The question is what we can do to avoid falling under the dominion of these uncanny fears and fancies, as we fall from middle age to age.  A dreary, dispirited, unhappy, peevish old man or old woman is a very miserable spectacle; while, at the same time, generous, courteous, patient, modest, tender old age is one of the most beautiful things in the world.  We may of course resolve not to carry our dreariness into all circles, and if we find life a poor and dejected business, we can determine that we will not enlarge upon the theme.  But the worst of discouragement is that it removes even the desire to play a part, or to make the most and best of ourselves.  Like Mrs. Gummidge in David Copperfield, if we are reminded that other people have their troubles, we are apt to reply that we feel them more.  One does not desire that people should unduly indulge themselves in self-dramatisation.  There is something very repugnant in an elderly person who is bent on proving his importance and dignity, in laying claim to force and influence, in affecting to play a large part in the world.  But there is something even more afflicting in the people who drop all decent pretence of dignity, and pour the product of an acrid and disappointed spirit into all conversations.

Age can establish itself very firmly in the hearts of its circle, if it is kind, sympathetic, appreciative, ready to receive confidences, willing to encourage the fitful despondencies of youth.  But here again we are met by the perennial difficulty as to how far we can force ourselves to do things which we do not really want to do, and how far again, if we succeed in forcing ourselves into action, we can give any accent of sincerity and genuineness to our comments and questions.

In this particular matter, that of sympathy, a very little effort does undoubtedly go a long way, because there are a great many people in the world eagerly on the look out for any sign of sympathy, and not apt to scrutinise too closely the character of the sympathy offered.  And the best part of having once forced oneself to exhibit sympathy, at whatever cost of strain and effort, is that one is at least ashamed to withdraw it.

I remember a foolish woman who was very anxious to retain the hold upon the active world which she had once possessed.  She very seldom spoke of any subject but herself, her performances, her activities, the pressure of the claims which she was forced to try to satisfy.  I can recall her now, with her sanguine complexion, her high voice, her anxious and restless eye wandering in search of admiration.  “The day’s post!” she cried, “that is one of my worst trials—­so many duties to fulfil, so many requests for help, so many irresistible claims come before me in the pile of letters—­that high,” indicating about a foot and a half of linear measurement above the table.  “It is the same story every day—­a score of people bringing their little mugs of egotism to be filled at my pump of sympathy!”