LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2331, 22 September 1881, Page 4

LITERATURE.

LOVE IN DREAMLAND. [Abiidged from 11 Truth.”] 'Drunk again, you see,doctor.’ ‘Yes, drunk again ! The same old story. What ntxt ?' It was a pale young man in the thirties who spoke thus ; and there was an exceeding weariness in the tone of his voice and bearing. The groat physician who sat opposite to him nodded gravely. 4 Ah,’ continued the young man, in the same dreary manner as before, 4 1 just recollect something about it ! was picked np in the gutter by a policeman last night. My front teeth, I find, had been kicked down my throat, or out of it—at all events, thry were gone ; but I managed to make myself intelligible, and hiccoughed out that I lived hero. ?t wn a lie—l always tell lies at these times—but I was afraid to go home. Home. Home 1 I have no home—but to my brother’s house. Why was I afraid ? I was afraid because I had robbed him. I had stolon {his wife’s miniature and the coral necklace of his child to buy drink, I have spent the money for which I pawned them, and here I am again.’ He spoke without the smallest emotion, and then fixed his eyes doggedly upon the ground. Ho had naturally something of the student’s stoop, and now he bent so low that he looked tho very picture ef labjeot misery. The phyeician whom he addressed gazed at him meanwhile with intense compassion. Walter Clifford and Cecil Graham had been schoolfellows together at Harrow and fast friends at Oxford. Graham (tho doctor) after passing his examinations had taken his degree as a physician, and being a man of mnch sound sense and observation had rapidly risen to the first rank In hia profession. Clifford, who had gone through his academic career much more brilliantly, and had taken high honours, was a poor, degraded vagabond, a begging letter writer, a creature whom it was not safe to receive into one’s honse, lest he shonld steal something. Yet, in spite of all, there was a nameless dignity about the castaway, and it was hard to believe that one who in his calmer hours spoke and thought so nobly, shonld be so vile. The night before the conversation just recorded he had been brought senseless to Dr. Graham’s house, a shameful bundle of dirt and rags; but the doctor, being unmarried, and free to follow his instincts as a good Samaritan, had housed, fed, and clothed him anew. The same thing bad happened twenty times at least before, and Graham was wondering how and when such visits would end. Hia old schoolfellow was hale and strong ; he showed no signs of breaking or ill-health, His bad and useless life might be prolonged to extreme old age. As the doctor reasoned thus within himself, he felt greatly perplexed ; till at last he had a notion wbioh seemed to him so practical and easy that bis face brightened all over 4 Come, cheer up old fellow!’ he said kindly ; 4 I’ve got an idea. Go down and live with my aunt in Cornwall, She is a worthy soul, and makes capital tea, Yon used to like tea, I remember. You will do as yon like, eat excellent apple paddings, and help her to manage her bees and her cucumbers whenever you feel inclined. I have got a little estate down there, too, you know, wh'ch I inherited from my dear mother. Be my agent till something better turns up. I can’t afford to give yon more than a hundred a year, but you will, of course, live at free quarters, and there is really some good fishing. Promise me only not to tipple, and . Gome, is it a bargain ?’ The doctor stretched out his band and looked brightly on the human ruin before him, Clifford moved uneasily In his chair, but made no motion to take the dootor’a proffered hand. Presently, however he turned his head away, and began speaking in a musing manner, as though he talked to himoelf. * You all of' you fancy it is drink which is the root and origin of misehief in my case,’ he muttered ; 4 as a matter of fret, it is only a graft upon what is a deadlier, because a far more subtle and invisible malady. Since childhood I have been given to a habit of dreaming—of completely withdrawing myself from my surroundings, and retiring into a world of my own creation. What Coleridge required opium to effect, I could do without extraneous aid, for a time ; but I soon found out that stimulants would rouse my jaded imagination when it flagged.’ The doctor, who was not devoid of humor, here laid hia hand on Clifford’s arm, and said demurely—--4 My aunt has an old pony who has a habit of shying’at unconaidered trifles He is a wrong headed pony, and she will not hear of his being whipped. Whenever these fits come on yon, take her out for a drive, and your attention will be fully occupied For the rest, cold water shower baths, fresh fruit, indexing hooka—anything that will keep your mind occupied; and—well, If that won’t do —" birch your body well with stinging nettles.” It is a very ancient remedy, and I should think might answer as a mental diversion in your case. At all events forswear the bottle.’

