IT must not be imagined that a walking tour, as some would have us fancy,
is merely a better or worse way of seeing the country. There are many
ways of seeing landscape quite as good; and none more vivid, in spite of
canting dilettantes, than from a railway train. But landscape on a
walking tour is quite accessory. He who is indeed of the brotherhood
does not voyage in quest of the picturesque, but of certain jolly
humours—of the hope and spirit with which the march begins at morning,
and the peace and spiritual repletion of the evening’s rest. He cannot
tell whether he puts his knapsack on, or takes it off, with more delight.
The excitement of the departure puts him in key for that of the arrival.
Whatever he does is not only a reward in itself, but will be further
rewarded in the sequel; and so pleasure leads on to pleasure in an
endless chain. It is this that so few can understand; they will either
be always lounging or always at five miles an hour; they do not play off
the one against the other, prepare all day for the evening, and all
evening for the next day. And, above all, it is here that your
overwalker fails of comprehension. His heart rises against those who
drink their curaçoa in liqueur glasses, when he himself can swill it in a
brown john. He will not believe that the flavour is more delicate in the
smaller dose. He will not believe that to walk this unconscionable
distance is merely to stupefy and brutalise himself, and come to his inn,
at night, with a sort of frost on his five wits, and a starless night of
darkness in his spirit. Not for him the mild luminous evening of the
temperate walker! He has nothing left of man but a physical need for
bedtime and a double nightcap; and even his pipe, if he be a smoker, will
be savourless and disenchanted. It is the fate of such an one to take
twice as much trouble as is needed to obtain happiness, and miss the
happiness in the end; he is the man of the proverb, in short, who goes
further and fares worse.
Now, to be properly enjoyed, a walking tour should be gone upon alone.
If you go in a company, or even in pairs, it is no longer a walking tour
in anything but name; it is something else and more in the nature of a
picnic. A walking tour should be gone upon alone, because freedom is of
the essence; because you should be able to stop and go on, and follow
this way or that, as the freak takes you; and because you must have your
own pace, and neither trot alongside a champion walker, nor mince in time
with a girl. And then you must be open to all impressions and let your
thoughts take colour from what you see. You should be as a pipe for any
wind to play upon. “I cannot see the wit,” says Hazlitt, “of walking and
talking at the same time. When I am in the country I wish to vegetate
like the country,”—which is the gist of all that can be said upon the
matter. There should be no cackle of voices at your elbow, to jar on the
meditative silence of the morning. And so long as a man is reasoning he
cannot surrender himself to that fine intoxication that comes of much
motion in the open air, that begins in a sort of dazzle and sluggishness
of the brain, and ends in a peace that passes comprehension.
During the first day or so of any tour there are moments of bitterness,
when the traveller feels more than coldly towards his knapsack, when he
is half in a mind to throw it bodily over the hedge and, like Christian
on a similar occasion, “give three leaps and go on singing.” And yet it
soon acquires a property of easiness. It becomes magnetic; the spirit of
the journey enters into it. And no sooner have you passed the straps
over your shoulder than the lees of sleep are cleared from you, you pull
yourself together with a shake, and fall at once into your stride. And
surely, of all possible moods, this, in which a man takes the road, is
the best. Of course, if he _will_ keep thinking of his anxieties, if he
_will_ open the merchant Abudah’s chest and walk arm-in-arm with the
hag—why, wherever he is, and whether he walk fast or slow, the chances
are that he will not be happy. And so much the more shame to himself!
There are perhaps thirty men setting forth at that same hour, and I would
lay a large wager there is not another dull face among the thirty. It
would be a fine thing to follow, in a coat of darkness, one after another
of these wayfarers, some summer morning, for the first few miles upon the
road. This one, who walks fast, with a keen look in his eyes, is all
concentrated in his own mind; he is up at his loom, weaving and weaving,
to set the landscape to words. This one peers about, as he goes, among
the grasses; he waits by the canal to watch the dragon-flies; he leans on
the gate of the pasture, and cannot look enough upon the complacent kine.
And here comes another, talking, laughing, and gesticulating to himself.
