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.