over all mortals who loses no moment of the passing life in remembering
the past. Unless our philosophy hears the cock crow in every barn-yard
within our horizon, it is belated. That sound commonly reminds us that
we are growing rusty and antique in our employments and habits of
thought. His philosophy comes down to a more recent time than ours.
There is something suggested by it that is a newer testament--the
gospel according to this moment. He has not fallen astern; he has got
up early and kept up early, and to be where he is to be in season,
in the foremost rank of time. It is an expression of the health and
soundness of Nature, a brag for all the world,--healthiness as of a
spring burst forth, a new fountain of the Muses, to celebrate this last
instant of time. Where he lives no fugitive slave laws are passed. Who
has not betrayed his master many times since last he heard the note?
The merit of this bird's strain is in its freedom from all
plaintiveness. The singer can easily move us to tears or to laughter,
but where is he who can excite in us a pure morning joy? When, in
doleful dumps, breaking the awful stillness of our wooden sidewalk on
a Sunday, or, perchance, a watcher in the house of mourning, I hear a
cockerel crow far or near, I think to myself, "There is one of us well,
at any rate,"--and with a sudden gush return to my senses.
We had a remarkable sunset one day last November. I was walking in a
meadow, the source of a small brook, when the sun at last, just before
setting, after a cold grey day, reached a clear stratum in the horizon,
and the softest, brightest morning sunlight fell on the dry grass and
on the stems of the trees in the opposite horizon, and on the leaves
of the shrub-oaks on the hillside, while our shadows stretched long
over the meadow eastward, as if we were the only motes in its beams.
It was such a light as we could not have imagined a moment before, and
the air also was so warm and serene that nothing was wanting to make a
paradise of that meadow. When we reflected that this was not a solitary
phenomenon, never to happen again, but that it would happen for ever
and ever an infinite number of evenings, and cheer and reassure the
latest child that walked there, it was more glorious still.
The sun sets on some retired meadow, where no house is visible, with
all the glory and splendour that it lavishes on cities, and, perchance,
as it has never set before,--where there is but a solitary marsh-hawk
to have his wings gilded by it, or only a musquash looks out from his
cabin, and there is some little black-veined brook in the midst of
the marsh, just beginning to meander, winding slowly round a decaying
stump. We walked in so pure and bright a light, gilding the withered
grass and leaves, so softly and serenely bright, I thought I had never
bathed in such a golden flood, without a ripple or a murmur to it. The
west side of every wood and rising ground gleamed like the boundary of
Elysium, and the sun on our backs seemed like a gentle herdsman driving
us home at evening.
So we saunter toward the Holy Land, till one day the sun shall shine
more brightly than ever he has done, shall perchance shine into our
minds and hearts, and light up our whole lives with a great awakening
light, as warm and serene and golden as on a bank-side in autumn.
_H. D. Thoreau._
A Young Tramp
A plan had occurred to me for passing the night, which I was going to
carry into execution. This was, to lie behind the wall at the back
of my old school, in a corner where there used to be a haystack. I
imagined it would be a kind of company to have the boys, and the
bedroom where I used to tell the stories, so near me: although the boys
would know nothing of my being there, and the bedroom would yield me no
shelter.
I had had a hard day's work, and was pretty well jaded when I came
climbing out, at last, upon the level of Blackheath. It cost me some
trouble to find out Salem House; but I found it, and I found a haystack
in the corner, and I lay down by it; having first walked round the
wall, and looked up at the windows, and seen that all was dark and
silent within. Never shall I forget the lonely sensation of first lying
down, without a roof above my head.
Sleep came upon me as it came on many other outcasts, against whom
house-doors were locked, and house-dogs barked, that night--and I
dreamed of lying on my old school-bed, talking to the boys in my room;
and found myself sitting upright, with Steerforth's name upon my lips,
looking wildly at the stars that were glistening and glimmering above
me. When I remembered where I was at that untimely hour, a feeling
stole upon me that made me get up, afraid of I don't know what, and
walk about. But the faint glimmering of the stars, and the pale light
in the sky where the day was coming, reassured me: and my eyes being
very heavy, I lay down again, and slept--though with a knowledge in
my sleep that it was cold--until the warm beams of the sun, and the
ringing of the getting-up bell at Salem House, awoke me. If I could
have hoped that Steerforth was there, I would have lurked about until
he came out alone; but I knew he must have left long since. Traddles
still remained, perhaps, but it was very doubtful; and I had not
sufficient confidence in his discretion or good luck, however strong
my reliance was on his good-nature, to wish to trust him with my
situation. So I crept away from the wall as Mr Creakle's boys were
getting up, and struck into the long dusty track which I had first
known to be the Dover Road when I was one of them, and when I little
expected that any eyes would ever see me the wayfarer I was now, upon
it.
