A KNIGHT OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY - Edward Payson Roe (best color ebook reader TXT) 📗

No, You Ought To Realize All The Bearin'S Of The

Case. The Town Is Down On You. Respectable People Won'T Have Nothin' To

Do With You, Any More Than They Would Walk Arm In arm With The

Charcoal-Man In their Sunday Toggery. I Aren'T Respectable, So You Can'T

Blacken Me. I'Ve Showed you I'M Not Afraid To Trust You. You Can'T Sleep

In The Streets, You Can'T Eat Pavin'-Stuns And Mud, And You Won'T Go

Home. This Brings Me To The Question Again: Can You Stand Me? I Warn You

I'M An Awful Oncomfortable Customer To Live With; I Won'T Take Any Mean

Advantage Of You In this Respect, And, What'S More, I Don'T S'Pose I'Ll

Behave Any Better For Your Sake Or Anybody Else'S. I'M All Finished and

Cooled off, Like An Old Iron Casting, And Can'T Be Bent Or Made Over In

Any Other Shape. You'Re Crooked enough, The Lord Knows; But You'Re Kind

O' Limber Yet In your Moral J'Nts, And You May Git Yourself In decent

Shape If You Have A Chance. I'Ve Taken A Notion To Give You A Chance.

The Only Question Is, Can You Stand Me?"

 

 

 

"It Would Be Strange If I Could Not Stand The Only Man In hillaton Who

Has Shown A Human And Friendly Interest In me. But The Thing I Can'T

Stand Is Taking Charity."

 

 

 

"Who'S Asked you To Take Charity?"

 

 

 

"What Else Would It Be--My Living Here On You?"

 

 

 

"I Can Open A Boardin'-House If I Want To, Can'T I? I Have A Right To

Lend My Own Money, I S'Pose. You Can Open A Ledger Account With Me To A

Penny. What'S More, I'Ll Give You A Receipt Every Time," Added the Old

Man, With A Twinkle In his Eye; "You Don'T Catch Me Gettin' Into The

Papers As 'Kind-Hearted' Mr. Growther."

 

 

 

"Mr. Growther, I Can Scarcely Understand Your Kindness To Me, For I Have

No Claim On You Whatever. As Much As I Would Like To Accept Your Offer,

I Scarcely Feel It Right To Do So. I Will Bring Discredit To You With

Certainty, And My Chances Of Repaying You Seem Very Doubtful Now."

 

 

 

"Now, Look Here, Young Man, I'Ve Got To Take My Choice 'Twixt Two Evils.

On One Side Is You. I Don'T Want You Botherin' Round, Seein' My Mean

Ways. For The Sake Of Decency I'Ll Have To Try To Hold In a Little

Before You, While Before My Cat And Dog I Can Let Out As I Please; So

I'D Rather Live Alone. But The Tother Side Is A Plaguy Sight Worse. If I

Should Let You Go A-Wanderin' Off You Don'T Know Where, The Same As If I

Should Start My Dog Off With A Kick, Knowin' That Every One Else In town

Would Add A Kick Or Fire A Stun, I Couldn'T Sleep Nights Or Enjoy My

Vittels. I'D Feel So Mean That I Should Jest Set And Cuss Myself From

Mornin' Till Night. Look Here, Now; I Couldn'T Stan' It," Concluded mr.

Growther, Overcome By The Picture Of His Own Wretchedness. "Let'S Have

No More Words. Come Back Every Night Till You Can Do Better. Open An

Account With Me. Charge What You Please For Board And Lodgin', And Pay

All Back With Lawful Interest, If It'Ll Make You Sleep Better." And So

It Was Finally Arranged.

 

 

 

Haldane Started out Into The Sun-Lighted streets Of The City As A Man

Might Sally Forth In an Enemy'S Country, Fearing The Danger That Lurked

On Every Side, And Feeling That His Best Hope Was That He Might Be

Unnoted and Unknown. He Knew That The Glance Of Recognition Would Also

Be A Glance Of Aversion And Scorn, And, To His Nature, Any Manifestation

Of Contempt Was Worse Than A Blow. He Now Clung To His Literary Ventures

As The One Rope By Which He Could Draw Himself Out Of The Depths Into

Which He Had Fallen, And Felt Sure That He Must Hear From Some Of His

Manuscripts Within A Day Or Two. He Went To The Post-Office In a Tremor

Of Anxiety Only To Hear The Usual Response, "Nothing For E. H."

