nior, with his capacious waistcoat, &c., waddling after a ball,
would present an absurd object, whereas it does the eyes good to see
Bowler junior scouring the plain--a young exemplar of joyful health,
vigor, activity. The old boy wisely contents himself with amusements
more becoming his age and waist; takes his sober ride; visits his farm
soberly--busies himself about his pigs, his ploughing, his peaches,
or what not! Very small routinier amusements interest him; and (thank
goodness!) nature provides very kindly for kindly-disposed fogies. We
relish those things which we scorned in our lusty youth. I see the young
folks of an evening kindling and glowing over their delicious novels.
I look up and watch the eager eye flashing down the page, being, for
my part, perfectly contented with my twaddling old volume of "Howel's
Letters," or the Gentleman's Magazine. I am actually arrived at such
a calm frame of mind that I like batter-pudding. I never should have
believed it possible; but it is so. Yet a little while, and I may relish
water-gruel. It will be the age of mon lait de poule et mon bonnet de
nuit. And then--the cotton extinguisher is pulled over the old noddle,
and the little flame of life is popped out.

Don't you know elderly people who make learned notes in Army Lists,
Peerages, and the like? This is the batter-pudding, water-gruel of
old age. The worn-out old digestion does not care for stronger food.
Formerly it could swallow twelve-hours' tough reading, and digest an
encyclopaedia.

If I had children to educate, I would, at ten or twelve years of age,
have a professor, or professoress, of whist for them, and cause them to
be well grounded in that great and useful game. You cannot learn it well
when you are old, any more than you can learn dancing or billiards. In
our house at home we youngsters did not play whist because we were dear
obedient children, and the elders said playing at cards was "a waste
of time." A waste of time, my good people! Allons! What do elderly
home-keeping people do of a night after dinner? Darby gets his
newspaper; my dear Joan her Missionary Magazine or her volume of
Cumming's Sermons--and don't you know what ensues? Over the arm of
Darby's arm-chair the paper flutters to the ground unheeded, and he
performs the trumpet obligato que vous savez on his old nose. My dear
old Joan's head nods over her sermon (awakening though the doctrine may
be). Ding, ding, ding: can that be ten o'cloc