Like Topsy, perhaps it 'growed.'
Like the late Lord Beaconsfield on a famous occasion, 'on the side of
the angels.'
Like Brer Rabbit, 'To lie low and say nuffin.'
Like Oliver Twist, 'To ask for more.'
Like Sam Weller's knowledge of London, 'extensive and peculiar.'
Like Napoleon, a believer in 'the big battalions.'
Nor let us forget Pyrrhic victory, Parthian dart, and Homeric laughter;
quos deus vult and nil de mortuis; Sturm und Drang; masterly
inactivity, unctuous rectitude, mute inglorious Miltons, and damned
good-natured friends; the sword of Damocles, the thin edge of the
wedge, the long arm of coincidence, and the soul of goodness in things
evil; Hobson's choice, Frankenstein's monster, Macaulay's schoolboy,
Lord Burleigh's nod, Sir Boyle Roche's bird, Mahomed's coffin, and Davy
Jones's locker.
A melancholy catalogue, is it not? But it is less melancholy for you
who read it here, than for them whose existence depends on it, who draw
from it a desperate means of seeming to accomplish what is impossible.
And yet these are the men who shrank in horror from Lord Rosebery's
merciful idea. They ought to be saved despite themselves. Might not a
short Act of Parliament be passed, making all comment in daily
newspapers illegal? In a way, of course, it would be hard on the
commentators. Having lost the power of independent thought, having sunk
into a state of chronic dulness, apathy and insincerity, they could
hardly, be expected to succeed in any of the ordinary ways of life.
They could not compete with their fellow-creatures; no door but would
be bolted if they knocked on it. What would become of them? Probably
they would have to perish in what they would call 'what the late Lord
Goschen would have called "splendid isolation."' But such an end were
sweeter, I suggest to them, than the life they are leading.