Piccadilly: A Fragment of Contemporary BiographyOliphant, Laurence
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Piccadilly: A Fragment of Contemporary Biography
Oliphant, Laurence
Piccadilly (London, England) -- Fiction
only because I am so desperately in love, and my love is so desperately
hopeless; and the whole thing is in such a mess, that one mess is
enough. At present I am setting my dwelling-house in order. When that is
done I will go to work to clean out the "offices."
[Illustration]
I may also allude here to another somewhat embarrassing circumstance
which, had I not the good of my fellow-creatures at heart, might
interfere with the progress of my narrative; and this is the morbid
satisfaction which it seems to afford some people to claim for
themselves the credit of being the most disagreeable or unworthy of
those individuals with whom I am at present in contact. They would
pretend, for instance, that there is no such person in society as
Spiffington Goldtip, but that I mean him to represent some one else; and
they take the 'Court Guide,' and find that no Lady Broadhem lives in
Grosvenor Square, so they suppose that she too stands for some one else
who does. Now, if I hear much of this sort of thing I shall stop
altogether. In the first place, neither Spiffy nor Lady Broadhem will
like it; and in the second, it is very disagreeable to me to be supposed
to caricature my acquaintances under false names. The cap is made a
great deal too large to fit any particular individual, so there is no
use in trying it on; but when, perchance, I find groups of people acting
unworthily, I should be falling into the same error for which I blame
the parsonic body of the present day, if I shrank from exposing and
cutting straight into the sores that they are fain to plaster and
conceal. In these days of amateur preaching in theatres and other
unconsecrated buildings, I feel I owe no apology to my clerical brethren
for taking their congregations in hand after they have quite done with
them.
People may call me a "physician" or any other name they like, and tell
me to heal myself; but it is quite clear that a sick physician who needs
rest, and yet devotes all his time and energies to the curing of his
neighbours, is a far more unselfish individual than one who waits to do
it till he is robust. Therefore, if I am caught doing myself the very
things I find fault with in others, "that has nothing at all to do with
it," as Lady Broadhem always says when all her arguments are exhausted.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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