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 14 Against it, first, are the insurgents, with or without arms, and the Cuban noncombatants; second, the great mass of the Spaniards, bearing or nonbearing arms—the latter desiring, if there must be a change, annexation to the United States.

Indeed, there is the greatest apathy concerning autonomy in any form. No one asks what it will be, or when, or how it will come.

I do not see how it could be even put into operation by force, because, as long as the insurgents decline to accept it, so long, the Spanish authorities say, the war must continue,

I am obliged to say, too, that the Government of this island has not been able to relieve from starvation the Cuban population driven from their homes by the Weyler edict, and no longer attempts to do so.

I am, etc.,

Consul-General.

Havana, December 14, 1897.

I have the honor to report that I have received information that in the province of Havana reports show that there have been 101,000 "reconcentrados," and that out of that 52,000 have died. Of the said 101,000, 32,000 were children. This excludes the city of Havana and seven other towns from which reports have not yet been made up. It is thought that the total number of reconcentrados in Havana province will amount to 150,000, nearly all women and children, and that the death rate among their whole number from starvation alone will be over 50 per cent.

For the above number of reconcentrados $12,500, Spanish silver, was set aside out of the $100,000 appropriated for the purpose of relieving all the reconcentrados on the island. Seventy-five thousand of the 150,000 may be still living, so if every dollar appropriated of the $12,500 reaches them the distribution will average about 17 cents to a person, which, of course, will be rapidly exhausted, and as I can hear of no further succor being afforded, it is easy to perceive what little practical relief has taken place in the condition of those poor people.

I am, etc.,

2em

Havana, December 28, 1897.

I have the honor to report that I have been informed by the authorities here that they are now engaged in forming an autonomistic cabinet and arranging for the members to take the required oath on the 1st January next, and also for an election to take place thirty days thereafter.


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 Rh My present information is that most of the Spaniards will refrain from voting, and nearly all of the Cubans.

The feeling in Havana, and I hear in other parts of the island, is strong against it—the Cubans desiring an independent republic and the Spaniards preferring annexation to the United States rather than autonomy. On the night of the 24th instant there seems to have been a concerted plan over the island to testify the disapprobation of the people to the proposed autonomistic plans of the Spanish Government.

It culminated in this city about 2 o'clock in the morning of the 25th, in the principal square of Havana, where a mob assembled with cries of "Death to autonomy!" and to General Blanco, and shouting "Viva Weyler!" These men came to the square with stones in their pockets, and some of them armed with weapons.

They made a demonstration, too, against the office of the Diario de la Marina, a paper published in this town favoring autonomy, but were dispersed by the military police and soldiers,

I am, etc.,

2em

Havana, December 28, 1897.

I have the honor to acknowledge receipt of the following telegrams:

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


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On a Picture of Leander

 * "On a Picture of Leander", in The Poetical Works of John Keats (1884)
 * "On a Picture of Leander", in The complete poetical works and letters of John Keats (1899), edited by Horace Elisha Scudder

title: On a Picture of Leander


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Joshua Tree NP VSP Visitor Study

Figure 40: Importance of assistance from entrance station staff

Figure 41: Importance of assistance from roving rangers


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Figure 42: Importance of self-guided trail brochures

Figure 43: Importance of visitor sales publications


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Figure 44: Importance of ranger-led programs

Figure 45: Importance of travelers information radio station


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Joshua Tree NP VSP Visitor Study

Figure 46: Importance of web site use before or during visit

Figure 47: Importance of orientation video


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 transferable from hand to hand like banknotes, and declared by act of Assembly to be a legal tender in all payments from one inhabitant of the province to another, it raised a moderate revenue, which went a considerable way toward defraying an annual expense of about £4,500, the whole ordinary expense of that frugal and orderly government. The success of an expedient of this kind must have depended upon three different circumstances; first, upon the demand for some other instrument of commerce, besides gold and silver money; or upon the demand for such a quantity of consumable stock, as could not be had without sending abroad the greater part of their gold and silver money, in order to purchase it; secondly, upon the good credit of the government which made use of this expedient; and, thirdly, upon the moderation with which it was used, the whole value of the paper bills of credit never exceeding that of the gold and silver money which would have been necessary for carrying on their circulation, had there been no paper bills of credit. The same expedient was upon different occasions adopted by several other American colonies: but, from want of this moderation, it produced, in the greater part of them, much more disorder than convenience.

The unstable and perishable nature of stock and credit, however, render them unfit to be trusted to, as the principal funds of that sure, steady and permanent revenue, which can alone give security and dignity to government. The government of no great nation, that was advanced beyond the shepherd state, seems ever to have derived the greater part of its public revenue from such sources.

Land is a fund of a more stable and permanent nature; and the rent of public lands, accordingly, has been the


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Joshua Tree NP VSP Visitor Study

Figure 48: Importance of Junior Ranger Program

Figure 49: Quality of park brochure/map


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Figure 50: Quality of park newspaper

Figure 51: Quality of bulletin boards


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Figure 52: Quality of roadside exhibits

Figure 53: Quality of visitor center exhibits


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Figure 54: Quality of assistance from visitor center staff

Figure 55: Quality of assistance from entrance station staff


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Wings (Lee)

HE Rector and the Curate faced each other across the study table. They had been going over the list of parish poor. It was a long list and rather complicated, but at last it was finished. They leaned back and smiled at each other comfortably.

“Well, that is done,” said the Rector, “the next thing is to make it work.”

The Curate gathered up the loose papers, thrusting them into the worn bag beside him. He was a young man, with a face like the Hoffman Christ. He had also a wife and five children. The women of the church worshipped him. The men found him a good fellow. The Rector knew him for a hard worker. He watched him now, as he gathered up the papers, with a look of quiet understanding. The relation between them had a certain note of equality. It marked the younger man as capable of making his way without offence.

“By the way,” said the Rector, still watching him, “The Actors' Alliance—how is it coming on?”

The Curate paused among the papers. He pushed back the hair from his forehead. “I've neglected it,” he said. “There have been so many details, and this Chardon case—.” He pointed to the papers.

“Of course.” The rector's quiet nod acquitted him. “You've had too much. But Worden told me yesterday they are making a good thing of it in Hampton. He spoke of one or two phases of the work. It would seem as if we had the best chance here of any parish in the diocese—the 'Sanford Theatre' and the Saturday night plays for the College—.”

“Yes, yes, I know—I've often thought of it. I did manage to do a little last year. But it lapsed.” The tired look in the Curate's face brought out its humanness.

His rector regarded it kindly. “We need another man,” he said, “Meanwhile you'd better give me the Chardon case.” He held out his hand for it. “They need the stern lawgiver. It will do them good and it will free you for some thing better. There is a little girl acting at the 'Sanford,' a mere child, they tell me, drawing crowds. Look her up if you can.”

The Curate took out his notebook. He looked inquiringly at the Rector.

“Oh, I don't know anything—not even her name. The report came up the back stairs early in the week, and this morning Evelyn said that the better class are beginning to go—some of our own people. It's the girl, they say. The play itself is poor stuff. But the girl is different. And being so young, I thought—.”

“I will see her at once,” said the Curate. He replaced his note-book and gathered up his bag and was gone.

The girl wandered about the room a little uncertainly. It was a large room with tall windows and huge, meaningless furniture set at regular intervals. The windows looked out into a row of dismal back yards. Across the tops of the houses one saw branches lifting to the sky—a kind of spring lightness. They held life in their tips, and seemed to breathe a little as they opened.

The girl came to the window and looked across to the trees. Her eyes were sombre with quick lights in them. The brow above them, square and wide, was a little drawn and the mouth, in its pointed place, held a line of doubt. No one would for a minute think of the face as beautiful. But one would look at it again, and then again. By and by he would see that the girl knew that he was looking—nor would the brow change its line, nor the mouth. She did not seem to mind that you surveyed the castle wall, that you even admired it and walked around it. She was busy at the citadel. Life opened fast to her—myriads of things that the mind must touch and taste and withdraw from, wondering. Her movements had been those of a free thing. Now she stood with her hands folded, her head a little bent and her eyes looking out to the tree-tops. Her quietness held something vivid—a kind of still waiting. One might have stroked the folded wings, but he would know that life quivered in them—a challenge to the air and wind and storm.

A woman's voice chimed in the room softly. It was like convent bells. It was the kind of voice that sounds behind grey walls, calling the heart to rest.

The girl turned quickly. “Yes, Mother.”

“Would you like to go to walk?”

“To walk?” She paused, looking about the room, “I have been walking, haven't I?”

The mother smiled. “You are restless. The air will do us both good. See, I have finished it.” She smoothed the work in her hand, spreading it out.

The girl came across and knelt beside her, examining it. It was a beautiful piece of embroidery, rich like an altar cloth, but with no trace of the church's symbolism in its lines. The mysterious pattern suggested rather some quaint Eastern source. The girl lifted it with quick fingers, admiring it. “You do such beautiful things, Mother—and they are not the least like you.” She was looking at it, a little wonderingly, as if just struck with the thought. She raised her eyes to the quiet figure beside her—with the grey dress and grey hair and grey eyes looking out—quiet pools fringed with straight-stemmed lines—“Not the least like you,” she repeated thoughtfully.

A light rested in the eyes—a passing wing mirrored and gone. The face caught it and glowed. “You think it is not like me and you said it was beautiful—” She was smoothing the girl's hair, “you do not see the other side.” The girl lifted the embroidery with a quick touch, like a child, turning it over. “It is just the same!” she said, scrutinizing it.

Her mother laughed. “Come, we will go for a walk.” She folded the embroidery carefully and reached for the basket beside her.

A knock sounded on the door. “For Miss Seawell,” said the bell-boy, proudly. He deposited a box on the table and produced a card. He searched in his pocket and found another. He handed them out. “They're both the same,” he said.

The eyes of the mother and daughter met. The mother shook her head slightly. She hesitated. “Tell him he may come up for five minutes,” she said at last, “we were just going out.”

The girl's eyes danced behind the closed door. “Tommy Talcott!” Her fingers were untying the box, lifting a huge bunch of violets. The stems were tied with a white satin ribbon—yards of it. “Like a bride,” she said, trailing it out. “It will make a lovely belt-ribbon.” She laid a bit of it to her waist and danced a step across the room.

“Hush, Lita!”

The girl paused. She waited midstep. Then she walked demurely to the table and laid down the flowers. When she turned to the door her face was impressive and grave.

The youth bowed above her hand with exaggerated devotion. She motioned him to a seat near her mother and moved a little distance away.

The youth's eyes devoured her. He had a round, fat face and blue eyes that tried to look hard. His trousers were turned up a little at the bottom and he carried his arms with an arranged, a careful air—curved like sausages.

The girl surveyed him while he talked. He was richly a man of the world, caressing the silk ankle on his knee and commenting on men and things in quick tones. He clipped his words and stroked his ankle and contemplated the girl with an air of possession—that halted a little, now and then, in doubt.

“Your violets are very beautiful.” She motioned to the table.

“Not much. Best I could get. Beastly town for flowers,” responded the youth.

