OF AN ONLY CHUB 227 



You sometimes see in Regent Street and other 

 places where people congregate, the deck of the 

 Clacton Belle let us say, or the Paddock at Ascot, 

 you sometimes see in such places a man who causes 

 you to start and look more closely at him. Then 

 you perceive that it is not the present Emperor of 

 Germany, nor William Shakespeare, nor some 

 other person of features easy to be recognised. 

 You see that it is one of those people born alike 

 with an uncommon physiognomy and an incredible 

 nature, who seek by emphasising their natural dis- 

 advantages to draw to themselves the eyes of the 

 multitude. It is as unfortunate to be given a face 

 which resembles William Shakespeare's as to have 

 a port- wine mark. Each is a target for the stares 

 of those who pass one in the street, and that kind 

 of notice should be painful to a man. If by his 

 extraordinary energy and moderate abilities he has 

 won himself a place in the world's estimation 

 which renders his features familiar to the public, 

 he has perhaps a right to feel some satisfaction 

 when people's eyes fill with interest at his approach. 

 He has earned this doubtful delight. But if it 

 is merely his physical attributes which cause them 

 to gape and turn round and nearly get run over by 

 the Chelsea omnibus, I say that he has no title 

 whatever to congratulate himself. Let the stares 

 be complimentary or pitying or merely derisive, it 



