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Talk:Now and After: The ABC of Communist Anarchism

Source
https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=mdp.39015069766049 offers full scans of the 1929 version. Prosfilaes (talk) 17:09, 1 February 2024 (UTC)


text: The Genuine Remains in Verse and Prose of Mr. Samuel Butler/Volume 1/Satyr upon Gaming

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


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 his sensation of time. His sermons had always lasted exactly half an hour. With the clock right before him, and with his ready flow of words, this had been no difficult matter as long as he could see. But it was the same when he was blind; as the minute-hand came to the point, marking the expiration of the thirty minutes, he concluded his sermon.

Under his great sorrow he was always patient. As in times of far greater affliction, he enforced a quiet endurance of his woe upon himself. But so many interests were quenched by this blindness that he was driven inwards, and must have dwelt much on what was painful and distressing in regard to his only son. No wonder that his spirits gave way, and were depressed. For some time before this autumn, his daughters had been collecting all the information they could respecting the probable success of operations for cataract performed on a person of their father's age. About the end of July, Emily and Charlotte had made a journey to Manchester for the purpose of searching out an operator; and there they heard of the fame of the late Mr. Wilson as an oculist. They went to him at once, but he could not tell, from description, whether the eyes were ready for being operated upon or not. It therefore became necessary for Mr. Brontë to visit him; and towards the end of August, Charlotte brought her father to him. He determined at once to undertake the operation, and recommended them to comfortable lodgings, kept by an old servant of his. These were in one of numerous similar streets of small monotonous-looking houses, in a


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 suburb of the town. From thence the following letter is dated, on August 21st, 1846:—

"I just scribble a line to you to let you know where I am, in order that you may write to me here, for it seems to me that a letter from you would relieve me from the feeling of strangeness I have in this big town. Papa and I came here on Wednesday; we saw Mr. Wilson, the oculist, the same day; he pronounced papa's eyes quite ready for an operation, and has fixed next Monday for the performance of it. Think of us on that day! We got into our lodgings yesterday. I think we shall be comfortable; at least, our rooms are very good, but there is no mistress of the house (she is very ill, and gone out into the country), and I am somewhat puzzled in managing about provisions; we board ourselves. I find myself excessively ignorant. I can't tell what to order in the way of meat. For ourselves I could contrive, papa's diet is so very simple; but there will be a nurse coming in a day or two, and I am afraid of not having things good enough for her. Papa requires nothing, you know, but plain beef and mutton, tea and bread and butter; but a nurse will probably expect to live much better; give me some hints, if you can. Mr. Wilson says we shall have to stay here for a month at least. I wonder how Emily and Anne will get on at home with Branwell. They, too, will have their troubles. What would I not give to have you here! One is forced, step by step, to get experience in the world; but the learning is so disagreeable. One cheerful


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 feature in the business is, that Mr. Wilson thinks most favourably of the case."

1em

"The operation is over; it took place yesterday. Mr. Wilson performed it; two other surgeons assisted. Mr. Wilson says, he considers it quite successful; but papa cannot yet see anything. The affair lasted precisely a quarter of an hour; it was not the simple operation of couching, Mr. C. described, but the more complicated one of extracting the cataract. Mr. Wilson entirely disapproves of couching. Papa displayed extra-ordinary patience and firmness; the surgeons seemed surprised. I was in the room all the time, as it was his wish that I should be there; of course, I neither spoke nor moved till the thing was done, and then I felt that the less I said, either to papa or the surgeons, the better. Papa is now confined to his bed in a dark room, and is not to be stirred for four days; he is to speak and be spoken to as little as possible. I am greatly obliged to you for your letter, and your kind advice, which gave me extreme satisfaction, because I found I had arranged most things in accordance with it, and, as your theory coincides with my practice, I feel assured the latter is right. I hope Mr. Wilson will soon allow me to dispense with the nurse; she is well enough, no doubt, but somewhat too obsequious; and not, I should think, to be much trusted; yet I was obliged to trust her in some things

"Greatly was I amused by your account of 's flirtations; and yet something saddened also. I think


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 Nature intended him for something better than to fritter away his time in making a set of poor, unoccupied spinsters unhappy. The girls, unfortunately, are forced to care for him, and such as him, because, while their minds are mostly unemployed, their sensations are all unworn, and, consequently, fresh and green; and he, on the contrary, has had his fill of pleasure, and can with impunity make a mere pastime of other people's torments. This is an unfair state of things; the match is not equal. I only wish I had the power to infuse into the souls of the persecuted a little of the quiet strength of pride—of the supporting consciousness of superiority (for they are superior to him because purer)—of the fortifying resolve of firmness to bear the present, and wait the end. Could all the virgin population of receive and retain these sentiments, he would continually have to veil his crest before them. Perhaps, luckily, their feelings are not so acute as one would think, and the gentleman's shafts consequently do'ntdon't [sic] wound so deeply as he might desire. I hope it is so."

A few days later, she writes thus: "Papa is still lying in bed, in a dark room, with his eyes bandaged. No inflammation ensued, but still it appears the greatest care, perfect quiet, and utter privation of light are necessary to ensure a good result from the operation. He is very patient, but, of course, depressed and weary. He was allowed to try his sight for the first time yesterday. He could see dimly. Mr. Wilson seemed perfectly satisfied, and said all was right. I have had bad nights from the toothache since I came to Manchester."


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sun found the Lenape, on the succeeding day, a nation of mourners. The sounds of battle were over, and they had fed fat their ancient grudge, and had avenged their recent quarrel with the Mengwe, by the destruction of a community. The black and murky atmosphere that floated around the spot where the Hurons had encamped, sufficiently announced, of itself, the fate of that wandering tribe; while hundreds of ravens, that struggled above the bleak summits of the moun-


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Talk:Is the Typewriter Girl to Blame for This?

Source
Found at https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=uiug.30112110167894&seq=57&q1=kiss+at+nightfall (The Open Court, Feb. 1895) under a much longer section of "Aphorisms", given by Hudor Genone. https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=uiug.30112028190749&seq=445&q1=kiss+at+nightfall (Liberty, Feb. 23 1895) gives this with its own heading "Is the Typewriter Girl to Blame for This?" credited to Hudo Genone. ISFDB gives us William James Roe (1843-1921) as the real name of Hudor Genone.--Prosfilaes (talk) 17:28, 1 February 2024 (UTC)


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 tains, or swept, in noisy flocks, across the wide ranges of the woods, furnished a frightful direction to the scene of the fatal combat. In short, any eye, at all practised in the signs of a frontier warfare, might easily have traced all those unerring evidences of the ruthless results which attend an Indian vengeance.

Still, the sun rose on the Lenape, a nation of mourners. No shouts of success, no songs of triumph, were heard, in rejoicings for their victory. The latest straggler had returned from his fell employment, only to strip himself of the terrific emblems of his bloody calling, and to join in the lamentations of his countrymen, as a stricken people. Pride and exultation were supplanted by humility, and the fiercest of human passions was already succeeded by the most profound and unequivocal demonstrations of grief.

The lodges were deserted; but a broad belt of earnest faces encircled a spot in their vicinity, whither every thing possessing life had repaired, and where all were now collected, in a deep and awful silence.


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 Though beings of every rank and age, of both sexes, and of all pursuits, had united to form this breathing wall of bodies, they were influenced by a single emotion. Each eye was rivetted on the centre of that ring, which contained the objects of so much, and of so common, an interest.

Six Delaware girls, with their long, dark, flowing, tresses, falling loosely across their bosoms, stood apart, and only gave proofs of their existence, as they occasionally strewed sweet scented herbs and forest flowers on a litter of fragrant plants, that, under a pall of Indian robes, supported all that now remained of the ardent, high souled, and generous Cora. Her form was concealed in many wrappers of the same simple manufacture, and her face was shut for ever from the gaze of human eyes. At her feat was seated the desolate Munro. His aged head was bowed nearly to the earth, in compelled submission to the stroke of Providence; but there was a hidden anguish that struggled about his furrowed brow, that was only partially concealed by the careless locks of gray that had fallen,


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 All this time, notwithstanding the domestic anxieties which were harassing them—notwithstanding the ill-success of their poems—the three sisters were trying that other literary venture, to which Charlotte made allusion in one of her letters to the Messrs. Aylott. Each of them had written a prose tale, hoping that the three might be published together. "Wuthering Heights" and "Agnes Grey" are before the world. The third—Charlotte's contribution—is yet in manuscript, but will be published shortly after the appearance of this memoir. The plot in itself is of no great interest; but it is a poor kind of interest that depends upon startling incidents rather than upon dramatic development of character; and Charlotte Brontë never excelled one or two sketches of portraits which she has given in "The Professor," nor, in grace of womanhood, ever surpassed one of the female characters there described. By the time she wrote this tale, her taste and judgment had revolted against the exaggerated idealisms of her early girlhood, and she went to the extreme of reality, closely depicting characters as they had shown themselves to her in actual life: if there they were strong even to coarseness,—as was the case with some that she had met with in flesh and blood existence,—she "wrote them down an ass;" if the scenery of such life as she saw was for the most part wild and grotesque, instead of pleasant or picturesque, she described it line for line. The grace of the one or two scenes and characters, which are drawn rather from her own imagination than from absolute fact, stand out in exquisite relief


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 as was also his father, who died when he was a mere boy, leaving him a patrimony of twenty pounds. He had learned to read and write at the village school; but on the death of his father he was taken from it and set to work as a "thrower" in a small pottery carried on by his elder brother. There he began life, his working life, to use his own words, "at the lowest round of the ladder," when only eleven years old. He was shortly after seized by an attack of virulent smallpox, from the effects of which he suffered during the rest of his life, for it was followed by a disease in the right. knee, which recurred at frequent intervals, and was only got rid of by the amputation of the limb many years later. Mr. Gladstone, in his eloquent Eloge on Wedgwood recently delivered at Burslem, well observed that the disease from which he suffered was not improbably the occasion of his subsequent excellence. "It prevented him from growing up to be the active, vigorous English workman, possessed of all his limbs, and knowing right well the use of them; but it put him upon considering whether, as he could not be that, he might not be something else, and something greater. It sent his mind inwards; it drove him to meditate upon the laws and secrets of his art. The result was, that he arrived at a perception and a grasp of them which might, perhaps, have been envied, certainly have been owned, by an Athenian potter."

