XXIT. 



AMUSEMENTS. 



(( 



Life," said a genial but cynical thinker, with 

 equal wit and wisdom, "would be really quite en- 

 durable if it were not for its amusements." How 

 many of us, in middle age at least, have, after our 

 own humble fashion, come to exactly the same 

 easy-going conclusion I As long as we are allowed 

 to pursue the even tenor of our way unmolested, 

 to rise in the morning to our accustomed tub, to 

 go through our sober round of wonted duties, to 

 dine off our leg of mutton and apple-pudding at 

 our own unpretending domestic table, to enjoy 

 our evening pipe, or our quiet chat over the knit- 

 ting and the work-basket, and to go to bed deco- 

 rously at half-past ten, we are, in our peaceful, 

 uneventful fasliion, perfectly V ippy and contented. 

 But, when the boys and girls — those reckless 

 disturbers of domestic bliss I — insist upon drag- 

 ging us off for a month or so into comfortless 

 lodgings by the seaside, or pulling us by both arms 

 to the inhospitable summit of Mount Washington, 

 or carrying us down by sheer force to hear a wee[)- 

 ing melodrama or a screaming burlesque at the 



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