ENJOYMENT OF THE ROAD.
In travelling, whether one is riding or walking, it is not
sufficient for the proper enjoyment of the way to know how to get
along in a legal manner, but he should know how to put himself in
harmony with the elements of Nature, and to feel the "gay, fresh
sentiment of the road." The first requisite for this enjoyment is to
have a hopeful and sunshiny disposition. When people are buoyed up
by hope they will find enjoyment under very adverse circumstances.
Adam and Eve, according to Milton, saw without terror for the first
time the sun descend beneath the horizon, and the darkness close in
upon the earth, and "the firmament glow with living sapphires,"
although they did not then know of a sunrise to come. Yet even in
such a time as that, according to this poet, these hopeful natures
walked hand in hand "in the grateful evening mild," and held such
sweet converse with each other that they forgot all time, all
seasons and their change, for all pleased alike. Thus it was in the
beginning, and thus it will be at the end; for even in the darkest
as in the brightest hours hopeful humanity looks forward to
something better, as--
"Of better and brighter days to come
Man is talking and dreaming ever."
And who would have it otherwise? As sunshine is the most important
thing in the natural world, so it is the best thing in human life.
People with sunshiny dispositions are always happy and welcome
everywhere, whether on the road, in the sick-room, or in the halls
of gayety. They drive away the blues and bring in hope and good
cheer; without them, life would not be worth living.
The French philosopher Figuier was so impressed with the value of
sunshine in human nature that he taught that the rays of the sun,
which bring light and heat and life and all blessings to the earth,
are nothing but the loving emanations of the just spirits who have
reached the sun, the final abode of all immortal souls; and its
light and heat are the result of their effulgent goodness and
sunshiny dispositions.
Every traveller, then, who wishes to experience even the common and
apparent enjoyments of the way, should start out with a light heart and
rich in hope; but if he wishes to taste also the _latent_ enjoyments of
the way, he must have an observing eye, and the love of Nature in his
heart. It is astonishing how the systematic cultivation of the
observing faculties will develop in one the habit of seeing and
enjoying his environment. This habit grows as rapidly as heavenly
wisdom in one who has made an honest attempt to obtain a knowledge of
God, when--
"Each faculty tasked to perceive Him
Has gained an abyss where a dewdrop was asked."
What a source of pleasure, solace, and recreation, then, is open to
him who knows how to distinguish and appreciate the beautiful in
Nature! He hears in every breeze and every ripple of water a voice
which the uncultivated ear cannot hear; and he sees in every
fleeting cloud and varied aspect of Nature some beauty which the
ignorant cannot see.
"Earth's crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God;
But only he who sees takes off his shoes."
There is truth in the quaint language of Platen: "The more things
thou learnest to know and to enjoy, the more complete and full will
be for thee the delight of living."
We frequently find that when two persons are placed in the same
situation, one will find much to enjoy while the other will not, and
simply because one has the love of Nature in his heart, and the
other has not. One person, living in the midst of the most beautiful
natural scenery, is not charmed by anything he sees on the earth or
in the sky. To him all Nature is like an empty barnyard, in which
there is nothing to inspire him with a noble thought or stir him
with a generous emotion. Another person living in the same vicinity
sees much in his surroundings to admire and to enjoy. He looks at
the sunset glows with delight; he sees beauty in the grass, and
glory in the flowers; he sees with admiration and awe the
storm-clouds, black and terrible, rushing together like veritable
war-horses, or piling themselves up like mountains, reverberating
with the artillery of heaven and tongued with fire; wherever he
looks nearly every prospect pleases; and to him Nature, like the
Scriptures, is new every morning and new every night. Such a person
is more likely to be a better neighbor, a better citizen, and a
better Christian than one who has not the love of Nature in his
heart. Ruskin says: "The love of Nature is an invariable sign of
goodness of heart and justice of moral perception; that in
proportion to the degree in which it is felt, will probably be the
degree in which all nobleness and beauty of character will also be
felt; that when it is absent from any mind, that mind in many other
respects is hard, worldly, and degraded." The love of Nature has
ever been characteristic of the greatest and the noblest minds. To
Wordsworth the meanest flower that blows gave him thoughts too deep
for tears; and to Christ the lily of the field was more beautifully
arrayed than Solomon in all his glory. Likewise we often find that
two travellers will pass together over the same route, and one will
see much to admire and to enjoy by the way, and the other will see
nothing to admire or to enjoy. The one who has an observing eye, and
enjoys beautiful and grand natural scenery, sees in every nook and
corner by the way some lovely flower or comely shrub to admire, and,
like Wordsworth,--
"Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze,
He sees the golden daffodils."
And he not only enjoys the present sight, but he enjoys the scene as
often as he thinks of it afterwards, as in imagination he views the
scene over and over again,--
"For oft when on his couch he lies
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon the inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then his heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils."
And in the common and unnoticed grass by the roadside or in the
field, he can see in each blade a system of masonry and architecture
that no human skill has ever been able to equal. The stem is very
slender, but is so elastic and strong that it waves gracefully in
the breeze and bends to the earth in the storm without breaking, and
assumes an upright attitude again. It is made up of delicate cells
and perfect and intricate channels, through which hidden currents of
life throb and flow as mysteriously as the vital blood through the
human frame. It is colored with an emerald tint of such beautiful
hues that it has been the despair of artists to imitate it in every
age. Ages and ages before the human hand learned its cunning, the
command went forth for grass to bring forth seed after its kind; and
to-day it is waving gracefully in every field, and crowned with the
same beautiful flowers and tasselled seed-vessels as of old. Men in
their haughty ambition have builded much larger structures. They
have erected towers, pyramids, obelisks, spires, monuments, and
triumphal arches, which have commanded the admiration of their
builders and of their fellow-men in every part of the world; but
every principle of their masonry and architecture is an imitation of
that in the humblest spear of grass. Thus every traveller on a
country road is surrounded by monuments more ancient, more
impressive, and more beautiful than the ancient or modern world can
show as the production of human hands.
