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Page 1
Then, again, there was JOHNNIE TRUEBRIDGE. I do not mean to liken him
to CHARSLEY, for no more unselfish and kind-hearted being than JOHNNIE
ever breathed. But was there ever a stone that rolled more constantly
and gathered less moss? Yet no stroke could subdue his inconquerable
cheerfulness. Time after time he got his head above the waters;
time after time, some malignant emissary of fate sent him bubbling
and gasping down into the depths. He was up again in a moment,
striving, battling, buffeting. Nothing could make JOHNNIE despair, no
disappointment could warp the simple straightforward sincerity, the
loyal and almost childlike honesty of his nature. And if here and
there, for a short time, fortune seemed to shine upon him, you may be
sure that there was no single friend whom he did not call upon to bask
with him in these fleeting rays. And what a glorious laugh he had; not
a loud guffaw that splits your tympanum and crushes merriment flat,
but an irrepressible, helpless, irresistible infectious laugh, in
which his whole body became involved. I have seen a whole roomful of
strangers rolling on their chairs without in the least knowing why,
while JOHNNIE, with his head thrown back, his jolly face puckered into
a thousand wrinkles of hearty delight, and his hands pressed to his
sides, was shouting with laughter at some joke made, as most of his
jokes were, at his own expense.
It was during one of his brief intervals of prosperity, at a meet
of the Ditchington Stag-hounds that I first met JOHNNIE. He was
beautifully got up. His top-hat shone scarcely less brilliantly than
his rosy cheeks, his collar was of the stiffest, his white tie was
folded and pinned with a beautiful accuracy, his black coat fitted
him like a glove, his leather-breeches were smooth and speckless, and
his champagne-coloured tops fitted his sturdy little legs as if they
had been born with him. He was mounted on an enormous chestnut-horse,
which Anak might have controlled, but which was far above the power
and weight of JOHNNIE, plucky and determined though he was. Shortly
after the beginning of the run, while the hounds were checked, I
noticed a strange, hatless, dishevelled figure, riding furiously round
and round a field. It was JOHNNIE, whose horse was bolting with him,
but who was just able to guide it sufficiently to keep it going in
a circle instead of taking him far over hill and dale. We managed to
stop him, and I shall never forget how he laughed at his own disasters
while he was picking up his crop and replacing his hat on his head.
Not long afterwards, I saw our little Mazeppa crashing, horse and all,
into the branches of a tree, but in spite of a black eye and a deep
cut on his cheek, he finished the run--fortunately for him a very
fast and long one--with imperturbable pluck and with no further
misadventure. "Nasty cut that," I said to him as we trained back
together, "you'd better get it properly looked to in town." "Pooh,"
said JOHNNIE, "it's a mere scratch. Did you see the brute take me into
the tree? By Jove, it must have been a comic sight!" and with that he
set off again on another burst of inextinguishable laughter.
About a week after this, the usual crash came. A relative of JOHNNIE
was in difficulties. JOHNNIE, with his wonted chivalry, came to his
help with the few thousands that he had lately put by, and, in a day
or two, he was on his beam-ends once more. And so the story went on.
Money slipped through his fingers like water--prosperity tweaked
him by the nose, and fled from him, whilst friends, not a whit more
deserving, amassed fortunes, and became sleek. But he was never
daunted. With inexhaustible courage and resource, he set to work again
to rebuild his shattered edifice, confident that luck would, some day,
stay with him for good. But it never did. At last he threw in his lot
with a band of adventurers, who proposed to plant the British flag in
some hitherto unexplored regions of South or Central Africa. I dined
with JOHNNIE the evening before he left England. He was in the highest
spirits. His talk was of rich farms, of immense gold-mines. He was
off to make his pile, and would then come home, buy an estate in the
country--he had one in his eye--and live a life of sport, surrounded
by all the comforts, and by all his friends. And so we parted, never
to meet again. He was lost while making his way back to the coast with
a small party, and no trace of him has ever since been discovered.
But to his friends he has left a memory and an example of invincible
courage, and unceasing cheerfulness in the face of misfortune, of
constant helpfulness, and unflinching staunchness. Can it be said that
such a man was a failure? I don't think so. I must write again. In the
meantime I remain, as usual,
D.R.
* * * * *
SIGNS OF THE SEASON.--"_Beauty's Daughters!_" These charming young
ladies are to be obtained for the small sum of one penny! as for this
trifling amount,--unless there is a seasonably extra charge,--you
can purchase the Christmas Number of the _Penny Illustrated_,
wherein Mr. CLEMENT SCOTT "our dear departed" (on tour round the
world--"globe-trotting"), leads off with some good verses. Will he be
chosen Laureate? He is away; and it is characteristic of a truly great
poet to be "absent." And the Editor, that undefeated story-teller,
tells one of his best stories in his best style, and gives us a
delightful picture of Miss ELSIE NORMAN. "Alas! she is another's!
she never can be mine!" as she is Somebody Elsie's. Success to your
Beauties, Mr. LATEY, or more correctly, Mr. EARLY-AND-LATEY, as you
bring out your Christmas Number a good six weeks before Christmas Day.
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