He is as old as his calves—his garteries....
—Meditations of Andrew McGill.
"There was fine walking on the hills in the direction of the sea."
This heart-stirring statement, which I find in an account of the life of William and Dorothy Wordsworth when they inhabited a quiet cottage near Crewkerne in Dorset, reminds me how often the word "walking" occurs in any description of Wordsworth's existence. De Quincey assures us that the poet's props4 were very ill shapen—"they were pointedly6 condemned7 by all female connoisseurs8 in legs"—but none the less he was princeps arte ambulandi. Even had he lived to-day, when all our roads are barbarized by exploding gasoline vapours, I do not think Wordsworth would have flivvered. Of him the Opium9 Eater made the classic pronouncement: "I calculate that with these identical legs W. must have traversed a distance of 175,000 to 180,000 English miles—a mode of exertion10 which, to him, stood in the stead of alcohol and all other stimulants11 whatsoever12 to the animal spirits; to which, indeed, he was indebted for a life of unclouded happiness, and we for much of what is most excellent in his writings."
A book that says anything about walking has a ready passage to my inmost heart. The best books are always those that set down with "amorous13 precision" the satisfying details of human pilgrimage. How one sympathizes with poor Pepys in his outburst (April 30, 1663) about a gentleman who seems to have been "Always Taking the Joy Out of Life":
Lord! what a stir Stankes makes, with his being crowded in the streets, and wearied in walking in London, and would not be wooed to go to a play, nor to Whitehall, or to see the lions, though he was carried in a coach. I never could have thought there had been upon earth a man so little curious in the world as he is.
Now your true walker is mightily14 "curious in the world," and he goes upon his way zealous15 to sate16 himself with a thousand quaintnesses. When he writes a book he fills it full of food, drink, tobacco, the scent17 of sawmills on sunny afternoons, and arrivals at inns late at night. He writes what Mr. Mosher calls a book-a-bosom. Diaries and letters are often best of all because they abound18 in these matters. And because walking can never again be what it was—the motorcars will see to that—it is our duty to pay it greater reverence20 and honour.
Wordsworth and Coleridge come first to mind in any talk about walking. The first time they met was in 1797 when Coleridge tramped from Nether21 Stowey to Racedown (thirty miles in an air-line, and full forty by road) to make the acquaintance of William and Dorothy. That is practically from the Bristol Channel to the English ditto, a rousing stretch. It was Wordsworth's pamphlet describing a walk across France to the Alps that spurred Coleridge on to this expedition. The trio became fast friends, and William and Dorothy moved to Alfoxden (near Nether Stowey) to enjoy the companionship. What one would give for some adequate account of their walks and talks together over the Quantocks. They planned a little walking trip into Devonshire that autumn (1797) and "The Ancient Mariner22" was written in the hope of defraying the expenses of the adventure.
De Quincey himself, who tells us so much jovial23 gossip about Wordsworth and Coleridge, was no mean pedestrian. He describes a forty-mile all-night walk from Bridgewater to Bristol, on the evening after first meeting Coleridge. He could not sleep after the intellectual excitement of the day, and through a summer night "divinely calm" he busied himself with meditation3 on the sad spectacle he had witnessed: a great mind hastening to decay.
I have always fancied that walking as a fine art was not much practised before the eighteenth century. We know from Ambassador Jusserand's famous book how many wayfarers24 were on the roads in the fourteenth century, but none of these were abroad for the pleasures of moving meditation and scenery. We can gather from Mr. Tristram's "Coaching Days and Coaching Ways" that the highroads were by no means safe for solitary25 travellers even so late as 1750. In "Joseph Andrews" (1742) whenever any of the characters proceed afoot they are almost certain to be held up. Mr. Isaac Walton, it is true, was a considerable rambler a century earlier than this, and in his Derbyshire hills must have passed many lonely gullies; but footpads were more likely to ambush26 the main roads. It would be a hardhearted bandit who would despoil27 the gentle angler of his basket of trouts. Goldsmith, too, was a lusty walker, and tramped it over the Continent for two years (1754-6) with little more baggage than a flute28: he might have written "The Handy Guide for Beggars" long before Vachel Lindsay. But generally speaking, it is true that cross-country walks for the pure delight of rhythmically29 placing one foot before the other were rare before Wordsworth. I always think of him as one of the first to employ his legs as an instrument of philosophy.
