University of Virginia Library

LOITERING.

Philosophers seldom deem the minor characteristics
of their kind worthy of discussion. Otherwise, methinks
they would have analysed a feeling of which not a few are
conscious; I mean the loitering propensity. Even the
poets, who are vastly more circumspect in nothing the
quaint things of life, have scarcely alluded to this. Neither
Crabbe, indefatigable as he was in taking cognizance
of the veriest humors of our nature, nor Wordsworth,
bravely as he has persevered in showing up the more simple
and native workings of the heart, have done justice
to the inherent disposition to loiter which belongs to some
men, as truly as their gait or their noses. Let no one
suggest that the topic would have been appropriate to
Thomson's “Castle of Indolence.” Your legitimate loiterers
are the busiest men alive. Depend upon it their air
of leisure, though it may indicate the absence of certain domestic
inspirers of activity—proves any thing rather than
the absence of thought. Why, Addison was wont to loiter
in club-rooms, Irving in old English castles, and Charles

Lamb at book-stalls. The Spectator, Sketch-Book, and
Elia, prove that they did not loiter in vain. Taste and
circumstances combine to influence our habits of loitering.
The young physician loiters in the druggist's shop, the
coxcomb in the street, and the poet by the river's side.
Loiterers of some kind and in some degree are we all,
superlatively busy and time-saving as we may complacently
think ourselves.

There is no little philosophy in loitering. The driving
creatures who are ceaselessly on the move, brushing by
you with a smile of recognition which habit has stereotyped
on their countenances, and a nod which says, “How
d' ye do,” and “good b' ye” at the same time, know none
of the true zest of life, save the little modicum which is involved
in mere locomotion. They are like certain poetasters
who in the race of rhyme, linger not for ideas.
What to them are the border roses and beautiful vistas of
rural pathways, or the heart-stirring faces and rich print-shop
windows of the metropolis? Like Young Rapid, their
watch-word is “keep moving;” and as to by way thoughts
or observations, they'll none of them. Now, consider
how much of the pleasure of life is contingent, and how
little direct. In pressing ardently onward to a much desired
goal, we, in a manner, prepare ourselves for disappointment.
But the flower that smiles up to us unbidden
from the hedge, the splendid prospect suddenly encountered,
the en passant greeting—these are thrice enlivening
because expected.

Fertilizing and auspicious as is the energetic play of
all the faculties, there is a deep wisdom in allowing the

mind to lie fallow. Like the soil thus exposed to the
grateful agencies of nature and its own self-evolved energy,
its productiveness is eventually enhanced. Amid the
exciting elements in which we live, there is a little danger
of a dearth of action. And if one would press on with
secure intelligence, let him sometimes loiter to scrutinize
and meditate, let him behold what is around as well as before
him. Oh, it is true philosophy, in such a shadowy
world as ours, to linger momentarily over every joy-beam,
were it only to garner up its blessedness in our memories!

It is, after all, by dribblets that good comes to us; and
thus only can we happily imbibe it to any great degree.
A lover of books unless thoroughly imbued with the
spirit of Dominie Sampson, feels rather oppressed than
inspired on first entering an immense library. Yet such
a one may lounge an hour over a bookseller's counter, or
scan the pages of a racy magazine, enjoying the while a
mood the most calmly pleasurable. In this, as in many
other respects, there is a coincidence between the influences
of art and literature. To one whose love of the
beautiful is passionate and keen, there is something oppressive
in the aspect of a well-stocked gallery, while an
artist's sanctum proves a delightful resort; and a fine parlour
picture, accidentally fallen in with, is productive of
unalloyed delight. A single congenial volume represents
to the imaginative mind the idea of literature; and a sketch
or statue is an eloquent symbol of art. There is a philosophical
principle involved in these facts. The truth is, the
feelings of a man of ideal and susceptible temperament—
and these characteristics are rarely disunited—are as

delicate as they are vivid. An imposing array of objects,
until singly and methodically scanned, by the variety and
richness of their suggestions, confuse and satiate his sensitive
taste. Individually, unobtrusively, unexpectedly addressed,
his mind freely responds. The current of feeling
thus receives an impetus, neither rude nor onerous,
but precisely strong enough to urge it into a thoughtful
and happy flow. Painters speak of a feeling for color;
so is there a feeling for the beautiful and the true in man,
which will not bear forcing nor feasting, but finds its own
gratification in self-possessed and spontaneous observation.
And thus the loiterers, on the world's highway, in
true enjoyment and actual good, not unfrequently outstrip
the most bustling and speedy of the careering multitude: