{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_7373/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_7373","id":"gutenberg_7373","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/7373","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Religion/Spirituality","Category: Travel Writing","France -- Description and travel","Italy -- Description and travel","Switzerland -- Description and travel"],"text":"Produced by Eric Eldred\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE PATH TO ROME\n\nBy Hilaire Belloc\n\n\n'... AMORE ANTIQUI RITUS, ALTO SUB NUMINE ROMAE'\n\n\n\n\nPRAISE OF THIS BOOK\n\nTo every honest reader that may purchase, hire, or receive this book,\nand to the reviewers also (to whom it is of triple profit),\ngreeting--and whatever else can be had for nothing.\n\nIf you should ask how this book came to be written, it was in this\nway. One day as I was wandering over the world I came upon the valley\nwhere I was born, and stopping there a moment to speak with them\nall--when I had argued politics with the grocer, and played the great\nlord with the notary-public, and had all but made the carpenter a\nChristian by force of rhetoric--what should I note (after so many\nyears) but the old tumble-down and gaping church, that I love more\nthan mother-church herself, all scraped, white, rebuilt, noble, and\nnew, as though it had been finished yesterday. Knowing very well that\nsuch a change had not come from the skinflint populace, but was the\nwork of some just artist who knew how grand an ornament was this\nshrine (built there before our people stormed Jerusalem), I entered,\nand there saw that all within was as new, accurate, and excellent as\nthe outer part; and this pleased me as much as though a fortune had\nbeen left to us all; for one's native place is the shell of one's\nsoul, and one's church is the kernel of that nut.\n\nMoreover, saying my prayers there, I noticed behind the high altar a\nstatue of Our Lady, so extraordinary and so different from all I had\never seen before, so much the spirit of my valley, that I was quite\ntaken out of myself and vowed a vow there to go to Rome on Pilgrimage\nand see all Europe which the Christian Faith has saved; and I said, 'I\nwill start from the place where I served in arms for my sins; I will\nwalk all the way and take advantage of no wheeled thing; I will sleep\nrough and cover thirty miles a day, and I will hear Mass every\nmorning; and I will be present at high Mass in St Peter's on the Feast\nof St Peter and St Paul.'\n\nThen I went out of the church still having that Statue in my mind, and\nI walked again farther into the world, away from my native valley, and\nso ended some months after in a place whence I could fulfil my vow;\nand I started as you shall hear. All my other vows I broke one by one.\nFor a faggot must be broken every stick singly. But the strict vow I\nkept, for I entered Rome on foot that year in time, and I heard high\nMass on the Feast of the Apostles, as many can testify--to wit:\nMonsignor this, and Chamberlain the other, and the Bishop of\n_so-and-so--o--polis in partibus infidelium;_ for we were all there\ntogether.\n\nAnd why (you will say) is all this put by itself in what Anglo-Saxons\ncall a Foreword, but gentlemen a Preface? Why, it is because I have\nnoticed that no book can appear without some such thing tied on before\nit; and as it is folly to neglect the fashion, be certain that I read\nsome eight or nine thousand of them to be sure of how they were\nwritten and to be safe from generalizing on too frail a basis.\n\nAnd having read them and discovered first, that it was the custom of\nmy contemporaries to belaud themselves in this prolegomenaical ritual\n(some saying in a few words that they supplied a want, others boasting\nin a hundred that they were too grand to do any such thing, but most\nof them baritoning their apologies and chanting their excuses till one\nknew that their pride was toppling over)--since, I say, it seemed a\nnecessity to extol one's work, I wrote simply on the lintel of my\ndiary, _Praise of this Book,_ so as to end the matter at a blow. But\nwhether there will be praise or blame I really cannot tell, for I am\nriding my pen on the snaffle, and it has a mouth of iron.\n\nNow there is another thing book writers do in their Prefaces, which is\nto introduce a mass of nincompoops of whom no one ever heard, and to\nsay 'my thanks are due to such and such' all in a litany, as though\nany one cared a farthing for the rats! If I omit this believe me it is\nbut on account of the multitude and splendour of those who have\nattended at the production of this volume. For the stories in it are\ncopied straight from the best authors of the Renaissance, the music\nwas written by the masters of the eighteenth century, the Latin is\nErasmus' own; indeed, there is scarcely a word that is mine. I must\nalso mention the Nine Muses, the Three Graces; Bacchus, the Maenads,\nthe Panthers, the Fauns; and I owe very hearty thanks to Apollo.\n\nYet again, I see that writers are for ever anxious of their style,\nthinking (not saying)--\n\n'True, I used \"and which\" on page 47, but Martha Brown the stylist\ngave me leave;' or:\n\n'What if I do end a sentence with a preposition? I always follow the\nrules of Mr Twist in his \"'Tis Thus 'Twas Spoke\", Odd's Body an' I do\nnot!'\n\nNow this is a pusillanimity of theirs (the book writers) that they\nthink style power, and yet never say as much in their Prefaces. Come,\nlet me do so... Where are you? Let me marshal you, my regiments of\nwords!\n\nRabelais! Master of all happy men! Are you sleeping there pressed into\ndesecrated earth under the doss-house of the Rue St Paul, or do you\nnot rather drink cool wine in some elysian Chinon looking on the\nVienne where it rises in Paradise? Are you sleeping or drinking that\nyou will not lend us the staff of Friar John wherewith he slaughtered\nand bashed the invaders of the vineyards, who are but a parable for\nthe mincing pedants and bloodless thin-faced rogues of the world?\n\nWrite as the wind blows and command all words like an army! See them\nhow they stand in rank ready for assault, the jolly, swaggering\nfellows!\n\nFirst come the Neologisms, that are afraid of no man; fresh, young,\nhearty, and for the most part very long-limbed, though some few short\nand strong.  There also are the Misprints to confuse the enemy at his\nonrush. Then see upon the flank a company of picked Ambiguities\ncovering what shall be a feint by the squadron of Anachronisms led by\nold Anachronos himself; a terrible chap with nigglers and a great\nmurderer of fools.\n\nBut here see more deeply massed the ten thousand Egotisms shining in\ntheir armour and roaring for battle. They care for no one. They\nstormed Convention yesterday and looted the cellar of Good-Manners,\nwho died of fear without a wound; so they drank his wine and are\nto-day as strong as lions and as careless (saving only their Captain,\nMonologue, who is lantern-jawed).\n\nHere are the Aposiopaesian Auxiliaries, and Dithyramb that killed\nPunctuation in open fight; Parenthesis the giant and champion of the\nhost, and Anacoluthon that never learned to read or write but is very\nhandy with his sword; and Metathesis and Hendiadys, two Greeks. And\nlast come the noble Gallicisms prancing about on their light horses:\ncavalry so sudden that the enemy sicken at the mere sight of them and\nare overcome without a blow. Come then my hearties, my lads, my\nindefatigable repetitions, seize you each his own trumpet that hangs\nat his side and blow the charge; we shall soon drive them all before\nus headlong, howling down together to the Picrocholian Sea.\n\nSo! That was an interlude. Forget the clamour.\n\nBut there is another matter; written as yet in no other Preface:\npeculiar to this book. For without rhyme or reason, pictures of an\nuncertain kind stand in the pages of the chronicle. Why?\n\n_Because it has become so cheap to photograph on zinc._\n\nIn old time a man that drew ill drew not at all. He did well. Then\neither there were no pictures in his book, or (if there were any) they\nwere done by some other man that loved him not a groat and would not\nhave walked half a mile to see him hanged. But now it is so easy for a\nman to scratch down what he sees and put it in his book that any fool\nmay do it and be none the worse--many others shall follow. This is the\nfirst.\n\nBefore you blame too much, consider the alternative. Shall a man march\nthrough Europe dragging an artist on a cord? God forbid!\n\nShall an artist write a book? Why no, the remedy is worse than the\ndisease.\n\nLet us agree then, that, if he will, any pilgrim may for the future\ndraw (if he likes) that most difficult subject, snow hills beyond a\ngrove of trees; that he may draw whatever he comes across in order to\nenliven his mind (for who saw it if not he? And was it not his\nloneliness that enabled him to see it?), and that he may draw what he\nnever saw, with as much freedom as you readers so very continually see\nwhat you never draw. He may draw the morning mist on the Grimsel, six\nmonths afterwards; when he has forgotten what it was like: and he may\nframe it for a masterpiece to make the good draughtsman rage.\n\nThe world has grown a boy again this long time past, and they are\nbuilding hotels (I hear) in the place where Acedes discovered the\nWater of Youth in a hollow of the hill Epistemonoscoptes.\n\nThen let us love one another and laugh. Time passes, and we shall soon\nlaugh no longer--and meanwhile common living is a burden, and earnest\nmen are at siege upon us all around. Let us suffer absurdities, for\nthat is only to suffer one another.\n\nNor let us be too hard upon the just but anxious fellow that sat down\ndutifully to paint the soul of Switzerland upon a fan.\n\nWhen that first Proverb-Maker who has imposed upon all peoples by his\nepigrams and his fallacious half-truths, his empiricism and his wanton\nappeals to popular ignorance, I say when this man (for I take it he\nwas a man, and a wicked one) was passing through France he launched\namong the French one of his pestiferous phrases, _'Ce n'est que le\npremier pas qui coute'_ and this in a rolling-in-the-mouth\nself-satisfied kind of a manner has been repeated since his day at\nleast seventeen million three hundred and sixty-two thousand five\nhundred and four times by a great mass of Ushers, Parents, Company\nOfficers, Elder Brothers, Parish Priests, and authorities in general\nwhose office it may be and whose pleasure it certainly is to jog up\nand disturb that native slumber and inertia of the mind which is the\ntrue breeding soil of Revelation.\n\nFor when boys or soldiers or poets, or any other blossoms and prides\nof nature, are for lying steady in the shade and letting the Mind\ncommune with its Immortal Comrades, up comes Authority busking about\nand eager as though it were a duty to force the said Mind to burrow\nand sweat in the matter of this very perishable world, its temporary\nhabitation.\n\n'Up,' says Authority, 'and let me see that Mind of yours doing\nsomething practical. Let me see Him mixing painfully with\ncircumstance, and botching up some Imperfection or other that shall at\nleast be a Reality and not a silly Fantasy.'\n\nThen the poor Mind comes back to Prison again, and the boy takes his\nhorrible Homer in the real Greek (not Church's book, alas!); the Poet\nhis rough hairy paper, his headache, and his cross-nibbed pen; the\nSoldier abandons his inner picture of swaggering about in ordinary\nclothes, and sees the dusty road and feels the hard places in his\nboot, and shakes down again to the steady pressure of his pack; and\nAuthority is satisfied, knowing that he will get a smattering from the\nBoy, a rubbishy verse from the Poet, and from the Soldier a long and\nthirsty march. And Authority, when it does this commonly sets to work\nby one of these formulae: as, in England north of Trent, by the\nmanifestly false and boastful phrase, 'A thing begun is half ended',\nand in the south by 'The Beginning is half the Battle'; but in France\nby the words I have attributed to the Proverb-Maker, _'Ce n'est que le\npremier pas qui coute'._\n\nBy this you may perceive that the Proverb-Maker, like every other\nDemagogue, Energumen, and Disturber, dealt largely in metaphor--but\nthis I need hardly insist upon, for in his vast collection of\npublished and unpublished works it is amply evident that he took the\nsilly pride of the half-educated in a constant abuse of metaphor.\nThere was a sturdy boy at my school who, when the master had carefully\nexplained to us the nature of metaphor, said that so far as he could\nsee a metaphor was nothing but a long Greek word for a lie. And\ncertainly men who know that the mere truth would be distasteful or\ntedious commonly have recourse to metaphor, and so do those false men\nwho desire to acquire a subtle and unjust influence over their\nfellows, and chief among them, the Proverb-Maker. For though his name\nis lost in the great space of time that has passed since he\nflourished, yet his character can be very clearly deduced from the\nmany literary fragments he has left, and that is found to be the\ncharacter of a pusillanimous and ill-bred usurer, wholly lacking in\nforesight, in generous enterprise, and chivalrous enthusiasm--in\nmatters of the Faith a prig or a doubter, in matters of adventure a\npoltroon, in matters of Science an ignorant Parrot, and in Letters a\nwretchedly bad rhymester, with a vice for alliteration; a wilful liar\n(as, for instance, '_The longest way round is the shortest way\nhome_'), a startling miser (as, _'A penny saved is a penny earned'_),\none ignorant of largesse and human charity (as, '_Waste not, want\nnot_'), and a shocking boor in the point of honour (as, _'Hard words\nbreak no bones'_--he never fought, I see, but with a cudgel).\n\nBut he had just that touch of slinking humour which the peasants have,\nand there is in all he said that exasperating quality for which we\nhave no name, which certainly is not accuracy, and which is quite the\nopposite of judgement, yet which catches the mind as brambles do our\nclothes, causing us continually to pause and swear. For he mixes up\nunanswerable things with false conclusions, he is perpetually letting\nthe cat out of the bag and exposing our tricks, putting a colour to\nour actions, disturbing us with our own memory, indecently revealing\ncorners of the soul. He is like those men who say one unpleasant and\nrude thing about a friend, and then take refuge from their disloyal\nand false action by pleading that this single accusation is true; and\nit is perhaps for this abominable logicality of his and for his\nmalicious cunning that I chiefly hate him: and since he himself\nevidently hated the human race, he must not complain if he is hated in\nreturn.\n\nTake, for instance, this phrase that set me writing, _'Ce nest que le\npremier pas qui coute'_. It is false. Much after a beginning is\ndifficult, as everybody knows who has crossed the sea, and as for the\nfirst _step_ a man never so much as remembers it; if there is\ndifficulty it is in the whole launching of a thing, in the first ten\npages of a book, or the first half-hour of listening to a sermon, or\nthe first mile of a walk. The first step is undertaken lightly,\npleasantly, and with your soul in the sky; it is the five-hundredth\nthat counts. But I know, and you know, and he knew (worse luck) that\nhe was saying a thorny and catching thing when he made up that phrase.\nIt worries one of set purpose. It is as though one had a voice inside\none saying:\n\n'I know you, you will never begin anything. Look at what you might\nhave done! Here you are, already twenty-one, and you have not yet\nwritten a dictionary. What will you do for fame? Eh? Nothing: you are\nintolerably lazy--and what is worse, it is your fate. Beginnings are\ninsuperable barriers to you. What about that great work on The\nNational Debt? What about that little lyric on Winchelsea that you\nthought of writing six years ago? Why are the few lines still in your\nhead and not on paper? Because you can't begin. However, never mind,\nyou can't help it, it's your one great flaw, and it's fatal. Look at\nJones! Younger than you by half a year, and already on the _Evening\nYankee_ taking bribes from Company Promoters! And where are you?' &c.,\n&c.--and so forth.\n\nSo this threat about the heavy task of Beginning breeds\ndiscouragement, anger, vexation, irritability, bad style, pomposity\nand infinitives split from helm to saddle, and metaphors as mixed as\nthe Carlton. But it is just true enough to remain fast in the mind,\ncaught, as it were, by one finger.  For all things (you will notice)\nare very difficult in their origin, and why, no one can understand.\n_Omne Trinum_: they are difficult also in the shock of maturity and in\ntheir ending. Take, for instance, the Life of Man, which is the\nDifficulty of Birth, the Difficulty of Death, and the Difficulty of\nthe Grand Climacteric.\n\nLECTOR. What is the Grand Climacteric?\n\nAUCTOR. I have no time to tell you, for it would lead us into a\ndiscussion on Astrology, and then perhaps to a question of physical\nscience, and then you would find I was not orthodox, and perhaps\ndenounce me to the authorities.\n\nI will tell you this much; it is the moment (not the year or the\nmonth, mind you, nor even the hour, but the very second) when a man is\ngrown up, when he sees things as they are (that is, backwards), and\nfeels solidly himself. Do I make myself clear? No matter, it is the\nShock of Maturity, and that must suffice for you.\n\nBut perhaps you have been reading little brown books on Evolution, and\nyou don't believe in Catastrophes, or Climaxes, or Definitions? Eh?\nTell me, do you believe in the peak of the Matterhorn, and have you\ndoubts on the points of needles? Can the sun be said truly to rise or\nset, and is there any exact meaning in the phrase, 'Done to a turn' as\napplied to omelettes?  You know there is; and so also you must believe\nin Categories, and you must admit differences of kind as well as of\ndegree, and you must accept exact definition and believe in all that\nyour fathers did, that were wiser men than you, as is easily proved if\nyou will but imagine yourself for but one moment introduced into the\npresence of your ancestors, and ask yourself which would look the\nfool. Especially must you believe in moments and their importance, and\navoid with the utmost care the Comparative Method and the argument of\nthe Slowly Accumulating Heap. I hear that some scientists are already\nbeginning to admit the reality of Birth and Death--let but some brave\nfew make an act of Faith in the Grand Climacteric and all shall yet be\nwell.\n\nWell, as I was saying, this Difficulty of Beginning is but one of\nthree, and is Inexplicable, and is in the Nature of Things, and it is\nvery especially noticeable in the Art of Letters. There is in every\nbook the Difficulty of Beginning, the Difficulty of the Turning-Point\n(which is the Grand Climacteric of a Book)--\n\nLECTOR. What is that in a Book?\n\nAUCTOR. Why, it is the point where the reader has caught on, enters\ninto the Book and desires to continue reading it.\n\nLECTOR. It comes earlier in some books than in others.\n\nAUCTOR. As you say... And finally there is the Difficulty of Ending.\n\nLECTOR. I do not see how there can be any difficulty in ending a book.\n\nAUCTOR. That shows very clearly that you have never written one, for\nthere is nothing so hard in the writing of a book--no, not even the\nchoice of the Dedication--as is the ending of it. On this account only\nthe great Poets, who are above custom and can snap their divine\nfingers at forms, are not at the pains of devising careful endings.\nThus, Homer ends with lines that might as well be in the middle of a\npassage; Hesiod, I know not how; and Mr Bailey, the New Voice from\nEurasia, does not end at all, but is still going on.\n\nPanurge told me that his great work on Conchology would never have\nbeen finished had it not been for the Bookseller that threatened law;\nand as it is, the last sentence has no verb in it. There is always\nsomething more to be said, and it is always so difficult to turn up\nthe splice neatly at the edges. On this account there are regular\nmodels for ending a book or a Poem, as there are for beginning one;\nbut, for my part, I think the best way of ending a book is to rummage\nabout among one's manuscripts till one has found a bit of Fine Writing\n(no matter upon what subject), to lead up the last paragraphs by no\nmatter what violent shocks to the thing it deals with, to introduce a\nrow of asterisks, and then to paste on to the paper below these the\npiece of Fine Writing one has found.\n\nI knew a man once who always wrote the end of a book first, when his\nmind was fresh, and so worked gradually back to the introductory\nchapter, which (he said) was ever a kind of summary, and could not be\nproperly dealt with till a man knew all about his subject. He said\nthis was a sovran way to write History.\n\nBut it seems to me that this is pure extravagance, for it would lead\none at last to beginning at the bottom of the last page, like the\nHebrew Bible, and (if it were fully carried out) to writing one's\nsentences backwards till one had a style like the London School of\nPoets: a very horrible conclusion.\n\nHowever, I am not concerned here with the ending of a book, but with\nits beginning; and I say that the beginning of any literary thing is\nhard, and that this hardness is difficult to explain. And I say more\nthan this--I say that an interminable discussion of the difficulty of\nbeginning a book is the worst omen for going on with it, and a trashy\nsubterfuge at the best.  In the name of all decent, common, and homely\nthings, why not begin and have done with it?\n\nIt was in the very beginning of June, at evening, but not yet sunset,\nthat I set out from Toul by the Nancy gate; but instead of going\nstraight on past the parade-ground, I turned to the right immediately\nalong the ditch and rampart, and did not leave the fortifications till\nI came to the road that goes up alongside the Moselle. For it was by\nthe valley of this river that I was to begin my pilgrimage, since, by\na happy accident, the valley of the Upper Moselle runs straight\ntowards Rome, though it takes you but a short part of the way. What a\ngood opening it makes for a direct pilgrimage can be seen from this\nlittle map, where the dotted line points exactly to Rome. There are\ntwo bends which take one a little out of one's way, and these bends I\nattempted to avoid, but in general, the valley, about a hundred miles\nfrom Toul to the source, is an evident gate for any one walking from\nthis part of Lorraine into Italy. And this map is also useful to show\nwhat route I followed for my first three days past Epinal and\nRemiremont up to the source of the river, and up over the great hill,\nthe Ballon d'Alsace. I show the river valley like a trench, and the\nhills above it shaded, till the mountainous upper part, the Vosges, is\nput in black. I chose the decline of the day for setting out, because\nof the great heat a little before noon and four hours after it.\nRemembering this, I planned to walk at night and in the mornings and\nevenings, but how this design turned out you shall hear in a moment.\n\nI had not gone far, not a quarter of a mile, along my road leaving the\ntown, when I thought I would stop and rest a little and make sure that\nI had started propitiously and that I was really on my way to Rome; so\nI halted by a wall and looked back at the city and the forts, and drew\nwhat I saw in my book. It was a sight that had taken a firm hold of my\nmind in boyhood, and that will remain in it as long as it can make\npictures for itself out of the past. I think this must be true of all\nconscripts with regard to the garrison in which they have served, for\nthe mind is so fresh at twenty-one and the life so new to every\nrecruit as he joins it, he is so cut off from books and all the\nworries of life, that the surroundings of the place bite into him and\ntake root, as one's school does or one's first home. And I had been\nespecially fortunate since I had been with the gunners (notoriously\nthe best kind of men) and not in a big place but in a little town,\nvery old and silent, with more soldiers in its surrounding circle than\nthere were men, women, and children within its useless ramparts. It is\nknown to be very beautiful, and though I had not heard of this\nreputation, I saw it to be so at once when I was first marched in, on\na November dawn, up to the height of the artillery barracks. I\nremembered seeing then the great hills surrounding it on every side,\nhiding their menace and protection of guns, and in the south and east\nthe silent valley where the high forests dominate the Moselle, and the\ntown below the road standing in an island or ring of tall trees. All\nthis, I say, I had permanently remembered, and I had determined,\nwhenever I could go on pilgrimage to Rome, to make this place my\nstarting-point, and as I stopped here and looked back, a little way\noutside the gates, I took in again the scene that recalled so much\nlaughter and heavy work and servitude and pride of arms.\n\nI was looking straight at the great fort of St Michel, which is the\nstrongest thing on the frontier, and which is the key to the circle of\nforts that make up this entrenched camp. One could see little or\nnothing of its batteries, only its hundreds of feet of steep brushwood\nabove the vineyards, and at the summit a stunted wood purposely\nplanted. Next to it on the left, of equal height, was the hog back of\nthe Cote Barine, hiding a battery.  Between the Cote Barine and my\nroad and wall, I saw the rising ground and the familiar Barracks that\nare called (I know not why) the Barracks of Justice, but ought more\nproperly to be called the Barracks of petty tyrannies and good\nfellowship, in order to show the philosophers that these two things\nare the life of armies; for of all the virtues practised in that old\ncompulsory home of mine Justice came second at least if not third,\nwhile Discipline and Comradeship went first; and the more I think of\nit the more I am convinced that of all the suffering youth that was\nbeing there annealed and forged into soldiery none can have suffered\nlike the lawyers. On the right the high trees that stand outside the\nramparts of the town went dwindling in perspective like a palisade,\nand above them, here and there, was a roof showing the top of the\ntowers of the Cathedral or of St Gengoult. All this I saw looking\nbackwards, and, when I had noticed it and drawn it, I turned round\nagain and took the road.\n\nI had, in a small bag or pocket slung over my shoulder, a large piece\nof bread, half a pound of smoked ham, a sketch-book, two Nationalist\npapers, and a quart of the wine of Brule--which is the most famous\nwine in the neighbourhood of the garrison, yet very cheap. And Brule\nis a very good omen for men that are battered about and given to\ndespairing, since it is only called Brule on account of its having\nbeen burnt so often by Romans, Frenchmen, Burgundians, Germans,\nFlemings, Huns perhaps, and generally all those who in the last few\nthousand years have taken a short cut at their enemies over the neck\nof the Cote Barine. So you would imagine it to be a tumble-down, weak,\nwretched, and disappearing place; but, so far from this, it is a rich\nand proud village, growing, as I have said, better wine than any in\nthe garrison. Though Toul stands in a great cup or ring of hills, very\nhigh and with steep slopes, and guns on all of them, and all these\nhills grow wine, none is so good as Brule wine. And this reminds me of\na thing that happened in the Manoeuvres of 1891, _quorum pars magna_;\nfor there were two divisions employed in that glorious and fatiguing\ngreat game, and more than a gross of guns--to be accurate, a hundred\nand fifty-six--and of these one (the sixth piece of the tenth battery\nof the eighth--I wonder where you all are now? I suppose I shall not\nsee you again; but you were the best companions in the world, my\nfriends) was driven by three drivers, of whom I was the middle one,\nand the worst, having on my Livret the note 'conducteur mediocre'. But\nthat is neither here nor there; the story is as follows, and the moral\nis that the commercial mind is illogical.\n\nWhen we had gone some way, clattering through the dust, and were well\non on the Commercy road, there was a short halt, and during this halt\nthere passed us the largest Tun or Barrel that ever went on wheels.\nYou talk of the Great Tun of Heidelburg, or of those monstrous Vats\nthat stand in cool sheds in the Napa Valley, or of the vast barrels in\nthe Catacombs of Rheims; but all these are built _in situ_ and meant\nto remain steady, and there is no limit to the size of a Barrel that\nhas not to travel. The point about this enormous Receptacle of Bacchus\nand cavernous huge Prison of Laughter, was that it could move, though\ncumbrously, and it was drawn very slowly by stupid, patient oxen, who\nwould not be hurried. On the top of it sat a strong peasant, with a\nface of determination, as though he were at war with his kind, and he\nkept on calling to his oxen, 'Han', and 'Hu', in the tones of a sullen\nchallenge, as he went creaking past. Then the soldiers began calling\nout to him singly, 'Where are you off to, Father, with that battery?'\nand 'Why carry cold water to Commercy? They have only too much as it\nis;' and 'What have you got in the little barrelkin, the barrellet,\nthe cantiniere's brandy-flask, the gourd, the firkin?' He stopped his\noxen fiercely and turned round to us and said: 'I will tell you what I\nhave here. I have so many hectolitres of Brule wine which I made\nmyself, and which I know to be the best wine there is, and I am taking\nit about to see if I cannot tame and break these proud fellows who are\nfor ever beating down prices and mocking me. It is worth eight\n'scutcheons the hectolitre, that is, eight sols the litre; what do I\nsay? it is worth a Louis a cup: but I will sell it at the price I\nname, and not a penny less.  But whenever I come to a village the\ninnkeeper begins bargaining and chaffering and offering six sols and\nseven sols, and I answer, \"Eight sols, take it or leave it\", and when\nhe seems for haggling again I get up and drive away. I know the worth\nof my wine, and I will not be beaten down though I have to go out of\nLorraine into the Barrois to sell it.'\n\nSo when we caught him up again, as we did shortly after on the road, a\nsergeant cried as we passed, 'I will give you seven, seven and a\nquarter, seven and a half', and we went on laughing and forgot all\nabout him.\n\nFor many days we marched from this place to that place, and fired and\nplayed a confused game in the hot sun till the train of sick horses\nwas a mile long, and till the recruits were all as deaf as so many\nposts; and at last, one evening, we came to a place called Heiltz le\nMaurupt, which was like heaven after the hot plain and the dust, and\nwhose inhabitants are as good and hospitable as Angels; it is just\nwhere the Champagne begins. When we had groomed and watered our\nhorses, and the stable guard had been set, and we had all an hour or\nso's leisure to stroll about in the cool darkness before sleeping in\nthe barns, we had a sudden lesson in the smallness of the world, for\nwhat should come up the village street but that monstrous Barrel, and\nwe could see by its movements that it was still quite full.\n\nWe gathered round the peasant, and told him how grieved we were at his\nill fortune, and agreed with him that all the people of the Barrois\nwere thieves or madmen not to buy such wine for such a song. He took\nhis oxen and his barrel to a very high shed that stood by, and there\nhe told us all his pilgrimage and the many assaults his firmness\nsuffered, and how he had resisted them all. There was much more anger\nthan sorrow in his accent, and I could see that he was of the wood\nfrom which tyrants and martyrs are carved. Then suddenly he changed\nand became eloquent:\n\n'Oh, the good wine! If only it were known and tasted!... Here, give\nme a cup, and I will ask some of you to taste it, then at least I\nshall have it praised as it deserves. And this is the wine I have\ncarried more than a hundred miles, and everywhere it has been\nrefused!'\n\nThere was one guttering candle on a little stool. The roof of the shed\nwas lost up in the great height of darkness; behind, in the darkness,\nthe oxen champed away steadily in the manger. The light from the\ncandle flame lit his face strongly from beneath and marked it with\ndark shadows. It flickered on the circle of our faces as we pressed\nround, and it came slantwise and waned and disappeared in the immense\nlength of the Barrel. He stood near the tap with his brows knit as\nupon some very important task, and all we, gunners and drivers of the\nbattery, began unhooking our mugs and passing them to him.\n\nThere were nearly a hundred, and he filled them all; not in jollity,\nbut like a man offering up a solemn sacrifice. We also, entering into\nhis mood, passed our mugs continually, thanking him in a low tone and\nkeeping in the main silent. A few linesmen lounged at the door; he\nasked for their cups and filled them. He bade them fetch as many of\ntheir comrades as cared to come; and very soon there was a circulating\ncrowd of men all getting wine of Brule and murmuring their\ncongratulations, and he was willing enough to go on giving, but we\nstopped when we saw fit and the scene ended. I cannot tell what\nprodigious measure of wine he gave away to us all that night, but when\nhe struck the roof of the cask it already sounded hollow. And when we\nhad made a collection which he had refused, he went to sleep by his\noxen, and we to our straw in other barns. Next day we started before\ndawn, and I never saw him again.\n\nThis is the story of the wine of Brule, and it shows that what men\nlove is never money itself but their own way, and that human beings\nlove sympathy and pageant above all things. It also teaches us not to\nbe hard on the rich.\n\nI walked along the valley of the Moselle, and as I walked the long\nevening of summer began to fall. The sky was empty and its deeps\ninfinite; the clearness of the air set me dreaming. I passed the turn\nwhere we used to halt when we were learning how to ride in front of\nthe guns, past the little house where, on rare holidays, the boys\ncould eat a matelote, which is fish boiled in wine, and so on to the\nplace where the river is held by a weir and opens out into a kind of\nlake.\n\nHere I waited for a moment by the wooden railing, and looked up into\nthe hills. So far I had been at home, and I was now poring upon the\nlast familiar thing before I ventured into the high woods and began my\nexperience. I therefore took a leisurely farewell, and pondered\ninstead of walking farther. Everything about me conduced to\nreminiscence and to ease.  A flock of sheep passed me with their\nshepherd, who gave me a good-night. I found myself entering that\npleasant mood in which all books are conceived (but none written); I\nwas 'smoking the enchanted cigarettes' of Balzac, and if this kind of\nreverie is fatal to action, yet it is so much a factor of happiness\nthat I wasted in the contemplation of that lovely and silent hollow\nmany miles of marching. I suppose if a man were altogether his own\nmaster and controlled by no necessity, not even the necessity of\nexpression, all his life would pass away in these sublime imaginings.\n\nThis was a place I remembered very well. The rising river of Lorraine\nis caught and barred, and it spreads in a great sheet of water that\nmust be very shallow, but that in its reflections and serenity\nresembles rather a profound and silent mere. The steeps surrounding it\nare nearly mountainous, and are crowned with deep forests in which the\nprovince reposes, and upon which it depends for its local genius. A\nlittle village, which we used to call 'St Peter of the Quarries', lies\nup on the right between the steep and the water, and just where the\nhills end a flat that was once marshy and is now half fields, half\nponds, but broken with luxuriant trees, marks the great age of its\ncivilization. Along this flat runs, bordered with rare poplars, the\nroad which one can follow on and on into the heart of the Vosges. I\ntook from this silence and this vast plain of still water the repose\nthat introduces night. It was all consonant with what the peasants\nwere about: the return from labour, the bleating folds, and the\nlighting of lamps under the eaves. In such a spirit I passed along the\nupper valley to the spring of the hills.\n\nIn St Pierre it was just that passing of daylight when a man thinks he\ncan still read; when the buildings and the bridges are great masses of\npurple that deceive one, recalling the details of daylight, but when\nthe night birds, surer than men and less troubled by this illusion of\nmemory, have discovered that their darkness has conquered.\n\nThe peasants sat outside their houses in the twilight accepting the\ncool air; every one spoke to me as I marched through, and I answered\nthem all, nor was there in any of their salutations the omission of\ngood fellowship or of the name of God. Saving with one man, who was a\nsergeant of artillery on leave, and who cried out to me in an accent\nthat was very familiar and asked me to drink; but I told him I had to\ngo up into the forest to take advantage of the night, since the days\nwere so warm for walking. As I left the last house of the village I\nwas not secure from loneliness, and when the road began to climb up\nthe hill into the wild and the trees I was wondering how the night\nwould pass.\n\nWith every step upward a greater mystery surrounded me. A few stars\nwere out, and the brown night mist was creeping along the water below,\nbut there was still light enough to see the road, and even to\ndistinguish the bracken in the deserted hollows. The highway became\nlittle better than a lane; at the top of the hill it plunged under\ntall pines, and was vaulted over with darkness. The kingdoms that have\nno walls, and are built up of shadows, began to oppress me as the\nnight hardened. Had I had companions, still we would only have spoken\nin a whisper, and in that dungeon of trees even my own self would not\nraise its voice within me.\n\nIt was full night when I had reached a vague clearing in the woods,\nright up on the height of that flat hill. This clearing was called\n'The Fountain of Magdalen'. I was so far relieved by the broader sky\nof the open field that I could wait and rest a little, and there, at\nlast, separate from men, I thought of a thousand things. The air was\nfull of midsummer, and its mixture of exaltation and fear cut me off\nfrom ordinary living. I now understood why our religion has made\nsacred this season of the year; why we have, a little later, the night\nof St John, the fires in the villages, and the old perception of\nfairies dancing in the rings of the summer grass. A general communion\nof all things conspires at this crisis of summer against us reasoning\nmen that should live in the daylight, and something fantastic\npossesses those who are foolish enough to watch upon such nights. So\nI, watching, was cut off. There were huge, vague summits, all wooded,\npeering above the field I sat in, but they merged into a confused\nhorizon. I was on a high plateau, yet I felt myself to be alone with\nthe immensity that properly belongs to plains alone. I saw the stars,\nand remembered how I had looked up at them on just such a night when I\nwas close to the Pacific, bereft of friends and possessed with\nsolitude. There was no noise; it was full darkness. The woods before\nand behind me made a square frame of silence, and I was enchased here\nin the clearing, thinking of all things.\n\nThen a little wind passed over the vast forests of Lorraine. It seemed\nto wake an indefinite sly life proper to this seclusion, a life to\nwhich I was strange, and which thought me an invader. Yet I heard\nnothing. There were no adders in the long grass, nor any frogs in that\ndry square of land, nor crickets on the high part of the hill; but I\nknew that little creatures in league with every nocturnal influence,\nenemies of the sun, occupied the air and the land about me; nor will I\ndeny that I felt a rebel, knowing well that men were made to work in\nhappy dawns and to sleep in the night, and everything in that short\nand sacred darkness multiplied my attentiveness and my illusion.\nPerhaps the instincts of the sentry, the necessities of guard, come\nback to us out of the ages unawares during such experiments. At any\nrate the night oppressed and exalted me.  Then I suddenly attributed\nsuch exaltation to the need of food.\n\n'If we must try this bookish plan of sleeping by day and walking by\nnight,' I thought, 'at least one must arrange night meals to suit it.'\n\nI therefore, with my mind still full of the forest, sat down and lit a\nmatch and peered into my sack, taking out therefrom bread and ham and\nchocolate and Brule wine. For seat and table there was a heathery bank\nstill full of the warmth and savour of the last daylight, for\ncompanions these great inimical influences of the night which I had\nmet and dreaded, and for occasion or excuse there was hunger. Of the\nMany that debate what shall be done with travellers, it was the best\nand kindest Spirit that prompted me to this salutary act. For as I\ndrank the wine and dealt with the ham and bread, I felt more and more\nthat I had a right to the road; the stars became familiar and the\nwoods a plaything. It is quite clear that the body must be recognized\nand the soul kept in its place, since a little refreshing food and\ndrink can do so much to make a man.\n\nOn this repast I jumped up merrily, lit a pipe, and began singing, and\nheard, to my inexpressible joy, some way down the road, the sound of\nother voices. They were singing that old song of the French infantry\nwhich dates from Louis XIV, and is called 'Aupres de ma blonde'. I\nanswered their chorus, so that, by the time we met under the wood, we\nwere already acquainted. They told me they had had a forty-eight\nhours' leave into Nancy, the four of them, and had to be in by\nroll-call at a place called Villey the Dry. I remembered it after all\nthose years.\n\nIt is a village perched on the brow of one of these high hills above\nthe river, and it found itself one day surrounded by earthworks, and a\ngreat fort raised just above the church. Then, before they knew where\nthey were, they learnt that (1) no one could go in or out between\nsunset and sunrise without leave of the officer in command; (2) that\nfrom being a village they had become the 'buildings situate within\nFort No. 18'; (3) that they were to be deluged with soldiers; and (4)\nthat they were liable to evacuate their tenements on mobilization.\nThey had become a fort unwittingly as they slept, and all their\nstreets were blocked with ramparts. A hard fate; but they should not\nhave built their village just on the brow of a round hill.  They did\nthis in the old days, when men used stone instead of iron, because the\ntop of a hill was a good place to hold against enemies; and so now,\nthese 73,426 years after, they find the same advantage catching them\nagain to their hurt. And so things go the round.\n\nAnyway Villey the Dry is a fort, and there my four brothers were\ngoing. It was miles off, and they had to be in by sunrise, so I\noffered them a pull of my wine, which, to my great joy, they refused,\nand we parted courteously. Then I found the road beginning to fall,\nand knew that I had crossed the hills.  As the forest ended and the\nsloping fields began, a dim moon came up late in the east in the bank\nof fog that masked the river. So by a sloping road, now free from the\nwoods, and at the mouth of a fine untenanted valley under the moon, I\ncame down again to the Moselle, having saved a great elbow by this\nexcursion over the high land. As I swung round the bend of the hills\ndownwards and looked up the sloping dell, I remembered that these\nheathery hollows were called 'vallons' by the people of Lorraine, and\nthis set me singing the song of the hunters, 'Entends tu dans nos\nvallons, le Chasseur sonner du clairon,' which I sang loudly till I\nreached the river bank, and lost the exhilaration of the hills.\n\nI had now come some twelve miles from my starting-place, and it was\nmidnight. The plain, the level road (which often rose a little), and\nthe dank air of the river began to oppress me with fatigue. I was not\ndisturbed by this, for I had intended to break these nights of\nmarching by occasional repose, and while I was in the comfort of\ncities--especially in the false hopes that one got by reading books--I\nhad imagined that it was a light matter to sleep in the open. Indeed,\nI had often so slept when I had been compelled to it in Manoeuvres,\nbut I had forgotten how essential was a rug of some kind, and what a\ndifference a fire and comradeship could make.  Thinking over it all,\nfeeling my tiredness, and shivering a little in the chill under the\nmoon and the clear sky, I was very ready to capitulate and to sleep in\nbed like a Christian at the next opportunity. But there is some\ninfluence in vows or plans that escapes our power of rejudgement. All\nfalse calculations must be paid for, and I found, as you will see,\nthat having said I would sleep in the open, I had to keep to it in\nspite of all my second thoughts.\n\nI passed one village and then another in which everything was dark,\nand in which I could waken nothing but dogs, who thought me an enemy,\ntill at last I saw a great belt of light in the fog above the Moselle.\nHere there was a kind of town or large settlement where there were\nironworks, and where, as I thought, there would be houses open, even\nafter midnight. I first found the old town, where just two men were\nawake at some cooking work or other.  I found them by a chink of light\nstreaming through their door; but they gave me no hope, only advising\nme to go across the river and try in the new town where the forges and\nthe ironworks were. 'There,' they said, 'I should certainly find a\nbed.'\n\nI crossed the bridge, being now much too weary to notice anything,\neven the shadowy hills, and the first thing I found was a lot of\nwaggons that belonged to a caravan or fair. Here some men were awake,\nbut when I suggested that they should let me sleep in their little\nhouses on wheels, they told me it was never done; that it was all they\ncould do to pack in themselves; that they had no straw; that they were\nguarded by dogs; and generally gave me to understand (though without\nviolence or unpoliteness) that I looked as though I were the man to\nsteal their lions and tigers. They told me, however, that without\ndoubt I should find something open in the centre of the workmen's\nquarter, where the great electric lamps now made a glare over the\nfactory.\n\nI trudged on unwillingly, and at the very last house of this\ndetestable industrial slavery, a high house with a gable, I saw a\nwindow wide open, and a blonde man smoking a cigarette at a balcony. I\ncalled to him at once, and asked him to let me a bed. He put to me all\nthe questions he could think of. Why was I there? Where had I come\nfrom? Where (if I was honest) had I intended to sleep? How came I at\nsuch an hour on foot? and other examinations. I thought a little what\nexcuse to give him, and then, determining that I was too tired to make\nup anything plausible, I told him the full truth; that I had meant to\nsleep rough, but had been overcome by fatigue, and that I had walked\nfrom Toul, starting at evening. I conjured him by our common Faith to\nlet me in. He told me that it was impossible, as he had but one room\nin which he and his family slept, and assured me he had asked all\nthese questions out of sympathy and charity alone. Then he wished me\ngood-night, honestly and kindly, and went in.\n\nBy this time I was very much put out, and began to be angry. These\nstraggling French towns give no opportunity for a shelter. I saw that\nI should have to get out beyond the market gardens, and that it might\nbe a mile or two before I found any rest. A clock struck one. I looked\nup and saw it was from the belfry of one of those new chapels which\nthe monks are building everywhere, nor did I forget to curse the monks\nin my heart for building them. I cursed also those who started\nsmelting works in the Moselle valley; those who gave false advice to\ntravellers; those who kept lions and tigers in caravans, and for a\nsmall sum I would have cursed the whole human race, when I saw that my\nbile had hurried me out of the street well into the countryside, and\nthat above me, on a bank, was a patch of orchard and a lane leading up\nto it. Into this I turned, and, finding a good deal of dry hay lying\nunder the trees, I soon made myself an excellent bed, first building a\nlittle mattress, and then piling on hay as warm as a blanket.\n\nI did not lie awake (as when I planned my pilgrimage I had promised\nmyself I would do), looking at the sky through the branches of trees,\nbut I slept at once without dreaming, and woke up to find it was broad\ndaylight, and the sun ready to rise. Then, stiff and but little rested\nby two hours of exhaustion, I took up my staff and my sack and\nregained the road.\n\nI should very much like to know what those who have an answer to\neverything can say about the food requisite to breakfast? Those great\nmen Marlowe and Jonson, Shakespeare, and Spenser before him, drank\nbeer at rising, and tamed it with a little bread. In the regiment we\nused to drink black coffee without sugar, and cut off a great hunk of\nstale crust, and eat nothing more till the halt: for the matter of\nthat, the great victories of '93 were fought upon such unsubstantial\nmeals; for the Republicans fought first and ate afterwards, being in\nthis quite unlike the Ten Thousand. Sailors I know eat nothing for\nsome hours--I mean those who turn out at four in the morning; I could\ngive the name of the watch, but that I forget it and will not be\nplagued to look up technicalities. Dogs eat the first thing they come\nacross, cats take a little milk, and gentlemen are accustomed to get\nup at nine and eat eggs, bacon, kidneys, ham, cold pheasant, toast,\ncoffee, tea, scones, and honey, after which they will boast that their\nrace is the hardiest in the world and ready to bear every fatigue in\nthe pursuit of Empire. But what rule governs all this? Why is\nbreakfast different from all other things, so that the Greeks called\nit the best thing in the world, and so that each of us in a vague way\nknows that he would eat at breakfast nothing but one special kind of\nfood, and that he could not imagine breakfast at any other hour in the\nday?\n\nThe provocation to this inquiry (which I have here no time to pursue)\nlies in the extraordinary distaste that I conceived that morning for\nBrule wine.  My ham and bread and chocolate I had consumed overnight.\nI thought, in my folly, that I could break my fast on a swig of what\nhad seemed to me, only the night before, the best revivifier and\nsustenance possible. In the harsh dawn it turned out to be nothing but\na bitter and intolerable vinegar. I make no attempt to explain this,\nnor to say why the very same wine that had seemed so good in the\nforest (and was to seem so good again later on by the canal) should\nnow repel me. I can only tell you that this heavy disappointment\nconvinced me of a great truth that a Politician once let slip in my\nhearing, and that I have never since forgotten. _'Man,'_ said the\nDirector of the State, _'man is but the creature of circumstance.'_\n\nAs it was, I lit a pipe of tobacco and hobbled blindly along for miles\nunder and towards the brightening east. Just before the sun rose I\nturned and looked backward from a high bridge that recrossed the\nriver. The long effort of the night had taken me well on my way. I was\nout of the familiar region of the garrison. The great forest-hills\nthat I had traversed stood up opposite the dawn, catching the new\nlight; heavy, drifting, but white clouds, rare at such an hour, sailed\nabove them. The valley of the Moselle, which I had never thought of\nsave as a half mountainous region, had fallen, to become a kind of\nlong garden, whose walls were regular, low, and cultivated slopes.\nThe main waterway of the valley was now not the river but the canal\nthat fed from it.\n\nThe tall grasses, the leaves, and poplars bordering the river and the\ncanal seemed dark close to me, but the valley as a whole was vague, a\nmass of trees with one Lorraine church-tower showing, and the delicate\nslopes bounding it on either side.\n\nDescending from this bridge I found a sign-post, that told me I had\nwalked thirty-two kilometres--which is twenty miles--from Toul; that\nit was one kilometre to Flavigny, and heaven knows how much to a place\ncalled Charmes.  The sun rose in the mist that lay up the long even\ntrends of the vale, between the low and level hills, and I pushed on\nmy thousand yards towards Flavigny. There, by a special providence, I\nfound the entertainment and companionship whose lack had left me\nwrecked all these early hours.\n\nAs I came into Flavigny I saw at once that it was a place on which a\nbook might easily be written, for it had a church built in the\nseventeenth century, when few churches were built outside great towns,\na convent, and a general air of importance that made of it that grand\nand noble thing, that primary cell of the organism of Europe, that\nbest of all Christian associations - a large village.\n\nI say a book might be written upon it, and there is no doubt that a\ngreat many articles and pamphlets must have been written upon it, for\nthe French are furiously given to local research and reviews, and to\nglorifying their native places: and when they cannot discover folklore\nthey enrich their beloved homes by inventing it.\n\nThere was even a man (I forget his name) who wrote a delightful book\ncalled _Popular and Traditional Songs of my Province,_ which book,\nafter he was dead, was discovered to be entirely his own invention,\nand not a word of it familiar to the inhabitants of the soil. He was a\nlarge, laughing man that smoked enormously, had great masses of hair,\nand worked by night; also he delighted in the society of friends, and\ntalked continuously. I wish he had a statue somewhere, and that they\nwould pull down to make room for it any one of those useless bronzes\nthat are to be found even in the little villages, and that commemorate\nsolemn, whiskered men, pillars of the state.  For surely this is the\nhabit of the true poet, and marks the vigour and recurrent origin of\npoetry, that a man should get his head full of rhythms and catches,\nand that they should jumble up somehow into short songs of his own.\nWhat could more suggest (for instance) a whole troop of dancing words\nand lovely thoughts than this refrain from the Tourdenoise--\n\n... Son beau corps est en terre\n  Son ame en Paradis.\n  Tu ris?\n  Et ris, tu ris, ma Bergere,\n  Ris, ma Bergere, tu ris.\n\nThat was the way they set to work in England before the Puritans came,\nwhen men were not afraid to steal verses from one another, and when no\none imagined that he could live by letters, but when every poet took a\npatron, or begged or robbed the churches. So much for the poets.\n\nFlavigny then, I say (for I seem to be digressing), is a long street\nof houses all built together as animals build their communities. They\nare all very old, but the people have worked hard since the\nRevolution, and none of them are poor, nor are any of them very rich.\nI saw but one gentleman's house, and that, I am glad to say, was in\ndisrepair. Most of the peasants' houses had, for a ground floor,\ncavernous great barns out of which came a delightful smell of morning\n-- that is, of hay, litter, oxen, and stored grains and old wood;\nwhich is the true breath of morning, because it is the scent that all\nthe human race worth calling human first meets when it rises, and is\nthe association of sunrise in the minds of those who keep the world\nalive: but not in the wretched minds of townsmen, and least of all in\nthe minds of journalists, who know nothing of morning save that it is\na time of jaded emptiness when you have just done prophesying (for the\nhundredth time) the approaching end of the world, when the floors are\nbeginning to tremble with machinery, and when, in a weary kind of way,\none feels hungry and alone: a nasty life and usually a short one.\n\nTo return to Flavigny. This way of stretching a village all along one\nstreet is Roman, and is the mark of civilization. When I was at\ncollege I was compelled to read a work by the crabbed Tacitus on the\nGermans, where, in the midst of a deal that is vague and fantastic\nnonsense and much that is wilful lying, comes this excellent truth,\nthat barbarians build their houses separate, but civilized men\ntogether. So whenever you see a lot of red roofs nestling, as the\nphrase goes, in the woods of a hillside in south England, remember\nthat all that is savagery; but when you see a hundred white-washed\nhouses in a row along a dead straight road, lift up your hearts, for\nyou are in civilization again.\n\nBut I continue to wander from Flavigny. The first thing I saw as I\ncame into the street and noted how the level sun stood in a haze\nbeyond, and how it shadowed and brought out the slight irregularities\nof the road, was a cart drawn by a galloping donkey, which came at and\npassed me with a prodigious clatter as I dragged myself forward. In\nthe cart were two nuns, each with a scythe; they were going out\nmowing, and were up the first in the village, as Religious always are.\nCheered by this happy omen, but not yet heartened, I next met a very\nold man leading out a horse, and asked him if there was anywhere where\nI could find coffee and bread at that hour; but he shook his head\nmournfully and wished me good-morning in a strong accent, for he was\ndeaf and probably thought I was begging. So I went on still more\ndespondent till I came to a really merry man of about middle age who\nwas going to the fields, singing, with a very large rake over his\nshoulder.  When I had asked him the same question he stared at me a\nlittle and said of course coffee and bread could be had at the\nbaker's, and when I asked him how I should know the baker's he was\nstill more surprised at my ignorance, and said, 'By the smoke coming\nfrom the large chimney.' This I saw rising a short way off on my\nright, so I thanked him and went and found there a youth of about\nnineteen, who sat at a fine oak table and had coffee, rum, and a loaf\nbefore him. He was waiting for the bread in the oven to be ready; and\nmeanwhile he was very courteous, poured out coffee and rum for me and\noffered me bread.\n\nIt is a matter often discussed why bakers are such excellent citizens\nand good men. For while it is admitted in every country I was ever in\nthat cobblers are argumentative and atheists (I except the cobbler\nunder Plinlimmon, concerning whom would to heaven I had the space to\ntell you all here, for he knows the legends of the mountain), while it\nis public that barbers are garrulous and servile, that millers are\ncheats (we say in Sussex that every honest miller has a large tuft of\nhair on the palm of his hand), yet--with every trade in the world\nhaving some bad quality attached to it--bakers alone are exempt, and\nevery one takes it for granted that they are sterling: indeed, there\nare some societies in which, no matter how gloomy and churlish the\nconversation may have become, you have but to mention bakers for\nvoices to brighten suddenly and for a good influence to pervade every\none. I say this is known for a fact, but not usually explained; the\nexplanation is, that bakers are always up early in the morning and can\nwatch the dawn, and that in this occupation they live in lonely\ncontemplation enjoying the early hours.\n\nSo it was with this baker of mine in Flavigny, who was a boy. When he\nheard that I had served at Toul he was delighted beyond measure; he\ntold me of a brother of his that had been in the same regiment, and he\nassured me that he was himself going into the artillery by special\nenlistment, having got his father's leave. You know very little if you\nthink I missed the opportunity of making the guns seem terrible and\nglorious in his eyes. I told him stories enough to waken a sentry of\nreserve, and if it had been possible (with my youth so obvious) I\nwould have woven in a few anecdotes of active service, and described\ngreat shells bursting under my horses and the teams shot down, and the\ngunners all the while impassive; but as I saw I should not be believed\nI did not speak of such things, but confined myself to what he would\nsee and hear when he joined.\n\nMeanwhile the good warm food and the rising morning had done two\nthings; they had put much more vigour into me than I had had when I\nslunk in half-an-hour before, but at the same time (and this is a\nthing that often comes with food and with rest) they had made me feel\nthe fatigue of so long a night. I rose up, therefore, determined to\nfind some place where I could sleep. I asked this friend of mine how\nmuch there was to pay, and he said 'fourpence'. Then we exchanged\nritual salutations, and I took the road. I did not leave the town or\nvillage without noticing one extraordinary thing at the far end of it,\nwhich was that, whereas most places in France are proud of their\ntown-hall and make a great show of it, here in Flavigny they had taken\na great house and written over it ECOLE COMMUNALE in great letters,\nand then they had written over a kind of lean-to or out-house of this\nbig place the words 'Hotel de ville' in very small letters, so small\nthat I had a doubt for a moment if the citizens here were good\nrepublicans--a treasonable thought on all this frontier.\n\nThen, a mile onward, I saw the road cross the canal and run parallel\nto it.  I saw the canal run another mile or so under a fine bank of\ndeep woods. I saw an old bridge leading over it to that inviting\nshade, and as it was now nearly six and the sun was gathering\nstrength, I went, with slumber overpowering me and my feet turning\nheavy beneath me, along the tow-path, over the bridge, and lay down on\nthe moss under these delightful trees.  Forgetful of the penalty that\nsuch an early repose would bring, and of the great heat that was to\nfollow at midday, I quickly became part of the life of that forest and\nfell asleep.\n\nWhen I awoke it was full eight o'clock, and the sun had gained great\npower.  I saw him shining at me through the branches of my trees like\na patient enemy outside a city that one watches through the loopholes\nof a tower, and I began to be afraid of taking the road. I looked\nbelow me down the steep bank between the trunks and saw the canal\nlooking like black marble, and I heard the buzzing of the flies above\nit, and I noted that all the mist had gone. A very long way off, the\nnoise of its ripples coming clearly along the floor of the water, was\na lazy barge and a horse drawing it. From time to time the tow-rope\nslackened into the still surface, and I heard it dripping as it rose.\nThe rest of the valley was silent except for that under-humming of\ninsects which marks the strength of the sun.\n\nNow I saw clearly how difficult it was to turn night into day, for I\nfound myself condemned either to waste many hours that ought to be\nconsumed on my pilgrimage, or else to march on under the extreme heat;\nand when I had drunk what was left of my Brule wine (which then seemed\ndelicious), and had eaten a piece of bread, I stiffly jolted down the\nbank and regained the highway.\n\nIn the first village I came to I found that Mass was over, and this\njustly annoyed me; for what is a pilgrimage in which a man cannot hear\nMass every morning? Of all the things I have read about St Louis which\nmake me wish I had known him to speak to, nothing seems to me more\ndelightful than his habit of getting Mass daily whenever he marched\ndown south, but why this should be so delightful I cannot tell. Of\ncourse there is a grace and influence belonging to such a custom, but\nit is not of that I am speaking but of the pleasing sensation of order\nand accomplishment which attaches to a day one has opened by Mass; a\npurely temporal, and, for all I know, what the monks back at the\nironworks would have called a carnal feeling, but a source of\ncontinual comfort to me. Let them go their way and let me go mine.