The Snowdon Ranger

"Why do you suppose so?"

"Because, so be, there be no sheep, no milk, you know; and what there ben't is not worth having."

"You could not have argued better," said I, "that is, supposing you have argued; with respect to the milk you may do as you please."

"Be still, Nanny," said the man; and producing a tin vessel from his scrip, he milked the ewe into it. "Here is milk of the plains, master," said the man, as he handed the vessel to me.

"Where are those barrows and great walls of earth you were speaking of?" said I, after I had drunk some of the milk; "are there any near where we are?"

"Not within many miles; the nearest is yonder away," said the shepherd, pointing to the south-east. "It's a grand place, that, but not like this; quite different, and from it you have a sight of the finest spire in the world."

"I must go to it," said I, and I drank the remainder of the milk; "yonder, you say."

"Yes, yonder; but you cannot get to it in that direction, the river lies between."

"What river?"

"The Avon."

"Avon is British," said I.

"Yes," said the man, "we are all British here."

"No, we are not," said I.

"What are we, then?"

"English."

"A'n't they one?"

"No."

"Who were the British?"

"The men who are supposed to have worshipped God in this place, and who raised these stones."

"Where are they now?"

"Our forefathers slaughtered them, spilled their blood all about, especially in this neighbourhood, destroyed their pleasant places, and left not, to use their own words, one stone upon another."

"Yes, they did," said the shepherd, looking aloft at the transverse stone.

"And it is well for them they did; whenever that stone, which English hands never raised, is by English hands thrown down, woe, woe, woe to the English race; spare it, English! Hengist spared it!—Here is sixpence."

"I won't have it," said the man.

"Why not?"

"You talk so prettily about these stones; you seem to know all about them."

"I never receive presents; with respect to the stones, I say with yourself, How did they ever come here?"

"How did they ever come here?" said the shepherd.

A PROSPECT

Leaving the shepherd, I bent my way in the direction pointed out by him as that in which the most remarkable of the strange remains of which he had spoken lay. I proceeded rapidly, making my way over the downs covered with coarse grass and fern; with respect to the river of which he had spoken, I reflected that, either by wading or swimming, I could easily transfer myself and what I bore to the opposite side. On arriving at its banks, I found it a beautiful stream, but shallow, with here andthere a deep place, where the water ran dark and still.

Always fond of the pure lymph, I undressed, and plunged into one of these gulfs, from which I emerged, my whole frame in a glow, and tingling with delicious sensations. After conveying my clothes and scanty baggage to the farther side, I dressed, and then with hurried steps bent my course in the direction of some lofty ground; I at length found myself on a high road, leading over wide and arid downs; following the road for some miles without seeing anything remarkable, I supposed at length that I had taken the wrong path, and wended on slowly and disconsolately for some time, till, having nearly surmounted a steep hill, I knew at once, from certain appearances, that I was near the object of my search. Turning to the right near the brow of the hill, I proceeded along a path which brought me to a causeway leading over a deep ravine, and connecting the hill with another which had once formed part of it, for the ravine was evidently the work of art. I passed over the causeway, and found myself in a kind of gateway which admitted me into a square space of many acres, surrounded on all sides by mounds or ramparts of earth. Though I had never been in such a place before, I knew that I stood within the precincts of what hadbeen a Roman encampment, and one probably of the largest size, for many thousand warriors might have found room to perform their evolutions in that space, in which corn was now growing, the green ears waving in the morning wind.

After I had gazed about the space for a time, standing in the gateway formed by the mounds, I clambered up the mound to the left hand, and on the top of that mound I found myself at a great altitude; beneath, at the distance of a mile, was a fair old city, situated amongst verdant meadows, watered with streams, and from the heart of that old city, from amidst mighty trees, I beheld towering to the sky the finest spire in the world.

After I had looked from the Roman rampart for a long time, I hurried away, and, retracing my steps along the causeway, regained the road, and, passing over the brow of the hill, descended to the city of the spire.

"ONE OF THE PLEASANT MOMENTS OF LIFE"

After walking about a dozen miles, I came to a town, where I rested for the night. The next morning I set out again in the direction of the north-west. I continued journeyingfor four days, my daily journeys varying from twenty to twenty-five miles. During this time nothing occurred to me worthy of any especial notice. The weather was brilliant, and I rapidly improved both in strength and spirits. On the fifth day, about two o'clock, I arrived at a small town. Feeling hungry, I entered a decent-looking inn—within a kind of bar I saw a huge, fat, landlord-looking person, with a very pretty, smartly-dressed maiden. Addressing myself to the fat man, "House!" said I, "house! Can I have dinner, house?" "Young gentleman," said the huge fat landlord, "you are come at the right time; dinner will be taken up in a few minutes, and such a dinner," he continued, rubbing his hands, "as you will not see every day in these times."

"I am hot and dusty," said I, "and should wish to cool my hands and face."

"Jenny!" said the huge landlord, with the utmost gravity, "show the gentleman into number seven, that he may wash his hands and face."

"By no means," said I, "I am a person of primitive habits, and there is nothing like the pump in weather like this."

"Jenny!" said the landlord, with the same gravity as before, "go with the young gentleman to the pump in the back kitchen, and take a clean towel along with you."

Thereupon the rosy-faced clean-looking damsel went to a drawer, and producing a large, thick, but snowy-white towel, she nodded to me to follow her; whereupon I followed Jenny through a long passage into the back kitchen.

And at the end of the back kitchen there stood a pump; and going to it I placed my hands beneath the spout, and said, "Pump, Jenny"; and Jenny incontinently, without laying down the towel, pumped with one hand, and I washed and cooled my heated hands.

And, when my hands were washed and cooled, I took off my neckcloth, and unbuttoning my shirt collar, I placed my head beneath the spout of the pump, and I said unto Jenny, "Now, Jenny, lay down the towel, and pump for your life."

Thereupon Jenny, placing the towel on a linen-horse, took the handle of the pump with both hands and pumped over my head as handmaid had never pumped before; so that the water poured in torrents from my head, my face, and my hair down upon the brick floor.

And after the lapse of somewhat more than a minute, I called out with a half-strangled voice, "Hold, Jenny!" and Jenny desisted. I stood for a few moments to recover my breath, then taking the towel which Jennyproffered, I dried composedly my hands and head, my face and hair; then, returning the towel to Jenny, I gave a deep sigh and said, "Surely this is one of the pleasant moments of life."

George Borrow,—"Lavengro."

I quickened my steps, and soon came up to the two individuals. One was an elderly man, dressed in a smock frock, and with a hairy cap on his head. The other was much younger, wore a hat, and was dressed in a coarse suit of blue, nearly new, and doubtless his Sunday's best. He was smoking a pipe. I greeted them in English, and sat down near them. They responded in the same language, the younger man with considerable civility and briskness, the other in a tone of voice denoting some reserve.

"May I ask the name of this lake?" said I, addressing myself to the young man, who sat between me and the elderly one.

"Its name is Llyn Cwellyn, sir," said he, taking the pipe out of his mouth. "And a fine lake it is."

"Plenty of fish in it?" I demanded.

"Plenty, sir; plenty of trout and pike and char."

"Is it deep?" said I.

"Near the shore it is shallow, sir, but in the middle and near the other side it isdeep, so deep that no one knows how deep it is."

"What is the name," said I, "of the great black mountain there on the other side?"

"It is called Mynydd Mawr, or the Great Mountain. Yonder rock, which bulks out from it, down the lake yonder, and which you passed as you came along, is called Castell Cidwm, which means Wolf s rock or castle."

"Did a wolf ever live there?" I demanded.

"Perhaps so," said the man, "for I have heard say that there were wolves of old in Wales."

"And what is the name of the beautiful hill yonder, before us across the water?"

"That, sir, is called Cairn Drws y Coed," said the man.

"The stone heap of the gate of the wood," said I.

"Are you Welsh, sir?" said the man.

"No," said I, "but I know something of the language of Wales. I suppose you live in that house?"

"Not exactly, sir; my father-in-law here lives in that house, and my wife with him. I am a miner, and spend six days in the week at my mine, but every Sunday I come here, and pass the day with my wife and him."

"And what profession does he follow?" said I; "is he a fisherman?"

"Fisherman!" said the elderly man contemptuously, "not I. I am the Snowdon Ranger."

"And what is that?" said I.

The elderly man tossed his head proudly, and made no reply.

"A ranger means a guide, sir," said the younger man—"my father-in-law is generally termed the Snowdon Ranger because he is a tip-top guide, and he has named the house after him the Snowdon Ranger. He entertains gentlemen in it who put themselves under his guidance in order to ascend Snowdon and to see the country."

"There is some difference in your professions," said I; "he deals in heights, you in depths; both, however, are break-necky trades."

