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Uncle William (novelette)

ES, I'm shif'less. I'm gen'ally considered shif'less,” said William Benslow. He spoke in a tone of satisfaction, and hitched his trousers skilfully into place by their one suspender. His companion shifted his easel a little, squinting across the harbor at the changing light. There was a mysterious green in the water that he failed to find in his color box. William Benslow watched him patiently. “Kind o' ticklish business, ain't it?” he said.

The artist admitted that it was.

“I reckon I wouldn't ever 'a' done for a painter,” said the old man, readjusting his legs. “It's settin' work, and that's good; but you have to keep at it steadylike—keep a-daubin' and a-scrapin' and a-daubin' and a-scrapin', day in and day out. I shouldn't like it. Sailin' is more in my line,” he added, scanning the horizon. “You have to step lively when you do step, but there's plenty of off times when you can set and look, and the boat just goes skimmin' along all o' herself, with the water and the sky all around you. I've been thankful a good many times the Lord saw fit to make a sailor of me.”

The artist glanced a little quizzically at the tumbledown house on the cliff above them, and then at the old boat, with its tattered maroon sail, anchored below. “There's not much money in it?” he suggested.

“Money—dunno's there is,” returned the other. “You don't reely need money if you're a sailor.”

“No, I suppose not—no more than an artist.”

“Don't you need money either?” The old man spoke with cordial interest.

“Well, occasionally—not much. I have to buy canvas now and then, and colors—”

The old man nodded—“Same as me—canvas costs a little and color. I dye mine in magenta. You get it cheap in the bulk—”

The artist laughed out. “All right, Uncle William, all right,” he said. “You teach me to trust in the Lord and I'll teach you art. You see that color out there—deep green like shadowed grass—”

The old man nodded. “I've seen that a good many times,” he said. “Cur'us, ain't it—just the color of lobsters when you haul 'em?”

The young man started. He glanced again at the harbor “Hum-m!” he said under his breath. He searched in his color box and mixed a fresh color rapidly on the palette—transferring it swiftly to the canvas. “Ah-h!” he said again under his breath. It held an of satisfaction.

Uncle William hitched his suspender and came leisurely across the sand. He squinted at the canvas and then at the sliding water, rising and falling across the bay. “Putty good,” he said approvingly. “You've got it just about the way it looks.”

“Just about,” assented the young man with quick satisfaction. “Just about. Thank you.”

Uncle William nodded. “Cur'us, ain't it? There's a lot in the way you see a thing.”

“There certainly is,” said the painter. His brush moved in swift strokes across the canvas. “There certainly is,” said the painter. “I've been studying that water for two hours. I never thought of lobsters.” He laughed happily.

Uncle William joined him, chuckling gently. “That's nateral enough,” he said kindly. “You hain't been seeing it for sixty year the way I hev.” He looked again at it lovingly from his his height.

“What's the good of being an artist if I can't see that you can't?” demanded the young man, swinging about on his stool.

“Well, what is the use? I dunno, do you?” said Uncle William genially. “I've thought about that a good many times, too, when I've been sailin',” he went on. “How them artists come up here summer after summer makin' picters—putty poor most on 'em—and what's the use? I can see better ones setting out there in my boat, any day—Not but that's better'n some,” he added politely, indicating the half-finished canvas.

The young man laughed. “Thanks to you,” he said. “Come on in and make a chowder— It's too late to do any more and that's enough.” He glanced with satisfaction at the glowing canvas with its touch of green. He set it carefully to one side and gathered up his tubes and brushes.

Uncle William bent from his height and lifted the easel, knocking it apart and folding it with quick skill.

Th artist looked up with a nod of thanks. “All right,” he said, “go ahead.”

Uncle William reached out a friendly hand for the canvas, but the artist drew it back quickly. “No, no,” he said; “you'd rub it off.”

“Like enough,” returned the old man placidly, “I gen'ally do get in a muss when there's fresh paint around. But I don't mind my clothes. 'They're ust to it—same as your'n.”

The young man laughed anxiously. “I wouldn't risk it,” he said. “Come on.”

They turned to the path that zigzagged its way up the cliff, and with bent backs and hinged knees they mounted to the little house perched on its edge

HE old man pushed open the door with a friendly kick. “Go right along in,” he said; “I'll be there soon as I've got an armful of wood.” The artist entered the glowing room. Turkey red blazed at the windows and decorated the walls. It ran along the line of shelves by the fire and covered the big lounge. One stepped into the light of it with a sudden sense of crude comfort.

The artist set his canvas carefully on a projecting beam and looked about him, smiling. A cat leaped down from the turkey-red lounge and came across, rubbing against his legs. He bent and stroked her absently.

She arched her back to his hand. Then, moving from him with stately step, she approached the door, looking back at him with calm, imperious gaze.

“All right, Juno,” he said; “he'll be along in a minute. Don't you worry.”

She turned her back on him, and, seating herself, began to wash her face gravely and slowly.

The door opened with a puff, and she leaped forward, dashing upon the big leg that entered, and digging her claws into it in ecstasy of welcome.

Uncle William, over the armful of wood, surveyed her with shrewd eyes. He reached down a long arm and seizing her by the tail swung her clear of his path, landing her on the big lounge. With a purr of satisfaction she settled herself, kneading her claws in its red softness.

He deposited the wood in the box and stood up. His bluff, kind gaze swept the little room affectionately. He took off the stove-lid and poked together the few coals that glowed beneath. “That's all right,” he said; “she'll heat up quick.” He thrust in some light sticks and pushed forward the kettle. “Now, if you'll reach into that box behind you and get the potatoes,” he said, “I'll get the rest of the fixin's.” He removed his hat, and, taking down a big oilcloth apron, checked red and black, tied it about his ample waist. He reached up and drew from behind the clock a pair of spectacles in steel bows. He adjusted them to his blue eyes with a little frown. “They're a terrible bother,” he said, squinting through them and readjusting them, “but I don't dare resk it without. I got hold of the pepper-box last time. Thought it was the salt—same shape— The chowder was hot.” He chuckled. “I can see a boat a mile off,” he said, lifting the basket of clams to the sink, “but a pepper-box two feet 's beyond me.” He stood at the sink, rubbing the clams with slow, thoughtful fingers. His big head, outlined against the window, was not unlike the line of seacoast that stretched below, far as the eye could see, rough and jagged. Tufts of hair framed his shining baldness and tufts of beard embraced the chin, losing themselves in the vast expanse of neckerchief knotted, sailor-fashion, about his throat.

Over the clams and the potatoes and the steaming kettles he hovered with a kind of slow patience—in a smaller man it would have been fussiness—and when the fragrant chowder was done he dipped it out with careful hand. The light had lessened and the little room, in spite of its ruddy glow, was growing dark. Uncle William lighted the lamp swinging, ship-fashion, from the beam above, and drew up his chair. “Well, it's ready,” he said, “such as it is.”

“That's all airs, Uncle William,” said the young man, drawing up; “you know it's fit for a king.”

“Yes, it's good,” said the old man, beaming on him. “I've thought a good many times there wa'n't anything in the world that tasted better than chowder—real good clam chowder.” His mouth opened to take in a spoonful, and his ponderous jaws worked slowly. There was nothing gross in the action, but it might have been ambrosia. He had pushed the big spectacles up on his head for comfort, and they made an iron-gray bridge from tuft to tuft, framing the ruddy face.

“There was a man up here one summer,” he said, chewing slowly, “that e't my chowder. And he was sort o' possessed to have me go back home with him.”

The artist smiled—“Just to make chowder for him?”

The old man nodded. “Sounds cur'us, don't it? But that was what he wanted. He was a big hotel-keeper, and he sort o' got the idea that if he could have chowder like that it would be a big thing for the hotel. He offered me a good deal o' money if I'd go with him—said he'd give me five hundred a year and keep.” The old man chuckled. “I told him I wouldn't go for a thousand—not for two thousand,” he said emphatically. “Why, I don't suppose there's money enough in New York to tempt me to live there.”

“Have you been there?”

“Yes, I've been there a good many times. We've put in for repairs and one thing and another, and I sailed a couple of years between there and Liverpool once. It's a terrible shet-in place,” he said suddenly.

“I believe you're right,” admitted the young man. He had lighted his pipe and was leaning back, watching the smoke. “You do feel shut in—sometimes. But there are a lot of nice people shut in with you.”

“That's just what I meant,” said the old man quickly, “I can't stan' so many folks.”

“You're not much crowded here.” The young man lifted his head. Down below they could hear the surf beating. The wind had risen. It rushed against the little house whirlingly.

The old man listened a minute. “I shall have to go down and reef her down,” he said thoughtfully; “it's going to blow.”

“I should say it is blowing,” said the young man.

“Not yet,” returned Uncle William. “You'll hear it blow afore morning if you stay awake to listen—though it won't sound so loud up the shore where you be. This is the place for it. A good stiff blow and nobody on either side of you—for half a mile.” A kind of mellow enthusiasm held the tone.

The young man smiled. “You are a hermit. Suppose somebody should build next you?”

“They can't.”

“Why not?'

“I own it.”

“A mile?”

The old man nodded. “Not the shore, of course. That's free to all. But where anybody could build I own.” He said it almost exultantly. “I guess, maybe I'm part Indian.” He smiled apologetically. “I can't seem to breathe without I have room enough, and it just come over me once how I should feel if folks crowded down on me too much. So I bought it. I'm what they call around here 'land-poor.'” He said it with satisfaction. “I can't scrape together money enough to buy a new boat, and it's much as I can do to keep the Jennie patched up and going. But I'm comfortable. I don't really want for anything.”

“Yes, you're comfortable.” The young man glanced about the snug room,

“There ain't a lot of folks shying up over the rocks at me.” He got up with deliberation, knocking the ashes from his pipe. “I'm going to reef her down tighter and put down the other anchor,” he said. “You stay till I come back and we'll have something hot.”

He put on his oilskin hat and coat, and, taking the lantern from its hook, went out into the night.

Within, the light of the swinging lamp fell on the turkey red. It glowed. The cat purred in its depths.

