LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS. TO FAILURE EcoE iterum! Well, why not? So long as I do not exanimate you with my letters, I remain content. Besides, I have not yet fullydeveloped 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, would stay on at Cambridge. But he did. A few years after taking his aegree 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 changed, he became dishevelled, his face grew old and wrinkled, and gradually from all intercourse with friends. His whole appearance 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 and so forth; doubtless you remember the sonnet. Not there, how- fibre, unsuspected even by himself until he felt himself fatally ever, 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. A From the mist of memory rises a scene. 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. 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 outwitted; 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 whobut 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 To adapt Ko-Ko's celebrated song, he would say: 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, bad. 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 A boy may wear his hair in curls, or bear a pudding face, Of true boy in dress and manners they may leave him scarce a trace, Till they're girlish in demeanour, and effeminate in tone, 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 Minister would more attract his genius. Nobody supposed that he lately become engaged to a very illegible young man.' 99 And lo! as he stands on the uttermost swarm, There, there they clustered in grisly knot, Carled up into many a labyrinth 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 halfchoked, 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 Hang 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 "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!" As a swan's soft plumage white ? It is he, and lo! in his left hand high He is breathing deep, he is gasping long, 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! CURE-IOUS! SAW advertisement to-day, "Wanted, a few hopeless Drunkards," from a person who has a new Patent Remedy for Dipsomania. Fancy that I answer the description. Why should I not apply? Funds rather low just at present, and I might get Anti-Alcoholic Enthusiast. He asks us to the price of a few bottles of gin out of this a hoax or not. Shall go in person. "apply by letter." Better to see if it's all tremens. Scandalous! All of them had fiery serpents coming out of their boots, too, which they set at me directly I appeared. What the police are about in allowing such people at large I cannot understand. Obliged to defend myself against the serpents. I believe a shindy ensued, and I was accusedmost unjustly-of being intoxicated, whereas I had purposely abstained from taking more than half a bottle of neat Cognac that morning, in order to have my head quite clear for the interview. However, had a chat with the Enthusiast, who said he thought I would "do very well." Wants me to get a couple of "good testimonials" from my friends, saying that I have 66 really made a hopeless beast of myself for at least two years past." Rather awkward this, as most of my old chums refuse to see me now. Such is friendship! Testimonials secured at last. Had to create a slight disturbance outside the houses of my friends before I could get them to do what I wanted. When they did really understand what was expected, they gave me the highest character for inebriety. One says that he "has good reason for knowing that I have not been really sober for more than a day at a time for the last five years. The other "willingly certifies" that "a more absolutely besotted specimen of gin-soddened humanity it would be impossible to find. Sent the replies off to the Enthusiast, who returns me some of the Patent Remedy in a bottle, "to be taken as directed." but no money! What a swindle! Pawnbroker round the corner declines to advance a farthing on the Remedy. Nothing left but to try it! Have tried it! Awfully good stuff! Must have gin in it, I think. Leave off my nightly potation of spirits, and drink half the bottle instead. Refreshing sleep. Haven't had such a night for ages. Enthusiast calls to see how I am getting on. Immensely pleased. Leaves me another bottle of the Remedy, and-on my threatening to strike unless he gives me some money-half a sovereign. Get in more gExtraordinary thing has happened. Gin seems positively nasty to me now! Forced myself to drink a little. Deadly sick! There must be something very unwholesome about the Remedy. Pitch rest of it out of window. Glad to say that my taste for gin has come back. Was able to finish half a bottle at a sitting. Go round to Enthusiast's office, to tell him about dangerous effect of his alleged Remedy. He says "the sickness and the distaste for gin was just what he wanted to produce." The inhuman monster! Give him a little of my mind, and he retreats into an inner room, and his Clerk comes out to try and remove me from the premises. Curiously enough, the Clerk's front teeth all suddenly drop out and turn into green and red dragons, which writhe about the floor. Some sort of disturbance happens-believe Clerk tries to kill meforget all the rest. Later.