ld lace. Yet he is still employed sometimes to turn
out a guard, or to swear that "the Service is going," &c.; and though
he has lost his nerve for riding, he has still a good seat on a
boot-lace committee.

He is a very methodical old man. He rises at an early hour, strolls
down to the club on the Mall--perhaps the Wheler Club, perhaps some
other--has his tea, newspaper, and gossip there, and then back to his
small bungalow, [where he turns out his servants for swearing parade.
Each one gets it pretty hot; and then breakfast]. After breakfast he
arrays himself for the day in some nondescript white uniform, and with
a forage cap stuck gaily on one side of his head, a cheroot in his
mouth, and a large white umbrella in his hand, he again sallies forth
to the Club. An old horse is led behind him.

Now the serious business of life again begins--to get through the day.
There are six newspapers to read, twelve pegs to drink,
four-and-twenty Madras cheroots to smoke, there is kindly tiffin to
linger over, forty winks afterwards, a game of billiards, the band on
the Mall, dinner, and over all, incessant chatter, chatter, old
scandal, old jokes, and old stories. Everyone likes the old Colonel,
of course. Everyone says, "Here comes poor old Smith; what an infernal
bore he is!" "Hulloa, Colonel, how are you? glad to see you! what's
the news? how's exchange?"

The old Colonel is not avaricious, but he saves money. He cannot help
it. He has no tastes and he draws very large pay. His mind, therefore,
broods over questions relating to the investment of money, the
depreciation of silver, and the saving effected by purchasing things
at co-operative stores. He never really solves any problem suggested
by these topics. His mind is not prehensile like the tail of the
Apollo Bundar; everything eludes its grasp, so its pursuits are
terminable. The old Colonel's cerebral caloric burns with a feeble
flicker, like that of Madras secretariats, and never consumes a
subject. The same theme is always fresh fuel. You might say the same
thing to him every morning, at the same hour till the crack of doom,
and he would never recollect that he had heard your remark before.
This certainly must give a freshness to life and render eternity
possible.

The old Colonel is not naturally an indolent man, but the prominent
fact about him is that he has nothing to do. If you gave him a
sun-dial to take care of, or a rain-gauge to watch, or a secret to
keep