the French manufactories.
Sir George The following is a short account of the Chinese porce-
St aim ton’s lain manufactures by Sir George Staunton. “ From the
account of river,” says he, “ were seen several excavations made in
the manu- extracting from the sides of the adjoining hills, the petuntse
orcelain use^u^ in the manufacture of porcelain. This material is a
in China, species of fine granite, or compound of quartz, feldspar, and
mica, in which the quartz seems to bear the largest propor¬
tion. It appears from several experiments, that it is the
same as the growan stone of the Cornish miners. The mi¬
caceous part, in some of this granite from both countries,
often contains some particles of iron, in which case it will
not answer the potter’s purpose. This material can be cal¬
cined and ground much finer by the improved mills of Eng¬
land, than by the very imperfect machinery of the Chinese,
and at a cheaper rate than the prepared petuntse of their
own country, notwithstanding the cheapness of labour there.
“ The kaolin, or principal matter mixed with the petuntse,
is the growan clay also of the Cornish miners. The wha-
she of the Chinese is the English soap-rock ; and the she-
kan is asserted to be gypsum. It was related by a Chinese
manufacturer of that article, that the asbestos, or incombus¬
tible fossil stone, entered also into the composition of por¬
celain. A village, or unwalled town, called Kin-te-chin,
was not very far distant from this part of the present travel¬
ler’s route, in which 3000 furnaces for baking porcelain were
said to be lighted at a time, and gave to the place at night
the appearance of a town on fire. The genius or spirit of
that element is indeed, with some propriety, the principal Porceki
deity worshipped there. The manufacture of porcelain is
said to be precarious, from the want of some precise method of
ascertaining and regulating the heat within the furnaces, in
consequence of which their whole contents aie baked some¬
times into one solid and useless mass. Mr. Wedgwood ^
thermometer, founded on the quality observed by him, of
clay contracting in proportion to the degree of fire to which
it is exposed, might certainly be of use to a Chinese potter.’
2. Inquiries of Reaumur into the Nature of Porcelain.
The first scientific investigation which was made into the Compos
nature of porcelain, was undertaken by the celebrated Reau- tion of p
mur ; and the result of his researches was communicated ™'eX;
to the French Academy of Sciences in the years 1727 and
1729. It was not the external form or appearance, nor w’as
it the decorations of painting and gilding, which are by no
means essential to porcelain, that constituted the object of
his inquiries. His examination was particularly directed to
the peculiar texture and fabric of this substance, with the
view of ascertaining the nature and proportions of its con¬
stituent parts. For this purpose, he broke to pieces some
of the Japanese, the Saxon, and the French porcelains, and
carfully noted the peculiarities and differences in their tex¬
ture. The grain or texture of the Japanese porcelain ap¬
peared to possess a considerable degree of closeness and
compactness, with a smooth and somewhat shining aspect.
He found that the Saxon porcelain was still more compact,
and that it was smooth, and shining like enamel, but had
nothing whatever of the granular texture. In his examination
of the French porcelain, he observed that it had much of the
shining appearance, and that its grain wras not so close and
fine as that of the oriental porcelain, having some resem¬
blance to the grain or texture of sugar. Such weie the
observations which occurred to the French philosopher at
the commencement of his inquiries into the nature of por¬
celains; and hence he justly concluded, that they were cha¬
racterised by very marked differences.
Proceeding in his investigation, the same philosopher sub- Effects c
jected different porcelains to the action of heat; and the heat on J
result of his experiments wdth this powerful agent proved, Porce ainj
that they might be distinguished by still more decisive cha¬
racters. It appeared that the porcelain of the East suf¬
fered no change from the action of the greatest heat, where¬
as that of European manufacture underwent fusion at no
very high temperature. This remarkable difference be¬
tween the Chinese and European porcelains, suggested to
Reaumur an ingenious thought, which at last led him to the
discovery of the true nature of the composition of porcelain.
Having observed that ail porcelains have some resemblance
to glass in some of their general properties, although they
are less compact, he considered them as in the state of a
semi-vitrified substance. An earthy substance, he observed,
may be in a semi-vitrified state in two ways. It may, in the
first place, be entirely composed of vitrifiable or fusible
matters ; and this being the case, when it is exposed to the
action of fire, provided the heat be sufficiently strong and
long continued, it will be melted or vitrified. But as this
change is not effected instantly, particularly where a vio¬
lent degree of heat is not applied ; and as it passes through
different degrees, the progress of which may be more easily
observed, according as the heat is managed and regulated,
it followed, that by stopping in proper time the application
of the heat to porcelain prepared in this way, the ware may
be obtained in an intermediate state between those of crude
earths and completely vitrified substances; whilst, at the
same time, it possesses the semitransparency and other dis¬
tinguishing properties of porcelain. Porcelain of this nature,
it is well known, being exposed to a stronger degree of heat,
undergoes perfect fusion and complete vitrification. All
PORCELAIN.
Porcelain, the European porcelains which were subjected to experi-
ment by Reaumur, were found to be of this fusible nature.
Porcelain But on the other hand, porcelain may be composed of
composed fusible or vitrifiable matter, mixed in certain proportions
of fusible with another matter, which is absolutely infusible in the
and infusi- strongest heat to which it can be exposed in the furnace ;
bie matter. an<t hence, if a mixture of this kind be subjected to a heat
sufficient to melt entirely the vitrifiable part of its compo¬
sition, this will enter into fusion ; but being mixed with an¬
other matter which is infusible, and which consequently re¬
tains its consistency and opacity, the whole will form a com¬
pound, partly opaque, and partly transparent, or, in other
words, a semitransparent mass ; that is, asemivitrified sub¬
stance, or porcelain, but possessing qualities totally distinct
from those of the former. For as the fusible part of the latter
has been brought to its utmost degree of fusibility during
the process of baking, although the compound may be ex¬
posed a second time to a still stronger degree of heat, it will
not approach nearer to complete vitrification, that is, it will
retain all the qualities of perfect porcelain. Reaumur found
that the porcelain of the East was distinguished by the pro¬
perties now described; and hence he concluded, that its
component parts were arranged upon the principle above
mentioned. This opinion was afterwards confirmed by in¬
controvertible facts, deduced from a train of the most sa¬
tisfactory and well directed experiments.
Kaolin in- The ingredients which enter into the composition of the
fusible, and Chinese porcelain, namely, the petuntse and kaolin, were
viuifiaWe3 nex^ 0^ject Reaumur’s inquiries. Having obtained
matter. quantities of each, he subjected them separately to a strong
heat, and he found that the petuntse entered into fusion,
without addition ; but it appeared that the kaolin was ab¬
solutely infusible. Fie then mixed the two ingredients,
formed into cakes, and exposed them in a furnace to the
proper degree of heat; so that by baking they were con¬
verted into porcelain exactly similar to that of the Chinese.
From these experiments it appeared, that the petuntse of
the Chinese was a vitrifiable substance, and that the kaolin
was of a different nature, quite refractory, and totally infu¬
sible. After this discovery, Reaumur, it would seem, en¬
tertained hopes that he might find materials in France, ca¬
pable of making porcelain, which should possess the same
valuable qualities as that of China; but whether his researches
in the discovery of proper materials in his own country, par¬
ticularly that which corresponds to the petuntse of the Chi¬
nese, were baffled, or whether he was prevented by other
avocations from prosecuting his inquiries, does not appear.
In his second memoir upon porcelain, however, we find, that
he afterwards attempted to compose an artificial petuntse, by
mixing vitrifiable stones with such salinebodies aswere capa¬
ble of rendering them fusible, or even by substituting for this
artificial preparation glass ready formed, with the addition of
such matters as he supposed might be successfully employ¬
ed in the place of kaolin. But it would appear that he did
not at the time prosecute his inquiries; for the subject was
not resumed until the year 1739, when he announced the
discovery of a process for converting common glass into a
peculiar kind of porcelain, which has been since known by
the name of Reaumur’s porcelain.
Mistakes Although it must appear, from the detail now given, that
mu-eaU* Reaumur was directed in his researches by the true spirit of
philosophical inquiry, he seems to have been misled in cer¬
tain points. One of his errors was relative to the Saxon
porcelain, which he confounded with the other fusible por¬
celains of European manufacture, unless it be supposed that
the porcelain of Saxony was formerly composed of entirely
fusible or vitrifiable matters, and that it was porcelain of
this description which he examined ; for it is now certain,
that all the porcelain of that country is capable of resisting
the most powerful heat, and is therefore equally infusible
with that of China or Japan. The appearance of the in-
VOL. XVIII.
4S3
ternal texture of the Saxon porcelain may perhaps have led Porcelain,
the philosopher to this erroneous conclusion; for when it is 'sast’-y-w
broken, the internal surface does not exhibit a granular
texture, but is uniform, smooth, shining, and compact, hav¬
ing a great resemblance to white enamel. This appear¬
ance, however, so far from proving that the porcelain of
Saxony is a fused or vitrified substance, shews that it is
not entirely composed of fusible matters. The internal
surface of the most fusible porcelains, it is well known to
those who are acquainted with the subject, is also the least
dense, and the least compact; for no vitreous matter can
be internally smooth and dense, without having been in a
state of complete fusion.
The Saxon, like every other porcelain, especially that of
China and Japan, contains a fusible substance, which has
been in a state of complete fusion during the process of
baking. The density and the internal lustre depend chiefly
on this fused matter ; but it is also certain, that the Saxon
porcelain contains a large proportion of a substance which
is absolutely infusible, and from which it derives its beau¬
tiful white appearance, its firmness and solidity, during the
process of baking. It is this infusible substance which is to
be considered as the substitute for the kaolin of China, and
which possesses the property of contracting its dimensions,
whilst it unites with the fusible material. The Saxon por¬
celain, therefore, is not to be confounded with porcelain
manufactured with vitreous and fusible material; for it seems
to be equally excellent as that of Japan, and in some of its
properties perhaps superior, as will appear from an exami¬
nation of the qualities which constitute the peculiar excel¬
lence of porcelain.
Reaumur seems likewise to have taken an erroneous view
of the nature of the Chinese kaolin. According to his ac¬
count, this matter is a fine talcky powder, from the mixture
of which with petuntse, the porcelain of the East is manu¬
factured. It is not impossible, as has been observed, that a
porcelain similar to the Chinese might be produced from a
talcky substance of this nature mixed with petuntse ; but it
is well known to those wfflo are at all familiar with the ma¬
nufacture of any porcelain, that no vessels can be formed,
unless the paste of which they are made possess that degree
of ductility and tenacity which renders them fit for being
worked upon the lathe, or fashioned in the mould. But
substances of a talcky nature, to whatever degree of fineness
they may be reduced, never acquire the requisite ductility
and tenacity which clays of all earthy substances only pos¬
sess. But as it appears that the Chinese porcelain has been
turned upon the lathe, it is obvious that they must have
been formed of a very tenacious paste ; and hence it is con¬
cluded, that kaolin is not purely a talcky matter, but an in¬
fusible clay, which, with the petuntse, a fusible material,
forms the ingredients which enter into the composition of
Chinese porcelain.
3. Peculiar Properties of Porcelain.
It may be worth while now to consider what are the pro- Essential
perties which constitute the perfection of porcelain ; and here qualities of
it is necessary carefully to discriminate between the qualities P0i celain-
which are to be regarded as only contributing to the exter¬
nal decoration, and the intrinsic and essential properties in
which the fabric and perfection of porcelain consist. Those
who have been occupied in experiments upon this subject,
have not found it difficult to form compositions which are very
white, beautifully semi-transparent, and covered with a shin¬
ing glazing, but which are extremely deficient in the more
essential properties. It appears, indeed, that they cannot be
subjected to the necessary operations in first forming the ware,
for want of a proper degree of tenacity, that they are not
sufficiently compact, and are quite fusible, subject to break
by the sudden application of heat or cold, and from the soft¬
ness of the glazing, which cracks and becomes rough, are
434
Porcelain.
PORCELAIN
Nature of
stoneware.
soon deprived of their lustre. On the other hand, it is by
no means difficult to form compositions of pastes, which are
very tenacious, and which are capable of being easily worked
and well baked, and in the process of bakingwhich acquire
the requisite degree of hardness and density ; which are in¬
fusible, and capable of resisting the effects of sudden changes
of heat and cold; and which, in short, possess all the qualities
of the most excellent porcelain, excepting its whiteness and
transparency. Materials fit for the composition of such por¬
celains, it will appear, may be found in abundance in most
countries ; but those fit for the manufacture of the finer and
more perfect porcelains, seem to be sparing productions ot
nature ; and therefore the best kind of porcelain, it is pre¬
sumed, will always be regarded as a valuable and high-priced
commodity. . .. . ^
It may be observed that the potteries called stoneware,
such as the brown made at Lambeth and some other places.
Japanese
porcelain
formerly
reckoned
the most
perfect.
been considered as inferior to the Japanese, on account of its Porcelain,
greater smoothness, lustre, and less granular aspect of its^-^T^
internal texture ; qualities in which it ought really to be re¬
garded as superior to the porcelain from Japan.
4. Porcelain Manufactories in different parts of Europe.
Manufactories of porcelain have been long established in
almost every country of Europe, but from the experiments
of Reaumur it would appear that the only kind then manu¬
factured was the soft porcelain, or porcelaine tendre. It
has been seen that the Saxon manufacturers charged him
with mistake in classing theirs with the soft porcelain ; but
by admitting that he might have operated upon an article
formerly made by them, it is proved that all European por¬
celain was originally of this kind. Besides that ot Saxony,
which was the first established in Europe, porcelain is made
„ r-nnuidprahle extent at Vienna, at Frankendal, in the
such as the brown made at Lambeth and some other places, n. hbourhood 0f Berlin, and in other places in the Ger-
and the white formerly made at Lurslem in Staffordshire, which The German porcelains are similar to those of
were glazed by salt, or muriate ot soda, being thrown into s nd are composed of similar materials, although from
furnacewhen in astate of high fusion possess a 1 the essential ^’a'ffereLes Fn the proportions, or in the modes of
qualities of the Japanese porcelain ; tor, excepting the vv ma . the manufaCtories, considerable differences arise
ness, on which alone the semitransparency depends, if we com- tiltb norcelains manufactured at different places. When
pare the properties of the Japanese porcelain with those of our ^ Condamine travelled into Italy, he visited a manu-
stoneware, little difference is tound to exist between t em. • elain established at Florence by the Marquis
Both seem to possess the same granular texture ; both have p;nm? wi10 was at that time governor of Livorno. The
the same sonorous quality, when struck with a har oc y ; traveller was particularly struck with the large size
both have the same density ; they possess also the same this porcelain. Statues, and even
irifl’entheat TncVuTuS
porcelain itse.O and fhey were able to resist the ef
want rfftese eartfs, the Lt mantZturers of the porce- to be inferior XsTSe ^te
lain in Europe confined themselves to an external imitation, ed to be owing to the desire of using those materials y
bv emnlovine- only verifiable matters with fusible salts, and which are found in the country. r ,i ^ v. Lc-.ro n/r t n
SS! ophite earth, of which fusible and vitreous Xn^trindlrM suec0e”Sto ^ tap—St
PZ“lCs?TnSal qualities of porcelain is the pro- and /erfection of this manufacture Some time^ree^^-
perty of resisting sudden alternations of heat and cold, in Reaumur communicated the ^
which the European porcelain exceeds that of China or w£*f manufactured at ^ LwiL^^ra^of the
Japan. The quality of porcelain, it is to be observed, is of St. Antoine a Pans. This ^
not to be judged of by a slight trial; for as numerous cir- vitreous or fusible kind, but at same time it posse^ d
cumstances concur to render a piece of porcelain capable no inconsiderable degree o eau Y* orcJ ain have
or incapable of resisting the effects of heat or cold, boiling which we allude, extensive manufactones of porcelain a
water may be at the same time poured into two vessels, one been established at Villeioy, a, yb brouLdit> to a
of which is good porcelain, and the other of an opposite qua- at those places the manu ac ure
lity, it is not impossible that the former may break, and high degree of perfection. But the great seat of the man
the latter may remain entire. The true method of disco- facture is now in the Limousin, w ere •
vering what is good porcelain, is to examine several pieces are found, and whence the porce am in a w i
which are in daily use ; and it has been found, that in many sent to Paris and othei places on ie con m ’
pieces of porcelain of oriental manufacture, which have namented. I he productions o tie ce e ra e y p
been long used, cracks are seen in the direction of their celain manufactory at Sevies, near aris, on accoun
height, which are never perceived in the more perfect por- the pure shining white, the fine g azing avi co°a _
celains of European manufacture. grounds, the splendour and magnificence o e gi i g*
It has long been a very general opinion, that the Japa- and the elegance and taste displaye in le s ape
nese porcelain is the most perfect; it has indeed continued figures, are universally allowed to surpass every nn^
to be the object of admiration and emulation, and has been the kind which has yet appeared.^ It must e remar e >
held up as a model for the European manufacturer. But the however, that this manufactory at Sevres, w erein ie por
taste of Europeans having required a porcelain possessing celain dure” is produced in so great a degree o per ection,
the qualities of transparency and whiteness in a greater de- is not carried on with a view to profit, but has receive oc
gree than that of Japan, the attempts to imitate it have been casional grants ot money from the government, as a na lona
mostly confined to experiments. It has therefore been erro- concern. . ,
neously contended that an article equal to the Japan porce- In speaking of the French porcelain, we may no ice e
lain cannot be produced in Europe. The Saxon porcelain has result of some researches which were made on this subjec
P O R C
Porcelain, by Guettard, and of which an account appeared in the Me-
'^V^'moirs of the Academy of Sciences, for the year 1765. In
the neighbourhood of Alen^on, M. Guettard discovered a
whitish argillaceous earth, in which he found that mica con¬
siderably predominated. This earth he employed as a substi¬
tute for kaolin. The substance which he used instead of the
petuntse, he obtained from a hard stone, which is described
as a quartzose gritt stone, very abundant in that country,
and with which the streets of Alenin are paved. With
these materials Guettard instituted a series of experiments
on porcelain, previously to the year 1751, and was associated
in his inquiries with the Duke of Orleans. For many years
the Count de Lauraguais, a member of the Academy of
Sciences, was keenly engaged in prosecuting experiments to
discover the true nature of porcelain, and the means by which
the manufacture might be improved and perfected. To ob¬
tain the object of his researches, which was to produce por¬
celain that in its essential qualities might be equal to that
of eastern countries, he spared no trouble or expense ; and
it would appear that he was not unsuccessful in his labours;
for in the year 1766, when he exhibited some species of
porcelain from his manufactory to the members of the Aca¬
demy of Sciences, the persons who were appointed by that
learned body to examine their properties, delivered it as their
opinion, that of all the porcelain made in France, that of the
Count de Lauraguais approached most nearly in the essen¬
tial properties of solidity, texture, and infusibility, to that of
China and Japan. It is said, however, that it was consider¬
ably deficient in whiteness and lustre, when compared with
the ancient porcelain of Japan. The great interest, how¬
ever, created in France in support of this elegant and use¬
ful fabric, the continued experiments of the ablest chemists
and scientific men, with the discovery of better materials
which are abundant in the South of France, gave to that
country facilities which enabled her soon to take the lead of
the continent and of Britain in the production of this article.
Manufac- Porcelain manufactories have long been established at
tory at Tournay in Flanders. One of these manufactories furnishes
ournay. aq p]antlers with blue and white porcelain. At this manu¬
factory they have a particular process in forming cups and
other vessels. They are neither turned on the lathe, nor
is the clay compressed in a mould ; but after being diluted
in water, and when the liquid has acquired a proper con¬
sistency, the workmen pour it into moulds, two or three
hundred of which are arranged together. When they have
filled them all, they return to the first in the row. The
liquid part is drawn off’ by a gentle inclination; the sur¬
plus adheres to the side of the vessel, and thus forms the
piece which it is intended to make. The piece is detached
from the mould by means of a slight stroke ; and after be¬
ing sufficiently dried, it is conveyed to the furnace, to un¬
dergo the process of baking.
n England Jn England but little progress was made in the manufac¬
ture of porcelain, until towards the end of the last century.
At an earlier period there was a manufactory carried on by
some Germans at Chelsea, afterwards removed to Derby,
of porcelain of a very superior quality ; but whence they de¬
rived their materials is now uncertain. The porcelain
which was then made at Liverpool, and some other places,
was of an inferior kind, and manufactured so thin, in order
to procure transparency, as to render it in a great degree
unserviceable. This porcelain was made of the clays from
Devonshire, to which a frit, described hereafter, was added
to improve the colour of the body, and to create that degree
of transparency which was required by the public as a prin¬
cipal attribute of porcelain.
About the year 1768, the discovery in Cornwall of mines
of clay and stone similar to those used in France and Ger¬
many, and which are believed to be the kaolin and pe¬
tuntse of the Chinese, soon enabled the English manufac¬
turer to improve his porcelain, by discontinuing the use of
E L A 1 N- 43,
frit, or glass, as a component part of the basis or body of Porcelain,
the ware, and substituting a mixture of the fusible and in-
fusible earths as the basis of his porcelain, as had been done,
at a much earlier period, in Germany and France. And
thus the English porcelain, in many of its essential qualities,
particularly in the beauty and richness of its paintings and
gildings, as well as the elegance of its forms, has become lit¬
tle, if at all inferior, to that of any other country.
1 here are in England a number of manufactories of por¬
celain, at Derby, at Worcester, at Coalbrookdale, and at
Rotherham, in Yorkshire. But the principal site of this
manufacture is now in the Staffordshire Potteries, where it
is produced in large quantities, at various manufactories.
5. Different Processes in the Manufacture of Porcelain.
The basis of those porcelains which were respectively known Bases,
by the name of vitreous, fusible, and soft porcelain, was in
part composed of what was called a. frit; that is to say, a mix¬
ture of alkalis and siliceous earths, brought into fusion, which,
forming an opaque glass, was ground very fine, and mix¬
ed with an infusible earth or clay, in quantity sufficient to
produce a degree of fusion, and consequent transparency
of the whole body, but not so much as to prevent the
ductility necessary for the formation of the articles to be
made. The basis of the porcelains now generally made
is composed of a mixture of infusible and fusible earths, in
those proportions which, on the application of intense heat,
produce that transparency and semi-vitrification which is re¬
quired as the distinguishing properties of porcelain.
Up to a certain point, the operations and manipulations Manipula-
are the same in all cases. The clay or infusible earth hav- fi°n*
ing been separated by washing from the mass of decompos¬
ed granite, of which it forms a part, is mixed with a portion
of the fusible earth, finely livigated into a liquid of the con¬
sistence of cream, which, after being passed through the
finer silk lawns, is placed on kilns to evaporate the super¬
fluous water, until the mass becomes a soft tenacious paste,
ready for the operations of the workman^ It is then taken
to the thrower, to be fashioned on his wheel; and having
obtained a sufficient degree of hardness to preserve its form,
is transferred to the lathe to be more correctly shaped, and
the surface made even. It next has handles, feet, and other
requisites added, and is then ready to receive its first firing.
To effect this, it is, when sufficiently dry, put into a case
made of earthen ware, and placed in the furnace, that it may
be subjected to the process of baking. These cases are known
amongst the English potters by the name of seggars or sag¬
gars, and they are generally formed of a coarser kind of
clay ; but this clay must possess the property of resisting
the action of heat necessary for the baking of porcelain,
without being fused. The porcelain contained in the cases
is thus protected from the smoke of the burning fuel. The
whiteness of the porcelain depends greatly on the purity of
the clay of which the saggars are made, so that being of a
more compact texture, the smoke is more effectually ex¬
cluded. These cases are arranged in the furnace or kiln
in piles, one upon the other, to the top of the furnace.
A small fire is first made, that the furnaces may be gra¬
dually heated ; and it is increased more and more until the
process of baking is completed, that is, until the porce¬
lain shall have acquired a proper degree of hardness and
transparency. To ascertain this point, much attention is
necessary, by taking out of the furnace from time to time,
and examining, small pieces of porcelain placed for that
purpose in some cases, which have lateral openings in the
walls of the furnace to render them accessible. When it
appears, from the examination of those pieces, that the por¬
celain is sufficiently baked, the fire is no longer to be sup¬
plied with fuel; the furnace is allowed to cool gradually,
and the porcelain is afterwards taken out.
But at this point of the process of baking, or firing, the
436
Porcelain.
PORCELAIN.
Unglazed
porcelain
called bis¬
cuit.
Method of
glazing
porcelain.
modes adopted in France, and on the continent generally,
are materially different from the practice m this country
in fact, are totally reversed. In England the first, or biscu t
firing, is employed to produce, by an intense heat, the ’re¬
quired degree of transparency and vitrification ; whiU n
France but a small degree of heat is applied, sufficient on y
to harden (degourdir) the ware, so that it may bear the
manipulation necessary before the glazing, without break¬
ing, the transparency and strength being obtained at the
second operation of firing, which, like the English biscuit¬
firing, requires an intense heat to accomplish that object.
lino-lazed porcelain has the appearance of white marble,
having nothing of that shining surface which it acquires by
coverino- it with the vitreous composition called glaze, and
is said to be in the state of biscuit. For particular pur¬
poses, the porcelain is sometimes allowed to remain in this
state, and particularly when it is employed in smaller and
finer pieces of sculpture, where the fineness of the work¬
manship and the sharpness of the figures are wished to be
preserved, as it is well known that these will be greatly in-
iured by being covered with a coat of glazing. 1 he cele¬
brated manufactory of Sevres has long been distinguished
for figures or small statues, and even for larger works, as
ornamental vases, &c., which are left in the state of biscuit.
The English manufactories are probably not inferior m the
delicacy and accuracy of execution of ornamental produc¬
tions of this kind. ^ ...
The next operation in the manufacture of porcelain is the
process of glazing. This process consists in covering the
porcelain with a thin coat of vitreous or fusible, matter,
which adds greatly to its beauty, by its lustre 01 shining ap¬
pearance. In preparing and applying the materials fit for
glazing porcelain, it has been found that the same mixture
will not admit of general application ; for it appears, that
what forms a fine glazing for one kind of porcelain, w7ill not
answer the same purpose wdien applied to another. In the
former it may have all the necessary requisites, but in the
latter it may crack in many places, may have no lustre, and
may contain bubbles, or be apt to scale off. The first thing,
then, is to prepare a glaze which shall be suited to the na¬
ture of the porcelain for which it is intended. The glazing
must be appropriated to each kind of porcelain, that is, to
the ingredients which enter into its composition, or to the
degree of hardness or density of the w7are. Ihe materials
of which the glazing is composed are prepared by previous¬
ly fusing together all the substances of which they consist,
and thus forming a vitreous mass. This mass of vitrified
matter must be finely ground in a mill, and the vitreous
powder thus obtained be mixed with a sufficient quantity
of water, so that the liquor shall have the consistence of
cream of milk. The pieces of porcelain are to be cover¬
ed with a thin coating of this matter, which is done by im¬
mersing them hastily in the liquid, and as they greedily im¬
bibe the wTater, there remains on the surface a uniform co¬
vering of the glazing materials. This covering, which, it
must be observed, should be very thin, in a short time
becomes so dry, that it does not adhere to the fingers when
the pieces are handled. When they are sufficiently dry,
they are replaced in the furnace in the same manner as in
preparing the biscuit, and the heat is continued till the
glazing be completely fused; but the degree of heat ne¬
cessary for that purpose is far inferior to that which is re¬
quisite in baking the paste. As before noticed, however, this
does not apply to the French porcelains, the glazing of which
is effected by a higher degree of heat than what is applied
to the paste or body.
The glaze used for the soft porcelain possessed great ad¬
vantages in the execution of the more delicate paintings and
decorations, by its property of assisting to flux and fix with
more certainty the metallic oxides of which the colours are
composed. The old Sevres china is of this description. But
at that royal manufactory, under the able direction of M.
Brogniat, the porcelame dure, now the only kind made there,
has been so much improved, as to admit of its being embel¬
lished by paintings of the most delicate and brilliant colours
and superb grounds, with gilding equal, if not superior, to
the old Sevres. _ .
The pieces of porcelain which are intended to remain pamt-
white are now finished, but those which are to be orna-111^
mented with painting and gilding must go through various
other operations. The colours which are employed in paint¬
ing porcelain on the glaze are similar to those which are ap¬
plied in the painting of enamel. They are all composed of
metallic oxides or calces, combined with a very fusible vitre¬
ous matter. The different colours are obtained from different
metals. The oxides of iron afford a red colour ; gold, preci¬
pitated by means of tin, furnishes a purple and violet co¬
lour ; copper, precipitated from its solution in acids by
means of an alkali, gives a fine green ; cobalt, or when com¬
bined with vitreous matter, zajfar, as it is called, yields a
fine blue. Earthy matters which are slightly feruginous,
produce a yellow colour; and brown and black colours are
obtained from iron in different states, and from manganese.
The oxide of chrome, which has but lately come into use,
has furnished artists with greens and some other colours,
of a brilliancy and fixedness in the fire not before known.
These colours are applied to the ware by the painters ac¬
cording to the requisite pattern, and it is again conveyed
to the furnace, and the colours are vitrified, to give them
the proper degree of fixation and lustre. In the common
kind of porcelain, once or twice burning is sufficient, but in
the finer decorations the colours must be laid on several
times, and as often fired before the full effect can be pro¬
duced. This process is similar to that practised by enamel-
lers on copper, &c.; but the blue colour from cobalt is much
used for painting on the biscuit ware before glazing. .
The discovery of a method of imitating the painted pat- Of Pnn
terns of the Chinese by impressions taken from engraveding.
copper plates, was of great importance, as it enabled the
European manufacturers to compete with the cheap labour
of the Chinese. This discovery is due to a manufacturer
at Liverpool, where porcelain w-as formerly made. The
process is as follows. The pattern being engraved on a
copper plate of the size wanted, it is charged with the co¬
lour to be used, which is mixed with boiled linseed oil; the
plate is then placed on a hot stove, and a piece ot thin tis-^
sue paper, previously primed with a solution on one side of
soft soap, is laid upon the plate, and both passed through the
rollars of the press as in ordinary printing. The impression
is then taken off, and transferred on to the ware. After being
well rubbed with a roller of flannel, to cause the colour and
oil to adhere to the ware, the piece is then put into lukewarm
water, where the paper, by the action of the soap, leaves the
ware and the colour upon it. The ware is next dried, and
subjected to a degree of heat, to evaporate the oils, and the
ware is then in a condition for the glazing.
But when the pieces of porcelain are to be further deco- Giluif’g'
rated with gilding, they are pencilled with a mixture of oil
and gold, dissolved or thrown down by quicksilver with the
aid of heat, and are again introduced into the furnace. Here
the gold returns to its solid state, but comes out with a dull
surface; and to recover its lustre and usual brilliancy, it is
burnished with blood-stones, and other polishing substances.
Much care and attention are necessary in the latter part of
the process; for if the gold be not sufficiently burned, it will
be apt to separate in thin flakes ; and if it have been ex¬
posed to too great a heat, it is not susceptible of a fine
polish. In this manufactory, wdien pieces of porcelain
are to be finished in the highest style, they are frequently re¬
turned to the enamel furnace, where the colours are fluxed
six or seven different times; and having gone through the pro¬
cesses now described, the porcelain is fit for the market.
PORCELAIN. 437
Porcelain. The use of platma in porcelain painting has been recom- S to 20 parts in the hundred ; and iron from 0 to 12 or 15 Porcelain.
mended by Klaproth; and experiments have been made on parts in the hundred. Silex gives hardness, infusibility,'
lheorpi.;the subject by that celebrated chemist, with the view of
louring 'ascertaining its effects for this purpose. In concluding his
porcelain, observations, he says, “ The process which I employ in the
application of platina to painting on porcelain is simple and
easy. I dissolve crude platina in aqua regia, and precipi¬
tate it by a saturated solution of sal-ammoniac in water.
The red crystalline precipitate thence produced is dried,
and being reduced to a very fine powder, is slowly brought
to a red heat in a glass retort. As the volatile neutral salt
combined with the platina in this precipitate becomes sub¬
limated, the metallic part remains behind in the form of a
gray soft powder. This powder is then subjected to the
same process as gold ; that is to say, it is mixed with a small
quantity of the same flux as that used for gold, and being
ground with oil of spike, is applied with a brush on the
porcelain ; after which it is burned-in under the muffle of an
enameller’s furnace, and then polished with a burnishing
tool.
“ The colour of platina burnt into porcelain in this man¬
ner is a silver white, inclining a little to a steel gray. If
the platina be mixed in different portions with gold, differ¬
ent shades of colour may be obtained ; the gradations of
which may be numbered, from the white colour of unmixed
platina to the yellow colour of gold. Platina is capable of
receiving a considerable addition of gold before the transi¬
tion from the white colour to yellow is perceptible. Thus,
for example, in a mixture of four parts of gold and one of
platina, no signs of the gold were to be observed, and the
white colour could scarcely be distinguished from that of
unmixed platina : it was only when eight parts of gold to
one of platina were employed that the gold colour assumed
the superiority.
“ I tried in the like manner different mixtures of platina
and silver ; but the colour produced was dull, and did not
seem proper for painting on porcelain.
“Besides this method of burning-in platina in substance
on porcelain, it may be employed also in its dissolved state;
in which case it gives a different result both in its colour
and splendour. The solution of it in aqua regia is evapo¬
rated, and the thickened residuum is then applied several
times in succession to the porcelain. The metallic matter
thus penetrates into the substance of the porcelain itself,
and forms a metallic mirror of the colour and splendour of
polished steel.”
General principles of the manufacture of Porcelain and
Earthemvare.
Convinced that every accurate and scientific investiga¬
tion into the nature and processes of any important art,
will always be deemed of some value to the philosophical ob¬
server, or the enlightened manufacturer, we shall introduce
the following observations on the principles of the manu¬
facture of porcelain and earthenware.
Observations by Vauquelin.
Cumpon- According to this celebrated chemist, four things may
pon-eLinocca-s^on differences in the qualities of earthenware; first,
and pottery nature or composition of the matter ; second, the mode
lit r\ _ /~\T /"V < V . A 4- 1 1 . .v* . 1 I \ v-v v' 1 . V V W V V~Y1“, ITT ^ t 7 /A G G I G ®
ware.
of preparation; third, the dimensions given to the vessels;
fourth, the baking to which they are subjected. By compo¬
sition of the matter, the author understands the nature and
proportions of the elements of which it is formed. These
elements in the greater part of earthen ware, either valuable
or common, are silex, argil, lime, and sometimes a little ox¬
ide of iron. Hence it is evident that it is not so much by
the diversity of the elements that good earthenware difi’ers
from bad, as by the proportion in which they are united.
Silex or quartz makes always two-thirds at least of earthen¬
ware ; argil or pure clay, from a fifth to a third; lime from
ders it fit to be kneaded, moulded, and turned at pleasure.
It possesses, at the same time, the property of being par¬
tially fused by the heat which unites its parts with those of
the silex; but it must not be too abundant, or it would ren¬
der the earthen ware too fusible, and too brittle to be used
over the fire.
Hitherto it has not been proved by experience that lime
is necessary in the composition of pottery ; and if traces of
it are constantly found in that substance, it is because it is
always mixed with the other earths, from which the wash¬
ings and other manipulations have not been able to sepa¬
rate it. When this earth, however, does not exceed five
or six parts in a hundred, it appears that it is not hurtful to
the quality of the pottery ; but if more abundant it ren¬
ders it too fusible. The oxide of iron, besides the incon¬
venience of communicating a red or brown colour, accord¬
ing to the degree of baking, to the vessels in which it forms
a part, has the property of rendering them fusible, and even
in a greater degree than lime.
As some kinds of pottery are destined to melt very pene- Mode of
trating substances, such as salts, metallic oxides, glass, &c. prepara-
they require a fine kind of paste, which is obtained only by
reducing the earths employed to very minute particles.
Others destined for melting metals, and substances not very
penetrating, and which must be able to support, without
breaking, a sudden transition from great heat to great cold,
require for their fabrication a mixture of calcined argil
with raw argil. By these means you obtain pottery, the
coarse paste of which resembles Irreche, or small-grained
pudding-stone, and which can endure sudden changes of
temperature.
The baking of pottery is likewise an object of great im- Baking,
portance. The heat must be capable of expelling humidity,
and agglutinating the parts which enter into the composi¬
tion of the paste, but not strong enough to produce fusion ;
which, if too far advanced, gives to pottery a homogene¬
ousness that renders it brittle. The same effect takes place
in regard to the fine pottery, because the very minute di¬
vision given to the earths reduces them nearly to the same
state as if this matter had been fused. This is the reason
why porcelain strongly baked is more or less brittle, and
cannot easily endure alternations of temperature. Hence
coarse porcelain, in the composition of which a certain
quantity of calcined argil is employed, porcelain retorts,
crucibles, tubes, and common pottery, the paste of which i^
coarse, are much less brittle than dishes and saucers form¬
ed of the same substance, but ground with more labour.
The general and respective dimensions of the different Dimen-
parts of vessels of earthenware, have also considerable in- sions of the
fluence on their capability to stand the fire. In some cases different
the glazing or covering, especially when too thick, and ofP^®
a nature different from the body of the pottery, also ren-UbSUb‘
ders them liable to break. Thus, in making some kinds of
pottery, it is always essential, first, to follow the best pro
portion in the principles; secondly, to give to the particles of
the paste, by grinding, a minuteness suited to the purpose
for which it is intended, and to all the parts the same di¬
mensions as far as possible ; thirdly, to carry the baking to
the highest degree that the matter can bear without being
fused ; and fourthly, to apply the glazing in thin layers, the
fusibility of which ought to approach as near as possible to
that of the matter, in order that it may be more intimately
united.
M. Vauquelin, being persuaded that the quality of good
pottery depends chiefly on using proper proportions of the
earthy matter, thought it might be of importance to those
engaged in this branch of manufacture, to make known the
analysis of different natural clays employed for this pur-
. i
438
PORCELAIN.
Porcelain, pose, and of pottery produced by some of them, in order
~ ' that, when a new earth is discovered, it may be known by
a simple analysis whether it will be proper for the same
object, and to what kind of pottery already known it bears
the greatest resemblance.
Porous
ware.
Silex 
Argil 
Lime 
Oxide of Iron.
Water 
. Hessian
Crucibles.
69
21.5
1
8
Argil of
Dreux.
43.5
33.2
3.5
1.
18.
Porcelain
Capsules.
61
28
6
0.5
Wedgwood’s
Pyrometers.
64.2
25
6
0.2
6.2
Raw kaolin 100 parts; silex, 74; argil, 16.5 ; lime, 2 ;
water, 7. A hundred parts of this earth gave eight of alum,
after being treated with the sulphuric acid.
Washed kaolin, 100 parts ; silex, 55 ; argil, 27 ; lime,
2; iron, 0.5 ; water, 14. This kaolin, treated with the sul¬
phuric acid, gave about 45 or 50 per cent, ot alum.
Petuntze. Silex, 74 ; argil, 14.5 ; lime, 5.5 ; loss, 6. A
hundred parts of this substance, treated with the sulphuric
acid, gave seven or eight parts of alum. But this quantity
does not equal the loss sustained.
Porcelain of retorts. Silex, 64 ; argil, 28.8 ; lime, 4.55 ;
iron, 0.50; loss, 2.77. Treated with the sulphuric acid
this porcelain gave no alum.
There is a kind of earthen vessels, called-TZcarrezcs, which
are used in Spain for cooling the water intended to be drunk.
These vessels consist of 60 parts of calcareous earth, mix¬
ed with alumina and a little oxide of iron, and 36£ of sili¬
ceous earth, also mixed with alumina and the same oxide.
The quantity of iron may be estimated at almost one hun¬
dredth part of the whole. This earth is first kneaded into
a tough paste, being for that purpose previously diluted with
water ; then formed into a cake of about six inches in thick¬
ness, and left in that state until it begin to crack. It is then
kneaded with the feet, the workman gradually adding to it
a quantity of sea-salt, in the proportion of seven pounds to
a hundred and fifty ; after which it is applied to the lathe,
and baked in any kind of furnace used by potters. The
alcarrezes, however, are only about half as much baked as
the better kinds of common earthenware ; and being ex-
the puce-coloured and red oxides of lead, the yellow oxides Porcelain,
of gold, and some others. Oxides in which the proportions
of oxygen are susceptible of varying with too much facility,
are rarely employed. The oxide of iron, though black, is
never employed for producing that colour; and the green
oxide of copper is, under many circumstances, very uncer¬
tain. We have said that oxides alone are not susceptible of
fusion. However, as they are destined to be applied to
thin strata upon vitrifiable substances, they may be attached
to them by a violent heat. But, excepting the oxides of lead
and bismuth, they wmuld give only dull colours. The vio¬
lent heat, often necessary to fix them, would change or to¬
tally destroy the colours. A flux then is added to all me¬
tallic oxides.
This flux is glass, lead, and silex; glass of borax, or a
mixture of both. Its gene7>d effect is to give splendour to
the colours after their fusion ; to fix them upon the article
which is painted, by promoting more or less the softening
of its surface ; to envelope the metallic oxides, and to pre¬
serve their colour, by sheltering them from the contact of
the air; in a word, to facilitate the fusion of the colour at
a low temperature not capable of destroying it.
But we shall speak here only of the application of metallic The sub¬
colours to vitreous bodies, or to vitreous surfaces. These stances to
bodies may be divided into three classes, very distinct by which they
the nature of the substances which compose them, the ef- are applka-
•fects produced on them by the colours, and the changes
they experience. These crusts are, first, enamel, soft por¬
celain, and all crusts, enamels, or glass, that contain lead in
a notable quantity; secondly, hard porcelain, or porcelain
which has a crust of feldspar ; thirdly, glass in the composi¬
tion of which no lead enters, such as common window-glass.
We shall here examine in succession the principles of the
composition of these colours, and the general phenomena
they exhibit on these three kinds of bodies.
It is well known that enamel is glass rendered opaque by
the oxide of tin, and exceedingly fusible by the oxide of
lead. It is the oxide of lead, in particular, contained in it,
that gives it properties very different from those of the other
excipients of metallic colours. Thus all glass and glazing
that contain lead, will participate in the properties of ena¬
mel; and what we shall say of one may be applied to the
rest with very trifling differences. Such are the white and
tmnsnnrpnt crlny.incr nf stonpware. and the fflazing of porce-
ceedingly porous, water oozes through them on all sides.
Hence the air which comes in contact with it, by causing it
to evaporate, carries off the caloric contained in the water
in the vessel, which is thus rendered remarkably cool.
Observations of Brongniart on the Colours used for
Enamelling.
Enamel
of the
ancients.
Metallic
oxides em¬
ployed as
colours for
porcelain.
The art of employing metallic oxides for colouring by
fusion different vitreous matters, is of very great antiquity.
Every body knows that the ancients manufactured colour¬
ed glass and enamel, and that this art was practised in par¬
ticular by the Egyptians, the first people who in this man¬
ner imitated precious stones. The practice of this art in
modern times has been carried to a high degree of perfec¬
tion ; but the theory has been neglected. It is almost the
only one of the chemical arts in which no attempt has yet
been made to apply the new principles of that science. It
is well known that all vitrifiable colours have for their basis
metallic oxides; but all the metallic oxides are not proper
for this purpose; besides, as they are not vitrifiable by them¬
selves, they can scarcely ever be employed alone.
Highly volatile oxides, and those which adhere little to
the great quantity of oxygen they contain, either cannot be
employed in any manner, as the oxide of mercury and that
of arsenic, or are employed only as agents. The colour they
present cannot be depended on, since they must lose it in
the slightest heat by losing a part of their oxygen. Such are
lain called soft glazing.
Enamel or soft porcelain colours require much less flux than Flux for
others, because the glass upon which they are applied be-soft porce-
comes sufficiently soft to be penetrated by them. ThisLh1 co our>
flux may be either glass of lead and pure silex, called ro-
caille, or the same glass mixed with borax. Montamy as¬
serts that glass of lead ought to be banished from among
the enamel fluxes; and he employs only borax. He then
dilutes his colours in a volatile oil. On the other hand, the
painters of the manufactory of Sevres employ only colours
without borax, because they dilute them in gum; and borax
does not dilute well in that substance. Brogniart found
that both methods were equally good ; and it is certain that
Montamy was wrong to exclude fluxes of lead, since they
are daily employed without any inconvenience, and as they
even render the application of colours easier.
We have said that in the baking of these colours, the crust,
softened by the fire, suffers itself to be easily penetrated by
them. This is the first cause of the change which they
experience. By mixing with the crust they become weaker,
and the first heat changes a figure which appeared to be
finished into a very light sketch.
The two principal causes of the changes which colours
on enamel and soft porcelain are susceptible of experienc¬
ing do not depend in any manner upon the composition of
these colours, but upon the nature of the glass to which thev
are applied. It follows from what has been said, that pair*
PORCELAIN.
439
Porcelain, ing on soft porcelain has need of being several times re-
touched, and of several heats, in order that it may be car¬
ried to the necessary degree of strength. These paintings
have always a certain faintness; but they are constantly
more brilliant, and they never are attended with the incon¬
venience of detaching themselves in scales.
Colours ap- Hard porcelain, according to the division which Brogniart
plied to hard established, is the second sort of excipient of metallic col-
porcelain, ours. This porcelain, as is well known, has for its base a
and to glass. very white clay called kaolin, mixed with a siliceous and
calcareous flux, and for its covering feldspar fused without an
atom of lead. The same porcelain, which is that of Saxony, is
much newer at Sevres than the soft porcelain. The colours
applied to it are of two kinds. The first, destined to represent
different objects, are baked in a heat very inferior to that which
is necessary for baking porcelain. They are exceedingly nu¬
merous and varied. The others, destined to be fused in the
same heat as that which bakes porcelain, lay themselves
flat, and are much less numerous. The colours of painting
are made nearly like those destined for soft porcelain ; they
only contain more flux. Their flux is composed of glass
of lead and borax. When porcelain is exposed to heat in
order to bake the colours, the covering of feldspar dilates it¬
self and opens its pores, but does not become soft; and as the
colours do not penetrate it, they experience none of those
changes which they undergo on soft porcelain. It must
however be said that they lose a little of their intensity by
acquiring that transparency which is given to them by
fusion.
One of the greatest inconveniences of these colours, es¬
pecially in the manufactory of Sevres, is the facility with
which they scale off when exposed several times in the fire.
To remedy this defect without altering the quality of the
paste, Brogniart wras of opinion that the crust only ought to
be softened by introducing into it more siliceous or calca¬
reous flux, according to the nature of the feldspar. This
method succeeded, and being employed, the colours might
be exposed two or three times to the fire without scaling,
if not overcharged with flux, and laid on too thick.
The third sort of excipient of vitrifiable metallic colours
is glass without lead. The application of these colours to
glass constitutes painting on glass ; an art very much prac¬
tised some centuries ago, and w hich was supposed to be lost
because out of fashion ; but it has too direct a dependence
on painting in enamel and porcelain to be entirely lost.
The matters and fluxes which enter into the composition
of the colours employed on glass are in general the same
as those applied to porcelain. Neither of them differ except
in their proportions ; but there are a great number of ena¬
mel or porcelain colours which cannot be applied to glass,
where they are deprived of the white ground that serves to
give them relief.
Of Colours in particular.
After collecting the general phenomena exhibited by
each class of vitrifiable colours, considered in regard to the
body on which they are applied, we shall now make known
the most interesting particular phenomena exhibited by each
principal kind of colours employed upon soft porcelain and
glass in a porcelain furnace.
Reds, Purples, and Violets, made from Gold.
Carmine red is obtained by the purple precipitate of cas-
sius. It is mixed with about six parts of its flux ; and this
mixture is employed directly, without being fused. It is
then of a dirty violet, but by baking it acquires a beautiful
red carmine colour. It is, however, exceedingly delicate ;
but a little too much heat and carbonaceous vapours easily
spoil it. On this account it is more beautiful when baked
with charcoal than with wood.
This colour and the purple, which is very little different,
as well as all the shades obtained from it by mixing it with Porcelain,
other colours, really change on all porcelain and in every
hand. But it is the only one which changes on hard porce¬
lain. Its place may be supplied by a rose-colour from iron
which does not change ; so that by suppressing the carmine
made with gold, and substituting for it the rose oxide of
iron here alluded to, a palette may be exhibited, composed
ot colours none of which changes in a remarkable manner.
This rose-coloured oxide of iron has long been known; but
it was not employed on enamel, because on that substance
it changed too much. As the painters on enamel, however,
have become the painters on porcelain, they have preserved
their ancient method.
It might be believed that, by first reducing to a vitreous
matter the colour called carmine already mixed with its
flux, it might be made to assume its last tint. But the heat
necessary to fuse this vitreous mass destroys the red colour.
Besides, it is remarked that, to obtain this colour very beau¬
tiful, it must be exposed to the fire as few times as possible.
The carmine for soft porcelain is made with fulminating
gold slowly decomposed, and muriate of silver ; no tin en¬
ters into it, which proves that the combination of the oxide
of this metal with that of gold is not necessary to the ex¬
istence of the purple colour. Violet is also made with pur¬
ple oxide of gold. A greater quantity of lead in the flux is
what gives it this colour, which is almost the same crude
or baked. These three colours totally disappear when ex¬
posed to a great porcelain heat.
Carmine and purple give us in glass only tints of a dirty
violet. The violet, on the other hand, produces on glass a
very beautiful effect, but it is liable to turn blue. We
have not been able to discover the cause of this singular
change.
Red, Rose, and Brown Colours, extracted from Iron.
These colours are made from red oxide of iron prepared
with nitric acid. The oxides are further calcined by keeping
them exposed to the action of heat; but if heated too much,
they pass to brown. Their flux is composed of borax, sand,
and minium, in small quantity.
These oxides give rose and red colours capable of sup¬
plying the place of the same colours made with oxide of
gold. When properly employed upon hard porcelain, they
do not change at all. We have caused roses to be painted
with these colours, and found no difference between the
baked flower and that not baked, except what might be
expected to result from the brilliancy given to colours by
fusion.
These colours may be employed indiscriminately, either
previously fused or not fused. In a great heat they in part
disappear, or produce a dull brick ground, which is not
agreeable. The composition of them is the same both for
soft porcelain and for glass They do not change on the
latter ; but on soft porcelain they disappear almost entirely
on the first exposure to heat, and to make any thing remain
they must be employed very deep. Phis singular effect must
be ascribed to the presence of lead in the crust or glazing.
We assured ourselves of this by a very simple experiment.
We placed this colour on window glass, and having exposed
it to a strong baking, it did not change. We covered se¬
veral parts of it with minium; and on again exposing it to
the fire, the colour was totally removed in the places where
the red oxide of lead had been applied. By performing
this operation on a larger scale in close vessels, a large quan¬
tity of oxygen gas was disengaged.
It appears to us that the observationhere referred to clearly
proves the action of oxidated lead on glass as a destroyer
of colour ; it is seen that it does not act, as was believed, by
burning the combustible bodies, which might tarnish the
glass, but by dissolving, discolouring, or volatilizing with it
the oxide of iron, which might alter its transparency,
J
440
Porcelain.
PORCELAIN.
Yellows.
Yellows are colours which require a great deal of care m
the fabrication, on account of the lead which they contain,
and which, approaching sometimes to the metallic state,
produces on them dark spots. The yellows for hard and soft
porcelain are the same ; they are composed of the oxide of
lead, white oxide of antimony, and sand.
Oxide of tin is sometimes mixed with them ; and when it
is required to have them more lively, and nearer the colour
du souci, red oxide of iron is added, the too great redness
of which is dissipated in the previous fusion to which they
are exposed by the action of the lead contained in this
yellow.1 These colours, when once made, never change ;
they disappear, however, almost entirely when exposed to
a porcelain heat.
These yellows cannot be applied to glass, because they are
too opaque and dirty. That employed by the old painters on
glass has, on the contrary, a beautiful transparency, and is
exceedingly brilliant, and of a colour which approaches near
to that of gold. The processes which they gave clearly
showed that silver formed part of their composition ; but,
when exactly followed, nothing satisfactory was obtained. M.
Miraud found means to make as beautiful paintings on glass as
the ancients, by employing muriate of silver, oxide of zinc,
white argil, and yellow oxide of iron. These colours were
applied on glass merely pounded, and without a flux. The
oxide of iron brought the yellow to that colour which it ought
to have after baking, and contributed with the argil and
oxide of zinc to decompose the muriate of silver without de¬
oxidating the silver. After the baking, there remained a
dust which had not penetrated into the glass, and which was
easily removed.
This yellow, when employed thicker, gives darker shades,
and produces a russet colour.
because potash enters into their composition. These greens Porcelain,
cannot be applied on glass, because they give a dirty colour.
To obtain a green on glass, it is necessary to put yellow on
one side, and blue, more or less pale, on the other. This
colour may be also made by a mixture of blue with yellow
oxide of iron.
Bistres and Russets.
These are obtained by mixtures, in different proportions,
of manganese, brown oxide of copper, and oxide of iron from
ombre earth. They are also previously fused with their
flux, so that they do not in any manner change on soft por¬
celain, since lead has not the same action on oxide of man¬
ganese as on that of iron. This colour fades very speedily
on glass.
Russet grounds in a great heat, known under the name
of tortoise-shell grounds, are made in the same manner.
Their flux is feldspar; and no titanium enters into their com¬
position, though it is so stated in all printed works. Titanium
was not known at the manufactory of Sevres when Brogni-
art arrived there. He treated this singular metal in various
ways, and never obtained any but grounds of a pale dirty
yellow, and very variable in tone.
Blacks.
Blues.
It is well known that blues are obtained from the oxide
of cobalt. All chemists are acquainted with the preparation
of them. Those of Sevres, which are justly esteemed for
their beauty, are indebted for it solely to the care employed
in manufacturing them, and to the quality of the porcelain,
which appears more proper for receiving them in proportion
to the degree of heat which it can bear.
Respecting the oxide ol cobalt, we may remark a fact
which is perhaps not known to chemists ; namely, its volati¬
lity in a violent heat. It is to this property that we must
ascribe the bluish tint always assumed by white in the neigh¬
bourhood of the blue.
The blue of hard porcelain, destined for what is called
the ground of a great heat (les fonds au grand feu) is fus¬
ed with feldspar ; that of soft porcelain has for its flux
silex, potash, and lead. It is not volatilized like the preced¬
ing; but the heat which it experiences is very inferior to that
of hard porcelain. These colours, when previously fused, do
not change at all in the application. Blues on glass exhibit
the same phenomena as those on soft porcelain.
Greens.
The greens employed in painting are made with green
oxide of copper, or sometimes with a mixture of yellow or
blue. They must be previously fused with their flux, other¬
wise they will become black; but after this first fusion they
no longer change. They cannot stand a strong heat, as it
would make them disappear entirely. Green grounds for a
strong heat are composed with the oxides of cobalt and
nickel, but a brownish green only is obtained.
Bluish greens, called celestial blues, which were formerly
colours very much in vogue, can be applied only upon soft
porcelain; on hard porcelain they consequently become scaly,
Blacks are the colours the most difficult to be obtained of
a very beautiful hue. ^io metallic oxide alone gives a beau¬
tiful black. Manganese is that which approaches nearest to
it. Iron gives an opaque, dull, cloudy black, which changes
very easily to red; the colour-makers, therefore, to obtain
a black which they could not hope for from the best theo¬
rist, have united several metallic oxides which separately do
not give black, and have obtained a very beautiful colour,
which, however, is liable to become scaly and dull. These
oxides are those of manganese, the brown oxides of copper,
and a little of the oxide of cobalt. The grey is obtained by
suppressing the copper, and increasing the dose of the flux.
The manufactory of Sevres is the only one which has
hitherto produced beautiful blacks in a strong heat. Tins
is owing rather to the quality of its paste than to any pecu¬
liar processes, since it does not conceal them. It is by
darkening the blue by the oxides of manganese and iron
that they are able in that manufactory to obtain very bril¬
liant blacks. ... p, p . •
Having here made known the principles ot the labnca-
tion of each principal colour, it may be readily conceived
that by mixing these colours together all the shades possi¬
ble may be obtained. It is evident also that care in the
preparation, choice in the raw materials, and a just propor¬
tion of doses, must produce in the result, differences very
sensible to an eye accustomed to painting. A mere know¬
ledge of the composition of the colours does not give the
talent of executing them well.
From the facts above mentioned, it is therefore seen, 1st, Facts rea-
That amongst colours generally employed on hard porce-tive to^co |
lain one only is susceptible of changing, viz. carmine, am plated,
the tints into which it enters; that its place may be sup¬
plied by the reds of iron, and that no colortr then changes.
2d, That amongst the colours for soft porcelain and enamel,
several change in a considerable degree. These are prin¬
cipally the reds of gold and iron, the yellows, the greens, and
the browns. They have not been replaced by others, be¬
cause this kind of painting has been almost abandoned.
3d, That several of the colours on glass change also by ac¬
quiring complete transparency. These, in particular, are
the yellows and green. 4th, That it is neither by calcin¬
ing the colours in a higher degree, nor previously fusing
them, as supposed by seme, that they are prevented from
changing, since these means really alter the changing co¬
lours, and produce no effect on the rest. The change which
FOR
Porch several colours experience upon soft porcelain and upon
8 glass does not depend on the nature of their composition,
Poretse ue. but rather on t]lat 0f tbe bocjy Up0n wbjcj1 are applie(j.
It follows, then, that, by suppressing from the colours of
FOR
441
hard porcelain the carmine of gold, which is by no means in- Porism.
dispensably necessary, we shall have a series of colours which
do not change, or, in other words, remain unalterable. So much
for the colours employed in this manufacture. x. x.
PORCH, in Architecture^Wndi of vestibule supported by
columns, and much used at the entrance of temples, halls,
and other edifices.
A porch, in ancient architecture, was a vestibule, or a dis¬
position of insulated columns usually crowned with a pedi¬
ment, forming a covert place before the principal door of a
temple or court of justice. When a porch had four columns
in front, it was called a tetrastyle ; when six, a hexastyle ;
when eight, an octostyle, and so on.
Porch, in Greek o-roa, a public portico in Athens, adorned
with the pictures of Polygnotus and other eminent painters.
It was in this portico that Zeno the philosopher taught; and
hence his followers were called Stoics.
PORCHESTER, a village of the county of Hants and in
the hundred of Portsdown. It is on the north side of
Portsmouth harbour, and is remarkable for its extensive
and ancient castle, in which, during the w^ar, some thou¬
sands of French prisoners were confined. The walls in¬
close a square of four acres. It formerly belonged to the
crown, and was settled by Edward IV. on his queen Mar¬
garet. It is now private property, and during the war w^as
rented by the government, and converted into a prison.
Since the peace, the population has somewhat declined,
having been in 1801, 917 ; in 1811, 818 ; in 1821, 757 ; and
in 1831, 739.
PORCO, a province of Bolivia in South America, to the
west of the city of Potosi. The region is elevated, and the
climate is consequently cold, so that although in the valleys
the soil is productive, there is a scarcity of grains and fruit.
It is properly a pastoral country, and here are reared vast
numbers of sheep, and also vicunas and guanacos, native
sheep. The mountain of Porco in this province is celebrated
for its silver mines. It was the first worked by the Spaniards
after the conquest; and before that epoch it had been the source
whence the Incas of Peru obtained their chief supplies of the
precious metal. The original mine is still wrought, but, like
most others in this quarter, without much vigour. Porco,
the capital of the province, is a small town with but few in¬
habitants. The population of the province is estimated at
above one hundred thousand.
PORCU,atown on the sea-coast of Hindustan, situated in
the province of Travancore. It is populous, and carries on
a considerable trade. The adjacent country is fertile, and
produces abundance of rice. The inhabitants consist of Ma-
hommedan, Hindu, and Christian merchants. The Dutch
had formerly a factory here for procuring cargoes of pep¬
per. Long. 76. 24. E. Lat. 9- 23. N.
PORDENONE, a city of Austrian Italy, in the province
of Milan, and delegation of Belluno. It stands on the river
Roncello, and contains 650 houses, with 4230 inhabitants,
who are chiefly employed in making linen goods and paper.
Lat. 45. 56. 42. Long. 12. 34. 54. E.
PORETSCHIE, a city of the Russian empire, in the
province of Smolensko, the capital of a circle of the same
name. It is situated on the river Kasplea, which is navigable
thusfar, but no farther. Itis 478 milesfrom St. Petersburg, and
favourably situated as a depot for the trade between Smolensko
andRiga. Itcontains three churches, 580 houses, and5900 in¬
habitants, with large storehouses. Lat.55.10. Long. 31.25.E.
PORISM, in Geometry, is a name given by the ancient
geometers to two classes of mathematical propositions.
Euclid applies this name to propositions, which are in¬
volved in others which he is professedly investigating,
and which, although they do not form his principal ob¬
ject, are obtained along with it, as is expressed by their
name porismata, or acquisitions. Such propositions are
now called corollaries. But he gives the same name,
by way of eminence, to a particular class of propositions
which he collected in the course of his researches, and se¬
lected from amongst many others, on account of their great
subserviency to the business of geometrical investigation in
general. These propositions were so named by him, either
from the way in which he discovered them, that is to say,
w'hilsthe wras investigating something else, so that, theymight
be considered as gains or acquisitions, or from their utility
as steps in the investigation. In this sense they are poris¬
mata ; for nopifa (from which, according to Proclus, the
term is derived) signifies both to investigate and to acquire
by investigation. These propositions formed a collection
in three books, which was familiarly known to the ancient
geometers by the name of Euclid’s porisms; and Pappus of
Alexandria says, that it was a most ingenious collection of
many things conducive to the analysis or solution of the
most difficult problems, and which afforded great delight to
those wdio ware able to understand and investigate them.
Unfortunately for mathematical science, this valuable col¬
lection is now lost, and it still remains a doubtful question
in what manner the ancients conducted their researches
upon this curious subject. We have, however, reason to
believe that their method was both comprehensive and
excellent; for their analysis led them to many profound
discoveries, and was restricted by the severest logic. The
only account w'e have of this class of geometrical proposi¬
tions, is in a fragment of Pappus, in which he attempts a ge¬
neral description of them, as a set of mathematical propo¬
sitions distinguishable in kind from all others; but of this
description nothing remains, except a criticism on a defini¬
tion of the term given by some geometers, namely, “ A Po¬
rism is that which is deficient in hypothesis from a local theo¬
rem,” and which he finds fault with, as defining the porisms
only by an accidental circumstance. Pappus also gives an
account of Euclid’s porisms; but the enunciations are so ex¬
tremely defective, at the same time that they refer to a fig¬
ure now lost, that Dr. Halley confesses the fragment in ques¬
tion to be beyond his comprehension.
The high encomiums pronounced by Pappus on these pro
positions have excited the curiosity of the greatest geometers
of modern times, who have attempted to discover their na¬
ture and the manner of investigating them. Fermat gave a
few propositions, which have been published in his Opera
(Tolosse, 1679), and Bullialdus, in a tract entitled Exer-
citationes Geometries Tres (Paris, 1657), attempted the
same thing, but with less success. Albert Girard, at a still
earlier period, announced that he had restored the w hole of
the three books of Euclid, but it does not appear that this
part of his works was ever published.1
i At length Dr. Simson, Professor of Mathematics in the
University of Glasgow, was so fortunate as to succeed in
■ Into Tripmmb,. puhlisWJ at th, H.gaa in 1S29. after enumerating the form, of certain re.tilii.ear ^ree, Girard add., ;-Le
tout qnand il n'y a ,ue deux lign.s qui |,a,«„t par m, J” Lotmc^Ltb al» made' by him in
he adds, “ Mais il est a estimer qu’il en a plus escrit en ses trois hvres de Poiismes qui son p > 4 ’. q Reliqua.)
inettre cn lumi&re, les ayant invemez de nouveau.” (See the preface to Simson s True a us oi , ^ 3k
VOL. XVIII.
442
P O R I S M.
Porism. restoring the porisms of Euclid. In the preface to his trea-
* tise De Porismatibus, he gives the following account of his
progress and of the obstacles he encountered: “ Postcjuam
vero apud Pappum legeramPorismata Euclidis Collectioneni
fuisse artificiosissimam multarum rerum, quae spectant ad
analysin difficiliorum et generalium problematum, magno
desiderio tenebar, aliquid de iis cognoscendiquare saepius
et multis variisque viis turn Pappi propositionem generalem,
mancam et imperfectum, turn primum lib. 1. Porisma, quod,
ut dictum fuit, solum ex omnibus in tribus libris integrum
adhuc manet, intelligere et restituere conabar ; frustra ta-
men, nihil enim proficiebam. Cumque cogitationes de hac
re multum mihi temporis consumpserint, atque tandem mo-
lestae admodum evaserint, firmiter animum induxi haec nun-
quam in posterum investigare; praesertim cum optimus Geo-
metra Halleius spem omnem de iis intelligendis abjecisset.
Unde quoties menti occurrebant, toties eas arcebam. Postea
tamen accidit ut improvidum et propositi immemorem inva-
serint, meque detinuerint donee tandem lux quaedam efful-
serit quae spem mihi faciebat inveniendi saltern Pappi pro¬
positionem generalem, quam quidem multa investigatione
tandem restitui.”
Dr. Simson’s Restoration has every appearance of being
just. All the lemmas which Pappus has given for the bet¬
ter understanding of Euclid’s propositions are equally appli¬
cable to those of Dr. Simson, which are found to differ from
local theorems precisely as Pappus affirms those of Euclid
to have done. They require a particular mode of ana¬
lysis, and are of immense service in geometrical investiga
tion.
Whilst Dr. Simson was employed in this inquiry, he car¬
ried on a correspondence upon the subject w ith the late Dr.
Matthew Stewart, Professor of Mathematics in the Univer¬
sity of Edinburgh ; who, besides entering into Dr. Simson’s
views, and communicating to him many curious porisms,
pursued the same subject in a new and very different di¬
rection. He published the result of his inquiries in 1746,
under the title of General Theorems, not wishing to give
them any other name, lest he might appear to anticipate the
labours of his friend and former preceptor. The greater part
of the propositions contained in that work are porisms, but
without demonstration ; and those who wish to investigate
one of the most curious subjects in geometry, will there
find abundance of materials, and an ample field for discus¬
sion.
Dr. Simson defines a porism to be “ a proposition, in
which it is proposed to demonstrate, that one or more things
are given, between which, and every one of innumerable
other things not given, but assumed according to a given
law, a certain relation, described in the proposition, is to be
shewn to take place.”
This definition is somewhat obscure, but will be plainer if
expressed thus : “ A porism is a proposition affirming the
possibility of finding such conditions as will render a cer¬
tain problem indeterminate, or capable of innumerable solu¬
tions.” This definition agrees with Pappus’s idea of these
propositions, as far at least as they can be understood from
the fragment already mentioned ; for the propositions here
defined, like those which he describes, are, strictly speaking,
neither theorems nor problems, but of an intermediate
nature between both. They neither simply enunciate a
truth to be demonstrated, nor propose a question to be re¬
solved, but are affirmations of a truth in which the deter¬
mination of an unknown quantity is involved. In as far,
therefore, as they assert that a certain problem may become
indeterminate, they are of the nature of theorems ; and, in
as far as they seek to discover the condition by which that
is brought about, they are of the nature of problems.
In order to give our readers a clear idea of the subject
of porisms, we shall consider them in the way in which it
is probable they occurred to the ancient geometers in the
course of their researches. This will at the same time shew Porism.
the nature of the analysis peculiar to them, and their great
use in the solution of problems.
It appears to be certain, that it has been the solution of
problems which, in all states of the mathematical sciences,
has led to the discovery of geometrical truths. The first
mathematical inquiries, in particular, must have occurred
in the form of questions, where something was given, and
something required to be done ; and by the reasoning ne¬
cessary to answer these questions, or to discover the rela¬
tion between the things given and those to be found, many
truths were suggested, which came afterwards to be the
subject of separate demonstrations. The number of these
was the greater, because the ancient geometers always un¬
dertook the solution of problems, with a scrupulous and mi¬
nute attention, insomuch that they would scarcely suffer any
of the collateral truths to escape their observation.
Now, as this cautious manner of proceeding was not bet¬
ter calculated to avoid error than to lay hold of every col¬
lateral truth connected with the main object of inqiiiry, these
geometers soon perceived, that there were many problems
which in certain cases would admit of no solution whatever,
in consequence of a particular relation existing amongst
the quantities which were given. Such problems were said
to become impossible ; and it was soon perceived, that this
always happened wdien one of the conditions of the problem
was inconsistent with the rest. Thus, when it was required
to divide a line, so that the rectangle contained by its seg¬
ments might be equal to a given space, it was found that
this was possible only when the given space was less than the
square of half the line ; for when it was otherwise, the two
conditions defining, the one the magnitude of the line, and
the other the rectangle of its segments, were inconsistent
with each other. Such cases would occur in the solution
of the most simple problems ; but if they were more com¬
plicated, it must have been remarked, that the constructions
would sometimes fail, for a reason directly contrary to that
just now assigned. Cases would occur, where the lines,
which by their intersection were to determine the thing
sought, instead of intersecting each other as they did com¬
monly, or of not meeting at all, as in the above mentioned
case of impossibility, would coincide with one another en¬
tirely, and of course leave the problem unresolved. It would
appear to geometers upon a little reflection, that since, in
the case of determinate problems, the thing required was
determined by the intersection of the two lines already
mentioned, that is, by the points common to both ; so in
the case of their coincidence, as all their parts were in com¬
mon, every one of these points must give a solution, or, in
other words, the solutions must be indefinite in number.
Upon inquiry, it would be found that this proceeded from
some condition of the problem having been involved in an¬
other, so that, in fact, the two formed but one, and thus there
was not a sufficient number of independent conditions to li¬
mit the problem to a single or to any determinate number of
solutions. It would soon be perceived, that these cases
formed very curious propositions of an intermediate nature
between problems and theorems; and that they admitted
of being enunciated in a manner peculiarly elegant and con¬
cise. It was to such propositions that the ancients gave the
name of porisms.
This deduction requires to be illustrated by an example.
Suppose, therefore, that it were required to resolve the fol¬
lowing problem. A circle ABC, (fig. 1), a straight line DE,
and a point F, being given in position, to find a point G in
the straight line DE such, that GF, the line drawn from it
to the given point, shall be equal to GB, the line drawn from
it touching the given circle.
Suppose G to be found, and GB to be drawn touching
the given circle ABC in B, let H be its centre, join HB,
and let HD be perpendicular to DE. From D draw’ DL,
P O R X S M.
443
Porism.
touching the circle ABC in L, and join HL ; also from the
centre G, with the distance GB or GF, describe the circle
BKF, meeting HD in the points K and K'. It is evident
that FID and DL are given in position and magnitude : also
because GB touches the circle ABC, HBG is a right angle ;
and since G is the centre of the circle BKF, HB touches
that circle, and consequently HB2 or HL2=KHx HK';
but because KK' is bisected in D, KH x HK'-j-DK2^:
DH2, therefore HL2-f DK-=DH2. But HL2 + LD2=
DH2, therefore DK2=DL2 and DK=DL. But DL is
given in magnitude, and consequently K is a given point.
For the same reason K' is a given point, therefore the
point F being given in position, the circle KFR' is given in
position. The point G, which is its centre, is therefore given
in position, which was to be found. Hence this construction:
Having drawn HD perpendicular to DE, and DL touch¬
ing the circle ABC, make DK and DK' each equal to DL,
and find G the centre of the circle described through the
points K'FK; that is, let FK' be joined and bisected at
right angles by MN, which meets DE in G, G will be the
point required; or it will be such a point, that it GB be
drawn touching the circle ABC, and GF to the given point,
GB is equal to GF.
The synthetical demonstration is easily derived from the
preceding analysis ; but it must be remarked, that in some
cases this construction fails. For, first, if F fall anywhere
in DH, as at F', the line MN becomes parallel to DE, and
the point G is nowhere to be found; or, in other words, it
is at an infinite distance from D. This is true in general;
but if the given point F coincide with K, then MN evidently
coincides with DE ; so that, agreeable to a remark already
made, every point of the line DE may be taken for G, and
will satisfy the conditions of the problem ; that is to say,
GB will be equal to GK, wherever the point G is taken in
the line DE : the same is true if F coincide with K'. Thus
w e have an instance of a problem, and that too a very sim¬
ple one, which, in general, admits but of one solution ; but
which, in one particular case, when a certain relation takes
place among the things given, becomes indefinite, and ad¬
mits of innumerable solutions. The proposition w hich re¬
sults from this case of the problem is a porism, and may be
thus enunciated:
“A circle ABC being given by position, and also a straight
line DE, which does not cut the circle, a point K may be
found, such, that if G be any point whatever in DE, the
straight line drawn from G to the point K shall be equal to
the straight line drawn from G touching the given circle
ABC.”
The problem which follows, appears to have led to the
discovery of many porisms.
A circle ABC (fig. 2), and two points D, E, in a diameter
of it being given, to find a point F in the circumference of
the given circle, from which, if straight lines be drawn to
the given points E, D, these straight lines shall have to one
another the given ratio of a to j3, which is supposed to be
that of a greater to a less. Suppose the problem resolved,
and that F is found, so that FE has to FD the given ratio
of a to /3; produce EF towards G, bisect the angle EFD
by FL, and DFG by FM: therefore EL: LD :: EF : FD,
that is in a given ratio, and since ED is given, each of the
segments EL, LD, is given, and the point L is also given ;
again, because DFG is bisected by FM, EM: MD : : EF :
FD, that is, in a given ratio, and therefore M is given.
Since DFL is half of DFE, and DFM half of DFG, there¬
fore LFM is half of (DFE-f DFB), that is, the half of two
right angles, therefore LFM is a right angle; and since the
points L, M, are given, the point F is in the circumference
of a circle described upon LM as a diameter, and therefore
given in position. Now the point F is also in the circum¬
ference of the given circle ABC, therefore it is in the in¬
tersection of the two given circumferences, and therefore
is found. Hence this construction: Divide ED in L, so
that EL may be to LD in the given ratio of a to 0, and
produce ED also to M, so that EM may be to MD in the
same given ratio of a to 0; bisect LM in N, and from the
centre N with the distance NL, describe the semicircle
LFM ; and the point F, in which it intersects the circle
ABC, is the point required.
The synthetical demonstration is easily derived from the
preceding analysis. It must, however, be remarked, that the
construction fails when the circle LFM falls either wholly
within or wholly without the circle ABC, so that the cir¬
cumferences do not intersect; and in these cases the pro¬
blem cannot be solved. It is also obvious that the con¬
struction will fail in another case, viz. when the two circum¬
ferences LFM, ABC, entirely coincide. In this case, it is
farther evident, that every point in the circumference ABC
will answer the conditions of the problem, which is there¬
fore capable of numberless solutions, and may, as in the for¬
mer instance, be converted into a porism. We are now
to inquire, therefore, in what circumstances the point L will
coincide with A, and also the point M with C, and of con¬
sequence the circumference LFM with ABC. If we sup¬
pose that they coincide, EA : AD : : a : 0:: EC : CD, and
EA : EC : : AD * CD, or by conversion, EA : AC:: AD :
CD AD : : AD : 2DO, O being the centre of the circle
ABC ; therefore, also, EA : AO :: AD : DO, and by com-
positition, EO : AO : : AO : DO, therefore EO x OD=
AO2. Hence, if the given points E and D (fig. 3), be so si¬
tuated that EO X 0D=A02, and at the same time a : 0 : :
EA : AD : : EC : CD, the problem admits of numberless
solutions ; and if either of the points D or E be given, the
other point, and also the ratio which will render the prob¬
lem indeterminate, may be found. Hence we have this
porism: ,
“ A circle ABC, and also a point D being given, another
point E may be found, such that the two lines inflected
from these points to any point in the circumference ABC,
444
Porism.
P O XI I S M.
Fig. 3.
shall have to each other a given ratio, which ratio is also to be
found ” Hence also we have an example of the derivation
of porisms from one another, for the circle ABC, and the
points D and E remaining as before, if, through D we draw
any line whatever HDB, meeting the circle in B and H ;
and if the lines EB, EH, be also drawn, these lines will cut
off equal circumferences BE, HG. Let FC be drawn, and
it is plain from the foregoing analysis, that the angles Dr C,
CFB, are equal; therefore if OG, OB, be drawn, the an¬
gles BOC, COG, are also equal; and consequently the an¬
gles DOB, DOG. In the same manner, by joining AB,
the angle DBE being bisected by BA, it is evident that the
an o-l e A OF is equal to AOH, and therefore the angle h OB
toidOG ; hence the arch FB is equal to the arch HG. It
is evident that if the circle ABC, and either of the points
DE were given, the other point might be found. Ihere-
fore we have this porism, which appears to have been the
last but one of the third book of Euclid s Porisms. “ A
point being given, either within or without a circle given
by position, if there be drawn, anyhow through that point,
a line cutting the circle in two points ; another point may
be found, such, that if two lines be drawn from it to the
points in which the line already drawn cuts the circle, these
two lines will cut off from the circle equal circumferences.”
The proposition from which we have deduced these two
porisms, also affords an illustration of the remark, that the
conditions of a problem are involved in one another in the
porismatic or indefinite case ; for here several independent
conditions are laid down, by the help of which the problem
is to be resolved. Two points D and E are given, from
which two lines are to be inflected, and a circumference
ABC, in which these lines are to meet, as also a ratio which
these lines are to have to each other. Now these condi¬
tions are all independent of one another, so that any one may
be changed without any change whatever in the rest. This
is true in general; but yet in one case, viz. when the points
are so related to another, that the rectangle under their dis¬
tances from the centre is equal to the square of the radius
of the circle, it follows, from the preceding analysis, that the
ratio of the inflected lines is no longer a matter of choice,
but a necessary consequence of this disposition of the points.
From what has been already said, we may trace the im¬
perfect definition of a porism which Pappus ascribes to the
later geometers, viz. that it differs from a local theorem, by
w'anting the hypothesis assumed in that theorem. Now, to
understand this, it must be observed, that if we take one of
the propositions called loci, and make the construction of
the figure a part of the hypothesis, we get what was called
by the ancient geometers, a local theorem. If, again, in the
enunciation of the theorem, that part of the hypothesis
which contains the construction be suppressed, the propo¬
sition thence arising will be a porism, for it will enunciate a
truth, and will require to the full understanding and investi¬
gation of that truth, that something should be found, viz. the
circumstances in the construction supposed to be omitted.
Thus, when we say, if from two given points, E, D, two
straight lines EF, FD, are inflected to a third point F, so
as to be to one another in a given ratio, the point F is in
the circumference of a given circle, we have a locus. But
when conversely, it is said, if a circle ABC, of which the
centre is O, be given by position, as also a point E ; and it ',-
D be taken in the line EO, so that EO X OD -AO2, and
if from E and D the lines EF, DF be inflected to any
point of the circumference ABC, the ratio of EF to DF will
be given, viz. the same with that of EA to AD, we have a
local theorem.
Lastly, when it is said, if a circle ABC be given by po¬
sition, and also a point E, a point D may be found, such
that if EF, FD be inflected from E and D to any point F
in the circumference ABC, these lines shall have a given
ratio to one another, the proposition becomes a porism, and
is the same that has just now been investigated.
Hence it is evident, that the local theorem is changed
into a porism, by leaving out what relates to the determi¬
nation of D, and of the given ratio. But though all propo¬
sitions formed in this way from the conversion of loci, are
porisms, yet all porisms are not formed from the conver¬
sion of loci; the first, for instance, of the preceding, can¬
not, by conversion, be changed into a locus ; therefore Fer¬
mat’s idea of porisms, founded upon this circumstance, could
not fail to be imperfect.
If the idea which we have given of these propositions be
just, it follows, that they are to be discovered by consider¬
ing those cases in which the construction of a problem fails,
in consequence of the lines which by their intersection, or
the points which by their position, were to determine the
problem required, happening to coincide with one another.
A porism may therefore be deduced from the problem to
which it belongs, just as propositions concerning the maxi¬
ma and minima of quantities are deduced from the pro¬
blems of which they form limitations ; and such is the most
natural and obvious analysis of which this class of proposi¬
tions admits.
Another general remark which may be made on the an¬
alysis of porisms is, that it often happens that the magni¬
tudes required may all, or a part of them, be found by con¬
sidering the extreme cases ; but for the discovery of the
relation between them, and the indefinite magnitudes, we
must have recourse to the hypothesis of the porism in its
most general or indefinite form ; and must endeavour so to
conduct the reasoning, that the indefinite magnitudes may
at length totally disappear, and leave a proposition assert¬
ing the relation between determinate magnitudes only.
For this purpose accordingly Dr. Simson frequently employs
two statements of the general hypothesis, which he compares
together. This double statement, however, cannot be made
without rendering the in¬
vestigation long and com¬
plicated ; nor is it even ne-
Porism.
cessary, for it may be avoid¬
ed by having recourse to
simpler porisms, or to loci,
or to propositions of the
data. The porism which
follows, is given as an ex¬
ample wdiere this is done
with some difficulty, but
with considerable advan¬
tage, both with regard to
the simplicity and shortness
of the demonstration. It
will be proper to premise
the following lemma.
Let AB (fig. 4.) be a straight line, and D, L any two
points in it, one of which D is between A and B ; also let
CL be any straight line. Then shall
CC'ADS+^'BDS=cl'AL'
LA
CL
•BL
'+^DLa-
For place CL perpendicular to AB, and through the point*
P O R I S M.
Porism. A, C, B describe a circle, and let CL meet the circle a^ain
-^“Y'^in E, and join AE, BE. Also draw DG parallel to CE,
meeting AE and BE in H and G, and draw EK parallel to
AB. Then, from the elements of geometry,
CL : LB :: (LA : LE :: ) LA2 : LA x LE,
and hence LA x LE=-^?-*LA2.
Also CL : LA :: (LB : LE ::) LB2 : LB xLE,
LA
and hence LB X LE=-^- *LB2.
Li
Now CL : LB :: LA : LE :: EK or LD : KH,
and CL : LA :: LA : LE :: EK or LD : KG,
therefore, CL : AB :: (LD : GH ::) LD2 : EKx GH,
A
and hence EK x GH=—‘LD2.
From the three equations now deduced, there results
^-.LA*+L-4LB2+ ^?.LD*=ABxLE+EKxGH.
LG LC CL
Again, because
CL : LA :: (LB : LE :: DB : DG ::) DB
therefore DB x DG=-L^
CL : LB :: (LA : LE :: DA : DH ::) DA2 : DA x DH,
therefore DA xDH=-^-.DA2. From the result of these
Vs Li
two last propositions we have
.LLdA2 + -t^DB^DA X DH + DB X DG;
LL LL
But DA x DH z=zticice trian. ADH, and DB x T)G=twice
trian. BDG, and therefore DA X DH + DB x DG=2
{trian. ADYl + lrian. BDG)=2 {trian. AEiQ-\-trian.
HEG)=AB x LE + EK x HG. Now it has been proved,
that DA x DH+DB xDG=--^-DA2 +-~.BD2, and
that ABxLE + EKxHG=-^-*LA2+-^-*LB2 +
-^•LD2, therefore-^--AD2+^-BD2=-^-*AL2+
LA AB
-^•BL2* ptf-vDL2, as was to be demonstrated.
LL LL
Pobism. Let there be three straight lines AB, AC,
DB x DG,
DB2. And because
CB given in po¬
sition ; (fig. 5)
and from any
point whatever in
one of them, as D,
let perpendicu¬
lars be drawn to
the other two, as
DF, DE, a point
G may be found,
such, that if GD
be drawn from it
to the point D,
the square of that
line shall have a
given ratio to the
sum of thesquares
of the perpendi¬
culars DF and
DE, which ratio
is to be found.
Fig. 5.
445
AB take L, so that AL : LB :: AH2 : BK2 :: AC2 : CB2. Porism.
The point L is therefore given; and if a line N be taken,
so as to have to AL the same ratio that AB2 has to AH2,
N will be given in magnitude. Also, since AH2 : BK2 ::
AL : LB, and AH2 : AB2 :: AL : N, ex equo, BK2 : AB*
:: LB : N. Draw LO, LM perpendicular to AC, CB
LO, LM are therefore given in magnitude. Now, becaus*
AB2 : BK2 :: AD2 : DF2, N : LB :: AD2 : DF2, and DF*
AL
For the same reason DE2=-tt—'BD2.
LB
=-^r*AD2.
N
L02=^-AL2, and LM2=^-BL2.
N N
-LG2);
But, by the preceding lemma, -y^-,AD2-f--^^-*BD2=
-^•AL2+^*BL2 + 4ir--DL2; that is, DE2+DF2
N In 1 N ‘
AT}
= LO2LM2 + —‘DL2. Join LG, then by hypo¬
thesis L02 + LM2 has to LG2, the same ratio as DFfl
-f DE2 has to DG2 ; let it be that of II to N, then LO4
+ LM2=-|.LG2; and therefore DE2 + DF2=-|.LG2+
^.DL2; but DE2 + DF2=iDG2; therefore,-^.LG2
+ 1#*DL -|DGS’ and ^•DL-'I(DG2-
therefore DG2—LG2 has to DL2 a constant ratio, viz.
that of AB to R. The angle DLG is therefore a right
angle, and the ratio of AB to R that of equality, otherwise
LD would be given in magnitude, contrary to the supposi¬
tion. LG is therefore given in position: and since R : N ::
AB : N :: L02 + LM2 : LG2 ; therefore the square of
LG, and consequently LG, is given in magnitude. The
point G is therefore given, and also the ratio of DE2=:DF2
to DG2, which is the same with that of AB to N.
The construction easily follows from the analysis, but it
may be rendered more simple; for since AH2 : AB2 :
AL : N, and BK2: AB2 :: BL : N ; therefore AH2 + BK2
AB- :: AB : N. Likewise, if AG, BG, be joined, AB
N :: AH2 : AG2, and AB : N :: BK2 : BG2 ; wherefore,
AB : N :: AH2 + BK2 : AG2-f-BG2, but it was proved
that. AB : N :: AH2-f BK2 : AB2, therefore AG2-q-BG2
=AB2 ; therefore the angle AGB is a right angle, and
AL : LG :: LG : LB. If therefore AB be divided in L,
so that AL : LB :: AH2 : BK2 ; and if LG, a mean pro¬
portional between AL and LB, be placed perpendicular to
AB, G will be the point required.
The step in the analysis, by which a second introduction
of the general hypothesis is avoided, is that in which the
angle GLD is concluded to be a right angle ; which fol¬
lows from DG2—GL2 having a given ratio to LD2, at the
same time that LD is of no determinate magnitude. For, if
possible, let GLD be obtuse, (fig.
6,) and let the perpendicular from
G to AB meet in V, therefore
V is given : and since GD2—LG2
=Lb2 X 2DL x LV ; therefore,
by the supposition, LD2 + 2 DL
X LV must have a given ratio to
LD2 ; therefore the ratio of LD2
to DL X VL, that is, of LD to
VL, is given, so that VL being
given in magnitude, LD is also
given. But this is contrary to
the supposition ; for LD is inde-
Fig. 6.
Draw'All!'BK perpendicular to BC and AC i and in finite by hypothesis, and therefore GLD cannot be obtuse,
I
446
Porism.
PORISM.
nor any other than a right angle. The conclusion that is
'here drawn immediately from the indetermmation of LD
would be deduced, according to Dr. Simsons method, by
assuming another point IV any ho^n^from^e suppo^-
casoly'appear that OLD must be a right angle, and the
ratThSeVlismsaftcilitate the solution of the general prob-
lems from which they are derived. For example, let thiee
straight lines AB, AC, BC, (fig. 5), be given m position,
and also a point R, to find a point D in one of the given
lines, so that DE and DF being drawn perpendicular to
BC, AC, and DR, joined; DE2+DF may have to D
a given ratio. It is plain, that having found G, the pio-
blem would be nothing more than to find D, s«ch that the
ratio of GD2 to DR2, and therefore that of GD to DR,
might be given, from which it would follow, that the point
D is in the circumference of a given circle, as is well known
t0 The same porism also assists in the solution of another
problem. For if it were required to find D such that DE
4-DF2 might be a given space; having found Cj, Elx
would have to DE2 + DF2 a given ratio, and DG would
therefore be given ; whence the solution is. obvious.
The connection of this porism with the impossible case
of the problem is evident; the point L being that from
which, if perpendiculars be drawn to AC and CB, the sum
of their squares is the least possible. For since Dh' +
DE2 : DG2 :: L02 + LM2 : LG2 ; and since LG is less
than DG, L02 + LM2 must be less than DF2 + DE2.
It is evident from what has now appeared, that in some
instances at least there is a close connection between these
propositions and the maxima or minima, and of conse¬
quence the impossible cases of problems. The nature of
this connection requires to be farther investigated, and is
the more interesting because the transition from the inde¬
finite to the impossible case seems to be made with won¬
derful rapidity. Thus in the first proposition, though there
be not properly speaking an impossible case, but only one
where the point to be found goes off in infinitum, it may
be remarked, that if the given point F (fig-l), be anywhere
out of the line HD, the problem of drawing GB equal to GF
is always possible, and admits of just one solution ; but if F
be in DH, the problem admits of no solution at all, the
point being then at an infinite distance, and therefore im¬
possible to be assigned. 1 here is, however, this exception,
that if the given point be at K in this same line, DFI is de¬
termined by making DK equal to DL. Then every point
in the line DE gives a solution, and may be taken for the
point G. Here therefore the case of numberless solutions,
and of no solution at all, are as it were conterminal, and so
close to one another, that if the given point be at K the
problem is indefinite ; but if it remove ever so little from
K, remaining at the same time in the line DH, the problem
cannot be resolved. This affinity might have been deter¬
mined a priori; for, as we have seen, it is a general prin¬
ciple, that a problem is converted into a porism when one
or when two of the conditions of it necessarily involve in
them some one of the rest. Suppose, then, that two of the
conditions are exactly in that state which determines the
third ; then whilst they remain fixed or given, should that
third one vary or differ ever so little from the state requir¬
ed by the other two, a contradiction will ensue. Therefore
if, in the hypothesis of a problem, the conditions be so re¬
lated to one another as to render it indeterminate, a porism
is produced ; but if, of the conditions thus related to one
another, some one be supposed to vary, whilst the others
continue the same, an absurdity follows, and the problem
becomes impossible. Wherever, therefore, any problem ad¬
mits both of an indeterminate and an impossible case, it is
certain, that these cases are nearly related to one another.
and that some of the conditions by which they are produced
are common to both.
It is supposed above, that two of the conditions of a
problem involve in them a third ; and wherever that hap¬
pens, the conclusion which has been deduced will invari¬
ably take place. But a porism may in some cases be so
simple as to arise from the mere coincidence of one condi¬
tion with another, though in no case whatever can any in¬
consistency take place between them. There are, how¬
ever, comparatively few porisms so simple in their origin,
or that arise from problems where the conditions are but
little complicated; for it usually happens that a problem
which can become indefinite may also become impossible;
and if so, the connection already explained never fails to
take place.
Another species of impossibility may frequently arise
from the porismatic case of a problem which will affect in
some measure the application of geometry to astronomy, or
any of the sciences depending upon experiment or observa¬
tion. For when a problem is to be resolved by means of
data furnished by experiment or observation, the first thing
to be considered is, whether the data so obtained be suffi¬
cient for determining the thing sought ; and in this a very
erroneous judgment may be formed, if we rest satisfied with
a general view of the subject, f or though the problem may
in general be resolved from the data with which we are
provided, yet these data may be so related to one another
in the case under consideration, that the problem will be¬
come indeterminate, and instead of one solution w ill admit
of an indefinite number. This we have already found to
be the case in the foregoing propositions. Such cases may
not indeed occur in any of the practical applications of ge¬
ometry ; but there is one of the same kind which has actu¬
ally occurred in astronomy. Sir Isaac Newton, in his Prin-
cipia, has considered a small part of the orbit of a comet as
a straight line described with an uniform motion. From
this hypothesis, by means of four observations made at pro¬
per intervals of time, the determination of the path of the
comet is reduced to this geometrical problem. Four straight
lines being in position, it is required to draw a fifth line
across them, so as to be cut by them into three parts, hav¬
ing given ratios to one another. Now this problem had
been constructed by Dr. Wallis and Sir Cristopher Wren,
and also in three different ways by Sir Isaac himself in dif¬
ferent parts of his works ; yet none of these geometers ob¬
served that there was a particular situation of the lines
in which the problem admitted of innumerable solutions ;
and this happens to be the very case in which the problem
is applicable to the determination of the comet’s path, as
was first discovered by Boscovich, who was led to it by
finding, that in this wray he could never determine the path
of a comet with any degree of certainty.
The preceding account of this interesting branch of the
ancient geometry, is taken from a very elegant and elabor¬
ate paper, On the Origin and Investigation of Porisms,
by the late Professor Playfair, published in the third volume
of the Transactions of the Royal Society of Edinburgh, and
also in his collected Works, (vol. iii. p. 178.) For further
particulars on the subject, the reader may consult the ori¬
ginal paper of Professor Playfair; Dr. Simson s treatise,
f)e Porismatibus, contained in his Opera Reliqua ; a paper
in the fourth volume of the Edinburgh Transactions, by
Professor Wallace, entitled, Some Geometrical Porisms,
with examples of their application to the Solution of Pro¬
blems ; Dr. Traill’s Account of the Life and Writings oj
Robert Simson, M.D ; and Professor Leslie’s Geometrical
Analysis. At the end of Dr. Stewart’s General Theorems,
above mentioned, five very remarkable porisms are enunci¬
ated, the demonstration of the first of which is given in
Leybourn’s Mathematical Repository, (vol.i.) and of the re¬
maining four in the fifth volume of the same work published
Porism.
P O R
Pork
in 1830. The algebraic analysis may frequently be applied
ii . with great advantage in the investigation of porisms, but this
rorpiiynus. raanner 0f treating the subject does not come within the
scope of the present article.
PORK, the flesh of swine killed for the purposes of food.
The hog is the only domestic animal that we know which
is of no use to man when alive, and therefore seems proper¬
ly designed for food. Besides being loathsome and ugly to
every eye, it is killed without reluctance. The Pythago¬
reans, whether to preserve health, or on account of compas¬
sion, generally forbade the use of animal food ; and yet it
is alleged that Pythagoras reserved the use of hog’s flesh for
himself. The Jews, the Egyptians, and other inhabitants
of warm countries, and all the Mahomedans, reject the use
of pork. It is difficult to discover a satisfactory reason for
this, or for the precept given to the Jews respecting it,
though unquestionably some good one might be assigned.
The Greeks greatly commended this food ; and Galen
everywhere speaks in its praise. The Romans considered
it as one of their delicacies ; and if some of the inhabitants
of the northern climates have taken an aversion to it, that
probably arose from their country not being fitted to rear
it. Pork is of a very tender structure, increased perhaps
from a peculiarity in its economy, namely, taking on fat more
readily than any other animal. Pork is a white meat even
in its adult state, and then gives out a jelly in great quan¬
tity.
PORLOCK, a small market town of Somersetshire, in
the hundred of Carhampton, 170 miles from London. It
stands at the foot of a lofty range of mountains, on a beau¬
tiful bay of its own name, on the Bristol channel. The in¬
habitants were, in 1801, 600 ; in 1811, 633; in 1821, 769;
and in 1831, 830.
PORO-ISLE, commonly called Porto-Sipora or the is¬
land of Good Fortune. It contains four villages, in each of
which there are about a thousand inhabitants. It is thirty-
three miles in length, by eight in average breadth, and is
almost wholly covered with wood. It is situated on the south¬
western coast of the Poggy Islands, and is inhabited by a
race of people similar both in manners and language. Long.
99.15. E. Lat. 2. 12. S.
PORONNISHIR, one of the Kurile islands in the North
Pacific Ocean, about 44 miles in length and 12 in breadth.
It is unequal in its surface ; the northern part being moun¬
tainous, but the north-west less so, though it is still diver¬
sified by hills and valleys, one chain of hills rising to a great
height, and being never wholly free from snow. It contains
abundance of minerals, but is destitute of timber. Wolves
and red foxes are found here in plenty ; and there is a con¬
siderable bay at the north-eastern extremity. The most nor¬
thern point of the island is Cape Wasitieff, in long. 156. 14.
E. Lat. 51.38. N.
PORPHYRIUS, a famous Platonic philosopher, was
born at Tyre in 233, in the reign of Alexander Severus. He
was the disciple of Longinus, and became the ornament of
his school at Athens, whence he went to Rome, and attend¬
ed Plotinus, with whom he lived six years. After Plotin¬
us’s death he taught philosophy at Rome with great suc¬
cess, and became well skilled in polite literature, geography,
astronomy, and music. He lived till the end of the third
century, and died in the reign of Diocletian. There are
still extant his book on the Categories of Aristotle ; a Trea¬
tise on Abstinence from Flesh ; and several other pieces in
Greek. He also composed a treatise against the Christian
religion, which is now lost. That work was answered by
Methodius bishop of Tyre, and also by Eusebius, Apollin-
arius, St. Augustin, St. Jerome, St. Cyril, and Theodoret.
The Emperor Theodosius the Great caused Porphyrius’s
book to be burned in 338. Those of his works that are
still extant were printed at Cambridge in 1655, 8vo, with
a Latin version.
FOR
447
Porphynus, says Dr. Enfield, “ was, it must be owned, Porphyry
a writer of deep erudition ; and had his judgment and inte- 11
gnty been equal to his learning, he would have deserved a Porson.
distinguished place among the ancients. But neither the' 
splendour of his diction, nor the variety of his reading, can
atone for the credulity or the dishonesty which filled the
narrative part of his works with so many extravagant tales,
or interest the judicious reader in the abstruse subtilties
and mystical flights of his philosophical writings.”
I ORPHYRY, a compound rock. The art of cutting
porphyry, practised by the ancients, appears to have been
lost. Indeed it is difficult to conceive what tools they used
for fashioning those huge columns and other porphyritic
works in some of the ancient buildings in Rome. Modern
tools will scarcely touch porphyry. Dr. Lister therefore
thinks, that the ancients had the secret of tempering steel
better than we ; and not, as some imagine, that they had the
art of softening the porphyry, since it is probable that time
and air may have contributed to increase its hardness. Mr.
Addison says, he saw a workman at Rome cutting porphyry ;
but his advances were extremely slow and almost insensible.
The Italian sculptors work the pieces of old porphyritic co¬
lumns still remaining (for the porphyry quarries are long since
lost) with a brass saw without teeth. \\ ith this saw, emery,
and water, they rub and wear the stone with infinite pa¬
tience. Many persons have endeavoured to retrieve the
ancient art, and particularly Leon Baptista Alberti, who,
searching for the necessary materials for temper, says, he
found goat s blood the best of any ; but even this avails not
much ; for in working with chissels tempered with it, sparks
of fire came much more plentifully than pieces of the stone.
The sculptors were thus, however, able to make a flat or
oval form ; but could never attain to any thing like a figure.
In the year 1555, Cosmo de Medicis is said to have dis¬
tilled a water from certain herbs, with which his sculptor,
I rancesco ladda, gave his tools such an admirable hard¬
ness and so fine a temper, that he performed some very ex¬
quisite works with them, particularly our Saviour’s head
in demi-relief, and Cosmo’s head with that of his duchess.
The very hair and beard, how difficult soever, are here well
conducted; and there is nothing of the kind superior to it in
all the works of the ancients; but the secret appears to
have died w ith him. The French have discovered another
mode of cutting porphyry, namely, with an iron saw without
teeth, and with grez, a kind of free-stone pulverized, and
water. The authors of this invention say that they could
form the whole contour of a column, if they had matter to
work on. Others have proposed to harden tools so as to
cut porphyry, by steeping them in the juice of the plant
called bear’s breech or brankursine. (See Birch’s Hist. R.
S. vol. i. p. 238. vol. ii. p. 73, &c.) Mr. Boyle says, that he
caused porphyry to be cut by means of emery, steel saws, and
water ; but he observes, that in his time the English work¬
men were ignorant of the manner of working porphyry, and
that none of them would undertake to cut or polish it. (See
his Works abr. vol. i. p. 11.)
Da Costa supposes, and perhaps with reason, that the me¬
thod used by the ancients in cutting and engraving por¬
phyry was extremely simple, and that it was performed
without the aid of any scientific means. He imagines, that,
by unwearied diligence, and with numbers of common tools,
they rudely hewed or broke the stone into the intended
figure, and by continued application reduced them into more
regular designs; and that they completed the work by po¬
lishing it with great labour, by the aid of certain hard sands
found in Egypt. And he thinks, that in the porphyry quar¬
ries there were layers of grit or loose disunited particles,
analogous to the porphyry, which they carefully sought for,
and used for this work. See Geology and Mineralogy.
PORSON (Richard), the greatest of the verbal critics
and classical scholars of modern times, born on the 25th of
P O R S O N.
December 1759, was the H„,gin Po^om pa-
rf HttttE“ught ST KildhoS to pr “ fie^nulatfon of a pi school most have been
His tatner taugnt mm, m m ’ . | _ , , crr^t nrlvantao-e to him, as affording him a motive tor
teeCh“ nine fern om! he hldTeS to'eitrae; th^ exertion in his exercises, whether they were to be called his
Person.
cube root in this manner. At the same time, for teaching
him to read and write, he employed the method which has
since been generally introduced in the schools of mutual in¬
struction, making him draw the letters with chalk or on
sand; and the neatness and accuracy of his hand-writing,
for which he was distinguished through life, may be con¬
sidered as bearing ample testimony to his father s ingenuity
and success. , . .
At the age of nine he was sent to a village school, kept
by a Mr. Summers ; but his father still made him repeat by
heart in the evening the whole of the lessons of the day ;
and there seems to be sufficient evidence for considering
this practice of exercising the memory continually, in veiy
early life, as the best, if not the only method of cultivating,
if not of producing great talent. For though a strong me¬
mory by no means constitutes talent, yet its possession is
almost a necessary condition for the successful exertion of
talent in general; and, indeed, it is very possible that the
other faculties of the mind may be strengthened by the
early cultivation of this one. It is remarkable that Wallis,
who was as deservedly celebrated in his day as Person, for
his unerring sagacity, had also a singular facility of retain¬
ing numbers and calculations in his memory, but without
having taken any particular pains to acquire the habit. Mr.
Hewitt, the vicar of the parish of East Ruston, hearing of
young Person’s uncommon capacity, undertook to instruct
both him and his brother Thomas in classical literature;
and when he was about fifteen, Mr. Norris, a wealthy and
respectable gentleman of the neighbourhood, having ascer¬
tained the truth of the reports that he heard of him, resolved
to be at the expense of sending him to Eton. Without this
assistance it would have been impossible for Person to have
acquired great, excellence in any intellectual pursuit; for
his father’s situation in life was not such as to exempt his
son even from the subordinate occupations ol the country.
He went out gleaning, in the autumn, with a Horace in his
pocket; and he had learned by experience to appreciate the
mechanical labours of Penelope, before he was much ac¬
quainted with the wisdom and wanderings of Ulysses.
At Eton, his talents procured him the friendship and ad¬
miration of the seniors amongst his schoolfellows, and, upon
the unfortunate death of his first patron, Mr. Norris, he
found a number of liberal contributors, who stepped forward
to supply the deficiency ; but by far the most active of them
was Sir George Baker, then President of the Royal Col¬
lege of Physicians, a man as much distinguished by his
own classical taste and acquirements, as by his laudable dis¬
position to cherish learning in others. He received the boy
into his house for a vacation, and undertook, at the request
of a relation of Mr. Norris, the disagreeable task of receiv¬
ing, in small sums, as much as was sufficient to purchase an
income of L.80 a-year, for a few years, in the short annui¬
ties, which served, with great economy, to enable him to
remain at Eton. This favour appears to have been too
great to be properly acknowledged, or perhaps even duly
appreciated, by its object, who only after many years paid
Sir George the tardy compliment of a dedication, not, how¬
ever, of an edition, but of a handsome copy of a single play
of Euripides. In his own opinion, Person learned little at
Eton besides the quantity of syllables, being able to repeat
by heart before he went there the principal part of the
authors that he had to read; that is, almost the whole of
Horace and Virgil, the Iliad, and many parts of Cicero,
Livy, and the Odyssey. A story is accordingly told of his
book having been changed by one of his schoolfellows in
joke, when he was going up to a lesson in Horace, and of
own, or to be written for other boys. It was a copy of
Toup’s Longinus, presented to him as a reward for a good
exercise, that first gave him a decided inclination for the
pursuit of critical researches; but he always considered
Bentley cincl D<iwes cis His ^re&t masters in criticism*
In 1777 he was sent to Trinity College, Cambridge, and
at first he began to apply more particularly to the mathe¬
matics, which had been the favourite study of his boyhood,
and in which, as he himself remarked, his proficiency first
brought him into a certain degree of public notice. He
was, however, soon diverted from this pursuit, although he
attained a place amongst the senior optimes of his year. But
he was in fact more calculated for classical than for mathe¬
matical excellence. His memory would have been in a great
measure thrown away, if he had been employed in abstract
calculations; and his inventive powers do not appear to have
been at all of the same class with his retentive faculties ;
although certainly in the mechanical pursuit of the fashion¬
able methods of modern analysis, which are intended, like
steam engines, to overcome all difficulties by the inanimate
force of mere patience and perseverance, he w as capable of
filling as dis inguished a place as any living algebraist.
The classical prize medal, and the university scholarship,
he obtained without difficulty, as matters of course. The
exercise, which he exhibited upon the examination for the
scholarship, is the well known translation of an epitaph in¬
to Greek iambics; which, although not free from some in¬
accuracies in the use of the tenses, is still a very remark¬
able production, when it is considered as having been com¬
pleted in less than an hour, with the help of Morrell’s The¬
saurus only, and never afterwards corrected.
He obtained a fellowship of Trinity College in 1781, and
took his degree of Master of Arts in 1785 ; but not think¬
ing it right to subscribe the Articles of the Church of Eng¬
land, he could not enter into orders, and he was therefore
unavoidably deprived of his fellowship in 1791, having no
dependence left for his subsistence through life, but his own
abilities and acquirements. His friends, however, did not
abandon him on this urgent occasion, and in order to keep
him out of actual want, a private subscription wras set on
foot, to which Mr. Cracherode w’as one of the principal con¬
tributors, and by which enough was raised to purchase him
an annuity of about L.l 00 a-year for life. A small addition was
made to Ins income, about two years afterwards, by his elec¬
tion to the Greek Professorship at Cambridge, with a salary
of only L.40 a-year. The situation, however, gave him the
option of at least doubling his whole receipts, by the delivery
of an annual course of lectures in the university; and it
was supposed that he would have made this exertion, if he
had not been discouraged by the difficulty of obtaining
rooms in his college, where it would have been his wish to
reside*
Person married, in 1795, Mrs. Lunan, a sister of the^late
Mr. Perry, well known as the editor of the Morning Chro¬
nicle, but he had the misfortune to lose his wife two years
afterwards. Mr. Perry continued to be his greatest friend
through life, and was so far his best benefactor, as he knew
how to oblige him essentially, without the appearance of
doing him a favour. Person had sometimes chambers in
the Temple, and sometimes he lodged at the Morning Chro¬
nicle office ; frequently also he was a visitor at Mr. Perry s
house at Merton, where he had the misfortune to leave se¬
veral of his books, at the time of a fire, which destroyed
them all, and amongst them some letters of Rhunkenius, with
whom he had begun a correspondence in 1783, and who
had committed to him some valuable fragments of TEschy-
P O R S O N
Person, lus, besides bis manuscript copy of the lexicon of Photius,
which had cost him ten months’ labour. He used indeed
to say that this fire had destroyed the fruits of twenty years
of his life ; but he had the resolution to complete a second
copy of the Photius, which is now in the library of Trinity
College. His fondness for the mechanical employment of
his pen has been regretted by some of his biographers, as
having tempted him to waste much of his most valuable
time on a trifling amusement; but in fact, his mode of writ¬
ing Greek was fully as much calculated for expedition as
for beauty ; and those who have not been in the habit of
correcting mutilated passages of manuscripts, can form no
estimate of the immense advantage that is obtained, by the
complete sifting of every letter, which the mind involun¬
tarily performs, whilst the hand is occupied in tracing it; so
that, if the correction of Photius was really worth the la¬
bour of two years of Person’s life, it would have been
scarcely possible to employ the greater part of those years
more advantageously, than by copying him twice over. Mr.
Weston, in speaking of “ his matchless penmanship,” has
observed, not very intelligibly, that “ here, indeed, he thought
himself surpassed by” another person “ not in the stroke,
but the sweep, of his letters.” What Person really said on
this subject was, that, with respect to “command of hand,”
that person had the advantage, but he preferred the model
on which his own hand was formed. His writing was, in
fact, more like that of a scholar, whilst the method explain¬
ed in Mr. Hodgkin’s Calligraphia exhibits more the ap¬
pearance of the work of a writing master; holding, how¬
ever, a middle place between the neatness of Person, and
the wonderful accuracy of the country schoolmaster who
made the fac simile of the Oxford Pindar in the British
Museum.
Upon the establishment of the London Institution, his
friends obtained for him the very desirable appointment of
principal librarian, with a salary of L.200 a-year, and apart¬
ments in the house of the Institution, which was then in
the Old Jewry ; but although the arrangement wras highly
honourable to all parties, the librarianship was little more
than a sinecure. Person was, however, in the habit of at¬
tending in his place when the reading-room was open, and
of communicating, very readily, all the literary information
that was required, by those who consulted him respecting
the object of their researches. Had the inhabitants of Fins¬
bury Square and its neighbourhood been more disposed to
classical studies, and had the librarian of the Institution
survived, to witness its completion and prosperity, his sphere
of utility would, without doubt, have been greatly extended.
But it must ever be lamented that Person’s habits of life
had unfortunately been such as to lay a foundation for a
multitude of diseases. He suffered much from asthma through¬
out the year 1808 ; his memory began to fail him a little ;
and in the autumn he had some symptoms of intermittent
fever. On Monday the 19th of September he had an apo¬
plectic attack in the street, and he was carried to a neigh¬
bouring poor house in a state of insensibility. The next day
an advertisement appeared in one of the papers, relating the
accident, and describing some manuscripts which were found
in his pocket, consisting of Greek fragments and algebraical
characters. His friends at the London Institution immedi¬
ately went in quest of him ; he was afterwards well enough
to appear in the library, and to receive a visit there from
Dr. Adam Clarke ; but his speech was impaired, and his
faculties evidently imperfect. He survived only through the
week, and died in his forty-ninth year, on Sunday the 25th
of September 1808, at midnight.
He was buried at Cambridge, in Trinity College Chapel,
near the grave of Bentley, and the monument of Newton.
He founded by will an annual prize, to be given to the best
Greek translation from an English dramatic author; and
several specimens of the successful pieces have been pub-
VOL. XVIII.
449
fished from time to time in the Classical Journal Hisbooks Person,
were sold by auction, and many of them found purchasers at'
high prices, especially such as were enriched with any of his
manuscript notes in their margins ; but more than two hun¬
dred of these, which appeared to be the most valuable, were
withheld from the sale, and were afterwards purchased, to¬
gether with the whole of his manuscript papers, by the Society
of Trinity College, for the sum of a thousand guineas. He
left a sister, married to Mr. Siday Hawes, of Coltishall, Nor¬
folk. His brother Thomas kept a boarding-school at Faken-
ham, and died, without issue, in 1792: his second brother,
Henry, was a farmer in Essex, and died young, leaving three
children. His father had lived to 74, his mother to 57.
The principal works of Person are his Letters to Travis,
his four plays of Euripides with their prefaces, and the
manuscript copy of Photius; the rest, though somewdial
voluminous, are chiefly miscellaneous annotations upon de¬
tached passages of a multitude of ancient authors. We
find nothing in the nature of theory, or of the discovery of
general laws, except some canons, which he has laid down,
chiefly as having been used by the Greek tragedians in the
construction of their verses. These are chiefly contained
in the preface to the Hecuba, together with its supplement.
1. The first is, that when a tragic iambic ends with a trisyl¬
lable, or a cretic, this word must be preceded either by a
short syllable, or by a monosyllable. For example, an an¬
cient tragedian would not have w ritten the fine "e^oi Hi
^noT «’£ anfVKTov HcofmTos, though it might have been un¬
exceptionable in a comedy. It seems to have been about
the year 1790 that Person first made this observation. He
certainly did not attend to it in his own serious translation
of the Epitaph on Alexis ; but it was mentioned, in 1791,
by one of Person’s intimate friends, in a moment of convi¬
viality, whilst he was somewhat characteristically attempting
to fill his glass out of an empty bottle ; and the author of
this article observed in answer, that it would certainly sound
better, on such an occasion as then occurred, to say, Ilav
iicirinccKas' ov8' "UvecrTI Korraftos, than ov XeAeiTrTAI kottuBos.
2. The second canon is, that an anapaest is only admissible in
a tragic iambic, as constituting the first foot, except in some
cases of proper names. This indeed had been cursorily hint¬
ed by Dawres. 3. The same critic had also remarked, that
the Attic poets never lengthen a short vowel before a mute
or aspirate, followed by a liquid, or a middle consonant fol¬
lowed by p ; and Porson more amply confirmed the obser¬
vation as very generally, though not universally correct.
On the other hand, Dawes had cursorily observed that Ho¬
mer, and the other ancient epic poets, generally lengthened
the vowrel in such cases, and Person’s great rival, Hermann,
has more fully established this distinction, as affording a
good criterion of antiquity. 4. There are also some original
remarks of Porson on the caesura, in iambics, and trochaics,
and anapaests. He showed that the scenic poets do not elide
the final iota, and that the tragedians do not employ the
preposition irepl before a vowel; and some other general
laws, of greater importance than these, may probably be
found in some of his publications, which it will now be ne¬
cessary to enumerate in the order of time.
1. His first attempts, as an author, consisted of some
anonymous articles in Dr. Maty’s Review, beginning w ith a
part of Shutz’s JEschylus, June 1783, Tracts ii. Brunck’s
Aristophanes, July 1783, Tracts iii.; Mus. Crit. ii. 113;
w ritten in a day. In Latin, by Schafer, Class. Journ. v.
136. Weston’s Hermesianax, April 1784, Tracts, iv. Hunt-
ingford’s Apology for his Menostrophics, August 1784,
Tracts v. Account of the Learned Pig, April 1785, Tracts
vi. Note, with letters of Le Clerc and Bentley, April 1786,
Tracts vii.
2. He added some Notes to an edition of Xenophon’s
Anabasis, published by Nicholson, at Cambridge, 4to and
8vo, 1786. They are addressed Lectori si quis erit.
4
450
P O R S O N.
Porson.
3. Three Panegyrical Epistles to Sir J. Hawkins, Gent.
' Mag. August, September, and October, 1787. Tract-s ix.
4. Notes on Toupii Emendationes in Suidam. Oxloid,
8vo. 1790. Written in 1787. „, „ . ,
5. Letters on the Three Witnesses, Gent. Mag. Oct. and
Dec. 1788. Feb. April, May, June, Aug. 1789- Jeb.
1790. The last was reprinted in Tracts xix.; most °1 the
others in the collection of Letters to Mr. Archdeacon Ira-
vis, in answer to his defence of the Three Heavenly Wit¬
nesses, London, 1790, 8vo. These letters are generally con¬
sidered, by critics of all parties, as finally decisive of a ques¬
tion, which had often been agitated before, but never so
learnedly argued, nor so satisfactorily discussed mall itsbear-
m e!' In the Monthly Review, Robertson’s Essay on the
Parian Chronicle, Jan. 1789, Tracts xiii.; satisfactorily
answering the principal part of the objections alleged against
the authenticity of that monument. Edwards edition ot
the work attributed to Plutarch, on Education, July 1 ^93,
Tracts xxi. Payne Knight’s Greek Alphabet, Jan. 1794,
Tracts xxiii. Pybus’s Sovereign, Dec. 1800; an article
affording a good specimen of his talent for humour.
7. He is supposed to have written some Remarks on an
Essay upon the Transfiguration, but never expressly ac¬
knowledged them. Tracts xv.
8. He added a few short Notes to the London edition ot
Heyne’s Virgil, 8vo, 1793, for which he made an agree¬
ment with the bookseller to correct the press ; but he com¬
plained that liis corrections were disregarded ; and in fact
several hundred errors, of no great importance, were suffer¬
ed to disfigure it.
9* He corrected the Greek text of iEschylus for the Glas-
gow editions, the folio of 1795, and the two volumes octavo,
printed in 1794, but only published at London in 1806. The
folio is said to have appeared surreptitiously. There are
more than two hundred original corrections, and a further
number of passages pointed out as corrupt.
10. In the Morning Chronicle he published, at different
times, a variety of spirited articles ot a temporary nature.
One of the most amusing was the Nursery Song in Greek
iambics, 13 th of April 1796, called A Fragment of Sophocles,
and signed “ S. England,” in ridicule of Ireland s pretended
discoveries.
11. Imitations of Horace. Spirit of the Public Journals,
1797. Class. Jour. iv. 97.
12. The first four plays of Euripides appeared separately
at different periods. The Hecuba, London, 1797, 8vo.
Cambridge, 1802, with a Supplement and additional notes;
which were also published separately, London, 1808. Ores¬
tes, London, 1798, 1811. Phoenissce, London, 1799, 1811.
Medea, Cambridge, 1801 ; London, 1812. The four to¬
gether, London, 1822.
13. Collation of the Harleian manuscript of the Odyssey
for the Grenville Homer, Oxford, 1800, 4to; with some
short notes. Reprinted, Class. Jour. ix.
14. Of the Review of Wakefield!s Lucretius, in the Bri¬
tish Critic for May 1801, the principal part appears to be
Person’s.
15. A Letter signed by J. N. Dawes, Monthly Mag. Dec.
1802, on some Greek constructions; admitting also an in¬
accuracy of his own with respect to a hiatus, pointed out
by Mr. C. Falconer.
16. A Letter to Professor Dalzel, dated September, 1803 ;
Mus. Crit. i. p. 326 ; in answer to some remarks published
in the Professor’s Collectanea Majora ; with an Epigram
respecting Hermann, in Greek and in English.
17. Herodotus, Edinburgh, 1806. Porson corrected the
press for the first volume.
18. Supplement to some Indices, Tracts xxxvi.
19* It is well known that Porson bestowed considerable
pains on the restoration of the text of the Rosetta Stone.
His Supplements were added to the plates engraved by the Porson.
Society of Antiquaries; and they also appear amongst his'^-'r*
Tracts, xxxvii. In Dr. Clarke’s Greek Marbles, Cambridge,
1809, 8vo, we find a translation of this inscription, communi¬
cated to the editor by Porson, and printed from “ a corrected
copy in his own beautiful handwrriting. But we may here
venture to apply Person’s favourite remark on the facility of
transposition, and to read “ a copy corrected, in his own writ-
in'’',” that is, on the margin of Mr. Gough’s translation, as
published in Duane’s Coins. For the whole is very negli¬
gently performed ; and it is not a little remarkable that this
translation, which was at least approved by Porson, is de¬
cidedly less accurate than the Latin translation of Heyne,
as appears from the investigation of the enchorial inscription
published in the sixth number of the Museum Criticum.
20. A variety of Person’s fugitive and miscellaneous pieces
have reappeared at different times in the Classical Journal.
Authors cited by the Scholiast on Plato, ii. 619, Tracts,
xxxvin. The Epitaph, iii. 233 ; more correctly than in
the Tracts, but still with a gross error in the punctuation
of the last line, which stands, in a manuscript copy of his
owrn, Tt6vrjx> o &’) raxurra TrdcrxovT oi 'yaBol. This reading,
though not very elegant, is at least more defensible, than
to make irdaxeiv alone signify to die, and a phrase to end
with 6 S17. A Charade in Latin, vii. 248. Some Notes on
AEschylus, vii. 456; viii. 15, 181; x. 114. A property
of the lines employed in the 47 th proposition of the first book
of Euclid, p. 401. Notes on Apollonius Rhodius, xviii.
370- . . o t»t
21. Adversaria. Cambridge, 1812,8vo, consisting of Notes
on the Greek Poets, selected from his manuscripts, and ar¬
ranged by Professor Monk and Mr. C. J. Bloomfield. The
first article is an interesting Lecture on Euripides, de¬
livered upon his appointment to the Greek Professorship.
It is followed by a few miscellaneous observations, and by
a large collection of Notes on Athenaeus, on Euripides, on
the Fragments of the Tragic and Comic Poets, on Stobaeus,
and on a variety of poets ot miscellaneous descriptions. The
volume was reprinted at Amsterdam, without any altera¬
tion, but the sale of the foreign edition has never been per¬
mitted in Great Britain.
22. Tracts and Miscellaneous Criticisms, collected and
arranged by the Rev. T. Kidd, M. A. London, 1815, 8vo.
Besides the articles already noticed as reprinted in this
volume, there are a few Notes on Dawes’s Miscellanea Cri-
tica, not before published, No. 51. Ihere are also some
supplementary pages of Simplicius and Cebes, reprinted by
Porson, for the use of his friends, as restored by Schweig-
hauser. The want of this leaf of the manuscript of Simpli¬
cius had given rise to the mistaken assertion that Xenophon
was proclaimed a public benefactor at the Olympic Games,
on occasion of the return of the ten thousand. There are
likewise some miscellaneous Notes on Athenaeus, Menander,
and Philemon, Aristides, Pausanias, and the lexicographers,
and some Indices of authors quoted by the Scholiasts.
23. Notae in Aristophanem, quibus Plutum comoediam
adjecit P. P. Dobree. Cambridge, 1820, 8vo.
24. Gaisford Lectiones Platonicae. Accedunt R. Porsom
Notae ad Pausaniam. Oxford, 1820, 8vo.
25. Photii Lexicon. Cambridge, 1822, 8vo.
To attempt to form a just estimate of the merit of such
a man as Porson, without servilely following the dictates of
common fame, or blindly adopting the opinions of others, is
a task of no small difficulty, even to one who had the ad¬
vantage of his personal acquaintance for the last twenty
years of his life. But it may safely be conceded to common
fame and to partial friendship, that he was one of the greatest
men, and the very greatest critic, of his own or of any other
age. “ Nothing came amiss,” says Mr. W eston, “ to his
memory. He would set a child right in his twopenny fable
book, repeat the whole of the moral tale of the Dean of
PO R
Person. Badajoz, a page of Athenaeus on cups, or of Eustathius on
Homer, even though he did every thing to impair his men¬
tal faculties.” It cannot, however, be denied, that the ta¬
lents, and even the industry, that he possessed, might have
made him a much greater man, had they been employed in
some other department of human intellect. He might pro¬
bably have been as great a statesman or as great a general
as he was a scholar, and in these capacities his acquirements
would have affected the interests of a much greater multi¬
tude of his fellow-creatures, than can ever be benefited
by the fruits of his erudition ; and he might possibly have
gained more popularity as an orator or a poet, than his re¬
fined investigations of grammar and prosody could ever pro¬
cure him, although it is not by any means certain that his
fancy and invention could have been rendered by any cul¬
tivation at all comparable to his memory and acuteness.
But as far as regards the possession of a combination of the
faculties which he did cultivate, he appears to have been
decidedly the most successful of any man on record in the
same department. On the other hand, it must be admit¬
ted that the subjects of his pursuits were in their nature in¬
capable of raising a man to the first rank amongst the perma¬
nent benefactors of the human race ; and, if we calmly con¬
sider the ultimate objects of prosody and metre, it will ap¬
pear almost unfair to allow the discoverer of the prosodiacal
rules, adopted by the ancient poets in their melodrames and
choruses, to rank so very high amongst the luminaries of an
age, and yet to look down, with so much contempt as we
are accustomed to do, on the character of a modern Dieu de
la danse, notwithstanding that he thought himself the third
great man of his day, with Voltaire and the King of Prussia,
for having given soul and sentiment to the measures and
movements of the choric representations of the present times.
Amongst the talents of Person, however, which were so far
superior to the importance of the objects on which they were
employed, we ought not, perhaps, to consider his remarkable
strength of memory as the most to be envied, since many
persons who have been possessed of singular and almost mi¬
raculous, not to say morbid, memories, have been but little
distinguished by any other faculty. It appears to be pos¬
sible that a memory may in itself be even too retentive
for real practical utility, as if of too microscopic a nature;
and it seems to be by a wise and benevolent, though by no
means an obvious arrangement of a Creative Providence,
that a certain degree of oblivion becomes a most useful in¬
strument in the advancement of human knowledge, enab¬
ling us readily to look back on the prominent features only
of various objects and occurrences, and to class them and
reason upon them, by the help of this involuntary kind of
abstraction and generalization, with incomparably greater
facility than we could do, if we retained the whole detail
of what had been once but slightly impressed on our minds.
It is thus, for example, in physic, that the experienced prac¬
titioner learns at length to despise the relation of individual
symptoms, and particular cases, on which alone the empiric
insists, and to feel the value of the Hippocratic system of
“ attending more to the prognostic than the diagnostic fea¬
tures of disease which, to a younger student, appears to
be perfect imbecility. And it is perhaps for some similar
reason that many persons, besides Barnes, “ of happy me¬
mory,” have had to wait long in darkness for “ the day of
judgment.” But it must be repeated, that Person’s judg¬
ment and acuteness were really almost paramount to his
memory; and with the addition of these faculties, his me¬
mory naturally rendered him capable of much that would
have been impossible without it.
The respect that is justly due to classical learning has fre¬
quently been exaggerated in this country, partly, perhaps,
on account of the awe wrhich is naturally entertained, by an
ingenuous mind, for its instructors in the earliest studies,
by which it is advanced towards maturity. And classical
SON.
451
learning having most wisely been placed by our ancestors Porson.
the foremost, in the order of a liberal education, which is
most commonly adopted in Great Britain, a personal as
well as a general respect has been involuntarily paid to
the characters of the individuals concerned, and to the dig¬
nity of all those who are engaged in similar occupations ;
besides that, the means being, by a most frequent inattention
of the human mind, confounded with the end for which they
are sought, the words and syllables, and the phrases and
measures of the Greek and Latin authors have often been
the almost frivolous occupation of a valuable life, in¬
stead of that of a few of the years of boyhood, which it
was intended to devote to them, and which could not have
been so well engaged in any other way. It is, however,
wholly unjust to stigmatize the study of the classics, and of
languages in general, as being confined to words instead of
things ; for it is utterly impossible that words can be learned,
without the acquisition of a considerable degree of know¬
ledge of the things to which they relate, and of the histori¬
cal facts which they have been employed to express, and
without an involuntary modelling of the mind to the ele¬
gance and elevation of sentiment, which pervade the works
of those authors who are habitually put into the hands of
boys in the course of their elementary studies ; an acquire¬
ment which is of still greater value to the orator and the
statesman, than the command of language, and facility of
expression, and beauty of imagery, and power of reasoning,
which he derives from a perfect familiarity with the great
masters of antiquity. But granting all the respect that can
possibly be claimed for ancient literature, we cannot but
lament that such a man as Porson should have lived and la¬
boured for nearly half a century, and yet have left little or
nothing to the world that was truly and originally his own.
After the full admission of the very high rank which is
due to the comparative merits of Person’s talents and ac¬
quirements, it may be thought almost idle, if not invidious,
to dwell on any trifling exceptions to their magnitude. But
it is, in fact, of high importance to the progress of human
knowledge, to be aware of the degree in which the first of
mankind are liable to error. The admission of the few
errors of Newton himself, is at least of as much importance
to his followers in science, as the history of the progress of
his real discoveries. And it is with reason that the detec¬
tion of an error in such a man is considered as almost par¬
amount to the establishment of a new fact. The English
critics have been reproached, and not without some foun¬
dation, as paying too servile a deference to Person’s opi¬
nions ; and it seems to have been very generally believed
amongst them, that it was scarcely possible for him to com¬
mit an error or an oversight.
Although Porson was in many respects irregular, and
often idle, or even intemperate, yet what he did perform as
a critic, may be allowed to leave a large balance, at the end
of his life, in favour of his general industry, when compared
with that of most of his countrymen. It has indeed been
asserted, and perhaps with truth, (Classical Journal, xxi.)
that “ with things Porson appears to have possessed but a
very inconsiderate acquaintance; and not a trace is to be
found amidst his writings, of that combination of universal
encyclopaediacal knowledge with language learning which
is so abundantly found in the Dissertation on Phalaris, and
the countless pages of Scaliger, Salmasius, and Casaubon.”
Certainly, however, neither Salmasius nor Casaubon, with
all their learning, much less Scaliger, with all his industry
and parade, nor even Bentley himself, with all his talent
and acuteness, was at all comparable to Porson in his own
department, that is, as a sound, and accurate, and refined
Greek critic.
But it must be confessed, that at Cambridge, even al¬
though Porson had resolved to make the classics his prin¬
cipal study, and although there had not yet been many in-
452
Porson.
FOR
stances of senior wranglers, who were also senior medal-
' lists, it was scarcely reputable for a man, with his undeni¬
able abilities, to be only the twenty-first of his year in ma¬
thematics. Amongst the literary objects also, which after¬
wards engaged his attention, he might easily have found
time for the study of some of the modern languages ; and
he might have derived essential benefit from it on many
occasions of critical research. He had, indeed, read a good
deal of French, but very little Italian. He had studied the
An<do-Saxon, buthe knew nothing of the kindred dialects of
the'north of Europe, in which it is preserved almost entire ;
and he was wholly unacquainted with Oriental literature.
He might have profited materially by some of these stu¬
dies, in deriving from them a clearer conception of the dis¬
tinctions of the tenses than he seems to have possessed, and
he might have enlightened us in no small degree, with re¬
spect to the history of languages and of nations, by such
etymological investigations as his comprehensive mind, thus
employed, would have renderea him peculiarly capaole of
pursuing with success.
It has been candidly and very truly admitted by a rival
critic in Germany, that Porson committed fewer errors than
almost any other person ; but it is right to be aware that
he has now and then committed some errors, even where
he would have been expected to be the most correct. There
is, for example, a very strange oversight in one of the cri¬
ticisms contained in his early review ofWeston’s Hermesi-
ananax, which implies a palpable blunder with respect to
the gender of a participle, Zwpov perpovo-a dvcov Tropipvpt^s
Avafliov ei ve\ov, “ the cup of purple glass, which measured
the fragrant wineand even in a subsequent correction
of the same passage, published in his Adversaria, he has
changed the gender of an adjective in a way that is at least
very unusual, if not wholly without example, perpovv Ovocvra.
A mere omission, in a criticism on another author, would
scarcely be called an error in an ordinary person ; but in
such a critic as Porson, it is very remarkable that he should
have neglected to notice, in his catalogue of the Errors of
Le Clerc, omitted by Bentley, (Adv. p. 291,) the grossest of
all Le Clerc’s blunders, which is the quotation of the word
Hypophauli or semibarbarous, from Pollux, with the trans¬
lation Sartagines, or frying pans ; whilst the real text of
Pollux simpiy and plainly states that the Teganismi or fri-
cassations, in the Hippocomus Menander, is a semibarba¬
rous word. These instances, which have occurred in a
very cursory perusal of some of Person’s wrorks, would cer¬
tainly not deserve to be noticed in a general sketch of his
character, any otherwise than as exceptions to his perfect
infallibility.
It can scarcely be considered as an imperfection in the
constitution of Person’s mind, that he wanted that amiable
vanity, which is gratified by the approbation even of the
most inconsiderable, and which delights to choose for its
objects the most innocent and the most helpless of those
who are casually present in society. It has been observed
that he would neither give nor take praise ; and when he
was told that somebody had called him a giant in literature,
he remarked that a man had no right to tell the height of
that which he could not measure. In fact, having learned
“ to know how little can be known,” it is not surprising
that he found himself “ without a second, and without a
judge and that he was unwilling to affect a community of
sentiment, and an interchange of approbation with those
whose acquirements and opinions he felt that he had a right
to despise. It might have been wiser, in some instances,
to conceal this feeling ; but, on the other hand, he had per¬
haps occasion for something of the habit of retreating into
his conscious dignity, from his deficiency in those general
powers of ephemeral conversation, which are so valuable in
mixed societies ; for, with all his learning and all his me¬
mory, he was by no means prominent as a talker. He had
P O R
neither the inclination nor the qualifications to be a fasci- Port
nating story teller, or to become habitually a parasite at the pj,
tables of the affluent; but he was the delight of a limited
circle of chosen friends, possessing talent enough to appre¬
ciate his merits, and to profit by the information that he
afforded them.
There has not yet been a life of Porson that has collect¬
ed all the particulars that would deserve to be recorded by a
biographer, who undertook the task on an extensive scale ;
but of detached documents there is no deficiency. Mr.
Kidd has pointed out almost every work in which his name
has been mentioned. The most material articles relating
to him will be enumerated here.
Morning Chronicle, 6th October 1808. A Short Ac¬
count of the late Mr. Richard Porson, icith some particu¬
lars relative to his extraordinary talents ; by an admirer of
great genius (the Rev. S. Weston,) rraTrrcuvf copo-iov,
Look for nothing beyond him. London, 1808, 8vo. Re¬
published, with some additions, under the title of Porsoni-
ana, or Scraps from Parson's Rich Feast, London, 1814,
8vo. Bloomfieid’s Sapphic Ode, Class. Journ. i. 1. Some
anonymous lambics, p. 81. Sale of his Libraiy, p. 385.
Athenceum, iv. 426, 521; v. 55. Class. Journ. ix. 386. Sa¬
vage’s Librarian, i. 274. Gentleman's Magazine, Ixxviii.
Monthly Magazine. Dr. Adam Clarke's Narrative. Class.
Journ. ii. 720. Correspondence of Wakefield and Fox,
London, 1813, 8vo. Greek Epitaph, Class. Journ. xxiii.
179 ; making Porsonum equal to Newtonusf. Aikin’s Ge¬
neral Eiography, x. London, 1815, 4to. Kidd s Imperfect
Outline. Tracts, 1815. Chalmers’s Biographical Diction¬
ary, xxv. London, 1816. . Ij* 1"
PORT, a harbour, river, or haven, formed either by na¬
ture or art to receive and shelter shipping from the storms
and w aves of the open sea.
Artificial ports are those which are either formed by-
throwing a strong mound or rampart across the harbour s
mouth to some island or rock, or erecting two long barriers,
which stretch from the land on each side like arms or the
horns of a crescent, and nearly enclose the haven. The for¬
mer of these are called mole-heads, and the latter piers.
Port, is also a name given on some occasions to the lar¬
board or left side of the ship, as in the following instances.
Thus, it is said, “ the ship heels to port,” that is, stoops or
inclines to the larboai'd-side. “ Top the yard to port,” the
order to make the larboard extremity of a yard higher than
the other. “ Port the helm,” the order to put the helm
over the larboard-side of the vessel. In all these senses this
phrase appears intended to prevent any mistakes happening
from the similarity of sounds in the words starboard and
larboard, particularly when they relate to the helm, where
a misapprehension might be attended with very dangerous
consequences.
Ports, the embrasures or openings in the side of a ship
of war, wherein the artillery is ranged in battery upon the
decks above and below.
PORTADOWN, a thriving post-town, in the county
of Armagh, Ireland, 66 miles from Dublin. It is situated on
the Upper Bann, navigable here for vessels of 60 tons bur¬
den, and is by it connected with the Newry Canal. It has of
late years been much improved, and its appearance is now
highly respectable. The principal trade is in the agricul¬
tural produce of the surrounding country, which is forwarded
to Newry by the canal, whilst the returning barges bring
slates, coal, iron, &c. for the inland market. A good num¬
ber of hands are employed in the linen and cotton trade.
The population in 1831, amounted to 1,591-
PORTAFERRY, a sea-port town, on the eastern shore
of the entrance into Strangford Lough, county of Down,
Ireland, 80 miles from Dublin. It consists of a small square,
a few streets, a range of houses on the quay, and several
places for public worship. The principal trade is carried on
PGR
Portal with the Liverpool and Glasgow markets, for the agricultu-
II ral produce of the neighbourhood. The population in 1821
Port-au- was 15i2, and in 1831, 2203.
n"c^ _ PORTAL, in Architecture, a little gate where there are
two gates of a different size ; also a little square corner of
a room cut off from the rest by the wainscot, and forming a
short passage into the room. The same name is also some¬
times given to a kind of arch of joiners’work before a door.
PORTALEGRE, a city of Portugal, in the province of
Alentejo, the capital of a corregimiento of the same name.
It is situated on a hill about seven miles from the frontiers,
and strongly fortiliod, being defended by a citadel and many
extensive outw orks. It is the see of a Bishop, who has a
fine cathedral, and under his care an ecclesiastical semin¬
ary. There are in this town four parish churches, and five
religious houses, with some charitable institutions. It con¬
tains 1127 dwelling-houses, wdth 5780 inhabitants, who make
a large quantity of woollen cloth, especially such as is adapt¬
ed for the troops; and there are carried on some other branches
of manufacture.
PORT ANNA MARIA, a bay or harbour on the south
coast of Sir H. Mertin’s island, in the South Pacific Ocean,
seven miles west of Point Mertin. Long, of the entrance
139, 39. W. Lat. 8. 30. S.
PORT ARLINGTON, a borough town, situated in
King’s County and Queen’s County, Leinster, Ireland. It
is 44 miles from Dublin, and is situated on the river Bar-
row, vrhich divides it into two parts, and it consists principally
of one long street, about two miles in length. The houses
are generally large, and regularly built; but the towm pos¬
sesses neither commerce nor manufactures, nor is it situated
on any high road of communication. The prosperity of the
towm depends on a greater proportion of gentry residing in
it, than is generally to be found in towns of its size in Ire¬
land ; and also on the reputation of its schools. There are
two Protestant churches, a Methodist, and Roman Catholic
chapel. The borough possessed, before the year 1784, a large
property; but the corporation in that year, and in the year
1802, conveyed over to Lord Portarlington, the patron of
the borough, the whole of the property, which brings yearly
to the noble proprietor L.800 sterling, and forwhich he pays
to the corporation the sum of L.60 late Irish currency. The
borough is governed by a sovereign, two bailiffs, and a re¬
corder, and it returns one member to parliament. The po¬
pulation in 1821, amounted to 2877, and in 1831, to 3091.
PORTATE, or a Citoss Portate, in Heraldry, a cross
w'hich does not stand upright, as crosses generally do, but
lies across the escutcheon in bend, as if it were canned on
a man’s shoulder.
PORT-AU-PRINCE, the capital and seat of govern-
, ment of the republic of Hayti, formerly called St. Domingo
or Espahola, one of the West India Islands. It stands at
the bottom of the large bay of the same name, in a situation
so low and marshy as to render the climate very unhealthy.
It is mostly built of wrood; the streets are broad but un¬
paved ; nor are any of its edifices remarkable for their ar¬
chitectural elegance. It contains the president’s palace,
several literary and scientific institutions, a lazaretto, and
some other public buildings. There is an academy for me¬
dicine, astronomy, law, literature, and other branches of
knowledge ; a drawing seminary, Lancasterian and primary
schools, and a national library. There is also a military
school, where the pupils receive instruction gratuitously;
and several newspapers and periodical journals are published
here. The city is supplied wdth water by a conduit three
English miles in length. It has a spacious and secure port
and roadstead, where five hundred vessels may anchor at
once. It is surrounded by hills w hich command the towm
and harbour; and both the hills and the valliesare abundantly
fertile. To the east is situated the noble and celebrated
plain of Cul de Sac, extending from thirty to forty miles in
FOR
453
length, by nine in breadth. It is chiefly laid out in sugar Portcullis
plantations, most ofwhich can be watered in times of drought II
by means of canals admirably adapted for the purpose. f>ort-GIas-
Commerce is the principal occupation of the inhabitants of, ^ow'
Port-au-Prince. The amount of imports may be estimated
at twmnty millions of francs; but the exports, consisting chief¬
ly of coffee, cotton, Campeachy wood, sugar, and other ar¬
ticles, are much greater. This city was founded in the year
1745 ; but twenty-five years afterwards it was almost com¬
pletely destroyed by an earthquake. It was rapidly rebuilt,
but was nearly reduced to ruins by fire in 1791. In 1830,
it again experienced several shocks of an earthquake, some
of which did considerable damage. The inhabitants of the
district of Port-au-Prince are estimated at about 90,000,
and those of the citv at about 30,000. Lat. 18. 34. N.
Long. 72. 27. W.
PORTCULLIS, in Fortification, is an assemblage of
several large pieces of wood, joined across one another like
a harrow, and each pointed with iron at the bottom. They
are sometimes hung over the gate-way of old fortified towns,
ready to be let down in the case of surprise, when the gates
cannot be shut.
PORT-DALRYMPLE,aharbouror estuary on thenorth
coast of Van Dieman’s Land, in w hich the Tamar discharges
itself, after receiving the North and the South Esk. At the
union of the latter it is navigable for vessels of 150 tons.
PORTER, a kind of malt-liquor which differs from ale
and pale beer, in its being made with high-dried malt. See
Brewing.
PORT-GLASGOW,asea-port town of Scotland, is situ¬
ated on the south bank of the Frith of Clyde, in the shire of
Renfrew', about nineteen miles below Glasgow, and three
above Greenock. This place originally formed part of the ad¬
joining parish of Kilmalcolm, and consisted of the small
village of Newark, so called from the barony of that name,
which lay in its immediate vicinity. On a point of land
projecting into the river, a little above the town, is situated
the ancient and now deserted castle of this barony. The
ground on which the town stands was, in 1668, purchased
from Sir Patrick Maxwell of Newark, by the magistrates of
Glasgow, with a view to provide a convenient harbour for
the vessels belonging to the merchants of that city. A har¬
bour was therefore constructed, and streets were laid off, ac¬
cording to a regular plan. In 1695 the place was, by the
competent authority, detached from the parish of Kilmalcolm,
and, with a few adjacent farms, erected into a distinct parish,
approaching in form nearly to a square, and not exceeding
an English mile either in length or in breadth. It was call¬
ed New Port-Glasgow, or more commonly Port-Glasgow,
a name simply expressing the design of its erection as the
port or harbour of Glasgow. In 1775 it was created a
borough of barony; and by the reform act of 1832 it be¬
came a parliamentary borough of the third class, uniting with
Kilmarnock, Rutherglen, Dumbarton, and Renfrew, in re¬
turning a member.
Port-Glasgow is one of the most handsome and regularly
built sea-port towns of Scotland. The streets are straight,
and for the most part cross each other at right angles;
whilst the houses, pretty nearly equal in size, and generally
whitewashed, give to the whole a light and uniform appear¬
ance. The only buildings worthy of particular notice are
the town-house and the parish church. Of these the for¬
mer is of plain but substantial workmanship, ornamented in
front with a portico, resting on four massy fluted columns,
surmounted with a handsome spire, which rises from the
centre. The parish church was built in 1823. It is square
in form, and plain in outward appearance, but is deservedly
admired for the simple elegance of its internal construc¬
tion. A commodious chapel of ease belonging to the es¬
tablishment was built in 1774. The only other place of wor¬
ship in the parish belongs to the Associate Synod.
454
P O R
Port-Glas- The land of this parish church lies along the bank of the
gow. river, having been long occupied as gardens, presenting a
"—v ' rich and highly cultivated appearance. The town itself is
romantically situated at the bottom of a hill, which, covered
with wood and verdure, exhibits a beautiful object to tra¬
vellers passing along the river. , .
Attached to this port are two capacious harbours, sub-
stantially built, and completely sheltered from the storm.
The first dry or graving-dock in Scotland was constructed
here in 1762, and has since been improved at great expense.
Some years ago, the harbour accommodation having been
found too small, the inhabitants resolved to avail themselves
of their local advantages, by converting the bay of Newark,
which is naturally adapted to the purpose, into a spacious
dock, where vessels of the largest class might be kept secure¬
ly afloat in every state of the tide. Accordingly, in June
1830, the trustees of the harbour obtained an act of par¬
liament, investing them with the necessary powers; and
the work, which was contracted for by Mr. Gibb, an emi¬
nent architect, was commenced in the spring of 1834, and
carried on with every dispatch until 1836, when a small
portion of the outer wall gave way. In consequence of this
untoward incident, the operations were considerably im¬
peded, and it was even deemed expedient to erect a ruble
breakwater, to enable the trustees to restore the outer wall
so soon as the works had been allowed sufficient time to
consolidate. As a substitute for the outer wall, and in or¬
der to secure the full benefit of the wet-dock, the trustees
have, in the mean time, resolved to construct a wooden
wharf on the outside. The works having since been consi¬
dered as sufficiently consolidated, and the inner walls having
afforded abundant evidence of their stability, the necessary
sheds, together with the wharfs alluded to, have lately been
contracted for, and are at present in rapid progress ; so that
this important undertaking, which has cost its enterprising
promoters about LAO,000, may now be considered as com¬
pleted. Many ships have already discharged their cargoes
in it. Besides the numerous sail of merchantmen at pre¬
sent, (December 1838), within its walls, there is the Bri¬
tish Queen, steam-ship, (receiving her machinery), the
largest vessel ever built in the United Kingdom. This is
the only wet-dock of the kind on the west coast of Scotland.
It extends over a space of twelve imperial acres, is 25 feet
deep, has an entrance-gate of 55 feet in width, is provided
with spacious quays and commodious sheds, cranes, and
other conveniences, and possesses extraordinary facilities
for ingress and egress, owing to the great depth of w ater in
the roads and entrance, and the protection afforded by the
lofty hills by which the dock is sheltered. With all these
advantages, in addition to an extensive tide harbour, Port-
Glasgow now affords shipping accommodation of a very
superior description. The charges on shipping at this port
are much lower than at any other in Scotland. This is in
a great measure owing to the extensive bonded warehouses
held by the corporation, situated alongside the dock-walls,
where every description of goods may be deposited at
trifling rates.
The foreign trade of this port is chiefly with the West
Indies and North America. It is the principal place on the
Clyde for the importation of North American timber, for
the reception of which it has large wood-ponds. Not less
than 27,975 tons were imported in 1834. A comparative
view of the tonnage employed in the foreign trade of
the town during the last eight years indicates considerable
improvement; the average inward tonnage for the four years
prior to the 5th of January 1834 having been 23,901, and for
the four years ending the 5th of January 1838, 28,761 tons.
The harbour revenue exhibits a corresponding annual in¬
crease. In 1831, the harbour-dues amounted to L.1454 ;
in 1834, to 1639; in 1836, to L.1800; and at present they
average about L.2000 per annum. The customs collected
FOR
have for the year ending in January 1838 amounted to Portgrere
L.94,161, a sum much less than what was received a few H
years ago. But the deficiency is not to be attributed to any Port-J»ck.
decline of trade ; for under the existing laws the amount of,^!0”!^
customs collected at any warehousing port forms no crite-^^^
rion for ascertaining the real extent of its commerce. The
deficiency is attributable to two causes, which bear no di¬
rect reference to the decline or the improvement of trade ;
namely, first, the collection at Glasgow since the year 1834,
of the duties upon tobacco, which were formerly paid here ;
andsecondly, the facilities afforded byrecentlaws forrecover-
ing bonded goods from the port of importation without pay¬
ment of the duty. Thus, merchandize of every description, al¬
though imported here, is daily removed under bond to other
places, where the duties are paid, which causes a diminu¬
tion of the customs paid at this port, and may at first sight
lead to the inference that the commerce of the place is de¬
clining, whilst, in point of fact, it is on the increase.
The coasting trade of Port-Glasgow- was at one time very
considerable ; but owing to the great facility with which
vessels of inferior burden now find their way up the river,
nearly the whole of this branch has been transferred to
Glasgow.
The work of ship-building is carried on here to a consi¬
derable extent. Of late years the carpenters have been
chiefly employed in the construction of steam-boats, of
which they have produced a great number, some of them
of the largest class, and all of them of remarkable symmetry
and superior workmanship. The manufacture of ropes and
sail-cloth has been prosecuted for about a century. A con¬
siderable trade is carried on in sugar-refining.
In 1700 the population was not more than 400 souls; but
in 1718, the inhabitants amounted to twice that number.
From this period the population continued steadily, though
not rapidly, to increase until the year 1790, when it con¬
sisted of 4036 persons. At each of the four decennial cen¬
suses which have since been taken, it was as follows:—In
1801, 3865 ; in 1811, 5116 ; in 1821, 5262 ; and in 1831,
5192. From a survey which was taken expressly for the
New Statistical Account, in the summer of 1835, it w as as¬
certained that the population had increased to 6018. 4 he
comparatively slow increase of population in this place, and
its occasional falling off, as above indicated, are referable to
the fluctuations of foreign trade, and to the depressing in¬
fluence of the neighbouring ports of Greenock and Glas¬
gow.
PORTGREVE, or Portgkave, was anciently the prin¬
cipal magistrate in ports and other maritime towrns. I he
word is formed from the Saxon port, a port or other tow n,
and geref, a governor. It is sometimes also written port-
reve. Camden observes, that the chief magistrate of Lon¬
don was anciently called portgreve; but instead of him,
Richard I. appointed two bailiffs ; and soon afterwards John
granted them a mayor as their yearly magistrate.
PORTICI, a palace of the king of Naples, six miles from
the capital, and charmingly situated on the sea-shore, near
Mount Vesuvius. It is enriched with a vast number of fine
statues, and other remains of antiquity, taken out of the ruins
of Herculanum. See Pompeii.
PORTICO, in Architecture, a kind of gallery formed on
the ground ; or a piazza encompassed with arches supported
by columns, where people walk under covert. The roof is
usually vaulted, but sometimes flat. The ancients called it
lacunar. Though the word portico, be derived from porta,
a gate or door, yet it is applied to any disposition of columns
which form a gallery, without any immediate relation to
doors or gates.
PORT-JACKSON, a bay and English settlement on the
east coast of New Holland. The two heads through which
the entrance lies are distant from each other one mile and
three quarters; and the heads on each side are high, steep,
P O R
Portland perpendicular cliffs, between which ships may run in safety.
I It may be entered in all winds. Within, the port divides
into two branches, the one stretching eighteen miles west,
'San wick, the other seven miles north-west. Both contain numerous
creeks, on one of which is situated the town of Sidney, the
chief town of Botany Bay. Long, of Castle Point, 151.
11.49. E. Lat.33. 51. 45. S.
PORTLAND, a town of Maine, one of the United States
of North America. See Maine.
Portland, an island on the coast of Dorsetshire, or ra¬
ther a peninsula, since it is joined to the mainland by a
lofty bank of pebbles, which runs parallel to the sea, about
three miles in length. Within the beach is a small arm of
the sea, called the Fleet, the passage over which, by a ferry,
is the common communication with Weymouth, from which
it is distant about three miles. The island is a solid mass
of stone, peculiarly adapted for buildings of the first class ;
and the extracting it from the quarries, and placing it on ves¬
sels, form the chief employment of the inhabitants. The sur¬
face of the rock is covered with a soil, the herbage of which
feeds a small race of sheep, celebrated for the delicate fla¬
vour of their flesh. Some cows are also kept, and a small
part of the land yields corn, but not sufficient for the inha¬
bitants. The parish comprehends seven hamlets. It has
a church near the centre; and towards the south end is the
well constructed light-house, so important to navigation.
Portland road is a secure anchorage, and is defended by a
small fort. Lat. of the light-house 50, 31.22. Long. 2. 26.
59- W. Thepopulation wasin 1801, 1619; in 1811,2079;
in 1821, 2254 ; and in 1831, 2670.
Portland Islands, is a cluster of small islands in the
Eastern Seas, to the westward of New Hanover. They were
so named by Captain Cintenet in 1767. The north-east
point of the most eastern isle, is in Long. 147. 18. E. Lat.
2. 36. S.
Portland Island, in the South Pacific Ocean, is situ¬
ated near the east coast of New Zealand. Long. 178.12. E.
Lat. 39. 25. S.
Portland vase, a celebrated funeral vase, long in pos¬
session of the Barberini family, but which was purchased
for a thousand guineas by the Duke of Portland, from whom
it derived its present name. Its height is about ten inches,
and its diameter where broadest six. There are upon it a
variety of figures of most exquisite workmanship, in bas re¬
lief, of w hite opaque glass raised on a ground of deep blue
glass, which appears black except when held against the
light. It seems to have been the work of many years, and
there are antiquarians who date its production several cen¬
turies before the Christian era ; since sculpture was declin¬
ing in excellence even in the time of Alexander the Great-
PORT LOUIS, a fortified sea-port of France, in the
department of Morbihan, and arrondisement of L’Orient.
It is situated at the mouth of the river Blavet, on the bay of
its own name, and is inclosed by the sea on three sides. It
has a citadel of great strength, three churches, a naval hos¬
pital and exchange, 365 houses, and 3480 inhabitants. Lat.
47. 45. Long. 3. 32. W.
PORT-MACQUARIE,an inlet on the east coastof New
Holland, into which falls the river Hastings. It received
its present appellation from Mr. Oxley, who surveyed it in
1818. Long. 152. 53. 54. E. Lat. 31. 25. 115. S.
PORT-ROYAL, a town of the island of Jamaica. See
Jamaica.
PORT-SAND WICK, a harbour of the island of Malli-
collo, in the South Pacific Ocean. Long. 167.67. E. Lat.
16.25. S.
O R 455
PORTOBELLO, a parliamentary burgh, situated on the Portobello
Frith of Forth, nearly three miles from Edinburgh. The
town is neatly built, and as the beach is extensive, and PortoRico-
commodious for sea-bathing, it is consequently much fre-
quented in the summer season as a wateVing-place. It is
not a place of trade, but has several manufactories for mak¬
ing bricks, tiles, and potteries, a crystal and glass work, and
one or two others ot less importance. The town is governed
by a provost, two baillies, and six councillors; and, with
Leith and Musselburgh, it returns a member to parliament.
The stationary population in 1821, amounted to 1912, and
in 1831, to 3170.
PORTOBELLO, a town situated on the isthmus of
Panama. See Panama.
PORTO FERRAJO, the capital of the Island of Elba,
in the province of Pisa, and the duchy of Tuscany^ celebrat¬
ed as the residence of Napoleon during his banishment to
that island. It is situated on a tongue of land running into
the sea, and forming a small bay. It is fortified, and con¬
tains two churches, an hospital, 600 houses, with 3120 inhabi¬
tants, who depend chiefly upon some salt works and the
tunny fishery. Lat. 42. 49. 6. Long. 9. 20. 15. E.
PORTO-NOVO, a sea-port town of the south of India,
in the Carnatic. It is esteemed the safest port on the Coro¬
mandel coast. The ground is good, and vessels may an¬
chor in six fathoms water. In August 1781, the British gain¬
ed a victory here over Hyder Aly. Long. 79. 52. E. Lat. 11.
30. N.
PORTO RICO, or Puerto Rico, one of that group of
West India islands called the great Antilles, and the smallest
of the four in population and extent, but yielding to none in
fertility and general importance. It is situated to the east
or windward of Hayti, Cuba, and Jamaica, being separated
on the west from the first named island by a channel twenty-
five leagues in breadth, and having the Atlantic Ocean on
the north, with the Carribean Sea on the south. It is about
ninety miles in length from east to west, by thirty-three
miles in average breadth ; and contains, according to an
exact admeasurement, a plane superficies of 2970 square
miles.1 A chain of lofty mountains intersects it from east
to west; the highest part, called Luguilla, at the north-east
extremity of the island, being 1334 Castillian yards in height.
Valleys, levels of table land, and gentle declivities, all high¬
ly fruitful, are every where found embosomed in these
mountains ; and they are themselves susceptible of cultiva¬
tion to the very tops. To the north and south of this interior
ridge, situated between it and the sea coast, are those richly
fertile valleys which produce the chief wealth of the island.
They are formed by smaller ridges of hills, which run north
and south from the principal chain, and are much more level
than those situated amongst the loftier mountains, which
present an unequal, undulating surface, and a continued
succession of gentle acclivities, covered with trees display¬
ing all the varied colours and vivid foliage of the tropics.
The valleys of the north and east coasts are the richest in
cattle, and the most picturesque, the pasturage there being
always verdant and luxuriant, from the abundant supply of
rain which they receive; whilst those of the south coast,
richer than the north in sugar, are often parched by exces¬
sive drought. This, however, can easily be remedied, for
water is found by digging only half a yard below the sur¬
face of the ground. Pew countries of the same extent as
Porto Rico are watered by so many streams. Seventeen
rivers, taking their rise in the mountains, cross the valleys
of the north coast and fall into the sea. Some of them are
broad and deep, and navigable for two or three leagues
1 These are the dimensions assigned to the island by Colonel Flinter in his Account of the Present State of the Island of Puerto Pico,
1834. Make Brim, on what authority does not appear, makes it one hundred and twenty miles in length by forty in breadth ; and other
geographical writers extend its longitudinal dimensions still further. Probably the discrepancy arises from extreme points being taken in
the one case, whilst a medium measurement is that given by Colonel Flinter, who had the most ample means of knowing every thing con¬
nected with the island. To his work on Porto Rico we have been chiefly indebted for the present account of it.
456
POE
Porto Rico, from their emboucheurs, which, however, are much obstruct-
' ed by bars. These rivers are well stocked with excellent
fish ; and the banks of the whole of them are nearly all un¬
der cultivation. The south, west, and east coasts are well
supplied with water, notwithstanding the unfrequency of rain.
There are several large streams, besides numberless rivulets,
and branches of navigable water. Porto Rico thereloie
possesses great natural facilities for inland navigation, par¬
ticularly upon the north coast. Of course we find the year
divided in this island, as in the others belonging to the
West Indies, into the wet and dry seasons, the former the
winter, the latter the summer. But this distinction does not
give a proper idea of the seasons in Porto Rico ; for on the
north coast it sometimes rains during the whole year, whilst
on the south coast a perfect deprivation of rain for twelve
or fourteen months is no uncommon phenomenon, even when
in the mountains there are daily showers. The climate of
the north and south coasts of this island, therefore, are essen¬
tially different, although under the same tropical influence.
The only difference of temperature to be observed through¬
out the whole island, is between the valleys and the moun¬
tains, which happens in every country similarly situated.
In the mountains the inhabitants enjoy the coolness of spring,
whilst the valleys, were it not for the daily breeze which
blows generally from the north-east and east, would be un¬
inhabitable. In August the atmosphere is oppressively hot,
the thermometer being frequently above 90° of Fahrenheit;
and during the coldest season it is never below 70°. In Sep¬
tember the rains descend like a deluge, and the rivers swell
and overflow their banks, completely inundating the low
lands, whilst the smallest brooks become deep and rapid tor¬
rents. In October the weather becomes cooler, and in the
following month the north and north-east winds generally
set in, diffusing an agreeable coolness through the atmos¬
phere. When the fury of the north wind abates, the most
delightful weather is experienced. Hurricanes, the scourge
of the West Indies, sometimes visit this island, generally
between the months of July and October. In the year
1825, one occurred on the 27th of July, which nearly laid
it desolate. Notwithstanding the general heat of the cli¬
mate, and the humidity of some parts of Porto Rico, it is
reckoned healthy. The number of mountains and running
streams, the absence of stagnant water, and the general cul¬
tivation of the land, no doubt powerfully contribute to purify
the atmosphere and render it salubrious to man. This island
exhibits a singular scarcity of indigenous animals. There
are no venomous snakes or reptiles, no beast of prey, or in¬
digenous quadrupeds of any kind to be found in the forests,
scarcely any of the feathered tribes, and no noxious insects.
But rats of an enormous size and in great numbers infest
the country, and sometimes commit dreadful ravages upon
the sugar canes.
The principal wealth of Porto Rico consists in agricul¬
ture. No manufactories are carried on, and no mines of
gold and silver have been explored, if such exist. The
soil is of the richest description, and a prolific and luxuriant
vegetation covers every part of the island. The agricul¬
turist is not limited by the nature of the soil to the exclu¬
sive cultivation of any particular produce. Every species
of fruit and vegetables, congenial to tropical climates, may
be planted with the certainty of reaping an abundant .har¬
vest. The best and most luxuriant pasture for rearing cat¬
tle ; the rich, deep, vegetable mould necessary for the sugar
cane ; the humid soil in which the cocoa vegetates ; and the
cool mountain glades, so congenial to the coffee plant, may all
be found w ithin a small circle. Cotton, tobacco, and indigo,
the latter being a spontaneous product of the fields, only
require a little attention to render them objects of impor¬
tance.
The whole agricultural riches of the island, houses, lands,
and slaves, not included, were valued in 1832 at 37,993,599
P O R
dollars, and the produce at 6,883,371 dollars; of which there PortoRiec.
were exported through the custom houses to the value of's-«'V^>
3,411,845^ dollars. The contributions levied on this pro¬
perty amounted only to 266,526 dollars, which is less than
31 per cent, on the value of property, and less than 5| per
cent, on the value of produce. We have no doubt that the
value of property and produce is much greater than what has
just been stated ; for as the people of the country themselves
make the valuation, they always endeavour to make it ap¬
pear as small as possible, in consequence of the direct tax
levied on property.
Colonel Flinter thinks that there cannot be fewer than
two hundred thousand horned cattle on the island, the other
animals being proportionally more numerous than they ap¬
pear to be from the statement given ; and he thinks that the
total value of the cattle maybe estimated at 7,858,774 dol¬
lars. A great traffic has long been carried on in them, with
the English, French, and other settlements. They bring a
higher price than those ot South America, in consequence of
being fattened from the finest pasture land in the world, and
from their extreme tameness. Vast quantities of raw and
tanned hides are likewise exported. The production of su¬
gar is the next great branch of industry. That the soil and
climate are admirably adapted for the cultivation of the cane
will be seen from the following fact. The proportion of. su¬
gar produced from the land employed in its cultivation, is in
Jamaica and Dominica, ten quintals per acre ; in Grenada,
fifteen quintals per acre; in St. Christopher s and I obago,
twenty quintals per acre, and in St. Vincent s, tw'enty-five
quintals per acre ; whilst in Porto Rico it is estimated at
thirty quintals per acre.
Notwithstanding the great natural resources of this island,
there are imported, besides manufactured goods, consider¬
able quantities of provisions and other articles, of which,
by attention, Porto Rico might be made itself to yield suf¬
ficient supplies. However, an examination of the expoits
and imports shows, that of late years, the produce of the
land exported, considerably exceeds the value of goods and
provisions imported.
Amount of Exports and Imports for several years.
Years.
1810
1828
1830
Imports.
Dollars.
1,005,694
2,039,928
2,208,941
Exports.
662,570
2,590,726
3,411,845
Difference in
favour of
Exports.
Amount
of
Duties.
550,798
1,202,903
522,034
In 1830, there entered about 60,000 tons of shipping, of
which one-half belonged to America, one-fourth to Spain,
and the remaining fourth chiefly to England, France, and
Denmark. The importations from America, which in value
amount to one-third of the whole, consist of salt fish, flour,
butter, lard, grain, lumber, boards, staves, and articles of fur¬
niture. The mother country exports her olives and brandies,
her wines and dried fruits, oils of olive and almond, carpets
for kneeling on, and other manufactures, alpute, anchovies,
and so forth. England imports cotton goods, Irish linen,hard¬
ware, earthen-ware, and the like; and France imports linens,
cambrics, ladies’ dresses and ornaments, toys and jewellery.
Foreign goods pay seventeen per cent, of importation duties,
ad valorem ; and an export duty of six per cent, is levied on
all goods sent from the island, with the exception of timber
and live stock, which are charged much higher. Spanish
vessels from the peninsula pay six per cent, of importation
duty, and the export tax is also much less than it is for fo¬
reign vessels. It is scarcely necessary to say, that the ex¬
ports from Porto Rico consist of live stock, sugar, coffee,
tobacco, and the other rich productions of the island. Co-
P O R
P O R
457
PortoRico. lonel Flinter states his conviction that the value of the ex-
portations and importations exceeds the amount which ap¬
pears in the custom-house returns; for goods are under¬
valued in general, and a considerable contraband trade is
carried on. The nett revenue of the island in 1832 amount¬
ed to 798,404 Spanish dollars(each equal to 4s.3fd sterling),
and the expense of maintaining the civil and military esta¬
blishments, amounted to 630,300 dollars; thus leaving a
balance in the treasury, of 168,104 dollars. The taxes, al¬
though levied in an obnoxious manner, being for the most
part direct, are comparatively light. In 1832, the direct
taxes produced 207,141; the custom-house duties, 493,930;
and the indirect taxes, 97,333 dollars. The government,
law's, and institutions of this island, are nearly similar to
those formerly established by the kings of Spain in every
part of the western hemisphere. There is a regular military
force stationed on the island, and likewise a strong dispos¬
able body of well-disciplined militia.
Porto Rico contains fifty-eight towns and villages, thus
giving nearly one to every six square leagues. The largest
place is San Juan, the capital. It is finely situated on the
slope of a hill, on the north coast of the island. The streets,
which run parallel and cross each other at right angles, are
perfectly straight, and run down to the side of the bay. It
is enclosed on every part by strong fortifications, which ren¬
der the town almost impregnable. It is considered as one
of the best and healthiest towns in the West Indies. It is
adorned by a number of useful public edifices and institu¬
tions. Amongst these may be mentioned, the cathedral, a
large mass of building, which has never been finished;
four churches, two chapels, three convents, an episcopal
palace, and a seminary for the education of the clergy ;
the royal military hospital, a large s.tone edifice, and an P°rto Rico
establishment of the same kind for females ; the government il
house, called the fortress of Santa Catalina, which has stood e"
for upwards of two hundred years; the royal goal, a large v
stone edifice; a house of correction; a large and hand¬
some town-house ; a beautiful theatre, built at the public ex¬
pense ; a custom-house ; an arsenal, and some others. A so¬
ciety, called the Economical Society, is established for pro¬
moting the fine arts. There is also a mathematical class ;
whilst two schools for boys, and one for girls, are paid for
by the municipality. There is an excellent and secure har¬
bour, and a commodious wharf. This town is the residence
of the governor, and the Catholic bishop, and here all the
principal courts are held. San Juan was founded in the
year 1514. Within a century afterwards it was twice taken
and plundered by the English, who, however, could gain no
permanent footing on the island, neither at these times nor
at a later period under General Abercromby. The popu¬
lation is estimated at 30,000.
Some of the provincial towns may be considered as large
with reference to the extent of the island; such as Maya-
gues and Aguadilla on the west coast, Pouce on the south,
Pepino and Cayey in the interior, and Humacao on the
eastern coast. The other towns and villages, with few ex¬
ceptions, are merely skeletons, containing a large square,
with the church, the houses of the curate and magistrate,
the militia quarters, and a few residences of wealthy people.
There are fifteen ports in which custom-houses and recep-
tories have been established. By far the greater number
of the inhabitants are scattered over the island in agricul¬
tural establishments. The total number will be seen from
the following table ;
Statement of the Population of the Island of Porto Rico, from the year 1778 to 1830, in¬
clusive, according to the official returns made to the Spanish Government.
Years.
1778 to 1802
1812
1820
1827
1830
Whites.
78,281
85,662
102,432
150.311
162.311
Free people of
colour.
Mulatoes.
55,164
63,983
86,269
95,430
100,430
Total free
of
colour.
16,414
15,823
20,191
25,057
26,857
71,578
79,806
106,460
120,487
127,287
Slaves.
13,333
17,536
21,730
31,874
34,240
Total co¬
loured po¬
pulation.
84,911
97,342
128,190
152,361
161,527
Total po
pulation of
the island.
Ratio of
increase.
163,192
183,014
230,622
302,672
323,838
132 per cent.
12 ditto.
26 ditto.
40 ditto.
6^ ditto.
This shews an extraordinary rate of increase ; and allow¬
ing that the population has augmented in the same ratio
since the last census was taken, we may safely estimate the
number of inhabitants of this island in 1839 at about four
hundred thousand souls. The island of Bieques, situated
three leagues from the north-east coast of Porto Rico, is
under the command of the captain-general of the latter.
It is ten leagues in length, by two in breadth, and reckoned
one of the most fertile spots in the West Indies. It has se¬
veral commodious ports and harbours, and from its position
to the windward might be made of considerable importance
to Porto Rico, if properly settled, which it is not.
Porto Rico wras discovered by Christopher Columbus in
1493, and was supposed at the time to contain 660,000 in¬
habitants. Having learned that the Spaniards had made
themselves masters of Espahola, these savages looked upon
the invaders as invincible and immortal. But to put the
matter to the test, they tried an experiment on one of the
domestics of Columbus, and finding that he was mortal,
they rose upon the Spaniards, and made a great slaughter
of them, whilst employed in plundering the treasures oi
the natives. The Spaniards seldom required so good a
pretext for retaliation, and they accordingly rose upon the
inhabitants, and effected their total extermination. Since
then it has been gradually settled by Spaniards; and from
the census given above, it will be seen that it promises at
no distant date to be as thickly peopled as it was when
first visited by the prince of navigators. r.r.u.
PORTO SANTO. See Madeira.
PORTO-SEGURO, a large tract of country in Brazil,
situated to the north of Rio and Espiritu-Santo. It was
formerly reckoned a province of itself, but at the new pro¬
vincial division of the country in 1829, it was formed into
a comarca of Bahia. Along with Espiritu-Santo, it forms
one continuous tract, presenting such a sameness of natural
features, that they have generally been described together.
It is separated from Rio de Janeiro on the south, by the
river Capabuan or Itabupuana. On the west it borders on
Minas Seraes; the river Belmonte separates it from Bahia
on the north, whilst its eastern limits are washed by the
Atlantic ocean. It has a sea-coast of four hundred miles
in length ; and the maritime district is the only part of the
country as yet peopled by Europeans, or their mixed de¬
scendants. “ The lofty and naked ridge of middle Brazil^
3 m
VOL. XVIII.
458
P O R
Porto Se- says Prince Maximilian, “ in the provinces of Minas Ge-
guro. raes Goyaz, and Pernambuco, is divided from the eastern
coast, by a broad tract of high forests, which extend from
Rio de Janeiro to the Bay of All-Saints (Bahia) about ele¬
ven degrees of latitude, and which are not yet taken pos¬
session of by the Portuguese settlers; only a few roads have
hitherto been opened, with infinite labour, along the rivers
that traverse them. In these forests, where the primitive
inhabitants, who are pressed upon at every other point, have
till now enjoyed a serene and peaceful abode, we may still
find those people in their original state.” In fact the abo¬
rigines of Espiritu-San to and Porto Seguro have been found
more difficult to civilize than any other native tribes in this
quarter of the world, and the country itself is still in a great mea¬
sure uncultivated. The civilized people are wholly confin¬
ed to the coast, and even there they are not perfectly secure
from hostile attacks. Yet the salubrity of the climate, and
the fertility of the soil, have rendered this district an object
of interest with government, so that settlers have been in¬
duced to occupy it. The virgin forests with which it is
nearly covered, abound with the finest timber, including the
cedar, the sassafras tree, and various other resinous and
aromatic species ; and no province possesses such an abund¬
ance of the tree which supplies the Peruvian balsam. “ In
the provinces of Espiritu-Santo and Porto-Seguro,” says a
recent traveller, “ are found several kinds of wood suited to
cabinet-work and architecture. The Ibirapitanga (Brazil
wood) now so necessary in manufactures, and which is be¬
ginning to fail in Pernambuco, is met with here,” and, we
may add, on the authority of others, in abundance.
Between the southern limits of the country and the Rio
Doce, which separates Espiritu-Santo from Porto Seguro,
are situated several towns and villages, and a tew military
posts, to secure the settlers from the inroads of the savages.
About twenty miles north of the Itabupuana, on the southern
bank of the river Itapemirim is a village of the same name,
more recently built than the others, and containing some
good houses. The inhabitants, who are but few in number,
carry on a small trade in sugar, cotton, rice, millet, and
timber. The Sera de Itapemirim, from which the river de¬
scends, is celebrated for the works for washing gold, called
Minas de Gastello, five days journey up the Itapemirim.
From this place to the frontier of Minas Geraes, a road has
been opened through the dangerous wilderness of woods ;
but it is hazardous to travel along it on account of the sa¬
vage hordes of Puries and Botucudoes, by which the coun¬
try is infested. From the village of Itapemirim to the village
of Nova de Benevente, the country presents alternate woods
and meadows, with a stream at intervals, but no river of any
size. Benevente stands at the foot of a hill on the northern
bank of the Iritiba or Reritigba, called also the Benevente.
This place was built by the Jesuits, who here collected a
great number of Indians for the purpose of civilizing them;
but the hard labour exacted by the crown drove most of them
to other quarters. This was the largest establishment on the
coast, and the church and convent erected by the mission¬
aries are still seen in the neighbourhood of the town. Be¬
tween Benevente and the Rio de Espiritu Santo, which
gives name to the province, the country is one continuous
and magnificent forest, abounding with multitudes of the
feathered tribes. The river Espiritu Santo, which is of
considerable magnitude at its mouth, rises in the mountains
on the frontiers of Minas Geraes, and descending with many
windings, through the extensive ancient forests of the Ta-
puyas, issues forth at the foot of one of those higher chains
of mountains which stretch towards the sea. According to
Cazel, the proper name of this river is the Santa Marta. It
is stated to be navigable to the first fall, about forty miles
up, and the tide ascends twelve miles to the Serra, a river
which joins it on the left. Villa Velha, a small and unim¬
portant town, stands on the south bank of the river, not far
FOR
from its mouth ; and about half a league from it, on the Porto Se-
opposite side of the bay, is the present capital of Espiritu'
Santo, called Villa da Victoria. It is built, according to^
Cazal, on an amphitheatrical site, on the western side of an
island fifteen miles in circumference. It is a pretty neat
place, with considerable buildings, constructed in the old
Portuguese style. Phe population of this city is estimated
at 12,500. ^ ..
From this town to the Rio Doce, the limits of Espiritu-
Santo on the north, there are several rivers and small towns ;
but generally speaking, not only the interior but the sea-
coast is densely wooded. This province comprehends three-
fourths of the captaincy, which, in the year 1534, was as¬
signed to Vasco Fernando Coutinho, as a remuneration for
his services in Asia. The Portuguese were repeatedly driven
from the colony by the natives, but ultimately they obtain¬
ed a decisive victory over the savages, and effected a per¬
manent settlement. The Jesuits were the first who suc¬
ceeded in making peace with the aborigines, and in 1551
they founded the college of Vittoria ; but, as we have ob¬
served, they made little progress in this quarter.
The adjoining comarca of Porto Seguro extends from the
Rio Doce to the river Belmonte. It lies between 19° 33'
and 15° 25' of south latitude, which gives it a length of
sixty-five leagues. It was upon this part of the coast that
Cabral first set foot, and took possession of Brazil for the
crown of Portugal. Some Portuguese having settled here,
they intermarried with the natives, so that Pedro Campo
Tourinho, its first donatory, found himself, in a few years,
the lord of a tolerably well-peopled colony. Santa Cruza
town, built on the bay where Cabral cast anchor, soon be¬
came considerable and flourished ; but the settlement was
afterwards transferred to the banks of the loao de I yba,
four miles to the northward, no doubt from this site holding
out greater advantages of soil. Besides this place, Tourinho
founded the town of St. Amaro, three miles to the south of
Porto Seguro, which was subsequently demolished by some
of the Indian tribes. After passing through various hands,
this captaincy ultimately reverted to the crown in 1758. It
was then in a very wretched state, and contained only two
towns. The Jesuits, with all their zeal, were able to effect
but little, and at the time of their expulsion, they left only two
aldeias entirely Indian. As early as 1553, they founded a
college in the capital, with a view to prosecute their labours
amongst the Indians of the province, but, as in the case of
Espiritu-Santo, with very little success.
The Rio Doce, or sw^eet river, the most considerable
stream between Rio and Bahia, has its origin in the moun¬
tains of Minas Geraes, and assumes the name which it bears
after the confluence of the Rio Piranga with the Ribeiro
do Carmo. It runs through a considerable tract of coun¬
try, forming several falls in its course. The banks of this
river are covered with thick forests, which are the haunt ot
a great number of different animals. But far more formi¬
dable than all those beasts of prey, and the terror of these
forests, is the savage Botucudo, the original inhabitant of the
country. Some stations have, from time to time, been
formed on the beautiful banks of the Doce; but they have
never thriven, from being liable to attacks by the savages,
so that the country is still very thinly peopled, and no com¬
munication is kept up except along the river. From the
banks of the Rio Doce to the St. Matthseus, a dreary unin¬
habited wilderness extends along the coast. Indeed, for
more than a hundred miles the maritime district is a very
flat tract of country ; the dull monotony which it presents
being only here and there relieved by a sheet of water, or
small mountain elevation. The district of St. Matthmus
contains about 3000 inhabitants, who cultivate a great deal
of mandioc, and export annually 60,000 alquieres of flour,
and also planks from the neighbouring forests. The orange,
the lemon, and the water-melon, flourish here luxuriantly.
guro.
P O R
Port- Pa- The river St. Matthseus, originally called the Cricare, like
tricky the other large streams in this quarter, rises in the moun-
tains ot Minas Geraes, and descends through ancient fo¬
rests peopled by savage tribes, forming various falls, and
receiving several rivers in its course. Cazal mentions the
large stream of Cotache as joining it on the left margin.
Nearly thirty miles from the St. Matthaeus is the Mucuri,
at the mouth of which stands the Villa de St. Joze do Port-
alegre. This place has of late years risen into some im¬
portance, from the opening of a road along the banks of the
river, to Villa do Principe in Minas Geraes. Almost all the
fine species of wood found on the eastern coast of Brazil,
abound in the forests of this district. Five leagues to the
north of the Mucuri, is the river Peruhipe, four miles from
the mouth of which is the town of Villa Vicosa, consisting
of about one hundred houses, with a church and camara,
pleasantly situated amongst groves of cocoa palms. The in¬
habitants carry on a trade in mandioc flour, which is ex¬
ported in small coasting vessels. Ten miles farther north
is Caravellao, situated on a river of the same name, about
five or six miles from the sea. The river is two miles in
breadth, and proportionally deep ; and up to the town its
banks are beautifully interspersed with plantations. Cara¬
vellao is bustling and populous, and carries on a brisk trade
in the productions of the country, especially mandioc flour,
large quantities of which are annually exported. The port
is much frequented by vessels from Pernambuco, Bahia,
Rio, and the other towns on the east coast.
Porto Seguro, the capital of the comarca, is situated at
the mouth of the river Buranhem, in lat. 16° 40' south, and
long. 40° ^'west. The port, which has given name both
to the town and the district, is formed by a ledge of rocks
which runs out for about a mile from an extended point of
the main, in a direction parallel to the land, presenting a
natural mole. This town is less considerable than Cara¬
vellao, but may contain a population of about 3000 souls.
The upper part of it lies on an elevated ridge, but the ma¬
jor portion of the inhabitants are established on the declivity
nearer the river, a place more advantageous for carrying
on trade. A third part of the town lies close to the mouth
of the river. There is little agricultural industry displayed
in this country, the greater part of the farina consumed
being brought from Santa Cruz. This, with salt fish, con¬
stitutes the chief subsistence of the inhabitants. About
eighteen miles north of Porto Seguro, is the town of Santa
Cruz, already mentioned. It is smaller and less important
than the capital, although once in a flourishing condition.
Some attention, however, is paid here to agriculture ; and
farina is exported to various parts of the coast. The most
northerly towm of Porto Seguro is the Villa de Belmonte,
situated on the Rio Grande de Belmonte, which falls into
the sea in latitude 15° 40' south. This town was origi¬
nally an aldeia of christianised Indians, but few of them
now remain, and the place has sunk into decay. The whole
population of Espiritu Santo, has been reckoned at 74,000 ;
that of Porto Seguro is probably not more. But a great
part of the country is still in complete possession of several
Indian tribes, amongst which the Botucudes, the remains of
the once formidable Aymores, are the most conspicuous.
PORT-PATRICK, a sea-port town and parish, on the
west coast of Wigtonshire, at the distance of 133 miles from
Edinburgh. It is situated on the shore of the Irish Sea, at
the nearest point to Ireland, the distance being only twenty-
one miles to Donaghadee. From this cause, as well as from
being the best place for crossing between the two countries,
steam packets and sailing vessels regularly sail between the
two ports with the mails from Edinburgh, London, and Dub¬
lin. The town is not large, but it is beautifully situated,
with a fine southern exposure, and encompassed on the other
side by a ridge of small hills, which shelters it from the cold
air of the sea. The climate is therefore salubrious, and
P o R
459
on that account is much resorted to during the summer Portrait
months tor sea-bathing. I he harbour was formerly small H
and inconvenient, but very extensive improvements having Ports-
been carried on by the late Sir James Hunter Blair and by rnouth'
government, to render the harbour fit for shipments at all
times ot the tide, it has, especially its quay, been made one
of the best in the kingdom. The chief trade arises from the
importation ot cattle and horses from Ireland. The popu¬
lation in 1821, amounted to 1818, and in 1831, to 2239.
PORTRAIT, in Painting, the representation of a per¬
son, and especially of a face, done from the life.
PORI REE, is a small village, containing a church and
a very few houses, with an excellent bay and a good har¬
bour, in the isle of Skye.
PORTSMOUTH, a town of the county of Southamp¬
ton or Hampshire, within the hundred of Portsdown, and
seventy-four miles from London. It stands on an island
divided from the mainland by a small creek or arm of the
sea. This island, called Portsea, is about fifteen miles in
circumference, and contains nearly 5100 acres of land of
great fertility ; and, besides the borough of Portsmouth, the
town formerly known as Portsmouth common, but now by
the name of the island, and also what may be denominated
a town called Southsea, besides many other neat houses.
The last of these towns has grown up to importance with¬
in a few years, because it has become a place of great
resort for sea-bathing; and hence the usual accommoda¬
tions of such places have been constructed and extended.
The population appears for the four decennial enumera¬
tions to have been, in the three divisions, as follows:
Portsmouth Borough and
Parish 
Portsea 
Portsea Guildable 
1801. i 1811. I 1821. 1831,
7,839, 7,103 7,246
24,327 31,365 34,785
1,060 2,099 3,594
33,026 40,567 45,675
8,083
38,199
4,107
50,389
Portsea Guildable is a part of the parish of Portsea, not
within the jurisdiction of the borough of Portsmouth. The
limits of that borough contain within them the whole of the
town of Portsea ; and the right of voting for members of
parliament was conferred on the inhabitants, occupiers, by
the reform bill. The corporation now consists of fourteen
aldermen and forty-two councillors, who elect the mayor.
It is divided into seven wards, and has justices of the peace
appointed by the Crown.
The statements of population are exclusive of the corps
of royal marines and regular troops, as well as the seamen
on board the ships in the harbour, which are estimated to
amount to about 4000 persons.
The soil of the island is marshy, and was formerly found
to be unhealthy; and besides, the inhabitants suffered much
from the scarcity and dearness of good water. But of late
years those evils have been remedied by complete draining
of the moist parts, and by the construction of good sewers,
which carry into the scathe impurities of the towns. Two
efficient Water Companies have completed works for the
supply of that necessary of life ; and no town in England
is now better supplied with it, or at a cheaper rate, than
the inhabitants of Portsmouth and its vicinity. The re¬
turns of deaths show that forty years ago they were one in
thirty annually of the population ; wdiilst in the three years
1827, 1828, 1829, they did not exceed one in sixty.
The favourable situation of Portsmouth for a naval ar¬
senal, led to the constructions that have since distinguished
it, at the period when the sovereigns of England first began
to form a naval force. Some of the fortifications were erect¬
ed on the sea-side as early as the reign of King Henry the
4 CO
Ports¬
mouth.
P O R
Eio-hth ; but the walls surrounding the town were first built
of stone in the reign of Elizabeth. In every subsequent
'reign additions and improvements have been made to it.
As the town of Portsmouth is surrounded with walls, the
streets are for the most part narrow, nor can it as a whole
be represented as a well-built place. 1 he High Street is
of moderate breadth, and has a few good buildings ; but a
part of it is disfigured and contracted, by having the
ket house running through the middle of it. Some of the
buildings are of ancient date ; one especially in the High
Street is worthy of observation, as having been the dwelling
in which the Duke of Buckingham was assassinated, in the
reign of King Charles I. It may be remarked, that the
bes°t buildings in Portsmouth are the inns and hotels, which
are numerous, and proportioned to the great number and
various descriptions of occasional residents arriving and de¬
parting, as passengers to and from ah parts of the world.
The largest pile of building is the marine barracks, capable
of accommodating some thousands of soldiers ; but it is ab¬
solutely without taste or ornament. The walls that sur¬
round the town are shaded with trees, and afford a good
promenade to the inhabitants. Another promenade is fur¬
nished on the grand parade, where every morning the troops
destined to take the guard for the day and night are assem¬
bled. From the parade, by a slope, the king’s bastion is
reached, where the garrison standard is hoisted every morn¬
ing at break of day. At the east end of the Grand Parade
is the garrison chapel, the remnant of an ancient hospital,
called Domus Dei, built in 1238. The building has recently
been taken down, and the chapel, or rather the chancel part
of it, is now the only remains of the ancient erection.
At the west end of the platform, on an ancient building,
which, before the dissolution of the monasteries, had been
the government house, a lofty semaphore has been erected,
from which signals are made to the ships in the harbour
and at Spithead. It is also connected with a chain of tele¬
graphs, terminating at the Admiralty Office in London, and
by which communications are conveyed, so that a message
has been sent and an answer received in two minutes. In
a niche in the w:all of this ancient building is a bust of King
Charles I., with an inscription underneath, stating that “after
his travels through France and Spain, and having passed
very manv dangers both by sea and land, he arrived here
the 5 th October 1623.” This was on his return from the se¬
cret journey he made in search of a bride of the Spanish royal
family.
The parish church is a venerable object, said to have been
built originally in 1220, and dedicated to the then recently
canonized St. Thomas a Becket. The chancel is the only
part left of the original building, and affords a contrast, by
its numerous pillars, clustered pilasters, and ribbed pointed
arches in the Saracenic style, w’ith the architecture of the nave,
built in the plain Tuscan style, the pillars of which support
circular arches, and carry the roof. Few places of worship
in the kingdom are superior to this church in internal
beauty, which is chiefly due to the elegance of the chancel,
but is increased by a few painted windows over the altar,
which has been recently presented to it. At the west end
is the tower, added in 1693, which is 120 feet in height.
Over this, in an octagon latticed erection called the lanthorn,
is a fine peal of eight bells. Surmounting the whole, as a
wreather vane, is a gilt model of a ship, six feet long, which
has a shifting flag on the mizen mast that moves with the
slightest motion of the air, and indicates from what quarter
the wind blows, when the breeze is not sufficiently strong
to move the hull of the ship.
The walls of this church are adorned with a great va¬
riety of handsome ancient and modern monuments ; one of
the most remarkable of which is that to the memory of the
Duke of Buckingham, whose assassination has already been
adverted to. In the parish register is to be seen the regis-
FOR
tration of the marriage of king Charles II. with the Infanta
of Portugal, 22d May 1662. This document, in letters of
gold on vellum, is highly illuminated in the style of the old''-”
missals, and states the marriage to have been performed by
Sheldon, bishop of London. Some doubts have since been
suggested whether any other ceremony was used, except a
private marriage by a Catholic priest. _
Besides this capacious church, there is open to the inha¬
bitants the large garrison chapel for the established wor¬
ship, and four places of meeting for several sects of dissen¬
ters. In the other towns the places of worship are numer¬
ous. At Portsea, there are, for the episcopal worship, the
parish church of Kingston, the dock-yard chapel, St. George’s
church, St.John’s church, besides a Catholic chapel, a Jew’s
Synagogue, a Wesleyan, two Independent, and two Baptist
meetinghouses. In Southseais St. Paul s.church, with a Me¬
thodist and a Baptist chapel. At Landport, or a part better
known as the Halfway Houses, is All Saints church, besides
no less than nine chapels of various sects. Almost all these
places ofworship have schools attached to them, some on Sun¬
days and others for week days ; and in addition to them is a
large school, where reading, wwiting, and arithmetic are taught
on Bell’s system. A philosophical institution has been esta¬
blished, containing a museum of natural history and curi¬
osities, and a choice library, rapidly increasing. At the
rooms lectures are delivered on physical and moral philo¬
sophy, and on the belles lettres. I here is also over the
market house a mechanic’s institute, where meetings are
held, and weekly lectures delivered. A well endowed gram¬
mar school in Penny Street affords classical instruction to
fifty boys, sons of the inhabitants of the town. The town-
hall, gaol, theatre, custom-house, and the other public
buildings in Portsmouth, present very little attraction.
Few markets are better supplied than that of Portsmouth.
A large part of the fertile island of Portsea is laid out in
kitchen and fruit gardens, from which spring crops of ve¬
getables are grown much earlier than in other parts of the
kingdom. No market produces finer meat; large quanti¬
ties of poultry, hares, partridges, and eggs, are brought from
France, and the extensive water communication gives fa¬
cility to provide hay, corn, flour, and other articles, at yeiy
cheap rates-. To this cheapness of provisions, combined
with the purity of the air, and the number of comfortable
houses recently built, may be attributed the great exten¬
sion of Southsea which the population tables present.
The buildings in Portsea, except those belonging to the
government, are by no means distinguished. 9 he streets
are regularly built, well paved and lighted, and kep t geneially
in a clean state, but as the greater part of the inhabitants
consist of artificers and labourers of different grades employed
in the dock-yard, or otherwise in the public service, the
houses are mostly small, conformably to the finances of the
occupants. Southsea consists of houses of a more respect¬
able class, forming terraces or rows mostly looking on the
sea, and enjoying the prospect of the inner harbour, die
fortresses that guard the entrance to it, and the buildings
and scenery on the opposite shore. It has one distinguish¬
ed pile called the king's rooms, consisting of an elegant
suite of rooms, eighty feet in front. Within is the pio-
menade room, forty-five feet long, thirty-five feet wide, and
seventeen feet high, adapted for music or dancing ; and be¬
sides, it contains baths, both warm and cold, and gives a
cheerful appearance to the spot. Besides the three towns
here noticed, there are groups of houses on the island, and
single dwellings of various descriptions. The largest of
the groups, called the Halfway Llouses, from lying midway
between Portsea and the parish church, has many respect¬
able houses, as well as the new church of All Saints.
The most important view in which Portsmouth can be
looked upon is as the great depot of the British naval
power, and in this view the state of the surrounding water
Ports¬
mouth.
P O R
and of the harbour above the town, become worthy of ob¬
servation and description. One of the great advantages of
this place is that very fine anchorage known by the name
of Spithead. It is about half way between the mainland
and the Isle of Wight, but nearer to the latter. It is pro¬
tected by the high land of the island from southerly winds,
and from northerly and easterly winds by the mainland. It
has an advantageous entrance. For, though at the east there
are some dangers on what is called the Princessa shoal, and
on the ranges of rocks called Bambridge’s Ledge, and Betty’s
Ledge, they, as well as the Nab rock, the Long rock, the
Warner, and Romansland, are so well provided with either
floating lights or distinguishing buoys, that there is little
risk, except in those very thick fogs when the buoys cannot
be seen, nor the leading marks observed on the sea-shore. At
this entrance it is a great advantage, that at St. Helen’s, at
the east end of the island, there is a good anchorage, so that
if the wind takes a vessel short, she can saiely ride till the
breeze is in her favour. The western entrance to Spit-
head is by Hurst Castle, and the rocks called the Needles.
This passage is always safe in fair winds, on account of the
definite track which is shewn by the buoys, lights, and land¬
marks; but it is so hazardous, that few ships attempt in a con¬
trary wind to beat through. The passage out by the Needles
is used by more vessels than come into Spithead that way.
The anchoring ground at Spithead is very good for hold¬
ing, and very clear, except near the wrecks of the Royal
George, the Boyne, and the Edgar, around which the tide
has formed considerable banks. There is a regular depth
of water in every part, varying from six to twelve fathoms,
and the space is sufficient tor the whole navy of England to
ride at single or double anchor, without danger of falling
on board each other when swinging with the changes of the
tide.
Within the smooth water, between the island and the
mainland, there are other very good anchorages, besides that
of Spithead. The Mother-bank is one of them, which,
though there are but two fathoms of water at low tides, has
near to the bank from seven to nine fathoms, where in time
of w'ar merchant ships have been collected to wait for the
convoy of ships of war. Stakes Bay is another anchorage,
where there is from four to nine fathoms water, and w'here
merchant ships often anchor.
The great advantages arising from so secure a rendez¬
vous as Spithead, so near to the great national marine ar¬
senal, are too obvious to need any elaborate remarks. The
entrance to the harbour of Portsmouth is very narrow, but
with sufficient depth of water for the largest ships. The
channels by which vessels approach the mouth of the har¬
bour, are commanded by batteries of such power that an
enemy’s fleet, however strong, would be annihilated before
it could reach even the entrance. Within the narrow gut
at the entrance, on one side of which is Portsmouth, and
on the other side Gosport, the water spreads out into a wfide
basin, in which those ships of w7ar that are under repair, or
preparing for sea, are riding, and some of them lying at the
wharfs of the dock which borders the harbour on the east¬
ern side. From thence the harbour extends into the land,
and contains, in one part called Rotten Row, the ships that
are in ordinary, being with no other crew but a few warrant
officers, to prevent them from plunder, or from injury by
weather. The wrater here branches off in various directions,
and by the help of the tide is navigable to Farnham, and to
Porchester Castle, a pile of antiquity that will reward the
curiosity of a visitor.
The dock-yard of Portsmouth is one of those noble objects
in which every Briton feels an interest. But this has already
been described under the article Dock Yards.
The gun wharf, under the ordnance department, is an
P O R 461
immense arsenal, consisting of various ranges of buildings Portsoy,
for the reception of military and naval stores and artillery,
Some of the storehouses are vast piles, especially tw'o, which,
writh their dependencies, are fitted to contain all kinds of
necessaries for the sudden equipment both of a fleet and an
army. On the wharf is the grand depot for guns, carron-
ades, and mortars, with shot and shells of almost every
weight and size, all of which are arranged in immense py¬
ramids. Here also in time of peace the guns from the ships
in ordinary at the port are lodged, each ship’s guns being
kept in a separate tier, whilst the carriages are deposited
away in the same regular manner in the proper storehouses,
so that the whole may be easily collected again and re-em¬
barked. The small armoury is a spacious building, and the
great object of admiration. Within it are upwards of 20,000
stand of arms, all placed in the same ornamental style as
those of a similar description in the tower of London. The
roof of this building is covered with copper, which being
oxydized by exposure to the atmosphere, when viewed on
approaching it from the quay gate, conveys to the mind the
idea of a green glassy slope, or a still wave of the sea.
The victualling establishment has recently been removed
from Portsmouth to the opposite side of the harbour, and
properly belongs to the town of Gosport. The expense of
this depository is said to have amounted to half a million of
money. The storehouses, of vast dimensions, are used as
depositories for bread, beef, pork, and other articles of food,
of rum, wine, and clothing, that are kept ready for the sup¬
ply of the navy. A special object of curiosity at this esta¬
blishment is the machinery substituted for manual labour in
making biscuit, whereby every process, in its minutest de¬
tail, is effected, preparatory to its being ready for the oven,
including kneading, rolling, forming, and stamping. Another
object worthy of attention is a fine new steam corn mill,
recently built an an expence of L.76;000.
Portsmouth is not merely a port for warlike purposes,
but enjoys a considerable foreign and coasting trade. The
custom-house is a large and convenient building, and in its
stores merchandize may be kept under bond free of duty
till it is sold for internal consumption, or is exported. The
shipping belonging to the port, in which Gosport is includ¬
ed, consists of about 300 sail of vessels, registered at nearly
10,000 tons; some are engaged in the Newfoundland fish¬
ery, and since the trade with India has been laid open, a
few vessels have landed cargoes here from beyond the Cape
of Good Hope. There is a considerable importation of
wine, and some of West India articles, but the chief busi¬
ness consists in timber, corn, Irish provisions, Spanish and
Portuguese fruits, and the vine of both these countries. The
amount of duty annually received on imported articles at
the custom-house, is from L.50,000 to L.60,000.
PORTSOY, a burgh of barony and a sea-port town, in
the parish of Fordyce, and county of Banff. It is situated on
a point of land, jutting into a small bay, of the same name,
on the Moray Frith, and consists of a few streets, irregularly
built. The harbour is small, but safe, and is capable of ad¬
mitting vessels of 150 tons. The chief trade is in linen and
thread, manufactured principally for the Aberdeen, London,
and Nottingham trade. Grain is also shipped from the port,
and there is a considerable trade arising from the herring
fishing. Portsoy is famed for the serpentine, erroneously
called Portsoy marble, which is quarried to a considerable
extent near the town. It is beautifully variegated, and as it
is susceptible of a high polish, it is much used for ornaments.
There is also found the splendid variety of flesh-coloured
granite, possessing Labrador feldspar, which is nowhere else
to be found, except in Arabia, where it was first discovered.
The population in 1821 amounted to 1,700, and in 1831,,
the population of the parish and burgh was 3,30T.
462
PORTUGAL.
History. Portugal, the most westerly kingdom of Europe, is
v v bounded on the west and south by the Atlantic Ocean, and
Ancient on the east and north by Spain. By modern writers we
boundaries, bnd this country constantly styled in Latin Lusitania ; and
it is certain, that anciently a part of Spain went by that
name; but it does not by any means appear that the coun¬
try called by the ancients Lusitania had the same bound¬
aries with the modern kingdom of Portugal. Before the time
of Augustus Caesar, Lusitania seems to have been bounded
on the north by the ocean, and on the south by the river
Tagus; thus comprehending all Galicia, and excluding two
out of the six provinces of Portugal. But in the more strict
and limited sense of the word, it was bounded on the north
by the Durius, or the Douro, and on the south by the
river Anas, or the Guadiana; so that it was not quite equal
to modern Portugal in length, but considerably exceeded it
in breadth.
Etymology The commonly received opinion with regard to the ety-
of the b' mology of the word Portugal is, that a great number of
name. Gauls landed at Porto, or Oporto, whence it received the
name of Portus Gallorum, or the Port of the Gauls ; and
that in process of time the name gradually extended over
the whole country, being softened, or rather shortened, into
Portugal. But the time when this event happened, the
reason why these Gauls went thither, and what became of
them afterwards, are all particulars which lie buried in ob¬
livion. It is pretended, however, that, upon an eminence
which overlooks the mouth of the Douro, there stood an
ancient town called Gale, strong and well peopled, but ill
suited for trade ; and that this occasioned the construction
of a lower town or hamlet, which was called Portus Gale,
or the haven of Cale, and, in process of time, Portucalia.
At length, when this place became so considerable as to be
erected into an episcopal see, the bishops subscribed them¬
selves, as the records of ancient councils testify, Portu-
calenses, the name of the city being transferred to the dio¬
cese. It is true that these bishops afterwards changed
their title, and subscribed themselves Porluenses, or “ bi¬
shops of Portu.” But the facts just mentioned are actually
recorded in authentic histories ; and as the diocese of Por¬
tucalia in a great measure contained that little country in
which the sovereignty originally commenced, the name ex¬
tended itself with the acquisitions of the sovereigns, and came
to be applied to the whole kingdom, though the diocese itself
has changed its name.
Portugal Portugal, though even yet but a small kingdom, was ori-
originally ginally much smaller. The Spanish and Portuguese his-
onlya smalltorians agree, that Don Alonso, king of Leon and Castille,
Illg 0I1" and son of Don Ferdinand the Great, bestowed his daugh¬
ter, Donna Theresa, in marriage upon an illustrious stran¬
ger, Don Henry, and with her gave him the frontier pro¬
vince, which he had conquered from the Moors, small in¬
deed in extent, but excellently situated, and so pleasant
and fertile that it has sometimes been styled Medulla
Hispanica, or the Marrow of Spain. To this territory was
added the title of Count; but authors are very much divid¬
ed respecting the time when this stranger came into Spain,
and who he was. The more probable opinion appears to be,
that he was a grandson of Robert, the first duke of Bur¬
gundy. The manner in which he obtained the principality
may be briefly related.
Henry of 1 he king, Don Alonso, apprehensive that his success
Burgundy in taking the city of Toledo would bring upon him the
(he first whole force of the Moors, sent to demand assistance from
Portugal i,hiliP L of France’ and tlie Tuke of Burgundy, whose
Q ' daughter he had married. His request was granted by both
princes ; and a numerous body of troops was speedily col- History,
lected for his service, having at their head Raymond count y-w
of Burgundy, Henry, younger brother of Hugh duke of
Burgundy, Raymond count of Toulouse, and many others.
In the year 1087 they arrived at the court of Don Alonso,
where they were received and treated with all possible marks
of esteem; and having in the course of two or three years
given great proofs of their courage and conduct, the king
resolved to bestow his only daughter, named Urraca, then
at most in her ninth year, upon Raymond count of Burgun¬
dy, and assigned them the province of Galicia for the sup¬
port of their dignity. About four years afterwards, Don
Alonso, being desirous to express his gratitude to Henry of
Burgundy, gave him in marriage a natural daughter of his,
born whilst he remained in exile at Toledo, whose name
was Donna Theresa; and upon this marriage he conveyed in
full property the country which has already been mention¬
ed. The new sovereign, with his consort, fixed their resi¬
dence in the town of Guimaraens, pleasantly situated on
the banks of the river Ave. The remains of an ancient pa¬
lace belonging to their successors are still to be seen; and
on account of its having been anciently the capital, the
king granted the inhabitants an immunity from taxes.
The Portuguese, finding themselves now independent, Difference
immediately began, like most other nations, to attempt the with Gas-
subjugation of their neighbours. Henry is said to have per-
formed great exploits against the Moors; but the accounts
given of tVem are extremely indistinct and unsatisfactory.
He died in 1112, and was succeeded by his son Don Alonso,
then in the third year of his age. In the minority of the
latter the kingdom was governed by the queen-mother Donna
Theresa, assisted by two able ministers. During the first
nine years of their administration nothing remarkable hap¬
pened ; but, after that period, some differences took place
between the queen regent and Urraca queen of Castille.
Theresa insisted that some part of Galicia belonged to her
in virtue of her father’s will, and therefore seized upon Tuy,
an episcopal town, and a place of some consequence. Urraca,
having assembled a numerous army, proceeded in person
into Galicia, where Theresa was obliged to abandon Tuy,
and take shelter in one of her own fortresses. The conse¬
quence would probably have been fatal to the new kingdom,
had not the archbishop of Compostella, without whose as¬
sistance Urraca could perform nothing, demanded leave to
retire with his vassals. This offended the queen so much
that she threw him into prison; an act of violence which
excited such a commotion amongst her own subjects, that
the Portuguese were soon delivered from their apprehen¬
sions. Theresa immediately afterwards fell into a similar
error, by throwing into prison the archbishop of Braga, who
had not espoused her cause so warmly as she expected. The
bishop, however, was quickly delivered by a bull from the
pope, who also threatened the kingdom with an interdict.
Soon after this, Urraca died, and all differences were ami¬
cably settled at an interview' between Theresa and Don
Alonso Raymond, who succeeded to the kingdom of Castille.
But, in 1126, the king of Castille being obliged to march
with the whole strength of his dominions against his father-
in-law, the king of Aragon and Navarre, Theresa took the
opportunity of again seizing upon Tuy; but the king hav¬
ing soon returned with a superior army, she was again ob¬
liged to abandon her conquest.
But the greatest misfortune which befell this princess was Alonso’?
a quarrel with her own son, Don Alonzo Enriquez. It does wars with
not appear indeed that Theresa had given him any just of
cause of offence; but 'it is certain that a civil war ensued, cagtiiie.
P o R T U G A L.
Victory of
Ourique.
History- in which the queen’s forces were totally defeated, and her-
v * pen made prisoner, a situation in which she continued dur¬
ing the remainder of her hfe. Enriquez having thus attained
to the tree and full possession of his dominions, made seve¬
ral attempts upon vai ious places in Galicia, but without suc¬
cess ; and he was at last constrained to conclude a peace with
Alonso, king of Castille and Leon, who had assumed the title
of Emperor of the Spains, more especially as his dominions
happened to be at that time invaded by the Moors. The
number of infidels was so great that the Count of Portugal
had but little hopes of subduing them ; but a plague bavin a-
broken out in the Moorish army, they were obliged to re¬
treat, after which he reduced several places belonging to
that nation. In the mean time, the Emperor Don Alonso,
having made an irruption into the Portuguese territories’
destroyed everything with fire and sword. The king of
Portugal surprised and cut off a considerable part of his
army; but this did not prevent the emperor from marching
directly towards him. At the intercession of the pope’s le¬
gate, however, all differences were accommodated, a peace
concluded, and all places and prisoners taken on both sides
were delivered up.
Meanwhile, the progress of the Christian arms in Spain
being reported to Abu-Ali fexefien, the miramamolin or
chief monarch of the Moors in Barbary, he directed Ishmael,
his lieutenant in Spain, to assemble all the forces in the
southern provinces, and to drive the Christians beyond the
Douro. Ishmael immediately began to prepare for putting
these orders in execution ; and having added a considerable
body of troops which had arrived from Barbary to those
whom he had raised in Spain, the whole army was very nu¬
merous. He was met by Don Alonso of Portugal on the
plains of Ourique, upon the banks of the river Tagus, where
Ishmael took all possible means to prevent the Christians
passing that river, because his own cavalry, in which consist¬
ed the strength of his army, would thus have more room to
act. The Portuguese forces were inconsiderable in number
in comparison with the Moors ; but Ishmael, being too con¬
fident of victory, divided his army into twelve bodies, and
disposed them in such a manner as might best prevent the
flight, not sustain the attack, of the Christians. The conse¬
quence was, that his army was overthrown with incredible
slaughter, and a vast number of prisoners taken, amongst
whom were one thousand Christians of the sect styled Moz-
arabians, whom, at the request of Theotonus, prior' of the
Holy Cross, Don Alonso set at liberty with their wives and
children, and procured them settlements in his own domi¬
nions.
i'on Alon- After this signal victory, gained in the year 1139, Don
^onso wa® proclaimed king by his soldiers, and ever after-
iing, e ° war(E retained that title, renouncing all kind of subjection to
the crown of Spain. Being very desirous, however, of redu¬
cing the power of the emperor, he formed a league with Ray¬
mond, count of Barcelona, and regent of the kingdom of
Aragon, against that prince. In virtue of this treaty, he en¬
tered Galicia with a considerable force on one side, whilst
Don Raymond simultaneously invaded it on the other. But
neither of these enterprises succeeded. The Portuguese
monarch met with a severe check in his expedition into
Galicia, where he received a dangerous wound, whilst some
of the nobility who attended him were taken prisoners. At
the same time, having received intelligence that the Moors
had invaded his dominions, he was obliged to retire; but
his retreat was not made in sufficient time to prevent the
strong fortress of Leiria from falling into their hands. This
fortress they demolished, and put the garrison to the sword;
but the king caused it to be reconstructed of greater
strength than before, and placed in it a more numerous
garrison. Yet he undertook nothing farther during this cam-
paigm The war continued with various success till the year
1H5, when the king projected an enterprise against Santa-
463
rem, a strong city, at no great distance from Lisbon. In History.
this he luckily succeeded, and thus gained a considerable s ^
tract of country, with a strong barrier to his dominions.
After this success Don Alonso caused himself to be
crowned king of Portugal before an assembly of the states,
where he also solemnly renounced all dependence upon the
crown of Spam ; declaring, that if any of his successors
should condescend to pay tribute or to do homage to that
crown, he ought to be deemed unworthy of enjoying the
ingdom of Portugal. The next year the king undertook Reduces
to recover Lisbon from the Moors; but there are so many Lisbon and
tables related of this expedition that it is impossible to come 0tber cities,
at the truth. All that can be gathered from these accounts
is that he undertook the siege with a small army, and was
able to make little progress in it, partly from the strength
of the place, and partly also from the numerous garrison by
which it was defended. At length, fortunately for Don
Alonso, a fleet of adventurers, French, English, Germans,
and rlemings, wdio were on their way to the Holy Land,
having anchored at the mouth of the Tagus, he demanded
their assistance, as not altogether foreign to their design of
making war upon the infidels. His requestwas readily grant¬
ed; and, with their assistance, Lisbon was speedily reduced;
a conquest which so much enhanced the reputation of this
monarch, and brought such numbers to recruit his army,
that before the end of the year 1147 he had reduced twelve
other considerable cities.
For many years after this, Don Alonso was successful His re-al
in all his undertakings. He settled the internal government dignity con-
of his kingdom ; procured a bill from Pope Alexander III. firmed by
confirming his regal dignity; undertook many successful P°Pe-
expeditions against the Moors ; and became master of four ^ ^Jj
out of the six provinces which compose the present kingdom nand of^ ’*
of Portugal. In all his undertakings he was assisted by the Spain,
counsels of his queen, Matilda, a woman of great capacity,
and capable of governing the kingdom in her husband’s ab¬
sence. By her he had a numerous offspring, including three
daughters, the eldest of whom, Donna Matilda, was married
to the king of Aragon ; the second, Urraca, to Don Ferdi¬
nand king of Leon ; and the third, Theresa, to Philip earl
of Flanders. In 1166, however, the king thought proper,
from what cause we know not, to invade the dominions of
his son-in-law Don Ferdinand, and to seize upon Limmia
and Turon, two cities of Galicia, in which he placed strong
garrisons. Elated with his success, he next year marched
with a numerous army towards Badajoz, which he invested.
On receiving the news of this attack, Don Ferdinand, who
had assembled a large army at Ciudad Rodrigo, marched
to its relief. But before he came in sight of the fortress
it had surrendered to the king of Portugal; upon which
Don Ferdinand resolved to besiege his antagonist in his
newly-conquered city. Don Alonso perceiving his design,
endeavoured to draw out his forces into the field. Though
at that time upwards of seventy years of age, he placed him¬
self on horseback, and pushing forward at the head of his
horse to get out at the gate, struck his leg against one
of the bolts with such violence that the bone was shattered
to pieces. This accident occasioned such confusion that
the Portuguese troops were easily beaten, and Don Alonso
was taken prisoner. He vras exceedingly mortified by this
reverse, especially as he had no great reason to expect
kind treatment from his son-in-law. Howrever, the king of
Leon behaved towards him with the greatest respect and
affection. He desired him to lay aside all thoughts of busi¬
ness, and attend to his cure ; but finding him restless and
impatient, he assured him that he expected nothing more
than to have things put into the same condition as before
the war, and that in future they should live in peace and
friendship. To this proposal the king of Portugal most rea¬
dily assented; but he returned to his dominions before his
cure was perfected, and thus became lame all the rest of his
464 PORTUGAL.
History, life. This, however, did not abate his military ardo"r^1]hl^ crown^inread^money^blsiderfourteen hundred merks of' ^
—v— courage transportedhiminto ^ Svlr anYonfhundre^’of gold plate, which he disposed of
thither by the interests of his subjects. ,^e e before ^ death- He was mterred by his own
his reign, an opportunity seemed to present ^elf of obta S m^nd in the cathedral of Coimbra ; and when his body
once for all an entire release from the d'«ag eeable p c hundred years afterwards, that it might
sions of the king of Leon, who, it ^ms ^d masted on the was taken ^ p ^ ^ it found uncorrupted.
king of Portugal doing homage foi his kia^c • ^ ^ mi.- ‘Pr.^fno-cl r>rp«pnts scarcely anv event of
king of Portugal doing homage for his kingc om. *s eThe history of Portugal presents scarcely any event ctDiffer-
a quarrel between the king of Leon and his nephew Don ^ ^ the ^289 ; when, in the reign of Don^with
Alonso king of Castille. The latter solicited ^tance from impo ^ dlfference Commenced with Castille, which subsist-■
the king of Portugal, which was readiy gran • ed for’ a long period. Frequent reconciliations took place ;
Ferdinand having received intelligence that the mta thege were either of short duration, or never sincere.
Sancho, the king’s eldest son, was ady anci g length, in the reign of John L, Don Juan of Castille, who
dad Rodrigo, assembled his troops ^ ^ had aLo Fetensions'to the crown of Portugal, invaded that
that frontier, that being enabled to attack him unexpe • - the head of the wh0le force of his dominions,
edly, he entirely defeated him. , recruit- and’with the flower of the Castillian nobility entered the
Don San- Understanding, however, that Don Sane , m-0vince of Alemteio. According to the Portuguese histo-
oho’s suc" ing his forces with great diligence, he suggested that y P besieged Elvas, but without effect; a disappoint-
rEot^tbe much better employed rTnt which emaged him to such a degree that he deter-
remained careless and unprepared, expecting^ , • . ; ed the following year to invade Portugal a second time,
contest. Don Sancho did not fad to profit by this advice before him. Accordingly, having
and after some movements intended to amuse the e llec[ed an army of thirty thousand men, he invaded Por-
he made a sudden irruption into Andalusia, tugal) and took a^d ruined several places, whilst King John
far as Tnana, one of the suburbs of Seville. ]av inactive, with a small army, waiting for some English
sembled their forces in order to attack him on . ’ JL which he expected. At last he ventured an en-
but Don Sancho having first fatigued them by the cele y with the forces which he had, and, notwithstand-
of his march, at length chose a strong camp, and hav ng eriorit of the enemy, obtained a complete
given his troops time to repose, drew them out and offered ^ ^ ^ ^ int0 Castille,
the enemy battle. The Moors accepted the cha e „ , Y ’ fortune to gain another battle, which fixed
were entirely defeated ; and Don Sancho returned to Por- and hadJhe g0°d tortu^ pnrtll,al. The Castillians
were entirely defeated; and Don Sancho returnea to ror- a f" the throne&of Portugal. The Castillians
tugal loaded with spoil For some w"e oblgVdtocJnsent to a truce of three years, which was
continued without producing ^ remarkable event were g ^ ^ a lasting peace.  
continued without producing any remarKao e , ? „ ftrdc imDroved into a lasting peace.
assisted by Ferdinand of Leon, and entirely defeated an Y . f had the king left that country, when
slain. By this victory the Portuguese were left at liberty bef /league for the recovery
to improve the interior of their country, and to for i y P^ _ f thnup-h thev were defeated by the young
frontiers; but not long afterwards, that is, in the year o, o eP p , whom John again sent into Barbary,
the king died, in the seventy-sixth year of his age prmces great that some of
Wise admi- Don Alonso was succeeded by his son Don Sancho I. yet m wereP0f opinion the town should be de-
uistration Of this prince it is remarkable, that before he ascended the the k g bavin J considered the arguments on
of Don throne he was of a restless and warlike disposition ; but no mohshed. But John, having considered me a g^
ot D?n T throne he was of a restless and warlike disposition ; out no monsnou. ^ tbe citv ; and therefore
^ L -„er did he come the possession of the kingdom than e * his
became a lover of peace, and began with great assiduity to
repair the cities which had suffered most by the war, and to
repeople the country around them. By his steady attention
to the work of restoration, he in a short time quite changed
the appearance of his territories, and procured to himself the
glorious title of The Restorer of Cities, and Father of his
Country. In the year 1189, a fleet, composed for the most
part of English vessels, but having on board a great num¬
ber of adventurers of other nations, bound for the Holy
Land, entered the river Tagus.. They were very kindly re
enlarged and strengthened the fortifications, augmenting his
forces there to six thousand foot and two thousand five hun¬
dred horse, which he hoped would prove sufficient for re¬
pelling the attacks of the Moors.
King John died in 1428, and was succeeded by his eldest
son Edward. The latter undertook an expedition against
Tangier, in Barbary, but the event proved very unfortunate ;
the Portuguese being so shut up by the Moors, that, to obtain
leave to return to Portugal, they were obliged to give up
Land, entered the river Tagus.. They were very Kinoiy re- Ceuta. The king’s son, Don
ceived and supplied with all kinds of refreshments by Don tage for the de lverY 0 ’ -i p portu<jal constantly
Sancho, who took this opportunity of soliciting them to as- and injustice, tie ing an Manv preparations indeed
sist him in a design he had formed of attacking the city of refused to dehvei up ie P * A force. but before
Silvas in Algarve, to which they readily assented. Having were made for recovering P , L J , >n 14,30
joinedthemwithasquadronof his own galleys, and marched anything could be accompis
a body of troops by land, the place was reduced, and the which put an ^ iese ,es'^ , # . . 1 b t witbp^ssa£ret0
English, according to agreement, were rewarded with the The war with 1 ar ary con mu . and ’till 1497 the East
plunder. But in a short time, the Moors from Africa hav- little success on the par o re & Li ’• tb bis- Indies dis*
ing once more invaded Portugal, the town was several there is no event of any consequence ^ . le for covered'
times taken and retaken, until at* last Don Sancho, sensible tory of Portugal. This year however remarkable for
of the difficulties of retaining it, caused it to be demolished, the discovery of the passage to ie , Pnrtmniese
His last enterprise was the reduction of Elvas ; soon after of Good Hope. I he enterprising SP^ ^ un_
which he died, leaving the reputation of being the best had, for a considerable time be 01 , p f when they
economist that ever sat on the throne of Portugal. With dertake voyages along the coast o , n’rnhable that
the character of being rather liberal than avaricious, he had undertook their first voyage of discov j, ]
PORTUGAL.
465
•story.
-cum-
rices
rich fa-
rtated
; disco-
ae king
the
I untry
ilous of
| s new
i sitors.
they had nothing farther in view than to explore those parts
of the coast of Africa which lay nearest to their own country.
But a spirit of enterprise, when roused and put in motion,
is always progressive; and that of the Portuguese, though
slow and timid in its first operations, gradually acquired vi¬
gour, and prompted them to advance along the western shore
of the African continent far beyond the utmost boundary of
ancient navigation in that direction. Encouraged by suc¬
cess, they became more adventurous, despised dangers which
formerly appalled them, and surmounted difficulties which
were once deemed insuperable. When the Portuguese found
in the torrid zone, which the ancients had pronounced to be
uninhabitable, fertile countries, occupied by numerous na¬
tions, and perceived that the continent of Africa, instead of
extending in breadth towards the west, according to the opi¬
nion of Ptolemy, appeared to contract itself, and to bend
eastwards, more extensive prospects opened to their view,
and inspired them with hopes of reaching India, by conti¬
nuing to hold the same course which they had so long pur¬
sued.
After several unsuccessful attempts to accomplish what
they had in view, a small squadron sailed from the Tagus,
under the command of Vasco de Gama, an officer of rank,
whose abilities and courage fitted him to conduct this diffi¬
cult and arduous enterprise. From ignorance, however, of
the proper season and route of navigation in that vast ocean
through which he had to steer his course, his voyage was
long and dangerous. At length he doubled that promontory
which had been descried by Diaz, and which, for several
years, had been the object of terror and of hope to his coun¬
trymen. After a prosperous navigation along the south¬
east coast of Africa, he arrived at the city of Melinda, and
had the satisfaction of discovering there, as well as at other
places where he touched, people of a race very different
from the rude inhabitants of the western shore of that con¬
tinent, which alone the Portuguese had hitherto visited.
These he found to be so far advanced in civilization and ac¬
quaintance with the various arts of life, that they carried on
an active commerce, not only with the nations on their own
coast, but with remote countries of Asia. Conducted by
their pilots, who held a course with which experience had
rendered them w'ell acquainted, he sailed across the Indian
ocean, and landed at Calicut, on the coast of Malabar, on
the 22d of May 1498, ten months and twm days after his de¬
parture from the port of Lisbon. (See the article Gama.)
The samorin or monarch of the country, astonished at
this unexpected visit of an unknown people, whose aspect, and^
arms, and manners, bore no resemblance to those of any of
the nations accustomed to frequent his harbours, and who
arrived in his dominions by a route hitherto deemed imprac¬
ticable, received them at first with that fond admiration
which is often excited by novelty ; but in a short time, ftom
whatever motives, he formed various schemes to cut oft Ga¬
ma and his followers. The Portuguese admiral, however,
was not to be overreached by such politics as his. Trom
every danger to which he was exposed, either by the open
attacks or secret machinations of the Indians, he extricated
himself with singular prudence and dexterity, and at last
sailed from Calicut with his ships, loaded not only with the
commodities peculiar to that coast, but with many rich l)r0"
ductions of the eastern parts of India. He returned to Por¬
tugal in two years after his sailing from the Tagus, but with
a great loss of men ; for out of one hundred and forty-eight
persons who sailed with him, only fifty-five returned. I he
king received him with all possible testimonies of respect
and kindness; created him Count of Videgueira; and not
only declared him admiral of the Indies, but also made that
office hereditary in his family.
The Portuguese entered upon the new career opened to
them with activity and ardour, and made exertions, bot i
commercial and military, far beyond what could have been
expected from a kingdom of such inconsiderable extent. History.
All these were directed by an intelligent monarch, capable -v—
of forming plans of the greatest magnitude with systematic
wisdom, and of prosecuting them with unremitting persever- tjle portu_
ance. The prudence and vigour of his measures, however, gUese jn
would have availed but little without proper instruments to India,
carry them into execution. Happily for Portugal, the discern¬
ing eye of Emanuel selected a succession of officers to take
the supreme command in India, who, by their enterprising
valour, military skill, and political sagacity, accompanied
with disinterested integrity, public spirit, and love of their
country, have established a title to be ranked amongst the
persons most eminent for virtue and abilities in any age or
nation. Greater things perhaps were achieved by them than
were ever accomplished in so short a time. Within twenty-
four years after the voyage.of Gama the Portuguese had ren¬
dered themselves masters of the city of Malacca, in which
the great staple of trade carried on amongst the inhabitants
of those regions in Asia which Europeans have distinguished
by the general name of the East Indies, was then first esta-
blished. This conquest secured to them great influence over
the interior commerce of India, whilst, at the same time, by
their settlements at Goa and Diu, they wTere enabled to en¬
gross the trade of the Malabar coast, and to obstruct great¬
ly the long-established intercourse of Egypt with India by
the Red Sea. In every part of the East they were received
with respect; in many they had acquired the absolute com¬
mand. They carried on trade there without rivalry or con¬
trol ; they prescribed to the natives the terms of their mu¬
tual intercourse; they often fixed what price they pleased on
the goods which they purchased ; and they were thus ena¬
bled to import from Hindustan, and the regions beyond it,
whatever was useful, rare, or agreeable, in greater abundance,
and of more various kinds, than had been formerly known
in Europe.
Not satisfied with this ascendant which they had acquired Opposition
in India, the Portuguese early formed a scheme not less bold y^e
than interested, of excluding all other nations from partici- eiie'
pating in the advantages of commerce with the East; and
they accomplished one half of what their ambition had
planned. In consequence of this the Venetians soon began
to feel that decrease of their own Indian trade which they
had foreseen and dreaded. In order to prevent the farther
progress of this evil, they incited the soldan of the Mam-
lukes to fit out a fleet in the Red Sea, and to attack those un¬
expected invaders of a gainful monopoly, of which he and
his predecessors had long enjoyed undisturbed possession.
The Portuguese, however, encountered his formidable squa¬
dron with undaunted courage, entirely defeated it, and re¬
mained masters of the Indian Ocean. They continued their
progress in the East almost without obstruction, until they
established there a commercial empire ; to which, whether
we consider its extent, its opulence, the slender power by
which it was formed, or the splendour with which the go¬
vernment of it was conducted, there had hitherto been no¬
thing comparable in the history of nations. Emanuel, who
laid the foundation of this stupendous fabric, had the satis¬
faction to see it almost completed. Every part of Europe
was supplied by the Portuguese with the productions of the
East; and if we except an inconsiderable quantity which the
Venetians still continued to receive by the ancient channels
of conveyance, our quarter of the globe had no longer any
commercial intercourse with India, and the regions of Asia
beyond it, except by the Cape of Good Hope.
In Sentember 1522, King Emanuel died of an epidemi-Inquisition
cal fever, and was succeeded by his son John 111. The^ced
most remarkable transaction of this princes reign was the
introduction of the inquisition into his dominions. This hap¬
pened in the year 1525, or, as some say, in 1535. A famine
happening to cease in a short time after the Holy Office was
introduced, the priests persuaded the ignorant multitude that
3 N
VOL. XVIII.
466
PORTUGAL.
Historv. it was a blessing from heaven on account of erecting such queen regent speedily sent succours, and promised such re- History
-—y—a tribunal. It was not long, however, before the bulk of the wards to those who distinguished themselves, that the Moors, ve¬
nation perceived what kind of a blessing the inquisition had although they brought eighty thousand men into the field,
conferred. But their discernment came too late ; for by were obliged to abandon the enterprise. This was at first
that time the inquisitors had acquired such power, that it magnified as a conspicuous instance of the queen’s capacity
became equally ineffectual and dangerous to attempt dis- and wisdom ; but, in a short time, the natural aversion which
closin" any of their mysteries. the Portuguese have to the government of women, together
In the meantime Solvman the Magnificent, the most en- with the prejudice they had conceived against her coun-
lightened monarch of the Ottoman race, observing the rising try, as being a Castillian, appeared so plainly, and gave her
power and opulence of the Portuguese, attributing it to its so much uneasiness, thatof her own accord she resigned her
proper cause, and eager to supplant them, sent orders to the authority into the hands of Cardinal Dom Henry, the king’s
Solvman
the Mag
niScent.
Conduct
of the'por- pasha of Egypt to employ his whole strength against the Chris-
Brazil.
tians in the East Indies. The pasha, in obedience to these
orders, sailed from the Red Sea with a greater naval force
than ever the Mahommedans had employed before, having
four thousand Janizaries and sixteen thousand other troops
on board. Yet, by the courage and conduct of the Portu¬
guese officers and soldiers, all this mighty armament was
defeated, and their East India possessions were saved from
the danger which threatened them. In Africa, likewise, the
king of Fez was baffled before the town of Safi, whilst fresh
quarrels breaking out amongst the native princes, gave great
relief to the Christians, who had long been obliged to carry
on a defensive war, and had more than once been on the very
brink of ruin. For along time indeed their safety had de¬
brother. Dom Alexis de Moneses was now appointed the
governor to the king, and Gonsales de Gomera and two
other priests his preceptors. By these instructors the king’s
education was totally marred. His governor assiduously in¬
culcated upon his mind that the chief virtue of a king was
courage, and that danger was never to be avoided, but al¬
ways surmounted; w’hilst his other tutors, instead of instruct¬
ing him in the true religion, only inspired him with an ab¬
horrence of professed infidels. The consequence was, that
he became rash, inconsiderate, and obstinate, displaying all
those qualities that conspired to drawr upon him the catas¬
trophe which ruined both him and the kingdom.
After the king had grown up to man’s estate, his desire was Sebastian
to distinguish himself against the infidels. He himself in-
under-
takes an
pended solely on the quarrels of the Moors amongst them- tended to conduct an expedition to the East Indies ; but e^pe(]jtl0[1
Education
of the
selves; for such were the envy and jealousy which reigned
amongst the Portuguese, that they could never combine
heartily in opposing the common enemy; and therefore, had
their enemies united against them, they must certainly have
been cut off. But whenever the scherifFs quarrelled with
each other, one party was sure to have recourse to the Por¬
tuguese, who, by sending them a small supply, secured quiet
to themselves, and had the pleasure of seeing their enemies
destroy one another. Yet in the end even this had bad con¬
sequences. For, on the one hand, it kept up a martial spirit
amongst the Moors, and on the other it made them acquaint¬
ed with the Portuguese discipline; so that after every short
interval of repose, they not only found them as much ene¬
mies as before, but more formidable than ever. The conse¬
quence of all this was, that King John began to apprehend
that the conquest of Barbary was impossible, and therefore
limited his ambition to keeping those few fortresses which
lie had already acquired ; a necessary and prudent measure,
which nevertheless displeased the generality of his subjects.
King John exerted himself greatly in the settlement of
Brazil in South America, which he brought into a good
state, caused several strong towns to be erected there, and
took all possible methods to encourage the conversion of the
natives to Christianity. He also introduced many regulations
for the welfare and happiness of his subjects. The disputes of
the nobility about precedency were frequently attended with
disagreeable consequences, which made the king resolve to
settle them definitively by established rules ; and the prin¬
ciples established by him on this occasion have subsisted
ever since, and serve in a great measure to prevent such al¬
tercations. He had also other designs in his mind, particu¬
larly with regard to the reformation of religious persons of
both sexes ; but, on a close examination of his affairs, he
found that his subjects in general had been so much injured
by his leaving their concerns to the inspection of his coun¬
cil, that he was thrown by grief into a kind of apoplexy,
from which he never recovered. His death happened in
June 1557 ; and he was succeeded by his son Dom Sebas¬
tian III. an infant of three years of age.
After the death of King John, the administration re-
the prime minister Alcoqova, who did not choose to attend a./ai,is[
his monarch to such a distance, substituted Africa in its stead. Africa.
This expedition the king entered into in the most inconsi¬
derate and absurd manner. He first sent for Dom Antonio,
prior of Crato, with some hundreds of soldiers ; next he car¬
ried his principal courtiers with him from a hunting match,
and without equipages; he then sent for the Duke of Avey-
ro, who brought with him such troops as he could collect on
so short a warning ; and when all these wrere assembled, the
king spent his time in hunting, and slight excursions against
the enemy, without doing any thing of consequence, except
exposing his person upon all occasions. At length he returned
to Portugal in tempestuous weather, and his unexpected ar¬
rival was celebrated w ith the greatest rejoicings.
The trifling success which had attended the king in this
expedition served only to inflame him with a greater desire
for another; and from the time of his return he seemed to
think on nothing else. He was highly delighted also with
an accident which furnished him with a pretence for war,
of w hich, however, he stood in no great need. Muley Ha-
met, king of Fez and Morocco, had been dispossessed of his
dominions by his uncle Muley Moloch. At the beginning
of this war Dom Sebastian had offered him the Portuguese
troops in Africa, a tender which was rejected with contempt;
but now7 being a fugitive, and having in vain solicited assist¬
ance from Philip of Spain, Muley Hamet applied to the king
of Portugal; and, that, he might the more easily succeed, he
caused the fortress of Arzila, which his father had reco¬
vered, to be restored to the Portuguese. The king was in
rapture at this event, and fancied that his glory would ex¬
ceed that of all his predecessors. He was, however, dissuad¬
ed against engaging in this expedition by all his friends.
Philip of Spain, having done everything to dissuade him at a
personal conference, sent Francisco Aldana, an old and expe¬
rienced officer, to Morocco ; and, at his return, ordered him
to attend Dom Sebastian, in order to give him an account of
the state of affairs in that country. This he performed with
the greatest fidelity, but w ithout any effect. The queen-
dowTager and the cardinal united in their endeavours to di¬
vert him from this unfortunate enterprise; but he treated
them both with so little respect that his grandmother broke
mained in the hands of the queen, grandmother of Sebas- 4 ^
.young king, tian, who behaved with great prudence and circumspection, her heart; and the cardinal, to show his distaste of the mea
The Moors, however, supposing that under a minority they sure, retired to Evora without coming either to court or to
might be able to dispossess the Christians of such places as council, an example which wras followed by many of the no-
they held in Barbary, laid close siege to Masagan. But the bles. Many of these, how ever, transmitted remonstrances
P O R T U G A L.
history, to the king on the impropriety of his conduct; and Philip
^ sent to him the Duke de Medina Celi to lay before him once
more the reasons why he thought his scheme impracticable,
and to put him in mind that he had no hand in pushing him
upon his destruction, or of concealing from him the dangers
into which he seemed determined to plunge himself and his
subjects. Lastly, he received aletter on the subject from Mu-
ley Moloch himself, in which that prince explained to him his
own right to the crown of Fez, and showed that he had only
dispossessed a tyrant and a murderer, who had therefore no
right to his friendship or assistance. The Moorish prince next
assured him that he had no reason to fear either the power
or the neighbourhood of the Portuguese ; and as a proof of
this, as well as a mark of his esteem, he was content to make
him a present of some ten miles of arable ground round each
of the fortresses he possessed in Africa, viz. Tangier, Ceuta,
Masagan, and Arzila. At the same time, he addressed him¬
self to Philip king of Spain, with whom he was on good
terms, desiring him to interpose with his nephew Sebastian,
that things might yet be adjusted without the effusion of
human blood. But the king of Portugal was deaf to ail sa¬
lutary advice; and therefore paid no regard to this letter,
nor to the remonstrances of his uncle,
ew expe- On the 24th of June 1577, he set sail from the bar of Lis-
tion to bon with a fleet of fifty ships and five galleys, twelve pieces
| irica. 0f cannon, and many transports and tenders, making in all near
a thousand sail. His troops consisted of nine thousand Por¬
tuguese infantry ; three thousand Germans ; seven hundred
Italians, commanded by Sir Thomas Stukeley, an English
exile, remarkable for his bravery; two thousand Castillians
and three hundred volunteers, commanded by Dom Christo-
val de Tuvara, master of the horse, a man of courage, but
without either conduct or experience. He touched first at La¬
gos Bay in the kingdom of Algarve, where he remained for
four days ; and thence he proceeded to Cadiz, where he was
magnificently feasted for a week by the Duke de Medina
Sidonia, who once more endeavoured to dissuade him from
proceeding further in person. But this exhortation proved
as fruitless as the rest; and the king having sailed with a
strong detachment for Tangier, ordered Dom Diego de
Souza, the commander-in-chief, to follow with the remain¬
der of the army.
The troops landed on the coast of Africa without any ac¬
cident, and joined at Arzila. Here the king was met by the
Scheriff Muley Hamet, on whose account he had undertaken
the war, who delivered him his son Muley, a boy of twelve^
years of age, as a hostage, and brought a reinforcement of
three hundred Moors. The boy was sent to Masagan under
a strong guard; but the father remained in the Portuguese
camp. Here it was resolved in a council of war to reduce
the town of Larache, but it was disputed whether the troops
should proceed thither by land or by sea. Don Sebastian,
who espoused the former opinion, finding himself opposed
by Muley Hamet, answered him so rudely that he left his
presence in disgust; after which the king’s opinion pre¬
vailed, and the army began its march on the 29th of July.
As they proceeded, the king received aletter from the Duke
of Alba, requesting him to attempt nothing beyond the tak¬
ing of the town of Larache. Along with the latter was sent
an helmet which had been worn by Charles V.
love- On the other hand, Muley Moloch, having received intel-
j wits and ligence of this formidable invasion, took the field with forty
ispusi- thousand foot and sixty thousand horse, and conducted every -
i rmies 11G the greatest prudence, notwithstanding he was so
enfeebled by fever that he could not sit upon horseback,
f inding reason to suspect that part of his army were desir¬
ous of going over to his rival, he proclaimed that such as
inclined to join their old master were at liberty to do so.
This at once put a stop to the defection, and only a few
availed themselves of the liberty which was granted them.
Being likewise doubtful of the fidelity of a body of three
467
thousand horse, he sent them to reconnoitre the enemy, by History,
which act of confidence he secured them. Still, however,
fearing that his officers might be corrupted by Portuguese
gold, he entirely changed the disposition of his army, so
that none of his officers commanded the corps to which they
had been accustomed, and having new men to deal with,
had none in whom they could confide.
Having taken these precautions, he advanced against the
Portuguese army with such celerity that he came in sight
of them on the 3d of August. On this Dom Sebastian called
a council of war, in which many who out of complaisance
had declared for this march, were now for returning. They
were separated from the enemy by a river, but the Moors
being masters of the ford, it was impossible to force them
immediately from their post; neither was it practicable for
them to wait for a more favourable opportunity, because
they had no provisions. The foreign officers, on the con¬
trary, were of opinion that fighting had now become neces¬
sary, and a retreat dangerous. This, however, was violent¬
ly opposed by the scheriff, who saw plainly that they ran a
great risk of being defeated, and of losing all, whilst, at the
same time, they were not certain of gaining any thing of
consequence should they prove victorious ; whereas, if they
withdrew towards the sea, they might entrench themselves
till they wTere relieved by their fleet; and during this interval,
if Muley Moloch should die, he looked upon it as certain
that a great part of the army would desert to him, which
would render him master not only of the kingdom, but of
the fate of the Christians also. When he found that the king
was bent upon fighting, he only requested that the engage¬
ment might be delayed till four o’clock in the afternoon, that,
in case of a defeat, they might have some chance of escap¬
ing. But even in this he could not prevail; for the king
having disposed everything for a battle the next day, wTas
impatient to begin the onset as soon as it was light.
In the mean time, Muley Moloch was so sensible of the
advantages of his situation, that he w?as inclined to take the
whole Portuguese army prisoners ; but finding his disease
increase to such a degree that he had no hopes of recovery,
he came to the resolution to fight, that his antagonist might
not avail himself of his death. The disposition of the Chris¬
tian army was, through the care of some old officers in Don
Sebastian’s service, regular and correct. The infantry were
disposed in three lines ; the battalion of volunteers formed
the vanguard ; the Germans, commanded by Colonel Am-
berg, and the Italians by Sir Thomas Stukeley, were sta¬
tioned on the right; the Castillian battalions occupied the
left, and the Portuguese were in the centre and rear; the
cavalry, consisting of about fifteen hundred men, being part¬
ly on the right, under the command of the Duke d’Avegro,
to whom the scheriff joined himself with his horse. On the
left was the royal standard, with the rest of the cavalry, un¬
der the command of the Duke of Barcelos, eldest son of the
Duke of Braganza, Dom Antonio, prior of Crato, and seve¬
ral other persons of rank. The king took post at first with
the volunteers. Muley Moloch also disposed his troops in
three lines. The first consisted of the Andalusian Moors,
commanded by three officers who had distinguished them¬
selves in the wars of Granada; the second was composed of
renegadoes ; and the third consisted of the natives of Africa.
They were formed in a crescent, with ten thousand horse on
each wing, and the rest in the rear, with orders to extend
themselves in such a manner as to encompass the Christian
army. Muley Moloch, though extremely weak, was taken
out of his litter, and set on horseback, that he might see how
his commands had been obeyed; and being perfectly satis¬
fied with the situation of his troops, he directed the signal of
battle to be given.
The Christians advanced with the greatest resolution,
broke the first line of the Moorish infantry, and disordered the
second. On this Muley Moloch drew his sword, and would
468
PORTUGAL.
History.
The For-
tuguese
army en¬
tirely de¬
feated.
Portugal
conquered
by Philip
of Spain.
have advanced to encourage his troops; but his guards pre¬
vented him, on which his emotion oi mind became so great
that he fell from his horse. One of his guards caught him
in his arms, and conveyed him to his litter, where he imme¬
diately expired, having only time to lay his finger on his
lips by way of enjoining them to conceal his death. But by
this time the Moorish cavalry had wheeled quite round, and
attacked the Christian army in the rear; upon which the
cavalry in the left wing made such a vigorous effort that they
broke the Portuguese on the right; and at this time the
scheriff, in passing a rivulet, was drowned. In this emer¬
gency, the Germans, Italians, and Gastillians, performed
prodigies ; but the Portuguese, according to their own histo¬
rians, behaved indifferently. Attacked on all sides, however,
they were unable to resist; and the whole army, except
about fifty men, were killed or taken prisoners. 1 he fate of
the king is variously related. According to some, he had
two horses killed under him, and then mounted a third. His
bravest officers were killed in his defence; after which the
Moors surrounding him, seized his person, stripped him of
his sword and arms, and secured him. They immediately
began to quarrel about the prisoner, upon which one of the
generals rode in amongst them, crying, “ What, you dogs,
when God has given you so glorious a victory, would you
cut one another’s throats about a prisoner ?” At the same
time, discharging a blow at Sebastian, he brought the king
to the ground, when the rest of the Moors soon despatched
him. Others affirm, that one Louis de Brito meeting the
king with the standard wrapped round him, Sebastian cried
out, “ Hold it fast; let us die upon itupon which, charg¬
ing the Moors, he w^as seized, but rescued by Brito, who
was himself taken with the standard and carried to Fez.
The latter affirmed, that after he was taken, he saw the king
at a distance, and unpursued. Dom Louis de Lima met him
afterwards making towards the river; and this is the last ac¬
count of his being seen alive.
Immediately after the battle, Muley Hamet, the brother
of Muley Moloch, was proclaimed king by the Moors. The
next day, having ordered all the prisoners to be brought
before him, the new sovereign gave orders to search for the
body of Dom Sebastian. The king’s valet-de-chambre
brought back a body, which he said was that of his master,
but so disfigured with wounds that it could not well be
known ; and, notwithstanding the most diligent search, this
monarch’s death could never be properly authenticated.
This body, however, was preserved by Muley Hamet, who
delivered it up as the body of the unfortunate Dom Sebastian
to Philip king of Spain. By the latter it was sent to Ceuta,
thence transported to Portugal, and buried amongst his an¬
cestors in the monastery at Belem, with all possible solemnity.
By this disaster, the kingdom of Portugal, from being
the most eminent, sunk at once into the lowest rank of the
European states. All the young nobility were cut off or car¬
ried into slavery, and the kingdom was exhausted of men,
money, and reputation ; so that Dom Henry, w ho assumed
the government after the death of his brother Dom Sebastian,
found himself in a very disagreeable situation. The transac¬
tions of his reign were trifling and unimportant; but after
the death of the king a great revolution took place. The
crown of Portugal was claimed by three different competi¬
tors, viz. the Prince of Parma, the Duchess of Braganza,
and Philip of Spain. Whatever might have been the merits
of their respective claims, the power of Philip quickly de¬
cided the contest in his favour. He found his schemes fa¬
cilitated by the treachery of the regents, who took the most
scandalous methods of putting the kingdom into his hands.
Under pretence of inspecting the magazines, they withdrew
some of the powder, and mixed the rest with sand ; they
appointed an agent to repair for succours to France, whence
they knew that they could not arrive in time; they dissolv¬
ed the states as soon as they discovered that they were bent
upon maintaining the freedom
show of confidence, they sent
of the nation ; and, under a History,
off to distant places such ofv'^-'
the nobility as they suspected.
Philip finding everything in his favour, commanded the
Duke of Alva to invade Portugal at the head of twenty
thousand men. The people, perceiving that tiiey were be¬
trayed, exclaimed against the governors, and placed on the
throne Don Antonio, prior of Crato. But his forces being
inexperienced, and his own conduct indifferent, he was
quickly defeated by the Duke of Alva, and forced to leave
the kingdom. On his flight the whole kingdom submitted,
together with the garrisons of Barbary, and also the settle¬
ments upon the coast of Africa, in Brazil, and in the East
Indies. The Madeiras. however, excepting the isle of St
Michael, held out for Don Antonio until they were re¬
duced, and the French navy, which came to their assist¬
ance, entirely defeated and destroyed.
Philip made his entry into Lisbon as soon as the king- Terms
dom had been totallv reduced, and endeavoured to conci-granted by
liate the affections of the people by confirming the terms ™‘11‘
which he had before offered to the states. These terms
were, that he would take a solemn oath to maintain the
privileges and liberties of the people ; that the states should
be assembled within the realm, and nothing proposed in
any other states that related to Portugal; that the viceroy
or chief governor should be a native, unless the king should
give that charge to one of the royal family ; that the house¬
hold should be kept on the same footing; that the. post of
first president, and all offices, civil, military, and judicial,
should be filled by Portuguese, all dignities in the church
and in the orders of knighthood confined to the same, the
commerce of Ethiopia, Africa, and the Indies, reserved also
to them, and to be carried on only by their merchants and
vessels; that he would remit all imposts on ecclesiastical
revenues; that he would make no grant of any city, town,
or jurisdiction royal, to any but Portuguese; that estates
resulting from forfeitures should not be united to the do¬
main, but go to the relations of the last possessor, or be
given to other Portuguese in recompense of services; that
when the king came to Portugal, where he should reside
as much as possible, he should not take the houses of pri¬
vate persons for his officers’ lodging, but keep to the custom
of Portugal; that wherever his majesty resided, he should
have an ecclesiastic, a treasurer, a chancellor, two masters
of requests, with inferior officers, all of them Portuguese,
who should despatch everything relating to the kingdom ;
that Portugal should ever continue a distinct kingdom, and
its revenue be consumed within itself; that all matters of
justice should be decided within the realm; that the Por¬
tuguese should be admitted to charges in the households of
the king and queen of Spain; that all duties on the fron¬
tiers should be taken away; and, lastly, that Philip should
give three hundred thousand ducats to redeem prisoners,
repair cities, and relieve the miseries which the plague and
other calamities had brought upon the people. All these
conditions, formerly offered and rejected by the Portuguese,
the king now confirmed ; but although the Duke of Ossuna,
by way of security, had promised them a law, that if the
king did not adhere to them, the states should be freed
from their obedience, and might defend their right by the
sword, without incurring the reproach of perjury or the
guilt of treason, this he absolutely refused to ratify.
All these concessions, however, failed to answer the pur¬
pose ; nay, although Philip was to the last degree lavish of
honours and employments, the Portuguese w'ere still dissa¬
tisfied. This had also an effect which was not foreseen.
It weakened the power and absorbed the revenues of the
crown ; and, by putting it out of the power of any of his
successors to be liberal in the same proportion, it raised
only a short-lived gratitude in a few, and left a number of
malcontents, to which time was continually adding.
PORTUGAL.
469
History. Thus Philip, with all his policy and endeavours to please,
—-v"—' found his new subjects still more and more disgusted with
’reatment jjjg government, especially when they found their kingtreat-
‘ .om n*ing with the utmost severity all those who had supported
Don Antonio. The exiled prince, however, still styled
himself, “ king of Portugal.” At first he retired to France,
and there demanded succours for the recovery of his domi¬
nions. Here he found so much countenance, that with a
fleet of nearly sixty sail, and a considerable body of troops on
board, he made an attempt upon Terceira, where his fleet
was beaten by the Spaniards, and many prisoners being
taken, all the officers and gentlemen were beheaded, and a
great number of meaner people hanged. Dom Antonio,
however, kept possession of some places, coined money, and
performed many other acts of sovereign power; but he was
at length constrained to retire, which he did with some dif¬
ficulty, and returning into France, he passed thence into
England, where he was well received; and many fitted out
privateers to cruize against the Spaniards under his com¬
mission. But after Philip had ruined the naval power of
Portugal as w ell as that of Spain, by equipping the Armada,
Queen Elizabeth made no difficulty of owning and assist¬
ing Dom Antonio, and even of sending Sir John Norris and
Sir Francis Drake with a strong fleet and a considerable
army to restore him. Upon this occasion Don Antonio
sent his son Don Christoval a hostage to Muley Hamet, king
of Fez and Morocco, who was to lend him two hundred
thousand ducats. But Philip prevented this by surrender¬
ing Arzila; which, with the unseasonable enterprise against
Corunna, and the disputes that arose between Norris and
Drake, rendered the expedition abortive ; so that, except
carrying the plague into England, it was attended with no
consequences worthy of notice. Dom Antonio remained
some time afterwards in England; but finding himself dis¬
regarded, he withdrew once more into France, where he
fell into great poverty and distress; and having at length
died in the sixty-fourth year of his age, his body was buried
in the church of the nuns of Ave Maria, with an inscrip¬
tion on his tomb, in which he is styled, “ king.” He left
behind him several children, who, on account of his being a
knight of Malta, and having made a vow of chastity at his
entrance into the order, were looked upon as illegitimate,
mpostors But Dom Antonio was not the only pretender to the
retending crown of Portugal. The people, partly from love of their
) be Dom prjncej an(} partly from their hatred to the Castillians, were
astian. conj-;nua]]y feeding themselves with the hopes that Dom
Sebastian would appear and deliver them ; and in this re¬
spect such a spirit of credulity reigned, that they would
probably have taken a negro for Dom Sebastian. 1 his hu¬
mour induced the son of a tiler at Alcobaca, who had led a^
profligate life, and at length turned hermit, to give himself
out as that prince; and having with him two companions,
one of whom styled himself Dom Christoval de Tavora,
and the other the bishop of Guarda, they began to collect
money, and were in a fair way of creating much disturb¬
ance. But the cardinal archduke caused them to be ap¬
prehended, and after leading them ignominiously through
the streets of Lisbon, he who took the name of Sebastian
was sent to the galleys for life, and the pretended bishop
was hanged. Not long afterw'ards, Gonsalo Alvarez, the son
of a mason, gave himself out as the same king, and having
promised marriage to the daughter of Pedro Alonso, a rich
yeoman, whom he created count of Torres Novas, he as¬
sembled a body of about eight hundred men, and some
blood was spilt before he was apprehended. At length,
being clearly proved to be an impostor, this person and
his intended father-in-law were publicly hanged and quar¬
tered at Lisbon. The punishment, however, instead of
extinguishing public credulity, served only to increase it.
remark- About twenty years after the fatal defeat ol Sebastian,
)!e knave, there appeared at Venice a person who created much more
trouble. He assumed the name of Don Sebastian, and gave History,
a very distinct account of the manner in which he had pass- ^
ed his time since that defeat. He affirmed, that he had pre¬
served his life and liberty by hiding himself amongst the
slain; that, after wandering in disguise for some time in
Africa, he returned with two of his friends into the king¬
dom of Algarve; that he gave notice of this to the king
Don Henry; that finding his life sought, and being unwill¬
ing to disturb the peace of the kingdom, he returned again
amongst the Moors, and passed ifeely from one place to
another in Barbary, in the habit of a penitent; and that after
this he became a hermit in Sicily, but at length resolved
to go to Rome, and discover himself to the pope. On the
road he was robbed by his domestics, and came almost
naked to Venice, where he was known and acknowledged
by some Portuguese. Complaint, however, being made to
the senate, he was obliged to retire to Padua. But as the
governor of that city also ordered him to depart, he, not
knowing what to do, returned to Venice, where, at the re¬
quest of the Spanish ambassador, who charged him not only
with being an impostor, but also with many black and atro¬
cious crimes, he was seized, and thrown into prison. He
underwent, before a committee of noble and impartial per¬
sons, twenty-eight examinations, in which he not only ac¬
quitted himself clearly of all the crimes which had been
laid to his charge, but entered into so minute a detail of the
transactions which had passed between himself and the re¬
public, that the commissioners were perfectly astonished ;
and, moved by the firmness of his behaviour, his singular
modesty, the sobriety of his life, his exemplary piety, and
his admirable patience under affliction, they showed no dis¬
position to declare him an impostor. The noise of this was
diffused throughout Europe, and the enemies of Spain en¬
deavoured everywhere to give it credit.
The state, however, refused to discuss the point, whether
he was or was not an impostor, unless they were requested
so to do by some prince or state in alliance with them.
Upon this the Prince of Orange sent Dom Christoval, the
son of the late Dom Antonio, to make that demand; and at
his request an examination was instituted with great solem¬
nity. But no decision followed ; only the senate set him
at liberty, and ordered him to depart from their dominions
in three days. By the advice of his friends, therefore, he
proceeded to Padua in the disguise of a monk, and from
thence to Florence, where he w'as arrested by the com¬
mand of the grand duke, who delivered him up to the vice¬
roy of Naples. He remained several years prisoner in
the castle Del Ovo, where he endured incredible hardships.
At length he was brought forth, led with infamy through the
streets of the citv, and declared to be an impostor, who as¬
sumed the name of Sebastian ; at which words he said
gravely, “ And so I am.” In the same proclamation it was
affirmed that he was in truth a Calabrian ; but as soon as
he heard this he said, “ It is false.” He was next shipped
on board a galley as a slave, and carried to San Lucar,
whence, after being for some time confined there, he was
transferred to a castle in the heart of Castille, and ne\tr
heard of more. Some persons were executed at Lisbon
for their endeavours to raise an insurrection in his behalf;
but it was thought strange policy, or rather a strange want
of policy, in the Spaniards, to make this affair so public
without proofs; and the attempt to put down the objection,
by affirming that he was a magician, justly excited ridicule
and contempt. . . . . _ .
The administration of affairs in Portugal, during the Bad conse-
reign of Philip, was certainly detrimental to the nation ;‘lueiices ot
and yet it does not appear that this proceeded so much^
from any ill intention in that monarch, as from errors m . tralion.
judgment. His prodigious preparations for the invasion of
England impoverished all his European dominions; but it
absolutely exhausted Portugal. The pretensions of Dom
470
PORTUGAL.
IV
History. Antonio, and the hopes of despoiling their Indian fleets,
■—'n-'""-' exposed the Portuguese to the resentment oi the English,
from which the king wanted power to defend them. 1 heir
clamours were not the less loud for their being in some
measure without cause. The king, in order to pacify them,
borrowed money from the nobility upon the customs, which
was the only remedy he had left; and this was attended
with fatal consequences. The branches, thus mortgaged,
became fixed and hereditary; so that the merchant was op¬
pressed, whilst the king in fact received nothing. This ex¬
pedient failing, a tax of three per centum was imposed, in
the nature of ship-money, for the defence of the coasts and
the commerce of the country, and for some years it was
properly applied; but it then became a part of the ordinary
revenue, and went into the king’s exchequer without ac¬
count. This made way for diverting other appropriated
branches ; as, for instance, that for the repair of fortifica¬
tions, the money being strictly levied, whilst the works were
suffered to decay and tumble down ; and also that for the
maintenance of the conquests in Africa, by which the gar¬
risons mouldered away, and the places were lost. Upon
the whole, in the space of eighteen years, the nation was
visibly impoverished; and yet the government of Pliilip
was so incomparably preferable to that of his immediate
successors, that his death was justly regretted, and the Por¬
tuguese were taught by experience to confess, that of bad
masters he was the best
Philip III. His son Philip, the second of Portugal and the third of
and Philip Spain, sat twenty years upon the throne before he paid a
T'7 visit to Portugal, where the people put themselves to a most
enormous expense to receive him. He held an assembly
of the states, in which his son was sworn as his successor.
Having done all that he wanted for himself, he acquired a
false idea of the riches of the nation, from the immoderate
and foolish display made during his stay at Lisbon ; and
having shown himself little, and done less, he returned into
Spain, where he acted the part of a good king upon his
death-bed, in deploring bitterly that he had never thought
of acting it before. The reigns of Philip III. and Philip IV.
were characterised by a series of bad measures, and worse
fortune. All their dominions suffered greatly; Portugal most
of all. The loss of Ormus in the east, and of Brazil in the
west, together with the shipwreck of a fleet sent to escort
one of merchantmen from Goa, brought the nation incre¬
dibly low, and encouraged the Conde Duke to hope that
they might be entirely crushed. These are the heads only
of the transactions of forty years. To enter in any degree
into particulars, would only be to point out the breaches
made by the Spanish ministers in the conditions granted
by Philip ; which, with respect to the nation, was the origi¬
nal contract and unalterable constitution of Portugal whilst
subject to the monarchs of Castille, but which notwith¬
standing, they often flagrantly violated.
The Por- The very basis and foundation of their privileges was,
tugueseop-that the kingdom should remain separate and independent,
pressed by and consequently that Lisbon should continue as much its
the Span- capjtai as ever. But so little was this observed, that neither
promotion nor justice was to be obtained without journeys
to Madrid, which was not more the capital of Castille than
it was that of Portugal. The general assembly of estates
was to be held frequently, and they were only held thrice
in the space of sixty years ; two of them being held within
the first three years. The king was to reside in this realm
as often and as long as possible. Philip I., however, was
there but once ; Philip II. resided only four months ; and
Philip III. never at all. The household establishment was
suppressed during all these reigns. The viceroy was to be
a native of Portugal, or a prince or princess of the blood ;
yet when any of the royal family bore the title, the power
was in reality in the hands of a Spaniard. Thus, wrhen the
Princess of Mantua was vice-queen, the Marquis de la Pue¬
bla was sent to assist her in council, and she could do nothing History,
without his advice. The council of Portugal, which was'
to be composed entirely of natives, was filled with Castil-
lians, as the garrisons also were, though the contrary had
been provided. The presidents of provinces, or corregi-
dors, were to be natives; but, by keeping those offices in
his own hands, the king eluded this article. No city, town,
or district, was to be given to any except Portuguese; yet
the Duke of Lerma had Beja, Serpa, and other parts of the
demesnes of the crown, which were formerly appendages of
the princes of the blood. None but natives were capable
of offices in the courts of justice, in the revenue, in the fleet,
or of holding any post civil or military ; yet these were given
promiscuously to foreigners, or sold to the highest bidder,
not excepting the government of castles, cities, and pro¬
vinces. The natives w-ere so far from having an equal chance
in such cases, that no situations in the presidios were ever
given to them, and scarcely any in garrisons; and whenever
it occurred, in the case of a person of extraordinary merit,
whose pretensions could not be rejected, he was either re¬
moved, or not allowed to exercise his charge, as happened
to the Marquis of Marialva and others. The forms of pro¬
ceeding, the jurisdiction, the ministers, the secretaries, were
all changed in the council of Portugal, being reduced from
five to three, then two, and at last to a single person.
By reason of these and many other grievances too tedi- A reyolu-
ous to be enumerated, the detestation of the Spanish go-
vernment became universal; and in 1640 a revolution took0f
place, in which John duke of Braganza was declared king, Bragariza
by the title of John IV. This revolution, as being deter¬
mined by the almost unanimous voice of the nation, was at¬
tended with very little effusion of blood ; neither were all
the efforts of the king of Spain able to regain his authority.
Several attempts, indeed, w ere made for this purpose. The
first battle was fought in the year 1644, between a Portu¬
guese army of six thousand foot and eleven hundred horse,
and a Spanish army of nearly the same number. The latter
were entirely defeated; and this contributed greatly to esta¬
blish the affairs of Portugal on a firm basis. The king car¬
ried on a defensive war during the remainder of his life;
and after his death, which happened in 1655, the war was
renewed with great vigour.
This w7as what the Spaniards did not expect; for they Perilous
expressed an indecent joy at his death, hoping that it would ^
be followed by a dissolution of the government. It would
not, indeed, be easy to conceive a kingdom left in more^ pe- dealh
rilous circumstances than Portugal was at this time. I he
king, Dom Alonso Enriquez, was a child not more than
thirteen years of age, reputed of unsound constitution both
of body and mind; the regency was in a woman, and that
woman a Castillian ; the nation was involved in a war re¬
specting the title to the crown; and the nobility, some of
them secretly disaffected to the reigning family, were al¬
most all of them embarked in feuds and contentions with
each other ; so that the queen scarcely knew whom to trust
or how she should be obeyed. She acted, however, with
great vigour and prudence. By marrying her only daughter,
the Princess Catherine, to Charles II. king of Great Britain,
she procured for Portugal the protection of the English
fleets, with reinforcements of some thousands of horse and
foot; and at last, in 1665, the war w as terminated by the glo¬
rious victory of Montesclaros. This decisive action broke
the powTer of the Spaniards, and fixed the fate of the king¬
dom, though not that of the king of Portugal. Alonso was
a prince whose education had been neglected in his youth,
who was devoted to vulgar amusements and mean company,
and whom the queen for these reasons wished to deprive of
the crown, that she might place it on the head of his young¬
er brother Dom Pedro. To accomplish this object, she
attempted every method of stern authority and secret arti¬
fice ; but her endeavours of every kind w'ere vain. Tlie
PORT
History.
iom Alon-
i obliged
i resign
le throne.
'am John
I )om Jo-
eph I.
Portuguese would not consent to set aside tlie rights of pri¬
mogeniture, and involve the kingdom in all the miseries at¬
tending a disputed succession.
But after the death of the queen-mother, the infant en¬
tered into cabals against the king, of a much more danger¬
ous nature than any that she had carried on. Alonso had
married the Princess of Nemours; but being impotent, and
less handsome than his brother, that lady transferred her
affection to Dorn Pedro, to whom she lent her assistance to
hurl the king from the throne. Alonso was compelled to
sign a resignation of the kingdom; and his brother, after
governing a few months without any legal authority, was in
a meeting of the states unanimously proclaimed regent, and
vested with all the powers of royalty. Soon after this re¬
volution, for such it may be called, the marriage of the
king and queen was declared null by the chapter of Lisbon ;
and the regent, by a pontifical dispensation, and with the
consent of the states, immediately espoused the lady who
had been the wife of his brother. He governed, under the
appellation of regent, fifteen years, when, upon the death of
the king, he mounted the throne by the title of Dom Pedro
II.; and after a long reign, during which he conducted the
affairs of the kingdom with great prudence and vigour, he
died on the 9th of December 1706.
Dom John V. succeeded his father ; and though he was
then little more tnan seventeen years of age, he acted with
such wisdom and resolution, adhered so steadily to the
grand alliance formed against France and Spain, and show¬
ed so great resources in his own mind, that though he suf¬
fered severe losses during the war, he obtained such terms
of peace at Utrecht, that Portugal was in all respects a
gainer by the treaty. The two crowns of Spain and Por¬
tugal were not, however, thoroughly reconciled until the
year 1737 ; but from this period they became every day
more united, which gave much satisfaction to some courts,
and no umbrage to any. In this situation of things a treaty
was concluded in 17.50 with the court of Madrid, by which
Nova Colonia, on the river Plata, was ceded to his Catho¬
lic majesty, to the great regret of the Portuguese, as well
on account of the value of that settlement, as because they
apprehended that their possession of the Brazils would by
this cession be rendered precarious. On the last of July
the same year, this monarch, worn out by infirmities, died
in the sixty-first year of his age, and the forty-fourth of his
reign.
He was succeeded by his son Joseph I., who ascended
the throne of Portugal under very favourable circumstances;
but his reign, although short, was marked by great national
calamities. The most remarkable event which occurred
was the memorable earthquake, which, in November 175.5,
destroyed one half of the city of Lisbon, and buried thirty
thousand people under the ruins. Two hours had scarcely
elapsed after this terrible convulsion, when, to aggravate
its horrors, flames burst forth from different quarters of the
city, and the conflagration raging with terrific violence for
three days, Lisbon was completely desolated. The royal
family were fortunate enough to escape; but amongst the
victims were the Spanish ambassador, and many other per¬
sons of distinction. Britain promptly afforded relief to the
sufferers; an act of generosity the more honourable to her,
as she had every reason to be dissatisfied with the conduct
of the king of Portugal. From the commencement of his
reign, he had thrown great obstructions in the way of our
commerce, evadingtreaties,and imposing vexatious imposts;
and it seemed perfectly clear, that his object was to anni¬
hilate the commercial intercourse which had for so many
ages subsisted between the two countries. The same spi¬
rit of humanity was evinced by Spain ; but both nations
received an unworthy return, although Britain had most to
complain of. The Spaniards w'ere only treated with silent
ingratitude, but the English were detested as heretics.
U G A L. 47]
Scarcely had the agitation which these great calamities History,
gave rise to subsided, when Portugal was again thrown into's—-~v—
commotion by a pretended conspiracy against the life of the
king. No light has yet been thrown upon this dark trans¬
action. The leading parties involved in it, and the ultimate
object which they aimed at, are alike unknown. Suspicion
fell on various classes of persons, particularly on certain ec¬
clesiastics, who were said to have been incensed at the re¬
form introduced by Dom Joseph; on the creatures of Spain,
who aspired to the reunion of the two kingdoms under one
sceptre; on the Jesuits, who were represented as indignant
at the restriction of their ancient privileges; and on a prince
of the royal family. All that is known wdth certainty is, that
the scaffold flowed with noble blood ; and that the Jesuits,
against whom Pombal had artfully inflamed the passions of
the multitude, were stripped of their possessions, whilst their
expulsion was decreed by the crown. In fact, the members of
the company of Jesus were supposed to be at the bottom of
every calamity; whether it was a dispensation of Providence,
or an act of human depravity. Even the earthquake was
boldly ascribed to them. Pombal had sworn their destruc¬
tion, and the gross ignorance of the people ministered to his
vengeance. Another occurrence of this reign wras a rup¬
ture with the see of Rome, every servant of the pope being
expelled from Portugal, and all intercourse between the
two courts suspended for about two years. A more im¬
portant event was the invasion of the country by Spain.
This aggression originated in the refusal of the king to join
the alliance of France and Spain against England. War
was immediately declared against him, and troops marched
to the frontiers of his kingdom. The ally whom he had so
long neglected, and even deliberately ill used, w^as appeal¬
ed to, and not in vain. Troops, arms, and all necessary
munitions of war, arrived from Britain ; and although the
invaders succeeded in capturing Miranda, Braganza, and
Almeida, their triumphs were speedily put a stop to by the
combined forces of Britain and Portugal. At the instance
of the British cabinet, the Count de Lippe was brought from
Germany to assume the command of the whole army. This
commander was ably assisted in his operations by General
Burgoyne, and they had soon the glory of freeing the coun¬
try from the Spanish army. The consequence of this tri¬
umph w7as a peace, solicited and obtained by the two hostile
courts, now hopless of success, and in apprehension of fresh
disasters.
The remainder of this king’s reign, extending from the
year 1763 to 1777, was occupied by the introduction of mea¬
sures for social, agricultural, and commercial improvement.
He laboui'ed to improve the police and judicial administra¬
tion, and not without success. He founded schools in the
large towns, and improved the system of study in the uni¬
versity of Coimbra. He encouraged agriculture, the fishe¬
ries, and trade with the colonies ; but in attempting to give
a stimulus to home manufactures, by laying such duties on
articles of British produce as amounted to an almost total
exclusion of them from the Portuguese market, he acted
with equal short-sightedness and ingratitude. One monu¬
ment to his honour, more noble than the statue of bronze
which his grateful subjects erected to him in Lisbon during
his life-time, remains to be mentioned. This was a decree
by which the grandsons of slaves, and all who should be
born after the date thereof, were declared free. Although
this benefit wyas confined to Portugal alone, yet, considering
the state of matters at the time it was conferred, it must be
regarded as an amazing stride in the career of improvement.
Joseph I. died in 1777, and was mourned by his people as
the best monarch who had swayed the sceptre of Portugal
since the days of Philip I. It must, however, be added, that
the administration of Pombal threw a false splendour on the
reign of this monarch. In principle a freethinker, in pro¬
fession a reformer, and in character a cruel and cold-blooded
472
PORTUGAL.
History, tyrant, this man was lauded to the skies by the infidel philo-
v   sophers of France, because he had expelled the Jesuits from
Portugal with every circumstance of barbarity and iniquity.
But few or none of his pretended reforms survived his tall,
which was hailed with satisfaction by the whole nation ; and
his name is now remembered only in connection with some
of the darkest and foulest deeds recorded in the historical
annals of Portugal.
Maria. Joseph was succeeded by his daughter Maria, whom he
necessities of state had induced her father to give in mar¬
riage to his own brother. Such revolting connections are
unhappily far from rare in the modern history of Portugal.
Some attempts were made to exclude her in favour of a ne¬
phew,but they proved completely abortive. 1 hough the abi¬
lities of this queen were limited, yet she was actuated by
good intentions. Her administration was feeble, but upon
the whole beneficial. She followed the example of her father
in encouraging national industry and reforming the admi-
nistration of justice. She founded the Academy of Sciences,
and introduced into the convents of friars a compulsory
form of education, embracing useful literature, philosophy,
and the sciences. She likewise endowed several admii able
charitable institutions, and went so far in judicial reform as
to abolish the law of imprisonment for debt. In short, had
her foreign policy resembled her domestic administration,
Portugal would have had no reason to complain of her.
Maria^was forced into a family compact by her powerful
neighbours of France and Spain, by which the influence of
the latter ivas strengthened and confirmed, whilst in the
same degree that of England was weakened. This alli¬
ance was accompanied by a treaty of limits, which fixed the
boundaries of Brazil, Paraguay, and Peru, the arrangement
being peculiarly favourable to Spain.
In the year 1792 the queen exhibited symptoms of men¬
tal alienation, and John Maria Joseph, prince of Brazil, was
appointed regent. One of the first acts of his administra¬
tion w as a declaration of war against the French republic,
a step which he wras induced to take from his connection
with England. But commercial distress, the accumulating
debt of the country, and the menacing language which
France compelled Spain to adopt towards her neighbour,
led to a peace in 1797. In 1799 the malady of the queen
appearing to be incurable, the prince was confirmed in the
regency, with full regal powders; but he made no change
in the policy of the government. The same year he was
ao-ain encouraged to arm against French aggression, in al¬
liance with England and Russia; the victorious career of the
revolutionists having received a severe, although, as it proved,
only a temporary check. But the glory of the French arms
was restored by the genius of Napoleon. After this con¬
queror had fully confirmed his ascendency, Spain was under
the necessity of declaring war against Portugal in the year
1801; but it was soon terminated by the treaty of Badajoz, in
consequence of which Portugal was compelled to cede Oh-
venza to Spain, and likewise to pay a considerable sum of
money. After this the prince enjoyed but a mere shadow
of power, and at considerable sacrifices maintained a no¬
minal independence, until at last, in 1807, a hostile army
under Marshal Junot invaded Portugal; and the house of
Braganza was declared by Napoleon to have forfeited the
throne. This bold declaration was owing to the prince
having refused to seize the English property in his domi¬
nions. Having embarked with his family for Brazil, the
French general immediately afterwards took possession of
his capital, and Portugal sank into the condition of an ap¬
pendage of France.
General Junot issued a proclamation, in which he declar¬
ed that justice should be duly administered, tranquillity pre¬
served, and the future happiness of the people solicitously History
guarded. But these professions were far from satisfying
a people of whom the lower classes were dying of abso¬
lute want, and two thirds of the merchants were bankrupt.
A British force under the Duke of Wellington (then Sir
Arthur Wellesley) was promptly despatched to Portugal,
where it was joined by a considerable body of national
troops, now mustered in the northern provinces, and deter¬
mined to maintain the struggle for freedom. A junta was
immediately established in Oporto, to conduct the govern¬
ment. After some sharp skirmishing between the two
armies, the decisive battle of Vimiero,1 which was fought
on the 21st of August 1808, overthrew the power of France
in Portugal. The convention of Cintra followed, and the
country was evacuated by the French troops. The im¬
mediate consequences of this convention, which at the time
was severely censured, were highly beneficial. T. he govern¬
ment displayed an energy which restored subordination, and
was felt all over the kingdom. A levy en masse of the
whole male inhabitants, from fifteen to sixty years of age,
was demanded; but it does not appear that the call was re¬
sponded to with much alacrity. Towards the close of the
year 1808, Madrid having surrendered, and the British army
under Sir John Moore having been compelled to retreat
through the mountains of Galicia to Corunna, the subjuga¬
tion of Portugal was again resolved upon by the French.
The intelligence of the approaching invasion at first spread
consternation and dismay throughout Portugal, for it was
in no condition to offer any serious resistance to the force
of the enemy that menaced the frontiers. But fresh rein¬
forcements arrived from Britain, and General Beresford,
who had been appointed commander-in-chief of the armies
of Portugal, having established a system of subordination
and discipline amongst the troops, confidence was in a great
measure restored before a blow could be struck.
Marshal Soult entered the kingdom of Portugal at the
head of the French army, after dispersing the Spanish force
in Galicia. He was feebly opposed by the Portuguese, who,
however, displayed a laudable eagerness to fight. Their com¬
mander, General Freyre, was opposed to a regular engage¬
ment; but his unruly troops rose in mutiny, and massacred
both him and his supporters, under the suspicion of treach¬
ery. They were led against the enemy by Baron Eben, a
German in the British service, and the battle of Carvalho da
Este was fought and lost. Soult then invested Oporto, and _
although the city had been strongly fortified and garrisoned,
it was carried by assault on the 29th of March 1809, after a
feeble defence of only three days. Immediately on entering
the town, the French soldiery commenced an indiscriminate
slaughter of the inhabitants; and although their commander
used every effort to repress their fury, the plunder and li¬
centiousness had continued a day and a night before subor¬
dination could be restored. The defeat of the Spanish army
at Medellin opened an easy road to Lisbon ; but the French
force was divided into three separate bodies, under three in¬
dependent commanders, Soult, Victor, and Lapisse, thoug ,
from fear of being separately committed, the whole remain¬
ed inactive, or only engaged in insignificant manoeuvres.
Each commander appears to have waited for intelligence as
to the movements of the others, and by this delay the capi¬
tal was saved. Such was the situation of affairs when Sir
Arthur Wellesley landed at Lisbon on the 23d of April, and
assumed the chief command of the armies of England and
Portugal. By a series of brilliant manoeuvres, the British
commander compelled the French to abandon Portugal.
But Napoleon being pledged to his people and the world to
conquer that country, early in 1810 an army of seventy-
two thousand men was assembled in the vicinity of Sala-
1 The operations of the British army in Portugal and Spain having been already narrated at sufficient length in the article Bbitai ,
no details will here be given.
pr
PORTUGAL. 473
! History.
!ohn VI.
manca, and the command of it intrusted to Marshal Mas-
sena. After clearing his way to Portugal, by the capture
of several strongly-fortified places, the French general ad¬
vanced upon Lisbon. But his vigilant enemy had well
employed the time afforded him, by preparing a secure
asylum for his troops, by which he at once kept his foot¬
ing in the peninsula, and defended Lisbon against a greatly
superior force. This formidable defensive position is ce¬
lebrated in military annals by the name of the lines of Tor¬
res Yedras. The advance of Massena, the battle of Bu-
saco, the stand made at Torres Yedras, the retreat of the
French, and their final evacuation of Portugal, will be found
described in the article Britain. It is true, that in the sub¬
sequent operations of the war, some parts of the kingdom
were included in the theatre of hostilities, yet they never
extended much beyond the frontiers. During the remain¬
der of the war, however, the troops of Portugal bore an ac¬
tive and creditable part in almost every encounter with the
enemy.
On the death of Maria, John VI. ascended the throne of
Portugal and Brazil. The establishment of the court of
Lisbon in an American settlement, though productive of
little good to the mother country, led to important re¬
sults. In the first place, it induced Brazil to withdraw itself
from dependence on England; and, secondly, it paved the
way for that colony erecting itself into a separate state. But
the influence of England in Portugal continued, and the con¬
dition of the kingdom for the present remained essentially
unchanged by the transference. The peace of Paris, con¬
cluded in May 1814, which, it was believed, would place
everything on a proper basis, did not realize the expec¬
tations of the nation. Spain evaded the restitution of Oli-
venza, which had been provided for by the congress of Vi¬
enna ; whilst, at the same time, Portugal was required to
restore French Guiana to France. The court of Rio there¬
fore took possession of the Banda Oriental; but an account of
these transactions has been given in another part of this work
(See Brazil.) These circumstances rendered the condi¬
tion of Portugal far from tranquil. The country felt that
the order of things had been inverted, and the parent state
had become a dependent on her colony. A conspiracy of a
very extensive nature was timeously discovered in the army,
and its progress checked; but the spirit wbich generated it
was not extinguished. In short, everything was ripening
for a fundamental change in the administration and consti¬
tution of government; and the Portuguese people were soon
afforded an opportunity of showing their dislike of the ab¬
sence of the court, and the predominance of English in¬
fluence. The continual bickerings between the commander
of the forces and the regency induced Marshal Beresfbrd
to repair to Rio de Janeiro, to obtain fresh instructions, and,
it might be, fresh powers, from the king; but during his ab¬
sence that revolution burst forth which completely changed
the whole political aspect of the kingdom.
The first symptoms of this revolution were exhibited at
Oporto on the 24th of August 1820, both the citizens and
the army acting in concert. The soldiers swore fealty to
the king, the cortes, and the constitution which might be
adopted, and the civil authorities declared in favour of the
measure. A junta of thirteen members was chosen by ac¬
clamation ; and a declaration was addressed to the nation,
stating, that the assembling of the cortes and the adoption
of a new constitution were the only means of saving the
state. On the 15th of September, the day on which it was
usual to celebrate the deliverance of Portugal from France,
the regency in Lisbon, fearing to assemble such a multitude
of people as generally met on that day, resolved to omit
the ceremony. But the troops and the citizens met, and
deposed the government; declared for the king, the cortes,
and the constitution ; and installed a temporary council as
a provisional government. Thus a complete revolution was
VOL. xvm.
effected, without either violence or bloodshed. The provi- History,
sional government formed a union with the junta of Oporto '''“"'v—
on the 1st of October; and one of the earliest acts of this
united body was to despatch Count Palmella, the head of
the royal regency, to Brazil, with an account of the transac¬
tions which had just taken place, and a petition that either
the king or the prince royal would return to Europe and
assume the sovereignty of Portugal. In the mean while,
dissensions of the most inveterate description arose amongst
the members of the two juntas. One party, being eager
for the immediate adoption of the constitution which had
been given to Spain, compelled the supreme junta to declare
for, and oblige the troops to take the oath of fealty to, that
constitution. But the ascendency of this party was of short
duration, and ultimately it was agreed that, for the present,
no part of the Spanish constitution should be in force ex¬
cept that which related to the mode of electing the cortes.
This was to choose one deputy for every thirty thousand
inhabitants. Clergymen, lawyers, and officers, were the
sorts of persons who were chiefly elected, few men of wealth
or family being chosen. On the 26th of January 1821,
the cortes met, and named a regency and ministry, de¬
clared the late insurrections legal and necessary, and abo¬
lished the inquisition. On the 9th of March, the articles
of the new constitution were adopted almost unanimous¬
ly. By these, freedom of person and property was gua¬
ranteed, and the liberty of the press, legal equality, the abo¬
lition of privileges, the admission of all citizens to all offi¬
ces, and the sovereignty of the nation, were secured. One
chamber and a conditional royal veto were likewise resolv¬
ed upon.
John VI. returned from America, leaving his eldest son,
Dom Pedro, viceroy or regent of Brazil; but the aged mo¬
narch found, on his arrival in Europe, greater troubles than
those from which he had fled. He was under the necessity
of acceding to certain restrictions on his power, imposed by
the cortes, before he was permitted to disembark. On land¬
ing, he swore to observe the new constitution, and concur¬
red in all the succeeding acts of the cortes. fo add to his
disquiet, Dom Pedro accepted the dignity of constitutional
Emperor of Brazil, in May 1822, and a complete separa¬
tion took place between the two countries. The consti¬
tution of Portugal was finally completed and sworn to by
the king on the 1st of October 1822; and, shortly after¬
wards, the session of this extraordinary cortes closed.. The
members of the old cortes occupied several months in re¬
organizing the different departments of the administration ;
but measures were rapidly maturing for the total oveithrow
of the new order of things. After several sanguinary en¬
gagements, the insurgents were driven from the northern
provinces into Spain, and a Portuguese regency was estab¬
lished at Valladolid in May 1826. At the head of the
plot for abolishing the new constitution was the queen, a
Spanish Infanta; and several of the nobility and clergy
were likewise engaged in it. Everything was now ripe for
execution. Dom Miguel violated the promise which he
had solemnly given to his father, by becoming the leader
of the counter-revolutionists, and inviting the nation to rise
under the royal standard against the anarchical policy of the
cortes The greater part of the troops declared for the In¬
fant, and John VI., yielding to the force of circumstances,
named a new ministry, and declared the constitution of
1892 null and void. Sixty members of the cortes protest¬
ed against this proceeding; but the king, a mere puppet
in the hands of his son, was borne along by the force of the
current, without being able to give any effectual check to its
The events which subsequently occurred in Portugal are
still too recent to have yet assumed their just historical pro¬
portions. The object of the queen and the Infant was to in¬
duce the king to resume absolute power; but John^Vl. firm y
PORTUGAL.
474
History, declared his resolution not to comply with this request. The
' v'—-' counter-revolutionists, however, began to act independently
of his authority. The national guards and militia were dis¬
armed, a censorship of the press was established, many of
the staunchest constitutionalists were disposed of by im¬
prisonment or expatriation, and the highest offices were con¬
ferred on the absolutists. Finally, a junta, with Palmella
at its head, was organized, to draw up a constitution adapt¬
ed to a representative monarchy. The queen and the In¬
fant, with their followers, exerted their whole energies to
prevent the establishment of a constitution. Palmella and
his coadjutors drew up a constitutional charter. By this
act he rendered himself obnoxious both to the queen and
Dom Miguel, as well as to the absolutist party; and the king,
probably more in compliance with their wishes than from his
own conviction that the plan was bad, rejected it. The in¬
trigues of the absolutists still continued. Dom Miguel was
appointed commander-in-chief of the army, and, having ob¬
tained this office, determined at one blow to extinguish all
the hopes of the constitutionalists, and to put an end to the
system of moderation, according to which the king conti¬
nued to act. Upon the 30th of April 1824, Miguel called
the troops to arms, and issued proclamations, in which he
declared it as his intention to complete the work of the 27th
May 1823, and to emancipate the king from the control of
free-masons and others by whom he was surrounded. The
ministers and other civil officers, to the number of one hun¬
dred persons, were on the same day put under arrest; but
when the king ascertained what had occurred, he declared
that the whole had been done without his orders. As an
excuse for his conduct, the Infant said that he had taken
these steps for the purpose of frustrating a conspiracy which
had been formed against the king’s life. On the represen¬
tations of the foreign ambassadors, the individuals imprisoned
were released ; and on the 3d of May the king issued a de¬
cree, commanding an immediate investigation of the pre¬
tended treason. He also pardoned the Infant for his usurpa¬
tion of the royal name; but this incorrigible person still acted
on his own authority, as if he were absolute sovereign, con¬
tinuing to arrest obnoxious or suspected individuals. John,
finding himself in danger of falling a victim to the intrigues
of his son, contrived to escape on board of an English vessel
which lay in the Tagus. He deprived the Infant of his com¬
mand, and summoned him into his presence. The prince
obeyed, and having confessed his various delinquencies, re¬
ceived the royal pardon, with permission to travel. The king
returned on shore, proclaimed an act of amnesty in favour of
the adherents of the cortes of 1820, and, reviving the old con¬
stitution of the estates, summoned the cortes of Lamego. A
new junta was appointed to prepare a constitution ; but the
convocation of the old cortes was resisted, and conspiracies
were formed against the king and his ministers. The lat¬
ter were themselves far from being unanimous, chiefly in re¬
gard to Brazil, so that a new ministry was appointed in Janu¬
ary 1825. Portugal and Brazil assumed a hostile attitude,
but at length John VI. concluded a treaty with the emperor
Dom Pedro I. of Brazil, in which he acknowledged the en¬
tire independence of that country, and resigned the sove¬
reignty of it to his son, reserving for himself only the title
of emperor. This good-natured monarch, who was incom¬
petent to struggle with the troubles of his age, and the po¬
litical degeneracy of his nation, died on the 10th of March
1826, having previously appointed his daughter Isabella re¬
gent of Portugal.
Isabella for a short time governed Portugal in the name
of the emperor of Brazil, Dom Pedro, who was the legitimate
successor to both the European and American possessions
of the house of Braganza. On the 23d of April 1826 he
granted a constitution to Portugal, which established two
chambers, and in some other respects resembled the French
charter. Not long afterwards, he surrendered Portugal to
his daughter, Donna Maria, as an’ independent queen, on History
condition of her marrying her uncle, Dom Miguel. The'''-—" !
prince at once agreed to this arrangement, but, with his
characteristic duplicity, resolved on evading its conditions.
The absolutists, of whom he was the recognised chief, were
still very strong in the country; and a party was formed,
the very object of which was to overthrow the constitution,
and proclaim Dom Miguel absolute king of Portugal. The
attempt was made, but it proved unsuccessful. A strong
British army was landed at Lisbon, and the country, thus
overawed, was in some measure restored to tranquillity.
Spain, which had secretly fomented the insurrection, was now
forced to yield. In July 1827, Dom Miguel was appointed
by his brother lieutenant and regent of the kingdom. The
prince immediately quitted Vienna and returned to Portu-
gal, taking Paris and London on his wray. He was much
caressed whilst in England, and pledged himself to abide by
the terms required by Pedro. He arrived in Lisbon on the
26th of February 1828, and immediately assumed the admi¬
nistration of the government, at the same time taking the
oath to maintain the constitution. But oaths were in his eyes
a mere formality of state, involving no moral obligation. He
assumed the sceptre as absolute king ; changed the ministry
to make room for his tools; dissolved the chamber of de¬
puties, which was much too liberal for his views; altered
the mode of election; and, in short, restored the reign of
absolutism. The recall of the British troops removed an¬
other obstacle from his path. He convoked the ancient
cortes of Lamego, and was in a fair way of carrying every¬
thing before him. But the military in general were unfa¬
vourable to his projects. The garrison of Oporto declared
for Dom Pedro and the charter ; other bodies of troops fol¬
lowed their example ; and a corps of six thousand men ad¬
vanced towards the capital. But they were defeated by a
superior force, and the efforts of the constitutionalists were
for the present baffled.
The object of Dom Miguel was now to consolidate his
power, and get himself proclaimed king. The cortes met,
and all who were likely to oppose him having been care¬
fully consigned to dungeons, or driven into exile, this body
unanimously declared Dom Miguel lawful king of Portugal
and the two Algarves. The pretext by which the cortes
endeavoured to vindicate its conduct was, that as Dom Pedro
had become a foreigner, he had neither a right to succeed
himself, nor to appoint a successor. On the 4th of July
1828, Dom Miguel confirmed the decree of the cortes,
and assumed the title, as he had already done the powers,
of royalty. The punishment of those implicated in the
Oporto insurrection followed as a matter of course. An
expedition was likewise sent against the refractory islands,
which had refused to acknowledge the usurper; and Ma¬
deira and the Azores were, with one exception, reduced.
The whole dominions of Portugal now became a scene of
terror, distrust, and misery, under the sway of this hypo¬
critical and merciless usurper.
In the meanwhile, Donna Maria had set sail from Brazil
for Europe; but on arriving before Gibraltar, she found that,
under actual circumstances, it would be injudicious, if not
dangerous, to land at Lisbon, and accordingly steered for
the English shores. She remained some time in London,
and during her stay was entertained as queen of Portugal.
In August 1829 she returned to Brazil, in which a revolu¬
tion suddenly deprived her father of his American empire.
Having abdicated a crown which he could no longer re¬
tain, in favour of his infant son, the ex-emperor sailed for
Europe with his daughter, to assert her claims to the throne
of Portugal. Under the title of Duke of Braganza he was
hospitably received in England, and instantly set to work in
making arrangements for effecting the dethronement of Dom
Miguel. The usurper still pursued the same course of op¬
pression, and, not content with confining and despoiling
PORTUGAL.
History, his own countrymen, he extended his outrages to British
--y'—''and French subjects. In the year 1830 it was calculated
that forty thousand individuals were under arrest for po¬
litical causes alone; and that five thousand persons were
concealed in hiding-places in different parts of the country.
How many had been devoted to destruction by being sent
to the fatal shores of Africa, and how many had volunta¬
rily exiled themselves, it is impossible to estimate. The
British government demanded redress for the acts of vio¬
lence committed against its subjects ; and, on this being re¬
fused, a British fleet entered the Tagus, and terrified the
tyrant into compliance. France acted in a similar manner,
and with even more success; demanding an indemnity for
the expenses incurred by the expedition. Even the United
States despatched a fleet to Lisbon to obtain satisfaction
for injuries done to American commerce. But these re¬
peated humiliations wrought no change in the policy of Dom
Miguel. The petty insurrections which frequently broke
out were speedily suppressed by the vigour of the govern¬
ment, or the want of concert in the insurgents; and hence
these ebullitions of popular indignation caused him little un¬
easiness. But his finances were now falling into inextri¬
cable confusion. The revenue scarcely sufficing for the
household expenses and the maintenance of the troops,
tha usurper was driven to all manner of expedients to re¬
lieve his necessities. The island of Terceira, one of the
Azores, resisted his claims; and here a regency was for¬
mally installed, with the Marquis of Palmella at its head.
From this spot Dom Pedro issued a decree in favour of
his daughter Donna Maria, at the same time representing
Dom Miguel in his true character, as a rebel and perjured
usurper.
Although neither the government of France nor that of
England gave open assistance to Dom Pedro, both abstain¬
ed from opposing any obstacles to his measures of recruit¬
ing. Many officers of each nation enlisted in his ranks;
and towards the end of December three hundred half-pay offi¬
cers and volunteers sailed for Belleisle on the coast of France,
which had been fixed upon as the place of rendezvous. The
intelligence of these preparations, whilst it gave encourage¬
ment to the constitutionalists, was productive of great alarm
to Dom Miguel, wdio soon discovered that a considerable por¬
tion of his own army wras not to be trusted. Lisbon became
the scene of anarchy, violence, and bloodshed. A regiment
of the line broke out into open mutiny, and, dividing itself
into three bodies, marched upon three different points, where
other troops were stationed, expecting to be joined by them.
But they were sadly disappointed in this expectation. Several
bloody conflicts took place, and the insurrection was ulti¬
mately suppressed. Many persons were shot for treason,
and every dungeon and fortress in the kingdom was filled
with suspected persons. Meanwhile the island of St Mi¬
chael’s was captured by a force from Terceira, under Villa
Flor, one of the members of the regency. Afraid that Ma¬
deira would be the next object of attack, Dom Miguel sent
a small armament for its defence; indeed a large one could
not well be spared at a time wdien the preparations of Dom
Pedro threatened to bring the contest nearer home. Phis
prince had prosecuted his measures with great activity and
perseverance; nevertheless, his means appeared altoge¬
ther inadequate for the conquest of a kingdom. His levies
consisted of a motley group of raw recruits, men of despe¬
rate fortunes or suspicious characters, idle persons whose
object was plunder, disbanded troops from Brazil, Portu¬
guese refugees, and the regiments which had so successful¬
ly maintained the cause of the young queen in the Azores.
But a kingdom was at stake, and Pedro resolved to hazard
a descent upon Portugal. The expedition sailed from the
island of St Michael on the 27th of June 1832. It consist¬
ed of two frigates, three corvettes, three armed brigs, and
four schooners, besides transports, and a number of gun-
475
boats to cover the landing. An officer who held a commis- History,
sion in the British army undertook the command of the y~—'
naval department. He had been deprived of his rank as
a British officer, but became a Portuguese admiral. The
whole army on board did not amount to ten thousand men,
scantily provided with artillery, and still more scantily with
cavalry.
Dom Miguel made every preparation in his power to re¬
pulse the threatened attack. On the 8th of July Dom Pe¬
dro appeared before Oporto, landed his troops, and took pos¬
session of the town, without the loss of a single man. The
advantages likely to result from the capture of the second
city in the kingdom need not be pointed out, nor was Dom
Miguel ignorant of them. He acted with decision, and im¬
mediately menaced Oporto from two points. On the 22d
of July an action took place, in which his troops were re¬
pulsed, and compelled to fall back; but, on the other hand,
Dom Pedro was not in a condition to follow up the victory.
Another attempt in a different quarter was with more diffi¬
culty repelled; but the most discouraging circumstance for
the invaders was the utter disappointment of the hopes they
had entertained that the population of the country would
rise in their favour, and that the army of Dom Miguel would
desert its master.
The operations of the naval squadron were attended with
little success. Several partial engagements took place be¬
tween the fleet of Dom Miguel and that of the young queen
under Sartorius ; but no advantage was gained on either
side. Dom Pedro had continued to fortify Oporto from the
period of his landing; whilst Miguel, with equal industry,
was increasing his army, the greater part of which lay on
the north side of the Douro. On the 8th of September the
Miguelites made an attack upon Villa Nova, the suburb of
Oporto, which they carried ; and the possession of this place
enabled them to harass the city with a constant fire both
of musketry and artillery. An attempt to recover this po¬
sition utterly failed ; but a convent which formed part of it
still held out against all the efforts of the Miguelites. The
city began to be seriously injured by the incessant fire which
was kept up from Villa Nova, and all attempts to dislodge
the Miguelites from their position proved abortive. On
the 29th of September Dom Miguel made a general assault
upon the works with which Oporto was surrounded; but,
after manfully maintaining the contest for seven hours, he
was compelled to retreat to his former positions. The com¬
manders of Dom Miguel now changed their tactics. Finding
that it was impossible to carry Oporto by storm, they de¬
termined to prevent all supplies from reaching the city, by
erecting batteries on the Douro, so as to command the bar
and channel, and thus prevent all vessels from approaching.
They effected their purpose, and Dom Pedro found himself
reduced to the greatest difficulties.
The operations of 1833, like those of the preceding year,
consisted in partial bombardments across the river, or en¬
gagements of detachments, occasionally varied by more re¬
gular attacks and sallies to destroy works already erected,
or prevent new ones from being raised. The casualties were
not great on either side, nor was any permanent change ef¬
fected in the relative situation of the armies. Dom Pedro
began the year by placing at the head of his troops the
French general Solignac, whom he had created a marshal.
A few months afterwards he had a quarrel with his admiral,
Sartorius, which for a time threatened serious consequences;
but the naval commander being ultimately removed, his
place was supplied by another British officer, Captain, now
made Admiral Napier. In a short time the latter inflicted a
severe blow on Dom Miguel, by the capture of several of his
largest vessels, in as gallant a style as any thing recorded
in naval history. In short, the fleet of the usurper was ut¬
terly annihilated, and he had now only the land force to look
to. Previously to this achievement, a body of queen’s troops
kJ
476
History.
PORTUGAL.
had landed at another point of the coast, and m a few days
the whole of the Algarves declared for Donna Maria, ihis
small army, under the command of Villa hlor, now Duke
of Terceira, marched upon Lisbon, and on the way com¬
pletely routed a greatly superior force. The capital was
deserted by the garrison ; the inhabitants rose en masse,
and declared Donna Maria their lawful sovereign; and the
Duke of Terceira entering Lisbon in triumph, hoisted the
queen’s colours on the citadel. Dom Pedro instantly set
sail from Oporto to assume the government, and no sooner
had the intelligence reached France and England, than both
immediately acknowledged Donna Maria as queen of Por-
tU^Great preparations were made for the defence of Lisbon
against the Miguelite army, 18,000 strong, which, under
Marshal Bourmont, an experienced general, was now ad¬
vancing towards the capital. Several attacks were made
on the defences during the rest of the year 18.43, but the
results were unimportant. The liberation of Lisbon led to
the recovery of the Cape de Verd Islands, and immediately
afterwards Bonavista proclaimed the queen and the consti¬
tutional charter. The political measures of Dom 1 edro,
after assuming the government at Lisbon, were not looked
on with a favourable eye. He confiscated the property of
all who had served under Dom Miguel, and was guilty of
some other arbitrary acts, which did not tend to strengthen
his cause.
The affairs of Dom Miguel now began to wear a very
unpromising appearance. His authority, indeed, was recog¬
nised over a large tract of country ; but his navy, which se¬
cured him reinforcements from abroad, was destroyed, and
events had taken place in Spain which prevented the go¬
vernment of that country from affording him any assistance.
The first military operation of importance which took place
in 1834 was the capture of Leiria, an important town be¬
tween Lisbon and Coimbra, which capitulated to the queen s
troops on the 18th of February. A battle was lost by the
Miguelites near Almoster, where Saldanha was posted; and
towns and provinces began to declare for the queen so ra¬
pidly, that the cause of the usurper became desperate. He
shut himself up at Santarem with a view of keeping up Ins
communications with the frontiers of Spain, whence he ex¬
pected aid. But from this very point destruction awaited
him. It was a singular coincidence, that in Spain as well as
in Portugal, an infant queen was supporting her cause by fa¬
vouring popular privileges, with an uncle for her rival, as a
representative of more despotic principles of government.
The cause of the two queens being so far the same, a com¬
munity of interest led to an alliance, to which the courts of
Britain and France became parties. Each was recognised
as lawful successor to the throne to which she aspired, and
they both agreed to employ their arms jointly against their
two rivals. Don Carlos was compelled to fly from Spain
into Portugal, and thither he was pursued by a Spanish
army, which proved even more fatal to Dom Miguel than to
Don Carlos. The Miguelites, seeing all hope lost, rapidly
disbanded, and only the miserable remnant of an army re¬
mained attached to the usurper. A suspension of arms was
agreed to; and on the 26th of May a convention was en¬
tered into, by which Miguel formally consented to aban¬
don the country. The terms granted him w ere, that he
should never again set foot either in Portugal or Spain, nor
in any way concur in disturbing these kingdoms; that he
should leave the country within fifteen days ; that he should
have a pension of about L.15,000, and be permitted to dis¬
pose of his personal property, after restoring the crown jew’els
and other articles ; and, finally, that, by his command, the
troops still adhering to his cause should instantly lay down
their arms, and the fortresses surrender to the queen. On the
2d of June he embarked for Genoa, where he had no sooner
arrived than he issued a declaration, declaring that he had
acted under compulsion in relinquishing the throne, and^Histoq.
that the transaction was null and void.
The civil war being thus terminated, and the authority
of the queen acknowledged all over the kingdom, an ex¬
traordinary cortes was assembled on the 14th of August.
Without the intervention of this assembly, however, the
government had previously adopted legislative measures of
great moment. It had declared free trade with all coun¬
tries ; fixed the duties on all foreign imports at fifteen per
cent, ad valorem ; reduced all religious houses and regu¬
lar orders of monks, incorporating their estates with the
national domains ; changed the state of the currency, and
abolished paper money ; and made various other sweeping
alterations. The measures were well meant, but they were
harsh and despotic notwithstanding. After the meeting
of cortes, one of the first proceedings of the legislature
was to consider how the executive power should be ex¬
ercised during the minority of the queen. Ihe regencj
wras ultimately conferred on Dom Pedro, but he did not
long enjoy it. He expired on the 22d of September 1834,
having, during the latter years of his life, acted a part which
the earlier stages of his career gave the world little reason
to expect. Previously to this, the queen had set about the
formation of a new ministry, in which she united some of
the more moderate constitutionalists with the former mi¬
nisters. Her marriage with the Duke of Leuchtenberg,
the son of Eugene Beauharnois, and the brother of Dom
Pedro’s wife, was soon afterwards resolved upon. A bill
to exclude Dom Miguel and his descendants from the throne
of Portugal vvas passed without one dissentient voice. The
budget for the year 1834 showed a considerable deficit, and
this formed an excuse for treating the British auxiliaries, to
whom they owed so much, with the most shameful and dis-
gusting ingratitude. . . ,
During the year 1835, Portugal presented a peaceful and
even prosperous picture, darkened a little by the intiigucs
of political parties. The principal object of the cortes was
to reduce the public debt, or to convert it into securities
which should bear a lower rate of interest than that then
paid. The fund which was principally looked to for ac¬
complishing this object wras the national property, and mea¬
sures were adopted for effecting sales thereof. I he budget
for the year ending 30th June 1836 stated the expected
receipts at 8,420,257,408 milreis, and the expenditure at
jg 744,161,266, being a revenue of about L.2,200,000, and
an expenditure of more than L.3,000,000. No new taxes
were, however, imposed to cover the deficit, because it w as
expected that the expenditure would decrease, whilst the
receipts would remain stationary or rise.
Prince Augustus of Leuchtenberg, the husband of the
young queen, having arrived in Portugal in the beginning
of the year 1835, was appointed commander-in-chief of the
Portuguese army, a nomination which gave rise to much con¬
tention. But death soon cut short the discussion, for the
young prince expired on the 28th of March. 1 he cham¬
bers, however, did not allow the queen to indulge long
in the sorrows of widowhood. The constitutional system
denended greatly on a direct succession to the tin one, and
before the end of the year the queen’s second marriage
was arranged. The bridegroom was selected from the house
of Saxe-Cobourg (a great nursery for the supply of such
wants), and he had the honour to be a nephew of the king
of the Belgians.
On the 8th of April 1836, Prince Ferdinand of Saxe-Lo-
bourg arrived at Lisbon, and on the following day w as for¬
mally united to his royal spouse. Government now be¬
came extremely annoyed by the question, whether the king
should be appointed to the command of the army, when it
turned out that this w as one of the special conditions of the
marriage treaty. The proceeding proved very unpopular,
not only with politicians, but the country, and materially
PORT
History, hastened a revolution, in which the ministry and the con-
v'"—^ stitution were shipwrecked together. It does not appear,
however, that the government anticipated any serious
changes, as the country exhibited no dangerous symptoms
of discontent, although a good deal irritated by the ap¬
pointment which the queen had made. Yet the revolution¬
ary plot must have been arranged beforehand, for even the
troops of the line were seduced. On the night of the 9th
of September 1836, the drums of the national guards beat
to arms, and they were soon joined by the garrisons and
many influential civilians. An address to the queen was
drawn up, requesting her majesty forthw ith to dismiss the
ministry, to annul the charter, and to proclaim the constitu¬
tion of 1820. The queen at first hesitated to yield to force,
and to recognise statements as to the alleged jeopardy to
which the nation was exposed; but she was ultimately com¬
pelled to give way. The political constitution of the 23d
of September 1822 was declared to be in vigour: but it was
at the same time agreed that it should undergo such modifi¬
cations as circumstances had rendered necessary. A new
ministry was immediately appointed, and Prince Ferdinand
was deprived of his military commission. But neither the
great body of the people nor the more influential classes
showed any indications of accordance with the remodellers
of government. Almost all the nobility, the superior clergy,
and an immense number of persons holding official situations
of greater or of less importance, refused peremptorily to
take the oaths to the new constitution. The peers, whose
existence as a separate legislative assembly was thus abo¬
lished, protested to the queen against the measure, and called
for vengeance on those who had compelled her majesty to
declare it in force. But this only served to irritate the re¬
volutionists. Not long afterwards a counter-revolution was
attempted. Commenced without any well-concerted plan,
it was prosecuted without energy, and the results were al¬
together unimportant. At last negotiations being entered
into between the queen and the rebels, it was proposed by
the court, first, that the general cortes should be immedi¬
ately convoked, but that the members should be furnished
with special powers to make such alterations in the char¬
ter of 1820 as were deemed necessary to secure the liber¬
ties of the nation and the prerogatives of the crown ; and,
secondly, that the Chamber of Peers, as it was instituted
before the revolution of the 10th of September, should
vote upon these alterations, with the exception of those
which might relate to the organization of the chambers.
To the latter proposition the rebels refused their assent.
They likewise demanded of the queen to dismiss her mi¬
nisters, and form a new cabinet; and she was under the
necessity of complying wdth their demands. Her majesty,
indeed, became partially a prisoner in the hands of the de¬
mocrats, and many of the most distinguished persons of her
court sought refuge in voluntary exile.
The principal events which followed these changes were,
the economising of the expenditure, the imposition of a
tax for the support of the priesthood, the introduction of a
uniform system of duties on vessels sailing from Portu¬
guese harbours, the abolition of the slave-trade, and other
measures of more or less moment, which had for their ob¬
ject the pacification of the country and the promotion of
the general welfare. During the years 1837 and 1838,
some provinces of Portugal were kept in constant terror,
and, to a certain extent, ravaged by rebel banditti, whose
ostensible object was to excite a rising in favour of Dom
Miguel. The most noted of these guerilla chiefs was Re-
mechido, who contrived to muster a formidable gang, and,
by his daring exploits, to spread dismay throughout Al¬
garve, the scene of his depredations. A military force was
at length sent against him, by which the rebels were com¬
pletely routed on the 28th of July 1838, and their leader,
being taken prisoner, unceremoniously shot.
U G A L. 477
STATISTICS. Statistics.
Portugal, the most westerly kingdom of Europe, lies be-1'0.umlanes
tween 36° 55' and 42° 13' of north latitude, and betweenaiK extent'
6 ’ 15' and 8° 55' of longitude west from Greenwich. Ac¬
cording to the geographer Ebeling, its length from north
to south is 301 geographical miles, and its breadth from
east to w^est is 128 miles. It is bounded on the north and
east by the Spanish provinces of Galicia, Valladolid, Sala¬
manca, Estremadura, and Seville, and on the south and
west by the Atlantic Ocean. It has the figure of a paral¬
lelogram, with its longest side from north to south.
Portugal has a coast-line of nearly five hundred miles in Coast,
length, the only province not washed by the ocean being
Tras-os-Montes, and Alemtejo is less so than the remain¬
ing four. On the north the coast is low at first, but it af¬
terwards becomes rugged and steep. In Beira it again gets
flat, sandy, and marshy; in Estremadura it is in one part
steep, and in another almost a dead level, and very inse¬
cure ; in Alemtejo it is low, being full of rocks and shallows;
and although at Cape St Vincent it is high and rocky, as
we proceed towards the Spanish frontier the country sinks
into low sandy downs. The promontories most worthy of
notice are, Mondego in Beira; Carvoeiro de Rocha and Es-
pichel in Estremadura; and San Vincente, Carvoeiro, and
Santa Maria, in Algarve. On the low coasts there are in¬
lets of the sea, which afford opportunities for the formation
of a number of excellent harbours.
Portugal is only separated from Spain politically, not by Mountains,
natural boundaries or peculiarities. Hence, in all its phy¬
sical relations it is to be considered as a westerly continua¬
tion of that country. The principal chains of mountains
are prolongations of those which traverse Spain. In the
north, between the Minho and Douro, the country is inter¬
sected in various directions by the southerly and westerly
procession of the Galician and Asturian mountain ranges,
which terminate at the sea in a steep and broken coast.
The provinces situated in this quarter are alternating moun¬
tain and high table-land, a continuation of the lofty ta¬
ble-land of Old Castille and Leon. The Serra de Mon-
tezinho, near the northern frontier, is a very lofty range,
on the summits of which snow not unfrequently remains
during the whole year. The lofty peak of Gaviarra, how¬
ever, which forms part of the Serra de Suazo, is crowned
with perpetual snow. This range runs parallel with the
river Lima to the sea, where it terminates under the name
of the Serra de Estrica. On the left bank of the Lima ex¬
tends the Serra de Gerez, in the province of Entre Minho
e Douro, and, passing into Tras-os-Montes, declines to¬
wards the Lower Douro, where it bears the name of the
Serra de San Catarina. In this last-named province is the
Serra de Amarao, on the left bank of the Tamega, and
stretching down almost to the Douro. To the east of it is
the plateau of Guarda, between two and three thousand
feet in height, and which on the north-east is bounded by
the Serra de Montezinho. In the province of Beira extends
the Serra de Estrella, a continuation of a chain which tra¬
verses Leon and Castille. This mountain ridge consists
of granite and layers of sandstone. It presents a shattered
and savage aspect, is covered with snow during the greater
portion of the year, and in its ramifications encloses the
river Mondego. Its highest summits are those of Cantaro
Delgado and the Malao da Serra. Northwards it declines
o-ently towards the Vouga, and stretches in a westerly di¬
rection to the gates of Coimbra under the name of the Serra
de Alcoba. The southerly branch runs through the pro¬
vince of Estremadura, to the mouth of the Tagus, forming
the granite mountains of Cintra, which terminate in the sea
at the Cabo de Roca. To the south of the mouth of the
Tagus stretches the Serra de Arabida, an inferior range.
Between the Tagus and the Guadiana the country is elevaG
478
PORTUGAL.
Statistics, ed, but, gradually sinking towards the Spanish province of
'"■—tv''—''' Estremadura, is bounded on the south by a continuation of
the Sierra Morena of Spain, which mountain chain is here
penetrated by the river Guadiana. The Serra de Caldei-
rao, which afterwards bears the name of the Serra de Mon-
chique, a ramification of the gigantic Morena, extends in a
westerly direction to the sea, where it terminates in Cape
St Vincent, and completely encloses Algarve. This serra
only yields in height to that of Estrella, and to those of
Suazo and Montezinho. Its loftiest peaks are Foya and
Picota.
Portugal is therefore a mountainous country throughout,
but its profusion of hills and mountains embosom innumer¬
able beautiful and highly-cultivated valleys, and form se¬
veral fine tracts of table-land. There are, however, two
plains of some extent; one to the south of the Tagus, of
which that of Santarem forms a continuation, and one on the
mouth of the Vouga.
Rivers. Portugal receives its principal rivers from Spain. The
largest are the Tagus, the Guadiana, the Douro, the Lima,
and the Minho. The Tagus originates in the Sierra d’Al-
baracin, on the borders of Cuenca and Aragon, flows at
first in a northerly direction, and then turns to the south,
but during the most part of its course its general bearing
is westerly. After traversing several Spanish provinces, it
enters the Portuguese territory near the point where it re¬
ceives the Sever, separates the provinces of Beira and Alem-
tejo, and after dividing Portuguese Estremadura into two
unequal parts, falls into the Atlantic. It receives the wa¬
ters collected between two parallel ranges of mountains,
flows through a mountainous country, and its current is
much broken by rocks and cataracts. Its waters are turbid,
and annually overflow and fertilize the extensive plains in
the environs of Santarem and Villa Franca. Lower down
it forms many marshes of considerable extent, which yield a
large revenue. The length of its course is four hundred
and fifty miles. It is affected by the tide a considerable dis¬
tance above Lisbon, but is only navigable to Abrantes. Its
width is so great near its mouth as to make it resemble a
vast lake or arm of the sea; and at Lisbon it forms one of
the finest and safest harbours in the world. The tribu¬
taries which it receives on the north are the Elga, the Pon-
sal, and the Zezere ; and those from the south are the Sever,
the Sorraya, erroneously called Zatas in most maps, and the
Canha; but none of these are navigable. The rivers worthy
of notice which have their source in Portugal are the Cavado,
Ave, Vouga, Mondego, Saado, Odemira, Portimao, and Rio
Quarteira. The Cavado rises in the Serra de Gerez, and after
traversing the province of Minho, discharges itself near Es-
posenda, being only navigable for seven miles. The Vouga
has its source in Beira, and after traversing this province,
enters the ocean below Aveira. The Mondego issues in
the Estrella, crosses Beira and the plains of Coimbra, and
finally joins the ocean near Figueira and Buareos. This
is the largest of the rivers belonging exclusively to Portu¬
gal, and it is navigable for sixty miles, except in summer,
when its waters considerably diminish. Its sands occasion¬
ally yield particles of gold. The Saado or Sadao has its
source in Alemtejo in the Serra de Monehique, and flows
with a north-westerly course towards Estremadura. It be¬
comes navigable from Porto de Rey, and enters the ocean
by a large bay to the south of Setubal. The same Serra
gives rise to the Odemeira and Portimao, the former being
navigable to the town of the same name, and the latter as
far up as Silves. The Rio Quarteira has its source in the
Serra de Caldeirao, and forms at its mouth the small port
which bears its name. These rivers, when swollen by the
winter rains, overflow their banks, much to the advantage of
the country, for the waters leave a rich deposit behind them.
In summer they are very low, and many of the smaller rivers
of Portugal are dried up during that season. They are in
general much obstructed by rocks and bars of sand at their Statistic:.
mouths, by which navigation is greatly impeded. ''■““V’*-
Portugal possesses no navigable canals worthy of notice. Lakes an
On the coast, especially in Alemtejo and Beira, there aresP™gs.
morasses, lakes, and inferior inland seas, none of them being
of great circumference. Several mountain lakes on the
Serra de Estrella are tepid, throwing up bubbles, without,
however, materially troubling the waters, which are of crys¬
tal clearness. Portugal is rich in medicinal springs, some
of which are used for baths. They consist of gaseous and
saline mineral waters, and of sulphureous and chalybeate
springs. The most celebrated sulphur and warm baths
are the Caldas de Gerez in Minho, the Rainha and the
Oeiras in Estremadura, those of Chaves and Anciaes in
Tras-os-Montes, of San Pedro do Sul and Penagarcia in
Beira, and of Monchique in Algarve. The best chalybeates
are at Torro de Moncorvo in Tras-os-Montes, those of
Amaranha and Guimaraens in Minho, and of Villas in Es¬
tremadura.
Granite composes the highest mountains of Portugal. Geology
The entire province of Minho, and the northern portion ofailti miue3-
Tras-os-Montes, are formed of it j and, besides, it is found in
many other parts of the kingdom. Schistus rock, lying over
the granite, also covers a large portion of the country. It
forms the frontier mountains of Algarve, those of moderate
height in Alemtejo, those of Beira in the environs of Gas¬
tello Branco, and the chain which accompanies the course
of the Douro. The primitive calcareous formation forms
a continuation of the mountains between Lisbon and Co¬
imbra, as the Serra de Lousaa, Porto de Moz, and Monte
Junto, with the Serra de Arrabida, and the mountain chain
which reaches to Algarve. Coal is met with in this forma¬
tion near Buareos, mineral coal at Cape Espichel, and
sandstone is sometimes found covering it. The rocks near
Lisbon and at Cape St Vincent are of the tertiary forma¬
tion, more or less mingled with trap. When the granitic
rocks blend with schistus, it is by layers; and it is con¬
nected with the latter by a stratification, resembling mi¬
caceous schistus. The calcareous structure is changed in
Tras-os-Montes into a true micaceous schistus; and it is
only here that mountains of the latter are seen in a pure
state.
Tin mines appear to have been wrought by the Cartha¬
ginians in this part of the peninsula; and it is affirmed that
mines of tin-stone existed in some granitic mountains of
Beira. Mines of gold and silver were wrought in this
country by the Romans. During the last century lead ores
were worked near Mogadouro, in Tras-os- Montes, and in
the vicinity of Longroiva, on the banks of the Rio Priseo.
In Tras-os-Montes a silver-mine was wrought in the year
1628. Mines of plumbago occur near Mogadouro, and iron-
mines in the same country, near Figueira and Torre de
Moncorvo. The iron forge of Chapacunha is supplied from
them. In Estremadura there are two very old establish¬
ments of the same kind, one in the district of Thomar, and
the other in that of Figuero dos Vinhos. On the frontier of
that province, and of its neighbour Beira, are situated the
mines of red oxyde of iron by which they are supplied. Iron
indeed is one of the most abundant minerals in the country.
The mountains in the neighbourhood of Oporto every¬
where give indications of copper and other ores; and at
Couna there is a deposit of cinnabar. In Portugal there
are also mines of antimony, bismuth, and arsenic. Some
of the rivers of this country, as well as those of Spain, are
washed for the gold which they contain ; and it is said that
in this way large quantities of the precious metal were for¬
merly collected. The river Tagus wras anciently celebrat¬
ed for the particles of gold which were found mingled with
its sands; but its greatest riches are now borne on its bo¬
som. Indeed, none of the streams yields a quantity worth
much above the labour of collecting it. There is only one
PORTUGAL.
iatistir.s. gold-mine in Portugal, situated in a place called Adissa, in
the district of St Ubes; but its annual produce is a mere
trifle, not reaching twenty pounds weight at an average.
Two coal-mines exist; one near Figueira, and the other
near Oporto. The country abounds with most beautiful
marbles, but they are comparatively little wrought, from
the expenses required to bring them to market. Precious
stones are found in Portugal, and also quarries of limestone,
gypsum, slate, freestone, millstone, black agate, together
with immense beds of pyrites and marcasites, potters’ and
porcelain clay, and pits of common salt,
mate Various causes conspire to produce great differences in
11 soil, the climate of Portugal in different situations. The most
obvious one is the inequality of the soil; but vicinity to the
ocean, and to mountain ranges, which afford shelter from
the winds, or expose to the direct influence of the sun, also
greatly affect the temperature. The mountain chains in
the northern part of the country are very rugged and cold,
the limits of perpetual snow being in this latitude under
eight thousand feet. This cold region comprises a consi¬
derable portion of the provinces of Tras-os-Montes and
Beira, and the whole of the northern frontiers of Minho.
It is to be observed as a general rule, that the sea-coast of
these provinces, as well as that of all the others, is very
warm, the heat of summer, however, being tempered by the
sea-breezes. The elevated plains and mountains are sterile,
and destitute of wood; but the valleys and other low situa¬
tions have a mild and agreeable climate, and are for the
most part very fruitful. A great part of Minho is especially
deserving of notice for its delightf ul climate. Estremadura,
on the other hand, is very hot in summer and very cold in
winter; but the high land throughout the whole southern
portion of Portugal has an exceedingly agreeable tempera¬
ture, equally removed from excessive heat in summer and
severe cold in winter. Algarve alone has an African cli¬
mate, but the excessive heat is greatly tempered by the sea-
breezes. Some striking anomalies occur, such as intense
summer heats in elevated situations ; but they are to be ac¬
counted for from the position and nature of the mountain
ranges which environ them, and their distance from the
ocean. The warmer parts of Portugal have a short winter
and a double spring. The first, which commences in Feb-
ruary, is a delightful season. The succeeding months are
variable, being in some years hot and dry, and in others cold
and rainy. Harvest is gathered in June. Summer com¬
mences in the last week of July, and continues till the be¬
ginning of September. The heat is then very great, parch¬
ing up all the vegetation on the plains and sea-coast, so
that it is necessary to water plants to preserve them from
destruction. But even during this hot season the evenings
and nights are fresh and cool, and the table-lands and other
elevated parts enjoy a modification of temperature. Rain
begins to fall early in October, and the vegetation of spring
immediately succeeds to that of autumn. Winter lasts from
the end of November till February, but the cold is seldom
excessive, except in very elevated situations. In December
heavy rains descend, accompanied by violent whirlwinds; it
is during this period that the rivers are so liable to overflow
their banks. The climate of Portugal, in general, may be
pronounced salubrious, particularly along the coasts and on
the table-lands. Fevers of various kinds appear to be the
diseases most prevalent, but there are disorders peculiar to
different localities. Almost all the mountain chains of Por¬
tugal show, in extinct and shattered craters, their foimer
volcanic activity; and in many districts, in the country
around Lisbon for instance, earthquakes are not unfrequent-
ly felt in harvest and winter. The fearful convulsion which
destroyed the capital has already been mentioned in the
preceding historical sketch. Portugal is rarely visited by
violent storms, and thunder is only heard during autumn and
winter.
479
From the great differences of level which Portugal pre- Statistics,
sents, it abounds in every variety of vegetable productions.
Forests of birch, oak, and chestnut are abundant; and fruit
is everywhere plentiful. Orchards are met with at the foot
of large mountain chains ; and lower down may be found
the cork-tree, kermes, fir, lemon, and orange. The olive is
widely distributed, and the vine is cultivated to a great ex¬
tent. In the warmest regions we find the aloe of America
and the date of Africa. Figs, raisins, almonds, melons, water¬
melons, plums, cherries, peaches, apples, pears, and chest¬
nuts, are all objects of attention. Of grains, those chiefly
raised are maize, barley, wheat, and rye ; rice is likewise an
object of attention in some parts. Potatoes and other ve¬
getables are partially cultivated, together with hemp, flax,
and cotton. The Flora of Portugal, although abundant in
some parts, presents little that is remarkable. None of
the plants of France or Spain, and only a few of those of
Italy and Sicily, are found. In the cold regions a few plants
similar to those in the west of England are met with. In
the warmer districts poppies thrive well, and the coasts of
Beira and Estremadura, with the low sandy plains of Alem-
tejo, are adorned with the cistus and many varieties of heath.
On the northern mountains is a tree peculiar to them, which
is called azerino.
Portugal is behind almost every nation of Europe in agri- Agricul-
culture; and the various improvements which are general ture.
elsewhere have here been slowly and but recently intro¬
duced. The soil is neither manured nor tilled as it ought
to be. The plough is composed of three pieces of wood
awkwardly fastened together, and imperfectly aided by the
clumsy machinery of wheels. The districts best cultivated
are the valleys of the Minho, those of the Oporto wine com¬
pany of Upper Douro, and some portions of Tras-os-Mon¬
tes and Beira; the remaining temtory remains comparative¬
ly uncultivated. Where the soil is properly laboured and
attended to, abundant crops of wheat, barley, maize, rice,
and rye are produced. But enough is not raised to supply
home consumption, about one fifteenth of the quantity used
being imported. Artificial meadows are almost unknown,
except in Minho. The cultivation of potatoes, however,
has rapidly extended over the country, and hemp and flax
of excellent quality are raised. But the chief attention of
the Portuguese husbandman is directed to the production
of those articles which find their most ready vent in foreign
countries, or which are raised with the least labour. Of
the first sort is their wine, which is produced chiefly in the
northern provinces. The quantity usually made is about
80,000 pipes of red, and 60,000 pipes of white. The pro¬
ductions that require but little labour, such as chestnuts,
almonds, oranges, lemons, and citrons, are also profusely
raised, and, with the onions and garlic, form no small pro¬
portion of the aliment of the inhabitants. Olive-trees are
plentiful, and the oil expressed from their fruit forms an
important article of sustenance; and, though not of a quali¬
ty or flavour that is relished for the table in foreign coun¬
tries, it is a considerable article of export.
Generally speaking, cattle are not abundant in Portugal
for, with the exception of the grazing lands of the Minho, the
Estrella, and Monte Junto, and a few other places, in which
a beautiful and large breed of cattle is reared, the feeding
is decidedly bad. Very little cheese or butter is made,
these articles being mostly imported from England and
Holland. Horses are far from being numerous, and they
are of a small size, but very active. Mules, however, are or
a first-rate breed, and they, in a great measure, compensate
the deficiency. Sheep are reared to some extent, and their
wool is inferior to none but that of Spain. There are nu¬
merous herds of goats, and abundance of swine of a pecu¬
liar species. Poultry are plentiful; and bees are bred to
some extent. The rearing of silk-worms was once a con¬
siderable branch of industry; but the great injury sustain-
480 PORTUGAL.
Statistics, ed bv the mulberry plantations during war has subjected it is a statement of the quantities of British and Irish pro- Statistica.
' v ' to many fluctuations. Birds are not numerous; but of wolves, duce and manufactures imported into Portuga in the year v
wild cats, wild goats, wild boars, stags, and some other spe- 1835 ; the declared value is given Apparel, slops, and
cies of large game, there are a few in certain localities, haberdashery, L.l3,938; arms and ammunition, L.1293;
Hares are rare, and rabbits are not so numerous as in Spain, bacon and hams, L.1479 ; beef and pork, L.1454 ; beer
Amphibious reptiles are not common, but vipers and veno- and ale, L.2369 ; printed books, L.935; brass and copper
mous serpents abound in the mountains; the other parts manufactures, L.10,730; butter and cheese, L.94,0o2 ;
of the country, however, appear to be free from them, coals, culm, and cinders, L.l561; cordage, L.l6o ; cotton
There are several species of lizards; the insects of Northern manufactures, L.796,002 ; hosiery, lace, and small wares,
Africa occur on the heaths; the butterflies of the south of L.20,998 ; cotton, twist, and yarn, L.l3,338; earthenware
France on the sides of the Estrella; and the scarabsei of the of all sorts, L.5171; woollen manufactures, L.350,71o ;
north are found on the mountains of Northern Portugal, fish, herrings, L.122 ; glass, L.l 1,753; haidwares and
The rivers are amply stocked with fish, and the coasts lite- cutlery, L.31,469 ; hats, L.1990 ; non and steel, L.4 ,
rally swarm with them. Pilchards are caught in immense lead and shot, L.8118 ; leather, L.6138 ; saddlery and har-
quantities. Another very common fish is the pescada, a ness, L.3212; linen manufactures, L.36,184; machinery
species of the gadus. Besides these, the kinds in greatest and mill-work, L.5346 ; painters colours, L.3805; plate,
esteem and abundance are the sea and river eel, the sole, jewellery, and watches, L.1281 ; silk manufactures,
rodovalho, save!, ruivo, safio, cavalla, espada, and others. L. 19,485; soap and candles, L.48-; stationery, L.93/b;
Manufac- The manufactures of Portugal are comparatively unim- refined sugar, L.6840 ; tin, L.410; tin and pewter wares
lures. portant; but the country has in general been underrated and tin plates, L.41 / 6 ; woollen and worsted yarn, P,’h8 ,
in this respect. No comparison can be instituted between salt, L.150; all other articles, L.39,625. ^ 1 he total de-
its products of this sort and those of more industrious dared value of the whole was L. 1,554,326. ihiswas ra-
states; but if, notwithstanding the advantages England ther less than the amount of exports to Portugal during
enjoys, the Portuguese have been able to compete with 1834, but more than for any preceding year. I he goo s
the English in different manufactures, it maybe concluded imported from hranee in 1835 were, trench and foreign
that industry cannot be at so very low an ebb as is often merchandise, raw produce, L.42,284 ; manufactures,
asserted. However, almost all the finer fabrics are import- L.236,374 ; French merchandise, raw produce, L.27,24 ;
ed. At Alcobaca and Tomar cottons, at Guarda wool- manufactures, L.l95,546. 1 he total amount was L.5U ,4 ,
lens, and at Guimaraens linens, are manufactured. The best about one third of that of Great Britain. The goods sent
goods that are made in the kingdom, as compared with to the Portuguese dependencies are included, lortugai
those of other countries, are the cambrics, shirting and exported to Great Britain in 1835, wines of Portugal,
table linens, and sewing threads. Glass is manufactured 4,163,719 gallons; sheep’s wool, 680,956 lbs.; bees wax,
at Leiria, and silk, paper, and other articles elsewhere; eighteen cwts.; brandy, 1084 gallons; 238o goats skins;
whilst in Lisbon there are manufactories of arms, cordage, sumach, forty cwts.; raisins, twenty-four cwts.; o lve 01 >
hats, chocolate, earthenware, tin, copper, lace, mats, rib- 270 gallons; oranges and lemons, 95,656 packages; gs,
bands, soap, silk, cottons, w'ith distilleries, tanneries, sugar 828 cwts.; bark for tanning or dyeing, 1015 cwts.; cork,
refineries, and founderies. The Portuguese display consi- 59,910 cwts.; wheat 2157 quarters ; and a few other ar-
derable skill in working in gold and silver plate; and their tides. During the same year Portugal sent to France, raw
taste in cabinet-w ork is said to be now much improved, materials and manufactures to the value of L.38,80o; ar-
Generally speaking, they manufacture most articles of re- tides in a state fit for use or for consumption, L.41,425 ;
cognised necessity with more or less skill. But neither the total amount, L.80,231. But Portugal carries on 0'a^;e Wlt“
mines nor the fisheries are at all attended to as they ought many other countries besides Great Britain and Trance,
to be. If the former were wrought, their produce might For her own products she receives from the Netherlands
form important articles of commerce; and if the latter were grain, cheese, colours, and dye-stuffs ; from the north of Ger-
prosecuted, as much fish might be caught as would render many grain, linen, iron, tin, brass, and other metallic articles,
the importation of this article unnecessary. and toys ; from Denmark, grain and timber ; from Svveden,
Commerce. The separation of Brazil from Portugal, together with the grain, iron, steel, copper, and tar ; from Russia, grain, hemp,
loss of her Indian possessions, have reduced the commerce flax, canvass, linen, cordage and tackling, timber, tar, tal-
of this country to a mere fragment of what it once was low, furs, and the like ; from Dantzig, grain, hemp, and tun-
when her ports wTere the medium through which much of the ber. There is likewise a considerable intercourse with the
produce of the east and of the west passed to other coun- United States, the foreign colonies of the kingdom, Brazil,
tries. Political events have also tended materially to de- and other places; but we have no data from which to esti-
press the foreign trade of Portugal. Previously to 1820 it mate the extent and value of the foreign commerce. I he
was very considerable, but since that memorable epoch in internal trade, at the best unimportant, suffers from the want
the annals of the country, it has sunk, comparatively speak- of good roads. Canals there are none, and the few navi-
ing, to nothing. The chief articles of exportation are wines, gable rivers are not so at all times, so that until proper
lemons, oranges, figs, almonds, and other dried fruits ; salt, roads are made or canals formed, the inland commerce of
oil, sumach, wool, and corkwood. The chief goods imported Portugal must continue to be very limited,
are wrheat and other grains, dried cod, salted meat, butter, The government of Portugal, once of the most absolute
cheese, horses, oxen, mules, and other animals, medicinal kind, is now a limited monarchy. I he succession is ^^"^dreh-
and drying drugs, linseed-oil, planks, and other kinds of ditary, and extends to both sexes. I he constitution of the^.^
prepared wood, iron, steel, lead, tin, brass, copper, char- kingdom, a sketch of which was laid before the cortes on
coal, tar and pitch, flax, hemp, and silk. Numerous ar- the 7th of March 1837, is nearly a verbatim copy of that of
tides of foreign manufacture were wont to be imported, 1822, an outline of which has already been given. I he
and afterwards re-exported to foreign possessions; but this exceptions relate to the appointment of the senators, and
trade is of course annihilated, or nearly so. the separation of the counsellors of state. I he mode of
There is a great deficiency of authentic documents re- election now adopted is the direct instead of the indirect,
garding the commerce of Portugal. Those which can be It is further provided, that no deputy can hold a public
relied on relate to periods too far back to admit of their situation, and no officer in his district, no bishop in Ins dio-
being taken as evidence of the present state of trade, and cese, nor any priest in his parish, is allowed to be chosen,
those of a more recent date are imperfect. The following The king and the royal princes are declared incapable of
PORTUGAL.
481
Statistics, holding the chief command of the army or navy. The
''■'“v'™-'' cortes have the right to choose a new dynasty should the
reigning family become extinct. If the assembly of the
cortes is dissolved, a new one must be called together with¬
in thirty days at the latest. The authority of the cortes is
so great that the power of the sovereign is little more than
nominal. The management of the affairs of the nation be¬
longs to the counsel ot state. There are six ministers, one
for each of the departments of foreign affairs, the interior,
finance, war and the colonies, marine, and justice. There
are also boards of trade, of navigation, of agriculture, and
of manufactures.
For the administration of justice there are two supreme
courts of appeal; one at Lisbon, and the other at Oporto.
There is also one for each of the provinces of Estremadura,
Alemtejo, Algarve, Minho, Tras-os-Montes, Beira, and one
for the comarca of Gastello Branco in Beira. A court of
cassation has been established in the capital. In criminal
cases the proceedings are public ; in civil matters the parties
have the privilege of appointing an arbitrator, who is chosen
from a society belonging to each city. Each of the six dis¬
tricts of the kingdom is divided into comarcas or jurisdic¬
tions, which are again subdivided into ciudades, villas, and
provincial under-courts of justice, called concelhos, houras,
contos, julgados, and behetrias, these being distributed in
correicoes, over which a corregidor presides as head judge,
and who has a right to speak in the second instance, or
court of judicature. The sub-judges are in individual places
juizes de fora ; but in all civil and criminal cases they speak
in the first instance. In large towns the civil and criminal
jurisdiction is under two juizes da fora, one of whom bears
the title oijuiz da civel, and the other that of juiz da crime.
There are also in the towns and villages ordinaries, or
juizes da paz, a sort of justices of the peace. The number
of persons connected with the administration of justice, those
who have seats in courts, as judges, advocates, and others,
is very great, and the course of law is tedious and expen¬
sive. The standard authority in matters of law and jus¬
tice is the royal ordinances which Alphonso V. collected,
and Emanuel I. printed. When this juridical code is not suf-
fficient, the Roman law is appealed to ; and in ecclesiastical
matters the canon law is the recognised authority. The
religion of the state is the Roman Catholic ; but the exer¬
cise of all other forms of religion is permitted to foreign¬
ers. The supreme head of the clergy is the patriarch
of Lisbon, who is always a cardinal. There are fourteen
bishops under the archbishops of Braga and Evora, the for¬
mer bearing the title of primate of the kingdom. The num¬
ber of ecclesiastics and religious houses was at one time very
great. In 1S22 there were 132 nunneries, w ith 2980 nuns,
912 pupils and novices, and 1971 servant-women; and their
revenue amounted to 432,189 milreis. The number of
monasteries was 346, containing 5830 persons, who enjoyed
an income of 784,513 milreis. The regular orders of monks
have been reduced, and some other alterations relating to
the church have taken place since Balbi published his
Statistical Essay on Portugal, from which the above facts
are taken; but wre have no authentic data from which to
draw up a correct statement of the present condition of
ecclesiastical matters in Portugal. Religion has shared in
the political fluctuations of the times.
Population The following is a tabular view of the statistics of Por-
-f- tugal for the year 1835. The number of square miles and
fire-places in the provinces and districts is given on the
authority of official documents. The population has been
estimated by multiplying the number of fire-places by four
and a half, which is reckoned a fair average number of souls
for each hearth.
In Europe.
Province of Minho 
Province of Tras-os-Montes.
Province of Upper Beira \
Province of Lower Beira \ '*
Province of Estremadura 
Province of Alemtejo  
Province of Algarve 
To these there is to be added the
Eastern District of the Azores..
Western District of the Azores
District of Madeira 
District of Cape Verd Islands...
In Africa.
The settlement on the coast of 1
Guinea J
The settlement of Angola.
19-5
14,750-
The settlement of Mozambique113,500-
German
Geographi¬
cal Square
.Miles.1
126
191-75
405
416-68
48375
99
1,722 18
18
38-82
18-50
149
224-32
In Asia.
Government of Goa 
Government of Dilli and Timor
Government of Macao 
28,269-5
223-
85’
4-5
Population.
872,406
331,213
f 996,345
( 109,215
790,655
314,311
135,261
3,549,406
90,000
135,000
112,500
54,000
391,500
20,000
376,000
286,700
576,300
417,900
120,000
38,400
576.300
Fire-
Places.
193,868
73,603
221,410
24,270
175,701
69,847
30,058
788,757
20,000
30,000
25,000
12,000
87,000
Statistics.
The principal cities and towns having above 10,000 in¬
habitants are, Lisbon, 250,000 ; Oporto, 80,000; Elvas,
18,000; Coimbra, 15,200; Setuval, 14,820; Braga, 14,400;
Evora, 10,500; Ovar, 10,300. In the colonies, Funchal,
20,000; Villa Nova de Goa, 18,500; Ponta Delgata, 18,000;
Soanda de S. Paola, 18,000; Angra, 15,000; Cacheu,
15,000; S. Salvadore, 15,000; Mozambique, 12,340; Ma¬
cao, 12,000.
The national varieties of the population are, Portuguese,
3,397,050; Free Blacks, 595,000 ; Gallegos, 50,000; Hin¬
dus and Malays, 420,000; Negro Slaves, 20,000; Chinese,
64,800.
The varieties of religion amongst the population are,Catho¬
lics, 3,782,050 ; Brahmins and Buddhists, 400,000 ; Foiten,
64,800 ; Fetishes, 400,000.
In the year 1822 the statistics of education in Portugal instruc-
stood thus. The university of Coimbra, founded in 1279, tion.
with six faculties, a preparatory college, sixteen hundred stu¬
dents ; eight hundred and eighty-three elementary schools;
three hundred and twenty-tw-o Latin, and twenty-one Greek
and rhetorical schools, together with twenty-seven for theo¬
retical and moral philosophy. The total number of scholars,
exclusive of students, was 31,280. To these are to be add¬
ed the following establishments ; the marine and royal aca¬
demy at Oporto, which had three hundred and twenty-five
scholars ; the academy of Lisbon, w7ith about as many pu¬
pils ; the trades’ school at Lisbon, with a hundred and fifty
scholars ; the Lisbon royal school for engineering, artillery,
and drawing, with eighty scholars; and the military school at
Luz, near the capital, with two hundred students. At Lis¬
bon there are also a royal college for the nobility, and royal
schools for the Arabic language, drawing, and architecture,
and another for statuary ; also an institution for instruction
in copperplate engraving, an academy for teaching music,
and some others. Surgery is taught at the university of
VOL. XVIII,
A German geographical mile is nearly equal to 4|ths English miles*
3 p
482
PORTUGAL.
Statistics. Coimbra, and in several royal schools ; in St Joseph s hos,-
  y  pital in Lisbon; and in hospitals at Oporto, Llvas, and
Chaves. The military school for mutual instruction, which
the children of citizens are permitted to attend, had two
thousand five hundred and sixteen scholars. There are
other academies for instruction in science, geography, Por¬
tuguese history, navigation, nmrine afi’airs, artillery, and for¬
tification ; an institution for the encouragement of litera¬
ture and other branches of knowledge at Lisbon ; an aca¬
demy for history and antiquities at Santarem; and an aca¬
demy for scientific instruction in the small county-town of
Tomar in Santarem. Portugal has seven botanic gardens,
but some of them are of a very humble description ; twelve
museums of natural curiosities, open to the public; twelve
collections of coins and other antiquities; eight observatories;
a royal library at Lisbon, with eighty thousand volumes;
and the university library of Coimbra, with sixty thousand
volumes. In the fine arts the Portuguese have made but
little advancement. There are comparatively few printing-
presses in the country; and book-printing establishments
on a respectable scale are only to be met with in Lisbon,
Oporto, and Coimbra. Works of fiction, and books for
edification in the Catholic faith, constitute half the yearly li¬
terary produce of the Portuguese. On account of their po¬
verty, it has been customary to print scientific works at the
royal expense. It is difficult to say whether the press be
free in Portugal, at least according to our ideas of freedom.
Liberty of the press was established by a decree in the year
1823 ; but the cortes annulled it, and appointed a commis¬
zen and countryman, the tenth part of the amount of all Statistics,
goods sold, the profits of the “ cross-bull,” the impost on v '
several requisites of life, the excise, the “ decimas or tithes
of the clergy, stamps, lotteries, the mint, and others. Since
the separation of Brazil from Portugal, and the attempt of
Dom Miguel to maintain the sovereignty he had usurped, a
great disproportion has taken place between the expendi¬
ture and the income; the latter being sometimes not equal
to the half of the former. The consequence has been the
accumulation of a national debt of enormous magnitude for
so poor a country, and which there appears to be no imme¬
diate prospect of the government being able to extinguish,
or even to lessen. We have no information that can be
relied on as to its exact amount at present; but as it was
stated to be three hundred and twenty-four millions of francs
in the year 1832, we are rather below than above the mark
in estimating it now7,1838, at four hundred millions of nancs,
or sixteen millions sterling. The income, as well as the ex¬
penditure, but particularly the former, has been subject to
great fluctuations. These, however, are mainly to be at¬
tributed to the unsettled state in which the country remain¬
ed for so long a period. In the year 1827, the income was
46,843,975 francs, and the expenditure was 62,162,363, so
that there appeared a deficit of 15,292,388 f rancs. In 1829
the revenue was only eighteen millions, whilst the expenses
amounted to forty millions of francs. The following is the
budget for 1837-1838:
Income  9,294 cantos, = 55,764,000 francs.
Expenditure 11,214 — 67,284,000 ditto.
sion of censorship.
Kaights, There are seven orders of knighthood in Portugal, viz.
royal tides, the military order of Christ, established in 1319 ; the order
&c* of San Jago, for civil merit, founded in 1288 ; the order of
Avis, for military merit, established in 1213 ; the militaiy
order of the tower and sword, founded in 1459, and re¬
vived in 1805-1808 ; the order of Villa Vicosa, or the im¬
maculate conception, founded in 1818 ; the female ordei of
Santa Isabel, established in 1804 ; and the order of the
faith. In 1749, the king of Portugal received from Be¬
nedict XIV. the title of rex fidelissimus ; and his Most
Faithful Majesty styles himself “ king of Portugal and Al¬
garve, of both sides of the sea in Africa, lord of Guinea, and
of the navigation, conquests, and commerce of ^Ethiopia,
Arabia, Persia, and India.” The heir to the throne is
styled Prince Royal; his eldest son, Prince oi Beira ; the
other royal children are called Infants and Infantas ot Por¬
tugal. The present Braganza line of princes commenced
with John IV. who was proclaimed king of 1640. The na¬
tional escutcheon is a silver shield, with five smaller blue
shields lying crossways. On each of these are five silver
pennies, placed so as to form a Saint Andrew’s cross. There
is a red border containing the armorial bearings of Algrave,
which are seven golden castles with blue towers. On the
summit of the royal helmet there is a golden dragon; and
the shield contains two dragons, each holding a flag, adorned
with the emblems of Portugal and Algarve.
Finances. The revenues of the state arise from the extensive crown-
lands, together with the hereditary estates of the house ot
Braganza, and the possessions of the first three orders of
knights, the greater portion of which belongs to the crown.
The other sources from which the government income is
derived are, the customs, a property-tax levied from citi-
Deficit 1,920 cantos, - 11,520,000 francs.1
According to a decree dated on the 4th of January 1837, Army and
the organized army consists of, the infantry, thirty battalions, nav-v
twenty of which are infantry of the line, and ten jagers,
in all 21,560 men; the cavalry, eight regiments, four be¬
ing lancers and four jagers, in all 3680 men ; and the ar¬
tillery, four regiments, and three batteries for the neigh¬
bouring islands, consisting of 2232 men. 1 he combined
military force of Portugal, therefore, amounts to
men ; and there is, besides, an army of militia about 27,000
strong. took n
According to an official document of the year 1835, the
naval force consisted of two ships of the line, four frigates,
six brigs, eight schooners and cutters, eight gun-boats, eight
transports, eight packet-vessels, and two steam-boats, in all
forty-six sail. „ , ^ ,
The inhabitants of Portugal are generally a robust, yet People and
not an industrious people. They are enterprising and per- an8u
severing, patient in adverse circumstances, excessively at¬
tached to their own religion and customs, and, though tem¬
porary circumstances may seem to indicate the contrary,
they retain a high sense of loyalty to their monarch, and o
submission to their spiritual superiors. 4 he Portugese lan¬
guage is derived from the Latin, ot which it contains a great
proportion of words, though mixed with many others ot
Arabic origin. In the construction of its sentences it very
much resembles the Castillian ; but the pronunciation of the
syllables differs considerably, being in general less guttural;
and there are many words introduced which seem peculiar
to itself, and the derivation of which it is difficult to trace,
though probably they are to be found amongst some of the
tribes on the coast of Barbary. (K*
1 Weimar Almanac for 1838.
P O R
Portumna PORTUMNA, a small market town, in the county of
IJ Galway, Ireland. It is situated within half a-mile of the
losen^ river shannon, over which there is a bridge, and consists of
a long line of cabins built without any regularity. It pos¬
sesses a church and a Roman Catholic chapel. It is dis¬
tant from Dublin 74 miles, and had a population in 1821 of
736, and in 1831 of 1122.
POSEGA, a city of the Sclavonian provinces of the
Austrian kingdom of Hungary, the capital of a circle of the
same name, which extends over 990 square miles, and com¬
prehends one city, six towns, and 254 villages, with 74,200
inhabitants. The city is on the river Orlgava, and contains
410 houses, with 4220 inhabitants, who grow' tobacco and
silk. Lat. 45.21. 30. Long. 17. 37. 25. E.
POSEN, one of the provinces of the kingdom of Prus¬
sia. It was formerly a part of Poland, but "by the several
partitions of that distracted country, and by the treaty of
Vienna in the year 1815, has been guaranteed to Prussia.
It is bounded on the north by w'est Prussia, on the east by
Russian Poland, on the south by Silesia, and on the west
by Brandenburg. It extends in north latitude from 51*
10' to 53° 27/, and in east longitude from 15° 2' to 18°
33', and comprehends 12,836 square miles. It is generally
a plain, with few' elevations or even undulations. It con¬
sists for the most part of a sandy soil, though some of the
marshy parts, when drained, form most excellent meadows
for fattening cattle, and for the dairy. The chief product
of the soil, as well as the chief food of the inhabitants, is
rye, of which about ten times as much is grow n as of wheat.
Barley is to rye as four to ten, and oats as three to ten ;
thus the rye crops exceed the whole of the other. The
agriculture was in a miserable state till the possession of the
country wras secured to Prussia by the treaty of Vienna,
under the tranquillity and security created by which, it has
been making surprisingly rapid improvement. Between
1802 and 1815, the stock of cattle had diminished; the
cows, sheep, and horses being about one-third less in the
latter than in the former year. Since 1815, an augmen¬
tation has again taken place, and the stock of that descrip¬
tion in 1832, was found to have more than doubled. Many
of the marshes had been drained and converted into excel¬
lent pasture, especially an extensive tract, by the construc¬
tion of the Bromberg canal, w hich has improved the soil
and formed a good communication through the Vistula with
the Baltic sea. The forests, which cover one-twentieth part
of the province, are a considerable means of occupation, and
a source of wealth. There are few manufactures in the
province, and those have been mostly introduced by settlers
from Germany since 1815. No part of Europe has shewn
such an increase in the number of its inhabitants, as the
province of Posen, but especially in the government of
Bromberg, which is the northern division of it, in the ten
years from 1817 to 1826, both years inclusive. By the cen¬
sus of the former years the government of Bromberg con¬
tained 261,368 souls, and that of Posen 579,753; and by
that of the latter year Bromberg contained 330,235, and
Posen 715,712 ; thus exhibiting an account by which, at
the same rate, the population would be doubled in less than
thirty-two years. In 1815 the German inhabitants were
estimated at 140,000, and the Jews at 48,000, but it is pro¬
bable their increase has been greater than that of the Poles,
who formed the rest of the population. The religion of
the Poles is mostly Catholic, that of the Germans chiefly
Protestant. The former have a bishop, under the arch¬
bishop of Gnesen, with 581 churches, and several monas-
teriesand nunneries, and two ecclesiastical seminaries. The
latter have 101 churches, and two public colleges or gym¬
nasiums. The nett revenue furnished by this province to
Prussia in 1816, was about L.120,000, one-half arising from
the forests, and other national estates, and the remainder
from direct taxation. The whole province is divided into the
P O S 483
two governments of Posen and Bromberg, and the former Posen
is divided into seventeen circles.
Posen, a city, the capital of the Prussian province of Position.
the same name. It stands on a plain on the banks of the
river Warthe, and is surrounded with walls, beyond which
are some extensive suburbs. Having been burned down
in 1803, its buildings are in a more modern style than for¬
merly. It contains a cathedral, and twenty-five other Ca¬
tholic churches, five monasteries, and four nunneries, a Lu¬
theran, Calvinist, and Greek church, an episcopal palace,
and theatre, with about 2500 houses, and 28,000 inhabi¬
tants. It has but little other trade beyond what arises from
being the seat of the provincial government. The manu¬
factures, though increasing and improving, are still insigni¬
ficant, and mostly in the hands of the Jews, wdiose numbers
in the city amount to near 5000, and who have a synagogue
and some schools. Lat. 52.22. Long. 17. 14. 30. E.
POSIDONIUS, a celebrated Stoic philosopher of Apa-
meia in Syria, was the disciple and successor of Pangetius,
(Strab. xiv. 655.) 1 he exact date of his birth and death
are unknown, but he flourished u. c. 78, and came to Rome
B. c. 51. (Suidas.) He resided principally at the island of
Rhodes, and his reputation was so high that many of the
young Roman nobility attended his lectures. He was vi¬
sited by Cicero, b. c. 78, (Plut. Cic. 4. Cic. n.d. 1,3), and
by Pompey, b. c. 62. (Plin. vii. and Plut. Pomp. 42.) Posi¬
donius went to Rome on an embassy respecting the affairs
of the Rhodians, (Plut. Mar. 45), and probably at this time
visited Spain, (Strab. xiii. 614), Gaul, (iv. 197), and Li¬
guria, (iii. 165;. He lived to the age of eighty-four, (Lu¬
cian, Macrob. 20), and was succeeded by his grandson Ja¬
son, (Suid.) Cicero (Div. i. 3), alludes to a work of hts on
divination, in five books ; but he was not merely a philo¬
sopher, he was also an astronomer and geographer, w'ho is
frequently quoted by Strabo. He made an attempt to cal¬
culate the circumference of the earth, and also the diame¬
ter of the sun. (Strab. ii. 95, 138.) He treated at consider¬
able length the phenomena of tides, and observed that they
had diurnal, monthly, and annual periods, like the moon,
(138, 174.) The scattered fragments of Posidonius have
been collected and published, under the title, Posidonii
Phodii rdiquicE doctrines, collegit atque illustravit J. Bake
accedit Vrytlembachii annotatio, 1810.
POSITION, Centre of. From Archimedes to Doc¬
tor Wallis, writers have assumed, that there belongs to
every body an individual point, where, for most purposes, the
whole weight may be conceived to reside ; and they have
called it the centre of gravity. The learned Englishman,
however, believed himself the first to accomplish a demon¬
stration from the nature of gravity. (Scholium to Prop. xv.
l)e Centro Gravitatis.)
But the same point is admirably connected with other
properties and contingencies of the body than its w'eight;
and hence different names have been considered as prefer¬
able by many writers, such as centre of inertia, See.
And from viewing a body as composed of physical points,
it is found that the relation of this centre to their positions
is fertile in some of the most beautiful theorems in the ma¬
thematics ; whence it has properly received the geometrical
designation of the centre of position.
We here introduce it in this geometrical character; and
shall demonstrate very briefly, but we trust sufficiently, a col¬
lection ofelegant and most important properties,ofwhich some
are virtually proved elsewhere, in a manner more suited to
the direct object of their introduction.
If there be any multitude of distinct points in space, it
is clear that a plane may move, parallel to any given plane,
until the collective distances of the points on one side of
it be equal to those on the other.
Let a plane thus situated, relatively to a system of points,
be called a plane of equidistance.
484 P O S
PoBition. Suppose two planes of equidistance, A and B, perpendi-
Fig. 1.
A
P
Fig. 2.
cular to each other. Then, first, we shall find that any
plane C which passes through their common section or axis,
is also a plane of equidistance to the same system of points.
For, let any plane, perpendicular to this axis in O, cut
the planes A, B, C, in the straight lines An, BZ», Cc, re¬
spectively. Then Aa and B6 are at right angles. Let a
perpendicular from any point of the system meet the plane
ABC in p. Draw pq at right angles to Cc, and let it be
positive when on the same side of the plane C as AO. Also
draw pr perpendicular to B&, and meeting Cc in s ; and let
pr and rs be positive when on the same sides of the planes
B and C respectively as AO. The triangle pqs being given
in species, pq is as ps, that is, as pr-\-rs ; so that the sum
of the pq is as the sum of the pr together with that of the rs.
But the pr are the distances of the points of the system
from the plane B, which is a plane of equidistance ; and
therefore their aggregate is nothing. And again, the rs
are as the rO, which are the distances from the plane A ;
and, having different signs on the two sides, their aggregate
is also nothing. Thus the sum of the pq is nothing ; and
the plane C is a plane of equidistance.
Now let O move along the axis to make ABC a plane
of equidistance. Then shall any plane K which passes
through O be such a plane.
For let the plane K cut ABC in the line Cc. The plane
ABC, and the plane C, which cuts it perpendicularly in the
line Cc, are planes of equidistance ; therefore, by what we
have just proved, the plane K which passes through their
common axis Cc is also a plane of equidistance. Thus, to
every system of points, there is a point through which every
plane is a plane of equidistance. And there cannot be more
than one. For if there were two, we might have through
them two parallel planes of equidistance, which is manifestly
absurd.
This single point has been called the centre of position.
Cor. 1. The difference of the centre of position from
any given plane is an average of the distances of the several
points of the system ; the distances on different sides being
distinguished by contrary signs.
For conceive the parallel plane of equidistance, at the
distance D from the given plane. Let the distance of a
point of the system from the given plane be denoted by D
-\-d. Then d will vary its sign according as the point of
the system and the given plane be on different sides of the
plane of equidistance, or on the same side.
Now if there be p points in the system, the aggregate of
their distances from the given plane will be pD, together
with the aggregate of the d. But the collective d are no¬
thing ; so that it will be ; or D is the average distance.
Cor. 2. If the average distances of the points of a sys-
P o s
tem from three planes, perpendicular or inclined to each Position,
other, be given, the centre of position is given. For, by thev'^V^'
distances of a point from three such planes, its position in
space is given. . . . ,
Cor. 3. If the centre of position, and the multitude ot
points in each of two systems be given, the centre of the
united svstems is found in the straight line joining the given
centres at distances from these reciprocally proportional to
the multitudes.
Let P and Q be the centres of posi¬
tion of two systems of p and q points
respectively. Let perpendiculars from
P and Q, meet any plane of equidistance
in a and b respectively.
Then p.¥a + q .Qb expresses the
collective distances of the points of the
united systems from the plane of equi¬
distance, consequently the two terms
are of opposite signs and equal magnitude.
And because Va and Qb are perpendicular to the same
plane, they are parallel : so that Pa, ab, fed, are in one
plane. Let O be the intersection of PQ, and ab. I hen
PO and OQ are as Pa and Qb ; and since p . Ya=q . Q&,
we have also p. PO=q. QO, or PO : QO :: 9 :p.
Thus every plane of equidistance passes through the same
point O, which is therefore the centre of position.
Scholium. Hence, if we
have any points A, B, C, D,
&c., bisecting AB in M, or
making AM==^AB; again,
making MN to NC as 1 to
2, or MN=1MC ; and NO
to OD as 1 to 3, or NO--
ND, and so on : Then M
Fig. 3.
is the centre of position of the two points A and B ; N of
the three points A, B, C ; O of the tour points A, B, C, D,
and so on. And as we have proved that there cannot be
more than one centre of position to the same system of
points, the ultimate point must be the same in whatever
order we take the given points into the operation.
Cor. 4. The difference of the squares of the distances
of the centre of position from the extremities of any straight
line is an average of the difference of the squares of the
several points of a system from these extremities.
Let SO be the straight line ; A Fig. 4.
a point of a system whose centre
of positiou is G; and Aa and Gg
perpendicular to the extension of
SO. Then AS2—A02=aS2—aO2
=(aS + «0). OS ; making aS and
aO negative when measured con- /
trary to the tendency OS. / A
Hence 2 (AS2—AO2) =2(aS). g./-:!.—jg
0S + 2a0).0S. But, if there be
p points, E(aS) is p.gS, and 2(aO) ! 
is».aO. Therefore, 2(AS2—AO2) a
=/?.(^S X^O).OS=/?.(GS2—GO2).
Cor. 5. The squares of the distances of any points in
space from their centre of position are together less than
from any point in the surface of a sphere about this centre,
by the square of the radius multiplied by the number of
points.
For when G coincides with O, g is also there; and we
have 2(AS2—A02)=j9.0S.0S, or /j.OS2.
Cor. 6. If A, B, C, &c., express the number of points
whose respective centres are in the positions A, B, C ; and
O be the centre of position of all the points united in one
system ; then, S being any other point,
a.sa2+b.sb+2c.sc2=a.oa2+b.ob2+c.oc2+(a+b+c)os*.
For, by Cor. 4, AXSA2—OA2) + B(SB2—OB2) + C(SC2
485
Positra
P o s
Position. —OCJ) expresses the excess of the squares of the distances
.j^V'^'^of the points from S over the squares of their distances
from O, which (by the last cor.) is equal to (A + B + C).
OS2.
Cor. 7. In any system of points, the motion of the cen¬
tre of position, in any given direction, is an average of their
several motions in that direction.
For assume a plane perpendicular to the given direction
behind all their motions. Let there be p points, and the
sum of their distances from the assumed plane, at the be¬
ginning of the motion pd. Then the distance of the centre
of position from this plane is d.
At any instant afterwards, let their united distances from
this plane bepD, that of their centre of position being there¬
fore D.
The aggregate motion of the system in the given direc¬
tion has been pY)—pd, or p(D—d), w hile that of the cen¬
tre of position has been D—d.
Cor. 8. If the several points of a system be uniform as
to their motion, the centre of position either rests or moves
uniformly.
If it do not rest, whatever be its first tendency, it must
persevere in the same. For as it begins without any mo¬
tion perpendicular to this direction, the aggregate of the
motions of the system in any direction perpendicular to this
must be nothing, and therefore will continue nothing ; so
that the centre will never be taken out of its first direction.
And as the motion of each point, estimated in this direc¬
tion, is the same during a given time, the average, or the
motion of the centre is the same ; so that it traces its path
uniformly.
Otherwise.
Because the motion of any point of the system, estimated
in three different directions not in the same plane, is uni¬
form in each ; that of the centre of position is uniform in
these directions, or is nothing. Hence it can have no mo¬
tion other than uniform in direction and velocity.
Cor. 9. If a body, or system of bodies, be put in mo¬
tion, and subject to no other disturbance than the action of
the parts or bodies upon each other ; the centre of position
will either rest or move uniformly in a straight line.
For every particle is at first determined to a certain di¬
rection and velocity, or put in a condition of uniform mo¬
tion. And the actions of material particles or bodies upon
each other, (whether by impulsion, attraction, impact, or
leverage,) are equal and contrary; so that the aggregate
motion, and consequently the average motion, is not affect¬
ed by it.
Cor. 10. The agregate momentum of a system, in any
direction, is as if it were all collected into the centre ot
position.
The momentum in any direction is the united momenta
of the several particles. Now, if there be p particles, and
their several velocities in a given direction be denoted by
v', v", v'", &c.; these also represent their several momen¬
ta ; and if we put pv=v' + v" •{•v'"  ; v is the velo¬
city of the centre of position. Thus the aggregate mo¬
mentum is as if every particle were in this centre.
Strholium. When the system is connected these paral¬
lel momenta compound a force in the given direction,
which passes through the centre of position, or centre of
gravity ; and is equal to the sum of the several forces. So
that the impact of the system is as if all were collected in
the centre.
Cor. 11. If a body be left to itself in a state of rotation,
P o s
the axis of rotation will pass through the centre of position.
For when there is rotation, no point out of the axis can II
either rest or move in a straight line. Therefore the cen- Po!it'
tre of position will be in the axis.
Cor. 12. If attracting particles be left to their mutual
attraction, they will coalesce about their centre of position.
For their attractions do not affect the aggregate or aver¬
age motion in any direction. Therefore the centre of po¬
sition remains at rest while they are brought together around
ft- (o. o. o.)
POSITRA, a sea-port town of Hindustan, in the province
of Gujerat, and district of Okamindel. The inhabitants, like
those of many others of the coast towns in India, have been
long addicted to piracy ; which was prosecuted with ardour,
notwithstanding an agreement between the chiefs and the
British to lay aside these depredations. A British force
was in consequence sent against the town, which wras taken,
and the wralls levelled with the ground. Long. 69. 17. E.
Lat. 22. 23. N.
POSON, one of the smaller Philippine islands, near the
west coast of Leyta. Long. 124. 24. E. Lat. 10. 43. N.
POSSESSION Island, in the South Pacific Ocean, dis¬
covered by Monsieur Marion in 1772. It is of a round form
and mountainous. Long. 41. 40. E. Lat. 46. 30. N. There
is another island of this name in the South Pacific Ocean,
near the north point of New Holland. It was taken pos¬
session of by Captain Cook in the name of Great Britain.
Long. 218. 21. E. Lat. 10. 33. N.
POSSESSIVE, in Grammar, a term applied to pronouns,
which denote the enjoyment or possession ofany thing either
in particular or in common; as meus,m\x\e', tarns, thine; suns,
his own, her own, its own, or their own.
POSTERIOR, a term of relation, implying something
behind, or that comes after, another. In this sense it is
used in opposition to prior and anterior.
POSTERN, in fortification, a small gate, usually made
in the angle of the flank of a bastion, or in that of the cur¬
tain, or near the orillon, and descending into the ditch; by
which the garrison can march in and out, unperceived by
the enemy, either to relieve the works, or to make sallies
against an enemy. The word is also used in general for any
private or back door.
POST-HORSE, a rocky inlet in the Eastern seas, near
the west coast of the island of Celebes. Long. 119. 18. E.
Lat. 5. N.
POSTHUMOUS, a child born after the death of his fa¬
ther, or taken out of the body of a dead mother ; and hence
frequently applied to the works of an author not published
until after his decease.
POSTIL, a name anciently given to a note in the mar¬
gin of the Bible, and afterwards to one in any other book
posterior to the text.
POSTILLIONS, a chain of rocks in the Eastern Seas,
about 60 miles in length from north to south. Long. 119.
18. to 119. 54. E. Lat. 6. 15. to 6. 48. S.
POSTLIMINIUM, amongst the Romans, the return of
one who had gone to sojourn elsewhere, or had been ban¬
ished, or taken by an enemy of his own country or state.
POST, a word derived from the Latin positus, set or plac¬
ed. It is used in several different meanings, but all of them
referring either immediately or remotely to the primitive
sense aiposition. Thus the word post signifies a stake, or
piece of timber set upright; a station, particularly a mili¬
tary station; an office or employment; an operation in book¬
keeping ; a conveyance for letters or dispatches; a particu¬
lar mode of travelling.
486
POST-OFFICE.
History. It has been usual to trace the origin of posts to a remote
antiquity ; certain establishments, having something in com¬
mon with the modern post system, being found to have ex¬
isted at an early period of the world’s history. Herodotus
and Xenophon mention that, amongst the ancient Persians,
stations were appointed at intervals along the great roads ot
the empire, where couriers were constantly kept in readi¬
ness to convey dispatches and intelligence. Similar institu¬
tions, as we learn from Suetonius, were maintained amongst
the Komans in the time of Augustus, and such probably ex¬
isted much earlier.
But although the name of the post may be traced to this
source, (from the Latin word positus, whether as applied to
the accommodation and means of transport placed at inter¬
vals for the service of the couriers, or to the couriers them¬
selves, placed or posted at the several stations,) such institu¬
tions obviously bear but a general resemblance to the post-
office of the present times. The couriers wrere mere state
messengers, the communication only to and from the seat
of government; nor, as far as appears, was there any regu¬
lar machinery for the receipt and delivery of letters, so es¬
sential to the idea of a modern post establishment.
The posts which were first instituted in the kingdoms of
modern Europe, as those by Charlemagne and Louis XI. of
France, the Emperor Charles V., and some other sovereigns,
differed little, if at all, from those now described. It is in¬
deed probable, that whenever the posts or couriers were ap¬
pointed to perform their journeys at stated periods (which,
as soon as the occasions for employing them became fre¬
quent, would be found at once the most economical and
effective mode,) such a convenient means of conveying cor¬
respondence, though primarily intended only for state pur¬
poses, would soon come to be used by individuals. Houses
of call, for the receipt and delivery of letters, would in pro¬
cess of time be established by custom, if not by regular ap¬
pointment ; and in this way might grow up the modern post
system. The earlier posts instituted in Europe, however,
were in general but of temporary duration; their existence
being dependent sometimes on occasion, sometimes on the
disposition or policy of particular monarchs.
Between the end of the fifteenth and beginning of the
seventeenth century, indeed, there were several members,
in succession, of the noble family of Taxis in Germany
who applied themselves in a remarkable manner to the
establishment of posts, and the office of postmaster-general
of the empire was eventually conferred on the family as
a hereditary fief. As certain posts settled by this family
('at a period preceding that in which the modern post sys¬
tem was generally introduced in Europe,) continued per¬
manent, such posts may be considered (unless, indeed, they
wTere at first formed on the modern plan (as affording an in¬
stance of transition from the ancient to the modern system.
In other cases, however, there is no room for representing
the latter as having grown out of any extension, adaptation,
or improvement of the former. Thus, in our own country,
the insular position of which made our sovereigns less anx¬
ious about intelligence from their frontier, nothing of the
nature of a public post establishment can be said to have History,
existed, (with an immaterial exception in the reign of Ed-
ward IV.) until after the modern form was introduced, the rise
of which it is a matter of no difficulty to explain. The convey¬
ance of letters, indeed, is what must inevitably become, in the
course of human transactions, as much matter of necessity, as
the conveyance of persons or of commodities ; and the same
circumstances which generate the formation of roads and
bridges, and give existence to the trade or occupation of
carrier, shipmaster, or innkeeper, must necessarily lead to
the employment of the post messenger, under greater or
less degrees of system and regularity.
History, more attentive to record the transactions of mo¬
narchs, than the steps by which communities effect their ad¬
vancement and improve their conveniences, furnishes no¬
thing beyond an incidental notice of the modes by which the
circulation of correspondence was conducted, before it be¬
came matter of state regulation. Of course, however, it is
not to be supposed that no such modes existed, or that no¬
tices of these are entirely wanting. The conveyance and de¬
livery of letters was often part of the regular occupation of
travelling pedlars and others whose business led them to per¬
form stated or frequent journeys. When commerce began to
advance, regular conveyances for correspondence were esta¬
blished between some of the principal trading cities, either
by the municipal authorities,1 or by concert of private indi¬
viduals or associations. A permanent establishment of mes¬
sengers for the conveyance of letters was attached to the uni¬
versity of Paris, from the beginningof the thirteenth century,
and, indeed, was not abolished until the year 1719, long after
a general post had been settled in France. Other universities
were similarly provided.2 In some instances powerful and
opulent individuals established posts, either as a mercantile
speculation, or for the convenience of any district in the
prosperity of which they took an interest. But although
the conveyance of correspondence was thus brought to some
degree of system, or rather prevailed under a variety of
systems, even in places where the state authorities had not
yet provided any public establishment for this purpose, it
is easy to see that communication, especially between more
distant places, must have been slow, irregular, and insecure.
The advantage and even necessity of having a uniform and
legalized system of post conveyance, could not have failed
to present itself to th£ eyes both of subjects and rulers ;
although it may be a question whether the sovereigns who
first established such systems in their dominions were, in
general, moved so much by large and enlightened views of
public benefit, as by the wish to create, according to the
practice so usual in that age, a lucrative trading monopoly
in behalf of some of their favourites.
The establishment of the modern post system, then, in
regard to the mode of its taking place in some of the prin¬
cipal countries of Europe, is not properly to be viewed as
of the nature of a political or civil invention ; being merely
the assumption, on the part of the state, of the conduct of
a particular department of human affairs, which had grown
up with the progress of society, but could no longer be com-
1 Kennedy, in bis annals of Aberdeen, mentions that the magistrates of that city, in the year 1590, appointed a person to convey their
dispatches to and from Edinburgh and other places of royal residence. This functionary bore the style of council post, and was arrayed
in a garment of blue cloth with the town’s armorial bearings in silver upon the sleeve. Vol. i. p. 262.
2 In the act of Queen Anne there is a special clause, permitting letters to be sent to and from the universities of Oxford and Cam¬
bridge, “in manner as heretofore hath been used, anything herein to the contrary notwithstanding.” The privilege has since ceased to exist.
POST-OFFICE.
487
History, petently managed by individuals, whether acting severally or
^V'^'^in concert. And accordingly, in acts and ordinances rela¬
tive to posts, there is not so much in the shape of offer of
a new species of accommodation, as of prohibition against
procuring the same accommodation by any other than the
offered means.
The notices we possess of the early history of the Bri¬
tish post-office, are but meagre and indistinct. What they
amount to may be stated as follows. There was a chief post¬
master of England in the reign of Elizabeth, if not earlier,
Randolph having that title assigned him by Camden (1581) ;
but his duties, of which that author takes no notice, proba¬
bly related but partially, if at all, to the conveyance of cor¬
respondence.1 James I. appointed a postmaster to take
charge of the conveyance of letters to and from foreign
parts ; and different persons are named as successively en¬
joying this office during his reign and that of his son Charles.
In 1635 Charles established a letter office for England and
Scotland, which may properly be regarded as the origin of
the British post-office. The persons to whose management
it was committed, were directed to establish, within a limit¬
ed time, a post from London to Edinburgh, one to West¬
chester and Holyhead, and another to Plymouth and Exe¬
ter ; and the journey from London to the termination of
each of these lines and back, was appointed to be perform¬
ed in six days. Bye-posts were ordered to be established,
and other principal lines opened upas occasion might arise;
and conveyance of letters otherwise than by post was now
prohibited within the kingdom, as it had formerly been be¬
tween the kingdom and places abroad.2
In the year 1642, a committee of the House of Commons
was appointed to report on certain matters connected with
the post-office ; and the subject continued afterwards, at in¬
tervals, to engage the attention of the House. In 1644, Mr.
Edmund Prideaux, who afterwards held the office of attor¬
ney-general to the commonwealth, and who had been chair¬
man of the committee of 1642, was elected postmaster-ge¬
neral by resolution of both Houses of Parliament; “ in the
execution of which office,” says Blackstone, “ he first estab¬
lished a weekly conveyance of letters into all parts of the
nation, thereby saving to the public the charge of maintain¬
ing postmasters to the amount of L.7000 per annum.”* This
has been interpreted to mean (whether correctly or not)
that the charges of the post-office previously to the improve¬
ment effected by Prideaux, exceeded its income by the sum
mentioned.4 Be this as it may, there seems to have been,
from the period of these improvements, a considerable pro¬
fit realised from the posts. Whether from a desire to share
in this profit, or for other reasons, the Common Council of
London, in the year 1649, set about establishing a separate
post-office; an attempt, however, which was promptly put
down by a resolution of the House of Commons, declaring
that “ the office of postmaster is and ought to be in the sole
power and disposal of Parliament.”
It appears likely, that, originally, any surplus revenue which
might be obtained from the posts, was allowed to belong to
the postmaster, and even that the charges for postage were
fixed by him, although subsequently regulated otherwise.
Thus, the proclamation of Charles I. in 1632,5 forbidding History,
the conveyance of letters abroad otherwise than by the post,
refers to the act of his father, by which the post to foreign
parts was first established; and narrates, that that act gave
to the postmasters “ power to take moderate salaries,” mean¬
ing, it might be supposed, to charge such rates as would af¬
ford moderate salaries ; and a little later, in regard to the
case of Wytherings, from whom the office of postmaster had
been sequestrated by proclamation in 1640,6 we find the
Commons in 1642 declaring the sequestration a grievance
and illegal, and “ that Mr. Wytherings ought to be restor¬
ed into the possession of his place as postmaster for foreign
parts, and to the mean profits received since he was out of
possession, deducting the reasonable and usual charge of
execution.”7 At a later period, commencing probably about
the time when Prideaux held the office of postmaster, it was
the custom to farm the revenues of the post-office.8
The post rates first established were twopence for a sin¬
gle letter for a distance under 80 miles, fourpence from 80
to 140, and sixpence above 140. About the year 1654, they
were fixed at twopence for 80 miles, and threepence for a
greater distance.
Under the authority of the Protector and his Parliament,
some material changes were again made in regard to the
management of the post-office in 1657, by which it was
brought nearer to the model under which it has more lat¬
terly subsisted. An advantage held forth in an ordinance9
passed on this occasion, as one that was to be derived from
the establishment of posts, is worth noticing, namely, that
“ they will be the best means to discover and prevent many
dangerous and wicked designs against the commonwealth.”
Possibly a hint from Charles, some twenty years before, as
to making the post-office afford this sort of convenience,
had not been very well taken. It does not appear, however,
that either at this or any subsequent time, the secrecy of
correspondence passing through the British post-office, was
ever violated to serve the purposes of government.10
The arrangements made in 1657 were confirmed, and
some further improvements effected, at the Restoration.11 In
1663, the post-office revenues were assigned to the Duke
of York and his heirs male,12 and again settled, after his ac¬
cession to the throne, on the king and his successors, thus
becoming part of the hereditary revenues of the crown.
From this time nothing of importance seems to have occur¬
red ih the history of the post-office, until the year 1710,
when was passed the statute 9 Anne, ch. 10, which may
be called the charter of the British post-office.
In the system of posts established by Charles I. in 1635,
provision was made for the conveyance of letters between
England and Scotland, but the royal ordinance makes no
mention of an internal post for the latter kingdom. The
postage between the two capitals was then eightpence; in
the time of Cromwell it was fourpence. After the Restora¬
tion, the postage to Berwick was fixed at threepence. In
the latter part of this century, however, there was a post-
master-general in Scotland, and posts on some of the prin¬
cipal lines of road. In 1667, a post was established to pass
between Edinburgh and Aberdeen twice a-week, and one
1 The name oi vests as already observed, had its origin in relation to an arrangement of travelling stations, a relation which it continued
to preserveHnd fefoS the estabLhmern of tor office! the postmaster use of the term not yet obsolete) ffie person who proved
the means of conveyance from one station to another. The necessity of regulation an superm eiu en gc 1 ,, t 0f
led to the appointment of a postmaster-general, to whom such superintendence was committed. For some time alter the establishment of
letter-offices, the duties of postmaster, in the earlier and later meaning of the term, were conjome
  r ’ 3 Com. book j. ch. 8.
2 Fcedera, tom. xix. p. 649.
4 It is stated that the revenue in 1614 was estimated at L.5000. Macphersons °.f Commeice, vol. >fi- P*
6 Fcedera, tom- xx. p. 429. 7 Journals.
Journals, 28th March, 164?.
In a view of the public revenue made up by a
5 Rymer’s Fcedera, tom xix. p. 385. t m non
8 They were farmed in 1654, by a person named Maubey, or Manley, tor H.1U, . , t r ,
Committee of the Commons in 1669, there is an item, “ By postage of letters in arm, . , . , . . p. - .
■» utlmpMrfbJS-X in tbe declaration made by every post-office, at his entrance into office, that a letter may be opened by
warrant of a Secretary of State. . TT ,.
11 12th Charles II. c. 35. 12 15th Cbarks IL c’
488
History*
POST-OFFICE.
about the sametime, between Edinburgh and Inverness once
' a-week.1 Somewhat earlier, (in 1662) a post was established
between Ireland and Scotland, and the privy council gave Ro¬
bert Main, then postmaster-general, an allowance of L.200
sterling, to build a packet boat for conveying the mails be¬
tween Portpatrick and Donaghadee. 1 he postage to Ireland
was sixpence. But whatever was effected in these respects
in Scotland, seems to have been entirely by the authority of
the local executive, or the magistrates of the principal towns;
the first legislative act appointing an internal post in Scot¬
land, being that of the 20th of the 5th Session of the 1st
Parliament of William III., passed at Edinburgh in 1695.
The preamble of this act embodies the statement that, “ for
the maintenance of mutual correspondence, and preventing
of many inconveniences that happen by private posts, sever¬
al public post-offices have been heretofore erected for carry¬
ing and receiving letters by posts, to and from most parts
and places of this kingdom.” This act, as also that of the
12th Charles II., was repealed (unless so far as re-enacted)
bv the statute of Anne above referred to.
The act of Queen Anne established a general post-office
for, and throughout the kingdom of Great Britain and Ire¬
land, and the colonies in North America and the West
Indies, with one master of such office, who was to bear the
name and style of her Majesty’s postmaster-general. The
postmaster-general was empowered to keep one chief letter-
office in Edinburgh, one in Dublin, one in New York, and
others in the West Indies. In the year 1784, however,
about which time there prevailed in Ireland a remarkable
jealousy of any assumption of superiority on the part of
Britain, an act was passed by the Irish parliament, by which,
as well as by certain corresponding acts2 on the part of the
British legislature, the Irish post-office was withdrawn from
the government of the British postmaster-general, and plac¬
ed under an independent officer styled “ his Majesty’s post¬
master-general for Irelandbut the two offices were, agree¬
ably to the recommendation of the commissioners of revenue
inquiry, again consolidated by an act passed in 1831 ;J and
at the same time the office of deputy postmaster-general
of Scotland was abolished. The whole affairs relating to
the post-office throughout the kingdom, were thus put un¬
der the direct management of the London board ; but the
secretaries at Edinburgh and Dublin are still the organs of
communication with the country offices, and exercise a
general administrative superintendence in their respective
divisions of the kingdom.
During the period for which an account has now been
given of what may be called the constitutional history of.
the post-office, a very great increase has, as may be suppos¬
ed, taken place, in the speed of conveyance, and the extent
of the communications maintained.
For a considerable time after the first establishment of
the post-office, there were no relays of post-boys or horses
at different stages ; one man and horse accomplishing the
whole ride, and taking the necessary rests by the way. The
post between Edinburgh and Aberdeen stopped one night
at Dundee, and another at Montrose. This system con¬
tinued in Scotland till about the middle of the last century.
Until 1763, the communication between London and Edin¬
burgh was only three times a week ; but in that year it was
made to be five times a week. At first, the mail was 85
hours in travelling from London to Edinburgh, and 131
hours in returning. In 1757, the time was shortened to 82
hours in the one case, and 85 in the other. Latterly, the
journey has been performed by the mail coach, in 42 and
45 hours, the 42 being farther reduced, by the use of the
curricle from Morpeth, now discontinued, to 40. Mails History,
are at present conveyed partially by railway, from London to
Edinburgh in 33 hours, and from Edinburgh to London in 36.
Until the year 1788, there was no direct mail from Lon¬
don to Glasgow. Previously to that period, the course of
post had been five days, the letters being sent round by
Edinburgh ; and as no mails were dispatched from the latter
city upon Sunday, there was in consequence one arrival the
less at Glasgow each week. Dr. Cleland4 tells, that, when
a direct mail conveyance was first established (a little be¬
fore the time now spoken of) from London to Carlisle, the
mail for Glasgow, that otherwise would have been the one
delayed on Sunday at Edinburgh, was transmitted through
Carlisle to Glasgow in four days; notwithstanding which
the mails of the other days were allowed for a year to be
carried round by Edinburgh; and the delay, the means of
saving which was thus shewn in regard to one day in the
week, acquiesced in for all the other days.
One of the most remarkable steps which the post-office
has made in advance, is usually and justly considered to be
the adoption of Mr. Palmer’s celebrated plan in 1784. The
chief part of this plan, as is well known, was, to have the
mails conveyed in charge of an armed guard, by the stage¬
coaches, (which thus became mail coaches) instead of by a
boy on horseback, or mail cart, as formerly. The credit
due to Mr. Palmer, is not perhaps so properly that of haying
discovered a means to an end, as that of having conceived
and aimed at the end itself; for it is not easy to see how
the increased speed and regularity, which were in effect
obtained, were bound up in his specific proposal, or how
(as the advantages of that proposal are sometimes described)
the post-office was at once to borrow regularity from the stage¬
coaches, and the stage-coaches from the post office. Mr.
Palmer’s merit really consisted in seeing that a greater de¬
gree of speed and regularity in post conveyance was possi¬
ble, which nobody saw but himself; and in catching the hint
from the stage-coaches, which nobody else caught. The
advantage of employing the stage-coaches instead of con¬
veyances furnished expressly by the post-office, would seem
to resolve mainly into the point of economy.
Mr. Palmer was afterwards appointed controller of the
post-office, in which capacity he is understood to have made
some important improvements in the internal details and
arrangements.
The first mails on Mr. Palmer’s plan, were the Bath and
Bristol, on the 2d August 1784. Previously to the adop¬
tion of this plan, the ordinary speed of the post is said to
have been but about three miles and-a-half in an hour.
After that, the speed wras doubled. At present, the average
speed of the mail coaches, is eight miles seven furlongs, the
highest reaching to ten miles five furlongs. This is exclu¬
sive of stops.
The number of miles travelled over'in England and Scot¬
land, by the mail coaches in 1833, was 5,911,006; in 1836
it was 6,643,217.5
Mails were first conveyed between Liverpool and Man¬
chester, in 1828. Three communications took place daily
between these towns, until September 1835; afterwards there
were four, and latterly there have been six, from Liverpool
to Manchester, and five the contrary way. The important line
of railway connecting London with Birmingham, Liverpool,
and Manchester, and extending northwards to Preston, hav¬
ing lately been opened, mails are now regularly transmitted
by it from the capital to the various towns in the extensive
and populous district through which it passes, and onwards
to Scotland and Ireland, from its terminating points in each
direction. A travelling post office is conveyed along the
1 The former was established by the magistrates of Aberdeen, but was transferred to the direction of the Scotch postmaster-general
in 1674..—Kennedy’s AnnaZs, vob i. p. 262. 2 24 Geo. III. c. 6, 8. , 3 1 Wm. IV. c. 8.
4 Statistical Account of Glasgow. s App. to First Report of Postage Com. 1838, No. 23.
POST-OFFICE.
History, line, in which letters are sorted during the passage, the ad-
vantage of which will be afterwards explained. The only,
or principal, other line of railway by which mails are at
present conveyed, is that connecting Carlisle and Newcas¬
tle, but this mode of carriage must of course extend itself
as newr lines are completed. A late act1 empowers the
postmaster-general to require railway proprietors to carry
the mails at a rate fixed by arbitration. The effect of the
rapid transmission of correspondence by railway, increased
a.s that rapidity yet may be, if there were added such a re¬
duction of postage as has lately been proposed, would al¬
most be that of bringing the inhabitants of the extremes of
the kingdom into personal communication. The revolution
which may thus be produced on trade, science, government,
and social economy, it is hardly possible to calculate.
In the course of the last twelve or fifteen years, the facilities
of communication, both inland and foreign, have been mate¬
rially extended, by reduction of postage duties and otherwise.
Until the year 1827, letters passing bettveen Britain and
Ireland had been charged the added amount of the British
and Irish land postage, severally taken. From that year, the
rate has been calculated the same as if such letters had been
conveyed the whole distance in Great Britain. At the same
time, the law which required double postage to be charged
on one sheet of paper with two letters written on it, or a let¬
ter and invoice, &c. was repealed, and a single sheet declared
to be in any case but a single letter.2
In the year 1835 it was enacted,3 that after an agreement
shall have been made with the post-office of any foreign king¬
dom or state, it shall be optional with persons sending let¬
ters by post to such foreign kingdom, to pay both the Bri¬
tish and foreign postage at the time of sending the same, or
to send the same without payment of any part of the post¬
age, or to pay the British postage only: persons residing
in foreign kingdoms having the same option. Following
out the powers given by this statute, a convention was
entered into, and signed at Paris, on the 30th March 1836,
between his Britannic Majesty and the King of the French,
in wdiich the requisite arrangements are made for giving
the proposed option as to payment of postage on all cor¬
respondence between France, on the one hand, and Great
Britain and Ireland, and those British colonies and posses¬
sions where the post-office of Great Britain has establish¬
ed post-offices, on the other. The postage between Paris
and the British frontier is fixed at one franc, between Lon¬
don and the French frontier at tenpence, and in proportion
for other distances in each kingdom. And though under
the present arrangements the option of sending letters with¬
out payment is confined to those for France alone, letters
may be sent through France, paid for the full distance, to
any post town in Switzerland, Sardinia, Central Germany,
or Bavaria; also to the Southern Italian States, as far as
Sarzane, the Italian frontier of Sardinia, and to Austria,
Bohemia, Venice, &c., as far as the French frontier offices
of Huninguen or Forbach.
By the same statute,4 the postage on letters sent by pri¬
vate ship from the United Kingdom to places beyond seas,
(which until then had been one-half of the packet rates),
was fixed at the uniform rate of eightpence, single, on let¬
ters posted at the port, and one shilling if posted at any other
part of the kingdom. Letters were at the same time per¬
mitted to be sent abroad, from any port, by a private vessel,
without passing through the post-office, or from one port to
another, within the United Kingdom, by private ship, at a
sea postage of eightpence.
In 1835, a post communication was opened up between
Britain and India, through the Mediterranean, by which the
course of post with that part of the world has been very History,
greatly shortened. Letters for India can also be forwarded
through France by steam boats sailing three times a month
from Marseilles.
Very important facilities and immunities have recently
been given in regard to the transmission of neiapapers.
At first the transmission of newspapers seems to have
been^a privilege confined to certain officers in the post-office.
In 1763 an act was passed,* giving the sanction of law to
what then seems to have become the current practice,
namely, that of allowing newspapers to be sent free by mem¬
bers of Parliament and certain public officers, when signed
on the outside by their hand, or to such members at any
place of which they had given notice in writing to the post-
master-general. By gradual relaxations, the restrictions on
the free transmission of newspapers degenerated into a mere
form, that of printing or writing a member’s name on the
cover; and in 1825 an act6 was passed, rendering even the
observance of this form unnecessary. The same act, as
subsequently amended,’ allowed printed newspapers to be
sent to the colonies, by the packet boats, at a postage of
one penny halfpenny each paper, and colonial newspapers
to be brought to Britain and Ireland, by packet or private
ship, at a postage of threepence. In 18348 the postage on
newspapers sent to the colonies by packet, and on colonial
newspapers brought by packet, was wholly taken off. At
this time, too, a most important enactment was made in re¬
gard to the transmission of newspapers to and from foreign
states. Hitherto the power of such transmission (unless at
an expense amounting to a prohibition) had been enjoyed
exclusively by certain officers in the post-office, from whom
individuals could only obtain the accommodation at a con¬
siderable charge. By the statute now passed, British and
Irish newspapers were allowed to be sent to foreign states,
and foreign newspapers received into Britain and Ireland
at a postage of twopence for each paper. A later statute9
extends tlse accommodation still farther, by a clause autho¬
rising the postmaster-general to allow newspapers to pass
free to and from such foreign states as grant a correspond¬
ing allowance in regard to Britain; or even, if he sees fit, with¬
out such a reciprocal arrangement on the part of other states ;
or to impose in any case an equivalent duty. And, by vir¬
tue of these provisions, there is now a free transmission of
newspapers between Britain and the following states and
places abroad: viz. Hamburg, Bremen, Cuxhaven, Den¬
mark, Spain, Greece, Ionian Islands, Hayti, Buenos Ayres,
Brazil, Columbia. British newspapers are sent to France.
without any charge in this country, but pay four centimes
there. NewspapersFrance are charged one halfpenny
in Britain.
At this time also newspapers to or from penny post towns,
passing through the general post, were freed from penny
postage.
To these facilities for the circulation of newspapers is to
be added that arising from the important alteration in the
stamp laws, by which the duty on newspapers was reduced,
from and after the 15th September 1836, from B^d. (nomi¬
nally 4d.) to Id.10
In proceeding to give a brief account of the post-office B,lsh|e's
business and establishments, it may not be improper to ac*" blislfmeiits
vert to the new and improved accommodation lately pro- IS1 ^ *■
vided for the use of this department, in the metropolis.
About the year 1815 the premises in Lombard Street being
found, after every possible enlargement, to be quite inade¬
quate for the uses they were required to serve, measures
were taken for the erection of a more ample, commodious,
and elegant structure. It was not, however, until Septem-
1 1 and 2 Viet. c. 98. * 7th and 8th Geo. IV- r. 21. 3 5th and 6th Will IV. c. 25.
5 4th Geo. III. c. 24. 6 6th Geo. IV. c. 68.
8 4th and 5th Will. IV. c. 44. 9 6th and 7th Will. IV. c. 54. (1836.)
vol. xvm.
4 5th and 6th Will. IV. c. 25.
7 7th and 8th Geo. IV. c. 21.
19 6th and 7th Wdl. IV. c. 76.
3 Q
jj
490
POST-OFFICE.
Business ber 1829, that this purpose was finally accomplished, and
and the new building brought into a state of readiness tor the
establish- pUblic service. It is constructed of Portland stone, alter a
design by Mr. Smirke, and is in length about 390 feet, width
' 130, and height 64. The principal front, towards the west,
in St. Martin’s-le-grand, is composed of three Ionic porticos,
that in the centre surmounted with a pediment. 1 he mid¬
dle space in the interior, lying between the principal and
back entrances, is occupied by a hall of eighty by sixty feet
in extent, having a range of columns and pilasters on each
side. On the right, or south side of this hall, are the secie-
tary’s, accountant’s, and receiver-general’s chambers, toge¬
ther with the foreign letter and twopenny post-offices. I he
opposite side contains the inland, the newspaper, and the
ship-letter offices. The mails, inwards and outwards, pass
through a vestibule on the eastern front, communicating
with the inland office. The latter is nearly ninety feet in
length, and about fifty-six in width ; the letter-carriers, or
newspaper office, adjoining the inland, 103 by 35. The
building contains a variety of other apartments for the dif¬
ferent branches of the service, general and particular. To
avoid the inconvenience and confusion of communication,
through the public hall, between the departments on each
side of it, the letters are conveyed from the one to the other
through a tunnel below, by means of a curious machine! y
contrived on purpose.
The office at St. Martin’s-le-grand, may be said to con¬
sist of two distinct establishments; one is the grewera/post-
office, properly so called, or that devoted to the post busi¬
ness of the empire in general; the other is just the post-
office of London. In the first division, under the post¬
master-general, are the departments of the secretary, ac¬
countant, the dead letter, mail coach offices, &c. The prin¬
cipal departments of the second division, are the inland and
twopenny post offices. 1 he former has charge of the dis¬
patch of the London letters and newspapers, and of those
from abroad, passing through London, to all parts of the
kingdom. It also manages the delivery of all those arriv¬
ing at, and destined for London.1 Subject to this depart¬
ment there are seventy receiving-houses within a circle of
three miles from the office. Within this circle letters are
taken in and delivered without any charge beyond the ge¬
neral post rates. The inland office employs eighty-four
clerks, two hundred and ninety-one subsorters and letter-
carriers, and about fifty messengers, stampers, &c. The
most arduous business of this department, that requiring the
greatest energy and rapidity, is the dispatch of the mails,
in number twenty-nine, at eight o’clock each evening. So
near has the time up to which letters and newspapers are
received, been brought to the hour of dispatch, and such is
the increase of business, particularly in regard to newspa¬
pers, that it almost exceeds the utmost efforts of the per¬
sons engaged to accomplish the duties within the limited
space. By an account kept on the 19th February 1838, it
was found that of 47,795 letters received at the inland of¬
fice, up to fifteen minutes before eight, only 9>428 had ar¬
rived before half-past five, and 9,842 came in after seven.
The sum of 6d. charged on each letter taken in during a
limited time each day after the receiving box is shut,
amounts to above L.1000 a-year. Sometimes 30,000 news¬
papers are received within the last fifteen minutes allowed
for taking them in. The letters are successively stamped,
sorted into divisions corresponding with the principal lines
of road, taxed, (or marked with postage, after the neces¬
sary examination,)2 and subdivided for post towns. The
amount charged on each postmaster is then told, and en¬
tered in his bill, and duplicate preserved. From thirty-five
to fifty-five persons are employed in sorting, twenty in tax¬
ing, and as many in telling up. The newspapers are sort- Business
ed by the letter-carriers in their own office: from 120 to an4
300 being thus employed on different days. Six or more '
are occupied in examining newspapers, to detect private,
communications, enclosures, &c. From forty to sixty news¬
papers are charged daily, the postage amounting to L.100
a-week. After all these operations are finished, the bags
are to be filled, tied, sealed, and delivered to the guards.
The daily average of letters dispatched from London is
36,000. On Mondays the number is from 40,000 to 50,000.
The number of newspapers dispatched from London in
the last three months of 1835, was 3,146,127 ; of 183/,
5,020,230 ; the one period being previous, the other sub¬
sequent, to the reduction of the stamp duty. On Saturdays
and Mondays, when the numbers are greatest, (sometimes
exceeding 100,000,) it is necessary to engage one or two
outside seats on the coaches for their conveyance. Some¬
times they are sent separately by the stage-coaches. About
3000 are sent by the Edinburgh mail. The weight of the
Edinburgh mail, as ascertained by one evening’s trial, was
as follows : sacks and bags, 1 cwt. 9 lb. 8 oz.; 2296 news¬
papers, 2 cwt. 2 qrs. 3 lb. 8 oz.; two stamp parcels, 1 qr.
12 lb.; 484 franks, 1 qr. 19 lb. 15 oz.; 1555 chargeable
letters, 1 qr. 6 lb. 14 oz.; in all, 4 cwt. 2 qrs. 23 lb. 13 oz.
The weight of the Holyhead mail on the 30th June 1838,
was: bags, 1 cwt. 10 lbs.; letters, 1 cwt. 2 qrs. 17 lbs.;
Newspapers, 15 cwt. 1 qr. 18 lbs.
In the morning, on the arrival of the mails, the bags are
counted and inspected, to ascertain that all have arrived,
and with the seals secure ; after which they are emptied,
and turned inside out, and the amount of the postage mark¬
ed on the paid letters compared with the account sent by
the postmaster. The letters then undergo an examination,
in order to its being seen that all have been rightly charged,
as single, double, &c. Being then stamped, they are dis¬
tributed into several larger divisions, as those for the two¬
penny post, for the window-men, and for the different dis¬
tricts of the town ; which last divisions are again subdivid¬
ed for the walks of individual letter-carriers. Each of the
different persons to be engaged in the delivery is then re¬
quired to tell the amount of postage on that portion of the
letters committed to him ; and on his reporting an amount
corresponding with that brought out by a separate telling
previously made, but not communicated, the charge be¬
comes established, and is signed by the party. In case of
difference, reference is made to a third person. Each man s
letters being then arranged, the delivery commences. The
letter-carriers having the more distant walks, are conveyed
to the ground by omnibuses, (of which ten are employed
for this purpose,) each man being dropped at the com¬
mencement of his walk. In the morning duties, there are
fifteen persons employed in opening the bags, and check¬
ing the accounts ; nine in examining letters ; fifty sorters ;
and ten tellers. The number of letters arriving in London
daily, is from 30,000 to 40,000.
There is a separate department for dispatch and receipt
of foreign mails, and another for the same duties in regard
to ship-letter mails. Masters of vessels are allowed 2d. for
each letter brought from, or carried abroad.
The number of letters from France in the year 183/,
was from 30,000 to 36,000, and about half as many more
in transit, through France. Letters expedited to France,
from 33,000 to 39,000 ; in transit through France, from
11,000 to 15,000. Newspapers sent to the continent of
Europe, about 30,000 per month ; received, about 20,000.
The London penny, or twopenny post, was first set on foot
by a person named Murray, an upholsterer, about the year
1683, and by him assigned to one Dockwra. A suit, how-
1 Foreign mails arriving after the general post delivery, are delivered by the twopenny post letter-carriers.
2 Stamping is performed at the rate of from 100 to 200 letters in a minute; examining and taxing, 33; and sorting, 30.
POST-OFFICE.
Business
and
establish¬
ments.
ever, was commenced against the latter by Government,
and the management of this post withdrawn from him. But
he received an indemnification, and was afterwards appoint¬
ed controller of the office. The present limits of the two¬
penny and threepenny posts were fixed in 1831.
K penny ox twopenny post-office delivers and collects the
correspondence of a particular portion of the district be¬
longing to any principal office. In the former respect,
(however the duties may be farther subdivided,) it just per¬
forms the part of one letter-carrier, with merely the differ¬
ence of the additional charge on the letters. All letters
arriving by the general post at London, for parties residing
beyond a circle of three, and within a circle of twelve
miles, are transferred to the twopenny post department for
delivery ; and letters posted for dispatch within the same
space, are collected by this department, and transferred to
the general post. Such letters are charged 2d. in addition
to the general post rates. So far the London twopenny
post performs exactly the same functions as any of the
penny posts in other parts of the kingdom. It differs from
them in so far as it collects and delivers all the local cor¬
respondence, not merely in its own portion of the district
annexed to the principal office, but in the whole of that
district: having its own receiving houses, and its own let¬
ter-carriers, within, as well as beyond, the circle of general
post delivery. Letters both posted and delivered within
the three-mile circle, are charged with a postage of two¬
pence ; those crossing beyond it into the space within the
wider circle, or vice versa ; also those both posted and de¬
livered between the inner and outer circles, threepence.
The twopenny post subdivides its duties within the three-
mile circle, among four branch offices, besides the chief
office of the department. The correspondence to and from
these, as well as to and from the district beyond the three-
mile circle, is conveyed by horse posts, or mail carts. The
rides to the country are ten in number, some dividing into
two branches, besides four cross rides. There are 209 two¬
penny post receiving houses1 within the three-mile circle,
and 194 in the country, and 640 letter-carriers and assist¬
ants, of whom 270 are employed within the smaller circle.
Seven collections and deliveries take place daily within the
three-mile circle, and from two to six between it and the
outer one. The whole of the twopenny and threepenny post
letters, wheresoever collected, are carried to the chief office,
and reissued from thence, with exception only of those pass¬
ing between receiving houses lying in the line of one ride.
The whole number of persons employed on the London
general and twopenny post establishment in 1835, was 1338.
This includes the country surveyors, 7, and mail guards,
228. In the same year there were 258 persons on the Dub¬
lin, and 97 on the Edinburgh establishment.2 But there
has been some increase since.
The number of post-offices is constantly varying. At
present they may be stated about as follows : England 649 ;
Scotland 211 ; Ireland 328 : Sub-offices '5 in the three king¬
doms, respectively 191—105—102 : Penny posts 1085
225—197. Convention or fifth clause ^o^ in England 50.
There are 42 offices in the interior of Jamaica, and 33/ in
British North America.
There are in England, Scotland, and Ireland, 194 mail
coaches and other carriages; 217 saddle-horse posts; 3/4
mail carts, and 806 foot posts.
The following are the numbers of letters and newspa¬
pers posted at all the offices throughout the United King¬
dom, in the week commencing 15th January 1838 :
General post letters, paid   164,719
  unpaid, 776,543
Penny post,  paid,  16,998
 unpaid, 123,773
Privileged, 122,901
Total, 1,204,935
Of which
For England, 916,815
... Scotland, 128,584
... Ireland, 159,536
  1,204,935
Total newspapers, 842,646
London twopenny post, (not included above,) total let¬
ters, 231,900; newspapers, 10,724.
In the week commencing 29th January, the total number
was (including the London twopenny post) 1,550,620,—the
postage amounting to L.45,509 : Newspapers 858,927. In
the week commencing 5th March, the proportion of the
classes of general post letters w'as, (in the united kingdom),
single, 699,182 ; double, 38,562; treble, 11,358; ounce,
1,908 ; above an ounce, 2447.
The number of charged newspapers returned to the dead-
letter office in London in 1837, was above 19,000. The
number of undelivered letters, opened and returned to the
writers, are about 20,000 in a month.
The total number of ship-letters (i. e. letters by private
ship, not post-office packets,) both sent and received through
all the posts in the kingdom was,
For the year ending 5th January 1834, 1,044,000
  1838, 1,547,000
The two principal ship-letter ports are Liverpool and Hull;
the former being the great channel (by the weekly packets)
to America; the latter (by the steam-boats to Hamburgh
twice a-week,) to Germany and the north of Europe. The
number of letters sent by these, was,
Liverpool. Hull.
For the year ending 5th January 1834, 15,318 15,797
  1838, 63,116 47,457
The regular mail packets for the conveyance of foreign
and colonial correspondence are as follows :—
To France, every day except Sunday, by Dover and Ca¬
lais, (steam). To Belgium, by Dover and Ostend, four
times a-week, (steam). To Hamburgh from London, twice
a-week, and to Holland by London and Rotterdam, twice
a-week. (These two mails are conveyed by contract in pri¬
vate steam-vessels.)
From Falmouth, to Lisbon, Cadiz, and Gibraltar, once a-
week, (steam). From Gibraltar to Malta, Greece, and Ion¬
ian Islands, once a-fortnight, and from Malta to Egypt and
India, every four weeks, (steam).
To Jamaica, St. Domingo, and Leeward Islands, once a-
fortnight, carrying letters to La Guayra one fortnight, to
Carthagena the other. To Mexico and Cuba, monthly.
To Halifax, North America, monthly. To Madeira, Bra¬
zil, and Buenos Ayres, monthly.
The mails are conveyed between the West India islands
by steam-boats, on contract.
On the Falmouth station, there are thirty vessels employ¬
ed in the packet service, six at the Dover station, and eight
steam vessels from the Ihames.
2 p consolidation of the^n^^and^wopenny post receivffig-houses^ the^hree-mhe chcleAs^understoodbein^postnfaste^s-
Parhamentary Paper, No. 442. About ninety years betoie p | ^ ^ time ^ Edinb h establishment (Sir John
letter-”',nd “offlcer design,,ed “apprehender
of private letter-carriers.” fPresent State of Great by Mr. olton D45J ^ ^ ^ incipai offices. Fifth clause
po;tf.t°SieedS r«»r^roinfi^rSi* ^
become bound for any deficiency in the expense of maintaining them.
492
POST-OFFICE.
Business
and
establish¬
ments.
For communication between Britain and Ireland, there are
packets from Liverpool and Holyhead to Kingston, hom
Milford to Waterford, and from Port-Patrick to Donaghadee.
, There are also packets from Weymouth to Guernsey and
Jersey, Liverpool to Isle of Man, Aberdeen to Shetland, &c.
Until about fifteen years ago, the post-office had the whoie
charge of procuring, fitting out, and maintaining the difFei -
ent mail packets. About that time the Falmouth packets
were transferred to the Admiralty. A further transfer of
most or all of the others was recommended by different com¬
missions appointed to inquire into the management of the
post-office, and carried into effect last year, (1837). The
grounds of this recommendation were, that the duties re¬
quired for the efficient and economical management of the
packets, were such as the peculiar habits and qualifications
of the heads of a civil department did not adequately fit them
to perform. A great saving has accordingly been effected
by the change of management. The packet communication
with France is regulated by treaty made in 1833 ; and that
with Belgium by a similar treaty made the following year.1
France maintains her own packets for carriage of the french
mails to Dover ; but receives from L.10,000 to L. 12,000 an¬
nually from Britain for transit postage ofletters carried through
her dominions to Italy, Turkey, Switzerland, Spain, &c^,
according to a scale fixed by the treaties of 1802 and 1836.
Out of this, however, she has to pay to Austria the transit
duty of letters passing through that country. Hamburgh
and Holland pay nothing for having their correspondence
conveyed by British packets, but charge no transit. Bel¬
gium also charges no transit against Britain, and moreover
pays L.1000 yearly for packet conveyance, there being four
weekly mails to that country, and only two to Llamburgh
and fiolland. From L.200 to L.300 a-year is paid by Rio
Janeiro.
The mode in which letters are circulated, and the post
revenues collected, is as follows:—Each of the three capi¬
tals, London, Edinburgh, and Dublin, sends a bag direct to,
and receives one direct from, every office in its respective
division of the kingdom. Every postmaster sends a bag to
every office on the different lines of road leading from his own,
as far as the first office (inclusive), at which the mail convey¬
ance makes a stop. Into the bag for the most distant office,
are put all the letters (tied up together indiscriminately)
that are for places beyond it; and which, accordingly, are
here sorted into the bags for each place, as far as that, in¬
clusive, where the next stop takes place, and where the same
process is repeated. Letters thus sent to another office to
be sorted and forwarded are called forward letters. Such
as are to go off at a cross line, are sent, as forvcard, to the
office from which the cross line diverges. This is the gene¬
ral principle of the circulation. The moving post-office on
the railway answers all the purpose that a sorting office in¬
terposed between every two stations on the line would do,
at the same time saving the necessity of stoppage. Every
office conveys its letters, as forward, into the moving one
as it passes. In it, the mails for the station next occur¬
ring are immediately made up, ready against arrival
there : the letters going to stations beyond being sepa¬
rated, so to speak, as forward on the position of the mov¬
ing office, after passing that station. Letters are taxed
(or marked with postage) as well as stamped, at the office
where they are put in; and with every bag is sent a bill
containing simply two items, namely, the amount of postage
for letters in the bag, chargeable on the sending postmaster
for paid, and on the receiving, for unpaid. The bill conse¬
quently does not include the. paid postage on letters from
offices behind the sending postmaster’s, nor on wwjoafc?letters
going beyond the receiving postmaster’s: the former having
been already charged, the latter afterwards to be charged
on other offices. Thus the postage on every letter whatever, Rates,
paid or unpaid, is brought to the charge of one office or wv1**
another. Both the items of every bill are entered in an ac¬
count at each of the two offices to which its contents relate ;
the one account checking the other, and the bill remaining
to settle differences if any ; and when the accounts are sum¬
med, the charge against each postmaster is just his sent paid,
and received unpaid. This charge he liquidates either by
actual remittances, by allowances to his credit for his own
salary and other payments, and by his dead-letter account.
The last is vouched, first, by dead-letters actually returned;
secondly, by receipts for overcharges ; and thirdly, by claims
for letters re-sent to other offices ; which claims, as noted
on a form prepared for that purpose and transmitted along
with the re-sent letter, are certified by the receiving post¬
master ; and being forwarded to the inspector of dead-let¬
ters, serve to check the claimant’s account.
The country postmasters’ remittances are made to the se¬
cretary, who transfers them over to the receiver-general,
after furnishing a note of the amount to the accountant, who
from thence credits the postmaster, and debits the receiver-
general. The revenue collected at the general post-office
is paid direct into the hands of the receiver-general by the
persons actually collecting, who are merely the window
clerks and the letter-carriers ; the charge against each, cer¬
tified by the parties as admitted, being furnished at once to
the receiver-general and the accountant by the superintend¬
ing officer. No account of the letters is sent from the
general to the country offices ; the check being there main¬
tained betv/een one department and another. Postmasters
advancing the charge on a letter observed to be under-taxed,
are required to put their initials to the alteration, which, if
the letter is for their own delivery, is in effect sending out
a receipt for the additional charge.
The deputy postmasters-general in the colonies are charged
with the amount of letters sent them by each mail, in the
same way as the country postmasters within the kingdom ;
the method of check and account between the internal co¬
lonial offices being also the same as between the different
country offices at home.
The present rates of inland postage in the_United King- Rates,
dom are as follows:—
Britain.
d.
For any distance not exceeding 8 miles, 2
Above 8, not exceeding 15
15,   20
20,   30
30,   50
50,   80
80,   120
120,
170,
230,
170
230
300
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
Ireland,
(for same dis¬
tance in Irish
miles.)
d.
2 and
0 ...
0 ...
4 and
6 and
8 and
9 and 10
11 and 12
12 and 13
13 and 14
d.
3
3
4
5
7
9
And for every 100 miles above 300, (or fractional part
of that distance,) one penny additional.
If the amount of all the rates in this scale is taken, and
divided by the number of rates, it will yield an average of
9d. A similar process applied to the scale of 1710, gives
3^d. for the average. The increase in the intermediate pe¬
riod has been almost gradual, though the intervals between
the alterations have been very different. There was no al¬
teration from 1710 to 1765. Since that time, either in the
British or Irish, there have been ten alterations. In 1800
the average was 5|-d.; in 1810, 7-^d.
The sea rates from Port-Patrick, Holyhead, or Milford
1 Sixth Itq)ort of Commissioners of Post- Office Inquiry.
POS T-G
Exemp- Haven, and Liverpool, to Ireland, are respectively 4d. 2d.
nous, and 8d.; from Weymouth to Guernsey and Jersey 3d • and'
^%^from Liverpool to the Isle of Man, 6d. } ’ nd
Ihe packet postage fiom London to France is lOd • to
Switzerland, Is. 2d.; Holland and Belgium, and Germany
via France, Is. 4d ; Germany and north of Europe, (by
Hamburgh,) Is. 8d.; Spain, Italy, and Turkey, via France
Is. 7d.; Spam, via Cadiz, 2s. 2d.: to which is to be added
the inland late to London, less 2c?., from any office in the
country, where a letter may be posted. From Falmouth to
Portugal is Is. 7d.; Madeira, Azores, and Canaries, Is 8d •
Brazils, 2s. 7d.; West Indies and North America, Is 3d •
and inland postage to Falmouth, less Idf.; to Buenos Ayres'
Chili, Peru, 2s. Sd^; St Domingo, Is. 3d.; Carthagena^ La
Guayra, Mexico, Honduras, Cuba, 2s. Id.; and the full in¬
land postage to Falmouth. To Gibraltar, Malta, Ionian
Islands, Greece, Egypt, and India, (by steam from Falmouth )
a uniform rate of 2s. 6d. from all parts of the kingdom. To
Cape of Good Hope, East Indies, New South Wales, and
van Diemens Land, 2d. more than the inland postage.
Letters from India, Van Diemen’s Land, Cape ofGeod
Hope, &c., 4d. a letter above the inland postage ; from other
parts of the world by private ship, 8d. a single letter, and in
proportion for double, &c. The charge on ship-letters out¬
wards, has been already noticed.
Ah letters to places abroad must be paid at posting, ex¬
cept packet letters for the British colonies in America and
the West Indies, or for France. Failing of this, the letters
are opened at the dead-letter office, and returned to the
writers.
Letters to and from soldiers and seamen in the service,
pass through the whole British dominions for a postage of
one penny, payable in advance.1
Letters under an ounce weight are charged single, dou¬
ble, or tiiple, according to the number of pieces of which
they consist; triple being the highest rate below that weight.
An ounce is charged four single postages, and every addi¬
tional quarter of an ounce, a single postage more.
Exemp- Certain public officers, nearly a hundred in number, have
twns. the privilege of franking without any limitation either as to
weight or number of letters. Every member of parliament
can send ten and receive fifteen letters a-day, free; each
letter not exceeding one ounce in weight, and being to and
fiom a place within the United Kingdom. On occasion of
passing the bill for the regulation of the post-office in 1657,
“ a proviso was tendered for freeing members of parliament
and other officers of state from payment of any money for
letters, which was laid aside w ithout a question.”2 Freedom
from postage, however, was claimed by the House of Com¬
mons in 1660, but the claim wras afterwards dropped on an
assurance from the crown that the privilege would be allow¬
ed. Accordingly, a warrant wras always issued to the post-
master-general directing the allowance to the extent of two
ounces in weight.3 The privilege, however, was abused to
an enormous extent, so much so that the servants of mem-
F F I C E.
493
bers sometimes procured a number of franks for the pur- Exemp-
pose of selling them. Occasionally, too, considerable frauds tions.
were practised by writing promissory notes or other instru-
ments over the signature of a member given on a blank cover.
Many curious devices w^ere used by members in writine-
their signature to prevent this.4 The estimated postage of
flanked letters in 1/15 was L.23,600 ; in 1763 it had risen
to L. 170,700. Until that period, a letter passed free sim¬
ply by the signature of a member. Even the requirement
made by the act passed in 1763,5 that the whole superscrip¬
tion should be in the member’s hand-writing, wras found an
insufficient check to the abuse ; and it was further required
by the statute o. 1 / 84,6 that the direction should bear the
name of the post-town, and the day, (written in words at
length) month, and year of posting. Letters can be frank¬
ed from any post-town which the member has been within
twenty miles of, on the day of, or day before date. They
cannot be delivered but for full postage at a place where the
member himself is not, (as to any agent or relation,) unless
at his residence in London, or his proper house of parliament.
Printed votes and proceedings in parliament pass free un¬
der certain regulations to and from members of parliament
and some public officers. Petitions to parliament, not ex¬
ceeding six ounces in weight, may be sent free to any mem¬
ber in covers open at the ends.
In 1653, the post-office revenue w as farmed for L. 10,000; Revenue,
in 3663 it yielded L.21,500; in 1685, when made over to
James II. as part of his private income, it was estimated at
L.65,000. The average of the nett revenue, during the
eight years of King William’s wars, is stated" at L 67,222 ;
during four years of subsequent peace, at L.82,319 ; the
average of the years 1707—10, at LAS,052 ; of 1711—14,
at L.90,223. The gross in 1711,8 wasL.l 11,426. In 1722
the gross was L.201,804, nett L.98,010. From that period
till after the middle of the century, the revenue, though of
course, subject to occasional fluctuations, made on the
whole but little advance, since we find that of the year 1754
to be only, gross, L.210,663, nett, L.97,365. Its progress for
the remainder of the century, taken at intervals often years,
(each ending 5th April), may be seen as follows :9
1764,
1774,
1784,
1794,
1800,
Gross.
L.242,566
334,829
452,404
915,608
1,083,950
Nett.
116,128
164,077
196,514
431.981
720.981
Rate per cent,
of Collection.
52
51
56
40
30
From the beginning of the present century the revenue con¬
tinued increasing progressively until the year ending the 5th
January 1816 ; the following year it was considerably lower,
and never rose to such an amount again, until the corres¬
ponding year 1837, when it reached its highest. The fol¬
lowing table exhibits the particulars; (the Marlborough
grants, &c. are not included in the charges of collection.)
There are other descriptions of special, and modifications of general rates, which would require too much space to particularize. The
system of rates is full of the most preposterous niceties and anomalies. It is but fair to state, however, that some attempts have lately
been made to introduce greater uniformity, as in the ship-letter and Mediterranean rates.
* Journals, 9th June. * Blackstone. 4 See Gentleman's Magazine, 1784, vol. liv. ; also vol. xxvii. p. 593.
* 4 Geo. III. c. 24. 6 24 Geo. III. c. 37.
‘Chambers’s Historical View of the Domestic Economu of Britain. The cross, on a medium of three years prior to 1898, is stated by
D’Avenant at L.90,440. u
8 The revenue, as stated for the years previous to 1711, are believed to include the Irish From that year to the end of the century,
the account given relates to the British revenue solely; the Irish, for this period, not being stated in any of the documents from which the
account is taken. In comparing different accounts of the post-office revenue, even including those found in parliamentary documents, the
most puzzling discrepancies are to be met with. These, however, are not so much, if at all, to be ascribed to error, as to differences, not ex¬
pressed in the subjects of the statements. Sometimes the Irish, or twopenny post revenue is included, sometimes not; the revenue for a
year, ending 5th April or 5th January, is sometimes given as the revenue for that, sometimes for the preceding year; the nett sometimes
means the remainder after deducting from the gross the simple charges of management, sometimes after farther deduction of returns, par¬
liamentary grants, &c.
’ Second Report of Postage Com. Ap. p. 176. The nett is after deduction of returns. In 1782, the expense of collection was 72 per cent.
I
POST-OFFICE.
General and Twopenny Post of United Kingdom.1
Greatest in the interval}
from 1816-37 J
Smallest 
Greatest (absolute) a-}
mountot charges of col- >
lection from 1816-37..J
Smallest ditto 
Greatest returns  
Smallest ditto 
Greatest nett 
Smallest ditto   
Year ended
5th Jan.
1804
1816
1837
1827
1822
1827
1820
1835
1823
1826
1822
Gross.
£
1,429,429
2,418,741
2,461,806
2,392,271
2,122,965
stated
2,191,562
2,319,979
2,128,926
2,367,567
Charges of
collection.
£
416.767
704.639
704.768
706.640
645,241
above.
586,193
696,387
620,977
636,353
stated above.
Returns.
£
56,450
94,906
111,203
95,869
84,259
82,729
110,540
79,597
98,947
Nett.
£
956,212
1,619,196
1,645,835
1,589,762
1,393,465
1,522,640
1,513,052
1,428,352
1,632,267
Rate per cent,
of collection.
£
29
29
s. n.
3 n
2 7f
28 12 6f
29 10 9i
30 7 10i
26 14 1U
30 0 4
29 3 4
26 17 6
The gross Irish general post revenue for the year end¬
ing 5th January 1800, was L.84,040; it increased progress¬
ing until 1816 when it reached L.225,000 ; it never attain¬
ed so high again until 1829, from which it continued in¬
creasing till 1832, when it reached its highest, viz.L.2o6,9 / 6.
In 1837 it was L.255,070. The lowest amount after 1816
was that of 1823, which was L.l86,024. The highest nett
in the whole period was in 1832, viz. L.154,322; the small¬
est after 1816, was 1821, viz. L.65,017. The highest rate
per cent, of collection, January 1800, LwO, 9s. 2d., lowest,
1832, L,32, 11s. 9d.
The gross receipts of the London twopenny post in the
year ending January 5,1804, was L.60,069; 1837, L.l 20,801;
nett for the same years, L.35,640 and L.73,334 ; rate per
cent, of collection for the same years, L.40, 13s. 3fd. and
L.39, 5s. 10£d.
It is related2 that in the year 1698, Sir Robert Sinclair
of Stevenson had a grant from King William of the whole
revenue of the post-office of Scotland, together with a pen¬
sion of L.300 to maintain the post. Even with this allow¬
ance, however, the undertaking was considered hazardous
and the grant surrendered. At the union, the post-office
revenue was farmed for L.l 194. The nett revenue, on an
average for three years preceding 1711, was estimated at
only L.2000 ; in 1733 it was L.5399 ; in 1754, L.8927 ; in
1776, L.31,103. In the year ending 5th January 1801, the
revenue was, gross, L.100,652, nett, L.83,755. It increased
progressively till the corresponding year 1815, when the
gross was L.203,366, nett, L.l6l,551. In 1822 the gross
had sunk to L.179,404, whence again it took a start in the
other direction, and in 1837 was L.220,759, nett, L.l60,813.
The expense of collection in the present century has varied
from 14 to 28 per cent.3
The amount of postage charged on postmasters in the
West Indies and British North America in the year ended
5th January 1838, was L.78,905, of which above L.18,000
was for unpaid letters from Britain. Of the first sum, there
was for Canada, L.38,977, for Jamaica, L.l 8,274.
The postmaster-general is not responsible, under any cir¬
cumstances, for the safety of letters passing through the
post-office, nor for the value they may inclose, if lost or stolen.
This point was first settled in the case, Lane v. the Post¬
master-General, in 1699, (reported in Raymond, vol. i. p.
646). Some doubts hanging over the principle of this de¬
cision, the point was again tried, before Lord Mansfield, in
1778, (Whitfield v. the Postmaster-General, Cowper’s Re¬
ports, p. 754,) and judgment given for the defenders. The
punishment of death for letter stealing was abolished in
1835,4 and transportation substituted. Forging, or altering
a frank is punishable with seven years’ transportation. A
newspaper with an enclosure, or any writing or marks, is
subject to three times the postage of a packet of equal
contents : which postage may be recovered from the sen¬
der,5 or the postmaster-general may prosecute as for a mis¬
demeanour. Masters, crews, or passengers of vessels from
abroad, failing to deliver their letters at the first post-
office, incur heavy fines. Penalties and postage debts not
above L.20, are summarily recoverable. Letters once post¬
ed become the property of the person addressed, and can¬
not be again withdrawn. Other laws (those against illicit
conveyance being frequently made public) are of less ge¬
neral concernment.
In the year ending October 1834, there were fifteen
criminal prosecutions in England for post-office offences,
and twelve convictions, some of them capital; and thirty-
four prosecutions for penalties, in which the parties sub¬
mitted.
The whole acts relating to the post-office have been con¬
solidated into five statutes, viz. 1 Victoria, ch. 32—36.
The British post-office has generally been allowed to be Alleged
remarkable for the precision and regularity with which it defects, &e.
circulates the correspondence passing through it, and the
celerity with which the official business is conducted ; and
the prevalent opinion has until lately been, that the depart¬
ment, on the whole, has been skilfully and efficiently ad¬
ministered. Instances, however, both of defects and mis¬
management, have, within these few years, been somewhat
frequently brought forward, and perhaps with a degree of
exaggeration answerable to the indifference with which they
had in former periods been regarded. As respects, in the
first place, the constitution of the department, the inexpe¬
diency has been maintained of having the supreme direction
vested in a single person, generally a nobleman, removeable
at every change of government, and who, by his education
and habits, cannot be supposed peculiarly fitted to superin¬
tend an establishment, possessing fully more of a commer¬
cial than of a civil, or even fiscal character. The tendency,
and even the actual effect of such a system has been alleged
1 Appendix to First Report of Postage Committee, 1838. * Old Statistical Account of Scotland, vol. vi. p. 586.
3 Second Report of Postage Committee, 1838.
4 5 and 6 William IV. c. 81.
5 The postage of all returned letters is recoverable from the sender, (1 Viet. c. 34, § 2,) but'the law has not hitherto been enforced-
POST-OFFICE.
495
Alleged to be, that of removing the charge from the really responsi-
defects, Stevie head, and throwing it upon a secondary officer. The
abolition of the office of postmaster-general, and the substi¬
tution of a permanent board of three or more persons, has
accordingly been recommended by successive commissions
of inquiry ; and a bill for giving effect to such recommenda¬
tion has been twice sent up from the lower, to the upper
house of parliament, but refused a second reading by the
latter. As regards the laws of the post-office, the grand
subject of complaint, and that on which perhaps the mind
of the community is more made up than on any other, is
the high rate of postage, both generally, and in particular
cases, as for shorter distances, circuitous routes,1 penny
postage on general post letters, and the like. That there
is a great fault in this respect, is argued from the fact of
there being little or no increase on the annual revenue, for
more than twenty years ; and though this fact, to a certain
extent, at least, admits of other explanations, it is undeni¬
able that a large amount of correspondence is conveyed
otherwise than by post, merely to avoid the expense of pos¬
tage ; and that the existing laws are insufficient, as would
any laws be that could possibly be framed, to check such
practice. The complaints against the administration of the
post-office relate principally to the alleged want of suffi¬
ciently frequent and numerous communications on various
lines of road, and the consequent delay of correspondence,
of which the most important case is the want of day mails
and Sunday mails2 from London, there being at present but
one day mail, and that but lately established. Without en¬
tering into a consideration of the justice of any of the com¬
plaints now enumerated, (the fact of their existence being
all that it concerns the present purpose to notice), it may
be remarked with regard to the nature of the particular
class just adverted to, that they frequently resolve into ques¬
tions between the interests of one portion of the community
and those of another ; or into similar questions between a
portion and the whole ; or between an advantage with a cor¬
responding sacrifice, and the loss of such advantage ; ques¬
tions to which the administrators of the post-office, at least,
profess and appear to have given full consideration, and,
either in regard to what is done or what is contemplated,
to have determined with a view to the best.
One cause of complaint of not unfrequent occurrence,
namely, that regarding the losses that occur in the post-office,
by the abstraction of letters containing value, may be said to Alleged
have been of late in a great measure obviated by the esta- defects,
blishment of a system of money orders, to be granted by
one office, payable at another, to the amount of L.5, at an
expense of from 6d. to ] s. 6d. Larger sums can, in general,
be safely transmitted through banks.
Within these few years, a plan of singular boldness and
ingenuity, and developed with the utmost perspicuity and
fairness of intention, has been put forth by Mr. Rowland Hill;
a plan which aims at the removal of several of the defects of
the present post system, but the practicability ofwhich is mat¬
ter of much doubt and dispute. The main feature of this plan,
as every body knows, consists in a proposal to reduce the
postage of all letters under half an ounce weight, to a penny,
to be collected by a stamp-duty on the paper of the letter
or envelope. The great benefits of such a system as this
are obvious, the objections are not less so. These (omit¬
ting minor articles) resolve chiefly into this dilemma ; either
the number of letters would not be sufficiently great to pro¬
duce the required gross amount, or, if it were, they would
be unmanageable without an additional expense that would
as much diminish the nett. On Mr. Hill’s part, the necessity
of the alternative is denied. As respects the first branch
of it, he calculates on as many letters as would be sufficient
at once to keep up the revenue, and defray any additional
expense, first, from the falling in of all the illicit and most
of the franked correspondence ; next, from the great number
of letters that would be sent by persons who now cannot
often, or at all, afford postage, and are restrained by fear or
conscience from smuggling ; and lastly from the variety of
printed bills, lists, advertisements, &c., which may be legally
sent otherwise than by post, but for which the post would
be preferred at a low expense. On the other branch of the
alternative he maintains, that, as regards the matters of re¬
ceipt, despatch, and delivery, the post-office, by being freed
from examining, taxing, and the whole business of accounts,
would be relieved from a great part of the additional labour
that would be imposed upon it by the increased number of
letters ; and, as to conveyance, that the estimated increase of
chargeable letters, would add but by a very small proportion^
to the weight or bulk of the mails; the far greater part of
which is made up of newspapers, parliamentary documents,
and franks.3 French
The French post-office, after the modern system, had its post-office.
1 Since this was written, it has been announced that postage is in future to be charged only for the distance by the nearest carnage road
without regard to the actual distance the letter may be conveyed. .... -j c . •. i-
2 It iS) perhaps, superfluous to observe, that the subject of Sunday mails and deliveries, involves considerations of a nature quite dis¬
tinct from those on which questions, relating to post accommodation usually fall to he determined. . r , .
great a reduction in the expense of correspondence, rvould meet wrthextens.ve favour and support, is
what might1 be expected ; and, consequently, in estimating the .f .n ^ £
Yield it is necessary to distinguish between a desire for its adoption, and a conviction of its practicability; so that vie may not ascribe to
Se latter vvhat may be wholly due to the former. It is to be remembered, too, that what is called the practicahhty of the scheme is a
very vague ipresS. In Aei.ric.es. sense, i. mns. mean practicability, consistently with the wo7d
the post-office, or a revenue not materially smaller ; in another sense, the practical i y o P tv,eZiail differ in the sort of practi-
occasion no deficiency, but what could, and ought to be, otherwise provide oi. ^ SUP1 , . manv individuals and bodies of
cability which they ascribe to it; but a conviction of its praeticability genem y, as ^ e*P^ indiffeyrence of an embarrassment
men, qualified by their knowledge and habits to judge of such a matter, Y id bl Th subject has been taken
of the public finances, that a strong presumption of the intrinsic merits of Mr‘ SfnPrl!",, frSe suecifiC purpose. Regular inquiries
up in most of the principal cities of the empire, by constituted bodies, or a^ci‘|1°r' ascertaining how far the present system is suffi-
have been instituted by the circulation of minute queries, and otherw.se, w.t^ .Pand what increase of
cient as a means of accommodation ; bow far, as a s°urc® ^hre^nUe’ [ take piaPCe, under such a reduction of postage as Mr. Hill
correspondence by post, or decrease of illicit conveyance, might -P j nresented to parliament, in behalf of Mr.
proposes. Numerous petitions from the most influential and respectab e quar f N b 1837 to conside^, generally, the subject of a
Hill’s plan. A Committee of the House of Commons appmnted on 23d of Nov^be, ^ has bJ, sitting,
reduction of postage, and especially the merits ot Mr. Hl11® P™1 ’ han’ts literary men, agents of trading companies, and philanthropic
examined a great number of witnesses officers of the P^t-office, h ^ to ^ ^ to ghew the working 0f the present sys-
associations, clergymen, and others ; all descriptions o. P^® ’ ittee’ha at the same time, collected a vast body of statistical evidence
tern, and to estimate the probable effects of the new. I he Committee ■> , • t f tbe investigation. The results of the inquiry
relating to the post establishment, in regard to every particular bearing on the subject ot tbe investigation.
have been communicated in two voluminous reports. rpnrpssion of correspondence altogether, and in another, to the
That the present high rates of postage have ’ 1"^"^unt -a portion much more vast than had ever previously been suspected;
diversion, into illegal channels, of a vast portion of its existing a > * • f tk moral feelings, which actions requiring con-
that in the latter way, they beget a disregard to the law, and produce that detenorat,on ot the moral g n of know]edge, curb the
cealment, tend to generate; that, in both ways, they embarrass the motions ot trade, checK tne a
J
496
POST-OFFICE.
French origin early in the 17th century. As in Britain, its re\enues
post-office. a£ accrued to the postmaster, and were next tor a time
' farmed. In 1791) the French post-office yielded a revenue
of 11,000,000 of francs; about thirty years later, the re¬
venue had become nearly double, and in 1836 it amounted to
37,405,516 francs ; the number of letters for that year being
78,970,561. The French post establishment is under the
direction of a council, consisting oi a chief, and two or moie
members. The French difiers from the British office, in
charging postage by weight, a mode usual throughout the
continent. The French office has been remarkable for the
facilities it affords to the circulation of printed matter. All
sorts of circulars, lists, advertisements, and the like, may
first be stamped on payment of five centimes, and then
transmitted by post for ten centimes more, in whole about
l^d. British money. The number of such circulars pass¬
ing through the French post-office is immense. The busi¬
ness of the Parisian office even exceeds that of the Lon¬
don, there being from forty to fifty thousand letters, and
1 The average of each letter is about fivepence. In Britain, it is
are about 50 per cent., in Britain 28 per cent.
100,000 printed papers of different descriptions, dispatched United
from the former daily, Sundays not excepted. The French States
post towns amount in number to about 1460, but the post Post-°ffice
accommodation is carried to the utmost possible extent, let-v-r^/-'w
ters being delivered not merely within the towns and vil¬
lages, but throughout the country generally.1 The same
degree of dispatch in post business has not, howTever, been
attained in France.
The post-office of the United States is under the charge
of the general government. For a long period it was a
source of expense, and it is only during the last six or seven
years that it has yielded a revenue, which, however, is nowr
rapidly increasing. The following particulars regarding its
present state, are from a report of the Postmaster-General
of the United States to the President. On the first of
July 1837, the post routes were about 141,242 miles in
extent, and the annual transportation of the mails upon
them was: on horses and in sulkeys 11,999,282 miles ; in
stages and coaches 18,804,800; and in steam-boats and
probably double this, at least. The charges of collection in France
exercise of the social affections, and confine the efforts of philanthropy ; that the post-office, in short, is neither fully and effectually avail¬
able for the purposes which it is the essential object of such an institution to serve, nor able to preserve the monopoly conferred upon it by
law, from systematic and extensive violation ; these are points which may fairly be considered as settled by the evidence given before the
C°Tlm questions involved in the investigation, as far as it relates to the practicability of Mr. Hill’s plan, have been partly of fact, partly
of calculation, partly of conjecture and estimate. It being incumbent on Mr. Hill’s part to make it appear that the increase of the number
rate would produce the same gross 1 - - - . . „ . , , . . .
reduction is one of conjecture. Even the first two descriptions of questions, however, have not been so easily determined as their nature
would seem to promise. Actual returns beyond the suspicion of incompleteness or incorrectness are, under the circumstances of haste
and perplexity in which such returns can only be made, and the incapacity of some of those who have to make them, hardly to be expect¬
ed • whilst from the fluctuations in the amount of correspondence at different periods, a fair season for presenting an average is not easily
fixed upon.’* * * § Even, however, after an agreement, actual or assumed, has been attained on this point, several of those differences on sub-
iects of calculation (which, viewed in the abstract, might be supposed of impossible occur]ence, but in point of fact, aie so often found to
occur in regard to the admissibility of data and the mode of applying them,) have arisen to complicate and embarrass the inquiry.
One cannot help observing that some of the calculations, the correctness of which has been made matter of dispute, refer to rather
irrelevant points. Such, for instance, is that regarding the exact cost of the conveijance of letters, &c. in Britain. Mr. Hill’s calculations
on this point, are probably subservient to the single purpose of evincing the justice of a uniform charge, which is done by shewing that the
cost of mere conveyance, as distinguished from other parts of tne charge of postage, is so small, as to make mere distance an immaterial
element in the adjustment of the rate- Without examining (and certainly without admitting) the correctness of Mr. Hill’s statements
on this subject,t it may be held as allowed, on all hands, that whatever considerations may exist, to justify, or even recommend, the regu¬
lation of postage according to distance, these considerations may fairly be made to yield to the advantage of uniformity, especially at a very
low absolute rate. But conveyance being but a part of the expense of distributing correspondence,J the calculation now alluded to, goes
to no farther end. „ , . r i , j . -r
Equally irrelevant to the main question (except as facilitating a calculation of the increase of expense under the proposed system, it
indeed they serve even for that) are all those analyses which Mr. Hill makes of the composition of the present post-office expenditure. It
is obvious that, throughout the inquiry (so far as it relates merely to a point of finance, its sole relation as presently considered) the nett
revenue now derived from the post-office, must be taken as a standard, by which, according as the revenue to be raised by Mr. Hill’s system
reaches or approximates to it, the merits of that system are to be tested. Consequently, in comparing Mr. Hills plan with the present,
we must take the expenditure of the post-office as it is, unless so far as a saving can be shewn to arise specifically out of Mr. Hills plan.
If any deduction, otherwise, is made from the charges of management, as applied to Mr. Hill’s plan, the same deduction must be made from
the present expenditure, thereby raising the present nett—that is, raising the standard that Mr. Hill is bound to reach, just in the same pro¬
portion that it raises his means of reaching it.§
from fifty-seven millions of general post letters, eight millions of penny post letters, and thirteen millions of twopenny and tareepenny post
letters. On t\ic penny letters, Mr. Hill calculates on no increase ; the twopenny and threepenny, if reduced to a penny, he expects to in¬
crease threefold, making these three descriptions of letters amount to forty-seven millions. Forty-seven millions oi pence, deducted from
the 573,723,600, leave 526,723,600 to be raised from the general post letters, which Mr. Hill estimates (taking in the weights above the
jienny rate) to produce 1 Jd. each. It requires 421,378,880 letters at l|d. to produce this; and to give such a number, the fifty-seven
millions (the present number) require to be multiplied by about 7^, that is, to be increased 7g fold. Now this would only leave the
present nett revenue, supposing the expenses to remain as at present. But Mr. Hill allows that a sevenfold increase of the number of
letters would, or might, increase the expense of internal distribution by nearly half a million of pounds, (the difference between L. 575,384,
* See Sir Edward Lees’s evidence, Q. 9413. , ,
t If postage is to be charged according to the actual cost of conveyance, as compared with the returns, then a letter for ten miles will often cost more than one for
100 ; if on an average of such cost as applied to the whole, then, of course, the postage will be uniform ; but if the charge is to be fixed on the general principle, that the
cost of establishing and maintaining a conveyance for a large distance, must exceed that for a small ; and that conveyance for a large distance is worth a greater price to
the payer, inasmuch, as generally it would increase the difficulty to him of getting his letter conveyed, (which seems the actual principle of the charge) then distance must
be reckoned a fair element. _ ,
± Jn this particular, and otherwise, Mr. Hill’s statements have been applied (though apparently not intended by him to serve such) to purposes oi utter delusion and
misrepresentation. . run-,
§ These considerations are not brought forward as if in opposition to Mr. Hill, (by whom, in his latter statement presented to the Committee, they aje given tub eltect
to, though apparently overlooked in his pamphlet) but in order that persons who desire to see the matter with their own eyes, may not he deterred by the apprehension
of having to encounter a tedious or intricate calculation. . .
H This assumption appears incorrect, as supposing the year’s revenue to be ivhclly raised from letters posted in the United fitKc-dom, without taking into account the
i question, Mr. Hill multiplies the letters of o'ne week by 53, instead of 52, (the postage o. the wttk
"f letters would fall to he made from his estimate.
postage of those arriving from abroad. And as, on the assumption in c
being but 1-53.1 of the year’s revenue) a deduction of about a million o
POST-OFFICE.
United railroad cars 1,793,024. The number of post-offices on the
States post-1st December 1837, was 12,089- The revenue of the de-
° C!^, partment for the preceding year was D.4,137,056 . 59
The expenditure, 3,380,847 . 75
497
84
Excess of revenue D.756,208
The average number of dead letters annually, is about
900,000. The number of letters delivered in the year, is United
estimated at 29,360,992, Free and dead letters about States post-
three millions more. The number of newspapers, pamph- office'
lets, &c. paying postage, is estimated at about 25 millions,
Dead and free newspapers, four millions more.
The Americans charge in the same mode as the British,
namely, by the pieces of which the letter consists. The
lates are as follow's : for a distance not exceedin0-
lhe^ef„ntland 1>035-833 ^prospective expense.) To balance this, he has the estimated additional rate on foreign and ship letters
L.200,000,* (supposing a way shewn of raising this) thus leaving, after an increase of 7i-fold, a deficit of L. 300000° ^
Let the fairness ol this calculation be tested, and then let it be reviewed in comparison with that hv whinh \Tr h;ii n •
different result, that is to say nearly as favourable a result from an increase of five-fold as has now been d!»nefmm 7! “ qUlte
After ha.virig on grounds, the correctness of which have been in part already questioned, (and, for the rest are2 neither admitted
demefl, raised the number of otters for a year, from seventy.fou, to seventy.eight millions ; he neit, on a ground which o,, a moment's
hoTvS LB2083 m "V •^rai8eS Ti~-“ e“h' -^14 L 416 6W In!
creased tive-foid, they jield L.2,083,330, The cost on inland distribution he makes L.868,967, which, together with L 112 lfi2 t'other
branches of expenditure) makes L.981,129. This deducted from the gross, leaves L.1,102,201 for the nftt to which he adds the two
items iust mentioned of L I 96,000 and L.48,000, thus making the total nett L. 1,346,201, or o’nly something mole’ ffiant.SOoloOO of a deS
on a.five-{o\A increase. I'ow all that is necessary for the purpose of explaining how this more favourable result is brought out, is to com¬
pare the produce of his>e-fold, with that of h.s one-fold. The former will be found just five times the amount of the latter ; and as the
one-fold includes all descriptions of letters, penny, twopenny, and threepenny, five times the produce of the one-fold, of course, suppose an
equal increase on all^: ’ a“iTu:,c
Finding the average postage of a letter is merely another method of arriving at the same result. The average postage of a aeneral post
letter, appears from the returns to be above lOd. An eight-fold increase (at lid. on average for each letter) would therefore produce the
same amount on the present number at lOd. Other two folds of an increase would produce L.475,000 to which the L 200 000 for
foreign and ship letters being added, there would be L.675,000 for additional expenses. While it is admitted then to be i vaque state¬
ment, (vague as respects the estimate of the increased expense, which can only be a guess), it is believed to be a moderate one, to say, that
on ten-fold increase of general post letters, with a three-fold increase on the twopenny and threepenny post letters, would be necessary to
uphold the present revenue. § 1
This, indeed, is a calculation, both the data and the conclusions of which, any plain man who pays twenty shillings to the post-office in
a twelvemonth, may verify on five minutes’ reflection. Let such a one consider, whether the average of his general post letters can be less
than 10d., and then say, if the average cost were reduced to lid., whether it could require less than ten letters for one, takin<- into con¬
sideration the increase of expense, to uphold the present revenue ?
Passing now from matters of calculation, to those of conjecture and estimate, we encounter, as may be supposed, a much wider diversity
of opinions. This head embraces that most essential question,—what precise increase of correspondence might be expected unde’ such a
reduction as recommended by Mr. Hill. That an increase would take place which, absolutely speaking, may be characterized as immense,
may be held as at all hands acknowledged ; but in specifying the probable rate of such increase, in relation to that which would be neces¬
sary for the safety of the revenue, there is every possible variety of estimate, || ranging from, “ very considerable” up to “ beyond calculation,”
from four to a hundred fold ; of which extremes the medium may be given as “ ten-fold,” or “ increase that would keep up the revenue.”
It is obvious, however, that evidence of this nature requires to be received with some degree of deduction. Besides being mostly conjec¬
tural, it may be said to be all ex-parte, brought forward in support of the scheme, the eligibility of which was the subject of investigation.
There is no opposing party. Government is constrained, in such an inquiry, to be neutral. To the administrators of the post-office, in¬
terference would be an invidious office, seeing that even their evidence is apt to be viewed as that of interested, or at all events, prejudiced
persons. The cross-examinations instituted by some of the members of the Committee, would be required even as a counterpoise to the
effect of leading questions put (certainly without the slightest appearance of unfair intentions) by the others. When to this is added the
significant fact, that few, indeed, of the witnesses ventured to state, that they would pay as much postage under the proposed reduction as
at present, (while an increase of outlay is admitted to be inevitable on such reduction) and that the generality only hoped for a surplus
revenue equal to the present, after the lapse of a considerable period; when we advert to another important fact, that scarcely one of the
witnesses professed to have examined Mr. Hill’s calculations, but merely to have assumed their correctness ; when these considerations are
taken into account, it is surely not too much to say, that the adoption of the plan in question would place the post-office revenue in very
imminent hazard.
But although Mr. Hill’s plan has been perilled by some of his supporters, if not by himself, on this issue, that it would, at least, main¬
tain the present revenue, its proved insufficiency on this issue, is not, on a larger view of the question, to be viewed as conclusive against it.
Even in a financial point of view, a defalcation in this source of revenue would probably be met by a proportionate growth in others. The
increased facilities given to trade, would, in a variety of ways, tend to the creation of revenue. Even the increase on the paper duties
might not be an inconsiderable item, though perhaps liable to be balanced by a corresponding decrease on those on advertisements. View¬
ing the advantage to commerce, literature, and morality, which would arise from a cheap system of postage, there are probably few persons
conversant with subjects of social or political economy, who would advocate the employment of the post-office as a source of revenue, on
any other grounds than, in the present circumstances of this country, the difficulty of finding another as a substitute.^
Put off the supposition, however, that such an increase of correspondence would ensue, as that which has been mentioned as the average
* Mr. Hill also claims, as a receipt to fall into him, L.48,000 for “ payments by government offices not entitled to frank.” But, it is presumed, the letters for which
these payments were made on the year taken, were part of the 7£MNK),00<); and, if so, query, farther, whether these oughtnot to be deducted from the number of increas¬
able letters ? The government officers would send no more letters at a penny than they do at present. In the uncertainty, however, as to the grounds of this claim, let it
he allowed; still the deficiency, after so great an increase, will remain a quarter of a million. ... , . , ...
t The ground is. the high postage of ship and foreign letters which came in the week of the return, Q. 1X032. But letters arriving from ooroad, formed no part of the
return, nor could their postage affect the question. It is but fair to say, however, that the suggestion on this point did not come originally from Mr. Hill.
$ Is not this multiplying the penny letters in the same ratio with the others, as objected to by Lord Litchfield ? It is true, that with the explanation that Mr. Hill would
  , 1 &   C • ,1 — l o ♦F.i-oofV.M thp twrmpnnv nnrl fnrppnpnnv. (thp npnnv rpmmmnrr
increase of reducible letters, that is, (mainly) of general post letters. If Mr. Hill owns, as he would own that his statement, in this meaning, would be untrue, how can
he complain of Lord Litchfield for supposing what would be necessary to make it true; namely, a fivefold multiplication of thepenwy letters, as well as of the others. In
substance, then, there is an agreement as to the principle of the calculation; a difference as to the data—the number of letters from which a given revenue is at present
§ Tire average postage of a letter has been represented to be 6jd ; consequently, it is meant to be inferred, a sixfold increase, or little more, would produce the present
revenue. But if this is the average at all, is it the average otherwise than by including the penny and twopenny letters ? or would ttese increase sixfold ? Do not the
more unscrupulous supporters of Mr. Hill’s plan, who blazon abroad partial statements of the kind, see that they prove too much ? If 6|d. is the average of increasable,
that is, of frenpral nost Jptters (the sense intended to he conveved) what becomes of the outcry about the exorbitant rate of postage . T. elJ a man, that for o^d., at an
average, he may llfve a letter conveyed, with the utmost possible speed, and with all but infallible certainty, to any part of the known world, and will he sympathise in
the complaint of excessive charge? Mr. Hill’s plan may safely be allowed to rest on its merits; letitbe allowed to rest there, without the employment of deception and
mi|f The^mportance of keeping these two points distinct in the mind, is shewn from this, that Lord Ashburton is made, in the Appendix to the Report, evidence
of the probability of a “ great increase,” while his Lordship explicitly states his belief, that the adoption of Mr. Hill s plan would be equu alent to a surrender ot the
Wl0lM?ghtOSuch amode^s this be suggested :-Let a bill be brought into Parliament, to grant her Majesty a benlmedTvX
■scribed hv Mr. Hill • h„t rnntMnina nrnvisions, that any deficiency of such revenue is to be supplied from other defined sources. Let these sources be n^ed by the
the surmorters of Mr. Hill’s scheme, (to which the latter could not object, as on their principles the provisions would be m-
3 it
described by Mr. Hill; but containing provisions, that any deficiency of such revenue is to be supplied i
Chancellor of the Exchequer, or offered by the supporters of Mr. Hill’s scheme, (to which the “
operative for want of occasion;) but, at all events, agreed upon as an essential part oi tne Dili.
VOL. XVIII.
P o s
498
Postulate
1
Potash.
30 miles, ^ cents.
above 30 and not exceeding 80, 10
  150, 12|
150 400 18|
400 25
POT
Ship letters at the port of arrival, 6 cents ; 2 cents more Potatoes
than the inland postage, if carried inland. Newspapers Is—
cent, or 1^. Magazines and pamphlets from 1-| cent to 6
cents per sheet, according to mode of publication and dis¬
tance.1
POSTULATE, in mathematics, is described to be such
an easy and self-evident supposition, that it needs no ex¬
plication or illustration to render it intelligible.
POTAMON, or Potamo, was a philosopher of Alex¬
andria. He steered a middle course between the scepti¬
cism of the Pyrrhonists and the presumption of the P^g-
matists ; but attached himself to none of the schools of p h-
losophy of his time. He was the first projector of the Eclec¬
tic sect; for though the mode of philosophising had been
pretty common before, he was the first who attempted to
institute a new sect on this principle. Diogenes Laertius
relates, that not long before he wrote his Lives of the Phi¬
losophers, an Eclectic sect, hCktuTita) ns dipecns, had been
introduced by Potamo of Alexandria, who selected tenets
from every former sect. He then proceeds to quote a few
particulars of his system from his Eclectic Institutes, re¬
specting the principles of reasoning, and certain general
topics of philosophical inquiry ; but from these nothing fur¬
ther can be learned than that Potamo endeavoured to re¬
concile the precepts of Plato with those of other masters.
POTASH, the lixivious ashes of certain vegetables, used
in making glass, soap, and other articles. See Glass, Soap,
and Chemistry. Potash was formerly considered as a^
simple substance; but it appears, from the discoveries of
Sir H. Davy, to be a compound of a peculiar metallic sub¬
stance and oxygen.
POTATOES, of the order solanece. See Botany. It
seems to be the prevalent opinion that potatoes were first
introduced into Europe from America, by Sir "VV alter Ra¬
leigh, about 1586. Gerard, an old English botanist, men¬
tions that he had reared seedlings of the potatoe in 1590,
and that it grew as well in his garden as in its native soil,
Virginia. Gerard gave to the potatoe the botanical name
of solarium tuberosum,—a name adopted by Linnaeus, and
which it still retains. Previously to 1684, its cultivation
in England wras confined to the gardens of a few of the no¬
bility and gentry. It was then first planted in the open
fields in Lancashire, a county in which it is now very ex¬
tensively cultivated. In an account of the household ex¬
penses of Queen Anne, wife of James I., who died in l6f 8,
and which is supposed to have been compiled in 1613, the
price of potatoes is stated at 1 s. a pound.
A cent, or hundredth part of a dollar, is about a halfpenny.
of the estimates on this point, the question has arisen, to what extent a corresponding increase of the post establishment must take place,
Chichi duties are to be performed and the number of persons Ldefthe
oninion while they concur in staging that a large additional expense would certainly be incurred, profess not to be able to form, or, in point
of fact not to have formed any defh, te dea of its extent. The sums put to this amount in the foregoing calculations, may be considered
as stated fo IreconTectur’e norisitvery easy to offer anything on the subject further than to observe, that any saving of time or labour,
in regard to the business of dispatch, effected by Mr. Hill’s plan, applies only to the taxing; partly, d at all, to ° ^
telling up: the duty occupying the longest time, (that of sorting) together with the stamping, being increased m full propoition
^Ofth^minor'difficulties attending Mr. Hill's plan, that which regards the mode of collecting the
considerable Mr. Hill seems latterly to think, that, as regards these, it might be necessary to take payment on delivery. ■but lt se >
bHo means clear that Mr? Hill’s fJt suggestion on that point, (namely, that of charging twopence in advance outwards and nothing
inwards) is liable to any great objection peculiar to this part of his plan ; the persons who W office cannot be
receive from abroad. The inconvenience of having letters above weight, returned after their
allowed to stand in the way of an extensive arrangement otherwise beneficial. If parties would neither be at the pains to weigh
letters, nor use a stamp of a penny higher price, when in doubt, they might very fairly be left to take the consequence
But after considering all the defects and difficulties of Mr. Hill’s plan the question recurs it we do not adopt it " ^
done ? That a great reduction of postage must be made, seems to be universally admitted ; but what other SC^™'e0rf^
proposed, or who is ready to propose one? If we are to reduce af all, there seems much reason to question
of that proposed by Mr. Hill, will be to good purpose. The Committee have recommended a penny .ate dlst;""eS J
fifteen miles, and twopence for larger distances. But there are not wanting good grounds for maintaining that the penny rate might fetch
a greater revenue than the twopenny one- „ . ,, . . i „ ioM0r0 niid n threefold on
Speaking loosely, it may be reckoned that, at a uniform penny postage, a fourfold increase on the general post letters, and a threefold o^
the twopenny and threepenny, would more than cover the charges of management, lhat an inciease o ■ ex " .v,’t at the
held for certain ; that it would ensue to double or treble this extent is, if improbable not beyond the bounds of possibd y.
worst, perhaps, the utmost evil that would arise from the adoption of Mr. Hill’s plan, would be the payment a ml1 a’
taxes in one wray, instead of in another, wffiile the vast advantage of a low rate of postage W'ou ic so mm. i c ear ga r
this leads to a consideration of what, in a question of political economy, ought to be reckoned the proper measwe 0 0 > r*~ for
Hill’s plan. Suppose a person to pay L.l a-year in postage, and L.5 in other taxes; suppose that in anot ser jeai ie pay ^ .
postage, and L.5, 15s. in other taxes, it is evident that, ceteris paribus, matters will remain the same, both as regards the state and -
vidual, that is, if the number of letters which the individual gets conveyed remains the same. But if, on the latter supposition, he gels tw y-
five letters conveyed, while on the former he only got twenty, the conveyance of the five letters additional is a e eai a^'aI‘ f , *
The true measure then of the benefits of Mr. Hill’s plan, is not the amount of surplus revenue it creates, as relative to .e pies^ ,
the number of letters conveyed, on that plan, as relative to the expense of conveyance. If Mr. Hill, by adding twenty-five per • 0 f
of conveyance, can add 100 per cent, to the number of letters conveyed, this is clear benefit. And as there can be no lea a van «g
the adoption of his plan that does not resolve into this principle, so (speaking on the abstract) any alleged disadvantage, no r^on i0
into the same principle, may be regarded as only apparent.
* As regards increase of expense for comieyance, there does not seem so much ground for apprehension. -_tended. This would be
•t Various suggestions might be offered for lessening this difficulty. For a time, at least, the system of receiving a/ee with late letter., mignt . , i£ ^ v, i,o could
no nul lification of the boon of a cheap postage ; for it would be the fairest and most convenient way of throwing the expense on y108? ^.o ™ would be gradual-
best find their account in increasing it. Or London might lie split down into separate post towns, with separate bags from eai h, ^{V,.oi,.n,, kv colour, and marli-
)y diminishing, as railways, with moving offices, were established.) Or three or four different kinds of stamped covers might be sold, lUstingm. fe J jc|,ness throw
ed respectively, late, later, latest, and charged 3d., 6d , or Is. each, to be received up to certain hours, A clerk, at the receiving box, ciiuid, w 8 9 . tQ the
out in transition all of the wrong colour for the how, to wait next dispatch j or, as often as the sorting boxes are failed, their contents mi0nt oe
V O T
Patentia
1 li .
Potosi.
Potatoes were not introduced into Ireland until 1610,
when a small parcel was sent by Sir Walter Raleigh to be
planted on his estate in the vicinity of Youghall. There
is no other instance of the cultivation of an exotic having
been so rapidly extended in so short a period as has elapsed
since potatoes were introduced into Ireland.
Potatoes were not raised in Scotland, except in gardens,
till 1728, when they were planted in the open fields by
Thomas Prentice, day-labourer at Kilsyth. Prentice died
at Edinburgh so late as 1792.
It has been estimated that one acre of land will produce
three times, or at least twice, as much food when growing
potatoes, as when employed in the culture of wheat; conse¬
quently, where the inhabitants live upon potatoes, the po¬
pulation will be twice or thrice as dense as where they are
fed entirely on corn. While, however, the use of the po¬
tato as a principal article of food renders population com¬
paratively dense, it tends also to render the people habitu¬
ally poor, and to multiply the chances of famine. For the
cultivation of the potato see Agriculture. For the po¬
litical views see M‘Culloch’s Commercial Dictionary, and
his notes to Smith’s Wealth of Nations.
POTENTIA, power, that whereby a thing is capable
either of acting or being acted upon.
POTENTIAL, in the schools, is used to denote and dis¬
tinguish a kind of qualities which are supposed to exist in
the body in potentia only ; that is, to be capable in some
measure of affecting and impressing on us the ideas of such
qualities, though not actually inherent in themselves. In
this sense we say, potential heat, potential cold, &c.
Potential, in Grammar, an epithet applied to one of
the moods of verbs. The potential is the same in form
with the subjunctive, and is, according to Ruddiman, im¬
plied in that mood, for which reason it is rejected by that
grammarian; but others consider that it differs from the
subjunctive by always implying in it either possum, volo, or
debeo. It is also called the permissive mood, because it
often implies a permission or concession to do a thing.
POTIPHAR, or Putiphar, an officer of the court of
Pharaoh, king of Egypt, and general of his troops, accord¬
ing to our translation, Le Clerc, and the version of the vul-
gate; but according to the Hebrew and Septuagint, the
chief of his butchers or cooks. The Hebrew text, the Sep¬
tuagint, and vulgate, call him Eunuch. But it is probable
it in this place means only an officer of the king’s court, for
he was certainly married and had children. We have no
other account of him but what appears in Scripture.
POTOMAC, a large river of North America, which
forms through its whole course the boundary between the
states of Maryland and Virginia. It rises in the Alleghany
Mountains, and flowing in a north-easterly direction towards
Pennsylvania, it forms a junction with the Shenandoah at
Harper’s Ferry, and then makes its celebrated passage
through South Mountain. At its embouchure it is seven
miles and a half in breadth ; and at Alexandria, 290 miles
from the ocean, it is one mile and a quarter in breadth.
Tide-water reaches about 300 miles from the Atlantic; and
for nearly that distance the Potomac is navigable for the
largest vessels. The river is seven fathoms deep at its
mouth, five at St George’s Island, three at Swan’s Point,
and thence to Alexandria of the same depth. The length
of its course, the curvatures included, is considerably above
300 miles.
POTOSI is the name of a department, a province, and
a city of Bolivia, in South America. This part of the re¬
public has been celebrated from the earliest times for its me¬
tallic wealth. The Cerro de Potosi, where the argentife¬
rous mines are situated, is a conical hill, 16,037 feet in
height, and about three leagues in circumference at the
base. It bears marks of a volcanic origin, and its sides are
marked with spots of various hues, such as dark green,
POT 499
orange, gray, and red. In this mountain no less than above Potsdam.
5000 mine mouths or levels have been opened, but very few v Y—» -
of the mines are now worked. A tradition exists that Diego
Hualca, an Indian peasant, accidentally discovered -these
mines whilst hunting the wild goat. In pursuing his game,
he arrived at a steep declivity, and, to prevent himself from
falling, he seized hold of a shrub, which, yielding to his
weight, was torn from the ground, and disclosed to his eyes
a large mass of silver, part of which adhered to the roots of
the plant. A slave to whom he intrusted the secret of his
good fortune betrayed him, and the mine was opened by
the Spaniards on the 21st of April 1545. The surrounding
country is also metalliferous. Silver of great fineness
abounds in a hill called Guayna-Potosi (Young Potosi),
close to the Cerro ; but from the number of springs which
occur not far from the surface, it has been found impossible
to work it. The ore is pulverised in mills, driven by
streamlets conducted from lakes or pools in the mountains,
from one to ten miles distance from the city of Potosi. In
connexion with the mines, General Miller relates the fol¬
lowing circumstance. “ A singular custom, which probably
originated in the indulgence of early mine-owners, still
prevails. Between Saturday night and Monday morning,
the Cerro literally becomes the property of such persons as
choose to work upon their own account. During that time,
the boldest master would not venture to visit his own mines.
They who thus take possession are called caxchas, and ge¬
nerally sell the produce of Sunday to their own masters.
Independently of the ore thus abstracted, the caxchas did
considerable mischief, by neglecting the proper precautions
as they excavated. If they met with a more than usually
rich vein in the course of the week, it was passed over, and
cunningly reserved for the following Sunday. Very strong
measures were therefore taken to abolish the custom; but
every effort proved unsuccessful. The caxchas defended
their privilege by force of arms, and by hurling down large
stones upon their assailants.” These mines are still consi¬
dered the richest in South America, but great ignorance of
mining operations is displayed in working them. In an
agricultural point of view this province is unimportant; its
riches consist in its mineral wealth.
The city of Potosi, the capital of the department, is si¬
tuated on the south side of the mountain, above 13,000 feet
above the level of the sea, in lat. 19° 34' south, and long.
67° 22' west from Greenwich. Upon the discovery of the
mines, it was named an asiento or mine-station ; but in
process of time it was raised to the rank of a town, and made
the capital of an intendencia. In 1611 it contained 150,000
inhabitants, according to a census taken by order of go¬
vernment officials. On this point General Miller judiciously
observes, “ This number must at that time have consisted
principally of mitayos of every tribe existing between Po¬
tosi and Cuzco, a distance of nearly 300 leagues. Those
unhappy beings were generally accompanied in their labours
by their wives and families, who came rather to share in the
hopeless sufferings of their husbands and fathers, than to
settle in the arid hills of Potosi. It is not therefore sur¬
prising that its population should have been, by the aboli¬
tion of the mita, and by the shocks which wealthy esta¬
blishments received during the revolution, reduced to only
8000 in the year 1825.”
POTSDAM, one of the provinces into which the king¬
dom of Prussia is divided. It is bounded on the north by
the duchies of Mecklenburg-Schwerin and Mecklenburg-
Strelitz, on the north-east by Pomerania, on the east by
Frankfort, on the south by Saxony, on the south-west by
the duchy of Anhalt-Dessau, on the west by Prussian Sax¬
ony, and on the north-west by the kingdom of Hanover.
It extends over 8272 square miles, and comprehends 67 ci¬
ties, or places once fortified, 16 market-towns, and 1319 vil¬
lages, besides scattered houses, and distinct agricultural es-
500
POT
Potten tablishments. It is divided into thirteen circles. The po¬
ll pulation, which in 1817 consisted of 696,878 individuals,
1>0tter' had increased in 1826 to 812,138, and has gone on aug-
" menting up to the present time. W ith the exception of
about 3000 Catholics, and about 2000 Jews, the whole of
the inhabitants profess the Protestant religion. The land
is generally level, and though tolerably cultivated, is by no
means productive, though there are some local exceptions.
It is provided with great natural means of access to the sea
by the navigable river Havel, which falls into the Elbe,
and which affords a communication between the different
portions of the province. The capital of this province is
the city of the same name, the first in exterior beauty in
the Prussian dominions. It is situated twenty-one miles
from Berlin, on an island about eighteen miles in circum¬
ference, formed by some lakes and canals, and bj the river
Nuthe, which here joins the Havel. Potsdam contains se¬
ven Protestant and one Catholic church, and a synagogue
for the Jews. The inhabitants are about 26,000, the dwel-
lino-s 1640. The civil population does not exceed 16,000
persons. The others are either military, or those employed
in the fabrication of arms. The muskets for the troops are
made at Spandau, but are fitted with locks and finished at
Potsdam. There are manufactories carried on of silk and
cotton, of leather, of cloth, of snuff, of musical and mathe¬
matical instruments, and some large breweries and distdle-
neS.
POTTEN, a market-town of Bedfordshire, in the hun¬
dred of Biggleswade, forty-nine miles from London. It is
well built now, having been burned down in 1785, after which
for some time the inhabitants lived under tents. It is in a
fertile district, and has a good market on Saturday. 1 ie
population amounted in 1801 to 1103, in 1811 to Ho4, in
1821 to 1498, and in 1831 to 1768.
POTTER, Christopher, a learned English divine, was
born in 1591, and bred at Oxford. In 1633, he published
his Answer to a late Popish Plot, entitled Charity Mis¬
taken, which he wrote by special order of Charles I., whose
chaplain he was. In 1634, he was promoted to the dean¬
ery of Worcester; and, in 1640, was constituted vice-^
chancellor of the university of Oxford, in the execution of
which office he met wTith some trouble from the members of
the Long Parliament. Upon the breaking out of the civil
wars, he sent all his plate to the king, declaring that he would
rather, like Diogenes, drink in the hollow of his hand, than
that his majesty should want; and he afterwards suffered
much for the royal cause. In consideration of this he was
nominated to the deanery of Durham in 1646, but was pre¬
vented from being installed by his death, which happened
about two months thereafter.
Potter, John, D.D., Archbishop of Canterbury, was the
son of a linen-draper at Wakefield in Yorkshire, where he
was born about the year 1674. He studied at University
College, Oxford ; and at the age of nineteen he published,
Variantes Lectiones et Notce ad Plutarchi librwn ad audi-
endis poetis ; et ad Basilii Magni orationem ad juvenes,
quomodo cum fractu legere possint Gracorum libros, 1693,
8vo. In 1697, came out his edition of Lycophron, in fo¬
lio, which is reckoned the best of that obscure writer; and
soon after, he published his antiquities of Greece, in two
vols. 8vo. These works established his literary reputation,
and engaged him in a correspondence with Graevius and
other learned foreigners. In 1706, he was made chaplain
to the queen ; in 1715, bishop of Oxford ; and in 1737, he
succeeded Archbishop Wake in the see of Canterbury, which
high station he supported with much dignity until his death
in 1747. He was a learned and exemplary churchman;
but not of an amiable disposition, being too strongly tinc¬
tured with the pride of office. Nor is it to his credit that
he disinherited his eldest son for marrying below his rank
in life. His theological works, containing sermons, charges,
POT
discourses on church government, and divinity lectures, were Pottery,
printed at Oxford in 3 vols. 8vo, 1753. Y'™"*
POTTERY and Stone-ware. Under this name may
be classed all those wares, from the common butter-pot
mentioned by Dr Plot, to the finer kinds of earthen-ware,
which, in contradistinction to porcelain, possess neither
transparency nor any degree of vitrification, except on the
surface after being glazed.
The most famous manufacture for this common ware, as
Dr Plot states in his History of Staffordshire (1686), was
at Burslem, in that county, now one of the principal towns,
forming a part of that extensive and populous district called
the Staffordshire potteries, in which it is calculated that
no less than 30,000 persons, or one half the population, are
directly employed in the manufacture of porcelain and
earthen-ware. It is proved, however, that the manufacture
of common wares had existed long before Dr Plot s time;
but of its first introduction no tradition remains.
These common wares were made of the clays found in
the district, and were of a red body covered with a glaz¬
ing of lead ore, with a portion of manganese added to make
a black when that colour was wanted.
About the year 1690, two ingenious artisans from Ger¬
many, of the name of Eller, settled near Burslem, and car¬
ried on a small trade for a little time. They brought into
this country the method of glazing stone-ware, by casting
salt into the kiln while it is hot, and some other improve¬
ments of less importance ; but finding they could not keep
their secrets to themselves, they left the place rather in
disgust. From this time various kinds of stone-ware, glazed
by the fumes of salt in the manner above mentioned, were
added to the wares before made. The white kind, which
afterwards became, and for many succeeding years con¬
tinued, the staple branch of pottery, is said to have owed
its origin to the following accident. A potter, Mr Astbury,
travelling to London, perceived something amiss with one
of his horse’s eyes; an hostler at Dunstable said he could
soon cure him, and for that purpose put a common black
flint-stone into the fire. The potter observing it, wlmn
taken out, to be of a fine white, immediately conceived the
idea of improving his ware by the addition of this material
to the whitest clay he could procure. Accordingly he sent
home a quantity of flint-stones of that country, where they
are plentiful among the chalk, and, by mixing them with
tobacco-pipe clay, produced a white stone-ware much supe¬
rior to any that had been seen before.
Some of the other potters soon discovered the source of
this superiority, and did not fail to follow his example. For
a long time they pounded the flint-stones in private rooms
by manual labour in mortars ; but many of the poor woik-
men suffered severely from the dust of the flint getting into
their lungs, and producing dreadful coughs, consumptions,
and other pulmonary disorders. These disasters, and the in¬
creased demand for the flint-powder, induced them to try to
grind it by mills of various constructions ; and this method,
being found both effectual and safe, has continued in prac¬
tice ever since. With these improvements, in the begin¬
ning of the present century, various articles were produced
for tea and coffee equipages. Soon after, attempts were
made to furnish the dinner-table also ; and before the mid¬
dle of the century, utensils for the table were manufactured
in quantity as well for exportation as home consumption.
But the salt glaze, the only one then in use for this pur¬
pose, is in its own nature so imperfect, and the potters, from
an injudicious competition among themselves for cheapness
rather than excellence, had been so inattentive to elegance
of form and neatness of workmanship, that this ware was
rejected from the tables of persons of rank; and about the
year 1760, a white ware, much more beautiful and better
glazed than ours, began to be imported in considerable
quantities from France.
POT
POT
501
The inundation of a foreign manufacture, so much su¬
perior to any of our own, must have had very bad effects
upon the potteries of this kingdom, if a newT one, still more
to the public taste, had not appeared soon after. In the
year 1763, Mr Josiah Wedgwood, who had already intro¬
duced several improvements into this art, invented a spe¬
cies of earthen-ware for the table, quite new in its appear¬
ance, covered with a rich and brilliant glaze, bearing sud¬
den alternations of heat and cold, manufactured with ease
and expedition, and consequently cheap, and having every
requisite for the purpose intended. To this new manufac¬
ture the queen was pleased to give her name and patron¬
age, commanding it to be called Queen’s ivare, and honour¬
ing the inventor by appointing him her majesty’s potter.
The common clays of the district are now mostly used
for making the saggers or cases in which the finer wares
are fired, for bricks to construct the ovens and kilns, and
for some kinds of inferior wares, while the clays for the im¬
proved article are brought from Devonshire and Dorset¬
shire by sea to Liverpool, and by the canal to the potteries.
The flint-stone is obtained mostly from London, so that it
would appear the cheapness of coals has been the princi¬
pal reason for the establishment of extensive potteries in this
inland district, notwithstanding the heavy charges of trans¬
port on the raw materials to the seat of manufacture, and,
so far as the export trade is concerned, again on the ma¬
nufactured articles to the shipping ports.
Before the introduction of steam power to machinery
purposes, the flint-stones were ground by water-mills at a
considerable distance from the manufactories; but many of
the manufacturers have now erected steam-engines of great
power, for the purposes of grinding flint, and other mate¬
rials used in the different processes of the manufacture.
The article of queen!s ware, before mentioned, w as com¬
posed of the Devonshire and^ Dorsetshire clays, mixed with
a proportion of ground flint, covered with a fine soft glaz¬
ing, composed of siliceous earths and carbonate or oxide
of lead. This glazing, covering a very porous body, made
of the above clays and a portion of flint-stone, was liable
to crack or craze, and become discoloured in the using,
causing a prejudice against it, under an erroneous idea that,
by its coming in contact with acids and salts, the glaze had
been decomposed, that the lead it contained was poisonous ;
and a premium was accordingly offered by the Society of
Arts for the discovery of a glaze without lead, which was
only cancelled on the books of the society a few years ago.
It appears singular that it did not immediately occur to
scientific men, that all the chemical vessels made of glass
contain as large a portion of lead in their composition as
there is in the glaze on queen’s ware, and that the vitrifi¬
cation is as complete in the one case as the other. The fact
is, that, through the cracks in the glazing, it was the earth
composing the body of the ware which the acids and salts
acted upon, leaving a coloured deposit, visible through the
extreme thin lamina of glazing which covers it.
This defect in the glazing arises from several causes ;
the want of a corresponding contraction of the body and
the glaze, from too sudden a cooling of the oven, and other
mismanagement of the workmen.
Since the introduction, however, of a better clay from the
mines in Cornwall (about 1777), together with a stone con¬
taining a notable quantity of feldspar, the potter has been
enabled to bring his earthen-ware to a very great degree
of perfection; the defect in glazing above noticed has been
greatly diminished on the queen’s ware, and other glazes
introduced, in appearance possessing much of the texture
and whiteness of porcelain, though still deficient in the so¬
lidity and compactness of the old white stone-ware which it
had superseded.
About the year 1805 an article was produced called
Ironstone-ware, in which, however, not a particle of iron
stone was introduced, it being a compound principally of Potte^.
the Cornish materials above mentioned. —y-L-'
This ware has nearly all the properties of the Japan por¬
celain ; it possesses great hardness and density ; is sonorous,
but is deficient in whiteness and transparency, although
the vitrification is as complete as in that of the Japan. It
continues to be made in great quantities, and being more
durable, is perhaps, though higher in price, as economical
as earthen-ware. It is a cheap substitute for porcelain,
but its nature does not admit of those fine paintings and
splendid decorations which are applied with so much suc¬
cess on that more elegant production.
From the common earthen-ware to the finest porcelain, Manipula-
the manipulations are nearly similar. The materials being
finely ground and levigated, are mixed together in their pro¬
per proportions in a liquid state, and this mixture being
put into broad shallow pans or kilns, is subjected to a heat
sufficient to evaporate the extra water until the clay is of a
proper consistency for use, and it is then prepared by beat¬
ing with wooden and iron paddles until it becomes one duc¬
tile homogeneous mass, fit for the operation of the workman.
The operations of throwing on the wheel, turning in the
lathe, and moulding, are similar to those already described
in the article on porcelain.
The potter’s wheel consists of a triangular bench, where- Throwing,
on the workman sits, having before him a small horizontal
circular block on which he places the portion of clay made
into a ball, according to the size of the piece of ware want¬
ed to be made, and with his hands fashions it into the
shape wanted; the inner surface being smoothed by a
piece of slate, iron, or earthen-ware, cut to the form re¬
quired. This workman has two assistants; one employed to
prepare the balls of clay, and remove the piece when form¬
ed ; the other to turn a larger vertical wheel, which gives
motion to the horizontal block, or whirler, as it is called,
before mentioned as being before the workman. The ware
is then taken into a stove and dried sufficiently hard to be
put upon the lathe and undergo the operation of turning or
smoothing the outer surface.
This lathe is of the like construction as the common Turniag,
lathe used in wood turning, and needs no description here. &c.
The ware is then given to another workman, who puts
on the handles and feet, or such ornaments as may have to
be fixed on the body of the ware ; and after being thorough¬
ly dried, it is ready for the first or biscuit firing.
It must be observed, that only articles of a circular form
can be produced on the wheel or from the lathe. All
others, as well as the feet and handles and ornaments, are
made by different workmen, from moulds of gypsum or of
baked ware. An earthen-ware called dipped ware is made
of different colours, some of which are very striking, by
being dipped into a slip or wash of the same clay, or of
other clays coloured by metallic oxyds finely ground and
mixed up with the wash. This operation is performed at
the lathe, before the ware has had time to get dry or hard.
The ware being made dry, is placed in saggers (cases), Firing and
which are piled on each other until the oven is filled up baking,
nearly to the top of the dome. Fire is then applied in
mouths round the outside of the oven, having flues round
the inside, and under the bottom of the oven, communicat¬
ing with the mouths. The fire is applied very gradually,
the operation requiring from forty-eight to fifty hours. As
a test to show when the necessary degree of heat is obtain¬
ed, small round caps made of common brick-clay are put
into a sagger, opposite a small opening in the oven, which
the fireman draws out from time to time, judging, from the
degree of colour the test or trial had acquired, which was
produced by the oxyd of iron contained in the clay, how
to regulate his further operations.
The operation of glazing is similar to that detailed in the Glazing,
article on porcelain, but is performed with much les£ diffi-
502 P O U
Poulton culty, and with a greater degree of certainty, on a porous
II than on a vitrified surface. After the ware is glazed (a
^ Poussin, considerable portion of which is first painted, and printed
Y on the body, a biscuit), the ware is then again placed into
the saggers or cases, and placed as before to undergo the
second firing. In this second firing for the glazing, a much
lower degree of heat is applied than for the biscuit-ware,
and the operation is performed in fifteen or eighteen hours,
according to the size of the oven. The painting or ena¬
melling, and the printing on earthen-ware, are done in the
same manner as that described on porcelain, which need
not here be repeated.
The extent to which the manufacture of pottery wares
is now carried on in this country, in which porcelain
may be included, together with its usefulness and excel¬
lence, has rendered it a subject of great national importance.
The raw materials are of home production, and of little in¬
trinsic value, the transport of which affords to the coasting
trade a freightage of from 40,000 to 50,000 tons annually.
The manufactured articles are wholly produced by manual
labour, which is not likely to be superseded by machinery,
while the export of the bulky article of earthen-ware to all
parts of the world gives employment, to an immense ex¬
tent, to the shipping of this and other countries. Nor is
this interesting manufacture without some claim in further¬
ing the progress of the fine arts, by the cultivation of
painters, engravers, and modellers, many of whom have
displayed talents of a superior order in their respective
lines. In flower-painting, the specimens exhibited in the
work of English artists cannot be excelled. In figure¬
painting, owing to the want of schools for design, the por¬
celain painters of this country have not made much pro¬
gress ; but in flower-painting, and in decoration generally,
our British artists cannot be surpassed.
There are some considerable manufactories of pottery
ware in the north of England, and one or two in Yorkshire;
but the principal site of both pottery and porcelain wares
is in the newly created borough of Stoke-upon-Trent,
which contains a population of nearly 60,000 persons, en¬
gaged either directly or indirectly in these manufactures.
On the passing of the reform bill, this borough was consi¬
dered of sufficient importance to have its great interests re¬
presented by two members in parliament. (b. a.)
POULTON, a market-town in the county of Lancaster,
and hundred of Amounderness, 235 miles from London.
It is on the sea-shore, near the mouth of the river Wye,
and communicates by a canal with most of the rivers of the
county. It has a market on Monday. The population of
the town was, in 1801, 769; in 1810, 926 ; in 1821, 101 i;
and in 1831, 1025; but the whole parish contains five town¬
ships, and at the last census 4080 inhabitants.
POULTRY, all kinds of domestic fowls brought up in
yards, as cocks, hens, and the like. See Agriculture.
POUND, a standard weight, for the proportion and sub¬
divisions of which, see the article Weights and Measures.
Pound also denotes a money of account, so called be¬
cause the ancient pound of silver weighed a pound troy.
POUNDAGE, a subsidy of twelve pence in the pound,
granted to the crown on all goods and merchandises export¬
ed or imported; and if by aliens, one penny more.
POUSSIN, Nicholas, an eminent French painter, born
in 1594, at Andel, a little city in Normandy, where his fa¬
ther was of noble extraction, but born to a small estate.
Being invited to Paris by Louis XIII., who assigned him
a pension and lodgings in the Tuilleries, he painted for
Prince Justiniani an historical picture representing Herod’s
cruelty ; an admirable composition, in which he gave such
expression to every character, as could not fail to strike the
beholder with terror and pity. He then laboured for seve¬
ral years on the celebrated pictures of the seven sacraments
of the Catholic church. But none of Poussin’s designs
P R A
have been more generally admired than that of the death Poussin
of Germanicus, which would have gained him immortal II
honour if he had never painted another picture. He be-. raS->ue.
gan the labours of Hercules in the gallery of the Louvre ;
but the faction of Vouet’s school railing at him and his per¬
formances, put him so out of humour with his own country,
that he returned to Rome, where he died in 1665. He
never went beyond easel-pieces, for which he had a perpe¬
tual demand; and his method was to fix the price he ex¬
pected on the back of the canvass, which -was readily paid.
Poussin, Gaspar. This painter, whose real name was
Dughet, was born at Paris in 1600, and was induced to
travel to Rome, not only from a love of the art of painting,
but also to visit his sister, who was married to Nicholas
Poussin. Sandrat says that Gaspar was employed at first
only to prepare the pallet, pencils, and colours for Nicholas ;
but by the precepts and example of that excellent master,
he gradually rose to the highest reputation, and is undoubt¬
edly one of the best landscape painters that ever appeared.
Whilst he continued at Rome he dropped his own name,
and assumed that of his brother-in-law and benefactor, by
which only he is nowr known. He died in 1662.
POUTEOU, or Pootoo, a small island off the coast of
China, a little to the east of Tehnsan. It is represented as
a beautiful spot, containing numerous temples.
POVERTY Bay, on the east coast of New Holland,
in the South Pacific Ocean, discovered by Captain Cook
in 1769. Long. 181. 36. W. Lat. 38. 42. S.
POWALLY, a town of Hindustan, in the province of
Tinnevelly, twenty miles south-west from Madura. Long.
77. 59. E. Lat. 9. 39. N.
POWANGHUR, a celebrated hill-fort of Hindustan,
province of Gujerat. It rises nearly perpendicular to the
immense height of six hundred yards, and is inaccessible
except on the north side, which is fortified with fine walls.
A small rock rises on the summit, on which stands a Hindu
temple. It was taken by the British, after a very slight re¬
sistance, in 1803. Long. 73. 39. E. Lat. 22. 31. N.
PRACELS, a range of small islands and rocks in the
Chinese Sea, about sixty miles to the east of Cochin-China.
They are of dangerous navigation, from the currents that
run between them. Length, 300 miles ; breadth, 60 ; from
long. 110. to 111. E. and lat. 11. 40. to 16. 10. N.
PRAEMUNIRE, in English Law, a writ of citation.
PR/ENESTE, in Ancient Geography, a town of Latium,
to the south-east of Rome, towards the territory of the
/Equi. It is a place of great strength, and famous for the
temple and oracle of Fortune, called Sortes Prcenestmce.
PRAGMATIC SANCTION, in the civil law, is defined
by Hottoman to be a rescript or answer of the sovereign, de¬
livered by advice of his council, to some college, order, or
body of people, upon consulting him on some case of their
community. The like answer given to any particular per¬
son is called simply rescript.
The term pragmatic sanction is chiefly applied to a set¬
tlement of Charles VI. emperor of Germany, wffio, in the
year 1722, having no sons, settled his hereditary dominions
on his eldest daughter, the archduchess Maria Theresa, which
was confirmed by the diet of the empire, and guaranteed by
Great Britain, France, the States-General, and most of the
powers in Europe.
PRAGUE, a city, the capital of the Austrian kingdom
of Bohemia. It is nearly in the centre of the kingdom, on
the river Moldau, which runs to the Elbe on its way to the
ocean, and divides the city into two parts. There is over
the river one of the finest ancient bridges in Europe, 1800
feet in length, consisting of sixteen arches, and adorned with
twenty-eight statues of saints and martyrs.
The city is built on seven hills, and the streets are con¬
sequently irregular ; the houses are very antique and large,
and the compass of the whole is said to be nine miles. It
P R A
Praam contains numerous public buildings, amongst others the me-
S tropolitan cathedral, dedicated to St. Beit, with twelve high-
PratlL . ly-decorated side chapels, besides which, are no less than
^ forty-six other Catholic churches, and several monasteries
and nunneries. The palace of the ancient kings of Bohe¬
mia has been converted into a citadel; but a more modern
one, now used as a Stadthouse, is of vast extent, containing
150 apartments, with a hall near equal in size to that of
Westminster. There is a university, one of the oldest in
Germany, in which degrees are obtained in the four facul¬
ties of law, medicine, theology, and philosophy. It has con¬
nected with it a library of 100,000 volumes ; a botanic gar¬
den, an astronomical observatory, and collections of natural
history. There are forty-four professors, and the students,
which were in 1816, only 8798, had increased, and in 1823,
were 1348. This seminary may be considered the birth¬
place of the reformation of religion, as John Huss and Je¬
rome exercised in it the right of free inquiry, and became
victims to it nearly one hundred years before the appearance
of Luther. There are also several societies for thepromotion
of learning, of the sciences, and of the fine arts. The institu¬
tions for the maintenance of the poor, for affording medical
aid, and for other benevolent purposes, are numerous and
well conducted. The inhabitants, like those of all Europe,
have greatly increased since the treaty of Vienna in 1815.
In that year they were 67,730 Christians, and 6,783 Jews;
in 1817, they were 79,606, from which, by regular increase,
they had grown up, in 1827, to 107,325.
The chief trade is that which arises from its central posi¬
tion, and from its being the seat of the local government;
but there are manufactures of gold, silver, jewellery, and
other luxuries, as well as others, for internal consumption, of
silk, cotton, linen, and woollen goods, and for cutlery and
haberdashery wares ; there are also large breweries and dis¬
tilleries. The city is fortified ; but, from being commanded
by hills, is scarcely defensible; but it has been the theatre
of many bloody actions. A battle was fought in 1620 on
the white plains a few miles from the city, between the
Elector Palatine and the Austrians, when the success of the
latter caused the independence of Bohemia to expire. It
was besieged by the French in 1751, and by the Prussians,
who bombarded it in 1757; but in both cases the resist¬
ance was attended with success. Eat. 50. 5. 33. Long.
14. 49. 40.
PRAAM, a kind of lighter used in Holland and the ports
of the Baltic sea, to carry the cargo of a merchant-ship along¬
side, in order to lade or to bring it to shore to be lodged in
the storehouses after being discharged out of the vessel.
PRATINAS, a Greek poet contemporary with Alschy-
lus,and born atPhlius. He was the first amongst the Greeks
who composed satires, which were represented as farces.
Of these, thirty-two were acted, as also eighteen of his tra¬
gedies, one of which only obtained the poetical prize. Some
of his verses are extant, quoted by Athenaeus.
PRATO, a city of the duchy of luscany, in Italy, the
capital of a district called a vicarate, of the same name, in
the circle of Florence. It stands on the river Bisenzeo.
It is surrounded with walls and ditches. It contains some
handsome plazas, a theatre, a cathedral, twelve parish and
seventeen monastic churches, four hospitals, and 10,000 in¬
habitants, who make linen and woollen cloths, paper, cop¬
per ware, and other articles, and draw from quarries some
good millstone. .
PRATT, CHARLES, Earl of Camden, was the third
son of Sir John Pratt, knight, chief-justice of the Court oi
King’s-Bench under George I. by his second wife Elizabetn,
daughter of the Reverend Hugh Wilson, canon of Bangor,
and was born in 1713, the year before his father was called
to the honour of the bench. He received the first rudi¬
ments of his education at Eton, and afterwards removed to
King’s College, Cambridge. Of his early life at both places
P R A 503
little is known, other than that at college he was found to Pratt,
be remarkably diligent and studious, and particularly so in
the history and constitution of this country. By some he
was thought to be a little too tenacious of the rights and
privileges of the college he belonged to ; but perhaps it
was to this early tendency that we are indebted for those
noble struggles in defence of liberty, which, whether in or
out of office, he displayed throughout the whole course of
his political life. After remaining the usual time at college,
and taking his master’s degree, in 1739 he entered himself
a student of the Inner Temple, and was in due time admit¬
ted by the honourable society as a barrister-at-law. And
here a circumstance developes itself in the history of this
great man, which shows how much chance governs in the
affairs of this world, and that the most considerable talent
and indisputable integrity will sometimes require the intro¬
duction of this mistress of the ceremonies, in order to obtain
that which they ought to possess from their own intrinsic
qualifications.
Mr. Pratt, after being called to the bar, notwithstanding
his family introduction, and his own personal character, was
very near nine years in the profession, without ever getting
in any degree forward. Whether this arose from a natural
timidity of constitution, ill-luck, or perhaps a mixture of
despondence growing out of the two circumstances, it is
now difficult to tell. But the fact was so; and he was so
dispirited by it, that he had some thoughts of relinquishing
the profession of the law, and retiring to his college, where,
in rotation, he might be sure of a church living, that would
give him a small but honourable independence. With these
melancholy ideas he went as usual the western circuit, to
make one more experiment, and then to take his final de¬
termination. Mr. Henley, afterwards Lord Northington,
and chancellor of England, was in the same circuit. He
was Mr. Pratt’s most intimate friend; and he now availed
himself of that friendship, and told him his situation, and
his intentions of retiring to the university and going into
the church. He opposed his intention with strong raillery,
and got him engaged in a cause along with himself; and
Mr. Henley being ill, Mr. Pratt took the lead, and display¬
ed a professional knowledge and elocution that excited the
admiration of his brother barristers as much as that of the
whole court. He gained his cause ; and besides, he acquired
the reputation of an eloquent, profound, and constitutional
lawyer. It was this circumstance, together with the con¬
tinued good offices of his friend Henley, which led to his
future greatness ; for with all his abilities and all his know¬
ledge, he might otherwise in all probability have passed his
life in obscurity, and gone down to the grave unnoticed and
unknown.
He now became one of the most successful pleaders at
the bar, and honours and emoluments flowed thick upon
him. He was chosen to represent the borough ot Down-
ton, Wiltshire, after the general election in 1759; record¬
er of Bath 1759 ; the same year he was appointed attor¬
ney-general ; and in January 1762 he was called to the de¬
gree of serjeant at law, appointed chief-justice ot the com¬
mon pleas, and knighted. His lordship presided in that
court with a dignity, weight, and impartiality, nevei ex¬
ceeded by any of his predecessors ; and when John Wilkes
was seized and committed to the Tower on an illegal gene¬
ral warrant, his lordship, with the intrepidity of a British
magistrate, and the becoming fortitude of an Englishman,
granted him an habeas corpus, and on his being brought
before the court of common pleas, discharged him from his
confinement in the Tower, 6th May 1163,in a speech which
did him honour. His wise and spirited behaviour on this
remarkable occasion, was so acceptable to the nation, that
the city of London presented him with the freedom ot their
corporation in a gold box.
On the 16th of July 1765 he was created a peer ot Great
504
Praslin
P R A
Britain, by the style and title of Lord Camden, Baron Cam-
11 den, in the county of Kent; and, on the 30th July 1766,
Prayer. on the resignation of Robert Earl of Northington, he was
appointed lord high chancellor of Great Britain. In this
capacity he, in a speech of two hours, declared, upon the
first decision of the suit against the messengers who arrest¬
ed Mr. Wilkes, that it was the unanimous opinion of the
whole court, that general warrants, except in cases of high
treason, were illegal, oppressive, and unwarrantable. He
conducted himself in this high office so as to obtain the love
and esteem of all parties ; but when the taxation of Ame¬
rica was in agitation, having declared himself against it, and
strongly opposed it, he was removed from his station in
1770.
Upon the fall of Lord North he was again taken into the
administration, and on the 27th of March 1782, appointed
president of the council; an office which he resigned in
March 1783. On the 13th of May 1786, he was created
Viscount Bayham of Bayham Abbey, Kent, and Earl Cam¬
den. He died on the 18th of April 1794 at his house in
Hill Street, Berkeley Square, being at that time president
of his Majesty’s most honourable privy council. He mar¬
ried Elizabeth, daughter and co-heir of Mr. Nicholas Jef¬
fery, son and heir of Sir Jeffery Jefferys of Brecknock Priory,
knight, who died in December 17795 and by whom he had
issue John Jefferys Pratt, born 1759, and several daughters.
PRASLIN, an island in the eastern seas, one of the
group called the Sechettis. It contains an excellent har¬
bour, well sheltered by small islands from every wind. The
interior is lofty, and covered with trees. Long. 55. 47. E.
Lat. 4. 19. S.
PRAT US ISLES, a cluster of islands, shoals, and large
rocks, in the Chinese sea, about 300 miles S.S.E. of Can¬
ton. The principal island, called Prata, is surrounded by
a very extensive shoal of uncertain extent. They are six
leagues in extent from north to south, and stretch three or
four leagues to the east. Long. 116.45. E. Lat. 23. 50. N.
PRAXAGORAS, a native of Athens, who, at nineteen
years of age composed the History of the Kings of Athens,
in two books; and at twenty-two wrote the Life of Con¬
stantine the Great, in which, though a pagan, he speaks very
advantageously of that prince. He also wrote the History
of Alexander the Great. Praxagoras lived under Constan¬
tine, about the year 345.
PRAXITELES, a very famous Greek sculptor, who
lived 330 years before Christ, during the reign of Alexan¬
der the Great. All the ancient writers mention his statues
with high commendation, especially a Venus executed by
him for the city of Cnidus, which was so admirable a piece,
that Nicomedes offered to release the inhabitants from their
tribute as the purchase of it; but they refused to part with
it. The inhabitants of the isle of Cos requested of Praxi¬
teles a statue of Venus ; and in consequence of this applica¬
tion the artist gave them their choice of two, one of them
representing the goddess entirely naked, and the other co¬
vered with drapery. Both of these were of exquisite work¬
manship. Although the former was esteemed the most
beautiful, nevertheless the inhabitants of Cos had the wis¬
dom to give the preference to the latter, from a conviction
that no motive whatever could justify their introducing into
their city any indecent statues or paintings, which are so
likely to inflame the passions of young people, and lead
them to immorality and vice.
PRAYER, a solemn address to God, which, when it is
. of any considerable length, consists of adoration, confession,
supplication, intercession, and thanksgiving.
By adoration we express our sense of God’s infinite per¬
fections, his power, wisdom, goodness, and mercy; and ac¬
knowledge that our constant dependence is upon Him by
whom the universe was created and has been hitherto pre¬
served. By confession is meant our acknowledgment of our
P R A
manifold transgressions of the divine laws, and our conse- Prayer,
quent unworthiness of all the good things which we enjoy
at present, or expect to be conferred upon us hereafter. In
supplication we entreat our omnipotent Creator and merci¬
ful Judge, not to deal with us after our iniquities, but to
pardon our transgressions, and by his grace to enable us to
live henceforth righteously, soberly, and godly, in this pre¬
sent world ; and by Christians this intreaty is always made
in the name and through the mediation of Jesus Christ, be¬
cause to them it is known that there is none other name
under heaven given unto men whereby they may be saved.
To these supplications for mercy, we may likewise add our
prayers for the necessaries of life, because if we seek first
the kingdom of God, and his righteousness, we are assured
that such things shall be added unto us. Intercession, sig¬
nifies those petitions which we offer up for others, for friends,
for enemies, for all men, especially for our lawful governors,
whether supreme or subordinate. And thanksgiving is the
expression of our gratitude to God, the giver of every good
and perfect gift, for all the benefits enjoyed by us and others,
for the means of grace, and for the hope of glory. Such
are the component parts of a regular and solemn prayer,
adapted either for the church or for the closet. But an
ejaculation to God, conceived on any emergency, is likewise
a prayer, whether it be uttered by the voice, or suffered
to remain a mere affection of the mind; because the be¬
ing to whom it is addressed discerneth the thoughts of the
heart.
That prayer is a duty which all men ought to perform
with humility and reverence, has been generally acknow¬
ledged as well by the untaught barbarian as by the enlight¬
ened Christian ; and yet to this duty objections have been
made by which the understanding has been bewildered in
sophistry and affronted with jargon. “ If God be indepen¬
dent, omnipotent, and possessed of every other perfection,
what pleasure, it lias been asked, can he take in our ac
knowledgment of these perfections ? If he knows all things
past, present, and future, where is the propriety of our con¬
fessing our sins unto him ? If he is a benevolent and mer¬
ciful Being, he will pardon our sins, and grant us what is
needful for us without our supplications and entreaties; and
if he be likewise possessed of infinite wisdom, it is certain
that no importunities of ours will prevail upon him to grant
us what is improper, or for our sakes to change the equal
and steadv laws by which the world is governed.
Shall Durning JEtna, if a sage requires
Forget to thunder, and recal her fires ?
On air or sea new motions be imprest,
O blameless Bethel, to relieve thy breast ?
When the loose mountain trembles from on high,
Shall gravitation cease, if you go by ?
Or some old temple, nodding to its fall,
For Chartres’ head reserve the hanging wall ?
Such are the most plausible objections which are usually
made to the practice of prayer ; and though they have been
set off with all the art of the metaphysical wrangler, and em¬
bellished with all the graces of the poetry of Pope, they ap¬
pear to us such gross sophisms as can operate only on a very
unthinking head, or on a very corrupt heart. For if God
certainly exists, and there is not a mathematical theorem
capable of more rigid demonstration, it is obvious that no
man can think of such a Being without having his mind
strongly impressed with the conviction of his own constant
dependence upon him; nor can he “ contemplate the hea¬
vens, the work of God’s hands, the moon and the stars which
he has ordained,” without forming the most sublime concep¬
tions that he can of the Divine power, wisdom, and good¬
ness. But such conviction, and such conceptions, whether
clothed in words or not, are to all intents and purposes what
is meant by adoration ; and are as well known to the Deity
P R A
Prayer, whilst they remain the silent affections of the heart, as after
they are spoken in the beginning of a prayer. Our adora¬
tion, therefore, is not expressed for the purpose of giving
information to God, who understands our thoughts afar off;
but merely, when the prayer is private, because we cannot
think any more than speak without words, and because the
very sound ot words that are well chosen affects the heart,
and helps to fix our attention. And as the Being who sees
at once the past, present, and to come, and to whom a thou¬
sand years are but as one day, stands not in need of our in¬
formation ; so neither was it ever supposed by a man of ra¬
tional piety, that he takes pleasure on his own account in
hearing his perfections enumerated by creatures of yester¬
day ; for being independent, he has no passions to be gra¬
tified, and being self-sufficient, he was as happy when ex¬
isting alone as at that moment “ when the morning stars
sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy.”
Adoration is therefore proper only as it tends to preserve in
our minds just notions ot the Creator and Governor of the
world, and ot our own constant dependence upon him ; and
if such notions be useful to ourselves, who have a part to
act in the scale of existence, upon which our happiness de¬
pends, a proposition which no theist will controvert, adora¬
tion must be acceptable to that benevolent God, who, when
creating the world, could have no other end in view than
to propagate happiness.
By the same mode of reasoning, it will be easy to show
the duty of confession and supplication. We are not re¬
quired to confess our sins unto God, because he is ignorant
ot them ; for he is ignorant of nothing. If he were, no rea¬
son could be assigned for our divulging to our judge actions
deserving of punishment. Neither are we required to cry
for mercy, in order to move him in whom there is no va¬
riableness, neither shadow of turning. The Being that made
the world, governs it by laws that are inflexible, because
they are the best; and to suppose that he can be induced
by prayers, oblations, or sacrifices, to vary this plan of go¬
vernment, is an impious thought, which degrades the Deity
to a level with man. One of these inflexible laws is the con¬
nection established between certain dispositions of mind and
human happiness. We are enjoined to pursue a particular
course of conduct under the denomination of virtue, not be¬
cause our virtuous actions can in any degree be of advan¬
tage to him by whom we are created, but because they
necessarily generate in our own minds those dispositions
which are essential to our ultimate happiness. A man of
a malignant, arrogant, or sensual disposition, would have
no enjoyment in that heaven, where all are actuated by a
spirit of love and purity ; and it is doubtless for this reason
amongst others, that the Christian religion prohibits malice,
arrogance, and sensuality, among her votaries, and requires
the cultivation of the opposite virtues. But a person who
has deviated far from his duty cannot think of returning,
unless he be previously convinced that he has gone astray.
Such conviction, whenever he obtains it, will necessarily
impress upon his mind a sense of his own danger, and fill
his heart with sorrow and remorse for having transgressed
the laws established by the most benevolent of all Beings
for the propagation of universal felicity This conviction
of error, this sense of danger, and this compunction for hav¬
ing transgressed, are all perceived by the Deity as soon as
they take place in the mind of the sinner ; and he is re¬
quired to confess his sins, only because the act of confession
tends to imprint more deeply on his mind his own unwor¬
thiness, and the necessity of returning immediately into the
paths of that virtue of which all the ways are pleasantness,
and all the paths are peace.
In the objection, it is taken for granted, that if God be a
benevolent and merciful Being, he will pardon our sins, and
grant us what is needful for us, whether we supplicate, him
or not; but this is a gross and palpable mistake, arising
from the objector’s ignorance of the end of virtue and the
VOli. XVHI.
P R A 505
nature of man. Until a man be sensible of bis sins and bis Prayer,
danger, he is, for the reason already assigned, incapable of^^V''^''
pardon, because his disposition is incompatible with the hap¬
piness of the blessed. But whenever he acquires this con¬
viction, it is impossible for him not to form a mental wish
that he may be pardoned ; and this wish being perceptible
to the all-seeing eye of his Judge, forms the sum and sub¬
stance ot a supplication for mercy. If he clothe it in words,
it is only for a reason similar to that which makes him adore
his Creator and confess his sins in words, that just notions
may be more deeply imprinted on his own mind. The same
reasoning holds good with respect to those prayers which
we put up for temporal blessings, for protection and support
in our journey through life. We are told by high autho¬
rity, that “ the Lord is nigh unto all them that call upon
him, to all that call upon him in truth.” This, however, is
not because he is attracted or delighted by their prayers
and entreaties, but because those prayers and entreaties
fit such as offer them for receiving those benefits which
he is at all times ready to pour upon all mankind. In his
essence God is equally present with the righteous and with
the wicked, with those who pray, and with those who
pray not; for “ the eyes of the Lord are in every place,
beholding the evil and the good.” But as the atmos¬
phere equally surrounds every person upon this globe, and
yet in its state of greatest purity does not affect the asth¬
matic as it affects those who are whole ; so the Divine pre¬
sence, though essentially the same everywhere, yet does not
protect the impious as it protects the devout, because the
impious are not in a state capable of the Divine protection.
The end for which God requires the exercise of prayer as a
duty, is not his benefit, but ours ; because it is a mean to
generate in the petitioner such a disposition of mind as must
render him a special object of that love and that providen¬
tial care which extend over the whole creation.
That part of the objection which results from the consi¬
deration of the fixed laws of nature, and which the poet has
so finely illustrated, presents, it must be confessed, consider-r
able difficulties ; but none which to us appear insurmount¬
able. If, indeed, we suppose that in the original constitu¬
tion of things, when the laws of nature were established, a
determinate duration was given to the top of the mountain
and the nodding temple, without any regard to foreseen
consequences, it would undoubtedly be absurd and perhaps
impious to expect the law of gravitation to be suspended
by the prayers of a good man, who should happen to be
passing at the instant decreed for the fall of these objects.
But of such a constitution there is so far from being evi¬
dence, that it appears not to be consistent with the wisdom
and goodness of the Author of nature. This world was un¬
doubtedly formed for the habitation ot man and ot other
animals. If so, we must necessarily suppose, that in the es¬
tablishing of the laws of nature, God adjusted them in such
a manner as he saw would best serve the accommodation
of those sentient beings for whose accommodation alone
they were to be established. Let it then be admitted, that
all the human beings who were ever to exist upon this
globe, with all their thoughts, words, and actions, were at
That important moment present to the divine intellect, and
it will surely not be impossible to conceive that in conse¬
quence of the foreseen danger and prayers of a good man,
the determinate duration of the mountain and the tower
might be either lengthened or shortened to let him escape.
This idea of providence, and of the efficacy of prayer, is thus
illustrated by Mr. Wollaston. “ Suppose M (some man)
certainly io foreknow, by some means or other, that, when
he should come to be upon his death-bed, L would petitio?i
for some particular legacy, in a manner so earnest and hum¬
ble, and with such a good disposition, as would render it
proper to grant his request; and upon this, M makes ms
last will, by which he devises to L that which was to be
asked, and then locks up the will; and all this many yeais
3 s
J
—
506
Prayer.
P R A
P R E
before the death of M, and whilst L had yet no expectation
•> or thought of any such thing. When the time comes, the
petition is made and granted ; not by making any new wi ,
but by the old one already made, and without alteration ,
which legacy had, notwithstanding that, never been left,
had the petition never been preferred. The grant may be
called the effect of a future act, and depends as much upon
it as if it had been made after the act. So, if it had been
foreseen, that L would not so much as ask, and he had been
therefore left out of the will, this prceterition would have
been caused by his carriage, though much later than the
date of the will. In all this nothing is hard to be admitted,
if M be allowed to foreknow the case. And thus the prayers
which good men offer to the all-knowing God, and the ne¬
glect of prayers by others, may find fitting effects already
forecasted in the course of nature.”
This solution of the difficulty presents indeed to the mind
a prodigious scheme, in which all things to come are, as it
were, comprehended under one view, and estimated and
compared together. But when it is considered what a mass
of wonders the universe is in other respects; what an in¬
comprehensibly great and perfect being God is; that he
cannot be ignorant of any thing, no not of the future wants
and deportments of particular men; and that all things which
derive their existence from him must be consistent with one
another, it must surely be confessed that such an adjust¬
ment of physical causes to moral volitions is within the com¬
pass of infinite power and perfect wisdom.
To that part of a prayer which we have termed interces¬
sion, it has been objected, that “ to intercede for others is
to presume that we possess an interest with the Deity up¬
on which their happiness and even the prosperity of whole
communities depends.” In answer to this objection, it has
been observed by an ingenious and useful writer (Mr. Pa-
ley), that “ how unequal soever our knowledge of the Di¬
vine economy may be to a complete solution of this diffi¬
culty, which may require a comprehension of the entire plan,
and of all the ends of God’s moral government, to explain
it satisfactorily, we can yet understand one thing concern¬
ing it, that it is, after all, nothing more than the making of
one man the instrument of happiness and misery to another ;
which is perfectly of a piece with the course and order that
obtain, and which we must believe were intended to obtain,
in human affairs. Why may we not be assisted by the
prayers of other men, as well as we are beholden for our
support to their labour ? Why may not our happiness be
made in some cases to depend upon the intercession as it
certainly does in many upon the good offices of our neigh¬
bours ? The happiness and misery of great numbers we see
oftentimes at the disposal of one man’s choice, or liable to
be much affected by his conduct; what greater difficulty is
there in supposing, that the prayers of an individual may
avert a calamity from multitudes, or be accepted to the be¬
nefit of whole communities.”
These observations may perhaps be sufficient to remove
the force of the objection, but much more may be said for
the practice of mutual intercession. If it be one man’s duty
to intercede for another, it is the duty of that other to in¬
tercede for him; aud if we set aside the particular rela¬
tions which arise from blood, and from particular stations in
society, mutual intercession must be equally the duty of all
mankind. But there is nothing (we speak from our own
experience, and appeal to the experience of our readers),
which has so powerful a tendency to generate in the heart
of any person good-will towards another, as the constant
practice of praying to God for his happiness. Let a man
regularly pray for his enemy with all that seriousness which
devotion requires, and he will not long harbour resentment
against him. Let him pray for his friend with that ardour
which friendship naturally inspires, and he will perceive his
attachment to grow daily and daily stronger. If) then, uni¬
versal benevolence, or charity, be a disposition which we
Prayer
ought to cultivate in ourselves, mutual intercession is un¬
deniably a duty, because nothing contributes so effectually
to the acquisition of that spirit which an apostle terms the jencef
end of the commandment. >
When it is said, that by interceding for kings, and all in
authority, we seem to consider the prosperity of communi¬
ties as depending upon our interest with God, the objector
mistakes the nature and end of these intercessions. In the
prosperity of any community consists great part of the hap¬
piness of its individual members; but that prosperity de¬
pends much upon the conduct of its governors. When,
therefore, individuals intercede for their governors, the ul¬
timate object of their prayers must be conceived to be their
own good.
Having evinced the duty of adoration, confession, suppli¬
cation, and intercession, we need not surely waste our read¬
ers’ time with a formal and laboured vindication of thanks ¬
giving. Gratitude for benefits received is so universally
acknowledged to be a virtue, and ingratitude is so detesta¬
ble a vice, that no man who lays claim to a moral character
will dare to affirm that we ought not to have a just sense
of the goodness of God. (h.h.h.h)
BREAD AMITE, a denomination given to the inhabi¬
tants of the earth, conceived, by some people, to have lived
before Adam.
Isaac de la Pereyra, in 1655, published a book to evince
the reality of Preadamites, by which he gained a consider¬
able number of proselytes to the opinion ; but the answer
of Desmarets, professor of theology at Groningen, published
the year following, put a stop to its progress, though Pe¬
reyra made a reply.
PREBEND, the maintenance a prebendary receives out
of the estate of a cathedral or collegiate church. Prebends
are distinguished into simple and dignitary. A simple pre¬
bend has no more than the revenue for its support; but a
prebend with dignity has always a jurisdiction annexed to it.
PREBENDARY, an ecclesiastic who enjoys a prebend.
The difference between a prebendary and a canon is, that
the former receives his prebend in consideration of his of¬
ficiating in the church, but the latter merely by his being
received into the cathedral or college.
PRECEDENCE, a place of honour to which a person
is entitled. This is either of courtesy or of right. The for¬
mer is that which is due to age, estate, or the like, and is
regulated by custom and civility; the latter is settled by
authority, and when broken in upon, gives an action at law.
In Great Britain, the order of precedency is as follows:
The king, the princes of the blood, the archbishop of Can¬
terbury, the lord high chancellor, the archbishop of York,
the lord treasurer of England, the lord president of the
council, the lord privy seal, dukes, the eldest sons of dukes
of the blood royal, marquises, dukes’ eldest sons, earls, mar¬
quises’ eldest sons, dukes’ younger sons, viscounts, earls’
eldest sons, marquises’younger sons, bishops, barons, speaker
of the house of commons, lord commissioner of the great
seal, viscounts’ eldest sons, earls’ younger sons, barons’ eld¬
est sons, privy counsellors not peers, chancellor of the ex¬
chequer, chancellor of the duchy, knights of the Garter not
peers, lord chief justice of the king’s bench, master of the
rolls, lord chief justice of the common pleas, lord chief baron
of the exchequer, puisne judges and barons, knights ban¬
neret if made in the field, masters in chancery, viscounts’
younger sons, barons’ younger sons, baronets, knight ban¬
neret, knights of the Bath, knights batchelors, baronets’
eldest sons, knights’ eldest sons, baronets’ younger sons,
knights’ younger sons, field and flag officers, doctors gra¬
duate, serjeants at law, esquires, gentlemen bearing coat
armour, yeomen, tradesmen, artificers, labourers. It is to
be observed, the ladies, except those of archbishops, bishops,
and judges, take place according to the degree of quality of
their husbands; and unmarried ladies take place according
to that of their fathers.
507
PRECESSION OF THE EQUINOXES.
Precession In the article Astronomy (vol. vi. p. 767), the phenomenon
of the of the annual precession of the equinoxes has been described,
Equinoxes. an(j jts physical cause stated to be the attraction of the sun
and moon upon the protuberant mass of matter accumulated
about the earth’s equator, combined with the diurnal rota¬
tion. We shall here discuss the subject more particularly,
and shew in what manner the different forces which tend to
displace the plane of the earth’s equator give rise to the
phenomenon in question, and how their effects are computed
from the fundamental principles of dynamics. The general
problem, which is that of determining the perturbations of
the earth’s axis of rotation, embraces the Nutation of the
axis, as well as the pfecessional motion of the equinoctial
points, and is one of the most important and interesting in
physical astronomy.
If the earth were a perfect sphere, the attraction of the
sun or moon would have no tendency to communicate to it
any motion about its centre of gravity. In this case, all
the particles being symmetrically disposed with reference
to every plane passing through its centre, the forces acting
on opposite sides of any plane passing through its centre
and the centre of the attracting body, would exactly balance
each other, and consequently would have no tendency to
produce a rotatory motion. But by reason of the spheroidal
form of the earth, and of the intensity of the force of attrac¬
tion varying with the distance, the action of a distant body
which is not situated either in the plane of the equator, or in
the prolongation of the axis of rotation, produces an unequal
effect on the opposite sides of every plane passing through the
earth’s centre, (excepting the meridian in which the body
is situated), and tends to produce a rotatory motion about
that diameter of the equator which is perpendicular to the
line which joins the centre of the earth with the centre of
the attracting body. Hence the sun exerts a force, which
at every instant has a tendency to bring the plane of the
earth’s equator towards the plane of the ecliptic ; and if the
earth had no motion of rotation about its axis, the two planes
would at length be brought to coincide. In consequence,
however, of the rotatory motion, the inclination of the two
planes, as we shall shew, undergoes no permanent alteration;
but a motion is given to the earth’s axis, such that the
pole of the equator constantly revolves about the pole of
the ecliptic in the direction opposite to that of the diurnal
rotation, and the intersection of the equator and ecliptic,
following the motion of the pole, is carried backwards along
the ecliptic. The moon produces a similar effect in refe¬
rence to the plane of the lunar orbit; and the motion pro¬
duced by the combined action of the sun and moon, which
is the phenomenon observed, is the luni solar precession of
the equinoxes.
As the efficacy of the disturbing force to turn the earth
about an axis varies with the distance of the attracting body
from the /plane of the equator, the precessional motion of
the equinoxes is not uniform. The efficacy of the sun’s
force continues to increase, while the sun passes from either
equinox to the solstice, and to diminish while it passes from
the solstice to the equinox. The period of the inequality
is consequently half a-year. The period in 4which the ac¬
tion of the moon passes through all its degrees of intensity
is about nine years, being that in which the nodes of the
lunar orbit accomplish half a revolution on the ecliptic.
The apparent effect of this irregular action, is an alternate
increase and diminution of the declinations of the fixed stars,
most sensible for those nearest the pole, which is character¬
istically called the nutation of the earth’s axis. The solar
nutation, however, is so small as to be insensible to obser- Precession
yation ; the lunar nutation is sufficiently sensible, amount- of the
mg to about 18" between the extreme positions of the pole, ®(iu‘noxes•
. Before proceeding with the investigation of the problem,v
it will be convenient to premise the two following elemen¬
tary theorems respecting the composition of rotatory mo¬
tion, referring the reader for their demonstration to the
article Rotation.
Theorem 1. If a rigid body revolving about an axis A«,
which passes through its centre
of gravity O, with an angular ve¬
locity =.v, receive an impulse
which alone would cause it to
revolve about an axis B6, also
passing through its centre of
gravity, with a velocity =:$, the
body will now revolve about a
third axis Cc, passing through
its centre of gravity, and lying
in the plane of the two axes Aa and B5, and so situated that
the sine of its inclination to the axis Aa will be to the sine
of its inclination to the axis B6, as the velocity about B& to
the velocity about Aa ; that is, the new axis will divide the
angle AOB, so that sin AOC : sin BOC ::cp :v.
In order to determine whether the pole C of the new axis
lies between A and B, or between A and b, it is only ne¬
cessary to consider that the new axis must evidently be that
line in the body in which every point is at rest in respect
of both motions. If, therefore, we suppose the original mo¬
tion about Aa, to be in the direction which would raise the
point B above the plane of the paper, and to depress b be¬
low it, and the new impulse to be given in the direction
which would depress the point A below the plane of the
paper, and raise a above it, then C will lie between A and
B; but if the new impulse tends to raise A above the plane
of the paper, then C will lie between A and b.
Corollary 1. If the two axes Aa and B6 are at right
sin AOC
angles, then sin BOC=cos AOC, and we have 
<b m cos AOC
=: —, that is, tan AOC= —.
Cor. 2. If the impulse is renewed at every instant of
time, the axis about which the body actually revolves must
have a uniform motion in space from OA towards OB.
Theorem*!. If the force which tends to give the body a mo¬
tion of rotation about an axis which is always perpendicular
to the axis about which it is already revolving, and situated
in the plane AOB, be uniform, the angular velocity of rota¬
tion remains unaltered, or is a constant quantity.
These theorems, which are true of bodies in general,
whatever be their figure, were first demonstrated by Frisi.
Proposition 1. To determine the efficacy of the sun’s at¬
traction to turn the spheroid about its centre, the earth being
supposed homogeneous.
Let Vp be the axis of rotation, Qq the projection of the
equator, S the sun, C the centre of the spheroid, and D
o
precession.
508
Precession the projection of a point in the interim of the spheroid on
of the the plane PQW. Join SC, SD, DC ; and draw CG per-
Equinoxes. {icular to SCj and DE, DF respectively perpendicular
v ^ SC CG
Let f represent the force of the sun’s attraction on a par¬
ticle at the centre C, and/' the force of its attraction on a
particle at D, then the attraction being ^inversely as the
square of the distance, we have/ /• gpja ”
force /', which acts on D in the direction SD, may be
resolved into two; one in the direction CD, which has no
tendency to turn the spheroid about its centre, and the
other in the direction ED parallel to SC, which tends to
turn the spheroid in the direction PQ about an axis pass¬
ing through C, and perpendicular to the plane J/W
The resolved part of the force /', in the direction bD is
SC^ SC gD ig the diag0nal 0f a parallelogram
J ’ gp)^ ‘ gi)’
of which SC and CD are the sides. Now, if the resolved
force in the direction ED parallel to SC were the same on
every particle, and equal to/ it would have no tendency
to produce rotation in the spheroid ; we may therefore con¬
ceive the force on any particle which tends to produce ro¬
tation to be the difference between the part of the force
acting on that particle in the direction parallel to SC, and
the force/acting on the particle at C. Hence the force on
D tending to impress a rotatory motion on the spheroid is
f /SC* SC SC3-SDW (SC-SD) (SC*+SC• SD+SD*).
j • Vsiia * SD-1/-*' * J ’
for every particle in the spheroid, let z be the co-ordinate Precession
perpendicular to the plane of the figure, and conceive the "
whole spheroid to be divided into an infinite number of thin  
slices parallel to the plane of t/z, the thickness of each slice
beino- suppose, again, each slice to be divided into an
infintty of parallelepipeds, parallel to the axis z, and termi¬
nated bv the surface of the spheroid, the breadth of each
being dy; and, lastly, let each parallelepiped be divided in¬
to an infinite number oflengths, each —dz. The element
of the volume, dm, then becomes dxdydz; and consequently
the sum of kx*dm in respect of every particle is expressed
by the triple integral///kx2dxdydz.
Assuming x*, dx and dy to be constant, and integrating
with respect to z, we obtain hxqdxdyz-\-const. Let a—
the semi-diameter of the equator, b— the polar semi-axis,
X2 y 2 z2   „
and the equation of the spheroid is ^ ^ - E trora
which the limits of z must be found. This equation gives
1 
- VSD2 SD-1/-*' SD3 ^ SD3 .
Now b v reason of the great distance of the sun in comparison ot
the radius of the earth, SD is very nearly parallel to SC, and
equal to SC—CE. Substituting therefore SC—CE for J
SD, and neglecting terms divided by S
be altogether insensible, the factor •
y . andbe-
a* b'1
tween those values of z the definite integral becomes
/ x2 y2
2 kax^dxdy v 1— —jjT
This expresses the sum of fa’rfm for the parallelepiped cor-
resnonding to a given value of re. , . ,
If we next suppose a’2 and dx to be constant, and integrate
this expression with respect to y, we shall have t.ie sum of
kx-dm for the slice, the distance of which Irom tne p.ane
ti1 and the
x-
u
Make 1—- —=y-;, or u
a* Z»2’
2kaxQdv
as to
expression becomes  ^
dy. In integrat-
becomes —, and consequently the above expression is
since the difference
SD
CE . o/- CE
reduced to 3/. gjj’ or * gQ
between 1-^SD and 1^-SC is a quantity divided by SC2,
and therefore insensible. This is the part of the orce on
which tends to turn the spheroid about the diameter of the
equator which is perpendicular to Qq ; and by the principles
of mechanics, its efficacy in communicating a rotatory mo¬
tion to the spheroid is proportional to the distance of its line
of direction from the axis, that is, proportional to Cb ;
whence the moment of the force at the point D becomes
o. CE-CF
q/• gc *
• Assume r=SC, and let S denote the absolute force of
the sun, then /=S-r2 ; and h'k= the density at D, then
kdm is the quantity of matter in the particle dm at D, and the
moment of the force on that particle tending to produce in
the spheroid a motion about its centre m the direction Ui
(which is the general direction of the motion produced by
the forces on all the particles) is — - CE.CF. k.dm,
the integral of which must be taken for the whole spheroid.
Draw DM parallel to P/>, and MN perpendicular to DF,
meeting SC in O, and make
CM=X, DM=y, SCP=0,
(6 being the complement of the sun’s declination) then
CE=:DN-|-NF= ?/ cos 0+# sin 6, and CF = MN—MO
 x cos0, whence the moment of the force impress¬
ed on D becomes
L. kdm {(x2—y2) s’in g cos t + xy (cos2sin20)|.
In order to find the integrals fbx2dm, fhy2dm, fkxydm
ing this expression, the limits of </, in respect of any given
value ofx, are obtained from the equation of the section of
a2 y2
the ellipsoid in the plane xy, namely — L rhlS
equation gives ; whence, at thelimits/=i.*,
and therefore y— z±=u. Now, by a known formula, the
integral fju*—y*.dy from y = — w to y = « is | tt ?;2
(V being the ratio of the circumference to the diameter) ;
\ ° .i . . i rniTosnonuinsi to a
( 7T ueilijx tilt: lauu ^^r
therefore the integral ofa‘2//m for the slice corresponding to a
given value of* is i which, on substituting for
Z>2
m2, its value Z>2— becomes
7rA—(a2a2—a4)rfa.
a
We have lastly to integrate this expression from «
to a= + «• The integral between those limits is ——
; whence we have ultimately, in respect of the
whole spheroid,
fff kx 2 dxdydz—^g irka^b.
On going through the same process for y2dm, or if dxdydz,
and observing that the integral fy*Ju«—y-.dy from
y=—u to y=+« is £ ttm4* there results for the whole
spheroid fjjhy2dxdydz=^ uTia^. .
With respect to the remaining integral/xyc/w, it is easy
to see that its value in respect of the whole spheroid must
PRECESSION
Precession be 0, for on integrating kxydxdydx with respect to x, there
E ° inoxes results hk^ydydz, which vanishes on giving x all values
quinoxes. |)etWeen —t and +M being any definite quantity.
From these values of lx1 dm, fy^dm, fxydm, we obtain the
following expression for the moment of all the forces im¬
pressed on the spheroid,
3S drr , .
—• — ha-bia2—52) sm ^cos
r0 \5 K J
Prop. 2. To determine the efficacy of the sun’s attraction
to turn the spheroid about its centre, the earth being sup¬
posed heterogeneous.
Conceive the spheroid to be composed of infinitely thin
concentric layers, bounded by spheroidal surfaces, and sup¬
pose the ellipticity and density to be different for each layer,
but both to be functions of the distance from the centre of the
spheroid. Let a and /3 be respectively the equatorial and po¬
lar semi-diameters of the layer which contains a particle dm,
e^= its ellipticity, and k its density. In order to find the
moment of all the forces impressed on the spheroid, we must
first find an expression in terms of /3, for their moment on
the elementary layer containing dm, and then integrate this
expression from /3=0 to fi—b. Now, suppose all the mat¬
ter of the spheroid exterior to the layer in question to be
removed, and suppose also for a moment the matter in the
interior of the spheroidal surface passing through dm to be
all of the same density, k, then the moment of the impressed
forces on the spheroid whose surface passes through dm, is
by the last proposition
—. — ka2p(a2—(3 2) sin d COS 6.
r5 15
The variable part of this expression is &a^3(a2-/32). Now,since
a=/3(l+e), we have, on neglecting terms multiplied by t2,
which, by. reason of the smallness of the earth’s ellipticity are
altogether insensible, «2=/32 -f- 2/32e and a2—/32r= 2/32e, whence
ka2 fi(a2—/Z2)=2kfi5e. Suppose now the semi-axis /3 to re¬
ceive an infinitely small increment, and to become /Z + d3 ;
then since k and e are both functions of /3, the expression
2id( ^
2^/35e will become 2^/35e-j   ^ • dp. This is the va¬
riable part of the moment of the forces on the spheroid
whose semiaxis is ; consequently, in respect of the
spheroidal layer which remains on subtracting the spheroid
whose semiaxis is /3, it becomes
2d(]HZse)
d(i. Let the inte¬
gral of this expression between the limits /3=0 and /3=6 be
denoted by 2 F (/3) ; then the moment of all the forces im¬
pressed on the spheroid supposed heterogeneous is
—. — F (/3) sin 6 cos &.
r* 15 v/
Prop. 3. To determine the angular velocity <p generated
by the sun’s force, and the position of the equator after the
infinitely small time dt.
By dynamics, the angular velocity of rotation is equal to
the moment of the impressed forces divided by the mo¬
ment of inertia of the mass to be moved. Now, the mo¬
ment of inertia of a body, with respect to a given axis of
rotation, is the sum of the products obtained by multiplying
each particle of the body into the square of its distance from
the axis ; that is, in respect of the axis z, about which the
impressed forces tend to turn the spheroid, the moment of
inertia is supposing the spheroid homogene¬
ous, and the density A-=l. But it has been shewn that in
this case J'x^dm— ^-xa^b, and py 2dm=^ta2 ; therefore
the moment of inertia of the spheroid is -fz-xa2b{a2 ).
And by prop. 1, the moment of the impressed forces is
3S
~>-b(a2-—b2) sin 6 cos 6, therefore
- sin 0 cos 0.
i%*a‘
3S
^ r5’
509
In the case of the heterogeneous spheroid the moment Precession
of inertia is thus found. As before, let a and /3 be the equa- of the
torial and polar semiaxes of the spheroidal surface passing Equinoxes,
through the particle dm, then if the matter within this sur- s
face be supposed of uniform density =k, the moment of
inertia of this spheroid, by what is already shewn, is
^TT&a^O2 + /32). But a2 + j32—2/32 + 2/3e, and a2/3=/3* -f
2/3''e, therefore a2/3(a2-j-/32)=2/35-f-6/35e j and since e is a
very small quantity, the second term of this expression is
very small, and may be neglected in comparison of the first;
therefore Ara2/3(a2-j-iaS!)=2A’i(35. For the spheroid whose
semiaxis is/S-J-e^S, this quantity becomes 2Ar/35-j- X
d/3
-d/3,
and therefore in respect of the elementary spheroidal layer
the semiaxes of whose interior and exterior surfaces are /3
2d(kf25)
and /3 + d/3, it is — - d/3. Let 2F/(/3) denote the integral
d/3
d/3
of this quantity from /3=0 to /3=b, that is,
=2F/(/3), and the moment of inertia of the heterogeneous
d(k/35)
d/3
Stt
spheroid becomes — F'(/3).
lo
But the moment of the im-
gg
pressed forces is by prop. 2, —. F(£) sin 6 cos 6, there¬
fore in the case of the heterogeneous spheroid,
J 3S FO) . ,
<£— -^r • sin ^ cos
r P F'(/3)
Let us assume K—
-b2
in the case of the homose-
in the case of the heteroge-
a2+b*
neous spheroid, and K=
neons spheroid, and we have for both cases
3S.K .
d)—  sin 6 cos 0.
7 r3
Now to find the place of the pole, and the position of the
equator after the small interval of time dt, we must apply the
first of the two theorems above premised. If the earth had
no diurnal rotation, the sun’s force would cause it to revolve
about an axis passing through C perpendicular to the meri¬
dian YGtpq, or perpendicular to the plane of the paper, so
as to bring the point Q nearer to the line SC, with a velo¬
city =0. But the earth is already revolving about the
axis Vp, with a velocity =v, and in the direction which raises
the point q above the plane of the paper. Hence, by theorem
1, the new axis of rotation wall be in the plane passing
through P/>, perpendicular to the plane of the paper, and
after the time dt will make with Vp an angle whose tangent
= —, the pole P rising above the plane of the paper; and
v
the new equator will intersect the former in the line Q?,
and make with it an angle whose tangent is also The
effect of the compound motion is thus to twdst as it were the
equator about the line Ciq as an axis, or about that diame¬
ter of the equator which lies in the same meridian with the
sun, instead of twisting it about the diameter perpendicular
to that meridian, as would be the case it the earth had no
diurnal motion. .
Prop. 4. To find the amount of the solar precession after
any given time. .
Let AB be the intersection of the plane of the ecliptic,
with the surface of sphere whose centre is at the centre of
J
510
Precession the earth ; let ACB be the equator, and S the projection
of the of the sun’s place in the ecliptic. Now, the plane of t
Equinoxes. ^
PRECESSION.
portion gives dt—
tl'naisj 1-
Precession
But it is shewn in the of the
Equinoxes.
article Astronomy, part iii. art. 10, that T=;27rv/«-:->/ F,
where F is the attracting force at the mean distance a.
But we have assumed S to denote the sun’s force at the unit
of distance ; therefore, the forces being inversely as the
equator being always perpendicular to the axis of rotation,
when the axis changes its position the equator will also
change its position, and the new equator will intersect the
former in an angle equal to the deviation of the axis. e
A'CB' be the new position of the equator, alter the in -
nitely small time dt, intersecting the former in C, then the
angle AC A' is the measure of the momentary deviation o
the axis, and AA', which is the amount of variation m the
place of the node, is the precession in the time dt.
From the properties of spherical triangles w-e have
sin SAC : sin AC A' :: sin A'C : sin AA'. But because
AC A' is a very small angle, and A A' a very small arc, the
arcs may be taken instead of the sines ; whence, since
k ^ k, sin AC
A'C = AC, the proportion gives AA' = ACA gin gAC'
(j) 3S.K . .
But by the last proposition tan AC A =— = —p sin 5 cos ’
therefore, as the small arc may be substituted for its tangent,
3S.K sin AC
AA'= —-
squares of the distances, F=S-^-a2,
4ir2a5
whence T =
Ta
and therefore
27raq
Vs‘
SAC
sin 0 cos 6.
It will now be convenient to express this value of A A'
in terms of the sun’s longitude and the obliquity of the eclip¬
tic. Since the equator, as was shewn in the last proposi¬
tion, is twisted about the diameter which is in the same me¬
ridian with the sun, it follows that the line joining S and C
is a part of the meridian ; whence ACS is a right angle,
and SC (the sun’s declination)=90°—^ Let /=AS, (the
sun’s longitude), and I=SAC, (the obliquity of the eclip¬
tic), then, in the right angled spherical triangle SAC, we
have cos SC . cos AC=cos AS, or sin 6 cos AC=cos /; and
sin SC= sin SAC sin AS, or cos 0= sin I sin l, therefore
sin^cos^=—ISin/^°—• Again, in the same triangle
cos AC
we have tan AC=cosSAC tan AS, whence sin AC=:cos AC
^ ^ • T\ sin AC
cos I tan l, and (dividing by sin SAC= sin I) g-n
cos AC cos I sm l Substituting t]iese values of sin & cos 0
sin I cos l
«:n /V
an(j : in the above value of AA', we get . „
cos AC
3S.K T . 2j
AA'= cos I sur/.
This is the solar precession in the element of time dt
consequently for a given time T we have
From this formula we get S
_ —Znadl— Again, assuming longitude of sun’s
TrVl—*2
perigee, the polar equation of the ellipse gives r =
a(\ e2v $.dt 27r jT + <? cos(/—\)^dl
 — 7T-—c; whence —r-:=—— . -■ — , and
I+fCos(/—\) i"’  €2^-2
the above expression becomes
GttK cos I /». „
solar precession =r — J sin 't^l —l^dl.
Tv(l—62)^
The expression under the sign of integration consists of
two parts, of which the first fain 2Zrf/=:^(C + /— cos l sin l).
(See Fluxions, art, 153.) The second part, namely
fe sin 2lcos(l—\)dl, when integrated becomes e sin(/—A)—
L sin (/+A)— -r sin (31—A), but by reason of the smallness
2 b
of e these terms are insensible, and are therefore neglected.
Rejecting also the terms in the divisor of the coefficient
which are multiplied by e2, and observing that cos / sin / = i
sin 2/, we obtain, finally,
. 3wK cos I/-/-',. / i • o/\
solar precession n —g sin
The first term of this expression, which depends on
C + /, or on the sun’s longitude, is the,constant or uniform
precession. Its amount in one year is found by supposing
6jt2K cos I
l to be increased by 2iv, and is consequently  •
The second is periodic, and being proportional to twice the
sine of the sun’s longitude, it runs through its changes in half
a-year. It is usually regarded as a part of solar nutation, and
called the solar equation of the equinoxes in longitude.
Prop. 5. To find the diminution of the obliquity of the
ecliptic produced by the sun’s attraction.
Referring to the last diagram, make AE=EB=90°, and
let ED be perpendicular to AB the ecliptic, and meet
A'CB' in E', then EE' is the small change in the inclina¬
tion in the time dt. In the triangle ECE', we have sin EE'
== sin CE sin ECE'. But EE' being very small, the arc may
be taken for the sine, and therefore EE'= sin CE sin ECE'.
cos l
solar precession =
3S.K cos I /*sin2/
-r.
dt,
the integral being taken from f=0 to i?=T.
To prepare this expression for integration, r3 and dt
must be expressed in terms of l and known quantities. Let
a=semiaxis major ot the earth’s orbit, €=its eccentricity,
T—a sidereal year, then r being the radius vector, and dl
the angle described in the time dt, \r-dl is the space passed
over by the radius vector in the element of the time, and
by Kepler’s law of the equable description of areas, we have
cfc : T :: \r2dl: area of orbit.
Now the area of the orbit is -no1 J1—e2, therefore this pro-
Now sin CE= cosAC=r; and it has been already
sin a
seen that sin ECE'ss AC A'=— zr —~—sin $ cos therefore
v r°v
3S K /
EE'rr - - cos 6 cos l, or since cos 0 = sin I sin l, EE'=
3S.K
sin I sin l cos l. Multiplying by dt, and making the
/ €/
same substitutions as in the last proposition, we have
/EE'^= ^—y sin I /sin l cos /f 1 +ecos(/-A)}rfA
J Tv(l—e2)2 J
PRECESSION.
511
Precession whence neglecting as before terms multiplied by e, and in-
of the tegrating, there results
Equin0xeS‘ 3^-K . T
/EE sin I cos 2/,
J 21t?
for the solar nutation in obliquity. This expression, de¬
pending on twice the cosine of the sun’s longitude, runs
through all its changes in half a year ; but its greatest value
amounts to scarcely half a second, and is consequently al¬
together insensible to observation.
Prop. 6. To investigate the precessional motion of the
equinoxes produced by the moon. Let
M=r moon’s mass,
E — earth’s mass,
I' = inclination of moon’s orbit to the equator,
/' = moon’s distance from the intersection of her orbit with
the equator,
r' =: radius vector of the moon’s orbit,
a' = semitransverse axis of moon’s orbit,
f' = eccentricity of the lunar orbit,
T'= sidereal time of revolution,
then, by following exactly the same reasoning as was pur¬
sued in prop. 4, there results for the retrograde motion of
the points in which the plane of the lunar orbit intersects
the plane of the equator (corresponding to the solar pre¬
cession in prop. 4.), the expression
3M. K cos I' /sin 2//
v J r'’
dt.
Now, we have dt—
T'r'*dl'
-, and r'—
a'(l—e'3)
hence — —
4x-
a'3 ~~ T*(E+M)
becomes
GttM . K cos I'
—^sin 2//{ 1 + e' cos(x—i
s-' F
new
orbit, causing it to revolve about the line of its intersection Precession
with the lunar orbit; therefore by Theorem I., the momen- the
tary axis of rotation lies in the plane passing through that E<luin<>xes.
line and the pole of the equator, and the equator is conse-
quently twisted about the equatorial diameter which is per¬
pendicular to the intersection of the equator and lunar orbit.
Hence,FC=CHandF/C=CH'; and since FC-f- CH=180°,
therefore FC and F'C are quadrantal arcs, and the two tri¬
angles CFF and CHH' are in all respects equal. Now
sin FC : CFF :: sin FF' :: ACA',
sin F :: FF' :: ACA',
sin AC :: sin ACA':: sin A A',
cos AF :: ACA':: AA',
that is, 1
and sin CA'A
that is, sin I
therefore,
sin I :
and consequently,
sin F cos AF :: FF': AA',
F'F sin F cos AF
AA'=
sin I
But AA' represents the velocity along the ecliptic, and
FF' the velocity along the plane of the moon’s orbit,
and we have seen that the motion along this plane is
6w2K.M cos F . u ^ ,
■tv /. atx >in the time I , or a sidereal revolution. Di-
I't’(E-f-M)
viding this by T', we get the mean velocity in the plane of
the orbit in the unit of time ; whence FF'rz^.,,^'^' C°.Sr^.
l'Jc(E-FM)
,thenFF'=Q
27ra'2>v/l-e'si ’ l+e'cos(X'-/')
therefore % = ^+e' co<X~l^dl. But in the pre-
r ° 2XCI'3 1 —e'4)^
sent case T'= ^ E^.M) (^ort^emass t^ie mooncannot
be neglected in comparison of that of the earth, as the mass
of the earth is neglected in comparison of that of the sun),
The above expression therefore
For the sake of brevity let
cos F, and we have
'K.M
T'2v(E + M)
AA'=
Q. cos F sin F cos AF
sin I
T'r(E+M)(l—F2)^
the integral of which (rejecting, as before, terms multiplied
by e') gives
•r*(E+M) (c+?-2 s‘n-?>
for the regression of the equator on the plane of the lunar
orbit. Suppose J! to be increased by 2w, or a whole circum¬
ference, the regression caused by the moon’s action in a
, 6?r2M.KcosF
sidereal revolution becomes ,,, . —•
lY'(E-f-M)
It is now necessary to reduce this retrograde motion to
the plane of the ecliptic.
Let AB be the ecliptic, ACB the equator, A'GB' the
We must now express cos F sin F cos AF, in terms of
the obliquity and inclination of the lunar orbit to the eclip¬
tic. Let *=ANF = inclination of moon’s orbit to the
ecliptic, »=NA, the longitude of the node ; then in the
triangle ANF, we have by spherical trigonometry,
cos ANFzr cos NAF cos NFA-j- sin NAF sin NFAcosAF,
that is, since NAF=I, NFA=F,
cos 2=cos I cos F-j-sin I sin F cos AF,
In like manner, in the same triangle,
cos F= cos I cos «+ sin I sin i cos n.
From these two equations we obtain this other,
cos F sin F cos AF=cos I sin I cos 2*
—(cos 21—sin 2I) cos i sin i cos n
—cos I sin I sin 2i cos 2n,
which, on substituting in it cos 21 for cos 21—sin 21,
1 sin 2i for cos i sin i, and l + | cos 2n for cos becomes
cos F sin F cos AF=cos I sin I (cos sin 2e)
—\ cos 21 sin 2i cos n
—^ cos I sin I sin 2« cos 2n.
Assuming i (the inclination of the moon’s orbit) to be con¬
stant, which may be done in the present case without sen¬
sible error, the only variable in this expression is n, (the
longitude of the node), which, on the supposition of i con¬
stant, is proportional to the time. Let t denote the time
of a revolution of the node, then for any time t, we have
n— , On making this substitution in the last equation,
T
we obtain by means of it
AA'=Q. | cos I (cos H—| sin ti)
1 cos 21 . . 2atf
sin 2* cos —
—v position of the equator, and FH the plane of the lunar
orbit intersecting the new equator in F' and H', and the
ecliptic in N. The mean effect of the moon’s action in the
course of a month, if the earth had no motion of rotation,
would be to bring the equator nearer the plane of the lunar
sin I
cos I sin 2t cos
-r}
Now, if we assume y=\he regression of the equinoctial
points on the ecliptic caused by the lunar action, and sup-
J
512
PRECESSION.
PTthf ” pose y a function of t, then AA'= and the amount of lunar nutation in obliquity —Q. ^ cos I sin 21 cos
Equinoxes. ^
this regression in a given time dt. Multiplying
2%t
therefore the right hand side of the last equation by dt,
<lTct - T . 27r£
‘Itc
. f ‘litt
and integrating, (observing thaty cos — dt—
and y^cos — sin 4^pj, we obtain, finally, for the
regression of the equinoctial points, or the precessional mo¬
tion of the equinoxes, produced by the moon in the time t,
ft | cos I (cos 2?-4 sin 2i)t
T cos 21 sin 2* . 2xt
  —   sin 
4?r sin I t
cos I sin 2i sin
A7Ct\
4. const.
S’1- T • 1 • u
The first term of this expression increases uniformly with
the time, and is called the lunar precession. The second
2^
term, being multiplied by sin ——, is periodic, and depends
on the mean longitude of the moon s ascending node. It
is called the lunar equation of the equinoxes in longitude.
The third term is also periodic, but its numerical value is
so small as to be insensible, and it is therefore omitted in
the calculation. The lunar precession in a sidereal year is
found by substituting T for t in the first term, and we have,
therefore, _ 2- i •
lunar annual precession cos I (cos i 2 sin i) v.
Prop. 7. To find the diminution in the inclination of the
equator to the ecliptic produced by the moon’s action.
Let AB be bisected in D, and let DE be an arc perpen¬
dicular to AB, and meeting A'B' in E'; then the alteration
of obliquity produced by the moon in the time dt is repre¬
sented by EE'. Now in the triangle CFF' we have
sin CF': sin CFF' :: sin FF' : sin FCF',
that is, 1 : sin I' :: FF' : FCF';
and in the triangle CEE',
Sin CE'E : sin CE :: sin ECE': sin EE'
that is, by reason ofCE=AF (since FC=AE~90°) and
ECE'=FCF'
1 : sin AF:: FCF': EE';
whence EE'=FF' sin I' sin AF. Now it was shewn in the
last proposition that FF'—QcosI', therefore
EE'= Q, cos I' sin I' sin AF.
To refer this to the ecliptic we have in the triangle NAF,
sin NFA : sin ANF :: sin AN: sin AF
which gives the equation
sin I' sin AF=sin i sin n ;
and, as before we have
cos I'= cos I cos *4 sin I sin i cos n;
whence multiplying the two equations together, and sub¬
stituting ^ sin 2i for cos i sin i, and ^ sin 2?j for cos n sin n,
we get
cos 1' sin I' sin AFcos I sin 2e sin w -j- ^ sin I sin 2 i sin 2n,
Qirt
and, consequently, writing for n its value—,
Prop. 8. To compute the numerical value of the annual
precession.
I r* 9T7' T
o'" K cos 1
By prop. 4. the solar precession in one year = ^
Now Tv is the angle which any point of the earth describes
about its axis of rotation in a sidereal year, or 366*26 days,
and consequently =2^x 366*26. The solar precession
therefore becomes     expressed in pai ts o*
the radius. To reduce it to seconds, we have, assuming radius
= 1, *•—180°= 180x60 X 60=648000 seconds. Substitut¬
ing this for tt, and computing the above expression by the
logarithmic tables we get ^
solar annual precession =Kx4869".
By prop. 6, the lunar precession in a sidereal year (on sub-
stituting for Q its value) is yj) cos ^ (cos 1
2i) T. But T'v is the angle described by the diurnal
Precession
of the
Equinoxes.
rotation of the earth in one sidereal revolution of the moon,
or 27*32 days (Astronomy, vol. iii. p. 792), and therefore
=2?r x 27*32. We have also (p. 791), *=5° 8' 47*9//, and,
as before, T=366*26 days. Now assuming the moon’s mass
= l-70th of the earth’s mass, M-^(E4-M)=T1T. By the
substitution of these numbers, the lunar annual precession
becomes
3?r. K x 366*26 x cos (23° 28') X £1—| sin2 (5° 8'50")}
” 27*32 x27'32x 71””
the calculation of which, reduced to seconds as before, gives
lunar annual precession =K x 12176".
Addins this to the solar annual precession, we obtain the
effect produced by the joint action of the sun and moon, or
luni-solar annual precession =Kx 17045".
It is nov/necessary to assign a value to the quantity K which
depends on the law of the density of the earth. Supposing
, a2—b2__ e .
the earth homogeneous, we have J ^coemg
the elipticity (Figure oe the Earth, vol. ix. p.
563), whence K:
1
:300'
This value of K gives
17045"
EE
=Q{
1 cos I sin 2* sin
‘lirt
--F^sin I sin 2i sin
Multiplying this by dt and integrating, we obtain for the di¬
minution of the inclination, or lunar nutation in obliquity
\TtV
-a
It t . r. • 2w£
[ — cos I sm 2i cos (-
\4s*
. T . 2 > 47rA
  . 0 sm I sin cos ].
(4ir t on t /
Both terms of this expression are periodic ; but the second
is omitted in the calculation, as being too small to be sen¬
sible. Hence we have
luni-solar annual precession ——300-"—
The observed quantity is only 50"*4; the difference being
occasioned chiefly by the erroneous assumption of the ho¬
mogeneity of the earth. If the earth be dense, toivaids the
centre, (and it is known to be so from other phenomena),
the momentum of the protuberant parts will not be so gi eat
as if it were equally dense with the interior parts, and the
precession w'ill be less. From Cavendish s experiment, and
experiments on the attraction of mountains, it has been as¬
certained that the mean density of the whole earth is about
five times greater than that of water, and twice as great as
that of the solid substances composing its exterior crust. But
we are entirely ignorant of the law according to which the
density varies from the surface towards the centre, and an
infinity of hypotheses may be made which would give the
observed precession, and at the same time satisfy the con¬
dition of a superficial density equal to half the mean density.
Prop. 9. To compute the numerical value of the solar
and lunar nutation. __ ^ ,
The solar nutation consists of two parts. The first is the
solar equation of the equinoxes in longitude, or the second
term of the expression for the solar precession in prop. 4,
PRECESSION.
513
Precession. . 3?rK T . „„ „
0f the its value is —— cos i x ^ sin 2/. Substituting x 366'2o
Equinoxes.
.r , n- r • u 180 X 60 X 60
T tor 1 v, and multiplying by  to reduce to se¬
conds, the computation gives
1st part of solar nutation =K X X sin 21.
The second part is the nutation in obliquity, found by prop.
SttK
5, the value of which is - —-sin I x ^ cos 21. This being
computed in the same manner as the last gives
2d part of solar nutation =rK x IBS'^S X cos 21.
Assuming the earth to be homogeneous, and consequently
K = we have for the sum of the two parts
solar nutation ==l//,29 sin 2/-{-0//,56 cos 21,
both terms being so small as to be insensible to observation.
The lunar nutation is also composed of two parts ; the
first being the lunar equation of the equinoxes in longitude,
or the second term of the expression in prop. 6; and the
second the nutation in obliquity found in prop. 7. By
prop. 6, the first of these parts is
3tK . M . r cos 21 sin 2* . 2^
2T/\-(E + M) ‘ ihH Sin~’
which, since t=18-6 X 366-26 days, becomes, on substitut¬
ing for the different quantities their numerical values, and
reducing to seconds,
v ^ 3x64800x18-6x366•26xcos(46° 56) sin (10° 17'36)
2srx(27-32)Jx2x71 sin (23°28) Sm ’
whence there is found from computation,
27rt
lunar nutation in longitude =K X 6093" X sin—.
T
By prop. 7. the lunar nutation in obliquity becomes, on
substituting for Q its value, and neglecting the sign,
3tK . M . t
2T/2f(E + M)
cos IX sin 2«X cos
2tct.
2irt
Comparing the coefficient of cos —in this expression with
that of sin
2jvt
(23° 2S'). The mean velocity corresponding to the regres- Precession
sion of the equinoctial points, is 50".4 in a year, and conse- of the
quently the period of a revolution is about 25900 years. Now Equinoxes,
in order to take account of the lunar nutation (the solar, asv ^
has already been remarked, is scarcely sensible), it is only
necessary to remark that the absolute velocity of the pole
in its small circle, is to the velocity with which the equinoc¬
tial points regress in the ecliptic, as the radius of the small
circle to the radius of the ecliptic, or as sin 1:1. Hence
the motion of the pole in the plane of the small circle, is ob¬
tained by multiplying the expression in prop. 6, by sin I;
and therefore the correction to be applied to the uniform
motion of the pole, is the second term of that expression,
multiplied by sin I, or sin I x lunar equation of the equinoxes
in longitude. But by prop. 9, this term = K X 6093"
sin , therefore the corresponding motion of the pole =
2TTt
2nt
K x 6093" sin (23° 28')! sin — = K X 2427" sin
T T
With respect to the second part of the nutation, it is
obvious that any change of obliquity produces an equal
change in the place of the pole on the meridian, and there¬
fore, by the last proposition, the motion of the pole in this
direction is Kx 3260" cos . Now let K x 2427"=a,
r
and Kx3260"=&, and let the motion of the pole in the
two directions be respectively denoted by x and y, we have
then x—a sin ^^,7/=&cos ; and consequently the equa¬
tion
?/2
J + p—1
in the above, it is obvious that the latter
T
, cos I sin I sin 21
is found by multiplying the former by COg 2l~=2cos2i
=1 tan 21=4tan (46° 56')- The multiplication gives
2Tlt
lunar nutation in obliquity =Kx3260 cos—
Assuming that the earth is homogeneous, and conse¬
quently K= these two parts added together give
2'nt
lunar nutation z^20"-31 sin (- 10"-88 cos ——•
T “
The observed values of the coefficients are 18 -36 and
9"-239, the differences between the observed and comput¬
ed values, as in the case of the precession, arising from
the assumption of the uniform density of the earth.
Prop. 10. To determine the motion of the pole oi the
earth’s axis of rotation. . .
As the inclination of the equator to the ecliptic under¬
goes no permanent alteration in consequence of the action
of the sun and moon, and as the precessional motion of the
equinoxes is proportional to the time, it follows that, abstract¬
ing the effects of lunar and solar nutation, the pole of the
equator must describe a circle about the pole of the ecliptic,
the plane of which is parallel to the ecliptic, and of whic i
the radius is equal to the sine of the obliquity, or — sin
vol. xvm.
which is the equation to an ellipse, and shews that the pole
describes a small ellipse about its mean place in the course
of a revolution of the nodes, as was discovered by Bradley
from observation.
Prop. 11. From the observed values of the precession and
nutation, to determine the ratio of the moon’s mass to the
mass of the earth.
The quantities most accurately determined from obser¬
vation, from which the moon’s mass can be found, are the
whole annual precession/) (=:50"-4), and the coefficient of
the lunar nutation in obliquity q (==Q,,-23$). Let s = the
solar annual precession, and m = the lunar annual preces-
T’
sion, then s=p—w). Now,by prop.7, cos I sin 2i,
and, by prop.6, ot=Q.cos I(cos —^sin 2))T, whence by
eliminating Q. cos I, we get
qAn. T(cos —^sin
m—~  —jr. >
t sm 2i
and on computing m from the values of T, r and i above
given, we find w = ? X 3"-735 = 34"-51 ; therefore, also,
s—p—?wzrl5"-89.
67rq . K cos I . r
Again, from prop. 4, we have s= , and from
, . e^.K.Mcosl
prop. 6, (on substituting for Q. its value), m— rp/-2^£^.M)
(cos
sin -a«
OT
whence
T'2
m T2(cos qi—| sin2*)
By computing the coefficient of(E + M)-r-M, and by means
of the values s and m now found, this equation gives
E + M - 81-755,
M
whence it follows that the mass of the moon is to the mass
of the earth in the ratio of 1 to 80-755.
The phenomena of the precession and nutation, and those
514
P R E
Precordia of the tides, are the only astronomical facts which enable
II us to determine the moon’s mass. From a long senes of
Predestina- observations on the tides at the harbour of Brest, Laplace
tion- , found the ratio of the masses of the moon and earth to be
1 * 75*77
The regression of the equinoctial points amongst the fixed
stars, and consequent precession of the equinoxes, bemg a
motion which, though extremely slow amounting only to a
degree in about seventy-two years, increases constantly
with the time, was detected at an early period m the history
of astronomy, and its rate was determined with considerable
accuracy by Hipparchus. Its physical cause was ot course
not suspected until after the discovery of gravitation; but
Newton himself, by a process of reasoning, which, although
not quite accurate, affords one of the most remarkable in¬
stances of his extraordinary sagacity, (Pnncipia, hb.m. prop.
39), shewed it to be a necessary consequence ot the flat¬
tened form of the earth. D’Alembert was the first who gave
a general and accurate solution of the problem, m his Pe-
ckerches sur la Precession des Equinoxes (1/49) ; and Lu-
ler also treated the subject in the Berlin Memoirs for the
same year. Various solutions of the problem have smcebeen
given, amongst which may be mentioned those of Sylvabella
and Walmesley in the Philosophical Transactions^ (vols.
xlviii. and xlix); that of Simson (Miscellaneous Tracts, 1757);
thatof Frisiin his Theoria GeometncaDiurm Motus(Opera,
tom. iii.) ; that of Lagrange in his Memoir on the Libration
of the Moon, which obtained the prize of the Academy of
Sciences of Paris for 1769 ; that of Landen (i¥a^ma-
tical Memoirs, 1780); and that of Vince ^ (Philosophical
Transactions, 1787.) Of these solutions, that of Frisi de¬
serves to be noticed as perhaps the most perspicuous and
elegant. An excellent elementary demonstration is given
bv Mr. Airy, the present astronomer royal, in his Mathe¬
matical Tracts, (1826 and 1831) of which we have freely
availed ourselves in the present article ; but for a complete
investigation of the question in all its generality, we must
P R E
refer the reader to the Mecanique Celeste, and still more Predestma-
particularly to a Memoir of Poisson, Sur le Mouvement de
la Terre autour de son Centre de Gravite, in the Memoires^^f^
de VAcademic Roy ale des Sciences, tome vii. 1829.
The nutation, as has already been remarked, (see also
Astronomy, vol. iii. p.768), was detected by Bradley, from
a comparison of observations which were undertaken with
a view to determine the parallax of the fixed stars. Brad¬
ley assigned to the coefficient or constant of nutation the
value 9", which till a late period was adopted by most as¬
tronomers. Laplace computed its value from theory to be
9".63; but as this result could only be obtained by having
recourse to hypotheses respecting the ellipticity and density
of the earth, and also the mass of the moon, which may pos¬
sibly differ considerably from the truth, it cannot be regard¬
ed as of much weight. There are, however, three other
determinations of the constant (besides that of Bradley),
from observation, which may be supposed to give its value
with all the precision that is capable of being attained. The
first is that of Von Lindenau, from about 800 observations
of Polaris made between the years 1 /50 and 1815, and con¬
sequently including three revolutions of the moon’s node ; as
well as from those made by Bradley, Maskelyne, Bessel, Car-
lini, Piazzi, and Von Lindenau himself. From these ob¬
servations he found the value of the constant of nutation to be
8//-97718. The second determination is that of Dr. Brink-
ley (PAjYosqp^WTVarwac^'o^, 1821) deduced from his
own observations with the Dublin Mural Circle ; and the value
which he found was 9"*25. The third determination, and
that which has the greatest probability in its favour, is a very-
recent one by Dr. Robinson of Armagh, undertaken at the
instance of the British Association. It is deduced from
11,000 observations made at Greenwich with the mural cir¬
cle, between the years 1812 and 1834, and embraces more
than a complete revolution of the node. T-he result gives
the constant of nutation =9//‘23913. (See the Monthly No~
ticesotthe Royal Astronomical Society for May 1838). s.
PRECORDIA, in Anatomy, a general name for the parts
situated about the heart, in the forepart of the thorax ; as
the diaphragm, pericardium, and even the heart itself, with
the spleen, lungs, &c.
PREDECESSOR, properly signifies a person who has
preceded or gone before another in the same office or em¬
ployment ; in which sense it is distinguished from ancestor.
PREDESTINATION, the supposed decree of God by
which he has from all eternity unchangeably appointed what¬
soever comes to pass; and has more especially fore-ordained
certain individuals of the human race to everlasting happi¬
ness, and passed by the rest, fore-ordaining them to ever-
lasting misery* TL he former of these are called the elects and
the latter are called the reprobate.
This doctrine is the subject of one of the most perplexing
controversies that has occurred amongst mankind. But it
is not altogether peculiar to the Christian faith. The opi¬
nion, that whatever occurs in the world at large, or in the
lot of private individuals, is the result of a previous and un¬
alterable arrangement by that Supreme Power which pre¬
sides over nature, has always been a favourite opinion
amongst the vulgar, and has also been believed by many spe¬
culative men. Thus, in that beautiful scene in the sixth
book of the Iliad, Hector, taking leave of his wife and
child, speaks thus :
Andromache, my soul’s far better part,
Why with untimely sorrows heaves thy heart?
No hostile hand can antedate my doom.
Till fate condemns me to the silent tomb.
Fix’d is the term to all the race of earth,
And such the hard condition of our birth.
No force can then resist, no flight can save;
All sink alike, the fearful and the brave.
The ancient Stoics, Zeno and Chrysippus, whom the Jew¬
ish Essenes seem to have followed, asserted the existence
of a Deity, who, acting wisely, but necessarily, contrived tlm
general system of the universe; from which, by a series ot
causes, whatever is now done in it unavoidably results.
This series, or concatenation of causes, they held to be ne¬
cessary in every part; and thought God himself as so much
the servant of necessity, and of his own decrees, that he
could not have made the smallest object in the world other¬
wise than it now is, much lesswas he able to alter any thing.
According to the words of Seneca, Eadem necessitas et
Beos alligat. Irrevocabilis divina pariter atque humana
cursus vehit. llle ipse omnium conditor ac rector scripsit
quidemfata sed sequitur. Semper par et, semel jussit. “The
same chain of necessity constrains both gods and men. Its
unalterable course regulates divine as well as human things.
Even he who wrote the Fates, the Maker and Governor of
all things, submits to them. He did but once command,
but he always obeys.” The stoical fate, however, differs
from the Christian predestination in several points. They
regarded the divine nature and will as a necessary part of a
necessary chain of causes ; whereas the Christians consider
the Deity as the lord and ruler of the Universe, omnipotent
and free, appointing all things according to his pleasure.
Being doubtful of the immortality of the soul, the Stoics
could have no idea of the doctrine of election and reproba¬
tion ; nor did they ever doubt their own freedom of will, or
power of doing good as well as evil, as we shall presently
see the Christian predestinarians have done.
Mahommed introduced into his Koran the doctrine of an
absolute predestination.of the course of human affairs. I e
represented life and death, prosperity and adversity, with
P R E
P R E
515
Predestina- every event that befalls a man in this world, as the result of
tion. a previous determination of the one God who rules over all;
and he found this opinion the best engine for inspiring his
followers with that contempt of danger, which, united to
fanatical zeal, has extended the empire of their faith over the
fairest portion of the habitable globe.
The controversy concerning predestination first made its
appearance in the Christian church about the beginning of
the fifth century. Pelagius a British, and Coelestius an Irish
monk, both lived at Rome during that period, and possess¬
ed great celebrity on acconnt of their piety and learning.
They taught that the opinion is false, which asserts, that
human nature is necessarily corrupted by a depravity de¬
rived from our first parents. They contended, that men
are born at present in a state as pure as that in which Adam
was originally created ; and that they are not less qualified
than he was for fulfiling all righteousness, and for reaching
the most sublime eminence of piety and virtue. They main¬
tained that the external grace of God, which is given unto
all, and attends the preaching of the gospel, is necessary to
call forth the attention and the exertions of men; but that
we do not want the assistance of any internal grace to puri¬
fy the heart, and to give it the first impulse towards what
is good. Having fled into Africa on account of the Goths,
who at that time (A. D. 410,) invaded Italy, Coelestius re¬
mained at Carthage as a presbyter ; but Pelagius went into
the East, where he settled, and prospered under the patron¬
age of John bishop of Jerusalem, to whom his sentiments
were agreeable. On the contrary, the celebrated Augustin,
bishop of Hippo, strenuously asserted the depravity of hu¬
man nature since the fall of the first man ; the necessity of
a special interposition of divine grace to enable us to do any
one good action ; and consequently, that none could obtain
salvation excepting those whom God has thought fit to elect,
and upon whom he bestows this grace. The dispute was
carried on with great zeal. Zozimus, bishop of Rome, de¬
cided at first in favour of Pelagius and Coelestius, whose fol¬
lowers were called Pelagians ; but he afterwards altered
his opinion, and by the activity of Augustin, the council of
Ephesus was called, at which the opinion of his antagonists
was formally condemned.
In the course of the same century, these opinions assum¬
ed a variety of forms and modifications. One party, called
Predestinarians, carried Augustin’s doctrine fully farther
than he himself had ventured to do in express words ; and
asserted, that God had not only predestinated the wicked to
punishment, but that he had also decreed that they should
commit those very sins on account of which they are here¬
after to be punished. Another party moderated the^ doc¬
trine of Pelagius, and were called Semipelagians. Their
peculiar opinion is expressed in a different manner by dif¬
ferent writers; but all the accounts sufficiently agree. Thus,
some represent them as maintaining that inward grace is not
necessary to the first beginning of repentance, but only to
our progress in virtue. Others say, that they acknowledg¬
ed the power of grace, but said that faith depends upon
ourselves, and good works upon God ; and it is agreed up¬
on all hands, that these Semipelagians held that predestina¬
tion is made upon the foresight of good works. The assis¬
tance of St. Augustin, though then far advanced in life, was
called in to combat these tenets, and he wrote several tiea-
tises upon the subject. In all these he strenuously main¬
tained, that the predestination of the elect was independent
of any foresight of their good works, but was according to
the good pleasure of God only; and that perseverance
from God, and not from man. Thereafter the doctrine of St.
Augustin, as he is often called, became general. He was
the oracle of the schoolmen. They never ventured to dif¬
fer from him in sentiment; they only pretended to dispute Predestina-
about the true sense of his writings. don.
Almost the whole of the earliest reformers maintained these
opinions of St. Augustin. They assumed, under Luther, a
more regular and systematic form than they had ever for¬
merly exhibited. But as the Lutherans afterwards aban¬
doned them, they are now known by the name of Calvinis-
tic Doctrines, from John Calvin of Geneva. This reformer
asserted, that the everlasting condition of mankind in a fu¬
ture world was determined from all eternity by the un¬
changeable decree of the Deity, arising from his sole good
pleasure or free will. Being a man of great ability, indus¬
try, and eloquence, Geneva, where he taught, and which was
a free state, soon became the resort of all the men of letters
belonging to the reformed churches, and was a kind of se¬
minary from which missionaries issued to propagate the Pro¬
testant doctrine throughout Europe. Their success was such,
that, excepting a small part of Germany, the principles of all
the reformed churches are professedly Calvinistic or Predes-
tinarian.
The opponents of the doctrine of predestination amongst
the Protestants usually receive the appellation of Armini-
ans or Remonstrants. They derive the first of these ap-
pelations from James Arminius, who, in 1602, was appoint¬
ed1 professor of theology at Leyden. He was violently op¬
posed by Gomer his colleague, and died in 1609. After his
death, the controversy was conducted with great eagerness on
both sides. The Calvinists, however, gradually prevailed. A
synod was called at Dort, in 1618, to which the most cele¬
brated divines of different countries were invited. There,
in a great measure, by the authority and influence of Mau¬
rice prince of Orange, the Arminians were condemned as
heretics; for by this time ambitious and powerful men found
themselves politically interested in this religious contest.
The Arminians presented to this synod a remonstrance, con¬
taining a statement of their faith upon the subjects in dis¬
pute ; and from this they derived the appellation of Re¬
monstrants. This statement contained the five following
articles. 1. That God from all eternity predestinated those
to everlasting salvation whom he foresaw would believe in
Christ unto the end of their lives, and predestinated obstin¬
ate unbelievers to everlasting punishment. 2. Jesus Christ
died for the whole human race, and for every individual of
it, but believers alone reap the benefit of his death. 3. No
man can produce faith in his mind by his own free-will, but
it is necessary that man, who is by nature wicked and unfit
for acting or thinking aright, should be regenerated by the
grace of the Holy Spirit, imparted by God foi Christ s sake.
4. This divine grace constitutes the source, the progress, and
the fulfilment, of all that is good in man, but it is not irre¬
sistible in its operation. 5. Believers, by the assistance of the
Holy Spirit, are abundantly fitted for every good work; but
whether it is possible for those who have once been truly
such to fall away, and to perish finally, is not clear, and must
be better inquired into by searching the Scriptures.
In opposition to these, a counter remonstrance was pre¬
sented, containing the opinions of the Calvinists, which was
approved of by the synod. The substance of it was after-
w'ards adopted, and in nearly the same expressions, into the
Confession of Faith compiled by the assembly of divines
which met at Westminster, in 1643, and which every clergy¬
man and probationer for the ministry in Scotland is at pre¬
sent required to subscribe previous to his admission. To give
as clear and fair an idea as possible to the Calvinistic doctrine
upon this head, we transcribe the following passage from that
Confession: “ God from all eternity did, by the most wise and
holy counsel of his own will, freely and unchangeably ordain
whatsoever comes to pass; yet so, as thereby neither is God
1 Rclatio Historica de Origins et Progressu
Controversiarum de Pmdestinatione Philippi a Limborch.
516
P R E
Prcdestina-the author of sin, nor is violence offered to the will of the crea¬
tion. tures, nor is the liberty or contingencies of second causes
' taken away, but rather established. Although God knows
whatsoever may or can come to pass upon all supposed con¬
ditions ; yet hath he not decreed any thing because he fore¬
saw it as future, or that which would come to pass upon
such conditions. By the decree of God, for the manifesta¬
tion of his glory, some men and angels are predestinated
unto everlasting life, and others are fore-ordained to ever-
lasting death. These angels and men, thus predestinated
and fore-ordained, are particularly and unchangeably design¬
ed ; and their number is so certain and definite, that it can¬
not be either increased or diminished. Those of mankind
that are predestinated unto life, God, before the foundation
of the world was laid, according to his eternal and immuta¬
ble purpose, and the secret counsel and good pleasure of his
will, hath chosen, in Christ, unto everlasting glory, out of
his mere free grace and love, without any foresight of faith,
or good works, or perseverance in either of them, or any
other thing in the creature, as conditions or causes moving
him thereunto; and all to the praise of his glorious grace.
As God hath appointed the elect unto glory, so hath he, by
the eternal and most free purpose of his will, fore-ordained
all the means thereunto. Wherefore, they who are elected,
beinf fallen in Adam, are redeemed by Christ, are effectu¬
ally called unto faith in Christ, by his spirit working in due
season; are justified, adopted, sanctified, and kept, by his
power through faith unto salvation. Neither are any other
redeemed by Christ effectually called, justified, adopted,
sanctified, and saved, but the elect only. The rest of man¬
kind, God was pleased, according to the unsearchable coun¬
sel of his own will, whereby he extendeth or withholdeth
mercy as he pleaseth for the glory of his sovereign power
over his creatures, to pass by, and to ordain them to dishon¬
our and wrath for their sin, to the praise of his glorious jus-
tice.” .
There are two kinds of Calvinists or Predestmanans, viz.
the Supralapsarians, who maintained that God did origin¬
ally and expressly decree the fall of Adam, as a foundation
for the display of his justice and mercy ; whilst they who
maintain that God onXy permitted the fall of Adam, are call¬
ed Sublapsariam, their system of decrees concerning elec¬
tion and reprobation, being as it were, subsequent to that
event. But, as Dr. Priestley justly remarks, if we admit
the divine prescience, there is not, in fact, any difference be¬
tween the two schemes ; and accordingly that distinction is
now seldom mentioned.
Nor was the church of Rome less agitated by the contest
about predestination than were the first Protestants. T-he
council of Trent was much perplexed how to settle the mat¬
ter without giving offence to the Dominicans, who were
much attached to the doctrine of St. Augustin, and possess¬
ed great influence in the council. After much dispute, the
main object came to be, how to contrive such a decree as
might give offence to nobody, although it should decide no¬
thing. Upon the whole, however, they seem to have favour¬
ed the Semipelagian scheme. Amongst other things, it was
determined, that good works are of themselves meritorious
to eternal life ; but it is added, by way of softening, that it
is through the goodness of God, that he makes his own gifts
to be merits in us. Catarin revived at that council an opin¬
ion of some of the schoolmen, that God chose a small num¬
ber of persons, such as the blessed virgin, the apostles, and
others, whom he was determined to save without any fore¬
sight of their good works; and that he also wills that all the
rest should be saved, providing for them all necessary means,
but they are at liberty to use them or not. This is called
the Baxterian scheme in England, from one of its promo¬
ters there. But at all events, the council of Trent seems to
have been extremely anxious that any opinions entertained
amongst them concerning predestination might have as little
P R E
influence as possible upon practical morality. “ Let no man,” Predestina-
say they, “ whilst he remains in this mortal state presume tl0n
that he is among the number of the elect, and that there¬
fore he cannot sin, or sin without repentance ; for it cannot
be known who are elected without a special revelation from <
God.” (Sect. 6. c. 13.)
The Jesuits at first followed the opinion of St. Augustin;
but they afterwards forsook it. Molina, one of their order,
was the author of what is called the middle scheme, or the
doctrine of a grace sufficient for all men, but subject to the
freedom of the human will. Jansenius, a doctor of Lou¬
vain, opposed the Jesuits with great vigour, and supported
the doctrine of St. Augustin. He wrote in a very artful
manner, declaring that he did not presume to state his own
sentiments upon the subject. He pretended only to explain
and publish the sentiments of that great father of the church
St. Augustin. But the Jesuits, in consequence of that in¬
violable submission to the authority of the pope, which they
always maintained, had sufficient interest at Rome to pro¬
cure the opinion of Jansenius to be condemned there ; with
this addition subjoined, however, that nothing was thereby
intended to be done in prejudice of the doctrine of St. Au¬
gustin. This produced an absurd dispute about the pope’s
infallibility in matters of fact. The Jansenists affirmed, that
the pope had made a mistake in condemning the opinions of
Jansenius as different from those of St. Augustin ; whereas
in truth they are the same, and the one cannot be condemn¬
ed without the other. But the Jesuits affirmed, that the
pope is no less infallible in points of fact than he is in ques¬
tions of faith; and he having decided, that the opinions of
Jansenius are different from those of St. Augustin, every
good Catholic is bound to believe accordingly that they are
different. Some of the very ablest supporters of predestina¬
tion have appeared amongst the Jansenists, and particularly
amongst the gentlemen of Port-Royal.
With regard to Great Britain, the earliest English refor¬
mers were in general Sublapsarians, although some of them
were Supralapsarians. But the rigid Predestinarians have
been gradually declining in number in that church, although
they still subscribe the thirty-nine articles of their faith,
which are unquestionably Calvinistic. The celebrated
Scotch reformer John Knox having been educated at Ge¬
neva, established in this country the doctrine of predestin¬
ation in its strictest form; and it has probably been adhered
to with more strictness in Scotland than in any other country
of Europe.
PREDETERMINATION, in Philosophy and Theo-
logy, is that concurrence of God which makes men act, and
determines them in all their actions, both good and evil,
and is called by the schoolmen physical predetermination
or premotion.
PREDICABLE, amongst logicians, denotes a general
quality which may be predicated or asserted of several things.
PREDICAMENT, amongst logicians, is the same thing
with category.
PREDICATE, in Logic, is that which, in a proposition,
is affirmed or denied of the subject. In these propositions,
snow is white, and ink is not ivhite ; whiteness is the pre¬
dicate which is affirmed of snow, and denied of ink.
PREETZ,atown of the Danish dimensions, in Holstein, si¬
tuated on a lake connected with the Baltic sea. It has a very
extensive and rich monastic institution, with some valuable
estates belonging to it, though many have been secularised.
It is, however, the richest Protestant institution remaining
of that kind. The town, with the cloister, contains 400
houses, and 3060 inhabitants.
PRE-EXISTENCE, a priority of being, or the being of
one thing before another. Thus a cause, if not in time, is
yet in nature pre-existent to its effect. Thus God is pre¬
existent to the universe, and a human father is pre-exis¬
tent to his son. The Peripatetics, though they maintained
P R E
Pre-exist- the eternity of the world, were likewise dogmatical in their
ence. opinion, that the universe was formed, actuated, and govern-
ed, by a sovereign intelligence.
The pre-existence of the human soul to its corporeal ve¬
hicle had been from time immemorial a prevailing opinion
amongst the Asiatic sages, and from them was perhaps trans¬
ferred by Pythagoras to the philosophy of the Greeks ; but
his metempsychosis, or transmigration of souls, is too tri¬
vial either to be seriously proposed or refuted. Neverthe¬
less, from the sentiments of Socrates concerning the im¬
mortality of the soul, delivered in his last interview with
his friends, it is obvious that the tenet of pre-existence was
a doctrine of the Platonic school. If at any period of life,
say these philosophers, you should examine a boy, of how
many ideas, of what a number of principles, of what an ex¬
tent of knowledge will you find him possessed? These with¬
out doubt could neither be self-derived nor recently acquired.
With what avidity and promptitude does he attain the know¬
ledge of arts and of sciences, which appear entirely new to
him ? These r-apid and successful advances in knowledge
can only be the effects of reminiscence, or of a fainter and
more indistinct species of recollection. But in all the other
operations of memory, we find retrospective impressions at¬
tending almost every object oridea which emerges to her view;
nor does she ever suggest any thought, or word, or action,
without informing us, in a manner equally clear and evident,
that those impressions had been made upon our senses,
mind, or intellect, on some former occasion. Whoever con¬
templates her progress, will easily discover, that association
is h er most faithful and most efficacious auxiliary; and that by
joining impression with impression, idea with idea, circum¬
stance with circumstance, in the order of time, of place, of
similarity or dissimilarity, she is enabled to accumulate
her treasures and enlarge her province even to an indefinite
extent. But when intuitive principles, or simple conclu¬
sions, are elicited from the puerile understanding by a train
of easy questions properly arranged, where is the retrospec¬
tive act of the memory, by which the boy recognises those
truths as having formerly been perceived in his mind ?
Where are the crowds of the concomitant, antecedent, or
subsequent ideas, with which those recollections ought na¬
turally to have been attended ? In a word, where is the
sense of personal identity, which seems to be absolutely inse¬
parable from every act of memory ? 1 his hypothesis, there¬
fore, will not support the notion of pre-existence. A fter the
Christian religion had been considerably diffused, and warm¬
ly combated by its philosophical antagonists, the same doc¬
trine was resumed and taught at Alexandria, by Platonic
proselytes, not only as a constituent topic of their master s
philosophy, but as an answer to those formidable objections
which had been deduced from the doctrine of original sin,
and from the vices which stain, as well as from the calamities
which disturb, human life. Hence they strenuously asserted,
that all the human race were either introduced to being prior
to Adam, or pre-existent in his person ; that they wer e not,
therefore, represented by our first parents, but actually con¬
curred in their crime, and participated in their ruin.
The followers of Origen, and such as entertained t re no
tion of pre-adamites, might argue from the doctrine of pre¬
existence with some degree of plausibility. For t re ruman
beings introduced by them to the theatre of probation ra
already attained the capacity or dignity of moral agents , as
their crime therefore was voluntary, their punis men mig r
be just. But those who believe the whole human race crea -
. ed in Adam to be only pre-existent in their germs or sta¬
mina, were even deprived of this miserable subterfuge , o
in these “homunculi” we can neither suppose the moral nor
rational constitution unfolded. Since, therefore, t reir e
generacy was not spontaneous, neither could their suffering,
be equitable. Should it be said that the evil of original an
wras penal, as it extended to our first parents a one, an
P R E
517
Preface.
merely consequential as felt by their posterity, it will be ad- Pre-exist-
mitted that the distinction between penal and consequential eilce
evil may be intelligible in human affairs, where other laws,
assortments, and combinations than those which are simply
and purely moral, take place. But that a moral government,
at one of the most cardinal periods of its administration,
should admit gratuitous or consequential evil, seems to us
irreconcilable with the attributes and conduct of a wise and
just legislator. Consequential evil, taken as such, is misery
sustained without demerit, and cannot result from the pro¬
cedure of wisdom, benignity, and justice, but must flow
from necessity, from ignorance, from cruelty, or from ca¬
price, as its only possible sources. But even upon the sup¬
position of those who pretend that man was mature in all
his faculties before the commission of original sin, the ob¬
jections against it will still remain in full force ; for it is ad¬
mitted by all except the Samian sage, that the consciousness
of personal identity which was felt in pre-existence, is ob¬
literated in a subsequent state of being.
Now it may be demanded, whether agents thus resusci¬
tated for punishment have not the same right to murmur
and complain as if they had been perfectly innocent, and
only created for that dreadful catastrophe ? It is upon this
principle alone that the effects of punishment can be either
exemplary or disciplinary ; for how is it possible, that the
punishment of beings unconscious of a crime should ever
be reconciled either to the justice or beneficence of that in¬
tention with which their sufferings are inflicted ? Or how
can others be supposed to become wise and virtuous by the
example of those who are neither acquainted with the origin
nor the tendency of their miseries, but have every reason
to think themselves afflicted merely for the sake of afflict¬
ing? To us it seems clear, that the nature and rationale of
original sin lie inscrutably veiled and hidden in the bosom of
Providence; nor can we, without unpardonable presumption
and arrogance, form the most simple conclusion, or attempt
the minutest discovery, either different from or extraneous
to the clear and obvious sense of revelation. This sense in¬
deed may with propriety be extracted from the whole, or
from one passage collated with another ; but independently
of it, as reason has no premises, she can form no deductions.
The boldness and temerity of philosophy, not satisfied with
contemplating pre-existence as merely relative to human
nature, has dared to try how far it was compatible with
the three Persons of the sacred Trinity. The Arians, who
allowed the subordinate divinity of our Saviour, believed
him pre-existent to all time, and before all worlds; but the
Socinians, who esteemed his nature as well as his person
merely human, insisted, that before his incarnation he was
only pre-existent in the divine idea, not in nature or person.
But when it is considered, that children do not begin to de¬
duce instructions from nature and experience, at a period
so late as we are apt to imagine; when it is admitted, that
their progress, though insensible, may be much more rapid
than we apprehend ; when the opportunities of sense, the
ardour of curiosity, the avidity of memory, and the activity
of understanding, are remarked ; we need not have recourse
to a pre-existent state for our account of the knowledge
which young minds discover. It may likewise be added,
that moral agents can only be improved and cultivated by
moral discipline. Such effects therefore of any state, whe¬
ther happy or miserable, as are merely mechanical, may be
noxious or salutary to the patient, but can never enter into
any moral economy as parts of its own administration, rre-
existence, therefore, whether rewarded or punished, without
the continued impression of personal identity, affords no so¬
lution of original sin. , . f .
PREFACE, something introductory to a book, to intorm
the reader of the design and method observed therein, and
generally whatever is necessary to the understanding of a
work.
518
P R E
P R E
Prefect
II
Prenomen.
PREFECT, in ancient Rome, one of the chief magistrates
who governed in the absence of the kings, consuls, and em¬
perors.
This power was greatest under the emperors. The chief
care of the prefect was the government of the city ; as tak¬
ing cognizance of all crimes committed therein or within a
hundred miles thereof. He judged capitally and finally,
and even presided in the senate. He had also the superin¬
tendence of provisions, building, and navigation.
PREJUDICE, or Prejudgment, from prce and judi¬
cium, means a judgment formed beforehand, without ex¬
amination ; the preposition prce expressing an anticipation,
not so much of time as of knowledge and due attention ; and
lienee the schoolmen have called it anticipation and a pre¬
conceived opinion. See Metaphysics.
PRELATE, an ecclesiastic raised to some eminent and
superior dignity in the church; as bishops, archbishops,
and patriarchs.
PRELIMINARY, in general, denotes something to be
examined and determined before an affair can be treated of
on its own merits.
PRELUDE, in Music, is usually a flourish or irregular
air, which a musician plays offhand, to try if his instrument
be in tune, and to lead him into the piece to be played.
PREMISES, in Logic, an appellation given to the two
first propositions of a syllogism.
PREMIUM, or Premium, properly signifies a reward
or recompense ; but it is chiefly used in a mercantile sense
for the sum of money given to an insurer, whether of ships,
houses, lives, or other subjects.
PREMONSTRANTES, or Pra:monstrantenses, a
religious order of regular canons instituted in 1120, by St.
Norbert, and thence called Norbertines. The first monas¬
tery of this order was built by Norbert in the Isle of France,
three leagues to the west of Laon, which he called Prce-
monstratum; and hence the order itself derived its name,
though as to the occasion of the denomination, the waiters
of the order are divided. At first the religious of this order
were so very poor, that they had only a single ass, which serv¬
ed to carry the wood they cut down every morning, and was
sent to Laon for the bread they purchased. But they soon
received so many donations, and built so many monasteries,
that in thirty years after the foundation of the order, they
had above one hundred abbeys in France and Germany;
and in process of time the order so increased, that it had
monasteries in all parts of Christendom, amounting to one
thousand abbeys, three hundred provostships, a vast num¬
ber of priories, and five hundred nunneries. But they are
now greatly diminished. The rule they followed was that
of St. Augustin, with some slight alterations, and an addi¬
tion of certain severe laws, the authority of which did not
long survive their founder. The order wTas approved by
Honorius II. in 1126, and again by several succeeding
popes. At first the abstinence from flesh was rigidly ob¬
served. In 1245 Innocent IV. complained to a general
chapter of its being neglected. In 1288, their general, Wil¬
liam, procured leave of Pope Nicholas IV. for those of the
order to eat flesh upon journeys. In 1460, Pius II. grant¬
ed them a general permission to eat meat, excepting from
Septuagesima to Easter. The dress of the religious of this
order was white, with a scapulary before the cassock.
The Praemonstrantenses, or monks of Premontre, vulgarly
called white canons, came first into England in the year
1146. Their first monastery, called Nexo-house, was erect¬
ed in Lincolnshire, by Peter de Saulia, and dedicated to St.
Martial. In the reign of Edward I. this order had twenty-
seven monasteries in England.
PRENOMEN, Prainomen, amongst the ancient Ro¬
mans, a name prefixed to the family name, and answering
to our Christian name; such as Caius, Ludus, Marcus, and
the like.
PRENZLOW, a city, the capital of a circle of the same Prenzlow
name, in the province of Potsdam in Prussia. It is situated 6
on the river Ucker, and on the north bank of the lake Un-
teruck. It contains seven Protestant churches, and an insti-
tution for education, with nine professors, several hospitals
and poor-houses, about nine hundred houses and 10,000 in¬
habitants, amongst whom is a colony of Frenchmen, establish¬
ed by Protestant refugees. It has considerable manufac¬
tures of linen, woollen, and cotton goods, besides tanneries,
distilleries and breweries.
PREPARATION, in a general sense, the act of dispos¬
ing things in such a manner as to render any foreseen event
more advantageous or less hurtful according to its nature.
PREPOSITION, in Grammar, is one of the parts of
speech, being an indeclinable particle which yet serves to
govern the nouns that follow it; such as per, pro, propter,
through, for, with. Buffier allows it to be only a modifi-
cative of a part of speech, serving to circumstantiate a
noun.
PRERAU, a city of the Austrian province of Moravia,
the capital of a circle of the same name, which extends over
1254 square miles. It comprehends 31 cities and towns,
393 villages, and 54,000 families, consisting of 267,600 per¬
sons. The city is situated on the river Betschwa, has a fort¬
ress on a neighbouring hill, and contains 460 houses, with
3400 inhabitants.
PREROGATIVE, an exclusive or peculiar privilege.
Royae Prerogative, that special pre-eminence which
the king has over and above all other persons, and out of
the ordinary course of the common law, in right of his re¬
gal dignity. It signifies in its etymology (from prw and
rogo) something that is required or demanded before, or in
preference to, all others ; and hence it follows, that it must
be in its nature singular and eccentrical, and that it can
only be applied to those rights and capacities which the king
alone enjoys in contradistinction to others, and not to those
which he enjoys in common with any of his subjects. For
if once any one prerogative of the crown could be held in
common with the subject, it wrould cease to be any longer
prerogative ; and, therefore, Finch lays it down as a maxim,
that the prerogative is that law in the case of the king,
which is law in no case of the subject.
Prerogative are either direct or incidental. The direct
are such positive substantial parts of the royal character and
authority, as are rooted in, and spring from, the king’s politi¬
cal person, considered merely by itself, without reference to
any other extrinsic circumstance; as, the right of sending
ambassadors, of creating peers, and of making war or peace.
But such prerogatives as are incidental bear always a rela¬
tion to something else, distinct from the king’s person, and
are indeed only exceptions, in favour of the crown, to those
general rules that are established for the rest of the com¬
munity ; such as, that no costs shall be recovered against
the king, that the king can never be a joint tenant, and that
his debt shall be preferred before a debt to any of his sub¬
jects.
These substantive or direct prerogatives may again be
divided into three kinds, being such as regard, first, the
king’s royal character or dignity ; secondly, his royal au¬
thority or power ; and, lastly, his royal income. These are
necessary, to secure reverence to his person, obedience to
his commands, and an affluent supply for the ordinary ex¬
penses of government; without all of which it is impossible
to maintain the executive power in due independence and
vigour. Yet, in every branch of this large and extensive
dominion, our free constitution has interposed such season¬
able checks and restrictions, as may curb it from trampling
on those liberties which it was meant to secure and esta¬
blish. The enormous weight of prerogative, if left to itself,
spreads havoc and destruction amongst all the inferior move¬
ments ; but, when balanced and bridled, as with us, by its
PREROGATIVE.
proper counterpoise, timely and judiciously applied, its ope¬
rations are then equable and regular; it invigorates the
whole machine, and enables every part to answer the end of
its construction.
I. Of the royal dignity. Under every monarchical esta¬
blishment, it is necessary to distinguish the prince from his
subjects, not only by the outward pomp and decorations of
majesty, but also by ascribing to him certain qualities as
inherent in his royal capacity, distinct from, and superior
to, those of any other individual in the nation. For though
a philosophical mind will, says Blackstone, consider the
royal person merely as one man appointed by mutual con¬
sent to preside over many others, and will pay him that re¬
verence and duty which the principles of society demand ;
yet the mass of mankind will be apt to grow insolent and
refractory, if taught to consider their prince as a man of no
greater perfection than themselves. The law therefore
ascribes to the king, in his high political character, not on¬
ly large powers and emoluments, which form his preroga¬
tive and revenue, but likewise certain attributes of a great
and transcendent nature ; by which the people are led to
consider him in the light of a superior being, and to pay
him that awful respect which may enable him with greater
ease to carry on the business of government. This is what
we understand by the royal dignity ; the several branches
of which we shall now proceed to enumerate.
1. And, first, the law ascribes to the king the attribute
of sovereignty, or pre-eminency.
2. “ The law also,” according to Blackstone, “ ascribes to
the king, in his political capacity, absolute perfection. ‘ The
king can do no wrongwhich ancient and fundamental
maxim,’ says he, ‘ is not to be understood as if every thing
transacted by the government was of course just and law¬
ful. It means only two things. The first is, that whatever
is exceptionable in the conduct of public affairs, is not to
be imputed to the king, nor is he answerable for it person¬
ally to his people ; for this doctrine would totally destroy
that constitutional independence of the crown, which is ne¬
cessary for the balance of power, in our free and active, and
therefore compounded, constitution. And, secondly, it means
that the prerogative of the crown extends not to do any in¬
jury ; it is created for the benefit of the people, and there¬
fore cannot be exerted to their prejudice. The king, more¬
over,” he observes, “ is not only incapable of doing wrong,
but even of thinking wrong; he can never mean to do an im¬
proper thing: in him is no folly or weakness. And, therefore,
if the crown should be induced to grant any franchise
or privilege to a subject contrary to reason, or in anywise
prejudicial to the commonwealth or a private person, the
law will not suppose the king to have meant either an un¬
wise or an injurious action, but declares that the king was
deceived in his grant; and thereupon such grant is render¬
ed void, merely upon the foundation of fraud and decep¬
tion, either by or upon those agents whom the crown has
thought proper to employ. For the law will not cast an
imputation on that magistrate whom it entrusts with the
executive power, as if he was capable of intentionally dis¬
regarding his trust; but attributes to mere imposition, to
which the most perfect of sublunary beings must still con¬
tinue liable, those little inadvertencies, which, if charged
on the will of the prince, might lessen him in the eyes of
his subjects.”
But this doctrine has been exposed as ridiculous and ab¬
surd, by Lord Abingdon, in his Dedication to'the collective
Body of the People of England. “ Let us see, says he,
“ how these maxims and their comments agree with the
constitution, with nature, with reason, with common sense,
with experience, with fact, with precedent, and with Sir
William Blackstone himself; and whether, by the applica¬
tion of these rules of evidence thereto, it w'ill not be found,
that (from the want of attention to that important line of
distinction wrhich the constitution has drawn between the
king of England and the crown of England) what was at¬
tributed to the monarchyhas not been given to the monarch,
what meant for the kingship conveyed to the king, what
designed for the thing transferred to the person, what in¬
tended for theory applied to practice ; and so in conse¬
quence, that wfoilst the premises (of the perfection of the
monarchy) be true, the conclusion (that the king can do no
wrong) be not false.
“ And, first, in reference to the constitution; to which if
this matter be applied (meaning what it expresses, and if
it do not it is unworthy of notice), it is subversive of a prin¬
ciple in the constitution, upon which the preservation of the
constitution depends ; I mean the principle of resistance ;
a principle which, whilst no man will now venture to gain-
say, Sir William Blackstone himself admits ‘ is justifiable
to the person of the prince when the being of the state is
endangered, and the public voice proclaims such resistance
necessary ; and thus, by such admission, both disproves the
maxim, and oversets his own comment thereupon; for to
say that ‘ the king can do no wrong,’ and that ‘ he is inca¬
pable even of thinking wrong,’ and then to admit that ‘ re¬
sistance to his person is justifiable, are such jarring contra¬
dictions in themselves, that, until reconciled, the necessity
of argument is suspended.
“ With respect then, in the next place, to the agreement
of this maxim, and its comment, with nature, with reason,
and wdth common sense, I should have thought myself suf¬
ficiently justified in appealing to every man’s own reflection
for decision, if I had not been made to understand that na¬
ture, reason, and common sense, had nothing to do with
either. Sir William Blackstone says, £ That though a phi¬
losophical mind will consider the royal person merely as one
man appointed by mutual consent to preside over others,
and will pay him that reverence and duty which the prin¬
ciples of society demand, yet the mass of mankind will be
apt to grow insolent and refractory if taught to consider
their prince as a man of no greater perfection than them¬
selves ; and therefore the law ascribes to the king, in his
high political character, certain attributes of a great and
transcendent nature, by which the people are led to consi¬
der him in the light of a superior being, and to pay him that
awful respect which may enable him with greater ease to
carry on the business of government.’ So that, in order to
govern w ith greater ease (which, by the bye, is mere asser¬
tion without any proof), it is necessary to deceive the mass
of mankind, by making them believe not only what a phi¬
losophical mind cannot believe, but what it is impossible for
any mind to believe ; and therefore, in the investigation of
this subject, according to Sir William, neither nature, rea¬
son, nor common sense, can have any concern.
“ It remains to examine in how much this maxim and its
comment agree with experience, with fact, with precedent,
and with Sir William Blackstone himself. And here it is
matter of most curious speculation, to observe a maxim laid
down, and which is intended for a rule of government, not
only without a single case in support of it, but with a string
of cases, that may be carried back to Egbert the first mo¬
narch of England, in direct opposition to the doctrine. Who
is the man, that, reading the past history of this country,
will show us any king that has done no wrong. Who is the
reader that will not find that all the wrongs and injuries
which the free constitution of this country has hitherto suf¬
fered, have been solely derived from the arbitrary measures
of our kings ? And yet the mass of mankind are to look up¬
on the king as a superior being ; and the maxim, that ‘ the
king can do no wrong,’ is to remain as an article of belief.
But, without pushing this inquiry any farther, let us see
what encouragement Sir William Blackstone himself has
given for our credulity. After stating the maxim, and pre¬
senting us with a most lively picture, ‘ of our sovereign lord.
519
Preroga¬
tive.
520
PREROGATIVE.
Preroga- thus all perfect and immortal,' what does he make this all-
live- perfection and immortality in the end to come to. rlis
'words are those: ‘ For when King Charless deluded dio-
ther attempted to enslave the nation,’ {no ivrong tins, to be
sure), he found it was beyond his power ; the people both
could, and did, resist him ; and in consequence of such re-
sistance, obliged him to quit his enterprise and his throne
together.” ® ,
"The sum of all is this : That the crown of England and
the king of England are distinguishable, and not synony¬
mous terms: that allegiance is due to the crown and
through the crown to the king; that the attributes of the
crown are sovereignty, perfection, and perpetuity; butt.iat it
does not therefore follow that the king can do no wrong.
It is indeed to be admitted, that in high respect for the
crown, high respect is also due to the wearer of that crow n ;
that is, to the king ; but the crown is to be preferred to the
king, for the first veneration is due to the constitution, it
is likewise to be supposed that the king will do no-wrong;
and as, to prevent this, a privy council is appointed by the
constitution to assist the king in the execution of the go¬
vernment ; so if any wrong be done, ‘ these men, as Mon¬
tesquieu expresses it, £ may be examined and punished.
“ But if any future king shall think to screen these e\ u
counsellors from the just vengeance of the people, by be¬
coming his own minister ; and in so doing, shall take for
his sanction the attribute of perfection, shall trust to the
deception of his being a superior being, and cloak himself
under the maxim that the king can do no wrong; I say, in
such a case, let the appeal already made to the constitution,
to nature, to reason, to common sense, to experience, to fact,
to precedent, and to Sir William Blackstone himself, su -
fice, and preclude the necessity of any further remarks from
me.” ,
To proceed now to other particulars, 1 he law determines,
that in the king there can be no negligence or laches; and
therefore no delay will bar his right. Nullum tempus oc-
currit regi, is the standing maxim upon all occasions ; for
the law intends that the king is always busied for the pub¬
lic good, and therefore has not leisure to assert his right
within the times limited to subjects- In the king also can
be no stain or corruption of blood; for it the heir to the
crown were attainted of treason or felony, and afterwards
the crown should descend to him, this would purge the at¬
tainder ipso facto. And therefore, when Henry \ II., who
as earl of Richmond stood attainted, came to the crown, it
was not thought necessary to pass an act of parliament to
reverse this attainder ; because, as Lord Bacon in his his¬
tory of that prince informs us, it was agreed that the as¬
sumption of the crown had at once purged all attainders.
Neither can the king, in judgment of law, as king, ever be
a minor or under age ; and therefore his royal grants and
assents to acts of parliament are good, though he has not in
his natural capacity attained the legal age of twenty-one.
By a statute, indeed, 28 Henry \ III. c. 17, power was
given to future kings to rescind and revoke all acts of par¬
liament that should be made while they were under the age
of twenty-four; but this was repealed by the statute 1 Ed¬
ward YI. c. 11, so far as related to that prince, and both
statutes are declared to be determined by 24 Geo. II. c. 24.
It hath also been usually thought prudent, when the heir-
apparent has been very young, to appoint a protector, guar¬
dian, or regent, for a limited time ; but the very necessity
of such extraordinary provision is sufficient to demonstrate
the truth of that maxim of common law, that in the king is
no minority; and therefore he hath no legal guardian.
3. A third attribute of the king’s majesty is his perpe¬
tuity. The law ascribes to him, in his political capacity, an
absolute immortality. The king never dies. Henry, Ed¬
ward, or George, may die ; but the king survives them all. Preroga-
For, immediately upon the decease of the reigning prince *^e-
in his natural capacity, his kingship or imperial dignity, by
act of law, without any interregnum or interval, is vested
at once in his heir; who is, eo instanti, king to all intents
and purposes. And so tender is the law of_supposing even
a possibility of his death, that his natural dissolution is gene¬
rally called his demise, dimissio vel regis vel corona ; an
expression which signifies merely a transfer of property;
for, as is observed in Plowden, when we say the demise of
the crown, we mean only, that, in consequence of the dis¬
union of the king’s body-natural from his body-politic, the
kingdom is transferred or demised to his successor, and so
the^royal dignity remains perpetual. Thus, too, when Ed¬
ward IV., in the tenth year of his reign, was driven from his
throne for a few months by the house of Lancaster, this
temporary transfer of his dignity was denominated his de¬
mise; and all process was held to be discontinued, as upon
a natural death of the king.
II. We are next to consider those branches of the royal
prerogative which invest this our sovereign lord with a num¬
ber of authorities and powers ; in the exertion whereof con¬
sists the executive part of government. This is wisely
placed in a single hand by the British constitution, foi the
sake of unanimity, strength, and despatch. \\ ere it placed
in many hands, it would be subject to many wills. Many
wills, if disunited and drawing different ways, create weak¬
ness in a government; and to unite those several wills, and
reduce them to one, is a work of more time and delay than
the exigencies of state will afford. The king of England
is therefore not only the chief, but properly, the sole magis¬
trate of the nation ; all others acting by commission from,
and in due subordination to him ; in like manner as, upon
the great revolution in the Roman state, all the powers of
the ancient magistracy of the commonwealth were concen¬
tred in the new emperor ; so that, as Gravina expresses it,
In ejus unius persona veteris reipublica, vis atque majestas
per cumulatas magistratuum potestates exprimebatur.
In the exertion of lawful prerogative the king is held to
be absolute ; that is, so far absolute, that there is no legal
authority which can either delay or resist him. He may re¬
ject what bills, may make what treaties, may coin what
money, may create what peers, may pardon what offences,
he pleases ; unless where the constitution has expressly,
or by evident consequence, laid down some exception or
boundary, declaring, that thus far the prerogative shall go
and no farther. For otherwise the power of the crown
would indeed be but a name and a shadow, insufficient foi
the ends of government, if, where its jurisdiction is clearly
established and allowed, any man or body of men were per¬
mitted to disobey it, in the ordinary course of law. W e do
not now speak of those extraordinary recourses to the first
principles, which are necessary when the contracts of so¬
ciety are in danger of dissolution, and the law proves too
weak a defence against the violence of fraud or oppression.
And yet the want of attending to this obvious distinction
has occasioned these doctrines, of absolute power in the
prince and of national resistance by the people, to be much
misunderstood and perverted, by the advocates tor slavery
on the one hand, and the demagogues of faction on the
other. The former, observing the absolute sovereignty and
transcendent dominion of the crown laid down, as it cer¬
tainly is, most strongly and emphatically in our law-books
as well as our homilies, have denied that any case can be
excepted from so general and positive a rule ; forgetting
how impossible it is, in any practical system of laws, to
point out beforehand those eccentrical remedies, which the
sudden emergence of national distress may dictate, and
which that alone can justify. On the other hand, over-
1 Commentaries, vol. iv. p. 433.
PREROGATIVE.
Preoga- zealous republicans, feeling the absurdity of unlimited pas-
nve_ ^sive obedience, have fancifully, or sometimes factiously,
gone over to the other extreme; and, because resistance is
justifiable to the person of the prince when the being of the
state is endangered, and the public voice proclaims such
resistance necessary, they have therefore allowed to every
individual the right of determining this expedience, and o*f
employing private force to resist even private oppression ;
a doctrine productive of anarchy, and, in consequence,
equally fatal to civil liberty as tyranny itself. For civil
liberty, rightly understood, consists in protecting the rights
of individuals by the united force of society. Society can¬
not be maintained, and of course can exert no protection,
without obedience to some sovereign power; and obedience
is an empty name, if every individual has a right to decide
how far he himself shall obey.
In the exertion, therefore, of those prerogatives which
the law has given him, the king is irresistible and absolute,
according to the forms of the constitution. And yet, if the
consequence of that exertion be manifestly to the grievance
or dishonour of the kingdom, the parliament will call his
advisers to a just and severe account. For prerogative con¬
sisting, as Mr. Locke has well defined it, in the discretion¬
ary power of acting for the public good where the positive
laws are silent, if that discretionary power be abused to the
public detriment, such prerogative is exerted in an uncon¬
stitutional manner. Thus the king may make a treaty with
a foreign state, which shall irrevocably bind the nation ;
and yet, when such treaties have been judged pernicious,
impeachments have pursued those ministers by whose
agency or advice they were concluded.
The prerogatives of the crown, in the sense under which
we are now considering them, respect either this nation’s
intercourse with foreign nations, or its own domestic go¬
vernment and civil polity.
With regard to foreign concerns, the king is the delegate
or representative of his people It is impossible that the
individuals of a state, in their collective capacity, can trans¬
act the affairs of that state with another community equally
numerous as themselves. Unanimity must be wanting to
their measures, and strength to the execution of their coun¬
sels. In the king, therefore, as in a centre, all the rays of
his people are united, and form by that union a consistency,
splendour, and power, that make him feared and respected
by foreign potentates ; who would scruple to enter into any
engagement, that must afterwards be revised and ratified by
a popular assembly. What is done by the royal authority,
with regard to foreign powers, is the act of the whole na¬
tion : what is done without the king’s concurrence, is the
act only of private men. And so far is this point carried
by our law, that it hath been held, that should all the sub¬
jects of England make war with a king in league with the
king of England, vyithout the royal assent, such war is no
breach of the league. And by the statute 2 Henry \ . c. 6,
any subject committing acts of hostility upon any nation in
league with the king, was declared to be guilty of high
treason : and, though that act was repealed by the statute
20 Henry VI. c. 11, so far as relates to the making this of¬
fence high treason, yet still it remains a very great offence
against the law of nations, and punishable by our law's, ei¬
ther capitally or otherwise, according to the circumstances
of the case.
1. The king, therefore, considered as the representative
of his people, has the sole powrer of sending ambassadors to
foreign states, and receiving ambassadors at home.
2. It is likewise the king’s prerogative to make treaties,
leagues, and alliances, with foreign states and princes. For
by the law of nations, it is essential to the goodness of a
league, that it be made by the sovereign powder ; and then
it is binding upon the whole community : And in Britain
the sovereign power, quoad hoc, is vested in the person of
VOL. XVIII.
521
the king. Whatever contracts, therefore, lie engages in, Preroga-
no other power in the kingdom can legally delay, resist, or hve.
annul. And yet, lest this plenitude of authority should W
abused to the detriment of the public, the constitution fas
was hinted before) has here interposed a check, by the
means of parliamentary impeachment, for the punishment
of such ministers as from criminal motives advise or con¬
clude any treaty, which shall afterwards be judged to dero¬
gate from the honour and interest of the nation.
3. Upon the same principle the sovereign has also the
sole prerogative of making war and peace. For it is held by
all the writers on the law of nature and nations, that the
right of making war, which by nature subsisted in every in¬
dividual, is given up by all private persons that enter into
society, and is vested in the sovereign power: and this
right is given up, not only by individuals, but even by the
entire body of people that are under the dominion of a so¬
vereign. It would indeed be extremely improper, that any
number of subjects should have the power of binding the
supreme magistrate, and putting him against his will in a
state of war. Whatever hostilities, therefore, may be com¬
mitted by private citizens, the state ought not to be affect¬
ed thereby; unless that should justify their proceedings,
and thereby become partner in the guilt. And the reason
which is given by Grotius, why, according to the law of na¬
tions, a denunciation of war ought always to precede the ac¬
tual commencement of hostilities, is not so much that the
enemy may be put upon his guard, (which is matter rather
of magnanimity than right), but that it may be certainly
clear that the war is not undertaken by private persons, but
by the will of the whole community ; whose right of willing
is in this case transferred to the supreme magistrate by the
fundamental laws of society. So that, in order to make a
war completely effectual, it is necessary with us in Britain
that it be publicly declared and duly proclaimed by the
king’s authority; and then all parts of both the contending
nations, from the highest to the lowest, are bound by it.
And wherever the right resides of beginning a national war,
there also must reside the right of ending it, or the power
of making peace. And the same check of parliamentary
impeachment, for improper or inglorious conduct, in be¬
ginning, conducting, or concluding a national war, is in ge¬
neral sufficient to restrain the ministers of the crown from
a wanton or injurious exertion of this great prerogative.
4. But, as the delay of making war may sometimes be
detrimental to individuals who have suffered by depredations
from foreign potentates, our laws have in some respects
armed the subject with powers to impel the prerogative ;
by directing the ministers of the crown to issue letters of
marque and reprisal upon due demand : the prerogative of
granting which is nearly related to, and plainly derived from,
that other of making war ; this being indeed only an incom¬
plete state of hostilities, and generally ending in a formal
denunciation of war. These letters are grantable, by the
law of nations, whenever the subjects of one state are op¬
pressed and injured by those of another, and justice is de¬
nied by that state to which the oppressor belongs. In this
case, letters of marque and reprisal (words in themselves
synonymous, and signifying a taking in return) may be ob¬
tained, in order to seize the bodies or goods of the subjects
of the offending state, until satisfaction be made, wherever
they happen to be found. And indeed this custom of repri¬
sals seems dictated by nature herself; for which reason we
find in the most ancient times very notable instances of it.
But here the necessity is obvious of calling in the sovereign
power, to determine when reprisals may be made; else every
private sufferer would be a judge in his own cause. In pur¬
suance of which principle, it is with us declared by the sta¬
tute 4 Hen. V. c. 7, that if any subjects of the realm are op¬
pressed in time of truce by any foreigners, the king will
grant marque in due form to all that feel themselves grieved.
522
PREROGATIVE.
Preroga¬
tive.
5. Upon exactly the same reason stands the prerogative
of granting safe-conducts ; without which, by the law ol na-
' tions, no member of one society has a right to intrude into
another. And therefore Puffendorf very justly resolves,
that it is left in the power of all states to take such mea¬
sures about the admission of strangers as they think conve¬
nient ; those being ever excepted who are driven on the
coasts by necessity, or by any cause that deserves pity or
compassion. Great tenderness is shown by our laws, not
only to foreigners in distress, but with regard also to the ad¬
mission of strangers who come spontaneously : for so long as
their nation continues at peace with ours, and they them¬
selves behave peaceably, they are under the king’s protec¬
tion; though liable to be sent home whenever the king sees
occasion. But no subject of a nation at war with us can,
by the law of nations, come into the realm, nor can travel
himself upon the high seas, or send his goods and merchan¬
dise from one place to another, without danger of being
seized by our subjects, unless he has letters of safe-conduct;
which, by divers ancient statutes, must be granted under
the king’s great seal and enrolled in chancery, or else they
are of no effect; the king being supposed the best judge of
such emergencies as may deserve exception from the ge¬
neral law of arms. But passports under the king’s sign
manual, or licenses from his ambassadors abroad, are now
more usually obtained, and are allowed to be of equal validity.
These are the principal prerogatives of the king respect¬
ing this nation’s intercourse with foreign nations ; in all of
which he is considered as the delegate or representative of
his people. But in domestic affairs, he is considered in a
great variety of characters, and from thence there arises an
abundant number of other prerogatives.
1. He is a constituent part of the supreme legislative
power; and, as such, has the prerogative of rejecting such
provisions in parliament as he judges improper to be passed.
The expediency of which constitution has before been
evinced at large under the article Parliament. We shall
only further remark, that the king is not bound by any act
of parliament, unless he be named therein by special and
particular words. The most general words that can be de¬
vised (any person or persons, bodies politic, or corporate,
&c.) affect not him in the least, if they may tend to restrain
or diminish any of his rights or interests. For it would be
of most mischeivous consequence to the public, if the
strength of the executive power were liable to be curtailed,
without its own express consent, by constructions and im¬
plications of the subject. Yet, where an act of parliament
is expressly made for the preservation of public rights and
the suppression of public wrongs, and does not interfere
with the established rights of the crown, it is said to be
binding as well upon the king as upon the subject: and,
likewise, the king may take the benefit of any particular
act, though he be not especially named.
2. The king is considered, in the next place, as the ge¬
neralissimo, or the first in military command, within the
kingdom. The great end of society is to protect the weak¬
ness of individuals by the united strength of the community;
and the principal use of government is to direct that united
strength in the best and most effectual manner, to answer
the end proposed. Monarchical government is allowed to
be the fittest of any for this purpose : it follows therefore,
from the very end of its institution, that in a monarchy
the military power must be trusted in the hands of the
prince.
In this capacity, therefore, of general of the kingdom, the
king has the sole power of raising and regulating fleets and
armies. We are now to consider the prerogative of enlist¬
ing and governing them: which indeed was disputed and
claimed, contrary to all reason and precedent, by the long
parliament of king Charles I.; but, upon the restoration of
his son, was solemnly declared by the statute 13 Charles
II. c. 6, to be in the king alone : for that the sole supreme
government and command of the militia within all his ma¬
jesty’s realms and dominions, and of all forces by sea and.
land, and of all forts and places of strength, ever wrs and is
the undoubted right of his majesty, and his royal predeces¬
sors, kings and queens of England ; and that both or either
house of parliament cannot, nor ought, to pretend to the
Preroga¬
tive.
This statute, it is obvious to observe, extends not only to
fleets and armies, but also to forts and other places of
strength within the realm; the sole prerogative, as well of
erecting, as manning andgoverning of which, belongs to the
king in his capacity of general of the kingdom; and all
lands were formerly subject to a tax, for building of castles
wherever the king thought proper. This was one of the
three things, from contributing to the performance of which
no lands were exempted, and therefore called by the Anglo-
Saxons the trinodanecessitas ; scilicetpontis reparatio,arcis
construction et expeditio contra hostem. And this they were
called upon to do so often, that, as Sir Edward Coke from M.
Paris assures us, there was in the time of Henry II. 1115
castles subsisting in England. The inconveniencies of which,
when granted out to private subjects, the lordly barons of
those times, were severely felt by the whole kingdom; for,
as William of Newburgh remarks, in the reign of king Ste¬
phen, erant in Anglia quodammodo tot reges, vel potius
tyranni, quot domini castellorum ; but it was felt by none
more sensibly than by two succeeding princes, king John
and king Henry III. And therefore, the greatest part of
them being demolished in the barons’ wars, the kings of af¬
ter times have been very cautious of suffering them to be
rebuilt in a fortified manner: and Sir Edward Coke lays it
down, that no subject can build a castle, or house of strength
imbattled, or other fortress defensible, without the license
of the king; for the danger which might ensue, if every
man at his pleasure might do it.
It is partly upon the same, and partly upon a fiscal foun¬
dation, to secure his marine revenue, that the king has the
prerogative of appointing ports and havens, or such places
only, for persons and merchandise to pass into and out of
the realm, as he in his wisdom sees proper. By the feudal
law, all navigable rivers and havens were computed among
the regalia, and were subject to the sovereign of the state.
And in England it hath always been held, that the king is
lord of the whole shore, and particularly, is the guardian
of the ports and havens, which are the inlets and gates
of the realm ; and therefore, so early as the reign of king
John, w'e find ships seized by the king’s officers for putting
in at a place that was not a legal port. These legal ports
w ere undoubtedly at first assigned by the crown ; since to
each of them a court of portmote is incident, the jurisdic¬
tion of which must flow from the royal authority. The great
ports of the sea are also referred to, as well known and es¬
tablished, by statute 4 Hen. IV. c. 20, which prohibits the
landing elsewhere under pain of confiscation; and the statute
1 Eliz. c. 11, recites, that the franchise of lading and dis¬
charging had been frequently granted by the crown.
But though the king had a power of granting the fran¬
chise of havens and ports, yet he had not the power of re¬
sumption, or of narrowing and confining their limits w’hen
once established ; but any person had a right to load or dis¬
charge his merchandise in any part of the haven, whereby
the revenue of the custom was much impaired and diminish¬
ed, by fraudulent landings in obscure and private corners.
This occasioned the statutes of 1 Eliz. c. 11, and 13 and 14.
Car. II. c. 11. § 14, which enable the crown by commission,
to ascertain the limits of all ports, and to assign proper
wharfs and quays in each port, for the exclusive landing and
loading of merchandise.
The erection of beacons, light-houses, and sea-marks, is
also a branch of the royal prerogative; whereof the first
P R E
Presage, was anciently used in order to alarm the country in case of
Presburg. the approach of an enemy; and all of them are signally
''-"V*""'' useful in guiding and preserving vessels at sea by night as
well as by day.
3. Another capacity in which the king is considered in
domestic affairs, is as the fountain of justice, and general
conservator of the peace of the kingdom.
4. The king is likewise the fountain of honour, of office,
and of privilege ; and this in a different sense from that in
which he is styled the fountain of justice ; for here he is
really the parent of them.
5. Another light in which the laws of England consider
the king with regard to domestic concerns, is as the arbiter
of commerce. By commerce, we at present mean domes¬
tic commerce only; for the king’s prerogative with regard
to which, see Money, Weights and Measures, &c.
6. The king is, lastly, considered by the laws of England
as the head and supreme governor of the national church.
To enter into the reasons upon which this prerogative is
founded, is matter rather of divinity than of law. We shall
therefore only observe, that by statute 26 Hen. VIII. c. 1,
(reciting that the king’s majesty justly and rightfully is, and
ought to be the supreme head of the church of England ;
and so had been recognised by the clergy of that kingdom
in their convocation) it is enacted, that the king shall be re¬
puted the only supreme head on earth of the church of Eng¬
land ; and shall have annexed to the imperial crown of this
realm, as well the title and style thereof, as all jurisdictions,
authorities, and commodities, to the said dignity of supreme
head of the church appertaining. And another statute to
the same purport was made, 1 Eliz. c. 1.
In virtue of this authority the king convenes, prorogues,
restrains, regulates, and dissolves, all ecclesiastical synods
or convocations. This was an inherent prerogative of the
crown long before the time of Henry VIII. as appears by
the statute 8 Hen. VI. c. 1, and the many authors, both law¬
yers and historians, vouched by Sir Edward Coke. So that
the statute 25 Hen. VIII. c. 19- which restrains the convo¬
cation from making or putting in execution any canons re¬
pugnant to the king’s prerogative, or the laws, customs, and
statutes of the realm, was merely declaratory of the old com¬
mon law : that part of it only being new, which makes the
king’s royal assent actually necessary to the validity of every
canon. The convocation or ecclesiastical synod, in England,
differs considerably in its constitution from the synods of
other Christian kingdoms: these consisting wholly of bishops;
whereas in England the convocation is the miniature of a
parliament, wherein the archbishop presides with regal state;
the upper house of bishops represents the house ol lords ;
and the lower house, composed of representatives of the
several dioceses at large, and of each particular chapter
therein, resembles the house of commons with its knights of
the shire and burgesses. This constitution is said to be
owing to the policy of Edward I. who thereby at one and
the same time let in the inferior clergy to the privileges of
forming ecclesiastical canons, which before they had not,
and also introduced a method of taxing ecclesiastical bene¬
fices, by consent of convocation. From this prerogative
also, of being the head of the church, arises the king’s right
of nomination to vacant bishoprics, and certain other eccle¬
siastical preferments.
PRESAGE, in Antiquity, denotes an augury, or sign of
some future event; which was chiefly taken from the flight
of birds, the entrails of victims, &c.
PRESBURG, a city of the Austrian province of Hither
Danube in Hungary, the capital of the circle of the same
name, which is more fertile than extensive, and contains
about 260,000 inhabitants, in 5 cities, 23 market towns, and
292 villages. The city is on the Danube over which is a
long bridge. It is the place in which the emperors of Aus¬
tria have recently been crowned. It is well built, and con-
p R E 523
tains an imperial palace, a cathedral, several churches and Presbytae
monasteries, an academy and other seminaries, and societies II
of various kinds for promoting science and literature. It Pre!d>yte-
has several manufactories of cloth and cotton, of looking-,
glasses, cutlery, silk and leather, and much transit and other
trade. Its prosperity has kept pace with its population, the
latter of which was in 1817, 26,000, and in 1827, 40,733, and
it is said to have since increased. Lat. 48. 0. 5. Lomr.
17. 1. 0. E.
PRESBYT7E, persons whose eyes are too flat to refract
the rays sufficiently, so that unless the object is at some dis¬
tance, the rays coming from it will pass through the retina
before their union, consequently vision is confused ; old
people are usually the subjects of this disease. In order to
remedy, or at least to palliate, this defect, the person should
first use glasses which do not magnify, and from them pass
gradually to more convex spectacles, which shorten the focus.
PRESBYTER, in the primitive Christian church, an el¬
der, one belonging to the second order of ecclesiastics ; the
other two being bishops and deacons.
Presbyter, or elder, is a word borrowed from the Greek
translation of the Old Testament, where it commonly sig¬
nifies ruler or governor ; it being a note of office and dignity,
not of age ; and in this sense bishops are sometimes called
presbyters in the New Testament. The presbyters might
baptize, preach, consecrate, and administer the eucharist in
the bishop’s absence, or in his presence, if he authorised and
deputed them; and the bishops did scarcely anything in
the government of the church without their advice, consent,
and amicable concurrence.
The grand dispute between the followers of Geneva and
Roman discipline, is about the sameness and difference of
presbyters and bishops at the time of the apostles.
PRESBYTERIANS, Protestants, so called from theirDiscrimi-
maintaining that the government of the church appointed natingpriu-
in the New Testament was by presbyteries, that is, by as-“Ple ot T6
sociations of presbyters or elders, all possessed of equalpi
powers, without any superiority among them either in office
or in order.
The presbyterians believe, that the authority of their min¬
isters to preach the gospel, to administer the sacraments of
baptism and the Lord’s supper, and to feed the flock of
Christ, is in no respect inferior to the authority possessed
by the ministers of any other church. They oppose the in¬
dependent scheme of the common rights of Christians by
the same arguments which are used for that purpose by the
episcopalians, (see Episcocacy). They affirm, however,
that in the church, as established by Christ and his apostles,
there is no order superior to that of presbyters; that all
ministers are equal by their commission ; that presbyter and
bishop, though different words, are of the same import; and
that prelacy or diocesan episcopacy was gradually estab¬
lished upon the primitive practice of making the moderator
or president of the presbytery a permanent officer.
These positions they maintain against the episcopalians Scriptural
by the following scriptural arguments. They observe, that arguments
the apostles planted churches by ordaining bishops and dea-^^J-
cons in every city ; that the ministers which in one versep * 1 y
are called bishops, are in the next perhaps denominated
presbyters ; that we nowhere read in the New Testament
of bishops, presbyters, and deacons, in any one church ; and
that therefore we are under the necessity of concluding
bishop and presbyter to be two names for the same church
officer. This is apparent from Peter’s exhortation to the
elders or presbyters who were among the Jewish Christians.
“ The elders (presbyters) which are among you I exhort,
who am also an elder, and a witness of the sufferings of
Christ, and also a partaker of the glory that shall be reveal¬
ed : Feed the flock of God which is among you, taking the
oversight thereof (eVto-KOTrowres, acting as bishops thereof,)^
not by constraint, but willingly ; not for filthy lucre, but of
...
524
PRESBYTERIANS.
Presbyte- a ready mind ; neither as being lords over God’s heritage,
rians. being ensamples to the flock.”1 From this passage it
is evident, that the presbyters not only fed the flock of
Christ, but also governed that flock with episcopal powers ;
and that the apostle himself, as an officer of the church, was
nothing more than a presbyter or elder. The identity of
the office of bishop and presbyter is still more apparent from
Heb. xiii. 7. 17. and 1 Thess. v. 12 ; for the bishops are
there represented as governing the flock, speaking to them
the word of God, watching for their souls, and discharging
various offices, which it is impossible for any man to perform
to more than one congregation.
Reasons From the last cited text it is evident, that the bishops
for suppos- (TTpoiaraf-itvovs) of the 1 hessalonian churches had the pas-
ing bishops toral care of no more souls than they could hold personal
and presby- communion with in God’s worship ; for they were such as
same^rder ^ie People were 1° know, esteem, and love, as those that
not only were over them., but also “ closely laboured among
them, and admonished them.” But diocesan bishops, whom
ordinarily the hundredth part of their flock never hear nor
see, cannot be those bishops by whom that flock is admon¬
ished, nor can they be, what Peter requires the bishops of
the sacred writer would have called them the elders of the Presbyte-
churcli of Ephesus, but tbe elders of the church in general, nans-
or the elders of the churches in Asia. Besides, it is to bes^V^’
remembered, that the apostle was in such haste to visit Je¬
rusalem, that the sacred historian measures his time by
dags; whereas it must have required several months to call
together the bishops or elders of all the cities of Asia; and
he might certainly have gone to meet them at Ephesus in
less time than would be requisite for their meeting in that
city and proceeding thence to him at Miletus. They must
therefore have been either the joint pastors of one congre¬
gation, or the pastors of different congregations in one city;
and as it was thus in Ephesus, so was it in Philippi; for we
find the apostle addressing his epistle “ to all the saints in
Christ Jesus which are at Philippi, with the bishops and
deacons.” From the passage before us it is likewise plain,
that the presbyters of Ephesus had not only the name but
the whole power of bishops given to them by the Holy
Ghost; for they are enjoined to do the whole work of
bishops, TTot/xaiVeiv rrju eK.<\r](TLav rov Qeov, which signifies, to
rule as well as feed the church of God. Hence it is evi¬
dent, that the apostle makes the power of governing inse-
the Jewish converts to be, ensamples to the flock. It is the parable from that of preaching and watching; and that ac-
opinion of Dr. Hammond, who was a learned divine, and a cording to him, all who are preachers of God’s word, and
zealot for episcopacy, that the elders whom the apostle watchmen of souls, are necessarily rulers or governors of
James desires2 the sick to call for, were of the highest per- the church, without being accountable for their management
manent order of ecclesiastical officers ; but it is self-evident to any prelate, but only to their Lord Christ, from whom
that those elders cannot have been diocesan bishops, other- their power is derived.
wise the sick must have been often beyond the reach of the
remedy proposed to them.
There is no passage of Scripture on which the episcopa¬
lian is more ready to rest his cause, than the alleged epis¬
copacy of Timothy and Titus ; of whom the former is said
It appears therefore that the apostle Paul left in the Timothy
church of Ephesus, which he had planted, no other succes- n0 bishop,
sors to himself than presbyter-bishops, or presbyterian minis¬
ters, and that he did not devolve his power upon any prelate.
Timothy, whom the episcopalians allege to have been the
to have been bishop of Ephesus, and the latter bishop of first bishop of Ephesus, was present when this settlement
Crete ; yet the presbyterian thinks it as clear as the noon- was made ;3 and it is surely not to be supposed, that, had
day sun, that the presbyters of Ephesus were supreme go- he been their bishop, the apostle would have devolved the
vernors under Christ of the Ephesian churches, at the very whole episcopal power upon the presbyters before his face,
time that Timothy is pretended to have been their proper If ever there was a season fitter than another for pointing
diocesan. out the duty of this supposed bishop to his diocese, and the
In Acts xx. 17, seq. we read, that “ from Miletus Paul duty of his presbyters to him, it was surely when Paul was
sent to Ephesus, and called the elders (presbyters) of the taking his final leave of them, and discoursing so patheti-
church. And when they were come to him, he said unto cally concerning the duty of overseers, the coming of ra
them, Ye know, from the first day that I came into Asia,
after what manner I have been with you, at all seasons.
And now I know that ye all, among whom I have gone
preaching the kingdom of God, shall see my face no more.
Wherefore I take you to record this day, that I am pure
from the blood of all men. For I have not shunned to de¬
clare unto you all the counsel of God. Take heed there¬
fore unto yourselves, and to all the flock over which the
Holy Ghost hath made you overseers, (fWia-KOTi-our, bishops),
to feed the church of God, which he hath purchased with
his own blood. For I know this, that after my departure
venous wolves, and the consequent hazard of the flock. In
this farewell discourse, he tells them that “ he had not
shunned to declare unto them all the counsel of God.” But
with what truth could this have been said, if obedience to
a diocesan bishop had been any part of their duty either at
the time of the apostle’s speaking or at any future period ?
Fie foresaw that ravenous wolves would enter in among
them, and that even some of themselves should arise speak¬
ing perverse things ; and if, as the Episcopalians allege,
diocesan episcopacy was the remedy provided lor those
evils, is it not strange, passing strange, that the inspired
shall grievous wolves enter in among you, not sparing the preacher did not foresee that Timothy, who was standing
flock. Also of vour ownselves shall men arise, sneakina- beside him, was destined to fill that important office ; or if
Also of your ownselves shall men arise, speaking
perverse things, to draw away disciples after them. There¬
fore watch, and remember, that by the space of three years,
I ceased not to warn every one night and day with tears.
And now, brethren, I recommend you to God, and to the
word of his grace,” &c.
From this passage, it is evident that there was in the city
,, , of Ephesus a plurality of pastors of equal authority, without aumoriiy iu uiuam auu mjuuiyc- icia, a.,- ww.*
equaTdu-0 an7 superior pastor or bishop over them ; for the apostle di- which all parties are agreed, and which indeed cannot be
thority. rents his discourse to them all in common, and gives them controverted by any reader of Paul’s epistles. To this the
equal power over the whole flock. Dr. Hammond indeed presbyterian replies with confidence, that the power which
imagines, that the elders whom Paul called to Miletus were Timothy exercised in the church of Ephesus was that of an
the bishops of Asia, and that he sent for them to Ephesus, ‘ ' ~
because that city was the metropolis of the province. But
were this opinion well-founded, it is not conceivable that
The pas
tors of
beside him,
he did foresee it, that he omitted to recommend him to his
future charge, and to give him proper instructions for the
discharge of his duty ?
But if Timothy was not bishop of Ephesus, what, it may Merely an
be asked, was his office in that city? For that he resided evangelist,
there for some time, and was by the apostle invested with
authority to ordain and rebuke presbyters, are facts about
evangelist,4 and not a prelate. But, according to Eusebius,
the work of an evangelist was, “ to lay the foundations of
the faith in barbarous nations, and to constitute among them
1 1 Peter v. 1,2, 3.
2 Chap. v. 14.
3 Acts xx. 5.
4 2 Tun. iv. 5.
P R E S B Y T
Presbyte-
rate the
Presbyte- pastors ; after which he passed on to other countries.” Ac-
rians. cordingly we find, that Timothy was resident for a time at
Philippi and Corinth,1 as well as at Ephesus, and that he had
as much authority over those churches as over that of which
he is said to have been the fixed bishop. “ Now, if Timo-
theus come, see that he may be with you without fear, for
he worketh the work of the Lord, as I also do. Let no man
therefore despise him.” This text might lead us to suppose,
that Timothy was bishop of Corinth as well as of Ephesus;
for it affords a more plausible ground than that on which his
episcopacy of the latter church is chiefly built. The apostle
says, “ I besought thee2 to abide still at Ephesus when I
went into Macedonia, that thou mightest charge some that
they teach no other doctrine.” But had Timothy been the
permanent bishop of that city, there would surely have been
no necessity for beseeching him to abide with his flock. It
is likewise to be observed, that the first epistle to Timothy,
which alone was written to him during his residence at
Ephesus, was of a date prior to Paul’s meeting with the el¬
ders of that church at Miletus ; for in the epistle he hopes
to come to him shortly, whereas he tells the elders at Mile¬
tus, that they should see his face no more. This being the
case, it is evident that Timothy was left by the apostle at
Ephesus only to supply his place during his temporary ab¬
sence at Macedonia, and that he could not possibly have
been constituted permanent bishop of that church, since the
episcopal powers were afterwards committed to the presby¬
ters by the Holy Ghost in his presence.
The identity of the office of bishop and presbyter being
thus clearly established, it follows, that the presbyterate is
highest per-the highest permanent office in the church, and that every
'ice'in'the" Pastor of a flock is successor to the apostles in every
church. thing in which they were to have any successors. In the
apostolic office there were indeed some things peculiar and
extraordinary, such as their immediate call by Christ, their
infallibility, their being witnesses of our Lord’s resurrection,
and their unlimited jurisdiction over the whole world.
These powers and privileges could not be conveyed by im¬
position of hands to any successors, whether called presby¬
ters or bishops ; but as rulers or office-bearers in particular
churches, we have the confession of “ the very chiefest apos¬
tles,” Peter and John, that they were nothing more than
presbyters or labouring pastors. This being the case, the
dispute, which has been so warmly agitated, concerning the
validity of presbyterian ordination, may be soon decided;
for if the ceremony of ordination be at all essential, it is ob¬
vious that such a ceremony performed by presbyters must
be valid, as there is no higher order of ecclesiastics in the
church by whom it can be performed. Accordingly, we
find, that Timothy himself, though said to be a bishop, was
ordained by the laying on of the hands of a presbytery. At
that ordination indeed St. Paul presided, but he could pre¬
side only as primus in paribus; for we have seen that, as
permanent officers in the church of Christ, the apostles
themselves were no more than presbyters. If the apostles’
hands were imposed for any other purpose, it must have
been to communicate those charismata or miraculous gifts
of the Holy Spirit, which were then so frequent, but which
no modern presbyter or bishop will pretend to give, unless
his understanding be clouded by the grossest ignorance, or
perverted by the most frantic enthusiasm.
Rise of But if the office of bishop and presbyter was originally the
Rpiscopacy same, how, it will be asked, came diocesan episcopacy to
prevail so universally, as it is confessed to have done, before
the conversion of Constantine, and the civil establishment
of Christianity in the Roman empire ? To give a satisfac¬
tory answer to this question is certainly the most arduous
task which the advocate for presbytery has to perform; but
E R I A N S. 5S5
the difficulties attending this task are not insurmount- Presbyte-
table. nans.
From many passages in the New Testament,3 it is evi-'
dent, that when the apostles planted churches in different
cities, they generally settled more than one pastor in the
same church, to feed and govern it with joint authority.
1 he propriety of this constitution is obvious. In those days,
when the disciples of Christ were persecuted for their reli¬
gion, and often obliged to meet in the “ night for fear of
the Jews,” they could not with any degree of prudence as¬
semble in large numbers; and therefore, had there been no
more than one pastor in a city, the Christian converts,
though, when assembled, they might have amounted to but
a small congregation, could not all have enjoyed the benefit
of public w orship on the same day ; at least it is obvious
that they could not possibly have assembled for this purpose
so often as their want of instruction, and the duty of “ break¬
ing of bread and of prayer,” required them to meet. It was
therefore with great wisdom that the apostles ordained se¬
veral presbyters in the same church ; but as these presby¬
ters would have occasion to meet frequently, and to delibe¬
rate on the state of the flock which it was their duty to
feed, and over which they had all equal authority, they would
be under the necessity of electing one of their own number
to be president or moderator of the presbytery, that order
might be preserved, and all things done with decency. At
first there is reason to believe that those presidents held
their office no longer than while the presbyteries sat in
which they were elected. Among the apostles themselves
there was no fixed president. Peter indeed appears to
have been most frequently admitted to that honour; but
there is one very memorable occasion on record, when
James, the Lord’s brother, presided in an assembly of
apostles, elders, and brethren, held at Jerusalem, to deter¬
mine the question concerning the necessity of circumcising
the Gentiles, and commanding them to keep the law of
Moses.
Upon this model were the primitive presbyteries formed. j\cconpng.
They consisted of several presbyters possessed of equal to Jeronh
powers, who at their meetings appointed one of their own
number to discharge the office of moderator or temporary
president; but to this president they gave no prelatical
powers or negative voice over the deliberations of his bre¬
thren ; for, as Jerom informs us, the church was then go¬
verned communi presbyterorum concilia, “ by a common
council of presbyters.” It appears however that when an
apostle, an apostolical man, or an evangelist, fixed his resi¬
dence in any city, and took upon himself the pastoral care
of part of the flock, his co-presbyters, from respect to his
singular gifts, made him their constant and fixed modera¬
tor. Hence Timothy, during his abode at Ephesus, was
moderator of the presbytery; and hence, too, Mark the
evangelist, who resided many years in Alexandria, has
been called the first bishop of that church, though he ap¬
pears to have been nothing more than permanent modera¬
tor. We advance this upon the authority of Jerom, one
of the most learned fathers of the Christian church, who
informs us, that upon the death of the evangelist, the pres¬
byters of Alexandria, for more than two hundred years,
chose their bishops from their own number, and placed
them in the episcopal chair, without dreaming that they
ought to be raised to a higher order by a new consecration;
“ presbyteri unum ex se electum in excelsiori gradu collo-
catum, episcopum nominabant.” As this practice of mak¬
ing the moderator of the presbytery of Alexandria a per¬
manent officer, was thought a good expedient to guard the
infant churches against schisms and divisions, those churches
gradually adopted it. For, as Jerom tells us, “postquam
1 Phil. ii. 19. 1 Cor. iv. 17; xvi. 10, 11.
2 1 Tim. i. 3.
3 Acts xi. 29; xiii. 1, 2, 3; xv. Tit. i. v.
4 Acts xv.
526
PRESBYTERIANS.
Preshyte- unusquisque cos quos baptisaverat, suos putabat esse, non
rians. Christ!, in toto orbe decretum est, ut unus de presbytens
electus, superponeretur cseteris, ad quem omms ecclesise
cura pertineret, et schismatum semina tollerentm.
The advantages which, in displaying his talents and au¬
thority, the perpetual president or speaker of any assembly
has over his colleagues in office, are so obvious, that when
the practice of electing their moderators for life became uni¬
versal among the presbyteries of the primitive church, itiseasy
to conceive how ambitious men might so magnify the diffi¬
culties and importance of their station, as to introduce the
custom of filling it by a new consecration of the bishop
elect. But when this was done, diocesan episcopacy, with
all its powers and prerogatives, would follow as a matter of
course, until “ by little and little,” as Jerom expresses him¬
self, “ the whole pastoral care of the flock was devolved upon
one man.”
Our limits will not permit us to trace more minutely the
rise and progress of this ecclesiastical usurpation, as the
Presbyterian calls it; but the reader who wishes for fuller
information, after studying the remains of the four first
centuries of the Christian church, may consult, “An Inquiry
into the Constitution, Discipline, and Worship, of the Pri¬
mitive Church,” written by Lord Ling, chancellor of Lng-
land. As an impartial lover of truth, he will do well to
consult also a book entitled, “ An original Draught of the
Primitive Church,” which was published as an answer to
the Inquiry ; and he may read with much advantage to
himself, “ A Letter from a Parochial Bishop to a Prelati-
cal Gentleman,” with “ An Apology for the Church of
Scotland,” both written by Mr. Willison of Dundee, and
both evincing considerable learning, and great ingenuity,
• in their pious author. But during our own age, the pres-
byterian cause has been most ably maintained by Dr.
‘ Campbell, in his “ Lectures on Ecclesiastical History,” and
"by Dr. Mitchell, in his “ Presbyterian Letters.”1
The church Of the churches at present formed upon this model, vre
of Scotland believe, that without incurring the imputation of national
prejudice, we may safely affirm the church of Scotland to
be the most efficient. Her mode of worship is simple and
solemn; her established faith agreeable to the confessions
of most »f the other Protestant churches ; her judicatories
are calculated to maintain the rights of the people ; and her
pastors are eminently distinguished by their fidelity and zeal.
In this respect, a gradual and very perceptible change has
taken place in the course of the passing century. We
cannot more properly conclude this article than with a
short view of her constitution, as being that in which our
Presbyterian readers are undoubtedly most interested.
No one is ignorant, that from the first dawn of reforma¬
tion among us, till the era of the revolution, there was a
perpetual struggle between the court and the people for
the establishment of an Episcopal or a Presbyterian form
of church government. The former model of ecclesiastical
polity was patronised by the house of Stewart on account
of the support which it gave to the prerogatives of the
crown ; the latter was the favourite of the majority of the
people, perhaps not so much on account of its superior
claim to apostolical institution, as because the laity are
mixed with the clergy in ecclesiastical judicatories, and
the two orders, which under episcopacy are kept so distinct,
incorporated into one body. In the Scottish church, every
regulation of public worship, every act of discipline, and
every ecclesiastical censure, which in other churches flows
from the authority of a diocesan bishop, or from a convo¬
cation of the clergy, is the joint work of a certain number
governed
by clergy,
men and
laymen.
of clergymen and laymen acting together with equal au* Presbyte-
thority, and deciding every question by a majority of votes. mns-
The laymen who thus form an essential part of the eccle-
siastical courts of Scotland, are called ruling elders ; and
hold the same office, as well as the same name, with those
brethren2 who joined with the apostles and elders at Jeru¬
salem in determining the important question concerning
the necessity of imposing upon the Gentile converts the
ritual observances of the law of Moses. These lay-elders
Paul enjoined Timothy3 to account worthy of double hon¬
our, if they should rule well, and discharge the duties for
which they were separated from the multitude of their
brethren. In the church of Scotland every parish has se¬
veral of those lay-elders, who are, or ought to be, grave
and serious persons, chosen from among the heads of fami¬
lies, of known orthodoxy, and steady adherence to the wor¬
ship, discipline, and government of the church. Being
solemnly engaged to use their utmost endeavours for the
suppression of vice and the cherishing ot piety and virtue,
and to exercise discipline faithfully and diligently, the mi¬
nister, in the presence of the congregation, sets them apart
to their office by solemn prayer ; and concludes the cere¬
mony, which is sometimes called ordination, with exhorting
both elders and people to their respective duties.
The kirk-session, which is the lowest ecclesiastical judi- The kirk-
catory, consists of the minister and those elders of the con-session-
gregation. The minister is ex officio moderator, but has no
negative voice over the decision ot the session ; nor indeed
has he a right to vote at all, unless when the voices ot the
elders are equal and opposite. He may indeed enter his
protest against their sentence, if he think it improper, and
appeal to the decision of the presbytery ; but this privilege
belongs equally to every elder, as well as to every person
who may believe himself aggrieved by the ] roceedings ot the
session. The deacons, whose proper office is to take, care
of the poor, may be present in every session, and otter their
counsel on all questions that come before it; but except
in what relates to the distribution of alms, they have no
decisive vote with the minister and elders.
The next judicatory is the presbytery, which consists of all The pres-
the pastors within a certain district, and one ruling elder Jte,7-
from each parish, commissioned by his brethren to represent,
in conjunction with the minister, the session ot that parish.
The presbytery treats of such matters as concern the parti¬
cular chui'ches within its limits ; as the examination, admis¬
sion, ordination, and censuring of ministers ; the licensing ot
probationers, rebuking of gross or contumacious sinners, the
directing of the sentence of excommunication, the deciding
upon references and appeals from kirk-sessions, resolving
cases of conscience, explaining difficulties in doctrine or dis¬
cipline ; and censuring, according to the word ot God, any
heresy or erroneous doctrine which hath either been pub¬
licly or privately maintained within the limits ot its jurisdic¬
tion. Partial as we may be thought to our own church, we
frankly acknowledge that we cannot altogether approve of
that part of her constitution which gives an equal vote, in
questions of heresy, to a plain mechanic and his educated
pastor. In presbyteries, the only prerogatives which the
pastors have over the ruling elders, are the power ot 01 di¬
nation, and the privilege of having the moderator chosen
from their body.
From the judgment of the presbytery, an appeal lies to The pro-
the provincial synod, which commonly meets twice a-year, vimna
and which exercises over the presbyteries within the pro-n0 *
vince a jurisdiction similar to that which is vested in each
presbytery over its several kirk-sessions. Of these synods
1 Presbyterian Letters, addressed to Bishop Skinner of Aberdeen, on his Vindication of Primitive Truth an^ Jp!^er: .*? 1C, .l*
prefixed, a Preliminary Discourse on the Present State of the Controversy concerning Ecclesiastical Government. By Patrick Mite e ,
D.D., Minister of Kemnay, Aberdeenshire. Aberdeen, 1809, 8vo.
2 Acts xv. 31 Tim. v. 17.
P R E
Prescience, there are in the church of Scotland fifteen, which are com-
II , posed of the members of the several presbyteries within the
Prescrip- reSpectiVe provinces which give names to the synods.
authority in the church is the general assem-
Thegenerality’ consists of a certain number of ministers and rul-
assenibly. elders delegated from each presbytery, and of commis¬
sioners from the universities and royal burghs. A presbytery
in which there are fewer than twelve parishes, sends to the
general assembly two ministers and one ruling elder: if it
contain between twelve and eighteen ministers, it sends three
of these, and one ruling elder : if it contains between eight¬
een and twenty-four ministers, it sends four ministers and
two ruling elders : and of twenty-four ministers, when it con¬
tains so many, it sends five with two ruling elders. Every
royal burgh sends one ruling elder, and Edinburgh two.
Their election must be attested by the kirk-sessions of the
respective burghs. Every university sends one commissioner
from its own body. The commissioners are annually chosen,
six weeks before the meeting of the assembly : and the rul¬
ing elders are often men of the first eminence in the king¬
dom for rank and talents. In this assembly, which meets
once a-year, the king presides by his commissioner, who is
always a nobleman ; but he has no voice in their delibera¬
tions. The order of their proceedings is regular, though
sometimes the number of members creates a confusion, which
the moderator, who is chosen from among the ministers, to
be the chairman or speaker of the house, has not sufficient
authority to prevent. To the general assembly appeals are
brought from all the other ecclesiastical courts of Scotland ;
and in questions purely religious, no appeal lies from its deter¬
minations. In the subordination of these assemblies, parochial,
presbyterial, provincial, and national, consists the external
order, strength, and stedfastness, of the church of Scotland.
PRESCIENCE,in Theology,prevision or foreknowledge;
that knowledge which God has of things to come.
PRESCOT, a market-town of the county of Lancaster,
in the hundred of West Derby, 198 miles from London, and
eight from Liverpool. It is a manufacturing place for mak¬
ing watches, and various kinds of cotton goods. The church
is a fine structure, and has a steeple of most elegant appear¬
ance, 156 feet high. There is a good market on Thursday.
The population was, in 1801, 3465 ; in 1811, 3678; in 1821,
4468 ; and in 1831, 5055 ; but the whole parish, which com¬
prehends fourteen other townships, at the last census, had
28,034 inhabitants.
PRESCRIPTION, in Law, denotes a particular mode
of establishing a Right or Title.
Prescription, in Medicine, signifies much the same with
what in common language is called a receipt, being a form
of direction for the preparation and administration of some
compound medicine. These medical receipts are commonly
called formulce by physicians ; and the term prescription is
applied to what is written by a physician on seeing his pa¬
tient, instructing the apothecary what medicines are to be
prepared, how they are to be composed, and how adminis¬
tered to the patient. In this sense, a prescription may con¬
tain two or more formulce.
These prescriptions are almost always writen in Latin,
and are expressed in a peculiar style, which, though well
known to physicians and apothecaries, may require the illus¬
tration of an example. The following is a specimen of a
modern prescription, as it would be written by a physician,
according to the nomenclature of the pharmacopoeia:
For Mr. Muddleton.
R. Pulv. Rad. Rhei palmati gr. xxv.
Tartratis Potassae
Tincturae Sennae composite,
Syrupi Rosae centifoliae aa 3ij*
Aquae Menthae piperitae giss.
M.f. Potio summo mane sumenda.
Jan. 31, 1839-
P R E 527
Fj om the above example, it will be seen that a prescrip- Presence
tion, properly so called, contains several circumstances be- II
side Xhe formulce or receipts, as the name of the patient, for Presenta-
whom the prescription is written ; the signature of the phy- tion-
sician, as J. B. for John Balfour, and the date of prescribe " y ”1 ■ ”
ing; none of which should be omitted, as the prescriptions
are carefully preserved by the apothecary, for future refe¬
rence.
It may be proper to explain some circumstances respect¬
ing the formula given in the above prescription. The R
with which it commences signifies recipe or take; and is
prefixed to all medical receipts. Then follow the several
ingredients of which the medicine is to be composed, with
the quantities of each. These quantities are usually marked
by peculiar characters or symbols, and the numbers em¬
ployed are usually the Roman numerals. After the ingre¬
dients have been enumerated, and their quantities specified,
there follows the title of the medicine, as Potio in the pre¬
sent instance, signifying potion or purging draught, with
M. f. prefixed to it, which stand for misce fiat, or misce ut
fiat, mix to make; and lastly, the direction how the medicine
is to be taken or administered, summo mane sumenda, to
be taken early in the morning.
I he ingredients of which a formula is composed have
been, by writers on medical prescriptions, arranged under
four heads : 1. The basis of the formula, which in the pre¬
sent instance is the rhubarb, constituting the principal in¬
gredient, on whose action, modified where necessary, the
chief success of the medicine, in fulfilling the required indi¬
cation, is to depend. 2. The adjuvant or auxiliary, added
to the basis, for the purpose of increasing its power, expe¬
diting its action, or rendering it more easily soluble in the
juices of the stomach; in the above formula the tartrate of
potash is the principal adjuvant. 3. The corrector, added
to the basis, when we wish to moderate or delay its action,
to correct some unpleasant or injurious property of it, such
as its odour, taste, acrimony, &c., or to prevent it from acting
on the body in a different manner from that which the in¬
dication requires: thus, in the present formula, the warm
tincture of senna is added, rather to correct the griping qua¬
lity of the rhubarb, than to increase its action, and the syrup
of roses to correct the unpleasant taste of the medicine ; and
the essential oil in the peppermint-water contributes to both
these purposes: these, therefore, are to be considered as the
correctors. 4. The constituent, or that ingredient which
serves to reduce the rest into the form which is considered
as most convenient for the exhibition of the medicine ; in
the present case the peppermint-water is the constituent,
serving to reduce the medicine to the form of a potion or
draught.
Medical formulce are either officinal, or extemporaneous ;
the former being such as are directed by authority of some
public medical college to be kept in the shops of apotheca¬
ries, and the preparation of which is described in their phar¬
macopoeias or dispensatories ; the latter such as are prescrib¬
ed by the physician or surgeon, as occasion may require.
PRESENCE, a term of relation, used in opposition to
absence, and signifying the existence of a person in a cer¬
tain place.
Present Tense, in Grammar, the first tense of a verb,
expressing the present time, or that something is now- per¬
forming ; as scribo, I write, or am writing.
PRESENTATION, in ecclesiastical law\ See Pa¬
tronage.
Presentation of the Virgin, is a feast of the Catholic
church, celebrated on the 21st of November, in memory of
the blessed Virgin being presented by her parents in the
temple, to be there educated. Emanuel Comnenus, who
began to reign in 1143, makes mention of this feast in his
Constitutions. Some imagine it to have been established
amongst the Greeks in the 11th century ; and think they dis-
528
PEE
President, cover evident proofs of it in some homilies of Geoige of
Press. Nicomedia, who lived in the time of Photius. Its institu-
•    Others
tion in the west is ascribed to Gregory XL in 1372
think it was instituted in memory ot the ceremony piae-
tised amongst the Jews for their newly-born females, and
corresponded to the circumcision on the eighth day for males.
Presentation of our Lady also gives the title to three
orders of nuns. The first of these was that projected in
1618, by a maid named Joan of Cambray. The habit of
the nuns ivas to be a grey gown of natural wool ; but this
project was never accomplished. The second was esta¬
blished in France, about the year 1627, by Nicholas S^n-
guin, bishop of Senlis, and approved by Urban VIII. This
order never made any great progress. The third was esta¬
blished in 1664, when Frederick Borromeo, being apostoli¬
cal visitor in the Valteline, was intreated by some devout
maids of Morbegno to allow them to live in community in
a retired place; a request which he granted, and erected
them into a congregation, under the title ot the Congrega¬
tion of our Lady. They live under the rule of St. Augustin
PRESIDENT, Prases, is an officer, created or elected
to preside over a company or assembly, and is so called in
contradistinction to the other members, who are termed re¬
sidents. _
Lord President of the Councie, is a great officer of
the crown, who has precedence next after the lord chancel¬
lor and the lord treasurer. The lord president is as ancient
as the time of king John, when he was styled consiliarius
capitalis. His office is to attend upon the king, to propose
business at the council-table, and to report to the king the
several matters transacted there.
PRESS, in the mechanical arts, is a machine made of iron
or wood, and serving to squeeze or compress any body.
The ordinary presses consist of six members, or pieces,
viz. two flat smooth planks, between which the things to be
pressed are laid; two screws, or worms, fastened to the
lower plank, and passing through two holes in the upper;
and two nuts, in the form of an S, serving to drive the up¬
per plank, that is moveable against the lower, which is
stable, and without motion.
Presses used for expressing liquors, are of various kinds;
some of them being, in most respects, the same with the
common presses, excepting that the under plank is perforated
with a great number of holes to let the juice expressed run
through into a tub, or receiver, underneath.
Press used by Joiners, to keep close the pieces they
have glued, such as panels of wainscot, is very simple. It
consists of four members, viz. two screws, and two pieces
of wood, four or five inches square, and two or three feet
in length, the holes of which at the two ends serve for nuts
to the screws.
Press used by Inlayers resembles the joiner’s press, ex¬
cept that the pieces of wood are thicker, and only one of
them is moveable ; the other, which is in the form of a tres-
sel, being sustained by two legs or pillars, joined to it at
each end. This press serves for sawing and cleaving the
pieces of wood required in marquetry or inlaid work.
Founder’s Press, is a strong square frame, consisting of
four pieces of wood, firmly joined together with tenons and
otherwise. This press is of various sizes, according to the
sizes of the moulds. Two of them are required to each
mould, at the two extremities of which they are placed ; so
that, by driving wooden wedges between the mould and the
sides of the presses, the two parts of the mould in which
the metal is to be run may be pressed close together.
Printing-Press. See Printing.
Rolling-Press, is a machine used for taking off prints
from copper-plates. It is much less complex than that of
the letter-press printers.
Binder’s Cutting-Press, is a machine used equally by
book-binders, stationers, and pasteboard-makers, and con-
Preston.
P R E
sists of two large pieces of wood, in the form of cheeks,' Pressing
connected by two strong wooden screws, which, being
turned by an iron bar, draw together, or set asunder, the
cheeks, as much as is necessary for putting in the books or
paper to be cut. The cheeks are placed lengthwise on a
wooden stand, in the form of a chest, into which the cut¬
tings fall. Beside the cheeks are two pieces of wood, of
the same length with the screws, and which serve to direct
the cheeks, and prevent their opening unequally. Upon
the cheeks moves the plough, to which the cutting-knife is
fastened by a screw ; and this knife has its key to dismount
it, when it requires to be sharpened.
The plough consists of several parts, and amongst the
rest a w.ooden screw or worm, which, catching within the
nuts of the two feet that sustain it on the cheeks, brings
the knife to the book or paper, that is fastened in the press
between two boards. This screw, which is pretty long, has
two directories, which resemble those of the screws ot the
press. To make the plough slide square and even upon the
cheeks, so that the knife may make an equal paring^ the
foot of the plough where the knife is not fixed, slides in a
kind of groove, fastened along one ot the cheeks. Lastly,
the knife is a piece of steel, six or seven inches in length, flat,
thin, and sharp, terminating at one end in a point, like that
of a sword, and at the other in a square form, which serves
to fasten it to the plough.
Press, in the woollen manufactory, is a large wooden
machine, serving to press cloths, serges, rateens, &c., there¬
by to render them smooth and even, and impart to them a
gloss.
This machine consists of several members, the principal
whereof are the cheeks, the nut, and the worm or screw,
accompanied with its bar, which serves to turn it round,
and make it descend perpendicularly upon the middle of a
thick wooden plank, under which the stuffs to be pressed
are placed.
PRESSING, in manufactures, is the violently squeezing
a cloth, piece of stuff, or other article, to render it smooth
and glossy.
PRESTEIGN, a market-town ofthe county of Radnor, in
South Wales. It is the county town, in which the assizes
are held, being 151 miles from London, and 14 from Leo¬
minster, and is situated in a rich vale on the river Lug. I he
county jail is a fine building, and around the town are some
pleasant walks and picturesque views. T here is a good market,
which is held on Saturday. The population was, in 1801,
1152 ; in 1811, 1211 ; in 1821, 1387 ; and in 1831, 1629;
but the parish, a part of which is within the English county
of Hereford, contained at the last census 3282 inhabitants.
PRESTER JOHN, an appellation formerly given to an
emperor of the Tartars, who was overcome and killed by
Genghiz Khan. Since that time it has been applied to the
Emperor of Abyssinia or Ethiopia; but in Ethiopia itself
this name is utterly unknown.
Prester, a meteor, consisting of an exhalation thrown
downwards from the clouds with such violence, that by the
collison it is set on fire. The word is Greek, TrprjarTjp, the
name of a kind of serpent, called also dipsas, to which this
meteor is supposed to bear a resemblance. The prester
differs from the thunderbolt in the manner of its inflamma¬
tion, and in its burning and breaking every thing it touches
with greater violence.
PRESTO, in the Italian music, intimates to perform
quickly ; and hence, prestissimo denotes extreme quickness.
PRESTON, a town of the county of Lancaster, in the
hundred of Amoundei’ness, 216 milesfrom London. It is situ¬
ated on the river Ribble, and is a corporate place, governed
by a mayor, recorder, twelve aldermen, and thirty-six common
councilmen; for which purpose it is now divided into six
wards, and returns tvyo members to the House ot Commons.
The town has good wide streets, many fine houses, a very
P R E
Preston- extensive town-hall and assembly-rooms, a recently built
pans jail, and several charity-schools. It is a place of great
Pri rn manulac^uring industry for various kinds of cotton goods,
. i especially cambric muslins; and to the introduction of
this trade the town is indebted for its extension in the last
forty years. Though the river Kibble is only navigable for
small craft, yet it is connected by canals with almost every
part of the kingdom, and can, by these means, easily dis¬
perse its productions in every direction. It has well-sup¬
plied markets on Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday. The
two first are well provided with fish for the Roman Catho¬
lics, who are very numerous. The population was, in 1801,
11,887; in 1811, 17,065; in 1821, 24,557; and in 1831,
33,112; but, at the last census, the whole parish, consist¬
ing of eight other townships, contained 36,336 inhabitants.
PRESTONPANS, a parish and town of Scotland, in
Haddingtonshire, about eight miles east from Edinburgh.
It has considerable salt-works and manufactures of earthen¬
ware, bricks, tiles, &c. It was in the fields to the south of
the village that in 1745 Prince Charles Edward defeated
the King’s troops, under Sir John Cope. The population of
the parish in 1831 amounted to 2377.
PRESTWICK, a township of the hundred of Salford, in
the county of Lancaster, 184 miles from London, and four
from Manchester. It is inhabited chiefly by cotton manu¬
facturers. The population amounted in 1801 to 1811; in
1811 to 2175; in 1821 to 2724; and in 1831 to 2941.
PRETERITE, in Grammar, a tense which expresses the
time just past, or an action now completely finished, as
scripsi, I have written, or just finished the act of writing.
PRETERITION, or Pretermission, in Rhetoric, is a
figure by which, in pretending to pass over a thing un¬
touched, summary mention is nevertheless made of it. Thus,
I will not say he is valiant, he is learned, he is just. The
most artful praises are those given by way of preterition.
PRETEXT, a colour or motive, whether real or feigned,
for doing something.
Toga PRETEXTA, amongst the ancient Romans, a
long white gown, with a border of purple round the edges. It
was worn by children of quality till the age of puberty ; that
is, by the boys till the age of seventeen, when they changed
it for the toga virilis, and by the girls till marriage.
PRETOR, or Prjetor, a magistrate amongst the an¬
cient Romans, not unlike our Lord Chief-Justice, or Lord
Chancellor, or both in one, being vested with the power
of distributing justice amongst the citizens. At first there
was only one praetor ; but afterwards, another being created,
the first or chief one had the title of preetor urhanus, or the
city praetor, and the other was called preetor peregrinus, as
being chief judge in all matters relating to foreigners. But,
besides these, there were afterwards created many provin¬
cial praetors, who were not only judges, but also assisted the
consuls in the government of the provinces, and were even
invested with the government of provinces themselves.
PRETORIAN Guards, in Roman antiquity, were the
guards of the Emperor, who were at length increased to ten
thousand. They received this denomination, according to
some, from their being stationed at a place called thepreeto-
rium; and their commander was styled prcefectus preetorii.
PRETORIUM, or Prjstorium, amongst the Romans,
denoted the hall or court in which the praetor lived, and
wherein also he administered justice.
PRIAM, King of Troy, was the son of Laomedon. He
was carried into Greece after the taking of that city by
Hercules; but was afterwards ransomed, upon which he
obtained the name of Priam, a Greek word signifying “ ran¬
somed.” After his return he rebuilt Ilium, and extended the
bounds of the kingdom of Troy, which under his reign be-
came very flourishing. He married Hecuba, the daughter
of Cisseus, King of Thrace, by whom he had nineteen
children, and amongst the rest Paris, who carried off Helen,
VOE. XVIII.
P s I 529
and occasioned the ruin of Troy, which is supposed to have Triaman
been sacked by the Greeks about 1184 before Christ, when II
Priam was killed by Pyrrhus, the son of Achilles, at the Price'
foot of an altar, where he had taken refuge, after a rekm
of fifty-two years.
PRIAMAN, a town on the south-west coast of Sumatra.
In 1685 this was the chief settlement of the East India Com¬
pany on the island. Long. 99- 43. E. Lat. 0. 36. S.
PRIAPUS, in Pagan worship, the son of Bacchus and
Venus, who presided over gardens and the most indecent
exhibitions. He was particularly adored at Lampsacus, a city
at the mouth of the Hellespont, said to have been the place
of his birth ; and his image was placed in gardens to defend
them from thieves and birds destructive of fruit. He was
usually represented naked, with a stern countenance, mat¬
ted hair, and holding either a wooden sword or sickle in his
hand. The sacrifice offered to this obscene deity was the
ass; either on account of the natural uncomeliness of this
animal, and its propensity to venery, or from the disap¬
pointment which Priapus met with on his attempting the
chastity of Vesta, whilst that goddess was asleep, w'hen she
escaped the intended injury by being awakened in conse
quence of the braying of old Silenus’s ass.
PRICE, Richard, D.D. and LL. D., Fellow of the Royal
Society of London, and of the Academy of Sciences, New
England, was born at Tynton, in Glamorganshire, on the 22d
of February 1723. His father w^as a dissenting minister at
Bridgend, in that county, and died in 1739. At eight years of
age he was placed under a Mr. Simmons of Neath ; and four
years afterwards he was removed to Pentwyn, in Caermar-
thenshire, where he was placed under the Rev. Samuel Jones,
w^hom he represented as a man of a very enlarged mind, and
who first inspired him with liberal sentiments of religion.
Having lived as long w ith him as with Mr. Simmons, he was
sent to Mr. Griffith’s academy at Talgarth, in Breconshire. In
1740 he lost his mother, upon which he quitted the academy
and proceeded to London. Here he was settled at the aca¬
demy, of which Mr. Eames acted as the principal tutor, under
the patronage of his uncle, the Rev. S. Price, who w as, for
upwards of forty years, co-pastor with Dr. Watts. At the
end of four years he left this academy, and resided with
Mr. Streatfield, of Stoke Newington, in the quality of do¬
mestic chaplain ; whilst at the same time he regularly assist¬
ed Dr. Chandler at the Old Jewry, and occasionally assisted
others. Having lived with Mr. Streatfield nearly thirteen
years, he was induced to change his situation, and in the year
1757 married Miss Blundell of Leicestershire. He then set¬
tled at Hackney, but being shortly afterwards chosen mi¬
nister at Newington Green, he lived there until the death
of his wife, which took place in 1786, when he returned to
Hackney. He was next chosen afternoon-preacher at the
meeting-house in Poor Jewry Street; but this he resigned
on being elected paster of the Gravel-pit Meeting, Hack¬
ney, and afternoon-preacher at Newington Green. These
he resigned with a farewell-sermon in February 1791 • Short¬
ly afterwards he was attacked with a nervous fever, which dis¬
appeared and was succeeded by a disorder in his bladder,
which reduced him to such a degree, that, worn out with
agony and disease, he died without a groan on the 19th of
April 1791. He bequeathed his property to a sister and two
nephews.
In morals, Dr. Price’s principles were those of Cudworth
and Clarke; and by many personswhohavethemselvesadopt-
ed a very different theory, he is allowed to have defended
these principles with greater ability than any other writer
in the English language. In metaphysics he was perhaps
too great an admirer of Plato, from whom he has borrowed
a doctrine concerning ideas which we confess ourselves un¬
able to comprehend. He was a firm believer in the imma¬
teriality of the soul; but, with Dr. Law, the learned bishop
of Carlisle, he thought that, from death to the resurrection
530
P R I
P R I
Pride.
of the body, it remains in a dormant and quiescent state.
'He contended for its indivisibility, but maintained, at the
same time, its extension ; which, m the celebrated contro¬
versy with Dr.Priestley, furnished the latter with some ad-
vant ages which his own acuteness would never have obtained.
In propagatinghis political principles, which were republican,
he sometimes expressed himself with undue vehemence, and
he was a zealous enemy to all religious establishments, which,
in his opinion, encroach upon that liberty with which Christ
has made us free. His faith respecting the Son of God was
what has sometimes been called Low Ariamsm, and some¬
times Semi-Arianism. From a very early age he claimed
the privilege of thinking for himself on every subject. His
father was a rigid Calvinist, and spared no pains to instil his
own theological dogmas into the tender mind of his son;
but voting Richard would often start his doubts and difficul¬
ties, and sometimes incur the old man’s displeasure by ar¬
guing against his favourite system with an ingenuity that
perplexed, and a solidity that could not easily be overturn¬
ed. He had once the misfortune to be caught reading a vo¬
lume of Clarke’s sermons, which his father, in great wrath,
snatched from him, and threw into the tire. Perhaps he
could not have taken a more effectual method to make the
book a favourite, or to excite the young man’s curiosity in
regard to the other works of the same author; and it is by no
means improbable that this orthodox bigotry contributed more
than any other circumstance to lay the foundation of his son s
Arianism. n , t, , c
In 1763 or 1764 he was chosen a fellow of the Royal bo-
ciety, and contributed largely to the transactions of that
learned body; in 1769 he received from Aberdeen a diplo¬
ma creating him Doctor of Divinity; and in 1/83 the degree
of Doctor of Laws was conferred upon him by the college of
Yale in Connecticut. As in the year 1770 he refused an
American degree, which had been conveyed to him by Dr.
Franklin, Ins acceptance of one, thirteen years afterwards,
can be attributed only to his extravagant attachment to a
republican form of government.
To posterity his works will be his monument. 1 hey are,
1, A Review of the Principal Questions and Difficulties in
Morals, 1758, 8vo.; 2, Dissertations on Providence, 1767,
8vo.; 3, Observations on Reversionary Payments, 1771,
8vo.; 4, Appeal on the National Debt, 1773, 8vo.; 5,
Observations on the Nature of Civil Liberty, 1776; 6, On
Materialism and Necessity, in a correspondence between Dr.
Price and Dr. Priestley, 1779 ; 7, On Annuities, Assur¬
ances, and Population, 1779, 8vo.; 8, On the Population
of England, 1780; 9, On the Public Debts, Finances, and
Loans, 1783, 8vo.; 10, On Reversionary Payments, 1783,
2 vols.; 11, On the Importance of the American Revolu¬
tion, 1784 ; besides Sermons, and a variety of Papers in
the Philosophical Transactions on Astronomy, and other
philosophical subjects.
PRIDE, a term indicating inordinate and unreasonable
self-esteem, attended with insolence and rude treatment of
others. It is frequently confounded with vanity, and some
times with dignity; but to the former passion it has no resem¬
blance, and in many circumstances it differs from the latter.
Vanity is the parent of loquacious boasting ; and the person
subject to it, if his pretences be admitted, has no inclina¬
tion to insult the company. The proud man, on the other
hand, is naturally silent, and, wrapt up in his own import¬
ance ; he seldom speaks except to make his audience feel
their inferiority. It is this circumstance which distinguishes
pride from dignity. Every man, possesed of great powers
of mind, is conscious of them, and feels that he holds a high¬
er rank in the scale of existence than he whose powers are
inferior. If he recollect, at the same time, that he has no¬
thing which he did not receive, and that his superiority is
owing to the good pleasure of Him who forms his creatures
differently, as the potter forms his clay, he will be so far from
insulting" his inferiors, that, when necessarily in [company
with them, he will bear with their foibles, and, as far as is Pndeaiu.
proper, make them lose sight of the distance which the laws
of God and man have for ever placed between them and
him. This condescension, however, if he be a man of dig¬
nity, will never lead him to join with them in any mean or
unworthy action. He will even excuse in them many things
which he would condemn in himself, and will give them his
good wishes, after they have forfeited his esteem. Such a
character is amiable and respectable ; in short, what every
man should labour to attain. From the weakness of human
nature, however, it is too apt to degenerate into pride.
To a man of great intellectual powers and various erudi¬
tion, the conversation of ordinary persons affords neither in¬
struction nor amusement; and such conversation, when of¬
ten repeated, must, from the nature of things, become te¬
dious and irksome. But it requires great command of tem¬
per and of manners to prevent uneasiness, long felt, from
sometimes betraying itself by external symptoms, such as
peevish expressions, a forbidding look, or absence of mind ;
and these are the infallible indications of contempt for the
company, the very worst ingredient in the passion of pride.
If this contempt be often excited, it will be formed into a
habit; and the proud man will be so much under its influ¬
ence, as to insult his inferiors, and sometimes even his equals,
without forming the resolution to insult either the one or the
other. Such a character is hateful to every company, and
is so far from indicating true dignity of mind in him to whom
it belongs, that it is obviously associated with meanness, and
indicates a consciousness of some radical defect. He who
possesses real and conspicuous merit has no occasion to de¬
press others for the purpose of raising himself; his superio¬
rity will be cheerfully acknowledged; but when a man of
undoubted eminence, in one respect, is so swollen with pride
as to make him wish to appear great in all respects, he has
no other means of enforcing his ill-founded claim, than dis¬
playing his acknowledged superiority, with such insolence,
as may drive to a distance from him every person by whom
he is conscious that, in many instances, he might be more
than rivalled. Whoever is proud of knowledge, would do
well to consider how much knowledge he w ants.
The same observations which we have made on pride of
parts, will apply almost to every other species of pride, such
as pride of birth, riches, or the like. The peace and order of
society require difference of rank, accompanied with differ¬
ent degrees of authority ; and he who inherits a title or of¬
fice from his ancestors, may, without pride, be conscious of
his superiority, provided he forget not that such superiority
is conferred on families and individuals, not for their own
sakes, but for the good of the community. The peer who
keeps this circumstance in mind, may maintain his station,
and repress the forward petulance of the plebeian, without
giving offence to any thinking man; but if he dw ell upon
his rank with too much complacency, he will, in process of
time, be apt to consider himself and his family as superior
by nature to those upon whom no title has been conferred,
and then his pride will become intolerable. If we could
trace our descents, says Seneca, we would find all slaves
to come from princes, and all princes from slaves. To be
proud of knowledge, is to be blind in the light; to be proud
of virtue, is to poison ourselves with the antidote ; to be
proud of authority, is to make our rise our downfall. The
best way to humble a proud man is to neglect him.
PRIDEAUX, Humphry, avery learned clergyman of the
Church of England, was born at Padstow, in Cornwall, in
1648. He studied three years at Westminster under Dr.
Busby, and was then removed to Christ Church, Oxford.
Here, in 1676, he published his Marmora Oxonensia ex
A rundelianis, Seldenianis, aliisque conJlata,cum perpetuo
Commentario. This introduced him to the Lord Chancel¬
lor Finch, afterwards Earl of'Nottingham, who, in 1679, pre¬
sented him to the Rectory of St. Clement’s, near Oxford,
and, in 1681, bestowed on him a prebend of Norwich. Some
P R I
Priest, years afterwards he was engaged in a controversy with the
Priestley, Catholics at Norwich, concerning the validity of the orders of
the Church of England, which produced his book upon that
subject. In 1688, he was installed in the archdeaconry of
Suffolk, to which he was collated by Dr. Lloyd, then Bi¬
shop of Norwich. In 1691, upon the death of Dr. Edward
Pococke, the Hebrew professorship at Oxford being vacant,
was offered to Dr.Prideaux ; but he refused it. In 1697, he
published his Life of Mahommed ; and, in 1702, he was in¬
stalled dean of Norwich. In 1710, he was cut for the stone,
which interrupted his studies during more than a year. Some
time after his return to London, he proceeded with his Con¬
nection of the History of the Old and New Testament,
which he had commenced when he laid aside the design of
writing the History of Appropriations. He died in 1724.
PRIEST, a person set apart for the performance of sa¬
crifice, and other offices and ceremonies of religion. Before
the promulgation of the law of Moses, the first-born of every
family, the fathers, the princes, and the kings, were priests.
Thus Cain and Abel, Noah, Abraham, Melchizedec, Job,
Isaac, and Jacob, offered themselves their own sacrifices.
Amongst the Israelites, after their departure from Egypt,
the priesthood was confined to one tribe, and it consisted
of three orders ; the high priest, priests, and Levites. The
priesthood was made hereditary in the family of Aaron, and
the first-born of the oldest branch of that family, if he had
no legal blemish, was always the high priest. This divine
appointment was observed with considerable accuracy until
the Jews fell under the dominion of the Romans, and had
their faith corrupted by a false philosophy. Then, indeed,
the high priesthood was sometimes set up to sale, and instead
of continuing for life, as it ought to have done, it seems,
from some passages in the New Testament, to have been
nothing more than an annual office. There is sufficient rea¬
son to believe, however, that it was never disposed of except
to some descendant of Aaron, capable of filling it, if the older
branches were extinct. In the time of David, the inferior
priests were divided into twenty-four companies, who were
required to serve in rotation, each company by itself, for a
week. The order in which the several courses were to serve
was determined by lot; and each course was, in all succeed¬
ing ages, called by the name of its original chiefs.
All nations have had their priests. The pagans had priests
of Jupiter, Mars, Bacchus, Hercules, Osiris, Isis, and other
divinities; and some deities had also priestesses. IheMa-
hommedans have priests of different orders, called scheiks
and muftis ; and the Indians and Chinese have theii Brah¬
mins and Bonzes. . .
It has been very much disputed, whether, in the Christian
church, there be any such officer as a priest, in the proper
sense of the word. The Church of Rome, which holds the
propitiatory sacrifice of the mass, has, of course, her proper
priesthood. In the Church of England, the word priest is
retained to denote the second order in her hierarchy, but
with very different significations, according to the different
opinions entertained of the Lord's supper. Some few of icr
divines', of great learning, and of undoubted Protestantism,
maintain that the Lord’s supper is a commemorative and eu-
charistical sacrifice, and consider all who are authorised to
administer that sacrament as, in the strictest sense, priests.
Others hold the Lord’s supper to be a feast upon the sacri¬
fice once offered on the cross; and these, too, must consi¬
der themselves as clothed with some kind of priest oo .
Great numbers, however, of the English clergy, per aps t ic
majority, agree, with the Church of Scotland, in maintaining
that the Lord’s supper is a rite of no other moral impor ,
than the mere commemoration of the death of Christ.
therefore, cannot consider themselves as priests m the rigid
sense of the word, but only as presbyters, or, in ot ier woi s,
elders. t •
PRIESTLEY, Joseph, LL.D.andF. R. S., a natural pln-
P R I
531
losopher and theologian, was born upon the 24th of March Priestley.
1773, at Field-head, in the parish of Bristall, in the west
riding of Yorkshire. His father was a cloth-manufacturer,
and both his parents were respectable Calvinistic dissenters.
A strong desire of reading was one of the first passions which
this philosopher exhibited, and which probably induced his
parents and friends to change their mind respecting his des¬
tination, and, instead of bringing him up as a tradesman, to
qualify him for some learned profession. He acquired a
knowledge of Hebrew, Greek, and Latin, in the school of
an eminent teacher at Bartley ; and, at the age of nineteen,
he became a theological student in the academy of Daven-
try. When about the age of twenty-two, he was made
choice of as assistant minister to the Independent congre¬
gation of Needham Market, in Suffolk. Having resided at
Needham for about three years, he received an invitation to
become pastor of a small flock at Namptwitch, in Che¬
shire, which he accepted. Here he opened a day school,
in the management of which he displayed that turn for re¬
search, and that spirit of improvement, which were after¬
wards destined to form such prominent features in his cha¬
racter. His reputation as a man of extraordinary talents
and diligent inquiry, soon spread amongst his professional
brethren ; and when Dr. Aitken was chosen to succeed the
reverend Dr, Taylor as professor of divinity at Warring¬
ton, the vacant department of belles lettres was assigned to
Mr. Priestley.
His literary career may probably be said to have com¬
menced at Warrington ; and the extent, as well as the ori¬
ginality of his pursuits, were soon announced to the world
by a variety of valuable publications. Much of his atten¬
tion about this period was taken up with general politics, on
which he delivered a number oflectures. Although it was
reasonable to think that his time would be sufficiently oc¬
cupied by his academical and literary employments, yet his
unwearied activity and industry found means to accomplish
the first great work in philosophy which laid a foundation
for his future fame,
Having long amused himselfwith an electrical machine, and
felt himself interested in the progress of discovery in that
branch of physics, he undertook a history of electricity, with
an account of its present state. This work made its first ap¬
pearance at Warrington in the year l/fi/, and was so well
received by the learned world, that it went through a fifth
edition in quarto, in the year 1794. It is justly deemed a
valuable performance, and its original experiments are al¬
lowed to be very ingenious.
About the year 1768, he was chosen as pastor of a laige
and respectable congregation of Protestant dissenters at
Leeds, which led him to give a very large share of his at¬
tention to theological subjects. His mind is said to have
been from childhood strongly impressed with sentiments of
piety and devotion ; and although he changed roost of those
religious sentiments in which he had been instructed, foi
such as he regarded more rational and consistent witn ti uth,
his piety and devotion never deserted him. He was at the
head of the moderate Unitarians, whose leading tenet is
the proper humanity of Christ; confining every species ot
religious w orship and adoration to the one Supreme Being.
Some, we believe, have charged him with a design to sub¬
vert the Christian religion ; but, since zeal for Christianity,
as a divine dispensation, and the most valuable of all gilts
bestowed upon the human race, was his ruling passion, such
an imputation cannot, in fairness, be admitted.
His History and Present State of Discoveries relating to
Vision, Light, and Colours, appeared in 1772, in two vo¬
lumes quarto. This is allowed to be a performance of great
merit and lucid arrangement; but it did not bring him sue
a large share of popularity as his History of Electricity, be-
causfit is probable that' he was scarcely qualified to ex¬
plain the more abstruse parts of the science. 5
i
532 P R I P R I
Priestley. 1770, lie quitted the town of Leeds for a situation entirely
different from that which he had held there. His philosophi¬
cal writings and the recommendation ot Dr. Price had made
him favourably known to the Earl of Shelburne, who held
out to him such advantageous proposals for residing witn
him, that a regard for his family did not permit him to
reject them. The domestic tuition of Lord Shelburne s
sons having been previously committed to a man of merit,
they received no instructions from Dr. Priestley further
than some courses of experimental philosophy. He also
attended his Lordship in a visit to Paris, where he had an
opportunity of seeing some of the most celebrated men of
science in that country, whom he astonished by asserting
a firm belief in revealed religion, which had been presented
to their minds in such colours, that they thought no man of
sense could hesitate in rejecting it as an idle fable.
In the year 1775, he published his Examination of Dr.
Reid on the Human Mind ; Dr. Beattie on the Nature and
Immutability of Truth; and Dr, Oswald’s Appeal to Common
Sense. The design of this volume was to refute the doc¬
trine of Common Sense, said to be employed as the test ot
truth by the metaphysicians of Scotland. He never inten¬
tionally misrepresented either the arguments or the purposes
of an opponent; but he measured the respect with which
he treated him by that which he concei ved for him in his own
mind. In the year 1777, he published his disquisitions re¬
lating to Matter and Spirit, in which he gave a history of
the philosophical doctrine respecting the soul, and openly
supported the material system, which makes it homogene¬
ous with the body. This subjected him to more odium
than any of his other productions. As he materialized spirit
so he in some measure spiritualized matter, by assigning to
it penetrability and several other subtle qualities. About
the same period he became the champion of philosophical
necessity; a doctrine not less obnoxious to many than the
former, on account of its supposed, or rather inevitable, ef¬
fects on morality. So astonishing was the versatility of his
mind, that he at the same time carried on that course of dis¬
covery concerning aeriform bodies, which has rendered his
name so illustrious amongst philosophical chemists. A
second volume was published in 1775, and a third in
1777. Some of his most memorable discoveries were those
of nitrous and dephlogisticated or pure air ; of the restor¬
ation of vitiated air by vegetation ; of the influence of light
on vegetables ; and of the effects of respiration on the blood.
The name of Priestley was by these means spread through¬
out all the countries of Europe, and honours were heaped
upon him by scientific bodies in various parts. The term
of his engagement with Lord Shelburne having expired,
Dr. Priestley found himself at liberty to choose a new si¬
tuation, and retired with a pension for life of L.150 a-year.
He chose the vicinity of the populous town of Birmingham,
which was then the residence of several men of science, such
as Watt, Withering, Bolton, and Keir, whose names are well
known to the public. Here he was invited to become pas¬
tor of a dissenting congregation, an offer which he accepted
about the latter end of the year 1780. Soon after this ap¬
peared his Letters to Bishop Newcome, On the Duration of
Christ’s Ministry, and his History of the Corruptions of
Christianity, works which were afterwards followed by his
History of Early Opinions. He displayed his attachment
to freedom by his Essay on the First Principles of Govern¬
ment, and by an anonymous pamphlet on the State of Pub¬
lic Liberty in this country ; and he evinced a warm inter¬
est in the cause of America at the time of its unfortunate
quarrel with the mother country.
On the 14th of July, 179L the celebration of the anni¬
versary of the destruction of the Bastille, by a publicdinner,
at which Dr. Priestley was not present, gave the signal for
those riots which have brought lasting disgrace on the town
of Birmingham, and in some degree upon the national cha¬
racter. Amidst the conflagration of places of worship and Priestley,
of private dwellings, Dr. Priestley was the great object of''^^/'^-
popular rage; his house, library, manuscripts, and apparatus,
were given as a prey to the flames; he wars hunted like a
criminal, and experienced not only the furious outrages of
a mob, but the most unhandsome treatment from some who
ought to have supported the character of gentlemen and
friends of good order. Lie now lay under a load of public
odium and suspicion, and, besides, he was constantly harassed
by the petty malignity of bigotry. It was not to be won¬
dered at, therefore, that he looked for an asylum in a
country to which he had always shewn a friendly attach¬
ment, and which, he supposed, was in full possession of all
the blessings of civil and religious liberty. In the year
1794, he took leave of his native country, and embarked
for North America. He took up his residence in North¬
umberland, a town in the interior of the state of Pennsyl¬
vania, which he selected on account of the purchase of
landed property in its neighbourhood ; otherwise its re¬
moteness from the sea-ports, its want of many of the com¬
forts of life, and of all the helps to scientific pursuit, ren¬
dered it a peculiarly undesirable abode for one of Dr. Priest¬
ley’s habits and employments. The loss of his amiable wife,
and of a most promising son, as well as repeated attacks of
disease, severely tried the fortitude and resignation of this
ill-fated philosopher.
In America he was received with general respect, and
the angry contests of party were not able wholly to deprive
him of the esteem due to his character. He was heard as
a preacher by some of the most distinguished members of
Congress; and he was offered, but declined, the place of
chemical professor of Philadelphia. It became his great
object to enable himself, in his retirement at Northumber¬
land, to renew that course of philosophical experiment, and
especially that train of theological writing, w hich had occu¬
pied so many of the best years of his life. By numerous
experiments on the constitution of airs, he became more
and more fixed in his belief of the phlogistic theory, and in
his opposition to the new French chemical system, of which
he lived to be the only opponent of any celebrity. By the
liberal contributions of his friends in England, he was ena¬
bled to commence the printing of two extensive works, upon
which he was zealously bent, a Church History, and an
Exposition of the Scriptures ; and during the progress of
his final decline, he unremittingly urged their completion.
Since an illness which seized him at Philadelphia, in the
year 1801, he never recovered his fbrmerstate of health. His
complaint was constant indigestion, and a difficulty of swal¬
lowing food of any kind. But during this period ot general
debility, he was busily employed in printing his Church
History, in writing the first volume of his Notes on the Scrip¬
tures, and in making new and original experiments. During
this period, likewise, he composed his pamphlet of Jesus and
Socrates Compared, and reprinted his Essay on Phlogiston.
From about the beginning of November 1803, till the
middle of January 1804, his complaint grew more Serious;
yet, by judicious medical treatment and strict atterition to
diet, he, after a time, seemed to be, if not regaining strength,
at least not getting worse; and his friends fondly hoped
that his health would continue to improve as the season
advanced. Lie, however, considered his life as very pre¬
carious. Even at this time, besides his miscellaneous read¬
ing, which was at all times very extensive, he read through all
the works which are quoted in his Comparison of the differ¬
ent Systems of Grecian Philosophers ivith Christianity;
composed that wrork ; and transcribed the whole of it in less
than three months, thus leaving it ready for the press.
In the last fortnight of January, his fits of indigestion be¬
came more alarming than ever, his legs swelled, and his weak¬
ness increased. Within two days of his death he became
so weak, that he could walk but a little way, and that with
P R I
Primae vi'ae great difficulty. He was fully sensible that he had not long
.11 to live, yet he talked with cheerfulness to all who called
sirisirT *or ^'m‘ ^vve^ uI)0n ^e peculiarly happy situation in
which it had pleased the Divine Being to place him in life ;
the great advantage he had enjoyed in the acquaintance
and friendship of some of the best and wisest men of the
age in which he lived ; and the satisfaction he derived from
having led an useful as well as a happy life. On the 9th of
February 1804, he breathed his last, so easily, that those
who were sitting close to him did not immediately perceive
his exit. He had put his hand to his face, which prevented
them from observing the last moment of his being.
In the constitution of Dr. Priestley’s mind, great ardour
and vivacity of intellect were united with a mild and placid
temper. With a zeal for the propagation of truth which
nothing could subdue, he joined a calm patience, and an un¬
ruffled serenity of temper, which rendered him proof against
disappointments. The rights of private judgment were ren¬
dered sacred to him by every principle of his understanding,
and his heart would not have suffered him to injure his bit¬
terest enemy. He was naturally disposed to be cheerful, and
when his mind was not occupied with serious thoughts, he
could unbend, with playful ease and negligence, in the pri¬
vate circle of friends ; but in large and mixed companies, he
commonly spoke little. In the domestic relations of life he
was uniformly kind and affectionate ; his parental feelings
were those of the tenderest and best of fathers ; and not even
malice itself could ever fix a stain upon his private conduct,
or impeach his integrity.
PRIMiE vije, amongst physicians, denote the whole ali¬
mentary ducts ; including the oesophagus, stomach, and in¬
testines, with their appendages.
PRIMARY, first in dignity, chief, or principal.
Primary Qualities of Bodies. See Metaphysics.
PRIMATE, in church polity, an archbishop, who is in¬
vested with a jurisdiction over other bishops.
PRIME, Primus, an appellation given to whatever is
first in order, degree, or dignity, amongst several things of
the same or a similar kind. Thus we say, the prime minister,
prime cost, and so of others.
Prime is sometimes used to denote the same with deci¬
mal, or the tenth part of an unit.
Prime Figure, in Geometry, one which cannot be divid¬
ed into any other figures more simple than itself; as a tri¬
angle amongst planes, and the pyramid amongst solids.
Prime of the Moon, is the new moon when she first ap¬
pears, which is about three days after the change.
Prime Vertical, is that vertical circle which passes
through the poles of the meridian, on the east and west
points of the horizon ; and hence dials projected on the plane
of this circle are called prime vertical, or north and south
dials.
Prime, in the Catholic Church, is the first of the cano¬
nical hours succeeding to lauds.
PRIMER seisin, in feudal laic, was a feudal burden,
only incident to the king’s tenants in capite, and not to those
who held of inferior pr mesne lords. It was a right which
the king had, when any of his tenants in capite died seized
of a knight’s fee, to receive of the heir, provided he were of
full age, one whole year’s profits of the lands if they were
in immediate possession, and half a year’s profits if the lands
were in reversion expectant upon an estate for life. This
seems to be little more than an additional relief; but ground¬
ed upon this feodal reason, that by the ancient law of feuds,
immediately upon the death of a vassal the superior was
entitled to enter and take seisin or possession of the land,
by way of protection against intruders, till the heir appear¬
ed to claim it, and receive investiture; and for the time the
lord so held it, he was entitled to take the profits; and un¬
less the heir claimed within a year and day, it was by the
strict law a forfeiture. This practice, however, seems not
P R I 533
to have long obtained in England, if it ever did, with regard Priming
to tenures under inferior lords ; but, as to the king’s tenures II
in capite, thisprima seisina wa; expressly declared, under Phmogeni-
Henry III. and Edward II., to belong to the king by pre- ^ure-
rogative, in contradistinction to other lords; and the king''‘*~v~*_
was entitled to enter and receive the whole profits of the
land till livery was sued; which suit being commonly with¬
in a year and day next after the death of the tenant, there¬
fore the king used to take at an average the first-fruits, that
is to say one year’s profits of the land. And this afterwards
gave a handle to the pontiffs, who pretended to be feudal
lords of the church, to claim, in like manner, from every
clergyman in England, the first year’s profits of his bene¬
fice, by way of primitive or first-fruits. But all the charges
arising by primer seisin were taken away by the 12 Car. 11.,
c. '24.
PRIMING, in Gunnery, the train of powder that is laid
from the opening of the vent along the gutter or channel
on the upper part of the breech of the gun, which, when
fired, conveys the flame to the vent, by which it is further
communicated to the charge, in order to discharge the piece.
This operation is only used on shipboard at the proof, and
sometimes in garrison; for, upon all other occasions, tubes
are used for the purpose.
Priming, amongst painters, signifies the laying on of the
first or original colour.
PRIMIPILUS, in Antiquity, the centurion of the first
cohort of a legion, who had the charge of the Roman eagle.
PRIMITIVE, the first-fruits gathered off' the earth, and
of which the ancients made presents to the gods.
PRIMITIVE, in Grammar, is a root or original word in
a language, in contradistinction to derivative. Thus, God
is a primitive; godly, a derivative; and god-like, a com¬
pound.
PRIMOGENITURE, or the right of the first-born, has
amongst most nations been very considerable. The first¬
born son, in the patriarchal ages, had a superiority over his
brethren, and, in the absence of his father, was the priest of
the family. Amongst the Jews, he was consecrated to the
Lord, had a double portion of the inheritance, and succeeded
in the government of the family or kingdom. It is, however,
remarkable, and unquestionably shows the connection be¬
tween this institution and the birth and office of our Sa¬
viour, that if a woman’s first child were a girl, neither she
nor the children that came after her were consecrated.
In almost every nation of Europe, the right of primogeni¬
ture prevails at present in some degree, but it did not prevail
always. The law which calls the elder-born to the crown,
preferably to the others, was not introduced into France
till a late period ; it was unknown to the first race of kings,
and even to the second. The four sons of Clovis shared the
kingdom equally amongst themselves, and Louis le Debon-
naire did the same ; it was not till the race of Hugh Capet
succeeded, that the prerogative of succession to the crown
was appropriated to the first-born.
Mr. M‘Culloch, in one of the Notes to his valuable edi¬
tion of Smith’s Wealth of Nations, makes the following ob¬
servations on this subject. “ 1 hough there can be little
doubt of the injurious consequences that must always flow
from every attempt to regulate the succession to property
by means of compulsory regulations, there are good grounds
for thinking that the custom of primogeniture, or the custom
of leaving the whole, or the greater part of the paternal es¬
tate, to the eldest son, to the exclusion of his brothers and
sisters, has been advantageous. The prejudices of most po¬
litical philosophers against primogeniture seem to rest on no
solid foundation. Dr. Smith says, that it is a custom which,
‘ in order to enrich one, beggars all the rest of the children;
but, so far from agreeing in this opinion, we cannot help
thinking, that to it may be fairly ascribed much of the in¬
dustry, freedom, and civilization of modern Euiope; and
534 P R I
Primum, that were it abolished, and the custom of equally dividing
Prince, landed property established in its stead, all the children ot
landlords, the youngest as well as the oldest, would be re¬
duced to a state of comparative poverty, at the same time
that the prosperity of the other classes would be greatly
“ This custom of gavelling, or dividing the paternal in¬
heritance, was not confined to any particular sort of pro¬
perty, but extended to leasehold as well as freehold. And
so strongly was it rooted in the public esteem, that it was
to no purpose that a landlord inserted a clause in the lease
of a farm prohibiting its subdivision. The courts of law
were hostile to such limitations; and the juries, betore
which a case of this description was occasionally tried, if
they returned a verdict in favour of the landlord, almost
uniformly awarded only nominal damages. The conse¬
quences resulting from the combined operation of this cus¬
tom and law, have been exactly such as might have been
anticipated. Instead of increasing with the increase of ca¬
pital, and the more general diftusion ol a knowledge of the
correct principles of agriculture, the farms in the possession
of the Irish tenantry have been gradually reduced in most
instances to mere patches.”
“ In Scotland a totally different system has been followed,
and with the happiest results. The succession to farms,
as well as estates, has been long regulated in that part of
the empire by the law of primogeniture. The tenant of a
Scotch farm has no power, unless a provision to that effect
be inserted in his lease, which is very rarely done, to de¬
vise his interest in it. He can neither sublet nor subdivide
his farm; and, at his death, it descends entire to his heir-
at-law. The younger children are not taught from ip&ney
to trust to the land for support; on the contrary, they are
early made aware that farming is not a profession on which
they can enter, and that it is indispensable they should ap¬
ply themselves to something else. In consequence, they
either establish themselves in towns or emigrate to other
countries; and perhaps there is no one circumstance that
has contributed so much as this to inspire Scotchmen with
the adventurous enterprising spirit for which they are cele¬
brated. The agricultural population is, in this way, kept
down to its proper level; and prudential habits are very
generally diffused. Instead of becoming less, farms in Scot¬
land are gradually becoming larger, according to the in¬
crease in the capital of those engaged in the business of
agriculture. No one prosecutes farming as a means of ac¬
quiring a miserable subsistence, but as a means of employ¬
ing capital with advantage. There is, however, great rea¬
son to fear that the enfranchising of the tenants will have
a most injurious influence over agriculture.”1
By the ancient custom of Gavel-kind, still preserved in
Kent, and in some other parts of our island, primogeniture
is of no account. “ The lands,” says Blackstone, “ descend,
not to the eldest, youngest, or any one son only, but to all
the sons together.2
PRIMUM mobile, in the Ptolemaic astronomy, the
ninth or highest sphere of the heavens, the centre ot which
is that of the world, and in comparison with which the
earth is but a point. This is supposed to contain within it
all other spheres, and to give them motion, turning them
quite round, as well as revolving itself, in twenty-four hours.
PRINCE, Pkinceps, in polity, a person invested with the
supreme command of a state, and independent of any superior.
Prince likewise denotes a person who is a sovereign in
his own territories, yet holds of some other as his superior.
Such are the princes of Germany, who, though absolute in
their respective principalities, are bound to the emperor in
certain services.
p R I
Prince
Prince also denotes the issue of princes, or those of the
royal family. In France, before the Revolution, they were pri . of
called “ princes of the blood,” and during the short «mti- Wales,g Is
nuance of the constitution of 1791, “French princes. In land.
England the king’s children are called “ sons and daughters
of England;” the eldest son is created Prince of Wales;
the cadets are created dukes or earls, as the king pleases;
and the title of all the children is “ royal highness.”
Prince of the Senate, in ancient Rome, the person
who was the first called in the roll of senators, whenever it
was renewed by the censors. He was always of consular
and censorian dignity.
Prince’s Metal, or Pinchbeck, an alloy of copper and
zinc, which has a resemblance to gold.
Prince of Wales’s Island, called also Pulo Penang,
and Betel-nut Island, is situated on the western coast of
the Malay peninsula, from which it is separated by a nar-
rowstrait, not more than twomiiesinbreauth. It formsan ex¬
cellent harbour, which is capacious, and well defended 1'rom
all winds, and it affords anchorage for the largest ships. The
principal entrance is from the north-west; but there is
also a fine channel to the southward. There is an inner
harbour, in which ships may receive every kind of repair
that can be performed without going into dock. The area
of the island is estimated at 160 square miles. It is nearly
five leagues in length and seven or eight miles in breadth.
It is of an irregular four-sided figure, which is highest on
the north side and shortest on the south; and is intersected
by a range of lofty hills, which decrease in magnitude as
they approach the south, and in which are the sources of
numerous streams, that supply the island with abundance
of water. These hills are of a moderate height. The high¬
est, namely, the Flag-staff Hill, does not rise to more than
2500 feet above the level of the sea. Here the heat is
comparatively moderate; the thermometer seldom rises
above 74°, and often falls to 66° whilst in the plains it
rano-es from 76° to 90°. The climate is moist, and the
rains are heavy. Except in the dry hot months of Januaiy
and February, scarcely a day passes without rain, which is
heaviest in November and December.
The island generally possesses a fertile soil, being tor
the most part a light black mould, mixed with gravel, clay,
and in many parts sandy. It is chiefly formed from the
decayed leaves of trees, from which originated a fine vege¬
table mould, the whole island having been for ages covered
with immense forests. This has in some degree disappear¬
ed as the woods were cleared and the surface exposed to
the weather; but the soil in the interior is still adapted for
any sort of tropical produce. Cultivation is extended over
the northern, and nearly the whole of the southern and east¬
ern sides of the island. The principal productions are pep-
per, betel-nut, betel-leaf, cocoa-nuts, coffee, sugar, parsley,
ginger, yams, sweet potatoes, and a great variety of vegeta¬
bles. The island abounds in many species of fruits, such as
the mangosteen, rambosteen, pine-apples, guavas, oranges,
citrons, pomegranates, and others. The island also produces
cloves, nutmegs, cinnamon, pimento, kyapootee, cotatova,
and numerous other plants from the Moluccas and Eastern
Isles. Pepper is one of the chief articles of cultivation. This
island also affords the elastic gum vine, or American caout¬
chouc. It grows to the thickness of an arm, creeping along
the ground to the distance of two hundred paces, and then
ascending amongst the branches of high trees. The forests
which are found in this island abound in excellent timber
for ship-building, and supply masts of any dimensions, lower
masts of any size having been procured here for a seventy-
four gun-ship. r, xr-
This island was originally granted, in 1/85, by the King
x Smith’s Wealth of Nations, with Notes by M'Culloch, p. 564. 1838, in one vol. 8vo.
* Comment, book ii. chap. 6.
P R I
P R I
535
Prince 0f Queda, to Captain Francis Light, of a country ship, who
ot Wales’s iiad married his daughter. It was then transferred to the
Island. £ast India Company, and accepted ; being peculiarly adapt-
ed as a mercantile station for vessels arriving from all the
Malay ports, the Moluccas, Borneo, the Celebes, and the Phi¬
lippine Islands. A small detachment was accordingly sent
from Calcutta, under the command of Captain Light, who
in 1786, took possession of the island, for the use of the East
India Company. But those early Settlers had great difficulty
in clearing the country, encumbered with an immense for¬
est, with swamps which required to be drained, and ravines
which it was necessary to fill up. A town called George
Town was, however, marked out, and within a year sixty Chi¬
nese families had settled in it, besides great numbers of Ma¬
lays, Buggepes, and other Eastern traders. The port was
made free to all nations, and in a very short time numerous
adventurers flocked to the settlement, commerce and popula¬
tion rapidly increased, and cultivation was extended. In
1797 the population amounted to 6,937, exclusive of Euro¬
peans and the garrison ; and in 1805, it had risen to 10,310.
They have since been progressively increasing, and exhibit
an uncommon diversity of races, consisting of British, Dutch,
Portuguese, Americans, Arabs, Parsees, Chinese, Chulias,
Malays, Buggepes, Birmans, Siamese, Javanese, &c. In
1805, the settlement having grown in wealth and import¬
ance, it was determined to erect it into a regular government,
subordinate only to the Governor-General ot India. But, on
account of the enormous expense of this establishment, some
modifications were made in these arrangements in the year
1808. This island is resorted to by invalids from the con¬
tinent in search of health ; but if we may judge from the
number of governors who have died here, the change is scarce¬
ly for the better. Captain Light died in 1794 ; and he was
succeeded by Mr. Manningham, who died soon after in Ben¬
gal. In 1796 Major Macdonald took the charge, and died
at Madras in 1799- Sir George Leith, who succeeded him,
lived and returned to Europe; but the Hon. C. Bruce, who
arrived as governor in the year 1810, only survived till next
December.
The fort, which is called Fort Cornwallis, is incapable of
defence, from its size and construction. It is built upon the
north-eastern point of the island, and large sums have been
spent without completing it. It contains barracks for the
military, an arsenal, a magazine, and several military store¬
houses. Of late years the sea has made great encroachments
on the northern face of the fort, and along the esplanade.
The town is of considerable extent, and the streets, which
cross each other at right angles, are spacious and airy. There
is a large pier for landing and shipping goods; a govern¬
ment house, a church, a jail, and several substantial bridges
have been built; whilst the fortifications have been im¬
proved and strengthened, and the public roads repaired and
widened. The markets are well supplied with fish of va¬
rious descriptions and of excellent quality; with poultry of
all sorts, pork, grain of every description, and a profusion of
vegetables and fruit. The beef and veal are not of a good
quality. Sheep are imported from the continent of India,
whilst Sumatra and the Malay peninsula furnish a supp y o
goats. Milk and butter are dear and scarce. A great trade
is carried on with Europe, India, and the islant.s m t e
Eastern seas. Ships that are trading to the east, especially
to China, touch here, where they procure such refreshments
or articles of trade as they require. Vessels from Europe,
bound for China, also touch here, and load large quantities
of tin, canes, rattans, sago, pepper, betel-nut, luche-de-mar,
edible birds’ nests, &c., for the China market. Hus small
island is the emporium of the whole trade ot the Straits o
Malacca and adjacent islands. The imports from Europe,
either directly or from the other presidencies, are genei a y
European manufactures in iron and steel, such as anc iois,
cutlery of all sorts, fire-arms, nails; also tin-ware, patent
shot, sheet-lead, sheet-copper, iron in bars, books, pamph¬
lets, boots and shoes, cables, canvas, cabinet ware, cloths,
and Cassimeres, glass ware, hats, haberdashery, hosiery, mu¬
sical and mathematical instruments, oilmen’s stones, paint¬
ers’ colours, plated wire, watches, malt liquor, and Euro¬
pean wines of all sorts. From Bengal, the imports are
opium, grain, iron, steel, marine stores, and piece goods;
from the Coromandel coast, salt, tobacco, cloths, evir rope
and yarns, handkerchiefs, chintzes, &c.; from Bombay and
the Malabar coast, cotton, salt, a few piece goods, red wood,
sandal wood, sharks’ fins, myrrh, piece goods, &c.; from Su¬
matra, pepper, benzoin, camphire, and gold dust; from
Acheen and Pedeer, gold dust, betel-nut, pepper, rice, and
Acheen cloths. Tin is imported from the east coast and
from Junkceylon ; also pepper, sugar, oil, rice, tobacco, ele¬
phants’ teeth, edible birds’ nests, &c.; spices from the Mo¬
luccas ; gold dust, sago, and black wood from Borneo; and
from China, tea, sugar, lustrings, velvet, paper, umbrellas,
china-ware, quicksilver, and generally every article required
by the Chinese settlers, though British produce has in many
cases superseded that of China. Other articles from China
are, raw silk, copper ware, China camphor, China root alum.
The exports consist of many of those articles which are sent
to Sumatra, Junkceylon, Java, Borneo, China, Bengal, Co¬
romandel, as they are required.
Prince’s Isle, situated off the north-westernmost ex¬
tremity of the Island of Java. The land is generally low
and woody, and the highest eminence on it is called the
Pike. It contains a town called Samadang, divided into two
parts by a river. Such ships as touch here may be supplied
with fish, deer, plantains, pine-apples, rice of the mountain
kind, vams, and other vegetables. Long. 10512. E. Lat.
6. 30. S.
Prince’s
Isle
Principal.
Prince William’s Islands, a cluster of islands in the
Pacific Ocean, discovered by Tasman in 1643. Long. 179.
E. Lat. 17. 19- S.
Prince William Henry’s Island, in the Pacific Ocean,
discovered in the year 1790 by Lieutenant Ball. It is about
seventy miles in circumference, elevated, of a luxuriant and
picturesque appearance, and well peopled. Long. 149* 30.
E. Lat. 1. 32. S.
Princess Royal’s Harbour, on the south-western coast
of New Holland, and the western part of King George the
Third’s Sound. The passage into it is a quarter of a mile
in width. Long. 118. 9. E. Lat. 35. 3. S.
PRINCIPAL, the chief andmostnecessarypartof athing.
The principal of a college or hall is the master thereof.
In commerce, principal is the capital of a sum due or
lent, and is so called in opposition to interest. It also de¬
notes the first fund put by partners into a common stock,
by which it is distinguished from the calls or accessions af¬
terwards required.
Principal, in Music, see Organ. The term principal
is also used in music to designate the more distinguished
part written for an instrument where there are several parts
written in harmony, and where one of these pai ts is intend¬
ed to be the chief and most conspicuous ; as in a violin
concerto, Violino Principals, and So of other instruments.
Principal Point, in Perspective, is a point in the per¬
spective plane, upon which falls a line drawn from the eye
perpendicular to the plane. This point, which is in the in¬
tersection of the horizontal and vertical plane, is also called
the point of sight, and point of the eye.
Principal Ray, in Perspective, is that which passes per¬
pendicularly from the spectator’s eye to the perspective
plane, or picture. The point where this ray falls upon the
plane, is thence denominated by some the principal l^int,
but other writers call it the centre of the picture, and the
point of concurrence.
J
536
Principle
B
Pringle.
P R I
PRINCIPLE, in science, is a truth, admitted without
proof, from which other truths are inferred by a chain of rea¬
soning. Principles are of two kinds, primary and general;
and to the latter the name of axioms is sometimes given, on
account of their importance and dignity. An axiom, or ge¬
neral principle, when the terms in which it is expressed are
understood, must be a self-evident truth ; but from its very
nature it cannot be a first truth. Our first truths are aW par¬
ticular. A child knows that two particular lines, each an
inch long, are equal to one another, before he has formed
any general notions of length and equality. “ Things equal
to one and the same thing are equal to one another,” is the
first of Euclid’s axioms; and an axiom it undoubtedly is,
but to no man has it been a first truth. It is, if we may use
the expression, a genus or class of truths, comprehending un¬
der it numberless individuals. Were a full-grown man in¬
troduced into the world without a single idea in his mind,
as we may suppose Adam to have been, he would instantly
perceive, upon laying together three pieces of wood, each a
foot long, that they were all equal in length ; and if he were
to cut another to the same length with any one of them, he
would find, upon trial, that it was of the same length with
them all. After a few simple experiments of this kind, he
would, by a law of human thought, infer, that all things equal
in length, or in any other dimension, to any one thing, are in
that dimension equal to one another.
It was not, therefore, with such weakness as some have
imagined, that Hobbes declared those propositions common¬
ly called axioms, not to be primary but secondary princi¬
ples. A primary principle deserves not the name of an ax¬
iom, as it is only a particular truth including in it no other
truth. There is not one of Euclid’s axioms which has not
been the result of induction, though we remember not the
time at which the induction was made. That the whole is
greater than any of its parts is a general truth which no man
can controvert; but every one discovered that truth by ob¬
serving, that his body was larger than his head, his foot, or
his hand, that a mountain is larger than a mole-hill in the
middle of it, and that a piece of timber, measuring what is
called a yard, is longer than any one of the divisions mark¬
ed upon it, which are termed inches. Particular objects are
observed by the senses, and treasured up in the memory ;
and the intellect, by its constitution, compares them toge¬
ther, marks in what they agree and disagree, and thence
draws its axioms or general principles. He, therefore, who
should admit the truth of an axiom, and deny the evidence
of sense and perception, would act as absurdly as he who
accepts payment in a bank-bill, and refuses it in the indivi¬
dual pieces of gold or silver which that bill represents. Ge¬
neral axioms are of infinite use in the pursuits of science ;
but it is not because they create new truths; they only
shorten the process in the discovery of such as might be
found, with labour, through the medium of particular pro¬
positions.
PRINGLE, Sir John, an eminent physician and philo¬
sopher, was a younger son of Sir John Pringle of Stitchel,
in the shire of Roxburgh, baronet. He took the degree of
doctor of physic at Leyden, in 1730, and published there
his Dissertatio Inauguralis. After having been some years
professor of moral philosophy at Edinburgh, he was, in
June 1745, appointed physician to the Duke of Cumber¬
land, and physician-general to the hospital of the forces
in Flanders, where the Earl of Stair appears to have been
his patron. In February 1746, Dr. Pringle, Dr. Armstrong,
and Dr. Barker, were nominated physicians to the hospi¬
tal of lame, maimed, and sick soldiers, behind Buckingham
House; and in April 1749, he was appointed physician in
ordinary to the king. The following year he published Obser¬
vations on theNature and Cure of Hospital and Gaol Fevers,
P R I
in a Letter to Hr. Mead, 8vo.; and in 1752 he favoured Prinkipo.
the public with the result of his long experience, in an ad-
mirable treatise, under the title of Observations on the Dis¬
orders of the Army in Camp and Garrison, 8vo. On the
14th of April 1752, he married Charlotte, second daughter
of Dr. Oliver, an eminent physician at Bath. In 1756 he was
appointed, jointly with Doctor afterwards Sir Clifton Win-
tringham, physician to the hospital for the service of the
forces of Great Britain. On the accession of George III.,
Dr. Pringle was appointed physician to the queen’s house¬
hold in 1761, and physician in ordinary to the queen in 1763,
in which year he was admitted of the college of physicians in
London ; and on the 5th of June 1766, he was advanced to
the dignity of baronet of Great Britain. In 1772 he was
elected president of the Royal Society, where his speeches
for five successive years, on delivering the prize-medal of
Sir Godfrey Copley, gave the greatest satisfaction. Sir John
Pringle was, in 1777, appointed physician-extraordinary to
the king. He was also a fellow of the College of Physici¬
ans at Edinburgh, and of the Royal Medical Society at Pa¬
ris, member of the Royal Academies of Paris, Stockholm,
Gottingen, and of the Philosophical Societies at Edinburgh
and Haerlem ; and he continued president of the Royal So¬
ciety till November 1778, after which period he gradually
withdrew from the world, and in 1781 quitted his elegant
house in Pall Mall, where he had long distinguished himself
as the warm friend and patron of literary men of every na¬
tion and profession. Having made an excursion to his native
country, he returned to London in the latter end of the
year, and died on the 18th of January 1782, greatly beloved
and respected. Having no children, he was succeeded in his
estate, and also, agreeably to the limitation of the patent, in
title, by his nephew, Sir James Pringle. Amongst his
communications to the Royal Society, the following are the
principal, viz. 1, Some Experiments on Substances resisting
Putrefaction, Phil. Trans., No. 495, p. 580, and No. 496,
p. 525, 550, reprinted with additions in Martin’s Abridg¬
ment, vol. xi. p. 1365; 2, Account of some Persons seiz¬
ed with the Gaol Fever by working in Newgate, and of the
manner by which the Infection was communicated to one
entire Family, vol. xlviii., p. 42 ; 3, A remarkable Case of
Fragility, Flexibility, and Dissolution of the Bones, ib. p.
297 ; 4, Account of the Earthquake felt at Brussels, vol.
xlix, p. 546; 5, Account of the sinking of a river near
Pontypool in Monmouthshire, ibid., p. 547; 6, Account
of an Earthquake, felt February 18, 1756, along the coast of
England, between Margate and Dover, ibid., p. 579; 7,
Account of the Earthquake felt at Glasgow and Dunbarton,
also of a shower of dust falling on a Ship between Shetland
and Iceland, ibid., p. 509; 8, Several Accounts of the
Fiery Meteor which appeared on Sunday, November 26,
1758, between eight and nine at night, vol. 1., p. 218 ; 9,
Account of the Virtues of Soap in dissolving the Stone, in
the Case of the Reverend Mr. Matthew Simson, ibid., p. 221;
10, Account of the eftects of Electricity in Paralytic Cases,
ibid., 481 ; 11, Some Account of the Success of the Vi-
trum Ceratum Antimonii, printed in the Edinburgh Me¬
dical Essays, vol. v.
PRINKIPO, the largest and most easterly of the Prince’s
islands. They are situated in the bay of Marmora, about a
league distant from the coast of Asia Minor. It is about a
mile in length and half a mile in breadth, and contains what
was formerly a considerable and well-built town, but which
is now in a ruinous condition. The island was formerly in¬
habited by the French merchants, who have however aban¬
doned it, owing to the brackishness of the water. It is now
inhabited by Greeks, who support themselves by selling wine
and provisions to the pleasure parties which arrive from Con¬
stantinople. Long. 28. 56. E. Lat. 40. 51. N.
537
FEINTING.
Printing. Printing is the art of taking one or more impressions
' from the same surface, whereby characters and signs, cast,
engraven, drawn, or otherwise represented thereon, are caused
to present their reverse images upon paper, vellum, parch¬
ment, linen, and other substances, in pigments of various
hues, or by means of chemical combinations, of which the
components are contained on or within the surface from
which the impression is taken, or in the fabric of the thing
impressed, or in both.
The most important branch of printing is what is called
letter-press printing, or the method of taking impressions
from letters and other characters cast in relief upon separate
pieces of metal, and therefore capable of indefinite combi¬
nation. The impressions are taken either by superficial or
surface pressure, as in the common printing press, or by
lineal or cylindrical pressure, as in the printing machine
and roller-press. The pigments or inks, of whatever colour,
are always upon the surface of the types ; and the substances
which may be impressed are various. Wood-cuts and other
engravings in relief are also printed in this manner.
Copperplate printing is the reverse of the above, the
characters being engraven in intaglio, and the pigments or
inks contained within the lines of the engravings, and not
upon the surface of the plate. The impressions are always
taken by lineal or cylindrical pressure ; the substances to be
impressed, however, are more limited. All engravings in
intaglio, on whatever material, are printed by this method.
Lithographic printing is from the surface of certain porous
stones, upon which characters are drawn with peculiar pen¬
cils. The surface of the stone being wetted, the chemical
colouring compound adheres to the drawing, and refuses
the stone. The impression is taken by a scraper, that rubs
violently upon the back of the substances impressed, which
are fewer still in number. Drawings upon zinc and other
materials are printed by this process. (See Lithogra¬
phy.)
Cotton and calico printing is from surfaces engraven
either in relief or in intaglio. The chemical compounds are
either on or within the characters, as pigments or chemical
colours, or in the fabric to be printed, but mostly in both ;
the combination of chemical substances producing colour
when the fabric and the engraving are brought into con¬
tact. The impression is either superficial or lineal, but
mostly lineal. (See Dyeing.)
LETTER-PRESS PRINTING.
jlistory. The origin and history of an art which has exercised such
an influence on civilization, and contributed in so essential
a manner to the cultivation of the human intellect, have
naturally become a matter of inquiry amongst the learned,
and have almost as naturally been the source of earnest
controversy ; for there are few effects of human invention
or industry that have been originated and brought to perfec¬
tion at a particular epoch, without any previous train of
thought or circumstance, so that the precise day or year
could be noted in which the perfect Minerva started forth
in full maturity. On the contrary, it is difficult to say at
what period of time the germ of the art of printing did not
exist. So obvious is the reproduction of similar appearances
from an impression of the same surface, that the most early
of mankind must have noted it; and even the impression
of a foot or a hand must have suggested a simple and intel¬
ligible mode of conveying an idea, before the invention of
any kind of writing. Accordingly, these and similar signs
VOL. XVIII.
aie found to compose the chief characters of the earliest History,
writing, which is the symbolic. ^ y—
Observing this general law of the gradual perfectibility
of human arts, wre must look back to the most remote ages
for the first steps of that of printing. We shall accordingly
find certain evidence, that, more than two thousand years
before our era, a method of multiplying impressions, rude
and imperfect in the extreme, was certainly practised; but
although the general fact is universally allowed, it is ex¬
tremely difficult to give satisfactory examples. Turning,
however, to Egypt, we shall find such traces as sufficiently
prove the truth of the general statement.
The ingenuity of mankind had for a long period confined
itself principally to the more easy and beautiful art of co¬
louring surfaces with pigments, in the imitation of surround-
ing objects; and had their desires been limited to the pro¬
duction of a single essay, they would have made no devia¬
tion from an art so beautiful, and so susceptible of taste
and variety. But when the wants and conveniences of an
advanced state of society required effects of a more lasting
character, less costly, and of more general application, a
method of producing the same, or nearly the same effect,
with considerable rapidity, very soon presented itself; and
the sacred inscriptions at first painted or engraved upon the
figures of the deities, and possibly upon articles of domestic
use, were impressed upon plastic models with equal ease and
certainty.
Babylon presents us with some remarkable specimens of Babylonian
the progress of this art, which may be received as the ear- bricks,
best instances of imprinting, the epoch of which can be in
any degree approximated. These are found on the bricks
many of which have been discovered on the site of the de¬
parted city. That the Assyrians should have thought it
worth while to print inscriptions upon materials destined to
be built into their dwellings (and every kiln-burned brick
amongst these vast ruins is stamped with an inscription), ar¬
gues that the process was not only not an uncommon one,
but also that there probably existed at the same time a
more advanced and more elegant usage of imprinting in
their domestic and ornamental arts. Specimens of these
bricks may be seen in the library of Trinity College, Cam¬
bridge, in the British Museum, in the library of the East India
Company, and in several private collections. Those at Cam¬
bridge are parallelepipeds of thirteen inches in length by
three in thickness, and are made of clay mixed wfith reeds,
and burned in the kiln. On one of the large surfaces is an
indentation, produced by .-the forcible impression of a stamp,
from the face of which a large portion has been cut away,
leaving a series of figures in relief. The depression pro¬
duced by this stamp is six inches and one eighth by three
and five "eighths in extent, and about three eighths of an inch
in depth. It is exceedingly rude in execution, bearing a
strong resemblance to the impressions of the names of the
makers to be found upon the backs of inferior earthen-ware ;
and is produced by exactly the same means, the process
of baking entirely destroying whatever sharpness the soft
mass may have had. The inscription is clearly stamped in
after the clay has been turned out of the mould, and is
not produced by any part of it; for in all known speci¬
mens it is placed in different positions, and never stands
parallel to the edges of the brick, being in fact put on more
or less awry, according to the care and manual skill of the
workman. The surface of the brick around the depression
is forced up considerably, which is exactly the effect of
pressing the hand or any substance into a plastic material;
and the edges both of the parent depression and of the
3 Y
538
PRINTING.
History, figures present the effect of the stamp having been diawn
''up whilst the clay was still damp and adherent to it. I he
inscription consists of six vertical columns, containing t ^rty-
eight figures; the columns are divided by bold straight lines.
The characters are those usually called the Persepohtan or
arrow-headed, but better described by the French as nail-
headed. They are found very widely spread over Asia, but
most plentifully at Persepolis. No one has hitherto made
any considerable progress in deciphering them, nor have
the learned been able to determine whether they are alpha¬
betic, syllabic, hieroglyphic, or signs representing one or
more words, as in the Chinese. r> u i
Curious as are these specimens of Assyrian art, Babylon
presents us with others still more choice. These are a kind
of cylinder, shaped like a barrel, but rather longer m pro¬
portion to the width. The one described is seven inches
in height, and three inches in diameter at the ends; it is
made of fine clay, and baked. The inscriptions are in the
same character as those found upon the bricks, ar ranged in
vertical lines, commencing, or ending, according to the way
of reading, near the middle of the cylinder, wheie it is o
the greatest diameter, and running down to the foot. There
are consequently two inscriptions, one on either half; and
there is an interval running round the cylinder between the
two, without any impression. Counting upon a drawing,
there are thirty-two vertical lines in either inscription, and
consequently they are less than a quarter of an inch in width.
There are thirty figures in one of the columns; and each
figure would therefore occupy a space of less than one eighth
of an inch. The figures are perfectly sharp and distinct, and
the whole cylinder is a beautiful specimen of art. The one
to which we allude is in the library of Trinity College,
Cambridge ; but many very excellent specimens have lately
been deposited in the British Museum, an actual inspection
of which, and of other cognate relics, will enable the curious
to form a much better idea of their excellence than any de¬
scription, however diffuse. They are of all sizes, from a foot
in height to the size of a signet, to which purpose probably
they were sometimes applied, since some specimens are per¬
forated as if intended for the insertion of a wire or cord;
indeed there are specimens of somewhat similar cylinders
with the wire inserted for thumb-rings. Perhaps those a
little larger were hung round the neck as charms and amu-
lets*
That a similar art was known to the inhabitants of the
old world generally, may safely be assumed. It is therefore
not a little remarkable that people so original and ingeni¬
ous as the Greeks, and so imitative as the Homans, should
have left almost no vestige of their having practised any
such mean as this to multiply their beautiful creations of
fancy, or to embellish the tasteful appliances of domestic
life ; especially when we consider the easy adaptation of the
art to pottery, and the beauty, taste, and ingenuity which
they exhibited in that manufacture. For, excepting a few
paltry designs en creux on some of the coarser specimens, Hi
and a few marks upon the Homan military vessels, evi¬
dently stamped, there is no appearance of either people
having had any idea of this kind ; the sister art of taking
impressions in seals not being fairly to be classed under this
head. There are, however, in the British Museum some
instruments presenting a singular instance of how very
nearly one may approach to an important discovery, and
yet pass on unheeding. These stamps are of brass, and
amongst, others the signet of C. Caicilius Hermia. The
face of this is two inches by four fifths of an inch, and the
inscription,
CICAEC1LI
HERMIAE. SN.
with a border, is in relief, the surrounding parts being cut
away to a considerable depth. It should be especially no¬
ticed, that the surface of the field is very rough ; and there
is a ring at the back by which it could be handled or sus¬
pended.1 * * * These circumstances render the use of it very
clear. It would be very much easier to incise the required
inscription, and to let the field stand (indeed the art of en¬
graving cn craux was well known and used), than to cut away
the field and leave the letters in relief; and it would pro¬
duce a much more beautiful effect if it were used to impress
any soft substance; wdiereas, cut as it is, the impression sunk
into the wax or clay would not only be ugly, but illegible,
and the rough surface of the field would present the most
ungainly appearance upon the prominent parts of the wax,
being the parts most presented to the eye. Its use there¬
fore is evident. The relieved inscription, and no other part,
being covered with ink or pigment, wtls impressed upon an
even*surface (papyrus, linen, parchment), and consequently
left a perfect but reversed imprint of itself. This is the pre¬
cise effect of printing with types. Now, from the circum¬
stance of Cmcilius being a person of no known eminence,
it is a fair conclusion that such an instrument was not un¬
common amongst those who either were not able to write,
or were engaged in public employments requiring a great
number of signatures, or who were accustomed to commit
the signing of documents to subordinates on their behalf.
From "the Greek agnomen, Csecilius probably lived under
the emperors, when literature had become one of the pur¬
suits of the great, and w hen the difficulties and expense of
procuring books by the slow process of copying were bit¬
terly felt. It is singular, therefore, that they should have
overlooked so obvious an improvement upon their own sig¬
nets as the engraving whole sentences and compositions
upon blocks, and thence transferring them to paper, even if
they had gone no farther than this/
1 The Antiquarian Society of Newcastle possesses a similar stamp with a Greek inscription. _ m , PT1 . Th
s The Chinese printing is not unlike this, and must by no means be supposed to have much similarity to the modern a . ^ y
assert that it was used by them several centuries before it was known in Europe; m fact, i y > / , . r.,, jjoman.
They certainly may have used their method centuries before our art, for it differs in nothing bu ex e ^ two
The following is a description of their method at the present day, and it is probably the same in e\t’1 j5 hundred thou-
thousand years ago in an empire where nothing is changed. As their written language consists o i J? •(, ! . j
sand characters, it would be utterly impracticable to use moveable types, and the use ol block-pi in ing _ „ pace
rapid. The sentences, therefore, desired to be multiplied, being drawn upon their thin paper, ns is ma ‘ t wont[er.
downward to a block of soft wood, so that the characters appear through reversed, ihe plain wood is t c .
ful rapidity, and the drawing left in relief. Both sides of the block are similarly operated upon. le engiav 1 i
perly arranged upon a Iran e, and the artist, with a large brush, covers the whole surface, the field as we as ’ , .. t tj'
thin ink; he then lays very lightly over it a sheet of paper, and passes a large soft brush over it, so s ig i y f _
paper is pressed upon the raised figures, and upon no other part. The rapidity with which this is pei orme 1S e* 0 - ’
Du Halde asserts that one man can print ten thousand sheets in one day, a number which would appear mere i e’ . .
good testimony exist at the present time that one man can print seven hundred sheets per hour. T e me m o P ^ • ,
sheets together when printed, is as different from ours as their printing and mode of reading. I he shee s are p n r-rpcpni.
only; but instead of the blanks being pasted together to form one leaf, the sheet is so folded that no single e ge o p p p
ed to the reader, but only the double-folded edge; the loose edges being all at the back of the book.
History.
P R I N
From this time a vast period elapses before any circumstance
can safely be instanced as showing that the practice of trans¬
ferring characters was known to any, even comparatively
civilized people. From the rough and imperfect attempts
above indicated, the first and most obvious advance was en¬
graving pictures upon wooden blocks. The first practice of
this is involved in obscurity, but most writers on the fine
arts agree that the art was invented towards the end of the
thirteenth century, by a brother and sister of the illustrious
family of Cunio, lords of Imola, in Italy. By some the whole
narrative is considered as apocryphal, but it is nevertheless
generally admitted. The engravings were discovered by a
Frenchman of the name of Papillon, in the possession of a
Swiss gentleman, M. de Groeder, who deciphered for him
the manuscript annotations found upon the leaves of the
book in which they were bound. These purported that the
book had been given to Jan. Jacq. Turine, a native of
Berne, by the Count of Cunio, with whose family he, Turine,
appears to have been intimately acquainted. Then follows
a romantic history of the twins, and the cause of their in¬
vention. The book is entitled “ The Heroic Actions, repre¬
sented in figures, of the great and magnanimous Macedo¬
nian king, the bold and valiant Alexander ; dedicated, pre¬
sented, and humbly offered to the most Holy Father Pope
Honorius IV., the glory and support of the church, and to
our illustrious and generous father and mother, by us Ales¬
sandro Alberico Cunio, cavaliere, and Isabella Cunio, twin
brother and sister ; first reduced, imagined, and attempted
to be executed in relief, with a small knife, on blocks of
wood, made even and polished by this learned and dear sis¬
ter ; continued and finished by us together, at Ravenna,
from the eight pictures of our invention painted six times
larger than here represented; engraved, explained by verses,
and thus marked upon the paper, to perpetuate the number
of them, and to enable us to present them to our relations
and friends, in testimony of gratitude, friendship, and affec¬
tion. All this was done and finished by us when only six¬
teen years of age.” This title is here given at full length, be¬
cause, if genuine, it presents us at once with the origin, exe¬
cution, and design of these first attempts at block-printing.
The book consists of nine engravings including the title ;
the figures are tolerably w'ell designed, and the draperies
graceful, with here and there attempts at cross-hatching;
under the principal personages are their names ; above, are
inscriptions indicating the subject, and below, four lines of
poetical Latin explanatory of it; and in some part of each
print is an inscription indicating the share the twins re¬
spectively had in the execution. The colour of the pig¬
ment is gray.
The first subject is Alexander on Bucephalus. Upon a
stone, Isabel. Cunio pinx. et scalp.
The second subject, the Passage of the Granicus. Alex.
Alb. Cunio Equ. pinx. Isabel. Cunio scalp.
The third subject, Alexander cutting the Gordian Knot.
Alex. Albe. Cunio Equ. pinx. et scalp.
The fourth subject, Alexander in the tent of Darius.
Isabel. Cunio pinx. et scalp.
The fifth, Alexander giving Campaspe to Apelles. Alex.
Alb. Cunio Eques pinx. et scalp.
The sixth, the Battle of Arbela. Alex. Alb. Equ. et Isa-^
bel. Cunio pictor. et scalp.
The seventh, Porus brought to Alexander. Isabel. Cu¬
nio pinx. et sculp.
The eighth, the triumph of Alexander upon his entry into
Babylon. Alex. Alb. Equ. et Isabel. Cunio pictor et scalp.1
From the dedication of this book to Pope Honorius I\.,
it is deduced that these engravings must have been exe-
TING.
cuted between 1284 and 1285, inasmuch as this pope only
enjoyed the pontificate two years; and it is suggested that
a copy of it might be found in the library of the Vatican.
The narrative appeal's to be confirmed by many incidental
circumstances, which bear every evidence of not being the
invention either of Papillon or his informer. The name of
Alberico seems to have been a favourite with the family of
Cunio, and a count of that name actually figures in history
in the very year of the presumed invention ; a relative of
the twins, of course, not the male artist himself.
The interval between the time of the twin Cunio and
the next mention of any similar usage is very perplexing;
but upon examination it will appear that that long period
was not altogether a blank in the art. The next earliest
evidence is a document of the government of Venice, dis¬
covered amongst the archives of the Company of Printers in
that city. It bears the date of 1441, and as it throw's some
degree of light upon the controversy relative to the inven¬
tion of printing, it is here given from Ottley’s History of
Engraving.
“ m cccc xli. October the 11th. Whereas the art and mys¬
tery of making cards and printed figures, which is used at
Venice, has fallen into total decay ; and this in conse¬
quence of the great quantity of playing cards, and coloured
figures printed, which are made out of Venice; to which
evil it is necessary to apply some remedy; in order that
the said artists, who are a great many in family, may find
encouragement rather than foreigners. Let it be ordered
and established, according to that which the said masters
have supplicated, that from this time in future, no work of
the said art that is printed or painted on cloth or on paper,
that is to say, altar-pieces (or images), and playing-cards,
and whatever other work of the said art is done with a
brush or printed, shall be allowed to be brought or import¬
ed into this city, under pain of forfeiting the tvorks so im¬
ported, and xxx livres and xii soldi, of which fine one third
shall go to the state, one third to the Signori Giustizieri
Vecchi, to whom the affair is committed, and one third to
the accuser. With this condition, however, that the artists
who make the said works in this city may not expose the
said works to sale in any other place but their own shops,
under the pain aforesaid, except on the day of Wednesday
at St Paolo, and on Saturday at St Marco, under the pain
aforesaid.”
From this it seems manifest that the art of printing from
wood-blocks w as not lost, but, on the contrary, had been so
long practised as to become an extensive and profitable busi¬
ness in Venice, and to spread over the Continent to such a
degree as in turn to destroy the trade of the Venetian art¬
ists. The establishment of an important manufacture, and
its decay, necessarily infer a long period. From the con¬
stant conjunction of the two arts of painting and print¬
ing in this document, w'e may infer (what the existence of
prints and cards of later date prove) the method in which
these figures and cards were manufactured, namely, that
the outline was first printed, and that the colours and shad¬
ing were filled in by the printer and illuminator. The his¬
tory of playing-cards now7 becomes of some importance to
the narrative. When cards first came into use is uncer¬
tain ; but mention is made of them in the year 1254, when
they w ere interdicted by St Louis on his return from the
Crusade: they were also forbidden by the council of Co¬
logne in 1281. In 1299 they are expressly mentioned un¬
der the name carte ; and in “ Das Gulden Spiegel,” print¬
ed by Gunther Zainer in the year 1472, it is said that cards
first came into Germany in 1300. An old French poet,
who wrote “ En fan mil iij cent xxviij,” has the line,
539
History.
it.- u v. m flip choice of their subject by the identity of the name of the great
It is not unlikely that the twins may have been directed in Uie til01,ce the historv of literature,
conqueror with that of the brother ; at least such coincidences are not without parallel in the history ot lituutuie.
540
PRINTING.
History. “ Jouent aux dex, aux cartes, aux tab\es.” There is no
 v ' evidence earlier than the Venetian decree to connect the
art of printing from wood-blocks with the art of making
cards; but as it is evident from that document that such
connection did exist, it is a fair presumption that it origi¬
nated not very long after the introduction of the game ; and
as the sum paid by Charles VI. for “ trois jeux de cartes”
was so small as fifty-six Parisian sols, it has been conjec¬
tured that they must have been illuminated prints. 1 he
Venetian decree against the importation of painted and print¬
ed figures from abroad now brings us to the country from
which the chief export was made. It appears, therefore, that
in the Low Countries the manufacture was carried on to a
oreat extent i and we shall also find that in Holland and Ger¬
many, and probably over most of Europe, religion had called
this art to her aid ; that whilst the noble and wealthy recre¬
ated the mind and delighted the eye with the exquisite pro¬
ductions of the scribe and illuminator, the more humble
were equally gratified with rude and simple illustrations of
interesting portions of Scripture, or pictures of favourite
saints. It is probable that the poorer classes hung up these
drawings in their dwellings, where they excited as true and
heartfelt devotion as the masterpieces of Raffaelle or Cor¬
reggio in the oratories of the great. It cannot be asceitain-
ed how early this practice commenced, nor whether it pre¬
ceded and suggested the printing of saints and sacred sub¬
jects, or was itself a consequence. Certain it is, that at the
end of the fourteenth and the commencement of the fif¬
teenth century the practice wras very common. Ihe im¬
pressions wrere taken by means of a burnisher, the gloss
caused by the friction being distinctly visible on the backs
both of cards and prints preserved to this time. As facility
in practice increased, a distich or quotation illustrative of
the print became a natural improvement; and to this was
frequently added a coat of arms, the name of the saint, or
the title of the subject, all in the field, or over the head of
the figure; and, lastly, sometimes a date. The earliest
print of which the date can be accurately ascertained, is a
wood-cut of St Christopher carrying the infant Jesus across^
the sea. It is of folio size, and coloured in the manner of
our playing-cards. At the bottom is the inscription,
f ntstofon factem Die quacuttpe turns fipffieftmo cccc°
3[lfa nemje Die mom mala non momris. rr° terno.
It was found in the monastery ot Buxheim, neai Meinin-
gen, and is now in the possession of Earl Spencer.
The next advance was obvious. Instead ot a single block,
a series of blocks were employed, with additional literary
Sveculwr.
Hu •mam
Sahatiom
Block-
books. tt OGlltO VT1. "V..~  r , 11 1 f A
Biblia Pan- illustrations ; and thus were the first printed books formed.
par am. The most important of these is the Histories I etcris et Novi
Testcunenti seu Biblia Pauper urn, truly the Poor Man s Bible.
It consists of forty leaves printed upon one side ot the paper
only, by friction, from as many blocks ; the colour is brown ;
the pages are placed opposite to each other, and the blank
backs being pasted together, form one strong leaf. The cuts
are about ten inches in height and seven and a half in width.
Each print contains three sacred subjects in compartments,
and four half- length figures of prophets in smaller divisions,
tw'o above and two beneath the principal subjects. Latin in¬
scriptions are on either side of the upper figures; rhythmical
verses on either side of the lower, and additional inscriptions
are on labels at the bottom of the whole. T he central sub¬
jects are from the New Testament, the others from the Old,
and in some manner allusive to the former. There are many
copies of this w'ork, evidently from different blocks, and of
different dates. Indeed it appears to have been a most po¬
pular book, and was printed repeatedly long after the intro¬
duction of legitimate printing; there are several editions in
which the inscriptions are actually printed with moveable
types. The exact date of these curious works is not ascer¬
tained, but Dr Horne possessed a copy contained in one
volume with the Ars Moriendi and the Apocalypse, all works
of the same style, the binding of which bore the date of History
142( ). The original composition and design of this work'"■“'‘V'-
is attributed, and not without some show of reason, to Ans-
o-arius, who was bishop of Hamburg and Bremen in the
ninth century. (See Plate CCCCXIIL)
A similar book is the Canticles, a small folio volume of
thirty-two subjects, two being printed on each leaf, and on
only one side of the paper, and the leaves also pasted back
to back. It differs from the Bib ha Pauperum in that the
inscriptions are engraven on scrolls fantastically dispersed
amongst the figures. This is generally allowed to be of some¬
what later date than the preceding, and to hold an interme¬
diate space between it and the Speculum Humanes Salva-
tionis, to which a larger space must be devoted, on account
of its importance in the controversy relative to the inven¬
tion of printing.
This is not, strictly speaking, a block-book ; for whilst the
form of the design and the portion of Scripture represented
are engraven on wood, the inscription is in some cases en¬
graven on wood also, but in others printed in moveable type.
The Latin edition, perhaps the first, consists of sixty-three
leaves, divided into five unequal gatherings. The subjects
are chiefly from the Old and New Testament; but some¬
times such stories have been selected from ancient history as
might seem in some way appropriate to the events record¬
ed in sacred writ. Each subject has a short Latin inscrip¬
tion underneath it, and the text occupies the remainder of
the page. Its size is folio ; the impressions are taken with
a burnisher, on one side of the paper; the colour of the ink
is brown, and the backs are pasted together, as in the books
previously described. Ihe work is certainly ot neaily the
same date, though a little later, than the Biblia. Pauperum ;
and it may even have been in part executed by the same ai t-
ist, for in the earlier portions there is so much general re¬
semblance, both in design and execution, as to make it pro¬
bable that the same graver was employed in both. The lat-
ter part, however^ is the work of another artist ; the lines
are not so bold, and there is an attempt at fineness ot execu¬
tion, of shading, and of distance, which the earlier master
did not attempt. The design, though in better drawing, is
not so spirited ; the drapery is more correct, though not so
Graceful; and in fact the engraver was a better workman, but
not so great an artist. It must be understood, that thei e ai e
numerous editions of this work, many differing in essentia*
particulars, but some so nearly similar as to require a mi¬
croscopic eye to detect the variations ; of four of these, two
are in Latin, two in Dutch, and between these four lies the
contest for antiquity. Mr Ottley (whose beautiful work on
Engraving contains a well-drawn-up account of his inquiry,
illustrated by most convincing examples) has, from a mi¬
nute and laborious examination, decided that the two Latin
and two Dutch are printed from the self-same blocks, and
by comparing them, and finding evidences of fractures m
the one which do not exist in the other, he has very satis¬
factorily awarded the palm of antiquity. First, although the
Latin inscriptions in the earlier part of thepst Latin edi¬
tion (so called by commentators) are engraven on blocks
of wood, these blocks are not of the same piece as the
figures, the work having been divided between two artists,
the one more skilled in engraving figures, and the other in
engraving letters. Secondly, parts of the engraving broken
in the first Dutch are perfect in the first Latin ; parts im¬
perfect in the first Latin are unbroken in the second Dutch,
whilst the second Latin is the most perfect of all; from
which the conclusion is drawn that the second Latin is the
most ancient, then the second Dutch, next the first Latin,
and lastly the first Dutch. The printing of this work is
claimed for Laurence Koster.
We have now come fairly to the practice ot printing m
the real sense of the word ; and we have also arrived at the
long-pending, long-controverted question, of who invented
PRINTING.
Hadrian
Junius’s
account.
History, it, and where ? The honour is disputed by as many cities as
—y   contended for the birth of Homer. Only three of these can
show the slightest argument for their pretensions ; Harlem,
Strasbourg, and Mentz. Harlem claims it for her citizen
Laurence Koster, or Laurent Janszoon Koster (or Gustos).
The claim rests principally upon the narrative in the Ba¬
tavia of Hadrianus Junius, a native of West Friesland, who
dwelt at Harlem. The work was written in 1575, but not
published until 1588. The following is a close translation
of the narrative :—
“ There lived, a hundred and twenty-eight years ago,
at Harlem, in houses sufficiently splendid (as a workshop,
which remains to this day entire, can serve as proof), over¬
looking the forum from the neighbourhood of the royal
palace, Laurentius Joannes, by surname JEdituus, or Gus¬
tos1 (which at that time lucrative and honourable office an
illustrious family of that name, or a family illustrious by
that name, held by hereditary right), the person who now
seeks back by just avouchments and oaths the relapsing
(recidivam gloriam) glory of the invention of printing,
nefariously possessed and seized upon by others (the
man), with the greatest right to be presented with greater
laurel of all honours {summo jure omnium triumphorum
laurea majore donandus). He by chance, walking in a
suburban grove (as was the fashion of citizens in easy
means to do after dinner in those days), began first to
fashion beech-bark into letters, which being impressed
upon paper, reversed in the manner of a seal, produced
one verse, then another, as his fancy pleased, to be for
copies to the children of his son-in-law; which when he
had happily accomplished, he began (for he was of great
and acute genius) to agitate higher things in his mind,
and first of all devised with his son-in-law, Thomas Peter,
who left four children, all of whom attained the consular
dignity (a thing which 1 mention that all may understand
the art arose in an honourable and talented, not a servile
family), a more glutinous and tenacious species of writing
ink, which he had commonly used to draw letters ; thence
(experiretur) he expressed entire figured pictures with cha¬
racters added; in which sort I have myself seen Adversaria
printed by him, the traces of the works (pperarum) being only
on opposite pages, not printed on both sides (ActMti opistogra-
phis). That book was in the vernacular tongue by an anony¬
mous author, bearing for title Speculum Nostrce Salutis :
in which it is to be observed among the first beginnings of
the art (for never any is found and perfected at once), that
the reverse pages being smeared with glue, were stuck toge¬
ther, lest they, being blank, should present a deformity.
Afterwards he changed beech-blocks for lead; afterwards
he made them of tin, because it was a material more solid
and less flexible, and more durable: from the relics which
remained of which types, very ancient wine-flasks being^
made, they are to this day to be seen in those houses of
Laurentius which I have mentioned looking upon the fo¬
rum, inhabited afterwards by his grandson Gerard Thomas,
whom I name for honour’s sake, a noble citizen, who de¬
parted this life a few years ago. The studies of men favour¬
ing, as it happened, the new art, since a new merchandise,
never before seen, brought buyers from every side with most
eager quest, at once the love of the art increased, the esta¬
blishment {ministeriuni) increased, workmen in the art be¬
ing added to the family, the first touch of evil; among
whom was a certain Joannes, either (as the suspicion is) that
Faustus of ominous name, faithless and unlucky (infaustus)
to his master, or some other of the same name, I do not
541
gieatly care which, because I am unwilling to disquiet the History,
shades of the silenced, touched with the plague of con-v—
science while they lived. He being sworn by oath to the
processes of printing, after he had (as he thought) learned
thoroughly the art of putting the characters together, the
knowledge of fusile types, and whatever else may relate to
the matter, taking an opportunity, than which he could not
have found one more fit, on the very eve which is sacred
to the birth of Christ, on wThich all in common are accus¬
tomed to labour at the sacred ceremonies, stole the w’hole
materials,2 tied up a package of the instruments of his mas¬
ter used in that art {instrumenlorum herilium ei artificio
comparatorum supellicticem convasat) ; thence with a ser¬
vant hurried from the house, went in the beginning to Am¬
sterdam, thence to Cologne, until he arrived at Mayence,
as to the altar of an asylum, where he might live safe be¬
yond the reach of arrows (as the saying is), and having
opened an office, enjoyed the rich fruit of his robberies.
Indeed, from it, in the space of the (or a) turning year, in
the year 1442 from the birth of Christ, with the same types
which Laurentius had used at Harlem, it is certain that
he produced to light the Doctrinule of Alexander Callus,
which grammar was then in most famous use, with the
Tractates of Peter Hispanus, his first productions. Those
are, for the most part, things which I have formerly heard
from aged men worthy of belief, who have received them
as things delivered from hand to hand, as a torch in
a race, and have found others relating and attesting the
same things. I remember that Nicholaus Galius, the in¬
structor of my youth, a man with iron memory, and vene¬
rable for his long years, related to me, that when a boy he
had heard, not once only, a certain Cornelius, a bookbin¬
der, and rendered serious by age, nor less than eighty years
old (who had lived as an under workman in that office), re¬
lating with much mental anger, and with fervour, the course
of the proceeding, the manner of the invention (as he had
received it from his master), the improvement and increase of
the art, and other things of the kind; and that the tears would
burst from him against his will at the shame of the affair,
as often as he talked of the robbery. Which things do not
differ from the words of Quirinus Talesius Con., who con¬
fessed to me that he had formerly the same from the mouth
of the same bookbinder.”
Beyond this narrative of Hadrian Junius there is little,
or rather no, testimony to the truth of Koster’s claim, all
subsequent argument being either drawn from or referred
to this statement. Many very learned bibliographers have
given full credence to Hadrian, whilst others not less acute
absolutely deny Koster any pretence whatever, Santander
calling in question his very existence; and there is a third
party who, being unable to decide between the opposing ar¬
guments, and willing to take refuge in a middle course, al¬
low to Koster the credit of having invented printing from
blocks, but assign to his rivals that of printing from move ■
able types. .
The whole argument may, however, be reduced into a
reasonable compass. The probability of Hadrian’s narrative
will naturally be the subject of inquiry. First, the round¬
about way in which this hearsay evidence reached Hadrian,
is in itself a very suspicious circumstance. Little belief can
be accorded to an uncertain bookbinder, even had any cir¬
cumstances been adduced besides the name Cornelius,^ by
which this bookbinder could be identified. Secondly, Ta¬
lesius was many years secretary to Erasmus, who, although
a Dutchman, and resident in Holland, repeatedly and un-
. , ., ,  sen Gustos, but no mention is made of the Cathedral. The state-
In the original, Koster is simply said to liavebeensiirnarned ^ after narrators. The word custos has been Dutchified
ment, therefore, that he was custos of the cathedral, is a gratuitous i gu that Custos was a barbarous Latin word for keeper,
into Coster or Koster ; but there is no apparent reason why we may i
or constable, or any other translation the word will bear. f „ theatre.
“ Or whatever else chotagiam may mean ; literally it signifies the /j p
542
History.
PRIN
hesitatingly ascribes the invention to John Gutenberg of
Strasbourg at Mentz.1 * * It is not at all probable, that had
Erasmus ever heard of this story, or given the slightest cre¬
dence to it if he had, he would have omitted some mention ot
a circumstance so gratifying to his national vanity ; or that
he should have remained in ignorance of a story well known
to his secretary, and commonly bruited about, and therefore
known to some of the learned men amongst whom Erasmus
lived. Thirdly, the story of the engraving on beech-bark
accidentally, when it is quite certain that the art of taking
impressions from wood-blocks for saints and cards was at
the time known and extensively practised in Holland and
Germany, and also in Italy, is absurd. Fourthly, every
author who has written upon the matter has given up all
claim on Roster’s behalf for the invention of cast type, the
evidence in favour of others being too strong to be got
over. Fifthly, the tale of the conversion of these types
into drinking-cups, when Hadrian afterwards states that
Fust carried them off with him, is incredible ; for Roster’s
death is variously stated as having occurred in 1440 or
1449 and Hadrian says that Fust published his Doctnnale
in 1442, within a year of his unlicensed departure; and there¬
fore Roster could not have had time to construct the types
afterwards converted into cups. Sixthly, the story of
John Fust having stolen all his printing materials on the
eve of Christmas, and decamped, first to Amsterdam, then
to Cologne, and lastly to Mentz, and his publishing there
within the same year, is self-contradictory ; for type is not a
very portable commodity; nor would he easily have escaped
pursuit at Amsterdam, a town under the same government.
Again, John Fust was originally no printer, but a wealthy
goldsmith of Mentz, and certainly never worked as any
body’s journeyman. Indeed this is such a palpable mis¬
statement, that commentators upon Hadrian have boldly
supposed that the thief was John Gutenberg, not be of
Mentz, but a brother, also named John. Unfortunately Gu¬
tenberg’s brother was not named John, but hriele, and in
no future document is there any mention of him or his fa¬
ther having practised the art even wdien known to John ;
nor is it at all likely that members of a noble family, and
wealthy men, should have worked in the service of any
man. If it should be asserted that it was the John Guten¬
berg, his time is so well accounted for that it is impossible,
since he was then resident at Strasbourg, and never was at
Amsterdam or Cologne. Thus, then, the narrative of Ha¬
drian Junius appears, upon examination, to be utterly in¬
credible, being at once at variance with itself and with all
probability.
There are, moreover, other arguments not precisely rest¬
ing upon this narrative ; for although these circumstances
are not to be believed, the main facts may, nevertheless, be
correct. Roster may have printed the Speculum and other
block-books attributed to him. Ottley says that they were
certainly printed in Holland, for that the types are not those
used in Germany, but closely resembled such as w7ere after¬
wards cut or cast in Holland; and that they are of greater
antiquity than any books printed by those who afterwards
used the art in the Low Countries. He also attempts to show,
by the water-marks in the paper, that the works in question
were produced in these parts. Water-marks, however, and
some bearing a general resemblance to these, w ere common
in the papers used by printers of Cologne, Louvain, and else¬
where ; and the argument is worth little or nothing, for no
evidence can be given of the positive dates of these works,
and much less of the printer. The Speculum was printed
again and again after the invention of letter-press printing ;
nor is there the slightest evidence, supposing these asser-
T I N G.
tions to be correct, to connect them with the name of Roster. History.
It is a conclusive argument against him, that those other v'"-
works ascribed to him and his descendants are executed
with the self-same types used at Utrecht in 1473 by Rete-
laer and De Leempt. Van Mander, who lived at Harlem
in 1580, in his History of the Lives of Dutch Painters and
Engravers, treats the claim of Harlem with contempt; for,
speaking of printing, he describes it as an art “ of which Har¬
lem, with much presumption, arrogates to herself the honour
of the invention nor does he make the slightest mention ot
his famous fellow-citizen.
There is not the least evidence that his three grandsons
(not/owr, as Hadrian says) ever carried on his business ; for
where are their works ? and in their time printers had be¬
come so proud of their art, as not only to put their names to
every work, but even to add a long history of their under¬
taking and progress. Where are the books ascribed to them i'
what mention is made of them by their contemporaries ?
In a subsequent part of this article it will be seen that Cax-
ton, the first English printer, is said to have been sent to
Harlem to learn the art, and if possible to carry off one of
the workmen. These things being also matter of controver¬
sy, cannot fairly be used in argument; nevertheless it is of
some value that Caxton, who, supposing it to be true, w ould
be an excellent witness in favour of Harlem, upon all occa¬
sions refers the invention to Gutenberg, and makes no
mention whatever of Harlem or Roster.
Santander labours to disprove the very existence of any
such person. But there is no necessity to go so far as San¬
tander ; we may allow Roster’s identity ; we may even allow
that he practised the art of taking impressions from wood¬
blocks ; but this is very different from acknowledging any
claim to the invention of the art of printing. The most stre¬
nuous champion of Roster is Meerman, an eminent French
bibliographer of the last century, who, in his Origines Ty¬
pographies, published at the Hague in 1 /65, strongly main¬
tains this narrative of Hadrian ; which is not a little singular,
seeing that the Newcastle Typographical Society published
a letter from him to Wagenaar, of eight years prior date, in
which he expresses a precisely contrary opinion. He calls
Seitz’s (Hadrian’s) story a mere supposition, and the chro¬
nology a romantic invention ; gives to the Speculum the date
of 1470 as the earliest possible ; attributes the honour to
Gutenberg, and incidentally mentions his intention of pub¬
lishing a pamphlet on the subject. Notwithstanding this,
in his work, without any new fact whatever, he accredits
Hadrian’s story, finds consistency in the dates, believes the
Speculum, and denies John Gutenberg ; completely revers¬
ing his previous opinion, though, by changing the predi¬
cates, his narrative may still stand. 1 he Divisiechronyh, in
1517, places printing amongst foreign discoveries.
All evidence, and the general consent of the learned, in
failure of Roster, unhesitatingly ascribe this invention to
John Gutenberg, surnamed Genzfleisch, Gensfleisch, o„ten-
or Gensefleisch, von Solgenloch, or Sorgenloch. He was a berg,
native of Mentz, and of a noble family, possessed of consi¬
derable property in various places in the neighbourhood.
Fortunately the life of Gutenberg does not rest merely up¬
on hearsay evidence, or the doubtful guesses of bibliogra¬
phers from dateless wood-cuts; legal documents supply
most important information. It appears that, for some rea¬
sons unknown, he resided for many years at Strasbourg, and
had even acquired rights of citizenship. The first document
presents him in no amiable light. It is a lawsuit instituted
to compel him to perform his marriage-contract with Anne
von Isernen Thiir; and it would appear that he was compell¬
ed to make good his promise, the name of Anne Gutenberg
1 Anno Christi 1440. Magnum quoddam an pene divinum beneficium collatum est uniyerso terrarum orbi, a Jobanne Gutenberg
Argentinensi, novo seribendi genere reperto. Is cum primus artem impressoriam, quern Latini vocant excutoriam, in urbe Argentinensi
invenit; inde Moguntiam veniens eandem feliciter complevit. (Ejnt. Renan Germ. Script. 1502, cap. 95.)
PRINTING.
History, being found in the same register of the nobility liable to the
~~v J wine-duty in the city of Strasbourg, in which Gutenberg’s
name also appears. The next document is so curious that
an ample abstract of it cannot but be interesting.
It appears that he had contracted an engagement with
Andrew Dritzehen, John Rifle, and Andrew Heilmann, to
instruct them in the secrets of certain arts, and had entered
into partnership with them for their better advantage. An¬
drew Dritzehen and Andrew Heilmann having called upon
him one day, perceived that he was engaged in a wonder¬
ful and unknown art, the secret of which he was desirous
of keeping to himself; that, moved by their importunities, he
consented to enter into partnership with them for the term
of five years, on two conditions, first, that they should pay
him the sum of 250 florins, 100 immediately, and the re¬
mainder at a certain fixed period; second, that if any one
of the partners should die during the term of the copart¬
nership, the survivors should pay to his heirs the sum of 100
florins, in consideration of which the effects should become
the property of the surviving partners. Andrew Dritzehen
died before the expiration of the period agreed on, being
still indebted to Gutenberg in the sum of eighty-five flo¬
rins. George and Nicholas, brothers of the deceased, de¬
manded to be admitted to the partnership, and on refusal
brought an action against Gutenberg as principal partner.
The magistrates gave judgment on the 12th of December
1439, relieving Gutenberg from the demand upon payment
of the sum of fifteen florins, being the difference of the sum
of 100 florins stipulated to be paid to the heirs of a deceasing
partner, and the sum of eighty-five florins due to Gutenberg
by Andrew on the original contract. The following evidence
was produced on the trial:—
“ Anna, the wife of John Schultheiss, an engraver on wood,
deposed, that on one occasion Nicholas Beildeck came to
her house to Nicholas Dreizehen, her relation, and said to
him, ‘ My Nicholas Dreizehen, Andrew Dreizehen, of hap¬
py memory, has placed four pages (stuche) in a press, which
Gutenberg has desired that you will take away and sepa¬
rate, that no man may know what they are, for he is un¬
willing that any one should see them.’
“Also John Schultheiss says, that Laurence Beildeck some¬
time came to his house to Nicholas Dreizehen, when An¬
drew Dreizehen his brother was dead, and that the said
Laurence Beildeck thus spoke to said Nicholas Dreizehen:
‘ Andrew Dreizehen, of happy memory, has placed lour
pages on a press, w hich John Gutenberg desires you to take
therefrom, and place them on the press and break them from
one another, so that no man may see what they are.’
“ Also Conrad Sahspach deposed, that sometime Andrew
Heilman came to him upon the Street of Merchants and
said, ‘ My Conrad, as Andrew Dreizehen is dead, and you
made that press, and know all about the matter, go hence
and take the pieces from that press and lay them separate
from one another, so that no man may know what it is.
“ Laurence Beildeck says that he was sent by John Gu¬
tenberg to Nicholas Dreizehen, after the death ot Andrew
his brother, to say to him that he should show to no one
the press that he had, and that he should see to it. He
added, that Gutenberg had moreover commanded him that
he should go suddenly to the presses, and open that press
which was furnished with two screws or spindles (cochleis),
that the pages should fall into pieces, and place those pieces
within or .upon the press, so that no one should see the mat¬
ter, or understand what it was.
“ The same witness also said that he knew well that Gu¬
tenberg, a little before the feast of the Nativity, had sent
his servant to both Andrews to take away all forms, which
were broken up in his sight, that none of them might be
543
found perfect. Moreover, after the death of Andrew, this History,
witness was not ignorant that many were desirous of seeing '
the presses, and that Gutenberg had commanded that some
one should be sent who might hinder any one from seeing
the presses, and that his servant was sent to break them up.
“ Also John Dunne, goldsmith, said, that three years or
thereabouts previous he had received from Gutenberg about
300 florins for materials relating to printing.”
From this curious document maybe learnt, that separate
types were used; for if they were blocks arranged so as to
print four pages, how could they be so pulled to pieces that
no one should know what they were, or how could the ab¬
straction of two screws cause them to fall to pieces ? It ap¬
pears that some sort of presses were used, and the transfers
no longer taken by a burnisher or roller; and, lastly, that
the art was still a great secret at the time when Koster was
at the point of death. Hence it is manifest, that the inge¬
nuity of Gutenberg had made a vast advance from the rude
methods of the time, and had in fact invented a new and
hitherto unknown art.
These documents would be decisive in favour of Stras¬
bourg as the place in which printing was invented, had it
appeared that any effects were produced by this establish¬
ment. This, however, does not seem to have been the case,
as Gutenberg and his successors make no mention of the
fact, but, on the contrary, claim for themselves the produc¬
tion of the first book at Mentz. Indeed the partnership ap¬
pears to have expired without any attempt at entering into
fresh engagements; for, about the year 1450, Gutenberg
returned to his native city with all his materials, without
any opposition from his partner. In this place he entered
into partnership with John Fust, a wealthy goldsmith and
citizen, who engaged, upon being taught the secrets of the
art, and being admitted into a participation of the profits,
to advance the necessary funds ; and he did accordingly ad¬
vance the considerable sum of 2020 florins, a fact that com¬
pletely overthrows the fable of his having been one of Ros¬
ter’s workmen, and of his having stolen his types. 1 he
new partnership immediately commenced operations, and
hired a house called Zum Jungen, and took into their em¬
ploy Peter Schoeffer and others. Their subsequent opera¬
tions we again find curiously chronicled in the records of
another lawsuit,1 in which Gutenberg was soon engaged with
his new ally; for Fust, dissatisfied with their proceedings,
sought to recover from Gutenberg money advanced, with
interest, including 800 florins of the sum advanced in vir¬
tue of the deed of partnership. Gutenberg in defence al¬
leged, that the 800 florins had not been paid at once, as
stipulated; and that they had been expended in preparation
for the work (apparently meaning thereby, that this sum of
money should have been paid down for his own use, in con¬
sideration of his communicating the secrets of his art, and
that instead of so applying it to his private purposes, he had
expended it for the joint benefit); whilst, as to the other
sums, he offered to give an account of their appropriation,
but denied that he was liable for the interest. The judges
awarded that Gutenberg should pay the interest, as well as
the part which his accounts showed he had applied to his
individual use. This decision took place on the 6th of No¬
vember 1455. Upon this Fust obtained from the public no¬
tary the following document:
“ To the Glory of God, Amen. Be it known unto all
those who shall see or hear read this instrument, that in the
year of Our Lord 1455, third indiction, on Thursday the
sixth day of November, the first year of the Pontificate ot
our very Holy Father the Pope, Calixtus III., appeared here
at Mayence, in the great parlour of the Bare-footed 1 nars,
between eleven o’clock and mid-day, before me, the Notary,
1 Wolfii Monumenta Typographica. Fournier, Originc de l Imprmei us.
544
PRINTING.
History, and the undevsigned witnesses, the honourable and dis-
' v ' crete person, James Fust, citizen of Mayence, who, in the
name of his brother, John Fust, also present, has said and
declared clearly, that on this same day, and at the present
hour, and in this same parlour of the Bare-footed Friars,
John Gutenberg; should see and hear taken by John Fust
an oath, conformable to the sentence pronounced between
them. And this sentence read in the presence of the ho¬
nourable Henry Gunter, Cure of St Christopher of Mayence,
of Henry Keffer, and De Bechtoff de Hanaw, servant and
valet of the said Gutenberg ; John Fust, placing his hand
upon the Holy Evangelists, has sworn between the hanus
of me, the Notary Public, conformable to the sentence pro¬
nounced, and to a letter w^nch he has sent to me, and has
taken the following oath, word for word : I, John Fust, have
borrowed 1550 florins, which I have transmitted to John
Gutenberg, which have been employed for our common
labour, and of which I have payed the rent and annual in¬
terest, of which I still owe a part. Reckoning, therefore,
for each hundred florins borrowed, as above is recited, six
florins per annum, I demand of him the repayment and the
interest, conformably to the sentence pronounced ; which I
will prove in equity to be legal, in consequence of my claim
upon the said John Gutenberg. In presence of the honour¬
able Henry Gunter, of Henry Keffer, and of Bechtoff de
Hanaw aforesaid, John Fust has demanded of me an au¬
thentic instrument, to serve him as much and as often as
he hath need, in the faith of which I have signed this in¬
strument, and have set thereto my seal.”
From this it would appear (indeed the mortgage of his
printing materials to Fust, mentioned in this document,
proves) that Gutenberg had expended the whole of his con¬
siderable private fortune in his experiments, and had fallen
into the power of his more wealthy associate ; for in conse¬
quence of this judgment, and owing probably to his being
unable to repay the sums demanded, the whole ol his ma¬
terials, constructed with so much perseverance, fell into
Fust’s .hands; for the initial letters used by Gutenberg and
his partners, in works known and supposed to have been
executed between 1450 and 1455, are likewise used by Fust
and Schceffer in the Psalter of 1457 and 1459. After such
a mortifying result of so many years’ labour, it would have
been no matter for wonder had Gutenberg abandoned the
unprofitable pursuit. On the contrary, he appears to have
immediately started anew with fresh vigour, and this time
with success. Another legal document gives curious infor¬
mation.
“ We, Henne (John) Genszfleisch de Sulgeloch, named
Gudinburg, and Friele Genszfleisch, brothers, do affirm and
publicly declare by these presents, and make known to all,
that, with the advice and consent of our dear cousins, John,
and Friele, and Pedirmann Genszfleisch, brothers, of Mentz,
we have renounced and do renounce, by these presents, for
us and for our heirs, simply, totally, and at once, without
fraud or deceit, all the property which has passed by means
of our sister Hebele, to the convent of St Claire of Mentz,
in which she has become a nun, whether the said property
has come to it on the part of our father Henne Genszfleisch,
who gave it himself, or in whatsoever manner the property
may have come to it, whether in grain, ready money, fur¬
niture, jewels, or whatever it may be, that the respectable
nuns, the abbess, and sisters of the said convent, have re¬
ceived in common or individually, or other persons of the
convent (have received), from the said Hebele, be it little
or much ; and we have promised and do promise, by these
presents, in good faith, for us and for our heirs, that neither
we, nor any person on our part, nor yet our said cousins,
nor any of their heirs, nor any person on their part, shall
either demand, gain, nor claim of the said convent, nor of
the abbess, nor of the convent in general, nor of the persons
who may be found therein individually, the said property, of
whatever kind it may be, either wholly nor in part, and
that we will never demand it again, either through an ec¬
clesiastical or civil court, or without the aid of the law ; and
that neither we nor our heirs wall ever molest the said con¬
vent, either by words or deeds, either secretly or publicly,
in any manner. And as to the books, which I, the said
Henne, have given to the library of the convent, they are
to remain there always and for ever; and I, the said Henne,
propose also to give in future, without disguise, to the li¬
brary of the said convent, for the use of the present and
future nuns, for their religious worship, either for reading
or chaunting, or in w’hatever manner they may wish to make
use of them according to the rules of their order, all the
books ivhich /, the said Henne, have 'printed vp to this hoar,
or which I shall hereafter print, in such quantities as they
may wish to make use of; and for this the said abbess, the
successors and nuns of the said convent of St Claire, have
declared and promised to acquit me and my heirs of the
claim wrhich my sister Hebele had to the sixty florins, which
I and my said brother Friele had promised to pay and de¬
liver to the said Hebele, as her portion and share arising
from the house which Henrte, our father, assigned to him
for his share, in virtue of the writings which were drawn up
thereupon, without fraud or deceit. And in order that this
may be observed by us and by our heirs, steadfastly and to
its full extent, we have given the said nuns and their con¬
vent and order these present writings, sealed with our seals.
Signed and delivered the year of the birth of J. C. 1459, on
the day of St. Margaret.”
From this it wall appear, that his new establishment had
actually produced the long wished-for effect. He appears
to have carried on the business ten years; for in 1465 he
entered into the service of Elector Adolphus of Nassau, as
one of his band of gentlemen pensioners, with a handsome
salary, as appears from the letters patent, dated the 17th
January 1465, and finally abandoned the pursuit of an art
which, though it caused him infinite trouble and vexation, has
been more effectual in preserving his name and the memory
of his acts, than all the warlike deeds and great achieve¬
ments of his renowned master and all his house. Gutenbeig
died on the 24th of February 1468. His printing-office and
materials had passed into the hands of Conrad Humeiy, syn¬
dic of Mentz, who had probably assisted him with money, and
who appears to have been in some degree his partner. He
afterwards sold them to Nicholas Bechtermunze of Elfield,
whose works are greatly sought after by the curious, as they
afford much proof, by collation, of the genuineness of the
works attributed to his great predecessor.
There does not appear to be any record of the early life
of John Fust or Peter Schceffer before their partnership
with Gutenberg, save that the former was a wealthy gold¬
smith and an ingenious man, and that Schceffer, surnamed
de Gernsheim, was a scribe. It is very likely that the com¬
bination of character and qualifications of these thiee men
may afford a good clue to the wonderful taste and beaut\
which distinguish the works issued from their press, and
consequently to the great general improvement of the art
during their life. The ingenuity of Gutenberg would readi¬
ly suggest a new and expeditious method of manufacturing
types ; the practical skill of Fust as a worker in metals (and
the working in gold and silver had at that time attained
a most extraordinary nicety and beauty), and his large pe¬
cuniary resources, would readily supply the necessary ap¬
pliances, while the taste of Schceffer would give all possible
grace and beauty to the new forms. For Schceffer, it must
be recollected, was a scribe, one of the ancient and honour¬
able craft whose occupation was destined to fall before the
new art; a transcriber, perhaps an illuminator, of the ma¬
nuscript works in use before printed books ; and those who
have had the happiness of viewing those exquisite speci¬
mens of skill which beguiled our ancestors into study and
Historv
Fust and
Sckceffer.
PRINTING.
545
History, devotion (when will modern typography produce such feasts
for mind, and eye, and imagination ?) will readily conceive
that Schceffer’s eye was already schooled for the conception,
and his hand for the execution, of all the beauty the tram¬
mels of a new art and limited skill would allow. Aided by
his own taste and his partners’ invention and wealth, Schoef-
fer proceeded to a new enterprise, namely, the casting of type.
The entire conception and execution of this invention has
been generally attributed and allowed to SchcefFer. It seems
most probable, however, that where three ingenious men
are bound together by art and interest, no one of them can
lay exclusive claim to any invention or undertaking exe¬
cuted in the workshops and for the mutual benefit of all.
Allowing, therefore, to Schceffer the honour of having sug¬
gested some such plan, the other two may fairly put in a
claim for their portion of the credit on the score of their
suggestion and assistance, especially since Fust, as a worker
in metals, would have been the party to engage workmen
to elaborate the conceptions of his partners’ brain. Ac¬
cordingly the only evidence upon the subject appears to
show that the firm had for some time practised a method of
taking casts of type in moulds of plaster; for it must be
remembered that the types of Gutenberg’s earlier efforts,
both at Strasbourg and at Mentz, were cut out of single
pieces of wood or metal with infinite labour and imperfec¬
tion. The method of casting, however, although a great
improvement, was at best but a slow and tedious process.
Every new letter required a new mould ; no skill or care
could enable the workman to impress so small a thing as a
type is at the face, yet so elongated in the shank, fully,
freely, and steadily, into a soft material; and it would be
necessary afterwards, under the most favourable circum¬
stances, that the squareness and sharpness so indispen¬
sable in type should be given by another slow process, so
that at best this advance wras but an imperfect and tedious
operation. Schceffer has therefore an undoubted claim to
be considered as one of the three inventors of printing ; for
he it was w ho first suggested the cutting of punches, where¬
by not only might the most beautiful form of type the taste
and skill of the artist could suggest be fairly stamped upon
the matrix, but a degree of sharpness and finish quite un¬
attainable in type cut in metal or wood could be given to
the face ; whilst to the shank, by the very same process by
which the face was cast, the mould would give perfect
sharpness and precision of angle. Add to this, that the
punch being once approved of, could be kept ready to
stamp a new matrix in precisely the same condition and
form as the first, should that be worn out or mislaid, or
make a duplicate should the demands of business require it.
It is nevertheless rather singular, that the mould represent¬
ed on the right side of the press of Ascensius, shortly after
the time of Schceffer, should be precisely the same in form
and manner of use as that of the present day. I his was
evidently an immense stride towards perfection ; let Schcef-
ier therefore take a place on the right hand of the inventor.
Within eighteen months of their separation from Guten¬
berg, Fust and Schceffer produced the celebrated Psalter.
This was printed with large cut type. As it was impossible
to prepare a new fount and print this splendid work in
that short space, it must be evident that the partners did
great injustice to Gutenberg in suppressing his name from
the colophon. This book was produced in the month of
August 1457, and is the first book which bears the name
of the place where it was printed, those of its printers,
and the date of the year in which it was printed. 1 he
first book, however, bearing date, was issued by bust and
Schaeffer in 1455, viz. the I A ter & Indulgentiarum Nicho-
lai V. ; it is on a single piece of parchment. This Psalter
was reprinted in 1459, 1490, and 1502, and always in the
same type, which, it is remarkable, w as never used for any
other work, probably because its great size made it unfit
VOL. xvm.
for any other works than those not intended for popular History,
reading, but to lay on desks like our church Bibles. On thev—~v^~,~
16th of October 1459, Fust and Sclioeffer published the Du-
randi Rationale Divinorum Offtciorum, with an entirely new
fount of type ; in 1460 the Constitutioties dementis V.; and
in 1462 the celebrated Latin Bible. Fust enjoyed this suc¬
cessful and glorious practice of his art but ten short years;
yet in this period what an immense advance from the mis¬
shapen and irregular lumps of their first efforts, ugly in
themselves, and more ugly in their utter want of relative
proportion and allignemcnt, to the w ell-proportioned, evenly
standing type of the Bible ! The plague carried him off in
Paris about the year 1466, full of years, and perchance full of
honours. Schoeffer survived many years, and, in conjunction
with Conrad Henlif, produced a great number of works. His
name is found in the colophon of the fourth edition of the
Bible of 1502, about which time he is supposed to have de¬
ceased.
Were wre to take tradition for our guide as regards the
character of Fust, W'e should regard him as a conjurer and
an adept in the black art. The popular story (and many
“ grave and discrete old men” have given credit to the tale)
runs, that having kept these proceedings profoundly secret,
as soon as their Bible w'as finished, Fust transferred himself
to Paris with many copies of the new work, and palmed
them upon the learned as manuscripts, to which, as they
were printed on vellum, in a type bearing much resemblance
to the written books of the period, and the vignettes and ini¬
tial letters were splendidly illuminated, they were not very
dissimilar ; that some eager scholar or devotee became the
possessor of the first copy, supposing it to be a rare chance,
at the moderate price of four or five hundred crowns ; that
as he brought the work into the market, the price fell ra¬
pidly to sixty, and then to thirty crowns, by which time the
extraordinary glut produced suspicion, and Fust was accused
of multiplying Holy Writ by the aid of the devil, and was
accordingly persecuted by the priesthood, whilst the laity,
looking to their temporal interests, prosecuted him for his
inroad into their pockets; and that from these things Fust
was obliged to quit Paris precipitately. I he whole story
is an impossible fabrication.
Having thus given a sketch of the origin and history of
the art of printing, a brief account of the works issued by
the illustrious triumvirate will not only be proper here, but
will give the general reader a better idea of the astonishing
perfection to wdiich the art rose under the taste^ and genius
of its inventors. There is not a singie w ork of Gutenberg
which bears his name ; yet, as before remarked, there are
several which bear such internal evidences, that the literati
of all parties and opinions are unanimous in attributing them
to his press.
Of these works, Dr Dibdin, the well-known bibliographer,
gives the following account:
“ First, as to the character of the type used by the early
Mentz printers. This appears to have been uniformly what is
called Gothic; and if we except the varieties of the larger type
(from three eighths to two eighths or to a quarter of an inch),
which appear in the Psalters of 1457, 1459, and 1490 (the
type common to most w7orks executed about the same pe¬
riod), we shall observe three distinct sets or forms of let¬
ters used in the printing-office of Faust and Schoiffher.
Of these three typographical characters, two only (if we
except the one with which the Bible of 1455 was exe¬
cuted) are visible in the publications which appear to have
been printed in the lifetime of Faust; that is to say, the
larger Gothic used in the Bible of 1462, and the smaller
Gothic in the Offices of Cicero, of the dates of 1465 and
1466. These appeared united, the former, for the first
time, in the Constitutions of Pope Clement V., of the date
of 1460. Schoiffher introduced a type of an intermediate
size, which may be seen, among other works, in the RudC
3 z
546
PRINTING.
History, ments of Grammar of 1468, and in the Decretals of Pope
 ' Gregory the Ninth, of the date of 1479. This intermediate
type is of a narrower form, and prints very closely. Of
the three types here mentioned, the largest is undoubtedly
of the handsomest dimensions; but they all partake of the
Secretary Gothic, and may be said to be the model of that
peculiar character which was adopted by the early Leipsic
printers, Thanner and Boettiger, and was more especially
used by John Schoiffher and the other German printers
for nearly the whole of the sixteenth century. Shew me
Lisardo, one book, nay, one leaf only, printed in the Ro¬
man type, in the colophon of which the name of Faust or
of Peter Schoiffher appears, and you shall immediately
have the amount of the balance in my favour, at my bank¬
er’s, be it great or small, be it L.200 or L.20, for such a
precious and unheard-of curiosity.
“ We shall now, in the second place, say a few words as to
the character of the printing, or of the mechanical skill, of
the early Mentz press. There can be but one opinion upon
this point. Everything is perfect of the kind, the paper,
the ink, and the register, or regularity of setting up the
page. The Bible of the supposed date of 1455 is quite a
miracle in this waybut the Psalters are not less mira¬
culous, nor is less praise due to the Constitutions of Pope
Clement V., of the date of 1460, and the Bible of 1462;
while the Durandus, of the earlier date of 1459, exhibiting
the first specimen of the smallest letter, strikes one as among
the most marvellous monuments extant of the perfection of
early typography. Almost all the known works before the
year 1462 are printed upon vellum, doubtless because they
ventured upon limited impressions ; and even of the Bible of
1462 more copies have been described upon vellum than up¬
on paper. Upon the whole, the vellum used by Faust and
Schoiffher, although inferior to the Venetian, is exceed¬
ingly good, being generally both white and substantial.
“ In the third place, let us notice the nature or charac¬
ter of the works which have issued from the press of F aust
and Schoiffher. Whatever maybe our partiality towards that
establishment from which the public were first gratified with
the sight of a printed book, candour obliges us to confess
that the fathers of printing were not fortunate, upon the
whole, in the choice of books which issued from their press.
“ In the fourth place (for I told you I should be somewhat
tautologous), consider what is the typographical appearance
of those books which Gutenberg is really supposed to have
executed. It is quite unique. A little barbarous, and certain¬
ly wholly dissimilar from any thing we observe in other con¬
temporaneous productions of the Mentz press. T ou will
please to understand that I think very doubtfully of the Do-
natuses, which are considered to have been printed by him ;
as well as of the Speculum Sacerdotum, and Celebratio Mis-
sarum; concluding the Catholicon of 1460, and the Vocabu¬
laries of 1467 and 1469, to be the more genuine productions
of his press, or of the types used by him. Is it not surpris¬
ing, I ask, that these works are executed in types quite diffe¬
rent from anything we observe in the Mentz productions ? and
this from a man who is considered as the parent of printing
in that city. No wonder, if they be the actual productions
of Gutenberg, that Faust and Schoiffher thought so meanly
of his talents, and that on a dissolution of partnership they
adopted a different and a very superior character.”
In confirmation of these remarks of the learned biblio¬
grapher, we shall here insert a specimen of Gutenberg’s Bal-
bus de Janua, which will also be a curious illustration of an¬
cient art. Notwithstanding the appearance of these types, Histor
the reader is assured that the original is really printed from
separate pieces of metal.1 2
JofYituTe regufanfmo&ulcLco uocis fra in
fignificatiua pionuriacon^
   ' Cl! ^ S -O ~ Art*
vm fifiabe.RegulaWs & ab
•metric? mobu!ac6ms ei melUtv.cpi* aecentunom
Dr Horne, in the appendix to his Introduction to Biblio¬
graphy, says of the Psalter, “ This precious work, as Santan¬
der justly calls it, is one of the most known among early
printed books, from the various and correct descriptions of
it which have been given by different bibliographers. Un¬
til the discovery of Pope Nicholas’ Literce Indulgentiarum,
this was supposed to be the very first article ever printed
with a date affixed; the book is executed on vellum, and
of such extreme rarity that not more than six or seven
copies are known to be in existence ; all of which, however,
differ from each other in some respect or other. The most
perfect copy known is that in the imperial library at Vien¬
na ; it comprises 175 leaves, of which the Psalter occupies
the 135 first and the recto of the 136th. The remainder
is appropriated to the litany, prayers, responses, vigils, &c.
The psalms are executed in larger characters than the
hymns, similar to those used for missals prior to the inven¬
tion of printing; but all are distinguished for their uncom¬
mon blackness. The capital letters, 288 in number, are cut
on wood with a degree of delicacy and boldness which are
truly surprising; the largest of these, the initial letters of
the psalms, which are black, red, and blue, must (as Lich-
tenberger has remarked) have passed three times through
the press. Copies are now in the Queen’s library at Wind¬
sor, and in that of Earl Spencer at Spencer House.” A fac¬
simile of the initial B, and a portion of the first verse of
this beautiful book, and of the colophon at the end, will be
found in Plate CCCCXIV.
The extraordinary praise awarded by these eminent bib¬
liomaniacs to the first productions of the Mentz press may
perchance excite in the minds of the more sober public a
suspicion that these writers have been led away by their en¬
thusiasm beyond the limits of matter-of-fact truth, and have
seen merit in defects, beauty in deformity, and lustre in an¬
tiquity. Assuredly, nevertheless, such is by no means the
case; and the happy individual who gains access to the chej-
d’ceuvres of Fust and Schceffer will return from the inspec¬
tion a wiser man ; for the beauty of these works is inconceiv¬
able. England fortunately possesses several of these trea¬
sures of art, there being copies of the Bible of the supposed
date of 1450-55 in the Royal Library, in the Bodleian, and
in those of Earl Spencer and Sir M. Sykes; whilst of the six
known copies of the Psalter of 1457, two are in England,
namely, one at Windsor, and one in the possession ot Lord
Spencer. Of the Latin Bible of bust and Schceffer, 1462
(the first bearing date), there are copies on vellum at Blen¬
heim, in the libraries of Lord Spencer, the Earl of Jersey,
and Sir M. Sykes, in the British Museum, and imperfect
in the Bodleian. Copies on paper are rarer still, there being
but three in this country, viz. those in the Royal Library
and the British Museum, and one lately in the possession
of Mr Willett.
Apparently, in retaliation of the injustice done to Gu¬
tenberg by his partners in depriving him of any share of
1 This is even sober praise, The mechanism of the press-work, and appearance of the ink, beautiful, regular, am g ossy <
appears, does not strike one with more astonishment than the manufacture of the paper. “ Charta, says f ungen res, j
crassitudinis, qualem illo tempore libris imprimendis consumere mos fait.” And again, “Charta ob ejus densi a em a A ^ f.,vmir of
baud ingratam ubique se maxime commendat.” (Disq. de Not. Charact. Libror. p. 27, p. 46.) And see Meermans es n y
the paper of the Soubiaco press, Orig. Typog. vol. i. p. 9, note. „ , , . . ,, r n ran fill
2 The initial A is illuminated in a very brilliant blue. The reader who is desirous of ob.aimng the full effect p
up the printed outline in water-colour.
PRINTING.
547
History, the honour of producing the Psalter of 1457, which, as be-
-—v ' fore stated, must be the joint production of all three, al¬
though it was not finished until after the secession of Gu¬
tenberg, bibliographers have generally agreed in attribut¬
ing the printing of the Bible of 1450-55 to Gutenberg alone,
when it is equally manifest that Fust and Schceffer had as
much claim to the honour as their coadjutor. It is an ex¬
ceedingly beautiful book, in two very large folio volumes, in
two columns, containing from forty-one to forty-three lines
each, in very large well-cut types. It consists of six hun¬
dred and forty-one leaves ; it has no title, paging, signatures,
or catch-words ; the initial letters are not printed, but paint¬
ed in by illuminators, and the initial letters of each verse of
the psalms are painted alternately red and black, by way of
guide to the priests in their alternate reading. From the
lustre and blackness of the ink, its evenness of colour, and
beautiful execution, it is a very superb book; but it is never¬
theless surpassed by the Fust and Schoeffer edition of 1462,
when they had attained greater experience in the practice
of the art. By far the choicest, however, of these editiones
principes is the Mentz Psalter or Codex Psalmonmi before
mentioned, the initial B and first few lines of which form
part of Plate CCCCXIV. Dr Horne says that the six
known copies of this edition differ from each other in some
respects, and proceeds to give some particulars in which
variations are found; but, upon a comparison of the royal
copy with Earl Spencer’s, it will be found, that although
they bear the same date, they are in fact two distinct edi¬
tions. It would have excited no great surprise had it
been found that the printed ornaments differed, as nothing
would be more easy than to change the colours with which
the different blocks were worked ; but the text varies in such
a manner that there can be no doubt of their perfect dis¬
tinctness. By comparing the following terminations of the
lines of the Windsor copy with the specimen, this will be
clear. The first line of the Windsor copy ends with afuft;
the second with the contracted et; the third with Stem;
the fourth with non ; the fifth with tmt; the sixth with lege.
This will be found to arise from a difference in the con¬
tractions of the following words :
Windsor Copy.
First line
Second line,
Third line,
Fourth line,
Fifth line,
4
comstlto
pccor no
t
no
instead of
instead of
instead of
instead of
instead of
Earl Spencer’s Copy,
qut;
JStftO; _
pecatorm non;
tn;
non.
These differences arise apparently from the desire of so
apportioning the words that each line shall be completely
justified out in the Windsor copy, which (as may be seen
in the plate) is not the case in Lord Spencer’s copy; from
which circumstance it is probable that the latter is the
earliest. The book1 is a very large folio, on vellum, con¬
sisting of about a hundred and thirty leaves, printed on
both sides. There are generally twenty-three lines in a
page, in Gothic type. Every psalm begins with a splendid
initial letter, about two thirds of the size of the B, printed
in two colours in almost every case. Occasionally, how¬
ever, this appears to have been neglected, and then the
letter is painted in by the illuminator, but not in imitation
of the printed letters. The initials consist (like the B) of a
bold character, of Gothic cut, surrounded by a scroll, which
is sometimes of great length, that of the B extending from
the top to the bottom of the page. The same wooden block
is used as often as the letter occurs, but it is not always of
the same colour; moreover, every verse commences with a
smaller initial printed in a red colour, in the same manner
as the S in the specimen. Nor is this work destitute of the
embellishments of the illuminator; for at the commence- History,
ment of every psalm is a rubric, painted in a most brilliant
red, in a smaller letter, of precisely the same character as
the text, and also the music of the chant, with the words
underneath it painted in black. The initial letters of both
are splendidly illuminated in various colours. The paint is
used in such profusion that the letters are absolutely in
relief, often to the extent of one sixteenth of an inch ; and
besides these, the letter following the grand initial has a
broad bar painted down it, and very frequently the first
letter after the pauses indicated in our authorized version by
a colon is illuminated in a similar manner. One page is par¬
ticularly splendid; it consists of short verses, in which the
first words are constantly repeated. It commences with a
grand initial, and there are twenty-two smaller initials to
the verses ; the second letter of the first verse, and the first
letter after every pause (twenty-three in number), having
the broad illuminated bar. Wherever the psalm commences
too near the bottom to allow of the full exuberance of the
scroll, a piece of paper appears to have been laid over a
portion of the cut, to prevent the impression from appearing;
and in one psalm where the chant is of unusual length,
the lower part of the initial O, and a corresponding portion
of the scroll, are thus suppressed ; the music being illuminat¬
ed in its place, and the scroll continued below it. Some¬
times the illuminator has omitted to add his initial letter; and
in this copy the double device is omitted. The accuracy
with which the coloured blocks are printed within the text
and within each other is perfectly astonishing. From this
description it may be conceived how very supei’b is the first
book ever printed, the date, and place, and artist, of which
can be accurately ascertained. Dr Dibdin in the Biblio¬
theca Spenceriaua, Mr Savage in his work on Decorative
Printing, Dr Florne, whose wood-block is not coloured, and
several other writers, have given fac-similes of the same
copy (Lord Spencer’s), which, however, all differ from one
another. The lines given in the specimen in Plate CCCCXIV.
are copied from Dibdin, whose initial B does not accord
with that of the Windsor copy; the B here given is very
accurate, and the colours are as similar as possible to the
latter copy, but the colour of the scroll in the original seems
somewhat faded.
The capture of the city of Mentz by Count Adolphus of Early
Nassau in the year 1462 had the effect of interrupting the la-printers,
hours of Fust and Schoeffer; and moreover the distracted state
of the city enabled, perhaps compelled, the workmen initi¬
ated in the mysteries of the art to flee into the neighbouring
states, and thus spread its practice over the whole civilized
globe. Such, indeed, was the fame it had already acquired,
and such the idea entertained of its importance, that every
community with the slightest pretensions to literature ap¬
pears to have sought a knowledge of it with the greatest
avidity. Thus, within six years of the publication of the
Psalter, it had spread to several cities having some connec¬
tion with Mentz, and within fifteen years to almost every
town of consideration in Christian Europe. A chronolo¬
gical list of the cities which first seized upon the inven¬
tion would be greatly too long for this article; it may bc
interesting, however, to extract a few of the principal, with
a notice of such printers as are remarkable either for the
beauty or the scarcity of their works. The reader is not
to suppose that all, or indeed any great number of these,
learned the practice of the art under the tuition of the first
masters. A few are known to have been pupils of the in¬
ventors, and it is probable that many others of them were so ;
but the majority, in all likelihood, were men of learning, en¬
terprise, or capital, who derived their typographical know¬
ledge from such facts as had transpired, or from inferior
1 The copy described is that at
Windsor: the illuminations, no doubt, vary in every copy.
PRINTING.
workmen of Fust and Schcefier or Gutenberg, supplying
deficiencies by their own ingenuity.
Strasbourg. Mentelin. Some writers have claimed lor
Mentelin the invention of printing, representing that Guten¬
berg was his servant, without, however, showing the slightest
ground for their assertions; but others, more reasonable, say
that he was acquainted with Gutenberg, and instructed by
him, and that on the latter’s quitting Strasbourg he esta
came the property of John duke of Roxburghe, the ac¬
complished, indefatigable, and undaunted bibliomaniac, after
whose death the gorgeous library was dispersed by the auc-
tioneer in the year 1811. The interest excited amongst the
learned by this sale was intense. It was known that the col¬
lection contained the most superb specimens of eveiy kind of
ancient lore; that the illuminated manuscripts were the most
brilliant, the ballads the most obscure, the editiones prin-
Histor.
him, and that on the tatters quitting otrasuumg ne cau*-   , ,,, rnnm nr0(]uce: that
Wished a printing-office, and carried on the business sue- apes the most complete that the world could produce , tnat
cessfully. Mentelin most probably printed about the year the rarest Caxtons, the finest I vnsons, and graridest spe-
1458. His type is rude and inelegant. The only book
bearing his name is Beauvais’ Speculum Hisloriale, of date
1473. Schsepflin says, that he, as well as Fust and Schceffer
at Mentz, printed 300 sheets per day.
In 1461. Bamberg. Albert Pfister. He printed a collec¬
tion of Fables, of date 1461. This book is excessively rare ;
it is printed with cast metal type, and is illustrated with
101 wood-cuts, in much the same style as the old Biblia
Pauper urn. All his other works are printed in the same
type.
1465. Subiaco and Rome. Schweynheym and Pannartz.
Their known works are, a Donatus, without date ; Lactan-
tius, 1465 ; St Augustin on the Citg of God, 1467 ; Cicero
de Oratore, without date ; and the Commentary of Be Lyra
on the Bible, 1471, all in folio. These works were print¬
ed in a new letter, very closely resembling the type now
in use called Homan, and of which they were the intro¬
ducers. In De Lyra are the earliest specimens of Greek
types worthy of the name ; some few letters appear in the
Cicero de Officiis printed at Mentz, but so wretchedly im¬
perfect that they are unworthy of mention. It is curious
that the Greek fount of Schweynheym and Pannartz at
Subiaco was evidently very small; but upon their removal
to Rome they cast a much larger fount. T he cut and ap¬
pearance of this Greek is more than respectable. There is a
very curious petition from them to the pope, praying for as¬
sistance on the ground that they had entirely ruined them¬
selves by printing De Lyra, for which there was no sale,
and representing that they had on their hands no loss than
eleven hundred folio volumes of that work. Subiaco is the
first place in Italy in which printing was practised. At
Rome Ulric Flan and Lignamine were contemporaries.
Their works, narticularly those of Han, are excessively rare.
1467. Elfield. Henry and Nicholas Bechtermunze. They
purchased from Conrad Humery the types and materials
of Gutenberg. Their works are not at all remarkable for
beauty, but are very rare, and much sought for as afford¬
ing evidence of Gutenberg’s works.
1467. Cologne. Ulric Zell. His type is Gothic, and of
no beauty ; but his works are rare.
1468. Augsburg. Ginther Zainer printed the first book
in Germany with Roman type.
1469. Venice. John de Spira, whose works are of the ut¬
most beauty. His edition of Pliny is splendid, and enor¬
mous sums have been given for those printed in vellum. He
did not use Greek characters ; but Greek passages are com¬
posed in Roman types. In the same city, at the same tune,
printed Nicholas Jenson, whose works are equal, if not su¬
perior, to those of Spira ; they are not so rare, but are almost
equally sought after. A copy of his folio Latin Bible of
1479, printed in Gothic type, was sold at Mr Edwards’ sale
for L.115. 10s. Venice was also the residence of Chris¬
topher Valdarfar, whose works gave rise to a most extra¬
ordinary event connected with bibliography, viz. the sale of
the first edition of II Decamerone di Boccaccio, printed by
him in 1471. For many years it had been known that a
single copy of this work was in existence, and the most de¬
voted bibliomaniacs had used their utmost endeavours to
discover it, but in vain. At length, about 1740, an ances¬
tor of the Duke of Roxburghe obtained possession of it for
the sum of one hundred guineas. In lapse of time it be-
cimens of the foreign printers, were here to be found ; above
all, it was rumoured that a mysterious edition of Boccac¬
cio’s Decameron would become a bone of contention amongst
the noblest of the literati. The public, learned and un¬
learned, were infected w ith the mania, and the daily papers
teemed with notices of the sale. At length the important
day arrived, the 17th of June 1811. St James’ Square was
the place. Mr Evans presided. The room was crowded ;
Earl Spencer, the Marquis of Blandford, the Duke of De¬
vonshire, and an agent of Napoleon, were amongst the most
prominent. The book was a small folio, in faded yellow
morocco binding, black-letter. “ Silence followed his (Mr
Evans’) address,” says Dibdin. “ On his right hand, standing
against the wall, stood Earl Spencer: a little lower down, and
standing at right angles with his lordship, appeared the Mar-
quis of Blandford. The duke, I believe, was not then pre¬
sent ; but my Lord Althorpe stood a little backward, to the
right of his 'father Earl Spencer. Such was ‘ the ground
taken up’ by the adverse hosts. The honour of firing the
first shot was due to a gentleman of Shropshire, unused to
this species of warfare, and who seemed to recoil from the
reverberation of the report himself had made. ‘ One hun¬
dred guineas,’ he exclaimed. Again a pause ensued ; but
anon the biddings rose rapidly to five hundred guineas.
Hitherto, however, it was manifest that the firing was but
masked and desultory. At length all random shots ceased,
and the champions before named stood gallantly up to eac i
other, resolving not to flinch from a trial of their respective
strengths. ‘ A thousand guineas’ wrere bid by Earl Spencer;
to which the marquis added ‘ ten.’ You might have heard
a pin drop. All eyes were turned ; all breathing well nigh
stopped. Every sw’ord wTas put home within its scabbaid,
and not a piece of steel wTas seen to move or to glitter save
that which each of these champions brandished in his va¬
lorous hand. See, see ; they parry, they lunge, they hit;
yet their strength is undiminished, and no thought of yield¬
ing is entertained by either. ‘ Two thousand pounds are
offered by the marquis. Then it was that Earl Spencer,
as a prudent general, began to think of an useless effusion
of blood and expenditure of ammunition, seeing that bis
adversary was as resolute and fresh as at the onset. For a
quarter of a minute he paused, when my Lord Althorpe ad¬
vanced one step forward, as if to supply his father with an ¬
other spear for the purpose of renewing the contest. Fits
countenance was marked with a fixed determination to
gain the prize, if prudence in its most commanding form,
and with a frown of unusual intensity of expression, had not
bade him desist. The father and son for a few seconds
converse apart; and the biddings are resumed. ^ ^ 0 11011
sand two hundred and fifty pounds,’ said Lord Spencer.
The spectators are now absolutely electrified. I he mar-
auis quietly adds his usual ‘ ten,’ and there is an end of the
contest. Mr Evans, ere his hammer fell, made a due pause,
and, indeed, as if by something preternatural, the ebony
instrument seemed itself to be charmed or suspended in
mid air.’ However, at length down dropped the hammer,
and, as Lisardo has not merely poetically expressed Inmseit,
‘ the echo’ of the sound of that fallen hammer ‘ was ieai
in the libraries of Rome, of Milan, and Saint Maix. o
the least surprising incident of this extraordinary sa e is,
that the marquis already possessed a copy of the work, wlncn
PRINTING.
549
History, wanted a few leaves at the end ; he therefore paid this
'-"-V"*' enormous sum for the honour of possessing a few pages.
The prize of this contest is now in the possession of Earl
Spencer.”
1469. Milan. Lavagna. In 1476 Dionysius Palavasinus
printed the Greek Grammar of Constantine Lascaris, in
quarto, which is the first book printed entirely in Greek.
The first printing in Hebrew characters was performed at
Soncino, in the duchy of Milan, in 1482.
1470. Paris. Ulricus Gering, M. Crantz, and M. Fri-
burger.
1471. Florence. Bernard Cennini. In 1488 Demetrius
of Crete printed the first edition of Homer’s works, in most
beautiful Greek.
1474. Basle. Bernardus Richel.
1474. Valencia. Alonzo Fernandes de Cordova.
1474. Louvain. Joannes de Westphalia.
1474. Westminster. William Caxton, the Game of Chess.
1475. Lubeck. Lucas Brandis.
1476. Antwerp. Thierry Martins of Alost.
1476. Pilsen in Bohemia. Statuta Synodalia Pragensia;
printer’s name not known.
1476. Delft. Maurice Yemantz.
1478. Geneva. Adam Steinschawer.
1478. Oxford. Theodericus Rood.
1480. St Albans. Laurentii Guillielmi deSaona Rhetorica
Nova ; printer’s name not known.
1482. Vienna. John Winterburg.
1483. Stockholm. Johannes Snell.
1483. Harlem. Formula Novitiorum, by Johannes An-
driesson. This is the earliest book printed at Harlem with
a date. In giving this as the first work known to be print¬
ed at Harlem, the claims of Koster, his grandsons and suc¬
cessors, must, of course, be reserved.
1493. Copenhagen. Gothofridus de Ghemen.
1500. Cracow. Joannes Haller.
1500. Munich. Joannes Schobzer.
1500. Amsterdam. D. Pietersoen.
1507. Edinburgh. A Latin Breviary ; no printer’s name.
From a patent of James IV. it appears that the first print¬
ing press vvas established at Edinburgh in 1507. From the
style and types, it is probable that they were imported from
France.
1551. Dublin. Ireland was apparently the last country
in Europe into which printing was introduced. The first
book printed is a black-letter edition of the Book of Com¬
mon Prayer, printed by Humphrey Powell.
1569. Mexico. Antonio Spinoza, Vocabulario en Lengua
Castellana y Mexicana.
1639. United Stales, at the town of Cambridge. Printer
Stephen Daye.
It was the custom of the early printers to distinguish
their books by the most fantastic devices; and by these their
works may be readily recognised. Many of them were of
exceeding beauty, and all the skill and appliances of their
art were employed to render them striking ; they are really
an ornament to their works. The invention of these has
been ascribed to Aldus ; but the very first printers, Fust and
Schceffer, used each for himself, yet conjoined, devices of
rare excellence. Their celebrated Bible is adorned with
one which is well worthy of being adopted as the arms of
the art and mystery of printing* This is given in the plate
of illustrations with those of Caxton, Wynkyn de Worde,
and Pierre Regnault, who, with his brother, printed the
first English Testament at Paris.
Our chronological arrangement has precluded us from
mentioning some of the most skilful typographers. I heir
works, however, are so numerous, and their efforts so well
known, as to render it unnecessary to do more than men¬
tion their names. Such men as the Aldi, Frobenius,
tinus, Operinus, the Stephani, the Elzeviri, the Gryphii,
the Giunti, the Moreti, and hosts of peers, have universal History.
fame. The printing-office of Plantinus, in the Place Yen-  v—
dredi, at Antwerp, exists in its full integrity, and in the pos¬
session and use of his descendants the Moreti; the same
presses, the same types, with the addition of every improve¬
ment modern skill has effected, are still in use, and an in¬
spection of these singular relics of olden art will well re¬
pay the investigation of the curious.
The First Presses.
Of the mechanical means by which these beautiful im¬
pressions of the old printers were produced there is little
or no record ; but it is quite evident that they must have
been effected by some more skilful process than mere ma¬
nipulation, that is, than the appliance of a burnisher, as is
evident in the first wood-cuts, or of a roller, or superficial
pressure applied immediately by hand. It is very proba¬
ble that one of the difficulties which Gutenberg found insu-
perable at Strasbourg, was the construction of a machine of
sufficient power to take impressions of the types or blocks
then employed; nor is it at all wonderful that the many years
he resided at that city were insufficient to produce the re¬
quisite means ; for, with cutting type, forming his screws,
inventing and making ink, and the means of applying Ins
ink when made, his time must have been amply occupied.
Moreover, the construction of a press would require a versa¬
tile genius, and excellent mechanical skill, not to be looked
for in one man. But upon his junction with Fust and Schcef¬
fer, the gold of the former, and the invention of all the three,
would soon supply the defect; and, for aught that appears
to the contrary, the press used in their office differed in no
essential point from those in use until the improvements
of Blaew in 1600-20. Fortunately, amongst the queer de¬
vices with which it pleased the earlier printers to distin¬
guish their works, Badius Ascensius of Lyons (1495-1535)
chose the press ; and there are cuts of various sizes on the
title-pages of his works. It appears from these, that, like
that of Gutenberg, they could print only four pages at a
time, and that at two pulls; and when it is stated that the
table and tympan ran in, and that the platten was brought
down by a powerful screw, by means of a lever inserted
into the spindle, the professional reader will easily recognise
the wooden presses laid up in ordinary in many old London
houses.
The colour which the earliest typographers used was pro¬
bably made according to the style of work in hand. The
earliest copies of the Speculum and Biblia Pauperum were
printed in a brown colour, of which raw umber is the prin¬
cipal ingredient. It appears to have been well ground and
thin. It was, most likely, of the same tint as the old draw¬
ings of the same subjects, and would be better adapted for
the filling up in various colours, as appears to have been
the practice, than a black and harsh outline of ink. Fust
and Schceffer, however, introduced, and their followers adopt¬
ed, black ink, and were so skilful in compounding it that
their works present a depth and richness of colour which
excites the envy of the moderns; nor has it turned brown,
or rendered the surrounding paper in the slightest degree
dino-y. From the above-mentioned colophons we have also
the^method of applying it to the types. Fliis was by means
of balls of skin stuffed with wool, in every respect the same
as those used thirty years ago. The ink was laid in some
thickness on a corner of a stone slab, and taken thence in
small quantities and ground by a muller, and thence again
taken by the balls and applied to the types. The types
aopear to have been disposed in cases very much the same
as ours. The composing-stick differs somewhat, but cannot
now be very clearly made out. The different operations
of casting "the type, composing, reading, and working, are
mostly represented in the same apartment; but, it is proba¬
ble, more for the sake of pictorial unity, than because such
PRINTING.
550
History, was really the custom. There must have been many work-
vmen engaged in most of the old establishments ; and they
well knew the value of cleanliness, which is unattainable
where all the operations are carried on together.
Introduc- As the invention of printing has itself become matter of
tion into serious controversy amongst the learned of all countries, its
England. introciuction into England has not been suffered to pass
without an attempt of the novelty-seekers to overturn the
received opinion on the subject, and to give to another the
laurel of a public benefactor, torn from him to whom the
general voice had for two centuries allotted it. Fortunate¬
ly, the quarrel is divested of one of the great difficulties of
the continental, inasmuch as there does not appear to be
any vestige of an art in any degree similar (such as block¬
printing) having been practised prior to the introduction of
type-printing; the art, when it was brought over, being in
a state somewhat approaching maturity. This controversy
concerns the claims of William Caxton and Frederic Cor-
sellis to the introduction of the knowledge of the art, and the
printing of the first book, in this country.
The general and original belief is that Caxton, who for
thirty years resided in the Low Countries, under the reign
of Charles the Bold, and who had taken every opportunity
of learning the new art, and had availed himself of the cap¬
ture of Mentz to secure one of the fugitive wwkmen of
Fust and Schoeffer, established a printing-office at Cologne,
where he printed the French original and his own transla¬
tion of the Recuyell of the Historyes of Troy ; that whilst
at Cologne he became acquainted with Wynkyn de Worde,
Theoderick Rood, both foreigners, and Thomas Hunte his
countryman, who all subsequently became printers in Eng¬
land ; that he afterwards transferred his materials to Eng¬
land ; that Wynkyn de Worde came over with him, and
probably was the superintendent of his printing establish¬
ment; that his first press was established at Westminster,
perhaps in one of the chapels attached to the abbey, and
certainly under the protection of the abbot; and that he
there produced the first book printed in England, the Game
of Chess, which was completed on the last day of March
1474.
The correctness of these facts is not matter of dispute,
all writers agreeing that Caxton did so set up his press at
Westminster, and print his Game of Chess in 1474 ; but
it has been asserted that Caxton was not the first printer,
nor his book the first book printed, in this country. Neither
does the controversy rest upon the contradictory statements
of many writers, for all authors of the same and succeed¬
ing period agree in ascribing the honour to Caxton; and
when, in 1642, a dispute arose between the Stationers’ Com¬
pany and certain persons who printed by virtue of a patent
from the crown, concerning the validity of this patent, a
committee was appointed, who heard evidence for and
against the petitioners, and throughout the proceedings
Caxton was acknowledged as incontestibly the first printer
in England. Thus Caxton seemed to be established as the
first English typographer, when, soon after the Restora¬
tion, a quarto volume of forty-one leaves was discovered in
the library at Cambridge, bearing the title of Exposicio
Sancti Jeronymi in Simholum Apostolorum ad Papain
Laurentium, and at the end, “ Explicit Exposicio Sancti
Jeronymi in Simbolo Apostolorum ad papam Laurentium,
Oxonie Et finita, Anno Domini m.cccc.lxviii. xvii. die de-
cembris.” Upon the production of this book the claim for
priority of printing was set up for Oxford. In the year
1644 Richard Atkyns, who then enjoyed a patent from the
crown, and whose claims consequently brought him into
collision with the Stationers’ Company, and who was desir¬
ous of establishing the prerogative of the sovereign, publish¬
ed a thin quarto work, entitled The Original and Growth
of Printing, collected out of the History and the Records of
the Kingdome ; wherein is also demonstrated that Printing
appertaineth to the Prerogative Royal, and is a Flower of Histc
the Crown of England. The book was published “ hy order ^
and appointment of the Right Hon. Mr Secretary Morrice?
In support of this proposition Atkyns asserted that he had
received from an anonymous friend a copy of a manuscript
discovered at Lambeth Palace, amongst the archiepiscopal
archives. The following is an abstract of this document.
“ Thomas Bouchier, archbishop of Canterbury, earnestly
moved the king, Henry VI. to use all possible means to pro¬
cure a printing mold, to which the king willingly assented,
and appropriated to the undertaking the sum of 1500 merks,
of which sum Bouchier contributed 300. Mr Tumour, the
king’s master of the robes, was the person selected to manage
the business; and he, taking with him Mr William Caxton,
proceeded to Harlem in Holland, where John Guthenberg
had recently invented the art, and was himself personally
at work ; their design being to give a considerable sum to
any person who should draw away one of Guthenberg’s
workmen. With some difficulty they succeeded in pur¬
loining one of the under workmen, Frederic Corsellis; and
it not being prudent to set him to work in London, he was
sent under a guard to Oxford, and there closely watched
until he had made good his promise of teaching the secrets
of the art. Printing was therefore practised in England
before France, Italy, or Germany, which claims priority of
Harlem itself, though it is known to be otherwise, that city
gaining the art from the brother of one of the workmen,
who had learned it at home of his brother, and afterwards
set up for himself at Mentz.” The Exposicio is asserted
by inference to be the work of Corsellis. That this docu¬
ment is a forgery may be safely assumed; because of the
more than unsatisfactory manner in which it is said to have
been obtained; because no one ever saw this copy; be¬
cause no one, except the unknown, ever saw the original,
for it is not amongst the archives nor in the library of
Lambeth Palace, nor was it when the Earl of Pembroke
made diligent search for it in 17( ), nor was it found when
the manuscripts, books, and muniments were moved into
a new building; because Caxton himself, who took so
important a share in the alleged abduction of the work¬
man, states that twelve years afterwards he was diligently
engaged in learning the art at Strasbourg, and repeat¬
edly ascribes the invention to Gutenberg, “ at Mogunce
in Almayne because, when three years afterwards the
Stationers’ Company instituted legal proceedings against
the University of Cambridge, to restrain them from print¬
ing, this document was rejected, as resting only on Atkyns’
authority; because Archbishop Parker, in his account of
Bourchier, mentions the invention of printing at Mentz, but
makes no claim for his having introduced it into England,
and Godwin, de Prcesulibus Anglice, says that Bourchier, du¬
ring his primacy of thirty-two years, did nothing remarkable,
save giving L.L20 for poor scholars, and some books to the
university, and that he minutely examined two registers of
his proceedings during this term, without making any men¬
tion of his having found therein any record of so remark¬
able a transaction ; because, since these transactions must
have taken place before 1459, Henry VI. was at that time
smuggling fearfully for his throne and life, Edward IV.
being crowned in that year ; from internal evidence of
the document itself, for, not to mention the weak evidence
for the city of Harlem, it is quite certain that Gutenberg
never printed there, and by Junius the theft is ascribed to
John Fust, who certainly was a rich goldsmith of Mentz ;
whereupon Meerman, finding these statements at variance
with possibility, boldly invents another theory, making the
sufferers Roster’s grandsons, who never printed, as far as is
known, and the robber Corsellis himself; and, lastly, be¬
cause six years elapsed between this asserted introduction
and the publication of his Exposicio, and eleven years be¬
tween this and any other publication from any Oxford press
History.
uixton.
Although these facts entirely confute the pretensions of Cor-
' sellis, there nevertheless remains the book itself, and unless
some evidence can be produced, Oxford will still maintain
the proud pre-eminence. Some of the most learned biblio¬
graphers entirely refuse their assent to the genuineness of
the book. Middleton asserts that there must be an error of
an x in the imprint, and produces many remarkable in¬
stances of similar typographical errors. This, however, is
mere assertion ; and as, in the Lambeth record, the best
evidence is to be sought in the production itself, accord¬
ingly the wrork is printed with cast metal types, which are
not proved to have been used by Koster at all, that art
being invented by Gutenberg, Fust, and SchcefFer at May-
ence. The letter is of very elegant cut, the pages regu¬
lar, and the whole work has the appearance of having been
executed at a considerably advanced era of the art. An¬
other and a good argument is, that the work has signa¬
tures, or marks for the binder at the foot of the page, such
not having been used on the continent before 1472, by
John Koethof at Cologne ; and it is no refutation of this ar¬
gument to say, as has been attempted by some, that many
works executed by printers who did use signatures are with¬
out signatures; for the proof of a negative in one case is the
poorest of all possible arguments of a positive in another.
Let Caxton, therefore, be replaced in his old niche, the in¬
troducer of the art of printing into England.
William Caxton was born about the year 1412, in the
Weald of Kent. His father was a wealthy merchant, trad¬
ing in wool. He was brought up to the business of a mer¬
cer, and conducted himself so much to his master’s satis¬
faction, that on his death he bequeathed him the then con¬
PRINTING.
551
siderable sum of twenty marks. Caxton then proceeded, History,
probably as the agent of the Mercers’ Company, into the
Low Countries. He must have been a man of some wealth
and consideration, for in 1664 he and Richard Wethenhall
were appointed by Edward IV. “ ambassadors and special
deputies to continue and confirm a treaty of commerce be¬
tween him and Philip duke of Burgundy; and, upon the
marriage of Edward’s sister Margaret with Charles duke of
Burgundy, he was appointed to the household retinue of the
princess, by whom he appears to have been treated with
much familiarity and confidence ; for at her instigation he
first commenced his literary labours, and he mentions her
as repeatedly commanding him to amend his English. His
first work was a translation of the Recuyell of the ffisto-
ryes of Troye, which he afterwards printed at Strasbourg,
when his leisure had allowed him to turn his attention to
the study of printing. The first production of his press is
allowed to be the French Recuyell above mentioned, his
second the Oracion of John Russell on Charles Duke of
Burgundy being created a Knight of the Garter, which
took place in 1469. Of his transactions between 1471 and
1474 there is no record; probably he was engaged in the
diligent pursuit of the art, and preparing to transfer his
materials to England, which he accomplished some time
before 1477, when we find him printing in or near the
Abbey of Westminster, of which Thomas Milling, bishop
of Hereford, was at that time abbot. The first production
of his English press was the Game of Chess, bearing date
1474, which work, however, some assert to have been print¬
ed by him at Cologne. The following is a specimen of
this famous book, the initial letter being printed in red:
D')tie' pucf^t to
Be a fait labp fittfa cfjaper avty trovombz
a corone or} fyt Ijecb? mfy tVcCdhz a
of a amantytt furrib? zrmpnz*
His next production was the Boke of the hoole lyf of Ja¬
son ; but his first book bearing date and place in the colo¬
phon is the Dictes and Sayings of Philosophres, a transla¬
tion from the French by the gallant Earl Rivers, “ at West-
mestre, the yere of our lord m. cccc. Ixxvij.” From this
time he continued both to print and translate with great
spirit. His “ capital work” was a Book of the noble His¬
tory es of Kyng Arthur, in 1485, the most beautiful produc¬
tion of his press.
There is but one copy of any of Caxton’s works printed
upon vellum ; it is the Doctrinal of Sapyence. “ Translated
out of Frensshe in to Englysshe by wyllyam Caxton at
Westmestre. Fynyshed the vij day of May the yere of our
lord M.cccc.lxxix. Caxton me fieri fecit.” This unique
copy is in the library at Windsor, and it is in beautiful
preservation. It is moreover doubly unique, for it contains
an additional chapter, to be found in no other copy what¬
ever, and which is entitled “ Of the negligencies happening
in the Masse and of the Remedies. Cap. Ixiiij.” It is a
curious treatise of minute omissions and commissions like¬
ly to occur in the service of mass, with directions how to
remedy such evils. Of their importance here are two spe¬
cimens, “ If by any negligence fyl (fall) any of the blood
of the Sacrament on the corporas, or upon any of the vest¬
ments, then ought to cut off the piece on which it is fallen,
and ought well to be washen, and that piece to be kept
with the other relics.” “ And if the body of Jesu Christ,
or any piece, fall upon the pale of the altar, or upon any of
the vestments that ben blessed, the piece ought not to be
cut off on which it is fallen, but it ought right well to be
washen, and the washing to be given to the ministers for to
drink, or else drink it himself.” This singular treatise finishes
with this grave confession, “ This chapitre to fore I durst not
sett in the booke, by cause it is not convenient ne apper¬
taining that every lay man should know it et cetera.” At
the usual termination of this work is that colophon of Cax¬
ton which is given amongst the illustrations of this article in
Plate CCCCXIV. ; it is, however, considerably reduced.
The Royal Library possesses another work of Caxton,
wdiich, as a perfect copy, is also unique. This is the “ Sub-
tyl Historyes and Fables of Esope. Translated out of
Frenshe in to Englyshe by Wyllyam Caxton at West-
mynstre In the yere of our lord M cccc Ixxxiij Emprynted
by the same the xxvj daye of Marche the yere of our lorde
m cccc Ixxxiiij And the fyrste yere of the regne of kyng
Rycharde the thyrde.” It consists of 142 leaves. Each
fable is illustrated by a rude wood-cut, all of which are said
to have been executed abroad, where similar editions of
JEsop were frequently printed. They are, however, most
probably copied; for there is nothing either in their de¬
sign or execution that a most moderate artist might not
perform ; and this will equally apply to other wood-cuts
interspersed in Caxton’s works.
It has been said that the works of Caxton have been ea¬
gerly sought for by English bibliomaniacs. The most re¬
markable instances of this are the enormous prices given
for some of them at the sale of the Duke of Roxburghe’s
library before mentioned. The Chastysing of God’s
Children was knocked down to Earl Spencer for L.146.
The Sessions Papers were bought for the Society of Lin¬
coln’s Inn for L.378. The Duke of Devonshire gave
L.351. 15s. for The Mirrour of the World, and L.180 for
552
PRINTING.
History the Kalendayr of the Shyppers. Gower’s Confessio Aman-
 v ' tis produced L.366 ; The Bolte of Chyvalry, L.336. 1 he
Recuyell of the Historyes of Troye gave rise to a start¬
ling contest. It was the identical copy presented by Cax-
ton to Elizabeth Grey, queen of Edward IV. and sister ot
his patroness. “ Sir Mark Sykes vigorously pushed on his
courser till five hundred guineas were bidden ; he then
reined in the animal, and turned him gently on one side
< toward the green sward.’ More hundreds are ofiered lor
the beautiful Elizabeth Grey’s own copy. The hammer
vibrates at nine hundred guineas. Ihe sword of the mar¬
quess is in motion, and he makes another thrustr— One
thousand pounds.’ ‘ Let them be guineas,’ said Mr Ridgway,
and guineas they were. The marquess now recedes, lie
is determined upon a retreat; another such victory as the
one he has lust gained (the Valdarfar Boccaccio) must be
destruction; and Mr Ridgway bears aloft the beauteous
prize in question.” (Dibdin.) At Mr Willett s sale /W-
lius of OH Age produced L.210, and became the property
of the Duke of Devonshire. , .
The following are specimens of Caxton s Pilgrimage of
the iSoivle, and of the Royal Rook :
Ilistor
fttoettefi Sfefu/S pwipe mo? (kmc con «
Sot* San ^ tafti of tip ean»4tlation of
UJ/BS t^at Igue ta lljls Istm- ‘Mfouty ^1110 fi5®*8
ne ftaltlr a&gDprts. ^nti aUo tip emt^nud of mzg
He must have been a man of wonderful perseverance and
erudition, cultivated and enlarged by an extensive know¬
ledge of books and the world. Of his industry and devot¬
edness some idea may be formed, when Wynkyn de Worde,
his successor, states, in his colophon to the Vitce Patrum
that Caxton finished his translation of that work from french
into English on the last day of his life. He died in 1494,
bein'r above fourscore years of age. His epitaph has been
thus written by some friend unknown : “ Of your chante
prav for the soul of Mayster Willyam Caxton, that in hys
t-nie was a man of moche ornate and moche renommed
wysdome and connynge, and decesed full crystenly the yere
of our Lord mcccclxxxxi.
Moder of Merci shyld him from thorribul fynd,
And bryng hym to lyfi eternal that neuer hath ^nd.
The type used by Caxton is in design very inferior to
that used upon the Continent even earlier than his period;
but in the latter part of his life he very materially improved
his founts, and some of his later productions are very ele¬
gantly cut. The design is peculiar to him, and is said to
be in imitation of his own hand-writing ; it bears, however,
some resemblance to the types of Ulric Zell, from whom
Caxton derived most of his instruction, and is something be¬
tween Secretary and Gothic. He appears to have had two
founts of English, three founts of Great Primer, one Rou¬
ble Pica, and one Long Primer.1 He used very tew orna¬
mented initial letters, and those he did employ are very infe-
nor in elegance to those of foreign printers. He preieiied
inserting a small capital letter within a large space, and
leaving the interval to be filled up according to the taste
of the illuminator, owring to w hich many excellent perform¬
ances are destitute of these beautiful ornaments. Caxton s
ink was not remarkable for depth of colour or richness , lus
paper was excellent; and he probably used presses of the
same construction as the continental printers. His works are
not very rare, but are highly prized by English collectois.
Copies of one or more of his works are to be found in most
collections of any pretension, and are well worthy of in¬
spection. The number of his productions is sixty-two. Al¬
though Caxton was the first English printer, he was not the
only one of his day, Wynkyn de Worde, Lettou andMach-
linia, Hunte, Pynson, the Oxford printer whoever he may
have been, and he of St Alban’s, being his contemporaries.
Wynkyn de Worde came, as we have already seen,
from Germany with Caxton, and remained with him in thede Worn,
superintendence of his office until the day of Ins death,
when he succeeded to the business. He was a native ct
Lorraine, and evidently a man of considerable information
and taste, and of great spirit in the conduct of his affairs.
After his succession to Caxton’s business, he carried it on
in the same premises for about six years, when he removed
to the “ Sygn of the Sonne in flete strete, against the con-
dvth ” De Worde appears to have immediately commenced
a complete renovation of the art, cutting many new founts
of all sizes, with vast improvement of the design and pro¬
portion ; he moreover provided his contemporaries, then
becoming very numerous, with type; and it is even said
that some of the letter used by English printers less than
a century ago are from his matrices, nay, that the punc les
are still in existence. He was the first (or Pynson) to in¬
troduce Roman letters into England, which he made use of
amongst his Gothic to distinguish any thing remarkable, in
the same manner as Italic is used in the present day. is
works amount to the extraordinary number of four hundred
and eight. “ His books are, in general, distinguished hv
neatness and elegance, and are always free from professed
immorality. The printer has liberally availed himself of such
aid as could be procured from the sister art of engraving ,
although it must be confessed that by far the greater, if not
the whole, number of wood engravings at this penod are ot ^
foreign execution ; nor is it without a smile that the typo¬
graphical antiquary discovers the same cut introduced into
works of a directly opposite nature. . ,
In his Instruction for Pilgrims to the Holy Land, printed
in 1523, the text of which is in Roman, and the marginal
notes in Italics, he makes the first use in England of Greek,
which is in moveable type ; of Arabic and Hebrew, which
are cut in wood ; and the author complains that he is ob¬
liged to omit a third part, because the printer had no lie-
brew types. Appended to the work are three Latin epistles,
in which he makes use of Arabic. f v
His works are, of course, not so rare as those of his pre¬
decessor, but are nevertheless much sought after; and, when
sold by the side of the Caxtons at the Duke of Roxburghe
sale, produced large prices. Rartholomceus de Propne
tibus Rcrum, the first book printed on paper made in n^-
land, was bought by the Duke of Devonshire for L.
1 These are terms by which modern English printers distinguish the sizes of their type.
P R I N
History. Chaucer’s Troy his and Cresscide, L.43 ; Hawys’ Exemple
^ of Vertu, L.60; Passetyme of Pleasure, L.8I ; Castell of
Pleasure, L.61 ; The Moste Pyteful Hystorye of the Noble
Appotyon, Kynge of Thyre, L.l 10.
De Wordedied about the year 1534. In his will, still in
the Prerogative Office, dated 5th June 1534, he bequeaths
many legacies of books to his friends and servants, with
minute directions for payment of small creditors and for¬
giveness of debtors, betokening a conscientious and kind¬
ly disposition. His device is generally that of Caxton, with
his own name added to the bottom; but he also used a
much more complicated one, consisting of fleurs-de-lis, lions
passant, portcullis, harts, roses, and other emblazonments of
the later Plantagenets and the Tudors. A fac-simile of the
former will be found in Plate CCCCXIV.
Lettou. John Lettou and William Mac hlinia printed separately
and jointly before the death of Caxton, but were very infe¬
rior to him in every respect; their type being most especial¬
ly barbarous. Their works are not very numerous, and are
principally upon legal subjects ; they printed the first edi¬
tion of Lyttleton’s Tenures.
Pynson. Richard Pynson was a Norman by birth, and studied
the art of printing under his “ worshipful master William
Caxton.” It would seem that he was an earlier printer than
Wynkyn de Worde, having established an office before the
death of Caxton. His first work is of date 1493, and was
printed “ at the Temple-bar of London.” He enjoyed high
patronage, and was appointed by Henry VII. to be his printer
before 1503. He is perhaps inferior to De Worde as a ty¬
pographer, his first types being extremely rude. He after¬
wards used a fount of De Worde’s, and another peculiar to
himself m this country, probably imported from France.
Some of his larger works, Fabian’s Chronicle, Lord Ber¬
ner’s translation of Froissart (which are the first editions of
these important additions to English literature), and some
of his law-works, are very fine specimens of the art. His
device was a curious compound of R and P, on a shield
which is sometimes supported by two naked figures.
Early Eng* Of Julian Notary, William Faques, Henry Pepwell, and
Ijsh print- others, it is unnecessary even to mention their names, inas¬
much as they add little that is interesting to the history of
English typography.
Grafton. Richard Grafton, however, claims especial notice. He
was by trade a grocer, although of good family. Of his
education nothing appears; but he was one of the most vo¬
luminous authors of his time, having, by his own account,
w'ritten a considerable portion of Hall’s Chronicles, an Abridg¬
ment of the Chronicles of England, and a Manual of the
same, a Chronicle at Large, and other books of historical
character, under what circumstances is not known. In 1537
Grafton published Thomas Mathew’s translation of the Bible,
which was printed abroad, but where is not satisfactori¬
ly ascertained; and in 1538 the Testament translated by
Miles Coverdale, which was printed at Paris by Francis Reg-
nault. At this time it would not appear that English print¬
ers were in high estimation; for Lord Cromwell, desirous
of having the Bible in the English language, thought it ne¬
cessary to procure from Henry VIII. letters to the king of
France for license to print it at Paris, and urged Bonner to
tender his earnest assistance. Bonner entered upon the un¬
dertaking with such zeal, that in recompense he was soon
afterwards appointed to the bishopric of Hereford. Miles
Coverdale had charge of the correctness (see his letter,
Gent.’s Mag. 1791), and Richard Grafton and Edward Whit¬
church w;ere the proprietors ; but under what arrangement
does not appear. When the work was on the point of com¬
pletion, the Inquisitors of the Faith interfered, seized the
sheets, and Grafton, Whitchurch, and Coverdale, were com¬
pelled to make precipitate flight. The avarice of the lieu¬
tenant-criminal induced him to sell the sheets for waste
paper instead of destroying them, and they were in part re-
VOL. XVIII.
TING.
553
purchased. The Testament was intrusted to Francis Reg- History,
nault, whose brother used the tasteful colophon which will'“v'"—'
be found in Plate CCCCXIV. Under the protection of
Cromwell they next, after many difficulties, obtained their
types and other materials from Paris, and the Bible was
completed at London in 1539. 44 Thus they became print¬
ers^ themselves, which before this affair they never intend¬
ed.” The edition consisted of 2500 copies. Cromwell
next procured for them a privilege (not an exclusive one,
however) for printing the Scriptures for five years. Very
shortly after the death of Lord Cromwell, Grafton was
imprisoned for printing Mathew’s Bible and the Great
Bible, his former friend Bonner much exaggerating the case
against him. The prosecution, however, was not followed
up; but in a short time he was, with Whitchurch, appoint¬
ed printer to Prince Edward, with special patents for print¬
ing all church-service books and primers. The document
is curious. It recites that such “ bookes had been prynted
by stranglers in other and strange countreys, partely to the
great losse and hynderance of our subjects, who both have
the sufficient arte, feate and treade of prynting, and parte¬
ly to the setting forthe the bysshopp of Rome’s usurped
auctoritie, and keping the same in contynuall memorye
and that, therefore, of his “ grace especiall, he had granted
and geven privilege to our wel-biloved subjects Richard
Grafton and Edward Whitchurch, citezeins of London,”
exclusive liberty to print all such books for seven years,
upon pain of forfeiture of all such books printed elsewhere.
One Richard Grafton, supposed to be the above, was
member of parliament for the city of London in 1553-54,
and also in 1556-57, and in 1562 was member for Coven¬
try. He is supposed to have died about 1572, and not
in very affluent circumstances. He used a punning, or, as
the heralds would call it, a canting device, of a young tree
or graft growing out of a tun. His works are distinguished
for their beauty, and are very numerous and costly. He was
one of the most careful and meritorious of English printers.
These are the titles of a few of his early Bibles, &c.
The Byble, 1537, folio. “ The Byble, which is all the
holy Scripture: In whych are contayned the Olde and
Newe Testament truly and purely translated into Englysh
by Thomas Mathew. Esaye 1 03- Hearcken to ye heauens,
and thou earth geaue eare: For the Lorde speaketh.
m.d.xxxvii.” The title of the New Testament is, “ The
newe Testament of our sauyor Jesu Christ, newly and
dylygently translated into Englyshe, with Annotacions in
the Mergent to help the Reader to the vnderstandyng of
the Texte.” This was printed in France.
The New Testament, Latin and English. 1538. Octavo.
“ The new testament both in Latin and English after the
vulgare texte ; which is red in the churche. Translated
and corrected by Myles Couerdale: and prynted in Paris,
by Fraunces Regnault. M. ccccc. xxxvm in Nouembre.
Prynted for Richard Grafton and Edward Whitchurch,
cytezens of London. Cum gratia & priuilegio regis.”
The Byble in Englysshe. 1539. Folio. “ The Byble
in Englyshe, that is to save the content of all the holy
Scrypture, bothe of ye olde, and newe testament, truly
translated after the veryte of the Hebrue and Greke textes,
by ye dylygent studye of dyuerse excellent learned men,
expert in the forsayde tongues. Prynted by Bychard
Grafton, and Edward Whitchurche. Cum priuilegio—
solum. 1539.” This is a very superb book, and is the
one which was commenced at Paris and finished at London
under the circumstances before related.
Newe Testament in Englysshe. 1540. Quarto.
“ Translated after the texte of Master Erasmus of Rotero-
dame.” t •
The Prymer. English and Latin. 1540. Octavo.
The Byble in Englyshe. 1540. Folio. A noble
volume, called, from the preface, Cranmer’s Byble.
4 a
PRINTING.
John Day.
Isaac Jag-
gat'd,
Edward
Blount,
&e.
Deter
Parker.
Oxford.
The Byble in Englyshe. 1541. Folio. “TheBy-
ble in Englyshe of the largest and greatest volume, aucto-
rised and appoynted by the commaundement of oure moost
redoubted prynce and soueraygne Lorde, Kynge Henrye
the VIII, supreme head of this his churche and realme of
Englande: to be frequented and vsed in euery Churche
within this his sayd realme, accordyng to the tenoure of
hys former Jniunctions geuen in that behalfe. Ouersene
and perused at the comaundement of the kynges hyghnes,
by the ryght reuerend fathers in God Cuthbert byshop of
Duresme, and Nicholas, bisshop of Rochester.” The lines
of the title are printed alternately red and black.
Such, with many other manuals, primers, See. were the
productions of this most eminent British typographer.
John Day was a printer of much eminence ; and his
works are numerous, beautiful, and useful.
The first complete edition of Shakspeare’s Plays was
printed by Isaac Jaggard and Edward Blount, in folio,
in 1623. Of his single plays, the earliest is “ The first
part of the Contention betwixt the two famous Houses of
Yorke and Lancaster,” which was printed by “ Thomas
Creed for Thomas Millington, and are to be sold at his
shop, under Saint Peter’s Church, Cornwall” (Cornhill), in
1594. These plays were printed by various typographers,
amongst whom appear the names of George Eld, Valentine
Simmes, R. Young, John Robson, and others who only
give their initials.
The first edition of Milton’s Paradise Lost was printed
in quarto by Peter Parker in the year 1667 ; the Para¬
dise Regained in 1671.
During the troublesome times that preceded the great
rebellion, the Puritans, jealously watched and persecuted,
introduced the anomaly of ambulatory presses, which were
constantly removed from town to town to escape the vigi¬
lance of the Star-Chamber. At these presses many of Mil¬
ton’s controversial pamphlets were printed; and it is even
said that the identical press at which the Areopagitica was
printed is still in existence, and was lately in the posses¬
sion of Mr Valpy, the well-known printer of the Variorum
Classics.
It is a very pleasing reflection, that the earlier practition¬
ers of the art did, by their uniform good character and reli¬
gious turn, tend much to render their profession produc¬
tive of a highly moral class of literature, and to raise it in
the estimation of all men. Had they been less respectable,
had they turned their attention to the many ribald and
tasteless writings of those times, the effect of the new art
would have been to degrade literature and lower morals,
to delay the spread of knowledge, and to give a depres¬
sion to the character of the art and its practitioners, from
which possibly they might never have recovered. These
excellent and learned men appear to have received their
temporal reward, in public estimation, sufficient wealth, and
a length of years beyond the ordinary term of mortality.
Setting aside the claim of Corsellis, printing was first
practised at Oxford by Theoderic Rood and Thomas
Hunte from 1480 to 1485. In Rymer, vol. xv. is a grant
by Queen Elizabeth to Thomas Cooper, clerk of Oxford,
for the exclusive printing of his Latin Dictionary. In 1585 Histor
a printing press was established at the expense of the Earln--
of Leicester, chancellor of the university. Joseph Barnes
was appointed printer to the university in 1585.
At Cambridge John Siberch printed in 1521, when CambridJ
Erasmus resided there, and probably executed some of his
books. Thomas Thomas, M. A. was the first printer to the
university in 1584.
At St Alban’s printing was very early practised, certain- St Albai
ly in the year 1480. It would appear that the printer was
a schoolmaster. It has been asserted, but without shadow
of argument, that printing was introduced here many years
before Caxton.
Printing was not introduced into Scotland till thirty years Early Sc|
after Caxton had set up his press at Westminster. Under the ^ prinl j
patronage of James IV., who was a zealous encourager of
learning and the useful arts, Walter Chepman and Andro
Myllar established the first printing press at Edinburgh, as
appears by a royal privilege granted to them in 1507.1
The only publications known to have issued from the
press of Myllar and Chepman are a collection of pamphlets,
chiefly metrical romances and ballads, in 1508, of which an
imperfect copy is preserved in the Advocates’ Library ;2
and the Scottish Service Book, including the Legends of
the Scottish Saints, commonly called the Breviary of Aber¬
deen, in 1509.3
It is difficult to account for the discontinuance of print¬
ing in Scotland for about twenty years after this time: pro¬
bably the disastrous events at the close of the reign of James
IV. may have contributed to render it an unprofitable trade;
but in its revival by Davidson there was no deterioration,
either in the magnitude and importance of the works at¬
tempted, or in the mode in which the mechanical part was
executed. It was probably about the year 1536 that he
printed, in a black-letter folio, “ The History and Croniklis
of Scotland, compilit and newly correckit be the Reuerend
and Noble Clerke Maister Hector Boece. Translatit laitly
be Maister Johne Bellenden. Imprentit in Edinburgh be
Thomas Davidson, dwelling foment the FrereWynd;” and
in 1540 he printed the whole works of Sir David Lindsay.
Davidson was succeeded by Lekprevik, Vautrollier, and
others ; but none were distinguished as printers till the
time of Ruddiman.
A mere catalogue of printers would afford little amuse¬
ment, and less instruction; especially since the produc¬
tions of the English press, save in the works of the printers
above named, not only exhibited no advance, but even
much deterioration, in most requisites of good printing.
Indeed, to so low a point had the art fallen, and so little
spirit was exhibited by English typographers, that the re¬
generation was left to an alien, whose perception of the in¬
feriority and capacity of improvement at once raised the art
to the level of the finest productions of Bodoni and Barbou.
This was John Baskerville, a japanner of Birmingham, Ba9ker.
who, having realized a considerable fortune, turned his at- ville,
tention to cutting punches for type, and succeeded in pro- Bulmer,
ducing a series of founts of remarkable beauty, so excel-&c.
lently proportioned, and standing so well, that the best of
1 “ James, &c. To al and sindrj our officiaris liegis and subdittis quham it eff'eris, quhais knawlage thir our lettres salcum,
greting ; Wit ye that forsamekill as our lovittis servitouris Walter Cheprnan and Andro Millar, burgessis of our burgh of Edinburgh,
has at our instance and request, for our plesour, the honour and proffit of our liealme and liegis, takin on thame to urnis an lin.n
hatne ane prent, with all stuff belangand tharto, and expert men to use the savnyne, for imprenting within our Kealme o e u
of our Lawis, actis of parliament, croniclis, mess bukis, and portuus efter the use of our Itealme, with addicions and legendis o . co
tis sanctis, now gaderit to be ekit tharto, and al utheris bukis that salbe sene necessar, and to sel the sammyn for competent pricis,
be our avis and discrecioun thair labouris and expens being considerit,” &c.
“ Geven under our prive Sel at Edinburgh the xv day of September, and of our llegne the xxfl yer.” ^ .
2 These pamphlets were reprinted in a handsome quarto volume, edited by Mr David Laing. The preface contains muc accura e
information regarding early printing in Scotland. . ,
3 Of this Service Book, which forms two volumes octavo, handsomely printed with red and black letter, in the years lotlJ an o ,
a beautiful copy is preserved in the University Library of Edinburgh. As the name and device of Walter Chepman occur in e iv oi ',
without any mention being made of his partner, we are led to the conclusion that Andro Myllar, it then alive, had lehnquis e n
share in the concern.
P R I N
History, modem type-founders (and this seems the Augustan age
v"*"' of type-founding) have done no more than vary the pro¬
portions and refine the more delicate lines and strokes.
Added to this, his press-work is of most excellent quality;
his paper the choicest that could be procured; and his ink
has a richness of tone, the mode of producing which has
died with him. The works of Baskerville are amongst the
choicest that can adorn a library. He died in 1775. His
types and punches were purchased to print the splendid
edition of Voltaire’s works at Paris, fie was worthily suc¬
ceeded by Bulmer, whose magnificent Shakspeare and
Milton are amongst the most superb books ever issued from
the press, and, with Macklin’s Bible and Ritchie’s, Bensly’s
Hume, and other works, may be fearlessly produced to win
for this country the palm of fine printing; whilst in Scot¬
land Thomas Ruddiman, and the two Foulis, may chal¬
lenge the prize of classical typography from Aldus and the
Stephani. Indeed the larger Greek types of the Foulis are
without parallel for grandeur; their press-work is beautiful,
and their correctness beyond all praise.
Modern printers, with all their faults, are not degenerate
successors of these worthies. The works from present of¬
fices that make pretensions to fine printing need not be
ashamed of comparison with these chef-d?oeuvres; whilst,
from the vast improvements in the mechanism of the art
in all its branches, paper, presses, ink, type, and other ad¬
juncts, the average of the printing of the present day is
infinitely superior to that of the last century. But in what
relates to practical skill, correctness, taste, and diligence,
we cannot hope to excel, though we may perhaps equal,
these departed masters.
PRACTICAL PRINTING.
''ee I’hte The first operation when the new fount1 has entered the
I CCCCXV. doors of the printing-office, is to lay it in the cases. These
are always in pairs, the upper case being divided into equal
spaces or boxes ; the part on the left of the broader divi¬
sion being appropriated to CAPITAL letters, figures, ac¬
cented letters, particular sorts, &c.; that on the right to
small capitals and miscellaneous characters. The letters
and figures are arranged in alphabetical and numerical order,
from left to right. The lower case is divided into unequal por¬
tions, according to the average occurrence of the particular
letters ; for the compositor (the workman whose duty it is to
lay the fount, and afterwards to place together or compose
the separate types into words) never looks at the face of
the letter he picks up, but unhesitatingly plunges his fin¬
gers into any box, being sure that the letter he picks out
thence is the one to which that box is appropriated, and
consequently the one he requires. As there is no external
mark or guide attached to the different boxes to denote the
letters they contain, a stranger is not a little surprised and
mystified at the eccentric movements of the workman’s
hand. Accordingly, it will be observed, upon looking to
the engraving, that the letter e has a box one half larger
than any other, c, d, m, n, h, u, t, i, s, o, a, r, twice the size
of b, 1, v, k, f, g, y, p, or wr, and four times the size of z, x,
j, q, or the [] crotchets, full points, &c. These boxes are
not arranged in alphabetical or any other order, but as ex¬
perience has shown how the case may be most convenient¬
ly divided into the requisite proportions. There are also
other pairs of cases similarly arranged for the italic letters.
The fount is therefore laid or distributed in these boxes,
when the following are found to be some of the propor¬
tions of the letters in a fount of pica of 800 lbs. weight:
Capitals, of each from 400 to 600,
Small capitals, from 150 to 300,
j 400,
k 800,
m 3,000,
n 8,000,
q 500,
z 200,
& 200,
, 4,500,
. 2,000,
<Xr 200,
ting.
a 8,500, b 1,600,
e 12,000, c 3,000,
i 8,000, d 4,000,
o 8,000, f 2,500,
u 3,400, h 6,400,
the whole fount comprehending "the number of 15o’,000
letters, spaces, and figures.
The compositor having placed his copy upon a little-used
part of the upper case, and having received the necessary
dii ections, takes up an instrument called a composing-stick
(which, as well as the way of holding it and its use, will
be better understood by reference to the drawing than
by description, see Plate CCCCXV.), and sliding that in¬
ner moveable portion fastened by a screw, wider or closer
according to the desired width of the page, cuts to the
exact size a piece of brass rule, called the setting-rule,
which enables the letters to slip down without any ob¬
struction from the screw-holes of the stick, or the nicks
by which one fount is distinguished from another. He then
reads the first few words of his copy, takes first a capital
letter from the upper case, the succeeding letters from the
lower case, and at the conclusion of the word a space,
which is merely the shank of a letter without any face,
and not so high as a letter by about one-fourth part. This
therefore separates each w ord by a space, which cannot ap¬
pear upon the paper, because the ink cannot be distributed
upon it except by mismanagement, in which case it is a
fearful blotch upon a fair page, and must have been observ¬
ed by most readers. He then proceeds with his next word,
which will probably consist of lower-case letters only, and
so proceeds until he has arrived at the end of his line. It
is most likely, howrever, that the words he has occasion to
compose, with the necessary spaces, will not fill up the ex¬
act width of the line, and that there will be sometimes too
much, sometimes too little, room for getting in the next or
part of the next word. In this case he has to consider whe¬
ther it will be better to crowd the line and get in the next
syllable, or make the line more open and take it over to the
next line ; his care being that his matter, when composed,
shall not look too white or too dark. Having decided, he
takes out the spaces he has inserted, and puts in their stead
others of greater or less width, as the case may require, in
such a manner that on the face of the line being touched
it shall not feel loose, or that it shall not require any parti¬
cular pressure to force down the last letter into its proper
place. This being accomplished in an artist-like manner,
he takes out his setting-rule, and places it in front of his line,
and with a gentle pressure of the thumb forces both back in¬
to the composing-stick ; he then proceeds in a similar man¬
ner with other lines, until his stick is very nearly full, when,
placing it upon \he frame on which the cases are, his setting-
rule being in front, he lifts his lines out of the stick in order
to place them upon a proper instrument, called a galley.
If, however, the matter is to be leaded, that is, if the lines
of types are to be more apart than usual, the process is a
little different. The compositor then has before him a quan¬
tity of pieces of metal called leads, of the exact width of the
page, only one fourth, one sixth, or one eighth as wide as
the type, and not higher than spaces. After composing a
line, before moving his setting-rule, he takes one or more
of these and places it before the line, then places the set¬
ting-rule, and so proceeds. Having thus gone on until a
considerable quantity of matter is composed, the compositor
next proceeds to make it up into pages, and then into
sheets. First, taking by portions as many lines of his matter
as are to be contained in a page, he adds thereto at the
bottom a line of quadrats, which are the same as spaces,
but much larger, being three, four, five, or six times as
555
Practical
Printing.
Case.
i . • 1 . ^ . ... e smee ouadrat, &c. in certain proportions, instances of which are given
1 A fount is any weight of type consisting of every letter, space, quauiai, r i
below. See Type-founding.
556
PRINTING.
Practical long as they are broad, and places at the top the folio of
Printing. ^0 page and the running head, or line which indicates the
' title of the work or the subject of the page or chapter, and
Case’ then adds such leads or other things as may be necessary,
taking care that in the first page he places the signature (a
letter of the alphabet, intended for a guide to the binder),
because by keeping this always outside, and the second
signature on the next leaf, he cannot fold the sheet wrong.
He next ties it tightly round with page-cord, and places
it upon a piece of coarse paper. Having made up as many
pages as the sheet consists of, viz. four if folio, eight if
4,to, sixteen if 8vo, he next lays them down upon the im¬
posing-stone (a large slab of marble let into a frame) in
the necessary order. This is, to a stranger, a very curious
arrangement; they appear to him to be placed at random,
without any design or fixed rule, and as they are necessarily
laid down in two divisions, one for each side of the sheet,
one is of consequence the very reverse of the other. He
may very easily instruct himself, however; for if he take a
sheet of paper, and fold it into any required size, marking
the folios with a pencil, and then open it without cut¬
ting, he will find they fall in curious irregularity. The pages
are laid down on the stone reverse of the arrangement they
have on the paper; for it must be remembered that every
type and every page is like a seal, the reverse of the im¬
pression it leaves; consequently, were the pages laid down
as on a marked paper, viz. the first page on the right hand,
it would, in type, be at the extreme left, and so on. The
following schemes of the laying down and imposition of a
sheet of 4to, 8vo, and 12mo, will give some idea of the ap¬
parent confusion of this process.
Imposition of a Sheet of 4fo.
First Form. Second Form.
Imposition of a Sheet of Svo.
First Form. -Second Form.
Imposition of a Sheet of \2>no.
First Form.
Second Form.
Fractica'
Printing
Case. ||
The pages being properly disposed upon the imposing-
stone, the compositor next takes a chase (a frame of iron
divided by cross bars into compartments, the inner angles
of which are made rectangular with much care) and places
it over them, and then having ascertained the size of the
paper to be used, adjusts pieces of wood or metal, called
furniture, between them. W ithin the chase, but next to the
pages, he now places other pieces of iron called side and
foot sticks, which are rather wider at one end than the other,
and between these and the chase small pieces of wood,
which decrease in width in the same proportion as the
side-stick, and which are called quoins. With a shooting-
stick (which formidably-named weapon is merely a piece of
hard wood, a foot in length, an inch and a half in width, and
half an inch in thickness) and a mallet he forces the quoins
towards the thicker ends of the side and foot sticks, which
consequently act as gradual and most powerful wedges,
forcing the separate pieces of type to become a compact
and almost united body, so that, every side of the pages
being again and again locked up, the whole mass, consisting
of many thousand letters, may be lifted unbroken from the
stone. This united mass is called a. form; that one which
contains the first page being called the outer form, the
other the inner.
The compositor is paid by the number of thousands of
letters he composes,1 which is thus ascertained. The letter
m, being on a shank which is perfectly square, is taken as
the standard; he ascertains how many ms the page is in
length, including the running head and the white line at
the bottom; that is, in fact, how many lines of the particu¬
lar type used there would be in a page of the given size,
supposing it were all solid type ; next, how many ms it is
in width, that is, how many times the letter m would be
repeated in a line of the given length were it to consist of
nothing but ms. This latter sum is then doubled, because
experience shows that the average width of the letters is
one half of the depth, or one half of that of the letter m.
1 In 1804, after a protracted litigation before the Court of Session, the journeymen compositors of Edinburgh succeeded in obtaining
the sanction of the Court for an advance of one penny per thousand letters, or, upon an average, about one fourth on the prices o ei
work. The grounds upon which the Court rested this decision were, that the wages were much too low; that they had remainea tor
forty years unaltered, whilst the price of the necessaries of life had very much increased ; that it was proper to avoid a rise ot wages w ic
might lead to idleness, but equally necessary to place the workmen upon a respectable footing, so as to enable them to do t le11* wor pr
perly, and also to encourage them in cultivating and acquiring that degree of literature by which the public must infallibly be bene e ,
and that the fair criterion was, to make the wages of Edinburgh bear the same proportion to those of London which they (1 m
year 1785, before the London prices were raised. # ,
That a court of law, whose province it is, not to legislate, but to apply and enforce existing statutes, should have entertained ^
tion regarding the price of labour, for the regulation of which there not only existed no law, but which had never been deemed a su "
ject for legislative interference, appears to be a very singular incident in the history of judicial procedure. The prices thus fixed, o\\-
ever (namely, 4^d. per 1000 for book-work, with an additional halfpenny if nonpareil, and a penny if pearl, and 54d. for law-papeis an
jobs), being regarded as not unreasonable, have ever since been adhered to by every respectable establishment in Edinburgh.
P R I N
Practical The length of the page is then multiplied by the product
Printing. 0f this doubled width, then by the number of pages in the
I sheet, and the result will give the average number of let¬
ters in the sheet. This will be much better understood by
the following casting up of a sheet of 8vo in pica.
Number of ms long  47
ms wide, 2i X 2 48
376
188
2256
Number of pages in a sheet of 8vo  16
13536
2256
36096
The compositor therefore is paid for composing 36,000 let-,
ters ; for odd figures are dropped, unless they exceed 500,
when they are paid for as if they completed another 1000.
If the sheet be of solid type, and of ordinary size, the price
paid in London is sixpence per 1000 letters; if the small
type called minion, sixpence farthing ; if nonpareil, seven-
pence ; if pearl, eightpence. If, however, the type be
leaded, the price is a farthing per 1000 less; and if the
work be composed from print copy, the price is three far¬
things per 1000 less than it would be paid if the copy were
manuscript. Works in foreign languages are paid one half¬
penny per 1000 more in the type of ordinary size, three far¬
things per 1000 more in the smaller. Greek with leads and
without accents is eightpence halfpenny per 1000; with¬
out leads or accents, eightpence three farthings ; w ith ac¬
cents, tenpence farthing. Hebrew, Arabic, Syriac, &c. are
paid double. The compositor, it appears, must therefore
pick up 72,000 letters before he can receive an ordinary
week’s wages, must moreover correct all the blunders mis¬
chance or carelessness may have occasioned ^ and must
make up his matter into pages and impose them, with great
expenditure of time in many other particulars ; but, as is
hereafter described, he must have previously placed every
one of these 72,000 into the appropriate boxes whence he
has withdrawn them in composition. Now it is usually
reckoned that this latter operation, called distributing, oc¬
cupies one fourth of a compositor’s time, and the other
operations another fourth; he has therefore only one half
of his time for composition; consequently he must pick up
letters at the rate of 144,000 per week, 24,000 per day, or
2000 per hour. His hand has in picking up each letter to
traverse a considerable space, say six inches, and back again,
to his composing-stick. His rapidity of motion is therefore
wonderful, and the exertion is so long continued, that the bu¬
siness, although apparently a light one, is in fact extremely
laborious. The number of thousands of letters in a sheet ne¬
cessarily varies with the size of the type, width and length
of the page, and the number of the pages. The casting up
above given is a solid pica sheet of demy octavo, of mo¬
derate page; a similar sheet of brevier would contain 81,000
letters, and the cost of composing it would be L.2. 0s. 6d.
Single tables, forming one uninterrupted mass of type, wall
sometimes contain 250,000 letters; and the labour of the
compositor being very great in getting up tables, he is paid
double. Consequently the cost of composing such a table
in pearl or diamond (see the 13th of Bell’s Chronological
Tables, 4th edit.) would be not less than LJ6. 13s. 6d.,
without extra charges. Yet this infinity of types, by the
power of the wedge-formed side-sticks and quoins, is formed
into so solid a mass as to be moved without much danger
of disruption.
The sheet being now imposed, an impression is taken,
called a proof, which is carried down to the reader, who,
TING.
551
having folded the proof in the necessary manner, first looks Practical
over the signatures, next ascertains whether the sheet com- Printing.
mences with the right signature and folio, and then looks '   
tlle following folios. He now looks over the running Case'
heads, inspects the proof to see that it has been imposed in
the proper furniture, that the chapters are numbered rightly,
and that the other directions have been correctly attended
to, marking whatever he finds wrong. Having carefully
done this, he places the proof before him, with the copy at
his left hand, and proceeds to read the proof over with the
greatest minuteness, referring incessantly to the copy that
no word may escape him, correcting the capitals or'italics,
or any other peculiarities, noting continually whether every
portion of the composition has been executed in a work-
man-like manner; and having fully satisfied himself upon
all technical points, he calls his reading-boy, who, taking the
copy, reads in a clear voice, but with great rapidity and the
least possible attention to sound, sense, pauses, or cadences,
the precise words placed before him, inserting, without pause
or embarrassment, from the most crabbed or intricate copy,
every interlineation, note, or side-note. The gabble of these
boys in a reading-room, where there are three or four read¬
ing, is most amusing, a stranger hearing the utmost confu¬
sion of tongues, strange unconnected sentences, and most
monotonous tones ; the readers plodding at their several
tasks with the most iron composure, not in the least disturb¬
ed by the Babel around them. They follow carefully every
word, marking every error, or pausing to assist in decipher¬
ing every unknown or foreign word. This first reading is
strictly confined to making the proof an exact copy of the
manuscript, and ascertaining the competency of the com¬
positor, consequently first readers are generally intelligent
and well-educated compositors, whose practical knowledge
enables them to detect the most trivial technical deficien¬
cies. Having thus a second time perused the proof, and
carefully marked upon the copy the commencement, sig¬
nature, and folio of the succeeding sheet, he sends it by
his reading-boy to the composing-room to be corrected by
the workmen who have taken share in the composition.
These immediately divide the proof amongst them, and each,
taking that portion of it which contains the matter he had
composed, and going to his cases, gathers the letters mark¬
ed as corrections in the margin, together with a quantity
of spaces of all sizes, and returns to the forms, which in the
meanwhile one of them has /aid up on the imposing-stones
and unlocked. He then with a blunt bodkin lifts up each
line in which a correction is required, draws out the wrong
letter and inserts the right one, adjusting the spaces in such
a way as to compensate for the increased or diminished
size of the letter substituted, overrunning carefully seve¬
ral lines should any word have been added or struck out, so
that the spacing may be uniform, and the corrected matter
exhibit no proof whatever of any alteration having been ne¬
cessary. This is an operation requiring much practice and
skill; and here is shown the value of attention in the prelimi¬
nary operations. Should the types have been carelessly laid
or improperly distributed, should the workman have been
careless in composition, capitalling, or spacing, he will con¬
sume as much time in amending his errors as in composing
his matter, to the great detriment of his work, the injury
and inconvenience of his employer and his companions, and
great delay in every part of the printing-office. Thus every
compositor having taken his share, another proof is pulled,
which, with the original proof, is taken to the same first
reader, who compares the one with the other, and ascer¬
tains that his marks have been carefully attended to, in de¬
fault of which, he again sends it up to be corrected ; but
should he find his revision satisfactory, he sends the second
proof with the copy to the second reader, by whom it under¬
goes the same careful inspection ; but this time, most tech¬
nical objections being rectified^ the reader observes whe-
558
PRINTING.
Case.
Case.
Practical ther the author’s language be good and intelligible ; if not, the Stationers’ Company is well known; and the company Practica 1
Printing, he makes such queries on the margin as his experience may richly deservedthe severe fine they incurred for spreading the s ^
 'suggest; and having again followed his reading-boy, he immoral command “ Thou shalt commit adultery The
sends it up to the compositor, where it again undergoes cor- Bible so misprinted has received the name of the “ Adultery
rection, and a proof being very carefully pulled, it is sent Bible;” and a copy is preserved in the British Museum the
down to the same reader, who revises his marks and trans- edition having been carefully suppressed. There is another
fers the queries. The proof is then sent, generally with the Bible known as the “ Vinegar Bible from a misprint in the
copy, to^he author for his perusal, and he having made such 20th chapter of St Luke, where Pai able of the Vinegar
alterations as he thinks necessary, sends it back to the print- is printed for “ Parable of the Vineyard ; this proceeded
insr-office for correction. With the proper attention to these from the Clarendon press. Inthe reign of Charles I. a ver>
marks the printer’s responsibility as to correctness ceases, curious traffic in Bibles, &c. arose ; they were printed by
and the slJet is now ready for press. • any one who chose, and imported in vast numbers from
It need scarcely be remarked, that “ correctness of the abroad. It will readily be imagined that these were made
press" is a very material feature in every work, and more
especially in those of a scientific nature. When the atten¬
tion and the mind are devoted to the train of some close
argument, or passage of surpassing beauty, it is surprising
how easily an error of the press, even although it may not
injure the sense, and may be as evident “ as the sun at
noon,” will destroy the charm, and break the “ thread of the
discourse ;” and even in works of ordinary reading they are
exceedingly offensive. Many curious anecdotes are related
of the methods which the earlier printers adopted to attain
correctness. It was the glory of the early literati to take
charge of the accuracy of new works; and, in return, the
value and sale of each edition varied with the skill and re¬
putation of the corrector. Of these Erasmus is an illustrious
proof. Many of the first printers were led to the practice
of the art by their love of learning, and their anxiety to
promote it by the production of classic authors. Hence
several are better known in the world of learning than in
for sale, not for use, and that they abounded with egregious
errors ; but, what is worse than this, they were full of mis¬
translations and interpolations, and the omissions were fear¬
ful. All these were done as much by design as by accident,
the Romanists and sectaries taking the opportunity of ad¬
vancing their own tenets by interpolating and altering texts
to suit their views. These monstrous anomalies produced,
however, some good ; they occasioned the necessity of the
authorized version now in use, and printed under such au¬
thority as insures perfect fidelity, whilst there is sufficient
competition to make it impossible that the Word of God can
ever become a sealed book to the humblest and poorest Chris¬
tian. Some of the blunders in these editions are sufficiently
absurd to overcome the repugnance which must naturally
be felt at such license. Thus, in Luke xxi. 28, condemnation
has been misprinted for redemption. In Field’s Bible of 1653,
called the Pearl Bible, Rom. vi. 13, we find “ Neither yield
ve vour members as instruments of righteousness unto sin,’’
-i tr TT"   
several are neitei Known m tno wunu m icaming, ^   , , „ . ,, v . .i ■
the circle of bibliographers ; as the editors and correctors for unrighteousness ; and 1 Cor. vi. 9, Know ye not that
of valuable works, than as the careful or beautiful printers the unrighteous shall inherit the kingdom of God . for shall
of them. Aldus, it is true, has so admirably succeeded not inherit. It is said that these corruptions are m great
in both characters, that he has fully established his double measure owing to Fields cupidity, and that he received a
fame ; but whether he most valued himself upon his learn- bribe of L.1500 from the Independents to alter the text in
ing or his skill may be doubted. It would appear from Acts vi. 3, to sanction the right of the people t° appoint
his letters that he considered it as his chiefest duty to their own pastors, “ Wherefore,brethren^look ye orit among
correct every sheet that passed through his press. In all
his bustle in preparing every material in use in his art, in
all his occupations public and private, this important duty
was never neglected. He tells us, “ that he has hardly
time to inspect, much less to correct, the sheets which are
executed in his office; that his days and his nights are de¬
voted to the preparation of fit materials ; and that he can
scarcely take food or strengthen his stomach, owing to the
multiplicity and pressure of business ; meanwhile,” adds he,
“ with both hands occupied, and surrounded by pressmen
who are clamorous for work, there is scarcely time even
to blow one’s nose;” nor did his son or grandson depart
from his ways, but did themselves insure the correctness
of their works, even when the latter had risen to wealth
and eminence, and enjoyed the laborious dignity of a pro¬
fessor’s chair. The beautiful Greek w orks of the Stephani
are especially valued for their correctness. Stephens cor¬
rected his own press with intense labour and minuteness,
and is reported to have adopted a singular plan for obtain¬
ing perfect similarity to the copy, by employing females
who had not the slightest knowledge of the Greek charac¬
ters or language to compare every letter of the proof with
the manuscript; a labour so intense as to be almost incre-
you seven men of honest report, full of the Holy Ghost and
wisdom, wdiom ye may appoint over this business,” instead
of we. This Bible is notorious, and, strange to say, valued,
for its gross incorrectness. It is asserted that no less than
six thousand errors of greater or less magnitude have been
noted in it. But the most extraordinary example of care¬
lessness is presented by the Vulgate the printing of which
wTas sedulously superintended by no less an authority than
Sextus V., a curious example of the infallibility of the pope.
To the astonishment of the world, it swarmed with errors;
and a whimsical attempt was made to remedy the defects,
by pasting printed slips of paper over the erroneous pas¬
sages. As this, however, was exceedingly laughable, the
papal authority was exerted to the utmost to call in the edi¬
tion, and with such effect, that it soon became very scarce, and
a copy of it has produced the disproportionate sum of sixty
guineas. To add to the absurdity, the volume contains a
bull from the pope anathematising and excommunicating
all printers who, in reprinting it, should make any altera¬
tion in the text. The monkish editor of The Anatomy of
the Mass, printed in 1561, a work consisting of 172 pages
of text and fifteen pages of errata, very amusingly accounts
for these mistakes by attributing them to the artifice of
mscripi; a laoour so intense as to ne aunust -  0
dible. He is moreover said to have hung up proofs on the Satan, who caused the printers to commit such numerous
doors of his printing-office, and to have amply rewarded blunders; but he does not inform us whether it was rea >
any w’ho could detect inaccuracies therein. Coverdale, it the archangel fallen, or only his minor satellite, t e prm er s
will be recollected, corrected the first English Bible and devil. rI he editor of an Ethiopic version of St an s pis
Testament, and received a bishopric as his reward. ties innocently confesses, in palliation of his enors, a
The experience of every printer will furnish a host of laugh- they who printed the wrork could not anc^ 99I1 ,
able errors ; and indeed these defects have been deemed of not print: they,helped us and we helped them, as t re me
such importance as to deserve preservation. (DTsraeli’s Cu- helps the blind.” < x, c n n
riosities of Literature.') The omission of the word from the The sheet being printed off in the way hereafter to e e
seventh commandment, in an edition of the Bible, printed by scribed, and the forms returned by the pressmen to tne com
PRINTING.
I ’radical posing-room, and very carefully washed with lye, and rinsed
Mating. with water, the compositor lays up the forms on a letter-
board, and there unlocks them. Each compositor employed
Ucie' on the work then takes a share of the letter, and, wetting the
face of it plentifully with a sponge, which causes the types to
I adhere sufficiently to prevent accidents, yet not so much as
to retard the workman, takes up a portion on his setting-rule,
with the nick upwards, and the face turned towards him ; he
then takes between his fingers and thumb a few letters, gives
arapid glance at the face to see what letters they are, and then
passing his hand rapidly over the cases, drops each into its ap¬
propriate box. In this operation the greatest attention is ne¬
cessary, for it must be remembered, that every letter dropped
into a wrong box in distributing is sure to cause an error
in composing; for the workman, as before stated, never looks
at the letter he takes up, relying upon the correctness of the
distribution. Compositors, therefore, should be especially
careful, when learning their business, not to sacrifice cer¬
tainty to swiftness ; for in this instance most especially is
it found that too much haste is little speed. If the ra¬
pidity of motion in composition strikes the stranger with
wonder, what must that of distribution occasion ? Most
compositors distribute four times as rapidly as they com¬
pose ; if, therefore, he pick up two thousand letters in an
hour, he would distribute eight or ten thousand, or about
three per second. His letter being properly distributed, he
again proceeds to compose in the manner before described,
until the work is finished. The number of times the letter
is returned must depend upon the size of the fount. A thou¬
sand pounds weight of types would get up five or six sheets,
and, therefore, in a fair octavo volume, the letter would be
returned five or six times.
I res3- The Press is the machine whereby impressions are ob¬
tained of the type, when set up by the compositor as above
described. On the skill and care of the pressmen depend
the beauty of the work. If the press-work be not good, all
the labour of the compositor is thrown away; his work makes
no respectable appearance, and the master gets no credit.
It has already been mentioned, that very little alteration
had been made in the printing press from the time of the
first printers to that of Blaew of Amsterdam, about 1620.
Blaew’s improvements, although of immense advantage,
only consisted in alterations in the details, and not in the
principle. Blaew’s presses have in their turn been super¬
seded by those of Lord Stanhope ; and very few are in
existence, in England at least, save in old offices, where
they are used as proof-presses, or kept merely as curiosities.
A description of a bygone piece of mechanism would be of
little utility ; to show, however, Lord Stanhope’s ingenious
invention, it is necessary to make the reader understand the
original construction. As a great part of the old press
is retained in the new, one description will serve for both ;
premising that the old presses, as well as those first fitted
with the Stanhope power, were of wood, but that very soon
the latter were constructed of iron, and that, in consequence,
the general appearance of the press was much altered.
A press then consisted of two upright pieces of immense
strength, which rose perpendicularly from the floor to the
height of six feet and a half, and were connected with cross
pieces. From about the middle of each of these a slide,
called a rib, projected at right angles, and perfectly parallel
to each other ; a spindle with a powerful screw, kept in its
place by these cross pieces, worked in a box called a hose,
by means of a bar or lever inserted in it; the toe of the
spindle worked in a sort of cup fixed upon a large solid
block of mahogany, having the face planed perfectly smooth,
and called the platten. It will be evident, that when the bat
js pulled down, the spindle will descend in proportion to
the worm of its screw, and force down the platten to pie-
cisely the same degree, and with great power. A table
vas made to run in and out upon the above-mentioned ribs;
upon this was the form of type ; when run in, it was exactly Practical
under the platten, and having been previously inked, and1>rinting*
the paper laid on it, the bar was pulled over, the spindle, plat-
ten, &c. descended, and the consequence was a very power- * ress‘
ful pressure of the paper between the platten and the type,
causing the latter to give a perfect fac-simile of its surface
upon the paper. Lord Stanhope’s invention consists in an
improved application of the power to the spindle and screw,
whereby the power is multiplied many times. This will be
best understood by describing an iron press of the modern
construction. Upon reference to the engraving, this will
be found to consist of a very heavy mass of iron, called the
staple eta, the outline of which somewhat resembles that of
a vase. It is united at the top and bottom, but the neck and
body are open. The upper part is called the nut b, and an¬
swers the purpose of the head in the old press, as it is in
fact a box with a female screw, in which the screw of the
spindle c works ; the lower portion of the open part describ¬
ed as the neck is occupied with a piston and cup d, d, in and
on which the toe of the spindle works. On the nearer side
of the staple is a vertical pillar or arbor e, the lower end of
which is inserted into the staple at the top of the shoulder ;
the upper end passes through a top-plate f, which being
screwed on by the upper part of the staple, holds it firmly.
The extreme upper end of the arbor being hexagonal, receives
a head g, which is in fact a lever of some inches length ; this
head is connected by a coupling bark, to a similar lever or
head i, into which the upper end of the spindle is inserted.
A, the arbor. B, the top-plate. C, the arbor-head. D, the spin¬
dle-head. E, the coupling-bar F, the bar or lever. G, the
spindle and screw.
The bar or lever b, by which the power is applied by the
workman, is inserted into the arbor, and not into the spindle,
by which ingenious contrivance, 1st, the lever is in length
the whole width of the press, instead of half, and is, moreover,
in a much better situation for the application of the press¬
man’s strength; 2d, there is the additional lever of the ar¬
bor-head; 3d, the additional lever of the spindle-head; and,
lastly, the screw itself may be so enlarged in diameter as to
have immense increased power. The platten is screwed on
to the under surface of the piston; the table m has slides
underneath, which move in the ribs n, n, instead of upon
them, and is run in and out by means of girths affixed to each
end, and passing round a drum or wheel o. As the platten
is of considerable weight, the workman would have to waste
much strength in raising the platten from the form after the
impression has been given, were not a balance-weighty
suspended upon a lever and hook at the back of the press,
which counterbalances the weight of the platten, raises it
from the form, and brings the bar-handle back again, ready
for another pull. These are the principal parts of the ma-
560 P R I N
1’ractxcal chlnery whereby the impression is given, and are sufficient
Printing. for the general reader, with the aid of the engraving in
  v Plate CCCCXV. For the printer there are yet other ap-
Pres8, pliances. At the right-hand end of the table is an iron
frame <7, moving freely upon pivots, so as to fall upon the
table, or rise until stopped by what is called the gallows r;
this is covered with parchment very, tightly stretched, and
is then called the tympan ; upon the tympan blankets are
placed, which are covered by an inner tympan, and fastened
by hooks ; the whole forming a solid yet elastic and yield¬
ing surface, admirably fitted for impressing the paper upon
the type (for this is its use), inasmuch as the surface of the
parchment is soft and without grain, and readily receives the
impression of the type, while the blankets give freely to
every projection, without retaining any indentation, fto
protect those portions of the paper which are not destined
to be coloured from ink or soil, there is at the upper end of
the tympan another iron frame, of much lighter make, and
also moving upon pivots, so as to fall upon the face of the
tympan. This is covered with a sheet of coarse paper, and
the exact size and form of the pages are carefully cut out
therefrom, the parts left being an excellent protection of
the paper under them. rlhis is called a frisket.
Such is the ordinary Stanhope press. Since this was
introduced many excellent presses have been invented,
and very extensively introduced ; but this is so simple,
so easily kept in order, and so powerful, that it has never
been excelled ; and being very intelligible, has been chosen
for the illustration. The manner of working is the same in
all. A notice of the principle of various other presses will
be found in a subsequent part of this treatise.
On the left front of the press stands the inking table.
This is a table of mahogany (which is best) or iron, about
four feet high and three feet four inches wide ; at the back
is a slightly elevated stage with a recess at each end, in one
of which is the ink, in the other stands the brayer or muller,
by which the ink is spread out in a thin layer upon the front
of the stage.
Printers’ It must be fully understood that printers’ ink is a very
ink. different composition from that used tor writing. It is of
such consistency, that were a small portion taken up be¬
tween the finger and thumb, when they were opened it
would produce a thread of an inch or an inch and a half
in length. Of all the materials used in printing, this is the
most important, and the most opposite qualities are required
in it. It must be of excellent colour. Formerly excellence
of colour was deemed to consist in an exceeding dark hue,
not exactly black, but black enriched with a hue of the dark¬
est blue or purple. This gave indescribable effect to the works
for which it was used, a richness, a gorgeousness, which it
is impossible to describe ; but the works of Baskerville and
Bulmer, especially the Milton of the latter, afford the best
specimens. Now we hold perfection to consist in the in-
tensest black, and all the resources of chemistry and the
arts have been sought to attain this end. It must stand for
ever; but here we have miserably failed. Compare the pro¬
ductions of the old printers with those of twenty years back.
What a difference! The works of the Aldi and Elzevirs,
of Plantinus, Caxton, Pynson, and Grafton, preserve their
colour as intense as the day they were printed ; there is no
yellowness or brownness, no foxiness, whilst the books of
those of 1810-20 are wretchedly discoloured. Where fine
printing, however, has been required and paid for, the mo¬
dern ink is no whit inferior to the ancient. Witness the before-
mentioned works of Bulmer, Macklin, Ritchie, Bowyer, Bas¬
kerville, and others ; but certain it is that the ink in general
use twenty years ago was of very inferior quality. It must be
perfectly mixed, and ground until it is absolutely impalpa¬
ble, otherwise it will speedily clog the types and inking ap¬
paratus ; it must adhere to the paper, and not to the type, or
it will tear off the face of the former, and clog up the lat-
T I N G.
ter; it must be sufficiently thick ; it must keep perfectly Practicd
undried when in large masses, and dry very quickly when Printing,
it is distributed in thin surface. No printers of the present^
day make their own ink, although some add ingredients n ‘
which they believe to improve the colour or quality. It is an
especial business, and, by the aid of machinery, capital, and
exclusive attention to the manufacture, the ink now sup¬
plied is admirable in the qualities of thorough mixing and
grinding, drying, blackness, &c.; but whether it will stand
the test of time, time alone can show. It is an expensive
article, the commonest book-ink being one shilling and six¬
pence per pound, whilst the usual qualities are two shillings
and sixpence, three shillings, and four shillings per pound;
those used for superior work are five shillings and six shil¬
lings, and those for cuts as high as ten shillings, though it is
questionable whether, at the latter price, the consumer is
not paying for a mere name.
Every manufacturer has, of course, his own secrets, both
of ingredient and process. Ihe universal ingredient is the
finest possible lamp-black ; the great secret probably con¬
sists in the manner in which, and the material from which,
this is made. There are vast buildings appropriated to the
sole purpose of burning oil, naphtha, spirits, coal-gas, &c.
to produce this black, which is collected from the sides,
ceilings, &c. of the buildings. It is brought from Germany
and many other countries; and no expense is spared to get
the most superior quality. The next most important article is
nut or linseed oil boiled and burnt into a varnish; then oil
of turpentine, &c. The following receipts have been given.
The first is the method used by Baskerville and Bulmer,
and nothing can be better than the results.
1. Fine old linseed oil boiled to a thick varnish, and
cooled in small quantities, three gallons ; a small quantity
of black or amber rosin dissolved therein ; the mixture then
stands for some months, that all impurities may be deposit¬
ed ; after which it is mixed with the finest lamp-black, and
carefully ground for use.
2. One hundred pounds of nut or linseed oil are re¬
duced by boiling and burning one tenth or one eighth of its
bulk, and to the thickness of a syrup ; two pounds of coarse
bread and several onions being thrown in to purify it from
grease. Thirty or thirty-five pounds of turpentine are boiled
apart, until, on cooling it on paper, it breaks clean, without
pulverising. The former is poured nearly cold into the lat¬
ter, and well mixed. The compound is then boiled again.
Lamp-black is next thoroughly mixed with it, in quantity
according to the ink required, and being well ground, the
ink is then ready for use. .Some add indigo, some Prussian
blue, which considerably improves the colour; but these
inks are so difficult to work, and so clog up the type, that
the improvement is better let alone. 1 he turpentine is
added to give greater varnish, and improve the drying qua¬
lity ; but'if the oil be old and fine, the quantity required is
proportionally less.
3. Mr Savage, an admirable artist, denies that any ink
can be depended on, of the varnish of which oil is the ba¬
sis ; he therefore gives the following receipt:—Balsam ca-
pivi, 9 oz.; best lamp-black, 3 oz.; Prussian blue, 1^ oz.;
Indian red, f oz.; turpentine soap dried, 3 oz. This ink
is of beautiful colour, but appears to work foul. There can
be no doubt, however, that the best and cheapest plan is
always to purchase what is required of a proper ink-maker.
At the right front of the press stand the bank and horse. Press.
The bank is a deal table of some size; the horse is an inclin ed
plane which stands upon the bank; upon it is laid the white
paper prepared for working, which, when worked, is brought
from the press to the bank. There are two pressmen to
each press, one of whom attends to the inking only, to as¬
certain the excellence of which he turns, whenever he has
a moment to spare, to the worked sheets upon the bank,
glancing his eye rapidly over each to see that every part
PRINTING.
Practical
Printing.
Press.
is of its proper colour, and that no picks, or other impres¬
sions, mar the work ; the other attends only to the press,
and gives the impression. 1 hese men are paid by every two
hundred and fifty impressions, or by the token. Thus, if
the number be five hundred, and the price fourpence-half-
penny per token, each man receives ninepence for the five
hundred impressions of each form, and the cost therefore is,
First form, two men, two token, at 4^d Is. 6d.
Second form, do. do. do Is. fid.
561
3s. Od.
The price necessarily varies with the size of the type and
of the form ; with the quality of the paper and of the ink;
with the number, and the care required. Common work is
fourpence-halfpenny, good sixpence, superior sevenpence,
the very best eightpence, ninepence, or even twelvepence
per token.
The pressmen, having received the forms after the final
correction, lay the inner form, or that one which contains
the second page, upon the table of the press, and secure it
in the centre by quoins; one of them, in the meanwhile,
pastes a stout sheet of paper upon the frisket frame, and
then secures it upon the tympan. They then ink the form,
and take an impression upon the frisket, and cut away all
the printed part, which therefore leaves so much of it as is
necessary to protect the paper from soil. The puller now
carefully folds a sheet of the paper according to the crosses
of the chase, and laying it upon the form, opens it careful-
ly, by which the paper is made to lie evenly upon the form,
with the same margin with which it is to be afterwards
worked. Having wetted the tympan, the pressman closes
it down upon the form, and takes an impression, when the
paper will be found to adhere to the tympan, and thus be¬
come a guide whereby to lay all the subsequent sheets,
and therefore much care should be taken to lay it properly.
They now choose their points, which are thin iron arms, hav¬
ing a short point projecting from the end, and made to screw
on to the tympan-frame, which must be done in such a
manner as that the points may fall in grooves in the cross
of the chase; because if they did not, they would be bat¬
tered and broken upon it at the first pull.
The puller now brings his paper from the wetting-room ;
for before any good impression can be taken the paper must
have been damped, by rapidly passing it, one fourth or one
fifth of a quire at a time, through water, and then allow¬
ing it to soak for two or three days, until it is evenly and
thoroughly damp ; and, laying a ream upon the horse, he
takes a sheet, and placing it carefully over the tympan-
sheet, closes the frisket over it, shuts both tympan and
frisket down upon the form, which in the meanwhile his
companion has inked (a process that will be described be¬
low), runs the table in under the platten, pulls the handle
of the bar or lever over by his full weight, until brought
up by the stop, at which moment the platten descends and
gives a powerful impression to the tympan, &c. upon the
form, producing upon the paper a perfect fac-simile in re¬
verse of the surface of the latter. The pressman now gra¬
dually releases his hold, the balance-weight raises the plat¬
ten, the bar returns to its first position, the table is run out,
the tympan and frisket are raised by the workman, and the
frisket thrown up to the catch. The sheet is taken off the
points, which the impression has caused to pierce through it,
and carefully examined to ascertain that the impression is
just and even, which is the great test of the workman’s skill,
and the excellence of the press. Invariably the first impres¬
sion is defective; the parchment may have been thicker in
some parts than in others, the blankets worn, or one of two
founts of type may not have been of equal height, in which
respect “ the estimation of a hair” would be a monstrous
fault, the thinnest possible tissue paper being quite suffi¬
cient for remedy. The pressman proceeds to overlay, that
VOL. XVIII.
is, to paste upon his tympan-sheets portions of paper of the Practical
exact size of the defects, thicker or thinner as may be re- Printing,
quired; or if the defect be great, he places a part of a sheetv—
o paper within his tympans. If there be any small portion ^ress-
of undue prominence, or that “ comes off hard,” he rubs
away a portion of the tympan-sheet with wet fingers, or cuts
it away altogether. Having, as he supposes, remedied all
blemishes, he takes another impression, which he again ex¬
amines^ with equal closeness, and carefully removes every
remaining defect by the same method; having at length
satisfied himself, and his master or overseer, the work is
proceeded with, the inker taking even portions of ink well
distributed, and covering the form equally, the puller taking
a sheet, and laying it on the tympan as before. They thus
proceed until the whole number of the white paper is wrork-
ed off. The form is now lifted from the table, and carefully
washed with a very strong lye. The outer form is then
laid on and made ready.
This varies a little from the mode previously described.
It has been stated that the points penetrate the paper at the
first impression. These holes and points are the guides
whereby perfect register is obtained ; that is, whereby not
only the pages, but the lines, are made to fall exactly upon
the back of each other, a deficiency in which is a great
fault in good book-work. The form, therefore, having
been placed in precisely the same place as the previous
one occupied, one of the sheets which have been printed
on one side is taken and placed with the face inwards, in
such manner that the points pass through the same holes,
but of course the opposite way, and an impression is taken.
It the pages do not back, the points are shitted until they
do; or if the defect be in the form, such alterations are
made in it as may be necessary. The impression is then
brought up as before, and when all is ready, a thin sheet
of white paper, called the set-off sheet, is placed over the
tympan-sheet and upon the points. It must be remembered
that one side has been worked, that the ink has not yet
dried, that the paper is still damp; therefore at every impres¬
sion some portion of the ink will be transferred to, or im¬
pressed upon, the set-off sheet. When this has taken place
in many impressions, the effect will be doubled ; for not only
will some of the ink of the print be transferred to the set¬
off sheet, but some, a very slight portion, of the set-off will
be re-transferred to the sheet working, producing a most
unpleasing dirty appearance, very mystifying to the eyes,
and utterly destructive of beauty. The puller, therefore,
after a few impressions, moves the set-off sheet slightly, and
when it has become very dirty, discards it, and replaces it
with another. The pressman should be very attentive to
this; and the master should not grudge ample supplies of
set-off paper, for it is not destroyed, but is very useful af¬
terwards in other departments as waste paper. The form
is now lifted and carefully washed with lye, and the two
are sent to the composing-room, where they are again care¬
fully washed and rinsed, and are then ready for distribution.
Two good pressmen are supposed to do about one token, or
250 impressions, per hour, of fair work. This, however, must
depend entirely upon the quality of the work required; with
small type, stiff ink, and many rules, the work is more slow,
and paid for accordingly. The finest work is seldom paid for
by the token, the pressmen being placed upon weekly wages,
and allowed as much time as they require, the rapidity
being at the discretion of the overseer. Frequently they are
limited to a certain number per hour, often as fewr as fifty,
the most careful inspection being given to every sheet by
both pressmen, and continual attention by the press-over¬
seer and other chief persons in the establishment. In such
work the very best materials are employed. Instead of
parchment, the tympans are covered with fine calico, and
even silk ; instead of blankets the finest broad cloth, picked
blotting-paper for the thick overlays, the thinnest tissue-
41 B
562
PRINTING.
Practical
Printing.
Press.
paper for the finer. It will readily be understood, that in
all operations of the press-room, where everything depends
’ upon the skill of the workmen, there are infinite minutiae,
which it would be tedious, if it were even possible, to enu¬
merate. Seven years apprenticeship are not more than
sufficient to educate a good pressman. It is the accumu¬
lated labour of a life to make a first-rate one; and, after all,
excellence depends upon the native talent and ingenuity ot
the man himself.
The ink is distributed over the type either by balls or by
rollers. The rollers are of modern use ; the balls were, un¬
til a recent invention, sheep-skins with the hair taken off
with lime, made into a ball with wool, gathered at all cor¬
ners, and nailed upon a wooden handle. One of these was
held in each hand ; and a small portion of ink being taken,
they were well beaten upon the inking-table, and then up¬
on each other, until the ink was so evenly distributed over
the whole surface, that if touched gently with the finger,
the prominent lines of the skin would be perfectly blacken¬
ed, whilst the channels would be left perfectly clean. The
balls were then beaten over every part of the type, so that the
whole surface should be evenly covered ; an operation i equir-
ing much skill and practice. The skins were prepared and
softened by the nastiest processes imaginable, which convert¬
ed a press-room into a stinking cloaca. Thanks, however, to
the observation and ingenuity ot Mr Donkin and Mr E.
Cooper, this has been entirely done away, and a press-room
now almost regales the nose with a warm scent of ink and
paper, anything but unpleasant. This invention has been of
the greatest consequence to printing. 1 he printing machine
is popularly said to be the great engine ot modern litera¬
ture ; and so it is ; but without this, printing machines were
mere old iron and brass. For many years the workmen in
the potteries had used a composition of glue and treacle for
applying colours to their ware. Mr Donkin observed that
this composition possessed every requisite for the use ot the
printing-office, and he immediately proceeded to form balls
of canvass, with a facing of composition. They answered
admirably, proved beautifully sott, distributed beautifully,
kept clean, and were easily washed and purified if soiled.
Some opposition was offered by the workmen; but their
advantages proved so great that they were readily adopted
by the masters, and speedily drove away for ever the nasty
skins. The next step, however, was more important still.
Mr Donkin bethought him, that if he could cast rollers of
composition, without seam and perfectly cylindrical, it could
not fail to be of infinite utility to machine-printing. It re¬
mained, however, for Mr Cooper to suggest the substitu¬
tion of them for balls at the common press. In this he suc¬
ceeded ; but it is astonishing how much difficulty there was
in persuading the men to lay aside their old habits. They
could not conceive that a straightforward rolling would an¬
swer the purpose of their laborious and careful beating. The
rollers were nicknamed “ rolling-pins,” but they made their
way, and are now in general use. They consist of a wooden
cylinder, with a thick coating of composition cast perfectly
true ; through the middle of the cylinder passes an irorr rod
attached to a curved bar passing over the roller, upon which
are two handles; and the roller revolves freely upon the rod.
The pressman having brayed out a narrow line of ink upon
the raised stage of the inking-table (or upon a distributing
roller which runs the whole length of the table, and, being
turned, presents a line of ink to the inking-roller), takes a
portion of this upon the composition, and distributes it care¬
fully upon the table until the entire face is evenly covered,
and then rolls the form, taking care that the whole surface re¬
ceives its due proportion. If he does this lightly and steadily
there is no fear of the result; he cannot in rolling overlook any
part; but it nevertheless requires some judgment. If there
be any heavy titles or large type, he must roll that portion se¬
veral times; if there be blank pages, he must take care that
the roller does not sink, and so leave the pages in line with Tractic; 1
it slightly touched. The chiefest judgment, however, is v Jin^ln^
displayed in choosing the exact quantity of ink required for pre&gi
the form. If the type be small, the quantity taken must be
small; it must be very carefully distributed, and the form
rolled many times ; for if the quantity be too great the type
will become clogged, and if too little, the colour will become
faint. The pressman must from time to time examine the
sheets as they are printed, turning up the corners of the
sheets that he may see whether the colour corresponds to
that of the side first worked, and detecting with quick eye
every defect; and he must be particularly careful that for
every sheet of the same work he take the very same quantity
of ink, that the book when bound may present an even and
beautiful colour, every bold line being perfectly covered,
and yet every fine stroke clear and distinct. This can only
be effected by careful distribution and repeated rolling, with
exact judgment as to the quantity of colour to be taken.
The sheet having been thus worked off, the printed paper Warehous
is taken away by the warehouseman, and hung by the boys
upon poles stretched under the ceiling, by means of a peel,
which is a handle with a broad end, upon which a quire or
two is hung at a time, thence transferred to the poles, and
distributed in portions of four or five sheets. Here they hang
a day or two, until the ink and paper are perfectly dry. This
should be a gradual process, for if by artificial heat the dry¬
ing is hurried, a skin will be formed upon the surface of the
ink, which will prevent that underneath from drying; the
work will look very well until it is pressed or bound, when
the skin breaks, the ink spreads, and the sharpness of the
letter is entirely destroyed. When perfectly dry they are
taken down and laid in heaps upon the gathering board,
each signature separately; thus, first, a heap, say 1000, of L>,
then C, D, E, F, and, lastly, the title-sheet A. The boys
then take one sheet from each heap ; consequently, when
thev have got to the last signature, each boy has one com¬
plete copy of the work. These are laid upon one another in
such a manner that each book is perfectly distinct. The
warehouseman then takes a collator (a needle inserted in
a handle) and goes over the whole with great rapidity, as¬
certaining that no sheet has been carelessly omitted, and that
no two of the same sheet have been taken. The books are
then folded down the middle, counted out in tens, thirteens,
or twenty-fives, and tied up in fifties. The process of print¬
ing is thus complete, and the work is ready for the binder.
Works of finer description, indeed most works of the pre-Pressing,
sent day, are submitted to another process after they have
been taken down from the poles, viz. hot or cold pressing,
which very much improves their appearance. In cold press¬
ing the sheets are placed one by one between glazed boards,
or sheets of coarse material pressed until there is a perfect
glaze upon both surfaces. The heaps are then placed in an
hydraulic press, with cold iron plates at small distances, and
the whole is subjected to considerable pressure for some
hours; they are then taken out and the sheets extracted
from the boards, when the indentations consequent upon
the working will have been all pressed out, the roughnesses
of the paper smoothed out, a slight gloss given to the
ink, and the whole will present a very agreeable smooth¬
ness to the eye and the touch. Hot-pressing is used when
the paper is very stout and the ink strong. The sole dif¬
ference is, that the iron plates are heated until they can
hardly be touched. The effect is much greater than that
of cold pressing; the whole surface of the paper is perfectly
glazed, and the ink absolutely shines; but the effect is not
so agreeable to the eye; it is too glossy. As these processes
also make the books lie perfectly flat, they render great beat¬
ing by the binder unnecessary, doing away with the danger
of such beating causing the ink to set off upon the opposite
pages, which danger, should it from circumstances pi°ve
necessary to beat the book much, is considerably diminish-
PRINTING.
Practical ed, as the pressing sets the ink very effectually. The glazed
Printing, boards must be often cleaned by rubbing with waste paper,
V^hou^c'or they wil1 dirty the sheets Placed between them. Every
’ jre ’ printing-office of credit should have an hydraulic press and
boards; for it is incredible how much smartness pressing
gives to the work, and how greatly the warehouse work is
facilitated by the readiness with which the hydraulic is pump¬
ed up, and by its great power. A press of eight-inch ram will
be found sufficient for most purposes; but where much hot
and cold pressing are required, one of nine-inch ram will
prove cheapest, because, from its immense power, a few hours
are sufficient to give the requisite surface, and the press may
therefore be filled twice a day.
Of casual Wood-blocks are very often worked with the common
variations type. The block, having been carefully reduced by the
Ivoodcutf en»raver t0 tf16 exact height of the type, is placed in the
' 00 ’ ’ composing-stick, and justified to the width of the page ; it
is then made up along with the other matter in its proper
place. When laid upon the press for working, and an im¬
pression of the form has been taken, the pressman examines
with great minuteness whether it stands well with the type;
if not, the form is unlocked, and paper placed under it if it
be too low, or under any corner that may be lower than the
rest; if the block be too high it must be scraped or filed at
the bottom. Anciently the artist in wood contented himself
with producing his lights and shades by cutting his lines in
greater or less degrees of fineness upon a plane, leaving to
the printer the task of producing the required effects by a
tedious process of overlaying; but since the introduction
of machines, in which such method is impracticable, from
the nature of the impression, and from the immense loss
consequent upon the machine standings till whilst the cut
is in preparation, several eminent engravers have turned
their attention to the subject, and have succeeded in a me¬
thod of so cutting away the block that it is put into the
printer’s hands in a great measure prepared. Notwithstand¬
ing this vast improvement, the pressman has much to do;
he is to a certain extent an artist, and must have a good
eye for perspective, and for the proper adjustment of tints.
These effects he produces by careful and skilful overlaying.
The cut may then be worked with the type without any
other care than that of keeping it clear from clogging or
picks. When done with, it must be very carefully cleaned
with spirits of turpentine and a brush.
The working of wood-cuts by themselves as illustrations
of works, differs from type-printing in no other respect than
the superior materials and skill required. The wood-cut
must be imposed in a chase, and locked up upon the table
of the press, which is generally a smaller one than that used
for ordinary printing, of most excellent construction, and in
good order. The tympans are often of silk or cambric.
Poraposi- There are in London, and probably in the larger provin-
ion balls cial cities, parties who make an especial business of the ma-
n* r°llers nufacture of composition balls and rollers, which they supply
to printers upon payment of a rent. The skill and experi¬
ence of these persons enable them, as must be the case in
every instance where a manufacture engages exclusive atten¬
tion, to supply a much better and cheaper article than could
be manufactured by any individual whose engagements are
varied; consequently there are not many printers, either
in town or country, who do not avail themselves of these
opportunities. The rent is paid for each roller required,
and by the quarter ; that is to say, if a printer employs six
presses, and consequently six rollers, he pays for six rollers,
the manufacturer engaging to supply him with as many
changes as he may require from their getting out of or¬
der or being injured ; in fact, to keep him supplied with six
rollers in good condition. The rent for a common press-roller
is the moderate sum of six shillings per quarter; they are
sent into the country in boxes fitted for the purpose. There
are, of course, situations in which it is not easy to obtain a
563
regular supply of the necessary article, and in this case the Practical
printer may very easily make them for himself; but the ex- Printing.
pense of the utensils is so great as to exceed the usual rent'  
for years. They consist of the following: For rollers, a hoi- Ilo!lers-
low cylinder of brass, the bore of which must be most ac¬
curately turned and well polished; this mould consists of
two semi-cylinders closely fitted and brought into contact by
screws along the sides and collars at the end, and a head is
made to fit into the lower end. The core, a wooden cylin¬
der, upon which the composition is cast, is held in the centre
of the bore by means of a star, through the radii of which
the composition flows. For balls are required a concave mir¬
ror of about half an inch cavity, and a board of the same size,
and of a quarter of an inch in convexity. A kettle for melting
and mixing the composition is also required. This is made
double like a glue-pot, fitting exceedingly close, and with a
small orifice for the escape of the steam from the hot water
between the two ; and the inner vessel should have a large
lip. rI he recipes for making the composition vary, and this
appears to arise from the different circumstances under which
it is made. The ingredients are but three, and these easily
purchaseable, viz. fine glue, treacle, not that procured from
the bakers, which is adulterated, but the best from the su¬
gar-refiners, and a small quantity of carbonate of barytes,
called in commerce Paris white. The first two are quite
sufficient with a little skill. The following are good recipes.
1. Two pounds of glue to one pound of treacle.
2. Two pounds of glue to three pounds of treacle.
3. One pound of glue to three pounds of treacle and a
quarter of a pound of Paris white.
Soak the glue in water until it is soft; then place it in
the inner vessel, and boil quickly, until the glue is tho¬
roughly dissolved ; add the treacle, mixing it well, and let it
boil for an hour or more; then sift in the Paris white, but
do not stir it violently, or the mixture will be full of air-
bubbles, which are destructive to the roller or ball. Rub
the mould slightly with a rag dipped in thin oil, taking care
that no globules and streaks remain upon the surface.
When the mixture is ready, pour it gently between the
radii of the star, so that no air be detained within the cylin¬
der until the mould be filled; allow it to set, and then take
it from the mould, cutting off the superfluous portion with
a string. When the roller has been hung up twenty-four
hours it will be fit for use. In making balls, having oiled
the mirror, pour the composition upon the centre, and hav¬
ing allowed it to spread itself lay over it a piece of coarse
canvass, place the board upon it, and lay weights upon
it to press it down ; it will consequently be found that the
composition face of the ball will be slightly thicker in the
centre than at the edges, which, besides being a conveni¬
ence in the working, will allow it to be knocked up with
much facility, which is done in the ordinary manner. These
balls and rollers are very easily kept in order; if they are
too soft, cold water will harden them; if too hard, warm
water will soften them. When not in use they should be
covered with refuse ink, and hung up in a room of even
temperature, and carefully scraped with a palette-knife be¬
fore use. They should not be cleaned with spirits of tur¬
pentine, as that will give them a hard surface. These rol¬
lers will be fit for use for a long while if attention be paid
to them; and when spoiled, the composition may be re¬
peatedly melted down, and, with an addition of new ma¬
terials, will make as good rollers as before. When the pro¬
per apparatus is wanting, small balls for wood-cuts or single
pages may be made upon an earthen palette, or even upon
a smooth dinner-plate.
Stereotyping.
Stereotyping is a mode of making perfect fac-similes in
type-metal of the face of pages composed of moveable types.
564 P R I N
Practical Letter-press printing being a very expensive process, the
Printing. price 0f books consequently high, and the heaviest expense
v ' consisting in the composition, the printers of the Continent
StcreQ- very gooii get up tjie entire 0f such small works as were in
^ ° constant demand, and thus were enabled to sell them at
little more than the cost of paper and press-work. Some
works of very great extent, especially Bibles and prayer-
books, were kept standing by the privileged printers. This,
however, was exceedingly expensive, as the cost of type
would be enormous; the forms would occupy vast store¬
rooms, and be liable to continual damage, both from the
accidental dropping of letters, from batters, and other ac¬
cidents to which they would be unavoidably liable. Some
method, therefore, by which all or some of these disadvan¬
tages might be remedied, was sought after with great anxiety.
About the beginning of the eighteenth century, Van der
Mey, in Holland, sought to avoid this liability to accidents,
by immersing the bottom of his pages in melted leader sol¬
der, and thus rendering them solid masses: “ e’est une re¬
union des caracteres ordinaires par le pied, avec de la ma-
tiere fondue, de 1’epaisseur d’environ trois mains de papier a
ecrire therefore the mass together would be of somewhat
less than the height of our type. It is not very easy to guess
how they contrived to make the backs of these blocks of
such evenness as to produce anything like a good impres¬
sion ; but Dibdin says that the book is very handsome. The
same process was followed by a Jew of Amsterdam, in print¬
ing an English Bible ; but he was utterly ruined by his spe¬
culation.
Some time before the year 1735, there is sufficient evi¬
dence that the French used casts of the calendars placed
before church-books. These plates are thus described by
Camus : “ It (one of the plates) is formed of copper, and is
three inches and a half long by two inches broad and one
seventh of an inch thick. From the roughness of the cast¬
ing, it has evidently been made in a mould formed of sand
or clay.” After the plate had been cast, the back of it had
been dressed with a file, in order that it might bear equally
upon a block of wood to which it had been attached.
Who really invented the art of stereotyping as at pre¬
sent practised (and, after all, he who finds out the efficient
modus operandi is the inventor of the art, though he may
not be of the principle), is, like the inventor of the parent
art, a matter of some controversy, which has been carried
on with more vigour than the subject merited. It seems
however most probable, when all assertions are weighed, that
William Ged, a goldsmith of Edinburgh, deserves the credit;
thus exhibiting a singular coincidence with h ust. Accord¬
ing to his statement, being in 1725 in company with a printer,
they lamented the want of a good letter-founder in Scotland;
and the printer asked him whether he could do anything to
remedy the defect. He immediately answered, that it would
be more easy to cast plates from pages when composed in
moveable type; and he undertook to produce, and very short¬
ly did so, a specimen of his new plan, and not long after¬
wards made arrangements with a capitalist to advance the
requisite funds. The latter failing to perform his part, Ged
made a similar contract with a London stationer, in conjunc¬
tion with whom he made many attempts ; but being repeat¬
edly thwarted, he parted from his partner, and made proposals
to the universities and the king’s printers to stereotype Bibles
and prayer-books. These all entered into the scheme with
some eagerness, and some works were produced quite equal
to the ordinary printing of the day. Nevertheless, so much
ignorance and prejudice prevailed amongst the workmen, and
others interested, as they imagined, in the old system, that
the undertaking was soon abandoned, and Ged entered into
several subsequent arrangements, in which he was equally
unsuccessful; a type-founder, in particular, causing such ob¬
structions that the art made no progress. Ged died, there¬
fore, before he had met with any encouragement; nor did
TING.
his son succeed better, although, as the practicability was Practical
made more manifest, the very parties who had rejected his Printing, j 1^
plans subsequently made extensive use of his plates. What gtereo !| I
was Ged’s method of stereotyping is unknown, as he kept typing'
it private; nor did his partners fully participate in the
secret.
Fifty years afterwards, Mr Tilloch made a similar inven¬
tion ; but, from private circumstances, the design was laid
aside, not however before several volumes had been printed
from his stereotype plates at the press of Mr Foulis. Some
years after this Lord Stanhope engaged an ingenious London
printer, Mr Wilson, to prosecute the invention; and after
many trials, the noble lord’s ingenuity succeeded in bring¬
ing the art into perfect use.
When a work is expressly intended for stereotyping, the Mode of
type used should be somewhat different from that commonly stereotyp- |
employed. The letter should be cast without any shoulder, in£-
but should rise in a straight line from the foot; the spaces,
quadrats, and leads should be ot the same height as the
stem of the letter, because the less the cavities in the page,
the less chance there is of any of the mould breaking off and
remaining in the form. The page having been composed
in the ordinary manner, and very carefully corrected, is im¬
posed in a small chase with metal furniture, and the whole
is placed within a moulding frame, somewhat less than half
an inch higher than the type. The surface of the type is
then rubbed with a soft brush holding a small quantity of
very thin oil.
The plaster of which the mould is formed is the com¬
mon material of which statues and busts are cast; it should
be of two degrees of fineness, and may be easily purchased
ready prepared. These having been carefully mixed, a
small portion of the finer quality is gently poured upon the
surface of the page, and softly worked in with a brush, care
being taken that every portion is fully covered, and that no
air-bubbles remain in any part of the letters. Immediately a
larger quantity of the coarser plaster is poured on and spread
over the previous layer without disturbing it; a straight¬
edge is then passed over the moulding-frame, clearing away
the superfluous plaster, and leaving that within the frame of
uniform thickness. It is then left to set. When sufficiently
dry, the moulding frame is raised, and the mould with it;
the mould is then dressed, and placed in an oven until it be
perfectly dry, and raised to an adequate temperature for the
casting. The oil with which the page is rubbed prevents the
plaster from adhering to the type.
The melting-pot is a square vessel of iron about two
inches and a half deep, having a separate lid, of which the
four corners are cut oft', the inner face being carefully turned,
the outer face turned hollow towards the centre. A floating
plate, of which the upper surface is turned, is placed at the
bottom of the pot. Over the melting-pit is a crane with a
rack, upon which a pair of nippers are made to run. These
lay hold of ears upon the melting-pot, closing with its weight,
and opening when relieved. 1 he metal does not diffei fi om
type-metal, and must be sufficiently fluxed to flow easily, but
not made too hot, or it will prove brittle. The melting-pot
having been heated in the same oven with the mould, and
consequently to the same temperature, the latter is placed
within it, the face being turned down upon the floating-
plate. A bar or other piece of iron is screwed down upon
that part of the lid which is turned hollow ; and the whole
being suspended by the rack and crane, is swung over the
melting-pit, and gradually let down into the metal, which
flows gently into the pot through the openings left at the
corners. The metal flowing slowly in gradually expels all
the air; the mould immediately rises to the inner surface ot
the lid; the floating-plate, being specifically lighter than the
metal, rises also to the edge of the mould; consequently the
metal which has run in between is of the exa.ct thickness
of the depth of the mould, the upper surface being the field
PRIN
practical upon which are the casts of the type, the under surface the
^llting\ smooth face of the floating-plate, and the rest of the melting-
pot being filled with metal. The pot is allowed to remain
typing, immersed ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, that is, until
the air is supposed to be perfectly expelled. The pot is
then drawn up, and swung to a board resting; upon a trough
of water, and there allowed to cool. The cooling is a pro¬
cess requiring much care and attention. It is obvious, that
unless the whole mass cool equally, the plate will be warp¬
ed, and consequently spoiled; it is equally clear that the
heat will more readily radiate at the corners, and conse¬
quently that the centre will remain fluid after the other
parts are set, and that the contraction must be unequal.
This is provided against by the lid having been turned hol¬
low in the centre, and it will therefore allow the metal under
it to cool more rapidly. The mass having been turned out
from the pot, the metal under the plate is separated by a
smart blow or two of the mallet; the floating-plate will be
readily disengaged, and the mould be removed from the cast.
Some defects will invariably be found in the new plate; but
these are removed by the picker, who goes carefully over
it, clearing away the picks from the face of the letter, and
deepening the larger white lines with a graver, that they may
not blacken in working at press; for it must be remem¬
bered, that the quadrats and spaces used in stereotyping are
higher than those in moveable-type printing. If the face
of the plate has cooled evenly, and it is in other respects a
successful cast, it is placed, the face inwards, in a turning
lathe, and the back rendered a plane parallel to the face;
the margins are then squared, and the edges flanched.
The plate is now ready for use.
A great improvement in the stereotype art was a few
years ago introduced by Mr Thomas Allan, printer in Edin¬
burgh, into his establishment, by which a number of plates
are cast at once, whilst the risk of broken casts is consi¬
derably lessened. This is effected by means of a pot suf¬
ficiently deep to contain moulds placed in a perpendicular
position. The pot is an oblong square cast-iron box, widen¬
ing towards the mouth, and having placed inside, at each
end, a wedge-like block, of which one face is parallel to
the side, while the other is perfectly vertical. On the ver¬
tical side are perpendicular grooves, at distances rather
greater than the thickness of the stereotype moulds. Into
these grooves are inserted plates of malleable iron, by which
the interior of the box or pot is partitioned into spaces suf¬
ficiently wide to admit with ease the plaster moulds. The
moulds, when baked, being inserted into these spaces, a
cross bar of metal is placed over the top, instead of a cover,
which serves to prevent the moulds from being raised by
the liquid metal flowing beneath them; and it is then sus¬
pended upon the crane, and dipt into the metal-pit in the
usual way. By this method not only are the moulds saved
from all risk of breaking by being placed horizontally and
pressed between the two broad surfaces of a float-block and
cover, as in the method of single-page casting, but a num¬
ber of plates are produced at one cast, and thus additional
celerity is combined with greater certainty of sound plates.
The plates of the Encyclopedia Britannica, which is
the most extensive work ever stereotyped, have been for
the most part produced by this process, in pots containing
each five moulds; and it is especially advantageous for large
plates, the risk of breakage by the old method increasing in
a greater ratio than the increase in the size of the page.
The plates are sometimes mounted upon blocks of ma¬
hogany, the height of which is the difference between the
thickness of the plate and the height of the type. These
blocks are furnished with brass sides, the upper part of
which is turned over so as to take hold of the flange of the
plate. Many attempts have been made to accommodate
these blocks to the varying sizes of the plates, by forming
them in portions ; but, where much stereotyping is done,
ting.
565
the plates are usually cast to uniform sizes, corresponding Practical
blocks being kept ready for use. An ingenious plan has Printing,
been devised to remedy this inconvenience, by a series of —v'"-'
hollow squares of type-metal of the requisite height and of ^teyeo~
different sizes, by means of which pages may be easily *v!)inn*
composed to any required size, from one pica m upwards;
the plates being fastened on by brass holders. At a small
expense once incurred, the stereotype printer may furnish
himself for ever.
There are many smaller instruments requisite, which it
is quite unnecessary to mention. The founder requires
some practical skill, which, however, it is not difficult to
acquire. I he excellence of the casts will depend upon the
personal knack and observation of the founder. The metal
for stereotyping is generally purchased prepared for use,
in preference to melting down old type, the type-founders
allowing much more for it in exchange than the metal can
be purchased for. The price of prepared metal is about
40s. per cwt. The following, however, are proportions
which may be used when the prepared metal cannot be
procured:—
1. From five to eight parts lead, one of regulus, one
fiftieth of block-tin.
2. One seventh of pure regulus, six sevenths of lead. The
best lead is that which comes from China, in the lin¬
ing of tea-chests.
The mixing of the lead is exceedingly injurious to the
workman, and should be avoided wherever it is possible.
The foundry should be thoroughly ventilated, as the fumes
from the melting-pit, and the moisture and smell of the
drying oven, are very noxious.
An extravagant notion prevails, especially amongst per¬
sons not experienced in the mysteries of printing, of the
exceeding economy of stereotyping; it would therefore be
of advantage to give a fair view of the case. On an aver¬
age, the cost of stereotyping may be taken as the same as
that of composition, or even higher. It is quite clear,
therefore, that if the first edition of a work is stereotyped,
the speculator at once incurs the expense of printing two
editions, minus the press-work. The consequence is, that
if his untried book does not succeed, he very much in¬
creases his loss, or at best he increases his chance of loss,
because many books that just get through a first edition
never arrive at a second. Therefore the first edition of a
work should never be stereotyped, unless indeed the work
be of such a nature as to insure a general sale at a low price,
as, for instance, Ready Reckoners, Tables of Interest, and
such like. Again, what work is there so perfect as not to
require some alteration and amendment in a new edition,
which, in stereotype, is practicable only to a limited extent.
Supposing, next, that the great demand for a work is as¬
certained, that the matter is sufficiently corrected to require
no farther alteration, and that the work has been stereo¬
typed ; the owner must wait until the copies printed from
the types from which the casting has been made are sold,
before he has occasion to make use of his plates. On the
one hand, suppose that he print sufficient for four years con¬
sumption ; and on the other, sufficient for one year at the
same rate. The account will stand thus :—
Type.
Cost of composition, 25 sheets, say 
Press-work, 4000 copies, 200 reams, at 7s....
Paper, 200 reams, at 20s 
Interest on average of two years (allowing for
periodical return of capital) 
..L.50 0 0
 70 0 0
...200 0 0
L.320 0 0
 32 0 0
L.352 0 0
566
Practical
Printing.
Stereo-
typing.
P R I N
Stereotype.
Cost of stereotyping   ^.50
1st year, Press-work of 1000 copies, 50 reams,
at   22 10
Paper, 50 reams u
0 0
0
0
Ster,
tv pin
L.122 10
Interest, 1 year G months, plates 3 15
Ditto, 6 months print and paper 1 16
L.128 1 0
2d year, Print and paper L.72 10
Interest, plates, 1 year...2 10
Do. print and paper,
6 months 1 16
76
3d and 4th year 163
16
12
L.358 9 0
Balance against stereotyping L-6 9 0
Second Four Years.— Type.