HE artist had been dreaming. In his hand he held an open locket. The face within it was dark, like a boy's, with careless hair brushed from the temples and strong lines. The artist knew the lines by heart, and the soft collar and loose-flowing tie and careless dress. He had been leaning back with closed eyes, watching the lithe figure, tall and spare, with the rude grace of the steppes, the freshness of the wind.... How she would enjoy it—this very night—the red room perched aloft in the gale! A fresh blast struck the house and it creaked and groaned and righted itself. In the lull that followed, steps sounded up the rocky path. With a snap the young man closed the locket and sat up. The door opened on Uncle William, shining and gruff. The lantern in his hand had gone out. His hat and coat were covered with fine mist. He came across to the fire, shaking it off.

“It's going to blow all right,” he said, nodding to the artist.

“And it's raining— You're wet.”

“Well, not wet, so to speak.” He took off his hat, shaking it lightly over the stove. A crackling and fine mist rose from the hot drops. Juno lifted her head and yawned. She purred softly. The old man hung his hat and coat on the wooden pegs behind the door and seated himself by the stove, opening wide the draughts. A fresh blaze sprang up. The artist leaned forward, holding out his hands to it.

“You were gone a good while,” he said. The locket had slipped from his fingers and hung lightly on its steel chain, swinging a little as he bent to the fire.

The old man nodded. “I see the Andrew Halloran had dragged her anchor a little as I went out, and I stopped to fix her. It took quite a spell. I couldn't find the extry anchor. He'd got it stowed away for'ard somewheres, and by the time I found it she was driftin' pretty bad. I found a good bottom for her and reefed her down good before I left. I reckon she'll hold.”

“Won't he be down himself to look after her?”

“Maybe not. It's a goodish step from his place down and back. He knows I keep an eye out for her.”

“Why doesn't he anchor up there,” said the artist, “near by?”

The old man shook his head. “He's a kind o' set man, Andy is—part Irish and part Scotch. He al'ays has anchored here, and I reckon he al'ays will. I told him when I bought the land of him he was welcome to.”

“It was his land then?”

“Most on it—I do' know as he wanted to sell really, but I offered him more'n he could stan'. He's a little near—Andy is.” He chuckled,

The artist laughed out. “So he keeps the anchorage and right of way and you look after his boat—I don't see but he's fairly well fixed.”

“Yes, he's putty well fixed,” said the old man slowly; “'s fur as this world's goods go Andy is comfortably provided for.” His eyes twinkled a little, but most of the big face was sober. “We've been neighbors, Andy 'n' me, ever sence we was boys,” he said. “I guess there ain't a mean thing about Andy that I don't know, and he the same about me. I should feel kind o' lonesome nights not to hev his boat to look after—and know, like as not, in the morning he'll come down, cussin' and swearin', 'cause she wa'n't fixed jest right.” He peered into the kettle on the stove. “'Most empty.” He rose and filled it from the pail by the sink. Then he resumed his seat by the stove, stretching his great legs comfortably before him. Juno sprang from the lounge and perched herself on his knees. He tumbled her a little in rough affection and rubbed his big fingers in her neck. She purred loudly, kneading her claws with swift strokes in the heavy cloth. He watched her benignly, a kind of detached humor in his eyes. “Wimmen folks is a good deal alike,” he remarked dryly. “They like to be comfortable.”

“Some of them,” assented the artist.

The old man looked up with a soft twinkle— “So-o?” he said.

The artist sat up quickly, The locket swayed on its chain, and his hand touched it. “What do you mean?” he said.

“Why, nuthin', nuthin',” said Uncle William soothingly, “only I thought you was occupied with art and so on—”

“I am.”

Uncle William said nothing.

Presently the artist leaned forward. “Do you want to see her?” he said. He was holding it out.

Uncle William peered at it uncertainly. He rose and took down the spectacles from behind the clock and placed them on his nose. Then he reached out his great hand for the locket. The quizzical humor had gone from his face. It was full of gentleness.

Without a word the artist laid the locket in his hand.

The light swung down from the lamp on it, touching the dark face. The old man studied it thoughtfully. On the stove the kettle had begun to hum. Its gentle sighing filled the room. The artist dreamed.

Uncle William pushed up his spectacles and regarded him with a satisfied look. “You've had a good deal more sense 'n I was afraid you'd have,” he said dryly.

The artist woke. “You can't tell—from that.” He held out his hand.

Uncle William gave it up slowly. “I can tell more'n you'd think perhaps. Wimmen and the sea are alike—some ways—a good deal alike. I've lived by the sea sixty year, you know, and I've watched all kinds of doings. But what I'm surest of is that it's deeper'n we be.” He chuckled softly. “Now, I wouldn't pertend to know all about her,” he waved his hand, “but she's big and she's fresh—salt, too—and she makes your heart big just to look at her—the way it ought to, I reckon. There's things about her I don't know,” he nodded toward the picture. “She may not go to church, and I don't doubt but that she has tantrums, but she's better'n we be, and she— What did you say her name was?”

“Sergia Lvova.”

“Sergia Lvova,” repeated the old man slowly, yet with a certain ease, “that's a cur'us name? I've heard suthin' like it somewhere—”

“She's Russian.”

“*Russian— Jest so! I might 'a' known it! I touched Russia once, ran up to St. Petersburg. Now, there's a country that don't hev breathin' space. She don't hev half the sea room she'd o't to. Look at her—all hemmed in and froze up. You hev to squeeze past all the nations of the earth to get to her, half choked afore you fairly get there— Yes, I sailed there once, up through Skager Rack and Cattegat, along up the Baltic and the Gulf of Finland, just edging along—” He held out his hand again for the locket and studied it carefully. “Russian, is she? I might 'a' known it,” he said nodding, “she's the sort, same look—eager and kind o' waiting. When you going to be married?” He looked up.

“Not till we can afford it—years.” The tone was sombre.

Uncle William shook his head. “Now, I wouldn't talk like that, Mr. Woodworth!” He handed back the locket and pushed up his spectacles again, beaming beneath them. “Seems to me,” he said slowly, studying the fire, “seems to me I wouldn't wait. I'd be married right off—soon's I got back.”

“What would you live on?' said the artist.

Uncle William waited. “There's resk,” he said at last, “there's resk in it. But there's resk in most everything that tastes good. I meant to get married once,” he said after a pause. “I didn't. I guess it's about the wust mistake I ever made. I thought this house wa'n't good enough for her.” He looked about the quaint room— “'Twa'n't neither,” he added with conviction, “but she'd 'a' rather come—I didn't know it then,” he said gently. The artist waited and the fire crackled between them.

“If I'd 'a' married her, I'd 'a' seen things sooner,” went on the old man. “I didn't see much beauty them days—on sea or land. I was all for a good ketch and makin' money and gettin' a better boat. And about that time she died. I begun to learn things then—slow like—when I hadn't the heart to work. If I'd married Jennie, I'd 'a' seen 'em sooner, being happy. You learn just about the same being happy as you do being miserable—only you learn it quicker.”

“I can't give up my art,” said the young man. “You don't allow for art.”

“I dunno's I do,” returned Uncle William; “it's like makin' money, I guess—suthin' extry, thrown in, good enough if you get it, but not necessary—no, not necessary. Livin's the thing to live for, I reckon.” He stopped suddenly as if there were no more to be said.

The artist looked at him curiously. “That's what all the great artists have said,” he commented.

Uncle William nodded. “Like enough. I ain't an artist. But I've had sixty years of livin', off and on.”

“But you'll die poor,” said the artist with a glance about the little room.

“Yes, I suppose I shall,” said Uncle William placidly. “'Thout I make my fortune aforehand. That hot water looks to me just about right.” He eyed the tea-kettle critically. “You hand over them glasses and we'll mix a little suthin' hot and then we'll wash the dishes and go to bed.”

The artist looked up with a start. “I must be getting back.” He glanced at the dark window with its whirling sleet.

“You won't get back anywheres to-night,” said Uncle William. “You couldn't hear yourself think out there—let alone findin' the path. I'll jest shake up a bed for ye here on the lounge. It's a fust-rate bed. I've slept on it myself, time and again—and then in the morning you'll be on hand to go to work—save a trip for ye. Hand me that biggest glass and a teaspoon—I want that biggest there—second one—and a teaspoon. We'll have things fixed up fust-rate here.”

Far into the night the artist watched the ruddy room. Gleams from the fire darted up the wall and ran quivering along the red. Outside the wind struck the house and beat upon it and went back, hoarse and slow.

Down the beach the surf boomed in long rolls, holding its steady beat through the uproar. When the wind lulled for a moment the house creaked mysteriously, whispering, and when the gale returned a sound of flying missiles came with it. Now and then something struck the roof and thudded to the ground with heavier crash.

About three o'clock Uncle William's round face was thrust through the crack of the door. “You can go to sleep all right now,” he said soothingly, “there wa'n't but seven bricks left in the chimney anyhow, and the last one's jest come down. I counted 'em fallin'.”

HE artist stood on the beach, his hands in his pockets. Near by, seated on a bit of driftwood, a man was cleaning fish. For a few minutes the artist watched the swift motion of the knife, flashing monotonously. Then he glanced at the harbor and at the two sailboats bobbing and pulling their ropes. He was tired with the long strain of work. The summer was almost done. For weeks—since the night of the big storm—he had worked incessantly. A new light had come over things—“the light that never was on sea or land,” he called it, and he had worked feverishly. He saw the water and the rugged land as Uncle William saw them. Through his eyes he painted them. They took on color and bigness—simplicity. “They will call it my third style,” said the artist smiling, as he worked. “They ought to call it the 'Uncle William style.' I didn't do it—I shall never do it again,” and he worked fast.

But now the sketches were done. They were safely packed and corded. To-morrow he was going. To-day he would rest himself and do the things he would like to remember.

He looked again at the man cleaning fish. “Pretty steady work,” he said, nodding toward the red pile.

The man looked up with a grunt. “Everything's steady—that pays,” he said indifferently.

The artist's eyebrows lifted a little. “So?”

“Yep.” The man tossed aside another fish. “Ye can't earn money stan'in' with your hands in your pockets.”

“I guess that's so,” said the artist cheerfully. He did not remove the hands. The fingers found a few pennies in the depths and jingled them merrily.