After Wordsworth they come thick and fast. Hazlitt, of course—have you paid the tax that R.L.S. imposes on all who have not read Hazlitt's "On Going A Journey?" Then Keats: never was there more fruitful walk than the early morning stroll from Clerkenwell to the Poultry30 in October, 1816, that produced "Much have I travelled in the realms of gold." He must have set out early enough, for the manuscript of the sonnet31 was on Cowden Clarke's table by breakfast time. And by the way, did you know that the copy of Chapman's Homer which inspired it belonged to the financial editor of the Times? Never did financial editor live to better purpose!
There are many words of Keats that are a joyful32 viaticum for the walker: get these by rote33 in some membrane34 of memory:
The great Elements we know of are no mean comforters: the open sky sits upon our senses like a sapphire35 crown—the Air is our robe of state—the Earth is our throne, and the sea a mighty36 minstrel playing before it.
The Victorians were great walkers. Railways were but striplings; inns were at their prime. Hark to the great names in the walker's Hall of Fame: Tennyson, FitzGerald, Matthew Arnold, Carlyle, Kingsley, Meredith, Richard Jefferies. What walker can ever forget the day when he first read "The Story of My Heart?" In my case it was the 24th of August, 1912, on a train from London to Cambridge. Then there were George Borrow, Emily Bront? on her Yorkshire moors37, and Leslie Stephen, one of the princes of the clan38 and founder39 of the famous Sunday Tramps of whom Meredith was one. Walt Whitman would have made a notable addition to that posse of philosophic40 walkers, save that I fear the garrulous41 half-baked old barbarian42 would have been disappointed that he could not dominate the conversation.
There have been stout43 walkers in our own day. Mr. W.H. Davies (the Super-Tramp), G.M. Trevelyan, Hilaire Belloc, Edward Thomas who died on the field of honour in April, 1917, and Francis Ledwidge, who was killed in Flanders. Who can forget his noble words, "I have taken up arms for the fields along the Boyne, for the birds and the blue sky over them." There is Walter Prichard Eaton, the Jefferies of our own Berkshires. One could extend the list almost without end. Sometimes it seems as though literature were a co-product of legs and head.
Charles Lamb and Leigh Hunt were great city ramblers, followed in due course by Dickens, R.L.S., Edward Lucas, Holbrook Jackson, and Pearsall Smith. Mr. Thomas Burke is another, whose "Nights in Town" will delight the lover of the greatest of all cities. But urban wanderings, delicious as they are, are not quite what we mean by walking. On pavements one goes by fit and start, halting to see, to hear, and to speculate. In the country one captures the true ecstasy44 of the long, unbroken swing, the harmonious45 glow of mind and body, eyes fed, soul feasted, brain and muscle exercised alike.
