A man can't help being a fool, be he ever so old, and Sir George is a
greater ass at sixty-eight than he was when he first entered the army at
fifteen. He distinguished himself everywhere: his name is mentioned
with praise in a score of Gazettes: he is the man, in fact, whose padded
breast, twinkling over with innumerable decorations, has already been
introduced to the reader. It is difficult to say what virtues this
prosperous gentleman possesses. He never read a book in his life, and,
with his purple, old gouty fingers, still writes a schoolboy hand. He
has reached old age and grey hairs without being the least venerable. He
dresses like an outrageously young man to the present moment, and laces
and pads his old carcass as if he were still handsome George Tufto of
1800. He is selfish, brutal, passionate, and a glutton. It is curious
to mark him at table, and see him heaving in his waistband, his little
bloodshot eyes gloating over his meal. He swears considerably in his
talk, and tells filthy garrison stories after dinner. On account of his
rank and his services, people pay the bestarred and betitled old brute
a sort of reverence; and he looks down upon you and me, and exhibits
his contempt for us, with a stupid and artless candour which is quite
amusing to watch. Perhaps, had he been bred to another profession, he
would not have been the disreputable old creature he now is. But what
other? He was fit for none; too incorrigibly idle and dull for any trade
but this, in which he has distinguished himself publicly as a good and
gallant officer, and privately for riding races, drinking port, fighting
duels, and seducing women. He believes himself to be one of the most
honourable and deserving beings in the world. About Waterloo Place,
of afternoons, you may see him tottering in his varnished boots, and
leering under the bonnets of the women who pass by. When he dies of
apoplexy, THE TIMES will have a quarter of a column about his services
and battles--four lines of print will be wanted to describe his titles