\n\nThis comfort I ascribe to four causes (just above you will find it\nwritten that I could not tell why this should be so, but what of\nthat?), and these causes are:\n\n1. That for half-an-hour just at the opening of the day you are silent\nand recollected, and have to put off cares, interests, and passions in\nthe repetition of a familiar action. This must certainly be a great\nbenefit to the body and give it tone.\n\n2. That the Mass is a careful and rapid ritual. Now it is the function\nof all ritual (as we see in games, social arrangements and so forth)\nto relieve the mind by so much of responsibility and initiative and to\ncatch you up (as it were) into itself, leading your life for you\nduring the time it lasts. In this way you experience a singular\nrepose, after which fallowness I am sure one is fitter for action and\njudgement.\n\n3. That the surroundings incline you to good and reasonable thoughts,\nand for the moment deaden the rasp and jar of that busy wickedness\nwhich both working in one's self and received from others is the true\nsource of all human miseries. Thus the time spent at Mass is like a\nshort repose in a deep and well-built library, into which no sounds\ncome and where you feel yourself secure against the outer world.\n\n4. And the most important cause of this feeling of satisfaction is\nthat you are doing what the human race has done for thousands upon\nthousands upon thousands of years. This is a matter of such moment\nthat I am astonished people hear of it so little. Whatever is buried\nright into our blood from immemorial habit that we must be certain to\ndo if we are to be fairly happy (of course no grown man or woman can\nreally be very happy for long--but I mean reasonably happy), and, what\nis more important, decent and secure of our souls. Thus one should\nfrom time to time hunt animals, or at the very least shoot at a mark;\none should always drink some kind of fermented liquor with one's\nfood--and especially deeply upon great feast-days; one should go on\nthe water from time to time; and one should dance on occasions; and\none should sing in chorus. For all these things man has done since God\nput him into a garden and his eyes first became troubled with a soul.\nSimilarly some teacher or ranter or other, whose name I forget, said\nlately one very wise thing at least, which was that every man should\ndo a little work with his hands.\n\nOh! what good philosophy this is, and how much better it would be if\nrich people, instead of raining the influence of their rank and\nspending their money on leagues for this or that exceptional thing,\nwere to spend it in converting the middle-class to ordinary living and\nto the tradition of the race. Indeed, if I had power for some thirty\nyears I would see to it that people should be allowed to follow their\ninbred instincts in these matters, and should hunt, drink, sing,\ndance, sail, and dig; and those that would not should be compelled by\nforce.\n\nNow in the morning Mass you do all that the race needs to do and has\ndone for all these ages where religion was concerned; there you have\nthe sacred and separate Enclosure, the Altar, the Priest in his\nVestments, the set ritual, the ancient and hierarchic tongue, and all\nthat your nature cries out for in the matter of worship.\n\nFrom these considerations it is easy to understand how put out I was\nto find Mass over on this first morning of my pilgrimage. And I went\nalong the burning road in a very ill-humour till I saw upon my right,\nbeyond a low wall and in a kind of park, a house that seemed built on\nsome artificial raised ground surrounded by a wall, but this may have\nbeen an illusion, the house being really only very tall. At any rate I\ndrew it, and in the village just beyond it I learnt something curious\nabout the man that owned it.\n\nFor I had gone into a house to take a third meal of bread and wine and\nto replenish my bottle when the old woman of the house, who was a\nkindly person, told me she had just then no wine. 'But,' said she, 'Mr\nSo and So that lives in the big house sells it to any one who cares to\nbuy even in the smallest quantities, and you will see his shed\nstanding by the side of the road.'\n\nEverything happened just as she had said. I came to the big shed by\nthe park wall, and there was a kind of counter made of boards, and\nseveral big tuns and two men: one in an apron serving, and the other\nin a little box or compartment writing. I was somewhat timid to ask\nfor so little as a quart, but the apron man in the most businesslike\nway filled my bottle at a tap and asked for fourpence. He was willing\nto talk, and told me many things: of good years in wine, of the nature\nof their trade, of the influence of the moon on brewing, of the\nimportance of spigots, and what not; but when I tried to get out of\nhim whether the owner were an eccentric private gentleman or a\nmerchant that had the sense to earn little pennies as well as large\nones, I could not make him understand my meaning; for his idea of rank\nwas utterly different from mine and took no account of idleness and\nluxury and daftness, but was based entirely upon money and clothes.\nMoreover we were both of us Republicans, so the matter was of no great\nmoment. Courteously saluting ourselves we parted, he remaining to sell\nwine and I hobbling to Rome, now a little painfully and my sack the\nheavier by a quart of wine, which, as you probably know, weighs almost\nexactly two pounds and a half.\n\nIt was by this time close upon eleven, and I had long reached the\nstage when some kinds of men begin talking of Dogged Determination,\nBull-dog pluck, the stubborn spirit of the Island race and so forth,\nbut when those who can boast a little of the sacred French blood are\nin a mood of set despair (both kinds march on, and the mobility of\neither infantry is much the same), I say I had long got to this point\nof exhaustion when it occurred to me that I should need an excellent\nand thorough meal at midday.  But on looking at my map I found that\nthere was nothing nearer than this town of Charmes that was marked on\nthe milestones, and that was the first place I should come to in the\ndepartment of the Vosges.\n\nIt would take much too long to describe the dodges that weary men and\nstiff have recourse to when they are at the close of a difficult task:\nhow they divide it up in lengths in their minds, how they count\nnumbers, how they begin to solve problems in mental arithmetic: I\ntried them all. Then I thought of a new one, which is really\nexcellent, and which I recommend to the whole world. It is to vary the\nroad, suddenly taking now the fields, now the river, but only\noccasionally the turnpike. This last lap was very well suited for such\na method. The valley had become more like a wide and shallow trench\nthan ever. The hills on either side were low and exactly even. Up the\nmiddle of it went the river, the canal and the road, and these two\nlast had only a field between them; now broad, now narrow.\n\nFirst on the tow-path, then on the road, then on the grass, then back\non the tow-path, I pieced out the last baking mile into Charmes, that\nlies at the foot of a rather higher hill, and at last was dragging\nmyself up the street just as the bell was ringing the noon Angelus;\nnor, however tedious you may have found it to read this final effort\nof mine, can you have found it a quarter as wearisome as I did to walk\nit; and surely between writer and reader there should be give and\ntake, now the one furnishing the entertainment and now the other.\n\nThe delightful thing in Charmes is its name. Of this name I had indeed\nbeen thinking as I went along the last miles of that dusty and\ndeplorable road--that a town should be called 'Charms'.\n\nNot but that towns, if they are left to themselves and not hurried,\nhave a way of settling into right names suited to the hills about them\nand recalling their own fields. I remember Sussex, and as I remember\nit I must, if only for example, set down my roll-call of such names,\nas--Fittleworth, where the Inn has painted panels; Amberley in the\nmarshes; delicate Fernhurst, and Ditchling under its hill; Arundel,\nthat is well known to every one; and Climping, that no one knows, set\non a lonely beach and lost at the vague end of an impassable road; and\nBarlton, and Burton, and Duncton, and Coldwatham, that stand under in\nthe shadow and look up at the great downs; and Petworth, where the\nspire leans sideways; and Timberley, that the floods make into an\nisland; and No Man's Land, where first there breaks on you the distant\nsea. I never knew a Sussex man yet but, if you noted him such a list,\nwould answer: 'There I was on such and such a day; this I came to\nafter such and such a run; and that other is my home.' But it is not\nhis recollection alone which moves him, it is sound of the names.  He\nfeels the accent of them, and all the men who live between Hind-head\nand the Channel know these names stand for Eden; the noise is enough\nto prove it. So it is also with the hidden valleys of the lie de\nFrance; and when you say Jouy or Chevreuse to a man that was born in\nthose shadows he grows dreamy--yet they are within a walk of Paris.\n\nBut the wonderful thing about a name like Charmes is that it hands\ndown the dead. For some dead man gave it a keen name proceeding from\nhis own immediate delight, and made general what had been a private\npleasure, and, so to speak, bequeathed a poem to his town. They say\nthe Arabs do this; calling one place 'the rest of the warriors', and\nanother 'the end', and another 'the surprise of the horses': let those\nwho know them speak for it.  I at least know that in the west of the\nCotentin (a sea-garden) old Danes married to Gaulish women discovered\nthe just epithet, and that you have 'St Mary on the Hill' and 'High\nTown under the Wind' and 'The Borough over the Heath', which are\nto-day exactly what their name describes them. If you doubt that\nEngland has such descriptive names, consider the great Truth that at\none junction on a railway where a mournful desolation of stagnant\nwaters and treeless, stonewalled fields threatens you with experience\nand awe, a melancholy porter is told off to put his head into your\ncarriage and to chant like Charon, 'Change here for Ashton under the\nWood, Moreton on the Marsh, Bourton on the Water, and Stow in the\nWold.'\n\nCharmes does not fulfil its name nor preserve what its forgotten son\nfound so wonderful in it. For at luncheon there a great commercial\ntraveller told me fiercely that it was chiefly known for its\nbreweries, and that he thought it of little account. Still even in\nCharmes I found one marvellous corner of a renaissance house, which I\ndrew; but as I have lost the drawing, let it go.\n\nWhen I came out from the inn of Charmes the heat was more terrible\nthan ever, and the prospect of a march in it more intolerable. My head\nhung, I went very slowly, and I played with cowardly thoughts, which\nwere really (had I known it) good angels. I began to look out\nanxiously for woods, but saw only long whitened wall glaring in the\nsun, or, if ever there were trees, they were surrounded by wooden\npalisades which the owners had put there. But in a little time (now I\nhad definitely yielded to temptation) I found a thicket.\n\nYou must know that if you yield to entertaining a temptation, there is\nthe opportunity presented to you like lightning. A theologian told me\nthis, and it is partly true: but not of Mammon or Belphegor, or\nwhatever Devil it is that overlooks the Currency (I can see his face\nfrom here): for how many have yielded to the Desire of Riches and\nprofessed themselves very willing to revel in them, yet did not get an\nopportunity worth a farthing till they died? Like those two beggars\nthat Rabelais tells of, one of whom wished for all the gold that would\npay for all the merchandise that had ever been sold in Paris since its\nfirst foundation, and the other for as much gold as would go into all\nthe sacks that could be sewn by all the needles (and those of the\nsmallest size) that could be crammed into Notre-Dame from the floor to\nthe ceiling, filling the smallest crannies. Yet neither had a crust\nthat night to rub his gums with.\n\nWhatever Devil it is, however, that tempts men to repose--and for my\npart I believe him to be rather an Aeon than a Devil: that is, a\ngood-natured fellow working on his own account neither good nor\nill--whatever being it is, it certainly suits one's mood, for I never\nyet knew a man determined to be lazy that had not ample opportunity\nafforded him, though he were poorer than the cure of Maigre, who\nformed a syndicate to sell at a scutcheon a gross such souls as were\ntoo insignificant to sell singly. A man can always find a chance for\ndoing nothing as amply and with as ecstatic a satisfaction as the\nworld allows, and so to me (whether it was there before I cannot tell,\nand if it came miraculously, so much the more amusing) appeared this\nthicket. It was to the left of the road; a stream ran through it in a\nlittle ravine; the undergrowth was thick beneath its birches, and just\nbeyond, on the plain that bordered it, were reapers reaping in a\nfield. I went into it contentedly and slept till evening my third\nsleep; then, refreshed by the cool wind that went before the twilight,\nI rose and took the road again, but I knew I could not go far.\n\nI was now past my fortieth mile, and though the heat had gone, yet my\ndead slumber had raised a thousand evils. I had stiffened to lameness,\nand had fallen into the mood when a man desires companionship and the\ntalk of travellers rather than the open plain. But (unless I went\nbackward, which was out of the question) there was nowhere to rest in\nfor a long time to come. The next considerable village was Thayon,\nwhich is called 'Thayon of the Vosges', because one is nearing the big\nhills, and thither therefore I crawled mile after mile.\n\nBut my heart sank. First my foot limped, and then my left knee\noppressed me with a sudden pain. I attempted to relieve it by leaning\non my right leg, and so discovered a singular new law in medicine\nwhich I will propose to the scientists. For when those excellent men\nhave done investigating the twirligigs of the brain to find out where\nthe soul is, let them consider this much more practical matter, that\nyou cannot relieve the pain in one limb without driving it into some\nother; and so I exchanged twinges in the left knee for a horrible\ngreat pain in the right. I sat down on a bridge, and wondered; I saw\nbefore me hundreds upon hundreds of miles, painful and exhausted, and\nI asked heaven if this was necessary to a pilgrimage. (But, as you\nshall hear, a pilgrimage is not wholly subject to material laws, for\nwhen I came to Epinal next day I went into a shop which, whatever it\nwas to the profane, appeared to me as a chemist's shop, where I bought\na bottle of some stuff called 'balm', and rubbing myself with it was\ninstantly cured.)\n\nThen I looked down from the bridge across the plain, and saw, a long\nway off beyond the railway, the very ugly factory village of Thayon,\nand reached it at last, not without noticing that the people were\nstanding branches of trees before their doors, and the little children\nnoisily helping to tread the stems firmly into the earth. They told me\nit was for the coming of Corpus Christi, and so proved to me that\nreligion, which is as old as these valleys, would last out their\ninhabiting men. Even here, in a place made by a great laundry, a\nmodern industrial row of tenements, all the world was putting out\ngreen branches to welcome the Procession and the Sacrament and the\nPriest. Comforted by this evident refutation of the sad nonsense I had\nread in Cities from the pen of intellectuals--nonsense I had known to\nbe nonsense, but that had none the less tarnished my mind--I happily\nentered the inn, ate and drank, praised God, and lay down to sleep in\na great bed. I mingled with my prayers a firm intention of doing the\nordinary things, and not attempting impossibilities, such as marching\nby night, nor following out any other vanities of this world. Then,\nhaving cast away all theories of how a pilgrimage should be conducted,\nand broken five or six vows, I slept steadily till the middle of the\nmorning. I had covered fifty miles in twenty-five hours, and if you\nimagine this to be but two miles an hour, you must have a very\nmathematical mind, and know little of the realities of living. I woke\nand threw my shutters open to the bright morning and the masterful\nsun, took my coffee, and set out once more towards Epinal, the\nstronghold a few miles away--delighted to see that my shadow was so\nshort and the road so hot to the feet and eyes. For I said, 'This at\nleast proves that I am doing like all the world, and walking during\nthe day.' It was but a couple of hours to the great garrison. In a\nlittle time I passed a battery. Then a captain went by on a horse,\nwith his orderly behind him.  Where the deep lock stands by the\nroadside--the only suggestion of coolness--I first heard the bugles;\nthen I came into the long street and determined to explore Epinal, and\nto cast aside all haste and folly.\n\nThere are many wonderful things in Epinal. As, for instance, that it\nwas evidently once, like Paris and Melun and a dozen other strongholds\nof the Gauls, an island city. For the rivers of France are full of\nlong, habitable islands, and these were once the rallying-places of\nclans. Then there are the forts which are placed on high hills round\nthe town and make it even stronger than Toul; for Epinal stands just\nwhere the hills begin to be very high. Again, it is the capital of a\nmountain district, and this character always does something peculiar\nand impressive to a town. You may watch its effect in Grenoble, in\nlittle Aubusson, and, rather less, in Geneva.\n\nFor in such towns three quite different kinds of men meet. First there\nare the old plain-men, who despise the highlanders and think\nthemselves much grander and more civilized; these are the burgesses.\nThen there are the peasants and wood-cutters, who come in from the\nhill-country to market, and who are suspicious of the plain-men and\nyet proud to depend upon a real town with a bishop and paved streets.\nLastly, there are the travellers, who come there to enjoy the\nmountains and to make the city a base for their excursions, and these\nlove the hill-men and think they understand them, and they despise the\nplain-men for being so middle-class as to lord it over the hill-men:\nbut in truth this third class, being outsiders, are equally hated and\ndespised by both the others, and there is a combination against them\nand they are exploited.\n\nAnd there are many other things in which Epinal is wonderful, but in\nnothing is it more wonderful than in its great church.\n\nI suppose that the high Dukes of Burgundy and Lorraine and the rich\nmen from Flanders and the House of Luxemburg and the rest, going to\nRome, the centre of the world, had often to pass up this valley of the\nMoselle, which (as I have said) is a road leading to Rome, and would\nhalt at fipinal and would at times give money for its church; with\nthis result, that the church belongs to every imaginable period and is\nbuilt anyhow, in twenty styles, but stands as a whole a most enduring\nrecord of past forms and of what has pleased the changing mind when it\nhas attempted to worship in stone.\n\nThus the transept is simply an old square barn of rough stone, older,\nI suppose, than Charlemagne and without any ornament. In its lower\ncourses I thought I even saw the Roman brick. It had once two towers,\nnorthern and southern; the southern is ruined and has a wooden roof,\nthe northern remains and is just a pinnacle or minaret too narrow for\nbells.\n\nThen the apse is pure and beautiful Gothic of the fourteenth century,\nwith very tall and fluted windows like single prayers. The ambulatory\nis perfectly modern, Gothic also, and in the manner that Viollet le\nDuc in France and Pugin in England have introduced to bring us back to\nour origins and to remind us of the place whence all we Europeans\ncame. Again, this apse and ambulatory are not perpendicular to the\ntransept, but set askew, a thing known in small churches and said to\nbe a symbol, but surely very rare in large ones. The western door is\npurely Romanesque, and has Byzantine ornaments and a great deep round\ndoor. To match it there is a northern door still deeper, with rows and\nrows of inner arches full of saints, angels, devils, and flowers; and\nthis again is not straight, but so built that the arches go aslant, as\nyou sometimes see railway bridges when they cross roads at an angle.\nFinally, there is a central tower which is neither Gothic nor\nRomanesque but pure Italian, a loggia, with splendid round airy\nwindows taking up all its walls, and with a flat roof and eaves. This\nsome one straight from the south must have put on as a memory of his\nwanderings.\n\nThe barn-transept is crumbling old grey stone, the Romanesque porches\nare red, like Strasburg, the Gothic apse is old white as our\ncathedrals are, the modern ambulatory is of pure white stone just\nquarried, and thus colours as well as shapes are mingled up and\ndifferent in this astonishing building.\n\nI drew it from that point of view in the market-place to the\nnorth-east which shows most of these contrasts at once, and you must\nexcuse the extreme shakiness of the sketch, for it was taken as best I\ncould on an apple-cart with my book resting on the apples--there was\nno other desk. Nor did the apple-seller mind my doing it, but on the\ncontrary gave me advice and praise saying such things as--\n\n'Excellent; you have caught the angle of the apse... Come now, darken\nthe edge of that pillar... I fear you have made the tower a little\nconfused,' and so forth.\n\nI offered to buy a few apples off him, but he gave me three instead,\nand these, as they incommoded me, I gave later to a little child.\n\nIndeed the people of Epinal, not taking me for a traveller but simply\nfor a wandering poor man, were very genial to me, and the best good\nthey did me was curing my lameness. For, seeing an apothecary's shop\nas I was leaving the town, I went in and said to the apothecary--\n\n'My knee has swelled and is very painful, and I have to walk far;\nperhaps you can tell me how to cure it, or give me something that\nwill.'\n\n'There is nothing easier,' he said; 'I have here a specific for the\nvery thing you complain of.'\n\nWith this he pulled out a round bottle, on the label of which was\nprinted in great letters, 'BALM'.\n\n'You have but to rub your knee strongly and long with this ointment of\nmine,' he said, 'and you will be cured.' Nor did he mention any\nspecial form of words to be repeated as one did it.\n\nEverything happened just as he had said. When I was some little way\nabove the town I sat down on a low wall and rubbed my knee strongly\nand long with this balm, and the pain instantly disappeared. Then,\nwith a heart renewed by this prodigy, I took the road again and began\nwalking very rapidly and high, swinging on to Rome.\n\nThe Moselle above fipinal takes a bend outwards, and it seemed to me\nthat a much shorter way to the next village (which is called\nArchettes, or 'the very little arches', because there are no arches\nthere) would be right over the hill round which the river curved. This\nerror came from following private judgement and not heeding tradition,\nhere represented by the highroad which closely follows the river. For\nthough a straight tunnel to Archettes would have saved distance, yet a\nclimb over that high hill and through the pathless wood on its summit\nwas folly.\n\nI went at first over wide, sloping fields, and some hundred feet above\nthe valley I crossed a little canal. It was made on a very good\nsystem, and I recommend it to the riparian owners of the Upper Wye,\nwhich needs it. They take the water from the Moselle (which is here\nbroad and torrential and falls in steps, running over a stony bed with\nlittle swirls and rapids), and they lead it along at an even gradient,\naveraging, as it were, the uneven descent of the river. In this way\nthey have a continuous stream running through fields that would\notherwise be bare and dry, but that are thus nourished into excellent\npastures.\n\nAbove these fields the forest went up steeply. I had not pushed two\nhundred yards into its gloom and confusion when I discovered that I\nhad lost my way. It was necessary to take the only guide I had and to\ngo straight upwards wherever the line of greatest inclination seemed\nto lie, for that at least would take me to a summit and probably to a\nview of the valley; whereas if I tried to make for the shoulder of the\nhill (which had been my first intention) I might have wandered about\ntill nightfall.\n\nIt was an old man in a valley called the Curicante in Colorado that\ntaught me this, if one lost one's way going _upwards_ to make at once\nalong the steepest line, but if one lost it going _downwards_, to\nlisten for water and reach it and follow it. I wish I had space to\ntell all about this old man, who gave me hospitality out there. He was\nfrom New England and was lonely, and had brought out at great expense\na musical box to cheer him. Of this he was very proud, and though it\nonly played four silly hymn tunes, yet, as he and I listened to it,\nheavy tears came into his eyes and light tears into mine, because\nthese tunes reminded him of his home. But I have no time to do more\nthan mention him, and must return to my forest.\n\nI climbed, then, over slippery pine needles and under the charged air\nof those trees, which was full of dim, slanting light from the\nafternoon sun, till, nearly at the summit, I came upon a clearing\nwhich I at once recognized as a military road, leading to what we used\nto call a 'false battery', that is, a dug-out with embrasures into\nwhich guns could be placed but in which no guns were. For ever since\nthe French managed to produce a really mobile heavy gun they have\nconstructed any amount of such auxiliary works between the permanent\nforts. These need no fixed guns to be emplaced, since the French can\nuse now one such parapet, now another, as occasion serves, and the\nadvantage is that your guns are never useless, but can always be\nbrought round where they are needed, and that thus six guns will do\nmore work than twenty used to do.\n\nThis false battery was on the brow of the hill, and when I reached it\nI looked down the slope, over the brushwood that hid the wire\nentanglements, and there was the whole valley of the Moselle at my\nfeet.\n\nAs this was the first really great height, so this was the first\nreally great view that I met with on my pilgrimage. I drew it\ncarefully, piece by piece, sitting there a long time in the declining\nsun and noting all I saw.  Archettes, just below; the flat valley with\nthe river winding from side to side; the straight rows of poplar\ntrees; the dark pines on the hills, and the rounded mountains rising\nfarther and higher into the distance until the last I saw, far off to\nthe south-east, must have been the Ballon d'Alsace at the sources of\nthe Moselle--the hill that marked the first full stage in my journey\nand that overlooked Switzerland.\n\nIndeed, this is the peculiar virtue of walking to a far place, and\nespecially of walking there in a straight line, that one gets these\nvisions of the world from hill-tops.\n\nWhen I call up for myself this great march I see it all mapped out in\nlandscapes, each of which I caught from some mountain, and each of\nwhich joins on to that before and to that after it, till I can piece\ntogether the whole road. The view here from the Hill of Archettes, the\nview from the Ballon d'Alsace, from Glovelier Hill, from the\nWeissenstein, from the Brienzer Grat, from the Grimsel, from above\nBellinzona, from the Principessa, from Tizzano, from the ridge of the\nApennines, from the Wall of Siena, from San Quirico, from Radicofani,\nfrom San Lorenzo, from Montefiascone, from above Viterbo, from\nRoncigleone, and at last from that lift in the Via Cassia, whence one\nsuddenly perceives the City. They unroll themselves all in their order\ntill I can see Europe, and Rome shining at the end.\n\nBut you who go in railways are necessarily shut up in long valleys and\neven sometimes by the walls of the earth. Even those who bicycle or\ndrive see these sights but rarely and with no consecution, since roads\nalso avoid climbing save where they are forced to it, as over certain\npasses. It is only by following the straight line onwards that any one\ncan pass from ridge to ridge and have this full picture of the way he\nhas been.\n\nSo much for views. I clambered down the hill to Archettes and saw,\nalmost the first house, a swinging board 'At the sign of the Trout of\nthe Vosges', and as it was now evening I turned in there to dine.\n\nTwo things I noticed at once when I sat down to meat. First, that the\npeople seated at that inn table were of the middle-class of society,\nand secondly, that I, though of their rank, was an impediment to their\nenjoyment. For to sleep in woods, to march some seventy miles, the\nlatter part in a dazzling sun, and to end by sliding down an earthy\nsteep into the road, stamps a man with all that this kind of people\nleast desire to have thrust upon them. And those who blame the\nmiddle-class for their conventions in such matters, and who profess to\nbe above the care for cleanliness and clothes and social ritual which\nmarks the middle-class, are either anarchists by nature, or fools who\ntake what is but an effect of their wealth for a natural virtue.\n\nI say it roundly; if it were not for the punctiliousness of the\nmiddle-class in these matters all our civilization would go to pieces.\nThey are the conservators and the maintainers of the standard, the\nmoderators of Europe, the salt of society. For the kind of man who\nboasts that he does not mind dirty clothes or roughing it, is either a\nman who cares nothing for all that civilization has built up and who\nrather hates it, or else (and this is much more common) he is a rich\nman, or accustomed to live among the rich, and can afford to waste\nenergy and stuff because he feels in a vague way that more clothes can\nalways be bought, that at the end of his vagabondism he can get\nexcellent dinners, and that London and Paris are full of luxurious\nbaths and barber shops. Of all the corrupting effects of wealth there\nis none worse than this, that it makes the wealthy (and their\nparasites) think in some way divine, or at least a lovely character of\nthe mind, what is in truth nothing but their power of luxurious\nliving. Heaven keep us all from great riches--I mean from very great\nriches.\n\nNow the middle-class cannot afford to buy new clothes whenever they\nfeel inclined, neither can they end up a jaunt by a Turkish bath and a\ngreat feast with wine. So their care is always to preserve intact what\nthey happen to have, to exceed in nothing, to study cleanliness,\norder, decency, sobriety, and a steady temper, and they fence all this\nround and preserve it in the only way it can be preserved, to wit,\nwith conventions, and they are quite right.\n\nI find it very hard to keep up to the demands of these my colleagues,\nbut I recognize that they are on the just side in the quarrel; let\nnone of them go about pretending that I have not defended them in this\nbook.\n\nSo I thought of how I should put myself right with these people. I saw\nthat an elaborate story (as, that I had been set upon by a tramp who\nforced me to change clothes: that I dressed thus for a bet: that I was\nan officer employed as a spy, and was about to cross the frontier into\nGermany in the guise of a labourer: that my doctor forbade me to\nshave--or any other such rhodomontade): I saw, I say, that by\nventuring upon any such excuses I might unwittingly offend some other\nunknown canon of theirs deeper and more sacred than their rule on\nclothes; it had happened to me before now to do this in the course of\nexplanations.\n\nSo I took another method, and said, as I sat down--\n\n'Pray excuse this appearance of mine. I have had a most unfortunate\nadventure in the hills, losing my way and being compelled to sleep out\nall night, nor can I remain to get tidy, as it is essential that I\nshould reach my luggage (which is at Remiremont) before midnight.'\n\nI took great care to pay for my glass of white wine before dinner with\na bank-note, and I showed my sketches to my neighbour to make an\nimpression.  I also talked of foreign politics, of the countries I had\nseen, of England especially, with such minute exactitude that their\ndisgust was soon turned to admiration.\n\nThe hostess of this inn was delicate and courteous to a degree, and at\nevery point attempting to overreach her guests, who, as regularly as\nshe attacked, countered with astonishing dexterity.\n\nThus she would say: 'Perhaps the joint would taste better if it were\ncarved on the table; or do the gentlemen prefer it carved aside?'\n\nTo which a banker opposite me said in a deep voice: 'We prefer, madam,\nto have it carved aside.'\n\nOr she would put her head in and say: 'I can recommend our excellent\nbeer.  It is really preferable to this local wine.'\n\nAnd my neighbour, a tourist, answered with decision: 'Madame, we find\nyour wine excellent. It could not be bettered.'\n\nNor could she get round them on a single point, and I pitied her so\nmuch that I bought bread and wine off her to console her, and I let\nher overcharge me, and went out into the afterglow with her\nbenediction, followed also by the farewells of the middle-class, who\nwere now taking their coffee at little tables outside the house.\n\nI went hard up the road to Remiremont. The night darkened. I reached\nRemiremont at midnight, and feeling very wakeful I pushed on up the\nvalley under great woods of pines; and at last, diverging up a little\npath, I settled on a clump of trees sheltered and, as I thought, warm,\nand lay down there to sleep till morning; but, on the contrary, I lay\nawake a full hour in the fragrance and on the level carpet of the pine\nneedles looking up through the dark branches at the waning moon, which\nhad just risen, and thinking of how suitable were pine-trees for a man\nto sleep under.\n\n'The beech,' I thought, 'is a good tree to sleep under, for nothing\nwill grow there, and there is always dry beech-mast; the yew would be\ngood if it did not grow so low, but, all in all, pine-trees are the\nbest.' I also considered that the worst tree to sleep under would be\nthe upas tree. These thoughts so nearly bordered on nothing that,\nthough I was not sleepy, yet I fell asleep. Long before day, the moon\nbeing still lustrous against a sky that yet contained a few faint\nstars, I awoke shivering with cold.\n\nIn sleep there is something diminishes us. This every one has noticed;\nfor who ever suffered a nightmare awake, or felt in full consciousness\nthose awful impotencies which lie on the other side of slumber? When\nwe lie down we give ourselves voluntarily, yet by the force of nature,\nto powers before which we melt and are nothing. And among the strange\nfrailties of sleep I have noticed cold.\n\nHere was a warm place under the pines where I could rest in great\ncomfort on pine needles still full of the day; a covering for the\nbeasts underground that love an even heat--the best of floors for a\ntired man.  Even the slight wind that blew under the waning moon was\nwarm, and the stars were languid and not brilliant, as though\neverything were full of summer, and I knew that the night would be\nshort; a midsummer night; and I had lived half of it before attempting\nrepose. Yet, I say, I woke shivering and also disconsolate, needing\ncompanionship. I pushed down through tall, rank grass, drenched with\ndew, and made my way across the road to the bank of the river. By the\ntime I reached it the dawn began to occupy the east.\n\nFor a long time I stood in a favoured place, just above a bank of\ntrees that lined the river, and watched the beginning of the day,\nbecause every slow increase of light promised me sustenance.\n\nThe faint, uncertain glimmer that seemed not so much to shine through\nthe air as to be part of it, took all colour out of the woods and\nfields and the high slopes above me, leaving them planes of grey and\ndeeper grey. The woods near me were a silhouette, black and\nmotionless, emphasizing the east beyond.  The river was white and\ndead, not even a steam rose from it, but out of the further pastures a\ngentle mist had lifted up and lay all even along the flanks of the\nhills, so that they rose out of it, indistinct at their bases,\nclear-cut above against the brightening sky; and the farther they were\nthe more their mouldings showed in the early light, and the most\ndistant edges of all caught the morning.\n\nAt this wonderful sight I gazed for quite half-an-hour without moving,\nand took in vigour from it as a man takes in food and wine. When I\nstirred and looked about me it had become easy to see the separate\ngrasses; a bird or two had begun little interrupted chirrups in the\nbushes, a day-breeze broke from up the valley ruffling the silence,\nthe moon was dead against the sky, and the stars had disappeared. In a\nsolemn mood I regained the road and turned my face towards the\nneighbouring sources of the river.\n\nI easily perceived with each laborious mile that I was approaching the\nend of my companionship with the Moselle, which had become part of my\nadventure for the last eighty miles. It was now a small stream,\nmountainous and uncertain, though in parts still placid and slow.\nThere appeared also that which I take to be an infallible\naccompaniment of secluded glens and of the head waters of rivers\n(however canalized or even overbuilt they are), I mean a certain\nroughness all about them and the stout protest of the hill-men: their\nstone cottages and their lonely paths off the road.\n\nSo it was here. The hills had grown much higher and come closer to the\nriver-plain; up the gullies I would catch now and then an aged and\nuncouth bridge with a hut near it all built of enduring stone: part of\nthe hills.  Then again there were present here and there on the spurs\nlonely chapels, and these in Catholic countries are a mark of the\nmountains and of the end of the riches of a valley. Why this should be\nso I cannot tell. You find them also sometimes in forests, but\nespecially in the lesser inlets of the sea-coast, and, as I have said,\nhere in the upper parts of valleys in the great hills. In such shrines\nMass is to be said but rarely, sometimes but once a year in a special\ncommemoration. The rest of the time they stand empty, and some of the\nolder or simpler, one might take for ruins. They mark everywhere some\nstrong emotion of supplication, thanks, or reverence, and they anchor\nthese wild places to their own past, making them up in memories what\nthey lack in multitudinous life.\n\nI broke my fast on bread and wine at a place where the road crosses\nthe river, and then I determined I would have hot coffee as well, and\nseeing in front of me a village called Rupt, which means 'the cleft'\n(for there is here a great cleft in the hillside), I went up to it and\nhad my coffee.  Then I discovered a singular thing, that the people of\nthe place are tired of making up names and give nothing its peculiar\nbaptism. This I thought really very wonderful indeed, for I have\nnoticed wherever I have been that in proportion as men are remote and\nhave little to distract them, in that proportion they produce a great\ncrop of peculiar local names for every stream, reach, tuft, hummock,\nglen, copse, and gully for miles around; and often when I have lost my\nway and asked it of a peasant in some lonely part I have grown\nimpatient as he wandered on about 'leaving on your left the stone we\ncall the Nuggin, and bearing round what some call Holy Dyke till you\ncome to what they call Mary's Ferry'... and so forth. Long-shoremen\nand the riparian inhabitants of dreadful and lonely rivers near the\nsea have just such a habit, and I have in my mind's eye now a short\nstretch of tidal water in which there are but five shoals, yet they\nall have names, and are called 'The House, the Knowle, Goodman's Plot,\nMall, and the Patch.'\n\nBut here in Rupt, to my extreme astonishment, there was no such\nuniversal and human instinct. For I said to the old man who poured me\nout my coffee under the trellis (it was full morning, the sun was well\nup, and the clouds were all dappled high above the tops of the\nmountains): 'Father, what do you call this hill?' And with that I\npointed to a very remarkable hill and summit that lie sheer above the\nvillage.\n\n'That,' he said, 'is called the hill over above Rupt.'\n\n'Yes, of course,' I said, 'but what is its name?'\n\n'That is its name,' he answered.\n\nAnd he was quite right, for when I looked at my map, there it was\nprinted, 'Hill above Rupt'. I thought how wearisome it would be if\nthis became a common way of doing things, and if one should call the\nThames 'the River of London', and Essex 'the North side', and Kent\n'the South side'; but considering that this fantastic method was only\nindulged in by one wretched village, I released myself from fear,\nrelegated such horrors to the colonies, and took the road again.\n\nAll this upper corner of the valley is a garden. It is bound in on\nevery side from the winds, it is closed at the end by the great mass\nof the Ballon d'Alsace, its floor is smooth and level, its richness is\nused to feed grass and pasturage, and knots of trees grow about it as\nthough they had been planted to please the eye.\n\nNothing can take from the sources of rivers their character of\nisolation and repose. Here what are afterwards to become the\ninfluences of the plains are nurtured and tended as though in an\norchard, and the future life of a whole fruitful valley with its regal\ntowns is determined. Something about these places prevents ingress or\nspoliation. They will endure no settlements save of peasants; the\nwaters are too young to be harnessed; the hills forbid an easy\ncommerce with neighbours. Throughout the world I have found the heads\nof rivers to be secure places of silence and content. And as they are\nthemselves a kind of youth, the early home of all that rivers must at\nlast become--I mean special ways of building and a separate state of\nliving, a local air and a tradition of history, for rivers are always\nthe makers of provinces--so they bring extreme youth back to one, and\nthese upper glens of the world steep one in simplicity and childhood.\n\nIt was my delight to lie upon a bank of the road and to draw what I\nsaw before me, which was the tender stream of the Moselle slipping\nthrough fields quite flat and even and undivided by fences; its banks\nhad here a strange effect of Nature copying man's art: they seemed a\npark, and the river wound through it full of the positive innocence\nthat attaches to virgins: it nourished and was guarded by trees.\n\nThere was about that scene something of creation and of a beginning,\nand as I drew it, it gave me like a gift the freshness of the first\nexperiences of living and filled me with remembered springs. I mused\nupon the birth of rivers, and how they were persons and had a\nname--were kings, and grew strong and ruled great countries, and how\nat last they reached the sea.\n\nBut while I was thinking of these things, and seeing in my mind a kind\nof picture of The River Valley, and of men clustering around their\nhome stream, and of its ultimate vast plains on either side, and of\nthe white line of the sea beyond all, a woman passed me. She was very\nugly, and was dressed in black. Her dress was stiff and shining, and,\nas I imagined, valuable. She had in her hand a book known to the\nFrench as 'The Roman Parishioner', which is a prayer-book. Her hair\nwas hidden in a stiff cap or bonnet; she walked rapidly, with her eyes\non the ground. When I saw this sight it reminded me suddenly, and I\ncried out profanely, 'Devil take me!  It is Corpus Christi, and my\nthird day out. It would be a wicked pilgrimage if I did not get Mass\nat last.' For my first day (if you remember) I had slept in a wood\nbeyond Mass-time, and my second (if you remember) I had slept in a\nbed. But this third day, a great Feast into the bargain, I was bound\nto hear Mass, and this woman hurrying along to the next village proved\nthat I was not too late.\n\nSo I hurried in her wake and came to the village, and went into the\nchurch, which was very full, and came down out of it (the Mass was low\nand short--they are a Christian people) through an avenue of small\ntrees and large branches set up in front of the houses to welcome the\nprocession that was to be held near noon. At the foot of the street\nwas an inn where I entered to eat, and finding there another man--I\ntake him to have been a shopkeeper--I determined to talk politics, and\nbegan as follows:\n\n'Have you any anti-Semitism in your town?'\n\n'It is not my town,' he said, 'but there is anti-Semitism. It\nflourishes.'\n\n'Why then?' I asked. 'How many Jews have you in your town?'\n\nHe said there were seven.\n\n'But,' said I, 'seven families of Jews--'\n\n'There are not seven families,' he interrupted; 'there are seven Jews\nall told. There are but two families, and I am reckoning in the\nchildren. The servants are Christians.'\n\n'Why,' said I, 'that is only just and proper, that the Jewish families\nfrom beyond the frontier should have local Christian people to wait on\nthem and do their bidding. But what I was going to say was that so\nvery few Jews seem to me an insufficient fuel to fire the\nanti-Semites. How does their opinion flourish?'\n\n'In this way,' he answered. 'The Jews, you see, ridicule our young men\nfor holding such superstitions as the Catholic. Our young men, thus\nbrought to book and made to feel irrational, admit the justice of the\nridicule, but nourish a hatred secretly for those who have exposed\ntheir folly. Therefore they feel a standing grudge against the Jews.'\n\nWhen he had given me this singular analysis of that part of the\npolitics of the mountains, he added, after a short silence, the\nfollowing remarkable phrase--\n\n'For my part I am a liberal, and would have each go his own way: the\nCatholic to his Mass, the Jew to his Sacrifice.'\n\nI then rose from my meal, saluted him, and went musing up the valley\nroad, pondering upon what it could be that the Jews sacrificed in this\nremote borough, but I could not for the life of me imagine what it\nwas, though I have had a great many Jews among my friends.\n\nI was now arrived at the head of this lovely vale, at the sources of\nthe river Moselle and the base of the great mountain the Ballon\nd'Alsace, which closes it in like a wall at the end of a lane. For\nsome miles past the hills had grown higher and higher upon either\nside, the valley floor narrower, the torrent less abundant; there now\nstood up before me the marshy slopes and the enormous forests of pine\nthat forbid a passage south.  Up through these the main road has been\npierced, tortuous and at an even gradient mile after mile to the very\ntop of the hill; for the Ballon d'Alsace is so shaped that it is\nimpossible for the Moselle valley to communicate with the Gap of\nBelfort save by some track right over its summit. For it is a mountain\nwith spurs like a star, and where mountains of this kind block the end\nof main valleys it becomes necessary for the road leading up and out\nof the valley to go over their highest point, since any other road\nover the passes or shoulders would involve a second climb to reach the\ncountry beyond. The reason of this, my little map here, where the dark\nstands for the valley and the light for the high places, will show\nbetter than a long description. Not that this map is of the Ballon\nd'Alsace in particular, but only of the type of hill I mean.\n\nSince, in crossing a range, it is usually possible to find a low point\nsuitable for surmounting it, such summit roads are rare, but when one\ndoes get them they are the finest travel in the world, for they\nfurnish at one point (that is, at the summit) what ordinary roads\ngoing through passes can never give you: a moment of domination. From\ntheir climax you look over the whole world, and you feel your journey\nto be adventurous and your advance to have taken some great definite\nstep from one province and people to another.\n\nI would not be bound by the exaggerated zig-zags of the road, which\nhad been built for artillery, and rose at an easy slope. I went along\nthe bed of the dell before me and took the forest by a little path\nthat led straight upward, and when the path failed, my way was marked\nby the wire of the telegraph that crosses to Belfort. As I rose I saw\nthe forest before me grow grander. The pine branches came down from\nthe trunks with a greater burden and majesty in their sway, the trees\ntook on an appearance of solemnity, and the whole rank that faced\nme--for here the woods come to an even line and stand like an army\narrested upon a downward march -- seemed something unusual and\ngigantic. Nothing more helped this impression of awe than the extreme\ndarkness beneath those aged growths, and the change in the sky that\nintroduced my entry into the silence and perfume of so vast a temple.\nGreat clouds, so charged with rain that you would have thought them\nlower than the hills (and yet just missing their tops), came covering\nme like a tumbled roof and gathered all around; the heat of the day\nwaned suddenly in their shade: it seemed suddenly as though summer was\nover or as though the mountains demanded an uncertain summer of their\nown, and shot the sunshine with the chill of their heights. A little\nwind ran along the grass and died again. As I gained the darkness of\nthe first trees, rain was falling.\n\nThe silence of the interior wood was enhanced by a bare drip of water\nfrom the boughs that stood out straight and tangled I know not how far\nabove me.  Its gloom was rendered more tremendous by the half-light\nand lowering of the sky which the ceiling of branches concealed.\nHeight, stillness, and a sort of expectancy controlled the memories of\nthe place, and I passed silently and lightly between the high columns\nof the trees from night (as it seemed) through a kind of twilight\nforward to a near night beyond. On every side the perspective of these\nbare innumerable shafts, each standing apart in order, purple and\nfragrant, merged into recesses of distance where all light\ndisappeared, yet as I advanced the slight gloaming still surrounded\nme, as did the stillness framed in the drip of water, and beneath my\nfeet was the level carpet of the pine needles deadening and making\ndistant every tiny noise. Had not the trees been so much greater and\nmore enduring than my own presence, and had not they overwhelmed me by\ntheir regard, I should have felt afraid. As it was I pushed upward\nthrough their immovable host in some such catching of the breath as\nmen have when they walk at night straining for a sound, and I felt\nmyself to be continually in a hidden companionship.\n\nWhen I came to the edge of this haunted forest it ceased as suddenly\nas it had begun. I left behind me such a rank of trees aligned as I\nhad entered thousands of feet below, and I saw before me, stretching\nshapely up to the sky, the round dome-like summit of the mountain--a\ngreat field of grass. It was already evening; and, as though the tall\ntrees had withdrawn their virtue from me, my fatigue suddenly came\nupon me. My feet would hardly bear me as I clambered up the last\nhundred feet and looked down under the rolling clouds, lit from\nbeneath by the level light of evening, to the three countries that met\nat my feet.\n\nFor the Ballon d'Alsace is the knot of Europe, and from that gathering\nup and ending of the Vosges you look down upon three divisions of men.\nTo the right of you are the Gauls. I do not mean that mixed breed of\nLorraine, silent, among the best of people, but I mean the tree Gauls,\nwho are hot, ready, and born in the plains and in the vineyards. They\nstand in their old entrenchments on either side of the Saone and are\nvivacious in battle; from time to time a spirit urges them, and they\ngo out conquering eastward in the Germanics, or in Asia, or down the\npeninsulas of the Mediterranean, and then they suck back like a tide\nhomewards, having accomplished nothing but an epic.\n\nThen on the left you have all the Germanics, a great sea of confused\nand dreaming people, lost in philosophies and creating music, frozen\nfor the moment under a foreign rigidity, but some day to thaw again\nand to give a word to us others. They cannot long remain apart from\nvisions.\n\nThen in front of you southward and eastward, if you are marching to\nRome, come the Highlanders. I had never been among them, and I was to\nsee them in a day; the people of the high hills, the race whom we all\nfeel to be enemies, and who run straight across the world from the\nAtlantic to the Pacific, understanding each other, not understood by\nus. I saw their first rampart, the mountains called the Jura, on the\nhorizon, and above my great field of view the clouds still tumbled,\nlit from beneath with evening.\n\nI tired of these immensities, and, feeling now my feet more broken\nthan ever, I very slowly and in sharp shoots of pain dragged down the\nslope towards the main road: I saw just below me the frontier stones\nof the Prussians, and immediately within them a hut. To this I\naddressed myself.\n\nIt was an inn. The door opened of itself, and I found there a pleasant\nwoman of middle age, but frowning. She had three daughters, all of\ngreat strength, and she was upbraiding them loudly in the German of\nAlsace and making them scour and scrub. On the wall above her head was\na great placard which I read very tactfully, and in a distant manner,\nuntil she had restored the discipline of her family. This great\nplacard was framed in the three colours which once brought a little\nhope to the oppressed, and at the head of it in broad black letters\nwere the three words, 'Freedom, Brotherhood, and an Equal Law'.\nUnderneath these was the emblematic figure of a cock, which I took to\nbe the Gallic bird, and underneath him again was printed in enormous\nitalics--\n\n  Quand ce coq chantera\n  Ici credit l'on fera.\n\nWhich means--\n\n  When you hear him crowing\n  Then's the time for owing.\n  Till that day--Pay.\n\nWhile I was still wondering at this epitome of the French people, and\nwas attempting to combine the French military tradition with the\nFrench temper in the affairs of economics; while I was also delighting\nin the memory of the solid coin that I carried in a little leathern\nbag in my pocket, the hard-working, God-fearing, and honest woman that\ngoverns the little house and the three great daughters, within a yard\nof the frontier, and on the top of this huge hill, had brought back\nall her troops into line and had the time to attend to me. This she\ndid with the utmost politeness, though cold by race, and through her\npoliteness ran a sense of what Teutons called Duty, which would once\nhave repelled me; but I have wandered over a great part of the world,\nand I know it now to be a distorted kind of virtue.\n\nShe was of a very different sort from that good tribe of the Moselle\nvalley beyond the hill; yet she also was Catholic-- (she had a little\ntree set up before her door for the Corpus Christi: see what religion\nis, that makes people of utterly different races understand each\nother; for when I saw that tree I knew precisely where I stood. So\nonce all we Europeans understood each other, but now we are divided by\nthe worst malignancies of nations and classes, and a man does not so\nmuch love his own nation as hate his neighbours, and even the twilight\nof chivalry is mixed up with a detestable patronage of the poor. But\nas I was saying--) she also was a Catholic, and I knew myself to be\nwith friends. She was moreover not exactly of- what shall I say? the\nwords Celtic and Latin mean nothing-- not of those who delight in a\ndelicate manner; and her good heart prompted her to say, very loudly--\n\n'What do you want?'\n\n'I want a bed,' I said, and I pulled out a silver coin. 'I must lie\ndown at once.'\n\nThen I added, 'Can you make omelettes?'\n\nNow it is a curious thing, and one I will not dwell on--\n\nLECTOR. You do nothing but dwell.\n\nAUCTOR. It is the essence of lonely travel; and if you have come to\nthis book for literature you have come to the wrong booth and counter.\nAs I was saying: it is a curious thing that some people (or races)\njump from one subject to another naturally, as some animals (I mean\nthe noble deer) go by bounds. While there are other races (or\nindividuals--heaven forgive me, I am no ethnologist) who think you a\ncriminal or a lunatic unless you carefully plod along from step to\nstep like a hippopotamus out of water.  When, therefore, I asked this\nfamily-drilling, house-managing, mountain-living woman whether she\ncould make omelettes, she shook her head at me slowly, keeping her\neyes fixed on mine, and said in what was the corpse of French with a\nGerman ghost in it, 'The bed is a franc.'\n\n'Motherkin,' I answered, 'what I mean is that I would sleep until I\nwake, for I have come a prodigious distance and have last slept in the\nwoods. But when I wake I shall need food, for which,' I added, pulling\nout yet another coin, 'I will pay whatever your charge may be; for a\nmore delightful house I have rarely met with. I know most people do\nnot sleep before sunset, but I am particularly tired and broken.'\n\nShe showed me my bed then much more kindly, and when I woke, which was\nlong after dusk, she gave me in the living room of the hut eggs beaten\nup with ham, and I ate brown bread and said grace.\n\nThen (my wine was not yet finished, but it is an abominable thing to\ndrink your own wine in another person's house) I asked whether I could\nhave something to drink.\n\n'What you like,' she said.\n\n'What have you?' said I.\n\n'Beer,' said she.\n\n'Anything else?' said I.\n\n'No,' said she.\n\n'Why, then, give me some of that excellent beer.'\n\nI drank this with delight, paid all my bill (which was that of a\nlabourer), and said good-night to them.\n\nIn good-nights they had a ceremony; for they all rose together and\ncurtsied. Upon my soul I believe such people to be the salt of the\nearth. I bowed with real contrition, for at several moments I had\nbelieved myself better than they. Then I went to my bed and they to\ntheirs. The wind howled outside; my boots were stiff like wood and I\ncould hardly take them off; my feet were so martyrized that I doubted\nif I could walk at all on the morrow.  Nevertheless I was so wrapped\nround with the repose of this family's virtues that I fell asleep at\nonce. Next day the sun was rising in angry glory over the very distant\nhills of Germany, his new light running between the pinnacles of the\nclouds as the commands of a conqueror might come trumpeted down the\ndefiles of mountains, when I fearlessly forced my boots on to my feet\nand left their doors.\n\nThe morning outside came living and sharp after the gale--almost\nchilly.  Under a scattered but clearing sky I first limped, then, as\nmy blood warmed, strode down the path that led between the trees of\nthe farther vale and was soon following a stream that leaped from one\nfall to another till it should lead me to the main road, to Belfort,\nto the Jura, to the Swiss whom I had never known, and at last to\nItaly.\n\nBut before I call up the recollection of that hidden valley, I must\ndescribe with a map the curious features of the road that lay before\nme into Switzerland. I was standing on the summit of that knot of\nhills which rise up from every side to form the Ballon d'Alsace, and\nmake an abrupt ending to the Vosges. Before me, southward and\neastward, was a great plain with the fortress of Belfort in the midst\nof it. This plain is called by soldiers 'the Gap of Belfort', and is\nthe only break in the hill frontier that covers France all the way\nfrom the Mediterranean to Flanders. On the farther side of this plain\nran the Jura mountains, which are like a northern wall to Switzerland,\nand just before you reach them is the Frontier. The Jura are fold on\nfold of high limestone ridges, thousands of feet high, all parallel,\nwith deep valleys, thousands of feet deep, between them; and beyond\ntheir last abrupt escarpment is the wide plain of the river Aar.\n\nNow the straight line to Rome ran from where I stood, right across\nthat plain of Belfort, right across the ridges of the Jura, and cut\nthe plain of the Aar a few miles to the west of a town called\nSolothurn or Soleure, which stands upon that river.\n\nIt was impossible to follow that line exactly, but one could average\nit closely enough by following the high road down the mountain through\nBelfort to a Swiss town called Porrentruy or Portrut--so far one was a\nlittle to the west of the direct line.\n\nFrom Portrut, by picking one's way through forests, up steep banks,\nover open downs, along mule paths, and so forth, one could cross the\nfirst ridge called the 'Terrible Hill', and so reach the profound\ngorge of the river Doubs, and a town called St Ursanne. From St\nUrsanne, by following a mountain road and then climbing some rocks and\ntracking through a wood, one could get straight over the second ridge\nto Glovelier. From Glovelier a highroad took one through a gap to\nUndervelier and on to a town called Moutier or Munster. Then from\nMunster, the road, still following more or less the line to Rome but\nnow somewhat to the east of it, went on southward till an abrupt turn\nin it forced one to leave it. Then there was another rough climb by a\ndifficult path up over the last ridge, called the Weissenstein, and\nfrom its high edge and summit it was but a straight fall of a mile or\ntwo on to Soleure.\n\nSo much my map told me, and this mixture of roads and paths and rock\nclimbs that I had planned out, I exactly followed, so as to march on\nas directly as possible towards Rome, which was my goal. For if I had\nnot so planned it, but had followed the highroads, I should have been\ncompelled to zig-zag enormously for days, since these ridges of the\nJura are but little broken, and the roads do not rise above the\ncrests, but follow the parallel valleys, taking advantage only here\nand there of the rare gaps to pass from one to another.\n\nHere is a sketch of the way I went, where my track is a white line,\nand the round spots in it are the towns and villages whose names are\nwritten at the side. In this sketch the plains and low valleys are\nmarked dark, and the crests of the mountains left white. The shading\nis lighter according to the height, and the contour lines (which are\nvery far from accurate) represent, I suppose, about a thousand feet\nbetween each, or perhaps a little more; and as for the distance, from\nthe Ballon d'Alsace to Soleure might be two long days' march on a flat\nroad, but over mountains and up rocks it was all but three, and even\nthat was very good going. My first stage was across the plain of\nBelfort, and I had determined to sleep that night in Switzerland.\n\nI wandered down the mountain. A little secret path, one of many, saved\nme the long windings of the road. It followed down the central hollow\nof the great cleft and accompanied the stream. All the way for miles\nthe water tumbled in fall after fall over a hundred steps of rock, and\nits noise mixed with the freshness of the air, and its splashing\nweighted the overhanging branches of the trees. A little rain that\nfell from time to time through the clear morning seemed like a sister\nto the spray of the waterfalls; and what with all this moisture and\ngreenery, and the surrounding silence, all the valley was inspired\nwith content. It was a repose to descend through its leaves and\ngrasses, and find the lovely pastures at the foot of the descent, a\nnarrow floor between the hills. Here there were the first houses of\nmen; and, from one, smoke was already going up thinly into the\nmorning. The air was very pure and cold; it was made more nourishing\nand human by the presence and noise of the waters, by the shining wet\ngrasses and the beaded leaves all through that umbrageous valley. The\nshreds of clouds which, high above the calm, ran swiftly in the upper\nair, fed it also with soft rains from time to time as fine as dew; and\nthrough those clear and momentary showers one could see the sunlight.\n\nWhen I had enjoyed the descent through this place for but a few miles,\neverything changed. The road in front ran straight and bordered--it\nled out and onwards over a great flat, set here and there with\nhillocks. The Vosges ended abruptly. Houses came more thickly, and by\nthe ceaseless culture of the fields, by the flat slate roofs, the\nwhite-washed walls, and the voices, and the glare, I knew myself to be\nonce more in France of the plains; and the first town I came to was\nGiromagny.