When he had completed his apprenticeship with his brother, Josiah joined partnership with another workman, and carried on a small business in


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 neglected, on his temples. Gamut stood at his side, with his meek head bared to the rays of the sun, while his eyes, wandering and concerned, seemed to be equally divided between that little volume, which contained so many quaint but holy maxims, and the being, in whose behalf his soul yearned to administer their consolation. Heyward was also nigh, supporting himself against a tree, and endeavouring to keep down those sudden risings of sorrow, that it required his utmost manhood to subdue.

But sad and melancholy as this groupe may easily be imagined, it was far less touching than another, that occupied the opposite space of the same area. Seated, as in life, with his form and limbs arranged in grave and decent composure, Uncas appeared, arrayed in the most gorgeous ornaments that the wealth of the tribe could furnish. Rich plumes nodded above his head; wampum, gorgets, bracelets, and medals, adorned his person in profusion; though his dull eye, and vacant lineaments, too strongly contradicted the idle tale of pride they would convey.


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 Directly in front of the corpse, Chingachgook was placed, without arms, paint, or adornment of any sort, except the bright blue blazonry of his race, that was indelibly impressed on his naked bosom. During the long period that the tribe had been thus collected, the Mohican warrior had kept a steady anxious look on the cold and senseless countenance of his son. So rivetted and intense had been that gaze, and so changeless his attitude, that a stranger might not have told the living from the dead, but for the occasional gleamings of a troubled spirit, that shot athwart the dark visage of one, and the death-like calm that had for ever settled on the lineaments of the other.

The scout was hard by, leaning, in a pensive posture, on his own fatal and avenging weapon; while Tamenund, supported by the elders of his nation, occupied a high place at hand, whence he might look down on the mute and sorrowful assemblage of his people.

Just within the inner edge of the circle, stood a soldier, in the military attire of a


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 strange nation; and without it, was his war-horse, in the centre of a collection of mounted domestics, seemingly in readiness to undertake some distant journey. The vestments of the stranger announced him to be one who held a responsible situation near the person of the Captain of the Canadas; and who, as it would now seem, finding his errand of peace frustrated by the fierce impetuosity of his allies, was content to become a silent and sad spectator of the fruits of a contest, that he had arrived too late to anticipate.

The day was drawing to the close of its first quarter, and yet had the multitude maintained its breathing stillness, since the appearance of early dawn. No sound louder than a stifled sob had been heard among them, nor had even a limb been moved throughout that long and painful period, except to perform the simple and touching offerings that were made, from time to time, in commemoration of the sweetness of the maiden. The patience and forbearance of Indian fortitude, could alone support such an appearance of ab-


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 straction, as seemed now to have turned each dark and motionless figure into some rigid being carved in stone.

At length the sage of the Delawares stretched forth an arm, and leaning on the shoulders of his attendants, he arose with an air as feeble, as if another age had already intervened between the man who had met his nation the preceding day, and him who now tottered on his elevated stand.

"Men of the Lenape!" he said in hollow tones, that sounded like a voice charged with some prophetic mission; "the face of the Manitto is behind a cloud! his eye is turned from you; his ears are shut; his tongue gives no answer. You see him not; yet his judgments are before you. Let your hearts be open, and your spirits tell no lie. Men of the Lenape, the face of the Manitto is behind a cloud!"

As this simple and yet terrible annunciation stole on the ears of the multitude, a stillness as deep and awful succeeded, as if the venerated spirit they worshipped had uttered the words, without the aid of human


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 organs; and even the inanimate Uncas appeared a being of life, compared with the humbled and submissive throng by whom he was now surrounded. As the immediate effect, however, gradually passed away, a low murmur of voices commenced a sort of chant in honour of the dead. The sounds were those of females, and were thrillingly soft and wailing. The words were connected by no regular continuation, but as one ceased, another took up the eulogy, or lamentation, which ever it might be called, and gave vent to her emotions, in such language as was suggested by her feelings and the occasion. At intervals, the speaker was interrupted by general and loud bursts of sorrow, during which the girls round the bier of Cora plucked the plants and flowers, blindly, from her body, as if bewildered with grief. But in the milder moments of their plaint, these emblems of purity and sweetness were cast back to their places, with every sign of tenderness and regret. Though rendered less connected by many and


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 general interruptions and outbreakings, a translation of their language would have contained a regular descant, which, in substance, might have proved to possess a train of consecutive ideas.

A girl, selected for the task by her rank and qualifications, commenced by modest allusions to the qualities of the deceased warrior, embellishing her expressions with those oriental images, that the Indians have probably brought with them from the extremes of the other continent, and which form, of themselves, a link to connect the ancient histories of the two worlds. She called him the "panther of his tribe;" and described him as one whose moccasin left no trail on the dews; whose bound was like the leap of the young fawn; whose eye was brighter than a star in the dark night; and whose voice, in battle, was loud as the thunder of the Manitto. She reminded him of the mother who bore him, and dwelt forcibly on the happiness she must feel in possessing such a son. She bade him tell her, when they met in


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 from the deep shadows and wayward lines of others, which call to mind some of the portraits of Rembrandt.

The three tales had tried their fate in vain together, at length they were sent forth separately, and for many months with still-continued ill success. I have mentioned this here, because, among the dispiriting circumstances connected with her anxious visit to Manchester, Charlotte told me that her tale came back upon her hands, curtly rejected by some publisher, on the very day when her father was to submit to his operation. But she had the heart of Robert Bruce within her, and failure upon failure daunted her no more than him. Not only did "The Professor" return again to try his chance among the London publishers, but she began, in this time of care and depressing inquietude,—in those grey, weary, uniform streets, where all faces, save that of her kind doctor, were strange and untouched with sunlight to her,—there and then, did the brave genius begin "Jane Eyre." Read what she herself says:—"Currer Bell's book found acceptance nowhere, nor any acknowledgment of merit, so that something like the chill of despair began to invade his heart." And, remember, it was not the heart of a person who, disappointed in one hope, can turn with redoubled affection to the many certain blessings that remain. Think of her home, and the black shadow of remorse lying over one in it, till his very brain was mazed, and his gifts and his life were lost;—think of her father's sight hanging on a thread;—of her sisters' delicate health, and dependence on her care;—and then admire as it deserves to be admired, the steady


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 the world of spirits, that the Delaware girls had shed tears above the grave of her child, and had called her blessed.

Then, they who succeeded, changing their tones to a milder and still more tender strain, alluded, with the peculiar delicacy and sensitiveness of women, to the stranger maiden, who had left the upper earth at a time so near his own departure as to render the will of the Great Spirit too manifest to be disregarded. They admonished him to be kind to her, and to have consideration for her ignorance of those arts, which were so necessary to the comfort of a warrior like himself. They dwelt upon her matchless beauty, and on her noble resolution, without the taint of envy, and as angels may be thought to delight in a superior excellence; adding that these endowments should prove more than an equivalent for any little imperfections in her education.

After which, others again, in due succession, spoke to the maiden herself, in the low, soft language of tenderness and love. They exhorted her to be of cheerful mind,


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 and to fear nothing for her future welfare. A hunter would be her companion, who knew how to provide for her smallest wants; and a warrior was at her side, who was able to protect her against every danger. They promised that her path should be pleasant, and her burthen light. They cautioned her against unavailing regrets for the friends of her youth, and the scenes where her fathers had dwelt; assuring her that the "blessed hunting grounds of the Lenape" contained vales as pleasant, streams as pure, and flowers as sweet, as the "Heaven of the pale-faces." They advised her to be attentive to the wants of her companion, and never to forget the distinction which the Manitto had so wisely established between them. Then, in a wild burst of their chant, they sung, with united voices, the temper of the Mohican's mind. They pronounced him noble, manly and generous; all that became a warrior, and all that a maid might love. Clothing their ideas in the most remote and subtle images, they betrayed, that, in the short period of their intercourse, they


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 had discovered, with the intuitive perception of their sex, the truant disposition of his inclinations. The Delaware girls had found no favour in his eyes! He was of a race that had once been lords on the shores of the salt lake, and his wishes had led him back to a people who dwelt about the graves of his fathers. Why should not such a predilection be encouraged! That she was of a blood purer and richer than the rest of her nation, any eye might have seen. That she was equal to the dangers and daring of a life in the woods, her conduct had proved; and, now, they added, the "wise one of the earth" had transplanted her to a place where she would find congenial spirits, and might be for ever happy.

