Chapter XIX: 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."

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University Press: John Wilson & Son, Cambridge.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Road and the Roadside, by Burton Willis Potter