o that, like
the hero of Newman's hymn,

"I do not ask to see
The distant scene; one step enough for me."

And, lastly, I have a reason which will perhaps seem a far-fetched one.
Travel is essentially a distraction, and I do not want to be distracted
any more. One of the mistakes that people make, in these Western
latitudes, is to be possessed by an inordinate desire to drown thought.
The aim of many men whom I know seems to me to be occupied in some
absolutely definite way, so that they may be as far as possible
unaware of their own existence. Anything to avoid reflection! A normal
Englishman does not care very much what the work and value of his
occupation is, as long as he is occupied; and I am not at all sure that
we came into the world to be occupied. Christ, in the Gospel story,
rebuked the busy Martha for her bustling anxieties, her elaborate
attentions to her guests, and praised the leisurely Mary for desiring to
sit and hear Him talk. Socrates spent his life in conversation. I do not
say that contemplation is a duty, but I cannot help thinking that we
are not forbidden to scrutinise life, to wonder what it is all about, to
study its problems, to apprehend its beauty and significance. We admire
a man who goes on making money long after he has made far more than he
needs; we think a life honourably spent in editing Greek books. Socrates
in one of Plato's dialogues quotes the opinion of a philosopher to the
effect that when a man has made enough to live upon, he should begin
to practise virtue. "I think he should begin even earlier," says the
interlocutor; and I am wholly in agreement with him. Travel is one of
the expedients to which busy men resort, in order that they may forget
their existence. I do not venture to think this exactly culpable, but I
feel sure that it is a pity that people do not do less and think more.
If a man asks what good comes from thinking, I can only retort by asking
what good comes from the multiplication of unnecessary activity. I am
quite as much at a loss as any one else to say what is the object of
life, but I do not feel any doubt that we are not sent into the world
to be in a fuss. Like the lobster in The Water-Babies, I cry, "Let me
alone; I want to think!" because I believe that that occupation is at
least as profitable as many others.

And then, too, without travelling more than a few miles from my door,
I can see things fully as enchanting as I can