For my part, when I try to summon up remembrance of "well-spent" moments, I find myself taking a kind of inverted34 view of the past; inverted, that is, so far as the accidental becomes the essential. If I turn over the intellectual album which memory is always compiling, I find that the most distinct pictures[Pg 194] which it contains are those of old walks. Other memories of incomparably greater intrinsic value coalesce35 into wholes. They are more massive but less distinct. The memory of a friendship that has brightened one's whole life survives not as a series of incidents but as a general impression of the friend's characteristic qualities due to the superposition of innumerable forgotten pictures. I remember him, not the specific conversations by which he revealed himself. The memories of walks, on the other hand, are all localised and dated; they are hitched36 on to particular times and places; they spontaneously form a kind of calendar or connecting thread upon which other memories may be strung. As I look back, a long series of little vignettes presents itself, each representing a definite stage of my earthly pilgrimage summed up and embodied37 in a walk. Their background of scenery recalls places once familiar, and the thoughts associated with the places revive thoughts of the contemporary occupations. The labour of scribbling38 books happily leaves no distinct impression, and I would forget that it had ever been undergone; but the picture of some delightful ramble39 includes incidentally a reference to the nightmare of literary toil40 from which it relieved me. The author is but the accidental appendage41 of the tramp. My days[Pg 195] are bound each to each not by "natural piety42" (or not, let me say, by natural piety alone) but by pedestrian enthusiasm. The memory of school days, if one may trust to the usual reminiscences, generally clusters round a flogging, or some solemn words from the spiritual teacher instilling43 the seed of a guiding principle of life. I remember a sermon or two rather ruefully; and I confess to memories of a flogging so unjust that I am even now stung by the thought of it. But what comes most spontaneously to my mind is the memory of certain strolls, "out of bounds," when I could forget the Latin grammar, and enjoy such a sense of the beauties of nature as is embodied for a child in a pond haunted by water-rats, or a field made romantic by threats of "mantraps and spring-guns." Then, after a crude fashion, one was becoming more or less of a reflecting and individual being, not a mere44 automaton45 set in movement by pedagogic machinery46.
The day on which I was fully25 initiated47 into the mysteries is marked by a white stone. It was when I put on a knapsack and started from Heidelberg for a march through the Odenwald. Then I first knew the delightful sensation of independence and detachment enjoyed during a walking tour. Free from all bothers of railway time-tables[Pg 196] and extraneous machinery, you trust to your own legs, stop when you please, diverge48 into any track that takes your fancy, and drop in upon some quaint49 variety of human life at every inn where you put up for the night. You share for the time the mood in which Borrow settled down in the dingle after escaping from his bondage50 in the publishers' London slums. You have no dignity to support, and the dress-coat of conventional life has dropped into oblivion, like the bundle from Christian17's shoulders. You are in the world of Lavengro, and would be prepared to take tea with Miss Isopel Berners or with the Welsh preacher who thought that he had committed the unpardonable sin. Borrow, of course, took the life more seriously than the literary gentleman who is only escaping on ticket-of-leave from the prison-house of respectability, and is quite unequal to a personal conflict with "blazing Bosville"—the flaming tinman. He is only dipping in the element where his model was thoroughly at home. I remember, indeed, one figure in that first walk which I associate with Benedict Moll, the strange treasure-seeker whom Borrow encountered in his Spanish rambles51. My acquaintance was a mild German innkeeper, who sat beside me on a bench while I was trying to assimilate certain pancakes, the only dinner he could provide,[Pg 197] still fearful in memory, but just attackable after a thirty-miles' tramp. He confided52 to me that, poor as he was, he had discovered the secret of perpetual motion. He kept his machine upstairs, where it discharged the humble duty of supplying the place of a shoe-black; but he was about to go to London to offer it to a British capitalist. He looked wistfully at me as possibly a capitalist in (very deep) disguise, and I thought it wise to evade53 a full explanation. I have not been worthy54 to encounter many of such quaint incidents and characters as seem to have been normal in Borrow's experience; but the first walk, commonplace enough, remains55 distinct in my memory. I kept no journal, but I could still give the narrative56 day by day—the sights which I dutifully admired and the very state of my bootlaces. Walking tours thus rescue a bit of one's life from oblivion. They play in one's personal recollections the part of those historical passages in which Carlyle is an unequalled master; the little islands of light in the midst of the darkening gloom of the past, on which you distinguish the actors in some old drama actually alive and moving. The devotee of other athletic sports remembers special incidents: the occasion on which he hit a cricket-ball over the pavilion at Lord's, or the crab57 which he caught as his boat[Pg 198] was shooting Barnes Bridge. But those are memories of exceptional moments of glory or the reverse, and apt to be tainted59 by vanity or the spirit of competition. The walks are the unobtrusive connecting thread of other memories, and yet each walk is a little drama in itself, with a definite plot with episodes and catastrophes60, according to the requirements of Aristotle; and it is naturally interwoven with all the thoughts, the friendships, and the interests that form the staple61 of ordinary life.