-Appear to be in a Police cell! Why don't they shut up the keyhole to prevent those gamboge-coloured elephants Have just made my application. Four getting through? Why has the Warder They were in the waiting-room when I Secretary. Also shall make it hot for that other inebriates had also gone in person. fifteen heads? Shall complain to the Home arrived, in advanced stage of delirium Enthusiast when I get out. THE ADVENTURES OF PICKLOCK HOLES. (By Cunnin Toil.) No. IV. THE ESCAPE OF THE BULL-DOG. I THINK I have mentioned that the vast intellect of my friend HOLES took as great a delight in unravelling the petty complexities of some slight secret as in tracing back to its source the turbid torrent of a crime that had set all Europe ablaze. Nothing, in fact, was too small for this great man; he lived only to unravel; his days and nights were spent in deciphering criminal cryptograms. Many and many a time have I said to him, "HOLES, you ought to marry, and train up an offspring of detective marvels. It is a sin to allow such a genius as yours to remain unreproduced." But he only smiled at me in his calm, impassive, unmuscular, and unemotional manner, and put me off with some such phrase as, "I am wedded to my art," or, "Detection is my wife; she loves, honours, and obeys mequalities I could never find in a mate of flesh and blood." I merely mention these trifles in order to give my readers some further insight into the character of a remarkable man with whom it was my privilege to be associated on more than one occasion during those investigations of which the mere account has astonished innumerable Continents. During the early Summer of the year before last a matter of scientific research took me to Cambridge. It will be remembered that at that time an obscure disease had appeared in London, and had claimed many victims. Careful study had convinced me that this illness, the symptoms of which were sudden fear, followed by an inclination to run away, and ending in complete prostration, were due to the presence in the blood of what is now known as the Proctor Bacillus, so called on account of two white patches on its chest, which had all the appearance of the bands worn by the Proctor during the discharge of his unpleasant constabulary functions in the streets and purlieus of University towns. In order to carry on my investigations at the very fountainhead, as it were, I had accepted a long-standing invitation from my old friend Colonel the Reverend HENRY BAGNET, who not only commanded the Cambridge University Volunteers, but was, in addition, one of the most distinguished scholarly ornaments of the great College of St. Baldred's. On the evening to which my story relates we had dined together in the gorgeous mess-room which custom and the liberality of the University authorities have consecrated to the use of the gallant corps whose motto 64 "I beg your pardon, Colonel," said the new arrival, bringing his hand to his college cap with an awkward imitation of the military salute. "I am sorry to disturb the harmony of the evening, but have the Vice-Chancellor's orders to inform you that the largest and fiercest of our pack of bull-dogs has escaped from his kennel. I am to request you to send a detachment after him immediately. He was last heard barking on the Newmarket Road." In a moment all was confusion. Colonel BAGNET brandished an empty champagne bottle, and in a voice broken with emotion ordered the regiment to form in half-sections, an intricate manoeuvre, which was fortunately carried out without bloodshed. What might have happened next I know not. Everybody was dangerously excited, and it needed but a spark to kindle an explosion. Suddenly I heard a well-known voice behind me. One moment, Colonel," said PICKLOCK HOLES, for it was none other, though how he had obtained an entrance I have never discovered; you desire to find your lost canine assistant? I can help you, but first tell me why a soldier of your age and experience should insist on wearing a lamb's-wool undervest." The guests were speechless. Colonel BAGNET was blue with suppressed rage. "How now, Sirrah ?" he replied; "how dare you insinuate that- 99 "How now, Sirrah?" he replied; "how dare you insinuate that 66 Tush, Colonel BAGNET," said my wonderful friend, pointing to the furious warrior's mess - waistcoat; "it is impossible to deceive me. That stain of mint-sauce extending across your chest can be explained only on the hypothesis that you wear underclothing manufactured from lamb. That," he continued, smiling coldly at me, "must be obvious to the meanest capacity." For once in his life the Colonel had no retort handy. "I am at your orders," he said, shortly. "The man who can prove that I wear lamb's-wool when I am actually wearing silk is the man for my money." In another moment HOLES had organised the pursuit. "It would be as well," he remarked, "to have an accurate