What a different Sunday morning from the old Sunday morning at
Yarmouth! In due time I heard the church-bells ringing, as I plodded
on; and I met people who were going to church; and I passed a church or
two where the congregation were inside, and the sound of singing came
out into the sunshine, while the beadle sat and cooled himself in the
shade of the porch, or stood beneath the yew-tree, with his hand to his
forehead, glowering at me going by. But the peace and rest of the old
Sunday morning were on everything, except me. That was the difference.
I felt quite wicked in my dirt and dust, with my tangled hair. But for
the quiet picture I had conjured up, of my mother in her youth and
beauty, weeping by the fire, and my aunt relenting to her, I hardly
think I should have had courage to go on until next day. But it always
went before me, and I followed.
I got, that Sunday, through three-and-twenty miles on the straight
road, though not very easily, for I was new to that kind of toil. I
see myself, as evening closes in, coming over the bridge at Rochester,
footsore and tired, and eating bread that I had bought for supper.
One or two little houses, with the notice, "Lodgings for Travellers,"
hanging out, had tempted me; but I was afraid of spending the few pence
I had, and was even more afraid of the vicious looks of the trampers
I had met or overtaken. I sought no shelter, therefore, but the sky;
and toiling into Chatham,--which, in that night's aspect, is a mere
dream of chalk, and drawbridges, and mastless ships in a muddy river,
roofed like Noah's arks,--crept, at last, upon a sort of grass-grown
battery overhanging a lane, where a sentry was walking to and fro. Here
I lay down, near a cannon; and, happy in the society of the sentry's
footsteps, though he knew no more of my being above him than the boys
at Salem House had known of my lying by the wall, slept soundly until
morning.
_Charles Dickens,--"David Copperfield."_
"BETTER THAN THE GIG!"
Mr Pecksniff's horse being regarded in the light of a sacred animal,
only to be driven by him, the chief priest of that temple, or by some
person distinctly nominated for the time being to that high office by
himself, the two young men agreed to walk to Salisbury; and so, when
the time came, they set off on foot; which was, after all, a better
mode of travelling than in the gig, as the weather was very cold and
very dry.
Better! A rare strong, hearty, healthy walk--four statute miles an
hour--preferable to that rumbling, tumbling, jolting, shaking,
scraping, creaking, villainous old gig? Why, the two things will not
admit of comparison. It is an insult to the walk, to set them side by
side. Where is an instance of a gig having ever circulated a man's
blood, unless when, putting him in danger of his neck, it awakened
in his veins and in his ears, and all along his spine, a tingling
heat, much more peculiar than agreeable? When did a gig ever sharpen
anybody's wits and energies, unless it was when the horse bolted, and,
crashing madly down a steep hill with a stone wall at the bottom, his
desperate circumstances suggested to the only gentleman left inside,
some novel and unheard-of mode of dropping out behind? Better than the
gig!
The air was cold, Tom; so it was, there was no denying it; but would
it have been more genial in the gig? The blacksmith's fire burned very
bright, and leaped up high, as though it wanted men to warm; but would
it have been less tempting, looked at from the clammy cushions of a
gig? The wind blew keenly, nipping the features of the hardy wight who
fought his way along; blinding him with his own hair if he had enough
of it, and wintry dust if he hadn't; stopped his breath as though he
had been soused in a cold bath; tearing aside his wrappings-up, and
whistling in the very marrow of his bones; but it would have done all
this a hundred times more fiercely to a man in a gig, wouldn't it? A
fig for gigs!
