Gain strength from strength. It is a first principle
of warfare to band undisciplined troops with tried
regiments, to shoulder recruits with veterans.
The horse-breaker will set the timid colt in harness
with the steady mare. Thus is stiffening and a
sense of security imparted to the weaker spirit; timidity
oozes and is burned by the steady flame of courage
that from the stronger emanates. In the heat
of that flame latent strength warms and kindles in
the weaker.
Gain strength from strength. Seek intercourse
with the minds that are above you; if not to be encountered,
they are to be purchased in books. Avoid communion
with the small minds below you and of your level.
No man, nor book, nor thing can be touched without
virtue passing thence into you. See to it that
who or what you touch gives you strength, not weakness;
uplifts, not debases. The aspiring athlete does
not seek to match his strength against inferiors.
These give him--easy victory. Contact with them
is for him effortless; they tend to draw him to their
plane. Rather, being wise, he shuns them to pit
his prowess against such as can give him best, from
whom he may learn, out of whom he will take virtue,
by whom he will be raised to all that is best in him.
Gain strength from strength. The attributes strength
and weakness are as infectious as the plague.
Make your bed so that you may lie with strength and
catch his affection.
I do not pretend that these are thoughts which influenced
the persons of my history. My unthinking George
and my simple Mary would care nothing for such things.
Sight of the enduring hills would evoke in my George
the uttered belief that they would be an infernal sweat
to climb; sound of the immense seas if in anger would
move my Mary to prayer for all those in peril on the
wave, if in lapping tranquillity to sentimental thoughts
of her George. But they had laughter and they
had love. Adversity can make little fight against
those lusty weapons.
And now we have an exquisite balcony scene and rare
midnight alarms for your delectation.
An Exquisite Balcony Scene; And Something About Sausages.
On that day when George left his Mary at the little
lodgings in Meath Street, Battersea, Bill Wyvern returned
to Paitley Hill after absence from home for a week
upon a visit.
His Margaret was his first thought upon his arrival.
Letters between the pair were, by the sharpness of
Mr. Marrapit’s eye, compelled to be exchanged
not through the post but by medium of a lovers’
postal box situate in the hole of a tree in that shrubbery
of Herons’ Holt where they were wont by stealth
to meet. Thus when Bill, upon this day of his
return, scaled the tremendous wall and groped among
the bushes, he saw the trysting bower innocent of
his love—then searched and found a letter.
