This afternoon I had taken up the fourth volume of Jerdan's
Autobiography,--wretched twaddle, though it records such constant and
apparently intimate intercourse with distinguished people,--and was
reading it, between asleep and awake, on the sofa, when Mr. Jerdan
himself was announced. I saw him, in company with Mr. Bennoch, nearly
three years ago, at Rock Park, and wondered then what there was in so
uncouth an individual to get him so freely into polished society. He now
looks rougher than ever,--time-worn, but not reverend; a thatch of gray
hair on his head; an imperfect set of false teeth; a careless apparel,
checked trousers, and a stick, for he had walked a mile or two from his
own dwelling.
I suspect--and long practice at the Consulate has made me keen-sighted--
that Mr. Jerdan contemplated some benefit from my purse; and, to the
extent of a sovereign or so, I would not mind contributing to his
comfort. He spoke of a secret purpose of Mr. ------ and himself to
obtain me a degree or diploma in some Literary Institution,--what one I
know not, and did not ask; but the honor cannot be a high one, if this
poor old fellow can do aught towards it. I am afraid he is a very
disreputable senior, but certainly not the less to be pitied on that
account; and there was something very touching in his stiff and infirm
movement, as he resumed his stick and took leave, waving me a courteous
farewell, and turning upon me a smile, grim with age, as he went down the
steps.
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