Spirit of the age. [volume] (Woodstock, Vt.) 1845-1913, 1905-06-03

a
Y ~ evening, Mr.. Richard Bar
SGONC ker climbed the stairs
which led to his shabby
little bed-sltting room and flung his
weary body into the remains of a once
respectable armchair.
Since o'clock that morning he had
been vainly looking for work.
He was twenty-one years of age, he
was strong and healthy in body and in
mind, and yet-he was useless; he had
absolutely no market value.
Three months before, full Of hope and
light-heartedness, he had left his native
town of Dryfield, in Yorkshire, in de-
fiance of his fathers wishes. A manu-
facturer and mill owner, the father was
strongly of opinion that his only son
should follow in his footsteps, and take
up commercial career. Richard was
of an entirely different opinion, and
said so. His was the artistic tempera-
ment, he told his father. He would
never prosper in business; he was not
cut out for it.
IT Richard was obstinate, so was the
old man. The two parted in anger,
and the youth was warned never to
come near the paternal roof again.
Friendless and unspeakably lonely,
Richard arrived in London with port
manteau, few sOvereigns and unlimit-
ed confidence. He took a couple of
rooms in Baker street, and there, after
three or four hours spent in sightsee-
ing, he settled down to work, and Gov
cred reams of paper with his small,
neat handwriting. Stories, sketches,
articles and even plays--little One-act
plays-poured from him day by day.
He welded, indeed, most prolific pen.
But, as he was soon to discover. stor-
les and articles were one matter get
ting them accepted quite another.
Stamps were bought, cnpaclous en-
velopes, too, and countless manuscripts
were dispatched to this paper and to
that.
They came back with prOmptitude
which caused the writer no small
amount Of surprise, for, though he had
told his father that genius was not al
ways Immediately recognized, he firmly
believed at the time that his own eff
forts would be unhesitatingly accepted.
Eventually he gave up his rooms in
Baker street and took a small bed-sit-
ting, room in the neighborhood of the
Edgeware road. Here he labored away
from morning till night, living a life
of rigid economy ard watching his
small store Of gold with the jealousy
of miser.
Puttieng his literary work aside, he
made an effort to find other employ
ment. Day after day he searched the
Of the newspapers in the hope
Of discovering some suitable vacancy;
day after day he bought stamps with
the little money that remained and
wrote imploring letters to various en-
ployers; day after day he secured the
long metropolitan streets till he was
faint with fatigue. But nothing came
of it. No one would have him.
In everything else unfortunate, it
that he was fortunate with
his second iandlady. Unlike the ma
joritY of her kind, she was a mild,
motherly person, with a large heart,
and she was ever ready to show a prac-
teal sympathy with any one in dis
tress.
Not being acquainted with another
soul in all London to whom he might
speak freely, Barker had confided III
this woman to great extent. She
knew all his difficulties, she saw in his
eyes the wild, LInted look which is to
be observed in every one who is close.
ly pursued by poverty, and, with char
acteristic generosity she permitted him
to retain his room and told him not to
worry about the rent until he was for
tunate enough to find something to do.
Poverty begets humility, even in the
proudest of us, and Barker after he
had occupied his room fO- three weeks
without paying his landlady penny
and had pawned everything that be-
longed to him with the exception of
the clothes on his back, so far humbled
himself as to wrote to his father, con-
Tossing his failure and asking for help.
And now a fortnight had elapsed
since he had written, and as yet no re-
ply had been received. Hope had now
entirely fed, and black despair had
taken its place.
Brooding over his misfor' unes, he lay 3.
nuddled up in the broken armchair for
some considerable time. Suddenly he
sprang to his feet, and cropping about
in the darkness secured q candle and
some matches.
Lighting the candle, he walked to n
cupboard. which stood on one side of
the fireplace, and took from one of the
shelves what looked like a medicine
bottle. 1t bore red label on which the
wore Poison" was plainly printed in
black letters, and contained clear.
liquid much resembling water
Barker had secured this week before,
having at the time a dim idea that it
would prove useful Il case of emer-
gency.
He set the bottle on the table aud by
the side Of 1t a wineglass, then he went
to n drawer situated Il 'erneath the
cupboard and procured a sh2ot of note
paper and an enyelop'. lrs and pen
he found on the h.Ss at iec-
Having secured these lew things, he
sat down again FIR bro moment, and
indited a short note In which he
thanked his landlaSy Tor l.e; ki ldneg'
to him, and babe her farewell. This
done, he sealed up the lever addressed
the envelope AMI kcei /. in a con-
spicuous position or the mAn.elpiece.
Then he locked the d or OF the room.
With trembling hsnl IL r. sick rs
he was Of life, n: WAS yet nervous of
dea .h-he drew the Gers rom the neck
OF the bottle and pont,d some oil the