Indolence is a virtue. It comes from two Latin words, which mean
freedom from anxiety or grief. And that is a wholesome state of
mind. There are times and seasons when it is even a pious and
blessed state of mind. Not to be in a hurry; not to be ambitious or
jealous or resentful; not to feel envious of anybody; not to fret
about to-day nor worry about to-morrow,--that is the way we ought
all to feel at some time in our lives; and that is the kind of
indolence in which our brook faithfully encouraged us.
'T is an age in which such encouragement is greatly needed. We have
fallen so much into the habit of being always busy that we know not
how nor when to break it off with firmness. Our business tags after
us into the midst of our pleasures, and we are ill at ease beyond
reach of the telegraph and the daily newspaper. We agitate
ourselves amazingly about a multitude of affairs,--the politics of
Europe, the state of the weather all around the globe, the marriages
and festivities of very rich people, and the latest novelties in
crime, none of which are of vital interest to us. The more earnest
souls among us are cultivating a vicious tendency to Summer Schools,
and Seaside Institutes of Philosophy, and Mountaintop Seminaries of
Modern Languages.
We toil assiduously to cram something more into those scrap-bags of
knowledge which we fondly call our minds. Seldom do we rest
tranquil long enough to find out whether there is anything in them
already that is of real value,--any native feeling, any original
thought, which would like to come out and sun itself for a while in
quiet.
For my part, I am sure that I stand more in need of a deeper sense
of contentment with life than of a knowledge of the Bulgarian
tongue, and that all the paradoxes of Hegel would not do me so much
good as one hour of vital sympathy with the careless play of
children. The Marquis du Paty de l'Huitre may espouse the daughter
and heiress of the Honourable James Bulger with all imaginable pomp,
if he will. CA NE M'INTRIGUE POINT DU TOUT. I would rather stretch
myself out on the grass and watch yonder pair of kingbirds carrying
luscious flies to their young ones in the nest, or chasing away the
marauding crow with shrill cries of anger.
What a pretty battle it is, and in a good cause, too! Waste no pity
on that big black ruffian. He is a villain and a thief, an egg-
stealer, an ogre, a devourer of unfledged innocents. The kingbirds
are not afraid of him, knowing that he is a coward at heart. They
fly upon him, now from below, now from above. They buffet him from
one side and from the other. They circle round him like a pair of
swift gunboats round an antiquated man-of-war. They even perch upon
his back and dash their beaks into his neck and pluck feathers from
his piratical plumage. At last his lumbering flight has carried him
far enough away, and the brave little defenders fly back to the
nest, poising above it on quivering wings for a moment, then dipping
down swiftly in pursuit of some passing insect. The war is over.
Courage has had its turn. Now tenderness comes into play. The
young birds, all ignorant of the passing danger, but always
conscious of an insatiable hunger, are uttering loud remonstrances
and plaintive demands for food. Domestic life begins again, and
they that sow not, neither gather into barns, are fed.
Do you suppose that this wondrous stage of earth was set, and all
the myriad actors on it
taught to play their parts, without a spectator in view? Do you
think that there is anything better for you and me to do, now and
then, than to sit down quietly in a humble seat, and watch a few
scenes in the drama? Has it not something to say to us, and do we
not understand it best when we have a peaceful heart and free from
dolor? That is what IN-DOLENCE means, and there are no better
teachers of it then the light-hearted birds and untoiling flowers,
commended by the wisest of all masters to our consideration; nor can
we find a more pleasant pedagogue to lead us to their school than a
small, merry brook.
And this was what our chosen stream did for us. It was always
luring us away from an artificial life into restful companionship
with nature.
Suppose, for example, we found ourselves growing a bit dissatisfied
with the domestic arrangements of our little cottage, and coveting
the splendours of a grander establishment. An afternoon on the
brook was a good cure for that folly. Or suppose a day came when
there was an imminent prospect of many formal calls. We had an
important engagement up the brook; and while we kept it we could
think with satisfaction of the joy of our callers when they
discovered that they could discharge their whole duty with a piece
of pasteboard. This was an altruistic pleasure. Or suppose that a
few friends were coming to supper, and there were no flowers for the
supper-table. We could easily have bought them in the village. But
it was far more to our liking to take the children up the brook, and
come back with great bunches of wild white honeysuckle and blue
flag, or posies of arrowheads and cardinal-flowers. Or suppose that
I was very unwisely and reluctantly labouring at some serious piece
of literary work, promised for the next number of THE SCRIBBLER'S
REVIEW; and suppose that in the midst of this labour the sad news
came to me that the fisherman had forgotten to leave any fish at our
cottage that morning. Should my innocent babes and my devoted wife
be left to perish of starvation while I continued my poetical
comparison of the two Williams, Shakspeare and Watson? Inhuman
selfishness! Of course it was my plain duty to sacrifice my
inclinations, and get my fly-rod, and row away across the bay, with
a deceptive appearance of cheerfulness, to catch a basket of trout
in--
III
THE SECRETS OF INTIMACY
THERE! I came within eight letters of telling the name of the
brook, a thing that I am firmly resolved not to do. If it were an
ordinary fishless little river, or even a stream with nothing better
than grass-pike and sunfish in it, you should have the name and
welcome. But when a brook contains speckled trout, and when their
presence is known to a very few persons who guard the secret as the
dragon guarded the golden apples of the Hesperides, and when the
size of the trout is large beyond the dreams of hope,--well, when
did you know a true angler who would willingly give away the name of
such a brook as that? You may find an encourager of indolence in
almost any stream of the South Side, and I wish you joy of your
brook. But if you want to catch trout in mine you must discover it
for yourself, or perhaps go with me some day, and solemnly swear
secrecy.
That was the way in which the freedom of the stream was conferred
upon me. There was a small boy in the village, the son of rich but
respectable parents, and an inveterate all-round sportsman, aged
fourteen years, with whom I had formed a close intimacy. I was
telling him about the pleasure of exploring the idle brook, and
expressing the opinion that in bygone days, (in that mythical "forty
years ago" when all fishing was good), there must have been trout in
it. A certain look came over the boy's face. He gazed at me
solemnly, as if he were searching the inmost depths of my character
before he spoke.
"Say, do you want to know something?"
I assured him that an increase of knowledge was the chief aim of my
life.
"Do you promise you won't tell?"
I expressed my readiness to be bound to silence by the most awful
pledge that the law would sanction.
"Wish you may die?"
I not only wished that I might die, but was perfectly certain that I
would die.
"Well, what's the matter with catching trout in that brook now? Do
you want to go with me next Saturday? I saw four or five bully ones
last week, and got three."
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