Walking is the natural recreation for a man who desires not absolutely to suppress his intellect but to turn it out to play for a season. All great men of letters have, therefore, been enthusiastic walkers (exceptions, of course, excepted). Shakespeare, besides being a sportsman, a lawyer, a divine, and so forth63, conscientiously64 observed his own maxim65, "Jog on, jog on, the footpath66 way"; though a full proof of this could only be given in an octavo volume. Anyhow, he divined the connection between walking and a "merry heart"; that is, of course, a cheerful acceptance of our position in the universe founded upon the deepest moral and philosophical68 principles. His friend, Ben Jonson, walked from London to Scotland. Another gentleman of the period (I forget his name) danced from London to[Pg 199] Norwich. Tom Coryate hung up in his parish church the shoes in which he walked from Venice and then started to walk (with occasional lifts) to India. Contemporary walkers of more serious character might be quoted, such as the admirable Barclay, the famous Quaker apologist, from whom the great Captain Barclay inherited his prowess. Every one, too, must remember the incident in Walton's Life of Hooker. Walking from Oxford69 to Exeter, Hooker went to see his godfather, Bishop70 Jewel, at Salisbury. The Bishop said that he would lend him "a horse which hath carried me many a mile, and, I thank God, with much ease," and "presently delivered into his hands a walking staff with which he professed71 he had travelled through many parts of Germany." He added ten groats and munificently72 promised ten groats more when Hooker should restore the "horse." When, in later days, Hooker once rode to London, he expressed more passion than that mild divine was ever known to show upon any other occasion against a friend who had dissuaded73 him from "footing it." The hack74, it seems, "trotted75 when he did not," and discomposed the thoughts which had been soothed76 by the walking staff. His biographer must be counted, I fear, among those who do not enjoy walking without the incidental stimulus77 of sport. Yet the [Pg 200]Compleat Angler and his friends start by a walk of twenty good miles before they take their "morning draught78." Swift, perhaps, was the first person to show a full appreciation79 of the moral and physical advantages of walking. He preached constantly upon this text to Stella, and practised his own advice. It is true that his notions of a journey were somewhat limited. Ten miles a day was his regular allowance when he went from London to Holyhead, but then he spent time in lounging at wayside inns to enjoy the talk of the tramps and ostlers. The fact, though his biographers are rather scandalised, shows that he really appreciated one of the true charms of pedestrian expeditions. Wesley is generally credited with certain moral reforms, but one secret of his power is not always noticed. In his early expeditions he went on foot to save horse hire, and made the great discovery that twenty or thirty miles a day was a wholesome80 allowance for a healthy man. The fresh air and exercise put "spirit into his sermons," which could not be rivalled by the ordinary parson of the period, who too often passed his leisure lounging by his fireside. Fielding points the contrast. Trulliber, embodying81 the clerical somnolence82 of the day, never gets beyond his pig-sties, but the model Parson Adams steps out so vigorously that he distances the [Pg 201]stagecoach, and disappears in the distance rapt in the congenial pleasures of walking and composing a sermon. Fielding, no doubt, shared his hero's taste, and that explains the contrast between his vigorous naturalism and the sentimentalism of Richardson, who was to be seen, as he tells us, "stealing along from Hammersmith to Kensington with his eyes on the ground, propping83 his unsteady limbs with a stick." Even the ponderous84 Johnson used to dissipate his early hypochondria by walking from Lichfield to Birmingham and back (thirty-two miles), and his later melancholy85 would have changed to a more cheerful view of life could he have kept up the practice in his beloved London streets. The literary movement at the end of the eighteenth century was obviously due in great part, if not mainly, to the renewed practice of walking. Wordsworth's poetical86 autobiography87 shows how every stage in his early mental development was connected with some walk in the Lakes. The sunrise which startled him on a walk after a night spent in dancing first set him apart as a "dedicated88 spirit." His walking tour in the Alps—then a novel performance—roused him to his first considerable poem. His chief performance is the record of an excursion on foot. He kept up the practice, and De Quincey calculates somewhere what multiple of the[Pg 202] earth's circumference89 he had measured on his legs, assuming, it appears, that he averaged ten miles a day. De Quincey himself, we are told, slight and fragile as he was, was a good walker, and would run up a hill "like a squirrel." Opium-eating is not congenial to walking, yet even Coleridge, after beginning the habit, speaks of walking forty miles a day in Scotland, and, as we all know, the great manifesto90 of the new school of poetry, the Lyrical Ballads91, was suggested by the famous walk with Wordsworth, when the first stanzas92 of the Ancient Mariner93 were composed. A remarkable94 illustration of the wholesome influence might be given from the cases of Scott and Byron. Scott, in spite of his lameness95, delighted in walks of twenty and thirty miles a day, and in climbing crags, trusting to the strength of his arms to remedy the stumblings of his foot. The early strolls enabled him to saturate96 his mind with local traditions, and the passion for walking under difficulties showed the manly nature which has endeared him to three generations. Byron's lameness was too severe to admit of walking, and therefore all the unwholesome humours which would have been walked off in a good cross-country march accumulated in his brain and caused the defects, the morbid98 affectation and perverse99 misanthropy, which half ruined the [Pg 203]achievement of the most masculine intellect of his time.
