You are much misunderstood. For it is supposed that those who in this
world bear your stamp upon them are to be recognised without trouble
by the mere calculation of their years of life. No notion can be
further from the truth. Mere absence of wrinkles, the presence or
colour of the hair on the head, the elasticity of limbs, these do not
of themselves, I protest, testify to youthfulness. I knew a lad of
twenty, who, in the judgment of the world, was young. In mine he was
one of the hoariest as he was one of the least scrupulous of men. No
veteran that I ever met could have put him up to any trick, or added
any experience to his store. He seemed to have a marvellous and
intuitive experience of the ways of life, and of the tricks of men.
No shady society came amiss to him. He gambled, in his way, as coolly,
and with as careful a precision, as _Barry Lyndon_; he met the keen
frequenters of the betting-ring on equal terms, and contrived, amid
that vortex to keep his head above water. He had a faultless taste
in wine--he knew a good cigar by an instinct. It is hardly necessary
to add that, with all these accomplishments, he held and expressed
the meanest opinion of human nature in general. Not even Sir ROBERT
WALPOLE could have more cynically estimated the price at which men
might be bought. As for women, this precocious paragon despised them,
and women, as is their wont, repaid him by admiration, and, here
and there, by genuine affection. I shudder to think how he might
have developed in the course of years. It happened, however, that a
shipwreck--a form of disaster against which cynicism and precocity
afford no protection--removed him from the world before he had come of
age. Now, to call this infant young, would have been a mockery. To all
outward appearance, indeed, he was a boy, but his mind was that of a
selfish and used-up _roué_ of sixty, without illusions, and without
hope.
[Illustration]
Let me pass to a more pleasant subject, and one with which you,
my dear boy, are more closely connected. I refer to my old friend.
General VANGARD, the kindest and best-natured man that ever drew
half-pay. Seventy years have passed over his head, and turned his hair
to silver, but his heart remains pure gold without alloy. In vain do
his whiskers and moustache attempt to give a touch of fierceness to
his face. The kindly eyes smile it away in a moment. He stands six
feet and an inch, his back his broad, his step springy; he carries
his head erect on his massive shoulders with a leonine air of
good-humoured defiance. To hear him greet you, to feel his hand-shake,
is to get a lesson in geniality. I never knew a man who had so
whole-hearted a contempt for insincerity and affectation. It was
only the other day that I saw little TOM TITTERTON, of the Diplomatic
Service, introduced to him. TOM is a devil of a fellow in Society.
He warbles little songs of his own composition at afternoon teas,
he insinuates himself into the elderly affections of stony-hearted
dowagers, he can lead a _cotillon_ to perfection, and is universally
acknowledged as an authority on gloves and handkerchiefs. It was at a
shooting-party that he and the General met. The little fellow advanced
simpering, and raised a limp and dangling hand to about the height
of his eyes. The General had extended his in his usual bluff and
unceremonious manner. Naturally enough the hands failed to meet. A
puzzled look came over the General's face. In a moment, however,
he had grasped the situation, and TITTERTON's hand, and shaken the
latter with a ferocious heartiness. "OW!" screamed TOM. It was a short
exclamation, but a world of agony was concentrated into it. "The
old bear has spoilt my shooting for the day," said TITTERTON to me
afterwards, as he missed his tenth partridge. That very evening, I
remember, there was a great discussion in the smoking-room on the
subject of wrestling. One of the party, a burly youth of twenty-six,
boasted somewhat loudly of the tricks that a Cornishman had lately
taught him. For a long time the General sat silently puffing his
cigar, but at length the would-be wrestler said something that roused
him. "Would you mind showing me how that's done?" he said; "I seem to
remember something about it, but it was done differently in my time.
No doubt your notion's an improvement." Nothing loth the burly one
stood up. I don't quite know what happened. The General seemed to
stoop with outstretched hands and then raise himself with a spring as
he met his opponent. A large body hurtled through the air, and in a
moment the younger man was lying flat on the carpet amidst the shouts
of the company. "It's the old 'flying mare' my boy," said the General
to me, "a very useful dodge. I learnt it fifty years ago."
In the company of young men the General is at his very best. He knows
all their little weaknesses, and chaffs them with delightful point and
humour, though he would not, for all the world, give them pain. It
is a pleasant sight to see the old fellow with a party of his young
friends, poking sly fun at them, laughing with them, taking all their
jests in good part, and thoroughly enjoying himself. He can walk most
of them off their legs still, can row with them on the broad reaches
of the Thames, and keep his form with the best of them; he can hold
his gun straight at driven birds, and revel like a boy in a rattling
run to hounds across country. All the youngsters respect him by
instinct, and love the cheery old fellow, whose heart is as soft as
his muscles are hard. They talk to him as to an elder brother, come to
him for his advice, and, which is perhaps even more strange, like it,
and follow it. Withal, the General is the most modest of men. In his
youth he was a mighty man of war. It was only the other day that I
heard (not from his own lips, you may be sure) the thrilling stories
of his hand-to-hand conflict with two gigantic Russians in the fog of
Inkermann, and of his rescue of a wounded Sergeant at the attack in
the Redan. With women, old or young, the General uses an old-fashioned
and chivalrous courtesy, as far removed from latter-day smartness as
was BAYARD from BOULANGER. The younger ones adore him. They all seem
to be his nieces, for they all call him Uncle JOHN.
A year or two ago the General fell ill, and the doctors shook their
heads. It was touching to see the concern of all his young friends.
CHARLIE CHIRPER, a gay little butterfly of a fellow, who never seemed
to treat life as anything but a huge joke, became gloomy with anxiety.
Twice every day he called to make inquiries, and, as the bulletins
got worse, CHARLIE became visibly thinner. I saw him at the Club one
evening, sitting moodily in a corner. "What's up, CHARLIE?" I said
to him. "You look as if you'd been refused by an heiress." "The Old
General's worse to-day," said CHARLIE, simply. "They're very anxious
about him. No, dash it all!" he went on, "it's too bad. I can't bear
to think of it. Such an old ripper as the General! Why must they take
him? Why can't they take a useless chap like me, who never did anyone
any good?" And the unaccustomed tears came into the lad's eyes as he
turned his head away. But the old General battled through, and, thank
Heaven, I can still write of him in the present tense.
Yours as always, my dear boy, DIOGENES ROBINSON.
* * * * *
"ANECDOTAGE."
(_COMPANION VOLUME TO OTHER WORKS OF THE SAME KIND._)
A traveller in Italy during the middle ages knew a Chemist very well
indeed. One day a rather stylish Lady, with a shifty look about the
eyes, entered the shop and asked for some poison. "I cannot furnish
you. Madam, with what you require. I have quarrelled with the
undertaker." The Traveller subsequently ascertained that the name of
the lady was LUCREZIA BORGIA.
* * * * *
Just before the Battle of Waterloo, FOUCHÉ met BONAPARTE, who was then
in command of the French Army. He said, "You will find that, before
this campaign is over, I shall have on one foot a BLUCHER, and on
the other a WELLINGTON. It is fortunate for me I cannot find pairs
of both! This is a proof (if one is needed) of the EMPEROR's fear of
fate.
* * * * *
CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS was (as a lad) very fond of exploration. One day
he went over to America, and, arriving at his destination, christened
it Columbia. The land of the Yankees, even now, is occasionally known
by this appellation.
* * * * *
_Mr. Punch_ one day was invited to listen to Someone's Recollections
or Reminiscences. All went well for five minutes, when the
Autobiographist, looking up from his Autobiography, found that _Mr.
Punch_ was fast asleep. The Sage slumbered as the Representative of
the Public.
* * * * *
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