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# The Times/1894/Obituary/Wyatt Papworth

* related portals: Obituaries.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item.
Source: Obituary. The Times, Tuesday, Aug 21, 1894; Issue 34348; pg. 3; col G
Layout 2Mr. Wyatt Papworth, F.R.I.B.A., curator of Sir John Soane's Museum. died at the museum on Sunday last. Mr. Papworth was distinguished for his literary work in connexion with architecture, especially in his contributions to the Transactions of the Royal Institute of British Architects, among which those "On the Superintendents of English Buildings in the Middle Ages, with especial reference to William of Wykeham," and "Collections for an Historical Account of Masons, their Customs, Institutions, &c.," are of historical importance. He was also a constant contributor to Notes and Queries. To his labours the architectural profession is indebted for the production of "The Dictionary of Architecture" (Architectural Publication Society), recently completed in eight volumes folio, begun in 1852 on the lines of notes and collections of himself and his late brother Mr. J. W. Papworth, and, until its completion in 1892, carried out under his sole editorship. Mr. Papworth, as a member of the Court and Master and Past Master of the Clothworker's Company, took a leading part in the promotion of technical education and in the City and Guilds Institute.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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# The Times/1895/News/Court Circular - Medico-Psychological Association

Conolly Norman (1853–1908) Source: The Times, Saturday, Jul 27, 1895; pg. 9; Issue 34640; col G — Court Circular
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Court Circular
... The annual dinner of the Medico-Psychological Association was held last night in the Whitehall Room of the Hôtel Métropole, the president, Dr. Nicolson, superintendent of Broadmoor Asylum, in the chair. Amongst those present were the Speaker of the House of Commons, Sir John Bridge, Major Macbean, Mr. Kenelm Digby, Dr. Paul, Dr. Conolly Norman (ex-president), Dr. Hayes Newington (treasurer), and Dr. Fletcher Beach (secretary). The Speaker proposed the principal toast, which the president acknowledged.
This work was published in 1895 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 128 years or less since publication.
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# The Times/1894/Public notice/Robert Michael Ballantyne

Source: The Times, Tuesday, Feb 13, 1894; Issue 34186; pg. 1 — Deaths
Layout 2 BALLANTYNE.—On the 8th inst. suddenly, at Rome, Robert Michael Ballantyne. Author.
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/1894/Public notice/Wyatt Papworth

Source: Deaths. The Times, Tuesday, Aug 21, 1894; Issue 34348; pg. 1; col A
Layout 2WYATT-PAPWORTH.—On the 19th inst., at No. 13, Lincoln's Inn-fields, Wyatt-Papworth, F.R.I.B.A., Curator of St John Soane's Museum, aged 72. No flowers. Funeral at Highgate Cemetery, on Thursday next, at 12.30.
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/1895

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# The Times/1894/Obituary/Robert Michael Ballantyne

* related portals: Obituaries.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, quotes, Wikidata item.
Source: The Times, Saturday, Feb 10, 1894; Issue 34184; pg. 5
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Obituary
Mr. Robert M. Ballantyne, the prolific and excellent writer of tales for boys, whose death we announced yesterday, was connected with the well-known family of the Ballantynes, Sir Walter Scott's printers. He was born in Edinburgh in 1825. When a lad of 16 he went out to Canada, and spent six years there in service of the Hudson Bay Company. Having returned to Scotland in 1847, he published in the following year his first book, entitled "Hudson Bay, or Everyday Life in the Wilds of North America." In this he embodied the substance of his letters to his mother and of his journals written on the spot. He spent some time in the printing office of Messrs. Constable in Edinburgh, but he did not take kindly to the desk after his free and roving life in the West. At the same time his literary proclivities were asserting themselves strongly, and about the year 1856 he gave up business and adopted literature as his profession. Then began that series of adventure tales written about and for boys and girls which have brightened the loves of several generations of young folks, and which seemed ever fresh and never-failing in interest. "The Coral Island," "The World of Ice," "The Young Fur Traders," "Ungava," "The Dog Crusoe," and many more followed one another in quick succession. Every Christmas I saw at least one new story from his busy pen. For the material of several of his earlier stories he reverted to his Canadian experiences. He made it a rule, indeed, to write always, when he could, from his own experiences. Before he wrote "The Lighthouse" he lived for some time with the keepers on the Bell Rock. He prepared for "Deep Down" by a visit to the Cornish mines, for the "The Pirate City" by a winter in Algiers, and so in other cases. This method of preparation gave a realistic character to his work and a graphic force to his descriptions. There was a great deal of human nature in his creations, and all his books are pervaded by a sound and healthy tone which loses nothing from the vein of humour that runs through most of them. Down to 1887 Mr. Ballantyne had written 74 volumes containing 62 separate stories. He was also a clever artist, and often exhibited water-colours in the Royal Scottish Academy, for many years past he had resided at Harrow. A short time ago he fell into bad health, the result of overwork, and he had gone to Italy in search of relief and rest. He died in Rome.
This work was published in 1894 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 129 years or less since publication.
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# The Times/1895/Letter to the Editor/Cyprian Thomas Rust