It is needless to accumulate examples of a doctrine100 which will no doubt be accepted as soon as it is announced. Walking is the best of panaceas101 for the morbid tendencies of authors. It is, I need only observe, as good for reasoners as for poets. The name of "peripatetic102" suggests the connection. Hobbes walked steadily103 up and down the hills in his patron's park when he was in his venerable old age. To the same practice may be justly ascribed the utilitarian104 philosophy. Old Jeremy Bentham kept himself up to his work for eighty years by his regular "post-jentacular circumgyrations." His chief disciple105, James Mill, walked incessantly106 and preached as he walked. John Stuart Mill imbibed107 at once psychology108, political economy, and a love of walks from his father. Walking was his one recreation; it saved him from becoming a mere smoke-dried pedant109; and though he put forward the pretext110 of botanical researches, it helped him to perceive that man is something besides a mere logic111 machine. Mill's great rival as a spiritual guide, Carlyle, was a vigorous walker, and even in his latest years was a striking figure when performing his regular constitutionals in London. One of the vivid passages in the Reminiscences describes his[Pg 204] walk with Irving from Glasgow to Drumclog. Here they sat on the "brow of a peat hag, while far, far away to the westward112, over our brown horizon, towered up white and visible at the many miles of distance a high irregular pyramid. Ailsa Craig we at once guessed, and thought of the seas and oceans over yonder." The vision naturally led to a solemn conversation, which was an event in both lives. Neither Irving nor Carlyle himself feared any amount of walking in those days, it is added, and next day Carlyle took his longest walk, fifty-four miles. Carlyle is unsurpassable in his descriptions of scenery: from the pictures of mountains in Sartor Resartus to the battle-pieces in Frederick. Ruskin, himself a good walker, is more rhetorical but not so graphic113; and it is self-evident that nothing educates an eye for the features of a landscape so well as the practice of measuring it by your own legs.
The great men, it is true, have not always acknowledged their debt to the genius, whoever he may be, who presides over pedestrian exercise. Indeed, they have inclined to ignore the true source of their impulse. Even when they speak of the beauties of nature, they would give us to understand that they might have been disembodied spirits, taking aerial flights among mountain solitudes115, and independent of the physical machinery of legs and stomachs.[Pg 205] When long ago the Alps cast their spell upon me, it was woven in a great degree by the eloquence117 of Modern Painters. I hoped to share Ruskin's ecstasies118 in a reverent119 worship of Mont Blanc and the Matterhorn. The influence of any cult97, however, depends upon the character of the worshipper, and I fear that in this case the charm operated rather perversely120. I stimulated a passion for climbing which absorbed my energies and distracted me from the prophet's loftier teaching. I might have followed him from the mountains to picture-galleries, and spent among the stones of Venice hours which I devoted121 to attacking hitherto unascended peaks and so losing my last chance of becoming an art critic. I became a fair judge of an Alpine122 guide, but I do not even know how to make a judicious123 allusion124 to Botticelli or Tintoretto. I can't say that I feel the smallest remorse125. I had a good time, and at least escaped one temptation to talking nonsense. It follows, however, that my passion for the mountains had something earthly in its composition. It is associated with memories of eating and drinking. It meant delightful comradeship with some of the best of friends; but our end, I admit, was not always of the most exalted126 or ?sthetic strain. A certain difficulty results. I feel an uncomfortable diffidence. I hold[Pg 206] that Alpine walks are the poetry of the pursuit; I could try to justify127 the opinion by relating some of the emotions suggested by the great scenic128 effects: the sunrise on the snow fields; the storm-clouds gathering129 under the great peaks; the high pasturages knee-deep in flowers; the torrents130 plunging131 through the "cloven ravines," and so forth. But the thing has been done before, better than I could hope to do it; and when I look back at those old passages in Modern Painters, and think of the enthusiasm which prompted to exuberant132 sentences of three or four hundred words, I am not only abashed133 by the thought of their unapproachable eloquence, but feel as though they conveyed a tacit reproach. You, they seem to say, are, after all, a poor prosaic134 creature, affecting a love of sublime135 scenery as a cloak for more grovelling136 motives. I could protest against this judgment137, but it is better at present to omit the topic, even though it would give the strongest groundwork for my argument.
