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In
the
case
of
eldest
sons
,
this
problem
has
a
way
of
solving
itself
.
In
childhood
,
however
,
the
actual
heirship
is
apt
to
work
on
the
principle
of
the
“
Borough
-
English
”
of
our
happier
ancestors
,
and
in
most
cases
of
inheritance
it
is
the
youngest
that
succeeds
.
Where
the
“
res
”
is
“
angusta
,
”
and
the
weekly
books
are
simply
a
series
of
stiff
hurdles
at
each
of
which
in
succession
the
paternal
legs
falter
with
growing
suspicion
of
their
powers
to
clear
the
flight
,
it
is
in
the
affair
of
CLOTHES
that
the
right
of
succession
tells
,
and
“
the
hard
heir
strides
about
the
land
”
in
trousers
long
ago
framed
for
fraternal
limbs
—
frondes
novas
et
non
sua
poma
.
A
bitter
thing
indeed
!
Of
those
pretty
silken
threads
that
knit
humanity
together
,
high
and
low
,
past
and
present
,
none
is
tougher
,
more
pervading
,
or
more
iridescent
,
than
the
honest
,
simple
pleasure
of
new
clothes
.
It
tugs
at
the
man
as
it
tugs
at
the
woman
;
the
smirk
of
the
well
-
fitted
prince
is
no
different
from
the
smirk
of
the
Sunday
-
clad
peasant
;
and
the
veins
of
the
elders
tingle
with
the
same
thrill
that
sets
their
fresh
-
frocked
grandchildren
skipping
.
Never
trust
people
who
pretend
that
they
have
no
joy
in
their
new
clothes
.
Let
not
our
souls
be
wrung
,
however
,
at
contemplation
of
the
luckless
urchin
cut
off
by
parental
penury
from
the
rapture
of
new
clothes
.
Just
as
the
heroes
of
his
dreams
are
his
immediate
seniors
,
so
his
heroes
’
clothes
share
the
glamour
,
and
the
reversion
of
them
carries
a
high
privilege
—
a
special
thing
not
sold
by
Swears
and
Wells
.
The
sword
of
Galahad
—
and
of
many
another
hero
—
arrived
on
the
scene
already
hoary
with
history
,
and
the
boy
rather
prefers
his
trousers
to
be
legendary
,
famous
,
haloed
by
his
hero
’
s
renown
—
even
though
the
nap
may
have
altogether
vanished
in
the
process
.
But
,
putting
clothes
aside
,
there
are
other
matters
in
which
this
reversed
heirship
comes
into
play
.
Take
the
case
of
Toys
.
It
is
hardly
right
or
fitting
—
and
in
this
the
child
quite
acquiesces
—
that
as
he
approaches
the
reverend
period
of
nine
or
say
ten
years
,
he
should
still
be
the
unabashed
and
proclaimed
possessor
of
a
hoop
and
a
Noah
’
s
Ark
.
The
child
will
quite
see
the
reasonableness
of
this
,
and
,
the
goal
of
his
ambition
being
now
a
catapult
,
a
pistol
,
or
even
a
sword
-
stick
,
will
be
satisfied
that
the
titular
ownership
should
lapse
to
his
juniors
,
so
far
below
him
in
their
kilted
or
petticoated
incompetence
.
After
all
,
the
things
are
still
there
,
and
if
relapses
of
spirit
occur
,
on
wet
afternoons
,
one
can
still
(
nominally
)
borrow
them
and
be
happy
on
the
floor
as
of
old
,
without
the
reproach
of
being
a
habitual
baby
toy
-
caresser
.
Also
one
can
pretend
it
’
s
being
done
to
amuse
the
younger
ones
.
None
of
us
,
therefore
,
grumbled
when
in
the
natural
course
of
things
the
nominal
ownership
of
the
toys
slipped
down
to
Harold
,
and
from
him
in
turn
devolved
upon
Charlotte
.
The
toys
were
still
there
;
they
always
had
been
there
and
always
would
be
there
,
and
when
the
nursery
door
was
fast
shut
there
were
no
Kings
or
Queens
or
First
Estates
in
that
small
Republic
on
the
floor
.
Charlotte
,
to
be
sure
,
chin
-
tilted
,
at
last
an
owner
of
real
estate
,
might
patronize
a
little
at
times
;
but
it
was
tacitly
understood
that
her
“
title
”
was
only
a
drawing
-
room
one
.
Why
does
a
coming
bereavement
project
no
thin
faint
voice
,
no
shadow
of
its
woe
,
to
warn
its
happy
,
heedless
victims
?
Why
cannot
Olympians
ever
think
it
worth
while
to
give
some
hint
of
the
thunderbolts
they
are
silently
forging
?
And
why
,
oh
,
why
did
it
never
enter
any
of
our
thick
heads
that
the
day
would
come
when
even
Charlotte
would
be
considered
too
matronly
for
toys
?
One
’
s
so
-
called
education
is
hammered
into
one
with
rulers
and
with
canes
.
Each
fresh
grammar
or
musical
instrument
,
each
new
historical
period
or
quaint
arithmetical
rule
,
is
impressed
on
one
by
some
painful
physical
prelude
.
Why
does
Time
,
the
biggest
Schoolmaster
,
alone
neglect
premonitory
raps
,
at
each
stage
of
his
curriculum
,
on
our
knuckles
or
our
heads
?
Uncle
Thomas
was
at
the
bottom
of
it
.
This
was
not
the
first
mine
he
had
exploded
under
our
bows
.
In
his
favourite
pursuit
of
fads
he
had
passed
in
turn
from
Psychical
Research
to
the
White
Rose
and
thence
to
a
Children
’
s
Hospital
,
and
we
were
being
daily
inundated
with
leaflets
headed
by
a
woodcut
depicting
Little
Annie
(
of
Poplar
)
sitting
up
in
her
little
white
cot
,
surrounded
by
the
toys
of
the
nice
,
kind
,
rich
children
.
The
idea
caught
on
with
the
Olympians
,
always
open
to
sentiment
of
a
treacly
,
woodcut
order
;
and
accordingly
Charlotte
,
on
entering
one
day
dishevelled
and
panting
,
having
been
pursued
by
yelling
Redskins
up
to
the
very
threshold
of
our
peaceful
home
,
was
curtly
informed
that
her
French
lessons
would
begin
on
Monday
,
that
she
was
henceforth
to
cease
all
pretence
of
being
a
trapper
or
a
Redskin
on
utterly
inadequate
grounds
,
and
moreover
that
the
whole
of
her
toys
were
at
that
moment
being
finally
packed
up
in
a
box
,
for
despatch
to
London
,
to
gladden
the
lives
and
bring
light
into
the
eyes
of
London
waifs
and
Poplar
Annies
.
