Pagan Papers

Kenneth Grahame

Description

Among the many places of magic visited by Pantagruel and his company during the progress of their famous voyage, few surpass that island whose roads did literally "go" to places- "ou les chemins cheminent, comme animaulx": and would-be travellers, having inquired of the road as to its destination, and received satisfactory reply, "se guindans" (as the old book hath it- hoisting themselves up on) "au chemin opportun, sans aultrement se poiner ou fatiguer, se trouvoyent au lieu destinA(c).

Informations

• Publié par: Pub One Info
• Date de parution: 27 septembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9782819922254
• Langue: English

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The Romance of the Road
Among the many places of magic visited by Pantagruel and hiscompany during the progress of their famous voyage, few surpassthat island whose roads did literally "go" to places— "ou leschemins cheminent, comme animaulx": and would–be travellers, havinginquired of the road as to its destination, and receivedsatisfactory reply, "se guindans" (as the old book hath it—hoisting themselves up on) "au chemin opportun, sans aultrement sepoiner ou fatiguer, se trouvoyent au lieu destiné."
The best example I know of an approach to this excellent sort ofvitality in roads is the Ridgeway of the North Berkshire Downs.Join it at Streatley, the point where it crosses the Thames; atonce it strikes you out and away from the habitable world in asplendid, purposeful manner, running along the highest ridge of theDowns a broad green ribbon of turf, with but a shade of differencefrom the neighbouring grass, yet distinct for all that. No villagesnor homesteads tempt it aside or modify its course for a yard;should you lose the track where it is blent with the bordering turfor merged in and obliterated by criss–cross paths, you have only towalk straight on, taking heed of no alternative to right or left;and in a minute 'tis with you again— arisen out of the earth as itwere. Or, if still not quite assured, lift you your eyes, and thereit runs over the brow of the fronting hill. Where a railway crossesit, it disappears indeed— hiding Alpheus–like, from the ignominy ofrubble and brick–work; but a little way on it takes up the runningagain with the same quiet persistence. Out on that almost tracklessexpanse of billowy Downs such a track is in some sort humanlycompanionable: it really seems to lead you by the hand.
The "Rudge" is of course an exceptional instance; but indeedthis pleasant personality in roads is not entirely fanciful. Itexists as a characteristic of the old country road, evolved out ofthe primitive prehistoric track, developing according to the needsof the land it passes through and serves: with a language,accordingly, and a meaning of its own. Its special services areoften told clearly enough; but much else too of the quiet story ofthe country–side: something of the old tale whereof you learn solittle from the printed page. Each is instinct, perhaps, with aseparate suggestion. Some are martial and historic, and by yourside the hurrying feet of the dead raise a ghostly dust. The nameof yon town— with its Roman or Saxon suffix to British root— hintsat much. Many a strong man, wanting his vates sacer, passedsilently to Hades for that suffix to obtain. The little rise upyonder on the Downs that breaks their straight green line againstthe sky showed another sight when the sea of battle surged and beaton its trampled sides; and the Roman, sore beset, may have gazeddown this very road for relief, praying for night or the succouringlegion. This child that swings on a gate and peeps at you fromunder her sun–bonnet— so may some girl–ancestress of hers havewatched with beating heart the Wessex levies hurry along to clashwith the heathen and break them on the down where the ash treesgrew. And yonder, where the road swings round under gloomyovergrowth of drooping boughs— is that gleam of water or glitter oflurking spears?
Some sing you pastorals, fluting low in the hot sun betweendusty hedges overlooked by contented cows; past farmsteads whereman and beast, living in frank fellowship, learn pleasant andserviceable lessons each of the other; over the full–fed river,lipping the meadow–sweet, and thence on either side through leaguesof hay. Or through bending corn they chant the mystical wonderfulsong of the reaper when the harvest is white to the sickle. Butmost of them, avoiding classification, keep each his several tendersignificance; as with one I know, not so far from town, which woosyou from the valley by gentle ascent between nut–laden hedges, andever by some touch of keen fragrance in the air, by some mystery ofadded softness under foot— ever a promise of something to come,unguessed, delighting. Till suddenly you are among the pines, theirkeen scent strikes you through and through, their needles carpetthe ground, and in their swaying tops moans the unappeasable wind—sad, ceaseless, as the cry of a warped humanity. Some paces more,and the promise is fulfilled, the hints and whisperings becomefruition: the ground breaks steeply away, and you look over a greatinland sea of fields, homesteads, rolling woodland, and— boundingall, blent with the horizon, a greyness, a gleam— the EnglishChannel. A road of promises, of hinted surprises, following eachother with the inevitable sequence in a melody.
