The older we grow the greater becomes our, wonder at how much ignorance
one can contain without bursting one’s clothes. Ten days ago I did not
know anything about the University Settlement except what I’d read in the
pamphlets sent me. Now, after being here and hearing Mrs. Hewitt and
Mrs. Thomas, it seems to me I know of nothing like it at all. It’s a
charity that carries no humiliation with it. Marvellous it is, to think
of schools where you don’t have to drive the children in but drive them
out. It was not so in my day.
Down-stairs just now I saw a dancing lesson going on. You must pay a
cent for a lesson. You can’t get it for nothing. That’s the reason I
never learned to dance.
But it was the pawnbroker’s shop you have here that interested me
mightily. I’ve known something about pawnbrokers’ shops in my time, but
here you have a wonderful plan. The ordinary pawnbroker charges thirty–
six per cent. a year for a loan, and I’ve paid more myself, but here a
man or woman in distress can obtain a loan for one per cent. a month!
It’s wonderful!
I’ve been interested in all I’ve heard to-day, especially in the romances
recounted by Mrs. Thomas, which reminds me that I have a romance of my
own in my autobiography, which I am building for the instruction of the
world.
In San Francisco, many years ago, when I was a newspaper reporter
(perhaps I should say I had been and was willing to be), a pawnbroker was
taking care of what property I had. There was a friend of mine, a poet,
out of a job, and he was having a hard time of it, too. There was
passage in it, but I guess I’ve got to keep that for the autobiography.
Well, my friend the poet thought his life was a failure, and I told him I
thought it was, and then he said he thought he ought to commit suicide,
and I said “all right,” which was disinterested advice to a friend in
trouble; but, like all such advice, there was just a little bit of self-
interest back of it, for if I could get a “scoop” on the other newspapers
I could get a job.
The poet could be spared, and so, largely for his own good and partly for
mine, I kept the thing in his mind, which was necessary, as would-be
suicides are very changeable aid hard to hold to their purpose. He had a
preference for a pistol, which was an extravagance, for we hadn’t enough
between us to hire a pistol. A fork would have been easier.
And so he concluded to drown himself, and I said it was an excellent
idea–the only trouble being that he was so good a swimmer. So we went
down to the beach. I went along to see that the thing was done right.
Then something most romantic happened. There came in on the sea
something that had been on its way for three years. It rolled in across
the broad Pacific with a message that was full of meaning to that poor
poet and cast itself at his feet. It was a life-preserver! This was a
complication. And then I had an idea–he never had any, especially when
he was going to write poetry; I suggested that we pawn the life-preserver
and get a revolver.
The pawnbroker gave us an old derringer with a bullet as big as a hickory
nut. When he heard that it was only a poet that was going to kill
himself he did not quibble. Well, we succeeded in sending a bullet right
through his head. It was a terrible moment when he placed that pistol
against his forehead and stood for an instant. I said, “Oh, pull the
trigger!” and he did, and cleaned out all the gray matter in his brains.
It carried the poetic faculty away, and now he’s a useful member of
society.
Now, therefore, I realize that there’s no more beneficent institution
than this penny fund of yours, and I want all the poets to know this.