"I run more risk from gunpowder than anything else," said the younger man. "I am a slate-miner, and am continually blasting. I have, however, had my falls. Are you going far to-night, sir?"

"I am going to Bethgelert," said I.

"A good six miles, sir, from here. Do you come from Caernarvon?"

"Farther than that," said I. "I come from Bangor."

"To-day, sir, and walking?"

"To-day, and walking."

"You must be rather tired, sir; you came along the valley very slowly."

"I am not in the slightest degree tired," said I; "when I start from here, I shall put on my best pace, and soon get to Bethgelert."

"Anybody can get along over level ground," said the old man, laconically.

"Not with equal swiftness," said I. "I do assure you, friend, to be able to move at a good swinging pace over level ground is something not to be sneezed at. Not," said I, lifting up my voice, "that I would for a moment compare walking on the level ground to mountain ranging, pacing along the road to springing up crags like a mountain goat, or assert that even Powell himself, the first of all road walkers, was entitled to so bright a wreath of fame as the Snowdon Ranger."

"Won't you walk in, sir?" said the elderly man.

"No, I thank you," said I; "I prefer sitting out here, gazing on the lake and the noble mountains."

"I wish you would, sir," said the elderly man, "and take a glass of something; I will charge you nothing."

"Thank you," said I—"I am in want of nothing, and shall presently start. Do many people ascend Snowdon from your house?"

"Not so many as I could wish," said theranger; "people in general prefer ascending Snowdon from that trumpery place Bethgelert; but those who do are fools—begging your honour's pardon. The place to ascend Snowdon from is my house. The way from my house up Snowdon is wonderful for the romantic scenery which it affords; that from Bethgelert can't be named in the same day with it for scenery; moreover, from my house you may have the best guide in Wales; whereas the guides of Bethgelert—but I say nothing. If your honour is bound for the Wyddfa, as I suppose you are, you had better start from my house to-morrow under my guidance."

"I have already been up the Wyddfa from Llanberis," said I, "and am now going through Bethgelert to Llangollen, where my family are; were I going up Snowdon again, I should most certainly start from your house under your guidance, and were I not in a hurry at present, I would certainly take up my quarters here for a week, and every day make excursions with you into the recesses of Eryri. I suppose you are acquainted with all the secrets of the hills?"

"Trust the old ranger for that, your honour. I would show your honour the black lake in the frightful hollow, in which the fishes have monstrous heads and little bodies, the lake onwhich neither swan, duck nor any kind of wildfowl was ever seen to light. Then I would show your honour the fountain of the hopping creatures, where, where——"

"Were you ever at that Wolf's crag, that Castell y Cidwm?" said I.

"Can't say I ever was, your honour. You see it lies so close by, just across that lake, that——"

"You thought you could see it any day, and so never went," said I. "Can't you tell me whether there are any ruins upon it?"

"I can't, your honour."

"I shouldn't wonder," said I, "if in old times it was the stronghold of some robber-chieftain; cidwm in the old Welsh is frequently applied to a ferocious man. Castell Cidwm, I should think, rather ought to be translated the robber's castle, than the wolf's rock. If I ever come into these parts again, you and I will visit it together, and see what kind of a place it is. Now farewell! It is getting late." I then departed.

"What a nice gentleman!" said the younger man, when I was a few yards distant.

"I never saw a nicer gentleman," said the old ranger.

I sped along, Snowdon on my left, the lake on my right, and the tip of a mountain peak right before me in the east. After a littletime I looked back; what a scene! The silver lake and the shadowy mountain over its southern side looking now, methought, very much like Gibraltar. I lingered and lingered, gazing and gazing, and at last only by an effort tore myself away. The evening had now become delightfully cool in this land of wonders. On I sped, passing by two noisy brooks coming from Snowdon to pay tribute to the lake. And now I had left the lake and the valley behind, and was ascending a hill. As I gained its summit, up rose the moon to cheer my way. In a little time, a wild stony gorge confronted me, a stream ran down the gorge with hollow roar, a bridge lay across it. I asked a figure whom I saw standing by the bridge the place's name. "Rhyd du"—the black ford—I crossed the bridge. The voice of the Methodist was yelling from a little chapel on my left. I went to the door and listened: "When the sinner takes hold of God, God takes hold of the sinner." The voice was frightfully hoarse. I passed on; night fell fast around me, and the mountain to the south-east, towards which I was tending, looked blackly grand. And now I came to a milestone, on which I read with difficulty: "Three miles to Bethgelert." The way for some time had been upward, but now it was downward. I reached a torrent, which, comingfrom the north-west, rushed under a bridge, over which I passed. The torrent attended me on my right hand the whole way to Bethgelert. The descent now became very rapid. I passed a pine wood on my left, and proceeded for more than two miles at a tremendous rate. I then came to a wood—this wood was just above Bethgelert—proceeding in the direction of a black mountain, I found myself amongst houses, at the bottom of a valley. I passed over a bridge, and inquiring of some people, whom I met, the way to the inn, was shown an edifice brilliantly lighted up, which I entered.

OF UMBRELLAS

Wending my course to the north, I came to the white bare spot which I had seen from the moor, and which was in fact the top of a considerable elevation over which the road passed. Here I turned and looked at the hills I had come across. There they stood, darkly blue, a rain cloud, like ink, hanging over their summits. O, the wild hills of Wales, the land of old renown and of wonder, the land of Arthur and Merlin.

The road now lay nearly due west. Rain came on, but it was at my back, so I expanded my umbrella, flung it over my shoulder andlaughed. O, how a man laughs who has a good umbrella when he has the rain at his back, aye and over his head too, and at all times when it rains except when the rain is in his face, when the umbrella is not of much service. O, what a good friend to a man is an umbrella in rain time, and likewise at many other times. What need he fear if a wild bull or a ferocious dog attacks him, provided he has a good umbrella? he unfurls the umbrella in the face of the bull or dog, and the brute turns round quite scared, and runs away. Or if a footpad asks him for his money, what need he care provided he has an umbrella? he threatens to dodge the ferrule into the ruffian's eye, and the fellow starts back and says, "Lord, sir! I meant no harm. I never saw you before in all my life. I merely meant a little fun." Moreover, who doubts that you are a respectable character provided you have an umbrella? you go into a public-house and call for a pot of beer, and the publican puts it down before you with one hand without holding out the other for the money, for he sees that you have an umbrella and consequently property. And what respectable man, when you overtake him on the way and speak to him, will refuse to hold conversation with you, provided you have an umbrella? No one. The respectable man sees you have an umbrella and concludes thatyou do not intend to rob him, and with justice, for robbers never carry umbrellas. O, a tent, a shield, a lance and a voucher for character is an umbrella. Amongst the very best friends of man must be reckoned an umbrella.[2]

[2]As the umbrella is rather a hackneyed subject two or three things will of course be found in the above eulogium on an umbrella which have been said by other folks on that subject; the writer, however, flatters himself that in his eulogium on an umbrella two or three things will also be found which have never been said by any one else about an umbrella.

The way lay over dreary, moory hills: at last it began to descend and I saw a valley below me with a narrow river running through it to which wooded hills sloped down; far to the west were blue mountains. The scene was beautiful but melancholy; the rain had passed away, but a gloomy almost November sky was above, and the mists of night were coming down apace.

I crossed a bridge at the bottom of the valley and presently saw a road branching to the right. I paused, but after a little time went straight forward. Gloomy woods were on each side of me and night had come down. Fear came upon me that I was not in the right road, but I saw no house at which I could inquire, nor did I see a single individual for miles of whom I could ask. At last I heard the sound of hatchets in a dingle on my right, andcatching a glimpse of a gate at the head of a path, which led down into it, I got over it. After descending some time I hallooed. The noise of the hatchets ceased. I hallooed again, and a voice cried in Welsh, "What do you want?" "To know the way to Bala," I replied. There was no answer, but presently I heard steps, and the figure of a man drew nigh half undistinguishable in the darkness and saluted me. I returned his salutation, and told him I wanted to know the way to Bala. He told me, and I found I had been going right. I thanked him and regained the road. I sped onward and in about half an hour saw some houses, then a bridge, then a lake on my left, which I recognised as the lake of Bala. I skirted the end of it, and came to a street cheerfully lighted up, and in a minute more was in the White Lion Inn.

SUPPER—AND A MORNING VIEW

The sun was going down as I left the inn. I recrossed the streamlet by means of the pole and rail. The water was running with much less violence than in the morning, and was considerably lower. The evening was calm and beautifully cool, with a slight tendency to frost. I walked along with a bounding andelastic step, and never remember to have felt more happy and cheerful.

I reached the hospice at about six o'clock, a bright moon shining upon me, and found a capital supper awaiting me, which I enjoyed exceedingly.

