on as to his own knowledge of that
tongue.

"Yes--yes," said Mordecai, in a tone of deep sadness: "in my youth I
wandered toward that solitude, not feeling that it was a solitude. I
had the ranks of the great dead around me; the martyrs gathered and
listened. But soon I found that the living were deaf to me. At first I
saw my life spread as a long future: I said part of my Jewish heritage
is an unbreaking patience; part is skill to seek divers methods and
find a rooting-place where the planters despair. But there came new
messengers from the Eternal. I had to bow under the yoke that presses
on the great multitude born of woman: family troubles called me--I had
to work, to care, not for myself alone. I was left solitary again; but
already the angel of death had turned to me and beckoned, and I felt
his skirts continually on my path. I loosed not my effort. I besought
hearing and help. I spoke; I went to men of our people--to the rich in
influence or knowledge, to the rich in other wealth. But I found none
to listen with understanding. I was rebuked for error; I was offered a
small sum in charity. No wonder. I looked poor; I carried a bundle of
Hebrew manuscript with me; I said, our chief teachers are misleading
the hope of our race. Scholar and merchant were both too busy to
listen. Scorn stood as interpreter between me and them. One said, 'The
book of Mormon would never have answered in Hebrew; and if you mean to
address our learned men, it is not likely you can teach them anything.'
He touched a truth there."

The last words had a perceptible irony in their hoarsened tone.

"But though you had accustomed yourself to write in Hebrew, few,
surely, can use English better," said Deronda, wanting to hint
consolation in a new effort for which he could smooth the way.

Mordecai shook his head slowly, and answered--

"Too late--too late. I can write no more. My writing would be like this
gasping breath. But the breath may wake the fount of pity--the writing
not. If I could write now and used English, I should be as one who
beats a board to summon those who have been used to no signal but a
bell. My soul has an ear to hear the faults of its own speech. New
writing of mine would be like this body"--Mordecai spread his
arms--"within it there might be the Ruach-ha-kodesh--the breath of
divine thought--but, men would smile at it and say, 'A poor Jew!' and
the chief smilers would be of my own people."

Mordecai let his hands