When I state that my name is A. Bratley Chylde, I presume that I am
already sufficiently introduced.
My patronymic establishes my fashionable position. Chylde, the
distinguished monosyllable, is a card of admission everywhere,--
everywhere that is anywhere.
And my matronymic, Bratley, should have established my financial
position for life. It should have--allow me a vulgar term--"indorsed" me
with the tradesmen who have the honor to supply me with the glove, the
boot, the general habiliment, and all the requisites of an elegant
appearance upon the carpet or the _trottoir_.
But, alas! I am not so indorsed--pardon the mercantile aroma of the
word--by the name Bratley.
The late Mr. A. Bratley, my grandfather, was indeed one of those rude,
laborious, and serviceable persons whose office is to make money--or
perhaps I should say to accumulate the means of enjoyment--for the upper
classes of society.
But my father, the late Mr. Harold Chylde, had gentlemanly tastes.
How can I blame him? I have the same.
He loved to guide the rapid steed along the avenue.