chance of proving himself to be of good stuff or bad; he is not laid on a shelf like an old maid's gown, with sprigs of lavender between. Pythagoras says that, 'in this theatre of man's life, it is reserved only for God and angels to be lookers on;' and Arnold exclaims 'Have we not all eternity to rest in? Depend on it, Nell, every man ought to work."
"But what could you do?" I ask gently, for do I not know how this purposeless, idle life chafes him. "I don't think you are clever enough to cut a good figure in Parliament; and you would not care to be a clergyman or a doctor? If you had gone into the army as you intended, your time would have been filled up, but it would only have been like playing at being busy, for we never have any real fighting now, you know; we only make faces at our enemies, and show them that we are ready, and they never come on." George laughs.
"There are other things in the world besides fighting," he says, "plenty of good work to be done; but, however, it is no good talking about it. If ever I say anything to my father, he asks me if I shall not have time enough to do as I please after he is dead. Pleasant that!"
"After a certain age," I say gravely,"old people ought to go off; all that have any sense of propriety do, and make room for the young ones. They have had their day, cracked their jokes, drunk their wines; and when their lives are flat, stale, and unprofitable, they ought to make their bow and vanish."
'Only they don't think so," says George, laughing; "and Debrett chronicles many a depraved and inconsiderate old man, at a good deal past the orthodox three-score years and ten, and whose heir will have suffered the sickness of hope deferred, and have grown-up sons and a purple nose before he comes into his inheritance!"
"At any rate, George, you may be thankful that you are not a