Composition from reprint copy 15
Press-work, 4000 copies, at 7s 70 0
Paper, 200 reams, at 20s ...200 0
L.313
Interest, average 2 years 31
15
17
L.345 12 6
.307 4 0
Four editions from plates, and interest as be¬
fore   
Balance in favour of stereotype L.38 8 6
Cost of first edition, type L.352 0 0
Ditto second ditto 345 12 6
12
13
L.697
Cost of eight editions stereotype 664
Balance in favour of stereotype at the end of
eight years L.32 19 6
without taking into account repairs and incidental ex¬
penses which would be incurred in stereotype only, and
also not reckoning the produce of overplus copies, which
would be proportionately greater in type.
If the type be small, and the composition expensive, it
would be considerably in favour of stereotype ; but on the
per contra would be the greater wear and damage of the
TING.
perienced eye may instantly detect the difference, even in kracti
the first edition.
Nevertheless, in some cases stereotyping is of great at.-
vantage ; but chiefly in books of numbers, in which it is of
the utmost importance that every figure should be correct.
In this case the proofs must be read again and again, until
the correctness is unquestionable, then stereotyped; and
there is no fear of alteration from the error of compositors
or carelessness of readers, but the book remains the same
forever. Such works also are most expensive in getting
up, and the cost of composition very much exceeds that of
stereotyping. Books of logarithms may be especially men¬
tioned, tables of longitude, indexes to maps, and other
works, which, being once written, remain unchangeably
the same: or where it is found expedient to have dupli¬
cates of the work, as when immense numbers are required,
and it is necessary, for speed, to work on double-sized pa¬
per ; such, for instance, is the Penny Magazine, from which,
when once composed, a cast is taken, and the original and
cast are worked side by side at the same moment, produ¬
cing two copies instead of one, in which case there is ano¬
ther advantage, for the casting does not exceed the cost
of composition, and, when worked, the stereotype remains
without further expense for another edition : again, where
it is expedient to send duplicate plates to a distance to be
worked, thereby saving the expense of carriage, and some
1 time; as in the Penny Magazine, where several casts are
' taken, and one sent to America, another to Germany, &c.,
in Chambers’ Edinburgh Journal, where one cast is worked
at Edinburgh, and another in London ; in Richardson’s Dic¬
tionary, where one cast is used by the London publisher,
and another in the United States.
Wood-cuts may be stereotyped with great advantage,
for a small cut which has cost several guineas to engrave
may be multiplied indefinitely, and that at a cost of a few
shillings.
No printer should stereotype who wishes Ins type to be
a credit to his house. The wear of material in casting is
miserable ; the gypsum is at best a fine powder, and grinds
away the edge and face of the letter when rubbed in with
the brush in a frightful manner. The letter can never be
entirely freed from the plaster, and will present a very dirty
appearance ever after. The wear of a fount of 1000 lbs.
weight, returned six times from the foundry, is greater
than would occur in six years’ constant fair usage ; besides
which, the high spaces,'quadrats, and leads, are all extra
expenses, for which the economical bookseller makes no
remuneration whatever.
School-books are most frequently stereotyped, in ordi-
i)laSuch is a fair statement of the pecuniary profit and loss nary cases with the advantages and drawbacks^aboye re
of type and stereotype ; but there are other considerations.
lated. Suppose, however, a Spelling Book or Primer, say
Every edition from the plates must be in the same type, Guys, selling from forty t0
without any of the improvements that skill or fashion may in which it nng it e suppose ^ r>iates would
require; whereas every edition from type may be varied infinite advantage. oi sue i a ’ f ^ ^ - - -
to the taste of the day, and any defects in composition or not last, even in ( ecen con i ion, u y •
making up remedied. Every edition from the plates must
also get progressively worse and worse. It is asserted that
no injury can accrue to the plates, but the fact is precisely
the reverse ; for these plates are particularly liable to injury,
from their weight and brittleness, from blows, from picks
and batters, which will happen notwithstanding the greatest
care, from fractures at the edges in placing on the blocks
or raisers, and many other fortuitous circumstances. These
it is difficult to remedy, and, when remedied, they present a
most unsightly appearance, sometimes from the same fount
not being at hand, or sent to the melting-pot (and great
changes occur in the types of a printing-office in the course
of eight years), sometimes from the new letters not stand¬
ing of the same height, which is a common fault, and always
from their not standing in line. Again, printing from plates
never looks so wrell as that from type; and the most inex-
Calculate
the cost, without interest, the money being constantly re¬
turned.
Stereotype.
Stereotyping L.14
Working 560 reams at 6s... 168
Paper 490
L6T2
Type.
Seven sheets, say L.40
Working 560 reams, at 5s... 140
Paper 490
L.670
Rent to be paid to printer to
keep type standing, say one
fourth L.10
Print and paper 630
L.640 Print and paper L.658
Cost in four years L.2590 L.2046
Balance against stereotype, L.56.
printing.
Practical at the end of which time the types must be set up again,
Printing. ancl new plates cast. But any printer will keep standing a
work of which such numbers are required, without any
typage. char?e whatever; and every worn or battered letter may
• 8 ’ be taken out and replaced, so that every edition will be in
perfect condition for generations.
The plan of stereotyping Bibles and prayer-books has
been nearly abandoned, and the entire sheets are kept stand¬
ing in moveable type, at incalculable expense, by the Queen’s
printer, the University of Oxford, and, it is believed, that
of Cambridge. Before every edition, however, is worked,
every sheet must undergo a careful reading.
0/ Polytypage.
The ingenuity of our lively neighbours the French has
been excited for nearly a century in devising a speedy
and cheap mode of making solid plates, either in sequence
or in substitution of moveable type. Many considerable
improvements in stereotyping are to be ascribed to these
artists; but stereotyping has never been a favourite with
them, and they have rather exerted their invention in a se¬
ries of experiments, which may be classed under the gene¬
ral name of polytypage.
The first experiment noticeable is that of Dr Franklin
and M. Rochon; but although curious, it is not polytypage
in the common meaning, or the art of producing letters in
relief. But it is very ingenious, and is the first step in that
art. Franklin made an exceedingly glutinous ink, with
which he wrote upon thin paper, in the ordinary manner,
but rather coarsely. This writing he powdered with pound¬
ed emery or iron filings, and it was then placed between
two plates, of which the lower one was exceedingly hard,
and the upper one extremely soft. These were then passed
between a rolling press, when the iron-filings or emery sunk
into the softer plate, from which impressions might be taken
in the manner of copperplate printing. The effect, as may
be supposed, was exceedingly rough and unsightly. M.
Rochon then proposed to write with a steel point upon a
prepared plate, and bite in the tracing; this would give
impressions in reverse, which, whilst the ink was yet fresh,
were to be pressed strongly between clean paper, the set¬
off upon which would be fit for use. By this unskilful
means Rochon says many private works were circulated ;
but it is rather doubtful. M. Rochon next undertook a
much more likely project, the stamping of punches, some¬
what like types, into soft metal, in the same order and with
as much rapidity as they are composed in ordinary printing,
with mechanical contrivances to make the impressions stand
well, and also to insure the even depression of every let¬
ter. These stamped plates were originally intended to be
printed by the rolling press ; but afterwards the scheme was
entertained of taking a cast from the plate in type-metal,
and printing from that. It does not appear that this idea
was brought into practice.
In 1780, Hoffman, a German, residing in France, brought
stereotyping to considerable height; but, not satisfied with
his success, he made many ingenious efforts in polytypage.
He first used Rodion’s method; and whilst he was thus en¬
gaged, a practical printer, named Carez, started a new method,
which Hoftman afterwards pursued. The page, after being
composed in the ordinary manner, was attached, with the
face downwards, to the upder side of a heavy block of wood,
suspended from a long beam. Immediately under the page
was an anvil, on which was a tray of oiled paper, into w hich
the workman poured a portion of melted lead, attentively
watching the cooling. When the metal seemed on the point
of setting, the page, block, and beam, were brought dow n
with a very smart blowr, forcing the face of the type into the
cooling metal, and producing a very sharp mould ; which
again was made to take the place of the type upon the
567
block, was struck in a similar manner upon fused metal, Practical
and would thus, as was said, produce a perfect and excel- Printing:,
lent stereotype plate, which, having been properly dressed
at the edges and back, was affixed to the usual wooden t .
raiser; nor does there seem any reason why more than one '
cast might not be made from the same mould. Carez ap¬
pears to have practised this art to some extent, and suc¬
cessfully.
Hoftman was no doubt acquainted with this invention, for
his next scheme was a modification of it. In order to avoid
the expense of composition, he prepared a series of punches,
consisting as well of single letters as of common French ter¬
minations, which, with a very ingenious instrument, he press¬
ed into a thin layer of prepared clay; and this, when baked,
he stamped upon a portion of fused metal, in Carez’s manner,
producing a stereotype plate. It must be quite evident that
in practice this could never answer, because the lining of
the letters, and the exact plane of the surface, cannot pos¬
sibly be achieved with that nicety which is indispensable in-
printing. Unfortunately, also, the expense and trouble of
stamping in the punches separately must be considerably
greater than that of composing types, even were it practi¬
cable, which it does not seem to be.
In 1791, M. Gegembre printed the fifty sous notes of the
Caisse Patriotique upon an improved plan. He caused
the whole print of the notes to be engraved in relief upon
a plate of steel, the letters and ornaments being run toge¬
ther in a manner impracticable with separate punches; and
this engraving he pressed into a plate of alloyed copper, from
wrhich stereotyped casts were taken by Carez’s process.
Any number of these casts could be taken from the copper
mould, as indeed wras necessary, since, from the softness of
the metal, they were rapidly worn out; and if by chance the
copper mould became injured, a new one could be readily
made from the steel engraving.
When the revolutionary government commenced issuing
assignats, it became necessary to have an immense number
of plates to work the enormous quantity of these documents
required. A design having been approved of, artists were
employed to engrave three hundred fac-similes. Of course,
if three hundred so-called fac-similes could be engraved,
there could be no difficulty to other artists in engraving an¬
other hundred, nor could even the bank-officers tell which
was a forged fac-simile and which were engraved by their
authority. The consequence w as utter want of confidence in
the government paper. To remedy this, the committee of
assignats caused many experiments to be instituted for the
production of plates which should be not only imitative
and similar, but pro re identical, ihe plan adopted was
the engraving a plate in intaglio, from which copper punches
were obtained in relief, and called mother-punches. From
these daughters were struck, which were perfect fac-similes
of the original engraving, and were worked by the roller-
press in the manner of copperplates. Guillot, the director,
reported, that from one engraving, for the 400 livres assig¬
nats, he had struck or polytyped 897 mother-punches and
1487 daughters, of which number only 190 were defective ;
of the plate for the fifty livres assignats, 4760 mother-punches
and 7684 daughters, 1140 of which were defective. The
chief defect was, that frequently the air compressed in the
mould of a single letter would effectually prevent the fused
metal sinking to the full depth, and thus there would be no
letter at all upon the plate. Upon the suppression of as¬
signats this establishment was broken up; but some of the
plates and matrices are in the public repositories of France.
In printing the tickets of the national lottery, Gatteaux ob¬
tained the assistance of Didot the printer, whose firm soon
afterwards issued proposals for printing polytyped editions
of the classics, at very reduced prices; and in 1798 they
issued an edition of Virgil, followed by many other works,
remarkable for their neatness and cheapness; so that their
588
PRINTING.
Poly-
tv page.
Practical plans may be pronounced to have been completely suc-
Printing. cesgft,]. The process differs little from those before de¬
scribed.
Types of the usual form, but of very hard metal, being
composed, are placed within a steel box, with the face down¬
wards upon a plate of metal, and pressed slowly and smooth¬
ly, but with great force. Since, therefore, all the letters
are forced simultaneously and evenly into the plate, no un¬
even impression takes place. They are then disengaged, and
any faults are amended by striking in a punch of the de¬
fective letter. From the matrix thus obtained plates in
relief are cast, from which the paper is worked, the matrix
being put away to strike other plates if needed.
M. Heran, Didot’s partner, having separated from the
firm, applied himself to the improvement of the art, and hit
upon a novel and ingenious mode. This was the formation
of a set of types the very reverse of the common, viz. in¬
stead of the letter being in relief upon the shank, it was in
intaglio ; therefore every separate letter would be a die,
and instead of the letter being reversed, it would stand
as read on the paper. The spaces, quadrats, leads, &c.
were of the exact height of the type. These were to be
composed like types, so that the entire page would pre¬
sent the appearance of a plate of copper into which words, &c.
had been punched; the matter was to be read in the metal
without a proof, which, as the words read from left to right,
was matter of no difficulty. Upon the matrix thus com¬
posed fused metal was to be pressed, which would obvious¬
ly form a complete plate fit to be printed from ; and the
operation could be repeated until as many plates were struck
off as were required. M. Heran first endeavoured to cast
his types in a mould like that used by letter-founders; but
the metal proved too soft, and he afterwards struck punches
into shanks of copper of the required size. Works executed
from such plates are of remarkable neatness, and the pro¬
cess may be pronounced of very great utility, although, as
far as known, it has never been introduced into England.
Towards the end of the eighteenth century, Professor
Wilson of Glasgow, being engaged in a series of experi¬
ments for making etchings upon glass with fluoric acid for
the purposes of art, thought it possible to make poly types
of glass from engraved copperplates. In this he in some
degree succeeded, having executed several polytypes in in¬
taglio from moulds of copperplates, and in relief from wood-
cuts; but it cannot be said to have been practically suc¬
cessful, the lines not having any degree of sharpness in ei¬
ther case, whilst the brittleness of the material would be a
decided objection.
Messrs Heath, Perkins, and other ingenious men, hav¬
ing turned their attention to the prevention of forgery of
bank-notes, have produced many excellent plans, amongst
which is that of Mr Heath, of taking the impression en
creux from an engraving of hardened steel upon a cylin¬
der of soft steel afterwards hardened, from which cylin¬
der any number of the plates, fac-similes of the first, may
be readily executed. This plan does not differ in any
degree from that of Hoffman and Carez, save in respect
of the cylinder; but the manner in which the engraving
is executed on the original steel by the lathe is most
astonishing. These plans have not been adopted by the
Bank of England, but most country banks of issue have
greedily adopted this almost complete safeguard against
forgery.
Mr Brunei has lately invented an ingenious modification
in the making of moulds, which consists in spreading a coat¬
ing of shell-lac upon a plate of iron, and hardening it in
the fire. This is then dipped into the melting-pot, and re¬
ceives a thin covering of metal, and-is then pressed upon
the types. The impression produced thereby is most beau¬
tiful. The lead can never sink to any depth in the hollows
of the page, there are no picks or other soils to clear away,
but it may be doubted whether the lead would form a very Practica
good mould to cast from. ^Pnntmg.
Printing in Colours.
Printingi:t
Colours.
One of the most beautiful aids to typography, the art of
printing in colours, has been entirely neglected in this
country ; at least as far as relates to the embellishing works
of ordinary excellence with vignettes, capitals, tail-pieces,
and other devices of fancy, in beautiful tints, in the man¬
ner of the early typographers. It is true that ingenious
artists of the present day have exhibited much skill in il¬
lustrating works of natural history, and have shown won¬
derful genius in publications professedly connected with
the fine arts; but, as far as regards the average printing
of the day, it is entirely neglected. This may very easily
be accounted for. To print in two colours occupies more
than twice the time necessary to print in one ; and it also
requires more skill and ingenuity. These unfortunately must
be paid for ; and this pecuniary consideration is sufficient
to banish from our pages this lovely art. So did not our
forefathers; they took pride in choosing the most tasteful
designs, the most harmonious colours, to illuminate their
productions, and beguile the reader into study by the illu¬
sive charms of gold, and blue, and crimson. Fortunately,
either time was of little value, or the exclusive possession
of the market enabled them to demand remunerating prices
for the time thus well bestowed; but in the bustle and
competition of our more mercantile days, time is money,
and blue and gold, scarlet and green, give way to the equal
ly useful but infinitely less beautiful uniformity of unre¬
deemed black. To a country printer, however, some know¬
ledge of colour-printing would be of infinite advantage, be¬
cause, as his founts of type are more limited, he can create
unlimited variety by a judicious use of colours in job-work:
moreover, as he has usually much more time upon his
hands, his ingenuity would have ample scope for the pro¬
duction of small works of vertu, in a taste which cannot be
indulged by the denizen of a busy metropolis.
Except in the execution of works of a very high order,
and the imitation of intricate and delicate patterns, print¬
ing in colours requires no addition to the ordinary accom-
plishment of printing, other than considerable ingenuity,
and a little practice in preparing the colours. The latter
may, it is true, be purchased of the ink-maker prepared for
use ; but the charge for them is enormous, and they require
constant replacement, whilst it is not possible to have on
hand every variety of tint. By the purchase of the most
simple materials from the oil-shop, the ingenious printer
has at his hand every colour that fancy can require, at the
most moderate cost, without waste or delay. The appli¬
ances are few and cheap : a muller, a marble slab, and a pa¬
lette-knife ; the materials, a can of printers’ varnish, to be
purchased of the ink-maker, which will keep any length ot
time, and the raw colours hereafter given, which may be
purchased from time to time; care, however, being taken
that they are of the best quality, or they will fade and tum
rusty in a short time, and be a deformity instead of an or¬
nament to the work.
Useful tints of Red may be prepared of orange lead, ver¬
milion, burnt sienna, Venetian red, Indian red, and lake.
Vermilion is the most brilliant of these reds; but its beauty
depends very much upon the particular parcel used. The
pale vermilion is best for a bright tint, as the dark, when
mixed with the varnish, produces a dull red. Orange lead
and vermilion ground together produce a very bright tint,
which is more permanent than vermilion alone.
Yellows are prepared with yellow ochre, gamboge, and
chromate of lead. Of these, the brightest is the chrome,
yellow ochre, when mixed with the varnish, produces a very
dull tint.
P R I N
Practical Blues are made from indigo, Prussian blue, and Ant-
Pnnting^ werp blue. Of these, indigo is exceedingly dark, and not
SC; very easily lightened. Prussian blue is a very useful co-
Golours. iour ; Antwerp blue is very light.
Greens may be produced from a mixture of any of the
blues and yellows, as gamboge and Prussian blue, chro¬
mate of lead and Prussian blue. These may be mixed in
any proportions until the required tint is produced; but it
must be remembered that the varnish has a considerable
yellow tinge, and will produce a decided effect upon the
mixture. With a slight portion of Antwerp blue it will,
without the mixture of any of the yellows, produce a de¬
cidedly greenish tinge.
Purples of any degree of richness are made by judi¬
ciously mixing reds and blues.
Saepia produces a nice brown tint, burnt umber a very
hot brown, raw umber a much lighter brown, bistre a
brighter still. Neutral tints may be obtained by mixing
Prussian blue, lake, and gamboge. In fact, every pigment
that painters can use can be used in printing, avoiding, as
much as possible, all heavy colours. In truth, if the printer
is desirous df imitating any particular colour, or of produ¬
cing any particular tint, he cannot do better than consult
the nearest artist in oil or water colours (oil in preference),
or in default of that, the neighbouring house-painter.
The necessary colours having been procured, the me¬
thod of preparing them is very simple. Each must first be
well ground by the muller upon the slab, even although
they may have been purchased well powdered. The co¬
lour should then be well mixed with the palette-knife with
the varnish, until the pigment has attained the required
consistency, which will vary with the quality of the work
to be executed; for if it be a posting-bill or coarse job,
the ink should be very thin, and consequently a much larger
proportion of varnish should be used. If, however, the
work be a wood-cut or in small type, the pigment should
be made as thick as possible. If the colour required be a
compound, the predominant tint should be first mixed with
the varnish, and the lighter tint added in small quantities,
until the exact shade required be produced. Thus, if the
colour be a dark green, the blue should be mixed up first,
and the yellow added ; but if it be a very light green, then
the yellow should be first applied, and the blue added. If
the tint desired be exceedingly light, it will be found that
the quantity of raw material to be employed will not make
the mixture sufficiently thick to be applied to the type or
wood-block: in this case whitening is added to thin co¬
lours, and dry white lead to the heavier in considerable
quantities, which must be adjusted in the course of mixing.
To insure thorough combination, the mixture should be
scraped into a corner of the slab, and a very small portion
of it spread with the palette-knife, and well ground with
the muller until no specks or lumps appear, then scraped
up and placed in another corner. This should especially
be done when white lead is used, as it will be found that
every little lump when crushed will produce a white streak
upon the slab. If this be not carefully done, independently
of its tendency to clog the type, it will very materially alter
the tint. When the pigment seems sufficiently mixed, it
is better to bray it out with the muller instead of the usual
braver, and grind again each particular portion immediately
before it is used. Colours may be worked either with a
ball or a roller. If the job be large and coarse, and the
ink consequently thin, the roller will answer every purpose;
but if it be small, and requiring much nicety in the mani¬
pulation, decidedly with a ball; but in either case the ink
should be well distributed, and the form well beaten or
rolled. When twm or more colours are employed, they
must be wmrked at as many different times. In this case
extreme nicety in the register and justification is required,
in order that every colour may fall in its just place, with-
VOL. XVIII.
T 1 N G- 569
out overlaying any other tint employed in the print. This Practical
would be a great dis-sight in any case, but most especially Printing,
where the composition of colours would produce a third; as,
for instance, if any part of a blue line should unfortunately
fall upon a yellow, a green outline would be the result. Lolours-
The simplest way to guard against this is to have the wood¬
blocks all cut to precisely the same size, with the print in
the proper place upon each; when, therefore, the first co¬
lour has been worked, the form is unlocked, the block taken
out, and the second block inserted; it then falls at once
into its proper position. If the form consist of type, each
line should be carefully composed in its proper body, that is,
if three colours be employed for as many different lines in
Pica, Small Pica, and Long Primer, the one to be first
worked should be composed in pica letters, the other lines
in small pica and long primer quadrats. When the second
line is to be worked, its quadrats should be taken out and
letters inserted, while the type of the first line should be
removed and quadrats substituted; and so of the third line.
The points on the tympan must never be moved. It is
clear, therefore, that if the paper be placed upon the same
point-holes as before, and if the form has never been mov¬
ed, the new line cannot fail to fall into its proper place.
The illustrative Plate CCCCXIY. has been worked upon this
plan ; the black, being the largest body, was first printed,
as it afforded the best guide for subsequent working. The
blue was next worked, because it was much easier to ad¬
just it to the black, than to adjust the red so exactly that
the blue should precisely surround it and yet not infringe
upon or retreat from the black, while there would be no
difficulty in making the other red portions fall in their pro¬
per places. In these cases the paper must never be suf¬
fered to dry ; indeed the sooner each colour succeeds the
other the better. If it he covered with a wet blanket, and
the edges well sprinkled, the danger will be little; but if
it should dry and shrink in the slightest degree, it will be
impossible to obtain register. For printing red-letter days
in almanacs and the rubrics in prayer-books (an almost ex¬
tinct practice), an especial type is used called rubrical; it
is cast about an m higher than ordinary type. The black
is first worked, quadrats having been inserted in the places
of the red letter, which are subsequently withdrawn, and
the rubrical type inserted. But as, in so small an insertion
in so large a body, this process does not attain any very
good register, and is expensive withal, the red-letter
days have been abandoned, and some other distinguishing
type (generally old English or black) has been substituted,
which sufficiently indicates the day. It would not be pos¬
sible here to give sufficient instructions to enable a printer
to execute landscapes, portraits, and other delicate subjects,
in various colours and shades. The chief difference between
this and other colour-printing consists mainly in the supe¬
rior individual skill and ingenuity of the artist, the excel¬
lence and truth of his engravings, and the superiority of
his appliances. In truth, before the printer can produce
any great effect, he must be excellently qualified as a
painter, which it is not the province of an article on print¬
ing to teach. It will be sufficient to state, that the lighter
and more extensive tints, and especially those in which
transparent colours are used, are worked first, the colour
being gradually deepened by successive blocks, until the
required effects are produced; and that the outline is print¬
ed last, to give sharpness and finish to the design. The
curious reader is referred to Mr Savage’s beautiful book on
Decorative Printing, and to the many admirable produc- .
tions of Mr Baxter and Mr Vizetelly. Mr Charles Knight
has taken out a patent for a new process in printing in co¬
lours, the principle of which consists in a new mode of ob¬
taining register of the different colours. It is understood
that all the colours are printed before the sheet of paper
is taken from the tympan, but not at one impression.
570
Practical
Printing.
PRINTING.
Gold.
Bank¬
notes.
The outline is printed at a second operation. The means
whereby this is effected may be learned as soon as the
' specification is enrolled. If the plan succeed (as yet it is
but imperfectly tried), it will materially reduce the cost
of coloured prints of all descriptions, and especially ot
There is no difficulty in printing in gold; it is within
the power of any typographer. The type is composed and
made ready at press in the usual manner. A quantity ot
raw or burnt umber is mixed with printer’s varnish, to the
same consistency as it would be were it intended to be
used as ink ; but this mixture is then compounded with a
considerable quantity of gold size, the same as that used
by gilders and japanners. The first mixture is necessary,
because it has been found that the umber will not combine
with the size. The type is then rolled with this compound,
in the same manner that ordinary ink is applied, and the
impression is taken upon the paper. Leaf-gold is then laid
over it with a piece of wool, and pressed slightly upon it.
When the varnish has had time to set, a piece of wool is
rubbed roughly over the part printed, and the superfluous
leaf is thereby removed, leaving the gold adhering to t ic
varnish. The sharpness of the print will vary with the
iudgment of the printer in the quantity of sizing applied
to the type; for if the press-work be bad, the print will be
bad also. For inferior gold-printing bronze powder is
extensively used. For this the varnish is made very much
thicker than for gold; the method of printing is the same ;
but after the impression has been given, the powder is
brushed over the print, and will adhere thereto, whilst the
superfluity may be easily removed. In printing the golden
Coronation Sun with this powder, a very distressing disease
arose, the hair became perfectly green, and the men were
very seriously affected; great caution should the.efoie be
taken that particles of the powder be not allowed to fly
about the room. Dutch gold cannot be used as a substi¬
tute for gold leaf.
Bank-Notes.
The numbers of bank-notes are printed by an exceed¬
ingly ingenious process, which, being regulated by machi¬
nery, makes it impossible to commit any fraud by printing
two notes with the same number. The apparatus consists
of a series of brass discs, of which the rim is divided by
channels into projecting compartments, each containing a
figure. The numbers 1 to 9 having been printed in the
course of the revolution of the first disc, and this disc hav¬
ing returned to figure 1, the second disc comes into play
and presents a 0, and the two together therefore print 10.
The first disc now remains stationary until, in the course of
the revolution of the second disc, the numbers 1 to 19
have been printed, when it presents the figure 2, and does
not again move until another revolution of the second disc
completes the number 20 to 29. Thus the two discs proceed
until 99 notes have been numbered, when the third disc
comes into operation, and, with the two first, produces 100,
consequently the first disc performs one hundred revolu¬
tions to ten of the second and one of the third, flhe
notes may be numbered indefinitely by this process, with¬
out the possibility of error, the machine, meanwhile, being
its own check.
Printing Presses.
Printing In the description of the Stanhope Press it has been
presses. stated that many other presses upon different principles
have recently been invented ; most of these, however, con¬
tain some application of the Stanhope power. The most
powerful, but the most expensive, of these is the Columbian
or Clymer Press. The power in this is acquired by an ex¬
tremely powerful lever, the pivot of which is in the top of
the near staple: it passes entirely over .the press, and is Practical
pulled down by a bar inserted in the near side, connected ^^8'
with the Stanhope coupling bar, &c. The platten is at-
tached to the centre of the lever, therefore the impression rregS(^
is perfectly vertical. The principle may be popularly un¬
derstood by balancing a ruler upon the edge of a piece of
wood, holding firmly one end in the left hand, and press¬
ing down the other with the right: indeed a very fair im¬
pression of a small wood-cut may be obtained by placing it
with the face downwards upon a soft pad, fixing one end ot
a bar of wood under a staple, and pressing down the other.
Cogger’s Press is very powerful. Its principle is a sector
or piece of curved steel, so arranged that the lower portion
is more curved than the upper; a steel stud traverses upon
this. When it moves over the lower and more inclined por¬
tion of the sector, it brings down the platten with great
rapidity ; but in traversing the upper portion, as it presents
a less inclined plane, the power is consequently mutdi in¬
creased, and is greatest, very great, at the pinch. These
presses are complained of by the workmen as being very
slow ; but the greatest objection to them is, that in making
short pulls a ledge is worn upon the sectors, which is a
great obstruction to a long fair pull: with proper attention
by the pressman this wrould not occur.
The Albion Press, manufactured by Cope’s executors, is
a general favourite for its exceeding lightness; it runs very
easily, the pull is short, the power great, and the means
whereby it is attained so simple that there is little fear ot
the press getting out of order ; it is very easily taken down
for cleaning, and put up again. The power is gained y
causing an inclined piece ot steel to become perpendicular,
in so doing the platten descends, and the impression takes
place at the moment the piece of steel is assuming its up¬
right position.
Cope and Sherwin’s Imperial is another very excellent
press, upon principles which do not greatly differ Ifom the
Albion : they are very numerous.
In Harrild’s Press the power is obtained by the straight¬
ening a knuckle or elbow-joint, in precisely the same man¬
ner as the bent arm is straightened. Being of very expen¬
sive construction, they have not obtained great sale.
Printing Machines.
\s long as the thirst for literature was confined to books Printing
and a few periodicals of limited sale and size, the ordinary machine.,
printing presses sufficed to supply the demand ; nor was it
discovered that any further speed was requisite, until the
increased facility of conveyance, and the important events
at the close of the last century, created a demand tor news,
that the utmost exertions of the printers were unable to
supply ; for the attempt to increase the speed by the com¬
position of two distinct forms of type would aval htt e so
long as the presses could turn out only two hundred and titty
or three hundred sheets each per hour. Accordingly, tor
this branch of the art were the first machines projected.
Many schemes were proposed for accelerating the move¬
ments of the press ; but the first attempts at anything like
the machine afterwards introduced were made by William
Nicholson, a gentleman connected with periodical litera¬
ture, who took out a patent about 1790, for a printing ma¬
chine, of which the chief points were the following: me
type was to be fixed upon a cylinder, being cast narrower
towards the bottom, in order, as it were, to radiate from tne
centre of it. This cylinder, with its type, was to revolve m
gear with another cylinder covered with soft leather ; an
hiking apparatus was applied to the type-cylinder, and the
paper was to be impressed by passing between the two 5
most of these plans were, when modified, adopted by atter-
constructors. This machine was never brought into prac¬
tice. Konig, an ingenious German, was the next who un-
printing.
’radical dertook to construct a machine ; and, having made consider-
’rinting. able advance in his plans, obtained a contract with Mr Wal-
ters’ the ProPrietor °f the Times newspaper, for manufac-
lachines. turinS two for that journal. In these Nicholson’s plan was
' so far altered, that the type was laid upon a flat surface,
and the impression was given by their passing under a cy¬
linder of great size. He afterwards invented a machine
in which the sheet was printed on both sides before it left
the machinery; but, in both, his arrangements for the equal
distribution of the ink were so complicated and clumsy,
consisting of not less than forty wheels, and the works of
every part of the machine so intricate, that it never came
into practical use. The first really useful machine was con¬
structed by Messrs Applegarth and Cowper, being an ex¬
tensive modification of that of Kdnig; its principle improve¬
ment consisting in the application of two drums between
the impression-cylinders, for the purpose of insuring the re¬
gister of the sheet, by retaining it, after the impression of the
first form, just so long that it may pass on to the second cy¬
linder in exact time to be impressed thereby upon the se¬
cond form ; and of the distribution of the ink upon a plane
surface, instead of by a complication of rollers, by which
Kdnig’s monstrous machinery was got rid of. These ma¬
chines are now in general use.
For newspapers, machines are generally made to work
but one side at a time. It is manifest that a machine will
work a much greater number (more than double) of one
form than of two ; and that the machinery will be lighter and
less expensive, and of course require less motive power.
One form, therefore, of a newspaper, containing advertise¬
ments and the less important matter, is worked at leisure;
and the second form, containing the leading article, impor¬
tant news, and other matter of consequence, is reserved
until the last moment, and is then thrown off with immense
rapidity. For the usual description of book-work, machines
are constructed to work both forms. In these, perfect re¬
gister and the exact and even distribution of the ink are of
the greatest consequence, and such immense rapidity is not
necessary. These machines, therefore, differ very much in
construction, though not in principle, from those used for
newspapers.
In Plate CCCCXV. will be found an engraving of Cow-
pet’s admirable perfecting machine, an explanation of which
will comprehend a sufficient description of the single ma¬
chine. Upon slides running the length of the frame which
supports the whole machine, traverses a carriage which con¬
veys the two forms of type, and attached to both ends of
which are tables for the distribution of the ink. The reci¬
procating motion is given to this carriage by means of a
pinion, which works alternately upon the upper and under
surface of a rack. In gear with this carriage, and, suppos¬
ing the paper to be omitted, in immediate contact with the
type, revolve two cylinders of large dimensions, by which
the impression is given ; these cylinders are separated by
the registering drums, but are kept in uniform and steady
motion by two large wheels, the teeth of which work within
each other. The ink is distributed over the forms by an
apparatus attached to each end of the frame, consisting of
a trough which contains the ink, in contact with the edge
of which, or very nearly so, a metal roller called the due-
tor is made to revolve slowly by means of a catgut, which
passes over a pulley attached to the axis of the impression-
cylinder. A composition-roller is made to rise into contact
with the ductor and receive a portion of ink, with which it
descends, and thus communicates it to the inking-table as
that passes underneath it at the extremity of the traverse.
Two composition-rollers are placed somewhat diagonally
across the frame, and their spindles being of extra length, Practical
as the table passes under them they are caused to re- Printing
volve and also to travel slightly across it, thus evenly dis-
tributing the ink all over the surface of the inking-table, i^rilutins
the cross motion removing any accidental accumulation Machmes-
of ink. The table now traverses under four other com¬
position-rollers, supplying them with an even quantity of
colour, which they in turn distribute over the type as it
passes under them in going and returning, the form being
thus rolled no less than eight times. These rollers are mere
ly dropped into notches in the frame, their own weight suf¬
ficing to retain them in their places, and give the necessary
impact upon the type. For the purpose of carrying the
paper round the different cylinders there are two distinct
series of endless tapes, one of which, coming in contact with
the left surface of a small roller,1 passes from thence to the
right surface of the first cylinder, and underneath it; thence
over the first and under the second drum; thence to the
left surface of and under the second cylinder; from this it
passes to the right, until it arrives at the roller first men¬
tioned. The course of the second series of tapes is dif¬
ferent ; for, following the course of the first series, and in
contact with it (supposing the paper withdrawn) until it
has passed with it under the second cylinder, it then takes
a different direction, and, turning to the left, passes over
the machine until it arrives at the roller from which we
have commenced the description. Both series of tapes are
kept tightly stretched by means of various small rollers re¬
volving in different parts of their course. The paper being
laid upon other tapes from a table at the right of the ma¬
chine, is moved forward until it comes in contact with the
endless tapes, and being received between them, it is pass¬
ed under the first cylinder, and the first side is then print¬
ed ; thence passing over and under the drums on to the
second cylinder, it receives the impression upon the other
side ; thence it passes onward to the point where the tapes
take different directions, when it is shot out printed on
both sides, upon a board between the cylinders and under
the drums. The whole machine is put in motion by means
of a strap which passes over a wheel under the frame, and
mat/ be worked by the power of men, but is mostly worked
by steam. It is capable of doing very fair work at the rate
of from 2000 to 2400 impressions, or 1000 or 1200 perfect
sheets, per hour ; it requires but two boys, one to lay on and
one to take off the sheets.
The machine with which the Times is printed is also con¬
structed by Messrs Applegarth and Cowper. It consists
of four impression-cylinders, two of which are in contact
with the types at the same moment; the other two rising
in the meanwhile. There are consequently eight series of
tapes, two for each cylinder. It requires four boys to lay
on and four to take off, and the machine will give 4200
impressions within the hour. Its appearance, of course,
differs very much from the machine before described.
The ingenuity of these gentlemen, especially of Mr Cow¬
per, has been exerted in the invention of many mechanical
improvements in printing. Several of his machines, upon
various constructions, have been brought into use with con¬
siderable success. These, however, are the principal ma¬
chines of his invention. They at first, it is believed, turned
their attention to the fixing stereotype plates upon the pe¬
riphery of the impression-cylinder, and brought the scheme
into practice ; but these are superseded by the simpler and
more useful machines above described.
The machines of Mr Napier are in very general repute.
They have the advantage of being easily worked by two
men, thus saving the great expense and unavoidable dirt
1 The description commences with that portion of the machine where the P:’T^
course have no beginning; the worAs first, second, and third, &c. must there ore
right hand of the reader.
first enters the machinery, for endless tapes can of
understood to refer to the position as respects the
572
PRINTING.
Practical where a steam-engine is employed, with its necessary ap-
Printing. piiances, boilers, coals, &c. They stand in a very small
' pV—' compass, and do beautiful work. As far as regards motion
Machines and impression, they do not greatly vary from those pre-
’ viously described ; but in the method of conveying the pa¬
per, obtaining register, and inking, they are altogether dif¬
ferent. The paper is laid to a certain gauge, when in the
revolution of the cylinder grippers are made to compress
the edge of the paper upon it, very much in the manner in
which the fore-finger closes on the thumb. It is by these
means conveyed entirely round it, in the course of which
the first impression is given. At the commencement of
the second revolution these grippers open at the precise
moment the grippers attached to the second cylinder close,
and thus convey the sheet over the second form. Tapes
pass under the second cylinder, between the blanket and the
paper, and over a pulley upon a bar, by the mere friction
of which the sheet is thrown out upon a board. These
grippers are made to act with such perfect certainty that
the best possible register is obtained. 1 he inking appara¬
tus consists of a trough with a doctor and vibrating roller,
which communicates the ink to composition-rollers, by the
revolution of which in contact with each other the ink
is perfectly distributed, and from these to the type. A
cross motion is communicated to the distributing roller by
means of a worm in the elongated spindle. As but one im¬
pression is given during the traverse of the table in each
direction, the cylinder which does no*t at the moment hold
the paper would be in contact with the type, had not Mr
Napier added a beautiful adjustment, whereby the cylin¬
ders rise and fall alternately, so that the one not in use
passes over the form intact. This machine will work from
1000 to 1200 perfect sheets per hour, and requires but two
boys. Mr Napier has constructed several other machines
of great merit, one of which, for newspapers, will perfect
2000 sheets per hour by the labour of two men. Another
with four cylinders, for rapid newspaper work, prints the
Morning Chronicle newspaper at the rate of 6000 sheets on
one side per hour. But the perfection of speed will be ob¬
tained by one for which he has lately taken out a patent,
by which the extraordinary speed of 15,000 or 20,000 per
hour will be obtained. The ordinary type is affixed to the
periphery of a cylinder of enormous dimensions, in contact
with which ten smaller impression-cylinders revolve, each
with its inking and other apparatus so arranged that every
revolution of the large cylinder works ten sheets of any
size; and yet so steady and so silent is its motion, that there
is no danger of any disruption of the type, even at that ex¬
traordinary rate. The types are held in their place by
means of the rules, which are made considerably larger at
the top than at the bottom, thus occupying the space which
wTould be found in consequence of the types not being so
formed as to radiate from the centre of the cylinder. Mr
Napier is the inventor of many very ingenious improve¬
ments in the machinery of printing.
Mr Rowland Hill has brought into partial use a machine
giving 10,000 impressions per hour ; the types are slightly
pyramidical, in order to radiate from the centre of the cylin¬
der upon which they are fixed. These machines, however,
are better adapted to printing stereotype plates, to which a
curved form could be given, which is the principle of Ni¬
cholson’s and other early machines.
A machine-press has long been at work in Mr Spottis-
woode’s office, in which the impression is given by a self¬
acting platten, tables, rollers, friskets, and tympans. It
does beautiful work, at the rate of 600 or 700 impressions
per hour.
A well-seeming press has also lately been imported from
America, in which there is an admirable application of two
friskets, which are made to run in and out and rise and fall
alternately. The tympan is upon the platten. There ap¬
pears, however, to be some practical defects in the work- Practical
ing. Owing either to this or their high price, or prejudice, ^rirUin£
they have not been successfully introduced. Printin
These are by no means all the machines that have been jjacijjn^
devised, constructed, or brought into use. They are, how¬
ever, all that it is necessary to mention, as the same prin¬
ciple is common to all. Every maker is at liberty to build
them, with such modifications as his own talents may sug-
gest.
The many-coloured excise stamps and cheques are print¬
ed by very complicated and ingenious machinery, the inven¬
tion of the late Sir William Congreve. They arc printed from
steel or copper plates, the plate from which the dominant co¬
lour (as black) is transferred being cut away in those parts
where the red appears, whilst the red plate has the parts
which are to receive the ink in relief; the edges of the two
plates being bevelled, the relievo of the red plate fits with ex¬
quisite nicety into the corresponding parts of the black plate ;
these being properly adjusted on the machinery, the red
plate descends, and is then coloured by rollers, as is the black
plate,which remains stationary; the red plate nowrising, fits
itself into the black plate, and the impression is instantly
given, thus printing both colours at once, and wdth such
excellent adjustment, that it is almost impossible, by the ,
minutest examination of the print, to form any guess of the
mode of execution. The apparatus for adjusting these plates
has of course nothing in common with ordinary printing
machines, and it differs materially from them in othei re¬
spects : the table is stationary, the cylinder traverses over
it, and the inking appliances follow it in its traverse.
Copperplate Printing.
It has already been mentioned that the principle ofCopper-
printing from engravings on copper or steel is the veiprinting,
reverse of printing from types, inasmuch as the former aie
graven in intaglio and the latter in relief, and consequent¬
ly the pigments are contained within the lines of the one,
and the surface of the plate is free of all colouring mat¬
ter, whilst the surface of the other is carefully covered
with ink, and the depressions as carefully kept clean. It
must be sufficiently obvious that these essential differ¬
ences must require very different manipulations. Accoid-
ingly, the printing of such engravings has little in com¬
mon with letter-press printing. The copperplate or rol¬
ler press may be described as consisting of two upright
cheeks, with ribs diverging at right angles. At a short
distance above these ribs is a solid iron cylinder, which
is made to revolve by means of a star, consisting of many
radii, as long as the height from the ground will per¬
mit. Upon the ribs runs a carriage ; under the carriage,
but not attached to it, is a roller, which, by means of a
lever, is made to rise, thus pressing the carriage with any
degree of force against the upper cylinder. The cop¬
perplate is laid over a brazier of ignited charcoal, and
when at a sufficient heat the workman takes a consi¬
derable quantity of ink upon a rubber of linen rag, and
smears the whole face of the plate, working it carefully
into every mark of the graver ; the heat of the fire, at once
expelling the air and thinning the ink, causes it to enter
into the minutest strokes, so that the slightest scratch or
corrosion in the copper presents itself upon the paper: a
plate even not sufficiently polished, that presents no visible
defects to the clearest eye, will cause the paper to appear
<Jirty ; so exact are the effects of this mode of printing.
When the ink has been sufficiently rubbed in, the face of
the plate is cleared of the superfluous ink with another
linen rubber; the workman, then, with the balls of his
hands, carefully cleanses the surface, drying his hands up¬
on a lump of whitening, until the face is perfectly cleanea
and polished. In this operation the skill of the workman
is exhibited, for in thus cleansing the plate he must be most
P R I
Piints careful not to rub out the ink from the gravures, and to
riories leaVe C°lour Pro»:,ortioned to the depths of shadows required;
for although the engraver may, indeed must, have defined
every stroke, much depends upon the manner in which
the printer does his part. It is not every man that has a
rolling press that can produce first-rate prints. On the
contrary, he must be himself no inconsiderable artist, and
stands in a much higher relation to the engraver than the
bellows-blower to the organist. The plate being ready for
printing, is removed from the brazier to the carriage of the
press ; the paper, well damped, is laid upon it; a leather
tympan is closed over it, the carriage run in a little, and
the lever raised ; the carriage, &c. being thus brought into
close contact with the upper roller, the latter is made to
revolve by turning the star ; this causes the carriage and
plate to run in, and thus an immense lineal impression is
given to every part. The ink used in copperplate print¬
ing differs somewhat from that used by letter-press print¬
ers. It is of two kinds ; one for fine ornamental work,
one for common printing. For fine work, such as large
and delicate engravings, the material used is the finest
Frankfort black ; it is ground on a stone with a muller,
and mixed with weak burnt linseed oil, until it attains a
consistency of thick paste ; a little strong burnt oil is then
added, and it is then ground up again, a drier to make the
ink set firm on the paper being added. The drier is com¬
posed of small portions of litharge, white copperas, and su¬
gar of lead ; these should be well pounded with the muller
p R I 573
before they are ground up with the oil and black. A small Priscianus
portion of the best Prussian blue may be added ; but the II
greatest care must be taken that it be well triturated, as Prismo5(h
otherwise it is liable to make the best work smear. The
blue must be ground up by itself with weak oil; to this
driers are to be added. The whole compound is then to
be ground up again, and added to the black: the mixture
must be then ground upon the stone for about ten mi¬
nutes, the palette-knife being freely used until all portions
are thoroughly commingled. The ink for common work
is prepared in the same manner, but without the Prussian
blue; and the common English black is substituted for that
of Frankfort.
Copper-plate presses, of a superior description, made
chiefly of iron and brass, have lately been introduced, in
which several excellent appliances are to be found to di¬
minish the labour and improve the general quality of the
work. The most important improvement would appear to
consist in heating and inking the plates without removing
them from the press, and distributing the ink over the surface
and in great measure removing it by means of composition-
rollers, the ultimate cleansing being left to manual skill as
before. In copper-plate printing, however, so much de¬
pends upon the skill and care of the workman, that what¬
ever improvement may be made in the mode of gaining
pressure and other mechanical means, it does not appear
probable that the present slow and careful progress will
ever be superseded. (b. d.)
PRINTS, the impression taken from a copperplate en¬
graved. See Engraving.
PRIOR, in general, something before or nearer the be¬
ginning than another with which it is compared.
Prior more particularly denotes the superior of a con¬
vent of monks, or the next under the abbot.
Grand Prior is the superior of a large abbey, where
several heads are required.
Prior, Matthew, an eminent English poet, was born at
London in the year 16641. His father dying whilst he was
very young, an uncle, a vintner, gave him some education
at Westminster school, and then took him home to train him
up to his own trade. However, at his leisure hours he pro¬
secuted the study of the classics, particularly that of his fa¬
vourite Horace. Through the influence of the Earl of Dor¬
set he was sent to St John’s College in Cambridge, where, in
1686, he took the degree of bachelor of arts, and afterwards
became fellow of his college. In 1710, he was supposed to
have had a share in writing the Examiner. In 1711, he was
made one of the commissioners of the customs; and was
sent as minister plenipotentiary to France, for negotiating
a peace with that kingdom. Soon after the accession of
George I. to the throne of England in 1714, he presented
a memorial to the court of France, requiring the demolition
of the canal and new works at Mardyke. The year follow¬
ing he was recalled; and upon his arrival was seized by a
warrant from the House of Commons, and strictly examined
by a committee of the privy council. Mr Robert Walpole
moved the House of Commons for an impeachment against
him; and Mr Prior was ordered into close custody. In 1717,
he was excepted out of the act of grace; however, at the close
of that year he was set at liberty. The remainder of his days
he spent in tranquillity and retirement, and died in 1721.
PRIORIES, Alien, were cells of the religious houses
in England which belonged to foreign monasteries. When
manors or tithes were given to foreign convents, the monks,
either to increase their own rule, or rather to have faithful
stewards of their revenues, built a small convent here for
the reception of such a number as they thought proper, and
constituted priors over them. Within these cells there was
the same distinction as in those priories which were cells
subordinate to some great abbey. These alien priories were
most of them founded by such as had foreign abbeys found¬
ed by themselves or by some of their family. The whole
number is not exactly ascertained. Dugdale has given a list
of a hundred, Weever of a hundred and ten.
PRISCIANUS, one of the most celebrated of the an¬
cient grammarians, was surnamed Caesariensis, either be¬
cause he was born at Cassarea, or had received his educa¬
tion there. He flourished in the reign of Justin (a. d.
518-527), and was a contemporary of the philosopher Boe¬
thius, and of Cassiodorus, the minister of Theodoric king
of the Goths. He taught grammar at Constantinople, and
received a salary from the court, which makes it probable
that he was a Christian. Priscianus was distinguished for
his thorough acquaintance with grammar, of which he has
left us a proof, in a very complete work on that subject.
It bears the title, Commentariorum Grammaticorum libri
xviii. ad Julianum ; or, in relation to its subject, De Octo
Partibus Orationis earundemque Constructione. The first
sixteen books are employed on an examination of the eight
parts of speech of the ancients, and the last two on syn¬
tax in the proper sense of the word. We have also a poem
of the same author, in hexameter verse, on the Emperor
Anastasius, who died in the year 518; and the style and
language are far purer than those of many others in the
same age. We have also many other smaller works on
grammar.
His grammatical works have been published by Krehl,
Leipzig, 1819, in two vols.; and the smaller essays by Linde-
mann, Leyden, 1817.
PRISM, in Geometry, is a solid body, the two ends of
which are any plane figures which are parallel, equal, and
similar; and its sides, connecting those ends, are parallelo¬
grams.
PRISMOID is a solid body, somewhat resembling a
prism, but its ends are any dissimilar parallel plane figures
of the same number of sides, the upright sides being tra¬
pezoids. If tht* ends of the prismoid be bounded by dissi¬
milar curves, it is sometimes called a cylindroid.
574
PRISONS.
Prisons. The arrangements necessary to adapt prisons to the ends
^-^Wfor which they are designed seem to require little more
than the exercise of practical good sense ; and yet the man¬
ner in which the practice of the world blunders on from one
absurdity, and very often from one atrocity to another,
shows pretty distinctly, how little the public affairs of ma -
kind have hitherto had the benefit of that practical faculty,
or of any thing that resembles it.
Ends of im- Prisons have been applied to three purposes : 1 ^
prisonment. 0f safe custody ; 2c%, That of punishment; idly, i nat o
reformation. _
It is very evident, that each of these purposes requires
an arrangement of means peculiar to itself.
Though each requires a combination of means peculiar
to itself, it does not follow that, of the means required for
each, a portion may not be the same in all. Every body
will acknowledge that this is the case.
The means of safe custody, for instance, are equally re¬
quired for those who are imprisoned in order to be punish¬
ed, and those who are imprisoned in order that they may
be reformed, as for those who are imprisoned t0 the sole
end of being made present at a particular time and place.
The arrangements, then, for safe custody, form a basis,
on which every combination of means for attaining any ot
the other ends of imprisonment must always be erected.
Other means for the attainment of these ends are to be con¬
sidered as accessions to those required for the first.
It is a corollary from this position, that the same house
may, at one and the same time, be employed for all the three
purposes. Those properties in the building which make it
fittest, at the least expense, for safe custody, make it fittest
also for the purposes either of punishment or of reformation.
This will be rendered abundantly apparent in the sequel;
and from the single circumstance, that the means of pun¬
ishment and reformation are only additions to those ot sa e
custody, it wants not much of its demonstration already.
If the arrangements needed, for those who are to be pun¬
ished, and those who are to be reformed, interfere not with
one another, or with those needed on account of the per¬
sons in safe custody merely, the truth of the corollary is in¬
disputable ; for nobody will deny that, in point of economy,
there must be very great advantage.
Means of I. We shall consider, first of all, what is the best combi-
safecustody nation 0f means for safe custody. Dungeons and tetters
are the expedient of a barbarous age. And in respect ot
prisons, as of every thing which comes within the precincts
of law, the expedients of a barbarous age are, with great
industry, retained in those which are civilized; they are,
indeed, not only retained with great industry, but preserve
with a success which, if it were not experienced, would be
altogether incredible. As the expedients ot a barbarous
age are still preserved in many more of the arrangements
for the purposes of law, so it is but of yesterday that the pri¬
sons of our forefathers have been regarded as fit for retorm,
or the means which in their ancestorial wisdom those sages
devised for attaining the ends of imprisonment were sup¬
posed capable of being altered for the better, by their less
instructed sons.
It is at last, however, allowed, that inspection is a means
for safe custody, which renders unnecessary all but very
ordinary means of any other description. Thus, so long as Prison?,
a man is, and knows that he is, under the eyes of persons
able and willing to prevent him, there is very little danger ot
his making an attempt, which he sees would be vain, to effect
a breach in the wall, or force open the door, of his cel.
Any great strength, therefore, in such wall or door, as v\ell
as fetters upon any part of his body, the object of which is
to make provision against such an attempt, are wholly un¬
necessary ; since the attempts are sure of not being made,
or being instantly frustrated.
The plan of a prison, in which the power of inspection
is rendered so complete, that the prisoner maybe, and can¬
not know but that he is, under the eyes of his keepers,
every moment of his time, and which we owe to General
Bentham, so univerally known for his mechanical genius,
is described by his brother, in his work entitled Panopti¬
con, or Inspection House ; where also a system of manage¬
ment is delineated, and its principles are so perfectly ex¬
pounded and proved, that they who proceed in this road,
with the principle of utility before them, can do little else
than travel in his steps. .
An idea of the contrivance may be conveyed in a tew
words. It is a circular building, of the width of a cell, and
of any height; carried round a space, which remains vacant
in the middle. The cells are all open inwards, having an
iron grating instead of a wall, and, of course, are visible in
every part to an eye properly placed in the vacant space.
A narrow tower rises in the middle of that space, called the
inspection tower, which serves for the residence of the
keepers, and in which, by means of windows and blinds,
they can see without being seen ; the cells, by lights pro¬
perly disposed, being capable of being rendered as visible
by night as by day.
We have thus provision for safe custody ; and along with
it, five other important purposes are gained. First of all,
there is great economy ; the vast expense of thick, impe¬
netrable walls, being rendered unnecessary. Secondly, all
pretence of subjecting prisoners to the torture and egra
dation of irons is taken away. Thirdly, no misbehaviour
of the prisoners can elude observation, and instant correc
tion. Fourthly, no negligence, or corruption, or cruelty,
on the part of the subordinate agents in the prison, can es¬
cape the view of their principals. And, fifthly, no miscon¬
duct towards the prisoners, on the part of their principals, can
remain unknown to the public, who may obtain a regulate
admittance into the inspection tower, and regulated com¬
munication with the prisoners.
The persons who are liable to be in prison, for sure cus¬
tody merely, are of three classes. First, persons appre¬
hended, and about to be put on their trial, for the com¬
mission of a crime. Secondly, persons convicted o a
crime, and about to receive their punishment; and, thirdly,
debtors. . . ,,
Under a good system of law, very little provision wouia
need to be made for these cases. It is one of the essentia
properties of a good system of law to permit as little time
as possible to intervene between the apprehension and tna,
and between the conviction and punishment, of a person
for a crime. There would never, therefore, be many sucn
persons in any prison at a time. And under a good system
of law, there never would be any body in a prision on ac-
PRISONS.
.
count of debt.1 This is mentioned merely to show how lit¬
tle, under a good system of law, the apparatus and expense
of a separate prison, for this set of cases, would be wanted.
These persons being inmates of a prison, for insuring
their presence merely, the question is, What treatment they
ought to receive ?
Persons in prison before trial, and debtors, are persons
of whom nothing is certainly known, but that they are un¬
fortunate. They are, therefore, entitled to all the benevo¬
lence which is due to the unfortunate.
What is done for them in a prison must, however, be
done at the expense of the community, that is, by sacrifices
demanded of those who are not in prison ; and those sacri¬
fices ought, undoubtedly, to be the smallest possible. The
question is, therefore, to be settled by a compromise be¬
tween the principle of benevolence, and the principle of
economy.
The principle of benevolence undoubtedly requires that
the health of the prisoners should not be impaired ; for this,
importing the premature loss of life, is in reality the pun¬
ishment of death, inflicted upon those to whom no punish¬
ment is due.
That health may not be impaired, three things are indis¬
pensable : 1st, a wholesome apartment; 2dly, a sufficiency
of wholesome food ; 3dly, sufficient clothing.
The principle of economy, with equal certainty, exacts,
that all those should be of the cheapest possible kind.
All this is abundantly clear. It is equally clear that,
with respect to those who are in prison for safe custody
merely, the principle of benevolence requires, and the prin¬
ciple of economy does not forbid, that they should be free
to use any indulgence, which costs nothing, or which they
provide for themselves ; and that no farther restraint should
be placed upon their liberty than the custody of their per¬
sons, and the rule of economy, which prescribes the limits
and accommodations of the place, may demand.
Few words will be necessary to show what is appropriate
to the case of the man who is in prison during the inter¬
val between his sentence and his punishment.
By the supposition, in this case, his punishment is some¬
thing distinct from his imprisonment; because, if not, it is
a case which comes under another head, namely, that of
persons who are in prison for the sake of punishment; and
will be fully considered in another part of this discourse.
If he is in prison for detention merely, his punishment,
as meted out and fixed by the judge, being something
wholly separate ; every particle of hardship imposed upon
him, not necessary for his detention, is something without
law, and contrary to law ; is as much injustice and a crime,
when inflicted upon him, as if inflicted upon any other mem¬
ber of the community. The same considerations, which,
as we found above, ought to regulate the imprisonment of
debtors, and persons in custody before trial, namely, the
compromise between the principle of benevolence and the
principle of economy, apply, without the smallest differ¬
ence, to the case of persons who, during the interval be¬
tween their sentence and its execution, are in prison for
the mere purpose of preventing their escape.
We foresee a difficulty, or rather an objection, for there
is really no difficulty in the case.
Persons come into prisons, who have been accustomed,
in the preceding part of their lives, to all degrees of deli¬
cate and indulgent living; to whom, therefore, the hard
fare prescribed by the principle of economy will occasion
very different degrees of uneasiness.
Such persons, when in prison for safe custody merely
(what is required when persons are in prison for punish¬
ment, or for reformation, will be seen hereafter), may be
allowed to make use of any funds which they may possess >
for procuring to themselves all unexceptionable indulgen-
cies. They may be also allowed the exercise of any lucra¬
tive art, consistent with the nature of the prison, for pro¬
curing to themselves the means of such indulgencies. This
the principle of benevolence dictates, and there is nothing
in the principle of economy which forbids it.
We shall be told, however, that there are persons who
have been accustomed to a delicate mode of living, and
who come into prison without the command of any funds,
or the knowledge of any art, by which they may soften
the hardship of their lot; and we shall be asked what is the
course which our philosophy recommends for the treatment
of them ? The course which it recommends is very clear.
Such persons are paupers, and whatsoever treatment is fit
for paupers of the description to which they belong, is fit
also for them. If there are any funds, to which as paupers
they can apply, the application should be open to them. If
there are none, and there is no person to whose benevolence
they can resort, the effects of such a destitute situation must
be sustained, the same way in a prison, as they must be,
when any person falls into it, out of a prison.
II. Having stated what appears to us necessary for illus- Means of
tratingthe principles which ought to regulate the imprison-punishment
ment of those, in respect to whom safe custody is the end
in view, we come, in the next place, to the case of those,
in respect to whom, in addition to safe custody, punishment
is to be effected through the same medium.
This subject we shall unfortunately be under the neces¬
sity of treating superficially; because, in order to explain
it fully, we ought to have before us the whole doctrine of
punishment; and, for this purpose, a development, too ex¬
tensive for the present purpose, would be required.
This we may assume as an indisputable principle ; that
whatever punishment is to be inflicted, should be deter¬
mined by the judge, and by him alone ; that it should be
determined by its adaptation to the crime; and that it
should not be competent to those to whom the execution
of the sentence of the judge is entrusted, either to go be¬
yond the line which he has drawn, or to fall short of it.
We have already established, on what seemed sufficient
reasons, that for persons confined, on account of safe cus¬
tody merely, the cheapest accommodation, not importing
injury to health, in respect to apartment, food, and clothing,
should alone be provided at the public expense.
Unless in the case of those whom the judge might con¬
demn to lose a portion of their health, as the punishment
due to them, by the sufferings of an unwholesome prison,
unwholesome food, or improper clothing, this accommoda¬
tion ought to be afforded even to those who are placed in
prisons for the sake of punishment. And if it should be¬
thought that the loss of health never can be a proper pun¬
ishment, if it has never been regarded as such even by sa¬
vages, and is repudiated by every principle of reason, then
it follows, that the accommodations which we have described
m the former part of this discourse, as required in the case
of prisoners detained for safe custody, are required in the
case of prisoners of every description.
This is a basis, therefore, upon which every thing is to
rest In every rational system of prison management, this
is an essential condition. We are now to see in what man¬
ner, upon this footing, punishment, by means of imprison¬
ment, is to be effected. , _ . . ,
One mode is sufficiently obvious and sufficiently known.
The punishment may be rendered more or less severe by
. J . or the property of others, obtained by loan, had evidently been dishonestly
1 If evident fraud wrere committed in contracting the debt, o P P might iustly subject a man to imprisonment, or any other
spent, or dishonestly risked, such fraud or dishonesty, being crimes, not a debt, mignt jusr y j
sort of due punishment.
PRISONS.
Want of liberty is, in almost all cases, a source
576
Prisons, its duration.     j
""—'of uneasiness; want of liberty, added to the denial ot all
pleasures of sense, can hardly ever fail to be a source or
great uneasiness. A long imprisonment, therefore, with
the cheapest accommodation not importing injury to health,
must be a severe punishment. This, it is evident, may
be graduated to more or less of severity, not only by de¬
grees of time, but the use of such means as the prisoner
might command for procuring accommodations and indul-
gencies.
To this imprisonment may be added solitude. Hut
though we mention this, as a practicable addition to simple
imprisonment, it is well known how little, unless for short
periods, and on very particular occasions, it is to be recom¬
mended. ,
The modes which lately have been most in repute, ot
adding to the severity of simple imprisonment for the pur¬
pose of punishment, have been two ; 1st, hard labour; and,
2dly, bad prisons, and bad management in those prisons.
1. The species of labour which appears to have obtained
the preference is that of treading on a wheel.
If a criminal in a prison is ever to be let out again, and
to mix in society, it is desirable that nothing should be done,
and least of all done on purpose, to make him a worse mem¬
ber of society than when he went in. '1 here cannot be a
worse quality of a punishment, than that it has a tendency
to corrupt and deteriorate the individual on whom it is in¬
flicted ; unless, indeed, he is a prisoner for life ; in that
case, people of a certain temper might say, that making
worse his disposition is a matter of little importance ; and
to them we have no time to make any reply.
Most of those persons who come into prison as criminals,
are bad, because they have hated labour, and have had re¬
course to other means than their industry ot attaining the
supply of their wants and the gratification of their desires.
People of industry, people who love labour, seldom become
the criminal inmates of a prison.
One thing, however, is pretty certain, that men seldom
become in love with their punishments. If the grand cause
of the crimes which have brought a man to punishment is
his not having a love but hatred of labour ; to make labour
his punishment, is only to make him hate it the more. If
the more a man hates labour, the more he is likely to act
as a bad member of society ; to punish a man with labour,
and then to turn him out upon society, is a course of legis¬
lation which savours not of the highest wisdom.
Besides, in treating labour as an instrument of punish¬
ment, call it hard labour, if you will, what sort of a lesson
do you teach to the industrious and laborious class, who
tbrm the great body of your people ? to those whose lot is
labour, whose lot is hard labour, harder than any which it
is in your power to impose? What compulsory labour is
so hard as many species of voluntary labour ?
As an instrument of reformation, labour, as we shall pre¬
sently see, is invaluable. As an instrument of punishment,
hardly any thing can be conceived more exceptionable.
That which is the source of all that mankind enjoy, that
which is the foundation of every virtue in the most numer¬
ous class of the community, would you stamp with ignominy
and dishonour, by inflicting it as a punishment upon the
worst and basest of your people ? Is this your expedient
for rendering it, what every wise legislator would wish to
render it, honourable, and thence desirable ?
There are other objections, perfectly decisive, against
labour as a punishment. It operates with more inequality
than almost any other instrument of punishment that ever
has been invented. The same degree of labour would kill
one man, that to another would be only a pastime. From
this source we may apprehend the most horrid abuses, in
the continuance of those tread-mills. We may be very
sure, that the most atrocious cruelty will often be inflicted
upon those who, with strength below the average standard,
are placed in those penal engines ; while, in the case of'-*
those whose strength is much above that standard, they will
hardly operate as a punishment at all.
It is impossible that the judge can measure out this pun¬
ishment ; because the judge has not the means of ascertain¬
ing the relative strength of the parties who come before
him. It must, therefore, be left to the jailor. The jailor,
not the judge, will mete out and determine the degree of
suffering which each individual is to undergo. The jailor,
not the judge, is the man who adapts the punishment to the
crime. Hence one of the stains which mark a careless and
stupid legislation.
It is a far inferior, though still no inconsiderable proof of
a blundering legislation, that the labour, if labour it must
be, is not of such a sort as to be useful. The turning of a
wheel, by human labour, when so many better means of
turning it are possessed in abundance, is destitute of even
this recommendation. It stands upon a similar footing with
the contrivance of the jailor, whom Mr. Bentham celebrates:
“ We are told somewhere,” he says, “ towards the close of
gully’s Memoirs, that for some time after the decease of
that great and honest minister, certain high mounts were to
be seen at no great distance from his house. These mounts
were so many monuments of his charity. The poor in his
neighbourhood happened to have industry to spare, and the
best employment he could find for it was, to remove dirt
from the place where it lay to another where it was of no
use. By the mere force of innate genius, and without having
ever put himself to school to learn the economy of a French
minister, a plain Bnglish jailor, whom Howard met witn,
was seen practising this revived species of pyramid archi¬
tecture in miniature. He had got a parcel of stones toge¬
ther at one end of his yard, and set the prisoners to bring
them to the other; the task achieved, now, says he, you
may fetch them back again. Being asked what was the
object of this industry, his answer was, ‘ to plague the pri¬
soners.’” In a note on this passage, Mr. Bentham says, “I
beg the jailor’s pardon ; what is above was from memory ;
his contrivance was the setting them to saw wood with a
blunt saw, made blunt on purpose. The removers of mounts
were a committee of justices.”
2. Bad prisons, and bad management in these prisons, B
a mode of punishment, the recommendation of which has
lately been revived, after we might have hoped that, in
this country at least, it was exploded for ever. The lan¬
guage of such recommendation has, on several occasions,
been heard in Parliament; and an article on Prison Disci¬
pline, which appeared in the Edinburgh Review, cannot
be interpreted in any other sense. Even the Committee
of the Society for the Improvement of Prison Discipline
have not been able to withstand the force of what they may
have supposed to be fashionable doctrine. In their dour In
Report, lately published, which we are sorry to say evinces
more of good intention, than of enlightened views for its
guidance, they say, “ No charge can be more mistaken and
unfounded, than that the plans recommended by this insti¬
tution are calculated to introduce comfort into gaols. The
committee are of opinion, and have always contended, that
severe punishment must form the basis ot an effective sys¬
tem of prison discipline ;” thereby confounding two things,
punishment, and prison discipline; which are totally dis¬
tinct ; and between which, it is ot so much importance to
preserve the distinction, that without it not a rational idea
can be entertained about either.
No doubt crimes must be punished. M ho needs instruc¬
tion upon that head ? But when the judge has prescribed,
that, in a particular way, which he points out, a particular
measure of pain shall be inflicted upon an individual; an
w hen the individual is taken, and made to sustain the oper¬
ations through which the pain is generated ; what has t us
Prisons
PRISONS.
Prisons, to do with the discipline of the prison ? It is an act or
scries of acts, sui generis ; acts not forming any part of the
ordinary course ot prison management; acts which would
not have taken place, which ought not to have taken place
if the judge had not commanded them, and which ’
formed solely and exclusively in obedience to his commfnd" of that °[ engendering the greatest quantity
ment. This is the nature of punishment- other Dun™shmem tl vVt m 0t^rS’ by the1Sinallest ^iantity of ^
than this there ought to be none. P^hment victim. The principal, perhaps the sole end of punish-
The Committee would make severe punishment the tnth ' rV rf by the example ; because, with respect
of prison discipline. What tjne" Ctl” Coltee” !n° lotK »<?*
with punishment ? The assigning of punishment the legis
lature have given to other and fitter hands; to those who
more is required. Yet, the language we hear about the
take cognizance of the offence, and alone ought to measure piS, Xtf aidly miyamg more0 is'in tLXinTZ’n the
the pun.shment. Saying they would make punishment the effect upon the individuaUufferers. u NothTng finer £
basis of prison discipline, what do they intend by this ill
contrived expression ? Do they mean, that their jailor shall
hold the scales, and weigh out the proper quantity ? If not,
how are they to be understood ; for if not the jailor but the
judge is to weigh, and the jailor is to do nothing but punc¬
tually carry the prescription of the judge into execution,  ,    oumuc ueK
then is punishment, in no proper sense of the word, any head of inquiry, and must, for the present purpose,
part ot prison discipline. It is a separate operation, per- garded as determined. All that it
formed on a particular occasion, because prescribed by the show here is, that a prison is not the proper scene for it,
judge, and in the exact manner in which the judge has pre- nor the instruments of a prison the proper instruments. To
scribed it. If it is, on the other hand, a part of prison dis- render a punishment the most efficacious in accomplishing
ciphne, then a 1 the horrid consequences, inseparable from the great end of punishment, it must be a punishment cal-
making the jailor the judge and meter of punishment, pre- dilated to make the strongest impression upon the senses, and,
sent themselves to the imagination ; and he who can endure through the senses, upon the imagination, of the public at
to look at them may dwell upon the picture of a prison, large; more especially ofthat partof the publiewho lie under
wherein the poor will pot be more comfortable than at home, the strongest temptations to the commission of similar crimes,
nor by the charms of imprisonment enticed to the commis- But the punishments inflicted in a prison are withdrawn
sion of crimes. from the senses of the public, and seem as if they were in-
Nothing can more clearly indicate that state of mind, tended to make the smallest possible, not the greatest pos-
which consists in confusion of ideas, than the vague lan- sible, impression upon the imaginations of those who are
guage which we hear about the necessity of making prisons to be deterred from crime. They are defective, therefore,
the seats of wretchedness, that crimes, they say, may not in the most essential quality of a punishment, and can al-
receive encouragement. ways be supplied by better means of attaining the same end.
We have already seen, that, unless it is part of a man’s The proper idea of a prison is that of a place of custody,
punishment, expressly ordained, that he shall lose a portion and that alone. This idea ought to be clearly, and dis¬
tinctly, and steadily preserved in the mind, in all disquisi¬
tions respecting prison discipline. Punishment and refor¬
matory discipline may be annexed to safe custody ; and in
as far as they consist of a series of operations, requiring
time for their performance, it is essential to them. As re¬
formatory discipline consists wholly in such a series, impri¬
sonment is a necessary condition of it. Since many, also,
of the best kinds of punishment are not such as can be ex¬
ecuted all at once, but require a period of time, imprison¬
ment is equally necessary for these punishments. But
though you must have safe custody to enable you to exe¬
cute certain punishments, and also to enable you to carry
into effect a course of reformatory discipline, safe custody
is not the same thing with punishment, nor the same thing
with reformatory discipline ; and no conclusions can be de¬
pended upon, in which ideas so distinct are confounded.
of his health ; that is, that his life shall be cut short; that
is, that after a period of torture, he shall receive a capital
punishment; a w'holesome apartment, a sufficiency of whole¬
some food, proper clothing, all of the cheapest kind, must
be provided for every body. When people talk about mak¬
ing prisons seats of wretchedness, do they mean something
worse than this ?
Many of them will no doubt answer, yes, we mean hard
labour in addition. We ask again, do you mean hard la¬
bour, according to the prescription of the judge, or without
the prescription of the judge ? If according to the prescrip¬
tion of the judge, the case is the same with that which we
have previously examined. This instrument of punishment
is exceptionable, only because it is a bad instrument.
The whole matter evidently comes to this. If more
wretchedness is desired than what is implied in confine¬
ment under the worst accommodation which the preserva¬
tion of health admits, it must be meted out, either at the
577
would not suffice ; it will certainly appear, that prisons are Prisons
not the best instruments of punishment.
A single consideration suffices for the proof of this pro¬
position. Punishment in a prison loses the grand requisite
the tread-mill; a fellow who has been in the tread-mill
never comes back again.” Be it so ; but by your leave,
this is a very insignificant part of the question.
The choice of expedients, for obtaining the punishment
best adapted to the several cases for which a course of re¬
formatory discipline does not suffice, belongs to another
be re¬
necessary for us to
III. Having thus considered prisons, as instruments ofReforma-
pleasure of the jailor, or the pleasure of the judge. The safe custody, and as instruments of punishment; two of the tory disci-
writer in the Edinburgh Review, and the Committee of purposes to which they have been applied as means; it re-1
the Society for the Improvement of Prison Discipline, speak
as if they had never reflected upon the difference.
We do not mean to bestow a word upon that theory,
which, for the prevention of offences, would make prisons
scenes of wretchedness at the pleasure of the jailor.
The only question which can deserve a solution is, what
mains that we consider them as instruments of reformatory
discipline, the third of the purposes to which they have been
applied.
It is necessary, first of all, to state a clear idea of refor¬
matory discipline.
When offences, against which it is necessary that society
mode of inflicting evil in a gaol can the judge make use of should have protection, are committed, it is desirable that
for best attaining the ends of punishment ? The answer is the punishment of the offender should have three proper-
not difficult. Unless, where that course of reformatory dis- ties: 1^, That it should deter all other persons rom com-
cipline, which we shall delineate under the next head, suf- mitting a similar offence, which is its most important pro-
fices ; and we allow, that, though it may be made to involve perty. 2<% That it should have the effect of deterring
no small degree of punishment; there are cases in which it the man himself from a repetition of the offence. 3<%,
voj,. xym.
578
PRISONS.
Prison?. That it should have the effect of removing his former bad
■'habits, and planting useful habits in their stead. It is this
last property which is sought to be communicated to his
punishment by reformatory discipline. . . . f
As the creating and destroying of habits is the work ot
time, and as the restraint of safe custody, and restraint IVom
all indulgencies, except under certain conditions, are neces¬
sary to reformatory discipline, whatever punishment is in¬
volved in such protracted coercion, is a necessary part of
reformatory discipline.
What is desired is, to create a habit of doing usetui acts,
in order to break the habit of doing hurtful acts. To ac¬
complish this, means must be obtained of making the indi¬
vidual in question perform certain acts, and abstain from
the performance of certain other acts.
The means to be employed for producing performance
cannot be of more than two sorts, the pleasurable and the
painful. A man may be induced to perform certain acts,
either by punishment or reward. He may be made to ab¬
stain from performing certain acts by an additional means,
by withholding the power of performing them.
The latter is the means chiefly applicable for preventing
the performance of hurtful acts in prisons ; not only crimes,
but acts of intemperance, gaming, or any others, the ten¬
dency of which is towards crime. As this is nearly the
universal practice, the reasons of it must be so geneially
known, as not to need development.
The inquiry which chiefly calls for our attention is, what
are the best means of producing the performance of those
acts, the habit of performing which we desire to render so
perfect, that it may be relied upon for the effect, even in
a state of freedom ?  
The persons on whom reformatory discipline is intended
to operate, belong to the class of those who depend upon
their industry for their support. So nearly, at least, do
they belong to this class exclusively, that the immaterial
exceptions may, in this general inquiry, be omitted.
The necessary foundation, in the case of such persons,
not only for all virtues, but for abstinence from crime, is
the habit of performing some one of those series of acts,
which are denominated lawful industry, and for which the
performers obtain payment or reward.
Labour, therefore, in some of its useful branches, is to
be regarded as the foundation of all reformatory discipline.
But as the object of this discipline is to train the man to
love, not. to hate labour, we must not render the labour in
such a case any part of his punishment. 1 he labour must,
for this important purpose, be a source of pleasure, not ot
pain.
The way in which labour becomes agreeable to men out
of a prison, is the way in which it can be made agreeable
to them in a prison ; and there is no other. Advantages
must accrue from the performing of it.
The way of attaching to it advantages the most intense¬
ly persuasive, in a reformatory prison or Penitentiary, is
exceedingly obvious.
There it is easy to prevent the attaining of any pleasure,
except through the medium of labour.
What is provided in the prison, according to the princi¬
ples already explained, is lodging, food, and clothing, all of
the very cheapest kind not producing injury to health. In
the monotony of a prison, there is no one who will not in¬
tensely desire pleasure in addition to this.
In the sentence of a criminal, who is subjected to refor¬
matory discipline, it may, and as often as the case requires,
it ought, to be rendered a part, that he shall not be permit¬
ted to make any additions to this hard fare from any source
belonging either to himself or others, except his labour ;
but that what he earns by his labour he may, in a certain
way, lay out to procure to himself better food, or any other
indulgence (certain hurtful ones excepted) which he may Prisons,
desire. Few cases, indeed, will be found in which this sun- v-*"
pie contrivance will not produce steadiness of application.
We have now then attained what is of principal import¬
ance. For if we have got the inmates of a prison to labour
steadily in some useful branch of industry, to look to labour
as the great or only source of their enjoyments, and to form
habits of so doing, sufficiently confirmed to be depended
upon for governing their conduct in a state of freedom, we
have prepared them for being useful members of society,
and our purpose is accomplished.
Here, then, comes the question, By what arrangements,
in detail, can the business of confining, maintaining, and
setting offenders to work, be most advantageously per¬
formed? , , _ . c
In other words, in what hands should the government o
penitentiaries be placed, and under what rules should it be
ordained for them to act ? * . .
It is an universal axiom in morals, that no security is
equally to be depended upon for any desirable result, as the
interest of those upon whom its accomplishment depends.
If, in devolving upon a man the task of bringing about a
particular end, we make it his interest to bring it about in
the best possible manner, especially if wre make it his inter¬
est in any high degree, we can hardly be disappointed in
counting upon his most strenuous exertions. On the other
hand, if he has no interest, or a very inconsiderable inter¬
est, in the end which he is entrusted to bring about; d lit¬
tle cognizance will be taken of his proceedings, whether
good or bad ; if to attend to the business would be exceed¬
ingly troublesome, to neglect it will produce little incon¬
venience ; we may be very sure that, by a great majority
of men, the business of the task devolved upon them will
be very imperfectly performed. If they can make a profit
out of oppression, or if, as is the case, to so great a degree
in prisons, they can consult their ease by imposing addi¬
tional and mischievous restraints upon the prisoners, their
interests are strongly set against their duties, and ill con¬
duct is still more perfectly secured.
This last, how deplorable soever the confession, is the
state of management of all British prisons, with hardly any
exception, there is a jailor, who receives a salary and
powder, and is told to manage the prison well; and there is
a number of justices, that is, gentlemen of the neighbour¬
hood, who obtain not a little power, and a great deal of
praise, for undertaking to do certain public duties of a local
nature, with little interest in doing them well, and no little
interest in doing them in many respects exceedingly ill, who
have the charge of looking after him. Varieties we cannot
afford to particularize. This is the general description.
The management, then, of the prison, is the joint concern
of the jailor and the justices, or magistrates, including she¬
riffs, who, jointly or severally, have no such interest, as can
be expected generally to produce any considerable effect,
in any thing more than such a kind of management as will
not excite attention and indignation by its badness. All
the degrees of bad management, which are within those
limits, having little or no interest to prevent, they have -
abundant interest to permit.
It is surely not necessary, that w^e should go far into the
detail of this case, to show the causes which it places in
operation, and their natural effects.
First of all, it is sufficiently evident, that the jailor has
an interest in obtaining his salary, and other emoluments,
with as little trouble to himself as possible.
It is not less evident, that the magistrates have an inter¬
est in getting the power and credit attached to their office
with as little trouble to themselves as possible.
This is enough. The book of human nature is clear
upon the subject. This principle, at uncontrolled work in
PRISONS.
a prison, is perfectly sufficient to generate all the evils which
those abodes of misery can be made to contain.
It is undeniable, that so far as those, who thus have the
superintendence of jailors, are disposed to consult their ease,
and to perform negligently a troublesome duty, which they
may perform well or ill, just as they please, so far they will
be indisposed to listen to any complaints against the jailor.
It saves them a good deal of trouble to confide in the jailor.
Thej speedily come, therefore, to look upon confidence in
the jailor, and to speak of it as a good thing, a duty. “ Has
not the jailor been most carefully and judiciously selected
for his office, by wise and good men ? (namely ourselves).
Would it not be an injury to a man of his character to dis¬
trust him ? And to distrust him, for what ? For the com¬
plaints of prisoners. But prisoners are always complaining,
always giving trouble. Jailors are a good set of men. Pri¬
soners are a bad set of men ; especially complaining priso¬
ners. They are the very worst kind of men ; they are,
therefore, to be silenced; and it is often very difficult to
silence them ; nothing but harsh measures will do it; when
harsh measures, however, are absolutely necesssary, it is
the duty of jailors to use them, and the duty of magistrates
to protect such men in the discharge of so important a
duty.”
Such are the feelings and conclusions which are undeni¬
ably prompted, by the mere love of ease, in the bosom of
such men as English magistrates.
So far as the magistrates consult their ease (men gene¬
rally do consult their ease when they have not a preponder¬
ating motive to the contrary), the jailor is at liberty to con¬
sult his ease.
In the jailor’s consulting his ease, every thing that is hor¬
rid in a prison finds its producing cause.
What the jailor has chiefly to guard against is, the es¬
cape of his prisoners, because that is a result which cannot
be hidden, and will not escape animadversion. But the love
of ease prompts him to take the easiest means for this pur¬
pose ; locking up in dungeons, loading with irons, and pro¬
hibiting communication from without; in other words, all
the measures which are the most tormenting to the priso¬
ner. If the prisoner, confiding in his ingenuity or his
strength, makes any attempts to free himself from this
misery, by escaping, the disturbance which is thus given
to the ease of the jailor is a cause of pain, proportional to
the love with which he cherishes his ease; this pain excites
resentment, resentment calls for vengeance, and the prisoner
is cruelly punished. The demon despotism reigns in his
most terrific form.
This is only one half of the evil. The servants of the
jailor, the turnkeys, as they are called, and others who wait
upon the prisoners, are as fond of their ease as the jailor is
of his. If the jailor has no adequate motives to make him
take care that the business of the prison is well done, he
will repose the same confidence in his servants, which the
magistrates so liberally exercise towards him. Fie will
leave them to indulge their ease, as he could not do other¬
wise without disturbing his own.
From the servants of the prison indulging their ease, ne¬
glect of the prisoners is the immediate and unavoidable
consequence. From neglect of prisoners, that is, of men
placed in a situation destitute of all the means of helping
themselves, all those evils, which, in another situation, could
be produced only by the most direful oppression, immedi¬
ately ensue.
Upon the servants of a gaol, cherishing their ease, and
left by their superintendents to do so, every call of a priso¬
ner for help, from relief from any annoyance, is felt as an
injury, and resented as such. Cruelty speedily comes, as a
co-operator with neglect, to fill up the measure of the pri¬
soner’s calamity.
The prisoner, finding himself destitute of all remedy,
except he can prevail upon the people who approach him
to remove some of the causes of the misery which he
endures, has recourse to bribery, when he can possibly
command the means ; and then pillage, without limit and
without mercy, is added to all the evils of this den of
horrors.
If such are the consequences of entrusting the manage-
-ent of prisons to persons who have no interest, or not a
sufficiency of interest, in good management, we have next
to consider the important question, by what means a suffi¬
ciency of interest in good management can be created ?
We need not have any doubt, that if a sufficiency of good
accrues to the managers from every particle of good man¬
agement, and a sufficiency of evil from every particle of
bad, we shall have as much as possible of the good, and as
little as possible of the evil.
I he grand object, as we have stated, of reformatory dis¬
cipline is, to create habits of useful industry. A second
object is, to preserve the health of the prisoners, and im¬
pose upon them no suffering, not implied in the conditions
of their confinement, or prescribed by the judge. A third
is, by moral and religious tuition, to generate and strengthen
good dispositions. A fourth is, to attain those ends at the
smallest possible expense.
It is not difficult to give the manager or keeper of a re¬
formatory prison or penitentiary, a very strong interest in
all these important results.
We have already seen, that the mode of giving to the
prisoner a motive to labour, is, by giving him a share in the
produce of his labour.
It is evident that an equally certain mode of giving to
the jailor a motive for obtaining as much of that labour as
possible, that is, for doing all that depends upon him to
make the prisoners labour as much as possible, and as pro¬
ductively as possible, is by giving him also a share in the
produce of their labour.
It may be said, however, that if the jailor receives a share
of the labour of the prisoners, he will have a motive for
making them labour too much : labour may be so exces¬
sive as to equal the severest torture.
Effectual expedients, however, for the prevention of this
evil, are easy and obvious. In the first place, it does not
seem necessary that the labour should be in any degree
compulsory. If a prisoner is, according to the rule above
laid down with respect to the cheapest fare, confined to the
coarsest kind of bread, and water, if he does not labour, but
has it in his power to add to his enjoyments by labouring,
more especially if he may labour in company, but if he will
not labour, must remain in solitude, the cases will be ex¬
ceedingly few' in which compulsion will be needful; and
these might, if it were deemed of sufficient importance, be
specially provided for by the legislature.
If a man may work, or not work, as he pleases, and much
or little as he pleases, there is no need of any farther se¬
curity against excessive labour. If there were, it would be
afforded by the interest which it is easy to give to the jailor-
in the health of the prisoner.
Giving to the jailor a share in the produce of the labour
of a prisoner has two happy effects; not only that of giv¬
ing him an interest in rendering the value of that produce
as great as possible, but that, also, of giving him an inter¬
est in the health of the prisoner, because the produce of a
man’s labour is greater when he is in health than when he
is not.
This may be increased by giving to the jailor, through
a very obvious channel, an interest, and an interest to any
amount, in the file of each prisoner. It being ascertained
what is the proportion of persons of a similar age that die
annually, when not confined in a prison, all that is neces-
579
Prisons.
S80 PRISONS.
Prisons, sary is, to entitle the jailor to a sum of money for each of
v^-V-wthe individuals above that proportion whom he preserves
alive, and to make him forfeit a sum for each individual
above that proportion who dies. This sum, it is evident,
may be sufficiently high, to ensure, on the part of the jailor,
a strong desire for the life, and thence a proper attention
to the health of the prisoners. .
Another particular in this case requires attention, it is
obvious, that the motive of the prisoner to render the quan¬
tity or value of his labour the greatest, is, when the share
which he enjoys of it is the greatest. It is equally obvious,
that the motive of the jailor to promote the augmentation
of this quantity or value is the greatest when his share is
Ifthe whole of the produce of the labour of each of the
prisoners were left to be divided between himself and the
jailor, the motives of the two pa ties, taken jointly, would
be at the highest. And the question then would be, ac¬
cording to what proportion should the division be made .
The peculiar circumstances of this case permit the most
decisive answer to be returned. No evil can accrue, and
every good purpose is best gained, by allowing the jailor to
take as much as he pleases. It being first established that
he can employ no compulsory methods, that the prisoner
must have as much of the coarsest fare and accommodation
as he needs, whether he works or not, and that work can
thus be obtained from him only by the operation of rewa™>
it will be the interest of the jailor to make his reward suffi¬
ciently high to obtain from him all the work which he can
perform, and, in his situation as a criminal, he ought, gene¬
rally speaking, to receive no more. The propriety of this
regulation, therefore, rests on conclusive evidence.
Here, however, an objection worthy of attention occurs.
Ifthe jailor receives so great a proportion of the produce
of the labour of the prisoners, he may receive a much higher
remuneration than the nature of his duties requires; and
so far the public is deprived of a fund which ought to be
available for the public service. .
This observation is true ; and the question is, in what
manner can the separation of what is necessary in remuner¬
ation of the jailor, and what should be detached for the
benefit of the public, be most advantageously made ?
If the situation of the jailor affords more than an ade¬
quate reward, he will be willing to give something annually
in order to retain that situation. And for measuring ex¬
actly what he ought to give, there is a sure and well-tried
expedient; it is, to lay the thing open to competition.
By this expedient, a double advantage is gained; for
both the public receives as great a share of the produce of
the labour of the prison, as is compatible with the due re¬
muneration of the jailor ; and the jailor being entitled, in
the first instance, to share the whole of the produce with
the labourers, having both to pay what he owes to the go¬
vernment, and obtain his own remuneration out of his share,
has a motive as strong as if the whole were his own, to ren¬
der the produce as great as possible.
It will easily be seen that this contract between the pub¬
lic and the jailor, if sufficient securities can be taken for its
being cancelled, as soon as misconduct on his part should
render it desirable that it should be so, ought, for import¬
ant reasons, to be concluded for a considerable number of
years or for his life. It is of importance that those indi¬
viduals, who are to undergo the reformatory discipline, and
who are unacquainted with any trade, should, especially if
they are young, be taught the trade in which their labours
can be turned to the greatest account; and, to make it the
interest of the jailor to have them taught, it is evident that
he must have the prospect of enjoying the benefit of their
skilled labour for a sufficient length of time. This short
illustration we hope will suggest to the reader sufficient re¬
flections for evidence on this point; and we must hasten Prisons,
to the remainder.
We have now shown, to how great an extent, upon the
plan which we have thus briefly sketched, the interest of
the jailor is rendered coincident with the ends which are
in view, and the most effectual of all securities is obtained
for the goodness of his management. We proceed to show
what additional securities this plan enables us to provide.
Let us, first of all, attend to the power of inspection,
which may be afforded in a degree altogether unparalleled.
By the admirable properties of the building which we have
recommended, not only is the conduct of the prisoners ron-
dered wholly transparent to the jailor, but the conduct o
the jailor may be rendered equally transparent to his in¬
spectors. And as the central lodge, or tower of inspection,
may be entered by any number, without giving the least
disturbance to the prisoners, without their even knowing
that any body is there, the public may be admitted on such
terms as to afford the full benefit of public inspection, the
most efficient of all inspections, over the whole economy of
the prison. By means of whispering tubes, oral communi¬
cation might be permitted with the prisoners, at such times,
and under such regulations, as would prevent it from inter¬
fering with the working hours, or other parts of the disci¬
pline, to all persons who might have a wish to hear if they
had any complaints.
Another very simple expedient would make an import¬
ant addition to the list of securities. It ought to be an ob¬
ligation on the jailor to keep a book, in which all complaints
of the prisoners should be entered, and, as often as they
could write, signed with their names. Along with the com¬
plaint should be entered a statement of what had been done
for removing the ground of the complaint, or of the reasons
for doing nothing. And this book should be open to the
perusal of the public, and should lie in a place convenient
for the inspection of all the visitors of the prison..
A still more important and indispensable security would
be, the obligation of the jailor to present, annually, to the
principal court of justice, such as the Court of King s Bench
in England, a report on the management and state of the
prison during the preceding year, containing, with all other
points of useful information, exact accounts of the receipts
and disbursements ; to verify these statements by his oat ,
to print and publish them at his own expense ; and to an¬
swer, upon oath, all interrogatories made to him in open
court by the judge, or by any other person, how much so¬
ever the answer might tend to his own crimination; and this
as often as the judge might call upon him for such a purpose.
By this means, with the obvious security afforded for other
still more important ends, so perfect a knowledge would be
communicated of the gains of the jailor, and the. mo e o
obtaining them, as would ensure an accurate bargain, rigidly
proportioned to the amount of them, as often as the contract
came to be renewed. .
The last thing which we think it necessary to recommend
in the shape of a security, would operate as a test of the
efficacy of the management in its character oi
tory discipline. The jailor should be held bound to pay a
certain sum, varying in proportion to the length of time
during which the prisoner had been subject to his disci¬
pline, for each of the prisoners who, after liberation, should
be convicted of a crime.
Connected with the important part of the subject relat¬
ing to the labour of the prisoners, it is proper to bring to
view the advantage of a subsidiary establishment for receiv¬
ing and employing those who might be liberated from the
prison. It is a well-known ground of lamentation, that per¬
sons liberated from a prison, find often great difficulty m
obtaining employment, and are constrained, by a kin o
necessity, to betake themselves to their former evil courses,
Prisons.
PRISONS
though with the inclination to have devoted themselves to
honest industry, had the means not been denied them. The
best mode of obviating this great evil would be, to have a
subsidiary establishment, the architectural form the same
as that of the prison, in which the jailor should be obliged
receive all persons who have been liberated from the
581
to
prison, and who make application for admittance ; and to
employ them on the same terms as the prisoners, with the
single exception of its being in their power to remove when
they please, and to make, in respect to terms all such stipu¬
lations with the jailor as may be for their mutual advantage.
The next part of the subject to which we proceed, is the
plan according to which the prison shall be supplied with
the articles which the prisoners are enabled by their labour
to purchase.
As there are certain articles, such as intoxicating liquors,
which ought to be altogether withheld, unless for special
reasons permitted, and as the jailor could not have a suffi¬
cient command over the articles conveyed into the prison,
unless he had in his own hands the power of supply ; as
the intercourse, also, which would be created with stran¬
gers, if the prisoners were at liberty to purchase of whom
they pleased, would be incompatible with the discipline of
the prison, the power of supplying articles of purchase to
the prisoners ought to be confined to the jailor.
If it be objected that the jailor would thus have the power
of oppressing the prisoners, by selling bad articles, or good
articles too dear, the answer is, that he could not. We
have already seen, that in order to derive from the prison¬
ers the greatest quantity of profit to himself, he must give
to them a reward for their labour sufficient to make them
labour to the most profitable account. But if he sells arti¬
cles to them at more than the usual price, this is merely a
reduction of the reward left to them for their labour: this
he cannot reduce beyond a certain point, without reducing
the amount of his profit; and any greater reward than up
to this point, the nature of the case renders undesirable.
We have now then stated all that seems necessary to be
said on the three great subjects : of the structure and
form of the prison ; "Idly, the securities which may be ap¬
plied for obtaining good conduct on the part of the jailor ;
and, 3rf/y, the first and principal part of reformatory disci¬
pline, namely, voluntary labour.
The remaining conditions of reformatory discipline will
not require much explanation.
1. Separation, as far as concerns the sexes, and as far as
concerns the good from the bad, is now so generally at¬
tended to as an object of importance, that the danger some¬
times is of other things being too much overlooked in the
comparison.
In a prison, such as we have described, in which, by
means of moveable partitions, the cells may be enlarged or
contracted at pleasure, and in which the prisoners are all
under continual inspection, the power of separation, to any
desired extent, is complete.
The two sexes, though inmates of the same prison, and
simultaneously subject to the same inspection, may be as
completely disjoined as if they were inhabitants of a differ¬
ent region. By a piece of canvass, and nothing more costly,
extended in the form of a curtain, from the boundary on
each side of the female cells, in the direction of a radius
across the central area to the inspection lodge, the females
would be as completely cut off from seeing, or being seen
by the male prisoners, as if they were separated by seas and
mountains ; the same effect would be obtained as to hear¬
ing, by merely leaving a cell vacant between those of the
males and females ; and thus the space appropriated to
each of the two sexes might, in the easiest manner, be di¬
minished or enlarged, as their relative numbers might re¬
quire.
A much more complete and desirable separation than Prisons,
that which is aimed at, as the utmost in other prisons, is
easily attainable in this. The ordinary separation of young
offenders from old, of the greatly corrupted from those who
are presumed to be less deeply infected, is still apt to leave
associations too promiscuous and too numerous, not to be
unfavourable to the progress of reformation.
The prisoners should be put together in companies of
twos, and threes, and fours, seldom more; each company
occupying a separate cell. It would be the interest of the
jailor to put them together in such assortments as would
be most conducive to the quantity and value of work they
could perform, and to the goodness of their behaviour;
that is, to the most perfect operation of the reformatory
discipline ; and his experience of their dispositions and
faculties would of course fit him beyond any one else for
making the selection.
It will have been all along understood, that, to attain the
ends of inspection and economy, the same rooms or cells
which form the day and working rooms on our plan, form
also the sleeping rooms. Not the smallest inconvenience
from confusion of things in the apartment can thence be
derived; because the hammocks, which would be more
convenient than beds, could be stowed away in little com¬
pass during the day.
It is also to be particularly observed, that whatever de¬
gree of seclusion might either be indulged to the feelings
of an individual, or might be deemed conducive to his men¬
tal improvement, might still, upon this plan, be easily se¬
cured ; because, by means of screens, a portion of the cell
might be formed into as many private apartments as might
be desired ; and where experience of good conduct had laid
a foundation for confidence, periods of seclusion, even from
the eye of the inspector, might be allowed.
2. Nothing of great importance to be mentioned in this
summary sketch seems now to remain, except schooling,
and religious instruction.
The Sunday is the appropriate period of both. Sunday-
schools are found by experience to be sufficient for com¬
municating to children the important arts of reading, writ¬
ing, and accounts. It would be obligatory on the jailor to
afford the means of instruction in these respects to every
prisoner who might not have attained them ; together with
all other means, not incompatible with the case, of promot¬
ing their moral and intellectual improvement.
3. The religious services proper to the day, and such
other devotional exercises as might be thought requisite on
other days, would be conducted by the chaplain, the prison
affording remarkable facilities for bringing all the prisoners
into a situation conveniently to hear; and also, which would
be a circumstance of great importance, bringing the public
from without, to participate in the religious services of the
prison, for whom temporary accommodation in the vacant
central area might be provided, and to whom, by the charms
of eloquence and music, and the power of curiosity, it would
be the interest of the jailor, by letting the seats, to provide
sufficient attraction.
It seems to be necessary, before concluding, to obviate
an objection, which, though it has seldom been urged as a
reason against reformatory discipline, is yet considered as
requiring a great deduction to be made in the estimate
formed of its advantages. The objection is, that, by afford¬
ing the means of employment to prisoners, we take away
those means from a corresponding number of persons who
are not prisoners, and thus sacrifice the deserving to the
worthless.
This objection is drawn from some of the conclusions of
Political Economy. That which affords the means of em¬
ployment to labour is capital; in other words, the means
of subsistence to the labourer, the tools he works with, and
582
PRISONS.
Prisons, the raw material on which he is employed. When labour-
'ers are too numerous for the means of employment, it is
evident that, if any new ones are added to the number, you
can give employment to them only by taking it away from
the old ones. It is, therefore, said, that by giving employ¬
ment to prisoners, we make an equal number ot honest
workmen paupers.
In this objection, however, as is generally the case with
false reasoning, a part only of the essental circumstances,
not the whole, is taken into the account. In the first place,
with regard to the prisoners, one principal part of the capi¬
tal which puts labour in motion, namely, subsistence, is af¬
forded to them of course, whether they labour or not.
In the next place, the objection proves too much ; for,
if it would be better, for the sake of affording employment
to others, that the man should do nothing in prison, it would
equally be better that he should have done nothing out of
prison ; better that we should have a portion of our popu¬
lation useless than productive. According to this doctrine,
the proper rule, whenever population exceeds the demand
for labour, and wages are low, would be to give subsistence
to a portion of the people, on the condition of their abstain¬
ing from labour.
Thus much of the allegation is true, namely, that when
to the subsistence, which you would have given at any rate,
you add tools and raw materials, you so far diminish the
quantity of tools and raw materials which can be furnished
to others. But, counting only this circumstance, another
most important circumstance is left out of the computation.
This deduction of tools and raw materials is made once for
all. The productive labourer replaces the capital, which
employs him, with a profit. Advance to him, for one year,
the food and other articles which he needs, you never need
to advance any thing more. What he produces in the
course of the year, replaces the food and all other articles
which he has used, with a profit. But if he has not laboured,
he has produced nothing; you have to supply him, there¬
fore, with the means of subsistence, not one year, but every
year, from the produce of other men’s labour. If he la¬
bours, you have to give him once, out of the general stock
of means for the employment of labour, subsistence for a
year, with tools and raw material, and you have no occasion
to give him any more. If he is to be idle, you give him,
it is true, only subsistence, without tools and raw material,
the first year ; but you have to give him subsistence, that
is, so far to diminish the means of employing other men’s
labour, every year ; whereas, it he is a productive labourer,
for the advance which you make to him the first year, he
not only exempts you from all further deductions from the
means of employing other men, but he every year adds to
those means, by the whole amount of the profit made upon
his labour. To make those persons, therefore, productive
labourers, whom you must at any rate subsist, is to increase,
not to diminish the means of employing others.
As to another objection which is sometimes offered, that
the commodities produced in a prison glut the market, and
injure other manufactures, this is still more evidently found¬
ed upon the consideration of part of the determining cir¬
cumstance, without consideration of the remainder. If it
is meant to apply not to one class, or two classes of com¬
modities, but to the mass of commodities in general, it may
instantly be seen to be untrue. The men who become sel¬
lers of the articles produced in a prison, become buyers to
the same amount. Whenever a man sells a greater amount
of articles than before, he gets the means of buying an
equally greater amount. He always brings as much of a
new demand into the market as he brings of a new supply.
If he introduces more of some one commodity than the
market requires, and reduces the profits on producing it,
capital leaves that employment till the inequality is re- 's
dressed. If the number of people is the same, and the
quantity of commodities is increased, it is a contradiction
in terms, not to say that the circumstances of such a people
are improved.
Having answered these objections, it does not occur to
us that there is any thing more which in this outline it is
necessary for us to add. The plan, both of construction
and management, appears to us simple, and easy to be un¬
derstood ; and to offer securities for the attainment of the
end, such as the imperfection of the human powers seldom
permit to be realized. In the delineation presented, the
only merit we have to claim is that (if our endeavour has
been successful) of adding perspicuity to compactness.
There is not, we believe, an idea which did not originate
with Mr. Bentham, whose work ought to be the manual of
all those who are concerned in this material department of
public administration. (a. a.a)
Prisons.
The preceding article has been preserved entire, as having Obsem-
been the offspring of a very powerful mind, and as present- tions in
ing a perspicuous outline of the most advanced ideas of a continua-
good system of prison discipline, which prevailed up to the 10n‘
time of its publication, (April 1823.) Since that date, the
art of managing prisons has made considerable progress, and
experience has shewn more than one of the opinions above
expressed to be erroneous. Some additional observations
appear, therefore, to be requisite, in order to point out what
has recently been done in this, and other countries, towards
the advancement of this science ; and what may be at pre¬
sent regarded as the leading objects to which all efforts for
the perfection of prison discipline ought to be directed.
The public attention in England was first drawn to the
evils of the existing prisons, towards the end of the last cen¬
tury, by the benevolent Howard; and the question of the
establishment of a penitentiary system forced itself at the
same time upon the consideration of the government, as a
substitute for transportation, on account ot the loss of the
British North American Colonies, previously used for that
purpose. Mr. Bentham’s plan of the Panopticon was put
forth at this juncture; but although the government seems
to have had serious intentions of making some experiment
of the kind, and more than one act of parliament for the
erection of penitentiary houses was passed, no result fol¬
lowed, beyond the subsequent establishment of the peniten¬
tiary at Milbank for a certain number of convicts ; a mea¬
sure of too limited and partial a character to have any effect
as a penal instrument, and, as it has turned out, equally
worthless as a model for other prisons. The foundation,
and gradual extension, of the penal colonies in New South
Wales, provided an outlet for a large portion of the criminal
population, and, in so far, diminished the urgency of the de¬
mand for penitentiaries; whilst the ordinary prisons con¬
tinued to be managed with little thought or care, and with¬
out legislative interference. Even the review, by Sir Samuel
Romilly’s committee, in 1812, of the whole subject of secon¬
dary punishments, did not produce any improvement in the
then existing system; and thus matters stood at the period
when the preceding article appeared.
The gaol acts of 1823 and 1824,1 which are now in force,
and for which the country is indebted to the labours of Mr.
Fowell Buxton and the London Prison Discipline Society,
effected important changes in the administration of English
prisons, especially those of the counties. They prescribed
numerous regulations, amongst which the separation of the
4th Geo. IV- cap. 64, and 5th Geo. IV. cap. 85.
Pri,™\ sexes>the classification of all prisoners, and the enforcement
of instruction, were prominent. But the benefits anticipated
from them have, from various causes, been only partially
realized ; and their method of classification, which is founded
principally upon technical distinctions, has, in particular
proved a signal failure.
American The select committee on secondary punishments, of 1832
pemtentm- in recommending the introduction of a modified system of
solitary confinement, in imitation of that practised'in some
American prisons, shewed its participation in the opinion
then beginning to prevail, of the merits of the penitentiary
system of the United States. Many travellers spoke of them
in high terms, and the French government had intrusted a
mission of inspection to MM. de Beaumont and de Tocque-
ville, whose report, published in 1833,1 has been highly ap¬
preciated throughout Europe. The distinguishing charac¬
teristic of this work is its philosophic impartiality. It describes
with fidelity the two systems, both based upon the principle
of isolation, but executing it, the one by means of separa¬
tion, the other by silence, which pass respectively under the
names of the Philadelphia and the Auburn system of dis¬
cipline. The authors come to no very definite conclusion
upon the relative merits of the two systems. That of Phi¬
ladelphia had only just been put into action at the time of
their visit, and they had not therefore those opportunities of
extensive inquiry into its working which have Deen afforded
to more recent observers. Mr. Crawford, the commissioner
despatched by the British government in 1833, bears strong
testimony, in his report,2 to the superiority of the Philadel¬
phia system; and the mass of valuable information which
he collected, leaves no very favourable impression of the peni¬
tentiaries managed on the Auburn plan. Dr. Julius, charged
more recently with a similar mission from the Prussian go¬
vernment, declared himself, on his return in 1836, favour¬
able to the Philadelphia system ;3 and a still later report of
MM. de Metz and Blouet, made to the French government
in 1837, and to which we shall more particularly advert, re¬
commends the same system more decidedly than any of its
precursors.4 The balance of the testimony of official inquir¬
ers preponderates strongly against the Auburn discipline.
Prisons of The Lords’ committee of 18355 collected a mass of evi-
England. dence exhibiting the condition of the prisons of England and
Wales, and reported to the house a series of resolutions sug¬
gesting reformatory measures. Amongst these is one thus
recommending the silent system: “ That entire separa¬
tion, except during the hours of labour, and of religious
worship, and instruction, is absolutely necessary ; and that
silence be enforced so as to prevent all communication be¬
tween prisoners, both before and after trial.” This resolu¬
tion, however, did not receive any express sanction from the
legislature; but in 1835,6 an act was passed, whereby the
power of establishing rules for prisons was transferred from
the judges to the Secretary of State, and the appointment
of inspectors was authorised. These inspectors have regu¬
larly made their official reports, which have been laid before
Parliament, and to which the reader is referred for a com¬
plete description of the existing prisons of Great Britain.
Whilst we write, (1838) a bill for the better ordering of pri¬
sons in England and Wales, is before Parliament. This
bill is a step towards the introduction of the separate system,
in as far as it will enlarge the powers of the Secretary of
State to substitute separation for classification, and will sup¬
press several minor abuses which have hitherto prevailed.
PRISONS.
mu 583
The gaol acts quoted do not extend to Scotland, and the Prisons.
prisons in that part of the kingdom have continued, upon the
whole, in a more defective state than in England. The Of Scot-
greater part of the Scottish gaols belong to the royal bur<ffis,land-
whose funds being inadequate for their support, the con-
struction and discipline have accordingly been neglected.
1 he bad condition of these prisons is described in the report
°u- u se^ec^ committee of the House of Commons in 1826,
which suggested the erection of proper places of confine¬
ment for large districts, with various other reforms. The
many existing evils have since been particularized by the
inspector for Scotland in his reports; and as a remedy for
these, as well as for the more equal distribution of the burthen
of maintaining the national prisons amongst all classes of the
community, a bill has been introduced by the government
during the present session (1838) for the improvement of the
Scottish prisons. Under this bill, the liabilities of the royal
burghs, and all other peculiar burthens, will cease; and all
the expenses connected with prisons will be defrayed out
of one common fund, to be raised by a general rate upon
property. Suitable prisons are to be provided, under the
direction of a general board, sitting in Edinburgh, to whom
the sole authority and responsibility relating to all the pri¬
sons of Scotland is to be committed, subject to the controul
of the Secretary of State, and of Parliament. A central
authority of this nature may be the means of introducing
important ameliorations into the present defective manage¬
ment ; may materially aid the administration of justice ; and
may not only equalize, but greatly reduce, the cost to the
community.
The prisons of Ireland are regulated by an act7 which was Of Ireland,
framed on the basis of the English gaol acts. This law invests
the Irish government with the power of appointing inspectors-
general, who make annual reports ; and the grand jury of
each county and city are also required to appoint a board of
superintendence, and a local inspector, whose duty it is to
visit the prisons at least twice in every week. These mea¬
sures have operated beneficially, the gaols having previous¬
ly been in a most deplorable condition, and being now im¬
proved, particularly as regards the employment and instruc¬
tion of prisoners. But the small prisons belonging to the
local jurisdictions are stated to be still extremely defective.
If the progress of improvement in prisons has been slow Of France
in the United Kingdom, the system of management on the
continent is, almost everywhere, still more defective. In
France, the administration of penal justice previous to
the Revolution, was altogether barbarous, consisting prin¬
cipally of capital and corporal punishments. But when
something like a system began to be acted upon by the le¬
gislature of the Republic, a classification both of places of
punishment, and of their inmates, began to be established.
The French prisons are divided into the bagnes, for offen¬
ders sentenced to hard labour either for life or for a term of
years; the maisons centrales, for those sentenced to long
terms of imprisonment, exceeding one year ; and the mai¬
sons departementales, for minor offenders sentenced to terms
under one year. These establishments are for convicted
prisoners ; in addition to which, the law requires that there
should be in every arrondissement, near to the tribunal de
premiere instance, a maison d!arret for the detention of
persons arrested, and also near to every assize court a mai¬
son de justice for the custody of those against whom a war¬
rant of caption has issued from the court. There are be-
1 Bu Systhne Penitentiare aux Etats- Unis, et de son Application en France; suivis d'un appendicesur les colonies penales, et de notes statis-
tiques. P,tr MM G. de Beaumont, et A. de Tocqueville, avocats a la cour Royale de Pans. ^rIs> ^ ,
’ Report of William Crawford, Esq , on the Penitentiaries of the United States, addressed to H M. Principal Secretary of State for ttie
Home Department Ordered by the House of Commons to be printed August, 18.34 r • • ia<i7
3 Lettre addressee d M W Crawford, Inspecteur-G neral dcs prisons de la Grande-Bretagne. Par le Docteur Juhus. Leipz^. 1837.
4 Rapports d M Le Comte de Montalivet, pair de France, Ministre, #c., de I'lnterieur, sur les Pemtenciers des Etats-Unis Par M. De
Metz, coimseiller a la Cour Royale, et par M- Abel Blouet, areliPecte du gouvernement. Pans, impnm. royale. 18„7.
4 See the five Reports of this Committee, Session 1835. 6 5th and 6th Will. IV. cap.
7th Geo. IV. cap. 74*
PRISONS.
Of Belgi¬
um
Of Hol¬
land.
sides the maisons de depot, or police stations, for the tem¬
porary custody of persons apprehended. These divisions,
however, appear to answer little or no moral end, since the
association of prisoners in every description of French pri¬
son is permitted, with scarcely any restriction, and the result
is commonly a frightful degree of disorder, immorality, and
mutual corruption.1 The obligation of labour seems to be
attended with little good effect; nor is there perhaps any po¬
sition less favourable to reformation, than confinement in a
French prison. These evils have recently excited much inte¬
rest in the public mind in France, and the government has
announced its intention to propose a general law for the se¬
parate confinement of the untried, though nothing seems to
have yet been accomplished. Opinions are much divided
in regard to the adoption of the system of silence or of cel¬
lular separation,2 but the effect produced by MM. de Metz
and Blouet’s Report, has already led to a resolution in its
favour, as regards the untried, by the council-general of
the department of the Seine, who have recently voted a
sum of three millions of francs for the construction of a pri¬
son for all the untried prisoners of Paris, upon the separate
system. , ti i •
The prisons of Belgium were, soon after the Revolution
of 1830, divided into three classses, analogous to those of
France, viz. prisons for punishment; for safe custody (mai¬
sons d?arret et de justice;) and police stations, (maisons
de depot et de passage.) Several improvements, especial¬
ly the separation of the sexes, have been effected since
that period ; but the classification is, in other respects, very
imperfect. The convicted of all ages and descriptions, are
described as living together in vicious association, and sleep¬
ing in large numbers in the same dormitory. Imprison¬
ment is any thing but reformatory, or even deterring, but
is represented as a security against want, and an encoiuage-
ment to improvidence, to such an extent, that admission to
the maison centrale is hailed with joy by the convict. A
plentiful diet, a weekly allowance of money, with liberty to
expend it in beer, tobacco, coffee, and other indulgences,
easy labour, and the society of friends, are described as re¬
moving even the semblance of penality ; and the separation
of the sexes, has under such circumstances, operated rather
perniciously, by leading to more shameful vices. The in¬
spector-general is thoroughly convinced of the necessity of
introducing a system of cellular separation, and a new wing
has been added for the purpose to the maison de force at
Ghent.3 The government is stated also to have in contem¬
plation the erection of a prison on the separate system, at
Liege.
In Holland, there are distinct prisons for the accused, and
for the convicted; and there are separate buildings for the
confinement of women, and of juvenile offenders. The con¬
vict prisons are divided into those analogous to the mai¬
sons centrales, for offenders of the graver class, and houses
of correction for minor offenders sentenced to terms under
twelve months. A council of regents is attached to every
prison, and reports to the central administration. 1 he Dutch
prisons are liable to all the objections attaching to systems
Prisons.
of association, and nothing appears to have yet been effect
ed in those of Switzerland towards separation.
The penitentiariesofSwitzerlandhaveacquiredahigh repu- of Swit-
tation, and deserve considerable study. Those of Lausanne zerland.
and Geneva have carried the discipline of silence to a con¬
siderable degree of perfection, without the aid of corporal
punishment; and the attention paid to the moral instruction
of the prisoner is greater than in any of the penitentiaries
of the United States. Lausanne is the best, and its situa¬
tion, affording a view from the cell-windows, of the Lake of
Geneva and the Alps, is not a little calculated to heal and
elevate the mind of the penitent convict. But in neither
of these establishments is communication between the pri¬
soners effectually prevented, and they are consequently not
free from the evil of mutual contamination. The peniten¬
tiary of Berne admits of more association, especially at
night, than the two others mentioned, and can therefore
scarcely be cited as a model of the silent system ; but, look¬
ing at the whole management of the penitentiaries of Lau¬
sanne and Geneva, particularly the former, we believe that
the moral reform of the prisoner may be anticipated with
more confidence in these establishments than in any other
prison conducted on the principle of associatioai in silence,
either in Europe or America. The small prisons, in other
parts of Switzerland, are as bad as in the adjoining coun-
tries.4
The prisons of Germany are principally known to us by the Of Ger-
descriptions of Dr. Julius.5 But our present space must many,
confine us to the remark, that the last fifty years have mate¬
rially ameliorated the prisoner’s condition in point of health,
cleanliness, and exemption from the tortures and fetters of
the middle ages ; and that little remains of absolute inhu¬
manity in the treatment of offenders in any part of Germany.
The bastinado is used, though not cruelly, as a disciplinary
punishment in Austria, Prussia, and other states. 1 he en¬
forcement of silence, as well as the treadmill, have been in¬
troduced into some few prisons; but there is little classifica¬
tion worthy of the name, and the general system of manage¬
ment may be described as permitting the association, and
consequent mutual corruption, of the prisoners. No prison
has yet been established, on the plan of cellular separation,
in any part of Germany, and the state of opinion amongst
distinguished thinkers there- seems at present but little in
its favour. Professor Mittermaier of Heidelberg has de¬
clared himself opposed to it,6 and we are not aware of any
recent publicist there, except Dr. Julius, who is decidedly
favourable to its adoption.
A prison on the separate system was completed at War-At Warsaw
saw in 1835, capable of receiving 380 prisoners, and is in
operation with good effect.
The Norwegian government is understood to contemplate 0f Norway
the reform of its prisons, having lately dispatched a mission
to England to acquire information on the subject.
We have adverted to the prisons of the most civilized of less
European states. There remains unfortunately to be drawn civilized
a revolting picture of the places of confinement in which hu-states,
manity suffers, in countries the governments of which are less
1 See particularly the works of M. Moreau Christophe, the present inspector-general of the prisons of France, entitled De VEtat actuel
des Prisons en France, Paris, 1837 : and De la Re forme des Prisons en France, Paris, 18-38. . . , ,
^ See in favour of the silent system, De la Reforme des Prisons, on de la Theorie de t Emprisonment, deses Prxnapes, de ses Moyens,etdeses
Conditions Practiques; Par M. Charles Lucas, tome i. Paris, 1836. tomes 2 and 3, Paris 1888. Des Moyens
France le Systems Penitentiaire. Par M. Berenger. Paris, imprim. royale, 1836. Rapport a M. leMimstre Secretaire d Etat
de l’Int rieur sur la Reforme des Prisons en France. Par M. Gasparin ; 6 Septembre 1836. In favour of separation, see particularly M.
Moreau Christophe’s works, and the Report of MM. T)e Metz and Blouet, before cited. „ , t, , ■
3 See Des Progreset de VEtat actuel de la Reforme Penitentiaire, par Ed- Ducpetiaux, inspecteur geneial des Prisons, c. e £
Bruxelles, 1838, vol 2, No 9 ; a work full of valuable information, on the prisons and philanthropic institutions of Belgium, and seve
4 See Memoire sur le Systfme Penitentiaire address^ a M. le Ministre de I'lnterieur en France. Par M Aubanel, directeur du penit
de Geneve: Geneve, 1837; also several publications of MM. Cramer-Audeoud, Pallandier, &c. on the Swiss penitentiaries, an
opinions of M. Lucas and M. Ducpetiaux, in the works above cited.
5 Lemons sur les Prisons, par le Dr. N. H. Julius, traduits de I’Allemand par H. Lagarmitte; Paris 1831.
9 See an article by this eminent jurist in the Revue Etrangere et Francaisede Legislation; Paris, Nov. 1836,
PRISONS.
’rineiples
'f prison
onstruc-
iou.
Pris ons. advanced beyond ignorance and barbarism. In such coun-
~0~ v ^ tries, a prison is in fact a place in which the strong wreak
their vengeance upon the weak ; the prisoner is t\ot punish¬
ed ; he is subjected to certain physical and moral evils,
from which neither himself nor society derive any benefit.
Such injuries will continue to be inflicted until the influence
of the moral sciences, especially that of jurisprudence, shall
have pointed out the errors and blunders which are entail¬
ing so much misery upon mankind. It is , not in Tur¬
key, nor in Spain alone, that the slow progress of social im¬
provement is to be lamented. It is a humiliating reflec¬
tion, that the principal gaol in the British metropolis has for
many years past been in as disgraceful a state as any in Spain.
A comparison of the description of Nev/gate1 with that of
the Saladero at Madrid, makes it difficult to determine in
which prison the evils of indiscriminate association and total
laxity of discipline have led to the worst results. It is vain
to anticipate from the exertions of philanthropy a remedy
for such abuses. The reform of prisons is only to be hoped
for by the uniform application of principles the soundness of
which has been verified by an extended experience, and which
reason has demonstrated as the best means of accomplishing
the end for which punishment is inflicted. If it were other¬
wise, the government of prisons would be dependent upon
the caprice of individuals, and consequently a ready instru¬
ment of oppression and injustice.
We proceed now to state the general principles which ought
to be observed in the construction and arrangement of
prisons,2 and what are, in our judgment, the essential requi¬
sites of a good system of prison discipline.
The situation of a prison should be healthy, open, and cal¬
culated to secure a free circulation of good air. It is objec¬
tionable for a prison to be surrounded with buildings of any
description ; for which reason, a detached or isolated posi¬
tion ought, as far as may be, to be selected. Attention is
also requisite to proximity to the courts and offices of jus¬
tice, so as to facilitate the removal of prisoners before or af¬
ter trial. The airiness of the situation is the more desirable,
as there must be an extensive subdivision of the internal
parts, to provide for the confinement of each prisoner in a
separate cell. The site should be dry, and free from the
effects of marshy damp soils. It should also be elevated, in
order to avoid fogs, and the possibility of inundation ; and
the buildings should be so arranged as not to be exposed
to view from any adjacent grounds.
The ground appropriated should be enclosed with a strong
boundary wall, of sufficient height to prevent escapes. The
buildings occupied by the prisoners must not adjoin the
boundary wall, but a wide open space be preserved round
the interior. A single gateway, or opening in the boundary,
should form the only entrance to the prison, to be placed
in front, and opposite the central building. At the entrance,
and outside the boundary wall, may be placed the resi¬
dences of the keeper and chaplain, so that the families of
those officers may be unconnected with the prison.
Except for very small prisons, the radiating plan is pre¬
ferable to any other, because the various objects of inspec¬
tion, facility of access, convenience, and security, cannot be
obtained so completely in any multiplied form of building,
as in that which diverges from a central point of observa¬
tion. In this respect, the principle of Mr. Bentham's Pa¬
nopticon is followed, except in as far as it aims at viewing^
the interior of the prisoners’ cells ; the practicability of
which, so as to exclude the possibility of the prisoner’s re-,
tiring to a part of the cell where he cannot be seen, is very
586
ubtful. With a system of separation, however, no central Prisons,
observation of the prisoners whilst in their cells need be at¬
tempted. I he inspection required is of the corridors, and
ot the general establishment, exclusive of the cells.
. . arranging the buildings, the grand requisite is the pro¬
vision of a sufficient number of cells for the individual sepa¬
ration of each offender by day and by night. The construc¬
tion of tne cells should be such as to preclude all commu¬
nication between the prisoners, and at the same time com¬
ine adequate space and means of ventilation, to ensure their
health and admit of continued employment. The general
dimensions of the cells should therefore be not less than
thirteen feet by seven feet, and ten feet high, so as to con¬
tain about 1000 cubical feet. The cells may be ranged upon
each side of, and opening into, the corridors running longi-
tudinally through the radiating buildings. Every endeavour
should be used to prevent the possibility of communication
between the cells; to ensure which object, the partition walls
should not be less than eighteen inches in thickness, and
worked with close joints, so as to preclude, as far as may be,
the transmission of sound. The requisite machinery should
be applied to the introduction of warm air, and to the ven¬
tilation of the cells;3 and each cell should be fitted with such
necessary conveniencies, that the prisoner will never, under
ordinary circumstances, have occasion to leave his cell, as well
as with a bell, or equivalent instrument, to notify his wants.
The cells on the upper stories may be arranged like those be¬
low ; and if at the end of each radiating building two or three
cells be laid together intoalargerapartment,itmaybeusedby
tne sick, and there will be no need of a distinct building for
an hospital or infirmary. Airing yards should be provided
for such prisoners as may, in the opinion of the surgeon, re¬
quire exercise in the open air, and for the especial use of the
untried.
In large prisons, one or more of the radiating buildings
should be appropriated exclusively to the female prisoners.
If there be a chapel, it should adjoin the central building,
and have several distinct entrances for the prisoners. In¬
dividual separation may be maintained during divine ser¬
vice, by placing each prisoner in a distinct stall, or sitting
within the view of the officers, and of the chaplain. The
form of the chapel will be that of an amphitheatre, with rows
of seats rising above each other in face of the chaplain.4
Reception rooms must be provided near the entrance, in
which prisoners may be placed on admission, before their
examination by the surgeon, as well as suitable cleansing
rooms and baths. Some peculiar cells will be required for
the purpose of punishing offences against the discipline of
the prison, and for offenders sentenced to short periods of so¬
litude. The kitchen and other offices for the service of the
prison need not be particularly described.
The use of any ornament or embellishment, whether ex¬
ternal or internal, in a prison, seems entirely misplaced. The
style of architecture should be plain, and divested of any¬
thing not conducive to the purpose of the building. A cus¬
tom has prevailed of fixing chains, or axes, on the external
walls, and of inscribing admonitory sentences over the gates,
the good taste of which is very questionable. The mere
name of the prison appears the most appropriate inscrip¬
tion.
Plates CCCCXVI. and CCCCXVII. exhibit plans of the
ground and first floors of a prison, on the construction recom¬
mended, which are equally applicable to the confinement of
the untried and the convicted. The imprisonment of debtors
in general is inadmissible at all undera good system of law, as
The plans re-
* IvSlsof t^e^most^approve^modes of prison construction, with numerous plans, the reader is referred to the -SM and Third
Reports of the Inspectors of Frisons, (Home District), presented to both Houses of Paihament, sessions 1837 and 1838.
ferred to in this article are derived from these reports. . , x, f c • 'iQo7
3 See plans minutely describing the mode of ventilation, annexed to the Inspectors Repoit, Session 1S37.
4 See plan of a chapel annexed to ditto. 4 E
V OJL. i , Hi.
586
Prisons.
Discipline.
PRISONS.
Separation
uniust in principle, and mischievous in operation; but if there
are some few cases of debtors deserving incarceration, there
can be no impropriety in placing them in separate cells of the
same description as are provided for other prisoners.
Assuming, then, that we have a prison adapted to the dis¬
cipline intended, we come to describe what the treatment
of the prisoner should be, in respect of separation, employ¬
ment, instruction, diet, and the care of health, and disposal
after discharge. In considering these points, we shall distin¬
guish the case of the untried, detained for safe custody only,
from that of the convicted, who are confined either for cor¬
rection, or for both correction and reform.
1st. Separation. Mr. Bentham rejected absolute solitude
from the administration of the Panopticon, as productive of
despair and injurious to health, unless used for a few days
only, for the purpose of repentance. He therefore proposed
the* classification of the prisoners into small companies in the
discretion of the gaoler, which suggestion the writer of the
preceding article has adopted as a part of his reformatory
discipline. Now, there is no doubt that the confinement of
an individual for any lengthened period in a cell, such as
those in the ordinary English county gaols, would be very
prejudicial to his health. These cells have been constructed
merely for dormitories, not for habitation by night and by
day. They are too small to enable the prisoner to take ex¬
ercise, are badly lighted, imperfectly ventilated, in no de¬
gree warmed, and destitute of those conveniencies which
are indispensable to render them fit and salubrious for con¬
stant habitation. But it is not in such cold, contracted, and
desolate cells, that the introduction of the separate system
is recommended. Nor is absolute solitude by any means
intended. We are as averse from it as Mr. Bentham could
possibly be. For it should be expressly understood, that the
seclusion of the prisoner is to be relieved by stated daily vi¬
sits, by manual occupations, and by his possessing the means
of communication at any time with the officers of the pii-
son. We entirely concur upon this important point with
the inspectors of prisons for the home district, whose expla¬
nation we here subjoin, to prevent any misconception of the
nature of the confinement intended.1
“ In the case of the untried, the prisoner is placed in an
apartment at least ten feet square, and ten feet high, suffi¬
ciently large to enable him to take exercise. This apart¬
ment is well lighted, ventilated, and warmed ; water is laid
in ; a water-closet is provided; and in the fitting up, every
arrangement is adopted essential to the prisoners health.
To this apartment the prisoner is strictly confined by day
and by night; nor is he allowed to leave it at any time, ex¬
cept for the purpose ofattending divine worship in the chapel.
This seclusion, however, is broken by daily and stated visits
of the governor, chaplain, surgeon, and other prison-officers.
The prisoner enjoys the privilege of seeing his friends; he
has every facility for consulting his legal adviser ; he may
send and receive letters ; he is permitted to have unobjec¬
tionable books; he may receive suitable articles of food;
he has the option of any employment that can be conveni¬
ently furnished to him; he is exempted from all discipline
that is calculated to create irritation ; he is tempted to com¬
mit no violation of prison-rules, and he is thus spared the
infliction of prison-punishments ; he is exposed to no quar¬
rels ; he is protected from those ruffianly assaults commit¬
ted in every other kind of prison, which arise from the ty¬
ranny of the strong over the weak ; his mind cannot be
tainted and demoralized by relations of the burglar, nor
his ears assailed by the language of the blasphemous and
obscene.” 
“ The convicted prisoner, according to this system, is con¬
fined by day and by night, in such an apartment as has been Prisons,
described. Whatever is necessary for the preservation of
his health is strictly attended to, but no indulgence in any
shape whatever is extended to him. The distinctions ob¬
served in the treatment of the untried and convicted, are
broad and definite. It has been seen that, under this sys¬
tem, the untried are permitted to receive visits from their
connexions; the convicted are prohibited from such inter¬
course; the untried may also communicate with their friends
by letter, the convicted have no such privilege ; the untried
are allowed to receive food beyond the prison diet; the con¬
victed are rigorously restricted to the prescribed ration ;
with the untried employment is optional; upon the convict¬
ed a daily task is imposed.”
The inspectors, in their latest report, further state,-—“ lo
guard against evils which might possibly arise from prisoners
being confined in cells not fit for separate confinement, we
recommend that the following provisions should form part
of any law which may be framed for this purpose
“ 1st, That no cell be made for the separate confinement
of a prisoner which does not contain at least 750 cubic feet,
and is not lighted, warmed, ventilated, and fitted up in such
a manner as is consistent with the health of the prisoner,
andfurnished with the means of enablinghim tocommunicate
at any time with the officers of the prison ; and that no cell
be used until its fitness be certified by the secretary of state.”
u 2d, That every prisoner shall be visited once at least
every day by the governor, chaplain, and surgeon, in addi¬
tion to other visits ; and that every prisoner shall have the
means of taking air and exercise as recommended by the
surgeon, and shall be furnished with the means of moral and
religious instruction, and with suitable books, to be selected
by the chaplain, and also with labour and employment, un¬
less specially withheld by order of the secretary of state.
Such, then, is the explanation of the system of separate con¬
finement which has recently been recommended by the se¬
cretary of state to the English magistrates for adoption in
all new prisons.3 It is not, we repeat, a discipline of con¬
tinuous solitude, but consists, in the effectual separation of
the prisoners from each other. It precludes their inter¬
course only with those whom it is for their moral good that
they should not see. It rescues the untried prisoner, who
may be innocent, from the shame of future recognition by gaol
associates; it facilitates the correction of the convict sentenced
to a short term of imprisonment; and affords the best pos¬
sible opportunity of effecting the reformation of him whose
confinement is sufficiently long to admit of the application
of penitentiary discipline. The separate system is eminent¬
ly calculated to favour the influence of Christianity on the
depraved heart ;4 it has all the improving qualities of mo-
nasticism, without the entire renouncement of connexion
with the world; nor is the rigour of its discipline at all
comparable to that which many pious anchorets have vo¬
luntarily inflicted on themselves for the expiation of crime,
or to the ordinary regime of the Grande Chartreuse, or the
convent of La Trappe. Not that imprisonment should be
regarded as a merely religious instrument, or visionary
hopes indulged in of making criminals more virtuous than
other men. It is unreasonable to expect more in general
than to bring them into those habits which characterise the
useful members of society. But there is little chance of at¬
taining this object, unless the criminal be reduced to that
docile and subdued frame of mind, which fits him to re¬
ceive moral instruction, and to reflect upon his former er¬
rors. The acquirement of such a frame of mind, in the
midst of associates, even of a carefully selected class of as¬
sociates, as suggested by Mr. Bentham, we regard as im-
“4^'Session 1838. • See Lord John Russell’s Official Circular, 15th August 1838.
See Thomas a Kempis, De Imitatione, tyc chap. 20, on the Love of Solitude and Silence.
PRISON S.
Prisons.
possible. “ Converse as much as may be,” says Thomas a
Kempis, “ with God and thy own conscience. It is a good
reflection which the philosopher made of himself, that he
never was in other men’s company, but he came out of it
less a man than he went in; and this is what we may fre¬
quently confirm by our own experience.”
The apprehension of danger to the mental or bodily health
of the prisoner is unquestionably one not to be treated light¬
ly. But there is no proof of any such result, in those pri¬
sons where the discipline of separation has hitherto been
established. It has been in operation in the Glasgow Bride¬
well for about fourteen years ; and the prisoner is never
permitted to enter the open air, but is allowed exercise in
a corridor, the cells not being quite so large, as we have
stated to be requisite for ventilation and exercise.1 Prison¬
ers are not un frequently confined here for periods of a twelve-
month and upwards ; but their health has not been found
to sustain any injury, and the moral effect of the imprison¬
ment has been very favourable.2 But it is the celebrated
Eastern Penitentiary of Philadelphia that affords the strong¬
est proofs, that individual separation can be enforced for
lengthened periods with perfect safety to the body and mind.
In this penitentiary, the prisoners are confined day and night
in large airy cells,3 and are cut off from all intercourse with
their fellow-prisoners, whilst they are visited by the director
and officers, the religious ministers, the medical attendants,
the inspectors, and numerous official visitors, including the
members of Congress, the judges, &c. There are prisoners
in this penitentiary who have been there for years, without
the slightest injury to their constitutions, and there are nu¬
merous instances in which health has been improved. In
the seven years from the opening of the penitentiary in 1829
to December 1836, the average mortality did not exceed
three per cent., (that at Sing-Sing being four per cent., and
at Auburn two per cent.;) and of 697 prisoners during that
period, the state of 312 who left the prison was as follows :4
78 in better health.
166 in equal health.
17 weaker, not worse.
13 in worse health.
4 much worse.
34 dead, including one suicide.
"312
Our limits do not admit of the details of the discipline of
this establishment, but we have pointed out the works where
the reader will find them. Suffice it to add that its success
has been so far encouraging, that a second penitentiary has
recently been built on the same plan at Pittsburgh, in the
same State of Pensylvania, and that in the States of New
Jersey, Rhode Island, and Missouri, penitentiaries on the se¬
parate system have also been lately erected. The princi¬
ple of separation, as applied to prisons, is no doubt compa¬
ratively new; but it is not too much to say, that experience,
as far as it has gone, has served to confirm the opinion of
its excellence, to which reflection upon the theory of pu¬
nishment, and the nature of the human mind, would be like¬
ly to lead the inquirer.
The basis of the silent system, like that of the separate,
is isolation. It aims at solitude of the minds, whilst it per¬
mits the bodily association of the prisoners. The silent sys¬
tem ought to consist of the cellular separation of each pri¬
soner by night, and of labour in common, with rigorous si¬
587
lence during the day. It is contended that the prisoner is Prisons,
thus morally isolated as effectually as if he were in a separate
cell, and that the associated labour being more conformable
to the habits of men in society than seclusion, the probabi¬
lity of converting the criminal into a useful citizen is pro¬
portionally greater. The system has been brought to a high
degree of efficacy in the state-prisons of Auburn, Sing-Sing,
Wethersfield, Charlestown, Baltimore, and Washington, in
the United States, and in the houses of correction at Wake¬
field and Coldbathfields in England. But its strict enforce¬
ment involves several serious evils, not the least of which is
the necessity of inflicting very numerous and vexatious pu¬
nishments upon the prisoners. Every detected violation of
the rules must be visited with some penalty, so that not on¬
ly is the imprisonment contemplated by the sentence seri¬
ously aggravated; but the notion of an offence against pri¬
son discipline is insensibly confounded with one against law.
In some of the American penitentiaries, corporal punish¬
ment has been used to a brutal degree; but even where
this is not the case, the penalties are of an objectionable na¬
ture, such as the reduction of food, or confinement in dark
ill-ventilated cells, both which have a tendency to impair
the prisoner’s health. In the year 1836, the number of pu¬
nishments inflicted daily at Coldbathfields was computed at
seventy-six, or about eight and-a-half per cent, on the num¬
ber of prisoners, and no less than 6794 punishments, or about
twelve per diem, were inflicted in that year for talking and
swearing alone.5 Referring to the two English prisons in
which the silent system is most strictly carried into execu¬
tion, it appears there were in the course of last year in
Coldbathfields House of Correction
Wakefield House of Correction
Prisoners. Punishments.
9,750 13,812
3,438 12,445
13,188 26,257
In all the prisons in England andl ino /to<
Wales / *09,4jo
54,825
So that whilst these two prisons contain rather less than one-
eighth of the whole number of prisoners, there were inflict¬
ed within them nearly one-half the whole number of punish¬
ments.6 A feeling of perpetual irritation is thus kept up, the
reverse of that tranquil and submissive frame of mind from
which alone there is any chance of reformation. Nor can the
system be maintained at all without so much vigilance, that a
necessity has generally arisen of employing a number of the
prisoners themselves as wardsmen and monitors, a practice
wholly inconsistent with the punishment to which such pri¬
soners have been sentenced, and subversive of discipline in
many ways. The silent system, therefore, even when most
strictly enforced, is open to many objections which do not
attach to that of cellular separation, besides affording op¬
portunities of communication which cannot exist where the
prisoners are physically separated by the walls of their cells.
But where the discipline of silence is loosely enforced, which
is by far the most frequently the case in prisons where it
is nominally established, it then becomes in fact a system
of association, and open to all the evils of contamination, so
baneful to the novice in crime, so pernicious in their effect
upon society. Nor should it be disregarded that the obser¬
vance of silence is enforced to no inconsiderable extent upon
the untried, who are therefore subjected to the infliction of
1 The dimensions of the cells are, for males nine feet by seven feet, and ten feet high ; for females eight and a half feet by seven and
a half, and seven feet three inches high.
! See ^ Rcyorts of the, Inspector of Prisons for Scotland. nine j seven feet
3 This prison contains eight corridors, and 262 cells. In tnree or me comaurs, me -e . - , „
six inches wide, arid in the other five corridors they are three feet longer. The cells on the ground floor have generally airing yards, but
the prisoners in the upper cells are never allowed to enter the open air.
i ,nd Bl0U't'> ' * lUoineDistrict,) 1838.
PRISONS.
Employ¬
ment.
punishment, contrary, if not to law, at all events to the first
principles of justice. .
There are, in fact, but three known systems of discipline ;
those of separation, of silence, and of association. We have
described the first two ; of the last, we shall only say, that
it is the fruitful source of vice and demoralization, and that
the prisons in which it prevails, are schools not of reforma¬
tion, but of crime. Even the partial association allowed by
Mr. Bentham is, in our view, wholly inadmissible. Classi¬
fication will not cure the evil. Whether committed entire¬
ly to the discretion of the gaoler, or prescribed according
to technical distinctions, as in the English gaol acts, classi¬
fication will never prove an adequate remedy for the evils
to be averted. The prisoner must be removed from the
possibility even of recognition by another prisoner, before
he can have a chance of acquiring that self-respect which,
in a right sense, is indispensable to his moral reform.
A question may occur, whether the separation of the pri¬
soner should be left, in any case, to his own option ? I he
answer seems clear, that he should not. I he convict has
of course no right to choose what the nature of his punish¬
ment shall be. The untried, who is detained for safe cus¬
tody, has no right to require to be provided with associates.
He is injured, if his health is impaired, or if any needless
restriction is placed upon him, but he is no more entitled
to insist that other offenders committed to the same prison
shall be confined in the same apartment with him, than to
ask for a prisoner to be removed for the purpose from ano¬
ther gaol. If the state has a right to prescribe the place of
his detention at all, it has also the right to debar him dur¬
ing such detention from the society of those at whose hands
he would probably sustain the injury of moral corruption.
2d. Employment. Assuming cellular separation to be
the best system of confinement, the most proper mode of
employing the prisoners will be that which is the best suit¬
ed to the single cell. That hard labour, either in associa¬
tion or in solitude, should constitute the gravamen of the
prisoner’s punishment, is highly objectionable. Experience
has shewn how great a mistake it is to use as a punishment
for the basest of the people, that labour which should be
held in honour, as being the only solid foundation of pub¬
lic prosperity and virtue. The evils anticipated in the pre¬
ceding article from the tread-wheel, have been fully real¬
ized. It is a punishment which is characterized by a re¬
markable amount of inequality, and consequent injustice, in
its operation. Not only is it necessarily unequal, because
applied to persons of different degrees of physical strength,^
but in some persons it is carried to an excessive point of
severity, whilst in others it is a merely nominal punish¬
ment. There is so little uniformity of system, as regards
the number of hours devoted to labour, the height of the
steps of the wheel, the rapidity of its rotation, and the pro¬
portion of prisoners placed upon it, that the severity of the
punishment varies in almost every prison. The following
county houses of correction, fortuitously selected, will illus¬
trate this:1
Houses of
Correction.
Walsingham,
Northampton,
Coldbathfields,
Petworth,
Knutsford,
£2
s =
s'-B s
>o.«
TA
4
8f
8 inches
7 do.
8 do.
9 do.
8f do
E
36 steps
48 do.
48 do.
48 do.
48 do.
6 g
7,799
10,920
16,800
18,473
21,000
So that a prisoner sentenced to hard labour in the house
of correction at Knutsford, would perform twice as much ^
labour as at Northampton, and three times as much as at
Walsingham house of correction. Nor is this all; for the
severity of the labour depends also upon the season of the
year in which the offender may be sentenced. In Maid¬
stone gaol, for instance, in January, the number of working
hours at the wheel is 6^, and the number of feet of dally
ascent, 12,000 ; whereas in the month of June, the work¬
ing hours are 9^, and the feet of ascent, 18,240 ; so that a
man sentenced to two or three months hard labour in the
summer, undergoes one -tliird more of the tread-wheel, than
he who is committed in the winter, and that without any
difference of diet. Such inconsistencies form a most seri¬
ous objection to the system of tread-wheel labour, which,
in connection with a more or less rigorous discipline of si¬
lence, is generally adopted in our houses of correction.
There can be no great difficulty in selecting suitable em¬
ployments for the solitary cell. At the Glasgow bridewell
a variety of works are carried on in the cells, from oakum
picking, to the difficult art of print-cutting, with a view
to suit the demand for labour in the surrounding districts,
and to raise a fund applicable to the expences of the prison.
At Philadelphia, the trades are principally weaving, tailor¬
ing, and shoemaking, and the two latter are the chief oc¬
cupations at Millbank. The hand-crank is an instrument
used in many prisons as a means of labour to the prisoner
kept in temporary solitude.
The principles to be regarded in the employment of prison
labour, are briefly these. The labour of the untried should
not only be perfectly voluntary, but they are entitled to
pursue any occupation not inconsistent with the good or¬
der of the prison, and of course to receive the whole of the
profits which such occupation may yield. Upon the con¬
victed, the state has the right to impose labour, although
it may be questionable whether in general it is expedient
to enforce it against the will of the prisoner. Under a
system of separation there would be little occasion to im¬
pose a task, because experience has shewn that the prisoner
in solitude very soon begins to desire labour as a boon ; and
this is precisely the disposition with which he ought to
regard it. The convict should therefore be supplied with
work at his own request; but it does not follow that he is
entitled to any part of his earnings, because being no longer
a free agent, the produce of his labour is the property of
the State. That a convict should derive profit from his de¬
graded situation is manifestly an abuse; except in so far,
that where the term of imprisonment is long, the principle
of reward, if discreetly applied, may occasionally prove a
valuable instrument of reformation. Some discretion to
present the penitent prisoner with a portion of his earnings
might therefore be committed to the proper authority.
The notion of allowing the keeper, or any officer of the
prison to participate in the profits of the prisoners labour
appears to us wholly erroneous. In Mr. Bentham’s Panop¬
ticon, it is proposed to deliver over the prisoners to a con¬
tractor, to whom an interest in their earnings is given, in
order to secure his training them in industrious habits. But
the reason does not apply to prisons managed according
to certain regulations prescribed by law, and governed by
officers who are public servants, and responsible for their
conduct to competent authority. There are no sufficient
grounds for delegating to a contractor, that which is the
business and duty of the government; nor should the of¬
ficers of a prison look to any remuneration beyond their
adequate salaries, nor have any contingent .interest depend¬
ing upon the manner in which the prisoners are employed.
°The prisoners’ earnings may be properly applied towards
the expences of the establishment, and in some prisons they
have become so productive, as to reduce the cost of mainten-
Prisons.
1 See Digest of Gaol Returns, Ho. 6, in Appendix to Second Report of Inspectors of Prisons, 1837.
PRISONS,
Prisons, ance to a mere trifle. It is quite possible that prisons may thus
v^V'^be made self-supporting, and be carried on without any pub¬
lic charge. Let it not, however, be supposed that the fact
of economical management is at all conclusive of the excel¬
lence of a prison. The object of imprisonment is not pro¬
duction, but the correction and reform of offenders ; and un¬
less the employment be made subservient to these great
ends, there will be little gain to the community, however
cheaply this or that prison may be maintained. There is so
strong a feeling, both in this country and the United States,
in favour of stimulating production by prisoners, that some
danger really appears to exist, lest higher objects should be
lost sight of, and it should be forgotten that nothing is more
costly to society than crime, and that in their tendency to
the prevention of crime consists the only true economy of
penal establishments.
It is hardly necessary to observe that the employment of
prisoners as wardsmen, monitors, cleaners, cooks, or any
other offices of trust, or menial services in the prison, is in¬
compatible with a system of separation. The monitorial
system has arisen chiefly out of the difficulty of enforcing
the discipline of silence ; but the practice of employing pri¬
soners in domestic services is an abuse which prevails to a
very great extent, and is a striking instance in which pur¬
poses of economy have been made to defeat theendsofjustice.
Instruction 3<i. Instruction is an important element of penitentiary
discipline ; but its effect must depend materially upon the
length of the term of the prisoner’s sentence. The late
Lords’ Committee recommended, that where there are fifty
prisoners, there shall invariably be a chaplain whose whole
time shall be devoted to his duties, and also a schoolmaster,
not being one of the prisoners. In very short terms of im¬
prisonment, little benefit can be anticipated from the la¬
bours of either chaplain or schoolmaster, and it is scarcely
worth while to attempt the elementary teaching of reading
and writing. But in every case, religious advice and ex¬
hortation should be imparted, and the chaplain, or an ade¬
quate number of chaplains, should devote a considerable
portion of time to private converse with the prisoners, indi¬
vidually, in their cells. The judicious conversation of an
intelligent clergyman on moral and religious subjects, and
his friendly advice on such topics as may occur, are emi¬
nently calculated to raise the prisoner in the scale of mo¬
rality, and to fix good resolutions in his mind. We need
hardly remark, that if the chaplain is not what he ought to be,
if he is a man of a weak, narrow, or ill-informed mind, or
not thoroughly imbued with a Christian spirit, his labour
will be in vain. But there are no bounds to the benignant
influence of religion, rightly understood, in turning the wic¬
ked man’s heart, nor can any vocation be more signally
Christian, than that which consists in promoting the crimi¬
nal’s repentance.
We have referred to the plan of a chapel, according to
which each prisoner may be separated during divine service.
But a question naturally suggests itself, why, if separation
is to be maintained, so as to preclude communion of wor¬
ship, there is any occasion for a chapel at all ? Divine ser¬
vice may be performed by a chaplain placed in the corridor,
within the hearing of the prisoners, so that the prisoners
are as much present at the service as if they were in the
building called the chapel. This is the mode in which pray¬
ers are read at the Eastern Penitentiary of Philadelphia;
and the seclusion of the cell is therefore not broken for the
purpose of repairing to chapel. Whichever mode of cele¬
brating divine service may be preferred, it is pretty certain
that the private converse of the chaplain with the prisoner
will always be the most beneficial part of his ministry.
As it seldom happens that all the inmates of a prison are
of the same religious denomination, it will often be requisite
589
to provide ministers of different religions, or sects, accord- Prisons,
ing to circumstances. Thus, although in England the ma-
jority of prisoners will in general belong to the Established
Church, yet, where the number of Catholics, or of dissenters
of any one sect in the prison, reaches a given point, it is
clear that the services of a Catholic priest, or dissenting
minister of such sect, ought to be secured and paid for by
the state. For if it be concluded that religious instruction
in indispensable to the reformation of the prisoner, it follows
that such instruction can only be effectual when based upon
the religion which the prisoner believes to be true. The
circumstance, moreover, of the prisoner being deprived of
his liberty, distinguishes his claim, in this respect, from that
of other members of the community.
4. Diet and care of health. The loss of health forming Diet, &c.
no part of the prisoner’s sentence, it follows that all due care
must be taken of its preservation ; and attention is therefore
requisite to diet, clothing, cleanliness, and every other mat¬
ter whereby it is liable to be affected. In some prisons the
diet is so excessive as to be greatly superior to the ordinary
fare of the free labourer, and consequently to constitute a
bonus upon imprisonment; in others it is so inadequate as
to impair the prisoners’ constitutions, and reduce their phy¬
sical strength. The latter appears particularly to be the
case in those houses of correction where tread-v/heel labour
is enforced as a part of the silent system. The want of unifor¬
mity in the dietary of British prisons will seem very striking
when the returns are referred to.1 Under a system of sepa¬
ration, the sufficiency of the diet will easily be determined
by the observation of the medical attendant, who will best
regulate the variations of food which particular cases will
require. The convict will, of course, be limited to the
prison fare; the untried will, as at present, be permitted to
receive such articles of food as his means may procure him.
Stimulating liquors are only admissible within a prison for
medical purposes, nor ought any canteen, or place for the
sale of any food or liquors be permitted to exist within its
walls.
It is not necessary to offer particular suggestions in re¬
gard to washing, clothing, and the other requisites of bodi¬
ly health. The exercise of ordinary good sense will regu¬
late such matters without difficulty. The utmost cleanli¬
ness should pervade every part of the prison. This is a
point in which the English prisons surpass by far those of
the continent. Nor need any apprehensions be entertain¬
ed lest perfect cleanliness should make a pi-ison too
luxurious an abode. Cleanliness is no superfluous luxury;
but should rather be regarded as having a strong tendency
to purify the moral as well as the physical man.
bth. The disposal of the prisoner after his discharge is, Disposal
at present, the most embarrassing question to which im-after dis-
prisonment gives rise. The short terms to which offenders charge-
are for the most part sentenced, make it quite visionary to
anticipate reform as a general result of the best system ;
and even if the prisoner should have become a better man,
the difficulty of his finding employment is (except in newly
settled countries, like the United States) so great as to
tempt him forcibly to relapse into crime. Several modes
of provision for this difficulty were suggested by Mr. Ben-
tham, such as, employment in the army or navy ; encou¬
ragement of voluntary emigration to the colonies , the
requiring security for good behaviour, with liberty to the
surety to contract for the prisoner’s labour ; or a subsidiary
establishment for the reception of the prisoners as a mo¬
dified kind of imprisonment. Much has been done in
France and elsewhere on the continent, by societies “pour
le patronage des liberes” whose endeavour it is to place
discharged prisoners in useful occupations. The British
colonies, where labour is in very great demand, offer favour-
1 See Appendix, No- 4. to Inspector’s Second Beport, Session 1837.
590
Pristina
I!
Privy-
Council.
PRISONS.
able prospects to the emigrant; and if some systematic
plan were organized, the opportunity of emigration would,
without doubt, be joyfully accepted by many liberated
convicts. To the young offender, such an opportunity
'is especially desirable. But compulsory banishment can¬
not be resorted to for the mass of offenders. It is there-
fore worthy of consideration, whether the convict should
not, on his liberation, be placed under the temporary con¬
trol of the police, in order that the police might be duly
cognizant of his residence and occupation, and thus exer¬
cise a check upon his return to criminal pursuits i (bee ar¬
ticle Police). It might also be advantageous, m many
cases, to commute sentences of imprisonment, either m
the whole, or in part, for police surveillance, and thus to
relieve the prisons of a mass of petty offenders, upon whom
incarceration can rarely, even under the best system, ope¬
rate beneficially. These, however, are questions belong¬
ing rather to the theory of punishment, than to the subject
of prison discipline; nor is it possible to treat the latter
subject at all satisfactorily, unless in connexion with an en¬
tire system of secondary punishments.
Our space has limited us to the leading points of prison
management, nor is it requisite that we should enter into
the details of minor arrangements. In every prison much
will depend upon the good sense and discernment of the
keeper, and the efficiency of the inferior officers, whose du¬
ties should be prescribed with precision, and enforced with
exactness. The prison should be inspected, at frequent and
uncertain times, by inspectors duly authorised to inquire in- s
to every thing in and relating to it. Proper books must be
kept for recording every matter of importance, in a uniform
manner, which the government should prescribe for all pri¬
sons, and the fewer and simpler the books the better. Uni¬
formity of regulations should exist, as far as possible, in all
prisons used for the same purpose, which can only be ef¬
fected by a central authority charged with their superin-
tendence.
The costs of constructing prisons do not fall within the
scope of the present article. It may be useful, however, to
refer the reader to M. Blouet’s report before quoted. That
architect estimates the cost of erecting a prison in Paris,
for 480 offenders, on the Auburn, or silent system, at about
L.80 per cell; and on the Philadelphia, or separate system,
at L.148 per cell. The first cost of establishing the sepa¬
rate system will unquestionably be the highest; but, as it
requires a smaller number of officers, and on other accounts,
it may probably prove in the end the most economical. At
all events, we repeat, it is not the cheapest, but the best sys¬
tem, that is desirable. Nor can we imagine a more legiti¬
mate appropriation of public money, than that which is ex¬
pended with a reasonable prospect of preventing crime, by
introducing into prisons efficient means of correction and
reform. , .
(x.)
Prize.
PRISTINA, a city of Turkey in Europe, in the province
of Beldschterin. It is strongly fortified, is the seat of a
Greek archbishop, and the principal market of an exten¬
sive district. It contains 2000 houses and 10,000 inhabi¬
tants; and is the centre of one of the greatest mining ports
of Turkey, abounding in iron ore, and yielding some silver.
PIUTTELWELL, a town of the county of Essex, in
the hundred of Rochford. It is situated about one mile
from the north bank of the Thames, near Southend. The
population amounted in 1821 to 1922, and in 1831 to 2266.
PRIVAS, an arrondissement in the department of the
Ardeche, in France, extending over 710 square miles, It
comprehends ten cantons, divided into 107 communes, and
90,640 inhabitants. The capital is the city of the same
name the seat of the boards of the departmental govern¬
ment, and of the courts of law. It contains 520 houses,
with 3340 inhabitants, employed in making woollen goods,
and in tanneries. In the vicinity are abundant mines of
fossil coal. Long. 4. 31. E. Eat. 44. 45. N.
PRIVATEERS are a kind of men-of-war, fitted out
and provided with military stores by private individuals ;
and the persons concerned, instead of pay, are permitted
to retain their captures, allowing the admiral his share.
Privateers may not attempt any thing against the laws
of nations; as to assault an enemy in a port or haven under
the protection of any prince or republic, whether he be
friend, ally, or neutral; and before a commission can be
granted to any privateer, the commander is to give security,
if the ship be not above 150 tons, in L.1500, and if the ship
exceeds that burden, in L.3000, that the owners will make
satisfaction for all damages which they shall commit in their
courses at sea.
Besides these private commissions, there are special com¬
missions for privateers, granted to commanders of ships and
others, who take pay, are under a marine discipline, and, if
they do not obey their orders, may be punished with death.
PRIVATIVE, in Grammar, a particle, which, prefixed
to a word, changes it into a contrary sense. Thus, among
the Greeks, the a is used as a privative ; as in a-0eof, atheist,
acepha.lus, and the like.
PRIVY-Council. The king’s will is the sole consti¬
tuent of a privy-counsellor; and it also regulates their num¬
ber, which in ancient times was about twelve. Afterwards
it increased to so large a number that it was found incon¬
venient for secrecy and despatch; and therefore Charles
II. in 1679 limited it to thirty. Since that time, however,
the number has been much augmented, and now continues
indefinite. Privy-counsellors are made by the king’s no¬
mination, without either patent or grant; and, on taking
the necessary oaths, they become immediately privy-coun¬
sellors during the life of the king that chooses them, but
subject to removal at his discretion.
The privy-council is the prinmm mobile of the state, and
that which gives the motion and direction to all the infe¬
rior parts. It is likewise a court of justice of great anti¬
quity ; the primitive and ordinary way of government in
England being by the king and privy-council. At present
the privy-council takes cognizance of few or no matters
except such as cannot well be determined by the known
laws and ordinary courts; such as matters of complaint and
sudden emergencies; their constant business being to con¬
sult for the public good in affairs of state.
In plantation or admiralty causes, which arise out of the
jurisdiction of this kingdom, the privy-council has cogni¬
zance, being the court of appeal in such causes ; and from
all the dominions of the crown, excepting Great Britain
and Ireland, an appellate jurisdiction (in the last resort) is
vested in this tribunal, which usually exercises its judicial
authority in a committee of the whole privy-council, who
hear the allegations and proofs, and make their report to his
majesty in council, by whom the judgment is finally given.
By the common law, the privy-council was dissolved ipso
facto by the king’s demise. But now, to prevent the in¬
conveniences of having no council at the accession of a
new prince, it is enacted, by 6 Anne, cap. 7, that the privy-
council shall continue for six months after the demise of the
crown, unless sooner determined by the successor. (Black-
stone’s Commentaries, book i.)
PRIZE, or Prise, in maritime affairs, a vessel taken at
sea from the enemies of a state, or from pirates; and that
either by a man-of-war, a privateer, or other, having a com¬
mission for that purpose.
591
PROBABILITY.
Probability The doctrine of probability is an extensive and very im-
^^y^^portant branch of mathematical science, the object of which
is to reduce to calculation the reasons which we have for
believing or expecting any contingent event, or for assent¬
ing to any conclusion which is not necessarily true. When
it is considered that the whole edifice of human science, with
the exception of a few self-evident truths, such as the axioms
of geometry, is nothing more than an assemblage of propo¬
sitions which can only be pronounced to be more or less pro¬
bable, the importance of a calculus which enables us to ap¬
preciate exactly the degree of probability existing in each
case, will be readily understood.
I Our reasons for judging an event to be probable or im¬
probable, are derived from two distinct sources; first, an
a priori knowledge of the causes or circumstances which
determine its occurrence ; and, secondly, when the causes
are unknown, experience of what has already happened in
the same circumstances, or in circumstances apparently si¬
milar. Suppose, for example, a hundred white balls to be
placed in an urn along with fifty black balls, and that a per¬
son, blindfold, proceeds to draw a ball, there is to us, who
are acquainted with the contents of the urn, a determinate
probability that the ball which is drawn will be white. 1 he
balls being supposed to be all in precisely the same circum¬
stances with respect to facility of drawing, we assume that
there is the same chance of drawing any one ball as ot draw¬
ing any other ; and, consequently, since there are two white
balls for each black ball, and therefore two chances of draw¬
ing one of the first colour for each chance of drawing one
of the second, we conclude the event which consists in the
drawing of a white ball to be twice as probable as the op¬
posite event, or the drawing of a black ball. In this case
our knowledge of the contents of the urn enables us to
judge of the probable result of the drawing. Suppose, how¬
ever, that antecedently to the drawing, we were entirely ig¬
norant of the contents of the urn, but that after a great
number of trials have been made, (the ball drawn being al¬
ways replaced in the um after each trial, in order that the
circumstances may be the same in all the trials) it has been
observed that a white ball has been drawn twice as often
as a black ball, we presume that the urn contains twice as
many white as black balls, and consequently affords twice
as many chances of drawing a white ball as of drawing a
black ; and this presumption becomes stronger in proper -
tion to the number of instances included in the observation.
In this case experience makes up for the want of a prioi i
knowledge, and affords a measure of the probability of the
result of a future trial.
It is only in a comparatively small number of cases that
all the possible ways in which an event may happen aie
known a priori, and in which, consequently, the ratio o t e
number of chances favouring the event to the whole rum1'
ber of existing chances is determinate. In fact, most of the
questions of this class to which the calculus can be app ie ,
are connected with lotteries and games ot hazarc. e ic
suits obtained from the analysis ot such questions cannot e
considered as being of any great value in themselves, u
they frequently throw light on subjects of far higher impor¬
tance which present analogous combinations. It is true a
the mathematical theory comes in aid of moral considerations,
and demonstrates the ruinous tendency ol gambling even
when the conditions of the play are equal, mathematical y
speaking; but, unfortunately, those who indulge a passion
for this vice are seldom capable of appreciating t c oice o
such arguments. The principal advantage which has resulted Probability
from the application of analysis to games of chance is the ex- ^
tension and improvement of the calculus to which it has led.
The calculation of the probabilities of events, the chances
of which are not known a priori, but inferred from experi¬
ence, is founded on the presumed constancy of the laws of
nature, in obedience to which events depending on constant
though unknown causes, are always reproduced in the same
order when considered in large numbers. Among the vari¬
ous phenomena of the physical and moral world, nothing is
more remarkable than the constancy which is observed to
prevail in the recurrence of events of the same kind. The
ratio of male to female births furnishes a noted instance.
If we consider only a small number of births, nothing can be
more uncertain than the result; but taking a very large num¬
ber, as those of a whole kingdom in the course of a year,
the proportion of males to females is found to be almost inva¬
riable, and nearly as 21 to 20. The mean duration of hu¬
man life affords another familiar example. Notwithstand¬
ing the proverbial uncertainty of life, the differences of con¬
stitutions, and the various accidents to which mankind are
exposed, the average duration of the lives of a large num¬
ber of individuals living in the same country is always found
to be very nearly the same, insomuch that pecuniary risks
depending on it, if undertaken in sufficiently large numbers,
are among the least uncertain of all commercial speculations.
A similar constancy is remarked in the results of statistical in¬
quiries of every kind. The number of crimes of the same spe¬
cies committed in a year, the ratio of the number of acquit¬
tals to the number of trials, the number of conflagrations, of
ships lost in a particular trade, ofletters which pass through the
post-office, of patients admitted into the public hospitals; in ev¬
ery case the numbers in a given time are observed to fluctuate
between very narrow limits, and to approach nearer and near¬
er, as the observation is more extended, to fixed mean values.
This constant approximation to fixed ratios, which is
proved by all experience, in the recurrence of events of the
same kind, enables us to apply the calculus of probabilities
to many of the most interesting questions connected with our
social and political institutions ; and to determine the aver¬
age result of a series of coming events with as much precision
as if their chances were determinate, and known a priori, like
that of obtaining a given point with the throw of a die. What¬
ever be the nature of the phenomenon under consideration,
whether it belong to the physical or moral order of things,
the calculus is equally applicable when the requisite data
have been determined from experience.
The foundations of the mathematical theory of probabili¬
ties were laid by Pascal and Fermat about the middle, ot
the 17th century. Among some other questions relating
to chances, the following was proposed to Pascal. “ Two
persons sit down to play on the condition that the one v\ ho
first gains three games shall be the winner of the stakes.
The first having gained two games, and the second one,
they agree to leave oft' and divide the stakes in proportion
to their respective probabilities of winning: what share is
each entitled to take ?” Pascal solved the question, but by
a method which was applicable only to the particular case.
Fermat, to whom it was communicated by Pascal, employ¬
ed the direct and general method of combinations, and gave
a solution which could be applied to the case of any num¬
ber of plavers. His reasoning, however, did not at nrst
appear to Pascal to be satisfactory, and a correspondence
on the subject took place between these two illustrious
592
PROBABILITY.
Probability geometers, which is preserved in their respective works, and
~ ' throws some light on the history of mathematics in that age.1
About the same period Huygens composed Ins tract De
Hatiociniis in JLudis Alece, which was first published in the
Exercitationes Geometricce of Schootenin 1658, This was
the first systematic treatise which appeared on the doctrine
of chances. It contained an analysis of the various ques¬
tions which had been solved by Pascal and hermat, and
at the end five new questions were proposed, the solutions
of which, simple as they may now appear, were then attend¬
ed with considerable difficulty. The analysis of two of them
was in fact given for the first time by Montmort, half a cen¬
tury after their publication. Huygen’s tract was translated
into English and published in 1692, with some additional re¬
marks relative to the advantage of the banker in the game
of Pharaon, in an Essay on the Laws of Chance, edited and
supposed to have been written by Motte, then Secretary of
the Royal Society.
James Bernoulli appears to have been the first who per¬
ceived that the theory of probability may be applied to much
more important purposes than to regulate the stakes and ex¬
pectations of gamesters, and that the phenomena, both of the
moral and physical world, anomalous and irregular as they
appear when viewed in detail, exhibit, when considered in
large numbers, a constancy of succession which renders their
occurrence capable of being submitted to numerical esti¬
mation. The Ars Conjectandi, published in 1713, seven
years after the death of the author, contains a number of in¬
teresting questions relative to combinations and infinite
series ; but the most remarkable result which it contains is a
theorem respecting the indefinite repetition of events, which
may be said to form the basis of all the higher applications
of the theory. It consists in this, that if a series of trials be
instituted respecting an event which must either happen or
fail in each trial, the probability becomes greater and greater,
as the number of trials is increased, that the ratio of the
number of times it happens, to the whole number of trials,
will be equal to its a priori probability in a single trial;
and that the number of trials may be made so great as to
give a probability, approaching as nearly to certainty as we
please, that the difference between the ratio of its occurren¬
ces to the number of trials, and the fraction which measures
its a priori probability, will be less than any assigned quan¬
tity. Bernoulli informs us, that the solution of this impor¬
tant theorem had engaged his attention during a period of
twenty years.
In the interval between the death of Bernoulli and the
appearance of the Ars Conjectandi, Montmort published
his Essai dHAnalyse sur les Jeux de Hazard. The first
edition was in 1708 ; the second, which is considerably ex¬
tended, and enriched by several letters of John and Nicolas
Bernoulli, appeared in 1713. The work possesses consi¬
derable merit; but being chiefly confined to the examina¬
tion of the conditions of games of chance, many of which
are now forgotten, it has lost much of its original interest.
About the same time, Demoivre began to turn his atten¬
tion to the subject of probability, and his labours, which
were continued during a long life, contributed greatly to the
advancement of the general theory, as ivell as the extension
of some of its most interesting applications. Demoivre’s
first publication on the subject was a Latin memoir De Men-
sura Sortis, in the Transactions of tlie Royal Society for
1711. His Essay on the Doctrine of Chances first appeared
in 1716 ; a second edition in 1738 ; but the third and most
valuable, including also his Treatise on Annuities on Lives,
is dated 1756. This work contains a great variety of ques¬
tions relating to chances, solved with much clearness and
elegance ; but it is chiefly remarkable for the theory of re¬
curring series, there given for the first time, which is of im¬
portant use in investigations of this kind, and is in fact Probability
equivalent to the methods employed in the modern calculus
for the integration of equations of finite differences having
constant co-efficients. Of the particular results obtained by
Demoivre, one of the most important in reference to theory,
is an extension of the theorem of James Bernoulli, above
mentioned. It follows from Bernoulli’s theorem, that if we
have a given probability that the ratio of the number of
occurrences of an event to the whole number of trials, wall
approach to the a priori probability of the event within
certain given limits, those limits will become narrower and
narrower, as the number of trials is multiplied ; but in order
to complete the theorem, it is necessary to assign the nu¬
merical value of the probability that in a large number of
future trials, the number of occurrences will fall within as¬
signed limits. For this purpose we must find the product
of the natural numbers 1, 2, 3, 4, &c., up to the number of
trials ; an operation which, if attempted by direct multipli¬
cation, becomes very laborious, even when the number of
trials is inconsiderable, and when the number is great, as
10,000 for example, is altogether beyond the reach of human
industry. A formula was however discovered by Stirling,
by means of which an approximate value of the product is
found by the summation of a few of the first terms of a series
which converges the more rapidly as the number of trials is
greater. With the aid of this formula, Demoivre was en¬
abled to assign the probability in question, and thus give a
practical value to the theorem of Bernoulli.
The objects and important applications of the theory of
probabilities having been made known by the works now
mentioned, the subject has ever since been regarded as one
of the most curious and interesting branches of mathemati¬
cal speculation, and accordingly has received more or less
attention from almost every mathematician of eminence. A
great variety of questions connected with it and especially
relating to lotteries, are interspersed in the volumes of the
Paris and Berlin Memoirs, (particularly the latter,) by John
and Nicolas Bernoulli, Euler, Lambert, Beguelin, and others.
D’Alembert has likewise treated of the theory in several of
the volumes of his Opuscula; and it is not a little remarkable,
that in some instances its first principles should have been
misunderstood by so ingenious and profound a writer. In
the St. Petersburg Memoirs, (vol. v.) there is an interesting
paper by Daniel Bernoulli on the relative values of the ex¬
pectations of individuals who engage in play, or stake sums
on contingent benefits, when regard is had to the difference
of their fortunes; a consideration which, in many cases, it
is necessary to take into account; for it is obvious, that the
value of a sum of money to an individual, depends not mere¬
ly on its absolute amount, but also on his previous wealth.
On this principle Bernoulli has founded a theory of moral
expectation, which admits of numerous and important appli¬
cations to the ordinary affairs of life. The Transactions of
the Royal Society for the years 1763 and 1764, contain two
papers by the Rev. Mr. Bayes, with additions to the latter
by Dr. Price, which deserve to be noticed, inasmuch as the
principles on which the probability of an event is determin¬
ed, when the event depends on causes of which the exis¬
tence and influence are only presumed from experience,
are there for the first time correctly laid down. The ques¬
tion proposed and solved by Bayes was this : a series of ex-
periments having been made relative to an event, to deter¬
mine the presumption there is, that the fraction which mea¬
sures its probability falls within given limits.
One of the earliest applications of the theory of probabi¬
lity was to determine, from observations of mortality, the
average duration of human life, and the value of pecuniary
interests depending on its continuance or failure. Ibis
particular application appears to have been first thought of,
1 CEuvrcs ae Blaise Pascal, tome iv. Paris, 1819; Opera Petri de Fermat, Tolosae, 1679*
PROBABILITY.
Probability or at least attempted to be carried into practical effect, in
Holland, by Hudde and the celebrated pensionary DeWitt;
but the first tables of mortality, with the corresponding va¬
lues of annuities on single lives, were constructed by our
illustrious countryman Dr. Halley, and published in the
Philosophical Transactions for 1693. For the history of
this branch of the subject, we refer to the two articles, An¬
nuities and Mortality in this work. We may remark,
however, that although the English writers, who have ex¬
pressly treated of it, have almost without exception confin¬
ed themselves to the explanation of the methods of comput¬
ing annuity tables, and of determining from them the values
of sums depending on life contingencies, the aid which this
branch of economy derives from the general theory of proba¬
bilities, is by no means confined to the consideration of such
elementary questions. The number of observations neces¬
sary to inspire confidence in the tables, the extent to which
risks may be safely undertaken, the comparative weights of
different sets of observations, and the probable limits of de¬
parture from the average results of previous observations in a
given number of future instances, are all questions of the ut¬
most importance, which come within the scope of the calculus,
and cannot, in fact, be justly appreciated by any other means.
The application of the theory of probability to the subject
of jurisprudence, and the verdicts of juries and decisions of
tribunals, has been discussed by the Marquis Condorcet in va¬
rious articles in the Encyclopedic JSlethodique ; but more
especially in his Essai sur Vapplication de VAnalyse d la
Probabilite des Decisions rendues d la Pluralite des Voir,
Paris 1785; a work of great ingenuity, and abounding with
interesting remarks on subjects of the highest importance to
humanity. James Bernoulli, it appears, had intended to
treat jurisprudence as a branch of probability in the Ars
Conjectandi, but his premature death prevented that work
from being completed. There is a memoir on the subject
by his nephew Nicolas, in the Leipsic Acts for 1711. The
most important questions to be determined, are the number
of jurors of which a jury ought to consist, and the majority
which should be required to agree in a verdict in order to
afford, on the one hand, the greatest probability that an ac¬
cused person will not be wrongly condemned ; and, on the
other, to give to society the greatest security that its inter¬
ests will not be compromised, by allowing too great facili¬
ties for the guilty to escape. This important subject has
been treated more profoundly, and with numerical elements
derived from much better data than existed in the time of
Condorcet, in a recent work by Poisson, to which we shall
presently allude.
Another of the moral subjects to which the theory of pro¬
bability has been applied, and connected with the preceding,
is the appreciation of the evidence of testimony. In mat¬
ters of this kind, it is easy to see that the calculus must be
founded almost entirely upon hypothetical data. The vera¬
city of a witness can scarcely be made the subject of direct
experiment; and by reason of the complicated circumstan¬
ces with which the tacts forming the subject of testimony
are usually accompanied, and the numberless ways in which
mankind are influenced by their passions, credulity, or ig¬
norance, it is perhaps equally impossible to deduce an aver¬
age value from the comparison of a great number of state¬
ments which have been ascertained to be true or false. Nu¬
merical results can therefore only be obtained by having re¬
course to hypotheses, and consequently must be considered
as only probable approximations. The knowledge, however,
which is thus obtained of the various combinations of the
quantities concerned, affords important aid in guiding our
judgments in complicated cases, and when we have to de¬
cide upon conflicting testimony. Approximations deduced
from a train of accurate and systematic reasoning, are al -
593
ways to be preferred to the most specious arguments drawn Probability
from any other source.
The analysis of probability has been applied with signal
advantage in many researches of Natural Philosophy, but
especially in appreciating the mean errors of observations.
Owing to the imperfections ot sense and of instruments, phy-
sical magnitudes are only susceptible of being measured with¬
in certain limits of accuracy; and where the last degree of
precision is indispensable, as in practical astronomy, it is on¬
ly by means ot a very great number of measures, compared
with one another, and combined according to the methods
which this calculus points out, that we can obtain the near¬
est approximation to the true values which the observations
are capable of giving. The mean errors of observations were
treated as questions of probability by Lagrange in the Turin
Memoirs for 1 /73 ; but it is to Laplace that the theory owes
its principal extension and most important results. The me¬
thod of combining numerous equations of condition now
universally followed, known as the method of minimum
squares, and which Laplace has demonstrated to be that
which leaves the least probable amount of error in the final
equations, was made known by Legendre in an Appendix to
his Nouvelles Methodes pour la Determination des Orbites
des Cometes, published in 1806. A similar method, however,
or rather the same, (for they are identical in principle,) had
been discovered by Gauss, and employed by him for several
years before the work of Legendre made its appearance.1
Laplace’s great work, the Theorie Analytique des Proba¬
bility, first published in 1812, is one of the most remarkable
productions that has ever appeared in abstract science. The
principles of the calculus, as well as the peculiar methods
of analysis which it requires, and the most interesting and
difficult questions which it presents, are here discussed in a
far more general manner than had been attempted by any
former writer on the subject; and it may be said, accord¬
ingly, to have placed the theory under an entirely new aspect.
It is much to be regretted that so little pains have been taken
by the illustrious author to render the work intelligible to the
generality of mathematical readers. Consisting for the greater
part of separate memoirs presented at different times to the
Academy of Sciences, arranged without regard to symmetry
or order, it abounds with repetitions which only serve to em¬
barrass the student; while the deficiency of explanation com¬
bined with the subtlety of the analysis, and the inherent intri¬
cacy of the subject, render it often a painfully difficult task to
seize the force of the demonstrations. Notwithstanding these
defects, however, it forms one of the most splendid creations
of mathematical genius ; and is alike admirable, whether we
regard the extension which has been given to the calculus,
or the results which have been arrived at, or the tone of
lofty philosophy in which subjects bearing on some of the
most important concerns of mankind are treated.
Next to the Theorie Analytique of Laplace, the most im¬
portant work which has hitherto appeared on the subject of
probability is the recent one of Poisson, entitled, Recherches
sur la Probabilite desJugements, (Paris 1837.) Although it
might be inferred from the title that this work relates only to
a single though very interesting application of the theory, the
greater part of it is devoted to the development and demon¬
stration of the general principles, and the discussion of the
principal questions which present themselves in the differ¬
ent applications ; and it is only in the last of the five books
of which it consists that the special subject to which the title
refers is taken into consideration. In applying the theory
to the decisions of tribunals, Condorcet and Laplace had been
unable to obtain positive results from the want of authentic
data; but the recent publication by the French government
of the Comptes Generaux de VAdministration de la Justice
Criminelle, in France, having furnished an immense collec-
Theoria Motus Corporum Ccekstium, p. 221.
4 F
VOL. XVIII.
594
PROBABILITY.
Probability tion of facts from which the requisite data could be obtained,
' Poisson was led to consider the subject anew, and the results
of his investigations, which are of singular interest, are given
in the work now mentioned. Poisson had already given a
theory of the mean errors of observations in the Additions
to the Connaissance des Terns for 1827 and 1832.
It is in these two works of Laplace and Poisson that the
higher and more abstruse parts of the theory of probabilities
must be studied. A very clear exposition of the principles,
accompanied with many interesting remarks on the uses and
applications of the theory, is given by Lacroix in his valu¬
able little work, Traite EUmentaire du Calcul des Proba-
bHites, Paris 1822.
Since the time of Demoivre, the English treatises on the
general theory of probability have neither been numerous,
nor, with one or two exceptions, very important. Simpson’s
Laws of Chance (1740) contains a considerable number of
examples, in the solution of which the author displays his
usual acuteness and originality, but as they belong entirely
to that class in which the chances are known a priori, they
give no idea of the most interesting applications of the theory.
Dodson’s Mathematical Repository contains a large selection
of the same kind. The Essay in the Library of Useful
Knowledge, by Mr. Lubbock, gives a more comprehensive
and philosophical, though an elementary view of the sub¬
ject ; but by far the most valuable work in the language is
the Treatise in the Encyclopedia Metropolitana, by Pro¬
fessor De Morgan, 1837. In this very able production, Mr.
De Morgan has treated the subject in its utmost generality,
and embodied, within a moderate compass, the substance ot
the great work of Laplace.
Within the limits to which the present article must be
confined, it would be hopeless to attempt giving a complete
view of a branch of science which embraces so many com¬
plicated and intricate subjects of research, and which re¬
quires the aid of some of the most abstruse and recondite
theories of the modern mathematics. In the higher appli¬
cations of the theory, the analysis of many of the questions
which arise, in order to be made intelligible, would require
an extent of development and a parade of mathematical for¬
mulae altogether incompatible with the plan and scope oi
this work. All that we can propose to ourselves, therefore,
is to explain as briefly as may appear consistent with perspi¬
cuity, the general principles of the theory, and to give an
outline of the manner in which these are applied to some ot
the more important questions which have been investigated
by Laplace and Poisson. The examples will be selected
with a view to shew the nature of the principal results ot the
mathematical theory, as well as the peculiar methods ot ana¬
lysis which are of most general application.
SECT. I. GENERAL PRINCIPLES OP THE THEORY OF
PROBABILITY.
1. The term probable, in its popular acceptation, is used
in reference to any unknown or future event, to denote that
in our judgment the event is more likely to be true than
not, or more likely to happen than not to happen. With¬
out attempting to make an accurate enumeration of the va¬
rious circumstances which are favourable or unfavourable
to its occurrence, or to balance their respective influences,
we suppose there is a preponderance on one side, and ac¬
cordingly pronounce it to be probable that the event has
occurred, or will occur, or the contrary.
2. If we can see no reason why an event is more likely
to happen than not to happen, we say it is a chance whe¬
ther the event will happen or not; or if it may happen in
more ways than one, and we have no reason for suppos¬
ing it will happen in any one of these ways rather than in
another, we say it is a chance whether it will happen in any
assigned way or in any other. Suppose, for example, an
unknown number of balls of different colours to be placed
in an urn, from which a ball is about to be extracted by a Probabihr
person blindfold. Here we have no reason for supposing
that the ball about to be drawn will be of one colour rather
than another, that it will be white rather than black,
or red ; and accordingly say it is a chance whether the ball
will come out of a particular colour, or a different. In this
instance, then, the term chance denotes, simply, the absence
of a known cause. If, however, wre are made acquainted
with the number of balls in the urn, and the number there
are of each of the different colours, the term is used in a
definite sense. For instance, suppose the urn to contain
ten balls, of which nine are white, and the remaining one
black, we say there are nine chances in favour of drawing a
white ball, and one chance only in favour of drawing the
black ball. Chance, in this sense, denotes a way of hap¬
pening, or a particular case or combination that may arise
out ofa number of other possible cases or combinations; and
an event becomes probable or improbable according as the
number of chances in its favour is greater or less than the
number against it. Chance and presumption are also fre¬
quently used synonymously with probability.
3. The mathematical probability of any event is the ratio
of the number of ways in which that event may happen
to the whole number of ways in which it may either hap¬
pen or fail. Thus, recurring to the previous example, the
event, namely, the drawing of a ball from an urn con¬
taining 9 white balls and 1 black, may happen in 10 dif¬
ferent ways, inasmuch as any one of the 10 balls may be
drawn ; but in one only of those ways will the event be a
black ball; and therefore the probability of drawing the
black ball is -jL. In like manner, as there are 9 differ¬
ent ways in which a white ball may be drawn, or 9
chances of drawing a white ball, and ten chances in all, the
probability of drawing a white ball at the first trial is .
It follows immediately from this definition, that the proba¬
bility of drawing a ball of either colour will remain the same,
however the number of balls in the urn may be increased,
provided those of each colour are increased in the same pro¬
portion. For instance, suppose the number of white balls
to be 45, and the number of black balls to be 5 ; the num¬
ber of chances in favour of drawing a black ball is 5,
while there are 50 chances in all, consequently the pro¬
bability of a black ball being drawn is ^ie sa™e
manner, the probability of drawing a white ball is ^=T95 ;
the same as before. Generally, let E and F be two con¬
trary events, that is to say, such that the one or the other
of them must necessarily happen, and both cannot happen
together ; and let a be the number of chances or combina¬
tions which produce the event E, and b be the number of
combinations which produce the event F, or cause the fail-
a
ure of E ; then the probability that E will happen is 5
and the probability that F will happen, or that E will not
happen is . In future, the term probability will be us-
b-fa
ed only to signify mathematical probability.
4. It is to be carefully remarked, that the different
chances or combinations which form the elements ot pro¬
bability are supposed to be perfectly equal. If this equa¬
lity does not hold, and there is any circumstance respect¬
ing the event under consideration which renders one com¬
bination or set of combinations more likely to occur than
another, the different combinations must be multiplied by
numbers proportional to their respective facilities, after
which the units in each multiplier may be regarded as so
many distinct chances, from which the probability of the
event will be found by the above formula. This is equiva¬
lent to saying that a combination or chance which is twice
as likely to happen as another, must be regarded as two
equal and similar combinations in comparison of that oilier i
a proposition which is sufficiently obvious.
PROBABILITY.
Probability 5
595
It follows from the above definition, that the probabi- sions. Suppose there are only three simple events, of which Probability
ityofany contingent event is measured by a fraction less the probabilities are respectively />, //, and//'; and let^,^
than unity, and may have any value between 0 and 1. It q-\—r> o'—1 o"-i w' Thi
follows, also, that the som of the IV.   ~l~P ‘ lhe pq'q ex-
examiile, the probability of the event E is   and that of
o-j-o
, ~. b a b
the contrary event r is r, and  -4 -=1. Hence
a-fo a + b a + b
1?p denote the probability of any event E, and q the pro¬
bability of the contrary event F, we have qz=\—p. This
consequence of the definition is of great importance in the
calculation of probabilities.
6. We have here supposed the result of a trial to be ne¬
cessarily one or other of two events E and F ; but it is easy
to imagine the trial to be of such a kind that it may give
rise to any one of a number of events E, F, G, H, &c. each
having a given number of chances in its favour. This case
is represented by supposing an urn to contain balls of as
many different colours or sorts as there are different events.
Let the urn be conceived to contain a balls of the sort
which produces the event E, b of the sort which produces
F, c of the sort which produces G, and so on ; and let a +
/v-pc + i/, &c. =A, so that k is the whole number of balls in
the urn. The probabilities of the different events E, F, G,
II, &c. are then, respectively, by the definition,
01 b See
T'k’k'k’
the sum of which rzl. In fact, if a ball be drawn at all,
it must be of one or other of the different sorts contained in
the urn ; and consequently the sum of all the probabilities
amounts to unit or certainty.
7. When an event is compounded of two or more simple
events independent of each other, the probability of the
compound event is equal to the product of the probabilities
of the several simple events of which it is compounded.
Let us imagine two urns, A and B, of which A contains a
white balls and b black, and B contains a’ white and b
black. Make a^-b-c, and a’+ b’ = c', and let the com¬
pound event whose probability is to be determined be the
drawing of a white ball from both urns. Now, as eacn of
the c balls in A may be drawn with any one of the c balls
in B, the whole number of ways in which the balls in A
may be differently combined by pairs with the balls in B,
or the whole number of possible cases is cc'. But the num¬
ber of cases favourable to the compound event is evident y
the number of different ways in which a white ball may be
drawn from A with a white ball from B, and therefore equa
to aa!. Flence by the definition (4), the probability that a
Now, if
white ball will be drawn from both urns is ^
p denote the probability of drawing a white ball from A,
and p' that of drawing a white ball from B, we have y m
a a' , /
definition p~ —, and/i'rrwhence ^7•
In general, let p denote the probability of an event E,
p' that of another event E', p" that of a third E
; then the probability of the concourse of the events E,
E', E", &c., or the probability that they will all happen, 1*
pXp'Y.p", &c.; that is to say, the probability of an event
compounded of any number of simple and independent
events, is the product of the respective probabilities oi
the several simple events. r T7'
The probabilities that the several simple events & ,
E," &c., will not all happen, or that some of them will Hap¬
pen and others fail, are easily determined in the same man¬
ner : it will be sufficient to indicate their several expres
„ . probability they will all three
happen ; 1—pp'p" is the probability they will not all three
happen, or that one of them at least will fail; qq’q'' is the
probability they will all fail; and 1—qq'q'r is the probabi-
hty they will not all three fail, or that one at least of them
will happen.
8. As an example of the application of this rule, suppose
it were required to assign the probability of throwing aces,
at one throw, with two common dice. As a common die
has six symmetrical faces, there are in respect of each die
six ways equally possible, in which the simple event may
happen. The probability therefore of throwing ace with
one die is that xs, p—\. In respect of the second die,
we have also p'— \ ; hence the probability of the compound
event, or that aces will be thrown xs pp'—\ x s = sV The
probability that aces will not be thrown at any assigned trial
is therefore (5) 1—JtT = 11 ; and the odds against throwing
aces at any given trial are 35 to 1.
Again, suppose two numbers, each consisting of 7 di¬
gits, to be taken at random, (for instance from a table of
logarithms), and let it be proposed to assign the proba¬
bility that the substraction of the one from the other will
be performed without its being necessary, in any case,
to increase the upper figure. Here, as each digit may
have any one of the ten values from 0 to 9 both inclusive,
and as each of those values in the upper line may be com¬
bined with any one of them in the lower line, there are 100
different combinations or equally possible cases for each par¬
tial substraction. Now, if the upper figure be 0, there is
only one of those cases favourable to the event, or which
will admit of the substraction being performed, namely,
when the figure below is also 0. If the upper figure be 1,
there are two cases favourable, namely, those in which
the under figure is 0 or 1. If the upper figure be 2, there
are three favourable cases, namely, when the under figure
is 0, 1, or 2. Proceeding in this w7ay through all the di¬
gits, the whole number of favourable cases is found to be
1+2 +3-f-4+5+ 6+ 7 + 8-1-9+10=55.
Hence, for each partial substraction there are 55 favourable
cases out of 100 possible cases ; therefore (4) the probabi¬
lity that any one of the figures in the upper line is not less
than the corresponding figure in the under line is ^ ; and
we have p—p'~p"—kc.'=.^^ for the probability of each
of the seven simple events or partial substractions, whence,
by (7), the probability of the compound event is
pxp'xp" X &C.= (|L) =(-55)’=0I52243,
which is less than sb, and greater than
9. When an event may happen in several different w^ays,
each independent of the others, the probability of the event
is the sum of all the partial probabilities taken in respect
of each of the different ways.
Suppose there are n different urns A,, A2, A, A„
each containing balls of two colours, white and black, and
let the whole number of balls in each urn respectively, be
Cl> C21  
and the number of white balls in each be
dj, aO31 dni
and let the event E be the extraction of a white ball in
drawing a ball from any urn at random. In this case there
are n different vnys, all"equally probable, in which the event
may happen, for it may be drawn with equal faedity from
any one ol the urns.
uxy vtx   j
The probability that the ball will be
596
Probability
PROBABILITY.
1 . . by the proposition now demonstrated, the complete pro-
drawn from any given urn, A2, is therefore •—; and if it bidniity of the event E is
be drawn from this urn, the probability of its being white is Ifa]] the bal]s pl^eTin a single urn, the proba-
— • therefore, by (7), the probability of a white ball being bility of drawing a white ball would have been T9r, for there
c, ’ are 3 5 + 7 = 15 balls in all, of which 2 -f 3 -j- 4 = 9
are white. But fy =: If f; a fraction which differs sensibly
from the measure of the probability of the same event
15\ „ T . -1 , 1  1  
drawn from A, is
1
In like manner the probabi-
lity of a white ball being drawn from A2 is shewn to be
1 . .1
— . —-; from A3 to be
and so on. Denoting
therefore by p the whole probability of the event E, the
proposition affirms that
1 /a, , a0 a~ , an\
J9=—(—+—+— + —)•
n \c1 Cg c3 c J
—, — &c. be reduced
C 1 C Q
To prove this, let the fractions
to a common denominator, and suppose the equivalent frac¬
tions to be
when the balls are distributed in the manner above supposed
amongst the different urns. The distinction between the two
cases is important.
10. The rule laid down in (7) for finding the probability
of a compound event applies alike whether the simple events
are determined simultaneously or in succession. In fact,
when the simple events are entirely independent of each
other, the chances which determine the compound event are
not influenced in any way by the intervention of time. Sup¬
pose, for example, the compound event to be the throwing
of a certain number of points with a given number m of
dice ; the chances for and against the event are obviously
the same whether the m dice are thrown at once, or a single
die is thrown m times successively. But as the determin¬
ation of the probability of a compound event is in general
facilitated by supposing the simple events to be decided one
after the other, it will be convenient to view the subject in
this light in explaining the method of forming the differ¬
ent combinations of the chances by which the probabilities
of compound events are determined.
SECT. IT. OF THE PROBABILITY OF EVENTS DEPENDING ON
A REPETITION OF TRIALS, OR COMPOUNDED OF ANY
NUMBER OF SIMPLE EVENTS, THE CHANCES IN RESPECT
OF WHICH ARE KNOWN A PRIORI, AND CONSTANT.
11. Suppose an urn to contain a b balls, a white and
separate urns ; and as each group contains the same num- £ black, and let a ball be successively drawn, and replaced
ber of balls, the chance of laying the hand on any one group jn die urn after each drawing, in order that the chances in
is the same as that of laying it on any other. The probabi- fav0ur of drawing a ball of either colour may be the same
lity of drawing a white ball from the single urn, is therefore jn every trial, and let it be required to find the respective
the same as for drawing it from the group of separate urns probabilities of the different possible results of any number
which contain each the same number of balls. But the pro- 0f drawings.
liability of drawing it from the single urn is the ratio of the Let us flrst suppose the number of trials to be two. The
number of white balls contained in the urn to the number of event may happen in any of these four different ways: first
both colours, therefore (this probability being p) we have white, second white; first white, second black; first black, se-
_1 'v. cond white ; first black, second black. Assuming W to re-
~(ai + a2 + a; + » present the simple event which consists in the drawing of a
white ball, and B that of a black ball, and supposing the or-
their respective der of the arrangement of the two letters to correspond with
the order of succession of the simple events, the four pos-
7 y y y
We may now conceive the urns Aj, A2, A3...A„to be re¬
placed by others, each containing the same number, y, of
balls, and of which the first contains ax white balls, the.se¬
cond «2,and so on; and itis evident that the chance of a white
ball being drawn from this new system of urns will be pre¬
cisely the same as it was for a white ball being drawn from
the first system. Now the probability of drawing a white
ball from the new system will not be altered by placing the
whole of the ny balls in a single urn, for they may still be
conceived as arranged in groups, disposed in any manner
whatever, each group containing the same number of balls,
and the same proportion of white to black as were in the
and as each group contains the same num-
ny
a, a„
whence, substituting for —, —, &c.,
values, —,
c,
See., we have
_ 1 /a,
P~~ n (tq
4-
an\
+A
As a particular case suppose three urns A, B, C to be placed
together, of which A contains 2 white balls and 1 black
sible cases or combinations will be represented thus
WW, WB, BW, BB.
Now let the probability of drawing a white ball in any
trial be p, and that of drawing a black ball be q, (whence,
b \
P— q=   j the probabilities of the four possible
^ ct -j- b ^ (A b\
B 3 white balls and 2 black, and C 4 white and 3 black, compound events are by (7) respectively as under:
and let it be required to determine the probability p of a probability of WW —p X p — p2,
white ball being drawn from the group by a person who is of WB =/> X <7 —pq
ignorant of the contents of the different urns. As there is no of B W — q Y. p — pq
reason for selecting one urn in preference to another, the pro- of BB — q X q zz q2
liability that he will put his hand into the urn A is l; and if If we disregard the order of succession, and consider the two
he draw from this urn the probability that a white ball will arrangements WB and BW, which are equally probable, as
be drawn is there being 2 cases favourable to that event, forming the same compound event, namely, a ball of both
and 3 cases in all. The probability of both events is there- colours in the two trials, the probability of this event, by
fore i § = $. In like manner, the probability of the ball (9), becomes 2 pq. The sum of the probabilities of all the
being drawn from B is J ; and if drawn from B the proba- possible arrangements is therefore
bility of its being white is 3 ; therefore, the probability of p2 2,pq + q2 z= (p + q)2 ;
this compound event is i x f- = '■ Lastly, the probability whence it appears that the probabilities of the different ar-
of the ball being drawn from C is J ; and if drawn from C rangements in two trials are respectively the terms of the
the probability of its being white is 4 ; therefore, the pro- development of the binomial, (p + q)2-
bability of this compound event is £ x 7 = -A ■ Hence, Let us next suppose the number of trials to be three.
PROBABILITY.
Probability The different arrangements that may be formed of the
—''♦■'simple events in three trials, with the probability of each
respectively, are as follows :—.
WWW, probability of wiiich —ppv—p'5
wwis- =m4v
\V B W,  —pnp—p^q
BWW,   —qpp—p^q
WBB,   —pqq—pq*
BWB,  =qpq=pq*
BBW,   —qqp—pq1
BBB,     -qqq^q*
It thus appears that the probability of obtaining two events
of one kind, and one of the other, is the same in whatever
order they succeed each other, and, in fact, is independent
of the order. Disregarding, then, the order of succession,
and considering the combination of two white balls with
one black, in whatever order they may be arranged, as the
same compound event, the probability of its occurrence in
any order whatever, being the sum of its probabilities in
each particular order (9), is 3p2f/. In like manner, regard¬
ing the combination of two black balls with one white, in any
order of arrangement, as the same compound event, its pro¬
bability is 3p<72. The compound event resulting from three
trials must then happen in one of four different ways, namely,
3 white balls; 2 white, combined withl black, in any order;
2 black, combined with one white, in any order; or, lastly,
3 black; and the sum of the probabilities of these different
cases is
p* + ?>p1qJr?>pq'1 + q* —(p + ?) 3.
Hence the probabilities of all the different possible combi¬
nations in three trials are respectively given by the deve¬
lopment of the binomial
12. In general, let jo denote the probability of any simple
event E, then the probability of E happening twice in two
trials is jp2, of happening thrice in 3 trials p3, and of hap¬
pening m times in m successive trials, pm. In like manner,
the probability of the contrary event F being q (p-irq—\'),
the probability of F happening n times in n successive trials
is qn. Hence (7) the probability of E happening m times,
and then F happening n times in succession, in m-\-n trials,
is pmqn. But the probability of these events happening in
any assigned order is the same as that of their happening in
any other assigned order ; therefore pmqn is the measure of
the probability that E will occur m times, and F will occur
n times in a determinate order. Now, let m-\-n—h, and let
U be the number of different ways in which m events E, and
n events F, can be combined in h trials, and P be the proba¬
bility of any oneofthese combinations whatever, or the proba¬
bility of E occurring m times, and F occurring n times in h
trials, without regard to the order in which they succeed
each other, we have then
V—V>pmqn.
In order to determine the value of U, we may suppose
the events in question to be so many different things repre¬
sented by the letters A, B, C, D, E, &c. of which there are
■m of one kind, and n of another, and make m -\- n—h; then
by the algebraic theory of combinations, we have
uA ■2 •3 h
597
ranged according to the increasing powers of q. Hence Probability
we conclude that when jo and q remain constant, the pro-
babilities of all the different compound events which can
be formed by the combination of the simple events E and
F in h trials, are expressed by the different terms of the
formula (p-\-qy expanded by the binomial theorem.
The whole number of possible cases is evidently A+l,
for in h experiments, E may occur h times, h—1 times,
^times h—h times ; this last being the case in
which the contrary event F occurs in all the trials. The
different cases are unequally probable, both by reason of the
greater or smaller number of combinations by which they
may be produced, and which in reference to each case is
represented by U, and by reason of the inequality between
p and q. It will be shewn afterwards, that when p=q, and
h is a whole number, the most probable case is that in which
the occurrences of E and F are equal; and if h is an odd
number, the two most probable cases are those in which
the difference in the number of occurrences of E and the
number of occurrences of F is unity.
13. In order to place the proposition now demonstrated
in a clearer light, let us consider separately the different
terms of the development of {p-\-q)h, namely,
ph ft- hph~lq ft- — ^
Uph—ZqZ
+
1 . 2
h(h—1 )(k—2) h—n ft-
2.3   n 1 1
 +?A-
1
The first term ph expresses the probability that the event
E w ill in every one of the h trials. The second term hph~xq
expresses the probability that E will occur A—1 times, and
F once, without distinction of order; that is to say F may
happen at the first or last or any intermediate trial. If a
determinate succession is proposed, for example, that of
h—1 times the event E in succession, and F in the next trial,
the probability of the event in the assigned order is found
by suppressing the coefficient h, and is consequently ph~lq.
The third term
.ph—Vqi expresses the probability
1 . 2
that the result of h trials will be h—2 times the event E,
and twice the event F, without distinction of order. If a
particular order be assigned, it is necessary to suppress the
coefficient, and the probability of the simple events occur¬
ring in that particular order is ph~2q2
The general term
h(h—!)(//—2).
h—n ft- 1 .
————ph—nqn ex-
1.2 .3
presses the probability that the result of h trials will be
(Ji n) times the event E, and n times the event F in any
order. The probability of (h—n) times E and n times F
in an assigned order is ph~Jnqn
14. If we suppose the event E to be such that the chances
in favour of its happening or failing are equal, that is, it
p—q—\, the different terms of the binomial (p -j- q)\ on sup¬
pressing the coefficients, become all equal; so that a parti¬
cular order being assigned in each of the possible cases or
combinations, all the cases become equally probable. Thus,
suppose a shilling to be tossed 100 times in succession, the
   - , . probability of head turning up in every trial is (i)10 0. The
This value of U is symmetrical in respect of m and «, and pro})ai}jlity of 50 heads and 50 tails in any assigned order
maybe otherwise written in either of the two following ;s/Jftao v/'a)5o—mAioo. if 100, the probability
forms, of m heads and n tails is also (!)“(£)”:= (ft)m+n=(ft)100-
T .2.3 m x 1 .2.3.
tt h(h—l)(A—2) h—wJft-1
L—~1 . 2 . 3   m ’
h{h—\)(]i—2') h—n + \
U“_T .2.3  
which shew' that the probability P, or the product Up q
is the (mft-l)th term of the development of the bino¬
mial {p+q)h arranged according to the increasing powers
ofp, or the (nft-l)th term of the same development ar-
Hence the probability of any compound event formed by
the combination of two simple contrary events succeeding
each other in an assigned order, and each having the same
probability, is independent of the ratio of the simple events,
and depends only on the number of trials. Before the trials,
it is an even wager that head will be turned up in succession
100 times, and that the result of 100 trials will be 50 heads
and 50 tails in a given order of succession, or any proportion
598
PROBABILITY.
Probability of heads to tails in an order arbitrarily chosen. This con¬
sideration is frequently lost sight of in reasoning about those
events of the natural world, which are termed extraordinary
and miraculous. If in tossing a shilling 100 times into the
air, the number of heads turned up is found nearly equal to
the number of tails, the event excites no surprise ; some¬
thing like it was expected. On the contrary, if the diffe¬
rence between the number of heads and the number of tails
is considerable, the event is termed extraordinary ; and if
head turned up in every trial without exception, we should
scarcely be persuaded that such an event was entirely the re¬
sult of chance, and independent of a special cause. Never¬
theless, the a priori probability that every trial will give
head, is precisely the same as the probability of throwing
any given number of heads and tails in an assigned order of
succession. It will, however, be proved afterwards, that if
such an event as throwing head 100 times in succession were
actually observed, the probability of a special cause having
intervened, would approach very nearly to certainty.
15. Hitherto we have supposed the compound event to
be formed by the combination of two simple events only,
E and F, one of which necessarily excludes the other. Let
us now suppose there are any number of simple events, E1?
E2, E5, &c. of which the respective probabilities are^j, p2,
Prr
1.2.3.
.h
..n
pm(jn,
Probability
1.2.3...w X 1 .2.3.
we make q=l, h—A, m=\, w=3, we shall have
V=z
1 . 2.3.4
X
(iy=
125
324’
1Xl•2.3
which is the probability required, and the same as that of
throwing one ace, and not more than one, at a single throw
with 4 dice.
The probability of the contrary event, that is to say, the
probability of either not throwing an ace at all, or of throw¬
ing more aces than one is 1—^§f = ; and therefore the
odds against throwing one ace and no more in 4 throws of a
common die are 199 to 125, or 8 to 5 very nearly.
17. If in this example it had been proposed to assign the
probability of throwing ace once at least, instead of once
and not more, it would have been necessary to have includ¬
ed those cases in which the ace occurs twice, or three times,
or in each of the four trials. The binomial (p-\-q)* gives
pi _p4j93<74-6/>2<72 -M/n/5 +<?4,
the first term of which expresses the probability of throw¬
ing ace four times in succession ; the second that of throw¬
ing ace three times, and another number once; the third
that of throwing ace twice, and a different face twice ; the
fourth that of throwing ace once, and a different face three
times ; and the fifth that of throwing a different face in each
of the four trials. But as every one of these compound
events, excepting the last, satisfies the condition of ace be¬
ing thrown once at least, the whole probability of that event
must be the sum of the probabilities of the different events
by which it may be produced (9) and is consequently
p3, &c. and such that one or other of them necessarily hap¬
pens in each trial, so that pj -f P? -\rPz +’ an,^ ^e”
termine the probability of any assigned combination of them
in a given number of trials. This case may be represented
by supposing an urn to contain a number of balls of as many
different colours as there are distinct events ; the event E*
will be the drawing of a ball of the colour i, and its proba- „ . - 2 i \ s \ 3 r7i
bilityp, will be the fraction whose numerator is equal to the /_M4 4.4^ JL\ V (4-Y + 4f -4 Y4-]
number of balls of the colour i, and denominator the whole \Q J \Q ) b*1" \6 J \6/ \6 J\6 J 1296
number of balls in the urn. Now the probability of the
event E, happening m times in succession is p'i‘ by (12) ;
that of E2 happening n times in succession is p2 ; that of
E3 happening r times in succession p3 ; and so on. There¬
fore (7) the probability of the compound event which is
formed by the occurrence of m times E15 n times E2, r times
E3, and so on, these events succeeding each other m or¬
der, is the product p"{ p2 pTz, &c. But the probability of
the simple events succeeding each other in any particular
order is the same as that of their succeeding in any other
assigned order (12); consequently, if U7 denote the num¬
ber of different ways in which m events Ex, n events E2, r
events E3, &c. can be combined, or succeed each other,
and P' be the probability of the compound event in any order
whatever, we have,
P'=U'p7PanP3> &c-
Assuming /i=wi-}-ft-{-r-j-, &c. we have also by the theory
of combinations,
TT,- 1-2.3 h 
1.2.3...m x 1.2.3...W X 1.2.3...r x &c.
the factor U' being the coefficient of the term which has for
its multiplier p'x p” p3, &c. in the expansion of the mul¬
tinomial (Pi+Pa+PsT* whence
P'r=  ———-—p3,&c.
1 .2.3...mxl"2.3...wxl-2.3...rx &c. “ a *
We shall now proceed to give some examples of the ap¬
plications of the preceding formulae.
16. Let it be proposed to assign the probability P, of
throwing ace once, and not oftener, in four successive throws
of the same die.—Simpson, p. 15.
Llere, the chance of throwing ace in a single trial being
we havep=^, and consequently q— f, and also /<!=:4.
Now the compound event being the occurrence of the sim¬
ple event E, whose probability is p, once, and of the con¬
trary event F three times, the probability of the compound
event is that term of the development of (p+qY which is
multiplied by If, therefore, in the formula,
In general, the sum of the first 1 terms of (p + q)’' ex¬
presses the probability of obtaining not less than A—ft events,
the probability of each of which is p, or not more than n con¬
trary events, the probability of each of which is q.
Since p-\-q—\, the sum of all the terms of the series pro¬
duced by the expansion of {p-\-q)h is equal to unit, and
therefore the sum of any number of the terms is equal^ to
unit diminished by the sum of the remaining terms. This
consideration frequently gives the means of abridging the
calculations. Thus, in the preceding example, instead of
expanding the binomial (jl-H)4 in order to find the proba¬
bilities of throwing 4 aces, 3 aces, 2 aces, and 1 ace only,
in a series of 4 trials, we might have sought the probability
of not throwing ace at all. The probability of not throwing
ace in a single trial is §, and therefore (7) that of not throw¬
ing it in 4 trials is (§Y=j%^. Hence the probability of
the contrary event, namely, that ace wall be thrown once
or oftener, is 1—» the same as before;.
18. Let a shilling be tossed ; what is the probability that
more than 3 heads will turn up in the first 10 trials? In
this case,p=|, q=j, It—10 ; therefore (p+q)* =(i+i)1()
0(4 _j_ 1)10. Now the last term of this development
expresses the probability that head will not turn up in any
one of the ten trials ; the last but one, the probability that
it will turn up once ; the last but two, the probability that
it will turn up twice; and the last but three, the probabil¬
ity that it will turn up three times ; therefore the four last
terms include all the different ways in which the ten trials
give not more than three heads ; and their sum consequently
expresses the probability that not more than 3 heads will
be thrown. Now the last four (or first four) terms of the
expansion of (1 l)10 are
10^9 10-9-8
1 ’ 10 ’ 1.2’ 1.2 3’
and their sum is 176, which multiplied by (2)10=Ts5;i>
gives for the probability that not more than 3 heads
will turn up ; w hence the probability of the conti’ary event
Q
=?"{>+»?+
PROBABILITY.
jProbability or that more than 3 heads will be thrown, is 1 T1o^=
j and the odds in favour of throwing heads more
than three times in 10 trials are 53 to 11. , o
19. A and B engage in play; the probability of A’s  ^ ^ ^ ^ jp”—i 1.
winning a game is p, and the probability of B’s winning a -1 • 2   m—1 )
game is q ; required the probability P, of A’s winning m
games before B wins n games, the play being supposed to
terminate when either of those events has occurred.
It is evident that the question must be decided at the
latest, by the (m+w—l)th game ; for supposing m-{-n—2
games to have been played, there is only one combination
according to which the match can remain undecided, name¬
ly, that in which A has won m—1, and B n-—1 games ; and
599
Probability
2 j
As an example, let us suppose p~ -, q— -, ?w=4,
3 3
and
n—‘2. The probability of A’s winning the match, or the
value of P, becomes
112
243 ’
and the probability of B’s winning the match, or the value
in this case the next game necessarily decides the match.
Suppose m-\-x games to have been played. The proba¬
bility that of these games m have been won by A, and x by
B, is represented by the term of the binomial (p-|-9')m+x
in which the factor pmqx occurs (13) ; which term is
1.2.3 m-\-x
of Q,
ar{I+u2
Kir
+
2.3.4
sn-
131
243'
1 . 2.3 rax 1 • - • 3 x
But A cannot win ra games out of m -\-x exactly unless he
wins the last game, for otherwise he must have won ra games
out of ra+.r—1, if not out of a smaller number. In order
therefore that A may win ra games out of ra x exactly, it
is necessary in the first place that he wins ra—1 out of it appears that it would be unsafe to wager that a player
m-\-x—1 in any order, and then that he wins also the next who has two chances in his favour while his adversary has
game. Now the probability of his winning m—1 games out only one, will gain four games before his adversary shall
3 1.2 \3y '1.2.3'
In this example the skill of A is supposed to be twice as
great as that of B, and the number of games that must be
won by him in order to gain the match is also twice as great
as the number required to be won by B in order that B may
gain ; one might therefore suppose, that when they begin
to play the chances in favour of each are equal. But the
result shews that the chances in favour of A are fewer than
those in favour of B in the proportion of 112 to 131; whence
of ra-ba;—1 in any order (13) is
1.2.3 ra+ar—1
 pmr
.X
V;
1.2.3...ra—1 X 1 • 2.3
and the probability of his winning the following game is p,
whence the probability of both events is (7)
1.2.3 ra4-r—1
1.2.3 ra—1 X 1 .2.3 x1^ 1 ’
which, therefore, expresses the probability of A’s winning
ra games out of m-\-x exactly.
If wTe suppose x~0, this formula becomes pm, which is
the probability of A’s winning ra games in succession. If
x=z 1, it becomes mpmq, the probability that A wins ra games
ra(ra4-l) „ ,
out of ra-{-1. If xzz2, it becomes ——^— pmq > the pro¬
bability that A wins ra games out of ra-j- 2. If x=3, it be-
ra(ra + l)(ra + 2)
p^q3, the probability that A wins
1-2*3
ra games out of ra-(-3 ; and so on. Continuing this process
till we arrive at the term multiplied by pmqx, the sum of the
probabilities of all the different compound events is
„ f , ra(ra4-1) , ra(ra-f-l)...ra + a:-l
-A I V.~+
1.2 * 1 1.2 ... a;
which expresses the probability of A’s winning ra games
out of a number not greater than ra-f-ar.
Now it has been shewn, that the match is necessarily
decided by (ra-f-ra—1) games; consequently the solution
of the question is obtained by substituting n—1 for .t in
the last formula, which will then express the probability . t _
of A’s winning ra games in any order, out of a number not question, the value of N is found without diihculty.
have gained two.
Suppose A and B, engaged in play, agree to leave off be¬
fore the match is decided, it is evident that the stakes ought
to be shared between them in proportion to their respective
probabilities of winning, and consequently the share of each
is found from either of the above expressions for P and Q.
This was one of the questions proposed by the Chevalier
de Mere to the celebrated Pascal, to which allusion has al¬
ready been made.
20 An urn contains n-\-\ balls, marked with the num¬
bers 0, 1, 2, 3 n-, a ball is successively drawn and re¬
placed in the urn, so that the chance of drawing any given
number remains the same in each trial, what is the probability
that in trials the sum ofthe numbers drawn will be equal tos?1
The solution of this problem depends on the number of
ways in which the number s can be formed by the addition of
h different numbers, each of which may have any value from
0 to n. If we suppose the numbers marked on the balls to
be indexes of a certain quantity x, and develope the expres¬
sion {x ° + a;1-}-#2 +-»")A5 the coefficient of any term of
the development will indicate the number of different ways
in which the balls may be drawn, so that the sum of the num¬
bers drawn in h trials shall be equal to the sum of the in¬
dexes of x in that term. If, therefore, we denote by N the
coefficient of that term of the development in which the sum
of the indexes is s, then N will be the number of cases fa¬
vourable to the event. But the whole number of possible
cases is {n +1)*’ therefore the probability of the event is
N-Krc+1)\ '
On account of the particular form of the polynomial in
greater than ra-j-w—1. On making this substitution, we
obtain
m f , ra(ra4-1) „
P=P | l+mq+ -YT2 ?  
ra(ra+l)...ra-f ra—2 ) _
 1.2 ... n—1 j
The probability Q that the match will be decided in fa¬
vour of B, or that B will win n games out of a number not
greater than ra + ra-1, is found by changing ra into n, and
p into q, and is therefore
Because x°-\-xl-Jrx'i -\-xn\
\,—a;n+1
therefore
1—x
(xo + x1 +x* +an)*=(l—a;"+1)Xl—(r)-A. Now, ex¬
pressing these two factors in series, we have (1—xn+l)'‘
= \—hxn+l + ir2("+1)--^712^~-)^t”+1>+&c.
1.2
1.2.3
t)-^+hx+h^±21x‘+ A(A+12)(A3+-^+&c.;
and the coefficients of the several terms of the product ot
(1-
Demoivre, Miscellanea Analytica, p. 196 ; Laplace, les Probability p. 253, et seq.
600
PROBABILITY.
Probability these two series in which the sum of the indexes is s will
' be found as follows:—
(1.) Multiply the first term of the first series by that term
of the second series of which the argument is Xs; the coeffi-
-j-1)(A-J-2) A-|-s—1
cient of the product will be -—r—  — •
(2.) Multiply the second term of the first series by that
term of the second series which has for its argument x‘~n-1;
the coefficient of the product will be
7 /i(A-{“1)(^-1*2) —n—2
/iX 1.2.3   1
(3.) Multiply the third term of the first series by that
term of the second series which has for its argument
^s-sfn+i); the coefficient of the product will be
A(/t—1) .. h(h+\)(h + 2) h + s—2n—3
1.2 * 1.2.3   s—2?i—2
(4.) Proceed in the same manner with the fourth term of
the first series, and so on with the others, advancing at each
new multiplication one term to the right in the first series,
and n + 1 terms to the left in the second series, until a term
is reached in the first series, the exponent of x in which is
equal to, or greater than s. The sum of the several products
thus obtained will be the value of N. We have therefore
h(h+\)(h + 2) /i+s—1
l“
21. As an example of the application of this formula, let Probabilit-s
it be required to assign the probability of throwing the point
16 with 4 common dice. (Simpson, p. 53.)
A die having no face marked 0, it is necessary, in order
to adopt the formula to this case, to suppose the number of
points on each face to be diminished by unit, which is equi¬
valent to supposing s—h to be substituted for s. The num¬
bers are then 0, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, and we have w=5, A=4, and
s=(l6—4)=12. Hence
—1 = 15
/=/_(»+1)=9
/'=/-2(ra+l)=3
/"=/_3(rc+l)=-3,
Substituting these values in the formula,
and k—\ .2.3.
we find
1
N=15.14.13X q(=+455)
—9.8.7 X g (=—336)
+ 3.2.lx
4.3
. (_ +6)
N:
h
I X
2 # 3    $
A(/t + 1)(/j+2)..... .A+s—n—2
1.2.3   s—n—1
h(h—1) A(^+l)(^ + 2) /i + s—2n—3
+ 1.2 X 1.2.3   S—2n—2
—&c.
The series now found for N may be changed into another,
having a more elegant form, by reducing all the terms to
others having the common denominator 1.2.3 h—1.
This will be accomplished by leaving out of the numerator
and denominator of the first term all the numbers after h—1
to s, (including s), when s is greater than h—1, or by in¬
serting the numbers between s and h—1 (the last included),
when s^h.—1; by leaving out of the numerator and deno¬
minator of the second term all the numbers from h—1 to
s n, or by inserting those numbers ; and so on with the
other terms. If we then make the common denominator
1.2.3...A—\=k, we shall have
N=I(^+lXs + 2)(s+3) (s + h—l)
-j(s—n)(s-
-k+ 1) (s—w+A—2)
h(h—1)
(s—2n—1 )(s—2n) (s—2n+h—3)
1 \.2k
— &c.
to be continued till the last factor of one of the terms bo-
comes 0 or negative. If wre also make
s+h—\=f
s—n + h—2 =f—(n +1) =f
s—2n + h—3^ f—2(n+\)=f"
s—3n+h—4 =/—3(« +1) =f"
&c.
and write the factors in each of the terms in the reverse
order, the above value of N will become
N=+/</-l)(/-2) <y-/<+2)i
-/(/-l)(/-2) (/-A+2)|
+/'C/'"-W"-2) (f—A+ 2)
 (f"-A+2)-(^12XA3~2)
+&c.
1.2.6
or N= 125. Now the probability of the event is N-5-(m +1 )*;
and in the present case (w +1)A=6*=1296 ; consequently
the probability required, namely that of throwing the point
, 125
16 with 4 dice, is
1296
22. In the numerical solution of questions of this sort, it
sometimes happens that the labour may be abridged by
computing the probability of throwing a different point from
that which is proposed, but which has the same number of
chances in its favour. For example, let it be proposed to
determine the probability that in throwing 10 dice the sum
of the points will be 50. In this case, the smallest number
of points that can possibly be thrown is 10, and the greatest
60; and the chances in favour of throwing 10 and of throw¬
ing 60 are obviously equal. The probability of throwing
any given number of points above 10 is also evidently the
same as that of throwing the number which is as much under
60 ; and consequently the probability of throwing 50 is the
same as the probability of throwing 20, these numbers being
at equal distances from the extremes. Now to find the pro¬
bability of throwing 20 with 10 dice, or, which is the same,
the probability that in 10 successive drawings from an urn
containing 6 balls, marked with the numbers 0, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5,
the sum of the numbers drawn will be 10, we have A=10,
n~5, £=10; whence /= 19,/ = 13,i/y'=7,////negative,
and A=1.2...9* Substituting these numbers in the series
for N, and observing that since/17'—A+2=—1, the third
term becomes negative, we have
N=
19.18.17.16.15.14.13.12.11
1
13
2
12
3
11
4
10
5 . 6
9.8
7
7.6.
8 . 9
(=92378)
/=—7150),
1 . 2 . 3 . 4 .5.6.7.8.9'
and consequently N=85228. Dividing this by(?2 + l)'k=610
= 60466176, the probability of throwing 20, or of throwing
85228 1
50, with 10 dice is found = or between —- and
604661/6 709
1
Tlo
23. The probability that the whole number of points
drawn in h trials will not exceed s is found by substituting
for s the different values 0, 1, 2 s in the series for N,
and taking the sum of the results. This labour, however,
may be avoided by means of a property of the figurate num¬
bers. It is well known that the sum of the series of num¬
bers obtained by giving n every value from n— 1 to n—v (v
being any number whatever) in the formula
Probability
P R 0 B A
r‘(n ' )(ii -{- 2) (n^-u)
1 ’ 2 • 3   M-j-1
is expressed by this other formula
^(^+1X^+2) (y-i-u)(v-i-u-l-])
1*2 . 3  ’
or, which is the same thing, that the sum of the series ob¬
tained by giving x successively every value from x=l + u
to xzz\+u-\-v in the formula
x(x—l)(,r—2) (x—u)
1 • 2.3 1
is expressed by this other formula
(a’-fl)x(1r—1) x—u
1.2.3 m + 25
in which x— 1 ^.u-\-v.
Comparing the different terms of the series for N (20) with
these last formula;, it will be evident, that on giving s every
value successively, from 0 to 5 in the value of/ and denot-
ing by N' the sum of all the results, we shall have
y,_, (/+iy(x-i)(/-2)...(/-^.+2)
1.2.3.4 ... k
(/+l)/(//-lX/-2)...(/-A-f2)
B I L I T Y.
1.2.3.4
Xh
. . . ft
-2)..+2) ^ h(h-l)
1.2.3.4
h
X
1.2
-&c.
for the probability that the number of points thrown will
not be greater than s.
As an example, letA=rlO, s=:5, n=z5; we have then
f—s-j-k—1 = 14,/'=/—(»-f 1)=8, whence/'—/t-\-2=0,
and consequently the second term vanishes. Hence
15.14.13.12.11.10.9.8.7. 6
N— 1.2.3. 4. 5. 6.7.8.9.10 -3003-
The probability, therefore, of the sum of the numbers
drawn in 10 drawings not exceeding 5, is 3003-f-(6)10, or
3003
„—. And this is also the probability that in throw-
b04obuo
ing 10 common dice the sum of the points does not exceed
16. (Simpson, p. 60.)
24. In the preceding questions the number of trials, de¬
noted by h, has been supposed to be given ; and the ob¬
ject, in every case, has been to determine the value of a
given term, or of a given number of terms of the series pro¬
duced by the development of the binomial (j)-j- </)A. But
there is a numerous class of questions in respect of which
the exponent A is unknown, and is required to be deter¬
mined from the condition that an assigned term, or the sum
of a certain number of assigned terms of the development,
must have a given value. For example, let it be proposed
to determine how often a common die must be thrown in
order to give the probability of ace turning up once at least,
equal to a given fraction u. Here the probability of throw¬
ing ace in any throw being we have p—\, and q~\>
Now, as every term of the development of (p + <l)'\ except
ing the last, gives a combination in which ace occurs once
or oftener, the question requires a value to be found for h,
such, that the sum of the first h terms of that development,
shall be equal to u. This may be done, in general, by the
common methods of trial and error; but in the present case,
the last term being the only one not included among those
which contain a chance of throwing ace, it is evident that
it is only necessary to find the last term alone in order to
have the probability of not throwing ace in h trials, which by
the question is 1—«. The last term of the development
is cp; therefore we must have the equation qh— 1—u;
whence h log ^=log (1—«,) and A=log (1—u) -r-log q-
Let 1-
3 , b
-u=- and q=~, we shall then have lo
y c
l°g £—log y, and log yrzlog b
(!-«)=
log c; whence
/.-Jog ft—log 7
log b—log c
Substituting in this general formula the particular numbers
given m the question, namely &=5, c=6; and supposing
and consequently 1, y=2, we have A= ?,0g 2 
log 6—logo’
whence, by computing from the logarithmic tables, A—3-8.
From this it follows, that in four trials the probability of
throwing ace once at least, is greater than the probability
of not throwing it at all.
_ 11 ffio question had been to determine in how many throws
with two dice one may undertake, on an equality of chance,
to throw aces at least once, we should have had p=^> (I—
3^, and consequently A—35, and c=36. Substituting these
numbers in the general formula, and observing, that in this
case also /3=1, y=2, we get A=   ——=24'6.
log 36—log 3o
The probability of not throwing aces once is therefore
greater than the opposite probability or that of throwing
aces once or oftener, when the number of throws is 24, but
less when the number is 25.
These two questions are celebrated in the early history of
the theory of Probability, from the circumstance that the
Chevalier de Mere, by whom they were proposed to Pascal,
declared the two results above stated to be inconsistent with
each other, and thence took occasion to question the accu¬
racy of the theory of combinations by means of which they
had been obtained. He reasoned thus : Since the proba¬
bility of throwing ace with one die is and that of throw¬
ing aces with two dice ^ of ^ = 35 ; therefore, if there be a
given probability in favour of throwing ace in four throws with
one die, there must likewise be the same probability of throw¬
ing aces with two dice in 6 X 4=24 throws; in other words,
the chances in favour of an event E in a single trial, being
six times more numerous than those in favour of F, there
will be as many chances in favourof Fin six trials as there are
in favour of E in one. The error consists in supposing that
the number of trials must increase or diminish exactly in the
inverse ratio of the probability ofobtaining the proposed point.1
25. The general question may be enunciated as follows :
Let p=the px-obability an event E will happen, q the proba¬
bility it will fail; how many trials are required to give a
probability=w that E will happen k times.
Let a;=the number required. Taking the sum of all the
terms of the development of (j> + q)x in which the exponent
of p is less than k, we shall have the probability that the
event does not happen k times in x trials. This sum must
consequently be made equal to 1—u ; therefore, beginning
the last term, and writing the terms in the reverse order,
we have the equation
601
Probability
q* + X (f-'p +
X (x 1)
1.
q*-zp*
x (•?—1)... (x—k+2) *-*+!
+rr2 (A—1)5 F
Let p= e q, and this equation becomes
f x (tf-l) „ , x (.r-1)...
q . 2 e2 -Fj . 2 
..(x-k + 2) x ]
.(k_l)
= 1—u
from which the value of x may be found by the ordinax-y
methods of converging series.
If p=:q=%, then e=l ; and if we also suppose u=%, and
consequently 1—«=£, the equation will become
Pascal, CEuvres, tom. iv. p. 367; Lacroix, Elmentaire, p. 36.
4 G
VOL. XVIII.
602
Probability
PROBABILITY.
a(a ]\/G 2) Probability
x (x—l) * (^—^+2-^ (i +1)*. (7) the probability of WWW is • ThePro'
1 ^Hb 2“ 1 . 2.,..'. A—1
But the first side of this equation is the expansion of (1x1)
continued to k terms; therefore, since the sum of he firstA
terms is equal to one-half of the whole senes, and the terms
of the first half of the series are the same as those of the
last, it follows that the whole number of terms must be 2A.
But the whole number of terms in the expansion of (1 +1)_
isr+1; therefore 2/r=*+l, and*=2^—1. Suppose k-
10, then a7=19 ; hence in tossing a shilling it is an even bet
that head will turn up 10 times in 19 throws.
SECT. III. OF THE PROBABILITY OP EVENTS DEPENDING
ON A REPETITION OF TRIALS, OR COMPOUNDED OF ANY
NUMBER OF SIMPLE EVENTS, THE CHANCES IN RESPECT
OF WHICH ARE KNOWN A PRIORI, AND VARY IN THE DIF¬
FERENT TRIALS.
26. Let us suppose the trials to consist in drawing balls
from an urn containing a white balls, and b black balls, an
that when a ball is extracted it is not returned to the
Make a + b=c, and let the extraction of a white ball be the
event W, and that of a black ball the event B. At^the first
trial the probability of W is^-(4), and that of B, -. But at
the second trial, the number of balls in the urn is diminish¬
ed by 1 ; and the probability of drawing a white ball at the
second trial is therefore not the same as it was in the first,
but is influenced by the event which has already taken
place. If W happened at the first trial, the number ot
white balls remaining in the urn is then a—1 ; the num¬
ber of black is b, and the number of both colours c—l.
The probability of W at the next trial is therefore
bability of drawing a black ball after two white have been
drawn is ^ - (for there are now c—2 balls in the urn, of
which b are”white); therefore the probability of WWB is
a(a—1 )b On forming in this manner all the differ¬
ent possible combinations which can result from three trials,
we find
WWW, probability,
WWB,   
WBW,
BWW,
BBW,
BWB,
WBB,
BBB,
cf(ct——2)
= 7(^-1 Xc-2)’
a(a—1)& 
= 7(c—l)(c—2)"’
ab(a—1)
— c(c—l)(c—2)’
ba(a—1)
“ c(c—l)(c—2)’
b(b—\)a
~ <c—l)(c—2)’
ba{b—1)
= -^=l)(c_2) ’
ab(b—1)
c(c
_ b(b
-l)(c-
-\){b-
-2)
<^1)5=2)'
~—-,and that of B is -•
c—1 c 1
at the first trial, the probability of W at the second is
b—l
If we disregard the order of succession in those combina¬
tions into which W and B both enter, and consider the oc¬
currence of W twice and B once as the same compound
event; and also the occurrence of W once and B twice as
the same compound event, in whatever order they occur,
3a(a—l)o - -
In like manner, if B happened t}ie probability of the former will be ^
3ab(b—1)
and of
the latter
and that of B is Hence (7) the different combinations
which can arise from two trials are the follow ing .
WW, WB, BW, BB,
the probabilities of which are respectively,
a(a—1) ab ha b(b—\)
■c(c_ry c(c—i)’ c(c_i)’ c(c—\)
Now if we neglect the order of succession in the two cases
in which W and B are combined, the probability of the
compound event which consists of the extraction of a ball
of each colour in the two trials, is and the probabi¬
lities of the three possible combinations are respectively
a(a—1) 2a5 b{b—1)
0(0—1)’ c(c—17 cCc—1)*
Comparing these with the probabilities of the same com¬
binations when the chances are constant, or the ball is re¬
turned to the urn after each drawing, namely
a2 2ab b*
■72"’ c2’
the analogy of the two cases is obvious.
After two balls have been drawn, the wrhole number re¬
maining in the urn is c—2 ; but the number of each colour
depends on the two events that have already occurred. If
two white balls have been drawn, the probability of draw-
a 2
ing a white ball at the next trial will be -—~; but we have
27. In general,^if +w' balls have been drawn, of which
m' have been found to be white and n1 black, the number
of white balls in the urn will now be a—w, the number o
black b—n', and the whole number of both colours c—m .
Hence the probability of drawing a white ball in the next
trial will be -
c
b—n'
a—m
-m'—n'
and that of drawing a black ball
a(a—1) , _ a of the first colour, a2 of the second, a5 011 ?
just seen that the probability of W W is c^—pj; therefore g(J onj andleta1+d2 + az &c.=c; then the probability th
   ^ Now if in these two fractions we substitute
successively for m' and all the different numbers from
0 to in—1 and n—\ respectively, the product of the m+ .
numbers thus obtained will (7) be the probability of
white balls and n black in an assigned order, in w+n trials.
Let this probability be denoted by K, and we S^ ^ VL
a(a-\)(a-2) (a-m4.\)xb(b-\)(b-2).....(b-n+})
K- c(c—1) (c—2) (c—m—+1) ’
whatever the given order may be. Hence, if we denote y
P the probability of m white balls and w black being ra\v
in any order whatever, in h trials, we shall have F_UK,
where, as in (12), U=: ^ 2.3 1 • ^ • 3 n
the co-efficient of that term of the binomial (f+j)* which
h^ for its argument pm ; this co-efficient
the different arrangements which can be formed ofm t »•
of one kind, and n things of another.
28. When the urn is supposed to contain balls ot m
than two different colours, the probability of any ProP^ .
number of each colour being drawn m a .
trials is found with the same facility. Supple it to confom
of the first colour, a„ of the second, a , of the third, and
Probability in m+n + r 4- &c.=i/i trials, there will be drawn
PROBABILITY.
603
first colour, n of the second; r ofthe'third, &c."is °f th6 Sth the ls> ?d’ 3d! 4th, &c Probability
U' Xal(al—!)(«!—2) (aj—
X fl2(rt2—1 )(aa—2) (a2—n-\-1)
X«5(a3—l)(a3—2) (a3_r+])
Xa4(a4—l)(a4—2) (a4—1)
X &c.
-t-c(c l)(c—2) (c_A.fl)
where, as in (15),
u= 1-2-3 h
games respectively, and take the sum of the probabilities'-
ot its ending with the 1st, 4th, and 7th, for the probability of
A s winning; the sum of the probabilities of its ending with
the 2d, 5th, and 8th, for the probability of B’s winning; and
the sum of the probabilities of its ending with the 3d, 6th,
and 9th, lor the probability of C^s winning#
tor the sake of rendering the solution more general, let
a be the number of white balls in the urn, b the number of
black, and let a-\-bz=.c. The probability of drawing a white
ball at the first trial, or of the play ending with the first
1 • 2.3 m X 1 • 2.3 rc X 1 • 2.3 r x &c
29. The following examples will shew the useofthepre- trial, is then
ceding formulae. c
Suppose a bag to contain 16 balls, of which 8 are white . probability of the play ending with the second trial
and 8 black, what is the probability that in drawing 8 balls 18 compounded of the probability of a black ball being drawn
from the bag the whole of them will be white ?
Applying the formula (27) to the solution of this ques¬
tion, we have a=8, 5=8, c=l6, m~%, n=0, and as the
probability required is that of drawing white balls only, b
cannot enter into any of the factors of the numerator;
hence
K== 8. 7. 6. 5. 4. 3. 2.1 1
at the first trial, and a white at the second j and the proba¬
bility of both events (26) is ———^
c(c_l)
The probability of the play ending with the third trial is
compounded of three separate probabilities, namely, that a
black ball will be drawn at the first trial; that a black ball
will be drawn at the second ; that a white ball will be drawn
at the third;—and the probability of the concourse of these
events (26) is — ^
16.15.14.13.12.11.10.9 12870’
and since m—h, U=l, the probability sought, is therefore
Let there be a heap of 20 cards, wherein are 7 diamonds,
6 hearts, 4 spades, and 3 clubs; required the probability
that in drawing 8 of them art a venture there shall come out
3 diamonds and 2 hearts ? (Simpson, p. 21.)
The probability required in this case being that of draw- • .i • c i t. i , tt
ing 3 diamonds, 2 hearts, and 3 other cards which are nei- V” thlS formul* tje numbers proposed by Huygens, we
ther diamonds nor hearts, the spades and clubs may be con- ? \ a,UI in re®Pec 0 „ ,le s ’ ’ an *11 tna^s’ or ^ie Pro
c(c—l)(c—2)’
In general the probability of a black ball being drawn in
r—1 trials successively, and a white ball at the arth is
—2) (b—ar+2)o! ^ .
<^l)(c-2)...... (c-^+l ’ ®ubstituting for a, 6, and
sidered as forming one parcel, containing 7 cards. We have
then in the formula (28) a j =7, «2 = 6, a3=7,c=20; m=3,
n—2, r=3, A=8 ; therefore
bability in favour of A,
4 , 8.7.6 4
io+io ii i n * n +
8.7. 6.5.4.3
77
165 5
U'=
1.2.3.4.5.6.7.8
1.2.3x1.2x1.2.3
and the probability required becomes,
7.6. 5x6 . 5x7 . 6
7 =560,
560 X,
1225
12 * 12.11 .10 9 1 12.11 .10.9.8.7
in respect of the 2d, 5th, and 8th trials, or the probability
in favour of B,
8 4 8.7.6.5 4 8.7.6.5.4.3.2 4
12' IT + 12.11 .10.9 "8 + 12.11.10.9.8.7.6* 5"
53
“ 165’
and in respect of the 3d, 6th, and 9th trials, or the proba¬
bility in favour of C,
8.7 4 8. 7. 6.5.4 4 8 . 7 . 6 .5.4.3.2.1
12. ll'To + 12.11 .10.9.8* 7 + 12.11.10.9.8.7.6.5
4 _ 35
*T_ 165'
The chances in favour of A, B, and C, are therefore pro¬
portional to the numbers 77, 53, 35, respectively.
If the condition of the play had been that the ball was to
be returned to the urn after each trial, the chances in fa¬
vour of the three gamesters would have been easily found
by the formula (12) to be respectively as the numbers 9,
6, and 4.
SECT. IV. OF MATHEMATICAL AKD MORAL EXPECTATION.
31. In the theory of probability, the term expectation is
who, blindfold, shall draw a white ball shall be the winner of used to denote the product found by multiplying the value
the stakes. They also agree that A shall draw first, B second, of a casual benefit into the probabilitj7 of the event on
C third, A fourth, and so on ; and the balls drawn are not which it is contingent taking place. But the value of a be-
replaced in the urn. It is proposed to find their respective nefit may be estimated either with respect to its absolute
probabilities of winning. amount, or to the amount of relative advantage it affords the
Here the play terminates as soon as a white ball is drawn, individual who receives it. This consideration has led to a
and it must therefore terminate with the 9th trial, if not distinction between mathematical and moral expectation,
sooner, inasmuch as, after 8 black balls have been drawn, When we place the circumstances of the individual entirely
the urn will contain only white balls, and the probability of out of consideration and have regard merely to the abstract
drawing a white ball at the next trial will become certainty, or absolute value of the benefit, 5he product of its amount
The question will therefore be solved, if we determine the by the probability of obtaining it is the mathematicale^ec-
20.19.18.17.16.15.14.13 3978
The odds against the event are therefore 2753 to 1225, or
nearly 9 to 4.
Let 4 cards be drawn from a pack of 52; what is the
probability of drawing one of each sort ?
In this case we have 0^ = 13, a2 = 13, a5 = 13, a4 = 13,
c=52 ; also m=l, n=l, r=l, $=1, h—4, whence U'=
! ‘ ^ * ^ * ^ = 24, and the probability required becomes, on
substituting these numbers in the formula (28),
13.13.13.13
24 X
2197 1 .
20825= 9near,y-
52.51.50.49
The odds against this event are nearly 8 to 1.
30. The following question, proposed by Huygens, and
solved by Demoivre and Bernoulli f Ars Conjectandi, p. 59),
belongs to the class of problems now under consideration.
An urn contains 12 balls, of which 4 are white and 8
black. Three gamesters A, B, and C agree that the first
004
probability.
c , . i• i . Uni when a relative value is as- of ordinary prudence, if offered his choice of the two states, Probability
Probability tation of the ^mdual, b ^h ^ relative value by would heJtate as to which he ought to give the preference.'—^
signed to the beneuh P ^ ^ the Common senge wiU preVent a man from risking a sum, the
Pwie It is estimated by certain moral considerations loss of which would be attended with great privations, even
’ ^ nt the c rcumstances or fortune of the individual in when, mathematically speaking, the chances are consider-
respecting the circumsta t^n on the inciple that a ably in his faV0ur. It is also obvious that two individuals
whose favou P relatively of very little import- whose fortunes are very unequal cannot engage in play with
SUI" iTmalTn POsSon of a Targe fortune may be of the same advantage, although the chances in favour of each,
TTt imnortance to another who is less favourably circum- in respect of a single game, are precisely the same. The
ftanced.PWe shall first consider the mathematical expecta- one who has a large fortune can repeat the hazard so often
tion.
32. Suppose A and B to engage in play; let p be die pro¬
bability of A’s winning a game, q the probability of B s win¬
ning it, and s a sum of money staked on the issue of the
game. By the definition, the mathematical expectation ot
A is ps, and that of B is qs. Now if we suppose these expec-
^ O    A , . - .
as to obtain a probability almost equal to certainty that his
loss will not amount to any given sum; whereas the other,
who cannot continue the play in case of loss, runs the risk
of being ruined. It is thus evident, that in a multitude of
cases the abstract theory of probability is not alone sufficient
to give the value of an expectation, and that in dealing w7ith
TtimTtTbe purchasedTy A^d B, the sums they ought contingent events, an individual must be guided to a cer-
. i fnr tbenl or in other words to stake on tain extent by considerations of relative advantage,
respectively to “r “f "1’ °" ™ “ donal t0 their reSpec. 34. Various hypotheses have been imagined for the pur-
t e issue o eg ’ ^ tbat tbey may p]ay on equal terms, pose of reducing such relative or moral considerations to ac-
i\eexp 5 staked by A, and b the sum curate calculation ; but that which appears the most natu-
staked bvB we have then ps : qs :: a :b, and consequently ral, and applicable to the greatest number of cases, consists
> } N’ow SUppose a + b=s, or that the sum played for in supposing the relative value of any infinitely small sum
pb—qci. „ PP . ,   • 7, cnm A pv- tn hp Hirpptlvnronortional to its absolute value, and inversely
is the amount of the stakes; then, since b is the sum A ex¬
pects to gain, and p is the probability of his gaining it, is
the mathematical value of A’s expectation of gam. In h *e
manner qa is the mathematical value of Bs expectation of
gain. Hence it follows, that when the sum staked by each is
proportional to his probability of winning, the mathematical
expectations of the two players are equal; so that after the
stakes have been placed, and before the event is decided.
111 »—  j — ^
to be directly proportional to its absolute value, and inversely
as the fortune of the individual who has an expectation of
receiving it. This principle was first proposed by Daniel
Bernoulli in the Petersburg Commentaries (vol.v.), and is
there applied by him to the solution of a number of ques¬
tions of great practical interest.
Let x be the absolute value of the capital, or, as it is de¬
nominated by Laplace, the physical fortune, ofan individu-
thakeS ThTexIhanTeTlaceTwithout advantage or disadvan- al; then, according to the hypothesis of Bernoulli, the mo-
tagl to either. It follows likewise, that since the sum which ral advantage which he derives from an infinitely small incre-
the one must gain is just that which the other must lose, the fortune —dx, is measured by the expression c—, c
product qa, which is B’s expectation of gain, may be regard- , . *
ed as A’s expectation of loss ; or (if taken with a negative being a constant to be determined by the nature ot the ques-
sign j as part of A’s whole expectation, which then becomes
pb—qa. But pb—qa—0\ whence the condition of A before
the event is decided is not altered by the circumstance ot
his having staked on the issue of the play. , .
33. This conclusion at first sight appears paradoxical; tor
it is certain, that after the stakes are placed, A must either
gain the sum b or lose a, and therefore his fortune will of
necessity either be increased by the gain of his adversary s
stake, or diminished by the loss of his own. The explana-  op¬
tion depends on theorems which will afterwards be demon- wbence c nog> x—W. ap oryrrc log.
strated relative to the repetition of trials, from which it re- . ,
suits that though in a single trial the player must either be observed, that those values of a> and y can never become
lose or gain, yet on multiplying sufficiently the number of negative, for as Bernoulli has remarked, it is only the per-
   .n Wo-th bp obtained, approaching srm whn is dving of hunger that can be said to possess at>-
tion. Now, if we suppose the physical fortune to arise from
the accumulation of the elements dx, and denote by 3/ the
relative or moral value of the fortune, of which the absolute
or physical value is x, we shall have
yz=^j*c-—;—c log. a;+constant.
To determine the constant, we may suppose y—o, when x
has a given value —a ; this gives o=c log. a+constant,
3C
— ; and it is to
a
games, a probability will at length be obtained, approaching
as nearly to certainty as we please, that the sum gained or
lost in the long run will not exceed a certain given fraction
(which may be as small as we please) of the whole sum
staked, provided the play is undertaken on terms of mat le-
matical equality. But this indefinite repetition of the ha-
zard is practically impossible ; and innumerable cases mav
easily be imagined, in which an individual will be guided
by other considerations than the mere mathematical value
of the expectation in undertaking or declining a risk. A
person of moderate fortune would scarcely be persuaded to
risk L.500 for the expectation of gaining L.5, though the
chances might be 100 to 1 in favour of the event which
would produce that sum ; but numbers would be found wil¬
ling enough to pay L.5 for the expectation of gaining L.500,
the chances being 100 to 1 against them. In both cases,
however, the expectation would be purchased at its real
abstract value. According to the formula of mathematical
expectation, the man whose sole fortune consists of a lot¬
tery ticket which has an equal chance of turning up a prize
of L.20,000 or a blank, is in an equally advantageous posi¬
tion as he who is in possession of L.l0,000 ; yet no man
son who is dying of hunger that can be said to possess ab¬
solutely nothing. In every other circumstance the mere pos¬
session of existence may be accounted amoral advantage, to
which, however, it would be absurd to attempt to assign a nu¬
merical value.
35. From the above formula, it is easy to deduce a nu¬
merical expression for the value of a moral expectation. Let
a be the original fortune of the individual, and a, ft y, &c.
sums to be received on the occurrence of certain contin¬
gent events, E, F, G, &c. This being supposed, if the event
E happens, the absolute fortune of the individual becomes
«+«, and its relative value, therefore, according to the for¬
mula, is c log. If F happens, his absolute fortune be¬
comes a 4-ft to which the corresponding relative value is
c log. c!±l; and so on. Now, let the probabilities of the
events E, F, G, &c. be respectively p, q, r, &c. (assuming
n _1_ <7 _L r 4- &c. = 1, so that one or other of the events will ne¬
cessarily happen), and let Y represent the relative fortune 01
the individual arising from his expectation, then, since
PROBABILITY.
Probability value of a benefit in expectation is equal to the amount of
^ * the benefit multiplied by the probability of obtaining it, we
have
'XT ft O' “4“ ^ i
Y=c -\p log. —t— -J- a lo
( a
05 +/3 ,
'&• —-K ‘oc
«+y
+ &c.
a ■ "a ' f
Let also X denote the absolute value of Y; then, by the
X J
formula, we have Y=c log. —On comparing these two
values of Y, we get
X . ct-\-a
log. —=^log.— +q log. ——+/• log. + &c.;
X=(a4-§'s)P x(«—
and if it can be shewn that this value of X is less than a, it
will follow that his condition is rendered worse in conse¬
quence of having staked on the game. Now, dividing by
a, and taking the logarithm of both sides of the equation, we
get log‘ -p log' (1+?)+?log- (1—?)’the diffe'
rential of which (making s variable) is
rflog. x ' ^ 1
605
Probability
^-—pqds f
a ‘
{i+«f
^ a
1-
~\
a /
and on passing to numbers,
a aP+2-f»-+ &c. 3
therefore, since p-j-<7 + 7’+ &c. =1,
X=(a+a)*’(«+/3)*(a + r)', &c.
In this expression X denotes the absolute value of the
original fortune and of the expectation added together; if,
therefore, we deduct a from X, the difference will be the
value of the expectation, or the sum which, if it were to be
received certainly, would procure the individual the same
relative advantage as his expectation.
36. If the sums a, j3, y, &c. are supposed to be very small
in comparison of a, so that quantities of the order
may
be neglected, the preceding equation becomes
X=aP+?+r+ &c. +aH-9+r&C.-1 J pa + qp+ry+ &c. j
whence, sincejo-)-5,4-7‘4- &c.r=l,
X=a-\-pa + q(3-\-ry-\- &c.
Deducting from this the original fortune a, the remainder
pa -{- qft-\-ry 4* &c. is the value of the expectation, or the sum
equivalent to the moral advantage. But the value of the ma¬
thematical expectation of the benefits a, /3, y, &c. of which the
probabilities are respectively/), q, r, &c. is also pa-\-qP-\-ry
4-&c. (31), therefore, when the contingent benefits are very
small in comparison of the original fortune, the moral ad¬
vantage and the mathematical expectation are sensibly the
same.
37. From the formula X—(a-^-a)p{a-\-^)i{a-\-y'y &c. Ber¬
noulli deduces the consequence that gambling or betting is
attended with a moral disadvantage, even when the chances
of gain or loss, mathematically speaking, are perfectly equal.
To shew this, he proposes the following question. A, whose
fortune is 100 crowns, bets 50 crowns with B, on the issue
of an event of which the probability is on these terms:
if the event happens, A is to receive from B 50 crowns ; if
it fails, he is to pay B 50 crowns ; what is the relative va¬
lue of A’s fortune, after undertaking the bet, and before the
event is decided? In this case, we have o=100, a=50,
0= —50, y=0; also/)=g, q=%, r=0; and the formula(35)
becomes
But the second side of this equation is evidently negative ;
therefore d log. X-i-a is negative ; consequently the loga¬
rithm of X-4-« is negative, and X must be less than a. In
all cases, therefore, the bet, if on even terms, produces a
moral disadvantage.
39. Another consequence deduced by Bernoulli from this
theory of moral expectation, is, that when property of any
kind is exposed to a risk or hazard, it is more advantageous
to expose it in parts to several risks independent of each
other, than to expose the whole at once to a single risk, al¬
though the probability of loss be in both cases precisely the
same. To provethis,he takes the fbllowingexample. Amer-
chant has a capital of L.4000, besides goods of the value of
L.8000, which must be transported by sea. The probabi¬
lity of the loss of a vessel in the voyage being let it be
proposed to find the value of the moral expectation of the
merchant in the case of the goods being embarked in a single
vessel, and also in the case of one half being embarked in one
vessel and the other half in another. Supposing the mer¬
chandise embarked in one ship, the absolute fortune of the
merchant will be increased to L.12,000 in the event of the
safe arrival of the ship, and will be reduced to L.4000 in the
event of its being lost. The probability of the first of these
events is 7%, and of the second ^ ; therefore his absolute
fortune becomes, in virtue of his expectation,
X=(12,000) I*0 X (4000)^,
whence X= 10751. Deducting his other capital, L.4000,
there remains L.6751 for the value of the moral expectation
in respect of the venture.
Let us next suppose the merchandise embarked in equal
parts in two ships. In this case there are three compound
events to be considered, 1st, Both vessels may arrive in safety;
9 9 81
the probability of which is — X = —. 2d, One may
arrive in safety and the other be lost; the probability of
9 1
which, as it may happen in two ways, (11) is 2 X X —
I O
_ 3d, Both may be lost; the probability of which is
“100 3
J_ v — — —. If the first of these events happen, the
10 *10 ”100
X=(1004-50)2 X (100—50)2,
whence X=>v/l50 X 50=87 ; and, consequently, the con¬
dition of A is worse by 13 crowns than it was before he ha¬
zarded the bet. The moral disadvantage is therefore equi¬
valent to this sum, though the terms of the play, according
to the mathematical theory, are equal.
38. The conclusion arrived at in this particular case is
easily shewn to be universally true. Let a be the capital
of the player, p his probability of winning, q his probability
of losing, and s the sum at stake. In order that he may
play on terms of mathematical equality, the part of the
stakes contributed by himself, or the sum which he can lose,
must be ps (32), and the part contributed by his adversary,
or that which he may gain, must be qs. The equation in
(35) therefore becomes
capital of the merchant will become L.4000-f-L.8000=
L.12,000; if the second happen it will be L.4000 4-L.4000
= L.8000 ; and if the third happen it will be only L.4000.
With these numbers the formula becomes
X=(12,OOO)^5 X (8000)^5 X (4000)iK
whence X= 11033. Deducting his other capital, which was
exposed to no risk, there remains L.7033 for the value of the
moral expectation. This sum exceeds the former by L.282 ;
and it is easily found by following the same process of rea¬
soning, that in proportion as the risk is divided among a
greater number of ships, the moral expectation is increas¬
ed, and approaches its limit, which is the value of the ma¬
thematical expectation, or rQ0 of L.8000=L.7200.
40. The theory of moral expectation enables us likewise to
assign the circumstances in which it is advantageous or
606 PROBABILITY.
Probability otherwise, to insure property against particular hazards, nifications as above, the equation from which 6 is to be de-Pr«y
There are three principal questions to be considered in rete- termined is 5=:(i4-800P5(i—9200)55, whence J=14243. Y
rence to this subject; 1. The amount of premium the insur- Un]esSj therefore, the capital of the insurer amounts to
ed may pay without disadvantage ; 2. The ratio of his for- T A o/iq tLcrt. would ho a moral disadvantage in undertak-
tune to the value of the sum exposed to risk, in order that it
may be advantageous to insure at a given premium ; and 3.
The capital which the insurer or underwriter ought to pos¬
sess, in order that he may insure a given risk with probable
advantage to himself, and safety to the insured. _
Let s be the value of a cargo which a merchant embarks in
a ship, p the probability of the safe arrival of the vessel, and
a his capital independently of s. The mathematical value of
the premium for insurance is qs; for, if we denote the pre¬
mium by y, then ?/is the sum the insurer will gain if the vessel
reaches its destination in safety, and s—y is the sum he will
lose if it does not; and by the theorem for the mathematical        
expectation py=q(s—y) ; whence, since p + q=\, y—qs. discussed at great length by Daniel Bernoulli in the Peters-
If, therefore, the merchant insures the cargo, his absolute for- b Memoirs, has been usually called the Petersburg prob-
tune becomes a + .v—fP~a +/w ? and if lie does not iasure» iem. It is this ; A and B play at heads and tails. A agrees
L.l 4,243, there would be a moral disadvantage in undertak¬
ing the risk of insuring a cargo worth L.l0,000 for a pre¬
mium of L.800 ; and it is easy to see, that if a smaller pre¬
mium were demanded, the capital ought to be still greater.
On making e=600, (which still exceeds the mathematical
value of the risk), the value of b becomes L.29,878. Hence
it follows, that a company possessing a large capital may not
only with safety engage in speculations which might prove
ruinous to another whose resources are more limited, but
even derive from them a sure profit.1
41. The theory of moral expectation which we have now
been considering had its origin in a problem proposed by
Nicolas Bernoulli to Montmort, which, from its having been
it is the value of X in the equation X—(a+^a*. Hence
it will be advantageous or otherwise to insure according as
« -P/m is greater or less than (a-j-s)^5. Now the logarithm
of the first of these expressions, or log (a +/«), is equiva¬
lent to the integral C——; and the logarithm of the se-
j a-Yps
cond, or p log (a -H)+? log a, is equivalent toy — ; but
since p is a proper fraction, a+ps is less than a-fs, and
therefore the first integral is greater than the second. Con¬
sequently a+ps is, in general, greater than (a + s)pa*, and
the insurance is attended with advantage. Let us now as¬
sume .t= a+ps—(a+*)P«*’ and x will be the sum the mer¬
chant could afford to pay the insurer above the mathemati¬
cal value of the risk without moral disadvantage. If he pays
less than qs+x, his relative fortune is increased by insur¬
ing ; and if he pays more he is a loser. In practice the pre¬
mium may be considered as less than qs -J- x, but greater
than qs; so that while the insured pays more than the ma¬
thematical value of the risk, he gains a moral advantage by
the transaction. .
To solve the second question, let e be the premium de¬
manded for insuring the amount s; then, the other capi¬
tal of the merchant being a, his fortune after being insured
is a-fs—e; while if he takes the risk on himself, its value
becomes (a + s)paq. If, therefore, the value of a be deter¬
mined from the equation a-\-s—s')rci'!, we shall have
the amount of capital he ought to possess in order that it
may be morally a matter of indifference to him whether he
insures or not. As an example, let the value of the mer¬
chandise, or s, be L.10,000, e=L.800, and p^r^g. The
equation then becomes
a + 9200=(a+10,000)^^5;
whence a is found by approximation —5043. It follows,
therefore, that unless his other capital amount to L.o043, it
would be disadvantageous to neglect insuring, although the
premium demanded exceed the mathematical value of the
risk (which is ^ x L.10,000=L.500) by L.300.
The third question, the amount of capital the underwriter
ought to possess, is determined precisely in the same way.
Let b be his capital. After accepting the risk of the sum s
for the premium e, his capital will become 6-j-e in the case
of the vessel arriving in safety, and b—s-j-e in the case of
its being lost. The formula of the moral expectation there¬
fore becomes X=(b+e)p(b—s-fe)7; and in order that there
may be neither advantage nor disadvantage in undertaking
the risk, this value of X must be equal to his original capi¬
tal, b. Supposing, therefore, s, e, p, q, to have the same sig-
to pay B 2 crow ns if head turn up at the first throw; 4
crowns if it turn up at the second, and not before; 8 if
it turn up at the third, and not before ; and, in general,
2” crowns if it turn up at the nth throw, and not before :
required the value of B’s expectation ? Here the proba¬
bility of head turning up at the first throw is ^; the proba¬
bility of its turning up at the second, and not at the first, is
1 x l=l; the probability of its not turning up either at the
first or second, and of its turning up at the third, |
—A, and so on. Hence the probabilities of B receiving 2,
4, 8, 16 2" crowns
are respectively —> -p yg —, consequently (31)
the mathematical value of B’s expectation is
4. X 2+4. X 4+4 X 8+^ X16... + i X 2-crowns.
Now, as no limit can be assigned to n, inasmuch as it is
possible that head may not turn up till after a very great,
or any assignable number, of throws, this series, of which
each term is unity, may go on for ever, and consequently
the value of B’s expectation becomes infinite. Yet it is ob¬
vious that no one would pay any considerable sum for the
expectation. This disagreement between the dictates of
common sense and the results of the mathematical theory,
appeared to Montmort to involve a great paradox; although
the question differs in this respect from no other question
of chances in which the contingent benefit is very great, and
the probability of receiving it very small. If the play could
be repeated an infinite number of times, B might undertake
to pay without disadvantage any sum, however large, for his
expectation. A result, however, more in accordance with or¬
dinary notions, is obtained from the principle of Bernoulli.
Let a be the amount of B’s fortune before the play begins,
x the value of his expectation, or the sum he pays A in con¬
sideration of the agreement, and make z=za—x. If head
turn up at the first throw, B’s fortune becomes 2+2; if at
the second, and not before, z+22; if at the third, and not
before, z+23; and so on. But the probabilities of these
events being respectively -p, -p ^r, the formula
for the moral expectation becomes (35)
X=(2+2)^>+22)*(2+23)* .... (*+2")*".
Now the sum which B ought to pay will be determined by
making the value of his moral expectation, after the bet,
and before the play begins, equal to his previous fortune ;
we have therefore a=zX, that is,
a=(2+2)*(2+22)*(2+23)* 
1 See the Commentarii Acad- Petropoliiana, tom. v.; Laplace, Theoric des Prob. p. 432 ; Lacroix,_ Traite Elementaire, p. 132.
PROBABILITY.
607
Probability^, . „ , . . 1
general term of this series being (z+2r')2n =
the equation may be put under the form
«=(2*+2*+2^+2*....) x (l +|):!(l +i)4 (l +?y.. i
and since the logarithm of the first factor of this expression
is (t + T + i-*4 + &c-)log2’ or=y{ 1 +2(y)
+ 3(y) +4(i) +&c-}log2=4"(1—■y) i»g2=
2 log 2, v/e have log a=2 log 2+
(1+T)+¥log(1+t)+^c-
from which a value of z may be found by trial and error
for any given value of a. Suppose 2=100 ; on computing
the first 10 terms of the series there results a=107’89,
whence (since x=a—z) x=z7’89 ; that is to say, if B pos¬
sessed only 100 crowns before beginning the play, it would
be morally disadvantageous for him to risk 8 crowns for the
expectation, although its mathematical value be infinitely
great. If we suppose z= 1000, the sum of 11 terms gives
a=1011, nearly ; so that if B possessed a fortune of 1011
crowns, the value of the moral expectation would, to him,
be about 11 crowns.
It is scarcely necessary to remark, that the results de¬
duced from the principle of Bernoulli are of a character
widely different from those which are calculated according
to the mathematical expectation. The latter gives the pre¬
cise value of a contingent benefit, without any assumption or
hypothesis respecting the personal circumstances of the indi¬
vidual who may gain or lose it; whereas the considerations
of relative advantage, of which it is the object of Bernoulli’s
theory to take account, are entirely arbitrary, and by their
very nature incapable of being made the subject of accurate
computation. It is evidently impossible to have regard to,
or appreciate, all the circumstances which may render the
same sum of money a more important benefit to one man than
to another; and consequently everyrule that can be given for
the purpose must be liable to numerous exceptions. The
principle, however, is thus far valuable, that it gives in the
most common cases a plausible and judicious estimate of
the value of things which are not susceptible of exact ap¬
preciation ; and it has the advantage of being readily sub¬
mitted to analysis. A different principle, proposed by the
celebrated naturalist Buffon, consists in making the value
itself of a casual benefit, instead of its infinitely small ele¬
ments, inversely proportional to the fortune of the expec¬
tant ; but as this hypothesis has seldom been adopted, it is
unnecessary to discuss it in this place.
SECT. V. OF THE PKOBABILITY OF FUTURE EVENTS DE¬
DUCED FROM EXPERIENCE.
42. In the preceding part of this article it has been as¬
sumed, in every case, that the number of chances favour¬
able and unfavourable to the occurrence of a contingent
event is known a priori, and consequently, that the proba¬
bility of the event, or the ratio of the number of favourable
cases to the whole number of cases possible, can be abso¬
lutely determined. But in numerous applications o t e
theory of probabilities, and these, generally speaking, by far
the most important, the ratio of the chances in favour of an
event to those which oppose it is altogether unknown, an
we can form no idea of the probability of the event except¬
ing from a comparison of the number of instances in w ne i
it has been observed to happen, with the whole num er o
instances in which it has been observed to happen anc ai.
In order to assign the probability of a contingent event in Probability
such cases, it is necessary to consider all the different causes ^
or combinations of circumstances by which the event could
possibly be produced, and to determine its probabilities suc¬
cessively on the hypotheses that each of these causes exists
to the exclusion of all the others. The comparative facili¬
ties which these hypotheses give to the occurrence of the
event which has actually arrived, will then enable us to de¬
termine the relative probabilities of the different hypothe¬
ses, and consequently their absolute probabilities, since their
sum is necessarily equal to unity; and when the probabili¬
ties of the different hypotheses, and of the occurrence of the
event on each hypothesis, have been determined, the pro¬
bability of the event occurring in a future trial will be found
by the methods already explained.
43. Taking a simple case, let us suppose an urn to contain
4 counters, which are either white or black ; that the num¬
ber of each colour is unknown, but in four successive draw¬
ings (the counter drawn being replaced in the urn after
each trial) a white counter has been drawn three times, and
a black one once ; and let it be proposed to assign the pro¬
bability of drawing a counter of either colour at the next
trial.
In the present case three hypotheses may be formed re¬
lative to the number of white and black counters in the urn.
1st, The urn may contain 3 white counters and 1 black;
2d, It may contain 2 white and 2 black; 3d, It may con¬
tain 1 white and 3 black; for a counter of each colour hav¬
ing been drawn, the other two possible cases, namely, that
they are all white or all black, are excluded by the observa¬
tion. Now, let />!, jPa, /j3, be the probabilities respectively of
drawing awhite counter on each hypothesis, and qx, q2, q3, the
probabilities of drawing a black. Supposing the first hypo¬
thesis to be true, or that the compound event which has been
observed was produced by the cause indicated by that hypo¬
thesis, we have jo1=|, qx—± ; and the probability of the ob¬
served event, or that 3 white counters and 1 black would be
drawn, (12) is Ap? qi=%%. The second hypothesis gives
7>2=l, q2=l, whence 4p23 q2-^ The third hypothesis
gives p3^, q3=%, whence 4p33 ?3=bV The probabilities
of the observed compound event, on each of the three hy¬
potheses, are therefore, respectively, §f, sf, ; and the
question now arises, how are the probabilities of the differ¬
ent hypotheses to be estimated ? As we have no data, a
priori, for determining this question, we must assume the
probabilities of the different hypotheses to be respective¬
ly proportional to the probabilities they severally give of
the observed compound event; in other words, we must
assume the probability of any hypothesis to be greater or less
according as it affords a greater or smaller number of com¬
binations favourable to the event which has been observed
to take place. Thus, if C and C,be two independent causes
from which an observed event E may be supposed to arise,
and C furnishes 20 different combinations out of a given num¬
ber, favourable to the occurrence of E, while Cj furnishes
only 10 such combinations out of the same number, we na¬
turally infer that the probability of the cause C having °Pe"
rated to produce E, is twice as great as the probability that
the event was produced by the operation of the cause Li-
Applying this principle to the present example, the probabi¬
lities of the three hypotheses are respectively proportional
to the three fractions ||, fj, or to the numbers 27, lb,
3 ; and as no other hypotheses are admissible, the sum ot
their probabilities must be unity ; therefore, making ^ the
probability of the first hypothesis, «r2 that of the second, and
Jir3 that of the third, we have
27 _16 _ 3
*1=46’ ^-46’ Sr5-46'
Having found the probabilities of the different hy-
;ps. that of drawing a white counter at the next trial
608
PROBABILITY.
Probability is obtained without difficulty; for according to what was
shewn in (9), the probability of this simple event must be
equal to the sum of its probabilities relative to the different
hypotheses, each multiplied into the probability of the hypo-
thesis itself. Now it has been seen that, on the first hypo-
thesis, the probability of drawing a white ball is |; on the
second |, and on the third £ ; and that the probabilities ot
the hypotheses are respectively f 5, 3% » therefore the
probability of a white counter being drawn at the next
trial is
3 27 , 2 16 1
4X46+ 4 X46+ 4
1_16
'46” 184'
In like manner, the probability of a black counter being
drawn at the next trial is
1 27 2 16 _3 3 _ 68 <
4X46+TX46+4 X46“184;
and the sum of these tw o fractions is unity, as it ought to be,
since the counter drawn must necessarily be white or black.
45. The reasoning which has been employed in this par¬
ticular case is of general application. Let E be an observed
event, simple or compound, of which the particular cause is
unknown, but w hich may be ascribed to any one of the n
causes, Cv C2, C3, Cn, which, before the event has
happened, are all equally probable, and such that the opera-
tion of any one of them excludes that of the others, so that
the event E is produced by one of them alone, and not by the
joint agency of several of them. Let the probabilities of the
observed event E on the hypothesis that it has proceeded
from each of those causes be respectively Px, P2, P3,..*Pn>
so that if the cause, for instance, €,• were the true one, the
probability of the event E, previous to the observation,
would be Pf ; and let the probabilities (as determined by the
event) of the existence of the different causes be respective¬
ly sr., sr2, tr3, From the principle laid down in
the preceding paragraph, namely, that the probabilities of
the different causes or hypotheses are proportional to the
probabilities they respectively give of the observed event,
we have
w1: 7t2 ; w3   Wn • • P1 ’Ffi • P3 L*
whence, making Pi+Pgj + Pj + P» :=2P<> ‘observ¬
ing that t:r1 + w2-4-®'3 -pwn =1 (since it is assumec
that there are no other causes than those specified from
which the event could arise), we have
pi _ps _p3  P,L
^ip/^-ip;’^-sp/ ’‘-sp/
wdience it appears that the probability of each hypothesis re¬
specting the cause of the observed event is found by divid¬
ing the probability of the event on the supposition that that
particular cause alone existed, by the sum of its probabili¬
ties in respect of all the causes. Let us now assume the
probabilities of a future event E' (which may be the same
with E or different, but depending on the same causes) in
respect of the several hypotheses, to be, px, p2, >
so that if the particular cause Q be the true one, the proba¬
bility of E'is i; and let n be the probability of E' in respect
of all the causes, then by (9), n will be equal to the sum of
the probabilities Pi,p2iPz -Pn relative to the different
hypotheses, each multiplied by the probability of the hypo¬
thesis ; that is to say w e shall have
n=Pl^l+P2»-2+P5^3 
or n=2/3(13-„ the symbol 2 indicating the sum of all the dif¬
ferent values of and zr in respect of the different causes
Cv C2, C3, Cn.
46. It may be worth while to remark that the word cause is
not here used in its ordinary acceptation to denote the com¬
bination of circumstances, physical or moral, of which the
event is a necessary consequence. In the sense we have
used the term, the cause C is that which gives rise to the
determinate probability P, that the event E will happen; Probability
but so long as this probability falls short of certainty, its's^-v-*-'
existence also implies that of another probability, 1—P,
that the contrary event F will happen. If we inake P=l,
the existence of the cause C would necessarily involve the
occurrence of E ; and it is in this particular sense that the
word cause is ordinarily used. In the theory of probabi¬
lities the causes ot events are considered only in reference
to the number of chances they afford for the occurrence of
those events which they may possibly, but do not neces¬
sarily, produce.
47. The following example may serve to illustrate the
method of applying the preceding formulae. An urn con¬
tains n balls, which are known to be either white or black.
A ball is drawn at random and found to be white ; required
the probability of drawing a white ball at the next trial ?
In this case, the number of hypotheses that may be made
respecting the contents of the urn, is w; for we may sup¬
pose that it contained one, or two, or any number of white
balls from 1 to n, and each of these cases may be consider¬
ed as a distinct cause of the observed event E. Let these
causes or hypotheses be Cj, C2, C3, Cn, and let us sup¬
pose the true cause was C„ or that the urn contained 1 white
balls. On this hypothesis the probability of the observed
event E is -, whence ; and therefore, making* succes-
« ^
sively equal to 1,2, 3,....w, we have 2Pi=-(l +2-1-3..+w).
But the sum of this arithmetical series is
«(«+!)
, therefore
£P,=i(n+l), and consequently,
2V P, 2i
2Pf"n(n + l)’
which is the probability of the assumption that the event
proceeded from the cause C,-, or that the urn contained i
white balls. If we suppose i~n we have *rn= Tor the
probability that all the balls are white ; and if we also sup¬
pose m=3, this becomes \; whence if an urn contain 3 balls
which must be either black or white, and a white ball be
drawn at the first trial, it is an even wager, after the trial,
that all the balls are white.
48. Having found, from the observed event E, the pro¬
babilities of the different hypotheses, we have now to deter¬
mine the probability n of the event E' (the drawing of a
white ball) at the next trial. Here two cases present them¬
selves ; according as the ball is replaced in the urn, or is not;
or in general, according as the law of the chances remains
constant during the series of trials or varies.
1st, Let us suppose that the ball has been replaced in the
urn. ’ In this case the probability of the event E', on the hy-
pothesis that the urn contains * white balls, is—; that is to
=L. But the probability rr{ of this hypothesis, as
H 2i 2i2
found above, is - , — ? therefore/i(77 — ? whence
say pr
«(« + !)
"»2(/i+1)’
2i2
the general formula (45) n=: 2^, ^becomes]! j)”"
2 Now 2*2=2*(t+l)—2*. Butbythepro-
-2*
( Tfl | ~ 1 )
perty of the figurate numbers referred to in (23), the sum
of the series of numbers obtained by giving 1 every value
from *‘=1 to i—n in the formula is expressed by
„_(M^X»+2b therefore
1 • 2 • 3
Probability We have also as above
2?=l+2-f 3.
PROBABILITY.
i Tt
 n{n-\-1)
2
n(«+l)(2M4-l)
2.3
consequently,
;::;2_n(”4-l)(w4-2) 1)
3 2 =
and therefore
n . 2 x<w+l)(2^+l) 2^4-1
«*(»+!) 2 . 3 3« *
2d, Suppose the ball which has been extracted is not re¬
placed in the urn. In this case, on the hypothesis that the
urn at first contained i white balls, the probability of draw¬
ing a white ball at the next trial is
4 1
—; that is, Pi~ ;
n—1 ^ n—] ’
and the probability of the hypothesis is the same as in thefor-
2« , „ 2iU li
mer case, or —-- - . ; therefore pt arf— ^   ;
" 1 (n—l)n(n+1)
2i(i-—1).
Now
andconsequentlyllziSOirjriZr   
the value of 2«'(«—1) will evidently be found by writing
n—1 for « in the above expression for 1) ; whence
—1 , and, therefore, m this case
n=
x
(n—l)w(w-j-l) 2
[n—\)n{n^-\)'' 3 3
When w is a very large number, the ratio of 2ra-|-l to
3w, the value of n in the former case, does not sensibly
differ from §, and therefore in both cases !!=:§• Hence it
follows, that if an event, depending on unknown causes, can
happen only in one of two ways, and it has been observed
to happen once, the odds are two to one in favour of its
happening in the same way at the next occurrence.
49- The expression for zr in (45) was determined on the
supposition that previously to the experiments being made,
we are entirely ignorant of the relative numbers of the two
sorts of balls in the urn, and have no reason to suppose one
hypothesis more probable than another. If, however, we
happen to know, previously to the experiment, that the dif¬
ferent causes Cj, C2, C,, &c. have not all the same num¬
ber of chances in their favour, or that the probabilities of
the different hypotheses have relative values, it becomes ne¬
cessary to introduce those relative values, in consequence
of which zr | ? zr q j &c., will receive a modification. Let us
conceive a number of urns, each containing balls of two
colours, black and white, to be distributed in n groups,
•^15-^2’ ^5 •»•••••• •A.fi
such a manner that the ratio of
the number of white balls to the number of black balls
is the same in respect of each urn belonging to the same
group, and consequently that the probability of drawing
a ball of either colour is the same from whichever urn
in the group it may happen to be drawn, but different in
respect of the different groups ; and let the probabilities of
drawing a white ball from each of the different groups be re¬
spectively Pj, P2, P3, Pn. Now, let us suppose there
are urns in the group Al5 in the group A2, and so on,
and let s =z the whole number of urns, so that s=a1 +a2
609
ing drawn from the group A,, is X,; and if the ball is actu- Probability
ally drawn from that group, the probability of its being
white is P,; therefore the probability of both events is
X P
X, P,.; and consequently (45), the symbol of sum-
mation 2 extending to all the values of i from i— ] to i=n.
50. In the applications of the theory to physical or moral
events, the different groups of urns here imagined may be
regarded as so many independent causes Cj, C2, C3, &c.
by any one of which the event E might have been produced;
sr, is the probability that the event was produced by the par¬
ticular cause Ct; P, is the probability that the cause C, if it
had alone existed, would have produced the observed event
E; and X, is the probability, previously to the experiment,
that C, would be the efficient cause. The formula wt—
X P
-“-jj, therefore, shews that the probability of any one of
the possible causes (C,) of an observed event is equal to the
product of the probability (Pf) of the event taking place if
that cause acted alone multiplied into the probability X, that
the cause Qis the true one, and divided by the sum (SX,?,) of
all the similar products formed relatively to each of the causes
from which the event can be supposed to arise.
51. The formulae now obtained can only be used when
the number of hypotheses is finite; but in the applications
of the theory it most frequently happens that an infinite
number of hypotheses may be made respecting the causes of
an observed event, as would be the case in the above ex¬
ample if the number of balls in the urn had been unknown.
In such cases, in order to find the values of sr and II, it be¬
comes necessary to transform the sums 2 into definite in¬
tegrals, which is accomplished by means of the theorem
x dx, where X is a function of x. Suppose a ball
to have been drawn a great number of times in succession
from an urn (the number in which is unknown) and re¬
placed in the urn after each drawing, and that the result
has been a white ball m times and a black ball n times, the
probable constitution of the urn, and thence the probability
of drawing a white ball at a future trial will be found as
follows. Assume the hypothesis that the ratio of the num¬
ber of white balls to the whole number in the urn is #: 1,
and let zr be the probability of the hypothesis. On this
hypothesis the probability of drawing a white ball in any
trial is x, and that of drawing a black ball 1—x, and
consequently, the probability of drawing m white and n
black in w-f-« trials is U*m(l—x)n by(12). Wehavethere-
fore for the probability of the observed compound event
P=Ua’m(l—x)n whence in consequence of the above
formula for transforming a sum into a definite integral
ip=u/; lxm{\—x)n dx (U being independent of x) and
therefore
P _ a:m(l—a?)B
27_ 2P (1—x)n dx
The value of the integral in the denominator of this frac¬
tion is obtained by the usual method of integrating by parts.
Since
^m+tn—XY
d  «
Wi-f- 1
(1—x)ndx-
wi-f-1
rm+1( 1—x)n~ldx,
+ a3 -\-aH ; then, if we make—rrXj, —=X2
and so therefore
s s
on, X! will be the a priori probability that a ball drawn from ./,f ^
any urn at random, will be drawn from the group Ar; X2
the probability it will be drawn from the group A2 ; and,
in general, \ the probability it will be drawn from the group
A,. This being premised, suppose a trial to be made, and
that the event E is a white ball; the probability wt of the
hypothesis that the ball was drawn from the group A, is
found as follows. The a priori probability of the ball be-
VOL. XVIII.
-x)ndxz
’,+1(T—x)n
In like manner we get J"xm+l(l
71
4- /VM+1(l-aOn~1dfr,
w-f-l-7
)n~ldx
+2(1—x)”-1 n—1
+
/xm+2( I—xY^dx.
m +2 1 m + 2'
Continuing this operation n times, or till the exponent of
(T x) becomes n—«=0, the last integral will be
v 7 4 H
610
Probability
PROBABILITY.
gom+n+1
_/>+»«&= .
therefore, collecting the several terms into one sum, we have
of E to that of F to be in the ratio of x to \—x; we have Probability
then, as before, for the probability of the hypothesis, <5r=
xm(\—x)n. Now on this hypothesis the probabi-
\jti] \_ri]
a;m+1(l—«)” Wa;m+2(1—a?)”-1 MO] r t? • i
/xm(l—x)ndx =   H 7—rrv^n^V  lity of E in the next instance is x, and that of F is 1—x,
' v ' m+l +   u ,nVill 1 1*tt rip "yvi* fimnc P. ar»rl Vi! timPSl F in the
2.1.
• +
n(n—1)0-
f +
-2)..
(w_pl)(m + 2)  w + w+1
When x—0, all the terms of this series vanish, and when
x—\ they all vanish excepting the last; therefore between
the limits a’^O and x—\, the value of the integral is the
last term of the series when x in that term = 1 ; that is to
say,
ri x , n(n—1)0—2)  2.1
fo xm(1—x)ndx-(m + i)(m + 2) m + n + V
For the sake of brevity, let the symbol \jc] be adopted to
represent the continued product 1 . 2.3...a? of the natural
numbers from 1 to x,1 whence by analogy [a?+y] will repre¬
sent the continued product of the same series from 1 to the
number denoted by a;-|-y. Multiplying, then, the numera¬
tor and denominator of the above expression by 1.2.3...
we get
r'x’-a-xYte- _MM_.
J, X ^m + n+ly
whence the probability of m' times E and n' times F in the
next A' trials being denoted by j», we have (12) prrU' xm
1.2.3...A'
(1—a?)n', making U' =
1.2.3..
—. We have therefore zrp—Xl'
m' x 1 .2.3.
[A+l]
[m\ [»]
m!
[rnT\ [n'-\
(1 a’)n+”, for the probability of the compound event on
this hypothesis. To find its probability n on the infinite
number of hypotheses formed by supposing x to increase by
infinitely small increments from to xzz\, we have
n=:2arp= J'q zrpdx. On substituting for zrp the value just
found, we get n=U' fo x™+m'(\—x)n+n’dx, and
0 \_m\ \ n\ J u
it is manifest that the value of this integral will be obtained
by substituting for m, and n-\-n' for n in the value
This substitution gives
\jn—nf\ \_n + ft']
°f /0' xm(l—x)ndx found above.
/o1 xm+m' (1 —x) n+n'dx =
”(1—x)n.
whence we conclude
tt, M C7* + ra/] + J]
n-U ImlMlh+h'+ll ■
to zero. Differentiating the equation rTTYFTq
and making — =0, we get m{\—x~)—nx, whence x —
The most probable supposition, therefore, respect¬
ing the contents of the urn is, that the two sorts of balls are
in the same proportions as have been shewn by the previous
drawings. We shall have further occasion for these for-
mulae when we come to consider the cases in which m and
ft are large numbers.
SECT. VI OF BENEFITS DEPENDING ON THE PROBABLE
DURATION OF HUMAN LIFE.
53. In applying the principles of the theory of probabi¬
lity to the determination of the values of benefits depend¬
ing on life, the fundamental element which it is necessary
to determine from observation is the probability that an in¬
dividual at every given age within the observed limits of
the duration of life, will live over a given portion of time,
for instance one year ; for when this has been determined
for each year of age, the probability that an individual, or
any number of individuals, will live over any assigned num¬
ber of years, is easily deduced. Thus, if the probabilities
that an individual A, whose age is y, will live over 1, 2,
be denoted respectively by/^, />2, Psp-P*» an(i
if <7i, <72, C[3"‘Qx denote the same probabilities in respect
m-\-n
whence the probability of the hypothesis, in consequence of
the equation above found, becomes
Qq-ft+l]
'sr~ [»i] [ft]
From this value of tsr we are enabled to deduce that of n,
the probability of drawing a white ball at the next trial. By The mogt pr^able hypothesis will be found by making
(45) n=2a-j9. Now, since by hypothesis the number of t}ievaiue 0f j/a maximum, or its differential coefficient equal
white balls in the urn is to the whole number of both co¬
lours in the ratio of x to 1, the probability of drawing a
white ball is a?; consequently/)^, and therefore n=2^=
f' zrxdx— {Z/7 + n+l] y^1 xm+\\—x)ndx. But the value
°fy’1 xmJrX(\—x)ndx will evidently be obtained by substi¬
tuting m+1 for ft* in the expression found for yj1 xm
(1 x)ndx. This substitution gives
/>+,o-^y^= ^+2}
whence, observing that [ft* + 1] -r- [fti] = ft* + T and
[mq_/^2]-v[fti + ?H-l]:=ft* + w + 2> we have
ft* 4-1
XX—   .
»* + ft + 2
The probability of the contrary event, or of drawing a
black ball, is 1—11:= - . As the numbers m and ft
«*-f ft + 2
become larger, these two fractions approach nearer and
nearer to their limits  and  , which are the aprioi'i
m-\-n ft* -f ft
probabilities p and q of the respective events when the ratio
of the number of white balls in the urn is to that of the black
balls as m to n.
52. The probability of drawing ft*' white balls and ft'
black balls in m! + ft' future trials is found in a similar man¬
ner, and the problem may be thus stated. E and F are two
contrary events, depending on constant but unknown causes;
and it has been observed, that in ft*4-ft=A successive in¬
stances the event E has occurred m times and F n times,
required the probability that in m' ■\-n'=.h' future instances,
E will occur m' times and F n' times.
Assume, as in the last case, the facility of the occurrence
3...X years, be denoted respectively by/^, />2, P?>p-Px *
if^i, q2, g3...denote the same probabilities in r< _
of an individual whose age is y+1 years; tv..tv, the
same in respectof an individual whose age is */-|-2 years, and
so on ; then, since the probability/)2 which A has of living
over 2 years is obviously compounded of the probability/)]
of his living over 1 year, and of the probability qi that, hav¬
ing attained the age */+!, he will live another year, we
1 This convenient notation has been adopted by Mr. De Morgan.
PROBABILITY.
Probability, have, by (1), pq—p^q]. Again, the probability p3 that A
live over three years, being compounded of’the proba¬
bility Pq that he will live over two years, and of the proba¬
bility that, having attained the age y + 2 years, he will
survive another year, we have p5—pQ r^=zplqlr1. In like
manner p^p-, q^r^s^, and so on ; so that the probabili¬
ties pq, pz, pA...px are successively derived fromjOj,
rv sx, &c. which are supposed to be the data of observation.
If a large number n of individuals, all born in the same
year, were selected, and if it were observed that the num¬
ber of them remaining alive at the end of the first year is
nv at the end of the second year n„, at the end of the
third n^, and so on, then the probabilities jOj, ^3, &c.
would be given directly by the observation, being respec-
Tt Tt Tt
lively equal to the quotients —, -A -A &c. But the most
n n n
accurate observations of mortality are furnished by the ex¬
perience of the annuity and assurance offices, where they
are not made on an isolated number, diminishing, and con¬
sequently giving a less valuable result every year, but on a
comparison of the numbers which, in a series of years, en¬
ter upon and survive each year of age. This observation
gives jOp qy rx, sv &c, whence p2, p3, p±, &c. are found,
as above, for every year of life.1
54. The values of annuities on lives, and of reversionary
sums to be paid on the failure of lives, are found by com¬
bining the probabilities pv p2, p5, &c. with the rate of in¬
terest of money. Let r= the rate of interest, that is to say,
the interest of L.l for a year, and v=: the present value of
L.l to be received at the end of a year, we shall then have
»=!-*-(!+r). Now an annuity, payable yearly, is always
understood in this sense, that the first payment becomes due
at the end of a year after the annuity is created. Suppose
then the annuity to be L.l, the present value of the first
payment, if it were to be received certainly, is v ; but the
receipt of this sum is contingent on the annuitant being
alive at the end of the year, the probability of which we sup¬
pose to be pi ; therefore (7) the present value of L.l sub¬
ject to the contingency, is vpx. In like manner, the present
value of L.l to be received certainly at the end of x years
is if ; but the annuity will only be received at the end of
the tfth year if the annuitant be then living, the probability
of which is ; therefore the present value of that particu¬
lar payment is ifpx. Hence if A denote the present value
of the annuity, or the sum in hand which is equivalent to
all the future payments, we shall have A—Sifp*; the sum
2 including all values of x from x=l to the number for
which pz=0. If the annuity be a pounds, its value is ob¬
viously — a'S.ifp^aA.
55. The series denoted by 'Zifpx may be divided into two
parts, -f- 'Zifp.a where n is to be taken from 1 to n, and
2fromtt-|-1 to the number for which p vanishes. Thefirstgives
the value of the temporary annuity on the given life for n
years, and the second the value of the deferred annuity, that
is to say, of the annuity to commence n years hence if the
individual shall be then living, and to continue during the
remainder of his life. Let A be the value of the annuity
on the life of a person now aged y years for the whole of
life, A<tn) the value of a temporary annuity on the same life
for n years, and A<dnt the value of an annuity deferred n
years on the same life, we have then A=A(<,l,-)-J^(d",•
To find A^t, let An be the value of an annuity on a life
aged y + n years. If the person now aged y years lives over
n years, the value of an annuity on the remainder of his
life will then be A„. The present value of this sum, if it
were to be received certainly, is wnA„, and the probability
of receiving it is pn ; therefore its value is ifpnAn. Hence
A<d”) z=.vnpnAn, and A^—A—vnpnAn;
so that the values of temporary and deferred annuities are Probability
readily computed from tables of A and p for all the diffe-
rent ages.
56. The equation A=A<f«>-f-A**”) gives a formula by
which the values of A are readily deduced from one ano¬
ther. Let w=l ; we have then A=:AW-ftpj,A,. But
A(rt), the value of an annuity for one year, is merely the
value of the first payment to be received in the event of the
given life surviving one year. Its value is therefore vpi ; and
we have consequently Azzivp^vpXAX, or A—vpx(\ -{-Aj).
This formula, which gives the value of an annuity at any
age in terms of the next higher age, and greatly facilitates
the computation of the annuity tables, is due to Euler.
57- I he value of an annuity on the joint lives of any num¬
ber of individuals, that is, to continue only while they are all
living, is calculated precisely in the same manner as the an¬
nuity on a single life. Let there be any number of individuals,
A, B, C, D, &c. and let the probabilities of each living over
one year be respectively px, qv rx, sx, &c. and let Pj be
the probability that they will all live over one year ; then
Pi = Pi X ^ X ^ X sx, &c.
Pg —P2 X ?gX r^X Sq) &c.
P* = p* X ?« X rxx Sx, &c.
and the value of an annuity of L.l on the joint lives is
HifPx, fromx=:l to x= the number which renders anyone
of the probabilities p, q, r, s, &c. nothing.
58. The value of an annuity on the survivor of any num¬
ber of given lives, that is, to continue so long as any one of
them exists, is thus found. The probability that A will be
alive at the end of the «th year being px, the probabi¬
lity that he will not be alive at the end of that time is
1—px. The probability that all the lives will be extinct
at the end of the ath year is therefore
(1—f^Xl—9*)(1—r*)(l—sx)> See.
and the probability that they will not all be extinct, or that
at least one of them will be in being, is
1_(1—p*)(l—?*)(1—rx)(l—O, Sec.
which becomes by multiplication
p*+qx+rx+sx + Sec.
—pxq*—pxrx —qxrx—qxsx —rxsx—&c.
+P* qx rx +px qxsx +qxrxsx +&c.
—px q* Sx iee-
-f-&c.
Multiplying each of the terms by v*, and taking the sums of
the respective products from x—\, and observing that
'Lvxpxqx is the value of the annuity on the joint lives of
A and B, '2.vxpxqxrx that on the joint lives of A, B, and
C, and so on, we have this rule:—
The value of an annuity on the survivor of any number
of lives is equal to the sum of the annuities on each of the
lives, minus the sum of the annuities on each pair of joint
lives, plus the sum of the annuities on the joint lives taken
by threes, and so on. When there are only two lives, the
value of the annuity on the life of the survivor becomes
'Zvxpx + ~Zvxqx —2w*p, qx .
59. Let V denote the value of an assurance on the life
of A, or the present worth of L.l to be received at the end
of the year in which A shall die. In respect of any year,
the tfth, after the present, the probability of A dying in the
course of that year ispx-\—px. For let u be the probabi¬
lity that a life x—1 years older than A will live over one
year, then 1—u is the probability of a life of that age not liv¬
ing over one year; therefore px~x being the probability of A
living over x—1 years, px-\{\—u) is the chance of his liv¬
ing over x—1 years, and dying in the following year (7).
But px-i (\—u)=px-\ —px-\ u ; and by (53), px-\ u=px ;
therefore px—i—px is the chance that A will survive x—1
* For further details on this subject, see Mortality, vol. xv. p. 550.
612
PROBABILITY.
Probability-years and not survive a; years. Nowr* is the value of L.l
' to be received certainly at the end of the irth year ; there¬
fore in respect of the ath year the value oi the expectation
is whence* we have for the value of the as¬
surance
Y=zv*(px-i—p*),
from x=z \ to x= the number which makes/>==0. JNow, it
we observe that p0 — 1 > and TvIpx—\ —v^vx~ipx—\i if w ‘ii
obvious that 'Zvxpx—\'=v{\-\-Tvxpx)\ whence, denoting
1vxpx by A, (A being as in (54) the value ol the annuity
on the given life), we have
V—r( 1 + A)—A ; or V—v—(1—v)A.
60. The values of assurances on joint lives, (that is, to be
paid at the end of the year in which any one of the lives shall
fail), or on the survivor of any number of joint lives, are cal¬
culated from the corresponding annuities by means of the same
formula. Thus, let A' be the value of an annuity of L.l
on any number of joint lives, and Vr the value of an assur¬
ance of L.l on the same joint lives, then Y'—v—(1—^)A'.
If A" be the annuity, and Y" the assurance on the life of
the survivor of any number of given lives, we have still
Y"=:v--{\—v)A". . .
61. Assurances on lives are usually paid not in single pay¬
ments, but by equal yearly payments, the first being made
at the time the contract is entered into, and the succeeding
ones at the end of each future year during the life of the
assured. The present value of the sum which the assured
contracts to pay is therefore equal to the first payment add¬
ed to the value of an annuity of the same amount on his life ;
and if the assurance is made on terms of mathematical equa¬
lity, this sum must be precisely equal to the value of the
assurance in a single payment. Therefore, if y denote the
amount of the yearly payment, we have the equation
#( 1 + A)=V ; whence ?/=V-t-(1 + .A)’
62. The value of a temporary assurance for n years, that
is, of an assurance to be paid only in the event of the indi¬
vidual dying before the end of n years is thus found. Let
V be the present value of L.l, to be paid on the death of a
person now aged y years, and Yn the present value of L.l,
to be paid on the death of a person now aged y + n years.^
At the end of n years from the present time, the value of
L.l assured on the life of a person now aged y years
will be V„, if he be then living. But the present value of
L.l to be received certainly at the end of « years isf” ; and
the probability that the life will continue n years is/v, there¬
fore the present value of V„, subject to the contingency of
the life continuing 7i years, is vnpnYn. If, therefore, we sub¬
tract this from V, we shall have the value of the temporary
assurance in a single payment, namely V—vnpnYn.
The equivalent annual premium is found by observing,
that as the first payment is made immediately, and n pay¬
ments are to be made in all, the value of all the premiums
after the first is that of a temporary annuity of the same
amount for n—1 years. Denoting therefore the annual
premium by u, and the value of a temporary annuity for
n—\ years by A‘f"'), the value of all the premiums is
u -f uA<tn'> = w(l q- ) A^ ; and we have consequently
«(1 -f A^,l'>)=:Y—vnpnYn, whence
V—vnpnYn
U~ l +AM ‘
63. The following question is of frequent occurrence.
Required the present value of a sum of money to be receiv¬
ed at the end of the year in which A dies, provided he die
while B is living.
Let the sum be L.l, W= its present value, px~ the
probability of A living over x years, and q x — the probabi¬
lity of B living over x years. The chance of receiving the
sum at the end of any given year, the #th, depends on two Probability
contingencies ; 1. A may die in the course of that year, and v '
B live over it; 2. A and B may both die in that year, A
dying first. The probability of A dying in the xth year
has been shewn (59) to be px-i—px ; whence (7) the
probability of the first contingency is (px-]—px)qX’ The
probability that A and B will both die in the .fth year is
(p x_: px)(qx_\—q x ); and for so short a period asone year,
it may be considered an even chance whether A or B will
die first, whatever be the difference of their ages ; therefore
the probability in respect of the second contingency is
1(pX_x—p , ){q*_!—? * )• Hence the whole probability of
the sum being received at the end of the a?th year, is
(px-i—px)qx + \{px-\—pi'){q*-\—q*)-k(P*-}--P’)
(qx+i + qx)’ which being developed, and multiplied by v*,
becomes
(px—xqx—i-^-px—\qx—pxqx-\ p*qx)->
and the sum of all the values of this expression from
x— 1, gives the value of W.
It has been already shewn (59) that Tvx{pXr\—px)—
v (1 u) A, where A= the annuity on the life of A. In like
manner, if we denote by AB the value of an annuity on the
joint lives of A and B, we shall have 2vx (px-iqx-i—px q*)
—v. (1 v)AB, which is the value of an assurance to be
paid on the death of the first dying. Assume pf such that
p'x—p\px-.\, then p'x is evidently the probability that an
individual A'one year younger than A, will live over x year
(53), and2ti*o^ig,= -V = -^-A/B; denoting by
) Pi P \
A'B the value of an annuity on the joint lives of A and B.
Again, let q'x = q\qx-\, then q>x is the probability that
B', who is one year younger than B, will live over x years,
and lvxpxqx-i= y- AIR; denoting by AB'the
2 1
value of an annuity on the joint lives of A and B'. Collect¬
ing the different terms, we have therefore
W=i fv—(1—v)AB +4^B 7 AB' }’ whence W
n v ' p\ q i
is easily' computed from tables of annuities on joint lives.
If A and B are both of the same age, the two last terms
destroy each other, and W is equal to ^ the value oi L.l, to
be paid on the failure of the joint lives, as it evidently oug it
to be, since there is in this case the same chance of A dy¬
ing before B as of B dying before A.
The formula gives the value of L.l in a single payment,
the equivalent yearly payment is W divided by 1-f-AB, for
the contract ceases on the failure of the joint lives by the
death of either.
It would be easy to extend the formula to the case of an
assurance to be paid on the contingency of the faihue of
any number of lives during the continuance of any number
of other lives, or of an assurance to continue only during a
stated time ; but as it is not our purpose to give solutions
of the various problems of this kind which may occur m
practice, but merely to shew the manner in which the ge¬
neral principles of the theory are applied to them, we snail
not pursue the subject farther, but refer the reader to the
article Annuities, and to the standard works of Baily1 and
Milne,2 in which it is treated in detail.
SECT. VII. OE THE A PF LIGATION OP THE THEOUY OE PRO¬
BABILITY TO TESTIMONY, AND TO THE DECISIONS OE
JURIES AND TRIBUNALS.
64. The case of a witness making an assertion may be
represented by an urn containing balls of two colours, the
London,
Is
1 The Doctrine of Life Annuities and Assurances analytically investigated and pr actically explained, $%'. 1) Ffa cis ax y.
‘lii. This work is now out of print, bttt a French translation of it has recently been published at 1 a ns.
A Treatise on the Valuation of Annuities arul Assurances on Lives and Survivorships, frc. Jiy Joshua Milne.
London, 1815-
PROBABILITY.
Probability ratio of the number of one colour to that of the other being
' unknown, but presumed from the result of a number of ex¬
periments, which consist in drawing a ball at random, and
replacing it in the urn after each trial. A true assertion
being represented by a ball of one colour, and a false one
by a ball of the other, it follows from the theorem in (51),
that if a witness has made m + n assertions, of which mare
true and n false, the probability of a future assertion being
true is , and that of its being false —- —. r et
m+rc + 2 & m-fre-i-2
the first of these fractions be represented by v, and the se¬
cond by «?, then v is the measure of the veracity of the in¬
dividual, or the probability of his speaking the truth, and
w the opposite probability, since vJtw=.\. In general, the
existing data are insufficient to enable us to determine the
numerical values of v and w in this manner; and therefore
in applying the formulae to particular cases, we must assign
arbitrary values to these quantities, founded on previous
knowledge of the moral character of the individual, or oh
some notions, more or less sanctioned by experience, of the
relative number of true and false statements made by men
in general, placed in similar circumstances.
65. Having assumed v ahd tv, let us suppose a witness to
testify that an event has taken place, the a priori probabi¬
lity of which is p, and let it be proposed to determine the
probability of the event after the testimony. In this case
the event observed (E) is the assertion of the witness, and
two hypotheses only can be made respecting its cause ; 1st,
that the event testified really took place ; and 2d, that it
did not. On the first hypothesis the witness has spoken
the truth, the probability of which is v; and an event has
occurred of which the probability is p ; therefore (7) the
probability (Pj) of the coincidence is vp. On the second
hypothesis, the witness has testified falsely, the probability
of which is w, and the event attested did not happen, the
probability of which is q; therefore the probability (P„) of
the coincidence is ivq. Hence, by the formula (47) zrx —
P(-r-XP()the probability (zrx, of the first hypothesis becomes
—^and the probability (et2) of the second —~—’
vp+wq' 1 J v 2/ vp+wq
The sum of these two probabilities is unit, a condition
which ought evidently to be fulfilled, since no other hypo¬
thesis can be made, and consequently one or other of the
two must be true. It is to be observed, that these vaitreS
of sr, and are the respective probabilities, after the tes¬
timony has been given, that the event attested took place,
and that it did not.
rp , p{v—vp—wq)
Since *•,= ^ we have vx—p - ^vpJ^wq
but —1 -f-wa:
613
vp-\-wq
_ P [? (1—p)—u-q] p{yq—wq)
vp—itiq vp—^ivq
p(2v-^-\)q
2v—1, therefore
This fraction being
vp+wq
positive or negative, according as 2v—1 is greater or less
than unity, or as v is greater or less than it follows that
if then ; that is to say, the probability of the
event after the testimony is greater than its a priori proba¬
bility when the veracity of the witness is greater than
On the contrary, if the veracity of the witness is less than
the effect of the testimony is to render the probability ot
the event less than its a priori probability.
66. If the event asserted by the witness be of such a na¬
ture that its occurrence is a priori extremely improbable,
so that jo is a very small fraction, and q consequently ap¬
proaches nearly to unity, although at the same time tie ye
racity of the witness be great, and measured by a fraction
approaching to unity, the value of sr, becomes neai y equa
to p~w, (for on this supposition /;: v is nearly equa e
to w). But it is obvious, that however great the improba- Probability,
bility of a witness giving false testimony may be supposed,
the improbability of a physical event may be any number of
times greater ; in other words, however small a value may
be given to w, the value of p may still be any number of
times smaller ; so that notwithstanding the veracity of the
witness, the probability of the event after the testimony,
namely ^t-=p—w may be less than any assignable quan-
tity. On this principle mankind do not easily give credence
to a witness asserting a very extraordinary or improbable
event. The odds against the occurrence of the event may
be so great, that the testimony of no single witness, how¬
ever respectable his character, would suffice to induce be¬
lief.
67. In the case of the character of a witness being alto¬
gether unknown, we may suppose v to have all possible values
within certain limits, and to find the value of w-j by integrat¬
ing the fraction J‘vrxdv between those limits. Since «■,=
-—J-—, we have Csr.dv— C— , which on substitut-
vp-\-wq J J vp\wq
ing 1—v and 1—p for w and q respectively, becomes
/;
—— the integral of which is
P + (2p—1>
\—p
(2p-
the value of which will be determined
If v be supposed to vary between
\—p + (2p—\)v
P{ 2^1-(2^rpIo8-(1-^+<^-1>) } +c>
P l l
C being a constant,
from the assumed limits,
the limits v—Q and v=z\, then
»= 2^t{ } ;
and if we assume jo=f, we have /W1dcT=|(I—^log.3),
which, since the logarithm is the Napierian logarithm, and
Nap. log. 3=1.0986, becomes | X .4507=.676, or nearly |.