“There's Willum,” said the man aggressively, sweeping his red knife toward the cliff. “He's poor—poor as poverty—and he al'ays will be.”

“What do you think is the reason?” asked the artist. The tone held respectful interest.

The man looked at him more tolerantly. “Too fond of settin'.”

The artist nodded. “I'm afraid he is.”

“An' then he's al'ays a-givin'—a little here and a little there. Why, what William Benslow's give away would 'a' made a rich man of him.”

“Yes?”

“Yep—I don't suppose I know half he's give. But it's a heap, Lord knows! And then he's foolish—plum foolish.” He rested his arms on his legs, leaning forward. “How much d'you s'pose he give me for that land—from here to my house!” He pointed up the coast.

The artist turned and squinted toward it with half closed lids. It glowed—a riot of color, green and red, cool against the mounting sky—“I haven't the least idea,” he said slowly.

“Well, you won't believe it when I tell you—nobody'd believe it— He paid me five hundred dollars for it—five hundred. It ain't wuth fifty—”

The artist smiled at him genially. “Well—he's satisfied.”

“But it ain't right,” said the man gloomily. He had returned to his fish. “'It ain't right. I can't bear to have Willum such a fool.”

“I think I'll go for a sail,” said the artist.

The other glanced at the horizon. “It's going to storm,” he said indifferently.

“I'll keep an eye out.”

“Ye better not go.”

“Think not?” He looked again at the harbor. “It's my last chance for a sail—I'll watch out.”

“All right. 'Tain't my business,” said the man. He went on slitting fish.

The harbor held a still light—ominously gray, with a tinge of yellow in its depths. Uncle William hurried down the face of the cliff, a telescope in his hand. Now and then he paused on the zigzag path and swept the bay with it. The gray stillness deepened.

On the beach below the man paused in his work to look up. As Uncle William approached he grunted stiffly. “She's off the island,” he said. He jerked a fishy thumb toward the water.

Uncle William's telescope fixed the boat and held it. His throat hummed, holding a kind of conversation with itself.

The man had returned to his fish, slitting in rough haste and tossing to one side. “Fool to go out—I told him it was coming.”

The telescope descended. Uncle William regarded him mildly. “I o't to 'a' kept an eye on him,” he said humbly. “I didn't jest sense he was going. I guess mebbe he did mention it. But I was mixing a batch of biscuit and kind o' thinking to myself— When I looked up he wa'n't there.” He slid the telescope together and slipped it into his pocket. “I'll hev to go after him,” he said.

The other looked up quickly. “How'll you go?”

Uncle William nodded toward the boat that dipped securely at anchor. “I'll take her,” he said.

the man laughed shortly. “The Andrew Halloran? I guess not!” He shut his knife with a decisive snap and stood up. “I don't trust her—not in such a storm as that's going be.” He waved his arm toward the harbor. The grayness was shifting rapidly. It moved in swift green touches, heavy and clear—a kind of luminous dread. In its sallow light the man's face stood out tragically. “I won't resk her,” he cried.

“You'll hev to, Andrew.” Uncle William bent to the bow of the dory that was beached near by. “Jump in,” he said.

The man drew back a step. The hand with the clasped knife fell to his side. “Don't you make me go, Willum,” he said pacifically. “You can take the boat and welcome, but don't make me. It's too much resk!”

“It's al'ays a resk to do your duty,” said Uncle William. “Jump in. I can't stand talking.” An edge of impatience grazed the words.

The man stepped in and seized the oars. “I'll help get her off,” he said, “but I'm not going.”

In the green light of the harbor a smile played over Uncle William's face grotesquely. He gave a shove to the boat and sprang in. “I guess you'll go, Andrew,” he said; “you wouldn't want a man drowned right at your dooryard.”

“You can't live in it,” said Andrew. He lifted his face to the light. Far to the east a boat crawled against it. “It'll strike in five minutes,” he said.

“Like enough,” said Uncle William, “like enough—easy there!” He seized the stern of the Andrew Halloran and sprang on board. They worked in swift silence, hoisting the anchor, letting out the sail—a single reef—making it fast. “All she'll stan',” said Uncle William. He turned to the helm.

Andrew, seated on the tiller bench, glared at him defiantly. “If she's going out, I take her,” he said.

“You get right over there and tend the sheet, Andy,” said Uncle William.

In silence the other obeyed. He undid the rope, letting it out with cautious hand. The low sail caught the breeze and stiffened to it. The boat came round to the wind, dipping lightly. She moved through the murky light as if drawn by unseen hands.

The light thickened and grew black—clouded and dense and swift. Then with a wrench heaven parted about them. The water descended in sheets, gray-black planes that shut them in—blinded them, crushed them. Andrew, crouching to the blows, drew in the sheet, closer, closer—hugging the wind with tense grasp. About them the water flattened like a plate beneath the flood. When the rain shifted a second they saw it, a gray-white floor, stretching as far as the eye could reach. Uncle William bent to it, scanning the east. “Hold her tight! Andy,” he yelled. His leg was braced against the tiller and his back strained to it. His hat was gone. The tufts of hair lashed flat to the big skull were mere lines. “Hold her tight! make fast!” he yelled again.

Through the dark they drove, stunned and grim. The minutes lengthened to ages and beat them eternally in torment. Water and clouds were all about them—underneath them and over. The boat, towering on each wave, dropped from its crest like a ball. Andrew, on her bottom, crawling, beseeching, groping, blubbered pitifully. Then in a breath the storm was gone. With a sucking sound it had swept beyond them, its black skirts hurtling behind it as it ran, kicking a wake of foam.

Andrew from beneath the bench lifted his sopped head like a turtle, breathless. Uncle William, bent far to the right, gazed to the east. Slowly his face lightened. He drew his big hand down its length, mopping off the wet. “There she is!” he said in a deep voice; “let her out, Andy.”

With stiff fingers Andrew reached to the sail, untying a second reef and loosing it to the wind.

The water still tossed in tumbling waves, and the fitful rain blew past. But the force of the storm was gone. Away to the north it towered, monstrous and black.

With his eyes strained to the east, Uncle William held the tiller. “We'll make it, Andy,” he said quietly. “We'll make it yet if the Jennie holds out.” Suddenly he stood upright, his hand on the tiller, his eves glued fast.

“Luff her!” he cried. “She's gone—luff her, I tell you!” He sprang back, jamming the tiller from him. “Let her out, Andy, every inch!

The canvas flew wide to the wind. The great boat responded to its touch. She rose like a bird and dipped, in sweeping, sidewise flight, to the race.

Across the water something bobbed—black, uncertain—

“Look sharp, Andy,” said Uncle William.

Andrew peered with blinking eyes across the waste. The spirit of the chase was on him. His indifference had washed from him like a husk in that centre of terror. His eyes leaped to the mass and glowed on it. “Yep,” he said solemnly, “he's held on—he's there!”

“Keep your eye on her, Andy. Don't lose her.” Uncle William's arms strained to the wind, forcing the great bird in her course. Nearer she came and nearer, circling with white wings that opened and closed silently, softly. Close to the bobbing boat she grazed, hung poised a moment, and swept away with swift stroke.

The artist had swung through the air at the end of a huge arm. As he looked up from the bottom of the boat where he lay, the old man's head, round and smooth, like a bowlder, stood out against the black above him. It grew and expanded and filled the horizon—thick and nebulous and dizzy.

“Roll him over, Andy,” said Uncle William, “roll him over. He's shipped too much.”

NCLE WILLIAM sat on the beach mending his nets. He drew the twine deftly in and out, squinting now and then across the harbor at a line of smoke that dwindled into the sky. Each time he looked it was fainter on the horizon. He whistled a little as he bent to his work. Over the rocks Andrew appeared, bearing on his back a huge bundle of nets. He threw it on the sand with a grunt. Straightening himself, he glanced at the line of smoke. “He's gone,” he said, jerking his thumb toward it.

“He's gone,” assented Uncle William cheerfully.

Andrew kicked the bundle of nets apart and drew an end toward him, spreading it along the beach. “He's left you poorer'n he found you,” he said. His tough fingers worked swiftly among the nets, untying knots and straightening meshes.

“I dunno 'bout that,” said Uncle William. His eyes followed the whiff of smoke kindly.

“You kep' him a good deal, off and on. He must 'a' e't considerable,” said Andrew. “And now he's up and lost your boat for you.” He glanced complacently at the Andrew Halloran swinging at anchor. “You'll never see her again,” he said. He gave a final toss to the net.

“Mebbe not,” said Uncle William, “mebbe not.” His eyes were on the horizon, where the gray-blue haze lingered lightly. The blue sky dipped to meet it. It melted in sunlight. Uncle William's eyes returned to his nets.

“How you going to get along 'bout a boat?” asked Andrew carelessly.

Uncle William paused. He looked up to the clear sky. “I shouldn't need her much more this fall anyway,” he said, “an' come spring, I'll get another. I've been needing a new boat a good while.”

Andrew grunted. He glanced a little jealously at the Andrew Halloran. “Got the money?' he asked.

“Well, not got it, so to speak,” said Uncle William, “but I reckon I shall have it when the time comes.”

Andrew's face lightened a little. “What you countin' on?” he said.

Uncle William considered. “There's the fish—Gunnion hain't settled with me yet for my fish.”

Andrew nodded. “Seventy-five dollars.”

“And I've got quite a count of lobsters up to the boardin'-house—”

Andrew's small eyes squinted knowingly. “Out o' season?”

Uncle William returned the look benignly. “We didn't date the 'count—just lumped 'em, so much a catch—saves trouble.”

Andrew chuckled. “I've saved trouble that way myself.” He made a rough calculation— “It won't make a hunderd, all told. How you goin' to get the rest?”

“Mebbe I shall borrow it—” said Uncle William. He looked serenely at the sky. “Like enough, he'll send a little suthin',” he added.

“Like enough!” said Andrew.

“He mentioned it,” said Uncle William.

“He's gone,” said Andrew. He gave a light p-f-f with his lips and screwed up his eyes, seeming to watch a bubble sail away.

Uncle William smiled. “You don't have faith, Andy,” he said reproachfully. “Folks do do things a good many times—things that they say they will. You o't to have faith.”