How one enjoys one's supper at one's inn, after a good day's walk, provided one has the proud and glorious consciousness of being able to pay one's reckoning on the morrow!

The morning of the sixth was bright and glorious. As I looked from the window of the upper sitting-room of the hospice the scene which presented itself was wild and beautiful to a degree. The oak-covered tops of the volcanic crater were gilded with the brightest sunshine, whilst the eastern side remained in dark shade and the gap or narrow entrance to the north in shadow yet darker, in the midst of which shone the silver of the Rheidol cataract. Should I live a hundred years I shall never forget the wild fantastic beauty of that morning scene.

George Borrow,—"Wild Wales."

Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road!Healthy, free, the world before me,The long brown path before me, leading where-ever I choose!Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,Strong and content I travel the open road.The earth—that is sufficient,I do not want the constellations any nearer,I know they are very well where they are,I know they suffice for those who belong to them.Still here I carry my old delicious burdens,I carry them, men and women—I carry them with me wherever I go,I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them,I am fill'd with them, and I will fill them in return.You road I travel and look around! I believe you are not all that is here!I believe that something unseen is also here.Here is the profound lesson of reception, neither preference or denial;The black with his woolly head, the felon, the diseased, the illiterate person, are not denied,The birth, the hasting after the physician, the beggar's tramp, the drunkard's stagger, the laughing party of mechanics,The escaped youth, the rich person's carriage, the fop, the eloping couple,The early market-man, the hearse, the moving of furniture into the town, the return back from the town,They pass, I also pass, any thing passes, none can be interdicted,None but are accepted, none but are dear to me.You air that serves me with breath to speak!You objects that call from diffusion my meanings and give them shape!You light that wraps me and all things in delicate equable showers!You paths worn in the irregular hollows by the road-sides!I think you are latent with curious existences—you are so dear to me.You flagg'd walks of the cities! you strong curbs at the edges!You ferries! you planks and posts of wharves! you timber-lined sides! you distant ships!You rows of houses! you window-pierced façades! you roofs!You porches and entrances! you copings and iron guards!You windows whose transparent shells might expose so much!You doors and ascending steps! you arches!You grey stones of interminable pavements! you trodden crossings!From all that has been near you I believe you have imparted to yourselves, and now would impart the same secretly to me,From the living and the dead I think you have peopled your impassive surfaces, and the spirits thereof would be evident and amicable with me.The earth expanding right hand and left hand,The picture alive, every part in its best light,The music falling in where it is wanted, and stopping where it is not wanted,The cheerful voice of the public road—the gay fresh sentiment of the road.O highway I travel! O public road! Do you say to me, Do not leave me?Do you say, Venture not?—If you leave me you are lost?Do you say, I am already prepared—I am well beaten and undenied—adhere to me?O public road! I say back I am not afraid to leave you—yet I love you,You express me better than I can express myself,You shall be more to me than my poem.I think heroic deeds were all conceived in the open air,I think I could stop here myself and do miracles,I think whatever I meet on the road I shall like, and whoever beholds me shall like me,I think whoever I see must be happy.From this hour, freedom!From this hour I ordain myself loosed of limits and imaginary lines!Going where I list—my own master, total and absolute,Listening to others, considering well what they say,Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating.Gently but with undeniable will divesting myself of the holds that would hold me.I inhale great draughts of air,The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine.I am larger than I thought!I did not know I held so much goodness!All seems beautiful to me,I can repeat over to men and women, You have done such good to me, I would do the same to you,I will recruit for myself and you as I go,I will scatter myself among men and women as I go,I will toss a new gladness and roughness among them,Whoever denies me it shall not trouble me,Whoever accepts me he or she shall be blessed and shall bless me.Now if a thousand perfect men were to appear, it would not amaze me,Now if a thousand beautiful forms of women appear'd, it would not astonish me.Now I see the secret of the making of the best persons,It is to grow in the open air, and eat and sleep with the earth.Here a great personal deed has room,(Such a deed seizes upon the hearts of the whole race of men,Its effusion of strength and will overwhelms laws and mocks all authority and all argument against it.)Here is the test of wisdom,Wisdom is not finally tested in schools,Wisdom cannot be pass'd from one having it to another not having it,Wisdom is of the soul, is not susceptible of proof, is its own proof,Applies to all stages and objects and qualities and is content,Is the certainty of the reality and immortality of things, and the excellence of things;Something there is in the float of the sight of things that provokes it out of the soul.Now I re-examine philosophies and religions,They may prove well in lecture-rooms, yet not prove at all under the spacious clouds and along the landscape and flowing currents.Here is realization,Here is a man tallied—he realizes here what he has in him,The past, the future, majesty, love—if they are vacant of you, you are vacant of them.Only the kernel of every object nourishes;Where is he who tears off the husks for you and me?Where is he that undoes stratagems and envelopes for you and me?Here is adhesiveness, it is not previously fashion'd, it is apropos;Do you know what it is as you pass to be loved by strangers?Do you know the talk of those turning eyeballs?Here is the efflux of the soul,The efflux of the soul comes from within through embower'd gates, ever provoking questions.These yearnings why are they? these thoughts in the darkness why are they?Why are there men and women that while they are nigh me the sunlight expands my blood?Why when they leave me do my pennants of joy sink flat and lank?Why are there trees I never walk under but large and melodious thoughts descend upon me?(I think they hang there winter and summer on those trees and almost drop fruit as I pass;)What is it I interchange so suddenly with strangers?What with some driver as I ride on the seat by his side?What with some fisherman drawing his seine by the shore as I walk by and pause?What gives me to be free to a woman's and man's good-will? what gives them to be free to mine?The efflux of the soul is happiness, here is happiness.I think it pervades the open air, waiting at all times,Now it flows unto us, we are rightly charged.Here rises the fluid and attaching character,The fluid and attaching character is the freshness and sweetness of man and woman,(The herbs of the morning sprout no fresher and sweeter every day out of the roots of themselves, than it sprouts fresh and sweet continually out of itself.)Toward the fluid and attaching character exudes the sweat of the love of young and old,From it falls distill'd the charm that mocks beauty and attainments,Toward it heaves the shuddering longing ache of contact.Allons! whoever you are come travel with me.Travelling with me you find what never tires.The earth never tires,The earth is rude, silent, incomprehensible at first, Nature is rude and incomprehensible at first,Be not discouraged, keep on, there are divine things well envelop'd,I swear to you there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell.Allons! we must not stop here,However sweet these laid-up stores, however convenient this dwelling we cannot remain here,However shelter'd this port and however calm these waters we must not anchor here,However welcome the hospitality that surrounds us we are permitted to receive it but a little while.Allons! the inducements shall be greater,We will sail pathless and wild seas,We will go where winds blow, waves dash, and the Yankee clipper speeds by under full sail.Allons! with power, liberty, the earth, the elements,Health, defiance, gaiety, self-esteem, curiosity;Allons! from all formulas!From your formulas, O bat-eyed and materialistic priests.The stale cadaver blocks up the passage—the burial waits no longer.Allons! yet take warning!He travelling with me needs the best blood, thews, endurance,None may come to the trial till he or she bring courage and health,Come not here if you have already spent the best of yourself,Only those may come who come in sweet and determined bodies,No diseas'd person, no rum drinker or venereal taint is permitted here.(I and mine do not convince by arguments, similes, rhymes,We convince by our presence.)Listen! I will be honest with you,I do not offer the old smooth prizes, but offer rough new prizes,These are the days that must happen to you:You shall not heap up what is call'd riches:You shall scatter with lavish hand all that you earn or achieve,You but arrive at the city to which you were destin'd, you hardly settle yourself to satisfaction before you are call'd by an irresistible call to depart,You shall be treated to the ironical smiles and mockings of those who remain behind you,What beckonings of love you receive you shall only answer with passionate kisses of parting,You shall not allow the hold of those who spread their reach'd hands toward you.Allons! after the great Companions, and to belong to them!They too are on the road—they are the swift and majestic men—they are the greatest women,Enjoyers of calms of seas and storms of seas,Sailors of many a ship, walkers of many a mile of land,Habitués of many distant countries, habitués of far distant dwellings,Trusters of men and women, observers of cities, solitary toilers,Pausers and contemplators of tufts, blossoms, shells of the shore,Dancers at wedding-dances, kissers of brides, tender helpers of children, bearers of children,Soldiers of revolts, standers by gaping graves, lowerers-down of coffins,Journeyers over consecutive seasons, over the years, the curious years each emerging from that which preceded it,Journeyers as with companions, namely their own diverse phases,Forth-steppers from the latent unrealized baby-days,Journeyers gaily with their own youth, journeyers with their bearded and well-grain'd manhood,Journeyers with their womanhood, ample, unsurpass'd, content,Journeyers with their own sublime old age, of manhood or womanhood,Old age, calm, expanded, broad with the haughty breadth of the universe,Old age, flowing free with the delicious near-by freedom of death.Allons! to that which is endless as it was beginningless,To undergo much, tramps of days, rests of nights,To merge all in the travel they tend to, and the days and nights they tend to,Again to merge them in the start of superior journeys,To see nothing anywhere but what you may reach it and pass it,To conceive no time, however distant, but what you may reach it and pass it,To look up or down the road but it stretches and waits for you, however long but it stretches and waits for you,To see no being, not God's or any, but you also go thither,To see no possession but may possess it, enjoying all without labour or purchase, abstracting the feast yet not abstracting one particle of it,To take the best of the farmer's farm and the rich man's elegant villa, and the chaste blessings of the well-married couple, and the fruits of orchards and flowers of gardens,To take to your use out of the compact cities as you pass through,To carry buildings and streets with you afterward where-ever you go,To gather the minds of men out of their brains as you encounter them, to gather the love out of their hearts.To take your lovers on the road with you, for all that you leave them behind you,To know the universe itself as a road, as many roads, as roads for travelling souls.All parts away for the progress of souls,All religion, all solid things, arts, governments—all that was or is apparent upon this globe or any globe, falls into niches and corners before the procession of souls along the grand roads of the universe.Of the progress of the souls of men and women along the grand roads of the universe, all other progress is the needed emblem and sustenance.Forever alive, forever forward,Stately, solemn, sad, withdrawn, baffled, mad, turbulent, feeble, dissatisfied,Desperate, proud, fond, sick, accepted by men, rejected by men,They go! they go! I know that they go, but I know not where they go,But I know that they go toward the best—toward something great.Whoever you are, come forth! or man or woman come forth!You must not stay sleeping and dallying there in the house, though you built it, or though it has been built for you.Out of the dark confinement! out from behind the screen!It is useless to protest, I know all and expose it.Behold through you as bad as the rest,Through the laughter, dancing, dining, supping of people,Inside of dresses and ornaments, inside of those wash'd and trimm'd faces,Behold a secret silent loathing and despair.No husband, no wife, no friend, trusted to hear the confession,Another self, a duplicate of every one, skulking and hiding it goes,Formless and wordless through the streets of the cities, polite and bland in the parlours,In the cars of railroads, in steamboats, in the public assembly,Home to the houses of men and women, at the table, in the bed-room, everywhere,Smartly attired, countenance smiling, form upright, death under the breast-bones, hell under the skull-bones,Under the broadcloth and gloves, under the ribbons and artificial flowers,Keeping fair with the customs, speaking not a syllable of itself.Speaking of anything else, but never of itself.Allons! through struggles and wars!The goal that was named cannot be countermanded.Have the past struggles succeeded?What has succeeded? yourself? your nation? Nature?Now understand me well—it is provided in the essence of things that from any fruition of success, no matter what, shall come forth something to make a greater struggle necessary.My call is the call of the battle, I nourish active rebellion,He going with me must go well arm'd,He going with me goes often with spare diet, poverty, angry enemies, desertions.Allons! the road is before us!It is safe—I have tried it—my own feet have tried it well—be not detain'd!Let the paper remain on the desk unwritten, and the book on the shelf unopen'd!Let the tools remain in the workshop! let the money remain unearn'd!Let the school stand! mind not the cry of the teacher!Let the preacher preach in his pulpit! let the lawyer plead in the court, and the judge expound the law.Camerado, I will give you my hand!I give you my love more precious than money,I give you myself before preaching or law;Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me?Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?

Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road!Healthy, free, the world before me,The long brown path before me, leading where-ever I choose!

Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road!

Healthy, free, the world before me,

The long brown path before me, leading where-ever I choose!

Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,Strong and content I travel the open road.

Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,

Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,

Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,

Strong and content I travel the open road.

The earth—that is sufficient,I do not want the constellations any nearer,I know they are very well where they are,I know they suffice for those who belong to them.

The earth—that is sufficient,

I do not want the constellations any nearer,

I know they are very well where they are,

I know they suffice for those who belong to them.

Still here I carry my old delicious burdens,I carry them, men and women—I carry them with me wherever I go,I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them,I am fill'd with them, and I will fill them in return.

Still here I carry my old delicious burdens,

I carry them, men and women—I carry them with me wherever I go,

I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them,

I am fill'd with them, and I will fill them in return.

You road I travel and look around! I believe you are not all that is here!I believe that something unseen is also here.

You road I travel and look around! I believe you are not all that is here!

I believe that something unseen is also here.

Here is the profound lesson of reception, neither preference or denial;The black with his woolly head, the felon, the diseased, the illiterate person, are not denied,The birth, the hasting after the physician, the beggar's tramp, the drunkard's stagger, the laughing party of mechanics,The escaped youth, the rich person's carriage, the fop, the eloping couple,

Here is the profound lesson of reception, neither preference or denial;

The black with his woolly head, the felon, the diseased, the illiterate person, are not denied,

The birth, the hasting after the physician, the beggar's tramp, the drunkard's stagger, the laughing party of mechanics,

The escaped youth, the rich person's carriage, the fop, the eloping couple,

The early market-man, the hearse, the moving of furniture into the town, the return back from the town,They pass, I also pass, any thing passes, none can be interdicted,None but are accepted, none but are dear to me.

The early market-man, the hearse, the moving of furniture into the town, the return back from the town,

They pass, I also pass, any thing passes, none can be interdicted,

None but are accepted, none but are dear to me.

You air that serves me with breath to speak!You objects that call from diffusion my meanings and give them shape!You light that wraps me and all things in delicate equable showers!You paths worn in the irregular hollows by the road-sides!I think you are latent with curious existences—you are so dear to me.

You air that serves me with breath to speak!

You objects that call from diffusion my meanings and give them shape!

You light that wraps me and all things in delicate equable showers!

You paths worn in the irregular hollows by the road-sides!

I think you are latent with curious existences—you are so dear to me.

You flagg'd walks of the cities! you strong curbs at the edges!You ferries! you planks and posts of wharves! you timber-lined sides! you distant ships!

You flagg'd walks of the cities! you strong curbs at the edges!

You ferries! you planks and posts of wharves! you timber-lined sides! you distant ships!

You rows of houses! you window-pierced façades! you roofs!You porches and entrances! you copings and iron guards!You windows whose transparent shells might expose so much!You doors and ascending steps! you arches!You grey stones of interminable pavements! you trodden crossings!From all that has been near you I believe you have imparted to yourselves, and now would impart the same secretly to me,From the living and the dead I think you have peopled your impassive surfaces, and the spirits thereof would be evident and amicable with me.

You rows of houses! you window-pierced façades! you roofs!

You porches and entrances! you copings and iron guards!

You windows whose transparent shells might expose so much!

You doors and ascending steps! you arches!

You grey stones of interminable pavements! you trodden crossings!

From all that has been near you I believe you have imparted to yourselves, and now would impart the same secretly to me,

From the living and the dead I think you have peopled your impassive surfaces, and the spirits thereof would be evident and amicable with me.

The earth expanding right hand and left hand,The picture alive, every part in its best light,The music falling in where it is wanted, and stopping where it is not wanted,The cheerful voice of the public road—the gay fresh sentiment of the road.

The earth expanding right hand and left hand,

The picture alive, every part in its best light,

The music falling in where it is wanted, and stopping where it is not wanted,

The cheerful voice of the public road—the gay fresh sentiment of the road.

O highway I travel! O public road! Do you say to me, Do not leave me?Do you say, Venture not?—If you leave me you are lost?Do you say, I am already prepared—I am well beaten and undenied—adhere to me?

O highway I travel! O public road! Do you say to me, Do not leave me?

Do you say, Venture not?—If you leave me you are lost?

Do you say, I am already prepared—I am well beaten and undenied—adhere to me?

O public road! I say back I am not afraid to leave you—yet I love you,You express me better than I can express myself,You shall be more to me than my poem.

O public road! I say back I am not afraid to leave you—yet I love you,

You express me better than I can express myself,

You shall be more to me than my poem.

I think heroic deeds were all conceived in the open air,I think I could stop here myself and do miracles,I think whatever I meet on the road I shall like, and whoever beholds me shall like me,I think whoever I see must be happy.

I think heroic deeds were all conceived in the open air,

I think I could stop here myself and do miracles,

I think whatever I meet on the road I shall like, and whoever beholds me shall like me,

I think whoever I see must be happy.

From this hour, freedom!From this hour I ordain myself loosed of limits and imaginary lines!Going where I list—my own master, total and absolute,Listening to others, considering well what they say,Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating.Gently but with undeniable will divesting myself of the holds that would hold me.I inhale great draughts of air,The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine.

From this hour, freedom!

From this hour I ordain myself loosed of limits and imaginary lines!

