The parent who has seen and reflected upon this, and yet educates his son as an artist, because it is a "fine thing" to be an artist; the parent who suffers his self-love to blind him to his child's want of a decided genius, and chooses to call an ordinary aptitude "genius," is with selfish vanity destroying that child's future hopes of success in life. Music, painting, and sculpture, are arts founded on instincts so strong, and so unmistakeable in their early manifestation that unless the child very early exhibits extraordinary faculty for the arts, the parent should take Nature's warning; and not endeavour by cultivation to raise that flower which only grows wild in the secret spots Nature herself selects.
CHAPTER IX.
CECIL SUCCUMBS.
Now why must I disturb a dream of bliss,
And bring cold sorrow 'twixt the wedded kiss?
How mar the fate of beauty, and disclose
The weeping days that with the morning rose.
LEIGH HUNT.—Rimini.
Ever since that night when Cecil had first entered a gambling-house, and lost the few pounds Frank had lent him, the image of the joyous winner huddling the notes and gold into his pocket pursued him like a phantom. He had resolved to play no more; he could not afford to lose; and his first venture had been so unfortunate, that he could not hope hazard would be in his favour. Men have extraordinary practical belief or disbelief in their own "luck." Ask a man if he seriously, theoretically believes in anything of the kind, and he will answer, No. Yet that very man puts his name down in a raffle, or cuts cards against an adversary, or stakes large sums on any game of chance, "because he always wins"—because "he is so lucky."
Cecil believed himself to be "unlucky." He was therefore averse to gambling. He had played, and—"it was so like his luck"—although the first time, yet he lost.
In spite of this conviction, the image of that fortunate winner with his file of notes and sovereigns, would force itself upon him. While he was painting—while he was reading—at his meals—during his walks—while dozing in bed—that figure stood before him crumpling the notes, calling joyously for the champagne, and sauntering down stairs in thorough self-content. In his imagination he followed that young man through a series of fortunate nights, during which he had amassed a large sum, with which he purchased a charming little house in the country, and foreswore the gaming-table for ever. It was a most coherent story, coherent as imagination loves to be.
The real story may be told in few words: three weeks after that prosperous night, the winner, utterly ruined, poisoned himself!
Had Cecil known the real story it might have made him pause; but he only knew what he had seen, and fancy supplied the rest.
Like a tempting fiend did this image of the winner pursue him—seductive, irritating; he tried to banish it by thinking of his constant ill-luck, but it would return, and his present discouragement made the temptation stronger. By art he could not live. The age was too material; the country too commercial. Why should he struggle and starve when the gaming-table offered its facile resources?