throng simply
because others had been rougher than he,--because other men had
pushed and shouldered while he had been quiet and unpretending. Then
he had resolved to make up for this disappointment by work of another
kind,--by work which would, after all, be more congenial to him. He
would go back to the dream of his youth, to the labours of former
days, and would in truth write his Life of Bacon. He had then
surrounded himself with his papers, had gotten his books together and
read up his old notes, had planned chapters and sections, and settled
divisions, had drawn up headings, and revelled in those paraphernalia
of work which are so dear to would-be working men;--and then nothing
had come of it. Of what use was it that he went about ever with a
volume in his pocket, and read a page or two as he sat over his wine?
When sitting alone in his room he did read; but when reading he knew
that he was not working. He went, as it were, round and round the
thing, never touching it, till the labour which he longed to commence
became so frightful to him that he did not dare to touch it. To do
that thing was the settled purpose of his life, and yet, from day to
day and from month to month, it became more impossible to him even
to make a beginning. There is a misery in this which only they who
have endured it can understand. There are idle men who rejoice in
idleness. Their name is legion. Idleness, even when it is ruinous, is
delightful to them. They revel in it, look forward to it, and almost
take a pride in it. When it can be had without pecuniary detriment,
it is to such men a thing absolutely good in itself. But such a
one was not Sir Thomas Underwood. And there are men who love work,
who revel in that, who attack it daily with renewed energy, almost
wallowing in it, greedy of work, who go to it almost as the drunkard
goes to his bottle, or the gambler to his gaming-table. These are not
unhappy men, though they are perhaps apt to make those around them
unhappy. But such a one was not Sir Thomas Underwood. And again there
are men, fewer in number, who will work though they hate it, from
sheer conscience and from conviction that idleness will not suit them
or make them happy. Strong men these are;--but such a one certainly
was not Sir Thomas Underwood. Then there are they who love the idea
of work, but want the fibre needful for the doing it. It may be that
such a one will earn his bread as Sir Thomas Underwood had earned
his,