Gothic fiction; Guardian and ward -- Fiction; Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; Orphans -- Fiction; Young women -- Fiction
Who needs be told the career on which the boy entered? Who but would
sicken and turn away from the record of his houseless wanderings, his
desperate shifts, his recklessness and wickedness. Who that could read
with anything but sorrow of the scenes of squalid want, of cunning vice,
of mad profligacy, through which he passed before his youth was yet
begun. There could be but one result; all that was weak in him was bent
to the service of sin, all that was noble was turned to bitterness; the
refinement of his nature made him rise, but it was to no heights of
truth and virtue; ambition had taken the place of all noble aspirations,
and sustained him through ignominy, and reproach, and poverty, helped
him to trample on difficulties that would have daunted a less desperate
man, and scruples that would have shaken a better one, aided him to free
himself from the pollutions that his wild boyhood had contracted, and to
shake off the trammels of the past, and crown himself with the success
that he had made his god. But through it all, there lived a fear lest
the forgotten stain of his birth should be revived, the foundation stone
be pulled from his fair fabric of good fortune; and this morbid dread so
haunted him, that he came to hate the very sunshine and soft air of
France, to fear the very children in the streets, the strangers whose
curious eyes he met in the thoroughfares of business. And with all the
fearful and enslaved of the earth, he turned his eyes toward the fair
land that promises absolution and new life to the sinful and miserable
of other lands, and denies its rich benison of hope and freedom neither
to the criminal who flies from justice, nor the miserable who flies from
memory. With three thousand miles of ocean between him and France,
perhaps he could shake off the slavish dread that gnawed forever at his
peace, and rise to a position where he need not fear its sting. The
untainted air of that new land had never heard the whisper of his shame,
should never hear it; even in his own bosom, it should die forgotten and
unfeared.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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