Then, with another transition in voice and subject, allusions were made to the virgin who wept in the adjacent lodge. They compared her to flakes of snow; as pure, as white, as brilliant, and as liable to melt in the fierce heats of summer, or congeal in the frosts of winter. They doubted not that she was lovely in the eyes of the young chief, whose skin and


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 whose sorrow seemed so like her own; but, though far from expressing such a preference, it was evident they deemed her less excellent than the maid they mourned. Still they denied her no meed, her rare charms might properly claim. Her ringlets were compared to the exuberant tendrils of the vine, her eye to the blue vault of the heavens, and the most spotless cloud, with its glowing flush of the sun, was admitted to be less attractive than her bloom.

During these and similar songs, nothing was audible but the murmurs of the music; relieved, as it was, or rather rendered terrible, by those occasional bursts of grief, which might be called its chorusses. The Delawares themselves listened like charmed men; and it was very apparent, by the variations of their speaking countenances, how deep and true was their sympathy. Even David was not reluctant to lend his ears to the tones of voices so sweet; and long ere the chant was ended, his eager and attentive gaze announced that his soul was entirely enthralled.

The scout, to whom alone, of all the


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 courage which could work away at "Jane Eyre," all the time "that the one-volume tale was plodding its weary round in London."

I believe I have already mentioned, that some of her surviving friends consider that an incident which she heard, when at school at Miss Wooler's, was the germ of the story of Jane Eyre. But of this nothing can be known, except by conjecture. Those to whom she spoke upon the subject of her writings are dead and silent; and the reader may probably have noticed, that in the correspondence from which I have quoted, there has been no allusion whatever to the publication of her poems, nor is there the least hint of the intention of the sisters to publish any tales. I remember, however, many little particulars which Miss Brontë gave me, in answer to my inquiries respecting her mode of composition, &c. She said, that it was not every day that she could write. Sometimes weeks or even months elapsed before she felt that she had anything to add to that portion of her story which was already written. Then, some morning, she would waken up, and the progress of her tale lay clear and bright before her, in distinct vision. When this was the case, all her care was to discharge her household and filial duties, so as to obtain leisure to sit down and write out the incidents and consequent thoughts, which were, in fact, more present to her mind at such times than her actual life itself. Yet notwithstanding this "possession" (as it were), those who survive, of her daily and household companions, are clear in their testimony, that never was


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 white men, the words were intelligible, suffered himself to be a little aroused from his meditative posture, and bent his face aside, to catch, their meaning, as the girls proceeded. But when they spoke of the future prospects of Cora and Uncas, he shook his head, like one who knew the error of their simple creed, and resuming his reclining attitude, he maintained it until the ceremony—if that might be called a ceremony, in which feeling was so deeply imbued—was finished. Happily for the self-command of both Heyward and Munro, they knew not the meaning of the wild sounds they heard.

Chingachgook was a solitary exception to the interest manifested by the native part of the audience. His look never changed throughout the whole of the scene, nor did a muscle move in his dark and rigid countenance, even at the wildest or most pathetic parts of the lamentation. The cold and senseless remains of his son was all to him, and every other sense but that of sight seemed frozen, in order that his eyes might take their final gaze at those


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 making knife-hafts, boxes, and sundry articles for domestic use. Another partnership followed, when he proceeded to make melon table plates, green pickle leaves, candlesticks, snuff boxes, and such like articles; but he made comparatively little progress until he began business on his own account at Burslem in the year 1759. There he diligently pursued his calling, introducing new articles to the trade, and gradually extending his business. What he chiefly aimed at was to manufacture cream-coloured ware of a better quality than was then produced in Staffordshire as regarded shape, colour, glaze, and durability. To understand the subject thoroughly, he devoted his leisure to the study of chemistry; and he made numerous experiments on fluxes, glazes, and various sorts of clay. Being a close inquirer and accurate observer, he noticed that a certain earth containing silica, which was black before calcination, became white after exposure to the heat of a furnace. This fact, observed and pondered on, led to the idea of mixing silica with the red powder of the potteries, and to the discovery that the mixture becomes white when calcined. He had but to cover this material with a vitrification of transparent glaze, to obtain one of the most important products of fictile art—that which, under the name of English earthenware, was to attain the greatest commercial value and become of the most extensive utility.

Wedgwood was for some time much troubled by his furnaces, though nothing like to the same extent that Palissy was; and he overcame his difficulties in the same way—by repeated experiments and unfaltering perseverance. His first attempts at making porcelain for table use was a


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 the claim of any duty, never was the call of another for help, neglected for an instant. It had become necessary to give Tabby—now nearly eighty years of age—the assistance of a girl. Tabby relinquished any of her work with jealous reluctance, and could not bear to be reminded, though ever so delicately, that the acuteness of her senses was dulled by age. The other servant might not interfere with what she chose to consider her exclusive work. Among other things, she reserved to herself the right of peeling the potatoes for dinner; but as she was growing blind, she often left in those black specks, which we in the North call the "eyes" of the potato. Miss Brontë was too dainty a housekeeper to put up with this; yet she could not bear to hurt the faithful old servant, by bidding the younger maiden go over the potatoes again, and so reminding Tabby that her work was less effectual than formerly. Accordingly she would steal into the kitchen, and quietly carry off the bowl of vegetables, without Tabby's being aware, and breaking off in the full flow of interest and inspiration in her writing, carefully cut out the specks in the potatoes, and noiselessly carry them back to their place. This little proceeding may show how orderly and fully she accomplished her duties, even at those times when the "possession" was upon her.

Any one who has studied her writings,—whether in print or in her letters; any one who has enjoyed the rare privilege of listening to her talk, must have noticed her singular felicity in the choice of words. She herself, in writing her books, was solicitous on this point. One


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 set of words was the truthful mirror of her thoughts; no others, however apparently identical in meaning, would do. She had that strong practical regard for the simple holy truth of expression, which Mr. Trench has enforced, as a duty too often neglected. She would wait patiently searching for the right term, until it presented itself to her. It might be provincial, it might be derived from the Latin; so that it accurately represented her idea, she did not mind whence it came; but this care makes her style present the finish of a piece of mosaic. Each component part, however small, has been dropped into the right place. She never wrote down a sentence until she clearly understood what she wanted to say, had deliberately chosen the words, and arranged them in their right order. Hence it comes that, in the scraps of paper covered with her pencil writing which I have seen, there will occasionally be a sentence scored out, but seldom, if ever, a word or an expression. She wrote on these bits of paper in a minute hand, holding each against a piece of board, such as is used in binding books, for a desk. This plan was necessary for one so short-sighted as she was; and, besides, it enabled her to use pencil and paper, as she sat near the fire in the twilight hours, or if (as was too often the case) she was wakeful for hours in the night. Her finished manuscripts were copied from these pencil scraps, in clear, legible, delicate traced writing, almost as easy to read as print.

The sisters retained the old habit, which was begun in their aunt's life-time, of putting away their work at


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 lineaments he had so long loved, and which were now about to be closed for ever from his view.

In this stage of the funeral obsequies, a warrior much renowned for his deeds in arms, and more especially for his services in the recent combat, a man of stern and grave demeanour, advanced slowly from the crowd, and placed himself nigh the person of the dead.

"Why hast thou left us, pride of the Wapanachki!" he said, addressing himself to the dull ears of Uncas, as though the empty clay still retained the faculties of the animated man; "thy time has been like that of the sun when in the trees; thy glory brighter than his light at noon-day. Thou art gone, youthful warrior, but a hundred Wyandots are clearing the briars from thy path to the world of spirits. Who that saw thee in battle, would believe that thou couldst die! Who before thee hast ever shown Uttawa the way into the fight. Thy feet were like the wings of eagles; thine arm heavier than falling branches from the pine; and thy voice


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 nine o'clock, and beginning their study, pacing up and down the sitting room. At this time, they talked over the stories they were engaged upon, and described their plots. Once or twice a week, each read to the others what she had written, and heard what they had to say about it. Charlotte told me, that the remarks made had seldom any effect in inducing her to alter her work, so possessed was she with the feeling that she had described reality; but the readings were of great and stirring interest to all, taking them out of the gnawing pressure of daily-recurring cares, and setting them in a free place. It was on one of these occasions, that Charlotte determined to make her heroine plain, small, and unattractive, in defiance of the accepted canon.

The writer of the beautiful obituary article on "the death of Currer Bell," most likely learnt from herself what is there stated, and which I will take the liberty of quoting, about Jane Eyre.

"She once told her sisters that they were wrong—even morally wrong—in making their heroines beautiful as a matter of course. They replied that it was impossible to make a heroine interesting on any other terms. Her answer was, 'I will prove to you that you are wrong; I will show you a heroine as plain and as small as myself, who shall be as interesting as any of yours.' Hence 'Jane Eyre,' said she in telling the anecdote: 'but she is not myself, any further than that.' As the work went on, the interest deepened to the writer. When she came to 'Thornfield' she could not stop. Being


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 like the Manitto, when he speaks in the clouds. The tongue of Uttawa is weak," he added, looking about him with a melancholy gaze, "and his heart exceeding heavy. Pride of the Wapanachki, why hast thou left us!"

