The Indianapolis sentinel. [volume] (Indianapolis, Ind.) 1880-1904, 1885-05-31
A DEAD NOVELIST.
some Reflections TIE Death of tho
Author Of Ozark DAYS"

EOriginal
The death Of Hugh Conway, the novelist.
recently, at Monaco, is sharp reminder of the
mutability of all earthly pans AMI prospects.
Ii recalls the legend of tie wish an eel, who
bowers continually about mortals hearing
them express their most cherished desires.
lie grants their wish sooner or later. but
under conditions which "trip it of all JOY.
he humbles human beings by giving them
what they long for, and thereby proving the
illusiveness of all dreams of happiness.
Very little is known ct Hugh Conway.
whose name in private Efe was Frederick
John Fargus. He dyed, espire1, strove, and
in some measure achieveGs then died just as
life seemed to open before him. That much
is known. The ellipsis in: the short chapter
can be readily filed by the Imagination of
any one who knows how sseep and rugged is
the pathway that leads evea to the boundaries
OF success.
be was only thirty-se years old. had
had his share OF struggle, self-denial, priva-
ton and baffled hope, of course, since none
who strive strangers to these dragons
that crouch by the road 20 eminence Two
years ago Mr.. Fargus, who was an auctioneer
in Bristol, wrote Called Back" a story now
known to two or three hundred thousand
in Arrowsmiths Annual, and lay unnoticed
on the London book stalls Cor weeks, and per-
haps months. One day Henry Labouchere,
going on journey, picked it up to
beguile the tediousness of travel He read
it, was pleased with it. ard afterward spoke
of it in Truth as a very clever story. Then
all London wanted to real it, and did read
it. The Annual was som exhausted and
''Called Back" was brought out in a new form.
A hundred thousand copies were soon Sold
1t was republished in this country, and had
an enormous sale. 1t YVES dramatized and
had long run in London aud also in New
York.
As work Of art "Ca.Ied Rackn had it's
defects, but it also had what Offset the de-
fects-an indefinable charm 1t had forca
and feeling, the germ and life of all art.
One felt that its author had a strong per-
sonality. 1t depicted no new phase of life,
revealed no hidden things Itsimply grouped
some old, old figures OF fiction in more
striking way. There was flavor of nsvchn-
icgE my aDout It, and a surprise at the
end OF it. The characters which figured in
it, and whose fate had such potent charm
for so many thousands IF readers were: A
blind man who RECEIVERS his sight by the
usual surgical opera ti6n, beautiful mad
woman, two very daring and successful
villains, with faithful nurse and one or
two other ciphers in the shape of obscure
servitors. Yet the adventures and entangIe-
ments of these personages commanded the
public's warmest attention.
Anew months later Dark Days. appeared.
This had still greater success than its prede-
cessor. Its heroine was also beautiful mad
woman, and it had captivating surprise in
bo 81 OH r \
tragedy from the first to the last word. 1t
was serious to the point of depression, never
deviating into the slightest approach to the
comic or fippant. 1t was an intense story,
dramatically told in the first person. 1t had
not line of philosophy. Indeed, there was
not word in it unnecessary to the simple
telling of a powerful tale Its author had
acted upon the old idea that story should
simply be a story-nothing more, nothing
less. He demonstrated that it needed moth
ing but power and feeling to make it take
hold on its readers
These two books brought gold and honor
to their author, and opened the way for flu
ture achievements In the field he had long
hungered to enter. Then, just as he had
fairly begun to breathe the air of his dreams,
he died. Close attention to his work left
him exhausted. Seeking recreation and rest.
he went to Rome, and there probably con-
tracted the malaria which eliminated i'm
typhoid fever at Monaco, and ended his life
We, who see only that part of life which
begins and ends here, look upon sudden
looping off like this with sadness. 1t strikes
us with mournful perplexity Yet, it has
been said. that some time We shall know that
every lite is complete. The symmetry and
perfection of human endeavor are hidden
from our finite eyes, but they may be there.
1t cannot be that all human endeavor is
empty and unrewarded. Even what looks so
to us may elsewhere have its full fruition its
long day of JOY. The soul, that mysterious
star of our life, which ''cometh from afar.
turns it's back upon the prizes of the world
that it may win greater ones in better coun-
tries.
Death, the ancient mystery. hides many q
perfected dream beneath coffin lid In
deed, we may one day learn that he is kind
est to those whose eyes he closes while life is
still bright to them. They who pass out of
the contest before they are wounded are
doubtless the most blessed. Yet we are so
untaught in wisdom that we bestow upon
them pity and lamentations instead of felici-
tations We speak of the sadness of life
ended when its desires were beginning to be
realized We forget that all honors are
short lived, that fame is breath which an
adverse wind may diSsipate; that fair pros
poets may end in fierce storms; that joy may
come with the morning and sorrow intrude
at night; that hope, health happipass. ali
the sweet voiced angels who Wax with us
here from Time TO time, have wings and fly
away fitfully, whispering never word Of
then return.
Remembering how difficult 1t is to live, we
should lay flower upon the grave of Hugh
Conway with a smile. The pen dropped
from his hand when it had but begun to
show its power; yet. who shall dare to say
| he has lost by the changei Man is. indeed,
| of few days upon the earth, and those days
| are filled with what seem II imaginings,
| futile strivings:
"Here sits he, shaping wings to fly,
His heart forebodes q mystery;
He names the name eternity"
| GERTRIrnE C. Af3Rrs0N