Perhaps, therefore, it is better to trust the case for walking to where the external stimulus of splendours and sublimities is not so overpowering. A philosophic67 historian divides the world into the regions where man is stronger than nature and the regions where nature is stronger than man. The true charm[Pg 207] of walking is most unequivocally shown when it is obviously dependent upon the walker himself. I became an enthusiast62 in the Alps, but I have found almost equal pleasure in walks such as one described by Cowper, where the view from a summit is bounded, not by Alps or Apennines, but by "a lofty quickset hedge." Walking gives a charm to the most commonplace British scenery. A love of walking not only makes any English county tolerable but seems to make the charm inexhaustible. I know only two or three districts minutely, but the more familiar I have become with any of them the more I have wished to return, to invent some new combination of old strolls or to inspect some hitherto unexplored nook. I love the English Lakes, and certainly not on account of associations. I cannot "associate." Much as I respect Wordsworth, I don't care to see the cottage in which he lived: it only suggests to me that anybody else might have lived there. There is an intrinsic charm about the Lake Country, and to me at least a music in the very names of Helvellyn and Skiddaw and Scawfell. But this may be due to the suggestion that it is a miniature of the Alps. I appeal, therefore, to the Fen138 Country, the country of which Alton Locke's farmer boasted that it had none of your "darned ups and downs" and "was as[Pg 208] flat as his barn-door for forty miles on end." I used to climb the range of the Gogmagogs, to see the tower of Ely, some sixteen miles across the dead level, and I boasted that every term I devised a new route for walking to the cathedral from Cambridge. Many of these routes led by the little public-house called "Five Miles from Anywhere": which in my day was the Mecca to which a remarkable club, called—from the name of the village—the "Upware Republic," made periodic pilgrimages. What its members specifically did when they got there beyond consuming beer is unknown to me; but the charm was in the distance "from anywhere"—a sense of solitude116 under the great canopy139 of the heavens, where, like emblems140 of infinity141,
"The trenched waters run from sky to sky."
I have always loved walks in the Fens142. In a steady march along one of the great dykes143 by the monotonous canal with the exuberant vegetation dozing144 in its stagnant145 waters, we were imbibing146 the spirit of the scenery. Our talk might be of senior wranglers147 or the University crew, but we felt the curious charm of the great flats. The absence, perhaps, of definite barriers makes you realise that you are on the surface of a planet rolling through free and boundless148 space. One queer figure[Pg 209] comes back to me—a kind of scholar-gipsy of the fens. Certain peculiarities150 made it undesirable151 to trust him with cash, and his family used to support him by periodically paying his score at riverside publics. They allowed him to print certain poems, moreover, which he would impart when one met him on the towpath. In my boyhood, I remember, I used to fancy that the most delightful of all lives must be that of a bargee—enjoying a perpetual picnic. This gentleman seemed to have carried out the idea; and in the intervals of lectures, I could fancy that he had chosen the better part. His poems, alas152! have long vanished from my memory, and I therefore cannot quote what would doubtless have given the essence of the local sentiment and invested such names as Wicken Fen or Swaffham Lode153 with associations equal to those of Arnold's Hincksey ridge58 and Fyfield elm.
Another set of walks may, perhaps, appeal to more general sympathy. The voice of the sea, we know, is as powerful as the voice of the mountain; and, to my taste, it is difficult to say whether the Land's End is not in itself a more impressive station than the top of Mont Blanc. The solitude of the frozen peaks suggests tombstones and death. The sea is always alive and at work. The hovering154 gulls155 and plunging gannets and the rollicking [Pg 210]porpoises are animating156 symbols of a gallant157 struggle with wind and wave. Even the unassociative mind has a vague sense of the Armada and Hakluyt's heroes in the background. America and Australia are just over the way. "Is not this a dull place?" asked some one of an old woman whose cottage was near to the Lizard158 lighthouse. "No," she replied, "it is so 'cosmopolitan159.'" That was a simple-minded way of expressing the charm suggested in Milton's wonderful phrase:
"Where the great Vision of the guarded Mount
Looks towards Namancos and Bayona's hold."