Going where I list—my own master, total and absolute,

Listening to others, considering well what they say,

Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating.

Gently but with undeniable will divesting myself of the holds that would hold me.

I inhale great draughts of air,

The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine.

I am larger than I thought!I did not know I held so much goodness!

I am larger than I thought!

I did not know I held so much goodness!

All seems beautiful to me,I can repeat over to men and women, You have done such good to me, I would do the same to you,I will recruit for myself and you as I go,I will scatter myself among men and women as I go,I will toss a new gladness and roughness among them,Whoever denies me it shall not trouble me,Whoever accepts me he or she shall be blessed and shall bless me.

All seems beautiful to me,

I can repeat over to men and women, You have done such good to me, I would do the same to you,

I will recruit for myself and you as I go,

I will scatter myself among men and women as I go,

I will toss a new gladness and roughness among them,

Whoever denies me it shall not trouble me,

Whoever accepts me he or she shall be blessed and shall bless me.

Now if a thousand perfect men were to appear, it would not amaze me,Now if a thousand beautiful forms of women appear'd, it would not astonish me.

Now if a thousand perfect men were to appear, it would not amaze me,

Now if a thousand beautiful forms of women appear'd, it would not astonish me.

Now I see the secret of the making of the best persons,It is to grow in the open air, and eat and sleep with the earth.

Now I see the secret of the making of the best persons,

It is to grow in the open air, and eat and sleep with the earth.

Here a great personal deed has room,(Such a deed seizes upon the hearts of the whole race of men,Its effusion of strength and will overwhelms laws and mocks all authority and all argument against it.)

Here a great personal deed has room,

(Such a deed seizes upon the hearts of the whole race of men,

Its effusion of strength and will overwhelms laws and mocks all authority and all argument against it.)

Here is the test of wisdom,Wisdom is not finally tested in schools,Wisdom cannot be pass'd from one having it to another not having it,Wisdom is of the soul, is not susceptible of proof, is its own proof,Applies to all stages and objects and qualities and is content,Is the certainty of the reality and immortality of things, and the excellence of things;Something there is in the float of the sight of things that provokes it out of the soul.

Here is the test of wisdom,

Wisdom is not finally tested in schools,

Wisdom cannot be pass'd from one having it to another not having it,

Wisdom is of the soul, is not susceptible of proof, is its own proof,

Applies to all stages and objects and qualities and is content,

Is the certainty of the reality and immortality of things, and the excellence of things;

Something there is in the float of the sight of things that provokes it out of the soul.

Now I re-examine philosophies and religions,They may prove well in lecture-rooms, yet not prove at all under the spacious clouds and along the landscape and flowing currents.

Now I re-examine philosophies and religions,

They may prove well in lecture-rooms, yet not prove at all under the spacious clouds and along the landscape and flowing currents.

Here is realization,Here is a man tallied—he realizes here what he has in him,The past, the future, majesty, love—if they are vacant of you, you are vacant of them.

Here is realization,

Here is a man tallied—he realizes here what he has in him,

The past, the future, majesty, love—if they are vacant of you, you are vacant of them.

Only the kernel of every object nourishes;Where is he who tears off the husks for you and me?Where is he that undoes stratagems and envelopes for you and me?

Only the kernel of every object nourishes;

Where is he who tears off the husks for you and me?

Where is he that undoes stratagems and envelopes for you and me?

Here is adhesiveness, it is not previously fashion'd, it is apropos;Do you know what it is as you pass to be loved by strangers?Do you know the talk of those turning eyeballs?

Here is adhesiveness, it is not previously fashion'd, it is apropos;

Do you know what it is as you pass to be loved by strangers?

Do you know the talk of those turning eyeballs?

Here is the efflux of the soul,The efflux of the soul comes from within through embower'd gates, ever provoking questions.These yearnings why are they? these thoughts in the darkness why are they?Why are there men and women that while they are nigh me the sunlight expands my blood?Why when they leave me do my pennants of joy sink flat and lank?Why are there trees I never walk under but large and melodious thoughts descend upon me?(I think they hang there winter and summer on those trees and almost drop fruit as I pass;)What is it I interchange so suddenly with strangers?What with some driver as I ride on the seat by his side?What with some fisherman drawing his seine by the shore as I walk by and pause?What gives me to be free to a woman's and man's good-will? what gives them to be free to mine?

Here is the efflux of the soul,

The efflux of the soul comes from within through embower'd gates, ever provoking questions.

These yearnings why are they? these thoughts in the darkness why are they?

Why are there men and women that while they are nigh me the sunlight expands my blood?

Why when they leave me do my pennants of joy sink flat and lank?

Why are there trees I never walk under but large and melodious thoughts descend upon me?

(I think they hang there winter and summer on those trees and almost drop fruit as I pass;)

What is it I interchange so suddenly with strangers?

What with some driver as I ride on the seat by his side?

What with some fisherman drawing his seine by the shore as I walk by and pause?

What gives me to be free to a woman's and man's good-will? what gives them to be free to mine?

The efflux of the soul is happiness, here is happiness.I think it pervades the open air, waiting at all times,Now it flows unto us, we are rightly charged.

The efflux of the soul is happiness, here is happiness.

I think it pervades the open air, waiting at all times,

Now it flows unto us, we are rightly charged.

Here rises the fluid and attaching character,The fluid and attaching character is the freshness and sweetness of man and woman,(The herbs of the morning sprout no fresher and sweeter every day out of the roots of themselves, than it sprouts fresh and sweet continually out of itself.)

Here rises the fluid and attaching character,

The fluid and attaching character is the freshness and sweetness of man and woman,

(The herbs of the morning sprout no fresher and sweeter every day out of the roots of themselves, than it sprouts fresh and sweet continually out of itself.)

Toward the fluid and attaching character exudes the sweat of the love of young and old,From it falls distill'd the charm that mocks beauty and attainments,Toward it heaves the shuddering longing ache of contact.

Toward the fluid and attaching character exudes the sweat of the love of young and old,

From it falls distill'd the charm that mocks beauty and attainments,

Toward it heaves the shuddering longing ache of contact.

Allons! whoever you are come travel with me.Travelling with me you find what never tires.

Allons! whoever you are come travel with me.

Travelling with me you find what never tires.

The earth never tires,The earth is rude, silent, incomprehensible at first, Nature is rude and incomprehensible at first,Be not discouraged, keep on, there are divine things well envelop'd,I swear to you there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell.

The earth never tires,

The earth is rude, silent, incomprehensible at first, Nature is rude and incomprehensible at first,

Be not discouraged, keep on, there are divine things well envelop'd,

I swear to you there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell.

Allons! we must not stop here,However sweet these laid-up stores, however convenient this dwelling we cannot remain here,However shelter'd this port and however calm these waters we must not anchor here,However welcome the hospitality that surrounds us we are permitted to receive it but a little while.

Allons! we must not stop here,

However sweet these laid-up stores, however convenient this dwelling we cannot remain here,

However shelter'd this port and however calm these waters we must not anchor here,

However welcome the hospitality that surrounds us we are permitted to receive it but a little while.

Allons! the inducements shall be greater,We will sail pathless and wild seas,We will go where winds blow, waves dash, and the Yankee clipper speeds by under full sail.

Allons! the inducements shall be greater,

We will sail pathless and wild seas,

We will go where winds blow, waves dash, and the Yankee clipper speeds by under full sail.

Allons! with power, liberty, the earth, the elements,Health, defiance, gaiety, self-esteem, curiosity;Allons! from all formulas!From your formulas, O bat-eyed and materialistic priests.

Allons! with power, liberty, the earth, the elements,

Health, defiance, gaiety, self-esteem, curiosity;

Allons! from all formulas!

From your formulas, O bat-eyed and materialistic priests.

The stale cadaver blocks up the passage—the burial waits no longer.

Allons! yet take warning!He travelling with me needs the best blood, thews, endurance,None may come to the trial till he or she bring courage and health,Come not here if you have already spent the best of yourself,Only those may come who come in sweet and determined bodies,No diseas'd person, no rum drinker or venereal taint is permitted here.

Allons! yet take warning!

He travelling with me needs the best blood, thews, endurance,

None may come to the trial till he or she bring courage and health,

Come not here if you have already spent the best of yourself,

Only those may come who come in sweet and determined bodies,

No diseas'd person, no rum drinker or venereal taint is permitted here.

(I and mine do not convince by arguments, similes, rhymes,We convince by our presence.)

(I and mine do not convince by arguments, similes, rhymes,

We convince by our presence.)

Listen! I will be honest with you,I do not offer the old smooth prizes, but offer rough new prizes,These are the days that must happen to you:You shall not heap up what is call'd riches:You shall scatter with lavish hand all that you earn or achieve,You but arrive at the city to which you were destin'd, you hardly settle yourself to satisfaction before you are call'd by an irresistible call to depart,You shall be treated to the ironical smiles and mockings of those who remain behind you,What beckonings of love you receive you shall only answer with passionate kisses of parting,You shall not allow the hold of those who spread their reach'd hands toward you.

Listen! I will be honest with you,

I do not offer the old smooth prizes, but offer rough new prizes,

These are the days that must happen to you:

You shall not heap up what is call'd riches:

You shall scatter with lavish hand all that you earn or achieve,

You but arrive at the city to which you were destin'd, you hardly settle yourself to satisfaction before you are call'd by an irresistible call to depart,

You shall be treated to the ironical smiles and mockings of those who remain behind you,

What beckonings of love you receive you shall only answer with passionate kisses of parting,

You shall not allow the hold of those who spread their reach'd hands toward you.

Allons! after the great Companions, and to belong to them!They too are on the road—they are the swift and majestic men—they are the greatest women,Enjoyers of calms of seas and storms of seas,Sailors of many a ship, walkers of many a mile of land,Habitués of many distant countries, habitués of far distant dwellings,Trusters of men and women, observers of cities, solitary toilers,Pausers and contemplators of tufts, blossoms, shells of the shore,Dancers at wedding-dances, kissers of brides, tender helpers of children, bearers of children,Soldiers of revolts, standers by gaping graves, lowerers-down of coffins,Journeyers over consecutive seasons, over the years, the curious years each emerging from that which preceded it,Journeyers as with companions, namely their own diverse phases,Forth-steppers from the latent unrealized baby-days,Journeyers gaily with their own youth, journeyers with their bearded and well-grain'd manhood,Journeyers with their womanhood, ample, unsurpass'd, content,Journeyers with their own sublime old age, of manhood or womanhood,Old age, calm, expanded, broad with the haughty breadth of the universe,Old age, flowing free with the delicious near-by freedom of death.

Allons! after the great Companions, and to belong to them!

They too are on the road—they are the swift and majestic men—they are the greatest women,

Enjoyers of calms of seas and storms of seas,

Sailors of many a ship, walkers of many a mile of land,

Habitués of many distant countries, habitués of far distant dwellings,

Trusters of men and women, observers of cities, solitary toilers,

Pausers and contemplators of tufts, blossoms, shells of the shore,

Dancers at wedding-dances, kissers of brides, tender helpers of children, bearers of children,

Soldiers of revolts, standers by gaping graves, lowerers-down of coffins,

Journeyers over consecutive seasons, over the years, the curious years each emerging from that which preceded it,

Journeyers as with companions, namely their own diverse phases,

Forth-steppers from the latent unrealized baby-days,

Journeyers gaily with their own youth, journeyers with their bearded and well-grain'd manhood,

Journeyers with their womanhood, ample, unsurpass'd, content,

Journeyers with their own sublime old age, of manhood or womanhood,

Old age, calm, expanded, broad with the haughty breadth of the universe,

Old age, flowing free with the delicious near-by freedom of death.

Allons! to that which is endless as it was beginningless,To undergo much, tramps of days, rests of nights,To merge all in the travel they tend to, and the days and nights they tend to,Again to merge them in the start of superior journeys,To see nothing anywhere but what you may reach it and pass it,To conceive no time, however distant, but what you may reach it and pass it,To look up or down the road but it stretches and waits for you, however long but it stretches and waits for you,To see no being, not God's or any, but you also go thither,To see no possession but may possess it, enjoying all without labour or purchase, abstracting the feast yet not abstracting one particle of it,To take the best of the farmer's farm and the rich man's elegant villa, and the chaste blessings of the well-married couple, and the fruits of orchards and flowers of gardens,To take to your use out of the compact cities as you pass through,To carry buildings and streets with you afterward where-ever you go,To gather the minds of men out of their brains as you encounter them, to gather the love out of their hearts.To take your lovers on the road with you, for all that you leave them behind you,To know the universe itself as a road, as many roads, as roads for travelling souls.

Allons! to that which is endless as it was beginningless,

To undergo much, tramps of days, rests of nights,

To merge all in the travel they tend to, and the days and nights they tend to,

Again to merge them in the start of superior journeys,

To see nothing anywhere but what you may reach it and pass it,

To conceive no time, however distant, but what you may reach it and pass it,

To look up or down the road but it stretches and waits for you, however long but it stretches and waits for you,

To see no being, not God's or any, but you also go thither,

To see no possession but may possess it, enjoying all without labour or purchase, abstracting the feast yet not abstracting one particle of it,

To take the best of the farmer's farm and the rich man's elegant villa, and the chaste blessings of the well-married couple, and the fruits of orchards and flowers of gardens,

To take to your use out of the compact cities as you pass through,

To carry buildings and streets with you afterward where-ever you go,

To gather the minds of men out of their brains as you encounter them, to gather the love out of their hearts.

To take your lovers on the road with you, for all that you leave them behind you,

To know the universe itself as a road, as many roads, as roads for travelling souls.

All parts away for the progress of souls,All religion, all solid things, arts, governments—all that was or is apparent upon this globe or any globe, falls into niches and corners before the procession of souls along the grand roads of the universe.

All parts away for the progress of souls,

All religion, all solid things, arts, governments—all that was or is apparent upon this globe or any globe, falls into niches and corners before the procession of souls along the grand roads of the universe.

Of the progress of the souls of men and women along the grand roads of the universe, all other progress is the needed emblem and sustenance.

Forever alive, forever forward,Stately, solemn, sad, withdrawn, baffled, mad, turbulent, feeble, dissatisfied,Desperate, proud, fond, sick, accepted by men, rejected by men,They go! they go! I know that they go, but I know not where they go,But I know that they go toward the best—toward something great.

Forever alive, forever forward,

Stately, solemn, sad, withdrawn, baffled, mad, turbulent, feeble, dissatisfied,

Desperate, proud, fond, sick, accepted by men, rejected by men,

They go! they go! I know that they go, but I know not where they go,

But I know that they go toward the best—toward something great.

Whoever you are, come forth! or man or woman come forth!You must not stay sleeping and dallying there in the house, though you built it, or though it has been built for you.

Whoever you are, come forth! or man or woman come forth!

You must not stay sleeping and dallying there in the house, though you built it, or though it has been built for you.

Out of the dark confinement! out from behind the screen!It is useless to protest, I know all and expose it.

Out of the dark confinement! out from behind the screen!

It is useless to protest, I know all and expose it.

Behold through you as bad as the rest,Through the laughter, dancing, dining, supping of people,Inside of dresses and ornaments, inside of those wash'd and trimm'd faces,Behold a secret silent loathing and despair.

Behold through you as bad as the rest,

Through the laughter, dancing, dining, supping of people,

Inside of dresses and ornaments, inside of those wash'd and trimm'd faces,

Behold a secret silent loathing and despair.

No husband, no wife, no friend, trusted to hear the confession,Another self, a duplicate of every one, skulking and hiding it goes,Formless and wordless through the streets of the cities, polite and bland in the parlours,In the cars of railroads, in steamboats, in the public assembly,Home to the houses of men and women, at the table, in the bed-room, everywhere,Smartly attired, countenance smiling, form upright, death under the breast-bones, hell under the skull-bones,Under the broadcloth and gloves, under the ribbons and artificial flowers,Keeping fair with the customs, speaking not a syllable of itself.Speaking of anything else, but never of itself.

No husband, no wife, no friend, trusted to hear the confession,

Another self, a duplicate of every one, skulking and hiding it goes,

Formless and wordless through the streets of the cities, polite and bland in the parlours,

In the cars of railroads, in steamboats, in the public assembly,

Home to the houses of men and women, at the table, in the bed-room, everywhere,

Smartly attired, countenance smiling, form upright, death under the breast-bones, hell under the skull-bones,

Under the broadcloth and gloves, under the ribbons and artificial flowers,

Keeping fair with the customs, speaking not a syllable of itself.

Speaking of anything else, but never of itself.

Allons! through struggles and wars!The goal that was named cannot be countermanded.

Allons! through struggles and wars!

The goal that was named cannot be countermanded.

Have the past struggles succeeded?What has succeeded? yourself? your nation? Nature?Now understand me well—it is provided in the essence of things that from any fruition of success, no matter what, shall come forth something to make a greater struggle necessary.

Have the past struggles succeeded?

What has succeeded? yourself? your nation? Nature?

Now understand me well—it is provided in the essence of things that from any fruition of success, no matter what, shall come forth something to make a greater struggle necessary.

My call is the call of the battle, I nourish active rebellion,He going with me must go well arm'd,He going with me goes often with spare diet, poverty, angry enemies, desertions.

