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Chromatin Remodeling Methods and Protocols 1st
Edition Junbiao Dai Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Junbiao Dai, Jef D. Boeke (auth.), Randall H. Morse (eds.)
ISBN(s): 9781617794773, 1617794775
Edition: 1
File Details: PDF, 8.17 MB
Year: 2012
Language: english
METHODS IN MOLECULAR BIOLOGY™
Series Editor
John M. Walker
School of Life Sciences
University of Hertfordshire
Hatfield, Hertfordshire, AL10 9AB, UK
Edited by
Randall H. Morse
Wadsworth Center, New York State Department of Health, Albany, NY, USA
Editor
Randall H. Morse
Wadsworth Center
New York State Department of Health
Albany, NY, USA
[email protected]
v
Contents
Preface. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . v
Contributors. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix
vii
viii Contents
BUNGO AKIYOSHI • Basic Sciences Division, Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center,
Seattle, WA, USA
TREVOR K. ARCHER • Laboratory of Molecular Carcinogenesis, National Institute
of Environmental Health Sciences, National Institutes of Health,
Research Triangle Park, NC, USA
SONGJOON BAEK • Laboratory of Receptor Biology and Gene Expression,
National Cancer Institute, National Institutes of Health, Bethesda, MD, USA
BLAINE BARTHOLOMEW • Department of Biochemistry and Molecular Biology,
Southern Illinois School of Medicine, Carbondale, IL, USA
PETER B. BECKER • Adolf-Butenandt Institute, Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität,
Munich, Germany
SUE BIGGINS • Basic Sciences Division, Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center,
Seattle, WA, USA
JEF D. BOEKE • High Throughput Biology Center, Johns Hopkins University
School of Medicine, Baltimore, MD, USA
ANDREW BOWMAN • The Wellcome Trust Biocentre, University of Dundee,
Dundee, Scotland, UK
GENE O. BRYANT • Molecular Biology Program, Memorial Sloan Kettering
Cancer Center, New York, NY, USA
STEPHANIE BYRUM • Department of Biochemistry and Molecular Biology,
University of Arkansas for Medical Sciences, Little Rock, AR, USA
KAIRONG CUI • Laboratory of Molecular Immunology, National Heart,
Lung and Blood Institute, National Institutes of Health, Bethesda, MD, USA
JUNBIAO DAI • School of Life Sciences, Tsinghua University, Beijing, China
RUSSELL P. DARST • Department of Biochemistry and Molecular Biology,
University of Florida and Shands Cancer Center, University of Florida College
of Medicine, Gainesville, FL, USA
ANN DEAN • Laboratory of Cellular and Developmental Biology, National Institutes
of Health, Bethesda, MD, USA
TANJA DURBIC • The Donnelly Centre for Biomolecular Research, University of Toronto,
Toronto, ON, Canada
VAMSI K. GANGARAJU • Yale Stem Cell Institute, New Haven, CT, USA
MARC R. GARTENBERG • Department of Pharmacology, Robert Wood Johnson
Medical School, University of Medicine and Dentistry of New Jersey, Piscataway,
NJ, USA; The Cancer Institute of New Jersey, New Brunswick, NJ, USA
MARINELLA GEBBIA • The Donnelly Centre for Biomolecular Research,
University of Toronto, Toronto, ON, Canada
DANIEL GINSBURG • Department of Biomedical Sciences, Long Island University,
Brookville, NY, USA
ix
x Contributors
Abstract
A mutant library consisting of hundreds of designed point and deletion mutants in the genes encoding
Saccharomyces cerevisiae histones H3 and H4 is described. Incorporation of this library into a suitably
engineered yeast strain (e.g., bearing a reporter of interest), and the validation of individual library members
is described in detail.
1. Introduction
Randall H. Morse (ed.), Chromatin Remodeling: Methods and Protocols, Methods in Molecular Biology, vol. 833,
DOI 10.1007/978-1-61779-477-3_1, © Springer Science+Business Media, LLC 2012
1
2 J. Dai and J.D. Boeke
2. Materials
ON FLOWER-POTS.
Saltren moved with his mother to London, and went with her into
lodgings. Mrs. Saltren had insisted on taking Thomasine with her,
and incurred accordingly the additional expense of maintaining her
where she was not wanted. Thomasine was not likely to be of use till
the Saltrens got a house of their own, and Giles did not choose to
take one till he had got into a situation and was able to see what his
prospects were likely to be. As lady’s-maid to Mrs. Saltren,
Thomasine was, of course, no good at all, or likely, to employ that
serviceable Yorkshire word again, “to frame” as one.
“Whatever you do,” said Mrs. Saltren, “mind that we live in the
West End. Why don’t you go to Shepherd’s Bush, near the Welshes?
