Children of clergy -- Fiction; Christian fiction; Fathers and daughters -- Fiction; Scotland -- Fiction
I was always pleased to see Roger. He was a strange creature,--one of those
gifted men who are capable of any thing, if not of every thing, and yet
carry nothing within sight of proficiency. He whistled like a starling, and
accompanied his whistling on the piano; but never played. He could copy a
drawing to a hair's-breadth, but never drew. He could engrave well on wood;
but although he had often been employed in that way, he had always got
tired of it after a few weeks. He was forever wanting to do something other
than what he was at; and the moment he got tired of a thing, he would work
at it no longer; for he had never learned to _make_ himself. He would
come every day to the study for a week to paint in backgrounds, or make a
duplicate; and then, perhaps, we wouldn't see him for a fortnight. At other
times he would work, say for a month, modelling, or carving marble, for a
sculptor friend, from whom he might have had constant employment if he had
pleased. He had given lessons in various branches, for he was an excellent
scholar, and had the finest ear for verse, as well as the keenest
appreciation of the loveliness of poetry, that I have ever known. He had
stuck to this longer than to any thing else, strange to say; for one would
have thought it the least attractive of employments to one of his volatile
disposition. For some time indeed he had supported himself comfortably in
this way; for through friends of his family he had had good introductions,
and, although he wasted a good deal of money in buying nick-nacks that
promised to be useful and seldom were, he had no objectionable habits
except inordinate smoking. But it happened that a pupil--a girl of
imaginative disposition, I presume--fell so much in love with him that
she betrayed her feelings to her countess-mother, and the lessons were of
course put an end to. I suspect he did not escape heart-whole himself; for
he immediately dropped all his other lessons, and took to writing poetry
for a new magazine, which proved of ephemeral constitution, and vanished
after a few months of hectic existence.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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