Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 9, No. 56, June, 1862 | Page 2

as to lose themselves for half
an hour in the woods; but I know very well that they have confined
themselves to the highway ever since, whatever pretensions they may
make to belong to this select class. No doubt they were elevated for a
moment as by the reminiscence of a previous state of existence, when
even they were foresters and outlaws.

"When he came to grene wode, In a mery mornynge, There he herde
the notes small Of byrdes mery syngynge.
"It is ferre gone, sayd Robyn, That I was last here; Me lyste a lytell for
to shote At the donne dere."
I think that I cannot preserve my health and spirits, unless I spend four
hours a day at least--and it is commonly more than that--sauntering
through the woods and over the hills and fields, absolutely free from all
worldly engagements. You may safely say, A penny for your thoughts,
or a thousand pounds. When sometimes I am reminded that the
mechanics and shopkeepers stay in their shops not only all the forenoon,
but all the afternoon too, sitting with crossed legs, so many of them,--as
if the legs were made to sit upon, and not to stand or walk upon,--I
think that they deserve some credit for not having all committed suicide
long ago.
I, who cannot stay in my chamber for a single day without acquiring
some rust, and when sometimes I have stolen forth for a walk at the
eleventh hour of four o'clock in the afternoon, too late to redeem the
day, when the shades of night were already beginning to be mingled
with the daylight, have felt as if I had committed some sin to be atoned
for,--I confess that I am astonished at the power of endurance, to say
nothing of the moral insensibility, of my neighbors who confine
themselves to shops and offices the whole day for weeks and months,
ay, and years almost together. I know not what manner of stuff they are
of,--sitting there now at three o'clock in the afternoon, as if it were
three o'clock in the morning. Bonaparte may talk of the
three-o'clock-in-the-morning courage, but it is nothing to the courage
which can sit down cheerfully at this hour in the afternoon over against
one's self whom you have known all the morning, to starve out a
garrison to whom you are bound by such strong ties of sympathy. I
wonder that about this time, or say between four and five o'clock in the
afternoon, too late for the morning papers and too early for the evening
ones, there is not a general explosion heard up and down the street,
scattering a legion of antiquated and house-bred notions and whims to
the four winds for an airing,--and so the evil cure itself.

How womankind, who are confined to the house still more than men,
stand it I do not know; but I have ground to suspect that most of them
do not stand it at all. When, early in a summer afternoon, we have been
shaking the dust of the village from the skirts of our garments, making
haste past those houses with purely Doric or Gothic fronts, which have
such an air of repose about them, my companion whispers that
probably about these times their occupants are all gone to bed. Then it
is that I appreciate the beauty and the glory of architecture, which itself
never turns in, but forever stands out and erect, keeping watch over the
slumberers.
No doubt temperament, and, above all, age, have a good deal to do with
it. As a man grows older, his ability to sit still and follow in-door
occupations increases. He grows vespertinal in his habits as the evening
of life approaches, till at last he comes forth only just before sundown,
and gets all the walk that he requires in half an hour.
But the walking of which I speak has nothing in it akin to taking
exercise, as it is called, as the sick take medicine at stated hours,--as the
swinging of dumb-bells or chairs; but is itself the enterprise and
adventure of the day. If you would get exercise, go in search of the
springs of life. Think of a man's swinging dumb-bells for his health,
when those springs are bubbling up in far-off pastures unsought by
him!
Moreover, you must walk like a camel, which is said to be the only
beast which ruminates when walking. When a traveller asked
Wordsworth's servant to show him her master's study, she answered,
"Here is his library, but his study is out of doors."
Living much out of doors, in the sun and wind, will no doubt produce a
certain roughness of character,--will cause a thicker cuticle to grow
over some of the finer qualities