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 disadvantages 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