“Oh, I think they are lovely.”

The youth smiled. He lounged a little on his chair. “Say, do you know you were great last night—just great.” He beamed on her. He expanded to himself.

The girl looked at him indifferently. “Did you think so? I was not so good as usual.”

“Oh, say!” he protested, “You can't tell, you know. That place,” he continued confidently, “that place when you come in solemn and grave and then do those stunts of yours—it's—,” he paused for fit words, “it's great, you know—just great!” He stroked his lip and looked at her largely and seemed to be enjoying the way he was going it.

The mother, who had left the room for a minute, returned ready to go out. “You will excuse us, Mr. Talcott? We were on the point of going when you came.” “Certainly, Mrs. Seawell, certainly.” He put her at her ease with a wave of his hand, “I'll go along with you.” He was reaching for his hat.

“We would not trouble you.” She stopped him midway.

“No trouble.” He was murmuring it into his hat. “No trouble—”

The door had opened again to a card. The mother was reading it with puzzled brow. “Mr. George Steadman.” She looked at her daughter. The girl shook her head.

“Tell him to come up, please.”

The youth settled back. He would see his rival before he went. He had spent a hundred on her—boxes and flowers. Let any other man cut him out if he thought best. He curved his arms and waited..

It was the Curate, brushing the hair from his forehead and talking dreamily, with some shrewd common sense gleaming through and lighting the dream.

The youth stared at him with cool eyes. The cheek of the old buck! He had seen him somewhere before—Oh, yes—Curate—the pious dodge.

The Curate turned to him. Dreamily he drew from him his class—sophomore?—“I should not have thought it,” murmured the Curate. The youth wriggled a little. “And what church do you attend?” “The Episcopalian? Ah, then I shall have the pleasure of calling on you. I call on all the Episcopal students.” The youth gasped. “Oh—” It was almost a wail—“but I'm not, you know—not exactly.” The Curate looked at him keenly. “I'm likely to be out, you know,” said the youth. It was a last flying leap. But the Curate had him fast. “I can call again,” he said kindly, “I always call again when they are out. I like to see the boys in their own rooms. I seem to know them better.” His tone had changed subtly. “Where do you come from—where is your home?”

“Talcottville.”

“Your father is John Talcott then?”

“Yes, sir.” The boy straightened a little at the sound of his father's name.

“I knew him in college—knew him well. He was years ahead of me, but used to come back to the games.”

The youth stared at him. “You're not Steadman of Ninety-three?”

“I believe I am.”

“Well, I know all about you!” It was half-boyish, half-manly. “But I didn't suppose you were a—minister?”

The Curate smiled. “I am—part of the time.” He took out his card. “You must come and see us. Mrs. Steadman will want to see you.”

The youth received the card in deferential fingers. He slipped away. They heard a door clutch softly. The girl laughed.

“Hush, Lita.”

“But it was truly funny,” she said. Her eyes were on the Curate. She was admiring the Hoffman head.

The Curate turned suddenly and found her doing it. He reddened a little. Women were still a mystery to the Curate. His wife had explained to him many times that there is no sin in admiring a picture by Hoffman. But she wanted him to be careful, and he plunged into explaining the details of the Actors' Church Alliance.

The two women listened with gentle intentness.

“It is what we have wanted,” said the mother, “I had heard of it, but I did not know—and we spend so little time in a place.”

“Precisely—that is the Alliance—to have the connections made.”

“And I am to go to church to-morrow,” said the girl wistfully. She was still looking at him.

“If you will. Ask for my pew. Mrs. Steadman will be there. She will want to call on you if there is time?”

“We stay till Wednesday.”

“Then she will come,.”

A light came into the girl's face. “Would she—would you like a box?”

“A box—?”

“At the 'Sanford'—to see me—” The words laughed a little anxiously. “It is quite proper—now. Nice people go. They let me change the lines—I do as I like. I wish you would come!” Her hands were clasped impulsively. She was like a child.

The Curate smiled indulgently. “When do you want us?”

“Any time—Monday? Would that do? How good you are!” She flitted to a desk and wrote a few words on a card. “There. They will keep the box for you. I shall watch—you will surely come?”

“We will surely come.” The Curate tucked the card into his pocket. “And to-morrow you will be at St. John's?”

“To-morrow, yes.”

When he was gone the girl looked at her mother. “Something is coming,” she said softly. She half put out her hand. “Something beautiful, and strange.” The hand groped a little and drew back. “I think I am afraid.”

Her mother's hand touched her arm and the vision broke. The girl laughed. She ran her hand across her eyes. “Come, let us go out—before it is dark—out-of-doors.”

The girl sat in the church, her hands clasped and her soul drifting. The color about her held her, and vague wonder, the stir of something lifting itself, and the gleam of the little windows high in the roof. She had not been in a church for years. They had spent their Sundays in the fields or on the road. She had not known that it was like this. The quiet of the place—falling deep on the heart, and the sense of something coming if one would wait. She had almost ceased to breathe .... the processional was calling, stern and hushed, through closing walls. It hovered faintly, like a bird, then it grew, lifting the heart. The girl leaned forward, watching the white-robed figures. One by one they entered the stalls, crossing her soul with gentle motion. The last was a boy taller than the rest, with a face of light. He took his place by the organ, a little apart from the others.

The girl sank back with a quick breath.

The organ swelled and sang and drew to silence, and the service went its way, intoned and sweet. The anthem rose, filling the nave, and high above it sounded a voice that thrilled the heart—little reeds shaken in the wind—a voice delicate and rare, with shimmering petals that fell through space, stars of light in quick descent. The air quivered to the notes and was still. The windows rained color on bowed heads and stone and wood, and angels trumpeting aloft. High in the chancel hung a bird with outspread wings that shone in the light. The eyes of little children loved it. The gir!'s eyes sought it now, like a child's. The church about her grew vague, and gray, and dark; it fell away into space, and her soul mounted to the bird there swinging in light—to the white wings and polished breast, and the sound of a voice singing, faint and sweet, through the arches—singing, swinging, drifting—with the snow-white bird. Life centered in it, and rest—the great things she planned to do—slowly they circled and gathered in, a shadowy host. Her heart fell to singing—little dreams of truth, swift hopes rising over to the bird and the voice singing.

When she came back from the dream the Curate's wife was asking her to dinner. The service was done, the church was empty. The voice had receded, calling her as it went, dying to a last faint sound behind closed walls. “Amen,” a drifting, fading call—“Amen.” The white-robed figures were gone. The church was empty. The Curate's wife was asking her to dinner.

She turned with puzzled eyes and a little shake of the head, looking into the kind, round face. “I must go home,” she said, “Mother would worry. Oh, I am sorry she could not come—sorry—sorry!”

At the door of the church they waited for the Curate to come out. The girl turned to her companion with a frank smile. “It was beautiful!” she said, “I thank you.”

The round face lighted. “You are glad you came?”

“I shall never forget it.” She broke off with a pretty gesture—“Oh, could I see him, just once, do you think? I want to tell him how I loved it!”

The Curate's wife looked stern. “You loved it!”

“Didn't you? It was so strange and sweet. I wanted to clap and clap and cry—why did no one clap?” she demanded, “a voice like that!”

“You mean—,” a light glimmered—“you mean the choir, the singing?”

“I mean that boy with a voice like an angel! Why, in the theatre they would not have let him go—not a sound—I could have cried—my throat ached so!” She put her hand to it, still pulsing.

The Curate's wife relaxed a little. “We do not applaud in church; we go to worship God.”

“I think God was pleased,” said the girl simply; “It must have reached Him; it went so high! Oh, could I see him, do you think? I must see him. I must!”

The Curate's wife was startled. “See God?”

The girl's laugh rippled a little. “The boy that sang.”

“Oh, Jimmie Barlow!” Her brow cleared. “Of course; he is a nice boy; he has a good mother; I will bring him to see you.”

The girl seized her hand, pressing it in both her own and swinging it a little. “Bring him to the theatre,” she said, “to-morrow night—will you?”

The Curate had come up. His wife breathed a sigh of relief as she turned to him. “She wants us to bring Jimmie Barlow to see her act, George. Do you think we could?”.

The Curate was looking at the girl kindly—at the light in her face and the eager, moving hands and swift impatience—“Why not?” he said slowly, “Why not?—the boy would like it.”

With a little gesture of thanks the girl was gone.

The Curate looked at his wife. His wife was looking at him.

“It's all right,” he said easily, “every one in town has been, apparently, except you and me,—and Jimmie Barlow.”

“It isn't that. It's Jimmie.”

The Curate stared a little.

“I mean,” she wrinkled her brow, “He's only a boy and,—did you see her face?”

The Curate laughed. “The boy is sixteen, seventeen almost; we lose him from the choir in May; she will not hurt him.” He made a little gesture. “I should like him to know a nice girl.”

“You are sure she is nice?” The anxious brow confronted him.

“As sure as that you are, my dear; I do not make mistakes in women.”

“Oh, George,” very softly, “George—George!” It was all that was said.

The girl broke in with swift breath. She crossed to the grey figure on the couch and dropped beside it on her knees. “I have seen an angel,” she said. Her voice sang a little. Her eyes danced. Her hands laughed, and were still. They smoothed the grey hair. “It was a truly angel,” she said, “in a white robe,—singing.”

Her mother smiled, a look of relief in her face. “It was not the Curate then?”

“The Curate? Oh, dear, no! It was a real angel, with wings, I think, though I didn't see 'em. And he stood in the light and sang, and a great bird came and waited above him and sang, 'Amen, Amen.'” She threw back her head, breathing the words softly. The clear flute call filled the room, dying in little waves. The girl listened to the sound, smiling as it died away. The clear, fresh look in her face held a child's happiness, with something deeper behind it.

Her mother watched it intently. “Tell me about it,” she said. She reached for the quick moving hands and patted them. “Tell me.”

“That's all,” said the girl, “but his name is Jimmie Barlow and I love him; and he is coming to see me and—”

“They lived happy forever after.” A little shadow fell on the words.

The girl laughed out, softly. “But they did.”

“Hush, child!” The mother's hand closed firmly on the flitting one. “It is only a dream.”

They sat in silence, the dream about them—the grey mother looking back to a passion of youth. Out of the Quaker past she saw her life emerge, and break and waste itself. The riot and color and passion had ebbed to grey ... her child should not know wreck. She had watched with jealous breath. The soul of her child had run free beside her. At the first stirring of unrest the door had been set ajar to wings. They had opened and fluttered. They waited now, poised—child—woman—a mystery that laughed and sang and spent itself. The mother's clasp tightened a little. The test was come early to quick blood. Her eyes probed the future. Was it to be again?—the swift outgoing, the saddened return? No help from her who knew so well the way, how it beckoned, mysterious, with gleams of rose and quick, soft grass for speeding feet.... They had dealt harsh blows to her—pitiless. They had driven her out of their grey world. Her child had come to the same place,—too soon.

The girl held the thin fingers, spreading them lightly in her own. There were no rings to break the thin lines or hide the whiteness. She held them to her lips, breathing on them. “They are cold,” she said.