\n\nHere, as I heard a bell, I thought I would go up and hear Mass; and I\ndid so, but my attention at the holy office was distracted by the\nenormous number of priests that I found in the church, and I have\nwondered painfully ever since how so many came to be in a little place\nlike Giromagny. There were three priests at the high altar, and nearly\none for each chapel, and there was such a buzz of Masses going on,\nbeginning and ending, that I am sure I need not have gone without my\nbreakfast in my hurry to get one. With all this there were few people\nat Mass so early; nothing but these priests going in and out, and\ncontinual little bells. I am still wondering.  Giromagny is no place\nfor relics or for a pilgrimage, it cures no one, and has nothing of a\nholy look about it, and all these priests--\n\nLECTOR. Pray dwell less on your religion, and--\n\nAUCTOR. Pray take books as you find them, and treat travel as travel.\nFor you, when you go to a foreign country, see nothing but what you\nexpect to see. But I am astonished at a thousand accidents, and always\nfind things twenty-fold as great as I supposed they would be, and far\nmore curious; the whole covered by a strange light of adventure. And\nthat is the peculiar value of this book. Now, if you can explain these\npriests---\n\nLECTOR. I can. It was the season of the year, and they were swarming.\n\nAUCTOR. So be it. Then if you will hear nothing of what interests me,\nI see no reason for setting down with minute care what interests you,\nand I may leave out all mention of the Girl who could only speak\nGerman, of the Arrest of the Criminal, and even of the House of\nMarshal Turenne--- this last something quite exceptionally\nentertaining. But do not let us continue thus, nor push things to an\nopen quarrel. You must imagine for yourself about six miles of road,\nand then--then in the increasing heat, the dust rising in spite of the\nmorning rain, and the road most wearisome, I heard again the sound of\nbugles and the sombre excitement of the drums.\n\nIt is a thought-provoking thing, this passing from one great garrison\nto another all the way down the frontier. I had started from the busy\norder of Toul; I had passed through the silence and peace of all that\nMoselle country, the valley like a long garden, and I had come to the\nguns and the tramp of Epinal. I had left Epinal and counted the miles\nand miles of silence in the forests, I had crossed the great hills and\ncome down into quite another plain draining to another sea, and I\nheard again all the clamour that goes with soldiery, and looking\nbackward then over my four days, one felt--one almost saw--the new\nsystem of fortification, the vast entrenched camps each holding an\narmy, the ungarnished gaps between.\n\nAs I came nearer to Belfort, I saw the guns going at a trot down a\nside road, and, a little later, I saw marching on my right, a long way\noff, the irregular column, the dust and the invincible gaiety of the\nFrench line.  The sun here and there glinted on the ends of\nrifle-barrels and the polished pouches. Their heavy pack made their\ntramp loud and thudding. They were singing a song.\n\nI had already passed the outer forts; I had noted a work close to the\nroad; I had gone on a mile or so and had entered the long and ugly\nsuburb where the tramway lines began, when, on one of the ramshackle\nhouses of that burning, paved, and noisy endless street, I saw written\nup the words,\n\nWine; shut or open.\n\nAs it is a great rule to examine every new thing, and to suck honey\nout of every flower, I did not--as some would--think the phrase odd\nand pass on. I stood stock-still gazing at the house and imagining a\nhundred explanations.  I had never in my life heard wine divided into\nshut and open wine. I determined to acquire yet one more great\nexperience, and going in I found a great number of tin cans, such as\nthe French carry up water in, without covers, tapering to the top, and\nstanding about three feet high; on these were pasted large printed\nlabels, '30', '40', and '50', and they were brimming with wine. I\nspoke to the woman, and pointing at the tin cans, said--\n\n'Is this what you call open wine?'\n\n'Why, yes,' said she. 'Cannot you see for yourself that it is open?'\n\nThat was true enough, and it explained a great deal. But it did not\nexplain how--seeing that if you leave a bottle of wine uncorked for\nten minutes you spoil it--you can keep gallons of it in a great wide\ncan, for all the world like so much milk, milked from the Panthers of\nthe God. I determined to test the prodigy yet further, and choosing\nthe middle price, at fourpence a quart, I said--\n\n'Pray give me a hap'orth in a mug.'\n\nThis the woman at once did, and when I came to drink it, it was\ndelicious.  Sweet, cool, strong, lifting the heart, satisfying, and\nfull of all those things wine-merchants talk of, bouquet, and body,\nand flavour. It was what I have heard called a very pretty wine.\n\nI did not wait, however, to discuss the marvel, but accepted it as one\nof those mysteries of which this pilgrimage was already giving me\nexamples, and of which more were to come--(wait till you hear about\nthe brigand of Radicofani). I said to myself--\n\n'When I get out of the Terre Majeure, and away from the strong and\nexcellent government of the Republic, when I am lost in the Jura Hills\nto-morrow there will be no such wine as this.'\n\nSo I bought a quart of it, corked it up very tight, put it in my sack,\nand held it in store against the wineless places on the flanks of the\nhill called Terrible, where there are no soldiers, and where Swiss is\nthe current language. Then I went on into the centre of the town.\n\nAs I passed over the old bridge into the market-place, where I\nproposed to lunch (the sun was terrible--it was close upon eleven), I\nsaw them building parallel with that old bridge a new one to replace\nit. And the way they build a bridge in Belfort is so wonderfully\nsimple, and yet so new, that it is well worth telling.\n\nIn most places when a bridge has to be made, there is an infinite\npother and worry about building the piers, coffer-dams, and heaven\nknows what else. Some swing their bridges to avoid this trouble, and\nsome try to throw an arch of one span from side to side. There are a\nthousand different tricks. In Belfort they simply wait until the water\nhas run away. Then a great brigade of workmen run down into the dry\nbed of the river and dig the foundations feverishly, and begin\nbuilding the piers in great haste. Soon the water comes back, but the\npiers are already above it, and the rest of the work is done from\nboats. This is absolutely true. Not only did I see the men in the bed\nof the river, but a man whom I asked told me that it seemed to him the\nmost natural way to build bridges, and doubted if they were ever made\nin any other fashion.\n\nThere is also in Belfort a great lion carved in rock to commemorate\nthe siege of 1870. This lion is part of the precipice under the\ncastle, and is of enormous size--- how large I do not know, but I saw\nthat a man looked quite small by one of his paws. The precipice was\nfirst smoothed like a stone slab or tablet, and then this lion was\ncarved into and out of it in high relief by Bartholdi, the same man\nthat made the statue of Liberty in New York Harbour.\n\nThe siege of 1870 has been fixed for history in yet another way, and\none that shows you how the Church works on from one stem continually.\nFor there is a little church somewhere near or in Belfort (I do not\nknow where, I only heard of it) which, a local mason and painter being\ntold to decorate for so much, he amused himself by painting all round\nit little pictures of the siege--of the cold, and the wounds, and the\nheroism. This is indeed the way such things should be done, I mean by\nmen doing them for pleasure and of their own thought. And I have a\nnumber of friends who agree with me in thinking this, that art should\nnot be competitive or industrial, but most of them go on to the very\nstrange conclusion that one should not own one's garden, nor one's\nbeehive, nor one's great noble house, nor one's pigsty, nor one's\nrailway shares, nor the very boots on one's feet. I say, out upon such\nnonsense. Then they say to me, what about the concentration of the\nmeans of production? And I say to them, what about the distribution of\nthe ownership of the concentrated means of production? And they shake\ntheir heads sadly, and say it would never endure; and I say, try it\nfirst and see. Then they fly into a rage.\n\nWhen I lunched in Belfort (and at lunch, by the way, a poor man asked\nme to use _all my influence_ for his son, who was an engineer in the\nnavy, and this he did because I had been boasting of my travels,\nexperiences, and grand acquaintances throughout the world)--when, I\nsay, I had lunched in a workman's cafe at Belfort, I set out again on\nmy road, and was very much put out to find that showers still kept on\nfalling.\n\nIn the early morning, under such delightful trees, up in the\nmountains, the branches had given me a roof, the wild surroundings\nmade me part of the out-of-doors, and the rain had seemed to marry\nitself to the pastures and the foaming beck. But here, on a road and\nin a town, all its tradition of discomfort came upon me. I was angry,\ntherefore, with the weather and the road for some miles, till two\nthings came to comfort me. First it cleared, and a glorious sun showed\nme from a little eminence the plain of Alsace and the mountains of the\nVosges all in line; secondly, I came to a vast powder-magazine.\n\nTo most people there is nothing more subtle or pleasing in a\npowder-magazine than in a reservoir. They are both much the same in\nthe mere exterior, for each is a flat platform, sloping at the sides\nand covered with grass, and each has mysterious doors. But, for my\npart, I never see a powder-magazine without being filled at once with\ntwo very good feelings--- laughter and companionship. For it was my\ngood fortune, years and years ago, to be companion and friend to two\nmen who were on sentry at a powder-magazine just after there had been\nsome anarchist attempts (as they call them) upon such depots--and for\nthe matter of that I can imagine nothing more luscious to the\nanarchist than seven hundred and forty-two cases of powder and fifty\ncases of melinite all stored in one place. And to prevent the enormous\nnoise, confusion, and waste that would have resulted from the\nover-attraction of this base of operations to the anarchists, my two\nfriends, one of whom was a duty-doing Burgundian, but the other a\nloose Parisian man, were on sentry that night. They had strict orders\nto challenge once and then to fire.\n\nNow, can you imagine anything more exquisite to a poor devil of a\nconscript, fagged out with garrison duty and stale sham-fighting, than\nan order of that kind? So my friends took it, and in one summer night\nthey killed a donkey and wounded two mares, and broke the thin stem of\na growing tree.\n\nThis powder-magazine was no exception to my rule, for as I approached\nit I saw a round-faced corporal and two round-faced men looking\neagerly to see who might be attacking their treasure, and I became\nquite genial in my mind when I thought of how proud these boys felt,\nand of how I was of the 'class of ninety, rifled and mounted on its\ncarriage' (if you don't see the point of the allusion, I can't stop to\nexplain it. It was a good gun in its time--now they have the\nseventy-five that doesn't recoil--_requiescat), _and of how they were\nlonging for the night, and a chance to shoot anything on the sky line.\n\nFull of these foolish thoughts, but smiling in spite of their folly, I\nwent down the road.\n\nShall I detail all that afternoon? My leg horrified me with dull pain,\nand made me fear I should never hold out, I do not say to Rome, but\neven to the frontier. I rubbed it from time to time with balm, but, as\nalways happens to miraculous things, the virtue had gone out of it\nwith the lapse of time.  At last I found a side road going off from\nthe main way, and my map told me it was on the whole a short cut to\nthe frontier. I determined to take it for those few last miles,\nbecause, if one is suffering, a winding lane is more tolerable than a\nwide turnpike.\n\nJust as I came to the branching of the roads I saw a cross put up, and\nat its base the motto that is universal to French crosses--\n\n_Ave Crux Spes Unica._\n\nI thought it a good opportunity for recollection, and sitting down, I\nlooked backward along the road I had come.\n\nThere were the high mountains of the Vosges standing up above the\nplain of Alsace like sloping cliffs above a sea. I drew them as they\nstood, and wondered if that frontier were really permanent. The mind\nof man is greater than such accidents, and can easily overleap even\nthe high hills.\n\nThen having drawn them, and in that drawing said a kind of farewell to\nthe influences that had followed me for so many miles--the solemn\nquiet, the steady industry, the self-control, the deep woods, of\nLorraine--1 rose up stiffly from the bank that had been my desk, and\npushed along the lane that ran devious past neglected villages.\n\nThe afternoon and the evening followed as I put one mile after another\nbehind me. The frontier seemed so close that I would not rest. I left\nmy open wine, the wine I had found outside Belfort, untasted, and I\nplodded on and on as the light dwindled. I was in a grand wonderment\nfor Switzerland, and I wished by an immediate effort to conquer the\nlast miles before night, in spite of my pain. Also, I will confess to\na silly pride in distances, and a desire to be out of France on my\nfourth day.\n\nThe light still fell, and my resolution stood, though my exhaustion\nundermined it. The line of the mountains rose higher against the sky,\nand there entered into my pilgrimage for the first time the loneliness\nand the mystery of meres. Something of what a man feels in East\nEngland belonged to this last of the plain under the guardian hills.\nEverywhere I passed ponds and reeds, and saw the level streaks of\nsunset reflected in stagnant waters.\n\nThe marshy valley kept its character when I had left the lane and\nregained the highroad. Its isolation dominated the last effort with\nwhich I made for the line of the Jura in that summer twilight, and as\nI blundered on my whole spirit was caught or lifted in the influence\nof the waste waters and of the birds of evening.\n\nI wished, as I had often wished in such opportunities of recollection\nand of silence, for a complete barrier that might isolate the mind.\nWith that wish came in a puzzling thought, very proper to a\npilgrimage, which was: 'What do men mean by the desire to be dissolved\nand to enjoy the spirit free and without attachments?' That many men\nhave so desired there can be no doubt, and the best men, whose\nholiness one recognizes at once, tell us that the joys of the soul are\nincomparably higher than those of the living man. In India, moreover,\nthere are great numbers of men who do the most fantastic things with\nthe object of thus unprisoning the soul, and Milton talks of the same\nthing with evident conviction, and the Saints all praise it in chorus.\nBut what is it? For my part I cannot understand so much as the meaning\nof the words, for every pleasure I know comes from an intimate union\nbetween my body and my very human mind, which last receives, confirms,\nrevives, and can summon up again what my body has experienced. Of\npleasures, however, in which my senses have had no part I know\nnothing, so I have determined to take them upon trust and see whether\nthey could make the matter clearer in Rome.\n\nBut when it comes to the immortal mind, the good spirit in me that is\nso cunning at forms and colours and the reasons of things, that is a\nvery different story. _That_, I do indeed desire to have to myself at\nwhiles, and the waning light of a day or the curtains of autumn\nclosing in the year are often to me like a door shutting after one, as\none comes in home. For I find that with less and less impression from\nwithout the mind seems to take on a power of creation, and by some\nmystery it can project songs and landscapes and faces much more\ndesirable than the music or the shapes one really hears and sees. So\nalso memory can create. But it is not the soul that does this, for the\nsongs, the landscapes, and the faces are of a kind that have come in\nby the senses, nor have I ever understood what could be higher than\nthese pleasures, nor indeed how in anything formless and immaterial\nthere could be pleasure at all. Yet the wisest people assure us that\nour souls are as superior to our minds as are our minds to our inert\nand merely material bodies. I cannot understand it at all.\n\nAs I was pondering on these things in this land of pastures and lonely\nponds, with the wall of the Jura black against the narrow bars of\nevening--(my pain seemed gone for a moment, yet I was hobbling\nslowly)--I say as I was considering this complex doctrine, I felt my\nsack suddenly much lighter, and I had hardly time to rejoice at the\nmiracle when I heard immediately a very loud crash, and turning half\nround I saw on the blurred white of the twilit road my quart of Open\nWine all broken to atoms. My disappointment was so great that I sat\ndown on a milestone to consider the accident and to see if a little\nthought would not lighten my acute annoyance. Consider that I had\ncarefully cherished this bottle and had not drunk throughout a painful\nmarch all that afternoon, thinking that there would be no wine worth\ndrinking after I had passed the frontier.\n\nI consoled myself more or less by thinking about torments and evils to\nwhich even such a loss as this was nothing, and then I rose to go on\ninto the night. As it turned out I was to find beyond the frontier a\nwine in whose presence this wasted wine would have seemed a wretched\njest, and whose wonderful taste was to colour all my memories of the\nMount Terrible.  It is always thus with sorrows if one will only wait.\n\nSo, lighter in the sack but heavier in the heart, I went forward to\ncross the frontier in the dark. I did not quite know where the point\ncame: I only knew that it was about a mile from Delle, the last French\ntown. I supped there and held on my way. When I guessed that I had\ncovered this mile I saw a light in the windows on my left, a trellis\nand the marble tables of a cafe. I put my head in at the door and\nsaid--\n\n'Am I in Switzerland?'\n\nA German-looking girl, a large heavy man, a Bavarian commercial\ntraveller, and a colleague of his from Marseilles, all said together\nin varying accents: 'Yes.'\n\n'Why then,' I said, 'I will come in and drink.'\n\nThis book would never end if I were to attempt to write down so much\nas the names of a quarter of the extraordinary things that I saw and\nheard on my enchanted pilgrimage, but let me at least mention the\nCommercial Traveller from Marseilles.\n\nHe talked with extreme rapidity for two hours. He had seen all the\ncities in the world and he remembered their minutest details. He was\nextremely accurate, his taste was abominable, his patriotism large,\nhis wit crude but continual, and to his German friend, to the host of\nthe inn, and to the blonde serving-girl, he was a familiar god. He\ncame, it seems, once a year, and for a day would pour out the torrent\nof his travels like a waterfall of guide-books (for he gloried in\ndates, dimensions, and the points of the compass in his descriptions);\nthen he disappeared for another year, and left them to feast on the\nmemory of such a revelation.\n\nFor my part I sat silent, crippled with fatigue, trying to forget my\nwounded feet, drinking stoup after stoup of beer and watching the\nPhocean.  He was of the old race you see on vases in red and black;\nslight, very wiry, with a sharp, eager, but well-set face, a small,\nblack, pointed beard, brilliant eyes like those of lizards, rapid\ngestures, and a vivacity that played all over his features as sheet\nlightning does over the glow of midnight in June.\n\nThat delta of the Rhone is something quite separate from the rest of\nFrance. It is a wedge of Greece and of the East thrust into the Gauls.\nIt came north a hundred years ago and killed the monarchy. It caught\nthe value in, and created, the great war song of the Republic.\n\nI watched the Phocean. I thought of a man of his ancestry three\nthousand years ago sitting here at the gates of these mountains\ntalking of his travels to dull, patient, and admiring northerners, and\ntravelling for gain up on into the Germanics, and I felt the\nchangeless form of Europe under me like a rock.\n\nWhen he heard I was walking to Rome, this man of information turned\noff his flood into another channel, as a miller will send the racing\nwater into a side sluice, and he poured out some such torrent as this:\n\n'Do not omit to notice the famous view S.E. from the Villa So and So\non Monte Mario; visit such and such a garden, and hear Mass in such\nand such a church. Note the curious illusion produced on the piazza of\nSt Peter's by the interior measurements of the trapezium, which are so\nmany years and so many yards,...' &c., and so forth... exactly like\na mill.\n\nI meanwhile sat on still silent, still drinking beer and watching the\nPhocean; gradually suffering the fascination that had captured the\nvillagers and the German friend. He was a very wonderful man.\n\nHe was also kindly, for I found afterwards that he had arranged with\nthe host to give me up his bed, seeing my weariness. For this, most\nunluckily, I was never able to thank him, since the next morning I was\noff before he or any one else was awake, and I left on the table such\nmoney as I thought would very likely satisfy the innkeeper.\n\nIt was broad day, but not yet sunrise (there were watery thin clouds\nleft here and there from the day before, a cold wind drove them) when,\nwith extreme pain, going slowly one step after the other and resting\ncontinually, I started for Porrentruy along a winding road, and\npierced the gap in the Jura. The first turn cut me off from France,\nand I was fairly in a strange country.\n\nThe valley through which I was now passing resembled that of the\nlovely river Jed where it runs down from the Cheviots, and leads like\na road into the secret pastures of the lowlands. Here also, as there,\nsteep cliffs of limestone bounded a very level dale, all green grass\nand plenty; the plateau above them was covered also with perpetual\nwoods, only here, different from Scotland, the woods ran on and\nupwards till they became the slopes of high mountains; indeed, this\nwinding cleft was a natural passage through the first ridge of the\nJura; the second stood up southward before me like a deep blue storm.\n\nI had, as I passed on along this turning way, all the pleasures of\nnovelty; it was quite another country from the governed and ordered\nFrance which I had left. The road was more haphazard, less carefully\ntended, and evidently less used. The milestones were very old, and\nmarked leagues instead of kilometres. There was age in everything.\nMoss grew along the walls, and it was very quiet under the high trees.\nI did not know the name of the little river that went slowly through\nthe meadows, nor whether it followed the custom of its French\nneighbours on the watershed, and was called by some such epithet as\nhangs to all the waters in that gap of Belfort, that plain of ponds\nand marshes: for they are called 'the Sluggish', 'the Muddy', or 'the\nLaggard'. Even the name of the Saone, far off, meant once 'Slow\nWater'.\n\nI was wondering what its name might be, and how far I stood from\nPorrentruy (which I knew to be close by), when I saw a tunnel across\nthe valley, and I guessed by the trend of the higher hills that the\nriver was about to make a very sharp angle. Both these signs, I had\nbeen told, meant that I was quite close to the town; so I took a short\ncut up through the forest over a spur of hill--a short cut most\nlegitimate, because it was trodden and very manifestly used--and I\nwalked up and then on a level for a mile, along a lane of the woods\nand beneath small, dripping trees. When this short silence of the\nforest was over, I saw an excellent sight.\n\nThere, below me, where the lane began to fall, was the first of the\nGerman cities.\n\nLECTOR. How 'German'?\n\nAUCTOR. Let me explain. There is a race that stretches vaguely,\nwithout defined boundaries, from the Baltic into the high hills of the\nsouth. I will not include the Scandinavians among them, for the\nScandinavians (from whom we English also in part descend) are\nlong-headed, lean, and fierce, with a light of adventure in their pale\neyes. But beneath them, I say, there stretches from the Baltic to the\nhigh hills a race which has a curious unity. Yes; I know that great\npatches of it are Catholic, and that other great patches hold varying\nphilosophies; I know also that within them are counted long-headed and\nround-headed men, dark and fair, violent and silent; I know also that\nthey have continually fought among themselves and called in Welch\nallies; still I go somewhat by the language, for I am concerned here\nwith the development of a modern European people, and I say that the\nGermans run from the high hills to the northern sea. In all of them\nyou find (it is not race, it is something much more than race, it is\nthe type of culture) a dreaminess and a love of ease. In all of them\nyou find music. They are those Germans whose countries I had seen a\nlong way off, from the Ballon d'Alsace, and whose language and\ntraditions I now first touched in the town that stood before me.\n\nLECTOR. But in Porrentruy they talk French!\n\nAUCTOR. They are welcome; it is an excellent tongue. Nevertheless,\nthey are Germans. Who but Germans would so preserve--would so rebuild\nthe past? Who but Germans would so feel the mystery of the hills, and\nso fit their town to the mountains? I was to pass through but a narrow\nwedge of this strange and diffuse people. They began at Porrentruy,\nthey ended at the watershed of the Adriatic, in the high passes of the\nAlps; but in that little space of four days I made acquaintance with\ntheir influence, and I owe them a perpetual gratitude for their\narchitecture and their tales. I had come from France, which is full of\nan active memory of Rome. I was to debouch into those larger plains of\nItaly, which keep about them an atmosphere of Rome in decay. Here in\nSwitzerland, for four marches, I touched a northern, exterior, and\nbarbaric people; for though these mountains spoke a distorted Latin\ntongue, and only after the first day began to give me a Teutonic\ndialect, yet it was evident from the first that they had about them\nneither the Latin order nor the Latin power to create, but were\ncontemplative and easily absorbed by a little effort.\n\nThe German spirit is a marvel. There lay Porrentruy. An odd door with\nGothic turrets marked the entry to the town. To the right of this\ngateway a tower, more enormous than anything I remembered to have\nseen, even in dreams, flanked the approach to the city. How vast it\nwas, how protected, how high, how eaved, how enduring! I was told\nlater that some part of that great bastion was Roman, and I can\nbelieve it. The Germans hate to destroy.  It overwhelmed me as visions\noverwhelm, and I felt in its presence as boys feel when they first see\nthe mountains. Had I not been a Christian, I would have worshipped and\npropitiated this obsession, this everlasting thing.\n\nAs it was I entered Porrentruy soberly. I passed under its deep\ngateway and up its steep hill. The moment I was well into the main\nstreet, something other of the Middle Ages possessed me, and I began\nto think of food and wine. I went to the very first small guest-house\nI could find, and asked them if they could serve me food. They said\nthat at such an early hour (it was not yet ten) they could give me\nnothing but bread, yesterday's meat, and wine. I said that would do\nvery well, and all these things were set before me, and by a custom of\nthe country I paid before I ate. (A bad custom. Up in the Limousin,\nwhen I was a boy, in the noisy valley of the Torrent, on the Vienne, I\nremember a woman that did not allow me to pay till she had held the\nbottle up to the light, measured the veal with her finger, and\nestimated the bread with her eye; also she charged me double.  God\nrest her soul!) I say I paid. And had I had to pay twenty or\ntwenty-three times as much it would have been worth it for the wine.\n\nI am hurrying on to Rome, and I have no time to write a georgic. But,\noh!  my little friends of the north; my struggling, strenuous,\nintrospective, self-analysing, autoscopic, and generally reentrant\nfriends, who spout the 'Hue! Pater, oh! Lenae!' without a ghost of an\nidea what you are talking about, do you know what is meant by the god?\nBacchus is everywhere, but if he has special sites to be ringed in and\nkept sacred, I say let these be Brule, and the silent vineyard that\nlies under the square wood by Tournus, the hollow underplace of Heltz\nle Maurupt, and this town of Porrentruy. In these places if I can get\nno living friends to help me, I will strike the foot alone on the\ngenial ground, and I know of fifty maenads and two hundred little\nattendant gods by name that will come to the festival.\n\nWhat a wine!\n\nI was assured it would not travel. 'Nevertheless,' said I, 'give me a\ngood quart bottle of it, for I have to go far, and I see there is a\nprovidence for pilgrims.'\n\nSo they charged me fourpence, and I took my bottle of this wonderful\nstuff, sweet, strong, sufficient, part of the earth, desirable, and\nwent up on my way to Rome.\n\nCould this book be infinite, as my voyage was infinite, I would tell\nyou about the shifty priest whom I met on the platform of the church\nwhere a cliff overhangs the valley, and of the anarchist whom I met\nwhen I recovered the highroad--- he was a sad, good man, who had\ncommitted some sudden crime and so had left France, and his hankering\nfor France all those years had soured his temper, and he said he\nwished there were no property, no armies, and no governments.\n\nBut I said that we live as parts of a nation, and that there was no\nfate so wretched as to be without a country of one's own--what else\nwas exile which so many noble men have thought worse than death, and\nwhich all have feared?  I also told him that armies fighting in a just\ncause were the happiest places for living, and that a good battle for\njustice was the beginning of all great songs; and that as for\nproperty, a man on his own land was the nearest to God.\n\nHe therefore not convinced, and I loving and pitying him, we\nseparated; I had not time to preach my full doctrine, but gave him\ninstead a deep and misty glass of cool beer, and pledged him\nbrotherhood, freedom, and an equal law. Then I went on my way, praying\nGod that all these rending quarrels might be appeased. For they would\ncertainly be appeased if we once again had a united doctrine in\nEurope, since economics are but an expression of the mind and do not\n(as the poor blind slaves of the great cities think) mould the mind.\nWhat is more, nothing makes property run into a few hands but the\nworst of the capital sins, and you who say it is 'the modern\nfacilities of distribution' are like men who cannot read large print\nwithout spectacles; or again, you are like men who should say that\ntheir drunkenness was due to their drink, or that arson was caused by\nmatches.\n\nBut, frankly, do you suppose I came all this way over so many hills to\ntalk economics? Very far from it! I will pray for all poor men when I\nget to St Peter's in Rome (I should like to know what capital St Peter\nhad in that highly capitalistic first century), and, meanwhile, do you\ndiscuss the margin of production while I go on the open way; there are\nno landlords here, and if you would learn at least one foreign\nlanguage, and travel but five miles off a railway, you town-talkers,\nyou would find how much landlordism has to do with your 'necessities'\nand your 'laws'.\n\nLECTOR. I thought you said you were not going to talk economics?\n\nAUCTOR. Neither am I. It is but the backwash of a wave... Well, then,\nI went up the open way, and came in a few miles of that hot afternoon\nto the second ridge of the Jura, which they call 'the Terrible Hill',\nor 'the Mount Terrible'--and, in truth, it is very jagged. A steep,\nlong crest of very many miles lies here between the vale of Porrentruy\nand the deep gorge of the Doubs. The highroad goes off a long way\nwestward, seeking for a pass or neck in the chain, but I determined to\nfind a straight road across, and spoke to some wood-cutters who were\nfelling trees just where the road began to climb. They gave me this\ncurious indication. They said--\n\n'Go you up this muddy track that has been made athwart the woods and\nover the pastures by our sliding logs' (for they had cut their trunks\nhigher up the mountains), 'and you will come to the summit easily.\nFrom thence you will see the Doubs running below you in a very deep\nand dark ravine.'\n\nI thanked them, and soon found that they had told me right. There,\nunmistakable, a gash in the forest and across the intervening fields\nof grass, was the run of the timber.\n\nWhen I had climbed almost to the top, I looked behind me to take my\nlast view of the north. I saw just before me a high isolated rock;\nbetween me and it was the forest. I saw beyond it the infinite plain\nof Alsace and the distant Vosges. The cliff of limestone that bounded\nthat height fell sheer upon the tree-tops; its sublimity arrested me,\nand compelled me to record it.\n\n'Surely,' I said, 'if Switzerland has any gates on the north they are\nthese.' Then, having drawn the wonderful outline of what I had seen, I\nwent up, panting, to the summit, and, resting there, discovered\nbeneath me the curious swirl of the Doubs, where it ran in a dark gulf\nthousands of feet below. The shape of this extraordinary turn I will\ndescribe in a moment.  Let me say, meanwhile, that there was no\nprecipice or rock between me and the river, only a down, down, down\nthrough other trees and pastures, not too steep for a man to walk, but\nsteeper than our steep downs and fells in England, where a man\nhesitates and picks his way. It was so much of a descent, and so long,\nthat one looked above the tree-tops. It was a place where no one would\ncare to ride.\n\nI found a kind of path, sideways on the face of the mountain, and\nfollowed it till I came to a platform with a hut perched thereon, and\nmen building.  Here a good woman told me just how to go. I was not to\nattempt the road to Brune-Farine--that is, 'Whole-Meal Farm'--as I had\nfirst intended, foolishly trusting a map, but to take a gully she\nwould show me, and follow it till I reached the river. She came out,\nand led me steeply across a hanging pasture; all the while she had\nknitting in her hands, and I noticed that on the levels she went on\nwith her knitting. Then, when we got to the gully, she said I had but\nto follow it. I thanked her, and she climbed up to her home.\n\nThis gully was the precipitous bed of a stream; I clanked down\nit--thousands of feet--warily; I reached the valley, and at last, very\ngladly, came to a drain, and thus knew that I approached a town or\nvillage.  It was St Ursanne.\n\nThe very first thing I noticed in St Ursanne was the extraordinary\nshape of the lower windows of the church. They lighted a crypt and ran\nalong the ground, which in itself was sufficiently remarkable, but\nmuch more remarkable was their shape, which seemed to me to approach\nthat of a horseshoe; I never saw such a thing before. It looked as\nthough the weight of the church above had bulged these little windows\nout, and that is the way I explain it. Some people would say it was a\nman coming home from the Crusades that had made them this eastern way,\nothers that it was a symbol of something or other. But I say--\n\nLECTOR. What rhodomontade and pedantry is this talk about the shape of\na window?\n\nAUCTOR. Little friend, how little you know! To a building windows are\neverything; they are what eyes are to a man. Out of windows a building\ntakes its view; in windows the outlook of its human inhabitants is\nframed. If you were the lord of a very high tower overlooking a town,\na plain, a river, and a distant hill (I doubt if you will ever have\nsuch luck!), would you not call your architect up before you and say--\n\n'Sir, see that the windows of my house are _tall, narrow, thick_, and\nhave a _round top to them'?_\n\nOf course you would, for thus you would best catch in separate\npictures the sunlit things outside your home.\n\nNever ridicule windows. It is out of windows that many fall to their\ndeaths. By windows love often enters. Through a window went the bolt\nthat killed King Richard. King William's father spied Arlette from a\nwindow (I have looked through it myself, but not a soul did I see\nwashing below).  When a mob would rule England, it breaks windows, and\nwhen a patriot would save her, he taxes them. Out of windows we walk\non to lawns in summer and meet men and women, and in winter windows\nare drums for the splendid music of storms that makes us feel so\nmasterly round our fires. The windows of the great cathedrals are all\ntheir meaning. But for windows we should have to go out-of-doors to\nsee daylight. After the sun, which they serve, I know of nothing so\nbeneficent as windows. Fie upon the ungrateful man that has no\nwindow-god in his house, and thinks himself too great a philosopher to\nbow down to windows! May he live in a place without windows for a\nwhile to teach him the value of windows. As for me, I will keep up the\nhigh worship of windows till I come to the windowless grave. Talk to\nme of windows!\n\nYes. There are other things in St Ursanne. It is a little tiny town,\nand yet has gates. It is full of very old houses, people, and speech.\nIt was founded (or named) by a Bear Saint, and the statue of the saint\nwith his bear is carved on the top of a column in the market-place.\nBut the chief thing about it, so it seemed to me, was its remoteness.\n\nThe gorge of the Doubs, of which I said a word or two above, is of\nthat very rare shape which isolates whatever may be found in such\nvalleys. It turns right back upon itself, like a very narrow U, and\nthus cannot by any possibility lead any one anywhere; for though in\nall times travellers have had to follow river valleys, yet when they\ncome to such a long and sharp turn as this, they have always cut\nacross the intervening bend.\n\nHere is the shape of this valley with the high hills round it and in\nits core, which will show better than description what I mean. The\nlittle picture also shows what the gorge looked like as I came down on\nit from the heights above.\n\nIn the map the small white 'A' shows where the railway bridge was, and\nin this map, as in the others, the dark is for the depth and the light\nis for the heights. As for the picture, it is what one sees when one\nis coming over the ridge at the north or top of the map, and when one\nfirst catches the river beneath one.\n\nI thought a good deal about what the Romans did to get through the\nMont Terrible, and how they negotiated this crook in the Doubs (for\nthey certainly passed into Gaul through the gates of Porrentruy, and\nby that obvious valley below it). I decided that they probably came\nround eastward by Delemont. But for my part, I was on a straight path\nto Rome, and as that line lay just along the top of the river bend I\nwas bound to take it.\n\nNow outside St Ursanne, if one would go along the top of the river\nbend and so up to the other side of the gorge, is a kind of subsidiary\nravine--awful, deep, and narrow--and this was crossed, I could see, by\na very high railway bridge.\n\nNot suspecting any evil, and desiring to avoid the long descent into\nthe ravine, the looking for a bridge or ford, and the steep climb up\nthe other side, I made in my folly for the station which stood just\nwhere the railway left solid ground to go over this high, high bridge.\nI asked leave of the stationmaster to cross it, who said it was\nstrictly forbidden, but that he was not a policeman, and that I might\ndo it at my own risk. Thanking him, therefore, and considering how\ncharming was the loose habit of small uncentralized societies, I went\nmerrily on to the bridge, meaning to walk across it by stepping from\nsleeper to sleeper. But it was not to be so simple. The powers of the\nair, that hate to have their kingdom disturbed, watched me as I began.\n\nI had not been engaged upon it a dozen yards when I was seized with\nterror.\n\nI have much to say further on in this book concerning terror: the\npanic that haunts high places and the spell of many angry men. This\nhorrible affection of the mind is the delight of our modern\nscribblers; it is half the plot of their insane 'short stories', and\nis at the root of their worship of what they call 'strength', a\ncowardly craving for protection, or the much more despicable\nfascination of brutality. For my part I have always disregarded it as\nsomething impure and devilish, unworthy of a Christian. Fear I think,\nindeed, to be in the nature of things, and it is as much part of my\nexperience to be afraid of the sea or of an untried horse as it is to\neat and sleep; but terror, which is a sudden madness and paralysis of\nthe soul, that I say is from hell, and not to be played with or\nconsidered or put in pictures or described in stories. All this I say\nto preface what happened, and especially to point out how terror is in\nthe nature of a possession and is unreasonable.\n\nFor in the crossing of this bridge there was nothing in itself\nperilous.  The sleepers lay very close together--I doubt if a man\ncould have slipped between them; but, I know not how many hundred feet\nbelow, was the flashing of the torrent, and it turned my brain. For\nthe only parapet there was a light line or pipe, quite slender and low\ndown, running from one spare iron upright to another. These rather\nemphasized than encouraged my mood. And still as I resolutely put one\nfoot in front of the other, and resolutely kept my eyes off the abyss\nand fixed on the opposing hill, and as the long curve before me was\ndiminished by successive sharp advances, still my heart was caught\nhalf-way in every breath, and whatever it is that moves a man went\nuncertainly within me, mechanical and half-paralysed. The great height\nwith that narrow unprotected ribbon across it was more than I could\nbear.\n\nI dared not turn round and I dared not stop. Words and phrases began\nrepeating themselves in my head as they will under a strain: so I know\nat sea a man perilously hanging on to the tiller makes a kind of\nlitany of his instructions. The central part was passed, the\nthree-quarters; the tension of that enduring effort had grown\nintolerable, and I doubted my ability to complete the task. Why? What\ncould prevent me? I cannot say; it was all a bundle of imaginaries.\nPerhaps at bottom what I feared was sudden giddiness and the fall--\n\nAt any rate at this last supreme part I vowed one candle to Our Lady\nof Perpetual Succour if she would see that all went well, and this\ncandle I later paid in Rome; finding Our Lady of Succour not hung up\nin a public place and known to all, as I thought She would be, but\npeculiar to a little church belonging to a Scotchman and standing\nabove his high altar. Yet it is a very famous picture, and extremely\nold.\n\nWell, then, having made this vow I still went on, with panic aiding\nme, till I saw that the bank beneath had risen to within a few feet of\nthe bridge, and that dry land was not twenty yards away. Then my\nresolution left me and I ran, or rather stumbled, rapidly from sleeper\nto sleeper till I could take a deep breath on the solid earth beyond.\n\nI stood and gazed back over the abyss; I saw the little horrible strip\nbetween heaven and hell--the perspective of its rails. I was made ill\nby the relief from terror. Yet I suppose railway-men cross and recross\nit twenty times a day. Better for them than for me!\n\nThere is the story of the awful bridge of the Mont Terrible, and it\nlies to a yard upon the straight line--_quid dicam_--the segment of\nthe Great Circle uniting Toul and Rome.\n\nThe high bank or hillside before me was that which ends the gorge of\nthe Doubs and looks down either limb of the sharp bend. I had here not\nto climb but to follow at one height round the curve. My way ran by a\nrather ill-made lane and passed a village. Then it was my business to\nmake straight up the farther wall of the gorge, and as there was wood\nupon this, it looked an easy matter.\n\nBut when I came to it, it was not easy. The wood grew in loose rocks\nand the slope was much too steep for anything but hands and knees, and\nfar too soft and broken for true climbing. And no wonder this ridge\nseemed a wall for steepness and difficulty, since it was the watershed\nbetween the Mediterranean and the cold North Sea. But I did not know\nthis at the time.  It must have taken me close on an hour before I had\ncovered the last thousand feet or so that brought me to the top of the\nridge, and there, to my great astonishment, was a road. Where could\nsuch a road lead, and why did it follow right along the highest edge\nof the mountains? The Jura with their unique parallels provide twenty\nsuch problems.\n\nWherever it led, however, this road was plainly perpendicular to my\ntrue route, and I had but to press on my straight line. So I crossed\nit, saw for a last time through the trees the gorge of the Doubs, and\nthen got upon a path which led down through a field more or less in\nthe direction of my pilgrimage.\n\nHere the country was so broken that one could make out but little of\nits general features, but of course, on the whole, I was following\ndown yet another southern slope, the southern slope of the _third_\nchain of the Jura, when, after passing through many glades and along a\nstony path, I found a kind of gate between two high rocks, and emerged\nsomewhat suddenly upon a wide down studded with old trees and also\nmany stunted yews, and this sank down to a noble valley which lay all\nbefore me.\n\nThe open down or prairie on which I stood I afterwards found to be\ncalled the 'Pasturage of Common Right', a very fine name; and, as a\ngallery will command a great hall, so this field like a platform\ncommanded the wide and fading valley below.\n\nIt was a very glad surprise to see this sight suddenly unrolled as I\nstood on the crest of the down. The Jura had hitherto been either\nlonely, or somewhat awful, or naked and rocky, but here was a true\nvale in which one could imagine a spirit of its own; there were corn\nlands and no rocks. The mountains on either side did not rise so high\nas three thousand feet. Though of limestone they were rounded in form,\nand the slanting sun of the late afternoon (all the storm had left the\nsky) took them full and warm. The valley remaining wide and fruitful\nwent on out eastward till the hills became mixed up with brume and\ndistance. As I did not know its name I called it after the village\nimmediately below me for which I was making; and I still remember it\nas the Valley of Glovelier, and it lies between the third and fourth\nridges of the Jura.\n\nBefore leaving the field I drew what I saw but I was much too tired by\nthe double and prodigious climb of the past hours to draw definitely\nor clearly. Such as it is, there it is. Then I went down over the\nsmooth field.\n\nThere is something that distinguishes the rugged from the gracious in\nlandscape, and in our Europe this something corresponds to the use and\npresence of men, especially in mountainous places. For men's habits\nand civilization fill the valleys and wash up the base of the hills,\nmaking, as it were, a tide mark. Into this zone I had already passed.\nThe turf was trodden fine, and was set firm as it can only become by\nthousands of years of pasturing. The moisture that oozed out of the\nearth was not the random bog of the high places but a human spring,\ncaught in a stone trough.  Attention had been given to the trees.\nBelow me stood a wall, which, though rough, was not the haphazard\nthing men pile up in the last recesses of the hills, but formed of\nchosen stones, and these bound together with mortar.  On my right was\na deep little dale with children playing in it--and this' I afterwards\nlearned was called a 'combe': delightful memory! All our deeper\nhollows are called the same at home, and even the Welsh have the word,\nbut they spell it _cwm_; it is their mountain way. Well, as I was\nsaying, everything surrounding me was domestic and grateful, and I was\ntherefore in a mood for charity and companionship when I came down the\nlast dip and entered Glovelier. But Glovelier is a place of no\nexcellence whatever, and if the thought did not seem extravagant I\nshould be for putting it to the sword and burning it all down.\n\nFor just as I was going along full of kindly thoughts, and had turned\ninto the sign of (I think it was) the 'Sun' to drink wine and leave\nthem my benediction--\n\nLECTOR. Why your benediction?\n\nAUCTOR. Who else can give benedictions if people cannot when they are\non pilgrimage? Learn that there are three avenues by which blessing\ncan be bestowed, and three kinds of men who can bestow it.\n\n(1) There is the good man, whose goodness makes him of himself a giver\nof blessings. His power is not conferred or of office, but is\n_inhaerens persona_; part of the stuff of his mind. This kind can\nconfer the solemn benediction, or _Benedictio major_, if they choose;\nbut besides this their every kind thought, word, or action is a\n_Benedictio generalise_ and even their frowns, curses, angry looks and\nirritable gestures may be called _Benedictiones minores vel incerti_.\nI believe I am within the definitions.  I avoid heresy. All this is\nsound theology. I do not smell of the faggot.  And this kind of\nBenedictory Power is the fount or type or natural origin, as it were,\nof all others.\n\n(2) There is the Official of Religion who, in the exercise of his\noffice--\n\nLECTOR. For Heaven's sake--\n\nAUCTOR. Who began it? You protested my power to give benediction, and\nI must now prove it at length; otherwise I should fall under the\naccusation of lesser Simony--that is, the false assumption of\nparticular powers. Well, then, there is the Official who _ex officio_,\nand when he makes it quite clear that it is _qua sponsus_ and not\n_sicut ut ipse_, can give formal benediction. This power belongs\ncertainly to all Bishops, mitred Abbots, and Archimandrates; to\nPatriarchs of course, and _a fortiori_ to the Pope.  In Rome they will\nhave it that Monsignores also can so bless, and I have heard it\ndebated whether or no the same were not true in some rustic way of\nparish priests. However this may be, all their power proceeds, not\nfrom themselves, but from the accumulation of goodness left as a\ndeposit by the multitudes of exceptionally good men who have lived in\ntimes past, and who have now no use for it.\n\n(3) Thirdly--and this is my point--any one, good or bad, official or\nnon-official, who is for the moment engaged in an _opusfaustum_ can\nact certainly as a conductor or medium, and the influence of what he\nis touching or doing passes to you from him. This is admitted by every\none who worships trees, wells, and stones; and indeed it stands to\nreason, for it is but a branch of the well-known _'Sanctificatio ex\nloco, opere, tactu vel conditione.'_ I will admit that this power is\nbut vague, slight, tenuous, and dissipatory, still there it is: though\nof course its poor effect is to that of the _Benedictio major_ what a\ncat's-paw in the Solent is to a north-east snorter on Lindsey Deeps.\n\nI am sorry to have been at such length, but it is necessary to have\nthese things thrashed out once for all. So now you see how I, being on\npilgrimage, could give a kind of little creeping blessing to the\npeople on the way, though, as St Louis said to the Hascisch-eaters,\n_'May it be a long time before you can kiss my bones.'_\n\nSo I entered the 'Sun' inn and saw there a woman sewing, a great\ndull-faced man like an ox, and a youth writing down figures in a\nlittle book. I said--\n\n'Good morning, madam, and sirs, and the company. Could you give me a\nlittle red wine?' Not a head moved.\n\nTrue I was very dirty and tired, and they may have thought me a\nbeggar, to whom, like good sensible Christians who had no nonsense\nabout them, they would rather have given a handsome kick than a cup of\ncold water. However, I think it was not only my poverty but a native\nchurlishness which bound their bovine souls in that valley.\n\nI sat down at a very clean table. I notice that those whom the Devil\nhas made his own are always spick and span, just as firemen who have\nto go into great furnaces have to keep all their gear highly polished.\nI sat down at it, and said again, still gently--\n\n'It is, indeed, a fine country this of yours. Could you give me a\nlittle red wine?'\n\nThen the ox-faced man who had his back turned to me, and was the worst\nof the lot, said sulkily, not to me, but to the woman--\n\n'He wants wine.'\n\nThe woman as sulkily said to me, not looking me in the eyes--\n\n'How much will you pay?'\n\nI said, 'Bring the wine. Set it here. See me drink it. Charge me your\ndue.'\n\nI found that this brutal way of speaking was just what was needed for\nthe kine and cattle of this pen. She skipped off to a cupboard, and\nset wine before me, and a glass. I drank quite quietly till I had had\nenough, and asked what there was to pay. She said 'Threepence,' and I\nsaid 'Too much,' as I paid it. At this the ox-faced man grunted and\nfrowned, and I was afraid; but hiding my fear I walked out boldly and\nslowly, and made a noise with my stick upon the floor of the hall\nwithout. Neither did I bid them farewell. But I made a sign at the\nhouse as I left it. Whether it suffered from this as did the house at\nDorchester which the man in the boat caused to wither in one night, is\nmore than I can tell.\n\nThe road led straight across the valley and approached the further\nwall of hills. These I saw were pierced by one of the curious gaps\nwhich are peculiar to limestone ranges. Water cuts them, and a torrent\nran through this one also. The road through it, gap though it was,\nwent up steeply, and the further valley was evidently higher than the\none I was leaving. It was already evening as I entered this narrow\nravine; the sun only caught the tops of the rock-walls. My fatigue was\nvery great, and my walking painful to an extreme, when, having come to\na place where the gorge was narrowest and where the two sides were\nlike the posts of a giant's stile, where also the fifth ridge of the\nJura stood up beyond me in the further valley, a vast shadow, I sat\ndown wearily and drew what not even my exhaustion could render\nunremarkable.\n\nWhile I was occupied sketching the slabs of limestone, I heard wheels\ncoming up behind me, and a boy in a waggon stopped and hailed me.\n\nWhat the boy wanted to know was whether I would take a lift, and this\nhe said in such curious French that I shuddered to think how far I had\npierced into the heart of the hills, and how soon I might come to\nquite strange people. I was greatly tempted to get into his cart, but\nthough I had broken so many of my vows one remained yet whole and\nsound, which was that I would ride upon no wheeled thing. Remembering\nthis, therefore, and considering that the Faith is rich in\ninterpretation, I clung on to the waggon in such a manner that it did\nall my work for me, and yet could not be said to be actually carrying\nme. _Distinguo_. The essence of a vow is its literal meaning. The\nspirit and intention are for the major morality, and concern Natural\nReligion, but when upon a point of ritual or of dedication or special\nworship a man talks to you of the Spirit and Intention, and complains\nof the dryness of the Word, look at him askance. He is not far removed\nfrom Heresy.\n\nI knew a man once that was given to drinking, and I made up this rule\nfor him to distinguish between Bacchus and the Devil. To wit: that he\nshould never drink what has been made and sold since the\nReformation--I mean especially spirits and champagne. Let him (said I)\ndrink red wine and white, good beer and mead--if he could get\nit--liqueurs made by monks, and, in a word, all those feeding,\nfortifying, and confirming beverages that our fathers drank in old\ntime; but not whisky, nor brandy, nor sparkling wines, not absinthe,\nnor the kind of drink called gin. This he promised to do, and all went\nwell. He became a merry companion, and began to write odes. His prose\nclarified and set, that had before been very mixed and cloudy. He\nslept well; he comprehended divine things; he was already half a\nrepublican, when one fatal day--it was the feast of the eleven\nthousand virgins, and they were too busy up in heaven to consider the\nneeds of us poor hobbling, polyktonous and betempted wretches of\nmen--I went with him to the Society for the Prevention of Annoyances\nto the Rich, where a certain usurer's son was to read a paper on the\ncruelty of Spaniards to their mules. As we were all seated there round\na table with a staring green cloth on it, and a damnable gas pendant\nabove, the host of that evening offered him whisky and water, and, my\nback being turned, he took it. Then when I would have taken it from\nhim he used these words--\n\n'After all, it is the intention of a pledge that matters;' and I saw\nthat all was over, for he had abandoned definition, and was plunged\nback into the horrible mazes of Conscience and Natural Religion.\n\nWhat do you think, then, was the consequence? Why, he had to take some\nnasty pledge or other to drink nothing whatever, and become a\nspectacle and a judgement, whereas if he had kept his exact word he\nmight by this time have been a happy man.\n\nRemembering him and pondering upon the advantage of strict rule, I\nhung on to my cart, taking care to let my feet still feel the road,\nand so passed through the high limestone gates of the gorge, and was\nin the fourth valley of the Jura, with the fifth ridge standing up\nblack and huge before me against the last of the daylight. There were\nas yet no stars.\n\nThere, in this silent place, was the little village of Undervelier,\nand I thanked the boy, withdrew from his cart, and painfully\napproached the inn, where I asked the woman if she could give me\nsomething to eat, and she said that she could in about an hour, using,\nhowever, with regard to what it was I was to have, words which I did\nnot understand. For the French had become quite barbaric, and I was\nnow indeed lost in one of the inner places of the world.\n\nA cigar is, however, even in Undervelier, a cigar; and the best cost a\npenny. One of these, therefore, I bought, and then I went out smoking\nit into the village square, and, finding a low wall, leaned over it\nand contemplated the glorious clear green water tumbling and roaring\nalong beneath it on the other side; for a little river ran through the\nvillage.\n\nAs I leaned there resting and communing I noticed how their church,\nclose at hand, was built along the low banks of the torrent. I admired\nthe luxuriance of the grass these waters fed, and the generous arch of\nthe trees beside it. The graves seemed set in a natural place of rest\nand home, and just beyond this churchyard was that marriage of hewn\nstone and water which is the source of so peculiar a satisfaction; for\nthe church tower was built boldly right out into the stream and the\ncurrent went eddying round it. But why it is that strong human\nbuilding when it dips into water should thus affect the mind I cannot\nsay, only I know that it is an emotion apart to see our device and\nstructure where it is most enduring come up against and challenge that\nelement which we cannot conquer, and which has always in it something\nof danger for men. It is therefore well to put strong mouldings on to\npiers and quays, and to make an architecture of them, and so it was a\nsplendid thought of the Romans to build their villas right out to sea;\nso they say does Venice enthrall one, but where I have most noticed\nthis thing is at the Mont St Michel--only one must take care to shut\none's eyes or sleep during all the low tide.\n\nAs I was watching that stream against those old stones, my cigar being\nnow half smoked, a bell began tolling, and it seemed as if the whole\nvillage were pouring into the church. At this I was very much\nsurprised, not having been used at any time of my life to the\nunanimous devotion of an entire population, but having always thought\nof the Faith as something fighting odds, and having seen unanimity\nonly in places where some sham religion or other glozed over our\ntragedies and excused our sins. Certainly to see all the men, women,\nand children of a place taking Catholicism for granted was a new\nsight, and so I put my cigar carefully down under a stone on the top\nof the wall and went in with them. I then saw that what they were at\nwas vespers.\n\nAll the village sang, knowing the psalms very well, and I noticed that\ntheir Latin was nearer German than French; but what was most pleasing\nof all was to hear from all the men and women together that very noble\ngood-night and salutation to God which begins--\n\n_Te, lucis ante terminum._\n\nMy whole mind was taken up and transfigured by this collective act,\nand I saw for a moment the Catholic Church quite plain, and I\nremembered Europe, and the centuries. Then there left me altogether\nthat attitude of difficulty and combat which, for us others, is always\nassociated with the Faith. The cities dwindled in my imagination, and\nI took less heed of the modern noise. I went out with them into the\nclear evening and the cool. I found my cigar and lit it again, and\nmusing much more deeply than before, not without tears, I considered\nthe nature of Belief.\n\nOf its nature it breeds a reaction and an indifference. Those who\nbelieve nothing but only think and judge cannot understand this. Of\nits nature it struggles with us. And we, we, when our youth is full on\nus, invariably reject it and set out in the sunlight content with\nnatural things. Then for a long time we are like men who follow down\nthe cleft of a mountain and the peaks are hidden from us and\nforgotten. It takes years to reach the dry plain, and then we look\nback and see our home.\n\nWhat is it, do you think, that causes the return? I think it is the\nproblem of living; for every day, every experience of evil, demands a\nsolution.  That solution is provided by the memory of the great scheme\nwhich at last we remember. Our childhood pierces through again... But\nI will not attempt to explain it, for I have not the power; only I\nknow that we who return suffer hard things; for there grows a gulf\nbetween us and many companions.  We are perpetually thrust into\nminorities, and the world almost begins to talk a strange language; we\nare troubled by the human machinery of a perfect and superhuman\nrevelation; we are over-anxious for its safety, alarmed, and in danger\nof violent decisions.\n\nAnd this is hard: that the Faith begins to make one abandon the old\nway of judging. Averages and movements and the rest grow uncertain. We\nsee things from within and consider one mind or a little group as a\nsalt or leaven.  The very nature of social force seems changed to us.\nAnd this is hard when a man has loved common views and is happy only\nwith his fellows.\n\nAnd this again is very hard, that we must once more take up that awful\nstruggle to reconcile two truths and to keep civic freedom sacred in\nspite of the organization of religion, and not to deny what is\ncertainly true. It is hard to accept mysteries, and to be humble. We\nare tost as the great schoolmen were tost, and we dare not neglect the\nduty of that wrestling.\n\nBut the hardest thing of all is that it leads us away, as by a\ncommand, from all that banquet of the intellect than which there is no\nkeener joy known to man.\n\nI went slowly up the village place in the dusk, thinking of this\ndeplorable weakness in men that the Faith is too great for them, and\naccepting it as an inevitable burden. I continued to muse with my eyes\nupon the ground...\n\nThere was to be no more of that studious content, that security in\nhistoric analysis, and that constant satisfaction of an appetite which\nnever cloyed.  A wisdom more imperative and more profound was to put a\nterm to the comfortable wisdom of learning. All the balance of\njudgement, the easy, slow convictions, the broad grasp of things, the\nvision of their complexity, the pleasure in their innumerable\nlife--all that had to be given up. Fanaticisms were no longer entirely\nto be despised, just appreciations and a strong grasp of reality no\nlonger entirely to be admired.