Every body else around about that time amounts to
little, and less, and nothing at all. What's the "old man"--your father,
at forty-five--but an old fogy who doesn't understand things at all?
Of course not; how could he be expected to? He didn't have the modern
advantages. He didn't go to school at five, the dancing academy at
seven; nor did he give stunning birthday parties at nine--not he. He
didn't wear Paris kid-gloves in the nursery, learn to swear at the
tailor at ten, smoke and "swell" at twelve, and flirt at Long Branch,
Newport, or Saratoga at thirteen. The truth is--you think so--the Old
Man was brought up "slow." And, to tell the truth, you had much rather
not be seen with him outside the house.
You are "one of the boys" now. I was, fifty years since. A long time
ago, that; but I've lived long enough to see and know that I was a great
fool then. You'll come to that, if you don't run to seed before. I see
now that what I then thought was smartness, was mere smoke; and it was
a great deal of smoke with the smallest quantity of fire. The people I
thought amounted to nothing, and whom I symbolized with a cipher, were
merely reflections of my own small, addled brain.
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