description of the animal we are in search of. He was Here the impatient Colonel interrupted. "A brindled bull, very deep in the chest, with two kinks in his tail; has lost one of his front teeth, and snores violently." "Quite right," said HOLES; "the description tallies." But, HOLES," I ventured to say, "this is most extraordinary. You, who have never been in Cambridge before, know all the details of the dog. It is wonderful." HOLES waved me off with as near an approach to impatience as I have ever seen him exhibit. Having of Quis jaculatur scarabæum?" has been borne triumphantly done this, he once more addressed the Colonel. in the van of many a review on the Downs of Brighton and "Your best plan," he said, "will be to scour the King's Parade. elsewhere. The countless delicacies appropriate to the season, You will not find him there. Next you must visit the Esquire the brilliant array of grey uniforms, the heavy gold plate which BEDELL, and thoroughly search his palace from basement to attic. loaded the oak side-board, the choice vintages of France and The dog will not be there, but the search will give you several Germany, all these had combined with the clank of swords, the valuable clues. You will then proceed to the University Library, jingle of spurs, the emphatic military words of command uttered by and in the fifth gallery, devoted to Chinese manuscripts, you will light-hearted undergraduates, and the delightful semi-military, find-" semi-clerical anecdotes of that old war-dog, Colonel BAGNET, to make up a memorable evening in the experience of a careworn medical practitioner who had left the best part of his health and his regulation overalls on the bloody battle-field of Tantia-Tee, in the Afghan jungle. 66 As HOLES uttered these words the mathematical moderator again entered. Sir," he said to the Colonel, "it was all a mistake. The dog is quite safe. He has never been out of his kennel." That," said HOLES, "is exactly what I was coming to. In the fifth gallery, devoted to Chinese manuscripts, you will find no readers. Hurrying on thence, and guiding your steps by the allpervasive odour of meat-fibrine biscuits, you will eventually arrive at the kennel, and find the dog." you are an Colonel BAGNET had just ordered the head mess-waiter to produce six more bottles of the famous "die-hard" port, laid down by his predecessor in the command during the great town and gown riots of 1870. In these terrible civic disturbances the University Volunteers, "Zounds! Mr. HOLES," said the admiring Colonel, in the midst as most men of middle age will remember, specially distinguished of the laugh that followed on HOLES's last words, themselves by the capture and immediate execution of the astounding fellow." And that is why, at the last Cambridge Comtruculent Mayor of Cambridge, who was the prime mover in the mencement, the degree of LL.D. honoris causâ was conferred on commotion. The wine was circulating freely, and conversation was PICKLOCK HOLES, together with a Fellowship at St. Baldred's, flowing with all the verve and abandon that mark the intercourse of worth £800 a year. But my friend is modesty itself. "It is not," undergraduates with dons. Just as I was congratulating the he said, "the honorary degree that I value half so much as the Colonel on the excellence of his port the door opened, and a man of consciousness that I did my duty, and helped a Colonel in the hour forbidding aspect, clothed in the heavy garments of a mathematical of bis need." And with these simple words Dr. PICKLOCK HOLES moderator, entered the mess-room. dismissed one of his finest achievements. HAUNTED! THE quarter where I linger, My square, is Fashion's acme; I'm conscious that the finger Of scorn may well attack me; Resides, in proper season; A nobleman's domestic ? His blinds are drawn sedately; That mansion mourns its master! His Lordship is at Como At least so folks are saying; His Lordship's Major-Domo Reproaches me for staying. But, prowling, like a Polar Bear, up and down the pavement Last eve, and grinding molar Teeth over forced enslavement, A miracle I noted, A "spook," deserving quires Revolved his Lordship's portal, Now, if his Major-Domo Nor one too fat, Nor little brat, small piccaninny. But, with it fixed upon your hair, When breezes blow your flapping dresses, You look, if possible, more fair; There's one beholder who confesses Sweet sailor hat, When gazing at those sweeter tresses. BALFOUR'S BOON. (By an admiring M.P.) AFTER hours of dullard, rasper, ranter. Tired us, in a sea of dulness drowning; When, hillo! here is PRINCE ARTHUR chaffing Told truth-and who can doubt him? Nothing spiteful, naught played to the His Lordship was at Como, And number six without him. His Lordship, I reflected, Can earthly trammels o'erstep, And, "astrally projected" From Como, reach his doorstep 'Twas very odd-I know that; But then the "spook "-deriding Must undertake to show that His Lordship was in hiding; gallery; Finished fun, ad unguem, poignant, polished. verily, selected," For the next edition of the Speaker. At gay chaff, but BALFOUR's a good second. |