master, that no man ever excelled
in painting, who was eminently curious about pencils and colours.

There are others to whom idleness dictates another expedient, by which
life may be passed unprofitably away without the tediousness of many
vacant hours. The art is, to fill the day with petty business, to have
always something in hand which may raise curiosity, but not solicitude,
and keep the mind in a state of action, but not of labour.

This art has for many years been practised by my old friend Sober with
wonderful success. Sober is a man of strong desires and quick
imagination, so exactly balanced by the love of ease, that they can
seldom stimulate him to any difficult undertaking; they have, however,
so much power, that they will not suffer him to lie quite at rest; and
though they do not make him sufficiently useful to others, they make him
at least weary of himself.

Mr. Sober's chief pleasure is conversation; there is no end of his talk
or his attention; to speak or to hear is equally pleasing; for he still
fancies that he is teaching or learning something, and is free for the
time from his own reproaches.

But there is one time at night when he must go home, that his friends
may sleep; and another time in the morning, when all the world agrees to
shut out interruption. These are the moments of which poor Sober
trembles at the thought. But the misery of these tiresome intervals he
has many means of alleviating. He has persuaded himself that the manual
arts are undeservedly overlooked; he has observed in many trades the
effects of close thought, and just ratiocination. From speculation he
proceeded to practice, and supplied himself with the tools of a
carpenter, with which he mended his coal-box very successfully, and
which he still continues to employ, as he finds occasion.

He has attempted at other times the crafts of the shoemaker, tinman,
plumber, and potter; in all these arts he has failed, and resolves to
qualify himself for them by better information. But his daily amusement
is chymistry. He has a small furnace, which he employs in distillation,
and which has long been the solace of his life. He draws oils and
waters, and essences and spirits, which he knows to be of no use; sits
and counts the drops, as they come from his retort, and forgets that,
whilst a drop is falling, a moment flies away.

Poor Sober! I have often teased him with reproof, and he has often
promised reformation; for no man is