his
is in a book which he wrote for the use of his own son, wherein he
probably thought it his duty to take the conceit out of his
heir-apparent; but if he ever allowed the young philosopher to get a
sight of the other book containing the two characters aforesaid, it may
be doubted whether he found him as "easily humbugged" afterwards.

Remember, reader, as I said before I claim to occupy neutral ground. If
I essay to defend youth from some injustice which it suffers at the
hands of partial judges, it is as an amateur advocate rather than an
accredited champion--for I am young no longer. If I am rash enough to
couch a lance against that venerable phantom, which, under the name of
Wisdom, hovers round grey hairs, I am but preparing a rod for my own
back--for I feel myself growing old. I admit it with a sigh; but the
sigh is not for the past only, but even more for the present. I mourn
not so much for that which Time has taken away, as for the insufficiency
of that which it brings instead. I would rejoice to be relieved from the
dominion of the hot follies of youth, if I could escape at the same time
the degrading yoke of the cooler vices of maturity. I do not find men
grow better as they grow older; wiser they may grow, but it is the
wisdom of the serpent. We scarce grow less sensual, less vain, less
eager after what we think pleasure; I would we continued as generous and
as warm. We gain the cunning to veil our passions, to regulate even our
vices according to the scale (and that no parsimonious one) which what
we call "society" allows; we lose the enthusiasm which in some degree
excused our follies, with the light-heartedness which made them
delightful. Few men among us are they who can look back upon the years
gone by, and not feel that, if these may be justly charged with folly,
the writing of the accusation that stands against their riper age is of
a graver sort.

It is melancholy, rather than amusing, to hear men of a certain age rail
against the faults and extravagance of their juniors. Angry that they
themselves are no longer young, they visit with a rod of iron such an
intolerable offence in others. Even newspapers have of late been
eloquent against the disgusting immoralities of breaking knockers and
bonneting policemen. The _Times_ turns censor upon such an
"ungentlemanly outrage;" the _Weekly Despatch_ has its propriety shocked
by such "freaks of the aristocracy;" and both, in their zeal to
reprobate offenc