Journeys to Bagdad | Page 3

set out upon the
road every spring when the wind comes warm.
Now the medieval pilgrimage in its day, as you very well know, was a
most popular institution. And the reasons are as plentiful as
blackberries. But in the first place and foremost, it came always in the
spring. It was like a tonic, iron for the blood. There were many men
who were not a bit pious, who, on the first warm day when customers
were scarce, yawned themselves into a prodigious holiness. Who,
indeed, would resign himself to changing moneys or selling doves upon
the Temple steps when such appeal was in the air? What cobbler even,
bent upon his leather, whose soul would not mount upon such a
summons? Who was it preached the first crusade? There was no marvel
in the business. Did he come down our street now that April's here, he
would win recruits from every house. I myself would care little whether
he were Christian or Mohammedan if only the shrine lay over-seas and

deep within the twistings of the mountains.
[Illustration]
If, however, your truantry is domestic, and the scope of the seven seas
with glimpse of Bagdad is too broad for your desire, then your yearning
may direct itself to the spaces just outside your own town. If such
myopic truantry is in you, there is much to be said for going afoot. In
these days when motors are as plentiful as mortgages this may appear
but discontented destitution, the cry of sour grapes. And yet much of
the adventuring of life has been gained afoot. But walking now has
fallen on evil days. It needs but an enlistment of words to show its
decadence. Tramp is such a word. Time was when it signified a straight
back and muscular calves and an appetite, and at nightfall, maybe,
pleasant gossip at the hearth on the affairs of distant villages. There was
rhythm in the sound. But now it means a loafer, a shuffler, a wilted
rascal. It is patched, dingy, out-at-elbows. Take the word vagabond! It
ought to be of innocent repute, for it is built solely from stuff that
means to wander, and wandering since the days of Moses has been
practiced by the most respectable persons. Yet Noah Webster, a most
disinterested old gentleman, makes it clear that a vagabond is a vicious
scamp who deserves no better than the lockup. Doubtless Webster, if at
home, would loose his dog did such a one appear. A wayfarer, also, in
former times was but a goer of ways, a man afoot, whether on
pilgrimage or itinerant with his wares and cart and bell. Does the word
not recall the poetry of the older road, the jogging horse, the bush of the
tavern, the crowd about the peddler's pack, the musician piping to the
open window, or the shrine in the hollow? Or maybe it summons to you
a decked and painted Cambyses bellowing his wrath to an inn-yard.
[Illustration]
One would think that the inventor of these scandals was a crutched and
limping fellow, who being himself stunted and dwarfed below the waist
was trying to sneer into disuse all walking the world over, or one who
was paunched by fat living beyond carrying power, larding the lean
earth, fearing lest he sweat himself to death, some Falstaff who
unbuttons him after supper and sleeps on benches after noon. Rather

these words should connote the strong, the self-reliant, the youthful. He
is a tramp, we should say, who relies most on his own legs and
resources, who least cushions himself daintily against jar in his
neighbor's tonneau, whose eye shines out seldomest from the curb for a
lift. The wayfarer must go forth in the open air. He must seek hilltop
and wind. He must gather the dust of counties. His prospects must be of
broad fields and the smoking chimneys of supper.
But the goer afoot must not be conceived as primarily an engine of
muscle. He is the best walker who keeps most widely awake in his five
senses. Some men might as well walk through a railway tunnel. They
are so concerned with the getting there that a black night hangs over
them. They plunge forward with their heads down as though they came
of an antique race of road builders. Should there be mileposts they are
busied with them only, and they will draw dials from their pokes to
time themselves. I fell into this iniquity on a walk in Wales from Bala
to Dolgelley. Although I set out leisurely enough, with an eye for the
lake and hills, before many hours had elapsed I had acquired the
milepost habit and walked as if for a wager. I covered the last twenty
miles in less than five