THE APOLOGY OF AGE TO YOUTH.
[To TEE EDITOR OF THE " SPECTATOR:] Mn. " SPECTATOR,"—I agree with your correspondent " Sexa- genarian" in thinking the Macmillan article, on which your first comments on this subject were founded, very like the product of that century in which the delightful authority on morals and letters whose name you so worthily bear, reigned supreme,— which justifies, I hope, my adoption of the revered title in addressing you. There are one or two things, however, which I do not think that old gentleman (not so old a gentleman as to be at all in the position of the curmudgeon of Macmillan) has thought of, or perhaps even yourself,—perhaps because both have considered the subject from the fathers' point of view exclusively.
In the first place, I am obliged to repeat that the (mach elder) gentleman in Macmillan must have been a Curmudgeon. You forget that parents and children do not respectively leap into knowledge of each other when they are, generically, the young and the old,—the relationship is formed when they are children on the one hand, and middle-aged, even perhaps youngish, parents, on the other. Do you think if George, Eliza- beth, &c., had been in the habit of climbing upon their father's knees, and discoursing to him of everything in Heaven and earth, while they were still under the age of ten—and, there- fore, were in the state, not of antagonistic youth, but trustful childhood—they would have arrived at the painful con- dition described by the old gentleman, of lowering their voices, and breaking off their talk, and making conversa- tion for him when he appeared, so that he was driven back into his study and his books, and his position of parent incomings? I am of opinion that they would not : and that they never had climbed upon his knees, never been permitted to pull his beard, to demand his attention, in those days when all were young together. Afterwards, when they are old enough to give him the sympathy he requires, he, who never gave them the sympathy they required, has very little to find fault with,—he reaps only as he has sowed.
There is another point, however, very wisely and subtly defined by yourself in a late discussion of the subject of marriage, which has something also to do with this complaint —that is, the greater age at which sons and daughters remain at home—a condition which has a great effect upon mutual relationships. I have just seen an exceedingly happy party, consisting of father, mother, son, and daughter, in which the perfect mutual confidence, boundless faith of the young ones, boundless love and care of the elders, is a beautiful sight to see. The boy is nineteen, just done with Eton, wavering at the first turning-point of his life, uncertain what is going to be done with him, what he is going to do. He is not, perhaps, so frank in announcing his own opinion as his father would have been at his age ; but that is because he has no opinion in par- ticular on the subject, as is the fashion of this generation, and no idea that father, modified by mother, is not the first authority in the world. The girl who has no such decision to make, and whose submission is tempered by the consciousness that she is quite capable of turning father round her little finger, and that mother, if not quite so easily manipulated, is almost always on her side, is so entirely a part of both, that to talk even of sympathy is a supererogation. The family is one. But supposing, as is very possible, that ten years hence these two are still under the parental roof, it is inevitable that the situation should be somewhat changed. The young man of nearly thirty may be, especially if he has gone through any ups-and-downs of fortune, nearly as old as his father. The young woman will be more on her mother's standing than on that of a girl of seventeen. I do not myself think that the mutual intimacy established on the footing of so many years need suffer any disastrous change ;
but it will be different; it will be more the intimacy of equals than the old, absolute exchange of protection and guidance, with boundless confidence and trust. Other people's concerns will have stolen in between ; the personal share in life will be stronger ; the age of pupillage will be over for ever, and not to be recalled. This inevitable development is what we, who are parents, very often forget. We are aware that we have grown old ; we are not aware that our children have also become full grown, as old, so to speak, as ourselves. The old gentleman in the magazine talks as if he were seventy or so, and his children in the early twenties ; but no doubt they were really in the thirties, and naturally conducted themselves as such. The fact is, that they have then passed the boundaries of youth, and entered those of middle age, an entirely different matter. They are not in the phase of youth at all, but in possession of the inheritances, such as they are, of full life.
And then—I remember the half pathetic, half cheerful remark of a lady between whom and her (personally delight- full daughters there had been, from external circumstances— for she had spent all the time of their childhood in India separated from them—little of this natural sympathy. "As they marry," she said, "they come back to me." The new difficulties, tumults, experiences of their developed life, restored the bond. This may not be so in all cases, but it is in many. We see our parents, and recognise what they were in the light thrown by our children. But this, as Mr. Rudyard Kipling says, is another story.
This, however, is a different point of view altogether from that of the curmudgeon, or of the composed and indifferent "Sexagenarian," or even from your own. Mine is the mother's side, which, perhaps, is seldom the same. I recognise, indeed, with amusement that when my children have their friends to visit them, I am very much dropped out of the conversation. A civil remark or two falls to my share ; then they talk across 'me of their more interesting concerns ; then, perhaps, tend towards a corner, where they get their young heads together. Why not? it is mutual. When I have my old cronies about me, we sometimes say to the girls : "Don't you think it is a pity to lose this beautiful afternoon indoors ? Run away, my dears, and take a walk or have a game." Does this imply any want of sympathy ? I think not.
But the moral of all is that the young ones do not make their first acquaintance with us at sixty—themselves being twenty or so—which is implied in the whole argument. They form our acquaintance when we are still young ; when they admire and wonder at us, and live on our smiles. They are wonderful critics, as everybody knows ; being, by some mysterious process which I do not pretend to understand, much cleverer, more clear-sighted, better judges of everything that comes under their ken, while they are in the nursery than ever afterwards. If they have to hush and be quiet, not to disturb papa, as soon as he comes into the room, then is the seedtime of that wretched harvest which the old gentleman gathers in bitterness when he is driven back to his books. He has not cared for them except officially : how can they have learnt to treat him otherwise ? My own experience is that youth and age are the dearest of natural friends. You, I am aware, dear Mr. Spectator, take a less favourable view than I do of the operation of going downhill altogether ; but I have not the slightest belief, whatever you are pleased to say, that the sound of the young voices and their laughter fades and dies away at the opening of your study-
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