He was succeeded by others, in due order, until most of the high and gifted men of the nation had sung or spoken their tribute of praise over the manes of the deceased chieftain. When each had ended, another deep and breathing silence reigned in all the place.

Then a low, deep sound was heard, like the suppressed accompaniment of distant music, rising just high enough on the air to be audible, and yet so indistinctly, as to leave its character, and the place whence it proceeded, alike matters of conjecture. It was, however, succeeded by another and another strain, each in a higher key, until they grew on the ear, first in long drawn and often repeated interjections, and finally in words. The lips of Chingachgook had so far parted, as to announce that it was the monody of the father which was now


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. However, every day could not be glorious in the history of the Kingdom of Suavia. Michael VIII was a prudent king, a model of public and private virtues. His wife, Edvigia, was a model queen, as all the queens of Suavia have been since the beginning of the seventeenth century, although, as we have already seen, previous to the seventeenth, particularly during the fourteenth and fifteenth, there may have been an occasional one of unhappy memory.

. Pardon, Herr Stirger, but Queen Theodolinda, to whom you refer, has been gravely disparaged in my opinion through being called the Messalina of Suavia. Have you read the recent monograph of Herr Tomberg, published in the Journal of Historical Sciences? It would appear that the name of Theodolinda had been completely vindicated. Herr Tomberg proves that the unfortunate eccentricities of the queen did not reflect so much upon herself as upon her husband, who, it seems, condoned them.

. Very possibly. May we proceed. Countess?

. Do so, and pardon again. Queen Theodolinda has always been such a sympathetic figure to me!

. We now arrive at a dark page in the reign of Michael VIII, unjustly called the Simple by his detractors, who were many. But for them his reign was glorious. The battle of Kuntz was not lost through the cowardice of our 15


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 about to be uttered. Though not an eye was turned towards him, nor the smallest sign of impatience exhibited, it was apparent by the manner in which the multitude elevated their heads to listen, that they drunk in the sounds with an intenseness of attention, that none but Tamenund himself had ever before commanded. But they listened in vain. The strains rose just so loud, as to become intelligible, and then grew fainter and more trembling, until they finally sunk on the ear, as if borne away by a passing breath of wind. The lips of the Sagamore closed, and he remained silent in his seat, looking, with his rivetted eye and motionless form, like some creature that had been turned from the Almighty hand with the form, but without the spirit of a man. The Delawares, who knew, by these symptoms, that the mind of their friend was not prepared for so mighty an effort of fortitude, relaxed in their attention, and, with innate delicacy, seemed to bestow all their thoughts on the obsequies of the stranger maiden.

A signal was given, by one of the elder


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 short-sighted to excess, she wrote in little square paper-books, held close to her eyes, and (the first copy) in pencil. On she went, writing incessantly for three weeks; by which time she had carried her heroine away from Thornfield, and was herself in a fever which compelled her to pause."

This is all, I believe, which can now be told respecting the conception and composition of this wonderful book, which was, however, only at its commencement when Miss Brontë returned with her father to Haworth, after their anxious expedition to Manchester.

They arrived at home about the end of September. Mr. Brontë was daily gaining strength, but he was still forbidden to exercise his sight much. Things had gone on more comfortably while she was away than Charlotte had dared to hope, and she expresses herself thankful for the good ensured and the evil spared during her absence.

Soon after this some proposal, of which I have not been able to gain a clear account, was again mooted for Miss Brontë's opening a school at some place distant from Haworth. It elicited the following fragment of a characteristic reply:—

"Leave home!—I shall neither be able to find place nor employment, perhaps, too, I shall be quite past the prime of life, my faculties will be rusted, and my few acquirements in a great measure forgotten. These ideas sting me keenly sometimes; but, whenever I consult my conscience, it affirms that I am doing right in staying at


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 chiefs, to the women, who crowded that part of the circle near which the body of Cora lay. Obedient to the sign, the girls raised the bier to the elevation of their heads, and advanced with slow and regulated steps, chanting, as they proceeded, another soft, low, and wailing song, in praise of the deceased. Gamut, who had been a close observer of rites he deemed so heathenish, now bent his head over the shoulder of the unconscious father, whispering—

"They move with the remains of thy child; shall we not follow, and see them interred with Christian burial?"

Munro started, as though the last trumpet had sounded its blast in his ear, and bestowing one anxious and hurried glance around him, he arose and followed in the simple train, with the mien of a soldier, but bearing the full burthen of a parent's suffering. His friends pressed around him with a sorrow that was too strong to be termed sympathy—even the young Frenchman joining in the procession, with the air of a man who was sensibly touched at the


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 home, and bitter are its upbraidings when I yield to an eager desire for release. I could hardly expect success if I were to err against such warnings. I should like to hear from you again soon. Bring to the point, and make him give you a clear, not a vague, account of what pupils he really could promise; people often think they can do great things in that way till they have tried; but getting pupils is unlike getting any other sort of goods."

Whatever might be the nature and extent of this negotiation, the end of it was that Charlotte adhered to the decision of her conscience, which bade her remain at home, as long as her presence could cheer or comfort those who were in distress, or had the slightest influence over him who was the cause of it. The next extract gives us a glimpse into the cares of that home. It is from a letter dated December 15th.

"I hope you are not frozen up; the cold here is dreadful. I do not remember such a series of North-Pole days. England might really have taken a slide up into the Arctic Zone; the sky looks like ice; the earth is frozen; the wind is as keen as a two-edged blade. We have all had severe colds and coughs in consequence of the weather. Poor Anne has suffered greatly from asthma, but is now, we are glad to say, rather better. She had two nights last week when her cough and difficulty of breathing were painful indeed to hear and witness, and must have been most distressing to suffer; she


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 early and melancholy fate of one so lovely. But when the last and humblest female of the tribe had joined in the wild, and yet ordered, array, the men of the Lenape contracted their circle, and formed, again, around the person of Uncas, as silent, as grave, and as motionless, as before.

The place which had been chosen for the grave of Cora, was a little knoll, where a cluster of young and healthful pines had taken root, forming, of themselves, a melancholy and appropriate shade over the spot. On reaching it, the girls deposited their burthen, and continued, for many minutes, waiting, with characteristic patience, and native timidity, for some evidence, that they whose feelings were most concerned, were content with the arrangement. At length, the scout, who alone understood their habits, said, in their own language—

"My daughters have done well; the white men thank them."

Satisfied with this testimony in their favour, the girls proceeded to deposit the body in a shell, ingeniously, and not inele-


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 gantly, fabricated of the bark of the birch; after which, they lowered it into its dark and final abode. The ceremony of covering the remains, and concealing the marks of the fresh earth, by leaves and other natural and customary objects, was conducted with the same simple and silent forms. But when the labours of the kind beings, who had performed these sad and friendly offices, were so far completed, they hesitated, in a way to show, that they knew not how much farther they might proceed. It was in this stage of the rites, that the scout again addressed them—

"My young women have done enough," he said; "the spirit of a pale-face has no need of food or raiment—their gifts being according to the heaven of their colour. I see," he added, glancing an eye at David, who was preparing his book in a manner that indicated an intention to lead the way in sacred song, "that one who better knows the Christian fashions is about to speak."

The females stood modestly aside, and, from having been the principal actors in the scene, they now became the meek and


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 attentive observers of that which followed. During the time David was occupied in pouring out the pious feelings of his spirit in this manner, not a sign of surprise, nor a look of impatience, escaped them. They listened as though they knew the meaning of the strange words, and appeared as if they felt the mingled emotions of sorrow, hope, and resignation, they were intended to convey.

Excited by the scene he had just witnessed, and perhaps influenced by his own secret emotions, the master of song exceeded all his usual efforts. His full, rich voice, was not found to suffer by a comparison with the soft tones of the girls; and his more modulated strains possessed, at least for the ears of those to whom they were peculiarly addressed, the additional power of intelligence. He ended the anthem, as he had commenced it, in the midst of a grave and solemn stillness.

When, however, the closing cadence had fallen on the ears of his auditors, the secret, timorous glances of the eyes, and the general, and yet subdued movement of


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 the assemblage, betrayed, that something was expected from the father of the deceased. Munro seemed sensible that the time was come for him to exert what is, perhaps, the greatest effort of which human nature is capable. He bared his gray locks, and looked around the timid and quiet throng, by which he was encircled, with a firm and collected countenance. Then motioning with his hand for the scout to listen, he said—

"Say to these kind and gentle females, that a heart-broken and failing man, returns them his thanks. Tell them, that the Being we all worship, under different names, will be mindful of their charity; and that the time shall not be distant, when we may assemble around his throne, without distinction of sex, or rank, or colour!"

The scout listened to the tremulous voice in which the veteran delivered these words, and shook his head, slowly, when they were ended, as one who doubted of their efficacy.

"To tell them this," he said, "would be to tell them that the snows come not in


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A writer so subtle and various as Benavente must of necessity have conducted experiments in technique. Talent of the first rank moulds its own instruments of expression, or adapts those which exist to new purposes. It will be interesting to consider this aspect of the Benaventian theatre in the light of its history, and to anticipate, perhaps, the conclusions of the reader.