Whence we see, that on this hypothesis the probability of
the event is diminished in consequence of the testimony.
68. The credit due to the testimony of a witness depends
not merely on his good faith, but also on the probability that
he is not himself deceived with respect to the event he as¬
serts. The chances of a witness being deceived through
credulity or ignorance are much more numerous in general
than the chances of intentional fraud ; and this must be
the case more particularly when the event is of such a na¬
ture that it may happen in various ways which may be mis¬
taken one for another : as for instance, in the case of a lot¬
tery ticket being drawn, and the witness asserting that it
bears a particular number, which might with equal proba¬
bility be any other number on the wheel. I he following
question will illustrate the method of applying the calculus
when a distinction is made between these sources of error.
An urn contains s balls, of which cty are maiked Aj,
marked A0 an marked An. A ball having been drawn
at random, a witness of the drawing affirms that the ball
drawn is marked Am; required the probability of the testi¬
mony being true. , , .
Here we have szrtfj-f-o'a  -Hh.* being the
number of the different indices or sorts of balls); so that if
we make pl=al-^-s, pa=a2-irS....../>„=«„-j-s, then Pi is
the a priori probability that the ball drawn is of the class
marked A„ pq the probability that it belongs to the class
whose index is A2, and so oti. It is evident that n diffe¬
rent hypotheses may be made respecting the index of the
ball which has been drawn, for it may belong to any one of
the different classes At, A2...A„. Let the probabilities of
these hypotheses be respectively ^2... ^n, (that is, in re¬
spect of any particular index i, rrt is the probability after the
assertion that the ball drawn is marked A,); and let the
nrobabilities of the assertion on each of these hypotheses be
1 -ively p , P2...P„, (that is, if the ball drawn be mark-
then P', is the probability the witness will assert it
614
PROBABILITY.
Probability, to be marked A„,). Lastly, let v be the veracity of the wit-
ness, and u the probability that he has not been deceived.
(1 ) Let us first consider the hypothesis that the ball drawn
is marked Am, and consequently that the assertion is true.
In order to find Pm, the probability of the assertion being
made, there are four cases to be considered. 1st, we may
suppose the witness is not deceived himself (m), and that he
speaks the truth {v). The probability of the assertion m
this case is uv. 2d, The witness knows the truth, but in¬
tends to deceive, or testifies falsely. In this case the proba¬
bility of the assertion being made, on the hypothesis under
consideration, is 0. 3d, The witness has been deceived him¬
self but intends to speak the truth. In this case also the proba¬
bility of the assertion being made is 0. 4th, The witness has
been deceived himself, and intends to deceive. In this case
consequently the probability of this announcement in any of Probability
these ways is {n—2)-j-(n—l)2. Multiplying this into the
probability of his being deceived (1—m), and the probability
of his giving false testimony (1—v), the probability ot the
v)(rc—2)
assertion in this case becomes ^  lienee
the whole probability of the assertion, in all the cases in¬
cluded in the hypothesis that the ball actually drawn was
marked A„ is
„ u(\—v) (!—«)« , (1—m)(1—*00—2)
p'= —+
i 1 n—1 ‘ (y1—i)2
As this expression will evidently be the probability of the
assertion on any other of the n—1 hypotheses that the ball
* , . i j | 4-»-» o nncci artiiflllv drawn was marked with an index different from Amj
been deceived himself, and intends to deceive. AlJ> tms case Y probabilities of the assertion on all these hy-
the assertion might be made ; and to find the P^abd ty of the sum ot ^ pro . ^ £ach of the num.
its being made we have to consider, that since the witness Pot"eses 18 m.
has been deceived, he must have supposed some other me ex e‘w ’h ’ ’now’to find arm, the probability of the first hypo-
than Am to have been drawn ; and since he intends to de- We h^e n0^ " he-g inPthe preSentquestion, are not
ceive, he must assert some other index to be drawn than thesis. Mnce me nypot e e , v ^ _
that which he supposes to be drawn. Setting aside, there
fore, the index which he supposes to have been drawn, there
remain n—1 others, any one of which he is as likely to name
as any other. The probability, therefore, of his naming Am
when he intends to deceive is l-j-(/«—1). Hence the pio-
bability of the assertion in this case is compounded ot the ^ of summation
probabilities of three simple events, as follows: 1. 1 robabi- 0 ^ ^ excentimr i-m~
lity the witness is deceived =(1—u) ; 2. Probability he in¬
tends to deceive =(1—v)\ 3. Probability he names Am
= 1 • (w_l). Theprobabilityofthe assertion is therefore in
this case =(!-«)( Adding this to the pro¬
bability found in the first case, we have Pm, the whole pro¬
bability of the assertion being made on the hypothesis that
the index of the ball drawn was Am, namely
(l_M)(l_r)
¥m—uv-\-  
all equally probable a priori, we must have recourse to the
formula (49)^=X<Pi-^2X1P<, and consequently in the present
case we have
A P
/vmA m
n—1
XmPm + ^XjP
S including every value of i from
0 to n, excepting i-m. Now the value of P, being the
same in respect of each of the hypotheses which suppose
the assertion untrue, SX^rrP^X,; and the sum of all the
values of X, from *=0 to i=n being 1, on excluding
\m—am-±-s, we have XX^C*—Substituting this,
together with the values of Pm and P„ as above found, and
making u'= I—u, the formula becomes, after the
proper reduction,
«40—!) uv +«V]
(2.) Let us now consider one of the remaining hypotheses,
and suppose that the ball actually drawn was marked A(, and
not Am, as attested by the witness. As before, there are
four possible cases for consideration. 1st, The witness
knows the fact and speaks the truth. In this case the as¬
sertion could not be made, or its probability is 0. 2d, The
witness knows the fact, and intends to deceive. In this case
the probability of his asserting Aro to be drawn is compound¬
ed of the probability that he is not deceived (», the proba¬
bility that he testifies falsely (1—v), and the probability that,
knowing the index At to be drawn, he selects Am from among
the n—l which remain after rejecting A„ (1 -4-(w—!))• 4 he
probabilitv of the assertion being made in this case is there¬
fore u(\—v)-±(n—1). 3d, The witness is deceived, and
intends to speak the truth. By reasoning as in the last
case, it is easy to see that the probability of the assertion
being made in this case is v (1—u)-—-{n—1).^ 4th, Hie wit¬
ness is deceived, and intends to deceive. 4 he probability
of the assertion being made in this case will be found by con¬
sidering, that as the witness is himself deceived, he must
suppose some particular index to be drawn different from A„
(which is drawn by hypothesis), for instance A.e, the proba¬
bility of which is 1 -~-{n—1) ; and intending to deceive, he
must fix on some index different from Ae, which he sup¬
poses to be drawn ; and he announces Am, the probability
of which selection is also l-i-(w—1). The probability,
therefore, that the witness supposes Ae to be drawn, and
annnounces Am, is —l)2. But it is evident, that
whatever can be affirmed with respect to the particular in¬
dex Ae, may be affirmed with equal truth of every one of
the other n indexes, excepting A,, which is actually drawn,
(since by hypothesis the witness is deceived), and Am, which
he announces, (since by hypothesis he lies). There are
therefore n 2 different ways in which he may at the same
time be deceived, and intend to deceive, and announce Am;
am((«—1)mv + mV] -\-(s—am)\u,v+uvr+n~u,v,Y
which is the probability of the hypothesis that a ball mark¬
ed A m was drawn, or that the testimony is true.
When there are no two balls in the urn having the same
index, the numbers a^, a3, &c. become each __1, anc
s=w. In this case the formula gives
(n— 1 )uv -{- u'v' 
(n—l)uv+u'v' + (n—l) (u'v + uv') + (n—2)uV
which, on observing that uv -J- u'v + uv' -}- mV=1, becomes
bv reduction
Y * . (1-«)(1-")
*rm=uv+  ^ 
This is the probability of the truth of the testimony of a
witness, who affirms that the number m is drawn from an
urn which contains n balls, numbered l, 2, 3...«. It is ob¬
vious that when u and ware fractions approaching to unity,
and n is a considerable number, the second term becomes
very small, and may be neglected. The probability then
becomes simply mw.
69- We now proceed to consider the probability ot an event
attested by several witnesses; and first let us suppose the \v it-
nesses to agree in their testimony. The measures of the ve¬
racity of the several witnesses being respectively w2, v3,
&c., and the a priori probability of the event being p, we
have by (58) for its probability after the testimony of the
first witness,
vxp
1 vtf+tV—v^il—p)
In order to find the probability of the event after the se¬
cond witness gives his testimony, we may suppose the a
priori probability to be changed from ^ to ^ by the testi¬
mony of the first witness, and the same formula gives
Probability.
VnS7,
r[ + (l_T;2)( l-^l)
PROBABILITY.
viv*p
615
Let a third witness now come forward, and give testi¬
mony in favour of the same event. Its probability after his
testimony will become in like manner
i+(l-
VlV,V,P
v3Xl—v2) v1 V2V3P~^~C^~V i)( l-^2X 1 'V3)(i-p)*
In general, let zr* be the probability of an event after it
has been attested by a? witnesses, and let vx be the veracity
of the last witness, then being the probability of the
event after x—1 eyewitnesses have each testified in its fa¬
vour, we have
.vxp
• -^ + (1 —v,)( 1 —w2 )... (1 —vx){ l—p)’
If we suppose the witnesses all equally credible, or that
vl=zvQ—v3...=v*, this becomes
v* p (i v)x (x—Py
Now, if then (1—v)-f-wr=l, and ■srxz=p; whence
it appears that the probability of an event is not increased
by the testimony of any number of witnesses, when the vera¬
city of each is only but when v is greater than |, the event
becomes more probable as the number ofwitnesses is greater,
and when ?; is a considerable fraction, its probability in¬
creases very rapidly with the number of witnesses.
70. W hen the values of v and p are given, that of x in
the last formula may be found so as to render zrx of any
given value. Hence we may find the number of witnesses
required to make it an even wager, whether an event ex¬
ceedingly improbable, and in favour of which they give una¬
nimous testimony, has happened or not. For example,
let the odds against the event be a million million to one,
that is, let p—
1
1,000,000,000,001 “ 1012+1’
and let v the
veracity ofeach witness be —•
In order that w* may equal
we must have
Now
1—v 1 ,
 =r and
v if
\—p
= 10
12
(~)'
/IV 1
therefore ^-J x 1019= 1; whence x log g—
l—p
P
x 12
l°g jTTia or x log9= 12 and therefore a;=r——-=12-6
1012
•95424
nearly, so that 13 independent witnesses would suffice to
render it more probable that the event really took place
than that it did not.
This example is given by Mr. Babbage, (Ninth Bridge-
water Treatise, Note E), with a view to shew the fallacy
of Hume’s celebrated argument respecting miracles. What
the example proves is simply this, that if we suppose an urn
to contain a million million of white balls, and only one black
ball, and that on a ball being drawn at random from the
urn, thirteen eyewitnesses of the drawing, each of whom
makes only one false statement in ten, without collusion,
and independently of each other, affirm to A, who was not
present at the drawing, that the ball drawn was black, then
A would have rather a stronger reason for believing than
for disbelieving the testimony. But it is sufficiently obvious,
that the event attested in this case, though exceedingly im¬
probable a priori, cannot be regarded as in any way mira¬
culous. On the contrary, the black ball might be drawn
with the same facility, and was a priori as likely to be drawn,
as any other specified ball in the urn. Let it be granted
S ZfT1 iS Wit,',in the rgf °f fortultous °«™Tence, Probability,
and that there exists a single chance in its favour out of^-^-w
any number of millions of chances, it may then happen in
y one trial; nay, a number of trials may be assigned
such that its non-occurrence would be many times more im¬
probable than the contrary.
71. Let us next consider the case of a number of wit¬
nesses contradicting each other. If the first witness an-
nounces an event of which the probability is p, then the
probability, after the testimony, of its having happened is
and the probability that it has not happened Sup¬
pose a second witness now to appear, and testify that the
event has not happened, and let the probability of the truth
°f his testimony be denoted by ; then l—sr, being the
probability before his testimony was given that what he as¬
serts is true, and v2 being the measure of his veracity, we
have, as in (69), ar's
2(1—^1)
vlP
'^ + (1-
2(l—^,) + (l—Ujar,,
there results
whence, since
vxi-py
(i—-ptK(i-
-p)
(1 —( * —P) + v, (1 —?;2 )p
foi the measure of the probability that the event has not
happened. 1 he probability that it has happened is there¬
fore 1—srh
and accordingly if
be less than 4-,
there
is a stronger reason for believing that the event hfppened
than that it did not. The method of forming the expression
for the probability of the event, after it has been attested
or denied by a third witness, or any number of successive wit¬
nesses, is obvious.
If we suppose the values of vl and v;j to be equal, the ex¬
pression becomes w 2—1—p, which is the a priori probabi¬
lity that the event did not happen. It is obvious that this
must be the case, inasmuch as two contradictory testimonies
of equal weight neutralize each other. In general, the pro¬
bability of an event which is affirmed by m witnesses, and
denied by n witnesses, all equally credible, is the same as
that of an event which is affirmed by m—n witnesses who
agree in their testimony.
72. When a relation has been transmitted through a se¬
ries of narrators, of whom the first only has a direct know¬
ledge of the event, and each of the others derives his know¬
ledge from the relation of the preceding, the probability of
the event is diminished by every succeeding relation In
order to obtain a general expression for the probability of
traditionary testimony, we may take the event considered
in (68), namely the extraction of a ball marked Am from an
urn containing s balls, of which av are marked A,, «2 mark¬
ed A2,...crnmarked A„, there being in all n different in¬
dices. Now suppose the relation to have passed through a
chain of narrators, T, Tt, T2,...TX, in number dr-fl, of
whom the first only was an eyewitness of the event, each
of the others receiving his knowledge of it from the one pre¬
ceding him, and communicating it in his turn to the suc¬
ceeding, the question is to determine the probability that a
ball marked Am was drawn, after this event has been nar¬
rated by Tx, the last witness of the series.
73. In order to apply the general formula of (68) to this
case, it is necessary to remark that the event observed is the
attestation of Tx of his having been informed by T,—! that
the ball drawn from the urn, the drawing of which was seen
by T, was marked Am. There are n different hypotheses
respecting the index of the ball actually drawn, but it is
only necessary to consider two of them, namely, the hypo¬
thesis that the ball actually drawn was marked Am, and any
one of the other hypotheses which consist in supposing that
a ball with a different index from Am was drawn, for ex¬
ample A,. Let the probability of the attestation, on the hy-
PROBABILITY.
616
Probability, pothesis that the index of the hall drawn be
-^-r-Wed bv y„ and its probability on the hypothesis the
y dex was A, by y' l (y, and y', corresponding to P„ and
P in (68) whkh express the same probabilities m respect
of the^ eyewitness T), then by (68), the probability of the
hypothesis that Am was drawn is
Substituting these values of>, and y, in the expression Probability,
above found for *rm, we obtain for the probability of the event
observed by T, and narrated by T„ the narration having
passed from one to another in the manner supposed,
{l+»(Pm—1)X}
“STm 
» \ n* / >  *
o„[i+(»ivIbxl+(M»d1+^p'-1-)Xi
But sineeis the same for all the hypotheses that the in¬
dex drawn was different from A„, XV/ .-y A > anl1 by
(68) XX,=(s-n„)-s, and therefore
74. Since
nv3
—1 1
z=.vx—
n—1
n—1
and since vx is always less
amV*
m OirUx 4* i8 ar^)V x
We have now to find y, and y', in terms of x. Let o, ti,,
he has mistaken the statement of the Precef“n.
there are two ways in which it may happen that is anno
ced b^T* Firsl if he speaks the truth, and has been mform-
ed bv^the preceding narrator f,_i that Am was t e i
drawn ; secondly, if he lies, and has been ^formed by T i
that a different index from Am was drawn Assnmmg^i
to have the same signification with respeetto _l^i tbatj/
has been assumed to have with respect to -» („
the probability of the assertion being made by on ^
hypothesis that the ball actually drawn was A")> th^Pro1^
bil ty of the first of these combinations is ^
snect to the second case, it is to be observed, that if T„ an¬
nounces a different index from that which has been announ¬
ced to him by Tf_i, the chance of his announcing m
of n—1 indexes different from that announced W ^ l*
—1); and on multiplying this by the Pr°bab Y
llAv that the testimony of T, is false, and by the probability
1-V_i that T#_i has announced a different index from A„,
we have, for the probability of the second combination
/1 _v Vi __?/ n 1). The whole probability of f tes¬
tifying that A~m was drawn, is therefore, on the first hypo¬
thesis, given by the equation,
i/x—vj/x-\+(\—vx)(\—'!/x-0’(n~~^
This is an equation of finite differences of the first order,
the complete integral of which is
1 C( nvx—1)(?w,—1). • • (^-i—1 X^ty-l)1
rj*~ n+~ ~
In order to determine the arbitrary constant C, it s to be b
served, that, since //„ as well as
the narrators Tt, T2...T, respectively, it we suppose ^-
the resulting value of the integral wil be the
that Am was announced by the eyewitness T, on the By
pothesis that Am was actudly drawn Let this probabih y
be Pm ; then the equation becomes Pm=C+wnence
C=f«Pm—If, therefore, we make.
fm,.—n(w».—D
X=    (w—l)x
we obtain, on the first hypothesis, for any value of*,
•1)x}'4-w
In the same manner we find the probability fx of the
testimony given by Tx, on the hypothesis that the ball ac¬
tually drawn was A,. The probability of the eveiit, after
being testified by the eyewitness, being on this hypothesis
P.,we have,
^={l + (»Pr-l)X5-^-
than unity, and n always greater than un^y, each of the
terms of the series represented by X, whether positive or
negative, is a proper fraction, whence the value of X be¬
comes smaller and smaller as a: increases. Suppose* in¬
finite, then X=0, and which is the aprwj pro¬
bability of the event. Hence we see that the probability of
an event transmitted through a series of traditionary evi¬
dence becomes weaker at every step, and ultimately equal
to the simple probability of the event, independent of any
teS,75 When the urn is supposed to contain only n balls,
each having a different index, the expression for *rm is great¬
ly simplified ; for, in this case, am=\,s=.n; therefore,(since
p +(«—r)P,= l)the denominator becomes?*, and we have
consequently lm={\which coincides
with the value of found above, that is to say, with the
probability of the event being testified by T, on he hypo¬
thesis that it actually happened. Laplace, in solving this
particular case of the problem, (p. 456) assumes hat the
probabilities here denoted by !/x and ^ are identical. They
are, however, as is evident from the above analysis, quite
distinct in their nature, and their values are only equal in the
particular case in which s—am is to am in the ratio of m—l
t0 76. The question of determining the probability that the
verdict of a jury is correct, is precisely analogous to that of
finding the probability of an event attested by one or more
witnesses. Let us first take the case of a single juror, and
assume «= the probability that the juror gives a cor¬
rect verdict, (that is, correct in respect of the ‘acts), and
p= the probability that the accused is guilty before being
put on his trial. Suppose the verdict guilty to be return¬
ed ; two hypotheses maybe made respecting the cause ot
the verdict, first, that the accused is guilty , secon y,
he is innocent. On the first hypothesis, the accused wdl
be condemned if the juror gives a right verdict, the probabi¬
lity of which is u. On the second hypothesis, the accused
will be condemned if the juror gives a wrong verdict, the
probability of which is 1-**. But the a priori probahih
ties of these causes (the guilt or innocence of the accused)
being respectively p and 1—-p? we have by ( y)
(1—«)(1—p)
■sr.—
up
wp + (l—w)(l p)
up+(T—“)( i—P)’
beina the probability of the first hypothesis, or the pro-
bability°that the accused is guilty after the verdict has been
given/and *r2 the probability resulting from the verdict that
the accused is innocent. , , . „ j w
77. Suppose the verdict not guilty to be given, and et
and ^ be the probabilities after the verdict of the two
hypotheses. On the first hypothes.s, namely that *6 ac^
cused is guilty, this verdict will be given if the juro g
a wrong ferdict, of which the probability 1S. 1-“'‘ ^du“”
the second hypothesis, the verdict will be giv j
^ a right verdict, of which the probability .s»; and the
-i +(i—i>i)(i—
•y J r , , 1 in tBp inteeral, and forming the expression u, .Vi
i This is easily verified ; for on changing x uAo x—\ m tbe integral,
there results an identical equation.
PROBABILITY.
')p
1 (\—u)p+u(\—py
From the above value
p{\—p)(2u—1)
n(\—p)
of
(1—u)p-\-u(l—p)
: obtain — p —
respective!^ p^ancf T—p as^before^we^ave6 being ^ of a discordant verdict uw+uwz=2uw. The Probability,
h y j i ^ at, uerore, we nave sum of the two expressions is u* + 2uw+w2=(u+wy ; and
(1—, u(l—n) therefore the probabilities of the different cases are respec¬
tively given by the development of the binomial (w-f-wt)2.
By pursuing this reasoning, it is easy to see that if there
/ _ any number A whatever of jurors, or voters onanyques-
—r ; a fraction which is positive or negative ^on which admits only of simple affirmation or negation, all
being supposed to possess the same integrity and know¬
ledge, so that there is the same probability w of a correct
decision in respect of each, the probablities of the different
cases are found by the development of the binomial (u-f-w)'1.
1 he probability of a correct verdict being pronounced una¬
nimously is uh; of an erroneous one being pronounced una¬
nimously is w* ; and the probability that a correct verdict
will be given by m of the jurors, and an erroneous one by
Wj is \Jumivn, where U 1 • 2.3 h
“P + (l—“)(1-
according as u is greater or less than 1
Hence it appears
that the guilt of the accused is only rendered more probable
by the verdict guilty being pronounced, when the probabi¬
lity that the juror gives a correct verdict is greater than
In like manner it is shewn that sr'i (the presumption of the
guilt of the accused after a verdict of acquittal), is greater
than p when u is less than
78. The a priori probability of the condemnation of the
accused before he is put on his trial is wp-f (1—u)(\—p) ;
for there are two ways in which this condemnation may
take place ; first, if the accused be guilty, and the juror give
a correct verdict, the probability of which concurrence is
up ; and, secondly, if the accused be innocent, and the ju¬
ror give a wrong verdict, the probability of which is (1—u)
(1—p)- Therefore, making c — the probability of a ver¬
dict of condemnation, w e have c=Mp+(l—w)(l—p) ; and
for a verdict of acquittal, 1—c=(l—u)p + u(\—p).
79- Let us next suppose that after the verdict of the first
juror has been pronounced, the accused is put on his trial be¬
fore a second juror, and let u2 be the probability the second
'uror gives a correct verdict, and c2 be the probability the ac¬
cused will be pronounced guilty by him. After the verdict
guilty has been pronounced by the first juror, the probabi¬
lity of the guilt of the accused is za-j, and it is evident that
c2 will be found by substituting for u, and sr, for p in
the above value of c, whence -f-(l—«2)(1—^
The probability of a verdict of condemnation by both ju¬
rors is cc2 ; therefore, (observing that sr ^ — up-^-c], wre have
for this probability
cc2—uu2p-\.(\ —w)( ] —u 2 )(1 —p)-
The probability of the guilt of the accused after a verdict
of acquittal has been pronounced by the first juror being a-'j,
the probability of a verdict of acquittal being given by the
second juror is 1—c2=(l—tt2)s/1 + w2(l—sr'j) ; therefore,
(observing that —u)p-i-(\—c), we havefor the pro¬
bability of a verdict of acquittal by both jurors
vl__c)( l__c2 )=( 1_M) (1 _m2 4. «m2( !_/)}.
Adding the probability of a verdict of condemnation by both
jurors, to that of acquittal by both, we have «m2 +(1—u)
(1—m2) for the probability of both giving the same verdict.
This result is independentofjo, and is evidently true a priori,
inasmuch as there are two ways in which the same verdict
may be given, namely, when both jurors are right, and when
both are wrong.
The probability of acquittal by the second juror, after a
verdict of guilty by the first, is 1—e2=r(l—«2)ari +
tt2(l—aTi); multiplying by c, and substituting for c and
their values, we have for the probability of a verdict of
guilty by the first, and not guilty by the second,
c(1--c2) = 'm(1—m)«2(1—p).
In like manner, if the accused has been acquitted by the
first juror, the presumption of his guilt becomes sr' v and the
probability of a verdict guilty by the second is
+ (1—u0)(\—vr\) ; therefore the probability of a verdict
of not guilty by the first, and of guilty by the second is
(\—c)c2=(\—u)u2p + u(\—u2){\—p).
The sum of these two expressions gives for the probability
of a discordant verdict, m(1—w2)-f-0—u)u2.
80. If we now suppose u—u2, and make 1—u—iv,
the
probability that the two jurors will agree in their verdict,
whether they are both right or both wrong, is u2 -^w1; and
vol. xvm.
1.2.3...m x 1 • 2.3...«
81. The probability that the accused will be pronounced
guilty by m jurors, and acquitted by n, on the supposition
that the value of u is the same for each juror, is thus found.
There are two ways in which this event may take place;
1st, if the accused be guilty (the probability of which is/)),
and m jurors decide correctly, and n wrongly (the probabi¬
lity of which is \Jumivn) ; the probability of the condemna¬
tion taking place in this way is therefore Uumivnp. 2d, If
the accused be innocent (the probability of which is q) and
w jurors decide rightly, and m wrongly (the probability of
which is \Junivm) ; the probability of the event taking place
in this way is therefore \Junivmq. Let G therefore denote
the whole probability of the verdict, and we have
G=U (umwnp -f- unwmq).
Hence the probability that the accused will be condemned
unanimously by a jury consisting of A jurors is ^p-^-u^q ;
and the probability that he will be unanimously acquitted
uhq-\-VjJ'p.
82. Suppose the accused to have been pronounced guilty
by m jurors, and not guilty by n jurors, the probability of
the verdict of the majority being correct is found from the
formula in (49). Tw'O hypotheses may be made: 1st, the
accused is guilty ; 2d, he is innocent. The probability P,
of the observed event (the condemnation by m, and acquit¬
tal by n jurors) on the first hypothesis is X}umuf ; and the
a priori probabilities of the two hypotheses (or the proba¬
bilities denoted by \x and X2 in (49), being/? and q ; there¬
fore if jsq denote the probability of the verdict being cor¬
rect, that is, the probability of the first hypothesis after the
verdict has been pronounced, and zr2 the probability ot its
being wrong, we shall have (49)
u*wmq
—n—; ~m'
uwp -f- uwq
umwnp
1 umwnp 4 unwmq
If the verdict has been pronounced unanimously, then
mzzh and nzzO, and the formulae become
uhp _ u^q
'WxZ='uhp+uJ'q W*~uhp+wl,q‘
If p—q-=i\, and m—n—i, we have then
un+iw n ut
1 «”+’«/* 4-u* -}- to1
But this is the probability of a verdict being correct which
has been pronounced unanimously by i jurors ; whence it
follows that the probability of a decision rendered by a given
majority being correct, is the same as that of a decision ren¬
dered unanimously by a jury equal in number to the differ¬
ence between the majority and minority, and is therefore
independent of the total number ofjurors. This, however,
is only true on the supposition that the value ot u is known
a priori ; for if u be not absolutely known, the weight of the
618
PROBABILITY.
Probability, verdictdepends on the ratio of the majority to the whole num-
’ her of jurors. This is in accordance with common notions,
for it will readily be admitted that a verdict given unani¬
mously by a jury of 10 will be entitled to much more weight
than one pronounced by a jury consisting of a large num¬
ber, as 100, in which 55 are of one opinion, and 45 of the
opposite. In this case, the opinion of the minority throws
great doubt on the correctness of the verdict. It is to be
observed, however, that the probability of a verdict being
given by a small majority becomes less and less as the num¬
ber of jurors is increased.
83. When the number who dissent from the opinion of
tlic majority is unknown, and we merely know that the ma¬
jority exceeds the minority by at least i jurors, the proba¬
bility of the verdict being correct is found as follows. Sup¬
pose the verdict to be guilty. On the hypothesis that it is
correct, the probability of the accused being found guilty
by h x, and not guilty by a; jurors, is by the formula in (80),
\}uh—zwx. Now, if we give x successively all the values
0, 1, 2,...w, where n—\(h—i), and assume tX to denote the
value of U when a;=0, U j its value when #==4, and so on ;
and also make W=the probability of the accused being
pronounced guilty by h—n at least, we shall have
W—U  + \5nuh~nw\
In like manner, if W' denote the probability of a verdict
guilty by h—n jurors at least, on the hypothesis that the
accused is not guilty, we shall have,
W 'z= Uuw'* -}- U x uwh~l 4- U 2 m22 + Ununii'h~~n;
whence, p and q being as above the a, priori probabilities
of the two hypotheses, the probability that the verdict guilty
is correct, when pronounced by h—n jurors at least, becomes
W^-KWp + W'?.) a p.u
84. It is evident that no application can be made ot these
formulae without assigning arbitrary values to u and p, un¬
less, indeed, we have data for determining their mean values
from experience. With respect to p, we may assume, for
the sake of shewing the general consequences of the formu¬
lae, its value to be ; lor it cannot well be supposed less than
a;" (l—a’)n-4-.,rn(l—x)m
_y>m(l—r)ndx ’
for the probability of the hypothesis. But (82) the proba¬
bility on this hypothesis of the accused being guilty, is
^ t • multiplying this by the probabil-
Probabilitj
^(l_a;)’‘4-,z"(l—.r)’
ity of the hypothesis, arx, we obtain for the probability of
the verdict being correct .r™(l——xydx ;
and, therefore, for the probability of the verdict being cor¬
rect on all the hypotheses from to x—l,
f'xXm(\—x)ndx
n=
—x)ndx
Hence the probability that a verdict given by a majority
m out of m-\-n—h jurors is wrong, is
1—11 =
yXzm(l—x)ndx
J’0lxm(l—xydx’
which, on effecting the integrations by the formula in (51)
becomes after reduction
1)
If, !
i-u=2ffi{1 + -r +
(A+1)A t (h + l)h(h-
1-2 + 1 • 2 • 3
(/i + l)A(/i—1) (h—n + 2) )
"1 1 . O . Q  n J
1 • 2 • 3 ...
Assuming h (the number of jurors) =12, and making n
successively 0, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, the series gives
1 14 92 378 1093 2380
8192’
8192’ 8192’ 8192’ 8192’ 8192’ 8192’
for the respective probabilities of the error of a verdict when
pronounced unanimously by 12 jurors, by a majority of 11
to 1, of 10 to 2, of 9 to 3, of 8 to 4, and of 7 to 5. In thp
last case the probability of the error is nearly ==?f.
85. From these results it appears that the chance of a
verdict being wrong which has been pronounced unanimous¬
ly by twelve jurors is very small; but it is to be remarked,
that they have been deduced on the supposition that the
;ae, its value to nef ; mr it cannot wen ue .too t^at they have been deduced 0n me suppusmyn liich.
1, or that a person brought before a jury is more likely to be proceeds from agreement in the same opinion, and
innocent than guilty; and if it much exceeds \ and ap- thaL the jurors are unbiassed by each other. In this country,
proaches to unity, a verdict of guilty may be expected from
LilclL tliCJLi.iv/io cviv/ ^J  1 U’V
where unanimity is compelled by law, the mean probability
of a correct verdict can scarcely be considered as greater than
that of a verdict pronounced by a simple majority; for,
though in most cases the verdict may be supposed to repre¬
sent the opinion of a larger majority than seven, it may
between tnose limits, as it seems unreasunauip tw happen, not unfrequently, that a smaller number than five,
that a juror is more likely to give a wrong verdict than a passessing greater energy or perseverance, may persuade the
right one, we may assume that u cannot be less than others into a surrender of their judgment. In fact, unless
any jury, however constituted. When a mean value of u
cannot be determined from experience, the only way of ob¬
taining numerical results, is to suppose u to have all possible
values within given limits, and to integrate the equations
between those limits. As it seems unreasonable to suppose
Suppose, then, that m increases by infinitely SRiall increments
from u—% to w=l, and let it be proposed to determine the
probability that a decision is correct when the accused has
been pronounced guilty by nt jurors, and not guilty by n.
Here an infinite number of hypotheses may be made re¬
specting the value of m, and we must therefore have recourse
to the formulae in (51.) Let u—x be one of those hypo¬
theses, the probability on that hypothesis of the event
observed (that is, of the accused being pronounced guilty
1   1 — i   :   \     nf
uuuclo   — their judgment.
the presumption of the guilt of the accused be very great,
it would scarcely be possible, without concert, to procure an
unanimous verdict in any case. It is also to be observe ,
that the assumption of all values of u from ^to 1 being equal¬
ly probable, may lead to results widely different from the
truth. The mean value of u, which depends on the general
intelligence of the class of persons from amongst whom the
lists of jurors are made up, can only be rightly determined
from data furnished by experience. One of the elements,
observed (that is, ot the accused being pronouuueu prom data furnished by experience, vme 01 me
by rn, and not guilty by m jurors,) arr= the probability of however, which require to be known for this purpose, is the
the assumed hypothesis, and n = the mean probability of jUimb£r of jurors who concur in and dissent from, the verdict-
the correctness of the verdict from all the hypotheses. By 'phe forced unanimity of the lawrenders it impossible to obtain
.i /» 1__ •— /r*i \ 1 .t.i . n xT— T?rwrlich nmirts i hut in
the formulae in (81) we have
Px-= U [xm(1 —x)np-f xn(\—x)m(1—/>)},
and as all the hypotheses are supposed equally probable,
we have (45) arr=P*-7-2P<. But between the proposed
limits lFx-pf^xm( 1 —x)ndx fr- (1—p)f^xn (1 —x)mdx ;
if, therefore, we make p=4, we shall have by reason of
f^xn{ 1—x)mdx= f'x1* (1 —x)vdx, £ Px=i- j]} xn\ 1—x)dx,
and tlierefore
this element from the records of the English courts ; bqt in
France and Belgium, where the majority and minority are
known and recorded, the same obstacle does not exist, and
the “ Comptes Generaux de VAdministration de la Justice
Criminelle,” published by the French Government, have
enabled Poisson to deduce mean values of u andp for that
country, and consequently to obtain the necessary data for
one of the most interesting applications ot the theory 0
Probabilities. The general results were as follows : During
PROBAB
robability. the six years from 1825 to 1830 inclusive, the system of cri-
mmal legislation in France underwent no change ; the jury
consisted of 12, and a simple majority was only required to
concur, though when it happened that the majority was the
least possible, the Court had power to overrule the verdict.
On comparing, according to the rules of the theory, the ver¬
dicts given in the cases tried before the criminal courts
during those six years, it was found that for the whole of
Fiance, the probability (u') of a juror giving a correct
verdict was a little greater than || with respect^to crimes
against the person, and nearly equal to with respect to
erknes against property ; without distinction of the species
of crime, it was found to be a very little below f. The other
element, the probability (p) of the guilt of the accused be¬
fore the trial, was found not much to exceed 1 (being be¬
tween 0.53 and 0.54) with respect to crimes against the
person, while it a little exceeded § in respect of crimes
against property. Without distinction of crime, its value
was very nearly 0.64.
86. On substituting these values of u and p (namely
«=!> i*=.64, whence w—\, q=.36) in the formula in (81),
and making w=7, «=5, and consequently
v=
1.2.3.
12 -too u r- 792
-—- = 792, we have G = —-
o...o 412
1.2.3...7x1.2
(37 X .64-f-35 X .36)= .07 nearly. Hence it may be ex¬
pected, that in a hundred trials it will happen only seven
times that the accused will be pronounced guilty by the
smallest possible majority. If m= 12, and w=0, we shall
have w*p-j-tt/*gi:=.02027=: nearly, for the probability ol
an unanimous verdict of guilty, and ^=.0114 for
the probability of an unanimous verdict of not guilty.
Making the same substitutions in the formula in (82), we
have for the probability of a verdict guilty being correct,
from which 5 jurors out of 12 dissent, sr(=:|f ; and
for the probability of its being wrong.
Substituting the same values in the series represented by
W and W' in (83), and supposing n to have all values
37
from n=0 to n=5, there results W=: — x7254, W'=
1
X 23^122, whence
Wp __ 126915984 _ 118
119
412 ~ 7   W>4-W? ” 127992033
nearly. This is the probability that a verdict guilty, pro¬
nounced by a majority of seven against five at feast, is correct.
The probability of the same verdict being wrong, is there¬
fore ; so that out of 119 verdicts, respecting which we
know nothing else, than that seven at least of the jury con¬
curred in finding the accused guilty, we may expect one to
be wrong, or that one person out of 119 so condemned will
be innocent.
SECT. VIII. or THE SOLUTION OF QUESTIONS INVOLVING
LARGE NUMBERS.
87. The probabilities of the different compound events
which can result from the combination of any number of
simple events, E,, E2, E3, &c. being (13) measured respec¬
tively by the several terms of the developement of the mul¬
tinomial (jo-pg'-f.r-p&c.y', the most probable of those com¬
pound events will be that which corresponds to the term
having the greatest numerical value. Let us consider the
case of two simple contrary events E and F, the proba¬
bilities of which are respectively p and y, and suppose the
number of occurrences to be 4. Neglecting the order of
occurrence, the different combinations, with their respec¬
tive probabilities, are the following :
EEEE, EEEF, EEFF, EFFF, FFFF,
p4, Aptq, Qp^qv, fyq*, S'4-
Now it is evident that the numerical values of these proba¬
bilities depend on the ratio of p to q, as well as on the co¬
efficient by which they are multiplied, and that values may
be given to p and q, such that any one of the terms may be
I L I T Y.
619
made the greatest or the least in the series. If we suppose Probability.
p q, and consequently p=^, q—\, (since p + q—l) the
probabilities of the different cases become respectively
A’ iV’ Tff 5
whence it appears, that the most probable combination is
that which corresponds to 6p2q2, or in which each of the
simple events occurs twice, the probability of this combina¬
tion being T6S, while that of either of the simple events oc¬
curring four times in succession is only
When the number of trials is 5, the probabilities of the
several cases are respectively
p5, 5p4q, \Qpsq*, IQp^3, 5pq^, q*,
which, when become
32’ 3^2’ 32’ 32’ 352’ A>
so that there are two different combinations equally pro¬
bable, namely, that in which E occurs three times and F
twice, and that in which E occurs twice and F three times ;
and of the six possible combinations these two are the most
probable, having in their favour a number of chances twice
as great as the two cases in which one of the events occurs
only once, and the other four times, and ten times greater
than the two cases in which either of the simple events oc¬
curs in each of the five trials.
From these two instances it may be inferred in general,
that when h is an even number, the most probable com¬
pound event is that of which the probability is represented
by the middle term of the developement of (p + qY’, and
that when h is an odd number, there are two compound
events equally probable, and more probable than any other,
namely, those corresponding to the terms which occupy the
middle of the series, supposing in both cases p=q. This
supposition gives (p+5')*=(l + l)A(|)*; therefore in the
case in which h is an even number, the general expression
for the greatest term is
—1)(^—2) (h—7^-f 1) >
1.2.3   ±h
and when h is odd, the general expression for either of the
two equal terms, which are greater than any of the other
terms, is
h(h—1)(A—2) {h-^(h +1) +1}
(ir)A
1.2.3   KA+i)
88. When p and q are unequal, the greatest term of the
expansion of (p-\-qY will not occupy the middle of the
series, but its place may be found by comparing two con¬
secutive terms. LetThe general term of the
series then becomes
1.2.3.... h
1.2.3 »«xl .2.3 nP q J
and the term immediately preceding is
1.2.3 h .. .
1.2.3 (m+l)Xl.2.3 (n—1)^ y
Dividing the first of these by the second, we get for the
quotient (m-\- \ )q-±-np, which, therefore, is the ratio of two
consecutive terms taken at any part of the series. If this
ratio be greater than 1, the term which has been taken
as the dividend is greater than the preceding one which
has been taken as the divisor ; and it is evident that the
terms must go on increasing, from the beginning of the se¬
ries, so long as the ratio in question is greater than 1. But
if the ratio be less than 1, the preceding term is greater than
the succeeding, and the terms will become less and less as
they are nearer the end of the series. Let(m-f- l)§'-f-2/p=l;
then, since p-\-q=\, and m+n=h, we have n=(h-\-\)q,
and consequently the ratio of any term to the next preced¬
ing is greater or less than 1 according as n is less or
greater than (h-\- \ )q. Now n is necessarily a whole num¬
ber; therefore if (A 4- 1 )q be a whole number, take«=:(A+ \ )q,
and the two terms of the series given by the expansion
PROBABILITY.
„ , 'ii when jo n and It are lanre numbers, the value of this Probability,
be(tW to each*'other? 3°"“^ “grea^rton Tny other coefficient ^ be computed from the above formula, which
term of the series. But if (A+ 1 )q be not a whole number, gives
let fA4-no—x be the nearest whole number less than
(hi\)q, and make n=(h +1 )q-x; then the greatest term
of the developement will be that in which the exponent ox
1,2.3 h=hhe-hx/2nh,
. rn—m v/ 2 tttw,
,3..
3..
.n—rre"
V27T«,
Since n—(h + 1 )q-x,v>e have q—{n-Jf-x)-=r{h-\-\),whence
• „+* _ w+l—; d therefore l =
A+l~ A+l P m+l—x
pzz\
P=z
_  
’/i»e-(m+”V(25r/?rn) ^ ^ \m ) \n J ^ ^
mr'tre~(m+n)</(?■'*mn) 1 \m ) \n J ** 2nmn
This expression represents any term of the series (p +9)
Now z is by hypothesis less than 1, therefore if m and n ^   r   
are large numbers, we have, very nearly, q .p—n. m, o , rrreatest term, which corresponds to the most probable
since m+nzzh, m~hp, n-hq. It follows therefore, that is /88\ that in which m and ?i are to each other in
the greatest term of the developement of tie inomia ^ ratio of » too, or when ?n=hp, a.nd n—hq. Let the
(„ + o)* is that in which the exponents of p and 9 are to each egt term therefore be denoted by P0, that is to say, let
other in the ratio of p to 9, or more nearly in that ratio ^ ^ chance of the mogt probabie result of h trials, and
than are any other two numbers whose sum is A. In other ^ ghall haye
words, the most probable combination of two simple events, Y-Vlh^nmn), or P„= \/(\ +2nhpq).
E and F, in any number of trials, ■* This last formula shews that the absolute probability of that
her of occurrences of E is to the number of occurrences o combination which has the greatest number of chances in
F in the ratio of their respective probabilities. becomes less and less as the number of trials is
89. In the same manner it may be shewn, that when
there are more than two simple events, of which one must
occur in every trial, the most probable result of any number
of trials is that combination in which the number of repe¬
titions of each simple event is in proportion to its probabi¬
lity in a single trial. Thus, the probabilities of the simple
increased; for the fraction \-r-h, to the square root of
which the probability is proportional, diminishes as h is in-
91. As an example, suppose a shilling to be tossetHOO
times in succession. In this case p=q=^, ftp=50, hq~-oO,
lity in a single trial. Thus, ^ probable result of the trials is 50 times head
events being respectively^, 9, r,&c. the most probab e c ^ 5(} ^^‘tail. We have then A=100, rn=50, and
events being respectively/,, 9, / and 50 times tail. We have then
pound event is that whose probability is expressed by that s _ 1 //50?r) for the measure of the probabi-
term of the expansion of 0 +9-i-r + &c.) , xvhic 1 a ^ tbat tbe event will happen in this way exactly. On cal-
its argument p\ q\ &c. this is found =.07979 J whence it appears, that
90. Having determined the form of the greatest term o ^ 5() headg and 5Q tails is a more probable result of
the series, we have next to find a method of approximating b combination which can be named,
to its numerical value; for its coefficient contammg the p o- f Xe ZbaWHty is measured by a very small fraction,
duct of tbe natural numbers from 1 to h mclustve, its d - a““ute£D of cont even( or that there will not
iiiauLiii.ii. xxo investigation is a matter of JoTe likely to occur than any other combination, would have been
we shall not stop to give it here, but refer the reader to the J ^ _v/(500x). th^t is t0 say, ^ 10 times, or rather more
Treatise on Differences and Series, by Sir John Her. c t , ^ less tban in the former case. In general, when
in the translation of Lacroix s the chances in favour of the simple events are equal, the pro-
Differential and Integral Calculus, P-568. bability of the combination which is more likely to happen
is as follows: Let * be any number, then than a'y other> is inversely proportional to the square root of
„ , . 1 , 1 x &c'f the number of trials. . ,
1 • 2 • 3 x=x*<r-+/2nx(\ + ^ + 288a;2 + J ^ The fo^uj^ in (90) enable us also to determine the
. i 'ii ratio of the irreatest term of the developement of \P~\~q)
where e is the number of which the Napierean logarithm other term of the series, and consequently the rela-
,'c unit, nr the number 2-71828, and rr the ratio of the cir- to^y otner lernio a:ffurpnt ^o.nnound events.
is unit, or the number 2-71828, and tr t^e ratio of the cir- ^OITof thrprobabihtiero? the different compound events
cumference of a circle to the diameter, or 3T415J. j et m - n - • n > u, whence »j=Apand n—hq, and let E* de-
When * is a large number, the term divided by m be- ^ th'e that in h tnals the event E will occur
comes very small, and the series within the brackets may be ^ nnd the event F (n+x) ti
considered as equal to unity. In this case, then, the toi-
mula becomes
1.2.3 xz=xxe—x^j2nx,
which gives a sufficient approximation in most cases. If,
for example, *=1000, the result will be within a 12000th
part of the truth.
Now, let E and F be two events of such a nature that the
one or the other must happen in every trial; let p and q be
their respective probabilities, and P the probability that in
nuie me piuuaimity uiai. m    u u;
(m—w) times, and the event F (« + *) times, the probabi¬
lities of the simple events E and F being respective!) p an
q. By (13) we have
p _ 1-2-3 h 
11— 1.2.3 (in—*) X 1 • 2.3 (n-Y*)
which by (90) becomes
hhe—h v (2 < A)
7i—
P r—
their respective probabilities, and P the probability that in XP leaving ou7 the factors'common to the numera-
m-\-n=h trials, E will happen m times and F n times ; then we tind,
by (12) we have
1-2-3 h  Pj _ Jt
1.2.3 mxl-2.3 n1^ ^ ' * \2n J
(m—')v,2<r(m—*)x(n+a:)n+jr«-<n+J,V2,r(n+j:l
x^n-px. whence, substituting m~h for p, and n —
P=
1 Stirling’s investigation of the theorem, or rather of its equivalent, to find the sum of the logarithms of a series of num
ti-ial progression, is given in his Methodus Differentialis, p. 135.
PROBABILITY.
Probability. Now log (_m+x__l) log ; and
log (m—x)— log m— —- — ~ —&c.
m 2/7T
therefore log (m—#)—*«+■*—4 —
(~m + ^-2) log ^ + &c.);
whence, neglecting terms divided by m2, m?, &c., m being
supposed to be a large number in comparison with x,
log (m_^)-™+*-4=(_m + log m + x— ^ + A ;
2 m 2 m
therefore, on passing to numbers,
621
2 ri;e calculation of is as f0n0ws. Assume Probability.
t =Jix We have ^==1000—960=40. w-v-w
log 40=1.60206
2
X* X
(m O’)—»»+*—i — m—m+j:—J x gj- 2m X e 2m ;
or, since e2m = 1 +
2m 2.4m2
+ &C.
a?2
3.20412
log Ji— log 6000=3.77815
log /Lc2=6.98227
log elmn— log 10,000,000=7
log <2=9.98227
log e=.43429, log .43429 = 9.63778
log (<2 x .43429)=9.62005
t2 X .43429=^2 log e= .41692
—*2 log e=9.5 8308
add log Po=8.14050
(m—.t) m4"x 4 — m m~hx 4e'r 2m A ^. ..A
\ 2m /
In like manner, by changing m into n, and x into —x,
we get
(n-\- x)—*—*—} —n—n—x—h e
Multiplying the first of these two expressions by mm~z,
and the second by nn+x, we have
X%
(m—x)—m+1-i x mm~x=tn~ieX
(n-{-x)—n+*—h xnn+x=n—le
whence, substituting these values in that of Px, and ne¬
glecting the quantity divided by mn,
hxi
2mn .
The term of the series (p+g)h which corresponds to this
value of Px is that which is x places to the right of the
greatest term ; and it has been shewn, (90), that the great¬
est term has for its expression V(h—2iTmti) ; therefore the
greatest term being denoted, as before, by P0> and the term
which comes after it x places by Px, we have
P — p —hx^ -r2mn
that is to say, the probability the event E will happen m
times and fail n times'm m n trials, is to the probability
of its happening (m—x) times and failing (n + x) times in
the ratio of 1 to e~hxi ^2m«.
Since the numbers m and n enter symmetrically into the
expression e~hxi^2mn, it is evident that the result would
have been the same if, instead of seeking the ratio of the
greatest term to that which succeeds it by x places, we had
sought the ratio of the greatest term to that which precedes
it by a? places. Hence if the most probable result of m+rc
trials be that E will happen m times and fail n times, the
probability that it will happen m—x times and fail n-\-x
times is the same as the probability that it will happen m-fa;
times and fail n—x times.
The following example will suffice to shew the applica¬
tion of the formula: A die is thrown 6000 times, required
the probability that the number of aces turned up will be
exactly 960 ?
Here p, the chance of throwing ace, is and
/=6000; whence ?w=A/?= 1000, and «=A§=;5000. We
have first to find P0, the chance of the most probable result,
or of 1000 aces. By (90), P0=v/(/^2t7/«/j) ; whence,
substituting the above values, P0—V3 • ^/(SOOO X 3.14159).
On performing the operation indicated by the logarithmic
tables, we get log P0=8.14050, whence Po=.0138.
log Pir=7.72358
therefore Px=.00o3, which is the chance of 960 aces ex¬
actly. The odds against this event are therefore 9947 to
53, or nearly 188 to 1.
93. When h, m, and n are large numbers, and x is small,
the exponential e~hxl'i'2mn differs little from unity, and it de¬
creases slowly as x increases, so long as x is small in compa¬
rison of m and n. Suppose m—n and x=\/m, it becomes
1 _ 1
e —T~ 27182818’ S° that lf WG assume m= 100, the
10th term before or after the greatest would still exceed the
3d part of the greatest. But when x becomes greater than
•Jmox \/n the exponential, and consequently also the terms
which are multiplied by it, begin to diminish with great
rapidity, and the diminution is more rapid as x increases.
If m=rc= 100, and a:=50, then the exponent hx2~2mn=25,
so that e—hxt ~2mn, — 1-f-e2'-, a quantity which is altogether
insensible. W e may therefore conclude generally that when
/Us a large number, the principal terms of the deveiopement
°f (p+gY are those which are near the greatest term, and
that h may be taken so large that the terms towards the
beginning or end of the series may at length become smaller
than any assignable quantity.
94. From the proposition which has now been demon¬
strated it follows, that although the probability of that par¬
ticular compound event which has the greatest number of
chances in its favour is very small when the number of trials
is great, yet on account of the rapid diminution of the terms
towards the beginningandendof the series, the sum of a com¬
paratively small number of terms taken on both sides of the
greatest, may be very much greater than all the remaining
terms of the series; and, consequently, there will be a very
great probability that the compound event will be repre¬
sented by one or other of those terms. This consideration
leads us to one of the most impoitant questions in the theory,
namely, to determine the probability that in a large number
of trials, h, an event E, which must either happen or fail in
each trial, and of which the chance of happening in any
trial is p, will happen not less than hp—l times, and not
oftener than hp-\-l times; or, making hp—m, hq-zzn, to de¬
termine the probability that the number of occurrences of
E will be included between the limits mz±zl.
Let x be any number between 0 and /. Then (92) the
probability that E will occur (»i—x) times and fail (w-f a;)
times is Px -Y0e-hx^2mn{v/heve Y0z=:V(Ji^2irmn). Now if
in this expression we makea;successively equal to each of the
numbers0,1, 2,.../, we shall have the respective probabilities
of E happening m, m—1, m—2, m—l times in h trials;
and the sum of these probabilities will be the probability that
E happens not oftener than m times, and not seldomer than
m—l times. The same suppositions with respect to x will
622
PROBABILITY.
Probability, give the probabilitiesofE happening1,
—^ times, the sum of which will be the probability that E happens
not seldomer than m times, and not oftener than m -|-1 times.
Adding, therefore, those two sums, and deducting F0 the pro-
bility which corresponds to x=0, on account of its being in¬
cluded in each sum, and therefore having been counted
twice., the result will be the sum of the terms of the binomial
(p-\-q)h comprised between, and including, the two terms
of which the first has for a factor pm+l, and the last pm~l,
and will therefore express the probability that the number of
occurrences of E will fall within the limits mz±zl. Let
this probability be denoted by R, and let SPX represent the
sum of all the values of P* obtained by substituting suc¬
cessively 0, 1, 2, 3,...I for x, we then have R=2SP*—-P0,
whence, writing for P* and P0, their values,
// \ ^
R—2S*/ (    1e 2mn—v ^ •
^ \27rmnJ 2innn
95. In order to find an approximate value of this expres¬
sion we must have recourse to a formula first given by Euler
for converting sums of the kind denoted by S into definite
integrals (for which see Lacroix, Traite du Calcul Differen-
tiel et Integral, tom. iii. p. 136, or Herschel’s Treatise on
Differences, p. 513). Assuming u to denote a function of
x, the formula is as follows
r» 1 \ du n
Stt = ludx-\- — u + f '2 &c‘ +
t n i, du P0hx
On making u=P..=F0e-h*^2mn, we find —= —
e-hxi-vmn. therefore, if we suppose x to be not greater
than or a/h, this differential coefficient is of the order
WA, (as may be easily shewn by substituting hp for m, and
hq for n), and may be rejected, since h is supposed to be a
very large number. The above equation therefore becomes
gpa—imndx ipoe—2mn _j_ constant;
and on supposing x=0 this gives 0=—gPo-f- constant,
therefore the constant is equal to i|P0, and we have
gp^_p^_fcr2f Zmndx -f | V0e-hx^ 2mn + iP0.
Assume -t-2wn), whence dt—dx</{b-±2mn)\
substitute these in the above equation, and it becomes by
reason of P0=\/(A-r-27r»m),
e—^dt+^Voe-^ + 2 Po»
whence, from the equation R=2SPjr—P0, we obtain
The integral in this expression must be taken between the
limits x=0 and x=l. When x=0 we have also #=0, and
when x=l, then t=lA/( h -4- 2mn) ; therefore assuming r for
the limiting value of t, that is, making T=lA/(h-^-2mri), and
therefore 1=t\/(2mn~h^, there results
R—— rTe-*dt+Foe-**
\/ vr J O
for the probability that the number of occurrences of E will
fall between m-=±zr\/(2mn—h) ; or, replacing m and n by
hp and hq, the probability that the number of occurrences
of E will fall within the limits hpz±ZTA/(2hpq), or be equal
to one of those limits.
This expression for R has been found by neglecting
quantities of the order of smallness 1 -r-h; consequently
the greater the value of h the more nearly it approaches to Probability,
accuracy, but it is only rigorously true when h is infinite,
96. The integral dt is computed as follows. Develop¬
ing the exponential e-*2 in a series of the ascending powers of
t2, and integrating the successive terms between the limits
t=Q and t=T, we find
/T T3 T5 t’1
„ 173+jtjTs + rr^T.7+&c';
a series which converges rapidly when t is less than unity.
In the contrary case, however* or when t is greater than
unity, the series is divergent, and it is necessary to proceed
by a different method. Left the factor e~a be multiplied
and divided by ^ t we have then
J e~tidt=J% —e-^tdt,
and on integrating by parts
Repeating the same process on the last integral, and so
on with the last after each succeeding integration, the fol¬
lowing series is obtained,
/e-<2 f 1 3 3-5.1
v~2? + w<-w+&cr
When t— infinity the right hand side of this equation be¬
comes 0; whence between the limits #=r and tzz infinity,
we have
y^oo r 1 3 3*5 1
T ^dt-—ff/{l—2T*+¥?—¥r°+SZCf’
a series which converges very rapidly when t is greater
than unity. Now the value of a definite integral between
0 and infinity is obviously equal to its two parts, of which
the first is taken between 0 and r, and the second between
r and infinity ; that is to say,
fj^dt^f™ e-^dt—J^e-^dt.
But f ^e-^dt is well known1 to have for its expression
Jo
a/tv, therefore
J Tertldi^\a/tv—e~t2dt,
so that the integral tnay be computed from either of the
above series, according as r is less or greater than 1.
The integral /e~t%dt is of great importance in the higher
mathematics. It occurs in the investigation of fhe path of
a ray of light through the atmosphere, and of the law of
the diffusion of heat in the interior of solid bodies, as well
as in the determination of the degree of reliance that may
be placed on the results of astronomical observations, and
generally in most of the more difficult and important ap¬
plications of the theory of probabilities. A table of its
values from *=0 to t—3, for intervals each =*01, was given
by Kramp, at the end of his Analyse desBefractions Astro-
nomiques, Strasburg, 1799* In the Berliner Astronomisches
Jahrbuch for 1834, there is also a table of its values from
*=0 to £=2 (for the same intervals) multiplied by 2^-a/tv,
with their first and second differences for the purpose of fa¬
cilitating interpolation. This last table, which appears to
have been derived from that of Kramp, and which is imme¬
diately applicable in the calculation of the probability R,
we have extended to t=3, and given at the end of the pre¬
sent article. As the function which is thus tabulated will
i The formula j'™ * is ascribed by Gauss (Theoria Motus Corporum Ccelestium, p. 212,) to Laplace- On making
e-tW, the integral is transformed into ifdZ(log i)""” between the limits *=0 and z~l, the value of which had been given
by Euler, long before, in the Petersburg Memoirs. See Legendre, Exercises du Calcul Integral, tom. i. p. 301.
robability. occur frequently in what follows, we shall in future, for con-
venience in printing, denote it by ©, that is to say, we shall
assume J
e=
the two forms being equivalent in consequence of the above
equation.
97. Some very important conclusions follow immediately
from the formula in (95). The quantity R denotes the pro-
babihty that in a very great number of trials h, the event
E, of which the a priori probability in any trial is p, will
occur not seldomer than hp.—l times, and not oftener than
hp + l times, or that the number of its occurrences will be
included between the limits hp=i=l, or at least be equal to
one of those limits. Hence R also denotes the probability
that the ratio ot the occurrences of E to the whole number
of trials, will be included within the limits p=±zl-±-h. We
have assumed t= ^^/(A-j-2wi?z) ; but /n=hp and w—hq;
therefore r=:l-i-^/(‘2hpq'), whence 1~t*/(‘Ihpq}, and con¬
sequently l-r-h—rV(2p5'-;-A). Now, if we suppose t to be
constant, so that the probability expressed by R may remain
the same, then p and q being given, l is proportional to
the square root of h, and consequently the greater the
number of trials the smaller will l be in proportion to that
number. Thus, if the number of trials be 1000, and we
have a given probability R that the number of occurrences
of E will not differ more than 10 from the number which is
the most probable of all (that is, from 1000 />), then if we
take 100,000 trials, we shall have the same probability R
that the number of occurrences of E will not differ more than
10 X \/100= 100 from the most probable number. But
a difference of 10 in 1000 is 1-lOOih of the whole, whilst a dif¬
ference of 100 in 100,000 is 1-1000th of the whole, and thus
the ratio of / to A becomes smaller and smaller, or the ratio
of the occurrences of E to the whole number of trials ap¬
proaches nearer and nearer to p, as the number of trials is
increased ; and the experiments may be repeated until the
difference between p and pz±zl-±~h, in respect of a giv m
probability R which may be as great as we please, shall
be less than any assignable quantity.
If, on the other hand, we suppose l-~h to be constant,
then r is proportional to the square root of the number of
trials. But as r increases, ©, and consequently R, approaches
nearer and nearer to unity, (and it may be seen, by referring
to the table, that it is only necessary to have r=3 in order
to have 0=-9999779) ; whence the number of trials A may
always be increased until we obtain a probability approach¬
ing as nearly to certainty as we please, that the number of
occurrences of E will be comprised within the given limits
(hpz±zl); or, which is the same thing, that the ratio of the
number of occurrences of E to the whole number of trials,
shall not differ from p, the probability of E in a single trial,
more than a given quantity /-j-A which may be less than
any assigned fraction. This is the celebrated theorem
which was demonstrated by James Bernoulli in the Ars
Coiijectandi.
98. The application of the preceding results to numeri¬
cal examples, is rendered extremely easy by means of the
table of the values of ©. From the formula in (95) we
have the probability
R=e-f-P0e"r2,
that the occurrences of E in A trials will fall within the
limits hpz±zl, the relation between / and r being given by
the equation l—?»/(2hpq). If, therefore, we suppose l to
be given, r becomes known, and the corresponding value
of 0 is found from the table ; and, conversely, if 0 be as¬
sumed, t is given by the table, whence the corresponding
limits l aj;e deduced. With respect to the quantity P„e~'r2,
we may observe thaf it denotes the probability that the
number of occurrences of the event E will be hp-j-lor hp—l
probability.
623
arge, or / is a small number, it becomes necessary to take
direc!lvC,TUU!i ^ SUCih Ca8? itS value may be computed
avoided h m- 6 6 U1 <92> ; but this labwir mav be
hm iT r o incrfeasinS T’ 80 a8 to include it within 'the
m ts of tiie integral ©. Thus, let R be the probability
that the number of arrivals of E will be included within
■Jr ;•*’ aild R' the probability of the limits be-
ng kpz±z(x+1), and let 0 and ©' be respectively the
corresponding values of the integral. We have then,
fions^ ** the Same slgnification as in (92), the two equa-
R=0 + P;c, R'=©' + pi+lj
and the difference R'—R of these two probabilities is ob-
yiously the double of the probability that the result of the
trials will be either (hp+x+1) times E, or (kp—x—l)
times E, exactly. But the chance of either of these events
being P*+1, we have therefore Rr—R=2P„+1. Now, when
i is large, P* and are very small, and very nearly equal
to each other, (their ditferenee is in fact of the order of quan*
titles omitted); hence R'—Rz:©'—©, and also 2Pr+1=2P
and consequently ©'_©=2P,, or P^^e'^e). Substi¬
tuting this value of Pa in the equation R=0-j-P^,wegetR=|
(Q'-J-©); so that if we take from the table the values of 0'
and ©corresponding to / and /+ 1, half their sum will give R.
But as the interval between ©' and © in the table is always
small, half their sum will not differ sensibly from the value
of © corresponding to /+£, whence this value of © is
equal to R, and we have the following rule for determining
the limits corresponding to a given probability, or vice
versa
When the limits are assumed, find r from the equation
l-\-$=7V('2Jipq) ; then the value of 0 in the table, corre¬
sponding to r is the probability that in A trials the number
of occurrences of the event E, the chance of which in a sin¬
gle trial is p> will lie within the limits hpz±=l both inclusive.
Conversely, when 0 is assumed, find the corresponding va¬
lue of t in the table, by means of which the limit / will be
given by the equation l-\-^=W(2kpq). It is obvious, that
if the limit / and the probability 0 be both assumed, then
A may be determined from the same equation.
99- We will now give some examples of the application
of the preceding formulas.
Suppose p—q—^, and A=200, and let it be proposed to
assign the limits within which there is a probability ==-|
that the number of occurrences of E will fall. In this case
the equation /-j-1 —t\/(2hpq) becomes / + r\/100= 1 Or.
Now, it is easily found from the table that tor 6—1 we have
t^'4769, whence /-F^=4*769l, and* /=4*269. On tossing
a shilling 200 times, it is therefore more than an even wager
that head will turn up not seldomer than 95 times, and not
oftener than 105 times.
Suppose/?—A=3600, and let it be proposed to assign
the probability that the number of occurrences of E will not
exceed the limits 1800r±r30. In this case the equation
/-j--|=Ty'(2A/)<7) becomes 30*5=rv^(2 x 900)=30r-v/2,
M'hence r = 30*530 >/2 =‘7189 ; and the table gives
e=>6907=f| nearly. Hence in tossing a shilling 3600
times, the odds are 28 to 13 that head will not turn up
oftener than 1800 -f- 30= 1830 times, nor seldomer than 1800
—30=1770 times. Neglecting the second term of R (95)
and taking simply /=10r, the table gives e=*6827, which
is the solution given by Demoivre, p. 245.
Suppose p~Q, </=$, and let it be proposed to determine
how many trials must be made in order that it may be one
to one that the number of occurrences of E will not* differ
more than 10 from the most probable number.
624
PROBABILITY.
Probability For 0=:^ we have t=,4769;
yji o_-   , therefore the equation
/ i 1 z=rV(2hpq) becomes 10,5=,4769V,(10A-^-3G), whence
^_;3.5no,5-!-*4769)2. On computing this formula h is found
=1745‘2. Say 1746, £ of which is 291; and it follows that
if a die be thrown 1746 times it is an even wager that the
number of aces will fall between 291=pl0, that is, be¬
tween 281 and 301, or be equal to one ot those numbers.
In (92) wre found the probability to be -0053, that in
6000 throws of a die the number of aces will be exactly
960. Let it now be proposed to assign the probability 0,
that in 6000 throws the number of aces will lie between
960 and 1040, that is, between 1000zf=40. Here /i_6000,
«=1 and £=40 ; the equation of the limits therefore
becomes 40-5==iV(10000-^6), whence t=-405v/6=‘992,
corresponding to which the table gives ©=-8394.
The following question is discussed by Nicolas lier-
noulli in the Appendix to Montmort’s Analyse des Jeux de
Hazard, and is noticed by Demoivre and Laplace. From
the observations of the births of both sexes in London dur¬
ing 82 years (from 1629 to 1711) it was found that the aver¬
age number of children annually born in London, was about
14,000, and the ratio of the number of males to that of fe-
out sensible error, since h is by supposition a large num- ProbabiUty.
ber,) the equation becomes
_ TT'T^(l + *r+mW1 +fl)w+w'^ .
^ mmnn
or, since ni-\- n=h, m' -j- m. ,
n=UK
\h) \h) '
Making the same substitutions in the expression denoted
by K, we get, after reduction, K=l-^v'(1 +^) > whence,
U'
n=
Vl + 0
/ m\m' / n \n'
\h) \J) ‘
The value of n now found, is the probability that in a
future series of trials the ratio of the occurrences of E to
those of F will be the same as in the preceding trials, which
are supposed to have been very numerous. If the chances
of E and F had been given a priori equal to m-+k and
n—h respectively, the probability of m! times E, and n
times F in m'+ri future trials would have been P=
14 000, and the ratio ot tne numoer ox inaies umi, u, ^
males, was nearly as 18 to 17, the average number of ma e /JLV bv(12) ; hence (since and
births being 7200, and of female births 6800. In the year U U / K ^ ^
in which the greatest difference from this ratio took place, ... ™ ..c
the actual numbers were 7037 males and 6963 females, so
that the difference from the average amounted to Ibd.
Assuming, then, the comparative facility ot male and female
births to be as 18 to 17, required the probability that out of
14000 children born, the number of males shall not be greater
than 7363, nor less than 7037. x* ,i *
This question is evidently equivalent to the following
Let 14000 dice, each having 35 faces, 18 white and 17
black, be thrown ; what is the probability that the number
of white faces turned up, will be comprised between the
limits 7200i±=163. We have therefore A=1400,
n'+h'=n-±-h), the relation between the probability P0 of
that combination of simple events which has the greatest
number of chances in its favour, when the chances of the
simple events are known a priori, ano the probability of
the same combination when the chances of the simple events
are only presumed from previous trials, is expressed by
this equation,
n=Po-fV(l+0)-
101. When ti is very small in comparison of h, 6 be¬
comes a very small fraction, and may be neglected, and we
have then n=P(). But when h' is a number comparable
«==4 J. £=163, and the formula l+\=TA/(2hpq) becomes wjt^ ^ n js iess than P0; and it diminishes rapidly when 6
jg3^.L.Tv//2 X 14000 x 18 X l7)-r-35, whence r=l-955. exceeds 1. The reason of this is obvious. It the con-
The corresponding value of© is found from the table='9943, tents of the urn are not known a priori, however numerous
which is the probabilitv that the number of white faces shall the trials may jiave been there is only a presumption that the
not be greater than 7363, nor less than 7037. The odds cbance of drawing a white ball in a single trial is measured
in favour of the event are therefore 9943 to 57, or about , rn-±-h\ whereas, in the case of the ratio of the balls being
175 to 1. . , . , i previously known, the measure of the probabil.ty is cer-
100. We now proceed to consider the case in which the tain> an instance of the manner in which the proba-
probabilities of the simple events are not known, a priori, bi]it of an assigned series of future events diminishes,
but inferred from the results of experience. It was shewn when tbe probabilities of the simple events are interred
in (52) that the probability n of an event happening m prom experience, let us suppose h'=h, whence , an
times/and failing ^ times in h' trials, (AW + rc')> when consequently n=P0-v/2=-7071 X P0. Now it was shewn
it has been observed to happen m times, and fail n times in in (9i) that if a ball be drawn at random 100 times from
x :— Lx, this pmiation an urn which contains an equal number of black and white
balls, the probability P0, that the result will be 50 white
. .. , , ,  • .0*7070 It Ihllnws there-
h previous trials, is expressed by this equation
[>][«] O + ^'+i]
Now, when m, n, m!, n, are large numbers, an approxi-
n=U-
balls’, and 50 black, precisely, is *07979. It follows there¬
fore, that if the contents of the urn be unknown, and
we can only judge of the relative numbers of the two sorts
Now, when m, n, m', ri, are large numueis, mi of balls it contains from having observed that in 100 trials
mate value of n, more accurate in proportion as those have been drawn 50 white balls and 50 black, the
numbers become larger, is obtained from Stirlings theorem babbit n 0f that combination in 100 future trials, be-
(90), which for any number x gives [>]=x*e W^L-nx). eg .Q7g79 x .7971 =-05642.
Applying the theorem therefore to the expressions within -phe result obtained in (100) enables us to de
the brackets in the above equation, and assuming
^ +1 /(ffl + W/)(^ + ^')(^+l)
Aq-A'-plV /H«(A-b/i' +1)
we obtain, in consequence of
K=
n=
v(m + m')m+m'(n + n')n+n\h +1 )A
m'nnn {hh' q- 1 )h+'i'
102. xnc   ... v---/  
termine the probability that the number of occurrences ot
E in h' future trials, will not differ in excess or defect from
the most probable number, by more than a certain given
number l. It has been shewn (95) that in the case of the
probabilities p and q of the simple events being g>ven 5*
priori, if we determine r from the equation l— T\{znpq),
prion
the formula
R=0 + V(1 +-2nhpq)e-'
Let m'=6m, n!=6n, and consequently h!=6h; then taking ^ babiUt R that m wiil be comprised within the
,.. o 1*  /» fVio nrnhahilltv
h*
for
(£+1)
(h+hty+x {it+/*' +1
h. ,h “S i “0,: dividing by K the probabUi^
7 (which maybe done with- ^ the ratio of m t0 h win be comprised within the limits
PROBABILITY
?MMy.pz±:W(2pq+h) Conversely S when/,and^are not known,
v—but the event E has been observed to happen m times in h
trials, then
mh' r
625
Probability.
R=© -j_\/ (^h-i-2umn)e~rZ
gives the probability R that p is comprised within the limits
wi t r limn
T Tv ~Y'
These limits approach more nearly to each other as h in¬
creases t and when h is a large number, the ratios m~h,
n \ h may be assumed, without sensible error, as the chances
of E and F in computing the probable result of a future
series of hf trials, provided, however, that A' (though abso¬
lutely a large number) be small relatively to A. When this
condition is not fulfilled, the assumption of m-i-A and n-^-h
as the a priori chances of E and F, might lead to consi¬
derable error ; but an approximation to the limits corre¬
sponding to a given value of R may be obtained from the
following considerations:—
Suppose a large number A of events to have been observ¬
ed, and that the result of the observation gave m times E
and n times F. Let a new series of A' trials be made, and
suppose that in this new series p is the real chance of E
and ^ of F ; we have then a given probability R that
the number of occurrences of E will fall within the limits
h'pz±zW(Ih'pq). Now, for p and q substitute the ratios
observed in the first set of experiments, namely, m • A and
n-~h, and the limits corresponding to R become
mh' . r
lT~h V(2A "m)’
which, therefore, are the true limits on the hypothesis that
the chance of E in a single trial is But as this
chance is not certain, but only presumed, the limits require
to be extended in order that R may preserve the same va¬
lue. Confining our attention to ©, the first term of the
expression for R (the second may be disregarded in the pre¬
sent approximation), let h'=m' + n' and m': n'—m: n, then
© is the sum of the terms of the binomial (/?+§')*' from that
in which the exponent of p is m' 1 to that in which the
exponent is mr—1. Now, when p and q are given a priori,
the chance of m* times E and n' times F in A' trials is P0;
and when p and q are only presumed from the results of
previous trials, the chance of the same combination is n;
and (100) n is less than P0 in the ratio of 1 to ^/(\-\-d). In
like manner, the chance of each of the other combinations
of E and F included in the integral 0 will be less in the
case of jo and q presumed, than in the case of p and q given,
in the same ratio of 1 to y^O ^ ^as been seen
(93) that when A' is a large number, the terms of the de-
velopement of (p -|- g)v which are nearest the greatest term,
diminish at first very slowly ; and, further, that only a small
number of terms on each side of the greatest are required
to be taken, since / is less than or n' (95) ; we may
therefore, without sensible error, assume 0 to be proportion¬
al to the number of terms included in the summation, or
that the value of 0 will not be changed if we include in the
summation a number of terms greater in proportion as the
value of each individual term is less. Hence it follows that
the limits must be increased in the ratio of 1 + $) t0 E
and the value of 0 corresponding to r will give the proba¬
bility that the number of events E, in A' future trials, w ill
be included between
f .x. H^suon may De proposed as an ex-
ample of the application of the last formula. Out of a given
number A of individuals taken at the age A, it has been ob-
ZZf, are al;ve at the age A+a; required the pro-
ability that out of A' other individuals taken at the same age
A the number who survive at the age A-fa will be includ-
ed between m =t=l, the ratio of m' to A' being the same as
that of m to h.
To solve this question, we have to find r from the
equation/—^ \/(2/i/mw(l-f5)) ; and the corresponding
value of © in the table, will give the required probability.
from the table given in the article Mortality, vol. xv.
p. 555, it appears that out of 5642 individuals taken at the
age 30, the number surviving at the age 50, according to
the Carlisle Table, is 4397. Taking those numbers as an
example, we have A=5642, m=4397, rc=1245 ; and as¬
suming also A'=5642, whence d=l and v/(l + ^)=v/2,
the equation of the limits becomes l=r x 62-30, Let it be
proposed to determine l from the condition ©=1. In this
case the table gives r=-4769, and we have consequently
1=29-7. Hence it appears, that if it has been observed
that of 5642 individuals taken at the age of 30, 1245 die
before reaching the age of 50, it is an even wager that out of
5642 other individuals also taken at the age of 30, and sub¬
jected to the same chances of mortality, the number who die
before reaching the age of 50 will lie between 1245z±:30,
that is, between 1215 and 1275.
104. The following experiment recorded by BufFon, in
his Arithmetique Morale, affords an example of the ap¬
plication of the preceding formulae to the determination
of the probable existence of a physical cause from the
results of a large number of observations. A piece of
money was tossed 4040 times successively, and the result
was head 2048 times, and tail 1992 times. Supposing the
piece to have been perfectly symmetrical, the most pro¬
bable result would have been the same number of heads
and tails. Let it now be proposed to assign the probability
afforded by the experiment that the piece was not symme¬
trical, and that its form or physical structure w-as such as
to render head an event, a priori, more probable than tail.
In this case A=4040, m=2048, «=1992; and by (102)
we have the probability R (or 0, neglecting the correc¬
tion) that p, the unknown chance of head, is comprised
, . ... m t /2mn m 2048
between the limits — z±z - J ~ . Now — = —
A h* h A 4040
=.50693, andjV^^=T X .011124, therefore if we
h*'/ h
assume r X .011124=.00693, we shall have the probability
© that p is comprised between the limits .50693=±=.00693,
that is, between two limits of which the least is .5, or one-
half. This assumption gives r=.00693-4-.011124=.623 ;
and the corresponding value of 0 is found from the table
=.62170. Now if p lie between the above limits, its value
is evidently greater than |; but the probability of its lying
between those limits is not the whole probability that p is
greater than i; for there is a chance of its exceeding the
greatest limi£ in which case also its value will be greater
> This inference, ,hongh .dotted bybo.b L-pWc Poi..on j no. ^7*^
Stl e“q“Holth°e oLS S&itS* tbe ™ — °f >> ** >h‘ ““““
1 —t2 , q 13p+l e T < 'j’jjg jast correction to © is smaller than the
the text is not, as there inferred, 0 + ^Trhpq) 6 ’ bUC ^ GhpqV^
former and being divided by A, is of the order of quantities that h^ instead of /,
VOL. XV11I.
i
6«r»
PROBABILITY.
Sm^eTbet'ween these limits, there is an equal chanc^of »J-^V^tTumbi ^^^1^
its beinggreaterthan the greatest limit, or less than the least; gp’,ha,°elass of nroblems, we may
ta^beASf„Uo^nue,ion= A andS engage in P.ay
that p is" greater than .5, or that the chance of head is
greater than that of tail is .62170 + .18915=.81085 ; and
the odds are therefore 81 to 19, or rather more than 4 to 1
that the piece was not perfectly symmetrical.
105. The formulae which have been demonstrated in the
present section are immediately applicable to the determina¬
tion of the probable limits of the gain or loss which may
arise from undertaking a great number of risks with a given
expectation in respect of each. The following question has
important practical applications. A is interested in a great
number of similar enterprises, in each of which t,or J- must
necessarily happen. When E happens he receives the sum
a, and when F happens he pays the sum /3; required the
probability that his gain or loss shall be comprised within
given limits ? ^ j i
Let p be the chance of the event E, q that of h, and ti
the number of enterprises. Suppose E happens m times,
and F n times ; the sum to be received will be ma, and the
sum to be paid will be nft, and therefore his gain will be
ma-nfi. let m=hp, n=hq then m times E and * times ----- ha^’^n played." If the condition of the play
F is the most probable result, and in this case the gai ^ i(. 8llouidPce>ase as SOon as A or B should have
ma—rc|3 becomesA(©a—</3). Find t from -F ^ ^ . inn sovereigns the question would have been of an
then (98) © is the probability that the number o ' ti l different kind, and a much smaller number of games
with equal chances of winning, and stake five sovereigns on
each game ; how many games must they undertake to play
in order that it may be two to one that one of them sha
lose at least 100 sovereigns?
Here p=\, q=b o=5, /3=5, and l (« + /3)=100, whence
lz= 10. The equation l-\-^=T*/(2hpq) therefore becomes
10-5=V(A-2), whence /i=2 x (10-5)^^. Now, the
odds being 2 to 1 against the limits of the gain or loss
not exceeding 100, the probability 0 of the limits not ex¬
ceeding 100 is £=-33333, corresponding to which the
table gives by interpolation t=-30458 ; substituting which
in the above equation we find A=2376-8; so that if 2377 games
are played, the odds are 2 to 1 that one of the players shall
have gained at least 10 games more than half that number,
and, consequently, that the other shall have gained at least 10
less than half, or that one of them shall have gamed at least
20 games more than the other, and consequently have gain¬
ed at least 100 sovereigns.
It is to be carefully observed that this question supposes
the account between A and B not to be balanced until
corresponding benefit is (hp—l)a—(hq -f- l)fi —h{pa—q$)
/(a + 0) ; and if E happens lip +1 times, and F nq t times,
the benefit is (hp -f- t)a—{hq-r-l)P=h(pa—qP) + l(a + j3);
whence © is the probability that his gain, that is, the diffe¬
rence between what he receives and what he pays, will be in¬
cluded within the limits A(pa—q,;3):=p/(a-h/3) both inclusive.
106. The following conclusions follow immediately from
this solution.
(1) . If pa be greater than q&, so that A has a mathema¬
tical advantage (however small) in each risk, the risk may
be repeated a sufficient number of times, or h may be taken
a sufficiently high number, to give a probability as nearly
equal to certainty as we please, that A s gain shall exceed
$ny given sum, however great.
(2) . Let there be two players A and B, whose chances
of gaining a game are respectively p and q, and let j3 be
the sum staked upon each game by A, and a the sum staked
by B, then pa is the mathematical expectation of A in re¬
spect of a single game, and qP that of B; and if pa be
greater than qp (however small the difference) the game
may be repeated so often as to give rise to a probability
108. The question just alluded to belongs to a class of
problems connected with the Duration of Play, of extreme
difficulty, and which have given rise to some of the most
abstruse and refined researches in the modern analysis. In
order to give an idea of the subject, we may take the fol¬
lowing question, which has been frequently considered.
A and B, whose chances of winning a game are respec¬
tively p and q, play on these terms : A lias w counters, and
B has n counters ; when A loses a game he gives a counter
to B, and when B loses a game he gives a counter to A,
and the play is to cease when one of them has lost all lus
counters. What is the probability that the play, which
may go on for ever, shall be finished before more than U
games shall have been played.
To take a simple case, suppose each to have three coun¬
ters, and let the probability be required that the play sha
be concluded with or before the ninth game. As the play
cannot end with less than three games, let the binomial
(pS-qY be developed, and the terms
give the respective probabilities of all the cases which can
rDroMhS7‘*^v'w'c«t5uty’i'^ please, that A’s S-ise in three games'. The first term is the probability of
to the wU of k capital, anfi,
“(Sl’Tthe’ mathematicafexpectations of the two players terms is the probability that neither will wm
thegataantliosses fourth game'be plaVf « A’, chance of winning it, and
on eitherskle shall be thesame. Biitif/besupposedconstaut, J B’s chance; but there chances
1 .. 1 . / 7  1   4- K
then r is inversely proportional to Vh, and consequently the
game may be repeated until ©, the probability that the
gain or loss /(«-4-/3) shall be comprised within given limits,
shall become as small as we please. Hence 1—©, the pro¬
bability that the gain or loss shall not be comprised within
given limits, may be rendered as great as we please ; and it
follows that although the play may be on terms of perfect
equality, it may be continued until a probability shall be
obtained, approaching as nearly to certainty as we please,
that one of the two players shall be ruined.
(4). The number of games which must be played, to
afford a given amount of probability that one of the parties
of the fourth game, provided the play be not concluded with
the previous one, the probability of which is 3p2q+3pq^
Multiplying, therefore, 3p^q-\-3pq‘2 by p + q, the product
3p5q+6pfq‘2-\-3pq5
gives the respective probabilities of the different ways in
which the four games may be gained by A and B, except¬
ing the two ways in which the play would have terminated
with the third game. But the play cannot end in any of
these ways; for, taking the first term tor example, it
gains a counter before A gains three, the play cannot ter¬
minate until A gain back that counter, and three others
besides, so that five games must be played. In fact, it is
probability.
Probability, obvious that there is no way of gaining an odd number of
counters in an even number of games, or vice versa. The
last product therefore expresses the chance of the 5 th game
being played ; and by reason of/;+ <7=1 it is equal to 3p2o
-f 3p#2, the chance of the 4th being played, as it obviously
ought to be, since the play cannot terminate with the 4th.
Again, if the 5th game be played, p is A’s chance of gain¬
ing it, and q B’s chance of gaining it; multiplying there¬
fore the last product by jo + y, the different terms of the
result, namely,
627
of the terms rejected from the left-hand side of the dif- Probability,
terent products gives the probability in favour of A, and
the sum of the terms rejected from the right-hand side the
probability in favour of B. As the coefficients of the suc¬
cessive products are obviously formed by adding the coeffici-
ent of the corresponding term in the preceding product to
that of the term immediately before it, the products may
be written down at once without the trouble of '—Ui-1: —
Sp'q -f 9/>392+9/>y+3/) 4
give the respective probabilities of all the cases which can
arise by the 5th game. The first term is the probability of
A gaining 4 games and B gaining 1, and the last term is the
probability of B gaining 4 and A gaining 1. These
terms therefore are the probabilities of the play ending in
favour of A and B respectively with the 5th game, and the
sum of the other two terms is the probability that the play
will not terminate with the 5th game, or the chance of
another game being played.
By pursuing the same reasoning it will be evident that
on rejecting the two extreme terms of the above product,
and multiplying the remainder hy p+q, there will result
the probabilities of the different ways in which six games
may be played without the one player gaining all the
counters of the other. But as the play cannot termimate
with the 6th game, multiply again by/>-(-q', and the result
9j°y + 27p4$3 -f- 27jpy +9py
will indicate the probability of the different cases that can
arise out of the 7th game. Rejecting the two extreme
terms, which give the respective probabilities of the play
being concluded in favour of A or B, And multiplying the
remaining two first by jo-J-g to obtain the different proba-
nilities in respect of the 8th game, and again by p-\-q, as the
play cannot terminate with the 8th, we have the product
multiplica¬
tion ; nut it is evident that when m, n, and h are large num¬
bers, it would be quite impracticable to sum the series
formed of the rejected terms by the ordinary methods,
rrom the manner in which the series are derived, they are
called recurring series; a general theory of which was first
given by Demoivre in his Doctrine of Chances, and forms
the most remarkable portion of that work.
109. The general problem is reduced to an equation of
finite differences as follows: Let yx,t represent A’s expec¬
tation when a? games have been played, and he has still t
counters to win, or B has t counters in his hand. If A gain
the next game the value of his expectation will become
Vand the chance of his gaining it is/>; therefore
his expectation in respect of that event 1$pi/Oh
the other hand, if A loses the next game his expeCtatioh
will become /fa-f i.t+r, and the chance of losing it is 9 ;
therefore his expectation in respect of that event is^x+i,
Hence, according to the principles laid down in (32),
y*. t-pyx+i, t-i + qyx+i, t+i
a linear equation of finite differences, with three independ¬
ent variables. It is therefore on the integration of an equa¬
tion of this kind that the problem of the duration of play
ultimately depends, but the subject is of much too compli¬
cated a nature to admit of its being satisfactorily explained
in this place. We must therefore content ourselves with
referring the reader to the treatise on generating func¬
tions, which forms the first part of the Theorie Analytique
of Laplace.1
27 /?Y + 81 j»Y+81 pY+WpY,
of which the first and last terms give the respective chances
of A and B winning at the 9th game, and the sum of the
other two terms the probability that the play will not be
concluded by the 9th.
If we now collect the terms which have been set aside
in the successive products, and denote by a and b the
respective probabilities of A and B gaining at the 9th
game, or sooner, we shall have
a=p3 + 3 p*q + 9/>V + 27 pGq\
b=(f+‘Zqf + 9q5p2+ 27 qY,
where the law of the series is evident.
It is easy to see that this process may be applied
whatever be the number of counters which A and B have
at the commencement, and whatever be the number, h,
of games to which the play is limited. The general rule
is as follows: of the two numbers m and n, let m be that
which is not less than the other. Raise p-\-qto the power
n, and reject the first term (which gives the chance of
A winning n games in succession), and also the last if
m—n. Multiply the remainder (li—n) times in succession
by (p^-q}, rejecting at each multiplication the fiist or
last term of the product when it gives a. combination which
would terminate the play in favour of A or B ; the sum
SECT. IX. OP THE MOST PROBABLE MEAN RESULTS OF NU¬
MEROUS DISCORDANT OBSERVATIONS, AND THE LIMITS OF
PROBABLE ERROR.
110. In the preceding section we have considered a
class of questions which apply to events depending on con¬
stant causes, and supposed to be of such a nature that they
necessarily happen or fail in each experiment, and have
given formulae by which approximate results can be ob¬
tained when the numbers involved are so large that they
cannot be conveniently treated, or cannot be treated at all,
by the ordinary methods of calculation. We come now to
a more difficult problem, namely, to investigate the pro¬
bable result of a large number of observations which have
reference not to the simple occurrence or failure of a cer¬
tain event, but to the magnitude of a thing, susceptible,
within certain limits, of a very great or an infinite number
of different values, equally or unequally probable, the
chance of any particular value being also supposed to vary
in each experiment. On account of its immediate applica¬
tion to the determination of the most probable values of
astronomical and physical elements from the results of ob¬
servation, this is, perhaps, in reference to practical utility,
the most important question in the theory.
111. Let A represent a thing of any sort (as a line, or
an angle, or a function of any quantity) which may have
„ , „ . <? ■ f was the first who shewed that the investigatiorf of the general term of a
1 Lagrange, in vol. i- of the Memoirs of the Society of 1 , ^ • differences. In vols. vi. and vii of the Memoires presents a l Aca-
curring series depends on the integration of a linear equation o tion of recurring series by the integration of such equations,
mie des Sciences of Paris, Laplace proposed a general nrtet o more complicated questions in the theory of chances, amongst
id in the latter volume gives a number of examples of their use in d b Lagrange in the volume of the Berlin Memoirs for
hich is the problem-enunciated in (108). The subject was a for the integration of the class of equations in question, and also
'75, where he has given a more direct method than that o ap » Montmort and Demoivre. A general solution of the prob-
plied it to the solution of the principal problems propose j Theorie Mathematique du Jeu, (Lyons, 1802.)
11 in the text is given by Ampere in a Tract entitled Considerations sur la 1
628
PROBABILITY.
Probability, every possible value within given limits, or which may
be constant in itself, hut of such a nature that its real mag¬
nitude can only be observed within certain limits of accu¬
racy, and suppose a great number of observations to be
made. The object is, in the first place, to assign the pro¬
bability that the sum of the observed values shall fall within
given limits, supposing the chances of the different values
of A to be known a priori ; and, in the second place, when
the law of the chances is unknown, to determine from the
observations themselves the most probable mean value of
A, and also the limits within which there is a given amount
of probability that the difference between such mean value,
and the true but unknown value of A. shall be contained.
112. Let a and b be the limits of the possible values of
A, x a value of A between a and b, and P the probability
that the sum of the values of A given by h observations
will be s exactly, s being a given quantity between ha
and hb. Assume the values of A to be equidifferent, and
multiples of a certain constant e, and make
aessa, j3ezzb, are=S, ie~X,
where a, ft and <r are whole numbers (which may be posi¬
tive or negative), and i is also a whole number proportional
to x, and varying between the limits i=a, and *=ft and
which, therefore, may be positive or negative, or zero. If
the different values of A are supposed to be equally proba¬
ble, the chance of obtaining any given one of them, as x,
in a single trial is unit divided by the number of possible
values, or equal to —a + 1) ; and if we assume an
indeterminate quantity w, then (20) the number of combi¬
nations which give the sum of h values of A equal to ere is
the coefficient of that term of the multinomial
(w“ + wx+1 + wK+2 + wli)h’
(or of the developement of ('Zwi)h from i—a to *=/3) in
which the exponent of w is <r; and consequently the pro¬
bability P that the sum of the values of A will be s ex¬
actly is that coefficient divided by (/3—a+l)A.
113. If the chances of the different values of A are un¬
equal, and also vary in each trial, let pi be the probability
of the observed value of A being x in the first trial, p2 the
probability of its being x in the second, p3 that of its being
x in the third, and so on. Now when h=\, or when there
is only a single trial, then s=x=ie, and we have Prrp1.
If h—2, then, assuming ie to be the value of A in the first
trial, and i'e its value in the second, (i and i' being any two
numbers between a and /3), the two observations may give
the sum of the two values equal to o-e in as many different
ways as it is possible to satisfy the equation i+i'=cr; and
consequently, according to the theory of combinations, P is
the coefficient of that term of the product (arranged ac¬
cording to the powers of w) of the two series represented
X=Si»1e'V'/-1 .  
Now since P is the coefficient of the term of the develope¬
ment of this product which contains the factor , if
we conceive the developement effected we shall have
X=Pe^-r+ PVV^-r+ &c.
a series in which all the terms are of the same form. Mul-
gP t—r
tiplying both sides of the equation by e v , we get
Xe—<rV^r=p+p'e<y—&c.
Now by a well known theorem in trigonometry, (Algebra,
art. 269), = cos (c/—0)6+sj—Isin (o-'-o-)^;
substituting therefore this value, and multiplying by d6,
the equation becomes
Xe-^ N^rf^P^+P' [COS (<r'—'r)§+s/—[ sin (/—7)^ d$+ &c.
The factor which multiplies P' in this equation will evi¬
dently become zero when integrated from 6=—n to
(tt being the semicircumference to radius 1), the positive
and negative elements of the integral being equal, and con¬
sequently destroying each other. The same thing also
takes place with respect to thq, following terms, which are
all of the same form. Integrating therefore between those
limits, and observing thatjdd=2n, we find
P=— r+7r Xe^J-^dd.
2nJ—a-
114. This value of P denotes the infinitely small chance
that the sum of the values of A in A trials will be s exactly.
Let n and v be two integer numbers between ha and Aft
and let Q, denote the probability that s will be comprised
between the two limits pe and ve, (these limits being in¬
cluded between ha and hb) ; then Q, will be found by sub¬
stituting successively p, ju+l, p-\-2,...v for a in the above
value of P, and taking the sum of all the resulting terms.
This substitution gives the following series multiplied by X
under the sign of integration :
e—pi! JZT e—0+1) ^ e—G“+2) e-" ^
On multiply ing the series now found by ^ —1 —e 2 ^ V —1
(=2^-1 sin ^6), all the terms of the product, excepting
the first and the last, destroy each other, and the sum of
the terms becomes simply
e—C“—.
therefore on making the substitution, and performing the
multiplication now indicated, and dividing by 2^/—1 sin^0,
we obtain for the value of Q the equation Q=
by SpjW*5 and 2p2wts, in which the exponent of w is equal
to ere. In like manner, if A=3, then the sum of the ob¬
served values of A may be equal to ere in as many different
ways as the equation i-\-i' -)-i"—(r admits of different so¬
lutions, and consequently P is the coefficient of the term of
the developement of the product ’Zpyiv* . ’Zp^w11 .
in which the exponent of w is equal to o-e. Generally, when
the number of observations is A, the probability P of the
sum of the observed values of A being s, or o-e, exactly, is
\e | Sin 4/
115. In order to simplify the expression for Q, let the
number of possible values of A within the given limits be
conceived to be infinite, in which case the constant e be¬
comes infinitely small, and therefore, since the limits are
finite, p and v infinitely great. Let the following substi¬
tutions also be made:
pe—yf/—8, pe—-[jp-j-d, 8— eZ,
the coefficient of in the developement of the product
2p^tvli . 2p2wli . 2p5wli Xphwt!,
the sums 2 including all values of i from i=a to «=ft
Assume 1 (e being the base of the Napierean
logarithms), and let the above product be denoted by X.
We shall then have
8 being positive in order that v may be greater than p,
agreeably to what has already been assumed. On substitut¬
ing these expressions in the above equation, the limits of
the new variable z will be z±z infinity; for e having been
supposed infinitely small, z must become infinitely great
when 6=ir. Now since p and v are infinitely great, p—
and v-j-l become sensibly p and v, whence we have
Probability.
e-C'+i) V=x_e~^ (e^V^T.
PROBABILITY.
e __1 sin 82. Again, by reason of 6=ez, we have
dd—edz; and e being infinitely small, 6 must be a very
* sr:/-2&0reJ^maybe ¥, whence
fhe^fbn t-Qbe^r”5 °‘ ^ tra"sfo™«i'>-
Q=:ir f+c° xe-^v^r^ te. *
7T t./  00 2 ’
A will lie between ^zq^S.
116. It is now necessary to assign a value to the product
denoted by X. Since the number of possible values of A
between a and b has been supposed infinite, the chance of
obtaining any given one of them, as x, in a single trial is
infinitely small. Assuming this chance to be a function
629
Sr hSJ isrsitr i- f cases- si"“ R. always P™babil«?.
ments cfc .C0J‘.(y—'l'z) !s always positive, and the ele- s—
ments of the first of the above integrals having thus the same
value and the same sign for the same value of z, whether 2
be positive or negative, the value of the integral from—00
+ 00, 18 ^he double of its value from 0 to oo . On the
other hand, since y and z have both the same sign,
nr nXr/*} 18 0r ne^ative according as z is positive
or negative, and the elements of the integral into which it
enters being equal for —z and +z, but having contrary
A ^ ^ ^ ^ * value, of us, des^y eU „th^„d ^he+iSo^ t
  Y to J? + 00 vanishes. Ihe expression for Q, is therefore
asrormed into
2 /-®
~ / Y cos (y—\jsz) sin 8z.
dz
infinitely small. Assuming this chance to be a function }}8’ The formuk now found cannot in general be integrat-
of a;, and to vary in the different trials, let it be represented ed by any the known methods, but in the present case the
by o..x in resnect of the wth trial. Tr, *  quantities denoted bv V and .i. c ...
by (f)ux in respect of the nth trial. In order to* preserve
continuity in the values of A, this must be understood as
signifying that (f>nxdx is the infinitely small chance that the
value of A given by the nth observation will lie between
x and x + dx. The function (pnx, therefore, represents the
law of the facility of the different values of A. It is posi¬
tive for all values of x between a and b, and vanishes for
all values of x less than a or greater than b; and it is im¬
portant to remark, that whatever number n may be, the
^ ~ Vi.* j , ,   pii;ochl case uie
quantities denoted by Y and y are such that an approxi¬
mate value of Q may be obtained, which will always be
more nearly equal to the true value as A, the number of
observations, is increased. On adding the squares of the
two quantities represented by R„ cos r„ and R„ sin /• we
get n
Rn2=(/0„« cos zx.dxf+{f$nx sin zx.dxf.
If*=0> becomes Rn=f4>nxdx, whence by (116), Rn=l.
When z has a real value, then it may be shewn that R„
integral /j)nxdx taken from x—a to x—b is always equal to is less than 1 ; for let x' be any value of A different ^rom
unity ; for since every observation gives a value of A be- then as can only vary from as a to b, we have obviou^lv
tween a and b, the sum of all the probabilities in respect cob zx'<Lr'—rm * n™, a at >■
of each observation must be unity or certainty. From this "j u / . ’ ’an ^nX S1" zx'dx =f^nx sin zx.dx,
assumption, then, we have Q^dx^i, (f)exdx=p2  and the above equation may be put under this form,
fhxdx=ph, whence the sums ZpJ^-1 (113) are chlnged Ri"=/<PnX C8S zx'dx-f^’coszx'dx'+ffnX sin zx.dx.f<pnX‘ sin zx'.dx,
into definite integrals; and therefore, since d=ez, whence
—J  ’ •' • " ' - R*n=Jjr<l>nxcpHx’ cos z(x—x')dxdx\
and consequently i6=xz, we obtain for the value of X,
X= fez* V-1 (f)^ xdx.f ezx (f)2xdx....J'^xdx,
the limits of the integrals being x=a and x=b.
By reason of ezx^ — cos zx-\-—1 sin zx, each of
these integrals may be expressed in terms of the cosine and
sine of zx. The nth, for instance, becomes f $nx cos zx.dx
+ V—lf<p„x sin zx.dx. Now since /$ndx= 1, (from x=a
to x=b), and (j)nx can have only positive values, each of
the integrals is less than 1 ; whence we may assume
J'<pn x cos zx.dx = R„ cos r„; J'lfnX sin zx.dx = R„ sin rn ;
R„ being a positive quantity, and rn an angle having al¬
ways a real value. This gives
1 (f,nxdx= R„(cos r„——1 sin rn)=Rnern V—1 .
whence substituting successively for n the numbers
1, 2, 3...A, and for the sake of brevity making
Y=R1 x R2 X R3 XRA,
y=r\+r2+r, +r»
we get XzrYe^^-1; and the expression for Q, becomes
,+co Ye< V-M ^ sin 8z. —.
-00 z
117. The integral in this last expression is equivalent to
two others, namely
^Ycos(y-\k^) sin S z. -j-/\/—1sin (y-fz) sin 3z
Now, excepting the case in which z—0, this double
integral is always less than Jffaxcpydxdx', or less than
(f(pnxdx)2, and consequently Rn is less than ffaxdx, that
is, less than unity. Since, then, it has been shewn that
R„ is equal to unity when z=0, and Jess than unity for all
other values of z, and since Y is a quantity of the order R„*,
it follows that Y must diminish with great rapidity when z,
or its equal 6-~t differs sensibly from 0, and even for very small
values of z becomes insensible when A is a large number.
We may therefore assume Y=e~^, an expression which
is equal to unity when d=0, and diminishes rapidly as Q is in¬
creased, and becomes zero when 6 is infinite.
119. For the sake of abridging let us assume
kn—fx(j)nxdx, k'n=fx2(f)nxdx, k"=fxs<f)nxdx, &c.
(the integrals in respect of x being always from xzza to
x=b). From known formulae we have
cos ZX— 1-
?r4.r4
+
2 *2.3.4
-&c.: sinza?=za?-
2.3
+ &c.;
Q
=ir+
K J G
substituting these series for cos zx and sin zx in the inte¬
grals fpnx cos zx.dx and f<p„x sin zx.dx, and also A„, A'n, k"n,
&c., for the values they have now been assumed to repre¬
sent, then, from (116) we have
*4
R„ cos r„z
Z
+
2 . 4
A"' — &c.
R„ sin rn—zkn
2 . 3
A"n+ &c.
and it will be seen presently that all the terms involving
t/ - higher powers of z than the cube may be neglected. Add-
on attending to the nature of the quantities repre- twjejMb..,, we get
sented by Y and y, it will be manifest that according as 2 is » ^ n 2 ’
positive or negative, r„, and consequently y is positive or R^l—\z“ (A'n—A2„) -{-z^f—&c.;
630
PROBABILITY.
Probability./' being independent of 3. On dividing the second by the
^■V^r'first, there results tan rj=.zk„—„ + 'iz M »■ &c* >
whence by reason of ?■„— tan r„ 3 tan- ^n4* c,>
rn=zkn—\z* {k\—2>knk'n^2k^) + &c.
If, therefore, we make
9n= hzS + ),
the values of R„ and rn become respectively
Rn=l z2cn+zif— &C.; rn—zkn—&c
Now, by hypothesis (ll6) YrrR^RaX Rs
r- l‘_ R  V Irtrr ^ 1 zV 4-Z4f'-
Q
= 2 f
vjo
oo _(l?
e sin
hi
di
Probability.
y'(Ac)
•R*
• &C.) =
which is the probability that the sum of the observed va¬
lues of A will tall between MqpS.
121. The last step in this investigation is to reduce the
integral now found to a known form, which may be accom¬
plished as follows: Let w be a new variable, then by means
of the trigonometrical formula cos uz=.^eu^ ~l+^e ^
jT'\m uMe=ife->’+^'/^1 d«+i
therefore log Y_I log R. 2llog(l 3 c„+3 / , ; assume
V f-V f xc )  &c.l (by reason of the formula TV1  4 1
J^j^LrTIi f + &c.) But we havenlso assumed therefore, e=d_i»^/_l (whence *=dd), then
(117) Y= e—**; hence log Y=—and consequently
i,2_5. f-2 _zi ( f &c.} In like manner, since
i=r +r;+r,...+r, Lzr„, therefore y=^.-«>£.+
&c. Now, the sums S include all values of c„, kn, gni trom
W_1 to n—k; let the mean values of those quantities,
therefore, be denoted by c, k, g, that is to say, let
^cn—hc, '2kn=hk, 2gn=hg,
and make also hf"=2(f-\cn), and we have f=f*—
Z\fij"" &c. By reverting the series the value ot z is touna
, * .
in terms of 6; namely z
+
4- &c.
</(hc) ^ 2AcVW
But the second term of this series, being divided by WK
and k being by supposition a large ,‘ssrf “
V -'dd -\fe^u'~v 'dv = \e~L^fe-v dv.
When 6=0, then v = —, and when 6 is infinite,
v is infinite; therefore, if the integral in respect of 6 be
taken from <9=0 to 0 = oo, the integral in respect of vmust
be taken from v = —\u ^ZZTi to v = oo.
If we now suppose u to be negative, we shall have in like
manner | fe'^^^dd = \e-^Je-v * dv, the limits in
this case being from v = + 2M>/—1 to v = 00’ Hence
fe^cos u6.d6=^u\f dv+fT 'dv).
But the sum of the two integrals on the right-hand side ot
• . t A 1 _ * -  A. 1 v . af wa /a ^ /%%   -—■ // t
/;
sin
d6
~6
=^r:
du.
we find
UBJlL in ■t'Ul. LaLC ouaaa v, are ° ^ / 
anu u uemg uy  _ —D- ^ rT\oni~A 'r,a inspn- this equation, the first being taken from v = 2“*/—1
Sr^^^tceSmMermrofV/StrfS t„ loB^y, aud the second from e =+^7^ “
by higher powers of h, and may therefore be rejected a for- biou8iy the double of fe * dv from v=0 to v= oo, or
£i;inX‘-5i“-ES isy ;
its powers enters as a divisor, we have z=:i+</(hc), and /^V^cos •
From (116) we have also y='2,rn—z'Zkn—z35#„+ &c., Let both sides of the equation be multiplied by du, and
therefore in consequence of the above transformations, y= integrated from «=0 to u=h^>f(hc)=u'; then observ-
zhh z^haA- fee.; and on substituting for z its value just • tbat rcos lu6)d6 = sin (uO)-i-d, we shall have
found in tTrms of and ^ ^
consequently^-^=(M-^)^y/(Ac)-^W(Ac . ^ ^
In order to deduce from this an expression for cos ^ ^(kcy
let u and v denote any two arcs, then by trigonometry, , . ,,.
cos (u—v)=cos ucosv+ sin u sin v. Suppose v to be small, Comparing this equation with that in ( )
and let its cosine and sine be developed in series and sub- q_(i ^^2du. Now, let u=!2t, andlet rbe what<
stituted in this equation it will become becomes when«=tt'=8^^(^) 5 then \u*=t*, du=2dt,
S-d-v'(Ac)=2r, or 8=2rv/(Ac), and we have, finally,
°-A/W"a-u-A/r-*
 ,...., V__T/  w. for the probability that 5, the sum of the observed values of
~ ■ . VVUi/, -VOO X J(hc)f A w ill be comprised between the limits y//—8 and y + 8,
we obtain the following expression in which the largest A—2r*/fc-^).  
terms omitted are of the order 1-r A, and which therefore
is more accurate as A is a higher number, viz.
cos(m—r)=sCOS j-^cos w+ &c. -\‘v s*n M g g s^n u^‘ &c'
whence, making u^=(Jih—^6(Jic), v^gd7’^—ctffic),
and rejecting as before terms of the order 1 —h, we ave
. ^ f ,1.1. .r.v 6 1
cos(y-^)=cos J (M—4)
d+^si,,{(“-+)
q=2-(
7T C
ig
00
e cos
CD  fi
e sin
kzzzz.'iTA/(c-i~h\ _ . , . , .
122. The expression now found for Q, is- that which in
(96) was denoted by 0, and of which the table gives the
values corresponding to the different values of r. Ihe ge-
( /7Ii , \ e l c;w_6<9_ ^ neral result of the investigation is, therefore, that whatever
\ (hk—Y) -JThc) 5 V(hc) • 6 be the nature of the function <$>nx which represents the law
, jm of the facility of the different values of A, if a large num-
,ini (hk-^ *— isin -JZ-.62dd. ber of observations be made, the sum of the values of A,
l ^ i V(hc) divided by the number of observations, approaches conttnu-
W(F)Jo ~ ““tv"'T’V(.hc)X““ V(hc) ulvmw^ .—r- —v t ..... pmEan
120. As no restriction has yet been made with respect to ally to a ^tai”beP^^ is increased, and
the value of *, excepting that it is a mean between^ea„d Ve j -ng the number of observations, a probabi-
and therefore included between ha and hb (115), let us tn > .P^ » , • , approaching as nearly tocer-
now assume This gives cos(M_f)=I, and sin ^ty^we^^^ th'e arith^
(hk-«f)=0; and the equation becomes tamty as we piea&e,
PROBABILI
Probability, metical mean or average of the observations and the true
mean value of A, will he comprised within limits which mav
be made as small as we please.
The analysis employed in the preceding articles, (113
to 121), for the purpose of establishing this very impor¬
tant result, belongs to Poisson, and is given in nearly the
same form in the Recherches sur la Probabilite des Juge-
ments, chap, iv., and in the Additions to the Coitnaissance
des Terns for 1832. We have preferred it to the method
followed by Laplace in the Theorie Analytique, as being
somewhat simpler and also more general.
123. In order that the limits 2rv/(^c) may be real, it is
necessary that the special quantity c be positive, a condition
which has hitherto been assumed. Now, since c=i:cn~h,
it is obvious that c will be positive if cn=i(£'n be po¬
sitive. On writing for A', and kn their values (119) we have
2cr—j£2(pna:<Ix—(fx<pnxdx) 2,
the limits of the integrals being always from x=a to .r—b.
But it is evident that no change will be made in the values
of these definite integrals (the limits continuing the same),
by substituting in them any other of the possible values of
A, as xr. We have therefore fx'<pnx'dx’=fx(})nxdx, and since
in all cases f(pnx,dx'=l, the above equation may be other¬
wise written
2cn=Jx2(f)nxdxJ'p.x'dx'—-fxtp^xdx fx‘<Qnx?dx,
whence (lcn=ff<pnx^nxf {x2—xx )dxdxr,
or 2cn=Jftpnx(f)nx'(x'2—x'x)dxdx/.
Adding together the two last equations, there results
4cn=Jf<pnx<f)'nx'(x—x')2dxdx',
a quantity which is necessarily positive, and can never be
zero so long as x can have different values.
124. The special quantity k to which the average of the
values of A continually approaches, is connected with the
centre of gravity of the area of a curve by the following rela¬
tion. Let x and y be the co-ordinates of a curve, of which the
equation is ; then the element of the area is <pnxdx.
But (116) <pnxdx is the infinitely small probability that the
value of A in the «th observation will lie between x and
x -f- dx; therefore the element of the area of the curve
represents this probability, and the curve itself represents
the law of the probability of the different values of A in re¬
spect of the nth trial. In like manner, the curve whose co¬
ordinates are x and (1 -±-h)2$nx, represents the law ot the mean
probability of A in respect of the whole series of observa¬
tions. Now, if be the absciss of the centre of gravity of
any curve whose co-ordinates are x and y, the well known
formula of mechanics gives x 1=/yxdx~rfydx; therefore,
applying this formula to the curve of the mean probability,
and making the whole area (Jydx from x—a to x=b)=\,
the absciss of the centre of gravity is xl=(\-i-hs)'Zfx<pnxdx.
But this is the quantity denoted by (119); hence the spe¬
cial quantity to which the average of a large number of ob¬
servations indefinitely approaches is the absciss of the cen¬
tre of gravity of the area of the curve which represents the
law of the mean chances of A.
125. It has been assumed in the foregoing analysis that
A is susceptible of an infinite number of values, increasing
continuously from a to b. The results, however, are easily
adapted to those cases in which the number of possible va¬
lues of A is finite. Suppose A to be a thing susceptible of
only X different values, represented by av a2, az aKy
and let the chances of these values, which may be different
in the different trials, be respectively yv 73 7*
ia respect of the rath trial. Now, suppose <pnx to be a dis¬
continuous function, which vanishes for all values of x, of
which the difference from one or other of the above values
of A exceeds an infinitely small quantity e; then the whole
integral /’<pnxdx from x=a to x—b, will be made up of a
series of X partial integrals f<pnxdx taken between the limits
T Y.
631
a,—e the sum of which will he unity, since one or other of Probability,
the values of A must necessarily be given by the trial. But
the integraly^rctr between the limits atz±zf is the expres¬
sion of the chance that the value of A given in the rath trial
will lie between atz±ze ; whence for those limits f(pn,rdx=yl.
Now the difference x—at must be infinitely small, since it
cannot exceed «; we may therefore substitute a, for x, and
a, for x2 under the sign of integration, when the limits are
o(=*=f,so that for those limits we have fx<pnxdx=atf(pnxdx=;
yPv 0n writing for i all the different numbers 1, 2, 3" X,
and observing that the X partial integrals thus formed make
up the whole integral/r<prfr(/.r from x=a to x~b, and that
therefore their sum is /&„, we have, in respect of the rath
trial,
7l 0 1 +72a2 +75a5 +7A.ax.
In like manner, for k'^fx^Q^dx (from a to b), we have
^'«=y1a12-J-y2a22-|-y3a32 +yjLcb.s 5
so that the two special quantities k and k' become
^-f-^O^Cvi0! +V2a2 +y3fl!s  'A-yjPx )>
A/=(i^My1«12+y2«a2+y3«i2 +v^),
the sums 2 extending to all the h values of ra, or to all the
trials, the chances denoted by y2, &c. being supposed
to vary in the different trials.
126. When the chances of the different values of A are
equal and constant, then y,z= 1 -f-X, and the above values of A
and k' become
^ +^2 +as  +ax)>
^=(l-f-X)(ai2 + «22-f «32 
co that k is the arithmetical mean of the possible values of
A, and k' the mean of the squares of those values. On this
hypothesis, therefore, k and k' may be computed a priori,
and consequently the limits determined within which there
is a given probability © that the average of h observations
will fall, the limits being kr^lr •Jic—K), where c=^(A'—A2).
When the chances of the different values of A are un¬
equal, but constant in the different trials, then k—kM and
k'=z.k'n, and we have
k —y^a
k'=Vla
t -f-y
x2 +y2°22 +vsa
+73*3 ......+yA.*A,
s
+ Vxax. '
In this case the special quantity k to which the average of the
observed values continually approaches, is the sum of the
possible values, each multiplied into its respective proba¬
bility ; and k' is the sum of the products of the squares of
those values into their respective probabilities.
127. Resuming the consideration of the general formula
m (121), we shall now give an example of its application
when the function which represents the law of facility
of the different values of A is supposed to be known a
priori.
Of all the hypotheses which may be made respecting the
law of facility, the simplest is that which supposes the
chances of all the possible values of the thing observed to
be equal, and to remain constant during the series of trials.
This supposes <pHx—(px=za. constant; whence fprdx, be¬
tween the limits x=a and x=.b, becomes (b—a) <px. But
between those limits we have also fpxdxzz 1 ; therefore
cpx—\-i-(b—a). From this value of <px it is easy to deduce
the special quantities k and k'. On the present hypothesis
kz-k„ and k’—k'n; therefore, the limits of the integral being
xdx  Q?
x—a and xxzb, we have b=fx<pxdxz= j --
i(&_j_ a), whence F=|(6-F«)
(lx
—=^-(i2-f-ia-f-£jt2) ;* whence
b—a 2(b—a)
In like manner V*=fx2<pxdx
W-vy
632
PROBABILITY.
Probability. (b2 -^-da-^-a2) —^ (b-j-a)2. Hence by (121) we have
the probability 0 that the average value of A given by k
observations, or the sum of the values of A divided by their
number, will lie between
l(6 + a) =fz -t-ba + a2)—+
128. This formula may be applied to the following ques¬
tion. Of the comets which have been observed since the
year 240 of our era, the parabolic elements of 138 have
been computed, and the mean inclination of their orbits to the
ecliptic is found to be 48° 55'. Now, supposing every possi¬
ble inclination of an orbit to be equally probable, let the
probability be demanded that the mean inclination of 138
orbits will not differ from 45° (the mean of the possible in¬
clinations) more than 5° in excess or defect.
In this case the limits of the possible values of the phe¬
nomenon are 0 and 90°. We have therefore a=0, 6=90°,
A=138, and the above limits of the error of the average,
become 45°=^:t x 90°-h ^(6 X 138). In order that
the limits may not exceed 5°, we have to determine r from
the equation r X 90° (6 X 138) = 5°, which gives
T=iV23 ; whence t=T6 very nearly. The tabular value
of 0 corresponding to r^l’G is ’97635, or nearly ; and
the odds are therefore 41 to 1 that on the supposition of all
inclinations being equally probable, the mean inclination of
138 comets would fall between 450^p50, that is, between
40° and 50°. The mean of the inclinations actually com¬
puted falls within those limits (being 48° 45') ; there is
therefore a very great probability that whatever may be
the nature of the unknown causes which determine the
positions of the cometary orbits, it is not such as to render
different inclinations unequally probable. 
If the question had been to assign the limits within which
it is as probable that the mean of the inclinations will fall
as not, we should have had 0=^-, and consequently (from
the table) t=’476936, and the limits would have been
45o=p90ox’476936-4-^(6 X 138), which is found on cal¬
culation to be 45°r+zi0’5. On the supposition, therefore,
that all inclinations are equally probable, it is one to one
that the mean of 138 inclinations will fall between 43^° and
and 46^°, or at least not exceed those limits.
129. On the same hypothesis of an equal probability of
all possible values, if we suppose the mean value of A to be
0, we have then a——b, and becomes 1—2 a, whence
the limits corresponding to a given value of© (127) become
0=+=2t6 : V(6/i). Let 0=^, whence t=’476936, and
suppose ^=600. With these values the limits become
0=+z’0l6& nearly ; that is to say, it is an even wager that
the average of 600 observations will not differ from the
true mean value of A more than the sixteen-thousandth part
of a or b, what is the greatest possible difference.
130. As a second hypothesis, suppose the chance of a
given value of A to decrease uniformly as the magnitude in¬
creases from 0 to r~t= a ; then <px will be found as follows :
Let when a=0 ; we have then by the hypothesis
<px:p=(a—x) ; a, whence <px—(a—x)P-i-a, and conse-
quently fcpxdx=fix—fix2-4-2 a, which, from x=0 to x= + «,
becomes But ftyxdx from x— —a to x— -p a is 1
(errors beyond those limits being supposed impossible),
therefore from x=0 to xz=. + a, f(pxdx=^, and consequently
or/3=l -r-a. Hence ^=(a-^)W2, from which the
value of c is easily deduced, that of k being 0, as in the
former case.
131. Although the function Qx which represents the law
of facility of the different values of A is in general unknown,
its form may be assigned if we assume that it is subject
to certain conditions, which, from the nature of the
thing, must be very nearly, if not absolutely true, in most
practical cases1st, That the chance of an error dimi¬
nishes as the magnitude of the error increases, and for er¬
rors beyond a certain limit vanishes altogether ; and, 2d,
that positive and negative errors, of equal magnitude, are
equally probable. The last condition is equivalent to the Probability-
assumption that the average of the observed values is the
true mean value. For simplification, we suppose the chance
of an error of a given magnitude to remain constant in all the
trials.
132. Let x, x’, x", &c. be a series of values of A, the sum
of which is s, and the number h, and make m=s-i-h, then
m is the arithmetical mean or average, which by hypothesis
is the true value of the phenomenon A. Let a;—m=A,
x1—x”—m—A.", &c., so that A, A', A", &c. are the
errors of x, x', x", &c. Now, the most probable single er¬
ror is 0 ; and the probability of obtaining an error of a given
magnitude A in any observation is obviously the same as
that of obtaining a given value of x; therefore <px=
<p(x—rn)=(pA; so that <pA is the probability of a single error
being exactly A. In like manner, the probability of an error
ror =A' is (pA/; and if we take P to denote the probability
of a given system of errors, A, Ar, A", &c., then the errors
being supposed independent of each other, we have (7)
P=<pA . <pA' . <pA", &c.
Let this system be assumed to be the most probable result
of the observations, then P is a maximum, and its differen¬
tial co-efficient zero. Taking the logarithms of both sides
of the equation, differentiating, and making d log.^A=0'Ac/A,
and c/P-*-dA=:0, we obtain
0=<p'A-F<p'A' + <P'A"+, &c.,
an equation which may be otherwise written
0'A <P'A' .Q'A" .
0=AV+i'^+A V+’
&C;
This is the conditional equation of the most probable sys¬
tem of errors. But the hypothesis of the average being
the true value, furnishes this other equation,
0=(a:—m) + (x'—m) -f- (x"—&c.
or, which is the same, 0=A-pA/-|-A;/-l-, &c.; and on com¬
paring this with the above conditional equation, it is evi¬
dent that they can only be both true simultaneously on the
supposition of <^>— = =~^77_ =’ &c' Hence it follows
that <p'A-r-A is independent of any particular value of A, or
is equal to a constant, which we shall call K. We have then
<p'A d . log. <pA £
A AdA
The integral of this expression is log. <pA=|KA2 + const.,
which, making the last constant = log. H, and passing to num¬
bers, gives (pA=He^‘^ . It now only remains to deter¬
mine the two constants H and K. With respect to K, as
we suppose the most probable value of A to be 0, and that
cpA diminishes as A increases, it is obvious that K must be
negative. Assume = —y, and the formula becomes
^A=He—For the determination of H we have the
equation fQAdA= 1, the limits of the integral being —a' and
-j-a', where a'=^(b—a), a and b being the limiting values
of x. But it is to be observed, that as all values of A ex¬
ceeding the limits r±: a' are supposed to be impossible, or
at least to be so improbable that it is unnecessary to take
account of them, the value of the integral ftp Ad A from
A= a' to A=-f-a/ will not be altered by extending the
limits from — infinity to + infinity. We have therefore
/+°>ArfA=l. Let A=t~»/y, then dA=dt-i-\/y, and
<pA=He—*A3=He-f*, on substituting which in the las
equation, and observing that from t = — oo to £= + o°
we have fe~t2dt— (96), we find (H L and
H=v'('»'-*-7r)’ Whence, finally, <pA=z^/(yf-ir)e Y •
133. The general properties of the function now found
P R O B A
a curve of which cpA is the ordinate corresponding to the
absciss A. Let AB be its axis, and MN its greatest ordi¬
nate. Suppose the origin to be placed at M, draw PQ an
ordinate at any point P, and pq indefinitely near to PQ, and
make MA= —a', MP=A, and PQ=pA ; then
as was shewn in (124), PQ^o, the element of the area, repre¬
sents the chance of an error lying between A and A-f-rfA, that
is,ofanerrorgreaterthanMPbut less than Mp. Now, iff A —
J (y-f-7r)e the function will not be changed by chang¬
ing A into —A ; therefore <pA =p(—A), and the curve is
symmetrical on both sides of MN, as it obviously ought to be
according to the hypothesis ; for on making MP'=MP, then
positive and negative errors of equal magnitude being equally
probable, we must have P'Q'^PQ. Again, since 2
diminishes rapidly as A increases, the curve at a short dis¬
tance from MN must approach very near to its axis AB;
but as the function only vanishes when A is infinite, the curve
will not meet the axis at any finite distance from MN. This
curve, therefore, can only represent approximately the law of
facility, inasmuch as it is supposed that errors beyond a cer¬
tain limit are impossible ; but on accoun t of the rapid dimi¬
nution of the ordinate at a short distance from MN, the
chance of an error exceeding a small value of A, as MB,
becomes insensible. Hence the limits of the integrals in
respect of A may be extended without sensibly altering their
values from Ar+ra' to A=rrt~:oo .
134. It is now necessary to find the special quantities k,
k', and c. Substituting A for x, and observing that as the
law ofthe chances is here supposed to remain constant, we have
k=kn, k'—k'n, the formulas in (119) become k=f AtpAdA,
k'=f A2tpAdA. Hence on making<pA=v'(y-i-7r)e we
have
TTJ tt lyj
2v/ (yr)
-yA*
When A becomes infinite, this becomes 0, therefore from
A= — oo to A= + oo, &=0. This is an obvious conse¬
quence of the symmetry of the curve, for the centre of gra¬
vity is necessarily in the straight line MN.
With respect to A' we may proceed thus. We have
A'==/’a2<£Ag?A = v/(y-T-7rX/*A2e—^^A. But from the
principles of the differential calculus,
d . Ac—*A2=e—^Va—27A2e—^rfA,
therefore, integrating and transposing,
^ A2e—yA2dA=—^Ae—*A2
Now, from A = — oo to A = -j-oo, the term of this equa¬
tion which is not under the sign of integration vanishes, and
dA=x/(7r-^y) ^from (96), on substituting t2 for
/A2), therefore/A2e'—yA2c?A = (1 2'/)+/(tt -*- /); and
consequently h!
In (119) we assumed czz\{k’—k2) ; therefore in the pre¬
sent case c=±k', whence c=rl-j-47, or y=:l-j-4c.
135. The expressions which have now been found for
the function which represents the probability of an error,
and the limits corresponding to an assigned degree of pro¬
bability, are given in terms of the indeterminate constant y
(or c), which depends on the nature of the observation, and
therefore, where instruments are requisite, on the goodness
VOL. XVIII.
B I L I T Y.
633
of the instrument and the skill of the observer. This con- Probability,
stant is called by Laplace the modulus of the law of facility,
It cannot, in general, be assigned a priori; but if we assume
that positive and negative departures from the mean are
alike probable, which is the most plausible hypothesis the
nature of the thing admits of, an approximation to its value,
in i espect of observations of a given kind, may be deduced
with great probability from the results of a large series of
observations of the same kind already made. We now pro¬
ceed to give the analysis by which this is accomplished, fol¬
lowing the method of Poisson. 1 he approximation is carried
only to quantities of the order l-j-^/A; terms having h for
a divisor are neglected on account of their smallness, h
being supposed a large number.
136. In the expression for Q in (119), suppose
and consequently S=0, ^ + S=2S, and write also z for
Q-^-Vihc) ; the equation then becomes
2 Z*00
~ Jo c°s {hkz—hz) sin 8z .
80
-Mz) —
2g _gi
+ ^hc)J0 Sm (hkz~hz) sin *z ' e2d6’
and Q, is the probability that s, the sum of the values of A
given by all the observations, will lie between 0 and 25.
If therefore, we suppose 8 to be variable, the differential of
this expression taken with respect to 8, will express the
infinitely small chance of the sum of the values being 25
exactly. Differentiating, and observing that if u and v
denote any two arcs, the trigonometrical formulae give
sin (w—v) sin v-\- cos (u—v) cos cos (2v—u),
— cos (m—v) sin v -f- sin (u—v) cos v—— sin (2v—«),
we shall find
dQL 2d8 r™
— d8=— / e ' cos (28z-
d 8 i* o
Let £ be a variable quantity, and assume 28=hk -f- 2tV(hc),
whence d8=dtV(hc), and let the corresponding value of
dQ
— d8 be denoted by qdt, we shall have, on substituting
2dt
these values, and replacing z by 0-4-V(Ac), qdt-= 
fo^ C0S J^) fo e-,, Sin
The two integrals in this equation are found from the
formula in (121). Writing 2t for u, that formula gives
—(2
/
e ^cos (2^)<$ = !.yAr . e
and if this last equation be differentiated in respect of t,
three times in succession, the resuit will be
^ e-'* sin (21$) 6Sdt=Wv(3ter*—2t*<r-*);
whence, if we make V= 2c^/(Ac) ^—^3)> we ^ave
qdt— (1-7- y/^) (1—V) e^dt,
where V is a quantity containing only uneven powers of t,
and of the order 1 -f-V^, so that when multiplied by another
af the same order, the product will be of the order 1 -±h,
and will therefore be rejected in the present approxima¬
tion. This value of qdt is the probability that s will be pre¬
cisely 25 or hk-\-2t\/(hc), or it is the infinitely small pro¬
bability of the equation
s—hk-\-2tV (he).
137. In order to apply this result to the determination
af the probable limits in terms of observations actually
4 L
634
PROBABILITY.
Probability, made, it is necessary to remark that the analysis by mean-5
' of which it has been obtained is grounded on the very
general supposition that the thing to be measured may be
any function whatever of the quantity observed ; for the in¬
finitely small chance of a particular value of the function
is evidently the same as that of the corresponding value of
the quantity, and is consequently <$>nxdx. Let Xtherefoie
be a function of and let K, C, T, be what k, c, < become
when X is substituted for x, the above equation then be¬
comes
2X=-f 2T*/ (JiC),
the symbol 2 including all the h values of X; and the pro¬
bability of this equation is an expression of the same form
as that which is represented by qdt.
138 Hitherto no restriction has been made with respect
to <h v ; we now introduce the hypothesis that positive and
negative departures from the mean of equal magnitude are
equally probable, and consequently that the curve repre¬
senting the law of facility is symmetrical, but shall sup¬
pose the chances of a particular value, or a particular error,
to vary in the different trials. Let the origin be transferred
to the centre of gravity, the absciss of which =. a, and let x ft
__ A x'. k— a' &c. We have then by (132) (px—(p A,
rxd>xdx=fA<j>&d&, Z^fc/A^ArfA, the integra¬
tion in respect of A being from — <» t° + o°- The special
quantities k and k' then become Ac:(l-f-A)s/A^n Ad A
=0, £'=:(1-7-^)2 J’&24>n&d A, whence
C—(1 -=-2^)2/A 2<£„ A A.
The object is now to eliminate <£BA, and determine c in
terms of the observations.
139 Let X =x be the observed value of A in the wtn ob-
servation, then is the tme en-nr of the observa-
tion. Let the function denoted by X in (137) be (X„—A)
=A2, and the corresponding value of K (since in this case,
K=( 1 -4-A) 2 fX<pnxdx) becomes K=( 1 -i-h) 2/A </>„AaA.
Comparing this with the value of c found above, we have
K=2c- therefore on substituting these values of X and
K in the equation (137), and assuming f and c> to be the
values of T and C when X=(X„—A)2, we get 2 (X„ k)
=2hc-\-2t'^(fic'), whence
c=(l -7-2A)2(X„—k)2—f'U' (1)
(U being a quantity of the order l~r^h) ; and the probabi¬
lity of this equation is
/^'^(l-r-vAOC1—V')e_
where V' is a function containing only uneven powers of
t', and of the order 1-vVA.
In the equation (137) suppose X=a:=Xn, and let t and
c" be the corresponding values of T and C, then since on
this supposition K=k, the equation becomes 2X„—M +
2t"\/(hc")J whence
J k=(l+h)i:\n—t"U'', (2)
(U" being of the order \ + and the probability of this
equation is
9"<r=(i WfOO-V")*-4 "dt",
where V", like V' and V, contains only uneven powers of
and is of the order , , ,
140. The two equations (1) and (2) maybe regarded
as two distinct events, having the respective probabilities
now assigned to them, and therefore the probability of their
being true simultaneously is the product of their respective
probabilities, and is accordingly (neglecting the product
V'V" which is a quantity divided by h),
Probabilitj
Let w-(l-f-^)2Xn, then m is the average or arithmetical
mean of the observed values, and X„—m the reputed error
of the observation. The last equation will then become err
(1-^2A)2 (Xn—m+*'U')2—*"U"; or, rejecting (*'U')2
which is of the order 1-r-A,
c= (1 ■~-2h')'Z [(X„—?m)2 + 2(X„—m)tr U'}
For the sake of abridging let us also assume
H=l(\-r-/i)2(X„—m)2, v— (l-i-h)!(Xn—my,
so that g is the mean of the squares of the errors, or mean
square of the errors, and the equation becomes
c=riM+.u'-ru", (3)
the probability of which is q'q"dt'dt".
141. Now, by (121), we have the probability 0 that s-±-h,
oVZ\n-i-h —m the arithmetical mean of the observed va¬
lues of A, will fall within the limits k+2W(c-i-h). Sub¬
stituting in those limits the above value of c, and observing
that (y+vV'—t''U"y = v O)+n(,u' - *"U")+&c.,
and that U' and U" being of the order l + Jh, when di¬
vided again by Jh are to be rejected, the limits become
kz+z2r J or kz+=.T {2fl-r-h),
and the probability of these being the true limits is © mul¬
tiplied into the probability of the equation c_^g + vU
t"\J" ; and is therefore (140)
—V'—y")e-rier*'*dt'dt".
142. The expression now obtained is the infinitely small
probability of the limits kz+zr J(2ix-i-h) of the average m,
in respect of the ^articular value of s, for which we have de¬
duced the equation (3). But for every value of s between
the limits 0 and 2d, there will be an equation correspond¬
ing to (3); therefore, in order to have the whole proba¬
bility of those limits, the integral of the expression must
be found for all values of t' and t". From the nature of
the expressions and as well as the consideration
that errors bevond a certain magnitude, though possib e,
are wholly improbable, it is evident that the integration may
be extended without sensible error from —oo to + go ; and
since the functions V' and V" contain only uneven powers
of t' and l", the terms into which they enter, disappear in
the integrations between those limits (See Lacroix, Calcul
Diff. et Integral, tom. hi. p. 506). Now, from *'= — “
to £'=-{-go we have(96)/c *ldt'—and/i f dt—^Tr,
therefore
_V' Y")e~fie t"2dfdt"=z&.
The result of the preceding analysis is therefore that on
the hypothesis of positive and negative errors of equal mag¬
nitude being equally probable, and on rejecting terms i-
vided by h (the number of the observations may be always
so great as to render such terms insensible), we may sub¬
stitute -Lx for c in the limits of the error to be apprehended,
without sensibly altering the probability, and consequent y
there is the probability 0=-y- e < ^ ^lat t^e true
mean value k of the phenomenon A will lie between the limits
mz±z2T J(y+h), or mz±zrj{2^h),
which contain only quantities given by observation.
On this hypothesis we have also (138) c—(j-^fl)
2/A2c/)nArfA, or, supposing the law of facility to remain con¬
stant during the trials, c=|/A20ArfA, therefore n—J
q'q”dt dt' )(,1 —v —v Je c mux. stant auring me uials, y ,
l.et the value of k given by equation (2) be substituted ^^^“‘^‘"aken for STsum'of X^roducts of the
” ^tult^eK"'"* be :^es o/the possible errors ntultipliedby their respective
Probability-probabilities. It is important to remark that as the obser-
vations become more numerous, the quantity /x, the mean
of the squares of the errors, converges more and more to a
constant quantity, and finally becomes independent of the
number of observations.
143. The limits now found may be otherwise expressed
By hypothesis, H-A)SX„^the arithmetical mean of
the observed values, and n=(\+h)2(\n—my= the mean
of the squares of the reputed errors. Now (X —m)2=:
X»2—2X„m-}-m2, and (l~h)X2Xnm=2m(1 -^) 2X =2«2 •,
therefore /x=(l-r-/i)sxn2—m2, that is to say, the mean of
the squares of the observations minus the square of the
mean. Hence the limits, corresponding to a given proba¬
bility 0, ot the difference between the average of all the
observations and the true value, are expressed by either of
these formulae
~rV {(2 X mean square of errors
—r\/{^ X mean square of obs—(mean of obs.)2}-f-,//?,
h being the number of observations, and the relation be¬
tween © and t being given by the table. Generally speak¬
ing, the first of these formulae is the most convenient for
calculation.
144. Let l be the limit of the error to be feared in tak¬
ing the average of the observations as the true result, then
and r—//V/(A-^2/x.) Now when r is con¬
stant, that is, for a given probabdity 0, the determination
will be more exact in proportion as / is a smaller number,
and the precision will therefore be proportional to J(h+-2p).
Hence J (h~2ij.) is called by Gauss the measure of the
precision of the determination. Suppose two series of ob¬
servations to have been made for the determination of an ele¬
ment, the comparative accuracy of the results will depend on
two things, the number of observations in each series, and the
amount of the squares of the errors in each. If the num¬
ber of observations is the same in both series, the precision
of each result will be inversely as the square root of the
sum of the squares of the errors, and the presumption of
accuracy is in favour of that result with respect to which
the sum of the squares of the errors is less than in the other.
On the other hand, if the mean square of the errors is the
same in both series, then the observations are alike good
in both, and their relative values of the two results are di¬
rectly as the square roots of the number of observations in
each series. Hence, in order that one determination may be
twice as good as another, it must be founded on four times
the number of equally good observations. These considera¬
tions are very important, in comparing tables of mean va¬
lues of whatever kind, for example, of the probabilities of
life at the different ages, and in estimating risks which de¬
pend upon them.
145. Astronomers employ the terms, weight, probable
error, and mean error, of a result, to denote certain func¬
tions of p, the mean square of the errors. The square of
the quantity which measures the precision of the result, is
called \he weight of the determination. Denoting the weight
by w, we have therefore
w=h-r-2/i=A2-^-22 (X„—m) 2,
or the weight is equal to the square of the number of ob¬
servations divided by twice the sum of the squares of the
errors. Substituting this in the expression of the limits,
we have and r—l^J w ; that is to say, for a given
probability ©, the limits of the error to be apprehended in
taking the average as the true result are reciprocally pro¬
portional to the square root of the weight. When obser¬
vations of different kinds, or results deduced from observa¬
tion, are compared with each other, their relative weights
(supposing the number ofobservations the same) are inversely
as fi, and are expressed numerically by taking the weight
of a certain series of observations as the unit of weight.
146. The probable error of the determination is that
probability.
V U 685
have 177eEdS \the probability ©=i. For 0=1 we Probability.
WhenCe rV2- 674489, and the formula
—O+A) becomes ™rt=-67448V0^) ; whence
probable error —674489VO*
147. The mean error of the result of a large number
in °/i Satl°ne ,,may beileduced from the general formula
/I 'Vz' as follows. That formula gives adt~(\ ~ J^
(1-A> yt for the probability that the sum of the ob¬
served values will be 2S = M + 2*V(^) exactly. Di¬
viding the sum by h, qdt is also the probability that the
average value given by all the observations will be exactly
Now, on the hypothesis that positive and
negative departures from the mean are equally probable,
and supposing the origin of the co-ordinates to be trans¬
ferred to the centre of gravity of the curve of mean proba-
bihty, we have A=0, and qdt= (1 V *-)( 1—is the
infinitely small chance of the average error being 2^V (<?—/*)
exactly. _ Multiplying therefore this error into°the chance
of its taking place, and integrating the product from *=0
to tz=i go, we shall have the mean error, or mean risk
of all the possible average errors affected with the positive
sign. Now,- observing that V represents a quantity divid¬
ed by V^> and therefore when multiplied by 2tJ(c-^h)
becomes of the order \-+h, and may consequently be re¬
jected, the product of the average error 2tJ(c^-h) into its
probability is 2 V x te~tldt; and since fte^dt —
^fd,e-t2=±e-t‘\ which from £=0 to t= oc becomes simply
the integral of the above product from t=0 to tz= od" is
V(c-r-irh). Substituting for c its value (142) =1^, this re-
sultbecomes V (/*-t-2w/i); whence on computing V( 1 -j-27r)
we obtain
mean error of series =.398942 VO*-rA).
This is the mean error or mean risk in respect of posi¬
tive errors alone, or on the supposition that negative errors
are not taken into account. But as positive and negative
errors are equally likely, the mean error in respect of nega¬
tive errors is the same quantity, whence the mean error in
respect of errors of both kinds is .797884^/(fi-i-h). This
is usually called the average error. The mean error differs
from the probable error in this respect, that it depends on the
magnitude of individual errors, as well as on the proportion
in which errors of different magnitudes occur. The proba¬
ble error is independent of the magnitude.
148. When the quantity /x (the mean square of the er¬
rors) has been found from a series of observations, the
precision, weight, probable error, and mean error, of a com¬
ing observation of the same kind are found by supposing
h— \ in the above expressions, and are respectively
precision . . =a/(1-t-2/x)
weight . . = 1 ~2p.
probable error . =.674489^//*
mean error . =.398942^/x.
149. The preceding formulte give the limits of the error
to be feared in determining the value of a quantity from a
series of observations, when the thing to be determined is
that on which the observations are immediately made. We
have now to apply the formulae to the cases in which the
quantity sought is not observed itself, but is a function of
several others, which are separately determined by obser¬
vation. The following problem is important:
Let u be a given function of a number of unknown quan-
titities, x, x', x", &c.; it is required to assign the limits of
the probable error in the determination of U, and the
weight of the result, when values of x, x', x", found from
observations independent of each other, and respectively af¬
fected with the probable errors g^/x, £ v//, gV/*" &c. (?=
,674489) are adopted instead of the true but unknown
values of those quantities.
Let u=f(x, x', x", See.) be the given function, X, X', X",
&c. observed values of x, x’, x", Sec. and make X—x=e,
636
Probability. \f—x/=e', V'—a/W', &c. so that e, ef, e", &c. are the
'errors of observation, supposed to be so small that their
du du   , du „
squares maybe rejected. Make ^ =«, — —a
probability.
dx'
dx"
&c., then a, a', a", are given quantities; and on substitut¬
ing x + e, x’ + e', x" + e'' for x, a;', x", respectively, in the
equation u=f(x, x', x", See.), and supposing u to become
u-l-E when the substitutions are made, so that E is the
corresponding error of u, we have, on expanding u by
Taylor’s theorem,
E=:ae+«'<?'+ a'e"+ Sec.
in respect of a single observation of each of the quantities.
Taking the square of both sides of the equation, we have
E2=a*e?+a'V,i+a"V'2+&c. +2aaW f 2aa"ee"+2a'aVe"+ &c.
Now since positive and negative errors are supposed equal¬
ly probable, the sums of the products ee', ee”, e', e", &c. or
their mean values, become each = 0; therefore
sE2=a2Se2 + a'226''2+a''Ze',2+ &c.
Taking the mean value of each of these sums, and observing
that a the mean value of Ze2 is independent of the num¬
ber of observations (142), and assuming M to be the mean
value of sE2, we get
M=aV+«'V+« /* +
This equation contains the solution of the problem,^ for
all the functions of the error are given in terms of M. The
probable error is-674489 ^M. . . .
150. Let W be the weight of the determination, and
w, w, ?//', &c. the weights corresponding to p, u', g', See.
then by the definition of weight, w is reciprocally propor¬
tioned to g, and W to M; and we have by substitution
2 -'2 ^,"2
w
(a1 a'2 a'ri e \
v=l+h + * + *' +&c-)
If the weights are supposed all equal, this becomes
W=
!_|_a'2^.a"2-f- &c.
Suppose the errors e, e/ e", &c. to be respectively multi¬
plied by numbers proportional to the square roots of the
weights, (which is equivalent to supposing all the observa¬
tions to have the same degree of precision measured by
then the value of M becomes
M=aVw 4- a'2n'w' + a"V V' + Sec.
But w being reciprocally as n, we have iiw—fj-'w'—jj/'w', &c.
=1, therefore
1
W=a2 + a'2+a//¥'-l-&c;'
152. The observed quantity V, instead of being a func- Probability-
tion of a single element X, may be a function of several
elements X, Y, Z, &c.; for example, V may be the posi¬
tion of a planet, in which case it is a function of the six
elements of the orbit, for the determination of which the
observation is made. Each observation gives rise to an equa¬
tion of this form, V=F(X, Y, Z, &c.) ; therefore when the
number of equations is just equal to the number of un-'
known quantities, the problem is determinate; and suppos¬
ing F to be an algebraic function, the values of X, Y, Z,
&c. may be found by the ordinary methods of elimination.
If the number of equations is less than the number of un¬
known quantities, the problem is indeterminate; but if
greater, it may be said to be more than determinate, inas¬
much as the equations may be combined in an infinite
number of ways, each distinct combination giving a diffe¬
rent value of the elements. It therefore becomes a ques¬
tion of the utmost importance to the perfection of the
sciences of observation, to assign the particular combination
which gives the most advantageous results, or values of X,
Y, Z, &c. affected with the smallest probable errors.
153. As approximate values of the elements are in all
cases either already known, or can be easily found, the ob¬
ject of accumulating observations is the correction of the
approximate values. Let \ be the true value of the thing
observed, V0 an approximate value, however found, X the
true value of the element sought, X0 an approximate value,
corresponding to V0, so that we have the two equations
V=F(X), V0=F(X0); also, let the observed value of V
in any observation be L, and make
v=\—L, /—Yu—L,
then v is the true but unknown error of the observation,
and l its reputed error, that is to say, the difference between
the computed value of the function and the result of the
observation. Now if we assume x to represent the true
correction of the approximate element, so that X=X0 + *r,
then, on substituting X0-|-a; for X in the function F, we
t v—F(X0+x); whence, expanding the function by
Taylor’s theorem, and rejecting terms multiplied by a;2 and
higher powers of x, because a? is a very small quantity
V=V0+ Sa-.
dX
Let us now denote the differential coefficient, which is a
known quantity, by a ; then, observing that V—Y0=v—l, the
equation becomes v=l-\-ax; that is to say, the true error
of the observation is a linear function of the correction of
the element.
154. In like manner, when there are several elements,
dV0 dV0. dv0_r
X, Y, Z, &c.; on making TTY “dZ ’
SECT. X. OF THE METHOD OF LEAST SQUARES.
151. In the determination of astronomical and physical
elements from the data of observation, the thing which is
actually observed is for the most part not the element
which is sought to be determined, but a known function of
that element. Thus, if V be a given function of X detei -
mined by the equation V=F(X), the quantity observed
may be a value of V, whilst the element sought to be de¬
termined is X. If the observation could give the value of
V with absolute accuracy, then X would also be absolutely
known ; but as all observations are affected with certain
errors of greater or less amount, owing to the imperfections
of instruments or of sense, or the ever varying circum¬
stances under which they are made, an exact value of X
cannot be found from any single observation ; and in order
to obtain the utmost precision, it is necessary to employ a
great number of observations, repeated under every variety
of circumstance by which the result can be supposed to be
affected.
&c. a single observation furnishes the equation
v=-l-\-ax^-b)j-\-cz-\- Sec.,
and a series of observations, whose errors are respectively
v, vr, v", Sec. gives a system of linear equations equal in
number to the number of observations ; namely,
v=d-\-cix-\-bySec.
v'=;l' -t-a'x + b'y + c'z-\- Sec. (1)
v"=l" -\-a"x + b"y + c"z+ Sec.
Sec.
and the object is to give such values to x, y, z. Sec. that the
errors v, v', v", Sec. in respect of the whole of the observa¬
tions, shall be the least possible. The equations being
supposed independent of each other, if their number is just
equal to that of the unknown quantities, the errors v,v ,v ,
&c. can be made all zero; but if, as is usually the case,
there are more equations than unknown quantities, it is
impossible by any means whatever to annihilate the whole
of them, and therefore all that can be accomplished is to
probabili
Probabihty.find the system of values of y, z, &c. which most nearly,
with the greatest probability, satisfies the whole of the
equa ions. If the observations are not all equally good, the
equations are supposed to be each multiplied by a number
proportional to the square root of the presumed weight of
the observation on which it depends, in order that they may
all have the same degree of precision.
155. As the question is to find the most probable values
ot x, y, z &c. the first thing necessary is to express each
of these elements in terms of the observations. Suppose
• j j &c’ t0 be a system of indeterminate quantities,
independent of * y, z, &c. and let the first of the above
conditional equations be multiplied by k, the second by k',
ajld S° ?n ’ then a(lding the products, if
n, k, k , &c. be determined so as to make the coefficient
of a? equal to unit, and those of>, z, &c. each equal to 0; that
is to say, so as to satisfy the equations
ka 4- k'a + tt'a" 4. &c. = I
kb 4- k'b' 4- k''b” 4. &c. =0 (2)
kc' + k'c' + k"c" 4- &c =0
&c.
we shall then
T Y.
637
-a')a' 4. (k"—a")a”+ &c.
-a)b'+(k''—a',)b"+ &C.
<iy + (k"—a'')c" + 8cc,
(1) ; they must therefore satisfy the equations (2), whence Probability'
aa 4- a' a' q. a"a" 4- &c. =1
ab+a'b' -\-a"b" + &C. =0 (7)
ac4"a'cf 4~ a"c"4- &c. =0.
Subtracting these from the equations (2) we obtain
0=(k—a)a + (k'
0=(L-a)b+(k-
0=(k—a)c + (k-
on multiplying which respectively by f, g, h, and adding
the products, we get by reason of the equations (6),
0=(k—a)a 4- (k'—a'y 4- (k"—a")a"4. &c.
This equation may be put under the form 4- ^/2 4. k'r2 4- &c.
=«»+*,24-*//2+&c.+ (A—aO'-'+fA"—a")2+&c.
from which it is evident that k2 + k'2+k"2-L &c will he a
minimum when k=,a, A'=a', Hence it fol"
lows that the most probable value of a; which can be de¬
duced from the equations (1), is a;=:A; and by (150) the
have ^=K4-^4-AV4-^'V/4. &c. where ^ei|ht 0^the termination is l-t-Caaq-a'a^aV^ &c.)=
K is a quantity independent of v, v\ v", &c. Hence a- is
found =K, with an error =kv+k'v' + k"v" + 81c.; and the
weight of the determination, by the formula in (150), is
A2 4-A,24-A,/2 4- &'c'.' the determination is
consequently greater in proportion as A2 4-A'2 4. A"2 4. &c.
is smaller; and hence of all the possible systems of inde¬
terminate coefficients, k, k', k", Sec. which satisfy the equa¬
tions (1), the system which gives the most probable value
of a’, or the most advantageous result, is that for which
&*+k'* + h"M+&c. is an absolute minimum.
156. We have now to find, in terms of known quanti¬
ties, values of the indeterminate coefficients k, k', k'', See.
which satisfy the condition of the minimum. For the sake
pf abridging, let us denote the aggregate of the products
aa+a'a'+a''a" Sec, by S(aa), that of ab + a'b' + a''b" 4~
&c. by S(ab), and so on, and also assume
£=av-f-a'v' 4-a'V'4- &c.
r/=bv-i-b,v/ -j-b
C=cv-j-c'v' 4- c"v
v" 4- Sec.
4- Sec.
(3)
I his quantity S (aa) is equal to f the co-efficient of | in
the equation (5) ; for on multiplying the first of equations
( ')> by/, the second by g, and the third by h, and adding
the products, we obtain by reason of equations (6),
aa-f-a'a'4-a'a"4- Sec. =/.
157. The method explained in the two last paragraphs
of determining the most advantageous combination of a
system of linear equations, of the form of those in (154), is
given by Gauss in his Theoria Combinationis Observationum
erroribus minimis obnoxice, (Gottingen, 1823). The prac¬
tical rule to which it leads is as follows : Having given a
near value V of a function of several elements, X, Y, Z,
Sec. and also a series L, I/, L", Sec. of observed values of
V, make (V—■L)sJw=v, (V—L'),^«/=*/,
=*/', &c. and form the equations in (1). From these equa¬
tions (4) are easily deduced ; and from these, again, by
elimination, are found the values of x, y, z, Sec. the correc¬
tions of the approximate elements X, Y, Z, &c., in equa¬
tions of the form (5), which, for the sake of symmetry, may
be thus written:
On substituting in these equations the values oS v, v', v",
Sec. given by the equations (1), there results
£=S(a/)4-a-S(aa)4-2/S(«6)4-zS(ac)4- Sec.
T]e=:i)(bl)-\-xS(ab)-\-yS(bb) + zS(bc)+ Sec. (4)
(=S(c/) 4-#S(ac) 4_yS(6c)4-zS(ce)-f- Sec.
a system of equations equal in number to the number of
elements x, y, z, &c. and from which, consequently, those
elements would be determined absolutely if the observa¬
tions were perfectly exact, that is, if the errrors v, 1/, v",
Sec. were individually zero, and consequently £, 77, (, Sec.,
were each zero. On eliminatingy, z, Sec. from the last sys¬
tem, the value of x is given in terms of £, j;, (, and known
quantities by a linear equation of the following form:
x — A.^f -j-y 4-^t4' Sec. (5)
where f, g, h, Sec. are co-efficients independent of x, y, z,
Sec. and also of £, 77, (, Sec.
If we now substitute in equation (5) the values £, r], (,
Sec. given by equations (3), and also assume
a=fa-k-gb-\-hc-i- Sec.
a'=fa' 4- g'b' 4- AV 4- Sec. (6)
cS'—f"a"4-g"b'' 4- hl'd’4- Sec.,
we shall have by addition
a:=A4- aV 4- aV 4- a'V' 4- Sec. ;
whence it appears that a, a', a", Sec. are a system of multi¬
pliers by which y, z, Sec. are eliminated from equations
a;=A4-(aa)£4-(0^)77 4-(ay) (-f Sec.
4- (a/3)£ 4- (#3)77 4- (py)C4- &c.
•2r=C4-(ay)| 4-(/3y)77 +(yyX4- &C.
then the most probable values of x, y, z, Sec. are repectively
A, B, C, &c.; the weights of the determinations respectively
—?—, * , Sec. ; and the probable errors of the se-
(aa) ($3) (yy)
veral determinations are p^/(aa), />vW)> p/(yy)> Sec.,
where p=*476936.
158. The values of x, y, z, Sec. now deduced are obtained
immediately, by supposing the sum of the squares of the
errors of observation to be a minimum. Thus, forming
the squares of the equations (1), and making
v"2-\- Sec., the differentiation of 12 in respect of each of the
variables x, y, z, Sec. produces the quantities denoted in
(156), by i, 77, &c. that is to say, it gives
da da „ da
therefore if 22 be a minimum, £, 77, (, become severally
zero, and the equations (4) give by elimination, x=A,
y—F z=C, where A, B, and C denote the same quantities
as above. Now from equation (5) the general value of x is
a?= A 4- (aa)£4- ('i/3)?7 -f- (ayX,
638
Probability, and the most probable value being *=A, it follows that
the most probable values of the corrections y, z, are tound
bv making the differential coefficients of Q equal to zero,
that is, bv making ^+</2 + t>"2+ &c. an absolute mmi-
mum. Hence this method of combining equations of con¬
dition is called the method of least squares ; and it follows
from the preceding analysis, that it gives the most probable
values of the corrections, or the most advantageous results.
159. As an example, let us suppose there is only one un¬
known element X, of which X0 is known to be an approxi-
mate value, and L, I/, L", &c. are observed values, the
weights of which are respectively proportional to w, w , ,
&c. and that it is required to determine the most probable
value of X from the observations, and also the weight of the
determination. Make(X—
let x be the correction of X, so that X=X0 x. On sub¬
stituting this in (X—L )^w—v,we have (X0—a?—L) s/ie—v,
or v=zu w—x</w. Each observation gives a similar equa¬
tion, and the equations (1) in (154) consequently become
v—Ia/w—Xs/ w
v'—l'Vw'—xV wf
vTzzlWid'—xVu/1, &c.
PROBABILITY.
be deduced. Let each equation be multiplied by the co- Probability,
efficient of its own .r, taken with its proper sign, namely,
the first by 1, the second by 3, the third by 4, and the
fourth bv  1 ; the results added together give the value
of I, namely, £=-88-f 27x + 6^. In like manner, let the
first be multiplied by —1, the second by 2, the third by 1,
and the fourth by 3, the sum of the products will give ij.
Lastly, let the equations be multiplied respectively by the
coefficients of z, and the sum of the products made equal to
we have then the following equations corresponding to
the equations (4)
—88-1-27# +Gy+ 0
^=—70 + 6x + 15y + 2
107 + 0-H/ + 54z.
From these we get by elimination
19899#=49154 + 809£—324?; +
737w=2617—12£ + 54?;—C
39798z=76242 + 121—547? +1473£,
whence (157) A, B, C, the most probable values of#, y, z,
are respectivel y ^ ^n
A=&-470’B“W-3'551’C=W8=1-916i
therefore, multiplying each by the coefficient of its own #,
have£=S(Zw)—#S (w), whence consequently x==b(lw)+
g^4,) ^_i_S(ic),thatistosay,the most probable value of x is
_ Iw + /+/ + //+//+ &c.
^ w td' &c.
and the weight of the determination is proportional to the
reciprocal of w+wf + w/+ ^c’
Since X—L=#—we have also
L?c + L'w+L//w+ &c.
w+?c/ + ?#//+ &c. ’
whence this proposition : If a series of values of an element
are found from observations which have not all toe same
degree of precision, the most probable value of the element
is found by multiplying each observation by a number pro¬
portional to its weight, and dividing the sum of the products
bv the sum of the weights ; and the comparative weight ot
the result is unit divided by the sum of all the weights.
If the weights be all equal, and the number of the obser-
vations be /., then X=(L+L'+L"+ &C.)+A 1 that is to
say, the average of a series of equally good observations
gives the most probable value. The average may, there¬
fore be considered as a particular case ot the method ot
least squares. , ai
160. To illustrate the method of proceeding when t here
are several elements to be corrected from the observations,
we shall take the following numerical example from Gauss
(Theoria Motus). Suppose there are three elements, and
that three observations, of equal weight, have given t e
equations#—^+2z=3, 3# + 2t/—5z=5,4#+y+ z - >
and that a fourth observation, of which the relative weight
is one-fourth, or its precision one-half, of that of the otheis
has given —2#+6t/+6z=28. The first step is to reduce
this "last equation to the same standard of weight with the
others, for which purpose it must be multiplied by g 5 11
then becomes —# + 3y + 3z==14. Now, as x,y, and z can¬
not be determined so as to satisfy four independent equa¬
tions, we suppose each observation, or equation, to be affect¬
ed with an error v, and accordingly obtain the following
system of equations, corresponding to equations (1), viz.:
v=—3+#—y + 2z
=—5 -f- 3#+—5z
vl'=—21 +4#-f-?/+4z
1/"=—14—x + 37 + 3z,
from which the most probable values of x, y, and z are to
and the relative weights w, w', u/', are respectively
19899 ^37 „ 39798 ~
W “ ’ 'Si=13'6’W = U73 ~27 °’
whence the probable errors (-476936-- Jw) are respectively
'Vhc method of least squares, to which modern astrono-
my is indebted for much of its precision, was first proposed
by Legendre, in his Nouvelles Methodes pour la Determi¬
nation les Orbites des Cometes, (Paris, 1806,) merely as
means of avoiding inconvenience and uncertainty arising
from the want of a uniform and determinate method o
combining numerous equations of condition, and without
reference to the theory of probability. The same method,
however, had previously been discovered by Gauss, and a
demonstration of it, deduced from the genera theory of
chances, was given by him m his Theoria Motus, (1809.)
It may be shewn in various ways, that this method com"
bination gives values of the unknown quantities affected
with the smallest probable errors; but it is to be observed,
that all the demonstrations are subordinate to the hypo¬
thesis, that positive and negative errors of equal magni¬
tude are equally probable, or that the average of a large
number of results gives the most probable value, and con¬
sequently that the function which represents the probabi¬
lity of an error has the form assigned to it in (15-j. _
The limits of this article will not permit us to enter into
further details respecting the applications of the method of
least squares. On the general theory of the Probal^
errors of results deduced from observation, and the most
advantageous methods of combining equations of condition,
the reader may consult the Theorie Analytique des Proba-
bilites of Laplace ; the Theoria Motus ot Gauss ; the The¬
oria Combinationis Observationum, and
Theories Combinationis, &c. (Gottingen, 1828) of the same
author ; the Recherches sur la Probabihte desJugements,
with the two Memoirs of Poisson in the Connaissance
des Terns for 1827 and 1832 ; and three easterly papers,
by Mr. Ivory, in the Philosophical Magazine fori 8-o. In
the volumes of the Berliner Astronomisches Jahrbuch for
1833, 1834, and 1835, M. Encke has treated the subject
at great length, and given a number of formula calculated
to facilitate the labours of the computer. We may also
refer, in conclusion, to a very recent and remarkable dis¬
quisition on the theory of probable errors, by the celebrated
astronomer Bessel, forming Nos. 358 and 359 of Schuma¬
cher’s Astronomisehe Abhandlungen, Altona, October 1838.
(s.)
Probability
TABLE of the Values of the Integral /V^z=l 2 f‘™ ,
•J-nJ O ^TrJ t e dt> for intervals each =-01, from r=0 to Probabi,ity
r=3, with their first and second differences. v'—
640 P R ° . . .
Probate PROBATE of a will or testament, in Law, is the exhi¬
ll biting and proving of last wills and testaments before the
Proconsul. ecclesiastical judge delegated by the bishop, who is ordi-
'— narv of the place where the party died. .
PROBATION, in the universities, is the examination
and trial of a student who is about to take his degrees.
PROBATIONER, in the Church of Scotland, a student
in divinity, who, upon bringing certain certificates and testi¬
monials, is admitted to undergo several trials ; and, pn Ins
acquitting himself properly in these, is provided with a li¬
cense to preach. , .
PROBLEM, in Logic, is a proposition that appears nei¬
ther absolutely true nor absolutely false; and, consequent¬
ly, may be asserted either in the affirmative or negative.
Problem, in Geometry, is a proposition, in which some
operation or construction is required ; as to divide a line or
angle, erect or let fall perpendiculars.
PROBOLINGO, the capital of a district of Java, occu¬
pied by a native of China, who purchased it from the for¬
mer government. He was called the China Major, and on
the 18th of June 1813, was unfortunately murdered along
with two British officers, Colonel Fraser of the 78th Regi¬
ment, and Captain Macpherson, who, on their way to dis¬
perse a band of insurgents, fell into an ambuscade.
1 PROBY’S ISLAND, a small island in the South Pacific
Ocean, so called by Captain Edwards in A 79 L The na¬
tives call it Onoo-afou. Long. 175. 51. W. Lat. 15. 53. S.
PROCESS, in Zcuc, denotes the proceedings in any
cause, real or personal, civil or criminal, from the original
writ to the conclusion of the suit.
Process, in Chemistry, the'whole course of an experiment
or series of operations, tending to produce something new.
Process, in Anatomy, denotes any protuberance or emi¬
nence in a bone. . „ . ,. , ,
PROCESSION, a ceremony in the Catholic church,
consisting of a formal march of the clergy and people, put¬
ting up prayers, and in this manner visiting some church,
or other holy place. . . „ .
PROCLAMATION, a public notice given of anything
of which the king thinks proper to advertise his subjects.
Proclamations form a branch of the king’s prerogative, and
they have a binding force, when they are grounded upon
and enforce the laws of the realm. u''“ “ rT,a '
PRO
PROCOPIUS, a Greek historian, born in Caesarea. He Procopius
acquired great reputation by his works in the reignof Jus- U.^
tinian, and was secretary to Belisarius during all the wars
carried oh by that general in Persia, Africa, and Laly. Hav¬
ing at length became senator, he obtained the title of illus¬
trious, and was made praetor of Constantinople.
PROCTOR, a person commissioned to manage another
person’s cause in any court of the civil or ecclesiastical law.
Proctor, in the English universities. See Universities.
PROCURATION, an act or instrument by which one
person is empowered to treat, transact, or receive, in the
name of another. „ .
PROCYON, in Astronomy, a fixed star of the secona
magnitude, situated in canis minor, or the little dog.
PRODICUS, a celebrated sophist, was a native of Juhs
in the island of Ceos, and flourished about b.c. 432. He was
the contemporary of Democritus of Abdera, and Gorgias of
Leontium, and he was the disciple of Protagoras, whom he
rivalled in eloquence. His talents were so highly appreci¬
ated by his fellow-citizens, that he was employed on vari¬
ous embassies, and on his arrival at Athens, he opened a
school where he was attended by the most distinguished men
of the age, Euripides, Socrates, Theramenes, and Isocrates.
Xenophon has preserved an apologue of Prodicus, which
is considered as one of the most precious fragments of anti-
nuity: it is Hercules between virtue and vice. In the ^o-
chus of Plato there is also the analysis of a harangue which
Prodicus composed to dissipate all fears of death. He was
at last accused of being a corrupter of youth, and condemned
to drink the fatal bowl of hemlock. ,
PRODUCT, in Arithmetic and Geometry, the tactum
of two or more numbers, or lines, into one another. Thus
5 x 4=20, the product required. .
PROEDRI, amongst the Athenians, were magistrates,
who had the first seats in the public assemblies, and whose
office it was to propose at each assembly the things to be
deliberated on and determined. Their office always ended
with the meeting. . . .
PROFESSOR, in the universities, a person who teaches
or reads public lectures in some art or science. See Uni-
PROFILE, in Architecture, the draught of a building,
and"enforce the laws of the realm.
and circumstances of putting those laws in execution, must
frequently be left to the discretion of the executive magis¬
trate ; and therefore his constitutions or edicts, concerning
those points, which we ca\\ Proclamations, are binding up¬
on the subject, where they do not either contradict the old
laws, or tend to establish new ones, but only enforce the
execution of such laws as are already in being, in such man¬
ner as the king shall judge necessary.
PROCLUS, surnamed Diadocus, a Greek philosopher
and mathematician, was born in Lycia, and lived about the year
500. He was the disciple of Syrianus, and the friend of the
Emperor Anastasius. It is said, that when Vitalian laid siege
to Constantinople, Proclus burned his ships with large brazen
specula. This philosopher was a Pagan, and wrote against the
Christian religion. There are still extanthis Commentaries on
some of Plato’s books, and other of his works, written in Greek.
PROCONSUL, a Roman magistrate, sent to govern a
province with consular authority.
The proconsuls were appointed out of the body of the
senate; and commonly, when the year of any one’s consulate
expired, he was sent as proconsul into some province. The
proconsuls decided cases of equity and justice, either private¬
ly in their palace, where they received petitions, heard com¬
plaints, and granted writs under their seal ; or publicly, in
the common hall, with the usual formalities observed in the
court of judicature at Rome. Their office lasted only a year.
the roof to the foundation.
Profile, in this sense, amounts to the same with elevation,
and stands opposed to plan or ichnography.
Profile is also used for the contour or outline of a figure,
building, member of architecture, or the like; as a base,
a cornice, and the like. Hence profiling is sometimes used
for designing, or describing the member with rule, com¬
pass, and other instruments. __ . , ,
‘ Profile, in Sculpture and Painting. A head, or a por¬
trait, is said to be in profile, when either is represented side-
wise, or in a side-view ; as, when in a portrait there is but
one side of the face, one eye, one cheek, &c. shown, and
nothing of the other. On almost all medals, the faces are
represented in pvojilc* _ . ,
PROGRAMMA, anciently signified a letter sealed witn
the king’s seal. Programma is also an university term for
a billet issued by way of invitation to an oration, and con¬
taining the argument, or as much of it as is necessary for un¬
derstanding the same. ,
PROGRESSION, in general, denotes a regular advanc-
ino-, or going forwards, in the same course or manner.
°Progression, in Mathematics, is either arithmetical
geometrical. Continued arithmetical proportion is, where
the terms increase and decrease by equal differences, and
is called arithmetical progression. Geometrical progres
sion is when the terms increase or decrease by equal ratios.
641
PROJECTILES.
Projectiles. The term Projectiles is applied to that part of mechanical
philosophy which treats of the motion of bodies anyhow pro¬
jected from the surface of the earth, and influenced by the
action of terrestrial gravity.
It is demonstrated in the physical part of astronomy, that
a body so projected must describe a conic section, having
the centre of the earth in one focus ; and that it will describe
round that focus areas proportional to the times. It follows
also from the principles of that science, that if the velocity
of projection exceed 36,700 feet in a second, the body (if
not resisted by the air) would describe a hyperbola; if the
velocity be just 36,700 feet in a second, the body would de¬
scribe a parabola; and a body projected with a smaller ve¬
locity than this would describe an ellipse. In the first case,
if projected directly upwards, it would never return, but
proceed for ever, its velocity continually diminishing, but
never becoming less than an assignable portion of the ex¬
cess of the initial velocity above 36,700 feet in a second.
In the second case it would never return; its velocity would
diminish without end, but never be extinguished. In the
third case it would proceed till its velocity was reduced to an
assignable portion of the difference between 36,700 feet and
its initial velocity, and would then return, regaining its ve¬
locity by the same degrees and in the same places as it lost
it. These are necessary consequences of a gravity directed
to the centre of the earth, and inversely proportional to the
square ofthe distance. But in the greatest projections that
we are able to make, the gravitations are so nearly equal,
and in directions so nearly parallel, that it would be ridiculous
affectation to pay any regard to the deviations from equality
and parallelism. A bullet rising a mile above the surface of
the earth loses only 2 ^ q of its weight, and a horizontal
range of 4 miles makes only A! of deviation from parallelism.
Let us therefore assume gravitation as equal and parallel.
The errors arising from this assumption are quite insensible
in all the uses which can be made of this theory.
Gravity must be considered by us as a constant or uni¬
form accelerating or retarding force, according as it pro¬
duces the descent, or retards the ascent, of a body. A con¬
stant or invariable accelerating force is one which produces
an uniform acceleration ; that is, which in equal times pro¬
duces equal increments of velocity, and therefore produces
increments of velocity proportional to the times in which
they are produced. Forces are of themselves impercepti¬
ble, and are only sensible in their effects ; and they have no
measure but the effect, or what measures the e ect, an
every thing which we can discover with regard to those mea¬
sures, we may affirm with regard to the things o w iic we
assume them as the measures. Hence this proposition .—
The motion of a falling body, or of a body projected di¬
rectly downwards, is uniformly acceleiated, an t la o a
body projected directly upwards is uniformly retarded; that
is, the acquired velocities are as the times in w ic iey a
acquired by falling, and the extinguished velochies are as
the times in which they are extinguished. The following
consequences are readily deduced from the proposi i
eni?CIf bodies simply fall, not being projected downwards
by an external force, the times of the falls are pr°portiona
to the final velocities ; and the times of ascents, which ter
minate by the action of gravity alone, are proportiona
the initial velocities. , j nr ™ fi-nm rrst
2. The spaces described by a heavy body falling fiom rest
VOL. XVIII.
are as the squares of the acquired velocities ; and the dif- Projectiles,
ferences of these spaces are as the differences of the squares ^
of the acquired velocities; and, on the other hand, the
heights to which bodies projected upwards will rise, before
their motions are extinguished, are as the squares of the
initial velocities.
3. The spaces described by falling bodies are propor¬
tional to the squares of the times from the beginning of the
fall; and the spaces described by bodies projected directly
upwards are as the squares of the times of the ascents.
4. The space described by a body falling from rest is one-
half of the space which the body would have uniformly de¬
scribed in the same time, with the velocity acquired by the
fall. And the height to which a body will rise, in opposi¬
tion to the action of gravity, is one-half of the space which
it would uniformly describe in the same time with the ini¬
tial velocity.
In like manner, the difference of the spaces which a fall¬
ing or rising body describes in any equal successive parts of
its fall or rise, is one-half of the space which it would uni¬
formly describe in the same time with the difference of the
initial and final velocities.
The last proposition will be more conveniently expressed
for our purpose as follows:
A body moving uniformly during the time of any fall with
the velocity acquired thereby, will in that time describe a
space double of that fall; and a body projected directly up¬
wards will rise to a height which is one-half of the space
which it would describe in the time of its ascent with the
initial velocity of projection, if the motion continued uniform.
It is a matter of observation and experience, that a
heavy body falls 16 feet and one inch English measure in a
second of time ; and therefore acquires the velocity of 32
feet 2 inches per second. This cannot be ascertained di¬
rectly, with the precision that is necessary. A second is too
small a portion of time to be exactly measured and com¬
pared with the space described ; but the observation is made
with the greatest accuracy by comparing the motion of a fall¬
ing body with that of a pendulum. The time of a vibration
is to the time of falling through half the length of the pen¬
dulum, as the circumference of a circle is to its diameter.
The length of a pendulum can be ascertained with great pre¬
cision ; and in this way the space fallen through in a second
has been accurately measured.
As all forces are ascertained by the accelerations which
they produce, they are conveniently measured by com-
parin0- their accelerations with the acceleiation of gra¬
vity. 0 This therefore has been assumed by all the later and
best writers on mechanical philosophy as the unit by which
every other force is measured. It gives us a perfectly dis¬
tinct notion of the force which retains the moon in its or¬
bit when we say it is the 3600th part of the weight of the
moon at the surface ofthe earth. We mean by this, that
if a bullet were weighed at the surface of the earth by a
spring steelyard, and pulled the spring out to the mark
3600; if the body were then taken to the distance or the
moon,’ it would pull the spring out only to the mark 1. And
we make this assertion on the authority of our having ob¬
served that a body at the distance of the moon falls trom
that distance part of 16 feet in a second. We do
not therefore compare the forces, which ai e imperceptible
thino's ; we compare the accelerations, which are at the same
time°their effects and their measures.
4 M
642
projectiles.
whence <p=
Projectiles. Philosophers have therefore been at great pains to deter-
mine with precision the fall of heavy bodies, in order to have
an exact measure of the accelerating power of terrestrial
vity. Now we must here observe* that this measure may be
taken in two ways; we may take the space through which the
heavy body falls in a second; or we may take the velocity
which it acquires in consequence of gravity having acted on it
during a second. The last is the proper measure, for it is
the immediate effect on the body. The action of gravity has
chano-ed the state of the body by giving it a determination
to motion downwards; and this both points out the natui e,
and the degree or intensity, of the force of gravity. I he
space described in a second by falling, is not an invariable
measure; for, in the successive seconds, the body falls
through 16, 48, 80, 112, &c. feet, but the changes of the
body’s state in each second is the same. At the beginning
it had no determination to move with any appreciable velo¬
city ; at the end of the first second it had a determination
bv which it would have gone on for ever (had no subse¬
quent force acted on it) at the rate of 32 -feet per second.
At the end of the next second, it had a determination by
which it would have moved for ever, at the rate of 64 feet
per second. At the end of the third second, it had a de¬
termination by which it wrould have moved for ever, at the
rate of 96 feet per second, &c. The differences of these de¬
terminations are constant, and amount to 32 feet per second.
This is therefore the indication and proper measure of the
constant or invariable force of gravity. The space fallen _
through in the first second is of use only as it is one-half of by h, viz.
the measure of this determination ; and as halves have the
proportion of their wholes, different accelerating forces may
be safely affirmed to be in the proportion of the spaces
through which they uniformly impel bodies in the same
time. But we should always recollect, that this is but one-
half of the true measure of the accelerating force.
We now proceed to investigate the formulae of rectilinear
motion. . , , .
l,et x b i the space described by a moving body in a cer¬
tain time t, and v the velocity acquired at the end of the
time t. When the motion is uniform, the space described
is in the compound ratio of the velocity and the time, there¬
fore x—vt. In the case of accelerated or retarded motion,
the velocity varies by infinitely small degrees, and we may
• therefore assume it to be uniform during an infinitely small
portion of time dt. But the space over which the body
moves in the time dt, with the uniform velocity v, xsvdt;
therefore the increment of the space in the time dt being
pose F to be the unit of force, and V the unit of velocity, Projectile
the proportion becomes <p \ \ : dv : dt, whence
dx dv (Px
On differentiating the equation we get ^
dt*'
(Px
—. The relations between the velocity, the
dP
space described, the time, and the accelerating force, are
consequently given by the three following equations, of
which the last is a consequence of the other two, viz.
dx dv d^x m
V-~dP <*~dt> dt*' ’
Suppose the accelerating force to be terrestrial gravity,
and let it be denoted by g. We have then, from the third
of the above equations —g; the integral of which is
^—rjt or v—gt (which requires no correction, since v and
t vanish together). We have also dx—gtdt", whence by a
second integration X—\gP, which is also the complete in¬
tegral, since x and t vanish together. This last equation gives
(lgx—g‘1t‘1—v* ; whence v— plgh'). We have therefore
the following expressions for the velocity, the time, and the
space described, or height from which a body must fall in
vacuo to acquire a given velocity, and which we shall denote
I. v — gt — ,J(?gh),
t2h
II.
III.
<=- = y-
9 9
h = Igt*.
*9
It is found by experiment that the height through which
a heavy body descends by the force of gravity in a vacuum,
in a second of time, is 16^ English feet. For convenience,
we shall call this 16 feet. Assuming, therefore, one second
as the unit of time, the last equation gives <7=2/1=32 feet;
and the three equations become, in respect of any time t,
and height h,
L v = 32/ = a/(64A)=8V^»
II. t =
32
III.
dx
dx, we have dx—vdt, whence v *
Let 0 = the force which accelerates or retards the mov-
ine body at the end of the time t. The force Q is supposed
to act in the straight line in which the body is moving at
the instant; and as an accelerating force becomes a retard¬
ing force by changing the sign from positive to negative, it is
usually called, in both cases, the accelerating force. In order to
obtain the measure of <?, we must consider the effect it pro¬
duces. Since the motion may be regarded as uniform during
an infinitely small portion of time dt, if v be the velocity at
the end of the time t, then v+dv will be the velocity at the
end of the time t+dt, so that dv is the augmentation of
velocity produced by the accelerating force <p in the time
dt. Assume F to be a constant force, which produces a
velocity = V in the portion of time which is taken as unit;
then the velocity produced by the force F in the time dt is
Ydt, and we have this proportion,
h=K. = 16/*.
64
To give some examples of the use of these formuise, let
it be required, , J tj
1. To find the time of falling through 256 feet. FI ere
h—256, J256=16, and 16-5-4=4. Therefore /-4 seconds.
2. To find the velocity acquired by falling four seconds.
Here Z=4, 32 x 4=128 feet per second. '
3. To find the velocity acquired by falling 625 feet.
Here /<=625, Jh=25, 8^=200 feet per second,
4. To find the height to which a body will rise when
projected with the velocity of 56 feet per second, or the
height through which a body must fall to acquire this ve¬
locity. In this case we have
®=56, 56-^8=7, -s/h, 72=zk, =49 feet,
or 56*=3136, 3136-i-64=49 feet.
5. Suppose a body projected directly downwards with
the velocity of 10 feet per second ; what will be its velo¬
city after four seconds ? In four seconds it will have ac¬
quired, by the action of gravity, the velocity of 4 X 32, or
128 feet, and therefore its whole velocity will be 138 fee
the forces being measured by the velocities which they l>er se.““1nd how far it wiU ^ moved, compound iu mo-
communicate to a given body in the same time. Now, sup- b. lonnanow
<p : F : : dv : Ydt,
PROJECTILES.
64.3
Projectiles, tion of projection, which will be 40 feet in four seconds,
with the motion which gravity alone would have given it
in that time, which is 256 feet; and the whole motion will
be 296 feet.
7. Suppose the body projected, as in the 5th example, and
that it is required to determine the time it will take to pass
through 296 feet, and the velocity it will have acquired.
Find the height /<, through which it must fall to acquire
the velocity of projection, 10 feet, and the time t of falling
from this height. Then find the time t' of falling through
the height 296-f A, and the velocity v acquired by this fall.
The time of describing the 296 feet will be t!—#, and v is
the velocity required.
These examples will suffice for the perpendicular ascents
or descents of heavy bodies, abstracting from the resistance
of the air. We now proceed to consider the motions of bo¬
dies projected obliquely. The subject is one of consider¬
able interest, as it forms the foundation of the theory of
gunnery.
Let a body be projected from the point A (fig. 1.) in any
direction AK not perpendicular to the horizon, and with a
given velocity —a; it is required to determine the path of
the body, and all the circumstances of its motion.
Since gravity acts only in the vertical direction, and the
body, after being project¬
ed, is acted on by no
other accelerating force,
it is evident, in the first
place, that the whole of
the trajectory, or path
described by the projec¬
tile, must be contained
in the vertical plane
which passes through
AK. In the second
place, since the action of gravity is constant, the projectile
must describe a continuous curve, to which AK is a tangent
at A. Through A draw AB horizontal, and AH vertical,
and let these lines be taken as the axes of the rectangular
co-ordinates to which the different points of the curve are
referred. Let P be the place of the projectile at the end of
the time t; draw PQ. perpendicular to AB, and make
AQ=ar, PQ=y. The object is now to find the equa¬
tion of the trajectory by establishing a relation between the
co-ordinates x and y.
Let the angle KAB, which the initial direction of the pro¬
jectile makes with the horizon, be denoted by A. As we
abstract from the resistance of the air, the motion in the
direction AK is uniform, and proportional to the time t;
and the velocity of projection being a, the velocity in the
direction AB (which is not affected by gravity) is also uni¬
form, and equal to a cos A, therefore the space passed over
being equal to the product of the time by the velocity, we
have x=a cos A. To find y, we must consider that the
motion in the vertical direction is made up of two parts;
first, that which is due to the velocity of projection; and,
second, that which arises from the action of gravity.. 1 he
velocity in the direction AH, independent of gravity, is
a sin A ; and therefore the space described in that direction
in the time t, is ta sin A. But by the formula III. toe
space through which the body is carried in the time t by the
accelerating force of gravity is ; and as this is m t ie
direction opposite to the former, it must be taken with t ie
negative sign. We have thereforey=to sin A
values of x and y are thus given in terms of the time ; and
on eliminating t between the two equations, viz.
x=ta cos A, y^=ta sin h—\gt2, (2)
we shall have the equation of the trajectory. The first gives
t~x~a cos A, on substituting which in the second, there
results
Fig. 1.
y~x tan A—\g
xl
<r cos ZA’
Projectiles.
which is an equation to the Apollonian parabola, having its
axis parallel to the ordinates y, and its parameter equal to
cos 2A.
By the formula I. we have «=(2y/i), thereforea2=2y/<;
and on substituting this value of «2, the equation becomes
y=x tan
44 cos 2A*
(3)
Having found the equation of the curve, it is easy to as¬
sign its position in the plane of the co-ordinates. Let B be
the point in which the parabola meets the horizontal line
drawn through A, C the vertex of the parabola, and let CD
be perpendicular to AB. The point C is thus found. Let
6 be the angle which the tangent to the curve at any point P
makes with the axis AB ; we have then for any curve what¬
ever, tan & dx=idy. At the vertex, the tangent becomes
parallel to AB, consequently 6 vanishes, and we have ~^~=0
Now on differentiating the equation (2), we find
dy
~ — tan A-
dx
24 cos 2 A *
therefore at the vertex, 0 = tan A
x
24 ces2A
, whence
x—2h cos A sin A. Substituting this value of x in equation
(3), wre get, after reduction, y—h sin 2A. Hence denoting
the co-ordinates of the vertex by jq and yx that is, making
AD —xv 00==^!, we have the two equations to determine
jq and yv namely
^=24 cos A sin A, yi=A sin 2A. ' (4)
To find the point B in which the projectile meets the
horizontal line AB, it is only necessary to make y=0 in
equation (3). This gives 0=a; tan A —4/^ cos 2A; w5ience
44 cos 2A tan A=x, and therefore
a’=AB=44 cos A sin A=2h sin 2A. (5)
From this equation it appears that when the velocity of
projection <z, or the height 4, corresponding to that velocity,
s given, the line AB, which is called amplitude or 4o-
"izontal range, is a maximum when the angle of elevation
4. (that is, KAB) is equal to 45°, for then sin 2A=1. In
his case we have AB=24, that is to say, when a ball is
projected with an angle of elevation equal to 45 degrees, the
unplitude or range on the horizontal plane is equal to twice
the height from which a body must fall in order to acquire
1 velocity equal to the velocity of projection.
To find the velocity at any point P of the trajectory, in
he direction of the tangent at that point, let z denote the
ire AP, then, the velocity being equal to the increment of
he space passed over, divided by the increment of the time,
dz dx dx2-\-dy XT
ve have —• whence v2= — = 41— • Now, on
dt'
dt'
dt*
lifferentiating the two equations (2), we get
dy . .
-^=ct sin A—gt,
dx .
— = a cos A,'
dt.
the squares of which being added together, give the follow¬
ing relation between the velocity and the time, viz.
v2=a2—2agt sin A -f-y2P.
At the point B w?e have x=AB=44 cos A sin A by equa¬
tion (5), and y—0. But from the equation x=ta cos A,
we have also t=x~-a cos A ; whence at the point B, t—
44 sin A-r-a ; therefore, since by formula 1. a —2g/i, gt—
644?
projectiles
Projectiles. 2a sin A. Substituting this value of in the above equa-
' tion, we get
a2—4az sin2A + 4a2 sin 2A=a ;
so that the velocity in the parabola at the point B is equal
to the initial velocity at A. . .
The angle under which the projectile meets the horizon¬
tal line AB, is also equal to the angle of elevation A. 4 or
since the tangent of the inclination of the curve to the axis
of x is given in general by the equation
dv . , i x
tanA-h/wA’
dx
we have at the point B, where x=^h cos A sin A,
= tan A— 2Sin— =tan A —2 tan A = — tan A.
dx cos A
From the equation (3) we readily deduce the solution of
the following problem, which contains the most important
practical application of the theory. Given the velocity ot
projection =a, it is required to determine A, the angle o
elevation, in order that the projectile may hit a given mark,
or that the trajectory may pass through a given point h.
Let /3, y be the co-ordinates of E, namely Ah —/3, r L—7.
From equation (3) we have
tan A—02-r-4A cos 2A,
and the object is to find from this equation the angle of
elevation, or the value of A. 1 ransposing, and observing
that 1-^ cos 2A=1 + tan 2A, the equation becomes
4A . 4Ay
tan 2A —tanA— ^
p P
which being solved in respect of tan A, gives
tan A=
2h
J
Miy—V).
When the quantity under the radical sign is positive, that
is, when Ah'1 is greater than 4/cy-j-/32, then tan A has two
values, and there are consequently two angles of elevation,
by either of which the mark may be hit. If 4A-=4/iy+/3 ,
then tan Az=2h+!i, and there is consequently only one
angle of elevation ; and if Ah2 be less than Ahy+p , then
the quantity under the radical sign is negative, and the
problem becomes impossible. It may be remarked that,
supposing y and /3 variable, the equation Ah Ahy /3 ■ >
or /32=4/i(A—y) is the equation of a parabola, the axis of
which is the vertical line AH, the focus at A, and the ver¬
tex at a point H, such that AH=4, the height corres¬
ponding to the given velocity of projection. For all points
within this parabola /32 is less than Ah1—Ahy, and conse¬
quently Ah1 greater than 4/iy-{-/3“; and for all points with¬
out it /32 is greater than 442—4//y, or Ah1 less than 4Z?y + £2,
so that the parabola, whose equation is ^-AhQi—y) forms
the line of separation between the points within the range
of a body projected from the point A with the velocity a,
and which may be each hit by projecting the body under
two different angles of elevation, and the points which the
projectile cannot reach at all.
The different expres¬
sions which have been
found in the preceding so¬
lution, may be represent¬
ed by a very simple geo¬
metrical construction. On
the vertical line passing
through A, (fig. 2.) take
AH=/t= height due to
the velocity of projection
a, and let AK be the ini¬
tial direction. On AH de¬
scribe a semicircle, meet¬
ing AK in L, make LM perpendicular to AH, and join HL.
Since ALH is a right angle, and therefore AHL=LAB=
A, we have AL=7i sin A, AM=AL sin A=h sin 2A; Projectiles,
and LM=AL cos A=h cos A sin A. Comparing these
expressions with the equations (4), we have = 2LM,
and ?/!=AM,aq and ^ being the co-ordinates of the vertex.
Hence the vertex of the parabola lies in the straight line
ML, and is obtained by making LC=ML. It follows also
from the equation (5), that AB, the horizontal range, is
equal to 4ML.
Through L conceive a straight line to be drawn perpen¬
dicular to AB, or parallel to AH. This line will either be
a tangent to the semicircle, or will meet it in another point
L'. In the former case the angle of elevation is 45 , and
there is only one parabola corresponding to the given ve¬
locity a, through which a projectile can pass to B. But
when the horizontal range AB is less than twice the height
AH due to the velocity, the vertical drawn through L
again meets the circle in L', and AL' is the tangent to an¬
other parabola which passes through B, and of which the
vertex is situated at the intersection of DC with ML pa¬
rallel to AB. . .
From the equation (3) the parameter of the parabola is
Ah cos 2A. But DC=^ sin 2A ; whence DC + £ parame¬
ter =r h, and consequently MH=r^ parameter. But (see
Conic Sections, Part I. prop, xiv.) the distance of the
directrix of a parabola from its vertex is equal to one-
fourth of the parameter; and hence a straight line draw n
through H parallel to AB is the common directrix of al
the parabolas which can be described by a body projected
from A with the velocity due to the height AH.
The focus of the parabola A C B is at the point F where
H L meets the axis C D, and the focus of A C' B at the
point F where H L' meets the axis; and if a circle be de¬
scribed about A as a centre, with a radius = AH, the foci
of all the parabolas which can be described with the given
velocity of projection, will be in the circumference of that
circle*
These few simple propositions contain the whole theory of
the motion of projectiles in vacuo, or independent on the
resistance of the air; and being easily investigated, and con¬
nected with very interesting practice, they have been much
commented on, and have furnished matter for many splendid
volumes. But the air’s resistance occasions such a prodigi¬
ous diminution of motion in the great velocities of military
projectiles, that this parabolic theory, as it is called, is hard¬
ly of any use. Mr. Itobins found that a musket-ball, dis¬
charged with the usual allotment of powder, had the velo¬
city of 1700 feet in a second. This requires a fall of 45,150
feet, and the range therefore should be 90,312,or 17^miles;
whereas it does not much exceed half a mile. A twenty-
four pound ball, discharged with sixteen pounds of powder,
should range about sixteen miles ; whereas it is generally
short of three miles. It is only in the cases of slow motions,
not exceeding 300 or 400 feet in a second, that the theory
can be of any use, for then the path of the projectile differs
little from a parabola.
In such experiments as can be performed with great ac¬
curacy in a chamber, the coincidence is as great as can be
wished. A jet of water or mercury, gives us the finest ex¬
ample, because we have the whole parabola exhibited in
the simultaneous places of the succeeding particles. Yet
even in these experiments a deviation can be observed.
When the jet is made on a horizontal plane, and the curve
carefully traced on a perpendicular plane held close by it,
it is found that the distance between the highest point o
the curve and the mark is less than the distance between
it and the spout, and that the descending branch of the curve
is shorter than the ascending branch. And this difference
is more remarkable as the jet is made with greater velocity,
and reaches to a greater distance ; and it is evidently pro¬
duced by the resistance of the air, which diminishes the ve¬
locity, without affecting the gravity of a projectile. is
PROJECTILES.
Projectiles, still more sensible in the motion of bombs. These can be
traced through the air by the light of their fuzes ; and we
see that their highest point is always much nearer to the
mark than to the mortar on a horizontal plane.
We now proceed to the problem of determining the path
of a projectile in a resisting medium, and as the solution is
attended with considerable difficulty, and cannot be obtained
without the aid of the integral calculus, we shall endeavour
to render it more perspicuous, by considering separately,
1st, the motion of a body allowed to fall from rest; 2d, of
a body projected vertically upwards; and, lastly, the general
case of a body projected with a given velocity in any di¬
rection oblique to the horizon. In order to simplify the
subject, we shall suppose the density of the medium to be
uniform, which may be considered to be the case of the at¬
mosphere at all altitudes which can be reached by a pro¬
jectile from the ground ; and that the projected body is a
sphere, either homogeneous, or composed of spherical strata,
for each of which the density is uniform.
Suppose then the body to be let fall, or submitted to the
action of gravity, and let II denote the force with which it
is resisted at any given instant. By the principles of dyna¬
mics the corresponding accelerating force is equal to the
moving force R divided by the mass of the body, (or the
moving force referred to the unit of mass,) therefore the ac-
celerating force due to the resistance is As this
force acts in the direction opposite to gravity, it must be
taken with the negative sign, or deducted from g, and the
whole accelerating force, causing the descent of the body
being represented by cp, we have t
<p=g—R-r-ra.
(6)
It is necessary to remark, for the sake of preserving ac¬
curate principles, that a body descends in air, not by the
whole of its weight, but by the excess of its weight above
that of the air which it displaces. It descends by its speci-
jic gravity only as a stone descends in water. Suppose a
body 32 times heavier than an equal bulk of air, it will be
buoyed up by a force equal to l-32d part of its weight;
and, instead of acquiring the velocity of 32 feet in a second,
it will only acquire a velocity of 31, even though it sustain¬
ed no resistance from the inertia of the air. Let iv be the
weight of the body, and w' the weight of an equal bulk of
air, then the relative acceleration of gravity will be correct¬
ly expressed by g Butin all practical cases, and
particularly in the case of military projectiles, which have a
great density, the fraction which enters into this expression
is so small that it is not Worth attending to..
In order to reduce the force R-^-wj to its simplest expres¬
sion, let r denote the radius of the sphere, and S its mean
density. Its volume is then £*r3, (*• being as usual the ratio
of the circumference of a circle to its diameter,) and we
have for the mass With respect to the force R,
the usual hypothesis is to suppose it to be proportional to
the square of the velocity of the moving body, to the sui ace
of the projectile, and also to the density of the air. 1 t icn
we take p to represent the density of the air, and assume
n= a numerical factor to be found by experiment, wc s ra
have R—np.v^r2, and consequently
(7)
R
m
np. vl
' ~d7~
Since R-^w is an accelerating force of the same nature
as gravity, and may consequently be represented by a quan¬
tity of the same kind as g, we shall have a homogeneous
expression by making ^ being a constant. The ex
pression thus becomes ~—g^\ and it is necessary to ob¬
serve that the constant b denotes the terminal velocity, or
uniform final velocity which the body attains when the re¬
sistance becomes equal to gravity, or when and
it is consequently no longer urged by an accelerating or re¬
tarding force. For the resistance being assumed propor¬
tional to the square of the velocity, and R-r-m being the
retarding force due to the velocity v, if /;=the terminal
velocity, the retarding force due to which is q, we shall
nave the proportion b* :vL \:q\ — ; whence — —q -r^.
m m V
Thus the retarding force due to any velocity v is ex¬
pressed in terms of the terminal velocity, but the great dif¬
ficulty is to procure an absolute measure of this quantity.
Sir Isaac Newton has attempted to determine the resistance
by theory, and employs a great part of the second book of
the Principia in demonstrating, that the resistance to a
sphere moving with any velocity, is to the force which would
generate or destroy its whole motion in the time that it
would uniformly move over § of its diameter with this ve¬
locity, as the density of the air is to the density of the sphere.
This is equivalent to demonstrating that the resistance of
the air to a sphere moving through it with any velocity, is
equal to half the weight of a column of air having a great
circle of the sphere for its base, and for its altitude the
height from which a body must fall in vacuo to acquire this
velocity. This appears from Newton’s demonstration ; for,
let the specific gravity of the air be to that of the ball as
1 to ; then, because the times in which the same velocity
will be extinguished by the uniform action of different forces
are inversely as the forces, the resistance to this velocity
would extinguish it in the time of describing § ft d, d being
the diameter of the ball. Now 1 is to /3 as the weight of
the displaced air to the weight of the ball, or as f of the
ball to the length of a column of air of equal weight. Call
this length & ; A is therefore equal to § /3 Suppose the ball
to fall from the height k in the time t, and acquire the velo¬
city u. If it moved uniformly with this velocity u during the
time ft it wmuld describe a space =2k, or ^ [3 d. Now its
weight would extinguish this velocity, or destroy this motion,
in the same time, that is, in twice the time of falling. The
resistance therefore is equal to half the weight of the ball,
or to half the weight of the column of air whose height is
the height producing the velocity. But the resistances to
different velocities are as the squares of the velocities, and
therefore, as their producing heights; and, in general, the
resistance of the air to a sphere moving with any velocity,
is equal to the half weight of a column of air of equal sec¬
tion, and whose altitude is the height producing the velo¬
city. The result of this investigation has been acquiesced
in by all Sir Isaac Newton’s commentators. Many faults
have indeed been found with his reasoning, and even with
his principles ; and it must be acknowledged that his rea¬
soning is liable to serious objections, which his most inge¬
nious commentators have not completely removed. We
must add, however, that all the causes of deviation from the
duplicate ratio of the velocities, and the causes of increased
resistance, which the latter authors have valued themselves
for discovering and introducing into their investigations,
were pointed out by Sir Isaac Newton, but purposely
omitted by him, in order to facilitate the discussion tn re
difficilUma. (See Schol prop. 37. book ii.)
It is known that the weight of a cubic foot of water ^is
62i pounds, and that the medium density of the air is
of water ; therefore, let It be the height producing the ve¬
locity (in feet), and d the diameter of the ball (in inches),
and tt the periphery of a circle whose diameter is 1; the
62|
resistance of the air will be
645
Projectiles.
840 XTX
d*_
144 X 2
646
Projectiles. Jl(p
PROJECTILES.
pounds, very nearly, or, since by formula III. h-.
v2d2 v2d2
4928£
v-r-2g, resistance^
4928^x64 315417
pounds.
We may take an example. A ball of cast iron weighing
12 pounds, is 4^ inches in diameter. Suppose this ball to
move at the rate of 25^ feet in a second (the reason of
this choice will appear afterwards). The height which will
produce this velocity in a falling body is 9 g feet. T-he area
of its great circle is 0-11044 feet, or TVo0o4o4o.°f one ^
Suppose water to be 840 times heavier than aii, the weight
of the air incumbent on this great circle, and 9f feet high,
is 0-081151 pounds ; half of this is 0-0405755, or nearly ^
of a pound. This should be the resistance of the air to this
motion of the ball. ,
Newton himself attempted to compare his propositions
with experiment. Some were made by dropping balls Irom
the dome of St. Paul’s cathedral; and all these shewed as
oreat a coincidence with his theory as they did with each
other; but the irregularities were too great to allow him
to say with precision what was the resistance. It appeared
to follow the proportion of the squares of the velocities with
sufficient exactness ; and though he could not say that the
resistance was equal to the weight of the column of air hav¬
ing the height necessary for communicating the velocity,
it was always equal to a determinate part of it; and might
be stated =n h, n being a number to be fixed by numerous
experiments.
Newton made another set of experiments with pendu¬
lums; and has pointed out some very curious and unex¬
pected circumstances of their motions in a resisting medi¬
um. Their results were much more uniform, and con¬
firmed his general theory; which, as we have said above,
has been acquiesced in by the first mathematicians.
But the deductions from this theory were so inconsistent
with the observed motions of military projectiles, when the
velocities are prodigious, that no application could be made
which could be of any service for determining the path and
motion of cannon shot and bombs; and although John Ber¬
noulli gave, in 1718, a most elegant determination of the tra¬
jectory and motion of a body projected in a fluid which re¬
sists in the duplicate ratio of the velocities, it has remained
a dead letter. Mr. Benjamin Robins was the first who sus¬
pected the true cause of the imperfection of the usually re¬
ceived theories ; and in 1737 he published a small tract, in
which he showed clearly, that even the Newtonian theory
of resistance must cause a cannon ball, discharged with a
full allotment of powder, to deviate farther from the para¬
bola, in which it would move in vacuo, than the parabola
deviates from a straight line. But he farther asserted, on
the authority of good reasoning, that in such great veloci¬
ties the resistance must be much greater than this theory
assigns ; because, besides the resistance arising from the
inertia of the air which is put in motion by the ball, there
must be a resistance arising from a condensation of the air
on the anterior surface of the ball, and a rarefaction be¬
hind it; and there must be a third resistance, arising from
the statical pressure of the air on its anterior part, when
the motion is so swift that there is a vacuum behind. Even
these causes of disagreement with the theory had been fore¬
seen and mentioned by Newton (see the Scholium to prop.
37, book ii. Principi) ; but the subject seems to have been
little attended to.
Two or three years after this first publication, Mr. Ro¬
llins invented that ingenious method of measuring the great
velocities of military projectiles, which has handed down his
name to posterity, and discovered the prodigious resistance
of the air by observing the diminution of velocity which it
occasioned. This made him anxious to examine what was
the real resistance to any velocity whatever, in order to as- Trojectiles
certain what was the law of its variation ; and he was equally
fortunate in this attempt. His method of measuring the re¬
sistance has been fully described in the article Gunnery.
It appears (Robins’s Math. Works, vol. i. p. 205,) that a
sphere of 4^ inches in diameter, moving at the rate of 25£
feet in a second, sustained a resistance of 0-04914 pounds,
of a pound. This is a greater resistance than
that of the Newtonian theory, which gave 0-0405755, in the
proportion of 1000 to 1211, or very nearly in the propor¬
tion of five to six in small numbers. And we may adopt as
a rule in all moderate velocities, that the resistance to a
sphere is equal to of the weight of a column of air hav¬
ing the great circle of the sphere for its base, and for its
altitude the height through which a heavy body must fall
in vacuo to acquire the actual velocity.
This experiment is peculiarly valuable, because the ball
is precisely the size of a 12-pound shot of cast iron; and
its accuracy may be depended on. T. here is but one source
of error. The whirling motion must have occasioned some
whirl in the air, which would continue till the ball again
passed through the same point of its revolution. The re¬
sistance observed is therefore probably somewhat less than
the true resistance to the velocity of 25j- feet, because it
was exerted in a relative velocity which was less than this,
and is, in fact, the resistance due to this relative and smaller
velocity. The Chevalier de Borda made experiments simi¬
lar to those of Mr. Robins, and his results exceed those of
Robins in the proportion of 5 to 6. It is much to be re¬
gretted, that in a subject so interesting both to the philo¬
sopher and the engineer, experiments have not been multi¬
plied. Nothing would tend so much to perfect the science
of gunnery, and indeed until this be done, no practical ad¬
vantage can be derived from the theory. .
Adopting this experimental measure of Robins, we have
the product np of equation (7) =-04914 pounds in respect
of a sphere of 4^ inches diameter, or 2-25 inches radius,
moving at the rate of 25-2 feet in a second. In order to
determine from this experiment the resistance on a sphere
of a different size, and moving with a different velocity, it
will be convenient to reduce it to the case corresponding to
the units of magnitude and velocity ; therefore, since the re¬
sistance is assumed proportional to the square of the velocity
and the surface of the projectile, or R=rcpt>V, if we denote
by R the corresponding resistance, in respect of a sphere
whose radius is 1 inch, moving with the velocity of 1 foot
per second, we shall have
„;°49'L—,=-000015285 pounds.
(2-25)* X (25-2)*'
The logarithm of this number is 5-18427. The resistance
here determined is independent of the density of the ball;
but the retardation occasioned by it being in proportion to
the quantity of motion, will therefore be proportional to the
density of the ball, or its specific gravity. Military projec¬
tiles are of cast iron or lead, the specific gravities of which
may be taken at 7-207, and 11-37 respectively, that of water
being 1. , v • r
The following examples will illustrate the application of
the above formula.
1. Let it be proposed to find the resistance to a 24-pound
iron ball (whose diameter is 5-603 inches), moving with the
velocity of 1670 feet in a second, which is nearly the velo¬
city communicated by 16 lbs. of gunpowder.
]qere ^—1670, r=2-8015, and the formula R=wpv r
gives
R=*000015285 X (1670)2 X (2-8015)2=334-57 lbs.
But it is found, by unequivocal experiments, that the re¬
tardation of such a motion, is equivalent to 504 lbs. This
is owing to the causes often mentioned, the additional resist-
Projectiles, ance to great velocities, arising from the condensation of the
V^Y^^air, and from its pressure into the vacuum left by the ball.
2. Let the terminal velocity of the same ball be required.
Here the equation (7) gives —= <7 —; therefore in respect
of the ball whose velocity is 1 and radius 1, we have R —
mg-r-b2, b being the terminal velocity. Now it is to be
observed that the product of the mass of a body into the
force of gravity expresses its weight, which we may denote
byw; we have then and consequently 62 =
tc-i-Rj. Now in respect of another body of the same specific
gravity, whose radius is r, we have R : R3 v.r2 : 1, whence
R=R1r2, and the equation becomes 62=w-^-Rlr2. Sub¬
stituting in this equation the numbers given in the question,
we get
to 24
~-000015285 x(2-8015)2—20006°’
whence 6=447'3 feet.
As the terminal velocity b, and its producing height k,
enter into all computations of military projectile*, we have
inserted the following Table for the usual sizes of cannon-
shot, computed both by the Newtonian theory of resistance,
and by the resistances observed in Robins’s experiments.
A similar table, computed from Dr. Hutton’s experiments,
and not materially different, is given in Huttons Tracts,
voh iii. p. 247.
PROJECTILES.
CO
1
2
3
4
6
9
12
18
24
32
42
Newton.
Term Vel.
289-9
324-9
348-2
365-3
390-8
418-1
438-6
469-3
492-4
512-6
540-5
2k.
2626-4
3298-5
3788-2
4170-3
4472-7
5463-5
6010-6
6883-3
7576-3
8024-8
9129-9
Robins.
Term Vel.
263-4
295-2
316-4
331-9
355-1
379-9
398-5
426-5
447-4
465-8
491-5
2k.
2168-6
2723-5
3127-9
3442-6
3940-7
4511-2
4962-9
5683-5
6265*7
6780-4
7538-3
Diam.
Inch.
1- 94
2- 45
2-86
3- 08
3- 52
4- 04
4- 45
5- 09
5- 61
6- 21
6-75
Having thus explained the nature of the quantities em¬
ployed in the investigation, we now proceed with the solu¬
tion of the problem of determining the circumstances of the
motion of a body falling vertically in the atmosphere. In
, . R
consequence of the equation — —g
647
bolic, and therefore, if the common tables are used, the ta- Projectile.,
buiar logarithm of the number in question must be divided
by the modulus of the system M=-43429 (see Logarithms,
vol. xm. p. 429J. The terminal velocity b, as appears by
equation (7), varies with the radius of the ball, and the ratio
of its density to that of the air, and must be determined by
experiment. 2
As an example of the formula, assume the terminal ve¬
locity =689| feet in a second, and let it be proposed to de¬
termine the time in which the body will acquire a velocitv
of 323-62 feet per second.
Here 5=689-33, 7= 323-62, 5-{-7?= 1012-95, b~v—
365-71, whence the common logarithm of ^t^is 0-44245
b—v
and hyp. log
b-\-v 44245
b—v 43429* Now h : 689'33-h-64_
44245
10-77, therefore *=10-77 X43^29=10‘97 seconds, which
is the time required.
Assume T=gt-±-b, and let e denote the base of the Na-
pierean or hyperbolic logarithms, that is, let e=2-7l828;
b -p v
the equation (8) gives, on passing to numbers e2ir=^—or
b—v 5(1—e—'2r)
e =bJ^1 wlience v — ~i ■pe-ar * Letthe termsthis
expression for v be multiplied by t?T and the equation becomes
0
'+e~
(9)
which gives the velocity in terms of r, that is, in terms of
the time *, and the terminal velocity b.
To find the space described, the equations (1) give vdt=
dx. Now we have assumed gt-±b=.T, therefore gdt=bdr,
whence and from equation (9)
gdx-.
JT(eT—e~T)dt
eT+e-7
the relation be¬
tween the accelerating force and the resistance given by
.ySJ fj “ ■y*2
equation (6), becomes <5=<7—g^ ~g —^—-. Hence from j3ut
The integral of this is gx—b2 log (ed’-j- e-’’) -f-C, (C being a
constant). When £=0, then v=0, and the equation be¬
comes 0=52 log 2-f-C; therefore the complete integral is
ar=y log 4 (£T4-e-'r) (10)
which gives the space in terms of the time and final ve¬
locity.
The space may also be expressed in terms of the velo¬
city. From equations (1) we have vdt—dx and <pdt=dv.
Eliminating dt between these two equations we get <£cTr=
dv\ tf—v*
therefore g dx-.
b*vdv
dv b-
the second of equation* (1), ^—0 —
62
whence gdi¬
do . dv
bQdv , . 1 • i it ^
f, or, which is the same, + b
dv \
'■—v)
On integrating this equation, and observing that as t amLw
commence together no correction is required, we get gt
(8)
^5^ log (5-j-7/-)—log (5—v)}, w hence
b , b-\-v
t-2gX°%b~v’
From this equation the time * during which a body must
fall in a resisting medium in order to acquire the ye °^1 Y
v, is I'eadily computed, supposing the terminal velocity o
be known. It will be observed that the logarithm is hyper-
The integral of this gives gx——^ log (52—t;2) -{- C. To
determine the constant, we have t?=0, when ar=0, and
therefore 0=—52 log (52-f C) ; whence the complete inte¬
gral is ^=|52{log 52— log (52—v2)}, or
jpg- (11)
2^ g 52—t;2 k '
As an example of this formula, suppose, as above, 5=
ggpi. feet, and let it be required to find the space through
which the body has descended when the acquired velocity
71=323.62 feet. Here the common logarithm of 52 is
5 67686. and that of 52—t;2 is 5.56872; therefore the com-
nion logarithm of is 0.10814, and its hyper¬
bolic logarithm = JJJM- "o have also i*-t-2<r=7429.6
CD Oh
Projectiles.
PROJECTILES.
* = y j arc ^tan z=^j — arc ^tan =-j) |, (12) V
which gives the relation between the velocity and time.
The quantities within the brackets express a portion of the
arc of a circle whose radius is unit, and are therefore ab-
^o^tS-aS KgS of its suites .ho veiocity 6. by formula 11.
Sine subtracted from unity, and divided by the modulus M a v
b*
..43429, will be the value of ^ log  v
48
rojectiler. feet, therefore ar=7429.6 X iSt«=J850 feet per second.
The formula may also be computed by means of the tri-
gonometrical tables; for since | log °S V ^2—^2
= logarithmic secant of an arc whose radius is 6 and
sine r, or of an arc whose radius is 1 and sine —v+-b, it we
Thus in the
last example we have the common logarithm of Iv . i
9.67160, which corresponds to an arc of 28 .Wow 1 g
cos 28°=9.94593, whence log secant 28o=0.05407. But
0=14859.2 (the double of b^-r-ty or 7429-6 found
above), therefore a.’=148592 X ^eet, as ^e"
f° In this manner the equation (11) will also give the velo¬
city when the space x is known. For let ^ denote the arc
whose logarithmic sine in the common tables is log Ky^b
and the equation becomes •*:=:— log secant whence
log sec. Having therefore found ^ corresponding
Assume, as above, and make ^ — tan o, ^
tan/3; the equation (12) then becomes /3= * —r, whence
by trigonometry
 tan a— tan t
tan /3 ^ ^ ^ a tan T
On substituting for « and ^ their values as above, this gives
a sin r
v b cos t
T
1 +
sin t
cos r
b(a cos t — b sin t)
whence v—  : . h *
a sin t + o cos t
Ino-spp \Lr— . Having mereiuie luunu  0
& Y b* , Now, since gt—br, we have gdt—bdr, and consequently
to this secant, we SMI ^I'aTleufbe „.J( _ cos r-t sin Qje ;
to tnis secantj wc oiiciii . y ? j i i. •*. v.
v—b sin Suppose, as before, 6=689:3 feet, ^d let
required to find the velocity when the body has fallen 185U
gvdt =
required to find the velocity when the body nas laiien iouu - a sin r + 6 cos r
g^lx 32 x .43429 X1850 which is therefore, integrating, and observing thaifvdt^x, we have
feet. Here -p-— (689i)2 * ’ = 6^ log f a sin r 4- 6 cos t) + C.
the logarithmic secant of but 1—0540/ _.94593_ VYnen a;=v, uicu c~v/, --
logcosV, whence^ is found in the tables =28°, and log sm^ log 6 + C, and the complete integral becomes
J9.67160. Adding log ^83843, weJmve log 4 sm ^ (a sin T+j cos T)_,og i].
gx = b% log (a sin r -f 6 cos t)-{- C.
When x=0, then *=0, r=0, sin r=0, cos r=l; therefore
Pog (a sin r-^b cos r)-
= 62(log | sin r + cos
=2.51003, whence v=:b sin ^=323.62 feet
We come now to consider the case of a body, supposed, as
before, to be a sphere of given magnitude and density, pro- 0r gx
iected vertically upwards. In this case, the resistance ot . , f
the air and the force of gravity act both in the same direc- whence on restoring the value o r,
gv*
tion, and the accelerating force becomes (j)——g
whence, since cf> — dv~ dt, we obtain the equation
bdv _ gdt
52.q_.y2 5
To integrate the first member of this equation, let ^
denote an arc of a circle, then d tan ^ -d ^ 4- cos
Now let tan ^=v-r-b, then d tan\^ zzdv-s-b, and 1-f-cos 2y
52 q_y2
62 /« .
= Vlog (s81
gt\
sin V" + cos J>
0±
b
(13)
which gives the space described in a function of the time.
To express the space in terms of the velocity, we have
(£2 . y2)
^dx-vdv. But in this case <p = -g—Ji > therefore,
6*
vdv
624-«s
■ 2 hdv y ”
=1+ tan ^=-4r“, and we get d^-b^4^’ whence The integral of this gives 2gx = —b*
^ 62 & . and when x=0j thenv=a; therefore 0=—62 (62+«) +1,
r bdv .  v\ and the complete integral becomes
62 + «2 (14)
y'* bdv , f, v\
  =\Jy= arc (tan =t)
52+y2 Y \ b)
and the integral of the above equation becomes
1 ~ 2;/ 1<>S Ir + ,r'
arc(tan=y)=-f+ C-
To determine the constant, let a as before denote the
initial velocity. When v—a, then £=0, and we have
Let h denote the greatest altitude. When the projec¬
tile reaches this altitude, v=0, and the last equation gives
62+a2
h = ^°s
IP
(15)
arc
(tan =7)
: + C,
therefore the complete mtegral is arc (tan =^j = arc
(tan =y) — y, whence
This formula may be computed from the trigonometrical
52q-a2 . /624-q2  
tables, by observing that i log —^ iog V
logarithmic secant of an arc ^ of which the tangent is a-r-b.
Suppose the velocity of projection to be 411 feet per se-
Projectiles, cond, and b—889^, the calculation of the height h will be
'“‘a^^'was follows:
log a = log 411 2-61384
log b = log 6891 = 2-83843
PROJECTILES.
649
2259 feet.
log tan ^ = 9-77541
from the table of logarithmic tangents we find ^ =
30°48,20/', the logarithmic cosine of which is 9-93395,
whence log sec ^ = 006605. We have therefore
62X-06605 (689^)-X -06605
“ 32xT43429‘
Having reached the greatest altitude A, the body will im¬
mediately begin to fall. From equation (11) we have x—
Yg l0g b;i—v2 for the SpaCe throuSh whicl1 the b°dy must
fall to acquire the velocity v. Now, if we make x=h,
we shall have, on comparing this with the equation (15)
W+a3 __ 1 b* , /^2 + a2 / b*
log
log SO ",lcnce J-
J
b*—v*
But the first number of this equation is the secant of an arc,
whose tangent is a-^-b, and the second the secant of an arc
whose sine is v-—b; and since the secants are equal, the arcs
must be equal; therefore the velocity of projection is to the
final returning velocity as the tangent to the sine, or as the
radius to the cosine of an arc. Suppose the body projected
with a velocity equal to the terminal velocity, that is, sup¬
pose a=b ; the above equation will then become 2(Z»2—v2)
=b2, or b2=2v2, whence v—b-^-fJ2. If ^=689^, then
^"=487, or the body will reach with a velocity of 487 feet
per second.
The time required for reaching the greatest altitude is
found by making r=0 in equation (12). In this case the
equation becomes t—- arc ^tan= We learn from this
expression of the time, that however great the velocity of
projection, and the height to which the body will rise, may
be, the time of its ascent is limited. It never can exceed
the time of falling in vacuo from the height due to the ter¬
minal velocity b, namely 6-i-<7, in a greater proportion
than that of a quadrantal arc to the radius, nearly the pro¬
portion of 8 to 5. A 24-pound iron ball cannot continue ris¬
ing above 14 seconds, even if the resistance to quick motions
did not increase faster than the square of the velocity. It
probably will attain its greatest height in less than 12 se¬
conds, let its velocity be ever so great.
Having thus determined the relations subsisting between
the velocity, the space described, and the time, in the cases
of vertical ascent and descent in a resisting medium, we
come now to consider the general problem, and to determine
the motion of a body projected in any direction whatever.
Our readers will readily conceive that this must be a diffi¬
cult subject, when they see the simplest cases of rectilineal
motion abundantly abstruse. In the infancy of the fluxion¬
ary calculus, the difficulty was indeed such that Newton
himself did not succeed in obtaining a complete solution of l a r
the problem. In the tenth and subsequent propositions of and let A13 and Art,
the second book of the Principia, he shows what state of horizonta an vel 1
1 - - ■ ' 1 cal lines drawn through
A, be assumed as the
but still does not attempt a direct investigation of the tra- Projectiles,
jectory. In proposition 14, &c. he shows how a body, ac-'—^
tuated by a centripetal force, in a medium of a density va¬
rying according to certain laws, will describe an eccentric
spiral, of which he assigns the properties, and the law of
description. Had he supposed the density constant, and
the difference between the greatest and least distances from
the centre of centripetal force exceedingly small in compa¬
rison with the distances themselves, his spiral would have
coincided with the path of a projectile in the air of uniform
density, and the steps of his investigation would have led
him immediately to the complete solution of the problem.
For this is the real state of the case. A heavy body is not
acted on by equal and parallel gravity, but by a gravity in¬
versely proportional to the square of the distance from the
centre of the earth, and in lines tending to that centre near¬
ly ; and it has been only with the view of simplifying the
investigation, that mathematicians have adopted the other
hypothesis.
Soon after the publication of this second edition of the
Principia, the dispute about the invention of the fluxion¬
ary calculus became very violent, and the great promoters
of that calculus upon the continent were in the habit of pro¬
posing difficult problems as trials of skill to each other.
Challenges of this kind frequently passed between the Bri¬
tish and foreigners. Dr. Keill of Oxford had keenly es¬
poused the claim of Sir Isaac Newton to this invention, and
had engaged in a very acrimonious altercation with the ce¬
lebrated John Bernoulli of Basle. Bernoulli had published
in the Acta Eruditorum of Leipsic an investigation of the
law of the forces, by which a body moving in a resisting me¬
dium might describe any proposed curve, reducing the whole
to the simplest geometry ; and Dr. Keill proposed to him
the particular problem of the trajectory and motion of a body
moving through the air. Bernoulli very soon solved the pro¬
blem in a way much more general than it had been proposed,
viz. without any limitation either of the law of resistance,
the law of the centripetal force, or the law of density, pro¬
vided only that they were regular, and capable of being ex¬
pressed algebraically. Dr. Brook Taylor, the celebrated
author of The Method of Increments, solved it at the same
time, in the limited form in which it was proposed. Other
authors since that time have given other solutions. But they
are all (as indeed they must be) the same in substance with
Bernoulli’s. Indeed they are all (Bernoulli’s not excepted)
the same with Newton’s first approximations, modified by
the steps introduced into the investigation of the spiral mo¬
tions mentioned above.
We now proceed to the problem itself, restricted to the
case of uniform density and a resistance proportional to the
square of the velocity.
Problem. To determine the trajectory, and all the cir¬
cumstances of the motion of a body projected through the
air, from a given point, and in a given direction, and resist¬
ed in the duplicate ratio of the velocity.
Suppose the body to
be projected from A,
in the direction AK,
with a velocity = a,
density in the air will comport with the motion of a body
in any curve whatever; and then, by applying this re¬
sult to several curves which have some similarity to the
path of a projectile, he found one which is not very different
from what may be supposed to obtain in the atmosphere.
But even the approximation was involved in calculations ol
such intricacy, that it seemed impossible to make any use
axes of the rectangu¬
lar co-ordinates x and
Let P be the place of the projectile at the end of the
time t, make the arc AP=z, and let Yp=dz, be an infinitely
small portion of the arc, which may be regarded as camcid-
V
lij pui uuii ....—— j - r> . 1 ..r PQ qnd
of it. In the second edition of the Principia, pubhshed in mg AnTSpraparalfel and let the angle
1713, he corrects some mistakes into which he had fallen pq \ , * v hich the tangent makes with the horizontal
in the first, and carries the approximation much farther, pTn ( IMA,
4 N
VOL. XVIII.
650
projectiles.
Projectiles, axis), be denoted by ; we have tben P« — dx, np — dy,
'and dy—dxXainL .
The intensity of the force of resistance being denoted as
before by R, and the mass of the projectile by m, the ac-
1 . • r* J A. „ ^-1 r*r\ io T? » VYl This form
To determine the constant h, suppose 2=0. When z=0, Projectiles,
the velocity in the direction of the tangent AK is the ini-
tial velocity a, and in the direction AB it is a cos A, assum-
betore by rt, ana tne mass oi uie ^ — — . , „ ... i ir at?
celerating force due to the resistance is R--«. This force mg A as before to represent the angle KAB.
is exerted in the direction of the tangent at P, and as it
tends to diminish the velocity in the direction P/i, it must
be taken with the negative sign. Now, the accelerating
force in the direction Pp, is to the accelerating force in the
direction Fn as 1 : cos 6, and to the force in the direction
Tip as 1 : sin 6; therefore in the direction of the axis x the
accelerating force is cos i, and in the direction of
T, dx
But — =v,
dt
dx
ClJC
the velocity at P, therefore when 2=0, the equation — =
he—cz gives a cos A—k. The complete integral of the first
of the equations (17) is therefore
dx
the axis y, (R-i-?w) sin 6.
dx dy
But cos 0=-^, and sin 6 =^,
therefore the accelerating forces due to the resistance, in the
R ete , R dy
dt
= a cos A e-cz.
(18)
dx .
— and-
dz
The integral of the second equation (17) is found as fol¬
lows. Since c?y=tan 6 dx, we have, on supposing x and y
dit doc
to be functions of t, -d- =tan d Differentiating this
dt ’
dt
COS2ii
= sec2t) d &, we
d y dd dx d-x
get —= —3—r • -v—h tan 0——. Substituting these va -
b dt2 cos2Odt dt ^ dt2
direction of the co-ordinates, are—-
respectively. In the horizontal direction, the sole force equation, and observing that dtant)
acting on the projectile is that which is due to the resist¬
ance ; in the vertical direction the body is also acted on by
the accelerating force of gravity, g, which, when the body
is ascending, acts in the same direction with the resisting A dy . . .
force of the atmosphere, and must therefore be taken with lues of and - in the equation in question, it becomes
the same sign. Now, the accelerating forces in the direc- ^ ^ ^
d2x , d2y . .  =+tan^- * ‘ 1
and
dt2 dt“
(1) ; we have therefore for the equations of motion,
d2x R d2y     R dp
dz dt2 ~ 9
tions x and y, are respectively and by equations cos2$dt dt i_ dt2 ^ dt dt 1 Jr9
whence, by reason of the first of the equations (17)
d& dx
dt2
dz
(16)
cos20d£
dx2
dt+!>=(,i
(19)
w ... — — dx*
Assuming r — radius of the projectile, S = its density, p = and on dividing by —a2 cos 2A e-2c2 (18), we get
*i. „X* „4.^r,^/i«   ir of noint  
density of atmosphere, v = velocity at the point P, and n =
, ‘R np „,
a constant co-efficient, we have, ~ = —v by equation
dd
dx
~9
cos2ddt ’ dt a2cos2A
r,—2C3
. . - . ~ , dd dx dd
Now if d be regarded as a function of x, then — -7- ———;
0 dt dt dx
(7). In the case of the vertical motion, we represented
the co-efficient of v2 by the fraction g+-h2, (b being the ter¬
minal velocity) ; it will now be more convenient to denote 2 0, .
it by a single letter ; we shall therefore assume c=np-^8r ; and from the formula (HI.) we have also a hg (Ji being
and consequently, as n and the ratio p-S are both abstract the height due to the velocity a) ; therefore by substitution
numbers, the reciprocal of the constant c, or 1 -j-c, will re- dd
present a straight line ; in fact, the reciprocal of c is twice
the altitude producing the terminal velocity b in vacuo, for
calling h' this altitude, we have by formula (III.) tf—tyh',
therefore ^-i-62=l-j-2A'=c. We have then R-^-w=ct2 ;
dz R dz2.
1
cos2ddx 2Aeos2A
But we have dx—dz cos 6, therefore this equation becomes
dd d% -e2« (20)
dz R dz2 c°s3(f 2A cos2A ’
Substituting this in the w}qch js tiie differential equation of the trajectory.
Thp intepral of this eouation is found as folk
whence, since vz=.—, — = —.
dt m dt2
above equations of motion (16) we get
d2x dz dx
dt2
d^A
dt
dt dt
=0
(U)
dz du
^rCdi dtJr9~ ’
The integral of this equation is found as follows. By
, . ^ . f* dd sin , p dd ,
Fluxions 153), / —^-.=7- rr + f/  and
v J cosJif 2cos2tf if cos^
{Art. =log tan (45° -f- ^) We have also
from which the equation of the trajectory must be deduced e2ez dz=~e2cs ; therefore assuming K to denote an
by integration. ^ .
b> integration. ^ arbitrary constant, the general integral becomes
To integrate the first of these equations, suppose -77— sin d .    1
logtan (450+^)=K-
£2cs
. ... j 1 , r-.r COS‘d ' • ' 2cAcos2A
ke~~cz, where h is an arbitrary constant, and e the base of the ^ _
hyperbolic logarithms. The differential of this equation is, 1° determine the constant, suppose 2=0. vV hen 2=0 then
^ d=A, and the last equation gives
— ——kce~czdz, or, dividing by <7^, and substituting for ^e—c3 1 s;n ^
dt K- - u—^ 4-log tan (450+iA). (2l)
cos2 A - v '
d2x
its value, -^-2 = ■
dz dx # VI two XX. wo XX
S ■ di’ which is the first of lhe above For the sake of abridging, let
Ft11) = =4 + IoS (45°+E).
2c/< cos 2 A
us assume
doc
equations. Hence the integral of that equation is—=ke~cz.
(22)
cos
Projectiles*
t?/ a \ sin A.
r(A)=coT*A +I°Stan (45°+'!A)»
PROJECTILES.
proximation will be obtained by taking intervals of 5°
throughout the rest of the curve. It will
then the complete integral of equation (20) becomes F (0) obs1erved that the logarithms of the formula;
j x K / and +1-,^ 1^ :a.i  n .1
651
-F(A)=-
(1—gScs^. wiiencej by transposition,
2 ch cos 2A
<?C*—I=2ch cos2A£F(A)—F(<% (23)
an equation which gives the length s of the arc AP in terms city‘ From equati<>n (19)
of the angle which the tangent at P makes with the hori¬
zontal line AB.
We have now to find expressions for the co-ordinates x
and y. In consequence of the equation (21), the last may
or Projectiles.
It will be'
pU!1L u,ie 10gamnms ot the formulae are hyperbolic :
and therefore the logarithms of the common tablesmust be
divided by the modulus M.
We have still to find expressions for the time and velo-
be otherwise written
1
2h cos 2A
e2cz — c [K—F(^)].
(24)
Substituting this in (20) we get =—dzc [K—F (4)},
whence dz—
dt
c cos 3 ^ [F (d)—K}'
dz cos 6, dy—dz sin 0, therefore by substitution,
d&
dxz
dy
c cos ^£F(tf)—
tan 6 d 6
k!
dd
^8 dx=—Sdt • Multiply¬
ing by c, and substituting for dx, its value given by the
first of the equations (25), this becomes ^
cos 4<9{F(0)—K]
=—cgdt*, whence, transposing and extracting the root,
Jeg . dt=  dd-
-K}2
(26)
Now, we have also dx-=z
cos 2<9{F(^)
In this equation the radical must be regarded as a posi¬
tive quantity, because when the time t increases, the angle
6 diminishes. °
For the velocity we have from (19) — = gcos20
dt
dt
dd
(25)
c cos ^{F(<9)—K]
These expressions are not susceptible of integration in
finite terms ; but as x and y have the forms x—f^ (Q^dd
and y=f ^f\6)d 6 (^ and ■»// denoting known functions of 6)
and as 6 varies within given limits, from 0=A to 6=0 in the
ascending branch of the curve, and from 0=0 to 0=90° in
the descending branch, the problem is thus brought within
the method of quadratures; that is to say, it depends on
finding the areas of two curves, of which the ordinates are
respectively -^(0) and ^(6), corresponding to the absciss 0.
Hence x and y may be found for given values of 0, and con¬
sequently any number of points may be found in the tra¬
jectory.
Instead of employing the equations (25), the curve may
be constructed by means of equation (24), which is the me¬
thod followed by Euler. That equation gives e?cz =2ch
cos2A | K—F(0)j, whence we have
log r = log [j2cA cos 2A £K—F(0)}}.
Now, if 0 be the angle which the tangent makes with the
horizon at the point P of the curve, and z the length of the
arc AP, and if at the point p at a small but finite distance
from P, the angle becomes 0—a>, and the arc z-fAs, then
if the formula be computed for a given value of 0, (for ex¬
ample 30°), and also for 0—w (suppose 25°), the difference
between the two resulting numbers will give the length of
the arc P/)=Az. Thus we can find the values of a great
number of small portions, and the inclinations of the two
tangents at their extremities. We can also assign to each
of these portions its proportion of the absciss and ordinate,
without having recourse to the values of x and y ; for the
portion of the absciss corresponding to Fp or Az being A.r,
and 0—^oo being the inclination of its middle point to the
horizon, we have A.r=:Azcos(0—5“); and in like man¬
ner ^y=Az sin (0—\o>). By adding all these portions to¬
gether, the co-ordinates will be obtained, and consequently
the points of the curve from 0—A to 0=0, or through the
ascending branch from A to the vertex. Near the point ot
projection, the variation of the length of the arc is much
greater than that of the angle 0, and therefore at the com¬
mencement it may be necessary to compute 0 for each de¬
gree, that is, to assume w=l°; but a sufficiently near ap-
But
dz
dx—dz cos 6, therefore v = — — g cos
dt °
dt)’
and
',2 —n-2
dfi
■g cos 0 Substituting in this equation the value
M2
of given by (26), we have
ccos 20{K—F(0)}
(27)
As the vertex, 0=0, and cos 20=1 ; therefore, assuming
u to denote the velocity at the vertex, the equation becomes
«2=g=cK; or, since c=g-j-52, w2=62=K; whence it
appears that K is the ratio of the square of the terminal
velocity to the square of the velocity in the vertex.
If there were no resistance, the smallest velocity would
be at the vertex, and beyond the vertex it would imme¬
diately increase by the action of gravity conspiring (in a
small degree, however) with the motion of the body. But
in a resisting medium the velocity at the vertex is dimi¬
nished by a quantity to which the acceleration of gravity
in. that point bears no assignable proportion. It is there¬
fore diminished upon the whole, and the point of smallest
velocity is a little way beyond the vertex. It is not mate¬
rial for our present purpose to determine the exact position
of that point.
By means of the expressions which have now been found,
we are enabled to compute tor every value of 0, from the
point of projection where 0=A, to the vertex where 0=0,
the corresponding point of the trajectory, the time which
the projectile takes to arrive at that point, and the velo¬
city with which it is then moving. We now proceed to
consider the motion in the descending branch.
Let the origin of the co-ordinates (fig. 4.) be transferred
Fig. 4.
to the vertex C
let CE be hori¬
zontal, CD verti¬
cal, S a point in
the descending
branch, SN a tan¬
gent at S, meeting
CE in N, and ST
parallel to CD.
Also let x/ and yf
be the co-ordinates of S referred to the vertex, that is.
652
PROJECTILES.
proaches nearer and nearer to a constant C, with which it Projectiles,
coincides when 6 is infinite. The constant C cannot be
, 1
determined from this equation ; but if we assume «—-
Projectiles, make *'=CT, y'=ST, and suppose the co-ordinates of tee
'vertex to be p and q, namely AD=>p, CD—^. Then the
co-ordinates of S referred to A being always represented
by x and y, we have ^
x=p + a:', y=<l—y'’ dx—dx\ dy— dy’. P —^ the value of ^may be approximate-
Now it will be observed, that in the descending branch0 cos _
the angle d is negative, or that ENS=-—^ ; whence the first
of the two equations in (25) becomes in the present case
—di
dx’—
c cos20 [F(—i)—K}
But from (23), F(—«)= +logtan (45°—^ and
ly computed by the method of quadratures. Suppose k to
be determined, make CE^A:, and draw through E the ver¬
tical EF, then EF is the asymptote of the descending branch
of the curve.
The terminal velocity b may be determined from equa¬
tion (27). On changing 6 into —6 in that equation, and
supposing 6 to become a right angle, we have 62=r c gjn ^
tan (45° — cot (45 + ^) ^ ’ whence ^ whence 6= which agrees with the assumed
r. ’ ^ C
log tan (45°—A*)——log ta-n (45° + ^)? and consequently
F( 0)= F(^). Equations (25) therefore become
, dQ
d.
c cos ^{K-j-F^)]
— ixnedi (28)
=ccos ^{K+F^)}*
In like manner the equation (24) becomes in this case
g2es'—. 2cA COS 2 A[K+F(«)].
z’ being the arc counted from the vertex ; and the expres¬
sions for the time and velocity become respectively
!4K+Fwr(29)
All these expressions are computed for successive values
of 6 from £=0 ; and a sufficient approximation will be ob¬
tained by assuming 6 to vary by intervals of 5°. The as¬
cending and descending branches of the trajectory are thus
computed independently, as if they belonged to different
curves.
In the descending branch the angle #=ENS continually
increases with the distance of the point S from C, until it
becomes a right angle, which is its limiting value. But x'
can only increase to a certain magnitude, which it would
attain when S is at an infinite distance, and consequently
this branch of the curve has an asymptote, which is per¬
pendicular to the horizon. To prove this, let the factor
K-i-F(0) be developed, and let us consider what it be¬
comes when & approaches its limit. We have F(0)=
s^n ^. + log. tan (45°+i0). Now when 6 approaches very
cos
nearly to a right angle, sin fczl, and ——(= 1 + tan 2d)
— tan 2 $ ; therefore = tan 2 0. With respect to the
cos 20
second term, when 0 is nearly =90°, then tan (45° 4-^)
becomes very large, and nearly equal to tan 0; but the
logarithm of a very large number may be neglected as
insensible in comparison of the square of the number, we
have therefore simply F(0)= tan 20. In like manner, K,
which is a finite quantity, may be neglected in comparison
of tan 2d; whence the first of equations (28)becomes dx'=
dO
—  p. The integral of this (Fluxions, art. 153) is x
c sin
rzC ^-5-, where C is an arbitrary constant. Hence x
tan 2d
does not increase indefinitely, but as d increases, it ap-
value of c, namely c=g-i-b2.
Although the motion commences at the point A, the
curve may be supposed to be continued infinitely below the
line AB. This branch of the curve has also an asymptote,
the position of which it is important to determine. If in
the equation (23)
—l—2c^ cos2A[F(A)—F(^)},
we suppose z to be negative and infinite, and assume B to
denote the value of 6 when z is infinite, we shall have
FW=23WA+F(A>’
(30)
whence from equation (22), F(B)=K. Substituting this
value of K in the two equations (25), and observing, that
for any point in this branch of the curve below AB, x and
y are both negative, we have
dx=
dd _ tan 6d6
ccos «0{F(B)—F(0)|’ ^ c cos 20{F(B)—F(0)}’
Now let P (fig. 4.) be a point in the curve, PM a tangent
at P, meeting AB in M, let AQ and PQ be the co-ordi¬
nates of P, and make AM=/. We have then /=AQ—MQ
=x Suppose now the point P at an infinite dis-
tan 6
tance, then 6 becomes B, the tangent MP becomes an
asymptote, and l—x— Hence dlzzdx—t~g 5 and
therefore, on substituting the above values of dx and dy,
we get
(tan B—tan f))dQ
c tan B cos 2d[F(B)—F(0)}
The integral of this expression from 6—A to 0=B will
give the distance of the asymptote from the point. Let the
definite integral be denoted by X, that is, let
Xr=
 r ,
c tan Bt/ A Cos24FB—F(4)}
*B (tan B— tan
(31)
then X may be computed by the method of quadratures. If
we then take on the prolongation of AB, AL equal to X,
and draw through L the line LG, making with AB an
angle r=B, then LG will be the asymptote of the branch
AC. The whole curve will then lie between the two
asymptotes, which are inclined to each other in an angle
—90°_B.
Such, then, is the process by w hich the form and magni¬
tude of the trajectory^ and the motion in it may be deter¬
mined. But it does not yet appear how this is to be appli*
PROJEC
Projectiles, ed to any question in practical artillery. By means of the
preceding formulae, we are enabled to compute the motion
from any point in the ascending branch to the vertex, where
the motion becomes horizontal, and the motion from the
vertex to a point in the descending branch, where the mo¬
tion has acquired another determinate direction ; the con¬
stants which enter into the formulae being c and K, of which
c (—ff+b2) depends on the terminal velocity, and therefore
on the nature of the projectile and the ratio of its density
to that of the air ; and K on the initial velocity, the terminal
velocity, and the angle of elevation. We have also shewn
that K denotes the ratio of the square of the terminal velo¬
city to the square of the velocity in the vertex; therefore
the terminal velocity and velocity in the vertex may be re¬
garded as the two constants of the formulae. The mode in
which the formulae are applied to the solution of the usual
question, namely, to find the motion of a ball projected in a
certain direction, with a certain velocity, is as follows : Sup¬
pose a trajectory, computed for a particular terminal velo¬
city b, and for a particular velocity at the vertex, and that
the velocity at that point of the ascending branch where the
inclination of the tangent is 30° is 900 feet per second.
Then, we are certain, that if a ball, whose terminal velocity
is b, be projected with the velocity of 900 feet per second,
and an elevation of 30°, it will describe this very trajectory,
and the velocity and time corresponding to every point will
be such as is here determined.
Now this trajectory will, in respect to form, answer an
infinity of cases: for its characteristic is the proportion
of the velocity in the vertex to the terminal velocity. If,
therefore, we compute the trajectories for a sufficient va¬
riety of these proportions, we shall find a trajectory that
will nearly correspond to any case that can be proposed : and
an approximation sufficiently exact will be had by taking a
proportional medium between the two trajectories which
come nearest to the case proposed.
Accordingly, a set of tables or trajectories have been com¬
puted by the English translator of Euler’s Commentary on
Robings Gunnery. They are in number 18, distinguished
by the position of the assymptote of the ascending branch.
This is given for 5°, 10°, 15°, &c. to 85°, and the whole
trajectory is computed as far as it can ever be supposed to
extend in practice.
Since the path of a projectile is much less incurvated, and
more rapid in the ascending than in the descending branch,
and the difference is so much the more remarkable in great
velocities, it must follow, that the range on a horizontal or
inclined plane depends most on the ascending branch : there¬
fore the greatest range will not be made with that elevation
which bisects the angle of position, but with a lower eleva¬
tion ; and the deviation from the bisecting elevation will be
greater as the initial velocities are greater. It is difficult
to frame a rule for determining with much precision, the
elevation which gives the greatest range.
When the angle of elevation is very small, and conse¬
quently the path of the projectile nearly horizontal, the
tiles.
Fig. 5.
formulae admit
of simplifications
which it is im¬
portant to con¬
sider. Suppose
KAB (fig. 5.) the
angle of eleva¬
tion to be small,
then 9, the angle „ , . , „
which the tangent at any other point of the trajectory ma
with AB, will be very small, and sin 9 and tan 0 will be very
small fractions. Suppose the angle so small that tan 9 may
be neglected as insensible ; then cos 9 may be regar ^  
unit, and the equation dx=dz cos Ogives dx-
x=z and equation (20) becomes
zdz. Hence
d 6
dx
cos * 0
2 h cos 2A
a2cx
653
Projectiles.
the integral of which, since d. eic*=2, c ^dx, is
^
tan 6— ■
p+ C
4 cA cos2 A
To determine the constant we suppose x=0, in which case
9zz\, and we have
tan A= —
1
4 c A cos2 A
whence the complete integral is
tan 61—tan A .
1
4 e A cos2A
(dcl— ij.
Multiplying both sides of this equation by d x, observing
that dy—d x tan 9, and integrating, we get
t/=tan A x
1
(y/cx~~x') + c-
4 c A cos2 A
But when x=0, y~0, and this equation becomes
0=  1 i p.
8 c2 A cos2 A ^ ’
therefore the complete integral is
*=x tan ^s^/waO2"-
which gives an approximate equation of the trajectory be¬
tween the co-ordinates x and y.
To determine the time corresponding to the horizontal
dQ
distance x, we have from equation (19) —^ dx=—gdt1,
-2cx—1), (33)
whence by reason of (32) dt2-.
sequently
1
2gh cos 2 A
fc2"dx2,andcon-
dt^
1
Xdx.
*/(2gh) cos A
Integrating this expression, and determining the constant
so that x=0 when t=0, we get
1 (34)
t=-
(fe^_l.)
ccos AV/(2^A)
The two equations (33) and (34) may be employed for
the purpose of determining the co-efficient c of the resis¬
tance on the terminal velocity which depends on it, from
experiments. Suppose the trajectory to be continued to
D, a small distance below the horizontal line AB. For
this point of the curve the approximation may still be re¬
garded as sufficiently accurate. Let DE be vertical, make
AE=a, ED=£, and the time in which the projectile passes
from A to D=r." Substituting these values of x, y, and t in
the equations (33) and (34), making cos A=l, because A
is by supposition a very small angle, and observing that
since D is below AB, y must be taken as negative, the two
equations give
8Ac2 (/3+atan A)zzelc!t—2ca—1,
Tc^i^gh)=ec,t—1. (35)
Now of the quantities involved in these equations, g and
tan A are known, and a, ft r, can be determined by direct
experiments, leaving only c and A to be computed from the
equations. On squaring the second, and substituting the
resulting value of A in the first, we obtain the equation
1 tan A)=e2c*—2ca 1, (36)
from which c may be computed, and thence A by means of
one of the equations (35).
654
Projectiles.
PROJECTILES.
Of the quantities which enter into the equations (35) and
which are to be found from experiment, that which can be
determined with the least certainty is t, the time of flight.
This, however, may be eliminated by varying the experi¬
ment. Suppose the projectile to be discharged at a diffe¬
rent height above the ground, for instance the top of a
tower, (the angle of elevation A, and the initial velocity re¬
maining the same,) and let a, /3, become respectively a', p',
we have then, from the first of equations (35),
-2ca'—1
&/ic2(p' + a' tan A)=e2c“'
8/*c20 + a tan A)=e2cet—2ca—1,
whence
(/S'fl-a' tan A)(e'c*—2ca—1)—(/3-{-a tan A)(c2c“ 2ca 1)
an equation from which the value of c may be computed
when a, (3, and also a' p' are determined from experiments.
The solution which we have now given of this celebrated
problem is exact in principle, and the application ot it by
no means difficult or even operose. But let us see what
advantage we are likely to derive from it.
In the first place, it is very limited in its application.
There are few circumstances of general coincidence, and
almost every case requires an appropriate calculus. Pei-
haps the only general rules are the two following :
1. Balls of equal density, projected with the same eleva¬
tion, and with velocities which are as the square roots of
their diameters, will describe similar curves. This is evi¬
dent, because, in this case, the resistance will be in the ra¬
tio of their quantities of motion. 1 heretore all the homo-
loo-ous lines of the motion will be in the proportion ol the
O
diameters.
2. If the initial velocities of balls projected with the same
elevation are in the inverse subduplicate ratio of the whole
resistances, the ranges, and all the homologous lines of their
track, will be inversely as those resistances.
These theorems are of considerable use ; for by means
of a proper series of experiments on one ball projected with
different elevations and velocities, tables may be construct¬
ed which give the motions of an infinity ot others.
But when we take a retrospective view of what we have
done, and consider the conditions which were assumed in
the solution of the problem, we shall find that much^yetie-
mains before it can be rendered of great practical use. The re¬
sistance is all along supposed to be in the duplicate ratio of
the velocity; but even theory points out many causes ot
deviation from this law, such as the pressure and condensa¬
tion of the air, in the case of very swift motions; and Mr.
Robins’s experiments are sufficient to show us that the de¬
viations must be exceedingly great in such cases. Euler
and all subsequent writers have allowed that it may be three
times greater, even in cases which frequently occur; and
Euler gives a rule for ascertaining with tolerable accuracy
what this increase and the whole resistance may amount to.
Let H be the height of a column of air whose weight is equi¬
valent to the resistance taken, in the duplicate ratio of the
velocity. The whole resistance will be expressed by H +
tt2
 This number 28845 is the height in feet of a column
28845
of air whose weight balances its elasticity. We shall not
at present call in question his reason for assigning this pre¬
cise addition. They are rather reasons of arithmetical con-
veniency than of physical import. It is enough to observe,
that if this measure of the resistance is introduced into the
process of investigation, it is totally changed ; and it is not
too much to say, that with this complication it requires the
knowledge and address of a Euler to make even a partial
and very limited approximation to a solution. Any law of
the resistance, therefore, which is more complicated than what
Bernoulli has assumed, namely, that of a simple power of the
velocity, must be abandoned on account of the intricacy of the Projectiles
calculations ; and mathematicians have attempted to avoid
the errorarising from the assumption of the duplicate ratio of
the velocity, either by supposing the resistance throughout
the whole trajectory to be greater than what it is in gene¬
ral, or they have divided the trajectory into different por¬
tions, and assigned different resistances to each, which
vary, through the whole of that portion, in the duplicate
ratio of the velocities. In this manner they make up a tra¬
jectory and motion which correspond, in some tolerable de¬
gree, not with an accurate theory, but with a series of ex¬
periments. For, in the first place, every theoretical com¬
putation that we make, proceeds on a supposed initial ve¬
locity ; and this cannot be ascertained with any thing ap¬
proaching to precision, by any theory of the action ot gun¬
powder that we are yet possessed of. In the next place,
our theories of the resisting power of the air are entirely
established on the experiments on the flights of shot and
shells, and are corrected and amended till they tally with
the most approved experiments we can find. We do not
learn the ranges of a gun by theory, but the theory by the
range of the gun. Now the variety and irregularity of all
the experiments which are appealed to are so great, and
the acknowledged difference between the resistance to slow
and swift motions is also so great, that there is hardly any
supposition which can be made concerning the resistance,
that will not agree in its results with many of those expe¬
riments. It appears from the experiments of Dr. Hutton
of Woolwich, in 1784, 1785, and 1786, that the shots fre¬
quently deviated to the right or left of their intended track
200, 300, and sometimes 400 yards. This deviation was
quite accidental and anomalous, and there can be no doubt
but that the shot deviated from its intended and supposed
elevation as much as it deviated from the intended vertical
plane, and this without any opportunity of measuring or
discovering the deviation. Now, when we have the whole
ranges from one to three to choose among for our measure
of resistance, it is evident that the confirmations which have
been drawn from the ranges of shot are but feeble argu¬
ments for the truth of any opinion. Mr. Robins finds hrs
measures fully confirmed by experiments made at Metz and
Minorca. Mr. Muller finds the same. Yet Mr. Robins’s
measures, both of the initial velocity and of the resistance,
are at least treble of Mr. Muller’s ; but by compensation
they give the same results. The Chevalier Borda has ad¬
duced the very same experiments in support of his theory,
in which he abides by the Newtonian measure of the re¬
sistance, which is about of Mr. Robins s, and about | of
Muller’s. From all this we may conclude, that we have
as yet a very uncertain and imperfect knowledge of the law
and the measure of the air’s resistance.
There is another essential defect in the conditions as¬
sumed in the solution. The density of the air is supposed
uniform ; whereas we are certain that it is less by one-fifth
or one-sixth towards the vertex of the curve, in many cases
which frequently occur, than it is at the beginning and end
of the flight. This is another latitude given to authors m
their assumptions of the air’s resistance. Borda has, with
considerable ingenuity, accommodated his investigation to
this circumstance, by dividing the trajectory into portions,
and, without much trouble, has made one equation answer
them all. We are disposed to think that his solution of
the problem (in the Memoirs of the Academy of Paris for
1769) corresponds better with the physical circumstances
of the case than any other. But this process is there de¬
livered in too concise a manner to be intelligible to a per¬
son not perfectly familiar with all the resources of modern
analysis. » , , - a ^
After all, the practical artillerist must rely chiefly on tne
records of experiments contained in the books of practice
at the academies, or those made in a more public manner.
P R O J E
Projectiles. Even a perfect theory of the air’s resistance can do him
little service, unless the force of gunpowder were uniform.
This is far from being the case even in the same powder.
A few hours of a damp day will make a greater difference
than occurs in any theory ; and, in service, it is only by trial
that everything is performed. If the first shell fall very
much short of the mark, a little more powder is added ; and
in cannonading, the correction is made by varying the ele¬
vation.
The experiments of Mr. Robins and Dr. Hutton show,
in the most incontrovertible manner, that the resistance to
a motion exceeding 1100 feet in a second, is almost three
times greater than in the duplicate ratio of the resistance
to moderate velocities. Euler’s translator, in his compari¬
son of the author s trajectories with experiment, supposes
it to be no greater. Yet the coincidence is very great. The
same may be said of Borda’s. Nay, the same may be said
of Mr. Robins’s own practical rules : for he assumes the
quantity which represents the height due to the terminal
velocity, almost double of what these authors do, and yet
his rules are confirmed by practice.
But it must not be inferred from all this, that the phy¬
sical theory is of no use to the practical artillerist. It plainly
shows him the impropriety of giving the projectile an en¬
ormous velocity. This velocity is of no effect after 200 or
300 yards at farthest, because it is so rapidly reduced by
the prodigious resistance of the air. Mr. Robins has de¬
duced several practical maxims of the greatest importance
from what we already know of this subject, and which could
hardly have been even conjectured without this knowledge.
See Gunnery.
It must also be acknowledged, that this branch of phy¬
sical science is highly interesting to the philosopher; nor
should he despair of carrying it to a greater perfection.
The defects arise almost entirely from our ignorance of the
law of variation of the air’s resistance. Experiments may
be contrived much more conducive to our information here
than those commonly resorted to. The oblique flights of
projectiles are, as we have seen, of very complicated inves¬
tigation, and ill fitted for instructing us ; but numerous and
well contrived experiments on the perpendicular ascents
are of great simplicity, being affected by nothing but the
air’s resistance.
We shall conclude this article, by giving two tables,
computed from the principles established above, and which
serve to bring into one point of view the chief circumstan¬
ces of the motion in a resisting medium. Although the re¬
sult of much calculation, as any person who considers the
subject will readily see, they must not be considered as of¬
fering any very accurate results ; or that, in comparison
with one or two experiments, the differences shall not be
considerable. Let any person peruse the published registers
of experiments which have been made with every attention,
and he will see such enormous irregularities, that all ex¬
pectations of perfect agreement with them must cease. In
the experiments at Woolwich in 1785, which were con¬
tinued for several days, not only do the experiments of one
day differ among themselves, but the mean of all the ex¬
periments of one day differs from the mean of all the expe¬
riments of another no less than one-fourth of the whole.
The experiments in which the greatest regularity may be
expected, are those made with great elevations. When the
elevation is small, the range is more affected by a change
of velocity, and still more by any deviation from the sup¬
posed or intented direction of the shot.
The first table shows the distance in yards to which a
ball projected with the velocity of 1600 feet in a second will
go, before its velocity is reduced one-tenth, and the distance
at which it drops 16 feet from the line of its direction. us
table is calculated by the resistance observed in Mr. Robins s
experiments. The first column is the weight of the ball in
c T I L E S.
655
pounds. The second column remains the same whatever be Projectiles.
ie initial velocity; but the third column depends on the ve-v
.ity- it is here given for the velocity which is very usual
in military service, and its use is to assist us in directing
the gun to the mark. If the mark at which a ball of 24
pounds is directed is 474 yards distant, the axis of the piece
must be pointed 16 feet higher than the mark. These de¬
flections from the line of direction are nearly as the squares
of the distances.
2
4
9
18
32
II.
92
121
159
200
272
III.
420
428
456
470
479
The next table contains the ranges in yards of a 24-
pound shot, projected at an elevation of 45°, with the dif¬
ferent velocities in feet per second, expressed in the first
column. The second column contains the distances to
which the ball would go in vacuo in a horizontal plane ; and
200
400
600
800
1000
1200
1400
1600
1800
2000
2200
2400
2600
2800
3000
II.
416
1664
3740
6649
10300
14961
20364
26597
33663
41559
50286
59846
70235
81456
93465
III.
349
1121
1812
2373
2845
3259
3640
3950
4235
4494
4720
4917
5106
5293
5455
IV.
106
338
606
866
1138
1378
1606
1814
1992
2168
2348
2460
2630
2760
2862
V.
360
1150
1859
2435
2919
3343
3734
4050
4345
4610
4842
5044
5238
5430
5596
the third contains the distances to which it will go through
the air. The fourth column is added, to shew the height
to which it rises in the air ; and the fifth shows the ranges
corrected for the diminution of the air’s density as the bul¬
let ascends, and may therefore be called the corrected range.
The initial velocities can never be pushed as far as they
have been calculated for in this table ; but we mean it for a
table of more extensive use than appears at first sight. Recol¬
lect, that while the proportion of the velocity at the ver¬
tex to the terminal velocity remains the same, the curves
will be similar ; therefore, if the initial velocities are as the
square roots of the diameters of the balls, they will describe
similar curves, and the ranges will be as the diameters of
the balls.
Let it be required, for example, to find the range of a 12-
pound shot, projected at an elevation of 45°, with the velocity
1500; suppose the diameter of the twelve-pounder to bed, and
that of the twenty-four-pounder D; and let the velocities
be v and V: Then say, ij d\ x/D=1500:a fourth pro¬
portional V. If the twenty-four-pounder be projected with
the velocity V, it will describe a curve similar to that de¬
scribed by the twelve-pounder, having the initial velocity
1500. Therefore find (by interpolation) the range of the
twenty-four-pounder, having the initial velocity V. Call
this R. Then D : d=R : r, the range of the twelve-pounder
which was wanted, and which, assuming the diameters of
656 PRO
Projection, the balls to be 4‘45 and 5-6l inches, respectively, will be
found 3312.
This table* shews the immense difference between the
motions through the air and in a void. It shews also that
the ranges through the air, instead of increasing in the du¬
plicate ratio of the initial velocities, really increase slower
than those velocities in all cases of military service ; and
in the most usual cases, viz. from 800 to 1600, they increase
nearly as the square roots of tbe velocities.
A set of similar tables, made for different elevations,
would almost complete what can be done by theory, and
would be much more expeditious in their use than Mr.
Euler’s Trajectories, computed with great labour by his
English translator.
The same table may also serve for computing the ranges
of bomb-shells. We have only to find what must be the
initial velocity of the twenty-four-pound shot which corres¬
ponds to the proposed velocity of the shell. This must be
■ m\
PRO
deduced from the diameter and weight of the shell, by mak- Projection,
ing the velocity of the twenty-four pounder such, that the
ratio'of its weight to the resistance may be the same as in
the shell.
Dr. Hutton, in his Mathematical Tracts (vol. hi. p. 276),
has given a similar table, deduced partly from theory and
partly from experiment, but the numbers in the three last
columns differ greatly from the above, particularly for the
higher velocities. Thus, for the velocity of 1600 feet, Dr.
Hutton’s corrected range is 2264 yards, and the height to
which the ball rises 650 yards, instead of 4050 and 1814,
as in our table.
For further information on this subject, see Gunnery ;
Robins’s Mathematical Tracts ; Brown’s True Principles of
Gunnery ; Hutton’s Mathematical Tracts ; and for an ex¬
ample of the computation of a trajectory by the method of
quadratures, Legendre’s Exercises de Calcul. tome i. p. 330.
PROJECTION. Projection of the Sphere in Atfrorcowy
and Geography signifies in general a perspective represen¬
tation of the surface of the sphere on a plane ; and it is of
various kinds according to the different positions of the eye
and the plane of projection.
As the principles of the different projections commonly
employed in the construction of maps and charts, and the
method of applying them, have already been explained in
the article Geography, (chap, iv.,) we shall merely give a
general view of the subject in this place, referring the rea¬
der to the article just cited, for the detailsand demonstrations.
The simplest of all the projections is the Orthographic.
Considered as a perspective delineation of the surface of
the sphere, this supposes the eye to be placed at an infinite
distance, so that all the rays coming from the different parts
of the surface are parallel; and the plane of projection, or
plane upon which the representation is made, is assumed
to be perpendicular to the direction of the visual rays,
and to pass through the centre of the sphere. The ortho¬
graphic projection of any point is therefore the intersection
of a perpendicular from that point with the plane of pro¬
jection. When the object is to represent only a small por¬
tion of the surface of the sphere, situated near the pole of
projection, or point in which the straight line from the eye
to the centre of the sphere intersects the surface, this pro¬
jection answers every purpose ; but it is not so well adapt¬
ed to the delineation of a whole hemisphere, or even a con¬
siderable portion of it; for the distances from the pole being
represented by the sines of the arcs by which they are
measured on the sphere, and as the sines of large arcs in¬
crease in a much smaller ratio than the arcs themselves,
the map is necessarily crowded and distorted towards the
extremities, and gives a very imperfect representation of
the objects delineated.
The principal properties of the orthographic projection
are, 1st, That all the great circles of the sphere, the planes
of which pass through the eye, are represented by straight
lines : 2d, That all circles, (they can only be small cir¬
cles) the planes of which are perpendicular to the line of
sight, are represented by circles: 3d. That all other cir¬
cles, whether large or small, being seen obliquely, are re¬
presented by ellipses. This method of projection was known
to the ancient astronomers, and employed by them in the
construction of the Analemma, a sort of instrument for the
graphical solution of various problems of the sphere, on
which Ptolemy wrote a treatise, which has been preserved
through the medium of an Arabic version, and of which a
Latin translation was published by Commandine at Rome
in 1562. The orthographic projection is conveniently used
for various astronomical purposes, such as the geometrical
delineation of eclipses, transits, and occnltations; and it has
numerous applications in the arts, the plans and sections
by which artificers execute their constructions, being merely
orthographical projections of the things to be constructed.
In "the Stereographic projection the eye is supposed to be
situated at the surface of the sphere, and the plane of pro¬
jection is the plane of the great circle, at the pole of which
the eye is placed. The hemisphere which is projected, is
that which is opposite to the eye, and consequently the
sphere must be supposed transparent, in order that the dif¬
ferent points of its surface may be visible. According to
the testimony of two ancient authors, Synesius and Pro-
clus, this projection was invented by Hipparchus. It was
called the Planisphere, on which also there is a treatise by
Ptolemy, preserved through the Arabic. The term Stereo-
graphia (derived from o-repeos, solid, because it results from
the intersection of two solids, the sphere and the cone) was,
according to Delambre, first applied to it by the Jesuit
Aguilon in a Treatise on Optics, published at Antwerp in
1613. The astrolabe, an instrument formerly much in use
for the graphical solution of astronomical problems connect¬
ed with the diurnal motion, was constituted on this projec¬
tion.
The two principal properties of the stereographic pro¬
jection are, 1st, That all circles on the sphere which do not
pass through the eye, whether great or small, are projected
into circles; and, 2d, That the circles of projection inter¬
sect each other under the same angles as their correspond¬
ing circles on the sphere. The first of these properties is
of great importance, by reason of the facility which it af¬
fords for the construction of maps. It is demonstrated in
the planisphere of Ptolemy for all the particular cases that
occur in the projections there described ; and although the
general proposition is not formally mentioned, it can scarce¬
ly be supposed to have been unknown to him, as his de¬
monstrations are easily rendered applicable to every case.
It is, indeed, an almost obvious consequence of a property
demonstrated by Apollonius relative to the subcontrary sec¬
tions of the oblique cone. The demonstration of Ptolemy
for the particular cases is, however, entirely independent of
the theorem of Apollonius. Delambre {Astronomic An-
cienne, tom. ii. p. 456) states, that the oldest work in which
he has met with the enunciation of the general property is
the Planisphere of Jordanus, published with some other
astronomical tracts, at Toulouse in 1544. It may be re¬
marked, that Jordanus, instead of projecting the hemisphere
on the plane of the equator, chooses for the plane of pro¬
jection,. the plane touching the sphere at the north pole.
The property of the equality of angles, which is also very
curious and important, appears to be of modern discovery,
PRO
Projection.
but the author of it is not certainly known. Delambre (^4$-
tronomie, tom. iii.p. 674) says, he has searched for it in vain
in the large treatise of Clavius, in that of Stoflerinus, and
in Bion ; and (Histoire de VAstronomie au Dix-Huitieme
Siecle, p. 88,) that the oldest demonstration of it known to
him is in Leadbetter’s Astronomy, London, 1728. It had,
however, been previously demonstrated by Dr. Halley in
1696, in No. 219 of the Philosophical Transactions, in
which he attributes the first discovery of the proposition to
Demoivre or Hook.
As the surface of a sphere is equal to four times the area
of one of its great circles, it follows that in the stereogra¬
phic projection on the plane of a great circle, the surface of
the hemisphere is reduced to one-half of its original dimen¬
sions. This would be no defect, if the reduction were uni¬
form ; which, however, is far from being the case ; for at
the centre, the linear dimensions are reduced to one-half,
and consequently the superficial to one-fourth ; and the re¬
duction becomes less and less towards the extremities of
the map. Any portion of the upper hemisphere projected
in this way would be enlarged. Hence there is little re¬
semblance between a given portion of the spherical surface
and its representation, which is the great defect of the pro¬
jection. In maps of the stars, for which it is most fre¬
quently employed, there is also an inconveniency in the dif¬
ficulty of finding the places of particular stars, for three or
more objects, which in the apparent heavens are situated
in the same straight line, are placed in the map on the cir¬
cumference of a circle which is not represented. Never¬
theless, the projection answers conveniently enough all the
purposes, for which a map is required by the astronomer.
In the Gnomonic or Central projection, the eye is suppos¬
ed to be placed at the centre of the sphere, and the. plane
of projection is a plane touching the sphere at any point
assumed at pleasure. The point of contact is called the
•principalpoint; the projection of all other points are at the
extremities of the tangents of the arcs intercepted between
them and the principal point, and the tangents make with
each other angles equal to those in which their arcs inter¬
sect at the pole. This projection is also described by Pto¬
lemy in the Analemma, (Delambre, Astr. Ancienne, tom.
ii. p. 486); but as the Greeks had no idea of the trigono¬
metrical tangents, the polar distances are in that work ex¬
pressed by the ratios of the sines to the cosines of the arcs.
As the tangents of arcs exceeding 45° increase very ra¬
pidly, and become infinite for arcs of 90°, the projection
cannot be employed for a whole hemisphere. The celes¬
tial maps published by the Society for the Diffusion of Use¬
ful Knowledge, are projected in this manner, and the sur¬
face embraced is one-sixth of the whole sphere, or the sphere
is projected on the six sides of its circumscribing cube. For
a map of the stars this projection possesses some advantage
over the stereographic. All stars which appear in the same
straight line in the heavens, are projected in the same straight
line, so that their places can be readily found on the map;
and from the position of the eye at the centre of the sphere,
the appearance of the heavens is better preserved. I he map
is necessarily distorted in some degree near the extremities
and corners, but not to so great an extent as to render it a
bad representation. Besides, the distortion is equal for lines
equally distant from the centre, and there is no angular dis¬
tortion with respect to lines which pass through the centre
of the map. This projection is particularly applicable to
the construction of sun-dials and gnomons, whence its
name.
The three kinds of projection now described, are chiefly
employed in the construction of celestial maps; but for the
purpose of representing portions of the earth’s surface, the
Globular projection is frequently had recourse to. I his
may be considered as a modification of the stereographic, or
in a manner intermediate between the stereographic and
vol. xvm.
PRO
orthographic. In the orthographic, the proportion of the Projection,
parts of the projection to the parts on the sphere which —"V-w
tney represent, decreases from the centre to the circum¬
ference of the projection; in the stereographic the projec¬
tion increases ; and as in the first case the eye is supposed
at an infinite distance, and in the second, on the surface of
the sphere, there must be some position at a finite distance
from the surface, in which if the eye is placed, the propor¬
tion between the parts of the surface of the sphere and their
representations, will be the same or nearly so, whether those
parts be taken at the centre or circumference of the map.
It is easy to shew that the height above the sphere at which
this takes place is equal to the sine of 45 degrees, and there¬
fore very nearly 71-hundredths of the radius. This pro¬
jection was first proposed by La Hire, in the Memoirs of
the Academy of Sciences of Paris for 1701. It is employ¬
ed in many cases, on account of the small change of con¬
figuration ; but by the removal of the eye from the sur¬
face the characteristic advantages of the stereographic pro¬
jection are lost.
Projections of the circles of the sphere on a plane, are
easily found by the methods of the descriptive Geometry,
by spherical Trigonometry, or common Algebra. What¬
ever be the situation of the eye, every circle on the sphere,
unless its plane pass through the eye, forms the base of a
cone, of which the eye is the apex ; and the intersection of
this cone with the plane of projection, gives the curve into
which the circle is projected. Hence the curve is neces¬
sarily a conic section and its equation cannot exceed the
second degree. On forming the general equation of the
curve, and assigning a determinate position to the eye and
the plane of projection, all the properties of the different
kinds of projection, which are merely particular cases of
the same general problem, are readily deduced.
Although it is convenient to employ the principles of per¬
spective in representing the lines and circles of the sphere
on a plane surface, there is nothing in the nature of the
thing itself, (unless the map is to be regarded as a picture)
which renders such a mode of proceeding necessary. The
meridians and parallels may be represented on the map by
any lines whatever, and the map wrill still be accurate, if
the different points are laid down so as to have respectively
the same relative positions with respect to those lines as
the points represented have to the corresponding circles of
latitude and longitude ; for in thjs case, any point on the
map can be referred to its proper place on the sphere, which
is the essential condition of a correct map. In order, how¬
ever, to render the problem determinate, the lines chosen
to represent the meridians and parallels of the sphere must
be such as satisfy certain conditions capable of being ex¬
pressed by an algebraic equation. But these conditions may
have no reference to perspective. Mercator’s Chart is an
example. In this chart the condition which determines
the relative situations of the meridians and parallels is, that
the rhumbs shall be straight lines, and make with each other
the same angles as on the sphere. This condition deter¬
mines the well known property of the chart, namely, that
the degrees of longitude are all equal, while the degrees of
latitude vary in the inverse ratio of the sines of their polar
distances.
The theory of the construction of maps on this general
principle, was first considered by Lambert, who, in the third
volume of his Beitrdge zum Gebrauche der Mathematik,
&c., published at Berlin in 1772, undertook the solution of
the problem to determine the nature and situation of the
lines on the map representing the meridians and parallels,
where the condition to be fulfilled is, that the angles formed
by lines on the map shall be equal to the corresponding
angles on the sphere. This condition is important; for it
follows from the equality of the angles that any indefinitely
small portion of the surface of the sphere, and its projec-
658
PRO
PRO
Projection tion on the map, are similar figures ; and consequently that
II the representations of such parts differ from the original
Prolation. only in respect Gf magnitude. The same problem was con-
'   Videred by Euler in the Petersburg Commentaries fox 1777,
but neither of these illustrious geometers prosecuted the
subject farther than to shew that the known properties of
the^tereographic projection, and Mercator’s Chart, are com¬
prehended in their general solution.
In the volume of the Berlin Memoirs for 1779, there are
two memoirs by Lagrange on the same subject. In the
first he gave a solution of the problem of Lambert, of which
he shewed the stereographic projection to be only a parti¬
cular case; and in the second, he undertook the more dif¬
ficult task of determining the form which the arbitrary func¬
tions that enter into the general solution must have in order
that the lines representing the meridians and parallels may
be of a given nature.
The general problem of projection has been more re¬
cently considered by the celebrated Professor Gauss of Got¬
tingen, in a memoir written in answer to a prize question
proposed by the Academy of Sciences of Copenhagen. In
this memoir the author, instead of confining himself to the
particular case of the representation of a spherical surface
on a plane, undertook the solution of the general problem ;
namely, to represent the parts of any given surface on any
other given surface* subject to the condition that the dif-
ferential elements of the first surface shall be similar to
their representations on the second. Having determined
the differential expressions of the co-ordinates of any point
on the map, in terms of the co-ordinates of the correspond¬
ing point of the primitive surface, he applies the general
solution to the particular cases of a plane surface projected
on another plane, the surface of a cone on a plane, of a
sphere and spheroid on a plane, and lastly, of an ellipsoid
of revolution on the surface of a sphere. Gauss’s memoir
is published in No. 3 of Schumacher s A-bhandlungen, and a
translation of it in the Philosophical Magazine for August
and September 1828. Considered in this general view, the
theory of projection becomes an interesting and very diffi¬
cult mathematical speculation; but it is one of which, it must
be confessed, the results are of no great practical use.
PROJECTION, in Perspective, denotes the appearance
or representation of an object on the perspective plane.. I he
projection of a point is a point through which an optic lay
passes from the objective point through the plane to the
eye; or it is the point in which the plane cuts the optic ray ;
and hence may be easily conceived what is meant by the
projection of a line, a plane, or a solid.
Projection, in Alchemy, the casting of a certain ima¬
ginary powder, called powder of projection, into a crucible
or other vessel full of some prepared metal or other matter,
which is to be hereby presently transmuted into gold.
Powder of Projection, or of the philosopher’s stone, is
a powder supposed to have the virtue of changing any quan¬
tity of an imperfect metal, as copper or lead, into a more
perfect one, as silver or gold, by the admixture of a little
quantity of the powder. The mark to which alchemists di¬
rected all their endeavours, was to discover this powder of
projection.
PRO JECTURE, in Architecture, the outjetting and pro¬
minence, or embossing, which the mouldings and other
members have beyond the naked wall, column, or other
part of the building.
PROLAPSUS, in Surgery, a prolapsion or falling out
of any part of the body from its natural situation. Thus we
say, prolapsus intestini, a prolapsion of the intestine, &c.
PROLATE, in Geometry, an epithet applied to a sphe¬
roid produced by the revolution of a semi-ellipsis about its
larger diameter.
PROLATION, a musical term signifying a series of
notes, ascending or descending, which are to be sung to
Prolego
mena
one syllable. Anciently the word had a different musical
meaning. Thus Morley, in his Introduction, page 14, tells
us that prolation is the measuring of semibreves by mi-
nims, and is either greater or less. The greater prolation t^us.
is when the semibreve contains three minims. The sign
of this is © or G • The less prolation is when the semi¬
breve contains only two minims. The sign of this is © or
C • The old musicians called the ternary measure perfect,
and the binary measure imperfect.
PROLEGOMENA, in Philology, certain preparatory
observations prefixed to a book or treatise, and containing
something necessary for the reader to be apprised of, to
enable him the better to understand the book, or to enter
deeper into the science.
PROLEPSIS, a figure in Rhetoric, by which we antici¬
pate or prevent what might be objected by the adversary.
PROLEPTIC, an epithet applied to a periodical disease
which anticipates, or whose paroxysm returns sooner and
sooner every time ; as is frequently the case in agues.
PROLOGUE, in dramatic poetry, a discourse address¬
ed to the audience before the drama or play begins. The
original intention was to advertise the audience of the sub¬
ject of the piece, and to prepare them to enter more easily
into the action, and sometimes also to make an apology for
the poet.
PROME, a city of the Birman empire, in the province,
of Ava, situated on the eastern bank of the Irrawaddy Ri¬
ver, in a fertile plain between the hills and the river. It
was the original and natural boundary of the Birman empire
to the south, before conquest had extended its dominion
beyond it. It was formerly surrounded by two walls, con¬
structed partly of brick and partly of timber. It is com¬
posed of the mijo or fort, being a common square stockade,
resembling that of Rangoon, but much larger , and of tv o
suburbs, the one lying to the east and the other to the wTest
of it, along the banks of the river. The first contains two
streets running parallel to each other and to the river. The
houses are few and scattered; and the principal space is oc¬
cupied by gardens, or rather by patches of ground planted
with fruit or ornamental trees, or coarse esculent vege¬
tables, such as gourds, pumpkins, and cucumbers, the whole
overgrown with rank iveeds, and without order oi neatness.
Prome is, according to Mr Crawford, a thriving place; and
he estimates its population at 10,000. It carries on a very
considerable trade in grain, oil, wrax, ivory, iron, lead, ^a5"
stones, and timber. The ruins ot the former city, which
extend far beyond the modern town, contain the remains
of a number of temples dedicated to Buddha. Adjacent to
the town is a royal menagerie of elephants, consisting of
two rows of lofty and well-built stables, in which these ani¬
mals are lodged during the rains. Long. 95. E. Lat. 18.
50. N.
PROMETHEUS, the son of Japetus and Asia or Liy-
mene, was the brother of Atlas, Epimetheus, and Mencetius.
He was a prince of Mecone (the ancient name of Sicyon
in the Peloponnesus), if we may trust the legend told by
Hesiod. It is said that the inhabitants were debating with
the gods which part of the animal ought to be offered to
them in sacrifice, and that Prometheus recommended that
the flesh and best parts should be covered with the caul,
whilst the bones were enveloped in fat. Jupiter was then
requested to make choice of the part he preferred; and,
being deceived by the trick of Prometheus, he selected the
bones, which were ever afterwards offered upon his altar.
Indignant at this proceeding, he deprived men of the use of
fire; but Prometheus is said to have again outwitted him,
and drawn down fire from heaven, which he presented to
man. This is explained by supposing that Prometheus was
the first who discovered that fire could be extracted from
two pieces of wood rubbed together. By another tradition,
we find him making a man of clay, into which he conveys
PRO-
Prome- tire fire he had stolen from heaven, and for this daring in-
theus vasion of his privileges, Jupiter orders Vulcan to chain
' Pronuncia- Prome^leus on Mount Caucasus, where he was visited daily
I tion. by an eagle, which fed on his liver. Here he is said to
have remained thirty thousand years, until Hercules acci¬
dentally visited him whilst in search of the Gardens of the
Hesperides. He pointed out the way to him, and from gra¬
titude Hercules slew the eagle and released Prometheus.
Another tradition represents him as having been released
by Jupiter, in return for warning him against marrying
Thetis, as it was fated that her son should be more illus¬
trious than his father. He was the father of Deucalion by
Clymene or Pandora.
Prometheus, in Ancient Astronomy, was the name of a
constellation of the northern hemisphere, now called Her¬
cules Eugonasin.
PROMISE, in ordinary cases, is a declaration of some
intention to be put in execution; but in morals it is a so¬
lemn asseveration by which one pledges his veracity that
he will perform, or cause to be performed, the thing which
he undertakes. As such a declaration excites expectations
in the minds of those to whom it is made, and to frustrate
such expectations might arouse indignation, and be follow¬
ed by consequences injurious to the person, the character,
or the interest of him who made it, it becomes a matter of
prudence in the promiser to keep his word. And, farther,
since a certain degree of confidence is found necessary to
the very existence of civil society, and others may have
acted upon the faith of such promise, it is now not a mat¬
ter of prudence only to keep one’s word, but is a duty which
every man owes to all who have spent their time, their mo¬
ney, or their labour, in consequence of those expectations
which he has warranted them to entertain. It being, then,
consonant to sound reason, necessary to the existence of
civil society, and in general the interest of both the pro¬
miser and promisee, that the w-ords of the promise should
be fulfilled, it has become a maxim in morals, that a man is
obliged to perform his promise. See Moral Philosophy.
PROMONTORY, in Geography, a high point of land
or rock projecting into the sea, and the extremity of which
is called a cape or headland. See Geography.
PROMPTER, in the drama, an officer posted behind
the scenes, whose business it is to watch attentively the
actors speaking on the stage, in order to suggest and put
them forward when at a stand, and correct them when at
fault in their parts.
PROMULGATED, or Promulged, something publish¬
ed or proclaimed, and generally applied to a lawr, to denote
the publishing or proclaiming it to the people.
PRONAOS, in ancient architecture, a porch to a church,
palace, or other spacious building.
PRONOUN, Pronomen, in Grammar, a declinable
part of speech, which, being put instead of a noun, points
out some person or thing.
PRONUNCIATION, in Grammar, tire manner of ar¬
ticulating or sounding the words of a language.
Pronunciation forms the most difficult part of written
grammar, in as much as a book expressing itself to the eyes,
in a manner that wholly concerns the ears, seems next
akin to that of teaching the blind to distinguish colours.
Hence it is that there is no part so defective in grammar as
that of pronunciation; for as the writer has frequently no
term whereby to give the reader an idea of the sound he
would express, so, for want of such a term, he often substi¬
tutes a vicious and precarious one. To give a just idea
of the pronunciation of a language, it seems necessary to
fix, as nearly as possible, all the several sounds employed in
the pronunciation of that language. Cicero tells us, that
the pronunciation underwent several changes amongst the
Romans ; and indeed it is more precarious in the living lan¬
guages, being in these subservient to fashion and usage.
PRO
659
Property.
Pronunciation is also used to indicate the fifth and last Pronuncia-
part of rhetoric, which consists in varying and regulating tion
the voice agreeably to the matter and words, so as most
effectually to persuade and touch the hearers.
PROOF, in Law and Logic, is that degree of evidence
which carries conviction to the mind. It differs from de¬
monstration, which is applicable only to those truths of
which the contrary is inconceivable. It differs likewise from
probability, which produces for the most part nothing more
than opinion, whilst proof produces belief.
PROPERTIUS, Sextus Aurelius, a celebrated elegiac
poet, who flourished between 31-15 b. c. The exact date
of his birth is uncertain ; but Mr Clinton brings forward
satisfactory reasons for believing that it was about the year
51b. c., being thus fourteen years younger than Horace,
and eight younger than Livy. The place of his birth has also
been disputed; but he himself states that he was a native of
Umbria, though whether of Merania, Ameria, Hispellum, or
Assisium, is uncertain. He studied at Rome with the in¬
tention of devoting himself to the bar ; but his love of poe¬
try seduced him from the dry study of law, and he entirely
withdrew from taking any share in the active business of
life. He died at an early age, leaving behind him a col¬
lection of elegies divided into four books, of which the last
is supposed to have been published by one of his friends
after his death. Nobbe, a German critic, who has exa¬
mined the subject with considerable care, thinks that the
first book was published not before 29 b. c., and not after
27 b. c.; the second book not before 2J b. c.; the third not
before 21 b. c. ; the fourth not before 16 b. c.
Many of his elegies are addressed to his mistress Cyn¬
thia, to whom he remains constant, though he suffers much
from her cruelty. The language is powerful, and the struc¬
ture of the verse correct, though not without some pecu¬
liarities ; as, for example, the close of the pentameter line
with a word of several syllables. In comparing the elegies
of Propertius with those of Tibullus, we perceive that there
is less of tenderness and softness, less of that simplicity for
which Tibullus is so eminently distinguished ; but, on the
other hand, there is more spirit, a greater reach of thought,
and more power of expression. He possesses much of the
spirit of the lyric poet, and had talents which fitted him for
tilings of greater moment than those upon which he be¬
stowed them. Propertius was a close imitator of the Greek
writers; Callimachus and Philetas were the poets whom he
more particularly followed, so that he was sometimes, called
the Roman Callimachus. Like Callimachus, he is fond of
displaying his learning, and has frequent allusion to mytho¬
logical subjects; but this at times is the cause of some
obscurity, and detracts from that simplicity which is the
soul of true elegaic poetry. The best separate edition is
that of Lachmann, with notes, Leipzig, 1816, but they are
generally published along with Catullus and Tibullus.
PROPERTY, in a general sense, is a particular virtue
or quality which nature has bestowed upon some things ex¬
clusive of all others. Thus, colour is a property of light; ex¬
tension, figure, divisibility, and impenetrability, are proper¬
ties of body.
Property, in Law, is described to be the highest right Definition,
which a person has or can have to any thing.
There is nothing which so generally strikes the imagi-The origi¬
nation and engages the affections of mankind, as the right nalfbunda-
of property; or that sole and despotic dominion which one t!°“ °f the
man claims and exercises over certain external things oU'S 1 °
the world, in total exclusion of the right of any other indi-p p ,y‘
vidual in the universe. And yet there are very few that
will give themselves the trouble to consider the origin
and foundation of this right. Pleased as we are with the
possession, we seem afraid to look back to the means by
which it was acquired, as if suspicious of some defect in our
title; or at best we rest satisfied with the decision of the
660
PROPERTY.
Property, laws in our favour, without examining the reason or autho-
v ^ rity upon which those laws have been built. W e think it
enough that our title is derived from the grant of the for¬
mer proprietor, by descent from our ancestors, or by the last
will and testament of the dying owner, not caring to re¬
flect, that, strictly and accurately speaking, there is no
foundation in nature or in natural law why a set of words
upon parchment should convey the dominion of land ; why
the son should have a right to exclude his fellow-creatures
from a determinate spot of ground, because his father had
done so before him ; or why the occupier of a particular
field or of a jewel, when lying upon his death-bed, and no
longer able to maintain possession, should be entitled to
tell the rest of the world which of them should enjoy it af¬
ter him. These inquiries, it must be owned, would be use-
But when mankind increased in number, craft, and ambi- Property.
tion, it became necessary to entertain conceptions of more
permanent dominion, and to appropriate to individuals, notJtlse of
the immediate use only, but the very substance of the thing
to be used ; otherwise innumerable tumults must have arisen, jn various
and the good order of the world been continually broken things,
and disturbed, whilst a variety of persons were striving who
should get the first occupation of the same thing, or dis¬
puting which of them had actually gained it. As human
life also grew more and more refined, abundance of conve-
niencies were devised to render it more easy, commodious,
and agreeable; such as habitations for shelter and safety, and
raiment for warmth and decency. But no man would be
at the trouble to provide either, as long as he had only an
usufructuary property in them, which was to cease the in¬
less, and even troublesome, in common life. It is well if stant that he quitted possession; if, as soon as he walked out
the mass of mankind obey the laws when made, without
scrutinizing too nicely into the reasons of making them.
But when law is to be considered not only as a matter of
practice, but also as a rational science, it cannot be impro¬
per or useless to examine more deeply the rudiments and
grounds of these positive constitutions of society.
Th's right In the beginning of the world, we are informed by Holy
arises from Writ, that the all-bountiful Creator gave to man dominion
r. divine over aq tjie earth ; “ over the fish of the sea, and over the
fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth
upon the earth.” This is the only true and solid founda¬
tion of man’s dominion over external things, whatever airy
grant.
of his tent, or pulled off his garment, the next stranger who
came by would have a right to inhabit the one and to wear
the other. In the case of habitations in particular, it was
natural to observe, that even the brute creation, to whom
everything else was in common, maintained a permanent
property in their dwellings, especially for the protection of
their young; that the birds of the air had nests, and the
beasts of the field had caverns, the invasion of which they
esteemed a very flagrant injustice, and would sacrifice their
lives to preserve them. Hence a property was soon esta¬
blished in every man’s house and home-stall; which seem
to have been originally mere temporary huts or moveable
metaphysical notions may have been started by fanciful cabins, suited to the design of Providence for more speedily
writers upon this subject. The earth, therefore, and all peopling the earth, and suited to the wandering life of their
things therein, are the general property of all mankind, ex- owners, before any extensive property in the soil or ground
rOnsivn nf other beintrs. from the immediate fidft of the Crea- wras established. And there can be no doubt, but that
moveables of every kind became sooner appropriated than
the permanent substantial soil; partly because they were
more susceptible of a long occupancy, which might be con¬
clusive of other beings, from the immediate gift
tor. And, whilst the earth continued thinly inhabited, it is
reasonable to suppose that all was in common amongst them,
and that every one took from the public stock to his own
use such things as his immediate necessities required.
These general notions of property were then sufficient to
tinued for months together without any sensible interrup¬
tion, and at length by usage ripen into an established right;
The state     __  j    _ ^ v ^
of property answer all the purposes of human life, and might perhaps but principally because few of them could be fit for use, till
a * ea^ofrihe st^ ^lave answeretl them, had it been possible for mankind improved and meliorated by the bodily labour of the occu-
worlch 116 to have remained in a state of primeval simplicity ; as may pant, which, bestowed upon any subject that before lay in
be collected from the manners of many American nations, common to all men, is universally allowed to give the fairest
when first discovered by the Europeans, and from the an- and most reasonable title to an exclusive property therein,
cient method of living amongst the first Europeans them- The article of food was a more immediate call, and there-Nature of
selves, if we may credit either the memorials of them pre- fore a more early consideration. Such as were not content-patriarcha
served in the golden age of the poets, or the uniform ac- ed with the spontaneous product of the earth sought for aP1-0!’61'^'
counts given by historians of those times wherein erantom- more solid refreshment in the flesh of beasts, which they
obtained by hunting. But the frequent disappointments
incident to that method of provision induced them to ga¬
ther together such animals as were of a more tame and se¬
quacious nature, and to establish a permanent property in
their flocks and herds, in order to sustain themselves in a
nia communia et indivisa omnibus, veluti unum cunctis pa-
trimonium esset. Not that this communion of goods seems
ever to have been applicable, even in the earliest ages, to
aught but the substance of the thing; nor could it be ex¬
tended to the use of it. For, by the law of nature and rea¬
son, he who first began to use it acquired therein a kind of less precarious manner, partly by thejmilk of their dams,
transient property, that lasted as dong as he was using it,
and no longer ; or, to speak with greater precision, the
right of possession continued for the same time only that
the act of possession lasted. Thus the ground was in com¬
mon, and no part of it was the permanent property of any
and partly by the flesh of the young. The support of these
their cattle made the article of wrater also a very important
point. And therefore the book of Genesis, the most vene¬
rable monument of antiquity, considered merely with a view
to history, will furnish us with frequent instances of violent
man in particular; yet whoever wras in the occupation of contentions concerning wells; the exclusive property of
any determinate spot of it, for rest, for shade, or the like, which appears to have been established in the first digger
acquired for the time a sort of ownership, from which it or occupant, even in places where the ground and the
would have been unjust, and contrary to the law of nature, herbage remained yet in common. Thus we find Abra-
to drive him by force ; but the instant that he quitted the ham, who was but a sojourner, asserting his right to a well
use or occupation of it, another might seize it without in- in the country of Abimelech, and even exacting an oath for
justice. Thus also a vine or other tree might be said to
be in common, as all were equally entitled to its produce;
and yet any private individual might gain the sole pro¬
perty of the fruit which he had gathered for his own re¬
past : a doctrine well illustrated by Cicero, who compares
the world to a great theatre, which is common to the pub¬
lic, and yet the place which any man has taken is for the
time his own.
his security, “ because he had digged that well.” And Isaac,
about ninety years afterwards, reclaimed this his father’s
property, and, after much contention with the Philistines,
was suffered to enjoy it in peace.
All this while the soil and pasture of the earth remained
still in common as before, and open to every occupant; ex¬
cept perhaps in the neighbourhood of towns, where the
necessity of a sole and exclusive property in lands, for the
PROP
Property, sake of agriculture, was earlier felt, and therefore more
; readily complied with. Otherwise, when the multitude of
men and cattle had consumed every convenience upon one
spot of ground, it was deemed a natural right to seize upon
and occupy such other lands as would more easily supply
their necessities. This practice is still retained amongst the
wild and uncultivated nations that have never been formed
into civil states, like the Tartars and others in the East;
where the climate itself, and the boundless extent of their
territory, conspire to retain them still in the same savage
state of vagrant liberty, which was universal in the earliest
ages, and which Tacitus informs us continued amongst the
Germans till the decline of the Roman empire. We have
also a striking example of the same kind in the history of
Abraham and his nephew Lot. When their joint substance
became so great, that pasture and other conveniencies grew
scarce, the natural consequence was, that a strife arose be¬
tween their servants ; so that it was no longer practicable
to dwell together. This contention Abraham endeavoured
to compose : “ Let there be no strife, I pray thee, between
thee and me. Is not the whole land before thee ? Sepa¬
rate thyself, I pray thee, from me : if thou wilt take the
left hand, then I will go to the right; or if thou depart to
the right hand, then I will go to the left.” This plainly
implies an acknowledged right, in either, to occupy what¬
ever ground he pleased, that was not pre-occupied by other
tribes. “ And Lot lifted up his eyes, and beheld all the
plain of Jordan, that it was well watered everywhere, even
as the garden of the Lord. Then Lot chose him all the
plain of Jordan, and journeyed east; and Abraham dwelt
in the land of Canaan.”
Upon the same principle was founded the right of mi¬
gration, or sending colonies to find out new habitations,
when the mother-country was overcharged with inhabitants;
which was practised as well by the Phoenicians and Greeks, as
by the Germans, Scythians, and other northern people. And,
as long as it was confined to the stocking and cultivation of
desert uninhabited countries, it kept strictly within the limits
of the law of nature.
Necessity But as the world by degrees grew more populous, it daily
1 ^proper- became more difficult to find out new spots to inhabit, with-
iawsre° 0ut encroachingupon former occupants ; and by constantly
•peeling it. occupying the same individual spot, the fruits of the earth
were consumed, and its spontaneous produce destroyed,
without any provision for a future supply or succession. It
therefore became necessary to pursue some regular method
of providing a constant subsistence ; and this necessity pro¬
duced, or at least promoted and encouraged, the art of ag¬
riculture. And the art of agriculture, by a regular connec¬
tion and consequence, introduced and established the idea
of a more permanent property in the soil than had hitherto
been received and adopted. It was evident that the earth
would not produce her fruits in sufficient quantities with¬
out the assistance of tillage ; but who would be at the pains
of tilling it, if another might watch an opportunity to seize
upon and enjoy the product of his industry, art, and labour?
Had not therefore a separate property in lands, as well as
moveables, been vested in some individuals, the world must
have continued a forest, and men have been mere animals
of prey; which, according to some philosophers, is the
genuine state of nature. Whereas now, so graciously has
Providence interwoven our duty and our happiness together,
the result of this very necessity has been the ennobling of
the human species, by giving it opportunities of improving
its rational faculties, as well as of exerting its natural. Ne¬
cessity begat property; and in order to insure that property,
recourse was had to civil society, which brought along with
it a long train of inseparable concomitants ; states, govern¬
ments, laws, punishments, and the public exercise of reli¬
gious duties. Thus connected together, it was found that
a part only of society was sufficient to provide, by their
E R T Y. 661
manual labour, for the necessary subsistence of all; and Property,
leisure was given to others to cultivate the human mind, to ^
invent useful arts, and to lay the foundation of science.
The only question remaining is, How this property be- Property
came actually vested, or what it is that gave a man an ex- acquired
elusive right to retain in a permanent manner that specific first by oc-
land which before belonged generally to every body, and cuPancy-
particularly to nobody ? And, as we before observed that
occiipancy gave the right to the temporary use of the soil,
so it is agreed upon all hands, that occupancy gave also the
original right to the permanent property in the substance
of the earth itself, which excludes every one else but the
owner from the use of it. There is indeed some difference
amongst the writers on natural law, concerning the reason
why occupancy should convey this right, and invest one with
this absolute property: Grotius and Puffendorf insisting
that this right of occupancy is founded upon a tacit and im¬
plied assent of all mankind, that the first occupant should
become the owner; and Barbeyrac, Titius, Locke, and
others, holding that there is no such implied assent, neither
is it necessary that there should be, as the very act of oc¬
cupancy alone, being a degree of bodily labour, is, from a
principle of natural justice, without any consent or compact,
sufficient of itself to found a title. The dispute, however,
savours too much of nice and scholastic refinement. But
both sides agree in this, that occupancy is the thing by which
the title was in fact originally acquired; every man seizing
to his own continued use such spots of ground as he found
most agreeable to his own convenience, provided he found
them unoccupied by any one else.
Property, both in lands and moveables, being thus origi- By what
nally acquired by the first taker, which taking amounts tomeails h
a declaration that he intends to appropriate the thing to hjsPre^rved
own use, it remains in him, by the principle of universal °r °S ’
law, till such time as he does some other act which shows
an intention to abandon it; for then it becomes, naturally
speaking, publici juris once more, and is liable to be again
appropriated by the next occupant. So if one is possessed
of a jewel, and casts it into the sea or a public highway, this
is such an express dereliction, that a property will be vest¬
ed in the first fortunate finder w ho shall seize it to his own
use. But if he hides it privately in the earth, or other se¬
cret place, and it is discovered, the finder acquires no pro¬
perty therein ; for the owner had not by this act declared
any intention to abandon it, but rather the contrary; and
if he loses or drops it by accident, it cannot be collected
from thence that he designed to quit the possession ; w'here-
fore in such cases the property still remains in the loser,
who may claim it again of the finder. And this, we may
remember, is the doctrine of the English law with relation
to treasure-trove.
But this method of one man’s abandoning his property,
and another seizing the vacant possession, however well
founded in theory, could not long subsist in fact. It was
calculated merely for the rudiments of civil society, and ne¬
cessarily ceased amongst the complicated interests and arti¬
ficial refinements of polite and established governments. In
these it was found, that what became inconvenient or use¬
less to one man, wras highly convenient and useful to an¬
other, who was ready to give in exchange for it some equi¬
valent that was equally desirable to the former proprietor.
This mutual convenience introduced commercial traffic, and
the reciprocal transfer of property by sale, grant, or con¬
veyance ; which may be considered either as a continuance
of the original possession which the first occupant had, or
as an abandoning of the thing by the present owmer, and an
immediate successive occupancy of the same by the new
proprietor. The voluntary dereliction of the owner, and
delivering the possession to another individual, amount to
a transfer of the property; the proprietor declaring his in¬
tention no longer to occupy the thing himself) but that his
A A
662
PROPERTY.
the occu¬
pant.
Property, own right of occupancy shall be vested in the new acquirer.
' V~' Or, taken in the other light, if I agree to part with an acre
of my land to Titius, the deed of conveyance is an evidence
of my intending to abandon the property ; and Titius, being
the only or first man acquainted with such my intention,
immediately steps in and seizes the vacant possession. 1 hus
the consent expressed by the conveyance gives Titius a
good right against me, and possession or occupancy con¬
firms that right against all the world besides.
How it goes The most universal and effectual way of abandoning pro-
on the perty is by the death of the occupant, when, both the ac-
death of j;ual pOSSession and intention of keeping possession ceasing,
the property, which is founded upon such possession and
intention, ought also to cease of course. For, naturally
speaking, the instant a man ceases to be, he ceases to have
any dominion ; otherwise, if he had a right to dispose of his
acquisitions one moment beyond his life, he would also have
a right to direct their disposal for a million of ages after
him, which would be highly absurd and inconvenient. A
property must therefore cease upon death, considering men
as absolute individuals, and unconnected with civil society ;
for then, by the principles before established, the next im¬
mediate occupant would acquire a right in all that the de¬
ceased possessed. But as, under civilized governments,
which are calculated for the peace of mankind, such a con¬
stitution would be productive of endless disturbances, the
universal law of almost every nation, which is a kind of se¬
condary law of nature, has either given the dying person
a power of continuing his property, by disposing of his pos¬
sessions by will; or, in case he neglects to dispose of it, or
is net permitted to make any disposition at all, the munici¬
pal law of the country then steps in, and declares who shall
be the successor, representative, or heir of the deceased,
that is, who alone shall have a right to enter upon this va¬
cant possession, in order to avoid that confusion which its
becoming common again would occasion. And farther, in
case no testament be permitted by the law, or none be
made, and no heir can be found so qualified as the law re¬
quires, still, to prevent the robust title of occupancy from
again taking place, the doctrine of escheats is adopted in al¬
most every country, whereby the sovereign of the state,
and those who claim under his authority, are the ultimate
heirs, and succeed to those inheritances to which no other
title can be formed.
Oftheright The right of inheritance, or descent to the children and
of inlieri- relations of the deceased, seems to have been allowed much
tancc. earlier than the right of devising by testament. We are
apt to conceive at the first view that it has natme on its
side ; yet we often mistake for nature what we find esta¬
blished by long and inveterate custom. It is certainly a
wise and effectual, but clearly a political, establishment;
since the permanent right of property, vested in the ances¬
tor himself, was not a natural, but merely a civil, right. It
is true, that the transmission of one’s possessions to poste¬
rity has an evident tendency to make a man a good citizen
and a useful member of society: it sets the passions on the
side of duty, and prompts a man to deserve well of the pub¬
lic, when he is sure that the reward of his services will not
die with himself, but be transmitted to those with whom he
is connected by the dearest and most tender affections.
Yet, reasonable as this foundation of the right of inheri¬
tance may seem, it is probable that its immediate origin
arose not from speculations altogether so delicate and re¬
fined, but, if not from fortuitous circumstances, at least from
a plainer and more simple principle. A man’s children or
nearest relations are usually about him on his death-bed,
and are the earliest witnesses of his decease. They became
therefore generally the next immediate occupants, till at
length in process of time this frequent usage ripened into
general law. And therefore also in the earliest ages, on the
failure of children, a man’s servants born under his roof
were allowed to be his heirs, being immediately on the Property,
spot when he died. For we find the patriarch Abraham y-—
expressly declaring, that “ since God had given him no
seed, his steward Eliezer, one born in his house, was his
heir.” „ T . ...
Whilst property continued onlv for life, testaments were Last will;
useless and unknown; and when it became inheritable, the ^teste-
inheritance was long indefeasible, and the children 01 LciiS
at law were incapable of exclusion by will; until at length
it was found, that so strict a rule of inheritance made heirs
disobedient and headstrong, defrauded creditors of their just
debts, and prevented many provident fathers from dividing
or charging their estates as the exigencies of their families
required. This introduced pretty generally the right of
disposing of one’s property, or a part of it, by testament;
that is, by written or oral instructions properly witnessed
and authenticated, according to the pleasure of the deceased,
which we therefore emphatically style his will. This was
established in some countries much later than in others.
In England, till modern times, a man could only dispose ot
one third of his moveables from his wife and children ; and
in general, no wall was permitted ot lands till the reign ot
Henry VIII. and then only of a certain portion ; for it was
not till after the Restoration that the power of devising real
property became so universal as at present.
Wills, therefore, and testaments, rights of inheritance, Tlicse are
and successions, are all of them creatures oi the civil or • jS ‘
municipal laws, and accordingly are in all respects regulat- jawg
ed by them ; every distinct country having different cere¬
monies and requisites to make a testament completely va¬
lid. Neither does any thing vary more than the right ot in¬
heritance under difterent national establishments. In Eng¬
land particularly, this diversity is carried to such a length,
as if it had been meant to point out the power ot the laws in
regulating the succession to property, and how futile eyeiy
claim must be that has not its foundation in the positive
rules of the state. In personal estates, the father may suc¬
ceed to his children ; in landed property, he never can be
their immediate heir by any the remotest possibility. In
general, only the eldest son, in some places only the young¬
est, in others all the sons together, have a right to succeed
to the inheritance. In real estates, males are preferred to
females, and the eldest male will usually exclude the rest;
in the division of personal estates, the females of equa de¬
gree are admitted together with the males, and no right ot
nThifon“mnsiderr«on may help to remove the scruplesScraptej
of many well-meaning persons, who set up a ™istaken ^n" heritable
science in opposition to the rules of law. It a man disin- pr0perty
herits his son, by a will duly executed, and leaves his es-rem0ved.
tate to a stranger, there are many who consider this pro¬
ceeding as contrary to natural justice ; whilst others so scru¬
pulously adhere to the supposed intention of the deed? mat
if a will of lands be attested by only two witnesses instead
of three, which the law requires, they are apt to imagine
that the heir is bound in conscience to relinquish his title
to the devisee. But both of them certainly proceed upon
very erroneous principles: as if, on the one hand, this son
had by nature a right to succeed to his father’s lands;
or as if, on the other, the owner was by nature entitled
to direct the succession of his property after his own de¬
cease ; whereas the law of nature suggests, that on the
death of the possessor, the estate should again become
common, and be open to the next occupant, unless other¬
wise ordered, for the sake of civil peace, by the positive
law of society. The positive law of society, which is with
us the municipal laws of England and Scotland, directs i
to vest in such person as the last proprietor shall by will,
attended with certain requisites, appoint; and, in detec o
such appointment, to go to some particular person, who,
from the result of certain local constitutions, appears to e
PRO
PRO
663
Of things
that are
still in
ommon.
Prophecy the heir at law. Hence it follows that, where the appoint-
II ment is regularly made, there cannot be a shadow of right
_Phe . in any one but the person appointed ; and, where the neces-
Y sary requisites are omitted, the right of the heir is equally
strong, and built upon as solid a foundation as the right of
the devisee would have been supposing such requisites were
observed.
But, after all, there are some few things which, notwith¬
standing the general introduction and continuance of pro¬
perty, must still unavoidably remain in common, being
those in which nothing but an usufructuary property is ca¬
pable of being had ; and therefore they still belong to the
first occupant, during the time he holds possession of them,
and no longer. Such, amongst others, are the elements of
light, air, and water, which a man may occupy by means
of his windows, his gardens, his mills, and other conve-
niencies; such also are the generality of those animals
which are said to be ferce naturae, or of a wild and untame-
able disposition, and which any man may seize upon and
keep for his own use or pleasure. All these things, as long
as they remain in possession, every man has a right to en¬
joy without disturbance; but if once they escape from his
custody, or he voluntarily abandons the use of them, they
return to the common stock, and any other man has an
equal right to seize and enjoy them afterwards.
Of similar Again, there are other things in which a permanent pro-
Irings perty may subsist, not only as to the temporary use, but also
i Ahich have gopd substance; and which yet would frequently be
ironriated ^oun(^ without a proprietor, had not the wisdom of the law
provided a remedy to obviate this inconvenience. Such
are forests and other waste grounds, which were omitted to
be appropriated in the general distribution of lands: such
also are wrecks, estrays, and that species of wild animals
which the arbitrary constitutions of positive law have dis¬
tinguished from the rest by the well-known appellation of
game. With regard to these and some others, as disturb¬
ances and quarrels would frequently arise amongst individuals
contending about the acquisition of this species of property
by first occupancy, the law has therefore wisely cut up the
root of dissension, by vesting the things themselves in the
sovereign of the state, or else in his representatives ap¬
pointed and authorized by him, being usually the lords of
manors. And thus our legislature has universally promot¬
ed the grand ends of civil society, the peace and security
of individuals, by steadily pursuing thatwise and orderly
maxim, of assigning to everything capable of ownership a
legal and determinate owner.
Literary Property. See Copy-Right.
PROPHECY is a word derived from coo^rirua, and in
its original import signifies the prediction of future events.
As God alone can perceive with certainty the future ac¬
tions of free agents, and the remote consequences of those
laws of nature which he himself established, prophecy, when
clearly fulfilled, affords the most convincing evidence of an
intimate and supernatural communion between God and the
person who uttered the prediction. Hence this, together
with the power of working miracles, is indeed the only evi¬
dence which can be given of such a communion. See
Theology.
PROPHET, in general, a person who foretells future
events; but it is particularly applied to such inspired persons
amongst the Jews as were commissioned by God to declare
his will and purposes to that people. Amongst the canonical
books of the Old Testament we have the writings ot six¬
teen prophets, four of whom are denominated the greater
prophets, viz. Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and Daniel, being
so called from the length and extent of their writings, which
exceed those of the others, viz. Hosea, Joel, Amos, Oba-
diah, Jonah, Micah, Nahum, Habakkuk, Haggai, Zechariah,
and Malachi, who are called the lesser prophets, from the
shortness of their writings. The Jews do not place Daniel
amongst the prophets, because, they say, he lived the life of Propitia-
a courtier rather than that of a prophet.
PROPITIATION, in Theology, is a sacrifice offered up
to God to assuage his wrath and render him propitious.
Amongst the Jews there are both ordinary and public sacri- s
fices, as holocausts, and the like, offered by way of thanks¬
giving ; and extraordinary ones, offered by particular per¬
sons guilty of any crime, by way of propitiation. The church
of Rome believes the mass to be a sacrifice of propitiation for
the living and the dead. The reformed churches allow of
no propitiation but that one offered up by Jesus Christ on
the cross. See Theology.
PROPONTIS, or Sea of Marmora, a part of the Me¬
diterranean, dividing Europe from Asia. It has the Helle¬
spont, or Canal of the Dardanelles, to the south-west, where¬
by it communicates with the Archipelago, and the ancient
Bosphorus of Thrace, or Strait of Constantinople, to the
north-east, communicating with the Black or Euxine Sea. It
has two castles ; that on the Asiatic side is on a cape, where
formerly stood a temple of Jupiter. The Castle of Europe
is on the opposite cape, and had anciently a temple of
Serapis.
PROPORTION, the identity or similitude of two ra¬
tios. Hence quantities that have the same ratio between
them are said to be proportional. Thus, if A be to B as C
to D, or 8 be to 4 as 30 to 15 ; A, B, C, D, and 8, 4, 30,
and 15, are said to be in proportion, or are simply called
proportionals. Proportion is frequently confounded with
ratio; yet have the two in reality very different ideas,
which ought by all means to be distinguished. Ratio is
properly the relation or habitude of two things, which de¬
termines the quantity of one from the quantity of another,
without the intervention of any third. Thus we say the ra¬
tio of 5 and 10 is 2, the ratio of 12 and 24 is 2. Propor¬
tion is the sameness or likeness of two such relations ; thus
the relations between 5 and 10 and 12 and 24 being the
same, or equal, the four terms are said to be in proportion.
Hence ratio exists between two numbers, but proportion
requires at least three. Proportion, in fine, is the habitude
or relation of two ratios when compared together ; as ra¬
tio is of two quantities.
Proportion, Harmonical or Musical. This subject, as
usually treated, has little or no practical nor even theoretical
utility. Enough regarding the ratios of musical sounds and
intervals will be fbund under the articles Music and Tem-
tion
PERAMENT.
Arithmetical and Geometrical Proportion.
See Pro¬
gression.
Inordinate Proportion is where the order of the terms
compared is disturbed or irregular. As, for example, in
two ranks of numbers, three in each rank, namely,
in one rank   2, 3, 9,
and in the other 8, 24, 36,
which are proportional, the former to the latter, but in a
different order, viz 2 : 3 : : 24 : 36,
and 3 : 9 : : 8 : 24.
Then, casting out the mean terms in each rank, it is con¬
cluded that 2 : 9 : : 8 : 36,
that is, the first is to the third in the first rank as the first
is to the third in the second rank.
PROPORTIONAL, relating to proportion. Thus we
say, proportional compasses, parts, scales, spirals, and the
like.
Proportionals, in Geometry, are quantities, either li¬
near or numeral, which bear the same ratio or relation to
each other.
PROPOSITION, m Logic, part of an argument, in which
some quality, either negative or positive, is attributed to a
subject.
Proposition, in Mathematics, is either some truth ad¬
vanced and shown to be such by demonstration, or some
Proposi¬
tion.
I
664
PRO
PRO
Proprefect operation proposed and its solution explained. If the propo¬
ll sition be deduced from several theoretical definitions com-
Proslamba- d t0gether, it is called a theorem ; if from a praxis, or
nomenos. of operations, it is called a problem.
PROPREFECT, amongst the Romans, the prelect s lieu¬
tenant, or an officer whom the prefect of the pnetorium
commissioned to do part of his duty in his stead.
PROPRETOR, or PROPRiETOR, a Roman magistrate,
who, having discharged the office of praetor at home, was
sent into a province to command there with his former
praetorial authority. It was also an appellation given to
those who, without having been praetors at Rome, were sent
extraordinarily into the provinces to administer justice with
the authority of praetors.
PRO RATA, in commerce, a term sometimes used by
merchants for in proportion ; as, each person must reap the
profit or sustain the loss pro rata to his interest, that is, in
proportion to his stock.
PROROGATION, the act of prolonging, or adjourning,
or putting off to another time. The difierence between a
prorogation and an adjournment of parliament is, that by
prorogation the session is ended, and such bills as passed
in either house, or both houses, and had not the royal as¬
sent, must at the next assembly begin again.
PROSE, the natural language of mankind, loose and
unconfined by poetical measures or restraints ; and in this
sense it stands opposed to verse. The word prose comes
from the Latin prosa, which some have derived from the
Hebrew poras, which signifies expend'd; whilst others de¬
duce it from the Latin prorsa, of prorsus, going forwards,
by way of opposition to versa, or turning backwards, as is
necessary in writing.
PROSERPINE, in fabulous history, the daughter ot
Jupiter and Ceres, who was carried off by Pluto as she was
gathering flowers with her companions. Ceres, disconsolate
for the loss of her daughter, after having long sought her,
heard where she was, and entreated Jupiter to permit her
to return from hell. This request Jupiter gi anted, on con¬
dition that she had not tasted anything in 1 luto s dominions.
Ceres therefore went to fetch her; but when her daughter
was preparing to return, Ascalaphus gave information that
he had seen Prosperine eat some grains of a pomegranate
she had gathered in Pluto’s garden ; on which she, was sen¬
tenced to continue in Tartarus in quality of Pluto s spouse,
and the queen of those gloomy regions: but, to mitigate the
grief of Ceres for her disappointment, Jupiter granted that
her daughter should only spend six months in hell together
with her husband, and the other six on earth wffth her mo¬
ther. Some mythologists imagine that the latter part of
the fable alludes to the corn, which must remain all the
winter hidden in the earth, in order to sprout forth in the
spring, and produce the harvest.
PROSEUCHE, in Antiquity, properly signifies prayer ;
but it is taken for the places of prayer of the Jews, and was
pretty nearly the same as their synagogues. But the syna¬
gogues ' were originally in the cities, and were covered
places ; whereas, for the most part, the proseuches were out
of the cities, and on the banks of rivers, having no cover¬
ing except perhaps the shade of some trees or covered gal¬
leries. The word is Greek, prayer.
PROSLAMBANOMENOS (Greek,
the term ‘s'goo’Xa/u.Savo/asi'^ being found as an exception in
Bryennius only) signifies a lower string (xogdri) or sound
(<pA yyos) added to what was previously the lowest sound of
the ancient Greek system of conjunct and disjunct tetra-
chords. For example, to the sounds BCDE, EFGa, form¬
ing two conjunct tetrachords in the lowest part of the scale,
wras added A, an octave below the last of the sounds above
named. This formed a series of sounds similar to that of
our minor scale when its 6th and 7th are made minor;
thus, ABCDEFG«, ascending diatonically from A in the
lowest space of the stave with bass-clef, to A upon the Prosody
highest line of the stave with same clef. In this place we ^
may mention, that the ancient Perfect System, or Immut- r°a^g°*
able System of the Greeks, as it is described by Greek
writers on music, appears to have consisted of fifteen sounds
comprehended within two octaves, reckoning from the Pros-
lambanomenos above described, up to a sound two octaves
higher. The order of these sounds, and their ancient Greek
names and modern literal names, ascending, are as follows:
Proslambanomenos A, Hypate-hypaton B, Parypate-hypa-
ton C, Lichanos-hypaton D, Hypate-meson E, Parypate-
meson F, Lichanos-meson G, Mese a, Paramese b, Trite-
diezeugmenon c, Paranete-diezeugmenon d, Nete-diezeug-
menon e, Trite-hyperbolseon /, Paranete-hyperbolaeon y,
Nete-hyperbolaeon a. Some of these strings or sounds were
called Apycni, Baropycni, Mesopycni, Oxypycni. Some,
too, were fixed, and others moveable. For various observa¬
tions upon Greek scales, and upon certain oriental scales and
ecclesiastical scales, see the article Music, and Appendix
to Graham’s Essay on the Theory and Practice of Musical
Composition, 1838.
The texts of the ancient Greek writers upon music are
so corrupted, and so obscure in many respects, and contain
so little of a really practical or useful nature, that we have
purposely refrained from inserting in this work many old
Greek theoretical terms, of which the exact signification
is now lost. Attempts to explain these could end in no¬
thing better than vague and useless conjectures. Those
who feel any particular interest in the very obscure subject
of ancient Greek music, may consult the Greek writers
edited by Meibomius and Wallis, and various other ancient
writers who treat of music expressly or incidentally; also
Hawkins, Burney, Forkel, and others.
PROSODY, that part of grammar which treats of the
quantities and accents of syllables, and the manner of mak¬
ing verses.
PROSOPOPOEIA, a figure in oratory, by which we
raise qualities of things inanimate into persons.
PROSTYLE, in Architecture, means a range of columns
in the front of a temple.
PROSZNITZ, a city of the Austrian province of Mora¬
via, in the circle of Olmutz. It is the capital of the prin¬
cipality of Lichtenstein, being situated on the river Rumza,
in a fertile district, and contains 540 houses, with 8500 in¬
habitants, who are occupied in extensive distilleries, and
in making woollen goods of a fine quality, besides some
linens.
PROTAGORAS, a celebrated sophist of Abdera, was
the son of Artemon or Maeandrios, and flourished 444 b. c.
His poverty had compelled him to adopt the humble trade
of a wood-carrier, when some circumstance attracted the
notice of his countryman Democritus, and he was admitted
as one of his pupils. After he had profited sufficiently
by the instruction of Democritus, he proceeded to Athens,
where he opened a school, which was attended by all the
most illustrious men of the age. Amongst others, Pericles
is said to have been his pupil. Protagoras is said to have
been the first who set a price on his instruction, and by
this means he was enabled to amass a large fortune. Plato,
who was his avowed opponent, is w illing to allow that Pro¬
tagoras possessed a lively and fertile imagination, a won¬
derful memory, and great eloquence; but he was vain, im¬
pudent, and presumptuous; he spoke ol his rivals with con¬
tempt, and of himself with a degree of confidence winch
excited the admiration of the vulgar. In the Thecetetus
of Plato we have a summary of the doctrines of this philo¬
sopher. Protagoras having in one of his works declared
that he could not argue on the nature of the gods, because
he was not certain of their existence, he was accused o
impiety, and condemned to suffer death, or, according to
others, banishment. On his passage to Sicily he suffere
PRO
Protasis shipwreck, and was drowned. His works were collected
Protrac- ^ or(^er of the magistrates, and condemned to the flames.
tor See Hardion, Dissertation sur V Origins et les Progres de la
i— ^ —i > Rhetorique, in the fifteenth volume of theMemoires de 1’Aca¬
demic des Inscriptions, p. 148.
PROTASIS, in the ancient drama, the first part of a
comic or tragic piece, in which the several persons are an¬
nounced, their characters intimated, and the subject of the
piece proposed and entered upon.
PROTESTAN F, a name first given in Germany to
those who adhered to the doctrine of Luther, because, in
1529, they protested against a decree of the Emperor Charles
V. and the Diet of Spires, declaring that they appealed to
a general council. The same name has now become a
common denomination for all those of the reformed churches.
PROTHONOTARY, a term which properly signifies
Jirst notary, and which was anciently the title of the prin¬
cipal notaries of the emperors of Constantinople.
Prothonotary is with us an officer in the court of king’s
bench and in that of common pleas, the former of which
has one, and the latter three. The prothonotary of the
king’s bench records all civil actions sued in that court,
as the clerk of the crown-office does all criminal causes.
The prothonotaries of the common pleas enter and enrol
all declarations, pleadings, assizes, judgments, and actions;
make out all judicial writs, except writs of habeas corpus
and distringas jurator, enter recognizances acknowledged,
and all common recoveries; and make exemplifications of
records, &c.
In the court of Rome there is a college of twelve pre¬
lates, called apostolical prothonotaries, empowered to re¬
ceive the last wills of cardinals, to direct all informations
and proceedings necessary for the canonization of saints,
and to attend on the pope whenever he performs any ex¬
traordinary ceremony out of Rome.
PROTO, a Greek term, frequently used in composition,
and signifying priority.
PROTOGENES, a celebrated painter, was a native of
Xanthus, in Caria, and flourished 330 b. c., in the time of
Alexander the Great, being the contemporary of Apelles.
Protogenes lived principally in Rhodes, where he was held
in little honour by his neighbours, until Apelles paid him a
visit, and declared that Protogenes was only inferior to him¬
self in one particular, that he bestowed too much pains in
finishing his paintings. From that moment the reputation
of Protogenes w as established. His finest painting was that
representing the grandson of Sol, which he took seven years
to finish, having put on it four courses of colour, that it
might be less liable to be obliterated by age. Having been
placed in a temple at Rhodes, when the city wras besieged
by Demetrius, and the painting in danger of being destroy¬
ed, Demetrius is said to have retired rather than it should
run any risk. It was afterwards carried to Rome and placed
in the Temple of Peace, where it was destroyed by fire.
There was a dog in this picture, which the painter wished
to represent with foam at its mouth; but, after many vain
attempts, he threw his brush in a fury at the spot, and by
a strange accident produced the very effect he wanted. He
also pafnted a satyr playing on the shepherd’s pipe, which
is said tb have been very fine; likewise a portrait of Pythias
the mother of the philosopher Aristotle, a Pan, and portraits
of Alexander. He wTas the author of two books on painting.
PROTOTYPE is the original or model after which a
thing has been formed; but it is chiefly used for the pat¬
terns of things to be engraved, cast, or sculptured.
PROTRACTOR, an instrument for laying down and
measuring, with accuracy and despatch, angles upon paper,
and by which the use of the line of chords is superseded.
This instrument is variously formed, and constructed of dif¬
ferent materials; and it is necessary in laying down those
surveys or other plans where angles are concerned.
VOL. XVIII.
P R O 655
PROVEDITOR, an officer in several parts of Italy, Proveditor
particularly at Venice, who has the direction of matters re- II
lating to policy. Provi-
PROVENCE, a province or government of France,. ^ence- ^
bounded by Dauphine on the north, by Piedmont on the ^ v
east, by the Mediterranean on the south, and by the river
Rhone, which separates it from Languedoc, on the west. It
is about 100 miles in length, and nearly as many in breadth.
PROVENDER originally signified a kind of vessel con¬
taining the measure of corn daily given to a horse, or other
beast of labour, for his subsistence; but it is now generally
used to signify the food for cattle, whatever it may consist of.
PROVERB, according to Camden, is a concise, witty,
and wise speech, grounded upon experience, and for the
most part containing some useful instruction.
Book of Proverbs, a canonical book of the Old Testa¬
ment, containing a part of the proverbs of Solomon the son
ot David king of Israel. The first twenty-four chapters
are acknowledged to be the genuine work of that prince;
the next five chapters are a collection of several of his
proverbs made by order of King Hezekiah; and the two
last seem to have been added by different but unknown
authors.
PROVIDENCE, the superintendent care which God
exercises over creation, material and spiritual.
I hat there exists a divine providence which attends to Belief of a
the affairs of this world, and directs their course, has been providence
a received opinion amongst the human race in every country universal,
and in every period of history. Every altar that is erected,
every prayer and every sacrifice that is offered up, affords
a proof of this belief. So fully have men been convinced
ot the sincerity of each other’s faith upon this subject, that
in one form, that of an appeal to the Divine Ruler of the
world, by the solemnity of an oath, they have introduced it
into the most ordinary as well as the most important business
of life.
But notwithstanding this universal reception, in some But this
form or other, of the doctrine of a divine providence, it has<loctrine
in every age met with some opponents. The most ancient ^eeu
of these were Democritus and Leucippus. They denied
the existence of a Deity, asserted that all things were me¬
chanically necessary, and maintained that thought and sense
were only modifications of matter. This is atheism in the
strictest sense, and the only form of it that has ever been con¬
sistently supported. Epicurus followed upon the same prin¬
ciples ; but he rendered the system altogether absurd, by
confessing the freedom of the human will. To avoid the
imputation of atheism, he asserted the existence of God; but
declared that the Deity resided above the heavens, and inter¬
fered not in human affairs. One of his maxims was, that
“ the blessed and immortal Being neither has any employ¬
ment himself, nor troubles himself with others.” Maxi¬
mus Tyrius justly observes, that this is rather a descrip¬
tion of Sardanapalus than of a Deity, whose very existence
implies his government. And some of the moralists of an¬
tiquity remarked, that they knew many men amongst them¬
selves, possessed of active and generous minds, whose cha¬
racters they valued more highly than that of Epicurus’s god.
Some of the ancients also appear to have entertained a
strange notion. They acknowledged the existence of a Su¬
preme and of many inferior deities ; but they at the same
time supposed that there is a certain fate which rules over
all, and is superior to the gods themselves.
The providence exerted by the Author of nature over
his works is usually divided into two branches; a general,
referring to the management of the universe at large; and
a particular providence, chiefly regarding particular men.
Upon the first of these, in Wollaston’s Religion of Aa-General
ture delineated, the question is stated somewhat in the fol-Provi-
lowing manner. The world may be said to be governed, ence*
or at least cannot be said to fluctuate fortuitously, if there
4 p
666
PROVIDENCE.
Provi¬
dence.
be laws or rules by which natural causes act; if the se-
vei'al phenomena in it succeed regularly, and in general
’’ the constitution of things is preserved ; it there are rules
observed in the production of herbs, trees, and the like;
if the severed kinds of animals are furnished with faculties
proper to determine their actions in the different stations
which they hold in the general economy of the world;
and, lastly, if rational beings are taken care of in such a
manner as will at last agree best with reason. By the
providence of God we ought to understand his govei ning
the world by such laws as these now mentioned ; so that if
there are such, there must be a divine providence.
Jnanimatej With regard to inanimate objects, the case agrees pre¬
Provi¬
dence*
objects.
Vege¬
tables.
Animals.
Man.
cisely with the above supposition. The whole of that uni
verse which we see around us is one magnificent and well-
regulated machine. The world that we inhabit is a large
globe, which, conducted by an invisible power, flies, with
a rapidity of which we have no conception, through an ex¬
tent of space which sets at defiance every power of fancy
to embody it into any distinct image. A large flaming orb
stands immoveable in the heavens, around which this, and
other worlds of different magnitudes, perform their per¬
petual revolutions. Hence arise the expected returns of
day and night, and the regular diversity of seasons. Upon
these great operations a thousand other circumstances de¬
pend. Hence, for example, the vapours ascend from the
ocean, meet above in clouds, and, after being condensed,
descend in showers to cover the earth with fertility and
beauty. These appearances are regular and permanent.
During every age since men have been placed upon the
earth, this astonishing machine has continued steadily to
perform its complicated operations. Nothing is left to
chance. The smallest bodies are not less i-egular than the
largest, and observe continually the same laws of attrac¬
tion, repulsion, &c. The apparent variations of nature
proceed only from different circumstances and combina¬
tions of things, acting all the while under their established
laws. We ourselves can calculate the effects of the laws
of gravitation and of motion. We can render them sub¬
servient to our own purposes, with entire certainty of suc¬
cess, if we only adhere to the rules established by nature,
that is to say, by providence.
Vegetables also live and flourish according to prescribed
methods. Each sort is produced from its proper seed, has
the same texture of fibres, is at all times nourished by the
same kind of juices, digested and prepared by the same
vessels. Trees and shrubs receive annually their pecu¬
liar liveries, and bear their proper fruits. So regular are
they in this last respect, that every species may be said to
have its profession or trade appointed to it, by which it
furnishes a certain portion of manufacture, or of food, to
supply the wants of animals. Being created for the pur¬
pose of consumption, all vegetables produce great quan¬
tities of seed to supply the necessary waste. Idere, then,
there is evidently a regulation by which the several orders
are preserved, and the ends of them answered according to
their first establishment.
With regard to animals, they too, in structure of their
form, are subject to laws similar to those which govern the
vegetable world. In the sentient part of their constitu¬
tion they are no less subject to rule. The lion is always
fierce, the fox crafty, and the hare timid. Every species
retains from age to age its appointed place and charac¬
ter in the great family of nature. The various tribes are
created and placed in such a manner as to find proper
means of support and defence. Beasts, birds, fishes, and
insects, are all possessed of organs and faculties adapted to
their respective circumstances and opportunities of finding
their proper food and prey.
Man is subject to the ordinary laws which other mate¬
rial and animal substances obey; but he is left more at
large in the determination of his actions. Yet even here
things do not fluctuate at random. Individuals do indeed ^
rise and perish according to fixed rules; and nations them¬
selves have only a temporary endurance. But the species
advances with a steady progress to intellectual improve¬
ment. This progress is often interrupted; but it appears
to be not less sure at the long-run than even the mecha¬
nical laws which govern the material part of our constitu¬
tion. Amidst the convulsion of states and the ruin of em¬
pires, the useful arts, when once invented, are never lost.
These, in better times, render subsistence easy, and give
leisure for reflection and study to a greater number of in¬
dividuals. Tyre and Sidon have passed away, Athens it¬
self has become the prey of barbarians, and the prosperity
of ancient Egypt is departed perhaps for ever ; but the
ship, and the plough, and the loom, remain, and have been
perpetually improving. Thus every new convulsion of so¬
ciety does less mischief than the last; and it is hoped that,
by the assistance of printing, the most polished arts and the
most refined speculations have at length become immortal.
The world is not then left in a state of confusion; it is
reduced into order, and methodized for ages to come, the
several species of beings having their offices and provinces
assigned them. Plants, animals, men, and nations, are in
a state of continual change; but successors are appointed
to relieve them, and to carry on the scheme of providence.
But the great difficulty is how to account for that provi- Particula
dence which is called particular; for rational beings and providen,
free agents are capable of doing and deserving well or ill;
and the safety or danger, the happiness or unhappiness of
a man here, must depend upon many things which seem
scarcely capable of being determined by providence. Be¬
sides himself and his own conduct, he depends upon the
conduct of other men, whose actions, as we naturally sup¬
pose, cannot, consistently with their tree will, be controlled
for the advantage of another individual. The actions ot
numbers of men, proceeding upon their private freedom,
with different degrees of ability, as they cross and impede,
or directly oppose each other, must produce very different
effects upon men of different characters, and thus in a
strange manner embarrass and entangle the general plan.
And as to the course of nature, it may justly be asked, is
the force of gravitation to be suspended till a good man
pass by an infirm building ? Add to this, that some cir¬
cumstances appear absolutely irreconcileable. The wind
which carries one into port drives another back to sea;
and the rains which are just sufficient upon the hills may
drown the inhabitants of the valleys. In short, may we
expect miracles ? or can there be a particular providence
that foresees and prepares for the several cases of indivi¬
duals, without force frequently committed upon the laws of
nature and the freedom of intelligent agents ? ... j
But in whatever way it is brought about, there is little No goo
doubt that something of this kind must take place. For as the 'J
Deity does direct, as already mentioned, the great and ge- ^tenC(
neral progress of things in this world, he must also manage
those of less importance. Nations are composed of indi¬
viduals. The progress of individuals is the progress of the
nation, and the greatest events usually depend upon the his¬
tory and the most trifling actions of private persons. The
difficulty is to conceive how the superintendence and ma¬
nagement of all this can be brought about. But as the
ways and the thoughts of the Omnipotent Spirit, whose in¬
fluence pervades, and rules, and animates nature, resemble
not the limited operations of men, w^e can only form con¬
jectures concerning the means by which his government is
conducted. , .
We shall next proceed to state some of the chief objec-Objectio
tions which, in ancient or modern times, have been brought IraF^e
against the opinion that the world is governed by a divine
providence. And the first of these is, that the system of na-
PROVIDENCE.
667
Provi- ture contains many imperfections which it ought not to do if
dence. it be the work of a perfectly wise and good Being. To avoid
v ^ the force of this objection, some modern writers have de¬
serted the ground ot supreme and absolute goodness, which
the ancient theists always occupied, and have asserted that
the divine perfection consists in unlimited power and un¬
controlled supremacy of will; that, consequently, the Deity
does not always that which is best, but merely what he him¬
self pleases; and that for no other reason but because he
wills so to do. But this is no better than atheism itself.
For it is of no importance to us whether the universe is
governed by blind fate or chance, that is to say, by nothing
at all; or whether it is governed by an arbitrary sovereign
will that is directed by chance, or at least by no principle
of beneficence.
^nswer. The true answer to this objection is, that no created sys¬
tem can have every perfection, because it must necessarily
be destitute of self-existence and independence; and there¬
fore, if being destitute of some perfections be better than
nothing, it w’as worthy of infinite power and perfect good¬
ness to create such beings. In our present state, we mor¬
tals stand upon too low ground to take a commanding view
of the w hole frame of things. We can only reason con¬
cerning what is unknown from the little that is within our
reach. But in this little we can see that wisdom and good¬
ness reign, that nature always aims to produce perfection,
that many salutary effects result even from the thunder and
the storm; and we doubt not that a view of the whole struc¬
ture of the universe would afford an additional triumph to
the goodness and skill of its great Architect.
We see a regular ascent in the scale of beings from mere
lifeless matter up to man; and the probability is, that the
scale continues to ascend as far above man in perfection as
created beings can possibly be raised. The sole purpose of
God in creating the world must have been to produce happi¬
ness. But this would be most effectually done by creating, in
the first place, as many of the most perfect class of beings as
the system could contain ; and afterwards other classes less
and less perfect, till the whole universe should be completely
full. We do not positively assert that such a scheme of crea¬
tion was actually in the divine Architect’s intention; but that
it is possible, is sufficiently obvious. No man will pretend
to say, that this earth could afford a comfortable subsistence
to a greater number of the human race, were all the infe¬
rior animals annihilated, than it could at present, swarming
as every element is with life. Suppose, then, that as many
men had been placed at first upon the earth as it could pos¬
sibly support, and that matters had been so constituted
that the number should never have been either increased
or diminished; we beg leave to ask, whether, since there
would have been evidently room for inferior animals, it
would have been most worthy of infinite goodness to leave
the whole globe to men, or to introduce into it different
orders of less perfect beings, which, whilst they could not
incommode the principal inhabitant, would each find plea¬
sure in its own existence ? To this question different an¬
swers cannot surely be given. Let the reader then extend
his view, and consider the universe, which, however vast,
cannot be positively infinite, as one system so much united
as the several parts of this globe are ;,let him suppose that
there were at first created as many of the highest order of
beings as it could have contained had creation stopt there;
let him also remember that happiness in many different
degrees is valuable; and he will not surely think it any im¬
putation on the goodness of God that there are in the universe
many beings far from perfection. The most imperfect of
these are by themselves better than nothing; and they all
contribute to make up a system which, considered as a whole,
we have every reason to believe to be as perfect as any¬
thing not self-existent can possibly be.
If the world be conducted by a benevolent providence,
how came evil to be introduced into it ? This question Provi-
has perplexed mankind in all ages. The ancient Persians denee.
resolved it by asserting the existence of two gods, Oromas- —'
des the author of good, and Arimanius the author of evil. ?ti’eC.t1iori
From them the Christian heretics called Manicheans bor- introduc-
rowed their doctrine of two opposite co-eternal principles, tion of evil.
Both the Platonists and Stoics ascribed the origin of evil
to the perverseness or imperfection of matter, which they
thought the Deity could not alter; and Pythagoras ima¬
gined a state of pre-existence, in which the souls of men
had committed offences, for which they are here suffering
the punishment. But these hypotheses are, some of them
impious, and all unsatisfactory.
faking the expression in its most extensive sense, the Answer,
evils to which the human race are exposed may be reduced
to pain, uneasiness, disappointment of appetites, and death ;
of which not one could have been wholly prevented with¬
out occasioning greater evils, inconsistent with the perfect
goodness of the Creator. As long as we have solid bodies
capable of motion, supported by food, subject to the influ¬
ence of the atmosphere, and divisible, they must necessarily
be liable to dissolution or death. But if a man could suffer
death, or have his limbs broken, Avithout feeling pain, the hu¬
man race would have been long ago extinct. A fever is a
state of the body in which the fluids are in great disorder.
If we felt no uneasiness from that disorder, we should have
no inducement to pay the proper attention to our state, and
should certainly die unawares, without suspecting ourselves
to be in danger; whereas, under the present administration
of divine providence, the pain and sickness of the disease
compel us to have recourse to the remedies proper for re¬
storing us to soundness and health. Of the uneasinesses
to which we are liable, and which are not the effect of im¬
mediate pain, the greatest has been sometimes said to arise
from the apprehension of death, which constantly stares us
in the face, and frequently embitters all our pleasures even
in the hour of perfect health. But this dread of death is
implanted in our breasts for the very best of purposes. Had
we no horror at the apprehension of death, we should be
apt, whenever any misfortune befell us, to quit this world
rashly, and rush unprepared into the presence of our Judge ;
but the horror which attends our reflections upon our own
dissolution, arising not from any apprehensions of the pain
of dying, but from our anxiety concerning our future state of
existence, tends strongly to make us act, whilst we are still
here, in such a manner as to insure our happiness here¬
after. Add to this, that the fear of death is the greatest
support of human laws. We every day see persons breaking
through all the regulations of society and good life, notwith¬
standing they know death to be the certain consequence, and
feel all the horrors of it which are natural to man. Were
death therefore divested of these horrors, how insignificant
would capital punishments be as guardians of the law, and
how insecure would individuals be in civil society ?
With regard to the unavoidable misfortunes and anxie¬
ties of our present state, these, so far from being truly hurt¬
ful in themselves, are proofs of divine beneficence. When
we see men displeased with their situation, when we hear
them complain of the difficulties, the miseries, and the cares
of life, of the hardships which they have undergone, and
the labours which still lie before them, instead of account¬
ing them unfortunate, wre ought to regard them as active
beings, placed in the only situation which is fit for the im¬
provement of their nature. That discontent, and these rest¬
less wishes to improve their condition, are so many sure in¬
dications that their faculties will not languish. They who
are in the least degree accustomed to observe the human
character, know well the influence which pleasure and re¬
pose have in enfeebling every manly principle, and how
capable they are of attaching us even to a sordid and dis¬
honourable existence.
668
PRO
PRO
Provi¬
dence.
Objection
from the
guilt.
Answer.
Happy indeed it is for the human race, that the number
of those men is small whom providence has placed in situa¬
tions in which personal activity is unnecessary. By far the
greater number are compelled to exert themselves, and to
mix and to contend with their equals, in the race of fortune
and of honour. It is thus that our powers are called forth,
and that our nature reaches its "highest perfection. It is even
perhaps a general truth, that they who have struggled v\ ith
the greatest variety of hardships, as they always acquire the
highest energy of character, so, if they have retained their
integrity, and have not sunk entirely in the contest, seldom
fail to spend their remaining days respectable and happy,
superior to passion, and secured from folly by the posses¬
sion of a wisdom dearly earned.
The most serious difficulty lies in accounting for the per-
    mission of moral evil or guilt, in a system governed by in-
pennission finite benevolence and wisdom. Those who in a consistent
of moral manner hold the doctrine of the absolute necessity of human
actions in its full extent, and acknowledge all its conse¬
quences, find it easy to elude this difficulty. They very
fairly deny the existence of any such thing as moral evil in
the abstract; and assert, that what we call a crime, is no¬
thing more than an action which we always regard with a
painful sensation ; that these apparent evils endure only for
a time ; and that all will at last terminate in the perfection
and happiness of every intelligent being.
Upon the system of liberty, the shortest answer seems
to be this : That some things are absolutely impossible, not
from any weakness in the Deity, but because they infer ab¬
surdity or contradiction. Thus it is impossible for twice
two to be any thing else than four; and thus it is impossi¬
ble for Omnipotence itself to confer self-approbation upon
an intelligent being who has never deserved it; that is to
say, it is impossible for a man of sense to be pleased with
himself for having done a certain action, whilst he himself
is conscious that he never did that action. But self-appro¬
bation constitutes the highest, the most unmingled, and the
only permanent felicity, of which our nature is capable. It
is not in the power of Omnipotence itself, then, to bestow the
highest and most permanent felicity of our nature ; it must
be earned and deserved before it can be obtained. In the
same manner good desert, virtue, or merit, cannot be con¬
ferred ; they must be acquired. To enable us to acquire
these, we must be exposed to difficulties, and must suffer
in a certain degree. If these difficulties had no influence
upon our conduct and feelings, if they exposed us to no real
danger, no fabric of merit and of selt-approbation could be
reared upon them. All that the Supreme Being could do for
us would have been to confer such an original constitution
and character as should enable us to do well if we were to ex¬
ert our utmost powers. The universe is not ruled by favour,
but by justice. Complete felicity must be purchased. Guilt
is an abuse of our freedom, a doing ill where we could have
done well, and is entirely the work of man. Heaven could
not avoid permitting its existence, and exposing us to dan¬
ger ; for temptation is necessary to virtue, and virtue is the
perfection of our nature, our glory, and our happiness.
The last objection to the belief of a divine providence
arises from the apparent confusion of human affairs, that
all things happen alike to an, that bad men are prosperous,
and that a total want of justice appears to attend the di¬
vine administrations. Even the best men have at times
been shaken by this consideration. But there are many
reasons for rendering this world a mixed scene ; it would
become unfit for a state of trial and of education to virtue if
it were otherwise.
It has been already shown, that physical evil is the pa¬
rent of moral good ; and therefore it would be absurd to
expect that the virtuous should be entirely exempted from
that evil. For the occasional prosperity of the wicked
many reasons have been assigned, even by those who, in
Objection
from the
apparent
confusion
of human
affairs.
Answer.
their disquisitions, were not guided by that revelation which
has brought to light life and immortality. “ God, says _
Plutarch, “ spares the wicked, that he may set to mankind
an example of forbearance, and teach them not to revenge
their injuries too hastily on each other. He spares some
wicked men from early punishment, in order to make them
instruments of his justice in punishing others. And he
spares all for a time, that they may have leisure for repen¬
tance ; for men look at nothing further, in the punishments
which they inflict, than to satisfy their revenge and malice,
and therefore they pursue those who have offended them
with the utmost rage and eagerness; whereas God, aiming
at the cure of those who are not utterly incurable, gives
them time to be converted”
Providence, the capital of Rhode Island, one of the
United States of North America. It is situated at the
head of the tide-waters of Naraganset Bay, immediately
above the mouth of the Seekhouk, about thirty miles from
the Atlantic Ocean. The town is built on both sides of an
arm of the bay, wdiich is usually called Providence River;
and its position is pleasant, although on the sharp accli¬
vities of hills. The two sections of Providence are con¬
nected by two bridges, one of which is ninety feet m
length. This is a wealthy and flourishing town, and of
late years has rapidly increased in importance. 1 he build¬
ings are chiefly of wood, uniformly painted white ; but a
number of them are composed of more substantial mate¬
rials, as granite and brick. Those of a public nature are t e
State-house, the Arcade, the halls of Brown University, the
Dexter Asylum, nearly twenty places of public worship, a
number of public schools, and several large manufacturing
establishments. The Arcade is the most splendid building
of the kind in the Union. It presents two fronts of ham¬
mered granite, each seventy-two feet in width, and forming
a colonnade of six columns of pure Grecian Doric. I ne
body of the building is two hundred and twenty-two feet m
length. Several of the churches are handsome structures.
Brown University has two halls, both built of brick, and
each containing about fifty rooms for students and the ne¬
cessary business of the establishment. It was founded m
the year 1764, and in 1838 contained ten instructors, U53
alumni, 450 ministers, 187 students, 6000 volumes in the
college library, and 5600 volumes in the students libraries.
There are also a number of public schools, a mechanics an
a manufacturers’ association, an athenaeum, a large asylum
for the poor, a Friends’ boarding school, which is a large
and excellent establishment, and libraries attached to all
or most of these, besides the Providence Library. About
twelve newspapers are published in this city.
Providence was early a place of much commercial enter¬
prise ; but it is now most distinguished for its manufactures.
There are four or five cotton factories ; several extensne
bleacheries, in which large quantities of cotton cloth from
many of the factories in Rhode Island and other states are
bleached and otherwise prepared ; a number of dye-houses,
founderies, and machine-shops, the two latter being emp oj-
cd principally in building cotton machinery. There are,
besides, establishments for the manufacture of steam-en¬
gines, files, leather, shoes, soap, combs, hats, jewellery, and
for working in tin and other metals; and there is also a
large glass-house for the manufacture and cutting of flint-
glass. In the year 1831, there w-ere imported 55,707 bales
of cotton, 71,369 barrels of flour, 216,662 bushels of corn,
and 7772 bushels of rye. The imports in 1831 amounted to
457,717 dollars; and the exports, domestic and foreign, to
329,634 dollars. The amount of shipping registered for the
same year was 12,362 tons; that enrolled, 4788 tons. It
possesses a fine harbour, there being water for vessels of
nine hundred tons burden close to the wharfs. Business is
greatly promoted by a number of banks, which possess an
aggregate capital of about five millions of dollars. This
Provi¬
dence.
PRO
Provi- town was founded in the year 1636 by one Williams, who
dence, was banished from Massachusetts on account of his reli-
* gious tenets. It has repeatedly been nearly destroyed by
Provi- ^re anc^ st°rm' In 1831 Providence was incorporated as
dence, a city, and divided into six wards, the municipal govern-
Old. ment being vested in a mayor, a board of aldermen, and
—v'—' a common council. The population, which in 1832 was
about 20,000, cannot in 1839 be estimated under 30,000.
Providence is situated forty miles south-south-west of Bos¬
ton, thirty north of Newport, and one hundred and ninety
north-east of New York, in lat. 41. 51. north, and long. 71.
26. west from Greenwich.
Providence, a small island in the Pacific Ocean, seen
by the Felice in the year 1783, in long. 127. 12. E. lat.
4. 2. N. Another in the Indian Ocean, in long. 52. 36.
E. lat. 9. 10. S. And a third in long. 78. E. lat. 54. 5. N.
Providence, New, one of the Bahama Islands, in the
West Indies, situated between longitude 77. 10. and 77.
38. west, and latitude 25. 3. north. It is twenty-one
miles in length from east to west, seven miles in breadth
from north to south, and for the most part fiat, and cover¬
ed with brushwood and extensive lagoons. A low range
of rocky hills traverses part of the island at a short dis¬
tance from the sea, in a direction from east to west; and
another ridge, called the Blue Hills, situated about two
miles and a half inland, runs nearly parallel to the former.
The soil is in many parts very productive, and there is
abundance of water, which possesses the valuable proper¬
ty of keeping good at sea for any length of time. Vege¬
tables and fruits thrive abundantly; beef, mutton, and poul¬
try are good and plentiful, and the shores abound with fish,
including turtle. Amongst the exports are cotton, bark,
broziletto, and fustic. The climate is mild, equable, and
salubrious. New Providence, from its harbour and relative
situation with respect to the Florida channel, is considered
as the most important of the Bahamas; and on it is situated
Nassau, the seat of government for the islands, as well as the
head-quarters of the naval and military establishments. It
is the centre of commerce, and possesses a fine harbour
nearly land-locked. The streets are regularly laid out, the
buildings are good, and there is an air of liveliness and
cleanliness about the place. The island is divided into
parishes, each of which has its church, clergy, and school
liberally provided for. New Providence was colonized by
the English in the year 1629, the natives having by that
time become totally extinct. In 1641 the Spaniards drove
out the settlers; but they returned in 1666, to be again
expelled, however, in 1703. In 1783 New Providence,
along with the other Bahama Islands, was restored to Great
Britain by treaty. The population is about 6000.
Providence, Old, an island of the Caribbean Sea, si¬
tuated about 125 miles from the nearest point of the Mos¬
quito coast, its centre being in latitude 13. 21. north, and
longitude 81. 21. 50. west from Greenwich. Its shape is
an irregular oval, four miles and a quarter in length by two
and a half in breadth. It is surrounded by an extensive
coral reef; and at its northern extremity is another smaller
island called Santa Catalina, separated from Old Provi¬
dence only by a very narrow channel. Both islands are
very hilly, and present an agreeable variety of scenery.
The soil is exceedingly productive, and vegetation flou¬
rishes luxuriantly. The cattle and horses are excellent;
but cotton is the staple export, which, with turtle-shell and
hides, are the principal articles of trade. Ihese are an¬
nually taken away by traders in exchange for English
goods brought from Jamaica. Isabella, the only village
on the island, is situated at the northern extremity, close
to the channel, between the two islands. It was once a
populous and flourishing place, but has now fallen into de¬
cay. The island is under the government of New Grenada,
and, with that of St Andrews, forms the ninth canton of
P R U 669
the republic. Old Providence is noted in the history of Providen-
piracy as having been the resort formerly of bucaneers, and tial Chan-
latterly that of privateers. It is but thinly inhabited, and nel
capable of supporting a much larger population. p^.
PROVIDENTIAL Channel lies between some shnnL ^ ^ _;7. „
in the South Pacific Ocean, through which the Endeavour
passed, near the north-east coast of New Holland. Lone:.
137. 50. E. Lat. 5. 38. S.
PROVINCE, in Geography, a division of a kingdom or
state, comprising several cities, towns, and districts, all under
the same government, and usually distinguished by the ex¬
tent either of the civil or the ecclesiastical jurisdiction.
The church distinguishes its provinces by archbishop¬
rics ; in which sense England is divided into twro provinces,
namely, Canterbury and York.
PROVINCIAL, something relating to a province. It
also denotes, in Catholic countries, a person who has the
direction of the conventual establishments of a province.
PROVINS, an arrondissement of the department of the
Seine and Marne, in France. It extends over 486 square
miles, is divided into five cantons and 106 communes, and
contains 48,500 inhabitants. The capital is a city of the
same name, situated on the river Bouzie. It is well built,
and ornamented by good promenades; and it contains 880
houses, with 5760 inhabitants, who, besides carrying on
the manufacture of mixed cloths, and a considerable trade
in corn, cultivate a great quantity of roses for the perfumers
of Paris. There is also a mineral spring of some celebrity.
Long. 3. 12. E. Lat. 48. 33. 39. S.
PROVOST of a city or town, is a name applied to the
chief municipal magistrate in corporate towns or cities.
He presides in civic courts, and, with the bailies, who are
his deputies, determines in all differences that arise amongst
citizens.
Provost, or Prevot-Royal, a sort of inferior judge for¬
merly established throughout France, to take cognizance
of all civil, personal, real, and mixed causes, amongst the
people only.
Grand Provost of France, an officer who had jurisdic¬
tion in the king’s house, and over the officers therein.
Provost-Marshal of an Army, is an officer appointed to
seize and secure deserters, and all other criminals.
Provost of the Mint, a particular judge instituted for the
apprehending and prosecuting of false coiners.
PROW, the head or fore-part of a ship, particularly in
a galley, being that which is opposite to the poop or stern.
PROXIMITY denotes the relation of nearness, whether
in respect of place, of blood, or of alliance.
PRUDENCE, in Ethics, may be defined an ability of
judging what is best, in the choice both of ends and of means.
According to the definition of the Roman moralist (Z>e Offi-
ciis, lib. i. cap. 43), prudence is the knowledge of what is
to be desired or avoided. Accordingly, he takes prudentia
to be a contraction of providentia, or foresight. Plato calls
this the leading virtue; and Juvenal observes, that where
prudence is present no divinity is absent.
The extremes of prudence are craft or cunning on the
one hand, and folly on the other.
PRUDENTIUS, or Aurelius Prudentius Clemens,
a famous Christian poet, who flourished under the reign of
Theodosius the Great. Born in Spain in the year 348, he
first followed the profession of advocate, was afterwards a
judge, then a soldier, and at length had an honourable em¬
ployment at court. A great number of his poems remain ;
but the style is barbarous, forming a singular contrast to
the purity of the Augustan age. The best editions of his
works are that of Amsterdam, 1667, with Heinsius’s notes;
and that of Paris, 1687, in us am Delphini.
PRUNING, in Gardening and Agriculture, is lopping
off the superfluous branches of trees, to make them bear
better fruit, grow higher, or appear more regular.
670
History.
PRUSSIA.
Prussia formerly a duchy, but now a powerful and ex- obliged to carry on dangerous and bloody wars with the or-
•teSdom of [he J rank w. formedon tWan- ^ ^ ^ ^ the ye„ —
Sfte^rrae'uTsitions, particuhrly' in Poland in 1531. Their last gra„d-ma«
some to have oeen aenveu iiu . . Sigismund might procure a restitution of some of the places
which had been taken from the order during the previous
unsuccessful wars with Poland; but in this the fraternity
were disappointed. Albert, however, was so far from en¬
deavouring to obtain any favour from his uncle by pacit.c
means, that he refused to do homage to him, and imme-
matian or Slavonic tribe, who, having migrated from the
foot of the Riphaean Mountains, were tempted to settle in
the district which is called Prussia proper. But others are
of opinion that the country derived its name from its vici¬
nity to the vast territory of Russia, and was for this reason
called Porussia; po in the Slavonic language signifying
SroruSan^c^ dia.ei; began to make preparations tbrowing off hi, de-
Sa, =ng near or accent to Russia. . Nor.is this pendence, and recovenng^by force rfjnn^the whole of
derivation of the name entirely fanciful or hypothetical.
Several others have been formed on the same principle. For
instance, the river Elbe in Slavonic was termed Labe, and,
by a similar combination, the tribes who inhabited its banks
were called Po Labae or Polabce. The reader, however,
must judge for himself which of these conjectures is the
more probable. To the latter Frederick the Great has given
the sanction of his authority in the treatise entitled Memoirs
of the House of Brandenburg.
The an- The original inhabitants of Prussia were the Slavi or Sar-
cient inha- matae, in the east and north-east; the Vandals on the shores
bitants. 0f the Baltic, to the north of Pomerania ; and the Suevi in
the remainder of the kingdom. Ihese people, particulaily
the first, are represented as having been extremely savage
and barbarous ; living upon raw flesh, and drinking, even
to intoxication, the blood of horses at their feasts. They
seem to have been unacquainted with the method of con¬
structing huts, and to have lived in caves or under the shel
Prussia and Pomerania. But he was so far from succeeding
in his design, that, foiled in every attempt, he was forced to
resign the dignity of grand-master ; and in recompense lor
divesting himself of this office, his uncle bestowed on him
part of Prussia in quality of secular duke. It was now the
interest of the house of Brandenburg to assist in the expul¬
sion of the fraternity ; and accordingly, the knights, being
at last driven out of Prussia and Pomerania, transferred
their chapter to Mariendal in Franconia; but in that and in
other provinces of the empire where they settled, little more
than the name of the order now remains.
The electorate of Brandenburg, like other parts of Ger-History of
many, was anciently possessed by barbarians, of whom no Bramlen-
accurate account can be given. They were subdued oy UIS
Charlemagne, as has been related in the history ol France
(see the article France, part first); but being on evei*y °£"
casion ready to revolt, Henry the Fowler, in 927, establish¬
ed margraves, or governors of the frontiers, in order to keep
Qtmrt tip* huts, and to have Uvea in caves or unuer uie eu uiaigia,vto, c D ~
ter of rocks and trees, where they protected themselves and the barbarians in awe. The firet margrave ot Brande g
their childrenftmm the inclemencies of the weather. Such was Sigefroy, brother-in-law of the >“df "''T
rude tribes cannot be expected to furnish material for his- T^ptm S time of if
The Teu¬
tonic
knights.
tory ; and hence little is known respecting them until the
thirteenth century, when the Teutonic knights first obtained
a footing in the country.
This celebrated fraternity is more or less known to every
reader. After the death of Barbarossa, the Germans be¬
haved with so much bravery in the Holy Land, that the
king of Jerusalem, the patriarch, and other princes, reward¬
ed their valour by conferring upon their order certain pri¬
vileges. The body in question was thus instituted under
the most favourable auspices. The members were origi¬
nally called Knights of St George; but they were afterwards
denominated Equites Mariani, or Knights of St Mary. In
the year 1190, they elected Henry Walpol, a German, who
had distinguished himself for conduct and bravery, as their
first grand-master; and in the subsequent year Pope Ce-
lestine III. confirmed to them the privileges which they al-
readv enjoyed, and conferred on them the title ot Knights
berg were established by Otho I. From the time of this
Sio-efroy, till the succession of the house of Hohenzollern,
from whom the present family derive their descent, there are
reckoned eight different families who have been margraves
of Brandenburg; namely, the family of the Saxons, of Wal-
beck, Staden, Plenck, Anhalt, Bavaria, Luxemburg, and
Misnia. The margraves of the first four races carried on
continual wars with the Vandals and other barbarous tribes;
nor could their ravages be stopped till the reign of Albert
surnamed the Bear, the first prince of the house of Anhalt,
who was appointed margrave by the Emperor Conrad 111.,
and afterwards raised to the dignity of elector by F redenck
Barbarossa, about the year 1100. Some years afterwards,
the kins: of the Vandals having died without issue, left the
Middle March by his last will to the elector, who was be¬
sides possessed of the Old March, Upper Saxony, the coun¬
try of Anhalt, and part of Lusatia. In the year 1332 this
reaclv emoyed, ana comerrea on uiem uie uue ui ivmguio ^ a*...—,--- - ,1 tr, <mti-
of the Teutonic Order, an appellation by which they after- line became extinct, and the electorate devo e
wards became so famous. On the expulsion of the Chris- pire. It was then given by the Emperor Louisot Bavana
tians from the Holy Land by Saladdin, a settlement was to his son Louis, who was the first of the sixth race,
given to these knights in Prussia by Conrad duke of Mazo- the Roman succeeded his brother; and as he also died vvith
via, the competitor of Boleslas V. for the crown of Poland, out children, he v as succeedet °’ .IS , 1 rv r- ,l ’
Their original residence in the former country was Culm, who sold the electorate to the Emperor lar es •
to which territory they were confined by the conditions of house of Luxemburg, for two bundle ousan
the grant, excepting what they might conquer from their gold. Charles IV. gave the March to ns son inc ,
pagan neighbours, all which the emperor granted to them who was succeeded by Sigismund; an us eec o ,
in perpetuity. Encouraged by this grant, the knights con- embarrassed in his circumstances, sold t ic .. ew ar
quered the greater part of the country now called Prussia ; the knights of the Teutonic order. Josse succeec ec ig
and, not content witli this, they became so troublesome to mund ; but aspiring to the empire, he so t ie e ec or
Poland, that the monarchs of that kingdom were sometimes to William duke of Misnia, who, after possessing i or o
PRUSSIA.
671
History, year, sold it again to the Emperor Sigismund. In 1417,
'-'-v'—'' Frederick VI. burgrave of Nuremberg,"received at the Diet
of Constance the investiture of the country of Branden¬
burg from the hands of the Emperor Sigismund, who, two
years previously, had conferred upon Frederick the dignity
of elector, and arch-chamberlain of the Holy Roman em¬
pire.
This prince, the first of the family of Hohenzollern, one
of the oldest in Europe, found himself possessed of the Old
and the Middle March; but the dukes of Pomerania had
usurped the March of the Ukraine. The elector therefore
declared war against them, and soon recovered the province.
But as the New March still remained in the hands of the
Teutonic knights, to whom it had been sold, as already men¬
tioned, the elector, to compensate for this, took possession
of Saxony, which at that time happened to be vacant by
the death of Albert, the last elector of the Anhalt line. The
emperor, however, disapproving of this step, gave the inves¬
titure of Saxony to the Duke of Misnia, upon which Fre¬
derick voluntarily desisted from his acquisitions. This elec¬
tor made a division of his possessions by will. To his eld¬
est son, who had too closely applied himself to the search of
the philosopher’s stone, he left only Voightland. The elec¬
torate was given to his second son Frederick; Albert, sur-
named Achilles, received the duchies of Franconia; and
Frederick, surnamed the Fat, had the Old March, which,
by his death, returned to the electorate of Brandenburg.
Frederick I. was succeeded by his son, called also Fre¬
derick, and surnamed Irontooth on account of his strength.
He might with as much reason have been surnamed the
Magnanimous, since he refused two crowns, that of Bohe¬
mia, which was offered him by the pope, and the kingdom
of Poland, to which he was invited by the people ; but Fre¬
derick declared he would not accept of the latter unless
Casimir, brother of Ladislas, the late king, should refuse it.
These instances of magnanimity had such an effect on the
neighbouring people, that the states of Lower Lusatia made
him a voluntary surrender of their country. But as Lusatia
was a fief of Bohemia, the king of that country immediate¬
ly made war on the elector, in order to recover it. In this,
however, he was so far from being successful, that, by a
treaty of peace concluded in 1462, he was obliged to sur¬
render to the elector the perpetual sovereignty of Corbus,
Peits, Sommerfeld, and some other places. Frederick hav¬
ing redeemed the New March from the Teutonic order for
the sum of a hundred thousand florins, and having still
further enlarged his dominions, resigned the sovereignty to
his brother Albert, in the year 1469.
xploitsof Albert was fifty-seven years old when his brother resign¬
ed to him the electorate. Most of his exploits had been
performed whilst he was burgrave of Nuremberg. Having
declared war against Louis duke of Bavaria, he defeated that
prince and took him prisoner. He also gained eight battles
against the Nurembergers, who had rebelled and contested
his rights to the burgraviate. In one of these he fought
singly against sixteen men, until his people came up to his
assistance. He made himself master of the town of Greif-
fenburg in the same manner as Alexander the Great took
the capital of the Oxydracae, by leaping from the top of
the walls into the town, where he defended himself singly
against the inhabitants until his men forced the gates and
rescued him. The confidence which the Emperor Fre¬
derick III. placed in him, gained him the direction of al¬
most the whole empire. He commanded the imperial ar¬
mies against Louis the Rich, duke of Bavaria ; and also
against Charles the Bold, duke of Burgundy, who had laid
siege to Nuis, but concluded a peace at the interposition
of Albert. He gained the prize at seventeen tournaments,
and was never dismounted. All these exploits, however,
had been performed before Albert obtained the electorate.
From that time we meet with no very important trans¬
4bert.
actions until the year 1594, when John Sigismund of Bran- Historv.
denburg, having married Anne, the only daughter of Alberts v'-’—^
duke of Prussia, that duchy was united to the electorate,
of which it has ever since formed part; and he also obtain¬
ed pretensions to the countries of Juliers, Berg, Cleves,
Marck, Ravensburg, and Ravenstein, of which Anne was
the heiress.
Sigismund died in the year 1619, and was succeeded by Reign of
his son George William, during whose government the elec- t*le elector
torate suffered great calamities. At this time commenced
the war between the Protestants and Catholics, which, from " llliam’
the period of its endurance, has been denominated the Thir¬
ty Years’ War. The former, although leagued together,
were on the point of being utterly destroyed by the impe¬
rialists under the command of Tilly and Wallenstein, when
Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden turned the scale in their fa¬
vour, and threatened the Catholic party with total destruc¬
tion. But by the death of the king on the field of battle
at Lutzen, the fortune of war was once more changed. At
last, however, peace was concluded with the emperor; and,
in 1640, the elector died, leaving his dominions to his son
Frederick William.
This young prince, though only twenty years of age at That of
the time of his accession, applied himself with the utmost Fredoriek
diligence to repair the losses occasioned by the Avars which whliam.
had preceded. He received the investiture of Prussia per¬
sonally from the king of Poland, on condition of paying a
hundred thousand florins annually, and not making peace
with the enemies of that country. His envoy likewise re¬
ceived the investiture of the electorate from the Emperor
Ferdinand III. The elector then thought of recovering
his provinces from those who had usurped them. He con¬
cluded a truce of twenty years with the Swedes, who eva¬
cuated the greater part of his states. He likewise paid a
hundred and forty thousand crowns to the Swedish garri¬
sons, which still possessed some of his towns; he conclud¬
ed a treaty Avith the Hessians, who delivered up a part of
the duchy of Cleves ; and he obtained of the Hollanders
the evacuation of several other cities.
In the mean time, the poAvers of Europe began to be Treaty of
sickened of a Avar Avhich had continued for such a length of ’'Testpha-
time with unrelenting fury. The cities of Osnaburg and Ua‘
Munster being chosen as the most proper places for nego¬
tiation, the conferences were opened in the year 1645; but,
by reason of the multiplicity of business, they were not
concluded till two years aftenvards. France, which had
espoused the interests of Sweden, demanded that Pomera¬
nia should be ceded to the latter, as an indemnification for
the expenses Avhich the war had cost Gustavus Adolphus
and his successors. Although the empire and the elector
refused to give up Pomerania, it Avas at last agreed to cede
to the Swedes Hither Pomerania, the isles of Rugen and
Wollin, and also some cities; in return for Avhich, the bi¬
shoprics of Halberstadt, Minden, and Kamin were secula¬
rized in favour of the elector, and he was put in possession
of them, together Avith the lordships of Hochenstein and
Richenstein, and the reversion of the archbishopric of Mag¬
deburg. Thus wTas concluded, in 1648, the treaty of West¬
phalia, which serves as a basis to all the possessions and
rights of the German princes. The elector then concluded
a treaty with the Swedes for the regulation of limits, and for
the acquittal of certain debts; and next year the electorate,
Pomerania, and the duchies of Cleves, Avere evacuated by
the Swedes.
Notwithstanding these treaties, however, the Swedes soon Proceed-
aftenvards invaded Pomerania, but were entirely defeated ingsagainst
by the elector near the town of Fehrbellin. Three thou- p^^edes'
sand were left dead on the field, amongst whom were a num- ‘ '
ber of officers; and a great many were made prisoners. The
elector immediately pursued his victory, and, gaining many
advantages over the Swedes, deprived them of the cities ot
672
PRUSSIA.
Historv. Stralsund and Greiphswald. The Swedes, however, hoping
to oblige the elector to evacuate Pomerania, which he had
almost totally subdued, invaded Prussia at the head of six¬
teen thousand men, who advanced from Livonia, and en-
terin°* the country, burned the suburbs of Memel, and too*
the cities of Tilse and Insterburg. The elector, to oppose
the invaders, left Berlin on the 10th of January 1679, at
the head of about nine thousand men. The Swedes retired
at his approach, and were much harassed by the troops on
their march, losing almost one half their army. At last,
having crossed the bay of Frisch-Haff and Courland on the
ice, the elector, on the 19th of January, arrived with his in¬
fantry within three miles of Tilse, where the Swedes had
established their head-quarters. The same day, General
Trefenfeldt defeated two regiments of the enemy near Split¬
ter ; and the'Swedes who were in Tilse having abandoned
the place, retired towards Courland. They were pursued by
General Gortz, and entirely defeated with great slaughter,
so that scarcely three thousand of them returned to Livo¬
nia. Yet, notwithstanding these victories, the elector, being
pressed on the other side by Turenne and the Prince of
Conde, was obliged to make peace with the Swedes. The
conditions were, that the treaty of Westphalia should serve
as the basis of the peace; and that the elector should have
the property of the customs in all the ports of Further Po¬
merania, with the cities of Ivamin, Gartz, Greiffenburg, and
Wildenbruck; whilst, on his part, he consented to give up
to the Swedes all that he had conquered from them, and to
afford no assistance to the king of Denmark, upon condi¬
tion that France should deliver up to him his provinces in
Westphalia, and pay him three hundred thousand ducats
as an indemnification for the damages done by the French
to his states. This treaty was styled the peace of St Ger¬
mains.
With the treaty of St Germains terminated the military
exploits of Frederick W illiam, who passed the last years of
his administration in tranquillity. Few sovereigns ever
attained greater celebrity, or enjoyed more fully the affec¬
tions of his subjects and the respect of foreign countries.
An embassy was sent him by Murad Geray, the khan of
the Tartars, soliciting his friendship; and he received other
marks of the estimation in which he was held. In 1684, he
admitted into his dominions great numbers of Protestants
who had fled from France after the revocation of the edict of
Nantes by Louis XIV.; twenty thousand of whom are said
to have settled in the electorate, where they introduced
those arts and manufactures which proved of the utmost
benefit to the country. Before his time, Prussia was held
as a fief of Poland; but in 1656 he compelled the Polish
monarch to declare it an independent state. Puffendorf
thought the life of this prince a subject not unworthy of his
pen ; and Frederick the Great regards him1 as the principal
founder of the power and influence of the house of Bran¬
denburg.
Prussia In 1688, the elector Frederick William died, and was
erected in- succeeded by his son Frederick III. This prince was re-
to a king- markably fi-.d of show and ceremony, which, during the
derick j16" course °f h.-’ government, involved him in great expense.
‘ el L The attainment of the regal dignity seemed to be the great
object of his ambition. To accomplish this object, he joined
with the emperor in the alliance against France, in which
he was engaged by William III. king of Britain. He also
yielded up the circle of Schwibus, which had been given
to his predecessor; and, in 1700, he obtained from the em¬
peror the royal dignity which he had so earnestly desired.
The terms on-which it was obtained were, that Frederick
should never separate from the empire those provinces of
his dominions which' depended on it; that he should not,
in the emperor’s presence, demand any other marks of History,
honour than those which he had hitherto enjoyed; that thev
ministers which he sent to Vienna should be treated like
those of other crowned heads ; that the elector should main¬
tain at his own expense six thousand men in Italy, in ease
the emperor should be obliged to make war by reason of
the succession of the house of Bourbon to the crown of
Spain ; and that the troops in question should continue there
whilst the war lasted.
Such were the principal terms upon which Prussia was
erected into a kingdom, through the friendship of the em¬
peror, with whom Frederick I. (so called as being the first
king of Prussia), continued all his life in strict alliance.
He was a pacific and patriotic prince ; and having always
preserved his dominions in peace, consulted more effectu¬
ally the true interest of his subjects than those monarchs
who have dazzled the world by the splendour of their mili¬
tary exploits.
Frederick I. died in the beginning of 1713, and was sue- Frederick
ceeded by his son Frederick William, sometimes called H-
Frederick II. He was in almost everything the reverse of
his father. His dispositions being altogether martial, he
applied himself entirely to the augmentation of his army,
and perfecting them in their exercises, by which means they
became the most expert soldiers in Europe. His foible was
an ambition of having his army composed of men above the
ordinary size ; but as these could not be procured, he com¬
posed a regiment of the tallest men he could find; and as
his officers made no scruple of picking up such men wher¬
ever they could find them for his majesty s use, the neigh¬
bouring states w'ere frequently offended, and a war was
often likely to ensue from this ridiculous cause. However,
his Prussian majesty newer engaged in any martial enter¬
prise of consequence; but having placed his army on the
most respectable footing of any in the world, and filled his
coffers with cash, for he was of a very saving disposition, he
put it in the power of his son to perform those exploits which
proved matter of astonishment to all Europe.
In this king’s reign Prussia first perceived that her natu¬
ral enemy and rival was the house of Austria, and not France,
as had been formerly supposed. Hence frequent disputes
took place between these two powers, for which the perse¬
cution of the Protestants by some of the Catholic states of
the empire afforded a pretence ; and although a war never
actually took place, yet it was easy to perceive that both
were at heart mortal enemies. But when hrederick Wil¬
liam died in 1740, this enmity broke out in full force.
This king was succeeded by his son Frederick III., com-Frederuk
monly styled Frederick the Great, who ascended the throne the Grea
in 1740. He was born on the 24th of January 1712, and
in his infancy intrusted to the care of Madame de Rocoule,
who spoke no language but French, and thus probably in¬
spired him at once with a taste for that language and a dis¬
like of the German. As he advanced in years, he was put
under more accomplished tutors; but as his father s object
was to inspire him with a love of military glory, and to teac i
him the art of war in all its departments, he at first ma. e
little progress in science and literature; and, in fact, his
erudition was at the best but limited. The branches in which
he excelled were the belles lettres and ethics. He was also
an adept in music, of which he was passionately fond. But
his father not reckoning such an accomplishment compa¬
tible with the profession of a soldier, forbade him to cultivate
it; and his disobedience of the paternal restriction was the
cause of the misunderstanding which existed between him
and his father till the death of the latter. Finding himseh
disgraced at court, he retired to the castle of Rheinsberg,
where he devoted his time to study, and to the society and
1 See Memoirs of the House of Brandenburg.
istory. conversation of learned men of different countries. When
“e ascended the throne in 1740,. he was welcomed by the
unanimous acclamations of his subjects, who entertained
sanguine hopes of his future greatness and celebrity. In
accordance with the uniform policy of his family, the early
and great object of his life was to increase his dominions ;
and the first step he took in the accomplishment of this
object was the invasion of Silesia upon the death of the em¬
peror of Germany. The empress-queen was placed in a very
disagreeable situation by the demise of her father; and of
this Frederick took the advantage to do himself justice, as
he said, with regard to Silesia, of which his ancestors had
been unjustly deprived. The province in question he ac¬
cordingly seized; but it cost him dear; for the empress,
having at last overcome all difficulties, formed against him
the most powerful combination that was ever known in
Europe.
i nbina. The treaty by which the empress reluctantly yielded up
11 against t0 the king of prussia the province of and with it a
clear revenue of L.800,000 a year, had scarcely been con¬
cluded, when she entered into another with the court of St
Petersburg, which was concluded on the 22d of May 1746.
This treaty, as far as it was made public, was merely of a
defensive nature ; but six secret and separate articles were
added to it. By one of these it was pro> ided, that in case
his Prussian majesty should attack the t mpress-queen, or
the empress of Russia, or even the republic of Poland, it
should be considered as a breach of the treaty of Dresden,
by which Silesia had been given up. It was also stipulated,
that notwithstanding that treaty, which, in fact, had been
dictated by the king of Prussia himself, the right of the
empress-queen to Silesia still continued, and for the reco¬
very of that province the contracting powers engaged mu¬
tually to furnish an army of sixty thousand men. To this
treaty, called the treaty of St Petersburg, the king of Po¬
land was invited to accede ; but being in a manner in the
power of the king of Prussia, he did not think proper to
sign it. However, he verbally acceded to it, so as to con¬
vince the other parties of his design to co-operate in all
their measures; and in consideration of such intention, it
was agreed that he should have a share in the partition of
the king of Prussia’s dominions, in the event of the suc¬
cessful issue of their enterprises.
h sion of In consequence of these machinations, every art was used
I y* to render the king of Prussia personally odious to the empress
of Russia; the empress-queen made vast preparations in Bo¬
hemia and Moravia ; and the king of Poland, under pretence
of a military amusement, drew together sixteen thousand
men, with whom he occupied a strong post at Pirna. The
empress-queen, still further to strengthen herself, concluded
a treaty with the court of France, dated at Versailles on the
1st of May 1756. In the mean time the king of Prussia,
understanding from his emissaries what was going forward,
resolved to be beforehand with his enemies; and, to keep
the war out of his own country, he entered Saxony with a
considerable army. At first he affected only to demand a
free passage for his troops, and an observance of the neu¬
trality professed by the king of Poland; but having good
reasons to doubt this neutrality, he demanded, as a preli¬
minary, that the Saxon troops should immediately aban¬
don the strong post they occupied, and disperse themselves.
This demand being refused, Frederick blockaded the Saxon
camp at Pirna, resolving to reduce it by famine, since its
strong situation rendered an attack dangerous. At that
time there were in Bohemia two Saxon armies; one under
the command of Marshal Brown, and the other under that
of General Picolomini. To keep these in awe, the king had
sent Marshal Schwerin with an army into Bohemia, and
Marshal Keith penetrated into the same kingdom on the
side of Misnia. But still the king of Prussia did not en¬
tirely confide in these dispositions; and therefore fearing
VOL. XVIII.
lest Brown might afford some assistance to the Saxons, History.
he joined his forces under Keith, and on the 1st of Decern- " v  
ber 1756 attacked and defeated the Austrian general at
Lowositz. The latter thus found it impossible to relieve the
Saxons, and, after a vain attempt to retire from their post,
they were all taken prisoners. The king of Poland quitted
ins dominions in Germany, and the Prussians took up their
winter-quarters in Saxony. Here they seized upon the
revenues, levied contributions, and obliged the country to
supply them with recruits. At the same time the king of
1 russia made himself master of the archives of Dresden,
by which means he procured the originals of those docu¬
ments which, when produced to the world, showed the
combination that had been formed against him, and conse¬
quently justified the measures he had taken in his own de¬
fence.
No sooner had the king entered Saxony in the manner The king
aheady i elated, than a process was commenced against him put to the
in the Aulic Council, and before the Diet of the Empire.ban of the
W'here he was soon condemned for contumacy, and put tocmi^ie*
the ban of the empire. The various circles were then or¬
dered to furnish their respective contingents of men and
money to put this sentence in execution; but these came
in so slowly, that, had it not been for the assistance of the
French under the Prince de Soubise, the army would pro¬
bably have never been in a condition to act. The Aus¬
trians, in the mean time, made great preparations, and
raised a hundred‘thousand men in Bohemia, whom they
placed under the command of Prince Charles of Lorraine,
assisted by Marshal Brown. 1 he Czarina sent a body of
sixty thousand men under Apraxin to invade ducal Prus¬
sia, whilst a strong fleet was equipped in the Baltic to co¬
operate with that army. The king of Sweden also acceded
to the confederacy, in hopes of recovering those possessions
which his ancestors had enjoyed in Pomerania; and the
Duke of Mecklenburg followed the same course, promising
to join the Swedish army with six thousand men as soon as
it should be necessary. On the side of the king of Prussia
appeared nobody excepting an army of between thirty and
forty thousand Hanoverians commanded by the Duke of
Cumberland; and these were outnumbered and forced to
yield to a superior army of French commanded by D’Etrees.
In the mean time, his Prussian majesty, finding that he Invasion of
must depend for assistance solely upon his own abilities, re-Bohemia,
solved to make the best use of his time. Aqcordingly, in ai!d defeat
the spring of 1757, his armies poured into Bphemia ffom^.the Aus‘
two different points, whilst the king himself prepared to trianarni> •
enter it by a third. Marshal Schwerin entered from Sile¬
sia, and the Prince of Bevern from Lusatia, where he de¬
feated an army of twenty-eight thousand Austrians who
opposed his passage. As the intentions of the king himself
were not known, the Austrkins detached a body of twenty-
thousand men from their principal army to observe his mo¬
tions. This was no sooner done than the king cut off all com¬
munication between the detachment and the main body;
and having joined his two generals with incredible celerity,
he engaged the Austrians near Prague, totally defeated them,
and took their camp, military chest, and cannon ; but he lost
the brave Marshal Schwerin, who was killed at the age of
eighty-two, with a colonel’s standard in his hand. On the
Austrian side Marshal Brown was wounded, and died in a
short time, though it is supposed more from the chagrin he
suffered than from the dangerous nature of the wound itself.
About forty thousand of the Austrian army took refuge Siege and
in Prague, whilst the rest fled in different directions. The bombard-
city was instantly invested by the king, and all succoursnient °f
were cut off'. The great number of troops which it con- i,raouc-
tained made an attack unadvisable, but seemed to render . ,
inevitable its reduction by famine; however, the king, J;o
accomplish his purpose the more speedily, prepared to bom¬
bard the town. On the 29th of May, after a most dread-
4 Q
PRUSSIA.
Count
Oaun.
Battle of
Koliin.
Siege of
Prague
raised.
ful storm of thunder and lightning, four batteries began to
play upon the city. From these were thrown every twenty-
four hours, 288 bombs, besides a vast number o, red-hot
balls, so that it was soon on fire m almost every quarter. The
garrison made a vigorous defence, and one well-conducted
sally, which, however, was repulsed with great loss. The
magistrates, burghers, and clergy, seeing their city on the
point of being reduced to an heap of rubbish, earnestly sup¬
plicated the commander to capitulate ; but he was deaf to
their entreaties, and drove twelve thousand of the most use¬
less mouths out of the town, who were quickly duven m
again by the Prussians.
" The affairs of the empress-queen seemed thus to be verg¬
ing to destruction, when Leopold count Daim took upon him
the command of the army. This general, having arrived
within a few miles of Prague on the day after the great battle
there, immediately collected the scattered fugitives with the
greatest diligence, and retired with them to a strong post
in the neighbourhood, whence he gave the troops ml rague
hopes of speedy relief. It was now the king of Prussia s
business, either to attempt making himself master of the
citv bv one desperate effort, or entirely to abandon the enter¬
prise, and drive Daun from his position before his troops had
recovered from the terror of their late defeat. But, by at¬
tempting to do both, he rendered himself incapable of do-
ino- either. Though the army of Daun already amounted
to sixty thousand men, and though they were strongly m
trenched, and defended by a vast train of artillery, his ma¬
jesty thought proper to send against them no more than t m-
ty-two thousand men. On the morning of the 18th of June,
the Prussians marched by the left along the great road which
leads from Prague to Kollin, intending to assail the enemy s
right wing as soon as the necessary dispositions had been
made for the attack, and the flank sufficiently devdoped;
but various circumstances conspired to render ineffectual
the plan which Frederick had formed. Daun had drawn up
his army in order of battle upon the very ground which the
Prussians intended to occupy, and the flank movement of
the latter, being executed too close to the enemy s line, in¬
deed within the range of their artillery, was arrested, at the
critical moment, by several brigades stopping to return the
enemy’s fire. This effectually deranged the whole combi¬
nation ; and though the Prussians did all that human cou¬
rage and steadiness could do in the circumstances, and the
king himself at last charged at the head of his cavalry, they
were driven from the field with a loss in killed, wounded,
and missing, of nearly fourteen thousand men of all aims.
The immediate consequence of the battle of Kollin was,
that the king found himself obliged to raise the siege of
Prague, and to take refuge in Saxony. The Austrians ha¬
rassed him.as much as possible in his retreat from Bohe¬
mia ; but, notwithstanding their superiority, they could not
make any decisive attempt against him, as the frontiers of
Saxony abounded with positions easily defended. In the
mean time the Russians, who had hitherto been very dila¬
tory in their movements, began to exert themselves, and en¬
tered Prussia under Apraxin and Fermor, where they com¬
mitted innumerable cruelties and excesses. A large body
of Austrians also entered Silesia, penetrated as far as Bres¬
lau, and then laid siege to Schweidnitz ; whilst another body
entered Lusatia, and made themselves masters of Zittau.
An army of twenty-two thousand Swedes also entered Prus¬
sian Pomerania, took the towns of Anclam and Demmcin,
and laid the whole country under contribution. The french,
too, being freed from all restraint by the capitulation of the
Duke of Cumberland at Closter-Seven, made their way into
Halberstadt and the Old March of Brandenburg, first ex¬
acting contributions, and then plundering the towns. T lie
army of the empire, being reinforced by that of the Prince
de Soubise, at length marched to occupy Saxony, and thus History
left the Austrians at liberty to exert the greater part of ''-“v—
their force in the reduction of Silesia.
General Haddick penetrated through Lusatia, passed by Berlin la
the Prussian armies, and suddenly appeared before the gates”r c°
of Berlin, which city he laid under contribution. He retired Defeat o
on the approach of a body of Prussians ; yet he still tounu jjejlwa^
means to occupy such a position as interrupted the king s
communications with Silesia. T. he destruction of the king of
Prussia therefore seemed to be inevitable. Every exertion
which he had made, though able and well conducted, had
been unsuccessful. His general, Lehwald, who opposed the
Russians, had orders to attack them at all events. He obeyed
his instructions, and with thirty thousand men attacked six¬
ty thousand of the enemy strongly intrenched at a place
called Norkitten. The Prussians behaved with the great¬
est valour; but after having killed five times more of the
enemy than they themselves lost, they were compelled to
retire^ although more formidable after their defeat than the
Russians after their victory. The king, in the mean time,
exerted himself on every side, and his enemies fled every¬
where before him ; but whilst he pursued one body, another
gained upon him in an opposite direction, and the winter fast
approached, whilst his strength decayed, and that of his ad¬
versaries seemed to increase in every quarter.
The Prussian monarch, however, though beset with the.Baweot
greatest difficulties, did not abandon himself to despair, or
lose that wonderful presence of mind which so eminently
distinguished him in all his military enterprises. He pur¬
posely delayed a decisive action until the approach of win¬
ter, when at length, upon the 5th of November he>
after a variety of skilful movements, encountered at Kos-
bach the united army of his enemies, commanded by the
Prince of Saxe-Hilburghausen and the Prince de bou-
bise. The allied army amounted to fully fifty thousand
men, but most of the troops of the Circles were newly rais¬
ed, and many of them not well affected to the cause. I he
Prussians did not exceed twenty-five thousand men; but
they were superior to any troops in the world, and inspired,
by the presence of their king, with the most enthusiastic va¬
lour. The imperialists were attacked whilst in full march,
their cavalry was overthrown at the first shock ; and being
thus prevented from forming a regular order of battle, or
bringing their battalions into action except in succession,
they were defeated with the loss of three thousand killed,
eight generals, two hundred and fifty officers of different
ranks, and six thousand private soldiers taken prisoners.
Night alone prevented the total destruction of the allied
,liii
i
• o
army.
Bv this battle the king was set free from the enemy on Battle
one side; but this only gave him an opportunity of renew-Breslau,
ing his efforts on another. The Austrians had collected a
great force, and now began to make proportional progress m
Silesia. After a siege of sixteen days, they had reduced
the strong fortress of Schweidnitz, and obliged the Prussian
garrison of four thousand men to surrender as prisoners ot
war. Hearing of the victory at Rosbach, and learning that
the king of Prussia was in full march to relieve Silesia, they
resolved to assault the Prince of Bevern in his strong camp
under the walls of Breslau. The attempt was made on
the 22d of November ; but their attack was sustained witn
the greatest resolution. The slaughter of the Austrians was
prodigious. A great part of the enemy had retired from the
field of battle, and the rest were preparing to follow thei
example, when all at once the Prussian general took the
same resolution. Flis army had suffered much m the en¬
gagement, and he became apprehensive of a total deteat m
case the intrenchments should in any part be force ,
which reason he quitted his strong position and retired De-
» See Jomini, Traite de Grande Tactique, vol. ii. chap. 10.
P R U S S I A.
story, hind the Oder. Two days afterwards, the Prince of Bevern,
v 'v"'-'' going to reconnoitre without an escort, attended only by a
groom, was taken prisoner by an advanced party of Croats,
a small body of whom had crossed the Oder.
I slau Upon this the town of Breslau immediately surrendered;
t n by and there, as well as at Schweidnitz, the Austrians found
i Aus- grgat quantities of provisions, ammunition, and money. In
j fact, all Silesia was on the point of falling into their hands,
and the Prussian affairs were fast getting into the utmost dis¬
traction, when the king, by a rapid and able march, passed
through Thuringia, Misnia, and Lusatia, in spite of the ut¬
most efforts of Haddick and Marshal, who were sent to op¬
pose him, and, entering Silesia upon the 2d of December,
joined the Prince of Bevern’s corps, which repassed the
Oder to meet him. The garrison of Schweidnitz, who, as
we have already observed, had been made prisoners of war,
also joined the king’s army unexpectedly; and their pre¬
sence contributed not a little, notwithstanding the smallness
of their number, to raise the spirits of the whole army.
They had submitted with the greatest reluctance; but as
the Austrians were conducting them to prison, they hap¬
pened to receive intelligence of the victory at Rosbach, upon
which they immediately rose on the escort that conducted
them, and entirely dispersed it; and afterwards marching in
such a direction as they thought would most readily lead
them to their king, they accidentally met with his army. '
ti n de- His Prussian majesty now approached Breslau ; on which
t then t^e Austrians> confiding in their superiority (for they exceed-
f ‘ " ed seventy thousand, whilst the Prussians scarcely amounted
to thirty-six thousand), abandoned their strong camp, which
the Prince of Bevern had formerly occupied, and advanced
to give him battle. The king did not intend by any means
to disappoint them, but on his part advanced with the great¬
est celerity. The two armies met on the 5th of December,
near the village of Leuthen. Marshal Daun made the best
dispositions possible. The position occupied by his army
was a plain, with small eminences, which he covered with ar¬
tillery ; and as the ground w as also interspersed with thick¬
ets, the Austrians sought to turn these likewise to their ad¬
vantage. On their right and left were hills, upon which they
planted batteries of cannon. The ground in their front was
intersected by many causeways ; and, to render the whole
more impracticable, the Austrians had felled a great num¬
ber of trees, and scattered them in the way. At the com¬
mencement of the engagement it was found almost impossi¬
ble for the Prussian cavalry to act, bn account of these im¬
pediments ; but in consequence of a judicious disposition
made by the king himself, all difficulties were overcome.
His majesty, foreseeing that General Nadasty, who was
placed on the enemy’s left with a corps de reserve, designed
to assail him in flank, had placed four battalions immedi¬
ately behind the cavalry of his right wing, to support them
in case of attack. No disposition could have been more-
fortunate. It happened just as the king had foreseen. Na-
dasty’s cavalry attacked the Prussian right wing with great
fury ; but they were received with such a severe fire from
the four battalions above mentioned, that they were obliged
to retire in disorder. The king’s flank, then, w7ell covered
and supported, was enabled to act with such order and vi¬
gour as repulsed the enemy. The Austrian artillery was also
silenced by that of the Prussians. Still the Austrians con¬
tinued to make a gallant resistance during the whole of the
battle. After having been thrown into disorder, they rallied
all their forces about Leuthen, which was defended on every
side by intrenchments and redoubts. The Prussians attacked
them with the utmost impetuosity, and at last became mas¬
ters of the position ; upon which the enemy fled on all sides,
and a total rout ensued. In this battle the Austrians lost
six thousand men killed on the spot, fifteen thousand taken
prisoners, and upwards of two hundred pieces of cannon. ^
The consequences of this victory were very great. Bres-
/
675
lay, being immediately invested, surrendered on the 29th History,
of December, and the garrison, amounting to thirteen thou- '"—'v—
sand men, were made prisoners of war. The blockade 0f®reslau
Schweidnitz was likewise formed, whilst detached Prussian retaken*
parties overran the whole country of Silesia, and reduced
every place of importance. Meanwhile the Russians, hav¬
ing ravaged and destroyed the country in such a manner
that they could not subsist in it, thought proper to retire
from the Prussian dominions. General Lehwald being thus
left at liberty to act against the Swedes, quickly drove
them out of Prussian Pomerania, the whole of which he re¬
covered, and also overran some part of Swedish Pomerania.
I he duchy of Mecklenburg being thus left quite exposed,
the king took ample vengeance on it, by exacting severe
contributions of men and money. To complete this mo¬
narch’s good fortune, the French, who had retired after the
battle of Rosbach, w ere now opposed by the Hanoverians
under Prince Ferdinand, wrho kept them, so well employed
that, during the remainder of the war, the king of Prussia
had no more trouble from them.
The beginning of the year 1758 proved favourable to the Schweid-
arms of his Prussian majesty. On the 3d of April he com-mtz reta-
menced his- operations against Schweidnitz, and pushed the
siege so vigorously that the place surrendered in thirteenolrautz-
days. He then disposed his forces in such a manner as
might best guard his dominions against his numerous ene¬
mies. For this purpose Count Dohna commanded a body
of troops on the side of Pomerania ; whilst another consi¬
derable body was posted betw een Wohlau and Glogau, in
order to cover Silesia from the Russians, in case they should
make their inroad that way. A little time afterwards an
army wras formed in Saxony, commanded by the king’s bro¬
ther, Prince Henry. This army consisted of thirty batta¬
lions and forty-five squadrons, and was designed to make
head against the army of the Circles, w hich, by great ef¬
forts during the winter, and the junction of a considerable
body of Austrians, was again in a condition to take the
field. Between all these armies a ready' communication
was kept up by a regular chain of posts. After the reduc¬
tion of Schw^eidnitz, the king, having made a show of invad¬
ing Bohemia, suddenly burst into Moravia, where in a short
time he made himself master of the whole country, and on
the 27th of May laid siege to Olmutz, the capital. Of this
Daun no sooner got information than he marched to Mo¬
ravia through Bohemia; and though he was not in a condi¬
tion to risk a battle, yet, by placing himself in a strong si¬
tuation, where he could not be attacked, by harassing the
king’s troops and cutting off their convoys, he at last ob¬
liged him to abandon the enterprise. The king, however,
who frequently owed much of his success to the impene¬
trable secrecy in which he shrouded all his designs, gave
not the least hint of his intention to raise the siege of Ol¬
mutz. On the contrary, the very day before the siege was
raised, the firing continued as briskly as ever; but in the
night of the 1st of July, the whole army took the road to
Bohemia in two columns, and gained an entire march upon
the Austrians. Thus, notwithstanding the utmost efforts
of his enemies, the Prussian army reached Bohemia, where
the king seizecb upon a large magazine at Lieutomissel;
defeated some corps of Austrians who had attempted to in¬
terrupt his progress ; and arrived at Konigsgratz, of which
he took possession, after driving from it seven thousand
Austrians who were intrenched'there. This city and seve¬
ral other districts he laid under contribution ; but he soon
afterwards, entered Silesia, and marched with the utmost ra¬
pidity to encounter the Russians, who'having united their
forces under Brown and Fermor,' had entered the New
March of Brandenburg, and laid siege to Custrin. .
The king arrived in this city at a very critical period. Rattle of .
The Russians had laid siege to it on the 15th of August jZorndoiff.
and though they were not well skilled in managing artillery.
676
PRUSSIA.
History, yet, by furious and unremitting discharges at random, they
s—-v—threw in such a number of bombs and red-hot balls, that
the town was soon on fire in every quarter. Some of the
wretched inhabitants were burned ; others were buried in
the ruins of their houses, or killed by the balls which fell
like hail in the streets; whilst many of the survivors aban¬
doned their habitations, and fled out of the town on the
side where it was not invested. The governor did every¬
thing for the defence of the place; but as the walls were
built after the ancient manner, it was impossible that the
town could have made a lengthened defence, especially as
the principal magazine of the besieged had been blown up.
The stern avenger of all these injuries, however, was now at
hand. The king came in sight of the Russians on the 25th
of August, after a march of fifty-six days, in the course of
which he beheld the country everywhere desolated, and the
villages in flames. At his approach the enemy raised the
siege, and retired towards the neighbouring village of Zorn-
dorff, where they were almost immediately attacked. At
nine o’clock in the morning a terrible fire of cannon and
mortars poured destruction on the right wing of the Russian
army for two hours without intermission. The slaughter
was such as might have been expected; but the Russians
kept their ground with astonishing resolution, new regiments
pressing forward to supply the places of those that fell.
When the first line had expended all their ammunition, they
rushed forward on the Prussians with their bayonets; and
these brave troops, although encouraged by the presence of
their king, gave way and fled before an enemy already half
defeated. The Russian generals ought now' to have attack¬
ed with their cavalry the disordered infantry of the enemy,
which would have completed the defeat, and in all probabi¬
lity given the finishing stroke to the king of Prussia’s af¬
fairs. This opportunity, however, they lost. But the king
was not so negligent. By a very rapid and masterly move¬
ment, he brought all the cavalry of his right wing to the
centre, and falling upon the Russian infantry, uncovered by
their cavalry, and even disordered by their own success, drove
them back with horrible slaughter, at the same time that the
repulsed battalions of infantry, returning to the charge, de¬
cided the victory. The Russians were now thrown into the
most dreadful confusion. The wind blew the dust and smoke
into their faces, so that, unable to distinguish friends from
foes, they fired on each other, plundered their own bag¬
gage, which had been placed between the lines, and intoxi¬
cated themselves with brandy ; the ranks fell in upon one
another^ and being thus crammed together into a narrow
space, the fire of the Prussians produced dreadful effect,
whilst their enemies kept up only a scattered and ineffec¬
tual discharge. Yet even in this dismal situation the Rus¬
sians did not fly, but suffered themselves to be slaughtered
till seven in the evening, when their generals having caused
an attack to be made on the Prussian right wing, the at¬
tention of the enemy was drawn to that quarter, and they
had thus time to retire a little from the field of battle to
recover their order. In this engagement the Russians lost
twenty-one thousand five hundred and twenty-nine men,
whilst that of the Prussians did not exceed two thousand.
A vast train of artillery was taken, together with the mili¬
tary chest, and many officers of high rank. The conse¬
quence was, that the Russian army retreated as far as
Landsperg, on the frontiers of Poland, and the king was
left at liberty to march w ith his usual expedition to the re¬
lief of Prince Henry in Saxony.
The prince was at this time severely pressed by Mar¬
shal Daun. As soon as the king had left Bohemia in the Historv
manner already related, Daun, considering it of no use to ^ v—
follow him, resolved to turn his arms against Saxony. To-^pmUp
wards that country, therefore, he marched through Lusa- ren(Jj^
tia, by Zittau, Gorlitz, and Bautzen. On the 3d of Sep-abortjve
tember he invested the strong fortress of Sonnestein, which
unaccountably surrendered, after a single day’s resistance,
to one of his generals, named Macguive. He then directed
his movement so as to favour the operations of General
Laudon, who had advanced through Lower Lusatia to the
confines of Brandenburg; and, by drawing the attention
of the Prussian forces which had been left in Silesia to the
northward of that duchy, he facilitated the progress of Ge¬
nerals Karsch and Deville in the southern parts. He then
proposed that Prince Henry should be attacked by the ar¬
my of the Circles, whilst that of the Austrians should pass
the Elbe, and, falling at the same time on the Prussians,
second the attack of the imperialists, and cut off the re¬
treat of their enemies from Dresden. The sudden appear¬
ance of the king of Prussia, however, put an end to his
plan. General Laudon abandoned all his conquests in Lower
Lusatia, and retired tow ards Daun, whilst that general him¬
self retired from the neighbourhood of Dresden as far as
Zittau. The army of the empire kept its ground in the
strong position at Pirna, formerly mentioned, but did not
undertake any thing. As for the Swedes, who had directed
their movements by those qf the Russians, they no sooner
heard of the victory of Zorndoff than they retreated with
much more expedition than they had advanced.
The affairs of the king of Prussia seemed to be thus pretty Surprise
well retrieved, when, by an unfortunate oversight, he was of the
brought to the verge of ruin. Marshal Daun had taken up P^ssian
an advantageous position at Stolpen, by which he preserved a
communication with the army of the empire. On the other j^chen.
hand, the king of Prussia, having taken possession of an im¬
portant post at Bautzen, extended his right wing to the vil¬
lage of Hohenkirchen, by which he preserved a commu¬
nication with Prince Henry, protected Brandenburg, and
had the power, if necessary, of throwing succours into Sile¬
sia. The two armies kept a watchful eye on each other’s
movements ; and as the principal aim of Daun was to cut off
the king’s communication with Silesia, and that of the king
to intercept Daun’s communication with Bohemia, a battle
seemed inevitable. In this posture of affairs the Austrian
general formed a design of attacking the Prussian camp in
the night; and in point of fact he succeeded, under cover
of the darkness, prolonged by a thick mist, in surprising his
usually vigilant enemy, who obviously never contemplated
such an enterprise on the part of his opponent. Soon after
midnight, the Austrian army began its march in three co¬
lumns towards the camp of the king of Prussia. The night
was exceedingly dark, and they had a considerable way to
march ; yet all the columns arrived simultaneously, without
being discovered, or the least confusion having occurred;
and at five in the morning they began a regular and well-
conducted attack upon one extremity of the Prussian line,
which was at the same time taken in reverse by the Aus¬
trian left wing formed en potence. Nothing could withstand
the sudden attack thus made. The battalions, as they
hastily formed, were swept away by the overwhelming fire
of the Austrians; the Prussians were thrown into confu¬
sion ; and Marshal Keith, one of their best generals, haying
received two musket-balls, fell dead on the spot.1 Prince
Francis of Brunsv/ick had his head shot off by a cannon-ball
as he was mounting his horse ; and everything seemed to
1 Frederick’s position was not good, and of this he was made fully aware. Two days before the battle, Marshal Keith said to h-vn,
c£ Si les Autrichiens nous laissent dans ce camp, ils meritent d’etre pendus.” The king, smiling at the observation, replied,
faut esperer que Daun aura plus peur de nous que de la corde.” This anecdote is eminently characteristic. The king relied on the
resources of his genius, and if light, which the ancient hero prayed for when beset by his enemies, had been vouchsafed to h redencfe,
Daun would never have gathered the bloody and bootless laurels of Hohenkirchen.
PRUSSIA.
677
Hstory. announce the total destruction of the army. Still, however,
the king preserved his wonderful presence of mind, which
indeed never forsook him, even on the most trying occasion.
He ordered some detachments from his left wing to support
the right; but the moment that these orders were received,
the left itself was furiously attacked. General Ketzow, who
commanded in that quarter, repulsed the Austrians with
difficulty, but was not able to afford any considerable assist¬
ance to the right, which alone was obliged to sustain the
weight of the principal attack. The Austrians, in the be¬
ginning of the engagement, had driven the Prussians out
of the village of Hohenkirchen ; and as the fate of the day
depended upon the possession of that post, no effort was
spared to recover it. The Prussians made three bloody
and unsuccessful attacks on the village ; in the fourth they
carried it; but the Austrians continually pouring in fresh
troops, they were at last' driven out with great slaughter.
The king then ordered a retreat, which was conducted in
good order, without being pursued; nevertheless, this bloody
action cost him seven thousand men, together with a great
number of cannon. The Austrians computed their own
loss at five thousand.
His Prussian majesty, having thus happily escaped such
imminent danger, took every possible measure to prevent
the enemy from gaining any considerable advantage from
his defeat.1 Perceiving that the only advantage which they
wished to derive from it was to cover the operations of their
armies in Silesia, and that he had now nothing to fear on
the side of Saxony, he reinforced his own army from that of
his brother Prince Henry, and hastened into Silesia to raise
the siege of Neiss, which had been completely invested on
the 4th of October. On the 24th of that month, therefore,
he quitted his camp, and by a circuitous route, to avoid ob¬
struction from the enemy, arrived in the plains of Gorlitz.
I . A body of the Austrians had in vain attempted to secure
this post before him, and some who arrived after him were
defeated with the loss of eight hundred men. From this
place the king pursued his march with the utmost diligence,
but was followed by Laudon at the head of twenty-four
thousand men, who constantly hung upon his rear, and ha¬
rassed his army. The king, however, knowing the import¬
ance of his expedition, continued his march without inter¬
ruption, and suffered his antagonist to obtain some trifling
advantages without molestation. Daun, however, not con¬
tent with the opposition given by Laudon, sent a large body
of horse and foot by another route to reinforce Karsch and
Deville, who had formed, the siege of Neiss and the block¬
ade of Cosel, whilst he himself passed the Elbe, and ad¬
vanced towards Dresden.
barbs of All these precautions, however, were of little avail. Ge-
fsden nerals Karsch and Deville, notwithstanding their reinforce-
rned. ment, no sooner heard of the king’s approach than they
raised the siege of both places, and retired, leaving behind
them a considerable quantity of military stores. The ob¬
ject of the march being thus accomplished, the king in¬
stantly returned, and hastened to the relief of Saxony, the
capital of which was in great danger from Marshal Daun.
The place was but indifferently fortified, and garrisoned
only by twelve thousand men; so that it could not hold
out long against a numerous and well-appointed army. It
was besides commanded by a large suburb, of which, if once
the enemy got possession, all defence of the city would History,
then be vain. For this reason Schmettau, the Prussian
governor, determined to set these suburbs on fire, which
was, actually done on the 10th of November, to the incre¬
dible loss of the inhabitants, as in the suburbs were carried
on most of those valuable manufactures which render the
city of Dresden remarkable. This disappointed the designs
of Daun ; but, though the act was conformable to the laws
of war, and had been executed with all the caution and
humanity possible, yet the Austrians exclaimed against it,
as a piece of the most unprovoked and barbarous cruelty
recorded in history.
After the king of Prussia had approached Dresden, all Saxony op-
the Austrian armies retired into Bohemia, where they took pressed by
up their winter quarters, as did also the king of Prussia inthe kin» of
Saxony. This unhappy country he said he would now con- ^russ‘a'
sider as his own by right of conquest. But instead of treating
the conquered people as his lawful subjects, he oppressed
them in all possible ways, by levying the most severe and
exorbitant contributions, surrounding the exchange with
soldiers, and confining the merchants in narrow lodgings on
straw beds, till they drew upon their correspondents for such
sums as he wanted.
As early a,s the 23d of February 1759 the Prussians com- Operations
menced military operations. General Wobersow marched in Bohe-
with a body of troops into Poland, where he destroyed se- mia-
veral large magazines belonging to the Russians, and re¬
turned into Silesia, without any loss, on the 18th of April.
In the mean time, by certain movements on the part of the
king, the greater part of the Austrian troops had been drawn
towards the frontiers of Silesia. Prince Flenry immediately
took advantage of this opening, and on the 15th of April
entered Bohemia with his army divided into two columns.
One, commanded by himself, marched towards Peterswalde;
the other, under General Hulsen, passed by the towns of
Pasberg and Kommotau. That commanded by Prince Hen¬
ry himself penetrated as far as Loboschutz and Leitmeritz;
the enemy flying everywhere before them, and burning or
abandoning the vast magazines which they had amassed.
The division under General Hulsen had more active em¬
ployment. A strong pass at Pasberg was defended by a
considerable body of Austrians. General Hulsen, having -
conducted his cavalry by another road, so as' to fall directly
upon their rear, attacked them in front with his infantry,
drove them out of their intrenchments, and totally defeated
them with the loss of a great number killed, and two thou¬
sand taken prisoners, whilst that of the Prussians did not
exceed seventy in killed and wounded.x After this exploit
they returned into Saxony, with hostages for the contri¬
butions which they had freely exacted during the course of
their expedition.
Some other successes obtained by Prince Henry cleared Prussians
Franconia of -the enemy ; but the approach of the Russians ^efeated at
seemed once more to bring the affairs of the king of Prus-'^u^c^au-
sia to a crisis. Notwithstanding the destruction of their
magazines, they had continued to advance into Silesia,
where they were opposed by Count Dohna; but as the
troops he had under him were far inferior to the enemy,
he found it impossible to do more, at least with any ap¬
pearance of success, than to observe their motions and ha¬
rass them on their march. This was so displeasing to the
1 When Frederick had retired to the camp of Doberschutz, he said to his generals, “ Daun nous a laissd sortir de 1’dchiquier; la
partie n'est pas perdue ; nous nous reposerons ici, et nous.marcherons ensuite en Sildsie pour delivrer Neiss.” This sally betrays a
mind independent of and superior to events. A king who, situated as Frederick then was, preserves coolness enough to compare his
operations to a party at chess, the field of desolation which he had just quitted to a chess-board, and his whole existence to the turn
of a game, is capable of performing the greatest actions in war. It is such men that triumph over fortune. He had been surprised
under circumstances most favourable to the assailant, all of whose movements were completely concealed till the last moment by a
dense fog; the extremity of his line had been attacked, and almost at the same instant taken in reverse, by the main body of the
Austrian army ; yet, in spite of these fearful odds, he maintained the contest for hours with nearly balanced chances, and inflicted such
a severe loss on the enemy as deprived him not only of the ability to pursue, but also of the fruits which he might have expected to
reap from his victory.
678
PRUSSIA.
fort on
the Oder
taken.
History, king, that lie disgraced this general, and appointed Wedel
/ to succeed him, with orders to attack the Russians at all
events. To enable Wedel, however, to comply with his
desperate order, he sent him some reinforcements, which
increased his army to about thirty thousand men. With
these, on the 23d of July 1759, Wedel attacked seventy
thousand Russians posted in the most advantageous man¬
ner at Zulichau, and defended by a numerous artillery.
Though the Prussians marched on to almost certain defeat,
they sustained the attack for a long time with unparalleled
resolution. At last, however, they gave way, and were
obliged to retire with the loss of four thousand seven hun¬
dred killed or taken prisoners, and three thousand wounded.
Crossen The consequences of this victory were, that the Rus-
and Franc- gians penetrated into the Prussian territories, and took pos-
gession of the towns of Crossen and Francfort on the Oder,
which rendered it absolutely necessary for the king to go in
person to oppose them. Accordingly, on the 4th of Au¬
gust he joined Wedel with a considerable body of forces,
having left the greater part of his army in Saxony under
Prince Henry. But as Marshal Daun had sent to the as¬
sistance of the Russians under Soltikof a body of twelve
thousand horse and eight thousand foot under General Lau-
don, the king still found himself unable to fight them, since
with this and some other reinforcements their army now
amounted to upwards of ninety thousand men. He there¬
fore recalled General Finck, whom he had sent into Sax¬
ony with nine thousand men; but with all his reinforce¬
ments he found it impossible to augment his army to little
more than forty thousand men of all arms. His situation,
however, wTas now so critical that a battle had become in¬
evitable ; and therefore, on the 12th of August, with this
inferior force, the king attacked, his enemies, strongly in¬
trenched, and defended by a prodigious number of cannon.
In this action his principal effort was directed against the
left w’ing of the Russian army. He began the attack, ac¬
cording to custom, with a heavy cannonade; and having
produced the desired effect, he then assailed the left wing
with several battalions disposed in columns. The Russian in-
trenchments were forced with great slaughter, and seventy-
two pieces of cannon were taken. But still there was a defile
to be passed, and several redoubts which covered the village
of Kunersdorf remained to be carried. 1 hese were attack¬
ed with the same resolution, and one after another taken.
The enemy made another stand at the village, and endea¬
voured to preserve their ground there by pushing forward
several battalions of horse and foot; but this also proved
unsuccessful, and they were driven from post to post quite to
the last redoubts. For upwards of six hours the Prussians
were successful, and everywhere broke the enemy with pro¬
digious slaughter; they drove them from almost all the po¬
sitions they had occupied before the battle, took more than
half their artillery, and scarcely anything seemed wanting
to render the victory complete. In these circumstances,
the king wrote the following billet to the queen : “ Madam,
we have beaten the Russians from their intrenchments. In
two hours expect to hear of a glorious victory.” But at this
very instant victory abandoned the Prussian standards. I he
enemy, defeated in almost every quarter, found their left
wing, shattered as it was, more entire than any other part
of their line. Soltikof, the Russian general, immediately
assembled the remains of his right wTing, and collecting as
many as he could from his centre, reinforced the left, and
made a stand at a redoubt which had been erected on an
advantageous eminence in a cemetery. All the king’s ge¬
nerals are said to have been of opinion that he ought to al¬
low the Russians to retain peaceable possession of this post.
Their army had already suffered so much, that it would
have been impossible for them to attempt any enterprise
of consequence after the battle ; besides, their artillery was
still numerous, the post was very strong, and the Prussian
Rattle of
Kuners¬
dorf.
troops were greatly fatigued. These reasons for a few mo- History
ments weighed with the king; but the natural impetuosity ' 
of his temper getting the better of his reason, he led on his
wearied troops to renew the combat.
Within the limits to wduch we are restricted, it is impos¬
sible to give any adequate military details of this terrible
battle. Suffice it to state, that, wherever the storm of the
conflict raged most fiercely, there was the king haranguing
the troops, leading in person the battalions to the charge,
and exposing himself with all the hardihood of the merest
soldier of fortune. The carnage was truly horrible, the com¬
batants mutually discharging showers of grape at the distance
of fifty paces, and musketry even closer. The battle had
already lasted six hours with inconceivable obstinacy; the
Prussians were harassed, and scarcely in a condition to
sustain themselves; whilst sixteen thousand men killed or
wounded attested their courageous efforts, but deprived them
of the means of maintaining the conflict. At this moment
some Austrian squadrons charged the right flank of Finck s
division; the king, in attempting to cover the retreat, re¬
ceived a contusion, and two battalions were taken behind
him. The disorder now became dreadful, and the total
destruction of the army was only prevented by that extra¬
ordinary presence of mind which had never for a moment
failed him, even in the midst of this terrible conflict. Such
was the memorable and sanguinary day of Kunersdorf, on
which the Prussians lost halt their number in killed and
wounded, besides a hundred and sixty-five pieces of can¬
non, abandoned in the battle and the retreat. The loss of
the enemy in killed and wounded amounted to sixteen thou¬
sand Russians, and three thousand Austrians. Soltikof, in
writing to the empress an account ot the battle, dryly observ¬
ed, that if he gained another such victory, he would him¬
self be obliged to carry the tidings on foot, with a staff in his
hand.” The king, when he found the victory totally lost,
is said to have sent another billet to the queen, expressed
in the following manner: “ Remove from Berlin with the
royal family ; let the archives be carried to Potsdam; the
town may make conditions with the enemy.
Immediately after this defeat, the king set himself about
repairing his losses with the utmost diligence ; and in a few
days everything was again put in order in his camp. He
replaced his artillery from Berlin; recalled General Kleist
with five thousand men from Pomerania; detached six
thousand from his own army to the defence of Saxony;
and with the remainder threw himself between the Rus¬
sians and Great Glogau, covering that city, which had been
the chief object of their designs. In a word, notwithstanding
their victory, he obliged the Russians to return to Poland
without accomplishing any thing besides the barren victory
of Kunersdorff, purchased at so fearful an expenditure of
human life.
The misfortunes of the Prussian monarch, however, were Surrendei
not at an end. Prince Henry, indeed, by a most extraor- ° ®ner
dinary and well-conducted march, entered Saxony, which
had been totally overrun by the armies of the enemy ; and
strong detachments having been sent into that country un¬
der Generals Finck and Wunsch, the whole except Dres¬
den was in a short time recovered. I owards this place Mar¬
shal Daun retired, and in all probability he would soon have
been obliged to quit Saxony, had Frederick been content
with attaining this object. But the king’s impatience cou
not be satisfied without cutting off Daun’s retreat, and for¬
cing him to a battle ; and for this purpose he sent General
Finck, with upwards of twelve thousand men according to
the Prussian account, but with twenty thousand accoiding
to that of the Austrians, to seize some passes through which
alone Daun could make his way towards Bohemia. Hus
commission was executed with the greatest exactness; but
the Prussian general, having probably advanced too far into
these defiles, and neglected to preserve his communications
PRUSSIA.
679
istory. with the main army, gave the enemy an opportunity of sur-
rounding him, and at last forcing him and his whole army
to surrender prisoners of war. Nor was it long before this
disaster was followed by another. General Durceke occu¬
pied a position on the right bank of the Elbe, opposite to
Meissen ; and on the approach of a large body of Austrians
he prepared to retreat across the river, into a place where
he hoped to be more secure ; but having been obliged by
a hard frost to withdraw the bridge of boats, a thaw super¬
vened, and when the Prussians were attempting to lay a
bridge of pontoons, their rear-guard was attacked with
great fury by the Austrians, and the whole either killed or
taken. The loss of the Prussians on this occasion was com¬
puted at nearly three thousand men.
sperate The year 1760 showed the Prussian monarch in a more
jation dangerous situation than he had ever before stood. His
the king affairS> indeed, seemed to be altogether desperate. His
Prussia. jogses were not; t0 be measured by the number of the killed
or prisoners, but by armies destroyed or taken. Forty ge¬
nerals had died or been slain in his service since the be¬
ginning of October 1756, exclusive of those who wrere
wounded or taken prisoners. This of itself would have
been an irreparable loss, had not the very wars which de¬
stroyed these men furnished others equally capable of filling
their places. But another deficiency, which could not be
remedied, still remained. The king, by his indefatigable in¬
dustry and exertions, had supplied all the deficiencies of
men in his armies; but they were not the same men as be¬
fore. The hardy veterans, with whom he had originally
taken the field, were now no more, and their places were
supplied by others who had neither the same experience
nor the same discipline; so that he w-as obliged to sup¬
ply the deficiency by his own genius and heroism.
   But whatever abilities the Prussian monarch might pos-
eated sess, and he undoubtedly exerted them to the utmost, it
Land- seemed only to be contending against fate. His enemies
k gained over him still greater and greater advantages. Ge¬
neral Laudon, with whom none but the king himself seems
to have been able to cope, by a series of artful movements
drew Fouquet, one of the Prussian generals, who command¬
ed a strong body of forces, into a disadvantageous situation
near Landshut. Perceiving it impossible for the Prussians
to escape, Laudon then attacked their intrenchments on
the night of the 23d of June. The Prussians made a gal¬
lant defence, but at last were all either killed or taken
prisoners, except about three hundred. Of the Prussians
four thousand were killed, and seven thousand taken pri¬
soners ; fifty-eight pieces of cannon, and a great number
of colours, were also lost. The victory, however, was dear¬
ly bought; for the Austrians lost in killed and wounded
above twelve thousand men, whom, however, they could
better spare than the Prussians, on account of their great
superiority of numbers.
ttz ta- Laudon failed not to improve this victory to the utmost,
by the He instantly turned back from Landshut, and fell upon the
strians. city of Glatz, which he took in a very short time, with the
garrison who defended it, consisting of two thousand men.
In this place were found a hundred and one pieces of brass
cannon, with immense quantities of provisions and military
stores. From thence he marched against Breslau, and im¬
mediately invested it. But, in the mean while, the king of
Prussia, whose motions had been all this time counteracted
by Marshal Daun in Saxony, marched with his usual ra¬
pidity towards Silesia. By this means he drew Daun out
of Saxony ; and indeed the Austrian general used such ex¬
pedition that he gained two days’ march on the king. This
was no sooner known to his Prussian majesty than he re¬
turned with the same expedition as he had advanced, and
sat down before Dresden.
Daun soon received intelligence of the king s retrograde
movement, and also returned. In the mean time, however,
the buildings of the city were terribly shattered by the king’s History,
cannon and bombs, which continually played on it. But his—y—
endeavours to reduce it before the arrival of Daun proved Pres<^eij
ineffectual. The siege had been begun on the 13th of July,
and on the 19th Daun appeared within a league of Dres-success
den. The Prussians then redoubled their efforts. They Frederick,
had that day received reinforcements of heavy cannon and
mortars, with which they battered the place incessantly.
The cathedral church, several principal streets, some pa¬
laces, and the noble manufactory of porcelain, were en¬
tirely destroyed. The siege was continued till the 22d ;
but on the night of the 21st Daun had thrown sixteen
battalions into the city, which rendered it impossible for
the king to continue longer before it with any prospect of
success. He therefore raised the siege, and retired with¬
out molestation, though there were three considerable ar¬
mies of the enemy in the neighbourhood. Breslau was
fiercely bombarded by Laudon ; but the approach of Prince
Henry obliged him to desist from his enterprise on the 5th
of August.
Meanwhile the fortune of the king seemed likely to be The Aus-
terminated by one fatal stroke. Finding it impossible fortrian gene-
him to carry on a defensive war, he marched towards Sile-rals. uj“te
sia with such astonishing rapidity, that before the middle °f a ainsuh6
August he had advanced two hundred miles, leaving Marshal kjno.
Daun with his army far behind him. The object he had
in view by using such expedition wras to engage Laudon be¬
fore he could have time to effect a junction with Daun, and
Lascy, another Austrian general; a union which seemed
to threaten him with unavoidable destruction. This, hovr-
ever, he found it impossible to prevent; and the three ar¬
mies, when united, formed a tremendous line of encamp¬
ments, extending no less than thirty English miles, at the
same time that every one of their posts was strong, and the
communication between them easy. The king was strong¬
ly encamped at Leignitz, and for several days employed
all his military skill in attempting to induce one of the bo¬
dies to detach itself from the rest, or to attack them at some
disadvantage; but without the least effect.
At last the Austrian generals, having maturely weighed Battle of
all circumstances, resolved to attack the king’s camp itself, Leignitz.
strong as it was; and Marshal Daun, remembering the ad¬
vantage he had gained at Hohenkirchen by an attack in the
night-time, resolved to follow a similar plan on the present
occasion. The whole army, as soon as it became dark, were
to march from their several stations to such positions as
were marked out for each corps; they were to strike their
tents, but still to keep up the fires in their camps, and to
cause the drums to beat the tattoo as usual, by which
means they hoped to surprise the enemy; and, even if they
failed in tins, they judged it impossible for him to escape
them, should he be ever so much on his guard. The king,
having completed his dispositions for the night, had seated
himself and begun to doze near a bivouac fire, when Major
Hund, who, with five squadrons of Zeithen’s hussars, had been
sent in reconnoissance as far as Polschildern, returned at
full speed, calling out, “ Where is the king ? Where is the
king ?” Frederick having demanded what was the matter,
the major said, with an animated air, “ Sire, the enemy is
there,” pointing in the direction; “he has repulsed my videttes,
and is not more than four hundred paces from this.” The
king having ordered this officer to retard as much as possible
the advance of the Austrians, proceeded to issue orders, and
make dispositions for defeating the design of the enemy. He
indicated to General Schenkendorf, who commanded the bri¬
gade of the extreme left, an eminence situated near Bino-
witz, on which he was to form; he gave orders to the second
line to prolong itself to the left, to prevent the enemy from at¬
tacking the army in flank; and he immediately brought to
the front several regiments of cavalry, in order to gain the
time necessary for the execution of all these dispositions.
680
PRUSSIA.
History. General Schenkendorf marched immediately by the left flank,
v'—gained the hill, and there established a battery of ten twelve-
pounders, at the moment when the Austrians were about to
occupy the position. The latter, in fact, were so near, that
the Prussians opened on them a heavy fire of grape, which
caused great havock in the columns, while attempting to
form, but unable to do so. As soon as the Prussian army
was drawn up, Frederick divided it, leaving his right on the
ground where it had been formed, to observe Marshal Daun,
and to maintain their post; whilst with his left he turned in
order to fall upon the corps under General Laudon. In the
mean time, that commander, ignorant of the fate which was
awaiting him, advanced with the utmost expedition towards
the place which had been assigned him, in order to share
in the glory of destroying the Prussian monarch ; when, at
three in the morning, on the I5th of August, a thick fog
which covered the ground suddenly clearing up, discovered,
like the opening of a mighty scene, the front of the Prussian
army regularly drawn up in order of battle, and advantage¬
ously posted. Laudon, though surprised, made the best dis¬
positions that circumstances would admit of, and an obsti¬
nate engagement ensued. After five successive attacks,
executed by the Prussians, against as many different lines,
he at length resolved to yield them the field of battle. It
was not quite five in the morning when the battle was de¬
cided. It cost the Austrians more than ten thousand men,
of whom six thousand were prisoners, and eighty-six pieces
of cannon ; but the loss of the Prussians did not exceed two
thousand men, because all the advantages were clearly on
their side.
The king did not venture to pursue Laudon, conceiving
that he would require his victorious troops to support his
right wing against Daun, and even Lascy. Conformably to
seemed to revive; but his enemies were still formidable and History
menacing. The recent manoeuvres had drawn him so far
into Silesia, that his communication with Brandenburg was j
almost wholly intercepted. The Russian army, which, after ? '
it had repassed the Order, began to quit Silesia, sent forward trians and
a powerful detachment under Count Czernichef towards the Russians.
March of Brandenburg. A body of fifteen thousand Aus¬
trians, under the generals Lascy and Brentano, and the unit¬
ed body of Austrians and imperialists which acted in Saxony,
began their march in concert with the Russians, and pro¬
posed to unite at the gates of Berlin. These armies amount¬
ed to forty thousand men. To oppose this formidable force.
General Hulsen called to his assistance General Werner,
who had been detached with a body of troops to Pomerania;
but, after being joined by him, their united forces were
found not to exceed fifteen or sixteen thousand men. To
attempt a defence of the capital with this force would have
been little short of madness. These commanders were
therefore obliged to leave Berlin to its fate, which, indeed,
considering the barbarity of the Russians and the animo¬
sity of the Austrians, seemed to be a dreadful one. How¬
ever, by the powerful mediation of several foreign minis¬
ters, the town obtained terms which were not altogether
intolerable; but the magazines, arsenals, and founderies were
destroyed, and an immense quantity of military stores was
seized, with a number of cannon and other arms. The city
was first obliged to pay eight hundred thousand guilders, after
which a contribution of one million nine hundred thousand
crowns was imposed; yet, notwithstanding this, many acts
of violence were committed, and the king’s palace was plun¬
dered, the furniture being abused in a scandalous manner.
The combined armies remained only four days in Berlin. Extreme
Dreading the vengeance of the king of Prussia, who wasembarrass-
his plan, and in order to attack by day-break the right of rapidly advancing, they deemed it prudent to make their stay £^ntof tlie
the camp at Leignitz, the marshal had in the evening of the as short as possible. But so great were the embarrassments 1 lg'
14th marched in six columns, intending to approach as far which now beset that monarch, that it seemed almost be¬
yond human power to retrieve his affairs. The imperial¬
ists, on their return from Berlin, having no army to oppose
them, made themselves masters of Leipzig, Torgau, Meis¬
sen, and Wirtemberg, in which last city they found the
grand magazine of the Prussian army. Stainville also, at
the head of a detachment from the French army, laid both
the city and duchy of Halberstadt under contribution. In
Eastern Pomerania, the Russians had besieged Colberg both
by land and by sea. In Western Pomerania, the Swedes
advanced with the greatest celerity, hoping to share in the
plunder of Berlin.. In Silesia, the king no sooner began
his march to the northward, than Laudon advanced, and
laid siege to the important fortress of Cosel; and, to com¬
plete his distress and embarrassment, the king himself was
attended at every step by Daun with a superior army, pre¬
pared to take every advantage.
In this situation the king, being joined by Hulsen and the
Prince of Wirtemberg, with the corps under their command,
advanced along the Elbe, whilst Daun fell back in order to
cover Leipzig and Torgau ; but the latter finding that the
Prussians directed their march towards the Elbe, encamp¬
ed within reach of Torgau, one part of his army extending
as the Katzbach. A detachment of partisans passed the
river at eleven o’clock at night, to dislodge the Prussians
from a village which they had occupied on the other bank,
but which the enemy’s troops were astonished to find they
had abandoned. Daun was not apprised of this circum¬
stance until two in the morning, when he gave orders that
the army should immediately pass the Katzbach; but this
operation, retarded by the darkness, the construction of
bridges, and the false direction given to some of the columns,
was not effected until five in the morning, when it was no
longer time to support Laudon, who had already sustained
a defeat. The marshal having learned the fate of his col¬
league, and observing the firm countenance maintained by
the victorious Prussians, retired to his original position be¬
tween Neudorf and Cosendau.
The victory of Leignitz, though complete, gave but a par¬
tial relief to the king of Prussia. The most essential service
it did was the preventing the Russians from joining those
enemies which he already had before him. Count Czer¬
nichef had been advancing with twenty-faur thousand men,
and had even passed the Oder ; but he was so intimidated
by the result of this battle, that he instantly repassed that
river, even although Daun had sent him a strong body of to the Elbe, by which he was protected on one side, whilst
troops in order to encourage him to advance. Soon after on the other he was covered by hills and woods, thus oc-
this battle, the king joined his brother Prince Henry, and cupying a most advantageous position. The Prussian ar¬
marching against Daun, who had begun to form the blockade my did not amount to fifty thousand men, whilst that of
of Schweidnitz, fell upon a corps under General Beck, made the Austrians exceeded eighty-six thousand; yet such were
two battalions of Croats prisoners, and dispersed the remain- the unfortunate circumstances of the king, that he was od¬
der, which obliged the enemy to abandon the enterprise they liged to fight under all these disadvantages. He therefore
had just undertaken. About the same time, General Hul- caused his army to be informed that he was now to lead
sen gained a considerable advantage over the imperial army them to a most desperate attempt, that his affairs required
in Saxony, with very trifling loss on his part; by which he it, and that he was determined to conquer or die. His sol-
effectually prevented them from cutting off his communica- diers unanimously declared that they would die with him.
tions with Torgau. " The 3d of November 1760 was the day upon which this
By these successes the affairs of his Prussian majesty important action was fought. The king divided his forces
PRUSSIA.
History, into three columns. General Hulsen was directed to take
pTT" P°St one a wo°d which lay on the left of the Aus-
ta^in de- trian with ins.tructions not to move until he found
:ated at rest t^le Prussians engaged ; General Zeithen was to
'orgau. charge with the right; and the grand attack in front was to
be conducted by the king in person. His forces were dispos¬
ed in such a manner that either his right or left wing could
take the enemy in rear and reverse, so as to disable them
from undertaking any thing against the part where he in¬
tended to direct his principal attack. On the other hand,
Marshal Daun, perceiving that the king was serious in his
design of fighting, in order to prevent confusion, sent all his
baggage across the Elbe, on which he had established three
bridges, in the event of a retreat being necessary. The
Austrian army then changed front, and passed to the rear,
its left being placed on the heights of Zinna, and its right
amongst the vines in rear of Siptitz; the reserve was sta¬
tioned near Groswig, the division of the grenadiers of the
left wing at Weidenhain, and that of the grenadiers and
carabineers of the right in rear of Neiden. Lascy retired
from Schilda, on Loswig and Torgau ; whilst Ried with the
light troops took a position on the extreme right towards
Mokrena. In this formidable position he was found, when,
about two o’clock in the afternoon, the king began the at¬
tack. The latter was received by the fire of two hundred
pieces of cannon, which were disposed along the Austrian
front.. The Prussians were thrice led to the attack; but every
time they were repulsed and broken. The king at length
commanded a fresh body of cavalry to advance, which at
first compelled the Austrians to retire ; but as fresh rein¬
forcements continually poured in, this cavalry was in its
turn obliged to fall back; and the Prussians maintained
themselves with extreme difficulty, until General Zeithen,
with the right wing, attacked the enemy in the rear, re¬
pulsed them, and took possession of some eminences which
commanded the whole Austrian line. Encouraged by this
success, the Prussian infantry once more advanced, carried
several of the enemy’s intrenchments, and made way for a
new attack of the cavalry, which broke in with irresistible
fury amongst the Austrians, and threw several bodies of
them into irreparable disorder. It was now about nine
o’clock, and consequently both armies were involved in
darkness ; yet the fire continued without intermission, and
the battalions with a blind rage discharged at one another,
without distinguishing friend from foe. Daun received a
dangerous wound in the thigh, and wras carried from the
field, which probably hastened the defeat of his troops.
The command then devolved on Count O’Donnell, who,
finding the greater part of his troops in disorder, the night
advancing, and the enemy possessed of some eminences
W'hich commanded his camp, and whence it was in vain to
think of driving them, ordered a retreat, which was conduct¬
ed in perfect order and dead silence ; few were lost in pass¬
ing the Elbe, and by far the greater part of their artillery w as
preserved. The loss of the Prussians was estimated at ten
thousand in killed and wounded. That of tire Austrians in
killed and wounded is not known ; but eight thousand were
made prisoners, along with twro hundred and sixteen officers,
amongst whom were four generals.
f‘- Sax- The result of the victory gained at Torgau wras, that the
' ^ cxceP{ king recovered all Saxony except Dresden ; whilst General
C overed Werner having in the mean time marched into Pomerania,
the Russians raised the siege of Colberg, and retired into
Poland, without having efiected any thing further than
wasting the open country. Werner then marched to the
assistance of Western Pomerania, where he defeated a
body of Swedes, and at last drove them out of the country.
Laudon too abruptly raised the blockade of Cosel; and af¬
terwards, abandoning Landshut, he retired into Austrian
Silesia, leaving the Prussian portion free from molestation.
Daun placed one part of his army in Dresden, and the
von. xvni.
681
other in some strong positions which lie to the south and History,
west of the city, by which he commanded the Elbe, and
preserved his communications with Bohemia. The army
of the empire retired into Franconia, and established its
head-quarters at Bamberg.
Though these successes had apparently retrieved in some
measure the affairs of the king, yet his strength was in
reality nearly exhausted; and in the campaign of 1761 he
made no such vigorous efforts as he had formerly done. The
Russians, dividing themselves into two bodies, invaded Si¬
lesia and Pomerania. In the former country they laid
siege to Breslau, and in the latter to Colberg. • Tottleben,
who had commanded the Russian armies, was now remov¬
ed on a suspicion of having corresponded with the king of
Prussia, and General Romanzof appointed in his stead ; a
measure which, it was expected, would render the Russian
operations this year more vigorous and consistent than they
had ever yet been.
The king continued strongly encamped near Schweidnitz, Schweid-
where he was so closely watched by Daun and Laudon thatnitz and
he could not attempt anything. However, he defeated the C°lberg
designs of the Russians against Breslau, by sending Gene- iela^en*
ral Platen to destroy their magazines; which the latter ac¬
complished with great success, at the same time cutting off
a body of four thousand of their troops. But this only
brought the more certain destruction upon Colberg, against
which the body of the Russian army immediately march¬
ed, cruelly wasting the country as they advanced. The
king of Prussia was unable to do any thing but send small
detachments, which, although they could not oppose their
enemies in the field, yet, he hoped, by cutting off their
convoys, might distress them to such a degree as to oblige
them to abandon the siege, or at least protract it till the
severity of the winter should render it impossible for them
to carry on their operations. He thus weakened his own
army so much, that it was found requisite to draw out of
Schweidnitz four thousand men to reinforce it; and no
sooner had this been done, than Laudon suddenly attacked
and took that fortress by a coup-de-main. Colberg made
a brave defence; but the troops sent to its relief being to¬
tally unable to cope with the Russian army, consisting of
fifty thousand men, it rvas, on the 3d of December, obliged
to surrender; and thus the fate of the Prussian monarch,
almost every part of whose dominions lay open to the inva¬
ders, seemed to be decided.
In the midst of these gloomy appearances, the empress Peace be-
of Russia, the king’s most inveterate and inflexible enemy, tween lius-
died on the 2d of January 1762. She wTas succeeded by ®ia’ Sw«?-
Peter HI. who, instead of being the king’s enemy, was his p™’^
most sanguine friend. As early as the 23d of February, in
a memorial delivered to the ministers of the allied courts,
he declared that, “ in order to the establishment of peace,
he was ready to sacrifice all the conquests made in this war
by the arms of Russia, in hopes that the allied courts will
on their parts equally prefer the restoration of peace and
tranquillity, to the advantages which they might expect
from the continuance of the war, but which they cannot
obtain but by a continuance of the effusion of human blood.”
This address was not much relished by the allies. They
were very willing to make peace, provided it should prove
for their own interest to do so ; but they recommended to
his attention fidelity to treaties, which constitutes no less va¬
luable a part of the royal character than humanity and dis¬
interestedness. This answer made no impression upon the
Czar. A suspension of hostilities took place on the 16th
of March, which was followed by a treaty of alliance on
the 5th of May. In this treaty the Czar stipulated nothing
in favour of his former confederates ; on the contrary, he
agreed to join his troops to those of the king of Prussia, in
order to act against them. Sweden, which had for a long
time acted under the direction of Russian councils, now fol-
4 R
PRUSSIA.
Successes
of the king
of Prussia
A new re¬
volution in
Russia.
Total de
feat of
Laudon.
lowed the example of her mistress, and on the ~2d of 1\ ay
concluded a peace with Prussia.
It is not to be supposed that the king of Prussia wotild
remain long inactive after such an unexpected turn of for¬
tune in his favour. His arms were now everywhere at¬
tended with success. Prince Henry drove the imperialists
from some important positions in Saxony, by which he se¬
cured all that part which the Prussians had possessed; and
though the Austrians frequently attempted to recover the
ground thus, lost, they were constantly repulsed with great
slaughter. The king was not joined by his new allies till
towards the end of June; after which he drove Daun be¬
fore him to the extremity of Silesia, leaving the town of
Schweidnitz entirely uncovered, and which the king imme¬
diately prepared to invest. In the mean time, different
detachments of Prussians, some on the side of Saxony, and
others on that of Silesia, penetrated into Bohemia, laid many
parts of the country under contribution, and spread univer¬
sal alarm. A considerable body of Russian irregulars also
made an irruption into Bohemia, where they practised on
the Austrians the same cruelties which they had long been
accustomed to exercise on the Prussians.
But whilst the king was thus making the best use of his
time, he was all at once threatened with a fatal reveise o
fortune bv a new revolution in Russia. T he emperor was
deposed, “and his deposition was soon afterwards followed
by his death. The empress, who succeeded him, suspected
that her husband had been misled by the councils of his
Prussian majesty, against whom, therefore, she entertaine
a mortal enmity. In the very beginning of her reign, how¬
ever, she could not again undertake a war of so much im¬
portance as that which had just been concluded. She there¬
fore declared her intention of observing the peace con¬
cluded by the late emperor; but she nevertheless resolv¬
ed to recall her armies from Silesia, Prussia, and Pomei a-
nia, which indeed the unsettled state of the kingdom ren¬
dered in some degree necessary. At the same time a dis¬
covery was made regarding the king of Prussia himself,
which turned the scale greatly in his favour. Ihe Rus¬
sian senate, flaming with resentment against this monarch,
as well as against their late unfortunate sovereign, and the
empress, full of suspicion that the conduct of the latter
might have been influenced by the councils of the former,
searched eagerly amongst the papers of the late emperor
for an elucidation of this point. Many letters from tne
Prussian monarch were indeed found, but these were con¬
ceived in a strain absolutely different from what had been
expected. The king had, as far as prudence would per¬
mit, kept a reserve and distance with regard to the rash ad¬
vances of this unhappy ally ; and, in particular, had coun¬
selled him to undertake nothing against the empress his
consort. The reading of these letters is said to have pro¬
duced such an effect upon the empress, that she burst into
tears, and expressed her gratitude in the warmest terms to¬
wards the Prussian monarch. Still, however, the Russian
army was ordered to separate from the Prussians; but all
the important places which the former had taken during
the war v/ere faithfully restored.
The king, finding ‘that the Russians were no more to
take an active part in his favour, resolved to profit by their
appearance in his camp; and, therefore, the day after the
order for their return had arrived, he attacked the Aus¬
trian army, drove their right wing from all its positions,
and entirely cut off their communication with Schweidnitz,
so that nothing could be attempted for its relief. Prince
Henry kept them in continual alarms for Bohemia; whilst
a great share of their attention, and no small portion of then-
forces, were engaged on that side. Marshal Daun, now
finding himself rendered almost incapable of undertaking
any thing, detached Laudon, with a force greatly superior,
to attack the Prince of Bevern, and drive him from the ad¬
vantageous position which he occupied. But the prince de- History,
fended himself with such resolution, that all the efforts of''“"'y''-
Laudon were baffled before the king could come to the aid
of his lieutenant. The Austrians, being then placed between
two fires, were routed and pursued with terrible slaughter;
after which the king met with no further interruption in his
preparation for the siege, and the trenches were opened on
the 18th of July. Marshal Daun did not even attempt to
relieve the place ; but the garrison being very strong, it held
out for nearly two months from the date of the opening of
the trenches. It is said that the attack was directed, and
the defence conducted, by two engineers who had written
on the subject of the attack and defence of fortified places ,
and they wrere now practically engaged in proving the supe¬
riority of their systems. At last, however, the garrison, to
the number of eight thousand men, surrendered prisoners
of war ; and the whole of this body, except nine, were soon
after drowned at the mouth of the Oder, on their passage
to their intended confinement in Konigsberg.
The king of Prussia, having thus become master of Austrians
Schweidnitz, turned his attention towards Saxony, where (if teated at
he reinforced his brother’s army, and made preparations^^
for laying siege to Dresden. In this country the Austrians
had lately met with seme success, and driven back Prince
Henry as far as Freyberg ; but on the 29th of October they
were attacked by the Prussian army thus reinforced, and
totally discomfited. After various tactical ^combinations, o.
no great importance, a simultaneous attack made by
Prussian divisions, in which they were ably supported by
the cavalry, decided the fortune of the day. 'Ihe loss ot
the imperial army amounted to four thousand pnsoners,
and about three thousand men hors de combat; that of
the Prussians did not exceed fifteen hundred men of all
arms, and they signalized their gallant achievement by t. e
capture of twenty-eight pieces of cannon and nine stan¬
dards. This affair does them the more honour that they
had in the field only twenty-nine battalions and sixty squa¬
drons, or scarcely eighteen thousand men, whilst the enemy
had forty-nine battalions and sixty-eight squadrons, or more
than twenty-six thousand men. The victory of trey-berg
proved decisive. The empress-queen, finding herse e
serted by all her allies, was glad to conclude a treaty, upon
the principle of mutual restitution and oblivion; and thus, at
the end of a bloody war, both parties were content to adopt
the status quo ante, and sit down in the same situation in
which thev respectively stood before a sword had been drawn.
This treaty has been called the peace of Hubertsburg.
The war was no sooner terminated than the king ot
Prussia turned his attention to domestic policy, and the re¬
covery of his dominions from those innumerable calamities
which" had befallen them during the contest. He imme¬
diately distributed lands to his disbanded soldiers, and gave
them the horses of his artillery to assist them in their cu -
tivation. By his wise and prudent management, the hor¬
rors of war were soon forgotten ; and the country ere long
became as flourishing as ever. But notwithstanding
pacific disposition, the king never slackened his endeavou
for the defence of his states, but kept on foot a respect¬
able army, which might be able to act with promptitude on
^ InThe vear ^ 778, a new difference arose with the house a new war
of Austria, concerning the duchy of Bavaria. B"“houghcoj,«-
great warlike preparations were made upon both sides, an soontenni.
immense armies brought into the field, nothing o co - nateti.
quence was effected. Any little advantage obtained seems
to have been on the side of the Prussians, who made them¬
selves masters of several towns, and carried cn the war
the enemy’s country. However, the emperor acted with so
much caution, and showed so much skill m defensive an¬
tics, that all the manoeuvres of his Prussian majes y co
gain no material advantage ; whilst, on the other < >
PRUSSIA.
History.
Character
■ f Frede-
ick.
Frederick was too wise to venture an engagement. A peace
therefore was soon concluded; and since that time the his¬
tory of 1 russia, during the remainder of this great king’s
reign affords no remarkable event which has not been men¬
tioned in other parts of the present work. (See particu¬
larly the article Poland.)
A few general remarks, however, may not be deemed al-
together out of place in concluding this imperfect sketch of
the military career of Frederick. Hew^as undoubtedly a great
captain, and to him belongs the high merit of having demon-
stiated how much success in war depends upon scientific
combinations, executed with corresponding celerity and pre¬
cision. But still he is not entitled to rank writh the greatest
masters of the art; and, compared with Napoleon, he was as
much surpassed by the latter in all the higher attributes of
a great commander as he excelled the' captains of his own
time. He was opposed to generals far inferior to those with
whom Napoleon had for the most part to contend ; and his
tactics w ere frequently arranged upon the knowledge he pos¬
sessed of their respective characters, rather than in confor¬
mity to the established principles of the art. Nor did he pos¬
sess the invaluable secret, which Napoleon first revealed to
the world in his Italian campaigns, of promptly following up
his successes, and gathering in the fruits of victory, before
the enemy could have time to recover from the shock of de¬
feat. 1 his, which is the last and highest endowment of a
great general, was reserved for his immortal successor, whose
campaigns afford ample and instructive examples of all that
is most finished, not only in grand military combinations, but
also in the still more difficult and important art of deriving
from them every result which they seemed calculated to af¬
ford. Upon every occasion, however, the personal character
and conduct of Frederick in the held stamped him the hero of
the age in which he lived, and cannot but be viewed writh ad¬
miration by every succeeding one. His presence of mind was
almost supernatural; nothing could shake, nothing could for
a moment disturb, the cool and steady composure with which
he regarded the most frightful scenes of war. Amidst the pe¬
rils of surprise at Hohenkirchen, when the fog rendered the
enemy perceptible only by the murderous fire they w ere pour¬
ing amongst his battalions ; as well as when destruction and
ruin stared him in the face at Kunersdorf, where the men lay
dead or dying around him in sections, and the carnage ap¬
palled even his most veteran officers; he remained as col¬
lected and steady as at a review at Potsdam, cheering and
animating the troops by his voice and example, rallying
them when broken or driven back, and leading them back
to the charge with a standard in his hand. In a word, he
wras greater in defeat than in victory ; and it is as much,
perhaps, to his personal conduct in the field, as to his su¬
perior tactics and the natural bravery of his troops, that his
principal successes are to be ascribed.
But Frederick was not continually engaged in war. He
enjoyed many intervals of tranquillity, many years of pro¬
found repose. Nor did lie waste these in the unworthy in¬
dulgence of luxurious ease or sensual gratification. On the
contrary, every moment of his time was spent in promoting
the interests and the welfare of his subjects. He occupied
himself in adopting measures for promoting the advance¬
ment of agriculture and manufactures, commerce, litera¬
ture, and the arts ; he founded academies and seminaries
of learning ; he invited learned men from every country in
Europe to settle in his dominions; he cleared waste lands,
constructed canals, rebuilt and repaired the cities that had
been dilapidated by the enemy, rewarded men of merit in
every department of enterprise; in a word, he spared no
683
labour or expense in promoting the internal improvement History,
of his kingdom. One of his chief objects was a reform in v'——'
the courts of justice, and this he effected, as far at least as
regards the delay and expense of legal proceedings, the
great evils that obstruct or rather defeat the administration
of justice. Nor can it be doubted that the Code Frederick,
published in 1746, and afterwards adopted throughout the
Prussian dominions, if regarded as the result of one reign
and the wisdom of one individual, is entitled to the hearty
applause and commendation of every legal reformer. But
unfortunately the soldier was uppermost in everything. The
learned men whom he invited from other countries were
treated by him rather as a regiment of soldiers than a body
of philosophers ; and even in matters of taste and literature
he sought to introduce a sort of military regulation. The
army was naturally enough his favourite object of attention,
and in seeking to improve it he carried discipline amongst
the troops to a degree of severity unknown in Europe un¬
til his time, and which subsequent experience has rendered
it necessary to relax, or at least to simplify greatly in its
more oppressive details. Nor, amidst all his avocations, did
he lay aside his early attachment to letters and to study. To
this pursuit he, in times of peace, devoted a portion of every
day ; and he is the author of various works which the influ¬
ence of his high rank and fame was not necessary to intro¬
duce to the notice ot the world.1 The foulest stain on his
memory consists in first suggesting, and then participating
in, the dismemberment of Poland. Frederick planned the
robbery, the Russian monarch executed it, and then the
leagued plunderers divided the spoil between them.
Frederick died in 1786, at the age of seventy-five, and Frederick
was succeeded by his nephew Frederick William II. This William H*
prince, on his accession, found the most effectual securities
for the preservation of his dominions; the finest army in the
world, a people enthusiastically loyal, and a treasury reple¬
nished with seven millions sterling. Nor with these ad¬
vantages was the new king wanting to himself. The pre¬
dilection of Frederick for the French language and French
literature was not grateful to his subjects. The new sove¬
reign began his reign with declaring in council, “ Germans
we are, and Germans I mean we* shall continue at the
same time giving directions that their native language should
resume its natural rank and station, from which for nearly
half a century it had been degraded by the French. This
was a very popular measure, and it was followed by another
still more so. Observing that he had marked with great
concern the progress of impiety and profaneness on the one
hand, and that of blind enthusiasm on the other, he declar¬
ed that he would not have his subjects corrupted either by
fanatics or atheists, and strictly prohibited all publications
tending to excite a contempt for or indifference about re¬
ligion.
On his accession to the throne, this pacific conduct upon The stadu
the part of the new king endeared him to his subjects, and holder as-
commanded the approbation of all good men. And an op-sls.ted a;
portunity soon occurred in which he was thought to have
displayed talents in negotiation and military arrangements, Holland,
which rendered him in every respect a worthy successor of
his uncle. The states of Holland, which had long been jea¬
lous of the power of the stadtholder, and inclined to a re¬
publican government without any permanent chief, had gain¬
ed such an ascendency in the states-general, that in 1786
and 1787 they in effect divested the Prince of Orange of all
his prerogatives. They proceeded even to the seizure and
imprisonment of the princess, sister of the king of Prussia;
and, depending upon support from France, they treated with
1 The principal works of Frederick the Great are, 1. Memoirs of the House of Brandenburg ; 2. Memoirs of his own Time, from
the year 1740 to the Peace of Dresden ; and 3. a History of the Seven Years’ War. His poem on the Art of War, at first publish¬
ed separately, was afterwards reprinted with other poems and epistles in a volume entitled Miscellaneous Works of the Philosopher
of Sans Souci.
PRUSSIA.
Frederick
William
III.
Perfidious
policy of
the Prus¬
sian cabi¬
net.
insolence every power connected with them in Europe. The
court of Berlin did not witness these proceedings without
indignation ; and the king formed a plan for restoring the
power of the stadtholder, with such secrecy and prudence,
that perhaps nothing could surpass it, except, indeed, the
facility with which it was carried into execution. In the
short space of one month, the Duke of Brunswick led eigh¬
teen thousand Prussians to Amsterdam, and restored the an¬
cient prerogatives of the Prince of Orange.
The affairs of Prussia during the early period of the
French revolution, and especially the active but unsuccess¬
ful part which that monarch took against it, are interwoven
with the historical details of that period given in the articles
Britain and France, to which the reader is therefore re¬
ferred. Taking a just view of the true interests of Prussia,
he availed himself of the first favourable opportunity to
withdraw from the contest with republican France, in which
the honour of his arms had suffered abasement; and he died
in the year 1797, when his son, Frederick William III.,
ascended the throne of Prussia.
During the early part of this reign, nothing occurred de¬
serving of commemoration. Besides the most sedulous at¬
tention to the discipline of the army, which it was his object
to maintain in a state of perfect efficiency, the king occu¬
pied himself in promoting the internal improvement of his
states ; and in this judicious course of policy he persevered
until the year 1806, when his own rapacity and perfidy in¬
volved him in a war with France, which terminated in the
almost total extinction of his kingdom. Seeing the power
of the French arms rapidly increasing, and admonished by
the stunning blow which the Austrians had received at
Austerlitz, he formed an alliance with Napoleon, and even
shared in the distribution of the spoil by invading Hanover,
which he annexed to his dominions, whilst he shut the
northern ports of his kingdom against the British flag. The
result of this base proceeding may easily be anticipated.
The British minister immediately quitted Berlin, and this
was soon followed by a declaration of war on the part of his
Britannic majesty. His situation now became embarrassing
and critical in the highest degree. Some time befote the
battle of Austerlitz, Napoleon had ascertained, by an inter¬
cepted correspondence, that the king of Prussia had been
deeply implicated in the counsels of his enemies, and that
he fully intended, in the event of the emperor sustaining a
reverse in that campaign, to fall upon the rear of the French
army, and complete its destruction. But the unparalleled
victory of Austerlitz, which at one blow humbled Austria
and staggered Russia, rendered his position one of great
difficulty and danger. His treachery had been detected by
a man who duly appreciated both its character and extent;
and henceforward his Prussian majesty found himself treat¬
ed by Napoleon as little better than a vassal prince, whose
rights he disregarded, and whom he intended to punish
whenever he should have accomplished the more important
enterprise of thoroughly humbling Austria. The eyes of the
king were further opened to the precarious nature of his
situation by the confederation of the Rhine, which was now
instituted, and afforded to France a secure basis of opera¬
tions in any attack which Napoleon might think proper to
direct against Prussia. Had the latter taken a decided part
against France before the battle of Austerlitz, the independ¬
ence of Europe might have been preserved. But after this
auspicious moment had been allowed to pass unimproved,
every chance of success was lost; and the disasters which
followed were no more than might have been foreseen by
any person of ordinary observation and sagacity.
In crises of imminent peril, weak minds generally choose
the part which most certainly and directly leads to destruc¬
tion. Early in October 1806, Prussia declared war against History.
France, and in less than a month thereafter the monarchy YJ'"-
had ceased to exist. Napoleon, having foreseen this step on of I806.gn
the part of the enemy, was hilly prepared to meet it. By a Itg reguits
most rapid and skilful march on the Saale, he threw himself
upon the communications of the Prussian army under the
Duke of Brunswick; and this decisive movement, one of
the most masterly in the whole history of war, led to the
simultaneous battles of lena and Auerstadt, in which the
Prussians lost twenty thousand men, including some tw’enty
generals, and the commander-in-chief, who was mortally
wounded. This double conflict took place on the 14th of
October, a memorable day in the annals of the Prussian
monarchy; and with the rapidity of lightning Napoleon
followed up the blow. The Prussians having lost their com¬
munications, w ere obliged to retire on diverging lines, which
rendered mutual support impossible, and their destruction
more certain. They were pursued with incredible vivacity.
Erfurt, Magdeburg, and Stettin were reduced; and on the
27th of the same month, being only thirteen days after the
battle, Napoleon entered the capital at the head of his vic¬
torious legions. In the mean time, the king of Prussia re¬
tired, first to Custrin, and afterwards to Kbnigsberg. T be
Russians had by this time come to his aid, and on the 26th
of December another dreadful battle took place at Pultusk,
where the allied armies were totally defeated. The F rench
afterwards invaded Silesia; took Stralsund, Colberg, and
Dantzig; and carried with them victory and conquest in
every direction. And to such a state of distress was Frede¬
rick William at length reduced, that, with all his dominions
except East Prussia in the hands of the enemy, the British
envoy, Lord Hutchinson, on his arrival at Memel in March
1807, found it necessary to advance eighty thousand pounds
for the support of his family and domestic household ;* and
this having been intimated to the British ministers, his ma¬
jesty recommended it to parliament to enable him to fulfil
the agreement entered into by our ambassador.
The campaign of 1807 was in all respects glorious forCarnpa'gn
the French arms. The mighty battle of Friedland proved ^
a conquest rather than a victory. By it the Russians were 'rqsitt.
completely defeated and humbled; whilst the king of Prus¬
sia, as the consummation of his misfortunes, had the morti¬
fication to find himself at the mercy of the conqueror, to be
disposed of as the latter might think fit. 1 he Russians hav¬
ing retired beyond the Niemen, conferences took place at
Tilsitt, and were eventually followed by a treaty of peace,
which left Frederick William little more than a nominal
sovereignty. By this disastrous arrangement the Prussian
monarch, who had formerly ceded to France the duchies
of Cleves and Berg, renounced the w'hole of his dominions
situated between the Rhine and the Elbe, part of Lusatia,
the city of Dantzig, all the provinces which formerly con¬
stituted part of Poland, and further agreed to shut his ports
against the trade and navigation of Great Britain; in a
word, he gave up about ten thousand square miles of terri¬
tory, containing a population of about five millions of souls,
and had the additional humiliation of being forced to assist
in carrying out the continental system of Napoleon, hor
was this the utmost extent of his abasement. He had to
support the armies of France stationed in his territories, to
pay immense contributions to the French emperor, and not
only to promulgate, but enforce, in his provinces, every de¬
cree issued in Holland against the commerce of this country.
Frederick William, thus humbled and reduced, endeavoured
to submit with patience to his fate, and to alleviate the
sufferings of his subjects by effecting great reductions in
his civil and military establishments.
This peace, which, as Napoleon fulfilled none of his en-Peace.
1 By this time peace had been re-established between Great Britain and Prussia.
P R U
History, gagements, could only be regarded as nominal, continued
nevertheless for six years, during which time all the cala¬
mities attendant on foreign occupation by an exasperated
conqueror were accumulated on this kingdom. Hence the
ardour with which the Prussians ran to arms in 1813, their
courage under the reverses at the outset of the campaign,
and their perseverance in its prosecution. They had been
excited and prepared to take arms, whenever the favourable
moment for doing so should arrive, by means of secret as¬
sociations formed for the purpose, and more especially by
the agency of the Tugenbund, or Bond of Peace, whose ra¬
mifications extended to every town and village in the king¬
dom. Nor was Frederick, notwithstanding the thraldom
under which he laboured, inattentive to the discipline and im¬
provement of his army, in which the military spirit had near¬
ly sunk under accumulated reverses. At one time the num¬
ber of his troops was but small, scarcely exceeding 20,000
men ; yet, by successive enlistments, and continually drilling
levy after levy, so as not apparently to augment his force,
whilst he was in reality training to arms all the youth of the
kingdom, he could bring into the field, at the critical mo¬
ment, more than 200,000 regularly-instructed soldiers. The
French had indeed deprived the kingdom of arms, which
they carried off from the arsenals ; but this loss was prompt¬
ly supplied by the assistance of Great Britain and other
powers.
ampaigns Meanwhile, the disastrous termination of the Russian
f 1812, campaign proved the signal for the desertion of Napoleon,
first by Prussia, and afterwards by Austria. It was now
felt that his star had passed the culminating point, and al¬
ready begun to wane. General d’Yorck took the earliest
opportunity to withdraw with the Prussian contingent; a
declaration of war followed; and Europe prepared to rise
in arms against the military despotism of Napoleon. In
the campaigns of 1813 and 1814, the Prussian army, led
byBlucher, Bulow, and other able officers, distinguished it¬
self in all the great battles, at Lutzen, Juterboeh, Leipzig,
in the recovery of Silesia, and also in the plains of Cham¬
pagne, where, though several times defeated with great loss
by the masterly combinations of Napoleon, it displayed a
noble perseverance, and fought with all the spirit of a truly
national army. Hostilities were for a short time suspended
by the negotiations which took place at Chdtillon ; but Na¬
poleon having, from confidence in his own genius, refused
the terms offered, the allies decided to advance against the
heart of his power, and at Montmartre, where the Prussians
again distinguished themselves, the struggle ended, and was
soon followed by the treaty of Paris. The abdication of Na¬
poleon was followed by his retirement to the island of Elba,
which had been assigned as the place of his exile. But early
the following year he returned to France, and by a march
from Frejus to Paris expelled the Bourbons, at the same
time reseating himself on the imperial throne. I his extra¬
ordinary conquest, which is perhaps without a parallel in his¬
tory, produced the campaign of 1815, in which the Prus¬
sians, it must be confessed, added nothing to their laurels.
On the 16th of June, their army was not only defeated at
Ligny, but so completely broken up, that out of more than
90,000 men of which it consisted on the morning of the
battle, not 30,000 ever afterwards re-assembled. Yet this
remnant having, by the united talents and energy of Blu-
cher and Bulow, eluded the corps of Grouchy at Wavre,
and appeared on the field of battle at Waterloo on the even¬
ing of the 18th, materially contributed to render the victory
there achieved by the British arms decisive of the fate of
Napoleon, France, and Europe.
°ngressof The immediate consequence of this mighty achievement
knna. was the settlement of the different nations of Europe ac¬
cording to the views of the conquerors, and in the circum¬
stances in which they have ever since continued. The
congress of Vienna had the delicate and difficult task of as¬
S S I A. 685
signing acquisitions and boundaries to the various powers History,
which had been engaged in the struggle; and some strange
dislocations naturally resulted from this attempt to effect a
general settlement at the close of a war which had been
productive of so great vicissitudes of fortune. To Prussia
were secured generally the restitution of the provinces for¬
merly wrested from her, excepting part of Poland, destined
to be united with the duchy of Warsaw, and ample indem¬
nification for this partial sacrifice, in Saxony and the Lower
Rhine, by the addition of such territories as were deemed
consistent with the stability and security of the balance of
power in Europe. The acquisitions which Prussia thus
made, through the grace and favour of the congress of Vi¬
enna, were, from France, the Lower Rhine, and part of
Juliers, Cleves, and Berg ; from Westphalia, Munster, and
the remaining part of Juliers, Cleves, and Berg ; and from
Saxony, Thuringia, Upper and Lower Lusatia, and Menne-
berg ; large indemnities, it must be confessed, for parting
with a portion of territory originally acquired by robbery and
spoliation. In this year also, Prussia, partly by exchange,
and partly by purchase, obtained from Denmark that part
of Western which is commonly called Swedish Pomerania,
together with the island of Rugen. And thus, after expe¬
riencing violent shocks and vicissitudes, by which the king¬
dom had been broken in pieces, and little more than the
name of the monarchy saved from the wreck, we behold
Prussia, after a series of unparalleled changes in another
direction, again raised from the condition of a second-rate
power, and taking her station amongst the first sovereign
states of Europe, as formidable as in the days of Frederick
the Great, and with a territory and population far exceed¬
ing any thing he could boast of.
In fact, the settlement of 1815 invested Prussia with a Effects of
degree of power which she had never possessed before, and the settle,
we need not wonder that it should have exercised a marked of
influence on the general character and conduct of her go- ' J‘
vernment. In the agony of the struggle against Napoleon,
when a sudden freak of fortune, or some bold stroke of his
trancendent genius, might have disconcerted all the schemes
formed for his overthrow, everything was promised to the
people, and amongst the rest representative institutions.
But, according to the morality of kings, “ vows made in pain
are violent and void,” and hence impose no obligations on
royal consciences. So, at least, it happened in the case of
Prussia, which, so far from redeeming its pledge, has strenu¬
ously resisted every attempt made to urge its fulfilment on
the government, which, if not essentially hostile to political
liberty, might, from the general character of the people, have
safely granted them the boon that they so much desire. But
the fact that such hostility exists on the part of the govern¬
ment, is proved by the whole tenor and spirit of its policy, ex¬
ternal as well as internal. To say nothing of the circum¬
stance, that its closest political ties are with governments
purely despotic, particularly with Russia, no sooner did the
demand for representative institutions become general in Eu¬
rope, and Spain, Naples, and Piedmont, successively extort
constitutions, than his majesty Frederick William III. joined
the Holy Alliance, and entered with eagerness into all the
views by which that confederacy was distinguished. Hav¬
ing repression for its object, it wras prepared to crush liberty,
wherever it ventured to raise its ensign; to arrest the pro¬
gress of political improvement, and to employ military force
to punish all who were afflicted with any undue zeal in fa¬
vour of a cause which freemen are accustomed to consider
as sacred. In time, however, the Holy Alliance, with all
its apparent powder, yielded to the influence of events, and
gradually vanished as completely as if it had never existed
and domineered over the Continent. But the spirit still sur¬
vives, at least in the Prussian government, which, with all its
ostentatious pretensions to a species of liberality, and with
the merit of having introduced some wise measures and use-
686
PRUSSIA.
History, ful improvements, nevertheless carries despotism to a height
which in this or in any other free country would be into¬
lerable. This, we think, is very evident fVom the conduct
which the Prussian cabinet has pursued in the formation
of the German Commercial League, a measure ot decided
hostility against the interests of this country.
Prussian The extent to which this confederacy has already (1839)
Commerci- foeen carried, will astound those who have not been closely
ai League, observant of the policy of Prussia during the last twenty
vears. The Commercial League of Germany comprises the
vast territory included between the river Niemen and the
Baltic at one extremity, and the Alps and the Lake ot Con¬
stance at the other. On the east it is bounded by Russia,
Poland, and Austria, and on the west by Belgium, Holland,
and France. It consists of the union of four kingdoms,
one electorate, three grand dukedoms, and more than twenty
smaller states, the whole comprising 8654 German square
miles, and 27,728,000 inhabitants, a population surpassing
by several millions that of Great Britain and Ireland,^ and
nearly double that of Spain. The dominions of the Com¬
mercial League comprehend the 1’esidences of twenty-six
sovereign princes, several of whom, however limited in do¬
mains, exhibit a splendour approaching to that of the great¬
est empires. The army consists of 246,168 soldiers in time
of peace, and in the event of war may be augmented to
550,000. The amount of the annual taxes paid by the po¬
pulation of those provinces is nearly L. 17,000,000 sterling,
by far the greatest part of which is derived from the cus¬
tom-house duties and the excise.
Prussia created this league for the purpose of advancing
her political projects, the nature of which was manifested
by her sovereign as early as the Congress of Vienna. The
enthusiastic efforts of the Prussian people having materially
contributed to the overthrow of the common enemy, their
king founded on their merit in this respect a pretension^ to
unite under his dominion the greater part ot Germany. The
whole kingdom of Saxony, all the country between the
Weser and the Elbe, the territory which formerly belonged
to the Orange family, and that which had formed the elec¬
torate of Mayence, were all claimed by the Prussian mo¬
narch, as a reward for the sacrifices that had been made by
his people. Austria resisted, however, and her resistance^
proved successful. Prussia was obliged to content herself
with certain parcels of the principalities she coveted, and
which assorted ill with the rest of her dominions. The
kingdom of Prussia is, in fact, composed of incongruous
and dislocated pieces. Her Saxon and Westphalian pro¬
vinces are separated from each other by the territories
of Hanover and Cassel, and the rest are interlaced by a
number of small principalities, which offer serious ob¬
stacles to the unity and efficiency of an administrative
system. Accordingly, the desire of finding an opportu¬
nity to annihilate these principalities, and unite their ter¬
ritories with the Prussian dominions, induced the court
of Berlin to employ unscrupulous means, and resort to dan¬
gerous expedients, in order to accomplish its object.
These and other analogous intrigues, however, never in¬
terrupted the principal aim of Prussia, which seems to have
been that of becoming arbiter of Germany ; and it must be
confessed that she has made a grand step in advance towards
the attainment of that object, by imposing upon the whole
German nation her commercial laws and institutions, i he
grand duke of Hesse-Darmstadt was the first German prince
who consented to enter into a commercial league with Prus¬
sia. This was in the year 1825 ; and since that period Prus¬
sia has steadily pursued her great scheme of a commercial
union, with a degree of success which has probably outrun
’ her most sanguine expectations.
The acquisition of Hesse-Darmstadt served the Prussian
government as a means of transit to the southern provinces
of Germany. There existed already a commercial alliance
between Bavaria and Wurtemberg, founded on just and History,
equal terms, and highly advantageous to both countries.
Prussia, having succeeded with the electorate, now endea¬
voured to prevail on both of these states to enter into the
league; but for a time all her efforts were baffled by the ta¬
lents of the Bavarian minister, Count Armansperg. The
conferences, however, were carried on during several years;
and at length, in the year 1828, a commercial contract was
agreed to on both sides. This contract, however, did not
stipulate the establishment of a commercial union, though it
facilitated the intercourse between the southern and north¬
ern parts of Germany, by fair and moderate duties. But
Prussia never for an instant lost sight of her grand object;
and having effected the removal of Count Armansperg from
the Bavarian ministry, her conditions were at length accept¬
ed by both states, and the southern league, consisting of
Bavaria and Wurtemberg, entered into a complete com¬
mercial union with the northern league, composed of Prus¬
sia and Hesse. The contract was concluded in the begin¬
ning of 1832 ; and although the ruling power of Prussia was
not so explicitly acknowledged in the articles ot the new
contract as it had been in that with Hesse, yet it was Prus¬
sia that dictated the laws of the union in all essential points,
and became the arbiter in all questions of difficulty.
Bavaria and Wurtemberg being thus gained, it became
an easy task to prevail upon the remaining principalities.
The kingdom of Saxony was the only one from which re¬
sistance was anticipated. But the commercial union, being
principally calculated for obtaining an open market in South¬
ern Germany, Saxony, which abounds in manufactured pro¬
ducts, profited by the opportunity to share in the advanta¬
ges which Prussia had prepared for herself; whilst the ex¬
ample of the royal government was immediately followed
by the smaller Saxon countries, and by all those numerous
states which are neither wealthy nor extensive enough to
maintain an independent commerce, and a system of inter¬
nal industry. The free city of Frankfort, however, was
found much less tractable. Proud of its republican consti¬
tution, and powerful by its wealth, it for a time maintained
its independence ; but the struggle was too unequal to con¬
tinue long between a powerful confederacy and a small iso¬
lated state. By a mixture of intrigue and violence, akin
to that which had been exercised against the Polish com¬
monwealth of Cracow, the senate was at last obliged to yield,
and consent to the union; at the same time declaring, that
its resolution was taken, not from any conviction of its
being beneficial to the republic ot brankfort, but in con¬
sequence of its federative dependence, and the greatly su¬
perior strength of its antagonist.
After the acquisition of Frankfort, the territory included
in the league seemed to be sufficiently compact; but it ne¬
vertheless wanted two additional states to render it complete
(teres alque rotundas), namely, the duchy of Baden in the
south, and the territories of Hanover, Brunswick, and Ol¬
denburg, in the north. Both were equally important for the
full attainment of the objects contemplated by Prussia in
securing the command of the right bank of the Rhine, and
also in furthering the schemes of Russia respecting the na¬
vigation of the Baltic, and the exclusion of the British mer¬
cantile navy from that sea.
In the case of Baden, resistance, though strenuously ofi
fered, proved as unsuccessful as in that ot the free town of
Frankfort, and of the smaller states generally. The grand
duchy was forced to enter the Prussian union; and Baden
is now an integral member of the league, notwithstanding
the hatred of the people against everything bearing the name
of Prussia, or originating from that country. With respect
to Hanover and the northern principalities of Germany,
tfipir nnsitinn rpndprpd it imnossible for the PruS-
however, their position rendered it impossible for the Prus¬
sian cabinet to proceed against them in a similar way. Ha¬
nover, Brunswick, and Oldenburg were united with Hesse-
PRUSSIA.
687
Cassel in a separate league, and thus remained independent
of Prussian influence. Unable to surmount the difficulties
opposed to her schemes by the circumstance of the connec¬
tion of Hanover with England, Prussia now endeavoured to
separate that kingdom from its commercial allies; and suc¬
ceeded as far as concerned the electorate of Hesse-Cassel,
which, openly violating the compact it had formed with its
allies, withdrew from them, and joined the Prussian union.
This was one point gained; whilst the accession of King
Ernest to the throne of Hanover has excited hopes, we fear
not altogether groundless, of drawing him into the confede¬
racy.
At the same time it is but right to observe, that what¬
ever may have been the original views of Prussia in the
formation of the union, the immediate results deserve the
acknowledgments of all Germany. Internal trade has re¬
ceived a new impulse ; the custom-house lines, which for¬
merly separated the German states from each other, have
been abolished ; and a great stimulus has been given to ma¬
nufacturing industry. From Aix-la-Chapelle on the con¬
fines of the Netherlands, to Tilsitt on the borders of Rus¬
sia, and from Stettin and Dantzig on the north to Switzer¬
land and Bohemia on the south, there is nothing to inter¬
rupt the freedom of commerce: a commodity having once
passed the frontier of the league, may be conveyed without
hindrance throughotit its whole extent. But this internal
trade is governed and directed by a protector and ruler,
namely, Prussia; and it has for its main object to extend
throughout Germany a monopoly of Prussian manufactures,
to the exclusion of all foreign competition. The same
power also profits by this union for obtaining a predominant
influence in the political affairs of Germany, and even en¬
deavours to exercise this influence at the expense of the
independence of the smaller German states, and of those
constitutional rights w hich some of them have employed to
the greatest advantage in improving their internal Condition.
Freedom in trade and commerce throughout the united
German states is not alone sufficient. This is no doubt
excellent in itself, inasmuch as it is regarded by the inhabi¬
tants of Germany as a patriotic institution, which strength¬
ens the national union of their father-land, and improves the
social condition of its people. But it would have been more
consistent with sound commercial policy, and productive of
greater advantage to the majority of the German states, if
such an union had been constructed on the double basis of
internal freedom, and the maintenance of an amicable in¬
tercourse with foreign countries, instead of excluding the
commerce and manufactures of the latter from the German
markets. As matters stand, however, the system of exclu¬
sion introduced by, and essentially connected with, the
commercial league, has no other object than the establish¬
ment of a Prussian monopoly in Germany, which it conse¬
quently deprives of all the benefit that might be obtained
under a more liberal and enlightened commercial policy.1
It must, however, be admitted, that Prussia is not with¬
out good grounds of complaint against Britain, on account
of her commercial policy towards the German states. Prus¬
sia has only three great staple articles of export, namely,
corn, timber, and wool. In ordinary years we exclude the
first of these from our markets; and on Prussian timber we
levy a duty of fifty-five shillings a load, and admit Ameri¬
can timber on payment of a duty of ten shillings; whilst History,
the government of Prussia has always expressed its willing- ~v—
ness to place its intercourse with foreign states on the basis
of reciprocity.
The Prussian government does not appear to understand The Ithe-
thoroughly the important maxim, pas trap gouverner ; at nish pro-
least, in its conduct towards the Rhenish provinces, it hasvinces-
exhibited a busy, vexatious, intermeddling spirit, produc¬
tive of no good whatever to itself, and the occasion of much
discontent amongst the people. This tendency to interfere
with details which are beyond the natural competency of
any government, or which, at all events, it would be wiser
to let alone, has displayed itself not only in accidental and
isolated acts, but in legislative enactments and solemn trans¬
actions. The concessions which the French government
had made in favour of the industry of the Rhenish pro¬
vinces v'hilst they formed part of the French empire,
were cancelled by a royal ordinance dated the 17th of
September 1817 ; and this proceeding, avowedly intended
to advance the prosperity of the eastern provinces at the
expense of those on the Rhine, has since been followed by
a series of others, all calculated, not only to keep alive, but
to embitter the irritation which it first excited in the minds
of the people. Nor has even the religion of these provinces,
though ostensibly acknowledged and protected by the state,
escaped the interference of the government, which, in at¬
tempting to regulate everything, has involved itself in great
difficulties, and gone far to alienate the affections of the
people. This is exemplified in the affair of the Archbishop
of Cologne, which, after forming for several years a princi¬
pal subject of its diplomacy, has at length terminated, as
far as that prelate is concerned, in his forcible expulsion
from his diocese, and the virtual abrogation of all ecclesi¬
astical authority in the archiepiscopal province over which
he presided.2
STATISTICS.
The kingdom of Prussia is situated in the northern part
of Germany. It is bounded on the north by the Baltic Sea
and a small portion of the duchy of Mecklenburg; on the
east by Russia, and its dependent kingdom, Poland ; on the
south-east by Austria; on the south by the kingdom of
Saxony and the Saxon duchies; on the south-west by Ba¬
varia and part of France; and on the west by France and
the kingdom of the Netherlands. In describing these boun¬
daries, it is, however, necessary to remark, that some parts
of the kingdom are small detached portions entirely insu¬
lated by the dominions of other powers, such as Neufchatel
in Switzerland, Suhl in Saxony, and Rahnis in Saxe-Wei-
mar. The whole boundary by land is in length 735 Prus¬
sian miles, equal to 3439 English miles. There is no com¬
munication between the eastern and western provinces of
Prussia without passing through the dominions of other
princes. Hanover, on the north, is interposed between its
eastern and western provinces; and in the southern parts
of it the territories of the sovereigns of Brunswick, Wal-
deck, Hesse-Cassel, Hesse-Darmstadt, Nassau, Saxe-Wei¬
mar, and Saxe-Gotha, intercept the direct communica¬
tion.
1 See an article on this subject in the Foreign Quarterly Review, No. xliv. p. 30G, et seq. .....
2 \\Te had intended to <ove a pretty full narrative of this extraordinary occurrence; but considering that, in one sense at least,
the affair is not ended, the Prussian government having again opened negotiations with the Court of Rome, we deem it the wisest
course to abstain altogether from attempting to give an exposition of a transaction which is still incomplete. It is sufficient to say,
that the Prussian government seems to feel its situation to be anything but a comfortable one; and, if a judgment may be formed
from the notes addressed to the Cardinal Secretary, Lambruschini, by its envoy, Bunsen, since the expulsion of Baron Droste from
the archiepiscopal see of Cologne bv military force, it would gladly retrace its steps, and fall back from the aggressive position it has
assumed, if it could do so without humiliation and disgrace. By the last accounts, however, the sovereign pontiff, Gregory N VI.,
had refused to listen to any compromise. “ Restore the archbishop to liberty, replace him in the full exercise of his ecclesiastical func¬
tions, and then I will hear you,” said Gregory, “ but not till then.”
688
PRUSSIA,
Statistics. The great division of Prussia is into those provinces confederation, and into those states which have no connec-
' V 'which are in Germany, and form a part of the Germanic tion with that alhance.
Extent in British
Statute Acres
German Provinces.
Brandenburg 
Pomerania 
Silesia 
Saxony 
Westphalia
11,025,280
8,331,520
10,598,400
6,663,040
5,534,72°
Provinces of the Rhine  6,365,120
Population in
1834.
Russian Provinces out of Germany.
East and West Prussia 
Posen 
17,178,240
7,919,360
73,615,680
1,651,320
941,193
2,547,579
1,490,583
1,292,566
2,392,743
2,073,378
1,120,668
Children at
School.
Proportion of
Children at
School to the
Population.
13,510,030
280,658
150,404
446,061
291,811
225,954
370,764
336,757
132,950
One out of
5-88
6*26
5*71
5-11
5- 72
6- 45
6-16
8-43
Capitals.
2,235,359
6-04
Berlin.
Stettin.
Breslau.
Magdeburg.
Munster.
Coblentz.
Dantzig.
Posen.
Of the children at school, 1,159,434 were males, and 1,075,925 females.
The duchy of Neufchatel is not included in the above
statement, because its situation and constitutional laws dif¬
fer materially from the rest of the Prussian dominions. In
1831 it contained a population of 54,080. In the same year
there was an average population per square mile,
In the province of Prussia, of 1689 inhabitants.
Posen, of. 1951
Brandenburg, of....2103
Pomerania, of 1567
Silesia, of. 3269
Saxony, of 3100
Westphalia, of.....3380
Provinces of the Rhine 4633
Consequently in the whole kingdom there were on an ave¬
rage 2576 inhabitants to every square mile.
The population has increased very rapidly within the last
twenty years. In 1819 there were, in 937 towns, 2,730,487
inhabitants. In 1831 the same towns contained 3,229,473,
the increase being more than 18 per cent. The increase
in the towns in the province of Brandenburg was about
23 per cent., in the province of Pomerania nearly 22 per
cent., whilst in the province of Prussia it was only about
13 per cent. The population of the whole kingdom from
the year 1819 to the year 1831 increased from 11,084,993
to 13,510,030, or about 21fths per cent.
In 1829 there were in the whole kingdom, of marriages,
108,881; of births, 495,382 ; and of deaths, 388,255. Dur¬
ing the fifteen years from 1820 to 1834 inclusively, there
was an yearly average of births, males 260,436, females
245,765; of deaths, males 187,650, females 176,164.
The inhabitants of Prussia are of different races. The
most numerous body are of German origin, divided by lan¬
guage and customs into the High and Low Germans. These,
except in the province of Posen, form everywhere the great
majority. The Low German or Platt Deutsche language is
generally spoken in the countries between the Rhine and
the Elbe, on the north side of the Hartz Mountains, and
prevails along the Baltic through part of Bandenburg and
Pomerania. In Silesia, in the southern part of Saxony, in
the trans-Rhenish provinces, and in East Prussia, dialects,
or rather differing idioms, of the High German, are spoken,
but all far removed from the pure language of Saxony, or,
as it is called, Der Meissnichen Dialect. The Walloons, in
the vicinity of the Forest of Ardennes, and the colonists
descended from French refugees at the time of the revoca¬
tion of the edict of Nantes, are now much mixed with the
German inhabitants ; but many of them have confused the
two languages, and speak a kind of German-French patois.
Amongst the higher classes in every part of the kingdom the
pure High German language is spoken, generally with the
peculiar idiom and pronunciation of Berlin; and that lan¬
guage is universally used in books, in the churches, in tne
courts of law, and in the more important transactions of
commerce. ,
There are about 10,400,000 Germans, Sclavonians, Poles,
Lithuanians, &c. Those of Sclavonian origin amount to
nearly two millions, and retain their original language.
The greater part of these are usually denominated Poles,
and are the inhabitants of parts of Posen, West Prussia,
and Silesia. About 50,000 people in Lithuania have a pe¬
culiar language of their own. The Wenden or Vandals
have also a different language from all the other subjects of
Prussia. They are between two and three hundred thou¬
sand in number, and are settled, a few in the province of
Brandenburg, and the remainder in the province of Pome¬
rania, and the districts of Leignitz and Kassubon in East
Prussia. The Jews, according to the census of 1828, amount¬
ed to nearly 170,000 individuals ; they are to be met with
in every part of the Prussian territory, but principally in
the province of Posen.
The established religion of Prussia is the Protestant, now
denominated the Evangelical Confession, comprehending
Lutherans, Calvinists, Hernhutters or Moravians, and Hus¬
sites. The professors of it amounted in 1828 to 7,/o8,664
individuals. They were formerly divided into two sects, the
Lutheran and Reformed, but are now united into one,^ and
form a large majority in the circles of Konigsberg, Gum-
binnen, Dantzig, Berlin, Potsdam, Frankfort, Stettin, Kos-
lin, Stralsund, Breslau, Reichenbach, Leignitz, Magde¬
burg, Merseburg, Erfurt, and Minden. At the same pe¬
riod the Roman Catholics amounted to 4,816,813, and form¬
ed the majority in the districts of Marienwarden, Brom¬
berg, Posen, Oppeln, Munster, Arensberg, Cologne, Dus-
seldorf, Cleves, Coblentz, Nachen, and Treves. The Unit¬
ed Brethren, or Hernhutters, may be reckoned at between
10,000 and 12,000 souls. The Mennonites, a species of Ana¬
baptists, amounted to 15,655 ; and the Jews, as before stat¬
ed, to about 170,000. The proportion of each religious de¬
nomination was in 1825 calculated in the following man¬
ner : Supposing the whole population of the Prussian king¬
dom to be unity, the various religious divisions are, Evan¬
gelical Christians, O’GOO7 ; Roman Catholics, 0’3/95 ; Men¬
nonites, 0-0013 ; Jews, 0-0125 ; or, in other words, in every
10,000 inhabitants there are 6067 Protestants, 3795 Ko-
PRUSSIA.
Statistics, manists, 13 Mennonites, 125 Jews. These difFerent sects
are equal in the eye of the law, have the same protec¬
tion for their worship, and are all alike eligible to every
civil, judicial, and military office.1
The different classes of inhabitants in Prussia may be
divided into nobles, landed proprietors, burgesses, with more
or less extensive privileges, and peasants. At the head of
these the nobles are of two kinds practically, though not
legally. The high nobility are the princes, who were for¬
merly petty sovereigns on their own estates, but whose in¬
dependence has merged in the general government; they
amount to about fifty families. The lower nobility, con¬
sisting of about two hundred thousand individuals, have pre¬
ferable claims to certain offices in the army, the state, and
the church; but their privileges have been gradually con¬
tracting, and they are now in almost every point only equal
to the burghers or citizens. Some of the Prussian nobles
are the descendants of the Teutonic knights, who renounced
their monastic vows; but other noble families came at a later
period from the north of Germany. The Prussian aristo¬
cracy is not a wealthy order ; their estates are of little va¬
lue ; it is supposed that the greatest income derived from
the land of any one noble does not exceed L.2500. The
higher ranks of nobility, the princes, dukes, counts, earls,
viscounts, and some of the ancient barons, are not subject¬
ed to military duty by conscription, and pay no personal
taxes. The higher clergy, namely, the bishops, abbots, pro¬
vosts, &c. have all these prerogatives, and the same rank as
the nobility. The burgesses are a numerous and respect¬
able class of inhabitants, but they differ according to their
origin and the size of their towns ; the descendants of the
German colonists being more enlightened than those sprung
from the Poles and the Wendes. Traces of the ancient
freedom enjoyed by the Hanseatic towns may still be ob¬
served in Memel, Konigsberg, Elbing, Dantzig, and Thorn.
The burgesses of Dantzig are peculiarly distinguished for
their general intelligence, and their active and industrious
habits. The power of the guilds in the cities has been
gradually diminished, and they are now scarcely obstacles,
as they were formerly here, and still are in other parts of
Germany, to the exercise of industry and ingenuity in any
profession which individuals may select for themselves. The
largest class is composed of the baueren or peasants. They
were formerly slaves, and were usually sold, as in Russia,
with the estates to which they were attached; but their lot
has been progressively ameliorated, and during the reign of
the present king the last vestiges of this barbarism have
been totally abolished. The final extinction of personal
slavery was not decreed till September 1811 ; and, from the
military events which speedily succeeded, it was not prac¬
tically destroyed till several years afterwards. At present the
peasantry, who amount to two thirds of the whole popula¬
tion, are a species of copyholders, with customary quitrents
and herriots to the landowners ; but they may purchase land
and become themselves proprietors, a benefit only recently
conferred upon them, and which those wrho are industrious
689
and economical very eagerly avail themselves of. The con- Statistics.
dition of the peasantry varies considerably throughout the ' v'—
different provinces of which the Prussian monarchy is com¬
posed. In some they are slothful, ignorant, and supersti¬
tious, whilst in others the efforts of the Prussian administra¬
tion to improve their moral and intellectual condition have
been attended with success. The peasants on the werders,
and the inhabitants of the new colonies, are the wealthiest
and most intelligent of the peasantry. Their houses are
not destitute of elegance, and their children are well edu¬
cated. The other extremity of the country is inhabited
by Lithuanian peasants, the descendants of the ancient
Pruczi; they retain their native dialect, and are still igno¬
rant and slothful. The coarse cloth with which they are
clad is manufactured by themselves ; and all of them wear
a sort of scarf, or, as it is called, a margin, which appears
to be the same as the plaid of the Scottish Highlanders.
Ihe boots and the hats of the women are nowise different
from those of the men. “ The German millers form almost a
distinct caste ; the happy inhabitants of a romantic country,
possessing numerous flocks, abundantly provided with fish,
poultry, and game, they make up the class between the
peasantry and the nobles, and neither associate with the
one nor the other, all of them intermarrying amongst them¬
selves.” (Malte-Brun.)
In so extensive a territory as Prussia, there will neces- Soil and
sarily be great inequalities in soil, productions, and climate, climate.
The greater part of the country is a sandy soil, generally
very level, and often covered with heaths. The woods of
it are nearly one fourth of the whole surface, and only cer¬
tain portions near the rivers, or in particular situations, can
be considered as fertile, or even grateful soils. Many bar¬
ren sandy plains are to be found, which are deemed to he
more expensive to bring into cultivation than could be
repaid by their productions. This is especially the case in
the Churmark, in Lower Lusatia, and in some of the West¬
phalian provinces, where large spaces are occupied by
heaths, such as the heaths of Minden, which extend over
ten thousand acres, those of Lippstadt, of twenty thousand,
and the still larger ones of Senner andLuhling. In East Prus¬
sia there are several very extensive morasses, which require
draining to render them productive. In the fruitful district
of Magdeburg, the bog of the Dromling covers more than
a hundred thousand acres. A part of it indeed is in the
Hanoverian and a part of it in the Brunswick territory,
which prevents the necessary drains from being executed,
which would make it one of the most valuable tracts of land
in that part of Germany.
The most fruitful corn-land in the kingdom of Prussia is
the vicinity of Tilsitt, and some other districts of East Prus¬
sia, and the greater part of the duchy of Posen. That pro¬
vince forms physically a part of Poland; the same plains,
the same kind of sand intermixed with clay and black loam,
the same fertility in corn, and the same sort of forests, may
be observed in the two countries. But many large marshes
covered with weeds and brushwood are still undrained in
1 According to an act passed in 1817, the Protestant clergv in each province are regulated by a synod composed of all the su¬
perintendents? headed by a president. They meet once or twice a year in a General Assembly, and consult on the internal aftairs of
the churches belonging to the province. They also superintend all schools, and take especial cognizance of the religious instruction
given in them. Their decisions are sent to the minister of the interior, furnished with the approval of the consistory of the province.
The Roman Catholics are divided into two archbishoprics, the one of which comprehends the eastern, the other the western pro¬
vinces, nine dioceses, and about 3200 parishes. Gnesen is the metropolitan see of the eastern Cologne hat of the western dis¬
tricts. No archbishop or bishop can be elected without the sanction of the king. Ihe annual stipend of the archbishops is about
L.1720 sterling, that of the bishops about L.l 150 sterling, besides perquisites. Public pilgrimages ou of the country are entirely
prohibited, and none allowed within the state which extend to more than one day s journey. It is worthy ot notice, that m Silesia
ihe number of Roman Catholics has diminished, and still continues to diminish. Like the Socie y of l riends the Mennonites are
opposed to the use of offensive arms. They are, therefore, by the act of 1815 exempted from military service; but to counterbalance
this privilege, they are obliged to contribute a sum amounting to about L.720 a year towards the support of the military academy at
Culm. The Jews are acknowledged as Prussian subjects, and enjoy the same rights and privileges with the Christians. They c
fill any post or office, and can hold real estates of all kinds, and follow all lawful callings.^ I hey are ot course obliged m return to
contribute to the support of the state, and are subjected to military service by conscription. Ihey are, however, not admitted as
teachers in the public academies and universities, owing to some impediments which arise in the discharge of these functions. Apos-
tacy from Christianity to Judaism is not tolerated. .
VOL. XVIII.
690
PRUSSIA.
Statistics, the province, particularly along the winding course of the
v—-~v ' Obra. In West Prussia, the district of the Netz, the
country around Marienburg, and that near Dantzig and bJ-
bing, are excellent corn countries. That part of Silesia
which is on the east of the Oder forms a very large plain,
slightly undulated by hills, and differs m no respect from
the plains in Poland. But in the western districts the land
is more unequal, and that portion of Silesia is bounded by
high mountainous chains. This province also contains se¬
veral large and humid meadows and marshes. The land in
Brandenburg is low, and in general sandy. Its inclina¬
tion is so inconsiderable, that a great many marshes and
small lakes are formed by the inundations of rivers. In this
province only some districts, such as the mark of Prignitz,
and the Ukermark, are celebrated for the quantity and qua¬
lity of their grain ; but the country abounds in forests of nr,
pine, oak, beech, and ash. In Pomerania the soil is almost
entirely formed by accessions from the sea, and alluvial de¬
posits from rivers and streams. A great part of the country
is covered with forests and extensive heaths, and it is only
the banks of the rivers and of the lakes that can be advan¬
tageously cultivated. The soil is very favourable for all
kinds of grain in the duchies of Saxony and Magdeburg,
in Thuringia, and in the principalities of Halberstadt and
Quedlinburg. These divisions, in favourable seasons, may
be considered as the real granaries from which the less fertile
parts of Prussia draw their supplies of corn.
The western parts of the Prussian dominions are far less
productive than the eastern. A few only of the Westpha¬
lian provinces are highly fruitful. Ihe distiicts most emi¬
nent for fertility are the vicinity of Minden and of Pader-
born, the borders of the Soester, and the circles of the Lieg
and the Wupper. In the Rhenish provinces, the neighbour¬
hood of Juliers, Bonn, Cologne, Coblentz, Kreusnach, Ba-
charach, and the banks of the Meuse, are tolerably fertile.
The principality of Neufchatel is very mountainous. Six
or seven valleys, some of which, such as those of Ilutz and
Travers, afford rich pasture, make up the greater part of the
. . j- • t
The climate varies considerably in the different districts. It
may generally be described as temperateand healthy, though,
from the great variety of situations, there are many excep¬
tions. On the borders of the Baltic the winters are severe¬
ly cold, and the weather changeable, raw, and foggy. The
greatest degree of cold in the last century was from the 21 st
to the 25th January 1795, when Reaumur’s thermometer was
at 24° below zero. The greatest heat of that century was
in the following summer, when the same thermometer was at
3G° above zero. The middle provinces of Posen, Branden¬
burg, Silesia, Saxony, and the whole western parts of the
monarchy, possess a more mild and less variable climate,
but very different in the several localities. The atmosphere
of Brandenburg, though mild, is humid, and subject to fre¬
quent variations in temperature; and is, besides, often ex¬
posed to violent storms from the south and the east. On
the sandy plains of that province the heat is in the summer
very oppressive, and the air, from the abundance of stagnant
water, frequently unhealthy, whilst in the vicinity of the
Hartz the cool mountain breezes are enjoyed. Silesia suf¬
fers great disadvantages from snowy winters and rainy au¬
tumns. The air is in many parts salubrious, but the south¬
ern districts, from the thick forests, and the elevation of the
soil, are exposed to long and severe winters. The climate
is milder in the northern part of the country; but the lakes
and marshes infect the air in several places, and render it
unwholesome. The banks of the Rhine and Moselle are
covered with verdure before the inhabitants of Riesenge-
birge, and of the Lithuanian heaths, have laid aside the fur
pelisses of the winter.
Itivers. Few of the countries of Europe have been more favoured
by nature than Prussia with streams that contribute to fer¬
tility and intercourse ; and the labour of the inhabitants has Statistics,
been advantageously directed to several public works, which %
have facilitated the communication between the different
rivers. As the slope of the whole Prussian dominions is
towards the wrest and north, all the rivers that rise in oi
pass through them empty themselves either into the Baltic
Sea or the German Ocean. The streams that merge in
the first of these are the Niemen, which rises in Lithuania,
and becomes navigable at Schmaleninken; about ten miles
below Tilsitt it divides into two branches, which, through
the maritime lake of Curisch-Haf, empty themselves Jot0
the sea. The German name of the Niemen is derived from
the town of Memel, which is built at the outlet of the same
lake. During its short course through the Prussian terri¬
tory, the Niemen receives on its right side the waters of
the Schesschappe, and on its left those of the navigable nyer
Jura. The river of the hills, the ancient Prussian Prigolla,
the modern Pregel, is composed of the united streams of
the Pisa, Ranet, Russe, Augerap, and Inster; after it as¬
sumes its name it receives the Deinenear, lappiau, and the
Alle near Wehlau. It becomes navigable near Gotten-
burg, and, passing Konigsberg, discharges its streams by
the Frisch-Haf into the Baltic. The Vistula, the Polish
Wisla, or the German Weichsel, rises in the Austrian part
of Silesia. It passes through Poland, where at Cracow it
becomes navigable. On its entrance into the Russian ter¬
ritories it divides into two branches, the eastern of which
takes the name of the Nogat, and joins the Baltic near Ll-
bing; the western is again subdivided into two arms, one
of which is lost in the Frisch-Haf, and the other reaches the
sea near Dantzig. Its course after entering Prussia is about
140 miles, and during its progress it is augmented by the
streams of the Ossa, the Brahe, and the Mottlau. Geo¬
graphers have been led to suppose, and not without proba¬
bility, that the Vistula is not so deep as it once was; it is
certain that it may be forded in the vicinity of '1 horn. 1 lie
Oder, which in the German dialect of Pomerania is called
the Ader, and of which the ancient Wendo-Slavomc name
is the Wiadro, a word that signifies a pitcher, has its source
in the mountains of Moravia, in the ancient circle of Olmutz ;
but the Elsa, which rises from the base of the Carpathians,
is in reality the principal source. It becomes navigable near
Ratibor soon after entering the province of Silesia, and, after
passing through Brandenburg and Pomerania, divides into
two branches, and enters the great estuaries which com¬
municate with the Baltic Sea through the three mouths of
Peene, Swine, and Divenou. Its course in the Prussian
states is 370 miles; the general rate of its current is lan¬
guid, forming in many places large fens and turbid lakes;
and it is prevented from overflowing by embankments. It
receives near Oderberg the waters of the Oppa, near Bres¬
lau those of the Ohlau, near Grosglogau those of the Bartsch,
near Neuzelle those of the Neisse, and at Custrin those of
the Wartha. This last is the most valuable of all the se¬
condary rivers of Prussia, because it affords the means o a
communication between the Oder and the Vistula. 1 he
rivers of Prussia which empty themselves into the German
Ocean are, the Elbe, which rises in the Riesengebirge, or
Giant’s Mountains, and is known at its source by the Sla¬
vonic name of the Labbe. It receives from the south of
Bohemia the Moldawa or the Bohemian Oritza, which, as
it is deeper and broader than the Elbe, ought perhaps to be
considered as the principal river. It is navigable at Muhi-
berg, where it enters Bohemia. It receives the Lister
near Wittenberg, the Muldau near Dessau, the Saale near
Saalhom, and the Havel near Werben; soon after which, in
its passage to the ocean, it quits the Prussian dominions.
The Weser enters but a small portion of the territory o
the Prussian kingdom, though it forms the boundary on t e
eastern side of the Westphalian provinces, from Holtzmin-
den to Carlshafen. The only part where both its banks
Statistics
PRUSSIA.
iCanals.
-akes.
Sricul-
ire.
^through the range of mountabrancfformed1h T^i Cen^ury’ tiie most steriIe and unproductive kingd  
passage well known to thTSm EuroPe int0 a ^rritory which more 'than supplies "the de-
hca. The Rhine enters the lately acquired nrovinces nf ™and® ol lts ovv 11 ,nhabltants’an^leaves a surplus quantity of
Prussia at Bingen, a little below Mentz and quits them at tl°n\!n m°St ye-arS f°r fxPortation t0 other countries. In
Kerkerdom, above Nimeguen. From Bingen to the rnnn ^ th.ree Prov*nces. which communicate with the Baltic
try above Coblentz it is Snfhed by mountains and li P/USsia’ West Prussia, and Pomerania, it is
islands and headlands are formed by the rocks ’it re ' & ^alculated that four fifths of the inhabitants subsist wholly
within the Prussian territoShe s^ams of^he N*he T food* }* these provinces, in the sense of
Lahn, that isconcealed under mountains, the Moselle which unkno™ ^ a/8 USed m °Ur coantry> farmer is still almost
ft-oe oU„n„ _j _ . . ’ loselie,which, unknown. Almost every proprietor, whether a large or a
cultivates his own land; and all the operations
 , xtum aim rne i mne i r mi re are Perthriued in a slovenly and indolent man-
though it rises in the province of Wesinhalia is n sm'li fr-1 - 16 Senfral course of cultivation is to fallow every
stream, not navigable till it enters the kinidom of ir U i;1" year’ hy Ploughing three times if intended for rye, and
Most of the rivers of Prasskareso adflLl f '' ^ ,l,mf ,lf <or wheat' allowed to resi the
nected with each other bv metmc nf - ,1^ / c°n' who3e of tlie year irom one autumn to another. The ex-
an uninterrupted communication is t •6 ^ai?a s’ ,t iat t^,n^ °3 land sown with wheat does not amount to one tenth
from hX S M^detarTwEyne andTef by ^ ^that, °? which T is ^ wheat or rye is
districts have the benefit of those f "ft- d ?e !>und!ng !’”vcste‘lt oats or barley are sown in the succeeding spring.
their Various prodtTctfons?' raS? Saf *'.«*«*’
in Ea^t Prussia, is formed to avoid the dangerous navio-a-
tion of the Curisch-Haf, in the intercourse between Tilsitt
and Memel. The Bromberg Canal joins the Netze and the
Brahe, and by their means the Oder and the Vistula. It
is the most expensive of all the Prussian canals, having
within eighteen miles ten locks. The commerce on it fur¬
nishes freight to about 600 barges annually, each of thirty
tons burden, besides smaller boats. The Finnow Canal,
which unites the Oder and the Havel, is about twenty miles
long, and has on it about 4000 small, and from 1600 to
vhxaHnf tWS' • ^ ^ nfW ^ana} softens the na- imu ncn meauows, many unwnoiesome
g tion of that liver, and serves also for the purpose of marshes have been drained, and, in consequence, the land
draining the meadows through which it passes. The throughout the province has risen in value. The crops in
auen Canal connects the Havel with the Elbe, and is the Silesia are inadequate for the numerous population, and a
c annel of intercourse between Berlin and Hamburg. The quantity of grain is imported into the province from Poland
r nednch-W ilhelm, or Mullros Canal, unites the Oder and and Austria
691
om of Statistics.
ceeded by a whole year’s fallow, so that the land only
bears corn two years out of every three, and the soil is so
poor that the last crop is considered as a good one if it
yields three times the seed. The implements of husban¬
dry correspond with the state of agriculture and the nature
of the soil. They are almost wholly formed of wood, and
are constructed in a very rude and clumsy manner.
In the province of Brandenburg the soil is unproductive,
but the husbandmen are industrious; and since the en¬
couragement given to agriculture by Frederick the Great, un¬
cultivated lands have been covered with harvests, thick forests
have been changed into rich meadows, many unwholesome
the Spree. Besides these, there are others of less import¬
ance, as the Storkow, the Werbellin, the Klodnitz, the Sax¬
on, and the Munster Canals, all of which are of local bene¬
fit; and the Rhine Canal, begun in 1809.
The lakes of Prussia, especially in the eastern portions
of the kingdom, are numerous and extensive. On the coast
of the Baltic the two fresh-water lakes, denominated the
Curisch-Haf and Frisch-Haf, may be considered as the
The principal grains of Prussia are wheat, rye, barley,
and oats. The quantity of rye far exceeds that of every
other kind of corn ; it forms the principal aliment of the in¬
habitants, amongst whom wheat is seldom eaten in bread.
Pease, both white and gray, are extensively raised, and
especially that description of them known in England by
the name of “ Prussian blues.” Beans of all varieties are
cultivated in the soils on the borders of the rivers, which
1 1,1   " ’ ^ CIO mt; in Ull CliC UUiUCld U1 WIC HVtM S, WHICH
most remarkable phenomena in the physical geography of are suitable to their growth. Buckwheat is much sown
russiA. I ii h "TVa t* I'vi i ski i r w   ^ ^ , i „ « „ —* j tv, ——,   •  < . if*, i
Prussia. ^ I he former, which received its name from the
ancient Cures or Coures, who inhabited its banks, is sixty-
six miles in length, and varies from fifteen to thirty in
breadth. It is divided from the sea by a narrow stripe of
land. The sand-banks and shallows on this lake are so
numerous that it is only navigable for boats, and they, too,
are exposed to frequent hurricanes. The Frisch-Haf, or
fresh-water lake, is about sixty miles in length, and from
six to fifteen miles in breadth. It is separated by a chain
of sand-banks from the Baltic Sea, with which it communi¬
cates by a strait called the Gatt. The Stettin- Haf is of
nearly the same extent. Besides the lakes on the shore,
those in the interior of the country are stated to exceed
1000, many of them from ten to twenty miles in length.
In East Prussia are 300, in West Prussia 160, and in the
province of Brandenburg 680. Many parts of these lakes
have been contracted by embankments, and the soil w hich
they covered gradually appropriated to agricultural purposes.
At present they supply vast quantities of fish, the right to
take which is in many instances farmed at very high rates.
The cultivation of the soil is the employment of three
fourths of the inhabitants of the Prussian dominions. The
wants and the industry of the inhabitants, aided by a rigid
parsimony, directed and stimulated by a paternal though
absolute government, have changed, in the course of the
in some places, and forms an important part of the suste¬
nance of the labouring classes. An article for food is col¬
lected in Prussia, especially in Brandenburg, from the seeds
of the grass called festuca jluitans. It is manufactured into
a substance called manna grits, and is far more agreeable
to the taste, though employed for the same purposes, than
oat-meal with us. The cultivation of potatoes has for many
years past been gradually extending, and is become so
great as to supply almost the sole aliment of a very great
proportion of the labouring population.
Table of the Average Prices of the four 'principal sorts of
Grain in the different Provinces of Prussia in the year
1836.
d.
«
9
6
0
0
1
East and AVest Prussia i 20 11
Rhenish Provinces  26
Westphalia  24
Prussian Saxony ! 23
Brandenburg and Pomerania 23
Silesia j 21
Posen  21
The whole kingdom I 23 0
Rye. | Barley. I Oats.
20 2
12 0
12 2
12 6
s. d.
16 7
15 3
14 6
13 1
10 5
11 2
10 3
s. d.
11 8
10 11
11 0
15 7 ! 13 1 i 9 6
092
PRUSSIA.
Statistics. The most productive branch of rural economy next to
' corn is that of breeding and fattening cattle. The practices
in this branch are, however, of a very imperfect kind; and
from Silesia alone. It is generally of a good quality, with ^Statistics
a fine and long fibre, especially when raised from foreign v
seed This change of seed is found so essential, that large
in this branch are, however, of a very impertect Kina; ana ir orted from Livonia and other
though the different races especially ot cows, are to be ^ ^s aje^annuall^ ^ ^ at hoine is
found in Prussia, yet so little attention has been pa , y ^ for making oii and oil-cake, with the latter of
crossing them, to obtain the most perfect am , Y , e oxen are fattened. Thread is also made from
are almost all very indifferent. Ihe proper ion^ ^ felWort, a plant of which the cultivation is rapidly increas¬
ing. Tobacco, madder, woad, saflour, and hops, have been
much grown, especially during the continental restrictions
of Napoleon ; and though the opening of foreign commerce
has greatly discouraged their cultivation, they are still con¬
tinued upon a small scale. Chicorium or succory, as in
are aimusL an    . * * i.i i ^
number of cattle of every description bears to the land is
much too small. It appears, from an official account pub¬
lished in 1819, that the stock of cattle in the maritime pro¬
vinces of Prussia at the end of that year was as follows :—
asses and colts, 556,839; oxen, cows, and calves, 1,171,434;
sheep and lambs, 2,049,801 ; swine, 617,310. odmr^arts of GermanyTis much used as a substitute for
According to the lowest estimate relative to the stock of other parts of ^ermany, 0f the
cattle in En|la„d, there are more than three tones the num- coflee ^ ‘hongh the^ace^has p ^ ^ ^
berof horses, and upwards of four times the ntmitr o cultivated verv larcely in many districts. It was in
and sheep, in the same extent of land. 1 he s eep g - experiments of Margrave concerning the
rally are bad, but of late years very great improvements have ^tion of su™Xm beetrave were first put into prac-
been made in their fleeces by the introduction of the Me- and works were erected long before
rino and Paduan rams. It is supposed that the sleep in 1 » generally known in France. And although
creased in the Prussian provinces between the yearn 819 ''t“nSon/are now facilitated by the com-
and 18!24 at the rate ot ‘"enty-five pcr ^ . m„nications that have been opened during peace, the mak-
finer sort of sheep have increasea in a grt e • f from beetrave has become an important branch
The fine-woolled sheep are now pretty numerous and sup- mg of sugar tro«^av^he ^ made in Prussia before
ply the manufacturers with that raw material, w nc i u^t f tl Rhenish provinces was of a bad qua-
formerly to be furnished principally from Spain.' The mo- he acqm ition of Khen^h p but these territolries
nied value of the live stock on the farms is very low Ihe ^ and "t strength. The annual
best flocks of Merino sheep, exclusive of the wool do not y ^™^4fc°2ted t0 vary from six to eight millions of
bring more than six shillings or six shillings and eightpe ce 1 ‘ 5 Prussia like the reJt of Germany, is well provided
a held. Cows are worth from thirty to sixty-five shillings quality. The cul-
and the variation in their price is much greater than in cabba°es a^d the different sorts of turnips, carrots,
of sheep. The races of horses are not good, though great ture f has been carried to a great degree of per-
efforts have been made by the government to imP™ e P ’ q'pg siik raised in Silesia, and some other districts
them ; and establishments of stallions, for gratuitous pr p - inconsiderable to be of much value ; but the bombex
gation, are fixed in several parts of the king om. or silk-worm succeeds well in the province of Brandenburg,
breeding of swine is a very considerable emp oy , ^ . , nnantitv of silk derived from it is very considerable,
the hams, bacon, and sausages made from them form a arge . ^ noun ting t nearly two sevenths of the whole
proportion of the animal food of the inhabitants of the Prus- ^ timber for building and
sian dominions. „ „ • c tnr nitch rosin, and potash, are more
The great deficiency in the rural economy of Pruss.a, ’^t SS whicl, the rivers and
as in most parts of the Continent, is the smal por ion o ta u , internal navigation, by which their products
land appropriated to pasture. Hence the number of cattle t" the borders of the sea. Game
maintained is small in proportion to its extent , anc le e - cat ‘ J according as the districts are well or ill
feet of the deficiency of manure is to be found the small is rare or abundant, “ as boar and the sta
S forf0orn0en:f°o “C The'C 7tl kingdom T thus IZ province. The lynx is sometimes^een on the moun-
appropriated. , .
ri 1 English Acres.
Under the plough 29,224,741
In garden culture  295,302
Vineyards  36,908
Meadows and pasture ..14,672,000
Woods,forests, and plantations... 17,574,294
61,803,245
The remaining 11,800,000 acres are either in lakes, ponds,
rivers, canals, roads, the sites of cities, towns, and villages,
or of so bad a soil as not to be deemed worth cultivation.
Besides articles for food, the soil of Prussia produces
many for commerce. The principal of these is flax, which is
grown in every village, and almost by every peasant. Be¬
sides what is used by the growers for their own domestic
manufactures, the quantity annually brought to market is
very considerable. Two thirds of this quantity is produced
tains, where are also met the wild cat and the badger. The
wolf is now rare; and the fox, the marten, and the beaver,
are not nearly so common as they formerly were. 1 he hs i
that abound in the rivers afford the means of subsistence to
many of the inhabitants. Some of them are of an excellent
quality, and there are several kinds in the Spree that are
so much prized as to form a lucrative branch of exporta¬
tion. The salmon abounds most in the Rhine ; but it is by
no means rare in the Elbe and the Weser. The sturgeon,
of which the length is sometimes from twelve to fourteen
feet, the sparus, the glanis, that weighs from forty to fifty
pounds, are often taken in the Oder, and the finest trouts
in the rivers that flow from the Hartz and the Erzge¬
birge. The lamprey and the loach are not uncommon ;
and numerous marshes or lakes abound with pike, murense,
and trouts. , , . „ic
The mines of Prussia are by no means worked to the ex- Miner. -•
tent of which they are capable. Every province possesses
1 In Silesia the flocks are shorn twice a year, and the summer’s wool is considered as the j^ee millions five
throughout that province is upwards of two millions three hundred thousand, and their annual p
hundred thousand to four millions of pounds.
PRUSSIA.
Statistics, iron, which is prepared in forges and blast-furnaces in their
vicinity. They are principally worked with charcoal from
the neighbouring forests ; but in some instances with fossil
coal. Little or no iron is exported, as it can be made cheaper
in countries which have more easy access to the ocean.
The mines of rock-salt, and the salt springs, are sufficiently
worked to supply the consumption of their vicinity ; but the
provinces in the Baltic Sea find it more advantageous to
draw their supply from the mines of Cheshire. Coals are
found in Silesia and Saxony, Westphalia and Brandenburg ;
but the mines are not extensively worked. From the un¬
productive state of the gold-mines in Silesia, they were
abandoned in 1798. The silver-mines are those of Tar-
nowitz and Rudelstadt in Silesia, and of Mansfeld and Ro-
thenburg in Saxony. In Tarnowitz there is an extensive
and valuable lead-mine, in which the silver is found. It is
supposed that in ancient times the mine yielded about fif¬
teen or sixteen thousand quintals of lead, and between three
and four thousand marks of silver; and it has been affirmed
that the annual produce of the mine is at present greater.
In Silesia there are found also slate, mill-stones, marble, ser¬
pentine, porphyry, rock-crystal, jaspers, carnelians, onyxes,
agates, and a particular sort of chrysoprasus. The other
minerals of Prussia are copper, cobalt, calamine, arsenic,
alum, vitriol, and saltpetre; but they do not yield sufficient
for the internal consumption. Amber is almost an exclu¬
sive production of Prussia. It is found in mines, as well as
procured by the fishermen on the shores of the Baltic. Its
value is at present much less than it was in ancient times;
but in some manufactories in Prussia workmen are still em¬
ployed in making from it small jewels, scented powder, spi¬
rituous acid, and a fine oil that is used as a varnish. Part
of the raw material is exported by the Danes and Italians;
but Turkey is the staple market for the commodity. The
quantity which is found in Prussia amounts annually to
more than two hundred tons, and the revenue which the
crown derives from it is equal to three or four thousand
pounds.
uanufac- Prussia is a manufacturing country, though these branches
urcs. 0f incjustry give employment to a far less portion of its in¬
habitants than the cultivation of the soil. The most na¬
tural and important manufacture is that of linen cloth, the
raw material of which, and all the articles that contribute
to its perfecting, are produced at home. It has long been
established, and extensively spread. In Silesia especially,
the habit of spinning fine thread has given to the females
a delicacy of tact that is only excelled in some parts of the
Netherlands. Besides the common articles for personal and
domestic use, Prussia manufactures the finest and most beau¬
tiful damask services for the table, w hich are generally prefer¬
red to all others, in the higher circles, throughout nearly the
whole of Europe. Before the continental war, the produce
of the linen from Silesia amounted to L.1,689,9I5 sterling, of
which L.970,000 was destined for foreign consumption. In
the western provinces the linen cloth is principally made for
home consumption. Large quantities of linen goods were
formerly exported to Spain, and from Cadiz to the former
Spanish colonies in South America; but that trade was de¬
stroyed by the submission of the continent to the prohibi¬
tions imposed by Napoleon, and has not since been re¬
covered, as the markets are now supplied by Great Britain
and Ireland.
The increase of Merino sheep has given a great stimulus
to the fine woollen manufactures, especially to those in the
newly-acquired provinces on the French frontiers, where
some of the best superfine cloths that Europe can exhibit
are made. In the late department of the Roer, or, as it is
now denominated, the circle of Aachen, in the towns of
Eupen, Aachen, Montjoie, Stolberg, and Montmedy, fine
cloths and cassimeres are manufactured, which are esti¬
mated to amount to a million and a half sterling, and afford
693
employment to upwards of 50,000 workmen, as well as to Statistics,
every kind of machinery that has been invented in Eng-v—"-''
land or in any other country. The cloths for the dress of
the middle and lower classes are wholly made within the
kingdom from their native wools. The woollen manufac¬
tories throughout the kingdom, on an average from 1829
to 1831, yielded annually about L.4,525,000 sterling.
Cotton goods have been made to a considerable extent.
In some instances the yarn is spun in foreign countries, and
the weaving, bleaching, and dyeing only executed in Prus¬
sia ; and as the raw material, a foreign article, cannot be
procured so cheap as in England, this branch of industry
has much diminished since the general peace. During the
period from 1829 to 1831, the cotton manufactures pro¬
duced to the state about L.4,250,000 sterling yearly, after
deducting the prime cost of the materials. The iron ma¬
nufactures are more than sufficient for the domestic con¬
sumption, and furnish to the value of about L.300,000 ster¬
ling for exportation. There are three hundred paper-mills,
which furnish the common kinds of paper in quantities suf¬
ficient for the consumption of the country; but the finer
sorts are supplied either from Great Britain or from France.
Silk goods, and mixed goods either of silk and cotton or
silk and woollen, are chiefly made in the capital, in which,
and in some other places, they give employment to about
20,000 looms. The various kinds of leather are made from
skins produced at home, as far as they are found sufficient,
and the deficiency is supplied from Buenos Ayres, through
the intervention of Britain or Spain. Copper and brass
wares for all domestic purposes are made, partly from the
copper and calamine of their own mines, but chiefly with
copper furnished by other countries. The amount of these
wares is estimated at about L.200,000 sterling. Tobacco,
snuff, sugar, soap, candles, cabinet-ware, earthen-ware, por ¬
celain, tin goods, and almost every article of common con¬
sumption, are made within the kingdom. As no wine is
made in the eastern part of Prussia, the common beverage
is either beer or brandy, distilled from the native grains.
The establishments for brewing and distilling are conse¬
quently very numerous; but none of them approach in mag¬
nitude to the larger concerns of a similar kind in England.
The whole quantity of beer brewed is between four and
five million casks, of fifty gallons each. The consumption
of corn brandy is upwards of 8,000,000 gallons. In the
larger cities the letter-founders, printers, engravers, musi¬
cal, optical, and mathematical instrument makers, gold and
silver smiths, jewellers, watchmakers, and other similar ar¬
tificers, are to be found as numerous and as skilful as in the
other countries on the Continent. With regard to the
respective trades, Prussia contains, on an yearly average,
328,317 mechanics, artisans, and craftmen, with 181,054
assistants. The number of printing-offices is 327, with
709 presses ; tile and brick manufactories, limekilns, glass¬
houses, tar manufactories, 5406; iron, copper, and other
smelts, 1932 ; watermills, 13,949, with 22,693 lets; 10,451
windmills, 1184 mills worked with horses, and 9422 oil-
mills ; fulling-machines, tan, saw, and paper-mills, looms
for shawls, stockings, and tissue of all sorts, 87,558 ; 5614
drivers of teams for the transportation of goods by land,
employing 11,994 horses; the licensed hotels, cook-shops,
taverns, wine and spirit retailers, amount in the whole coun¬
try to 74,721.
The commerce of Prussia with foreign nations is much Foreign
less than the extent of the country and the number of thecommerce.
inhabitants would lead us to expect. It is loaded with
many restrictions, which, however necessary they may be
deemed in a fiscal view, are vexatious and harassing. The
commerce by land, by internal navigation, is principally
with Austria and Russia. From Austria she receives salt
and wine, and sends linen-yarn in exchange. From Rus¬
sia she draws hemp, corn, hides, tallow, and some other
694
PRUSSIA.
Statistics, productions of the soil, and sends in return both linen and
-v'—woollen cloths. The provinces on the Rhine carry on very
considerable traffic in wine and manufactured goods with
the adjoining provinces in the kingdom oi the Netherlands,
and with several of the states of Germany.
As Prussia possesses no seaports except on the Baltic,
and as none of its harbours enjoy good entrances, or are
calculated to receive ships of a great draught of water,
there is very little commerce carried on beyond the limits
of Europe.
The greater part of the exports from Prussia are convey¬
ed by foreign ships, of which the British exceed in number
those of all other nations together. Dantzig, once a Hanse
town, and the seat of extensive commerce, has much de¬
clined since it has become subject to Prussia, notwithstand¬
ing its favourable situation for exporting the productions
raised on the banks of the Vistula and its tributary streams.
It still, however, exports corn, wood, potashes, linen, wool,
wax, honey, horse-hair, and feathers ; and imports colonial
wares and some few manufactured goods. The vessels
which entered the port of Dantzig during the year 1835
amounted to 621, having a tonnage of 94,534 ; and those
which cleared out to 621, having a tonnage of 95,079.
The imports by sea during the same year amounted to
L.495,909, and the exports to L.373,700. Konigsberg ex¬
ports corn, but the vessels to be loaded with it can approach
no nearer than to Pillau. The number of vessels inwards
during the year 1835 amounted to 246, and the tonnage to
18,028 ; those outwards to 249, and the tonnage to 18,786.
The imports during the same year amounted to L.265,203,
and the exports to L.275,642. Elbing has lately increased
by dividing the commerce with Dantzig, and the articles
imported and exported are of the same description as con- Statistics
stitute the trade of that city. Memel is the largest ex- '
porting city, and corn, ship-timber, and masts, pot and pearl
ashes, with flax-seed, are its chief commodities. Stettin
has the greatest portion of the import trade, as, from its
position on the Oder, it is best calculated to receive colo¬
nial produce, and forward it to the capital and to the centre
of the kingdom. It is also the port in which the greater
part of the vessels for the fisheries are equipped. The es¬
timated value of its exports in 1834 amounted to L.374,800,
in 1835 to L.280,000 ; and that of its imports in 1834 to
L.714,050, and in 1835 to L.841,670. Stralsund, though
it possesses a good harbour, has but little trade, from being
destitute of water-communicqtion with the interior of the
kingdom. The other ports of Prussia, Colberg, Rugen-
walde, Stolpe, Barth, Swinemunde, and Wolgast, carry on
some trade, and though not to a great extent, it is valuable,
from being almost exclusively conducted in national ves¬
sels. The whole exports of Prussia, both by land and by
sea, amount to about L.4,500,000 sterling, the whole of the
imports to about L.3,750,000; but in the latter is not includ¬
ed the products of their own oil and herring fisheries. The
duties on imported goods vary from ten to twenty-five per
cent, ad valorem, besides an additional tax, never exceed¬
ing ten per cent., for the consumption of imported goods.
With very few exceptions, all exportations are duty free.
For transit goods a certain import and export duty is paid.
According to the commercial treaty with Great Britain,
concluded 2d April 1824, a perfect reciprocity is estab¬
lished respecting the duties levied on ships belonging to
either country visiting the ports of the other. Coasting is
only permitted to ships belonging to Prussia.
A Statement of the Extent of each of the States composing the German Commercial Union, in German and English
Square Miles, in the month of October 1836.
The German Commercial Union, in its present extent, contains a surface of 174,627-34
square miles, which is thus distributed :—
1. Prussia (kingdom of), without the principality of Neufchatel, but including those
countries whose population is added to this state upon the division of the re¬
venue being made, and who are indemnified by Prussia 
2. Bavaria (kingdom of), including some Saxon enclaves 
3. Saxony (kingdom of)   ; 
4. Wurtemberg (kingdom of), including the principalities of Hohenzollern-Sigma-
ringen and Hohenzollern-Heckingen 
5. Hesse-Cassel (electorate of) 
6. Hesse (grand duchy)   
7. The countries belonging to the Thuring confederation  
8. Baden (grand duchy), including a part of the principality of Hohenzollern-Sig
mar ingen 
9. Nassau (duchy) 
10. Frankfort (free town of) 
Square Miles.
German.
Total.
The frontiers comprise an extent of 4,896-65 square miles, which, by the last re¬
turns, namely, in the year 1836, are thus divided:—
1. Prussia 
2. Bavaria 
3. Saxony 
4. Baden 
5. Hesse-Cassel.
6. Wurtemberg.
Total.
5,157 21
1,477 26
271 68
385 15
182 10
179 25
233 49
279 54
82 70
4 33
8,252 71
English.
109,126
31,258
5.748
8,149
3,853
3,792
4,940
5,915
1.749
91
56
82
74
77
23
93
64
06
93
62
174,627 34
Square Miles.
German.
774 99
151 58
58 0
60 50
16 40
3 10
1,064 49
English.
3,564 95
697 17
266 80
278 30
75 44
14 26
4,896 65
a
•'tatistics.
iovern-
liiL-nt.
PRUSSIA.
A Recapitulation of the Slates composing the Prussian Commercial Union, with the Population of each Stale.
States of the Prussian Confederation.
1. Prussia and its dependencies.
2. Bavaria 
3. Saxony 
4. Wurtemberg 
Electorate of Hesse 
Grand duchy of Hesse 
Thuringia 
Grand duchy of Baden 
9. Duchy of Nassau.,
10. The free city of Frankfort.,
Surface in
German
Square Miles,
Fifteen to a
Degree.
5,157'21
1,477-26
271-68
385-15
182-10
179-25
233-49
279-54
82-70
Number
of
Inhabitants.
13,800,126
4,252,813
1,595,668
1,631,779
700,327
769,691
908,478
1,232,185
373,601
8,248-38
4-33
8,252-71
25,264,668
60,000
25,324,668
Deductions
for Military
and
Independent
Districts.
109,473
1,695
59,653
170,821
Number of
Inhabitants, by
which the
Revenue is
regulated.
13,690,653
4,251,118
1,595,668
1,631,779
640,674
769,691
908,478
1,232,185
373,601
25,093,847
60,000
25,153,847
Per-Centage
Proportion
on the Joint
Revenue.
54-56
16-94
6-36
6-50
2- 55
3- 07
3- 62
4- 91
1-49
100-
The government of Prussia is an unlimited monarchy;
for though in some of the provinces, by ancient custom, the
states still exist, they seldom assemble, and only for such in¬
ferior purposes as regulating the debts or expenses of their
respective provinces. They have no legislative powers, and
scarcely even the right to make representations to the mo¬
narch. By the act of the 5th of June 1823, an assembly
was instituted, composed of provincial members, to meet
alternately at Berlin, Konigsberg, Dantzig, or Stettin. The
qualifications for membership are ten years’ possession of an
estate, connection with one of the Christian churches, to be
thirty years of age, and to have a blameless reputation. The
electors must be twenty-four years of age, and no one can
give his vote by proxy. The crown is hereditary in the
oldest member of the royal family, whether male or female.
The monarch is of age when he arrives at his eighteenth
year. The natural guardian of the royal minor is the
nearest and oldest princely relation of the house. The
king professes the evangelical religion, but he may, if he
chooses, follow the Roman Catholic faith. The sole execu¬
tive and legislative power is vested in him, and his authori¬
ty is less restrained by the ancient privileges and usages of
his subjects than that of any other European monarch.
The administration is vested in a council of state, consist¬
ing of members of the royal family, and of the ministers of
foreign affairs, of the finances, of justice, of public instruc¬
tion, of trade, of the public debt, of police, and of war.
The state chancellor is president of this council, and to him
all the heads of the different departments are accountable,
and make their weekly reports. He is uncontrollable by
his colleagues, and directed solely by the king. In the
details of the administration, through all the inferior depart¬
ments there is much simplicity, and a degree of economy
in remunerating public services which scarcely finds a pa¬
rallel under any other government.
The canton of Neufchatel enjoys peculiar privileges, and
a form of government altogether different from that by
which the rest of the Prussian dominions is regulated. It
forms a part of the Swiss confederation; and though it ac¬
knowledges the king of Prussia as its sovereign, his influ¬
ence is very inconsiderable. He receives only the revenue
of some domains, and a very moderate land-tax, which can¬
not be augmented. The inhabitants who choose the mili¬
tary profession may enter into the service of any state not
actually at war with Prussia. Every profession and every
trade are free, and no customs are levied, and no duties im¬
posed on any goods which enter or leave the territory.
The orders of knighthood established in Prussia are, Knight-
the order of the black eagle, founded 18th January 1701, hood,
by Frederick I.; the order of the red eagle, founded 1734,
by the Margrave Frederick Charles of Baireuth; the or¬
der pour le merits, founded 1740, by Frederick II.; the
royal Prussian new order of St John, founded 1812, in
commemoration of the ancient order of St John, dissolved
1811. During the war with France in 1813 and 1815, the
Iron Cross was given to those who either had actually fought
against the enemy, or else done some meritorious act, either
civil or military, during that period. The king also founded,
in 1814, the order of Louise for females who distinguished
themselves in the cause of their country during the war.
There are, besides, various other marks of distinction given
for different degrees of military service. All orders are dis¬
tributed by the king alone.
The revenues of Prussia are derived from taxes upon the Revenues,
land, upon persons, upon patents, and licenses, which arc
denominated direct contributions; and from an excise, or
rather a custom-duty, on foreign productions. A small sum
is derived from stamped paper. In those provinces which
were taken from the French empire, the taxes on land, on
trades, on doors and windows, as then established, are still
continued, and will remain till the whole of these provinces
are brought under the simple regulations established in the
other dominions. More than one fourth of the revenue of
the monarchy is derived from the royal domains, and the
hereditary rights or royalties which are exercised over the
mines, the salt-springs, the game, the coinage, the posting,
and the postage, with some other branches. Though the
higher branches of the administration appear to be benefit¬
ed by parsimony in the salaries, yet in the inferior depart¬
ments it appears to be injurious, as the petty officers, who
are very numerous, are too poor to refuse bribes; and they
are not deterred by the apprehension of dismission from
offices whose fair emoluments scarcely equal the wages of
a day-labourer.
696
PRUSSIA.
Statist, The following is a Statement of the Average Annual Income of f ^ ^ “
7 1829 to 1834, and of the same prospectively from 1834 to 183/, inclusice.
2.
From crown-lands and forests, after deducting the sum set apart 1
for the king’s civil list     V"’
From sold and regulated crown lands, for the more speedy extinc- (
tion of the national debt     3
3. From mines, melting-houses, salt-works, and the porcelain manu- [
factory at Berlin   3
4. From the post-office * 
5. From the lottery     
6. From taxes, licenses, customs, excise, and salt monopoly 
7. From the principalities of Neutchatel and Lichtenbeig 
8. From other minor revenues and receipts 
From
1829 to 1831.
Total.
P. Dollars.
4,524,000
1,000,000
1,014,000
1,100,000
684,000
41,850,000
26,000
598,000
50,796,000
From
1832 to 1834.
P. Dollars.
4,280,000
1,000,000
714,000
1,100,000
574,000
43,351,000
26,000
242,000
From
1835 to 1837-
51,287,000
P. Dollars.
4,212,000
1,000,000
717,000
1,200,000
669,000
43,530,000
80,000
332,000
51,740,000
Before the reign of the father of the present king, Prus¬
sia had no public debt whatever, but usually a sufficient accu¬
mulation of money to meet any emergency that might occur.
The present king, by economy and regularity, had reduced
the debt which his predecessor had incurred, when the rup¬
ture with Napoleon in 1806 drew forth all his resources, and
until the year 1815 the debt continued to increase. Since
the restoration of general peace, due measures have been
taken for the reduction ol it. On the 12th oi January 18,>3
it amounted to L.25,678,365, including a loan of L.6,000,000
from British subjects, and the debts assumed upon the ces¬
sions of territory from Sweden, Denmark, and Saxony. Be¬
sides this national debt, many of the corporate bodies have
borrowed considerable sums, which were presented to the
government in the most critical periods, and which are in
the progress of being licpiidated from their own incomes.
The expenditure of the government is upon a very low
scale. No court can be less expensive than that of Berlin,
and no monarch can be less attentive to his personal grati¬
fications than the present king, who, like his predecessor,
Frederick II., appropriates but a small portion of his patri¬
monial income to his private purposes, devoting it princi¬
pally to the service of the state. The average annual ex¬
penditure from 1829 to 1837 inclusive was as follows :
5.
A dministration of the national debt 
Pensions, claims, and life annuities 
Indeterminable annuities  
The king’s cabinet, the ministry of state office, board of control and"]
of the public treasure, the mint, state and provincial records !
office, secretary of the council of state, heralds office, statistical j
department.             J
The ministry for clerical and medical affairs, and of public in- (
struction i
6. The home department, including the board of trade from 1829 to (
1831 i
7. The board of trade, of works and roads 
8. The ministry of foreign affairs 
9. The army   ; 
10. The treasury 
11. The ministry of justice 
12. The provincial administration 
13. The central and provincial studs 
14. Extraordinaries - 
From.
1829 to 1831.
From
1832 to 1834.
Total.
P. Dollars.
10,937,000
3,158,000
277,000
288,000
2,347,000
4,883,000
586,000
22,165,000
263,000
1,823,000
1,830,000
163,000
2,076,000
50,796,000
P. Dollars.
10,890,000
2,887,000
391,000
298,000
2,489,000
2,067,000
3,103.000
586,000
22,798,000
254,000
1,850.000
1,788,000
175,000
1,711,000
F rom
1835 to 1837-
51,287,000
P. Dollars.
8,918,000
2,550,000
963,000
308,000
2,683,000
2,357,000
4,221,000
681,000
23,462,000
253,000
2,061,000
1,766,000
167,000
1,350,000
51,740,000
In 1832 the Prussian army stood as follows :—
Royal guards—Infantry  16,280
... Cavalry  3,820
Line—Infantry 118,540
... Cavalry  19,100
20,000
137,640
Artillery and pioneers    17,720
Landwehr.
175,360
.153,420
The regular ranks are filled by a conscription, which
compels every young man, as he arrives at twenty years of
age, to serve for a limited period. If the conscript can pur¬
chase his arms and accoutrements, and pay a small sunVh®
may at the end of one year pass into the landwehr, which
is composed of this class of men, and of all others between
twenty-five and forty years of age. In time of peace the
landwehr is exercised but one day in the year, but m war
it becomes a disposable force, and is marched wherever i s
services may be deemed necessary. The other militia force,
the landsturm, is composed of all males capable of bearing
PRUSSIA.
Statistics, arms, above forty years of age. This force is only called
wv—-' out in periods of great emergency, and then its duty is en¬
tirely domestic, being confined to guarding prisoners and
maintaining internal tranquillity. But it is unnecessary to
enlarge on this subject, as it is pretty fully treated of in the
article Army, to which the reader is referred.
Soldiers who are maimed or severely wounded are admit¬
ted either into the hospitals at Berlin, Stolpe, &c. or into
one of the twenty-four invalid companies, and receive board,
lodging, clothes, and necessary medical attendance. Those
who are less severely wounded, or who in consequence of
their military service are incapable of entirely earning their
livelihood, receive pensions proportioned to circumstances.
To the military establishment belong the institution for
the education of the children of soldiers in Stralsund and
Annaburg, and the Military Orphan Hospital in Potsdam,
where the orphans of soldiers are maintained and educated.
The principal fortresses in the kingdom are, in the pro¬
vince of Prussia, Dantzig, with Weichselmunde, Grau-
dentz, Pillau, and Thorn; in Pomerania, Colberg and
Stettin ; in Brandenburg, Kustrin and Spandau ; in Sile¬
sia, Glutz, Glogau, Kosel, Neize, Schweidnitz, and Silber-
berg ; in Saxony, Magdeburg, Wittenberg, Torgau, and
Erfurt; in Westphalia, Minden ; in the province of the
Rhine, Wesel, Cologne, Gulick, Saarlouis, and Ehrenbreit-
stein, with Coblentz.
Admini- Prussia enjoys a peculiar code of laws, founded by Fre-
lavvs ancf0 ^er'c^ ^ie Great upon the ancient customs and usages of
police PeoP^e> antl finally reduced to a more regular system in
1794. The magistracy in the rural districts is still a pa¬
trimonial right, vested in owners of particular estates; but
the power formerly possessed by them has been contracted
within narrower limits than formerly. The decision of these
lower courts is not final, except in very trifling cases ; and
an appeal may be made to the tribunals of the second in¬
stance, which are established in the several provinces, and
to whom is attached the superintendence of the colleges for
imparting legal knowledge to pupils. To these tribunals of
the second instance, or Oberlandesgerichten, is intrusted the
duty of promulgating the laws, of watching over the inte¬
rests of lunatics and minors, as well as of deciding processes.
They are usually divided into two portions, one of which
attends to the appeals from the inferior courts, and the
other pronounces sentence on such civil and criminal cases
as originate in them. From all the Oberlandesgerichten
appeals may be brought before the High College of Jus¬
tice in Berlin, whose decisions are final. The Prussian
system of law is more simplified than most of those of feu¬
dal origin, and in its practice it is expeditious, economical,
and uniform. The police is under separate jurisdictions ;
and in the country the landraths resemble in some measure
our petty sessions of justices of the peace. In the cities
there are peculiar boards appointed, under whose direction
the regulation of buildings, sewers, and the supplies of wa¬
ter and of food, are placed. The police has the superin¬
tendence of the examination of those who are licensed to
practise the medical profession, of the insurance offices
against losses by fire, and of the engines and other imple¬
ments to prevent fire from extending. To this is added
the keeping a watchful eye on all individuals who have no
visible means of subsistence. In all the cities the police is
mildly and regularly administered, with more attention to
the prevention than the punishment of crimes.
As to the amount of crime, it varies considerably in the
different provinces. It appears from the returns, that crimes
are most rare in the Protestant districts, and most common
in those where the numerous festivals and holidays of the
Roman Catholic Church are observed. It is certain, be¬
sides, that the most industrious countries are those in which
697
there are fewest Romanists. In the territories of Aix-la-Cha- Statistics,
pelle one individual out of every 60,000 inhabitants has been y-—
found guilty of murder; in the province of Saxony and the
country of Munster, one out of every 35,000; in the district
of Marienwerder, one out of every 25,000; in Pomerania,
one out of every 4760; in the towns of Cologne, Munster,
Dusseldorf, and Aix-la-Chapelle, one out of every 400. As
to the number of thefts and robberies, there is in Pomerania
one for every 6432 inhabitants ; in Western Prussia, Silesia,
oi Eastern Prussia, one for every 3000; in the neighbour-
hood of Coblentz and Treves, one for every 800; in Cologne,
Dusseldorf, Munster, and Aix-la-Chapelle, one for every 400.
1 ew' of the nations of Europe have, within the last two Public in¬
centuries, exceeded Prussia in the number and eminence struction.
of its men of learning, or in the variety and excellence of
its establishments for the promotion of science and litera¬
ture. In no other country is the instruction of the lower
classes so sedulously provided for, and in none are there so
few persons who are ignorant of the first rudiments of know¬
ledge. In Prussia, as in other countries, public instruction
long formed a part of the business of the minister of the
interior; but in 1819 a special department of administra¬
tion was devoted to this object. The minister of public in¬
struction enjoys a rank and authority equal to those of any
of his colleagues. Under him is a numerous council, di¬
vided into three sections ; one for chui'ch affairs, composed
of a certain number of councillors, chiefly ecclesiastics, with
a director at their head ; another for public instruction, also
composed of a certain number of councillors, almost all lay¬
men, with a director ; and a section for medicine, with its
councillors and director. All the members of this council
receive salaries from the state. The same individual may
belong to two sections, but he can in no case receive more
than the salary of one. In each of the ten provinces into
which Prussia is divided, under the direction of the su¬
preme president of the province, is an institution called the
Provincial Consistory, which is connected with and depend¬
ent upon the ministry of public instruction, and having its
internal organization formed upon the same model. All the
members are nominated directly by the minister of public
instruction, and they are remunerated for their labours.
Their duty is more peculiarly to superintend the secondary
instruction, the gymnasia, and higher burgher schools. Every
gemeinde (parish) must by the law of the land have a school;
and the pastor or curate is, in virtue of his office, the in¬
spector of this school, associated with whom is a committee
composed of some of the most considerable persons of the
parish. In the urban parishes the magistrates form a higher
committee or board, which presides over all these schools
with their several committees, and arranges them into one
harmonious system. There is, moreover, in the chief town
of the circle another inspector, whose authority extends to
all the schools of that circle, and who corresponds with the
local inspectors and committees. In the regienmg (re¬
gency) of every department there is a special councillor for
the primary schools, called schulrath (school councillor), who
acts as a link between the public instruction and the ordi¬
nary civil administration of the province. He inspects the
schools, quickens and keeps alive the zeal of the school-in¬
spectors, school-committees, and the schoolmasters. He
conducts the correspondence relative to schools in the name
of the regency, with the local and superior inspectors, as well
as with the provincial consistories and the minister of pub¬
lic instruction. Like all his colleagues, he is a paid officer.
In Prussia the state imposes on all parents the strict ob¬
ligation of sending their children to school, unless they can
prove that they are giving them a competent education at
home. Children must remain at school from their seventh
to their fourteenth year inclusive.1 Neglect of this duty ex-
1 Five is the acre fixed by the fundamental law, but seven is that at which education is rigidly enforced.
s 4 x
VOL. XVIII.
poses parents or guardians to punishment by fine or imprison¬
ment. The hours of lessons in the elementary schools are ar¬
ranged in such a manner as to facilitate to parents the execu¬
tion of this law, and at the same time not to deprive them en¬
tirely of the assistance which their children might atford them
in their labours; and care is everywhere taken to furnish
necessitous parents with the means of sending their children
to school, by providing them with the things necessary tor
their instruction, or with such clothes as they stand in need
of. Every parish, however small, is bound to have an ele¬
mentary school, accomplishing at least the most indispen¬
sable part of the scheme of instruction prescribed by law;
and every town is bound to have at least one burgher school
or more, according to its population. In certain cases where
a parish is absolutely unable to furnish the means of an ele¬
mentary school of itself, several villages may unite together
into one school association. The law provides also a suit¬
able income for teachers, and certain provision for them
when they are past service, a suitable building for the pur¬
poses of teaching and ot exercise, furniture, books, &c. and
pecuniary assistance for the necessitous scholars. 1 he gym¬
nasia, and other establishments of a similar kind, are princi¬
pally supported by the general funds of the state, or of the
province ; but the inferior schools in towns and villages
are supported by the towns, and by the school associa¬
tions in the country. If, however, a town is unable out ox
its own resources to support the lower grade of instruction
of which it stands in need, aid is given to it from the school
funds of the department to which it belongs. The necessary
funds are provided by an assessment levied on all the house¬
holders in the parish.
Every complete elementary school comprehends the fol¬
lowing objects:—Religious instruction; the German lan-
guage'; the elements of geometry, together with the gene¬
ral principles of drawing; calculation and practical arith¬
metic, the elements of physics, geography, general history,
and especially the history of Prussia ; singing, writing, and
gymnastic exercises; the simplest manual labours, and some
instruction in husbandry. The instructions in religion,
reading, writing, arithmetic, and singing, are indispensable
in every school; and no school is considered as complete
unless it fulfil the whole scheme of instruction just marked
out. Next to the village are the burgher schools, wdiere, in
addition to the branches taught in the elementary schools,
the pupils are instructed in Latin, and prepared for admis¬
sion into institutions called gymnasia, similar to our gram¬
mar schools of Winchester, Eton, Westminster, and Edin¬
burgh. In these institutions classical learning is pursued
to a great extent, as preparatory to admission into the uni¬
versities ; some of them are under the direction of the Pro¬
testants, others under that of the Catholics, and some few
under a combined direction of both sects. Ihey have, ac¬
cording to their extent, from four to twelve masters; and
the pupils are divided into five or six classes, the lower of
which differ but little in their instructions from the burgher
schools. In the larger and middle-sized cities schools are
established for the instruction of the females, with which,
in Silesia, are combined, amongst those of the lower class, the
teaching the delicate art of lace-making.
The religious instruction given in the Prussian schools is
always adapted to the doctrines of the church to which the
school belongs. The children of a different persuasion,
however, are subjected to no kind of annoyance or constraint
on account of their particular creed. No attempt is made
to proselytise them; and they are not obliged, against the
will of their parents, or their own, to attend the religious
instruction or exercises of the school, but private masters
of their own creed are charged with their religious educa¬
tion. Every scholar of an elementary school must, when
he leaves it, receive a certificate as to his capacity, and his
moral and religious dispositions, signed by the masters and
the school-committee. These certificates are always pre-
sented to the clergyman before admission to the commu¬
nion, to master-manufacturers or artisans on being bound
apprentices, or to housekeepers on entering seivice. .
Iii order to provide schools with proper masters, primary
normal schools have been instituted, in which those in¬
tended for the office of teachers receive instruction m the
appropriate branches of education, and especially in the
theory and practice of teaching. Pecuniary assistance is
also o-iven to a certain fixed number of poor scholars of
good promise. The expenses of these establishments ai e
defrayed partly by the general funds of the state, and partly
by the departmental funds for schools. I he age of admis-^
sion is from sixteen to eighteen years, and the course of
study extends to three yrears; and during that time no pupil
is called out to active service in the army. Any person of
mature age and irreproachable character may be appointed
to the office of schoolmaster, if he is found, on examination,
to possess the necessary qualifications; but preference^ is
given to the pupils of the primary normal schools. The
election of the schoolmasters for country schools is vesteo
in the committee of superintendence ; for town schools
supported by a public rate, in the municipal authorities;
but in all schools in towns founded by the king, the election
to masterships is conducted by the provincial consistories.
The election must, however, be ratified by royal authority
before the teacher can be installed in his office, or be en¬
titled to its revenues. Able and diligent schoolmasters are
encouraged by promotion to places of a higher class, and
even, on particular occasions, by extraordinary rewards;
neglect of duty, and other offences, are punished by repri¬
mands, fines, and deprivation of employment. Public schools
are the basis of popular instruction in Prussia, but private
schools are not prohibited. Those, however, who wish to
establish schools for private education must undergo an ex¬
amination, and receive a license from the provincial consis¬
tory ; and the establishment is placed under the special su¬
pervision of one of the members of the school-committee
of the town or district in which it is situated.
In 1831 it was estimated that, in Prussia, the children of
from one day to fourteen years old amounted to 4,767,072.
It is a rule in statistics, that out of a hundred children, those
between seven and fourteen form three sevenths, which
gives out of every hundred, forty-three of an age to go to
school (or, to give theminutest fractions, 42,857 in 100,000),
and consequently in Prussia 2,043,030. Now it has been
found, according to the accurate calculation of the attend¬
ance lists, that the actual number of children who attended
the public primary schools in the year 1831 was 2,021,421,
exhibiting the slight difference of only 21,609 between tlm
real and the normal number. And even this w ill vanish, if
we consider that these calculations are founded only on the
public primary schools, and do not include the private ones;
and that no account is taken of the children educated at
home, nor of the boys belonging to the lower classes of the
gymnasia. Taking these circumstances into account, it is
evident that the number of children under fourteen who re¬
ceive in one wray or another the benefits of education, is
not only equal to three sevenths of the population, but that
it must actually exceed that number ; a circumstance which
can be explained only by the fact, that in the most civilized
provinces of Prussia the taste for instruction is so generally
diffused, that parents anticipate the age fixed by lawr for
sending their children to school. The following statement
will show the relative proportion in each province, of the
total number of children attending public schools :—•
At the end of the year 1831, in every 100,000 children,
the number who attended public schools was, in the pro¬
vince of Saxony, 54,515; in that of Westphalia, 47,386;
in that of Brandenburg, 45,814 ; in that of Silesia, 45,042 ;
in that of the Rhine, 41,002; in that of Pomerania,
P R U S S I A.
1 inJhatJ,f 89,651; ami in that of Posen,
~r’'-. • 1 he OiRerence in the proportion of boys and of
girls is inconsiderable. Out of 2,021,421 children attending
school, there were, in 1831, 1,044,364 boys, or 43,694 in
100,000; and 977,057 girls, or 41,106 in 100,000. The
total number of primary public schools was 22,612; of these,
21,789 are elementary and 823 middle schools, of which 481
are for boys and 342 for girls. The elementary schools
are attended by 987,475 boys and bv 930,459 girls, and the
middle schools by 58,889 boys and by 46,598 girls. For the
22,612 public schools there are in all 27,749 masters and
mistresses, who are distribute'd as follows, viz.21,789 elemen¬
tary schools, with 22,211 regular masters, 694 regular mis¬
tresses, and 2014 assistant masters and mistresses; 481
middle or burgher schools for boys, with 1172 regular mas¬
ters and 360 assistant masters ; 342 middle or burgher
schools for girls, with 633 regular masters, 289 regular mis¬
tresses, and 471 assistant masters and mistresses.
In the year 1831 there were in Prussia thirty-three great
primary normal schools, each of which contained from forty
to 100 pupils; their total expenditure was L.16,583, and the
(599
grants from the state amounted to L. 13,260. Besides these, Statistics,
there are a considerable number of small normal schools.v-—
1 he annual sum paid by the public treasury for the elemen¬
tary and the burgher schools throughout Prussia amounted
in 1831 to L.34,520.
As primary instruction belongs chiefly to the department
and the parish, and secondary instruction to the provinces,
so the universities are under the exclusive care of the state,
and, like the universities in the other parts of Germany, are
either endowed, or the expenses of the professors and the
libraries are defrayed by the government. The course of
study is left much to the choice of the students, and is
therefore too much influenced by the temporary popularity
of particular professors. The means of instruction in every
branch of science and literature are abundantly furnished;
and, in spite of the want of discipline which generally pre¬
vails, the foundation is laid in them of those eminent ac¬
quirements in which the students have afterwards distin¬
guished themselves in the various walks of science and li¬
terature. The principal universities are those of Berlin,
Breslau, Halle, Bonn, Konigsberg, Munster, and Greifswald.
A Statement of the Average Number of Students in each Branch of Science, distinguishing Natives from Foreigners, in
the several Universities and Catholic Seminaries of Prussia ; also the Number of Professors in each, and the Average
JSumber oj Students to each Professor, in the Year 1834.
AVERAGE NUMBER OF STUDENTS.
Evangelical Theology.
NAMES.
Berlin 
Breslau 
Halle 
Bonn 
Konisberg..
Munster....
Greifswald..
4o9
203
412
77
152
126
3
78
28
10
80 6
Total..
1303 240
505
200
490
103
102
86
Catholic Theology.
213
179
146
1612 i 538 48
214
188
184
386
Jurisprudence.
£
442
224
99
235
80
36
140
5
20
37
5
1116 208
Medicine.
582
229
119
272
85
h
1324
240
108
78
136
71
60
699
141
5
33
19
11
387
113
111
155
82
66
215 914
Philosophy.
192
111
48
97
96
67
14
106
2
9
20
5
4
1
625,147
298
113
57
117
101
71
15
1319
859
637
724
399
213
190
772 ,4341
513 1832
16j 875
140 777
111 835
31 I 430
42 1 255
14 | 204
149
72
74
71
60
16
41
867 5208] 483
c c:
81
Aw
P
S
o =
bn'4'*
12-8
12 1
10 5
11-7
7-1
16-
10-7
Statement of the Total Average Number of Students in each Branch of Science, distinguishing Natives from Foreigners,
in the Universities of Prussia, in each Half Year from 1830 to 1834.
YEARS.
1830
j Summer.,
f Winter...
,qqi (Summer..
18311 Winter ..
183^ S,immer--
( Winter...
1833.[?“Ter'
f \\ inter...
,0oi ( Summer.,
1834 4 ,Tr. ,
( Winter...
Evangelical Theology. Catholic Theology.
Natives. Foreigners.
1750
1787
1657
1689
1537
1497
1468
1386
1397
1328
394
411
311
312
206
245
263
283
257
243
Natives. Foreigners.
660
656
650
642
620
628
596
608
546
529
153
107
103
79
82
59
51
50
46
50
Jurisprudence.
Natives. Foreigners.
1348
1353
1194
1308
1163
1219
1170
1246
1169
1062
202
241
160
213
130
164
205
243
213
200
Natives. Foreigners.
496
502
495
553
546
579
608
684
717
681
196
203
163
176
165
196
185
216
221
210
Philosophy.
Total.
Natives. Foreigners. Natives. Foreigners. Total.
589
667
646
656
683
705
716
646
602
645
157
175
131
163
114
131
146
151
154
140
4848
4965
4642
4848
4549
4628
4558
4570
4431
4245
1102
1137
868
943
697
795
850
948
891
843
5945
6102
5510
5791
5246
5423
5408
5513
5322
5088
The state makes annual allowances for the support of
the various departments of the universities.
I—The University at Berlin.
1 Medical establishment K.y.1500 0
2 Chirurgic medical ditto 6700 0
3 Poleklin ditto 2000 0
4 Midwife assistant ditto 5468 0
5 University widows’ fund 5301 0
6 Theological seminary  630 0
7 Philological ditto  500 0
8 University garden  500 0
9 Observatory  190 0
10 Chemical laboratory  400 0
11 Herbarium By.1200 0 0
12 Anatomy and the anatomical f 92 0
T3 Cabinet of minerals 1520
14 Ditto of chirurgical instruments 1
and bandages    f
15 Mathematical-physical apparatus.. 500 0 0
16 Seminary for schools of learning. ..2000 0 0
17 Establishment for the improve-) ^
ment of cameralists J
18 Library  500 0 0
19 .Zoological museum  2994 0 0
20 Botanical gardens 11,228 0 0
21 Royal library ...15,102 15 0
(@ 6 By. 25 sgr. L.9181. 3s. Id.)  62,741
0 0
0 0
700
Statistics.
15
0
0
11
II University at Bonn.
1 Library     Ry.4(i21
2 Evangelic-theological seminary.... 400
3 Catholic ditto ditto  300
4 Convictorium for the Catholic) 7539
theological students f
5 Medical establishment   4017
6 Chirurgic-medical ditto, united I
to the cabinet of chirurgical > 4091 20
instruments and bandages )
7 Midwife-assistant establishment...1773 10
8 Anatomy and the anatomical \ q
museum  I
9 Botanic garden,including 60 lly. \ 25G()
for the guard j
10 Museum for natual history 1150
11 Technic-chemical laboratory  350
12 Technological cabinet  100
13 Physical ditto    “100
14 Pharmacitic laboratory  50
15 Pharmacologic apparatus  50
16 Seminary for the science of nature 400
17 Museum of arts  200
18 Philologic seminary  500
19 Academical widow and mainten-) 2571 15
ance institution  f
(@ 6 Ry. 25 sgr., L.4920. 13s. 9d.) 
0 0
0 0
HI University of Bresi.au.
1 Library Ry.5130
2 Evangelic-theological seminary.... 300
3 Catholic ditto ditto  300
4 Homilitic establishment   50
5 Academical ditto for sacred music. 820
6 Medical clinicum .' 2569
7 Chirurgical ditto 2000
8 Anatomical establishment.... 1898
9 Instruction of midwifery ditto  400
10 Midwife-assistant ditto  600
11 Philological seminary  300
12 Observatory  370
13 Museum for the historical science )
of nature f
14 Botanic garden 2610
15 Mineralogic cabinet  200
16 Physical apparatus  368
17 Mathematical-physical ditto  80
18 Chemical laboratory  372
19 Collection of moulds and agricul-) 50
tural apparatus (
(@ 6 Ry. 25 sgr., L.2822. 5s. Id.) 
0 0
0 0
IV University of Greifswald.
1 Library Ry.1715
2 Medical ambulation clinicum  200
3 Chirurgic ditto ditto  46
4 Medical chirurgic lazaretto  650
5 Institution for the instruction ofl
sis- V
midwifery and midwife assis.
tant )
6 Academical widows’ fund  227
7 Establishment for free boarders....2924
8 Botanic garden 1010
9 Riding school  150
10 Astronomical cabinet  60
11 Procuring of chemical apparatus... 160
12 Anatomical zootomic museum  677
13 Cabinet of minerals  30
14 Zoological museum 1000
15 Cabinet of physical instruments... 60
16 Ditto of agricultural moulds  45
17 Theological seminary  67
(@ 6 Ry. 25 sgr., L.1375. 15s. Id ) 
380 0 0
V—University at Halle.
1 Library Ry.2820
2 Botanic garden 1090
3 Midwife-assistant establishment... 1000
4 Medical and ambulatory clinicum..3040
5 Chirurgical ditto 1210
6 Anatomical and zoological mu-)
seum )
7 Observatory  240
8 Cabinet of natural curiosities  885
PRUSSIA.
9 Ditto of minerals    280 0
10 Physical chemical laboratory  520 0
11 Philologic seminary  530 0
12 Cabinet of arts  115 0
13 Riding school  280 29
14 Institution for sacred music  130 0
(@ 6 Ry. 25 sgr., L.1991. 17s. 9d.)  
Statistics
13,610 29 1
VI University of Konigsbero.
33,624 11
1 Botanical garden   Ry.2100
2 Medical establishment 2300
3 Chirurgic ditto 2455
4 Theological seminary   440
5 Philologic ditto  400
6 Pedagogic ditto 1060
7 Library     3590
8 Anatomy   
9 Observatory 1570
10 Zoological museum 1000
11 University widow and orphan 1 1000
institution /
12 Cabinet of physical apparatus  158
13 Establishment for sacred music.... 164
14 Ditto for singing  100
15 Collection of amber and other |
minerals J
16 Polish seminary    50
] 7 Medical-polyclinic institution  200
18 Cabinet of ancient coins  50
19 endemic collection of arts  112
20 Midwife-assistant establishment... 220
(@ 6 Ry. 25 sgr., L.2670. 11. 9d.) 
0 0
100 0 0
18,249 0 0
(At the exchange of 6 Ry. 25 sgr , \ R„ 15G 912 0 8
L.22,962. 6s. 6d j ^ ’
19,285 12 8
0 0
There are also, unconnected with the universities, theo¬
logical academies for the Catholics, Lutherans, and Mora¬
vians, where they receive the instruction necessary to qualify
them for the duties of their functions. Besides these, there
are useful establishments for pupils in medicine, surgery,
midwifery, the veterinary and military professions, rural eco¬
nomy, and for teaching the deaf and dumb, and the blind.
The collections of natural history, the philosophical and
astronomical apparatus, and the public libraries, are upon
a very liberal footing, and at the service of any individual
who wishes to avail himself of their assistance. The libra¬
ries of Berlin thus open to general use contain more than
300,000 volumes, those of Breslau more than 100,000, that
of Halle more than 50,000, and in the other cities large col¬
lections are generally to be found.
The freedom of the press has of late been somewhat re¬
strained, particularly as relates to fugitive and periodical
publications of the smaller class. All books must undergo
censorship previous to publication ; but works of science
are allowed to pass with scarcely any inspection, and there
is no restriction on bringing into Prussia any works pub¬
lished in any of the other states of Germany. The univer¬
sities have an unlimited right of printing without a previous
inspection. In the year 1819 the newspapers were, sixty-
two government weekly papers, which contained little but
domestic intelligence and advertisements ; fifteen political
papers written by individuals, but with much reserve ; and
one literary journal.
A savings bank was established in Berlin in 1818. It al¬
lows four and a half per cent, on every deposit from a crown
9,491 0 0 upwards. Its capital has increased rapidly, and in 1824
amounted to 685,742 crowns.
The practice of insuring against fire has now become
very general, and the property insured in the province of
Brandenburg alone in 1824 amounted to 37,854,875 crowns.
The currency of Prussia consists of metallic and paper currency
money, but the former is so much greater in amount, that
the latter suffers no depreciation. The metallic money is
estimated to amount to 30,000,000 reichs-thalern. The
paper money, including that issued by a privileged com-
PRY
Pruyni pany, does not amount to more than 5,000,000, and, by
Prvnne mean® a _sinkmg fund, is gradually diminishing, and will
soon be extinct, fhe money is coined in Berlin, Breslau,
T?USiSe d?riTTco'ns are double, single, and
half Frederick William d’ors, valued at 10 d., 5 d. and d.
reichs-thalern. The silver coins are the thaler, the half tha¬
ler, and the third, sixth, and twelfth of the thaler. The cop-
per and mixed metal coins are groschen, sechser, drier, and
pfenninge. In the old provinces accounts are kept in dollars
(thalern), gioschen, and pfenningen. Bwelve pfenningen
make a grosch, and twenty-four groschen a dollar. The
\alue of the dollar in exchange with London varies from
three shillings to three shillings and twopence. In the pro¬
vinces the accounts are kept in various denominations of
money, but they are easily reduced into florins or gulden,
three of which are equal to two dollars, and the value of
which in exchange with London is about two shillings.
The legal long measure of Prussia is the Berlin ell of two
feet, which contains 25|ths Rhenish inches, or 296 French
lines. In the distant provinces a local measure of length
prevails, which differs in each. The Prussian mile is 23,685
PRUYM, a city of Prussia, of the province oBthe Lower
Rhine, and government of Treves. It is the capital of a
circle of the same name, which extends over 398 square miles,
and comprehends three towns and 156 villages, with 23,500
inhabitants. It was once the capital of a principality, now
mediatized, and contains 380 houses, with 2080 inhabitants.
PRYNNE, William, an English lawyer, distinguished
in the civil commotions under Charles I., was born at Swains-
wick, in Somersetshire, in 1600. His Histriomastix, writ¬
ten against stage-plays in 1632, contained some reflections
which offended the court, and he was in consequence sen¬
tenced by the Star-chamber to pay a fine of L.5000, to stand
in the pillory, to lose his ears, and to suffer perpetual impri¬
sonment. During his confinement he wrote several more
books, particularly one entitled News from Ipswich, in 1637,
which, reflecting severely on the bishops, subjected him to
another sentence by the Star-chamber, which adjudged him
to pay another fine of L.5000, to lose the remainder of his
ears in the pillory, to be branded on both cheeks with S. L.
for seditious libeller, and to be perpetually imprisoned in
Caernarvon Castle. But nothing except cutting off his hands
could have prevented Prynne from writing. He continued
his favourite employment still; and being set at liberty by
the House of Commons in 1640, he entered London in a kind
of triumph, was elected member of parliament for Newport
in Cornwall, opposed the bishops with great vigour, and was
the chief manager of Archbishop Laud’s trial. In the long
parliament he was zealous in the Presbyterian cause; but
when the Independents gained the ascendency he opposed
them warmly, and promoted an agreement with the king.
When the army expurgated the house and refused him en¬
trance, he became a bitter enemy to them and their leader
Cromwell, whom he attacked with so much severity that he
was again imprisoned ; but he pleaded the liberty of the sub¬
ject so successfully that he was enlarged, and began to write
more controversial books. Being restored to his seat with
the other secluded members after Cromwell’s death, he as¬
sisted in promoting the Restoration, and was appointed keep¬
er of the Records of the Tower ; a place excellently well cal¬
culated for him, and where he rendered himself very use¬
ful by the collections he published from them. He pre¬
sented forty volumes of his works, in folio and quarto, to
Lincoln’s-Inn library, of which society he was a member.
His principal works are, Records of the Tower, in three vo¬
lumes folio ; and his Parliamentary Writs, in four volumes
quarto. The former is one of the rarest works in the whole
department of English history. He died in the year 1669,
and was buried under the chapel of Lincoln’s-Inn.
PSA 701
feet, or neariy the same as the German geographical mile, Prytanes
oi one fifteenth of a degree of latitude, being somewhat less II
than four and a half English miles. The land measure is the ^sa ma“
Magdeburg morgen of100 roods, each rood of twelve feet;. na^ar_
and the foot is about one seventh longer than the English ;
thus the morgen is nearly two thirds of an English acre.
The dry measure is the Berlin scheffel of 2758|'> Parisian
cubic inches, or nearly one bushel, one peck, and one gal¬
lon, English measure. The liquid measures are more va¬
rious than any other, and differ in every province; but as
they are all legally reducible to Berlin measure, we give
that only, viz. an oxhoft is six eimer, an eimer two ankers, an
anker thirty-two quarts, the quart two noseln. The quart
contains fifty-eight Parisian cubic inches, or nearly one
ninth less than the English quart. The weights of com¬
merce are the shipslast, containing twelve shipspounds;
the shipspound contains 280 common pounds ; the cent¬
ner, of 110 pounds, is divided into light and heavy stones,
having ten of the former and five of the latter; the pound is
divided into two marks, the mark into sixteen loth, the loth
into fourquentchen, and the quentchen into four pfenningen.
PRYTANES, in Grecian antiquity, were the presi¬
dents of the senate, whose authority consisted chiefly in
assembling the senate, which, for the most part, was done
once every day. The senate consisted of five hundred,
fifty senators being elected out of each tribe ; after which,
lots were cast to determine in what order the senators of
each tribe should preside, which they did by turns, and
during their presidentship were called prytanes. How¬
ever, all the fifty prytanes of the tribes did not govern at
once, but one at a time, namely, for seven days ; and after
thirty-five days another tribe came into play, and presided
for other five weeks ; and so of the rest.
PRZRMYSL, a city of the Austrian kingdom of Galicia,
the capital of a circle of the same name, which extends
over 2178 square miles. It comprehends five cities, twelve
market-towns, and 232 villages, with 238,500 inhabitants,
of whom about 16,000 are Jews. The city is fortified, and
defended by a lofty castle. It is the see of a bishop, and has
a cathedral and fourteen other churches, 760 houses, and
6980 inhabitants, none of them very wealthy. Long. 22.
39. E. Lat. 49. 46. 30. N.
PSALM, a divine song or hymn, but chiefly appro¬
priated to the Psalms of David, a canonical book of the
Old Testament. Most of the psalms have a particular title,
signifying either the name of the author, the person who
was to set it to music or sing it, the instrument which was
to be employed, or the subject and occasion of the canticle.
Some have imagined that David was the sole author of the
Book of Psalms; but the titles of many of them prove the
contrary, as Psalm xc., which appears to have been written
by Moses. Many of the psalms are inscribed with the
names Korah, Jeduthun, and others, from the persons who
were to sing them.
PSALM AN AZAR, George, the fictitious name of a
pretended Formosan, a person of learning and ingenuity.
Born in France, he was educated in a free school, and after¬
wards in a college of Jesuits, in an archiepiscopal city, the
name of which, as likewise those of his birth-place and his
parents, are unknown. Upon leaving the college he was re¬
commended as a tutor to a young gentleman, but soon fell
into a mean and rambling life, which involved him in dis¬
appointments and misfortunes. Plis first pretence was that
of being a sufferer for religion. He procured a certificate
that he was of Irish extraction, that he had left that country
for the sake of the Catholic faith, and was going on a pil¬
grimage to Rome. But being unable to purchase a pil¬
grim’s garb, and observing one in a chapel, dedicated to a
miraculous saint, which had been set up as a monument of
PSA
gratitude by some wandering pilgrims, he contrived to tahe
away both the staff and the cloak; and, thus accoutied, he
begged his way in fluent Latin, accosting only clergymen
or persons of figure, whom he found so generous and cre¬
dulous that, before he had gone twenty miles, he might
easily have saved money, and put himself in a much better
dress. As soon as he had got what he thought sufficient,
however, he begged no more, but viewed everything worth
seeing, and then retired to some inn, where he spent his
money as freely as he had obtained it. Having heard the
Jesuits speak much of China and Japan, he started the wild
scheme, when he was in Germany, of passing for a native of
the island of Formosa ; and what he wanted in knowledge
hie supplied by a pregnant invention. He formed a new
character and language on grammatical principles, which,
like other oriental languages, he wrote from right to left with
great readiness ; and he planned a new religion, and a divi¬
sion of the year into twenty months, with other novelties, in
order to give credit to his pretensions. He now assumed the
character of a Japanese convert to Christianity, travelling
for instruction, with an appearance of greater wretchedness
than even that of common beggars. Fie then entered as
a soldier in the Dutch service ; but, being still desirous of
passing for a Japanese, he altered his plan to that of being
an unconverted heathen ; and at Sluys, Brigadier Lauder,
a Scotch colonel, introduced him to the chaplain, who, with
the view of recommending himself to the bishop of London,
resolved to carry him over to England. At Rotterdam,
some persons having put shrewd questions to him, that car¬
ried an air of scepticism, he took one more whimsical step,
which was to live upon raw flesh, roots, and herbs, thinking
that such strange food would remove all scruples. I he
bishop of London patronized him with credulous humanity;
and Psalmanazar found a large circle of friends, who extol¬
led him as a prodigy. Yet there were some who entertain¬
ed a just opinion of him, particularly Dr Halley, Dr Mead,
and Dr Woodward; but their endeavours to expose him
as a cheat only made others think the better of him, espe¬
cially as these gentlemen were supposed to be unfriendly
to revelation. In this instance at least, easiness of belief
was no great evidence of penetration. He was employed
to translate the church catechism into the Formosan lan¬
guage, which was examined, approved, and laid up as a
valuable manuscript; and the author, after writing his
well-known History of Formosa, was rewarded and sent to
Oxford to study wdiat he liked, whilst his patrons and op¬
ponents were learnedly disputing at London on the merits
of his work. The learned members of the university were
no better agreed in their opinions than the savans of Lon¬
don ; but at length the sceptics triumphed. Some absur¬
dities were discovered in his history, of such a nature as to
discredit the whole narration, and saved him the trouble of
an open declaration of his imposture, which, however, he
owned at length to his private friends. For the remainder of
his life, his learning and ingenuity enabled him to procure a
comfortable support by his pen ; and he was concerned in
several works of credit, particularly The Universal History.
He lived irreproachably for many years, and died some time
in 1763.
PSALMIST, in the church of Rome, is one of the lesser
ecclesiastical orders, being the same with what amongst us
is called clerk, 'precentor, or singer.
PSALMODY, from the Greek, ^aA/xos, the art or act of
singing psalms. (See Psalm.) The earliest music of the
Psalms is not now known. The modern Jewdsh psalmody
is by no means the same in all their synagogues in diffe¬
rent countries. Psalms were sung by the primitive Chris¬
tians, but there are no data to show the precise nature of
the melodies. St Augustin (lib. x. Confess, cap. 33) says,
“ De Alexandrine Episcopo Athanasio saepe mihi dictum
commemini, qui turn modico flexu vocis faciebat sonare
P S E
lectorem psalmi, ut pronuncianti vicinior esset quam ca- Psalter
nenti.” St Athanasius was made bishop of Alexandria 11
in 3^6. Of the Ambrosian and Gregorian chants of the I s^)( 0cn
fourth and sixth centuries, time and change seem to have v
spared little more than the tonalities. In Roman Catholic
church services the psalmody varies according to the par¬
ticular occasion; and so also in some Protestant churches.
Many of the psalm-tunes now in general use in Protestant
churches were composed in the time of Luther, or not
long afterwards, for the Protestant congregations which
then began to spread over the European continent. Others
of these tunes are the productions of various Protestant
musicians in later times. Amongst the authors of these
more recent tunes, we find the names of some of the Bachs,
of Handel, and several other eminent German composers.
Psalm-tunes are for voices only, or for voices accompanied
by the organ, or for voices accompanied by different instru¬
ments ; others for a single voice alone, or accompanied, and
so on.
PSALTER, the same with the book of Psalms. Amongst
the religious in the Catholic countries, the term psalter is
also given to a large chaplet or rosary, consisting of a hun-
dred°and fifty beads, according to the number of psalms in
lllG pSclltGl*.
PSALTERIUM, Greek 4a>.r»j«ov, formerly called ma-
gadis, according to Athenseus, an ancient musical instru¬
ment, which some writers assert to have been the same as
the ancient Hebrew nebel. The more modern psaltery
being no longer in use, it is unnecessary to describe it.
PSAMMETICUS, or Psammitichus, a renowned con¬
queror, who, having subdued eleven petty kings of Egypt,
became the founder of the kingdom of Egypt, about 670
before Christ. He is memorable, likewise, for taking the
citv of Azot, after a siege of twenty-nine years, and for
discovering the sources of the river Nile.
PSATYRIANS, a sect of Arians, who, in the council
of Antioch, held in the year 360, maintained that the Son
was not like the Father as to will; that he was taken from
nothing, or made out of nothing ; and that in God, genera¬
tion was not to be distinguished from creation.
PSELLUS, Michael, a learned Christian of the eleventh
century, wras, by birth, a Constantinopolitan of consular
rank, and flourished under the Emperor Constantine Mono-
machus. His genius and industry raised him far above the
level of his contemporaries; and the celebrated historian,
Anna Comnena, speaks of him as one who had been more
indebted for his attainments to his own excellent talents
than to the instructions of his preceptors; adding, that
having made himself master of all the wdsdom of the Greeks
and the Chaldseans, he was justly esteemed the most learn¬
ed man of the age. Thus furnished, he became the chief
instructor of the Constantinopolitan youth. He was at the
same time the companion and the preceptor of the emperor,
who became so captivated by the studies and amusements
in which Psellus engaged him, that, according to Zonaras,
he neglected the concerns of the empire. The Byzantine
historians complain, that the emperor, deluded by the head
of the philosophers, the title with which Psellus was honour¬
ed, lost the world. Towards the close of his life, Psellus,
meeting with some disappointment, retired into a monastery,
- and soon afterwards died ; but the time of his death is un¬
certain. His wrorks, which have been much celebrated, are,
Commentaries upon Aristotle’s Logic and Physics ; a Com¬
pendium of Questions and Answers ; and an explanation of
the Chaldaic Oracles. The two latter works prove him
to have been conversant, not only with Grecian, but with
oriental philosophy.
PSEUDO, from %J/£uSos, a Greek term, used in the com¬
position of many w'orks to denote false or spurious.
PSEUDONYMOUS, amongst critics, is an author who
publishes a book under a false or feigned name; as cryp-
PUB
Psylli tonymous is given to him who publishes one under a dis-
„ guised name, and anonymous to him who publishes with-
out any name at all.
y / PS1 LLI, a people in the south of Cyrenaica, so called
from Psyllus, their king, and who were almost all over¬
whelmed by sand. They had something in their bodies
fatal to serpents, and their very savour proved a charm
against them.
PTOLEMAIS, in Ancient Geography, the port of Ar-
sinoe, situated on the western bank of the Nile, which con¬
curs to form the island called Nomos Heracleotes, to the
south of the vertex of the Delta.
Ptolemais, the largest and most considerable town of
the Thebais, or Upper Egypt, and nothing short of Mem¬
phis. It was situated on the western side of the Nile, al¬
most opposite to Coptos. This town was built by Ptolemy
Philadelphus.
PTOLMEY Soter, or Lagus, king of Egypt, a renown¬
ed warrior and an excellent prince. He established an
academy at Alexandria, and was himself a man of letters.
He died at the age of ninety-two, 281 years before Christ.
Ptolemy Philadelphus, his second son, succeeded him,
to the exclusion of Ptolemy Ceraunus. He was renowned
as a conqueror, but more revered for his great virtues and
political abilities. He established and augmented the fa¬
mous library of Alexandria, which had been begun by his
father. He also greatly increased the commerce of Egypt,
and granted considerable privileges to the Jews, from whom
he obtained a copy of the Old Testament, which he caused
to be translated into Greek, and deposited in his library.
This is supposed to have been the version denominated
that of the Septuagint. He died at the age of sixty-four,
246 years before Christ.
Ptolmey Ceraunus, the elder brother of the preceding,
fled to Seleucus king of Macedonia, who received him hos¬
pitably ; in return for which Ceraunus assassinated him, and
usurped his crown. He then invited Arsinoe, the widow
and the sister of the murdered king, to share with him the
government; but as soon as he got her in his power, he put
her and her children to death. He was at length defeated,
killed, and torn limb from limb, by the Gauls, 279 years be¬
fore Christ.
Ptolmey, Claudius, a celebrated mathematician and as¬
trologer, was born at Pelusium in Egypt. He flourished at
Alexandria in the second century, under the reigns of Ha¬
drian and Marcus Aurelius, about the 138th year of the
Christian era. There are still extant his Geography, and
several learned works on asti’onomy, the principal of which
are, 1. The Almagest; 2. De Judiciis Astrologicis; 3. Pla-
nisphcerium. His system of the world was for many years
adopted by philosophers and astronomers; but the learned
have long rejected it for the system of Copernicus.
PTYALISM, in Medicine, a salivation, or frequent and
copious discharge of saliva. The word is Greek, being form¬
ed from the verb erruu, to spit.
PUBERTY denotes the age at which the person is
capable of procreating or begetting children.
Puberty, in Laiv, is fixed at the age of twelve in
females and fourteen in males; after which they are reck¬
oned fit for marriage. But as to crimes and punishments,
the age of puberty is fixed at fourteen in both sexes.
PUBLIUS Syrus, a celebrated writer ot mimes, that
is, farces in the language of the common people, flourished
at Rome about b. c. 42. He was of Syrian extraction, as
his name implies, and was brought to Rome as a slave; but
his talents having excited the admiration of his master, he
received his freedom. His farces wrere much admired, and
Julius Caesar is said to have considered them as superior even
to those of Laberius. He interspersed them with moral
sentences, many of which have been preserved by later
writers. St Jerome states that a collection of these moial
P U F 703
sentences was made, and that the Romans employed them Pubna
as a school-book. They have been again collected from II,
various sources, and published several times, along with
Seneca or Phsedrus; and they have also been published se- ^ 1 or‘' _ ^
parately. The best edition is that of J. C. Orelli, Leipzig,
1822, or that of C. Zell, Stuttgard, 1829.
PUBNA, a town of Hindustan, in the province of Ben¬
gal, sixty-three miles east from Moorshedabad. Long. 89.
12. E. Lat. 24. N.
PUCHMARY, a town of Northern Hindustan, in the
province of Kemaon, situated at the top of a very steep pass
in the mountain, in the neighbourhood of which is a cave
containing an image of Maha Deo, and his wife Bowanee,
to which pilgrims pay their devotions. A perpendicular cliff
is also pointed out here, from which the Hindus precipitate
themselves as an offering to their idols, Lat. not ascertained.
PUCKHOLI, the capital of a mountainous district of
Hindustan, thought to be the Peucelaotis of the Greeks.
It was besieged by the army of Alexander, and now be¬
longs to an Afghan chief. Long. 72. 8. E. Lat. 33. 46.
N. The district is mountainous, and is situated on the east¬
ern side of the river Indus, about the thirty-fourth degree
of north latitude. The climate here is cold, with frequent
falls of snow, even in the plains; and it produces all the
grains and fruits <jf Europe. The inhabitants are a rude
and savage race, amongst whom there is no security for
either life or property.
PUCQULOE, a town of Hindustan, in the province of
Bengal, and district of Dacca. Long. 89.55. E. Lat. 24.8. X.
PUDDAR, a river of Hindustan, which rises in the pro¬
vince of Ajmeer, and empties itself into the Gulf of Cutch,
thirty miles south-west of Janagur.
PUDUCOTTA, a town of Hindustan, in the Southern
Carnatic, and district of Tanjore. It was formerly the capi¬
tal of Tondiman, the hereditary polygar or landholder of a
considerable district. It is thirty-two miles south-south¬
west from Tanjore. Long. 78. 50. E. Lat. 16. 20. N.
PUEGOS, or Siquior, one of the Philippine Islands. It
is small, but abounds in inhabitants, who are brave and war¬
like. It is 50 miles north from the western part of Mindanao.
PUDSEY, a township of the west riding of Yorkshire,
in the wapentake of Morley and parish of Calverly, 197
miles from London. It has an establishment settled in
1748, by a colony of Moravians from Germany, who built
a village called Fulneck, from the name of the place whence
they had emigrated. The large building appropriated to
their use has a chapel, a dining-room, and separate divisions
for the two sexes till marriage, which is said to be deter¬
mined by lot. They pursue various manufacturing branches
of industry. The population of the township amounted in
in 1811 to 4697, in 1821 to 6229, and in 1831 to 7460.
PUERTO-REAL, a city of Spain, in Andalusia, in the
province or portedo of Cadiz. It stands on the bay which
takes its name from that city, and has a canal communicat¬
ing with it. It is near the mouth of the river Guadalete, and
is defended towards the water by some powerful batteries.
It has a tolerable haven, in which there are establishments
for building ships. The streets are wide and clean, and
many of the houses magnificent. It contains five churches,
three monasteries, a naval hospital, 1050 houses, and be¬
tween 10,000 and 11,000 inhabitants. Near to it are those
great masses of salt which are produced by natural eva¬
poration from sea-water, and with which hundreds of ships
are yearly loaded to all parts of the world.
PIJFFENDORF, Samuel de, a very distinguished jurist
and historian, was born in 1631, at Fleh, a little village in
Misnia, a province in Upper Saxony, being the son of Elias
Puffendorf, minister of that place. After having made
«reat progress in the sciences at Leipzig, he turned his
thoughts to the study of public law ; which in Germany con¬
sists of the knowledge of the rights of the empire over the
704
Puiarim
II
Pulawy.
PUL
princes and states of which it is composed, and those of the
princes and states with respect to each other. But though
he used his utmost efforts to distinguish himself, he despis¬
ed those pompous titles which are so much sought after at
universities, and never would take the degree of doctor.
He accepted the place of governor to the son of Coyet, a
Swedish nobleman, who was then ambassador from Sweden to
the court of Denmark. For this purpose he went to Copen¬
hagen, but did not continue long at his ease there ; for the
war being some time afterwards renewed between Denmark
and Sweden, he was seized, along with the whole family of
the ambassador. During his confinement, which lasted
eight months, as he had no books, and was not allowed to
see any person, he amused himself by meditating on what
he had read in the treatise of Grotius, tie Jure Belli et Pads,
and the political writings of Hobbes. Out of these he drew
up a short system, to which he added some thoughts of his
own, and published it at the Hague in 1660, under the
title of Elementa Jurisprudentiee Universalis. This recom¬
mended him to the elector palatine, who invited him to
the university of Heidelberg, where he founded in his fa¬
vour a professorship of the law of nature and nations, which
was the first chair of the kind established in Germany. Puf-
fendorf remained at Heidelberg till 1673, when Charles XI.
of Sweden gave him an invitation to become professor of the
law of nature and nations at Lunden; a place which the
elector palatine reluctantly allowed him to accept. He went
thither the same year; and after that time his reputation
greatly increased. Some years afterwards, the king of
Sweden sent for him to Stockholm, and appointed him his¬
toriographer and one of his counsellors. In 1688, the elec¬
tor of Brandenburg obtained the consent of his Swedish
majesty that Putfendorf should come to Berlin in order
to write the history of the elector William the Great; and
in the year 1694 the elector made him a baron. But he died
the same year, of an inflammation in his feet, occasioned by
cutting his nails, having already attained his grand climac¬
teric. Of his works, which are numerous, the following are
the principal, viz. 1. A Treatise on the Law of Nature and
Nations, written in German, of which there is an English
translation with Barbeyrac’s Notes; 2. An Introduction to
the History of the Principal States which at present sub¬
sist in Europe, written in German, but also translated into
English ; 3. The History of Sweden, from Gustavus Adol¬
phus’s Expedition into Germany to the Abdication of
Queen Christina; 4. The History of Chai’les Gustavus, in
two vols. folio.
PULARIM, or Polaroon, one of the Banda Isles, and
the smallest of the whole. The possession of this island
was contested between the English East India Company
and the Dutch. The English obtained possession of it in
1617, but were repeatedly expelled by the Dutch. In 1665
it was formally delivered up to the English, but in so deso¬
lated a state, the whole of the spice-trees having been de¬
stroyed, that it was rendered useless for eight years. In
1666 it wTas re-occupied by the Dutch. Long. 129. 45. E.
Lat. 5. 35. N.
, PULAWY, a city of Poland, in the province of Lublin,
and the circle of that name. It stands on the right bank
of the Vistula, over which is a ferry where the roads on both
sides are concentrated. It is in a beautiful situation, rising
above and overlooking the river. It contains 430 houses,
with 3200 inhabitants, who carry-on some woollen and other
manufactures. It is distinguished by the magnificent pa¬
lace adjoining to it, belonging, as well as the city and the
surrounding district, to the celebrated family of Prince
Czartoryski. It is a building of noble construction, having
an extensive park laid out in the English style, with elegant
drives and walks, and many beautiful trees. In the park
is a museum of curiosities, and in the castle a curious and
valuable library of 60,000 volumes, and many manuscripts
Pulo.
PUL
illustrative of the ancient history of Poland. Long. 21.41. Pullica
E. Lat. 51. 25. N.
PULLICAT, a town of Hindustan, on the sea-coast of
the Carnatic, situated on the borders of a salt-water lake,
thirty-three miles in length by eleven in breadth, contain¬
ing several islands, and communicating with the sea. This
lake owes its existence to the sea breaking through a low
sandy beach, and overflowing the lands within. The Dutch
first settled here in 1609, which, after the loss of Negapa-
tam, became the seat of their government on the Coroman¬
del coast. The inhabitants are principally manufacturers
and fishermen, who manufactured the handkerchiefs that
took their name from this towm. In 1795, when wrar com¬
menced between Great Britain and Holland, the East In¬
dia Company’s troops took possession of this place, which is
nowr comprehended in the northern division of the Arcot
collectorship. It is twenty-five miles north of Madras.
Long. 80. 25. E. Lat. 13. 26. N.
PULMARY, a town of Hindustan, in the nizam’s do¬
minions, in the province of Aurungabad. It is thirty miles
west of Jalnapoor. Long. 76. 3. E. Lat. 19. 59. N.
PULO, in the Eastern languages, means small, and this
epithet is accordingly applied to numerous islands in the
Eastern Seas, the chief of which are comprised in the fol¬
lowing list.
Pulo Akat, a small island in the Eastern Seas, near the
north-east coast of Ceram, in long. 131. 3. E. lat. 3. 6. S.
Pulo Ampal, Pulo Anam, two small islands near the west¬
ern coast of Sumatra, the first in long. 99. 29. E. lat. 0.
44. S., the second in long. 99. 27. E. lat. 0. 40. S. Pulo
Anna, a small island in the Pacific Ocean, in long. 131.
46. E. lat. 4. 38. N. Pulo Aru, in the Straits of Ma¬
lacca, in long. 100. 24. E. lat. 2. 57. N. Pulo Ay, a
small island in the Eastern Seas, to the westward of the
Great Banda. It is rich in the production of spices, the
soil being particularly favourable to the growth of the nut¬
meg tree. Pulo Ayer, near the wrest coast of Sumatra.
Long. 100. 12. E. Lat. 1. 11. S. Pulo Babee, in the
Straits of Sunda. Long. 108. 10. E. Lat. 5. 45. S. Pulo
Babi, near the north coast of the island of Nias, where there
is abundance of buffaloes and hogs. Pulo Bally, divided
from the island of Bachian by a channel five miles wide.
It is about twro miles round, and has abundance of wood
and fresh water. Pulo Baniack, about twenty-five miles
in circumference, off the w'est coast of Sumatra, between
the second and third degrees of north latitude. Pulo Batu,
an island about forty miles off the western coast of Sumatra,
forty miles long and twelve broad. Long. 97. 56. E.
Lat. 0. 20. N. Pulo Bava, near the south coast of Nias.
Long. 97. 18. E. Lat. 0. 52. N. Pulo Bicie, an elevated
island in the Straits of Sunda. Pulo Bintango, near the
west coast of Sumatra. Long. 99. 47. E. Lat. 0.58. S.
Pulo Brasse, of a triangular form, about ten miles in cir¬
cumference, near the north-west coast of Sumatra. Long.
95. 30. E. Lat. 5. 39. N. Pulo Bringen, near the west
coast of Sumatra. Long. 100. 21. E. Lat. 1. 58. S.
Pulo Cannibaz, on the southern coast of Java, from which
it is separated by a narrow strait. It is twenty miles in
length by six in average breadth. Long. 109. 25. E. Lat.
7. 50. S. Pulo Casse, in the Eastern Seas, near the west
coast of Sumatra. Long. 99. 28. E. Lat. 0. 20. S. Pulo
Condore Isles, a cluster of small islands in the Eastern Seas,
situated off the south coast of Cambodia. The principal
island is twelve miles in length and three in breadth. The
inhabitants are mostly refugees from Cochin China, and can
supply ships that touch here, with some refreshments. Their
flat faces and long and small eyes denote a Chinese origin.
The English had a settlement here in 1704. Pulo Dam-
mer, in the Eastern Seas, about thirty miles in circumfe¬
rence, near the south coast of Gilolo. Long. 128. 22. E.
Lat. 0. 58. S. Pulo Datte, in the Eastern Seas, near the
PUL
Ful0, . ^ef ^oast of Borneo. Long. 108. 59. E. Lat. 0. 8. N.
1 ulo Doa, near the west coast of Sumatra. Lone. 97. 33.
L. Lat. L 18 N. Pulo, Docan, Long. 105. 39. E. Lat. L
0 Pua’ near ^le west coast Sumatra. Lon?.
97. E. Lat. 2. 46. N. Pulo Een, on the north coast of
Waygiou. Long. 130. 37. E. Lat. 0. 12. N. Pulo Ely
near the west coast of Sumatra. Long. 98. 11. E. Lat. L
^ - Pulo Gassebj near the south-east coast of the island
ol Ceram. Long. 131. 13. E. Lat. 3. 29. S. Pulo Gasses,
near the east coast of the island of Oby. Lono-. 128. 20.
E. Lat. 1. 37. S. Pulo Goere, near the north coast of
Sumatra. Long. 97. 42. E. Lat. 4, 42. N. Pulo Gontei,
near the coast of Sumatra. Long. 95. 23. E. Lat. 5. 15.
N. Pulo Gunton, in the Straits of Malacca. Long. 10L
38. E. Lat. 1. 22. N. Pulo Jarejah, in the Straits of Ma¬
lacca, three miles long, with abundance of wood and water.
Pulo Kaka, off the south-west of the island of Celebes,
about fifteen miles long. Pulo Kapini, or Iron Wood
Island, between the west coast of Sumatra and Pulo Batu.
Pulo Lalang, in the Straits of Malacca, about fifty miles in
circumference. Long. 100. 9. E. Lat. 2. 25. N. Pulo
Laut, situated at the south entrance of the Straits of Macas¬
sar, near the south-east coast of the island of Borneo, about
a hundred miles in circumference. It is but thinly inha¬
bited, and produces chiefly rice. The channel which se¬
parates it from Borneo is about two miles wide and eight
fathoms deep all the way, and is a good harbour for ship¬
ping. Long. 116. 24. E. Lat. 3. 45. S. Pulo Laut, Little,
a group of small islands, eighteen miles south of Pulo Laut.
Long. 115. 55. E. Lat. 4. 54. S. Pulo Lawn, Long. 128.
48. E. Lat. 1. 33. S. Pulo Leat, Long. 107. 5. E. Lat.
2. 51. S. Pulo Maio, near the north coast of Cumbava.
Long. 117. 20. E. Lat. 8. 11. S. Pulo Malora, near the
north coast of Sumatra. Long. 95. 39. E. Lat. 5. 24. N.
Pulo Mariore, in the Pacific Ocean. Long. 131. 57. E.
Lat. 4. 17. N. Pulo Marra, near the west coast of Sumatra.
Long. 99. 48. E. Lat. 1. 2. S. Pulo Mega, a small unin¬
habited island surrounded by a coral reef. Latitude not
ascertained. Pulo Moar, near the east coast of Gilolo.
Long. 128. 58. E. Lat. 0. 6. N. Pulo Nako-Nako, a clus¬
ter of small islands near the western coast of the island of
Nias. Large quantities of cocoa-nut oil ai'e exported. Pulo
Nancy, near the north coast of Sumatra, about twenty miles
in circumference. Long. 95. 21. E. Lat. 5. 18. N. Pulo
Niamo, near the west coast of Sumatra. Long. 99. 45. E.
Lat. 1. 8. S. Pulo Nye, near the wrest coast of the island
of Poggy. Long. 99. 32. E. Lat. 2. 48. S. Pulo Pa¬
hang, near the coast of Malacca, about five miles from the
town of Pahang. Pulo Panca, near the west coast of Su¬
matra. Long. 98. 35. E. Lat. 0. 18. N. Pulo Panjang,
in the Eastern Seas, on the north coast of the island of
Java, in the bay of Bantam. Long. 104. 55. E. Lat. 1.3. S.
Pulo Penneu, near the west coast of Sumatra. Long. 100.
2. E. Lat. 1. 28. S. Pulo Pinang, see Prince of Wales
Island. Pulo Pisang, Long. 128. 49. E. Lat. 1. 22. S.
Another of this name, one of the Banfla Islands, two miles
north-east of Banda Neira. Pulo Prampton, one of the
Banda Islands. Long. 130. 38. E. Lat. 4. 2. S. Pulo
Bon, near the south-east coast of Gilolo. Long. 128. 30.
E. Lat. 0. 48. S. Pulo Rondo, a cluster of small islands
to the north of Sumatra. Long. 95. 22. E. Lat. 4. 45. N.
Pulo Roopat, an island in the Straits of Malacca, 120 miles
in circumference, separated by a narrow channel from the
island of Sumatra. Long. 101. 9. E. Lat. 1. 58. N. Pulo
Rou, near the coast of Malacca. Long. 102. 12. E. Lat.
7. N. Pulo Sabadda, near the west coast of Sumatra.
Long. 99. 53. E. Lat. 1. 3. S. Pulo Sabuda, about thirty
miles west from New Guinea. Long. 131. 48. E. Lat. 2.
35. S. Pulo Salanama, in the Straits of Malacca, near the
north coast of the island of Sumatra. Long. 98. 51. E.
Lat. 3. 27. N. Pulo Sallier, in the Eastern Seas. Long.
VOL. xvm.
p u i.
10o. 56. E. Lat. 5. 50. S. Pulo Sambolong, a cluster of
islands at the ^entrance of the river Pera, cn the coast of
Malacca. Pulo Sanding or Sandiang, two small islands
near the south-eastern extremity of the Nassau or Pog^y
Isles, in which group they are sometimes included. Pulo
See Booro, near the north coast of the island of Pera
Long. 99. 9. E. Lat. 1. 52. S. Pulo See Geere, near the
north coast of the island of Pera. Long. 99. 10. E. Lat.
Pulo Seyer, a cluster of small islands. Long!
0/. lo L. Lat. 8. 40. N. Pulo Sonaro, near the west
coast of Sumatra. Long. 99. 42. E. Lat. 0. 53. S. Pulo
Suanjee, one of the Banda Islands. Long. 130. 20. E. Lat.
4. 6. S. Pulo Tamong, near the west coast of Sumatra!
Long. 98. 24. E. Lat. 0. 27. N. Pulo Taya, Long. 104.
o'. E. Lat. 0. 42. S. Pulo Teega, near the west coast of
Sumatra. Long. 99. 40. E. Lat. 0. 52. S. Pulo Tellore,
near the west coast of Sumatra. Long. 100. 15. E. Lat!
• k’ Pulo 1 imoan, a mountainous and woody island,
inhabited by Malays. It produces in abundance rice, and
the cabbage and the cocoa-nut trees. Long. 104. 25. E.
Lat. 3. N. Pulo Timpalis, in the Straits of Malacca, near
the north-east coast of Sumatra. Long. 94. 45. E. Lat.
4. 2/. N. . I ulo loti, between the islands of Borneo and
Sumatra, in lat. 0. 53. S- Pulo Troosan, near the west
coast of Sumatra. Long. 99. 58. E. Lat. I. 6*. S. Pulo
Tullong, in the Straits of Malacca. Long. 100. 33. E.
Lat. 4. 27. N. Pulo Varella, in the Straits of Malacca,
about twenty miles off the north-east coast of Sumatra.
Long. 99. 36. E. Lat. 3. 47. N. Pulo Way, one of the
Spice Islands, in the Eastern Seas, about nine miles west
of Gorong Apee. Long. 130. 26. E. Lat. 4. 9. S. Pulo
W ay, an island about thirty miles in circumference, near
the north coast of Sumatra. Long. 95. 33. E. Lat. 5. 33. N.
PULPII, an elevated'place in a church, from which
sermons are delivered. The French give the same name
to a reading desk.
PULPI I UM, in the Grecian and Roman theatres, was
a place where the players performed their parts. It was
lower than the scena, and higher than the orchestra, nearly
answering to what we call the stage, as distinguished from
the pit and the galleries. Pulpitum was also a moveable
desk or pulpit, from which disputants pronounced their dis¬
sertations, and authors recited their works.
PULSE, in the animal economy, denotes the beating or
throbbing of the heart and arteries.
No doctrine has been involved in greater difficulties than
that of pulses, since, in giving a physiological account of
them, jrhysicians have espoused quite opposite sentiments;
whilst some doubt whether the pulse is owing to the sys¬
tole or diastole, as also, whether the motion of the heart
and arteries be one and the same for a given instant of
time.
W ith regard to motion, the pulses are reckoned only four;
the great and little, the quick and slow. When quickness
and greatness are joined together, it becomes violent; and
when it is little and slow it is called a weak pulse. Pulses
are also said to be frequent and rare, equal and unequal;
but these are not the essential affections of motion. Fre¬
quency and quickness are often confounded with each other.
A pulse is said to be hard or soft, with regard to the artery,
according as it is tense, renitent, and hard, or flaccid, soft,
and lax; for as the disposition of the arteries contributes
greatly to the change of the pulse, it sometimes happens
that the pulse in both arms is not alike, which is very
common in hemiplexy. To these may be added a con¬
vulsive pulse, which does not proceed from the blood, but
from the state of the artery, and is known by a tremulous
subsultory motion, whilst the artery seems to be drawn
upwards. This, in acute fevers, is the sign of death, and
is said to be the pulse in dying persons, which is likewise
generally unequal and intermitting. A great pulse shows
4 u
706
PUL
Pultawa. a more copiou'S afflux of the blood to the heart, and thence
into the arteries ;• a little pulse indicates the contraiy.
The pulses of persons differ according to the largeness
of the heart and vessels, the quantity and temper tea of the
blood, the elastic force of the canals, and also with regaid
to the sex, age, season, air, motion, food, sleep, watchings,
and passions of the mind. The pulse is larger and quicker
in men than in women; in the bilious and sanguineo-bi-
lious, than in the phlegmatic and melancholic. Those
who are lean, with tense fibres and large vessels, have a
greater and a stronger pulse than those who are fat, with
Fax fibres and small vessels ; and hence they are much more
healthy, robust, and apt for labour. In children the pulse
is quick and soft, in adults greater and more violent. In
the old it is commonly great, hard, and slow. Labour, mo¬
tion, and exercise of the body, increase the circulation of
the blood, the excretions, and particularly respiration; rest
renders the circulation slow and weak. Animated speaking
increases the circulation, and consequently renders the
pulse large and quick. In watching, the pulse is more
evident; in sleep, slower and more languid. After drink¬
ing hot things, such as coffee and tea, or hot-bath waters,
as well as after meals, the pulse vibrates more quickly.
But nothing produces a greater change in the pulse than the
affections of the mind. In terror it is unequal, small, and
contracted ; in joy, frequent and great; in anger, quick and
hard; in sadness, slow, small, deep, and weak; and in in¬
tense study, languid and weak. With regard to the at¬
mosphere, when, after the predominance of a west or south
wind, it comes round to north or east, the pulse is stronger
and larger; and also when the quicksilver rises in the ba¬
rometer. But when the atmosphere is dense, humid, and
rainy, with a long south wind, and also wheie the life is
sedentary, the sleep long, and the season autumnal, the
pulse is languid and small, and the perspiration decreased.
In May it is great, and sometimes violent; in the middle
of summer, quick but weak; in the autumn, slow, soft, and
weak; in the winter, hard and great. A drastic purge and
an emetic render the pulse hard, quick, and weak, with
loss of strength ; chalybeates and bark render it great and
robust, and the complexion lively ; volatiles amplify and in¬
crease the pulse ; acids and nitrous remedies refrigerate the
body and appease the pulse; opiates and the like render it
small and weak, and decrease the elasticity of the solids ;
and poisons render it small, contracted, and hard. When the
quantity of the blood is too great, bleeding raises the pulse.
PULTAWA, a government of the Russian empire, ex¬
tending in north latitude from 48. 48. to 51. 4. and in east
longitude from 30. 20. to 35. 55., and comprehending
16,236 square miles. It is bounded on the north-west by
Tchernigow and a part of Kursk, on the north-east by Slo-
bodsk-Ukraine, on the south-east by Ykaterinoslav, on the
south-west by Cherson, and on the west by Kiew. It con¬
tains twenty-two cities and towns, and 983 parishes, with
1,933,000 inhabitants. It is generally a plain, with scarcely
any elevations, and is drained by the river Dnieper, which
passes on its western sides, receives the waters of all the
smaller streams, and is navigable to the sea. It is perhaps
the best cultivated and the most productive of all the Rus¬
sian provinces, yielding very good crops of corn, chiefly rye,
and also affording more of wheat, barley, oats, and buck¬
wheat, than the domestic consumption requires. The pro¬
duce of flax, hemp, and tobacco, as well as beans and pease,
is abundant. Wine is raised, but not copiously, because,
there being no hills to protect the vines from the sharp
northei’ly and easterly winds, they are injured by frost.
The steppes cover a part of the province, but they pro¬
duce excellent grass, and fatten numerous herds of black
cattle. There are no mines in the province; but some
chalk, limestone, and saltpetre are obtained. There are
some manufactures of woollen and of linen cloth of the
P U M
coarser kinds, and some excellent leather is prepared. The •I’ultawa
chief manufactured article for exportation is corn brandy, PiJ'ice
to which purpose the greater portion of the surplus grain is slone "
applied. Though the river Dnieper is always navigable, yet tiiver.
the small streams are not so, except for a short time in the
spring; and as the roads are heavy, this obstacle opposes
the export of the productions, and limits the trade to very
narrow bounds.
Pultawa, a city of Russia, the capital of the government
of the same name, as well as of the circle. It is situated
on the river Borskla, where the Pultawka falls into that
stream. It is the see of a bishop of an extensive diocese,
is surrounded with earthen walls, has a cathedral and nine
other churches, 1200 houses, and 10,000 inhabitants. It
has been rendered celebrated as the place of refuge ox
Charles XII. of Sweden, after his defeat in 1709. It is 948
miles from St Petersburg. Long. 34. 35. L. Lat. 43. 33. N.
PULTENEY, William, the famous opponent of Sir
Robert Walpole in parliament, and afterwards Earl of Bath,
was descended from one of the most ancient families in the
kingdom, and born in the year 1682. Possessing an afflu¬
ent fortune, he early procured a seat in the House of Com¬
mons, and distinguished himself as a warm partisan against
Queen Anne’s ministry, whose errors he had the sagacity to
detect and the eloquence to expose. When George I.
came to the throne, Mr Pulteney was made secretary at
war, and soon afterwards cofferer to the king’s household;
but the good understanding between this gentleman and Sir
Robert Walpole, who then acted as prime minister, was
interrupted in 1725, on a suspicion that Walpole" was de¬
sirous of extending the limits of prerogative, and of pro¬
moting the interests of Hanover, to the prejudice of those
of Britain. His opposition to Sir Robert was indeed car¬
ried to such indiscriminate lengths, that some persons have
been of opinion he often acted against measures beneficial
to the public, merely from personal motives. It would be
impracticable here to trace his parliamentary conduct. It
may suffice to observe in general, that he became so ob¬
noxious to the crown, that in 1731 the king called for the
council-book, and with his own hand struck out his name
from the list of privy-councillors; a proceeding which only
served to inflame his resentment and increase his popu¬
larity. He still continued to attack the minister with a
severity of eloquence and sarcasm that worsted every an¬
tagonist; and Sir Robert was heard to declare, that he
dreaded that man’s tongue more than another man’s sword.
At length, in 1741, when Walpole found the place of prime
minister no longer tenable, and resigned, amongst other
promotions Mr Pulteney resumed his place in the privy-
council, and was created Earl of Bath; a title purchased
at the expense of that popularity which he afterwards natu¬
rally enough affected to contemn. In 1760, towards the
close of the war, he published A Letter to two Great Men,
recommending proper articles to be insisted on in a treaty
of peace; a production which, though the writer was then
unknown, was greatly applauded, and went through seve¬
ral impressions. He died in 1764; and, as his only son had
died before him, the title became extinct.
PULVERIZATION, the art of pulverizing, or redu¬
cing a dry body into a fine powder. This is performed in
friable bodies by pounding or beating them in a mortar;
but to pulverize malleable ones, other methods must be
taken. To pulverize lead or tin, the method is this: Rub
a round wooden box all over the inside with chalk; pour
a little of the melted metal nimbly Into the box ; then
shut the lid, and shake the box briskly, when the metal
will be reduced to powder.
PUMICE-STONE River, a river on the east coast of
New Holland, entered by Captain Flinders in 1799, and so
called from the quantity of pumice-stone found on its shores.
It falls into Glass-house Bay.
707
PUMP.
Pump.
Pump, an hydraulic machine for raising water by means
v—^ of the pressure of the atmosphere.
Of the in- It would be interesting to learn the progressive steps by
vention of which the ingenuity of man has invented the various me-
pumps.
Ctesibius’s
Dumps.
thods of raising water. A pump must be considered as the
last step of this progress. Common as it is, it is a very
abstruse and refined invention. Nothing like it has been
found in any of the rude nations, either in the new conti¬
nent of America, or the islands of the Pacific Ocean. Nay,
it was unknown in China at the time of our arrival there
by sea, and it is still a rarity everywhere in Asia, in places
unfrequented by Europeans. It does not appear to have
been known to the Greeks and Romans in early times ;
and perhaps it came from Alexandria, where physical and
mathematical science was much cultivated by the Greek
school under the protection of the Ptolemies. The per¬
formances of Ctesibius and Hero are spoken of by Pliny and
Vitruvius as curious novelties.1 It is perhaps not difficult
to trace the steps by which those mechanicians were led to
the invention. The Egyptian wheel was a common ma¬
chine all over Asia, and is still in use in the remotest parts,
and was brought by the Saracens into Spain, where it is
still very common under its ancient name noria. The
Danish missionaries found in a remote village in the king¬
dom of Siam the immediate offspring of the noria (Lettres
Edijiantes ct Curieuses). It was a wheel turned by an ass,
and carrying round, not a string of earthen pots, but a
string of wisps of hay, which it drew through a wrooden
trunk. This rude chain-pump was in frequent use for wa¬
tering the rice fields. It is highly probable that it is of
great antiquity, although we do not recollect its being
mentioned by any of the Greek or Roman writers. The
Arabs and Indians were nothing less than innovators ; and
we may suppose with great safety, that what arts we now
find among them they possessed in very remote periods.
Now the step from this to the pump is but short, though it
is nice and refined ; and the forcing pump of Ctesibius is
the easiest and most natural.
