Pagan Papers | Page 6

us they give
not poverty nor riches but a few good books in whole bindings.
Dowered with these and (if it be vouchsafed) a cup of Burgundy that is
sound even if it be not old, we can leave to others the foaming grape of
Eastern France that was vintaged in '74, and with it the whole range of
shilling shockers, -- the Barmecidal feast of the purposeful novelist --
yea, even the countless series that tell of Eminent Women and

Successful Men.
Loafing
When the golden Summer has rounded languidly to his close, when
Autumn has been carried forth in russet winding-sheet, then all good
fellows who look upon holidays as a chief end of life return from moor
and stream and begin to take stock of gains and losses. And the wisest,
realising that the time of action is over while that of reminiscence has
begun, realise too that the one is pregnant with greater pleasures than
the other -- that action, indeed, is only the means to an end of reflection
and appreciation. Wisest of all, the Loafer stands apart supreme. For he,
of one mind with the philosopher as to the end, goes straight to it at
once; and his happy summer has accordingly been spent in those
subjective pleasures of the mind whereof the others, the men of muscle
and peeled faces, are only just beginning to taste.
And yet though he may a little despise (or rather pity) them, the Loafer
does not dislike nor altogether shun them. Far from it: they are very
necessary to him. For ``Suave mari magno'' is the motto of your true
Loafer; and it is chiefly by keeping ever in view the struggles and the
clamorous jostlings of the unenlightened making holiday that he is able
to realise the bliss of his own condition and maintain his
self-satisfaction at boiling-point. And so is he never very far away from
the track beaten by the hurrying Philistine hoof, but hovers more or less
on the edge of it, where, the sole fixed star amidst whirling
constellations, he may watch the mad world ``glance, and nod, and
hurry by.''
There are many such centres of contemplation along the West Coast of
Scotland. Few places are better loafing-ground than a pier, with its
tranquil ``lucid interval'' between steamers, the ever recurrent throb of
paddle-wheel, the rush and foam of beaten water among the piles,
splash of ropes and rumble of gangways, and all the attendant hurry and
scurry of the human morrice. Here, tanquam in speculo, the Loafer as
he lounges may, by attorney as it were, touch gently every stop in the
great organ of the emotions of mortality. Rapture of meeting, departing
woe, love at first sight, disdain, laughter, indifference -- he may
experience them all, but attenuated and as if he saw them in a dream; as
if, indeed, he were Heine's god in dream on a mountain-side. Let the
drowsy deity awake and all these puppets, emanations of his dream,

will vanish into the nothing whence they came. And these emotions
may be renewed each morning; if a fair one sail to-day, be sure that one
as fair will land to-morrow. The supply is inexhaustible.
But in the South perhaps the happiest loafing-ground is the gift of
Father Thames; for there again the contrast of violent action, with its
blisters, perspiration, and the like, throws into fine relief the bliss of
``quietism.'' I know one little village in the upper reaches where loafing
may be pushed to high perfection. Here the early hours of the morning
are vexed by the voices of boaters making their way down the little
street to the river. The most of them go staggering under hampers,
bundles of waterproofs, and so forth. Their voices are clamant of feats
to be accomplished: they will row, they will punt, they will paddle, till
they weary out the sun. All this the Loafer hears through the open door
of his cottage, where in his shirt-sleeves he is dallying with his bacon,
as a gentleman should. He is the only one who has had a comfortable
breakfast -- and he knows it. Later he will issue forth and stroll down in
their track to the bridge. The last of these Argonauts is pulling lustily
forth; the river is dotted with evanishing blazers. Upon all these
lunatics a pitiless Phoebus shines triumphant. The Loafer sees the last
of them off the stage, turns his back on it, and seeks the shady side of
the street.
A holy calm possesses the village now; the foreign element has passed
away with shouting and waving of banners, and its natural life of
somnolency is in evidence at last. And first, as a true Loafer should, let
him respectfully greet each several village