with a worthy country gentleman who, evening after evening, after
we had returned from shooting, insisted on reading aloud in the
smoking-room, with solemn zest, the novel on which he was engaged.
It was heavy work! The shooting was good, but I am not sure that it
was not dearly purchased at the price. The plot of the book was
intricate, the characters numerous; and I found it almost
impossible to keep the dramatis personae apart. But I did not grudge
my friend the pleasure he took in his composition; I only grudged
the time I was obliged to spend in listening to it. The novel was
not worth writing from the point of view of its intrinsic merits;
but it gave my old friend an occupation; he was never bored; he
flew back to his book whenever he had an hour to spare. It saved
him from dulness and ennui; it gave him, I doubt not, many a
glowing hour of secret joy; it was an unmixed benefit to himself
and his family that he had this indoors resource; it entailed no
expense; it was simply the cheapest and most harmless hobby that it
is possible to conceive.

It is characteristic of our nation to feel an imperative need for
occupation. I suppose that there is no nation in the world which
has so little capacity for doing nothing gracefully, and enjoying
it, as the English. This characteristic is part of our strength,
because it testifies to a certain childlike vitality. We are
impatient, restless, unsatisfied. We cannot be happy unless we have
a definite end in view. The result of this temperament is to be
seen at the present time in the enormous and consuming passion for
athletic exercise in the open air. We are not an intellectual
nation, and we must do something; we are wealthy and secure, and,
in default of regular work, we have got to organize our hours of
leisure on the supposition that we have something to do. I have