Andrew snuffed. “When I pin my faith to a thing, Willum, I like to hey suthin' to stick the pin into,” he said scornfully.

They worked in silence. Seagulls dipped about them. Off shore the sea-lions bobbed their thick, flabby, black heads inquiringly in the water and climbed clumsily over the kelp-covered rocks.

Andrew's eye rested impassively on their gambols. “Wuthless critters,” he said.

Uncle William's face softened as he watched them. “I kind o' like to see 'em, Andy—up and down and bobbin' and sloppin' and scramblin'—you never know where they'll come up next.”

“Don't need to,” grumbled Andy. “Can't eat the blamed things—nor wear 'em. I tell you, Willum”—he turned a gloomy eye on his companion—“I tell you, you set too much store by wuthless things!”

“Mebbe I do,” said Uncle William humbly.

“This one, now—this painter fellow—” Andrew gave a wave of his hand that condensed scorn. “What'd you get out o' him, a-gabblin' and sailin' all summer?”

“I dunno, Andy, as I could just put into words,” said William thoughtfully, “what I did get out o' him.”

“Ump! I guess you couldn't—nor anybody else. When he sends you anything for that boat o' yourn, you just let me know it, will you?”

“Why, yes, Andy, I'll let you know if you want me to. I'll be real pleased to let you know,” said Uncle William.

NCLE WILLIAM carried the letter up the zigzag rocks in his big fingers. A touch of spring was in the air, but the Andrew Halloran still rocked alone at the foot of the cliff. Uncle William turned back once to look at her. Then he pursued his way up the rough path.

He lighted the swinging lantern and sat down by it, tearing open the envelope with cautious fingers. A strip of bluish paper with uneven edge fluttered from it and fell to the floor. Uncle William bent over and picked it up. He looked at it, a little askance, and laid it on the table. He spread the letter before him, resting his elbows on the table and bending above it laboriously. As he read, a pleased smile came and went in the big face. “Now, that's good—ain't it!— Married— I want to know— Well—well!— Pshaw, you needn't 'a' done that! Why!” He picked up the bluish slip and looked at it. He laid it down and returned to the letter. “What! what!” He pushed the spectacles up on his head and sat back, surveying the red room. He shook his head slowly. “No, no, I couldn't do that!”

He returned the letter and the blue slip to the envelope and stowed it away in his pocket. He surveyed the room again, shaking his head. “I couldn't do that nohow,” he said slowly. “But I must go show it to Andy. He'll be real pleased.”

He rose and began to set the table, bringing out smoked herring and bread and tea and foxberries with lavish hand. He sat down with a look of satisfaction. Juno, from the red lounge, came across, jumping into the chair beside him. She rubbed expectantly against him. He fed her bits of the herring with impartial hand. He looked about the room with cheerful gaze, shaking his head.

“It's a heap of money,” he said, chewing slowly, “but I don't seem to need it—don't need it enough for that.”

He finished his supper and washed the dishes and put them away. Then he combed his tufts of hair and tied his neckerchief anew.

He found Andrew outside his house feeding the hens. They stood in silence watching the scramble for bits. “Shoo!” said Andrew, making a dash for a big Cochin China. “She eats a lot more'n her share,” he grumbled, shaking out the dish. “Comin' in?”

“I've got a little suthin' to show you,” said William.

“Come out behind the barn,” said Andrew.

Seated on a well-worn bench, with a glimpse of the bay in the distance, William drew out the envelope. “I've had a letter from him—from Mr. Woodworth.”

“The painter chap?”

“Uh-huh.” Uncle William. fumbled for his glasses.

“What's he say?”

Uncle William drew the letter from its envelope. The blue slip fluttered again in its wake and fell to the ground. Andrew stooped and picked it up. He held it in both hands, scrutinizing it. His eyes grew round. “'D he send you that?” Uncle William glanced at it carelessly. “That's part of it.”

Andrew laid it sacredly on his knee, gazing at it. “Part of it!” he said feebly.

“That's for the boat,” said Uncle William; “I told you I'd let you know soon's it come. That's what I come over for.” He gazed at Andrew with a benign smile. Andrew grinned sheepishly.

Uncle William shook his head. “Didn't I tell you, Andy, that you o't to have faith?”

“He was poor as poverty,” muttered Andrew; '“he told me so.”

“He's had quite a run of luck,” said William, returning to the letter; “he says they've been hevin' a kind of exhibition. He's sold six of them things—six pictures.”

“What's six pictures!” said Andrew. His intent was scornful, but Uncle William had a literal mind. He consulted the letter again. “It's eleven thousand five hundred dollars,” he said, reading the words slowly; “that's quite a lot o' money, ain't it, Andy?”

Incredulity rested on Andy's face. But his eye fell again on the check in his fingers. He pinched it tightly. “So he sent you five hunderd of it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“She wa'n't wuth it,” with jealous conviction.

“I was going to say it myself—if you'd give me time,” said Uncle William mildly. “She wa'n't wuth more'n two hundred if she was that; but it'll take five hundred for a new one, such as I'm plannin'.”

Andrew's eye, fixed on the blue slip, held a tinge of green in its depths.

“So I'm going to take two hundred straight out and borrow the rest of him,” said William placidly. “He'll let me hev it anyway I want, I reckon. He says suthin' 'bout payin' me a commission on the pictures—'cause they was made out o' my land, I suppose.”

Andrew's eye lifted itself with a helpless look. It swept the horizon line—rock and moor and sea and cloud. “Willum”—he leaned toward him, half whispering the words—“what'd you suppose it is 'bout pictures that makes 'em cost so much?”

“I dunno,” said William carelessly; “can't be the paint?”

“No.”

“Nor the canvas— Must be the way he does 'em.”

“He a starin' and settin',” grumbled Andrew.

“He sweat and fussed some,” said William reprovingly, “quite a considabul. I shouldn't call it real easy work— But that ain't all, Andy”—he scanned the letter anew—“there's suthin' cur'us about the way he sold 'em. A man's bought 'em—a Frenchman—queer name—” He squinted at it. “He bought 'em partly 'cause he liked 'em and partly 'cause he liked the place.” He laid down the letter and beamed upon Andrew.

Andrew swept a despairing glance at the horizon. “Mebbe he'd like to live here,” he sneered.

“That's just it, Andy. You've hit it,” said Uncle William excitedly. “How keen you be, Andy! That's it—he wants to buy it.”

“Huh!” said Andrew. The sound stuck in his throat and grumbled itself away.

“He's a man that Sergia—that's his wife now—Mr. Woodworth's wife—she knew him, the Frenchman, when she was a girl—up in Russia, and he seemed to know the place right off the minute he set eyes on the pictures; said he used to live somewheres round here when he was a little boy. I don't remember no such name; do you, Andy?”

He found the place in the letter and laid his big thumb on it. “There's the name, right there.”

Andrew bent above it, squinting. “C-u-r-i-e,” he spelled slowly.

William nodded. “That's what I make out— There wa'n't never any Curies round here, was there?”

“Not's I know on,” said Andrew. His little eyes gleamed suddenly. “What'll you bet he ain't fooling you!” he said eagerly.

William returned the letter to his pocket with slow dignity and rose from the bench. “I don't speak that way o' my friends, Andy,” he said gently. “I'd a heap rather trust 'em and git fooled than not to trust and hev 'em all right.”

“Where'll you live when you sell to him?” demanded Andrew.

Uncle William looked at him a minute. “I wasn't thinkin' o' sellin' it,” he said slowly. Andrew's eyes drew together shrewdly: “Didn't offer 'nough, I reckon.”

“He offered me ten thousand dollars,” said Uncle William, “but I wouldn't take it—nor twenty thousand, nor fifty.”

Andrew's voice failed him. It died away to a whisper. He found it again: “Don't you be foolish, Willum. It's a fortin!—ten thousand dollars.” He spoke almost pleadingly. Jealousy was swept away in grandeur. “It's a fortin, Willum,” he repeated.

A week later they met on the beach. “Heard anything more, Willum?” asked Andrew carelessly.

“Well, I did have a letter,” admitted Uncle William.

“What'd he say?”

“He says the Frenchman's willin' to give me anything up to twenty thousand.”

Andrew's eyes were saucers. They filled with the milk of human kindness. “Now, don't you act contrary, Willum,” he wailed. “I know you're going to be holding off. I can see it in your eye. Don't you do it.”

Uncle William surveyed the sky. “I knew you'd want me to do it, Andy,” he said amiably, “and I'd like to do it for you. But somehow I can't seem to see my way to it. I'm glad he likes the place. That's in his favor. He seems a sensible sort of man. But he doesn't want it so bad as I do—not from anything he's said yet.”

Andrew surveyed him scornfully. “You're a fool, Willum.”

“I suppose I be,” said William with a sigh. It changed to a chuckle: “That's a good deal of money, Andy—twenty thousand?”

“You're a fool,” said Andrew shortly—“al'ays was.”

TALL man stepped from the John L. Cann and walked slowly up the wharf. Whispers nudged each other and ran through the crowd on the wharf: “Who is he? What's he want? Where's he from?”

They sought the captain, who could only tell them that the man had come aboard at Hawksbury, ticketed from New York.

The man pursued his way up the main street, a little group tagging respectfully in the rear. He walked slowly, looking from side to side and stopping now and then to survey some house or fish shop. A pair of eye-glasses swung from a long chain, and he lifted them, placing them on a high nose, whenever he stopped to look. An urchin from the group edged forward. “That's Samuel Gruchy's,” he said boldly.

The tall man peered down at him. “Thank you,” he said politely.

The group behind waited, breathless. He was French. They could tell it from the shoulders and stoop, and the slightly lifted eyebrows and fine-pointed beard—Frenchmen often came to Arichat—but the voice and the English words had no trace of accent. With a little contraction of the eyebrows the glasses dropped from his nose. He swung the chain lightly in his fingers. “And—do you—ah—know—perhaps—where I could stay overnight?” He replaced the glasses, dipping for a quick look at the boy.

Other boys pressed forward. The first pushed them back: “Go 'long—this way, sir.” He scurried ahead with hard bare feet. The man followed him leisurely. The boy stopped at the foot of the steep bank. “That's the place,” he said, “up there. They'll keep you as long as you want to stay.”