When Spanish criticism appraised the youthful Benavente as pre-eminently a satirist, it was unquestionably correct in its judgment. Although much of his early work had been serious, and the complexion of his thought as well as his attitude toward life had become apparent by 1893, wit and humor in their different forms were the qualities most characteristic of his genius; they were most personal to it, most original, and most conspicuous. His wit was incisive and penetrating, free from bias in any special connection, exhibiting remarkable power of detachment, but unmistakably, also, it was illuminative of character, with the passage of time growing more many-sided and tolerant.

The literatures of the Latin peoples have habitually been hospitable to secondary meanings, double ententes, which in certain languages, such as the Italian, have been erected into definite codes of communication. The idea is unmasked by veiling it. In its cruder phases, the by-play is one of vulgar jest, but in skilful hands, like those of Bracco in his Il frutto acerbo, it arrives at the dignity of a continual traffic in forbidden subjects, which imparts to the entire work a perpetual grimace of sex. It was apparent to Benavente that here was a medium which was susceptible of wholly different application. More than the sexual motive falls under the social ban. The mind is alive with reticences and reservations far more interesting than any ideas which it may see fit to express. Benavente develops this system of double ententes, previously confined to traffic in contraband wares, into a system of multiple ententes, in which he attempts to vii


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 the winter, or that the sun shines fiercest when the trees are stripped of their leaves!"

Then turning to the women, he made such a communication of the other's gratitude, as he deemed most suited to the capacities of his listeners. The head of Munro had already sunken upon his chest, and he was again fast relapsing into his brooding melancholy, when the young Frenchman before named, ventured to touch him lightly on the elbow. As soon as he had gained the attention of the mourning old man, he pointed towards a groupe of young Indians, who approached with a light, but closely covered litter, and then pointed upward, impressively, towards the sun.

"I understand you, sir," returned Munro, with a voice of forced firmness; "I understand you. It is the will of Heaven, and I submit. Cora, my child! if the prayers of a heart-broken father could avail thee now, how blessed shouldst thou be! Come, gentlemen," he added, looking about him with an air of lofty composure, though the anguish that quivered in his faded counte-


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 nance was far too powerful to be entirely concealed; "our duty here is ended; let us depart."

Heyward gladly obeyed a summons that took them from a spot, where, each instant, he felt his self-controul was about to desert him. While his companions were mounting, however, he found time to press the hand of the scout, and to repeat the terms of an engagement they had made, to meet again, within the posts of the British army. Then gladly throwing himself into the saddle, he spurred his charger to the side of the litter, whence low and stifled sobs alone announced the presence of Alice. In this manner, the head of Munro again dropping on his bosom, with Heyward and David following in sorrowing silence, and attended by the Aide of Montcalm, with his guard, all the white men, with the exception of Hawk-eye, passed from before the eyes of the Delaware, and were soon buried in the vast forests of that region.

But the tie which, through their common calamity, had united the feelings of these


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 realize upon the stage the inarticulate as well as the articulate elements of intellect and of character.

For all its seeming simplicity, his style is one of the most complex and highly personal in literature. Primarily, it is suggestive. With the thought, he contrives to convey the implication. The direct meaning is not of chief concern, but its connotations in the mind which harbors it. It is a style built upon contrast, seizing upon the inconsistencies in which human nature is most intimately revealed. Given one point, the spectator is led to infer another, so that, without visible means, or the appearance of doing so, the playwright turns his characters inside out, till we view them with him from all sides at once, while at the same time we see through them. He shows us not only what his people think, but how they feel when they think it, their doubts and accompanying reservations. His theatre has been called a theatre of ideas, and it is a theatre of ideas in so far as ideas are an expression of intense intellectual activity. But Benavente is not concerned with ideas, he is concerned with thought as it formulates itself—with ideas in the making. Thus his comedy stimulates the mind to an extraordinary degree, in which it is possible for him to communicate to an audience what under more usual circumstances it would fail to perceive. This is what he means when he says that he does not make his plays for the public, but the public for his plays. He creates the mental attitude which is necessary for their appreciation, and, by a subtle psychologic or character dialectic, through which personality is revealed by sharp reversals and successive mental jolts, disclosing the innermost workings of the soul and its springs of action, he induces the auditor to become for an evening a collaborator himself, reading between the lines. His style may best be compared to a rational cubist art, in which the elements are all valid and intelligible in themselves, but which surrender their true significance only when taken in juxtaposition.

With Benavente, the story is never of predominant importance, nor in the beginning was his treatment of it unusual, or markedly individual. His plots unfolded symmetrically and were sufficient to sustain the interest through the customary sequence of situations and climaxes. Yet as his dialogue matured in fertility of suggestion, obviously a


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 simple dwellers in the woods with the strangers who had thus transiently visited them, was not so easily broken. Years passed away before the traditionary tale of the white maiden, and of the young warrior of the Mohicans, ceased to beguile the long nights and tedious marches of their weariness, or to animate their youthful and brave with a desire for vengeance against their natural enemies. Neither were the secondary actors in all these momentous incidents immediately forgotten. Through the medium of the scout, who served for years afterwards as a link between them and civilized life, they learned, in answer to their inquiries, that the "gray-head" was speedily gathered to his fathers: borne down, as was erroneously believed, by his military misfortunes; and that the "open hand" had conveyed his surviving daughter far into the settlements of the "pale faces," where her tears had, at last, ceased to flow, and had been succeeded by the bright smiles which were better suited to her happy and joyous nature.


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 But these were events of a time later than that which concerns our tale. Deserted by all of his colour, Hawk-eye returned to the spot where his own sympathies led him, with a force that no ideal bond of union could bestow. He was just in time to catch a parting look of the features of Uncas, whom the Delawares were already enclosing in his last vestments of skins. They paused to permit the longing and lingering gaze of the sturdy woodsman, and when it was ended, the body was enveloped never to be unclosed again. Then came a procession like the other, and the whole nation was collected about the temporary grave of the chief—temporary, because it was proper, that, at some future day, his bones should rest among those of his own people.

The movement, like the feeling, had been simultaneous and general. The same grave expression of grief, the same rigid silence, and the same deference to the principal mourner, were observed, around the place of interment, as have been already de-


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 scribed. The body was deposited in an attitude of repose, facing the rising sun, with the implements of war, and of the chase at hand, in readiness for the final journey. An opening was left in the shell, by which it was protected from the soil, for the spirit to communicate with its earthly tenement, when necessary; and the whole was concealed from the instinct, and protected from the ravages of the beasts of prey, with an ingenuity peculiar to the natives. The manual rites then ceased, and all present reverted to the more spiritual part of the ceremonies.

Chingachgook became, once more, the object of the common attention. He had not yet spoken, and something consolatory and instructive was expected from so renowned a chief, on an occasion of such general interest. Conscious of the wishes of the people, the stern and self- restrained warrior raised his face, which had latterly been buried in his robe, and looked about him, with a steady eye. His firmly compressed and expressive lips then severed, and


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 for the first time during the long ceremonies, his voice was heard, distinctly audible.

"Why do my brothers mourn!" he said, regarding the dark race of dejected warriors, by whom he was environed; "why do my daughters weep! that a young man has gone to the happy hunting grounds; that a chief has filled his time with honour. He was good. He was dutiful. He was brave. Who can deny it? The Manitto had need of such a warrior, and he has called him away. As for me, the son and the father of Uncas, I am a 'blazed pine in a clearing of the pale-faces.' My race has gone from the shores of the salt lake, and the hills of the Delawares. But who can say that the serpent of his tribe has forgotten his wisdom! I am alone—"

"No, no," cried Hawk-eye, who had been gazing with a yearning look at the rigid features of his friend, with something like his own self-command, but whose philosophy could endure no longer; "no, Sagamore, not alone. The gifts of our colour may be different, but God has so


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 purely objective plot, a chain of circumstance and outward fact, with laws of its own, became an unsuitable vehicle for its transmission. The tendency of Benavente's art is away from the plastic toward the insubstantial, the transparent. A fresh adjustment became imperative. What he had accomplished with satire he next essays with plot, turning his attention to its secondary and suggestive values, transferring the emphasis from the events to the inferences which wait upon them, and the atmosphere which they create, either directly or through collocation. In the field of exposition, the method may be observed in the first act of "The Governor's Wife." A similar extension of plot had been attempted by the symbolists, through the imposition of parallel meanings upon the action. With Benavente, on the other hand, the events induce their own meaning, while, in order to permit them to do this, he deprives the story of definite form. In the polychromatic spectacles, "Saturday Night" and "The Fire Dragon," belonging to the years 1903 and 1904, vast, crowded canvases which might have been painted by Tintoretto or by Rubens, teeming with an abundance too multifarious to be imprisoned within the limits of the stage, the drama is removed from the domain of structural regularity, until it depends for its effect upon the impressions derived from a panorama of incident and of situation in which the story is swallowed up and upon occasion lost from view. These dramas may be considered the romantic outburst, the ungovernable adventure of the Benaventian theatre, by very lack of restraint stimulating the imagination to a perception, at once restless and inchoate, of the awe and majesty of life.

