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 A FOOT AND 
 LIGHTHEARTED 
 
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 THE EIGFR
 
 Afoot and Lighthearted 
 
 THE RECORD OF A FEW 
 WALKING EXPERIENCES 
 
 BY 
 
 W. L. RICHARDSON 
 
 Afoot and lighthearted I take to the open road. 
 Healthy, free, the world before mc, 
 The long brown path before me leading wherever 
 I choose. WALT WHITMAN 
 
 CHICAGO 
 
 PRIVATELY PRINTED 
 1915
 
 Tramp (outside) — Good evening to you, 
 lady of the house. 
 
 Nora — Good evening, kindly stranger, it's 
 a wild night, God help you, to be out in 
 the rain falling. 
 
 Tramp — It is, surely, and I walking to 
 Brittas from the Aughrim fair. 
 
 Nora — Is it walking on your feet, stranger? 
 
 Tramp — On my two feet, lady of the house. 
 
 SYNGE (Shadow of the Glen) 
 
 COPYRIGHT. 1915, BY 
 W. L. RICHARDSON
 
 PREFACE 
 
 It was at the close of a May day in 1914 that 
 I met a boy trudging along a country road in 
 Devonshire. "How far is it to Teignmouth?" I 
 asked. "Seven mile," came his reply, with the 
 air of one who knew. And then, realizing that 
 I was planning to cover the distance on foot, he 
 added : "You can't walk all that w'y." "Oh yes, 
 I can," I said, "and I have already gone seven- 
 teen miles." He looked at me incredulously and 
 in silence until he had stepped into his familiar 
 lane within easy reach of home. "You lie," 
 he shouted; "you couldn't walk all that w'y 
 in one d'y!" 
 
 The pedestrian soon finds that not every one 
 shares with him his enthusiasm for the noble 
 pastime of walking. Difficulties are magnified 
 and the rewards are only dimly understood. 
 "Well, well! Are you working ofif a bet?" asked 
 a friend when I told him I was starting for a 
 three weeks' walking trip. "The only time I 
 walk," drawled out a certain dull young fellow 
 whom I met after an invigorating all-day's tramp, 
 "is when I have no money to pay my fare." 
 
 There are a few choice souls who insist that 
 walking is an end unto itself and its own suffi- 
 cient reward. Thoreau, for example, claimed 
 that walking is properly sauntering and need 
 
 3
 
 I'RI'.I'ACI", 
 
 liave no objective. "I love to walk at my ease, 
 and stop at leisure," wrote Rousseau. These 
 were kindred spirits with the tramp in the story 
 who was ofifered a lift by a kindhearted gentle- 
 man in an automobile. "What's the use !" said 
 the tram]). "Ain't goin' nowhere." 
 
 It has always seemed to me that a walk should 
 have some definite goal — though it may well be 
 undertaken not so much for the sake of the walk 
 as for the experiences that come by the way. 
 And the pace ought to be at least respectable. 
 On a memorable day several years ago a friend 
 of mine and I walked into Heidelberg together. 
 At a wayside watering trough we chanced upon 
 a good-humored and substantial peasant woman. 
 ATy friend asked her the distance into Heidelberg. 
 "Drei Stunde," she replied, measuring the dis- 
 tance in hours, not in miles, following a pleasant 
 rural custom. Then, looking up and surveying 
 us critically from head to foot, she said: "Ach, 
 zwei Stunde fur solche jungen Herrn." It was a 
 handsome compliment ; and we felt that we had 
 earned the praise when we swung into Heidel- 
 berg well within the two hours she allowed. 
 
 Before describing a few of my walking expe- 
 riences I am tempted to quote a well-known 
 passage from the Confessions of Rousseau. It 
 is the very apotheosis of walking and invests it 
 with a dignity and a halo. Aly own pedestrian 
 
 4
 
 PREFACE 
 
 impressions, calm indeed by comparison, cannot 
 be thought extravagant. 
 