The man glanced carelessly at the house. “Ah—thank you—I will look in later. I have an errand up the shore.” He tossed a coin in the air and strolled on up the road, past the clustered boathouses, along the stretch of shore road, throwing back his shoulders and breathing deep.

Andrew from behind the barn watched him pass. He reported at the house: “Queer-lookin' cuss just gone by—high-steppin'.”

At the foot of the cliff the man paused, looking up, half ruefully, to the little house perched at the top. Half-way up the path he paused, breathing hard. He looked back at the harbor behind him. Two boats lay at anchor—one white and glossy, a huge bird with rounded breast, the other dipping beside her like a dusky waterfowl. The man swung the glasses to his nose and surveyed them intently. A smile held his face—something fine and keen. He drew a deep breath and resumed his climb.

Uncle William threw open the door and stood in it, bluff and commanding.

The man panted a little from the climb. “I—” he said slowly.

“Come right in, come right in,” said Uncle William; “don't stand there puffing.” The man surveyed the red room with a little look of satisfaction.

“Come in the John L. Cann?” asked Uncle William. He was sitting with a hand on either knee, gazing at him benignly.

The man nodded. “I came right up. I wanted to see you. My name is—” He searched in his pocket and produced a card.

Uncle William took it in gingerly fingers. He carried it to the window. “Benjamin F. Curie?” He wheeled about. “You're the man that wanted to buy my place?”

“The same,” said the other genially. He had regained his breath. “I told you I couldn't sell it,” said Uncle William. The tone was almost querulous.

“And I told you I wanted to buy it.” They confronted each other.

“Well,” said Uncle William, “well!” He sat down again.

The man smiled. “I thought perhaps you didn't know how much in earnest I was.”

“Oh, I knew ye was in earnest,” said Uncle William. “So was I.”

The man laughed out. “I like these rocks—dote on 'em—I love every rock on this shore.” He motioned toward the beach,

“You do?” Uncle William leaned forward in his chair. “Who be ye, anyhow?” he asked, scanning the face. “He said—Mr. Woodworth said—you was born somewhere round here. But I don't know no such name.” He flipped the bit of pasteboard with his thumb.

“Who lived this side of Gunnion's when you were a boy?” demanded the stranger.

Uncle William paused. He stared at the card. He looked again at the face, with its lifted eyebrows and pointed beard. He shook his head— Then a light grew in his face slowly. He started forward— “Not Bodet?—” he said eagerly, “not little Benjy Bodet?” He looked again at the card.

The man laughed musically. “Right,” he said. He stood up, holding out his hand. “I thought you would know me.”

Uncle William took it slowly. He studied the thin, keen face. “Benjy Bodet,” he said, “I'd know you—much as you're changed—I'd know you! Sit right down and tell me all about it—”

“All?” said the man. He laughed again, looking contentedly about the room. “It will take some time.”

“You'll have to stay a good while,” said Uncle William.

The man nodded. “I mean to—I've wanted to come back ever since the day we sailed for France.”

“You was twelve years old that summer,” said Uncle William, “Your folks come into property, didn't they, over there?”

“Yes—on my mother's side. We took her name. I was sick for months after we got there—homesick—cooped up in rooms.”

“Poor little chap!” Uncle William surveyed him. Affection was in his eyes and memory. “You always was a kind o' peaked little chap,” he said reflectively. “You hain't changed much—when you come to look. Take off your whiskers and slick your hair up and tetch down your eyebrows a little— Just about the same.”

The man laughed out. He swung the glasses boyishly from their chain. “Well, you're not.”

“Me?” Uncle William looked down at his bulk. “No, I'm bigger, a little—stouter mebbe?”

“The man nodded. “But just the same underneath.”

“Just the same,” said Uncle William.

The man drew a deep breath. “I've traveled all over the world, but there's no place like this anywhere.

“Nowhere,” said Uncle William fervently.

The man looked at him keenly. “Will you sell?”

Uncle William shook his head. “I'll divide with you.”

The man held out his hand. “It's a bargain,” he said.

Uncle William took it and held it fast. His eyes twinkled. “I must go and tell Andy,” he said; “he'll be real pleased.”

“Andy?” The man's face lighted. “You don't mean Andy Halloran? Is he here yet?”

“Right here—on deck—same as ever,” said Uncle William.

The man's eyes twinkled. “Remember the day he took my lobster pot?”

“Borrowed it,” said William dryly.

“Borrowed it,” assented the man. He chuckled a little. “He got his pay.”

Uncle William nodded. “He al'ays does. He's borrowing lobster pots now. He gets his pay every time. He's great on gettin' his pay—Andy is.”

“He ought to have made a mean man,” said the other thoughtfully.

“Well, he hain't, not so to speak,” said Uncle William slowly; “there's mean spots in Andy— Rocks— You have to steer careful. But there's sandy bottom if you know how to make it. I've anchored on him a good many years now and I never knew him to slip the anchor. It may drift a little now and then— Any bottom does that.”

The man laughed out. “So it does.” He took up his hat. “I will go along with you if you're going down. I must look up my traps and find a place to stay.”

Uncle William looked at him sternly. “Not a step—you don't stir a step, Benjy Bodet. Sit right down there.” He pointed to the red lounge. “I'm going to row down and get your duds. I don't need to stop to Andy's.” He chuckled. “He'll be lookin' out somewheres. I'll holler it to him as I go by.” He beamed upon his guest. “Now you sit right down.”

The man looked at him doubtfully with raised brows. “You want me?”

“Want you? Why shouldn't I want you!” roared Uncle William. “I've been waiting for you sixty year and odd. Sit down!”

The Frenchman sat down on the red lounge and crossed his thin legs.

A ball of gray fur descended upon them and fluffed itself, purring. He peered at it uncertainly. He swung the glasses on on his nose, surveying it.

“Now, don't that show!” demanded Uncle William, “She don't take to strangers—never. Look at her—” She was kneading her paws in the thin knees delicately with treading softness.

The Frenchman's eyes lighted. “She's your cat?”

“She is,” said Uncle William, “and she knows a lot. If she says you're going to stay, you're going to. You won't leave here, not till you've built over there on the old cellar place.” He waved his hand toward the horizon. “I'll fetch up some clams, 'long o' your duds, and we'll have a chowder—same as we used to.”

“When we were boys,” said the man slowly.

“When we were boys,” assented Uncle William.

title: Uncle William (novelette)


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 that. Were she to find herself alone with my corpse in some desolate place, she would first mourn wildly for her friend; but, this duty performed, she would proceed to ease her sorrow in the simplest way possible,—by eating him,—by cracking his bones between those long wolf’s-teeth of hers. And thereafter, with spotless conscience, she would sit down and utter to the moon the funeral cry of her ancestors.

It fills me, that cry, with a strange curiosity not less than with a strange horror,—because of certain extraordinary vowellings in it which always recur in the same order of sequence, and must represent particular forms of animal speech,—particular ideas. The whole thing is a song,—a song of emotions and thoughts not human, and therefore humanly unimaginable. But other dogs know what it means, and make answer over the miles of the night,—sometimes from so far away that only by straining my hearing to the uttermost can I detect the faint response. The words—(if I may call them words)—are very few; yet, to judge by their emotional effect, they must signify a great deal. Possibly they mean things myriads of years old,—things relating to odors, to exhalations, to influences and effluences

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


text: Talk:Uncle William (novelette)

title: Talk:Uncle William (novelette)


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 by duller human sense,—impulses also, impulses without name, bestirred in ghosts of dogs by the light of great moons.

Could we know the sensations of a dog,—the emotions and the ideas of a dog, we might discover some strange correspondence between their character and the character of that peculiar disquiet which the howl of the creature evokes. But since the senses of a dog are totally unlike those of a man, we shall never really know. And we can only surmise, in the vaguest way, the meaning of the uneasiness in ourselves. Some notes in the long cry,—and the weirdest of them,—oddly resemble those tones of the human voice that tell of agony and terror. Again, we have reason to believe that the sound of the cry itself became associated in human imagination, at some period enormously remote, with particular impressions of fear. It is a remarkable fact that in almost all countries (including Japan) the howling of dogs has been attributed to their perception of things viewless to man, and awful,—especially gods and ghosts;—and this unanimity of superstitious belief suggests that one element of the disquiet inspired by the cry is the dread of the


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 supernatural. To-day we have ceased to be consciously afraid of the unseen;—knowing that we ourselves are supernatural,—that even the physical man, with all his life of sense, is more ghostly than any ghost of old imagining: but some dim inheritance of the primitive fear still slumbers in our being, and wakens perhaps, like an echo, to the sound of that wail in the night.

Whatever thing invisible to human eyes the senses of a dog may at times perceive, it can be nothing resembling our idea of a ghost. Most probably the mysterious cause of start and whine is not anything seen. There is no anatomical reason for supposing a dog to possess exceptional powers of vision. But a dog’s organs of scent proclaim a faculty immeasurably superior to the sense of smell in man. The old universal belief in the superhuman perceptivities of the creature was a belief justified by fact; but the perceptivities are not visual. Were the howl of a dog really—as once supposed—an outcry of ghostly terror, the meaning might possibly be, “I smell Them!”—but not, “I see them!” No evidence exists to support the fancy that a dog can see any forms of being which a man cannot see.


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 But the night-howl of the white creature in my close forces me to wonder whether she does not mentally see something really terrible,—something which we vainly try to keep out of moral consciousness: the ghoulish law of life. Nay, there are times when her cry seems to me not the mere cry of a dog, but the voice of the law itself,—the very speech of that Nature so inexplicably called by poets the loving, the merciful, the divine! Divine, perhaps, in some unknowable ultimate way,—but certainly not merciful, and still more certainly not loving. Only by eating each other do beings exist! Beautiful to the poet’s vision our world may seem,—with its loves, its hopes, its memories, its aspirations; but there is nothing beautiful in the fact that life is fed by continual murder,—that the tenderest affection, the noblest enthusiasm, the purest idealism, must be nourished by the eating of flesh and the drinking of blood. All life, to sustain itself, must devour life. You may imagine yourself divine if you please,—but you have to obey that law. Be, if you will, a vegetarian: none the less you must eat forms that have feeling and desire. Sterilize your food; and digestion stops. You cannot even drink without swallowing life. Loathe


text:
Richardson v. Wright

In light of the adoption of new regulations providing that a recipient of disability benefit payments pursuant to § 225 of the Social Security Act be given notice of a proposed suspension of payments and the reasons therefor, plus an opportunity to submit rebuttal evidence, the judgment is vacated to permit reprocessing, under the new regulations, of the disputed determinations.