\n\nThe Catholic Church will have no philosophies. She will permit no\ncomforts; the cry of the martyrs is in her far voice; her eyes that\nsee beyond the world present us heaven and hell to the confusion of\nour human reconciliations, our happy blending of good and evil things.\n\nBy the Lord! I begin to think this intimate religion as tragic as a\ngreat love. There came back into my mind a relic that I have in my\nhouse. It is a panel of the old door of my college, having carved on\nit my college arms. I remembered the Lion and the Shield, _Haec fuit,\nHaec almae janua sacra domus._ Yes, certainly religion is as tragic as\nfirst love, and drags us out into the void away from our dear homes.\n\nIt is a good thing to have loved one woman from a child, and it is a\ngood thing not to have to return to the Faith.\n\nThey cook worse in Undervelier than any place I was ever in, with the\npossible exception of Omaha, Neb.\n\nLECTOR. Why do you use phrases like _'possible exception'?_\n\nAUCTOR. Why not? I see that all the religion I have stuck into the\nbook has no more effect on you than had Rousseau upon Sir Henry Maine.\nYou are as full of Pride as a minor Devil. You would avoid the\n_cliche_ and the commonplace, and the _phrase toute faite_. Why? Not\nbecause you naturally write odd prose--contrariwise, left to yourself\nyou write pure journalese; but simply because you are swelled and\npuffed up with a desire to pose. You want what the Martha Brown school\ncalls 'distinction' in prose. My little friend, I know how it is done,\nand I find it contemptible. People write their articles at full speed,\nputting down their unstudied and valueless conclusions in English as\npale as a film of dirty wax--sometimes even they dictate to a\ntypewriter. Then they sit over it with a blue pencil and carefully\ntranspose the split infinitives, and write alternative adjectives, and\ntake words away out of their natural place in the sentence and\ngenerally put the Queen's English--yes, the Queen's English--on the\nrack. And who is a penny the better for it? The silly authors get no\nreal praise, not even in the horrible stucco villas where their clique\nmeet on Sundays. The poor public buys the _Marvel_ and gasps at the\ncleverness of the writing and despairs, and has to read what it can\nunderstand, and is driven back to toshy novels about problems, written\nby cooks. 'The hungry sheep,' as some one says somewhere, 'look up and\nare not fed;' and the same poet well describes your pipings as being\non wretched straw pipes that are 'scrannel'--a good word.\n\nOh, for one man who should write healthy, hearty, straightforward\nEnglish!  Oh, for Cobbett! There are indeed some great men who write\ntwistedly simply because they cannot help it, but _their_ honesty is\nproved by the mass they turn out. What do you turn out, you higglers\nand sticklers? Perhaps a bad triolet every six months, and a book of\ncriticism on something thoroughly threadbare once in five years. If I\nhad my way--\n\nLECTOR. I am sorry to have provoked all this.\n\nAUCTOR. Not at all! Not at all! I trust I have made myself clear.\n\nWell, as I was saying, they cook worse at Undervelier than any place I\nwas ever in, with the possible exception of Omaha, Neb. However, I\nforgave them, because they were such good people, and after a short\nand bitter night I went out in the morning before the sun rose and\ntook the Moutier road.\n\nThe valley in which I was now engaged--the phrase seems familiar--was\nmore or less like an H. That is, there were two high parallel ranges\nbounding it, but across the middle a low ridge of perhaps a thousand\nfeet. The road slowly climbed this ridge through pastures where cows\nwith deep-toned bells were rising from the dew on the grass, and where\none or two little cottages and a village already sent up smoke. All\nthe way up I was thinking of the surfeit of religion I had had the\nnight before, and also of how I had started that morning without bread\nor coffee, which was a folly.\n\nWhen I got to the top of the ridge there was a young man chopping wood\noutside a house, and I asked him in French how far it was to Moutier.\nHe answered in German, and I startled him by a loud cry, such as\nsailors give when they see land, for at last I had struck the boundary\nof the languages, and was with pure foreigners for the first time in\nmy life. I also asked him for coffee, and as he refused it I took him\nto be a heretic and went down the road making up verses against all\nsuch, and singing them loudly through the forest that now arched over\nme and grew deeper as I descended.\n\nAnd my first verse was--\n\n  Heretics all, whoever you be,\n  In Tarbes or Nimes, or over the sea,\n  You never shall have good words from me.\n  _Caritas non conturbat me._\n\nIf you ask me why I put a Latin line at the end, it was because I had\nto show that it was a song connected with the Universal Fountain and\nwith European culture, and with all that Heresy combats. I sang it to\na lively hymn-tune that I had invented for the occasion.\n\nI then thought what a fine fellow I was, and how pleasant were my\nfriends when I agreed with them. I made up this second verse, which I\nsang even more loudly than the first; and the forest grew deeper,\nsending back echoes--\n\n  But Catholic men that live upon wine\n  Are deep in the water, and frank, and fine;\n  Wherever I travel I find it so,\n  _Benedicamus Domino._\n\nThere is no doubt, however, that if one is really doing a catholic\nwork, and expressing one's attitude to the world, charity, pity, and a\ngreat sense of fear should possess one, or, at least, appear. So I\nmade up this third verse and sang it to suit--\n\n  On childing women that are forlorn,\n  And men that sweat in nothing but scorn:\n  That is on all that ever were born,\n  _Miserere Domine._\n\nThen, as everything ends in death, and as that is just what Heretics\nleast like to be reminded of, I ended thus--\n\n  To my poor self on my deathbed,\n  And all my dear companions dead,\n  Because of the love that I bore them,\n  _Dona Eis Requiem._\n\nI say 'I ended.' But I did not really end there, for I also wrote in\nthe spirit of the rest a verse of Mea Culpa and Confession of Sin, but\nI shall not print it here.\n\nSo my song over and the woods now left behind, I passed up a dusty\npiece of road into Moutier, a detestable town, all whitewashed and\norderly, down under the hills.\n\nI was tired, for the sun was now long risen and somewhat warm, and I\nhad walked ten miles, and that over a high ridge; and I had written a\ncanticle and sung it--- and all that without a sup or a bite. I\ntherefore took bread, coffee, and soup in Moutier, and then going a\nlittle way out of the town I crossed a stream off the road, climbed a\nknoll, and, lying under a tree, I slept.\n\nI awoke and took the road.\n\nThe road after Moutier was not a thing for lyrics; it stirred me in no\nway.  It was bare in the sunlight, had fields on either side; and in\nthe fields stood houses. In the houses were articulately-speaking\nmortal men.\n\nThere is a school of Poets (I cannot read them myself) who treat of\ncommon things, and their admirers tell us that these men raise the\nthings of everyday life to the plane of the supernatural. Note that\nphrase, for it is a shaft of light through a cloud revealing their\ndisgusting minds.\n\nEveryday life! As _La Croix_ said in a famous leading article: _'La\nPresse?'_ POOH!' I know that everyday life. It goes with sandals and\npictures of lean ugly people all just like one another in browny\nphotographs on the wall, and these pictures are called, one 'The House\nof Life', or another, 'The Place Beautiful', or yet again a third,\n'The Lamp of the Valley', and when you complain and shift about\nuneasily before these pictures, the scrub-minded and dusty-souled\nowners of them tell you that of course in photographs you lose the\nmarvellous colour of the original. This everyday life has mantelpieces\nmade of the same stuff as cafe-tables, so that by instinct I try to\nmake rings on them with my wine-glass, and the people who suffer this\nlife get up every morning at eight, and the poor sad men of the house\nslave at wretched articles and come home to hear more literature and\nmore appreciations, and the unholy women do nothing and attend to\nlocal government, that is, the oppression of the poor; and altogether\nthis accursed everyday life of theirs is instinct with the four sins\ncrying to heaven for vengeance, and there is no humanity in it, and no\nsimplicity, and no recollection. I know whole quarters of the towns of\nthat life where they have never heard of Virtus or Verecundia or\nPietas.\n\nLECTOR. Then--\n\nAUCTOR. Alas! alas! Dear Lector, in these houses there is no honest\ndust.  Not a bottle of good wine or bad; no prints inherited from\none's uncle, and no children's books by Mrs Barbauld or Miss\nEdgeworth; no human disorder, nothing of that organic comfort which\nmakes a man's house like a bear's fur for him. They have no debts,\nthey do not read in bed, and they will have difficulty in saving their\nsouls.\n\nLECTOR. Then tell me, how would you treat of common things?\n\nAUCTOR. Why, I would leave them alone; but if I had to treat of them I\nwill show you how I would do it. Let us have a dialogue about this\nroad from Moutier.\n\nLECTOR. By all means.\n\nAUCTOR. What a terrible thing it is to miss one's sleep. I can hardly\nbear the heat of the road, and my mind is empty!\n\nLECTOR. Why, you have just slept in a wood!\n\nAUCTOR. Yes, but that is not enough. One must sleep at night.\n\nLECTOR. My brother often complains of insomnia. He is a policeman.\n\nAUCTOR. Indeed? It is a sad affliction.\n\nLECTOR. Yes, indeed.\n\nAUCTOR. Indeed, yes.\n\nLECTOR. I cannot go on like this.\n\nAUCTOR. There. That is just what I was saying. One cannot treat of\ncommon things: it is not literature; and for my part, if I were the\neditor even of a magazine, and the author stuck in a string of\ndialogue, I would not pay him by the page but by the word, and I would\ncount off 5 per cent for epigrams, 10 per cent for dialect, and some\nquarter or so for those stage directions in italics which they use to\npad out their work.\n\nSo. I will not repeat this experiment, but next time I come to a bit\nof road about which there is nothing to say, I will tell a story or\nsing a song, and to that I pledge myself.\n\nBy the way, I am reminded of something. Do you know those books and\nstories in which parts of the dialogues often have no words at all?\nOnly dots and dashes and asterisks and interrogations? I wonder what\nthe people are paid for it? If I knew I would earn a mint of money,\nfor I believe I have a talent for it. Look at this--\n\nThere. That seems to me worth a good deal more money than all the\nmodern 'delineation of character', and 'folk' nonsense ever written.\nWhat verve!  What terseness! And yet how clear!\n\nLECTOR. Let us be getting on.\n\nAUCTOR. By all means, and let us consider more enduring things.\n\nAfter a few miles the road going upwards, I passed through another gap\nin the hills and--\n\nLECTOR. Pardon me, but I am still ruminating upon that little tragedy\nof yours. Why was the guardian a duchess?\n\nAUCTOR. Well, it was a short play and modern, was it not?\n\nLECTOR. Yes. And therefore, of course, you must have a title in it. I\nknow that. I do not object to it. What I want to know is, why a\nduchess?\n\nAUCTOR. On account of the reduction of scale: the concentration of the\nthing. You see in the full play there would have been a lord, two\nbaronets, and say three ladies, and I could have put suitable words\ninto their mouths. As it was I had to make absolutely sure of the\nelement of nobility without any help, and, as it were, in one\nstartling moment. Do you follow?  Is it not art?\n\nI cannot conceive why a pilgrimage, an adventure so naturally full of\ngreat, wonderful, far-off and holy things should breed such fantastic\nnonsense as all this; but remember at least the little acolyte of\nRheims, whose father, in 1512, seeing him apt for religion, put him\ninto a cassock and designed him for the Church, whereupon the\nyoungling began to be as careless and devilish as Mercury, putting\nbeeswax on the misericords, burning feathers in the censer, and even\ngoing round himself with the plate without leave and scolding the rich\nin loud whispers when they did not put in enough. So one way with\nanother they sent him home to his father; the archbishop thrusting him\nout of the south porch with his own hands and giving him the Common or\nFerial Malediction, which is much the same as that used by carters to\nstray dogs.\n\nWhen his father saw him he fumed terribly, cursing like a pagan, and\nasking whether his son were a roysterer fit for the gallows as well as\na fool fit for a cassock. On hearing which complaint the son very\nhumbly and contritely said--\n\n'It is not my fault but the contact with the things of the Church that\nmakes me gambol and frisk, just as the Devil they say is a good enough\nfellow left to himself and is only moderately heated, yet when you put\nhim into holy water all the world is witness how he hisses and boils.'\n\nThe boy then taking a little lamb which happened to be in the\ndrawing-room, said--\n\n'Father, see this little lamb; how demure he is and how simple and\ninnocent, and how foolish and how tractable. Yet observe!' With that\nhe whipped the cassock from his arm where he was carrying it and threw\nit all over the lamb, covering his head and body; and the lamb began\nplunging and kicking and bucking and rolling and heaving and sliding\nand rearing and pawing and most vigorously wrestling with the clerical\nand hierarchically constraining garment of darkness, and bleating all\nthe while more and more angrily and loudly, for all the world like the\ngreat goat Baphomet himself when the witches dance about him on\nAll-hallowe'en. But when the boy suddenly plucked off the cassock\nagain, the lamb, after sneezing a little and finding his feet, became\nquite gentle once more, and looked only a little confused and dazed.\n\n'There, father,' said the boy, 'is proof to you of how the meekest may\nbe driven to desperation by the shackles I speak of, and which I pray\nyou never lay upon me again.'\n\nHis father finding him so practical and wise made over his whole\nfortune and business to him, and thus escaped the very heavy Heriot\nand Death Dues of those days, for he was a Socage tenant of St Remi in\nDouble Burgage. But we stopped all that here in England by the statute\nof Uses, and I must be getting back to the road before the dark\ncatches me.\n\nAs I was saying, I came to a gap in the hills, and there was there a\nhouse or two called Gansbrunnen, and one of the houses was an inn.\nJust by the inn the road turned away sharply up the valley; the very\nlast slope of the Jura, the last parallel ridge, lay straight before\nme all solemn, dark, and wooded, and making a high feathery line\nagainst the noon. To cross this there was but a vague path rather\nmisleading, and the name of the mountain was Weissenstein.\n\nSo before that last effort which should lead me over those thousands\nof feet, and to nourish Instinct (which would be of use to me when I\ngot into that impenetrable wood), I turned into the inn for wine.\n\nA very old woman having the appearance of a witch sat at a dark table\nby the little criss-cross window of the dark room. She was crooning to\nherself, and I made the sign of the evil eye and asked her in French\nfor wine; but French she did not understand. Catching, however, two\nwords which sounded like the English 'White' and 'Red', I said 'Yaw'\nafter the last and nodded, and she brought up a glass of exceedingly\ngood red wine which I drank in silence, she watching me uncannily.\n\nThen I paid her with a five-franc piece, and she gave me a quantity of\nsmall change rapidly, which, as I counted it, I found to contain one\nGreek piece of fifty lepta very manifestly of lead. This I held up\nangrily before her, and (not without courage, for it is hard to deal\nwith the darker powers) I recited to her slowly that familiar verse\nwhich the well-known Satyricus Empiricius was for ever using in his\nnow classical attacks on the grammarians; and without any Alexandrian\ntwaddle of accents I intoned to her--and so left her astounded to\nrepentance or to shame.\n\nThen I went out into the sunlight, and crossing over running water put\nmyself out of her power.\n\nThe wood went up darkly and the path branched here and there so that I\nwas soon uncertain of my way, but I followed generally what seemed to\nme the most southerly course, and so came at last up steeply through a\ndip or ravine that ended high on the crest of the ridge.\n\nJust as I came to the end of the rise, after perhaps an hour, perhaps\ntwo, of that great curtain of forest which had held the mountain side,\nthe trees fell away to brushwood, there was a gate, and then the path\nwas lost upon a fine open sward which was the very top of the Jura and\nthe coping of that multiple wall which defends the Swiss Plain. I had\ncrossed it straight from edge to edge, never turning out of my way.\n\nIt was too marshy to lie down on it, so I stood a moment to breathe\nand look about me.\n\nIt was evident that nothing higher remained, for though a new line of\nwood--firs and beeches--stood before me, yet nothing appeared above\nthem, and I knew that they must be the fringe of the descent. I\napproached this edge of wood, and saw that it had a rough fence of\npost and rails bounding it, and as I was looking for the entry of a\npath (for my original path was lost, as such tracks are, in the damp\ngrass of the little down) there came to me one of those great\nrevelations which betray to us suddenly the higher things and stand\nafterwards firm in our minds.\n\nThere, on this upper meadow, where so far I had felt nothing but the\nordinary gladness of The Summit, I had a vision.\n\nWhat was it I saw? If you think I saw this or that, and if you think I\nam inventing the words, you know nothing of men.\n\nI saw between the branches of the trees in front of me a sight in the\nsky that made me stop breathing, just as great danger at sea, or great\nsurprise in love, or a great deliverance will make a man stop\nbreathing. I saw something I had known in the West as a boy, something\nI had never seen so grandly discovered as was this. In between the\nbranches of the trees was a great promise of unexpected lights beyond.\n\nI pushed left and right along that edge of the forest and along the\nfence that bound it, until I found a place where the pine-trees\nstopped, leaving a gap, and where on the right, beyond the gap, was a\ntree whose leaves had failed; there the ground broke away steeply\nbelow me, and the beeches fell, one below the other, like a vast\ncascade, towards the limestone cliffs that dipped down still further,\nbeyond my sight. I looked through this framing hollow and praised God.\nFor there below me, thousands of feet below me, was what seemed an\nillimitable plain; at the end of that world was an horizon, and the\ndim bluish sky that overhangs an horizon.\n\nThere was brume in it and thickness. One saw the sky beyond the edge\nof the world getting purer as the vault rose. But right up--a belt in\nthat empyrean--ran peak and field and needle of intense ice, remote,\nremote from the world. Sky beneath them and sky above them, a\nsteadfast legion, they glittered as though with the armour of the\nimmovable armies of Heaven. Two days' march, three days' march away,\nthey stood up like the walls of Eden.  I say it again, they stopped my\nbreath. I had seen them.\n\nSo little are we, we men: so much are we immersed in our muddy and\nimmediate interests that we think, by numbers and recitals, to\ncomprehend distance or time, or any of our limiting infinities. Here\nwere these magnificent creatures of God, I mean the Alps, which now\nfor the first time I saw from the height of the Jura; and because they\nwere fifty or sixty miles away, and because they were a mile or two\nhigh, they were become something different from us others, and could\nstrike one motionless with the awe of supernatural things. Up there in\nthe sky, to which only clouds belong and birds and the last trembling\ncolours of pure light, they stood fast and hard; not moving as do the\nthings of the sky. They were as distant as the little upper clouds of\nsummer, as fine and tenuous; but in their reflection and in their\nquality as it were of weapons (like spears and shields of an unknown\narray) they occupied the sky with a sublime invasion: and the things\nproper to the sky were forgotten by me in their presence as I gazed.\n\nTo what emotion shall I compare this astonishment? So, in first love\none finds that _this_ can belong to _me._\n\nTheir sharp steadfastness and their clean uplifted lines compelled my\nadoration. Up there, the sky above and below them, part of the sky,\nbut part of us, the great peaks made communion between that homing\ncreeping part of me which loves vineyards and dances and a slow\nmovement among pastures, and that other part which is only properly at\nhome in Heaven. I say that this kind of description is useless, and\nthat it is better to address prayers to such things than to attempt to\ninterpret them for others.\n\nThese, the great Alps, seen thus, link one in some way to one's\nimmortality. Nor is it possible to convey, or even to suggest, those\nfew fifty miles, and those few thousand feet; there is something more.\nLet me put it thus: that from the height of Weissenstein I saw, as it\nwere, my religion. I mean, humility, the fear of death, the terror of\nheight and of distance, the glory of God, the infinite potentiality of\nreception whence springs that divine thirst of the soul; my aspiration\nalso towards completion, and my confidence in the dual destiny. For I\nknow that we laughers have a gross cousinship with the most high, and\nit is this contrast and perpetual quarrel which feeds a spring of\nmerriment in the soul of a sane man.\n\nSince I could now see such a wonder and it could work such things in\nmy mind, therefore, some day I should be part of it. That is what I\nfelt.\n\nThis it is also which leads some men to climb mountain-tops, but not\nme, for I am afraid of slipping down.\n\nThen you will say, if I felt all this, why do I draw it, and put it in\nmy book, seeing that my drawings are only for fun? My jest drags down\nsuch a memory and makes it ludicrous. Well, I said in my beginning\nthat I would note down whatever most impressed me, except figures,\nwhich I cannot draw (I mean figures of human beings, for mathematical\nfigures I can draw well enough), and I have never failed in this\npromise, except where, as in the case of Porrentruy, my drawing was\nblown away by the wind and lost--- if anything ever is lost. So I put\ndown here this extraordinary drawing of what I saw, which is about as\nmuch like it as a printed song full of misprints is to that same song\nsung by an army on the march. And I am consoled by remembering that if\nI could draw infinitely well, then it would become sacrilege to\nattempt to draw that sight. Moreover, I am not going to waste any more\ntime discussing why I put in this little drawing. If it disturbs your\nconception of what it was I saw, paste over it a little bit of paper.\nI have made it small for the purpose; but remember that the paper\nshould be thin and opaque, for thick paper will interfere with the\nshape of this book, and transparent paper will disturb you with a\nmemory of the picture.\n\nIt was all full of this, as a man is full of music just after hearing\nit, that I plunged down into the steep forest that led towards the\ngreat plain; then, having found a path, I worked zig-zag down it by a\nkind of gully that led through to a place where the limestone cliffs\nwere broken, and (so my map told me) to the town of Soleure, which\nstands at the edge of the plain upon the river Aar.\n\nI was an hour or more going down the enormous face of the Jura, which\nis here an escarpment, a cliff of great height, and contains but few\nsuch breaks by which men can pick their way. It was when I was about\nhalf-way down the mountain side that its vastness most impressed me.\nAnd yet it had been but a platform as it were, from which to view the\nAlps and their much greater sublimity.\n\nThis vastness, even of these limestone mountains, took me especially\nat a place where the path bordered a steep, or rather precipitous,\nlift of white rock to which only here and there a tree could cling.\n\nI was still very high up, but looking somewhat more eastward than\nbefore, and the plain went on inimitably towards some low vague hills;\nnor in that direction could any snow be seen in the sky. Then at last\nI came to the slopes which make a little bank under the mountains, and\nthere, finding a highroad, and oppressed somewhat suddenly by the\nafternoon heat of those low places, I went on more slowly towards\nSoleure.\n\nBeside me, on the road, were many houses, shaded by great trees, built\nof wood, and standing apart. To each of them almost was a little\nwater-wheel, run by the spring which came down out of the ravine. The\nwater-wheel in most cases worked a simple little machine for sawing\nplanks, but in other cases it seemed used for some purpose inside the\nhouse, which I could not divine; perhaps for spinning.\n\nAll this place was full of working, and the men sang and spoke at\ntheir work in German, which I could not understand. I did indeed find\none man, a young hay-making man carrying a scythe, who knew a little\nFrench and was going my way. I asked him, therefore, to teach me\nGerman, but he had not taught me much before we were at the gates of\nthe old town and then I left him. It is thus, you will see, that for\nmy next four days or five, which were passed among the German-speaking\nSwiss, I was utterly alone.\n\nThis book must not go on for ever; therefore I cannot say very much\nabout Soleure, although there is a great deal to be said about it. It\nis distinguished by an impression of unity, and of civic life, which I\nhad already discovered in all these Swiss towns; for though men talk\nof finding the Middle Ages here or there, I for my part never find it,\nsave where there has been democracy to preserve it. Thus I have seen\nthe Middle Ages especially alive in the small towns of Northern\nFrance, and I have seen the Middle Ages in the University of Paris.\nHere also in Switzerland. As I had seen it at St Ursanne, so I found\nit now at Soleure. There were huge gates flanking the town, and there\nwas that evening a continual noise of rifles, at which the Swiss are\nfor ever practising. Over the church, however, I saw something\nterribly seventeenth century, namely, Jaweh in great Hebrew letters\nupon its front.\n\nWell, dining there of the best they had to give me (for this was\nanother milestone in my pilgrimage), I became foolishly refreshed and\nvaliant, and instead of sleeping in Soleure, as a wise man would have\ndone, I determined, though it was now nearly dark, to push on upon the\nroad to Burgdorf.\n\nI therefore crossed the river Aar, which is here magnificently broad\nand strong, and has bastions jutting out into it in a very bold\nfashion. I saw the last colourless light of evening making its waters\nseem like dull metal between the gloomy banks; I felt the beginnings\nof fatigue, and half regretted my determination. But as it is quite\ncertain that one should never go back, I went on in the darkness, I do\nnot know how many miles, till I reached some cross roads and an inn.\n\nThis inn was very poor, and the people had never heard in their lives,\napparently, that a poor man on foot might not be able to talk German,\nwhich seemed to me an astonishing thing; and as I sat there ordering\nbeer for myself and for a number of peasants (who but for this would\nhave me their butt, and even as it was found something monstrous in\nme), I pondered during my continual attempts to converse with them\n(for I had picked up some ten words of their language) upon the folly\nof those who imagine the world to be grown smaller by railways.\n\nI suppose this place was more untouched, as the phrase goes, that is,\nmore living, more intense, and more powerful to affect others,\nwhenever it may be called to do so, than are even the dear villages of\nSussex that lie under my downs. For those are haunted by a nearly\ncosmopolitan class of gentry, who will have actors, financiers, and\nwhat not to come and stay with them, and who read the paper, and from\ntime to time address their village folk upon matters of politics. But\nhere, in this broad plain by the banks of the Emmen, they knew of\nnothing but themselves and the Church which is the common bond of\nEurope, and they were in the right way. Hence it was doubly hard on me\nthat they should think me such a stranger.\n\nWhen I had become a little morose at their perpetual laughter, I asked\nfor a bed, and the landlady, a woman of some talent, showed me on her\nfingers that the beds were 50c., 75c., and a franc. I determined upon\nthe best, and was given indeed a very pleasant room, having in it the\nstatue of a saint, and full of a country air. But I had done too much\nin this night march, as you will presently learn, for my next day was\na day without salt, and in it appreciation left me. And this breakdown\nof appreciation was due to what I did not know at the time to be\nfatigue, but to what was undoubtedly a deep inner exhaustion.\n\nWhen I awoke next morning it was as it always is: no one was awake,\nand I had the field to myself, to slip out as I chose. I looked out of\nthe window into the dawn. The race had made its own surroundings.\n\nThese people who suffocated with laughter at the idea of one's knowing\nno German, had produced, as it were, a German picture by the mere\ninfluence of years and years of similar thoughts.\n\nOut of my window I saw the eaves coming low down. I saw an apple-tree\nagainst the grey light. The tangled grass in the little garden, the\ndog-kennel, and the standing butt were all what I had seen in those\nGerman pictures which they put into books for children, and which are\ndrawn in thick black lines: nor did I see any reason why tame faces\nshould not appear in that framework. I expected the light lank hair\nand the heavy unlifting step of the people whose only emotions are in\nmusic.\n\nBut it was too early for any one to be about, and my German garden,\n_si j'ose m'exprimer ainsi,_ had to suffice me for an impression of\nthe Central Europeans. I gazed at it a little while as it grew\nlighter. Then I went downstairs and slipped the latch (which, being\nGerman, was of a quaint design). I went out into the road and sighed\nprofoundly.\n\nAll that day was destined to be covered, so far as my spirit was\nconcerned, with a motionless lethargy. Nothing seemed properly to\ninterest or to concern me, and not till evening was I visited by any\nmuse. Even my pain (which was now dull and chronic) was no longer a\nsubject for my entertainment, and I suffered from an uneasy isolation\nthat had not the merit of sharpness and was no spur to the mind. I had\nthe feeling that every one I might see would be a stranger, and that\ntheir language would be unfamiliar to me, and this, unlike most men\nwho travel, I had never felt before.\n\nThe reason being this: that if a man has English thoroughly he can\nwander over a great part of the world familiarly, and meet men with\nwhom he can talk. And if he has French thoroughly all Italy, and I\nsuppose Spain, certainly Belgium, are open to him. Not perhaps that he\nwill understand what he hears or will be understood of others, but\nthat the order and nature of the words and the gestures accompanying\nthem are his own. Here, however, I, to whom English and French were\nthe same, was to spend (it seemed) whole days among a people who put\ntheir verbs at the end, where the curses or the endearments come in\nFrench and English, and many of whose words stand for ideas we have\nnot got. I had no room for good-fellowship. I could not sit at tables\nand expand the air with terrible stories of adventure, nor ask about\ntheir politics, nor provoke them to laughter or sadness by my tales.\nIt seemed a poor pilgrimage taken among dumb men.\n\nAlso I have no doubt that I had experienced the ebb of some vitality,\nfor it is the saddest thing about us that this bright spirit with\nwhich we are lit from within like lanterns, can suffer dimness. Such\nfrailty makes one fear that extinction is our final destiny, and it\nsaps us with numbness, and we are less than ourselves. Seven nights\nhad I been on pilgrimage, and two of them had I passed in the open.\nSeven great heights had I climbed: the Forest, Archettes, the Ballon,\nthe Mont Terrible, the Watershed, the pass by Moutier, the\nWeissenstein. Seven depths had I fallen to: twice to the Moselle, the\ngap of Belfort, the gorge of the Doubs, Glovelier valley, the hole of\nMoutier, and now this plain of the Aar. I had marched 180 miles. It\nwas no wonder that on this eighth day I was oppressed and that all the\nlight long I drank no good wine, met no one to remember well, nor sang\nany songs. All this part of my way was full of what they call Duty,\nand I was sustained only by my knowledge that the vast mountains\n(which had disappeared) would be part of my life very soon if I still\nwent on steadily towards Rome.\n\nThe sun had risen when I reached Burgdorf, and I there went to a\nrailway station, and outside of it drank coffee and ate bread. I also\nbought old newspapers in French, and looked at everything wearily and\nwith sad eyes.  There was nothing to draw. How can a man draw pain in\nthe foot and knee?  And that was all there was remarkable at that\nmoment.\n\nI watched a train come in. It was full of tourists, who (it may have\nbeen a subjective illusion) seemed to me common and worthless people,\nand sad into the bargain. It was going to Interlaken; and I felt a\nlanguid contempt for people who went to Interlaken instead of driving\nright across the great hills to Rome.\n\nAfter an hour, or so of this melancholy dawdling, I put a map before\nme on a little marble table, ordered some more coffee, and blew into\nmy tepid life a moment of warmth by the effort of coming to a\nnecessary decision. I had (for the first time since I had left\nLorraine) the choice of two roads; and why this was so the following\nmap will make clear.\n\nHere you see that there is no possibility of following the straight\nway to Rome, but that one must go a few miles east or west of it. From\nBurgundy one has to strike a point on the sources of the Emmen, and\nBurgdorf is on the Emmen. Therefore one might follow the Emmen all the\nway up. But it seemed that the road climbed up above a gorge that way,\nwhereas by the other (which is just as straight) the road is good (it\nseemed) and fairly level.  So I chose this latter Eastern way, which,\nat the bifurcation, takes one up a tributary of the Emmen, then over a\nrise to the Upper Emmen again.\n\nDo you want it made plainer than that? I should think not. And, tell\nme--what can it profit you to know these geographical details? Believe\nme, I write them down for my own gratification, not yours.\n\nI say a day without salt. A trudge. The air was ordinary, the colours\ncommon; men, animals, and trees indifferent. Something had stopped\nworking.\n\nOur energy also is from God, and we should never be proud of it, even\nif we can cover thirty miles day after day (as I can), or bend a peony\nin one's hand as could Frocot, the driver in my piece--a man you never\nknew--or write bad verse very rapidly as can so many moderns. I say\nour energy also is from God, and we should never be proud of it as\nthough it were from ourselves, but we should accept it as a kind of\npresent, and we should be thankful for it; just as a man should thank\nGod for his reason, as did the madman in the Story of the Rose, who\nthanked God that he at least was sane though all the rest of the world\nhad recently lost their reason.\n\nIndeed, this defaillance and breakdown which comes from time to time\nover the mind is a very sad thing, but it can be made of great use to\nus if we will draw from it the lesson that we ourselves are nothing.\nPerhaps it is a grace. Perhaps in these moments our minds repose...\nAnyhow, a day without salt.\n\nYou understand that under (or in) these circumstances--\n\nWhen I was at Oxford there was a great and terrible debate that shook\nthe Empire, and that intensely exercised the men whom we send out to\ngovern the Empire, and which, therefore, must have had its effect upon\nthe Empire, as to whether one should say 'under these circumstances'\nor 'in these circumstances'; nor did I settle matters by calling a\nconclave and suggesting _Quae quum ita sint_ as a common formula,\nbecause a new debate arose upon when you should say _sint_ and when\nyou should say _sunt,_ and they all wrangled like kittens in a basket.\n\nUntil there rose a deep-voiced man from an outlying college, who said,\n'For my part I will say that under these circumstances, or in these\ncircumstances, or in spite of these circumstances, or hovering\nplayfully above these circumstances, or--\n\nI take you all for Fools and Pedants, in the Chief, in the Chevron,\nand in the quarter Fess. Fools absolute, and Pedants lordless. Free\nFools, unlanded Fools, and Fools incommensurable, and Pedants\ndisplayed and rampant of the Tierce Major. Fools incalculable and\nPedants irreparable; indeed, the arch Fool-pedants in a universe of\npedantic folly and foolish pedantry, O you pedant-fools of the world!'\n\nBut by this time he was alone, and thus was this great question never\nproperly decided.\n\nUnder these circumstances, then (or in these circumstances), it would\nprofit you but little if I were to attempt the description of the\nValley of the Emmen, of the first foot-hills of the Alps, and of the\nvery uninteresting valley which runs on from Langnau.\n\nI had best employ my time in telling the story of the Hungry Student.\n\nLECTOR. And if you are so worn-out and bereft of all emotions, how can\nyou tell a story?\n\nAUCTOR. These two conditions permit me. First, that I am writing some\ntime after, and that I have recovered; secondly, that the story is not\nmine, but taken straight out of that nationalist newspaper which had\nserved me so long to wrap up my bread and bacon in my haversack. This\nis the story, and I will tell it you.\n\nNow, I think of it, it would be a great waste of time. Here am I no\nfarther than perhaps a third of my journey, and I have already\nadmitted so much digression that my pilgrimage is like the story of a\nman asleep and dreaming, instead of the plain, honest, and\nstraightforward narrative of fact. I will therefore postpone the Story\nof the Hungry Student till I get into the plains of Italy, or into the\nbarren hills of that peninsula, or among the over-well-known towns of\nTuscany, or in some other place where a little padding will do neither\nyou nor me any great harm.\n\nOn the other hand, do not imagine that I am going to give you any kind\nof description of this intolerable day's march. If you want some kind\nof visual Concept (pretty word), take all these little chalets which\nwere beginning and make what you can of them.\n\nLECTOR. Where are they?\n\nAUCTOR. They are still in Switzerland; not here. They were\novernumerous as I maundered up from where at last the road leaves the\nvalley and makes over a little pass for a place called Schangnau. But\nthough it is not a story, on the contrary, an exact incident and the\ntruth--a thing that I would swear to in the court of justice, or quite\nwillingly and cheerfully believe if another man told it to me; or even\ntake as historical if I found it in a modern English history of the\nAnglo-Saxon Church--though, I repeat, it is a thing actually lived,\nyet I will tell it you.\n\nIt was at the very end of the road, and when an enormous weariness had\nbegun to add some kind of interest to this stuffless episode of the\ndull day, that a peasant with a brutal face, driving a cart very\nrapidly, came up with me. I said to him nothing, but he said to me\nsome words in German which I did not understand. We were at that\nmoment just opposite a little inn upon the right hand of the road, and\nthe peasant began making signs to me to hold his horse for him while\nhe went in and drank.\n\nHow willing I was to do this you will not perhaps understand, unless\nyou have that delicate and subtle pleasure in the holding of horses'\nheads, which is the boast and glory of some rare minds. And I was the\nmore willing to do it from the fact that I have the habit of this kind\nof thing, acquired in the French manoeuvres, and had once held a horse\nfor no less a person than a General of Division, who gave me a franc\nfor it, and this franc I spent later with the men of my battery,\npurchasing wine. So to make a long story short, as the publisher said\nwhen he published the popular edition of _Pamela,_ I held the horse\nfor the peasant; always, of course, under the implicit understanding\nthat he should allow me when he came out to have a drink, which I, of\ncourse, expected him to bring in his own hands.\n\nFar from it. I can understand the anger which some people feel against\nthe Swiss when they travel in that country, though I will always hold\nthat it is monstrous to come into a man's country of your own accord,\nand especially into a country so free and so well governed as is\nSwitzerland, and then to quarrel with the particular type of citizen\nthat you find there.\n\nLet us not discuss politics. The point is that the peasant sat in\nthere drinking with his friends for a good three-quarters of an hour.\nNow and then a man would come out and look at the sky, and cough and\nspit and turn round again and say something to the people within in\nGerman, and go off; but no one paid the least attention to me as I\nheld this horse.\n\nI was already in a very angry and irritable mood, for the horse was\nrestive and smelt his stable, and wished to break away from me. And\nall angry and irritable as I was, I turned around to see if this man\nwere coming to relieve me; but I saw him laughing and joking with the\npeople inside; and they were all looking my way out of their window as\nthey laughed. I may have been wrong, but I thought they were laughing\nat me. A man who knows the Swiss intimately, and who has written a\nbook upon 'The Drink Traffic: The Example of Switzerland', tells me\nthey certainly were not laughing at me; at any rate, I thought they\nwere, and moved by a sudden anger I let go the reins, gave the horse a\ngreat clout, and set him off careering and galloping like a whirlwind\ndown the road from which he had come, with the bit in his teeth and\nall the storms of heaven in his four feet. Instantly, as you may\nimagine, all the scoffers came tumbling out of the inn, hullabooling,\ngesticulating, and running like madmen after the horse, and one old\nman even turned to protest to me. But I, setting my teeth, grasping my\nstaff, and remembering the purpose of my great journey, set on up the\nroad again with my face towards Rome.\n\nI sincerely hope, trust, and pray that this part of my journey will\nnot seem as dull to you as it did to me at the time, or as it does to\nme now while I write of it. But now I come to think of it, it cannot\nseem as dull, for I had to walk that wretched thirty miles or so all\nthe day long, whereas you have not even to read it; for I am not going\nto say anything more about it, but lead you straight to the end.\n\nOh, blessed quality of books, that makes them a refuge from living!\nFor in a book everything can be made to fit in, all tedium can be\nskipped over, and the intense moments can be made timeless and\neternal, and as a poet who is too little known has well said in one of\nhis unpublished lyrics, we, by the art of writing--\n\n  Can fix the high elusive hour\n  And stand in things divine.\n\nAnd as for high elusive hours, devil a bit of one was there all the\nway from Burgdorf to the Inn of the Bridge, except the ecstatic flash\nof joy when I sent that horse careering down the road with his bad\nmaster after him and all his gang shouting among the hollow hills.\n\nSo. It was already evening. I was coming, more tired than ever, to a\nkind of little pass by which my road would bring me back again to the\nEmmen, now nothing but a torrent. All the slope down the other side of\nthe little pass (three or four hundred feet perhaps) was covered by a\nvillage, called, if I remember right, Schangnau, and there was a large\nschool on my right and a great number of children there dancing round\nin a ring and singing songs.  The sight so cheered me that I\ndetermined to press on up the valley, though with no definite goal for\nthe night. It was a foolish decision, for I was really in the heart of\nan unknown country, at the end of roads, at the sources of rivers,\nbeyond help. I knew that straight before me, not five miles away, was\nthe Brienzer Grat, the huge high wall which it was my duty to cross\nright over from side to side. I did not know whether or not there was\nan inn between me and that vast barrier.\n\nThe light was failing. I had perhaps some vague idea of sleeping out,\nbut that would have killed me, for a heavy mist that covered all the\ntops of the hills and that made a roof over the valley, began to drop\ndown a fine rain; and, as they sing in church on Christmas Eve, 'the\nheavens sent down their dews upon a just man'. But that was written in\nPalestine, where rain is a rare blessing; there and then in the cold\nevening they would have done better to have warmed the righteous.\nThere is no controlling them; they mean well, but they bungle\nterribly.\n\nThe road stopped being a road, and became like a Californian trail. I\napproached enormous gates in the hills, high, precipitous, and narrow.\nThe mist rolled over them, hiding their summits and making them seem\ninfinitely lifted up and reaching endlessly into the thick sky; the\nstraight, tenuous lines of the rain made them seem narrower still.\nJust as I neared them, hobbling, I met a man driving two cows, and\nsaid to him the word, 'Guest-house?' to which he said 'Yaw!' and\npointed out a clump of trees to me just under the precipice and right\nin the gates I speak of. So I went there over an old bridge, and found\na wooden house and went in.\n\nIt was a house which one entered without ceremony. The door was open,\nand one walked straight into a great room. There sat three men playing\nat cards. I saluted them loudly in French, English, and Latin, but\nthey did not understand me, and what seemed remarkable in an hotel\n(for it was an hotel rather than an inn), no one in the house\nunderstood me--neither the servants nor any one; but the servants did\nnot laugh at me as had the poor people near Burgdorf, they only stood\nround me looking at me patiently in wonder as cows do at trains. Then\nthey brought me food, and as I did not know the names of the different\nkinds of food, I had to eat what they chose; and the angel of that\nvalley protected me from boiled mutton. I knew, however, the word\nWein, which is the same in all languages, and so drank a quart of it\nconsciously and of a set purpose. Then I slept, and next morning at\ndawn I rose up, put on my thin, wet linen clothes, and went\ndownstairs. No one was about. I looked around for something to fill my\nsack. I picked up a great hunk of bread from the dining-room table,\nand went out shivering into the cold drizzle that was still falling\nfrom a shrouded sky. Before me, a great forbidding wall, growing\nblacker as it went upwards and ending in a level line of mist, stood\nthe Brienzer Grat.\n\nTo understand what I next had to do it is necessary to look back at\nthe little map on page 105.\n\nYou will observe that the straight way to Rome cuts the Lake of Brienz\nrather to the eastward of the middle, and then goes slap over\nWetterhorn and strikes the Rhone Valley at a place called Ulrichen.\nThat is how a bird would do it, if some High Pope of Birds lived in\nRome and needed visiting, as, for instance, the Great Auk; or if some\nold primal relic sacred to birds was connected therewith, as, for\ninstance, the bones of the Dodo....  But I digress. The point is that\nthe straight line takes one over the Brienzer Grat, over the lake, and\nthen over the Wetterhorn. That was manifestly impossible. But whatever\nof it was possible had to be done, and among the possible things was\nclambering over the high ridge of the Brienzer Grat instead of going\nround like a coward by Interlaken. After I had clambered over it,\nhowever, needs must I should have to take a pass called the Grimsel\nPass and reach the Rhone Valley that way. It was with such a\ndetermination that I had come here to the upper waters of the Emmen,\nand stood now on a moist morning in the basin where that stream rises,\nat the foot of the mountain range that divided me from the lake.\n\nThe Brienzer Grat is an extraordinary thing. It is quite straight; its\nsummits are, of course, of different heights, but from below they seem\neven, like a ridge: and, indeed, the whole mountain is more like a\nridge than any other I have seen. At one end is a peak called the 'Red\nHorn', the other end falls suddenly above Interlaken, and wherever you\nshould cut it you would get a section like this, for it is as steep as\nanything can be short of sheer rock. There are no precipices on it,\nthough there are nasty slabs quite high enough to kill a man--I saw\nseveral of three or four hundred feet. It is about five or six\nthousand feet high, and it stands right up and along the northern\nshore of the lake of Brienz. I began the ascent.\n\nSpongy meads, that soughed under the feet and grew steeper as one\nrose, took up the first few hundred feet. Little rivulets of mere\ndampness ran in among the under moss, and such very small hidden\nflowers as there were drooped with the surfeit of moisture. The rain\nwas now indistinguishable from a mist, and indeed I had come so near\nto the level belt of cloud, that already its gloom was exchanged for\nthat diffused light which fills vapours from within and lends them\ntheir mystery. A belt of thick brushwood and low trees lay before me,\nclinging to the slope, and as I pushed with great difficulty and many\nturns to right and left through its tangle a wisp of cloud enveloped\nme, and from that time on I was now in, now out, of a deceptive\ndrifting fog, in which it was most difficult to gauge one's progress.\n\nNow and then a higher mass of rock, a peak on the ridge, would show\nclear through a corridor of cloud and be hidden again; also at times I\nwould stand hesitating before a sharp wall or slab, and wait for a\nshifting of the fog to make sure of the best way round. I struck what\nmight have been a loose path or perhaps only a gully; lost it again\nand found it again. In one place I climbed up a jagged surface for\nfifty feet, only to find when it cleared that it was no part of the\ngeneral ascent, but a mere obstacle which might have been outflanked.\nAt another time I stopped for a good quarter of an hour at an edge\nthat might have been an indefinite fall of smooth rock, but that\nturned out to be a short drop, easy for a man, and not much longer\nthan my body. So I went upwards always, drenched and doubting, and not\nsure of the height I had reached at any time.\n\nAt last I came to a place where a smooth stone lay between two\npillared monoliths, as though it had been put there for a bench.\nThough all around me was dense mist, yet I could see above me the\nvague shape of a summit looming quite near. So I said to myself--\n\n'I will sit here and wait till it grows lighter and clearer, for I\nmust now be within two or three hundred feet of the top of the ridge,\nand as anything at all may be on the other side, I had best go\ncarefully and knowing my way.'\n\nSo I sat down facing the way I had to go and looking upwards, till\nperhaps a movement of the air might show me against a clear sky the\nline of the ridge, and so let me estimate the work that remained to\ndo. I kept my eyes fixed on the point where I judged that sky line to\nlie, lest I should miss some sudden gleam revealing it; and as I sat\nthere I grew mournful and began to consider the folly of climbing this\ngreat height on an empty stomach. The soldiers of the Republic fought\ntheir battles often before breakfast, but never, I think, without\nhaving drunk warm coffee, and no one should attempt great efforts\nwithout some such refreshment before starting.  Indeed, my fasting,\nand the rare thin air of the height, the chill and the dampness that\nhad soaked my thin clothes through and through, quite lowered my blood\nand left it piano, whimpering and irresolute. I shivered and demanded\nthe sun.\n\nThen I bethought me of the hunk of bread I had stolen, and pulling it\nout of my haversack I began to munch that ungrateful breakfast. It was\nhard and stale, and gave me little sustenance; I still gazed upwards\ninto the uniform meaningless light fog, looking for the ridge.\n\nSuddenly, with no warning to prepare the mind, a faint but distinct\nwind blew upon me, the mist rose in a wreath backward and upward, and\nI was looking through clear immensity, not at any ridge, but over an\nawful gulf at great white fields of death. The Alps were right upon me\nand before me, overwhelming and commanding empty downward distances of\nair. Between them and me was a narrow dreadful space of nothingness\nand silence, and a sheer mile below us both, a floor to that\nprodigious hollow, lay the little lake.\n\nMy stone had not been a halting-place at all, but was itself the\nsummit of the ridge, and those two rocks on either side of it framed a\nnotch upon the very edge and skyline of the high hills of Brienz.\n\nSurprise and wonder had not time to form in my spirit before both were\nswallowed up by fear. The proximity of that immense wall of cold, the\nAlps, seen thus full from the level of its middle height and\ncomprehended as it cannot be from the depths; its suggestion of\nsomething never changing throughout eternity--yet dead--was a threat\nto the eager mind. They, the vast Alps, all wrapped round in ice,\nfrozen, and their immobility enhanced by the delicate, roaming veils\nwhich (as from an attraction) hovered in their hollows, seemed to halt\nthe process of living. And the living soul whom they thus perturbed\nwas supported by no companionship. There were no trees or blades of\ngrass around me, only the uneven and primal stones of that height.\nThere were no birds in the gulf; there was no sound. And the whiteness\nof the glaciers, the blackness of the snow-streaked rocks beyond, was\nglistening and unsoftened. There had come something evil into their\nsublimity. I was afraid.\n\nNor could I bear to look downwards. The slope was in no way a danger.\nA man could walk up it without often using his hands, and a man could\ngo down it slowly without any direct fall, though here and there he\nwould have to turn round at each dip or step and hold with his hands\nand feel a little for his foothold. I suppose the general slope, down,\ndown, to where the green began was not sixty degrees, but have you\never tried looking down five thousand feet at sixty degrees? It drags\nthe mind after it, and I could not bear to begin the descent.\n\nHowever I reasoned with myself. I said to myself that a man should\nonly be afraid of real dangers. That nightmare was not for the\ndaylight. That there was now no mist but a warm sun. Then choosing a\ngully where water sometimes ran, but now dry, I warily began to\ndescend, using my staff and leaning well backwards.\n\nThere was this disturbing thing about the gully, that it went in\nsteps, and before each step one saw the sky just a yard or two ahead:\none lost the comforting sight of earth. One knew of course that it\nwould only be a little drop, and that the slope would begin again, but\nit disturbed one.  And it is a trial to drop or clamber down, say\nfourteen or fifteen feet, sometimes twenty, and then to find no flat\nfoothold but that eternal steep beginning again. And this outline in\nwhich I have somewhat, but not much, exaggerated the slope, will show\nwhat I mean. The dotted line is the line of vision just as one got to\na 'step'. The little figure is AUCTOR. LECTOR is up in the air looking\nat him. Observe the perspective of the lake below, but make no\ncomments.\n\nI went very slowly. When I was about half-way down and had come to a\nplace where a shoulder of heaped rock stood on my left and where\nlittle parallel ledges led up to it, having grown accustomed to the\ndescent and easier in my mind, I sat down on a slab and drew\nimperfectly the things I saw: the lake below me, the first forests\nclinging to the foot of the Alps beyond, their higher slopes of snow,\nand the clouds that had now begun to gather round them and that\naltogether hid the last third of their enormous height.\n\nThen I saw a steamer on the lake. I felt in touch with men. The slope\ngrew easier. I snapped my fingers at the great devils that haunt high\nmountains.  I sniffed the gross and comfortable air of the lower\nvalleys, I entered the belt of wood and was soon going quite a pace\nthrough the trees, for I had found a path, and was now able to sing.\nSo I did.\n\nAt last I saw through the trunks, but a few hundred feet below me, the\nhighroad that skirts the lake. I left the path and scrambled straight\ndown to it. I came to a wall which I climbed, and found myself in\nsomebody's garden. Crossing this and admiring its wealth and order (I\nwas careful not to walk on the lawns), I opened a little private gate\nand came on to the road, and from there to Brienz was but a short way\nalong a fine hard surface in a hot morning sun, with the gentle lake\non my right hand not five yards away, and with delightful trees upon\nmy left, caressing and sometimes even covering me with their shade.\n\nI was therefore dry, ready and contented when I entered by mid morning\nthe curious town of Brienz, which is all one long street, and of which\nthe population is Protestant. I say dry, ready and contented; dry in\nmy clothes, ready for food, contented with men and nature. But as I\nentered I squinted up that interminable slope, I saw the fog wreathing\nagain along the ridge so infinitely above me, and I considered myself\na fool to have crossed the Brienzer Grat without breakfast. But I\ncould get no one in Brienz to agree with me, because no one thought I\nhad done it, though several people there could talk French.\n\nThe Grimsel Pass is the valley of the Aar; it is also the eastern\nflank of that great _massif,_ or bulk and mass of mountains called the\nBernese Oberland. Western Switzerland, you must know, is not (as I\nfirst thought it was when I gazed down from the Weissenstein) a plain\nsurrounded by a ring of mountains, but rather it is a plain in its\nnorthern half (the plain of the lower Aar), and in its southern half\nit is two enormous parallel lumps of mountains. I call them 'lumps',\nbecause they are so very broad and tortuous in their plan that they\nare hardly ranges. Now these two lumps are the Bernese Oberland and\nthe Pennine Alps, and between them runs a deep trench called the\nvalley of the Rhone. Take Mont Blanc in the west and a peak called the\nCrystal Peak over the Val Bavona on the east, and they are the\nflanking bastions of one great wall, the Pennine Alps. Take the\nDiablerets on the west, and the Wetterhorn on the east, and they are\nthe flanking bastions of another great wall, the Bernese Oberland. And\nthese two walls are parallel, with the Rhone in between.\n\nNow these two walls converge at a point where there is a sort of knot\nof mountain ridges, and this point may be taken as being on the\nboundary between Eastern and Western Switzerland. At this wonderful\npoint the Ticino, the Rhone, the Aar, and the Reuss all begin, and it\nis here that the simple arrangement of the Alps to the west turns into\nthe confused jumble of the Alps to the east.\n\nWhen you are high up on either wall you can catch the plan of all\nthis, but to avoid a confused description and to help you to follow\nthe marvellous, Hannibalian and never-before-attempted charge and\nmarch which I made, and which, alas! ended only in a glorious\ndefeat--to help you to picture faintly to yourselves the mirific and\nhorripilant adventure whereby I nearly achieved superhuman success in\nspite of all the powers of the air, I append a little map which is\nrough but clear and plain, and which I beg you to study closely, for\nit will make it easy for you to understand what next happened in my\npilgrimage.\n\nThe dark strips are the deep cloven valleys, the shaded belt is that\nhigher land which is yet passable by any ordinary man. The part left\nwhite you may take to be the very high fields of ice and snow with\ngreat peaks which an ordinary man must regard as impassable, unless,\nindeed, he can wait for his weather and take guides and go on as a\ntourist instead of a pilgrim.\n\nYou will observe that I have marked five clefts or valleys. A is that\nof the _Aar,_ and the little white patch at the beginning is the lake\nof Brienz. B is that of the _Reuss._ C is that of the _Rhone;_ and all\nthese three are _north_ of the great watershed or main chain, and all\nthree are full of German-speaking people.\n\nOn the other hand, D is the valley of the _Toccia,_ E of the _Maggia,_\nand F of the _Ticino._ All these three are _south_ of the great\nwatershed, and are inhabited by Italian-speaking people. All these\nthree lead down at last to Lake Major, and so to Milan and so to Rome.\n\nThe straight line to Rome is marked on my map by a dotted line ending\nin an arrow, and you will see that it was just my luck that it should\ncross slap over that knot or tangle of ranges where all the rivers\nspring. The problem was how to negotiate a passage from the valley of\nthe Aar to one of the three Italian valleys, without departing too far\nfrom my straight line. To explain my track I must give the names of\nall the high passes between the valleys. That between A and C is\ncalled the _Grimsel;_ that between B and C the _Furka._ That between D\nand C is the _Gries_ Pass, that between F and C the _Nufenen,_ and\nthat between E and F is not the easy thing it looks on the map; indeed\nit is hardly a pass at all but a scramble over very high peaks, and it\nis called the Crystalline Mountain. Finally, on the far right of my\nmap, you see a high passage between B and F. This is the famous St\nGothard.\n\nThe straightest way of all was (1) over the _Grimsel,_ then, the\nmoment I got into the valley of the Rhone (2), up out of it again over\nthe _Nufenen,_ then the moment I was down into the valley of the\n_Ticino_ (F), up out of it again (3) over the Crystalline to the\nvalley of the _Maggia_ (E). Once in the Maggia valley (the top of it\nis called the _Val Bavona),_ it is a straight path for the lakes and\nRome. There were also these advantages: that I should be in a place\nvery rarely visited--all the guide-books are doubtful on it; that I\nshould be going quite straight; that I should be accomplishing a feat,\nviz. the crossing of those high passes one after the other (and you\nmust remember that over the Nufenen there is no road at all).\n\nBut every one I asked told me that thus early in the year (it was not\nthe middle of June) I could not hope to scramble over the Crystalline.\nNo one (they said) could do it and live. It was all ice and snow and\ncold mist and verglas, and the precipices were smooth--a man would\nnever get across; so it was not worth while crossing the Nufenen Pass\nif I was to be balked at the Crystal, and I determined on the Gries\nPass. I said to myself: 'I will go on over the Grimsel, and once in\nthe valley of the Rhone, I will walk a mile or two down to where the\nGries Pass opens, and I will go over it into Italy.' For the Gries\nPass, though not quite in the straight line, had this advantage, that\nonce over it you are really in Italy. In the Ticino valley or in the\nVal Bavona, though the people are as Italian as Catullus, yet\npolitically they count as part of Switzerland; and therefore if you\nenter Italy thereby, you are not suddenly introduced to that country,\nbut, as it were, inoculated, and led on by degrees, which is a pity.\nFor good things should come suddenly, like the demise of that wicked\nman, Mr _(deleted by the censor),_ who had oppressed the poor for some\nforty years, when he was shot dead from behind a hedge, and died in\nabout the time it takes to boil an egg, and there was an end of him.