• The bottle ? ’ answered Clifford sadly ; * how shall I convince yon that I do not care for it ? Up to yesterday even I had fought for some time pretty successfully against the dream demon, as you will call it, and had only drank moderately of wine at my brother’s table. It was the afternoon, that troublesome time towards four o’clock, when our vitality is said to be at the lowest —mine certainly is. I thought a glass of absinthe would revive me, but it then occurred to me that the absinthe would not give me the slightest pleasure or solace if I could not dream over it. If I had to think on the past and present after drinking it, it would only intensify my feelings, and make them more terrible, bo I did not drink, and turned my steps towards home, sorrowful and dejected. It was then that the enchanted castle rose before me in all its allurements. I was drawn, or went, if you will, towards its portals, and once I eater there my will la gone. Anything to stay in it a few minutes longer. That means drink. Anything to delay for a few seconds the return to actual life. That means drink. To resume : primary evil, dreaming. Graft upon it, drink. First, invariably, the drifting int> dreams ; secondly, the resort to stimulants. I wish yon to take cognisance of these facts, without which you are likely to go on a false scent in your attempts to help me,’ * Souse yourself, man,’replied the physician with affectionate earnestness j * your case is in your own bands Think of all the wise hold dear in life—of man’s esteem, of woman’s affection, and of the world’s honour. ’

* Supposing that I like my world better than yours Y replied the dreamer. * Who knows which is the better, the world of facts, or that of fancy ? Here, I am a shabby outcast ; the very children in yonr streets cry out on me. There, not royal Israel in his glory was arrayed with more magnificence than I. I feast off sumptuous fare served to me by Nubian maids on golden salvers. I drink rich wines from jewelled goblets, cooled with mountain snow My abodes are ivory palaces, built by pleasant waters, where the white cygnet woes the lily queen, and there I am_ made glad. My word is power. In my audience halls await ambassadors from subject nations. My laws give wealth and peace to millions, and when I ride abroad, attended by my cour* and ministers, my people crowd about my horses’ rei >,'to|kiss my feet, and shout with hea<tand voice, “God save the king." ’ ‘That way lies madness,’ remarked the doctor, gravely ? ‘we oallitdoxomania, ora morbid passion for vain glory. ’ « What would you give men in exchange for it V asked the dreamer, grimly ; ’chambers in Pump court or Lincoln’s Inn ; a Sunday dinner with my friendly editor or kind attorney, till I bad grown base enough to be knighted with some Cry huckster, made rich by cheating his fellow man ; or, were I steeped to the very lips in infamy, till I was made a junior baron in your falling House of Lords, a tool of party, the very essence of a rogue ?’

* Wake np, I say,’ replied the doctor, rather testily ; * wake np, and be a man.’ ‘No, thank yon,’ replied Clifford; ‘I would rather return to my slumbers. Lately, too, there has come into my dreams a vision of uuutterable loveliness. Her form Is all my soul has ever pictured of the beautiful ; her voice is what my oars have keenest sought in music ; her eyes are lodestars, and her Ups are sweeter than the honeycomb though shape, and voice and lips bo all of air. Good bye.’ * Yet stay,’ said Graham, anxiously, ‘or do not, at least, go empty handed. Take this, and when it ia gone, why come again * for auld lang syne.’ ’ The vagabond’s hand clutched almost fiercely at the coins held out to him. ‘Never fear,’ he said, with an absent laugh, 'you will see me again,' Then his spare bent figure went shambling away out of the house. •Poor devil!’ sighed the physician ; ‘I must not let him go; he is staggering straight to a madhouse. ’ And Graham seized his hat, but his servant met him In the doorway before he could pass out. * There are twelve patients, sir, in the waiting room,’ said the man mechanically, ‘ and here are three telegrams,’ The doctor put down his hat. He was vexed and angry with himself. Duty is a hard taskmaster. Hut could anything have been done for Walter Clifford ?