When I became its manager, Sir Ralph Cusack had been chairman of the railway for nearly a quarter of a century and was in his sixty-ninth year.  He attended daily in his office, devoting much time to the company’s affairs.  Although my position was not all I could have wished in the matter of that wide authority I coveted, and which, in my humble opinion, every railway manager should possess, it was in many respects very satisfactory, and every lot in life has its crumpled rose leaf.  Sir Ralph regarded me as an expert, which, notwithstanding all his long experience as chairman, he did not himself pretend to be, and railway experts he held in high esteem.  He supported me consistently, permitting no one but himself to interfere with anything I thought it right to do.  I did not, to be sure, always get my own way, but I accomplished much, and, what I cared for most, was able to do good work for the company.  Enthusiasm for one’s work is a splendid thing, and so is loyalty to one’s employers.  I make no boast of possessing these, for they were common property; they permeated the railway service and inspired the youngest clerk as well as his chief.  Sometimes in these latter days I imagine such things are changed, though I would like to think it is only an old man’s fancy, as it was in the case of the dear old Dubliner, who in his time had been a beaux and had reached his eightieth year.  One sunny forenoon when airing himself in a fashionable street of the city, he was met by another old crony, who accosted him with:—­

   “Well, old friend, how are you this morning?”

   “Oh, very well, thanks, quite well, only—­” he responded.

   “Only what?” asked his friend.

   “Only the pavements are harder and the girls are not so pretty as they
   used to be,” he replied with a whimsical look of regret in his face
   and a twinkle in his still bright eye.

Sir Ralph was a man of striking appearance, tall and imposing in figure.  His head was massive and fine.  His full beard was snowy white, as white as his abundant hair which was of a beautifully soft silky texture, with a sheen like satin.  His voice was low and at times not very distinct.  This was disappointing as his conversation was always interesting, not only for its intrinsic value, but also by reason of his charmingly varied and copious vocabulary, and his perfectly balanced phrases.  Naturally and without the least effort the aptest words sprang to his lips in perfect order and sequence.  His letters, too, were always exceedingly well expressed.  He wrote a neat, sloping, rather flowing and somewhat old-fashioned hand, which greatly resembled the writing of Beau Brummell, and, like the illustrious Beau’s, his numerals, which is rare nowadays, were very clearly and very beautifully formed.  The Prince of Beaux was fastidious in his penmanship as in everything else.  Sir Ralph’s half-yearly speeches to the shareholders, though delivered extempore, were