BUBBLES.

New Zealand Illustrated Magazine, Volume 1, Issue 8, 1 May 1900, Page 578

BUBBLES.

By John Christfe

.^§PfHE man of mature years, bo lie Jllljl clergyman, soldier, merchant or H Pr lover, smiles when he considers the ' |4^J case of the small boy who applies himself to the business of bnbbleblowing with as much energy as the mature man, himself, might put into the work of saving a soul, circumventing an enemy, making a fortune, or winning a wife. And yet the case of the boy is not only one in which the child is father to the man, but in which the child's work is curiously identical with that of his senior. There is, indeed, nothing singular in the behaviour of the boy who, with an old pipe, a rusty basin, and some soap and water, finds happiness in filling the air with bubbles which may be very beautiful in shape and hue, but are still more certain to be very brief in duration. We all do it. The world is full of bubbles, and we are all bubble-blowers. Even the works of Homer, of the Hebrew seers and psalmists, of Shakespeare, and of other men with imperial minds and imaginations, great and glorious though these works be, are certain, some time, to melt like bubbles in the atmosphere of eternity. Yet how good and beautiful a thing it is for mankind to take pleasure in the fame and the works of such men. As it happens, though, every man is so intent upon blowing his own bubbles that he has little time to spend in studying or admiring those of the rest of the race, even of the Homers, the Shakespeares, Newtons and Darwins. This intentness and preoccupation on the part of ordinary persons appear to ensure the comparatively early oblivion of great things ; for men must devote themselves to their own affairs. Apparently, too, they have to do

this with a closeness which leaves them little ornoleisuiefcrthesympatheticcontemplation and comprehensive use of the works of godlike intellects— of the bubbles which, being made of divlnest thought, live beautifully and burst not within the visible atmosphere of time. Better social conditions might effect much change in this connection, for then, though people would still blow away at their own particular bubbles, they might do so with less personal conceit and absorption, and with more regard to the great things of the past and the present. Surely this is a desirable consummation. The persons concerned, and the communities of which they were members, would be gainers if young men and women in love, farmers, merchants, architects, doctors, Prime Ministers, ordinary politicians, artists, poets, priests, reformers, foundei's of new social systems, critics and journalists, were to realise that they were all blowers of bubbles, some of which would float in the air of time, comparatively for only a moment, an hour, or a day, while the most lasting must at last melt for ever into the impalpable ether of the ages. As a consequence of this sane self-consciousness, conceit might diminish and wisdom increase. Better bubbles, too, might be blown by all, and all find deeper delight in contemplating the more lasting of these exhalations of the mind of man, and in considering the faithfulness with which every bubble denotes the spiritual elements of which it is composed, and the depth and harmoniousness of the soul of which it is an emanation. Hence, let bubble-blowing prosper. Yet be it ever remembered that the pretentious bubble does not necessarily deserve the most

notice. The battles of a Napoleon make up a series of bubbles, which float a long while within the range of man's v ision, but probably not nearly so long, and assuredly with far less vitalising effect than many less pretentious exhalations of the human soul. For example, this saying of Plato's, as translated by Marcus Aurelius : He that is a man in good earnest must not bo so mean as to whine for life, and grasp intern perately at old age : let him leave this point to Providence. His duty is to consider how he may make the most of his life, and spend what there is to the best advantage. Or Milton's paraphrase in the eleventh book of Paradise Lost, of the same wise counsel : Nor love thy life, nor hate; but what thou livost Live well : how long, or short, permit to Heaven. Or Allan Ramsay's Doric setting of the sentiment : Let fowk bode weel, and strive to do their best : Nae mair's required ; let Heaven milk oot the rest. Or this declaration by Marcus Aurelius himself: There is nothing properly good for a man but what promotes the virtues of justice, temperance, fortitude, and independence, nor anything bad for him, but that which carries him off to the contrary vices. Or this saying of Francis Bacon's : Ever a nation prosperetb. whose wealth is most evenly divided. Or the same philosopher's description of the wise man's happy and gracious flexibility : The perfectest man is the most susceptible of help, improvement, impression, and £ilteration ; and not only in his body, but in his mind and spirit ; and there again, not only in his appetite and affection, but in his wit and reason. Or a distich like this from Chadid of Bactrin, a Persian poet, of the ninth century : Were pain, like fire, to give out smoke, The world would for ever be darkened. Or this statement of Emerson's : Truth is the summit of being j justice, its application to affairs. Then turn from the intellectual to the emotional side of life, and consider Walter Savage Landor's Rose Ah/mer : Ah, what avails the kingly race, Ah, what the form divine ? What every virtue, every grace ? Kose Alynier, all were thine :

