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 inexhaustible.

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.