The Journal of a Disappointed Man

As for myself, some mirrors do me down pretty well, others depress me! I am bound to confess I am biassed in favour of the friendly mirror. I am not handsome, but I look interesting--I hope distinguished. My eyes are deep-set ... but my worst moments are when the barber combs my hair right down over my forehead, or when I see a really handsome man in Hyde Park. Such occasions direct my gaze reflexly, and doubt like a thief in the night forces the back door! To-day, M---- sent me dancing mad by suggesting that I copied R---- in my manner of speech and opinions. Now R---- has a damned pervasive way of conducting himself--for all the world as if he were a high official of the Foreign Office. I, on the contrary, am shy, self-conscious, easily overlooked, and this makes me writhe. As we are inseparable friends--everybody assumes that I am his tacky-lacky, a kind of appoggiatura to his big note. He, they suppose, is my guide, philosopher, and Great Maecenas--Oxford befriending the proletariat. The thought of it makes me sick--that any one should believe I imbibe his ideas, echo his conceits, and even ape his gestures and manner of voice. "Lost yourself?" inquired a despicable creature the other morning as I came out of R----'s room after finding him out. I could have shot him dead! ... As for ---- more than one person thinks that he alone is the brilliant author until at last he himself has got into the way of thinking it.