We are apt to picture the mediæval pilgrim as a man travelling in some
ease and comfort. The nine and twenty sundry folk that met one April in
the Tabard Inn seem a well-living band:--
‘And wel we weren esed atte beste.’
But those who went on a longer journey encountered many hardships.
The English pilgrim to the shrine of St. James at Compostella usually
travelled by sea, in cramped quarters on a small boat; on which,
besides the necessity of crossing the Bay of Biscay, he frequently
found an unsympathetic captain:--
‘Hale the bowelyne! now, vere the shete!
Cooke, make redy anoon our mete,
Our pylgryms have no lust to ete,
I pray God yeve hem rest!’
And at the worst moment up comes a hearty sailor, shouting: ‘Cheer
up! in a moment we shall be in a storm.’ On the journey from Venice
to Jaffa, says a fellow of Eton, a sharp look-out must be kept on the
captain, lest he give you bad meat; the pilgrim must take with him hens
and chickens; on arrival at Jaffa there will be a hideous scramble for
mules, and your mule-man will expect a tip.
The pilgrim who endured these discomforts not only gained much
spiritual benefit for himself, he benefited also his fellow-men. On
his return he must have been amazingly good company, and brought a
fresh interest into his neighbours’ lives, who vowed to perform a
similar journey, profiting by their forerunner’s experience. The lot
of those fortunate ones who climbed in the ‘sixties was very similar.
They set out to explore some little-known district, thinking more of
passing from place to place than of ascending a peak. They possessed
the pilgrim spirit in the unity of their object, in their endurance,
and especially in their attitude towards adversity and failure. They
travelled of set purpose to a comparatively barbarous land, where often
there was no safe lodging for the night:--
‘What care I for a goose-feather bed,
With a sheet turned down so bravely--O!’
Moreover, they went out amid the jeers of their friends, and it needed
more than ordinary faith to confirm them in their search for this
mysterious good. They had, through hours of toil and vexation, the
doubtful joy of discovering a thousand errors in the map. The modern
climber owes a great debt to their exploration; for although he may
find a subject of conversation in his sufferings from tourists and
trains, he finds better paths and better inns, and stands far less
chance of a night upon the rocks.
The gods of the ‘sixties did not exhaust the Alps. Rather, they created
a new form of enthusiasm in the world. Alpine climbing has developed
rapidly, and on somewhat similar lines to the public schools. It is no
longer necessary to rise at five a.m. and break the ice before washing;
therefore a larger number of boys can enjoy the full benefits of school
life. Climbing is now no longer reserved for those who have leisure and
money; it has become the most democratic of sports, thanks largely to
the labours of the early explorers. The fact that the mountains have
been, as it were, thrown open to the public has brought a wondrous
amount of interest into many colourless lives.
Some day this enthusiasm, which is discernible even in the mad rush
of tourists, may die out. At present it flourishes alarmingly, with
attendant evils; but the purpose which first drew men to the Alps fifty
years ago and more remains unspoiled even by guide-books and tourists:--
‘Low as the singer lies in the field of heather,
Songs of his fashion bring the swains together.’
The air on the mountains, the need for endurance, the appointment
with the higher self, continue and will continue to make their appeal.
Further, in spite of railways and huts, discomforts abound; for the
sun still shines as brightly as in 1860, and the labour of wading in
soft snow does not decrease with the ages. In this era of enlightenment
there is not denied to men the privilege of being dirty; the chalet
which flows with milk for the descending climber still recalls memories
of the Augean stables and makes one sigh for Heracles. Straw is the
order in most club huts, and the climber must prepare his own food.
So long as discomforts exist the pilgrim’s endurance is demanded, and
there still remain plenty of annoyances to make the traveller ‘nasty,
brutish and short.’
Again, it is not only by physical trials such as these, but by mental
trials also, that the virtues of the pilgrim are called into being.
Christian, more fortunate than most guideless wanderers, dropped his
burden early, and he becomes a more interesting as well as a finer
person when he is busy fighting some subtle temptation of mind. The
mountain pilgrim will have to fight as hard for his peace of mind;
he is a prey, as was Christian, to ‘the carnal arguments of one Mr.
Worldly Wiseman.’ The latter finds his way, in body as well as in
spirit, to the most secluded corners of the Alps. He is certainly
what many would call a ‘centrist,’ except that he gave up climbing
at an early age. He delights in pointing out the futility of risking
an otherwise valuable neck in the pursuit of discomfort and vain
glory; in his view, the climber has nothing to lose and everything
to gain by shirking all difficulties. He is very deft in forcing his
convictions on others, and his arguments will recur to the traveller
with distressing force at inconvenient moments. He knows that almost
every climber has on occasion vowed never to climb again, and it is a
constant marvel to him that so many break this vow within a few hours’
time. It needs all the climber’s resolution, supported by a prospect of
sensuous delights as a reward of labour, to repel his promptings; but
it is a great joy to confute him ‘ambulando.’ He is fighting a losing
battle, which has lasted fifty years; but although there is little hope
of victory, the battle is never entirely lost so long as the tale of
man’s slackness is undiminished.