321 F. Supp. 383, vacated and remanded.

Assistant Attorney General Gray argued the cause for appellant in No. 70-161 and for appellee in No. 70-5211. With him on the briefs were Solicitor General Griswold, Kathryn H. Baldwin, Wilmot R. Hastings, Edwin H. Yourman, and Paul Merlin.

Robert N. Sayler argued the cause and filed briefs for appellees in No. 70-161 and for appellants in No. 70-5211.

Briefs of amici curiae in both cases were filed by Thomas L. Fike for the Legal Aid Society of Alameda County; by David H. Marlin and Jonathan A. Weiss for the National Council of Senior Citizens; and by Albert C. Neimeth for Luella H. Mills et al. Bernard P. Becker and Harvey N. Schmidt filed a brief for Stella Van Guilder et al. as amici curiae.

title: Richardson v. Wright


text:
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 the name as we may, we are cannibals;—all being essentially is One; and whether we eat the flesh of a plant, a fish, a reptile, a bird, a mammal, or a man, the ultimate fact is the same. And for all life the end is the same: every creature, whether buried or burnt, is devoured,—and not only once or twice,—nor a hundred, nor a thousand, nor a myriad times! Consider the ground upon which we move, the soil out of which we came;—think of the vanished billions that have risen from it and crumbled back into its latency to feed what becomes our food! Perpetually we eat the dust of our race,—the substance of our ancient selves.

But even so-called inanimate matter is self-devouring. Substance preys upon substance. As in the droplet monad swallows monad, so in the vast of Space do spheres consume each other. Stars give being to worlds and devour them; planets assimilate their own moons. All is a ravening that never ends but to recommence. And unto whomsoever thinks about these matters, the story of a divine universe, made and ruled by paternal love, sounds less persuasive than the Polynesian tale that the souls of the dead are devoured by the gods.


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54 our class—is rapidly passing away. And the fact that it had its inception amongst men actually engaged in the work of trade union organization, and found its inspiration in a recognition of the necessities born of the struggles of the workers, and not in the theories of any political party—this fact is the most cheering sign of the legitimacy of its birth and the most hopeful augury of its future. For we must not forget that it is not the theorists who make history; it is history in its evolution that makes the theorists. And the roots of history are to be found in the workshops, fields, and factories. It has been remarked that Belgium was the cockpit of Europe because within its boundaries have been fought out many of the battles between the old dynasties; in like manner we can say that the workshop is the cockpit of civilization because in the workshop has been and will be fought out those battles between the new and the old methods of production, the issues of which change the face and the history of the world.

I have never said that the capitalist class became a revolutionary class when it realized that it held control of the economic heart of the nation. I may add when the working class is in the same position, it will also as a class become revolutionary, it will also give effective political expression to its economic strength. The capitalist class grew into a political party when it looked around and found itself in control of the things needed for the life of the individual and the State, when it saw that the ships carrying the commerce of the nation were its own, when it saw that the internal traffic of the nation was in the hands of its agents, when it saw that the feeding, clothing and sheltering of the


text: Page:The Hind and the Panther - Dryden (1687).djvu/105


text:
Page:Two Treatises of Government.djvu/221

 a paionate and haty, but a edate ettled deign upon another man's life, puts him in a tate of war with him againt whom he has declared uch an intention, and o has expoed his life to the other's power to be taken away by him, or any one that joins with him in his defence, and epoues his quarrel; it being reaonable and jut, I hould have a right to detroy that which threatens me with detruction: for, by the fundamental law of nature, man being to be preerved as much as poible, when all cannot be preerved, the afety of the innocent is to be preferred: and one may detroy a man who makes war upon him, or has dicovered an enmity to his being, for the ame reaon that he may kill a wolf or a lion; becaue uch men are not under the ties of the of reaon, have no other rule, but that of force and violence, and o may be treated as beats of prey, thoe dangerous and noxious creatures, that will be ure to detroy him whenever he falls into their power.

§. 17. And hence it is, that he who attempts to get another man into his abolute power, does thereby put himelf into a tate of war with him; it being to be undertood as a declaration of a deign upon his life: for I have reaon to conclude, that he who would get me into his power without my conent, would ue me as he pleaed when he had got me there, and detroy me too when


text:
Page:Holy Bible Translated from the Latin Vol 1.pdf/5

OS infrascripti, perlectâ hâc Veteris Testamenti Versione, cum Annotationibus, nihil inuenimus quod Fidei Catholicæ, aut bonis moribus repugnet: sed econtrà reperimus Translationem fidelem, Annotationes doctas ac utiles. Utpote quæ exactam temporum seriem, Ecclesiæ Pastorum, Doctrinæq; Catholicæ successionem, ab ipso mundi exordio deducunt: obscuriora sacri textus loca elucidant: hæreses hujus temporis, argumentis ex ipso eodem textu collectis, convincunt: Ecclesiæ Catholicæ Romanæ dogmata penè omnia confirmant: Ideoque summâ cum legentium utilitate publicari posse judicamus, si ordinariis librorum Censoribus hoc ipsum approbare beneplacitum fuerit.


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 Monstrous the law seems, because we have developed ideas and sentiments which are opposed to this demoniac Nature,—much as voluntary movement is opposed to the blind power of gravitation. But the possession of such ideas and sentiments does but aggravate the atrocity of our situation, without lessening in the least the gloom of the final problem.

Anyhow the faith of the Far East meets that problem better than the faith of the West. To the Buddhist the Cosmos is not divine at all—quite the reverse. It is Karma;—it is the creation of thoughts and acts of error;—it is not governed by any providence;—it is a ghastliness, a nightmare. Likewise it is an illusion. It seems real only for the same reason that the shapes and the pains of an evil dream seem real to the dreamer. Our life upon earth is a state of sleep. Yet we do not sleep utterly. There are gleams in our darkness,—faint auroral wakenings of Love and Pity and Sympathy and Magnanimity: these are selfless and true;—these are eternal and divine;—these are the Four Infinite Feelings in whose after-glow all forms and illusions will vanish, like mists in the light of the sun. But, except in so far as we


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 wake to these feelings, we are dreamers indeed,—moaning unaided in darkness,—tortured by shadowy horror. All of us dream; none are fully awake; and many, who pass for the wise of the world, know even less of the truth than my dog that howls in the night.

Could she speak, my dog, I think that she might ask questions which no philosopher would be able to answer. For I believe that she is tormented by the pain of existence. Of course I do not mean that the riddle presents itself to her as it does to us,—nor that she can have reached any abstract conclusions by any mental processes like our own. The external world to her is “a continuum of smells.” She thinks, compares, remembers, reasons by smells. By smell she makes her estimates of character: all her judgments are founded upon smells. Smelling thousands of things which we cannot smell at all, she must comprehend them in a way of which we can form no idea. Whatever she knows has been learned through mental operations of an utterly unimaginable kind. But we may be tolerably sure that she thinks about most things in some odor-relation to the experience of eating or to


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 the intuitive dread of being eaten. Certainly she knows a great deal more about the earth on which we tread than would be good for us to know; and probably, if capable of speech, she could tell us the strangest stories of air and water. Gifted, or afflicted, as she is with such terribly penetrant power of sense, her notion of apparent realities must be worse than sepulchral. Small wonder if she howl at the moon that shines upon such a world!

And yet she is more awake, in the Buddhist meaning, than many of us. She possesses a rude moral code—inculcating loyalty, submission, gentleness, gratitude, and maternal love; together with various minor rules of conduct;—and this simple code she has always observed. By priests her state is termed a state of darkness of mind, because she cannot learn all that men should learn; but according to her light she has done well enough to merit some better condition in her next rebirth. So think the people who know her. When she dies they will give her an humble funeral, and have a sûtra recited on behalf of her spirit. The priest will let a grave be made for her somewhere in the temple-garden, and will place over it a little sotoba bearing the


text:
Richardson v. Wright/Opinion of the Court

PER CURIAM.

We noted probable jurisdiction of these appeals, 404 U.S. 819 (1971), to consider the applicability of [p208] Goldberg v. Kelly, 397 U.S. 254 (1970), to the suspension and termination of disability benefit payments pursuant to § 225 of the Social Security Act, 70 Stat. 817, 42 U.S.C. § 425, and implementing regulations of the Department of Health, Education, and Welfare. Shortly before oral argument, we were advised that the Secretary had adopted new regulations, effective December 27, 1971, governing the procedures to be followed by the Social Security Administration in determining whether to suspend or terminate disability benefits. These procedures include the requirement that a recipient of benefits be given notice of a proposed suspension and the reasons therefor, plus an opportunity to submit rebuttal evidence. In light of that development, we belief that the appropriate course is to withhold judicial action pending reprocessing, under the new regulations, of the determinations here in dispute. If that process results in a determination of entitlement to disability benefits, there will be no need to consider the constitutional claim that claimants are entitled to an opportunity to make an oral presentation. In the context of a comprehensive complex administrative program, the administrative process must have a reasonable opportunity to evolve procedures to meet needs as they arise. Accordingly, we vacate the judgment of the District Court for the District of Columbia, 321 F. Supp. 383 (1971), with direction to that court to remand the cause to the Secretary and to retain jurisdiction for such further proceedings, if any, as may be necessary upon completion of the administrative procedure.

Vacated and remanded.


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 text,—Nyo-zé chikushō hotsu Bodai-shin : “Even within such as this animal, the Knowledge Supreme will unfold at fast.”


