ou can a log. There they
lie, completely enchained by indolence.

I have known others continually complain of the shortness of time; that
they had no time for business, no time for study, &c. Yet they would
lavish hours in yawning at a public house, or hesitating whether they
had better go to the theatre or stay; or whether they had better get
up, or indulge in 'a little more slumber.' Such people wear the most
galling chains, and as long as they continue to wear them there is no
reasoning with them.

An indolent person is scarcely human; he is half quadruped, and of the
most stupid species too. He may have good intentions of discharging a
duty, while that duty is at a distance; but let it approach, let him
view the time of action as near, and down go his hands in languor. He
_wills_, perhaps; but he _un_wills in the next breath.

What is to be done with such a man, especially if he is a young one? He
is absolutely good for nothing. Business tires him; reading fatigues
him; the public service interferes with his pleasures, or restrains his
freedom. His life must be passed on a bed of down. If he is employed,
moments are as hours to him--if he is amused, hours are as moments. In
general, his whole time eludes him, he lets it glide unheeded, like
water under a bridge. Ask him what he has done with his morning,--he
cannot tell you; for he has lived without reflection, and almost
without knowing whether he has lived at all.

The indolent man sleeps as long as it is possible for him to sleep,
dresses slowly, amuses himself in conversation with the first person
that calls upon him, and loiters about till dinner. Or if he engages
in any employment, however important, he leaves it the moment an
opportunity of talking occurs. At length dinner is served up; and after
lounging at the table a long time, the evening will probably be spent
as unprofitably as the morning: and this it may be, is no unfair
specimen of his whole life. And is not such a wretch, for it is
improper to call him a man--good for nothing? What is he good for? How
can any rational being be willing to spend the precious gift of life in
a manner so worthless, and so much beneath the dignity of human nature?
When he is about stepping into the grave, how can he review the past
with any degree of satisfaction? What is his history, whether recorded
here or there,--in golden letters, or on the plainest slab--but, 'he
was born' and 'he died!'

SECTION VI. _Early