PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Vol. 103.
November 26, 1892.
LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS.
No. XVII.—TO FAILURE.
A Philosopher has deigned to address to me a letter. "Sir,"writes my venerable correspondent, "I have been reading your openletters to Abstractions with some interest. You will, however, perhapspermit me to observe that amongst those to whom you havewritten are not a few who have no right whatever to be numberedamongst Abstractions. Laziness, for instance, and Crookedness, andIrritation—not to mention others—how is it possible to say that theseare Abstractions? They are concrete qualities and nothing else.Forgive me for making this correction, and believe me yours, &c. APlatonist."—To which I merely reply, with all possible respect,"Stuff and nonsense!" I know my letters have reached those towhom they were addressed, no single one has come back through theDead-letter Office, and that is enough for me. Besides, there arethousands of Abstractions that the mind of "APlatonist" has never conceived. Somewhere Iknow, there is an abstract Boot, a perfect andideal combination of all the qualities that everwere or will be connected with boots, a grandexemplar to which all material boots, more or less,nearly approach; and by their likeness to whichthey are recognised as boots by all who in a previousexistence have seen the ideal Boot. Sandals,mocassins, butcher-boots, jack-boots, these are butemanations from the great original. Similarly,there must be an abstract Dog, to the likenessof which, in one respect or another, both theYorkshire Terrier and the St. Bernard conform.So much then for "A Platonist." And now to the matter in hand.
My dear Failure, there exists amongst us, as,indeed, there has always existed, an innumerablebody of those upon whom you have cast yourmelancholy blight. Amongst their friends andacquaintances they are known by the name youyourself bear. They are the great army of failures.But there must be no mistake. Because a manhas had high aspirations, has tried with all theenergy of his body and soul to realise them, andhas, in the end, fallen short of his exalted aim,he is not, therefore, to be called a failure.Moses, I may remind you, was suffered only tolook upon the Promised Land from a mountain-top.Patriots without number—Kossuth shall bemy example—have fought and bled, and havebeen thrust into exile, only to see their objectsgained by others in the end. But the finaltriumph was theirs surely almost as much as ifthey themselves had gained it. On the otherhand there are those who march from disappointmentto disappointment, but remain serenelyunconscious of it all the time. These are notgenuine failures. There is Charsley, for instance,journalist, dramatist, novelist—Heaven knowswhat besides. His plays have run, on an average,about six nights; his books, published mostly athis own expense, are a drug in the market; butthe little creature is as vain, as proud, and, itmust be added, as contented, as though Fame had set him, with ablast of her golden trumpet, amongst the mighty Immortals. Whatlot can be happier than his? Secure in his impregnable egotism,ramparted about with mighty walls of conceit, he bids defiance toattack, and lives an enviable life