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    Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 105, September 2nd, 1893
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 105, September 2nd, 1893
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 105, September 2nd, 1893
    Ebook94 pages38 minutes

    Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 105, September 2nd, 1893

    By Various Various and F. C. (Francis Cowley) Burnand

    ()

    Read preview
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 27, 2013
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 105, September 2nd, 1893

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      Book preview

      Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 105, September 2nd, 1893 - Various Various

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 105,

      September 2nd, 1893, by Various

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

      Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 105, September 2nd, 1893

      Author: Various

      Editor: Sir Francis Burnand

      Release Date: September 28, 2011 [EBook #37553]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON ***

      Produced by Malcolm Farmer, Lesley Halamek, and the Online

      Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

      Punch, or the London Charivari

      Volume 105, September 2nd 1893

      edited by Sir Francis Burnand

      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

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