Variety so kaleidoscopic precludes, of course, unity of impression. At best, fact is inexpressive, and Benavente seems to have felt that, independently developed, whatever its transcendence, it was susceptible only of the broadest effects. Besides, instead of reinforcing his character satire, the sweep and apparatus of these great spectacles dissipated and bewildered it. He does not return to the manner again. Instead, he subordinates the story; it ceases to be the prime factor in the dramatic fabric, or, in any proper sense of the word, the action. Henceforward the story becomes subservient wholly to the main action, which thus is unified, and


text: The Last of the Mohicans; a Narrative of 1757/Volume 3/Chapter 1


text: The Last of the Mohicans; a Narrative of 1757/Volume 3/Chapter 3


text: The Last of the Mohicans; a Narrative of 1757/Volume 3/Chapter 4


text: The Last of the Mohicans; a Narrative of 1757/Volume 3/Chapter 5


text: The Last of the Mohicans; a Narrative of 1757/Volume 3/Chapter 6


text: The Last of the Mohicans; a Narrative of 1757/Volume 3/Chapter 7


text: The Last of the Mohicans; a Narrative of 1757/Volume 3/Chapter 8


text: The Last of the Mohicans; a Narrative of 1757/Volume 3/Chapter 9


text: The Last of the Mohicans; a Narrative of 1757/Volume 3/Chapter 10


text: The Last of the Mohicans; a Narrative of 1757/Volume 3/Chapter 11


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 entrance, took up the words in an echo, which was succeeded by another shrill and plaintive howl. The latter was not yet ended, when the sensation among the men had entirely abated. Each one in presence seated himself, as though ashamed of his precipitation, but it was many minutes before their meaning eyes ceased to roll towards their captive, in curious examination of a warrior who had so often proved his prowess on the best and proudest of their nation.

Uncas enjoyed his victory, but was content with merely exhibiting his triumph, by a quiet and proud curl of the lip; an emblem of scorn that belongs to all time and every nation. Magua caught the expression, and raising his arm, he shook it at the captive—the light silver ornaments attached to his bracelet rattling with the trembling agitation of the limb, as, in a tone of vengeance, he exclaimed, in English—

"Mohican, you die!"

"The healing waters will never bring the dead Hurons to life!" returned Uncas,


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 in the music of the Delawares; "the tumbling rivers washes their bones! their men are squaws; their women owls. Go—call together the Huron dogs, that they may look upon a warrior. My nostrils are offended; they scent the blood of a coward!"

The latter allusion struck deep, and the injury rankled. Many of the Hurons understood the strange tongue in which the captive spoke, among which number was Magua. This cunning savage beheld, and instantly profited by, his advantage. Dropping the light robe of skin from his shoulder, he stretched forth his arm, and commenced a burst of his dangerous and artful eloquence. However much his influence among his people had been impaired by his occasional and besetting weakness, as well as by his desertion of the tribe, his courage, and his fame as an orator, were undeniable. He never spoke without auditors, and rarely without making converts to his opinions. On the present occasion, his native powers were stimulated by the keenest thirst for revenge.

He again recounted the events of the


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 attack on the island at Glenn's; the death of his associates; and the escape of their most formidable enemies. Then he described the nature and position of the mount whither he had led such captives as had fallen into their hands. Of his own bloody intentions towards the maidens, and of his baffled malice, he made no mention, but passed rapidly on to the surprise by the party of "la Longue Carabine" and its fatal termination. Here he paused, and looked about him in affected veneration for the departed—but, in truth, to note the effect of his opening narrative. As usual, every eye was riveted on his face. Each dusky figure seemed a breathing statue, so motionless was the posture, so intense the attention of the individual.

Then Magua dropped his voice, which had hitherto been clear, strong, and elevated, and touched upon the merits of the dead. No quality that was likely to command the sympathy of an Indian escaped his notice. One had never been known to follow the chase in vain; another had been indefatigable on the trail of their enemies. This was brave; that, generous. In short,


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 he so managed his allusions, that in a nation which was composed of so few families, he contrived to strike every chord that might find, in its turn, some breast in which to vibrate.

"Are the bones of my young men," he concluded, "in the burial place of the Hurons! You know they are not. Their spirits are gone towards the setting sun, and are already crossing the great waters, to the happy hunting grounds. But they departed without food, without guns or knives, without moccasins, naked and poor as they were born. Shall this be? Are their souls to enter the land of the just, like hungry Iroquois, or unmanly Delawares; or shall they meet their friends with arms, in their hands, and robes on their backs? What will our fathers think the tribes of the Wyandots have become? They will look on their children with a dark eye, and say, go; a Chippewa has come hither with the name of a Huron. Brothers, we must not forget the dead; a red skin never ceases to remember. We will load the back of this Mohican, until he staggers under our bounty, and dispatch


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 him after my young men. They call to us for aid, though our ears are not open; they say, forget us not. When they see the spirit of this Mohican toiling after them with his burthen, they will know we are of that mind. Then will they go on happy; and our children will say, 'so did our fathers to their friends, so must we do to them.' What is a Yengee! we have slain many, but the earth is still pale. A stain on the name of a Huron can only be hid by blood that comes from the veins of an Indian. Let, then, this Delaware die."

The effect of such an harangue, delivered in the nervous language, and with the emphatic manner of a Huron orator, could scarcely be mistaken. Magua had so artfully blended the natural sympathies with the religious superstition of his auditors, that their minds, already prepared by custom to sacrifice a victim to the manes of their countrymen, lost every vestige of humanity in a wish for instant revenge. One warrior in particular, a man of wild and ferocious mien, had been conspicuous for the attention he had given to the words of


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 the speaker. His countenance had changed with each passing emotion, until it settled into a continued and deadly look of malice. As Magua ended, he arose, and uttering the yell of a demon, his polished little axe was seen glancing in the torch light, as he whirled it above his head. The motion and the cry were too sudden for words to interrupt his bloody intention. It appeared as if a bright gleam shot from his hand, which was crossed at the same moment by a dark and powerful line. The former was the tomahawk in its passage; the latter the arm that Magua darted forward to divert its aim. The quick and ready motion of the chief was not entirely too late. The keen weapon cut the short war-plume from the scalping tuft of Uncas, and passed through the frail wall of the lodge, as though it were hurled from some formidable engine.

Duncan had seen the threatening action, and sprang upon his feet, with a heart which, while it leaped into his throat, swelled with the most generous resolution in behalf of his friend. A glance told him that the blow had failed, and terror changed


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 to admiration. Uncas stood still, looking his enemy in the eye, with features that seemed superior to every emotion. Marble could not be colder, calmer, or steadier, than the countenance he put upon this sudden and vindictive attack. Then, as if pitying a want of skill which had proved so fortunate to himself, he smiled, and muttered a few words of contempt in his own soft and musical tongue.

"No!" said Magua, after satisfying him self of the safety of the captive; "the sun must shine upon his shame; the squaws must see his flesh tremble, or our revenge will be like the play of boys. Go—take him where there is silence; let us see if a Delaware can sleep at night and in the morning, die!"

The young men whose duty it was to guard the prisoner, instantly passed their ligaments of bark across his arms, and led him from the lodge, amid a gloomy, profound, and ominous silence. It was only as the figure of Uncas stood in the opening of the door that his firm step hesitated. There he turned, and in the sweeping and haughty


text:
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 glance that he threw around the circle of his enemies, Duncan caught a look, which he was glad to construe into an expression that he was not entirely deserted by hope.

Magua was content with his success, or too much occupied with his secret purposes, to push his inquiries any farther. Shaking his mantle, and folding it on his bosom, he also quitted the place, without pursuing a subject that might have proved so fatal to the individual at his elbow. Notwithstanding his rising resentment, his natural firmness, and his anxiety in behalf of Uncas, Heyward felt sensibly relieved by the absence of so dangerous and so subtle a foe. The excitement produced by the speech gradually subsided. The warriors resumed their seats, and clouds of smoke once more filled the lodge. For near half an hour, not a syllable was uttered, or scarcely a look cast aside—a grave and meditative silence being in the ordinary succession to every scene of violence and commotion amongst those beings, who were alike so impetuous, and yet so self-restrained.


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 When the chief who had solicited the aid of Duncan had finished his pipe, he made a final and successful movement towards departing. A motion of a finger was the intimation he gave the supposed physician to follow; and passing through the clouds of smoke, Duncan was glad, on more accounts than one, to be able at last to breathe the pure air of a cool and refreshing summer evening.

Instead of pursuing his way among those lodges where Heyward had already made his unsuccessful search, his companion turned aside, and proceeded directly toward the base of an adjacent mountain, which overhung the temporary village. A thicket of brush skirted its foot, and it became necessary to proceed through a crooked and narrow path. The boys had resumed their sports in the clearing and were enacting a mimic chase to the post among themselves. In order to render their games as like the reality as possible, one of the boldest of their number had conveyed a few brands into some piles of tree-tops, that had hitherto escaped the burning. The blaze of one


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 of these fires lighted the way of the chief and Duncan, and gave a character of additional wildness to the rude scenery. At a little distance from a bald rock, and directly in its front, they entered a grassy opening, which they prepared to cross. Just then fresh fuel was added to the fire, and a powerful light penetrated even to that distant spot. It fell upon the white surface of the mountain, and was reflected downward upon a dark and mysterious looking being, that arose unexpectedly in their path.