The Times, Tuesday, Mar 19, 1895; Issue 34528; pg. 10; col B
Layout 2 Mr. Alfred Warren writes to us from the Vicarage, Soham, Cambridgeshire:—"In the obituary notices on the 15th inst. it is stated that the Rev. C. T. Rust married the daughter of Samuel Warren, Q.C. This is an error. Mrs. Rust was the daughter of John Willing Warren. He was a barrister and one of the first Commissioners of Charities, but not a Q.C. As a brother of the late Mrs. Rust, may I ask you to insert an erratum to that effect?"
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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# The Troubadour; Catalogue of Pictures, and Historical Sketches/The Combat

THE COMBAT.
BY ETTY.
They fled,—for there was for the brave Left only a dishonour'd grave. The day was lost; and his red hand Was now upon a broken brand, The foes were in his native town, The gates were forced, the walls were down, The burning city lit the sky,— What had he then to do but fly;
Fly to the mountain-rock, where yet Revenge might strike, or peace forget!
 They fled,—for she was by his side, Life's last and loveliest link, his bride,— Friends, fame, hope, freedom, all were gone, Or linger'd only with that one. They hasten'd by the lonely way That through the winding forest lay, Hearth, home, tower, temple, blazed behind, And shout and shriek came on the wind; And twice the warrior turn'd again And cursed the arm that now in vain, Wounded and faint, essay'd to grasp The sword that trembled in its clasp.
At last they reach'd a secret shade Which seem'd as for their safety made; And there they paused, for the warm tide Burst in red gushes from his side, And hung the drops on brow and cheek, And his gasp'd breath came thick and weak. She took her long dark hair, and bound The cool moss on each gaping wound,
And in her closed-up hands she brought The water which his hot lip sought,— And anxious gazed upon his eye, As asking, shall we live or die? Almost as if she thought his breath Had power o'er his own life and death.
 But, hark!—'tis not the wind deceives, There is a step among the leaves:
Her blood runs cold, her heart beats high, It is their fiercest enemy; He of the charm'd and deadly steel, Whose stroke was never known to heal,— He of the sword sworn not to spare,— She flung her down in her despair!
 The dying chief sprang to his knee, And the staunch'd wounds well'd fearfully; But his gash'd arm, what is it now? Livid his lip, and black his brow, While over him the slayer stood, As if he almost scorn'd the blood That cost so little to be won,— He strikes,—the work of death is done!
# The Troubadour; Catalogue of Pictures, and Historical Sketches/The Enchanted Island