My call is the call of the battle, I nourish active rebellion,

He going with me must go well arm'd,

He going with me goes often with spare diet, poverty, angry enemies, desertions.

Allons! the road is before us!It is safe—I have tried it—my own feet have tried it well—be not detain'd!

Allons! the road is before us!

It is safe—I have tried it—my own feet have tried it well—be not detain'd!

Let the paper remain on the desk unwritten, and the book on the shelf unopen'd!Let the tools remain in the workshop! let the money remain unearn'd!Let the school stand! mind not the cry of the teacher!Let the preacher preach in his pulpit! let the lawyer plead in the court, and the judge expound the law.

Let the paper remain on the desk unwritten, and the book on the shelf unopen'd!

Let the tools remain in the workshop! let the money remain unearn'd!

Let the school stand! mind not the cry of the teacher!

Let the preacher preach in his pulpit! let the lawyer plead in the court, and the judge expound the law.

Camerado, I will give you my hand!I give you my love more precious than money,I give you myself before preaching or law;Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me?Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?

Camerado, I will give you my hand!

I give you my love more precious than money,

I give you myself before preaching or law;

Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me?

Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?

Walt Whitman.

It must not be imagined that a walking tour, as some would have us fancy, is merely a better or worse way of seeing the country. There are many ways of seeing landscape quite as good; and none more vivid, in spite of canting dilettantes, than from a railway train. But landscape on a walking tour is quite accessory. He who is indeed of the brotherhood does not voyage in quest of the picturesque, but of certain jolly humours—of the hope and spirit with which the march begins at morning, and the peace and spiritual repletion of the evening's rest. He cannot tell whether he puts his knapsack on, or takes it off, with more delight. The excitement of the departure puts him in key for that of the arrival. Whatever he does is not only a reward in itself, but will be further rewarded in the sequel; and so pleasure leads on to pleasure in an endless chain. It is this that so few can understand; they will either be always lounging or always at five miles an hour; they do not play off the one against the other, prepare all day for the evening, and allevening for the next day. And, above all, it is here that your overwalker fails of comprehension. His heart rises against those who drink their curaçoa in liqueur glasses, when he himself can swill it in a brown john. He will not believe that the flavour is more delicate in the smaller dose. He will not believe that to walk this unconscionable distance is merely to stupefy and brutalise himself, and come to his inn, at night, with a sort of frost on his five wits, and a starless night of darkness in his spirit. Not for him the mild luminous evening of the temperate walker! He has nothing left of man but a physical need for bedtime and a double nightcap; and even his pipe, if he be a smoker, will be savourless and disenchanted. It is the fate of such an one to take twice as much trouble as is needed to obtain happiness, and miss the happiness in the end; he is the man of the proverb, in short, who goes further and fares worse.

Now, to be properly enjoyed, a walking tour should be gone upon alone. If you go in a company, or even in pairs, it is no longer a walking tour in anything but name; it is something else and more in the nature of a picnic. A walking tour should be gone upon alone, because freedom is of the essence; because you should be able to stop and go on, and follow this way or that, as the freak takes you;and because you must have your own pace, and neither trot alongside a champion walker, nor mince in time with a girl. And then you must be open to all impressions and let your thoughts take colour from what you see. You should be as a pipe for any wind to play upon. "I cannot see the wit," says Hazlitt, "of walking and talking at the same time. When I am in the country, I wish to vegetate like the country," which is the gist of all that can be said upon the matter. There should be no cackle of voices at your elbow, to jar on the meditative silence of the morning. And so long as a man is reasoning he cannot surrender himself to that fine intoxication that comes of much motion in the open air, that begins in a sort of dazzle and sluggishness of the brain, and ends in a peace that passes comprehension.

During the first day or so of any tour there are moments of bitterness, when the traveller feels more than coldly towards his knapsack, when he is half in a mind to throw it bodily over the hedge and, like Christian on a similar occasion, "give three leaps and go on singing." And yet it soon acquires a property of easiness. It becomes magnetic; the spirit of the journey enters into it. And no sooner have you passed the straps over your shoulder than the lees of sleep are cleared from you, you pull yourselftogether with a shake, and fall at once into your stride. And surely, of all possible moods, this, in which a man takes the road, is the best. Of course, if hewillkeep thinking of his anxieties, if hewillopen the merchant Abudah's chest and walk arm in arm with the hag—why, wherever he is, and whether he walk fast or slow, the chances are that he will not be happy. And so much the more shame to himself! There are perhaps thirty men setting forth at that same hour, and I would lay a large wager there is not another dull face among the thirty. It would be a fine thing to follow, in a coat of darkness, one after another of these wayfarers, some summer morning, for the first few miles upon the road. This one, who walks fast, with a keen look in his eyes, is all concentrated in his own mind; he is up at his loom, weaving and weaving, to set the landscape to words. This one peers about, as he goes, among the grasses; he waits by the canal to watch the dragon-flies; he leans on the gate of the pasture, and cannot look enough upon the complacent kine. And here comes another talking, laughing, and gesticulating to himself. His face changes from time to time, as indignation flashes from his eyes or anger clouds his forehead. He is composing articles, delivering orations, and conducting the most impassioned interviews,by the way. A little farther on, and it is as like as not he will begin to sing. And well for him, supposing him to be no great master in that art, if he stumble across no stolid peasant at a corner; for on such an occasion, I scarcely know which is the more troubled, or whether it is worse to suffer the confusion of your troubadour or the unfeigned alarm of your clown. A sedentary population, accustomed, besides, to the strange mechanical bearing of the common tramp, can in no wise explain to itself the gaiety of these passers-by. I knew one man who was arrested as a runaway lunatic, because, although a full-grown person with a red beard, he skipped as he went like a child. And you would be astonished if I were to tell you all the grave and learned heads who have confessed to me that, when on walking tours, they sang—and sang very ill—and had a pair of red ears when, as described above, the inauspicious peasant plumped into their arms from round a corner. And here, lest you think I am exaggerating, is Hazlitt's own confession, from his essay "On going a Journey," which is so good that there should be a tax levied on all who have not read it:—

"Give me the clear blue sky over my head," says he, "and the green turf beneath my feet, a winding road before me, and a three hours'march to dinner—and then to thinking! It is hard if I cannot start some game on these lone heaths. I laugh, I run, I leap, I sing for joy."

Bravo! After that adventure of my friend with the policeman, you would not have cared, would you, to publish that in the first person? But we have no bravery nowadays, and, even in books, must all pretend to be as dull and foolish as our neighbours. It was not so with Hazlitt. And notice how learned he is (as, indeed, throughout the essay) in the theory of walking tours. He is none of your athletic men in purple stockings, who walk their fifty miles a day: three hours' march is his ideal. And then he must have a winding road, the epicure!

Yet there is one thing I object to in these words of his, one thing in the great master's practice that seems to me not wholly wise. I do not approve of that leaping and running. Both of these hurry the respiration; they both shake up the brain out of its glorious open-air confusion; and they both break the pace. Uneven walking is not so agreeable to the body, and it distracts and irritates the mind. Whereas, when once you have fallen into an equable stride, it requires no conscious thought from you to keep it up, and yet it prevents you from thinking earnestly of anything else.Like knitting, like the work of a copying clerk, it gradually neutralises and sets to sleep the serious activity of the mind. We can think of this or that, lightly and laughingly, as a child thinks, or as we think in a morning doze; we can make puns or puzzle out acrostics, and trifle in a thousand ways with words or rhymes; but when it comes to honest work, when we come to gather ourselves together for an effort, we may sound the trumpet as loud and long as we please; the great barons of the mind will not rally to the standard, but sit, each one, at home, warming his hands over his own fire and brooding on his own private thought!

In the course of a day's walk, you see, there is much variance in the mood. From the exhilaration of the start, to the happy phlegm of the arrival, the change is certainly great. As the day goes on, the traveller moves from the one extreme towards the other. He becomes more and more incorporated with the material landscape, and the open-air drunkenness grows upon him with great strides, until he posts along the road, and sees everything about him, as in a cheerful dream. The first is certainly brighter, but the second stage is the more peaceful. A man does not make so many articles towards the end, nor does he laugh aloud; but the purely animal pleasures, the sense of physicalwell-being, the delight of every inhalation, of every time the muscles tighten down the thigh, console him for the absence of the others, and bring him to his destination still content.