Meredith is perhaps the Supreme46 Pontiff of modern country walkers: no soft lover of drowsy47 golden weather, but master of the stiffer breed who salute48 frost and lashing49 rain and roaring southwest wind, who leap to grapple with the dissolving riddles50 of destiny. February and March are his months:
For love we Earth then serve we all;
Her mystic secret then is ours:
We fall, or view our treasures fall,
Enrobed in morning's mounted fire,
When lowly, with a broken neck,
I suppose every walker collects a few precious books which form the bible of his chosen art. I have long been collecting a Walker's Breviary of my own. It includes Stevenson's "Walking Tours," G.M. Trevelyan's "Walking," Leslie Stephen's "In Praise of Walking," shards54 and crystals from all the others I have mentioned. Michael Fairless, Vachel Lindsay, and Frank Sidgwick have place in it. On my private shelf stands "Journeys to Bagdad" by Mr. Charles Brooks55, who has good pleasantry to utter on this topic; and a manly56 little volume, "Walking as Education," by the Rev19. A.N. Cooper, "the walking parson," published in England in 1910. On that same shelf there will soon stand a volume of delicious essays by one of the most accomplished57 of American walkers, Mr. Robert Cortes Holliday, the American Belloc, whose "Walking Stick Papers" has beckoned58 to the eye of a far-seeing publisher. Mr. Holliday it is who has bravely stated why so few of the fair sex are able to participate in walking tours:
No one, though (this is the first article to be observed), should ever go a journey with any other than him with whom one walks arm in arm, in the evening, the twilight59, and, talking (let us suppose) of men's given names, agrees that if either should have a son he shall be named after the other. Walking in the gathering60 dusk, two and two, since the world began, there have always been young men who have thus to one another plighted61 their troth. If one is not still one of these, then, in the sense here used, journeys are over for him. What is left to him of life he may enjoy, but not journeys. Mention should be made in passing that some have been found so ignorant of the nature of journeys as to suppose that they might be taken in company with members, or a member, of the other sex. Now, one who writes of journeys would cheerfully be burned at the stake before he would knowingly underestimate women. But it must be confessed that it is another season in the life of man that they fill.
They are too personal for the high enjoyment62 of going a journey. They must forever be thinking about you or about themselves; with them everything in the world is somehow tangled63 up in these matters; and when you are with them (you cannot help it, or if you could they would not allow it) you must forever be thinking about them or yourself. Nothing on either side can be seen detached. They cannot rise to that philosophic plane of mind which is the very marrow64 of going a journey. One reason for this is that they can never escape from the idea of society: You are in their society, they are in yours; and the multitudinous personal ties which connect you all to that great order called society that you have for a period got away from physically65 are present. Like the business man who goes on a vacation from his business and takes his business habits along with him, so on a journey they would bring society along, and all sort of etiquette66.
He that goes a journey shakes off the trammels of the world; he has fled all impediments and inconveniences; he belongs, for the moment, to no time or place. He is neither rich nor poor, but in that which he thinks and sees. There is not such another Arcadia for this on earth as in going a journey. He that goes a journey escapes, for a breath of air, from all conventions; without which, though, of course, society would go to pot; and which are the very natural instinct of women.
Mr. Holliday has other goodly matter upon the philosophy and art of locomotion67, and those who are wise and have a lively faith may be admitted to great and surpassing delights if they will here and now make memorandum68 to buy his book, which will soon be published.
Speaking of Vachel Lindsay, his "Handy Guide for Beggars" will bring an itch69 along the shanks of those who love shoe-leather and a knobbed stick. Vachel sets out for a walk in no mean and pettifogging spirit: he proceeds as an army with banners: he intends that the world shall know he is afoot: the Great Elian of Springfield is unleashed—let alewives and deacons tremble!
Ungenerous hosts have cozened Vachel by begging him to recite his poems at the beginning of each course, in the meantime getting on with their eating; but despite the na?veté of his eagerness to sing, there is a plain and manly simplicity70 about Vachel that delights us all. We like to know that here is a poet who has wrestled71 with poverty, who never wrote a Class Day poem at Harvard, who has worn frayed72 collars or none at all, and who lets the barber shave the back of his neck. We like to know that he has tramped the ties in Georgia, harvested in Kansas, been fumigated73 in New Jersey74, and lives contented75 in Illinois. Four weeks a year he lives as the darling of the cisalleghany Browning Societies, but he is always glad to get back to Springfield and resume his robes as the local Rabindranath. If he ever buys an automobile76 I am positive it will be a Ford77. Here is homo americanus, one of ourselves, who never wore spats78 in his life.