\n\nHaving made myself quite clear that I had a formed plan to go over the\nGrimsel by the new road, then up over the Gries, where there is no\nroad at all, and so down into the vale of the Tosa, and having\ncalculated that on the morrow I should be in Italy, I started out from\nBrienz after eating a great meal, it being then about midday, and I\nhaving already, as you know, crossed the Brienzer Grat since dawn.\n\nThe task of that afternoon was more than I could properly undertake,\nnor did I fulfil it. From Brienz to the top of the Grimsel is, as the\ncrow flies, quite twenty miles, and by the road a good twenty-seven.\nIt is true I had only come from over the high hills; perhaps six miles\nin a straight line. But what a six miles! and all without food. Not\ncertain, therefore, how much of the pass I could really do that day,\nbut aiming at crossing it, like a fool, I went on up the first miles.\n\nFor an hour or more after Brienz the road runs round the base of and\nthen away from a fine great rock. There is here an alluvial plain like\na continuation of the lake, and the Aar runs through it, canalized and\nbanked and straight, and at last the road also becomes straight. On\neither side rise gigantic cliffs enclosing the valley, and (on the day\nI passed there) going up into the clouds, which, though high, yet made\na roof for the valley. From the great mountains on the left the noble\nrock jutted out alone and dominated the little plain; on the right the\nbuttresses of the main Alps all stood in a row, and between them went\nwhorls of vapour high, high up--just above the places where snow still\nclung to the slopes. These whorls made the utmost steeps more and more\nmisty, till at last they were lost in a kind of great darkness, in\nwhich the last and highest banks of ice seemed to be swallowed up. I\noften stopped to gaze straight above me, and I marvelled at the\nsilence.\n\nIt was the first part of the afternoon when I got to a place called\nMeiringen, and I thought that there I would eat and drink a little\nmore. So I steered into the main street, but there I found such a\nyelling and roaring as I had never heard before, and very damnable it\nwas; as though men were determined to do common evil wherever God has\ngiven them a chance of living in awe and worship.\n\nFor they were all bawling and howling, with great placards and\ntickets, and saying, 'This way to the Extraordinary Waterfall; that\nway to the Strange Cave. Come with me and you shall see the\nnever-to-be-forgotten Falls of the Aar,' and so forth. So that my\nillusion of being alone in the roots of the world dropped off me very\nquickly, and I wondered how people could be so helpless and foolish as\nto travel about in Switzerland as tourists and meet with all this\nvulgarity and beastliness.\n\nIf a man goes to drink good wine he does not say, 'So that the wine be\ngood I do not mind eating strong pepper and smelling hartshorn as I\ndrink it,' and if a man goes to read a good verse, for instance, Jean\nRichepin, he does not say, 'Go on playing on the trombone, go on\nbanging the cymbals; so long as I am reading good verse I am content.'\nYet men now go into the vast hills and sleep and live in their\nrecesses, and pretend to be indifferent to all the touts and shouters\nand hurry and hotels and high prices and abominations. Thank God, it\ngoes in grooves! I say it again, thank God, the railways are trenches\nthat drain our modern marsh, for you have but to avoid railways, even\nby five miles, and you can get more peace than would fill a nosebag.\nAll the world is my garden since they built railways, and gave me\nleave to keep off them.\n\nAlso I vowed a franc to the Black Virgin of La Delivrande (next time I\nshould be passing there) because I was delivered from being a tourist,\nand because all this horrible noise was not being dinned at me (who\nwas a poor and dirty pilgrim, and no kind of prey for these cabmen,\nand busmen, and guides and couriers), but at a crowd of drawn, sad,\njaded tourists that had come in by a train.\n\nSoon I had left them behind. The road climbed the first step upwards\nin the valley, going round a rock on the other side of which the Aar\nhad cut itself a gorge and rushed in a fall and rapids. Then the road\nwent on and on weary mile after weary mile, and I stuck to it, and it\nrose slowly all the time, and all the time the Aar went dashing by,\nroaring and filling the higher valley with echoes.\n\nI got beyond the villages. The light shining suffused through the\nupper mist began to be the light of evening. Rain, very fine and\nslight, began to fall. It was cold. There met and passed me, going\ndown the road, a carriage with a hood up, driving at full speed. It\ncould not be from over the pass, for I knew that it was not yet open\nfor carriages or carts. It was therefore from a hotel somewhere, and\nif there was a hotel I should find it. I looked back to ask the\ndistance, but they were beyond earshot, and so I went on.\n\nMy boots in which I had sworn to walk to Rome were ruinous. Already\nsince the Weissenstein they had gaped, and now the Brienzer Grat had\nmade the sole of one of them quite free at the toe. It flapped as I\nwalked. Very soon I should be walking on my uppers. I limped also, and\nI hated the wet cold rain. But I had to go on. Instead of flourishing\nmy staff and singing, I leant on it painfully and thought of duty, and\ndeath, and dereliction, and every other horrible thing that begins\nwith a D. I had to go on. If I had gone back there was nothing for\nmiles.\n\nBefore it was dark--indeed one could still read--I saw a group of\nhouses beyond the Aar, and soon after I saw that my road would pass\nthem, going over a bridge. When I reached them I went into the first,\nsaying to myself, 'I will eat, and if I can go no farther I will sleep\nhere.'\n\nThere were in the house two women, one old, the other young; and they\nwere French-speaking, from the Vaud country. They had faces like\nScotch people, and were very kindly, but odd, being Calvinist. I said,\n'Have you any beans?' They said, 'Yes.' I suggested they should make\nme a dish of beans and bacon, and give me a bottle of wine, while I\ndried myself at their great stove. All this they readily did for me,\nand I ate heartily and drank heavily, and they begged me afterwards to\nstop the night and pay them for it; but I was so set up by my food and\nwine that I excused myself and went out again and took the road. It\nwas not yet dark.\n\nBy some reflection from the fields of snow, which were now quite near\nat hand through the mist, the daylight lingered astonishingly late.\nThe cold grew bitter as I went on through the gloaming. There were no\ntrees save rare and stunted pines. The Aar was a shallow brawling\ntorrent, thick with melting ice and snow and mud. Coarse grass grew on\nthe rocks sparsely; there were no flowers. The mist overhead was now\nquite near, and I still went on and steadily up through the\nhalf-light. It was as lonely as a calm at sea, except for the noise of\nthe river. I had overworn myself, and that sustaining surface which\nhides from us in our health the abysses below the mind--I felt it\ngrowing weak and thin. My fatigue bewildered me. The occasional steeps\nbeside the road, one especially beneath a high bridge where a\ntributary falls into the Aar in a cascade, terrified me. They were\nlike the emptiness of dreams. At last it being now dark, and I having\nlong since entered the upper mist, or rather cloud (for I was now as\nhigh as the clouds), I saw a light gleaming through the fog, just off\nthe road, through pine-trees. It was time. I could not have gone much\nfarther.\n\nTo this I turned and found there one of those new hotels, not very\nlarge, but very expensive. They knew me at once for what I was, and\nwelcomed me with joy. They gave me hot rum and sugar, a fine warm bed,\ntold me I was the first that had yet stopped there that year, and left\nme to sleep very deep and yet in pain, as men sleep who are stunned.\nBut twice that night I woke suddenly, staring at darkness. I had\noutworn the physical network upon which the soul depends, and I was\nfull of terrors.\n\nNext morning I had fine coffee and bread and butter and the rest, like\na rich man; in a gilded dining-room all set out for the rich, and\nserved by a fellow that bowed and scraped. Also they made me pay a\ngreat deal, and kept their eyes off my boots, and were still courteous\nto me, and I to them.  Then I bought wine of them--the first wine not\nof the country that I had drunk on this march, a Burgundy--and putting\nit in my haversack with a nice white roll, left them to wait for the\nnext man whom the hills might send them.\n\nThe clouds, the mist, were denser than ever in that early morning; one\ncould only see the immediate road. The cold was very great; my clothes\nwere not quite dried, but my heart was high, and I pushed along well\nenough, though stiffly, till I came to what they call the Hospice,\nwhich was once a monk-house, I suppose, but is now an inn. I had\nbrandy there, and on going out I found that it stood at the foot of a\nsharp ridge which was the true Grimsel Pass, the neck which joins the\nBernese Oberland to the eastern group of high mountains. This ridge or\nneck was steep like a pitched roof--very high I found it, and all of\nblack glassy rock, with here and there snow in sharp, even, sloping\nsheets just holding to it. I could see but little of it at a time on\naccount of the mist.\n\nHitherto for all these miles the Aar had been my companion, and the\nroad, though rising always, had risen evenly and not steeply. Now the\nAar was left behind in the icy glen where it rises, and the road went\nin an artificial and carefully built set of zig-zags up the face of\nthe cliff.  There is a short cut, but I could not find it in the mist.\nIt is the old mule-path. Here and there, however, it was possible to\ncut off long corners by scrambling over the steep black rock and\nsmooth ice, and all the while the cold, soft mist wisped in and out\naround me. After a thousand feet of this I came to the top of the\nGrimsel, but not before I had passed a place where an avalanche had\ndestroyed the road and where planks were laid. Also before one got to\nthe very summit, no short cuts or climbing were possible.  The road\nran deep in a cutting like a Devonshire lane. Only here the high banks\nwere solid snow.\n\nSome little way past the summit, on the first zig-zag down, I passed\nthe Lake of the Dead in its mournful hollow. The mist still enveloped\nall the ridge-side, and moved like a press of spirits over the frozen\nwater, then--as suddenly as on the much lower Brienzer Grat, and (as\non the Brienzer Grat) to the southward and the sun, the clouds lifted\nand wreathed up backward and were gone, and where there had just been\nfulness was only an immensity of empty air and a sudden sight of clear\nhills beyond and of little strange distant things thousands and\nthousands of feet below.\n\nLECTOR. Pray are we to have any more of that fine writing?\n\nAUCTOR. I saw there as in a cup things that I had thought (when I\nfirst studied the map at home) far too spacious and spread apart to go\ninto the view. Yet here they were all quite contained and close\ntogether, on so vast a scale was the whole place conceived. It was the\ncomb of mountains of which I have written; the meeting of all the\nvalleys.\n\nThere, from the height of a steep bank, as it were (but a bank many\nthousands of feet high), one looked down into a whole district or\nlittle world. On the map, I say, it had seemed so great that I had\nthought one would command but this or that portion of it; as it was,\none saw it all.\n\nAnd this is a peculiar thing I have noticed in all mountains, and have\nnever been able to understand--- namely, that if you draw a plan or\nsection to scale, your mountain does not seem a very important thing.\nOne should not, in theory, be able to dominate from its height, nor to\nfeel the world small below one, nor to hold a whole countryside in\none's hand--yet one does. The mountains from their heights reveal to\nus two truths. They suddenly make us feel our insignificance, and at\nthe same time they free the immortal Mind, and let it feel its\ngreatness, and they release it from the earth. But I say again, in\ntheory, when one considers the exact relation of their height to the\ndistances one views from them, they ought to claim no such effect, and\nthat they can produce that effect is related to another thing--the way\nin which they exaggerate their own steepness.\n\nFor instance, those noble hills, my downs in Sussex, when you are upon\nthem overlooking the weald, from Chanctonbury say, feel like this--or\neven lower.  Indeed, it is impossible to give them truly, so\ninsignificant are they; if the stretch of the Weald were made nearly a\nyard long, Chanctonbury would not, in proportion, be more than a fifth\nof an inch high! And yet, from the top of Chanctonbury, how one seems\nto overlook it and possess it all!\n\nWell, so it was here from the Grimsel when I overlooked the springs of\nthe Rhone. In true proportion the valley I gazed into and over must\nhave been somewhat like this--\n\nIt felt for all the world as deep and utterly below me as this other--\n\nMoreover, where there was no mist, the air was so surprisingly clear\nthat I could see everything clean and sharp wherever I turned my eyes.\nThe mountains forbade any very far horizons to the view, and all that\nI could see was as neat and vivid as those coloured photographs they\nsell with bright green grass and bright white snow, and blue glaciers\nlike precious stones.\n\nI scrambled down the mountain, for here, on the south side of the\npass, there was no snow or ice, and it was quite easy to leave the\nroad and take the old path cutting off the zig-zags. As the air got\nheavier, I became hungry, and at the very end of my descent, two\nhundred feet or so above the young Rhone, I saw a great hotel. I went\nround to their front door and asked them whether I could eat, and at\nwhat price. 'Four francs,' they said.\n\n'What!' said I, 'four francs for a meal! Come, let me eat in the\nkitchen, and charge me one.' But they became rude and obstinate, being\nused only to deal with rich people, so I cursed them, and went down\nthe road. But I was very hungry.\n\nThe road falls quite steeply, and the Rhone, which it accompanies in\nthat valley, leaps in little falls. On a bridge I passed a sad\nEnglishman reading a book, and a little lower down, two American women\nin a carriage, and after that a priest (it was lucky I did not see him\nfirst. Anyhow, I touched iron at once, to wit, a key in my pocket),\nand after that a child minding a goat. Altogether I felt myself in the\nworld again, and as I was on a good road, all down hill, I thought\nmyself capable of pushing on to the next village. But my hunger was\nreally excessive, my right boot almost gone, and my left boot nothing\nto exhibit or boast of, when I came to a point where at last one\nlooked down the Rhone valley for miles. It is like a straight trench,\nand at intervals there are little villages, built of most filthy\nchalets, the said chalets raised on great stones. There are pine-trees\nup, up on either slope, into the clouds, and beyond the clouds I could\nnot see. I left on my left a village called 'Between the Waters'. I\npassed through another called 'Ehringen', but it has no inn. At last,\ntwo miles farther, faint from lack of food, I got into Ulrichen, a\nvillage a little larger than the rest, and the place where I believed\none should start to go either over the Gries or Nufenen Pass. In\nUlrichen was a warm, wooden, deep-eaved, frousty, comfortable,\nramshackle, dark, anyhow kind of a little inn called 'The Bear'. And\nentering, I saw one of the women whom god loves.\n\nShe was of middle age, very honest and simple in the face, kindly and\ngood.  She was messing about with cooking and stuff, and she came up\nto me stooping a little, her eyes wide and innocent, and a great spoon\nin her hand. Her face was extremely broad and flat, and I have never\nseen eyes set so far apart. Her whole gait, manner, and accent proved\nher to be extremely good, and on the straight road to heaven. I\nsaluted her in the French tongue. She answered me in the same, but\nvery broken and rustic, for her natural speech was a kind of mountain\nGerman. She spoke very slowly, and had a nice soft voice, and she did\nwhat only good people do, I mean, looked you in the eyes as she spoke\nto you.\n\nBeware of shifty-eyed people. It is not only nervousness, it is also a\nkind of wickedness. Such people come to no good. I have three of them\nnow in my mind as I write. One is a Professor.\n\nAnd, by the way, would you like to know why universities suffer from\nthis curse of nervous disease? Why the great personages stammer or\nhave St Vitus' dance, or jabber at the lips, or hop in their walk, or\nhave their heads screwed round, or tremble in the fingers, or go\nthrough life with great goggles like a motor car? Eh? I will tell you.\nIt is the punishment of their _intellectual pride,_ than which no sin\nis more offensive to the angels.\n\nWhat! here are we with the jolly world of God all round us, able to\nsing, to draw, to paint, to hammer and build, to sail, to ride horses,\nto run, to leap; having for our splendid inheritance love in youth and\nmemory in old age, and we are to take one miserable little faculty,\nour one-legged, knock-kneed, gimcrack, purblind, rough-skinned,\nunderfed, and perpetually irritated and grumpy intellect, or\nanalytical curiosity rather (a diseased appetite), and let it swell\ntill it eats up every other function? Away with such foolery.\n\nLECTOR. When shall we get on to...\n\nAUCTOR. Wait a moment. I say, away with such foolery. Note that\npedants lose all proportion. They never can keep sane in a discussion.\nThey will go wild on matters they are wholly unable to judge, such as\nArmenian Religion or the Politics of Paris or what not. Never do they\nuse one of those three phrases which keep a man steady and balance his\nmind, I mean the words (1) _After all it is not my business_. (2) Tut!\ntut! You don't say so! and (3) _Credo in Unum Deum Patrem\nOmnipotentem, Factorem omnium visibilium atque invisibilium;_ in which\nlast there is a power of synthesis that can jam all their analytical\ndust-heap into such a fine, tight, and compact body as would make them\nstare to see. I understand that they need six months' holiday a year.\nHad I my way they should take twelve, and an extra day on leap years.\n\nLECTOR. Pray, pray return to the woman at the inn.\n\nAUCTOR. I will, and by this road: to say that on the day of Judgement,\nwhen St Michael weighs souls in his scales, and the wicked are led off\nby the Devil with a great rope, as you may see them over the main\nporch of Notre Dame (I will heave a stone after them myself I hope),\nall the souls of the pedants together will not weigh as heavy and\nsound as the one soul of this good woman at the inn.\n\nShe put food before me and wine. The wine was good, but in the food\nwas some fearful herb or other I had never tasted before--a pure spice\nor scent, and a nasty one. One could taste nothing else, and it was\nrevolting; but I ate it for her sake.\n\nThen, very much refreshed, I rose, seized my great staff, shook myself\nand said, 'Now it is about noon, and I am off for the frontier.'\n\nAt this she made a most fearful clamour, saying that it was madness,\nand imploring me not to think of it, and running out fetched from the\nstable a tall, sad, pale-eyed man who saluted me profoundly and told\nme that he knew more of the mountains than any one for miles. And this\nby asking many afterwards I found out to be true. He said that he had\ncrossed the Nufenen and the Gries whenever they could be crossed since\nhe was a child, and that if I attempted it that day I should sleep\nthat night in Paradise. The clouds on the mountain, the soft snow\nrecently fallen, the rain that now occupied the valleys, the glacier\non the Gries, and the pathless snow in the mist on the Nufenen would\nmake it sheer suicide for him, an experienced guide, and for me a\nworse madness. Also he spoke of my boots and wondered at my poor coat\nand trousers, and threatened me with intolerable cold.\n\nIt seems that the books I had read at home, when they said that the\nNufenen had no snow on it, spoke of a later season of the year; it was\nall snow now, and soft snow, and hidden by a full mist in such a day\nfrom the first third of the ascent. As for the Gries, there was a\nglacier on the top which needed some kind of clearness in the weather.\nHearing all this I said I would remain--but it was with a heavy heart.\nAlready I felt a shadow of defeat over me. The loss of time was a\nthorn. I was already short of cash, and my next money was Milan. My\nreturn to England was fixed for a certain date, and stronger than\neither of these motives against delay was a burning restlessness that\nalways takes men when they are on the way to great adventures.\n\nI made him promise to wake me next morning at three o'clock, and,\nshort of a tempest, to try and get me across the Gries. As for the\nNufenen and Crystalline passes which I had desired to attempt, and\nwhich were (as I have said) the straight line to Rome, he said (and he\nwas right), that let alone the impassability of the Nufenen just then,\nto climb the Crystal Mountain in that season would be as easy as\nflying to the moon. Now, to cross the Nufenen alone, would simply land\nme in the upper valley of the Ticino, and take me a great bend out of\nmy way by Bellinzona. Hence my bargain that at least he should show me\nover the Gries Pass, and this he said, if man could do it, he would do\nthe next day; and I, sending my boots to be cobbled (and thereby\nbreaking another vow), crept up to bed, and all afternoon read the\nschool-books of the children. They were in French, from lower down the\nvalley, and very Genevese and heretical for so devout a household. But\nthe Genevese civilization is the standard for these people, and they\ncombat the Calvinism of it with missions, and have statues in their\nrooms, not to speak of holy water stoups.\n\nThe rain beat on my window, the clouds came lower still down the\nmountain.  Then (as is finely written in the Song of Roland), 'the day\npassed and the night came, and I slept.' But with the coming of the\nsmall hours, and with my waking, prepare yourselves for the most\nextraordinary and terrible adventure that befell me out of all the\nmarvels and perils of this pilgrimage, the most momentous and the most\nworthy of perpetual record, I think, of all that has ever happened\nsince the beginning of the world.\n\nAt three o'clock the guide knocked at my door, and I rose and came out\nto him. We drank coffee and ate bread. We put into our sacks ham and\nbread, and he white wine and I brandy. Then we set out. The rain had\ndropped to a drizzle, and there was no wind. The sky was obscured for\nthe most part, but here and there was a star. The hills hung awfully\nabove us in the night as we crossed the spongy valley. A little wooden\nbridge took us over the young Rhone, here only a stream, and we\nfollowed a path up into the tributary ravine which leads to the\nNufenen and the Gries. In a mile or two it was a little lighter, and\nthis was as well, for some weeks before a great avalanche had fallen,\nand we had to cross it gingerly. Beneath the wide cap of frozen snow\nran a torrent roaring. I remembered Colorado, and how I had crossed\nthe Arkansaw on such a bridge as a boy. We went on in the uneasy dawn.\nThe woods began to show, and there was a cross where a man had slipped\nfrom above that very April and been killed. Then, most ominous and\ndisturbing, the drizzle changed to a rain, and the guide shook his\nhead and said it would be snowing higher up. We went on, and it grew\nlighter. Before it was really day (or else the weather confused and\ndarkened the sky), we crossed a good bridge, built long ago, and we\nhalted at a shed where the cattle lie in the late summer when the snow\nis melted. There we rested a moment.\n\nBut on leaving its shelter we noticed many disquieting things. The\nplace was a hollow, the end of the ravine--a bowl, as it were; one way\nout of which is the Nufenen, and the other the Gries.\n\nHere it is in a sketch map. The heights are marked lighter and\nlighter, from black in the valleys to white in the impassable\nmountains. E is where we stood, in a great cup or basin, having just\ncome up the ravine B. C is the Italian valley of the Tosa, and the\nneck between it and E is the Gries.  D is the valley of the Ticino,\nand the neck between E and it is the Nufenen. A is the Crystal\nMountain. You may take the necks or passes to be about 8000, and the\nmountains 10,000 or 11,000 feet above the sea.\n\nWe noticed, I say, many disquieting things. First, all, that bowl or\ncup below the passes was a carpet of snow, save where patches of black\nwater showed, and all the passes and mountains, from top to bottom,\nwere covered with very thick snow; the deep surface of it soft and\nfresh fallen.  Secondly, the rain had turned into snow. It was falling\nthickly all around.  Nowhere have I more perceived the immediate\npresence of great Death.  Thirdly, it was far colder, and we felt the\nbeginning of a wind. Fourthly, the clouds had come quite low down.\n\nThe guide said it could not be done, but I said we must attempt it. I\nwas eager, and had not yet felt the awful grip of the cold. We left\nthe Nufenen on our left, a hopeless steep of new snow buried in fog,\nand we attacked the Gries. For half-an-hour we plunged on through snow\nabove our knees, and my thin cotton clothes were soaked. So far the\nguide knew we were more or less on the path, and he went on and I\npanted after him. Neither of us spoke, but occasionally he looked back\nto make sure I had not dropped out.\n\nThe snow began to fall more thickly, and the wind had risen somewhat.\nI was afraid of another protest from the guide, but he stuck to it\nwell, and I after him, continually plunging through soft snow and\nmaking yard after yard upwards. The snow fell more thickly and the\nwind still rose.\n\nWe came to a place which is, in the warm season, an alp; that is, a\nslope of grass, very steep but not terrifying; having here and there\nsharp little precipices of rock breaking it into steps, but by no\nmeans (in summer) a matter to make one draw back. Now, however, when\neverything was still Arctic it was a very different matter. A sheer\nsteep of snow whose downward plunge ran into the driving storm and was\nlost, whose head was lost in the same mass of thick cloud above, a\nslope somewhat hollowed and bent inwards, had to be crossed if we were\nto go any farther; and I was terrified, for I knew nothing of\nclimbing. The guide said there was little danger, only if one slipped\none might slide down to safety, or one might (much less probably) get\nover rocks and be killed. I was chattering a little with cold; but as\nhe did not propose a return, I followed him. The surface was\nalternately slabs of frozen snow and patches of soft new snow. In the\nfirst he cut steps, in the second we plunged, and once I went right in\nand a mass of snow broke off beneath me and went careering down the\nslope. He showed me how to hold my staff backwards as he did his\nalpenstock, and use it as a kind of brake in case I slipped.\n\nWe had been about twenty minutes crawling over that wall of snow and\nice; and it was more and more apparent that we were in for danger.\nBefore we had quite reached the far side, the wind was blowing a very\nfull gale and roared past our ears. The surface snow was whirring\nfuriously like dust before it: past our faces and against them drove\nthe snow-flakes, cutting the air: not falling, but making straight\ndarts and streaks. They seemed like the form of the whistling wind;\nthey blinded us. The rocks on the far side of the slope, rocks which\nhad been our goal when we set out to cross it, had long ago\ndisappeared in the increasing rush of the blizzard.  Suddenly as we\nwere still painfully moving on, stooping against the mad wind, these\nrocks loomed up over as large as houses, and we saw them through the\nswarming snow-flakes as great hulls are seen through a fog at sea. The\nguide crouched under the lee of the nearest; I came up close to him\nand he put his hands to my ear and shouted to me that nothing further\ncould be done--he had so to shout because in among the rocks the\nhurricane made a roaring sound, swamping the voice.\n\nI asked how far we were from the summit. He said he did not know where\nwe were exactly, but that we could not be more than 800 feet from it.\nI was but that from Italy and I would not admit defeat. I offered him\nall I had in money to go on, but it was folly in me, because if I had\nhad enough to tempt him and if he had yielded we should both have\ndied. Luckily it was but a little sum. He shook his head. He would not\ngo on, he broke out, for all the money there was in the world. He\nshouted me to eat and drink, and so we both did.\n\nThen I understood his wisdom, for in a little while the cold began to\nseize me in my thin clothes. My hands were numb, my face already gave\nme intolerable pain, and my legs suffered and felt heavy. I learnt\nanother thing (which had I been used to mountains I should have\nknown), that it was not a simple thing to return. The guide was\nhesitating whether to stay in this rough shelter, or to face the\nchances of the descent. This terror had not crossed my mind, and I\nthought as little of it as I could, needing my courage, and being near\nto breaking down from the intensity of the cold.\n\nIt seems that in a _tourmente_ (for by that excellent name do the\nmountain people call such a storm) it is always a matter of doubt\nwhether to halt or go back. If you go back through it and lose your\nway, you are done for. If you halt in some shelter, it may go on for\ntwo or three days, and then there is an end of you.\n\nAfter a little he decided for a return, but he told me honestly what\nthe chances were, and my suffering from cold mercifully mitigated my\nfear. But even in that moment, I felt in a confused but very conscious\nway that I was defeated. I had crossed so many great hills and rivers,\nand pressed so well on my undeviating arrow-line to Rome, and I had\ncharged this one great barrier manfully where the straight path of my\npilgrimage crossed the Alps--and I had failed! Even in that fearful\ncold I felt it, and it ran through my doubt of return like another and\ndeeper current of pain. Italy was there, just above, right to my hand.\nA lifting of a cloud, a little respite, and every downward step would\nhave been towards the sunlight. As it was, I was being driven back\nnorthward, in retreat and ashamed. The Alps had conquered me.\n\nLet us always after this combat their immensity and their will, and\nalways hate the inhuman guards that hold the gates of Italy, and the\npowers that lie in wait for men on those high places. But now I know\nthat Italy will always stand apart. She is cut off by no ordinary\nwall, and Death has all his army on her frontiers.\n\nWell, we returned. Twice the guide rubbed my hands with brandy, and\nonce I had to halt and recover for a moment, failing and losing my\nhold. Believe it or not, the deep footsteps of our ascent were already\nquite lost and covered by the new snow since our halt, and even had\nthey been visible, the guide would not have retraced them. He did what\nI did not at first understand, but what I soon saw to be wise. He took\na steep slant downward over the face of the snow-slope, and though\nsuch a pitch of descent a little unnerved me, it was well in the end.\nFor when we had gone down perhaps 900 feet, or a thousand, in\nperpendicular distance, even I, half numb and fainting, could feel\nthat the storm was less violent. Another two hundred, and the flakes\ncould be seen not driving in flashes past, but separately falling.\nThen in some few minutes we could see the slope for a very long way\ndownwards quite clearly; then, soon after, we saw far below us the\nplace where the mountain-side merged easily into the plain of that cup\nor basin whence we had started.\n\nWhen we saw this, the guide said to me, 'Hold your stick thus, if you\nare strong enough, and let yourself slide.' I could just hold it, in\nspite of the cold. Life was returning to me with intolerable pain. We\nshot down the slope almost as quickly as falling, but it was evidently\nsafe to do so, as the end was clearly visible, and had no break or\nrock in it.\n\nSo we reached the plain below, and entered the little shed, and thence\nlooking up, we saw the storm above us; but no one could have told it\nfor what it was. Here, below, was silence, and the terror and raging\nabove seemed only a great trembling cloud occupying the mountain. Then\nwe set our faces down the ravine by which we had come up, and so came\ndown to where the snow changed to rain. When we got right down into\nthe valley of the Rhone, we found it all roofed with cloud, and the\nhigher trees were white with snow, making a line like a tide mark on\nthe slopes of the hills.\n\nI re-entered 'The Bear', silent and angered, and not accepting the\nhumiliation of that failure. Then, having eaten, I determined in equal\nsilence to take the road like any other fool; to cross the Furka by a\nfine highroad, like any tourist, and to cross the St Gothard by\nanother fine highroad, as millions had done before me, and not to look\nheaven in the face again till I was back after my long detour, on the\nstraight road again for Rome.\n\nBut to think of it! I who had all that planned out, and had so nearly\ndone it! I who had cut a path across Europe like a shaft, and seen so\nmany strange places!--now to have to recite all the litany of the\nvulgar; Bellinzona, Lugano, and this and that, which any railway\ntravelling fellow can tell you. Not till Como should I feel a man\nagain...\n\nIndeed it is a bitter thing to have to give up one's sword.\n\nI had not the money to wait; my defeat had lowered me in purse as well\nas in heart. I started off to enter by the ordinary gates--not Italy\neven, but a half-Italy, the canton of the Ticino. It was very hard.\n\nThis book is not a tragedy, and I will not write at any length of such\npain. That same day, in the latter half of it, I went sullenly over\nthe Furka; exactly as easy a thing as going up St James' Street and\ndown Piccadilly. I found the same storm on its summit, but on a\nhighroad it was a different affair. I took no short cuts. I drank at\nall the inns--at the base, half-way up, near the top, and at the top.\nI told them, as the snow beat past, how I had attacked and all but\nconquered the Gries that wild morning, and they took me for a liar; so\nI became silent even within my own mind. I looked sullenly at the\nwhite ground all the way. And when on the far side I had got low\nenough to be rid of the snow and wind and to be in the dripping rain\nagain, I welcomed the rain, and let it soothe like a sodden friend my\nsodden uncongenial mind.\n\nI will not write of Hospenthal. It has an old tower, and the road to\nit is straight and hideous. Much I cared for the old tower! The people\nof the inn (which I chose at random) cannot have loved me much.\n\nI will not write of the St Gothard. Get it out of a guide-book. I rose\nwhen I felt inclined; I was delighted to find it still raining. A\ndense mist above the rain gave me still greater pleasure. I had\nstarted quite at my leisure late in the day, and I did the thing\nstolidly, and my heart was like a dully-heated mass of coal or iron\nbecause I was acknowledging defeat. You who have never taken a\nstraight line and held it, nor seen strange men and remote places, you\ndo not know what it is to have to go round by the common way.\n\nOnly in the afternoon, and on those little zig-zags which are sharper\nthan any other in the Alps (perhaps the road is older), something\nchanged.\n\nA warm air stirred the dense mist which had mercifully cut me off from\nanything but the mere road and from the contemplation of hackneyed\nsights.\n\nA hint or memory of gracious things ran in the slight breeze, the\nwreaths of fog would lift a little for a few yards, and in their\nclearings I thought to approach a softer and more desirable world. I\nwas soothed as though with caresses and when I began to see somewhat\nfarther and felt a vigour and fulness in the outline of the Trees, I\nsaid to myself suddenly--\n\n'I know what it is! It is the South, and a great part of my blood.\nThey may call it Switzerland still, but I know now that I am in Italy,\nand this is the gate of Italy lying in groves.'\n\nThen and on till evening I reconciled myself with misfortune, and when\nI heard again at Airolo the speech of civilized men, and saw the\nstrong Latin eyes and straight forms of the Race after all those days\nof fog and frost and German speech and the north, my eyes filled with\ntears and I was as glad as a man come home again, and I could have\nkissed the ground.\n\nThe wine of Airolo and its songs, how greatly they refreshed me! To\nsee men with answering eyes and to find a salute returned; the noise\nof careless mouths talking all together; the group at cards, and the\nlaughter that is proper to mankind; the straight carriage of the\nwomen, and in all the people something erect and noble as though\nindeed they possessed the earth.  I made a meal there, talking to all\nmy companions left and right in a new speech of my own, which was made\nup, as it were, of the essence of all the Latin tongues, saying--\n\n_'Ha! Si jo a traversa li montagna no erat facile! Nenni! II san\nGottardo?  Nil est! pooh! poco! Ma hesterna jo ha voulu traversar in\nVal Bavona, e credi non ritornar, namfredo, fredo erat in alto! La\ntourmente ma prise...'_\n\nAnd so forth, explaining all fully with gestures, exaggerating,\nemphasizing, and acting the whole matter, so that they understood me\nwithout much error. But I found it more difficult to understand them,\nbecause they had a regular formed language with terminations and\nspecial words.\n\nIt went to my heart to offer them no wine, but a thought was in me of\nwhich you shall soon hear more. My money was running low, and the\nchief anxiety of a civilized man was spreading over my mind like the\nshadow of a cloud over a field of corn in summer. They gave me a\nnumber of 'good-nights', and at parting I could not forbear from\nboasting that I was a pilgrim on my way to Rome. This they repeated\none to another, and one man told me that the next good halting-place\nwas a town called Faido, three hours down the road.  He held up three\nfingers to explain, and that was the last intercourse I had with the\nAirolans, for at once I took the road.\n\nI glanced up the dark ravine which I should have descended had I\ncrossed the Nufenen. I thought of the Val Bavona, only just over the\ngreat wall that held the west; and in one place where a rift (you have\njust seen its picture) led up to the summits of the hills I was half\ntempted to go back to Airolo and sleep and next morning to attempt a\ncrossing. But I had accepted my fate on the Gries and the falling road\nalso held me, and so I continued my way.\n\nEverything was pleasing in this new valley under the sunlight that\nstill came strongly from behind the enormous mountains; everything\nalso was new, and I was evidently now in a country of a special kind.\nThe slopes were populous, I had come to the great mother of fruits and\nmen, and I was soon to see her cities and her old walls, and the\nrivers that glide by them. Church towers also repeated the same shapes\nup and up the wooded hills until the villages stopped at the line of\nthe higher slopes and at the patches of snow. The houses were square\nand coloured; they were graced with arbours, and there seemed to be\nall around nothing but what was reasonable and secure, and especially\nno rich or poor.\n\nI noticed all these things on the one side and the other till, not two\nhours from Airolo, I came to a step in the valley. For the valley of\nthe Ticino is made up of distinct levels, each of which might have\nheld a lake once for the way it is enclosed: and each level ends in\nhigh rocks with a gorge between them. Down this gorge the river\ntumbles in falls and rapids and the road picks its way down steeply,\nall banked and cut, and sometimes has to cross from side to side by a\nbridge, while the railway above one overcomes the sharp descent by\nrunning round into the heart of the hills through circular tunnels and\ncoming out again far below the cavern where it plunged in. Then when\nall three--the river, the road, and the railway--- have got over the\ngreat step, a new level of the valley opens. This is the way the road\ncomes into the south, and as I passed down to the lower valley, though\nit was darkening into evening, something melted out of the mountain\nair, there was content and warmth in the growing things, and I found\nit was a place for vineyards. So, before it was yet dark, I came into\nFaido, and there I slept, having at last, after so many adventures,\ncrossed the threshold and occupied Italy.\n\nNext day before sunrise I went out, and all the valley was adorned and\ntremulous with the films of morning.\n\nNow all of you who have hitherto followed the story of this great\njourney, put out of your minds the Alps and the passes and the\nsnows--postpone even for a moment the influence of the happy dawn and\nof that South into which I had entered, and consider only this truth,\nthat I found myself just out of Faido on this blessed date of God with\neight francs and forty centimes for my viaticum and temporal provision\nwherewith to accomplish the good work of my pilgrimage.\n\nNow when you consider that coffee and bread was twopence and a penny\nfor the maid, you may say without lying that I had left behind me the\nescarpment of the Alps and stood upon the downward slopes of the first\nItalian stream and at the summit of the entry road with _eight francs\nten centimes_ in my pocket--my body hearty and my spirit light, for\nthe arriving sun shot glory into the sky. The air was keen, and a\nfresh day came radiant over the high eastern walls of the valley.\n\nAnd what of that? Why, one might make many things of it. For instance,\neight francs and ten centimes is a very good day's wages; it is a lot\nto spend in cab fares but little for a _coupe._ It is a heavy price\nfor Burgundy but a song for Tokay. It is eighty miles third-class and\nmore; it is thirty or less first-class; it is a flash in a train _de\nluxe,_ and a mere fleabite as a bribe to a journalist. It would be\nenormous to give it to an apostle begging at a church door, but\nnothing to spend on luncheon.\n\nProperly spent I can imagine it saving five or six souls, but I cannot\nbelieve that so paltry a sum would damn half an one.\n\nThen, again, it would be a nice thing to sing about. Thus, if one were\na modern fool one might write a dirge with 'Huit francs et dix\ncentimes' all chanted on one low sad note, and coming in between\nbrackets for a 'motif, and with a lot about autumn and Death--which\nlast, Death that is, people nowadays seem to regard as something odd,\nwhereas it is well known to be the commonest thing in the world. Or\none might make the words the Backbone of a triolet, only one would\nhave to split them up to fit it into the metre; or one might make it\nthe decisive line in a sonnet; or one might make a pretty little lyric\nof it, to the tune of 'Madame la Marquise'--\n\n_'Huit francs et dix centimes, Tra la la, la la la.'_\n\nOr one might put it rhetorically, fiercely, stoically, finely,\nrepublicanly into the Heroics of the Great School. Thus--\n\nHERNANI _(with indignation)... dans ces efforts sublimes_'Qu'avez\nvous a offrir?_'\n\nRUY BLAS _(simply) Huit francs et dix centimes!_\n\nOr finally (for this kind of thing cannot go on for ever), one might\ncurl one's hair and dye it black, and cock a dirty slouch hat over one\near and take a guitar and sit on a flat stone by the roadside and\ncross one's legs, and, after a few pings and pongs on the strings,\nstrike up a Ballad with the refrain--\n\n_Car j'ai toujours huit francs et dix centimes!_ a jocular,\nsub-sardonic, a triumphant refrain!\n\nBut all this is by the way; the point is, why was the eight francs and\nten centimes of such importance just there and then?\n\nFor this reason, that I could get no more money before Milan; and I\nthink a little reflection will show you what a meaning lies in that\nphrase. Milan was nearer ninety miles than eighty miles off. By the\nstrict road it was over ninety. And so I was forced to consider and to\nbe anxious, for how would this money hold out?\n\nThere was nothing for it but forced marches, and little prospect of\nluxuries. But could it be done?\n\nI thought it could, and I reasoned this way.\n\n'It is true I need a good deal of food, and that if a man is to cover\ngreat distances he must keep fit. It is also true that many men have\ndone more on less. On the other hand, they were men who were not\npressed for time--I am; and I do not know the habits of the country.\nNinety miles is three good days; two very heavy days. Indeed, whether\nit can be done at all in two is doubtful. But it can be done in two\ndays, two nights, and half the third day. So if I plan it thus I shall\nachieve it; namely, to march say forty-five miles or more to-day, and\nto sleep rough at the end of it. My food may cost me altogether three\nfrancs. I march the next day twenty-five to thirty, my food costing me\nanother three francs. Then with the remaining two francs and ten\ncentimes I will take a bed at the end of the day, and coffee and bread\nnext morning, and will march the remaining twenty miles or less (as\nthey may be) into Milan with a copper or two in my pocket. Then in\nMilan, having obtained my money, I will eat.'\n\nSo I planned with very careful and exact precision, but many accidents\nand unexpected things, diverting my plans, lay in wait for me among\nthe hills.\n\nAnd to cut a long story short, as the old sailor said to the young\nfool--\n\nLECTOR. What did the old sailor say to the young fool?\n\nAUCTOR. Why, the old sailor was teaching the young fool his compass,\nand he said---\n\n'Here we go from north, making round by west, and then by south round\nby east again to north. There are thirty-two points of the compass,\nnamely, first these four, N., W., S., and E., and these are halved,\nmaking four more, viz., NW., S W., SE., and NE. I trust I make myself\nclear,' said the old sailor.\n\n'That makes eight divisions, as we call them. So look smart and\nfollow.  Each of these eight is divided into two symbolically and\nsymmetrically divided parts, as is most evident in the nomenclature of\nthe same,' said the old sailor. 'Thus between N. and NE. is NNE.,\nbetween NE. and E. is ENE., between E. and SE. is...'\n\n'I see,' said the young fool.\n\nThe old sailor, frowning at him, continued--\n\n'Smart you there. Heels together, and note you well. Each of these\nsixteen divisions is separated quite reasonably and precisely into\ntwo. Thus between N. and NNE. we get N. by E.,' said the old sailor;\n'and between NNE. and NE. we get NE. by E., and between NE. and ENE.\nwe get NE. by E.,' said the old sailor; 'and between ENE. and E. we\nget E. by N., and then between E. and ESE. we get...'\n\nBut here he noticed something dangerous in the young fool's eyes, and\nhaving read all his life Admiral Griles' 'Notes on Discipline', and\nknowing that discipline is a subtle bond depending 'not on force but\non an attitude of the mind,' he continued--\n\n'And so TO CUT A LONG STORY SHORT we come round to the north again.'\nThen he added, 'It is customary also to divide each of these points\ninto quarters. Thus NNE. 3/4 E. signifies...'\n\nBut at this point the young fool, whose hands were clasped behind him\nand concealed a marlin-spike, up and killed the old sailor, and so\nrounded off this fascinating tale.\n\nWell then, to cut a long story short, I had to make forced marches.\nWith eight francs and ten centimes, and nearer ninety than eighty-five\nmiles before the next relief, it was necessary to plan and then to\nurge on heroically.  Said I to myself, 'The thing can be done quite\neasily. What is ninety miles? Two long days! Who cannot live on four\nfrancs a day? Why, lots of men do it on two francs a day.'\n\nBut my guardian angel said to me, 'You are an ass! Ninety miles is a\ngreat deal more than twice forty-five. Besides which' (said he) 'a\ngreat effort needs largeness and ease. Men who live on two francs a\nday or less are not men who attempt to march forty-five miles a day.\nIndeed, my friend, you are pushing it very close.'\n\n'Well,' thought I, 'at least in such a glorious air, with such Hills\nall about one, and such a race, one can come to no great harm.'\n\nBut I knew within me that Latins are hard where money is concerned,\nand I feared for my strength. I was determined to push forward and to\nlive on little. I filled my lungs and put on the spirit of an attempt\nand swung down the valley.\n\nAlas! I may not linger on that charge, for if I did I should not give\nyou any measure of its determination and rapidity. Many little places\npassed me off the road on the flanks of that valley, and mostly to the\nleft. While the morning was yet young, I came to the packed little\ntown of Bodio, and passed the eight franc limit by taking coffee,\nbrandy, and bread. There also were a gentleman and a lady in a\ncarriage who wondered where I was going, and I told them (in French)\n'to Rome'. It was nine in the morning when I came to Biasca. The sun\nwas glorious, and not yet warm: it was too early for a meal. They gave\nme a little cold meat and bread and wine, and seven francs stood out\ndry above the falling tide of my money.\n\nHere at Biasca the valley took on a different aspect. It became wider\nand more of a countryside; the vast hills, receding, took on an\nappearance of less familiar majesty, and because the trend of the\nTicino turned southerly some miles ahead the whole place seemed\nenclosed from the world. One would have said that a high mountain\nbefore me closed it in and rendered it unique and unknown, had not a\nwide cleft in the east argued another pass over the hills, and\nreminded me that there were various routes over the crest of the Alps.\n\nIndeed, this hackneyed approach to Italy which I had dreaded and\ndespised and accepted only after a defeat was very marvellous, and\nthis valley of the Ticino ought to stand apart and be a commonwealth\nof its own like Andorra or the Gresivaudan: the noble garden of the\nIsere within the first gates of the Dauphine.\n\nI was fatigued, and my senses lost acuteness. Still I noticed with\ndelight the new character of the miles I pursued. A low hill just\nbefore me, jutting out apparently from the high western mountains,\nforbade me to see beyond it. The plain was alluvial, while copses and\nwood and many cultivated fields now found room where, higher up, had\nbeen nothing but the bed of a torrent with bare banks and strips of\ngrass immediately above them; it was a place worthy of a special name\nand of being one lordship and a countryside. Still I went on towards\nthat near boundary of the mountain spur and towards the point where\nthe river rounded it, the great barrier hill before me still seeming\nto shut in the valley.\n\nIt was noon, or thereabouts, the heat was increasing (I did not feel\nit greatly, for I had eaten and drunk next to nothing), when, coming\nround the point, there opened out before me the great fan of the lower\nvalley and the widening and fruitful plain through which the Ticino\nrolls in a full river to reach Lake Major, which is its sea.\n\nWeary as I was, the vision of this sudden expansion roused me and made\nme forget everything except the sight before me. The valley turned\nwell southward as it broadened. The Alps spread out on either side\nlike great arms welcoming the southern day; the wholesome and familiar\nhaze that should accompany summer dimmed the more distant mountains of\nthe lakes and turned them amethystine, and something of repose and of\ndistance was added to the landscape; something I had not seen for many\ndays. There was room in that air and space for dreams and for many\nliving men, for towns perhaps on the slopes, for the boats of happy\nmen upon the waters, and everywhere for crowded and contented living.\nHistory might be in all this, and I remembered it was the entry and\nintroduction of many armies. Singing therefore a song of Charlemagne,\nI swung on in a good effort to where, right under the sun, what seemed\na wall and two towers on a sharp little hillock set in the bosom of\nthe valley showed me Bellinzona. Within the central street of that\ncity, and on its shaded side, I sank down upon a bench before the\ncurtained door of a drinking booth and boasted that I had covered in\nthat morning my twenty-five miles.\n\nThe woman of the place came out to greet me, and asked me a question.\nI did not catch it (for it was in a foreign language), but guessing\nher to mean that I should take something, I asked for vermouth, and\nseeing before me a strange door built of red stone, I drew it as I\nsipped my glass and the woman talked to me all the while in a language\nI could not understand. And as I drew I became so interested that I\nforgot my poverty and offered her husband a glass, and then gave\nanother to a lounging man that had watched me at work, and so from\nless than seven francs my money fell to six exactly, and my pencil\nfell from my hand, and I became afraid.\n\n'I have done a foolish thing,' said I to myself, 'and have endangered\nthe success of my endeavour. Nevertheless, that cannot now be\nremedied, and I must eat; and as eating is best where one has friends\nI will ask a meal of this woman.'\n\nNow had they understood French I could have bargained and chosen; as\nit was I had to take what they were taking, and so I sat with them as\nthey all came out and ate together at the little table. They had soup\nand flesh, wine and bread, and as we ate we talked, not understanding\neach other, and laughing heartily at our mutual ignorance. And they\ncharged me a franc, which brought my six francs down to five. But I,\nknowing my subtle duty to the world, put down twopence more, as I\nwould have done anywhere else, for a _pour boire;_ and so with four\nfrancs and eighty centimes left, and with much less than a third of my\ntask accomplished I rose, now drowsy with the food and wine, and\nsaluting them, took the road once more.\n\nBut as I left Bellinzona there was a task before me which was to bring\nmy poverty to the test; for you must know that my map was a bad one,\nand on a very small scale, and the road from Bellinzona to Lugano has\na crook in it, and it was essential to find a short cut. So I thought\nto myself, 'I will try to see a good map as cheaply as possible,' and\nI slunk off to the right into a kind of main square, and there I found\na proud stationer's shop, such as would deal with rich men only, or\ntourists of the coarser and less humble kind. I entered with some\nassurance, and said in French--\n\n'Sir, I wish to know the hills between here and Lugano, but I am too\npoor to buy a map. If you will let me look at one for a few moments, I\nwill pay you what you think fit.'\n\nThe wicked stationer became like a devil for pride, and glaring at me,\nsaid--\n\n'Look! Look for yourself. I do not take pence. I sell maps; I do not\nhire them!'\n\nThen I thought, 'Shall I take a favour from such a man?' But I\nyielded, and did. I went up to the wall and studied a large map for\nsome moments. Then as I left, I said to him--\n\n'Sir, I shall always hold in remembrance the day on which you did me\nthis signal kindness; nor shall I forget your courtesy and goodwill.'\n\nAnd what do you think he did at that?\n\nWhy, he burst into twenty smiles, and bowed and seemed beatified, and\nsaid: 'Whatever I can do for my customers and for visitors to this\ntown, I shall always be delighted to do. Pray, sir, will you not look\nat other maps for a moment?'\n\nNow, why did he say this and grin happily like a gargoyle appeased?\nDid something in my accent suggest wealth? or was he naturally kindly?\nI do not know; but of this I am sure, one should never hate human\nbeings merely on a first, nor on a tenth, impression. Who knows? This\nmap-seller of Bellinzona may have been a good man; anyhow, I left him\nas rich as I had found him, and remembering that the true key to a\nforced march is to break the twenty-four hours into three pieces, and\nnow feeling the extreme heat, I went out along the burning straight\nroad until I found a border of grass and a hedge, and there, in spite\nof the dust and the continually passing carts, I lay at full length in\nthe shade and fell into the sleep of men against whom there is no\nreckoning. Just as I forgot the world I heard a clock strike two.\n\nI slept for hours beneath that hedge, and when I woke the air was no\nlonger a trembling furnace, but everything about me was wrapped round\nas in a cloak of southern afternoon, and was still. The sun had fallen\nmidway, and shone in steady glory through a haze that overhung Lake\nMajor, and the wide luxuriant estuary of the vale. There lay before me\na long straight road for miles at the base of high hills; then, far\noff, this road seemed to end at the foot of a mountain called, I\nbelieve, Ash Mount or Cinder Hill. But my imperfect map told me that\nhere it went sharp round to the left, choosing a pass, and then at an\nangle went down its way to Lugano.\n\nNow Lugano was not fifteen miles as the crow flies from where I stood,\nand I determined to cut off that angle by climbing the high hills just\nabove me. They were wooded only on their slopes; their crest and much\nof their sides were a down-land of parched grass, with rocks appearing\nhere and there. At the first divergent lane I made off eastward from\nthe road and began to climb.\n\nIn under the chestnut trees the lane became a number of vague beaten\npaths; I followed straight upwards. Here and there were little houses\nstanding hidden in leaves, and soon I crossed the railway, and at last\nabove the trees I saw the sight of all the Bellinzona valley to the\nnorth; and turning my eyes I saw it broaden out between its walls to\nwhere the lake lay very bright, in spite of the slight mist, and this\nmist gave the lake distances, and the mountains round about it were\ntransfigured and seemed part of the mere light.\n\nThe Italian lakes have that in them and their air which removes them\nfrom common living. Their beauty is not the beauty which each of us\nsees for himself in the world; it is rather the beauty of a special\ncreation; the expression of some mind. To eyes innocent, and first\nfreshly noting our great temporal inheritance--1 mean to the eyes of a\nboy and girl just entered upon the estate of this glorious earth, and\nthinking themselves immortal, this shrine of Europe might remain for\never in the memory; an enchanted experience, in which the single sense\nof sight had almost touched the boundary of music. They would remember\nthese lakes as the central emotion of their youth. To mean men also\nwho, in spite of years and of a full foreknowledge of death, yet\nattempt nothing but the satisfaction of sense, and pride themselves\nupon the taste and fineness with which they achieve this satisfaction,\nthe Italian lakes would seem a place for habitation, and there such a\nman might build his house contentedly. But to ordinary Christians I am\nsure there is something unnatural in this beauty of theirs, and they\nfind in it either a paradise only to be won by a much longer road to a\nbait and veil of sorcery, behind which lies great peril.  Now, for all\nwe know, beauty beyond the world may not really bear this double\naspect; but to us on earth--if we are ordinary men--beauty of this\nkind has something evil. Have you not read in books how men when they\nsee even divine visions are terrified? So as I looked at Lake Major in\nits halo I also was afraid, and I was glad to cross the ridge and\ncrest of the hill and to shut out that picture framed all round with\nglory.\n\nBut on the other side of the hill I found, to my great disgust, not as\nI had hoped, a fine slope down leading to Lugano, but a second\ninterior valley and another range just opposite me. I had not the\npatience to climb this so I followed down the marshy land at the foot\nof it, passed round the end of the hill and came upon the railway,\nwhich had tunnelled under the range I had crossed. I followed the\nrailway for a little while and at last crossed it, penetrated through\na thick brushwood, forded a nasty little stream, and found myself\nagain on the main road, wishing heartily I had never left it.\n\nIt was still at least seven miles to Lugano, and though all the way\nwas downhill, yet fatigue threatened me. These short cuts over marshy\nland and through difficult thickets are not short cuts at all, and I\nwas just wondering whether, although it was already evening, I dared\nnot rest a while, when there appeared at a turn in the road a little\npink house with a yard all shaded over by a vast tree; there was also\na trellis making a roof over a plain bench and table, and on the\ntrellis grew vines.\n\n'Into such houses,' I thought, 'the gods walk when they come down and\ntalk with men, and such houses are the scenes of adventures. I will go\nin and rest.'\n\nSo I walked straight into the courtyard and found there a shrivelled\nbrown-faced man with kindly eyes, who was singing a song to himself.\nHe could talk a little French, a little English, and his own Italian\nlanguage.  He had been to America and to Paris; he was full of\nmemories; and when I had listened to these and asked for food and\ndrink, and said I was extremely poor and would have to bargain, he\nmade a kind of litany of 'I will not cheat you; I am an honest man; I\nalso am poor,' and so forth.  Nevertheless I argued about every\nitem--the bread, the sausage, and the beer. Seeing that I was in\nnecessity, he charged me about three times their value, but I beat him\ndown to double, and lower than that he would not go.  Then we sat down\ntogether at the table and ate and drank and talked of far countries;\nand he would interject remarks on his honesty compared with the\nwickedness of his neighbours, and I parried with illustrations of my\npoverty and need, pulling out the four francs odd that remained to me,\nand jingling them sorrowfully in my hand. 'With these,' I said, 'I\nmust reach Milan.'\n\nThen I left him, and as I went down the road a slight breeze came on,\nand brought with it the coolness of evening.\n\nAt last the falling plateau reached an edge, many little lights\nglittered below me, and I sat on a stone and looked down at the town\nof Lugano. It was nearly dark. The mountains all around had lost their\nmouldings, and were marked in flat silhouettes against the sky. The\nnew lake which had just appeared below me was bright as water is at\ndusk, and far away in the north and east the high Alps still stood up\nand received the large glow of evening. Everything else was full of\nthe coming night, and a few stars shone. Up from She town came the\ndistant noise of music; otherwise there was no sound. I could have\nrested there a long time, letting my tired body lapse into the\nadvancing darkness, and catching in my spirit the inspiration of the\nsilence--had it not been for hunger. I knew by experience that when it\nis very late one cannot be served in the eating-houses of poor men,\nand I had not the money or any other. So I rose and shambled down the\nsteep road into the town, and there I found a square with arcades, and\nin the south-eastern corner of this square just such a little tavern\nas I required. Entering, therefore, and taking off my hat very low, I\nsaid in French to a man who was sitting there with friends, and who\nwas the master, 'Sir, what is the least price at which you can give me\na meal?'\n\nHe said, 'What do you want?'\n\nI answered, 'Soup, meat, vegetables, bread, and a little wine.'\n\nHe counted on his fingers, while all his friends stared respectfully\nat him and me. He then gave orders, and a very young and beautiful\ngirl set before me as excellent a meal as I had eaten for days on\ndays, and he charged me but a franc and a half. He gave me also coffee\nand a little cheese, and I, feeling hearty, gave threepence over for\nthe service, and they all very genially wished me a good-night; but\ntheir wishes were of no value to me, for the night was terrible.