Nothing strikes one more, in the race of life, than to see
how many give out in the first half of the course. "Commencement day"
always reminds me of the start for the "Derby," when the beautiful
high-bred three-year olds of the season are brought up for trial. That
day is the start, and life is the race. Here we are at Cambridge, and a
class is just "graduating." Poor Harry! he was to have been there too,
but he has paid forfeit; step out here into the grass back of the
church; ah! there it is:--
"HUNC LAPIDEM POSUERUNT SOCII MOERENTES."
But this is the start, and here they are,--coats bright as silk, and
manes as smooth as _eau lustrale_ can make them. Some of the best of the
colts are pranced round, a few minutes each, to show their paces. What
is that old gentleman crying about? and the old lady by him, and the
three girls, all covering their eyes for? Oh, that is _their_ colt that
has just been trotted up on the stage. Do they really think those little
thin legs can do anything in such a slashing sweepstakes as is coming
off in these next forty years? Oh, this terrible gift of second-sight
that comes to some of us when we begin to look through the silvered
rings of the _arcus senilis_!
_Ten years gone_.
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