Better than the gig! When were travellers by wheels and hoofs seen with
such red-hot cheeks as those? when were they so good-humouredly and
merrily bloused? when did their laughter ring upon the air, as they
turned them round, what time the stronger gusts came sweeping up; and,
facing round again as they passed by, dashed on, in such a glow of
ruddy health as nothing could keep pace with, but the high spirits it
engendered? Better than the gig! Why, here _is_ a man in a gig coming
the same way now. Look at him as he passes his whip into his left hand,
chafes his numbed right fingers on his granite leg, and beats those
marble toes of his upon the footboard. Ha, ha, ha! Who would exchange
this rapid hurry of the blood for yonder stagnant misery, though its
pace were twenty miles for one?
Better than the gig! No man in a gig could have such interest in the
milestones. No man in a gig could see, or feel, or think, like merry
users of their legs. How, as the wind sweeps on, upon these breezy
downs, it tracks its flight in darkening ripples on the grass, and
smoothest shadows on the hills! Look round and round upon this bare
black plain, and see even here, upon a winter's day, how beautiful
the shadows are! Alas! it is the nature of their kind to be so. The
loveliest things in life, Tom, are but shadows; and they come and go,
and change and fade away, as rapidly as these!
Another mile, and then begins a fall of snow, making the crow, who
skims away so close above the ground to shirk the wind, a blot of ink
upon the landscape. But though it drives and drifts against them as
they walk, stiffening on their skirts, and freezing in the lashes of
their eyes, they wouldn't have it fall more sparingly, no, not so much
as by a single flake, although they had to go a score of miles. And,
lo! the towers of the Old Cathedral rise before them, even now! and
by-and-bye they come into the sheltered streets, made strangely silent
by their white carpet; and so to the Inn for which they are bound;
where they present such flushed and burning faces to the cold waiter,
and are so brimful of vigour, that he almost feels assaulted by their
presence; and, having nothing to oppose to the attack (being fresh, or
rather stale, from the blazing fire in the coffee-room), is quite put
out of his pale countenance.
_Charles Dickens_,--"_Martin Chuzzlewit_."
De Quincey leads the Simple Life
There were already, even in those days of 1802, numerous inns, erected
at reasonable distances from each other, for the accommodation
of tourists: and no sort of disgrace attached in Wales, as too
generally upon the great roads of England, to the pedestrian style of
travelling. Indeed, the majority of those whom I met as fellow-tourists
in the quiet little cottage-parlours of the Welsh posting-houses
were pedestrian travellers. All the way from Shrewsbury through
Llangollen, Llanrwst, Conway, Bangor, then turning to the left at right
angles through Carnarvon, and so on to Dolgelly (the chief town of
Merionethshire), Tan-y-Bwlch, Harlech, Barmouth, and through the sweet
solitudes of Cardiganshire, or turning back sharply towards the English
border through the gorgeous wood scenery of Montgomeryshire--everywhere
at intermitting distances of twelve to sixteen miles, I found the
most comfortable inns. One feature indeed of repose in all this
chain of solitary resting-houses--viz., the fact that none of them
rose above two storeys in height--was due to the modest scale on
which the travelling system of the Principality had moulded itself
in correspondence to the calls of England, which then (but be it
remembered this _then_ was in 1802, a year of peace) threw a very
small proportion of her vast migratory population annually into this
sequestered channel. No huge Babylonian centres of commerce towered
into the clouds on these sweet sylvan routes: no hurricanes of haste,
or fever-stricken armies of horses and flying chariots, tormented the
echoes in these mountain recesses. And it has often struck me that a
world-wearied man, who sought for the peace of monasteries separated
from their gloomy captivity--peace and silence such as theirs combined
with the large liberty of nature--could not do better than revolve
amongst these modest inns in the five northern Welsh counties of
Denbigh, Montgomery, Carnarvon, Merioneth, and Cardigan. Sleeping, for
instance, and breakfasting at Carnarvon; then, by an easy nine-mile
walk, going forwards to dinner at Bangor, thence to Aber--nine miles;
or to Llanberris; and so on for ever, accomplishing seventy to ninety
or one hundred miles in a week. This, upon actual experiment, and for
week after week, I found the most delightful of lives. Here was the
eternal motion of winds and rivers, or of the Wandering Jew liberated
from the persecution which compelled him to move, and turned his breezy
freedom into a killing captivity. Happier life I cannot imagine than
this vagrancy, if the weather were but tolerable, through endless
successions of changing beauty, and towards evening a courteous
welcome in a pretty rustic home--that having all the luxuries of a
fine hotel (in particular some luxuries[1] that are almost sacred to
Alpine regions), was at the same time liberated from the inevitable
accompaniments of such hotels in great cities or at great travelling
stations--viz., the tumult and uproar.