 

 

 

With Heavy Steps And A Sinking Heart He Then Set Out In his Search For

Something To Do, And After Walking Weary Miles He Found Only A Small Bit

Of Work, For Which He Received but Small Compensation. He Returned

Despondently In the Evening To His Refuge At Mr. Growther'S Cottage, And

His Quaint Good Samaritan Showed his Sympathy By Maintaining a Perpetual

Growl At Himself And The "Disjinted world" In general. But Haldane

Lowered at The Fire And Said Little.

 

 

 

Several Successive Days Brought Disappointment, Discouragement, And Even

Worse. The Slanderous Paragraph Concerning His Relations With Mr.

Shrumpf Was Copied by The _Morning Courier,_ With Even Fuller And

Severer Comment. Occasionally Upon The Street And In his Efforts To

Procure Employment, He Was Recognized, And Aversion, Scorn, Or Rough

Dismissal Followed instantly.

 

 

 

For A Time He Honestly Tried to Obtain The Means Of Livelihood, But This

Became More And More Difficult. People Of Whom He Asked employment

Naturally Inquired his Name, And He Was Fairly Learning To Hate It From

Witnessing The Malign Changes In aspect And Manner Which Its Utterance

Invariably Produced. The Public Had Been Generally Warned against Him,

And To The Natural Distrust Inspired by His First Crime Was Added a

Virtuous Indignation At The Supposed low Trickery In his Dealing With

The Magnanimous Mr. Shrumpf, "The Poor But Kind-Hearted german."

Occasionally, That He Might Secure A Day'S Work In full Or In part, He

Was Led to Suppress His Name And Give An _Alias_.

 

 

 

He Felt As If He Had Been Caught In a Swift Black Torrent That Was

Sweeping Him Down In spite Of All That He Could Do; He Also Felt That

The Black Tide Would Eventually Plunge Him Into An Abyss Into Which He

Dared not Look. He Struggled hard To Regain A Footing, And Clutched

Almost Desperately At Everything That Might Impede Or Stay His Swift

Descent; But Seemingly In vain.

 

 

 

His Mental Distress Was Such That He Was Unable To Write, Even With The

Aid Of Stimulants; And He Also Felt That It Was Useless To Attempt

Anything Further Until He Heard From The Manuscripts Already In

Editorial Hands. But The Ominous Silence In regard To Them Remained

Unbroken, As A Result, He Began To Give Way To Moods Of The Deepest

Gloom And Despondency, Which Alternated with Wild And Reckless Impulses.

 

 

 

He Was Growing Intensely Bitter Toward Himself And All Mankind. Even The

Image Of His Kind Friend, Mrs. Arnot, Began To Merge Itself Into Merely

That Of The Wife Of The Man Who Had Dealt Him A Blow From Which He Began

To Fear He Would Never Recover. He Was Too Morbid To Be Just To Any One,

Even Himself, And He Felt That She Had Deserted and Turned against Him

Also, Forgetting That He Had Given Her No Clew To His Present Place Of

Abode, And Had Sent A Message Indicating That He Would Regard Any Effort

To Discover Him As Officious And Intrusive. He Quite Honestly Believed

That By This Time She Had Come To Share In the General Contempt And

Hostility Which Is Ever Cherished toward Those Whom Society Regards As

Not Only Depraved and Vile, But Also Dangerous To Its Peace. It Seemed

As If Both She And Laura Had Receded from Him To An Immeasurable

Distance, And He Could Not Think Of Either Without Almost Gnashing His

Teeth In rage At Himself, And At What He Regarded as His Perverse And

Cruel Fate. At Times He Would Vainly Endeavor To Banish Their Images

From His Mind, But More Often Would Indulge In wild And Impossible

Visions Of Coming Back To Them In a Dazzling Halo Of Literary Glory, And

Of Overwhelming Them With Humiliation That They Were So Slow To

Recognize The Genius Which Smouldered for Weeks Under Their Very Eyes.