A man of my brother’s political and literary position must have hosts
of distinguished acquaintances, and a woman of Tryphœna’s
accomplishments and beauty must have the entrée into the highest
circles. If we lived near them we might get good introductions. If we
don’t get settled to my liking shortly in a fashionable quarter of
town, I do not know but that I may return to Orleigh.”
“Return to Orleigh!” echoed the son, “why, mother, I thought that
your desire had been to leave it. Besides, we have not a house there
any more.”
“I know we have not,” answered his mother, “but what we may be
without, it is possible that I might secure.”
“I do not understand,” said Jingles.
“I think,” said Mrs. Saltren, “that it is proper the money paid by
the railway company for Chillacot should be put into the bank in my
name and not in yours.”
“I have already told you, mother,” said Giles, “that I will not touch
it myself. I consider it yours, not mine.”
“But I have not the disposal of it.”
“Indeed, mother, you have; it is entered in your name, not in
mine, already. I have no account at the bank at all.”
“How can you talk nonsense,” said Mrs. Saltren; “you have all your
savings—quite a fortune—which you got at the Park whilst tutor to
young Giles.”
“My dear mother, I had not the time to accumulate a fortune. I
was tutor there for eighteen months and what I saved was a
hundred and twenty-five pounds, and that sum is already disposed
of.”
“Disposed of! What have you done with it?”
“I have purchased an annuity for some one.”
“For whom? for me?”
“No, mother, not for you. You have the purchase money of
Chillacot.”
“For whom then? I insist on knowing.”
“For a man who has been crippled, and is unable to earn his
livelihood.”
“What nonsense! What absurd fit of heroic charity has come over
you? Since you went to town in that strange, hurried fashion at the
time of your father’s death, you have been altered from what you
were before, as different as canister beef from that which is fresh
from the ox.”
Giles said nothing in self-defence.
“But I insist on knowing on whom you have thrown this money
away.”
“I do not wish to tell—on a man who has the nearest of claims on
me.”
Mrs. Saltren considered, then coloured, looked mortified, and did
not prosecute her inquiries. “Well,” she said petulantly, “a fool and
his money is soon parted. I am very glad I insisted on having the
Chillacot purchase money removed from your fingering. Please to
ring for my lady’s-maid.”
“Lady’s-maid, mother?”
“For Thomasine. I want to speak to her. You may leave the room.
Here we have been in town a week and the Welshes have not called.
If we are to be more solitary here than we were at Chillacot, I shall
go back to Orleigh. Ring for my lady’s-maid.”
Mrs. Saltren was, indeed, becoming tired of London. Her
opportunities for boasting were confined to talks with her landlady
and her landlady’s visitors.
It did her soul good, said the woman of the lodgings, to hear of
lords and ladies; it was as comforting and improving as the words
that dropped from the lips of the Reverend Hezekiah Bumpas. She
felt it down to her toes.
Mrs. Saltren indulged her in this particular to her heart’s content.
She knew many persons of distinction. Lady Hermione Woodhead,
who lived in Portland Place, had once been her intimate friend, till
they differed about Lord Lamerton’s marriage. What had made them
differ? It did not become her to speak, but his lordship had set his
affections elsewhere, she could not name in what direction, and had
been inveigled by the Woodheads into an alliance with their family. It
was a mistake, an entanglement managed by designing women.
Lord Lamerton was ill after his engagement, so was another
person who must be nameless. When Lady Lamerton died, then his
first flame had married—without love, and in his desperation he
married again. Of course after that first estrangement she and Lady
Hermione never spoke. She—Marianne Saltren—had passed the Earl
of Anstey’s family repeatedly without recognition. If her landlady
doubted her word, let her accompany her to Hyde Park, and when
the Anstey family drove by, she would see that they took no notice
of each other. After what had happened it could not be otherwise.
But though Mrs. Saltren could talk what nonsense came into her vain
head to the lodging-house keeper, she was disappointed that she
could not to a larger circle, disappointed at the little notice she
attracted in town. It was most strange that the Welshes took no
notice of her. She feared that they were going to treat her with
coldness and not introduce her to the distinguished circle of
acquaintances in which they moved.
I knew a young girl who was given lessons in oil-painting before
she had learned how to draw, and a somewhat similar inversion of
order went on in the instruction of Thomasine Kite, whom Marianne
Saltren began to train to be a lady’s-maid before the girl knew the
elements of domestic service, having previously been a farm-maid,
feeding pigs and scouring milk-pails.
