But to dribble away
life in exchanging bits of painted pasteboard round
a green table, for the piddling concern of a few
shillings, can only be excused in folly or superannuation.
It is like riding on a rocking-horse, where
your utmost exertion never carries you a foot forward;
it is a kind of mental tread-mill, where you
are perpetually climbing, but can never rise an
inch. From these hints, my readers will perceive
I am incapacitated for one of the pleasures of old
age, which, though not mentioned by Cicero, is
not the least frequent resource in the present day
---the club-room, and the snug hand at whist.
To return to my old companions: Some frequented
public assemblies, like the ghost of Beau
Nash, or any other beau of half a century back,
thrust aside by tittering youth, and pitied by those
of their own age. In fine, some went into devotion,
as the French term it, and others, I fear, went
to the devil; a few found resources in science and
letters; one or two turned philosophers in a small
way, peeped into microscopes, and became familiar
with the fashionable experiments of the day. Some
took to reading, and I was one of them.
Some grains of repulsion towards the society
around me---some painful recollections of early
faults and follies---some touch of displeasure with
living mankind, inclined me rather to a study of
antiquities, and particularly those of my own country.
Pages:
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102