orth and weight of
one's ideas; mortified vanity is a sore trial. I remember once meeting
an old author who, some thirty years before the date at which I met
him, had produced a book which attracted an extraordinary amount of
attention, though it has long since been forgotten. The old man had all
the airs of solemn greatness, and I have seldom seen a more rueful
spectacle than when a young and rising author was introduced to him,
and when it became obvious that the young man had not only never heard
of the old writer, but did not know the name of his book.

The question is what we can do to avoid falling under the dominion of
these uncanny fears and fancies, as we fall from middle age to age. A
dreary, dispirited, unhappy, peevish old man or old woman is a very
miserable spectacle; while, at the same time, generous, courteous,
patient, modest, tender old age is one of the most beautiful things in
the world. We may of course resolve not to carry our dreariness into
all circles, and if we find life a poor and dejected business, we can
determine that we will not enlarge upon the theme. But the worst of
discouragement is that it removes even the desire to play a part, or to
make the most and best of ourselves. Like Mrs. Gummidge in David
Copperfield, if we are reminded that other people have their troubles,
we are apt to reply that we feel them more. One does not desire that
people should unduly indulge themselves in self-dramatisation. There is
something very repugnant in an elderly person who is bent on proving
his importance and dignity, in laying claim to force and influence, in
affecting to play a large part in the world. But there is something
even more afflicting in the people who drop all decent pretence of
dignity, and pour the product of an acrid and disappointed spirit into
all conversations.

Age can establish itself very firmly in the hearts of its circle, if it
is kind, sympathetic, appreciative, ready to receive confidences,
willing to encourage the fitful despondencies of youth. But here again
we are met by the perennial difficulty as to how far we can force
ourselves to do things which we do not really want to do, and how far
again, if we succeed in forcing ourselves into action, we can give any
accent of sincerity and genuineness to our comments and questions.

In this particular matter, that of sympathy, a very little effort does
undoubtedly go a long way, because there are a great many people in the
w