Thomasine did not take readily to instruction, least of all could she
acquire deference towards her mistress; and Mrs. Saltren was
irritated at the freedom with which the girl accosted her, and at the
laughter she provoked in Thomasine when she, Marianne, assumed
her grand manner. Moreover, she discovered that her landlady had
been questioning the girl in private as to the circumstances and
former position of her mistress, and Mrs. Saltren was afraid that the
revelations in the kitchen might cause some of her stories to be
discounted. Fortunately for her, the broad dialect of Thomasine was
almost unintelligible to the landlady, and the girl had the cunning of
the uneducated, which leads them to evade giving a direct answer to
any question put to them.
Giles Inglett Saltren was unaware till he came to town that
Arminell was settled in the house of the Welshes. He knew that his
uncle had undertaken to arrange matters of business for her, and to
look out for a house and companion for her, but he had refrained
from asking questions about her, from motives of delicacy. Indeed,
he had scarcely written to Mr. Welsh since his return to Orleigh. He
was resolved not again to seek his assistance on his own behalf, but
to find a situation for himself. When, however, he came to town, and
met his uncle at an office in the city, he learned from him where
Arminell was, and at once urged on Mr. Welsh the mischief which
would ensue should Mrs. Saltren discover that Miss Inglett was alive
and their lodger. Welsh saw that, and undertook to prevent his wife
from calling on Mrs. Saltren, and promised to keep his eye open for
an opportunity of placing Arminell elsewhere. Marianne Saltren
shared the prevailing opinion that Miss Inglett was dead and Giles
was specially anxious lest she should discover that this was not the
case. If she were to see Arminell, would it be possible to control her
tongue? Would she not be eager to publish the fact that the
Honourable Miss Inglett was a guest of her brother and sister-in-
law?
It had been Saltren’s intention to keep away from Arminell, but
under this alarm he felt it his duty to see her and precipitate her
departure from Shepherd’s Bush. His mother could not be kept
indefinitely away from her brother’s house. One word from his
mother might frustrate Arminell’s intention, upset her plans. From
Mrs. Saltren the report would rapidly spread. Mrs. Cribbage had ears
like those of the trusty servant on the Winchester escutcheon, and
without the trusty servant’s padlock on the tongue. If once the truth
got wind, to what difficulties would the Lamerton family be put, now
that they had accepted and published the death of the girl!
The author of this novel was involved many years ago in an
amateur performance of “Macbeth,” but the sole part he took in the
tragedy was to sit in the midst of the witches’ cauldron, and ignite
the several coloured fires which were destined to flame, as scale of
dragon, tooth of wolf, liver of blaspheming Jew, were cast in. But
when, to Locke’s lovely music, the imps and witches danced around
the vessel, then it was his function to explode a so-called flower-pot,
which is a roaring, spirting composition of fire-work. Unfortunately,
at the first chorus and circular dance, the blazing flower-pot tumbled
back upon the author, concealed within the depths of the cauldron,
and, to save himself from an auto-da-fé end, he enveloped the
flower-pot in a rug, and screwed it up tight and sat on it. So the
scene ended, and, believing that the fire-work was completely
extinguished, he then unfolded the rug. No sooner, however, did the
air reach the smothered fire-work, than it bounced, and roared, and
blazed with doubled vigour. It threw out sheaths of flame, it shot off
Roman candles, it ejected a score of crackers, and filled the entire
stage with smoke, and very nearly burnt down the theatre.
Saltren dreaded something of this sort happening now. The fire-
work of scandal had, indeed, been muffled up and smothered, when
first it began to fizz; but—who could tell?—if it got air again, even
through a pin-hole, it would burst into furious conflagration and defy
all efforts made to suppress it.
The writer of this story takes this occasion of apologising—if
apology be necessary—for the introduction, on more than one
occasion, of his own adventures, his own opinions, and, if you will it,
his own prejudices into the course of his narrative. He will be told
that the author should disappear as a personality, just as the actor
merges his individuality in that of the character he represents. He
must treat himself as a flower-pot and wrap himself up in the garde-
robe of his dramatis personæ. I might, of course, have told that
story of the flower-pot in the cauldron as having happened to Jingles
at Orleigh, but then I could never have told that story again at a
dinner-party, for my guest, next but one, would say, “Ah! that
happened to my brother, or to my uncle, or to an intimate friend;”
and how can I deny that Jingles did not stand in one of these
relations to him?
Montaigne, the essayist, was a sad sinner in the introduction of
himself into his prose. The essay on which he was engaged might be
on the history of Virgil, or Julius Cæsar, but there was certain to
creep into it more of Montaigne than of either. The younger Scaliger
rebuked him for it, and, after having acquainted the world with the
ancestry of Montaigne, he adds, “His great fault is this, that he must
needs inform you, ‘For my part I am a lover of white wines or red
wines.’ What the Devil signifies it to the public,” adds Scaliger,
“whether he is a lover of white wines or red wines?” So, but with
more delicacy, and without the introduction of that personage whose
name has been written with a capital D, the reader may say to the
author, What the blank does it signify what you think, what you like,
what you did, whether you ever sat in a cauldron, whether you ever
had a flower-pot fall on your head, whether you sought to extinguish
it by sitting on it?—go on with your story.
