THE IDLE THOUGHTS

OF
AN IDLE FELLOW.

by JEROME K. JEROME.
NEW YORK:

A. L. BURT, PUBLISHER.
TO

THE VERY DEAR AND WELL-BELOVED
FRIEND

OF MY PROSPEROUS AND EVIL DAYS--
TO THE FRIEND

WHO, THOUGH IN THE EARLY STAGES OF OUR ACQUAINTANCESHIP
DID OFTTIMES DISAGREE WITH ME, HAS SINCE

BECOME TO BE MY VERY WARMEST COMRADE--
TO THE FRIEND

WHO, HOWEVER OFTEN I MAY PUT HIM OUT, NEVER (NOW)
UPSETS ME IN REVENGE--

TO THE FRIEND
WHO, TREATED WITH MARKED COOLNESS BY ALL THE FEMALE

MEMBERS OF MY HOUSEHOLD, AND REGARDED WITH SUSPICION
BY MY VERY DOG, NEVERTHELESS SEEMS DAY BY

DAY TO BE MORE DRAWN BY ME, AND IN RETURN
TO MORE AND MORE IMPREGNATE ME WITH

THE ODOR OF HIS FRIENDSHIP--
TO THE FRIEND

WHO NEVER TELLS ME OF MY FAULTS, NEVER WANTS TO
BORROW MONEY, AND NEVER TALKS ABOUT HIMSELF--

TO THE COMPANION
OF MY IDLE HOURS, THE SOOTHER OF MY SORROWS,

THE CONFIDANT OF MY JOYS AND HOPES--
MY OLDEST AND STRONGEST

PIPE,
THIS LITTLE VOLUME

IS
GRATEFULLY AND AFFECTIONATELY

DEDICATED.
PREFACE

One or two friends to whom I showed these papers in MS. having
observed that they were not half bad, and some of my relations having

promised to buy the book if it ever came out, I feel I have no right
to longer delay its issue. But for this, as one may say, public

demand, I perhaps should not have ventured to offer these mere "idle
thoughts" of mine as mental food for the English-speaking peoples of

the earth. What readers ask nowadays in a book is that it should
improve, instruct, and elevate. This book wouldn't elevate a cow. I

cannot conscientiously recommend it for any useful purposes whatever.
All I can suggest is that when you get tired of reading "the best

hundred books," you may take this up for half an hour. It will be a
change.

CONTENTS.
IDLE THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE FELLOW.

ON BEING IDLE
ON BEING IN LOVE

ON BEING IN THE BLUES
ON BEING HARD UP

ON VANITY AND VANITIES
ON GETTING ON IN THE WORLD

ON THE WEATHER
ON CATS AND DOGS

ON BEING SHY
ON BABIES

ON EATING AND DRINKING
ON FURNISHED APARTMENTS

ON DRESS AND DEPORTMENT
ON MEMORY

The Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow.
ON BEING IDLE.

Now, this is a subject on which I flatter myself I really am _au
fait_. The gentleman who, when I was young, bathed me at wisdom's

font for nine guineas a term--no extras--used to say he never knew a
boy who could do less work in more time; and I remember my poor

grandmother once incidentally observing, in the course of an
instruction upon the use of the Prayer-book, that it was highly

improbable that I should ever do much that I ought not to do, but that
she felt convinced beyond a doubt that I should leave undone pretty

well everything that I ought to do.
I am afraid I have somewhat belied half the dear old lady's prophecy.

Heaven help me! I have done a good many things that I ought not to
have done, in spite of my laziness. But I have fully confirmed the

accuracy of her judgment so far as neglecting much that I ought not to
have neglected is concerned. Idling always has been my strong point.

I take no credit to myself in the matter--it is a gift. Few possess
it. There are plenty of lazy people and plenty of slow-coaches, but a

genuine idler is a rarity. He is not a man who slouches about with
his hands in his pockets. On the contrary, his most startling

characteristic is that he is always intensely busy.
It is impossible to enjoy idling thoroughly unless one has plenty of

work to do. There is no fun in doing nothing when you have nothing to
do. Wasting time is merely an occupation then, and a most exhausting

one. Idleness, like kisses, to be sweet must be stolen.
Many years ago, when I was a young man, I was taken very ill--I never

could see myself that much was the matter with me, except that I had a
beastly cold. But I suppose it was something very serious, for the

doctor said that I ought to have come to him a month before, and that
if it (whatever it was) had gone on for another week he would not have

answered for the consequences. It is an extraordinary thing, but I
never knew a doctor called into any case yet but what it transpired

that another day's delay would have rendered cure hopeless. Our
medical guide, philosopher, and friend is like the hero in a

melodrama--he always comes upon the scene just, and only just, in the
nick of time. It is Providence, that is what it is.

Well, as I was saying, I was very ill and was ordered to Buxton for a
month, with strict injunctions to do nothing whatever all the while

that I was there. "Rest is what you require," said the doctor,
"perfect rest."

It seemed a delightfulprospect. "This man evidently understands my
complaint," said I, and I pictured to myself a glorious time--a four

weeks' _dolce far niente_ with a dash of illness in it. Not too much
illness, but just illness enough--just sufficient to give it the

flavor of suffering and make it poetical. I should get up late, sip
chocolate, and have my breakfast in slippers and a dressing-gown. I

should lie out in the garden in a hammock and read sentimental novels
with a melancholyending, until the books should fall from my listless

hand, and I should recline there, dreamily gazing into the deep blue
of the firmament, watching the fleecy clouds floating like

white-sailed ships across its depths, and listening to the joyous song
of the birds and the low rustling of the trees. Or, on becoming too

weak to go out of doors, I should sit propped up with pillows at the
open window of the ground-floor front, and look wasted and

interesting, so that all the pretty girls would sigh as they passed
by.

And twice a day I should go down in a Bath chair to the Colonnade to
drink the waters. Oh, those waters! I knew nothing about them then,

and was rather taken with the idea. "Drinking the waters" sounded
fashionable and Queen Anne-fied, and I thought I should like them.

But, ugh! after the first three or four mornings! Sam Weller's
description of them as "having a taste of warm flat-irons" conveys

only a faint idea of their hideous nauseousness. If anything could
make a sick man get well quickly, it would be the knowledge that he

must drink a glassful of them every day until he was recovered. I