I think one would describe him as a tall, though not as a very tall man. He is broad shouldered, but slender. Despite his sixty-two years--and it is almost impossible to believe in his age when one sees him--there is hardly a grey hair in his head. His hair, of a dark brown, grows thickly. He wears moustaches and a very small imperial. The eyes are of a deep steadfast blue, and have an extraordinary power of penetration. I have met few people who look you so firmly and directly in the face as Frederick Charrington. It is a steady, kindly, unwavering regard, from the eyes of a man who has nothing to conceal, and everything to give. The nose is straight and Grecian, the lips tender and humorous--a singularly handsome man, in short. But the fact that he has been blessed with good looks rather above the average contributes only slightly to the sum of his extraordinary personality. And yet, reading what I have written--a mere catalogue of features--I realise how inadequate it is to present the man. There is nothing in a mask, after all, whether it be made of painted pasteboard or flesh. It is true that, in the case of the human countenance, gross vices leave their marks upon it and nobility of soul and rectitude of life inform it with a hint, a shadow, of the soul within. But that is when one sees a face with one's own eyes, hears a voice, listen to the words. Nor is it always true even then. I knew a man--he died last year--who had the face of an angel. It was so pure and beautiful that many spotless women of the most refined perceptions and the loftiest minds, made this man their friend. His open life was kindly, polished, cultured, and blameless. He _was_ kindly and cultured. But beneath it all, as very few people ever knew, as very few people ever will know, this man lived a life of such black shame that one can only hope and pray that his stained soul has not gone to swell the red quadrilles of Hell. No! It is in the living, breathing man that one discerns the truth, and his face is only an index--a finger pointing towards it. I have spoken of Frederick Charrington's personal appearance, of his sense of humour, and of his voice. But there is still much to be said. One impression he gives me, and the testimony of all those who have known him far more intimately than I have, and who have been with him for many years, only confirms it. I would say that he is a man pre-eminently born to lead, to _rule_. I am entirely convinced that in whatever station of life he found himself he would, as if of right, rise to the head. He is the least conceited man I have ever met. He thinks nothing whatever about himself. But there is a certain inward force, an unconscious conviction, in him, which makes him naturally assume the generalship, and so stand in the forefront of the battle.