 "I remember passing one delicious 
 night outside the town, in a road which 
 ran by the side of either the Rhone or 
 the Saone, I forget which of the two. 
 Gardens raised on a terrace bordered 
 the other side of the road. It had been 
 very hot all day, and the evening was de- 
 lightful; the dew moistened the parched 
 grass, the night was profoundly still, 
 the air fresh without being cold ; the 
 sun in going down had left red vapors 
 in the heaven, and they turned the water 
 to rose color ; the trees on the terrace 
 sheltered nightingales, answering song 
 for song. I went on in a sort of ecstasy, 
 surrendering my heart and every sense 
 to the enjoyment of it all, and only 
 sighing for regret that I was enjoying 
 it alone. Absorbed in the sweetness of 
 my musing, I prolonged my ramble far 
 into the night, without perceiving that 
 I was tired. At last I found it out. I 
 lay down luxuriously on the shelf of a 
 niche or false doorway made in the 
 wall of the terrace ; the canopy of my 
 bed was formed by overarching tree- 
 tops; a nightingale was perched exactly 
 over my head, and I fell asleep to his 
 singing." 
 
 5
 
 Your pedestrian is always cheerful, alert, 
 refreshed, with his heart in his hand and 
 his hand free to all. He looks down upon 
 nobody; he is on the common level. His 
 pores are all open, his circulation is active, 
 his digestion good. His heart is not cold, 
 nor are his faculties asleep. He is the only 
 real traveller ; he alone tastes the "gay, 
 fresh sentiment of the road." 
 
 John Burroughs
 
 Afoot and Lighthearted 
 
 IN NORWAY 
 
 IT is strange that with all the succession of 
 interesting and novel experiences I had in 
 Norway, there is none which stands out so 
 clearly in my memory, after an interval of 
 seven years, as a chance meeting with a Nor- 
 wegian peasant one late afternoon as I pursued 
 my way from Vossevangen to Eide. To give the 
 setting I must begin at the beginning. 
 
 Only four days before this I had landed at 
 Bergen. At Ottilia Hansen's Pensionat I had 
 been well served on the first day. I seemed to 
 be the only English-speaking guest. At dinner 
 I sat next to a German. He could not speak my 
 language nor I his. while neither of us could 
 make himself understood in the language of the 
 country. But we could both eat, which was the 
 important thing. My pleasantest journey that 
 afternoon was to the top of Floien, a high hill 
 overlooking the city, reached by a winding road 
 which revealed at every turn more and more of 
 the city and surrounding region : first a small 
 section of Bergen, then the entire city, then the 
 
 7
 
 .\|-(;()T AND IJMI TilEAR'Ji !) 
 
 outlying country, until finally a vast panorama 
 was disclosed of hills and mountains and valleys 
 with fjord on fjord reaching out to the open sea. 
 The next morning I boarded the "Komman- 
 dorin" for a trip on a great arm of the sea known 
 as the Sogne Fjord, north of Bergen and stretch- 
 ing many miles east into the country. The rain 
 fell pitilessly and a cold, searching wind froze the 
 very marrow of my bones. But as the day ad- 
 vanced the weather cleared and when Balholmen 
 was reached the characteristic Norwegian scenery 
 was revealed — low hills that gave place to higher 
 ones and then, in the far distance, to mountains 
 with their snowy tops, while below was the deep 
 green water of the fjord. That evening at 10:30 
 o'clock I took another boat on the Fjaerland 
 Fjord from Balholmen. My sole companion was 
 a very agreeable Norwegian who had taught 
 school for thirty-six years, most of the time in 
 the small town of Laerdal in a secluded valley 
 between high mountains where the sun is seen 
 only six months of the year. Most of his pupils 
 came to school, he told me, in rowboats from 
 their homes along the fjord. At exactly midnight 
 we reached Fjaerland. It was still remarkably 
 light in those northern latitudes and I was able 
 
 8
 
 IX NORWAY 
 
 to read with ease the fine print in my Baedeker 
 as I sat on the upper deck. (The date was 
 June 16). 
 
 Early in the morning I walked six miles to 
 a spur of an enormous glacier, the Jostedalsbra, 
 which stretches actually a hundred miles in each 
 direction. Here was the visible manifestation 
 of the great power which has chiselled out in 
 bygone times the landscape of Western Norway. 
 The glacier makes an apparent advance each year 
 and almost every day tears away great fragments 
 of rock. Since then I have seen a number of 
 glaciers at close range but none which made such 
 an impression upon me as this. At one o'clock I 
 took the boat back to Balholmen and then across 
 the Sogne Fjord southeast to another fjord 
 known as Aurlands. Every moment the scenery 
 was more inspiring. The mountains came closer 
 and closer together until, as we entered the Naro 
 Fjord, they seemed almost to overwhelm us on 
 both sides: sometimes bare cliffs in castellated 
 form, sometimes great wooded heights, while 
 towering beyond were the snowcapped moun- 
 tains. On either side were waterfalls innumer- 
 able, some measuring a thousand feet in one 
 sheer flight. It would be impossible to reproduce 
 such a scene in all its majesty.
 