Nor must I forget to say a word on bivouacs. You come to a milestone on a hill, or some place where deep ways meet under trees; and off goes the knapsack, and down you sit to smoke a pipe in the shade. You sink into yourself, and the birds come round and look at you, and your smoke dissipates upon the afternoon under the blue dome of heaven; and the sun lies warm upon your feet, and the cool air visits your neck and turns aside your open shirt. If you are not happy, you must have an evil conscience. You may dally as long as you like by the roadside. It is almost as if the millennium were arrived, when we shall throw our clocks and watches over the housetop, and remember time and seasons no more. Not to keep hours for a lifetime is, I was going to say, to live for ever. You have no idea, unless you have tried it, how endlessly long is a summer's day, that you measure out only by hunger, and bring to an end only when you are drowsy. I know a village where there are hardly any clocks, where no one knows more of the days of the week than by a sort ofinstinct for thefêteon Sundays, and where only one person can tell you the day of the month, and she is generally wrong; and if people were aware how slow Time journeyed in that village, and what armfuls of spare hours he gives, over and above the bargain, to its wise inhabitants, I believe there would be a stampede out of London, Liverpool, Paris, and a variety of large towns, where the clocks lose their heads, and shake the hours out each one faster than the other, as though they were all in a wager. And all these foolish pilgrims would each bring his own misery along with him, in a watch-pocket! It is to be noticed, there were no clocks and watches in the much-vaunted days before the flood. It follows, of course, there were no appointments, and punctuality was not yet thought upon. "Though ye take from a covetous man all his treasure," says Milton, "he has yet one jewel left; ye cannot deprive him of his covetousness." And so I would say of a modern man of business, you may do what you will for him, put him in Eden, give him the elixir of life—he has still a flaw at heart, he still has his business habits. Now, there is no time when business habits are more mitigated than on a walking tour. And so during these halts, as I say, you will feel almost free.

But it is at night, and after dinner, that the best hour comes. There are no such pipes to be smoked as those that follow a good day's march; the flavour of the tobacco is a thing to be remembered, it is so dry and aromatic, so full and so fine. If you wind up the evening with grog, you will own there was never such grog; at every sip a jocund tranquillity spreads about your limbs, and sits easily in your heart. If you read a book—and you will never do so save by fits and starts—you find the language strangely racy and harmonious; words take a new meaning; single sentences possess the ear for half an hour together; and the writer endears himself to you, at every page, by the nicest coincidence of sentiment. It seems as if it were a book you had written yourself in a dream. To all we have read on such occasions we look back with special favour. "It was on the 10th of April 1798," says Hazlitt, with amorous precision, "that I sat down to a volume of the newHeloïse, at the Inn at Llangollen, over a bottle of sherry and a cold chicken." I should wish to quote more, for though we are mighty fine fellows nowadays, we cannot write like Hazlitt. And, talking of that, a volume of Hazlitt's essays would be a capital pocket-book on such a journey; so would a volume of Heine's songs;and forTristram ShandyI can pledge a fair experience.

If the evening be fine and warm, there is nothing better in life than to lounge before the inn door in the sunset, or lean over the parapet of the bridge, to watch the weeds and the quick fishes. It is then, if ever, that you taste joviality to the full significance of that audacious word. Your muscles are so agreeably slack, you feel so clean and so strong and so idle, that whether you move or sit still, whatever you do is done with pride and a kingly sort of pleasure. You fall in talk with any one, wise or foolish, drunk or sober. And it seems as if a hot walk purged you, more than of anything else, of all narrowness and pride, and left curiosity to play its part freely, as in a child or a man of science. You lay aside all your own hobbies, to watch provincial humours develop themselves before you, now as a laughable farce, and now grave and beautiful like an old tale.

Or perhaps you are left to your own company for the night, and surly weather imprisons you by the fire. You may remember how Burns, numbering past pleasures, dwells upon the hours when he has been "happy thinking." It is a phrase that may well perplex a poor modern girt about on every sideby clocks and chimes, and haunted, even at night, by flaming dial-plates. For we are all so busy, and have so many far-off projects to realise, and castles in the fire to turn into solid, habitable mansions on a gravel soil, that we can find no time for pleasure trips into the Land of Thought and among the Hills of Vanity. Changed times, indeed, when we must sit all night, beside the fire, with folded hands; and a changed world for most of us, when we find we can pass the hours without discontent, and be happy thinking. We are in such haste to be doing, to be writing, to be gathering gear, to make our voice audible a moment in the derisive silence of eternity, that we forget that one thing, of which these are but the parts—namely, to live. We fall in love, we drink hard, we run to and fro upon the earth like frightened sheep. And now you are to ask yourself if, when all is done, you would not have been better to sit by the fire at home, and be happy thinking. To sit still and contemplate,—to remember the faces of women without desire, to be pleased by the great deeds of men without envy, to be everything and everywhere in sympathy, and yet content to remain where and what you are—is not this to know both wisdom and virtue, and to dwell with happiness? After all, it is not they who carryflags, but they who look upon it from a private chamber, who have the fun of the procession. And once you are at that, you are in the very humour of all social heresy. It is no time for shuffling, or for big empty words. If you ask yourself what you mean by fame, riches, or learning, the answer is far to seek; and you go back into that kingdom of light imaginations, which seem so vain in the eyes of Philistines perspiring after wealth, and so momentous to those who are stricken with the disproportions of the world, and, in the face of the gigantic stars, cannot stop to split differences between two degrees of the infinitesimally small, such as a tobacco pipe or the Roman Empire, a million of money or a fiddlestick's end.

You lean from the window, your last pipe reeking whitely into the darkness, your body full of delicious pains, your mind enthroned in the seventh circle of content; when suddenly the mood changes, the weathercock goes about, and you ask yourself one question more: whether, for the interval, you have been the wisest philosopher or the most egregious of donkeys? Human experience is not yet able to reply; but at least you have had a fine moment, and looked down upon all the kingdoms of theearth. And whether it was wise or foolish, to-morrow's travel will carry you, body and mind, into some different parish of the infinite.

Robert Louis Stevenson.

It must be nearly thirty years ago, long before the days of bicycles and motors, since Sylvanus Urban, then but a boy, passed over it. He had started from Chepstow on a solitary walking tour, and was soon caught in a rattling thunderstorm on the Wyndcliff. Tintern Abbey and Raglan Castle are fresh in his memory to-day. A mile or two out of Monmouth he came upon some excellent nutty-hearted ale, that George Borrow would have immortalised. As he pursued his way to Raglan Castle he pondered on the ale—"this way and that dividing the swift mind"—until at length, in despair of meeting an equal brew, he turned back again and had another tankard. Heavens, what days were those! In his pack he carried theEssays of Eliaand read them in an old inn at Llandovery, where the gracious hostess lighted in his honour tall wax candles fit to stand before an altar. After leaving Llandovery, he lost his way among the Caermarthenshire hills, andwas in very poor plight with hunger and fatigue when he reached the white-washed walls of Tregaron. At Harlech he rested for a couple of days, and then covered the way to Beddgelert—twenty miles, if he remembers rightly—at a spanking pace; proceeding in the late afternoon to climb Snowdon, and arriving at Llanberis an hour or so before midnight. Back to London, every inch of the way, walked the young Sylvanus. He indulges the hope that he may yet shoulder his pack again.

Gentleman's Magazine.

Now that everybody is out of town, and every place in the guide-books is as well known as Princes Street or Pall-Mall, it is something to discover a hill everybody has not been to the top of, and which is not inBlack. Such a hill isMinchmoor, nearly three times as high as Arthur's Seat, and lying between Tweed and Yarrow.

The best way to ascend it is from Traquair. You go up the wild old Selkirk road, which passes almost right over the summit, and by which Montrose and his cavaliers fled from Philiphaugh, where Sir Walter's mother remembered crossing, when a girl, in a coach-and-six, on her way to a ball at Peebles, several footmen marching on either side of the carriage to prop it up or drag it out of the mosshaggs; and where, to our amazement, we learned that the Duchess of Buccleuch had lately driven her ponies. Before this we had passed the grey, old-world entrance to Traquair House, and looked down its grassy and untrod avenue to the pallid, forlorn mansion, stricken all o'er with eld, and noticed the wrought-irongate embedded in a foot deep and more of soil, never having opened since the '45. There are the huge Bradwardine bears on each side—most grotesque supporters—with a superfluity of ferocity and canine teeth. The whole place, like the family whose it has been, seems dying out—everything subdued to settled desolation. The old race, the old religion, the gaunt old house, with its small, deep, comfortless windows, the decaying trees, the stillness about the doors, the grass overrunning everything, nature reinstating herself in her quiet way—all this makes the place look as strange and pitiful among its fellows in the vale as would the Earl who built it three hundred years ago if we met him tottering along our way in the faded dress of his youth; but it looks the Earl's house still, and has a dignity of its own.

We soon found the Minchmoor road, and took at once to the hill, the ascent being, as often is with other ascents in this world, steepest at first. Nothing could be more beautiful than the view as we ascended, and got a look of the "eye-sweet" Tweed hills, and their "silver stream." It was one of the five or six good days of this summer—in early morning, "soft" and doubtful; but the mists drawing up, and now the noble, tawny hills were dappled with gleams and shadows—

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