I have been reading 'The Last of the Mohicans' sporadically over the past few months. Unlike most books, I find I want to take my time. This book isn't so much about the story as it is about the eloquent choice in words and arrangements for me. Something has been lost in our modern day literature; a richness. It's a difference between Hershey's and old fashioned fudge.
Towards the beginning of the novel there is a part in which a few Indians guiding two rich women and a young gentleman. The Indians are interested in what the youths talents or trade is, and they respond with music.
" 'Tis a strange calling!" muttered Hawkeye, with an inward laugh, "to go through life, like a catbird, mocking all the ups and downs that may happen to come out of other men's throats. Well, friend, I suppose it is your gift, and musn't be denied any more than if 'twas shooting, or some other better inclination. Let us hear what you can do in that way....
...The air was solemn and slow. At times it rose to the fullest compass of the rich voices of the females, who hung over their little book in holy excitement, and again it sank so low, that the rushing of the waters ran through their melody, like a hollow accompaniment. The natural taste and true ear of David governed and modified the sounds to suit the confined cavern, every crevice, and cranny of which was filled with the thrilling notes of their flexible voices. the Indians riveted their eyes on the rocks, and listened with an attention that seemed to turn them into stone. But the scout, who had placed his chin in his hand, with an expression of cold indifference, gradually suffered his rigid features to relax, until, as verse succeeded verse, he felt his iron nature subdued, while his recollection was carried back to boyhood, when his ears had been accustomed to listen to similar sounds of praise, in settlements of the colony. His roving eyes began to moisten, and before the hymn was ended, scalding tears rolled out of fountains that had long seemed dry, and followed each other down those cheeks, that had oftener felt the storms of heaven than any testimonials of weakness. The singers were dwelling on one of those low, dying chords, which the ear devours with such greedy rapture, as if conscious that it is about to lose them...."
pg 54
What simple beauty! I felt this passage have the same effect on me as the music did on the young scout.
My eyes devour this literature in slow greedy raptures...