 Aia)UT AXD LKiilTllKAkTIlD 
 
 I dismounted at the pleasant little town of 
 Gudvangen, shouldered my knapsack and trav- 
 ersed a long valley almost eight miles to Stalheim. 
 As I look back on that experience I am reminded 
 of a folio edition of The Wandering Jew, which 
 proved one of the delights of my childhood. It 
 contained illustrations by Gustave Dore, one of 
 which represented the aged traveller wandering 
 the length of a deep valley, a mere pigmy in the 
 presence of the great overmastering forces of 
 nature. Not otherwise was my own situation at 
 this moment. IVly road ran through a gorge in 
 the mountains. A roaring, rushing river was at 
 my side and on either hand majestic cliffs reach- 
 ing upwards two thousand or more feet. The 
 road slowly ascended, and now I stood at the 
 foot of the Hill Difificulty, on the summit of 
 which was situated a lordly castle, the goal of 
 my day's journey. As I took the tortuous path 
 upwards I groaned aloud by reason of the burden 
 which I bore on my back. But ultimately I 
 stood on the height in front of the Stalheim 
 Hotel and gazed the length of the gorge all the 
 way back to Gudvangen. Part way down the 
 hill could be seen two roaring waterfalls, feeders 
 to the river which I have mentioned. Other 
 
 10
 
 IN NORWAY 
 
 accessions were received from literally hundreds 
 of other waterfalls — varying from tiny silver 
 threads trickling down the cliffs to thundering 
 masses of water — until by the time the stream 
 had reached the fjord it had become a respect- 
 able river. 
 
 My journey the next day took me out of the 
 region of the fjords and back into the country. 
 Here the aspect of things was very different. I 
 walked beside real farms in the open valleys with 
 extensive fields under cultivation, and here and 
 there a sawmill making use of running water. 
 Again, I found myself in a narrow gorge, the 
 river rushing by and the characteristic rocks and 
 cliffs and mountains hemming me in. Several 
 miles beyond Stalheim is an expanse of water 
 called Opheim Lake. Violets — the most beautiful 
 I have seen — buttercups, wild geraniums, wild 
 strawberry blossoms, lilacs and other early spring 
 flowers were all growing on the shores. 
 
 At Framnae's Hotel I had my dinner and in 
 the early afternoon pursued my way to Vosse- 
 vangen. The scenery became wilder and more 
 impressive, with more lakes and gorges and 
 waterfalls. Within a few miles of Vossevangen, 
 however, I found the farms more frequent. The 
 
 11
 
 Al'OOT WD l.l(;HT!!EARTKD 
 
 town itself showed a very creditable amount of 
 bustle and life. It is on the railroad which 
 stretches from Bergen across the hills to Chris- 
 tiania. As I entered the town at the end of a 
 twenty-three mile tramp, I passed two country 
 louts out for an evening stroll. I saw them 
 nudge each other at the sight of the stranger 
 and quicken their pace in order to re-pass me. 
 There was a bit of keen rivalry for the space of 
 a few rods and then they fell behind, for I had 
 given them the "heel-and-toe." a brand appar- 
 ently unknown in those parts. In truth, however, 
 I was at the end of my tether when I reached 
 Fleischer's Hotel, footsore and weary, at seven 
 o'clock. This hostelry was large, imposing and 
 fashionable. I found there some of the objec- 
 tionable type of American tourists and I 
 blushed for my country. Three Chinese officials 
 on a sightseeing tour in Norway seemed strangely 
 out of place in these surroundings. Before going 
 to bed I took a hot bath {varmt Bad, you must 
 ask for), and straightened out seme of the knots 
 in my sore muscles. 
 
 Eide, my next objective, was some miles to the 
 south, at the northern end of a tongue of the 
 Hardanger Fjord. I left A'ossevangen in the 
 
 12
 
 IN NORWAY 
 
 early afternoon of the following day. At the 
 outset I encountered only quiet country scenes. 
 But presently the valley began to close in and 
 then I found myself looking out over a great 
 gorge with a beautiful waterfall (the Skjerve 
 Fos) plunging into the valley beneath. It was 
 worth a long journey to gaze upon such a spec- 
 tacle. The road wound in great curves down and 
 around the falls, at one point so close that the 
 spray covered me like a dense mist. On beyond 
 I found a short cut, a footpath a few hundred 
 feet shorter than the winding road. It led me at 
 one point over the bare face of a rock — and here 
 a tragedy occurred, for my feet went up and I 
 went down and I spilled my belongings hither 
 and yon. 
 
