preoccupied with new ideas and new personalities. Of course this is
a melancholy and disconcerting business, especially if one has been
more concerned with personal prominence than with the worth 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