The Indian paused, as if doubtful whether to proceed, and permitted his companion to approach his side. A large black ball, which at first seemed stationary, now began to move in a manner that to the latter was inexplicable. Again the fire brightened, and its glare fell more distinctly on the object. Then even Duncan knew it, by its restless and sideling attitudes, which kept the upper part of its form in constant motion, while the animal itself appeared seated, to be a bear. Though it growled loudly and fiercely, and there were


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 instants when its glistening eye-balls might be seen, it gave no other indication of hostility. The Huron, at least, seemed assured that the intentions of this singular intruder were peaceable, for after giving it an attentive examination, he quietly pursued his course.

Duncan, who knew that the animal was often found domesticated among the Indians, followed the example of his companion, believing that some favourite of the tribe had found its way into the thicket in search of food. They passed it unmolested. Though obliged to come nearly in contact with the monster, the Huron, who had at first so warily determined the character of his strange visiter, was now content with proceeding without wasting a moment in further examination; but Heyward was unable to prevent his eyes from looking backward, in a sort of salutary watchfulness against attacks in the rear. His uneasiness was in no degree diminished, when he perceived the beast rolling along their path, and following their footsteps. He would have spoken, but the Indian at that moment


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 shoved aside a door of bark, and entered a cavern in the bosom of the mountain.

Profitting by so easy a method of retreat, Duncan stepped after him, and was gladly closing the slight cover to the opening, when he felt it drawn from his hand by the beast, whose shaggy form immediately darkened the passage. They were now in a straight and long gallery, in a chasm of the rocks, where retreat, without encountering the animal, was impossible. Making the best of the circumstances, the young man pressed forward, keeping as close as possible to his conductor. The bear growled frequently at his heels, and once or twice its enormous paws were laid on his person, as though disposed to prevent his further passage into the den.

How long the nerves of Heyward would have sustained him in this extraordinary situation, it might be difficult to decide, for, happily, he soon found relief. A glimmer of light had constantly been in their front, and they now arrived at the place whence it proceeded.

A large cavity in the rock had been


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 rudely fitted to answer the purposes of many apartments. The subdivisions were simple, but ingenious; being composed of stone, sticks, and bark intermingled. Openings above admitted the light by day, and at night fires and torches supplied the place of the sun. Hither the Hurons had brought most of their valuables, especially those which more particularly pertained to the nation; and hither, as it now appeared, the sick woman, who was believed to be the victim of supernatural power, had been transported also under an impression, that her tormenter would find more difficulty in making his assaults through walls of stone, than through the leafy coverings of the lodges. The apartment into which Duncan and his guide first entered, had been exclusively devoted to her accommodation. The latter approached her bed-side, which was surrounded by females, in the centre of whom Heyward was surprised to find his missing friend David.

A single look was sufficient to apprise the pretended leech that the invalid was far beyond his powers of healing. She lay


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 in a sort of paralysis, indifferent to the objects which crowded before her sight, and happily unconscious of suffering. Heyward was far from regretting that his mummeries were to be performed on one who was much too ill to take an interest in their failure or success. The slight qualm of conscience which had been excited by the intended deception was instantly appeased at the sight, and he began busily to collect his thoughts, in order to enact his part with suitable spirit, when he found he was about to be anticipated in his skill by an attempt to prove the power of music.

Gamut, who had stood prepared to pour forth his spirit in song when the visiters entered, after delaying a moment, drew a strain from his pipe, and commenced a hymn that might have worked a miracle, had faith in its efficacy been of much avail. He was allowed to proceed to the close, the Indians respecting his imaginary infirmity, and Duncan too glad of the delay to hazard the slightest interruption. As the dying cadence of his strains was falling


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 on the ears of the latter, he started aside at hearing them repeated behind him, in a voice half human and half sepulchral. Looking around, he beheld the shaggy monster seated on end, in a shadow of the cavern, where, while his restless body swung in the uneasy manner of the animal, it repeated, in a sort of low growl, sounds, if not words, which bore some slight resemblance to the melody of the singer.

The effect of so strange an echo on David, may better be imagined than described. His eyes opened, as if he doubted their truth; and his voice became instantly mute in excess of wonder. A deep laid scheme of communicating some important intelligence to Heyward, was driven from his recollection by an emotion which very nearly resembled fear, but which he was fain to believe was admiration. Under its influence he exclaimed aloud—"She expects you, and is at hand"—and precipitately left the cavern.


text: The Last of the Mohicans; a Narrative of 1757/Volume 3/Chapter 2


text:
Author:William Eden Nesfield

Works

 * Sketches from France and Italy (London, 1862)

title: Author:William Eden Nesfield


text:
The Angels of Mons

 * The Angels of Mons, first edition (1915)
 * The Angels of Mons, second edition (1915)

title: The Angels of Mons


text:
Page:Kalevala (Kirby 1907) v2.djvu/100

88

To approach the bells when ringing,

And the tinkling of the cow-bells,

But ’tis not permitted to thee,

Nor permission has been given,

To commence a work of evil,

Or a deed of shame accomplish.

“Should thy frenzy come upon thee,

And thy teeth be seized with longing,

Cast thy frenzy in the bushes,

On the heath thy evil longing,

Then attack the trees all rotten,

Overthrow the rotten birch-trees,

Turn to trees in water standing,

Growl in berry-bearing districts.

“If the need for food should seize thee,

Or for food the wish thou feelest,

Eat the fungi in the forest,

And do thou break down the ant-hills,

And the red roots do thou delve for;

These are Metsola’s sweet dainties.

Eat no grass reserved for fodder,

Neither do thou hurt my pasture.

“When in Metsola the honey

Is fermenting and is working,

On the hills of golden colour,

And upon the plains of silver,

There is food for those who hunger,

There is drink for all the thirsty,

There is food to eat that fails not,

There is drink that never lessens.

“Let us make a league eternal,

Make an endless peace between us,

That we live in perfect quiet

And in comfort all the summer,

And to us the lands are common,

And our provender delicious.

“If thou dost desire a combat,

And wouldst live in hopes of battle,

Let us combat in the winter,

And contend in time of snowfall.

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text:
Page:Kalevala (Kirby 1907) v2.djvu/101

Runo XXXII]

When the marshes thaw in summer,

And the pools are all unfrozen,

Never venture to approach thou,

Where the golden herd is living.

“When thou comest to this country,

And thou movest in this forest,

We at any time will shoot you,

Though the gunners should be absent.

There are very skilful women,

All of them accomplished housewives,

And they will destroy your pathway,

On your journey bring destruction,

Lest you might work any evil,

Or indulge in any mischief,

Ill by Jumala not sanctioned,

And against his blessed orders.

“Ukko, thou, of Gods the highest,

Shouldst thou hear that he is coming,

Then do thou transform my cattle,

Suddenly transform my cattle,

Into stones convert my own ones,

Change my fair ones into tree-trunks,

When the monster roams the district,

And the big one wanders through it.

“If I were myself a Bruin,

Roamed about a honey-pawed one,

Never would I dare to venture

To the feet of aged women.

There are many other regions,

There are many other penfolds,

Where a man may go to wander,

Roaming aimless at his pleasure.

Therefore move thy paws across them,

Do thou move thy paws across them,

In the blue wood’s deep recesses,

In the depths of murmuring forest.

“On the heath o’er pine-cones wander,

Tramp thou through the sandy districts,

Go thou where the way is level,

Do thou bound along the lakeshore,

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text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 21


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 22


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 23


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 24


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 25


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 26


text:
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90

To the furthest bounds of Pohja,

To the distant plains of Lapland.

There indeed mayst thou be happy,

Good it is for thee to dwell there,

Wandering shoeless in the summer,

Wandering sockless in the autumn,

Through the wide expanse of marshland,

And across the wide morasses.

“But if thou should not go thither,

If thou canst not find the pathway,

Hasten then to distant regions,

Do thou wander, on thy pathway

Unto Tuonela’s great forest,

Or across the heaths of Kalma.

There are marshes to be traversed,

There are heaths that thou mayst traverse,

There is Kirjos, there is Karjos,

There are many other cattle,

Fitted with their iron neck-chains,

Ten among them altogether;

There the lean kine quickly fatten,

And their bones are soon flesh-covered.

“Be propitious, wood and forest,

Be thou gracious, O thou blue wood,

Give thou peace unto the cattle,

And protection to the hoofed ones,

Through the whole length of the summer,

Of the Lord the loveliest season.

“Kuippana, thou king of woodland,

Active greybeard of the forest,

Hold thy dogs in careful keeping,

Watch thou well thy dogs and guard them;

Thrust some fungus in one nostril,

In the other thrust an apple,

That they may not smell the cattle,

And they may not scent their odour.

Bind their eyes with silken ribands,

Likewise bind their ears with linen,

That they may not hear them moving,

And they may not see them walking.

title: Page:Kalevala (Kirby 1907) v2.djvu/102


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 27


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 28


text:
Page:Mosquitos (Faulkner).pdf/57

 “No, no: not to-night. I know your place, you see.” Gordon made no reply, brooding his tall head in the shadow. “Well, I’ll phone her and have her send a car for you to-morrow,” Fairchild added. “Come on, Julius, let’s go. Glad you changed your mind,” he added belatedly. “Good. night. Come on, Julius.”

