Let me look back into the room, and study
the subjects of these prints on the walls.
First, Death of the Earl of Chatham in the
House of Lords, after Copley, R.A.  Just so.
Curious idea this picture suggests of the
uniformity of personal appearance which
must have distinguished the Peers in the last
century.  Here is a house full of noble lords,
and each one of them is exactly like the other.
Every noble lord is tall, every noble lord is
portly, every noble lord has a long receding
forehead, and a majestic Roman nose.  Odd;
and leading to reflections on the physical
changes that must have passed over the
peerage of the present day, in which I might
respectfully indulge, if the doctor had not
ordered me to abstain from thinking.

Circumstanced as I am, I must mournfully
dismiss the death of the Earl of Chatham,
and pass from the work of Copley, R.A., to
the other prints on the walls.  Dear, dear
me!  Now I look again, there is nothing to
pass to.  There are only two other prints,
and they are both classical landscapes.  Sadly
deteriorated as the present condition of my
faculties may be, my mind has not sunk down
yet to the level of Classical Landscape.  I
have still sense enough left to disbelieve in
Claude and Poussin as painters of Italian
scenery.  Let me turn from the classical
counterfeit to the modern reality. Let me
look again at the sea.

Just as large, just as grey, just as calm as
ever. Any more ships?  No; still the one
big ship in front; still the two little ships
behind.  They have not altered their relative
positions the least in the world.  How long
is it to dinner-time?  Six hours and a quarter.
What on earth am I to do?  Nothing.

Suppose I go and take a little walk?  (No,
dear, I will not tire myself; I will come back
quite fresh to take you out in the afternoon.)
Well, which way shall I go, now I am on the
door-step ?  There are two walks in this
place: first walk, along the cliff westward;
second walk, along the cliff eastward.  Which
direction shall I take?  I am naturally one of
the most decided men, in the world; but
doing nothing seems to have deprived me
already of my usual resolute strength of
will.  I will toss up for it.  Heads, westward  ;
tails, eastward.  Heads!  Ought this
to be considered conclusive ?  or shall I
begin again, and try the best of three?  I will
try the best of three, because it takes up
more time.  Heads, tails, heads!  Westward
still.  Surely this is destiny.  Or can it be
that doing nothing has made me superstitious
aa well as irresolute?  Never mind;  I will
go westward, and see what happens.

Along the path by the iron railings; then
down a little dip, at the bottom of which
there is a seat overlooking a ship-builder's
yard.  Close under me is a small coasting-
vessel on the slips for repair.  Nobody on
board, but one old man at work.  At work,
did I say?  Oh, happy chance!  This aged
repairer of ships is the very man, of all others,
whom I had most need of meeting, the very
man to help me in my present emergency.
Before I have looked at him two minutes, I
feel that I am in the presence of a great
professor of the art of doing nothing.  Towards
this sage, to listen to his precepts and profit
by his example, did destiny gently urge me,
when I tossed up to decide between eastward
and westward.  Let me watch his proceedings;
let me learn how to idle systematically,
by observing the actions of this venerable
man.

He is sitting on the left side of the vessel
when I first look at him. In one hand he
holds a crooked nail; in the other, a hammer.
He coughs slowly, and looks out to sea; he
sighs slowly, and looks back towards the
land; he rises slowly, and surveys the deck
of the vessel; he stoops slowly, and picks up
a flat bit of iron, and puts it on the bulwark,
and places the crooked nail upon it, and
then sits down and looks at the effect of
the arrangement so far.  When he has
had enough of the arrangement, he gives
the sea a turn again, then the land.  After
that, he steps back a little and looks at
the hammer, weighs it gently in his hand,
moistens his hand, advances to the crooked
nail on the bit of iron, groans softly to
himself and shakes his head as he looks at it,
administers three deliberate taps with the
hammer, to straighten it, finds that he does not
succeed to his mind; again groans softly, again
shakes his head, again sits down and rests
himself on the left side of the vessel.  Since
I first looked at him I have timed him by my
watch: he has killed a quarter of an hour
over that one crooked nail, and he has not
straightened it yet!  Wonderful man, can I
ever hope to rival him?  Will he condescend
to talk to me?  Stay!  I am not free to try
him; the doctor has told me not to excite
myself with society; all communion of mind
between me and this finished and perfect
idler is, I fear, prohibited.  Better to walk on,
and come back, and look at him again.

I walk on and sit down; walk on a
little farther and sit down again; walk on
for the third time, sit down for the third
time, and still there is always the down
on one side of me, and the one big ship and
the two little ships on the other. I retrace
my steps, occupying as much time as I
possibly can in getting back to the seat above
the coasting-vessel.  Where is my old friend,
my esteemed professor, my bright and shining
example in the difficult art of doing nothing?
Sitting on the right side of the vessel this
time, with the bit of flat iron on the right
side also, with the hammer still in his hand,
and, as I live, with the crooked nail not
straightened yet!  I observe this, and turn
away quickly with despair in my heart.
How can I, a tyro Do Nothing, who has had
no practice in the mystery of idleness until
to-day, expect to imitate that consummate