Let AB (fig. 1) be the surface of the
water in the well, and D the height where
it is to be delivered. Let DC be a long
wooden trunk, reaching as deep under
water as possible. Let the rope EF be fit¬
ted with its knot of hay F. When it is
drawn up through the trunk, it will bring
up along with it all the water lying be¬
tween C and A, which will begin to run
out by the spout D as soon as the knot
gets to G, as far below D as C is below
A. All this is very obvious; and it re¬
quired but little reflection to be assured,
that if F was let down again, or pushed
dowm, by a rod instead of a rope, it would
again perform the same office. Here is a
very simple pump. And if it was ever put
in practice, it behoved to show the support¬
ing power of the atmosphere, because the
water would not only be lifted by the knot,
but would even follow it. The imperfection
of this pump behoved to appear at first sight,
and to suggest its remedy. By pushing
Fig. 1.
down the knot F, which we shall henceforth call the piston, Pump,
all the force expended in lifting up the water between A —y—»
and G is thrown away, because it is again let down. A
valve G at the bottom would prevent this. But then there
must be a passage made for the water by a lateral tube
KBD (fig. 2). And if this be also furnished with a valve
H, to prevent its losing the water, we have the pump of
Ctesibius, as sketched in fig. 2. The valve is the great re¬
finement ; but perhaps even this had made its appearance
before in the noria. For, in the more perfect kinds of
these machines, the pots have a stop or valve in their
bottom, which hangs open while the pot descends with
its mouth downwards, and then allows it to fill readily in
the cistern; whereas, without the valve, it would occasion
a double load to the wheel. If we suppose that the valve
had made its appearance so early, it is not improbable
that the common pump sketched in fig. 3 was as old as
that of Ctesibius. In this place we shall first give a short
description of the chief varieties of these engines, consi¬
dering them in their simplest form; and we shall explain,
in very general terms, their mode of operation. We shall
then give a concise and popular theory of their operation,
furnishing principles to direct us in their construction ; and
we shall conclude with the description of a few peculiari¬
ties which may contribute to their improvement or per¬
fection.
There are but two sorts of pumps which essentially differ;
and all the varieties that we see are only modifications of
these. One of these original pumps has a solid piston ; the
other has a piston with a perforation and a valve. We usual¬
ly call the first a forcing pump, and the second a lifting or
sucking pump.
Fig. 2 is a sketch of the forcing pump in
its most simple form and situation. It con¬
sists of a hollow cylinder AC ca, called the
working barrel, open at both ends, and hav¬
ing a valve G at the bottom opening up¬
wards. This cylinder is filled by a solid pis¬
ton EF, covered externally with leather or
tow, by which means it fits the box of the *
cylinder exactly, and allows no water to
escape by its sides. There is a pipe KHD,
which communicates laterally with this cy¬
linder, and has a valve at some convenient
place H, as near as possible to its junction
with the cylinder. This valve also opens up¬
wards. This pipe, usually called the rising
pipe or main, terminates at the place D,
w here the water must be delivered.
Now suppose this apparatus set into the
w^ater, so that the upper end of the cylinder
may be under or even with the surface of
the water AB ; the w'ater will open the valve
G, and after filling the barrel and lateral pipe, will also
open the valve H, and at last stand at an equal height
within and without. Now let the piston be put in at the
top of the working barrel, and thrust down to K. It will
push the water before it. This will shut the valve G, and
the w^ater will make its way through the valve H, and fill a
part ¥>b of the rising pipe, equal to the internal capacity
of the working barrel. When this downw ard motion of the
Fie. 2.
Forcing
pump de¬
scribed.
Its mode of
operation.
J i fUo wnrrU avrXeiv, avrX.ttt, &c. were used to express any thing like what
1 In the early Greek writings, it does not appear that th - j’ express generally the drawing of water, or, more particu-
we call a pump. In all the passages where these words occur, they eitner e^p S & ^ or receptacle for collecting
signify’ the sink or well of a to,. and b** was synonymous with our
;
708
P U M P.
Pump.
piston ceases, the valve H will fall down by its own wreight
' and shut this passage. Now let the piston be drawn up
again. The valve H hinders the water in the rising pipe
from returning into the working barrel.
the water enters the pump, opening both valves, and finally
stands on a level within and without.
Now draw up the piston to the surface A.
It must lift up the water which is above it
Fig. 3.
G*-,
in the barrel makes to escape this way. 1 his
attempt to compress the water in the barrel
causes it to open the valve F in the piston ;
or rather this valve yields to our endeavour to
<1,
  But now the valve . . , .
G is opened by the pressure of the external water, and the (because the valve m the piston lemains shut
water enters and fills the cylinder as the piston rises, by its own weight); so that its surface will
When the piston has got to the top, let it be thrust down now be at a, Aa being made equal to ah.
again. The valve G will again be shut, and the water will In the mean time, the pressure of the sur-
be forced through the passage at H, and rise along the rounding water forces it into the working
main, pushing before it the water already there, and will barrel, through the valve G; and the barrel
now have its surface at L. Repeating this operation, the is now filled with water. N ow, let the piston
water must at last arrive at D, however remote ; and the next be pushed down again; the valve G imme-
stroke would raise it to e ; so that during the next rise of diately shuts by its own weight, and m op-
the piston the water in el) will be running off by the spout, position to the endeavours which the water
The effect is the same whatever be the position of the
working barrel, provided only that it be under water. It
may lie horizontally or sloping, or it may be with its mouth
and piston rod undermost. It is still the same forcing .
pump, and operates in the same manner and by the same push the piston down through the water m
means, viz. the pressure of the surrounding water. the working barrel. By this means we get
The external force which must be applied to produce the piston- to the bottom of the barrel;
this effect is opposed by the pressure exerted by the water and it has now above it toe whole pillar
on the opposite face of the piston. It is evident, from the of water reaching to the height a. Drawing up the pis-
common laws of hydrostatics, that this opposing pressure is ton to the surface A a second time must lift this double
equal to the weight of a pillar of water having the face of column along with it, and its surface will now be at b. I he
the piston for its base, and the perpendicular height dA of piston may again be thrust down througn the water in the
the place of deliverv above the surface of the water AB in barrel, and again drawn up to the suiiace, which will iaise
Pump.
Its mode t
operating
the place of delivery
the cistern for its height. The form and dimensions of the
rising pipe are indifferent in this respect, because heavy
fluids press only in the proportion of their perpendicular
height. Observe that it is not rfF, but dA, which mea¬
sures this pressure, which the moving force must balance
and surmount. The whole pressure on the under surface
Ff of the piston is indeed equal to the weight of the pillar
r/F/8 ; but part of this is balanced by the water AF/h. If,
indeed, the water does not get into the upper part of the
working barrel, this compensation does not obtain. While
we draw up the piston, this pressure is removed, because
all communication is cut off by the valve H, which now
bears the whole pressure of the water in the main. Nay
the water to c. Another repetition will raise it to d; and
it will now show itself at the intended place of delivery.
Another repetition will raise it to e ; and while the piston
is now descending to make another stroke, the water in e d
will be running off through the spout D ; and thus a stream
will be produced, in some degree continual, but very une¬
qual. This is inconvenient in many cases: thus, in a pump
for domestic uses, such a hobbling stream would make it
very troublesome to fill a bucket. It is therefore usual to
terminate the main by a cistern LMNO, and to make the
spout small. By this means the water brought up by the
successive strokes of the piston rises to such a height in
this cistern as to produce an efflux by the spout nearly
sure of the surrounding water. It is only during the de¬
scent of the piston, therefore, that the external force is ne¬
cessary.
Observe that the measure now given of the external force
the ascent of the piston is even assisted by the pres- equable. The smaller we make the spout D the more equa-
H' " ble wfill be the stream ; for when the piston brings up more^
water than can be discharged during its descent, some of
it remains in the cistern. I his, added to the supply of next
stroke, makes the water rise higher in the cistern than it
is only what is necessary for balancing the pressure of the did by the preceding stroke. I his will cause the efflux to
water in the rising pipe. But in order that the pump may be quicker during the descent of the piston, but perhaps
perform w’ork, it must surmount this pressure, and cause not yet sufficiently quick to discharge the w-hole supply. It
the w'ater to issue at D with such a velocity that the re- therefore rises higher next stroke; and at last it rises so
quired quantity of water may be delivered in a given time, high that the increased velocity of efflux maxes the dis-
This requires force, even although there wdre no opposing charge precisely balance the supply. Now, the quantity
pressure, which would be the case if the main were hori- supplied in each stroke is the same, and occupies the same
zontal. The water fills it, but it is at rest. In order that a room in the cistern at top : and the surface will sink the
gallon, for instance, may be delivered in a second, the whole same number of inches during the descent of the piston,
Lifting
Pii nip-
water in the horizontal main must be put in motion w ith a
certain velocity. This requires force. We must therefore
always distinguish between the state of equilibrium and the
state of actual working. It is the equilibrium only that we
consider at present; and no more is necessary for under¬
standing the operation of the different species of pumps.
The other force is of much more intricate investigation, and
will be considered by itself.
whether that surface has been high or low at the beginning.
But because the velocities of the efflux are as the square
roots of the heights of the water above the spout, it is evi¬
dent that a sink of two or three inches will make a smaller
change in the velocity of efflux when this height and velo¬
city are great. This seems but a trifling observation ; but it
serves to illustrate a thing to be considered afterwards, which
is important and abstruse, but perfectly similar to this.
It is evident that the force necessary for this operation
The simplest form and situation of the lifting pump is
represented by the sketch fig. 3. The pump is immersed must be equal to the weight of the pillar of wrater d A a D,
in the cistern till both the valve G and piston F are under if the pipe be perpendicular. If the pump be standing
the surface AB of the surrounding water. By this means aslope, the pressure which is to be balanced is still equal to
expression “to bale the boat.” {Odyssey, O. 476, M. 411 ; Euripides, Hecuba, 1025.) ’Av-rAm is the vessel or bucket with which water is
drawn. ’AvtA«4 is the service, which was generally a punishment, of drawing water. ’AvtAuv means to draw water with a bucket;
hence the force of Aristotle’s expression {(Econ. i.) t*> yug Mya avrAs/v tout' stm. The authority of the New Testament (John, ii- 6;
iv. 7, 11) is to the same effect. Here bm-a^k is evidently something which the woman brought along with her, probably a bucket
and rope.
P u
Pump, the weight of a pillar of water of this perpendicular height
and having the surface of the piston for its base.
Such is the simplest, and, we may add, by far the best,
iorm of the forcing and lifting pumps; but it is not the
most usual. Circumstances ot convenience, economy, and
inoie frequently of fancy and habit, have caused the pump-
makers to deviate greatly from this form. It is not usual
to have the working barrel in the water; this, especially in
deep wells, makes it of difficult access for repairs, and re¬
quires long piston-rods. Phis would not do in a forcing pump,
because they would bend.
Effect of We have supposed, in our account of the lifting pump,
■-iving the that the rise of the piston always terminated at the surface
!;ii,“era of the water in the cistern. This we did in order that the
•troke. barrel miSht abvays be filled by the pressure of the sur¬
rounding water. But let us suppose that the rise of the pis¬
ton does not end here, and that it is gradually drawn up to
the very top: it is plain that the pressure of the atmo¬
sphere is by this means taken off from the water in the pipe
(see Pneumatics), while it remains pressing on the water
of the cistern. It will therefore cause the water to follow the
piston as it rises through the pipe, and it will raise it in this
way thirty-three feet at a medium. If, therefore, the spout
D is not more than thirty-three feet above the surface of the
water in the cistern, the pipe will be full of water when the
piston is at D. Let it be pushed down to the bottom ; the
water will remain in the pipe, because the valve G will shut:
and thus we may give the piston a stroke of any length not
exceeding thirty-three feet. If we raise it higher than this
the water will not follow ; but it will remain in the pipe, to
be lifted by the piston, after it has been pushed down
through it to the bottom.
But it is not necessary, and would be very inconvenient,
to give the piston so long a stroke. The great use of a
pump is to render effectual the reciprocation of a short
stroke which we can command, while such a long stroke is
generally out of our power. Suppose that the piston is
pushed down only to b ; it will then have a column bO in¬
cumbent on it, and it will lift this column when again drawn
up. And this operation may be repeated like the former,
when the piston was always under water ; for the pressure
of the atmosphere will always cause the water to follow the
piston to the height of thirty-three feet.
Nor is it necessary that the fixed valve G be placed at
the lower orifice of the pipe, nor even under water. For,
while things are in the state now described, the piston
drawn up to O, and the wdiole pipe full of water, if we sup¬
pose another valve placed at b above the surface of the cis¬
tern, this valve can do no harm. Nqw let the piston de¬
scend, both valves G and b will shut. G may now be re¬
moved, and the water will remain supported in the space
&G by the air; and now the alternate motions of the pis¬
ton will produce the same effect as before,
effect of We found in the former case that the piston was carry-
k0 weight ing a load equal to the weight of a pillar of water ol the
CTtjle ,'va* height Ac?, because the surrounding water could only sup-
(ressure ofPort b at bs own leveb Let us see what change is pro-
jhe atmo- ^uced by the assistance of the pressure of the atmosphere,
phere. Let the under surface of the piston be at b ; when the wa¬
ter was at f, 33 feet above the surface of the cistern, the
w'ater was raised to that height by the pressure of the at¬
mosphere. Suppose a partition made at h by a thin plate,
and all the water above it taken away. Now pierge a hole
in this plate. The pressure of the atmosphere w as able to
carry the whole column Oa. Part of this column is now
removed, and the remainder is not a balance for the air’s
pressure. This will therefore cause the water to spout up
through this hole and rise to O. Therefore the under sur¬
face of this plate is pressed up by the contiguous water with
a force equal to the weight of that pillar of water which it
formerly supported; that is, with a force equal to the weight
M P.
of the pillar Ob. Now the under surface of the piston, when
at b, is in the same situation. It is pressed upwards by the
water below it, with a force equal to the weight of the co¬
lumn Ob; but it is pressed downwards by the whole pres¬
sure of the atmosphere, which presses on all bodies, that
is, with the weight of the pillar Ob. On the whole, there¬
fore, it is pressed downwards by a force equal to the differ¬
ence of the weights of the pillars Oa and Ob ; that is, by a
force equal to the weight of the pillar ba.
It may be conceived better perhaps in this way. When
the piston was under the surface of the water in the cistern,
it was equally pressed on both sides, both by the water and
the atmosphere. The atmosphere exerted its pressure on it
by the intervention of the water, which being to all sense
a perfect fluid, propagates every external pressure undimi¬
nished. When the piston is drawn up above the surface of
the pit-water, the atmosphere continues to press on its up¬
per surface with its whole weight, through the intervention
ot the water which lies above it; and its pressure must
therefore be added to that of the incumbent water. It also
continues to press on the under surface of the piston by the
intervention of the water; that is, it presses this water to
the piston. But, in doing this, it carries the weight of this
water which it is pressing on the piston. The pressure on
the piston therefore is only the excess of the whole pres¬
sure of the atmosphere above the weight of the column of
water which it is supporting. Therefore the difference of at¬
mospherical pressure on the upper and under surfaces of the
piston is precisely equal to the weight of the column of wa¬
ter supported in the pipe by the air. It is not, however, the
individual weight of this column that loads the piston ; it is
the part of the pressure of the atmosphere on it s upper surface,
which is not balanced by its pressure on the under surface.
In attempting, therefore, to draw up the piston, we have
to surmount this unbalanced part of the pressure of the at¬
mosphere, and also the weight of the water which lies above
the piston, and must be lifted by it; and thus the whole
opposing pressure is the same as before, namely, the weight
of the whole vertical pillar reaching from the surface of the
water in the cistern to the place of delivery. Part of this
weight is immediately carried by the pressure of the at¬
mosphere ; but, in lieu of it, there is an equal part of this
pressure of the atmosphere abstracted from the under sur¬
face of the piston, whilst its upper surface sustains its whole
pressure.
So far, then, these two states of the pump
agree. But they differ exceedingly in their
mode of operation ; and there are some cir¬
cumstances not very obvious which must be
attended to, in order that the pump may de¬
liver any water at the spout D. This re¬
quires, therefore, a serious examination.
Let the fixed valve G (fig. -I) be supposed
at the surface of the cistern water. Let M//i
be the lowest and N« the highest positions
of the piston, and let HA h be the height
of a column of water equiponderant with the
atmosphere.
When the pump is filled, not with water, but
with air, and the piston is in its lowest position,
and all in equilibrio, the internal air has the
same density and elasticity with the external.
The space MAaw, therefore, contains air of
the common density and elasticity. These
may be measured by h, or the weight of a co¬
lumn of water whose height is h. Now, let
the piston be drawn up to Nw. The air which
occupied the space MAam now occupies the space NAa«,
, , . . MAam _ , . . . i- •
and its density is now . Its elasticity is nowr dimi-
Fig. 4.
rl
HE i
Other cir¬
cumstances
to be at¬
tended to.
I ,
3
m
710
PUMP.
Pump, nished, being proportionable to its density (see Pneuma-
 v / tics), and no longer balances the pressure of the atmo¬
sphere. The valve G will therefore be forced up by the
water, which will rise to some height SA. Now let the
piston again descend to Mm. It cannot do this with its
valve shut; for when it comes down so far as to reduce the
air again to its common density, it is not yet at M, because
the space below it has been diminished by the water which
<rot into the pipe, and is retained there by the valve G.
The piston-valve, therefore, opens by the air which we thus
attempt to compress, and the superfluous air escapes. \\ hen
the piston has got to M, the air is again of the common
density, and occupies the space MSswi. Now draw the
piston up to N. The air will expand into the space NSs??,
and its density will be reduced to j and its elasticity
will no longer balance the pressure of the atmosphere, and
more water will enter, and it will rise higher. But it may
happen that the water will never rise so high as to reach
the piston, even though not thirty-three feet above the wa¬
ter in the cistern : for the successive diminutions of density
and elasticity are a series of quantities that deciease geo¬
metrically, and therefore will have a limit. Let us see what
determines this limit.
When the piston descends, its valve, as we have already
seen, is opened by the force arising from the compression
of the air below it. Now if this force should at length be¬
come equal to the pressure of the atmosphere above the
valve, it is clear that the,valve could not open. Suppos¬
ing the water to be at S, and the piston at N ; then, if, from
the peculiar construction of the pump, it should so hap¬
pen that the air which has been compressed into the space
MSsm, by the descent of the piston, regains an elastic force
merely equal to the pressure of the external air, the valve
in the piston would remain closed, and consequently no
more air could escape. Were the working of the piston, in
such circumstances, to be continued, the air below it would
alternately fill the spaces MSswj and NSsra, the water mean¬
while rising no higher than S.
At whatever height the water stands in the lower part
of the pipe, the weight of the column of water SAas, to-
o-ether with the remaining elasticity of the air above it, ex¬
actly balances the pressure of the atmosphere. (See Pneu¬
matics.) Now the elasticity of the air in the space NSs?i
is eaual to h X w'^- Therefore, in the case where the
^ NSsra
limit obtains, add the water rises no farther, we must have
than any rectangle that can be made of the parts of AN,
that is, greater than the square of half AN. Or, if the'
length of the stroke be already fixed by other circumstances,
which is a common case, we must make AN so short that
the square of its half, measured in feet, shall be less than
thirty-three times the stroke of the piston.
Suppose that the fixed valve, instead of being at the sur¬
face of the water in the cistern, is at S, or anywhere be¬
tween S and A, the performance of the pump will be the
same as before ; but if it be placed anywhere above S, it
will be very different. Let it be at 1. It is plain that
when the piston is pushed down from N to M, the valve at
T prevents any air from getting down ; and therefore, when
the piston is drawn up again, the air contained in the space
M'Ytm will expand into the space N Ytn, and its density
will be ^4. This is less than which expresses the
Pump.
h — AS + h , or, because the column is of the same
NSsm :
MS
irxo MS
diameter throughout, 4=AS + h and ^ h — h — AS,
= HS, and NS : MS = HA : HS, and NS—MS : NS =HA
— HS : HA, or MN : NS = AS : AH, and MN X AH
— NS X AS. Therefore, if AN, the distance of the pis¬
ton in its highest position from the water in the cistern, and
MN, the length of its stroke, be given, there is a certain
determined height AS to which the water can be raised by
the pressure of the air: for AH is a constant quantity ;
and therefore, when MN is given, the rectangle AS X SN
is given. If this height AS be less than that of the piston
in its lowest position, the pump will raise no water, al¬
though AN may be less than AH. Yet the same pump
will raise water very effectually, if it be first of all filled
with water ; and we have seen professional engineers much
puzzled by this capricious failure of their pumps. A little
knowledge of the principles would have prevented their dis¬
appointment.
Delivery of To insure the delivery of water by the pump, the stroke
wuter. ^ must be such that the rectangle MN X AH may be greater
NT* 10 ^ NS’
density of the air which was left in the space TSsJ by the
former operations. The air, therefore, in TSs^ will also
expand, will open the valve, and now the water will rise
above S. The proportion of NS to NT may be evideiitly
such that the water will even get above the valve T. Ihis
diminishes the space NTta; and therefore, when the pis¬
ton has been pushed down to M, and again drawn up to N,
the air will be still more rarefied, and the water will rise
still higher. The foregoing reasoning, however, is sufficient
to show that there may still be a height which the water
will not pass, and that this height depends on the propor¬
tion between the stroke of the piston and its distance from
the water in the cistern. We need not give the determi¬
nation, because it will come in afterwards in combination
with other circumstances. It is enough that the reader
sees the physical causes of this limitation; and, lastly, we
see plainly that the utmost security will be given for the
performance of the pump, when the fixed valve is so placed
that the piston, w'hen in its lowest position, shall come into
contact with it. In this case, the rarefaction of the air will
be the completest possible; and if there were no space left
between the piston and valve, and all were perfectly air¬
tight, the rarefaction would be complete, and the valve
might be anything less than thirty-three feet from the sur¬
face of the water in the cistern.
But this perfect contact and tightness is unattainable ; Valves m
and though the pump may be full of water, its continual easily kef
downward pressure causes it to filtrate slowly through every1 a
crevice, and the air enters through every pore, and even
disengages itself from the water, with which a considerable
portion had been chemically combined. The pump by this
means loses water, and it requires several strokes of brisk
working to fill it again; and it the leathers have become
dry, so much admission may be given to the air, that the
pump will not fill itself with water by any working. It is
then necessary to pour water into it, which shuts up these
passages, and soon sets all to rights again, for these rea¬
sons, it is always prudent to place the fixed valve as low as
other circumstances will permit, and to make the piston-rod
of such a length, that when it is at the bottom of its stroke
it shall be almost in contact with the valve. When we aie
not limited by other circumstances, it is evident that the
best possible form is to have both the piston and the fixed
valve under the surface of the water of the cistern. In this
situation they are always wet and air-tight. The chief ob¬
jection is, that by this disposition they are not easily come
at when needing repair. This is a material objection in
deep mines. In such situations, therefore, w'e must make
the best compensation cf different circumstances that we
can. It is usual to place the fixed valve at a moderate dis¬
tance from the surface of the water, and to have a hole in
the side of the pipe, by which it may be got out. This is
carefully shut up by a plate firmly screwed on, wfith leathei
or cement between the parts. This is called the clack-door.
PUMP.
Pump.
Descrip¬
tion of the
sucking
pump.
Air-tight¬
ness not
nroperly
attended
Fig. 5.
It would, in every case, be very proper to have a fixed
valve in the lower end of the pipe. This would combine
all advantages. Being always tight, the pipe would retain
the water, and it would leave to the valve above it its full
effect of increasing the rarefaction.
A similar hole is made in the work¬
ing barrel, a little above the highest
position of the piston. When this
needs repair, itcanbegotat throughix
this hole, without the immense
trouble of drawing up the whole
rods.
Thus we have conducted the
reader, step by step, from the sim¬
plest form of the pump to that which
long experience has at last selected
as the most generally convenient.
This we shall now describe in some
detail.
The sucking 'pump consists of
two pipes DCCD, BAAB (fig. 5);
of which the former is called the
barrel, or the working barrel, and
the other is called the suction-pipe,
and is commonly of a smaller dia¬
meter. These are joined by means
of dandies E, F, pierced with holes
to receive screwed bolts. A ring
of leather, or of lead, covered with
a proper cement, is put between
them ; which, being strongly com¬
pressed by the screw-bolts, ren¬
ders the joint perfectly air-tight.
The lower end A of the suction-
pipe is commonly spread out a little
to facilitate the entry of the water,
and frequently has a grating across
at A A to keep out filth or gravel. This is immersed in the
standing water YZ. The working barrel is cylindrical, as
evenly and smoothly bored as possible, that the piston may
fill it exactly through its whole length, and move along it
with as little friction as may be consistent with air-tightness.
The piston is a sort of truncated cone OPKL, generally
made of wood not made to slip, such as elm or beech. The
small end of it is cut off at the sides, so as to form a sort of
arch OOP, by which it is fastened to the iron rod or spear.
It is exhibited in different positions in figures 6, 7, which
will give a more distinct no¬
tion of it than any description.
The twro ends of the conical
part may be hooped with brass.
This cone has its larger end
surrounded with a ring or band
of strong leather fastened with
nails, or by a copper hoop,
which is driven on it at the
smaller end. This band should
reach to some distance beyond
the base of the cone; the far¬
ther the better; and the whole
must be of uniform thickness
all round, so as to suffer equal compression between the
cone and the working barrel. The seam or joint of the
two ends of this band must be made very close, but not
sewed or stitched together. This would occasion bumps or
inequalities, which would spoil its tightness; and no harm
can result from the want of it, because the two edges wall
be squeezed close together by the compression in the bar¬
rel. It is by no means necessary that this compression be
great. This is a very detrimental error of the pump-makers.
711
Pump.
Fig. 6.
Fig. 7.
It occasions enormous friction, and destroys the very pur- a
pose which they have in view, viz. rendering the piston air¬
tight; for it causes the.leather to wear through very soon'
at the edge of the cone, and it also wears the working bar¬
rel. This very soon becomes wide in that part which is
continually passed over by the piston, while the mouth re¬
mains of its original diameter, and it becomes impossible to
thrust in a piston which shall completely fill the wmrn part.
Now, a very moderate pressure is sufficient for rendering An easy
the pump perfectly tight, and apiece of glove-leather would mode of
be sufficient for this purpose, if loose or detached from the rendering
solid cone; for suppose such a loose and flexible, but im- P.l™ps
pervious, band of leather put round the piston, and put into ' ^
the barrel; and let it even be supposed that the cone does
not compress it in the smallest degree to its internal surface.
Pour a little water carefully into the inside of this sort of
cup or dish ; it will cause it to swell out a little, and apply
itself close to the barrel all round, and even adjust itself to
all its inequalities. Let us suppose it to touch the barrel in
a ring of an inch broad all round. We can easily compute
the force w ith which it is pressed. It is half the weight of
a ring of water an inch deep and an inch broad. This is a
trifle, and the friction occasioned by it not worth regarding ;
yet this trifling pressure is sufficient to make the passage
perfectly impervious, even by the most enormous pressure
of a high column of incumbent water ; for let this pressure
be ever so great, the pressure by which the leather adheres
to the barrel always exceeds it, because the incumbent fluid
has no preponderating power by which it can force its way
between them, and it must insinuate itself precisely so far
that its pressure on the inside of the leather shall still ex¬
ceed, and only exceed, the pressure by which it endeavours
to insinuate itself; and thus the piston becomes perfectly
tight with the smallest possible friction. This reasoning is
perhaps too refined for the uninstructed artist, and probably
will not persuade him. To such we would recommend an
examination of the pistons and valves contrived and ex¬
ecuted by that artist whose skill far surpasses our highest
conceptions, the All-wise Creator of this world. The valves
which shut up the passages of the veins, and this in places
where an extravasation would be followed by instant death,
are cups of thin membrane, which adhere to the sides of the
channel about half wray round, and are detached in the rest
of their circumference. When the blood comes in the op¬
posite direction, it pushes the membrane aside, and has a
passage perfectly free. But a stagnation of motion allows
the tone of the muscular (perhaps) membrane, to restore it
to its natural shape, and the least motion in the opposite
direction causes it instantly to clap close to the sides of the
vein, and then no pressure whatever can force a passage.
What we have said is enough for supporting our direc- Best form
tions for constructing a tight piston. But we recommended of a piston
thick and strong leather, while our present reasoning seems recom-
to render thin leather preferable. If the leather be thin,inende(i-
and the solid piston in any part does not press it gently to
the barrel, there will be in this part an unbalanced pressure
of the incumbent column of water, which would instantly
burst even a strong leather bag ; but when the solid piston,
covered with leather, exactly fills the barrel, and is even
pressed a little to it, there is no such risk; and now that
part of the leather band which reaches beyond the solid
piston performs its office in the completest manner. We
do not hesitate, therefore, to recommend this form of a pis¬
ton, which is the most common and simple of all, as pre¬
ferable, when well executed, to any of those more artificial,
and frequently very ingenious, constructions, which we have
met with in the works of the first engineers. To proceed,
then, with our description of the sucking pump.
At the joining of the working barrel with the suction-Burther de¬
pipe there is a hole H, covered with a valve opening up-scription of
wards. This hole H is either made in a plate which makes the suck-
part of the suction-pipe, being cast along with it, or it is”*
712
P U M P.
I
Pump.
made in a separate plate. This last is the most convenient,
; being easily removed and replaced. Different views are
given of this valve in figs. 8, 9, 10. The diameter EF (fig.
Its mode
of opera¬
tion.
Fig. 9.
Fig. 10.
10) of this plate is the same with that of the flanches, and
it has holes corresponding to them, through which their
bolts pass, which keep all together. A ring of thick leather
NKL is applied to this plate, having apart cut out between
N and L, to make room for another piece of strong leather
NR (fig. 9), which composes the valve. The circular part
of this valve is broader than the hole in the middle of fig.
10, but not quite so broad as to fill up the inside of the ring
of leather OQP of this figure, which is the same with GKI
of fig. 10. The middle of this leather valve is strengthened
by two brass (not iron) plates, the uppermost of which is
seen at R of fig. 9 ; the one on its under side is a little
smaller than the hole in the valve-plate, that it may go free¬
ly in; and the upper plate R is larger than this hole, that
it may compress the leather to its brim all round. It is
evident that when this plate with its leathers is put between
the joint-flanches, and all is screwed together, the tail of
leather N of fig. 9 will be compressed between the plates,
and form a hinge, on which the valve can turn, rising and
falling. There is a similar valve fastened to the upper side,
or broadest base of the piston. This description serves for
both valves, and in general for most valves which are to be
found in any parts of a pump.
The reader will now understand, without any repetition,
the process of the whole operation of a sucking pump. The
piston rarefies the air in the working barrel, and that in the
suction-pipe expands through the valve into the barrel;
and, being no longer a balance for the atmospheric pressure^
the water rises into the suction-pipe; another stroke of the
piston produces a similar effect, and the water rises farther,
but by a smaller step than by the preceding stroke ; by re¬
peating the strokes of the piston the water gets into the
barrel; and when the piston is now pushed down through
it, it gets above the piston, and may now be lifted up to
any height. The suction-pipe is commonly of smaller size
than the working barrel, for the sake of economy. It is not
necessary that it be so wide; but it may be, and often is,
made too small. It should be of such a size that the pres¬
sure of the atmosphere may be able to fill the barrel with
water as fast as the piston rises. If a void is left below' the
piston, it is evident that the piston must be carrying the
whole weight of the atmosphere, besides the water which is
lying above it. Nay, if the pipe be only so wide that the
barrels shall fill precisely as fast as the piston rises, it must
sustain all this pressure. The suction-pipe should be wider
than this, that all the pressure of the atmosphere which ex¬
ceeds the weight of the pillar in the suction-pipe may be
employed in pressing it on the under surface of the piston,
and thus diminish the load. It cannot be made too wide ;
and too strict an economy in this respect may very sensi¬
bly diminish the performance of the pump, and more than
defeat its own purpose. This is most likely when the suc¬
tion-pipe is long, because there the length of the pillar of
water nearly balances the air’s pressure, and leaves very
little accelerating force ; so that water will rise but slowly
even in the widest pipe. All these things wall be made the
subjects of computation afterwards.
It is plain that there will be limitations to the rise of the
water in the suction-pipe, similar to what we found when "
the whole pump was an uniform cylinder. Let a be the
height of the fixed valve above the water in the cistern ;
let B and b be the spaces in cubic measure between this
valve and the piston in its highest and lowest positions, and
therefore express the bulks of the air which may occupy
these spaces ; let y be the distance between the fixed valve
and the water in the suction-pipe, when it has attained its
greatest height by the rarefaction of the air above it; let h
be the height of a column of w'ater in equilibrio with the
whole pressure of the atmosphere, and therefore having its
weight in equilibrio with the elasticity of common air ; and
let x be the height of the column whose weight balances
the elasticity of the air in the suction-pipe, when rarefied as
much as it can be by the action of the piston, the water
standing at the height a —y.
Then, because this elasticity, together with the column
a — y in the suction-pipe, must balance the whole pressure
of the atmosphere (see Pneumatics), we must have h — x
-J- a — y, and y — a-\- x — h.
When the piston was in its lowest position, the bulk of
the air between it and the fixed valve was b. Suppose the
valve kept shut, and the piston raised to its highest posi¬
tion, the bulk will be B, and its density g-, and its elasti¬
city, or the height of the column whose weight will balance
it, will be h If the air in the suction-pipe be denser
than this, and consequently more elastic, it will lift the
valve, and some will come in; therefore, when the pump
has rarefied the air as much as it can, so that none does, in
fact, come in, the elasticity of the air in the suction-pipe
b
must be the same. Therefore x — h —.
We had y — a x — h. Therefore y — a-\-h - //,
B —b
Pump.
— (X
b — B
B
h, ■=. a
B
It.
Therefore, when
b — B
B
h is less than a, the water will
stop before it reaches the fixed valve. But when « is less
than ^r~- h, the water will get above the fixed valve, y
becoming negative.
But it does not follow that the water will reach the pis¬
ton, that is, will rise so high that the piston Fig. 11.
will pass through it in its descent. Things
now come into the condition of a pump of
uniform dimensions from top to bottom ;
and this point wall be determined by what
was said when treating of such a pump.
There is another form of the sucking
pump w hich is much used in great water¬
works, and is of equal efficacy with the
one now described. It is indeed the same
pump in an inverted position. It is re¬
presented in fig. 11, where ABCD is the
w orking barrel, immersed, with its mouth
downw ards, in the w ater of the cistern. It
is joined by means of flanches to the ris¬
ing pipe or main.
This usually consists of twro parts. The
first, BEFC, is bent to one side, that it
may give room for the iron frame TXYV,
which carries the rod NO of the piston
M, attached to the traverses RS, TOY of
this frame. The other part, EGHF, is
usually of a less diameter, and is continued
The same
pump
used in an
erted
P U M P.
‘’king barrel, and is forced into the main by
pushing down the piston, and is pushed along to the placa'
of delivery. 1
. The operation of this pump is therefore twofold, suck¬
ing and forcing. . In the first operation, the same force must
be employed as in the sucking pump, namely, a force equal
tZ-rt'-T T* m’and -
K'an^tr^d , Tk" ^ t ^
tormer, and is surrounded, like it, with a band of leather in
form of a taper-dish. It has a valve K on its broad or up-
per base, opening when pressed from below. The upper
end of the working barrel is pierced with a hole, covered
with a valve I, also openin'; upwards.
barrel When the piston is a„Led descend by Us ot ft ^
weight, the water rises up through its valve K, and fills the part of the operation that Supper cone s added to the
barrel. If the piston be now drawn up by the moving piston. The air and water wouWpass by the sides of the
power of the machinery with which it is connected, the lower cone whilst the piston is drawn up ;but the leadier of
alve K shuts, and the piston pushes the water before it the upper cone applies to the surface of the barrel and pre-
through the valve I into the main pipe EFGH. When the vents this. The space contained between the barrel and
piston is again let down, the valve I shuts by its own weight the valve S is a great obstruction to this part of the opera-
arid the water incumbent on it, and the barrel is again fill- tion, because this air cannot be rarefied to a verv -real de¬
ed by the water of the cistern. Drawing up the piston gree. For this reason, the suction-pipe of a forcing pump
must not be made long. It is not indeed necessary ; for.
713
Pump.
Forcing
pump de¬
scribed.
pushes this water into the main pipe, &c. and then the wa¬
ter is at length delivered at the place required.
This pump is usually called the lifting pump ; perhaps
the simplest of all in its principles and operation. It needs
no farther explanation : and we proceed to describe
12.
Fig. 12.
hs mode
F opera-
The forcing pump, represented in fig.
a working barrel ABCD, a suc¬
tion-pipe CDEF, and a main or
rising pipe. This last is usually
in three joints. The first, GHKI,
may be considered as making
part of the working barrel, and
is commonly cast in one piece
with it. The second, IKLM, is
joined to it by flanches, and
forms the elbow which this pipe
must generally have. The third,
LNOM, is properly the begin¬
ning of the main, and is conti¬
nued to the place of delivery.
At the joint IK there is a hang¬
ing valve or clack S ; and there
is a valve R on the top of the
suction-pipe.
The piston PQTV is solid,
and is fastened to a stout iron
rod, which goes through it, and
is fixed by a key drawn through
its end. The body of the piston
is a sort of double cone, widen¬
ing from the middle to each end,
and is covered with two bands
of very strong leather, fitted to
it in the manner already de¬
scribed.
The operation of this pump
is abundantly simple. When
the piston is thrust into the pump, it pushes the air before
it through the valve S, for the valve R remains shut by its
own weight. When it has reached near the bottom, and is
drawn up again, the air which filled the small space between
the piston and the valve S now expands into the barrel;
for as soon as the air begins to expand, it ceases to balance
the pressure of the atmosphere, which therefore shuts the
valve S. By the expansion of the air in the barrel the equi¬
librium at the valve R is destroyed, and the air in the suc¬
tion-pipe lifts the valve, and expands into the barrel; con¬
sequently it ceases to be a balance for the pressure of the
atmosphere, and the water is forced into the suction-pipe.
Pushing the piston down again forces the air in the barrel
through the valve S, the valve R in the mean time shutting.
When the piston is again drawn up, S shuts, R opens, the
VOL. XVIII.
by placing the pump a few feet lower, the water will rise
into it without difficulty, and the labour of suction is as
much diminished as that of impulsion is increased. How¬
ever, an intelligent artist will always endeavour to make
It consists of this space between the valve S and the lowest place of the
piston as small as possible.
The power employed in forcing must evidently surmount
the pressure of the whole water in the rising pipe, and (in¬
dependent of what is necessary for giving the water the re¬
quired velocity, so that the proper quantity per hour may
be delivered) the piston has to withstand a force equal to
the weight of a column of water having the section of the
piston for its base, and the perpendicular altitude of the
place of delivery above the lower surface of the piston for
its height. It is quite indifferent in this respect what is the
diameter of the rising pipe ; because the pressure on the
piston depends on the altitude of the water only, independ¬
ent of its quantity. We shall even see that a small rising
pipe will require a greater force to convey the water along
it to any given height or distance.
When we would employ a pump to raise water in a crock¬
ed pipe, or in any pipe of moderate dimensions, this form
of pump, or something equivalent, must be used. In bring¬
ing up great quantities of water from mines, the common
sucking pump is generally employed, as really the best of
them all; but it is the most expensive, because it requires
the pipe to be perpendicular, straight, and of great dimen¬
sions, that it may contain the piston-rods. But this is im¬
practicable when the pipe is crocked.
If the forcing pump, constructed in the manner now de¬
scribed, be employed, we cannot use forcers with long rods.
These would bend when pushed down by their further ex¬
tremity. In this case it is usual to employ only a short
and stiff rod, and to hang it by a chain, and load it with a
weight superior to the weight of water to be raised by it.
The machinery therefore is employed, not in forcing the
water along the rising pipe, but in raising the weight which
is to produce this effect by its subsequent descent.
In this case it would be much better to employ the lift¬
ing pump of fig. 11 ; for as the load on the forcers must
be greater than the resistances which it must surmount, the
force exerted by the machine must in like manner be greater
than this load. This double excess would be avoided by
using the lifting pump.
It will readily occur to the reader that the quantity ofQqanhtJ
water delivered by any pump will be in the joint proportion
of the surface or base of the piston and its velocity ; for au^ j)U1Up<
this measures the capacity of that part of the working bar¬
rel which the piston passes over. The velocity of the water
in the conduit-pipe, and in its passage through every valve,
will be greater or less than the velocity of the piston, in the
4 x
PUMP.
The opera
tion of
pumps not
equable.
The mode
of making
them so.
Fig.
No. 1.
13.
No. 2.
r
same proportion that the area of the piston or working bar¬
rel is greater or less than the area of the conduit or valve.
For whatever quantity of water passes through any section
of the working barrel in a second, the same quantity must
go through any one of these passages. This enables us to
modify the velocity of the water as we please: we can in¬
crease it to any degree at the place of delivery by diminish¬
ing the aperture through which it passes, provided we ap¬
ply sufficient force to the piston.
It is evident that the operation of a pump is by starts,
and that the water in the main remains at rest, pressing on
the valve during the time that the piston is withdrawn from
the bottom of the working barrel. It is in most cases de¬
sirable to have this motion equable, and in some cases it is
absolutely necessary. Thus, in the engine for extinguish¬
ing fires, the spout of w^ater going by jerks could never be
directed with a certain aim, and half ot the water would be
lost by the way ; because a body at rest cannot in an in¬
stant be put in rapid motion, and the first portion of every
jerk of water would have but a small velocity.
A very ingenious contrivance has been fallen upon for
obviating this inconvenience, and procuring a stream nearly
equable. We have not been able to discover the author.
At any convenient part of the rising pipe beyond the valve
S there is annexed a capacious ves¬
sel VZ (fig. 13, No. 1 and 2) close
a-top, and of great strength. When
the water is forced along this pipe,
part of it gets into this vessel, keep¬
ing the air confined above it; and it
fills it to such a height V that the
elasticity of the confined air balances
a column reaching to T, we shall sup¬
pose, in the rising pipe. The next
stroke of the piston sends forward
more water, which would fill the ris¬
ing pipe to some height above T.
But the pressure of this additional column causes some more
of it to go into the air-vessel, and compress its air so much
more that its elasticity now balances a longer column.
Every succeeding stroke of the piston produces a like ef¬
fect. ' The water rises higher in the main pipe, but some
more of it goes into the air-vessel. At last the water ap¬
pears at the place of delivery ; and the air in the air-vessel
is now so much compressed that its elasticity balances the
pressure of the whole column. The next stroke of the pis¬
ton sends forward some more water. If the diameter of the
orifice of the main be sufficient to let the water flow out
with a velocity equal to that of the piston, it will so flow
out, rising no higher, and producing no sensible addition to
the compression in the air-vessel. But if the orifice of the
main be contracted to half its dimensions, the water sent
forward by the piston cannot flow out in the time of the
stroke without a greater velocity, and therefore a greater
force. Part of it, therefore, goes into the air-vessel, and
increases the compression. When the piston has ended its
stroke, and no more water comes forward, the compression
of the air in the air-vessel, being greater than what vyas suf¬
ficient to balance the pressure of the water in the main pipe,
now forces out some of the water which is lying below it.
This cannot return towards the pump, because the valve S
is now shut. It therefore goes forward along the main, and
produces an efflux during the time of the piston’s rising in
order to make another stroke. In order that this efflux may
be very equable, the air-vessel must be very large. If it be
small, the quantity of water that is discharged by it during
the return of the piston makes so great a portion of its ca¬
pacity, that the elasticity of the confined air is too much
diminished by this enlargement of its bulk, and the rate of
efflux must diminish accordingly. The capacity of the air-
vessel should be so great that the change of bulk of the
compressed air during the inaction of the piston may be Pump
inconsiderable. It must therefore be very strong. ^
It is pretty indifferent in what way this air-vessel is con¬
nected with the rising pipe. It may join it laterally, as in
fig. 13, No. 1, and the main pipe go on without interrup¬
tion ; or it may be made to surround an interruption of the
main pipe, as in fig. 13, No. 2. It may also be in any part
of the main pipe. If the sole effect intended by it is to pro¬
duce an equable jet, as in ornamental water-works, it may
be near the end of the main. This will require much less
strength, because there remains but a short column of wa¬
ter to compress the air in it. But it is, on the whole, more
advantageous to place it as near the pump as possible, that
it may produce an equable motion in the whole main pipe.
This is of considerable advantage. When a column of wa¬
ter several hundred feet long is at rest in the main pipe, and
the piston at one end of it is put at once into motion, even
with a moderate velocity, the strain on the pipe must be
very great. Indeed if it were possible to put the piston
instantaneously into motion with a finite velocity, the strain
on the pipe, tending to burst it, would be next to infinite.
But this seems impossible in nature; all changes of mo- The desul
.. 1 tit.    „ 11 torv mo-
tion tvhich we observe are gradual, because all impelling ^r>
bodies have some elasticity or softness, by which they yield piston3>
to compression. And, in the way in which pistons are
commonly moved, viz. by cranks, or something analogous
to them, the motion is very sensibly gradual. But still the
air-vessel tends to make the motion along the mam pipe
less desultory, and therefore diminishes those strains which
would really take place in the main pipe. It acts like the
springs of a travelling-carriage, whose jolts are incompa¬
rably less than those of a cart; and by this means really
enables a given force to propel a greater quantity of water
in the same time. p
We may here by the way observe, that the attempts ot
mechanicians to correct this unequal motion of the piston-
rod are misplaced, and, if it could be done, would greatly
hurt a pump. One of the best methods of producing this
effect is to make the piston-rod consist of two parallel bars,
bavin" teeth in the sides which front each other. Let a
toothed wheel be placed between them, having only the
half of its circumference furnished with teeth. _ It is evi¬
dent, without any farther description, that if this wheel be
turned uniformly round its axis, the piston-rod will oe
moved uniformly up and down without intermission. 11ns
has often been put in practice; but the machine always
went by jolts, and seldom lasted a few days. Unskilled
mechanicians attributed this to defect in the execution,
but the fault is essential, and lies in the principle.
The machine could not perform one stroke if the first
mover did not slacken a little, or the different parts of the
machine did not yield by bending or by compression ; and
no strength of materials could withstand the violence of the
strains at every reciprocation of the motion. Ihis is chiefly
experienced in great works which are put in motion by a
water-wheel, or some other equal power exerted on the
mass of matter of which the machine consists. The water¬
wheel being of great weight, moves with considerable stea¬
diness or uniformity ; and when an additional resistance is
opposed to it by the beginning of a new stroke of the pis¬
ton, its great quantity of motion is but little affected by
this addition, and it proceeds very little retarded ; and the
machine must either yield a little by bending and com¬
pression, or go to pieces, which is the common event.
Cranks are free from this inconvenience, because they ac¬
celerate the piston gradually, and bring it gradually to rest,
while the water-wheel moves round with almost perfect
uniformity. The only inconvenience (and it may be con¬
siderable) attending this slow motion of the piston at the
beginning of its stroke is, that the valves do not shut with
rapidity, so that some water gets back through them. Bu
Pump, when they are properly formed and loaded, this is but
trifling.
rumps de- ™ust no.t imagine, that because the stream produ-
liver very cec* ^ ^ 16 assistance of an air-barrel is almost perfectly
little more equable, and because as much water runs out during the
water than returning of the piston as during its active stroke, it there¬
to others- fore doubles the quantity of water. No more water can
run out than what is sent forward by the piston during its
effective stroke. 1 he continued stream is produced only
by preventing the whole of this water from being dischar¬
ged duiing this time, and by providing a propelling force
to act during the piston’s return. Nor does it enable the
moving force of the piston to produce a double effect; for
the compression which is produced in the air-vessel, more
than what is necessary for merely balancing the quiescent
column of water, re-acts on the piston, resisting its com¬
pression just as much as the column of water would do
which produces a velocity equal to that of the efflux. Thus
if the water is made to spout with the velocity of eight feet
per second, this would require an additional column of one
foot high, and this would just balance the compression in
the air-vessel, which maintains this velocity during the non¬
action of the piston. It is, however, a matter of fact, that a
pump furnished with an air-vessel delivers a little more
water than it would do without it. But the difference de¬
pends on the combination of many very dissimilar circum¬
stances, which it is extremely difficult to bring into calcu¬
lation. Some of these will be mentioned afterwards.
To describe, or even to enumerate, the immense variety
of combinations of these three simple pumps, would fill a
volume. We shall select a few, which are more deserving
of notice.
PUMP.
1. Sucking Pump converted into a Lifting Pump.
The common sucking pump may, by a small addition, be
The suck- — — —' —■——v** •t/v*^'*****^ ^ v*.jr 5 c* ******* m>v****i/&w**^
ing pump converted into a lifting pump, fitted for propelling the wa-
cunverted ter to any distance, and with any velocity,
into a lift- pjg# 14 js a sucking pump, whose
ing pump, waking barrel ACDB has a lateral
pipe AEGHF connected with it close
to the top. This terminates in a
main or rising pipe IK, furnished or
not with a valve L. The top of the
barrel is shut up by a strong plate
MN, having a hollow neck terminat¬
ing in a small flanch. The piston-
rod QR passes through this neck, and
is nicely turned and polished. A
number of rings of leather are put
over the rod, and strongly compress¬
ed round it by another flanch and
several screwed bolts, as is repre¬
sented at OP. By this contrivance
the rod is closely grasped by the lea¬
thers, but may be easily drawn up
and down, while all passage of air or
water is effectually prevented.
The piston R is perforated, and
furnished with a valve opening up¬
wards. There is also a valve T on,~J
the top of the suction-pipe VX ; andSrU
it will be of advantage, though not '
absolutely necessary, to put a valve
L at the bottom of the rising pipe.
Now, suppose the piston at the bot¬
tom of the working barrel. When
it is drawn up, it tends to com¬
press the air above it, because the valve in the piston re¬
mains shut by its own weight. The air therefore is driven
through the valve L into the rising pipe, and escapes. In
the mean time, the air which occupied the small space be¬
tween the piston and the valve T expands into the upper
part of the working barrel; and its elasticity is so much ’
diminished thereby, that the atmosphere presses the water
of the cistern into the suction-pipe, where it will rise till
an equilibrium is again produced. The next downward
stroke of the piston allows the air, which had come from
the suction-pipe into the barrel during the ascent of the
piston, to get through its valve. Upon drawing up the
piston, this air is also drawn off through the rising pipe.
Repeating this process brings the water at last into the
working barrel, and it is then driven along the rising pipe
by the piston. 8 8 1 P
I his is one of the best forms of a pump. The rarefac- Advantages
tion may be very perfect, because the piston can be brought0! this con-
so near to the bottom of the v/orking barrel; and, for for- versio“-
cing water in opposition to great pressures, it appears pre¬
ferable to the common forcing pump, because in that the
piston-rods are compressed and exposed to bending, which
greatly hurts the pump by wearing the piston and barrel on
one side. This soon renders it less tight, and much water
squirts out by the sides of the piston. But in this pump
the piston-rod is always drawn or pulled, which keeps it
straight; and rods exert a much greater force in opposition
to a pull than in opposition to compression. The collar of
leather round the piston-rods is found by experience to
need very little repairs, and is very impervious to water.
I he whole is very accessible for repairs ; and in this re¬
spect much preferable to the common pump in deep mines,
where every fault of the piston obliges us to draw up some
hundred feet of piston-rods. By this addition, too, any
common pump for the service of a house is converted into
an engine for extinguishing fire, or may be made to con¬
vey the water to every part of the house; and this without
hurting or obstructing its common uses. All that is neces¬
sary is to have a large cock on the upper part of the work¬
ing barrel, opposite to the lateral pipe in this figure. This
cock serves for a spout when the pump is used for common
purposes; and the merely shutting this cock converts the
whole into an engine for extinguishing fire or for supplying
distant places with water. It is scarcely necessary to add,
that for these services it will be proper to connect an air-
vessel with some convenient part of the rising pipe, in or¬
der that the current of the water may be continual.
We have frequently spoken of the advantages of a con-Equable
tinued current in the main pipe. In all great works a con- streams
l'***^^*.*. V/*** * \^X* 1/ XX* l/ixt/ XXJCbllX XXX ClXX gi telly T» \^X XVO CX
siderable degree of uniformity is produced by the manner Pr°duced
/l i n/i» 4" T\ <■» 4"»/■*■*■» n r"\T* 4-l-» r\ -ft ^ ■»'\i i • ■f-V'* »» i 4- ■»«■« IH
c(f disposing the actions of the different pumps; for it is”1^1^*'
very rarely that a machine works but one pump. In ordercombjnay
to maintain some uniformity in the resistance, that it may tions.
not all be opposed at once to the moving power, with in¬
tervals of total inaction, which would produce a very hob¬
bling motion, it is usual to distribute the work into poi%-
tions, which succeed alternately; and thus both diminish
the strain, and give greater uniformity of action, and fre¬
quently enable a natural power which we can command,
to perform a piece of work which would be impossible if
the whole resistance were opposed at once. In all pump
machines, therefore, we are obviously directed to construct
them so that they may give motion to at least two pumps,
which work alternately. By this means a much greater
uniformity of current is produced in the main pipe. It
will be rendered still more uniform if four are employed,
succeeding each other at the interval of one quarter of the
time of a complete stroke.
But ingenious men have attempted the same thing with a single
a single pump, and many different constructions for this pump for
purpose have been proposed and executed, The thing is this pur-
not of much importance, or of great research. We shall
content ourselves, therefore, with the description of one
that appears to us the most perfect, both in respect of sim¬
plicity and effect.
I
716
PUMP
Vu™vj. 2. Description of a Dump with a continued current.
It consists of a working barrel AB (fig. 15) close at both
ends. The piston C is solid, and the rod O passes through
- - - • ’ 1   Fig. 15.
a collar of leathers in the plate, ■which
closes the upper end of the working
barrel. This barrel communicates la¬
terally with two pipes H, K ; the com¬
munications m and n being as near to
the top and bottom of the barrel as
possible. Adjoining to the passage m
are two valves F and G opening up¬
wards. Similar valves accompany the
passage n. The twr’o pipes H and K
unite in a larger rising pipe L. They
are all represented as in the same
plane; but the upper ends must be
bent backwards, to give room for the
motion of the piston-rod O.
Suppose the piston close to the entry
of the lateral pipe n, and that it is
drawm up; it compresses the air above
it, and drives it through the valve G,
where it escapes along the rising pipe;
at the same time it rarefies the air in the
space below it. Therefore the wreight of the atmosphere
shuts the valve E, and causes the water of the cistern to
rise through the valve D, and fill the lower part of the
pump. When the piston is pushed down again, this water
is first driven through the valve E, because D immediate¬
ly shuts; and then most of the air which was in this part
of the pump at the beginning goes up through it, some of
the water coming back in its stead. In the mean time, the
air which remained in the tipper part of the pump, aftei the
ascent of the piston, is rarefied by its descent; because the
valve G shuts as soon as the piston begins to descend, the
valve F opens, the air in this suction-pipe F expands into
the barrel, and the water rises into the pipes by the pres¬
sure of the atmosphere. The next rise of the piston must
bring more water into the lower part ot the barrel, and
must drive a little more air through the valve G, namely,
part of that which had come out of the suction-pipe r ;
and the next descent of the piston must drive more v'^ter
into the rising pipe H, and along with it most if not all of
the air which remained below the piston, and must rarefy
still more the air remaining above the piston; and more
water will come in through the pipe F, and get into the
barrel. It is evident that a few repetitions will at last nil
the barrel on both sides of the piston with water. When
this is accomplished, there is no difficulty in perceiving how,
at every rise of the piston, the water ot the cistern will
come in by the valve D, and the water in the upper part
of the barrel will be driven through the valve G ; and, in
every descent of the piston, the water of the cistern will
come into the barrel by the valve F, and the water below
the piston will be driven through the valve E; and thus
there will be a continual influx into the barrel through the
valves D and F, and a continual discharge along the rising
pipe L through the valves E and G.
This machine is, to be sure, equivalent to two forcing
  pumps, although it has but one barrel and one piston ; but
two forcing ^ ]ias no sort nf superiority. It is not even more economi-
pumps. ca| jn most cases; because we apprehend that the addi¬
tional workmanship will fully compensate for the barrel
and piston that is saved. There is indeed a saving in the
rest of the machinery, because one lever produces both
motions. We cannot, therefore, say that it is inferior to
two pumps; and we acknowledge that there is some in¬
genuity in the contrivance.
We recommend to our readers the perusal of Belidor’s
Architecture Hydraulique, where is to be found a great va¬
riety of combinations and forms of the simple pumps ; but
we must caution them with respect to his theories, which
in this article are extremely defective. Also in Leupold’s
Theatrum Machinarum Hydraulicarum there is a prodi¬
gious variety of all kinds of pumps, many of them very sin¬
gular and ingenious, and many which have particular ad¬
vantages, which mav suit local circumstances, and give
them a preference. ‘ But it would be improper to swell a
work of this kind with so many peculiarities ; and a person
who makes himself master of the principles delivered here,
in sufficient detail, can be at no loss to suit a pump to his
particular views, or to judge of the merit of such as may be
proposed to him. . ,
We must now take notice of some very considerable and
important varieties in the form and contrivance of the es¬
sential parts of a pump.
Pump.
3. Description of an improved Forcing Pump.
Fig. 1G.
The for- |
cing pump l
differently f
construct- I
It is equi
valent to
Authors
recom¬
mended.
The forcing pump is sometimes
of a very different form irom that
already described. Instead of a
piston, which applies itself to the
inside of the barrel, and slides up
and down in it, there is a long cy¬
linder PO.a (fig. 16) nicely turned
and polished on the outside, and of
a diameter somewhat less than the
inside of the barrel. This cylinder
(called a plungek) slides through
a collar of leathers on the top of the
working barrel, and is constructed
as follows. The top of the barrel
terminates in a flanch ah, pierced
with four holes for receiving screw-
bolts. There are two rings of metal,
of the same diameter, and having
holes corresponding to those in the
flanch. Four rings of soft leather,
of the same size, and similarly
pierced with holes, are well soaked 11
in a mixture of oil, tallow, and a
little rosin. Two of these leather
rings are laid on the pump flanch,
and one of the metal rings above
them. The plunger is then thrust
down through them, by which it
turns their inner edges downwards.
The other two rings are then slipped
on at the top of the plunger, and the second metal ring is put
over them, and then the whole are slid down to the metal
ring. By this the inner edges of the last leather rings are
turned upwards. The three metal rings are now forced
together by the screwed bolts; and thus the leathern rings
are strongly compressed between them, and made to grasp
the plunger so closely that no pressure can force the water
through between. The upper metal ring just allows the
plunger to pass through it, but without any play ; so that
the turned-up edges of the leathern rings do not come up
between the plunger and the upper metal ring, but are
lodged in a little conical taper, which is given to the inner
edge of the upper plate, its hole being wider below than
above. It is on this trifling circumstance that the great
tightness of the collar depends. To prevent the leathers
from shrinking by drought, there is usually a little cistern,
as XY, formed round the head of the pump, and kept full
of water. The plunger is either forced down by a rod from
a working beam, or by a set of metal weights laid on it, as
is represented in the figure. _ . . ,
It is hardly necessary to be particular in explammg tlie i
operation of this pump. When the plunger is at the bot-
tom of the barrel, touching the fixed valve M with its lower
P U M P.
Pump, extremity, it almost completely fills it. That it may do it
" ' completely, there is sometimes a small pipe RSZ branch¬
ing out from the top ot the barrel, and fitted with a cock
at S. Water is admitted till the barrel is completely filled,
and the cock is then shut. Now when the plunger is drawn
up, the valve N in the rising pipe must remain shut by the
pressure of the atmosphere, and a void must be made in the
barrel. Therefore the valve M on the top of the suc¬
tion-pipe must, be opened by the elasticity of the air in
this pipe, and the air must expand into the barrel; and
being no longer a balance for the atmosphere, the water
in the cistern must be forced into the suction-pipe, and
rise in it to a certain height. When the plunger descends,
it must drive the water through the valve N (for the valve
M will immediately shut), and along with it most of the air
which had come into the barrel. And as this air occupied
the upper part of the barrel, part of it will remain when the
plunger has reached the bottom ; but a stroke or two will
expel it all, and then every succeeding stroke of the de¬
scending piston will drive the water along the rising pipe,
and every ascent of the plunger will be followed by the
water from the cistern.
The advantage proposed by this form of piston is, that it
may be more accurately made and polished than the in¬
side of a working barrel, and it is of much easier repair.
Yet we do not find that it is much used, although an in¬
vention of the seventeenth century (we think by Sir Sa¬
muel Morland), and much praised by the writers on these
subjects.
Sucking _ it is eaSy to see that the sucking pump may be varied
iminp sum-^ the same way. Suppose this plunger to be open both at
ried. ^ t0P an^ bottom, but the bottom filled with a valve opening
upward. When this is pushed to the bottom of the barrel,
the air which it tends to compress lifts the valve (the la¬
teral pipe being taken away and the passage shut up),
and escapes through the plunger. When it is drawn up,
it makes the same rarefaction as the solid plunger, because
the valve at O shuts, and the water will come up from the
cistern as in the former case. If the plunger be now thrust
down again, the valve M shuts, the valve O is forced open,
and the plunger is filled with water. This will be lifted by
it during its next ascent; and when it is pushed down
again, the water which filled it must now be pushed out,
and will flow over its sides into the cistern at the head of
the barrel. Instead of making the valve at the bottom of
the piston, it may be made at the top; but this disposition
is much inferior, because it cannot
rarefy the air in the barrel one half.
This is evident; for the capacity of
the barrel and plunger together can¬
not be twice the capacity of the bar¬
rel.
4. Description of another form of the
Forcing Pump.
Another It may be made after a still differ-
form of the ent form, as represented in fig. ;
uic ing Here the suction-pipe CO comes up
Its ^^of Ah rough a cistern KMNL deeper or
operation, longer than the intended stroke of
the piston, and has a valve C at top.
The piston, or what acts in lieu of
it, is a tube AHGB, open at both
ends, and of a diameter somewhat
larger than that of the suction-pipe.
The interval between them is filled
up at HG by a ring or belt of soft
leather, which is fastened to the outer
tube, and moves up and down with
it, sliding along the smoothly polished surface of the suction-
pipe with very little friction. There is a valve I on the top
of this piston, opening upwards. Water is poured into the
outer cistern.
I he outer cylinder or piston being drawn up from the
bottom, there is a great rarefaction of the air which was
between them, and the atmosphere presses the water up
through the suction-pipe to a certain height; for the valve
I keeps shut by the pressure of the atmosphere and its own
weight. Pushing down the piston causes the air, which
had expanded from the suction-pipe into the piston, to es¬
cape through the valve I; drawing it up a second time al¬
lows the atmosphere to press more water into the suction-
pipe, to fill it, and also part of the piston. When this is
pushed down again, the water which had come through the
valve C is now forced out through the valve I into the cis¬
tern KMNL, and now the whole is full of water. When,
therefore, the piston is drawn up, the water follows, and
fills it, if not thirty-three feet above the water in the cis¬
tern ; and when it is pushed down again, the water which
filled the piston is all thrown out into the cistern; and af¬
ter this it delivers its full contents of water at every stroke.
The water in the cistern KMNL effectually prevents the
entry of any air between the two pipes ; so that a very mo¬
derate compression of the belt of soft leather at the mouth
of the piston-cylinder is sufficient to make all perfectly
tight.
It might be made differently. The ring of leather might Thepiston-
be fastened round the top of the inner cylinder at DE, andcylinder
slide on the inside of the piston cylinder; but the first form t]ifferendy
is easily executed. Muschenbroeck has given a figure 0ffornied-
this pump in his large system of natural philosophy, and
speaks very highly of its performance. But we do not see
any advantage which it possesses over the common suck¬
ing pump. He indeed says that it is without friction, and
makes no mention of the ring of leather between the two
cylinders. Such a pump will raise water extremely well
to a small height, and it seems to have been a model only
which he had examined. But if the suction-pipe is long,
it will by no means do without the leather ; for on drawing
up the piston, the water of the upper cistern will rise be¬
tween the pipes and fill the piston, and none will come up
through the suction pipe.
We may take this opportunity of observing, that the Pump?
many ingenious contrivances of pumps without friction are without
of little importance in great works; because the frictionfrkamn
which is completely sufficient to prevent all escape of wa- not °* )ni*
ter in a well-constructed pump, is but a very trifling part of[jSe
the whole force. In the great pumps which are used in
mines, and are worked by a steam-engine, it is very usual
to make the pistons and valves without any leather what¬
ever. The working barrel is bored truly cylindrical, and
the piston is made of metal of a size that will just pass
along it without sticking. When this is drawn up with the
velocity competent to a properly loaded machine, the quan¬
tity of water which escapes round the piston is insignificant,
The piston is made without leathers, not to avoid friction,
which is also insignificant in such works; but to avoid the
necessity of frequently drawing it up for repairs through
such a length of pipes.
5. Description of a Pump without Friction.
If a pump absolutely without friction be wanted, the fol- Example
lowing seems preferable for simplicity and performance to°(a pump
any we have seen, when made use of in proper situations. ^?t l0l,t
Let NO (fig. 18) be the surface of the water in the pit, and nc lon‘
K the place of delivery. The pit must be as deep in wa¬
ter as from K to NO. ABCD is a wooden trunk, round
or square, open at both ends, and having a valve P at the
bottom. The top of this trunk must be on a level with K,
and has a small cistern EADF. It also communicates la-
P U M P.
Fig. 18.
terally with a rising pipe GIIK, furnished with a \alve at
H opening upwards. LM is a beam ot
timber so fitted to the trunk as to fill it
without sticking, and is of at least equal
length. It hangs by a chain from a
working beam, and is loaded on the top
with weights exceeding that of the co¬
lumn of water which it displaces. Now
suppose this beam allowed to descend
from the position in which it is drawn
in the figure; the water must rise all
around it, in the crevice which is be¬
tween it and the trunk, and also in the
rising pipe, because the valve P shuts,
and H opens; so that when the plun¬
ger has got to the bottom, the water
will stand at the level of K. When the
plunger is again drawn up to the top by
the action of the moving power, the wa¬
ter sinks again in the trunk, but not in
the rising pipe, because it is stopped by
the valve H. Then allowing the plunger
to descend again, the water must again
rise in the trunk to the level of K, and
it must now flow out at K; and the
quantity discharged will be equal to the
part of the beam below the surface of
the pit-water, deducting the quantity
which fills the small space between the
beam and the trunk. This quantity may
be reduced almost to nothing; for if 1
the inside of the trunk and the outside of the beam be
made tapering, the beam may be let down till they exact¬
ly fit; and as this may be done in square work, a good
workman can make it exceedingly accurate. But in this
case the lower half of the beam and trunk must not ta¬
per ; and this part of the trunk must be of sufficient width
round the beam to allow free passage into the rising pipe;
or, which is better, the rising pipe must branch off from
the bottom of the trunk. A discharge may be made from
the cistern EADF, so that as little water as possible may
descend along the trunk when the piston is raised.
Its excel- One great excellence of this pump is, that it is perfectly
lencies are free from all the deficiencies which in common pumps re¬
consider- su}t from wrant of being air-tight. Another is, that the
k ^ H quantitY water raised is precisely equal to the power ex-
g |ls l‘UK" pended ; for any want of accuracy in the work, while it oc¬
casions a diminution of the quantity of water discharged,
makes an equal diminution in the weight which is neces¬
sary for pushing down the plunger. We have seen a ma¬
chine consisting of two such pumps suspended from the
arms of a long beam, the upper side of which was formed
into a walk with a rail on each side. A man stood on one
end till it got to the bottom, and then walked soberly up
to the other end, the inclination being about twenty-five
degrees at first, but gradually diminished as he went along,
and changed the load of the beam. By this means he
made the other end go to the bottom, and so on alternate¬
ly, with the easiest of all exertions, and what we are most
fitted for by our structure. With this machine, a very
feeble old man, weighing 110 pounds, raised seven cubic
feet of water eleven and a half feet high in a minute, and
continued working eight or ten hours every day. A stout
young man, weighing nearly 135 pounds, raised eight and
a third to the same height; and when he carried thirty
pounds conveniently slung about him, he raised nine and a
fourth feet to this height, working ten hours a day with¬
out fatiguing himself. This exceeds Desagulier’s maximum
of a hogshead of water ten feet high in a minute, in the
proportion of nine to seven nearly. It is limited to very
moderate heights; but in such situations it is very effec-
i s
tual. It was the contrivance of an untaught labouring Pump,
man, of uncommon mechanical genius. Y^*"
6. Description of Haskins's Quicksilver Pump.
The most ingenious contrivance of a pump without fric- Haskins s
tion is that of Mr Haskins, described by Desaguliers, and pump de-
called by him the Quicksilver Pump. Its construction andscnDea*
mode of operation are pretty complicated ; but the follow¬
ing preliminary observations will, we hope, render it abun¬
dantly plain.
Let limit (fig. 19) be a cylindrical iron pipe, about six
feet long, open at top. Let eghj be an¬
other cylinder, connected with it at the
bottom, and of smaller diameter. It may
either be solid, or, if hollow, it must be
close at top. Let acdb be a third iron
cylinder, of an intermediate diameter, so
that it may move up and down between
the other two, w ithout touching either,
but with as little interval as possible. Let
this middle cylinder communicate, by
means of the pipe AB, with the upright
pipe FE, having valves C and D (both
opening upwards) adjoining to the pipe
of communication. Suppose the outer
cylinder suspended by chains from the
end of a working beam, and let mercury
be poured into the interval between the
three cylinders till it fills the space to
op, about three fourths of their height.
Also suppose that the lower end of the
pipe FE is immersed into a cistern of
water, and that the valve D is less than
thirty-three feet above the surface of this
water.
Now suppose a perforation made some¬
where in the pipe AB, and a communica¬
tion made with an air-pump. When the
air.-pump is worked, the air contained in
CE, in AB, and in the space between the inner and middle
cylinders, is rarefied, and is abstracted by the air-pump ; for
the valve D immediately shuts. The pressure of the atmo¬
sphere will cause the water to rise in the pipe CE, and will
cause the mercury to rise betw een the inner and middle cylin¬
ders, and sink between the outer and middle cylinders. Let
us suppose mercury twelve times heavier than water: then
for every foot that the water rises in EC, the level between
the outside and inside mercury will vary an inch ; and if we
suppose DE to be thirty feet, then, if we can rarefy the air
so as to raise the water to D, the outside mercury will be
depressed to qr, and the inside mercury will have risen to
st, sq, and tr, being about thirty inches. In this state of
things, the water will run over by the pipe BA, and every¬
thing will remain nearly in this position. The columns of
water and mercury balance each other, and balance the
pressure of the atmosphere.
While things are in this state of equilibrium, if we allow
the cylinders to descend a little, the water will rise in the
pipe FE, which we may now consider as a suction-pipe;
for by this motion the capacity of the whole is enlarged,
and therefore the pressure of the atmosphere will still keep
it full, and the situation of the mercury will again be such
that all shall be in equilibrio. It will be a little lower in
the inside space, and higher in the outside.
Hence we see clearly how the water is supported by the
atmosphere at a very considerable height. The apparatus
is analogous to a syphon which has one leg filled with wa¬
ter and the other with mercury. But it was not necessary to
employ an air-pump to fill it. Suppose it again empty, and
all the valves shut by their own weight. Let the cylinders
Its mode
of opera¬
tion.
PUMP.
xi a.
Pump, descend a little. The capacity of the spaces below the
valve D is enlarged, and therefore the included air is rare¬
fied, and some of the air in the pipe CE must diffuse itself
into the space quitted by the inner cylinder. Therefore
the atmosphere will press some water up the pipe FE, and
some mercury into the inner space between the cylinders.
When the cylinders are raised again, the air which came
from the pipe CE would return into it again, but is pre¬
vented by the valve C. Raising the cylinders to their for¬
mer height would compress this air ; it therefore lifts the
valve D, and escapes. Another depression of the cylinders
will have a similar effect. The water will rise higher in
FC, and the mercury in the inner space ; and then, after
repeated strokes, the water will pass the valve C, and fill the
whole apparatus, as the air-pump had caused it to do be¬
fore. The position of the cylinders, when things are in
this situation, is represented in fig. 20, the
outer and inner cylinders in their lowest posi- Fig. 20.
tion having descended about thirty inches.
The mercury in the outer space stands at gr, ^ \
a little above the middle of the cylinders, and
the mercury in the inner space is near the top
\ ts of the inner cylinder. Now let the cylin¬
ders be drawn up. The water above the mer¬
cury cannot get back again through the valve
C, which shuts by its own weight. We there¬
fore attempt to compress it; but the mer¬
cury yields, and descends in the inner space
and rises in the outer, till both are quickly on
a level, about the height vv. If we continue
to raise the cylinders, the compression forces
out more mercury, and it now stands lower
in the inner than in the outer space. But that
there may be something to balance this ine¬
quality of the mercurial columns, the water
goes through the valve D, and the equili¬
brium is restored when the height of the water
in the pipe ED above the surface of the inter¬
nal mercury is twelve times the difference of
the mercurial columns (on the former sup¬
position of specific gravity). If the quantity of water is such
as to rise twro feet in the pipe ED, the mercury in the outer
space wall be two inches higher than that in the inner space.
Another depression of the cylinders will again enlarge the
space within the apparatus, the mercury will take the posi¬
tion of fig. 19, and more water will come in. Raising the
cylinders will send this water four feet up the pipe ED, and
the mercury will be four inches higher in the inner than in
the outer space. Repeating this operation, the water will be
raised still higher in DE; and this will go on till the mercury
in the outer space reaches the top of the cylinder; and this
is the limit of the performance. The dimensions with which
we set out will enable the machine to raise the water about
thirty feet in the pipe ED, which, added to the thirty feet
of CF, makes the whole height above the pit-water sixty
feet. By making the cylinders longer, we increase the
height of FD. This machine must be worked with great
attention, and but slowly ; for at the beginning of the forcing
stroke the mercury very rapidly sinks in the inner space
and rises in the outer, and will dash out and be lost. To
prevent this as much as possible, the outer cylinder termi¬
nates in a sort of cup or dish, and the inner cylinder should
be tapered a-top.
Pgenuity The machine is exceedingly ingenious and refined ; and
f hie con. there is no doubt but that its performance will exceed that
ance. 0p ariy other pump which raises the water to the same height,
because friction is completely avoided, and there can be no
want of tightness of the piston. But this is all its advan¬
tage ; and, from what has been observed, it is but trifling.
The expense would be enormous; for, with whatever care
the cylinders are made, the interval between the inner and
719
Pump.
outer cylinders must contain a very great quantity of mer¬
cury. The middle cylinder must be made of iron plate,
and must be without a seam, for the mercury would dissolve
every solder. For such reasons, it has never come into
general use. But it would have been unpardonable to have
omitted the description of an invention which is so original
and ingenious; and there are some occasions where it may
be of great use, as, in nice experiments for illustrating the
theory of hydraulics, it would give the finest pistons for
measuring the pressures of water in pipes, &c. It is on
precisely the same principle that the cylinder bellows, de¬
scribed in the article Pneumatics, are constructed.
7. Simple Pump without Friction.
We beg leave to conclude this part of the subject with Descrip,
the description of a pump without friction, which may betion ot
constructed in a variety of ways by any common carpenter,another
without the assistance of the pump-maker or plumber, andj^y^j.
will be very effective for raising a great quantity of water to friction,
small heights, as in draining marshes, marl-pits, quarries,
&c. or even for the service of a house.
ABCD (fig 21) is a square trunk of carpenter’s work,
open at both ends, and having a little
cistern and spout at top. Near the bot¬
tom there is a partition made of board,
perforated with a hole E, and covered
with a clack, represents a long cy¬
lindrical bag or pudding, made of lea¬
ther, or of double canvass with a fold of
thin leather such as sheep-skin between
the canvass bags. This is firmly nailed
to the board E, with soft leather between.
The upper end of this bag is fixed on
a round board, having a hole and valve
F. This board may be turned in the
lathe with a groove round its edge, and
the bag fastened to it by a cord bound
tight round it. The fork of the piston-
rod FG is firmly fixed into this board ;
the bag is kept distended by a number
of wooden hoops or rings of strong wire
ffy ffi Put int0 it at a *ew hiches
distance from each other. It will be
proper to connect these hoops before
putting them in, by three or four cords
from top to bottom, which will keep them at their proper dis¬
tances. Thus will the bag have the form of a barber’s bel¬
lows powder-puff. The distance between the hoops should
be about twice the breadth of the rim of the wooden ring
to which the upper valve and piston-rod are fixed.
Now let this trunk be immersed in the water. It is evi-Its mode
dent, that if the bag be stretched from the compressed form ot' <>peru-
which its own weight will give it, by drawing up the piston-tlou-
rod, its capacity will be enlarged, the valve F will be shut
by its own weight, the air in the bag will be rarefied, and
the atmosphere will press the water into the bag. When
the rod is thrust down again, this water will come out by
the valve F, and fill part of the trunk. A repetition of the
operation will have a similar effect; the trunk will be filled,
and the water will at last be discharged by the spout.
Here is a pump without friction, and perfectly tight, for
the leather between the folds of canvass renders the bag
impervious both to air and water ; and the canvass has very
considerable strength. We know from experience that a
bag of six inches diameter, made of sail-cloth No. 3, with a
sheep-skin between, will bear a column of fifteen feet of
water, and stand six hours work per day for a month with¬
out failure; and that the pump is considerably superior in
effect to a common pump of the same dimensions. We
must only observe, that the length of the bag must be three
rlM
720
r U M F.
Pump.
times the intended length of the stroke *, so that when the.
piston-rod is in its highest position, the angles or ridges of
the bag may be pretty acute. If the bag be more stretch¬
ed than this, the force which must be exerted by the la¬
bourer becomes much greater than the weight of the co¬
lumn of water which he is raising. If the pump be laid
aslope, which is very usual in these occasional and hasty
drawings, it is necessary to make a guide for the piston-rod
within the trunk, that the bag may play up and down with¬
out rubbing on the sides, which would quickly wear it out.
The experienced reader will see that this pump is very
like that of Gosset and De la Deuille, described by Belidor,
vol. ii. p. 120, and most writers on hydraulics. It would
be still more like it if the bag were on the under side of
the partition E, and a valve placed farther down the trunk.
But we think that our form is greatly preferable in point of
strength. When in the other situation, the column of w^a-
ter lifted by the piston tends to burst the bag, and this with
a great force, as the intelligent reader well knows. But in
the form recommended here, the bag is compressed, and the
strain on each part may be made much less than that which
tends to burst a bag of six inches diameter. The nearer the
rings are placed to each other the smaller will the strain be.
The same bag-piston may be employed for a forcing
pump, by placing it below the partition, and inverting the
valve ; and it will then be equally strong, because the re¬
sistance in this case too will act by compression.
The Pump.
8. On the different Forms of Pistons.
We now come naturally to the consideration of the dif¬
ferent forms which may be given to the pistons and valves
of a pump. A good deal of what we have been describing
already is reducible to this head ; but, having a more ge¬
neral appearance, changing as it were the whole form and
structure of the pump, it was not improper to keep these
things together.
Pistons The great desideratum in a piston is, that it be as tight
should as possible, and have as little friction as is consistent with
have little this indispensable quality. We have already said that the
friction, common form, when carefully executed, has these proper¬
ties in an eminent degree. And accordingly this form has
kept its ground amidst all the improvements which ingeni¬
ous artists have made. Mr Belidor, an author of the first
reputation, has given the description of a piston which he
highly extols, and is undoubtedly a
very good one, constructed from
principle, and extremely well com¬
posed.
It consists of a hollow cylinder
of metal g h (fig. 23) pierced with
a number of holes, and having at
top a flanch AB, whose diameter
is nearly equal to that of the work¬
ing barrel of the pump PQ. (fig. 22).
Tills flanch has a groove round it.
There is another flanch IK below,
by which this hollow cylinder is
fastened with bolts to the lower end
of the piston, represented in fig. 23.
This consists of a plate w'ith a W11„ miu
grooved edge similar to AB, and an intermediate plate which
forms the seat of the valve. The
composition of this part is better un- Fig. 23.
derstood by inspecting the figure than bs
by any description. The piston-rod
HL is fixed to the upper plate by
bolts through its different branches at
G, G. This metal body is then co¬
vered with a cylindrical bag of leather
fastened on it by cords bound round
Improved
one by
fielidor.
it, filling up the grooves in the upper and lower plates
operation of the piston is as follows.
A little water is poured into the pump, which gets past Its defects
the sides of the piston, and lodges below in the fixed valve.
The piston being pushed down, dips into this water, and it
gets into it by the valve. But as the piston in descending
compresses the air below it, this compressed air also gets
into the inside of the piston, swells out the bag w hich sur¬
rounds it, and compresses it to the sides of the working bar¬
rel. When the piston is drawn up again, it must remain
tight, because the valve wrill shut and keep in the air in its
most compressed state ; therefore the piston must perform
well during the suction. It must act equally well when
pushed down again, and acting as a forcer; for, however
great the resistance may be, it will affect the air within the
piston to the same degree, and keep the leather close ap¬
plied to the barrel. There can be no doubt, therefore, of
the piston’s performing both its offices completely ; but w e
imagine that the adhesion to the barrel will be greater than
is necessary: it will extend over the whole surface of the
piston, and be equally great in every part of its surface, and
we suspect that the friction will therefore be very great.
We have very high authority for supposing that the adhesion
of a piston of the common form, carefully made, will be such
as will make it perfectly tight; and it is evident that the
adhesion of Belidor’s piston will be much greater, and it
will be productive of worse consequences. If the leather
bag be worn through in any one place, the air escapes, and
the piston ceases to be compressed altogether ; whereas in
the common piston there will very little harm result from
the leather being worn through in one place, especially if
it project a good wray beyond the base of the cone. M e
still think the common piston preferable. Belidor’s piston
would do much better inverted as the piston of a sucking
pump; and in this situation it would be equal, but not su¬
perior, to the common. _ , , j
Belidor describes another forcing piston, which he had I
executed with success, and prefers to the common wooden ^ ^ ^
forcer. It consists of a metal cylinder or cone, having ^(Ejection-
broad flanch united to it at one end, and a similar flanch ajj|e>
which is screwed on the other end. Between these two
plates are a number of rings of leather strongly compressed
by the two flanches, and then turned in a lathe like a block
of wood, till the whole fits tight, when dry, into the barrel.
It will swell, says he, and soften with the water, and with¬
stand the greatest pressures. We cannot help thinking this
but an indifferent piston. When it wears, there is nothing
to squeeze it to the barrel. It may indeed be taken out
and another ring or two of leather put in, or the flanches
may be more strongly screwed together; but all this may
be done with any kind of piston, and this has therefore no
peculiar merit. . .
The following will, we presume, appear vastly preferable.
A BCD (fig. 24*) is the solid wood
srr||
en or metal block of the piston ;
EF is a metal plate, which is
turned hollow or dish-like below,
so as to receive within it the so¬
lid block. The piston-rod goes
through the w’hole, and has a
shoulder above the plate EF, and
a nut H below. Four screw-
bolts, such as i k, l m, also go
through the whole, have their
heads k, m sunk into the block,
and nuts above at ?', 1. The pack- ojjr
ing, or stuffing as it is termed by ®®L,
the workmen, is represented at
NO. This is made as solid as c
possible, and generally consists of
Fig. 24.
recom¬
mended a«|
preferable
rfh
jrbl
_J3
x
pUsMUItj ctnu genet /» *1 M ^ I
soft hempen twine well soaked in a mixture of on, tallow, ami
PUMP.
Pump.
Difficul-
rosm. The plate EF is gently screwed down, and the whole
is then put into the barrel, fitting it as tight as may be
thought proper. When it wears loose, it may be tightened
at any time by screwing down the nuts i, l, which cause the
edges ot the dish to squeeze out the packing, and compress
it against the barrel to any degree.
■ „nn . ri.he ^rea^st dlfficulty in the construction of a piston is
structing11* u ^ a Sufficient PassaSe through it for the water, and yet
pistons.g al’°W a^rm fuPPort for the valve, and fixture for the piston-
rod. We shall see presently that it occasions a consider¬
able expense of the moving power to force a piston with a
narrow perforation through the water lodged in the work¬
ing barrel. When we are raising water to a small height,
such as ten or twenty feet, the power so expended amounts
to a fourth part of the whole, if die water-way in the piston
is less than one half of the section of the barrel, and the
velocity of the piston two feet per second, which is very
moderate. 1 here can be no doubt, therefore, that metal
pistons are preferable, because their greater strength allows
much wider apertures.
The following piston, described and recommended by
Belidor, seems as perfect in these respects as the nature of
things will allow. We shall therefore describe it in the
scribed by author s own words as a model, which may be adopted with
Belidor. ’ confidence in the greatest works.
“ The body of the piston is a truncated metal cone (fig.
25), having a small fillet at the greater end. Fig. 26 shows
the profile,, and fig. 27 the plan of its upper base, where
appears a cross-bar ED, pierced with an oblong mortise E
To bind all together,
Fig. 30.
These con¬
siderably
removed in
one de-
Fig. 26.
Fig. 31.
ingenious
and useful
piston de¬
scribed.
Fig. 29.
for receiving the tail of the piston-rod. A band of thick
and uniform leather A A (figs. 26 and 28) is put round this
cone, and secured by a brass hoop BB firmly driven on its
smaller end, where it is previously made thinner to give
room for the hocp.
“ This piston is covered with a leather valve fortified
with metal plates GG (fig. 29). These plates are wfider
than the hole of the piston, so as to
rest on its rim. There are similar
plates below the leather, of a small¬
er size, that they may go into the
hollow of the piston; and the lea¬
ther is firmly held between the me¬
tal plates by screws H, H, which
go through all. This is represent¬
ed by the dotted circle IK. Thus
the pressure of the incumbent co¬
lumn of wrater is supported by the
plates GG, whose circular edges
rest on the brim of the water-way, and their straight edges
rest on the cross bar ED of figs. 26 and 27. This valve is
laid on the top of the conical box, in such a manner that its
VOL. XVIII.
middle FF rests on the cross bar
the end of the piston-rod is
formed like a cross, and the
arms MN (fig. 30) are made
to rest on the diameter FF of
the valve, the tail EP going
through the hole E in the
middle of the leather, and
through the mortise E of the
cross bar of the box, and also
through another bar Q.R (figs.
28 and 30) which is notched
into the lower brim of the box.
A key V is then driven into
the hole T in the piston-rod,
and this wedges all fast. 1 he bar QR is made strong; and
its extremities project a little, so as to support the brass hoop
LB which binds the leather band to the piston-box. The
adjoining scale gives the dimensions of all the parts, as they
were executed for a steam-engine near Conde, where the
piston gave complete satisfaction.”
I his piston has every advantage of strength, tightness, Advan-
and large water-way. The form of the valve, which hastage(A
given it the name of the butterfly-valve, is extremely fa-
vourable to the passage of the water ; and as it has but half
the motion of a complete circular valve, less water goes
back while it is shutting.
I he following piston is also ingenious, and has a good Another
deal of merit. OPPO (fig. 31) is the
box of the piston, having a perfora¬
tion Q, covered above with a flat
valve K, which rests in a metal plate
that forms the top of the box.
ABCBA is a stirrup of iron to which
the box is fixed by screws a, a, a, a,
whose heads are sunk in the wood.
This stirrup is perforated at C, to
receive the end of the piston-rod,
and a nut H is screwed on below
to keep it fast. DEFEE is another
stirrup, whose lower part at ED
forms a hoop like the sole of a stir¬
rup, which embraces a small part of
the top of the wooden box. The
lower end of the piston-rod is screw- r
ed; and before it is put into the holes
of the two stirrups (through which
holes it slides freely) a broad nut
G is screwed on it. It is then put into the holes, and
the nut H firmly screwed up. The packing RR is then
wound about the piston as tight as possible, till it complete¬
ly fills the working barrel of the pump. When long use has
rendered it in any degree loose, it may be tightened again
by screwing down the nut G. This causes the ring EE to
compress the packing between it and the projecting shoulder
of the box at PP; and thus causes it to swell out, and ap¬
ply itself closely to the barrel.
We shall add only another form of a
perforated piston ; which being on a prin¬
ciple different from all the preceding, will
suggest many others, each of which will
have its peculiar advantages. OO in fig. 32
represents the box of this piston, fitted
to the working barrel in any of the preced¬
ing ways, as may be thought best. AB
is a cross bar of four arms, which is fixed
to the top of the box. CF is the piston-
rod going through a hole in the middle
of AB, and reaching a little way beyond
the bottom of the box. It has a shoulder D,
which prevents its going too far through.
Another
on a diffe¬
rent prin¬
ciple.
722
Pump.
PUMP.
Advan¬
tages of
this.
Valves.
Clack-
valves
On the lower end there is a thick metal plate, tn^ed com-
* cal on its upper side, so as to fit a conical seat 1 P m t te
bottom of the piston-box. . .
When the piston-rod is pushed down, the friction on the
barrel prevents the box from immediately yielding, d .e
rod therefore slips through the hole of the cross-bar AB.
The plate E, therefore, detaches itself from the box. When
the shoulder D presses on the bar AB, the box must yield,
and be pushed down the barrel, and the water gets up
through the perforation. When the piston-rod is urawn up
again, the box does not move till the plate E lodge in the
seat PP, and thus shuts the water-way; and then the pis¬
ton lifts the water which is above it, and acts as the piston
of a sucking pump. .
This is a very simple and effective construction, autl
makes a very tight valve. It has been much recommended
by engineers of the first reputation, and is frequently used ;
and from its simplicity, and the great solidity of which it
is capable, it seems very fit for great works. But it is evi¬
dent that the water-way is limited to less than one half of
the area of the working barrel. For if the perforation of
the piston be one half of the area, the diameter of the plate
or ball EF must be greater, and therefore less than half the
area will be left for the passage of the water by its sides.
go through the piston-box, and are fastened below with ^ Pump,
screws. These branches form the support for the four
clacks. We have seen a valve of this form in a pump of
six feet diameter, which discharged twenty hogsheads of
water at every stroke, and made twelve strokes in a minute,
raising the water above twenty-two feet.
There is another form of valve, called the button or tail Button
valves.
dO
Fig. 33.
9. Description of Valves.
The requisites of a valve are, that it shall be tight, of
sufficient strength to resist the great pressures to which it
is exposed, that it afford a sufficient pressure for the water,
and that it do not allow much to go back while it is shutting.
We have not much to add to what has been said already
on this subject. The valves which accompany the pump
of fig. 5 are called clack-valves, and are of all the most
obvious and common ; and the construction described on
that occasion is as perfect as any. We only add, that as the
leather is at last destroyed at the hinge by such incessant
motion, and it is troublesome, especially in deep mines,
and under water, to undo the joint of the pump in order to
put in a new valve, it is frequently annexed to a box like
that of a piston, made a little conical on the outside, so as
to fit a conical seat made for it in the pipe, as represented
in fig. 33; and it has an iron handle A like that
of a basket, by which it can be laid hold of
by means of a long grappling hook let down
from above. Thus it is drawn up ; and being
very gently tapered on the sides, it sticks very
fast in its place.
The only defect of this valve is, that by
opening very wide when pushed up by the
stream of water, it allows a good deal to go
back during its shutting again. In some great
machines which are worked by a slow turn¬
ing crank, the return of the piston is so very
slow that a sensible loss is incurred by this ;
but it is nothing like what Dr Desaguliers
says, one half of a cylinder whose height is equal to the
diameter of the valve. For in such machines, the last part
of the upward stroke is equally slow, and the velocity of the
water through the valve exceedingly small, so that the valve
is at this time almost shut.
Utility of The butterfly valve, represented in fig. 29, &c. is free
the butter-from most of these inconveniences, and seems the most
fly-valve, perfect of the clack-valves. Some engineers make their
great valves of a pyramidal form, consisting of four clacks,
whose hinges are in the circumference of the water-way,
and which meet with their points in the middle, and are
supported by four ribs which rise up from the sides, and
unite in the middle. This is an excellent form, affording
the most spacious water-way, and shutting very readily.
It seems to be the best possible for a piston. The rod of
the piston is branched out on four sides, and the branches
valve. It consists of a plate of metal
AB (fig. 34) turned conical, so as ex¬
actly to fit the conical cavity a 6 of its
box. A tail CD projects from the under
side, which passes through a cross-bar
EF in the bottom of the box, and has
a little knob at the end, to hinder the
valve from rising too high.
This valve, when nicely made, is un¬
exceptionable. It has great strength,
and is therefore proper for all severe
strains, and it may be made perfectly tight by grinding.
Accordingly it is used in all cases where this is of indispen¬
sable consequence. It is most durable, and the only kind
that will do for passages where steam or hot water is to go
through. Its only imperfection is a small water-way, which,
from what has been said, cannot exceed, or indeed equal,
one half of the area of the pipe.
If we endeavour to enlarge the water-way, by giving the
cone very little taper, the valve frequently sticks so fast
in the seat that no force can detach it. And this some¬
times happens during the working of the machine ; and the
jolts and blows given to the machine in taking it to pieces,
in order to discover what has been the reason that it has dis¬
charged no water, frequently detach the valve, and we find
it quite loose, and cannot tell what has deranged the pump.
When this is guarded against, and the diminution of the
water-way is not of very great consequence, this is the best
form of a valve.
Analogous to this is the simplest of all valves, represent- Avery sun
Defect in
them.
pie valve
described.
ed in fig. 35. It is nothing more than
a sphere of metal A, to which is fit¬
ted a seat with a small portion BC ot
a spherical cavity. Nothing can be
more effectual than this valve ; it al¬
ways falls into its proper place, and
in every position fits it exactly. Its
only imperfection is the great diminu¬
tion of the water-way. It the diameter
of the sphere does not considerably
exceed that of the hole, the touching
parts have very little taper, and it is very apt to stick fast.
It opposes much less resistance to the passage ot the water
than the flat under surface of the button-valve. N. B. It
would be an improvement of that valve to give it a taper
shape below like a boy’s top. The spherical valve must not
be made too light, otherwise it will be hurried up by the
water, and much may go back while it is returning to its
place. .. .
Belidor describes with great minuteness (vol. ii. p. 221, A valve
&c.) a valve which unites every requisite. But it is of such
nice and delicate construction, and its defects are so greatevery re.
when this exactness is not attained, or is impaired by use, qujsitt.
that we think it hazardous to introduce it into a machine
in a situation where an intelligent and accurate artist is not
at hand. For this reason we have omitted the description,
which cannot be given in few words, nor without many fi¬
gures ; and desire our curious readers to consult that au¬
thor, or peruse Dr Desagulier’s translation of this passage.
Its principle is precisely the same with the following rude
contrivance, with which we shall conclude the descriptive
part of this article.
Suppose ABCD (fig. 36) to be a square wooden trunk.
EF is a piece of oak board, exactly fitted to the trunk in
PUMP.
Pump.
nother
alve on
he same
■rinciple.
Descrip-
j on of an
! :casional
ump easi-
j r con-
i ructed.
an oblique position, and supported by an iron pin which
goes through it at I, one third of its length from its lower
extremity E. The two ends of this board are
bevelled, so as to apply exactly to the sides of Fig. 36,
the trunk. It is evident, that if a stream of
water come in the direction BA, its pressure on
the part IF of this board will be greater than
that upon EL It will therefore force it up
and rush through, making it stand almost pa¬
rallel to the sides of the trunk. To prevent
its rising so far, a pin must be put in its way.
When this current of water changes its direc¬
tion, the pressure on the upper side of the
board being again greatest on the portion IF,
it is forced back again to its former situa¬
tion ; and its two extremities rising on the op¬
posite sides of the trunk, the passage is com¬
pletely stopped. This board therefore per¬
forms the office of a valve ; and this valve is
the most perfect that can be, because it offers the freest
passage to the water, and it allows very little to get back
while it is shutting ; for the part IE brings up half as much
water as IF allows to go down. It may be made extremely
tight, by fixing two thin fillets H and G to the sides of the
trunk, and covering those parts of the board with leather
which applies to them ; and in this state it perfectly re¬
sembles Belidor’s fine valve.
And this construction of the valve suggests, by the way,
a form of an occasional pump, which may be quickly set up
by any common carpenter, and will be very effectual in
small heights. Let abode (fig. 36) be a square box made
to slide along this wooden trunk without shake, having two
of its sides projecting upwards, terminating like the gable-
ends of a house. A piece of wood e is mortised into these
two sides, and to this the piston-rod is fixed. This box
being furnished with a valve similar to the one below, will
perform the office of a piston. If this pump be immersed
so deep in the water that the piston shall also be under wa¬
ter, we scruple not to say that its performance will be equal
to any. The piston may be made abundantly tight by co¬
vering its outside neatly with soft leather. And as no pipe
can be bored with greater accuracy than a very ordinary work¬
man can make a square trunk, we presume that this pump
will not be very deficient even for a considerable suction.
10. Motion of Water in Pumps.
'he mo- We now proceed to the last part of the subject, namely, to
on ofwa- consider the motion of water in pumps, in reference to the
umn force which must be employed. What we have hitherto
said with respect to the force which must be applied to a
piston, x'elated only to the sustaining the water at a certain
height: but in actual service we must not only do this, but
we must discharge it at the place of delivery in a certain
quantity ; and this must require a force superadded to what
is necessary for its mere support at this height.
’he theory This is an extremely intricate and difficult subject, and
enominat-very imperfectly understood even by professed engineers.
i Hydro- Thg principles on which this knowledge must be founded
ynamics. are 0p a muc]1 more abstruse nature than the ordinary laws
of hydrostatics ; and all the genius of Newton was employ¬
ed in laying the foundation of this part of physical science.
It has been much cultivated in the course of this century
by the first mathematicians of Europe. Daniel and John
Bernoulli have written very elaborate treatises on the sub¬
ject, under the very apposite name of Hydrodynamics ; in
which, although they have added little or nothing to the
fundamental propositions established in some sort by NewT-
ton, and acquiesced in by them, yet they have greatly con¬
tributed to our progress in it by the methods which they
have pursued in making application of those fundamental
723
propositions to the most important cases. It must be ac- Pump.
knowledged, however, that both these propositions, and thev v '
extensions given them by these authors, are supported by
a train of argument that is by no means unexceptionable;
and that they proceed on assumptions or postulates which
are but nearly true in any case, and in many are inadmis¬
sible : and it remains to this hour a wonder or puzzle how
these propositions and their results correspond with the phe¬
nomena which we observe.
But fortunately this correspondence does obtain to a cer¬
tain extent. And it seems to be this correspondence chiefly
which has given these authors, with Newton at their head,
the confidence which they place in their respective prin¬
ciples and methods ; for there are considerable differences
among them in those respects, and each seems convinced
that the others are in a mistake. MM. d’Alembert and
Lagrange have greatly corrected the theories of their pre¬
decessors, and have proceeded on postulates which come
much nearer to the real state of the case- But their in¬
vestigations involve us in such an inextricable maze of ana¬
lytical investigation, that, even when we are again conduct¬
ed to the light of day by the clue which they have given
us, we can make no use of what we there discovered.
But this theory, imperfect as it is, is of great service. It
generalizes our observations and experiments, and enables
us to compose a practical doctrine from a heap of facts which
otherwise must have remained solitary and unconnected.
The fundamental proposition of this practical hydrody- Funda-
namics is, that water or any fluid contained in an open ves-mental pro-
sel of indefinite magnitude, and impelled by its weight only, Position-
will flow through a small orifice with the velocity which a
heavy body would acquire by falling from the horizontal
surface of the fluid. Thus, if the orifice is 16 feet under
the surface of the water, it will issue with the velocity of
32 feet in a second.
Its velocity corresponding to any other depth h of the
orifice under the surface, will be had by this easy propor¬
tion : As the square root of 16 is to the square root of
h, so is 32 feet to the velocity required: or, alternate!}’,
\<o\2>2-=. liw, and v = > = ~^\/ b, =8 yV< ;
that is, multiply the square root of the height in feet by 8,
and the product is the required velocity.
On the other hand, it frequently occurs that we want to
discover the depth under the surface which will produce a
V
known velocity v. Therefore, a/ h — and A = —; that
is, divide the square of the velocity by 64, and the quotient
is the depth wanted in feet.
This proposition is sufficient for all our purposes. For, Its utility,
since water is nearly a perfect fluid, and propagates all im¬
pressions undiminished, we can, in place of any pressure of
a piston or other cause, substitute a perpendicular column
of water whose weight is equal to this pressure, and will
therefore produce the same efflux. Thus, if the surface of
a piston is half a square foot, and it be pressed down with
the weight of 500 pounds, and we would wish to know wdth
what velocity it would cause the water to flow through a
small hole, we know that a column of water of this weight,
and of half a foot base, would be sixteen feet high. And
this proposition teaches us, that a vessel of this depth will
have a velocity of efflux equal to thirty- two feet in a second.
If therefore our pressing power be of such a kind that it
can continue to press forward the piston with the force of
500 pounds, the water will flow with this velocity, what¬
ever be the size of the hole. All that remains is, to deter¬
mine what change of actual pressure on the piston results
from the motion on the piston itself, and to change the ve¬
locity of efflux in the subduplicate ratio of the change of
actual pressure.
724
Pump.
PUMP.
But before we can apply this knowledge to the circum-
' stances which take place in the motion of water in pumps,
we must take notice of an important modification of the
fundamental proposition, which is but very obscurely point¬
ed out by any good theory, but is established on the most
regular and unexceptionable observation.
If the efflux is made through a hole in a thin plate, and
the velocity is computed as above, we shall discover the
quantity of water which issues in a second by observing,
that it is a prism or cylinder of the length indicated by
the velocity, and having its transverse section equal to that
of the orifice. Thus, in the example already given, sup¬
posing the hole to be a square inch, the solid contents of
this prism, or the quantity of water issuing in a second, is
I X 32 X T2 cubic inches, or 384 cubic inches. I his we
can easily measure by receiving it in a vessel of known di¬
mensions. 4 aking this method, we uniformly iind a defi¬
ciency of nearly thirty-eight parts in a hundred ; that is, if
we should obtain a hundred gallons in any number of se¬
conds, we shall in fact get only sixty-two. This is a most
regular fact, whether the velocities are great or small, and
whatever be the size and form of the orifice. The defi¬
ciency increases indeed in a very minute degree with the
velocities. If, for instance, the depth of the orifice be one
foot, the discharge is yhVlfo ’ ^ ^ ^^een ^eet’ ^ie (^s‘
charge is Th.X2_. _ . . , ,
This deficiency is not owing to a dumnution ot velocity ;
for the velocity may be easily and accurately measured by
the distance to which the jet will go if directed horizontally.
This is found to correspond very nearly with the proposi¬
tion, making a very small allowance for friction at the bor¬
der of the hole, and for the resistance of the air. Sir Isaac
Newton ascribed the deficiency with great justice to this,
that the lateral columns of water, surrounding the column
which is incumbent on the orifice, press towards the orifice,
and contribute to the expense equally with that column.
These lateral filaments, therefore, issue obliquely, crossing
the motion of the central stream, and produce a contraction
of the jet; and the whole stream does not acquire a parallel
motion and its ultimate velocity till it has got to some dis¬
tance from the orifice. Careful observation showed him
that this was really the case. But even his genius could
not enable him to ascertain the motion of the lateral fila¬
ments by theory, and he was obliged to measure everything
as he saw it. He found the diameter of the jet at the place
of the greatest contraction to be precisely such as accounted
for the deficiency. His explication has been unanimously
acquiesced in ; and experiments have been multiplied to
ascertain all those circumstances which our theory cannot
determine a priori. The most complete set of experiments
are those of Michelotti, made at Turin at the expense of
the prince of Piedmont. Here jets were made of one, two,
three, and four inches diameter; and the water received in¬
to cisterns most accurately formed of brick, and lined with
stucco. It is the result of these experiments which we
have taken for a measure of the deficiency.
We may therefore consider the water as flowing through
a hole of this contracted dimension, or substitute this for
the real orifice in all calculations. For it is evident, that if
a mouth-piece (so to call it) were made, the internal shape
of which precisely tallied with the form which the jet assumes,
and if this mouth-piece be applied to the orifice, the water
will flow out without any obstruction. The vessel may
therefore be considered as really having this mouth-piece.
Nay, from this we derive a very important observation,
that if, instead of allowing the water to flow through a hole
of an inch area made in a thin plate, we make it flow through
a hole in a thick plank, so formed that the external orifice
shall have an inch area, but be widened internally agreeably
to the shape which nature forms, both the velocity and
quantity will be that which the fundamental proposition de¬
termines. Michelotti measured with great care the form
of the great jets of three and four inches diameter, and
found that the bounding curve was an elongated trochoid.
He then made a mouth-piece of this form for his jet of one
inch, and another for his jet of two inches ; and he found
the discharges to be -/(/(fo and ; and he, with justice,
ascribed the trifling deficiency which still remained, partly
to friction and partly to his not having exactly suited his
mouth-piece to the natural form. We imagine that this
last circumstance was the sole cause : For, in the first place,
the water in his experiments, before getting at his jet-holes,
had to pass along a tube of eight inches diameter. Now a
jet of four inches bears too great a proportion to this pipe",
and its narrowness undoubtedly hindered the lateral co¬
lumns from contributing to the efflux in their due propor¬
tion, and therefore rendered the jet less convergent. And,
in the next place, there can be no doubt (and the observa¬
tions of Daniel Bernoulli confirm it), but that this conver-
gency begins within the vessel, and perhaps at a very con¬
siderable distance from the orifice. And we imagine, that
if accurate observations could be made on the motion of
the remote lateral particles within the vessel, and an inter¬
nal mouth-piece were shaped according to the curve which
is described by the remotest particle that we can observe,
the efflux of water would almost perfectly tally with the
theory. But indeed the coincidence is already sufficiently
near for giving us very valuable information. We learn
that the quantity of water which flows through a hole, in
consequence of its own weight, or by the action of any force,
may be increased one half by properly shaping the passage
to this hole ; for we see that it may be increased from sixty-
two to near ninety-nine.
But there is another modification of the efflux, which we
confess our total incapacity to explain. If the water issues
through a hole made in a plate whose thickness is about
twice the diameter of the hole, or, to express it better, it it
issues through a pipe whose length is about twice its dia¬
meter, the quantity discharged is nearly of what results
from the proposition. If the pipe be longer than this, the
quantity is diminished by friction, which increases as the
length of the pipe increases. If the pipe be shorter, the
water will not fill it, but detaches itself at the very entry of
the pipe, and flows with a contracted jet. When the pipe
is of this length, and the extremity is stopped with the finger,
so that it begins to flow with a full mouth, no subsequent
contraction is observed; but merely striking on the pipe
with a key or the knuckle is generally sufficient to detach
the water in an instant from the sides of the pipe, and re¬
duce the efflux to
This effect is most unaccountable. It certainly arises from
the mutual adhesion or attraction between the water and
the sides of the pipe ; but how this, acting at right angles
to the motion, should produce an increase from sixty-two to
eighty-two, nearly one third, we cannot explain. It shows,
however, the prodigious force of this attraction, which in
the space of two or three inches is able to communicate a
great velocity to a very great body of water. Indeed the
experiments on capillary tubes show that the mutual attrac¬
tion of the parts of water is some thousands of times greater
than their weight.
We have only further to add, that every increase of pipe
beyond two diameters is accompanied with a diminution ot
the discharge ; but in what ratio this is diminished it is very
difficidt to determine. We shall only observe at present,
that the diminution is very great. A pipe of two inches
diameter and thirty feet long has its discharge only ot
what it would be if only four inches long. If its length be
sixty feet, its discharge will be no more than -j3^- A pipe
of one inch diameter would have a discharge of and
_5_i_ in the same situation. Hence we may conclude that
the discharge of a four-inch pipe of thirty feet long will not
Pump.
P U M P.
725
Pump, exceed two thirds of what it would be if only eight inches
'—v ^ long.
Before we can proceed to apply this fundamental propo¬
sition to our purpose, we must anticipate a proposition of
continual use in the construction of ivater-works.
Let water be supposed stagnant in a vessel EFGH (fig.
37), and let it be allowed to flow out by a cylindrical pipe
HIKL, divided by
any number of par- 37
titions B, C, D, &c.
Whatever be the
areas B, C, D, of
these orifices, the ve¬
locity in the inter¬
mediate parts of the
pipe will be the same;
for as much passes
through any one ori¬
fice in a second as
passes through any other in the same time, or through any
section of the intervening pipe. Let this velocity in the
pipe be V, and let the area of the pipe be A. The velo-
VA VA VA
&c.
city in the orifices B, C, D, must be
Let g be the velocity acquired in a second by a heavy body.
Then, by the general proposition, the height of water in the
VA
vessel which will produce the velocity in the first ori¬
fice alone, is
V2 A2
After this passage the velocity is again
~9 B2*
reduced to V in the middle of the space between the first
and second orifices. In the second orifice this velocity is
VA
changed to This alone would have required a height
of water
C
V"- Ac
But the water is already moving with the
2g C2*
velocity V, which would have resulted from a height of
water in the vessel (which we shall, in the language of the
V2
art, call the head of water) equal to —. Therefore there
V2 A2 V2 V2
is only required a head of water ^ , or —
Therefore the whole height necessary for pro¬
X
A2
C2-
1.
ducing the efflux through both orifices, so as still to preserve
V2 A2 A2
the velocity V in the intervening pipe,is "9^ * gi + Q2 "
In like manner, the third orifice D would alone require a
1.
V2 A2
head of water -x- X ^
2g D2
1; and all the three would re-
V2 A2 A2
quire a head — X vus + ^ +
2g B2
A2
, —2. By this induction
C2 D
may easily be seen what head is necessary for producing the
efflux through any number of orifices.
Let the expense or quantity of water discharged in an
unit of time (suppose a second) be expressed by the symbol
Q. This is measured by the product of the velocity and by
VA
the area of the orifice, and is therefore = VA, or -g- X B,
or ^ X C, &c. and V2 = Therefore we may com¬
pute the head of water (which we shall express by H) in
reference to the quantity of water discharged, because this
is generally the interesting circumstance. In this view we Pump.
Q2 ^2 '
have H = x g5 (ji + Jp — 2 5 which shows that
the head of water necessary for producing the discharge in¬
creases in the proportion of the square of the quantity of
water which is discharged.
These things being premised, it is an easy matter to de- To deter-
termine the motion of water in a pump, and the quantity mine the
discharged, resulting from the action of any force on themotion of
piston, or the force which must be applied to the piston in u'ater in.
order to produce any required motion or quantity dis-p^p ng
charged. We have only to suppose that the force employ-1 '
ed is the pressure of a column of water of the diameter of
the working barrel; and this is over and above the force
which is necessary for merely supporting the water at the
height of the place of delivery. The motion of the water
w ill be the same in both cases.
Let us, first of all, consider a sucking pump. The mo¬
tion here depends on the pressure of the air, and will be
the same as if the pump were lying horizontally, and com¬
municated with a reservoir in which is a head of water suf¬
ficient to overcome all the obstmetions to the motion, and
produce a velocity of efflux such as we desire. And here
it must be noted that there is a limit. No velocity of the
piston can make the water rise in the suction-pipe with a
greater velocity than what would be produced by the pres¬
sure of a column of water thirty-three feet high; that isy
about forty-six feet per second.
Let the velocity of the piston be V, and the area of the
working barrel be A. Then, if the water fills the barrel
as fast as the piston is drawn up, the discharge during the
rise of the piston, or the number of cubic feet of water per
second, must be = V X A. This is always supposed, and
we have already ascertained the circumstances which insure
this to happen. If, therefore, the water arrived with per¬
fect freedom to the piston, the force necessary for giving it
this velocity, or for discharging the quantity V X A in a
second, would be equal to the weight of the pillar of w ater
V2
5’
wfflose height is -L-, and base A.
It does not appear at first sight that the force necessary
for producing this discharge has any thing to do with the
obstructions to the ascent of the water into the pump, be¬
cause this is produced by the pressure of the atmosphere;
and it is the action of this pressure wfflich is measured by
the head of water necessary for producing the internal mo¬
tion in the pump. But we must always recollect that the
piston, before bringing up any water, and supporting it at
a certain height, was pressed on both sides by the atmo¬
sphere. While the air supports the column below the pis¬
ton, all the pressure expended in this support is abstracted
from its pressure on the under part of the piston, while its
upper part still supports the whole pressure. The atmo¬
sphere continues to press on the under surface of the pis¬
ton, through the intermedium of the water in the suction-
pipe, with the difference of these two forces. Now, while
the piston is drawn up with the velocity V, more of the at¬
mospheric pressure must be expended in causing the wa¬
ter to follow the piston ; and it is only with the remainder
of its whole pressure that it continues to press on the un¬
der surface of the piston. Therefore, in order that the pis¬
ton may be raised with the velocity V, a force must be ap¬
plied to it, over and above the force necessary for merely
supporting the column of water, equal to that part of the
atmospheric pressure thus employed; that is, equal to the
weight of the head of water necessary for forcing the water
up through the suction-pipe, and producing the velocity V
in the working barrel.
Therefore let B be the area of the mouth of the suction-
726
Pump.
PUMP.
pipe, and C the area ot the fixed valve, and let the suction- c}iapn.ec[ t0 suction-pipe, with which the water
' pipe be of equal diameter with the working barrel, t he ° a
head necessary for producing the velocity V on the working
barrel is ^^ — X)- If ^ eXpreSS tbe density °f
water, that is, if d be the number of pounds in a cubic foot requires for this change a head of water equal to
arrives at the valve, where it is again changed to and
A2 V2
of water, then dA will express the weight of a column
V-
whose base is A, and height —, all being reckoned in feet.
Therefore the force which must be applied, when estimated
</AV2 /A2 A2 \
in pounds, will be p = \ B2 ^ C2 — /’
The first general observation to be made on what has
been said is, that the power which must be employed to
produce the necessary motion, in opposition to all the ob¬
stacles, is in the proportion of the square of the velocity
which we would produce, or the square of the quantity ot
water we would discharge.
We have hitherto proceeded on the supposition that
there is no contraction of the jet in passing through these
twro orifices. This we know’ would be very far from the
truth. We must therefore accommodate things to these
circumstances, by diminishing B and C in the ratio ol the
contraction, and calling the diminished areas b and c ; then
AdV2 /A2 A2 , \
we have/) = ~~2g~ \lf "c2 /’
What this diminution may be, depends on the form of
the parts. If the fixed valve and the entry into the pump
are simply holes in thin plates, then b — B, and c — yyjy
C. The entry is commonly widened or trumpet- shaped,
which diminishes greatly the contraction; but there are
other obstacles in the way, arising from the strainer usually
put round it to keep out filth. The valve may have its
contraction greatly diminished also by its box being made
bell-shaped internally; nay, even giving it a cylindrical
box, in the manner of fig. 33, is better than no box at all,
as in fig. 5 ; for such a cylindrical box will have the unac¬
countable effect of the short tube, and make b — B,
instead of r6^ B. Thus we see that circumstances seem¬
ingly very trifling may produce great effects in the per¬
formance of a pump. We should have observed that the
valve itself presents an obstacle which diminishes the mo¬
tion, and requires an increase of power ; and it would seem
that in this respect the clack or butterfly valve is prefer¬
able to the button valve.
Example. Suppose the velocity of the piston to be 2
feet or 24 inches per second, and that the two contracted
areas are each one fifth of the area of the pump, which
is not much less than what obtains in ordinary pumps
V2 /A2 A2
Wehave^t¥ + ?
inches, and the force which wre must add to what will
merely support the column is the w eight of a pillar of water
incumbent on the piston, and something more than three
feet high. This would be a sensible portion of the whole
force in raising water to small heights.
We have supposed the suction-pipe to be of the same
diameter with the working barrel; but it is usual to make
it of smaller diameter, generally equal to the water-way
of the fixed valve. This makes a considerable change in
the force necessary to be applied to the piston. Let a be
the area of the suction-pipe, the area of the entry being still
B, and the equivalent entry without contraction being still
AY
b; we have the velocity at the entrance = —r-, and the
A2V2 ’
producing head of water = After this the velocity
+ _ l)=f$t(25 + 25_l)=36-75
But the velocity retained in the suction-pipe is equivalent
A2V2
to the effect of a head of water -—-. Therefore the head
zy a*
necessary for producing such a current through the fixed
valve that the w’ater may follow the piston with the velo-
A2 V2 , A2 V2 A2 V2 V2 /A2 A2
cityV’u%7? + 2^ -W*’or_ +
_ -j’]i’iij is evidently less than before, because a is
a2 J
A2
less than A, and therefore is greater than unity, which
a*
was the last term of the former formula. There is some ad¬
vantage, therefore, derived from making the diameter of
the suction-pipe less than that of the working barrel; but
this is only because the passage of the fixed valve is small¬
er, and the inspection of the formula plainly points out that
the area of the suction-pipe should be equal to that of the
fixed valve. When it is larger, the water must be accele¬
rated in its passage through the valve ; which is an useless
expense of force, because this velocity is to be immediate¬
ly reduced to V in the working barrel. If the foregoing
example be computed with a equal to one fourth of A, we
shall find the head H equal to 29 inches instead of 37.
But this advantage of a smaller suction-pipe is in all cases
very moderate ; and the pump is always inferior to one ot
uniform dimensions throughout, having the orifice at the
fixed valve of the same area. And if these orifices are con¬
siderably diminished in any proportion, the head necessary
for overcoming the obstacles, so that the required velocity
V may still be produced in the working barrel, is greatly
increased. If we suppose the area a one ninth of A, w’hich
is frequently done in house-pumps, where the diameter of^
the suction-pipe does seldom exceed one third of that of
the working barrel; and suppose everything made in pro¬
portion to this, which is also usual, because the unskilled
pump-makers study a symmetry which satisfies the eye ; we
shall find that the pump taken as an example will require a
head of water equal to thirteen feet and upwards. Besides,
it must be observed that the friction of the suction-pipe itself
has not been taken into the account. I his alone is greater,
in most cases, than all the obstructions we have been speak¬
ing of; for if this pipe is three inches diameter, and that of
the working barrel is six, which is reckoned a liberal al¬
lowance for a suction-pipe, and if the fixed valve is twenty-
five feet above the surface of the pit-water, the friction of
this pipe will amount to one third of the whole propelling
force. .
Thus we have enabled the reader to asceitain the force
necessary for producing any required discharge of water
from a pump of known dimensions; and the converse ot
this determination gives us the discharge which will be pro
A2 A2
For, making
A2
duced by any given force.
(which is a known quantity, resulting from the dimensions
ll
M
Now H is that part of the natural power
which w e have at command which exceeds what is neces-
gai'y for merely supporting the column of water. Thus, if
V2 . 2g H
of the pump) = M, we have H = -^ M, and \ - — ,
andV = y^-1.
PUMP.
Pump, we have a pump whose piston has an area of one fourth of
v-**' a square foot, its diameter being six and three-fourth inches;
and we have to raise the water thirty-two feet, and can ap-
ply a power of five hundred and twenty-five pounds to the
piston; we wish to know at what rate the piston will be
moved, and the quantity of water discharged. Merely to
support the column of water of this height and diameter,
requires five hundred pounds. Therefore the remaining
power, which is to produce the motion, is twenty-five pounds.
This is the weight of a column one foot four inches high,
and H — 1333 feet. Let us suppose the diameter of the
suction-pipe one half of that of the working barrel, so that
— = 4. Me may suppose it executed in the best manner,
having its lower extremity trumpet-shaped, formed by the
revolution of the proper trochoid. The contraction at the
entry may therefore be considered as nothing, and y ^ 4,
A2
and -rs= 16.
M^e may also suppose the orifice of the fixed
ax
valve equal to the area of the suction-pipe, so that — is
also — 16 ; and there is no contraction here, and therefore
A2
+
A2
is also 16 ; and, lastly, —- is also 16.
cr
A2 A2
Therefore ~
b~
or M, = 16 + 16 — 16, = 16. Mre have also
o c \ xr xt 1*9 H /64 X 1333
*9 - 64. Now N = */ = V —ig , = 2309
feet, and the piston will move with the velocity of two feet
four inches nearly. Its velocity will be less than this, on
account both of the friction of the piston and the friction of
the water in the suction-pipe. These two circumstances
will probably reduce it to one foot eight inches; and it can
hardly be less than this. -
We have taken no notice of the friction of the water in
the working barrel, or in the space above the piston; be¬
cause it is in all cases quite insignificant. The longest pipes
employed in our deep mines do not require more than a
few inches of head to overcome it.
But there is another circumstance which must not be
omitted. This is the resistance given to the piston in its
descent. The pistons of an engine for drawing water from
deep mines must descend again by their own weight in or¬
der to repeat their stroke. This must require a preponder¬
ance on that end of the working beam to which they are
attached, and this must be overcome by the moving power
during the effective stroke. It makes, therefore, part of the
whole work to be done, and must be added to the weight
of the column of water which must be raised.
This is very easily ascertained. Let the velocity of the
piston in its descent be V, the area of the pump-barrel A,
and the area of the piston-valve a. It is evident, that while
the piston descends with the velocity V, the water which
is displaced by the piston in a second is (A—d) V. This
must pass through the hole of the piston, in order to occu¬
py the space above, which is left by the piston. If there
were no contraction the water would go through with the
a a
velocity V; but as there will always be some con-
a
traction, let the diminished area of the hole (to be disco¬
vered by experiment) be b ; the velocity therefore will be
VA —a
' ~! '
V2/A
This requires for its production a head of water
of which is not A, but A—a. Calling the density of water
d, we have for the weight of this column, and the force p in
A—V2 dV2(A—a)3
V x V -
d X A
— a + (-
This,
b J " 2f/’ ~ 2ffb*
see again, is proportional to the square of the velocity of
the piston in its descent, and has no relation to the height
to which the water is raised.
If the piston has a button-valve, its surface is at least
equal to a; and therefore the pressure is exerted on the
water by the whole surface of the piston. In this case we
dV2A3
shall have p — — ^ , considerably greater than before.
M e cannot ascertain this value with great precision, because
it is extremely difficult, if possible, to determine the resist¬
ance in so complicated a case. But the formula is exact
if b can be given exactly; and we know within very mode¬
rate limits what it may amount to. In a pump of the very
best construction, with a button-valve, b cannot exceed one
A3
half of A ; and therefore -nr cannot be less than 8. In this
»-
V2 A3 u V2
case, ——nr "'ill be —.
2g b~ 8
In a good steam-engine pump, V
V2
is about three feet per second, and — is about I ^ feet,
o
which is but a small matter.
We have hitherto been considering the sucking pump Motion of
alone; but the forcing pump is of more importance, and water in
apparently more difficult of investigation. Here we have tothe *ort3!,S
overcome the obstructions in long pipes, with many bends, pum!)‘
contractions, and other obstructions. But the considera¬
tion of what relates merely to the pump is abundantly sim¬
ple. In most cases we have only to force the water into an
air-vessel, in opposition to the elasticity of the air com¬
pressed in it, and to send it thither with a certain velocity,
regulated by the quantity of water discharged in a given
time. The elasticity of the air in the air-vessel propels it
along the main. We are not now speaking of the force ne¬
cessary for counterbalancing this pressure of the air in the
air-vessel, which is equivalent to all the subsequent obstruc¬
tions, but only of the force necessary for propelling the wa¬
ter out of the pump with the proper velocity.
We have in a manner determined this already. The
piston is solid, and the water which it forces has to pass
through a valve in the lateral pipe, and then to move in the
direction of the main. The change of direction requires
an addition of force to what is necessary for merely impel¬
ling the water through the valve. Its quantity is not easily
determined by any theory, and it varies according to the
abruptness of the turn. It appears from experiment, that
when a pipe is bent to a right angle, without any curvature
or rounding, the velocity is diminished about -j^th. This
would augment the head of water ^th. This may be added
to the contraction of the valve hole. Let c be its natural
area, and, whatever is the contraction competent to its form,
increase it TLth, and call the contracted area c. Then this
V2A2 .
will require a head of water = — ^ ^ . 1 his must be added to
V2
the head —, necessary for merely giving the velocity V to
*9
the water.
v-yA—n\2
Ty\nr)'
This is the height of acolumn of water the base
V2/A2 \
Therefore the whole is 1 J i ant* tJie
„ . d A\TZ/A2 .\
power p necessary lor this purpose is —* J-
It cannot escape the observation of the reader, that in
all these formulae, expressing the height of the column of
water which would produce the velocity V in the working
barrel of the pump, the quantity which multiplies the con-
PUN
728
PUN
Pun.
stant factor ^ ^^-depends on the contracted passages which
Punch.
2 9
are in different parts of the pump, and increases in the dup¬
licate proportion of the sum of those contractions. It is
therefore of the utmost consequence to avoid all such, and
to make the main which leads from the forcing pump equal
to the working barrel. If it be only of half the diameter,
it has but one fourth of the area, the velocity in the main
is four times greater than that of the piston, and the force
necessary for discharging the same quantity of water is six¬
teen times greater.
Use of ex- It is not, however, possible to avoid these contractions
periments. altogether, without making the main pipe wider than the
ban-el. For if only so wide, with an entry of the same size,
the valve makes a considerable obstruction. Unskilful en¬
gineers endeavour to obviate this by making an enlarge¬
ment in that part of the main which contains the valve.
This is seen in fig. 14, at the valve L. If this be not done
with great judgment, it will increase the obstructions, roi
if this enlargement is full of water, the water must move in
the direction of its axis with a diminished velocity ; and
when it comes into the main, it must again be accelerated.
In short, any abrupt enlargement which is to be afterwards
contracted does as much harm as a contraction, unless it
be so short that the water in the axis keeps its velocity till
it reaches the contraction. Nothing would do more service
to an artist who is not well founded in the theory of hydro¬
dynamics, than to make a few simple and cheap expen-
ments with a vessel like that of fig. 37. Let the horizontal
pipe be about three inches diameter, and made in joints
which can be added to each other. Let the joints be about
six inches long, and the holes from one fourth to a whole
inch in diameter. Fill the vessel with water, and obsei ve
the time of its sinking three or four inches. Each joint
should have a small hole in its upper side to let out the air;
and when the water runs out by it, let it be stopped by a
peg. He will see that the larger the pipe is in proportion
to the orifices made in the partitions, the efflux is more di¬
minished. We believe that no person would suspect this
who has not considered the subject minutely.
All angular enlargements, all boxes into which the pipes
from different working barrels unite their water before it
goes into a main, must therefore be avoided by an artist
who would execute a good machine ; and the different con¬
tractions which are unavoidable at the seats of valves and
the perforations of pistons, &c. should be diminished by
giving the parts a trumpet-shape.
In the air-vessels represented in fig. 13, this is of very-
great consequence. The throat O, through which the water
is forced by the expansion of the confined air, should always
be formed in this manner. For it is this which produces
the motion during the returning part of the stroke in the
pump constructed like fig. 13, No. 1, and during the whole
stroke in No. 2. Neglecting this seemingly trifling circum¬
stance will diminish the performance at least one fifth. I he
construction of No. 1 is the best, for it is hardly possible
to make the passage of the other so free from the effects of
contraction. The motion of the water during the return¬
ing stroke is very much contorted.
There is one circumstance that we have not taken any
notice of, viz. the gradual acceleration of the motion of wa- ^
ter in pumps. When a force is applied to the piston, it does
... 1 r~  _ i t . . . i .. motion of
not in an instant communicate all the velocity which it ac- water in
quires. It acts as gravity acts on heavy bodies ; and if the pumps,
resistances remained the same, it would produce, like gra¬
vity, an uniformly accelerated motion. But we have seen
that the resistances, which are always measured by the force
that just overcomes them, increase as the square of the
velocity increases. They therefore quickly balance the ac¬
tion of the moving power, and the motion becomes uniform
in a time so short that we commit no error of any conse¬
quence by supposing it uniform from the beginning. It
would have prodigiously embarrassed our investigations to
introduce this circumstance; and it is a matter of mere
speculative curiosity ; for most of our moving powers are
unequal in their exertions, and these exertions are regu¬
lated by other laws. The pressure on a piston moved
by a crank is as variable as its velocity, and in most cases
is nearly in the inverse proportion of its velocity, as any
mechanician will readily discover. The only case in which
we could consider this matter with any degree of compre¬
hensibility is that of a steam-engine, or of a piston which
forces by means of a weight lying on it. In both, the ve¬
locity becomes uniform in a very small fraction of a second.
We have been very minute on this subject. F or although Deficiency
it is the only view of a pump which is of any importance, itof eleraen-
is hardly ever understood even by professed engineers ; and tary books
this is not peculiar to hydraulics, but is seen in all the™*™
branches of practical mechanics. The elementary know--
ledge to be met with in such books as are generally per¬
used by them, goes no farther than to state tne forces
which are in equilibrio by the intervention of a machine, or
the proportion of the parts of a machine which will set two
known forces in equilibrio. But when this equilibrium is
destroyed by the superiority of one of the forces, the ma¬
chine must move; and the only interesting question is,
what will be the motion ? Till this is answered with some
precision, we have learned nothing of any importance. Few
engineers are able to answer this question even in the sim¬
plest cases; and they cannot, from any confident science,
say what will be the performance of an untried machine.
They guess at it with a success proportioned to the mifiti-
plicity of their experience and their own sagacity. iet
this part of mechanics is as susceptible of accurate compu¬
tation as the cases of equilibrium. We therefore thought
it our duty to point out the manner of proceeding so cir¬
cumstantially that every step should be plain and easy, and
that conviction should always accompany our progress. Ibis
we think it has been in our power to do, by the very simple
method of substituting a column of water acting by its
weight in lieu of any natural power which we may chance
to employ. , , „ .. . . .
To such as wish to prosecute the study of this important
part of hydraulics in its most abstruse parts, we recommend
the perusal of the Dissertations of M. Pitot and M. Bossut,
in the Memoirs of the Academy of Paris ; the Dissertations
of the Chevalier de la Borda, 1766 and 1767 ; and theiz?/-
draulique of the Chevalier de Buat.
PUN, an expression where a word has at once different
meanings. The practice of punning is the refuge of those
who wish to pass for wits, without having a grain of it in
their composition. James I. of England delighted in pun¬
ning ; and the taste of the sovereign was studied by the
courtiers, nay, even by the clergy. Hence the sermons of
that age abound with this species of false wit. It continued
to be more or less fashionable until the reign of Queen Anne,
when Addison, Swift, Pope, and Arbuthnot, with the other
real wits of that age, united their efforts to banish punning
from polite composition. It is still admitted sparingly in
conversation, and only from those who cannot furnish any¬
thing better. , , . ,
PUNCH, an instrument of iron or steel, used in several
arts, for piercing or stamping holes in plates of metals,
and other purposes, being so contrived as not only to per¬
forate, but to cut out and take away the piece, ihe puncn
is a principal instrument of the metal-button makers, s oe-
makers, and other craftsmen.
Pimm is also a name for a sort of
.™nr>rl rlrink. much
PUN
Puncheon used in this country, and in many parts abroad, particularly
Punctua- ^ ^ma'ca^avKl severa! other parts of the West Indies,
tion. . INCHEON, Punchin, or Punchion, a little block or
piece of steel, on one end of which is some figure, letter or
mark, engraved either en creux or in relief, and impressions
of which are taken on metal or some other matter, by strik¬
ing it with a hammer on the end not engraved. There are
various kinds of these puncheons used in the mechanical
arts; such, for instance, are those of the goldsmiths, cutlers,
pewterers, and others.
The puncheon, in coining, is a piece of iron steeled,
on which the engraver has cut in relief the several figures
arms, effigy, inscription, or the like, that there are to be
in the matrices wherewith the species are to be marked
Minters distinguish three kinds of puncheons, according to
the three kinds of matrices to be made; that of the effigy, that
of the cross or arms, and that of the legend or inscription.
The first includes the whole portrait in relief; the second
is small, containing only a piece of the cross or arms, as a
fleur-de-lis, a harp, or a coronet, by the assemblage of all
which the entire matrice is formed; the puncheons of the
legend contain only one letter each, and serve equally for
the legend on the effigy side and the cross side. (See the
article Coinage.)
Puncheon is also the name of several iron tools, of various
sizes and figures, used by the engravers en creux on metals.
Seal-engravers particularly use a great number for the se¬
veral pieces of arms, and other devices to be engraven, and
many stamp the w’hole seal from a single puncheon.
Puncheon is also a common name for all the iron in¬
struments used by stone-cutters, sculptors, blacksmiths, and
others, for the cutting, inciding, or piercing their several
matters.
1 hose of sculptors and statuaries serve for the repairing
of statues when taken out of the moulds. The locksmiths
use the greatest variety of puncheons; some for piercing
hot, others for piercing cold ; some flat, others square ; some
round, others oval; each to pierce holes of its respective
figure in the several parts of locks.
Puncheon, in Carpentry, is a piece of timber placed
upright between two posts, the bearing of which is too
great, and serving, together with them, to sustain some large
weights.
Puncheon is also the name of a measure for liquids, con¬
taining about a hundred and thirty-three gallons.
PUNCTUATION, in Grammar, the art of pointing,
or of dividing a discourse into periods, by points expressing
the pauses to be made therein.
The points used are four ; the period, colon, semicolon,
and comma, which are too well known to require any par¬
ticular explanation. We shall only observe, in general,
therefore, that the comma is used to distinguish nouns from
nouns, verbs from verbs, and such other parts of a period
as are not necessarily joined together. The semicolon
serves to suspend and sustain the period when too long; the
colon to add some new or supernumerary reason or conse¬
quence to what is already said ; and the period to close up
the sense and construction, and release the voice.
It has been asserted, that punctuation is a modern art,
and that the ancients were entirely unacquainted with the
use of our commas and other points, and wrote not only
without any distinction of numbers and periods, but also
without distinction of words ; a custom which, Lipsius ob¬
serves, continued until the hundred and fourth Olympiad,
during which time the sense alone divided the discourse.
What places this beyond dispute is the Alexandrian ma¬
nuscript, in the British Museum. Whoever examines this
codex will find that the whole is written continuo ductu,
without distinction of words or sentences. How the an¬
cients read their works written in this manner, it is not easy
to conceive.
PUN
729
After the practice ceased of joining words together, notes Pum-tna
of distinction were placed at the end of every word. In all tion
the editions of the FaMi Capitolini theJpoiiS
Ihe same are to be seen on the Columna Rostrata. For
want of them, we find much confusion in the Chronicon
Marmoreum, and the covenant between the Smyrnseans
and Magnesians, which are both at Oxford. In Salmasius’s
edition of Dedicatio Status Rigillce Herodis, the same con-
fusion occurs, where we find AETPITE and Asup m.
Of these marks of distinction, the Walcote inscription
*ouna near licith may serve as a specimen;
IVLIUSv VITALISv FABltl
CESISv LEGv XXVv Vv V
STIPENDIORUMv
After every word here, except at the end of a line, we see
the mark v. There is an inscription in Montfaucon, which
has a capital letter laid in an horizontal position, by way of
interstitial mark, which makes one apt to think that this
way of pointing was sometimes according to the fancy of
the graver. 3
P. FERRARIVS HERMES
CAECINIAE H DIGNAE
CONIVGI H KARISSIMAE
XVMERIAE H
VOL. XVIII,
Here we observe after the words a T laid horizontally, but
not after each word, which proves this to be of a much later
age than the former.
As the improvement of stops appears not to have taken
place whilst manuscripts and monumental inscriptions were
the only known methods of conveying knowledge, it is con¬
jectured that it was introduced with the art of printing.
The fourteenth century, to which we are supposed to be in¬
debted for this invention, did not, however, bestow those ap¬
pendages which we call stops. Whoever will be at the pains
of examining the first printed books, will discover no stops
of any kind; but arbitrary marks here and there, according
to the humour of the printer. In the sixteenth century
we observe their first appearance. From the books of this
age, we find that they were not at all produced at the same
time; those we meet with in use being only the comma,
the parenthesis, the interrogation, and the full point. To
prove this, we need but look into Bale’s Acts of English
Worthies, in black letter, printed in 1550. In the dedica¬
tion of this book to Edward VI. we discover a colon, it is
true; but as this is the only one of the kind throughout the
work, it is plain that the colon was not established at that
time, or, if it was, that it had not yet come into common
use. Thirty years afterwards, in the sensible and judicious
performance of Sir Thomas Elyot, entitled The Governour,
imprinted in the year 1580, we see the colon as frequently
introduced as any other stop; but the semicolon and the
mark of admiration were still wanting, neither of these being
visible in Sir Thomas’s book. In Hackluyt’s Voyages, print¬
ed in 1599, we meet with the semicolon; but, as if the editors
did not fully apprehend the propriety of its general admis¬
sion, it is sparingly introduced. It has been said, indeed,
that the semicolon was brought into use at a much earlier
period ; but it appears that it was only for the purpose of an
abbreviation, as in (namq ;) (neq ;) for namque, neque, and
not in the sense in which it is now employed.
The semicolon, as well as all the ordinary points, is used
in a work entitled Imagines Deorum, printed at Leyden in
the year 1581, in Roman characters. We likewise meet
with them in the translation of a book written in French
by Philip de Mornay, lord of Plessis; in the Schoolmaster
of Roger Ascham, printed in 1570, with the exception of
the semicolon; and in the Trewnesse of the Christian Re¬
ligion, by Sir Philip Sidney, published in 1587, in which
we find the asterisk, brackets, the interrogation, the comma,
and the semicolon, all as we now use them, the colon and
period being square dots.
4> z
730
PUN
PUN
Punga-
noor.
is said to be me vvi , s ^ an(j rio^ are abun- year 68, Latin manuscripts had not been usually pointed,
are now in eommon use. l \ mmarians made it their business to supply this
tniSinH^ deficiency. Quintillian, who wrote his celebrated treatise ^
Venice in 14J», Dut none o r ^ g.nce on 0ratory about the year gg, speaks of commas, colons,
I he single pomt( • ) appea^ ^ comma ig first and periodys . but it must be observed that by these terms
the year ■ . . refined semicolon he means clauses, members, and complete sentences, and
seen about he year 1521 , and the ^rehned sem ^ the marks of punctuation> ^lius Donatus published
was brought into use about t^y ^ probabiY due to a treatise on Grammar in the fourth century, in which he
1 he inven ion edition of Pliny, 1553, explains the distinctio, the media distinctio, and the subdis-
[ iSnt’tS "ch^lTe^e not then* in the tiltio ; that is, the use of a single point in the various po-
practice of - DuS «te„ the pupil of Dona,us, in his
Aschara would probab y have emplojed u’e ““ Latin yCTsio’n of the Scriptures made use of certain dis-
S it at that - £e=;
P£ The note of admiration was the last stop invented, and were not made by the addition of any points or stops, but
^tjt^een^ ,0 the rest at Tperiod not far ^
lSThus wesee that the«e notes of distinction came into use comma or a colon. Ihese divisions were called «rWi or
rnanl^fstm extant
withstanding what has been said relative to the use of the 6m rudiment,
rrsfiedla” ^ ^“^“ilh of Si the formakon of the fitus, where a throb-
the method of making pauses in speaking and writing, if blnS
nretf-m' rhhe°S=lTpbSir^ tlmy compared his eternityU) one of
It appears from a passage in Aristotle ^punctuation was rnomemly gLe the name
SSS5S” tEHB
one single point. At the bottom of a letter, thus (A.), it msb'^A°0"r p^nVa Ln of Hindustan, province of
r.x^r^)^^ or *0 cV s
elusion of a sentence. . ^ i .. T 74, F T at 15 20 N. There
“ This mode was easily practised in Greek manuscripts PoonahuM^rattaST,Lo"^I^3mpE:Ltb; Northern Circars.
while they were written in capitals. But when the small is another place of the sa™ name m the Northern Urcars.
letters were adopted, that is, about the ninth century, this ^p'*. ' F'KE a town 0f Hindus-
distinction could not be observed ; a change was therefore PUNDERP , situated on the left bank of
made in the scheme of punctuation. Unciales Hteras ho- tan, in th7r0vlfe Tf E b°u" is a prosperous
diemo usu dicimus eas in vetustis codicthus, qua pnscam the river Beema . T, . y A!„ad and Peu Lved,
formam servant, ac solufee sunt, nec mutuo colligantur. and popu ous p ace. . houses almost all the
Hu jus modi literce unciales observantur in libris omnibus and adorned wi very aJ\ emnire having dwell-
udionum usque eaculum. Montf. Palaog. Secern, p. xii. principal members of the ^ohr“tU ™| ar
“ According to Cicero, the ancient Romans as well as the ings there, where they 8l«"d s0™ “f ^Jha,
Greeks made use of points. He menlions these under the when they are not engaged ‘nItho“™“^,,t''
appellation of librariorum note; and in several parts ot his or with some oreign powe . , , . .,ro(juc.
works he speaks of ‘ interpunctm clansuhr, in orationibus. well supplied not on y vv i g » articles of Enslish
“ Seneca, who died a. n. 65, expressly says that Latin tions of the country, bu wl^^a2J dedS
writers in his time had been used to punctuation. 1 Nos, manufacture. 1 here is a so S,n liir sim btv The
cum scribimus, interpungere consuevimus? Muretus and to Vishnu, which is regar e as o pe u ^ and near
Lipsius imagined that these words alluded to the insertion surrounding country is we woo e an rn:ip, co.uh.east
of a point after each word; but they certainly were mis- the town the soil is goo. ^ e’g Y *
taken, for they must necessarily refer to marks of punctua- from Poonah. Long. o. • • ja ‘ '* ’ j onj fnr a
tion in the division of sentences, because in the passage in PUNDUAH, or Purruah, a town o e^g » .
which these words occur, Seneca is speaking of one Q. short period the capital of that province, u
Haterius, who made no pauses in his orations. Long. 88. 9. E. Lat. 25. d. IN. c. rr. j „ • +v.o.
“ According to Suetonius, Valerius Probus procured PUNGANOOR, a fortified town o m us ’ , ,
copies of many old books, and employed himself in cor- province of Goleondah, ®ntJ,f1'®trict,0, aaf aU ’ M d
reeling, pointing, and illustrating them ; devoting his time the British by the mzam in 11JJ, and ( ep^' •
to this and no other part of grammar: Multa exemplaria It is a hundred and seventeen miles west by nor i rom
controcta emendare, ac distinguere et adnotare curavit; soli dras. Long. 78. 42. E. Lat. 13. 1J. IN.
731
Slow pro¬
gress of
jurispru¬
dence.
Theory of
Beccaria.
PUNISHMENT
In noticing the present state of the science of penal law,
the course we shall adopt, as best suited to the narrow space
within which our observations must be confined, is, in the
first place, to give an outline of the theory of punishment,
according to the opinions of some distinguished modern
writers, and afterwards to offer a sketch of the progress which
penal legislation has recently made, as well on the Conti¬
nent as in Great Britain.
Experience abundantly proves, that the establishment of
a tolerably good, much less of a perfect system of law, whe¬
ther civil or criminal, is a very slow and difficult operation.
Criminal law everywhere begins, where, amongst savages,
it continues and ends, with the pursuit and gratification of
the passion of revenge. Injuries, or presumed injuries, are
punished according to the will and power of the injured,
whose might, in truth, constitutes their right. The first step
in civilization is the social union for the protection of every
member of it from injury, by the exercise of the aggregate
power of the whole in his defence. But in some countries ages
have elapsed before, and in others it has never come to pass,
that any comprehensive view is taken of penal jurisprudence,
so as to enumerate and classify offences, and to annex to
them the punishments best adapted to prevent their recur¬
rence. Unless the public feeling is outraged by some glar¬
ing enormity, the mass of the people concern themselves
little with the relations existing between crimes and punish¬
ments ; and it is only by opening upon a nation the lights
of reason and philosophy, that it can be brought to appre¬
ciate the blessing of a wise and just criminal code. It is
the task of the philosopher to direct the opinion of the mul¬
titude in the direction of truth and justice ; nor is it pos¬
sible to estimate too highly the benefits which mankind are
deriving from the wisdom which has been bequeathed to
them by a Montesquieu, a Filangieri, a Beccaria, or a Ben-
tham.1
The Marquis of Beccaria’s well-known treatise, ZV Delit-
ti e Delle Pene, has acquired a great and deserved cele¬
brity.2 That remarkable man was the first to promulgate
to Europe the outlines of a system of jurisprudence founded
upon the principle of “ the greatest happiness of the great¬
est number.” Assuming the general utility to be the only
legitimate object of law, Beccana professes to inquire, What
is the origin of punishments, and what is the foundation of
the right to punish ? What are the practicable means, under
a good legislation, of seizing the criminal, and of discovering
and ascertaining the crime ? Is torturing the criminal just,
and does it lead to the end proposed by the laws ? Ought
not punishments to be proportioned to crimes, and how is
this proportion to be established ? What is the measure of
the gravity of crimes ? Is the punishment of death useful
and necessary for the security and good order of society ?
What punishments ought to be inflicted on different crimes?
Are the same punishments equally useful at all times ?
What influence have they upon manners ? What are the
most efficacious means of preventing crimes ? In offering
solutions of these problems, Beccaria proclaims, in the out¬
set, that political morality, of which punishment is a part,
ought to be founded upon the permanent sentiments of the
human heart, and that the right to punish is derived from
the social contract, wherein every individual has surrender¬
ed to the society so much of his liberty as the necessities of
the whole require him to sacrifice, and no more. Every ex¬
ercise of power, every punishment, is an abuse of justice,
unless it is necessary for the preservation of the common de¬
posit of public liberty. Three consequences follow: first,
that it belongs to law alone, as the condition of the social
contract, to award punishment to crime ; secondly, that it
is the province of the judge, not of the sovereign power, to
determine the fact of the violation of the law; thirdly, that
the inutility of a punishment is sufficient to constitute its in¬
justice, as contrary to the social contract. In regard to the
gravity of punishment, Beccaria held that it should be rela¬
tive to the actual circumstances of a nation, because it may
be requisite to awe more strongly the minds of a people re¬
cently elapsed from barbarism than those of a people whose
sensibilities have been softened by the influence of civiliza¬
tion. The punishment of death is declared not to be au¬
thorized by any right belonging to society, but to be rather
the act of the nation making war against a citizen whose de¬
struction is regarded as useful and necessary to the society’s
preservation. An extreme case may arise, in times of national
troubles, when the death of a citizen may be justifiable by
necessity, but never under the ordinary and tranquil reign
of the law. In other words, it is only when necessary, in
the strictest sense, that capital punishment is just. Punish¬
ment should be prompt, because the less time that inter¬
venes between it and the offence, the closer and stronger
will be the association of ideas, so that the punishment will
be regarded as the effect of the crime. It should also be
analogous to the crime ; should be public ; and, above all,
certain and inevitable, subject to the rare exercise of the
prerogative of mercy. A due proportion must exist between
crimes and their punishments ; and if mathematical calcu¬
lations could be rendered applicable to the infinite and ob¬
scure combinations of human actions, there should be a pro¬
gressive scale of punishments, corresponding with all crimes,
from the gravest down to the lightest. Beccaria divides
crimes into three classes: viz. those destructive to society ;
those which attack the citizen in life, wealth, or honour;
and those which are generally injurious to the public wel¬
fare. In his judgment, the way to prevent duels is to punish
the aggressor who gives the first provocation ; thefts are to
be corrected by fine, or compensative labour ; and suicide
is not to be regarded as a crime in the sight of men. Such
are some of the ideas promulgated by Beccaria, as flowing
from the principle, that public utility is the only solid basis
of human justice. We shall presently see, that this princi¬
ple has by no means obtained the general assent of jurists;
but the views of Beccaria are throughout consistent and lu¬
minous, and were extraordinarily in advance of the age in
which he lived. The following general theorem is given as
the conclusion of his essay: In order that a punishment
should not be a violence of one, or of several, against a ci¬
tizen, it should be public, prompt, necessary, the least pos¬
sible under given circumstances, proportioned to the offence,
and fixed by the law.
It is to our distinguished countryman, Bentham, that be- Works of
longs the honour of having been the first to travel over the Bentham,
1 The first two of these writers not having offered any thing like a regular theory of penal law, it will suffice to refer the reader to their
respective works, without more particular notice here. _ , . , r ,,
* The translation into French by Morellet, with Diderot’s notes, (Pans, 1797), is the preferable edition.
732
Punish¬
ment.
PUNISHMENT.
   . , . , C11PW tv,p intimate con- ted. He lavs down the following rules, which serve to ex¬
whole field of penal egis a i , mutual depend- plain the general proposition of Beccaria, that a proportion
nexion that exists codes^and Luldbe^blished between crimes and punishme,,^ viz:'
'ence and «l«mn of the cml a,^ lst> The evil lvhlch the person punished is to sustain
ha^ine previously Uikenacomprehensivesurvey of the whole, from the punishment, must exceedthe advantage derivable
For tile details we must refer to the works d:emsdve?_ of a natoe to furnish a concl„slve
which so comf; ete rts bjIn that portion of the proof of habitude, the punishment must be severe enough
fered is XyfjLZfcviteetPencde, entitled, Princrpes to exceed not only the advantage of the particular offence,
in the later and more comprehensive but also of all similar offences which may be supposed to
treatise ^entitled * Theorie desPeines et des Recompenses, will have been committed with impunity by the same oftender.
treatise, entitled, ineone i t nrnal co(ie laid down 3d, The punishment ought to exceed the advantage of
wfeksdentlfk precision! definitions, and classifications > Like the crime to the extent of making up that which *e punish-
Beccaria, Bentham recognized the general utility as the sole
Punish¬
ment.
obiect of legislation. A crime or offence, therefore, under
his theorv, is an act which ought to be prohibited by reason
of some evil to which it gives rise, or tends to give rise.
Crimes are then divided into four classes, viz .
1st, Private offences.
2d, Self-regarding offences.
3d, Semi-public offences.
4th, Public offences.
And under these four general heads, and the combination
of them, all offences may be classed and arranged. I liese
heads are again subdivided, thus :
Private offences are, either against the person, against
property, against the reputation, or against the condition in
^Self-regarding offences may be similarly subdivided, and
are enumerated rather to remind the legislator that they are
out of his sphere. .
Semi-public offences consist in the violation of the laws
designed to prevent physical calamities to the inhabitants
of a given district, or malicious injuries to particular classes
of persons. . .
Public offences are of nine kinds, viz: against the exter¬
nal security of the state, against justice and police, against
the national forces, against the public revenue, against the
population and the national wealth, against the sovereign
power, and against religion.
The remedies applicable to these offences, and the means,
direct and indirect, of preventing their commission, form
the subject of the Principes du Code Penal.
The subsequent work (Theorie des Peines, fyc.) sets out
by thus defining legal punishment: “ According to the pi in-
ciple of utility, legal punishments are evils inflicted, with ju¬
dicial forms, on individuals convicted of some hurtful act,
forbidden by the law, and in order to prevent similar acts.’
The same division as that of private offences is then made
applicable to punishments, inasmuch as an individual can
only be punished by affecting either his person, his pro¬
perty, his reputation, or his condition. Personal or corpo¬
ral punishments are then subdivided into,
1st, Punishments simply afflictive.
2d,  afflictive by complication.
3d,  restrictive.
4th, active or laborious.
5th, capital.
Those affecting property, reputation, or condition, alike
deprive the individual of some advantage which he before
enjoyed, and are either privations, losses, or forfeitures.
Thus are punishments reduced to two classes; viz. 1st, cor¬
poral, and 2d, privative punishments.
According to Bentham, the end of punishment is two¬
fold ; to prevent the repetition of similar offences, and to re¬
pair, as much as possible, the evil of the offence commit¬
ment wants in point of certainty and of proximity.
4th, If two or more crimes concur, the most hurtful ought
to be subjected to a more severe punishment, in order that
the offender may have a motive to stop at the least offence.
5th, The more hurtful a crime, the more may a heavy
punishment be hazarded for the chance of preventing it.
6th, The same punishment ought not to be inflicted for
the same crime on all offenders without exception. Regard
must be had to the circumstances which influence sensibility.
These rules will better serve as a guide to the measure
of punishment, than any attempt at the mathematical scale
suggested by Beccaria, which seems inapplicable to the in¬
finite varieties of the human mind. An ancient writer has
bequeathed us a plainer maxim on this point:
    ailsit
Regula peccatis, qua; pcenas irroget aequas,
Nec scutica dignum, horribili sectere tiagello.®
The qualities enumerated by Bentham as desirable to
every mode of punishment, in order that it may answer its
proper ends, are these :—
1st, Divisibility; so that it may be susceptible of addi¬
tion or diminution, either in intensity or duration. Corpo¬
ral chastisement, hard labour, and imprisonment, are instan¬
ces of punishments alike possessing this quality.
2d, Certainty. A punishment is uncertain and unequal
in itself, when an offender may possibly undergo it, without
suffering any evil. Banishment, for example, may be goo
or evil according to various circumstances.
3d, Commensurability. If death were inflicted on three
offences of different degrees of guilt, the punishment would
not be commensurate, but would leave to the offender tne
choice of the crime which might be easiest of execution.
4th, Analogy. There should be some characteristic i e-
semblance between the crime and the punishment. Not ex¬
actly “ eye for eye, and tooth for tooth, but something to
strike the memory and imagination by association.
5th, Exemplarity, so that there be not only the reality,
but the appearance of penality ; otherw ise the effect on t le
public will be lost.
6th, Economy; viz. that the degree of severity be not
greater than the end requires, and also that the public
charge be not enhanced more than is necessary.
7th, Remissibility. There should be an opportunity tor
remission or revocation. Capital punishment is the strong¬
est instance of a deficiency of this quality.
8th, Suppression of the power of injury. It may be pos¬
sible, under extraordinary circumstances, that death is the
only available punishment possessing this quality.
9th, Tendency to moral amendment. If fear alone ope¬
rates, the criminal will not be reformed. Reformation is a
change in the character and moral habits. The associa¬
tion of prisoners is the grand obstacle in the way of impait-
ing this quality to imprisonment.  
1 We quote from M. Dumont’s translations. The first complete edition of Bentham’s works in English, is now in the course of publi-
cation, under the superintendence of his executor. . ^ a muium naccinnw
2 Dr. Johnson’s definition of punishment was, “ any infliction or pain m vengeance of a crime; that of Grotius, malum p
quod infligitur ob malum actionis.” The latter is obviously the better of the two.
3 Hurat iib. i. sat. 3.
PUNISHMENT.
certaitfkhiXofn'unishmfinK' ,Tli"S 'lua,lty belongs only individual is confined within the district of his ordinary re-
or side“e- - ****«>, -hen he is sent away from his ordi-
733
deprivation of employments, which may be conferred on more
worthy persons
away trom his ordi¬
nary residence, and confined within a certain district in the
11th, Simplicity in deserintinn ^ a ■ ^ jtate' Banishmen^ ^hen he is removed from and forbid-
as to requiren!, comment P 5 ‘0,1S'y deS,rable den t0 return t0.the A11 'h« are preferable to im-
12th, Popularity • that is fn say- tEaf • ^ u • c PnsorlmentinPointofeconomy;theyaredefectiveinequa-
LbrnenT S ’ i t, ! °f ^ of operation; and though divisible in time, are scarce
punishments, the legislature should carefully avoid such as
would shock established prejudices.
Ihe above catalogue will assist the judgment in deter¬
mining how far a given punishment is desirable ; but Ben-
tham adds a caution, that in this as in every inquiry, we
should begin by forming an abstract idea of the qualities
which an object ought to possess, in order to reason perti¬
nently about it, otherwise approbation or disapprobation is
merely a confused sentiment of sympathy or antipathy. It
should also be observed, in reference to the catalogue, that
regard is to be had not only to one quality in particular,
but to all taken together. No mode of punishment unites
them all, but, according to the nature of the offences, some
are more important than others. Thus, for graver crimes,
exemplarity and analogy are especially to be regarded ; for
lighter offences, economy and reformation; for crimes against
property, convertibility to profit, from whence compensa¬
tion may be derived for the party injured.
To illustrate the applicability of Bentham’s penal quali¬
ties, let us refer to one or two of the most familiar punish¬
ments. Imprisonment, for instance, is very efficacious for
suppressing the prisoner’s power of doing injury, whilst he
continues in custody. It may, or may not be made profit¬
able, according to the mode in which the prisoners are em¬
ployed ; but under the plan of the Panopticon, the profit de¬
rivable from the earnings is a leading feature of that estab¬
lishment. In respect of certainty, or equality, imprison¬
ment is evidently very defective, as the evil of it depends
so much upon the age, the health, the habits, and frame of
mind of the prisoner. It is divisible, both in time and se¬
verity; and is in some sort exemplary, since either the public
may be admitted, as proposed in the Panopticon plan, or the
sight of the building will strike the imagination with a de¬
gree of terror. In point of simplicity of description it is
perfect, since all understand what confinement means. In
respect of reformation, the effect of imprisonment must de¬
pend upon the system of discipline adopted. Bentham stig¬
matises the association of prisoners in general as pregnant
with evil, and as constituting a punishment evidently un¬
certain, unequal, unexemplary, unprofitable, productive of
a variety of suffering, of which no one who has not expe¬
rienced it, can form a tolerably just idea. The hurtful con¬
sequences of such association, which are vaguely expressed
by the word corruption, are thus defined by Bentham:
1st, The strengthening of the motives which excite to
the commission of crimes.
2d, The weakening of the considerations which tend to
the repression of crimes.
3d, The instruction acquired in the art of accomplishing
crimes.
Bentham s views of wrhat a prison should be are fully devel¬
oped in his Panopticon, wherein labour is made the main en¬
gine of reformation. We have treated this subject more fully
in another place, (see article Prisons); but although great
advances have been lately made in regard to it, the opinions
of Bentham are still full of instruction, and shouldby no means
be lost sight of in determining the nature and conditions of
imprisonment, the punishment par excellence of civilized
nations, and the most important of any in respect of the
numbers to whom it is applied.
There are three other descriptions of confinement, which
Bentham also discusses. Quasi-imprisonment, when the
ly so otherwise. Banishment has too little of example in
it, but, under some circumstances, may prove reformatory.
Quasi-imprisonment, by continuing the offender in old ha¬
bits, may be corrupting, but relegation, by removing him
from bad associations into a new sphere, holds out, in ge¬
neral, favourable prospects of his amendment.
The punishment of transportation, as enforced for many
years past in the Australian colonies by the British govern¬
ment, has scarcely one of the qualities above mentioned as
desirable. It fails especially in the great object o? exam¬
ple ; it neither deters others, nor corrects the offender
himself. Instead of suppressing the power of commission,
it is the fertile source of crimes. It does not supply the
means of compensation to the party injured ; it is not eco¬
nomical, but very costly to the state. Experience has fully
confirmed the sagacity of Bentham’s objections to this mode
of punishment, and of Archbishop Whately’s subsequent
denunciation of it, both as a penal measure and as a branch
of colonial policy. A valuable Report from the late Select
Committee on Transportation,3 has furnished unquestion¬
able proofs “ that the two main characteristics of transpor¬
tation as a punishment are, inefficiency in deterring from
crime, and remarkable efficiency, not in reforming, but in
still further corrupting those w ho undergo the punishment;
and that these qualities of inefficiency for good and effici¬
ency for evil, are inherent in the system, which is not,
therefore, susceptible of any satisfactory improvement.”
The committee have, therefore, recommended its abolition
as soon as practicable. (See article Transportation.)
The rules of Bentham serve as well for the examinatioh'
of capital, as of secondary punishments. Death has the ad¬
vantageous qualities of completely annihilating the power
of injury; of being analogous, as well as popular, in the
case of murder; and of being al ways exemplary. On the
other hand, it is not profitable, but costly, in depriving the
community of one of its members ; it is extremely unequal,
according to the sentiments and condition of the offender ;
it is irrevocable, and, except in the case of murder, unpo¬
pular. Balancing all these consideratioUS, the conclusion is
arrived at, that the prodigality of capital punishment has
been an error of legislators, and that there has been a want
of reflection in applying it to a class of unhappy and de-;
graded men, wffio attach but little value to life. If, for the
purpose of deterring, it should be preserved at all, it should
be for crimes which excite the public horror to the highest
degree, such as atrocious murders, and those by which se¬
veral lives are destroyed; in which cases the execution
should be accompanied by every mieanS of tragic effect.
The non-execution of the law is mentiohed as a collateral
effect of the abuse of capital punishment; and this has in¬
deed been the main argument of those, who, from Sir Sa¬
muel Romilly, down to the present day, have laboured for
the mitigation of the criminal law of England. It is cer¬
tain that excessive severity defeats its own object, in so far
as it induces the persons entrusted wuth the administration
of the laws, to substitute their own notions of right, from
time to time, for the will of the legislature.
Bentham’s nomenclature and classifications have been
objected to as too arbitrary for the state of the science; but
taking his theory of punishment as a part of his general
system of legislation, it cannot but be regarded as a master¬
piece of jurisprudence. It is only time to dismiss such a
Punish¬
ment.
i See Report of the Select Committee of the House of Commons on Transportation, ordered to be printed 3d August 1838.
PUNISHMENT.
731
Punish- guide, when the inquirer shall have formed for himself a
ment. better abstract idea of punishment than Bentham s sugges-
’ tions have furnished.
Theories of The writers on different branches of penal law, since the
other jurists commencement of the present century, have been so nu¬
merous, particularly on the Continent, that it would be vain
to attempt to recapitulate here the various theories of pun¬
ishment which have been offered. Ihe names of Feuer¬
bach, Mittermaier,1 and of a host of other learned men in
Germany, are an honour to jurisprudence, however little
practical result may have arisen from their labours. Seve¬
ral recent French writers are worthy of reference j especi¬
ally M. Charles Lucas, and the Due de Broglie, on the pun¬
ishment of death. Mr. E. G. Wakefield’s essay on the same
subject, and Mr. Montagu’s collection of opinions on capi¬
tal punishment, may be consulted with advantage. Arch¬
bishop Whately, in his well known Letters to Earl Grey on
Secondary Punishments, has laid down very clearly and
forcibly the principles by which the infliction of punish¬
ment ought to be regulated. “ There are,” says the Arch¬
bishop, “ three and only three objects with a view to which
punishments can be inflicted or threatened ; 1st, retribu¬
tion, or vengeance, or a desire to allot a proportionate suffer¬
ing to each degree of moral guilt, independent of any ul¬
terior consideration, and solely with a view to the past ill-
desert of the offender. 2dly, What may be called correc¬
tion, or the prevention of a repetition of offence by the same
individual, whether by his reformation or removal. 3dly,
The prevention of the offence generally by the terror of a
punishment denounced, whether that object be attained by
the example of a culprit suffering the penalty, or simply
by the mere threat and apprehension of it. To these ap¬
propriate objects may be added another incidental advan¬
tage, not belonging to punishment as such, but common to
them with other legislative enactments; the public benefit
in an economical point of view which may be conceivably
derived directly from a punishment, as when criminals are
usefully employed on any public work, so as to make, in
that way, some compensation to society for the injury done
to it. Such a compensation, however, we should remem¬
ber, must necessarily be so very inadequate, that this object
should always be made completely subordinate to the main
end, or ends, proposed in the denunciation of punishment.”
The archbishop then proceeds to shew that, regarding the
prevention of crime as the great object, the infliction of
just vengeance on the guilty is clearly out of man’s pro¬
vince, inasmuch as the degree of moral turpitude can never
be perfectly known but to the searcher of all hearts, and
that no man, nor number of men, can be authorised thus
to render evil for evil for its own sake, but on the contrary
such a procedure is expressly forbidden, both by morality
and the Christian religion. Of the other two objects of
punishment, the archbishop explains that the prevention of
a repetition of the offence by the same individual, is of less
importance than the prevention of crime generally by the
terror of example or threat, and after shewing that every
man punished is an instance, pro tanto, of the inefficacy of
the law, remarks, “ this absolute perfection, indeed, the
entire prevention of crime, is a point unattainable ; but it
is a point to which we may approach indefinitely ; it is the
point towards which our measures must be always tending,
and we must estimate their wisdom by the degrees of their
approach to it.” Passing over thus briefly Archbishop
Whately’s exposition of penal principles, we proceed to
notice a recent masterly work by a distinguished foreign
Theory of jurist on this subject.
Rossi. The work in question contains a complete theory of
penal law, founded upon ethical principles different from Punish,
those of Beccaria and Bentham. We refer to Rossi’s ment.
valuable treatise. (Traite de Droit Penal, par M. P. Ros-
si, Professeur du Droit Remain a 1’Academie de Geneve.)
M. Rossi examines at large the foundation of the right to
punish ; whether it depends on a moral principle, or a
material interest; whether it is to be traced to justice, or
merely to utility ? He rejects the notion of either in¬
dividual, or general interest, conferring any such right;
not admitting the ground of necessity, direct or indirect, or
the existence of the social contract, upon which Beccaria
relies. He holds that there exists a moral order in the
world, binding upon all free and intelligent beings who are
cognizant of it; that absolute justice is in perfect harmony
with this moral order; and that all human justice, though
not able to attain such perfection, ought to strive to ap¬
proach it. Upon this justice, then, the right of punishment
is founded ; and punishment is defined as “ the retribution
made, by a legitimate judge, with ponderation and measure,
of evil for evil.” Thus, penal justice only acts when some
duty is violated ; for law and right are, under this theory,
the same ; and the natural effects of justice are instruction,
intimidation, and amendment. A crime is defined as the
violation of a duty towards society or individuals, requira-
ble (exigible) in itself, and useful to the maintenance of
public order; of a duty whose accomplishment can only
be assured by the penal sanction, and whose infraction can
be appreciated by human justice: and an enumeration of
crimes and offences follows. In his third book, M. Rossi
treats of the nature and end, the measure and effects of
punishments, and then proceeds to give directions for the
choice of them, pointing out the characteristics which
should mark them, in order that the ends of human justice
may be attained. Social justice, to be legitimate, must re¬
spect the conditions of moral justice; must take into ac¬
count the imperfection of our means of knowledge and ac¬
tion ; and must satisfy the exigencies of the material order
in civil society. These rules will direct the choice of pun¬
ishments, which in their application must be proportionate
to the crime, and sufficient for the protection of the right.
In order, then, to conform to the principle of justice, the
legislator should choose such punishments as are,
(1st class) Personal,
Moral,
Divisible.
To be in relation with our imperfect means of knowledge
and action, he should choose such as are,
(2d class) Appreciable,
Reparable, or remissable.
To satisfy the exigencies of the material order, punishments
should be adapted to produce the effects which the legisla¬
tor has in view, and should therefore be,
(3d class) Instructive and satisfying,
Exemplary,
Reformatory,
Fortifying (rassurante.)
Trying different kinds of punishments by these conditions,
it will appear that the punishment of death is of the first
class, except that it is not divisible ; that it is appreciable,
because applicable to every one, but not remissible; that
it is instructive, because when applied to a small number
of crimes, it is a moral lesson to society ; that it is only
under particular circumstances that it is exemplary, or cal¬
culated to intimidate those disposed to commit crimes ; that
of course the dead cannot be reformed; and that it so far
fortifies or assures society, that it suppresses the individu¬
al’s power of injury. In the result, M. Rossi declares capi-
1 Feuerbach’s Manual of Penal Law has run through twelve editions, and the last edition, enriched with the notes of Mittermaier. is
especially recommended. (Lehrbuch des gemeinen in Deutschland giiltigen peinlichen Pcchts von Dr. Anselm Ritter von Feuerbach,
herausgegeben von Dr. C. J. A. Mittermaier. Giessen, 1836.)
Punish¬
ment.
PUNISHMENT.
SHES ukUnately wUh^he^judg^^ndeMhe^^id-
change. prepared men for so important a vice simply, or under the control, of those other judges or
AT T?nc«i vorrovrld i • i _ 3.SSGSS01 S* Next follows^ DOt clS Illis’llt ll3,V6 l)G6n 6XDGCtG(]
mom! , ° jL'8 d, “fp0™! punishment as of an im- an enumeration and definition of offences and of the mini
menl hest fi,lyAa, .mprisonment “ *e punish- ishments annexed to them, but a minute kccoun of 0^
C'v‘h.2ed s»“e'y- Ho states the most consisting of fortyone articles, in which torture “nay be
735
Punish¬
ment.
essential object to be, such a separation of the convicted, as
completely corresponds with the ends of penality, and moral
amendment. But he seems to intend rather a kind of clas¬
sification, than the entire separation of the prisoners from
each other. He is opposed to transportation, and in a less
degree to relegation and banishment, as being defective in
employed to extract a confession of guilt. Afterwards come
several articles respecting proof by witnesses; and then the
distribution of offences, not as such, but by the punishment
annexed to them.
In this code, the torture, as has been already mentioned,
is, m«st extensively applied. By article XLI. it is provid-
the exemplary and reformatory qualities. Local interdiction, ed, th* tt
restraining the offender from freauent.inp,n»rtirnlnr Hictrinfc in • • ^ ^ & 9
restraining the offender from frequenting particular districts,
may, he thinks, be used with more advantage. He shows
the immorality of infamous punishments, such as the pil¬
lory, and the impolicy and injustice of those which deprive
offenders of civil rights, or of the whole, or the greater por¬
tion of their property. Lastly, he cautions the reader not
to expect to find a punishment combining all desirable
qualities, much less one that unites them all in the same
degree,
In his fourth book, M. Rossi offers instructions as to the
formation of a penal code ; for the details of which the en¬
quirer is referred to this very systematic and philosophical
work. M. Rossi concurs with Beccaria and Bentham in
many important particulars ; and although the principle
upon which the right to punish rests may not have been
satisfactorily determined by any of these authorities, still
the short notice we have given of them will shew how far
Progress
of penal
legislation
on the
in order to produce confession, in the instance of a man ac¬
cused of incendiarism, whenever, in other respects, his con-’
duct shall be suspicious. It is upon similar slight grounds
throughout the code, that this most dreadful instrument is
brought into action. The code, although defective in the
arrangement of offences, contains some observations with
regard to the indications of guilt from accompanying cir¬
cumstances, that might not be found altogether useless at
the present day.
The Code Carolina appears in the nineteenth century a
barbarous piece of legislation, but was unquestionably a pro¬
gress in its time. It had for its object the introduction of
more regularity and measure in criminal proceedings and
sentences. Its establishment was not effected without mo¬
dification in some places, and even resistance in others.
The following is a curious instance of an attempt to pervert
its meaning. Article XI. declares, “ it is never to be lost
sight of, that prisons ought to be made and established for
they have advanced the science of penal jurisprudence. .uauc anu cM-aunsueu iur
The efforts made in penal legislation have, from a variety the safe custody of those detained, and not to be used as
of causes, been bolder on the Continent than in Britain, a dangerous punishment.” A French translation of the
on the ^ resu^ ^as assuredly not been always successful; but Carolina., for the use of the councils of war of the Swiss
Continent. ^ ^ such beginnings that the true course is pursued for troops, printed at Bienne in 1767, contains this commen-
the formation of a good penal code ; and no doubt can be tary : “ Although the law recommends humanity with re¬
entertained, that imperfect as these, efforts have been, the spect to the nature of the prison in general, we may say
condition of the people for whose use they were made, has that in cases of atrocious crimes, and where the vengeance
been greatly benefited by them. Of all of them it may of the public is absolutely interested, the hardest anddark-
be said that they are deficient in respect of humanity, and est dungeons ought to he used for the confinement of cri-
the establishing a just proportion between crimes and pun- minals, provided only that their lives are not risked.”1
ishments ; and moreover erroneous in the including cases This code is still the foundation of criminal law throughout
unfit, and excluding others fit for punishment, still leaving the greater part of Germany and Switzerland, subject to
a vast discretion to the judges ; but they have however, to many modifications which it has undergone in the course
the extent of the surface which they have covered, render- of modern legislation.
tne extent ot ttie surtace which they have coverea, renaer- 01 moueni legislation.
ed a knowledge of the penal law practicable, and given A criminal code was prepared for Corsica, under the di- Code of
great facility to its improvement by the recordation of its rection of Louis XV. (Code Corse, ou Recueil des Edits, Corsica,
provisions. We shall give from one or two of the codes of (e., publics dans I’Isle de Corse depuis sa soumission a.
v* r\ t»t Vij-vIVv**** n /-vnf UrVO f VlOlf TYl/ICt I'll mmi- Volmssance du Roi, Paris, 1778.) After enumerating the
most prominent species of offences, such as treason, mur¬
der, theft, and homicide, and giving a view very far short
of a complete one, of the field of criminal law, the framer
of this code, (title IX.) has this article : “ In respect of all
other crimes and offences which are not mentioned above,
we leave it to the prudence of the judges to condemn those
criminal law now before us, an outline of their most promi-
nent features.
1, ^a' The famous code collected under the auspices of the Em-
r° ma. peror Charles V., and known under the name of the “ Caro¬
lina,” and which, we are told in the preface, “ is properly
the collection and confirmation of the laws which have been,
noo in fVio trihnrmls in
from time immemorial, in use in the tribunals in Germany, wc ^ ^ ^ r*   J'—^ r'
is an elaborate work on penal jurisprudence; and in parti- who shall be guilty of them, to the punishment fitting for
cular, is extremely copious and minute on the subject of them, according to the exigence and circumstances of the
torture, which was at that time deemed a highly efficient case ; not however allowing them the power of punishing
and indispensable instrument of criminal procedure. with death, either natural or civil, except in the cases above
The code commences, very properly, in respect of ar- enumerated;’ leaving them, however, a considerable lati-
rangement, with the judicial establishment; but after all, tude of power m the cases so unprovided for; that is, in
leaves it indeterminate with respect to the manner in which the cases in which they were thus invested with despotic
it is to be com
cise
Tminate with respect to the manner in wtuen tne cases m wmen mey um& mv^ieu w.tu
to oe composed, and omits to give any exact and pre- authority; namely, that of punishing by hard labour inthe
definition of the relative power of each of the several galleys, either for a limited period, or for life.
-  . r . . .. f — re jn the above two instances, we have specimens ot two -tiavanaa
classes of individuals that enter into its formation. It ap- In the above two instances, we have spectme™ of two B-v.
pears clearly that there were to be certain established penal codes, formed at comparatively erfy per ods Next
judges, and that to them were to be added all the no- follow examples of others ot a more modern date. A code
bles! in the quality of judge, and assessors, not precisely for Havana was drawn up, by direction of the king, by M.
1 Rossi, Introduction, chap. ii.
736
PUNISHMENT.
Punish¬
ment-
Code
Napoleon.
Bexon, and published by him in a folio volume at Paris in
1807- It professes to contain a complete system of cnmi-
(nai jurisprudence, including punishments and police. M.
Bexon, however, has by no means pursued the clear and
natural course, of first enumerating what are to be deemed
offences, and then declaring the penal consequences of com¬
mitting such offences. He begins with a system of police,
under the title of Legislation de la Surete, and then pro¬
ceeds to state the several purposes to which this branch of
administration is applicable. Now the characteristic feature
of a system of police, is, that it is to serve for the preven¬
tion of offences ; so that we have, at the outset, the rules of
a system of administration employed for the prevention of
certain acts which remain to be stated. In the subdivisions
of the work, the dispositions are neither clear nor convenient.
Crimes, punishments, tribunals, and procedure, are mixed
together, instead of being kept separate and distinct, as they
ought to be. The penal code itself adopts the old princi¬
ple of division, and classes offences under the several heads
of crimes against the public ; crimes against persons ; and
crimes against things. But what is new in this work, is the
distribution of these several species of offences into three
distinct classes, according to their supposed delinquency,
and which are denominated, 1. Contraventions et Fantes.
2. Delits. 3. Crimes. This is obviously an unnatural and
inapposite system of division, as it supposes that each class
of offences is susceptible of only three stages of extenuation
or aggravation, while, in fact, the same act is capable of va¬
rying, and continually does vary, and that by extremely mi¬
nute steps, throughout all the gradations of guilt.
The present penal legislation of France is, without doubt,
far more rational and humane than that which existed be¬
fore the Revolution. Still the Code Napoleon, the offspring
of that imperial power which re-established confiscation, and
re-opened Bastilles, is, in many respects, unworthy of the
present state of French civilization. The penal branch of
the Code Napoleon was decreed the 12th of February 1810,
and promulgated the 22d of the same month. It is com¬
prised within 114 moderately-sized octavo pages. It begins
by declaring that a violation of the law, cognizable by the
police, is a contravention; that a violation of the law, which
is visited by a correctional punishment, is an offence; and
that a violation of the law, which is visited by an afflictive
and infamous punishment, is a crime. This division is quite
arbitrary, and displays too much disregard of the intrinsic
nature of human actions. Certainly it does not coincide
with M. Rossi’s theory of the concordance of penal law
with the moral order of things ; for actions are in many in¬
stances placed in the catalogue of crimes and offences (such
as the assembling together of twenty-one persons in one
place, art. 291,) which have nothing like immorality about
them. The several species of punishments employed are
then enumerated, and are, 1. Death. 2. Hard labour for
life. 3. Transportation. 4. Hard labour for limited pe¬
riods. 5. Seclusion. 6. The carcan, (analogous to the pil¬
lory). 7. Banishment. 8. Civil degradation. 9- Imprison¬
ment during a limited period in a house of correction. 10.
Suspension, temporary, of certain civil rights. 11. Making
satisfaction to the party injured. To these are added, in
the cases specified, the drawing a ball, to be attached to the
feet; imprinting on the right shoulder, by means of a red-
hot iron, certain letters; standing on the carcan, having
above the head affixed a writing in large and legible cha¬
racters, mentioning the name of the patient, his profession,
residence, punishment, and the occasion of it. Some of the
punishments are also attended with certain civil disabilities,
of which some are temporary, others perpetual. With re¬
gard to forfeiture, which figures to so great an extent in the
English penal code, it is here declared not to attach in any
case as the necessary consequence of conviction, but to have
place only when expressly pronounced to be a part of the
Punish.
ment.
punishment, and the instances in which it is used are com¬
paratively few ; and even then the forfeited property remains
liable to all just encumbrances, and to the rightful portions'
of the children, or other descendants.
Offences are divided into two classes, 1st, those affecting
the public ; and 2dly, those affecting individuals. Under
the first class, the principal offences comprised are, oftences
against the exterior and interior of the state, levying war,
counterfeiting the coin ; and malversation on the part of
public functionaries. Under the second head are includ¬
ed, offences affecting particular assignable persons, such as
murder, and other personal injuries, perjury, and offences
against property.
Under this code, the judges and officers of justice are
placed in a somewhat undignified light, by various pecuniary
fines of from 16 to 200 francs, for pronouncing judgment
notwithstanding an appeal, or other acts of misconduct.
The policy of thus setting a money price on infractions of
judicial duty is very questionable, although the judges should
clearly be amenable to punishment of some kind for the
slightest malversation of their functions.
Capital punishment is authorized by the Code Napoleon
in many cases where it is obviously not justifiable by neces¬
sity, such as, for counterfeiting the coin, for destroying the
national fortifications, &c. And the application of such de¬
grading punishments as branding and the carcan, to a pretty
wide class of offences, savours little of refinement. The es¬
tablishments for hard labour, called the bagnes, though late¬
ly improved, are carried on upon a brutal system of force,
which is disgraceful, as the penal instrument of a highly ci¬
vilized nation.
The present criminal code of Prussia consists of 1577 ar- Prussian
tides. With much that is wise and humane, it mixes some Re¬
enactments of quite revolting barbarity. It, in fact, con¬
fuses together a number of moral precepts, of administrative
regulations, of legal dogmas, and penal enactments. More
than twelve articles authorise the breaking the offender on
the wheel, making nice distinctions where the punishment
is to begin at the upper part of the body, and where at the
legs. Hanging, decapitation by the axe, flogging with rods,
and whips, areal! specified as modes of punishment, and in¬
cendiaries are, in certain cases, to be burned alive. 1 he de¬
finition of treason is fearfully vague. “ The voluntary act of
a subject, by which the state, or its chief, are attacked in an
immediate manner,” art. 91 5 &nd there is the most strik¬
ing immorality in the manner in which the wives of desert¬
ing soldiers are punished, if they do not betray their hus¬
bands, even in certain cases in which they may be declared
innocent by the law.
The penal code of Austria is, upon the whole, of a mild- Austrian
er character than that of Prussia, but its forms of procedure Re.
commit so much discretionary power to the administrators of
the law, as to leave the people little real security against
oppression. The 14th article authorizes solitary imprisonment
of so severe a kind, as almost to amount to a lingering death.
The punishment consists in “ shutting up the convict in
prison, without any communication, with as much light and
space as is requisite to keep the prisoner in health, who is
to have heavy irons constantly on his hands and feet, and
round his body an iron ring fixed by a chain, except during
labour ; his diet shall be wholly bread and water, and every
other day a warm mess, but never of meat; some bare
boards are to form his bed, and all conversation is forbidden
him.” Men are to be flogged with a staff, and women and
children with rods, for many offences. Forging paper-money
is punished with death ; blasphemy, or spreading false re¬
ligious doctrines, with imprisonment from six months to ten
years. We will only add one curious specimen of &. contra¬
vention, “ Whoever endeavours to persuade an Austrian sub¬
ject to establish himself in a foreign country, shall be punish¬
able with confinement from one month to six months.
Punisn-
ment.
PUNISHMENT.
fnrmhttriT1TVcT yarier ? every one of the States which
. m the United States of America, and consequently, tak-
pSwsjng the whole Union, there is a great inequality in the sys-
in America, tem of punishments, and more especially of capital pun4-
ments. I he disproportionate penalties inflicted indiffe¬
rent States for the same offence cannot but have an unfa¬
vourable tendency upon morals, in a country which, for all
purposes of intercourse and traffic, is essentially one, al¬
though possessing various local legislatures. Many of these
criminal laws will be found abstracted in Mr. Crawford’s
Report, and in the Second Report of the Criminal Law
Commissioners. The criminal code of Louisiana, drawn up
by Mr. Livingston, is deservedly celebrated, and is remark¬
able for not inflicting capital punishment upon any crime
whatsoever.
Having thus adverted to some specimens of criminal legis¬
lation abroad, we shall conclude with a notice of the pro¬
gress that has of late years been made in England in this
respect.
State of the Notwithstanding the examples that have been thus set
penal kw of us abroad, the British legislature has shewn little disposi-
ng an • tion to collect into one body of criminal jurisprudence the
various decisions and enactments which now constitute the
penal system of this country. Great authorities, both dead
and living, may indeed be quoted in support of a revision
of our whole penal system, among whom none are entitled
to more weight than Mr. Justice Blackstone, who in his
Commentaries expressed himself decidedly in favour of such
a revision, (b. iv. ch. 1.) Little or nothing, however, was
done towards the improvement of the criminal law, until
the late Sir Samuel Romilly, when he obtained a seat in
Parliament, brought in a series of bills, having for their ob¬
ject to mitigate, in certain cases, the severity of the penal
law, by substituting for the punishment of death transpor¬
tation for life, or for limited periods. He procured the re¬
peal of so much of the statute of 8th Elizabeth, as took away
the benefit of clergy from persons stealing privily from the
person, and also the repeal of capital punishment in cases
of stealing to the amount of 40s. on navigable rivers, and
of stealing from bleaching-grounds. He failed in his at¬
tempts to repeal the punishment of death in cases of steal¬
ing to the amount of 5s. privately in a shop, and to the value
of 40s. in a dwelling-house ; but as we shall presently see,
these objects have been subsequently effected. Sir Samuel
Romilly, and after him Sir James Mackintosh, had the merit
of contending against the erroneous principle of severe
punishment rarely inflicted, and advocating that of the uni¬
form infliction of milder punishments, duly proportioned to
the magnitude of offences; and it is to their exertions that
is attributable much of the attention which the legislature
has since bestowed upon the subject. We proceed to enu¬
merate some recent statutes which have gradually mitigated
the severity of our penal law, and otherwise improved the
administration of criminal justice.
Recent The act 7thGeo. IV. cap. 64, (1826), “for improving the
egislation. administration of criminal justice in England,” among other
provisions, enables bail to be taken in cases of felony, where
there is not a strong presumption of guilt.
The act 7th and 8th Geo. IV- cap. 27, (1827), repeals
upwards of 130 statutes, and parts of statutes, relative to
the benefit of clergy, and to larceny and other offences con¬
nected therewith, and to malicious injuries to property, and
to remedies against the hundred, thereby clearing the way
for the four acts next mentioned, (commonly called Sir
Robert Peel’s), viz.:
The act 7th and 8th Geo. IV., cap. 28, (1827,) which,
wholly abolishes the benefit of
737
sol!dating and amending the laws relative to larceny, and Punish-
other offences connected therewith,” which abolishes the dis- ment.
tinction between grand and petty larcenv, and declares that
larceny shall be punished with transportation, or imprison¬
ment with whipping. It then proceeds to inflict punishment
on various offences of this description, amongst which, for
robbery from the person, death ; for stealing from the per¬
son, transportation, or imprisonment with whipping; for bur-
glary, housebreaking, stealing in a dwelling-house to the
value of L.5, and cattle and sheep-stealing, death. It also
gives summary jurisdiction to justices of the peace over a
variety of petty depredations.
The act 7th and 8th Geo. IV., cap. 30, (1827,) “ for con¬
solidating and amending the laws relative to malicious inju¬
ries to property,” inflicts the punishment of death for arson ;
for setting fire to coal mines, or to ships ; and for riotously
demolishing buildings, or machinery ; also transportation, or
imprisonment with whipping, for the destruction of manu¬
factures, or machinery, or the destruction, or injury of sea-
banks, turnpikes, dams, cattle, stacks of corn,” &c/ It also
gives summary jurisdiction to justices, in cases of injuries to
trees, or fruit, and of various other petty trespasses.
The act 7th and 8th Geo. IV., cap. 31, (1827,) which
consolidates and amends the laws relative to remedies against
the hundred, for riotous destruction of property.
The act 9th Geo. IV., cap. 31, (1828,) repeals upwards
of fifty statutes relative to offences against the person ; en¬
acts the punishment of death for murder, malicious shooting,
cutting and maiming, administering poison, attempting to
drown, suffocate, &c. and for rape and sodomy; and trans¬
portation or imprisonment for various other offences of a
personal nature. It also gives summary jurisdiction to jus¬
tices of the peace over common assaults.
The act 11th Geo. IV., and 1st Will. IV., cap. 66, (1830,)
abolishes capital punishment in all cases of forgery, except
those particularly specified, viz., forgery of the royal seals,
or sign manual, of Exchequer bills, bank notes, wills, bills of
exchange, promissory notes, or money-orders, of transfers of
stock, or powers of attorney, and other forgeries connected
with the preceding. Forgeries of other descriptions are sub¬
jected to transportation or imprisonment.
un- ca
The act 2d Will. IV., cap. 34, (1832,) abolishes capital
punishment for all offences whatever relative to the coin, and
subjects them to transportation, or imprisonment.
The act 2d and 3d Will. IV., cap. 62, (18»]2,) substitutes
transportation for life for capital punishment, in cases of
stealing in a dwelling-house to the value of L.5, and of cattle
and sheep stealing ; so far altering the provisions of the lar¬
ceny act, 7th and 8th Geo. IV.
The act 2d and 3d Will. IV. cap. 123, substitutes trans¬
portation for life for capital punishment in all cases where
the latter is inflicted by the 11th Geo. IV., and 1st Will.
IV., except only the forgery of wills, and of powers of attor¬
ney for stock.
The act 3d and 4th Will. IV., cap. 44, (1833,) abolishes
capital punishment for dwelling-house robbery as inflicted
by the larceny act, and substitutes transportation or impri¬
sonment.
The act 4th Will. IV., cap. 26, (1834,) abolishes the prac¬
tice of dissecting, or hanging in chains, persons convicted
of murder.
The act 4th and 5th Will. IV., cap. 67, (1834,) abolishes
capital punishment in case of returning from transportation.
The act 5th and 6th Will. IV., cap. 33, (1835,) extends
the powers of taking bail in cases of felony, notwithstanding
confession, or presumption of guilt.
The act 5th and 6th Will. IV., cap. 81, (1835,) abolishes
tpital punishment for letter stealing and sacrilege, and sub-
among other provisions, wuuuy auunauco me
clergy, and declares that no person shall suffer death, i   . ; ; ° ° '
less for some felony previously excluded from benefit of stitutes transportation or imprisonment.
cl ^ 1 J The act 1st Victoria, cap. 23, (1837,) abolishes the pu-
The act 7th and 8th Geo. IV., cap. 29, (1827,) for “ con- nishment of the pillory in all cases whatsoever.
O A
VOL. XVIII.
738
PUNISHMENT.
Punish
mcnt.
The act 1st Victoria, cap. 84, (1837,) abolishes entirely
the punishment of death for forgery, as retained by the 2d
and 3d Will. IV., or any other existing laws, and substitutes
transportation or imprisonment.
The act 1st Victoria, cap. 85, (1837,) makes new provi¬
sions for the punishment of offences against the person. Ca¬
pital punishment is inflicted for administering poison, or
doing bodily injury with intent to murder. Other offences
with intent to commit murder, or for acts with intent to maim
or disfigure, or to procure abortion, are made punishable
with different degrees of transportation or imprisonment.
The act 1st Victoria, cap. 86, (1837,) limits capital pu¬
nishment for burglary, to cases where that offence is accom¬
panied by violence. In other cases, transportation or im-
F ThTaTt 1st Victoria, cap. 87, (1837,) alters the former
laws relative to robbery, and some other oftences. Ihe
punishment for robbery, attended with cutting or wounding,
is declared to be death, but in other cases, transportation
or imprisonment. Obtaining property, by accusation of un¬
natural crimes, stealing from the person, assaults with intent
to rob, obtaining property by menace, and plundering wrecks,
are subiected to transportation or imprisonment.
The act 1st Victoria, cap. 88, (1837,) amends the laws
relating to piracy, and subjects that offence to death, wheie
murder is attempted, or to transportation or imprisonment,
at the discretion of the court. , , ,
The act 1st Victoria, cap. 89, (1837,) amends the laws
relating to arson, punishing with death the offences of set-
ting fire to a dwelling-house, any person being therein, of
setting fire to ships with intent to murder, and of hanging
out false lights to shipping. For other offences under this
head, transportation or imprisonment.
The act 1st Victoria, cap. 90, (1837,) substitutes trans¬
portation, during specified terms of years, for transportation
for life, in a variety of cases particularized in the act.
Lastly, the act of 1st Victoria, cap. 9L (1837,) mitigates
the punishment of death still further, by substituting trans¬
portation or imprisonment for it, in the cases of riotous as¬
semblies, of seducing from allegiance, of certain offences
against the revenue laws, and others enumerated in the act.
A reference to the acts above cited, will shew the gradual
mitigation which has, within the last few years, been taking
place in the severity of the ancient criminal law of England.
Much has thus been effected in the way of the consolidation
and arrangement of different branches of law under their
proper heads, in particular statutes. Still, since nothing like
codification has yet been attempted, the definitions and clas¬
sifications of both crimes and punishments continue very
vague and uncertain. All that we can usefully record heie
onthe subject, is to state what crimes and punishments are
understood, in a general sense, to mean by English lawyers,
■n « A crime, says Blackstone, is the commission, or omission,
Of an act, In violation of a public law, either forbidding or
Punish¬
ment.
&c. commanding it. (Commentaries, vol. iv. ch. 5.)
A misdemeanour imports a crime which does not amount
to felony, but is the subject of indictment. (Commentaries,
vol. iv. ch. 5.) It is generally punishable with fine and im¬
prisonment.
A felony is such a crime as, independently of other pu¬
nishments, occasioned at common law a total forfeiture of
lands, or goods, or both. (Commentaries, vol. iv. ch. 55.)
A felony generally carries with it the idea of a capital crime.
But felonies are either punishable with death, or not. Fe-t
lonies are punishable with death, where the offence was '
excluded from benefit of clergy by the common law, or by
any statute, before the 7th and 8th Geo. IV., cap. 28, or
where, since that statute, they have been made capital; pro¬
vided that in neither case the capital punishment has been
taken away by any subsequent statute. In other cases, fe¬
lonies are punishable either in the particular manner de¬
scribed by the statute relating thereto, or otherwise by trans¬
portation, or imprisonment, with whipping, if a male, at the
discretion of the court.
Misprisions, and contempts, are a species of misdemeanour,
affecting the king, or his government, or courts of justice.
Misprision of felony, however, in its ordinary sense, is a
misdemeanour consisting in the knowledge or concealment
of a felony committed by another, and is punishable by fine
and imprisonment. (Burn’s Justice, title Felony?)
We should add, that on the 23d July, 1833, a Royal Com- Commis-
mission was issued for the purpose of digesting into one sta- sion of in-
tute all the statutes and enactments touching crimes, and quiry into
the trial and punishment thereof, and also of digesting into™"*1
another statute all the provisions of the common or unwrit¬
ten law touching the same, and for inquiring and reporting
how far it might be expedient to combine both those statutes
into one body of the criminal law, repealing all other statu¬
tory provisions, or how far it might be expedient to pass into
a law the first mentioned statute only, and generally for in¬
quiring and reporting as to the consolidation oi the other
branches of the existing statute law. The question of codi¬
fication is discussed in the first report of the commissioners
dated 24th June, 1834, which, after a very elaborate state¬
ment of the difficulties which the present uncertain state ot
the law presents to such an undertaking, expresses a confi¬
dent opinion that a digest of the statute with the common
law, into one criminal code, would tend greatly to the im¬
provement of the jurisprudence of the country. The second
report, dated 9th June, 1836, is devoted partly to the ques¬
tion of the defence of prisoners by counsel, (since autho¬
rized by the act 6th and 7th Will. IV., cap. 114,) and to
that of the infliction of capital punishment. The commis¬
sioners think that the punishment of death ought to be con¬
fined to the crime of high treason, and to offences which
consist in, or are aggravated by such acts of violence to the
person as directly endanger human life, a list ot which acts
they subjoin. The third report, dated 10th March 183i,
is specially devoted to the subject of juvenile offenders, and
expresses the opinion of the commissioners, that it would
not be advisable to make any distinction in the mode ot
trial between adult and juvenile oftenders, except by increas-
ino' the summary jurisdiction of magistrates in the manner
therein mentioned ; and that the extension of such summary
jurisdiction within certain limits, would be a safe and bene¬
ficial alteration of the law, and would tend to dimmish juve¬
nile crime. .
The reader is referred to these reports for very valuable
information and suggestions, in regard to the amendment
and consolidation of the penal law of England, and in par¬
ticular for a full explanation of the difficulties with which
those important objects have been, and continue to be, sur¬
rounded, and which, without some technical knowledge, it
is by no means easy to appreciate.
PUN
Punjab PUNJAB, or Five Waters, an extensive region of Hin-
Puno. . us,tai,'.’ PrinciPa% situated in the province of Lahore, but
, , j including Moultan. The province of Lahore is also fre¬
quently named the Punjab. This tract has no very defi¬
nite boundary. On the east the boundary is properly the
ridge of the Snowy Mountains, from which spring the five ri¬
vers by which it is watered; but, in its more restricted sense,
it means the country situated to the west of this hilly tract.
This territory is watered by five celebrated streams, that
tall into the Indus, namely, the Sutleje, the Beyah, the Ra-
vey, the Chinaub, the Jhylum or Belut. It is very exten¬
sive, and remarkably fertile, abounding in all the necessa¬
ries of life, besides wine, sugar, indigo, cotton, and many
luxuries. The tract between the Jhylum and the Indus
contains salt-mines, that furnish inexhaustible stores of this
article, which is largely exported. The lower part of the
country is inundated, like Bengal, by the overflowing of the
rivers during the periodical rains.
PUNO, a department and city of the republic of South¬
ern Peru, in South America, lying to the eastward of Are-
quipa and to the south of Cuzco. The surface of the coun¬
try is nearly all high table-land, being in few places less than
10,000 feet above the level of the sea. The climate is
cold compared with that of the coast, but on that account it
is very healthy. The hordes of domestic animals are nu¬
merous, consisting of llamas, sheep, horses, mules, asses,
pigs, guanacas, alpacas, and cattle in great abundance. The
llama is peculiar to the Peruvian Andes, and of great use,
particularly upon roads impassable for mules, or in places
where forage is scarce. It is employed in carrying ores
from the mines, charcoal, corn, and other burdens. From
the great height of this district, agriculture is limited to a
few objects. The principal are, potatoes, quinoa, rye, bar¬
ley, and oats; but the three latter do not ripen to seed, and
are cut green for horses. Puno contains a number of sil¬
ver mines, which in productiveness were at one time only
second to those of Potosi. The most noted is that of Lay-
cacota, or Salcedo, as it is now called, after its first proprie¬
tor. The mines are situated in a high range of hills form¬
ing the western boundary of the great lake of Titicaca.
These mountain ridges are chiefly composed of a porphy-
ritic rock, which reposes on a sandstone formation, similar
to that of the red marl and sandstone of the British islands,
and to the great red sandstone formation of the continent
of Europe. In its general disposition, as well as in its mi-
neralogical characteristics, the porphyry of Puno corre¬
sponds exactly with those metalliferous porphyries which
have produced the immense riches of the Real del Monte,
of the Bolanos, and parti}7 of the Guanaxuato mines in
Mexico, and with those of Hungary and Transylvania; and,
like them, it abounds in veins containing the precious me¬
tals. The hills of Laycacota, Cancharani, and San Jose,
are one continuous range formed of this porphyry nearly to
their bases, and in it are situated the rich veins of silver
ore which have rendered the place so celebrated. The pro¬
duce of these mines, particularly that of Laycacota, during
the seventeenth century, was enormous. It appears from
documents of indisputable authenticity, that the ore extract¬
ed in the year 1668 from the mines of Salcedo produced
upwards of a million and a half of dollars. They were
afterwards neglected, and only towards the end of the last
century they again began to be worked with activity. In
the year 1805, they yielded 96,528 marcs of silver. The
annual average produce between 1796 and 1820 amounted
to nearly 30,000 marcs. Since that time they have been
again neglected ; and in the month of April 1831 only one
mine was worked, which belonged to an Englishman. T e
mining district of Puno being surrounded on all sides by
arid mountains, is almost destitute of wood, so that fue is
scarce. This is one of the reasons why the ores are treat¬
ed by amalgamation, and not by smelting in furnaces, to
PUN 739
rv hich they are peculiarly well adapted, from their being very
fiequently associated with the ores of lead and copper.
The grandest natural feature of South America, next to
the cordilleras of the Andes, is the Laguna de Puno, com¬
monly called Titicaca or Chucuito. It is situated between
the two cordilleras, and is enclosed by the surrounding
mountains. According to Mr Pentland, it is placed 12,795
feet above the level of the sea, and is consequently the
largest lake in the world found at such an elevation. The
same traveller informs us that it occupies an area of almost
4000 geographical square miles. With regard to its depth,
he states that from accidental circumstances he was not
able to obtain deeper soundings than a hundred and twenty
fathoms (which, however, is a much greater depth than any
hitherto assigned to the lake) ; “ but,” he observes, “ from
the precipitous cliffs which in many parts of it form the
shores, and its islands, I am persuaded that its depth in the
central portion is much greater. The lake of Titicaca re¬
ceives numerous streams at its northern extremity, but by
no means so great a mass of water as might be expected
from the height of the Andes that surround it.” The prin¬
cipal streams which supply the lake are those which on its
northern side form the rivers of Asangaro, descending from
the cordillera of Crucero and San Juan del Oro, and that
of Lagunillas, which rises in a chain of small lakes in the
western cordillera. The latter is probably the stream which
Dr Meyen calls the Rio Jussecano, which, he says, is one
of the largest rivers falling into the lake of Titicaca. One
of its sources is in an alpine sheet of water called Laguna
Compuerta; and not far from it is another lake called La-
gunilla, to which Rivero assigns an elevation of more than
15,000 feet above the level of the Pacific. The only out¬
let of the lake of Titicaca is the river Desaguadero, which
issues from its south-western extremity in lat. 16. 38. 10.
and is an inconsiderable stream when compared to the im¬
mense extent of the lake from which it proceeds. This
anomaly, however, may easily be explained by the great
amount of spontaneous evaporation to which its surface is
exposed, in an extremely dry and rarefied atmosphere, owing
to its excessive elevation. Mr Pentland found the width of
the river Desaguadero, in the beginning of the rainy season,
and close to its origin in the lake, to be forty-six yards;
its course was scarcely two miles an hour, but its depth was
considerable. The lake of Titicaca is studded with small
steep islands. It derived its name of Titicaca from one of
the largest of these, which is situated at the south-eastern ex¬
tremity. It was held in great veneration by the natives, as
they believed it to be the spot where Manco Capac receiv¬
ed his divine commission to civilize the inhabitants of the
country. Numerous Peruvian ruins are still to be seen
upon it. “ The low banks of the lake,” says Dr Meyen,
“ are lined with rushes; and farther inwards its waters are
covered with Myriophyllum chuquitense, a new species.
Rushes are here a plant of great utility, being employed by
the natives for almost as many uses as the bamboo in the
East Indies. They supply the place of wood, which is
wanting throughout the whole valley of the Desaguadero.
The huts of the poor are made of rushes, as also mats for
the floor, and bed-covers. The boats with which the rivers
and the lakes are navigated are also made of rushes twisted
together; the rudder and the mast alone are of wood, and
form one of the most valuable possessions of the poor na¬
tives. These boats are frequently made with great taste
and ingenuity. The smaller ones carry only three or four
persons. The larger venture to some distance from the
banks of the lake, which, even in calm weather, is subject
to a heavy swell. The lake abounds in fish and water-
fowl.” Its waters are said to be “ bitter” and impure, yet
they are drunk by the cattle, and even by the Indians. It
appears that the extent of the lake has diminished even
within the historical period of this continent; for a Spanish
Puno.
740
PUR
PUR
Piumgga writer, soon after the conquest of Peru by the Spaniards,
p II in describing the gigantic Peruvian monuments of I iagua-
UK'.iaS‘- naC0J says that the waters of the lake washed their walls.
These ruins are now elevated many feet above the level of
the lake, and stand at a considerable distance from it. Ihe
valley of the Desaguadero and the lake form together one
continuous and immense basin, which, by a calculation of
Mr Pentland, occupies an area of above 16,000 geographi¬
cal square miles. The valley of the Desaguadero is neces¬
sarily in the direction of the two chains which enclose both
it and the lake. In its southern portion it runs nearly pa¬
rallel with the meridian ; but north of latitude 17° it forms
an angle of almost 45° with that line, running very nearly
north-west by north, and south-east by south. It is entire¬
ly bounded by mountains, having no outlet towards the sea;
and the rivers which descend into it are either lost in the
sandy soil, or empty themselves into the lake of Titicaca
at its northern extremity.
The city of Puno is situated upon the western shores of
the lake of Titicaca, in lat. 15. 50. S. and long. 70. 22. W.
from Greenwich, at an elevation of 12,832 feet above the
level of the sea. It was formerly a rich and beautiful place,
but has now very much declined in all respects. It pos¬
sesses some woollen manufactures, with which it supplies
Lima and Arequipa ; and it contains a population of about
9000. The number of inhabitants in the department has
been estimated at 30,917.
PUNUGGA, a village of Northern Hindustan, in the
province of Bootan. The mountains in the vicinity are the
highest in Bootan. Long. 89. 23. E. Lat. 27. 23. N.
PURCELL, Henry, the most distinguished musical com¬
poser that England has produced. He was born in 1658,
and died in 1695. At the early age of eighteen his genius
and attainments procured him the appointment of organist
of Westminster Abbey. His genius for composition was
original and vigorous, as is evinced by his various works for
the church, the chamber, and the theatre. A detailed ana¬
lysis of some of these productions is given by Dr Burney in
the third volume of his History of Music. Purcell enter¬
tained the highest respect for the great Italian composers
of his period. Burney (vol. iii. page 508) says, in a proper
spirit of liberality, “ Let those who shall think Purcell has
sacrificed the national honour by confessing his reverence
for the productions of Italy, compare the secular produc¬
tions of English musicians, from the death of Queen Eliza¬
beth to the year 1683, with those of Carissimi, Cesti, Stra-
della, and innumerable others of great abilities, and, if they
do not equally hate music and truth, they will admire Pur¬
cell’s probity as well as his genius.” Burney remarks af¬
terwards (page 510), with a just feeling towards Purcell’s
great abilities, “ If a parallel were to be drawn between
Purcell and any popular composer of a different country,
reasons might be assigned for supposing him superior to
every other great and favourite contemporary musician in
Europe.” Purcell was interred in Westminster Abbey, and
a monument erected there to his memory.
PURCHAS, Samuel, an English divine, famous for com¬
piling a valuable collection of voyages, was born in 1577,
at Thacksted, in Essex. After studying at Cambridge, he
obtained the vicarage of Eastwood, in his native county;
but leaving that cure to his brother, he settled in London,
in order to carry on the great work in which he was en¬
gaged. He published the first volume in folio in 1613,
and the last four twelve years afterwards, under the title of
Purchas his Pilgrimage, or Relations of the World, and the
Religions observed in all Ages and Places. Meanwhile he
was collated to the rectory of St Martin’s, Ludgate, in Lon¬
don, and made chaplain to Dr Abbot, archbishop of Can¬
terbury. His Pilgrimage, and the learned Hackluyt’s Voy¬
ages, led the way to all the other collections of the same
kind, and have been justly valued and esteemed. But un¬
happily, by his publishing, he involved himself in debt, and Furdhaui -
died in embarrassed circumstances, about the year 1628. g,ir
The works of Purchas and Hackluyt form the most valuable pur ;l
collections of the kind in existence; and, were such things v
ever done in this country, we should strongly recommend
the republication of annotated editions of both at the pub¬
lic expense; for such an undertaking, though of the highest
utility, would far transcend the means of any individual
publisher.
PURDHAUNGUR, a hill-fortress of Hindustan, in the
province of Bejapore, taken by the Mahratta chief Savajee
in 1668. Latitude not ascertained.
PURDIE’S Isles, a ledge of rocks and small islets, si¬
tuated on the southern coast of New Holland, opposite
Point Bell, in long. 133. 5. E. lat. 32. 16. S. They form
part of Nuyt’s Archipelago.
PUREG, a village of Mekran, in Persia, on the site of
Para, the ancient capital of Gedrosia, where Alexander ter¬
minated his march on his return from India.
PURFLEW', a term in heraldry, expressing ermines,
peans, or any of the furs, when they compose a bordure
round a coat of arms. Thus it is said, he beareth gules,
a bordure, purflew, vairy ; meaning that the bordure is
vairy.
PURGATION, the art of purging, scouring, or purify¬
ing a thing, by separating or carrying off any impurities that
may be found therein. Thus, in pharmacy, purgation is the
cleansing of a medicine by retrenching its superfluities; in
chemistry, it is used for the several preparations of metals
and minerals intended to clear them of their impurities;
and in medicine, purgation is an excretory motion arising
from a quick and orderly contraction of the fleshy fibres of
the stomach and intestines, whereby the chyle, corrupted
humours, and excrements, lodged therein, are protruded
further and further, and at length quite excluded by stool.
Purgation, in Law, signifies the clearing a person’s self
of a crime of which he is suspected and accused before a
judge. This purgation is either canonical or vulgar. Ca¬
nonical purgation is prescribed by the canon law,^ and the
form of it in the spiritual court is usually thus : The per¬
son suspected takes his oath that he is innocent of the crime
charged against him, and at the same time brings some of
his neighbours to make oath that they believe he swears
truly. Vulgar purgation was anciently by fire or water, or
else by combat, and was practised here till abolished by the
canons.
PURGATORY, a place in which the just, who 'depart
out of this life, are supposed to expiate certain offences
which do not merit eternal condemnation. Broughton has
endeavoured to prove that this notion was held by Pagans,
Jews, and Mahommedans, as well as by Christians; and it
cannot be questioned that, in the days of the Maccabees,
the Jewrs believed that sin might be expiated by sacrifice
after the death of the sinner.
Much abuse has been poured upon the Church of Rome
for her doctrine of purgatory, and many false representa¬
tions have been made of the doctrine itself. The follow¬
ing view of it is taken from a work which is considered as
a standard by the British Catholics. First, every sin, how
slight soever, though no more than an idle word, as it is an
offence to God, deserves punishment from him, and will be
punished by him hereafter, if not cancelled by repentance
here. Secondly, such small sins do not deserve eternal punish¬
ment. Thirdly, few depart this life so pure as to be totally
exempt from spots of this nature, and from every kind of
debt due to God’s justice. Fourthly, few will therefore escape
without suffering something from his justice for such debts
as they have carried with them out of this world, according
to that rule of divine justice, by which he treats every soul
hereafter according to its works, and according to the state
in which he finds it in death. From these propositions,
purifica¬
tion.
PUR
which the Catholic considers as so many self-evident truths,
he infers that there must be some third place of punish¬
ment ; for since the infinite goodness of God can admit
nothing into heaven which is not clean and pure from all
sins, both great and small, and as his infinite justice can per¬
mit none to receive the reward of bliss who as yet are not
out of debt, but have something in justice to suffer, so there
must of necessity be some place or state whei'e souls, de¬
parting this life, pardoned as to the eternal guilt or pain,
yet obnoxious to some temporal penalty, or with the guilt
of some venial faults, are purged and purified before their
admission into heaven. This is what the Catholic is taught
concerning purgatory ; and though he knows not where it
is, of what nature the pains are, or how long each soul is
detained there, yet he believes that those who are in this
place, being the living members of Jesus Christ, are re¬
lieved by the prayers of their fellow members here on earth,
as also by alms and masses offered up to God for their souls.
And as for such as have no relations or friends to pray for
them or give alms, or procure masses for their relief, they
are not neglected by the church, which makes a general
commemoration of all the faithful departed in every mass,
and in every one of the canonical hours of the divine
office.
Such is the doctrine of purgatory as taught by the Church
of Rome. (See 2 Macc. xii. 43, 44, 45; St Math. xii. 31,
32 ; and 1 Cor. iii. 15.) By Protestants the books of Mac¬
cabees are not acknowledged as inspired Scripture; but if
they were, the texts referred to would rather prove that
there is no such place as purgatory, since Judas did not
expect the souls departed to reap any benefit from his sin-
offering till the resurrection. Our Saviour in St Luke
speaks of remission in this world, and in the world to come,
but surely neither of these is purgatory. The world to come
is the state after the resurrection, and the remission spoken
of is the sentence of absolution to be pronounced upon the
penitent from the seat of general judgment. In the ob¬
scure verse referred to in the epistle to the Corinthians,
the apostle is, by the best interpreters, thought to speak of
the difficulty with which Christians should be saved from
the destruction of Jerusalem. Of the state of souls depart¬
ed he cannot w’ell be supposed to speak, as upon disembo¬
died spirits fire could not make any impression. \\ e cannot
help, therefore, thinking, with the Church of England, that
“ the Romish doctrine of purgatory is a fond thing, vainly
invented, and grounded on no warranty of Scripture.
PURIFICATION, in matters of religion, a ceremony
which consists in cleansing any thing from a supposed pol¬
lution or defilement.
The Pagans, before they sacrificed, usually bathed or
washed themselves in water; and they were particularly
careful to wash their hands, because with these they were
to touch the victims consecrated to the gods. It was also
customary to wTash the vessel with which they made then li¬
bations. Previously to the duty of prayer the Mahommedans
also use purifications, which are of two kinds; namely, eitner
bathing, or only washing the face, hands, and feet. lire
first is required only in extraordinary cases, as after avmg
lain with a woman, touched a dead body, or the like, iim
lest so necessary a preparation for their devotions s ou
be omitted, either where water cannot be had, or vv icn i
may be of prejudice to a person’s health, they are a owe
in such cases to make use of fine sand or dust ms ea o
it; and then they perform this duty by clapping neir °pvn
hands on the sand, and passing them ovei tie par s, m .e
same manner as if they were dipped in water.
There were also many legal purifications amongst the
Hebrews. When a woman was delivered of a male clnlcl,
she was esteemed impure for forty days, an w ien ° ^
female, for sixty; at the end of wh.ch time she usuaUy
carried a lamb to the door of the temple to be o-ieied .1
PUR
741
a burnt-offering, and a young pigeon or turtle for a sin-offer- Purim
ing, and by this ceremony she was cleansed or purified. II
PURIM, or the Feast of Lots, a solemn festival of l>urlnire-
the Jews, instituted in memory of the deliverance they re-
ceived, by means of Mordecai and Esther, from Haman’s
wicked attempt to destroy them.
PURITAN, a name formerly given in derision to the
dissenters from the Church of England, on account of their
profession to follow the pure word of God, in opposition to
all traditions and human constitutions. It was likewise given
in the primitive church to the Novatian schismatics, be¬
cause they would never admit to communion any one whom
dread of death had led to apostatize from the faith.
PURLINS, in building, those pieces of timber which
lie across the rafters on the inside, to keep them from sink¬
ing in the middle of their length.
PURNEAFI, an extensive district of Bengal, forming the
north-western division of that province, and situated about
the twenty-sixth degree of north latitude. Its boundaries
are, to the north the Morung Hills, in the Nepaul terri¬
tories ; on the south Monghir and Rajemahl; on the east
Dinagepoor; and on the west Tirhoot and Baglipoor. It
is a fertile, compact, and well-watered flat, comprehending
5119 square miles, intersected by various streams, is ex¬
tremely fertile, and abounds in luxuriant pastures, on which
are fed remarkably fine cattle, which are employed in the
work done by horses in Europe. These bullocks are of
fine proportions, and of a large size, and very superior to
the draught cattle in Calcutta. It produces also rice, oil,
pulse, wheat, besides other vegetables; opium and saltpetre
for foreign commerce ; and valuable timber from the Mo¬
rung forests, which is cut in hot weather, and floated dowr
the rivers in the rainy season. It is also celebrated for it»
sugar and indigo, the latter being one of its staple com¬
modities ; and it exports a considerable quantity of ghee,
or butter of buffaloes, clarified. About 1796, from an offi¬
cial inquiry into the population of Purneah, it was found to
contain 89,914 husbandmen holding leases, 22,324 artifi¬
cers paying ground-rent, in 2784 villages, and on 2531
square miles. From official inquiries in 1801, it was found
to contain 1,450,000 inhabitants, in the proportion of seven
Mahommedans to ten Hindus. The chief rivers are the
Cosah and Muhanada. In 1722 Sief Khan was appointed
governor of Purneah, with absolute power over that dis¬
trict, and with permission to conquer from the independ¬
ent rajahs near him all the territory that he could. He
accordingly made considerable additions to the territory
during the twenty-seven years which he ruled over it ; and
whilst other parts were overrun by the Mahrattas, his do¬
minions continued to increase in prosperity and in popu¬
lation. In 1749 the son-in-law of Aliverdy Cawn sue
ceeded, and he handed down the inheritance to his son.
After various revolutions, the government devolved on an
officer, Khadem Hussein, who engaged in a war with the
British, but was finally obliged to retire to Oude. The
principal towns are Purneah and fajepore. The former is
pleasantly situated on the eastern bank of the Seraw Liver,
and carries on a considerable trade. Long. 88. 23. E. Lat.
~ PURPURE, in Heraldry. The colour so called, which
signifies purple, is an engraving represented by diagonal
lines from the left to the right.
It may serve to denote an administrator of justice, a law-
o-iver, or a governor equal to a sovereign ; and, accoiding to
Leigh, if it is compounded with
Or, )
Arg. |
Gul. !
Az. f
Ver. |
Sab. J
c
be
f Riches.
Quietness.
Politics.
Fidelity.
Cruelty.
_ Sadness.
742
PUT
PUT
Purrah
PURRAH, a town of Hindustan, in the province of Ben¬
gal, and district of Rajemahl. In 1353 it was a royal resi¬
dence, the capital of Hyas, the second independent sovereign
of Bengal, when it was taken by the Emperor Ferose. The
city was much extended dviring the reign of Rajah Causa,
the Hindu monarch of Bengal, who died in 1392. His
son removed the seat of government back to Gour. Some
of the ruins of this city still remain. It is ten miles north¬
east from Maulda. Long. 89. 9. E. Lat. 25. 9. N.
PURSER, an officer on board a ship of war, who re¬
ceives the victuals from the victualler, sees that they be
well stowed, and keeps an account of what he every day
delivers to the steward. He also keeps a list ot the ship’s
company, and sets down exactly the day of each man’s ad¬
mission, in order to regulate the quantity of provisions to
be delivered out, and that the paymaster or treasurer of
the navy may issue out the debursements, and pay oft the
men, according to his book.
PURVIEW, a term used by some lawyers for the body
of an act of parliament, or that part which begins with the
words “ Be it enacted,” as contradistinguished from the
preamble.
PURULENT, in Medicine, something mixed with, or
partaking of, pus or matter.
PUS, in Medicine, a white or yellowish matter, design¬
ed by nature for the healing and cementing of wounds and
sores.
PUSTULE, a pimple, or small eruption on the skin, full
of pus, such as the eruptions of the small-pox.
PUTEOLI, a town of Campania, so called either from
its wells, there being many hot and cold springs thereabouts,
or from the stench caused by sulphureous exhalations. It
is now called Puzzuoli, and is pleasantly and advantageous¬
ly situated for trade. In a very remote age the Cumeans
made it their arsenal and dock-yard, and to this naval es¬
tablishment they gave the sublime appellation of Dicearchia.
The Romans were well aware of the utility of this port,
and took great pains to improve its natural advantages. No¬
thing remains of their works but a line of piers, built to
break the force of a rolling sea, and which are vulgarly
called the bridge of Caligula, because that madman is said
to have marched in triumph from Puzzuoli to Bairn on a
bridge, which however was a bridge of boats.
PUTIWL, a city of Russia, in the government of Kursk,
the capital of a circle of the same name. It stands at the
junction of the Putiwl with"the Gem, and is a very ancient
place, surrounded with pallisades. It contains nineteen
churches, 1276 houses, and 10,500 inhabitants, who are
occupied in refining saltpetre, making vitriol, and in other
branches of internal trade. It is 890 miles from St Peters¬
burg. Long. 33. 55. E. Lat. 52. 21. N.
PUTNEY, a parish of the hundred of Brixton, in the
county of Surrey. It is four miles from London, on the
south bank of the Thames, over which there is a bridge that
unites it to Fulham. It is situated on a gentle elevation,
many of the houses in it commanding pleasant views on
the river. It contains many houses of noblemen and gen¬
tlemen within it, some of the first order, and with highly
ornamented gardens. It was the birthplace of Thomas
Lord Cromwell, of West, Bishop Ely his contemporary, and,
at a later period, of Gibbon the historian of Rome. It
was also the head-quarters of Oliver Cromwell’s army. The
population amounted in 1801 to 2428, in 1811 to 2881, in
1821 to 3394, and in 1831 to 3811.
PUTREFACTION is the natural process of decompo¬
sition, by which the elements of organic matter are made
to enter into a different state of combination, and by which
new products are formed.
Putrefaction has been generally considered as a species of
fermentation, which has been divided into three kinds, the
vinous, the acetous, and the -putrefactive. The first is so
termed, because during its progress spirit of wine is formed ; Putrefac.
the second, because acetum or vinegar is produced ; and the v ^°n-
last, because by it the substance runs into putrefaction.
All animal and vegetable matter is liable to undergo pu¬
trefaction ; certain circumstances, however, are necessary
for the commencement and continuance of the process, as
the presence of moisture and a due degree of heat.
With regard to the putrefaction of vegetable bodies, the
substance first becomes mouldy, it then emits an offensive
odour, and in the course of time is in a great measure con¬
sumed. That moisture is necessary seems evident; for if
the vegetable be cautiously dried by the application of heat,
it may be preserved for almost any length of time. Hence
the heat at which it must be kept, so as to make it putrefy,
must not be such as will expel the moisture. On the con¬
trary, when the temperature is low, the putrefactive process
is put a stop to.
The admission of air also favours putrefaction, by allow¬
ing the escape of the volatile products. Many vegetable
substances, however, particularly those that contain a large
amount of carbon, are not entirely consumed by putrefac¬
tion ; there is left a substance called vegetable mould, which
does not putrefy when excluded from the air, but soon does
so when exposed to it.
Vegetable mould constitutes apart of the soil, and con¬
tributes to vegetation, provided it be exposed to the atmo¬
sphere ; hence the necessity of turning up the soil to cause
the putrefaction to go on, by which it is supposed the mould,
during its decay, becomes soluble, so that it is easily taken
up by plants, and thus affords them nourishment. But when
this is not done, more particularly when the mould is in
large quantity, it accumulates, and hence the origin of peat
and morass.
Animal matter is also liable to putrefaction; indeed it de¬
cays more easily than vegetables, provided it be kept at the
requisite temperature, which is between forty and eighty
degrees; the nearer to the latter the better; and if below
thirty-two it ceases. Moisture is also necessary, and the
freer the admission of air, the more rapid is the decomposition.
The first appearance of putrefaction is a change of colour
and of consistence ; the matter becomes paler and softer,
emits a disagreeable smell, and at the same time evolves
gaseous bodies, the nature of which depends on that of the
animal substance; but it in general consists of carbonic
acid, sulphuretted hydrogen, and volatile alkali, the disen¬
gagement of which ceases in the course of time, and a dry
hard mass remains, containing the fixed principles of the
animal kingdom.
When, instead of being exposed freely to air, the matter
is buried, the putrefaction goes on more slowly, especially
when the earth is dry, because the moisture from the animal
matter is extracted. When the air is completely excluded,
the substance is not entirely destroyed; the elements, by
their new state of combination, form a peculiar principle
resembling spermaceti, which has been called adipocere,
from its properties being intermediate to those of fat and of
wax.
Various means are resorted to for retarding or prevent¬
ing putrefaction, both of animal and vegetable matter. Per¬
haps the most efficacious is cold, which is supposed to act _
by causing the congelation of the moisture, and thus pre¬
venting the elements from entering into new states of com¬
bination. It is well known that vegetables and butcher-
meat, when put into snow, may be preserved for almost
any length of time; and hence the common practice of
sending fish to a distance packed in ice ; whilst in the north¬
ern regions the inhabitants are in the custom of laying up
a store of provisions surrounded by snow, by which they
are kept fresh till required.
Depriving organic matter of moisture is another mode of
retarding putrefaction; and hence it is that, when the sub-
PUT
futrefac. stance is exposed cautiously to heat, by which the moisture
_ ^18 expeiled, the putrefactive process is prevented. Hence
the practice of drying fish; and in some countries it is cus¬
tomary to cut flesh into thin slices and dry it, in which state
it is kept until it be required.
As exposure to air promotes putrefaction, exclusion from
it retaxds it; and this affords another method of preserving
animal and vegetable matter. Hence the custom of rub¬
bing eggs over with butter, and also of keeping them in
lime-water. Butchex*-meat, also, well packed in barrels, from
which the air is completely excluded, may be kept fresh for
a considerable time, and more particularly if the meat be
par-boiled before it is packed. Strong soups, after being
cooled, and of course congealed, are preserved during long
voyages, by; being put into earthen dishes, and in general
covered with a layer of melted fat, and afterwards secured
from the air by bladder or tinfoil. In many cases the meat
is packed into tin boxes, the lids of which are afterwards
soldered down so as to exclude the air. In this way meat
has been taken to India and returned to this country as fresh
as when put into the packages.
There are many substances which retard, indeed prevent
putrefaction, and some of them, it is supposed, act by ab¬
sorbing the moisture. The most powerful of these antisep¬
tics is sea-salt, which, it is well known, is used largely in pre¬
serving meat, fish, butter, &c. Another substance which
acts powerfully is pyroligneous acid ; but it is generally al¬
lowed that it acts not by the acid which it contains, but by
a peculiar principle formed during its formation, and in all
probability similar to, if not the same as, that now called
creosote ; indeed it is also supposed that during the process
of smoking, to which fish, and sometimes also meat, are sub¬
jected, the same principle is formed, and that it is this which
acts in preventing putrefaction.
Sugar, it is well known, is also a powerful antiseptic, and
hence its use in making preserves, &c.; so also is spirit of
wine, and the volatile oils, as turpentine, which are much
employed in preserving anatomical preparations.
Sir John Pringle made experiments to determine the
powers of certain substances in promoting or preventing pu¬
trefaction. From these experiments he formed the follow¬
ing table, showing the relative antiseptic powers of the sa¬
line substances mentioned. Having found that two drams
of beef put into a phial with two ounces of water, and placed
in a heat equal to 90° of Fahrenheit’s thermometer, became
putrid in fourteen hours, and that sixty grains of sea-salt
preserved a similar mixture of beef and water more than
thirty hours, he made the antiseptic power of the sea-salt
a standard, to whichTie compared the powers of the other
salts. The algebraic character -j- signifies that the sub¬
stance to which it is annexed had a greater antiseptic power
than is expressed by the numbers.
Sea-salt, or the standard 1
Sal-gem 1 +
Vitriolated tartar 2
Spiritus Mindereri 2
Soluble tartar  
Sal diureticus 2+
Crude sal-ammoniac 3
Saline mixture 3
Nitre 
Saltof wormwood 4+
Borax.
.12
Salt of amber 
Alum 30
The quantities of spiritus Mindereri and of the saline mix¬
ture were such, that each of them contained as much alka¬
line salt as the other did neutral salts.
Myrrh, aloes, asafoetida, and terra Japomca, were xound
PUT 743
to have an antiseptic power thirty times greater than the Putrefac-
standard. Gum ammoniacum and sagapenum showed little tion-
antiseptic power.
Of all resinous substances, camphor was found to resist
putrefaction most powerfully. Sir John Pringle believes
that its antiseptic power is three hundred times greater than
that of sea-salt.
Chamomile flowrers, Virginian snake-root, pepper, ginger,
saffron, contrayerva root, and galls, were found to be twelve
times more antiseptic than sea-salt.
Infusions of large quantities of mint, angelica, ground-
ivy, green tea, red roses, common wormwood, mustard, and
horse-radish, and also decoctions of poppy-heads, were more
antiseptic than sea-salt.
Decoctions of wheat, barley, and other farinaceous grains,
checked the putrefaction by becoming sour.
Chalks and other absorbent powders accelerated the pu¬
trefaction, and resolved meat into a perfect mucus. The
same powders prevented an infusion of farinaceous grains
from becoming mucilaginous and sour.
One dram of sea-salt was found to preserve two drams
of fresh beef in two ounces of water above thirty hours
uncox'rupted, in a heat equal to that of the human body, or
above twenty hours longer than meat is preserved in water
without salt; but half a dram of salt did not preserve it
more than two hours longer than pure water. Twenty-five
grains of salt had little or no antiseptic quality. Twenty
grains, fifteen grains, but especially ten gx-ains only, of sea-
salt, were found to accelerate and heighten the putrefaction
of two drams of flesh. These small quantities of sea-salt
also softened the flesh more than pure water.
The same learned and ingenious physician made experi¬
ments to discover the effects of mixing vegetable with ani¬
mal matters.
Two drams of raw beef, as much bread, and an ounce of
water, being beaten to the consistencfe of pap, and exposed to
90° of heat according to Fahrenheit’s thermometer, began
to ferment in a few hours, and continued in fermentation
dux-ing two days. When it began to ferment and swell, the
putrefaction had commenced ; and in a few hours afterwards
the smell was offensive. Next day the putrid smell ceased,
and an acid taste and smell succeeded. Fresh alimentary
vegetables, as spinach, asparagus, scurvy-grass, produced
similar effects to bread on flesh, but in a weaker degree.
From several other experiments, he found that animal sub¬
stances excite the fermentation of vegetable substances, and
that the latter substances correct the putrescency of the
former.
By adding saliva to a similar mixture of flesh, bread, and
water, the fermentation was retarded, moderated, but ren¬
dered of twice the xxsual duration ; and the acid at last pro¬
duced was weaker than when no saliva was used.
By adding an oily substance to the common mixture of
flesh, bread, and water, a stronger fermentation was pro¬
duced, which could not be moderated by the quantity of
saliva used in the following experiment, till some fixed al¬
kaline salt was added; which salt was found, without sa¬
liva, to stop suddenly very high fermentations.
Sir John Pringle did not find that small quantities of the
following salts, sal-ammoniac, nitre, vitriolated tartai', sal
diureticus, salt of hartshoi-n, salt of wormwood, were septic,
as small quantities of sea-salt were. Sugar was found to re¬
sist putrefaction at first, as other salts do, and also to check
the putrefaction after it had begun by its own fermentative
quality, like bread and other fermentative vegetables. Lime-
water made some small resistance to putrefaction.
Port wine, small beer, infusions of bitter vegetables, ot
bark, and the juice of antiscorbutic plants, retarded the
fermentation of mixtures of flesh and bread; but an un¬
strained decoction of bark considerably increased that fer¬
mentation.
744' P U Y
Puttan Crab-eyes accelerated and increased the fermentation of
Somnant a mixture of flesh and bread. Lime-water neither xetaid-
N e(j nor hastened the fermentation of such a mixture; but
D^rne0 when the fermentation ceased, the liquor was neither putrid
v r_ nor acid, but smelt agreeably. Flesh pounded in a mortar
was found to ferment sooner than that which had not been
bruised. The tough inflammatory crust of blood was found
to be most putrescent; next to which the crassamentum, or
red coagulated mass; and lastly the serum.
Dr Mackbride’s experiments confirm many of those above
related, especially such as show that the fermentation of
vegetable substances is increased by a mixture of animal or
putrescent matter ; that the putrescency of the latter is cor¬
rected by the fermentative quality of the former; and that
the putrefaction and fermentation of mixtures of animal and
vegetable substances were accelerated by additions of ab¬
sorbent earths and of Peruvian bark. Fie also found, that
although unburned calcareous earths were septic, quicklime
and lime-water prevented putrefaction, but that they de¬
stroyed or dissolved the texture of flesh.
The experiments of the author of the Essai pour servir
a VHistoire de la Putrefaction showed that metallic salts,
resinous powders, extracts of bark, and opium, were very
powerfully antiseptic ; and that salts with earthy bases were
less antiseptic than any other salts.
PUTTAN Somnant, a town of Hindustan, on the south¬
west coast of the Gujerat peninsula, and district of Puttan.
Long. 70. 23. E, Lat. 20. 57. N.
PUTTY, in its popular sense, is a kind of paste com¬
pounded of whiting and linseed oil, beaten together to the
consistence of a thick dough. It is used by glaziers for fas¬
tening in the squares of glass in sash-windows, and by paint¬
ers for stopping up the crevices and clefts in timber and
wainscots.
Putty sometimes also denotes the powder of calcined
tin, used in polishing and giving the last gloss to works of
iron and steel.
PUY, Le, an arrondissement of the department of the
Upper Loire, in France, extending over 779 square miles.
It has fourteen cantons, 117 communes, and 122,450 inhabi¬
tants. The capital is the city of the same name, distin¬
guished by the addition en Belay, which is situated on the
river Borne. It is the seat of the departmental boards of
government, and the see of a bishop. It contains 2950
houses, with 13,100 inhabitants, whose chief employment
is lace-making, and the manufacture of cotton goods, espe¬
cially muslins. It has also some manufactures of copper and
iron wares, and of pottery. Long. 3. 47. 40. E. Lat. 45. 2.
41. N.
PUY de Dome, a department in the south of France,
formed out of the ancient province Lower Auvergne. It
extends in north latitude from 45. 26. to 46. 11. and in east
longitude from 2. 17. to 3. 54. In extent it is 3389 square
miles, and is divided into five arrondissements, and these
into fifty cantons and 438 communes, containing by the last
census 573,100 persons. It is bounded on the north by the
department of Allier, on the east by that of the Loire, on
the south by the Upper Loire and the Cantal, and on the
west by the Correze and by the Creuse. It is an elevated
district, covered with hills and mountains, with few or no
plains, but some beautiful valleys, not very wide, through
which the streams flow. One of the most picturesque of
these vales is that of Limagne, which extends along both
banks of the Allier, from the entrance of that river into
the department, to its passage out of it. It is remarkable
for its fertility. The roads are planted with large walnut
and elm trees, the sides of the hills are covered with vines,
and on the tops are ornamented with towns, villages, and
castles. Some of the mountains in the northern part, the
highest of which reach to about 4000 feet, have marks of
volcanic origin, and are composed of basalt or of lava. In
P Y A
the south the elevations are greater, and that called the Puzzulaiu !l
Mont d’Or is about 6300 feet. The chief river is the Allier, II , f!
which comes out of the department of the Upper Loire, . - ^ „
is navigable in its course through Puy de Dome, and re¬
ceives the waters of various streams. There are several
lakes in some of the districts, but none of them of any great
extent. The climate is raw and variable on the moun¬
tains, but in the valleys it is mild, intensely hot in sum¬
mer, and severely cold in winter; and occasionally most
violent storms, accompanied with hail, are experienced in
the most fertile of the valleys. The chief products, be¬
sides corn, of which there is a surplus for the supply of
the neighbouring departments, are hemp, flax, wax, honey,
fruit, especially cherries, walnuts, and wine. The last is
abundant, but in general not highly estimated. 1 he best is
in the valley of Limagne ; but even there the greater part of
the produce of the vines is distilled into brandy. rlhe nuts
are so abundant that a great quantity ot oil is made from
them; and as fuel is scarce, many of the walnut trees are
made use of for that purpose. There are mines both of iron
and of coal, but they are not extensively worked. The ma¬
nufactures are linen cloths, blond lace, silk stockings, some
cotton, and thin woollens, ribbons, jewellery, leather, and
paper. The population is so much beyond the means of
employment, that a great number of labourers yearly go to
the neighbouring department to procure work in summer,
and return in winter with the wages which they have earn¬
ed. The department elects four deputies to the legislature.
It is in the diocese of Clermont, and under the judicial
power of the courts of law at Riom.
PUZZULANA or Pozzolana Terra, is a grayish kind
of earth employed in Italy for building under water. The
best is found about Puteoli, Baiai, and Cumae, in the king¬
dom of Naples, from the first of which places it derives its
name. It is a volcanic product, composed of heteroge¬
neous substances, thrown out from the burning mouths of
volcanoes in the form of ashes; sometimes in such large
quantities, and v/ith so great violence, that whole provinces
have been covered with it at a considerable distance. In
the year 79 of the common era, the cities of Herculanum,
Pompeii, and Stabia, although at the distance of many miles
from Vesuvius, were nevertheless buried under the matter
thrown out during these dreadful eruptions. This volcanic
earth is of gray, brown, or blackish colour, and of a loose
glanular, or dusty and rough, porous or spongy texture,
resembling a clay hardened by fire, and then reduced to a
gross powder. It contains various heterogeneous substances
mixed with it. Its specific gravity is from 2500 to 2800,
and it is in some degree magnetic; but it scarcely effer¬
vesces with acids, although partially soluble in them. It
easily melts per se ; but its most distinguishing property is,
that it hardens very suddenly when mixed with one third
of its weight of lime and water; and forms a cement which
is more durable in water than any other. According to
Bergman’s analysis, a hundred parts of lerra Pozzolana
contain from fifty-five to sixty of siliceous earth, twenty of
argillaceous, five or six of calcareous, and from fifteen to
twenty of iron. Its effects, however, in cement may per¬
haps depend only on the iron it contains. It is evidently
a martial argillaceous marl that has suffered a moderate heat.
Its hardening power arises from the dry state of the half-
baked argillaceous particles, which makes them imbibe water
rapidly, and thus accelerates the desiccation of the calcare¬
ous part; and also from the quantity and peculiar state of
the iron and manganese which it contains, on which metals
its properties chiefly depend. It is found not only in Italy,
but also in France, in England, and elsewhere.
PYANEPSIA, in Antiquity, an Athenian festival cele-
brated on the seventh day of the month Pyanepsion, which,
according to the generality of critics, was the same with our
September.
P Y L
•ycnostyle Plutarch refers the institution of this feast to Theseus,
Pvlades. T10’ a^r t^ie funeral of his father, which happened on this
. - day5 Pald ’us yows to Apollo, because the youths who re¬
turned with him safe from Crete then made their entry in¬
to the city. On this occasion these young men, putting
all that was left of their provisions into one kettle, feasted
together on it, and made great rejoicing. Hence was de-
l ived the ^custom of boiling pulse on the occasion of this
festival. The Athenians likewise carried about an olive
branch, bound with wood, and crowned with all sorts of first-
fruits, to signify that scarcity and barrenness had ceased,
and singing in procession a song. When the solemnity
ended, it was usual to erect the olive branch before their
doors, as a preservative against scarcity and want.
CNOS1 Y LE, in the ancient architecture, is a build¬
ing where the columns stand very close to each other, only
one diameter and a half of the column being allowed for
the intercolumniations. According to Mr Evelyn, the pyc-
nostyle chiefly belonged to the composite order, and was
used in the most magnificent buildings; as at present in
the peristyle at St Peter’s at Rome, which consists of near
three hundred columns, and in such as yet remain of the
ancients amongst the ruins of Palmvra.
PYGMALION, in fabulous history, a king of Cyprus,
who, being disgusted at the dissolute lives of the women of
his island, resolved to live in perpetual celibacy ; and mak¬
ing a statue of ivory, he fell so passionately in love with it,
that, the high festival of Venus being come, he fell down
before the altar of that goddess, and besought her to give
hipi a wife like the statue he loved. At his return home,
he embraced, as usual, his ivory form, when he perceived
that it became sensible by degrees, and was at last a living
maid, who found herself in her lover’s arms the moment she
saw the light. Venus blessed their union; and, at the end
of nine months, she was delivered of a boy, who was named
Paphos.
PYGMY, a person not exceeding a cubit in height. This
appellation was given by the ancients to a fabulous nation
inhabiting Thrace, who brought forth young at five years
of age, and were old at eight. They were celebrated for the
bloody war which they waged with the cranes.
PYKAR, a broker in India, inferior to those called dal-
lals, who transacts the business at first hand with the manu¬
facturer, and sometimes carries goods about for sale.
PYKE, a watchman in India, employed as a guard at
night. Pyke is likewise a footman or runner on business.
They are generally armed with a spear.
PYLADES, was a son of Strophius, king of Phocis, by
one of the sisters of Agamemnon. He was educated together
with his cousin Orestes, with whom he formed the most in¬
violable friendship, and whom he assisted to revenge the
murder of Agamemnon, by assassinating Clytemnestra and
Aigysthus. He also accompanied him into Taurica Cher-
sonesus ; and for his services Orestes rewarded him, by giv¬
ing him his sister Electra in marriage. Pylades had by her
two sons, Medon and Strophius. The friendship of Orestes
and Pylades became proverbial.
Pylades, an actor of pantomime, who was the first to
bring that species of histrionics to a high degree of perfec¬
tion at Rome. He was a native of Cilicia, and had been
the slave of Augustus, who gave him his freedom. He was
the rival of Eathyllus, but their mode of dancing was
perfectly distinct; that of Pylades was full of dignity and of
passion, whilst that of Bathyllus was of a more joyous cha¬
racter. Pylades even wrote a book on the principles of his
art. For some reason or other he was banished from Rome,
and his recall by Augustus was so palatable to the people
that in their joy they forgot some severe measures which
the emperor had passed. According to Suetonius, his ba¬
nishment was caused by his having pointed with his finger
to some one who had hissed his performance.
VOL. xvm.
P Y R
74'
1 i LOS, a city on the coast of Messenia, fifteen miles south Pylos
of Cyparissia, is usually considered as the residence of Nes- ll
tor, where he was visited by Telemachus. There were two pyramid,
other places of the same name, one in Elis, and another in '"■""'V"’—
-Friphylia, which claimed this honour; but all the circum¬
stances which the poet states suit best the city in Messenia.
The quickness of the voyage between Ithaca and this south¬
ern Pylos is one of the principal objections; but it must be
recollected that Athene directed the vessel. Strabo, how¬
ever, believed that the city in Triphylia, which seems to
have been unknown to Pausanias, was the residence of Nes¬
tor ; and he satisfied himself by the following reasoning. The
description of Homer shows that the dominions of Nestor
stretched on both sides of the river Alpheius; but this suits
neither with Messenia nor with Elis. It was not upon the
coast, for a messenger was sent to the ships to invite the
companions of Telemachus to supper ; and when Telemachus
returned from Sparta he caused Pisistratus to drive his cha¬
riot directly to the harbour, so that the road to the harbour
and city could not have been the same. The return of Te¬
lemachus to Ithaca is also brought forward as a proof, for
he is made to pass Cruni, Chalcis, Pheia, and the coast of
Elis, which, according to Strabo, he could only have done
if he started from the Triphylian Pylos. Again, in the war
of the Pylians against the Eleians, the time required to
drive the booty, which consisted amongst other things of
swine, was so short that they could not have reached the
Messenian Pylos.
Pylos, a city of Triphylia, was thirty stadia from Sami-
cum, on the coast, and near a river once called Amathus
and Pamisus, but subsequently Mamaus and Arcadicus. It
was considered by Strabo as the residence of Nestor.
Pylos, a city of Elis, eighty stadia from the city of Elis,
was founded by Pylus of Megara, destroyed by Hercules,
and rebuilt by the Eleians. It was situated between the
sources of the rivers Peneius and Sellecis, and under Mount
Scollis.
PYLSTART, an island in the Southern Pacific Ocean,
about six miles in circumference, discovered by Tasman in
1643. Long. 175. 59. W. Lat. 22. 22. S.
PYRAMID, in Geometry, is a solid standing upon a tri¬
angular, a square, or a polygonal basis, and terminating in
a point at the vertex; or it is a solid figure, consisting of se¬
veral triangles, the bases of which are all in the same plane,
and have one common vertex.
Pyramid is also applied to a colossal structure, corre¬
sponding in form to the geometrical definition of the solid,
and remarkable not only for its magnitude and antiquity,
but likewise for the mystery which still overshadows the
object contemplated in its construction.
The number of pyramids scattered over Egypt, Nubia,
and Ethiopia or Meroe, is very great indeed; but by far
the most remarkable are those of Djizeh, Sakhara, and
Dashour, on a plain to the north of Cairo, in Egypt. The
first of these places, which is situated on the western bank
of the Nile, and nearly in the latitude of Cairo, is distin¬
guished above the others by possessing the three principal
pyramids mentioned by Herodotus, and still justly number¬
ed amongst the wonders of human art.
The largest of these pyramids, which goes by the name
of Cheops (a Greek corruption of the Egyptian Kobts or
Copts), stands on an elevation upwards of 150 feet above
the subjacent plain, and rises to an altitude above the base
of about 498 English feet. It is ascended by an uninter¬
rupted series of steps, diminishing from four feet to two and
a half in height, as the structure narrows towards the ver¬
tex. The breadth of each step is equal to its height. Upon
the top there is a platform thirty-two feet square, consist¬
ing of nine blocks of stone, whereon travellers of all ages
and nations have inscribed their names in their respective
languages. This pyramid was explored, first by our country-
O B
746 P Y R
Pyramid, man Mr Davidson in 1763, and afterwards with still greater
v"“—success by Captain Caviglia in 1817. A full account of
the adventurous explorations of each will be found in the
article Egypt, vol. viii. p. 547 et seq. of the present work.
In all of the pyramids the entrances are in the north front,
and the descending passages slope at an angle of twenty-six
or twenty-seven degrees. This line seems to be nearly
directed to the pole, and hence the northern face of the py¬
ramid is almost in the plane of the earth’s equator; a cir¬
cumstance which goes far to show that the passages in ques¬
tion were intended for the purpose of astronomical observa-
tion. , . .
The second pyramid, called that of Cephrenes, is stated
by Denon'to have a base 655 feet each side, and to be 398
feet in height. The pyramids are supposed to have been
all coated or cased with stucco made of gypsum and flint;
and in fact forty feet of coating still adhere to that ot Ce¬
phrenes. But the great pyramid has no appearance of hav¬
ing been touched in this way; and on that of Cephrenes
the coating was probably never completed, as no indications
of it were discovered on removing the sand from its base.
In 1816, Belzoni discovered the entrance in the north front
of the second pyramid. Advancing along a narrow passage,
he found that it terminated in a chamber at the centre ot
the pyramid, cut out of the solid rock, the dimensions of
which he ascertained to be forty-six feet in length, sixteen
in breadth, and nearly twenty-four feet in height. rI his
chamber contained a sarcophagus of the finest granite, halt
sunk in the floor, with the lid drawn to one side and broken,
and within were bones, supposed to be those of a bull, mix¬
ed with rubbish. An Arabic inscription on the wall proved
that it had been explored by the curious of a former age.
The dimensions of the pyramid were ascertained to be, the
base 684 feet each side, the perpendicular height 456 feet,
and the coating from the top to where it terminates 140
feet. (See the article Egypt, ubi svpra.)
The third pyramid, situated beyond that of Cephrenes,
and called by the name of Mycerinus, appears to have been
cased with granite, at least fragments of that material were
found amongst the rubbish. But it still remains to be open¬
ed by some future traveller, Belzoni, with all his enterprise,
having failed in the attempt. It is only 280 feet at the
base, and 162 in height; and beyond it there is another
of still smaller dimensions, having its summit crowned by
one large block of stone, as if for a pedestal. The stability
of these enormous piles was increased by the stones having
been so fixed as to slope inwards, and the perfection of the
adjustment may be inferred from this, that not one of them
has yet swerved from its position. The structures raised by
the ancient Egyptians were intended to last for ever.
The pyramids of Sakhara are three miles south of those of
Djizeh, and the pyramids of Dashour are beyond those of Sak¬
hara, whilst more of brick or of stone are scattered over the
plain, intermixed with the excavations, cemeteries, and frag¬
ments of statues or edifices, which mark out the site of the se¬
cond capital of the Pharaohs. Some of them are rounded at
the top, and resemble hillocks cased with stone. One has
steps like that of Cheops, the ranges, six in number, being
twenty-five feet in height and eleven feet in width ; and
the total height is 150 feet. There is another, built also
with steps or . ranges, and not much inferior in altitude to
that of Cheops. The stones of these pyramids are much
decayed, and gradually crumbling into dust, evidently from
great age. One of them is built of unburned bricks, con¬
taining shells, gravel, and chopped straw, and is altogether
in a very mouldering state.
For some notices of the various opinions stated by travel¬
lers as to the purposes for which these extraordinary struc¬
tures are supposed to have been intended, the reader is again
referred to the article Egypt in this work. The bones
found in the chamber of the pyramid of Cephrenes, not to
P Y R
mention other circumstances, seem to have some connec- Pyrami- j I
tion with the worship of the sacred bull Apis ; and besides, d(jld
from the care with which the entrances appear to have p Jnees
been concealed, it is not impossible that there may yet be Loweif
many undiscovered chambers, both in the pyramid of^^-^
Cheops and in that of Cephrenes. It is very remarkable,
too, that not a single sculpture or hieroglyph has been dis¬
covered in any pyramid which modern enterprise and re¬
search have yet explored. (a.)
PYRAMIDOID, a term which is occasionally employed
to denote the parabolic spindle, or the solid formed by (he
rotation of a semiparabola about its base or greatest ordinate.
PYRENEAN Mountains, or Pyrenees, are the moun¬
tains which divide France from Spain, and are the most ce¬
lebrated in Europe, excepting the Alps. 1 hey reach from
the Mediterranean as far as the Atlantic Ocean, and are
about 212 miles in length. They have different names,
according to the different places where they stand. Mont
Perdu, the highest of the Pyrenees, has an elevation of
11,283 English feet.
PYRENEES, Eastern. The eastern extremity of the
Pyrenees gives its name to a department watered by the
Agly, the Tet, and the Tech, which flow in an easterly di¬
rection towards the Mediterranean Sea. It possesses a warm
and genial climate, very favourable to the culture of the
vine; but the lands near the sea are marshy, from which
arise exhalations prejudicial to health. The chief towns
are Perpignan, the seat of a prefecture and a diocese, on
the right bank of the Tet; Elne, on the left bank of the
Tech, the site of the ancient Illiberis, under whose walls
Hannibal encamped; Foix, in the valley watered by the
Ariege; and Saint Giron’s, on the Salat, a small river, on
which are several paper-mills and other manufactories.
The extent of territory of the department is 209 geographi¬
cal square miles. It is divided into three arrondissements,
seventeen cantons, and 226 communes. 4 he inhabitants
in 1837 amounted to 164,325.
Pyrenees, Upper, a department of France, which derives
its name from the highest part of the Pyrenees. It is formed
almost entirely of the ancient country of Bigorre. From
the plains in the confines of Gers, to Mont Perdu, the highest
point of the department, is experienced every gradation of
European climate. No great quantity of corn is raised, but
the country abounds in wine. Ihe shepherds who inhabit
the mountains are an active and hardy race of men. Ihe
principal towns are, Vicq en Bigorre, on the right bank of
the Lachez ; Tarbes, on the banks of the Adour ; Bagneres
de Bigorre, remarkable for its mineral waters; Campan,
which carries on a considerable trade in paper and woollen
stuffs; Cauterets, not far from the summits of the Pyrenees,
celebrated as the residence of Margaret of Valois. The
thermal springs of Bareges vary in temperature from 106
to 122° of Fahrenheit. The department consists of 229
geographical square miles, divided into three arrondisse¬
ments, twenty-six cantons, and 492 communes. The po¬
pulation in 1837 amounted to 244,170.
Pyrenees, Lower, includes part ot Navarre and the an¬
cient principality of Bearn. 1 he Pyrenees do not occupy
one half of the department, and do not rise to a great ele¬
vation. The heights are crowned with forests, and the val¬
leys are fruitful and well peopled. Ihe Bidassoa bounds
the department on the west, and determines the line which
separates the kingdoms of France and Spain. Near the
extremity of the heights that command the fruitful valley
watered by the Gave, stands Pau, a town of some elegance,
celebrated as the birthplace of many extraordinary persons,
amongst whom may be mentioned Henry IV., Gaston de
Foix, the celebrated Duke de Nemours, and Joan d’Albert.
Further down the river stands Orthes, renowned as the
scene of a destructive battle fought at the gates of the town
in 1814, where the Duke of Wellington purchased a victory
P Y E
Pynt« over Marshal Soolt with the loss of 10,000 men. Bavonne,
bJLter.lfc f„cons,de™bIe trad<=, and a strongly fortified town
  stands at the continence of the Nive and Adour, about two
miles from the Bay of Biscay. The department contains
379 geographical square miles, divided into five arrondisse-
ment^ forty cantons, and 6S0 communes. The population
m 1837 amounted to 244,170. 1
PYRITES, a metallic substance, combined with sulphur •
as iron pyrites, composed of sulphur and iron, and copper
pyrites, of sulphur and copper. See Mineralogy
PYRMONT, a city of the principality of Waldech, in
Cxermany, and the capital of the district of the same name.
It is a well-built place, containing 320 houses, and 2400 re¬
sident inhabitants. It is chiefly remarkable for its mineral
springs, which are much frequented in;the summer months by
invalids. It is situated at the northern extremity of a pic-
P Y R
747
turesque valley on the river Emmer. It is surrounded with Pyromancy
pleasing groves and other public walks, as well as with all the II
accommodations which can contribute to the gratification 0f pyronieter.
th°se who resort to its waters. The principal spring, called'
tlie holy well, has an intoxicating quality and a vinous spi-
nted taste, and has long been the most celebrated of the
steel waters. From this well more than 400,000 jugs are an¬
nually filled, and despatched to other parts of the world; and
it is said to lose none of its qualities by the longest journey.
1 here are other springs, of various component parts; and
one from which a large quantity of culinary salt is made.
I lie 1 nnce of Waldech has a palace near the city, which
was formerly occupied by Frederick the Great, who fre¬
quently had recourse to these springs in his latter years.
Lat. 51. 59. 28. N.
P\ ROMANCE, a kind of divination by means of fire.
PYROMETER.
Instruments for ascertaining the effects of a given change
of temperature on the dimensions of solids are named 'py¬
rometers, from crus, fire, and yirotu, 1 measure. The same
name is also given to such instruments as are employed
for the converse purpose of inferring from some of the va¬
rious effects of heat, temperatures higher than those to
which ordinary thermometers are applicable. Both classes
of these instruments have been constructed in a variety of
forms ; but, unless where the temperature'was to be high,
the most of them formerly acted on the principle of ren¬
dering the minute expansions sensible or appreciable by
means of machinery. Accordingly, such an instrument ge¬
nerally consisted of an apparatus for producing the requi¬
site change of temperature, coupled with machinery so con¬
trived, that when to one part of it an imperceptibly small
motion is given by the expansion of the substance under
trial, a very sensible motion is thereby produced in an¬
other part. However, in almost no case can the machi¬
nery for increasing the sensibility be with safety or pro¬
priety exposed to any high temperature ; and frequently the
heat of a furnace is now inferred from or denoted by the
fusing point of the particular metal, alloy, or other sub¬
stance which it is just able to melt, such fusing points be¬
ing supposed to be previously known. But the methods
as yet employed to determine high temperatures, however
useful some of them may be for recording particular inten¬
sities of heat, and showing when the intensity in one case
is equal to that in another, are insufficient to indicate their
absolute values, or in what ratio unequal intensities differ
among themselves. Nay, even their values in terms of the
common scales of temperature are as yet but very imper¬
fectly known in the higher part of the range.
In most of the earlier pyrometers the substance under
trial was heated by the immediate contact of the flames of
lamps; a method which not only produced an entirely un¬
known temperature, but probably gave to different bodies,
or even to different parts of the same body, very different
temperatures. This was greatly improved upon by apply¬
ing the lamps to a metallic trough or boiler, containing
some liquid, in which the bar under trial and a thermome¬
ter were immersed. Sometimes an inner case or trough
has been used to keep the specimen dry; and when only
a very moderate heat is required, steam has also been used
to heat the specimen. This, though generally supposed to
be a recent application of steam, had, according to Mr
Nicholson {Journal for February 1805), been used by J.
H. de Magellan in 1784.
To obtain an appreciable indication of the expansions of
bodies, Muschenbroeck, to whom we owe the first instru¬
ment of this sort, as well as the name pyrometer, made the
expansion of a rod of the substance under trial move a
toothed rack, turning a pinion fixed on the axis of a wheel,
which again turned a second pinion on the axis of the
index, and the latter revolved over a graduated dial.
Some have added more wheels and pinions, or have used
a system ot levers, or one consisting partly of levers and
partly of wheels and pinions; and did the accuracy keep
pace with the sensibility, such instruments might be cor¬
rect enough. Other contrivances for increasing the sen¬
sibility are very numerous, but they are generally so readi¬
ly referrible to similar principles as to render particular
descriptions of them unnecessary, more especially since
none of them is free from the objections about to be stat¬
ed. Smeaton employed one lever, and observed how
many turns and parts of a turn of a fine screw, whose end
was just in contact with apiece touching the lever, would
make it be again barely in contact with that piece, after
the bar under trial, and acting near the fulcrum of the
lever, had undergone the requisite heating. Lavoisier and
Laplace made the expansion of the bar under trial act upon
one lever, which again acted on a telescope hung as a se¬
cond lever. This telescope being directed to a large gra¬
duated scale placed at a known distance, the slightest de¬
flection which the expansion of the bar under trial occa¬
sioned in the direction of the telescope was thus rendered
very conspicuous. Had the accuracy of this mode of ope¬
rating, therefore, been as great as the sensibility thereof,
it would certainly have given the expansions to a great de¬
gree of exactness.
But the preceding kinds of pyrometers, however useful
for exhibiting in a general way the expansions of bodies,
or for illustrating the subject in a public lecture, are by
no means entitled to much confidence ; for, in using wheels
and pinions, as well as levers, or any of these coupled
with other machinery, there is always considerable un¬
certainty in the result, owing to the loose connection of
the several parts, and their sometimes bending under the
strain, as also to the friction and obliquity of action. Nay,
an error of some consequence may even arise from the bar
itself under trial being compressed by its giving motion to
the machinery, more especially at the time when it is sof¬
tened by heat; and those parts of the mechanism which
touch the ends of the heated bar, and that in particular
which is moved by its contact, will be apt to partake in its
temperature, to an uncertain extent, and to occasion a cor¬
responding uncertainty in the result.
The celebrated artist Mr Ramsden invented a method Microsco-
of measuring .the expansions, as seen greatly magnifiedPlc pyro*
through microscopes, which is not only free from the un-lneter*
certainties of the instruments just noticed, but is much
748
PYROMETER.
Pyrometer.more manageable than they are. A particular desciip-
~v—— y—^ tion of the pyrometer which Mr Ramsden constructed on
this principle, for ascertaining the expansions of the rods,
employed in measuring a base on Hounslow Heath for
the trigonometrical survey, is given by General Roy, in
the Philosophical Transactions for 1785; though, owing
to the scarcity of letters of reference, the engraving must
be nearly unintelligible to those who are not versed in
such subjects. This apparatus appears to be susceptible
of actin«- with great accuracy under moderate heats ; but
neither Tt, nor indeed any other instrument of the sort,
seems directly applicable under very high temperatures,
though we shall afterwards see how the microscopes may
be rendered equally available for appreciating or measur¬
ing the expansions marked by register pyrometers, or those
which, even after they have again become cold, preserve
an indication of the extent of the expansion which has oc¬
curred during their previous exposure to a great heat.
We can only give here a very general description of Mr
Ramsden’s pyrometer, which consists of a strong deal frame,
five feet in length, nearly twenty-eight inches in breadth,
and about forty-two inches in height. The bar of the ma¬
terial whose expansion is to be measured, and which may be
even two feet long, is placed with water in a copper trough
or boiler fully five feet in length. Beneath this tiough arc
set twelve spirit-lamps, whose flames may heat the water in
the trough, and the bar placed therein for trial, to the boiling
point, if required. But it is evident, that by filling the
trough with a liquid having a higher boiling point, a still
higher temperature might be attained. On each side of the
copper trough, and parallel to it, at a little distance, is placed
a wooden trough filled with water, and each oi these con¬
tains a cast-iron prismatic bar. For greater simplicity, we
shall suppose that there are also two cross pieces, which
can be fixed anywhere on the cast-iron bars, and at right
angles to them, and that each cross piece carries a micro¬
scope to look directly down upon each end of the bar un¬
der trial.1 The one microscope has only a simple mark or
point in its field of view ; but the other is furnished with
such a wire-micrometer as is described under the article
Micrometer.
Whilst operating with this apparatus, it is of consequence
that the temperature of the two cast-iron prisms in the
wooden troughs should continue as steady as possible, which
can be easily tested by placing thermometers beside them
in the water ; or a steady temperature may be insured by
keeping the troughs filled with melting ice, as was done by
General Roy. Suppose, now, the cross piece carrying the
microscope which has the point in its field of view, to be
so set over one end of the bar under trial, that this point
or mark may appear directly coincident with the extremity
of the bar to be examined, or with a point or mark near its
extremity. In like manner, let the other microscope be
fixed over the other extremity of the bar under trial, so
that its moveable wire may be accurately coincident with
the other extremity of the bar, or with a point or mark
near it. These adjustments being made, suppose the tem¬
perature of the water and of the bar in the boiler to be ex¬
actly 32° Fahrenheit. By means of the spirit-lamps under
the boiler gradually heat it to 140°, or any other required Pyrometer
temperature, and look through the second microscope. As
soon as the change of temperature begins to affect the
length of the bar, the mark at its extremity will be seen
to deviate from its previous coincidence with the wire of
the micrometer, and to extend beyond it. On the bar,
therefore, attaining any other temperature, we can mea¬
sure the corresponding expansion which has occurred, by
observing how many turns and parts of a turn of the micro¬
meter-screw are necessary to bring the micrometer-wire
into coincidence with the slowly shifting mark on the
expanding bar; and as the value in parts of an inch of
each turn of the micrometer-screw is accurately known, a
direct measure of the expansion of the bar is thus ob¬
tained, free from the errors of a system of levers, or of a
train of wheels and pinions.
A different form of microscopic pyrometer has been em- Adie’s
ployed by Mr Alexander J. Adie ;2 in which, instead of pyrometer
the horizontal iron prisms of Ramsden, the microscopes
are merely attached to an upright oaken post, which sup¬
ports and holds nearly all the other parts, and which was
made from such an old and thoroughly seasoned piece of
timber, that it scarcely expands at all by heat. The bar
or rod of the substance under trial is enclosed in a vertical
tube, which again is surrounded by steam flowing in a con¬
tinued current through an outer tube incasing the other.
Both tubes are provided with small glass windows, for the
purpose of viewing the ends of the included bar through
the microscopes, and likewise for excluding the steam
from the inner tube. By this means, the tendency which
an accession of moisture has to increase the expansions of
certain bodies is obviated. But although the inner tube
may thus effectually protect the specimen under trial from
the humifying influence of the steam, it by no means ob¬
viates the uncertainty of the effects of such humidity as
that body may already contain. For it appears from Mr
Adie’s experiments, that as the temperature increases, the
moisture, as might be expected, gradually evaporates from
the bar under trial into the air which is enclosed with it in
the tube. On this account, if the humidity remaining in
the bar were constant, it might add to the expansion, but
the gradual drying or evaporation of it tends to a contrac¬
tion. Indeed, with respect to bodies which have their
dimensions affected by a change of humidity, it seems very
doubtful if the experiments with slender rods, the humidity
of which is so easily altered, can be regarded as determin¬
ing the expansion by heat of such blocks of the same sub¬
stance as are massy, and have the humidity comparatively
constant.
It is further to be observed, that in heating with steam,
it only occasions an unnecessary expenditure of heat to
allow a continued current, or indeed any quantity, of the
steam to run waste or escape from the pyrometer, except
as much as is sufficient at first merely to expel, through
proper apertures, the air from the apparatus ; after which
the closer everything can be kept so much the better. It
seems to have been owing to the employment of a conti¬
nually escaping current, that Mr Adie found it difficult to
maintain a temperature higher than 20 <01 ahrenheit; w hei e-
1 In Itamsden’s machine, the microscopes look horizontally; but their connection with the other parts is so complex that we could scarce!}
pretend to make them intelligible, without diagrams and a very long detail.
2 Transactions of the Royal Society of Edinburgh, vol. xiii. p. 354, where it is described at great length, with an account oi experiments,
which, however, were made chiefly on building materials, from the temperature of 50° Fahrenheit, up to 207°. . Some of the results are also
given under the article Heat. It is neither said, nor is it at all likely, that the expansion of any of the stones which had a laminar texture was
ever tried in the direction perpendicular to the scales or plates composing them. For the specimens being long slender slips or rods, their parts
could scarcely have stuck together had their component plates run across. At any rate, the expansion was only tried in one direction, namel},
in that which happened to lie in the length of the rod. But there is reason to think that, with the exception of bricky perhaps, and a few
other amorphous bodies, almost every building material is likely to expand at different rates in its different linear dimensions. Such is know n
to be the case with certain bodies, particularly calcareous spar, which is said to expand in one dimension whilst it contracts in another. Aow,
since some of the marbles which had been heated in these experiments were found to have thereby acquired a permanent increase of length, we
have been led to conjecture whether the caverns which abound in calcareous rocks may not be,'in a great measure, owing to their having ex¬
panded permanently, but at different rates in their different dimensions.
yrometer.
PYROMETER.
l-luc’s
)mpensat-
ig rods.
brda’s
easuring
lies.
as, it sufficient care be taken to regulate the heat of the
boiler, a single pipe connecting the boiler with a proper
air-tight vessel in the pyrometer is all that is required,
provided that pipe be sufficiently wide, and so inclined as
readily to restore to the boiler all the water formed by the
condensation ol the steam. A regulating stop-cock may
also be useful in the connecting pipe.
In order to ascertain the relative expansions of different
materials for the construction of compensating pendulums,
or what length of one material would by its expansion ac¬
curately compensate a certain length of another, Deluc
suspended the one bar from an arm projecting horizontal¬
ly from an upright deal plank; and the other bar he sup¬
ported by resting its lower end upon a small cock or stage
projecting from the lower end of the former bar. Whilst
the first or hanging bar, therefore, expanded downward by
heat, the second or standing bar expanded upward. A
microscope was attached to the plank in such a manner
that, while it was constantly supported by an horizontal arm,
and directed horizontally to the standing bar, it could be
shifted up or down the deal plank. When, therefore, heat
was applied to the bars, and, by repeatedly shifting the
microscope up or down the plank, a point was found in
the standing bar which was neither raised nor depressed
by the changes of temperature, the compensation w&s ex¬
act, or the respective lengths of the two bars (reckoning
that of the standing bar from its base up to the im-
moveable point) were inversely as the rates of their expan¬
sions. The plank would remain nearly at the same tempe¬
rature during the experiments, or it might be kept so by
such means as are pointed out by the ingenious author, in
his account of these and other experiments, described in
the Philosophical Transactions for 1777. This method,
however, Deluc owed to a hint which had been previ¬
ously given him by Ramsden. A similar process has fre¬
quently been employed for testing and adjusting the com¬
pensation of the gridiron and other pendulums, after the
parts are put together ; namely, by finding when the posi¬
tion of a point in the pendulum, situated as near as can
be found to the centre of oscillation, is not affected by a
change of temperature.
In the grand operation of measuring a base for deter¬
mining the great meridian arc in France, Borda combined
metallic measuring rods in such a manner, that they indi¬
cated directly of themselves, and with more certainty than
could be done with thermometers, their own variations
both of temperature and of length. A rule of platina
twelve feet long was attached, by one of its extremities, to
a rule of brass somewhat shorter, which rested freely on
its surface, when placed horizontally. Towards the loose
end of the brass rule there were traced on the platina rule
very exact linear divisions, the parts of which were mil¬
lionths of the total length of this rule. Ihis end of the
brass rule carried a vernier, whose coincidences with the
platina graduations were observed with a microscope. Now
the dilatations of the platina being much smaller than those
of the brass for the same changes of temperature, the vernier
of the brass rule behoved to be incessantly changing its
coincidence from one division to another, according as the
temperature varied. Borda availed himself of these changes
749
their lengths to what they should be at the standard tern- Pyrometer,
perature. But, after all, we suspect that if the upper of
these rules was at any time more exposed than the lower
to the aspect of the sky, it might be somewhat more cool¬
ed by radiation; and the sun, again, would have just the
opposite effect of heating the upper more than the lower.
By means of a simple and ingenious process, Dulong Dulong's
and Petit compared the expansions of the volumes of and Petit*
several solid bodies with those of air and mercury. Hav-exPer*‘
ing ascertained the absolute dilatation of mercury by heatim "!
in respect of the indications of an air-thermometer, from
observing the unequal heights at which the mercury stood
when at different temperatures in the two legs of an in¬
verted glass syphon, they next measured the apparent di¬
latation of mercury in a glass tube. The difference gave
them the absolute dilatation of the glass. Every kind of
glass which they tried was found to dilate at the same rate ;
a result in which some are not disposed to acquiesce. The
dilatation of iron, copper, and platina was determined by
placing a rod of each metal of a known volume and weight
in the axis of a glass tube shut at one end, and having
only a capillary opening left at the other. The remain¬
ing space in the tube being then filled up with mercury,
the tube was heated to different temperatures, and the
quantity of the mercury noted which was in each case ex¬
pelled from the tube. It is obvious that the volume of the
mercury thus driven out is equal to the expansions of the
mercury and of the solid metal, minus the expansion of the
glass. With the exception of the groundless objections
of Mr Crichton, which are noticed farther on, this method
of Dulong and Petit is, so far as we know, universally ac¬
quiesced in; but since it merely gives the expansion of
the volume, there is no reason to think that it can afford ac¬
curate data for estimating the linear dilatation of bodies;
because it assumes that they expand at precisely the same
rate in every direction, or in all their linear dimensions.
Indeed, the greater part of the direct experiments on
linear expansions which have been put on record, lose
much of their value from involving this assumption ; for it
has been ascertained of certain bodies, that they expand
very differently in their different dimensions ; and probably
something of the sort holds of most bodies. Nay, some
are said to contract in one dimension, whilst they expand
in another. Besides, every article which has been more
or less compressed by having, whilst comparatively cold,
undergone such operations as hammering, rolling, or wire¬
drawing, may, on after exposure to heat, be expected to
acquire some permanent enlargement, and one too which,
on account of the unequal compression, is likely to be very
different in the different dimensions. Many fine astrono¬
mical and optical instruments we suspect to be liable to
derangement from this source. Various cases of perma¬
nent expansions will be found noticed in the course of this
article. . .
Amongst the earlier attempts at ascertaining high tern- Aclmrd *
peratures, M. Achard constructed a pyrometer which is pyrometer,
quite in the form of a common thermometer. 1 he ball and
tube are of semi-transparent porcelain, highly baked. They
contain a very fusible alloy, consisting of two parts pt
bismuth, one of lead, and one of tin, which, though solid
at low temperatures, becomes liquid about 212° Tahren-
to know at every instant the common temperature of the^ heit” and'then, as the heat increases from that upward, it
two bars, and also the ratio of the absolute expansions ol neit, ., simjiai.iv to mercury, and is
the two metals. The values of the v^r"ier seXdirough the ^emi-transparent tube, which is gradu-
degrees of the thermometer, had-been pie o y ated> Xhere seeras scarcely any limit to the temperature
tamed from noting the change which took p ace^ ^ ^ vvhich this kind of instrument could be extended, pro-
first surrounding the compound bar with ™e ^ ^ded only a material could be got for forming a ball and
afterwards placing it in boiling water. It wa , , . ,j Eoct nnrl also admit of
sufficient to read the indications of this metallic thermo¬
meter, in order to learn both the actual temperature o t le
bars in the atmosphere, and also what compensation was
to be made in the measuring rods or chains, to reduce
tube which would both bear the heat and also anmit of
the liquid metal being seen through it. There would be
no difficulty of finding a less fusible alloy ; and were there
no risk of its oxidation or evaporation, it might be put
750 PYROMETER.
Pyrometer, into an open though perfectly opaque tube, in which a
float might indicate the extent of the expansion by its top
rising above the open-end. But it would still be desirable
to ascertain, if possible, the value of the degrees of this
and every other pyrometer, in terms of the common ther¬
mometer.
Air pyro- It is long since the expansion of air had been proposed
meter. jjy iy[t Schmidt as a measure of high temperatures. This
was afterwards suggested by Dr Ure, and still later by
Mr Mill, who proposed to employ for that purpose a dif¬
ferential thermometer having one ball and half the tube
of platina, and the other ball and half tube of glass. The
platina ball being put into the furnace, it is supposed that
the instrument would indicate the excess of the heat with¬
in over that of the external air. Such might at first sight
appear to be a very convenient pyrometer, but it stands
greatly in need of improvement; because, unless for small
differences of temperature, a differential thermometer can¬
not continue to give the difference of two thermometers
indicating the temperatures of the respective balls. Nei¬
ther can this method afford data for computing the tem¬
perature of the platina ball, unless the temperatures of
the other parts were first accurately known, which is far
from being the case. For although, to ascertain the tem¬
perature of the glass ball with tolerable accuracy, it would
only require to be immersed in a bath along with a ther¬
mometer, which however could not be so easily done if
the whole tube were straight, as proposed by Mr Mill;
yet since a large proportion of the included air would ne¬
cessarily be contained in the tube, it would be next to im¬
possible to allow for its temperature, because that would
vary through all the degrees intermediate between the
temperatures of the two balls. Perhaps the most correct
apparatus yet employed on this principle, and in which
precautions are used to avoid the errors now mentioned,
is that of Mr Prinsep, described farther on, for ascertain¬
ing the melting points of his pyrometric alloys, in terms of
the scale of the common air-thermometer. But Schmidt’s
scheme, as described in Nicholson’s Journal (vol. xi. p.
141), comes nearer the mark than any of the other two.
Schmidt and Mill seem to have taken it for granted that a
bulb of platina could be as easily formed as one of-glass;
but of this Dr Ure probably had some doubt; for he sug¬
gests that the platina might be formed into a hollow cylin¬
der having the tube screwed irr, like that of a tobacco-pipe.
Perhaps the ends, too, might be screwed in. Mr Prinsep’s
bulb being of gold, could only be used at temperatures be¬
low the melting point of that metal.
The determination of the temperature of furnaces is an
important question; but until nearly twenty years ago, when
Professor Daniell took up the subject, the only instrument
in repute for this purpose was Mr Wedgwood’s pyrometer ;
“ the indications of which,” says Mr Prinsep, “ are assumed
in every chemical work as authority for some doctrines
relative to the scale of temperature which savour of the
marvellous, and for others which a slight practical ac¬
quaintance with metals and crucibles must at all times
have proved to be fallacious.” The principle on which
this pyrometer depends is vague and uncertain in the ex¬
treme, namely, the permanent contraction of certain alu¬
minous clays, when exposed to an intense heat. For it has
been found, that the amount of the contraction, even of
the same clay, so far from being in exact proportion to the
intensity of the heat, as assumed by Mr Wedgwood, de¬
pends very much on the duration of the process, so that
long-continued exposure to an inferior temperature pro¬
duces as great a contraction as if the clay had been sub¬
mitted for a shorter time to a more intense heat. This Pyromet<
instrument has of course served its day, and gone into dis-
use.
There are many igneous operations, such as enamelling,
assaying, those of the foundery, &c. which furnish tests,
of themselves, on which the workman can generally place
considerable confidence, though some of these require to
be used with great caution. Thus, the colour which heat
produces on the surfaces of metals furnishes a somewhat
deceptive criterion of the temperature or temper; be¬
cause the particular colour depends very much on the du¬
ration of the exposure to the heat. For example, a piece
of hardened steel may become quite blue, if long enough
exposed to a heat which is too low to produce the suppos¬
ed corresponding effect in tempering or reducing the hard¬
ness.
In the Quarterly Journal of Science (vol. xi. p. 309), DanielFs
Professor Daniell has described an ingenious instrument, pyrometer,
of his own invention, with which he has ascertained the
fusing points of various metals, and which has served to
overturn the catalogues of high temperatures deduced by
means of Wedgwood’s pyrometer, and so long occupying
a place, with standard authority, in every chemical work.1
But from the journal just cited it has now become un¬
necessary to draw any further account of Mr Daniell’s
pyrometer, because he has since made great improve¬
ments upon it, as described by him in the Philosophical
Transactions for 1830 and 1831, and in his revised version
of the same in the Philosophical Magazine for 1831 and
1832.
This instrument we regard as a very important one, but
still labouring under several imperfections, and susceptible
of great improvements, some of which will be particularly
noticed, after giving a general description. It consists of
two distinct parts : The register, which alone is to be ex¬
posed to the heat, and is also to preserve an indication of
the expansion of the material under trial; and the scale,
which is not so exposed to the heat, but only measures
the expansion upon the register after, the latter has cooled.
The former of these, represented in fig. 1, Plate CCCCXIX.
consists of a bar of blacklead earthenware A A., eight
inches long, seven tenths broad, and of the same thickness,
cut out of a common blacklead crucible. In this is drilled
a hole B B, three tenths of an inch in width, and seven and
a half inches deep ; and about six tenths of an inch in
length of the substance of this bar is cut away from its
side next the open end at C C, by a plane running along
the axis of the bore. When this blacklead register is held
upright, and a rod of any material 6-5 inches long is drop¬
ped into the bore, it rests against the solid end; and then
upon the top of this rod is set a cylindrical piece of porce¬
lain D D, about 1*5 inch long, which Mr Daniell calls the
index, and which, projecting into and beyond the open
part, is firmly held to its place by a ring or hoop of pla¬
tina, E E, which, passing round the blacklead bar, and
over the piece of porcelain, is made to press upon the lat¬
ter with any required degree of tension, by means of a small
wedge of porcelain, F F, inserted between the bar and the
platina ring. When the apparatus, so arranged, is expos¬
ed to a high temperature, the expansion of the rod under
trial will obviously force the index D forward through a
very small space, equal to the excess of its own expansion
over that of the blacklead ; and after the register has again
cooled, the index will be left nearly at the point of great¬
est elongation. According to Mr Daniell, the exact indi¬
cation of this amount is not in the least affected by any
permanent contraction which the blacklead may undergo
1 borne of these extravagantly high numbers had been previously questioned by Morveau, in the papers which he published on his very im¬
perfect platina pyrometer, in the Annates de Chimie for 1803, tome xlvi., and in the Memoires de I’Xnstitut for 1808 and 1811.
PYROMETER.
751
Pyrometer, at a high temperature, because he assumes any such con-
v ' traction to occur at the moment of the greatest expansion
of the metal, and the index, in consequence, still to mark
its point of farthest extension upon this contracted basis.
We are not, however, so clear on this point; but admitting
it at present, the problem wrould now consist in the accu¬
rate measurement of the distance through which the in¬
dex has been shifted from its original position. For this
purpose, the scale, fig. 2, is constructed of two rules of
brass G G and H H, joined together at a right angle by
their edges, and fitting square upon two sides of the black-
lead bar A A, and of about half its length. From the end
of this double rule a small bracket, I, of brass, projects at a
right angle, and which, when the two sides of the rules
are applied to the two sides of the register, is brought
close to the shoulder formed by the notch cut away at its
open end, and the whole may thus be steadily adjusted to
the blacklead bar by three planes of contact. Upon the
outside of this frame, another and much larger brass rule
K K, is firmly attached to it by the screws L L. This rule,
projecting beyond the frame, and being turned up at the
end M, about half an inch, so as to bring that end oppo¬
site the cavity in the blacklead bar when applied to it,
supports a moveable arm, N, exactly 5-5 inches long, turn¬
ing, at its fixed extremity, upon a centre near M, and at
its other end carrying an arc of a circle O O, accurately
divided into degrees and thirds of a degree, whose radius
is exactly five inches. At P, the centre of this arc, upon
the arm N, and, of course, at the distance of half an inch
from the other centre M, turns another lighter arm Q,
whose length being five inches, equals the radius of the
circular arc O O, and one end of which carries with it
a vernier a, which moves upon the face of the arc, and
thereby subdivides the former graduation into minutes.
The otlier end projects half an inch beyond the centre,
P; and at the exact distance of one tenth of the radius
Pa, and which equals the interval between the two centres
of motion, it carries an obtuse steel point b, turned in¬
wards at a right angle. This part of the apparatus may
be regarded as a pair of proportional compasses attached
to the end of the brass rule and frame, and whose longer
legs N and Q., carrying the arc and vernier, are to the
shorter, carrying the point b, as ten to one; and the open¬
ing of the shorter being regarded as a chord of a small
circle, is enlarged in the same proportion by the longei,
and measured upon a scale. A small steel spring m m,
let into the larger arm N, is made to press upon a little
pin ?/, in the smaller arm Q, so as to adjust the yermei
a to the commencement of the graduation ; and when
forced back, it tends to restore it to its original position.
A small lens i is represented as folded down, but may, y
means of the joints k and l, be raised to be directly oyei
the vernier, to facilitate the reading of the divisions w uc i
coincide. . . • r
In fig. 3, A is an iron tube about two inches dia-
meter, and closed at the bottom. B is a blacklead tube,
closed at the top, and fitted into the mouth of the formei
one by grinding. C is a smaller blacklead tu e projec
ing frorn the side of the latter, and likewise fitted in by
grinding. The whole forms a kind of alembic, m which
mercury may be easily boiled, without either loss, or an¬
noyance to the operator, by the escape of the vapom.
When the register containing a rod of some substance
under trial was put within the iron tube, and tl,e remai"'"§
space filled with mercury, the boiling of the la tei served
the purpose of a thermometer, showing when the tempe
rature reached about 662° Fahrenheit.
it, and secured in its place by the platina‘ring E and por- Pyrometer,
celain wedge F. The scale part is then to be applied by s-~'v—
carefully adjusting the brass rules GG, HH, to the sides
of the blacklead, and pressing the cross piece I upon the
shoulder. Holding the whole together steadily in the left
hand, the moveable arm Q should be so placed that the
steel point b of the short arm may rest upon the end of
the porcelain index D, against which it will be pressed
with some force by the spring m ; then, moving the arm
gently forward with the right hand, the point b will slide
upon the end of the index till it drops into a small cavity
formed for its reception, and which is in a line with the
axis of the rod under trial in the register and the centre
M on the brass rule. The minute of the degree must
then be noted, which the vernier a indicates upon the
graduated arc. A similar measurement must be made
after the register has been exposed to an increased tem¬
perature and has cooled again; and the number of de¬
grees or minutes which the vernier may then mark, will,
by a simple calculation from the known length of the radii
and angle, give the length of the chord comprised between
the original position of the point b and the point to which
it has been shifted, namely, the distance over which the
index has been moved by the expansion.
But the preceding description, which contains the sub¬
stance of Mr Daniell’s view of the matter, is by no means
even theoretically correct in the mode of computing the
extent of the expansion. For Mr Daniell assumes that
the above-mentioned chord of the small arc intercepted
between the two positions of the point b, is always accu¬
rately in the same direction with the axis of the bore in
the blacklead; whereas nothing can be more evident than
that it must be owing to mere chance if it is ever so at all.
Nor do we know any direct method of insuring that the
chord shall have that direction. The problem obviously
requires that chord to be reduced to the direction of the
bore; and its length so reduced may, in every case, be
obtained from considering that it is equal to the sum or
difference of the sines of the two arcs which measure the
angular deviations of the short arm (or rather of the
straight line joining the centre of motion and the point b)
from being perpendicular to the direction of the bore.
But it is obviously by mere chance if the two arcs happen
to be equal, so as to have the sum of their sines the same
with the chord of their sum, as they are always assumed
to be by Mr Daniell. If the graduated arc had its zero
placed so as to correspond to the perpendicular position of
the shorter arm, the two required arcs could then be
more conveniently read off. When these lie on opposite
sides of the zero, it is the sum of their sines that is to be
used ; but should they happen to be both on one side, the
difference of their sines is to be taken. But in place of
using either sines or chords, it would be preferable great¬
ly to increase the lengths of both arms; and then if suffi¬
cient care were taken to have the shorter arm as nearly
perpendicular as possible to the direction of the bore, the
arc itself comprised between the two positions of the point
b, from its now subtending a much smaller angle, might
generally be taken as the measure of the expansion.
* Mr Daniell, as we have seen, though he admits that
during an experiment a permanent change may occur in
the length of the blacklead, yet alleges that his results
are not affected thereby. But since it is in respect of the
shoulder at the mouth of the bore as bearing against the
bracket I that his measures of expansions are taken, it is
evident that the position of the bottom of the bore in re¬
spect of that bracket, and consequently the position of the
index D in respect of the steel point b, must be affected b\
When the expansion of any substance 'S t0p^ons^ wdl the^ull amount of any permanent change in the length of
ed, a rod of it is to be provided, of sue im nlaced the bore of the register. However, it is equally clear that,
" — the rules G end H ntade of sufficient length to adnut
752
PYROMETER.
Pyrometer. 0f the bracket I being placed at their other end, and so as
'"—v to hold against the closed extremity of the blacklead bar,
any permanent change which may have occurred in the
length of the latter at the highest temperature, except in
the mere thickness of its bottom, would not affect the re¬
sult. The effect of any change of temperature on the
brass rules could easily be allowed for, were it at all worth
appreciating.
It will now be sufficiently manifest, without farther ex¬
planation, that instead of using Mr Daniell’s scale-part,
the amount of the expansion, as marked on the register
by the index, might be equally well ascertained by the
turns of a fine screw, as in Smeaton’s pyrometer; or, still
more accurately, by means of the microscopes and micro¬
meter, as used with Ramsden’s pyrometer, and others of
that sort. The expansion might also be approximately
measured by putting the register and index transversely
between two graduated rules about 8-4 inches apart, and
very slightly converging; which is similar to the mode in
which Wedgwood measured his clay pieces.
But we suspect that the porcelain index itself must be
a source of very considerable error or uncertainty, if its
rate of expansion be different from, as it most probably
exceeds, that of the blacklead. For, although it is likely
that some points of the porcelain and blacklead which
were in contact at the highest temperature to which they
have been exposed, w ill continue in contact during and
after the cooling, yet we are left quite in the dark as to
the situation of these points; and consequently, we have
no means of appreciating the length of that part of the
index whose expansion is concerned. Nay,l a similar
uncertainty must, in consequence, attach to the effective
length of the blacklead register. By shortening the length
of the index, these uncertainties might be expected to be
lessened; but it is by no means clear how they could be
entirely obviated, except, perhaps, by using an index and
wedge which should expand at precisely the same rate as
the register does. Could the platina ring be got slightly
to hold upon the register without the aid of a wedge, but
still in such a manner that all the parts of the ring would
slide equally along the register by the pressure of the bar
under trial, the ring itself might serve as the index. In
that case, instead of cutting away any portion from the
side of the register, it would be better merely to cut a
longitudinal slit in it, running quite through the axis of
the bore, for the purpose of receiving and making room
for the motion of a rib to be fixed diametrically in the
ring, and upon which the expanding bar under trial could
act, so as to move all the parts of the ring equally along
the register.
By keeping a rod of platina in the register, exposing it
to heats of various intensities, and ascertaining in each
case the excess of the expansion of the platina over that
of the blacklead, Mr Daniell determined a variety of tem¬
peratures in terms of such excess, which, unfortunately,
is always a very small quantity, that between 32° and
212° Fahrenheit being counted 180 degrees. These re¬
sults, though incomparably nearer the truth than those
obtained by Wedgwood’s pyrometer, must still be more
or less tainted with some of the various errors to which we
have either already alluded, or which are about to be no¬
ticed. But as our limits will by no means admit of fully
discussing all the calculations, and attempting to correct
them, we beg to refer the reader to the originals ; and shall
only attempt such an account of the principal sources of
error as will sufficiently show the truth and importance of
our allegations, which are, besides, applicable to most Eng¬
lish books treating on this subject.
In deducing the numerical results from the experiments
made with his pyrometer, particularly in computing the
expansion of blacklead, Mr Daniell avails himself of the
expansions which Dulong and Petit had obtained by thePyrometi
method already noticed, and these he finds to correspond
surprisingly with his own. But independently of the doubts
already hinted regarding their linear expansions, this agree¬
ment, as we shall presently see, argues nothing in favour
of either determination ; because the comparison has been
made through the medium of a serious mistake, as we shall
now endeavour to explain. The results of Dulong and
Petit just referred to are those of the expansion of mer¬
cury and of several solids, given in the Annales de Chimie
for 1818 (tome vii.), and regarding which they inform
us, that the degrees inserted in the first columns of the
tables are the upper limits of intervals of temperature,
which are each of them reckoned from the freezing point,
or 0° cent. Thus, regarding their Table IV., which bears
more immediately on the present question, and has 100°
and 300° occupying the first column, we are told that it
“ contains the mean dilatation of iron, copper, and platina,
taken at first between 0° cent, and 100°, and then between
0° and 300°.” That is to say, the first line of these dila¬
tations contains the 100th part of the whole expansion for
the interval between 0° and 100° cent., and the second line
the 300th part of the entire expansion for the interval be¬
tween 0° and 300°. Indeed, it is either expressly men¬
tioned or obviously implied in the course of the Memoir,
that every one of their intervals which relate to the ex¬
pansions in question, is reckoned from the freezing point,
and none of them from any higher temperature.
Shortly after Dulong and Petit had published this ac¬
count of their valuable researches on heat, a translation of it
appeared in the Annals of Philosophy (first series, vol.xiii.) ;
and prefixed to the same volume is a Historical Sketch
of the Sciences for 1818, which, amongst other things,
professes to give an abstract of the principal points treated
by Dulong and Petit in the Memoir referred to. But most
unfortunately, in this Sketch, which seems to have been
hastily got up, the results of these learned foreigners
have been sadly misconstrued as far as regards expansion.
For the numbers they have given as the upper limits of
those intervals of temperature, which are each of them
reckoned from the freezing point, are in the Sketch (page
xii.) taken as so many points of temperature, at each of
which I’espectively the expansions of the several bodies for
one degree, as recorded in the other columns of the tables,
take place ; a mistake so egregious, that it quite unhinges
the thing altogether, because the expansion, instead of
being, as in the original, the mean for the whole interval,
is thus made to belong to its highest degree alone. Now
it would seem to have been somehow or other from this
Sketch that Mr Danieil had taken up his leading ideas of
the question ; at least he has adopted a very similar mis¬
construction ; for, in his Table II., which he gives as equi¬
valent to Dulong and Petit’s Table IV. above mentioned,
he has, in place of 300° cent, or 540° Fahrenheit, made
the second interval to be only equal to the first, which is
100° cent, or l80° Fahrenheit, a sense in which similar
temperatures are also erroneously used in the Sketch (p.
xii.). The effect of this unfortunate oversight is to make
the expansions of iron, copper, and platina, especially that
of iron, much smaller in the higher temperatures than Du¬
long and Petit found them to be ; although, for want of
data, we can only compute the effect of the error with cer¬
tainty on the whole interval of 540°, without separating
that of the higher temperature from the lower. Thus, Mr
Daniell, by means of his very laborious but erroneous mode
of computing from the numbers of Dulong and Petit, makes
the linear expansion of 6-5 inches of iron, from 32° to 572°
Fahrenheit, to be only ’025841887 inch. But the expan¬
sion of iron in the unit of volume, as given by Dulong and
Petit for that interval, or from 0° to 300° cent., is ^Itod*
Now, one third of this taken as the linear expansion, and
PYROMETER.
Pyrometer, multiplied by 6-5, becomes -028634361 inch. The error
v or c.Gnciency of the former value is therefore -002792474,
and this would require to be added to -00878 (Mr Daniell’s
expansion of 6-5 inches of blacklead), which will increase
it to '01157. but even this last number, if otherwise cor¬
rect, is still too small, because the expansion above 572°
up to the boiling point ol mercury, to which he carried that
ox the blacklead, ought to have been computed at some
higher rate, but for which we have no data. Such are
specimens of the very erroneous conclusions which the
above unfortunate oversight has led Professor Daniell to
draw from the experiments of Dulong and Petit.
It seems to be from the same source, the Historical
Sketch, that at least nine tenths of all the excerpts or ab-
stiacts that have been written in English, of the experi¬
ments of Dulong and Petit, are scarcely one whit more
correct than the preceding, as far as regards expansion; al¬
though we have met with no such misconstruction of them
in any foreign work. That such errors were verj' pre¬
valent in this country, had been briefly noticed by Mr
Meikle in the Philosophical Magazine for September 1830;
which, if not quite in time to have saved the paper which
Mr Daniell inserted in the Philosophical Transactions of
that year from the errors in question, must have been suffi¬
ciently so for the one of next year, and for his revised ver¬
sion of both afterwards given, with those errors entire, in
the Philosophical Magazine. It is no doubt also from
the Sketch (page xvii.), that in English books, the specific
heat of platina, professedly from Dulong and Petit, is usu¬
ally made -0355 at all temperatures, and therefore often
regarded as a remarkable exception to the general law ;
whereas, between 0° and 100°, the mean value should only
be -0335; the larger number -0355 being the mean for the
whole interval between 0° and 300°. But the Sketch con¬
tains various other inaccuracies ; and some, like the one last
noticed, occur also in the English translation of the Me¬
moir.
In noticing the labours of Dulong and Petit, Professor
Daniell regrets that those able experimenters had not cor¬
rected their final results as to what he considers an impor¬
tant error of calculation, supposed to have been pointed
out by Mr Crichton, regarding the expansion of mercury,
particularly as employed by Dulong and Petit in determin¬
ing the expansions of glass and of several metals, in the
manner which we have briefly described above. It is, per¬
haps, rather unusual for writers of eminence to adopt
any correction of errors, however important or clearly
pointed out; because the public are generally expect¬
ed to imbibe whatever may emanate from such autho¬
rities, and to listen to no insinuations of their being in¬
correct. But the following considerations will, in a great
measure, account for Mr Crichton’s corrections not having
been adopted :—Though it does not seem to be ge¬
nerally known in this country, M. Petit, who had taken
the most active part in these valuable researches, particu¬
larly in the mathematical investigations and calculations,
had died nearly four years before Mr Crichton’s paper
appeared in the Annals of Philosophy for April 1824; so
that M. Petit, who was a young man of great promise, has
long been outlived by his senior and distinguished colleague,
M. Dulong, whose recent decease science has now to de¬
plore. 2c/, We have nothing like satisfactory evidence
that Dulong and Petit have, after all, employed the erro¬
neous modes of calculation imputed to them ; and we shall
soon see that, in at least one ot these, it is Mr Crichton
himself who is in the error. Io determine the expansion
of mercury in glass, Dulong and Petit filled with that fluid
a glass tube which had its open end drawn into a capil-
753
lary tube ; and on heating this from zero up to different Pyrometer,
temperatures, they weighed the corresponding portions of ^
mercury which were expelled. But they have nowhere
said, nor is it so much as even implied in their Memoir,
that they held the increase of volume to be in the exact
i-atio of the weight of mercury expelled, which would be
to neglect the expansion of the expelled portion itself.
This, however, Mr Crichton assumes that they did; and
he thence concludes that they have made the expansion
of mercury in glass, when heated up from zero to 100°
cent., to be too small in the ratio of 63-8 to 64-8. We
have no data for determining how far this supposed error
would affect the expansions of the solid bodies operated
on by Dulong and Petit; though it would no doubt be to
a much smaller extent than that resulting from the above
errors, into which Mr Daniell has himself fallen, in the
temperatures. However, we find that it would but very
slightly derange the indications of a mercurial thermome¬
ter up to 300° cent., or 572° F ahrenheit. For example,
if Dulong and Petit have been right, the series of centi¬
grade temperatures on the common mercurial thermometer
would stand thus: 0°, 100°, 203°-20, 307°-69; and if they
have been wrong, 0°, 100°, 203°-25, 307°-82; we mean in
respect of those on their air-thermometer taken as uniform.
The preceding is by no means the only error with which
Mr Crichton charges Dulong and Petit. Besides other
things of which we have no means of judging, he blames
them for holding the volume of mercury expelled by heat
from the glass tube, to be equal to the absolute expansion of
mercury diminished by the expansion of the glass ; which,
however, is a thing so palpably true, that scarcely any
reasoning can make it clearer than it is. But the extreme
palpability of this does not prevent Mr Crichton from going
on with a process of reasoning sui generis, from which he
concludes, that the expansion of the glass is much smaller
than the difference between the absolute expansion of mer¬
cury and its expansion in glass. Since in this Mr Crich¬
ton has, without doubt, deceived not only himself, but many
of his readers, it may be useful briefly to show how it has
been done. In the first place, he has sadly obscured his
formulae, by representing by unity each of two things of
very different values, more especially since both enter into
the same expression. The one of these is the. expansion
of mercury in glass, and the other the expansion of the
glass alone. The like may be said of his using the term
co-efficient to mean what other people would call a deno-
minator, or, in some cases, a reciprocal. But his principal
error is, that in order to correct the capacity or contents
of the vessel for the expansion of the glass, he makes a
deduction, not from its contents as expanded at 100° cent.,
but from its contents at the freezing point, or at least from
63-8 times what he now uses as the expansion of mercury
in glass; and in the preceding part of his paper he had
made the contents of the vessel at zero to be just equal to
63-8 times the expansion which mercury seems to undergo
in a glass vessel, by being heated from zero to 100° cent.
In this case, therefore, the error lies with Mr Crichton
himself.
The principle of the method employed by Mr Prinsep1 Prinsep’s
for ascertaining high temperatures, particularly those °fP£0^etrlc
furnaces, by means of the least fusible substance each can a oys'
melt, has already been briefly alluded to, and differs very
materially from that of Mr Daniell. The former, which
we shall now describe more in detail, was, after trying va¬
rious plans, fixed upon by Mr Prinsep, as possessing con¬
siderable claims to accuracy, and having the great ad¬
vantage of being identifiable, as he styles it, at any time
and in any part of the world. In other words, it can show
VOL. XVIII.
1 Philosophical Transactions for 1828, p. 82.
5 c
754
PYROMETER.
Pyrometer, when the temperatures or intensities in different cases are
^ equal, though it cannot determine in what ratio tyn^qual^
intensities differ among themselves. The fusing points of
pure metals are determinate and constant; they also com¬
prehend a very extensive range of temperature $ and the
unoxidable or noble metals, gold, silver, and platina, alone
embrace a range from the comparatively low melting point
of silver up to the high ignition of platina. There are, it
is true, only three fixed points in this scale ; but between
these as many more as are requisite may be interpolated,
by alloying those three metals, or rather any two of them
together at a time, in different proportions, though the like
by no means holds with every kind of alloys. When such
a series as that now proposed has been once prepared, the
heat of any furnace may be expressed by the alloy of least
fusibility which it is just capable of melting. Besides the
unity of determinations which such a pyrometer affords,
several other advantages might be mentioned : 1st, The
smallness of the apparatus, nothing more being necessary
than a little cupel, containing, in separate cells, eight or ten
pyrometric alloys, each of the size of a pin s head ; 2d,
the durability of these alloys, since the specimens melt¬
ed in one experiment would need only to be flattened by
the hammer to be again ready for action, because without
some such change of figure it would be uncertain whether
they had again been melted or not; and, 3d, the facility
of notation, since two letters with the decimal of the alloy
would express the maximum heat. Thus, S’3G might be
used for an alloy of seven tenths of silver with three tenths
of gold; and G*23P would express gold containing twenty-
three per cent, of platina. As gold melts at a heat not
very much above that required by silver, Mr Prinsep as¬
sumed only ten degrees between them, distinguishing each
degree by a successive addition in the alloy of ten per
cent, of gold to the pure silver ; the tenth degree being of
course denoted by pure gold. These alloys are easily
made, and require no comment; but to suit more accurate
researches they may be farther subdivided, preserving still,
for convenience, the decimal notation. From the fusing
point of pure gold up to that of pure platina, Mr Prinsep
assumed 100 degrees, adding one per cent, of the latter
metal to the alloy for each successive degree. Now, al¬
though the melting points of the alloys used by Mr Prinsep
apparently bear some relation to the proportions of the
pure metals employed; yet, since the melting point of every
alloy does not so much as lie between those of its compo¬
nent pure metals, but in many cases is lower than either of
them, it must be merely an accidental coincidence, should
any of Mr Prinsep’s degrees correspond to equal incre¬
ments of heat. They will, however, as was betbre obser¬
ved, always indicate the same intensity; and their absolute
values, or even those in terms of the thermometer, being
a matter rather of speculation than of practical interest,
are to be sought for by other expedients, such as compar¬
ing the expansions of a bar of platina with the fusing points
of the alloys.
