For the present, at least, I shall "boil down" the matter contained in Leo Bergin's copious notes. In this I may do him an injustice, but I shall save myself much toil and mental worry.
Of Leo Bergin I shall speak well. He is dead--and by the world's philosophy, we should speak kindly of the dead. What a vile philosophy! Why not speak kindly of the living? Why do we taunt, and harpoon, and revile the erring soul, until it drops into senseless dust, and then, when our poisoned shafts no longer sting, feel constrained to "speak kindly of the dead!"
Oh! my brothers, be good to me while I am alive; you may encourage me, aid me, save me, and when I am dead, you have a standing invitation to my funeral, and your tongues will not grieve me.
But, goodbye, indolent reverie, goodbye dreamy speculation, goodbye ease and careless waste of precious hours, and welcome toil, for I am going to do penance, so welcome wearisome work, and welcome thou confused mass of spoiled and rumpled paper, for I long to release the winged words, held so sacredly in your perishable grasp.
'Tis a strange mystery, the power of words. Life is in them, and death. A word may send the crimson current hurrying to the cheek, hurrying with many meanings, or may turn it, cold and deadly, to the heart. And yet, a word is but a breath of passing air. This is pretty--I hope it is original, but I fear it is not--but here begins the diary, a full record of the doings and observations of Leo Bergin for two eventful years. Where is number one? Ah! here it is, a few little old crumpled sheets I had not seen. No. 1 plain enough. He began on these, and laid in his supply of paper later. I will quote _verbatim_ the first few pages, as they may furnish the key to the whole.
Well, then, this is the starting of that career, I hope an interesting one. It begins:--
"At sea, on board steamer _Irene_, "Off coast Spain, "October 5th, 1898.
"Terrible storm! The purser said we were in 'imminent danger.' Danger! how thrilling!--if a fellow were not so sick. Terrible storm! But, as compared with my tempestuous soul, the angry Mediterranean is still.
"I regret having met Sir Marmaduke. He did me a kindness; I served Folder well; Lucile, and I--a poor adventurer--became friends. _The Times_ wanted me to go to Armenia; I borrowed the money from young Folder in his father's absence; young Folder, it seems, took the money from the firm's safe; he fell into disgrace with his father, accused me, and--well, Folder and Sir Marmaduke and dear Lucile, all think me a thief. Let the old Mediterranean howl, let her mountainous waves plough the ground, until all the bones of all she has slain are washed up and cast on the shores of bloody Spain, and until the Pillars of Hercules are torn from their base, and I will laugh at raving Nature's petulant moods, and go down smiling with the wreckage to death and eternal night. But confound young Folder! and, but for Lucile, I would teach him a sense of proportion. Sir Marmaduke shall sometime know that he was not mistaken in me--and Lucile--well, maybe she'd rather think me a villain, than to know her brother was one."