The theatre was crowded, but the boy saw only the stage and the girl who had wanted him to come. How beautiful she was—with her strange face. Something stirred in him. He waited, holding his breath—youth on tiptoe—life with finger on lip.

The Curate touched his wife; their eyes met; hers held foreboding; his own were lighted with gentle pleasure; she shook her head at them, and glanced at the boy; he had not stirred. A swift smile held his lips—the smile that crosses a dream, flitting and wistful and vague. She shook her head again. She looked reproachfully at George. George had returned to the stage.

The girl entered the box with a little flutter of feathers. The boy awoke from his dream. She approached him with gentle mien. The Curate's wife had turned, but something in the two faces stayed her. They were looking into each other clearly—as two souls that meet midway from the world to world. The girl spoke first, in a quick, low voice, “Will you come and see me?”

“Yes,” he breathed the word. His eyes had not left her face.

A smile broke its gravity. It called the little lights to her eyes. Her hands moved swiftly. “Come to dinner with me, to-morrow night—all of you?” She had turned to the Curate and his wife, “I want you all.” It was as much a command as a request.

The Curate bowed. His wife opened her lips. The girl laid a finger on them lightly. Her eyes were on the boy's face. “I shall expect you, at six—I must go now. Mother will be waiting. She could not come to-night—Thank you for coming. Thank you!” In the midst of a shower of quick little nods she was gone.

It was not yet dark in the dining-room. But candles were lighted. The girl moved about, adjusting the shades and giving a final touch to the flowers. There were lilies in the room, and roses and violets. The air would have been heavy with the fragrance had it not been for the long windows, opened to the balcony outside, and the little breeze that came in, stirring the curtains. The girl lingered, looking about her in a dream. She wore a shimmering gown, soft and iridescent, shining as she turned her throat in the light. She held herself, listening. The handle had turned. It was her mother—a grey presence in the beating room. She ran to her swiftly. “You are well enough to come down! I am glad—glad!” She was watching the pale face. “You must not stand.” She had pushed forward a chair.

Her mother laid a hand on the back of it. But she did not sit down; she stood looking about the fragrant room. “You have made it beautiful,” she said.

“Isn't it! They changed the table—gave me the round one, and took down those ugly things”—she motioned to the curtains. “The rest was easy.”

“I see.” Her eyes lingered on the girl. “You are almost grown up,” she said softly.

“Yes?” The girl's voice rose to a little questioning note. “I do not feel so. I feel like a child. I am so happy!” She had come close to her mother. She took the thin fingers, pressing them to her lips.

A sigh escaped into the room—a breath among the flowers.

The girl turned quickly. “You are tired. We will rest till they come.” She put an arm about the grey figure and they passed from the room.

Half an hour later the curious dinner party was gathered about the table. The eyes of the boy and girl met through a tangle of light and flowers and flame. Above the table a mote of flame was caught in a crystal ball and hung swinging, its heart of rose shimmering through. A murmur of sound moved in and out across the light that seemed to centre in the boy and girl. The Curate's wife spoke little. She found herself thinking of the time she first saw George. Her eyes rested on his gently as she remembered. He had been standing in a crowd—she had not thought of it for years—it was on the street corner, and raining, and he had looked at her and a soft, shining light had spread about them mistily.... She looked from the boy to the girl. They had been hardly older—she and George. People had called them foolish. But she would not have changed it—not a minute of it. All the hard times and the easy ones had grown out of it—that moment of pulsing light. Her eyes met those of the mother across the table. A look of understanding passed between them and was gone.

By and by they rose from the table. The boy stood by the window where the breeze from behind the curtain touched his face. The others had moved a little apart. The girl crossed to the window. Slowly she faced him, the leaden fringes that weighed her eyelids lifting themselves. The boy looked into the eyes. The silence waited. Out of it he reached to her—a boyish smile curving his lips. He did not touch her. It was hardly a gesture. Pan, the god of green things walked the room. His wings struck the fragrant air to light.

“I am going away to-morrow,” she said.

“But you come back?”

“Sometime. Yes.”

There was silence. Above the table the swinging ball held its prisoned flame. They moved back and joined the others.

The Curate's wife held out her hand. “Good-night, children,” she said, “You have to go and rehearse, both of you, and George is going, but we mothers—” she looked again at the other woman. “We can sit awhile and talk.”

They passed out of the room—all of them. The silence behind them pulsed, and grew still. The curtains stirred in the wind. A breath, as of wings, spread itself. It hovered above the flowers.

Two black-coated figures came in. One by one, they went about, putting out the lights till the room was dark. Only above the table the mote of flame glowed in its crystal ball.

title: Wings (Lee)


text: Talk:Wings (Lee)

title: Talk:Wings (Lee)


text:
The Middle Distance

HE walked rapidly along the Cliff path, her skirts gathered in one hand, her right arm swinging free. To the left lay the harbor, with the boats creeping, in the yellow twilight, home. To the east stretched the moors, with dun-colored shadows, to the open sea. She had walked to the Point, two miles, to the light-house, and was hurrying back for supper.

Her thin face in the clear twilight had a transparent look, and the dark eyes held little balls of fire that glinted mistily, like the harbor, when she glanced to the west.... She was late—ten minutes at least. Except for the eyes and the transparent face she was without distinction. It was only when the fires within were lighted that one caught a glimpse of beauty ebbing and shining below. She walked with the free step of one who is either married or does not intend to marry—the peculiar freedom that comes from marriage or indifference. The women that possess it are repellent to men, or very attractive.

Marian Walston, if she had thought about it at all, would have said that she was not attractive to men. She had ample chance to know. As the daughter of the president of a small eastern college, she had grown up among men. She had watched them, hundreds of them, pass from freshmen to sophomores and from juniors to silk-topped seniors, without a flutter of heart. The professors, who were either staid men with families or new material from Germany, were part of the familiar college life—nothing more. A year in Crete with the professor of Greek and his family, and another in Rome with the Latin professor, had given rise to interests that had lasted well. She had never known what it was to be bored. But to-day she had walked to the Point and back to escape from herself. This summer, for the first time, she had encountered a man. And the worst was, that she did not approve of him. In her girlhood, she remembered, she had dreamed, in a vague way, of falling in love—sometime—but always with a superior, godlike creature whom one could spend one's days admiring and worshipping and serving. As she had not encountered this being and as fate had dealt kindly with her, she had been free of soul these thirty-three years. Now there was Spencer Manning.

If she had approved of him, she would have suspected that she was in love. It would not have appalled her—the falling in love and marrying as one's ancestors had done. It was not necessarily a disgrace. She would have accepted the common lot with ease if she had approved of him. But she disapproved of him in every particular. Brought up in the strict academic atmosphere of activity, in which one must produce at least one monograph a year to place upon the college shelves, she demanded results. Manning had never produced anything, though he apparently knew enough, and his command of English made her uneasy. But he had done nothing. She defended him against herself. He was not a scholar, but an artist. Her year in Rome had taught her that the two are not weighed in the same scales. But tried by the more delicate beam, the result was even less assuring. What had he done—a man of middle age, rich and talented and in perfect health? She recalled Colvin, at the University, with bent shoulders and hacking cough, performing faithfully his stint of work each year. She remembered the look of patient faithfulness in his eyes when she met him on the campus. Manning's eyes danced before her vision, full of subtle light and a kind of humanness that caught at her breath. She walked a few steps with set lips. She tried to regain her disapproval. She had walked to the Point and back for no other purpose.... He was dilettante. The word had the weight of academic scorn. It covered him like a pall. She walked with freer step.

Then, at a turn of the path, she stopped.

The man sprang to his feet, lifting his hat. “I saw you coming—half a mile back—before you skirted the cove—I waited.” He stood before her with clear, smiling face and round chin, looking at her frankly. The light shining on his uncovered head revealed a tiny bald spot at the crown; but the face and the chin denied it. He had an air of prosperity.

She glanced away from him. Her glance stayed itself. “You have been sketching—in the afternoon?” There was a note of surprise in the tone.

He moved toward the easel in eager mood. “It's a discovery—a little discovery of my own. I will show you.”

She looked to the west uncertainly. “Have we time? I am late—and my father is coming to-night.”

He acquiesced by gathering up his materials and adjusting his step to her's [sic]. They struck into the Cliff path. A little color had come into her sallow face. It glowed softly like a flame imprisoned in crystal. Manning watched it as he talked. “It's the afternoon light that I'm trying for,” he said.

“Is that the discovery?” She did not look at him.

“For me—yes. It came to me, all of a sudden, that no one has done it, or tried to do it—that look of afternoon. We're all out in the morning—sunrise and early dew and light like lances—morning glamour—anything up to twelve o'clock. Then we drop it.”

She was looking at him with an amused smile. “And if every one has always done it?” 'The tone conveyed, “Every one must be right.”

He rejected it with a shake of the head. “All wrong—all of them. If I could paint it as I saw it to-day—” His tone was musing.

“How did you see it?” Her voice had a gentler note.

“Something still—unchanging—a kind of eternal quiet. It holds the breath—the country like a city of the soul—an everlasting—What is it Browning says of Rome?”

“'An everlasting wash of air, Rome's ghost since her decease.'” She had caught the mood. Her fires beneath glowed softly.

He nodded, watching the light. “That's it—an everlasting wash of air” His mood changed lightly. “It's the only wash that will catch it, apparently. I've tried everything else.” His voice shook itself free from regret.

“Let me see it.” She stopped in the path.

He placed the canvas against a rock and they moved back by common consent.

A stretch of rocks in the foreground—a line of sky in the distance—and between, the harbor in the afternoon light. The composition was simple; the colors pale, almost featureless.

He waited for her without speaking.

“The foreground is unspeakable!”

“I know it.” His voice was meek.

“And the sky is mush!”

“It is.”

“But between—” She mused, dropping to silence.

“Yes?” His voice had caught the note of hers and laughed to her.

“Yes. It is good.”

“Clear afternoon,” he assented cheerfully.

“But that does not make a picture.” Her voice had regained its level poise.

“No?” He lifted the canvas. “But it was interesting to do. I shall try again—someday.”

She made no reply. The flame in her face had died out. Only her eyes glinted—but dully, as if something harsh had brushed them.

As they neared the hotel he looked at her. When he spoke his voice was gentle. She had heard him speak like that, the other day, to a child that was hurt. She resented it, even while it soothed her. “I wanted to please you,” he said.

She looked at him. Then her lips smiled. He was absurd. A man should assert himself. “You will never please me,” she said, “with a foreground of wooden blocks.”

He ignored the tone. “I wanted to please you,” he repeated; “I think I shall—sometime.”

She longed to retort, “You never will!” But something held her—the man's presence, his mood, a sense of fate. She shivered a little. “You would much better please yourself,” she said stiffly; “I should be sorry to influence your work in any way.”

He looked at her in the twilight. Something gentle and human in his face held her. “We cannot always do what we choose,” he said.

It came to her like a cry out of a far place.