But even the plain man may see visions. Walking on crowded city streets at night, watching the lighted windows, delicatessen shops, peanut carts, bakeries, fish stalls, free lunch counters piled with crackers79 and saloon cheese, and minor80 poets struggling home with the Saturday night marketing—he feels the thrill of being one, or at least two-thirds, with this various, grotesque81, pathetic, and surprising humanity. The sense of fellowship with every other walking biped, the full-blooded understanding that Whitman and O. Henry knew in brimming measure, comes by gulps82 and twinges to almost all. That is the essence of Lindsay's feeling about life. He loves crowds, companionship, plenty of sirloin and onions, and seeing his name in print. He sings and celebrates the great symbols of our hodgepodge democracy: ice cream soda83, electrical sky-signs, Sunday School picnics, the movies, Mark Twain. In the teeming84 ooze85 and ocean bottoms of our atlantic humanity he finds rich corals and rainbow shells, hospitality, reverence, love, and beauty.
This is the sentiment that makes a merry pedestrian, and Vachel has scrutineered and scuffled through a dozen states, lightening larders86 and puzzling the worldly. Afoot and penniless is his technique—"stopping when he had a mind to, singing when he felt inclined to"—and begging his meals and bed. I suppose he has had as many free meals as any American citizen; and, this is how he does it, copied from his little pamphlet used on many a road:
RHYMES TO BE TRADED FOR BREAD
Being new verses by Nicholas Vachel Lindsay, Springfield, Illinois, June, 1912, printed expressly as a substitute for money.
This book is to be used in exchange for the necessities of life on a tramp-journey from the author's home town, through the West and back, during which he will observe the following rules:
(1) Keep away from the cities.
(2) Keep away from the railroads.
(3) Have nothing to do with money. Carry no baggage.
(4) Ask for dinner about quarter after eleven.
(6) Travel alone.
(8) Preach the Gospel of Beauty.
In order to carry out the last rule there will be three exceptions to the rule against baggage. (1) The author will carry a brief printed statement, called "The Gospel of Beauty." (2) He will carry this book of rhymes for distribution. (3) Also he will carry a small portfolio89 with pictures, etc., chosen to give an outline of his view of the history of art, especially as it applies to America.
Perhaps I have tarried too long over Vachel; but I have set down his theories of vagabonding because many walkers will find them interesting. "The Handy Guide for Beggars" will leave you footsore but better for the exercise. And when the fascinating story of American literature in this decade (1910-20) is finally written, there will be a happy and well-merited corner in it for a dusty but "neat, truthful, and civil" figure from Springfield, Illinois.
A good pipeful of prose to solace90 yourself withal, about sunset on a lonely road, is that passage on "Lying Awake at Night" to be found in "The Forest," by Stewart Edward White. Major White is one of the best friends the open-air walker has, and don't forget it!
The motors have done this for us at least, that as they have made the highways their own beyond dispute, walking will remain the mystic and private pleasure of the secret and humble91 few. For us the byways, the footpaths92, and the pastures will be sanctified and sweet. Thank heaven there are still gentle souls uncorrupted by the victrola and the limousine93. In our old trousers and our easy shoes, with pipe and stick, we can do our fifteen miles between lunch and dinner, and glorify94 the ways of God to man.
And sometimes, about two o'clock of an afternoon (these spells come most often about half an hour after lunch), the old angel of peregrination95 lifts himself up in me, and I yearn96 and wamble for a season afoot. When a blue air is moving keenly through bare boughs97 this angel is most vociferous98. I gape99 wanly100 round the lofty citadel101 where I am pretending to earn the Monday afternoon envelope. The filing case, thermostat102, card index, typewriter, automatic telephone: these ingenious anodynes avail me not. Even the visits of golden nymphs, sweet ambassadors of commerce, who rustle103 in and out of my room with memoranda104, mail, manuscripts, aye, even these lightfoot figures fail to charm. And the mind goes out to the endless vistas105 of streets, roads, fields, and rivers that summon the wanderer with laughing voice. Somewhere a great wind is scouring106 the hillsides; and once upon a time a man set out along the Great North Road to walk to Royston in the rain....