But we are now in another and stricter sense an island ofchemins qui cheminent: dominated, indeed, by them. By these thetraveller, veritably se guindans, may reach his destination "sansse poiner ou se fatiguer" (with large qualifications); but sansvery much else whereof he were none the worse. The gain seems soobvious that you forget to miss all that lay between the springingstride of the early start and the pleasant weariness of the endapproached, when the limbs lag a little as the lights of yourdestination begin to glimmer through the dusk. All that laybetween! "A Day's Ride a Life's Romance" was the excellent title ofan unsuccessful book; and indeed the journey should march with theday, beginning and ending with its sun, to be the complete thing,the golden round, required of it. This makes that mind and bodyfare together, hand in hand, sharing the hope, the action, thefruition; finding equal sweetness in the languor of aching limbs ateve and in the first god–like intoxication of motion with bracedmuscle in the sun. For walk or ride take the mind over greaterdistances than a throbbing whirl with stiffening joints and crampedlimbs through a dozen counties. Surely you seem to cover vasterspaces with Lavengro, footing it with gipsies or driving histinker's cart across lonely commons, than with many a globe–trotteror steam–yachtsman with diary or log? And even that dividing line—strictly marked and rarely overstepped— between the man whobicycles and the man who walks, is less due to a prudent regard forpersonal safety of the one part than to an essential difference inminds.
There is a certain supernal, a deific, state of mind which mayindeed be experienced in a minor degree, by any one, in the siestapart of a Turkish bath. But this particular golden glow of thefaculties is only felt at its fulness after severe and prolongedexertion in the open air. "A man ought to be seen by the gods,"says Marcus Aurelius, "neither dissatisfied with anything, norcomplaining." Though this does not sound at first hearing anexcessive demand to make of humanity, yet the gods, I fancy, looklong and often for such a sight in these unblest days of hurry. Ifever seen at all, 'tis when after many a mile in sun and wind—maybe rain— you reach at last, with the folding star, your destinedrustic inn. There, in its homely, comfortable strangeness, afterunnumbered chops with country ale, the hard facts of life begin toswim in a golden mist. You are isled from accustomed cares andworries— you are set in a peculiar nook of rest. Then old failuresseem partial successes, then old loves come back in their fairestform, but this time with never a shadow of regret, then old jokesrenew their youth and flavour. You ask nothing of the gods above,nothing of men below— not even their company. To–morrow you shallbegin life again: shall write your book, make your fortune, doanything; meanwhile you sit, and the jolly world swings round, andyou seem to hear it circle to the music of the spheres. What pipewas ever thus beatifying in effect? You are aching all over, andenjoying it; and the scent of the limes drifts in through thewindow. This is undoubtedly the best and greatest country in theworld; and none but good fellows abide in it.
Laud we theGods, And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils From our blest altars.
The Romance of the Rail
In these iron days of the dominance of steam, the crowning wrongthat is wrought us of furnace and piston–rod lies in theirannihilation of the steadfast mystery of the horizon, so that theimagination no longer begins to work at the point where visionceases. In happier times, three hundred years ago, the seafarersfrom Bristol City looked out from the prows of their vessels in thegrey of the morning, and wot not rightly whether the land they sawmight be Jerusalem or Madagascar, or if it were not North and SouthAmerica. "And there be certaine flitting islands," says one, "whichhave been oftentimes seene, and when men approached near them theyvanished.""It may be that the gulfs will wash us down," saidUlysses (thinking of what Americans call the "getting–off place");"it may be we shall touch the Happy Isles." And so on, and so on;each with his special hope or "wild surmise." There was always achance of touching the Happy Isles. And in that first fair worldwhose men and manners we knew through story–books, beforeexperience taught us far other, the Prince mounts his horse onefine morning, and rides all day, and sleeps in a forest; and nextmorning, lo! a new country: and he rides by fields and grangesnever visited before, through faces strange to him, to where anunknown King steps down to welcome the mysterious stranger. And hemarries the Princess, and dwells content for many a year; till oneday he thinks "I will look upon my father's face again, though theleagues be long to my own land." And he rides all day, and sleepsin a forest; and next morning he is made welcome at home, where hisname has become a dim memory. Which is all as it should be; for,annihilate time and space as you may, a man's stride remains thetrue standard of distance; an eternal and unalterable scale. Thesevere horizon, too, repels the thoughts as you gaze to theinfinite considerations that lie about, within touch and hail; andthe night cometh, when no man c