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# The Times/1924/Obituary/Charles Edward Sayle

Charles Edward Sayle (1864-1924) Source: The Times, Saturday, Jul 05, 1924; Issue 43696; pg. 16; col B — Obituary. Mr. C. E. Sayle.
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Obituary Mr. C. E. Sayle
Cambridge is mourning the loss of Mr. Charles Edward Sayle, additional under-librarian of the University library, who died at Cambridge yesterday morning. His death has followed quickly on that of Mr. H. T. Francis, the honorary under-librarian.
Born in 1864, and educated at Rugby, he matriculated in 1883 at New College, Oxford, where he took honours in moderations and Lit.Hum. After a short period in London he returned to his father's town of Cambridge and was for a time engaged on cataloguing work in the libraries of St. John's College and the Union Society. He was incorporated M.A. in 1891, and joined St. John's College. Two years later he entered the library and was appointed assistant librarian in 1910.
His life was devoted to the library and to bibliography, and he was a fine example of the type of man who likes to catalogue things in the right order. He edited the "Annals" of the library, and his chief works for it were a "Catalogue of Early English Printed Books," four vols., 1900-7; a "Catalogue of the Bradshaw Collection of Irish Books," three vols., 1916; and he was engaged on a revised catalogue of the MSS. at the time of his death. He also made a catalogue of early printed books in the McClean Bequest to the Fitzwilliam Museum; and edited the works of Sir Thomas Browne. He was a finished and accurate scholar, and no pains were too great for him to take in pursuit of his work. He was also one of the most helpful people among the very helpful staff of the library; he always seemed to have time to spare any inquirer, and his wide knowledge enabled him to find a quotation or verify a reference in the shortest possible time.
Sayle took a great delight in artistic subjects, especially music, and was an ardent supporter of the Cambridge University Musical Society and Musical Club. He wrote on music, and fostered the taste in others at small musical parties in his charming little house in Trumpington-street. He had a natural gift for winning the affection of young men, especially the more intellectual and artistic among them, and his Sunday evenings were a feature in the life of many a Cambridge student. Sayle was very fond of flowers—especially white flowers—and he sedulously cultivated his garden, hidden away behind his house in Trumpington-street. He once remarked to a friend that he should like to pass away during May Week, with the May Week throng of people around him. He almost had his wish. Never very robust, he had a certain delicacy of mind and constitution. But his heart was in Cambridge, and few members of the University had as great a knowledge of its intimate history, apart from the official, as he had.
This work was published in 1924 and is anonymous or pseudonymous due to unknown authorship. It is in the public domain in the United States as well as countries and areas where the copyright terms of anonymous or pseudonymous works are 99 years or less since publication.
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# The Times/1924/Obituary/Charles Welch

Charles Welch (1848-1924) Source: Obituary. The Times Thursday, Jan 17, 1924; Issue 43551; pg. 14; col D — Mr. Charles Welch
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Mr. Charles Welch
The City of London heard with much regret of the death on Monday of Mr. Charles Welch, F.S.A., who for many years was the Librarian of the Guildhall. He was in his 76th year, and has been in retirement since 1906.
The son of a physician at Hackney, Mr. Welch was born on July 21, 1848, and was sent to the City of London School under Dr. Mortimer. On leaving school joined at once the then small staff in the Guildhall Library, which consisted of a librarian and two assistants. During his service of more than 40 years he helped the library to develop into the largest in London, next to the British Museum. In the last year of the old library the attendances numbered just over 14,000, but in the first year of the new library, which was built in 1872, they were over 170,000. Mr. Welch compiled the original book catalogue, and later on laid down the plan of the present excellent card index. This index was one result of the International Conference of Librarians held at the London Institution in 1877, and it has since been adopted as a model by many public libraries in the kingdom.
On the history and antiquities of the City Mr. Welch became an authority second only to the late Dr. R. R. Sharpe. He wrote lives of civic worthies in the "Dictionary of National Biography," and contributed to the Victoria County Histories. With the late Canon Benham he wrote "Medieval London"; he edited the register of freeman in the time of Henry VIII., the old churchwardens' accounts of Allhallows', London-wall, and a facsimile of Ogilby and Morgan's map of London, 1677, and published a book on their coat armour. He wrote the history of the Cutlers' Company, of which he was a past Master, and with which his family had been connected since 1617, of the Paviors' Company, of which he as a member of the Court, and of the Pewterers' Company; he was also a liveryman of the Clockmakers' and Gardeners' Companies. His "Modern History of the City of London, which justifies its title, is of great value to the student. He also wrote books on London Bridge and on London coins. He was actively associated with the London and Middlesex Archæological Society, the Society of Antiquaries, the Hakluyt Society, the Bibliographical Society, and the Library Association. Mr. Welch fond of vocal music, especially choir and part singing, and he was at one time a licensed lay reader of the diocese of London. He leaves a widow, four sons, one of whom is assistant librarian at the Guildhall, and six daughters.
This work was published in 1924 and is anonymous or pseudonymous due to unknown authorship. It is in the public domain in the United States as well as countries and areas where the copyright terms of anonymous or pseudonymous works are 99 years or less since publication.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Times/1924/Obituary/Gerald Patrick Moriarty