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text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Mew, Thomas (1)


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Mew, Thomas (2)


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Mew, Walter


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Mews, William


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Meymott, Edmund


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Meynell, Cuthbert


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Meynell, Thomas


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Me(y)rick, Christopher


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Meyrick, Edmund


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Meyricke, Edmund


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Meyrick, Francis


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Meyricke, Griffin


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Meyrick, Henry


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Meyricke, Jasper


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Meyrick, Jasper


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Meyrick, John (1)


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Meyricke, John


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Meyrick, John (2)


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Meyrick, John (3)


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Meyricke, Lewis


text: Page:Tristimulus specification of the Munsell book of color from spectrophotometric measurements (IA jresv31n1p55).pdf/20


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Meyricke, Maurice


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Meyricke, Morgan


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Meyrick, Peter


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Meyreicke, Peter


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/M(e)yricke, Reese


text:
Author:William Bedford Kesteven

Works

 * A Manual of the Domestic Practice of Medicine (1856)

title: Author:William Bedford Kesteven


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Meyrick, Rice (1)


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Meyrick, Rice (2)


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Meyrick, Rice (3)


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Meyricke, Richard (1)


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Meyricke, Richard (2)


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Me(y)rick, Robert


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Meyrick, Rowland


text:
Page:United States Statutes at Large Volume 128.pdf/3190

128 STAT. 3166 of the military forces of the United States as the Secretary of the Army or Secretary of the Air Force may think best, to receive military instruction there. The Secretary of the Army of Secretary of the Air Force may detail instructors from the Regular Army or Regular Air Force, respectively, for those forces during their exercises.

(b) —The Secretary of the Army or Secretary of the Air Force may prescribe regulations governing the assembling of the National Guard or militia of the States on the maneuvering grounds.

§ 103303. Performance of duties of commissions

The duties of commissions in charge of national military parks shall be performed under the direction of the Secretary.

§ 103304. Recovery of land withheld

(a) —The United States may bring a civil action in the courts of the United States against a person to whom land lying within a national military park has been leased that refuses to give up possession of the land to the United States after the termination of the lease, and after possession has been demanded for the United States by the park superintendent, or against a person retaining possession of land lying within the boundary of a national military park that the person has sold to the United States for park purposes and received payment therefor, after possession of the land has been demanded for the United States by the park superintendent, to recover possession of the land withheld. The civil action shall be brought according to the statutes of the State in which the national military park is situated.

(b) —A person described in subsection (a) shall be guilty of trespass.

§ 103305. Travel expenses incident to study of battlefields

Mileage of officers of the Army and actual expenses of civilian employees traveling on duty in connection with the studies, surveys, and field investigations of battlefields shall be paid from the appropriations made to meet expenses for those purposes.

§ 103306. Studies

(a) —The Secretary of the Army may make studies and investigations and, where necessary, surveys of all battlefields within the continental limits of the United States on which troops of the United States or of the original 13 colonies have been engaged against a common enemy, with a view to preparing a general plan and such detailed projects as may be required for properly commemorating such battlefields or other adjacent points of historic and military interest.

(b) —The Secretary of the Army shall include annually in the Department of the Interior appropriation estimates a list of the battlefields for which surveys or other field investigations are planned for the fiscal year in question, with the estimated cost of making each survey or other field investigation.

(c) —No real estate shall be purchased for national military


text:
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Rh park purposes by the Federal Government unless a report on the real estate has been made by the Secretary of the Army through the President to Congress under subsection (d).

(d) —The Secretary of the Army, through the President, shall annually submit to Congress a detailed report of progress made under this subchapter, with recommendations for further operations.

§ 104901. Central warehouses at System units

(a) —The Secretary, in the administration of the System, may maintain central warehouses at System units.

(b) —
 * (1) —Appropriations made for the administration, protection, maintenance, and improvement of System units shall be available for the purchase of supplies and materials to be kept in central warehouses for distribution at cost, including transportation and handling, to projects under specific appropriations.
 * (2) —
 * (A) —Transfers between the various appropriations made for System units are authorized for the purpose of charging the cost of supplies and materials, including transportation and handling, drawn from central warehouses maintained under this authority to the particular appropriation benefited.
 * (B) —Supplies and materials that remain at the end of any fiscal year shall be continuously available for issuance during subsequent fiscal years and shall be charged for by transfers of funds between appropriations made for the administration, protection, maintenance, and improvement of System units for the fiscal year then current without decreasing the appropriations made for that fiscal year.

(c) —Supplies and materials shall not be purchased solely for the purpose of increasing the value of storehouse stock beyond reasonable requirements for any current fiscal year.

§ 104902. Services or other accommodations for public

The Secretary may contract for services or other accommodations provided in System units for the public under contract with the


text: Public Law 113-287/Chapter 1033

title: Public Law 113-287/Chapter 1033


text:
Page:Holy Bible Translated from the Latin Vol 1.pdf/6

 ==THE BOOK OF GENESIS.==

God createth heaven and earth, and all things therein, in six days.

N the beginning God created heaven and earth.

And the earth was void and empty, and darkness was upon the face of the deep: and the Spirit of God moved over the waters.

And God said: Be light made. And light was made.

And God saw the light that it was good: and he divided the light from the darkness.

And he called the light Day, and the darkness Night: and there was evening and morning one day.

And God said: Let there


text: Public Law 113-287/Chapters 1035 through 1047


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 remained for Cicero yet to take a part in one more great national struggle—the last for Rome and for himself. No doubt there was some grandeur in the cause which he once more so vigorously espoused—the recovery of the liberties of Rome. But all the thunders of Cicero's eloquence, and all the admiration of modern historians and poets, fail to enlist our hearty sympathies with the assassins of Cæsar. That "consecration of the dagger" to the cause of liberty has been the fruitful parent of too much evil ever since to make its use anything but hateful. That Cicero was among the actual conspirators is probably not true, though his enemies strongly asserted it. But at least he gloried in the deed when done, and was eager to claim all the honours of a tyrannicide. Nay, he went farther than the actual conspirators, in words at least; it is curious to find him so careful to disclaim complicity in the act. "Would that you had invited me to that banquet on the Ides of March! there would then have been no leavings from the feast,"—he writes to

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 Distracted with the various conjectures that occupied his mind, he walked on regardless of time or distance, until faint and weary, he stopped, and looked round, that he might trace his way back; but he had bewildered himself among the trees, and observed no particular path, he therefore was at a loss how to regain the direct road; to complete his difficulties, the air grew dark, the clouds heavy, and in a short time it began to rain violently. Scarcely sensible of the torrents that poured upon him, Ferdinand sought to explore his way to the Castle, though he dreaded to encounter the looks of its master. It was some hours, however, before he saw the turrets rising above the trees, and when arrived at the garden, he was so exhausted with fatigue, so drenched with the rain, that it was with much difficulty he reached the saloon door before his senses fled, and he fell extended on the floor. Happily a servant was passing the room, and hearing a noise, opened the door, and beheld the lifeless body.


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 His exclamations soon brought every one to know the cause, and poor Claudina was nearly distracted with terror and anxiety.—He was soon restored to his senses, and immediately put into a warm bed, and through the attention of his wife and old Ernest (who was terrified to death at an accident, of which he thought himself in a great measure the cause) after some hours he grew better, and able to account for his indisposition, by mentioning the length of his walk through the rain. He endeavoured to assume a composure in his behaviour to his brother that surprised even Ernest, and having taken his resolution, he stifled his feelings, and conducted himself as usual. A violent cold and fever were the consequences of his ramble, and for several days he was quite an invalid, and in some danger; during this time Rhodophil behaved with the utmost tenderness, which made him doubt the communications of Ernest, and to suspect the justice of his own observations.


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 The first day that he left his bed, the Count came to him in a transport of joy:—"My dear Ferdinand, we are successful, I have this moment received an express, your commission is granted, and the Emperor wishes to see you without delay. I am happy, my dear brother, in being the messenger of such agreeable and wished-for intelligence."

The agitations of Ferdinand were inexpressible; he hesitated whether he should accept or refuse the commission procured for him. The Count seemed surprised: "You are silent, my dear brother, have your sentiments undergone any change that I am unacquainted with?"

"They have indeed, (answered Ferdinand, with a deep sigh;) the danger I was in a few days since has alarmed me for the future welfare of my family. I know well (added he, fixing his eyes steadily on Rhodophil, whose own fell under the penetrating glance) how much I may depend upon your brotherly kindness; but you may marry, little


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76 Cassius. He would have had their daggers turned on Antony, at all events, as well as on Cæsar. He wishes that "the gods may damn Cæsar after he is dead;" professing on this occasion a belief in a future retribution, on which at other times he was sceptical. It is but right to remember all this, when the popular tide turned, and he himself came to be denounced to political vengeance. The levity with which he continually speaks of the assassination of Cæsar—a man who had never treated him, at any rate, with anything but a noble forbearance—is a blot on Cicero's character which his warmest apologists admit.

The bloody deed in the Capitol was done—a deed which was to turn out almost what Goethe called it—"the most absurd that ever was committed." The great Dictator who lay there alone, a "bleeding piece of earth," deserted by the very men who had sought of late to crown him, was perhaps Rome's fittest master; certainly not the worst of the many with whom a personal ambition took the place of principle. Three slaves took up the dead body of their master, and carried it home to his house. Poor wretches! they knew nothing about liberty or the constitution; they had little to hope, and probably little to fear; they had only a humble duty to do, and did it. But when we read of them, and of that freedman who, not long before, sat by the dead body of Pompey till he could scrape together wreck from the shore to light some sort of poor funeral-pile, we return with a shudder of disgust to those "noble Romans" who occupy at this time the foreground of history.

title: Page:Cicero (Collins 1871).djvu/88


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 occurrences may arise at present unforeseen to interrupt the harmony that exists in your family, and the idea of a precarious and accidental provision, must ever give pain to a feeling heart."

"What is it you mean or expect?" asked the Count, in a quick tone.

"A small settlement on my wife, that I may depart with a certainty that, whether I live or die, she will not want the common necessaries of life; superfluities, such as she now enjoys, I neither expect or wish for."

"What then (cried Rhodophil) you will not trust to my honour, or affection for your family?"

"Be not offended (answered Ferdinand, calmly) and I will be explicit; for my own provision, my sword shall carve it out, and for my family I expect only a mediocrity of fortune. The grandeur and elegance that reigns here they are not entitled to, nor can they expect a continuance of; a more humble situation is most proper for them: If therefore you will settle a very moderate pen-


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 sion upon my wife and children, I will place them in some decent cottage suitable to their fortunes, and then I shall depart in peace."

