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 open letters to Abstractions with some interest.  You will, however, perhaps permit me to observe that amongst those to whom you have written are not a few who have no right whatever to be numbered amongst Abstractions.  Laziness, for instance, and Crookedness, and Irritation—­not to mention others—­how is it possible to say that these are Abstractions?  They are concrete qualities and nothing else.  Forgive me for making this correction, and believe me yours, &c.  A Platonist.”—­To which I merely reply, with all possible respect, “Stuff and nonsense!” I know my letters have reached those to whom they were addressed, no single one has come back through the Dead-letter Office, and that is enough for me.  Besides, there are thousands of Abstractions that the mind of “A Platonist” has never conceived.  Somewhere I know, there is an abstract Boot, a perfect and ideal combination of all the qualities that ever were or will be connected with boots, a grand exemplar to which all material boots, more or less, nearly approach; and by their likeness to which they are recognised as boots by all who in a previous existence have seen the ideal Boot.  Sandals, mocassins, butcher-boots, jack-boots, these are but emanations from the great original.  Similarly, there must be an abstract Dog, to the likeness of which, in one respect or another, both the Yorkshire Terrier and the St. Bernard conform.  So much then for “A Platonist.”  And now to the matter in hand.

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My dear failure, there exists amongst us, as, indeed, there has always existed, an innumerable body of those upon whom you have cast your melancholy blight.  Amongst their friends and acquaintances they are known by the name you yourself bear.  They are the great army of failures.  But there must be no mistake.  Because a man has had high aspirations, has tried with all the energy of his body and soul to realise them, and has, 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 to look upon the Promised Land from a mountain-top.  Patriots without number—­Kossuth shall be my example—­have fought and bled, and have been thrust into exile, only to see their objects gained by others in the end.  But the final triumph was theirs surely almost as much as if they themselves had gained it.  On the other hand there are those who march from disappointment to disappointment, but remain serenely unconscious of it all the time.  These are not genuine failures.  There is CHARSLEY, for instance, journalist, dramatist, novelist—­Heaven knows what besides.  His plays have run, on an average, about six nights; his books, published mostly