His face changes from time to time, as indignation flashes from his eyes
or anger clouds his forehead. He is composing articles, delivering
orations, and conducting the most impassioned interviews, by the way. A
little farther on, and it is as like as not he will begin to sing. And
well for him, supposing him to be no great master in that art, if he
stumble across no stolid peasant at a corner; for on such an occasion, I
scarcely know which is the more troubled, or whether it is worse to
suffer the confusion of your troubadour, or the unfeigned alarm of your
clown. A sedentary population, accustomed, besides, to the strange
mechanical bearing of the common tramp, can in no wise explain to itself
the gaiety of these passers-by. I knew one man who was arrested as a
runaway lunatic, because, although a full-grown person with a red beard,
he skipped as he went like a child. And you would be astonished if I
were to tell you all the grave and learned heads who have confessed to me
that, when on walking tours, they sang—and sang very ill—and had a pair
of red ears when, as described above, the inauspicious peasant plumped
into their arms from round a corner. And here, lest you should think I
am exaggerating, is Hazlitt’s own confession, from his essay _On Going a
Journey_, which is so good that there should be a tax levied on all who
have not read it:—
“Give me the clear blue sky over my head,” says he, “and the green turf
beneath my feet, a winding road before me, and a three hours’ march to
dinner—and then to thinking! It is hard if I cannot start some game on
these lone heaths. I laugh, I run, I leap, I sing for joy.”
Bravo! After that adventure of my friend with the policeman, you would
not have cared, would you, to publish that in the first person? But we
have no bravery nowadays, and, even in books, must all pretend to be as
dull and foolish as our neighbours. It was not so with Hazlitt. And
notice how learned he is (as, indeed, throughout the essay) in the theory
of walking tours. He is none of your athletic men in purple stockings,
who walk their fifty miles a day: three hours’ march is his ideal. And
then he must have a winding road, the epicure!
Yet there is one thing I object to in these words of his, one thing in
the great master’s practice that seems to me not wholly wise. I do not
approve of that leaping and running. Both of these hurry the
respiration; they both shake up the brain out of its glorious open-air
confusion; and they both break the pace. Uneven walking is not so
agreeable to the body, and it distracts and irritates the mind. Whereas,
when once you have fallen into an equable stride, it requires no
conscious thought from you to keep it up, and yet it prevents you from
thinking earnestly of anything else. Like knitting, like the work of a
copying clerk, it gradually neutralises and sets to sleep the serious
activity of the mind. We can think of this or that, lightly and
laughingly, as a child thinks, or as we think in a morning dose; we can
make puns or puzzle out acrostics, and trifle in a thousand ways with
words and rhymes; but when it comes to honest work, when we come to
gather ourselves together for an effort, we may sound the trumpet as loud
and long as we please; the great barons of the mind will not rally to the
standard, but sit, each one, at home, warming his hands over his own fire
and brooding on his own private thought!
In the course of a day’s walk, you see, there is much variance in the
mood. From the exhilaration of the start, to the happy phlegm of the
arrival, the change is certainly great. As the day goes on, the
traveller moves from the one extreme towards the other. He becomes more
and more incorporated with the material landscape, and the open-air
drunkenness grows upon him with great strides, until he posts along the
road, and sees everything about him, as in a cheerful dream. The first
is certainly brighter, but the second stage is the more peaceful. A man
does not make so many articles towards the end, nor does he laugh aloud;
but the purely animal pleasures, the sense of physical wellbeing, the
delight of every inhalation, of every time the muscles tighten down the
thigh, console him for the absence of the others, and bring him to his
destination still content.
Nor must I forget to say a word on bivouacs. You come to a milestone on
a hill, or some place where deep ways meet under trees; and off goes the
knapsack, and down you sit to smoke a pipe in the shade. You sink into
yourself, and the birds come round and look at you; and your smoke
dissipates upon the afternoon under the blue dome of heaven; and the sun
lies warm upon your feet, and the cool air visits your neck and turns
aside your open shirt. If you are not happy, you must have an evil
conscience. You may dally as long as you like by the roadside. It is
almost as if the millennium were arrived, when we shall throw our clocks
and watches over the housetop, and remember time and seasons no more.
Not to keep hours for a lifetime is, I was going to say, to live for
ever. You have no idea, unless you have tried it, how endlessly long is
a summer’s day, that you measure out only by hunger, and bring to an end
only when you are drowsy. I know a village where there are hardly any
clocks, where no one knows more of the days of the week than by a sort of
instinct for the fête on Sundays, and where only one person can tell you
the day of the month, and she is generally wrong; and if people were
aware how slow Time journeyed in that village, and what armfuls of spare
hours he gives, over and above the bargain, to its wise inhabitants, I
believe there would be a stampede out of London, Liverpool, Paris, and a
variety of large towns, where the clocks lose their heads, and shake the
hours out each one faster than the other, as though they were all in a
wager. And all these foolish pilgrims would each bring his own misery
along with him, in a watch-pocket! It is to be noticed, there were no
clocks and watches in the much-vaunted days before the flood. It
follows, of course, there were no appointments, and punctuality was not
yet thought upon. “Though ye take from a covetous man all his treasure,”
says Milton, “he has yet one jewel left; ye cannot deprive him of his
covetousness.” And so I would say of a modern man of business, you may
do what you will for him, put him in Eden, give him the elixir of life—he
has still a flaw at heart, he still has his business habits. Now, there
is no time when business habits are more mitigated than on a walking
tour. And so during these halts, as I say, you will feel almost free.