Rose Alymer, whom those wakeful oyes May woop, but novor see ; A night of memories and of sighs, I consecrate to theo. Or this from Bhartrilmri, an ancient liuliuu poet, concerning the pathetic vicissitude «-f the great passion as 0.,e of the vital forces of the planet : She of whom I always think cares not for mo. She again loves another man, who is devoted to another woman. For my sake still another woman livoa in hope. Woe to her, woo to him, and to the lovu ; and to that one and to me. Again, pass to another phase of human experience and capability, and take William Ernest Henley's splendid chant : Out of the night that covers mo, Black as tho pit from polo to polo, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced or cried aloud ; Under the bludgoonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Boyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the horror of tho shade ; And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid. It matters not how strait tho gato, How charged with punishment the scroll, I am the master of my fate ; I am the captain of my now). To obtain the true qualification for all this, turn to the arch comedian— the wise, great man who, being a humorist, puts everything in its right relation. He, too, known the value of heroism, loves it and lauds it, and places it in its noblest light. Touching the master chord of national pride and patriotism, he caii make his I'hilip the Bastard declare : This England never did, nor nevor shall Lie at tho proud foot of a conqueror. Come tho three corners of the world in arms. And we shall shock them. Naught shall limko us rue, If England to herself do rest but truo. He can be wiser, too, than anybody else, and say through John of Gaunt: All places that tho eye of heaven visits Are to the wise man ports and happy havens : Teach thy necessity to reason thus ; There is no virtue like necessity. Into the mouth of his warrior king, Henry the Fifth, he puts words that lire the blood like martial musk: or perfect wine :

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more ; Or close the wall up with our English deiid. In peace there's nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility ; But when the blast of war blows in our ears, They imitate the action of the tiger ; Stiffeu the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard favour'd rage. Now set the teeth and set the nostril wide, Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit To his full height. On, on, you noblest English : Dishonour not your mothers ; now attest That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you. Be copy now to men of grosser blood, And teach them how to war. And you, good yeomen, Whose limbs were made in England, show us here The mottle of your pasture ; let us swear That you are worth your breeding ; which I doubt uot; For there is nono of you so mean and base, That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. I sco you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game's afoot : Follow your spirit. And yet, with all this, and more to the same high purpose, calculated to make men strike the stars with their sublime heads, he more than anyone else, can keep things human in the right balance by showing us that, however heroical we may be, we are yet of the earth, earthy. In the last act of Much Ado About Nothing, Leonato and Antonio come npon the scene and give us onoof the finest exhibitions of average human nature ever presented by man to man. Ant. If you go on thus, you will kill yourself; And 'tis not wisdom thus to second grief Against yourself. Leon. I pray thee, cease thy counsel, Which falls into mine ears as profitless As water in a sieve : give not me counsel : No.no; 'tis all mon's office to speak patience To those that wring under the load of sorrow, But no man's virtue nor sufficiency To be so moral when he shall endure The like himself. Therefore give me no counsel -. My griefs cry louder than advertisement. Ant. Therein do men from children nothing differ. Leoh. I pray thee, peace. I will be flesh and blood ; For there was never yet philosopher That could endure the toothache patiently. However they have writ the style of gods And made a push at chance and sufferance, Akt. Yet bend not all the harm upon yourself. Make those that do offend you suffer too. Leon. There thou speak'st reason : nay, I will do so.

These, iv their way, are all bubbles, but they are babbles that express what is wise, aud just, and tender, and heroic, or humourously earthy in the human spirit, and they are a thousand times more helpful to that spirit, and a thousand times more worthy of admiration than those blown by the vulgar life-destroying conqueror, the mere tunemaking rnoney-mougerer, the vote-catching politician, or the censorious writer who, in censuring, of tener exhibits lack of imagination than abundance of judgment. Still the lifebubbles of all men are of interest to the judicious tnind, for they show of what material the minds of the blowers are made. Thus regarded as bubbles, all the thoughts, efforts and works of men acquire a special significance. Indeed, men themselves, and all animate aud inanimate objects are seen to be merely the bubbles of nature. This thought was, perhaps, iv Shakespeare's mind when he wrote: The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve. And yet, were all creation to explode, bubblewise, the chemical essences would remain, and the whole vast fabric might re-ascend, Phoenix-like, from its elements. Wherefore, let us, after all, prize bubbles aud the philosophy thereof. Let each man go on blowing his own, provided he does not hinder his brother from doing likewise; and provided, further, that while being loyal to his own vocation, he does not plume himself upon it to the extent of being left without a wholesome human admiration for the bubbles blown by other men, That way lies egoistic conceit, which engenders narrowness and kills charity; and with the former and without the latter, what man's soul is worth a moment's purchase ? It is surely a bubble of which one may charitably enough observe that, in the interest of human nature, it cannot pass too soon into that influite void, within which even a Shakespeare himself must at last disappear — lako a bright exhalation in the evening, And no man see him more.