The countenance of Rhodophil underwent many changes whilst his brother was speaking, nor was his answer quite ready when he stopped. At last, "I know not (replied he) whether I should be most grieved or offended at your unaccountable proposition. Is not Claudina my sister? Are not your children my heirs? I never intend to marry; but supposing I should, would not my honour and fraternal affection compel me to make a handsome provision for you and your family?"

"A handsome provision I neither expect nor am entitled to (answered Ferdinand.) In this commission, you have procured for me, lies the extent of my wishes for myself. My wife has no right to splendid expectations, and my children shall be taught by industry to provide for themselves. The greatest misery of life is to be accustomed in early


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Rh Cæsar had been removed, but it is plain that Brutus and Cassius and their party had neither the ability nor the energy to make any real use of their bloody triumph. Cicero soon lost all hope of seeing in them the liberators of his country, or of being able to guide himself the revolution which he hoped he had seen begun. "We have been freed," he writes to Atticus, "but we are not free." "We have struck down the tyrant, but the tyranny survives." Antony, in fact, had taken the place of Cæsar as master of Rome—a change in all respects for the worse. He had surrounded himself with guards; had obtained authority from the Senate to carry out all decrees and orders left by the late Dictator; and when he could not find, amongst Cæsar's memoranda, materials to serve his purpose, he did not hesitate to forge them. Cicero had no power, and might be in personal danger, for Antony knew his sentiments as to state matters generally, and more particularly towards himself. Rome was no longer any place for him, and he soon left it—this time a voluntary exile. He wandered from place to place, and tried as before to find interest and consolation in philosophy. It was now that he wrote his charming essays on 'Friendship' and on 'Old Age,' and completed his work 'On the Nature of the Gods,' and that on 'Divination.' His treatise 'De Officiis' (a kind of pagan 'Whole Duty of Man') is also of this date, as well as some smaller philosophical works which have been lost. He professed himself hopeless of his country's future, and disgusted with political life, and spoke of going to end his days at Athens.

title: Page:Cicero (Collins 1871).djvu/89


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 youth to indulgences which enervate both the mind and body, and lead to hopes which may be blighted by a thousand accidents.—My children shall indulge no hopes independent of their own exertions, and that I am convinced is the surest road to competency and happiness."

"What, then (said the Count) you would bring them up to trade, to disgrace their family?"

"No (replied Ferdinand, warmly) I will, if I live, prevent them from disgracing their family, by teaching them a spirit of independence, and a mediocrity of expectations; their minds shall be noble, though their fortunes may be humble; they shall be superior to base actions from an integrity of heart; and capable of providing for their own maintenance, they never can disgrace their connexions, though they may mortify pride."

"Your language and sentiments are very strange (replied Rhodophil, in a tone of pique and vexation;) but methinks you promise too much for your children, whose ideas may


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 not happen to coincide with your's."

"At least," said Ferdinand, "I will endeavour to inculcate my sentiments, and form their young minds agreeable to my wishes; there is no dependence upon the human heart it is true: I may fail of success, but I will not abate of my endeavours; the rest I must leave to Providence."

"Well," returned Rhodophil, "since you have no reliance on me, and insist upon an independence, be so good to name your terms." The spirit of Ferdinand revolted against this demand, and he was on the point of refusing every assistance; but the recollection of his family timely interposed, and with evident reluctance he named four hundred crowns yearly.

"Four hundred crowns!" repeated the Count, with surprise, "why, such a sum will scarcely find them bread!" "It is double, however, to any advantages I have had for them for those last two years, and I should despise myself if I considered your fortune more than their real wants."


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 "You are much too moderate," said the Count; "but I will enter into a compromise with you; I will settle that sum upon them during their residence in this Castle, and double it should I marry; but then I expect that you will permit them to remain here in your absence, during your first campaign. Deprive me not of all my comforts at once; let me sooth the sorrows of my sister on your first separation; your children are too young to imbibe any prejudices against your intended frugal system, and I expect, as a proof of your brotherly affection, that those sweet pledges of your dearest love may be confided to me."

Ferdinand hesitated a little, but at length said, equivocally, "Your kindness is truly painful to me, but Claudina shall decide on this point; and now my wish, as to a small provision for them being generously acceded to, I have only to hasten preparations for my departure."

"A small provision, indeed!" repeated the Count, "however, it will be always in


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78 But, as before and always, his heart was in the Forum at Rome. Political life was really the only atmosphere in which he felt himself breathe vigorously. Unquestionably he had also an earnest patriotism, which would have drawn him back to his country's side at any time when he believed that she had need of his help. He was told that he was needed there now; that there was a prospect of matters going better for the cause of liberty; that Antony was coming to terms of some kind with the party of Brutus,—and he returned.

For a short while these latter days brought with them a gleam of triumph almost as bright as that which had marked the overthrow of Catiline's conspiracy. Again, on his arrival at Rome, crowds rushed to meet him with compliments and congratulations, as they had done some thirteen years before. And in so far as his last days were spent in resisting to the utmost the basest of all Rome's bad men, they were to him greater than any triumph. Thenceforth it was a fight to the death between him and Antony; so long as Antony lived, there could be no liberty for Rome. Cicero left it to his enemy to make the first attack. It soon came. Two days after his return, Antony spoke vehemently in the Senate against him, on the occasion of moving a resolution to the effect that divine honours should be paid to Cæsar. Cicero had purposely stayed away, pleading fatigue after his journey; really, because such a proposition was odious to him. Antony denounced him as a coward and a traitor, and threatened to send men to pull down his

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 my power to augment it, for I shall ever consider we have equal claims to the fortune of our ancestors."

He now withdrew at Ferdinand's request to reveal every particular to Claudina, and left him variously affected by the preceding conversation. "If I have wronged him by giving credit to erroneous reports, or suspicious observations, I must appear as an ungrateful and most unworthy character; and ought I to believe the perhaps mistaken representation of Ernest against a series of kind actions, particularly within those last two years, when interest could have no share in directing them to me, then under my father's malediction? Good Heavens! if I have wronged him, how shall I detest myself!" For some time Ferdinand dwelt on every favourable side of his brother's character with self-indignation, but soon other ideas obtruded. If he really had been sincere in the equality he talked of, would he not have seized the first moment to ensure it to


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 me? Would he not have hastened to relieve me from a sense of obligations by nobly making me independent, and rendering my separation from my family unnecessary?—Could he not have resigned over one of his estates to me as a residence I might have called my own? Does he seem to have a feeling heart, or regret the loss of a parent ever good and bountiful to him? Has he not discharged the old servants, grown grey in the service of the family, with only the small legacies (much less, indeed, than I expected the munificent spirit of my father would have bequeathed to them) so insufficient for the support of their old age? Are not these many proofs of a heart deficient in generosity, and a right way of thinking? Tormented by these and many other doubts, he exclaimed, "Would to Heaven I could read his heart, that I might do him justice!" A deep and hollow voice cried, "It is a corrupt one!!!"

Ferdinand sprung from his seat, looked wildly round the room: "Astonishing! (he


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 be a firmament made amidst the waters: and let it divide the waters from the waters.

And God made a firmament, and divided the waters that were under the firmament, from those that were above the firmament. And it was so.

And God called the firmament, Heaven: and the evening and morning were the second day.

God also said: Let the waters that are under the heaven, be gathered together into one place: and let the dry land appear. And it was so done.

And God called the dry land, Earth: and the gathering together of the waters he called Seas. And God saw that it was good.

And he said: Let the earth bring forth the green herb, and such as may seed, and the fruit tree yielding fruit after its kind, which may have seed in itself upon the earth. And it was so done.

And the earth brought forth the green herb, and such as yieldeth seed according to its kind, and the tree that beareth fruit, having seed each one according to its kind. And God saw that it was good.

And the evening and the morning were the third day.

And said: Let there be lights made in the firmament of heaven, to divide the day and the night, and let them be for signs, and for seasons and for days and years:

To shine in the firmament of heaven, and to give light upon the earth. And it was so done.

And made two great lights: a greater light to rule the day: and a lesser light to rule the night: and stars.

And he set them in the firmament of heaven, to shine upon the earth.

And to rule the day and the night, and to divide the light and the darkness.


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 cried) again that voice, sure it is, it must be, more than human!" He opened the door that led into the next apartment; the room was empty, and universal silence reigned:—Again he reseated himself, in trembling expectation of the same sounds, but he heard no more. Extremely agitated, though he endeavoured to assume a composed air, he feebly crept to the dressing room of Claudina, where he found the Count. His blood grew chill at the sight; both started, and exclaimed at his appearance; with difficulty he supported himself till assisted by his wife to a chair; she blamed him for attempting to leave his apartment: "You are too weak (said she) to walk as yet; I was coming to you."

"I shall soon recover (replied he) and gain strength by the change of air; I already feel better."

Indeed, the first shock being over, though the voice still vibrated on his ear, he viewed Rhodophil with a scrutinizing eye, and traced,


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Rh house about his head—that house which had once before been pulled down, and rebuilt for him by his remorseful fellow-citizens. Cicero went down to the Senate the following day, and there delivered a well-prepared speech, the first of those fourteen which are known to us as his 'Philippics'—a name which he seems first to have given to them in jest, in remembrance of those which his favourite model Demosthenes had delivered at Athens against Philip of Macedon. He defended his own conduct, reviewed in strong but moderate terms the whole policy of Antony, and warned him—still ostensibly as a friend—against the fate of Cæsar. The speaker was not unconscious what his own might possibly be.

"I have already, senators, reaped fruit enough from my return home, in that I have had the opportunity to speak words which, whatever may betide, will remain in evidence of my constancy in my duty, and you have listened to me with much kindness and attention. And this privilege I will use so often as I may without peril to you and to myself; when I cannot, I will be careful of myself, not so much for my own sake as for the sake of my country. For me, the life that I have lived seems already wellnigh long enough, whether I look at my years or my honours; what little span may yet be added to it should be your gain and the state's far more than my own."

Antony was not in the house when Cicero spoke; he had gone down to his villa at Tibur. There he remained for a fortnight, brooding over his reply—taking lessons, it was said, from professors in the art

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