They crossed the street and entered the square. Once within the gates they were assailed, waylaid from behind every blade and leaf with a silent, vicious delight.

“Good Lord,” exclaimed Fairchild, flipping his handkerchief madly about, “let’s go over to the docks. Maybe there ain’t any nautical ones.” He hurried on, the Semitic man ambling beside him, clamping his dead cigar.

“He’s a funny chap,” the Semitic man remarked. They waited for a trolley to pass, then crossed the street. The wharf, the warehouse, was a formal rectangle with two slender masts projecting above it at a faint angle. They went on between two dark buildings and halted again while a switch engine drew an interminable monotony of cars up the track.

“He ought to get out of himself more,” Fairchild commented. “You can’t be an artist all the time. You'll go crazy.”

“You couldn’t,” the other corrected. “But then, you are not an artist. There is somewhere within you a bewildered stenographer with a gift for people, but outwardly you might be anything. You are an artist only when you are telling about people, while Gordon is not an artist only when he is cutting at a piece of wood or stone. And it’s very difficult for a man like that to establish workable relations with people. Other artists are too busy playing with their own egos, workaday people will not or cannot bother with him, so his alternatives are misanthropy or an endless gabbling of

title: Page:Mosquitos (Faulkner).pdf/57


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 29


text:
Page:Kalevala (Kirby 1907) v2.djvu/103

Runo XXXII]

“If this is not yet sufficient,

And they do not much regard it,

Then do thou forbid thy children,

Do thou drive away thy offspring.

Lead them forth from out this forest,

From this lakeshore do thou drive them,

From the lands where roam the cattle,

From among the spreading willows,

Do thou hide thy dogs in caverns,

Nor neglect to bind them firmly,

Bind them with the golden fetters,

With the slender silver fetters,

That they may commit no evil,

And be guilty of no outrage.

“If this is not yet sufficient,

And they do not much regard it,

Ukko, then, O golden monarch,

Ukko, O thou silver guardian,

Hearken to my words so golden,

Listen to my lovely sayings!

Take a snaffle made of rowan,

Fix it on their stumpy muzzles,

Or if rowan will not hold them,

Cast thou then a copper muzzle,

If too weak is found the copper,

Forge thou then an iron muzzle,

If they break the iron muzzle,

And it should itself be shattered,

Drive thou then a stake all golden,

Through the chin and through the jawbone,

Do thou close their jaws securely,

Fix them that they cannot move them,

That they cannot move their jawbones,

And their teeth can scarcely open,

If the iron is not opened,

If the steel should not be loosened,

If with knife it is not severed,

If with hatchet ’tis not broken.”

Then did Ilmarinen’s housewife,

Of the smith the wife so artful,

title: Page:Kalevala (Kirby 1907) v2.djvu/103


text:
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 esthetic foster sisters of both sexes. Particularly if his lot is cast outside of New York city.”

“There you go: disparaging our Latin Quarter again. Where’s your civic pride? where’s your common courtesy, even? Even the dog won’t bite the hand that holds the bread.”

“Corn belt,” the other said shortly, “Indiana talking. You people up there are born with the booster complex, aren’t you? Or do you acquire it with sunburned necks?”

“Oh, well, we Nordics are at a disadvantage,” Fairchild replied. His tone was unctuous, the other detected something falsely frank in it. “We’ve got to fix our idea on a terrestrial place. Though we know it’s second rate, that’s the best we can do. But your people have got all heaven for your old home town, you know.”

“I could forgive everything except the unpardonable clumsiness of that,” the other told him. “Your idea is not bad. Why don’t you give it to Mark Frost—roughly, you know—and let him untangle it for you? You and he could both use it then—if you are quick enough, that is.”

Fairchild laughed. “Now, you lay off our New Orleans bohemian life; stay away from us if you don’t like it. I like it, myself: there is a kind of charming futility about it, like—”

“Like a country club where they play croquet instead of golf,” the other supplied for him.

“Well, yes,” Fairchild agreed. “Something like that.” The warehouse loomed above them, and they passed into it and amid the ghosts of the ends of the earth. “A croquet player may not be much of a go-getter, but what do you think of a man that just sits around and criticizes croquet?”

“Well, I’m like the rest of you immortals: I’ve got to pass the time in some way in order to gain some idea of how to

title: Page:Mosquitos (Faulkner).pdf/58


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 30


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 31


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 32


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 33


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 34


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 35


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 36


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 37


text:
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 pared food for her sons on the new stove of which she was afraid, but they were in and out so much it was hard to anticipate their mealtimes; and her eyes being no longer good enough for sewing, she spent her time puttering about their living quarters overhead or in a corner of the kitchen where she would be out of the way, preparing vegetables and such—things that didn’t require keenness of sight or attention.

The room itself she would not enter, though from her accustomed corner in the kitchen she could on occasion watch the boneless sophistication of the saxophone player and the drummer’s flapping elbows, and years ago she had heard the noise they made. But that was long ago and she had forgotten it, and now she accepted their antics as she accepted the other changes, associating no sound with them at all. Joe had several automobiles now: big noticeable ones, and he used to try to persuade her to ride in them. But she refused stubbornly always, though it was a matter of neighborhood comment, how good the Ginotta boys were to the old lady.

But Joe, with his shrewd taciturn face and his thinning hair and his shirt of heavy striped silk smoothly taut across his tight embryonic paunch—Joe, standing with his head-waiter at the desk, paused in his occupation to glance down that room with its every modern fixture, its tiled floor and lights and mirrors, with commendable pride. With the quiet joy of ownership his gaze followed its mirrored diminishing tunnel and passed on to the discreetly curtained entrance beneath that electric sign, that ultimate accolade of Americanization, flashing his name in golden letters in rain or mist or against the remote insane stars themselves; and to his brother slanting his damaged hat defiantly, turning in beneath it.

Joe held his sheaf of banknotes in one hand and his poised

title: Page:Mosquitos (Faulkner).pdf/304


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 38


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 39


text:
Page:Kalevala (Kirby 1907) v2.djvu/104

Rh

Drive from out their stalls the cattle,

Send the cattle forth to pasture,

After them she sent the shepherd,

That the slave should drive the cattle.

, Kalervo’s offspring,

Put his lunch into his wallet,

Drove the cows along the marshes,

While across the heath he wandered,

And he spoke as he was going,

And repeated on his journey,

“Woe to me, a youth unhappy,

And a youth of wretched fortune!

Wheresoe’er I turn my footsteps,

Nought but idleness awaits me;

I must watch the tails of oxen,

And must watch the calves I follow,

Always tramping through the marshes,

Through the worst of level country.”

Then upon the ground he rested,

On a sunny slope he sat him,

And he then composed these verses,

And expressed himself in singing:

“Sun of Jumala, O shine thou,

Of the Lord, thou wheel, shine warmly,

On the warder of the smith’s herd,

And upon the wretched shepherd,

title: Page:Kalevala (Kirby 1907) v2.djvu/104


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 40


text: Kalevala (Kirby 1907)/Runo 32

title: Kalevala (Kirby 1907)/Runo 32


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 41


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 42


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 43


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 44


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 45


text:
Index talk:Works of Jules Verne - Parke - Vol 8.djvu

Alternative translation
The translation by Frewer (1875) is in The_Survivors_of_the_Chancellor, at least that is the claim in that page. But comparing both versions, the words in the initial chapters are the same, and the Gutenberg copy does not claim to be the 1875 version... R. J. Mathar (talk) 19:37, 1 February 2024 (UTC)


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 46


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 47


text: Index:South Africa v. Israel (Order of 26 January 2024).pdf


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 48


text: Page:South Africa v. Israel (Order of 26 January 2024).pdf/1


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 49


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 50


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 51


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 52


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 53


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 54


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 55


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 56


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Survivors of the Chancellor/Chapter 57


text: Page:South Africa v. Israel (Order of 26 January 2024).pdf/2


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 wetted finger over it and watched Pete traverse the mirrored length of the room.

“Where in hell you been?” he demanded.

“To the country,” Pete answered shortly. “Anything to eat?”

“Eat, hell,” his brother exclaimed. “Here I’ve had to pay a man two days just because you were off helling around somewheres. And now you come in talking about something to eat. Here—” he put aside his sheaf of money and from a drawer he took a pack of small slips of paper and ran through them. The headwaiter counted money undisturbed, methodically. “I promised this stuff to her by noon. You get busy and run it out there—here’s the address—and no more foolishness, see? Eat, hell.” But Pete had brushed past the other without even pausing. His brother followed him. “You get right at it, you hear?” He raised his voice. “You think you can walk out of here and stay as long as you want, huh? You think you can come strolling back after a week, huh? You think you own this place?”

The old lady was waiting inside the kitchen. She didn’t hardly talk at all any more: only made sounds, wet sounds of satisfaction and alarm; and she saw her older son’s face and she made these sounds now, looking from one to the other but not offering to touch them. Pete entered the room and his brother stopped at the door, and the old lady shuffled across to the stove and fetched Pete a plate of warmed-over spaghetti and fish and set it before him at a zinc-covered table. His brother stood in the door and glared at him.

“Get up from there, now, like I told you. Come on, come on, you can eat when you get back.”

But the old lady bustled around, getting between them with the stubborn barrier of her deafness, and her alarmed sounds rose again, then fell and became a sort of meaningless

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