LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS.
TO FAILURE
Ecce iterum! Well, why not? So long as I do not exanimate you with my letters, I remain content. Besides, I have not yet fully-developed all my theories. Let us, therefore, continue to chat together for a little.
I cannot proceed for ever by the negative method. No doubt I might in the end, exhaust the list of those who are not your subjects, but the process would be long, and, I fear, tedious. No; I must come to the point and produce my cases. What shall we say of them, then? Hood declares that—
"There is a silence where hath been no sound,
There is a silence where no sound may be,
In the cold grave, under the deep, deep sea."
and so forth; doubtless you remember the sonnet. Not there, however, is the true silence—
"But in green ruins, in the desolate walls
Of antique palaces, where Man hath been,
Though the dun fox, or wild hyena calls,
And owls, that flit continually between,
Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan,—
There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone."
As with silence, so with failure, say I. The man who has never felt the spur of ambition nor the intoxication of a success, who has travelled always upon the level tracts of an unaspiring satisfaction, on him, surely, failure sets no mark, and disappointment has for him no stings. But the poor souls who soar only to sink, who melt their waxen wings in the fierce heat of the sun, and fall crashing to earth, theirs is the lot for pity. And yet it is not well to be too sure. For in the eyes of the world a man may be cheated of his purpose, and yet gain for himself the peace, the sober, contented joy, which is more to him than the flaunting trophies of open success. And some clasp the goddess in their arms, only to wither and decay in the embrace they sought with so eager a passion. But I tarry, while time creeps on.
From the mist of memory rises a scene. A knot of laughing Freshmen is gathered in the ancient Court outside the lecture-room staircase. It wants a minute or two to the hour. They are jesting and chaffing with all the delightful unconcern of emancipated youth, and their cheerful faces shine brighter in the October sunshine. Some thirty yards away from them a strange figure, in dingy cap and gown, paces wearily along. It is that of a prematurely aged man, his back bent, his head sunk upon his chest. The Freshmen begin to knock one another about; there is what we used to call a "rag," and one of them, seizing a small lump of turf, throws it at a companion. It misses him, and strikes the old, weary figure on the back of the neck. He totters forward with outstretched hands, just saves himself from falling, and turns round. There is a terrible, hunted, despairing look on the face, made more pitiful by the grey, straggling beard. The Freshman has darted forward with an apology. The old man mutters, half to himself, "What was it? Did some one call for me? I am quite alone, and I scarcely remember——" and then shuffles away quickly, without listening to the words of apology. The adventure chills the laughter of the young men, the clock strikes, and they vanish to the lecture-room.
This poor, rambling, distraught wreck of a man, was all that was left in those days of a great and brilliant scholar, whose fame a quarter of a century before had been alive in the mouths of Cambridge men. From the moment that he entered at St. Mark's, Henry Arkwright began a glorious career of prize-winning. Scholarships were to him a part of his daily bread. He swallowed them as other men swallow rolls for breakfast. A magic influence seemed to smooth for him the rough and rocky paths of learning. While his comrades stumbled along with bruised limbs, he marched with firm and triumphant step to the summit. And he had other advantages. He was handsome, his manner was frank and winning, he was an athlete of distinction, he spoke with fiery and epigrammatic eloquence at the Union. It is needless to add that his popularity was unbounded amongst his companions. He took the best degree of his year, and was made a Fellow of his College.
There was no lack of glowing prophecies about his future. The only doubt was whether the Lord Chancellorship or the post of Prime Minister would more attract his genius. Nobody supposed that he would stay on at Cambridge. But he did. A few years after taking his degree he published a monumental edition of a Greek classic, which is still one of the fountain-heads of authority, even amongst the severe scholars of the Fatherland. And after that there was an end of him. Nobody quite knew what had happened to him, and as the years rolled on fewer and fewer cared to inquire. He went to hall, he sat silent in the Combination-room, he withdrew himself gradually from all intercourse with friends. His whole appearance changed, he became dishevelled, his face grew old and wrinkled, and his hair turned grey before his time. And thus dwindling and shrinking he had come to be the pitiable shadow who, as I have related, faded dismally across the College Court before a knot of cheerful Undergraduates on an October morning many years ago. What was the reason? I have often wondered. Did his labours over his book displace by a hair's-breadth some minute particle of matter in his brain? Or was there in his nature a lack of the genuine manly fibre, unsuspected even by himself until he felt himself fatally recoiling from the larger life of which the triumphs seemed to be within his grasp, if only he would stretch out his hand and seize them? I know not. Somebody once hinted that there was a woman at the bottom of it. There may have been, but it is a canon of criticism to reject the easier solution. When he died a few years ago, it appeared to be a shock to all but a few to remember that he had not died ages before.