But a man’s personality—I mean my own—is like that piece of
pyrotechnic contrivance, a flower-pot. He wraps it up, he smothers it
under fold after fold of fiction; but, fizz! fizz! out it comes at last—
here, there, on all sides, and cannot be disguised. There is, to be
sure, that subterfuge, the use of the first person plural in place of
the first person singular, but is it not more vainglorious to talk of We,
as if we were royalties, instead of plain and modest I?
When Giles Saltren arrived at the house in the Avenue, Shepherd’s
Bush, Arminell flushed with pleasure, sprang from her seat, and with
outstretched hand started to receive him; then she checked herself,
and said, “I am glad to see you. Oh, Mr. Saltren, I hear nothing of
Orleigh, of dear, dear Orleigh! I have the heartache for news. I want
to hear my own tongue wag on the subject nearest my heart, and to
listen to tidings about the people I knew there. I am like a departed
soul looking back on familiar scenes, and unable to visit them and
old friends, and unable to communicate with them. I am Dives, and
Orleigh is to me Paradise. You have come thence with a drop of
fresh news wherewith to cool my thirsty tongue.”
“I am Lazarus indeed,” said Saltren, “but out of Paradise. Ask me
what you will about Orleigh, and I will answer what I can.”
“There is one matter that teases me,” she said; “I promised a poor
fellow, before I left, that he should have employment at a small
wage, and I do not suppose he has had what I undertook to give
him.”
“Do you mean Samuel Ceely? He is provided for.”
“How so?”
“He has come in, unexpectedly, for a little money, wherewith an
annuity has been purchased.”
“I am glad of that. And—my mother and Giles, have you seen
them?”
“Yes, I called to say farewell to both. Lady Lamerton looks worn
and sad, and your dear brother is out of spirits; but this could not be
otherwise.”
Arminell’s eyes filled, and she went to the window and dried her
tears.
“Miss Inglett,” said the young man, after she had been given time
to recover herself, “I have only ventured to call on you for one
reason, that I might impress on you the necessity of leaving this
house. My mother is in town, and she must not be allowed to know
or even suspect that you are alive and here.”
Arminell did not speak for some time. Presently she said, “Do not
let us talk about anything at present but Orleigh. I am parched for
news. I daresay there is nothing of tremendous importance to relate,
but I care for little details. How was the house looking? Were the
trees turning to their autumn tints? The Virginian creeper, was that
touched with crimson? How are Mr. and Mrs. Macduff? I could not
abide them when I was at Orleigh; I could be thankful now for a
sound of their delightful Scotch brogue. What is Giles going to do?
dear little boy! I would give a week’s sunlight for a kiss from his
moist lips—which formerly I objected to. And mamma—has she been
to the Sunday School since—since—?”
Then Arminell’s tears flowed again.
After another pause, during which the young man looked through
the photographic album on the table, Arminell recovered herself, and
said, “Do not suppose for a moment that I regret my decision. My
conscience is relieved. I am beginning to acquire fresh interests. I
am now making a frock for baby. I am godmother to Mrs. Welsh’s
child, and have come to be very fond of him. But there—tell me
something about Orleigh, and Giles, and my mother—about any
person or animal, or shrub or tree there. And, oh! can you obtain for
me some photographs of the place? I should cherish them above
everything I have. I dream of Orleigh. I think of Orleigh, and—I shall
never see dear Orleigh again.”
“I will come another day, Miss Inglett, and tell you all that I can,
but to-day I must urge on you the vital necessity of at once leaving
this house.”
“Your aunt can hardly get on without me.”
“She managed formerly without you, she must do the same
again.”
“But there was no baby in the house then. And, besides, the new
cook who was to have come has failed. The last went up a ladder
sixty feet high, and it took several constables and a sergeant to get
her down.”
Arminell laughed through her tears.
“Miss Inglett, consider what the difficulty would be in which her
ladyship would be placed should it become known—”
“Mrs. Saltren and her lady’s-maid!”
The door was thrown open by the maid of-all-work, and she
ushered into the drawing-room the person of all others—except
perhaps Mrs. Cribbage—whom it was desired to keep from the
house, and she was followed by Thomasine Kite.
Verily, the flower-pot was not smothered. It was about to fizz and
puff again.
CHAPTER XLVII.
EQUILIBRIUM.
L’ALLEMANDE.
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