\n\nI had gone over forty miles; how much over I did not know. I should\nhave slept at Lugano, but my lightening purse forbade me. I thought,\n'I will push on and on; after all, I have already slept, and so broken\nthe back of the day. I will push on till I am at the end of my tether,\nthen I will find a wood and sleep.' Within four miles my strength\nabandoned me. I was not even so far down the lake as to have lost the\nsound of the band at Lugano floating up the still water, when I was\nunder an imperative necessity for repose. It was perhaps ten o'clock,\nand the sky was open and glorious with stars. I climbed up a bank on\nmy right, and searching for a place to lie found one under a tree near\na great telegraph pole. Here was a little parched grass, and one could\nlie there and see the lake and wait for sleep. It was a benediction to\nstretch out all supported by the dry earth, with my little side-bag\nfor pillow, and to look at the clear night above the hills, and to\nlisten to the very distant music, and to wonder whether or not, in\nthis strange southern country, there might not be snakes gliding about\nin the undergrowth. Caught in such a skein of influence I was soothed\nand fell asleep.\n\nFor a little while I slept dreamlessly.\n\nJust so much of my living self remained as can know, without\nunderstanding, the air around. It is the life of trees. That\nunder-part, the barely conscious base of nature which trees and\nsleeping men are sunk in, is not only dominated by an immeasurable\ncalm, but is also beyond all expression contented. And in its very\nstuff there is a complete and changeless joy.  This is surely what the\ngreat mind meant when it said to the Athenian judges that death must\nnot be dreaded since no experience in life was so pleasurable as a\ndeep sleep; for being wise and seeing the intercommunion of things, he\ncould not mean extinction, which is nonsense, but a lapse into that\nunder-part of which I speak. For there are gods also below the earth.\n\nBut a dream came into my sleep and disturbed me, increasing life, and\ntherefore bringing pain. I dreamt that I was arguing, at first easily,\nthen violently, with another man. More and more he pressed me, and at\nlast in my dream there were clearly spoken words, and he said to me,\n'You must be wrong, because you are so cold; if you were right you\nwould not be so cold.' And this argument seemed quite reasonable to me\nin my foolish dream, and I muttered to him, 'You are right, I must be\nin the wrong. It is very cold...' Then I half opened my eyes and saw\nthe telegraph pole, the trees, and the lake. Far up the lake, where\nthe Italian Frontier cuts it, the torpedo-boats, looking for\nsmugglers, were casting their search-lights. One of the roving beams\nfell full on me and I became broad awake. I stood up.  It was indeed\ncold, with a kind of clinging and grasping chill that was not to be\nexpressed in degrees of heat, but in dampness perhaps, or perhaps in\nsome subtler influence of the air.\n\nI sat on the bank and gazed at the lake in some despair. Certainly I\ncould not sleep again without a covering cloth, and it was now past\nmidnight, nor did I know of any house, whether if I took the road I\nshould find one in a mile, or in two, or in five. And, note you, I was\nutterly exhausted. That enormous march from Faido, though it had been\nwisely broken by the siesta at Bellinzona, needed more than a few cold\nhours under trees, and I thought of the three poor francs in my\npocket, and of the thirty-eight miles remaining to Milan.\n\nThe stars were beyond the middle of their slow turning, and I watched\nthem, splendid and in order, for sympathy, as I also regularly, but\nslowly and painfully, dragged myself along my appointed road. But in a\nvery short time a great, tall, square, white house stood right on the\nroadway, and to my intense joy I saw a light in one of its higher\nwindows. Standing therefore beneath, I cried at the top of my voice,\n'Hola!' five or six times. A woman put her head out of the window into\nthe fresh night, and said, 'You cannot sleep here; we have no rooms,'\nthen she remained looking out of her window and ready to analyse the\ndifficulties of the moment; a good-natured woman and fat.\n\nIn a moment another window at the same level, but farther from me,\nopened, and a man leaned out, just as those alternate figures come in\nand out of the toys that tell the weather. 'It is impossible,' said\nthe man; 'we have no rooms.'\n\nThen they talked a great deal together, while I shouted, _'Quid vis?\nNon e possibile dormire in la foresta! e troppo fredo! Vis ne me\nassassinare?  Veni de Lugano--e piu--non e possibile ritornare!'_ and\nso forth.\n\nThey answered in strophe and antistrophe, sometimes together in full\nchorus, and again in semichorus, and with variations, that it was\nimpossible. Then a light showed in the chinks of their great door; the\nlock grated, and it opened. A third person, a tall youth, stood in the\nhall. I went forward into the breach and occupied the hall. He blinked\nat me above a candle, and murmured, as a man apologizing 'It is not\npossible.'\n\nWhatever I have in common with these southerners made me understand\nthat I had won, so I smiled at him and nodded; he also smiled, and at\nonce beckoned to me. He led me upstairs, and showed me a charming bed\nin a clean room, where there was a portrait of the Pope, looking\ncunning; the charge for that delightful and human place was sixpence,\nand as I said good-night to the youth, the man and woman from above\nsaid good-night also. And this was my first introduction to the most\npermanent feature in the Italian character. The good people!\n\nWhen I woke and rose I was the first to be up and out. It was high\nmorning.  The sun was not yet quite over the eastern mountains, but I\nhad slept, though so shortly yet at great ease, and the world seemed\nnew and full of a merry mind. The sky was coloured like that high\nmetal work which you may see in the studios of Paris; there was gold\nin it fading into bronze, and above, the bronze softened to silver. A\nlittle morning breeze, courageous and steady, blew down the lake and\nprovoked the water to glad ripples, and there was nothing that did not\nmove and take pleasure in the day.\n\nThe Lake of Lugano is of a complicated shape, and has many arms. It is\nat this point very narrow indeed, and shallow too; a mole, pierced at\neither end with low arches, has here been thrown across it, and by\nthis mole the railway and the road pass over to the eastern shore. I\nturned in this long causeway and noticed the northern view. On the\nfarther shore was an old village and some pleasure-houses of rich men\non the shore; the boats also were beginning to go about the water.\nThese boats were strange, unlike other boats; they were covered with\nhoods, and looked like floating waggons. This was to shield the rowers\nfrom the sun. Far off a man was sailing with a little brown\nsprit-sail. It was morning, and all the world was alive.\n\nCoffee in the village left me two francs and two pennies. I still\nthought the thing could be done, so invigorating and deceiving are the\nearly hours, and coming farther down the road to an old and beautiful\ncourtyard on the left, I drew it, and hearing a bell at hand I saw a\ntumble-down church with trees before it, and went in to Mass; and\nthough it was a little low village Mass, yet the priest had three\nacolytes to serve it, and (true and gracious mark of a Catholic\ncountry!) these boys were restless and distracted at their office.\n\nYou may think it trivial, but it was certainly a portent. One of the\nacolytes had half his head clean shaved! A most extraordinary sight! I\ncould not take my eyes from it, and I heartily wished I had an\nOmen-book with me to tell me what it might mean.\n\nWhen there were oracles on earth, before Pan died, this sight would\nhave been of the utmost use. For I should have consulted the oracle\nwoman for a Lira--at Biasca for instance, or in the lonely woods of\nthe Cinder Mountain; and, after a lot of incense and hesitation, and\nwrestling with the god, the oracle would have accepted Apollo and,\nstaring like one entranced, she would have chanted verses which,\nthough ambiguous, would at least have been a guide. Thus:\n\n  _Matutinus adest ubi Vesper, et accipiens te\n  Saepe recusatum voces intelligit hospes\n  Rusticus ignotas notas, ac flumina tellus\n  Occupat--In sancto tum, tum, stans\n  Aede caveto Tonsuram Hirsuti\n  Capitis, via namque pedestrem\n  Ferrea praeveniens cursum, peregrine, laborem\n  Pro pietate tua inceptum frustratur, amore\n  Antiqui Ritus alto sub Numine Romae._\n\nLECTOR. What Hoggish great Participles!\n\nAUCTOR. Well, well, you see it was but a rustic oracle at 9 3/4 d. the\nrevelation, and even that is supposing silver at par. Let us translate\nit for the vulgar:\n\nWhen early morning seems but eve And they that still refuse receive:\nWhen speech unknown men understand; And floods are crossed upon dry\nland. Within the Sacred Walls beware The Shaven Head that boasts of\nHair, For when the road attains the rail The Pilgrim's great attempt\nshall fail.\n\nOf course such an oracle might very easily have made me fear too much.\nThe 'shaven head' I should have taken for a priest, especially if it\nwas to be met with 'in a temple'--it might have prevented me entering\na church, which would have been deplorable. Then I might have taken it\nto mean that I should never have reached Rome, which would have been a\nmonstrous weight upon my mind. Still, as things unfolded themselves,\nthe oracle would have become plainer and plainer, and I felt the lack\nof it greatly. For, I repeat, I had certainly received an omen.\n\nThe road now neared the end of the lake, and the town called Capo di\nLago, or 'Lake-head', lay off to my right. I saw also that in a very\nlittle while I should abruptly find the plains. A low hill some five\nmiles ahead of me was the last roll of the mountains, and just above\nme stood the last high crest, a precipitous peak of bare rock, up\nwhich there ran a cog-railway to some hotel or other. I passed through\nan old town under the now rising heat; I passed a cemetery in the\nItalian manner, with marble figures like common living men. The road\nturned to the left, and I was fairly on the shoulder of the last\nglacis. I stood on the Alps at their southern bank, and before me was\nLombardy.\n\nAlso in this ending of the Swiss canton one was more evidently in\nItaly than ever. A village perched upon a rock, deep woods and a\nravine below it, its houses and its church, all betrayed the full\nItalian spirit.\n\nThe frontier town was Chiasso. I hesitated with reverence before\ntouching the sacred soil which I had taken so long to reach, and I\nlonged to be able to drink its health; but though I had gone, I\nsuppose, ten miles, and though the heat was increasing, I would not\nstop; for I remembered the two francs, and my former certitude of\nreaching Milan was shaking and crumbling. The great heat of midday\nwould soon be on me, I had yet nearly thirty miles to go, and my bad\nnight began to oppress me.\n\nI crossed the frontier, which is here an imaginary line. Two slovenly\ncustoms-house men asked me if I had anything dutiable on me. I said\nNo, and it was evident enough, for in my little sack or pocket was\nnothing but a piece of bread. If they had applied the American test,\nand searched me for money, then indeed they could have turned me back,\nand I should have been forced to go into the fields a quarter of a\nmile or so and come into their country by a path instead of a\nhighroad.\n\nThis necessity was spared me. I climbed slowly up the long slope that\nhides Como, then I came down upon that lovely city and saw its frame\nof hills and its lake below me.\n\nThese things are not like things seen by the eyes. I say it again,\nthey are like what one feels when music is played.\n\nI entered Como between ten and eleven faint for food, and then a new\ninterest came to fill my mind with memories of this great adventure.\nThe lake was in flood, and all the town was water.\n\nComo dry must be interesting enough; Como flooded is a marvel. What\nelse is Venice? And here is a Venice at the foot of high mountains,\nand _all_ in the water, no streets or squares; a fine even depth of\nthree feet and a half or so for navigators, much what you have in the\nSpitway in London River at low spring tides.\n\nThere were a few boats about, but the traffic and pleasure of Como was\npassing along planks laid on trestles over the water here and there\nlike bridges; and for those who were in haste, and could afford it\n(such as take cabs in London), there were wheelbarrows, coster carts,\nand what not, pulled about by men for hire; and it was a sight to\nremember all one's life to see the rich men of Como squatting on these\ncarts and barrows, and being pulled about over the water by the poor\nmen of Como, being, indeed, an epitome of all modern sociology and\neconomics and religion and organized charity and strenuousness and\nliberalism and sophistry generally.\n\nFor my part I was determined to explore this curious town in the\nwater, and I especially desired to see it on the lake side, because\nthere one would get the best impression of its being really an aquatic\ntown; so I went northward, as I was directed, and came quite\nunexpectedly upon the astonishing cathedral. It seemed built of\npolished marble, and it was in every way so exquisite in proportion,\nso delicate in sculpture, and so triumphant in attitude, that I\nthought to myself--\n\n'No wonder men praise Italy if this first Italian town has such a\nbuilding as this.'\n\nBut, as you will learn later, many of the things praised are ugly, and\nare praised only by certain followers of charlatans.\n\nSo I went on till I got to the lake, and there I found a little port\nabout as big as a dining-room (for the Italian lakes play at being\nlittle seas.  They have little ports, little lighthouses, little\nfleets for war, and little custom-houses, and little storms and little\nlines of steamers.  Indeed, if one wanted to give a rich child a\nperfect model or toy, one could not give him anything better than an\nItalian lake), and when I had long gazed at the town, standing, as it\nseemed, right in the lake, I felt giddy, and said to myself, 'This is\nthe lack of food,' for I had eaten nothing but my coffee and bread\neleven miles before, at dawn.\n\nSo I pulled out my two francs, and going into a little shop, I bought\nbread, sausage, and a very little wine for fourpence, and with one\nfranc eighty left I stood in the street eating and wondering what my\nnext step should be.\n\nIt seemed on the map perhaps twenty-five, perhaps twenty-six miles to\nMilan. It was now nearly noon, and as hot as could be. I might, if I\nheld out, cover the distance in eight or nine hours, but I did not see\nmyself walking in the middle heat on the plain of Lombardy, and even\nif I had been able I should only have got into Milan at dark or later,\nwhen the post office (with my money in it) would be shut; and where\ncould I sleep, for my one franc eighty would be gone? A man covering\nthese distances must have one good meal a day or he falls ill. I could\nbeg, but there was the risk of being arrested, and that means an\nindefinite waste of time, perhaps several days; and time, that had\ndefeated me at the Gries, threatened me here again. I had nothing to\nsell or to pawn, and I had no friends. The Consul I would not attempt;\nI knew too much of such things as Consuls when poor and dirty men try\nthem. Besides which, there was no Consul I pondered.\n\nI went into the cool of the cathedral to sit in its fine darkness and\nthink better. I sat before a shrine where candles were burning, put up\nfor their private intentions by the faithful. Of many, two had nearly\nburnt out. I watched them in their slow race for extinction when a\nthought took me.\n\n'I will,' said I to myself, 'use these candles for an ordeal or\nheavenly judgement. The left hand one shall be for attempting the road\nat the risk of illness or very dangerous failure; the right hand one\nshall stand for my going by rail till I come to that point on the\nrailway where one franc eighty will take me, and thence walking into\nMilan:--and heaven defend the right.'\n\nThey were a long time going out, and they fell evenly. At last the\nright hand one shot up the long flame that precedes the death of\ncandles; the contest took on interest, and even excitement, when, just\nas I thought the left hand certain of winning, it went out without\nguess or warning, like a second-rate person leaving this world for\nanother. The right hand candle waved its flame still higher, as though\nin triumph, outlived its colleague just the moment to enjoy glory, and\nthen in its turn went fluttering down the dark way from which they say\nthere is no return.\n\nNone may protest against the voice of the Gods. I went straight to the\nnearest railway station (for there are two), and putting down one\nfranc eighty, asked in French for a ticket to whatever station that\nsum would reach down the line. The ticket came out marked Milan, and I\nadmitted the miracle and confessed the finger of Providence. There was\nno change, and as I got into the train I had become that rarest and\nultimate kind of traveller, the man without any money whatsoever--\nwithout passport, without letters, without food or wine; it would be\ninteresting to see what would follow if the train broke down.\n\nI had marched 378 miles and some three furlongs, or thereabouts.\n\nThus did I break--but by a direct command--the last and dearest of my\nvows, and as the train rumbled off, I took luxury in the rolling\nwheels.\n\nI thought of that other medieval and papistical pilgrim hobbling along\nrather than 'take advantage of any wheeled thing', and I laughed at\nhim.  Now if Moroso-Malodoroso or any other Non-Aryan, Antichristian,\nover-inductive, statistical, brittle-minded man and scientist, sees\nanything remarkable in one self laughing at another self, let me tell\nhim and all such for their wide-eyed edification and astonishment that\nI knew a man once that had fifty-six selves (there would have been\nfifty-seven, but for the poet in him that died young)--he could evolve\nthem at will, and they were very useful to lend to the parish priest\nwhen he wished to make up a respectable Procession on Holy-days. And I\nknew another man that could make himself so tall as to look over the\nheads of the scientists as a pine-tree looks over grasses, and again\nso small as to discern very clearly the thick coating or dust of\nwicked pride that covers them up in a fine impenetrable coat. So much\nfor the moderns.\n\nThe train rolled on. I noticed Lombardy out of the windows. It is\nflat. I listened to the talk of the crowded peasants in the train. I\ndid not understand it. I twice leaned out to see if Milan were not\nstanding up before me out of the plain, but I saw nothing. Then I fell\nasleep, and when I woke suddenly it was because we were in the\nterminus of that noble great town, which I then set out to traverse in\nsearch of my necessary money and sustenance. It was yet but early in\nthe afternoon.\n\nWhat a magnificent city is Milan! The great houses are all of stone,\nand stand regular and in order, along wide straight streets. There are\nswift cars, drawn by electricity, for such as can afford them. Men are\nbrisk and alert even in the summer heats, and there are shops of a\nvery good kind, though a trifle showy. There are many newspapers to\nhelp the Milanese to be better men and to cultivate charity and\nhumility; there are banks full of paper money; there are soldiers,\ngood pavements, and all that man requires to fulfil him, soul and\nbody; cafes, arcades, mutoscopes, and every sign of the perfect state.\nAnd the whole centres in a splendid open square, in the midst of which\nis the cathedral, which is justly the most renowned in the world.\n\nMy pilgrimage is to Rome, my business is with lonely places, hills,\nand the recollection of the spirit. It would be waste to describe at\nlength this mighty capital. The mists and the woods, the snows and the\ninterminable way, had left me ill-suited for the place, and I was\nashamed. I sat outside a cafe, opposite the cathedral, watching its\npinnacles of light; but I was ashamed. Perhaps I did the master a hurt\nby sitting there in his fine great cafe, unkempt, in such clothes,\nlike a tramp; but he was courteous in spite of his riches, and I\nordered a very expensive drink for him also, in order to make amends.\nI showed him my sketches, and told him of my adventures in French, and\nhe was kind enough to sit opposite me, and to take that drink with me.\nHe talked French quite easily, as it seems do all such men in the\nprincipal towns of north Italy. Still, the broad day shamed me, and\nonly when darkness came did I feel at ease.\n\nI wandered in the streets till I saw a small eating shop, and there I\ntook a good meal. But when one is living the life of the poor, one\nsees how hard are the great cities. Everything was dearer, and worse,\nthan in the simple countrysides. The innkeeper and his wife were\nkindly, but their eyes showed that they had often to suspect men. They\ngave me a bed, but it was a franc and more, and I had to pay before\ngoing upstairs to it. The walls were mildewed, the place ramshackle\nand evil, the rickety bed not clean, the door broken and warped, and\nthat night I was oppressed with the vision of poverty. Dirt and\nclamour and inhuman conditions surrounded me. Yet the people meant\nwell.\n\nWith the first light I got up quietly, glad to find the street again\nand the air. I stood in the crypt of the cathedral to hear the\nAmbrosian Mass, and it was (as I had expected) like any other, save\nfor a kind of second _lavabo_ before the Elevation. To read the\ndistorted stupidity of the north one might have imagined that in the\nAmbrosian ritual the priest put a _non_ before the _credo,_ and\n_nec's_ at each clause of it, and renounced his baptismal vows at the\n_kyrie;_ but the Milanese are Catholics like any others, and the\nnorthern historians are either liars or ignorant men. And I know three\nthat are both together.\n\nThen I set out down the long street that leads south out of Milan, and\nwas soon in the dull and sordid suburb of the Piacenzan way. The sky\nwas grey, the air chilly, and in a little while--alas!--it rained.\n\nLombardy is an alluvial plain.\n\nThat is the pretty way of putting it. The truth is more vivid if you\nsay that Lombardy is as flat as a marsh, and that it is made up of\nmud. Of course this mud dries when the sun shines on it, but mud it is\nand mud it will remain; and that day, as the rain began falling, mud\nit rapidly revealed itself to be; and the more did it seem to be mud\nwhen one saw how the moistening soil showed cracks from the last day's\nheat.\n\nLombardy has no forests, but any amount of groups of trees; moreover\n(what is very remarkable), it is all cultivated in fields more or less\nsquare.  These fields have ditches round them, full of mud and water\nrunning slowly, and some of them are themselves under water in order\nto cultivate rice. All these fields have a few trees bordering them,\napart from the standing clumps; but these trees are not very high.\nThere are no open views in Lombardy, and Lombardy is all the same.\nIrregular large farmsteads stand at random all up and down the\ncountry; no square mile of Lombardy is empty.  There are many, many\nlittle villages; many straggling small towns about seven to eight\nmiles apart, and a great number of large towns from thirty to fifty\nmiles apart. Indeed, this very road to Piacenza, which the rain now\ncovered with a veil of despair, was among the longest stretches\nbetween any two large towns, although it was less than fifty miles.\n\nOn the map, before coming to this desolate place, there seemed a\nstraighter and a better way to Rome than this great road. There is a\nriver called the Lambro, which comes east of Milan and cuts the\nPiacenzan road at a place called Melegnano. It seemed to lead straight\ndown to a point on the Po, a little above Piacenza. This stream one\ncould follow (so it seemed), and when it joined the Po get a boat or\nferry, and see on the other side the famous Trebbia, where Hannibal\nconquered and Joubert fell, and so make straight on for the Apennine.\n\nSince it is always said in books that Lombardy is a furnace in summer,\nand that whole great armies have died of the heat there, this river\nbank would make a fine refuge. Clear and delicious water, more limpid\nthan glass, would reflect and echo the restless poplars, and would\nmake tolerable or even pleasing the excessive summer. Not so. It was a\nnorthern mind judging by northern things that came to this conclusion.\nThere is not in all Lombardy a clear stream, but every river and brook\nis rolling mud. In the rain, not heat, but a damp and penetrating\nchill was the danger. There is no walking on the banks of the rivers;\nthey are cliffs of crumbling soil, jumbled anyhow.\n\nMan may, as Pinkerton (Sir Jonas Pinkerton) writes, be master of his\nfate, but he has a precious poor servant. It is easier to command a\nlapdog or a mule for a whole day than one's own fate for half-an-hour.\n\nNevertheless, though it was apparent that I should have to follow the\nmain road for a while, I determined to make at last to the right of\nit, and to pass through a place called 'Old Lodi', for I reasoned\nthus: 'Lodi is the famous town. How much more interesting must Old\nLodi be which is the mothertown of Lodi?' Also, Old Lodi brought me\nback again on the straight line to Rome, and I foolishly thought it\nmight be possible to hear there of some straight path down the Lambro\n(for that river still possessed me somewhat).\n\nTherefore, after hours and hours of trudging miserably along the wide\nhighway in the wretched and searching rain, after splashing through\ntortuous Melegnano, and not even stopping to wonder if it was the\nplace of the battle, after noting in despair the impossible Lambro, I\ncame, caring for nothing, to the place where a secondary road branches\noff to the right over a level crossing and makes for Lodi Vecchio.\n\nIt was not nearly midday, but I had walked perhaps fifteen miles, and\nhad only rested once in a miserable Trattoria. In less than three\nmiles I came to that unkempt and lengthy village, founded upon dirt\nand living in misery, and through the quiet, cold, persistent rain I\nsplashed up the main street. I passed wretched, shivering dogs and\nmournful fowls that took a poor refuge against walls; passed a sad\nhorse that hung its head in the wet and stood waiting for a master,\ntill at last I reached the open square where the church stood, then I\nknew that I had seen all Old Lodi had to offer me. So, going into an\neating-house, or inn, opposite the church, I found a girl and her\nmother serving, and I saluted them, but there was no fire, and my\nheart sank to the level of that room, which was, I am sure, no more\nthan fifty-four degrees.\n\nWhy should the less gracious part of a pilgrimage be specially\nremembered?  In life were remember joy best--that is what makes us sad\nby contrast; pain somewhat, especially if it is acute; but dulness\nnever. And a book--which has it in its own power to choose and to\nemphasize--has no business to record dulness. What did I at Lodi\nVecchio? I ate; I dried my clothes before a tepid stove in a kitchen.\nI tried to make myself understood by the girl and her mother. I sat at\na window and drew the ugly church on principle. Oh, the vile sketch!\n\nWorthy of that Lombard plain, which they had told me was so full of\nwonderful things. I gave up all hope of by-roads, and I determined to\npush back obliquely to the highway again--obliquely in order to save\ntime!  Nepios!\n\nThese 'by-roads' of the map turned out in real life to be all manner\nof abominable tracks. Some few were metalled, some were cart-ruts\nmerely, some were open lanes of rank grass; and along most there went\na horrible ditch, and in many fields the standing water proclaimed\ndesolation. IN so far as I can be said to have had a way at all, I\nlost it. I could not ask my way because my only ultimate goal was\nPiacenza, and that was far off. I did not know the name of any place\nbetween. Two or three groups of houses I passed, and sometimes church\ntowers glimmered through the rain. I passed a larger and wider road\nthan the rest, but obviously not my road; I pressed on and passed\nanother; and by this time, having ploughed up Lombardy for some four\nhours, I was utterly lost. I no longer felt the north, and, for all I\nknew, I might be going backwards. The only certain thing was that I\nwas somewhere in the belt between the highroad and the Lambro, and\nthat was little enough to know at the close of such a day. Grown\ndesperate, I clamoured within my mind for a miracle; and it was not\nlong before I saw a little bent man sitting on a crazy cart and going\nahead of me at a pace much slower than a walk--the pace of a horse\ncrawling. I caught him up, and, doubting much whether he would\nunderstand a word, I said to him repeatedly--\n\n_'La granda via? La via a Piacenza?'_\n\nHe shook his head as though to indicate that this filthy lane was not\nthe road. Just as I had despaired of learning anything, he pointed\nwith his arm away to the right, perpendicularly to the road we were\non, and nodded. He moved his hand up and down. I had been going north!\n\nOn getting this sign I did not wait for a cross road, but jumped the\nlittle ditch and pushed through long grass, across further ditches,\nalong the side of patches of growing corn, heedless of the huge weight\non my boots and of the oozing ground, till I saw against the rainy sky\na line of telegraph poles. For the first time since they were made the\nsight of them gave a man joy. There was a long stagnant pond full of\nreeds between me and the railroad; but, as I outflanked it, I came\nupon a road that crossed the railway at a level and led me into the\ngreat Piacenzan way. Almost immediately appeared a village. It was a\nhole called Secugnano, and there I entered a house where a bush\nhanging above the door promised entertainment, and an old hobbling\nwoman gave me food and drink and a bed. The night had fallen, and upon\nthe roof above me I could hear the steady rain.\n\nThe next morning--Heaven preserve the world from evil!--it was still\nraining.\n\nLECTOR. It does not seem to me that this part of your book is very\nentertaining.\n\nAUCTOR. I know that; but what am I to do?\n\nLECTOR. Why, what was the next point in the pilgrimage that was even\ntolerably noteworthy?\n\nAUCTOR. I suppose the Bridge of Boats.\n\nLECTOR. And how far on was that?\n\nAUCTOR. About fourteen miles, more or less... I passed through a town\nwith a name as long as my arm, and I suppose the Bridge of Boats must\nhave been nine miles on after that.\n\nLECTOR. And it rained all the time, and there was mud?\n\nAUCTOR. Precisely.\n\nLECTOR. Well, then, let us skip it and tell stories.\n\nAUCTOR. With all my heart. And since you are such a good judge of\nliterary poignancy, do you begin.\n\nLECTOR. I will, and I draw my inspiration from your style.\n\nOnce upon a time there was a man who was born in Croydon, and whose\nname was Charles Amieson Blake. He went to Rugby at twelve and left it\nat seventeen. He fell in love twice and then went to Cambridge till he\nwas twenty-three. Having left Cambridge he fell in love more mildly,\nand was put by his father into a government office, where he began at\n_180_ pounds a year. At thirty-five he was earning 500 pounds a year,\nand perquisites made 750 pounds a year. He met a pleasant lady and\nfell in love quite a little compared with the other times. She had 250\npounds a year. That made _1000_ pounds a year. They married and had\nthree children--Richard, Amy, and Cornelia. He rose to a high\ngovernment position, was knighted, retired at sixty-three, and died at\nsixty-seven. He is buried at Kensal Green...\n\nAUCTOR. Thank you, Lector, that is a very good story. It is simple and\nfull of plain human touches. You know how to deal with the facts of\neveryday life... It requires a master-hand. Tell me, Lector, had this\nman any adventures?\n\nLECTOR. None that I know of.\n\nAUCTOR. Had he opinions?\n\nLECTOR. Yes. I forgot to tell you he was a Unionist. He spoke two\nforeign languages badly. He often went abroad to Assisi, Florence, and\nBoulogne...  He left 7,623 pounds 6s. 8d., and a house and garden at\nSutton. His wife lives there still.\n\nAUCTOR. Oh!\n\nLECTOR. It is the human story... the daily task!\n\nAUCTOR. Very true, my dear Lector... the common lot... Now let me\ntell my story. It is about the Hole that could not be Filled Up.\n\nLECTOR. Oh no! Auctor, no! That is the oldest story in the--\n\nAUCTOR. Patience, dear Lector, patience! I will tell it well. Besides\nwhich I promise you it shall never be told again. I will copyright it.\n\nWell, once there was a Learned Man who had a bargain with the Devil\nthat he should warn the Devil's emissaries of all the good deeds done\naround him so that they could be upset, and he in turn was to have all\nthose pleasant things of this life which the Devil's allies usually\nget, to wit a Comfortable Home, Self-Respect, good health, 'enough\nmoney for one's rank', and generally what is called 'a happy useful\nlife'--_till_ midnight of All-Hallowe'en in the last year of the\nnineteenth century.\n\nSo this Learned Man did all he was required, and daily would inform\nthe messenger imps of the good being done or prepared in the\nneighbourhood, and they would upset it; so that the place he lived in\nfrom a nice country town became a great Centre of Industry, full of\nwealth and desirable family mansions and street property, and was\ncalled in hell 'Depot B' (Depot A you may guess at). But at last\ntoward the 15th of October 1900, the Learned Man began to shake in his\nshoes and to dread the judgement; for, you see, he had not the\ncomfortable ignorance of his kind, and was compelled to believe in the\nDevil willy-nilly, and, as I say, he shook in his shoes.\n\nSo he bethought him of a plan to cheat the Devil, and the day before\nAll-Hallowe'en he cut a very small round hole in the floor of his\nstudy, just near the fireplace, right through down to the cellar. Then\nhe got a number of things that do great harm (newspapers, legal\ndocuments, unpaid bills, and so forth) and made ready for action.\n\nNext morning when the little imps came for orders as usual, after\nprayers, he took them down into the cellar, and pointing out the hole\nin the ceiling, he said to them:\n\n'My friends, this little hole is a mystery. It communicates, I\nbelieve, with the chapel; but I cannot find the exit. All I know is,\nthat some pious person or angel, or what not, desirous to do good,\nslips into it every day whatever he thinks may be a cause of evil in\nthe neighbourhood, hoping thus to destroy it' (in proof of which\nstatement he showed them a scattered heap of newspapers on the floor\nof the cellar beneath the hole). 'And the best thing you can do,' he\nadded, 'is to stay here and take them away as far as they come down\nand put them back into circulation again. Tut! tut!' he added, picking\nup a moneylender's threatening letter to a widow, 'it is astonishing\nhow these people interfere with the most sacred rights! Here is a\nletter actually stolen from the post! Pray see that it is delivered.'\n\nSo he left the little imps at work, and fed them from above with all\nmanner of evil-doing things, which they as promptly drew into the\ncellar, and at intervals flew away with, to put them into circulation\nagain.\n\nThat evening, at about half-past eleven, the Devil came to fetch the\nLearned Man, and found him seated at his fine great desk, writing. The\nLearned Man got up very affably to receive the Devil, and offered him\na chair by the fire, just near the little round hole.\n\n'Pray don't move,' said the Devil; 'I came early on purpose not to\ndisturb you.'\n\n'You are very good,' replied the Learned Man. 'The fact is, I have to\nfinish my report on Lady Grope's Settlement among our Poor in the Bull\nRing--it is making some progress. But their condition is\nheart-breaking, my dear sir; heart-breaking!'\n\n'I can well believe it,' said the Devil sadly and solemnly, leaning\nback in his chair, and pressing his hands together like a roof. 'The\npoor in our great towns, Sir Charles' (for the Learned Man had been\nmade a Baronet), 'the condition, I say, of the--Don't I feel a\ndraught?' he added abruptly. For the Devil can't bear draughts.\n\n'Why,' said the Learned Man, as though ashamed, 'just near your chair\nthere _is_ a little hole that I have done my best to fill up, but\nsomehow it seemed impossible to fill it... I don't know...'\n\nThe Devil hates excuses, and is above all practical, so he just\nwhipped the soul of a lawyer out of his side-pocket, tied a knot in it\nto stiffen it, and shoved it into the hole.\n\n'There!' said the Devil contentedly; 'if you had taken a piece of rag,\nor what not, you might yourself... Hulloa!...' He looked down and saw\nthe hole still gaping, and he felt a furious draught coming up again.\nHe wondered a little, and then muttered: 'It's a pity I have on my\nbest things. I never dare crease them, and I have nothing in my\npockets to speak of, otherwise I might have brought something bigger.'\nHe felt in his left-hand trouser pocket, and fished out a pedant,\ncrumpled him carefully into a ball, and stuffed him hard into the\nhole, so that he suffered agonies. Then the Devil watched carefully.\nThe soul of the pedant was at first tugged as if from below, then\ndrawn slowly down, and finally shot off out of sight.\n\n'This is a most extraordinary thing!' said the Devil.\n\n'It is the draught. It is very strong between the joists,' ventured\nthe Learned Man.\n\n'Fiddle-sticks ends!' shouted the Devil. 'It is a trick! But I've\nnever been caught yet, and I never will be.'\n\nHe clapped his hands, and a whole host of his followers poured in\nthrough the windows with mortgages, Acts of Parliament, legal\ndecisions, declarations of war, charters to universities, patents for\nmedicines, naturalization orders, shares in gold mines,\nspecifications, prospectuses, water companies' reports, publishers'\nagreements, letters patent, freedoms of cities, and, in a word, all\nthat the Devil controls in the way of hole-stopping rubbish; and the\nDevil, kneeling on the floor, stuffed them into the hole like a\nmadman. But as fast as he stuffed, the little imps below (who had\nsummoned a number of their kind to their aid also) pulled it through\nand carted it away. And the Devil, like one possessed, lashed the\nfloor with his tail, and his eyes glared like coals of fire, and the\nsweat ran down his face, and he breathed hard, and pushed every\nimaginable thing he had into the hole so swiftly that at last his\ndocuments and parchments looked like streaks and flashes. But the\nloyal little imps, not to be beaten, drew them through into the cellar\nas fast as machinery, and whirled them to their assistants; and all\nthe poor lost souls who had been pressed into the service were\ngroaning that their one holiday in the year was being filched from\nthem, when, just as the process was going on so fast that it roared\nlike a printing-machine in full blast, the clock in the hall struck\ntwelve.\n\nThe Devil suddenly stopped and stood up.\n\n'Out of my house,' said the Learned Man; 'out of my house! I've had\nenough of you, and I've no time for fiddle-faddle! It's past twelve,\nand I've won!'\n\nThe Devil, though still panting, smiled a diabolical smile, and\npulling out his repeater (which he had taken as a perquisite from the\nbody of a member of Parliament), said, 'I suppose you keep Greenwich\ntime?'\n\n'Certainly!' said Sir Charles.\n\n'Well,' said the Devil, 'so much the worse for you to live in Suffolk.\nYou're four minutes fast, so I'll trouble you to come along with me;\nand I warn you that any words you now say may be used against...'\n\nAt this point the Learned Man's patron saint, who thought things had\ngone far enough, materialized himself and coughed gently. They both\nlooked round, and there was St Charles sitting in the easy chair.\n\n'So far,' murmured the Saint to the Devil suavely, 'so far from being\nfour minutes too early, you are exactly a year too late.' On saying\nthis, the Saint smiled a genial, priestly smile, folded his hands,\ntwiddled his thumbs slowly round and round, and gazed in a fatherly\nway at the Devil.\n\n'What do you mean?' shouted the Devil.\n\n'What I say,' said St Charles calmly; '1900 is not the last year of\nthe nineteenth century; it is the first year of the twentieth.'\n\n'Oh!' sneered the Devil, 'are you an anti-vaccinationist as well? Now,\nlook here' (and he began counting on his fingers); 'supposing in the\nyear 1 B.C....'\n\n'I never argue,' said St Charles.\n\n'Well, all I know is,' answered the Devil with some heat, 'that in\nthis matter as in most others, thank the Lord, I have on my side all\nthe historians and all the scientists, all the universities, all\nthe...'\n\n'And I,' interrupted St Charles, waving his hand like a gentleman (he\nis a Borromeo), 'I have the Pope!'\n\nAt this the Devil gave a great howl, and disappeared in a clap of\nthunder, and was never seen again till his recent appearance at\nBrighton.\n\nSo the Learned Man was saved; but hardly; for he had to spend five\nhundred years in Purgatory catechizing such heretics and pagans as got\nthere, and instructing them in the true faith. And with the more\nmuscular he passed a knotty time.\n\nYou do not see the river Po till you are close to it. Then, a little\ncrook in the road being passed, you come between high trees, and\nstraight out before you, level with you, runs the road into and over a\nvery wide mass of tumbling water. It does not look like a bridge, it\nlooks like a quay. It does not rise; it has all the appearance of\nbeing a strip of road shaved off and floated on the water.\n\nAll this is because it passes over boats, as do some bridges over the\nRhine. (At Cologne, I believe, and certainly at Kiel--for I once sat\nat the end of that and saw a lot of sad German soldiers drilling, a\nmemory which later made me understand (1) why they can be out-marched\nby Latins; (2) why they impress travellers and civilians; (3) why the\ngoverning class in Germany take care to avoid common service; (4) why\nthere is no promotion from the ranks; and (5) why their artillery is\ntoo rigid and not quick enough. It also showed me something intimate\nand fundamental about the Germans which Tacitus never understood and\nwhich all our historians miss--they are _of necessity_ histrionic.\nNote I do not say it is a vice of theirs. It is a necessity of theirs,\nan appetite. They must see themselves on a stage. Whether they do\nthings well or ill, whether it is their excellent army with its\nridiculous parade, or their eighteenth-century _sans-soucis_ with\navenues and surprises, or their national legends with gods in wigs and\nstrong men in tights, they _must_ be play-actors to be happy and\ntherefore to be efficient; and if I were Lord of Germany, and desired\nto lead my nation and to be loved by them, I should put great golden\nfeathers on my helmet, I should use rhetorical expressions, spout\nmonologues in public, organize wide cavalry charges at reviews, and\nmove through life generally to the crashing of an orchestra. For by\ndoing this even a vulgar, short, and diseased man, who dabbled in\nstocks and shares and was led by financiers, could become a hero, and\ndo his nation good.)\n\nLECTOR. What is all this?\n\nAUCTOR. It is a parenthesis.\n\nLECTOR. It is good to know the names of the strange things one meets\nwith on one's travels.\n\nAUCTOR. So I return to where I branched off, and tell you that the\nriver Po is here crossed by a bridge of boats.\n\nIt is a very large stream. Half-way across, it is even a trifle\nuncomfortable to be so near the rush of the water on the trembling\npontoons. And on that day its speed and turbulence were emphasized by\nthe falling rain. For the marks of the rain on the water showed the\nrapidity of the current, and the silence of its fall framed and\nenhanced the swirl of the great river.\n\nOnce across, it is a step up into Piacenza--a step through mud and\nrain. On my right was that plain where Barbarossa received, and was\nglorified by, the rising life of the twelfth century; there the\nrenaissance of our Europe saw the future glorious for the first time\nsince the twilight of Rome, and being full of morning they imagined a\nnew earth and gave it a Lord. It was at Roncaglia, I think in spring,\nand I wish I had been there. For in spring even the Lombard plain they\nsay is beautiful and generous, but in summer I know by experience that\nit is cold, brutish, and wet.\n\nAnd so in Piacenza it rained and there was mud, till I came to a hotel\ncalled the Moor's Head, in a very narrow street, and entering it I\ndiscovered a curious thing: the Italians live in palaces: I might have\nknown it.\n\nThey are the impoverished heirs of a great time; its garments cling to\nthem, but their rooms are too large for the modern penury. I found\nthese men eating in a great corridor, in a hall, as they might do in a\npalace. I found high, painted ceilings and many things of marble, a\nvast kitchen, and all the apparatus of the great houses--at the\nservice of a handful of contented, unknown men. So in England, when we\nhave worked out our full fate, happier but poorer men will sit in the\nfaded country-houses (a community, or an inn, or impoverished\nsquires), and rough food will be eaten under mouldering great\npictures, and there will be offices or granaries in the galleries of\nour castles; and where Lord Saxonthorpe (whose real name is\nHauptstein) now plans our policy, common Englishmen will return to the\nsimpler life, and there will be dogs, and beer, and catches upon\nwinter evenings. For Italy also once gathered by artifice the wealth\nthat was not of her making.\n\nHe was a good man, the innkeeper of this palace. He warmed me at his\nfire in his enormous kitchen, and I drank Malaga to the health of the\ncooks. I ate of their food, I bought a bottle of a new kind of sweet\nwine called 'Vino Dolce', and--I took the road.\n\nLECTOR. And did you see nothing of Piacenza?\n\nAUCTOR. Nothing, Lector; it was raining, and there was mud. I stood in\nfront of the cathedral on my way out, and watched it rain. It rained\nall along the broad and splendid Emilian Way. I had promised myself\ngreat visions of the Roman soldiery passing up that eternal road; it\nstill was stamped with the imperial mark, but the rain washed out its\ninterest, and left me cold. The Apennines also, rising abruptly from\nthe plain, were to have given me revelations at sunset; they gave me\nnone. Their foothills appeared continually on my right, they\nthemselves were veiled. And all these miles of road fade into the\nconfused memory of that intolerable plain. The night at Firenzuola,\nthe morning (the second morning of this visitation) still cold, still\nheartless, and sodden with the abominable weather, shall form no part\nof this book.\n\nThings grand and simple of their nature are possessed, as you know, of\na very subtle flavour. The larger music, the more majestic lengths of\nverse called epics, the exact in sculpture, the classic drama, the\nmost absolute kinds of wine, require a perfect harmony of circumstance\nfor their appreciation. Whatever is strong, poignant, and immediate in\nits effect is not so difficult to suit; farce, horror, rage, or what\nnot, these a man can find in the arts, even when his mood may be heavy\nor disturbed; just as (to take their parallel in wines) strong Beaune\nwill always rouse a man. But that which is cousin to the immortal\nspirit, and which has, so to speak, no colour but mere light, _that_\nneeds for its recognition so serene an air of abstraction and of\ncontent as makes its pleasure seem rare in this troubled life, and\ncauses us to recall it like a descent of the gods.\n\nFor who, having noise around him, can strike the table with pleasure\nat reading the Misanthrope, or in mere thirst or in fatigue praise\nChinon wine? Who does not need for either of these perfect things\nRecollection, a variety of according conditions, and a certain easy\nPlenitude of the Mind?\n\nSo it is with the majesty of Plains, and with the haunting power of\ntheir imperial roads.\n\nAll you that have had your souls touched at the innermost, and have\nattempted to release yourselves in verse and have written trash--(and\nwho know it)--be comforted. You shall have satisfaction at last, and\nyou shall attain fame in some other fashion--perhaps in private\ntheatricals or perhaps in journalism. You will be granted a prevision\nof complete success, and your hearts shall be filled--but you must not\nexpect to find this mood on the Emilian Way when it is raining.\n\nAll you that feel youth slipping past you and that are desolate at the\napproach of age, be merry; it is not what it looks like from in front\nand from outside. There is a glory in all completion, and all good\nendings are but shining transitions. There will come a sharp moment of\nrevelation when you shall bless the effect of time. But this divine\nmoment--- it is not on the Emilian Way in the rain that you should\nseek it.\n\nAll you that have loved passionately and have torn your hearts asunder\nin disillusions, do not imagine that things broken cannot be mended by\nthe good angels. There is a kind of splice called 'the long splice'\nwhich makes a cut rope seem what it was before; it is even stronger\nthan before, and can pass through a block. There will descend upon you\na blessed hour when you will be convinced as by a miracle, and you\nwill suddenly understand the _redintegratio amoris (amoris\nredintegratio,_ a Latin phrase). But this hour you will not receive in\nthe rain on the Emilian Way.\n\nHere then, next day, just outside a town called Borgo, past the middle\nof morning, the rain ceased.\n\nIts effect was still upon the slippery and shining road, the sky was\nstill fast and leaden, when, in a distaste for their towns, I skirted\nthe place by a lane that runs westward of the houses, and sitting upon\na low wall, I looked up at the Apennines, which were now plain above\nme, and thought over my approaching passage through those hills.\n\nBut here I must make clear by a map the mass of mountains which I was\nabout to attempt, and in which I forded so many rivers, met so many\nstrange men and beasts, saw such unaccountable sights, was imprisoned,\nstarved, frozen, haunted, delighted, burnt up, and finally refreshed\nin Tuscany--in a word, where I had the most extraordinary and\nunheard-of adventures that ever diversified the life of man.\n\nThe straight line to Rome runs from Milan not quite through Piacenza,\nbut within a mile or two of that city. Then it runs across the first\nfolds of the Apennines, and gradually diverges from the Emilian Way.\nIt was not possible to follow this part of the line exactly, for there\nwas no kind of track. But by following the Emilian Way for several\nmiles (as I had done), and by leaving it at the right moment, it was\npossible to strike the straight line again near a village called\nMedesano.\n\nNow on the far side of the Apennines, beyond their main crest, there\nhappens, most providentially, to be a river called the Serchio, whose\nvalley is fairly straight and points down directly to Rome. To follow\nthis valley would be practically to follow the line to Rome, and it\nstruck the Tuscan plain not far from Lucca.\n\nBut to get from the Emilian Way over the eastern slope of the\nApennines' main ridge and crest, to where the Serchio rises on the\nwestern side, is a very difficult matter. The few roads across the\nApennines cut my track at right angles, and were therefore useless. In\norder to strike the watershed at the sources of the Serchio it was\nnecessary to go obliquely across a torrent and four rivers (the Taro,\nthe Parma, the Enza, and the Secchia), and to climb the four spurs\nthat divided them; crossing each nearer to the principal chain as I\nadvanced until, after the Secchia, the next climb would be that of the\ncentral crest itself, on the far side of which I should find the\nSerchio valley.\n\nPerhaps in places roads might correspond to this track. Certainly the\nbulk of it would be mule-paths or rough gullies--how much I could not\ntell. The only way I could work it with my wretched map was to note\nthe names of towns' or hamlets more or less on the line, and to pick\nmy way from one to another. I wrote them down as follows: Fornovo,\nCalestano, Tizzano, Colagna--the last at the foot of the final pass.\nThe distance to that pass as the crow flies was only a little more\nthan thirty miles. So exceedingly difficult was the task that it took\nme over two days. Till I reached Fornovo beyond the Taro, I was not\nreally in the hills.\n\nBy country roads, picking my way, I made that afternoon for Medesano.\nThe lanes were tortuous; they crossed continual streams that ran from\nthe hills above, full and foaming after the rain, and frothing with\nthe waste of the mountains. I had not gone two miles when the sky\nbroke; not four when a new warmth began to steal over the air and a\nsense of summer to appear in the earth about me. With the greatest\nrapidity the unusual weather that had accompanied me from Milan was\nchanging into the normal brilliancy of the south; but it was too late\nfor the sun to tell, though he shone from time to time through clouds\nthat were now moving eastwards more perceptibly and shredding as they\nmoved.\n\nQuite tired and desiring food, keen also for rest after those\ndispiriting days, I stopped, before reaching Medesano, at an inn where\nthree ways met; and there I purposed to eat and spend the night, for\nthe next day, it was easy to see, would be tropical, and I should rise\nbefore dawn if I was to save the heat. I entered.\n\nThe room within was of red wood. It had two tables, a little counter\nwith a vast array of bottles, a woman behind the counter, and a small,\nnervous man in a strange hat serving. And all the little place was\nfilled and crammed with a crowd of perhaps twenty men, gesticulating,\nshouting, laughing, quarrelling, and one very big man was explaining\nto another the virtues of his knife; and all were already amply\nsatisfied with wine. For in this part men do not own, but are paid\nwages, so that they waste the little they have.\n\nI saluted the company, and walking up to the counter was about to call\nfor wine. They had all become silent, when one man asked me a question\nin Italian. I did not understand it, and attempted to say so, when\nanother asked the same question; then six or seven--and there was a\nhubbub. And out of the hubbub I heard a similar sentence rising all\nthe time. To this day I do not know what it meant, but I thought (and\nthink) it meant 'He is a Venetian,' or 'He is the Venetian.' Something\nin my broken language had made them think this, and evidently the\nVenetians (or a Venetian) were (or was) gravely unpopular here. Why, I\ncannot tell. Perhaps the Venetians were blacklegs. But evidently a\nVenetian, or the whole Venetian nation, had recently done them a\nwrong.\n\nAt any rate one very dark-haired man put his face close up to mine,\nunlipped his teeth, and began a great noise of cursing and\nthreatening, and this so angered me that it overmastered my fear,\nwhich had till then been considerable. I remembered also a rule which\na wise man once told me for guidance, and it is this: 'God disposes of\nvictory, but, as the world is made, when men smile, smile; when men\nlaugh, laugh; when men hit, hit; when men shout, shout; and when men\ncurse, curse you also, my son, and in doubt let them always take the\nfirst move.'\n\nI say my fear had been considerable, especially of the man with the\nknife, but I got too angry to remember it, and advancing my face also\nto this insulter's I shouted, _'Dio Ladro! Dios di mi alma!\nSanguinamento! Nombre di Dios! Che? Che vole? Non sono da Venezia io!\nSono de Francia! Je m'en fiche da vestra Venezia! Non se vede che non\nparlar vestra lingua? Che sono forestiere?'_ and so forth. At this\nthey evidently divided into two parties, and all began raging amongst\nthemselves, and some at me, while the others argued louder and louder\nthat there was an error.\n\nThe little innkeeper caught my arm over the counter, and I turned\nround sharply, thinking he was doing me a wrong, but I saw him nodding\nand winking at me, and he was on my side. This was probably because he\nwas responsible if anything happened, and he alone could not fly from\nthe police.\n\nHe made them a speech which, for all I know, may have been to the\neffect that he had known and loved me from childhood, or may have been\nthat he knew me for one Jacques of Turin, or may have been any other\nlie. Whatever lie it was, it appeased them. Their anger went down to a\nmurmur, just like soda-water settling down into a glass.\n\nI stood wine; we drank. I showed them my book, and as my pencil needed\nsharpening the large man lent me his knife for courtesy. When I got it\nin my hand I saw plainly that it was no knife for stabbing with; it\nwas a pruning-knife, and would have bit the hand that cherished it (as\nthey say of serpents). On the other hand, it would have been a good\nknife for ripping, and passable at a slash. You must not expect too\nmuch of one article.\n\nI took food, but I saw that in this parish it was safer to sleep out\nof doors than in; so in the falling evening, but not yet sunset, I\nwandered on, not at a pace but looking for shelter, and I found at\nlast just what I wanted: a little shed, with dried ferns (as it\nseemed) strewed in a corner, a few old sacks, and a broken piece of\nmachinery--though this last was of no use to me.\n\nI thought: 'It will be safe here, for I shall rise before day, and the\nowner, if there is one, will not disturb me.'\n\nThe air was fairly warm. The place quite dry. The open side looked\nwestward and a little south.\n\nThe sun had now set behind the Apennines, and there was a deep\neffulgence in the sky. I drank a little wine, lit a pipe, and watched\nthe west in silence.\n\nWhatever was left of the great pall from which all that rain had\nfallen, now was banked up on the further side of heaven in toppling\ngreat clouds that caught the full glow of evening.\n\nThe great clouds stood up in heaven, separate, like persons; and no\nwind blew; but everything was full of evening. I worshipped them so\nfar as it is permitted to worship inanimate things.\n\nThey domed into the pure light of the higher air, inviolable. They\nseemed halted in the presence of a commanding majesty who ranked them\nall in order.\n\nThis vision filled me with a large calm which a travelled man may find\non coming to his home, or a learner in the communion of wise men.\nRepose, certitude, and, as it were, a premonition of glory occupied my\nspirit.  Before it was yet quite dark I had made a bed out of the dry\nbracken, covered myself with the sacks and cloths, and very soon I\nfell asleep, still thinking of the shapes of clouds and of the power\nof God.\n\nNext morning it was as I had thought. Going out before it was fully\nlight, a dense mist all around and a clear sky showed what the day was\nto be. As I reached Medesano the sun rose, and in half-an-hour the air\nwas instinct with heat; within an hour it was blinding. An early Mass\nin the church below the village prepared my day, but as I took coffee\nafterwards in a little inn, and asked about crossing the Taro to\nFornovo--my first point--to my astonishment they shook their heads.\nThe Taro was impassable.\n\nWhy could it not be crossed? My very broken language made it difficult\nfor me to understand. They talked _oframi,_ which I thought meant\noars; but _rami,_ had I known it, meant the separate branches or\nstreams whereby these torrential rivers of Italy flow through their\narid beds.\n\nI drew a boat and asked if one could not cross in that (for I was a\nnortherner, and my idea of a river was a river with banks and water in\nbetween), but they laughed and said 'No.' Then I made the motion of\nswimming. They said it was impossible, and one man hung his head to\nindicate drowning. It was serious. They said to-morrow, or rather next\nday, one might do it.\n\nFinally, a boy that stood by said he remembered a man who knew the\nriver better than any one, and he, if any one could, would get me\nacross. So I took the boy with me up the road, and as we went I saw,\nparallel to the road, a wide plain of dazzling rocks and sand, and\nbeyond it, shining and silhouetted like an Arab village, the group of\nhouses that was Fornovo.  This plain was their sort of river in these\nhills. The boy said that sometimes it was full and a mile wide,\nsometimes it dwindled into dirty pools. Now, as I looked, a few thin\nstreams seemed to wind through it, and I could not understand the\ndanger.\n\nAfter a mile or two we came to a spot in the road where a patch of\nbrushwood only separated us from the river-bed. Here the boy bade me\nwait, and asked a group of peasants whether the guide was in; they\nsaid they thought so, and some went up into the hillside with the boy\nto fetch him, others remained with me, looking at the river-bed and at\nFornovo beyond, shaking their heads, and saying it had not been done\nfor days. But I did not understand whether the rain-freshet had passed\nand was draining away, or whether it had not yet come down from\nbeyond, and I waited for the guide.\n\nThey brought him at last down from his hut among the hills. He came\nwith great strides, a kindly-looking man, extremely tall and thin, and\nwith very pale eyes. He smiled. They pointed me out to him, and we\nstruck the bargain by holding up three fingers each for three lira,\nand nodding. Then he grasped his long staff and I mine, we bade\nfarewell to the party, and together we went in silence through thick\nbrushwood down towards the broad river-bed. The stones of it glared\nlike the sands of Africa; Fornovo baked under the sun all white and\nblack; between us was this broad plain of parched shingle and rocks\nthat could, in a night, become one enormous river, or dwindle to a\nchain of stagnant ponds. To-day some seven narrow streams wandered in\nthe expanse, and again they seemed so easy to cross that again I\nwondered at the need of a guide.\n\nWe came to the edge of the first, and I climbed on the guide's back.\nHe went bare-legged into the stream deeper and deeper till my feet,\nthough held up high, just touched the water; then laboriously he\nclimbed the further shore, and I got down upon dry land. It had been\nbut twenty yards or so, and he knew the place well. I had seen, as we\ncrossed, what a torrent this first little stream was, and I now knew\nthe difficulty and understood the warnings of the inn.\n\nThe second branch was impassable. We followed it up for nearly a mile\nto where 'an island' (that is, a mass of high land that must have been\nan island in flood-time, and that had on it an old brown village)\nstood above the white bed of the river. Just at this 'island' my guide\nfound a ford.  And the way he found it is worth telling. He taught me\nthe trick, and it is most useful to men who wander alone in mountains.\n\nYou take a heavy stone, how heavy you must learn to judge, for a more\nrapid current needs a heavier stone; but say about ten pounds. This\nyou lob gently into mid-stream. _How,_ it is impossible to describe,\nbut when you do it it is quite easy to see that in about four feet of\nwater, or less, the stone splashes quite differently from the way it\ndoes in five feet or more. It is a sure test, and one much easier to\nacquire by practice than to write about. To teach myself this trick I\npractised it throughout my journey in these wilds.\n\nHaving found a ford then, he again took me on his shoulders, but, in\nmid-stream, the water being up to his breast, his foot slipped on a\nstone (all the bed beneath was rolling and churning in the torrent),\nand in a moment we had both fallen. He pulled me up straight by his\nside, and then indeed, overwhelmed in the rush of water, it was easy\nto understand how the Taro could drown men, and why the peasants\ndreaded these little ribbons of water.\n\nThe current rushed and foamed past me, coming nearly to my neck; and\nit was icy cold. One had to lean against it, and the water so took\naway one's weight that at any moment one might have slipped and been\ncarried away. The guide, a much taller man (indeed he was six foot\nthree or so), supported me, holding my arm: and again in a moment we\nreached dry land.\n\nAfter that adventure there was no need for carrying. The third,\nfourth, fifth, and sixth branches were easily fordable. The seventh\nwas broad and deep, and I found it a heavy matter; nor should I have\nwaded it but for my guide, for the water bore against me like a man\nwrestling, and it was as cold as Acheron, the river of the dead. Then\non the further shore, and warning him (in Lingua Franca) of his peril,\nI gave him his wage, and he smiled and thanked me, and went back,\nchoosing his plans at leisure.\n\nThus did I cross the river Taro; a danger for men.