A KNIGHT OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY, Edward Payson Roe [top young adult novels TXT] 📗
- Author: Edward Payson Roe
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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,
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