It is well to have in our mind the conception of a route; but without being utterly departed from—nay, without ceasing to control us within certain bounds—it admits of almost any degrees of deviation. We have known persons apparently travelling for pleasure who were afraid to turn a few miles to the right or the left, for fear of subjecting themselves to the reproach of their own conscience for infirmity of purpose. They had “chalked out a route,” and acted as if they had sworn a solemn oath to follow it. This is to be a slave among the boundless dominions of nature, where all are free. As the wind bloweth wherever it listeth, so move the moods of men’s minds, when there is nought to shackle them, and when the burden of their cares has been dropt, that for a while they may walk on air, and feel that they too have wings.
“A voice calls on me from the mountain depths,
And it must be obeyed.”
The voice was our own—and yet though but a whisper from the heart, it seemed to come from the front of yon distant precipice—sweet and wild as an echo.
On rising at dawn in the shieling, why think, much less determine, where at night we are to lay down our head? Let this be our thought:
“Among the hills a hundred homes have I:
My table in the wilderness is spread:
In these lone spots one honest smile can buy
Plain fare, warm welcome, and a rushy bed.”
If we obey any powers external to our own minds, let them be the powers of Nature—the rains, the winds, the atmosphere, sun, moon and stars. We must keep a look out—