The man of letters, on the other hand,
capable of cutting a respectable figure in action, is, one fears, a much
rarer type. Langholm was essentially a man of letters. He was at his
best among his roses and his books, at his worst in unforeseen collision
with the rougher realities of life. But give him time, and he was not
the man to run away because his equipment for battle was as short as his
confidence in himself; and perhaps such courage as he possessed was not
less courageous for the crust of cowardice (mostly moral) through which
it always had to break. Langholm had one other qualification for the
quest to which he had committed himself, but for which he was as
thoroughly unsuited by temperament as by the whole tenor of his solitary
life. In addition to an ingenious imagination (a quality with its own
defects, as the sequel will show), he had that capacity for taking
pains which has no disadvantageous side, though in Langholm's case, for
one, it was certainly not a synonym for genius.
It was 3.45 on the Monday afternoon when he alighted at King's Cross,
having caught the 9.30 from Northborough after an early adieu to William
Allen Richardson and the rest.
Pages:
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249