Wellington is said to have chosen his officers by their noses and
chins. The standard for them in noses must have been rather high,
to judge by the portraits of the Duke, but no doubt he made
allowances. Anyhow, by this method he got the men he wanted. Some
people, however, may think that he would have done better to have
let the mouth be the deciding test. The lines of one's nose are
more or less arranged for one at birth. A baby, born with a snub
nose, would feel it hard that the decision that he would be no
use to Wellington should be come to so early. And even if he
arrived in the world with a Roman nose, he might smash it up in
childhood, and with it his chances of military fame. This, I
think you will agree with me, would be unfair.
Now the mouth is much more likely to be a true index of
character. A man may clench his teeth firmly or smile
disdainfully or sneer, or do a hundred things which will be
reflected in his mouth rather than in his nose or chin. It is
through the mouth and eyes that all emotions are expressed, and
in the mouth and eyes therefore that one would expect the marks
of such emotions to be left. I did read once of a man whose nose
quivered with rage, but it is not usual; I never heard of anyone
whose chin did anything. It would be absurd to expect it to.
But there arises now the objection that a man may conceal his
mouth, and by that his character, with a moustache. There arises,
too, the objection that a person whom you thought was a fool,
because he always went about with his mouth open, may only have
had a bad cold in the head. In fact the difficulties of telling
anyone's character by his face seem more insuperable every
moment. How, then, are we to tell whether we may safely trust a
man with our daughter, or our favourite golf club, or whatever we
hold most dear?
Fortunately a benefactor has stepped in at the right moment with
an article on the cigar-manner. Our gentleman has made the
discovery that you can tell a man's nature by the way he handles
his cigar, and he gives a dozen illustrations to explain his
theory. True, this leaves out of account the men who don't smoke
cigars; although, of course, you might sum them all up, with a
certain amount of justification, as foolish. But you do get, I am
assured, a very important index to the characters of smokers--
which is as much as to say of the people who really count.
I am not going to reveal all the clues to you now; partly because
I might be infringing the copyright of another, partly because I
have forgotten them. But the idea roughly is that if a man holds
his cigar between his finger and thumb, he is courageous and kind
to animals (or whatever it may be), and if he holds it between
his first and second fingers he is impulsive but yet considerate
to old ladies, and if he holds it upside down he is (besides
being an ass) jealous and self-assertive, and if he sticks a
knife into the stump so as to smoke it to the very end he is--
yes, you have guessed this one--he is mean. You see what a useful
thing a cigar may be.
I think now I am sorry that this theory has been given to the
world. Yes; I blame myself for giving it further publicity. In
the old days when we bought--or better, had presented to us--a
cigar, a doubt as to whether it was a good one was all that
troubled us. We bit one end and lit the other, and, the doubt
having been solved, proceeded tranquilly to enjoy ourselves. But
all this will be changed now. We shall be horribly self-
conscious. When we take our cigars from our mouths we shall feel
our neighbours' eyes rooted upon our hands, the while we try to
remember which of all the possible manipulations is the one which
represents virtue at its highest power. Speaking for myself, I
hold my cigar in a dozen different ways during an evening (though
never, of course, on the end of a knife), and I tremble to think
of the diabolically composite nature which the modern Wellingtons
of the table must attribute to me. In future I see that I must
concentrate on one method. If only I could remember the one which
shows me at my best!
But the tobacco test is not the only one. We may be told by the
way we close our hands; the tilt of a walking-stick may unmask
us. It is useless to model ourselves now on the strong, silent
man of the novel whose face is a shutter to hide his emotions.
This is a pity; yes, I am convinced now that it is a pity. If my
secret fault is cheque-forging I do not want it to be revealed to
the world by the angle of my hat; still less do I wish to
discover it in a friend whom I like or whom I can beat at
billiards.
How dull the world would be if we knew every acquaintance inside
out as soon as we had offered him our cigar-case. Suppose--I put
an extreme case to you--suppose a pleasant young bachelor who
admired our bowling showed himself by his shoe laces to be a
secret wife-beater. What could we do? Cut so unique a friend? Ah
no. Let us pray to remain in ignorance of the faults of those we
like. Let us pray it as sincerely as we pray that they shall
remain in ignorance of ours.