She could mentally follow the great ships coming and going, and shake hands with people at the ends of the earth. The very sight of a fishing-boat, as painters seem to have found out, is a poem in itself. But is it not all written in Westward Ho! and in the Prose Idylls, in which Kingsley put his most genuine power? Of all walks that I have made, I can remember none more delightful than those round the south-western promontory160. I have followed the coast at different times from the mouth of the Bristol Avon by the Land's End to the Isle161 of Wight, and I am only puzzled to decide which bay or cape114 is the most delightful. I only know that the most delightful was the more enjoyable when placed in its[Pg 211] proper setting by a long walk. When you have made an early start, followed the coastguard track on the slopes above the cliffs, struggled through the gold and purple carpeting of gorse and heather on the moors162, dipped down into quaint little coves163 with a primitive fishing village, followed the blinding whiteness of the sands round a lonely bay, and at last emerged upon a headland where you can settle into a nook of the rocks, look down upon the glorious blue of the Atlantic waves breaking into foam164 on the granite165, and see the distant sea-levels glimmering166 away till they blend imperceptibly into cloudland; then you can consume your modest sandwiches, light your pipe, and feel more virtuous167 and thoroughly at peace with the universe than it is easy even to conceive yourself elsewhere. I have fancied myself on such occasions to be a felicitous168 blend of poet and saint—which is an agreeable sensation. What I wish to point out, however, is that the sensation is confined to the walker. I respect the cyclist, as I have said; but he is enslaved by his machine: he has to follow the highroad, and can only come upon what points of view open to the commonplace tourist. He can see nothing of the retired169 scenery which may be close to him, and cannot have his mind brought into due harmony by the solitude and by the long succession of[Pg 212] lovely bits of scenery which stand so coyly aside from public notice.
The cockney cyclist who wisely seeks to escape at intervals from the region "where houses thick and sewers170 annoy the air," suffers the same disadvantages. To me, for many years, it was a necessity of life to interpolate gulps171 of fresh air between the periods of inhaling172 London fogs. When once beyond the "town" I looked out for notices that trespassers would be prosecuted174. That gave a strong presumption175 that the trespass173 must have some attraction. The cyclist could only reflect that trespassing176 for him was not only forbidden but impossible. To me it was a reminder177 of the many delicious bits of walking which, even in the neighbourhood of London, await the man who has no superstitious178 reverence179 for legal rights. It is indeed surprising how many charming walks can be contrived180 by a judicious combination of a little trespassing with the rights of way happily preserved over so many commons and footpaths181. London, it is true, goes on stretching its vast octopus182 arms farther into the country. Unlike the devouring183 dragon of Wantley, to whom "houses and churches" were like "geese and turkies," it spreads houses and churches over the fields of our childhood. And yet, between the great lines of railway there are still fields not yet[Pg 213] desecrated184 by advertisements of liver pills. It is a fact that within twenty miles of London two travellers recently asked their way at a lonely farmhouse185; and that the mistress of the house, seeing that they were far from an inn, not only gave them a seat and luncheon186, but positively187 refused to accept payment. That suggested an idyllic188 state of society which, it is true, one must not count upon discovering. Yet hospitality, the virtue189 of primitive regions, has not quite vanished, it would appear, even from this over-civilised region. The travellers, perhaps, had something specially190 attractive in their manners. In that or some not distant ramble they made time run back for a couple of centuries. They visited the quiet grave where Penn lies under the shadow of the old Friends' meeting-house, and came to the cottage where the seat on which Milton talked to Ellwood about Paradise Regained191 seems to be still waiting for his return; and climbed the hill to the queer monument which records how Captain Cook demonstrated the goodness of Providence192 by disproving the existence of a continent in the South Sea—(the argument is too obvious to require exposition); and then gazed reverently193 upon the obelisk194, not far off, which marks the point at which George III. concluded a famous stag hunt. A little valley in the quiet chalk country of Buckinghamshire[Pg 214] leads past these and other memorials, and the lover of historical associations, with the help of Thorne's Environs of London, may add indefinitely to the list. I don't object to an association when it presents itself spontaneously and unobtrusively. It should not be the avowed195 goal but the accidental addition to the interest of a walk; and it is then pleasant to think of one's ancestors as sharers in the pleasures. The region enclosed within a radius196 of thirty miles from Charing197 Cross has charms enough even for the least historical of minds. You can't hold a fire in your hand, according to a high authority, by thinking on the frosty Caucasus; but I can comfort myself now and then, when the fellow-passengers who tread on my heels in London have put me out of temper, by thinking of Leith Hill. It only rises to the height of a thousand feet by help of the "Folly198" on the top, but you can see, says my authority, twelve counties from the tower; and, if certain legendary199 ordnance200 surveyors spoke201 the truth, distinguish the English Channel to the south, and Dunstable Hill, far beyond London, to the north. The Crystal Palace, too, as we are assured, "sparkles like a diamond." That is gratifying; but to me the panorama202 suggests a whole network of paths, which have been the scene of personally conducted expeditions, in[Pg 215] which I displayed the skill on which I most pride myself—skill, I mean, in devising judicious geographical203 combinations, and especially of contriving204 admirable short cuts. The persistence205 of some companions in asserting that my short cuts might be the longest way round shows that the best of men are not free from jealousy206. Mine, at any rate, led me and my friends through pleasant places innumerable. My favourite passage in Pilgrim's Progress—an allegory which could have occurred, by the way, to no one who was not both a good man and a good walker—was always that in which Christian and Hopeful leave the highroad to cross a stile into "Bypath Meadow." I should certainly have approved the plan. The path led them, it is true, into the castle of Giant Despair; but the law of trespass has become milder; and the incident really added that spice of adventure which is delightful to the genuine pilgrim. We defied Giant Despair; and if our walks were not quite so edifying207 as those of Christian and his friends, they add a pleasant strand208 to the thread of memory which joins the past years. Conversation, we are often told, like letter-writing, is a lost art. We live too much in crowds. But if ever men can converse209 pleasantly, it is when they are invigorated[Pg 216] by a good march: when the reserve is lowered by the long familiarity of a common pursuit, or when, if bored, you can quietly drop behind, or perhaps increase the pace sufficiently210 to check the breath of the persistent211 argufier.
Nowhere, at least, have I found talk flow so freely and pleasantly as in a march through pleasant country. And yet there is also a peculiar149 charm in the solitary212 expedition when your interlocutor must be yourself. That may be enjoyed, perhaps even best enjoyed, in London streets themselves. I have read somewhere of a distinguished213 person who composed his writings during such perambulations, and the statement was supposed to prove his remarkable power of intellectual concentration. My own experience would tend to diminish the wonder. I hopelessly envy men who can think consecutively214 under conditions distracting to others—in a crowded meeting or in the midst of their children—for I am as sensitive as most people to distraction215; but if I can think at all, I am not sure that the roar of the Strand is not a more favourable environment than the quiet of my own study. The mind—one must only judge from one's own—seems to me to be a singularly ill-constructed apparatus. Thoughts are slippery things. It[Pg 217] is terribly hard to keep them in the track presented by logic. They jostle each other, and suddenly skip aside to make room for irrelevant216 and accidental neighbours; till the stream of thought, of which people talk, resembles rather such a railway journey as one makes in dreams, where at every few yards you are shunted on to the wrong line. Now, though a London street is full of distractions217, they become so multitudinous that they neutralise each other. The whirl of conflicting impulses becomes a continuous current because it is so chaotic218 and determines a mood of sentiment if not a particular vein219 of reflection. Wordsworth describes the influence upon himself in a curious passage of his Prelude220. He wandered through London as a raw country lad, seeing all the sights from Bartholomew Fair to St Stephen's, and became a unit of the "monstrous221 ant-hill in a too busy world." Of course, according to his custom, he drew a moral, and a most excellent moral, from the bewildering complexity222 of his new surroundings. He learnt, it seems, to recognise the unity223 of man and to feel that the spirit of nature was upon him "in London's vast domain224" as well as on the mountains. That comes of being a philosophical poet with a turn for optimism. I will not try to interpret or to comment, for I am afraid that I have[Pg 218] not shared the emotions which he expresses. A cockney, born and bred, takes surroundings for granted. The hubbub225 has ceased to distract him; he is like the people who were said to become deaf because they always lived within the roar of a waterfall: he realises the common saying that the deepest solitude is solitude in a crowd; he derives226 a certain stimulus from a vague sympathy with the active life around him, but each particular stimulus remains, as the phrase goes, "below the threshold of consciousness." To some such effect, till psychologists will give me a better theory, I attribute the fact that what I please to call my "mind" seems to work more continuously and coherently in a street walk than elsewhere. This, indeed, may