The Fallow Field

WHAT toiler in the invisible field of Fancy, what artist of the pen, has nof; been at times embarrassed to vindicate the leisurely ways of his muse ? When the punctual and unsparing mentor demands how we have spent our time, or why we have allowed the sunshine season to slip away without profitable employment thereof, what can we say?

These exhorters to “ thrift, thrift,” are the invaders most to be dreaded of all those whom the artist has indignant reason to repel from his domain. What can such disturbers of the private peace know of that season of fruitful idleness which is often so necessary a preliminary to actual execution ? In my nonage, and as a humble fellow of the craft, being of a conscientious turn of mind, I was much distressed by the exhortations of these mentors. Idle I knew the time to be ; but that it was fruitful, also, I too dimly felt to vindicate my own delay. So, at their bidding, I arose and girded myself. They, indeed,—and not I,— were responsible for the hasty and imperfect crystallization, in sketch or poem, of the thought that should have been held longer in solution !

Now I am wiser, or less appealable.

Perhaps it is that the season is autumn. However that may be, to all arraignment as to industry and “output,” I point to certain comfortable fields, in view from my window, and bid my censors take note of the excellent good sense practiced by common husbandry. At least, I may take to heart the lesson of the fallow lands.