Grant us, O Zeus! the tingling107 tremour of thigh108 and shank that comes of a dozen sturdy miles laid underheel. Grant us "fine walking on the hills in the direction of the sea"; or a winding109 road that tumbles down to some Cotswold village. Let an inn parlour lie behind red curtains, and a table be drawn110 toward the fire. Let there be a loin of cold beef, an elbow of yellow cheese, a tankard of dog's nose. Then may we prop5 our Bacon's Essays against the pewter and study those mellow111 words: "Certainly it is heaven upon earth to have a man's mind move in charity, rest in providence112, and turn upon the poles of truth." Haec studio, pernoctant nobiscum, peregrinantur, rusticantur.
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adage
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| n.格言，古训 | |
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arteries
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| n.动脉( artery的名词复数 )；干线，要道 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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props
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| 小道具； 支柱( prop的名词复数 )； 支持者； 道具； （橄榄球中的）支柱前锋 | |
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prop
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| vt.支撑；n.支柱，支撑物；支持者，靠山 | |
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pointedly
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| adv.尖地，明显地 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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connoisseurs
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opium
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exertion
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stimulants
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whatsoever
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amorous
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mightily
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zealous
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sate
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scent
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abound
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rev
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reverence
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nether
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mariner
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jovial
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wayfarers
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solitary
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ambush
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despoil
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flute
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rhythmically
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poultry
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sonnet
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joyful
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membrane
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sapphire
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mighty
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moors
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clan
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Founder
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philosophic
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garrulous
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barbarian
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ecstasy
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harmonious
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supreme
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drowsy
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salute
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lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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riddles
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beholds
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| v.看，注视( behold的第三人称单数 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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wreck
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mire
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shards
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brooks
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manly
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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60
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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plighted
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| vt.保证，约定（plight的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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62
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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63
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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64
marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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65
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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66
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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67
locomotion
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| n.运动，移动 | |
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68
memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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69
itch
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| n.痒，渴望，疥癣；vi.发痒，渴望 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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71
wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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72
frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
fumigated
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| v.用化学品熏（某物）消毒( fumigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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75
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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76
automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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spats
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| n.口角( spat的名词复数 )；小争吵；鞋罩；鞋套v.spit的过去式和过去分词( spat的第三人称单数 )；口角；小争吵；鞋罩 | |
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79
crackers
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| adj.精神错乱的，癫狂的n.爆竹( cracker的名词复数 )；薄脆饼干；（认为）十分愉快的事；迷人的姑娘 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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82
gulps
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| n.一大口（尤指液体）( gulp的名词复数 )v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的第三人称单数 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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83
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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84
teeming
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| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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85
ooze
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| n.软泥，渗出物；vi.渗出，泄漏；vt.慢慢渗出，流露 | |
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86
larders
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| n.（家中的）食物贮藏室，食物橱( larder的名词复数 ) | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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88
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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90
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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footpaths
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| 人行小径，人行道( footpath的名词复数 ) | |
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93
limousine
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| n.豪华轿车 | |
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94
glorify
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| vt.颂扬，赞美，使增光，美化 | |
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95
peregrination
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| n.游历，旅行 | |
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yearn
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| v.想念；怀念；渴望 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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98
vociferous
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| adj.喧哗的，大叫大嚷的 | |
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99
gape
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| v.张口，打呵欠，目瞪口呆地凝视 | |
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100
wanly
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| adv.虚弱地；苍白地，无血色地 | |
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101
citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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102
thermostat
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| n.恒温器 | |
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103
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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104
memoranda
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| n. 备忘录, 便条 名词memorandum的复数形式 | |
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105
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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106
scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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107
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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108
thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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109
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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110
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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111
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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112
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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