THE ENCHANTED ISLAND.
by danby.
And there the island lay, the waves around Had never known a storm; for the north wind Was charm'd from coming, and the only airs That blew brought sunshine on their azure wings, Or tones of music from the sparry caves, Where the sea-maids make lutes of the pink conch. These were sea breezes,—those that swept the land Brought other gifts,—sighs from blue violets, Or from June's sweet Sultana, the bright rose,
Stole odours. On the silver mirror's face Was but a single ripple that was made By a flamingo's beak, whose scarlet wings Shone like a meteor on the stream: around, Upon the golden sands, were coral plants, And shells of many colours, and sea weeds, Whose foliage caught and chain'd the Nautilus, Where lay they as at anchor. On each side Were grottoes, like fair porticoes with steps Of the green marble; and a lovely light, Like the far radiance of a thousand lamps, Half-shine, half-shadow, or the glorious track Of a departing star but faintly seen In the dim distance, through those caverns shone, And play'd o'er the tall trees which seem'd to hide Gardens, where hyacinths rang their soft bells To call the bees from the anemone,
Jealous of their bright rivals' golden wealth. —Amid those arches floated starry shapes, Just indistinct enough to make the eye Dream of surpassing beauty; but in front, Borne on a car of pearl, and drawn by swans, There lay a lovely figure,—she was queen Of the Enchanted Island, which was raised From ocean's bosom but to pleasure her: And spirits, from the stars, and from the sea, The beautiful mortal had them for her slaves.
 She was the daughter of a king, and loved By a young Ocean Spirit from her birth,— He hover'd o'er her in her infancy, And bade the rose grow near her, that her cheek Might catch its colour,—lighted up her dreams With fairy wonders, and made harmony
The element in which she moved; at last, When that she turn'd away from earthly love, Enamour'd of her visions, he became Visible with his radiant wings, and bore His bride to the fair island.
# The Troubadour; Catalogue of Pictures, and Historical Sketches/The Fairy Queen Sleeping

THE FAIRY QUEEN SLEEPING.
BY STOTHARD.
She lay upon a bank, the favourite haunt  Of the spring wind in its first sunshine hour,  For the luxuriant strawberry blossoms spread  Like a snow-shower there, and violets  Bow'd down their purple vases of perfume  About her pillow,—link'd in a gay band  Floated fantastic shapes, these were her guards,  Her lithe and rainbow elves.
We have been o'er land and sea, Seeking lovely dreams for thee,— Where is there we have not been Gathering gifts for our sweet queen? We are come with sound and sight Fit for fairy's sleep to-night,—
First around thy couch shall sweep Odours, such as roses weep When the earliest spring rain Calls them into life again; Next upon thine ear shall float Many a low and silver note, Stolen from a dark-eyed maid When her lover's serenade, Rising as the stars grew dim, Waken'd her from thoughts of him. There shall steal o'er lip and cheek Gales, but all too light to break Thy soft rest,—such gales as hide All day orange-flowers inside, Or that, while hot noontide, dwell In the purple hyacinth bell;
And before thy sleeping eyes Shall come glorious pageantries,— Palaces of gems and gold, Such as dazzle to behold,— Gardens, in which every tree Seems a world of bloom to be,— Fountains, whose clear waters show The white pearls that lie below.— During slumber's magic reign Other times shall live again; First thou shalt be young and free In thy days of liberty,— Then again be woo'd and won By thy stately Oberon. Or thou shalt descend to earth, And see all of mortal birth.
No, that world's too full of care For e'en dreams to linger there. But, behold, the sun is set, And the diamond coronet Of the young moon is on high Waiting for our revelry; And the dew is on the flower, And the stars proclaim our hour; Long enough thy rest has been, Wake, Titania, wake our queen!
# The Troubadour; Catalogue of Pictures, and Historical Sketches/Portrait of a Lady

PORTRAIT OF A LADY.
BY SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE.
Lady, thy lofty brow is fair, Beauty's sign and seal are there; And thy lip is like the rose Closing round the bee's repose; And thine eye is like a star, But blue as the sapphires' are. Beautiful patrician! Thou Wearest on thy stately brow
All that suits a noble race, All of high-born maiden's grace,— Who is there could look on thee And doubt thy nobility?
 Round thee satin robe is flung, Pearls upon thy neck are hung, And upon thy arm of snow Rubies like red sun-gifts glow; Yet thou wearest pearl and gem As thou hadst forgotten them.— 'Tis a step, but made to tread O'er Persian web, or flower's head,— Soft hand that might only move In the broider'd silken glove,— Cheek unused to ruder air Than what hot-house rose might bear,—
One whom nature only meant To be queen of the tournament,— Courtly fete, and lighted hall,— Grace and ornament of all!
# The Troubadour; Catalogue of Pictures, and Historical Sketches/Serenade

