The Portland daily press., 1876-10-03
have promised to go out to luncheon with
somebodY-in fact. with my publisher.N

-
of culture; and taking the others hand IN
his, he began to shake it slowly.
"Thanks," said John, and was vexed at
the dreary tone of his voice. He looked
alphabetically at his friend, vaguely wonder
ing if he would forget 10 drop his hand aud so
keep him there forever. Presently his arm
fell heavily by his side; then he stretched it
out for his hat; then gasping out some inco-
herent expressions of gratitude he got him
self out OF the room. stumbled down the
stairs, tumbled at the door, and presently
stood in the street drawing long breath.
Mr.. Damon brushed his hair with unwont-
ed vigor, and as he went to luncheon caught
himself buZzing, and thought that he was
humming tune.
As the days went by, saw that my friend
became thinner in body and more restless in
mind. His face had harrassed look, and in
the morning his eyes wandered every mo-
ment to the clock. At length could no lon
ger bear to watch the change and I spoke.
At first he scarcely attended to my words;
but gradually he listened more and more and
at last, after hurried glance over his shout
der, he turned suddenly towards me, and
Selling both my hands with nervous energy,
began TO speak.
"Hcw can get out CT it?' he cried, pas
sionately.
sit is a failure, then ?" | asked.
Then he poured out all his troubles. He
spoke of the atmosphere of culture; of the
trunk that was growing balder every day; Of
the papers which their owner disarranged
every evening, ard which every morning
were less pleasant to handle. As he spoke in
an awestruck voice, it seemed like the story
of an evil dream, in which some cumbrous
Penelope unwove another's web with clumsy
fingers.
"But the papers thenselves?' 1 asked !;
''surely their contents are some compensa-
tion?"
He shook his head sadly. ''There are fine
things" he said; "bits of character. scenes
like life, great thoughts put tersely, but"
''But wbatp' I asked.
He looked at me sadly, and said, 81 would
not say this to anybody but you. Those good
| things are buried-buried under heaps, mon
strous heaps, of loose sentences, loose
| thoughts, great masses of undisested COM
| monplace. They must have been done at all
times, in all moods-some, | feel sure, in
sleep. The roses and cabbages are all loose
| in one cart, the roses under the cabbages-
great, shapeless, overerown, sodden cab
bages." Here his face sank into utter gloom.
"But you are collecting the roses" cried,
eagerly.
His voice was low as he answered. s'He
NeADoa0So
| to give up single cabbage"
"TLen what can you do"' l asked.
''Nothirg," he answered.
| "And you are wasting all your talent in
| doing"
"Nothing," he said again.
"And this man wishes you to" paused
| astounded at my friends infatuation.
'He cannot bear me to BIZ moment be-
hind my timep' he said, and he glanced for
| the hundredth time at the clock.
''For heavens sake cut himr' 1 cried
"the man is a vampire"
II have taken up my burden" said he.
"You have credit under a feather-bed,"
| said ]. ''Come out before you are smoth-
| ered."
He smiled family, and was encouraged TO
| speak more earnestly. At last I thought
that had convinced him. l saw the light OF
hope come back into his eyes, and heard a
brighter tone in his voice. But my time was
short. He suddenly caught sight OF the
eleven. As he dashed down stairs I called
from the landing. "Give him up! give him
upp He made no answer. Then flew to
the window and shouted as he rushed across
the street. An answer came back from the
opposite door step which sounded like, 81
will try" / sat down with my eyes fixed
upon Mr.. Damon's lodgings.
John found his master staring listlessly at
the clock, and IN despair at his secretary's de-
sertion. He heaved great sigh of RELIEF
| when the young man entered; but his face
looked pale and loose and his body very limp
in his wide chair. John had determined as
he ran up stairs to make rush for freedom.
| II am afraid that can't be of any more
use to yOu," he cried with gasp.
| "What ?" asked the other in tone oil
blank dismay.
| 81 think must leave you''
"Leave mev'
81 am doing no good. must find some.
thing to do. always told you that l must
do something"
"Do something's muttered the great man.
"You mean-you mean that you are doing
no good in helping me?' He spoke with a
muffled voice; then suddenly. in an acute
tone he cried, SIS it all bad?"
John stepped hurredly backward, and
looked at his friend in amazement. Was the
great man appealing to HIM?
''Badr' he cried: there are splendid
things in it. l shall always be grateful to you
for letting me see them. There are bits
| which you wrote"
(which wrote twenty years ago."
"There are splendid things" cried John
again, alarmed by the others hollow tone.
Anybody could carve fine book from
those papers. 1t only wants few links
added and land form"
''FormP muttered Mr.. Damon, sinking
lower in his chair. By this time his guest
was only anxious to cheer the sage by any
means. He had forgotten his own melau-
cboy, as he cried with warmth, sit would be
a fine work and the public"
| "They don't care for me now"
"And what does it matter if they don't? p
asked the young man, who was once more
| tho hava dnpo fhor,
good you have done them good; and what
does their ingratitude matter?''
Mr.. Damon swayed forward towards the
table and laid his large head upon his arms.
With his face thus hidden he said in gloomy
voice, 81 can't do without it,
| "Without what?'t
Popularity" said the sage, and he shifted
ominously. Perhaps his gloom was partly
caused by heavy cold in the head, John
started and looked at the slouchiDg figure be-
fore him with a certain degree of horror,
which presently struck him as comical. He
smiled and the smile grew pitiful. Then
the great man, with his face still buried,
unburdened his mind. His confession
dropped from him as heavy drops of 1ain-
water gather at the end of choked pipe
and so fall one by one. Many times be
paused to gasp or to blow his nose, but he
always began again as if impelled by some
| SLOW force. lie said that for years he had
felt himself each day more neglected, more
lonely; old friends had died or gone away
no new ones had come; people went alter
fresh idols; publishers instead of eager in
| quries gave him cold respect. The young
man listening to him found his eyes grow
moist, as he thought of some old crumbling
statue left motioness in the desert, when
the vivid procession bearing ivory, gold, and
| peacocks, sweet-scented wood, and many.
folded garments stepped in dyes, had passed
away forever. Presently Mr.. Damon went
on to tell how he had felt new life thrill
through him at the coming of new disciple
how he had hoped again for sympathy, first
of this one bright young nature, and then OF
others won by him. He SAID that he was ut
terly weary Of criticism; that he had hoped
to produce something which some young
hearts might welcome; that he had not the
energy now to do it alone. John listened full
of strange thoughts. He felt some contempt
and much pity for this hero, at whose feet he
had hoped to sit, and whom he now saw
| palpitating like great jelly before his own.
| There crossed his mind a whimsical fancy
that here was the great critic who had de
voured all other critics, who had devoured
| all literature, until the wide field of culture
/ was a desert and on it, one monster wit h