Gerald Patrick Moriarty (1861-1924) Source: Obituary. The Times, Monday, Jun 23, 1924; Issue 43685; pg. 14; col D — Mr. G. P. Moriarty.
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Mr. G. P. Moriarty
Mr. Gerald Patrick Moriarty died on Saturday at his residence, 1, Mill-lane, Cambridge, after a brief illness. For the past 27 years Mr. Moriarty has been a member of Pembroke College, but he was educated at Balliol College, Oxford, and was Arnold Essayist in 1886. His chief work at Cambridge was as Director of Indian Civil Services to the Associated Colleges, and he was held in great esteem by the many I.C.S. students who have been associated with him during the past quarter of a century.
This work was published in 1924 and is anonymous or pseudonymous due to unknown authorship. It is in the public domain in the United States as well as countries and areas where the copyright terms of anonymous or pseudonymous works are 99 years or less since publication.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Times/1924/News/Gerald Patrick Moriarty

Gerald Patrick Moriarty (1861-1924) Source: Wills and Bequests The Times, Thursday, Aug 07, 1924; Issue 43724; pg. 15; col D
Layout 2Mr. Gerald Patrick Moriarty, of Mill-lane, Cambridge, and of Pembroke College, Cambridge, Lecturer on Indian History in the University of Cambridge, and Director of Indian Civil Service Studies, who died on June 21, left estate of the gross value of £1,982, with net personalty £1,655. He left :— All his official reports, examination papers, correspondence, and memoranda in connexion with his work as Lecturer on Indian History in the University of Cambridge, and Director of Civil Service Studies, to the Secretary of the Board of Indian Civil Service Studies; £50, all his books, maps, MSS, and typescripts to Sydney Castle Roberts, of Pembroke College, Cambridge; and to his landlady, Miss Penelope Davis, £50 and all his household and personal effects at Mill-lane, Cambridge, with the exception of photographs of friends and relatives.
This work is ineligible for copyright and therefore in the public domain, because it consists entirely of information that is common property and contains no original authorship.
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# The Times/1924/Obituary/Annie Matheson

Source: The Times (London, England), Monday, Mar 17, 1924; pg. 14; Issue 43602. — Miss Annie Matheson.
Miss Annie Matheson
Miss Annie Matheson, who died in London yesterday, after a short illness, had been known for many years as a writer in verse and prose. She inherited from her father, the Rev. James Matheson, of Nottingham, an enthusiasm for beauty in life and in literature. Though her work belongs to a period when the technique of such writing was less rigorously considered perhaps than it is now, the graceful idealism of her thoughts gives it areal value. She published various books of verse, chief among them being "Love Triumphant and Other Poems." Some of her children's hymns are in constant use. Lately she devoted herself to editing a series of biographies of great or heroic men and women for schools, the "Rose ad Dragon" series, some of which she wrote herself.
Miss Matheson's work, and especially her writings for young people, reflected the fine ardour of her mind, a detachment from materialism, and a childlike confidence of spirit. These qualities, together with a certain charming waywardness of which she herself was usually the first to see the humorous results, won her many friends, by whom she is held in a lasting and tender regard.
This work was published in 1924 and is anonymous or pseudonymous due to unknown authorship. It is in the public domain in the United States as well as countries and areas where the copyright terms of anonymous or pseudonymous works are 99 years or less since publication.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Times/1924/News/Death of James Francis Hogan

