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face there was a light of knowledge that was new to it。 Of the
wounds of his body he was never healed； died of them gradually；
with clear…eyed resignation； of his wounded pride； we knew only
from his silence。 He returned to that city where he had lorded it
in his ambitious youth； lived there alone； seeing few； striving to
retrieve the irretrievable； at times still grappling with that
mortal frailty that had brought him down； still joying in his
friend's successes； his laugh still ready but with kindlier music；
and over all his thoughts the shadow of that unalterable law which
he had disavowed and which had brought him low。 Lastly； when his
bodily evils had quite disabled him； he lay a great while dying；
still without complaint； still finding interests； to his last step
gentle； urbane and with the will to smile。
The tale of this great failure is； to those who remained true to
him； the tale of a success。 In his youth he took thought for no
one but himself； when he came ashore again； his whole armada lost；
he seemed to think of none but others。 Such was his tenderness for
others； such his instinct of fine courtesy and pride； that of that
impure passion of remorse he never breathed a syllable； even regret
was rare with him； and pointed with a jest。 You would not have
dreamed； if you had known him then； that this was that great
failure； that beacon to young men； over whose fall a whole society
had hissed and pointed fingers。 Often have we gone to him； red…hot
with our own hopeful sorrows； railing on the rose…leaves in our
princely bed of life； and he would patiently give ear and wisely
counsel； and it was only upon some return of our own thoughts that
we were reminded what manner of man this was to whom we
disembosomed： a man； by his own fault； ruined； shut out of the
garden of his gifts； his whole city of hope both ploughed and
salted； silently awaiting the deliverer。 Then something took us by
the throat； and to see him there； so gentle； patient； brave and
pious； oppressed but not cast down； sorrow was so swallowed up in
admiration that we could not dare to pity him。 Even if the old
fault flashed out again； it but awoke our wonder that； in that lost
battle； he should have still the energy to fight。 He had gone to
ruin with a kind of kingly ABANDON； like one who condescended； but
once ruined； with the lights all out； he fought as for a kingdom。
Most men； finding themselves the authors of their own disgrace；
rail the louder against God or destiny。 Most men； when they
repent； oblige their friends to share the bitterness of that
repentance。 But he had held an inquest and passed sentence： MENE；
MENE； and condemned himself to smiling silence。 He had given
trouble enough； had earned misfortune amply； and foregone the right
to murmur。
Thus was our old comrade； like Samson； careless in his days of
strength； but on the coming of adversity； and when that strength
was gone that had betrayed him … 〃for our strength is weakness〃 …
he began to blossom and bring forth。 Well； now； he is out of the
fight： the burden that he bore thrown down before the great
deliverer。 We
〃In the vast cathedral leave him；
God accept him；
Christ receive him！〃
IV
If we go now and look on these innumerable epitaphs； the pathos and
the irony are strangely fled。 They do not stand merely to the
dead； these foolish monuments； they are pillars and legends set up
to glorify the difficult but not desperate life of man。 This
ground is hallowed by the heroes of defeat。
I see the indifferent pass before my friend's last resting…place；
pause； with a shrug of pity； marvelling that so rich an argosy had
sunk。 A pity； now that he is done with suffering； a pity most
uncalled for； and an ignorant wonder。 Before those who loved him；
his memory shines like a reproach； they honour him for silent
lessons； they cherish his example； and in what remains before them
of their toil； fear to be unworthy of the dead。 For this proud man
was one of those who prospered in the valley of humiliation； … of
whom Bunyan wrote that； 〃Though Christian had the hard hap to meet
in the valley with Apollyon； yet I must tell you； that in former
times men have met with angels here； have found pearls here； and
have in this place found the words of life。〃
CHAPTER IV。 A COLLEGE MAGAZINE
I
ALL through my boyhood and youth； I was known and pointed out for
the pattern of an idler； and yet I was always busy on my own
private end； which was to learn to write。 I kept always two books
in my pocket； one to read； one to write in。 As I walked； my mind
was busy fitting what I saw with appropriate words； when I sat by
the roadside； I would either read； or a pencil and a penny version…
book would be in my hand； to note down the features of the scene or
commemorate some halting stanzas。 Thus I lived with words。 And
what I thus wrote was for no ulterior use； it was written
consciously for practice。 It was not so much that I wished to be
an author （though I wished that too） as that I had vowed that I
would learn to write。 That was a proficiency that tempted me； and
I practised to acquire it； as men learn to whittle； in a wager with
myself。 Description was the principal field of my exercise； for to
any one with senses there is always something worth describing； and
town and country are but one continuous subject。 But I worked in
other ways also； often accompanied my walks with dramatic
dialogues； in which I played many parts； and often exercised myself
in writing down conversations from memory。
This was all excellent； no doubt； so were the diaries I sometimes
tried to keep； but always and very speedily discarded； finding them
a school of posturing and melancholy self…deception。 And yet this
was not the most efficient part of my training。 Good though it
was； it only taught me （so far as I have learned them at all） the
lower and less intellectual elements of the art； the choice of the
essential note and the right word： things that to a happier
constitution had perhaps come by nature。 And regarded as training；
it had one grave defect； for it set me no standard of achievement。
So that there was perhaps more profit； as there was certainly more
effort； in my secret labours at home。 Whenever I read a book or a
passage that particularly pleased me； in which a thing was said or
an effect rendered with propriety； in which there was either some
conspicuous force or some happy distinction in the style； I must
sit down at once and set myself to ape that quality。 I was
unsuccessful； and I knew it； and tried again； and was again
unsuccessful and always unsuccessful； but at least in these vain
bouts； I got some practice in rhythm； in harmony； in construction
and the co…ordination of parts。 I have thus played the sedulous
ape to Hazlitt； to Lamb； to Wordsworth； to Sir Thomas Browne； to
Defoe； to Hawthorne； to Montaigne； to Baudelaire and to Obermann。
I remember one of these monkey tricks； which was called THE VANITY
OF MORALS： it was to have had a second part； THE VANITY OF
KNOWLEDGE； and as I had neither morality nor scholarship； the names
were apt； but the second part was never attempted； and the first
part was written （which is my reason for recalling it； ghost…like；
from its ashes） no less than three times： first in the manner of
Hazlitt； second in the manner of Ruskin； who had cast on me a
passing spell； and third； in a laborious pasticcio of Sir Thomas
Browne。 So with my other works： CAIN； an epic； was （save the
mark！） an imitation of SORDELLO： ROBIN HOOD； a tale in verse； took
an eclectic middle course among the fields of Keats； Chaucer and
Morris： in MONMOUTH； a tragedy； I reclined on the bosom of Mr。
Swinburne； in my innumerable gouty…footed lyrics； I followed many
masters； in the first draft of THE KING'S PARDON； a tragedy； I was
on the trail of no lesser man than John Webster； in the second
draft of the same piece； with staggering versatility； I had shifted
my allegiance to Congreve； and of course conceived my fable in a
less serious vein … for it was not Congreve's verse； it was his
exquisite prose； that I admired and sought to copy。 Even at the
age of thirteen I had tried to do justice to the inhabitants of the
famous city of Peebles in the style of the BOOK OF SNOBS。 So I
might go on for ever； through all my abortive novels； and down to
my later plays； of which I think more tenderly； for they were not
only conceived at first under the bracing influence of old Dumas；
but have met with resurrection： one； strangely bettered by another
hand； came on the stage itself and was played by bodily actors； the
other； originally known as SEMIRAMIS： A TRAGEDY； I have observed on
bookstalls under the ALIAS of Prince