She ignored it, hurrying up the steps. “It is sometimes better to choose less and do more,” she said clearly. It had come to her, in a flash, that she heard him use the same tone, the very inflection, to her mother when he had picked up a ball of yarn and handed it to her. There was something in him. He could no more help being gallant to women than the sea could help flooding the beach.

Her face relaxed a little. She turned it to him with a smile. “Won't you come to our table to-night and meet my father?” Her smile had a new serenity. Her father had never failed her. She could trust his judgment in a thousand. He would tell her the real nature of the man who attracted and repelled her in a breath.

“, this is Mr. Manning—Mr. Spencer Manning,” she added, with a slow inflection.

“Ah!” The president swung his eye-glasses to his nose and looked down on the man standing before him. “Mr. Spencer Manning,” he repeated vaguely. His face lighted. “You planned my brother's house in Watertown?”

“Did I?”

“Didn't you?”

“I planned a house there for a Mr. Walston.”

“I thought so. I remember your name perfectly. I thought of getting you to do some work for the college.” The tone was approving. In a younger man it might have been patronizing. “I liked your work,” he added.

“You made a mistake,” said the other.

“In liking it?”

“In not having me for the college.”

The president laughed. “We shall see—we shall see. My daughter tells me you paint—”

“A little—for amusement.”

They moved toward the dining-room, the president walking beside his wife.

“You never told me you were an architect,” said the girl reproachfully, as they fell behind the others.

“Didn't I? I must have forgotten to mention it.”

“Forgotten!”

“It was long ago I did that house.”

“How long?”

“Five years, at least.”

She laughed out. “And since then, I suppose, you have been a minister and practised medicine and studied law”

“Not quite,” he admitted. “But I have been busy.”

“No doubt. Though I don't know just what your business is.” Her tone was jesting. But her father, who was unfolding his napkin with deliberation, took it up.

“What is your business, if I may ask, sir? I did not think of connecting Mr. Manning, an artist whom my daughter had met this summer, with the Mr. Manning, the architect.”

His tone was polite and guarded. His comment, with his back turned, as they walked from the parlor to the dining-room, had been, “Good fibre, but relaxed.” He was accustomed to judging human nature in the bulk,—fifty at a time, or more. He seldom made a mistake. When he did he never forgot it.

The artist regarded him frankly. “I'm not, properly speaking, an artist.”

The president looked inquiringly at his daughter.

She shook her head with a smile. “I only said he painted pictures.”

The artist laughed out. “You were too kind. You should have said I tried to paint them.”

“It would have been more truthful,” she assented.

The president looked from one to the other with a puzzled smile.

His wife came to his aid. “He paints very nicely,” she said. “It is only Marian's way.”

“I shall be glad to see your work,” said the president politely.

The girl looked at the artist with dancing eyes. “And he knows good work when he sees it,” she said. “He buys the pictures for the gallery.”

“Marian!” said her mother reprovingly.

“I was only trying to help Mr. Manning,” said the girl. “Father would faint at one of his foregrounds.—You would much better play for him,” she said to the artist.

The president swung his glasses to his nose and stared at the man again. “You are a—a—musician—also?” he said.

“I play a little—sometimes,” grudgingly admitted the man.

“And compose,” supplemented the girl.

“Ah,” said the president, “an amateur!” His glasses dropped from his nose. He resumed his supper contentedly. He had named the object under discussion.

After supper he invited the man for a stroll on the beach. It was his first night at the shore that summer and he was hungry for a breath of sea air. For two hours they paced back and forth on the shining beach. The girl from her window looked out, now and then, with an amused smile. “What do you suppose they are doing to each other?” she demanded of her mother, who sat by the lamp, placidly knitting.

Her mother counted the stitches and drew out a needle. “Mr. Manning is a very talented man, Marian,” she said gently.

“And father is a talented man,” said the girl. “I suppose they are exchanging talents.”

Her mother smiled negatively. She was absorbed in rounding a corner.

When the president came in at last, he sat down with almost boyish enthusiasm. “A remarkable man!” he said, with emphasis.

“Father!” It had a little note of regret.

“You like him, James, don't you?” said his wife. She had dropped her work and was gazing at him approvingly. “I knew you would. You must hear him play.”

The president wrinkled his brow. “I don't know that I care much about hearing him play,” he said slowly. “It's the man that interests me. His ideas are remarkable—remarkable!” He twirled his glasses thoughtfully. “I haven't had so many good suggestions for the college in years. He seems to have a kind of genius in that direction.”

The girl groaned softly.

Her father looked up. “It is a pity he has never had academic training. He would be a most valuable man on a faculty”

“You might make him professor of literature,” suggested the girl. “He knows a lot about poetry—writes it.”

The president started. “Does he, indeed!” He shook his head reluctantly. “It wouldn't do. But I should like to have a man like that at hand.” He sighed thoughtfully, a smile on his lips.

The girl watched him, half in impatience. He was the keenest man she knew in judging human nature, and he had failed her. Instinctively she knew what had happened. It was the human quality of the man. It had won her mother from the first. It was what she had constantly to resist in herself when she was with him—a sense of well-being and simple human pleasure. She had resented it in him a hundred times,—the fact that he could be so simply happy, and make others happy, without achieving. She would at least warn her father. “He is a very fascinating man,” she said guardedly.

Her father beamed upon her. “You have discovered it?” he said, with enthusiasm.

“Yes.” Without enthusiasm.

“I have seldom met a man that I liked so much on short acquaintance,” said the president; “I feel as if 1 had known him always.”

“He has never done anything,” said the girl.

The president stared at her. “He planned your Uncle Ansell's house.”

The girl blushed. “Anything of importance, I mean.”

“Oh—well—he is young yet.”

“Thirty-eight.”

“Ah.”

“And has never done anything,” she persisted. He must see it and help her.

“Ah,” said the president cheerfully. “Plenty of time—for a man like that—plenty of time.”

Her mother smiled at him contentedly.

The girl rose with a little sigh. The fire in her eyes had died out. A kind of fate seized hold upon her. And the worst was that the man would never care—he would not care more than he cared now. While she—she saw unfathomable gulfs opening in herself—springs of being—dark places. She might even She had seen girls like that—she drew back.... “Good-night, mother.” She bent and kissed her softly. “Good-night, father.”

the days following she avoided him. At the end of the week they had not exchanged a dozen words alone. Her father had gone back to town and she and her mother fell naturally into the company of the artist as they strolled on the beach or walked home from the downs. When they encountered him, her conversation was as frankly that of good comrades as ever. She was building a fortress, stone by stone. No one must suspect her. She laid the stones each day with careful hand, setting them line by line; and at night she placed anew those that had toppled over, cementing them with scorn and self-humiliation.

Her mother, who guessed nothing of the silent masonry, sang his praises night and day, thus innocently adding her handful of brick and mortar to the structure as it rose. She was not an ambitious mother. She only desired for her daughter's happiness. He was, surely, a man to make any woman happy—wife or mother-in-law. She sang his praises till the bonds of filial respect gave a little under the strain.

“After all, mother, he is only a man!”

“I know, my dear. But that is not his fault. His instincts are as fine as those of a woman.”

Alas—yes! She knew it only too well. No man had the right to be fine—and have done nothing! She laid the stone in place, fitting it with level brows. As fine as a woman! She would not forget.

They were walking home in the late light. The crowd had deserted the beach for the Casino, and the moon coming over the downs threw their shadows on the level beach that stretched ahead. They had turned back for the last time and were approaching the hotel.

“I feel like playing to-night,” said the man. “I wonder if you would care to stop.” He glanced toward the lighted windows of the empty parlor. “We should have it to ourselves. Everybody's at the Casino. I need an audience,” he said, half apologetically, turning to them.

“Fit, though few,” laughed the girl.

“Exactly.”

“Shall we come, mother?” She laid her hand on her mother's arm. She longed to compel her, by main force, along the hall to their room. But she only said laughingly, “Shall we come?”

“Of course, Marian. I would not miss it.” She entered the parlor, her clear face in its bands of white hair flushed with pleasure. She delighted in Manning's playing. He had not played for more than a week, she remembered. He wheeled forward a big chair for her, shading it from the light and placing a footstool. His attendance on her had in it something pleasing, a kind of sincere chivalry. The girl turned from it impatiently, finding a chair for herself and refusing brusquely his offer to place it more comfortably.

“It does very well. We cannot stay long,” she said.

He sat down at the piano without reply. His hands struck the keys in quick sound. She looked up in surprise. It was not like him—this sudden initiative. It grew, and laughed—and died away, restless at heart. It challenged her. She did not speak when it was done, and he glided into another—something gentle and quiet.

She resisted it subtly. She had dreaded to come in to-night. Her heart was tired. She glanced toward her mother. She had fallen asleep in the great chair. She looked very pretty, her hands lying loosely apart, her head drooping a little. She was a dear mother—with the pretty, feminine ways that men like. The girl stirred a little.

The music had stopped. “Tell me something to play,” said the man. He did not look up.

She waited a moment. The silence grew significant.

“Play anything you like. Play something from Sill,” she said at random.

His hands wandered, touching notes, waiting. “'The Fool'”? he asked.

“Yes. If you like.”

He wove music about the theme, groping slowly from note to note. The spirit of the poem held the sound and shaped it. A melody grew in it, sweet and haunting. Words fitted themselves to it, half-chanted, half-sung, breaking off, now and then, for the music, but emerging again with new power—a sense of fate that deepened to the climax, low-toned and full, the cry of the shame-smitten king, “Be merciful to me a Fool!”

Manning's hands waited on the keys. “What else?” he said.

“Play Sill,” she said quickly. He had often improvised for her—some character in life or art. She had a sudden curiosity to know what he would do with this.

“Edward Rowland Sill,” he said thoughtfully. “I am not sure that I can.”

He began to play—a little insignificant air—beginning and breaking off and starting again, as if the scent eluded him. Then, at last, he came upon it, almost unawares, a tentative, hesitating note that called for answer and waited and swept into the maze of sound. Struggle and rebellion and fierce fight for life, broken by strains of sweetness, clear high notes of import that broke and fell apart, a shower of sparks—restlessly blown in the wind.

As she listened she caught the clue. It was his own life he was playing,—the soul beneath the clear life, unseen, unguessed, that drove him always toward achievement, that he would never achieve. It opened to her reaches where the soul ran for life, desperate, breathless, till the next point be won. And the high, clear places where it drew breath—failure behind, achievement still to come, both forgotten in the quiet light.

She caught her breath as she listened. The subtle sense of a life that neither fails nor achieves—poised between rest and unrest on wings of strength—it was what his life meant. Who could have felt it but he? Who else would know! Her heart gave a throb of pride and waited while the music died away.

“Play something else.” She spoke quickly. She wanted to think. She seemed on the brink of discovery. “Go on.”

He waited a little. “Here is something I've wanted to try. I think I can do it—to-night!” He played a few bars and stopped. “The lines you quoted the other day.” He was speaking softly under the music. “Do you remember?—'The campaign with its endless fleece of feathery grasses everywhere. Silence and passion, joy and peace, an everlasting wash of air, Rome's ghost since her decease.'”

The voice ceased. The music opened full wings. It hovered in light—long, clear stretches of light, with the pulse of the past beating through it. She listened joyously, her eyes filling. She had not known that she cared—like this. What could he not be? Poised as life itself—he needed only a motive.... Love?... Life stretched before her. Some great service shone along its way. She strained her eyes to the end—hidden in the mists.... She drew back a little.... To give oneself unasked! The music lifted her and bore her.

When it ceased she looked up. “It is very beautiful.”

He turned to her, his eyes glowing out of the slumbering quiet of the music. “You never said that before.”

“No, I never said it—before. I never thought it.”

“I have played better.”

“I think not.”

He waited, looking at her intently.

“You have played, perhaps, with more feeling, but not”—she searched for the word—“not so perfectly. It is—yourself.” She smiled at the anticlimax.

He ignored the smile. He was looking at her thoughtfully. “You mean that is the kind of music I can do best?”

“Yes.”

“Not great music.”

“Not unless you happen to think so.”

He smiled. “I don't happen to think so. I wish I did.”

“I wish you did.” The tone was quiet.

“Would you mind telling me why?” He had turned away to the music in the rack and was fingering it, fitting it exactly into place.

“I don't want to tell you now. Some day I will—if you will write out something like that and dedicate it to me.” Her tone laughed, but it trembled a little.

He wheeled about. “I will dedicate everything I write to you”

She held up a hand. “Oh, please”

He turned back. “Very well I will compose an opera. I have had it in my head for years. It is in that tone. When it is done it shall be dedicated to you.”

“Thank you.”

“It is not great—I warn you.”

“I don't expect it to be.”

They waited in silence.

“It will be better than great,” she said at last.

He looked at her curiously.

“You know that?”

“Yes.”

“I did not think any one would know.—When did you find it out?” He moved a step nearer.

“To-night, I think.”

“While I was playing?”

“Yes.”

He looked at her with slow glance.

She shook her head. But the fire in her eyes glowed softly. She did not look away. She wanted him to see—all that he might see. She had lost the sense of herself—of small, feminine fear. She was all woman—wooing him. She no longer cared what he might think. He might love her, or he might forget her and leave her. He should have love's chance that he would not take for himself. He should know that he was loved and believed in. Her eyes rested on him with radiance. She waited, without shyness and without wish.

Something dawned in him, and drew back. His lips parted—to shield her.

Then her lids fell. “You will do it,” she said quietly, “because I have asked you, and your reward will be the doing it.”

“And your reward—what shall that be?” His lips moved stiffly—almost against his will. His gaze was on her eyes.

She raised them again, with the soft glow unconcealed—frank and sweet. “My reward will be that you have done it,” she said. “You could not give me other reward if you would.”

Her hand touched her mother's lightly. The mother opened her eyes and smiled at them dreamily, without confusion. “I fell asleep.” she said. “It was beautiful music.”

“He knows that,” said the girl, with a smile; “I have just told him.”

“You have told me more,” said the man. He had moved toward her, holding out his hand.

She put her own in it frankly. “I have not told you anything I did not mean to.—It is my mother who must make her peace with you if she can.”

“I did fall asleep,” said the mother smiling. “But I liked the music. It rested me. I think I heard it in my dreams.”

“I think you did,” said the girl. “It will rest everyone that hears it.” She patted her mother's hand. “He is going to make an opera of it, for the hearing of the nations.”

“I am glad of that,” said her mother. “I shall want to hear it again when it is done.”

“And I,—” said the girl,—“I shall want to hear it too.”

“You shall both hear it,” said the man. His tone was light, but under it something vibrated, full and sweet, like a tiny bell of hope that caught a note from afar and held it ringing.

a month Manning worked steadily on his opera. The mood of the night did not return to her, but she held fast to its vision and to the conviction that at last he would do something worth while. The belief seemed to have communicated itself to him. It held him to his task. Sometimes she caught him looking at her curiously, as if studying her, and once or twice she surprised a look of deep pity in his eyes.

If he had spoken in words, he could not have said more plainly “I cannot do without you. But I can never be more to you than I am now, and that will not satisfy you.” Sometimes the look was humble. It said, “I give all I can. Believe me, I would give more if I could.”

The girl could have laughed in her heart. She had forgotten herself, her need, her questionings. If she still cared what he should be to her, she did not know it; so deeply did she care that he should be himself. She gave without question—but always in one direction. If his interest in music lapsed and he turned to sketching or poetry, she withdrew into herself and waited. Poetry and painting did not exist for her. They should not exist for him—till he had proved himself. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he would return to his task. He had grown dependent on her. He must have her sympathy. If she would not give it except in one direction, he must follow that direction.

So for a month she held him. One morning she came down to find him gone. He had left a note for her. He was tired of the sea. He had gone to the mountains. He would return later—perhaps. He did not return. But he sent for the opera. He wrote asking her to send it. It was in the top of a trunk that he had left packed. He enclosed the key. He did not apologize for troubling her. She did up the sheets, with careful fingers, and sent them to him with the key. She heard no more.

It was late in the season and they were on the point of leaving when he reappeared. She had never seen him look so well. His content with himself and with her and with the whole world irritated her. She could not keep back the question.

“Yes. It is finished.”

She did not question further and they went for a walk on the Cliff. When they came back he said, “I want to play to you.”

“Did you bring it?”

He laughed. “I do not trust it out of my sight.”

She looked at him curiously. “You think it is good?”

“I know it.” It was not boasting or exultation—only the statement of fact.

She smiled. “You are satisfied.”

“I have reason to be. Wait till you hear it.” He had turned away to go for the music. “I did not do it myself, you know,” he said over his shoulder.

When he came back her face was flushed. “What did you mean by saying that?”

“What?” He was running over the keys. “I beg your pardon?” He looked up.

She repeated the question.

His eyes twinkled. “My dear lady, you ought to know who did it!” His fingers had taken up the notes. He was lost in sound. She listened, at first in perplexity, and then in delight. He had changed it all since she heard it,—broadened it, deepened it. It was the very mood of her vision. It came back to her as he played. He had done the thing she had seen for him and he had outdone the dream. Her heart glowed.

When he wheeled about he caught the look in her face. “You like it?”

“When will you publish it?”

He smiled a little. He got up and crossed the room, pacing back and forth once or twice. He came and stood before her. “Will you marry me?”

“No.”

He gathered up the music, crowding it together in his hand.

She moved forward with a quick gesture.

He held it a little from her, smiling. “I shall not hurt it. But it shall not be published till you promise.”

The next morning he was gone again. She had refused to listen to him. He had urged the power of the music, her influence over him, his need of her, her perfect understanding of him and his work. He had asked her almost grudgingly to marry him. He had pleaded with her generously to accept him. She put it from her with a little smile of wistfulness. “I don't think you quite understand,” she said.

As she packed the trunks the next day and made ready to go, her thoughts followed him. She did not reproach him. It was as if fate had come. He had been too honest to say that he loved her. She thanked him for that.... She might have yielded. She needed love—now. And she would never have it.

She folded the last garments and laid them neatly in place. A golf-cape lay on a chair, left out till the last. She took it up and threw it about her shoulders. “I am going for a little walk, mother.”

She hurried across the strip of beach and struck into the downs. They stretched away for miles, cold and brown. She drew a deep breath, walking rapidly. Life was still tonic. Earth and sky hung poised as before. She would come back to them.

fall and early winter fled rapidly. She joined a musical club and went into one of the classes in harmony. She read deeply in musical composition and became almost a local authority on musical biography. Where another woman would have cut herself off from the pain of association, she deliberately sought it, filling it with fresh interest and adding it to her life. Manning himself she did not mention. When her mother brought him into the conversation, she talked of him easily and quietly—enough to divert suspicion she thought.

The only drawback to her serenity was that after these conversations she sometimes found her hands trembling strangely and her heart beating. It was disturbing to a philosophic view of life.

One afternoon in December she came home early from a musical and went directly to her room. She was very tired. She would rest a little before dinner. When she had lain down, she became conscious of voices in the room below. Some one was calling on her mother. The voices rumbled a soothing accompaniment to her sleep.

Suddenly her attention grew alert. The voices had laughed—her mother's in quiet content, and the other—she sat up, pushing back the hair from her face. How foolish! She pressed her hot cheeks between her palms. She.rose and bathed her face, cooling the hot skin slowly. Then she combed her hair, piling it high, and put on her prettiest gown. She descended the stair with tranquil step, the fires within her eyes. Perhaps because she was thinner than a year ago, they blazed a little, lighting the transparent skin. She moved toward the library, whence the murmur of voices came pleasingly.

Her mother looked up with a gentle start. “Why, Marian, I did not know you had come home. Mr. Manning is here.”

He came forward with the old look in his eyes, gentle and human and a little quizzical. Her own fell before it as she withdrew her hand, but her head kept its quiet poise.

“He is going to stay to dinner,” said her mother. “I must tell Lena.” She moved from the room.

They stood facing each other across the fire blazing on the hearth.

He spoke first, choosing his words almost awkwardly. “I ought not to have said I would stay. You may not want me to.—There was something I wanted to say—to explain.”

“Won't you sit down?” She motioned to the chair near him and seated herself on the opposite side of the hearth, shading her eyes from the fire with her hand. Behind its shelter the fire in the depth smouldered.

He did not sit down. He took up the tongs instead and thrust a little at the fire. “I always expected her to be tall,” he said. He straightened himself. “Tall—and handsome,” he added. He rapped the tongs together and set them in place, looking at her almost aggressively.

She did not reply. A little smile had crept into her face.

“What are you laughing at?”

“Nothing,—only a man that I admired—once.”

“Who was he?” He had moved a step uneasily.

“He wasn't at all. I made him up. He was very tall—and handsome.”

He stared at her. A smile dawned in his eyes slowly. “I see.” He gazed at the vision. “Wouldn't they make a gallant pair!”

“Perfect prigs,” she admitted.

“Ah, you do know!” He moved toward her.

“How you feel? Perfectly.” Her voice was cool and impersonal. She had clasped her hands and was leaning forward gazing into the fire, the little smile still on her lips.

He looked at her without speaking. His eyes followed the lines of her figure—its quaint poise and the lighted face.

“You are very beautiful, dear lady,” he said. The words were quiet,—hardly a breath.

She did not stir. She might not have heard them.

He came nearer. “You are beautiful,” he repeated softly. His hand sought the clasped ones and covered them. “Listen.” His voice had a note of authority. “You will not send me away again. I must stay.” He was close to her, scanning her face. “I am not good enough. But I shall stay.”

She had turned her face away swiftly.

He drew it to him, covering it. “You made me come,” he whispered.

“Never!” The word was muffled, but vigorous.

“Ah, but you did,” contentedly. “I tried my best. I travelled thousands of miles to escape.”

She lifted her head proudly. “Then you may go. I do not approve of you. I have never approved of you.”

“No. But you love me?”

She threw out her hands with a little gesture. “Alas—yes!” The tears overran her smile.

He dried them slowly with his handkerchief in little dabs till the smile came out again.

He rose to his feet, stuffing the handkerchief into his pocket. “I'm going to stay,” he said. “I'll make you approve.”