Source: The Times (London, England), Thursday, Nov 13, 1924; pg. 16; Issue 43808. — Mr. J. F. Hogan.
Mr. J. F. Hogan
An inquest was held at St. Pancras yesterday on the body of Mr. James Francis Hogan, 69, a former Irish Nationalist M.P., of Doughty-street, Bedford-row. The evidence was to the effect that Mr. Hogan, who was rather eccentric, had persistently refused to see a doctor. On Monday he was found dead in bed. Dr. Fairlie, police surgeon, stated that life had been extinct 24 hours. Death was due to a syncope from pneumonia and cancer.
Sir Walter Schroder recorded a verdict in accordance with the medical evidence.
Mr. Hogan, who represented Mid-Tipperary from 1893 to 1900, spent his childhood and youth near Melbourne, whither his parents had emigrated. At the age of 18 he entered the Education Department of Victoria, and was afterwards on the staff of the Melbourne Argus. In 1887 he settled in London as an author and journalist. He utilized his knowledge of Australia, both in Parliament and in various books, such as history of the Irish in Australia and he also wrote a life of Lord Sherbrooke (Robert Lowe). Mr. Hogan was unmarried.
This work was published in 1924 and is anonymous or pseudonymous due to unknown authorship. It is in the public domain in the United States as well as countries and areas where the copyright terms of anonymous or pseudonymous works are 99 years or less since publication.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Times/1924

Content exists for this periodical, though at this stage it is not specifically organised beyond a basic hierarchy.
The pages listed below are an automatically generated listing.
Special:PrefixIndex/The Times/1924/
# The Story of Mary MacLane/January 29

AS I read over now and then what I have written of my Portrayal I have alternate periods of hope and despair. At times I think I am succeeding admirably—and again, what I have written compared to what I have felt seems vapid and tame. Who has not felt the futility of words when one would express feelings?
I take this hope and despair as another mark of genius. Genius, apart from natural sensitiveness, is prone equally to unreasoning joy and to bitterest morbidness.
I am more than fond of writing, though I have hours when I can not write any more than I could paint a picture, or play Wagner as it should be played.
I think my style of writing has a wonderful intensity in it, and it is admirably suited to the creature it por​trays. What sort of Portrayal of myself would I produce if I wrote with the long, elaborate periods of Henry James, or with the pleasant, ladylike phrasing of Howells? It would be rather like a little tin phonograph trolling out flowery poetry at breakneck speed, or like a deep-toned church organ pouring forth "Goo-Goo Eyes" with ponderous feeling.
When I read a book I study it carefully to find whether the author knows things, and whether I could, with the same subject, write a better one myself.
The latter question I usually decide in the affirmative.
The highest thing one can do in literature is to succeed in saying that thing which one meant to say. There is nothing better than that—to make the world see your thoughts as you see them. Eugene Field and Edgar Allan Poe and Robert Louis Stevenson and Charles Dickens, among others, have succeeded in doing this. They impress ​the world with a sense of their courage and realness.
There are people who have written books which did not impress the world in this way, but which nevertheless came out of the feeling and fullness of zealous hearts. Always I think of that pathetic, artless little old-fashioned thing, "Jane Eyre," as a picture shown to a world seeing with distorted vision. Charlotte Bronté meant one thing when she wrote the book, and the world after a time suddenly understood a quite different thing, and heaped praise and applause upon her therefor. When I read the book I was not quite able to see just what the message was that the Bronté intended to send out. But I saw that there was a message—of bravery, perhaps, or of that good which may come out of Nazareth. But the world that praised and applauded and gave her money seems totally to have missed it.
It takes centuries of tears and piety ​and mourning to move this world a tiny bit.
But still it will give you praise and applause and money if you will prostitute your sensibilities and emotions for the gratification of it.
I have no message to hide in a book and send out. I am writing a Portrayal.
But a Portrayal is also a thing that may be misunderstood.
# The Story of Mary MacLane/March 12

