was at the happy time of life, when he had better things to do than to
sit over the bottle. "I suppose," said I, "your son is a reader."

"Um--yes--James may be called a reader in a sense; but I doubt there is
little solid in his studies--poetry and plays, Mr. Croftangry, all
nonsense--they set his head a-gadding after the army, when he should be
minding his business."

"I suppose, then, that romances do not find much more grace in your eyes
than dramatic and poetical compositions?"

"Deil a bit, deil a bit, Mr. Croftangry, nor historical productions
either. There is too much fighting in history, as if men only were
brought into this world to send one another out of it. It nourishes
false notions of our being, and chief and proper end, Mr. Croftangry."

Still all this was general, and I became determined to bring our discourse
to a focus. "I am afraid, then, I have done very ill to trouble you with
my idle manuscripts, Mr. Fairscribe; but you must do me the justice to
remember, that I had nothing better to do than to amuse myself by writing
the sheets I put into your hands the other day. I may truly plead--

'I left no calling for this idle trade.'"

"I cry your mercy, Mr. Croftangry," said my old friend, suddenly
recollecting--"yes, yes, I have been very rude; but I had forgotten
entirely that you had taken a spell yourself at that idle man's trade."

"I suppose," replied I, "you, on your side, have been too _busy_ a man
to look at my poor Chronicles?"