your only opportunity; while the eye can still turn towards you with moist, timid entreaty, freeze it with an icy unanswering gaze; while the ear, that delicate messenger to the inmost sanctuary of the soul, can still take in the tones of kindness, put it off with hard civility, or sneering compliment, or envious affectation of indifference; while the creative brain can still throb with the sense of injustice, with the yearning for brotherly recognition—­make haste—­oppress it with your ill-considered judgements, your trivial comparisons, your careless misrepresentations.  The heart will by and by be still—­“ubi saeva indignatio ulterius cor lacerare nequit”; the eye will cease to entreat; the ear will be deaf; the brain will have ceased from all wants as well as from all work.  Then your charitable speeches may find vent; then you may remember and pity the toil and the struggle and the failure; then you may give due honour to the work achieved; then you may find extenuation for errors, and may consent to bury them.

That is a trivial schoolboy text; why do I dwell on it?  It has little reference to me, for I shall leave no works behind me for men to honour.  I have no near relatives who will make up, by weeping over my grave, for the wounds they inflicted on me when I was among them.  It is only the story of my life that will perhaps win a little more sympathy from strangers when I am dead, than I ever believed it would obtain from my friends while I was living.

My childhood perhaps seems happier to me than it really was, by contrast with all the after-years.  For then the curtain of the future was as impenetrable to me as to other children:  I had all their delight in the present hour, their sweet indefinite hopes for the morrow; and I had a tender mother:  even now, after the dreary lapse of long years, a slight trace of sensation accompanies the remembrance of her caress as she held me on her knee—­her arms round my little body, her cheek pressed on mine.  I had a complaint of the eyes that made me blind for a little while, and she kept me on her knee from morning till night.  That unequalled love soon vanished out of my life, and even to my childish consciousness it was as if that life had become more chill I rode my little white pony with the groom by my side as before, but there were no loving eyes looking at me as I mounted, no glad arms opened to me when I came back.  Perhaps I missed my mother’s love more than most children of seven or eight would have done, to whom the other pleasures of life remained as before; for I was certainly a very sensitive child.  I remember still the mingled trepidation and delicious excitement with which I was affected by the tramping of the horses on the pavement in the echoing stables, by the loud resonance of the groom’s voices, by the booming bark of the dogs as my father’s carriage thundered under the archway of the courtyard, by the din of the gong as it gave notice of luncheon and dinner.  The measured tramp of soldiery which I sometimes heard—­for my father’s house lay near a county town where there were large barracks—­made me sob and tremble; and yet when they were gone past, I longed for them to come back again.