EVERYTHING is so dreary—so dreary.
I feel as if I would like to die to-day. I should not be the tiniest bit less unhappy afterward—but this life is unutterably weary. I am not strong. I can not bear things. I do not want to bear things. I do not long for strength. I want to be happy.
When I was very little, it was cold and dreary also, but I was certain it would be different when I should grow and be ten years old. It must be very nice to be ten, I thought,—and one would not be nearly so lonesome. But when the years passed and I was ten it was just exactly as lonesome. And when I was ten everything was very hard to understand.
But it will surely be different when I am seventeen, I said. I will know so much when I am seventeen. But when ​I was seventeen it was even more lonely, and everything was still harder to understand.
And again I said—faintly—everything will become clearer in a few years more, and I will wonder to think how stupid I have always been. But now the few years more have gone and here I am in loneliness that is more hopeless and harder to bear than when I was very little. Still, I wonder indeed to think how stupid I have been—and now I am not so stupid. I do not tell myself that it will be different when I am five-and-twenty.
For I know that it will not be different.
I know that it will be the same dreariness, the same Nothingness, the same loneliness.
It is very, very lonely.
It is hope deferred and maketh the heart sick.
It is more than I can bear.
Why—why was I ever born!
I can not live, and I can not die—for ​what is there after I am dead? I can see myself wandering in dark and lonely places.
Yet I feel as if I would like to die to-day.
# The Story of Mary MacLane/March 13

IF IT were pain alone that one must bear, one could bear it. One could lose one's sense of everything but pain.
But it is pain with other things. It is the sense of pain with the sense of beauty and the sense of the anemone. And there is that mysterious pain.
Who knows the name of that mysterious pain?
It is these mingled senses that torture me.
# The Story of Mary MacLane/March 10

MY GENIUS is an element by itself, and it is not a thing that I can tell in so many words. But it makes itself felt in every point of my life. This book would be a very different thing if I were not a genius—though I am not a literary genius. Often people who come in contact with me and hear me utter a few commonplace remarks feel at once that I am extraordinary.
I am extraordinary.
I have tried longingly, passionately, to think that even this sand and barrenness is mine. But I can not. I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that it, like all good things, is beyond me. It has something that I also have. In that is our bond of sympathy.
But the sand and barrenness itself is not mine.
Always I think there is but one pic​ture in the world more perfect in its art than the picture of me in my sand and barrenness. It is the picture of the Christ crucified with two thieves. Nothing could be more divinely appropriate. The art in it is ravishingly perfect. It is one of the few perfect pictures set before the world for all time. As I see it before my mind I can think only of its utter perfectness. I can summon no feeling of grief at the deed. The deed and the art are perfect. Its perfectness ravishes my senses.
And within me I feel that the picture of me in my sand and barrenness—knowing that even the sand and barrenness is not mine—is only second to it.
# The Story of Mary MacLane/L'Envoi

L'Envoi:
AND so there you have my Portrayal. It is the record of three months of Nothingness. Those three months are very like the three months that preceded them, to be sure, and the three that followed them—and like all the months that have come and gone with me, since time was. There is never anything different; nothing ever happens.
Now I will send my Portrayal into the wise wide world. It may stop short at the publisher; or it may fall still-born from the press; or it may go farther, indeed, and be its own undoing.
That's as may be.
I will send it.
What else is there for me, if not this book?
​And, oh, that some one may understand it!
—I am not good. I am not virtuous. I am not sympathetic. I am not generous. I am merely and above all a creature of intense passionate feeling. I feel—everything. It is my genius. It burns me like fire.—
My Portrayal in its analysis and egotism and bitterness will surely be of interest to some. Whether to that one alone who may understand it; or to some who have themselves been left alone; or to those three whom I, on three dreary days, asked for bread, and who each gave me a stone—and whom I do not forgive (for that is the bitterest thing of all): it may be to all of these.
But none of them, nor any one, can know the feeling made of relief and pain and despair that comes over me at the thought of sending all this to the wise wide world. It is bits of my wooden heart broken off and given away. It is strings of amber beads ​taken from the fair neck of my soul. It is shining little gold coins from out of my mind's red leather purse. It is my little old life-tragedy.
It means everything to me.
Do you see?—it means everything to me.
It will amuse you. It will arouse your interest. It will stir your curiosity. Some sorts of persons will find it ridiculous. It will puzzle you.
But am I to suppose that it will also awaken compassion in cool, indifferent hearts? And will the sand and barrenness look so unspeakably gray and dreary to coldly critical eyes as to mine? And shall my bitter little story fall easily and comfortably upon undisturbed ears, and linger for an hour, and be forgotten?
Will the wise wide world itself give me in my outstretched hand a stone?
The end
# The Story of Mary MacLane/March 14