Life on this model was but too delightful; and to myself especially,
that am never thoroughly in health unless when having pedestrian
exercise to the extent of fifteen miles at the most, and eight to ten
miles at the least. Living thus, a man earned his daily enjoyment. But
what did it cost? About half a guinea a day: whilst my boyish allowance
was not a third of this. The flagrant health, health boiling over
in fiery rapture, which ran along, side by side, with exercise on
this scale, whilst all the while from morning to night I was inhaling
mountain air, soon passed into a hateful scourge. Perquisites to
servants and a bed would have absorbed the whole of my weekly guinea.
My policy therefore was, if the autumnal air was warm enough, to save
this expense of a bed and the chambermaid by sleeping amongst ferns
or furze upon a hillside; and perhaps with a cloak of sufficient
_weight_ as well as compass, or an Arab's burnoose, this would have
been no great hardship. But then in the daytime what an oppressive
burden to carry! So perhaps it was as well that I had no cloak at all.
I did, however, for some weeks try the plan of carrying a canvas tent
manufactured by myself, and not larger than an ordinary umbrella: but
to pitch this securely I found difficult; and on windy nights it became
a troublesome companion. As winter drew near, this bivouacking system
became too dangerous to attempt. Still one may bivouack decently,
barring rain and wind, up to the end of October. And I counted, on
the whole, that in a fortnight I spent nine nights abroad. There are,
as perhaps the reader knows by experience, no jaguars in Wales--nor
pumas--nor anacondas--nor (generally speaking) any Thugs. What I feared
most, but perhaps only through ignorance of zoology, was, lest, whilst
my sleeping face was upturned to the stars, some one of the many little
Brahminical-looking cows on the Cambrian hills, one or other, might
poach her foot into the centre of my face. I do not suppose any fixed
hostility of that nature to English faces in Welsh cows: but everywhere
I observe in the feminine mind something of beautiful caprice, a floral
exuberance of that charming wilfulness which characterises our dear
human sisters I fear through all worlds. Against Thugs I had Juvenal's
license to be careless in the emptiness of my pockets (_cantabit vacuus
coram latrone viator_). But I fear that Juvenal's license will not
always hold water. There are people bent upon cudgelling one who will
persist in excusing one's having nothing but a bad shilling in one's
purse, without reading in that Juvenalian _vacuitas_ any privilege or
license of exemption from the general fate of travellers that intrude
upon the solitude of robbers.
_Thomas de Quincey._
FOOTNOTE:
[1] But a luxury of another class, and quite peculiar to Wales, was in
those days (I hope in these) the Welsh harp, in attendance at every inn.
A Resolution
I had long ago determined to leave London as soon as the means should
be in my power, and, now that they were, I determined to leave the
Great City; yet I felt some reluctance to go. I would fain have pursued
the career of original authorship which had just opened itself to me,
and have written other tales of adventure. The bookseller had given
me encouragement enough to do so; he had assured me that he should be
always happy to deal with me for an article (that was the word) similar
to the one I had brought him, provided my terms were moderate; and the
bookseller's wife, by her complimentary language, had given me yet more
encouragement. But for some months past I had been far from well, and
my original indisposition, brought on partly by the peculiar atmosphere
of the Big City, partly by anxiety of mind, had been much increased
by the exertions which I had been compelled to make during the last
few days. I felt that, were I to remain where I was, I should die, or
become a confirmed valetudinarian. I would go forth into the country,
travelling on foot, and, by exercise and inhaling pure air, endeavour
to recover my health, leaving my subsequent movements to be determined
by Providence.
But whither should I bend my course? Once or twice I thought of walking
home to the old town, stay some time with my mother and my brother, and
enjoy the pleasant walks in the neighbourhood; but, though I wished
very much to see my mother and my brother, and felt much disposed to
enjoy the said pleasant walks, the old town was not exactly the place
to which I wished to go at this present juncture. I was afraid the
people would ask, Where are your Northern Ballads? Where are your
alliterative translations from Ab Gwilym--of which you were always
talking, and with which you promised to astonish the world? Now, in the
event of such interrogations, what could I answer? It is true I had
compiled Newgate Lives and Trials, and had written the life of Joseph
Sell, but I was afraid that the people of the old town would scarcely
consider these as equivalents for the Northern Ballads and the songs of
Ab Gwilym. I would go forth and wander in any direction but that of the
old town.
