“Yes,” replied Kenelm, firmly; and then, beginning to philosophize, he added, “And it stands to reason; because if I beat a fellow unfairly, I don’t really beat him at all.”
“Excellent! But suppose that you and another boy go into examination upon Caesar’s Commentaries or the multiplication table, and the other boy is cleverer than you, but you have taken the trouble to learn the subject and he has not: should you say you beat him unfairly?”
Kenelm meditated a moment, and then said decidedly, “No.”
“That which applies to the use of your brains applies equally to the use of your fists. Do you comprehend me?”
“Yes, sir; I do now.”
“In the time of your namesake, Sir Kenelm Digby, gentlemen wore swords, and they learned how to use them, because, in case of quarrel, they had to fight with them. Nobody, at least in England, fights with swords now. It is a democratic age, and if you fight at all, you are reduced to fists; and if Kenelm Digby learned to fence, so Kenelm Chillingly must learn to box; and if a gentleman thrashes a drayman twice his size, who has not learned to box, it is not unfair; it is but an exemplification of the truth that knowledge is power. Come and take another lesson on boxing to-morrow.”
Kenelm remounted his pony and returned home. He found his father sauntering in the garden with a book in his hand. “Papa,” said Kenelm, “how does one gentleman write to another with whom he has a quarrel, and he don’t want to make it up, but he has something to say about the quarrel which it is fair the other gentleman should know?”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Well, just before I went to school I remember hearing you say that you had a quarrel with Lord Hautfort, and that he was an ass, and you would write and tell him so. When you wrote did you say, ‘You are an ass’? Is that the way one gentleman writes to another?”
“Upon my honour, Kenelm, you ask very odd questions. But you cannot learn too early this fact, that irony is to the high-bred what Billingsgate is to the vulgar; and when one gentleman thinks another gentleman an ass, he does not say it point-blank: he implies it in the politest terms he can invent. Lord Hautfort denies my right of free warren over a trout-stream that runs through his lands. I don’t care a rush about the trout-stream, but there is no doubt of my right to fish in it. He was an ass to raise the question; for, if he had not, I should not have exercised the right. As he did raise the question, I was obliged to catch his trout.”
“And you wrote a letter to him?”
“Yes.”
“How did you write, Papa? What did you say?”
“Something like this. ‘Sir Peter Chillingly presents his compliments to Lord Hautfort, and thinks it fair to his lordship to say that he has taken the best legal advice with regard to his rights of free warren; and trusts to be forgiven if he presumes to suggest that Lord Hautfort might do well to consult his own lawyer before he decides on disputing them.’”
“Thank you, Papa. I see.”
That evening Kenelm wrote the following letter:—
Mr. Chillingly presents his compliments to Mr. Butt, and thinks it fair to Mr. Butt to say that he is taking lessons in boxing; and trusts to be forgiven if he presumes to suggest that Mr. Butt might do well to take lessons himself before fighting with Mr. Chillingly next half.
“Papa,” said Kenelm the next morning, “I want to write to a schoolfellow whose name is Butt; he is the son of a lawyer who is called a serjeant. I don’t know where to direct to him.”
“That is easily ascertained,” said Sir Peter. “Serjeant Butt is an eminent man, and his address will be in the Court Guide.”
The address was found,—Bloomsbury Square; and Kenelm directed his letter accordingly. In due course he received this answer,—
You are an insolent little fool, and I’ll thrash you within an inch of your life.
After the receipt of that polite epistle, Kenelm Chillingly’s scruples vanished, and he took daily lessons in muscular Christianity.
Kenelm returned to school with a brow cleared from care, and three days after his return he wrote to the Reverend John,—
DEAR SIR,—I have licked Butt. Knowledge is power.
P. S.—Now that I have licked Butt, I have made it up with him.
From that time Kenelm prospered. Eulogistic letters from the illustrious head-master showered in upon Sir Peter. At the age of sixteen Kenelm Chillingly was the head of the school, and, quitting it finally, brought home the following letter from his Orbilius to Sir Peter, marked “confidential”:—
DEAR SIR PETER CHILLINGLY,—I have never felt more anxious for the future career of any of my pupils than I do for that of your son. He is so clever that, with ease to himself, he may become a great man. He is so peculiar that it is quite as likely that he may only make himself known to the world as a great oddity. That distinguished teacher Dr. Arnold said that the difference between one boy and another was not so much talent as energy. Your son has talent, has energy: yet he wants something for success in life; he wants the faculty of amalgamation. He is of a melancholic and therefore unsocial temperament. He will not act in concert with others. He is lovable enough: the other boys like him, especially the smaller ones, with whom he is a sort of hero; but he has not one intimate friend. So far as school learning is concerned, he might go to college at once, and with the certainty of distinction provided he chose to exert himself. But if I may venture to offer an advice, I should say employ the next two years in letting him see a little more of real life and acquire a due sense of its practical objects. Send him to a private tutor who is not a pedant, but a man of letters or a man of the world, and if in the metropolis so much the better. In a word, my young friend is unlike other people; and, with qualities that might do anything in life, I fear, unless you can get him to be like other people, that he will do nothing. Excuse the freedom with which I write, and ascribe it to the singular interest with which your son has inspired me. I have the honour to be, dear Sir Peter,
Upon the strength of this letter Sir Peter did not indeed summon another family council; for he did not consider that his three maiden sisters could offer any practical advice on the matter. And as to Mr. Gordon, that gentleman having gone to law on the great timber question, and having been signally beaten thereon, had informed Sir Peter that he disowned him as a cousin and despised him as a man; not exactly in those words,—more covertly, and therefore more stingingly. But Sir Peter invited Mr. Mivers for a week’s shooting, and requested the Reverend John to meet him.
Mr. Mivers arrived. The sixteen years that had elapsed since he was first introduced to the reader had made no perceptible change in his appearance. It was one of his maxims that in youth a man of the world should appear older than he is; and in middle age, and thence to his dying day, younger. And he announced one secret for attaining that art in these words: “Begin your wig early, thus you never become gray.”
Unlike most philosophers, Mivers made his practice conform to his precepts; and while in the prime of youth inaugurated a wig in a fashion that defied the flight of time, not curly and hyacinthine, but straight-haired and unassuming. He looked five-and-thirty from the day he put on that wig at the age of twenty-five. He looked five-and-thirty now at the age of fifty-one.
“I mean,” said he, “to remain thirty-five all my life. No better age to stick at. People may choose to say I am more, but I shall not own it. No one is bound to criminate himself.”
Mr.