SERENADE.
Sleep, ladye! for the moonlit hour,  Like peace, is shining on thy bower;  It is so late, the nightingale  Has ended even his love tale.
 Sleep, ladye! 'neath thy turret grows,  Cover'd with flowers, one pale white rose;  I envy its sweet sighs, they steep  The perfumed airs that lull thy sleep.
 Perchance, around thy chamber floats  The music of my lone lute notes,—  Oh, may they on thine eyelids fall,  And make thy slumbers musical!
Sleep, ladye! to thy rest be given  The gleamings of thy native heaven,  And thoughts of early paradise,  The treasures of thy sleeping eyes.
# The Troubadour; Catalogue of Pictures, and Historical Sketches/Sketches from History

SKETCHES FROM HISTORY.
# The Troubadour; Catalogue of Pictures, and Historical Sketches/The Oriental Nosegay

THE ORIENTAL NOSEGAY.
BY PICKERSGILL.
Through the light curtains came the perfumed air, And flung them back and show'd a garden, where The eye could just catch glimpses of those trees Which send sweet messages upon the breeze To lull a maiden's sleep, and fan her cheek, When inward thoughts in outward blushes speak. Bequeath's a silken couch, just fit to be A snowy shrine for some fair deity;
And there a beauty rests, lovely as those Enchanted visions haunting the repose Of the young poet, when his eyelids shut To dream that love they have but dream'd as yet;— But dream'd! Alas, that love should ever be A happiness but made for phantasie! And flowers are by her side, and her dark eye Seems as it read in them her destiny. She knew whose hand had gather'd them, she knew Whose sigh and touch were on their scent and hue.
 Beautiful language! Love's peculiar, own, But only to the spring and summer known. Ah! little marvel in such clime and age As that of our too earth-bound pilgrimage, That we should daily hear that love is fled, And hope grown pale, and lighted feelings dead.
Not for the cold, the careless to impart, By such sweet signs, the silence of the heart: But surely in the countries where the sun Lights loveliness in all he shines upon,— Where love is as a mystery and a dream, One single flower upon life's troubled stream; There, there, perchance, may the young bosom thrill, Feeling and fancy linger with love still.
 She look'd upon the blossoms, and a smile, A twilight one, lit up her lip the while. Surely her love is blest, no leaves are there That aught of lover's misery declare. True, 'mid them is that pale and pining flower, Whose dim blue colour speaks an absent hour; Yet it is nothing but that tender sorrow Of those who part to-day to meet to-morrow:
For there are hope and constancy beside, And are not these to happiness allied; And yet upon that maiden's cheek is caught A summer evening's shade of pensive thought, As if these large soft eyes knew all their fate, How the heart would its destiny create,— At once too tender, and too passionate;— Too made for happiness to be happy here, An angel fetter'd to an earthly sphere.— And those dark eyes, so large, so soft, so bright, So clear as if their very tears were light; They tell that destiny, art thou not one To whom love will be like the summer sun That feeds the diamond in the secret mine, Then calls it from its solitude to shine, And piece by piece be broken. Watch the bloom, And mark its fading to an early tomb,
And read in the decay upon it stealing Of thy own wasted hope and wither'd feeling,— Ay, fitting messengers for love! as fair, As quickly past as his own visions are;— Fling, fling the flowers away!
# The Troubadour; Catalogue of Pictures, and Historical Sketches/Proud Ladye