But how one's sensibility on any particular point diminishes with
time; at present, I enter the old town perfectly indifferent as to what
the people may be thinking on the subject of the songs and ballads.
With respect to the people themselves, whether, like my sensibility,
their curiosity has altogether evaporated, or whether, which is at
least equally probable, they never entertained any, one thing is
certain, that never in a single instance have they troubled me with any
remarks on the subject of the songs and ballads.
As it was my intention to travel on foot, with a bundle and a stick, I
despatched my trunk containing some few clothes and books to the old
town. My preparations were soon made; in about three days I was in
readiness to start.
STONEHENGE
After standing still a minute or two, considering what I should do, I
moved down what appeared to be the street of a small straggling town;
presently I passed by a church, which rose indistinctly on my right
hand; anon there was the rustling of foliage and the rushing of waters.
I reached a bridge, beneath which a small stream was running in the
direction of the south. I stopped and leaned over the parapet, for I
have always loved to look upon streams, especially at the still hours.
"What stream is this, I wonder?" said I, as I looked down from the
parapet into the water, which whirled and gurgled below.
Leaving the bridge, I ascended a gentle acclivity, and presently
reached what appeared to be a tract of moory undulating ground. It
was now tolerably light, but there was a mist or haze abroad which
prevented my seeing objects with much precision. I felt chill in the
damp air of the early morn, and walked rapidly forward. In about half
an hour I arrived where the road divided into two, at an angle or
tongue of dark green sward. "To the right or the left?" said I, and
forthwith took, without knowing why, the left-hand road, along which I
proceeded about a hundred yards, when, in the midst of the tongue of
sward formed by the two roads, collaterally with myself, I perceived
what I at first conceived to be a small grove of blighted trunks of
oaks, barked and grey. I stood still for a moment, and then, turning
off the road, advanced slowly towards it over the sward; as I drew
nearer, I perceived that the objects which had attracted my curiosity,
and which formed a kind of circle, were not trees, but immense upright
stones. A thrill pervaded my system; just before me were two, the
mightiest of the whole, tall as the stems of proud oaks, supporting on
their tops a huge transverse stone, and forming a wonderful doorway. I
knew now where I was, and, laying down my stick and bundle, and taking
off my hat, I advanced slowly, and cast myself--it was folly, perhaps,
but I could not help what I did--cast myself, with my face on the dewy
earth, in the middle of the portal of giants, beneath the transverse
stone.
The spirit of Stonehenge was strong upon me!
And after I had remained with my face on the ground for some time, I
arose, placed my hat on my head, and, taking up my stick and bundle,
wandered around the wondrous circle, examining each individual stone,
from the greatest to the least; and then, entering by the great door,
seated myself upon an immense broad stone, one side of which was
supported by several small ones, and the other slanted upon the earth;
and there in deep meditation, I sat for an hour or two, till the sun
shone in my face above the tall stones of the eastern side.
And as I still sat there, I heard the noise of bells, and presently a
large number of sheep came browsing past the circle of stones; two or
three entered, and grazed upon what they could find, and soon a man
also entered the circle at the northern side.
"Early here, sir," said the man, who was tall, and dressed in a dark
green slop, and had all the appearance of a shepherd; "a traveller, I
suppose?"
"Yes," said I, "I am a traveller; are these sheep yours?"
"They are, sir; that is, they are my master's. A strange place this,
sir," said he, looking at the stones; "ever here before?"
"Never in body, frequently in mind."
"Heard of the stones, I suppose; no wonder--all the people of the plain
talk of them."
"What do the people of the plain say of them?"
"Why, they say--How did they ever come here?"
"Do they not suppose them to have been brought?"
"Who should have brought them?"
"I have read that they were brought by many thousand men."
"Where from?"
"Ireland."
"How did they bring them?"
"I don't know."
"And what did they bring them for?"
"To form a temple, perhaps."
"What is that?"
"A place to worship God in."
"A strange place to worship God in."
"Why?"
"It has no roof."
"Yes, it has."
"Where?" said the man, looking up.
"What do you see above you?"
"The sky."
"Well?"
"Well!"
"Have you anything to say?"
"How did those stones come here?"