Punch, Or The London Charivari, VOL. 103, November 26, 1892 by Various

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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, Or The London Charivari, VOL. 103,
November 26, 1892, 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.net

Title: Punch, Or The London Charivari, VOL. 103, November 26, 1892

Author: Various

Editor: Francis Burnand

Release Date: June 3, 2005 [EBook #15973]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1


Produced by Malcolm Farmer, William Flis, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net



VOL. 103.

November 26, 1892.



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.


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 at his own
expense, are a drug in the market; but the little creature is as vain,
as proud, and, it must be added, as contented, as though Fame had set
him, with a blast of her golden trumpet, amongst the mighty Immortals.
What lot can be happier than his? Secure in his impregnable egotism,
ramparted about with mighty walls of conceit, he bids defiance to
attack, and lives an enviable life of self-centred pleasure.

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