goose, in my futile effort to find a legitimate name for it—Cheek.
Pray then pardon the use of a slang term; Impudence will not do, for it may exist without shrewdness: nor Self-possession, for that is a passive rather than an active virtue; nor Courage, which is often allied with modesty; nor Boldness, which a man may have without humour.
True, you may say that a man has the face to say or do anything; but that is a roundabout way of expressing oneself, and you cannot speak of his face in an allegorical sense, or call him facey.
Grant me the term, then, and I will endeavour to explain it to my young-brotherless lady readers.
Cheek, n. s. A rare union of fun, impudence, readiness, perseverance, and intelligence, endowing its possessor with the power of walking quietly over social obstacles, which form an impassable barrier to the majority of mankind. For examples, see below.
It was “cheek” that gave Diogenes the advantage over Alexander; that procured wives (it is great at that) for the early Romans; that got dear old Falstaff out of all his scrapes, enabling him to “make a good end,” instead of a parlous bad one; that procured James Boswell admission to a club and a niche in history denied to many a better man; that enabled the great Barnum to gull his fellow creatures out of one fortune, and when he had spent that, to make a second by telling his dupes, face to face, how he had done them.
When I see one enter a drawing-room full of strange ladies, sitting bolt upright round the walls, who, quite unembarrassed about what to do with his hands, can lay himself alongside a couple of beauties, and commence firing small talk into them; when I hear a man at a public dinner composedly and smilingly talk utter nonsense, about a subject upon which he is perfectly ignorant, for an hour together; when I read of a Chancellor of the Exchequer coming forward with his budget, and telling the nation that they are to go on paying the Income Tax, aye, and joking upon the fact, I am filled with envy: I fear me I could sacrifice such men did I think that the Indian theory of appropriating the qualities by devouring the hearts of great braves was of practical value.
Look at the diffident man: contemporaries who have not half his abilities pass him in the race of life; his jokes, which always fall flat, excite roars of laughter when picked up by some cheek-possessor, and retailed as his own. Any suggestion he may make relative to the trifling affairs of daily life is mostly pooh-poohed, but if tried and found to answer, is accredited to someone else, generally to the person who, in the first instance, most vehemently opposed him. He is thought by his intimate friends to be utterly devoid of taste and judgment on points upon which they have, unconsciously, adopted his opinions. As for tangible and pecuniary advantages, the cheeky carry them away from under one’s very nose. When poor Boxall gave up life and office together a short time ago, it occurred to me that the place he had vacated was the right place—salary high, work light—and that I was the right man. I therefore made an early application to the patron, Lord Bambleby, and as that nobleman was under political obligations to my family, and had on one occasion expressed the most ardent desire to forward my own personal advancement, it was not without a flutter of hope that I was ushered into his presence. And indeed his lordship received me in the most friendly manner, and was so vexed at having disposed of the place the day before, that really I felt more sorry for him than for myself.
“If you had only applied earlier!” said he. “But you see when Mr. ” and he turned to his notes, “Mr. Tryon advanced his claims there was nothing more to be said; a most deserving man, Tryon.”
Tryon! Could it be my cheeky friend Tom Tryon? I called upon him that very day, and found that it was.
“Why, Tom!” I cried, “I was not aware that you knew Lord Bambleby.”
“Know him, man? I never saw him before yesterday,” replied Tom.
“Then your claims must have been something considerable.”
“Claims! Thank goodness, I had no claims; people with claims never get anything.”
“Then how on earth did you manage to secure such a prize?”
“Simply enough. Directly I heard of poor Boxall’s death, I put my credentials—I always keep credentials by me in case of accidents—in my pocket, called upon Lord Bambleby, and made my application. ‘But you have no claims upon me, and there will be a thousand applicants who have,’ said his lordship, and he groaned at the prospect. ‘Exactly, my lord,’ said I, ‘and whichever you give it to you will offend all the rest; whereas if you get rid of it at once in my favour, you will save a world of trouble, and nine hundred and ninety-nine heartburnings.’—‘Upon my word I believe you are right,’ said he, laughing, and he gave it me.”
A few years back I was staying at a dull seaside barrack town, to see the last of a friend who was under orders for a land where human beings were much in the position of pigeons at the Red House, and their lives held in little greater estimation than those of the blue rocks, and there I made the acquaintance of a young fellow who attained my beau ideal. Long contact with the world, and much practice have developed the natural hardihood of most of my heroes; but Robert Murtough was born perfect. He was only nineteen, and had spent the greater part of his life in a secluded Irish district, but there was not a veteran in the British army more self-possessed than that ensign. It is true that his cheek was not so highly appreciated by others as by myself.
“That youngster must be taught his place,” said Captain Gibbs. “By Jove, sir, the very first night he dined at mess he chaffed the colonel!”
But Murtough did not know when he was snubbed, and could no more be kept in his place than can a monkey. I remember coming into the barrack square one morning, and seeing him at company-drill under the superintendence of Major