There is a certain period of life beyond which the plastic mind of man
becomes incapable of acquiring any new impressions. He merely elaborates
and displays the stores he has garnered up in his youth. There are
indeed some rare exceptions to the rule; but few, very few, can learn a
language after the age of forty. 'Tis true that Cowper did not commence
the composition of his delightful poems till he had attained that age;
but then it must be remembered that he had previously passed a life of
study and preparation, and that he merely gave the honey to the world
which he had hived in his youth, bringing to the task a mind polished and
matured by judgment and experience. But, generally speaking, we rather
expect reason than rhyme from an elderly gentleman; and when the reverse
is the case, the pursuit fits them as ridiculously as would a humming-top
or a hoop. Yet there are many who, having passed a life in the sole
occupation of making money--the most unpoetical of all avocations--that
in their retirement entertain themselves with such fantastic pranks and
antics, as only serve to amuse the lookers-on. A retired tradesman, it
is true, may chase ennui and the 'taedium vitae,' by digging and planting
in his kitchen-garden, or try his hand at rearing tulips and hyacinths;
but if he vainly attempt any other art, or dabble in light literature or
heavy philosophy, he is lost. Old Foozle was one of those who, having
accumulated wealth, retire with their housekeepers to spend the remnant
of their days in some suburban retreat, the monotony of whose life is
varied by monthly trips to town to bring tea and grocery, or purchase
some infallible remedy for their own gout, or their housekeeper's
rheumatism. Unfortunately for his peace, Old Foozle accidentally dipped
into a tattered tome of "Walton's Complete Angler;" and the vivid
description of piscatorial pleasures therein set forth so won upon his
mind, that he forthwith resolved to taste them. In vain were the
remonstrances of his nurse, friend, and factotum. The experiment must be
tried. Having more money than wit to spare, he presently supplied
himself with reels and rods and tackle, landing-nets and gentle-boxes,
and all the other necessary paraphernalia of the art.
Donning his best wig and spectacles, he sallied forth, defended from the
weather by a short Spencer buttoned round his loins, and a pair of
double-soled shoes and short gaiters. So eager was he to commence, that
he no sooner espied a piece of water, than, with trembling hands, he put
his rod together, and displayed his nets, laying his basket, gaping for
the finny prey, on the margin of the placid waters. With eager gaze he
watched his newly-varnished and many-coloured float, expecting
every-moment to behold it sink, the inviting bait being prepared
'secundum artem.' He had certainly time for reflection, for his float
had been cast at least an hour, and still remained stationary; from which
he wisely augured that he was most certainly neither fishing in a running
stream nor in troubled waters.
Presently a ragged urchin came sauntering along, and very leisurely
seated himself upon a bank near the devoted angler. Curiosity is natural
to youth, thought Foozle--how I shall make the lad wonder when I pull out
a wriggling fish!
But still another weary hour passed, and the old gentleman's arms and
loins began to ache from the novel and constrained posture in which he
stood. He grew nervous and uneasy at the want of sport; and thinking
that perhaps the little fellow was acquainted with the locality, he
turned towards him, saying, in the blandest but still most indifferent
tone he could assume, lest he should compromise his dignity by exposing
his ignorance--
"I say, Jack, are there any fish in this pond?"
"There may be, sir," replied the boy, pulling his ragged forelock most
deferentially, for Old Foozle had an awful churchwarden-like appearance;
"there may be, but I should think they were weary small, 'cause there vos
no vater in this here pond afore that there rain yesterday."
The sallow cheeks of the old angler were tinged with a ruddy glow, called
up by the consciousness of his ridiculous position. Taking a penny from
his pocket, he bade the boy go buy some cakes: and no sooner had he
gallopped off, than the disappointed Waltonian hastily packed up his
tackle, and turned his steps homeward; and this was the first and last
essay of Old Foozle.
THE "CRACK-SHOTS." No. I.
