Had he
begged for money, he would have received, no doubt, a cheque, with words of
compassion; but Mr. Tymperley could never bring himself to that.
He tried to make profit of his former amusement, fretwork, and to a certain
extent succeeded, earning in six months half a sovereign. But the prospect
of adding one pound a year to his starveling dividends did not greatly
exhilarate him.
All this time he was of course living in absolute solitude. Poverty is the
great secluder--unless one belongs to the rank which is born to it; a
sensitive man who no longer finds himself on equal terms with his natural
associates, shrinks into loneliness, and learns with some surprise how very
willing people are to forget his existence. London is a wilderness
abounding in anchorites--voluntary or constrained. As he wandered about the
streets and parks, or killed time in museums and galleries (where nothing
had to be paid), Mr. Tymperley often recognised brethren in seclusion; he
understood the furtive glance which met his own, he read the peaked visage,
marked with understanding sympathy the shabby-genteel apparel. No
interchange of confidences between these lurking mortals; they would like
to speak, but pride holds them aloof; each goes on his silent and
unfriended way, until, by good luck, he finds himself in hospital or
workhouse, when at length the tongue is loosed, and the sore heart pours
forth its reproach of the world.
Pages:
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234