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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

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 dog. Arcades ambo --
loafers likewise -- they lie there in the warm dust, each outside his
own door, ready to return the smallest courtesy. Their own lords and
masters are not given to the exchange of compliments nor to greetings
in the market-place. The dog is generally the better gentleman, and he
is aware of it; and he duly appreciates the loafer, who is not too
proud to pause a moment, change the news, and pass the time of day. He
will mark his sense of this attention by rising from his dust-divan
and accompanying his caller some steps on his way. But he will stop
short of his neighbour's dust-patch; for the morning is really too hot
for a shindy. So, by easy stages (the street is not a long one: six
dogs will see it out), the Loafer quits the village; and now the world
is before him. Shall he sit on a gate and smoke? or lie on the grass
and smoke? or smoke aimlessly and at large along the road? Such a
choice of happiness is distracting; but perhaps the last course is the
best -- as needing the least mental effort of selection. Hardly,
however, has he fairly started his first daydream when the snappish
``ting'' of a bellkin recalls him to realities. By comes the
bicyclist: dusty, sweating, a piteous thing to look upon. But the
irritation of the strepitant metal has jarred the Loafer's always
exquisite nerves: he is fain to climb a gate and make his way towards
solitude and the breezy downs.

Up here all vestiges of a sordid humanity disappear. The Loafer is
alone with the south-west wind and the blue sky. Only a carolling of
larks and a tinkling from distant flocks break the brooding noonday
stillness; above, the wind-hover hangs motionless, a black dot on the
blue. Prone on his back on the springy turf, gazing up into the sky,
his fleshy integument seems to drop away, and the spirit ranges at
will among the tranquil clouds. This way Nirvana nearest lies. Earth
no longer obtrudes herself; possibly somewhere a thousand miles or so
below him the thing still ``spins like a fretful midge.'' The Loafer
knows not nor cares. His is now an astral body, and through golden
spaces of imagination his soul is winging her untrammelled flight. And
there he really might remain for ever, but that his vagrom spirit is
called back to earth by a gentle but resistless, very human summons,
-- a gradual, consuming, Pantagruelian, god-like, thirst: a thirst to
thank Heaven on. So, with a sigh half of regret, half of anticipation,
he bends his solitary steps towards the nearest inn. Tobacco for one
is good; to commune with oneself and be still is truest wisdom; but
beer is a thing of deity -- beer is divine.

Later the Loafer may decently make some concession to popular taste by
strolling down to the river and getting out his boat. With one paddle
out he will drift down the stream: just brushing the flowering rush
and the meadow-sweet and taking in as peculiar gifts the varied sweets
of even. The loosestrife is his, and the arrow-head: his the distant
moan of the weir; his are the glories, amber and scarlet and silver,
of the sunset-haunted surface. By-and-by the boaters will pass him
homeward-bound. All are blistered and sore: his withers are unwrung.
Most are too tired and hungry to see the sunset glories; no corporeal
pangs clog his ęsthesis -- his perceptive faculty. Some have
quarrelled in the day and are no longer on speaking terms; he is at
peace with himself and with the whole world. Of all that lay them down
in the little village that night, his sleep will be the surest and the
sweetest. For not even the blacksmith himself will have better claim
to have earned a night's repose.

Kenneth Grahame