Taking a walk is something different from traveling afoot. The latter I may do when on my way to the cars or the shop; but my neighbor, seeing me at such times, never says to himself, "Mr. —— is taking a walk." He knows I cannot be doing that, so long as I am walking for the sake of getting somewhere. Even the common people understand that utilitarianism has nothing to do with the true philosophy.
The of this philosophy, the noble fraternity of saunterers, among whom I modestly myself, are not greatly concerned with any kind of merely physical activity. They believe that everything has both a lower and a higher use; and that in the order of evolution the lower precedes the higher. Time was when walking—going on one's limbs—was a rare , sufficient of itself to confer distinction. Little by little this accomplishment became general, and for this long time now it has been universal; yet even to the present day it is not quite natural; else why does every human infant still creep on all-fours till it is taught otherwise? But of all who practise the art, only here and there a single individual has divined its loftier use and significance. The rest are still in the stage—pedestrians simply. In their view walking is only a convenience, or perhaps I should say an inconvenience; a cheap device for getting from one place to another. They resort to it for business, or, it may be, for health. Of strolling as a means of happiness they have scarcely so much as heard. They belong to the great and fashionable of the wise and ; and from all such the true peripatetic philosophy is forever hidden. We who are in the secret would gladly publish it if we could; but by its very nature the is esoteric.
Whoso would be into its mysteries must first of all learn how not to be in a hurry. Life is short, it is true, and time is precious; but a day is worth nothing of itself. It is like money,—good only for what it will buy. One must not play the , even with time. "There is that withholdeth more than is meet, but it tendeth to poverty." Who does not know men so of minutes, so , that they seldom spend an hour to any good purpose,—confirming the of Jesus, "He that loveth his life shall lose it"? And between a certain two sisters, was not the verdict given in favor of the one who (if we take the other's word for it) was little better than an idler? The saunterer has laid to heart this lesson. On principle, he devotes a part of his time to what his townsmen call doing nothing. "What profit hath a man of all his ?" A ; but I am not aware that the author of it ever suggested any similar doubt as to the net results of well-directed idleness. A , spirit is in its place; it would go hard with the world to get on without it; but the fact that some of the very best things of this life—things unseen and (therefore) eternal—are never to be come at . It is useless to chase them. We can only put ourselves in their way, and be still. The secret is as old as mysticism itself: if the vision tarry, wait for it.
Walking, then, as use the word, is not so much a physical as a spiritual exercise. And if any be disposed to look askance at this form of expression, as if there were possibly a suggestion of profanity about it, they will please bethink themselves of an ancient sacred book (to which, according to some friendly critics, I am strangely fond of referring), wherein is the history of a man who went out into the fields at eventide to . He could never have misunderstood our speech, nor dreamed of its needing . And your true saunterers of the present day, no matter what their , are of Isaac's kin,—devout and imaginative souls, who may now and then be forced to cry with the Psalmist, "O that I had wings!" but who, in all ordinary circumstances, are able to walk away and be at rest. Like the patriarch, they have accustomed their feet to serve them as ministers of grace.
It must be a bad day indeed when, on retreating to the woods or the fields, we find it impossible to leave the wearisome world—yes, and our more wearisome selves, also—behind us. As a rule, this result is not the better by quickening the gait. We may allow for exceptions, of course, cases in which a counter-excitement may peradventure be of use; but most often it is better to seek quietness of heart at a quiet pace; to steal away from our persecutors, rather than to invite pursuit by too evident a purpose of escape. The lazy motion is of itself a kind of spiritual . As we proceed, gazing idly at the sky, or with our attention caught by some wayside flower or passing bird, the mind grows , and, like smooth water, receives into itself the image of heaven. What a of falls upon us sometimes from an old tree, as we pass under it! So self-poised it seems; so alive, and yet so still! It was planted here before we were born. It will be green and flourishing long after we are dead. In it we may a perfect illustration of the dignity and peace of a life undeviatingly obedient to law,—the law of its own being; never in haste, never at a loss, but in every fibre doing, day by day, its appropriate work. Sunshine and rain, heat and cold, calm and storm,—all minister to its necessities. It has only to stand in its place and grow; happy in spring-time, with its buds and leaves; happy in autumn, with its fruit; happy, too, in winter,—repining not when forced to wait through months of bareness and for the touch of returning warmth. Enviable tree! As we it, we feel ourselves , and, at the same time, comforted. We, also, will be still, and let the life that is in us work itself out to the appointed end.
The seeing eye is a gift so unusual that whoever himself to watch what passes around him in the natural world is sure to be often entertained by the remarks, and otherwise, which such an idiosyncrasy calls . Some of his neighbors pity him as a ne'er-do-well, while others attribute to him a sort of superhuman . If only they had such eyes! But, ! they go into the woods, and they see nothing. Meanwhile the object of their envy knows well enough that his own vision is but rudimentary. He catches a glimpse now and then,—nothing more. Like his neighbors, he, too, prays for sight. Sooner or later, however, he discovers that it is a to be able on occasion to leave one's scientific senses at home. For here, again, surprising as it may seem, it is necessary to be on our guard against a superserviceable activity. There are times when we go out-of-doors, not after information, but in quest of a mood. Then we must not be over-observant. Nature is coy; she appreciates the difference between an inquisitor and a lover. The curious have their reward, no doubt, but her best gifts are reserved for suitors of a more sympathetic turn. And unless it be here and there some creature altogether of sensibility, some "fingering slave,"—
"One who would peep and botanize
Upon his mother's grave,"—
unless it be such a person as this, too poor to be conscious of his own poverty, there can be no enthusiastic student of natural history but has found out for himself the truth and importance of the paradoxical caution now suggested. One may become so a as almost to cease to be a man. The shifting of the heavens and the earth no longer appeals to him. He is now a specialist, and go where he will, he sees nothing but . Or he may give himself up to , till eye and ear grow so abnormally sensitive that not a bird can move or twitter but he is instantly aware of it. He must attend, whether he will or no. So long as this servitude lasts, it is idle to go afield in pursuit of joys "high and aloof," such as awaited him in lonesome places. Better betake himself to city streets or a darkened room. For myself, I thankfully bear that when I have been thus under the tyranny of my own senses I have found no more certain means of temporary deliverance than to walk in the early evening. Indeed, I have been ready, many a time, to exclaim with Wordsworth,—
"Hail, , sovereign of one peaceful hour!"
Then the eye has no temptation to busy itself with petty details; "day's mutable distinctions" are removed from sight, and the mind is left undistracted to rise, if it can, into communion with the spirit of the scene.
After all, it is next to nothing we are able to tell of the pleasures of such fellowship. We cannot define them to ourselves,—though they are "felt in the blood and felt along the heart,"—much less to another. Least of all need we attempt to explain them to any ; the walls of whose house are likely enough hung with "chromos," but who stares at you for a fool or a sentimentalist (which comes, perhaps, to nearly the same thing), when he catches you
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