sound like a confession227 of cynicism. The man who should open his mind to the impressions naturally suggested by the "monstrous ant-hill" would be in danger of becoming a philanthropist or a pessimist228, of being overpowered by thoughts of gigantic problems, or of the impotence of the individual to solve them. Carlyle, if I remember rightly, took Emerson round London in order to convince his optimistic friend that the devil was still in full activity. The gates of hell might be found in every street. I remember how, when coming home from a country walk on a sweltering[Pg 219] summer night, and seeing the squalid population turning out for a gasp229 of air in their only playground, the vast labyrinth230 of hideous231 lanes, I seemed to be in Thomson's City of Dreadful Night. Even the vanishing of quaint old nooks is painful when one's attention is aroused. There is a certain churchyard wall, which I pass sometimes, with an inscription232 to commemorate233 the benefactor234 who erected235 it "to keep out the pigs." I regret the pigs and the village green which they presumably imply. The heart, it may be urged, must be hardened not to be moved by many such texts for melancholy reflection. I will not argue the point. None of us can be always thinking over the riddle236 of the universe, and I confess that my mind is generally employed on much humbler topics. I do not defend my insensibility nor argue that London walks are the best. I only maintain that even in London, walking has a peculiar fascination237. The top of an omnibus is an excellent place for meditation; but it has not, for me at least, that peculiar hypnotic influence which seems to be favourable to thinking, and to pleasant daydreaming238 when locomotion239 is carried on by one's own muscles. The charm, however, is that even a walk in London often vaguely240 recalls better places and nobler forms of the exercise. Wordsworth's Susan hears a thrush[Pg 220] at the corner of Wood Street, and straightway sees
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside."
The gulls which seem lately to have found out the merits of London give to occasional Susans, I hope, a whiff of fresh sea-breezes. But, even without gulls or wood-pigeons, I can often find occasions in the heart of London for recalling the old memories, without any definable pretext; little pictures of scenery, sometimes assignable to no definable place, start up invested with a faint aroma243 of old friendly walks and solitary meditations244 and strenuous245 exercise, and I feel convinced that, if I am not a thorough scoundrel, I owe that relative excellence to the harmless monomania which so often took me, to appropriate Bunyan's phrase, from the amusements of Vanity Fair to the Delectable246 Mountains of pedestrianism.
Leslie Stephen.
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consolation
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retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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3
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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4
amendment
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| n.改正，修正，改善，修正案 | |
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5
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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6
epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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7
obtrusively
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| adv.冒失地，莽撞地 | |
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8
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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9
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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10
extraneous
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| adj.体外的；外来的；外部的 | |
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11
cherub
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| n.小天使，胖娃娃 | |
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12
stimulants
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| n.兴奋剂( stimulant的名词复数 )；含兴奋剂的饮料；刺激物；激励物 | |
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13
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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14
athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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15
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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16
veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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17
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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18
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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19
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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20
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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21
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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22
pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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23
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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24
feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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25
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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26
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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27
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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28
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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29
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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30
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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31
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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32
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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33
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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34
inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
coalesce
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| v.联合，结合，合并 | |
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36
hitched
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| （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的过去式和过去分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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37
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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38
scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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39
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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40
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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41
appendage
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| n.附加物 | |
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42
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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43
instilling
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| v.逐渐使某人获得（某种可取的品质），逐步灌输( instil的现在分词 )；逐渐使某人获得（某种可取的品质），逐步灌输( instill的现在分词 ) | |
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44
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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45
automaton
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| n.自动机器，机器人 | |
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46
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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47
initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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48
diverge
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| v.分叉，分歧，离题，使...岔开，使转向 | |
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49
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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50
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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51
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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52
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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53
evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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54
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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55
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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56
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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57
crab
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| n.螃蟹，偏航，脾气乖戾的人，酸苹果；vi.捕蟹，偏航，发牢骚；vt.使偏航，发脾气 | |
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58
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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59
tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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60
catastrophes
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| n.灾祸( catastrophe的名词复数 )；灾难；不幸事件；困难 | |
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61
staple
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| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
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62
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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63
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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64
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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65
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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66
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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67
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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68
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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69