The following are a few trials which Mr Prinsep made
with his pyrometric alloys in different furnaces and in dif¬
ferent parts of the same furnace. The disparity of heat
is greater than might have been supposed ; and where, as
in assaying the precious metals, so much depends upon the
exact temperature at which that operation is performed,
it would be useful to know every difference in this respect
obtaining in various countries, and its effect upon the qua¬
lity or standard of bullion. The temperatures are denot¬
ed by the least fusible alloys melted in the several cases.
Muffle of an assay furnace, front..... S’OG
Muffle of an assay furnace, middle, average S-3G
Muffle of an assay furnace, behind, average S'5G
Calcutta charcoal, being better than that of Be¬
nares, heats the muffle to ......,...G*04P
Calcutta silver-melting furnaces, of English con- Pyrometer
struction, the specimens being in an iron pot....G'075P^—
Calcutta open native furnace G-06P
Calcutta blast-furnace, for melting musters G-2P
Blacklead table-furnace without chimney   G’OSP
Apex of condensed air blowpipe flame G*2P
Melting point of copper by two trials under a muffle...G'03P
Melting point of cast iron, about G-3P
Highest heat of a forge with the charcoal of Be¬
nares   G-55P
Mr Prinsep says he lays little stress on the melting
points of copper or iron, owing to their being tried on such
a small scale. The alloys of gold and silver lose in weight
by exposure to heat; but they are easily replaced, as the
gold may always be again purified. The platina alloys are
very durable, but they sometimes gain in weight. Mr
Prinsep enters at considerable length into an examination
of the changes which the composition of the alloys under¬
went by repeated fusion ; but whether, or to what extent,
their melting points may be altered thereby, is a question
never once mentioned, though of incomparably more im¬
portance to the present subject.
Having explained the means which Mr Prinsep had
provided for ascertaining the relative heat of a furnace,
we turn to the more interesting portion of his experi¬
ments on pyrometric subjects, namely, the determination
of the melting points of pure silver, and of its alloys
with gold, in degrees of an air-thermometer. But we
shall begin with the description of the apparatus em¬
ployed, which at last satisfied his expectations, and fur¬
nished the results presently to be enumerated. In fig. 4,
Plate CCCCXIX., it is shown in full operation. A re¬
presents a retort or bulb of pure gold, weighing about
6500 grains, and containing nearly ten cubic inches of air.
B is a tube also of pure gold, which at its outer end is
firmly joined by a small gold collar to a similar tube C,
of pure silver ; the bore of the latter tube is larger than
that of the gold ; but to prevent any undue influence from
the unequal heating of the air contained in them both, and to
confine the operation as much as possible to the gold bulb,
the two tubes are nearly filled up by putting in wires of
the same metals, so as to leave only a very minute crevice
for the air to pass. The outer part of the tube C is kept
cool with a wet towel, to protect the stopcocks and flexi¬
ble tube D. This tube D completes the communication
of the air bulb with the glass reservoir E, which is intend¬
ed as a substitute for an inconvenient length of graduated
tube. This reservoir is at first nearly filled with olive oil,
and is furnished with a safety tube and bulb F, into which
the oil rises when the air of the retort A begins to flow,
and has a stopcock below, for the purpose of restoring the
equilibrium of pressure, by drawing out a portion of the
oil. In the collar of the reservoir E, however, there is
another stopcock aperture leading into a graduated glass
tube G, in which a small bubble of oil is made to traverse.
As this tube was very accurately divided into 200ths of
a cubic inch, and may be read off to a tenth of that quan¬
tity, the equilibrium of the pressure is capable of very de¬
licate adjustment. The furnance, as the figure exhibits,
was situated behind a wall in an adjoining apartment, so as
to screen the exterior apparatus entirely from the heat. A
small thermometer in the bulb F, however, serves to note
any minute change of temperature in the reservoir E.
The furnace and muffle need no description, being of the
ordinary assay construction. The little pyrometric cupels
p, p, p, contain alloys of silver and gold, as already de¬
scribed. Fig. 5 represents one of these cupels on a larger
scale, with the lid raised, showing three of the alloys
melted, and the rest retaining their previous form.
Out of the numerous experiments which Mr Prinsep
made with this appafatus, we have selected the few follow-
ryrometen ing results; but for the full details of these and many more,
vve beg to refer to the original description, where they are
given at great length.
PYROMETER.
755
No.
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
Inches.
7'472
7-559
7-106
7-643
7-775
7-620
7-901
7-717
6- 876
7- 851
7-915
7-836
7- 936
8- 088
Inches. (Degrees.
Degrees.
10-410
10-430
10-370
10-442
10-465
10-440
10-480
10-460
10-350
10-475
10-480
10-470
10-490
10-158
1492
1578
1239
1644
1771
1627
1917
1727
1110
1863
1934
1845
1959
2426
Degrees.
90
95
95
94
90
91
94
84
84
90
90
85
86
88
1582
1673
1334
1738
1861
1718
2011
1811
1194
1953
2024
1930
2045
2514
Cupel.
s
s
S-4G
S
S-3G
S-2G
S-1G
S-3G
S-7G
sep was equal to that of a tube 50 feet long, and of the Pyrometer,
same bore as the adjusting tube G. But it is evident thats v
a bulb of gold can only be used at temperatures lower than
its own melting point, so that the temperatures for the less
fusible alloys are left undetermined.
In the course of his pyrometric researches, Mr Prinsep Permanent
repeatedly found that, on heating a cast-iron retort from exPansi°n
80° up to 1800° Fahrenheit, it had, even after having again ?^cast *ron’
become cold, acquired each time a permanent enlargement,
which, by three successive heatings, amounted to fully a the expan¬
ninth part of its original capacity. Each successive in-si°n at cast-
crease, however, was so much less than the preceding, thatinS-
the first heating did nearly as much in that way as both
the other two. It does not appear to have occurred to
Mr Prinsep that there is any connection between such an
augmentation of volume and the expansion which occurs
in the solidification of iron at the casting of it; but we shall
now endeavour to show, that they are just parts of one and
the same process. It is curious, that in almost every book
in which the expansion of iron in congealing is mentioned,
it is, without giving so much as the shadow of reason or
The second column is the volume, in cubic inches, of the air ex¬
pelled from the gold bulb, after all corrections. The third gives the
contents of the heated gold bulb. The fourth contains the expansion
converted into degrees, at the rate of three eighths*for 180 degrees.
The fifth column shows the temperature of the air. The sixth is the
heat of the furnace, being the sum of the fourth and fifth. The seventh
shows the heat of the furnace by the pyrometric cupels. The heat,
in No. 1, exhibited an orange colour; in No. 2, bright orange; No.
3, bright red; No. 4, bright orange ; No. 5, silver wire melted ; No.
9, full red heat; No. 10, fresh air was put into the gold bulb ; and in
No. 11, the cupel at the back of the bulb was S. 3G.
From the construction of the apparatus, it must be evi¬
dent that the temperature is to be deduced from the mea¬
sured volume of air expelled from the heated gold bulb ;
which volume, again, is to be found by the weight of the
oil drawn from the reservoir, together with the adjustment
of the bubble of oil in the graduated glass tube. The ne¬
cessary calculation, however, embraces several corrections,
some of them of minor effect, and of known and certain in¬
fluence, as the formulae for barometrical and thermometri-
cal change, specific gravity of the oil, &c.; others which
may affect materially the results, and are by no means so
certain in their power, such as the expansion of gold at high
temperatures, and the absolute law of gaseous expansion.
This last has been treated at considerable length under the
article Hygrometry (vol. xii. page 114). At high tem¬
peratures a very small difference in the quantity of air
ejected produces a considerable change in the correspond¬
ing temperature ; in other words, this air-thermometer has
the disadvantage of becoming less sensible, in respect of
the scale of the common thermometer, with every increase
of heat; for the portion of air which is expelled from the
hot bulb must necessarily be cooled to a known point be¬
fore it can be measured.1 But this objection, which was
started by Mr Prinsep himself, does not apply to Ins ap¬
paratus in respect of a scale of temperature graduated on
the idea that air expands in geometrical progression for
equal increments of heat, as it has been shown to do in tie
article just cited. The substitution of a reservoir of od oi
mercury in place of a mere graduated tube, is essentia
where the instrument is to be suddenly thrust into t ic
fire, as the rapid motion of a bubble of liquid in a tu e
would either, if of oil, leave it as a film lining the tube, or,
if of mercury, allow a passage for the air past tl1® sllfe.ot
it. The capacity of the reservoir employed by Mr 1 rin-
evidence, said to be momentary or instantaneous. But
in many of the innumerable forms of the castings of iron,
we have often observed cases occurring which cannot be
reconciled with its momentarily expanding in the act of
solidification, unless it also continue to expand consider¬
ably as long as it is kept very hot; and more especially
unless the parts which were first congealed continue to
expand whilst they remain in contact with any of the li¬
quid metal. This impossibility of reconciling the pheno¬
mena with a momentary expansion is particularly remark¬
able, when in the structure of the article cast there occurs
a massy nucleus of metal with arms or leaves of more slen¬
der dimensions proceeding from it. In that case, the inte¬
rior of the nucleus is generally the last in congealing, and
if so, it is almost never quite sound, there being always a
deficiency of metal to.complete such part of the casting
as is last in congealing, which occasions it to be of a spongy
texture, and, perhaps, to have cavities in it of a very differ¬
ent sort from those which are really owing to mere air-
bubbles. Sometimes a cavity is open through the surface,
which may be owing to its occurring so near the outside
that the thin crust is depressed or broken quite through by
the atmospheric pressure. When a hole is cast through
the middle of a massy part of the iron, by means of a pre¬
viously dried core, the metal next the hole is generally
amongst the last in congealing, because such a core has
almost no tendency to cool it; and, therefore, owing to the
foresaid deficiency of metal, the hole where it passes
through the interior is usually wider than the core, and,
perhaps, has one or more cavities branching off from it.
Such cases as have now been instanced are of very com¬
mon occurrence; but to some people they have appeared
so very paradoxical as to lead them to deny that any ex¬
pansion whatever can occur during the casting. At first
si<rht, the sponginess and cavities might, no doubt, be easily
accounted for, as some have pretended to do, by supposing
iron to contract, instead of expanding, at the time of congeal¬
ing. But that an expansion really occurs on that occasion,
is so well attested2 as to be placed beyond any doubt; and,
therefore, such expansion, taken in connection with the pre¬
ceding facts, and the important one noticed by Mr Prinsep,
leaves us no alternative but to conclude, that the final de¬
ficiency of metal is owing to the exterior crust having,
after its own formation, continued to expand, and thereby
„ ,, ,, . l( he expected to {five indications perfectly accordant, those who have kept regis-
1 “ That the air-thermometer,” says Mr Pt^s®P’ 'e Gf the sympiesometer furnishes no authority on the subject; because one very
ters of the sympiesometer will be ready to grant. j„ 0f correcting it for temperature, which is such that its indications can
good reason for its own Uhle ^ o^her objection.
MulelTfh. Philosophical Magazine, vol. xviii. p. 1, **
756
P Y R
P Y R
Pyropho- to acquire a greater capacity within than the mere ex*
rus pansion of the interior parts at the time of their congela-
M tion enables them to fill up.1 The sponginess and cavities
techny. 80 often occur in the texture of the iron in the in-
y . > terior parts of an unbored cannon, and in those of shot,
seem readily referrible to the same source.
Water and iron are usually supposed to follow similar
laws of congelation, but their phenomena are certainly very
difterent; for water, in place of continuing to expand, as
iron may do, for an indefinite time, seems to cease to ex¬
pand as soon as it assumes the solid form. We have often
observed, that on exposing water in a thin vessel during
intense frost, the exterior parts congeal first all around,
next the vessel as well as on the top, so as to incase com¬
pletely the remaining liquid with a crust of ice, which at
length bursts, perhaps the vessel too, and part of the water
escapes through the fissures. This no doubt is owing partly
to the atmospheric pressure having prevented such crust
from ever being larger than just to contain the water, and
partly!!to the interior parts expanding subsequently to the
crust having ceased to expand ; so that, in place of a defi¬
ciency, there is here an excess of material within. On the
contrary, nothing like bursting ever occurs in the case of
iron; though frequently it happens that its more slender
parts, in cooling, crack or break spontaneously, from their
not having been able to preserve a temperature sufficiently
high to continue the permanent part of the expansion so
long after congelation as the rest has done, and also from
their contracting sooner than the rest by the more sudden
cooling. That the temporary part of the whole expansion
which obtains in cast iron at a high temperature, is so great
as to exceed the permanent part, appears from the subse¬
quent contraction which occurs in cooling, as displayed by
the well-known fact, that any lengthy casting is always
sensibly shorter than its pattern ; notwithstanding that the
walls or inner surfaces of the moidd, especially when form¬
ed of soft materials, have, by yielding to the weight of the
liquid iron, and to the just-mentioned permanent part of
the expansion, made room for some addition to all the
dimensions of the pattern ; so that the breadth, thickness,
or such other of these dimensions as are small, generally
exceed the corresponding ones of the pattern. From Mr
Prinsep’s experiments, however, we may learn the very
important caution, that after trying to what extent any
substance has been expanded whilst hot, it should also be
ascertained whether any of its dimensions have thereby
undergone any permanent change. Some of the stories
so often repeated regarding remarkable exceptions to the
general laws of expansion, are very likely referrible to this
kind of source. Thus, glass vessels have sometimes been
PYROPHORUS, formed of fire, and <ps^u, I bear,
the name usually given to a chemical preparation which
possesses the singular property of kindling spontaneously
when exposed to the open air, or when breathed upon.
There are various kinds of pyrophorus.
PYROTECHNY, from crug, fire, and art. The
usual modern meaning of the word is the art of making fire¬
works, and ot disposing them to the best advantage when
exhibited on occasions of rejoicing, or in theatres, gardens,
and other places. A moment’s consideration will show how
observed to acquire a permanent enlargement by lotig ex- Pyro-
posure to heat; and, in many researches, such a change in techny
the vessel is apt to be mistaken for one of the opposite Y'"'"
sort in any fluid it may contain. The case noticed by Mr
Prinsep being that of a little iron retort, the mass w'ould
be small and the metal thin ; and, therefore, at the time it
had been cast, it must have cooled so soon that it could
then have had almost no opportunity of continuing to ex¬
pand permanently after its solidification. Hence, on being
afterwards heated by Mr Prinsep, it would likely be in a
state to expand so much the more. For, supposing the
volume to undergo no change from oxidation or other che¬
mical action, it is probable that long-continued annealing
at a high temperature would give to cast iron a volume
which it would not afterwards exceed, unless exposed to a
still greater heat. On this principle, it might be supposed
that a sufficient annealing might expand all the parts in
the same ratio, and thereby ultimately fill up all the va¬
cancies of the interior; but the rigidity of the iron puts
this out of the question ; and at any rate, granting that
the annealing did bring the parts quite close together, they
would not likely be united by cohesion at a heat so far
below that required for welding.
The preceding view of the subject, we presume, will be
found to trace to a common source, and thereby to re¬
concile in a satisfactory manner, the various phenomena
above mentioned, which depend upon the permanent ex¬
pansion of cast iron, and have so often been regarded as
paradoxical. The continued enlargement of the crust is
most probably owing to some change of texture or ar¬
rangement, such as crystallization occurring not only, as
is usually supposed, at the instant of congelation, and
perhaps, too, before it, but continuing to go on in the solid
part of the iron for a long while after, if it be kept suffi¬
ciently hot; and the nature of the mould very likely mo¬
difies this result, as it certainly does several others. Thus,
a piece of iron cast in a metallic mould, being more sud¬
denly cooled than if cast in sand, is much harder, and
has, besides, a very different texture. But whilst it is not
improbable that the contact of the metallic mould may be
equally or more favourable to a particular arrangement of
the particles, such process will be so much the sooner stifled
by the more sudden cooling. As to wrought iron, its frac¬
ture sometimes exhibits a crystalline texture, which is a
particularly bad symptom of its strength, but one, perhaps,
which may have some connection with a permanent ex¬
pansion. Bismuth and antimony are known to expand at
the time of congealing ; but how closely in this respect
they may resemble cast iron, has not, as far as we know,
been ascertained. (e. e. e.)
very comprehensive a term pyrotechvy may become if ex¬
tended to all operations in which the skilful management of
fire is required. It was anciently confined chiefly to al¬
chemy, or incipient chemistry.2
Under the term pyrotechny we may properly enough in¬
clude the making of the difterent sorts of gunpowder, and
the preparation of all those combustible or detonating ma¬
terials and projectiles used in war ; but then it should be
distinguished by the adjunct military. Military pyrotechny
will then serve only to indicate a portion of one of the
1 r Prinsep not only never hints at there being any connection between the expansion which occurs in casting, and that which he ob¬
served ; but the following quotation from the Philosophical Transactions for 1828, page 87, besides being curious, and the only remark he
has made on the subject, sufficiently shows that he had no idea of the nature of the latter increase. “ The augmentation,” says he, “ which
is more remarkable, exceeds the dilatation due to the temperature to which it was exposed ; for as iron expands ‘0105 in 180 degrees, the in¬
crease of bulk upon 10 cubic inches should be T 05 X 3 = -315 at 1800° Fahrenheit, or near the melting point of silver ; whence it may be
concluded that the dilatation of iron is not equable, as has been also proved by Messrs Dulong and Petit.” We shall only add, that the expe¬
riments of these distinguished foreigners having been made on wrought iron, it is very doubtful if they bear on the question of permanent ex¬
pansion. - 1
* bee Davidsons PhihsophiaPyrotechnica, &c. 1635 ; and G. Starkey’s Pyrotechny Asserted and Illustrated, &c. 1658.
Pyro-
teihuy.
P Y R
most deplorable arts ever invented, that is, the art of war.
/ , ^ miserable necessity ot this art is, however, a matter
of daily experience in the present state of human nature
and unsocial relations; also the unhappy and slavish con-
dition of all nations which are not able, by skill in this dia¬
bolical art, to resist effectually the aggressions of their in¬
vaders.1
We do not mean to give an account of the various sub¬
stances, mixtures, and manipulations necessary in the con¬
struction of different fire-works ; but, for the reader’s amuse¬
ment and instruction, we shall mention a few things which
are not generally known, and then conclude with the titles
of a few works upon pyrotechny.
The combinations of the different substances employed
in the pyrotechny connected with fire-works ought to be
guided by a chemical knowledge of these substances. The
want of this knowledge causes most of our fire-workers to
compound ineffective mixtures, and to follow old and ab¬
surd recipes. Great skill in pyrotechny, in its more ge¬
neral sense, was possessed by the Chinese long before the
art was known in Europe. The invention of gunpowder
seems to be due to them, and perhaps also the invention of
fire-works. All those persons we ever conversed with who
had been in China, concurred in assuring us that the Chi¬
nese fire-w7orks are at this day quite unrivalled in variety,
splendour, and beauty. In the account of Lord Macart¬
ney’s Embassy to China there is an amusing passage de¬
scribing the contempt of the Chinese for the best English
fire-works that were exhibited to them, and the astonish¬
ment of the embassy on witnessing the superb display of
fire-works given by the Chinese in return. The most im¬
posing exhibitions of European fire-works used to be those
that took place annually at Rome, during certain holidays,
on the ramparts of the Castle of St Angelo.
We shall now give a very few notices of practical pyro-
techny.
Lightning.—The fine seeds of the lycopodium clavatum,
or common club-moss, are extremely inflammable, and
are used in theatres to imitate a vivid flash of lightning,
by blowing them from a tube, &c. through the flame of a
lamp, &c. These seeds are also used in the composition of
some fire-works.
Red Fire.—The nitrate of strontia is the chief ingre¬
dient in the composition. A beautiful purplish flame is
produced by a composition containing chlorate of strontia.
To aid in reddening the flame of the former composition,
a little lamp-black of the finest quality is generally used ; for
a red jet of fire from a paper-case formed like that of a ser¬
pent, or of a Roman candle, &c., fifteen parts of pulve¬
rized gunpowder and four parts of dry nitrate of strontia;
a slow and bright-red fire, tbrty parts of nitrate of strontia,
thirteen of pulverized sulphur, five of chlorate of potash,
and four of sulphuret of antimony. In this last mixture,
to avoid the danger of premature combustion, the chlorate
of potash must not be ground in a mortar with the other
ingredients, but ground separately, and afterwards mixed
with them by shaking and stirring upon a sheet of paper.
Green Fire.—Seventy-seven parts of nitrate of barytes,
thirteen of pulverized sulphur, five of chlorate ot potash,
three of charcoal in powder, and two of pure arsenic.
The same precautions to be taken as before with regard
to the chlorate of potash. The effect of this composi¬
tion, when burned on the stage of a theatre, is to give a
cadaverous and unearthly aspect to the actors. It occui-
red to us many years ago, that an extension of some of
the effects of De Loutherbourg’s Fidophusikon might be
easily and effectively adapted to the stage. Wheie the
foot-lights are, or else above the proscenium or front of the
P Y II
stage, an apparatus might be contrived to throw variously-
coloured lights upon the actors and the scenery in the re¬
presentation of magical incantations, supernatural appear- '
ances, &c. The disposition and reflection of these va¬
riously-coloured lights might be diversified in such a man¬
ner as to produce the most singular contrasts and unex¬
pected effects.
Brilliant and sparkling jets of Fire These are pro¬
duced from compositions rammed into paper-cases of va¬
rious sizes. One of these compositions may consist of eigh¬
teen parts of pulverized gunpowder, five of bright steel-
filings,_ and two of saltpetre; another of sixteen parts of
pulverized gunpowder, seven of steel-filings, one of salt¬
petre, and one of sulphur.
Sparks—The composition for these is mixed with pure
alcohol. Small pellets of cotton are steeped in this mix¬
ture, and dried, after rolling them in pulverized gunpowder.
Stars—Very brilliant stars, such as we see issue from
sky-rockets, Roman candles, &c., may be made from a
composition of one part of alcohol, one of antimony in
powder, two of pounded crystal, one of gum-arabic, two of
pulverized gunpowder, fifteen of saltpetre, six of sulphur,
and two of zinc-filings. The composition for these and
other stars is made into a stiff paste with alcohol, and then
cut into small cylindrical or square pieces, which are rolled
in pulverized gunpowder, and dried in the shade.
Brilliant Chinese Fire—Four parts of charcoal, five of
pounded cast iron, eight of pulverized gunpowder, six of
saltpetre, six of sulphur ; or three parts of pounded cast
iron, eight of pulverized gunpowder, two of saltpetre, and
one of sulphur ; all rammed into paper-cases or other cases.
Jasmine Flowers.—This beautiful fire is generally seen
in the vertical fire-wheels, &c. When the composition is
well made, the sparks drop down somewhat like burning
flowers of the jasmine. Its excellence depends chiefly
on the use, in the composition, of bright filings or raspings
from the steel-springs of clocks or watches, carefully de¬
prived of all the finer dust that may be amongst them. The
minute shavings of steel, procured from turners in metal,
may also be used. Compositions for this kind of fire,
six parts of steel-filings or shavings, sixteen of pulverized
gunpowder, one of saltpetre, one of sulphur ; or five parts
of same filings, &c., sixteen of pulverized gunpowder, one
of saltpetre, one of sulphur ; or four parts of filings, twenty
of pulverized gunpowder, one of saltpetre, one of sulphur,
and four of zinc-filings or raspings, or pounded zinc ren¬
dered pulverizable by being heated to about 205 of the
centigrade scale. The compositions for the Chinese fire
and the jasmine flowers are to be mixed up in the same
manner. The sulphur, the pounded cast iron, or the steel-
filings, are mixed w ith the addition of a little pure alcohol,
and then the other ingredients are added. It must be ob¬
served, that the size of the particles of pounded cast iron or
of steel-filings should be proportioned to the size of the
cases that are to be filled with the composition; the small¬
est filings, &c. being used for the smallest cases.
Bengal Lights.—The common ones are made of one
part of antimony, five of saltpetre, and two of sulphur ; the
sparkling ones, of one part of antimony, two of fulminating
composition (of fulminating mercury and gunpowder), four
of saltpetre, and four of sulphur; or one, two, five, two
parts of the same ingredients in their order; or one, two,
six, one parts of the same in their order. Vases are filled
with these compositions, a light gunpowder dust sprinkled
over the top, and the whole closed up by a piece of paper
pierced with some holes from which pieces of quick-match
project. These lights may be made of any size. They
sometimes weigh upwards of 200 pounds.
rot
Pyro¬
techny.
1 See the articles Gusneky, Guspotoeb, PiiOJECTiEES, 'Wah.
758
r y r
Pyro-
techny.
It is necessary to warn the reader that fulminating mer¬
cury requires great caution in handling it; and, as it is so
' apt to explode, it had better be left out of the composition
for these lights, or any other fire-works. Indeed the pyro¬
technist has need to exercise the greatest possible caution
in all his operations. For instance, it may, in ignorance,
be imagined that no harm can happen from pounding gun¬
powder in a mortar along with iron or steel-filings, &c. and
yet the most serious accidents may result from manipula¬
tions of this kind incautiously conducted.
One of the most formidable pyrotechnical inventions is
the Congreve rocket. We have conversed with some offi¬
cers who served in the war against the Burmese, and they
described the effect of these rockets as appaling, not only
to the Burmese, but even to the stout-hearted Britons who
fired them off.
Without entering into any very minute description of
the process of making such popular fire-works as the com¬
mon sky-rocket, the Roman candle, &c. we shall content
ourselves with a brief account of the general construction
of these two. The common sky-rocket consists of a strong
paper or thin pasteboard case, the lower end of which,
where the cotton quick-match is inserted, is drawn so
close by means of a cord as to leave only a circular open¬
ing of about one third of the interior diameter of the case.
This is technically called choking the case. The case,
when dried after pasting, is placed in a hollow cylinder of
wood, into w hich it fits. This mould is furnished with a
moveable bottom having a central nipple and a tapering
spike of iron, which last, entering the aperture at the
lower end of the case, rises within it nearly to the top.
The space left round this spike is filled gradually, and by
repeated blows from a mallet upon a hollow rammer, with a
composition of pulverized gunpowder, saltpetre, and char¬
coal, or of sixteen parts of saltpetre, twelve of elm char¬
coal, and four of purified flour of sulphur. The rammer,
which fits the inner diameter of the case, and to which the
mallet is applied, has in its centre a deep hollow adapted to
the iron spike before mentioned. The composition which
forms the charge of the case must be put in by small
quantities at a time, and driven down compactly by regu¬
lated blows of the mallet upon the rammer. The filling of
the case in this manner requires skill and experience, be¬
cause if the charge is not uniformly compacted in the case,
the rocket will not rise evenly and regularly. When the
charge has been driven a little higher than the top of the
spike, a round piece of doubled papei' is put in ; and upon
this one half of the inner paper of the remainder of the
case is folded down and rammed firmly, so as to close the
case. This plug is then pierced with a few holes, and
above it are placed, along with some of the composition, or
with some gunpowder, the stars, sparks, &c. that are in¬
tended to appear when the rocket has reached its highest
ascent. The top of the case is then covered in, and fitted
with a paper cone. In signal-rockets, that are intended to
end with a report without stars, &c. the round piece of
double paper before mentioned is pierced with a hole in the
centre, and a little gunpowder is pressed firmly in above it,
but without crushing the grains. The top of the case is
then choked close, and the paper cone fitted on. In some
other rockets that contain what are called decorations, that
is, stars, sparks, serpents, crackers, &c., these are placed
with meal-powder in a wider cylindrical case, which is fit¬
ted to the top of the case containing the charge. These
rockets are also terminated by a conical cap. We may re¬
mark, that in our common rockets the conical cap is not
sufficiently stiff to maintain its form invariably, and so to
aid in the regular ascent of the rocket. The balance-stick
has next to be fastened to the rocket. The length, thick¬
ness, and w eight of this stick, require calculation to suit it to
the dimensions and weight of the case. On the Continent,
P Y R
rockets have been made to ascend without sticks by means Pyrotics
of a triangle of pasteboard passing round the case, or by pyrrj10>
means of three pasteboard wings glued to the case. Each
of these wings forms an isosceles triangle, in height six in¬
terior diameters of the rocket-case, and a little more than
two of these diameters at the base. Each of these wings
must be glued on quite parallel to the axis, of the case,
otherwise the flight of the rocket will be irregulai. A
short stick with similar wings has also been employed for
rocket-cases. It is stated that all these winged rockets
rose beautifully, even in a violent wind and bad weather ,
but some allowance must surely be made for the lateial
action upon them of a strong wind.
The Roman candle consists of a strong case of paper or
of thin pasteboard, which is completely closed at the lower
end. It is generally charged with the same composition as
sky-rocket cases, alternating with gunpowder and stars, as
follows: First a small quantity of composition is placed at
the bottom of the case, and rammed down compactly by a
rammer and mallet; next a small quantity of gunpowder,
and above that a star without any ramming, but a gentle
push to secure the contact of the star with the gunpowder,
then a quantity of the composition, w'hich is rammed down
as before; next a little more gunpowder and a star, and
then more composition rammed down; and so on till the
case is filled. The case is then closed by a piece of paper-
match pasted round the outside, and twisted to a point at
the top. The charges of Roman candles might be diversi¬
fied by variously-coloured fires and stars, &c.
The reader mav consult the works of which the titles are
subjoined. Essai sur les Feux d’Artifice pour le Spectacle
et pour la Guerre, Paris, 1750; Manuel de l Artificier,
Paris, 1757 ; EArt de faire a peu de frais les Feux d’Ar¬
tifice, Paris, 1828; Manuel de VArtificier, par A. D. Ver-
gnaud, Paris, 1828. (G- F* Gy
PYROTICS, in Medicine, caustics or remedies either
actually or potentially hot, and which accordingly w ill bum
the flesh, and raise an eschar.
PYRRHICA, in Antiquity, a kind of exercise on horse¬
back, or a feigned combat, for the exercise of the cavalry.
It was so called from its inventor Pyrrhichus or Pyrrhus
of Cydonia, who first taught the Cretans to march in mea¬
sure and cadence to battle, and to observe the Pyrrhic
pace. Others derive the name from Pyrrhus the son of
Achilles, who instituted this exercise at the obsequies of
his father ; but Aristotle says that it was Achilles himself
who invented it. The Romans called it Indus Trojanus,
the Trojan games; and Aulus Gellius, decursus. It is
doubtless this exercise which we see represented on me-
dais by two cavaliers in front running with lances, and the
word decursio on the exergue.
PYRRHICHIUS, in Greek and Latin poetry, a foot
consisting of two syllables, both short, as Feus. Amongst
the ancients this foot was also called periamhus, and b\
some hegeniona. , „ , ,
PYRRHO, the founder of a school of philosophy, was
the son of Pleistarehus, a native of Elis, and flourished b. c.
336, in the time of Philip the Great. He was originally a
painter, but subsequently devoted himself to the study of
philosophy, having been the pupil of Anaxarchus, whom he
attended to India'. There he became acquainted with the
magi of Persia and the gymnosophists of India. On his
return to Greece he acquired great renown, and was pre¬
sented by the Athenians with the freedom of their city.
He lived to the age of ninety. Pyrrho was the chief advo¬
cate of the sceptical school of philosophy ; and from him
all those who adhered to such doctrines w ere called I yr-
rhonists. He denied that it could be proved that there
w7as any thing in itself just or unjust, honourable or dis¬
honourable. He considered every action and event as in¬
different, and carried this idea so far as to assert that he saw
Pythago¬
ras.
P Y T
Pyrrhus no difFerence between life and death. It is said that he
showed no fear of death when the vessel in which he was
sailing was threatened with shipwreck, and pointed to a
pig, which was feeding in the utmost unconcern, remark¬
ing, that such ought to be the security of the wise man.
The principle of his philosophy was, that there existed no
motive for belief to which one cannot oppose a doubt of
equal weight. Thus he affirmed nothing, and denied nothing.
Amongst his disciples were Timon of Phlius, and Nausi-
phanes, who taught Epicurus. The life of Pyrrho has been
written by Sextus Empiricus, and by Diogenes Laertius.
PYRRHUS, the name of two kings of Epirus. See
Epirus.
PYTHAGORAS, a celebrated philosopher of antiquity,
but one respecting the time and place of whose birth the
learned are much divided. Eratosthenes asserts, that in the
48th Olympiad, about 588 years before Christ, when still
very young, he was a victor at the Olympic games. Hence
Dr Bentley1 determines the date of his birth to be the fourth
year of the 43d Olympiad; whilst Lloyd,2 who denies that
the Olympic victor was the same person with the philoso¬
pher, places it about the third year of the 48th Olympiad.
Mr Dodwell3 differs from both, and wishes to fix the birth
of Pythagoras in the fourth year of the 52d Olympiad. Of
the arguments of these learned writers, Le Clerc has given a
summary in the Bibliotheque Choisie (tom. x. p. 81, seq.);
and from a review of the whole, it would appear that he was
not born earlier than the fourth year of the 43d Olympiad,
or later than the fourth year of the 52d; but in what particu¬
lar year of that period his birth took place, cannot with any
degree of certainty be ascertained. It is generally believed
that he was born in the island of Samos, and that he flou¬
rished about five hundred years before Christ, in the time
of Tarquin, the last king of Rome.4 His father, Mnesarchus,
who is supposed by some to have been a lapidary, and by
others a merchant of Tyre, appears to have been a man of
some distinction, and to have bestowed upon his son the
best education.
Jamblicus5 relates a number of wonderful stories respect¬
ing the descent of Pythagoras from Jupiter, as well as in
regard to his birth and early life; and represents him even
in his youth as a prodigy of wisdom and manly seriousness.
But most of these idle tales confute themselves, and prove
nothing but the credulity, carelessness, and prejudice ol their
author. Of his childhood and early education we know no¬
thing, except that he was first instructed in his own country
by Creophilus, and afterwards in Scyrus by Pherecydes.
According to the custom of the times, he was made acquaint¬
ed with poetry and music; eloquence and astronomy be¬
came his private studies; and in gymnastic exercises he
often bore the palm for strength and dexterity. He first dis¬
tinguished himself in Greece at the Olympic games, where,
besides gaining the prize, he is said to have excited the hig i-
est admiration by the elegance and dignity of his person,
and the brilliancy of his understanding.
SoOn after his public appearance at these games, 1 yt 1^°“
ras commenced his travels in quest of knowledge. e ist
visited Egvpt, where, through the interest of Po ycrates,
tyrant of Samos, he obtained the patronage of Amasis king ot
Egypt, by whose influence, combined with his own assiduity,
patience, and perseverance, he at length won the con ence
of the priests, from whom he learned their sacred mys eries,
theology, and the whole system of symbolical learning, n
Egypt, too, he became acquainted with geometry and the
true solar system; and, before he left that country, he had
made himself master of all the learning for which it was so
famed amongs the nations of antiquity. He a eiwa
P Y T
759
visited Persia and Chaldsea, where from the Magi he learn- Pythago-
ed divination, the art of interpreting dreams, and the science ras-
of astronomy. He is likewise said to have travelled into s—-y'~—^
India, conversed with the Gymnosophists, and acquired from
them a knowledge of the philosophy and literature of the
East; and such was his ardour in the pursuit of science,
that, according to Cicero,6 he crossed many seas, and tra¬
velled on foot through many barbarous nations, in prosecu¬
tion of his researches.
After Pythagoras had spent many years in gathering in¬
formation on every subject, especially respecting the nature
of the gods, the rites of religion, and the immortality of the
human soul, he returned to his native island, and attempted
to render his knowledge useful by there instituting a school
for the instruction of his countrymen. Failing of success in
this laudable undertaking, he repaired to Delos, where he
pretended to receive moral dogmas from the priestess of
Apollo. He then visited Crete, where he was initiated into
the most sacred mysteries of Greece. He likewise repaired
to Sparta and Elis, and again assisted at the Olympic
games, where in the public assembly he was saluted with
the title of sophist or wise man, which he declined for one
more humble, namely, that of philosopher, or lover of wis¬
dom. Having returned to Samos enriched with mythologi¬
cal learning and esoteric rites, he again instituted a school in
that island. His mysterious symbols and oracular precepts
rendered this attempt more successful than the former had
been ; but meeting with some opposition, or being detected
in some pious frauds, he suddenly left Samos, and, retiring
to Magna Graecia, settled at Crotona.
Here Pythagoras founded the Italic sect, nor was it long
ere his mental and personal accomplishments, the fame of
his distant travels, and his Olympic crown, procured him
numerous pupils. His bold and manly eloquence and his
graceful delivery attracted the most dissolute, and produced
a remarkable change in the morals of the people of Crotona.
His influence was increased by the regularity of his own
example, and its conformity to his precepts. He punctually
attended the temples of the gods, and paid his devotions at
an early hour; he lived upon the purest and most innocent
food, clothed himself like the priests of Egypt, and, by his
continual purifications and regular offerings, appeared to be
superior in sanctity to the rest of mankind. He endeavoured
to assuage the passions of his scholars by means of verses
and numbers, and made a practice of composing his own
mind every morning, by playing on the harp, and singing
along with it the paeans of Thales. To avoid the temptations
of ease and the seductions of idleness, bodily exercises also
formed a considerable part of his scheme of discipline.
At Crotona he had a public school for the general be¬
nefit of the people, in which he taught them their duty,
praising virtue, condemning vice, and particularly instruct¬
ing them in the duties of social life. Besides this, he had
a college in his own house, which he denominated xotvofiiov,
in which there were two classes of students; the s^cors^aoi,
who were also called auscultuntes, and the iounpKoi The
former of these were neophytes, and were kept under a long
probation. A silence of five years was imposed upon them,
which Apuleius thinks was intended to teach them modesty
and attention ; but Clemens Alexandrinus is of opinion that
it was for the purpose of abstracting their minds from sen
sible objects, and inuring them to the pure contemplation
of the Deity. The latter class of scholars were called ge-
nuini, perfecti, mathematid, and, by way of eminence, Py¬
thagoreans. They alone were admitted to the knowledge
of the arcana of the Pythagorean discipline, and were taught
the use of ciphers and hieroglyphical writings.
,rhrnn of Pvthacoras. ’ Two Dissertations on the age of Phalereus and Pythagoras.
Dissertation on the Epistles of Phalans. . „ , g 6 ]jd pinibus, lib. iv. sect. 29.
4 Qucest. Tusc. lib. iv. cap. 1. D>
760 P Y T P Y T
Pythago- Clemens observes, that these orders corresponded very
J*13' exactly to those amongst the Hebrews. For in the schools
" of the prophets there were two classes; the sons of the
prophets, who were the scholars, and the doctors or masters,
who were also called perfectly and, amongst the Levites, the
novices or tyros, who had their quinquennial exercises, by
way of preparation. Lastly, even amongst the proselytes
there were two orders ; exoterisci, or proselytes of the gate,
and intrinseci or perfect), proselytes of the covenant. It is
highly probable, he adds, that Pythagoras himself had been
a proselyte of the gate, if not of the covenant. Gale en¬
deavours to prove that Pythagoras borrowed his philoso¬
phy from the Jews; and with this view he produces the
authorities of many fathers and ancient authors, and even
points out traces of Moses in several parts of Pythagoras’s
doctrine. But the learned author was, we believe, misled by
the Christian Platonists.
The authority of Pythagoras amongst his pupils wras so
great that it was even deemed a crime to dispute his word ;
and their arguments were considered as infallibly convin¬
cing, if they could enforce them by adding that “ the master
said so,” an expression which afterwards became proverbial,
pirate in verba magistri. This influence over his school
was soon extended to the world, and even his pupils them¬
selves divided with their master the applause and approba¬
tion of the people ; whilst the rulers and the legislators of all
the principal towns of Greece, and Sicily, and Italy, boasted
of being the disciples of Pythagoras. To give more weight
to his exhortations, as some writers mention, Pythagoras
retired into a subterranean cave, where his mother sent him
intelligence of everything which happened during his ab¬
sence. After a certain number of months he again re-ap¬
peared on the earth with a grim and ghastly countenance,
and declared in the assembly of the people that he was just
returned from the shades. From similar exaggerations, it
has been asserted that he appeared at the Olympic games
with a golden thigh; that he could write whatever he
pleased in letters of blood on a looking-glass; and that by
setting it opposite to the moon, when full, all the characters
which were on the glass became legible on the moon’s disc.
They also relate, that by some magical words he tamed a
bear, stopped the flight of an eagle, and appeared on the
same day and at the same instant of time in the cities of
Crotona and Metapontum.
At length his singular doctrines, and perhaps his strenu¬
ously asserting the rights of the people against their tyran¬
nical governors, excited a spiritof jealousy, and raised against
him a powerful party, which soon became so outrageous as
to oblige him to fly for his life. His friends withdrew to
Rhegium ; and he himself, after being refused protection
by the Locrians, fled to Metapontum, where he was oblig¬
ed to take refuge in the temple of the Muses, and where it
is said he died of hunger, about 497 years before Christ.
Respecting the time, place, and manner of his death, how¬
ever, there are various opinions, and many think it uncer¬
tain when, where, or in what manner he ended his days.
After his death his followers paid him the same respect
they would have done to the immortal gods ; they erected
statues in his honour, converted his house at Crotona into
a temple to Ceres, appealed to him as a deity, and even
swore by his name.
Pythagoras married Theano of Crotona, or, according to
others, of Crete, by whom he had two sons, Telauges and
Mnesarchus, who, after his death, took care of his school.
He is also said to have had a daughter called Damo.
Whether he left any writings behind him is disputed. It
seems probable, however, that he left none, and that such
as went under his name were written by some of his fol¬
lowers. The golden verses which Hierocles has illustrated Pythagr
with a commentary, have been ascribed to Epicharmus or ras-
Empedocles, and contain a brief summary of his popular
doctrines. From this circumstance, and from the myste¬
rious secrecy with which he taught, our information con¬
cerning his doctrine and philosophy is very uncertain, and
cannot always be depended upon.
The main purpose of philosophy, according to the system
of Pythagoras, is to free the mind from encumbrances, and
to raise it to the contemplation of immutable truth and
the knowledge of divine and spiritual objects. To bring the
mind to this state of perfection is a work of some difficulty,
and requires a variety of intermediate steps. Mathemati¬
cal science was with him the first step to wisdom, because
it inures the mind to contemplation, and takes a middle
course between corporeal and incorporeal beings. The
whole science he divided into two parts, numbers and mag¬
nitude ; and each of these he subdivided into two others,
the former into arithmetic and music, and the latter into
magnitude at rest and magnitude in motion, the one com-
preliending geometry and the other astronomy. Arith¬
metic he regarded as the noblest science, and an acquaint¬
ance with numbers as the highest good. He considered
numbers as the principles of everything, and divided them
into scientific and intelligible. Scientific number is the
production of the powers involved in unity, and its return
to the same. Number is not infinite, but it is the source
of that infinite divisibility into equal parts which is the
property of all bodies. Intelligible numbers are those
which existed in the divine mind before all things. They
are the model or archetype of the world, and the cause of
the essence of beings. Of the monad, duad, triad, tetrad,
and decad, various explanations have been given by differ¬
ent authors ; but nothing certain or important is known
of them. In all probability numbers were used by Pytha¬
goras as symbolical representations of the first principles
and forms of nature, especially of those eternal and immu¬
table essences which Plato denominated ideas; and in this
case the monad was the simple root from which he conceiv¬
ed numbers to proceed, and, as such, analogous to the sim¬
ple essence of Deity, from whom, according to his system,
the various properties of nature are derived.
Music followed numbers, and was held as useful in rais¬
ing the mind above the dominion of the passions. Pytha¬
goras considered it as a science to be reduced to mathemati¬
cal principles and proportions, and is said to have discovered
the musical chords from the circumstance of several men
successively striking with hammers a piece of heated iron
upon an anvil. This story Dr Burney1 discredits, but at
the same time allows, from the uniform testimony of wri¬
ters ancient and modern, that he invented the harmonical
canon, or monochord. The music of the spheres, of which
every one has heard, was a most fanciful doctrine of Py¬
thagoras. It was produced, he imagined, by the planets
striking on the ether through which in their motion they
passed ; wherefore he considered their musical proportions
as exact, and their harmony perfect.
Pythagoras, as we have already seen, learned geometry
in Egypt; but, by investigating many new theorems, and
by digesting its principles, he reduced it to a more regular
science. A geometrical point, which he defines to be a
monad, or unity with position, he says corresponds to unity
in arithmetic, a line to two, a superficies to three, and a solid
to four. He discovered several of the propositions of Euclid;
and on discovering the 47th of the first book, he is said to
have offered a hecatomb to the gods; but as he was averse
to animal sacrifices, this assertion is most probably false.
Wisdom, according to Pythagoras, is conversant with
1 History of Music, vol. i. p. 441.
p Y T
Pythago¬
ras.
P Y T
those objects which are naturally immutable, eternal, and iected him tn fho c •
incorruptible ; and its end is to assimilate the human mind charge is not whollv impR0St;ireK; and PerhaPs the
to the divine, and to qualify us to join the assemhlv of tho nrr ■ i • i T groun^'ess- But when we consider the
immortals. Active a'nd JJ 1(ZZ tit “J- of the peopfe with
761
Pythago¬
reans
and precepts for the conduct of life, and leads
practice of public and of private virtue. On these heads
many of his precepts were excellent, whilst some of them
weie whimsical and useless. Theoretical philosophy treats
of natui e and its origin, and is, according to Pythagoras, the
highest object of study. It included all the profound mys¬
teries which he taught, of which but little is now known.
God he considers as the universal mind, diffused through-
philosophy prescribes rules whom he had to deal, and who wouldTn all probSy have
a' ff!sted. ,more '’I1!:11 innovations, even this will not appear so
blameable as at first sight we are apt to think it; and it is
worthy of notice, that the wmrst stories of this kind have
come down to us in a very questionable shape, and show
every appearance of being fabulous.
a sect of ancient philosophers, so
called from their being the followers of Pythagoras.
out all things, and the self-moving principle of all things .eilles, ™^^d t^l^^S ^e^e^ou^
ruv warn,*), and of whom every human soul age of Alexandi the Great, 330 b. c. We hive no in for!
£ a Portia-1 It is very probable that he conceived of the mation respecting the private circumstances of his hfe b„t
Deityas a subtile fire, eternal, active,and intelligent; which we know that he explored the northern seas of Eurone
18 "O' ■ncons.stent w,lh the idea of incorporeality, as the though the ancient geVaphers appea o have
ancients understood that term. This Deity was primarily dependence on the statements which he made. Both Po!
combined with the chaotic mass of passive matter, but he lybms and Strabo treat him with great severity, and ridicule
had the power of separating himself, and since the sepa- his accounts as absurd and incredible. It would appear
The learned Cudworth that he sailed through the English Channel, and, after a
voyage of six days to the north, reached an island which
he calls Thule, where he says that the sun never descends
below the horizon for a certain period at the summer sol¬
stice. This statement would apply to Iceland, but then it
seems unlikely that he could reach that island within six
days. He next sailed to the north-east, and entering the
Baltic, reached a river which he calls Tanai’s, and is thought
to be the Vistula. Here he found a people who made use of
amber instead of wood ; and as that substance is still found
in large quantities in Prussia, there is little doubt that he
ration he has remained distinct,
contends that Pythagoras maintained a trinity of hyposta
ses in the divine nature, similar to the Platonic triad. We
cannot say that his arguments appear to have much force;
but we think the conclusion which he wishes to establish
extremely probable, as Plato certainly drew his doctrine
from some of the countries which Pythagoras had visited
before him.
Subordinate to the Deity there were in the Pythagorean
creed three orders of intelligences ; gods, demons, and he¬
roes, of different degrees of excellence and dignity. These,
together with the human soul, were considered as emana- must have visited this part of Europe. He gave an account
tions from the Deity, the particles of subtile ether assum- of his voyages in two works which he published. The one
' 1 c '1 was entitled a Description of the Ocean, and contained his
voyage from Gades to Thule ; the other work was entitled
Periplus. It is said that Pytheaswas the first who suspect¬
ed that the tides were influenced by the moon. (See
Eclaircissements sur la Vie et sur les Voyages de Pytheas, by
Bougainville, in the Recueil de l'Academic des Inscriptions,
xix. 46.)
PYTHIA, the priestess of Apollo at Delphi, by whom
he delivered oracles. She was so called from Pythius, a
name of that god, which is said to have been given him on
account of his victory over the serpent Python. The Fy-
thia was at first required to be a young girl, but in later
times a woman of about fifty years of age usually officiated as
priestess; The first and most famous Pythia was Phemonoe,
by whom oracles were at first delivered in hexameter verse.
ing a grosser clothing the farther they receded from the
divine fountain. Hierocles defines a hero to be a rational
mind united with a luminous body. God himself was repre¬
sented under the notion of monad, and the subordinate
intelligences as numbers derived from and included in
unity. Man is considered as consisting of an elementary
nature and a divine or rational soul. His soul, a self-mov¬
ing principle, is composed of two parts; the rational, seat¬
ed in the brain, and the irrational, including the passions, in
the heart. In both these respects he participates with the
brutes, whom the temperament of their body and other cir¬
cumstances allow not to act rationally. The sensitive soul
perishes; the other assumes an ethereal vehicle, and passes
till sent back to the earth to in¬
to the region of the dead,
habit some other body, brutal or human. It was unques¬
tionably this notion which led Pythagoras and his followers All the Pythias were pure virgins, and all of them delivered
to deny themselves the use of flesh, and to be so peculiarly their oracles with great enthusiasm and violent agitations,
hierciful to animals of every description. Some authors, P^ THIAN Games, in Grecian antiquity, spoils insti-
however, sav that flesh and beans, the use of which he also tuted neai Delphos in honoui of Apollo, on account of his
forbade, were prohibited because he supposed them to have slaying the serpent I ytlion. These, games, at their first in-
been produced from the same putrefied matter out of which, stitution, were celebrated only once in nine 5 ears; but after-
at the creation of the world, man was formed. wards every fifth year, from the number of the Parnassian
The scantiness and uncertainty of our information re- nymphs who came to congratulate Apollo, and to make him
specting Pythagoras renders a regular and complete ac- presents on his victory. The victor was crowned with gar-
count of his life and doctrines impossible. A modern au- lands. . r, . . . . , .
thor,2 of profound erudition, pronounces him to have been PYTHON, in fabulous history, is the name given to a
unquestionably the wisest man that ever lived, if his mas- monstrous serpent, produced by the earth after Deucalion s
ters the Egyptian priests must not be excepted. This is deluge Juno being exasperated at Latona, who was be-
perhaps saying tooP much; but that he was one of the loved by Jupiter, commanded this serpent to destroy her;
^ v 7 y .0 , , f r nr ns Gicero but Latona flying from the pursuit of the monster, escaped
most distinguished philosophers »f ant'^ “r’a8Y'C“° Delos, where she was delivered of Diana and Apollo,
expresses it, mr prastanti sapimtta aPP?aI* ^ ^ d The the latter of whom at length destroyed Python with his
andhis moral character has never been impeached. i'’e 1 , . f ty • ; t Pvthian sanies
mysterious air which he threw over his doctrines, and the arrows, and in memory ot this victory the Pythian games
apparent inanity of some of his symbols, have indeed sub- were ms i u e .
Cicero de Senectute, sect. 21.
* Monboddo’s Ancient Metaphysics.
5 D
VOL. XVIII.
762
QUA QUA
°r q, the sixteenth letter and twelfth consonant of
m 'MS our alphabet, but one not to be found either in the
Quadran- Greek, old Latin, or Saxon alphabets; and indeed some
tal would entirely exclude it, pretending that k ought to be
 used wherever this occurs. But as it is formed by the
voice in a different manner, it is undoubtedly a distinct
letter; for, in expressing this sound, the cheeks are con¬
tracted, and the lips, particularly the under one, are put in¬
to a canular form, for the passage of the breath.
The q is never sounded alone, but in conjunction with u,
as in quality, question, quite, quote, and the like, and never
ends any English word. As a numeral, Q, stands for 500 ;
and with a dash over it, thus, Q, for 500,000. Used as an
abbreviature, q signifies quantity or quantum. Thus, amongst
physicians, q. pi. is quantum placet, as much as you please ;
and q. s. is quantum sufficit, as much as is necessary. Q.E.D.
amongst mathematicians, is quod erat demonstrandum, which
was to be demonstrated ; and Q. E. F. is quod erat facien¬
dum, which was to be done. Q. D. amongst grammarians
is quasi dictum, as if it were said, or, as who should say.
In the notes of the ancients, Q stands for Quintus or Quin-
tius ; Q,. B. V. for quod bene vertat ; Q. S. S. S. for qu<z su¬
pra scripta sunt; Q. M. for Quintus Mutius, or quomodo ;
Quint, for Quintilius ; and Quaes, for qucestor.
QUADI, a people of Germany, situated to the south-east
of the mountains of Bohemia, on the banks of the Danube,
and extending as far as the river Marus, running by Mora¬
via, which country they occupied.
QUADRAGESIMA, a denomination given to Lent, from
its consisting of forty days.
QUADRANGLE, in Geometry, the same with a quad¬
rilateral figure, or one consisting of four sides and four
angles.
QUADRANS, the quarter or fourth part of any thing,
particularly the as, or pound.
Quadrans, in English money, the fourth part of a penny.
Before the reign of Edward I. the smallest coin was a ster¬
ling or penny, marked with a cross, by the guidance of
which a penny might be cut into halves for a halfpenny,
or into quarters or four parts for farthings. But, to avoid
the fraud of unequal cuttings, that king afterwards coined
halfpence and farthings in distinct round pieces.
QUADRANT, in Geometry, the arch of a circle, con¬
taining ninety degrees, or the fourth part of the entire pe¬
riphery.
Quadrant also denotes a mathematical instrument, of
great use in astronomy and navigation, for taking the alti¬
tudes of the sun and stars, as also for taking angles in sur¬
veying.
This instrument is variously contrived, and furnished
with different apparatus, according to the various uses it is
intended for; but they all have this in common, that they
consist of a quarter of a circle, the limb of which is divided
into ninety degrees. Some have a plummet suspended from
the centre, and are furnished with sights to look through.
The principal and most useful quadrants are the common
surveying quadrant, astronomical quadrant, Adams’s quad¬
rant, Cole’s quadrant, Gunter’s quadrant, Hadley’s quadrant,
horodictical quadrant, Sutton’s or Collins’s quadrant, and
the sinical quadrant. See Sextant.
QUADRANTAL, in Antiquity, the name of a vessel in
use amongst the Romans for the measuring of liquids. It
was at first denominated amphora ; and afterwards quadran-
tal, from its form, which was square every way like a die. Q^rat
In capacity it contained eighty librce or pounds of water, qu Jriga
which made forty-eight sextaries, two urnce, or eight conaii. y
QUADRAT, a mathematical instrument, called also a
Geometrical Square, and Line of Shadows. It is frequently
an additional member on the face of the common quadrant,
as also on those of Gunter and Sutton.
Quadrat, in printing, is a piece of metal used to fill up
the void spaces between words. There are quadrats of dif¬
ferent sizes, as m-quadrats, n-quadrats, and the like, which
are respectively of the dimensions of these letters, only
lower, that they may not receive the ink.
QUADRATIC Equations, in Algebra, those in which
the unknown quantity is of two dimensions, or raised to the
second power.
QUADRATR1X, in Geometry, a mechanical line, by
means of which we can find right lines equal to the cir¬
cumference of circles, or of other curves, and their several
parts.
QUADRATURE, in Geometry, denotes the squaring,
or reducing a figure to a square. Thus, the finding of a
square which shall contain just as much surface or area as
a circle, an ellipsis, or a triangle, is the quadrature of a
circle, an ellipsis, or a triangle. The quadrature, especially
amongst the ancient mathematicians, was a great postula-
tum. The quadrature of rectilinear figures is easily found,
for it is merely the finding their areas or surfaces, that is,
their squares ; for the squares of equal areas are easily
found by extracting the roots of the areas thus found. The
quadrature of curvilinear spaces is of more difficult inves¬
tigation ; and in this respect extremely little wras done by
the ancients, except the finding the quadrature of the pa¬
rabola by Archimedes. In the year 1657, Sir Paul Neil, Lord
Brouncker, and Sir Christopher Wren, geometrically de¬
monstrated the equality of some curvilinear figures to rectili¬
near spaces ; and soon afterwards the same thing was proved
both at home and abroad of other curves, and which were
brought under an analytical calculus. The first specimen
of this was given to the public in 1688, by Mercator, in a
demonstration of Lord Brouncker’s quadrature of the hy¬
perbola, by Dr Wallis’s reduction of a fraction into an in¬
finite series by division. Sir Isaac Newton, however, had
before discovered a method of attaining the quantity of all
quadruple curves analytically by his fluxionary calculus. It
was disputed between Sir Christopher Wren and Mr Huy¬
gens w hich of them had first discovered the quadrature of
any determinate cycloidal space. Leibnitz afterwards found
that of another space; and in 1669 Bernoulli discovered the
quadrature of an infinity of cycloidal spaces, both segments
and sectors.
Quadrature, in Astronomy, that aspect of the moon
when she is ninety degrees distant from the sun ; or when
she is in a middle point of her orbit, between the points of
conjunction and opposition, namely, in the first and third
quarters.
QUADREL, in building, a kind of artificial stone, so
called from its being perfectly square. The quadrels are
made of a chalky earth, &c. and dried in the shade for two
years. These were formerly in great request amongst the
Italian architects.
QUADRIGA, in Antiquity, a car or chariot drawn by
four horses. On the reverses of medals we frequently see
the Emperor or Victory in a quadriga, holding the reins of
QUA
Quadrila- the horses ; and hence these coins are amongst the curious
teiJp called nurnmi quadrigati and victoriati.
Quadrille. QUADRILATERAL, in Geometry, a figure, the perime-
- ^ J ter of which consists of four sides and four angles, and which
is also called a quadrangular figure.
QUADRILLE, a little troop or company of cavaliers,
pompously dressed and mounted, for the performance of
carousals, jousts, tournaments, and other gallant divertise-
ments.
Quadrille, a game played by four persons, with forty
cards, which are the remains of a pack after the four tens,
nines, and eighths sire discarded. These are dealt three
and three, and one round four, to the right-hand player;
and the trump is made by him who plays with or without
calling, by naming spades, clubs, diamonds, or hearts, and
the suite named is trumps. If the person wLo names the
trump should mistake, and say spades instead of clubs, or if
he name twm suites, the first named is the trump.
In this game the order of the cards, according to their
natural value, is as follows. Of hearts and diamonds,
king, queen, knave, ace, deuce, three, four, five, six, seven,
in all ten ; of spades and clubs, king, queen, knave, se¬
ven, six,five, four, three, deuce, in all nine. The reason why
the ace of spades and ace of clubs are not mentioned is,
because they are always trumps, in whatever suite they may
be played ; the ace of spades being always the first, and the
ace of clubs the third trump. The cards rank according
to their value, when trumps stand in the following order:
Hearts and diamonds, spadill, or the ace of spades;
manill, the seventh of the twro red suites ; basto, the ace
of clubs ; ponto, the ace of hearts and diamonds ; king,
queen, knave, deuce, three, four, five, six; in all twelve.
Spades and clubs, spadill, the ace of spades ; manill, the
deuce of spades and clubs ; basto, the ace of clubs ; king,
queen, knave, seven, six, five, four, three; in all eleven. It
is here to be observed, that the card which is manill and
the second trump is always the lowest in its suite when
not trumps ; and that the ace of hearts or diamonds, which
when trump is above the king, is belowr the knave when
not trump.
There are three matadores, spadill, manill, and basto;
the privilege of which is, that when the player has no other
trumps but them, and trumps are led, he is not obliged to
play them, but may play what card he thinks proper, pro¬
vided, however, that the trump led is of an inferior rank ;
but if spadill should be led, he that has manill or basto only
is obliged to play it. It is the same of manill and basto with
respect to the superior matadore always forcing the infe¬
rior. Though there are properly but three matadores, ne¬
vertheless all those trumps which follow the three fiist
without interruption are likewise called matadores ; but the
three first only enjoy the privilege above mentioned.
Each person is to play as he judges most convenient foi
his own game. He is not to encourage his friend to play ;
but each person ought to know what to do when it is his
turn to play. The stakes consist of seven equal mils, or
contrats, as they are sometimes called, comprising the ten
counters and fishes, which are given to each payer,
mil is equal to ten fish, and each fish to ten counters. The
value of the fish is according to the players agreemen , as
also the number of tours, which are genera y xt a en,
and marked by turning the corners of a card.
If the cards should happen not to be dealt rightly, or
that there should be two cards of the same sort, as two
deuces of spades, for example, there must e a new ea ,
provided it is discovered before the cards are all played-
The cards must likewise be dealt over again in case a card
is turned in dealing, as it might be o preju ice
who should have it, and of course if there should be seve¬
ral cards turned. There is no penalty for dealing wrong ,
he who does so must only deal again. ..
, QUA 763
Vv hen each player has got Ins ten cards, he that is on Quadrille,
tne right hand of the dealer, after examining his game, and
finding his hand fit to play, asks if they play ; or if he has
not a good hand he passes, and so the second, third, and
fourth.. All the four may pass; but he that has spadill, af¬
ter having shown or named it, is obliged to play by calling
a king. Whether the deal is played in this manner, or that
one of the players has asked leave, nobody choosing to
play without calling, the eldest hand must begin the play,
first naming the suite and the king which he calls; he
who wins the trick plays another card, and so of the rest
till the game is finished. The tricks then are counted;
and if the ombre, that is, he who stands the game, has, to¬
gether with him who is the king called, six tricks, they
have won and are paid the game, the consolation, and the
matadores if they have them, and divide what is upon the
game, and the beasts if there are any. But if they make
only five tricks, it is a remise, and they are beasted what
goes upon the game, paying to the other players the con¬
solation and the matadores. If the tricks be equally di¬
vided between them, they are likewise beasted; and if
they make only four tricks between them it is a remise ; if
they make less they lose codill, and in that case they
pay to their adversaries what they should have received if
they had won, that is, the game, the consolation, and the
matadores if they have them, and are beasted what is
upon the game. They who win codill divide the stakes.
The beast, and everything else that is paid, is paid equally
between the two losers; one half by him that calls, and
the other half by him that is called, as well in case of co¬
dill as a remise; unless the ombre does not make three
tricks, in which case he that is called is not only exempted
from paying half the beast, but also the game, the conso¬
lation, and the matadores if there are any, which the ombre
in that case pays alone ; and as well in case of a codill as
a remise. This is done in order to oblige players not to
play games that are unreasonable. There is nevertheless
one case in which, if the ombre makes only one trick, he
is not beasted alone, and that is when, not having a good
hand, he passes, and all the other players have’passed like¬
wise ; he having spadill is obliged to play. Here it would
be unjust to oblige him to make three or four tricks. In
this case, therefore, he that is called pays one half of the
losings ; for which reason he that has spadill with a bad
hand should pass, that if he is afterwards obliged to play
by calling a king, which is called forced spadill, he may not
be beasted alone. He who has once passed cannot be ad¬
mitted to play ; and he who has asked leave cannot refuse
to play, unless any one should offer to play without call-
ing.
He who has four kings, may call a queen to one of his
kings, except that which is trump. He who wants one
or more kings, may call one of those kings ; but in that
case he must make six tricks alone, and consequently he
wins or loses alone. The king of that suite in which he
plays cannot be called. No one should play out of his turn,
although he is not beasted for so doing. If he who is not
the eldest hand has the king called, and plays spadill, manill,
or basto, or even the king called in order to show that he is
the friend, having other kings that he fears the ombre should
trump, he is not to be allowed to go for the vole ; he is even
beasted, if it appears to be done with that intent. It is not
permitted to show a hand though codill may already be
won, that it may be seen whether the ombre is beasted
alone. If the ombre or his friend shows their cards before
they have made six tricks, thinking that they have made
them, and there appears a possibility of preventing their
making them, the other players can oblige them to play
their cards as they think proper.
A player need only name his suite when he plays with¬
out calling a king. He who plays without calling must
764
QUA
Quadrille, make six tricks alone to win ; for all the other players are
'united against him, and they are to do what they can to
prevent his winning. He who plays without calling, is ad¬
mitted to play in preference to him who would play with
calling ; however, if he that has asked leave will play with¬
out calling, he has the preference of the other who would
force him. These are the two methods of play without call¬
ing that are called forced.
As he who plays without calling does not divide the win¬
nings with any person, he consequently, when he loses, pays
all by himself. If he loses by remise he is beasted, and
pays each of the other players the consolation, the sans ap-
peller (which is commonly, but improperly, called the saris
prendre), and the matadores if there are any; if he loses
codill he is likewise beasted, and pays to each player what
he would have received from each if he had won. I hey
who win codill divide what there is ; and if there are any
counters remaining, they belong to him of the three who
shall have spadill or the highest trump the next deal. It
is the same with regard to him who calls one of his own
kings ; he wins alone or loses alone as in the other case,
except the sans appeller, which he does not pay if he loses,
or receive if he wins, although he plays alone.
If he plays sans appeller, though he may have a sure
game, he is obliged to name his suite; which if he neglects
to do, and show s his cards, and says, “ I play sans appeller,”
in that case neither of the other players can oblige him to
play in what suite he pleases, although he should not have
one trump in that suite.
He who has asked leave is not permitted to play sans ap¬
peller unless he is forced; in which case, as was said be¬
fore, he has the preference of the other who forces him.
A player is not obliged to trump when he has none of the
suite led, nor play a higher card in that suite if he has it,
being at his option although he is the last player, and the
trick should belong to the ombre ; but he is obliged to play
in the suite led if he can, otherwise he renounces. If he
separates a card from his game, and shows it, he is obliged
to play it, if by not doing it the game may be prejudiced,
or if he can give any intelligence to his friend, but espe¬
cially if it should be a matadore. He who plays sans ap¬
peller, or by calling himself, is not subject to this law. He
may turn the tricks made by the other players, and count
what has been played, as often as it is his turn to play, but
not otherwise. If, instead of turning a player’s tricks, he
turns and sees his game, or shows it to the other players,
he is beasted, together with him whose cards he turned;
and each of them must pay one half of the beast.
If any one renounces, he is beasted as often as he has
renounced and it is detected; but a renounce is not made
till the trick is turned. If the renounce is discovered be¬
fore the deal is finished, and has been detrimental to the
game, the cards must be taken up again, and the game re¬
played from that trick where the renounce was made; but
if the cards are all played, the beast is still made, and the
cards must not be replayed ; except there should be several
renounces in the same deal: then they are to be played
again, unless the cards should be mixed. If several beasts
are made in the same deal, they all go together, unless it is
otherwise agreed at the beginning of the party ; and when
there are several beasts, the greatest always goes first.
A great advantage accrues from being eldest hand at
quadrille, which often renders it very disagreeable to the
rest of the players, being obliged to pass with a good hand
unless they choose to play alone ; and when it happens that
the eldest hand having asked leave, the second player has
three matadores, several trumps in back, and all small cards,
he cannot then even play alone ; and having no chance of
being called, he must pass with this good hand: on ac¬
count of which, this method has been thought expedient, to
remedy this defect of the game ; each player having an op-
Q U A
portunity of availing himself of the goodness of his game, Quadripar-
by adding to the usual method of playing the game that tlt‘°n
of the mediateur, and the favourite suite. Quadruple
The first thing to be observed is that of drawing for v
places, which is done in this manner: One of the players
takes four cards, a king, a queen, a knave, and an ace ; each
player draws one of these cards, and commonly he who
comes in last draws first. The person who draws the king
sits where he pleases, the queen at his right hand, the knave
next the queen, and the ace on the left of the king. The
king draws the favourite suite. The number of cards and
persons is the same at this game as the other, and is played
in the same manner.
The favourite suite is determined by drawing a card out
of the pack, and is of the same suite, during the whole party,
of the card so drawn.
A king is the mediateur, wrhich is demanded of the others
by one of the players, who has a hand he expects to make
five tricks of; and through the assistance of this king he can
play alone and make six tricks.
In return for the king received, he gives what card he
thinks proper with a fish; but must give two fish if it is in
the favourite suite. He who asks by calling in the favourite
suite, has the preference to him who asks by calling in
another; he who asks with the mediateur has the prefer¬
ence to him who asks by calling in the favourite suite, and
by playing alone is obliged to make six tricks to win. He
who asks with the mediateur in the favourite suite, has the
preference to him who asks with the mediateur in any
other suite, and is obliged to play alone, and to make six
tricks.
If sans prendre is played in any other suite than the fa¬
vourite, he who plays it has the preference to him who asks
only, or with the mediateur, or even he who plays in the
favourite suite with the mediateur ; and the sans prendre in
the favourite suite has the preference to all other players
whatever.
The only difference between this method of playing the
game and the other is, that when one of the players demands
the mediateur he is obliged to play alone, and to make six
tricks, as if he played sans prendre. In this case he should
judge, from the strength of his hand, whether the aid of the
king will enable him to play alone or not.
With the mediateur and without the favourite suite it is
played in this manner. The game is marked and played
the same as in common, except that a fish extraordinary is
given to him who plays the mediateur, and to him who
plays sans prendre ; that is, he who wins the mediateur re¬
ceives thirteen counters from each; and if he loses by re¬
mise he pays twelve to each, and thirteen if by codill. The
winner of sans prendre receives seventeen counters from
each ; and if by remise he loses, he pays sixteen to each,
and seventeen if by codill.
The vole with the mediateur receives one fish only, as at
common quadrille. The beasts are also the same as the
common game. The last game is generally played double,
and is called paulans; but for those who choose to play a
higher game, they may play the double colour, which is
called the Turk, and is double of the favourite suite. There
is also a higher game than this, which is paying whatever
is agreed to him who happens to hold the two aces in his
hand.
QUADRIPARTITION, the dividing by four, or into
four equal parts. Hence comes the term quadripartite, the
fourth part, or something divided into four.
QUADRUPEDS, in Zoology, those animals which have
four limbs or legs proceeding from the trunk of their body.
QUADRUPLE, fourfold, or something taken four times,
or multiplied by four, on which account it is the converse
of quadripartition.
QUAIL. See Ornithology.
765
QUAKERS.
Quakers.
. (iu^ERS’a body of l-”otestant Dissenters, so named by the root of the goodly tree of doctrine that o-rew and
the public at large, but styled by themselves, “ The Society branched out of it.”2 They were known by no other name Quakers.
’XT' ”nf 64T7h'S S ™ by George Fox, till 1660, three years afteAL “
tertainedof IL Ll i] 7’ lh^Fnends, are remarkable for differ- ciety, when George Fox being brought before the magis-
Qi.akersandinS *r.om tFe co.mmumty in religious doctrines, mode of trates of Derby for preaching there; and telling them to
Quakerism. and s°cml customs, more than any other body of “ quake at the name of the Lord,” one of them, Gervase
and it may safely be asserted, that their cha- T' ' ’
Origin of
he term
, iuaker.
Christians
racter has been less understood, and more seriously misre¬
presented, than that of almost any other religious association
of modern times. Mosheim, Neale, Formey, Voltaire, and
Hume, have given us descriptions of the Society of Friends,
of which it would be difficult to say which abounds most
in ignorant mistakes or wilful distortions. Of late years a
fairer estimate of these people has manifested itself in the
public mind. Men of deep thinking and eminent genius
have been led to examine their history and writings, and
have pronounced decisions upon them very different from
those of the authors just mentioned. Coleridge, in his
Biographia Literaria, says, “ One assertion I will venture
to make, as suggested by my own experience, that there exist
folios on the human understanding, and the nature of man,
which would have a far juster claim to their high rank and
celebrity, if, in the whole huge volume there could be found
as much fulness of heart and intellect, as bursts forth in
mauy a simple page of George Fox.” Thomas Carlyle, in
his Sartor Resartus, pronounces George Fox “ the great¬
est of modern reformers ;” and Charles Lamb, in the Essays
of Elia, declares, that “ Sewel’s History of the Quakers is
worth all other ecclesiastical history put together.”
We shall now proceed to give such an account of the
rise, progress, and opinions of this society, as an intimate
acquaintance with it and the writings of its members en¬
ables us to furnish, and as will be found amply borne out
by a careful reference to the most authentic records, and to
its existing condition.
It has commonly been stated, that this society was, at
its commencement, termed the Family of Love, or Seekers.
But this is a mistake. The Seekers were a people of prior
origin, and of very different notions. From their peculiar
extravagance they acquired the name of Ranters, and seem
to have been the very people that Butler had in his eye
when writing his Hudibras. They held that
Saints may do the same things by
The spirit in sincerity
Which other men are tempted to,
And at the devil’s instance do,
And yet the actions be contrary,
Just as the saints and sinners vary.1
The attempt to confound the Quakers with this sect, was
one of the first acts employed by the enemies of Quakerism
to stamp it with opprobrium. Fox occasionally fell in with
them in his travels, and sharply reproved them for theii
errors. The Friends, for some time after they had been ga¬
thered into a distinct body, were known only by the name
of “ the Professors of the Light,” or “ Children^of the
Lhdit,” from “ their fundamental principle, which,” to use
the words of William Penn, “ is as the corner-stone of their
fabric ; and, indeed, to speak eminently and properly, their
characteristic, or main distinguishing point or principle, viz.
the light of Christ within, as God’s gift for man’s salvation ;
Bennett, an independent, caught up the word, and called
him and his friends Quakers. That was the real origin
of the term Quaker; “ a term which,” says Sewel, their
historian, “ so caught the public fancy, and especially that
of the priests, that they sounded it gladly abroad, never
after that time giving any other name to the professors of
the Light, so that it soon ran all over England, and making
no stand there, it quickly reached the neighbouring coun¬
tries ; and that English name sounding very oddly in the
ears of foreigners, hath given occasion to many silly stories.”3
Perhaps to no great reformer has so little justice been
done as to George Fox. Beyond the pale of his own so- c^a*
ciety his character has, in fact, never been understood. By ^ctei; oi
some grave and even eminent writers, he has been de-
nounced as a silly enthusiast; by others as a blasphemer ;
and others, again, have denied that he was the founder of
Quakerism at all. No statements can be more at variance
with the truth. For three or four years after his first set¬
ting out, he was the sole preacher of the society.4 It was
he, as may be abundantly seen in the histories of the so¬
ciety, and the writings of his most celebrated disciples,
who gave its character and constitution to this religious
association. They are his opinions, his feelings, his tone
of mind, which stamped it with its peculiar form and spirit.
That in the fervour of his enthusiasm, and the elation of
brilliant success, he ran into some fanatical extravagances,
and even absurdities, is what is perhaps inseparable from
the career of a sanguine advocate of great moral and social
changes ; and we shall soon point to some of these, in tra¬
cing his exertions for the organization of his infant society.
There have, indeed, been one or two documents, a letter
to Cromwell, and a letter to himself from the wife and
daughters of Judge Fell, raked up out of a vast mass of
manuscripts left behind him, and eagerly and repeatedly
pushed before the public by his enemies, and recently again
by some seceders from the Quakers themselves, in order to
stamp him as a blasphemer, and a man open to the silliest
adulation. It is not by such a mode, however, that the ge¬
nuine character of any man is to be decided, but by a care¬
ful examination and candid judgment of his whole life and
works. Did we apply so one-sided and unphilosophical a test
to that of any great reformer, what should we now think of
Luther, Jerome of Prague, Calvin, Knox, Wesley, or many
others ? If we shut our eyes to the nobler points of their
characters, and opened them only to their defects; if we
estimated Jerome of Prague by his recantation, Luther by
his notions of combats with the devil, Calvin by the burn¬
ing of Servetus, Knox by his zeal in the demolition of ca¬
thedrals, or Wesley by his belief in omens and appari¬
tions, what an absurd verdict should we pass upon these
great men ! Such, however, has generally been the mode
of judging of George Fox ; whilst his labours, and religious
and moral doctrines recorded by himself and the historians
of the society, mark him as one of the most extraordinary
. Penn’s Rise and Progre^nf the Quater,._12tbedie. p.12, ^ ‘
Quakers, i. 53.
2 Penn’s Rise and Progress, p. 18.
10; Gough’s History of the
4 Sewel’s History, i. 86.
766
QUAKERS.
Quakers, men of his age. We shall soon have to observe upon how
many important points of morals and manners he called
in question the received opinions of his time : for, whatever
his sagacious mind had once embraced as truth, he had
the integrity and boldness to proclaim everywhere. He
advanced into the presence of princes, and proclaimed it
there in the same fulness, and with the same ease and
freedom, as he did amongst his own peers. Yet with this
daring and determined spirit, his contemporary disciples are
unanimous in attesting his gentleness and unassuming mo¬
desty amongst them. The testimony of his eminent friend,
William Penn, who had seen much of society in all its gra¬
dations, is that of all those who knew him best. “ He was a
man that God endued with a clear and wonderful depth ;
a discerner of others’ spirits, and very much master of his
own. . . . He was of an innocent life, no busy-body, nor
self-seeker ; neither touchy, nor critical. ... So meek,
contented, modest, easy, steady, tender, it was a pleasure
to be in his company. He exercised no authority but over
evil, and that everywhere and in all; but with love, com¬
passion, and long-suffering. A most merciful man, as ready
to forgive as unapt to take or give an offence. Thousands
can truly say, he was of an excellent spirit and savour
amongst them, and because thereof the most excellent spi¬
rits loved him with an unfeigned and unfading love.”1
Formation George Pox was born of humble parents, at Drayton, in
of the So- Leicestershire. In the quaint language of Sewel, “ his
defy of father was Christopher Fox, a weaver by trade, an honest
Ken< s" man, and of such a virtuous life that his neighbours used
to call him righteous Chrjster. His mother was Mary
Lago, an upright woman, and of the stock of the mar¬
tyrs.”2 George was put apprentice to “ a shoemaker that
dealt also in wool and in cattle but he became most at¬
tached to the agricultural part of his master’s business. His
humble origin and education have often been adverted to,
as implying a stigma upon Quakerism; but it is unques¬
tionably to this circumstance that Quakerism owes its most
distinguishing features, and probably the greatest amount
of good that it has done, or may yet do, in the world.
As Fox grew up, pursuing his solitary occupations in the
fields, his strong mind soon began to employ itself on the
subject of the utmost moment to a mortal creature, the
grounds of his hopes of a future existence, and the true un¬
derstanding of the Scriptures. That which, at a first view,
seemed to be a disadvantage to Fox, his want of learning,
and his obscurity of station, have, through the native vigour*
of his intellect, become eminently advantageous. His mind
was neither trammelled by creeds, nor directed by classical
% or other knowledge, nor misled by the glimmerings of school
philosophy. He was thrown, by his absolute want of a higher
education, on his Bible. The whole strength and earnest¬
ness of his understanding were concentrated on the inquiry
into the doctrines it contained; and he seems, with a won¬
derful clearness and singleness of eye, to have at once com¬
prehended the pure and simple system of the Christian
faith. He embraced it heartily and for ever. No bias of
selfishness, no hopes of honour or of gain, ever appeared to
weigh with him for a moment; it was to Christianity for
itselt alone that he attached himself, and he set out to pro¬
claim it in the face of the world, with that boldness which
always distinguished him. At first his travels were princi¬
pally through the midland counties, where he convinced
great numbers of his principles. For four years he appears,
as already stated, to have been the only preacher of those
principles; and, what is singular, the second preacher of
Quakerism was a woman, named Elizabeth Horton. In
the fifth year of Quakerism there were, however, according
to Sewel, no less than twenty-five preachers, and in the
seventh year upwards of sixty. These, traversing the king¬
dom in all directions, excited an extraordinary commotion. Quakers.
But in order fully to understand the uproar which the preach-
ing of Quakerism created, it is necessary to call to mind the
features of that age, and to see what the doctrines of Fox
really were.
George Fox made his appearance just as the struggle The age of
between the crown and the people was drawing to a close. George
Charles I. was already in the hands of the parliament. The Fox.
monarchy had been destroyed, and the public mind was full
of new schemes of liberty and legislation. Then came the
struggle between the parliament and the military power.
Not only the monarchy and the parliament, but the church
establishment itself, fell. Men soon began to grow weary
of alternate tyranny and lawlessness, both in ecclesiastical
and in political matters. They were disgusted, too, with the
greediness of priests of different denominations, struggling
shamelessly for power and wealth. The diffusion of the
Scriptures during the respective reigns of Henry VIII., Ed¬
ward VI., and Elizabeth, had now made them pretty com¬
mon in the hands of the people. Thousands and tens of
thousands were scattered throughout the country, who were
become dissatisfied with the old institutions, and anxious to
ally themselves with some body, the doctrines and practice
of which were more consonant to their newly-awakened
ideas. But they were not merely on the watch ; they were
in a state of high excitement. The novelty and animating
nature of the doctrines of the gospel, and perhaps still more
the splendour of eastern metaphor exhibited in the propheti¬
cal writings, had thrown them everywhere into a sort of spi¬
ritual intoxication. When, therefore, George Fox made his
progress through the country, his voice was like a trumpet
to collect around him hosts of inquirers. Priests, notwith¬
standing the opposition of their order, left their pulpits ; of¬
ficers in the army, judges, gentlemen, mechanics, and hus¬
bandmen ; all classes, indeed, flocked round him, and found
in his system of a free gospel, and renouncement of the va¬
nities of the times, that which they had hitherto sought for
in vain.
The doctrines which Fox taught, and which have been Doctrine*
received and are still held as the true faith by the Society of the
of Friends, are principally the following. Friends*
Is?. The great foundation and corner-stone of Quaker¬
ism, as William Penn justly terms it, is the doctrine of the
Inward Light, founded on various passages of Scripture,
but especially on the words of the gospel according to St.
John, that “ Christ is the true Light which lighteth every
man that cometh into the world.” They believe in the
words of a document, issued by themselves, that “ every
man coming into the world is endued with a measure of
this light, grace, and spirit of Christ, by which, as it is at¬
tended to, he is enabled to distinguish good from evil, and
to correct the disorderly passions and corrupt propensities
of his nature ; and that without the spirit inwardly revealed,
man can do nothing to the glory of God, or to effect his
own salvation.”
2c?. The spirituality of Christianity is a doctrine which flows
directly from this root; and hence they believe in the non¬
essentiality of religious ceremonies. “ We think,” say they,
“ this influence (the influence of the Spirit of Christ) especi¬
ally necessary to the performance of the highest act of which
the human soul is capable, even the worship of the Father
of lights and spirits, in spirit and in truth ; therefore we
consider as obstructions to pure worship all forms which
divert the attention of the mind from the secret influence
of this unction from the Holy One. (1 John, ii. 20-27.)”
They cannot, therefore, admit of any fixed liturgy, any
stated forms of prayer, or any regular preaching. “ Yet,
although true worship is not confined to time and place, we
think it incumbent on Christians to meet often together,
1 Penn’s Rise and Progress, pp. 53-56.
2 Sewell’s History, i. 11.
QUAKERS.
Quakers. (Heb. x. 25), in testimony of their dependence on the hea-
w'Y'w' venly Father, and for a renewal of their spiritual strength;
nevertheless, in the performance of worship, we dare^not
depend for our acceptance with him on a formal repetition
of the words and experiences of others ; but we believe it
to be our duty to cease from the activity of the imagina¬
tion, and to wait in silence to have a true sight of our'con¬
dition bestowed upon us.” On this ground the sole out¬
ward act of worship amongst the Friends consists in meeting
together and sitting down in silence, without any singing,
or stated prayers or sermon.
M. From the same great fundamental tenet of the society,
it directly flows, that as this influence is absolutely necessary
to the performance of individual worship, it is more espe¬
cially so in the exercise of the ministry. There can be no
preaching unless the preacher immediately feel himself mov¬
ed to speak ; therefore there can be no electing of parti¬
cular individuals by the church, or education of them for
the office of the ministry. It implies a ministry entirely of
divine ordination, and without the participation of any hu¬
man authority. According to this faith, there is and can
be no paid priesthood. The gospel is a free gift to be freely
exercised.
Ath. The Friends do not hold the doctrine of the Trinity
according to the common acceptation of the word. They
think it safest in this mysterious subject to confine them¬
selves to the terms of Scripture ; and these are the words
of their confession on this subject. “ We agree with other
professors of the Christian name in the belief in One Eternal
God, the Creator and Preserver of the universe; and in
Jesus Christ his Son, the Messiah and Mediator of the New
Covenant (Heb. xii. 24).”
5th. The belief in the entire spirituality of the gospel
system has led the Friends to consider some rites received
and practised by other bodies of Christians as non-essential.
“ There are two ceremonies in use amongst most professors
of the Christian name ; water baptism, and what is termed
the Lord’s Supper. The first of these is generally consi¬
dered as the essential means of initiation into the church of
Christ, and the latter of maintaining communion with Him.
But as we have been convinced that nothing short of his
redeeming power, inwardly revealed, can set the soul free
from the thraldom of sin, by this power alone we believe sal¬
vation to be effected. We hold, that as there is one Lord
and one faith (Eph. iv. 5), so his baptism is one in nature
and operation ; that nothing short of it can make us living
members of his mystical body ; and that the baptism of
water, administered by his forerunner John, belonged, as
the latter confessed, to an inferior and decreasing dispensa¬
tion (John iii. 30). With respect to the other rite, we be¬
lieve that communion between Christ and his church is not
maintained by that nor by any other external performance,
but only by a real participation in his divine nature (2 Pet.
i. 4) through faith ; that this is the supper alluded to in the
Revelations (Rev. iii. 20), ‘ Behold I stand at the door and
knock; if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I
will come in to him, and sup with him, and he with me ,
and that where the substance is attained, it is unnecessaiy
to attend to the shadow, which doth not comer grace, and
concerning which, opinions so different, and animosities so
violent, have arisen.”
Qth. Their great doctrine of the InwTard Light necessa¬
rily implies the doctrine of repentance and a new life ; in
the words of Penn, “ Repentance from dead works to serve
the living God, which comprehends three operations, rirst^
a sight of sin ; secondly, a sense and godly sorrow fox sin ,
thirdly, an amendment for the time to come. Ibis was t le
repentance they (the first Quakers) preached and pi esse ,
767
and a natural result of the principle they turned all people Quakers.
unt°. 1 1
Ith. “From hence sprung another doctrine which they
were led to declare. Perfection from sin, according to the
Scriptures of truth, which testify it to be the end of Christ’s
coming, and the nature of his kingdom, and for which his
Spirit was and is given, viz. to be perfect as our heavenly
Father is perfect, and holy because God is holy. . . . But
they never held a perfection of wisdom and glory in this
life, or from natural infirmities, or death, as some have, with
a weak and ill mind, imagined and insinuated against them.”2
Such are the great and strictly religious doctrines of the
Society of Friends. There are others which they hold in
common with other Christians, and which need not be enu¬
merated here ; but there are others, again, constituting a
great system of philosophy, of morals, and manners, which
distinguished the faith of George Fox from that of his pre¬
decessors and contemporaries, and which, if permitted to
operate freely throughout society, would unquestionably pro¬
duce the most amazing and beneficent changes. In the
gospel declarations, that “ God made of one blood all the
nations of the earth,” and that “ he is no respecter of per¬
sons,” he perceived nothing less than a charter of the most
perfect freedom and equality of right to the whole human
race. He carried out this idea so liberally, that he extend¬
ed it to the female part of the community. He declared the
equality of the sexes ; that there is no sex in souls, but all
are one in Christ Jesus ; and on this ground he gave the fe¬
male Friends a participation in the civil economy of the so¬
ciety. He extended this doctrine to all nations and co¬
lours ; one right and one law for all men, whether wdfite or
black. In the declaration of Christ, the heathen lorded it
over one another, but it should not be so amongst his disci¬
ples, wdiere he saw the law of brotherhood, and not of subjec¬
tion. This law once recognised, he could no longer recog¬
nise the contrary law of bloodshed and revenge; he wras
bound to pronounce the anti-Christianity of war. He pro¬
nounced the anti-Christianity of all oaths, on the clear and
unequivocal command of Christ, “ Swear not at all.”
He regarded Christianity as a heavenly dispensation, sent Peculiar
down to draw us from the follies and vanities of the world, customs
and the very essence of which consisted in a renewed vitality a.r*^ Prac*
of mind. This led him to resist, despise, and expose thosetices'
assumptions of absurd titles, those demands of servile obei¬
sance and empty flatteries by mere wealth and factitious
rank, which degrade both givers and receivers, and fill the
world with so much misery and heart-burnings, so much
meanness and pride. On this principle he adopted the ut¬
most simplicity of dress and manners. He resumed the
original use of thee and thou to a single person, the more so
as you was then used to a rich person, and thou to a poor-
one. He abandoned the practice of what he called “ hat-
homage,” taking off the hat, and bowing, as marks of obei¬
sance to superiors. He refused to address persons of rank
by the titles of your Majesty, your Excellency, your Grace,
&c., looking upon it as the basest flattery, where there hap¬
pened to be neither majesty, excellency, nor grace. Believ¬
ing in the authenticity of no ministry but such as depended
alone upon the teaching of the Holy Ghost, he denied the
right to tithes, church-rates, or any compulsory payments
to the support of a priesthood. As he regarded the cere¬
mony of marriage as requiring for its celebration no inter¬
ference of a minister of the gospel, he refused the mode
adopted at the altars of the Established Church, and intro¬
duced a simple form of marriage in the meetings of his own
society. He rejected the common customs of mourning
and burial, as not being in accordance with the simplicity
of the Gospel. Regarding the names of the months and
1 Penn’s Rise and Progress, p. 19.
2 Ibid. p. 19.
768
QUAKERS.
Quakers, days of the week as originating in mythological idolatry, he
s“—’■‘v'''"'' substituted a mere numerical nomenclature. Various prac¬
tices and social indulgences, as singing, dancing, music, the
frequenting of theatres and other places of public amuse¬
ment, playing at games of chance for money, drinking of
healths, horse-racing, and field-sports, were renounced and
discouraged by him, as incurring waste of time, or incon¬
sistent with the serious hopes and duties of Christians. These
innovations were all adopted by the Society of Friends, and
have become fixed rules of practice.
The first It is obvious that a system like this could not be pro¬
preachers nrulgated without setting in array against it an innumer-
Tr ends^10 a^e ^ost enem^es* There was scarcely a custom of
nen S’ society, or a profession in it, at which it did not aim a se¬
vere blow. The church, the army, the law, each felt that
it was menaced with decay or change. Royalty saw, that
if this doctrine succeeded, it would lop off the right arm of
arbitrary power, for it could not flatter the divine right of
kings. The clergy saw that it did not object to this or that
dogma, this or that ceremony, like the Puritans, but it as¬
sailed, root and branch, state-religion itself. If Quakerism
succeeded, where would be the soldier and the marine;
where the gainful trade of litigation ? It was a system
which aimed a death-blow at the flatteries of the world, and
the self-gratulation and self-indulgent spirit of human na¬
ture ; and it was accordingly speedily saluted with one ge¬
neral and furious tempest of hatred and vengeance. But,
before turning to the persecutions of the Quakers, we must
first notice the singular zeal, and as singular enterprises, of
their first ministers. It has been stated, that, in the seventh
year of Quakerism, these ministers amounted to upwards of
sixty. These numbers continued for some years to increase
rapidly ; and they were animated with a surprising spirit of
proselytism. Of these, Francis Howgill, John Audland,
Samuel Fisher, had been clergymen ; George Bishop, Rich¬
ard Hubberthorn, William Ames, officers in the army; An¬
thony Pearson, John Crook, justices of peace. Of the rest,
Edward Burrough, Robert Farnsworth, James Nayler, Wil¬
liam Dewsbury, John Camm, Thomas Lowe, William Ca-
ton, and James Parnel, were amongst the most eminent.
William Penn and Robert Barclay, two of their most cele¬
brated members, did not join the society till about twenty
years after its formation. There were also a considerable
number of women-preachers, wffio displayed a spirit as bold
and zealous as the men. ,
Firmly persuaded that they wrere actuated by the imme¬
diate influence and revelation of the Divine Spirit, and
ordained to restore the primitive form and simplicity of
the Christian faith, the Quaker-preachers traversed every
quarter of the united kingdom, entering the churches of
the establishment, denouncing their ceremonies and doc¬
trines, telling the people that they were come to call them
off from such things, from “ the beggarly elements” of
outward observances and outward teachers, to the great In¬
ward Teacher ; that the ground on which these churches
stood was no more holy than any other ground ;l and that
sprinkling with water, putting on of surplices, and repeating
ready-made prayers, were but relics of Popery. As these
clergy and churches were maintained by the nation, they
conceived that they had the clearest right to call upon the
nation to look into them. They did not stop here ; they
believed it their duty to address solemn warnings to ma¬
gistrates, to parliament, to the protector or the king as it
might be, on what they regarded as their duty to the public. Quakers.
George Fox, Edward Burrough, Samuel Fisher, George -
Whitehead, and others of the Friends, had repeated inter¬
views with Cromwell, Charles II., and other monarchs; and
William Penn was a regular visitor at court during the
short reign of James II.2 Many of the preachers extended
their travels to France, Germany, Holland, and America.
George Fox himself visited Holland, America, and the
West Indies. Penn and Barclay visited Holland and Ger¬
many, and were received with the most cordial sympathy
by Elizabeth, the princess of the palatinate, who entered
into a religious correspondence with them.
Their success, and perhaps the very heat and opposition Their zeai
of the times, so stimulated their zeal and confirmed their and singu-
opinions, that they now declared that they moved in the ^ar act^ons
same spirit and power as the apostles. George Fox de¬
clared them little better than impostors who did not pos¬
sess and act in that power and spirit. He believed, that by
the Inward Light, not only the Scriptures, but both the in¬
tellectual and physical world, were opened to him. “ He
knew not only a renewing of the heart, and a restoration of
the mind, but the virtues of the creatures were also opened
to him ; so that he began to deliberate whether he should
practise physic for the good of mankind....The three great
professions in the world, physic, divinity, and law, were
opened to him,” &c.3 He worked miracles, according to his
own testimony and that of his friends. He cured a woman
of a distracted mind, by merely telling her, in the name of
the Lord, to be quiet.4 He commanded a man at Arn-side
to stretch out his withered arm, and it was restored.5 But
he believed himself not only endowed with the apostolic,
but with the prophetic power. He foretold to Judge Fell,
a fortnight before any body else dreamed of such a thing,
the dissolution of the parliament by force.6 He had a vision
of an angel with a fiery sword, prophetic of the great fire in
London.7 Meeting Cromwell riding in Hampton-Court
Park, as he drew near, “ he perceived a shaft of death go
forth from him.” Cromwell invited him to come to the pa¬
lace, but on going the next day he found him already on his
death-bed.8 He exercised the same gift on many other oc¬
casions, foretelling judgments on his persecutors. His co¬
adjutors laid claim to the same revelations. They were
zealous to the last to address warnings to magistrates and
to governments ; as Francis Flowgill to Cromwell ;9 Samuel
Fisher to the parliament ;10 Edward Burrough to Cromwell
and his council, &c.u They foretold events. Thomas Al-
dam foretold the fall of Cromwell ;12 George Bishop, the
great plague in London;13 Thomas Ibbitt, Humphry Smith,
George Fox the younger, and Thomas Briggs, the great
fire of London ;14 Edward Burrough, the death of Crom¬
well, his own death, and various other events.15 They ex¬
hibited signs, like the ancient prophets. A woman went
into the parliament in 1658, with a pitcher in her hand, and
breaking it, told them, so should they be broken to pieces.16
Thomas Aldam took off his cap before the Protector, and
tearing it to pieces, said, “ so shall the government be
rent from thee and thy house.”17 In 1660, Robert Hunt¬
ingdon went into the church at Brough, near Carlisle, wrap¬
ped in a white sheet, and with a halter about his neck, to
show the Independents and Presbyterians that the surplice
would be introduced again, and that some of them would
be hanged.18 A woman appeared in a Protestant church at
Dieppe, in sackcloth and ashes.19 Thomas Ibbitt, two days
1 Sewel’s History, i. 79.
2 Ibid. i. 273, 315-316; ii. 548, 55'J, 594, 613, 617-
3 George Fox’s Journal, 6th edit. i. 106 ; Sewel, i. 29.
* Ibid. i. 120; Ibid. i. 37-
» Ibid. i. 219.
6 Sewel’s History, i. 112, 113.
7 Ibid. ii. 101.
8 Sewel’s History, i. 315, 316.
9 Ibid. i. 139.
10 Ibid. i. 226.
11 Ibid. i. 210, 27C.
12 Ibid. i. 325. j
13 Ibid. i. 260.
14 Sewel’s History, ii. 175, 199, 388.
15 Ibid. i. 315; ii. 50.
16 Ibid. i. 312.
17 Ibid. i. 313.
18 Ibid. i. 436.
19 Ibid. i. 191.
QUAKERS.
Quakers.
769
Zeal of
the first
Quakers.
ersecu-
ions suf-
'red by
ie Friends
hif Hothe,fill0il!:°id0n,1 tils1mo,mtued from horse with their activity in travelling and preaching all over the conn- Quakers.
come in ereat W? OOS1c y abovit him> as though he had try. No persecution in modern times fell more heavily orv'—~v 
iudsment^ Sobmo^Fr T - aboUtfthe «ty denouncing savagely upon any people ; and it must be said, to the bo¬
at Galloway in Ireland on,T 3‘ ^ athohc chaPel ot the society, that no people ever stood up more firm-
ay’ m,elan?’ and’ when the People were on their ly for the rights of conscience and the liberty of the sub-
of coalfand burntfh ^ l L I Ject. The trials of the Friends, and especially that of John
ot coaJs and burning brimstone on his head, and, crying Crook in 1662,9 and that of William Penn and William
Woe to these idolatrous worshippers,” declared that God Mead in 1670,^ at the Old Bailey, will for ever remain as
Had sent him to show them their portion, unless they re- noble monuments of their resistance to the arbitrary pro-
pented. Ihe same man wept into a church in Alderman- ceedings of the courts of judicature at that time, and their
pury in ibdy, and, seating himself on the pulpit-cushion, violent infringement of the privilege of jury. In the lat-
m app n f ^ In 1662, Da- ter case there happened to be a noble jury, who, insen-
in the face of the audience, began to sew.2  
niel Baker, being in a ship becalmed opposite to Gibraltar,
went ashore on Maunday Thursday, proceeded to the mass-
house, and amid the people at high mass he rent his clothes,
discovering sackcloth on his body ; then taking his hat from
his head, he threw it on the ground and stamped on it, and
calling on them to repent, so passed away.3
sible to the most atrocious attempts made by the court to
force a verdict, were shut up without “ meat, drink, fire, or
tobacco,” for two nights and a day, and, still remaining
immoveable, were conveyed with the prisoners to Newgate.
The enemies of the Quakers were furnished with abun¬
dant means of oppression, in the various acts which had been
But the zeal of the first Quakers could not expend itself passed since the days of Henry VIII. till then, against the
even in these extraordinary demonstrations; many of them
set out to the very ends of the earth, with what they be¬
lieved to be commissions from on high. One young woman,
Mary Fisher, proceeded to Adrianople (although once stop¬
ped at Venice,‘and sent back by the British consul) to con¬
vert the Grand Turk, who received her in the most cour¬
teous manner.* Two others, Catharine Evans and Sarah
Cheevers, went to Malta to reclaim the Catholic inhabi¬
tants, but did not meet with so handsome a reception as
their sister had done from the Sultan. They were clapped
into the prison of the Inquisition, and only liberated after a
four years’ imprisonment, through the interference of Lord
D’Aubigny.5 John Love, John Perrot, Samuel Fisher, and
John Stubbs, went to Rome, to testify, in the presence of the
pope and cardinals, against their superstitions. Love died
in the Inquisition, but the others escaped.6 George Ro¬
binson travelled to Jerusalem to denounce the trade which
the friars made of the holy sepulchre, and to convert the
Mahommedans, and also returned safe.7 Others crossed to
New England, where we shall have occasion to speak of
them immediately. This is a portion of the Quaker history,
which suggests serious ideas. All these things were done
under the conviction of immediate revelation; but the re¬
sult of these strange signs and journeys did not justify the
singular anomaly of the actions; and, what is remarkable,
they have never, at any subsequent period, found imitators
in the society. In the sober judgment of this age, such
things will no doubt be estimated at their true value; and,
from the present practice and character of the Friends, we
presume they would not differ much in opinion from their
neighbours.8
The persecutions which the Friends suffered forms ano¬
ther remarkable chapter in their history, and one in which
they appear to great advantage. We have seen what were
their doctrines, and that their promulgation was sure to
plunge them into a sea of suffering. Ihis was soon veri¬
fied. Wherever they appeared, the clergy, who justly look¬
ed upon them as the most daring and determined- enemies
that ever appeared against them (for they everywhere de¬
clared to the people that their system was anti-Christian,
and rotten to the very core), on all hands roused the civil
and military powers against them. Wherever they preach¬
ed they were hauled before the magistrates, fined or impri¬
soned ; but though the persecution waxed hotter and fiercer
every day, they never for a moment flinched, or remitted
Popish recusants, and otherwise, to compel conformity to
the established church. There was the 27th of Henry
VIII.; the 1st of Elizabeth, for twelvepence a day ; the 5th
of Eliz. De Excommunicato capiendo ; the 35th of Eliza¬
beth, for abjuring the realm, on pain of death; the 3d of
James I. for praemunire, imprisonment for life, and confisca¬
tion of estate; the 13th and 14th of Charles II. for transport¬
ing Quakers; the 17 th of Charles II. against non-conformists;
the 22d of Charles II. against seditious conventicles. They
were so surrounded with snares that there existed not a
chance of escape if there were the slightest desire to punish
them. If all charges against them failed on any occasion,
there was the oath of allegiance and supremacy always ready
to present to them ; and the Quakers could not take any oath
whatever. But by the last act against conventicles, passed
in 1670, they were completely given up as a prey to the
informers. Any five persons convicted of being present in
one house, over and above the ordinary family, were to be
fined five shillings for the first offence, ten for a second,
twenty pounds for preaching, forty for a second offence,
and twenty pounds for the building in which the meeting
was held, the whole to be levied by distress; and if any
one person could not pay his fine, it was to be levied on
any one or more who could, the informer receiving one
third of the amount. Under such temptations to low cu¬
pidity, loss of their property and imprisonment of their
persons spread throughout the whole country. Cromwell
and Charles II. both professed a desire to stay this persecu¬
tion, but they took few measures to effect this object; on the
contrary, during the whole reign of Charles, persecution raged
more and more vehemently. Their sufferings lasted thirty
years, and the simple matter-of-fact relation of them fills two
large folio volumes of more than one thousand four hundred
closely printed pages. The prisons were full of them, and
these prisons were pestilential dungeons, of which we can
now hardly credit the description. In them there were at one
time 4200 Quakers. The prisons of London had suffocat¬
ing crowds in them, and the celebrated hole in Newgate
was the death of numbers. Ellwood, the friend of Milton,
and who had the honour to suggest the composition of Para¬
dise Regained, was in Newgate amongst these numbers, and
has left us, in his Life, some curious sketches of those scenes.
The majority of the first preachers of Quakerism died in
prison. In 1662 twenty Friends died in the London jails;
in 1664 twenty-five more; in 1665 fifty-two others, besides
3 Sewel’s History, i. 541.
4 Ibid. i. 433.
5 Sewel’s History, i. 493.
« Ibid. i. 433.
1 Sewel’s History, ii. 199.
2 Ibkl. ii. 241; State Trials, vi. 998-
* Slnfu here said of the actions of James Nayler, because the, were condemned by the Friends at the lime, and, after his
Trials, vi. 201. '• State Trials, vi. 951, Sewel.ii. 259; Gough, * 328.
VOL. XVIII.
770
QUAKERS.
Quakers.
seven who died after liberation, in consequence of their
treatment during confinement. According to Besse, the
historian of their sufferings, the total number of Friends
who perished in prison during this period was 369. In
Bristol at one time every adult was in prison. In London
in 1670 Charles issued an order, signed by the archbishop
of Canterbury and thirteen others, commanding Mr Chris¬
topher Wren to pull down their meeting-houses at Rat-
cliffe and Horsleydown, which was done, and the materials
sold. Peal meeting-house was ransacked, and stripped of
doors and windows. Their other meeting-houses were nail¬
ed up ; and the Friends, who met on the ruins, or in the
street, were driven away by soldiers, mercilessly beaten with
the butt-ends of their muskets, and some of them killed.
Throughout the severe winter of 1683, these steadfast people
collected in the streets to worship, in spite of all pains and
penalties, and suffered incredible hardships and insults. The
dead were disinterred from their graves; women and children
were dragged by the hair along the streets; some were
pricked with needles and bodkins, and others were sold to
the sugar plantations. Meantime their property v/as at the
mercy of constables and informers, who wrenched open
their doors with sledge-hammers and screws, and carried off
everything, to the very children’s food, often leaving not a
tool to work with, or a horse to plough the land. In many
instances these fellows, where the men were in prison, car¬
ried the keys of their houses in their pockets, went in and
out as they pleased, declaring that they would “ eat of the
best and drink of the sweetest, and these rogues of Quakers
should pay for all.” There was levied at one time on the
Friends at Bristol, for fines, L.16,400; and, from a careful
examination of the records of the society, it clearly appears
that property was taken or destroyed at that period to the
amount of upwards of one million sterling.
This sketch of their persecutions would not be perfect if
we omitted their treatment in New England. There, the
colony of Independents, whose history is so well known from
the circumstance of their having fled from persecution at
home, and immediately become persecutors themselves,
and whose cruelties to the Indians and to one another form
so gloomy a passage in history, no sooner heard that two
Quaker women were arrived in the harbour, than they seiz¬
ed on them before they could land, put them in prison,
stripped them naked, and barbarously treated them. They
ordered three other Quaker women to be stripped to the
waist, and flogged through eleven towns, a distance of eighty
miles, in all the severity of frost and snow. They then hang¬
ed three men and one woman, before a mandate from the
king could arrest their bloody course.
The extent of persecution was much diminished by Wil¬
liam Penn opening an asylum for his friends in his new
state of Pennsylvania, whither great numbers emigrated;
and a final stop was put to them by James II. He permit¬
ted the Friends to substitute an affirmation instead of an
oath; then came the Toleration Act of William II., re¬
cognising more fully the rights of conscience; and subse¬
quent acts legalized their marriages, and placed them at
ease amongst their fellow-citizens. They still continue
their conscientious refusal to pay tithes and church-rates,
and these are taken by distraint, to the average annual
amount of about L.11,000.
It would give an unfair view of the Society of Friends,
if, after exhibiting the vehemence of their early zeal, we
did not remind the reader of the peculiar spirit and cir¬
cumstances of that age. Then all the elements of political
and religious unrest were in a state of chaotic turbulence,
and the whole style of language and of action amongst all
denominations was such as would now be pronounced violent
and fanatical. The Quakers, in this respect, only partook
of the spirit of the age; and to understand them more truly,
we must see them in their patient steadfastness under their
dreadful misusage, in which they gave far higher evidence Quakers,
of the influence and support of the Divine Spirit, than by
all their signs and wonders. It is to their everlasting ho¬
nour that they never showed the least symptom of retalia¬
tion. Though often urged, when circumstances were in
their favour, to denounce their enemies, they had on all such
occasions but one answer, “ We leave them to the Lord.”
They not only went on steadily, preaching and convincing
thousands, but they set about and organized a system of
discipline, or church-government, distinguished in a re¬
markable degree for its order and decorum. In the first
place, they established a standing committee in London,
called “ The Meeting for Sufferings,” for receiving the ear¬
liest accounts of the persecutions of their friends from all
parts of the kingdom, and for taking the promptest mea¬
sures for their mitigation. It was in this committee that
George Fox was to be constantly found to the latest day
of his life, whenever in London, anxiously engaged in en¬
deavouring to alleviate the sufferings of the society. The
system of discipline then organized, and which continues,
in the main, as it was left by the first Quakers, we have
now to describe.
Wherever the Friends have a meeting-house, they hold, Discipline
once a month, after the meeting for worship is over, a meet- °ftlie so*
ing for discipline ; or, in other words, for all the civil andciet'*
ecclesiastical affairs of the body. Though they do not pay
their ministers, they deem it right to defray their expenses
when they travel in the ministry. They hold it a Christian
duty to support their own poor, and to educate their chil¬
dren. For these purposes they raise the necessary funds
by voluntary contribution at these meetings, which are call¬
ed Preparative Meetings, that is, meetings preparatory to
the monthly meetings, which include several preparative
meetings. Each preparative meeting appoints representa¬
tives to attend the monthly meeting.
The monthly meeting receives the funds for the poor,
and appropriates to each meeting what is necessary. It
also receives the funds for the public schools, and tor what
is called “ the National Stock,” that is, a fund placed at the
disposal of the society at large for general charges; and
hands them in by its representatives to the quarterly meet¬
ing. In these monthly meetings is chiefly vested the real
property of the society, as its meeting-houses, lands, &c.
They judge of the fitness of persons applying for member¬
ship ; excite to due attention to religious and moral duties ;
and deal with disorderly members. They grant certificates
of membership and conduct to those removing into other
monthly meetings, without which they could not be re¬
ceived as members. They appoint two or more persons in
each particular meeting, called overseers, to watch over
the general conduct of the members, maintain the decorum
of the meeting, and see the discipline enforced. They ap¬
point also two or more persons, of high religious standing,
as elders, to watch over the ministry, to judge of the fitness
of such as offer themselves as preachers, and to sympathise
with those already acknowledged. It is contrary to the
rules of the society for any of its members to go to law with
each other ; all differences are to be settled by arbitration ;
and it is the duty of the monthly meetings to deal with such
as violate this rule. Parties wishing to marry appear at
these meetings and declare their intention ; persons are ap¬
pointed to inquire whether the parties are free from other
engagements, and whether they have the consent of parents
or guardians. These inquiries being answered in the af¬
firmative, and the parties signifying to the following month¬
ly meeting their continuance in the same mind, are permit¬
ted by it to proceed.
Several of these monthly meetings compose a quarterly
meeting. A quarterly meeting, indeed, generally embraces
one or two counties. - At the quarterly meetings are pro¬
duced, from the monthly meetings, written answers to cer-
QUAKERS.
771
Quakers, tain standing queries respecting the conduct of the mem- seizures for tithes, church-rates, &c. It has committees Quakers.
y " hers, and the meetings’ care over them. Ihese accounts are sitting on the state of the public schools, on the subject of ''—’■'y
digested into one, and sent on by representatives to the
yearly meeting. The money contributions for the national
stock, &c. are not forwarded by the representatives from the
quarterly meetings to’ the yearly meeting directly, but by
appointed correspondents in each quarterly meeting to the
Meeting for Sufferings, which is the fiscal and executive or ¬
gan of the yearly meeting. Ministers wishing to travel in
the ministry in Great Britain, must obtain a certificate from
their own monthly meeting ; and if they extend their views
to Ireland, they must take one from the quarterly meeting.
The quarterly meetings assist their monthly meetings in
difficult cases, and hear any appeals from their judgment.
From the quarterly meetings in spring, representatives
are sent to the yearly meeting in London ; thus the affairs
slavery, and on other questions, in which the Friends take
great interest, and on which they frequently feel bound to
address the crown, petition parliament, or call upon the
public for its attention. It has a committee to receive all
appeals against the decision of the quarterly meetings. It
alone lias power to alter any of the established rules of the
society, or to make new ones. It sometimes appoints com¬
mittees to visit such quarterly meetings as appear in need
of help; and it always addresses a general epistle to the
society, which is read in every meeting in the kingdom;
the women Friends issuing an epistle from their meeting,
addressed to the female community exclusively.1
In their mode of worship the Friends differ from all other Peculiar
Christians. Believing all worship to depend upon the im- n!0de of
of the society coming into operation in every meeting in mediate operation of the Holy Spirit, and having, therefore, worsluP-
the kingdom, gradually concentrating themselves into one
focus, concerns of a local nature being dropped in their
own proper sphere, and the monthly or quarterly meetings,
and those of a more general interest being carried on to the
great annual assembly. To understand, however, the me¬
chanism of the society, it must be explained that these
meetings of discipline, monthly, quarterly, and yearly, are
not restricted to the representatives only. All members
may, and great numbers do, attend them ; for not only
has every member a right to give an opinion on all public
questions, but these meetings offer points of pleasant re¬
union and acquaintanceship. It must, too, be understood
that the women, simultaneously with the men, but in a
separate apartment, hold their own monthly, quarterly, and
yearly meetings of discipline, in which they watch over
the interests, the moral conduct, and the religious con¬
sistency of the female portion of the community. ; There
no paid ministers, no stated prayers, no singing even, they
walk into their meeting-house, the men with their hats on,
and sit down in silence. They keep on their hats because
they do not believe that place to be holier than any other,
or that worship is more acceptable at one time than another,
but that it is enjoined on us, and is good for us, to assemble
ourselves together before God. They have no separate
pews, but all the men sit together on one row of benches,
and all the women on another. They have no pulpit, be¬
cause they have no fixed preacher; but as they may have
several voluntary ones, they have a long raised gallery in
front of the congregation, where the ministers sit, the men
facing the men, and the women facing the women of the
audience. The elders sit with them, or with the overseers,
in a lower gallery, still facing the meeting. As the minis¬
try is independent of human appointment, so is it of hu¬
man choice in its distribution. There may be, and often
is also, previous to any meeting of discipline, a meeting of are, half a dozen ministers or more resident, as in large
towns, and there may be a succession of sermons and
prayers, whilst in great numbers of other meetings there is
no minister, nor a word spoken, for years together, except
it be by travelling ministers, who occasionally visit, not
only their meetings, but each family belonging to them.
Such were the early Quakers, and such are the forms of Great
meetings of discipline. The ministers are also members who now seethe Friendsas they are, would scarcely believe
of the Meeting for Sufferings, which, as already stated, is them to be descended from so fiery and innovating a race. society.
the standing committee of the society. The old Quakers were vehement ,n the promulgation of
These subordinate and preliminary meetings, then, hav- their principles, and aggressive ,n their attacks on the prm-
- r - • x J — - ciples of others. The present Friends neither assail the re¬
ligious doctrines of others, nor seem anxious to diffuse their
own. The virtue of the first Quakers^was active, that of the
ministers and elders, to strengthen each others’ hands.
To their meeting in London, more commonly called “ the
Morning Meeting,” is intrusted the revision of manuscripts
which concern the principles of the society, and the grant¬
ing of certificates to ministers wishing to travel abroad
during the intervals of the yearly meeting. These minis- . ~ .
ters and elders afterwards take their places in the general polity and worship which they have left behind them. the charac_
ing been held, the yearly meeting comes on in London in
the month of May. There is but one yearly meeting for
these united kingdoms, to which come representatives from
Scotland and Ireland But in America* where the great present is passive to a miracle. They cling tenaciously to
body of the Quakers is now to be found, there are eight the outward forms of their system, and to the.r pecuhar,ties
yeariv meedm-s which correspond with the English yearly of dress, speech, and renunciation of popular amusements;
o another: besides five yearly meet- but the ancient fire which once lit up the.r body seems to
meeting, and with one another; besides five yearly
ings of what are called Liberal or Hicksite Quakers,
with whom neither the English nor the other American
Quakers hold any communication. The discipline m all
have gone out. They profess to hold their great prin¬
ciples as sacred as their ancestors did, but they show little
anxiety to make them known. Much of this remarkable
change is plainly attributable to natural causes. The vio-
is pretty much the same, and therefore the descnption of paroxysm determines the length of its
that in London may represent the lest. It elects a c e , wv nprsprution ceased the Friends found
who officiates at oLe'as chairman and duration^
assistant-clerk, to relieve him oy reading ^ng docume , and tasteS of the world, on trade for occupa-
&c. The meeting is held by adjournment from daj t« home for reiaxation. They became busy, do-
day, and generally continues about days. It * ^ and of consequence wealthy. These causes will
epistles from Friends in Ireland, and the oithodc y y , b t th^re is another cause which will explain
meetings in America, and appoints ^ 2e ofX present circumstances of the society; their
answers. It receives and considers the a«s , „reat tenet, and corner-stone of their faith, the Inward Light,
standing queries on the moral and religious Carrying this doctrine to the extent which they do, that it
Sb^°u by the6Meeting foi^Sutfenngs," U the*Isuffident guidet that its guHance it ,0 be sought
> For all that relates to the civil and religious economy of the society, sea its statute-book, The Book of the Rules of Dis-
cipline, &c.
772 QUAKERS.
Quakers, and waited for; that we must put down before it our own
' imaginations and reason, and without its impulse we must
make no religious movement, it has had this eftect; it has
acted as a blight upon the ministry. Those who might feel
disposed to address their meetings from a simple feeling of
love, and desire for the salvation of their fellows, and fiom
a belief that every good motive must come from the source
of all good, and would be blessed by Him; these, perhaps
the most able members of the body, have yet shrunk from
the task, because they felt that they should be restrained
by the elders, as persons running in their own strength, and
in their own natural reason. Those who have not been so
sensitive, and have been adopted as ministers, have entered
upon a process of putting down every motion and faculty of
their own minds, and of waiting for a direct and palpable
revelation from heaven. The consequence need not be
stated. It is a fact, that since the first days of Quakerism
they have had few preachers of extraordinary eloquence
or originality of mind. The ministry is now confessedly
low, and the sermons heard in their meetings are most fre¬
quently common-place and rambling, ihe experiment of
an unpaid ministry in their hands has been by no means
a splendid one. No spread or prevalence of their doctrines
has followed, at all answerable to the ground of inspiration
assumed. With the exception of two preachers who have
lately paid a visit to Australia and the South Sea Islands,
they have sent out no missionaries, nor contributed to the
funds of those societies which did, because they were not
moved to it; as if the evidence of success were not sufficient
warrant. In their meetings of discipline the same principle
has produced the same effects^ Though all profess to live
under the influence of the spiritual guide, some are sup¬
posed to live under it more habitually. These have ac¬
quired the name of Weighty Friends, that is, Friends of
weight of character and consequent influence. Instead,
therefore, of deciding all questions in these meetings by the
ordinary mode of voting, or by a show of hands, a mode,
one would have imagined, particularly consonant to their
views of natural right, they have adopted the singular one
of deciding by weight; that is, by the dicta of the Weighty
Friends, who, for the most part, are men of weighty purses
too. These Friends have only to say, “ I am of this or
that opinion,” without assigning any reason, and this is taken
as the sense of the meeting, and decides the question.
Thus is the government of the society thrown into the
hands of an oligarchy of the most dangerous kind ; for none
can be more dangerous than that of an assumed sanctity;
and thus are the advantages of their otherwise popular sys¬
tem curiously neutralized.
The same principle has operated still further. It has
damped religious inquiry and discussion. In the common
affairs of life and trade, where the Friends have used their
understandings, they have shown themselves shrewd and
successful; in matters of religion they thought it right to
renounce their natural faculties, and wait. When the young
have expressed to ministers, or any of their elder Friends,
their doubts or uneasiness on any religious point, they have
replied, “ they did not feel free to discuss such matters
they advised them to “ centre down into their own minds,
to turn inward to the infallible guide.” The consequence
became apparent in a dearth of religious intelligence. There
was not the same inquiry into and clear recognition of re¬
ligious doctrines amongst them as amongst other commu¬
nities of Christians; and when the spirit of research burst
upon them from without, they were startled. Many felt
themselves like mere children in theology, and were scat¬
tered different ways.
These divisions first showed themselves in America in 1827.
They originated in objections to the doctrines of a very Quakers,
popular and aged minister, Elias Hicks; but at the yearly —
meeting in Philadelphia that year, it was found that great Modern
numbers were of his opinions, and the parties came to an 5011181118
open rupture. The schism soon spread to New York, and^^g
the feud raged for some years with great violence, ending
eventually in the total disruption of the society in Ame¬
rica. It is difficult to state the numbers of the society,
because there has always been a reluctance to take a regular
census of the body. In the year 1659, from the number of
females who signed petitions to parliament, it was calculat¬
ed that the number altogether in England was about 30,000.
At present, from calculations made by private individuals,
there does not appear to be quite 20,000; but in America
they have been variously estimated at from 100,000 to
160,000, and may very safely be rated at more than 100,000.
The section of the American Quakers calling themselves
orthodox state the numbers who avowed the opinions of
Elias Hicks at 30,000; the Hicksites themselves claim
60,000. It may, therefore, be fairly taken for granted that
the body there is pretty equally rent in two. The English
Quakers renounced the Hicksite Quakers, though these
people protested that they held, and had always held, the
doctrines of the first Friends in their integrity. Scarcely
was this schism effected when the Quakers in England found
themselves assailed on the opposite side by a party which
had been most urgent with them to disown the Hicksites.
This attack appeared in the shape of a publication called
“ A Beacon to the Society of Friends,” warning them
against the errors of Hicks, and advocating water-baptism,
the taking of the Lord’s Supper, and other opinions which
the Quakers from the first had abandoned. The heats and
contentions incident to religious disputes have, on this
ground, distracted the society here; some few have with¬
drawn from the body, and several individuals have been dis¬
missed for adopting ceremonies which Quakerism rejects;
but the body itself has hitherto remained entire. It is not
necessary here to enter into the points in dispute. It may
suffice to say, that the Hicksites are charged with setting
the Inward Light above the Scriptures, and the Beacon-
ites with setting the Scriptures above the Inward Light;
the Hicksites with running too far into mysticism, and the
Beaconites into the “ beggarly elements” of outward form.
Both parties appeal to Scripture against each other, and the
English Friends appeal to it against them both. The circum¬
stance to be regretted is, that this society, which has always
boasted that it “ has no creed,” and which says, “ We re¬
quire no formal subscription to any articles, either as to the
condition of membership, or to qualify for the services of
the church; we prefer judging of men by their fruits
should thus rend itself to pieces about “ articles of faith,”
and the very stuff of which “ creeds” are made.
If, however, the Society of Friends, having an “ infallible Their high
guide,” has not avoided wandering different ways ; if, being philanthro-
“ a Society of Friends,” they have not avoided bickerings P1C cliarac’
and divisions; they have the honour of being amongst theter*
noblest and most unwearied philanthropists which the world
has ever seen. In this character they have proudly main¬
tained their testimonies. If George Fox was not untouch¬
ed with the extravagances of his age, he outstripped that
age two hundred years in his clear perception of the high¬
est requirements of Christianity. He was amongst the
first, if not the first, to call public attention to the dreadful
state of our prisons ; to the injustice of capital punishments
for mere stealing; and to the atrocious system of confining
fresh prisoners with the most thoroughly debased.1 He de¬
clared the anti-christianity of war, oaths, and slavery. In
the maintenance of all these great truths, to the recognition
1 Sewel, i. G7; Fox’s Journal, i. 143.
Q U A
Quality, of which the world is now but tardily coming, his followers
 v ' have nobly emulated him. William Penn, by his just treat¬
ment of the Indians, and the full liberty of conscience
granted in his new state of Pennsylvania, showed the noble
lessons he had learned in this school. It was amongst the
Friends that the great crusade against negro slavery com¬
menced in the person ot John Woolman, an American mi¬
nister.1 From that time to the present the Quakers have
never ceased their efforts in that cause. They were the
first in Erigland to form an association for the abolition of
the slave-trade. Thomas Clarkson, on setting out on his
career, found them everywhere ready to co-operate with
him, and to the last day of the struggle their purses and
personal exertions were never spared. They have not been
less zealous in spreading their opinions of the crime and
impolicy of war ; and in prison discipline, Elizabeth Pryor,
a name not enough known or honoured, and her more
known but not more deserving coadjutor Elizabeth Fry,
have merited largely of the public. It is in this point of
view, in thus early and steadily, theoretically and practical¬
ly, exhibiting Christianity in its highest and most beneficent
form, “ peace on earth, and good-will towards men,” that
the Friends have conferred on society the greatest good of
which men can be made the instruments, and deserve from
it the most grateful esteem.
The word QUALITY is a word which, as used in philosophical dis-
quality quisitions, cannot be explained by any periphrasis. That
e^la'r/'tl 18 expressed by it must be brought into the imme-
Itjis treat-(liate view t^e senses or intellect, and the name properly
ed by Aris-applied, or he who is a stranger to the word will never be
) totle as a made to comprehend its meaning. Aristotle, who treated
| general it as a general conception, second in order amongst the ten
conception.pretjjcamenj.g or categories, gives several characters of it;
but though they are all in some respects just, no man could
from them, without other assistance, learn what quality is.
When a man comprehends, by means of his senses and
intellect, what it is that the word quality denotes, he will
indeed perceive that the first of these characters is appli¬
cable to some qualities and not to others; that the second
is more applicable to quantity than to quality ; and that it
is only the third which can with propriety be considered as
the general characteristic of this predicament. 1 bus, when
we have learned by our sense of sight that whiteness is a
quality of snow, and blackness of coal; and, by means of
observation and reflection, that wisdom is a quality of one
man, and folly of another ; we must admit that the sensible
quality of the snow is contrary to that of the coal, and that
the intellectual quality of wisdom is contrary to that of folly.
There is, however, no contrariety between wisdom and
whiteness or blackness, nor between hardness or softness
and any particular colour; for sensible and intellectual qua¬
lities can never be compared, and it is not easy, if indeed it
be possible, to make a comparison between qualities percep¬
tible only by different senses. Nay, amongst qualities per¬
ceptible by the same sense, we often meet with a difference
where there is no contrariety; for though the figure of a
cube is different from that ot a sphere, and the figure ot a
square from that of a circle, the sphere is not contrar y to
the cube, npr the circle to the square.
His second characteristic of this genus is still less proper
than the first. It is indeed true that some qualities admit
of intension and remission; for snow is whiter than paper,
and one woman is handsomer than another ; but of the spe¬
cies of quality called figure we cannot predicate either more
or less. A crown-piece may have as much of the circular
QUA 773
hor a full account of the schism amongst the American Quality.
Friends, we must refer to The Friend, and The Heralds v-'-''
of Truth, journals published by the opposite parties ; The
Beacon, and Christian Enquirer; all published in Ame¬
rica. In The Christian Reformer, a London Journal,
a narrative may also be found, vols. xiii. xiv. xv. xvii.
and xviii., old series. The English discussion has occa¬
sioned a host of pamphlets, but the chief facts regarding
it are contained in The Beacon, by Isaac Crewdson ;
1 ruth Vindicated; The Crisis of the Quaker Controver¬
sy ; Quakerism Examined,, by John Wilkinson; An Ex¬
amination of the Principles and Practices of the Quakers,
by Elisha Bates ; Luke Howard’s Yorkshireman ; Reports
of the Proceedings in the Yearly Meetings of 1835 and
1836, in the Christian Advocate and Patriot newspapers;
and defensive pamphlets by S. Tuke, Dr Hancocke, and
others.
The history and doctrines of the early Friends will be
found in George Fox’s Journal; Barclay’s Apology for
the True Christian Divinity; The Histories of the So¬
ciety, by Sewel and Gough ; The History of the Sufferings
of the Quakers, by Besse; The History of the Friends
in Ireland, by Rutty ; Ellwood’s Life, written by himself;
and the works of William Penn, Richard Claridge, and
others. (b. e.)
quality in it as the plane of the equator, and a musket-bul¬
let as much of the spherical quality as the orb of the sun.
It is indeed a property of all quantity to admit of intension
and remission ; and therefore this ought to have been given
as the character, not of the second, but of the third category.
That it is only from a comparison of their qualities that
things are denominated like or unlike, or that one thing
cannot resemble another but in some quality, is indeed a
just observation. We know nothing directly except qualities
sensible and intellectual (see Metaphysics) ; and as these
have no resemblance to each other, we conclude that body
or matter, the subject of the former, is a being unlike mind,
the subject of the latter. Even of bodies themselves we
can say that one is like or unlike another only by virtue of
their qualities. A ball of ivory resembles a ball of snow in
its figure and colour, but not in its coldness or hardness ;
a ball of lead may resemble a ball of snow in its figure and
coldness, but not in its colour; and a cube of ivory resem¬
bles not a ball of lead either in figure, colour, or coldness.
The mind of a brute resembles that of a man in its powers
of sensation and perception, but does not resemble it in the
powers of volition and reasoning; or at least the resem¬
blance, in this latter instance, is very slight. All bodies
resemble one another in being solid and extended, and all
minds in being more or less active. Likeness or unlikeness,
therefore, is the universal characteristic of the category qua¬
lity.
Aristotle has other speculations respecting quality which Other spe-
are worthy of notice. Fie distinguishes between qualities culatl.ons
which are essential and those which are accidental, be- ^t^ris'
tween qualities which are natural and those which are ac¬
quired ; and he speaks of the qualities of capacity and those
of completion. Extension and figure in general are quali¬
ties essential to all bodies ; but a particular extension, such
as an inch or an ell, and a particular figure, such as a cube
or a sphere, are qualities accidental to bodies. Amongst
the natural qualities of glass it is one to transmit objects of
vision ; but to enlarge these objects is an adventitious or
acquired quality. The same quality may be natural in one
substance, as attraction in the magnet; and acquired in
1 Journal of John Woohnan ; also Woolman’:
Considerations on the Keeping of Negroes, Philadelphia, 1754; Dublin, 177G.
774 QUA
QUA
Locke’s
doctrine.
Quality, another, as the same attraction in the magnetic bar. Do¬
cility may be called a quality natural to the mind of man,
science an acquired one. To understand what he means
by qualities of capacity and completion, it may be sufficient
to observe, that every piece of iron has the qualities of a
razor in capacity, because it may be converted into steel,
and formed into a razor; and when it is so formed, it has,
in the language of this sage, the quality of a razor in com¬
pletion. Amongst the qualities of capacity and completion,
the most important, and what may lead to interesting spe¬
culations, is the reasoning faculty of man. A capacity of
reasoning is essential to the human mind ; but the comple¬
tion of this capacity or actual reasoning is not, otherwise
infants and persons asleep would be excluded from the hu¬
man species.
Mr Locke has puzzled his readers with a question re¬
specting the species of an idiot or a changeling, whom he
pronounces to be something between a man and a brute.1
It is not often that we feel ourselves inclined to regret
Locke’s ignorance of Aristotle’s distinctions; but we can¬
not help thinking, that had the British philosopher attended
to the Stagyrite’s account of qualities in capacity and qua¬
lities in completion, this perplexing question would never
have been started. It is justly observed in the Essay upon
Human Understanding, that of real essences we know no¬
thing, but that every man selects a certain number of qua¬
lities which he has always perceived united in certain beings,
and, forming these into one complex conception, gives to
this conception a specific name, which he applies to every
being in which he finds those qualities united. This is un¬
doubtedly the process of the mind in forming genera and
species; and as the excellent author refuses the name of
man to the changeling, it is obvious that the complex con¬
ception, to which he gives that name, must imply rationa¬
lity, or the actual exercise of reason. But this limitation
will exclude many beings from the species man, whom Mr
Locke certainly considered as men and women. Not to
mention infants and persons in sound sleep, how shall we
class those who, after having lived thirty or forty years in
the full exercise of reason, have been suddenly or by de¬
grees deprived of it by some disorder in the brain ?
From Marlborough’s eyes the streams of dotage flow,
And Swift expires a driveller and a show.
But were the hero and the wot in those deplorable circum¬
stances excluded from the human species, and classed be¬
tween men and brutes? No, surely; they were both ac¬
knowledged to be men, because they wrere known to have
the quality of reason in what Aristotle would have called
capacity. Their dotage and drivelling originated from some
disorder in their bodies, probably in the region of the brain ;
and Locke himself contends that no defect in body is suffi¬
cient to degrade a person from the rank of manhood. Again,
lunatics have the exercise of reason, except at new and
full moon. Are these unhappy beings sometimes men and
sometimes a species by themselves between men and brutes?
L allacy It appears, therefore, that not the actual exercise of rea-
thereol. sonj put reason in capacity, ought to be included in the
complex conception to which we give the specific name of
man, as some of the greatest men that ever lived have been
during parts of their lives deprived of the power of actual
reasoning. I his, however, it will be said, does not remove
the difficulty ; for the occasional exercise of reason in lu¬
natics, and the great exertions of it in such men as Swift
and Marlborough, show that they had it in capacity at all
times ; whereas we have no evidence that changelings have
even a capacity of reasoning at any time, since they never
do a rational action, nor ever utter a sentence to the pur¬
pose. That we have no direct and positive evidence of the
minds of changelings being capable of reasoning, were they Qualia
supplied with proper organs, must be granted ; but the pro- Moorba
babilities of their being so are many and great. We know Q ^
by experience that the actual exercise of reason may be tong,
interrupted by an occasional and accidental pressure on the
brain ; and therefore we cannot doubt but that if this pres¬
sure were rendered permanent by any wrong configuration
of the skull given to it in the womb, or in the act of being
born into the world, an infant, with a mind capable of rea¬
soning by means of proper organs, would by this accident be
rendered, throughout the whole of life, an idiot or change¬
ling. That idiotism is caused by such accidents, and is not
the quality of an inferior mind occasionally given to a hu¬
man body, will at-least seem probable fi om the following
considerations.
It does not appear that an animal body can live and move True doc-
except whilst it is actuated by some mind. Whence, then, trine,
does the unborn infant derive its mind ? It must be either
immediately from God, or ex traduce from its parents; but
if the mind of man be immaterial, it cannot be ex traduce.
Now, as idiots are very few in number when compared with
the rational part of the human species, and as God in the
government of this world acts not by partial but by gene¬
ral laws, we must conclude that the law which he has esta¬
blished respecting the union of mind and matter is, that hu¬
man bodies shall be animated with minds endowed with a
capacity of reasoning, and that those who never exert this
capacity are prevented by some such accident as we have
assigned.
QUALLA MOORBA, a river and port situated on the
western coast of Malacca. The river is a large one ; but the
entrance into it is interrupted by a heavy surge, which breaks
during the south-west monsoon, and has raised a dangerous
sand-bank at the mouth, which extends three miles out to
sea. This river is, however, frequented by vessels, which
come here on account of the tin-mines in its vicinity. It is
18 miles south of Queda.
QUANG-PING, a city of China, of the first rank, in the
southern part of Petchelee, agreeably situated in a fertile
and well-watered territory. Long. 114.29. E. Lat. 36.47. N.
QUANGSEE, a province of China, situated on the south¬
western frontier, and bordering on Tonquin. The country
is flat in the eastern districts, which are fertile, and yield
rice not only for internal consumption, but also for export
to the neighbouring provinces. The remaining part of the
province consists of lofty mountains covered with extensive
forests. These mountains are rich in mineral wealth, con¬
taining mines of gold, silver, copper, and tin,'1’ the working
of which, according to the narrow maxims of Chinese policy,
wras for a long time prohibited, but at last permitted under
the burden of paying forty per cent, to the emperor. This,
however, was with the exception of the gold-mines, which
the emperor retained in his own hands. The population is
estimated by Sir George Staunton at 10,000,000. The capi¬
tal is Queyling or Koueiling.
QUANGTONG, a large and populous province in the
south of China, bounded on the east and south by the China
Sea. Along the sea-coast the country is flat and extremely
fertile, producing every species of grain, of which it yields
two crops in the year. The northern frontier, by which it
is separated from the province of Quangsee, consists of a
range of high mountains, which produce gold, copper, and
iron; and also a remarkable species of timber called iron-
wood, from its resemblance in its properties, namely, its co¬
lour, wreight, and hardness, to that metal. A beautiful species
of rosewood is also found here ; and in many parts an osier,
the shoots of which spread along the ground, resembling
twisted cords, and are so tough and pliable that they may be
1 Book iv. chap. 4, § 13, &c.
Quang-
tong
li .
Quantity.
Quantity
character¬
ized by
Aristotle.
QUA
formed into baskets, chairs, and other pieces of furniture,
and even serve for cables and ropes. Quangtong is consi¬
dered as one of the most important provinces of the empire;
it is well situated for trade, and, amongst numerous other
ports, contains Canton, by which all the commerce between
China and Eui'ope is now carried on. The mountains on the
northern frontier form the only interruption to the navigable
communication between Pekin and Canton. The goods be¬
ing transported across the mountains by land-carriage, are
embarked upon the river of Canton, and thus conveyed by
water to this great emporium. The population of this pro¬
vince is estimated by Sir George Staunton at 21,000,000.
The governor maintains a respectable naval and military
force for the suppression of piracy, as well as for overawing
the rude tribes of the adjacent mountains.
Quangtong, a town of the Birman empire, in the pro¬
vince of Ava, being situated on the Irrawaddy River, twenty-
five miles from the frontiers of China. The meaning of the
word Quangtong, or Canton, being a port or mart, numerous
towns of this name are found in the vicinity of the Chinese
empire ; and it is likely that the town in question was either
named or built by them. It is frequented by Chinese mer¬
chants, who bring thither tea, porcelain, silks, rubies, iron,
and cotton. One of the staple commodities is the brown
cotton of which nankeens are made. Under a liberal com¬
mercial policy it might become a mart tor European goods.
Long. 96. 55. E. Lat. 24. 2. N.
QUANTITY, as explained by the great English lexico¬
grapher, is that property of any thing which may be in¬
creased or diminished. This interpretation of the word is
certainly just, and for the purposes of common conversation
it is sufficiently determinate ; but the man of science may
expect to find in a work like ours a definition of the thing
signified. This, however, cannot be given. A logical de¬
finition consists of the gesz/s under which the thing defined
is ranked, and the specific difference ; but quantity is lank-
ed under no genus.
In that school where such definitions were most valued,
it was considered as one of the ten categories, or geneia
conceptions, under which all the objects of human appre¬
hension were mustered, like soldiers in an army. On tins
account, even Aristotle himself, who delighted in defini¬
tions, and was not easily deterred from a favounte pm-
suit, could not, consistent! y with his own rules, attempt to
define quantity. He characterises it, however, in several
parts of his works, and particularly in the 15th chapter of
the fourth book of his Metaphysics: “ Tilings are the some
of which the substance is one ; similar, of which the qua¬
lity is one ; equal, of which the quantity is one. g^m,
he tells us,1 that the chief characteristic of quantity is, that
it may be denominated equal and unequal.
That any man can become wiser by reading such de¬
scriptions as these, none but an idolater o rist° e W1
suppose. There is, indeed, no periphrasis by which we can
explain what is meant by quantity to those who have not
previously formed such a notion. All that can be doneby
making the attempt is only to settle language, ’Y £
exactly the cases in which we use this word m the greate
conformity to general custom; for there is a laxness
carelessness of expression in the language o m a ,
our notions are frequently communicated bY sP66011
wav by no means precise ; so that it is often 1
S Se notion excited in the mind of the hearer are not
exact counterparts of those in the mind of the speaket.
The understandings ot men differ m n i o
markablv than in their power of abstraction, and P 5'
forming’conceptions so general and simple as «* '<> be
clogged with distinguishing circumstances, which may
QUA
775
different in different minds whilst uttering and hearing the Quantity,
same words: and it is of great consequence to a man of'
scientific habits, either to cultivate, if possible, this talent,
or to supersede its use by studiously forming to himself
notions of the most important universals in his own course
of contemplation, by careful abstraction of everything ex¬
traneous. His language by this means becomes doubly in¬
structive by its extreme precision ; and he will even judge
wfith greater certainty of notions intended to be communi¬
cated by the more slovenly language of another person.
YV e cannot say that there is much ambiguity in the gene¬
ral use of the term quantity. But here, as in all other cases,
a love of refinement, of novelty, and frequently of vanity,
and the wish of appearing ingenious and original, have made
men take advantage of even the small latitude with which
the careless use of the word will furnish them, in order to '
•amuse themselves and the public by giving the appear¬
ance of science to empty sounds.
Mathematics is undoubtedly employed in discovering and The subject
stating many relations of quantity; and it is in this cate-
gory alone that any thing is contemplated by the mathema- m;iticalrea-
tician, whether in geometry, arithmetic, or algebra. Hence
mathematics have been called the science of quantity. The
simplicity of the object of the mathematician’s contempla¬
tion, and the unparalleled distinctiveness with which he can
perceive its modifications, have enabled him to erect a body
of science, eminent not only for its certainty, but also for
the great length to which he can carry his reasonings with¬
out danger of error; whilst the intimate connection which
this science has writh the arts of life, and the important
services which it has performed, have procured for it a most
respectable place in the circle of the sciences. Ingenious
men have availed themselves of this pre-eminence of ma¬
thematics, and have endeavoured to procure respect for
their disquisitions on other subjects, by presenting them to
the public as branches of mathematical science, and there¬
fore susceptible of that accuracy and certainty which form
its peculiar boast. Our moral affections, our sensations,
our intellectual powers, are all susceptible of augmentation
and diminution, are conceivable as greater and less when
stated together, and are familiarly spoken of as admitting
degrees of comparison. We are perfectly well understood
when we say that one pain, heat, grief, kindness, is greater
than another ; and as this is the distinguishing characteristic
of quantity, and as quantity is the subject of mathematical
discussion, we suppose that these subjects maybe treated ma¬
thematically. Accordingly, Dr Francis Hutchinson has said,
amongst many things ot the same kind, that the greatness
of a-favour is in the direct compound ratio of the service per¬
formed and the dignity of the performer, and in the inverse
ratio of the merit and rank of the receiver ; that the value
of a character is in the compound ratio of the talents and
virtue of the possessor ; and he has delivered a number of
formal propositions on ‘the most interesting questions in
morals, couched ,in this mathematical language, and even
expressed by algebraic formula;. But this is merely play
on terms, and conveys no instruction. We understand
the words; they contain no absurdity; and, in as far as
they have a sense, we believe the propositions to be true.
But they give no greater precision to our sentiments than
the more usual expressions would do. If we attend close-
lv to the meaning of any one of such propositions, we shall
find that it only expresses some vague and indistinct no¬
tions of degrees" of those emotions, sentiments, or qualities,
which would be just as well conceived by means of the
expressions of ordinary language ; and that it is only by a
sort of analogy or resemblance that this mathematical lan¬
guage conveys any notions whatever of the subjects.
» Prccd. p. 34, edit. Sylb.
776
QUANTITY.
Quantity. The object of contemplation to the mathematician is not
whatever is susceptible of greater and less, but what is mea-
The mathe- surable; and geometry is not the science of magnitude, in
oontem11 'ts most abstracted and general acceptation, but of magni-
platcs onlv ^ul^e which can be measured. It is, indeed, the Science of
measure- Measure, and whatever is treated in the way of mensura-
able quan- tion is treated mathematically. Now, in the discourse of
titles. ordinary life and of ordinary men, many things are called
quantities which we cannot or do not measure. This is the
case in the instances already given of the affections of the
mind, pleasure, pain, beauty, wisdom, honour, and the like.
We do not say that they are incapable of measure ; but we
have not yet been able to measure them, nor do we think
of measuring them when we speak rationally and usefully
about them. We therefore do not consider them mathe-
'matically; nor can we introduce mathematical precision
into our discussions of these subjects until we can, and ac-*
tually do, measure them. Persons who are precise in their
expression will even avoid such phrases on these subjects
as suppose, or strictly express, such measurement. We
should be much embarrassed how to answer the question,
How much pain does the toothach give you just now; and
how much is it easier since yesterday ? Yet the answer, if
we had a measure of pain, would be as easy as to the question,
How many guineas did you win at cards ? or how much
land have you bought ? Nay, although we say familiarly,
“ I know well how much such a misfortune would affect
you,” and are understood when we say it; it would be awk¬
ward language to say, “ I know well the quantity of your
grief.” It is in vain, therefore, to expect mathematical
precision in our discourse or conceptions of quantities in
the most abstracted sense. Such precision is confined to
quantity which may be and is measured.1 It is only trifling
with the imagination when we employ mathematical lan¬
guage upon subjects which have not this property. It will
therefore be of some service in science to discriminate quan¬
tities in this view; to point out what are susceptible of
measure, and what are not.
Measuring What is measuring ? It is one of these two things : It is
explained, either finding out some known magnitude of the thing mea¬
sured, which we can demonstrate to be equal to it; or it is
finding a known magnitude of it, which being taken so many
times, shall be equal to it. The geometer measures the con¬
tents of a parabolic space when he exhibits a parallelogram
of known dimensions, and demonstrates that this parallelo¬
gram is equal to the parabolic space. In like manner, he
measures the solid contents of an infinitely extended hy¬
perbolic spindle, when he exhibits a cone of known dimen¬
sions, and demonstrates that three of these cones are equal
to the spindle.
In this process it will be found that he actually sub¬
divides the quantity to be measured into parts of which it
consists, and states these parts as actually making up the
quantity, specifying each, and assigning its boundaries. He
goes on with it, piece by piece, demonstrating the respec¬
tive equalities as he goes along, till he has exhausted the
figure, or considered all its parts. When he measures by
means of a submultiple, as when he shows the surface of a
sphere to be equal to four of its great circles, he stops, after
having demonstrated the equality of one of these circles to
one part of the surface ; and then he demonstrates that there
are other three parts, each of which is precisely equal to the
one he has minutely considered. In this part of the pro- Quantity
cess he expressly assigns the whole surface into its distinct
portions, of which he demonstrates the equality.
But there is another kind of geometrical measurement,
which proceeds on a very different principle. The geome¬
ter conceives a certain individual portion of his figure, whe¬
ther line, angle, surface, or solid, as known in respect to its
dimensions. He conceives this to be lifted from its place,
and again laid down on the adjoining part of the figure, and
that it is equal to the part which it now covers; and there¬
fore that this part, together with the first, is double of the
first. He lifts it again, and lays it down on the next ad¬
joining part, and affirms that this, added to the two former,
make up a quantity triple of the first. He goes on in this
way, making similar inferences, till he can demonstrate that
he has in this manner covered the whole figure by twenty
applications, and that his moveable figure will cover no
more; and he affirms that the figure is twenty times the
part employed.
This mode is precisely similar to the manner of practical Euclid's
measurement in common life. We apply a foot-rule sue- fourth pro.
cessively to two lines, and find that thirty applications ex-Posltlon-
haust the one, whilst it requires thirty-five to exhaust the
other. We say, therefore, that the one line is thirty and
the other thirty-five feet long; and that these two lines are
to each other in the ratio of thirty to thirty-five. Having
measured two shorter lines by a similar application of a stick
an inch in length, thirty times to the one and thirty-five to the
other, we say that the ratio of the two first lines is the same
with that of the two last. Euclid has taken this method of
demonstrating the fourth proposition of the first book of his
celebrated Elements.
But all this process is a fiction of the mind, and it is the
fiction of an impossibility : It is even inconceiveable, that
is, we cannot in imagination make this application of one
figure to another; and we presume to say, that if the ele¬
ments of geometry cannot be demonstrated in some other
way, the science has not that title to pure, abstract, and in¬
fallible knowledge which is usually allowed it. We cannot
suppose one of the triangles lifted and laid on the other,
without supposing it something different from a triangle in
abstracto. The individuality of such a triangle consists
solely in its being in the precise place where it is, and in
occupying that portion of space. If we could distinctly
conceive otherwise, we should perceive that, when we have
lifted the triangle from its place, and applied it to the other,
it is gone from its former place, and that there is no longer
a triangle there. This is inconceivable, and space has al¬
ways been acknowledged to be immoveable. There is,
therefore, some logical defect in Euclid’s demonstration.2
We apprehend that he is labouring to demonstrate, or rather
illustrate, a simple apprehension. This indeed is the ut¬
most that can be done in any demonstration ; but the mode
by which he guides the mind to the apprehension of the
truth of his fourth proposition is not consistent either with
pure mathematics or with the laws of corporeal nature.
The real process, as laid down by him, seems to be this.
We suppose something different from the abstract triangle ;
something that, in conjunction with other properties, has
the property of being triangular, with certain dimensions
of two of its sides and the included angle. It has avowedly
another property, not essential to, and not contained in,
To talk intelligibly of the quantity of a pain, we should have some standard by which to measure it; some known degree of it
so we asc®r ameu, 1a a men, when talking ot it, should mean the same thing. And we should be able to compare other degrees
ot pain with this, so as to perceive distinctly, not only whether they exceed or fall short of it, but also how much, or in what pro¬
portion ; whether by an half, or a fifth, or a tenth.
* We do not think so. The demonstration of this and of several other propositions, which form the basis of all the subsequent
reasonings of Euclid, rests upon, and, in fact, is nothing more than an appeal to observation, though of the simplest kind ; and hence
there is no radical or essential distinction between mathematical evidence, and that which we have in the phvsical sciences, the only
' ifterence being that the former proceeds on observations so simple as almost to escape our notice.
Quantity.
QUANTITY.
The cha¬
racteristic
notion of
mensura¬
tion.
the abstract notion of a triangle, namely, mobility. We
also suppose it permanent in shape and dimensions, or that
although, during its motion, it does not occupy the same
space, it continues, and so do all its parts, to occupy an equal
space. In short, our conception is very mixed, and does
not perceptibly differ from our conception of a triangular
piece of matter, where the triangle is not the subject, but
an adjunct, a quality. And when we suppose the applica¬
tion made, we are not, in fact, supposing two abstract tri¬
angles to coincide. 1 his we cannot do with anything like
distinctness ; for our distinct conception now is, not that of
two triangles coinciding, but of one triangle being now ex¬
actly occupied by that moveable thing which formerly oc¬
cupied the other. In short, it is a vulgar measurement, re¬
stricted by suppositions which are inadmissible in all actual
measurements in the present universe, in which no move-
able material thing is known to be permanent, either in
shape or magnitude.
This is an undeniable consequence of the principle of
universal gravitation, and the compressibility of every kind
of tangible matter with which we are acquainted. Remove
the brass rule but one inch from its place ; its gravitation
to the earth and to the rest of the universe is immediately
changed, and its dimensions change of consequence. A
change of temperature will produce a similar effect; and
this is attended to and considered in all nice mensurations.
We do the best we can to assure ourselves that our rule
always occupies a sensibly equal space; and we must be
contented with chances of error which we can neither per¬
ceive nor remove.
Were this a proper place, we might take notice of some
other logical defects in the reasoning of this celebrated pro¬
position. But they are beside our present purpose of ex¬
plaining the different modes of mathematical measurement,
with the view of discovering that circumstance in which
they all agree, and which, if the only one, must therefore
be the characteristic of mensuration.
We think that the only circumstance in which all modes
of mensuration agree, or the only notion that is found in
them all, is, that the quantity is conceived as consisting ot
parts, distinguishable from each other, and separated by
assignable boundaries ; so that they are at once conceived
separately and jointly. We venture to assert that no quan¬
tity is directly measured which we cannot conceive in this
way, and that such quantities only are the immediate ob¬
jects of mathematical contemplation, and should be distin¬
guished by a generic name. Let them be called mathe¬
matical quantities. Extension, duration, number, and pro¬
portion, have this characteristic, and they are the only
quantities which have it. Any person will be convinced ot
the first assertion by attending to his own thoughts when
contemplating these notions. He will find that he conceives
every one of them as made up of its own parts, which are
distinguishable from each other, and have assignable boun¬
daries, and that it is only in consequence of involving this
conception that they can be added to or subtracted from
each other ; that they can be multiplied, divided, and con¬
ceived, in any proportion to each other.
He may perhaps find considerable difficulty in aequo mg
perfectly distinct notions of the mensurability, and die ac¬
curacy of the modes of mensuration. He will find that t e
way in which he measures duration is very similar to that in
which he measures space or extension. He does not mow,
or does not attend to, anything which hinders the brass
foot-rule in his hand from continuing to occupy equal spaces
during his use of it in measuring the distance of two ioi ies.
In like manner, he selects an event which nature or art can
repeat continually, and in which the circumstances w nc i
contribute to its accomplishment are invanab y t e same,
or their variations and their effects are insen sib e. e con
eludes that it will always occupy an equal portion of time
VOL. XVIII.
777
for its accomplishment, or always last an equal time. Then, Quantity,
observing that, during the event whose duration he wishes'"“"'v''*-'
to measure, this standard event is accomplished twenty-nine
and a half times, and that it is repeated 365T times during
the accomplishment of another event, he affirms that the
durations ot these are in the ratio of twenty-nine and a half
to 365T. It is thus, and with the same logical defect as in
the measuring a line by means of a brass rod, that the as¬
tronomer measures the celestial revolutions by means of the
rotation of the earth round its axis, or by the vibrations of a
pendulum.
1 or most of the preceding observations we have been in¬
debted to Dr Reid, who published a dissertation on this sub¬
ject in the forty-fifth volume of the Philosophical Transac¬
tions, which we recommend to our philosophical readers as
a performance eminent for precision and acuteness. If we
presume to differ from him in any trivial circumstance, it is
with that deference and respect which all must consider as
due to his talents and his fame.
Dr Reid justly observes, that as nothing has proportion Characters
which has not either extension, duration, or number, so the °f mathe-
eharacters of mathematical quantity may be restricted tomatical
these three. He calls them proper quantities, and all others ^uant't-' •
he calls improper. We believe that, in the utmost precision
of the English language, this denomination is very apposite,
and that the word quantity, derived from quantum, always
supposes measurement. But the word is frequently used
in cases where its original sense is not kept in view, and we
use other words as synonymous with it, when all mensuration,
whether possible or not, is out of our thoughts. According
to practice, therefore, the jus et norma hquendi, there seems
to be no impropriety in giving this name, in our language
at least, to whatever can be conceived as great or as little.
There is no impropriety in saying that the pain occasioned
by the stone is greater than that of the toothach; and
when we search for the category to which the assertion may
be referred, we cannot find any other than quantity. We
may be allowed therefore to say, with almost all our scien¬
tific countrymen, that everything is conceivable in respect
of quantity which we can think or speak of as greater and
less; and that this notion is the characteristic of quantity as
a genus, whilst measurableness is the characteristic of ma¬
thematical quantity as a species..
But do we not measure many quantities, and consider
them mathematically, which have not this characteristic of
being made up of their own distinguishable parts ? What
else is the employment of the mechanician, when speaking
of velocities, forces, attractions, repulsions, magnetical in¬
fluence, chemical affinity, and the like ? Are not these ma¬
thematical sciences ? And if the precision and certainty of
mathematics arise from the nature of their specific object,
are not all the claims of the mechanician and physical as¬
tronomer ill-founded pretensions ? These questions require
and deserve a serious answer.
It is most certain that we consider the notions which are Velocity,
expressed by these terms, velocity, force, density, and the force, den-
like, as susceptible of measure, and we consider them ma- SIt>'
thematically. Some of these terms are nothing but namesmeaaUre *
for relations of measurable quantity, and only require a little
reflection to show themselves such. Velocity is one of these.
It is only a name expressing a relation between the space
described by a moving body and the time which elapses du¬
ring its description. Certain moderate rates of motion are
familiar to us. But what greatly exceeds this, such as the
flight of a bird when compared with our walking, excites
our attention, and this excess gets a name. A motion not
so rapid as we are familiar with, or as we wish, also gets a
name, because in this the excess or defect may interest us.
We wish for the flight of the hawk; we chide the tardy
pace of our messenger; but it is scientific curiosity which
first considers this relation as a separate object of contem-
5 F
778 Q U A N
Quantity, plation, and the philosopher must have a name for it. He
''has not formed a new one, but he makes use of a word of
common language, the natural meaning ot which is the com¬
bination of a great space with a short time. ^ 1 he philosopher
having once appropriated it, in his scientific vocabulary, to
this very general use, it loses with him its true signification.
Tardiness would have done just as well, though its true mean¬
ing is diametrically opposite ; and there is no greatei impro¬
priety in saying the slowness of a cannon-bullet than in say¬
ing the velocity of the hour-hand of a watch. Velocity is a
quality or affection of motion, the notion of which includes
the notions of space and duration, two mathematical quanti¬
ties, and no other. It does not therefore express a mathema¬
tical quantity itself, but a relation, a combination of two ma¬
thematical quantities of different kinds; and as it is mea¬
surable in the quantities so combined, its measure must be
an unit of its own kind, that is, an unit of space as combined
with an unit of time.
Density is another word of the same kind, expressing a
combination of space with number. DenscB cttbores mean
trees standing at a small distance from each other ; and the
word is used in the same sense when we say that quicksil¬
ver is denser than water. The expression always suggests
to tlie reflecting mind the notions of particles and their dis¬
tances. We are indeed so habituated to complicated views
of things, that we can see remote connections with astonish¬
ing rapidity; and a very few circumstances are sufficient
for leading forward the mind in a train of investigation.
Common discourse is a most wonderful instance of this. In
this way we say, that we found by actually weighing them
that inflammable air had not the sixth part of the density
of common air. Supposing all matter to consist of ecjual
atoms equally heavy, and knowing that the weight of a blad¬
der of air is the sum of the weights of all the atoms, and
also knowing that the vicinity of the atoms is in a certain
proportion of the number contained in a given bulk, we
affirm that common air is more than six times denser than
inflammable air ; but this rapid decision is entirely the ef¬
fect of habit, which renders us familiar with certain groups
of conceptions, and we instantaneously distinguish them from
others, and thus think and discourse rationally. The Latin
language employs the word frequens to express both the com¬
bination of space and number, and that of time and number.
There are perhaps a few more words which express
combinations of mathematical quantities of different kinds;
and the corresponding ideas or notions are therefore the
proper and immediate subjects of mathematical discussion.
But there are many words which are expressive of things,
or at least of notions, to which this way of considering them
will not apply. All those affections or qualities of external
bodies, by which they are conceived to act on each other,
are of this kind; impulsive force, weight, centripetal and
centrifugal force, magnetical, electrical, chemical attrac¬
tions and repulsions, in short, all that we consider as the
immediate causes of natural phenomena. These we fami¬
liarly measure, and consider mathematically.
Forces What was said on this subject in the article Physics will
measured give us clear conceptions of this process of the mind. These
in the phe-forces or causes are not immediate objects of contempla-
nomena. tjonj antj are known oniy by a!fo fo the phenomena which
we consider as their effects. The phenomenon is not only
the indication of the agency of any cause, and the charac¬
teristic of its kind, but the measure of its degree. The ne¬
cessary circumstances in this train of human thought are,
1st, The notion of the force as something susceptible of
augmentation and diminution ; and, 2d, The notion of an
inseparable connection of the force with the effect produced,
and of every degree of the one with a corresponding degree
of the other. From these is formed the notion that the
phenomenon or effect is the proper measure of the force or
cause. All this is strictly logical.
T IT Y.
But when we are considering these subjects mathemati- Quantity. I
cally, the immediate objects of our contemplation are not v'—-' v
the forces which we are thus treating. It is not their rela¬
tions which we perceive, and which we combine with such
complication of circumstances and certainty of inference as
are known in all other sciences. By no means ; they are the
phenomena only, which are subjects of purely mathematical
discussion. They are motions which involve only the no¬
tions of space and time; and when we have finished an ac¬
curate mathematical investigation, and make our affirmation
concerning the forces, we are certain of its truth, because
we suppose the forces to have the proportions and relations,
and no other, which we observe in the phenomena. Thus,
after having demonstrated, by the geometrical comparison
of the lines and angles and surfaces of an ellipse, that the
momentary deflection of the moon from the tangent of her
orbit is the 3600th part of the simultaneous deflection of a
stone from the tangent of its parabolic path, Newton af¬
firms, that the force by which a particle of the moon is re¬
tained in her orbit is the 3600th part of the weight of a
particle of the stone ; and having further shown, from fact
and observation, that these momentary deflections are in¬
versely as the squares of the distances from the centre of
the earth, he affirms that all this is produced by a force
which varies its intensity in this manner.
Now all this investigation proceeds upon the two supposi¬
tions mentioned above, and the measures of the forces are
in fact the measures of the phenomena. The whole of phy¬
sical astronomy, and indeed the whole of mechanical philo¬
sophy, might be taught and understood, without ever intro¬
ducing the word force, or the notion which it is supposed
to express ; for our mathematical reasonings are really about
the phenomena, which are subjects purely mathematical.
The precision, therefore, which we presume to affirm must
attend these investigations, arises entirely from the mea¬
surable nature of the quantities that are the real objects
of our contemplation, and the suitableness and propriety of
the measures which we adopt in our comparisons.
Since, then, the phenomena are the immediate subjects
of our discussion, and the operating powers are only infe¬
rences from the phenomena considered as effects, the quan¬
tity ascribed to them must also be an inference from the
quantity of the effect, or of some circumstance in the effect.
The measure, therefore, of the cause, or natural power or
force, cannot be one of its own parts; for the whole and
the part are equally unperceived by us. Our measure, ac¬
cordingly, must be a measure of some interesting part, or of
the only interesting part of the phenomenon. It is there¬
fore in a manner arbitrary, and depends chiefly on the in¬
terest we take in the phenomenon. It must, however, be
settled with precision, so that all men in using it may mean
the same thing. It must be settled, therefore, by the de¬
scription of that part or circumstance of the phenomenon
which is characteristic of the natural power. This descrip¬
tion is the definition of the measure.
Thus Newton assumes as the measure of his centripetal Pleasures >j
force, the momentary deviation from uniform rectilineal ofcentri-
motion. Others, and sometimes Newton himself, assume l)etal *l,rce'
the momentary change of velocity, which again is mea¬
sured by twice this deviation. These measures, being thus
selected, are always proper in a mathematical sense, and, if
strictly adhered to, can never lead us into any paralogism.
They may, however, be physically wrong. There may not
be that indissoluble connection between the phenomenon
and the supposed cause. But this is no mathematical
error, nor does it invalidate any of our mathematical infe¬
rences. It only makes them useless for explaining the
phenomenon by the principle which we adopted ; but it
prepares a modification of the phenomenon for some more
fortunate application of physical principles.
All that can be desired in the definitions or descriptions
QUANTITY.
779
sians and
Leibnit
zians.
Quantity, of these measures is, that they may not deviate from the or-
' dinary use of the terms, because this would always create
confusion and occasion mistakes. Dr Reid has given an
example of an impropriety of this kind, which has been the
subject of much debate amongst the writers on natural phi¬
losophy ; we mean the measure of the force inherent in a
body in motion.
Controver- Descartes, and all the writers of his time, assumed the
sy between velocity produced in a body as the measure of the force
the Carte- which produces it; and observing that a body, in conse-
eiane nnn ^ r . . V , *1
quence of its being in motion, produces changes in the state
or motion of other bodies, and that these changes are in
the proportion of the velocity of the changing body, they
asserted that there is in a moving body a vis insita, an in¬
herent force, and that this is proportional to its velocity;
saying that its force is twice or thrice as great, when it
moves twice or thrice as fast at one time as at another.
But Leibnitz observed, that a body which moves twice as
fast rises four times as high, against the uniform action of
gravity; that it penetrates four times as deep into a piece
of uniform clay ; that it bends four times as many springs,
or a spring four times as strong, to the same degree ; and
produces a great many effects which are four times greater
than those produced by a body which has but half the ini¬
tial velocity. If the velocity be triple, quadruple, &c. the
effects are nine times, sixteen times, &c. greater ; and, in
short, are proportional, not to the velocity, but to its square.
This observation had been made before by Dr Hooke, who
enumerated a prodigious variety of important cases in which
this proportion of effect is observed. Leibnitz, therefore,
affirmed that the force inherent in a moving body is propor¬
tional to the square of the velocity.
It is evident that a body, moving with the same velocity,
has the same inherent force, whether this be employed to
move another body, to bend springs, to rise in opposition
to gravity, or to penetrate a mass of soft matter, there¬
fore these measures, which are so widely different, whilst
each is agreeable to a numerous class of facts, are not mea¬
sures of this something inherent in the moving body which
we call its force, but are the measures of its exertions when
modified according to the circumstances of the case ; or, to
speak still more cautiously and securely, they are the mea¬
sures of certain classes of phenomena consequent upon the
Action of a moving body. It is in vain, therefore, to at¬
tempt to support either of them by a demonstration. 1 he
measure itself is nothing but a definition. I he Caitesian
calls that a double force which produces a double velocity
in the body upon which it acts. The Leibnitzian calL that
a quadruple force which makes a quadruple penetration. 1 le
reasonings of both in the demonstration of a proposition in
dynamics may be the same, as also the I’esult, thong i ex¬
pressed in different numbers.
But the two measures are far from being equally proper ;
for the Leibnitzian measure obliges us to do continual vio¬
lence to the ordinary use of words. When two io ics
moving in opposite directions meet, strike eac i ot icr, an
stop, all men will say that their forces are equa , ecause
they have the best test of equality which we can devise.
Or when two bodies in motion strike the parts of a ma¬
chine, such as the opposite arms of a lever, and are thus
brought completely to rest, we and all men wi pi on 1
their mutual energies by the intervention o ie ma
to be equal. Now, in all these cases, it is wn nav ....
a perfect equality is found in the products o ie qu
of matter and velocity. Thus a ball of two poun »,
ing with the velocity of four feet in a secon ,
ball of eight pounds moving with the veloci y
per second. But the followers of Leibnitz say that the
force of the first ball is four times that of the secon .
All parties are agreed in calling gravity an u
variable accelerating force ; and the definition which they
give of such a force is, that it always produces the same ac- Quantity,
celeration, that is, equal accelerations in equal times, and -v—
therefore produces augmentations of velocity proportional
to the times in which they are produced. The only effect
ascribed to this force, and consequently the only thing
which indicates, characterises, and measures it, is the aug¬
mentation of velocity. What is this velocity, considered
not merely as a mathematical term, but as a phenomenon,
or as an event produced by the operation of a natural
cause ? It cannot be conceived any other way than as a
determination to move on for ever at a certain rate, if no¬
thing shall change it. We cannot conceive this very clear¬
ly. We feel ourselves forced to animate, as it were, the
body, and give it not only a will and intention to move in
this manner, but a real exertion of some faculty in conse¬
quence of this determination of mind. We are conscious
of such a train of operations in ourselves ; and the last step
of this train is the exertion or energy of some natural fa¬
culty, which we, in the utmost propriety of language, call
force. By such analogical conception, we suppose a some¬
thing, an energy, inherent in the moving body ; and its only
office is the production and continuation of this motion,
as in our own case. Scientific curiosity was amongst our
latest wants, and language was formed long before its ap¬
pearance. As we formed analogical conceptions, we con¬
tented ourselves with the words already familiar to us, and
to this something we gave the name force, which expressed
that energy in ourselves which bears some resemblance, in
office at least, to the determination of a body to move on
at a certain rate. This sort of allegory pervades the whole
of our conceptions of natural operations, and we can hardly
think or speak of any operation without a language, which
supposes the animation of matter. And in the present case
there are so many points of resemblance between the ef¬
fects of our exertions and the operations of nature, that the
language is most expressive, and has the strongest appear¬
ance of propriety. By exerting our force wre not only move
and keep in motion, but we move other bodies. In like
manner, a ball not only moves, but puts other bodies in mo¬
tion, or penetrates them. This is the origin of that concep¬
tion which so forcibly intrudes itself into our thoughts, that
there is inherent in a moving body a force by which it pro¬
duces changes in other bodies. No such thing appears in
the same body if it be not in motion. We therefore con¬
clude that it is the production of the moving force, what¬
ever that has been. If so, it must be conceived as propor¬
tional to its producing cause. Now this force, thus pro¬
duced or exerted in the moving body, is only another way
of conceiving that determination which we call velocity,
when it is conceived as a natural event. We can form no
other notion of it. The vis insita, the determination to
move at a certain rate, and the velocity, are one and thp
same thing, considered in different relations.
Therefore the vis insita corpori moventi, the determina- yis insita.
tion to move at a certain rate, and the velocity, should have
one and the same measure, or any one of them may be taken
as the measure of the other. I he velocity being an ob¬
ject of perception, is therefore a proper measure of the in¬
herent force; and the propriety is more evident by the
perfect agreement of this use of the words with common
language. For we conceive and express the action of gra¬
vity as uniform, when we think and say that its effects aie
proportional to the times of its action. Now all agree that
the velocity produced by gravity is proportional to the time
of its action. And thus the measure of force, in reference
to its producing cause, perfectly agrees with its measure,
independent of this consideration. But this agreement is
totally lost in the Leibnitzian doctrine ; for the body which
has fallen four times as far, and has sustained the action ot
gravity twice as long, is said to have four times the force.
^ The quaintness and the continued paradox of expression
Q U A N T I T Y.
780
Quantity, which this measure of inherent force leads us into, would
 ' have quickly exploded it, had it not been that its chief
Conserva- bettors were leagued in a keen and acrimonious warfare
vivariiin'11 with the British mathematicians who supported the claim
of Sir Isaac Newton to the invention of fluxions. They
rejoiced to find in the elegant writings of Huygens a phy¬
sical principle of great extent, such as this, which could be
set in comparison with some of the wonderful discoveries in
Newton’s Principia. The fact, that in the mutual action
of bodies on each other the product of the masses and the
squares of the velocities remain always the same, which
they call the conservatio virium vivarum, is of almost uni¬
versal extent; and the knowledge of it enabled them to
give ready and elegant solutions of the most abstruse and
intricate problems, by which they acquired a great and de¬
served celebrity. Dr Robert Hooke, whose observation
hardly anything escaped, was the first who remarked,1 long
before Huygens, that in all the cases of the gradual pro¬
duction and extinction of motion, the sensible phenomenon
is proportional to the square of the produced or extinguish¬
ed velocity.
Law of John Bernoulli brought all these facts together, and sys-
continuity. tematized them according to the principle advanced by
Huygens in his treatise on the centre of oscillation. He
and Daniel Bernoulli gave most beautiful specimens of the
prodigious use of this principle for the solution of difficult
physical problems, in their dissertations on the motion and
impulse of fluids, and on the communication of motion. It
was, however, very early objected to them, that in the col¬
lision of bodies perfectly hard there was no such conserva¬
tio virium vivarum ; and that in this case the forces must
be acknowdedged to be proportional to the velocities. The
objections were unanswerable. But John Bernoulli evaded
their force, by affirming that there were not and could not
be bodies perfectly hard. This was the origin of another
celebrated doctrine, on which Leibnitz greatly plumed him¬
self ; namely, the law of continuity, that nothing is observed
to change abruptly, or per salturn. But no one will pre¬
tend to say that a perfectly hard body is an inconceivable
thing ; on the contrary, all will allow that softness and com¬
pressibility are adjunct ideas, and not in the least necessary
to the conception of a particle of matter, nay totally incom¬
patible with our notion of an ultimate atom.
Great su- Sir Isaac Newton never could be provoked to engage in
periority of'this dispute. He always considered it as a wilful abuse of
Newton. wor(jS) an(j unworthy of his attention. He guarded against
all possibility of cavil, by giving the most precise and per¬
spicuous definitions of those measures of forces, and of all
other quantities which he had occasion to consider, and by
carefully adhering to them. And in one proposition of
about twenty lines, namely, the thirty-ninth of the first
book of the Principia, he explained every phenomenon ad¬
duced in support of the Leibnitzian doctrine, showing them
to be the immediate consequences of the action of a force
measured by the velocity which it produces or extinguishes.
There it appears that the heights to which bodies will rise
in opposition to the uniform action of gravity are as the
squares of the initial velocities; so are the depths to which
they will penetrate uniformly resisting matter, and so is the
number of equal springs which they will bend to the same
degree. We have had frequent occasion to mention this
proposition as the most extensively useful of all Newton’s
discoveries. It is that which gives the immediate applica¬
tion of mechanical principles to the explanation of natural
phenomena. It is incessantly employed in every problem
by the very persons who hold by the other measure of forces,
although such conduct is virtually giving up that measure.
They all adopt, in every investigation, the two theorems
f t ■=. v, and f s — v v; both of which suppose an accele- (^uanldy
rating force f proportional to the velocity v which it pro- Qua].ies
duces by its uniform action during the time t; and the theo-. ^ ^
vem J f srzv1 is the thirty-ninth of the first book of the
Principia, and is the conservatio virium vivarum.
This famous dispute, the only one in the circle of mathe¬
matical science, has led us somewhat aside. But we have
little more to remark with respect to measurable quantity.
We cannot say what varieties of quantity are susceptible of
strict measure, or that it is impossible to give accurate mea¬
sures of everything susceptible of augmentation and dimi¬
nution. We affirm, however, with confidence, that pain,
pleasure, joy, and the like, are not made up of their own
parts, which can be contemplated separately ; but they may
chance to be associated by nature with something that is
measurable, and w*e may one day be able to assign their
degrees with as much precision as we now ascertain the de¬
grees of warmth by the expansion of the fluid in the ther¬
mometer. There is one sense in which they may all be
measured, viz. numerically, as Newton measures density,
vis matrix, and so forth. We can conceive the pain of each
of a dozen of men to be the same. Then it is evident that
the pain of eight of these men is to that of the remaining
four as two to one ; but from such mensuration wre do not
foresee that any benefit is likely to arise.
Quantity, in Grammar, is an affection of a syllable, by
which its measure, or the time it occupies in pronuncia¬
tion, is ascertained ; or that which determines the syllable
to be long or short.
Quantity is also the object of prosody, and distinguishes
verse from prose; whilst the economy and arrangement of
quantities, that is, the distribution of long and short sylla¬
bles, constitutes what is called number.
Quantities are usually distinguished amongst grammarians
by the characters of short and long. There is also a com¬
mon, variable, or dubious quantity ; that is, syllables which
are at one time taken for short, and at another time for long
ones.
QUARANTINE is a trial which ships must undergo
when suspected of pestilential infection. It may be order¬
ed by the king, with advice of the privy-council, at such
times, and under such regulations,as he judges proper. Ships
ordered on quarantine must repair to the place appointed,
and continue there during the time prescribed; and they
must have no intercourse with the shore, except for neces¬
sary provisions, which are conveyed with every possible pre¬
caution. When the time is expired, and the goods have
been opened and exposed to the air as directed, if there be
no appearance of infection, they are admitted to port. See
Plague.
QUARLES, Francis, the son of James Quarles, clerk
to the board of green cloth, and purveyor to Queen Eliza¬
beth, was born in 1592. He was educated at Cambridge,
became a member of Lincoln’s Inn, and was for some time
cup-bearer to the queen of Bohemia, and chronologer to
the city of London. It was probably on the ruin of the
queen’s affairs that he went to Ireland as secretary to Arch¬
bishop Usher ; but the troubles in that kingdom forced him
to return ; and not finding affairs more settled in England,
some disquiets he met with were thought to have hastened
his death, which happened in 1644. His works, both in
prose and in verse, are numerous, and were formerly in great
esteem, particularly his Divine Emblems ; but the obsolete
quaintness of his style has caused them to fall into neglect,
excepting amongst particular classes of readers. “ The me¬
mory of Quarles,” says Headley, “ has been branded with
Miaographia, tis rcsMuliva, &c. in his Posthumous Works.
QUA
QUA
781
ciuarnaro more than common abuse, and he seems to have been cen-
ll sured merely from the want of being read. If his poetry
v Ui^r er\ failed to gain him friends and readers, his piety should at
least have secured him peace and good will. He too often,
no doubt, mistook the enthusiasm of devotion for the in¬
spiration of fancy. To mix the waters of Jordan and Heli¬
con in the same cup, was reserved for the hand of Milton ;
and for him, and him only, to find the bays of Mount
Olivet equally verdant with those of Parnassus. Yet, as
the effusions of a real poetical mind, however thwarted by
untowardness of subject, will seldom be rendered totally
abortive, we find in Quarles original imagery, striking sen¬
timent, fertility of expression, and happy combinations; to¬
gether with a compression of style that merits the observa¬
tion of the writers of verse. Gross deficiencies of judgment,
and the infelicity of his subjects, concurred in ruining him.”
QUARNARO, the collective name of some islands si¬
tuated on the coast of Austrian Dalmatia, in a gulf near
to Istria, which is secure as a harbour. The whole of these
islands are fertile and well cultivated. The largest of them,
Arbe, contains 3000 inhabitants; the next in size, Pago, has
4000. One important product, salt, is made in many la-
gunes by the power of the sun. The inhabitants of these
islands are a mixed race, consisting of Italians and Sclavo-
nians, and not too much civilized.
QUARRY, a place under ground, from which are ex¬
tracted marble, freestone, slate, limestone, or other matters
proper for building.
Quarry, or Quarrel, amongst glaziers, means a pane of
glass cut in the form of a diamond.
Quarries are of two kinds, square and long, each of which
is of a different size, and expressed by the number of the
pieces that make a foot of glass, viz. eighths, tenths, eigh¬
teenths, and twentieths ; but all the sizes are cut to the same
angles, the acute angle in the square quarrels being 77° 19',
and in the long ones 67° 2P.
Quarry, amongst hunters, is sometimes used for a part
of the entrails of the beast taken, which is given by way of
reward to the hounds. , • •
Quarry, in falconry, is the game which the hawk is in
pursuit of, or has killed.
QUART, a measure of capacity, being the fourth part
of some other measure. The English quart is the fourth
part of the gallon, and contains two pints.
QUARTAN, a measure containing the fourth part of
some other measure.
Quartan, a species of intermitting fever.
QUARTATION is an operation by which the quantity
of one thing is made equal to a fourth part of the quantity
of another thing. Thus when gold alloyed with silver is to
be parted, we are obliged to facilitate the action o e
aquafortis, by reducing the quantity of the former of these
metals to one fourth part of the whole mass ; which is done
by sufficiently increasing the quantity of the silver, if it be
necessary. This operation is called quartation, an is pic
paratory to the parting; and many authors even extend
this name to the operation of parting. ^ r
QUARTER, the fourth part of any thing, the fractional
generally used to signify the
fourth part of an hundredweight avorrdupo.s, m twenty-
eight pounds. Quarter, used as the name of a d.-y measure,
is the fourth part of a ton in weight, “
Quarter, a term in the manege. To work uom qua
ter to quarter, is to ride a horse three tunes in uponthe
hrst of the four lines of a square, then c.iangi „ • j
to ride him three times upon the second, and so to tlnrc
and fourth, always changing hands, and observing the
“toARTERS, with respect to the parts of a horse, is employ-
ed in various senses. Thus the shoulders and fore-legs are
called the fore-quarters, and the hips and hinder-legs the Quarter
hind-quarters. The quarters of a horse’s foot are the sides H
of the coffin, comprehending between the toe and the heel;, Ui>r^ei:to'
the inner quarters are those opposite to one another, facing
from one foot to the other, and these are always weaker
than the outside quarters, which lie on the external sides
of the coffin. False-quarters are a cleft in the horn of a
horse’s hoof, extending from the coronet to the shoe. A
horse is said to be a quarter-cast when, for any disorder in
the coffin, we are obliged to cut one of the quarters of the
hoof.
.Quarter, in Astronomy, the fourth part of the moon’s
period. Thus, from the new moon to the quadrature is the
first quarter; from this to full moon, the second quarter;
and so on.
Quarter, in Heraldry, is applied to the parts or mem¬
bers of the first division of a coat that is quartered, or di¬
vided into quarters.
Franc Quarter, in Heraldry, is a quarter single or alone,
which possesses one-fourth part of the field. It forms one
of the honourable ordinaries of a coat.
Quarter of a Ship, that part of a ship’s side which lies
towards the stern, or which is comprehended between the
aftmost end of the main chains and the sides of the stern,
where it is terminated by the quarter-pieces.
Quarter-Master, an officer whose principal business it
is to look after the quarters of the soldiers, their clothing,
bread, ammunition, firing, and the like.
QuARTER-Master- General is an important officer in the
army, and should not only be a man of great judgment and
experience, but well skilled in geography. His duty is to
mark out the marches and encampments of an army; and
therefore he should know the country perfectly well, with
its rivers, plains, marshes, woods, mountains, defiles, and
passages, nay, even the smallest accident of the ground.
Prior to a march, he receives the order and route from the
general commanding, and appoints a place for the quarter¬
masters of the army to meet him next morning, with whom
he marches to the next camp, where, having viewed the
ground, he marks out to the regimental quarter-masters
the ground allowed each regiment for their camp; he
chooses the head-quarters, and appoints the villages for the
generals of the army’s quarters ; he appoints a proper place
for the encampment, of the train of artillery; he conducts
foraging parties, as likewise the troops to cover them against
assaults, and has a share in regulating the winter-quarters
and cantonments. See Army.
Q UA r TEH - Sessions, a general court which is held quarter¬
ly by the justices of peace of each county.
QUARTERS, a name given at sea to the several sta¬
tions where the officers and crew of a ship of war are post¬
ed in action.
Quarters, at a siege, the encampment upon one ot the
principal passages round a place besieged, to prevent relief
and convoys. , .
Head- Quarters of an Army, the place where the com-
mander-in-chief has his quarters. t ,
Intrenched Quarters, a place fortified with a ditch and
parapet, to secure a body of troops.
Winter Quarters sometimes means the space ot time
included between leaving the camp and taking the field;
but more properly the places where the troops are quarter¬
ed during the winter.
QUARTETTO, Quartet, in music, a composition toi
four voices, or for four instruments, in which the parts are
•ill obbliqati; that is, in which no one of the parts can be
omitted without injuring the proper effect ot the composi¬
tion To understand the structure of instrumental quartettes
of this kind, those of Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Spohr
Onslow, and a very few others, must he examined. oca
quartettes are generally accompanied by instruments, to
782 Q U E
Quartile sustain the voices. A mere interchange of melody between
II one part and another, where the parts alternately become
^ Quebec. prjncjpa] an(j subordinate, without any interweaving of them
v means of imitations, double counterpoint, &c. does not
constitute a regular quartette. Neither is a regular quar-
tetto found in a composition that consists of one principal
part, accompanied from beginning to end by three other
parts, which are merely harmonic supports to the principal
part. See Music and Principal.
Q.UARTILE, an aspect of the planets when they are at
the distance of ninety degrees from each other, and which
is denoted by the character □ .
QUARTERING, in Heraldry, is dividing a coat into
four or more quarters or quarterings, by parting, couping,
and otherwise, that is, by perpendicular and horizontal lines.
QUARTO-Decimans, an ancient sect in the Christian
church, who taught that Easter should always be celebrated
according to the custom of the Jews, on the fourteenth day
of the moon in the month of March, whensoever that day
might fall out; and hence they derived their name, quarto-
decimani, or fourteenth-men. The Asiatics were mightily
attached to this opinion, pretending that it was built on the
authority of St John, their apostle ; and Pope Victor could
never bring them to obedience in this article, though he
was upon the point of excommunicating them.
QUARTU, a city of the island of Sardinia, in the diocese
of Cagliani. It stands on a bay of the same name. Though
many of the houses are respectable, they are all built of
bricks dried by the sun. The walls of the church-yard are
strangely decorated with skulls and thigh-bones. The situ¬
ation is tolerably healthy. The inhabitants amount to 5129.
QUATRE-BRAS, a village of the Netherlands, in the
circle of Nivelles, receiving its name from two great roads
crossing each other at this point, where there is a direction-
post with four arms. It is worthy of remark as the spot
where the first meeting took place between the British and
French troops two days before the decisive battle of Water¬
loo. This contest was obstinate and bloody, and the loss
on both sides heavy, whilst the success was doubtful. The
British received there the intelligence of the defeat of the
Prussians at Ligny; and their artillery not being come up,
they retreated the next day to the field of Waterloo, where
they completed the work of the campaign. The reigning
duke, Frederick William of Brunswick, fell in the attack of
the French on his troops.
QUATUORVIR, in Antiquity, formerly written IIII.
Vir, a Roman magistrate, who had three colleagues joined
with him in the same administration, and had the care of con¬
ducting and settling the colonies sent into the provinces.
There were also quatuorviri appointed to inspect and take
care of repairs.
QUAVER, in Music, a measure of time equal to half a
crotchet, or an eighth part of a semibreve.
QUEBEC, the capital of Lower Canada, is situated upon
the north-eastern extremity of a promontory called Cape Dia¬
mond, three hundred and fifty feet above the water level,
on the left bank of the river St Lawrence. The rocky
ridge upon which the city stands is formed by the St Law-
icnce and the St Charles, the former river flowing to the
southward of Quebec, and the latter to the northward, and
the junction taking place in front of the town, where they
expand into a considerable basin forming the harbour of Que¬
bec. . I he distance from the one river to the other, across
the ridge, is rather more than a mile. It is divided into
two parts, Upper and Lower Quebec. The latter is built
at the base of the promontory, nearly on a level with high-
water mark. The communication from this to the upper
towrn is by a long, narrow, winding, and extremely steep
street, which terminates close to the city walls, at an eleva¬
tion of two hundred feet above the river. Here Upper
Quebec commences, extending its limits considerably to
Q U £
the westward along the slope of the ridge, and up the pro- Quebec,
montory towards the cape, within fifty or sixty yards of its '■'“’'V™—
summit, which is crowned by the citadel. This part of the
town contains the government buildings, the residence of
the governor, the military, and the most opulent of the inha¬
bitants, with the best and handsomest streets, and the most
agreeable mansions. The lower town is much more crowd¬
ed and mean in appearance, and is very filthy and incon¬
venient. The streets are narrow, the foot-pavement being
barely sufficient for a single passenger ; the houses have a
gloomy and monotonous aspect, and many of them are said
to be built of wood, although there exists a statute forbid¬
ding the use of this material in the construction of the main
part of buildings, as a security against the dreadful con¬
flagrations which have so often desolated the cities of the
west. The warehouses are built of stone; and this ill-fa¬
voured portion of Quebec is the chief seat of the commerce
and traffic by w7hich the city is enriched. Amongst the
public buildings may be mentioned the castle of St Louis,
a huge vice-regal chateau, supported by piers, and overhang¬
ing the precipice; the Hotel Dieu, the Protestant and Ca¬
tholic cathedrals, and a number of other religious edifices ;
the exchange, bank, court-house, hospitals,barracks, gaol, and
others. There is a French seminary or college, containing
usually about two hundred pupils, and other establishments
connected with education. In the district of Quebec there
are five public or free schools, in the district of Montreal
twenty-four, and in the district of Three Rivers six public-
schools, under the superintendence of the Board of Royal
Institution for the Advancement of Learning, incorporated
by the provincial act 41st Geo. III. cap. 17. To this board
the legislature makes an annual grant. Each teacher is
bound to instruct one third of the number of pupils gratui¬
tously, an(l in no case to charge more than three shillings
and fourpCnce per month. The visitors may vary the rate
according to the number of children in each family who at¬
tend school, and the circumstances of the parents. There
are also two grammar-schools, one at Quebec and another
at Montreal, supported by an annual grant of L.200 each
from the Jesuit Estates Fund, with L.90 and L.50 respec¬
tively for house-rent. These are also under the superin¬
tendence of the Royal Institution. The system of instruction
is that of the public grammar schools of England. Twenty-
six free scholars are admitted into each of them. The rate
of tuition for others is L.12 per annum. There are also up¬
wards of a thousand schools established under the provincial
act 9 Geo. IV. cap. 46, attended by about 45,600 scholars
of both sexes. L.20 are allowed to each teacher having at
least twenty children under his care. These schools are
under the direction of trustees annually elected by the in¬
habitants. No particular system of tuition is followed, but
the Lancasterian is pursued in a few of them. There are
also several Roman Catholic colleges in the province, and
a number of private seminaries for the higher branches of
education. Besides these, there were in Lower Canada, in
1835, 1170 elementary schools, attended by 21,014 boys
and 16,654 girls, of whom 12,495 were taught gratis, and
25,173 were paid for. The houses were mostly roofed with
shingles, but many of those of a better sort, and the public
buildings and great warehouses, are covered with tin or iron
plates. There are several distilleries, breweries, tobacco,
soap, candle, and other manufactories. Excellent ships are
built here, and every variety of tradesmen may be found in
the upper or lower town. Many of the shops, or stores as
they are called in America, are elegantly fitted up, and well
supplied with every commodity in demand. There are sub¬
urbs attached to each town.
One of the leading features of Quebec is its fortifica¬
tions, it being the strongest place in America. “ As a for¬
tress,” says Mr Montgomery Martin, “ Quebec may now be
ranked in the first class, the citadel, on the highest point of
Q U E
Que ec. Cape Diamond, together with a formidable combination of
strongly constructed works, extending over an area of forty
acres. Small batteries, connected by ramparts, are continu¬
ed from the edge of the precipice to the gateway leading
to the lower town, which is defended by cannon of a large
. calibre, and the approach to it up Mountain Street (which
connects the upper and lower town) enfiladed and flanked
by many large guns. A line of defence connects with the
grand battery a redoubt of great strength, armed with
twenty-four pounders, entirely commanding the basin and
passage of the river. Other lines add to the impregnability
of Quebec if properly defended, the possession of which
may be said to give the mastery of Upper as well as of Lower
Canada.” To the west, and in front of the citadel, are the
celebrated plains of Abraham, where was achieved the vic¬
tory which wrested Canada from France, and annexed it
to the British empire. An obelisk marks the field where
Wolf and Montcalm fought and perished. The basin or
harbour of Quebec is very beautiful, safe, and spacious,
being sufficient to contain a hundred sail of the line. The
river St Lawrence is twelve miles broad above the city,
but is here contracted to one mile in breadth. The com¬
merce of Quebec is considerable, indeed nine tenths of the
trade of Canada is carried on from this city. The imports
consist of British manufactures, wine, rum, and other spi¬
rits, sugar, coffee, tea, salt, and tobacco. The exports, the
produce of the Canadas, are ships’ masts, spars, timber, va¬
rious kinds of prepared wood, pot and pearl ash, fish, oil,
seal-skins, pork, beef, butter, lard, live-stock, hides, casto-
reum, capillaire, natural curiosities, wheat, Indian corn, and
the like, as also furs; and there is likewise a re-exportation
of British fabrics, West India produce, and teas. The im¬
ports into Lower Canada, during the year 1835, amounted
to L. 1,496,376, and the exports to L.896,847, of which
L.7750 was for fish, L.30,590 for corn, and L.620,182 for
wood. The amount of the paper currency in 1835 was
L.268,881, of which L.52,535 was in notes of the Quebec
bank, and L.216,346 in notes of the Montreal bank. I he
following table shows the amount of shipping in 1835.
Countries.
Quebec.
! Ships.
Great Britain 
British colonies...
United States 
Foreign states....
Total 
Men employed...
869
186
24
26
1105
Montreal.
277,125
21,158
6,507
6,700
Ships.
78
27
1
2
311,490
13,425
108
Tons.
19,984
2,524
155
210
St John’s.
Ships.
4
1324
Tons.
340
69,086
1134
22,873 11328; 69,426
3422
Great Britain j 946
British colonies...! 186
United States | 4
Foreign states.... 8
Total 1144
300,097
14,003
397
1,477
69
28
8
1
315,974 | 106
17,893
2,767
1,678
263
22,601
Men employed...' 13,614
1103
4
820
824
320
68,607
68,927
2909
Emigration to Quebec was for many years carried on to
a great extent; the number of arrivals m t e >cat
being 51,746. The recent disturbances in Canada, and the
opening up of a new field for emigration in Australasia,
have combined to check the influx of E«r0Pea"s’ ^
in the year 1836 they had diminished to 27,/28, m Ibd
to 22,500, and in 1838 to only 4992. The seasons of Que¬
bec may be briefly noticed. Winter sets m towal J the
close of November, and for several weeks heavy falls of
Q U E 783
snow, hail, and sleet, follow each other in rapid succession. Quebec.
The snow falls very deep, and it is often a difficult matter '
to keep even a narrow pathway open. Towards the end of
December the weather clears, and the solid sheet of snow
which covers the surrounding country becomes enlivened
by multitudes of citizens, who now sally forth with horse,
sledge, and carriole, and drive along the smooth and shin¬
ing plain. In March the weather gets mild, and even hot,
and in April the ice of the St Lawrence breaks with a
mighty crash. May and June are generally wet; but July
and August are marked by intense heat and the plague
of insects. September is the most agreeable month ; but,
in October, winter returns “ to rule the inverted year.”
Quebec was settled by the French in the year 1608 ; taken
by the English, first in 1629, and afterwards in 1759; and
finally ceded to us by the treaty of Paris in 1766. In
1776 an unsuccessful attack was made upon it by the Ame¬
ricans under General Montgomery, who fell, together with
about 7000 men. The population of Quebec in 1825
amounted to 20,396, and in 1831 to 25,916. Long. 70. 72.
W. from Greenwich, Lat. 46. 48. N.
Since the article Canada in this work made its appear¬
ance, a revolution has broken out in that part of the British
empire, and proved of so serious a nature as to cause a con¬
siderable loss of life both in the field and upon the scaffold.
It is not our purpose to enter into minute details regarding
either the origin of the revolt or the course of events. A
brief statement of the leading facts is all that can be given
here. Since this colony was annexed to the British crow n,
two parties have existed in it, the French, the original set¬
tlers, or their descendants; and the British, or their descen¬
dants, who were the subjugators of the province. The two
races have never amalgamated, but, on the contrary, their
animosity to each other has been aggravated by recent cir¬
cumstances to such a degree, that it is constantly in dan¬
ger of breaking out in acts of open hostility. Although
the British race are possessed of the greatest wealth, intel¬
ligence, and enterprise, the French Canadians have always
been by far the most numerous class, and, on the ground of
their numerical superiority, they aspire to have the leading
sway in the affairs of the province. But, as the government
of Canada is constituted, this has been found impossible; for
although they may preponderate in the low er house or house
of assembly, they are checked by the legislative council,
the members of which are not popularly elected, but chosen
by the governor in the name of the sovereign of Great Bri ¬
tain. It] is alleged by the house of assembly that abuse
of power* has resulted from this mode of election ; that ex¬
treme partiality to the British, and neglect of the French,
has been shown, not only in the formation of the legislative
council itself, but in the distribution of government] ap¬
pointments. Amongst the grievances of which they com¬
plained were, the tenures act, the want of control over the
public revenue of the province, and others, which wTere em¬
bodied in a document transmitted to the imperial govern¬
ment in 1832-33. This memorial consisted of ninety-
two x'esolutions, and was drawn up by the leading men of
the house of assembly. The substance of them was as
follows: 1^, That the legislative council should be elec¬
tive ; 2dly, that the executive council should be converted
into’a ministry, responsible to the assembly ; 3dty, that the
tenures act and land company’s act should be repealed;
kthly, that the crown revenues should be surrendered un¬
conditionally ; 5thly, that the management of the waste
lands should be given up to them. And they further de¬
clared, that they would pay no arrears, nor vote any civil
list until these demands should be complied with, i he
arrears spoken of were the salaries of public functionaries,
which for several years had remained unpaid, being stopped
by the members of assembly. The delegates from Canada
met with a patient hearing from the committee appointed
■JS* Q U E
Quebec, to investigate the subject; but the British government re-
' v ' fused to accede to the propositions, and a series ot resolu¬
tions were carried in parliament, the substance of which is
as follows : 1st, That whilst no change could be made in
the mode of electing the legislative council, it was expe¬
dient to adopt measures for securing to it a higher degree
of public confidence ; 2rf/y, that whilst it was expedient to
improve the composition of the executive council, it was
unadvisable to render it responsible to the assembly ; Sdfi/,
that the title of the land company was to remain inviolate;
bthly, “ that as soon as the legislative shall make provisions
by law for discharging lands from feudal dues and services,
and for removing any doubts as to the incidents ot the
tenure of land, in free and common soccage, it is expe¬
dient to repeal the Canada tenures act, and the Canada
trade act, so far as the latter relates to the tenures of land
in this province, saving, nevertheless, to all persons the
rights vested in them under or in virtue of those acts
frthly, that provision should be made for paying arrears due ;
and, lastly, “ that it is expedient that the legislatures of
Lower and Upper Canada respectively be authorized to
make provision for the joint regulation and adjustment ot
questions respecting their trade and commerce, and of other
questions wherein they have a common interest.1
On the 18th of August 1837, an extraordinary session of
the parliament of Lower Canada was called together by
Lord Gosford, the governor-in-chief; but the assembly
again refused all supplies, and continued to decline exer¬
cising any legislative functions. Confusion and disorgani¬
zation nowr began to spread throughout the whole social as
well as political system of Canada. On the 23d of October,
Q U E
a meeting of delegates, named by the different parishes in Queckni
five counties, was held at St Charles, in Lower Canada. 1!
The persons assembled wrere addressed by Papineau, speaker x *,ucc J'
of the house of assembly, and other individuals, and a se¬
ries of resolutions were passed expressing dissatisfaction with
the manner in which Canada was governed. That same
day a meeting of the friends of the constitution w-as held at
Montreal, and resolutions were passed in favour of support¬
ing the government, and condemnatory of the revolutionary
movements. Disaffection now assumed the shape of insur¬
rection, and anarchy was immediately followed by blood¬
shed. The insurrection was suppressed without much dif¬
ficulty; but the country still remains in a very unsettled
condition. (r. r. r.)
Q.UECKNI, a town of the Birman empire, in the pro¬
vince of Martaban, and situated between the sea and a range
of mountains to which it gives name. Long. 97. 45. E. Lat.
15. 35. N.
QUEDA, or Quedah, a country of Asia, and a Malay
principality, situated on the west coast, between the fifth and
eighth degrees of north latitude, immediately opposite to
Prince of Wales Island. It extends about 150 miles along
the coast, between 5° 10' and 7° 30; of north latitude, and
stretches inland from twenty to twenty-five miles. Along
the shore, for a distance of about twenty-four leagues, there
are numerous islands, that shelter the coast, which is lowr
and covered with woods. The water, to a great distance
from the shore, is extremely shallow', with sand-banks, so
that ships are obliged to anchor at a great distance from the
shore. Twenty-three rivers, all deep enough for prows, and
some for larger vessels, empty themselves into the sea. The
1 Nothing has given rise to greater discontent and heart-burnings than the provision made for the support of the church by
means of portions of land set apart for this purpose. The grants of land, as a reward for public services, have likewise been con¬
sidered as very injurious. This cannot be better explained than in the words of Lord Durham, in his Report on the affairs of British
North America.
“ The system of clergy reserves was established by the act of 1791, commonly called the Constitutional Act, which directed that,
in respect of all grants made by the crown, a quantity equal to one seventh of the land so granted should be reserved for the clergy.
A quantity equal to one seventh of all grants would be one eighth of each township, or of all the public land. Instead of this pro¬
portion, the practice has been, ever since the act passed, and in the clearest violation of its provisions, to set apart for the clergy in
Upper Canada a seventh of all the land, which is a quantity equal to a sixth of the land granted. There have been appropriated for
this purpose 300,000 acres, which, legally, it is manifest, belong to the public. And of the amount for which clergy reserves have
been sold in that province, namely, L.317,000 (of which about L. 100,000 have been already received and invested in the English
funds), the sum of about L.45,000 should belong to the public.
“ In Lower Canada the same violation of the law has taken place, with this difference, that upon every sale of crown and clergy
reserves, a fresh reserve for the clergy has been made, equal to a fifth of such reserves. The result has been the appropriation for
the clergy of 673,56? acres, instead of 446,000, being an excess of 227,559 acres, or half as much again as they ought to have re¬
ceived. The liower Canada fund already produced by sales amounts to I..50,000, of which, therefore, a third, or about L. 16,000,
belong to the public. If, without any reform of this abuse, the whole of the unsold clergy reserves in both provinces should fetch
the average price at which such lands have hitherto sold, the public would be wronged to the amount of about L.280,000 ; and the
reform of this abuse will produce a certain and almost immediate gain to the public of L.60,000. In referring, for further expla¬
nation of this subject, to a paper in the appendix, which has been drawn up by Mr Hanson, a member of the commission of inquiry
which I appointed for all the colonies, I am desirous of stating my own conviction that the clergy have had no part in this great
misappropriation of the public property, but that it has arisen entirely from heedless misconception, or some other error, of the civil
government of both provinces.
“ The great objection to reserves for the clergy is, that those for whom the land is set apart never have attempted, and never could
successfully attempt, to cultivate or settle the property, and that, by that special appropriation, so much land is withheld from set¬
tlers, and kept in a state of waste, to the serious injury of all settlers in its neighbourhood. But it would be a great mistake to sup¬
pose that this is the only practice by which such injury has been, and still is, inflicted on actual settlers. In the two Canadas espe¬
cially, the practice of rewarding, or attempting to reward, public services by grants of public land, has produced, and is still producing,
a degree of injury to actual settlers which it is difficult to conceive without having witnessed it. The very principle of such grants
is bad, inasmuch as, under any circumstances, they must lead to an amount of appropriation beyond the wants of the community, and
greatly beyond the proprietor’s means of cultivation and settlement. In both the Canadas, not only has this principle been pursued
with reckless profusion, but the local executive governments have managed, by violating or evading the instructions which they re¬
ceived from the secretary of state, to add incalculably to the mischiefs that would have arisen at all events.
“In Upper Canada, 3,200,000 acres have been granted to ‘ U. E. I.oyalists,’ being refugees from the United States, who settled in
the province before 1787, and their children ; 730,000 acres to militiamen, 450,000 acres to discharged soldiers and sailors, 255,000
acres to magistrates and barristers, 136,000 acres to executive councillors and their families, 50,000 acres to five legislative council¬
lors and their families, 36,900 acres to clergymen as private property, 264,000 acres to persons contracting to make surveys, 92,526
acres to officers of the army and navy, 500,000 acres for the endowment of schools, 48,520 acres to Colonel Talbot, 12,000 acres to
the heirs of General Brock, and 12,000 acres to Doctor Mountain, a former bishop of Quebec ; making altogether, with the clergy
reserves, nearly half of all the surveyed land in the province. In Lower Canada, exclusively of grants to refugee loyalists, as to the
amount of which the crown lands’ department could furnish me with no information, 450,000 acres have been granted to militia¬
men, to executive councillors 72,000 acres, to Governor Milne about 48,000 acres, to Mr Cushing and another upwards of 100,000
acres (as a reward for giving information in a case of high treason), to officers and soldiers 200,000 acres, and to ‘ leaders of town¬
ships’ 1,457,209 acres ; making altogether, with the clergy reserves, rather more than half of the surveyed lands originally at the
disposal of the crown.”
Quedlin-
burg
II
Queen
Charlotte’:
Islands.
Q U E
town is called Queda by strangers. It is situated in lati¬
tude 6° north, upon one of the largest rivers, which is na¬
vigable- for vessels of 300 tons burden, and is 300 yards in
. width at the mouth, where was formerly a brick fort, now in
ruins. The entrance into this river is choked up by a flat
'mud-bank, over which, at spring tides, there is only nine
feet water. The road where the ships anchor is about two
leagues from the shore. The town of Queda formerly
contained about 300 houses, inhabited by Chinese, Chu-
lias, and Malays; and it enjoyed a considerable trade; but
since the establishment of Pulo Pinang, the Malay prows
have chiefly resorted to the latter place. Allistar, seven
miles up the river, is the residence of the king, to which
place all vessels can ascend when their draught enables
them to pass the bar. The river here is narrow, but deep ;
and both shores are muddy, swampy, and covered with
jungle. A little above Allistar the ground rises, and the
river is then only navigable for prows. There are in the in¬
terior tin-mines, the produce of which is conveyed to the
coast by the Qualla Moorba, a rapid and shallow stream, yet
navigable for small craft. The exports of this district con¬
sist of elephants’ teeth, wax, &c., but principally tin, which
are chiefly exchanged for opium and Spanish dollars. The
king, as in most of these eastern countries, engrosses the
chief share of the trade. In 1786 an agreement was made
with the king of Queda for the cession of Pulo Pinang
or Prince of Wales Island; and in 1792 a regular treaty
was concluded on the subject, by which the East India
Company agreed to pay 6000 dollars annually whilst they
retained possession of the island. A new treaty was made
in 1802, for the cession of additional territory, which tract of
country the company engaged to protect from all enemies,
robbers, and pirates. The free exportation of provisions
and other articles to Prince of Wales Island was also agreed
on, besides a clause for the apprehension and delivery of
insurgents, felons, debtors, and slaves; in consideration of
which the company agreed to pay 10,000 dollars annually,
as long as they held possession of the island and the coast.
QUEDLINBUIIG, a city of the Prussian province of
Saxony, situated on the river Bode, which was formerly the
capital of an independent ecclesiastical state, under the ab¬
bess of that name. It contains eight Catholic churches, is
surrounded with walls, and has an ancient palace, with an
extensive library, 1720 houses, and 11,500 inhabitants.
There are extensive breweries and distilleries, and various
manufactures of woollen and linen goods. Long. 11. 32.
39. E. Eat. 51. 47. 48. N.
QUEEN, a woman who holds a crown singly in her own
right. The title of queen is also given by way of courtesy
to her who is married to a king, and called by way of dis¬
tinction queen-consort, the former being termed queen-ie-
gent. The widow of a king is also called queen, butwitn
the addition of dowager.
QUEEN CHARLOTTE’S Islands, a group of islands
lying in front of that part of the north-western coast of Ame¬
rica called New Hanover, between the fiftieth and hn\ -
fourth parallels of north latitude. Cook observed these
islands, but supposed that they formed portions of the conti¬
nental shore. They were discovered by La Perouse, who
named them the Fleurieu Islands, an appellation of which
they were unintentionally deprived by Vancouver, w io
called them after the princess-royal of England. Ine
largest island is of a triangular form, about one hundred
and seventy miles in length, and in some parts sixty miles
in breadth, and is separated from the mam land by a broad
channel or arm of the sea. I he southern piomon ,ory o
this island was named Cape Hector by La erouse, an
Cape St James by Vancouver. The latter navigator coast¬
ed along the shore, and found that neai the sea ie a
was moderately elevated, but that towards f e in
rose into rugged and uneven mountains. O ie n
VOL. XVIII.
Q U E
785
who inhabit it little is known, and that little is significant Queen
of their being pretty low in the Scale of intelligence. Charlotte’s
Queen Charlotte’s Island, in the Pacific, six miles jin(1
in length and one in breadth, was discovered in 1767 by Qlleen»s
Captain Wallis. Long. 138. 4. W. Lat. 19. 18. S. County.
Queen Charlotte’s Sound, a bay at the north end of
the southern island of New Zealand, where Captain Cook
erected a post with an union flag. The entrance is situat¬
ed in long. 184. 45. W. and lat. 41. S.
QUEEN’S County, an inland county in the province
of Leinster, in Ireland, is bounded on the north by the
King’s County, on the east by those of Kildare and Carlow,
on the south by those of Carlow and Kilkenny, and on the
west by Tipperary and the King’s County. It extends
over a surface of 396,810 acres, of which 335,838 are cul¬
tivated, and 60,972 are uncultivated mountain and bog.
No notice of the inhabitants of this part of Ireland is to
be found in Ptolemy’s account of the island; but Whitaker
supposes it to have been peopled, together with all the other
interior parts, by the Scots. It was afterwards known by
the names of Ossory and Leix ; the former consisting of
the north-wrestern districts, the latter of the remainder of
the county, and the Barrow constituting the boundary be¬
tween them. Ossory, of which the Macgillypatricks or F itz-
patricks were the toparchs, ranked as a subordinate kingdom
at the landing of the English, and for some time afterwards.
Leix wras made a county palatine, which fell into the posses¬
sion of Roger Mortimer through the female line, and after¬
wards was seized on by the O Mores, who retained possession
of it, and proved persevering and troublesome enemies to
the English government, until the reign of Philip and Mary,
when the territory was made shire-ground, under the name
of the Queen’s County, in honour of the sovereign; and
the place chosen for the county town was named Marybo¬
rough, for the same reason. This county, when brought
under British law, was gradually peopled by English settlers.
During the subsequent reigns several of these families have
become extinct in the male line, and others WTere expelled
or extinguished bv the confiscations arising out of the civil
wars in 1641 and 1689, whilst the descendants of others,
the principal of whom are the Veseys, Cootes, Parnells,
Dawsons, and Burrowes, still retain the whole or some por¬
tion of their ancestral possessions. It is now divided into
the baronies of Ballyadams, Cullinagh, Maryborough East,
Maryborough West, Partnehinch, Slievemangue or Sheve-
margy, Stradbally, Tinnehinch, and Upper Ossory. These
are subdivided into thirty-eight parishes, and six pai ts of
parishes the remaining parts of which are in the adjoining
counties. According to the ecclesiastical arrangements of
the country, the county contains fifty-one parishes, of which
twenty-seven are in the diocese of Leighlm, fmeen in that of
Ossory, seven in Kildare, and one each mKillaloe and Dublin.
The general face of the country is level, but it rises
into heights of considerable elevation m the bheve-Bloom
Mountains, which, taking a direction nearly north and south
T°n„ the Western verge of the county, rise to a consider-
able light, their most elevated point being 1689 feet above
the levef of the sea, and with an acchvity so abrupt that
the only practicable road across them is through the pass
of Glandine. In the southern extremity the Shevemarigue
Hills of considerably inferior elevation, separate the county
from’that of Kilkenny. But the general surface of the
country is not, strictly speaking, level; the
nerfect plain is relieved by a range of low hihs, which tra
yerse it m a direction from north to south, and the most
remarkable of which are the Rock of Dunamase and the
Dun of Clopoke; as also by eska^
(rfraunded^efiibRsfapparenBy^forced
able'o^these^the^Riclge^cif^^iryborough, winch, enter-
786 Q U E
Queen’s ing from the King’s County, proceeds for a considerable dis-
County. tance by Maryborough, and, after having been deranged
an(j broken, resumes again the form of a continuous xidge,
branching out in the southern part of the county in two di¬
visions. The Slieve-Bloom Mountains give rise to some of
the great rivers of Ireland. The Barrow rises at their
northern extremity, and, after passing through the north of
the county, forms its north-eastern boundary; then, turning
southwards, it forms its boundary to the east, separating it
from Kildare and Carlow, and falls into the Suir some miles
below New Ross, forming with that river the estuary called
Waterford Harbour. The source of the Nore is southward of
that of the Barrow, in the same mountains. It passes through
the south-western part of the county by Abbeyleix and Bal-
lynakill, enters the county of Kilkenny near Ballyragget,
and, after flowing by the city of Kilkenny, joins the Bar-
row about two miles above New Ross. The portion of the
Barrow between its junction with the Nore and Suir is ge¬
nerally called the Ross River. The Suir, which also rises
in the Slieve-Bloom Mountains at their southern extremity,
does not belong to this county. The smaller rivers are the
Ownas, Trihogue, and Blackwater, tributaries of the Bar-
row ; and the Tonnet, Dolore, Old Forge River, Cloncoose,
Cromoge, Corbally, Trumry, Colt, and Erkin, tributaries
of the Nore. The Barrow is navigable for barges from
Athy, where it is connected with the Grand Canal from
Dublin to New Ross, and thence to the sea for vessels of
500 tons. The Nore is not navigable until after it has
quitted the county. There is no lake except that of An-
nagh on its northern boundary, which partly belongs to the
King’s County, the line of demarcation between the two
counties being drawn through the middle of it.
The amount of the population, according to the calcula¬
tions made at different periods, some founded on conjectu¬
ral estimates, others on actual enumeration under legisla¬
tive authority, is as follows :—
Year. , Authority. No. of Souls.
1760 De Burgo  53,604
1792 Beaufort  82,000
1812 Parliamentary return 113,857
1821 Ditto 134,275
1831 Ditto 145,843
The return of 1831 gives an average of one inhabitant
to every 2*72 acres, or of one to every 2,30 cultivated acres.
The returns of the Commissioners of Public Instruction in
1834, being made up in dioceses, do not give the popula¬
tion of counties with strict accuracy ; yet they afford data
sufficient to show the comparative numbers of the three
great divisions of the people with respect to their several
religious persuasions. If the entire population of the coun¬
ty be estimated at 150,000, the number of Episcopalian
Protestants would amount to 20,000, of Protestant dissen¬
ters to 1000, and of Roman Catholics to 129,000; accord¬
ing to which calculation, the Protestants would be to the
Catholics as one to six nearly.
The county returned eight members to the Irish parlia¬
ment ; two for the county at large, and two each for the
boroughs of Portarlington, Maryborough, and Ballynakill.
This number was reduced to three by the act of union, by
which the boroughs were disfranchised, with the exception
of the first named, which still continues to return one mem¬
ber. The number of registered electors for the county, ac¬
cording to the latest return, was 2150, that of the borough
of Portarlington 156. The election for the county takes
place at Maryborough. The local government consists of
a lieutenant, eighteen deputy-lieutenants, all appointed by
the crown during pleasure, and ninety magistrates (includ¬
ing the lieutenants) appointed by the lord-chancellor, and
holding office during good behaviour. The constabulary
force consists of a sub-inspector, eight chief constables, ten
Q U E
head-constables, thirty-seven constables, and two hundred Queen’s
and seventy-six sub-constables; in all, 332. County.
The state of education, according to the parliamentary
returns in 1821 and 1824-26, was as follows:
Year. Boys. Girl.. Total.
1821 4825 1998 6,823
1824-6 6624 4908 231 11,763
Of the numbers stated in the latter of these returns, 2074
were Episcopalian Protestants, 104 Protestant dissenters,
and 9426 Roman Catholics; the religious persuasion of the
remaining 305 not having been ascertained. The total num¬
ber of schools was 275 ; of which thirty-five, containing 2150
pupils, were maintained by grants of public money ; twenty-
four, containing 1625 pupils, by the voluntary contributions
of societies or individuals; and the remaining 216 schools,
which afforded the means of education to 7988 pupils, wholly
by the fees of the pupils. The Report of the Commission¬
ers of National Education in 1837 (the latest published),
states the number of schools, teachers, and pupils connect¬
ed with their board as follows : Schools, 18; teachers, 20;
boys, 1323 ; girls, 1045 ; total of pupils, 2368.
The level part of the county forms the southern portion
of the great flcetz limestone field which traverses Ireland
across its centre. The peculiar flatness of the interior ap¬
pears to have caused those accumulations of alluvial matter,
composed of clay and limestone gravel, which, in the form
of low but steep ridges of hills, occur so frequently through¬
out the midland districts, and are known by the name of
eskars. Some very striking specimens of this formation in
the county have already been noticed. That the surface of
the country was exposed to the action of rapid currents of
water, is evidenced by the deep parallel indentations or
furrows frequently observable on the surface of rocks from
which the alluvial soil has been removed. It is also proba¬
ble that the gravel hills were rapidly deposited from water
in violent action; an inference which is confirmed by the
fact, that they mostly consist of large masses of rock par¬
tially rounded, intermixed with small gravel, and even with
clay and sand. The sandstone shows itself in the Slieve-
Bloom Mountains, which are almost wholly of that formation.
The south-eastern extremity forms a small part of the Lein¬
ster coal-field, the mineral in it being, like that of Kilkenny,
which adjoins it, of the carbonaceous or stone-coal forma¬
tion, the slaty glantz-coal of Werner, burning dully with
little flame, emitting an offensive and unwholesome vapour,
and therefore disagreeable for domestic use, but excellent
for malting or for the forge, for both which purposes it is
in such demand that its high price, were there no other ob¬
jection to it, prevents it being much used for family pur¬
poses even in the neighbourhood. Iron was raised here, and
the works were carried on as long as the forests afforded
materials for fuel. Potters’ earth is also raised, and applied,
in the neighbourhood of Mountmellick, to the manufacture
of the coarser kinds of earthen wares.
The soil varies greatly in different parts. Where it rests
on the limestone substratum, it consists mostly of a stiff clay
loam, well adapted for the growth of wheat; in other parts
it is light and sandy, and produces good crops of oats and
barley. The mountain district is wet and boggy even in the
higher parts, the clayey sub-soil not admitting free passage
for the water, which therefore accumulates on the surface ;
and it is also much encumbered with rock. The low hills
that traverse the middle of the county from north to south
are capable of culture mostly to their summits, and, where
not deemed suitable for the plough, afford rich pasturage
for sheep. The tracts on the sides of the rivers, being an¬
nually flooded by the overflowings of the stream during
winter, form rich meadow-land. Bogs are frequent in most
parts, supplying ample material of fuel for domestic pur¬
poses. The county was once so thickly wooded as to be al-
Q U E
Queen’s most impenetrable for the passage of large bodies of men •
County, and thence, as well as from the bogs, which, from a diffe-
Y "~ i ent cause, were also difficult to be crossed by those not
well acquainted with their peculiarities, the natives were
enabled to hold out long against the attempts of the Eng¬
lish settlers. But the old woods have long since been clear¬
ed away, the only proof of their former existence being
discoverable in the numerous remains of timber-trees lying
in the bottom of Lough Annagh. A new growth, however,
the offspring, not of the unaided efforts of nature, but of
the hand of modern improvement, has in a great measure
restored one of its most beautiful and useful features. Large
plantations, chiefly around the demesnes of the gentry, vary
the prospects, and tend much to relieve the monotony of
the level surface. Most parts present the mansions and
seats of resident proprietors ; comfortable farm-houses are
numerous, and much attention has been paid by many land¬
lords to excite amongst their tenantry a laudable emulation
in the neatness of their cottages, and in the judicious culti¬
vation of their little farms. The coal district must, however,
form an exception to this general description. In it, not¬
withstanding the superior means of procuring domestic com¬
forts, through the high wages and constant employment
afforded by the collieries, the appearance of the peasantry,
both in their persons and dwellings, exhibits too frequent
instances of the destitution consequent on confirmed habits
of reckless improvidence. With the exception of the lands
held by wealthy proprietors in their own hands, and those
in the mountainous parts, where grazing is the chief object,
the farms are not large, seldom more than from ten to fif¬
teen acres. Wheat is very extensively grown, its culture
being more and more attended to even on those soils which,
during the more confined state of agricultural knowledge,
were thought to be unfit for it. The lighter soils answer
well for barley and oats. Potatoes are everywhere raised,
both for family use and for feeding cattle ; forming also an
essential part of the improved rotation system, which is ge¬
nerally practised. Green- crops, particularly turnips, are
not unusual, and the value of every kind of clover seems to
be duly appreciated. Much attention is given to the intro¬
duction of implements and machines of the best description;
the clumsy and inartificial vehicles, ploughs, and harrows,
formerly in use, being scarcely to be met with except in
districts little capable of being brought into profitable agri¬
cultural production. The breed of every kind of cattle has
been improved during the last twenty or thirty years, to
a degree that scarcely could have been anticipated at the
commencement of the period. Dairies are numerous and
highly productive. Butter is the produce chiefly attended
to; and large quantities of it are prepared for export. Cheese
is seldom made. The rich low lands graze black cattle of
large size. In a word, the county, with the exception al¬
ready noticed, appears to be rapidly advancing in improve¬
ment throughout every department of rural economy, from
the nobleman’s demesne to the humble garden of the cot¬
tier tenant.
From the preceding statement it may easily be infen ed
that the character of the population is almost exclusive y
agricultural. The only place in which manufactures have
at all succeeded is Mountmellick. Several branches of the
woollen, linen, and cotton trade have been undertaken t lore,
but without much success; coarse woollens and cottons for
the supply of the surrounding districts being the on y^in s
fabricated. Tanning is carried on to some extent; flour¬
mills are large and numerous ; and there are some extensive
distilleries and breweries. The Grand Canal, a branch of
which has been carried from Monasterevm to Mountmellick,
conveys much of the produce of the county to uo in,
either for sale there or for export. The Barrow selves ie
same purpose with respect to Waterford. Ihe inai -coac
roads from Dublin to Cork and Limerick traverse the county.
Q U E 787
There are many remains of ancient edifices, both eccle- Queen-
siastical and military. Amongst the most remarkable of the boroilgh
former is that of Aghaboe, once the seat of the bishopric ^ ^
of Ossory; the ruins of Aghmacart, and of several others of "
lesser note, are still visible. The site of the abbey of Tima- ^ j
hoe can be ascertained only by the pillar-tower there, which
is supposed to have stood in its immediate vicinity. Of
the military antiquities the most ancient is a fortress placed
upon the summit of a hill in the south-west of the county,
and called Bawnachra; it consists of a circular enclosure
surrounded by a rampart and fosse. The ancient fortress
of Dunamase, situated on the summit of a precipitous hill
rising abruptly from the middle of a large plain, and once
the chief residence of the O’Mores, presents a very pictu¬
resque appearance. Lea Castle, a few miles distant, on the
Barrow, a place of considerable strength, was taken and dis¬
mantled by Cromwell. Burros-in-Ossory on the Nore, and
Castlecuffe in Tinnehinch, built by the celebrated republi¬
can leader Sir Charles Coote, were also places of consider¬
able strength. Amongst the modern mansions, that of the
Earl of Portarlington, at Ems, is the most splendid.
Maryborough, the county town, situated nearly in the
centre of the county, on one. of the small feeders of the Bar-
row, presents few features to arrest attention, beyond those
public edifices to which the transaction of county business
and the claims of religion give rise. It was a borough entitled
to send representatives to parliament; but this, the only im¬
portant privilege to a small town, having been abolished at
the union, the other corporate functions became paralyzed,
and are now virtually extinct. The county court-house is
a neat building; and the prison, on the radiating plan, lately
built at an expense of L. 19,000, affords accommodation
for 121 prisoners. The state of crime, as far as it is dedu-
cible from the number of convictions, is not favourable. In
1837 the convictions were 214, of which five were capital,
but commuted into a lesser punishment; eight were for
transportation for life, and fifteen for seven years. The dis¬
trict lunatic asylum for the King’s, Queen’s, Westmeath, and
Longford counties is fixed here; and it affords accommoda¬
tion for 156 patients, who are maintained in it at an average
expense of L.19 per head. The flour trade is the only
manufacture of any extent. The population in 1831 was
3220. That of the other towns having upwards of 1000 inha¬
bitants each was in the same year respectively as follows:—
Mountellick, 4577; Portarlington, originally a settlement of
French refugees, and till lately of some note as a place of
elementary education, 3091; Mountrath, 2593 ; Graige,
which is, strictly speaking, a suburb of Carlow, though in a
different county, 1976; Ballynakill, 1927 ; Stradbally, near
which is the Dun of Clopoke, an isolated rock, perforated
by subterraneous cavities, 1799; Ballycollinbeg, 1381; llath-
downey, 1214; and Abbeyleix, which, though amongst the
smallest, is the neatest in external appearance, 1009.
QUEENBOROUGH, a town of the county of Kent, in
the Isle of Sheppey, at the mouth of the river Medway,
forty-five miles from London. It was an ancient borough,
and returned two members to the House of Commons till
1832, when it was disfranchised. It is governed by a mayor
and jurats. The chief employment is the oyster fishery.
The population amounted in 1801 to 545, in 1811 to 805,
in 1821 to 881, and in 1831 to 786.
QUEENSFERRY, South, a royal burgh and parish in
the county of Linlithgow, Scotland. It is situated on the
south side of the Frith of Forth, nine miles west from Edin¬
burgh, and consists of one irregular street of a mean ap¬
pearance, from which branch various narrow alleys. 1 he
town is a place of considerable antiquity, having been
in early times a burgh of regality, held under the abbey
of Dunfermline. It obtained the privileges of a burgh
of regality from Malcolm IV., which were confirmed by
David II. and afterwards by Charles I.; and in the year
788
Q U E
Queiling 1633 the burgh sent its first commissioner to the Scottish
II parliament. In 1641, by act of parliament, it was dismem-
Quebnay. kere(] from tlie parish of Dalmeny, and erected into a sepa-
^ Y __ y rate parish. Before the union it possessed a considerable
trade, but what it now has depends on a soap-work, a brew¬
ery, and a distillery. The regular ferry is at Newhall, a little
to the east of the town, where the frith contracts to one and
a half mile in breadth. It is under the direction of trustees ;
and, in addition to the sail-boats, a steam-vessel, carrying
the mail, plies regulai'ly at all times of the tide. 1 here
are at both sides low-water piers, on which the passengers
are landed, and excellent inns for their accommodation.
The revenue of the burgh is about L.88, arising from cus¬
toms, anchorages, shore-dues, and other small items; and
its permanent expenditure is L.70. 2s. The revenue for
1837-38 amounted to L.135. It is governed by a provost,
three bailies, a treasurer, a dean of guild, and fifteen coun¬
cillors, and, with Culross, Dunfermline, Inverkeithing, and
Stirling, returns a member to parliament. The population
in the year 1821 amounted to 690, and in 1831 to 684.
QUE1LING, or Koueling, a city of China, of the first
rank, and capital of the province of Quangsee. It is situated
on the banks of a rapid river. Long. 109.51.E.Lat. 25.12. N.
aUELPAERT, an island in the Eastern Seas, to the
north of the peninsula of Corea. A Dutch vessel was
wrecked here in 1635, called the Sparrow-Hawk, command¬
ed by Henry Hamel, by whom the knowledge of this island
was first brought to Europe. Long. 126. 35. E. Lat. 33.
14. N.
QUENTIN, St, an arrondissement of the department of
the Aisne, in France. It extends over 430 square miles,
comprising ten cantons, divided into 121 communes, with
91,200 inhabitants. The capital is a city of the same name,
situated on a hill, at the foot of which flow s the Somme,
which is joined by two inland canals. It is strongly fortified,
and has a fine old cathedral and good market-place, 1650
houses, and 10,740 inhabitants, who have been long celebrat¬
ed for their fabrics of fine linens, especially cambrics and
lawns, and thread-lace. These trades have, however, of late
years declined, the manufactures of cotton have been sub¬
stituted, and, now that spinning-mills have been at work,
many muslins and fine calicoes are produced. Near this
city was fought, in 1557, a great battle between the krench
and Spaniards. Long. 3. 12. 18. E. Lat. 49. 50. 51. N.
QUESAN, a cluster of small islands situated off the
eastern coast of China, and attached to the province Tche-
kiang. The most southerly, called by the British sailors
Patchcock, is situated in long. 120. 52. E. and lat. 29. 22. N.
QUESNAY, Francois, a physician of considerable emi¬
nence, but who is chiefly known in the history of philosophy
as a profound and ingenious inquirer into the constitution of
society, and as the founder of the sect of the Economists.
The accounts of the life of this distinguished person,
which, unlike that of most literary men, abounded in incident
and adventure, are exceedingly meagre and contradictory.
Neither the place of his birth nor the condition of his pa¬
rents has been well ascertained ; but the accounts apparent¬
ly most entitled to credit state that he was born at the village
of Ecquivilly, in the Isle de France, in 1694; and that his
father was either a common labourer, or a small proprietor
who cultivated his own little property.1 His humble origin
is indeed evident from the fact mentioned by all his bio¬
graphers, of his early education having been almost entirely
Q U E
neglected, and of his being constantly occupied, until his Quesnay.
fourteenth or sixteenth year, in the sports or labours of the '—’-v '
fields, without being either sent to school or taught to read.
But although placed in such unfavourable circumstances,
young Quesnay was imbued with an ardent love of know¬
ledge, and with a strong desire to emerge from the obscure
station in which he had been brought up. The Mahon
Bustigne of Liebaut w as the first book that came into his
hands; and he is said to have learned to read it by the as¬
sistance of lessons given him by a gardener of the village.
The perusal of this book, which seems to have had a material
influence over his future studies, awakened his latent powers,
and stimulated him to make further efforts to extend his in¬
formation. Having acquired a competent knowledge of his
vernacular tongue, by the eager reading of such French
books as came into his hands, he next applied himself to the
study of the dead languages ; and speedily attained, partly
by the slender assistance of a self-dubbed surgeon of the
village, but chiefly by his own extraordinary industry and
sagacity, to a tolerable proficiency in Latin and Greek.
Quesnay now resolved, in opposition to the wishes of his
parents, and especially of his mother, to devote himself to
the profession of surgery, and received the rudiments of his
instruction in that art from the village-doctor who had as¬
sisted him in his philological studies. But the pupil very
soon surpassed the master; and when the latter applied to
be admitted into the Maitrise, or Corporation of Surgeons,
he presented, as testimonials of his skill in his profession,
and of his capacity to practise it with advantage, some Es¬
says written by Quesnay, and which were received with
very great applause. Quesnay was not privy to this ruse ;
but soon after its occurrence he left his paternal village, and
set out to prosecute his studies at Paris. We are not in¬
formed by what means he supported himself in that city,
nor how long he remained there; but his indefatigable
industry and zeal enabled him to make great progress in
his studies, whilst his merit and modesty procured him
several friends. Besides attending prelections on the va¬
rious branches of surgery, and the different hospitals, he
found leisure to devote some portion of his time to metaphy¬
sical researches, and the study of philosophy, for which the
perusal of the Becherchc de la Verite of Malebranche had
given him a very decided taste. Nay, such was the al¬
most unparalleled activity and vigour of his mind, that hav¬
ing accidentally met, during his stay in Paris, with the ce¬
lebrated M. Cochin, of the Royal Academy of Painting,
he put himself under his tuition; and we are told, that he
profited so w ell by the few lessons he received, as to be able
not only to take remarkably good likenesses, but to design
and engrave, with his own hand, the various bones of the
human skeleton, in a manner which would not have disgraced
the most skilful artists.
On finishing his studies at Paris, Quesnay formed the de¬
sign of establishing himself as a surgeon in Mantes, a con¬
siderable town of his native province, and presented himself
to the surgeons of its Maitrise for examination. But they
refused, from jealousy, as is alleged, of his talents, to admit
him to trial. He was thus laid under the necessity of re¬
turning to Paris, where he passed his examinations with
eclat; and in 1718 received letters ordering him to be ad¬
mitted into the Mailrise of Mantes.
Having established himself at Mantes, his reputation soon
extended itself. He was employed by some of the first
1 It is stated in the Eloge Hlstorique of Quesnay, in the Mtmoires de VAcademic dcs Sciences for 1774, that he wa§ the son ot an ad-
vocat at Parlemcnt at Montfort, and that he was born at Merey. But it is difficult to suppose, had his lather been in such a station,
that his education should have been so entirely neglected. In the brief but interesting notice of Quesnay, given by Mr Crawturd in
Q U E S N A Y.
789
Quesnay. t'amilies of the neighbourhood, and, amongst others, by that “ the Traite de la Gangrene is by far the most valuable Quesnay.
^ ot the Marshal de Noailles, Due de Villeroi, who persuaded publication which we yet possess upon this subject.” Every
him to leave his residence in the country, and to accompany page of this work, he adds, “ is distinguished by the same
him to Paris as his surgeon, as nearly as we can collect in talent for accurate observation and perspicuous arrange-
1729 or 1730. An incident not long afterwards occurred, meat, which are so remarkable in all the other writings of
which had the most material influence over his future pros- this celebrated author.” (Thomson’s Lectures on Injlam-
pects and life. Having accompanied the Due de Villeroi to mation, p. 502.)
the house of the Comtesse d’Estrades, Quesnay remained The Traite, des Fievres was the last of Quesnay’s pro-
behind in the carriage whilst the duke went in to visit that fessional works. He appears to have thenceforth compara-
lady, who, during the interview, was suddenly seized with tively abandoned his medical studies. At no period, indeed,
an epileptic fit. Quesnay being called in, and perceiving had he allowed them to occupy exclusively his attention;
the nature of the attack, with singular presence of mind and he now devoted himself, in preference, to other, and,
ordered the duke and the other attendants out of the room, if possible, still more interesting inquiries. He had always
and managed so well as to succeed in concealing the nature entertained a strong predilection for agricultural pursuits,
of the malady. The comtesse was so much pleased with the effect, perhaps, of Ins situation in early life; and this,
this dexterity and address, that she lost no time in recom- combined with the speculative and metaphysical cast of
mending Quesnay to her all-powerful friend, Madame d’Es- his mind, seems to have led him to those peculiar notions
tides, afterwards Madame de Pompadour, who made him respecting the paramount importance of agriculture as a
her physician ; and, besides obtaining for him apartments at source of wealth, and the constitution of society, which
Versailles, procured him, in 1737, the place of surgeon in have rendered his name so justly celebrated in the history
ordinary to the king.1 of economical science. The articles Fermier and Grains
Quesnay was shortly afterwards appointed secretary to in the Encyclopedic, published in 1756 and 1757, contain
the Royal Academy of Surgery, established in 1731; and, the earliest development of his views on this subject. They
besides several articles on particular branches of surgery, he are both written with great ability, and display an intimate
contributed the preface to the first volume of its Memoires, acquaintance with the subject, considerable reading, and
which has always been reckoned peculiarly valuable for its great powers of analysis. In the article Grains the dis-
profound and discriminating observations on the respective tinction between the produit total and the produit net; lie-
uses of theory and observation in the physical sciences, and tween the productiveness of agriculture and the supposed
on the assistance they reciprocally lend to each other. unproductiveness of other employments, with the doctrine
Having1 from an early period been much subject to the of the unrestricted freedom ot commerce, and most ot the
,r0ut, and becoming in consequence less able to discharge other leading principles m the theory of the economists ; are
his duties as surgeon, Quesnay took the degree of doctor distinctly stated, and illustrated^with much ingenuity. Hie
Tableau Economique, and the Maxines Generides du Goii-
vernement Economique, annexed to it under the title ot
Extraits des Economies lloyales de M. de Sully, were print¬
ed, by command of the king, at Versailles, in the year 1758,
with the following very remarkable epigraph for a work
of medicine in 174*4i; and was soon afterwards appointed,
through the influence of his powerful patroness, to the im¬
portant place of consulting physician to the king. ^ In this
capacity he attended Louis in the campaigns of 1744 and
such apices,
prepaieu uie grtaiei pu t roi/awne; pauvre royaume, pauvre souverain. The Max-
to the king tvas preceded tai whicVcootam Abort but eontpreheodve abstract ot
by the grant of letters of nobility, issued on the recovery ~il-
^ps; cM: xr
pensees), for his arms, with the motto Pioptei cogi a lonem m^ ^ g0uvernement le plus Avantageux au Genre Hu-
mentis- . , wirvri Wm tA nrn- main edited by his friend and scholar Dupont in 1767.
The leisure Quesnay now enjoyed enabled to *«p ^ ^ el/ewlKre entered at considerable length into
secute his studies with greater assiduity. In examination of the speculations of Quesnay and his fol
published an enlarged edition, in three tomes l~mo, . J  A nf nnlifira! societie
Essai Physique sur l’Economic MmWe, origiiially pub¬
lished in 1736 ; in 1748 he published an Examen hnpar-
lished in 173b ; in nc puunBUGu ^ ,
tiel des Contestations des Medecins et des Unrurgiens de
lowers, with respect to the constitution of political societies
and the sources of public wealth. (See Economists and
Political Economy.) That there is a good deal of erroi
uei ues ejunixsiLiiivii* prn vinet be allowed ; but this is far more than coun-
Paris; in 1749 he published a Memoire sur la b^the many just, discriminating, and original
VAncienne Legislation de la Chirurgieen Prance, am . an(j important discoveries which they contain. 1 er-
separate treatises in 12mo, the one on Suppuration, and the howeveP the principal merit of Quesnay and his fol-
other Be la Gangrene; in 1750 he repubhshe j’ . * ’ j not consist so much in the discoveries they
des Effete et de l’Usage de la Saigne, written during his lowe ^ ,1QV;ncr been the first philosophers who
residence at Mantes, and originally published m 1/ 30 ; and
in 1753 he published his Traite des Fievres Continues, two
t0The^ works have all been held in very high estimation;
and an excellent judge has given it as his opinion, that
made, as in their having been the first philosophers who
distinctly perceived that the institutions of society should
always hannonize with the natural principles on which it
is founded, or, as they termed it, with the ordre naturel et
essentiel des societes politiques. According to tnem, econo-
It
econo-
•  
s The Ephtmlrides du CUoyen, begun m 17^7, ^10 volume. The authors were disciples of QueMiav,a ^ rfnd
appeared monthly, and two numbers nia e a c0n^ m branches of widen t)e> iave rt.a following extract
ceux qui sont proposes a 1'admmistration. Mm on m 1
790
Q U E S N A Y.
Quesnay. mi cal science is “ U etude et la demonstration des loix de la
"'"■"“"'y'—-'' nature relatives d la subsistence et la multiplication du genre
humain. L’observation universelle de ces loix est Pinteret
commun et general de tons les hommes. La connaissance
universelle de ces loix est done le preliminaire indispen¬
sable et le moyen necessaire du bonheur de tons.” (Ephe-
merides du Citoyen, 1769, No. II. p. 13.) It is to be re¬
gretted that, in investigating these laws, they proceeded
too much upon abstract and speculative principles, without
sufficiently attending to the effects of particular institutions,
and to the various phenomena manifested in the progress
of society. But notwithstanding the defective mode in
which they conducted their researches, they succeeded in
establishing and elucidating many important principles ; and
there is certainly much more reason to w onder at the general
correctness of their conclusions, than to feel surprised at
the errors into which they fell. Quesnay and his disciples
established, that society either is or should be formed to se¬
cure the greatest possible advantage to its members ; that
the security of property and the freedom of industry are its
essential bases ; and that, instead of interfering to regulate
the pursuits of individuals, the proper business of the poli¬
tician is to protect the equal rights and liberties of all, and
to secure the utmost freedom of competition in every de¬
partment of industry. And though it be undoubtedly true
that most of these principles had been pointed out by pre¬
vious writers, Quesnay and his school have the merit of
being the first who showed their dependence on each other,
and wffio, by presenting them in a systematic and consecu¬
tive form, were enabled to give a scientific demonstration
of the injustice and impolicy of such institutions as igno¬
rance or mistaken views of national interest had established
in opposition to them.
In the article Political Economy an attempt has been
made to show the fallacy of Quesnay’s opinion with respect
to agriculture being the only source of wealth ; and the ex¬
perience of all ages sufficiently proves that the despotisme
legal, in the hands of an hereditary monarch, without con-
treforces of any kind, which he strangely supposed was the
best of all possible governments, is about the very worst.1
Notwithstanding his great age, and the sufferings he ex¬
perienced from almost incessant attacks of the gout, the ac¬
tivity of Quesnay’s mind continued unimpaired. u IIa,” said
one of his friends, “ une tele de trente ans sur un corps de
quatre-vingts.” He contributed subsequently to the publi¬
cation of the Physiocratie, many acute and able articles to
the Ephemerides du Citoyen, and continued wholly occu¬
pied with these studies, and with mathematics, to which he
latterly began to pay considerable attention, until his death,
w hich took place at Versailles in December 1774, in the
eightieth year of his age.
Quesnay possessed inflexible integrity, a nice sense of
honour, and great prudence and discretion. Though highly
esteemed by the king, and long resident at court, he never
intermixed in the intrigues of which it was the constant
theatre. No one ever scrupled to express himself freely in
iis presence; nor was this confidence ever betrayed. “ II
lecevoit chez lui des personnes de tous les partis, mais en
petit nombre, et qui toutes avoient une grande confiance
en mi. On y parloit tres hardiment de tout; et ce qui fait
leur eloge et le sien, jamais on na rien repetel^ To the
utmost frankness and sincerity he added the easy address
and polish of a courtier, and the intelligence of a philoso-
pner. No man could be less solicitous of distinguishing him-
fee h 01 raore careful not to offend the self-esteem of others.
His conversation was animated, without the least effort at Quesnay
brilliancy. So much indeed was he averse from every ap-
pearance of pretension, that he was in the habit of veiling
the most profound remarks and observations under the form
of apologues, which generally referred to some subject con¬
nected with rural affairs, to which he was always particu¬
larly attached. He was most indulgent to the faults and
errors of others, provided they were unalloyed by any taint
of artifice or baseness, for which he never hesitated, what¬
ever might be the rank of the party, to express the utmost
contempt. Quesnay was truly a patriot and a philosopher;
and it would be difficult to produce another instance of one
who, having lived long in a profligate and luxurious court,
unsullied by its vices, and aloof from its contentions, pre¬
served to an extreme old age all those generous and kindly
feelings, with that unobtrusive but ardent zeal in the cause
of humanity, and that love of speculation and profound in¬
quiry, which distinguished his earlier years.
“ Quesnay,” says Madame du Hausset, “ etoit un grand
genie, suivant 1’opinion de tous ceux qui Favoit connu, et
de plus un homme fort gai. II aimoit causer avec moi de
la campagne ; j’y avois ete elevee, et il me faisoit parler des
herbages de Normandie et du Poitou, de la richesse des
fermiers, et de la maniere de cultiver. C’etoit le meilleur
homme du monde, et la plus eloigne de la plus petit in¬
trigue. II etoit bien plus occupe a la cour de la meilleure
maniere de cultiver la terre que de tout ce que s’y passoit.”
(Melanges, p. 343.)
“ Tandis,” says Marmontel, “ que les orages se formoi-
ent et se dissipoient au-dessous de I’entresol de Quesnay, il
griffonnoit ses axiomes et ses calculs d’economie rustique,
aussi tranquille, aussi indifferent a ces mouvemens de la
cour, que s’il en eut ete a cent lieues de distance. La bas,
on decidoit de la paix, de la guerre, du choix des generaux,
du renvoi des ministres; et nous, dans I’entresol, nous rai-
sonnions d’agriculture; nous calculions le produit net, ou
quelquefois nous dinions gaiement avec Diderot, d’Alem¬
bert, Duclos, Helvetius, Turgot, Buffon; et Madame de Pom¬
padour, ne pouvant pas engager cette troupe de philosophes
a descendre dans son salon, venoit elle-meme les voir a
table, et causer avec eux.”
Dr Smith was well acquainted with Quesnay. He fre¬
quently met him during his residence at Paris in 1766;
and whilst he bears the most honourable testimony to the
“ modesty and simplicity” of his character, he has pronoun¬
ced his system to be, “ with all its imperfections, the hear-
est approximation to the truth that has yet been published
on the subject of political economy.” (Wealth of Nations,
p. 307.) So highly, indeed, was Smith impressed with a
sense of his merits as a man and a philosopher, that it was
his intention, had he not been prevented by Quesnay’s death,
to have inscribed to him the Wealth of Nations. (Dugalcl
Stewart’s Account of the Life and Writings of Dr Smith.)
Quesnay had a son by his wife, to whom he was united
when at Mantes. He gave him an excellent education ;
and exhibited a striking proof of his disinterestedness, by
constantly refusing to solicit for him any place or situation
under government. This son ultimately settled in the coun¬
try, on an estate near Beauvoir. Turgot gave one of Ques¬
nay’s grandsons a place in the administration ; and ano¬
ther entered the army, and acted as captain of infantry at
the battle of Jemmappes.
Few men have been more esteemed by their friends than
Quesnay, or more ready to do all in their power to advance
their interests. Mercier de la Riviere, the author of the
that die "rouil?s 011 wh,ich Mr Chalmers has affirmed (Biographical Dictionary, vol. xxv. art. Quesnay)
and his followers abused thetu.^ influ®uce.b>r circulating democratical principles.” It would be quite as correct to say that Locke
aim nij rouowers abused their influence by circulating despotical principles.
ties in Quesnav tuHn - 11fussct, MGanges, &c. p. 277- A striking instance of the confidence placed by the most opposite par¬
ties in Ljuesnay is given in the second volume of Marmontel’s Memoirs. v j 11 ^
Q U E
Q,uesne work Sur VOrdre Natural et Essentiel des Societes Poli-
Quevedo ^ueSi seerns to have occupied the chief place in his esteem,
. . and was looked upon by him as the only person in France
qualified to conduct the administration of the finances.
He was also much attached to the Marquis de Mirabeau,
T urgot, Dupont, the Abbe Bandeau, St Feravy, and
other leading economists, who willingly acknowledged him
for their master, and enthusiastically exerted themselves to
defend and to propagate his doctrines. “ The economists
were in reality, and not merely in appearance, a sect of
philosophers.
Q U I 791
^ nrt:,!)es* known of his works are, 1. The Spanish Parnassus; Quiberon
2. ihe Adventurer Buscon; 3. Visions of Hell Reformed. II
Q.uevedo was one of the greatest scholars and most eminent (iuietists‘
poets of his time. His youth was spent in the service of" v '
his country in Italy, where he distinguished himself by the
utmost sagacity and prudence. His moral discourses prove
the soundness of his doctrine and his religious sentiments,
whilst the correctness of his literary pieces display his ac¬
curate judgment and refined taste. His great knowledge
of Hebrew is apparent from the report of the historian Ma¬
riana to the king, requesting that Quevedo might revise the
new edition of the Bible of Arias Montanus. His transla¬
tions of Epictetus and Phocylides, with his imitations of
Anacreon and other Greek authors, show how well he was
versed in that language; that he was a Latin scholar, his
constant correspondence, from the age of twenty, with Lip-
sius, Chifflet, and Scioppius, sufficiently illustrates. As a
poet, he excelled both in the serious and burlesque style,
and was singularly happy in that particular turn which we
have since admired in Butler and Swift.
QUIBERON, a market-town of France, in the depart¬
ment of Morbihan, and arrondissement of L’Orient. It is
situated on a peninsula, in a bay of the same name, and
contains 1850 inhabitants. It is defended by the fort Pen-
thievre, on the same peninsula, and is remarkable for the
unsuccessful attempt made in 1795, by a body of royalist
emigrants, under the brave Sombreuil.
QUICK or Quickset Hedge, amongst gardeners, de¬
notes all live hedges, of whatever sort of plants they are
composed, to distinguish them from dead hedges; but in a
more limited sense of the word, it is restricted to those plant¬
ed with the hawthorn, under which name the young plants
or sets are sold by the nursery-gardeners, who raise them
for sale.
QUICKLIME, a general name for all calcareous sub¬
stances when deprived of their fixed air; such as chalk,
limestone, and oyster-shells, calcined.
QUICKSILVER, or Mercury, one of the metals, and
so fusible that it cannot be reduced to a solid state but at
a degree of cold equal to forty below zero of Fahrenheit’s
thermometer. See Chemistry.
QUICK-MATCH, amongst artillerymen, a kind of com¬
bustible preparation, formed of three cotton strands, drawn
into length, and dipped in a boiling composition of white-
wine vinegar, saltpetre, and mealed powder. After this
immersion it is taken out hot, and laid in a trough, where
some mealed powder, moistened with spirits of wine, is
thoroughly incorporated into the twists of the cotton, by
rolling it about therein. Thus prepared, they are taken out
separately, and drawn through mealed powder; then hung
upon a line and dried, after which they are fit for immediate
service.
QUID pro Quo, in Law, denotes the giving one thing
of value for another ; or the mutual consideration and per¬
formance of both parties to a contract.
Quid pro Quo, or Qui pro Quo, is also used in physic to
express a mistake in the physician’s bill, where quid is writ¬
ten for quo, that is, one thing for another; or of the apothe¬
cary in reading quid for quo, and giving the patient the
wr0ng medicine. Hence the term is in general extended
to all blunders or mistakes committed in medicine, either
in the prescription, the preparation, or the application ot
remedies. , .
QUIDDITY, Quidditas, a barbarous term, used in the
schools for essence. The name is derived from this, that it
is by the essence of a thing that it is a tale quid, such a
quid, or thing, and not another. Hence what is essential to
a thing is said to be quiddative.
QUIETISTS, a religious sect, famous towards the close
of the seventeenth century. They were so called from a
kind of absolute rest and inaction which they supposed the
Secta fuit servare modum, finemque tueri
Naturamque sequi, patriseque impendere vitam,
Nec sibi sed toti genitum se credere mundo.
They acted from an honest zeal for the truth, and not from
fashion, eccentric tastes, or the love of singularity; their
sole object was to enlighten and improve mankind; and to
them, amongst political inquirers, belongs the rare praise of
having first pointed out the natural order of things, or the
observed course of nature in the conduct of the world, as
the example and guide of human policy.” (c. c.)
QUESNE, Marquis du Quesne, admiral of the naval
forces of France, and one of the greatest men of the seven¬
teenth century, was born in Normandy in the year 1610.
He contributed to the defeat of the naval power of Spain at
Gattari; he was dangerously wounded before Barcelona in
1642, and on other occasions; and having entered into the
service of the Swedes, he became vice-admiral, and entirely
defeated the Danes, killing their admiral, and taking his
ship. Fie was recalled into France in 1647, and command¬
ed the squadron sent to Naples. The naval affairs of France
being much decayed, he fitted out divers ships for tlie re¬
lief of the royal army that blockaded Bordeaux, which was
the principal cause of the surrender of the town. He was
very fortunate in the wars of Sicily, where he defeated the
Dutch thrice, and De Ruyter was killed. He also obliged
the Algerines to sue in a very humble manner for peace
from France. In short, Asia, Africa, and Europe, felt the
effects of his valour. He was a Protestant; yet the king
bestowed on him the land of Bouchet, and, to immortalize
his memory, gave it the name of that great man. He died
in 1688.
QUESTOR, or Qujestor, in Roman antiquity, an offi¬
cer who had the management of the public treasure. 1 he
questorship was the first office which any person could hold
in the commonwealth, and have a right to sit in the senate.
At first there were only two ; but afterwards two more wei e
created to take care of the payment of the armies abioa ,
and to sell the plunder, for which purpose they geneial y
accompanied the consuls in their expeditions. On this ac¬
count the latter were called peregrini, as the former were
called urbani. The number of questors was afterwards
greatly increased. They had the keeping of the decrees
of the senate ; and hence came the two offices ot quecs or
principis, or augusti, sometimes called candidatusprincipis,
whose office resembled in most respects that of our secie
taries of state, and the qucestor palatii, answering m a grea
measure to our lord-chancellor.
QUEUE, in Heraldry, signifies the tail of a beast. I bus,
if a lion be borne with a forked tail, he is blazone t ouo.e
qUQUEVEDO de Villegas, FRANdsco, a celebrated
Spanish poet, born at Madrid in the year Id/ • .e ^
scended from a noble family, and was made a 'nlg 1
James ; but he was thrown into prison by order of
Olivarez, whose administration he satirized in ns ve ,
was not set at liberty until after that minister 59 „
Quevedo wrote some heroic, lyric, and facetious P° ' .
also composed several treatises on religious su j *
translated some authors into Spanish. He die
792
Q U I
Q U I
(luietists. soul to be in when arrived at that state of perfection they
called the unitive life; in which state they imagined the
soul wholly employed in contemplating its God, to whose
influence it was entirely submissive, so that he could turn
and drive it whither and how he would. In this state, the
soul no longer needs prayers, hymns, and the like, being
laid, as it were, in the bosom and between the arms of its
God, in whom it is in a manner swallowed up.
Molinos, a Spanish priest, is the reputed author of Quiet¬
ism, though the Illuminati in Spain had certainly taught
something like it before. The sentiments of Molinos were
contained in a book which he published at Rome in the
year 1681, under the title of the Spiritual Guide. For this
he was cast into prison in 1685; but he afterwards publicly
renounced the errors of which he was accused. This so¬
lemn recantation, however, proved unavailing, inasmuch as
it was followed by a sentence of perpetual imprisonment,
and he died in prison in the year 1696. Molinos had nu¬
merous disciples in Italy, Spain, France, and the Nether¬
lands. One of the principal patrons and propagators of
Quietism in France was Marie Bouvieres de la Mothe Guy-
on, a woman of fashion, remarkable for goodness of heart
and regularity of manners, but of an unsettled temper, and
subject to be drawn away by the seduction of a warm and
unbridled fancy. She derived all ideas of religion from the
feelings of her own heart, and described its nature to others
as she felt it herself. Accordingly her religious sentiments
made a great noise in the year 1687; and, after accurate
investigation, they were declared unsound by several men
of eminent piety and learning, and professedly confuted in
the year 1697, by the celebrated Bossuet. Hence arose a
controversy of greater moment between the prelate last
mentioned, and Fenelon, archbishop of Cambray, who seem¬
ed disposed to favour the system of Madame Guyon, and who,
in 1697, published a book containing several of her tenets.
Fenelon’s book was, by means of Bossuet, condemned in
the year 1699, by Innocent XII.; and the sentence of con¬
demnation was read by Fenelon himself at Cambray, where
he exhorted the people to respect and obey the papal de¬
cree.
A sect similar to this had appeared at Mount Athos in Thes¬
saly, near the end of the fourteenth century ; it was called
Hesychasts, meaning the same with Quietists. They were
a branch of the mystics, or those more perfect monks w'ho,
by long and intense contemplation, endeavoured to arrive
at a tranquillity of mind free from every degree of tumult
and perturbation. In conformity to an ancient opinion of
their principal doctors, who thought there was a celestial
light concealed in the deepest retirements of the mind, they
used to sit every day, during a certain space of time, in a
solitary corner, with their eyes eagerly and immoveably
fixed upon the middle regions of the belly, or navel; and
boasted, that whilst they remained in this posture, they
found, in effect, a divine light beaming forth from their
soul, which diffused through their hearts inexpressible sen¬
sations of pleasure and delight. To such as inquired what
kind of light this was, they replied, by way of illustration,
that it was the glory of God, the same celestial radiance
that surrounded Christ during his transfiguration on the
Mount. Barlaam, a monk of Calabria, from whom the Bar-
laamites derived their denomination, styled the monks who
adhered to this institution Massalians and Euchites; and
he gave them also the new name of Umbilicani, Gregory
Palamas, archbishop of fhessalonica, defended their cause
against Barlaam, who was condemned in a council held at
Constantinople in the year 1341.
The Mahommedans seem to be no strangers to Quietism.
They expound a passage in the seventeenth chapter of the
Koran, “ O thou soul which art at rest, return unto the
Lord,” of a soul which, having, by pursuing the concatena¬
tion of natural causes, raised itself to the knowledge of that
being which produced them and exists of necessity, rests Quillet
fully contented, and acquiesces in the knowledge of Him, II
and in the contemplation of his perfection. ^ *U1 oa'
QUILLET, Claude, an eminent Latin poet of the seven¬
teenth century, wras born at Chinon, in Touraine, and prac¬
tised physic there with reputation ; but having declared
against the pretended possession of the nuns of Loudun, in
a manuscript treatise, the original of w hich was deposited
in the library of the Sorbonne, he was obliged to retire into
Italy, where he became secretary to the Marshal d’Estrees,
the French ambassador at Rome. In 1655, Quillet having
published in Holland a Latin poem, entitled Callipcedia,
under the name of Galvidius Lcetus, he there inserted
some verses against the Cardinal Mazarin and his family;
but that cardinal making him some gentle reproaches, he re¬
trenched what related to the cardinal in another edition, and
dedicated it to him, Mazarin having, before it was printed,
given him an abbey. He died in 1661, aged fifty-nine,
after having given Menage all his writings, and five hun¬
dred crowns to pay the expense of printing them; but the
Abbe took the money and papers, and published none of
them. His Callipcedia has been translated into English
verse.
QUILLOTA, a province of the republic of Chili, in
South America, about twenty-five leagues in length from
north to south, and nearly twenty-one leagues in breadth
from east to west. It is rich in metallic ores, and also very
productive in an agricultural point of view. All kinds of
grain and vines are here cultivated, and the hemp and honey
of the province are much esteemed. The capital, St Mar¬
tin de la Coucha, or Quillota, is built upon a fertile valley
on the banks of the Acoucagua, one of the rivers which de¬
scend from the western declivities of the Andes, and flow
into the ocean. It contains abotit 8000 inhabitants, and is
situated about one hundred miles north-w est from Santiago.
The population of the whole province is estimated at be¬
tween forty and fifty thousand.
QUILOA is the name of a kingdom of Eastern Africa,
situated to the north of Mozambique. The island of Quiloa,
which appears to constitute the principal part of the so¬
vereignty, lies opposite a peninsula formed by two great
rivers, the most important of which is called Coavo. This
situation confers on it the accommodation of three safe and
spacious ports. It is accessible at all times, and forms the
mart for the trade of slaves of the whole coast of Zangue-
bar ; but the king is compelled to yield half of the profits to
the powerful schiek of the island of Zanzibar, who appoints
a vizier to look after his rights. Indeed the negro monarch
enjoys little more than a nominal sovereignty ; for the vice¬
roy of Zanzibar, generally a Moor, keeps him in a state of
tutelage, and rules supremely in his name. The continent
produces a species of teak-w ood, as durable as that from Su¬
rat, of the greatest beauty, and w7ell adapted for ship-build¬
ing. The sugar-cane, cotton-tree, and indigo, are indige¬
nous to the soil. The gigantic baobab, the tamarind, the
cedar, the tree which yields gum-copal, and the coffee-plant
of Madagascar, are also found here. Game, and herds of
every species of wild animal, particularly the wild ox, as
well as river and sea-fish, are abundant. Lions, panthers,
elephants, and other formidable tenants of the forest or the
desert, often visit the banks of the two rivers for the pur¬
pose of quenching their thirst. These banks are ornament¬
ed by large trees, interspersed with villages subject to the
authority of the king of Quiloa. Fruits and vegetables are
scarce, and millet forms the principal food of the natives.
The women cultivate millet and potatoes from custom and
necessity ; and some also make mats and coarse stuffs for
their own use. Hunting or fishing forms the chief employ¬
ment of the male part of the population. The chief town
of the island, which bears the same name, was the capital
of Eastern Africa, when first visited by the Portuguese in
Q U I
Q"71Kr '!,e bte»™'"S nf. llle sixteenth century. They succeeded
Quin. ^ establishing themselves, but were at last driven out by
 v-—7 the Imam Muscat. There are but few traces of its an-
-tsplendour and power now remaining. Long. 39. 47. E.
QUIMPER, an arrondissement of the department of Fi-
msterre, in b ranee. It is six hundred and forty-one square
miles m extent, is composed of nine cantons, divided into
sixty-five communes, and contains 82,800 inhabitants. The
capital is the city of the same name. It is on the acclivity
of a hill, about ten miles from the sea, at the junction of the
rivers Odet and Benaud. fhe harbour is accessible for
vessels of two hundred tons burden, and in the road of Be-
naudet the largest ship can ride in security. It is the see
of a bishop, and contains a cathedral, four other churches,
1010 houses, with 6750 inhabitants, who carry on a con¬
siderable coasting tiade and some fisheries. Near this place
an attempt was made to land a body of royalists under
Puysaye during the revolution, but it totally failed, and the
greater part of them were executed. This was the birth¬
place of the celebrated Hardouin. Long. 4.12. 30. W. Lat
47. 58. 24. N.
QUIMPERLE, an arrondissement of the department of
Finisterre, in France, extending over three hundred and six¬
teen square miles. It is divided into five cantons and twen¬
ty communes, and contains 37,200 inhabitants. The capi¬
tal is the city of the same name. It stands in a rich valley,
where the rivers Isolle and Elle unite their waters, and form
a small and shallow harbour. It is an ill-built place, and
much scattered, but contains 800 houses and 5800 inha¬
bitants. Long. 3. 39. W. Lat. 47. 51. 53. N.
QUIN, James, a celebrated performer on the English
stage, was born at London in 1693. He was intended for
the bar ; but preferring Shakspeare to the statutes at large,
he, on the death of his father, when it became necessary for
him to do something for himself, appeared on the stage at
Drury Lane. In 1720 he first displayed his comic powers
in the character of FalstafF, and soon afterwards appeared
to as great advantage in Sir John Brute; but it was upon
Booth’s quitting the stage that Quin showed to most advan¬
tage, in the part of Cato. He continued a favourite per¬
former until the year 1748, when, on some disgust between
him and Mr Rich the manager, he retired to Bath, and only
came up annually to act for the benefit of his friend Ryan,
until the loss of two front teeth spoiled his utterance for
the stage. Whilst Mr Quin continued upon the stage, he
constantly kept company with the greatest geniuses of the
age. He was well known to Pope and Swift; and the Earl
of Chesterfield frequently invited him to his table; but
there was none for whom he entertained a higher esteem
than for the poet Thomson, the author of the Seasons, to
whom he made himself known by an act of generosity that
does the greatest honour to his character. Mr Quin’s
judgment in the English language recommended him to
Frederick prince of Wales, who appointed him to instruct
his children in speaking and reading with a graceful pro¬
priety ; and Quin being informed of the elegant manner in
which his majesty delivered his first speech from the throne,
he cried out in a kind of ecstasy, “ Ay, I taught the boy to
speak.” Nor did his majesty forget his old tutor ; for, soon
after his accession to the throne, he gave orders, without
any application being made to him, that a pension should
be paid to Mr Quin during his life. Mr Quin, indeed, was
« not in absolute need of this royal benefaction; for, as he
was never married, and had none but distant relations, he
sunk L.2000, which was half his fortune, in an annuity, for
which he obtained L.200 a year, and, with about L.2000
more in the funds, lived in a decent manner during the lat¬
ter part of his life at Bath, whence he carried on a regular
correspondence with Mr Garrick, and generally paid a \ isit
to his friends in the metropolis once a year, when he con-
vol.. xvtn.
Q U I
793
stantly passed a week or two at Mr Garrick’s villa at Hamp- Quinarius
ton. He died of a fever in 1766. ||
QUINARIUS was a small Roman coin, equal to half the Quin4ue-
denanus, and consequently worth about threepence three. remis~ ,
farthings of our money. It was called quinarius, because^
it contained the value of five asses, in the same manner as
the denarius was named from its containing ten.
QUINAU F, Philip, a celebrated French poet, born of
a good family, at Paris, in 1635. He cultivated poetry from
his infancy, and sixteen dramatic pieces of his were acted
between the years 1653 and 1666. In the mean time, Qui-
naut was not so much devoted to poetry but that he ap¬
plied himself to the study of the law, and made his fortune
by marrying the widow of a rich merchant to whom he had
been useful in his profession. Quinaut afterwards turned
his attention to the composing of operas, which were set to
music by Lully, who was charmed with a poet whose verses
weie not too nervous to yield to the capricious airs of music.
He died in 1688, after having for many years enjoyed a
handsome pension from Louis XIV.; and he was extremely
penitent in his last illness for all these of his compositions
which tended to inspire love and pleasure.
QUINCUNX, in Roman antiquity, any thing that con¬
sists of five twelfths of another, but particularly of the as.
Quincunx. Order, in Gardenimg, is a plantation of trees,
disposed originally in a square consisting of five trees, one
at each corner, and a fifth in the middle; which disposition,
repeated again and again, forms a regular grove, wood, or
wilderness.
QUINDECAGON, in Geometry, a plain figure with fif¬
teen sides and fifteen angles.
QUINDECEMVIRI, in Roman antiquity, a college of
fourteen magistrates, whose business it was to preside over
the sacrifices. They were also the interpreters of the Sy¬
bil’s books, which, however, they never consulted except by
an express order of the senate.
QUIN HONE, an excellent harbour in Cochin-China,
where vessels are sheltered from every wind. The entrance
is narrow, and it is only at high w ater that vessels of great
burden can enter. Lat. 13. 52. N.
QUINQUAGENARIUS, in Roman antiquity, an offi¬
cer who had the command of fifty men.
QUINQUAGESIM A Sunday, Shrove Sunday, so call¬
ed as being about the fiftieth day after Easter.
QUINQUATRIA, or Quinquatrus, was a festival ce¬
lebrated at Rome in honour of Minerva, and which began
on the I8th of March, or, as others will have it, on the 19th,
and lasted five days. On the first day they offered sacri¬
fices and oblations without the effusion of blood; the se¬
cond, third, and fourth, were spent in shows of gladiators ;
and on the fifth day they went in procession through the
city. Scholars had a vacation during the solemnity, and
at this time presented their masters with a gift or fee, called
Minerval. Boys and girls used to pray to the goddess Mi¬
nerva for wisdom and learning, of which she had the patron¬
age. Plays were acted, and disputations held, at this feast,
on subjects of polite literature. The quinquatria were so
called, because they lasted for five days. There seems to
be a strong resemblance between this festival and the pa-
nathenaea of the Greeks.
QUINQUENNALIS, in Roman antiquity, a magistrate
in the colonies and municipal cities of that empire, who had
much the same office as the aedile at Rome.
QUINQUEREMIS, in the naval architecture of the an¬
cients, is a name given to a galley which had five rows of
oars. They in general divided their vessels into monocrota
and polycrota. " The former had only one tier of rowers;
the latter had several tiers of them, from two or three, up
to twenty, thirty, or even forty; for in the time of Philo-
pater we have an account of such a vessel, which required
no less than four thousand men to row it.
5 H
794
Q U I
Q U I
Quinqtie-
viri
- u
Quintilian.
M.eibomiiis lias diminished the imaginary improbability
of there ever having been such a vessel, by reducing the
enormous height supposed to be necessary for such a num¬
ber of rows of oars, and men to work them, and finding a
better way of placing the men than others had thought of.
The quinqueremes of the ancients had 420 men in each,
300 of whom were rowers, and the rest soldiers. The Ro¬
man fleet at Messina consisted of 330 of these ships ; and
the Carthaginian, at Lilyboeum, of 350 of the same size.
Each vessel was 150 feet in length. Thus, 130,000 men
were contained in the one, and 150,000 in the other, with
the apparatus and provisions necessary for such expeditions
as they were intended for. This gives so grand an idea of
the ancient naval armaments, that some have questioned
the truth of the statement; but we find it related by Po¬
lybius, an historian too authentic to be questioned, and who
expresses his wonder at the circumstance whilst he re¬
lates it.
QUINCIUEVIRI, in Roman antiquity, an order of five
priests, peculiarly appointed for the sacrifices to the dead,
or celebrating the rites of Ei’ebus.
QUINTESSENCE, in Chemistry, a preparation consist¬
ing of the essential oil of some vegetable substance, mixed
and incorporated with spirit of wine.
Quintessence, in Alchemy, is a mysterious term, signi¬
fying the fifth or last and highest essence of power in a
natural body. Or, when divested of its alchemical signifi¬
cation, and employed to express something that is intelli¬
gible, the word denotes merely the highest state of purifi¬
cation in which any body can be exhibited.
QUINTAL, the weight of 100 lbs. in most countries,
but in England it is the cwt. or 112 lbs. Quintal was for¬
merly used for a weight of lead, iron, or other common me¬
tal, usually equal to 100 lbs. at six scores to the hundred.
QUINTETTO (English, Quintet), in music, a composi¬
tion for five voices, or for five instruments, each of which
is obbligato. The remarks that have been made upon the
construction of the quartette apply generally to that of the
quintette. Amongst the finest instrumental quintettes are
those of Boccherini, Mozart, Beethoven, and Onslow. The
best that have been composed for wind-instruments only,
are A. Reicha’s for flute, oboe, clarinet, horn, and bassoon.
QUINTILE, in Astronomy, an aspect of the planets
when they are seventy-two degrees distant from one ano-
tlier, or a fifth part of a zodiac.
QUINTILIAN (Marcus Fabius Quintilianus), a ce¬
lebrated rhetorician and critic, wdio flourished in the first
century of the Christian era. His life, written by an un¬
known author, is prefixed to several editions of his works.
From it we learn that he was born at Rome, though under
what consuls, or in what reign, is unknowm; and that no
credit is due to the tradition which makes him a native of
Calagurris or Calahorra, in Spain, since he is not amongst
the number of the Iberians whom Martial has celebrated.
In fact, that poet names him apart from any others, and, in
the homage which he pays, clearly intimates that he was a
Roman.
Quintiliane vagae moderator summe juventae,
Gloria Itomanae, Quintiliane, toga;.
Quintilian calls himself the son of an advocate, and informs
us besides that, in his youth, he was acquainted with Domi-
tius Afer and Seneca, who both perished under Nero. Se¬
neca speaks of Quintilian, a deelaimer, the grandfather of
him who so long taught rhetoric at Rome. Domitian in¬
trusted the instruction of his grand-nephews to Quintilian ;
and another pupil of his, C. Caelius, became the best orator
of the time. Having married a lady of a noble family, Quin¬
tilian had the grief to lose her, as well as one of the sons
she had brought him; an affliction which he experienced
soon after he had composed his book on the causes of the
corruption of eloquence. He then wrote his books of rhe- Quintilian,
toric, but whilst engaged in the composition of the work, he
lost his other son. His daughter, whom he had by a second
wife, married Novius Celer, a man of distinction. The
anonymous author concludes by stating that he does not
know in what year Quintilian died.
According to the calculations of Dodwell, he must have
been born in the year 42 of our era, and must have died
under Hadrian, some time between the years 117 and 138.
Those who hold him to have been a Spaniard, say that he
was brought to Rome by Galba; and the same thing is stated
in the chronicle of Eusebius. But Quintilian himself as¬
sures us that at Rome he was acquainted with Domitius
Afer; and the death of this orator took place in the year
55 of our era. Dodwell, therefore, conjectures that in 61
Quintilian followed Galba into Spain, where he taught rhe¬
toric pleaded causes, and in the year 68 returned to Rome
with the same emperor. From this time until the year 88 he
gave lessons in rhetoric, a public provision having been at¬
tached to this function by Galba, according to Dodwell; by
Domitian, according to the chronicle of Eusebius; by Vespa-
sian, according to Suetonius. At the same time, Quintilian
shone at the bar, where his pleadings attracted so much
notice that they were written out and sold. He enjoyed
an honourable degree of credit, and, according to Juvenal,
a considerable fortune; which, however, accords but in¬
differently with the present that he received from Pliny
the younger, as a portion to his daughter. It is possible,
indeed, that Pliny, in mentioning this fact, may be speaking
of a different Quintilian ; but it may be observed, that no
other rhetorician of the name is known at the time here re¬
ferred to. Dodwell supposes that the author of the Insti-
tutiones Oratorice was consul in the year 117, and others that
he held this dignity either before or after this date. Some
words of Ausonius and Juvenal have led to this conclusion,
but neither of these writers has expressly mentioned the
fact.
If it be difficult, however, to ascertain the details of his
. life, it is easy enough to recognise the eminent merit of his
wTork, forming, as it does, the most complete coui*se of
rhetoric wdiich the ancients have left us. Of this work Gi-
bert and Laharpe have both given very ample analyses.
The first book treats of the education of the orator; the
second, of the art of oratory in general; the following, of
invention, arrangement, elocution, memory, and action;
the twelfth and last, of the manners and character of the
orator, or rather of the advocate. The author loves to de¬
scend to details of all sorts, sometimes even to those relat¬
ing to grammar ; and, besides, he intermingles with his pre¬
cepts so many observations, and, above all, so many facts,
that his work is indispensable for acquiring a competent
knowledge of the literary history of antiquity. The gravest
fault which has yet been detected in the work, consists in the
praises lavished upon Domitian; a deformity which, in the
eyes of Bayle, Dodwell, and even Gibert, is alike disgust¬
ing and inexcusable. In a literary point of view, it may be
observed that Quintilian, in citing and cbntradicting the
rhetoricians who have preceded him, particularly Aristotle,
does not always seize the true import of their words, and
consequently ascribes to them doctrines they never main¬
tained, and precepts they never inculcated. In other re¬
spects, if his work be long, it is also full; and all the ob¬
scurity we find in it is reduced to some details of which all
trace was effaced soon after his time, and which he does not
explain sufficiently for us, because they were familiar to his
Roman readers. The enumeration which he has made of
more than a hundred figures is of more importance than
is commonly supposed to the theory of language and of
thought. Nevertheless, Rollin took the trouble of abridg¬
ing this rhetoric, in order to render it more accessible and
more useful to youth, and retrenched nearly a fourth of the
Q U I
Quintilian, original work; but, in our opinion, it would be much better
to leave classical books as they are, especially when they in¬
spire only pure tastes and virtuous sentiments.
In point of style, the work of Quintilian has no preten¬
sions to equal or be compared with the treatises of Cicero on
the art of oratory ; but it is nevertheless written with much
sagacity and elegance. Severe censors have thought that
the preface of the sixth book savours of declamation. The
author therein deplores the loss of his second son, w’hich he
had just sustained, and retraces the recollections of another
son, and of a young wife, whom death had also removed.
But, to say the truth, the expression of his grief is not so
simple or so natural as could be wished; and, in the con¬
cluding part, we perceive almost as much of the rhetorician
as of the father. This preface, however, is read with inte¬
rest, and has no resemblance to the Declamations, of which
a long and useless collection has been published under the
name of Quintilian. They are distinguished into great and
small ; the former, nineteen in number, and the latter, a
hundred and forty-five, being all that remain of three hun¬
dred and eighty-eight. Philelphus, Vives, and especially
Erasmus, have shown that the nineteen great declamations
could not have proceeded from the pen of Quintilian.
In fact, there are manuscripts which assign them to M. Flo-
rus ; and a text of Trebellius Pollio would authorize the be¬
lief that they were the work of Postumus the younger, one of
the thirty tyrants: “ Postumus...ita in declamationibus
disertus, ut ejus controversiae Quintiliano dicantur insertse.”
Notwithstanding the authority of several manuscripts, and
that of Lactantius, Ennodius, and Vincent de Beauvais, we
cannot discover in them a trace of Quintilian. The differ¬
ence is too sensible, even in the diction; he never could
have written dilectio, discretio, impcenitens, lenocinamentum,
and other expressions belonging to a class which he must
have strongly condemned. As to the hundred and forty-
five smaller declamations, if they were really his, they might
have been extracts from his pleadings, collected by the
tachygraphers. Perhaps they belonged to his father or his
grandfather, or some other person of the same name ; per¬
haps they were the productions of different authors and
different ages, which the inequalities observed in them
seem almost to indicate. But the circumstance which has
most puzzled the learned, is the distinction of these pieces
into two kinds ; the coloratee, and the iractatce. May not
this second qualification have been applied to those the
subjects of which had really been treated, and the first to
such as invested imaginary themes with all the colours of
rhetorical embellishment ? or, if another supposition be ad¬
missible, may not the tractates have been the simple expo¬
sitions of causes, whilst the coloralcc were such as admitted
of embellishment ?
A production, however, which would do much more ho¬
nour to Quintilian, were he really the author of it, is the dia¬
logue De Cansis corruptee Eloguentiee. fie had certainly
composed a treatise bearing this title; for, in the preface
to the sixth book of his Institutions, he expressly mentions
the fact; but on referring to the same treatise at the end o
the eighth, he says that he has there spoken more at aige
of tropes, and particularly of hyperbole, which is not in ac¬
cordance with the dialogue, the interlocutors in whici are
Aper, Maternus, Julius Secundus, and Vipsamus Mes-
sala. Pierre Pithou, Colomies, Dodwell, and many other
learned men, have preferred ascribing it to Tacitus , anc one
of the grounds on which this opinion rests is the cliarac-
ter of the political observations scattered throng ou is
little work. Besides, in several manuscripts, 1 acitus is dis¬
tinctly pointed out as its author. But it may not e ‘^pro
'duction either of the one or of the other. It has sometimes
been ascribed to Suetonius, who, in his ascertained writings,
has not the same force of thought and expression, ^ ’
Fitzosborne’s Letters, a very strong case has been made out
Q U I
795
in favour of Pliny the younger, although the latter has pro- Quinti-
duced nothing under his own name which can be compared bans,
with this admirable dialogue. The treatise which Quintilian ''"’’"v—
had composed on the causes of the corruption of eloquence,
is not the only one of his productions which has perished.
We have also lost his elementary rhetoric, in two books;
and there remains no other authentic work of his but the
Institutions, which had themselves nearly disappeared. This
treatise existed in the middle ages, when it was known to
and cited by Cassiodorus, Isidore of Seville, Loup de Fer-
riere, and Vincent de Beauvais. The manuscript which
Petrarch consulted appears to have been in several re¬
spects defective; but that which, in 1419, Poggio disco¬
vered in the Abbey of Saint Gall, restored Quintilian to the
light of day. Amongst the eminent services which Poggio
rendered to letters, the discovery in question is not one of
the least important. It is beyond a doubt, however, that
the literati of the fifteenth century possessed at least de¬
fective copies of Quintilian ; in proof of which we may
refer to that letter of Leonardo Aretino, where he speaks
with so much emphasis of the new apparition of this classic,
at the same time declaring that he had long read and ad¬
mired the half of the Institutiones Oratories. These two
manuscripts of Saint Gall and Leonardo Aretino were the
sources of all those since made, as well as of the copies
printed.
The first two editions of the Institutions of Quintilian ap¬
peared at Rome in 1470, the one printed by Udalricus Cal¬
lus, the other by Sweynheym and Pannartz, and both in
folio. The fifteenth century produced ten others ; and
amongst the great number of the sixteenth may be distin¬
guished, at Venice, those of the Alduses, 1514, in 4to, and
at Paris, those of Vacosan, 1538, in folio; of Simon de
Colines, 1541, in 4to; of Robert Etienne, 1542, in 4to;
and of Mamert Patisson, 1580, in 8vo. This last was re¬
vised by Pierre Pithou, who added to it various readings,
notes, and the hundred and forty-five small Declamations,
of which there had yet appeared only a hundred and thirty-
six. Schrevelius, and after him J. Frederic Gronovius,
took charge of the edition which appeared at Leyden and
Rotterdam, *1665, in 8vo, cum notis variorum. Here all
the Declamations are joined to the Institutions, as in that
of Strasbourg, which appeared in 1698, in 4to. In 1715,
Rollin published his Quintilian abridged, Paris, apud the
Etiennes, in two vols. 12mo. In the edition of 1720, which
appeared at Leyden, in two vols. 4to, Peter Burmann pro¬
fited by the labours of his predecessors on this author, in¬
cluding the Annales Quintilianei of Dodwell. Capronnier
published at Paris, 1725, an edition in folio, with a selec¬
tion of notes, and some critical observations, which offend¬
ed Burmann, who replied, with all the intemperance of an
enraged grammarian. But the edition of Mathias Ges-
ner, Gottingen, 1738, in 4to, is more esteemed than either
of the two preceding. Then followed that of Barbou, 1 /69,
in 12mo ; that of Deux-Ponts, 1784, in four vols. 4to; and
that of Leipzig, 1719-1815, in four vols. 8vo, under the
care of G. L. Spalding. The Institutions have been trans¬
lated into the principal modern languages of Europe ; into
French, first by the Abbe de Pure, and second by Gedoyn ;
into Italian by Orazio Toscanella; into English, first by
Guthrie, and next by Pastal; into German by Henke ; in¬
to Spanish by two professors of the Charitable Schools
in Madrid; and into Danish by Schlegel. Of the dialogue
De Causis corruptee Eloquentiee there are also several
translations, all of them French. The principal notices to
be consulted respecting the life and works of Quintilian are,
the Annales Quintilianei of Dodwell; Bayle’s Dictionary ;
Fabricius, Bibliotheca Latina ; Gibert, Jugements des ba-
vants sur les Rheteurs ; and the Lycee of Laharpe. (a.)
QUINTILIANS, asect of ancient heretics, who were so
called from their prophetess Quintilia. In this sect the women
796
Q U I
Q U I
Quintin
II
Quito.
were admitted to perform the sacerdotal and episcopal func¬
tions. They attributed extraordinary gifts to Eve for hav¬
ing first eaten of the tree of knowledge; and told great
things of Mary the sister of Moses, as having been a pro¬
phetess ; adding, that Philip the deacon had four daughters,
who were all prophetesses, and were of their sect. In these
assemblies it was usual to see the virgins entering in white
robes, and personating prophetesses.
QUIN TIN Matsys, called also the Farrier of Antwerp,
famous for being transformed, by the force of love, from a
blacksmith to a painter. He had followed the trade of a
blacksmith and farrier for nearly twenty years ; when, falling
in love with a painter’s daughter who was very handsome,
and disliked nothing but his trade, he quitted it, and be¬
took himself to painting, in which he made very great pro¬
gress. He was a diligent and careful imitator of ordinary
life, and succeeded better in representing the defects than
the beauties of nature. Some historical performances of
this master deserve commendation, particularly a Descent
from the Cross, in the cathedral at Antwerp; but his best
known picture is that of the two Misers in the gallery at
Windsor. He died in the year 1529.
QUINTUS Calaber, a Greek poet, who wnote a large
supplement to Homer’s Iliad, in fourteen books, in which
a relation is given of the Trojan w ar from the death of Hec¬
tor to the destruction of Troy. It is conjectured, from his
style and manner, that he lived in the fifth century. No¬
thing certain can be collected either concerning his person
or country. His poem was first made known by Cardinal
Bessarlon, who discovered it in St Nicholas’s Church, near
Otranto, in Calabria; and hence the author was named
Quintus Calaber. It was first published at Venice by Al¬
dus, but it is not stated in what year.
QUIIUA, a province of Immeritia, in Asia, which stretch¬
es along the shores of the Black Sea. It appears, from the
ruins which are everywhere seen, to have been once a flou¬
rishing province.
QU IMNALIA, in Antiquity, a feast celebrated amongst
the Romans in honour of Romulus.
QUI RITES, in Roman antiquity. In consequence of
the agreement entered into by Romulus, and *Tatius king
ot the Sabines, Rome was to retain its name, and the people
were to be called Quirites, from Cures, the principal town
ol the Sabines. Dionysius of Halicarnassus says that each
particular citizen was to be called Komanus, and the col¬
lective body Quirites; yet it appears by the ancient form
of words used at funerals, Ollus Quiris letho datus est, that
each private citizen was also called Quiris. The origin of
the word Quiriles has been much sought for ; and the
most probable account antiquity gives us of it is, that the
word Quir, or Quiris, signified in the Sabine language
a dart and a warlike deity armed with a dart. It is un¬
certain whether the god gave name to the dart, or the dart
to the god.
QUIRK, in a general sense, denotes a subtile or artful
distinction.
Quirk, in building, is a piece of ground taken out of any
ground-plot or floor.
QUI f O, or Equator, one of the three republics of South
America which formerly constituted Colombia.1 Its territory
chiefly comprehends the ancient Spanish viceroyalty of Quito,
extending from 2° of north to 6° of south latitude, and from
'16° 30' to 80° 40' ot west longitude. Its limits, however,
in the direction of Brazil have not been definitely fixed, so
that it may extend to the east considerably beyond 76° 30'.
On the south it borders upon Peru and Brazil; the latter
country forms its eastern boundary; on the north its limits
are New Granada; and the whole of its territory on the west Quito,
is washed by the Pacific Ocean. Quito is intersected by -v'—
both chains of the Andes, and consequently presents great
diversity of surface and of climate. These parallel moun¬
tain ranges, by uniting at Loxa, at Asuay, at Chisinche,
and at Los Pastes, constitute what have been called moun¬
tain knots ; and again opening up, they form the table-lands
of Cuenca, Hambato, and Quito. The circles of snow-
covered mountains by which they are surrounded have a
few passes opening to the west coast, or to the low plains
on the east; but they are so rugged and wild as to be
scarcely practicable. These elevated valleys, although im¬
mediately under the equator, yet, on account of their great
height, enjoy a climate in the highest degree mild, and a
temperature which seldom varies. They are extremely
fruitful, and would be the most charming places in the
world, were it not for the destructive earthquakes and vol¬
canic eruptions which are not unfrequently experienced.
There are in Quito sixteen volcanoes, which, although they
discharge no lava, often throw up immense quantities of
ashes, water, sludge, and fragments of rocks, along with
columns of smoke and flame; and these eruptions are al¬
ways accompanied by undulations of the earth. From the
line to 1° 41' of south latitude, stretching from-north to south
in the eastern portion of the valley of Quito, are Cato-
cache, 15,402 feet; Cayambe Urcu, 18,330 feet; Anti-
sana, 17,958 feet; Sinchulahua, 15,420 feet; and Coto¬
paxi, 17,712 feet above the level of the sea. In the west *
of the same valley are situated Pinchincha, 15,036 feet;
Corazon, 14,820 feet; and Yliniza, 16,302 feet in height.
In the second group, under 1° of south latitude, lying in a
direction from north to south, are the volcanoes of Cargui-
razo, 14,700 feet, and Chimborazo, 20,158 feet, above the
level of the Pacific. The latter mountain is usually covered
with snow and ice, 4800 feet below the summit. In the vici¬
nity of these, and about 16,000 feet in height, are the vol¬
canoes of Tunguragua, Capac Urcu, and Sangai. But the
most formidable of them all is Cotopaxi, the rocks thrown
up by which would of themselves form a mountain chain
of no inconsiderable size. Its eruptions have been nume¬
rous and destructive. In the year 1738 it projected upwards
a column of fire nearly three thousand feet in height. In
1744 the subterranean sounds which it gave forth were
heard at a distance of six hundred miles. One of the most
frightful earthquakes which ever took place in this region,
unhappily too celebrated for such visitations, was that of
1797, in which a tract of country one hundred and thirty
miles in length by one hundred miles in breadth moved in
undulatory billows like a stormy sea; many towns and vil¬
lages were overthrown, and forty thousand human beings
perished in a moment.
The mountain chain of the Andes throws out a number
of lateral ridges to the east, the country gradually subsid¬
ing into a vast plain extending along both sides of the
Marahon, covered with majestic forests, and watered by in¬
numerable streams. A number of rivers descend the western
declivities of the Andes, and flow into the Pacific Ocean ;
others join the large streams of Cauca and Magdalena on
the north ; and the most important class consists of those
that are tributaries of the Rio Negro and Marahon, which
last river forms the boundary of the republic on the south.
A portion of the territory of Quito on the east and north¬
east is watered by the Orinoco. Into this river fall the Ata-
bapo and Guaviare, which at the same time form the line of
separation between Cundinamarca and this republic. The
Putumayo, Napo, Tigre, Pastaza, Marona, and Rio St Jago,
which are large streams, besides many others of inferior note,
1 In the year 1831, the republic then called Colombia separated into three independent states, the names of which are New Gra¬
nada, \ enezuela, and the Equator or Quito. The limits of each state have not been accurately settled, but an arrangement as to
the amount of the national debt which was to fall to the share of each was completed at Bogota on the 23d of December 1834.
Q U I
Quito, all of which flow from the north-west to the south-east, fall
into the Amazons, and irrigate the flat eastern territory of
Quito. The Andes of Quito also contain lakes of no in¬
considerable dimensions, amongst which may be mentioned
those of San Pablo and Cuicocha. In the level land on the
east, many of the streams form lagunes during part of their
course.
Many of the ravines, quebradas, and valleys of Quito
have a very warm atmosphere; indeed, in some parts the
heat is so oppressive as to render them uninhabitable. Other
valleys which are more elevated are remarkably healthy,
extremely productive, and delightful as places of residence.
The valley of Quito is allowed to be the finest table-land
in all America. It is enclosed, as Ave have said, between the
two parallel ranges of the loftiest Andes, having an average
breadth of thirty miles, but extending longitudinally much
farther. In soil and climate it possesses every advantage.
The climate is remarkably equable and agreeable; the in¬
dication of winter being the fall of rain, and the absence of
rain marking the summer. The temperature is so benign
that vegetation never ceases, the country all around the
city of Quito exhibiting the beauty of perpetual spring.
Hence it has been called siempre verde Quito, and also
eterna prim aver a, both which epithets it may be said to
deserve; for its native trees are all evergreens, and the
fields on the slopes of the mountains never lose their ver¬
dure. The European sees with astonishment the plough
and the sickle at once in equal activity; the green blade
of grain and the yellow ear waving in the same breeze ;
one flower drooping, and its companion just beginning to
“ dedicate its beauty to the sun.” In short, here the sea¬
sons of spring, summer, and autumn all go on at once, and
the tints and varied beauties peculiar to each blend to¬
gether in the same landscape. Mr Stevenson draws a
glowing picture of these delightful valleys. T hey are, he
says, “ principally under cultivation, and bless the hus¬
bandman with a continued succession of crops ; for the un¬
interrupted sameness of the climate in any spot is such as
to preclude the plant as well as the fruit from being damaged
by sudden changes in the temperature of the atmosphere,
changes which are in other countries so detrimental to tne
health of the vegetable world. T he fertility of some of
these valleys exceeds all credibility, and the veracity of die
description would be doubted, did not the knowledge of
their localities, and the universal descriptions of the equa¬
bility and benignity of these climates, insure the prooaoi-
lity. One of these, called Pomasqui, is about five leagues
from Quito, where sugar-cane arrives at a state of matunty
in three years, and where many of the intertropical fruits
attain the greatest perfection. This luxury is enhanced
by the proximity of other situations possessing ail tiie va¬
riety of climates known in the world. In the comse o
three hours a person may experience the iigioity o ie
poles, the oppressive heat of the equator, and all the inter¬
mediate temperatures.” ,
An enumeration of all the different vegetable produc¬
tions of this remarkable region is rendered unnecessary y
the general view here given. It is sufficient to s a ‘ ‘
grain, pulse, fruits, esculents, and horticu tura veg
are produced in the greatest abundance, and of an excellent
quality, as well as all kinds of butcher-meat ^d poidtiy
The breeding of cattle and sheep, especiahy the latt ,
extensively carried on in the high valleys. "xc^
ber, fitted for ship or house building, and for ^>11
of the cabinet-maker, abounds in many districts oi the cou
try. The soil is for the most part so productive of every^
thing which usually occupies the attention o
man and farmer, that butter, cheese, wax, nmks,
Peruvian bark, cacao, cotton, tobacco, t m0_
staples, form important exports. Sugai, v\ ,
lasses, rum, and other spirits, are also amongst |
Q U I
797
Gold and silver are comprised in the metallic riches of the Quito.
mountain territory. Some manufactures are carried on in  
different places.
According to the new constitution, this republic consists
of the following provinces, viz. Quito, Chimborazo, Imbabura,
Guayaquil, Monabi, Cuenca, Loja del Archipelago, and Ga-
lopagos or Turtle Island.
Quito, the capital of the republic, is one of the finest and
largest cities in the New World. It was founded in the year
1534, by Sebastian Benalcasar, with the dedicatory title of
San Francisco, and in 1541 was created a city by Charles V.
It stands in a ravine, at an elevation of more than 9000 feet
above the level of the sea, in longitude 78° 45' 17" west
from Greenwich, and in latitude 0° 13' 17" south. The
mountain of Pinchincha lies on its west side, and on the east
there is a range of hills called Chimbacalle. To the south
is the plain of Turupampa or^Turubamba, and to the north
the plain of Anaquito, generally called Egido. The streets,
which run north and south, stand on a pretty level plain,
and are broad, handsome, and well paved ; but those which
cross them and climb the skirts of Pinchincha, descending
on the east side of the city towards the small river of Ma-
changara, are crooked and irregular. Quito has two uni¬
versities, and it has always enjoyed celebrity for the great
number of students by whom they are attended. There
are a number of other seminaries of education in this city ;
indeed it is considered as comparatively a sort of American
Athens. It is the seat of the congress, the president, and
the highest offices of state, and enjoys a very extensive
trade in cotton, silk, leather, gold, and silver. The com¬
merce of Quito may be conveniently divided into two kinds,
that of home and that of foreign manufactures. The for¬
mer consists of cotton and woollen cloths, baizes, sugars,
flannels, pouches, and other minor articles. The stock of
foreign goods is composed of all kinds of European manu¬
factures, including those of iron, steel, and some other raw
materials. The articles most in demand are English broad
cloths, kerseymeres, coloured broad flannels, calicoes, &c.;
all kinds of hardware and cutlery, and foreign silk velvets,
satins, as well as English ribbons and silks. The popula¬
tion amounts to about seventy-five thousand souls, and has
been divided into three classes of nearly equal numbers;
the whites, mestizos, and Indians. Here there are very
few negroes, or descendants of that race, the Indians being
generally engaged in domestic service.
Some remarkable monuments of the former sway of the
Incas are found scattered at intervals in these delightful
valleys. The ruins near Cayambe may be pronounced
superb. Those of the palace of Callo present one of the
most perfect examples of the ancient architecture of the
Peruvians, which throughout the vast extent of the empire ’
are marked by the most striking similarity. It forms a
square, each side of which is one hundred feet in length.
Four gates and eight interior apartments may be distinctly
traced. The gates resemble those of the Egyptian temples ;
and the niches, of which there are eighteen in each division,
are distributed in a very symmetrical manner. The remains
of spacious porphyry palaces are found also at Autun, ( a-
narjl and some other places. The ruins of fortified places,
called pucuras, still exist, and some of them are of consi¬
derable extent. u , r ^
The province of Chimborazo, so called from the majes¬
tic mountain which overlooks its valleys, is distinguished
for its breed of mules. Barley, potatoes, and maize are
cultivated by the Indians in various parts, and some sugar-
cane in the bottoms of the ravines. Riobamba, the capi¬
tal of the province, was completely destroyed by the earth-
uake of 1797; and, with very few exceptions, the whole
population, amounting to about twenty thousand, were bu¬
ried under the ruins, or engulphed in the earth. Some idea
of the terrible nature of the convulsion in this quarter may
798
Q U I
QUO
Quito.
be gathered from the fact, that part of the ruins situated
on the acclivities on each side of the valley where the new
town now stands are pointed out as having once formed
portions of one edifice, although now separated from each
other a league and a half. The new town is built upon a
sandy plain, much below the level of the surrounding ele¬
vated plains called paranios. Its climate is very agreeable,
and adapted for producing all kinds of European fruits.
Sheep-farming is extensively carried on, about four thou¬
sand quintals of sheep’s wool being produced annually, and
manufactured into different kinds of cloth. At Tescan, in
the neighbourhood, there is a large sulphur-work; and
here are seen part of those remains of hewn stones which
run along the mountains almost to Cuzco, at a height of
13,800 feet above the level of the sea. This is called the
road of the Incas, and, no doubt, was the means of commu¬
nication between the two capitals in the regal days of the
“ Children of the Sun.” Riobamba contains a population
of 15,000 ; Ambato or Hambato, situated between Coto¬
paxi and Carguirazo, in a very fine region, contains 3000
inhabitants, who trade extensively in cochineal. This place
also suffered severely in 1797. The other places in this
province are, Alausi, situated in an elevated valley of the
same name ; Guano, which has a considerable trade with
Popayan ; Guarando, a depot for the trade between Quito
and Guayaquil; and Pallactanga, where there are rich gold
and silver mines.
The province of Imbabura contains many fine and fruit¬
ful valleys, in which there are extensive plantations of su¬
gar-cane, from which the best sugar in the republic is ma¬
nufactured. The wheat grown in this district is likewise
of the finest quality. The capital, called Ibarra, is situat¬
ed eighteen leagues to the northward of Quito. It is ex¬
ceedingly well built, having fine streets and a spacious mar¬
ket-place ; and it contains 12,000 inhabitants, who are em¬
ployed to some extent in the weaving of cotton and wool¬
lens, and the manufacture of stockings and ponchos. To
the south-west of Ibarra is the town of Otavalo, contain¬
ing 20,000 inhabitants. Large quantities of cattle are
bred in the neighbourhood, and cotton and woollens are
manufactured here in the same manner as at Ibarra. Es-
meraldas is situated near the mouth of a river of the same
name, and is one of the few ports of the republic. The
surrounding country is extremely fruitful; the sugar-cane
grows to above ten feet in height, and the yam root some¬
times weighs twenty pounds. Tacames is likewise a haven
on the Pacific Ocean. But the great port of Quito is Guay¬
aquil.
The remaining provinces may be briefly described. Loxa
affords the finest cinchona, and was long supposed to be the
only spot which produced in perfection that precious me¬
dicament. The town of Loxa is well built, and contains some
fine churches, several well-organized seminaries of educa¬
tion, and a population of 10,000. The capital of Cuenca,
called St Anna de Cuenca, is the seat of a bishop, and pos¬
sesses a university, several schools and fine churches, with
20,000 inhabitants. The other towns in this quarter worihy
of being mentioned are Azogues, where there are quick¬
silver mines ; Zaruma, celebrated for its gold, silver, and
lead mines ; Beza, once populous, but now decayed to a
mere village ; and some other places, once of note, but now Quit-rent
deserted wastes. The Gallopagos or Turtle Islands, stretch- H
ing from 3° of south to 2° of north latitude, are celebrat-, ^uot^ien ^
ed for an uncommon species of land-turtle which they pro¬
duce, weighing from fifty to three hundred pounds. The
largest island is called Albemarle, and may be about sixty
miles in length. It contains a good harbour. The whole
group is said to be of volcanic origin.
The value of the trade of this republic will be seen from
the following statement. In the year 1835 there entered
inwards at the port of Guayaquil 123 vessels, of 21,430
tons burden in all, and with cargoes valued at L.221,680.
The same number cleared outwards, and the value of their
cargoes was L.210,429. The imports consist chiefly of
British manufactures, flour, wine, and other necessaries;
the exports, of cocoa, timber, and the other products of
the country. The number of inhabitants is estimated at
550,000, including 300,000 Indians who dwell in the moun¬
tains ; but some American accounts fix the population at
only 481,966. With regard to the income and expendi¬
ture, little correct information is to be obtained. The for¬
mer has been reckoned at 800,000 piastres, and the latter
at about as much; but by the most recent intelligence the
minister of finance estimates the outlay as low as 171,086
piastres. By the treaty regarding the national debt, already
mentioned, the share which fell to Quito was 21^ per cent.,
or L.1,464,795 sterling.
On the first of May 1835, the congress of the nation,
consisting of forty-five members, agreed to draw up a plan
of a constitution for the country ; but it does not appear that
they have yet (1839) agreed about the details, (a. r. r.)
QUIT-rent (quietus redditus, or quiet-rent) is a certain
small rent payable by the tenants of manors, in token of
subjection, and by which the tenant goes quiet and free.
In ancient records it is called white rent, because paid in sil¬
ver money, to distinguish it from corn-rent, or rent in kind.
QUOIN, or Coin, on board a ship, a wedge fastened on
the deck close to the breech of the carriage of a gun, to
keep it firm up to the ship’s side. Cantic quoins are short,
three-legged quoins put between casks to keep them steady.
Quoins, in Architecture, denote the corners of brick or
stone walls. The word is particularly used for the stones
in the corners of brick buildings. When these stand out
beyond the brick-work, their edges being chamfred off, they
are called rustic quoins.
QUOTIDIAN, anything which happens every day.
QUORUM, a word frequently mentioned in our statutes,
and in commissions of justices of the peace and others. It
is so called from the words of the commission, quorum A
B unum esse volumus. Where a commission is directed to
seven persons, or to any three of them, whereof A B and
C D are to be two, in this case they are said to be of the
quorum, because the rest cannot proceed without them.
QUOTIENT, in Arithmetic, the number resulting from
the division of a greater number by a smaller, and which
shows how often the smaller is contained in the greater, or
how' often the divisor is contained in the dividend. The
word is formed from the Latin quoties, which is as much as
to say or ask, how often is such a number contained in such
another. See Arithmetic.
END OF VOLUME EIGHTEENTH.
Printed by Thomas Allan & Co. and Balfour & Jack,
and Stereotyped by Thomas Allan & Co.
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