and, and lived upon the fat of the land, and drank bumpers
of the best wine thereof. His title of Fortunate Youth was pretty
generally recognised. Being young, wealthy, good-looking, and fortunate,
the fashionable world took him by the hand and made him welcome.
And don't, my dear brethren, let us cry out too loudly against the
selfishness of the world for being kind to the young, handsome, and
fortunate, and frowning upon you and me, who may be, for argument's
sake, old, ugly, and the miserablest dogs under the sun. If I have a
right to choose my acquaintance, and--at the club, let us say prefer the
company of a lively, handsome, well-dressed, gentleman like young
man, who amuses me, to that of a slouching, ill-washed, misanthropic
H-murderer, a ceaselessly prating coxcomb, or what not; has not
society--the aggregate you and I--a right to the same choice? Harry was
liked because he was likeable; because he was rich, handsome, jovial,
well-born, well-bred, brave; because, with jolly topers, he liked a
jolly song and a bottle; because, with gentlemen sportsmen, he loved
any game that was a-foot or a-horseback; because, with ladies, he had a
modest blushing timidity which rendered the lad interesting; because,
to those humbler than himself in degree he was always magnificently
liberal, and anxious to spare annoyance. Our Virginian was very
grand, and high and mighty, to be sure; but, in those times, when the
distinction of ranks yet obtained, to be high and distant with his
inferiors, brought no unpopularity to a gentleman. Remember that, in
those days, the Secretary of State always knelt when he went to the king
with his despatches of a morning, and the Under-Secretary never dared to
sit down in his chief's presence. If I were Secretary of State (and such
there have been amongst men of letters since Addison's days) I should
not like to kneel when I went in to my audience with my despatch-bog. If
I were Under-Secretary, I should not like to have to stand, whilst the
Right Honourable Benjamin or the Right Honourable Sir Edward looked over
the papers. But there is a modus in rebus: there are certain lines
which must be drawn: and I am only half pleased for my part, when Bob
Bowstreet, whose connection with letters is through Policeman X and
Y, and Tom Garbage, who is an esteemed contributor to the Kennel
Miscellany, propose to join fellowship as brother literary men, slap me
on the back, and call me old boy, or by my Christia