\n\nWhere I landed was a poor man sunning himself. He rose and walked with\nme to Fornovo. He knew the guide.\n\n'He is a good man,' he said to me of this friend. 'He is as good as a\nlittle piece of bread.'\n\n'E vero,' I answered; 'e San Cristophero.'\n\nThis pleased the peasant; and indeed it was true. For the guide's\nbusiness was exactly that of St Christopher, except that the Saint\ntook no money, and lived, I suppose, on air.\n\nAnd so to Fornovo; and the heat blinded and confused, and the air was\nalive with flies. But the sun dried me at once, and I pressed up the\nroad because I needed food. After I had eaten in this old town I was\npreparing to make for Calestano and to cross the first high spur of\nthe Apennines that separated me from it, when I saw, as I left the\nplace, a very old church; and I stayed a moment and looked at carvings\nwhich were in no order, but put in pell-mell, evidently chosen from\nsome older building. They were barbaric, but one could see that they\nstood for the last judgement of man, and there were the good looking\nfoolish, and there were the wicked being boiled by devils in a pot,\nand what was most pleasing was one devil who with great joy was\ncarrying off a rich man's gold in a bag. But now we are too wise to\nbelieve in such follies, and when we die we take our wealth with us;\nin the ninth century they had no way of doing this, for no system of\ncredit yet obtained.\n\nThen leaving the main road which runs to Pontremoli and at last to\nSpezzia, my lane climbed up into the hills and ceased, little by\nlittle, to be even a lane. It became from time to time the bed of a\nstream, then nothing, then a lane again, and at last, at the head of\nthe glen, I confessed to having lost it; but I noted a great rock or\npeak above me for a landmark, and I said to myself--\n\n'No matter. The wall of this glen before me is obviously the ridge of\nthe spur; the rock must be left to the north, and I have but to cross\nthe ridge by its guidance.' By this time, however, the heat overcame\nme, and, as it was already afternoon, and as I had used so much of the\npreceding night for my journey, I remembered the wise custom of hot\ncountries and lay down to sleep.\n\nI slept but a little while, yet when I woke the air was cooler. I\nclimbed the side of the glen at random, and on the summit I found, to\nmy disgust, a road. What road could it be? To this day I do not know.\nPerhaps I had missed my way and struck the main highway again. Perhaps\n(it is often so in the Apennines) it was a road leading nowhere. At\nany rate I hesitated, and looked back to judge my direction.\n\nIt was a happy accident. I was now some 2000 feet above the Taro.\nThere, before me, stood the high strange rock that I had watched from\nbelow; all around it and below me was the glen or cup of bare hills,\nslabs, and slopes of sand and stone calcined in the sun, and, beyond\nthese near things, all the plain of Lombardy was at my feet.\n\nIt was this which made it worth while to have toiled up that steep\nwall, and even to have lost my way--to see a hundred miles of the\ngreat flat stretched out before me: all the kingdoms of the world.\n\nNor was this all. There were sharp white clouds on the far northern\nhorizon, low down above the uncertain edge of the world. I looked\nagain and found they did not move. Then I knew they were the Alps.\n\nBelieve it or not, I was looking back to a place of days before: over\nhow many, many miles of road! The rare, white peaks and edges could\nnot deceive me; they still stood to the sunlight, and sent me from\nthat vast distance the memory of my passage, when their snows had\nseemed interminable and their height so monstrous; their cold such a\ncloak of death. Now they were as far off as childhood, and I saw them\nfor the last time.\n\nAll this I drew. Then finding a post directing me to a side road for\nCalestano, I followed it down and down into the valley beyond; and up\nthe walls of this second valley as the evening fell I heard the noise\nof the water running, as the Taro had run, a net of torrents from the\nmelting snows far off. These streams I soon saw below me, winding (as\nthose of the Taro had wound) through a floor of dry shingle and rock;\nbut when my road ceased suddenly some hundreds of feet above the bed\nof the river, and when, full of evening, I had scrambled down through\ntrees to the brink of the water, I found I should have to repeat what\nI had done that morning and to ford these streams. For there was no\ntrack of any kind and no bridge, and Calestano stood opposite me, a\npurple cluster of houses in the dusk against the farther mountain\nside.\n\nVery warily, lobbing stones as I had been taught, and following up and\ndown each branch to find a place, I forded one by one the six little\ncold and violent rivers, and reaching the farther shore, I reached\nalso, as I thought, supper, companionship, and a bed.\n\nBut it is not in this simple way that human life is arranged. What\nawaited me in Calestano was ill favour, a prison, release, base\nflattery, and a very tardy meal.\n\nIt is our duty to pity all men. It is our duty to pity those who are\nin prison. It is our duty to pity those who are not in prison. How\nmuch more is it the duty of a Christian man to pity the rich who\ncannot ever get into prison? These indeed I do now specially pity, and\nextend to them my commiseration.\n\nWhat! Never even to have felt the grip of the policeman; to have\nwatched his bold suspicious eye; to have tried to make a good show\nunder examination... never to have heard the bolt grinding in the\nlock, and never to have looked round at the cleanly simplicity of a\ncell? Then what emotions have you had, unimprisonable rich; or what do\nyou know of active living and of adventure?\n\nIt was after drinking some wine and eating macaroni and bread at a\npoor inn, the only one in the place, and after having to shout at the\nill-natured hostess (and to try twenty guesses before I made her\nunderstand that I wanted cheese), it was when I had thus eaten and\nshouted, and had gone over the way to drink coffee and to smoke in a\nlittle cafe, that my adventure befell me.\n\nIn the inn there had been a fat jolly-looking man and two\nofficial-looking people with white caps dining at another table. I had\ntaken no notice of them at the time. But as I sat smoking and thinking\nin the little cafe, which was bright and full of people, I noticed a\nfirst danger-signal when I was told sullenly that 'they had no bed;\nthey thought I could get none in the town': then, suddenly, these two\nmen in white caps came in, and they arrested me with as much ease as\nyou or I would hold a horse.\n\nA moment later there came in two magnificent fellows, gendarmes, with\nswords and cocked hats, and moustaches _a l'Abd el Kader,_ as we used\nto say in the old days; these four, the two gendarmes and two\npolicemen, sat down opposite me on chairs and began cross-questioning\nme in Italian, a language in which I was not proficient. I so far\nunderstood them as to know that they were asking for my papers.\n\n'Niente!' said I, and poured out on the table a card-case, a\nsketch-book, two pencils, a bottle of wine, a cup, a piece of bread, a\nscrap of French newspaper, an old _Secolo,_ a needle, some thread, and\na flute--but no passport.\n\nThey looked in the card-case and found 73 lira; that is, not quite\nthree pounds. They examined the sketch-book critically, as behoved\nsoutherners who are mostly of an artistic bent: but they found no\npassport. They questioned me again, and as I picked about for words to\nreply, the smaller (the policeman, a man with a face like a fox)\nshouted that he had heard me speaking Italian _currently_ in the inn,\nand that my hesitation was a blind.\n\nThis lie so annoyed me that I said angrily in French (which I made as\nsouthern as possible to suit them):\n\n'You lie: and you can be punished for such lies, since you are an\nofficial.' For though the police are the same in all countries, and\nwill swear black is white, and destroy men for a song, yet where there\nis a _droit administratif-_ that is, where the Revolution has made\nthings tolerable--you are much surer of punishing your policeman, and\nhe is much less able to do you a damage than in England or America;\nfor he counts as an official and is under a more public discipline and\nresponsibility if he exceeds his powers.\n\nThen I added, speaking distinctly, 'I can speak French and Latin. Have\nyou a priest in Calestano, and does he know Latin?'\n\nThis was a fine touch. They winced, and parried it by saying that the\nSindaco knew French. Then they led me away to their barracks while\nthey fetched the Sindaco, and so I was imprisoned.\n\nBut not for long. Very soon I was again following up the street, and\nwe came to the house of the Sindaco or Mayor. There he was, an old man\nwith white hair, God bless him, playing cards with his son and\ndaughter. To him therefore, as understanding French, I was bidden\naddress myself. I told him in clear and exact idiom that his policemen\nwere fools, that his town was a rabbit-warren, and his prison the only\ncleanly thing in it; that half-a-dozen telegrams to places I could\nindicate would show where I had passed; that I was a common tourist,\nnot even an artist (as my sketch-book showed), and that my cards gave\nmy exact address and description.\n\nBut the Sindaco, the French-speaking Sindaco, understood me not in the\nleast, and it seemed a wicked thing in me to expose him in his old\nage, so I waited till he spoke. He spoke a word common to all\nlanguages, and one he had just caught from my lips.\n\n'Tourist-e?' he said.\n\nI nodded. Then he told them to let me go. It was as simple as that;\nand to this day, I suppose, he passes for a very bilingual Mayor. He\ndid me a service, and I am willing to believe that in his youth he\nsmacked his lips over the subtle flavour of Voltaire, but I fear\nto-day he would have a poor time with Anatole France.\n\nWhat a contrast was there between the hour when I had gone out of the\ncafe a prisoner and that when I returned rejoicing with a crowd about\nme, proclaiming my innocence, and shouting one to another that I was a\ntourist and had seventy-three lira on my person! The landlady smiled\nand bowed: she had before refused me a bed! The men at the tables made\nme a god! Nor did I think them worse for this. Why should I? A man\nunknown, unkempt, unshaven, in tatters, covered with weeks of travel\nand mud, and in a suit that originally cost not ten shillings; having\nslept in leaves and ferns, and forest places, crosses a river at dusk\nand enters a town furtively, not by the road. He is a foreigner; he\ncarries a great club. Is it not much wiser to arrest such a man? Why\nyes, evidently. And when you have arrested him, can you do more than\nlet him go without proof, on his own word? Hardly!\n\nThus I loved the people of Calestano, especially for this strange\nadventure they had given me; and next day, having slept in a human\nroom, I went at sunrise up the mountain sides beyond and above their\ntown, and so climbed by a long cleft the _second_ spur of the\nApennines: the spur that separated me from the _third_ river, the\nParma. And my goal above the Parma (when I should have crossed it) was\na place marked in the map 'Tizzano'. To climb this second spur, to\nreach and cross the Parma in the vale below, to find Tizzano, I left\nCalestano on that fragrant morning; and having passed and drawn a\nlittle hamlet called Frangi, standing on a crag, I went on up the\nsteep vale and soon reached the top of the ridge, which here dips a\nlittle and allows a path to cross over to the southern side.\n\nIt is the custom of many, when they get over a ridge, to begin\nsinging. Nor did I fail, early as was the hour, to sing in passing\nthis the second of my Apennine summits. I sang easily with an open\nthroat everything that I could remember in praise of joy; and I did\nnot spare the choruses of my songs, being even at pains to imitate\n(when they were double) the various voices of either part.\n\nNow, so much of the Englishman was in me that, coming round a corner\nof rock from which one first sees Beduzzo hanging on its ledge (as you\nknow), and finding round this corner a peasant sitting at his ease, I\nwas ashamed.  For I did not like to be overheard singing fantastic\nsongs. But he, used to singing as a solitary pastime, greeted me, and\nwe walked along together, pointing out to each other the glories of\nthe world before us and exulting in the morning. It was his business\nto show me things and their names: the great Mountain of the\nPilgrimage to the South, the strange rock of Castel-Nuovo; in the far\nhaze the plain of Parma; and Tizzano on its high hill, the ridge\nstraight before me. He also would tell me the name in Italian of the\nthings to hand--my boots, my staff, my hat; and I told him their names\nin French, all of which he was eager to learn.\n\nWe talked of the way people here tilled and owned ground, of the\ndangers in the hills, and of the happiness of lonely men. But if you\nask how we understood each other, I will explain the matter to you.\n\nIn Italy, in the Apennines of the north, there seem to be three strata\nof language. In the valleys the Italian was pure, resonant, and\nforeign to me.  There dwell the townsmen, and they deal down river\nwith the plains.  Half-way up (as at Frangi, at Beduzzo, at Tizzano) I\nbegan to understand them. They have the nasal 'n'; they clip their\nwords. On the summits, at last, they speak like northerners, and I was\neasily understood, for they said not _'vino' _but _'vin';_ not _'duo'_\nbut _'du'_, and so forth. They are the Gauls of the hills. I told them\nso, and they were very pleased.\n\nThen I and my peasant parted, but as one should never leave a man\nwithout giving him something to show by way of token on the Day of\nJudgement, I gave this man a little picture of Milan, and bade him\nkeep it for my sake.\n\nSo he went his way, and I mine, and the last thing he said to me was\nabout a _'molinar'_, but I did not know what that meant.\n\nWhen I had taken a cut down the mountain, and discovered a highroad at\nthe bottom, I saw that the river before me needed fording, like all\nthe rest; and as my map showed me there was no bridge for many miles\ndown, I cast about to cross directly, if possible on some man's\nshoulders.\n\nI met an old woman with a heap of grass on her back; I pointed to the\nriver, and said (in Lingua Franca) that I wished to cross. She again\nused that word _'molinar',_ and I had an inkling that it meant\n'miller'. I said to myself--\n\n'Where there is a miller there is a mill. For _Ubi Petrus ibi\nEcclesia._ Where there is a mill there is water; a mill must have\nmotive power:' (a) I must get near the stream; (b) I must look out\nfor the noise and aspect of a mill.\n\nI therefore (thanking the grass-bearing woman) went right over the\nfields till I saw a great, slow mill-wheel against a house, and a sad\nman standing looking at it as though it were the Procession of God's\nProvidence. He was thinking of many things. I tapped him on the\nshoulder (whereat he started) and spoke the great word of that valley,\n_'molinar'_. It opened all the gates of his soul. He smiled at me like\na man grown young again, and, beckoning me to follow, led radiantly up\nthe sluice to where it drew from the river.\n\nHere three men were at work digging a better entry for the water. One\nwas an old, happy man in spectacles, the second a young man with\nstilts in his hands, the third was very tall and narrow; his face was\nsad, and he was of the kind that endure all things and conquer. I said\n'_Molinar_?'' I had found him.\n\nTo the man who had brought me I gave 50 c., and so innocent and good\nare these people that he said _'Pourquoi?'_ or words like it, and I\nsaid it was necessary. Then I said to the molinar, _'Quanta?'_ and he,\nholding up a tall finger, said '_Una Lira'._ The young man leapt on to\nhis stilts, the molinar stooped down and I got upon his shoulders, and\nwe all attempted the many streams of the river Parma, in which I think\nI should by myself have drowned.\n\nI say advisedly--'I should have been drowned.' These upper rivers of\nthe hills run high and low according to storms and to the melting of\nthe snows.  The river of Parma (for this torrent at last fed Parma)\nwas higher than the rest.\n\nEven the molinar, the god of that valley, had to pick his way\ncarefully, and the young man on stilts had to go before, much higher\nthan mortal men, and up above the water. I could see him as he went,\nand I could see that, to tell the truth, there was a ford--a rare\nthing in upper waters, because in the torrent-sources of rivers either\nthe upper waters run over changeless rocks or else over gravel and\nsand. Now if they run over rocks they have their isolated shallow\nplaces, which any man may find, and their deep--evident by the still\nand mysterious surface, where fish go round and round in the hollows;\nbut no true ford continuous from side to side. So it is in Scotland.\nAnd if they run over gravel and sand, then with every storm or 'spate'\nthey shift and change. But here by some accident there ran--perhaps a\nshelf or rock, perhaps a ruin of a Roman bridge--something at least\nthat was deep enough and solid enough to be a true ford--and that we\nfollowed.\n\nThe molinar--even the molinar--was careful of his way. Twice he\nwaited, waist high, while the man on stilts before us suddenly lost\nground and plunged to his feet. Once, crossing a small branch (for the\nriver here, like all these rivers, runs in many arms over the dry\ngravel), it seemed there was no foothold and we had to cast up and\ndown. Whenever we found dry land, I came off the molinar's back to\nrest him, and when he took the water again I mounted again. So we\npassed the many streams, and stood at last on the Tizzanian side. Then\nI gave a lira to the molinar, and to his companion on stilts 50 c.,\nwho said, 'What is this for?' and I said, 'You also helped.'\n\nThe molinar then, with gesticulations and expression of the eyes, gave\nme to understand that for this 50 c. the stilt-man would take me up to\nTizzano on the high ridge and show me the path up the ridge; so the\nstilt-man turned to me and said, _'Andiamo' _which means _'Allons'.\n_But when the Italians say _'Andiamo' _they are less harsh than the\nnorthern French who say _'Allans'; _for the northern French have three\ntroubles in the blood.  They are fighters; they will for ever be\nseeking the perfect state, and they love furiously. Hence they ferment\ntwice over, like wine subjected to movement and breeding acidity.\nTherefore is it that when they say _'Allons'_ it is harsher than\n_'Andiamo'._ My Italian said to me genially, _'Andiamo_'.\n\nThe Catholic Church makes men. By which I do not mean boasters and\nswaggerers, nor bullies nor ignorant fools, who, finding themselves\ncomfortable, think that their comfort will be a boon to others, and\nattempt (with singular unsuccess) to force it on the world; but men,\nhuman beings, different from the beasts, capable of firmness and\ndiscipline and recognition; accepting death; tenacious. Of her effects\nthe most gracious is the character of the Irish and of these Italians.\nOf such also some day she may make soldiers.\n\nHave you ever noticed that all the Catholic Church does is thought\nbeautiful and lovable until she comes out into the open, and then\nsuddenly she is found by her enemies (which are the seven capital\nsins, and the four sins calling to heaven for vengeance) to be hateful\nand grinding? So it is; and it is the fine irony of her present\nrenovation that those who were for ever belauding her pictures, and\nher saints, and her architecture, as we praise things dead, they are\nthe most angered by her appearance on this modern field all armed,\njust as she was, with works and art and songs, sometimes superlative,\noften vulgar. Note you, she is still careless of art or songs, as she\nhas always been. She lays her foundations in something other, which\nsomething other our moderns hate. Yet out of that something other came\nthe art and song of the Middle Ages. And what art or songs have you?\nShe is Europe and all our past. She is returning. _Andiamo._\n\nLECTOR. But Mr _(deleted by the Censor)_ does not think so?\n\nAUCTOR. I last saw him supping at the Savoy. _Andiamo._\n\nWe went up the hill together over a burnt land, but shaded with trees.\nIt was very hot. I could scarcely continue, so fast did my companion\ngo, and so much did the heat oppress me.\n\nWe passed a fountain at which oxen drank, and there I supped up cool\nwater from the spout, but he wagged his finger before his face to tell\nme that this was an error under a hot sun.\n\nWe went on and met two men driving cattle up the path between the\ntrees.  These I soon found to be talking of prices and markets with my\nguide. For it was market-day. As we came up at last on to the little\ntown--a little, little town like a nest, and all surrounded with\nwalls, and a castle in it and a church--we found a thousand beasts all\nlowing and answering each other along the highroad, and on into the\nmarket square through the gate.  There my guide led me into a large\nroom, where a great many peasants were eating soup with macaroni in\nit, and some few, meat. But I was too exhausted to eat meat, so I\nsupped up my broth and then began diapephradizing on my fingers to\nshow the great innkeeper what I wanted.\n\nI first pulled up the macaroni out of the dish, and said, _Fromagio,\nPommodoro,_ by which I meant cheese--tomato. He then said he knew what\nI meant, and brought me that spaghetti so treated, which is a dish for\na king, a cosmopolitan traitor, an oppressor of the poor, a usurer, or\nany other rich man, but there is no spaghetti in the place to which\nsuch men go, whereas these peasants will continue to enjoy it in\nheaven.\n\nI then pulled out my bottle of wine, drank what was left out of the\nneck (by way of sign), and putting it down said, _'Tale, tantum, vino\nrosso.'_ My guide also said many things which probably meant that I\nwas a rich man, who threw his money about by the sixpence. So the\ninnkeeper went through a door and brought back a bottle all corked and\nsealed, and said on his fingers, and with his mouth and eyes, 'THIS\nKIND OF WINE IS SOMETHING VERY SPECIAL.'\n\nOnly in the foolish cities do men think it a fine thing to appear\ncareless of money. So I, very narrowly watching him out of half-closed\neyes, held up my five fingers interrogatively, and said,\n_'Cinquante?'_ meaning 'Dare you ask fivepence?'\n\nAt which he and all the peasants around, even including my guide,\nlaughed aloud as at an excellent joke, and said, _'Cinquante, Ho!\nho!'_ and dug each other in the ribs. But the innkeeper of Tizzano Val\nParmense said in Italian a number of things which meant that I could\nbut be joking, and added (in passing) that a lira made it a kind of\ngift to me. A lira was, as it were, but a token to prove that it had\nchanged hands: a registration fee: a matter of record; at a lira it\nwas pure charity. Then I said, _'Soixante Dix?'_ which meant nothing\nto him, so I held up seven fingers; he waved his hand about genially,\nand said that as I was evidently a good fellow, a traveller, and as\nanyhow he was practically giving me the wine, he would make it\nninepence; it was hardly worth his while to stretch out his hand for\nso little money. So then I pulled out 80 c. in coppers, and said,\n_'Tutto',_ which means 'all'. Then he put the bottle before me, took\nthe money, and an immense clamour rose from all those who had been\nwatching the scene, and they applauded it as a ratified bargain. And\nthis is the way in which bargains were struck of old time in these\nhills when your fathers and mine lived and shivered in a cave, hunted\nwolves, and bargained with clubs only.\n\nSo this being settled, and I eager for the wine, wished it to be\nopened, especially to stand drink to my guide. The innkeeper was in\nanother room.  The guide was too courteous to ask for a corkscrew, and\nI did not know the Italian for a corkscrew.\n\nI pointed to the cork, but all I got out of my guide was a remark that\nthe wine was very good. Then I made the emblem and sign of a corkscrew\nin my sketch-book with a pencil, but he pretended not to\nunderstand--such was his breeding. Then I imitated the mode, sound,\nand gesture of a corkscrew entering a cork, and an old man next to me\nsaid '_Tira-buchon'--_a common French word as familiar as the woods of\nMarly! It was brought. The bottle was opened and we all drank\ntogether.\n\nAs I rose to go out of Tizzano Val Parmense my guide said to me, _'Se\nchiama Tira-Buchon perche E' lira il buchon'_ And I said to him,\n_'Dominus Vobiscum'_ and left him to his hills.\n\nI took the road downwards from the ridge into the next dip and valley,\nbut after a mile or so in the great heat (it was now one o'clock) I\nwas exhausted. So I went up to a little wooded bank, and lay there in\nthe shade sketching Tizzano Val Parmense, where it stood not much\nabove me, and then I lay down and slept for an hour and smoked a pipe\nand thought of many things.\n\nFrom the ridge on which Tizzano stands, which is the third of these\nApennine spurs, to the next, the fourth, is but a little way; one\nlooks across from one to the other. Nevertheless it is a difficult\npiece of walking, because in the middle of the valley another ridge,\nalmost as high as the principal spurs, runs down, and this has to be\nclimbed at its lowest part before one can get down to the torrent of\nthe Enza, where it runs with a hollow noise in the depths of the\nmountains. So the whole valley looks confused, and it appears, and is,\nlaborious.\n\nVery high up above in a mass of trees stood the first of those many\nruined towers and castles in which the Apennines abound, and of which\nCanossa, far off and indistinguishable in the haze, was the chief\nexample. It was called 'The Tower of Rugino'. Beyond the deep trench\nof the Enza, poised as it seemed on its southern bank (but really much\nfurther off, in the Secchia valley), stood that strange high rock of\nCastel-Nuovo, which the peasant had shown me that morning and which\nwas the landmark of this attempt. It seemed made rather by man than by\nnature, so square and exact was it and so cut off from the other\nhills.\n\nIt was not till the later afternoon, when the air was already full of\nthe golden dust that comes before the fall of the evening, that I\nstood above the Enza and saw it running thousands of feet below. Here\nI halted for a moment irresolute, and looked at the confusion of the\nhills. It had been my intention to make a straight line for Collagna,\nbut I could not tell where Collagna lay save that it was somewhere\nbehind the high mountain that was now darkening against the sky.\nMoreover, the Enza (as I could see down, down from where I stood) was\nnot fordable. It did not run in streams but in one full current, and\nwas a true river. All the scene was wild. I had come close to the\ncentral ridge of the Apennines. It stood above me but five or six\nclear miles away, and on its slopes there were patches and fields of\nsnow which were beginning to glimmer in the diminishing light.\n\nFour peasants sat on the edge of the road. They were preparing to go\nto their quiet homesteads, and they were gathering their scythes\ntogether, for they had been mowing in a field. Coming up to these, I\nasked them how I might reach Collagna. They told me that I could not\ngo straight, as I had wished, on account of the impassable river, but\nthat if I went down the steep directly below me I should find a\nbridge; that thence a path went up the opposite ridge to where a\nhamlet, called Ceregio (which they showed me beyond the valley), stood\nin trees on the crest, and once there (they said) I could be further\ndirected. I understood all their speech except one fatal word. I\nthought they told me that Ceregio was _half_ the way to Collagna; and\nwhat that error cost me you shall hear.\n\nThey drank my wine, I ate their bread, and we parted: they to go to\ntheir accustomed place, and I to cross this unknown valley. But when I\nhad left these grave and kindly men, the echo of their voices remained\nwith me; the deep valley of the Enza seemed lonely, and as I went\nlower and lower down towards the noise of the river I lost the sun.\n\nThe Enza was flooded. A rough bridge, made of stout logs resting on\ntrunks of trees that were lashed together like tripods and supported a\nlong plank, was afforded to cross it. But in the high water it did not\nquite reach to the hither bank. I rolled great stones into the water\nand made a short causeway, and so, somewhat perilously, I attained the\nfarther shore, and went up, up by a little precipitous path till I\nreached the hamlet of Ceregio standing on its hill, blessed and\nsecluded; for no road leads in or out of it, but only mule-paths.\n\nThe houses were all grouped together round a church; it was dim\nbetween them; but several men driving oxen took me to a house that was\nperhaps the inn, though there was no sign; and there in a twilight\nroom we all sat down together like Christians in perfect harmony, and\nthe woman of the house served us.\n\nNow when, after this communion, I asked the way to Collagna, they must\nhave thought me foolish, and have wondered why I did not pass the\nnight with them, for they knew how far off Collagna was. But I (by the\nerror in language of which I have told you) believed it to be but a\nshort way off.  It was in reality ten miles. The oldest of my\ncompanions said he would put me on the way.\n\nWe went together in the half light by a lane that followed the crest\nof the hill, and we passed a charming thing, a little white sculpture\nin relief, set up for a shrine and representing the Annunciation; and\nas we passed it we both smiled. Then in a few hundred yards we passed\nanother that was the Visitation, and they were gracious and beautiful\nto a degree, and I saw that they stood for the five joyful mysteries.\nThen he had to leave me, and he said, pointing to the little shrine:\n\n'When you come to the fifth of these the path divides. Take that to\nthe left, and follow it round the hollow of the mountain: it will\nbecome a lane. This lane crosses a stream and passes near a tower.\nWhen you have reached the tower it joins a great highroad, and that is\nthe road to Collagna.'\n\nAnd when he indicated the shrines he smiled, as though in apology for\nthem, and I saw that we were of the same religion. Then (since people\nwho will not meet again should give each other presents mutually) I\ngave him the best of my two pipes, a new pipe with letters carved on\nit, which he took to be the initials of my name, and he on his part\ngave me a hedge-rose which he had plucked and had been holding in his\nfingers. And I continued the path alone.\n\nCertainly these people have a benediction upon them, granted them for\ntheir simple lives and their justice. Their eyes are fearless and\nkindly. They are courteous, straight, and all have in them laughter\nand sadness. They are full of songs, of memories, of the stories of\ntheir native place; and their worship is conformable to the world that\nGod made. May they possess their own land, and may their influence\ncome again from Italy to save from jar, and boasting, and ineptitude\nthe foolish, valourless cities, and the garish crowds of shouting\nmen.... And let us especially pray that the revival of the faith may\ndo something for our poor old universities.\n\nAlready, when I heard all these directions, they seemed to argue a\nlonger road than I had expected. It proved interminable.\n\nIt was now fully dark; the night was very cold from the height of the\nhills; a dense dew began to fall upon the ground, and the sky was full\nof stars. For hours I went on slowly down the lane that ran round the\nhollow of the wooded mountain, wondering why I did not reach the\nstream he spoke of. It was midnight when I came to the level, and yet\nI heard no water, and did not yet see the tower against the sky.\nExtreme fatigue made it impossible, as I thought, to proceed farther,\nwhen I saw a light in a window, and went to it quickly and stood\nbeneath it. A woman from the window called me _Caro mio,_ which was\ngracious, but she would not let me sleep even in the straw of the\nbarn.\n\nI hobbled on in despair of the night, for the necessity of sleep was\nweighing me down after four high hills climbed that day, and after the\nrough ways and the heat and the continual marching.\n\nI found a bridge which crossed the deep ravine they had told me of.\nThis high bridge was new, and had been built of fine stone, yet it was\nbroken and ruined, and a gap suddenly showed in the dark. I stepped\nback from it in fear. The clambering down to the stream and up again\nthrough the briars to regain the road broke me yet more, and when, on\nthe hill beyond, I saw the tower faintly darker against the dark sky,\nI went up doggedly to it, fearing faintness, and reaching it where it\nstood (it was on the highest ground overlooking the Secchia valley), I\nsat down on a stone beside it and waited for the morning.\n\nThe long slope of the hills fell away for miles to where, by daylight,\nwould have lain the misty plain of Emilia. The darkness confused the\nlandscape. The silence of the mountains and the awful solemnity of the\nplace lent that vast panorama a sense of the terrible, under the dizzy\nroof of the stars. Every now and again some animal of the night gave a\ncry in the undergrowth of the valley, and the great rock of\nCastel-Nuovo, now close and enormous--bare, rugged, a desert\nplace--added something of doom.\n\nThe hours were creeping on with the less certain stars; a very faint\nand unliving grey touched the edges of the clouds. The cold possessed\nme, and I rose to walk, if I could walk, a little farther.\n\nWhat is that in the mind which, after (it may be) a slight\ndisappointment or a petty accident, causes it to suffer on the scale\nof grave things?\n\nI have waited for the dawn a hundred times, attended by that mournful,\ncolourless spirit which haunts the last hours of darkness; and\ninfluenced especially by the great timeless apathy that hangs round\nthe first uncertain promise of increasing light. For there is an hour\nbefore daylight when men die, and when there is nothing above the soul\nor around it, when even the stars fail.\n\nAnd this long and dreadful expectation I had thought to be worst when\none was alone at sea in a small boat without wind; drifting beyond\none's harbour in the ebb of the outer channel tide, and sogging back\nat the first flow on the broad, confused movement of a sea without any\nwaves. In such lonely mornings I have watched the Owers light turning,\nand I have counted up my gulf of time, and wondered that moments could\nbe so stretched out in the clueless mind. I have prayed for the\nmorning or for a little draught of wind, and this I have thought, I\nsay, the extreme of absorption into emptiness and longing.\n\nBut now, on this ridge, dragging myself on to the main road, I found a\ndeeper abyss of isolation and despairing fatigue than I had ever\nknown, and I came near to turning eastward and imploring the hastening\nof light, as men pray continually without reason for things that can\nbut come in a due order. I still went forward a little, because when I\nsat down my loneliness oppressed me like a misfortune; and because my\nfeet, going painfully and slowly, yet gave a little balance and rhythm\nto the movement of my mind.\n\nI heard no sound of animals or birds. I passed several fields,\ndeserted in the half-darkness; and in some I felt the hay, but always\nfound it wringing wet with dew, nor could I discover a good shelter\nfrom the wind that blew off the upper snow of the summits. For a\nlittle space of time there fell upon me, as I crept along the road,\nthat shadow of sleep which numbs the mind, but it could not compel me\nto lie down, and I accepted it only as a partial and beneficent\noblivion which covered my desolation and suffering as a thin,\ntransparent cloud may cover an evil moon.\n\nThen suddenly the sky grew lighter upon every side. That cheating\ngloom (which I think the clouds in purgatory must reflect) lifted from\nthe valley as though to a slow order given by some calm and good\ninfluence that was marshalling in the day. Their colours came back to\nthings; the trees recovered their shape, life, and trembling; here and\nthere, on the face of the mountain opposite, the mists by their\nmovement took part in the new life, and I thought I heard for the\nfirst time the tumbling water far below me in the ravine. That subtle\nbarrier was drawn which marks to-day from yesterday; all the night and\nits despondency became the past and entered memory. The road before\nme, the pass on my left (my last ridge, and the entry into Tuscany),\nthe mass of the great hills, had become mixed into the increasing\nlight, that is, into the familiar and invigorating Present which I\nhave always found capable of opening the doors of the future with a\ngesture of victory.\n\nMy pain either left me, or I ceased to notice it, and seeing a little\nway before me a bank above the road, and a fine grove of sparse and\ndominant chestnuts, I climbed up thither and turned, standing to the\neast.\n\nThere, without any warning of colours, or of the heraldry that we have\nin the north, the sky was a great field of pure light, and without\ndoubt it was all woven through, as was my mind watching it, with\nsecurity and gladness. Into this field, as I watched it, rose the sun.\n\nThe air became warmer almost suddenly. The splendour and health of the\nnew day left me all in repose, and persuaded or compelled me to\nimmediate sleep.\n\nI found therefore in the short grass, and on the scented earth beneath\none of my trees, a place for lying down; I stretched myself out upon\nit, and lapsed into a profound slumber, which nothing but a vague and\ntenuous delight separated from complete forgetfulness. If the last\nconfusion of thought, before sleep possessed me, was a kind of\nprayer--and certainly I was in the mood of gratitude and of\nadoration--this prayer was of course to God, from whom every good\nproceeds, but partly (idolatrously) to the Sun, which, of all the\nthings He has made, seems, of what we at least can discover, the most\ncomplete and glorious.\n\nTherefore the first hours of the sunlight, after I had wakened, made\nthe place like a new country; for my mind which received it was new. I\nreached Collagna before the great heat, following the fine highroad\nthat went dipping and rising again along the mountain side, and then\n(leaving the road and crossing the little Secchia by a bridge), a\npath, soon lost in a grassy slope, gave me an indication of my way.\nFor when I had gone an hour or so upwards along the shoulder of the\nhill, there opened gradually before me a silent and profound vale,\nhung with enormous woods, and sloping upwards to where it was closed\nby a high bank beneath and between two peaks. This bank I knew could\nbe nothing else than the central ridge of the Apennines, the\nwatershed, the boundary of Tuscany, and the end of all the main part\nof my journey. Beyond, the valleys would open on to the Tuscan Plain,\nand at the southern limit of that, Siena was my mark; from Siena to\nRome an eager man, if he is sound, may march in three long days. Nor\nwas that calculation all. The satisfaction of the last lap, of the\nhome run, went with the word Tuscany in my mind; these cities were the\napproaches and introduction of the end.\n\nWhen I had slept out the heat, I followed the woods upward through the\nafternoon. They stood tangled and huge, and the mosses under them were\nthick and silent, because in this last belt of the mountains height\nand coolness reproduced the north. A charcoal burner was making his\nfurnace; after that for the last miles there was no sound. Even the\nfloor of the vale was a depth of grass, and no torrent ran in it but\nonly a little hidden stream, leafy like our streams at home.\n\nAt last the steep bank, a wall at the end of the valley, rose\nimmediately above me. It was very steep and bare, desolate with the\nmany stumps of trees that had been cut down; but all its edge and\nfringe against the sky was the line of a deep forest.\n\nAfter its laborious hundreds of feet, when the forest that crowned it\nevenly was reached, the Apennines were conquered, the last great range\nwas passed, and there stood no barrier between this high crest and\nRome.\n\nThe hither side of that bank, I say, had been denuded of its trees;\nthe roots of secular chestnuts stood like graves above the dry steep,\nand had marked my last arduous climb. Now, at the summit, the highest\npart was a line of cool forest, and the late afternoon mingled with\nthe sanctity of trees. A genial dampness pervaded the earth beneath;\ngrasses grew, and there were living creatures in the shade.\n\nNor was this tenanted wood all the welcome I received on my entry into\nTuscany. Already I heard the noise of falling waters upon every side,\nwhere the Serchio sprang from twenty sources on the southern slope,\nand leapt down between mosses, and quarrelled, and overcame great\nsmooth dark rocks in busy falls. Indeed, it was like my own country in\nthe north, and a man might say to himself--'After so much journeying,\nperhaps I am in the Enchanted Wood, and may find at last the fairy\nMelisaunde.'\n\nA glade opened, and, the trees no longer hiding it, I looked down the\nvale, which was the gate of Tuscany. There--high, jagged, rapt into\nthe sky--stood such a group of mountains as men dream of in good\ndreams, or see in the works of painters when old age permits them\nrevelations. Their height was evident from the faint mist and grey of\ntheir hues; their outline was tumultuous, yet balanced; full of\naccident and poise. It was as though these high walls of Carrara, the\nwestern boundary of the valley, had been shaped expressly for man, in\norder to exalt him with unexpected and fantastic shapes, and to expand\nhis dull life with a permanent surprise.  For a long time I gazed at\nthese great hills.\n\nThen, more silent in the mind through their influence, I went down\npast the speech and companionship of the springs of the Serchio, and\nthe chestnut trees were redolent of evening all round. Down the bank\nto where the streams met in one, down the river, across its gaping,\nruinous bridge (which some one, generations ago, had built for the\nrare travellers--there were then no main roads across the Apennine,\nand perhaps this rude pass was in favour); down still more gently\nthrough the narrow upper valley I went between the chestnut trees, and\ncalm went with me for a companion: and the love of men and the\nexpectation of good seemed natural to all that had been made in this\nblessed place. Of Borda, where the peasants directed me, there is no\nneed to speak, till crossing the Serchio once more, this time on a\ntrestle bridge of wood, I passed by a wider path through the groves,\nand entered the dear village of Sillano, which looks right into the\npure west. And the peaks are guardians all about it: the elder\nbrothers of this remote and secluded valley.\n\nAn inn received me: a great kitchen full of men and women talking, a\nsupper preparing, a great fire, meat smoking and drying in the\ningle-nook, a vast timbered roof going up into darkness: there I was\ncourteously received, but no one understood my language. Seeing there\na young priest, I said to him--\n\n_'Pater, habeo linguam latinam, sed non habeo linguam Italicam. Visne\nmi dare traductionem in istam linguam Toscanam non nullorum\nverborum?'_\n\nTo this he replied, _'Libenter,'_ and the people revered us both. Thus\nhe told me the name for a knife was _cultello;_ for a room, _camera\npar domire;_ for 'what is it called?' _'come si chiama?';_ for 'what\nis the road to?' _'quella e la via a...?'_ and other phrases wherein,\nno doubt, I am wrong; but I only learnt by ear.\n\nThen he said to me something I did not understand, and I answered,\n_'Pol-Hercle!'_ at which he seemed pleased enough.\n\nThen, to make conversation, I said, _'Diaconus es?'_\n\nAnd he answered me, mildly and gravely, _'Presbyter sum.'_\n\nAnd a little while after he left for his house, but I went out on to\nthe balcony, where men and women were talking in subdued tones. There,\nalone, I sat and watched the night coming up into these Tuscan hills.\nThe first moon since that waning in Lorraine--(how many nights ago,\nhow many marches!)--hung in the sky, a full crescent, growing into\nbrightness and glory as she assumed her reign. The one star of the\nwest called out his silent companions in their order; the mountains\nmerged into a fainter confusion; heaven and the infinite air became\nthe natural seat of any spirit that watched this spell. The fire-flies\ndarted in the depths of vineyards and of trees below; then the noise\nof the grasshoppers brought back suddenly the gardens of home, and\nwhatever benediction surrounds our childhood. Some promise of eternal\npleasures and of rest deserved haunted the village of Sillano.\n\nIn very early youth the soul can still remember its immortal\nhabitation, and clouds and the edges of hills are of another kind from\nours, and every scent and colour has a savour of Paradise. What that\nquality may be no language can tell, nor have men made any words, no,\nnor any music, to recall it--only in a transient way and elusive the\nrecollection of what youth was, and purity, flashes on us in phrases\nof the poets, and is gone before we can fix it in our minds--oh! my\nfriends, if we could but recall it! Whatever those sounds may be that\nare beyond our sounds, and whatever are those keen lives which remain\nalive there under memory--whatever is Youth--Youth came up that valley\nat evening, borne upon a southern air. If we deserve or attain\nbeatitude, such things shall at last be our settled state; and their\nnow sudden influence upon the soul in short ecstasies is the proof\nthat they stand outside time, and are not subject to decay.\n\nThis, then, was the blessing of Sillano, and here was perhaps the\nhighest moment of those seven hundred miles--or more. Do not therefore\nbe astonished, reader, if I now press on much more hurriedly to Rome,\nfor the goal is almost between my hands, and the chief moment has been\nenjoyed, until I shall see the City.\n\nNow I cry out and deplore me that this next sixty miles of way, but\nespecially the heat of the days and the dank mists of the night,\nshould have to be told as of a real journey in this very repetitive\nand sui-similar world. How much rather I wish that being free from\nmundane and wide-awake (that is to say from perilously dusty)\nconsiderations and droughty boredoms, I might wander forth at leisure\nthrough the air and visit the regions where everything is as the soul\nchooses: to be dropped at last in the ancient and famous town of\nSiena, whence comes that kind of common brown paint wherewith men,\nhowever wicked, can produce (if they have but the art) very surprising\neffects of depth in painting: for so I read of it in a book by a fool,\nat six shillings, and even that was part of a series: but if you wish\nto know anything further of the matter, go you and read it, for I will\ndo nothing of the kind.\n\nOh to be free for strange voyages even for a little while! I am tired\nof the road; and so are you, and small blame to you. Your fathers also\ntired of the treadmill, and mine of the conquering marches of the\nRepublic.  Heaven bless you all!\n\nBut I say that if it were not for the incredulity and doubt and\nagnostico-schismatical hesitation, and very cumbersome air of\nquestioning-and-peering-about, which is the bane of our moderns, very\ncertainly I should now go on to tell of giants as big as cedars,\nliving in mountains of precious stones, and drawn to battle by dragons\nin cars of gold; or of towns where the customs of men were remote and\nunexpected; of countries not yet visited, and of the gods returning.\nFor though it is permissible, and a pleasant thing (as Bacon says), to\nmix a little falsehood with one's truth (so St Louis mixed water with\nhis wine, and so does Sir John Growl mix vinegar with his, unless I am\ngreatly mistaken, for if not, how does he give it that taste at his\ndinners? eh? There, I think, is a question that would puzzle him!) yet\nis it much more delectable, and far worthier of the immortal spirit of\nman to soar into the empyrean of pure lying--that is, to lay the\nbridle on the neck of Pegasus and let him go forward, while in the\nsaddle meanwhile one sits well back, grips with the knee, takes the\nrace, and on the energy of that steed visits the wheeling stars.\n\nThis much, then, is worth telling of the valley of the Serchio, that\nit is narrow, garrulous with water brawling, wooded densely, and\ncontained by fantastic mountains. That it has a splendid name, like\nthe clashing of cymbals--Garfagnana; that it leads to the Tuscan\nplain, and that it is over a day's march long. Also, it is an oven.\n\nNever since the early liars first cooked eggs in the sand was there\nsuch heat, and it was made hotter by the consciousness of folly, than\nwhich there is no more heating thing; for I think that not old\nChampionnet himself, with his Division of Iron, that fought one to\nthree and crushed the aged enormities of the oppressors as we would\ncrush an empty egg, and that found the summer a good time for fighting\nin Naples, I say that he himself would not have marched men up the\nGarfagnana in such a sun. Folly planned it, Pride held to it, and the\ndevils lent their climate.  Garfagnana! Garfagnana! to have such a\npleasant name, and to be what you are!\n\nNot that there were not old towers on the steep woods of the Apennine,\nnor glimpses of the higher peaks; towns also: one castle surrounded by\na fringe of humble roofs--there were all these things. But it was an\noven. So imagine me, after having passed chapels built into rocks, and\nthings most curious, but the whole under the strain of an intolerable\nsun, coming, something after midday, to a place called Castel-Nuovo,\nthe first town, for Campogiamo is hardly a town.\n\nAt Castel-Nuovo I sat upon a bridge and thought, not what good men\nthink (there came into my memory no historical stuff; for all I know,\nLiberty never went by that valley in arms); no appreciation of beauty\nfilled me; I was indifferent to all save the intolerable heat, when I\nsuddenly recognized the enormous number of bridges that bespattered\nthe town.\n\n'This is an odd thing,' I mused. 'Here is a little worriment of a town\nup in the hills, and what a powerful lot of bridges!'\n\nI cared not a fig for the thousand things I had been told to expect in\nTuscany; everything is in a mind, and as they were not in my mind they\ndid not exist. But the bridges, they indeed were worthy of admiration!\n\nHere was a horrible little place on a torrent bank. One bridge was\nreasonable for by it went the road leading south to Lucca and to Rome;\nit was common honour to let men escape. But as I sat on that main\nbridge I counted seven others; indeed there must have been a worship\nof a bridge-god some time or other to account for such a necklace of\nbridges in such a neglected borough.\n\nYou may say (I am off hard on the road to Borgo, drooping with the\nheat, but still going strongly), you may say that is explicable\nenough. First a thing is useful, you say, then it has to become\nroutine; then the habit, being a habit, gets a sacred idea attached to\nit. So with bridges: _e.g._ Pontifex; Dervorguilla, our Ballici saint\nthat built a bridge; the devil that will hinder the building of\nbridges; _cf. _the Porphyry Bridge in the Malay cosmogony;\nAmershickel, Brueckengebildung im kult-Historischer.  Passenmayer;\nDurat, _Le pont antique, etude sur les origines Toscanes;_ Mr Dacre's\n_The Command of Bridges in Warfare; Bridges and Empire,_ by Captain\nHole, U.S.A. You may say all this; I shall not reply. If the heat has\nhindered me from saying a word of the fine open valley on the left, of\nthe little railway and of the last of the hills, do you suppose it\nwill permit me to discuss the sanctity of bridges? If it did, I think\nthere is a little question on 'why should habit turn sacred?' which\nwould somewhat confound and pose you, and pose also, for that matter,\nevery pedant that ever went blind and crook-backed over books, or took\nivory for horn. And there is an end of it. Argue it with whom you\nwill. It is evening, and I am at Borgo (for if many towns are called\nCastel-Nuovo so are many called Borgo in Italy), and I desire to be\nfree of interruption while I eat and sleep and reflect upon the error\nof that march in that heat, spoiling nearly thirty miles of road,\nlosing so many great and pleasurable emotions, all for haste and from\na neglect of the Italian night.\n\nAnd as I ate, and before I slept, I thought of that annotated Guide\nBook which is cried out for by all Europe, and which shall tell blunt\ntruths.  Look you out _'Garfagnana, district of, Valley of Serchio'_\nin the index.  You will be referred to p. 267. Turn to p. 267. You\nwill find there the phrase--\n\n'One can walk from the pretty little village of Sillano, nestling in\nits chestnut groves, to the flourishing town of Borgo on the new Bagni\nrailway in a day.'\n\nYou will find a mark [1] after that phrase. It refers to a footnote.\nGlance (or look) at the bottom of the page and you will find:\n\n[1] But if one does one is a fool.\n\nSo I slept late and uneasily the insufficient sleep of men who have\nsuffered, and in that uneasy sleep I discovered this great truth: that\nif in a southern summer you do not rest in the day the night will seem\nintolerably warm, but that, if you rest in the day, you will find\ncoolness and energy at evening.\n\nThe next morning with daylight I continued the road to Lucca, and of\nthat also I will say nothing.\n\nLECTOR. Why on earth did you write this book?\n\nAUCTOR. For my amusement.\n\nLECTOR. And why do you suppose I got it?\n\nAUCTOR. I cannot conceive... however, I will give up this much, to\ntell you that at Decimo the mystery of cypress trees first came into\nmy adventure and pilgrimage: of cypress trees which henceforward were\nto mark my Tuscan road. And I will tell you that there also I came\nacross a thing peculiar (I suppose) to the region of Lucca, for I saw\nit there as at Decimo, and also some miles beyond. I mean fine\nmournful towers built thus: In the first storey one arch, in the\nsecond two, in the third three, and so on: a very noble way of\nbuilding.\n\nAnd I will tell you something more. I will tell you something no one\nhas yet heard. To wit, why this place is called Decimo, and why just\nbelow it is another little spot called Sexta.\n\nLECTOR....\n\nAUCTOR. I know what you are going to say! Do not say it. You are going\nto say: 'It is because they were at the sixth and tenth milestones\nfrom Lucca on the Roman road.' Heaven help these scientists! Did you\nsuppose that I thought it was called Decimo because the people had ten\ntoes? Tell me, why is not every place ten miles out of a Roman town\ncalled by such a name? Eh?  You are dumb. You cannot answer. Like most\nmoderns you have entirely missed the point. We all know that there was\na Roman town at Lucca, because it was called Luca, and if there had\nbeen no Roman town the modern town would not be spelt with two _c's._\nAll Roman towns had milestones beyond them. But why did _this_ tenth\nmilestone from _this_ Roman town keep its name?\n\nLECTOR. I am indifferent.\n\nAUCTOR. I will tell you. Up in the tangle of the Carrara mountains,\noverhanging the Garfagnana, was a wild tribe, whose name I forget\n(unless it were the Bruttii), but which troubled the Romans not a\nlittle, defeating them horribly, and keeping the legionaries in some\nanxiety for years. So when the soldiers marched out north from Luca\nabout six miles, they could halt and smile at each other, and say 'At\n_Sextant..._ that's all right.  All safe so far!' and therefore only a\nlittle village grew up at this little rest and emotion. But as they\ngot nearer the gates of the hills they began to be visibly perturbed,\nand they would say: 'The eighth mile! cheer up!' Then 'The ninth mile!\nSanctissima Madonna! Have you seen anything moving on the heights?'\nBut when they got to the _tenth_ milestone, which stands before the\nvery jaws of the defile, then indeed they said with terrible emphasis,\n_'Ad Decimam!'_ And there was no restraining them: they would camp and\nentrench, or die in the venture: for they were Romans and stern\nfellows, and loved a good square camp and a ditch, and sentries and a\nclear moon, and plenty of sharp stakes, and all the panoply of war.\nThat is the origin of Decimo.\n\nFor all my early start, the intolerable heat had again taken the\nascendant before I had fairly entered the plain. Then, it being yet\nbut morning, I entered from the north the town of Lucca, which is the\nneatest, the regularest, the exactest, the most fly-in-amber little\ntown in the world, with its uncrowded streets, its absurd\nfortifications, and its contented silent houses--all like a family at\nease and at rest under its high sun. It is as sharp and trim as its\nown map, and that map is as clear as a geometrical problem. Everything\nin Lucca is good.\n\nI went with a short shadow, creeping when I could on the eastern side\nof the street to save the sunlight; then I came to the main square,\nand immediately on my left was the Albergo di Something-or-other, a\nfine great hotel, but most unfortunately right facing the blazing sky.\nI had to stop outside it to count my money. I counted it wrong and\nentered. There I saw the master, who talked French.\n\n'Can you in an hour,' said I, 'give me a meal to my order, then a bed,\nthough it is early day?' This absurd question I made less absurd by\nexplaining to him my purpose. How I was walking to Rome and how, being\nnorthern, I was unaccustomed to such heat; how, therefore, I had\nmissed sleep, and would find it necessary in future to walk mainly by\nnight. For I had now determined to fill the last few marches up in\ndarkness, and to sleep out the strong hours of the sun.\n\nAll this he understood; I ordered such a meal as men give to beloved\nfriends returned from wars. I ordered a wine I had known long ago in\nthe valley of the Saone in the old time of peace before ever the Greek\ncame to the land. While they cooked it I went to their cool and\nsplendid cathedral to follow a late Mass. Then I came home and ate\ntheir admirable food and drank the wine which the Burgundians had\ntrodden upon the hills of gold so many years before. They showed me a\nregal kind of a room where a bed with great hangings invited repose.\n\nAll my days of marching, the dirty inns, the forests, the nights\nabroad, the cold, the mists, the sleeplessness, the faintness, the\ndust, the dazzling sun, the Apennines--all my days came over me, and\nthere fell on me a peaceful weight, as his two hundred years fell upon\nCharlemagne in the tower of Saragossa when the battle was done; after\nhe had curbed the valley of Ebro and christened Bramimonde.\n\nSo I slept deeply all day long; and, outside, the glare made a silence\nupon the closed shutters, save that little insects darted in the outer\nair.\n\nWhen I woke it was evening. So well had they used me that I paid what\nthey asked, and, not knowing what money remained over, I left their\ntown by the southern gate, crossed the railway and took the road.\n\nMy way lay under the flank of that mountain whereby the Luccans cannot\nsee Pisa, or the Pisans cannot see Lucca--it is all one to me, I shall\nnot live in either town, God willing; and if they are so eager to\nsquint at one another, in Heaven's name, cannot they be at the pains\nto walk round the end of the hill? It is this laziness which is the\nruin of many; but not of pilgrims, for here was I off to cross the\nplain of Arno in one night, and reach by morning the mouth and gate of\nthat valley of the Elsa, which same is a very manifest proof of how\nRome was intended to be the end and centre of all roads, the chief\ncity of the world, and the Popes' residence--as, indeed, it plainly is\nto this day, for all the world to deny at their peril, spiritual,\ngeographical, historical, sociological, economic, and philosophical.\n\nFor if some such primeval and predestinarian quality were not inherent\nin the City, how, think you, would the valley of the Serchio--the hot,\ndroughty, and baking Garfagnana--lead down pointing straight to Rome;\nand how would that same line, prolonged across the plain, find fitting\nit exactly beyond that plain this vale of the Elsa, itself leading up\ndirectly towards Rome? I say, nowhere in the world is such a\ncoincidence observable, and they that will not take it for a portent\nmay go back to their rationalism and consort with microbes and make\ntheir meals off logarithms, washed down with an exact distillation of\nthe root of minus one; and the peace of fools, that is the deepest and\nmost balmy of all, be theirs for ever and ever.\n\nHere again you fall into errors as you read, ever expecting something\nnew; for of that night's march there is nothing to tell, save that it\nwas cool, full of mist, and an easy matter after the royal\nentertainment and sleep of the princely Albergo that dignifies Lucca.\nThe villages were silent, the moon soon left the sky, and the stars\ncould not show through the fog, which deepened in the hours after\nmidnight.\n\nA map I had bought in Lucca made the difficulties of the first part of\nthe road (though there were many cross-ways) easy enough; and the\nsecond part, in midnight and the early hours, was very plain sailing,\ntill--having crossed the main line and having, at last, very weary,\ncome up to the branch railway at a slant from the west and north, I\ncrossed that also under the full light--I stood fairly in the Elsa\nvalley and on the highroad which follows the railway straight to\nSiena. That long march, I say, had been easy enough in the coolness\nand in the dark; but I saw nothing; my interior thoughts alone would\nhave afforded matter for this part; but of these if you have not had\nenough in near six hundred miles of travel, you are a stouter fellow\nthan I took you for.\n\nThough it was midsummer, the light had come quickly. Long after\nsunrise the mist dispersed, and the nature of the valley appeared.\n\nIt was in no way mountainous, but easy, pleasant, and comfortable,\nbounded by low, rounded hills, having upon them here and there a row\nof cypresses against the sky; and it was populous with pleasant farms.\nThough the soil was baked and dry, as indeed it is everywhere in this\nsouth, yet little regular streams (or canals) irrigated it and\nnourished many trees--- but the deep grass of the north was wanting.\n\nFor an hour or more after sunrise I continued my way very briskly;\nthen what had been the warmth of the early sun turned into the violent\nheat of day, and remembering Merlin where he says that those who will\nwalk by night must sleep by day, and having in my mind the severe\nverses of James Bayle, sometime Fellow of St Anne's, that 'in Tuscan\nsummers as a general rule, the days are sultry but the nights are\ncool' (he was no flamboyant poet; he loved the quiet diction of the\nright wing of English poetry), and imagining an owlish habit of\nsleeping by day could be acquired at once, I lay down under a tree of\na kind I had never seen; and lulled under the pleasant fancy that this\nwas a picture-tree drawn before the Renaissance, and that I was\nreclining in some background landscape of the fifteenth century (for\nthe scene was of that kind), I fell asleep.\n\nWhen I woke it was as though I had slept long; but I doubted the\nfeeling.  The young sun still low in the sky, and the shadows not yet\nshortened, puzzled me. I looked at my watch, but the dislocation of\nhabit which night marches produce had left it unwound. It marked a\nquarter to three, which was absurd. I took the road somewhat stiffly\nand wondering. I passed several small white cottages; there was no\nclock in them, and their people were away. At last in a Trattoria, as\nthey served me with food, a woman told me it was just after seven; I\nhad slept but an hour.\n\nOutside, the day was intense; already flies had begun to annoy the\ndarkened room within. Through the half-curtained door the road was\nwhite in the sun, and the railway ran just beyond.\n\nI paid my reckoning, and then, partly for an amusement, I ranged my\nremaining pence upon the table, first in the shape of a Maltese cross,\nthen in a circle (interesting details!). The road lay white in the\nsunlight outside, and the railway ran just beyond.