I HAVE been placed in this world with eyes to see and ears to hear, and I ask for Life. Is it to be wondered at? Is it so strange? Should I be content merely to see and to hear? There are other things for other people. Is it atrocious that I should ask for some other things also?
Is thy servant a dog?
# The Swiss Family Robinson - 1851/List of Chapters

* Preface
* Introduction
* Chapter I.
* Chapter II.
* Chapter III.
* Chapter IV.
* Chapter V.
* Chapter VI.
* Chapter VII.
* Chapter VIII.
* Chapter IX.
* Chapter X.
* Chapter XI.
* Chapter XII.
* Chapter XIII.
* Chapter XIV.
* Chapter XV.
* Chapter XVI.
* Chapter XVII.
* Chapter XVIII.
* Chapter XIX.
* Chapter XX.
* Chapter XXI.
* Chapter XXII.
* Chapter XXIII.
* Chapter XXIV.
* Chapter XXV.
* Chapter XXVI.
* Chapter XXVII.
* Chapter XXVIII.
* Chapter XXIX.
* Chapter XXX.
* Chapter XXXI.
* Chapter XXXII.
* Chapter XXIII.
* Chapter XXXIV.
* Chapter XXXV.
* Chapter XXXVI.
* Chapter XXXVII.
* Chapter XXXVIII.
* Chapter XXXIX.
* Chapter XL.
* Chapter XLI.
* Chapter XLII.
* Chapter XLIII.
* Chapter XLIV.
* Chapter XLV.
* Chapter XLVI.
* Chapter XLVII.
* Chapter XLVIII.
* Chapter XLIX.
* Chapter L.
* Chapter LI.
* Chapter LII.
* Chapter LIII.
* Chapter LIV.
* Chapter LV.
* Chapter LVI.
* Chapter LVII.
* Conclusion
# The Swiss Family Robinson - 1851/Introduction

INTRODUCTION.
It is very well known that, some years ago, Counsellor Horner, a Swiss, made a voyage round the world in the Russian vessel Le Podesda, commanded by Capt. Krusenstern. They discovered many islands, and, amongst others, one very large and fertile, till then unknown to navigators, to the S.W. of Java, near the coast of New Guinea. They landed here, and to the great surprise of Mr. Horner, he was received by a family who spoke to him in German. They were a father and mother, and four robust and hardy sons.
Their history was very interesting. The father was a Swiss clergyman, who, in the Revolution of 1798, had lost all his fortune, and had determined to emigrate, in order to seek elsewhere the means of supporting his family. He went first to England, with his wife and children, consisting of four sons, between the ages of twelve and five. He there undertook the office of missionary to Otaheite; not that he intended to remain on that uncivilized island, but he wished to proceed from thence to Port Jackson as a free colonist. He invested his ​little capital in seeds of every description, and some cattle, to take out with him. They had a prosperous voyage till they were near the coast of New Guinea, when they were overtaken by a frightful storm. At this period he commenced his journal, which he afterwards committed to the care of Mr. Horner, to be forwarded to his friends in Switzerland.
Some time before, a boat from an English vessel, the Adventurer, had visited them, and the father had sent the first part of his journal by Lieut. Bell to the captain, who remained in the vessel. A violent tempest arose, which continued some days, and drove the Adventurer from the coast. The family concluded the ship was lost; but this was not the case, as will be seen in the conclusion.