But it is at night, and after dinner, that the best hour comes. There
are no such pipes to be smoked as those that follow a good day’s march;
the flavour of the tobacco is a thing to be remembered, it is so dry and
aromatic, so full and so fine. If you wind up the evening with grog, you
will own there was never such grog; at every sip a jocund tranquillity
spreads about your limbs, and sits easily in your heart. If you read a
book—and you will never do so save by fits and starts—you find the
language strangely racy and harmonious; words take a new meaning; single
sentences possess the ear for half an hour together; and the writer
endears himself to you, at every page, by the nicest coincidence of
sentiment. It seems as if it were a book you had written yourself in a
dream. To all we have read on such occasions we look back with special
favour. “It was on the 10th of April, 1798,” says Hazlitt, with amorous
precision, “that I sat down to a volume of the new _Héloïse_, at the Inn
at Llangollen, over a bottle of sherry and a cold chicken.” I should
wish to quote more, for though we are mighty fine fellows nowadays, we
cannot write like Hazlitt. And, talking of that, a volume of Hazlitt’s
essays would be a capital pocket-book on such a journey; so would a
volume of Heine’s songs; and for _Tristram Shandy_ I can pledge a fair
experience.
If the evening be fine and warm, there is nothing better in life than to
lounge before the inn door in the sunset, or lean over the parapet of the
bridge, to watch the weeds and the quick fishes. It is then, if ever,
that you taste Joviality to the full significance of that audacious word.
Your muscles are so agreeably slack, you feel so clean and so strong and
so idle, that whether you move or sit still, whatever you do is done with
pride and a kingly sort of pleasure. You fall in talk with any one, wise
or foolish, drunk or sober. And it seems as if a hot walk purged you,
more than of anything else, of all narrowness and pride, and left
curiosity to play its part freely, as in a child or a man of science.
You lay aside all your own hobbies, to watch provincial humours develop
themselves before you, now as a laughable farce, and now grave and
beautiful like an old tale.
Or perhaps you are left to your own company for the night, and surly
weather imprisons you by the fire. You may remember how Burns, numbering
past pleasures, dwells upon the hours when he has been “happy thinking.”
It is a phrase that may well perplex a poor modern, girt about on every
side by clocks and chimes, and haunted, even at night, by flaming
dial-plates. For we are all so busy, and have so many far-off projects
to realise, and castles in the fire to turn into solid habitable mansions
on a gravel soil, that we can find no time for pleasure trips into the
Land of Thought and among the Hills of Vanity. Changed times, indeed,
when we must sit all night, beside the fire, with folded hands; and a
changed world for most of us, when we find we can pass the hours without
discontent and be happy thinking. We are in such haste to be doing, to
be writing, to be gathering gear, to make our voice audible a moment in
the derisive silence of eternity, that we forget that one thing, of which
these are but the parts—namely, to live. We fall in love, we drink hard,
we run to and fro upon the earth like frightened sheep. And now you are
to ask yourself if, when all is done, you would not have been better to
sit by the fire at home, and be happy thinking. To sit still and
contemplate,—to remember the faces of women without desire, to be pleased
by the great deeds of men without envy, to be everything and everywhere
in sympathy, and yet content to remain where and what you are—is not this
to know both wisdom and virtue, and to dwell with happiness? After all,
it is not they who carry flags, but they who look upon it from a private
chamber, who have the fun of the procession. And once you are at that,
you are in the very humour of all social heresy. It is no time for
shuffling, or for big, empty words. If you ask yourself what you mean by
fame, riches, or learning, the answer is far to seek; and you go back
into that kingdom of light imaginations, which seem so vain in the eyes
of Philistines perspiring after wealth, and so momentous to those who are
stricken with the disproportions of the world, and, in the face of the
gigantic stars, cannot stop to split differences between two degrees of
the infinitesimally small, such as a tobacco pipe or the Roman Empire, a
million of money or a fiddlestick’s end.
You lean from the window, your last pipe reeking whitely into the
darkness, your body full of delicious pains, your mind enthroned in the
seventh circle of content; when suddenly the mood changes, the
weather-cock goes about, and you ask yourself one question more: whether,
for the interval, you have been the wisest philosopher or the most
egregious of donkeys? Human experience is not yet able to reply; but at
least you have had a fine moment, and looked down upon all the kingdoms
of the earth. And whether it was wise or foolish, to-morrow’s travel
will carry you, body and mind, into some different parish of the
infinite.