A KNIGHT OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY by Edward Payson Roe (world of reading .txt) 📖

Thrilling Tales, Until The Public Insisted upon Knowing The Great

Unknown. Then He Could Reverse Present Experience By Scorning Those Who

Had Scorned him. He Recalled all That He Had Ever Read About Genius

Toiling In its Attic Until The World Was Compelled to Recognize And Do

Homage To The Regal Mind. He Would Remain In seclusion Also; He Would

Burn Midnight Oil Until He Should Come To Be Known As Haldane The

Brilliant Writer Instead Of Haldane The Gambler, Drunkard, And Thief.

 

 

 

All On Fire With His New Project, He Sallied forth To The Nearest

News-Stand, And Selected two Or Three Papers And Magazines, Whose

Previous Interest To Him And Known Popularity Suggested that They Were

The Best Mediums In which He Could Rise Upon The Public As A Literary

Star, All The More Attractive Because Unnamed and Unknown.

 

 

 

His Next Proceeding Indicated a Commendable Amount Of Shrewdness, And

Proved that His Roseate Visions Resulted more From Ignorance And

Inexperience Than From Innate Foolishness. He Carefully Read The

Periodicals He Had Bought, In the Hope Of Obtaining Hints And

Suggestions From Their Contents Which Would Aid Him In producing

Acceptable Manuscripts. Some Of The Sketches And Stories Appeared very

Simple, The Style Flowing along As Smoothly And Limpidly As A Summer

Brook Through The Meadows. He Did Not See Why He Could Not Write In a

Similar Vein, Perhaps More Excitingly And Interestingly. In his Partial

And Neglected course Of Study He Had Not Given Much Attention To

_Belles-Lettres_, And Was Not Aware That The Simplicity And Lucid

Purity Of Thought Which Made Certain Pages So Easily Read Were Produced

By The Best Trained and Most Cultured talent Existing among The Regular

Contributors.

 

 

 

He Spent The Evening and The Greater Part Of A Sleepless Night In

Constructing a Crude Plot Of A Story, And, Having Procured writing

Materials, Hastened through An Early Breakfast, The Following Morning,

In His Eagerness To Enter On What Now Seemed a Shining Path To Fame.

 

 

 

He Sat Down And Dipped his Pen In ink. The Blank, White Page Was Before

Him, Awaiting His Brilliant And Burning Thoughts; But For Some Reason

They Did Not And Would Not Come. This Puzzled him. He Could Dash Off A

Letter, And Write With Ease A Plain Business Statement. Why Could He Not

Commence And Go On With His Story?

 

 

 

"How Do Those Other Fellows Commence?" He Mentally Queried, And He Again

Carefully Read And Examined the Opening Paragraphs Of Two Or Three Tales

That Had Pleased him. They Seemed to Commence And Go Forward Very Easily

And Naturally. Why Could Not He Do The Same?

 

 

 

To His Dismay He Found That He Could Not. He Might As Well Have Sat Down

And Hoped to Have Deftly And Skilfully Constructed a Watch As To Have

Imitated the Style Of The Stories That Most Interested him, For He Had

Never Formed even The Power, Much Less The Habit, Of Composition.

 

 

 

After A Few Labored and Inconsequential Sentences, Which Seemed like

Crude Ore Instead Of The Molten, Burning Metal Of Thought Left To Cool

In Graceful Molds, He Threw Aside His Pen In despair.

 

 

 

After Staring Despondently For A Time At The Blank Page, Which Now

Promised to Remain As Blank As The Future Then Seemed, The Fact Suddenly

Occurred to Him That Even Genius Often Spurred its Flagging Or Dormant

Powers By Stimulants. Surely, Then, He, In his Pressing Emergency, Had A

Right To Avail Himself Of This Aid. A Little Brandy Might Awaken His

Imagination, Which Would Then Kindle With His Theme.

 

 

 

At Any Rate, He Had No Objection To The Brandy, And With This

Inspiration He Again Resumed his Pen. He Was Soon Astonished and

Delighted with The Result, For He Found Himself Writing With Ease And

Fluency. His Thoughts Seemed to Become Vivid And Powerful, And His Story

Grew Rapidly. As Body And Mind Flagged, The Potent Genii In the Black

Bottle Again Lifted and Soared on With Him Until The Marvellous Tale Was

Completed.

 

 

 

He Decided to Correct The Manuscript On The Following Day, And Was So

Complacent And Hopeful Over His Performance That He Scarcely Noted that

He Was Beginning To Feel Wretchedly From The Inevitable Reaction. The

Next Day, With Dull And Aching Head He Tried to Read What He Had

Written, But Found It Dreary And Disappointing Work. His Sentences And

Paragraphs Appeared like Clouds From Which The Light Had Faded; But He

Explained this Fact To Himself On The Ground Of His Depressed physical

State, And He Went Through His Task With Dogged persistence.

 

 

 

He Felt Better On The Following Day, And With The Aid Of The Bottle He

Resolved to Give His Inventive Genius Another Flight. On This Occasion

He Would Attempt A Longer Story--One That Would Occupy Him Several

Days--And He Again Stimulated himself Up To A Condition In which He

Found At Least No Lack Of Words. When He Attained what He Supposed was

His Best Mood, He Read Over Again The Work Of The Preceding Day, And Was

Delighted to Find That It Now Glowed with Prismatic Hues. In his

Complacence He At Once Despatched it To The Paper For Which It Was

Designed.

 

 

 

Three Or Four Days Of Alternate Work And Brooding Passed, And If Various

And Peculiar Moods Prove The Possession Of Genius, Haldane Certainly

Might Claim It. Between His Sense Of Misfortune And Disgrace, And The

Fact That His Funds Were Becoming Low, On One Hand, And His Towering

Hopes And Shivering Fears Concerning His Literary Ventures, On The

Other, He Was Emphatically In what Is Termed "A State Of Mind"

Continuously. These Causes Alone Were Sufficient To Make Mental Serenity

Impossible; But The After-Effects Of The Decoction From Which He

Obtained his Inspiration Were Even Worse, And After A Week'S Work The

Thought Occurred to Him More Than Once That If He Pursued a Literary

Life, Either His Genius Or That Which He Imbibed as Its Spur Would

Consume Him Utterly.

 

 

 

By The Time The First Two Stories Were Finished he Found That It Would

Be Necessary To Supplement The Labors Of His Pen. He Would Have To Wait

At Least A Few Days Before He Could Hope For Any Returns, Even Though He

Had Urged in his Accompanying Notes Prompt Acceptance And Remittance For

Their Value.

 

 

 

He Went To The Office Of The "Evening Spy," The Paper Which Had Shown

Some Lenience Toward Him, And Offered his Services As Writer, Or

Reporter; And, Although Taught By Harsh Experience Not To Hope For Very

Much, He Was A Little Surprised at The Peremptory Manner In which His

Services Were Declined. His Face Seemed to Ask An Explanation, And The

Editor Said Briefly:

 

 

 

"We Did Not Bear Down Very Hard On You--It'S Not Our Custom; But Both

Inclination And Necessity Lead Us To Require That Every One And

Everything Connected with This Paper Should Be Eminently Respectable And

Deserving Of Respect. Good-Morning, Sir."

 

 

 

Haldane'S Pre-Eminence Consisted only In his Lack Of Respectability; And

After The Brave Visions Of The Past Week, Based on His Literary Toil,

This Cool, Sharp-Cut Statement Of Society'S Opinion Quenched about All

Hope Of Ever Rising By First Gaining Recognition And Employment Among

Those Whose Position Was Similar To What His Own Had Been. As He Plodded

His Way Back To The Miserable Little Foreign Restaurant, His Mind Began

To Dwell On This Question:

 

 

 

"Is There Any Place In the World For One Who Has Committed a Crime, Save

A Prison?"

 

Chapter XX (Maiden And Wood-Sawyer)

Before Utterly Abandoning all Hope Of Finding Employment That Should In

Some Small Degree Preserve An Air Of Respectability, Haldane Resolved to

Give Up One More Day To The Search, And On The Following Morning He

Started out And Walked until Nightfall. He Even Offered to Take The

Humblest Positions That Would Insure Him A Support And Some Recognition;

But The Record Of His Action While In mr. Arnot'S Employ Followed him

Everywhere, Creating Sufficient Prejudice In every Case To Lead To A

Refusal Of His Application. Some Said "No" Reluctantly And Hesitatingly,

As If Kindly Feelings Within Took The Young Man'S Part; But They Said

It, Nevertheless.

 

 

 

For The Patient Resolution With Which He Continued to Apply To All Kinds

Of People And Places, Hour After Hour, In spite Of Such Disheartening

Treatment, He Deserved much Praise; But He Did Not Receive Any; And At

Last, Weary And Despondent, He Returned to His Miserable Lodgings. He

Was So Desperately Depressed in body And Mind That The Contents Of The

Black Bottle Seemed his Only Resource.

 

 

 

Such A Small Sum Now Remained that He Felt That Something Must Be Done

Instantly. He Concluded that His Only Course Now Was To Go Out And Pick

Up Any Odd Bits Of Work That He Could Find. He Hoped that By Working

Half The Time He Might Make Enough To Pay For His Board At His Present

Cheap Lodging-Place. This Would Leave Him Time To Continue His Writing,

And In the Course Of A Week More He Would Certainly Hear From The

Manuscripts Already Forwarded. On These He Now Built Nearly All His

Hope. If They Were Well Received and Paid For, He Considered his

Fortunes Substantially Restored, And Fame Almost A Certainty In the

Future. If He Could Only Produce A Few More Manuscripts, And Bridge Over

The Intervening Time Until He Could Hear From Them, He Felt That His

Chief Difficulties Would Be Past.

 

 

 

Having Decided to Do A Laborer'S Work, He At Once Resolved to Exchange

His Elegant Broadcloth For A Laborer'S Suit, And He Managed this

Transfer So Shrewdly That He Obtained quite A Little Sum Of Money In

Addition.

 

 

 

It Was Well That He Did Replenish His Finances Somewhat, For His

Apparently Phlegmatic Landlord Was As Wary As A Veteran Mouser In

Looking after His Small Interests. He Had Just Obtained an Inkling as To

Haldane'S Identity, And, While He Was Not At All Chary Concerning The

Social And Moral Standing Of His Few Uncertain Lodgers, He Proposed

Henceforth That All Transactions With The Suspicious Stranger Should Be

On A Strictly Cash Basis.

 

 

 

It Was The Busy Spring-Time, And Labor Was In great Demand. Haldane

Wandered off To The Suburbs, And, As An Ordinary Laborer, Offered his

Services In cleaning Up Yards, Cutting Wood, Or Forking Over A Space Of

Garden Ground. His Stalwart Form And Prepossessing appearance Generally

Secured him A Favorable Answer, But Before He Was Through With His Task

He Often Received a Sound Scolding For His Unskilful And Bungling Style

Of Work. But He In part Made Up By Main Strength What He Lacked in

Skill, And After Two Or Three Days He Acquired considerable Deftness In

His Unwonted labors, And Felt The Better For Them. They Counteracted the

Effects Of His Literary Efforts, Or, More Correctly, His Means Of

Inspiration In them.

 

 

 

Thus Another Week Passed, Of Which He Gave Three Days To The Production

Of Two Or Three More Brief Manuscripts, And During The Following Week He

Felt Sure That He Would Hear From Those First Sent.

 

 

 

He Wrote Throughout The Hours Of Daylight On Sunday, Scarcely Leaving

His Chair, And Drank More Deeply Than Usual. In consequence, He Felt

Wretchedly On Monday, And, Therefore, Strolled off To Look For Some

Employment That Would Not Tax His Aching Head. Hitherto He Had Avoided

All Localities Where He Would Be Apt To Meet Those Who Knew Him; And By

Reason Of His Brief Residence In town There Were Comparatively Few Who

Were Familiar With His Features. He Now Recalled the Fact That He Had

Often Seen From His Window, While An Inmate Of Mrs. Arnot'S Home, Quite

A Collection Of Cottages Across A Small Ravine That Ran A Little Back Of

That Lady'S Residence. He Might Find Some Work Among Them, And He

Yielded to The Impulse To Look Again Upon The Place Where Such Rich And

Abundant Happiness Had Once Seemed within His Grasp.

 

 

 

For Several Days He Had Been Conscious Of A Growing Desire To Hear From

His Mother And Mrs. Arnot, And Often Found Himself Wondering How They

Regarded his Mysterious Disappearance, Or Whether Reports Of His Vain

Inquiry For Work Had Reached them.

 

 

 

With A Pride And Resolution That Grew Obstinate With Time And Failure,

He Resolved that He Would Not