AS A SHIFTLESS AND PURPOSELESS YOUTH.
Time passed on--that's about all time does anyway--and my idle habits
still clung to me. In fact they grew stronger and faster than I did. My
moods and whims were subject to many changes, however. Something new and
absurd entered my mind every day. It was usually concerning the reckless
waste of energy. I never indulged in expletives or useless words; never
said "golly," "hully gee," or anything that consumed time and strength
without giving adequate return. Unconsciously I believed in the
conservation of energy. "What's the use?" seemed to be with me a
deep-rooted principle.
Being now at an age when I could be of some service in doing odd chores
and errands, it was a heavy tax upon my ingenuity always to have a
plausible excuse for getting out of work. When there was a little labor
scheduled for me, I began to work my wits overtime trying to see a way out
of it. Sometimes I became very studious, hoping thus to escape
observation, or I put up the plea that I was sick, tired or worn-out. I
had practiced woe-begone facial expressions until they came to my relief
quite naturally. It seemed to me that on these occasions I was able to
make my face assume an actual pallor. I put off beginning any task until
the very last moment. If, however, all excuses failed and I was compelled
to do some work, I hurried with all my might to get through with it and
thus get the matter off my mind. I have since been told that this hurrying
through a piece of work is characteristic of many lazy people; or they go
to the other extreme and dally along, killing all the time they can.
Between the ages of ten and twelve I was an omnivorous reader. My literary
bill-of-fare was far-reaching; I read everything. The family almanacs came
in for a careful review. After reading the harrowing details of diseases,
which could only be removed by the timely use of somebody's dope, I always
thought: "That's just the way I feel." But when I turned over a few pages
and read some lady sufferer's testimonial, I was sure that I felt very
much the same myself. All these symptoms, however, assumed a more
tangible form as I advanced in years.
I liked fairy tales and kindred reading; the more audacious and unreal it
was, the better satisfaction it gave me. With me everything was a sham; I
manifested no interest in real and live things. Nothing but the
namby-pamby appealed to me. I now think that if at that time I could have
been induced to exercise vigorously so as to get some good, red blood
coursing through my veins I might have been different.
In my case my literary taste was decidedly detrimental to me. Before one
has arrived at a discriminating age, he cannot sit down to every sort of
literary pabulum regardless of consequences. Many parents seem to think
the "Crack-went-the-ranger's-rifle-and-down-came-another-Redskin"
literature the only kind to be placed on the forbidden shelf. The
inspiration to go out and shoot pesky Indians is healthy and commendable
as compared with much other reading matter extant. Any literature that
warps the imagination and weakens the will should be placed on the tabooed
list. In my case, however, the best literature failed to meet with any
responses. Nothing was inclined to spur me into action. I did not care to
read of great exploits; they gave me mental unrest. Once I read that a
person by walking three hours a day would in seven years pass a space
equivalent to the circumference of the globe. This thought staggered me
and I believed there must be something wrong with a fellow who could
conceive such a stupendous undertaking. Surely no one would think for a
moment of putting it into execution! I also read with stolid indifference
of the Herculean feats of labor performed by men known to history. For
example, Demosthenes copied in his own handwriting Thucydides' _History_
eight times, merely to make himself familiar with the style of that great
man. An incident that appealed to me in a more benign way was this:--
"Pray, of what did your brother die?" said the Marquis Spinola to Sir
Horace Vere. "He died, sir," was the answer, "of having nothing to do!"
That, I thought, must have been an easy death.