269

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH

A ROMANCE OF THE SUPERNATURAL
By Mrs. Elia W Peattie.

CHAPTER I
I am no dreamer. I am not sentimental. I have been educated to be severely accurate. My grandfather was a professor of higher mathematics in a well known eastern university. My father was also an instructor in the exact sciences. I was educated in the west, and, having been graduated with-out honors, calmly faced the fact that there was very little use in the world for a dull young man who had chosen to call himself an ethnographer - or at least a student of ethnography. My friends wanted me to write a book on this subject in which I thought I was interested. As I had no knowledge which was not second hand, and no theories which were not some other man's, this was completely absurd.
Living in St. Paul as I did, I found no lack of opportunity for pursuing my favorite [reflections?], for there are races of men in plenty at that place, but ethnography like many other subjects, is a study which is pleasantest confined to the leaves of a book in a quiet library. What cause had I to be practically interested in the origin of my laundryman, of my bookmaker, and of my waiter? None. Abstractly, the [race?] question was interesting. Concretely it was stupid. In short, I was a fool. I was in earnest about nothing. My boasted common sense and accuracy, my power of concentrating my mind on one thing to the exclusion of others which had been thought so fine an attribute at college and my disdain of the pleasures of other young men, began to seem very [pool?] things indeed.
I got so last that I would have bartered that huge library left me by my scientific and lugubrious ancestors, and all the learnings which I was supposed to have accumulated, for the cheap ability to enjoy myself for one hour in the hearty way that other young fellows enjoyed themselves. In my desperation I even thought of throwing ancestral precedent to the winds, and engaging myself as a salesmen in a dry goods store and experimenting with the simple pleasures of half holidays and lunches in the corner restaurant.
It will be seen that I was rather a poor fellow. I prefer to make this plain at the outset that I may appear as I am - the historian of certain events, and not the hero of adventures.
It is necessary though disagreeable, for me to tell a few facts about myself. They are not amusing facts. Having passed my early boyhood in a great library which was guiltless of fiction, and my later years in school under the supervision of a number of very grave and thorough old gentlemen. I had no experiences which were not associated with the school or my quiet home. I was not acquainted with life, with amusement, with women of any sort or degree, or with speculation in any form, except intellectual speculation in line more scientific than sentimental. By sentimental I mean political, ethical, and religious. These things, being matters of opinion, prejudice, or passion, had no interest for me.
Unfortunately I had a little money - which effectively threw cold water over what slight ambition I might naturally stand possessed of. This is the mental portrait of myself - Hilbert I Shadwin, aged 25. My physical portrait I cannot give I have never been able to make out what sort of a man I was in appearance, and as my acquaintances have preserved a unanimous silence on the subject I must suppose that they also have found it difficult to note any individuality in me.
Most expectedly, and just when I had come to consider myself absolutely useless, a use was found for me. I was invited by the government of the United States, at the suggestion of some influential friends, to go south and count the Seminole Indians. Counting in this case, meant something about their present habits of [?] their dispositions, their outlook and their general condition. I took fresh heart at once and thought with disdain of the white goods counter and half-holidays and determined to justify my family name by doing something worthy of it.
I reflected that I might not find something original to write about, My faint desire to prepare a work on the cave-dwellers of North America vanished and I determined to employ that practical sense which I had often been told I possessed - perhaps because I could be accredited with nothing better - and put my foot on the first ladder of a reputable career.
That is how I found myself at St. Augustine at the Hotel Ponce de Leon, smoking from a lofty balcony upon a scene of such luxuriant beauty as my northern eyes had never seen even in dreams. Is it necessary for me to describe that remarkable place, with its courts, its Spanish architecture, its mountains, its wonderful grays of ground and wall and wharf, its peculiar cosmopolitan life or its atmosphere of exquisite indolence? In a way St. Augustine is like Saratoga. At least one meets with a most remarkable collection of celebrities there. Not that I knew any of them. I knew no one. I knew nothing but the wharves, by the green water, the palmettos, the indigo skies of the night, the heavy perfume of the Magnolia. They were all new to me. They were intoxicating. At first I fought against the langor and the enticement of it all. It did not seem in accordance with my new resolutions. But in time the beauty was too much for me. I let my dreams of ambition float splendidly through a brain that was becoming intoxicated with beauty - with novelty- with the sudden-found joy of real living.
I was obliged to wait where I was for several days, for I had been requested to go southward in the company of an engineer corps, which was to survey a part of the Everglades adjoining the Big Cypress.

