of Hegel, Carlyle, and Matthew Arnold, whom he worshipped, or some question in the daily papers.
Uncle Bascom, seated, his fine gaunt face grave, magnificently composed now above his arched gnarled hands, spoke with eloquent deliberation. He became triumphant reasoning mind: he talked with superb balanced judgment. All the tumult and insanity of his life had been forgotten: no question of money or of self was involved. Meanwhile, from the kitchen Aunt Louise kept up a constant snuffling laughter, punctuated momently by faint whoops. She was convinced, of course, that her husband was mad and all his opinions nonsensical. Yet she had not listened to a word of what he was saying, but only to the sound of his heavily accented, precise, and particular speech. From time to time, snuffling to herself, she would look in on Eugene, trembling with laughter, and shake her head at him in pitying mirth.
“Beyond a doubt! Beyond a doubt!” Uncle Bascom would say. “The quality of the best writing in the books of the Old Testament may take rank with the best writing that has ever been done, but you are right in believing, too, the amount of great writing is less than it is commonly supposed to be. There are passages, nay! books”—his voice rising strangely to a husky howl—“of the vilest rubbish—Noah, Shem, Ham and Japheth—O vile! vile!” he cried…. “And Azariah begat Amariah and Amariah begat Ahitub (Phuh! Phuh! Phuh!). Ahitub!” he sneered. “And Azariah begat Seraiah, and Seraiah begat Jehozadak (Phuh! Phuh! Phuh!) Jehozadak”—he sneered with his precise articulation, finally letting out the last syllable with a kind of snarling contempt. “Can you imagine, can you even dream,” he howled, “of calling anyone a name like that!’And Jehozadak went into captivity’—as, indeed, he ought! (phuh! phuh! phuh!)—his very name would constitute a penal offence! (Phuh! Phuh! Phuh!) Jehozadak!” Uncle Bascom sneered. “But,” he proceeded deliberately in a moment, as he stared calmly over his great arched hands, “—but—the quality of some of the language is God-intoxicated: the noblest poetry ever chanted in the service of eternity.”
“The Book of Wevelations,” cried Aunt Louise, suddenly rushing out of the kitchen with a carving-knife in her hand, having returned to earth for a moment to hear him. “The Book of Wevelations!” she said in a hoarse whisper, her mouth puckered with disgust. “Eugene! A wicked, bloo-o-edy, kwu-u-el monument to supahstition. Twibute to an avenging and muh-duh-wous Gawd!” The last word uttered in a hoarse