A club, under the imposing style of the "Crack-Shots," met every
Wednesday evening, during the season, at a house of public entertainment
in the salubrious suburbs of London, known by the classical sign of the
"Magpye and Stump." Besides a trim garden and a small close-shaven
grass-plat in the rear (where elderly gentlemen found a cure for 'taedium
vitae' and the rheumatism in a social game of bowls), there was a meadow
of about five or six acres, wherein a target was erected for the especial
benefit of the members of this celebrated club; we say celebrated,
because, of all clubs that ever made a noise in the world, this bore away
the palm-according to the reports in the neighbourhood. Emulation
naturally caused excitement, and the extraordinary deeds they performed
under its influence we should never have credited, had we not received
the veracious testimony of--the members themselves.
After the trials of skill, they generally spent the evenings together.
Jack Saggers was the hero of the party; or perhaps he might be more
appropriately termed the "great gun," and was invariably voted to the
chair. He made speeches, which went off admirably; and he perpetrated
puns which, like his Joe Manton, never missed fire, being unanimously
voted admirable hits by the joyous assembly.
Their pleasures and their conversation might truly be said to be of a
piece.
"Gentlemen"--said Jack, one evening rising upon his legs--"Do me the
favour to charge. Are you all primed and loaded? I am about to propose
the health of a gentleman, who is not only an honour to society at large,
but to the 'Crack-Shots' in particular. Gentlemen, the mere mention of
the name of Brother Sniggs--(hear! hear!)--I know will call forth a
volley!--(Hear! hear!) Gentlemen, I give you the health of Brother
Sniggs! make ready, present and fire!"
Up went the glasses, and down went the liquor in a trice, followed by
three times three, Jack Saggers giving the time, and acting as
"fugle-man."
Sniggs, nervously fingering his tumbler of "half and half," as if he
wanted the spirit to begin, hemmed audibly, and
"Having three times shook his head
To stir his wit, thus he said,"
"Gentlemen, I don't know how it is, but somehows the more a man has to
say, the more he can't! I feel, for all the world, like a gun rammed
tight and loaded to the muzzle, but without flint or priming----"
"Prime!" exclaimed Jack Saggers; and there was a general titter, and then
he continued; "as we cannot let you off Sniggs, you most go on, you
know."
"Gentlemen," resumed Sniggs, "I feel indeed so overloaded by the honors
you have conferred on me, that I cannot find words to express my
gratitude. I can only thank you, and express my sincere wish that your
shots may always tell."
And he sat down amidst unbounded applause. "By no means a-miss!" cried
Jack Saggers.
"A joke of mine, when I knocked down a bird the other morning," said
Sniggs: "you must know I was out early, and had just brought down my
bird, when leaping into the adjoining field to pick it up, a
bird-catcher, who had spread his nets on the dewy grass, walked right up
to me."
"I've a visper for you, Sir," says he, as cool as a cucumber; "I don't
vish to be imperlite, but next time you shoots a bird vot I've brought to
my call, I'll shoot you into a clay-pit, that's all!"
"And pray what did you say, Sniggs?" asked Jack Saggers. "Say?--nothing!
but I looked unutterable things, and--shouldering my piece--walked off!"
THE "CRACK-SHOTS." No. II.
"Sniggs's rencontre with the bird-catcher reminds me of Tom Swivel's
meeting with the Doctor," observed Smart.
"Make a report," cried Jack Saggers.
"Well, you must know, that I had lent him my piece for a day's shooting;
and just as he was sauntering along by a dead wall near Hampstead,
looking both ways at once for a quarry (for he has a particular squint),
a stout gentleman in respectable black, and topped by a shovel-hat,
happened to be coming in the opposite direction. With an expression of
terror, the old gentleman drew himself up against the unyielding bricks,
and authoritatively extending his walking-stick, addressed our sportsman
in an angry tone, saying: 'How dare you carry a loaded gun pointed at
people's viscera, you booby?' Now Tom is a booby, and no mistake, and so
dropping his under jaw and staring at the reverend, he answered: 'I don't
know vot you mean by a wiserar. I never shot a wiserar!'"
"Devilish good!" exclaimed Saggers; and, as a matter of course, everybody
laughed.
Passing about the bottle, the club now became hilarious and noisy; when
the hammer of the president rapped them to order, and knocked down Sniggs
for a song, who, after humming over the tune to himself, struck up the
following: