We introduce another idler. He follows no vocation； he only follows those who do. Sometimes he sweeps along the streets， with consequential gait； sometimes perfumes it with wasted odors of tobacco. He also haunts sunny benches， or breezy piazzas. His business is to see； his desire is to be seen； he gambles and swears， and fights but still he is a man of honor.
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It would be endless to describe the wiles of idleness—how it creeps upon men， how much time it purloins from the scholar， from the professional man， and from the artisan. It steals minutes， it clips off the edges of hours， and at length takes possession of days. Where it has its will， it sinks and drowns employment； indolence makes labor heavy； scatters the attention； puts us to our tasks with wandering thoughts， with irresolute purpose， and with dreamy visions. Thus when it may， it plucks out hours and rules over them； and where this may not be， it lurks around them to impede the sway of industry， and turn her seeming toils to subtle idleness. Against so mischievous an enchantress， we should be duly armed. I shall， therefore， describe the advantages of industry， and the evils of indolence.