She looked at him, half-fearfully. “How will you do it?”

“My opera will help.” He spoke cheerfully.

“It is good.”

“It's being rehearsed. It's to be given next month.”

“No?” She leaned forward, a little breathless. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“I wanted you to promise—first.”

“I promise. Tell me!” She was on her feet.

“You promise!”

“Yes. But wait. Tell me!” She was moving from him.

He followed close. “I will tell you,” he said, “by and by.”

title: The Middle Distance


text: Talk:The Middle Distance

title: Talk:The Middle Distance


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Page:Memoir of Elizabeth Jones, A Little Indian Girl (1838).djvu/33

 Rh interest in Christ, love prayer as she loved it, take the same delight in reading the Bible and good books, learn with pleasure your catechism and hymns, be obedient to your parents, affectionate and kind to all ; then you will be loved as she was loved; and should an early summons call you hence, you will be prepared to follow where she is gone.

I have before noticed how fond Elizabeth was of singing; and I think it would be well for children to cultivate this habit, and imitate her in this sweet employ of singing and making melody in their hearts unto the Lord. The last hymn she was heard to sing was the following:—

On Friday, the 24th, her remains were carried up to the Indian village, where the Missionary at the river Credit conducted the service, and preached a suitable sermon from Rev. i. 17, 18; in which he bore ample testimony to her early piety, amiable disposition, and remarkable intelligence.

Her death had excited as much interest as is often produced by that of persons of maturer age;


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Page:Alumni Oxonienses (1500-1714) volume 3.djvu/178

 Robert Moore.

1500 — 1714.

Walter Moore.

Ho(o)re, Robert; B.A. sup. 33 June. 1528, M.A. 30 Jan., 1531-2; possibly bM-at-law,_ Lincoln's Inii, Trinity term,

risUrs, but sec Fc

9. See Foster's Judges and Bar- oster's Index EccL

Xoore, Robert; probably scholar of Brasenose Coll. in and before 1565, B.A 30 Oct, 1566.

]iCo(o)re, Robert ; B.A 11 Feb., 1576-7.

Moor, Robert, of Southants, pleb. New Coll., matric. — July, 1588, aged ao; fellow 1589-97, B.A 16 April, 1591, M.A 15 Jan., 1594-5, B. andD.D. 5 July, 161^ ; bom at Holyrood, Southampton, edu- cated in Wykeham's school, "adorned with variety of learning," rector of Milbrooke 1597, and of West Meon 1601, of Chilcombe 1601, vicar of Hambledon 1603. and of East Meon (all Hants), 1613. canon of Chichester 1612, and Winchester 1613-ji ; died 20 Feb., 1639; father of Robert 1634. »ae Atk, ii. 654 ; & Fctsti, i. 254.

Mo(o)re, Robert, of Oxon, gent Brasenosb Coll. , matric 6 July, 1593, aged 17; B.A 27 Feb.,

1594-5- [•]

])fO(0)re, (Sir) Robert, of Surrey, arm. fiL Corpus Christi coll., matric. j Dec., 1505, aged 14; B. A from University Coll. 7 July, 1598 (then eg. fiL n. m.), ; student of Inner Temple 1600, as of Loseley (is. Sir George), knighted June, 1603; M.P. Guildford 1601, 1614. 1621-2, and 1625, Surrey 1604-11. and 1624-5; died in his fathers lifetime 2 Feb., 1625-6; brother of William 1601, and John 1605. See Foster's Inns of Court Reg,

]iCo(o)re, Robert ; B. A from Exeter Coll. 12 May, 1617.

Moore, Robert, s. Simon, of Atherslone, co. Warwick, sacerd. New Inn Hall, matric. 9 De&, 1631, aged 17.

Hoore, Robert, s. Robert, of West Meon, Hants, doctoris. ExETER Coll., matric. 21 Nov., 1634, aged 16.

Hoore, Robert, s. Robert, of Littleton, co. Worcester, gent Trinity Coll., matric. 21 Feb., 1661-2, aged 16, B. A 1665 ; M. A from Magdalen Hall

1668. [10]

Ho(o)re. Robert, s. Nic, of Fetcham, Surrey, cler. St. John's Coll., matric. 22 June, 1683. aged 17; student of Middle Temple 1682. See Foster's Inns of Court Reg.

Moore, Samuel, s. John, of London, arm. Wadham Coll., matric. 28 March, 1702. aged 17 ; student of Inner Temple 1703 (his father of Jamaica). See Foster's Inns of Court Reg,

Mo(o)re, Stephen, of co. Leicester, pleb. Balliol Coll., matric 6 July, 1613, aged 20, B.A 4 May, 1615 ; M.A from Lincoln Coll. 11 May, 1618, vicar of Youlgreave, co. Derby, 1624. See Foster's Index Eccl,

Ifoore, Stephen, s. Rich., of Clonmell, co. Tipperary, Ireland, arm. Exeter Coll., matria 18 May,

1669, aged 16 ; of Kilworth, co. Cork, student of Inner Temple 1670. governor of co. Tipperary and colonel of militia, grandfather of Stephen, Viscount Mountcashell S^ Foster's Peerage,

More, Sir Thomas, of Canterbury Coll. or St. Mary Hall, hi^h chancellor of England, high steward of university of Oxford 1524, and of Cam-

bridge 1^25, M.P. (? Middlesex) 1533, and spesdcer 1523, benwided on Tower Hill 6 July, 153c. Ath. L 79 ; Cooper^ i. 54 ; & Lansdowne MSS.

See

f. 237, and 979, f. 127.

Moore, Thomas ; B-Gram. sup. 13 June, 1513.

Mo(o)re, Thomas; B.A 16 Nov., 1542, demy Mag- dalen Coll. 1543. See Bloxam, iv. 98.

Mo(o)re, Thomas; M.A 8 July. 1575, See OM.S, xii. 47. S3.

Mo(o)re, Thomas; B.A. (?from Exeter Coll.) 17 Feb., 1575-6, M.A II July, 1578, B.D. 7 July, 1591, D.D. 7 July, 1608. See Foster's Index EccL

Moore, Thomas, of Wilts, arm. fiL nat. max. Queen's Coll., matric. 7 Dec. 1604, aged 15. L^O]

Mo(o)re, Thomas, of Hants, gent New Coll., matric. 11 Oct., 1616, aged 20; B.A 10 May, x6ao, M.A 15 Jan., 1623-4.

Moore, Thomas, s. " Johis Smyth," of Shaxton. co. Leicester, sacerd. Lincoln Coll.. matric. 27 Jan., 1625-6, aged 19; B.A 25 June, 1628. vicar oif Abkettleby. co. Leicester, 1636. See Foster's Index Eccl.

Mo{o)re, Thomas, pleb. Merton Coll., matric. 2a

iune, 1632, afterwards called himself Thomas de la 4oore {PVood); postmaster and B.A., retired to St. Alban Hall; bar.-at-law, Gray's Inn. 1642 (as son of John, of Paynes Farm [parish of TeyntonJ, Oxon, esq. ), took up arms for the pariiament, cornet to the life guard of Sir Thomas Fairfax, ordained by Dr. Skinner, bishop of Worcester ; died 1685. See AtA. iv, 179 ; & Foster's Judges and Barristers.

Moore, Thomas, s. Thomas, of Buckingham. Budcs, pleb. Merton Coll., matric. 11 D^, 1640, aged

Mo(o)re, Thomas, gent Balliol Coll., matric. ao Feb., 1648-9; B.A 24 Feb., 1651-2. [aS]

Mo(ojre. Thomas ; scholar Trinity Coll. 1648. RA. 26 I'eb., 1651-2, M.A. 21 June, 1654 rector of Hammoon, Dorset, ejected at the restoration ; died at Milton Abbot, Aug., 1699. See Calamy, ii. 139 ; & Burrows^ 552.

Moore, Thomas, s. Jasper, of Halesbuty, Wilts, genL Magdalen Hall, matric 16 June, 1661, aged 18.

Moore, Thomas, s. John, of Bankhall, co. Lancaster, gent. Brasbnose Coll.. matric 3 July. 1668, aged 20 ; student of Inner Temple 16^. as of Kirk- dale, ca Lancaster, gen. See l^osioi's Inns of Court

Reg- Moore, Thomas, s. Dan., of Yealmpton, Devon, p. p.

New Inn Hall, matric. 21 May. 1669, aged 22 ;

perhaps rector of Dodbrooke, Devon, 1674. ^^

Fosters Index Eccl. Moore,' Thomas, s. Adrian, of Egham, Surrey, arm.

Corpus Christi Coll. , matric. 19 June, 1674. aged

18 ; student of Gray's Inn 167a Sec Foster's Grays

Inn Reg, [SO]

Moore, Thomas, s. Roger, of New Alresford, Hants,

cler. St. Mary Hall, matric. 26 March, 1675.

aged 16 ; B.A. 1670. Moore, Thomas, s. William, of Worcester city, pleb.

Christ Church, matric 27 Jan., 1681-2, aged 16;

student of Inner Temple 1683. See Foster's Inns

of Court Reg. Mo(0)re, Thomas, s. Eliot, of Wivelsfield, Sussex.

gent Oriel Coll., matric 23 May, 1696, aged

17. Moore, Thomas, s. Th., of Embrough, Somerset.

pleb. Hart Hall, matric. zo Aug., 1705, aged 15;

B.A 1709. Moore, Thomas, s. Joh., of Dorrington, Wilts, gent

Pembroke Coll., matric 5 June. 1712, aged 16;

B.A from Trinity Coll. 9 Feb., 1715-16; M.A

x6 March, 1718-19. See Foster's Index Eccl. [SS] Moore, Thurgood, B.A from Magdalen Cotx.,

Cambridge, 1694-5, M.A. 1698; incorporated 9

July, 170a

Moore, Walter, RA 7 Feb., 1564-5.

Moore, Walter, of ca Warwick, pleb. TRiNmr Coll., matric 28 April, 1592. aged 15; B.A. 8 Dec, 1596, M.A 10 April, 1600, licenced to preach 10 Nov., i6o6, B.D. II May, 1608, rector of Den- bury, Devon, 1606. and of Authorpe, co. Lincoln. 1617, canon of Exeter x63a See Foster's Index Ecclesiasticus,

[ I02S ] [ 1025 ]


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Page:Buddenbrooks vol 2 - Mann (IA buddenbrooks0002mann).pdf/16

RV 6 (BUDDENBROOKS) they have brought a splendid present to the Buddenbrooks: a huge brown bear stuffed in a standing position. A relative of the Pastor’s shot him somewhere in the heart of Russia, and now he stands below in the vestibule with a card-tray between his paws.

The Krögers have their son Jürgen visiting them; he is a post-office official in Rostock, a quiet, simply-dressed man. Where Jacob is, nobody knows but his mother, who was an Överdieck. She, poor, weak woman, secretly sells the household silver to send money to the disinherited son. And the ladies Buddenbrook are there, deeply rejoiced over the happy family event—which does not prevent Pfiffi from remarking that the child looks rather unhealthy: a view which the Frau Consul, born Stüwing, and likewise Friederike and Henriette, feel bound to endorse. But poor Clothilde, lean, grey, resigned, and hungry, is moved by the words of Pastor Pringsheim and the prospect of layer-cake and chocolate. The guests not belonging to the family are Herr Friedrich Wilhelm Marcus and Sesemi Weichbrodt.

