Of Walks and Walking Tours: An Attempt to find a Philosophy and a CreedHaultain, Arnold
Philosophy
Of Walks and Walking Tours: An Attempt to find a Philosophy and a Creed
Haultain, Arnold
Outdoor life; Walking
I write, sitting ensconced, sheltered from sun and wind, between two
huge roots of the stump of a burned pine on a bare hill overlooking the
river. Not a place in which to see much, you would say. Pardon me,
you are wrong. You, shut in between four superficies of wall-paper,
a whitewashed ceiling, and a carpet, know absolutely nothing of the
clouded sky as I know it, gazing at it unconfined from horizon to
zenith. Far overhead, the delicatest vapoury cirri fleck the purest
blue; in the distance, bold, rounded, white cumuli rise above a misty
haze of grey, against which as a background rise in points and
curves and lines dark green firs and round-topped birches and emerald
hill-sides; and below these, and nearer, comes the water--in no two
spots the same--ruffled and unruffled, wavy and still, dark blue and
lead-grey, in eddies and in currents; here dimpled, there like a
mirror; now dazzling you with a thousand flashing, floating stars; there
sullenly bearing up the reflections and shadows of the great, dark trees
above it--at one moment thus, and while you say it, otherwise.--For
a symbol of God--serene, shapeless, profound, in eternal repose,
unchanging, all-embracing, majestic--give me the blue sky; for a
symbol of Man--tossed, shapen, ever at strife, changeful, unresting,
evanescent, with dark depths and foul weeds, sombre and woeful when
deprived of the light of heaven, and beautiful only when beautified by
skyey tints--give me the water. And after the water, and closer, comes
my foreground--tufted grass and brown soil, with dandelions and clover
and mullein, and here and there a piece of glistering granite or a
quaint-shaped, rotting tree trunk. Amongst these hops fearless, while I
sit still and silent with half-closed eyes, the thrush or the grey-bird,
chasing insects a few feet from my foot; while above me, on the
very stump against which I lean, perches the various-coloured
high-holder.--Truly, it seems as if Nature had taken me to be one with
her, recognised me as part of her manifold immensity, looked upon me as
a consort, a co-mate.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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