He finds much enjoyment in the study of the forms and
characteristics of the different trees by the wayside. If the road
passes over highland, on a breezy day he can look down upon or
across the tops of undulating forest trees, whose swaying movements
remind him of the waves of the sea. He can see in each species not
only a variety in the color and form of its foliage, but some
characteristic which reminds him of some human being. The rugged oak
or apple tree recalls to his mind some sturdy man, of great strength
and honesty of character, with picturesque but awkward manners. The
gracefully swaying branches of the stately elm or weeping willow
remind him of some woman whose elegant form and manners make her as
lovely as the moon and as beautiful as light. The rapid and constant
motion of the foliage of the poplar and the aspen reminds him of
some nervous and excitable person who is never quiet or easy for a
moment. The prim spruce-tree suggests to him some person of formal
habits and primness of dress. The symmetrical maple and pine remind
him of some quiet and dignified character who is well balanced and
rounded at every point. The patriarchal tree which has outlived all
its companions and stands alone with few and withered branches, but
still raising its majestic head to heaven as if in supplication for
blessings on the earth, reminds him of some gray-haired person who,
full of years and rich in faith, after a well-spent life is
approaching and can almost see the other side of the river which
separates this life from the eternal world.
If he has a taste for domestic and pastoral scenery, it is gratified
as he views the green pastures and meadows, the waving grain-fields,
and the occasional gleam of water through the foliage. Ever and anon
he passes by some dwelling where the charms of culture have been
added to the charms of Nature. By kind treatment the grass-plat
before the door has become a refreshing piece of verdure. By careful
pruning and training the trees on the lawn have become objects of
beauty, and cast their graceful shadows over the velvety greensward
beneath. The woodbine tastefully trained over the porch, the
flower-bed in the yard brilliant with flowers, and the garden and
the fruit orchard in the field, all tend to cheer and sanctify human
life in such an abode. Perchance the road runs by some rural
homestead which reminds him of his own ancestral home, humble yet
beautiful to him, and all the scenes of his childhood come vividly
to mind as fond recollection presents them to view. He is once more
a barefoot boy, and all is outward sunshine and inward joy. He
slacks his thirst once more from the well by the door or at the
spring on the hillside; and he visits again the old familiar
play-ground, the lane through which the cows are driven, the brook
where the sheep are washed, the fish are caught, and the boys go in
swimming.
When the road leads him into the mountains or in sight of them, he
is charmed by their majesty and awed by their sublimity. A mountain
panorama presents all the characteristic phases of Nature and all
the moving variation of the atmosphere. At one time they are
cloud-capped and surrounded with fog, and then in an incredibly
short time they are glittering in a halo of sunlight. As one beholds
their majestic heads, around which the storms of centuries have
beat, disappear as twilight changes into night, he can but feel
oppressed with the gloom and melancholy of the scene. But in the
morning, when--
"Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain-tops,"
he can but conclude with Ruskin, that "mountain scenery has been
prepared in order to unite as far as possible and in the closest
compass every means of delighting and sanctifying the heart of man.
Mountains seem to have been built for the human race, as at once
their schools and cathedrals, full of treasures of illuminated
manuscript for the scholar, kindly in simple lessons to the worker,
quiet in pale cloisters for the thinker, glowing in holiness for the
worshipper."
Then, again, a country road is a good place to become acquainted
with some forms of animal and vegetable life. The odors of growing
vegetation, the movement of squirrels and other creatures, and the
song of birds, all have a tendency to impress one with the idea that
the material world is animated with life. And when the sun pours
down a flood of glowing sunlight, and swathes the traveller and the
whole world with its glowing and life-giving beams, he realizes that
the sun is the source of every material blessing. In the city people
know in a general way that the sun is the source of heat and light,
and that he adds to their comfort and convenience, as do the
electric light and the fire on the hearth; but they hardly realize
that his rays are necessary for their existence, to say nothing of
their comfort, for even a week. But when a traveller in the morning
sees all animated Nature stirring and rejoicing with the throbbings
of warmed and rejuvenated life; when he looks out over the landscape
and sees the sun raising in misty vapors the water which supplies
our springs, lakes, and streams, and refreshes the earth in showers
of rain, he realizes that the sun is not only the fire which warms
the world, but it is also the mighty hydraulic engine of Nature.
These are some of the enjoyments of the way; but every thoughtful
and observing traveller knows that they cannot be enumerated. Like
Burroughs, "he is not isolated, but one with things, with the farms
and industries on either hand. The vital, universal currents play
through him. He knows the ground is alive: he feels the pulses of
the wind, and reads the mute language of things. His sympathies are
all aroused; his senses are continually reporting messages to his
mind. Wind, frost, rain, heat, cold, are something to him. He is not
merely a spectator of the panorama of Nature, but a participator in
it. He experiences the country he passes through,--tastes it, feels
it, absorbs it."
Neither is he confined to the material demonstrations of Nature for
his enjoyment of the way. Some of the greatest sermons and speeches
have been thought out on the road. A solitary traveller can think
calmly and thoughtfully on the great problems of life and death, and
can learn to appreciate the fact that "the gods approve the depth,
and not the tumult, of the soul."
* * * * *
University Press: John Wilson & Son, Cambridge.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Road and the Roadside, by Burton Willis Potter