next generation

At last the breakfast ends, and the go out for a romp. Perhapsyou are a little taken aback when you are informed your easychair hasbeen removed to the library; but you see Bridget, still in securepossession of her thimble and workbasket, with a huge china bowl in onehand and an eggbeater in the other, looking very warm and very muchconfused, and you take your departure to your own domain, to con overthe morning papers. You hear an indistinct sound of the drawing of corks and beating ofeggs; of a great many dishes being taken out of the chinacloset, and agood many orders being given in an undertone, why is it women alwayswill speak in a whisper when there is a man about the houseand youlose yourself in the leader, or the prices current. And oh, John do you remember that day we started home when it rainedYou had been sick, and commenced to cry. We got under a big tree; but itwas November; the leaves had all blown down, and the rain beat throughthe branches. What disconsolate little people we were And when you satdown on a flat stone, and declared youd stay there and die, dont youremember how Clara went out in the bushes, and, taking off her littleflannel petticoat, put it around your shoulders for a cloak

It was a dirty, grasping little office, vile enough to have been builtby the Evil One; and the occupant was a dirty, grasping little man, cruel enough to have been made out of its scraps. It was a hard, remorseless little door, that took in a visitor at a gulp and closedafter him with a bite. If the luckless caller happened to be a debtor, the fantastic barbarity of his reception was positively infernal. Thejerk of grotesque ferocity that greeted him was like the hoop la of ademonized gymnast. The straightbacked chair looked like a part of thestiff, angular man. The yellowwash on the wall seemed to have caughtits reflex from the faded face, and stared grimly at deep lines ofavarice ironed into it. Even the mud on the floor, the dust on thetable, and the cobwebs on the ceiling maliciously conspired against him, and asserted themselves in every seam of his threadbare clothes. But theface, stern, stony, relentless, an uncertain compromise between theghastly severity of a German etching and the constipated austerity ofold pictures of the saints, in that, one fixed idea had blotted outevery other vestige of humanity. Each starting vein, bone, and muscleon the hungry visage had stand and deliver scarred all over it. Theeager metallic glitter of his eyes, the rigid harshness of his mouth, and the nameless craving that seemed to speak from his lean, attenuatedcheeks, united to make the name of Hardy Gripstone and Beast synonymous. He looked like a beast, he ate like a beast, he lived like a beast.

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