They were "avaricious, mean, uncouth, musicless, and inhospitable." Then came the Tuatha De Danaan, "Gods and false gods," as Tuan MacCarell told St. Finnen, "from whom everyone knows the Irish men of learning are descended. It is likely they came into Ireland from heaven, hence their knowledge and the excellence of their teaching."

The first verse of this poem runs: Reticulations creep upon the slack stream's face When the wind skims irritably past. The current clucks smartly into each hollow place That years of flood have scrabbled in the pier's sodden base; The floating-lily leaves rot fast. One could make as good music as that out of a milk-cart. One would accept such musicless verse only from a man of genius.

"So you shall!" cry I, impulsively, with a sharp thought of Hong-Kong, running after him, and putting his solid right arm round my waist. Away we go in mad haste. Like most sailors, Bobby dances well. I am nothing very wonderful, but I suit him. In many musicless waltzings of winter evenings, down the lobby at home, we have learned to fit each other's step exactly.

"A Saxon peasant," said De Graville, "told me that the ground was called Senlac or Sanglac, or some such name, in their musicless jargon." "Grammercy!" quoth Grantmesnil, "methinks the name will be familiar eno' hereafter; no jargon seemeth the sound to my ear a significant name and ominous, Sanglac, Sanguelac the Lake of Blood."

THOSE sounds of combat which penetrated to an anxious kitchen were deep, rasping breathings, muttered exclamations and grunts, a shuffling of feet that was not unlike a musicless dance, a swish-swishing, as if the Italian janitress were mopping up the hall floor, and a series of soft poundings. Yet the battle itself was not amounting to much.

"A Saxon peasant," said De Graville, "told me that the ground was called Senlac or Sanglac, or some such name, in their musicless jargon." "Grammercy!" quoth Grantmesnil, "methinks the name will be familiar eno' hereafter; no jargon seemeth the sound to my ear a significant name and ominous, Sanglac, Sanguelac the Lake of Blood."

"Well, I wouldn't care what he said, and I don't care what you say," returned Eleanor. "The preachers and reformers and bishops and rabbis make me sick. They rave about jazz. Jazz the discordant note of our decadence! Jazz the harmonious expression of our musicless, mindless, soulless materialism! The idiots! If they could be women for a while they would realize the error of their ways.

Today has been a bad, musicless day; out of doors also it is grey and misty; let us hope tomorrow will be better. Farewell, my most unique, my dearest friend. Your ZURICH, November 16th, 1853. I returned last night from Leipzig with a bad cold; and the enclosed letter from Hartel, which I found here, has made my cold and my temper worse.