see Notes to The Troubadour
THE PROUD LADYE.
Oh, what could the ladye's beauty match,  An it were not the ladye's pride; An hundred knights from far and near  Woo'd at that ladye's side.
The rose of the summer slept on her cheek,  Its lily upon her breast, And her eye shone forth like the glorious star  That rises the first in the west.
There were some that woo'd for her land and gold,  And some for her noble name, And more that woo'd for her loveliness;  But her answer was still the same.
"There is a steep and lofty wall,  Where my warders trembling stand, He who at speed shall ride round its height,  For him shall be my hand."
Many turn'd away from the deed,  The hope of their wooing o'er; But many a young knight mounted the steed  He never mounted more.
At last there came a youthful knight,  From a strange and far countrie, The steed that he rode was white as the foam  Upon a stormy sea.
And she who had scorn'd the name of love,  Now bow'd before its might, And the ladye grew meek as if disdain  Were not made for that stranger knight.
She sought at first to steal his soul  By dance, song, and festival; At length on bended knee she pray'd  He would not ride the wall.
But gaily the young knight laugh'd at her fears,  And flung him on his steed,— There was not a saint in the calendar  That she pray'd not to in her need.
She dared not raise her eyes to see  If heaven had granted her prayer, Till she heard a light step bound to her side,—  The gallant knight stood there!
And took the ladye Adeline
 From her hair a jewell'd band, But the knight repell'd the offer'd gift,  And turn'd from the offer'd hand.
And deemest thou that I dared this deed,  Ladye, for love of thee; The honour that guides the soldier's lance  Is mistress enough for me.
Enough for me to ride the ring,  The victor's crown to wear; But not in honour of the eyes  Of any ladye there.
I had a brother whom I lost  Through thy proud crueltie, And far more was to me his love,  Than woman's love can be.
I came to triumph o'er the pride  Through which that brother fell, I laugh to scorn thy love and thee,  And now, proud dame, farewell!
And from that hour the ladye pined,  For love was in her heart, And on her slumber there came dreams  She could not bid depart.
Her eye lost all its starry light,  Her cheek grew wan and pale, Till she hid her faded loveliness  Beneath the sacred veil.
And she cut off her long dark hair,  And bade the world farewell, And she now dwells a veiled nun  In Saint Marie's cell.
# The Troubadour; Catalogue of Pictures, and Historical Sketches/Seduction

I need not say whose was the song The sighing night winds bore along. Raymond had left the maiden's side As one too dizzy with the tide To breast the stream, or strive, or shrink, Enough for him to feel, not think; Enough for him the dim sweet fear, The twilight of the heart, or ere Awakening hope has named the name Of love, or blown its spark to flame.
Restlessness, but as the winds range  From leaf to leaf, from flower to flower; Changefulness, but as rainbows change,  From colour'd sky to sunlit hour. Ay, well indeed may minstrel sing,— What have the heart and year like spring?
 Her vow was done: the castle dame Next day to join the revellers came; And never had a dame more gay O'er hall or festival held sway. And youthful knight, and ladye fair, And juggler quaint, and minstrel rare, And mirth, and crowds, and music, all Of pleasure gather'd at her call.
And Raymond moved as in a dream Of song and odour, bloom and beam, As he dwelt in a magic bower, Charm'd from all by fairy power. —And Adeline rode out that morn, With hunting train, and hawk, and horn; And broider'd rein, and curb of gold, And housings with their purple fold Decked the white steed o'er which she leant Graceful as a young cypress, bent By the first summer wind: she wore A cap the heron plume waved o'er, And round her wrist a golden band, Which held the falcon on her hand. The bird's full eye, so clear, so bright, Match'd not her own's dark flashing light.
And Raymond, as he watch'd the dyes Of her cheek rich with exercise, Could almost deem her beauty's power Was now in its most potent hour; But when at night he saw her glance The gayest of the meteor dance, The jewels in her braided hair, Her neck, her arms of ivory bare, The silver veil, the broider'd vest,— Look'd she not then her loveliest? Ah, every change of beauty's face And beauty's shape has its own grace! That night his heart throbb'd when her hand Met his touch in the saraband: That night her smile first bade love live On the sweet life that hope can give.—
Beautiful, but thrice wayward, wild, Capricious as a petted child, She was all chance, all change; but now A smile is on her radiant brow,— A moment and that smile is fled, Coldness and scorn are there instead.
 Ended the dance, and Adeline
Flung herself, like an eastern queen, Upon the cushions which were laid  Amid a niche of that gay hall, Hid from the lamps; around it play'd  The softness of the moonlight fall. And there the gorgeous shapes past by But like a distant pageantry, In which you have yourself no share, For all its pride, and pomp, and care.
She pass'd her hand across the chords Of a lute near, and with soft words Answer'd; then said, "no, thou shalt sing Some legend of the fair and brave." To Raymond's hand the lute she gave, Whose very soul within him burn'd When her dark eye on his was turn'd: One moment's pause, it slept not long,— His spirit pour'd itself in song.