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 time, nor calumniating them,—he had written publicly about this matter.

Our younger generation? A barren wilderness. Machar had lately published some political poems,—he had given them a fine raking over! What impudence! A poet to meddle with politics! He wants to overthrow public orators, state rights, and Panslavism with the work of a journalist! He wants to be the nation’s physician! As if he did not have stars, the moon, spring, flowers, the rustle of the forest, brooks! Our poesy has been so long growing fat on such subjects,—why should it all of a sudden be different? And he proceeded not only to berate him for this, but also for his whole activity, and not only the activity of the self-confident rebel, but his honor and name as well.

Jiří, who listened to him only with half an ear, and did not quite understand what he did hear, showed him the further contents of the spicy news: his own life, written in a