I know that I have no wand, that I cannot conjure, that I cannot
draw the ears of men to listen to my words.
So, when I finally withdraw from further appeals to the public, as
I mean to do, I cannot pose as a Prospero who breaks his staff. I
am only a somewhat sturdy, highly nervous varlet in the sphere of
art, who has sought to wear the robe of the magician--and being
now disrobed, takes his place quietly where God appointed him, and
means to hold his tongue in future, since his proper function has
been shown him.
Thus it is with me. And I should not, my dear friend, have
inflicted so much of myself upon you, if I had not, unluckily, and
in gross miscalculation of my powers, connected your name with the
book which proves my incompetence.
Yes, the Master [Footnote: Dr. Jowett, Master of Balliol.] is
right: make as much of your life as you can: use it to the best
and noblest purpose: do not, when you are old and broken like me,
sit in the middle of the ruins of Carthage you have vainly
conquered, as I am doing now.
Now good bye. Keep any of my letters which seem to you worth
keeping. This will make me write better. I keep a great many of
yours. You will never lose a warm corner in the centre of the
heart of your friend
J. A. SYMONDS.
P.S. Live well. Live happy. Do not forget me. I like to think of
you in plenitude of life and activity. I should not be sorry for
you if you broke your neck in the hunting field. But, like the
Master, I want you to make sure of the young, powerful life you
have--before the inevitable, dolorous, long, dark night draws
nigh.
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