\n\nI counted the pence and the silver--there was three francs and a\nlittle over; I remembered the imperial largesse at Lucca, the lordly\nspending of great sums, where, now in the pocket of an obsequious man,\nthe pounds were taking care of themselves. I remembered how at Como I\nhad been compelled by poverty to enter the train for Milan. How little\nwas three francs for the remaining twenty-five miles to Siena! The\nroad lay white in the sunlight, and the railway ran just beyond.\n\nI remembered the pleasing cheque in the post-office of Siena; the\nbanks of Siena, and the money changers at their counters changing\nmoney at the rate of change.\n\n'If one man,' thought I, 'may take five per cent discount on a sum of\nmoney in the exchange, may not another man take discount off a walk of\nover seven hundred miles? May he not cut off it, as his due,\ntwenty-five miserable little miles in the train?' Sleep coming over me\nafter my meal increased the temptation. Alas! how true is the great\nphrase of Averroes (or it may be Boa-ed-din: anyhow, the Arabic\nescapes me, but the meaning is plain enough), that when one has once\nfallen, it is easy to fall again (saving always heavy falls from\ncliffs and high towers, for after these there is no more falling)....\nExamine the horse's knees before you buy him; take no ticket-of-leave\nman into your house for charity; touch no prospectus that has\nfounders' shares, and do not play with firearms or knives and never go\nnear the water till you know how to swim. Oh! blessed wisdom of the\nages!  sole patrimony of the poor! The road lay white in the sun, and\nthe railway ran just beyond.\n\nIf the people of Milo did well to put up a statue in gold to the man\nthat invented wheels, so should we also put one up in Portland stone\nor plaster to the man that invented rails, whose property it is not\nonly to increase the speed and ease of travel, but also to bring on\nslumber as can no drug: not even poppies gathered under a waning moon.\nThe rails have a rhythm of slight falls and rises... they make a loud\nroar like a perpetual torrent; they cover up the mind with a veil.\n\nOnce only, when a number of men were shouting 'POGGI-BON-SI,' like a\nwar-cry to the clank of bronze, did I open my eyes sleepily to see a\nhill, a castle wall, many cypresses, and a strange tower bulging out\nat the top (such towers I learned were the feature of Tuscany). Then\nin a moment, as it seemed, I awoke in the station of Siena, where the\nrailway ends and goes no farther.\n\nIt was still only morning; but the glare was beyond bearing as I\npassed through the enormous gate of the town, a gate pierced in high\nand stupendous walls that are here guarded by lions. In the narrow\nmain street there was full shade, and it was made cooler by the\ncontrast of the blaze on the higher storeys of the northern side. The\nwonders of Siena kept sleep a moment from my mind. I saw their great\nsquare where a tower of vast height marks the guildhall. I heard Mass\nin a chapel of their cathedral: a chapel all frescoed, and built, as\nit were, out of doors, and right below the altar-end or choir. I noted\nhow the city stood like a queen of hills dominating all Tuscany: above\nthe Elsa northward, southward above the province round Mount Amiato.\nAnd this great mountain I saw also hazily far off on the horizon. I\nsuffered the vulgarities of the main street all in English and\nAmerican, like a show. I took my money and changed it; then, having so\npassed not a full hour, and oppressed by weariness, I said to myself:\n\n'After all, my business is not with cities, and already I have seen\nfar off the great hill whence one can see far off the hills that\noverhang Rome.'\n\nWith this in my mind I wandered out for a quiet place, and found it in\na desolate green to the north of the city, near a huge, old red-brick\nchurch like a barn. A deep shadow beneath it invited me in spite of\nthe scant and dusty grass, and in this country no one disturbs the\nwanderer. There, lying down, I slept without dreams till evening.\n\nAUCTOR. Turn to page 94.\n\nLECTOR. I have it. It is not easy to watch the book in two places at\nonce; but pray continue.\n\nAUCTOR. Note the words from the eighth to the tenth lines.\n\nLECTOR. Why?\n\nAUCTOR. They will make what follows seem less abrupt.\n\nOnce there was a man dining by himself at the Cafe Anglais, in the\ndays when people went there. It was a full night, and he sat alone at\na small table, when there entered a very big man in a large fur coat.\nThe big man looked round annoyed, because there was no room, and the\nfirst man very courteously offered him a seat at his little table.\nThey sat down and ate and talked of several things; among others, of\nBureaucracy. The first maintained that Bureaucracy was the curse of\nFrance.\n\n'Men are governed by it like sheep. The administrator, however humble,\nis a despot; most people will even run forward to meet him halfway,\nlike the servile dogs they are,' said he.\n\n'No,' answered the Man in the Big Fur Coat, 'I should say men were\ngoverned just by the ordinary human sense of authority. I have no\ntheories. I say they recognize authority and obey it. Whether it is\nbureaucratic or not is merely a question of form.'\n\nAt this moment there came in a tall, rather stiff Englishman. He also\nwas put out at finding no room. The two men saw the manager approach\nhim; a few words were passed, and a card; then the manager suddenly\nsmiled, bowed, smirked, and finally went up to the table and begged\nthat the Duke of Sussex might be allowed to share it. The Duke hoped\nhe did not incommode these gentlemen. They assured him that, on the\ncontrary, they esteemed his presence a favour.\n\n'It is our prerogative,' said the Man in the Big Fur Coat, 'to be the\nhost Paris entertaining her Guest.'\n\nThey would take no denial; they insisted on the Duke's dining with\nthem, and they told him what they had just been discussing. The Duke\nlistened to their theories with some _morgue,_ much _spleen,_ and no\nlittle _phlegm,_ but with _perfect courtesy,_ and then, towards the\ncoffee, told them in fluent French with a strong accent, his own\nopinion. (He had had eight excellent courses; Yquem with his fish, the\nbest Chambertin during the dinner, and a glass of wonderful champagne\nwith his dessert.) He spoke as follows, with a slight and rather hard\nsmile:\n\n'My opinion may seem to you impertinent, but I believe nothing more\nsubtly and powerfully affects men than the aristocratic feeling. Do\nnot misunderstand me,' he added, seeing that they would protest; 'it\nis not my own experience alone that guides me. All history bears\nwitness to the same truth.'\n\nThe simple-minded Frenchmen put down this infatuation to the Duke's\nearly training, little knowing that our English men of rank are the\nsimplest fellows in the world, and are quite indifferent to their\ntitles save in business matters.\n\nThe Frenchmen paid the bill, and they all three went on to the\nBoulevard.\n\n'Now,' said the first man to his two companions, 'I will give you a\npractical example of what I meant when I said that Bureaucracy\ngoverned mankind.'\n\nHe went up to the wall of the Credit Lyonnais, put the forefinger of\neither hand against it, about twenty-five centimetres apart, and at a\nlevel of about a foot above his eyes. Holding his fingers thus he\ngazed at them, shifting them slightly from time to time and moving his\nglance from one to the other rapidly. A crowd gathered. In a few\nmoments a pleasant elderly, short, and rather fat gentleman in the\ncrowd came forward, and, taking off his hat, asked if he could do\nanything for him.\n\n'Why,' said our friend, 'the fact is I am an engineer (section D of\nthe Public Works Department) and I have to make an important\nmeasurement in connexion with the Apothegm of the Bilateral which runs\nto-night precisely through this spot. My fingers now mark exactly the\nconcentric of the secondary focus whence the Radius Vector should be\ndrawn, but I find that (like a fool) I have left my Double Refractor\nin the cafe hard by. I dare not go for fear of losing the place I have\nmarked; yet I can get no further without my Double Refractor.'\n\n'Do not let that trouble you,' said the short, stout stranger; 'I will\nbe delighted to keep the place exactly marked while you run for your\ninstrument.'\n\nThe crowd was now swelled to a considerable size; it blocked up the\npavement, and was swelled every moment by the arrival of the curious.\nThe little fat elderly man put his fingers exactly where the other's\nhad been, effecting the exchange with a sharp gesture; and each\nwatched intently to see that it was right to within a millimetre. The\nattitude was constrained.  The elderly man smiled, and begged the\nengineer not to be alarmed. So they left him with his two forefingers\nwell above his head, precisely twenty-five centimetres apart, and\npressing their tips against the wall of the Credit Lyonnais. Then the\nthree friends slipped out of the crowd and pursued their way.\n\n'Let us go to the theatre,' said the experimenter, 'and when we come\nback I warrant you will agree with my remarks on Bureaucracy.'\n\nThey went to hear the admirable marble lines of Corneille. For three\nhours they were absorbed by the classics, and, when they returned, a\ncrowd, now enormous, was surging all over the Boulevard, stopping the\ntraffic and filled with a noise like the sea. Policemen were attacking\nit with the utmost energy, but still it grew and eddied; and in the\ncentre--a little respectful space kept empty around him--still\nstretched the poor little fat elderly man, a pitiable sight. His knees\nwere bent, his head wagged and drooped with extreme fatigue, he was\nthe colour of old blotting-paper; but still he kept the tips of his\ntwo forefingers exactly twenty-five centimetres apart, well above his\nhead, and pressed against the wall of the Credit Lyonnais.\n\n'You will not match that with your aristocratic sentiment!' said the\nauthor of the scene in pardonable triumph.\n\n'I am not so sure,' answered the Duke of Sussex. He pulled out his\nwatch.  'It is midnight,' he said, 'and I must be off; but let me tell\nyou before we part that you have paid for a most expensive dinner, and\nhave behaved all night with an extravagant deference under the\nimpression that I was the Duke of Sussex. As a fact my name is Jerks,\nand I am a commercial traveller in the linseed oil line; and I wish\nyou the best of good evenings.'\n\n'Wait a moment,' said the Man in the Big Fur Coat; 'my theory of the\nSimple Human Sense of Authority still holds. I am a detective officer,\nand you will both be good enough to follow me to the police station.'\n\nAnd so they did, and the Engineer was fined fifty francs in\ncorrectional, and the Duke of Sussex was imprisoned for ten days, with\ninterdiction of domicile for six months; the first indeed under the\nPrefectorial Decree of the 18th of November 1843, but the second under\nthe law of the 12th germinal of the year VIII.\n\nIn this way I have got over between twenty and thirty miles of road\nwhich were tramped in the dark, and the description of which would\nhave plagued you worse than a swarm of hornets.\n\nOh, blessed interlude! no struggling moon, no mist, no long-winded\npassages upon the genial earth, no the sense of the night, no marvels\nof the dawn, no rhodomontade, no religion, no rhetoric, no sleeping\nvillages, no silent towns (there was one), no rustle of trees--just a\nshort story, and there you have a whole march covered as though a\nbrigade had swung down it. A new day has come, and the sun has risen\nover the detestable parched hillocks of this downward way.\n\nNo, no, Lector! Do not blame me that Tuscany should have passed\nbeneath me unnoticed, as the monotonous sea passes beneath a boat in\nfull sail. Blame all those days of marching; hundreds upon hundreds of\nmiles that exhausted the powers of the mind. Blame the fiery and angry\nsky of Etruria, that compelled most of my way to be taken at night.\nBlame St Augustine, who misled me in his Confessions by talking like\nan African of 'the icy shores of Italy'; or blame Rome, that now more\nand more drew me to Herself as She approached from six to five, from\nfive to four, from four to three--now She was but _three_ days off.\nThe third sun after that I now saw rising would shine upon the City.\n\nI did indeed go forward a little in the heat, but it was useless.\nAfter an hour I abandoned it. It was not so much the sun, though that\nwas intemperate and deadly; it was rather the inhuman aspect of the\nearth which made me despair. It was as though the soil had been left\nimperfect and rough after some cataclysm; it reminded me of those bad\nlands in the west of America, where the desert has no form, and where\nthe crumbling and ashy look of things is more abhorrent than their\nmere desolation. As soon march through evil dreams!\n\nThe north is the place for men. Eden was there; and the four rivers of\nParadise are the Seine, the Oise, the Thames, and the Arun; there are\ngrasses there, and the trees are generous, and the air is an unnoticed\npleasure. The waters brim up to the edges of the fields. But for this\nbare Tuscany I was never made.\n\nHow far I had gone I could not tell, nor precisely how much farther\nSan Quirico, the neighbouring town, might be. The imperfect map I had\nbought at Siena was too minute to give me clear indications. I was\ncontent to wait for evening, and then to go on till I found it. An\nhour or so in the shade of a row of parched and dusty bushes I lay and\nate and drank my wine, and smoked, and then all day I slept, and woke\na while, and slept again more deeply. But how people sleep and wake,\nif you do not yet know it after so much of this book you never will.\n\nIt was perhaps five o'clock, or rather more, when I rose unhappily and\ntook up the ceaseless road.\n\nEven the goodness of the Italian nature seemed parched up in those dry\nhollows. At an inn where I ate they shouted at me, thinking in that\nway to make me understand; and their voices were as harsh as the\ngrating of metal against stone. A mile farther I crossed a lonely line\nof railway; then my map told me where I was, and I went wearily up an\nindefinite slope under the declining sun, and thought it outrageous\nthat only when the light had gone was there any tolerable air in this\ncountry.\n\nSoon the walls of San Quirico, partly ruinous, stood above the fields\n(for the smallest places here have walls); as I entered its gate the\nsun set, and as though the cool, coming suddenly, had a magic in it,\neverything turned kinder. A church that could wake interest stood at\nthe entry of the town; it had stone lions on its steps, and the\npillars were so carved as to resemble knotted ropes. There for the\nfirst time I saw in procession one of those confraternities which in\nItaly bury the dead; they had long and dreadful hoods over their\nheads, with slits for the eyes. I spoke to the people of San Quirico,\nand they to me. They were upstanding, and very fine and noble in the\nlines of the face. On their walls is set a marble tablet, on which it\nis registered that the people of Tuscany, being asked whether they\nwould have their hereditary Duke or the House of Savoy, voted for the\nlatter by such and such a great majority; and this kind of tablet I\nafterwards found was common to all these small towns. Then passing\ndown their long street I came, at the farther gate, to a great sight,\nwhich the twilight still permitted me to receive in its entirety.\n\nFor San Quirico is built on the edge of a kind of swell in the land,\nand here where I stood one looked over the next great wave; for the\nshape of the view was, on a vast scale, just what one sees from a\nlonely boat looking forward over a following sea.\n\nThe trough of the wave was a shallow purple valley, its arid quality\nhidden by the kindly glimmer of evening; few trees stood in it to\nbreak its sweep, and its irregularities and mouldings were just those\nof a sweep of water after a gale. The crest of the wave beyond was\nseventeen miles away. It had, as have also such crests at sea, one\nhighest, toppling peak in its long line, and this, against the clear\nsky, one could see to be marked by buildings. These buildings were the\nruined castle and walls of Radicofani, and it lay straight on my way\nto Rome.\n\nIt is a strange thing, arresting northern eyes, to see towns thus\nbuilt on summits up into the sky, and this height seemed the more\nfantastic because it was framed. A row of cypress trees stood on\neither side of the road where it fell from San Quirico, and, exactly\nbetween these, this high crest, a long way off, was set as though by\ndesign.\n\nWith more heart in me, and tempted by such an outline as one might be\nby the prospect of adventure, I set out to cross the great bare run of\nthe valley. As I went, the mountain of Amiato came more and more\nnearly abreast of me in the west; in its foothills near me were\nravines and unexpected rocks; upon one of them hung a village. I\nwatched its church and one tall cypress next it, as they stood black\nagainst the last of daylight. Then for miles I went on the dusty way,\nand crossed by old bridges watercourses in which stood nothing but\ngreen pools; and the night deepened.\n\nIt was when I had crossed the greater part of the obscure plain, at\nits lowest dip and not far from the climb up to Radicofani, that I saw\nlights shining in a large farmhouse, and though it was my business to\nwalk by night, yet I needed companionship, so I went in.\n\nThere in a very large room, floored with brick and lit by one candle,\nwere two fine old peasants, with faces like apostles, playing a game\nof cards.  There also was a woman playing with a strong boy child,\nthat could not yet talk: and the child ran up to me. Nothing could\npersuade the master of the house but that I was a very poor man who\nneeded sleep, and so good and generous was this old man that my\nprotests seemed to him nothing but the excuses and shame of poverty.\nHe asked me where I was going. I said, 'To Rome.' He came out with a\nlantern to the stable, and showed me there a manger full of hay,\nindicating that I might sleep in it... His candle flashed upon the\ngreat silent oxen standing in rows; their enormous horns, three times\nthe length of what we know in England, filled me with wonder... Well!\n(may it count to me as gain!), rather than seem to offend him I lay\ndown in that manger, though I had no more desire to sleep than has the\nflittermouse in our Sussex gloamings; also I was careful to offer no\nmoney, for that is brutality. When he had left me I took the\nopportunity for a little rest, and lay on my back in the hay\nwide-awake and staring at darkness.\n\nThe great oxen champed and champed their food with a regular sound; I\nremembered the steerage in a liner, the noise of the sea and the\nregular screw, for this it exactly resembled. I considered in the\ndarkness the noble aspect of these beasts as I had seen them in the\nlantern light, and I determined when I got to Rome to buy two such\nhorns, and to bring them to England and have them mounted for drinking\nhorns--great drinking horns, a yard deep--and to get an engraver to\nengrave a motto for each. On the first I would have--\n\n  King Alfred was in Wantage born\n  He drank out of a ram's horn.\n  Here is a better man than he,\n  Who drinks deeper, as you see.\n\nThus my friends drinking out of it should lift up their hearts and no\nlonger be oppressed with humility. But on the second I determined for\na rousing Latin thing, such as men shouted round camp fires in the\nyear 888 or thereabouts; so, the imagination fairly set going and\ntaking wood-cock's flight, snipe-fashion, zigzag and devil-may-care-\nfor-the-rules, this seemed to suit me--\n\n  _Salve, cornu cornuum!\n  Cornutorum vis Boum.\n  Munus excellent Deum!\n  Gregis o praesidium!\n  Sitis desiderium!\n  Dignum cornuum cornu\n  Romae memor salve tu!\n  Tibi cornuum cornuto--_\n\nLECTOR. That means nothing.\n\nAUCTOR. Shut up!\n\n  _Tibi cornuum cornuto\n  Tibi clamo, te saluto\n  Salve cornu cornuum!\n  Fortunatam da Domunt!_\n\nAnd after this cogitation and musing I got up quietly, so as not to\noffend the peasant: and I crept out, and so upwards on to the crest of\nthe hill.\n\nBut when, after several miles of climbing, I neared the summit, it was\nalready beginning to be light. The bareness and desert grey of the\ndistance I had crossed stood revealed in a colourless dawn, only the\nMont' Amiata, now somewhat to the northward, was more gentle, and\nsoftened the scene with distant woods. Between it and this height ran\na vague river-bed as dry as the stones of a salt beach.\n\nThe sun rose as I passed under the ruined walls of the castle. In the\nlittle town itself, early as was the hour, many people were stirring.\nOne gave me good-morning--a man of singular character, for here, in\nthe very peep of day, he was sitting on a doorstep, idle, lazy and\ncontented, as though it was full noon. Another was yoking oxen; a\nthird going out singing to work in the fields.\n\nI did not linger in this crow's nest, but going out by the low and\naged southern gate, another deeper valley, even drier and more dead\nthan the last, appeared under the rising sun. It was enough to make\none despair! And when I thought of the day's sleep in that wilderness,\nof the next night's toil through it--\n\nLECTOR. What about the Brigand of Radicofani of whom you spoke in\nLorraine, and of whom I am waiting to hear?\n\nAUCTOR. What about him? Why, he was captured long ago, and has since\ndied of old age. I am surprised at your interrupting me with such\nquestions.  Pray ask for no more tales till we get to the really\nabsorbing story of the Hungry Student.\n\nWell, as I was saying, I was in some despair at the sight of that\nvalley, which had to be crossed before I could reach the town of\nAcquapendente, or Hanging-water, which I knew to lie somewhere on the\nhills beyond. The sun was conquering me, and I was looking hopelessly\nfor a place to sleep, when a cart drawn by two oxen at about one mile\nan hour came creaking by. The driver was asleep, his head on the shady\nside. The devil tempted me, and without one struggle against\ntemptation, nay with cynical and congratulatory feelings, I jumped up\nbehind, and putting my head also on the shady side (there were soft\nsacks for a bed) I very soon was pleasantly asleep.\n\nWe lay side by side for hour after hour, and the day rose on to noon;\nthe sun beat upon our feet, but our heads were in the shade and we\nslept heavily a good and honest sleep: he thinking that he was alone,\nbut I knowing that I was in company (a far preferable thing), and I\nwas right and he was wrong. And the heat grew, and sleep came out of\nthat hot sun more surely than it does out of the night air in the\nnorth. But no dreams wander under the noon.\n\nFrom time to time one or the other of us would open our eyes drowsily\nand wonder, but sleep was heavy on us both, and our minds were sunk in\ncalm like old hulls in the dark depths of the sea where there are no\nstorms.\n\nWe neither of us really woke until, at the bottom of the hill which\nrises into Acquapendente, the oxen stopped. This halt woke us up;\nfirst me and then my companion. He looked at me a moment and laughed.\nHe seemed to have thought all this while that I was some country\nfriend of his who had taken a lift; and I, for my part, had made more\nor less certain that he was a good fellow who would do me no harm. I\nwas right, and he was wrong. I knew not what offering to make him to\ncompensate him for this trouble which his heavy oxen had taken. After\nsome thought I brought a cigar out of my pocket, which he smoked with\nextreme pleasure. The oxen meanwhile had been urged up the slow hill,\nand it was in this way that we reached the famous town of\nAcquapendente. But why it should be called famous is more than I can\nunderstand. It may be that in one of those narrow streets there is a\npicture or a church, or one of those things which so attract\nunbelieving men. To the pilgrim it is simply a group of houses. Into\none of these I went, and, upon my soul, I have nothing to say of it\nexcept that they furnished me with food.\n\nI do not pretend to have counted the flies, though they were numerous;\nand, even had I done so, what interest would the number have, save to\nthe statisticians? Now as these are patient men and foolish, I\nheartily recommend them to go and count the flies for themselves.\n\nLeaving this meal then, this town and this people (which were all of a\nhumdrum sort), and going out by the gate, the left side of which is\nmade up of a church, I went a little way on the short road to San\nLorenzo, but I had no intention of going far, for (as you know by this\ntime) the night had become my day and the day my night.\n\nI found a stream running very sluggish between tall trees, and this\nsight sufficiently reminded me of my own country to permit repose.\nLying down there I slept till the end of the day, or rather to that\nsame time of evening which had now become my usual waking hour... And\nnow tell me, Lector, shall I leave out altogether, or shall I give you\nsome description of, the next few miles to San Lorenzo?\n\nLECTOR. Why, if I were you I would put the matter shortly and simply,\nfor it is the business of one describing a pilgrimage or any other\nmatter not to puff himself up with vain conceit, nor to be always\npicking about for picturesque situations, but to set down plainly and\nshortly what he has seen and heard, describing the whole matter.\n\nAUCTOR. But remember, Lector, that the artist is known not only by\nwhat he puts in but by what he leaves out.\n\nLECTOR. That is all very well for the artist, but you have no business\nto meddle with such people.\n\nAUCTOR. How then would you write such a book if you had the writing of\nit?\n\nLECTOR. I would not introduce myself at all; I would not tell stories\nat random, nor go in for long descriptions of emotions, which I am\nsure other men have felt as well as I. I would be careful to visit\nthose things my readers had already heard of (AUCTOR. The pictures!\nthe remarkable pictures! All that is meant by culture! The brown\nphotographs! Oh! Lector, indeed I have done you a wrong!), and I would\ncertainly not have the bad taste to say anything upon religion. Above\nall, I would be terse.\n\nAUCTOR. I see. You would not pile words one on the other, qualifying,\nexaggerating, conditioning, superlativing, diminishing, connecting,\namplifying, condensing, mouthing, and glorifying the mere sound: you\nwould be terse. You should be known for your self-restraint. There\nshould be no verbosity in your style (God forbid!), still less\npomposity, animosity, curiosity, or ferocity; you would have it neat,\nexact, and scholarly, and, above all, chiselled to the nail. A fig\n(say you), the pip of a fig, for the rambling style. You would be led\ninto no hilarity, charity, vulgarity, or barbarity. Eh! my jolly\nLector? You would simply say what you had to say?\n\nLECTOR. Precisely; I would say a plain thing in a plain way.\n\nAUCTOR. So you think one can say a plain thing in a plain way? You\nthink that words mean nothing more than themselves, and that you can\ntalk without ellipsis, and that customary phrases have not their\nconnotations? You think that, do you? Listen then to the tale of Mr\nBenjamin Franklin Hard, a kindly merchant of Cincinnati, O., who had\nno particular religion, but who had accumulated a fortune of six\nhundred thousand dollars, and who had a horror of breaking the\nSabbath. He was not 'a kind husband and a good father,' for he was\nunmarried; nor had he any children. But he was all that those words\nconnote.\n\nThis man Hard at the age of fifty-four retired from business, and\ndetermined to treat himself to a visit to Europe. He had not been in\nEurope five weeks before he ran bang up against the Catholic Church.\nHe was never more surprised in his life. I do not mean that I have\nexactly weighed all his surprises all his life through. I mean that he\nwas very much surprised indeed--and that is all that these words\nconnote.\n\nHe studied the Catholic Church with extreme interest. He watched High\nMass at several places (hoping it might be different). He thought it\nwas what it was not, and then, contrariwise, he thought it was not\nwhat it was. He talked to poor Catholics, rich Catholics, middle-class\nCatholics, and elusive, wellborn, penniless, neatly dressed,\nsuccessful Catholics; also to pompous, vain Catholics; humble,\nuncertain Catholics; sneaking, pad-footed Catholics; healthy, howling,\ncombative Catholics; doubtful, shoulder-shrugging, but devout\nCatholics; fixed, crabbed, and dangerous Catholics; easy, jovial, and\nshone-upon-by-the-heavenly-light Catholics; subtle Catholics; strange\nCatholics, and _(quod tibi manifeste absurdum videtur)_ intellectual,\n_pince-nez,_ jejune, twisted, analytical, yellow, cranky, and\nintrospective Catholics: in fine, he talked to all Catholics.  And\nwhen I say 'all Catholics' I do not mean that he talked to every\nindividual Catholic, but that he got a good, integrative grip of the\nChurch militant, which is all that the words connote.\n\nWell, this man Hard got to know, among others, a certain good priest\nthat loved a good bottle of wine, a fine deep dish of_ poulet a la\ncasserole, _and a kind of egg done with cream in a little platter; and\neating such things, this priest said to him one day: 'Mr Hard, what\nyou want is to read some books on Catholicism.' And Hard, who was on\nthe point of being received into the Church as the final solution of\nhuman difficulties, thought it would be a very good thing to instruct\nhis mind before baptism.  So he gave the priest a note to a bookseller\nwhom an American friend had told him of; and this American friend had\nsaid:\n\n'You will find Mr Fingle (for such was the bookseller's name) a\nhard-headed, honest, business man. He can say a _plain thing in a\nplain way.'_\n\n'Here,' said Mr Hard to the priest, 'is ten pounds. Send it to this\nbookseller Fingle and he shall choose books on Catholicism to that\namount, and you shall receive them, and I will come and read them here\nwith you.'\n\nSo the priest sent the money, and in four days the books came, and Mr\nHard and the priest opened the package, and these were the books\ninside:\n\n_Auricular Confession:_ a History. By a Brand Saved from the Burning.\n\n_Isabella; or, The Little Female Jesuit._ By 'Hephzibah'.\n\n_Elisha MacNab:_ a Tale of the French Huguenots.\n\n_England and Rome._ By the Rev. Ebenezer Catchpole of Emmanuel,\nBirmingham.\n\n_Nuns and Nunneries._ By 'Ruth', with a Preface by Miss Carran, lately\nrescued from a Canadian Convent.\n\n_History of the Inquisition._ By Llorente.\n\n_The Beast with Seven Heads; or, the Apocalyptical Warning._\n\n_No Truce with the Vatican._\n\n_The True Cause of Irish Disaffection._\n\n_Decline of the Latin Nations._\n\n_Anglo-Saxons the Chosen Race,_ and their connexion with the Ten Lost\nTribes: with a map.\n\nFinally, a very large book at the bottom of the case called _Giant\nPope._\n\nAnd it was no use asking for the money back or protesting. Mr Fingle\nwas an honest, straightforward man, who said a plain thing in a plain\nway. They had left him to choose a suitable collection of books on\nCatholicism, and he had chosen the best he knew. And thus did Mr Hard\n(who has recently given a hideous font to the new Catholic church at\nBismarckville) learn the importance of estimating what words connote.\n\nLECTOR. But all that does not excuse an intolerable prolixity?\n\nAUCTOR. Neither did I say it did, dear Lector. My object was merely to\nget you to San Lorenzo where I bought that wine, and where, going out\nof the gate on the south, I saw suddenly the wide lake of Bolsena all\nbelow.\n\nIt is a great sheet like a sea; but as one knows one is on a high\nplateau, and as there is but a short dip down to it; as it is round\nand has all about it a rim of low even hills, therefore one knows it\nfor an old and gigantic crater now full of pure water; and there are\nislands in it and palaces on the islands. Indeed it was an impression\nof silence and recollection, for the water lay all upturned to heaven,\nand, in the sky above me, the moon at her quarter hung still pale in\nthe daylight, waiting for glory.\n\nI sat on the coping of a wall, drank a little of my wine, ate a little\nbread and sausage; but still song demanded some outlet in the cool\nevening, and companionship was more of an appetite in me than\nlandscape. Please God, I had become southern and took beauty for\ngranted.\n\nAnyhow, seeing a little two-wheeled cart come through the gate,\nharnessed to a ramshackle little pony, bony and hard, and driven by a\nlittle, brown, smiling, and contented old fellow with black hair, I\nmade a sign to him and he stopped.\n\nThis time there was no temptation of the devil; if anything the\nadvance was from my side. I was determined to ride, and I sprang up\nbeside the driver.  We raced down the hill, clattering and banging and\nrattling like a piece of ordnance, and he, my brother, unasked began\nto sing. I sang in turn. He sang of Italy, I of four countries:\nAmerica, France, England, and Ireland. I could not understand his\nsongs nor he mine, but there was wine in common between us, and\n_salami_ and a merry heart, bread which is the bond of all mankind,\nand that prime solution of ill-ease--I mean the forgetfulness of\nmoney.\n\nThat was a good drive, an honest drive, a human aspiring drive, a\ndrive of Christians, a glorifying and uplifted drive, a drive worthy\nof remembrance for ever. The moon has shone on but few like it though\nshe is old; the lake of Bolsena has glittered beneath none like it\nsince the Etruscans here unbended after the solemnities of a triumph.\nIt broke my vow to pieces; there was not a shadow of excuse for this\nuse of wheels: it was done openly and wantonly in the face of the wide\nsky for pleasure. And what is there else but pleasure, and to what\nelse does beauty move on? Not I hope to contemplation! A hideous\noriental trick! No, but to loud notes and comradeship and the riot of\ngalloping, and laughter ringing through old trees. Who would change\n(says Aristippus of Pslinthon) the moon and all the stars for so much\nwine as can be held in the cup of a bottle upturned? The honest man!\nAnd in his time (note you) they did not make the devilish deep and\nfraudulent bottoms they do now that cheat you of half your liquor.\n\nMoreover if I broke my vows (which is a serious matter), and if I\nneglected to contemplate the heavens (for which neglect I will confess\nto no one, not even to a postulate sub-deacon; it is no sin; it is a\nhealthy omission), if (I say) I did this, I did what peasants do. And\nwhat is more, by drinking wine and eating pig we proved ourselves no\nMohammedans; and on such as he is sure of, St Peter looks with a\nkindly eye.\n\nNow, just at the very entry to Bolsena, when we had followed the\nlovely lake some time, my driver halted and began to turn up a lane to\na farm or villa; so I, bidding him good-night, crossed a field and\nstood silent by the lake and watched for a long time the water\nbreaking on a tiny shore, and the pretty miniatures of waves. I stood\nthere till the stars came out and the moon shone fully; then I went\ntowards Bolsena under its high gate which showed in the darkness, and\nunder its castle on the rock. There, in a large room which was not\nquite an inn, a woman of great age and dignity served me with fried\nfish from the lake, and the men gathered round me and attempted to\ntell me of the road to Rome, while I in exchange made out to them as\nmuch by gestures as by broken words the crossing of the Alps and the\nApennines.\n\nThen, after my meal, one of the men told me I needed sleep; that there\nwere no rooms in that house (as I said, it was not an inn), but that\nacross the way he would show me one he had for hire. I tried to say\nthat my plan was to walk by night. They all assured me he would charge\nme a reasonable sum.  I insisted that the day was too hot for walking.\nThey told me, did these Etruscans, that I need fear no extortion from\nso honest a man.\n\nCertainly it is not easy to make everybody understand everything, and\nI had had experience already up in the mountains, days before, of how\nimportant it is not to be misunderstood when one is wandering in a\nforeign country, poor and ill-clad. I therefore accepted the offer,\nand, what was really very much to my regret, I paid the money he\ndemanded. I even so far fell in with the spirit of the thing as to\nsleep a certain number of hours (for after all, my sleep that day in\nthe cart had been very broken, and instead of resting throughout the\nwhole of the heat I had taken a meal at Acquapendente). But I woke up\nnot long after midnight--perhaps between one and two o'clock--and went\nout along the borders of the lake.\n\nThe moon had set; I wish I could have seen her hanging at the quarter\nin the clear sky of that high crater, dipping into the rim of its\ninland sea.  It was perceptibly cold. I went on the road quite slowly,\ntill it began to climb, and when the day broke I found myself in a\nsunken lane leading up to the town of Montefiascone.\n\nThe town lay on its hill in the pale but growing light. A great dome\ngave it dignity, and a castle overlooked the lake. It was built upon\nthe very edge and lip of the volcano-cup commanding either side.\n\nI climbed up this sunken lane towards it, not knowing what might be\nbeyond, when, at the crest, there shone before me in the sunrise one\nof those unexpected and united landscapes which are among the glories\nof Italy. They have changed the very mind in a hundred northern\npainters, when men travelled hither to Rome to learn their art, and\ncoming in by her mountain roads saw, time and again, the set views of\nplains like gardens, surrounded by sharp mountain-land and framed.\n\nThe road did not pass through the town; the grand though crumbling\ngate of entry lay up a short straight way to the right, and below,\nwhere the road continued down the slope, was a level of some eight\nmiles full of trees diminishing in distance. At its further side an\nample mountain, wooded, of gentle flattened outline, but high and\nmajestic, barred the way to Rome. It was yet another of those\nvolcanoes, fruitful after death, which are the mark of Latium: and it\nheld hidden, as did that larger and more confused one on the rim of\nwhich I stood, a lake in its silent crater. But that lake, as I was to\nfind, was far smaller than the glittering sea of Bolsena, whose shores\nnow lay behind me.\n\nThe distance and the hill that bounded it should in that climate have\nstood clear in the pure air, but it was yet so early that a thin haze\nhung over the earth, and the sun had not yet controlled it: it was\neven chilly. I could not catch the towers of Viterbo, though I knew\nthem to stand at the foot of the far mountain. I went down the road,\nand in half-an-hour or so was engaged upon the straight line crossing\nthe plain.\n\nI wondered a little how the road would lie with regard to the town,\nand looked at my map for guidance, but it told me little. It was too\ngeneral, taking in all central Italy, and even large places were\nmarked only by small circles.\n\nWhen I approached Viterbo I first saw an astonishing wall,\nperpendicular to my road, untouched, the bones of the Middle Ages. It\nstood up straight before one like a range of cliffs, seeming much\nhigher than it should; its hundred feet or so were exaggerated by the\nseverity of its stones and by their sheer fall. For they had no\nornament whatever, and few marks of decay, though many of age. Tall\ntowers, exactly square and equally bare of carving or machicolation,\nstood at intervals along this forbidding defence and flanked its\ncurtain. Then nearer by, one saw that it was not a huge castle, but\nthe wall of a city, for at a corner it went sharp round to contain the\ntown, and through one uneven place I saw houses. Many men were walking\nin the roads alongside these walls, and there were gates pierced in\nthem whereby the citizens went in and out of the city as bees go in\nand out of the little opening in a hive.\n\nBut my main road to Rome did not go through Viterbo, it ran alongside\nof the eastern wall, and I debated a little with myself whether I\nwould go in or no. It was out of my way, and I had not entered\nMontefiascone for that reason. On the other hand, Viterbo was a famous\nplace. It is all very well to neglect Florence and Pisa because they\nare some miles off the straight way, but Viterbo right under one's\nhand it is a pity to miss. Then I needed wine and food for the later\nday in the mountain. Yet, again, it was getting hot. It was past\neight, the mist had long ago receded, and I feared delay.  So I mused\non the white road under the tall towers and dead walls of Viterbo, and\nruminated on an unimportant thing. Then curiosity did what reason\ncould not do, and I entered by a gate.\n\nThe streets were narrow, tortuous, and alive, all shaded by the great\nhouses, and still full of the cold of the night. The noise of\nfountains echoed in them, and the high voices of women and the cries\nof sellers.  Every house had in it something fantastic and peculiar;\nhumanity had twined into this place like a natural growth, and the\nseparate thoughts of men, both those that were alive there and those\ndead before them, had decorated it all. There were courtyards with\nblinding whites of sunlit walls above, themselves in shadow; and there\nwere many carvings and paintings over doors. I had come into a great\nliving place after the loneliness of the road.\n\nThere, in the first wide street I could find, I bought sausage and\nbread and a great bottle of wine, and then quitting Viterbo, I left it\nby the same gate and took the road.\n\nFor a long while yet I continued under the walls, noting in one place\na thing peculiar to the Middle Ages, I mean the apse of a church built\nright into the wall as the old Cathedral of St Stephen's was in Paris.\nThese, I suppose, enemies respected if they could; for I have noticed\nalso that in castles the chapel is not hidden, but stands out from the\nwall. So be it.  Your fathers and mine were there in the fighting, but\nwe do not know their names, and I trust and hope yours spared the\naltars as carefully as mine did.\n\nThe road began to climb the hill, and though the heat increased--for\nin Italy long before nine it is glaring noon to us northerners (and\nthat reminds me: your fathers and mine, to whom allusion has been made\nabove {as they say in the dull history books--[LECTOR. How many more\ninterior brackets are we to have? Is this algebra? AUCTOR. You\nyourself, Lector, are responsible for the worst.]} your fathers and\nmine coming down into this country to fight, as was their annual\ncustom, must have had a plaguy time of it, when you think that they\ncould not get across the Alps till summer-time, and then had to hack\nand hew, and thrust and dig, and slash and climb, and charge and puff,\nand blow and swear, and parry and receive, and aim and dodge, and butt\nand run for their lives at the end, under an unaccustomed sun. No\nwonder they saw visions, the dear people! They are dead now, and we do\nnot even know their names.)--Where was I?\n\nLECTOR. You were at the uninteresting remark that the heat was\nincreasing.\n\nAUCTOR. Precisely. I remember. Well, the heat was increasing, but it\nseemed far more bearable than it had been in the earlier places; in\nthe oven of the Garfagnana or in the deserts of Siena. For with the\nfirst slopes of the mountain a forest of great chestnut trees\nappeared, and it was so cool under these that there was even moss, as\nthough I were back again in my own country where there are full rivers\nin summer-time, deep meadows, and all the completion of home.\n\nAlso the height may have begun to tell on the air, but not much, for\nwhen the forest was behind me, and when I had come to a bare heath\nsloping more gently upwards--a glacis in front of the topmost bulwark\nof the round mountain--- I was oppressed with thirst, and though it\nwas not too hot to sing (for I sang, and two lonely carabinieri passed\nme singing, and we recognized as we saluted each other that the\nmountain was full of songs), yet I longed for a bench, a flagon, and\nshade.\n\nAnd as I longed, a little house appeared, and a woman in the shade\nsewing, and an old man. Also a bench and a table, and a tree over it.\nThere I sat down and drank white wine and water many times. The woman\ncharged me a halfpenny, and the old man would not talk. He did not\ntake his old age garrulously. It was his business, not mine; but I\nshould dearly have liked to have talked to him in Lingua Franca, and\nto have heard him on the story of his mountain: where it was haunted,\nby what, and on which nights it was dangerous to be abroad. Such as it\nwas, there it was. I left them, and shall perhaps never see them\nagain.\n\nThe road was interminable, and the crest, from which I promised myself\nthe view of the crater-lake, was always just before me, and was never\nreached.  A little spring, caught in a hollow log, refreshed a meadow\non the right.  Drinking there again, I wondered if I should go on or\nrest; but I was full of antiquity, and a memory in the blood, or what\nnot, impelled me to see the lake in the crater before I went to sleep:\nafter a few hundred yards this obsession was satisfied.\n\nI passed between two banks, where the road had been worn down at the\ncrest of the volcano's rim; then at once, far below, in a circle of\nsilent trees with here and there a vague shore of marshy land, I saw\nthe Pond of Venus: some miles of brooding water, darkened by the dark\nslopes around it. Its darkness recalled the dark time before the dawn\nof our saved and happy world.\n\nAt its hither end a hill, that had once been a cone in the crater,\nstood out all covered with a dense wood. It was the Hill of Venus.\n\nThere was no temple, nor no sacrifice, nor no ritual for the Divinity,\nsave this solemn attitude of perennial silence; but under the\ninfluence which still remained and gave the place its savour, it was\nimpossible to believe that the gods were dead. There were no men in\nthat hollow; nor was there any memory of men, save of men dead these\nthousands of years. There was no life of visible things. The mind\nreleased itself and was in touch with whatever survives of conquered\nbut immortal Spirits.\n\nThus ready for worship, and in a mood of adoration; filled also with\nthe genius which inhabits its native place and is too subtle or too\npure to suffer the effect of time, I passed down the ridge-way of the\nmountain rim, and came to the edge overlooking that arena whereon was\nfirst fought out and decided the chief destiny of the world.\n\nFor all below was the Campagna. Names that are at the origin of things\nattached to every cleft and distant rock beyond the spreading level,\nor sanctified the gleams of rivers. There below me was Veii; beyond,\nin the Wall of the Apennines, only just escaped from clouds, was Tibur\nthat dignified the ravine at the edge of their rising; that crest to\nthe right was Tusculum, and far to the south, but clear, on a mountain\nanswering my own, was the mother of the City, Alba Longa. The Tiber, a\ndense, brown fog rolling over and concealing it, was the god of the\nwide plain.\n\nThere and at that moment I should have seen the City. I stood up on\nthe bank and shaded my eyes, straining to catch the dome at least in\nthe sunlight; but I could not, for Rome was hidden by the low Sabinian\nhills.\n\nSoracte I saw there--Soracte, of which I had read as a boy. It stood\nup like an acropolis, but it was a citadel for no city. It stood\nalone, like that soul which once haunted its recesses and prophesied\nthe conquering advent of the northern kings. I saw the fields where\nthe tribes had lived that were the first enemies of the imperfect\nstate, before it gave its name to the fortunes of the Latin race.\n\nDark Etruria lay behind me, forgotten in the backward of my march: a\nfurnace and a riddle out of which religion came to the Romans--a place\nthat has left no language. But below me, sunlit and easy (as it seemed\nin the cooler air of that summit), was the arena upon which were first\nfought out the chief destinies of the world.\n\nAnd I still looked down upon it, wondering.\n\nWas it in so small a space that all the legends of one's childhood\nwere acted? Was the defence of the bridge against so neighbouring and\npetty an alliance? Were they peasants of a group of huts that handed\ndown the great inheritance of discipline, and made an iron channel\nwhereby, even to us, the antique virtues could descend as a living\nmemory? It must be so; for the villages and ruins in one landscape\ncomprised all the first generations of the history of Rome. The stones\nwe admire, the large spirit of the last expression came from that\nrough village and sprang from the broils of that one plain; Rome was\nmost vigorous before it could speak. So a man's verse, and all he has,\nare but the last outward appearance, late and already rigid, of an\nearlier, more plastic, and diviner fire.\n\n'Upon this arena,' I still said to myself, 'were first fought out the\nchief destinies of the world'; and so, played upon by an unending\ntheme, I ate and drank in a reverie, still wondering, and then lay\ndown beneath the shade of a little tree that stood alone upon that\nedge of a new world. And wondering, I fell asleep under the morning\nsun.\n\nBut this sleep was not like the earlier oblivions that had refreshed\nmy ceaseless journey, for I still dreamt as I slept of what I was to\nsee, and visions of action without thought--pageants and\nmysteries--surrounded my spirit; and across the darkness of a mind\nremote from the senses there passed whatever is wrapped up in the\ngreat name of Rome.\n\nWhen I woke the evening had come. A haze had gathered upon the plain.\nThe road fell into Ronciglione, and dreams surrounded it upon every\nside. For the energy of the body those hours of rest had made a fresh\nand enduring vigour; for the soul no rest was needed. It had attained,\nat least for the next hour, a vigour that demanded only the physical\ncapacity of endurance; an eagerness worthy of such great occasions\nfound a marching vigour for its servant.\n\nIn Ronciglione I saw the things that Turner drew; I mean the rocks\nfrom which a river springs, and houses all massed together, giving the\nsteep a kind of crown. This also accompanied that picture, the soft\nlight which mourns the sun and lends half-colours to the world. It was\ncool, and the opportunity beckoned. I ate and drank, asking every one\nquestions of Rome, and I passed under their great gate and pursued the\nroad to the plain. In the mist, as it rose, there rose also a passion\nto achieve.\n\nAll the night long, mile after mile, I hurried along the Cassian Way.\nFor five days I had slept through the heat, and the southern night had\nbecome my daytime; and though the mist was dense, and though the moon,\nnow past her quarter, only made a vague place in heaven, yet\nexpectation and fancy took more than the place of sight. In this fog I\nfelt with every step of the night march the approach to the goal.\n\nLong past the place I had marked as a halt, long past Sette Vene, a\nlight blurred upon the white wreaths of vapour; distant songs and the\nnoise of men feasting ended what had been for many, many hours--for\nmore than twenty miles of pressing forward--an exaltation worthy of\nthe influence that bred it. Then came on me again, after the full\nmarch, a necessity for food and for repose. But these things, which\nhave been the matter of so much in this book, now seemed subservient\nonly to the reaching of an end; they were left aside in the mind.\n\nIt was an inn with trellis outside making an arbour. In the yard\nbefore it many peasants sat at table; their beasts and waggons stood\nin the roadway, though, at this late hour, men were feeding some and\nhousing others.  Within, fifty men or more were making a meal or a\ncarousal.\n\nWhat feast or what necessity of travel made them keep the night alive\nI neither knew nor asked; but passing almost unobserved amongst them\nbetween the long tables, I took my place at the end, and the master\nserved me with good food and wine. As I ate the clamour of the\npeasants sounded about me, and I mixed with the energy of numbers.\n\nWith a little difficulty I made the master understand that I wished to\nsleep till dawn. He led me out to a small granary (for the house was\nfull), and showed me where I should sleep in the scented hay. He would\ntake no money for such a lodging, and left me after showing me how the\ndoor latched and unfastened; and out of so many men, he was the last\nman whom I thanked for a service until I passed the gates of Rome.\n\nAbove the soft bed which the hay made, a square window, unglazed, gave\nupon the southern night; the mist hardly drifted in or past it, so\nstill was the air. I watched it for a while drowsily; then sleep again\nfell on me.\n\nBut as I slept, Rome, Rome still beckoned me, and I woke in a\nstruggling light as though at a voice calling, and slipping out I\ncould not but go on to the end.\n\nThe small square paving of the Via Cassia, all even like a palace\nfloor, rang under my steps. The parched banks and strips of dry fields\nshowed through the fog (for its dampness did not cure the arid soil of\nthe Campagna). The sun rose and the vapour lifted. Then, indeed, I\npeered through the thick air--but still I could see nothing of my\ngoal, only confused folds of brown earth and burnt-up grasses, and\nfarther off rare and un-northern trees.\n\nI passed an old tower of the Middle Ages that was eaten away at its\nbase by time or the quarrying of men; I passed a divergent way on the\nright where a wooden sign said 'The Triumphal Way', and I wondered\nwhether it could be the road where ritual had once ordained that\ntriumphs should go. It seemed lonely and lost, and divorced from any\napproach to sacred hills.\n\nThe road fell into a hollow where soldiers were manoeuvring. Even\nthese could not arrest an attention that was fixed upon the\napproaching revelation. The road climbed a little slope where a branch\nwent off to the left, and where there was a house and an arbour under\nvines. It was now warm day; trees of great height stood shading the\nsun; the place had taken on an appearance of wealth and care. The mist\nhad gone before I reached the summit of the rise.\n\nThere, from the summit, between the high villa walls on either\nside--at my very feet I saw the City.\n\nAnd now all you people whatsoever that are presently reading, may have\nread, or shall in the future read, this my many-sided but now-ending\nbook; all you also that in the mysterious designs of Providence may\nnot be fated to read it for some very long time to come; you then I\nsay, entire, englobed, and universal race of men both in gross and\nregardant, not only living and seeing the sunlight, but dead also\nunder the earth; shades, or to come in procession afterwards out of\nthe dark places into the day for a little, swarms of you, an army\nwithout end; all you black and white, red, yellow and brown, men,\nwomen, children and poets--all of you, wherever you are now, or have\nbeen, or shall be in your myriads and deka myriads and hendeka\nmyriads, the time has come when I must bid you farewell--\n\n  _Ludisti satis, edisti satis, atque bibisti;\n  Tempus abire tibi est...._\n\nOnly Lector I keep by me for a very little while longer with a special\npurpose, but even he must soon leave me; for all good things come to\nan end, and this book is coming to an end--has come to an end. The\nleaves fall, and they are renewed; the sun sets on the Vexin hills,\nbut he rises again over the woods of Marly. Human companionship once\nbroken can never be restored, and you and I shall not meet or\nunderstand each other again. It is so of all the poor links whereby we\ntry to bridge the impassable gulf between soul and soul. Oh! we spin\nsomething, I know, but it is very gossamer, thin and strained, and\neven if it does not snap time will at last dissolve it.\n\nIndeed, there is a song on it which you should know, and which runs--\n\n[Bar of music]\n\nSo my little human race, both you that have read this book and you\nthat have not, good-bye in charity. I loved you all as I wrote. Did\nyou all love me as much as I have loved you, by the black stone of\nRennes I should be rich by now. Indeed, indeed, I have loved you all!\nYou, the workers, all puffed up and dyspeptic and ready for the\nasylums; and you, the good-for-nothing lazy drones; you, the strong\nsilent men, who have heads quite empty, like gourds; and you also, the\nfrivolous, useless men that chatter and gabble to no purpose all day\nlong. Even you, that, having begun to read this book, could get no\nfurther than page 47, and especially you who have read it manfully in\nspite of the flesh, I love you all, and give you here and now my\nfinal, complete, full, absolving, and comfortable benediction.\n\nTo tell the truth, I have noticed one little fault about you. I will\nnot call it fatuous, inane, and exasperating vanity or self-\nabsorption; I will put it in the form of a parable. Sit you round\nattentively and listen, dispersing yourselves all in order, and do not\ncrowd or jostle.\n\nOnce, before we humans became the good and self-respecting people we\nare, the Padre Eterno was sitting in heaven with St Michael beside\nhim, and He watched the abyss from His great throne, and saw shining\nin the void one far point of light amid some seventeen million others,\nand He said:\n\n'What is that?'\n\nAnd St Michael answered:\n\n'That is the Earth,' for he felt some pride in it.\n\n'The Earth?' said the Padre Eterno, a little puzzled... 'The Earth?\n...?... I do not remember very exactly...'\n\n'Why,' answered St Michael, with as much reverence as his annoyance\ncould command, 'surely you must recollect the Earth and all the pother\nthere was in heaven when it was first suggested to create it, and all\nabout Lucifer--'\n\n'Ah!' said the Padre Eterno, thinking twice, 'yes. It is attached to\nSirius, and--'\n\n'No, no,' said St Michael, quite visibly put out. 'It is the Earth.\nThe Earth which has that changing moon and the thing called the sea.'\n\n'Of course, of course,' answered the Padre Eterno quickly, 'I said\nSirius by a slip of the tongue. Dear me! So that is the Earth! Well,\nwell! It is years ago now... Michael, what are those little things\nswarming up and down all over it?'\n\n'Those,' said St Michael, 'are Men.'\n\n'Men?' said the Padre Eterno, 'Men... I know the word as well as any\none, but somehow the connexion escapes me. Men...' and He mused.\n\nSt Michael, with perfect self-restraint, said a few things a trifle\nstaccato, defining Man, his dual destiny, his hope of heaven, and all\nthe great business in which he himself had fought hard. But from a\nfine military tradition, he said nothing of his actions, nor even of\nhis shrine in Normandy, of which he is naturally extremely proud: and\nwell he may be.  What a hill!\n\n'I really beg your pardon,' said the Padre Eterno, when he saw the\nimportance attached to these little creatures. 'I am sure they are\nworthy of the very fullest attention, and' (he added, for he was sorry\nto have offended) 'how sensible they seem, Michael! There they go,\nbuying and selling, and sailing, driving, and wiving, and riding, and\ndancing, and singing, and the rest of it; indeed, they are most\npractical, business-like, and satisfactory little beings. But I notice\none odd thing.  Here and there are some not doing as the rest, or\nattending to their business, but throwing themselves into all manner\nof attitudes, making the most extraordinary sounds, and clothing\nthemselves in the quaintest of garments. What is the meaning of that?'\n\n'Sire!' cried St Michael, in a voice that shook the architraves of\nheaven, 'they are worshipping You!'\n\n'Oh! they are worshipping _me!_ Well, that is the most sensible thing\nI have heard of them yet, and I altogether commend them. _Continuez,'_\nsaid the Padre Eterno, _'continuez!'_\n\nAnd since then all has been well with the world; at least where _Us\ncontinuent._\n\nAnd so, carissimi, multitudes, all of you good-bye; the day has long\ndawned on the Via Cassia, this dense mist has risen, the city is\nbefore me, and I am on the threshold of a great experience; I would\nrather be alone.  Good-bye my readers; good-bye the world.\n\nAt the foot of the hill I prepared to enter the city, and I lifted up\nmy heart.\n\nThere was an open space; a tramway: a tram upon it about to be drawn\nby two lean and tired horses whom in the heat many flies disturbed.\nThere was dust on everything around.\n\nA bridge was immediately in front. It was adorned with statues in soft\nstone, half-eaten away, but still gesticulating in corruption, after\nthe manner of the seventeenth century. Beneath the bridge there\ntumbled and swelled and ran fast a great confusion of yellow water: it\nwas the Tiber. Far on the right were white barracks of huge and of\nhideous appearance; over these the Dome of St Peter's rose and looked\nlike something newly built. It was of a delicate blue, but made a\nmetallic contrast against the sky.\n\nThen (along a road perfectly straight and bounded by factories, mean\nhouses and distempered walls: a road littered with many scraps of\npaper, bones, dirt, and refuse) I went on for several hundred yards,\nhaving the old wall of Rome before me all this time, till I came right\nunder it at last; and with the hesitation that befits all great\nactions I entered, putting the right foot first lest I should bring\nfurther misfortune upon that capital of all our fortunes.\n\nAnd so the journey ended.\n\nIt was the Gate of the Poplar--not of the People. (Ho, Pedant! Did you\nthink I missed you, hiding and lurking there?) Many churches were to\nhand; I took the most immediate, which stood just within the wall and\nwas called Our Lady of the People--(not 'of the Poplar'. Another fall\nfor the learned!  Professor, things go ill with you to-day!). Inside\nwere many fine pictures, not in the niminy-piminy manner, but strong,\nfull-coloured, and just.\n\nTo my chagrin, Mass was ending. I approached a priest and said to him:\n\n_'Pater, quando vel a quella hora e la prossimma Missa?'_\n\n_'Ad nonas,'_ said he.\n\n_'Pol! Hercle!'_ (thought I), 'I have yet twenty minutes to wait!\nWell, as a pilgrimage cannot be said to be over till the first Mass is\nheard in Rome, I have twenty minutes to add to my book.'\n\nSo, passing an Egyptian obelisk which the great Augustus had nobly\ndedicated to the Sun, I entered....\n\nLECTOR. But do you intend to tell us nothing of Rome?\n\nAUCTOR. Nothing, dear Lector.\n\nLECTOR. Tell me at least one thing; did you see the Coliseum?\n\nAUCTOR.... I entered a cafe at the right hand of a very long,\nstraight street, called for bread, coffee, and brandy, and\ncontemplating my books and worshipping my staff that had been friends\nof mine so long, and friends like all true friends inanimate, I spent\nthe few minutes remaining to my happy, common, unshriven, exterior,\nand natural life, in writing down this\n\nLOUD AND FINAL SONG\n\nDITHYRAMBIC EPITHALAMIUM OR THRENODY\n\n  In these boots, and with this staff\n  Two hundred leaguers and a half--\n\n(That means, two and a half hundred leagues. You follow? Not two\nhundred and one half league.... Well--)\n\n  Two hundred leaguers and a half\n  Walked I, went I, paced I, tripped I,\n  Marched I, held I, skelped I, slipped I,\n  Pushed I, panted, swung and dashed I;\n  Picked I, forded, swam and splashed I,\n  Strolled I, climbed I, crawled and scrambled,\n  Dropped and dipped I, ranged and rambled;\n  Plodded I, hobbled I, trudged and tramped I,\n  And in lonely spinnies camped I,\n  And in haunted pinewoods slept I,\n  Lingered, loitered, limped and crept I,\n  Clambered, halted, stepped and leapt I;\n  Slowly sauntered, roundly strode I,\n\n _And_... (Oh! Patron saints and Angels\n               That protect the four evangels!\n               And you Prophets vel majores\n               Vel incerti, vel minores,\n               Virgines ac confessores\n               Chief of whose peculiar glories\n               Est in Aula Regis stare\n               Atque orare et exorare\n               Et clamare et conclamare\n               Clamantes cum clamoribus\n               Pro nobis peccatoribus.)\n\n _Let me not conceal it... Rode I. _\n (For who but critics could complain\n Of 'riding' in a railway train?)\n  _Across the valleys and the high-land,\n  With all the world on either hand.\n  Drinking when I had a mind to,\n  Singing when I felt inclined to;\n  Nor ever turned my face to home\n  Till I had slaked my heart at Rome._\n\n\nTHE END AGAIN\n\nLECTOR. But this is dogg--\n\nAUCTOR. Not a word!\n\nFINIS","title":"The Path to Rome","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":96659}