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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70
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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71
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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72
munificently
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73
dissuaded
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| 劝（某人）勿做某事，劝阻( dissuade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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75
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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76
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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77
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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78
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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79
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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80
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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81
embodying
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| v.表现( embody的现在分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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82
somnolence
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| n.想睡，梦幻；欲寐；嗜睡；嗜眠 | |
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83
propping
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| 支撑 | |
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84
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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85
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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86
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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87
autobiography
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| n.自传 | |
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88
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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89
circumference
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| n.圆周，周长，圆周线 | |
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90
manifesto
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| n.宣言，声明 | |
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91
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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92
stanzas
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| 节，段( stanza的名词复数 ) | |
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93
mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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94
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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95
lameness
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| n. 跛, 瘸, 残废 | |
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96
saturate
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| vt.使湿透，浸透；使充满，使饱和 | |
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97
cult
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| n.异教，邪教；时尚，狂热的崇拜 | |
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98
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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99
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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100
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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101
panaceas
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| n.治百病的药，万灵药( panacea的名词复数 ) | |
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102
peripatetic
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| adj.漫游的，逍遥派的，巡回的 | |
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103
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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104
utilitarian
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| adj.实用的，功利的 | |
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105
disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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106
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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107
imbibed
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| v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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108
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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109
pedant
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| n.迂儒；卖弄学问的人 | |
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110
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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111
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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112
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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113
graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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114
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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115
solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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116
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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117
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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118
ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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119
reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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120
perversely
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| adv. 倔强地 | |
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121
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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122
alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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123
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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124
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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125
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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126
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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127
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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128
scenic
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| adj.自然景色的，景色优美的 | |
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129
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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130
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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131
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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132
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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133
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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135
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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136
grovelling
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| adj.卑下的，奴颜婢膝的v.卑躬屈节，奴颜婢膝( grovel的现在分词 )；趴 | |
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137
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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138
fen
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| n.沼泽，沼池 | |
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139
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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140
emblems
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| n.象征，标记( emblem的名词复数 ) | |
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141
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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142
fens
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| n.（尤指英格兰东部的）沼泽地带( fen的名词复数 ) | |
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143
dykes
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| abbr.diagonal wire cutters 斜线切割机n.堤( dyke的名词复数 )；坝；堰；沟 | |
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144
dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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145
stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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146
imbibing
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| v.吸收( imbibe的现在分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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147
wranglers
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| n.争执人( wrangler的名词复数 )；在争吵的人；（尤指放马的）牧人；牛仔 | |
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148
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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149
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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150
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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151
undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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152
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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153
lode
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| n.矿脉 | |
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154
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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155
gulls
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| n.鸥( gull的名词复数 )v.欺骗某人( gull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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156
animating
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| v.使有生气( animate的现在分词 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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157
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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158
lizard
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| n.蜥蜴，壁虎 | |