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH

A ROMANCE OF THE SUPERNATURAL
By Mrs. Elia W Peattie.

CHAPTER I
I am no dreamer. I am not sentimental. I have been educated to be severely accurate. My grandfather was a professor of higher mathematics in a well known eastern university. My father was also an instructor in the exact sciences. I was educated in the west, and, having been graduated with-out honors, calmly faced the fact that there was very little use in the world for a dull young man who had chosen to call himself an ethnographer - or at least a student of ethnography. My friends wanted me to write a book on this subject in which I thought I was interested. As I had no knowledge which was not second hand, and no theories which were not some other man's, this was completely absurd.
Living in St. Paul as I did, I found no lack of opportunity for pursuing my favorite [reflections?], for there are races of men in plenty at that place, but ethnography like many other subjects, is a study which is pleasantest confined to the leaves of a book in a quiet library. What cause had I to be practically interested in the origin of my laundryman, of my bookmaker, and of my waiter? None. Abstractly, the [race?] question was interesting. Concretely it was stupid. In short, I was a fool. I was in earnest about nothing. My boasted common sense and accuracy, my power of concentrating my mind on one thing to the exclusion of others which had been thought so fine an attribute at college and my disdain of the pleasures of other young men, began to seem very [pool?] things indeed.
I got so last that I would have bartered that huge library left me by my scientific and lugubrious ancestors, and all the learnings which I was supposed to have accumulated, for the cheap ability to enjoy myself for one hour in the hearty way that other young fellows enjoyed themselves. In my desperation I even thought of throwing ancestral precedent to the winds, and engaging myself as a salesmen in a dry goods store and experimenting with the simple pleasures of half holidays and lunches in the corner restaurant.
It will be seen that I was rather a poor fellow. I prefer to make this plain at the outset that I may appear as I am - the historian of certain events, and not the hero of adventures.
It is necessary though disagreeable, for me to tell a few facts about myself. They are not amusing facts. Having passed my early boyhood in a great library which was guiltless of fiction, and my later years in school under the supervision of a number of very grave and thorough old gentlemen. I had no experiences which were not associated with the school or my quiet home. I was not acquainted with life, with amusement, with women of any sort or degree, or with speculation in any form, except intellectual speculation in line more scientific than sentimental. By sentimental I mean political, ethical, and religious. These things, being matters of opinion, prejudice, or passion, had no interest for me.
Unfortunately I had a little money - which effectively threw cold water over what slight ambition I might naturally stand possessed of. This is the mental portrait of myself - Hilbert I Shadwin, aged 25. My physical portrait I cannot give I have never been able to make out what sort of a man I was in appearance, and as my acquaintances have preserved a unanimous silence on the subject I must suppose that they also have found it difficult to note any individuality in me.
Most expectedly, and just when I had come to consider myself absolutely useless, a use was found for me. I was invited by the government of the United States, at the suggestion of some influential friends, to go south and count the Seminole Indians. Counting in this case, meant something about their present habits of [?] their dispositions, their outlook and their general condition. I took fresh heart at once and thought with disdain of the white goods counter and half-holidays and determined to justify my family name by doing something worthy of it.
I reflected that I might not find something original to write about, My faint desire to prepare a work on the cave-dwellers of North America vanished and I determined to employ that practical sense which I had often been told I possessed - perhaps because I could be accredited with nothing better - and put my foot on the first ladder of a reputable career.
That is how I found myself at St. Augustine at the Hotel Ponce de Leon, smoking from a lofty balcony upon a scene of such luxuriant beauty as my northern eyes had never seen even in dreams. Is it necessary for me to describe that remarkable place, with its courts, its Spanish architecture, its mountains, its wonderful grays of ground and wall and wharf, its peculiar cosmopolitan life or its atmosphere of exquisite indolence? In a way St. Augustine is like Saratoga. At least one meets with a most remarkable collection of celebrities there. Not that I knew any of them. I knew no one. I knew nothing but the wharves, by the green water, the palmettos, the indigo skies of the night, the heavy perfume of the Magnolia. They were all new to me. They were intoxicating. At first I fought against the langor and the enticement of it all. It did not seem in accordance with my new resolutions. But in time the beauty was too much for me. I let my dreams of ambition float splendidly through a brain that was becoming intoxicated with beauty - with novelty- with the sudden-found joy of real living.