I have sometimes wondered why all the favourite
occupations and pastimes of mankind go to the
disturbance of that happy state of tranquillity, that
_Otium_, as Horace terms it, which he says is the
object of all men's prayers, whether preferred from
sea or land; and that the undisturbed repose, of
which we are so tenacious, when duty or necessity
compels us to abandon it, is precisely what we long
to exchange for a state of excitation, as soon as we
may prolong it at our own pleasure. Briefly, you
have only to say to a man, ``remain at rest,'' and you
instantly inspire the love of labour. The sportsman
toils like his gamekeeper, the master of the
pack takes as severe exercise as his whipper-in,
the statesman or politician drudges more than the
professional lawyer; and, to come to my own case,
the volunteer author subjects himself to the risk
of painful criticism, and the assured certainty of
mental and manual labour, just as completely as his
needy brother, whose necessities compel him to
assume the pen.
These reflections have been suggested by an annunciation
on the part of Janet, ``that the little
Gillie-whitefoot was come from the printing-office.''
``Gillie-blackfoot you should call him, Janet,''
was my response, ``for he is neither more nor less
than an imp of the devil, come to torment me for
_copy_, for so the printers call a supply of manuscript
for the press.
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