I have just formed the acquaintance of a blase young man. I have been
on an extended trip with him. He is about twenty-two years old, but he
is already weary of life. He was very careful all the time never to
be exuberant. No matter how beautiful the landscape, he never allowed
himself to exube.
Several times I succeeded in startling him enough to say "Ah!" but that
was all. He had the air all the time of a man who had been reared in
luxury and fondled so much in the lap of wealth that he was weary of
life, and yearned for a bright immortality. I have often wished that the
pruning-hook of time would use a little more discretion. The blase young
man seemed to be tired all the time. He was weary of life because life
was hollow.
He seemed to hanker for the cool and quiet grave. I wished at times that
the hankering-might have been more mutual. But what does a cool, quiet
grave want of a young man who never did anything but breathe the nice
pure air into his froggy lungs and spoil it for everybody else?
This young man had a large grip-sack with him which he frequently
consulted. I glanced into it once while he left it open. It was not
right, but I did it. I saw the following articles in it: