Ah, it is pitiful! Lydgate is like too
many others who are stifling in the mud of respectable dullness. The
fate of those men proves what we have asserted, that bad company is that
which does not permit the healthful and fruitful development of a soul.
Take the case of a brilliant young man who leaves the University and
dives into the great whirlpool of London. Perhaps he goes to the Bar,
and earns money meantime by writing for the Press. The young fellows who
swarm in the London centres--that is, the higher centres--are gentlemen,
polished in manner and strict as to the code of honour, save perhaps as
regards tradesmen's bills; no coarse word or accent escapes them, and
there is something attractive about their merry stoicism. But they make
bad company for a young and high-souled man, and you may see your young
enthusiast, after a year of town-life, converted into a cynic who tries
to make game of everything. He talks lightly of women, because that is
considered as showing a spirit of superiority; he is humorous regarding
the state of his head on the morning after a late supper; he can give
you slangy little details about any one and every one whom you may meet
at a theatre or any other public place; he is somewhat proud when some
bellowing, foul-mouthed bookmaker smiles suavely and inquires, "Doing
anything to-day, sir?" Mark you, he is still a charming young fellow;
but the bloom has gone from his character.
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