And as I write this, I am reminded, I scarce know why, of poor Mrs. Highflyer. Poor Mrs. Highflyer! I hear somebody exclaim in astonishment. Why is she poor? Why must we pity her? Is she not rich? Do not the great and the titled throng to her parties during the London Season? Has she not entertained Princes in the country? What lot can be more enviable? Granted, I reply, as to the riches and the parties. But can it be seriously supposed that a life spent in a feverish struggle for recognition, its days and nights devoted to schemes for social advancement, to little plots by which Lady Mottling, the wife of the millionaire Member of Parliament, shall be out-witted; or Mrs. Furber, the wife of the returned Australian, shall be made to pale her ineffectual fires; to conspiracies which shall end in a higher rung of the giddy ladder of party-giving ambition—can such a life, I ask, with all its petty miseries, its desperations, its snubs, and its successes no less perilous than desperation, be considered an enviable one? Ask Mrs. Highflyer herself. Visit that poor lady, as she is laying her parallels for her tenth attempt to capture some stout and red-faced royalty for her dance or her country-house, and see for yourself how she feels. She may bear aloft a smiling face, but there is unhappiness in her heart, and all her glories are as nothing to her, because she has read in the Weekly Treadmill that Lady Mottling's latest party was attended by a Royal Duke, two Ambassadors, and a Kamtchatkan Chieftain. There is failure in the meanest shape. Was I right to pity her?
Are there not, moreover, critics and literary celebrities who——but I dare too much, my pen refuses its office, so tremendous is the subject on which I have rashly entered. And with that, farewell.
D. R.
EFFEMINACY OF THE AGE.
Mr. James Payn says that "some boys are really missed at home." Well, Mr. Punch has observed that some fond and foolish parents tog and tittivate their boys till they look behind like girls. But to "miss" them, as though they were maidens or barmaids is too bad. To adapt Ko-Ko's celebrated song, he would say:—
A boy may wear his hair in curls, or bear a pudding face,
Some mothers, as you wist, that folly can't resist!
Of true boy in dress and manners they may leave him scarce a trace,
But he never should be "missed"—he never should be "missed."
Maternal idiots molly-coddle little lads they own,
Till they're girlish in demeanour, and effeminate in tone,
But the mater who her "Tommy" spoils, and dresses like a guy,
Till he doesn't think he crickets, and has no desire to try;
Is a silly, weak anomaly who ought to be well hissed;
Boys never should be "missy," and they never should be "missed."
Mrs. R. is delighted. "My youngest niece," she says, "has lately become engaged to a very illegible young man."
THE DIVER.
(Fragments of a Modern Parliamentary Version. A very long way after Schiller.)
"Oh! where is the youth or man so bold
To dive mid yon billowy din?
There's a cup of the purest (Hibernian) gold,
Lo! how the whirlpool has sucked it in!
'Tis a crown of glory, that golden cup,
To the venturous hand that shall bear it up!"
* * * * *
They listened, that goodly Company,
And were mute both squire and knight;
For they liked not the look of that wild (Irish) sea.
And they funked a fight with that maelstrom's might,
And a Voice, for the second time, loudly spake,
"Will no man dive for Ould Oireland's sake?"
But silently still they gaze and stand,
Till a grey-pate grand and old
Steps lightly forth from the shuddering band.
Oh, the glances that greet him are stern and cold!
And a whispered warning around doth pass:
"Now, Grand Old Diver, don't be an ass!"
And lo! as he stands on the uttermost verge,
He sees, in the dark seas rushing,
Obstructive monsters that swell and surge
From the depths of the muttering whirlpool rushing,
And their sound is the sound of hoot and hiss,
And they leap in foam from the black abyss.
Then quick, ere his fellows were half awake,
That old man grand and grey
Plunged headlong! Ah! it made them quake
As he whirled in the whirling stream away;
And they cried, "'Tis pity the land should suffer
This suicide of the Grand Old Duffer!"
* * * * *
Down! down he shot like a lightning flash!
When lo! from the depth of the rocky ground,
Did a thundering torrent to meet him dash.
Like a child's frail top he span around,
Powerless and pale; for how should he fight
With the double stream in its banded might?
The obstructive darkness of the deep
Lay all beneath him, above, about;
And goggle-eyed monsters that made him creep,
Glared at him there in a menacing rout;
For the dismal depths of those waters dark
Seemed alive with the kraken, the sword-fish, the shark.
There, there they clustered in grisly swarm,
Curled up into many a labyrinth knot,
The octopus with its horrible arms,
And the sea-snake fierce, with a mouth like a slot;
And the glassy-eyed dog-fish with threatening teeth,
Hyena fierce of the sea beneath.
And the Grand Old Diver he felt half-choked,
And he mused to himself, "Must I give it up?"
In ledge and rock-cranny he peered and poked,
Till he caught the glint of that golden cup
Hung on a rock, as though it had grown
In the depth which the sea-snake calls her own.
* * * * *
But see! What shines from the dark flood there
As a swan's soft plumage white?
A thin, wan face, scant, wave-washed hair,
And arms that move with a summer's might.
It is he, and lo! in his left hand high
He waveth the goblet exultingly!
He is breathing deep, he is gasping long,
As he clings to a rock—for his strength half fails.
"By Jove, he has got it!" yelled forth the throng,
"He lives! he is safe!" But he pants, he pales!
The Grand Old Diver the goblet grips!
Will he live to lift it wine-brimmed to his lips?
* * * * *
"SUNT LACHRYMÆ RERUM—NOS ET MUTAMUR IN ILLIS!"
Old Adonis (gazing at his bust, which was done in the early Fifties). "Ah! it never did me justice! and it gets less and less like me every day!"