 

 

 

But His Dreams Were In truth "Baseless Fabrics" For At Last There Came A

Letter Addressed to "E. H.," With The Name Of A Popular Literary Paper

Printed upon It. He Clutched it With A Hand That Shook In his Eagerness,

And Walked half A Mile Before Finding a Nook Sufficiently Secluded in

Which To Open The Fateful Missive. There Were Moments As He Hastened

Through The Streets When The Crumpled letter Was Like A Live Coal In his

Hand; Again It Seemed throbbing With Life, And He Held It Tighter, As

Though It Might Escape. With A Chill At Heart He Also Admitted that This

Bit Of Paper Might Be A Poniard That Would Stab His Hope And So Destroy

Him.

 

 

 

He Eventually Entered a Half-Completed dwelling, Which Some One Had

Commenced to Build But Was Not Able To Finish.

 

 

 

It Was A Wretched, Prosaic Place, That Apparently Had Lost Its Value

Even To The Owner, And Had Become To The Public At Large Only An

Unsightly Blot Upon The Street. There Was No Danger Of His Being

Disturbed here, For The Walls Were Not Sufficiently Advanced to Have

Ears, And Even A Modern Ghost Would Scorn To Haunt A Place Whose Stains

Were Not Those Of Age, And Whose Crumbling Ruins Resulted only From

Superficial And Half-Finished work. Indeed, The Prematurely Old And

Abortive House Had Its Best Counterpart In the Young Man Himself, Who

Stole Into One Of Its Small, Unplastered rooms With Many A Wary Glance,

As Though It Were A Treasure-Vault Which He Was Bent On Plundering.

 

 

 

Feeling at Last Secure From Observation, He Tremblingly Opened the

Letter, Which He Hoped contained the First Instalment Of Wealth And

Fame. It Was, Indeed, From The Editor Of The Periodical, And,

Remembering The Avalanche Of Poetry And Prose From Beneath Which This

Unfortunate Class Must Daily Struggle Into Life And Being, It Was

Unusually Kind And Full; But To Haldane It Was Cruel As Death--A

Spartan Short-Sword, Only Long Enough To Pierce His Heart. It Was To The

Following Effect:

 

 

 

"E. H.--Dear Sir: It Would Be Easier To Throw Your Communication Into

The Waste-Basket Than Thus To Reply; And Such, I May Add, Is The Usual

Fate Of Productions Like Yours. But Something In your Letter

Accompanying The Mss. Caught My Attention, And Induced me To Give You A

Little Good Advice, Which I Fear You Will Not Take, However. You Are

Evidently A Young And Inexperienced man, And I Gather From Your Letter

That You Are In trouble Of Some Nature, And, Also, That You Are Building

Hopes, If Not Actually Depending, Upon The Crude Labors Of Your Pen. Let

Me Tell You Frankly At Once That Literature Is Not Your Forte. It You

Have Sent Literary Work To Other Parties Like That Inclosed to Me You

Will Never Hear From It Again. In the First Place, You Do Not Write

Correctly; In the Second, You Have Nothing To Say. We Cannot Afford To

Print Words Merely--Much Less Pay For Them. What Is Worse, Many Of Your

Sentences Are So Unnatural And Turgid As To Suggest That You Sought In

Stimulants A Remedy For Paucity Of Ideas. Take Friendly Advice. Attempt

Something That You Are Capable Of Doing, And Build Your Hopes On _That_.

Any Honest Work--Even Sawing Wood--Well Done, Is Better Than Childish

Efforts To Perform What, To Us, Is Impossible. Before You Can Do

Anything In the Literary World It Is Evident That Years Of Culture And

Careful Reading Would Be Necessary. But, As I Have Before Said, Your

Talents Do Not Seem To Be In this Direction. Life Is Too Precious To Be

Wasted in vain Endeavor; And That Reminds Me That I Have Spent Several

Moments, And From The Kindliest Motives, In stating To You Facts Which

You May Regard As Insults. But Were The Circumstances The Same I Would

Give My Own Son The Same Advice. Do Not Be Discouraged; There Is Plenty

Of Other Work Equally Good And Useful As That For Which You Seem

Unfitted. Faithfully Yours, ---- ----"

 

 

Chapter XXVI (A Sorry Knight)

The Writer Has Known Men To Receive Mortal Wounds In battle, Of Which,

At The Moment, They Were Scarcely Conscious. The Mind, In times Of Grand

Excitement,