When Archias, the polemarch at Thebes, dissolved in wine and pleasure, received from his pontifical namesake at Athens a full and particular account by letter of the conspiracy of Pelopidas and the exiles, who were even then counting the minutes ere they struck the blow,—although the messenger expressly urged his excellency to read the missive forthwith, as the contents were of instant import, Archias only smiled a tipsy smile, and said, “Business to-morrow.” Then he put the unopened letter under the bolster of his couch, and resumed his colloquy with his host, Philidias, who was in the plot, and who was taking good care to ply the polemarch with wine. Business to-morrow. To-morrow as he purposed! Oh, never should sun that morrow see.
Si hodie non es paratus, quo modo cras eris? Cras est dies incertus: et qui scis si crastinum habebis? To-morrow, in this its prospective, procrastinating sense, is denounced by Mr. Sala, with all due asperity, as a wretched, cowardly, idiotic subterfuge and apology—a “suicidal delusion and pitfall.” Yes, to-morrow I will begin to learn Syro-Chaldaic (we overhear him saying): I will read the novel of the day to-day. To-morrow I will dine on a mutton-chop and a glass of water. To-day I will ask the chef at the club to send me up a pretty little dinner, not forgetting that irresistible choufleur au gratin, and bid the butler bring me that curious pommard with the iron-grey seal. To-morrow I will finish my magnum opus, my “Treatise on the Books of Job and Ecclesiastes in their relation to Human Wisdom and Knowledge.” To-day flippant rubbish or frothy egotism shall flow from my pen. To-morrow I will pay my tailor. To-day I will order a new coat. In fine: “To-morrow I will atone for the wrong, and pray for strength to continue in the right. To-day I will follow my devices, and listen to the promptings of the world, the flesh, and the devil. To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow.”
For many years, the late Alfred de Vigny continued slowly amassing poetical materials, though publishing nothing, and murmuring always, like André Chenier,—
“Rien n’est fait aujourd’hui, tout sera fait demain.”
The morrow has come, wrote the Journal des Débats, in recording his death, and his artist hands are cold in the grave.
Says the Cordelier to the condemned Thief in Mat Prior’s derry-down ballad,—
“Courage, friend; to-day is your period of sorrow;
And things will go better, believe me, to-morrow.”
But what says the Thief in reply?
“To-morrow? our hero replied in a fright: