I have often been asked what I did to keep myself looking so young. My truthful answer always has been that, “Virtue is its own reward.” This theory invariably passed as sound in my case until it was knocked into a cocked hat by Travers. One unlucky day he removed the mask, and changed the current of public opinion against me on the much cherished subject of my perpetual bloom of youth.
It occurred in this way. Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Weekly had published a number of pictures of the active business men of New York, who were known in the community as self-made men, and mine was among them.
A few days after the appearance of my picture in this paper, I happened, one afternoon, on my way uptown, to drop into the Union Club, and as usual, went into the main room. It was full of members, largely composed of a scattering of Wall Street bankers and brokers.
Travers was present, and when he is on hand on such occasions, it always means laughter for the multitude at some one’s expense. In this instance it happened to be at mine.
As I entered the room, Travers said, in an audible voice: “Hallo, boys! here comes Clews, the self-made man.” Then, addressing himself to me, he said: “I s-s-say, Cl-Cl-Clews, as you are a s-s-self-made man, wh-wh-why the d-d-devil didn’t you p-put more h-h-hair on the top of your head?”
This story having gone the rounds, as it soon did, drew attention to my summer-appareled head, which before that time had enabled me to pass myself off as a youngster just striking out at the commencement of life. That stroke of Travers’ wit, however, has been the cause of consigning me ever since to the ranks of the old “fogies.” Now, everybody is convinced that my hair, now non est, had already come and gone, and that my head represents the work of ages.
This is another vivid instance illustrating the saying that “many a truth is spoken in jest.”
When Travers thus removed my mask of adolescence, it made me feel unhappy for some time, as it really transformed my entire identity, and deprived me of that luxury so dear to all the fair sex, and to many of my own, of sailing under false colors in reference to my age.
Still, as Travers is such a righteous, good fellow, I have had to forgive him, notwithstanding the gravity of the offense in having hurt the most tender part of my sensitive nature. So we can make up and become friends again, as I value the renewal of his friendship even at the cost of such a great personal sacrifice as the deprivation of my supposed youthfulness.
On the principle that misery loves company, and as Mr. Travers had brought misery to my lot by drawing public attention to my bare head, I found consolation, shortly afterwards, in a huge joke that the same facetious individual perpetrated upon another member of the Club, who happened to be one of New York’s most celebrated lawyers. This gentleman, it is well known, has been connected with some of the largest and most remunerative railroad cases in our courts for many years, and being considered a great authority in that branch of legal lore, he was accustomed to exact his own terms from his wealthy clients, which meant, in most instances, a very fat fee. This gentleman was standing on the side of the street opposite the Club one afternoon, while Travers was surrounded by a cluster of club men on the other side. “Look across the way, boys,” observed Travers, “th-th-there’s B-B-Barlow with his hands in his own p-p-pockets at last.”