Now the Pastor turns to the god-parents and instructs them in their duty. Justus Kröger is one. Consul Buddenbrook refused at first to ask him. “Why invite the old man to commit a piece of folly?” he says. “He has frightful scenes with his wife every day over Jacob; their little property is slowly melting away—out of pure worry he is even beginning to be careless in his dress! But you know what will happen: if we ask him, he will send the child a heavy gold service and refuse to be thanked for it!” But when Uncle Justus heard who was to be asked in his place—Stephan Kistenmaker had been mentioned—he was so enormously piqued that they had to ask him after all. The gold mug he presented was, to Thomas’s great relief, not exaggeratedly heavy.

And the second god-father? It is this dignified old gentleman with the snow-white hair, high neck-band, and soft black broadcloth coat with the red handkerchief sticking out of the back pocket, sitting here bent over his stick, in the most

RV 6 (6)


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Page:Alumni Oxonienses (1500-1714) volume 3.djvu/139

 Mathew, John, "Pater," B.D. 27 May, 1542.

Mathew, John, fellow of. 1560-73, from Mildenhall, Wilts, B.C.L. 4 June, 1567; died 1603.

Mathew, John, scholar. 1565, from Wilton, B.A. 30 Jan., 1569-70.

Mathew, John (? Mathen), of co. Gloucester, pleb. , matric. 30 Jan., 1589-90, aged 30; one of these names rector of Tortworth, co. Gloucester, 1620. See Foster's Index Eccl.

Matthew, John, of Oxon, episcopi. fil. , matric. 30 March, 1599, aged 19 (s. Toby, bishop of Durham); brother of Toby 1590, and of Samuel 1581. [],

Matthews, John, of Middlesex pleb. ., matric. 28 June, 1620, aged 18 (as Matthew); B.A. 20 April, 1624, M.A. 13 May, 1628 (as Matthews); admitted to Merchant Taylors' school 1614; born 29 Oct., 1601, rector of Nymet Tracey 1630, of Broad Nymett 1630, and of Bow, near Barnstaple, 1643-4. See Robinson, i. 80; & Foster's Index Eccl.

Mathew, John, s. Richard, of Yattendon, Berks, pleb. ., matric. 25 June, 1624, aged 18; B.A. 28 June, 1628, M.A. 7 July, 1631.

Matthew, John, s. William, of St. Cue, Cornwall, pleb. ., matric. 24 Oct., 1634, aged 18; buried there 1701; brother of William 1635.

Mathews, John, s. Thomas, of Pinner, Middlesex, pleb. ., matric. 26 Jan., 1637-8, aged 17.

Mathews, John, s. Roger, of Bloxham, Oxon, sacerd. ., matric. 24 May, 1639, aged 16; brother of Stephen 1634. [],

Mathew, John, s. Edward, of Buckerell, Devon, pleb. ., matric. 20 May, 1642, aged 18; created M.A. 14 April, 1648, "refused to come to Tozer's chapel service." See Burrows, 500.

Mathews, John, M.A. of Cambridge; incorporated 24 April, 1650; perhaps B.A. from. 1627-8, M.A. 1631. See Foster's Graduati Cantab.

Mathew, John, gent. ., matric. 23 June, 1653, B.A. 13 Oct., 1656; M.A. from 4 June, 1659.

Mathew, John, s. Tho., of Banbury, Oxon, minister. ., matric. 22 March, 1663-4, aged 15; B.A. from 1667; perhaps created M.A. 20 Dec., 1670.

Mathewes, John, "ser." s. Samuel, of Cantlop, p.p. . matric. 10 March, 1664-5, aged 18; B.A. 1668. [],

Matthews, John, s. John, of Gloucester (city), pleb. ., 15 March, 1666-7, aged 15; B.A. 1670, M.A. 1673, vicar of Tewkesbury, co. Gloucester, 1703, until his death 26 May, 1729, aged 79; buried there. See Hearne, i. 237; Rawl. iii. 365, xx. 284c.

Mathew, John, s. Richard, of Claverley, Salop, pleb. , matric. 9 July, 1667, aged 19.

Matthew, John, s. Edm., of Wollaston, Northants, p.p. ., matric. 17 March, 1670-1, aged 15; B.A. 24 March, 1674-5; perhaps vicar of Weedon Beck, Northants, 1676. See Foster's Index Eccl.

Mathewes, John, s. J., of Shrewsbury (town), gent. ., matric. 1 Dec., 1691, aged 16; one of these names rector of Quatt, Salop, 1709, and of Broseley, Salop, 1711. See Foster's Index Eccl.

Matthewes, John, s. John, of Holme-Lacy, co. Hereford, pleb. , matric. 29 April, 1703, aged 16, B.A. 1707; M.A. from ., Cambridge, 1713; one of these names rector of Graffham, Hunts, 1713, and vicar of Hartford, Hunts, 1720. See Foster's Index Eccl.

Mathews, John, M.A. ., Dublin (B.A. 1700), incorporated 27 May, 1706. [],

Matthews, John, s. Ric., of Bibury, co. Gloucester, pleb. , matric. 17 Dec., 1712, aged 17; B.A. 1716.

Mathews, Joseph, s. John, of St. Mary Overy, Surrey, pleb. , matric. 29 Oct., 1641, aged 15; possibly B.A. from ., Cambridge, 1644-5, M.A. 1648 (perhaps incorporated 24 April, 1650, as John), B.D. 1655.

Matthews, Joseph, B.A. from. 14 Dec., 1653, vicar of Wilton St. Mary, Wilts, 1657, canon of Sarum 1662, vicar of Dipden, Hants, 1663. See Foster's Index Eccl.

Mathew, Laurence, B.A. sup. 16 April, 1572, rector of Hartley Mawditt, Hants, 1575. See Foster's Index Eccl. [],

Mathewes, Lemuel, s. Marm., of Swansea, co. Glamorgan, pleb. ., matric. 25 May, 1661, aged 17.

Mathewe, Leonard, commoner of ., in and before 1564.

Mathewes, Manesseh, cler. fil. ., matric. 9 Aug., 1658 (subs. Manesses), rector of Port Eynon 1662, vicar of Swansea 1670, and of Llangevelach (all co. Glamorgan) 1677; father of the next. See Foster's Index Eccl.

Mathews, Mansell, s. M., of Swansea, co. Glamorgan, cler. ., matric. 17 Dec., 1680, aged 17.

Mathewe, Marmaduke, of co. Glamorgan, arm. ., matric. entry under date 4 July, 1579, aged 18; a student of Gray's Inn 1586. See Foster's Gray's Inn Reg. [],

Mathewes, Marmaduke, s. Matthew, of Swansea, co. Glamorgan, pleb. ., matric. 20 Feb., 1623-4, aged 18; B.A. 25 Feb., 1624-5, M.A. 5 July, 1627, vicar of St. John's, Swansea, co. Glamorgan, ejected 1662 for nonconformity; died about 1683; perhaps brother of Edward 1634; father of Lemuel 1661. See Calamy, iii. 504.

Mathews, Matthew, s. William, of Smisby, co. Leicester, pleb. ., matric. 4 May, 1638, aged 16; sequestered to the vicarage of Ortonon-the-Hill, co. Leicester, 1647, by the Westminster assembly. See ''Add. MS''. 15,671, p. 117.

Mathewes, Maurice, s. John, of Blodwell, Salop, gent. ., matric. 26 Sept., 1634, aged 18; B.A. 5 May, 1636, M.A. 2 July, 1639, rector of Erbistock, co. Denbigh, 1660, canon of Llandaff 1661. See Foster's Index Eccl.

Mathewes, Maurice, s. Robert, of Blodwell, Salop, pleb. , matric. 12 July, 1667, aged 17.

Mathewes, Maurice, s. William, of Llanharam, co. Glamorgan, pleb. ., matric. 20 March, 1688-9, aged 15; B.A. 1692, M.A. 1695.

Matthews, "Michayah,", cler. fil. ., matric. 21 April, 1658, B.A. 22 March, 1658-9, as "Micah." [],

Mathews, Miles, created M.A. 1 Nov., 1642.

Matthew, Morgan, of co. Glamorgan, pleb. ., matric. 1 June, 1621, aged 21; B.A. 25 June, 1621, rector of Bittadon, Devon, 1628. See Foster's Index Eccl.

Matthew, Nathaniel, s. G., of Exeter (city), gent. ., matric. 25 Feb., 1712-13, aged 17; B.A. 1716, M.A. 1719, vicar of Harberton, Devon, 1723. See Foster's Index Eccl.

Matthews, Philip, s. Mered., of Reynoldston, co. Glamorgan, cler. ., matric. 5 July, 1681, aged 16; possibly M.A. from ., Dublin, 1687; incorporated 6 June, 1689, vicar of Llanddewi (in Gower), co. Glamorgan, 1689. See Foster's Index Eccl. [] [ 988 ]


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Page:Alumni Oxonienses (1500-1714) volume 3.djvu/159

 Mew, Thomas, s. John, of Kingston, Dorset, pleb. , matric. 20 Oct., 1626, aged 18, B.A. 6 Feb., 1629-30; M.A. from ., Cambridge, 1632, rector of Wootton Glanville, Dorset, 1638. See Foster's Index Eccl.  Mew, Thomas, s. Thomas, of Axmouth, Devon, pleb. , matric. 26 Oct., 1627, aged 21; B.A. 12 Nov., 1627.  Mew, Walter, of Devon, pleb. , matric. 8 Nov., 1616, aged 17; B.A. 19 Oct., 1620.  Mews, William, of Hants, arm. ., matric. 21 June, 1594, aged 15; possibly a student of Middle Temple 1597, as 4s. Peter, of Purse Caundle, Dorset, gen., deceased. See Foster's Inns of Court Reg.  Meymott, Edmund, s. Francis, of Leadenham (co. Lincoln), cler. ., matric. 7 Nov., 1712, aged 17; demy 1712-21, B.A. 1716, M.A. 1719, fellow 1721-8, rector of Horsington, co. Lincoln, 1727-9, of South Normanton and of Youlgreave, co. Derby, 1729; his father vicar of Long Leadenham 1694-1722. See Bloxam, vi. 184; and Foster's Index Eccl.  []

Meynell, Cuthbert (Mennell or Menwell), B.A. 10 March, 1515-6, M.A. 14 July, 1519.  Meynell, Thomas (Maynell) ser., ., matric. 20 July, 1654, B.A. 11 March, 1657-8; M.A. from 7 Aug., 1660, rector of South Kilworth, co. Leicester, 1662, and of Kirk Langley, co. Derby, 1662, canon of Lichfield 1674. See Foster's Index Eccl.  Me(y)rick, Christopher (Merrich), demy. 1585-9, B.A. 27 June, 1587; perhaps bar.-at-law, Inner Temple, 1598, as of Southwark, Surrey, and late of Clement's Inn, gen. See Bloxam, iv. 224; & Foster's Judges and Barristers.

Meyrick, Edmund (Meryk, Myrycke, or Merwick), B.A. 9 Feb., 1554-5, B.C.L. 9 July, 1558, D.C.L. 14 July, 1567 (s. Meuric ap Llewelyn, of Bodorgan, in Anglesey), archdeacon of Bangor 1559, chancellor of St. Asaph, canon of Lichfield 1558, sinecure rector of Corwen, co. Merioneth, 1559, will dated 3 Oct., 1603, proved 4 June, 1606; brother of Rowland 1531, and perhaps father of Rowland 1590. See Thomas, St. Asaph, 239; & Foster's Index Ecclesiasticus.

Meyricke, Edmund (Myricke) gent., ., matric. 23 July, 1656, B.A. 12 Oct., 1659, M.A. 1662, incorporated at Cambridge 1663, vicar of Eynsham, Oxon, 1663, of Llangarthen 1664, and of Llanarthney 1666, and rector of Penboyr (all co. Carmarthen) 1668, rector of Burton, co. Pembroke, 1670, prebendary in collegiate church of Brecon 1670, and precentor 1685, rector of Stackpole Elidor, co. Pembroke, 1675, vicar of Llanegwad, co. Carmarthen, 1677, canon of St. Davids 1690, and treasurer 1691. See Foster's Index Eccl.
 []

Meyrick, Francis (Merik), s. John, of London (city) gent. ., matric. 5 Oct., 1674, aged 17.

Meyricke, Griffin (Merricke), B.A. 6 March, 1580-1.

Meyrick, Henry (Merrick), B.A. from ., Cambridge, 1580; incorporated 25 Jan., 1581-2; M.A. from 2 July, 1583, prebendary of Llandaff 1583. See Foster's Index Eccl.

Meyricke, Jasper (Merricke), B.A. (? from ) 19 Feb., 1573-4, M.A. 5 June, 1576, rector of Woodchester, co. Gloucester, 1584, and of Wick Rissington, co. Gloucester, 1587. See Foster's Index Eccl.

Meyrick, Jasper (Merrick); B.A. from 2 July, 1622.
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Meyrick, John (Merrick, Meryche or Mirick), fellow of ., 1555-72, from Bodeon in Anglesey, B.A. 12 Dec., 1558, M.A. 26 June, 1562, proctor 1565; perhaps rector of Llanllechid, co. Carnarvon, 1563; bishop of the Isle of Man 1577, until his death 7 Nov., 1599; perhaps brother of William 1565. See Ath. ii. 843-4; Lansdowne MS. 982, f. 274; & Foster's Index Eccl.

Meyricke, John, s. J., of Clunton, Salop, p.p. ., matric. 23 March, 1677-8, aged 16.

Meyrick, John (Merrick), s. J., of Reading, Berks, gent. ., matric. 5 July, 1688, aged 17; B.A. 1691, M.A. 1696, B.Med. 1697, D.Med. 1708, died at Reading 5 April, 1757, aged 86; father of James and John. See 2nd series, page 946.

Meyrick, John, s. Essex, of Bush, co. Pembroke, arm. ., matric. 22 March, 1688-9, aged 15; bar.-at-law, Middle Temple, 1697, bencher 1723, M.P. Pembroke 1702-8, and Cardigan 1710, until 1712, when he became a Welsh judge. See Foster's Judges and Barristers.

Meyricke, Lewis, gent. ., matric. 18 March, 1657-8, bar.-at-law, Gray's Inn, 1667, bencher 1689, as son of Edmond, of Ulcheldrei, co. Merioneth, esq. See Foster's Judges and Barristers.
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Meyricke, Maurice (Mericke), of co. Anglesey, pleb. ., matric. 11 May, 1582, aged 19; scholar 1582, B.A. 27 Oct., 1585, fellow, M.A. 2 June, 1589, registrar of the university 1600-8; died 1640. See Gutch, i. 217.

Meyricke, Morgan (Mirryke), of co. Monmouth, pleb. , matric. 14 Oct., 1596, aged 19.

Meyrick, Peter (Merrick), B.A. from. 31 March, 1652, vicar of Llandilo-tal-y-bont, co. Glamorgan, 1662, rector of Port Eynon, co. Glamorgan, 1681; father of the next. See Burrows, 503; & Foster's Index Eccl.

Meyreicke, Peter, s. P., of Llandilo-Talybont, co. Glamorgan, cler. ., matric. 29 April, 1687, aged 20; B.A. 23 Feb., 1690-1, M.A. 1694, rector of Llanedy, co. Carmarthen, 1700. See Foster's Index Eccl.

M(e)yricke, Reese, of co. Glamorgan, arm. ., matric. 27 Nov., 1607, aged 17.
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Meyrick, Rice (Meirick), of co. Radnor, pleb. , matric. entry 4 June, 1602, aged 19.

Meyrick, Rice (Mirick), of co. Glamorgan, pleb. ., matric. 5 July, 1605, aged 13.

Meyrick, Rice (Merick) s. William, of Pendleton, co. Glamorgan, pleb. ., matric. 5 April, 1639, aged 17.

Meyricke, Richard (Mericke) of Oxon, gent. ., matric. 11 Dec., 1584, aged 20; student of Middle Temple 1587, as son and heir of Rowland, of Banbury, Oxon, gent. See Foster's Inns of Court Reg.

Meyricke, Richard s. William, of Bodorgan, co. Anglesea, arm. ., matric. 27 Feb., 1693-4, aged 17; student of Gray's Inn 1694. See Foster's Gray's Inn Reg.
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Me(y)rick, Robert, B.A. from 17 June, 1578, M.A. 3 March, 1581-2, rector of Horton, Bucks, 1584, vicar of Staines, Middlesex, 1587, and perhaps of Stanton St. Quenton, Wilts, 1609, until his death in 1639. See Foster's Index Eccl.

Meyrick, Rowland (Merycke) of, B.C.L. 9 Dec., 1531, B.Can.L. sup. 14 Oct., 1534, D.C.L. 17 Feb., 1537-8, principal of 1534-5, rector of Eglwyssail, co. Anglesey, 1541, and of a portion of Llandewi Velfrey, co. Pembroke, 1541, vicar of Stoke-by-Nayland, Suffolk, 1544, rector of Llanbedrog, co. Carnarvon, 1562, canon and chancellor of St. Davids 1550, bishop of Bangor 1559 until his death 24 Jan., 1565-6; bro her of Edmund 1555. See Ath. ii. 797; Lansdowne MS. 981, f. 40; & Foster's Index Eccl.
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RV 7 (BUDDENBROOKS) comfortable arm-chair in the house. It is, of course, Burgomaster Dr. Överdieck. It is a great event—a triumph! Good heavens, how could it have come about? he is hardly even a relative! The Buddenbrooks must have dragged the old man in by the hair! In fact, it is rather a feat: a little intrigue planned by the Consul and Madame Permaneder. At first it was merely a joke, born of the great relief of knowing that mother and child were safe. “A boy, Tony,” cried the Consul. “He ought to have the Burgomaster for god-father!” But she took it up in earnest, whereupon he considered the matter seriously and agreed to make a trial. They hid behind Uncle Justus, and got him to send his wife to her sister-in-law, the wife of Överdieck the lumber dealer. She accepted the task of preparing the old father-in-law; then Thomas Buddenbrook made a visit to the head of the state and paid his respects—and the thing was done.

Now the nurse lifts up the child’s cap, and the Pastor cautiously sprinkles two or three drops out of the gilt-lined silver basin in front of him, upon the few hairs of little Buddenbrook, as he slowly and impressively names the names with which he is baptizing him: Justus, Johann, Kaspar. Follows a short prayer, and then the relatives file by to bestow a kiss upon the brow of the unconcerned little creature. Therese Weichbrodt comes last, to whom the nurse has to stoop with her burden; in return for which Sesemi gives him two kisses, that go off with small explosions, and says, between them: “You good che-ild!”

Three minutes later, the guests have disposed themselves in salon and living-room, and the sweets are passed. Even Pastor Pringsheim, the toes of his broad, shiny boots showing under his black vestments, sits and sips the cool whipped cream off his hot chocolate, chatting easily the while, and wearing his serene expression, which is most effective by way of contrast with his sermon. His manner says, as plainly as words: “See how I can lay aside the priest and become the jolly ordinary guest!” He is a versatile, an accommodating

RV 7 (7)


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266 of modern Socinians. Islám admits the miraculous conception of Christ, and that he is the "Word" which God "conveyed into Mary;" and whilst the other five great prophets are but "the chosen," "the preacher," "the friend," "the converser with," and "the messenger" of God, Jesus is admitted to be the "Spirit of God." He is the greatest miracle worker of all the prophets, and whilst Muhammad is dead and buried, and saw corruption, all Muslim divines admit that Jesus "saw no corruption," and still lives with a human body in Paradise.

Moreover, it is said in the Hadís that the Núr-i-Muhammad, the light of Muhammad, was created before all things which were made by God. The pre-existence of the divine "Word which was made flesh and dwelt amongst us" is not, therefore, an idea foreign to the Muslim mind.


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RV 8 (BUDDENBROOKS) sort of man. To the Frau Consul he speaks rather unctuously, to Thomas and Gerda like a man of the world, and with Frau Permaneder he is downright jocose, making jokes and gesturing fluently. Now and then, whenever he thinks of it, he folds his hands in his lap, tips back his head, glooms his brows, and makes a long face. When he laughs he draws the air in through his teeth in little jerks.

Suddenly there is a stir in the corridor, the servants are heard laughing, and in the doorway appears a singular figure, come to offer congratulations. It is Grobleben: Grobleben, from whose thin nose, no matter what the time of year, there ever hangs a drop, which never falls. Grobleben is a workman in one of the Consul’s granaries, and he has an extra job, too, at the house, as boots. Every morning early he appears in Broad Street, takes the boots from before the door, and cleans them below in the court. At family feasts he always appears in holiday attire, presents flowers, and makes a speech, in a whining, unctuous voice, with the drop pendent from his nose. For this, he always gets a piece of money—but that is not why he does it!

He wears a black coat—an old one of the Consul’s—greased leather top-boots, and a blue woollen scarf round his neck. In his wizened red hand he holds a bunch of pale-coloured roses, which are a little past their best, and slowly shed their petals on the carpet. He blinks with his small red eyes, but apparently sees nothing. He stands still in the doorway, with his flowers held out in front of him, and begins straightway to speak. The old Frau Consul nods to him encouragingly and makes soothing little noises, the Consul regards him with one eyebrow lifted, and some of the family—Frau Permaneder, for instance—put their handkerchiefs to their mouths.

“I be a poor man, yer honour ’n’ ladies ’n’ gentlemen, but I’ve a feelin’ hairt; ’n’ the happiness of my master comes home to me, it do, seein’s he’s allus been so good t’ me; ’n’

RV 8 (8)