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159
cosmopolitan
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| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
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160
promontory
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| n.海角；岬 | |
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161
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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162
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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163
coves
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| n.小海湾( cove的名词复数 )；家伙 | |
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164
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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165
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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166
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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167
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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168
felicitous
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| adj.恰当的，巧妙的；n.恰当，贴切 | |
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169
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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170
sewers
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| n.阴沟，污水管，下水道( sewer的名词复数 ) | |
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171
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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172
inhaling
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| v.吸入( inhale的现在分词 ) | |
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173
trespass
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| n./v.侵犯，闯入私人领地 | |
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174
prosecuted
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| a.被起诉的 | |
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175
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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176
trespassing
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| [法]非法入侵 | |
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177
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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178
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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179
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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180
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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181
footpaths
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| 人行小径，人行道( footpath的名词复数 ) | |
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182
octopus
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| n.章鱼 | |
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183
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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184
desecrated
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| 毁坏或亵渎( desecrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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185
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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186
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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187
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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188
idyllic
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| adj.质朴宜人的，田园风光的 | |
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189
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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190
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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191
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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192
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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193
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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194
obelisk
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| n.方尖塔 | |
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195
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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196
radius
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| n.半径，半径范围；有效航程，范围，界限 | |
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197
charing
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| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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198
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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199
legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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200
ordnance
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| n.大炮，军械 | |
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201
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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202
panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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203
geographical
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| adj.地理的；地区(性)的 | |
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204
contriving
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的现在分词 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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205
persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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206
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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207
edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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208
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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209
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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210
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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211
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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212
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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213
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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214
consecutively
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| adv.连续地 | |
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215
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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216
irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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217
distractions
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| n.使人分心的事[人]( distraction的名词复数 )；娱乐，消遣；心烦意乱；精神错乱 | |
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218
chaotic
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| adj.混沌的，一片混乱的，一团糟的 | |
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219
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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220
prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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221
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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222
complexity
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| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
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223
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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224
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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225
hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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226
derives
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| v.得到( derive的第三人称单数 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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227
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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228
pessimist
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| n.悲观者；悲观主义者；厌世 | |
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229
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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230
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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231
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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232
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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233
commemorate
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| vt.纪念，庆祝 | |
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234
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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235
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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236
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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237
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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238
daydreaming
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| v.想入非非，空想( daydream的现在分词 ) | |
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239
locomotion
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| n.运动，移动 | |
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240
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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241
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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242
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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243
aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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244
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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245
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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246
delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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