uillity,
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."

"Now, Cot forgie your honour," said Janet; "for it is no like your
ainsell to give such names to a faitherless bairn."

"I have got nothing else to give him, Janet; he must wait a little."

"Then I have got some breakfast to give the bit gillie," said Janet;
"and he can wait by the fireside in the kitchen, till your honour's
ready; and cood enough for the like of him, if he was to wait your
honour's pleasure all day."

"But, Janet," said I to my little active superintendent, on her return
to the parlour, after having made her hospitable arrangements, "I begin
to find this writing our Chronicles is rather more tiresome than I
expected, for here comes this little fellow to ask for manuscript--that
is, for something to print--and I have got none to give him."

"Your honour can be at nae loss. I have seen you write fast and fast
enough; and for subjects, you have the whole Highlands to write about,
and I am sure you know a hundred tales better than that about Hamish
MacTavish, for it was but about a young cateran and an auld carlin, when
all's done; and if they had burned the rudas quean for a witch, I am
thinking, may be they would not have tyned their coals--and her to gar
her ne'er-do-w