 It was at this point that I met my friend, the 
 Norwegian peasant. 
 
 Or, rather, he met me. He came along the 
 selfsame path, and walked the surface of the 
 rock with a more certain step than mine. See- 
 ing to his surprise some one else in this secluded 
 spot he paused and smiled the broad smile of 
 one at peace with the world. He was dumbly 
 commiserate as he watched me plaster up the 
 wounds occasioned by my fall. I see him yet — 
 
 13
 
 Al'OOT AND LIGIITIIEAF^TI'.IJ 
 
 this simple, honest rustic, large and oldish, com- 
 pletely overtopped by a huge bundle of tree 
 branches which he bore on his back, giving the 
 appearance of Birnam Wood coming to Dun- 
 sinane. Like Gotz von Berlichingen he was 
 maimed, and an iron hook did service for the 
 hand that was gone. 
 
 We greeted each other heartily after our 
 ways. He asked me if I were "Norsk." I said 
 "Nei, Amerikaner." Then he wanted to know 
 if I had been Norsk before I had become Amer- 
 ikaner, but again I had to say "nei." At this 
 point our confidences became unintelligible, for 
 while we carried on an animated conversation 
 as we walked the road, my language was my own 
 and his was his own, and we attained nothing 
 but a rare atmosphere of good fellowship. 
 In the gathering dusk I had him stand in the 
 road — he remained rooted to the ground like a 
 bit of adamant — while I took his picture. The 
 gentle reader can therefore get a glimpse of him, 
 though somewhat obscured. Here was his cot- 
 tage in plain sight and two of his children coming 
 out to meet him. We had known one another 
 for ten minutes but we parted like old friends. 
 True to the type, he showed the same simple 
 
 14
 
 IN NORWAY 
 
 integrity, stability of temperament and cordial 
 good will that endear the Norwegian people to 
 travellers in their own land and make them 
 well-nigh ideal citizens when transplanted to 
 America. May their tribe increase ! 
 
 15
 
 The road winds onward long and white, 
 It curves in mazy coils, and crooks 
 
 A beckoning finger down the height; 
 It calls me with the voice of brooks 
 
 To thirsty travellers in the night. 
 
 I leave the lonely city street, 
 The awful silence of the crowd; 
 
 The rhythm of the roads I beat, 
 My blood leaps up, I shout aloud. 
 
 My heart keeps measure with my feet. 
 
 A bird sings something in my ear, 
 The wind sings in my blood a song 
 
 'Tis good at times for a man to hear ; 
 The road winds onward white and long. 
 
 And the best of Earth is here I 
 
 Arthur Symons 
 
 16
 
 IN WALES 
 
 IN Hazlitt's incomparable essay "On Going a 
 Journey," which, as Stevenson says, is "so 
 good that there should be a tax levied on all 
 who have not read it," is the classic descrip- 
 tion of the pedestrian's sense of supreme comfort 
 and well-being as the end of the day is reached : 
 "How fine it is to enter some old 
 town, walled and turreted, just at the 
 approach of nightfall, or to come to 
 some straggling village, with the lights 
 streaming through the surrounding 
 gloom; and then, after inquiring for 
 the best entertainment that the place 
 affords, to 'take one's ease at one's inn' ! 
 These eventful moments in our lives' 
 history are too precious, too full of 
 solid, heartfelt happiness to be frittered 
 and dribbled away in imperfect sym- 
 pathy. I would have them all to myself, 
 and drain them to the last drop : they 
 will do to talk of or to write about 
 afterwards. What a delicate specula- 
 tion it is, after drinking whole goblets 
 of tea — 
 
 The cups that cheer, hut not inebriate — 
 and letting the fumes ascend into the 
 brain, to sit considering what we shall 
 have for supper — eggs and a rasher, a 
 
 17
 
 AI'OOT AND LIGllTIIKAkTi:iJ 
 
 rabbit smothered in onions, or an excel- 
 lent veal cutlet ! Sancho in such a 
 situation once fixed upon cow-heel ; and 
 his choice, though he could not help 
 it, is not to be disparaged. Then, in 
 the intervals of pictured scenery and 
 Shandean contemplation, to catch the 
 l)reparation and the stir in the kitchen 
 (getting ready for the gentleman in the 
 parlor). Procnl, procid cste profani! 
 These hours are sacred to silence and to 
 musing, to be treasured up in the mem- 
 ory, and to feed the source of smiling 
 thoughts hereafter." 
 No experience of this kind stands out more 
 clearly in my memory than that which came to 
 me on the evening of June 10, 1914, in Wales in 
 the region of Bettvvs-y-Coed. I had passed the 
 middle point of a five-hundred-mile tramp and 
 this had proved the finest day of all. The morn- 
 ing had found me in the old historic town of 
 Carnarvon on the western coast of Wales. Bid- 
 ding good-bye to some delightful people I had 
 met in that town, I took the train easterly to 
 Snowdon Station at the foot of Mt. Snowdon, 
 the highest mountain in Wales or England. A 
 tramp of three and a half miles brought me to 
 Beddgelert, situated in a region of great natural 
 
 18
 
 IN WALES 
 
 beauty and possessing romantic interest because 
 of the touching legend of the dog Gelert. King 
 Llewellyn of Wales, so the tale runs, had left 
 his infant son under the protection of Gelert. 
 While he was away a wolf had attempted to 
 slay the child but was attacked by the dog and 
 killed. Returning, Llewellyn had found Gelert 
 covered with blood, and under a misapprehen- 
 sion had promptly dispatched the dog, learning 
 too late of the safety of the young prince and of 
 Gelert's heroism. The grave of the faithful 
 hound is a place of resort. I had never gone on 
 a pilgrimage to a dog's grave before, but there 
 seemed nothing inappropriate about it and I did 
 not begrudge the time and labor spent. 
 
 Returning to Snowdon Station I was ready for 
 my ascent of the mountain. At the foot of the 
 trail I met two little girls, to whom I presented 
 very gallantly some tiny English flags. "Oh, 
 thank you, sir!" said one, but the other being 
 young and timid had no words to her tongue. 
 Upwards and still upwards my path led me, and 
 then there was no path, or at least I had lost it, 
 for I have a singular perversity in getting oflf the 
 road. The goal, however, was always in sight 
 and I felt no uneasiness as I stumbled among the 
 19
 
 AFOOT AND IJGI ITI II':AkTI'.lJ 
 
 rocks and over the rough grass of the steep hill- 
 side. Beyond the halfway point there is a well- 
 marked ridge which becomes ever steeper and 
 ever narrower until the wayfarer comes to a 
 point where the wind whistles and the precipices 
 yawn below him on either side. Theodore Watts- 
 Dunton has described this region with marvellous 
 skill in "Aylwin" and invested it with a mystery 
 and a certain weird charm well borne out by the 
 desolate character of the scenery on those higher 
 levels. Snowdon, that old Welsh mountain, has 
 as many legends attached to it as Mount Olympus. 
 I finally reached the summit — 3560 feet above 
 the sea — at about two o'clock (after a climb of 
 an hour and fifty minutes) ; none too soon, for 
 the rain had begun and the wind had turned 
 piercingly cold. The railroad which mounts from 
 the Llanberis side looked inviting enough and, 
 after a poor and costly meal in the little hotel at 
 the top of the mountain, I climbed aboard the 
 train and descended slowly to the valley. The 
 journey had scarcely commenced wdien fair 
 weather returned and I had a remarkable view 
 down the hill to Llanberis Pass, westerly to 
 Carnarvon and the Bay, north to Conway and 
 the Great Orme's Head. 
 
 20
 
 IX WALES 
 
 At Llanberis I was afoot again before four 
 o'clock. The weather was exquisitely fine and 
 my spirits ran high. Ever}' fifteen minutes 
 brought me invariably to a new mile-post. "Give 
 me," says Hazlitt, "the clear blue sky over my 
 head, and the green turf beneath my feet, a 
 winding road before me, and a three hours' 
 
 march to dinner ." At Llanberis Pass came 
 
 one of those wonderful scenes that reward so 
 frequently the traveller in Wales. The valley 
 opens out like a fan. Below are seen many 
 miles of open country. To the right stretches 
 the road to Beddgelert, to the left the road to 
 Capel Curig. At the back is the road to Carnar- 
 von ; and towering over all the majestic Snow don. 
 
 The whole valley seemed to greet me, smiling 
 under the afternoon sun, and to beckon me on to 
 something ever more and more alluring. Was it 
 simply because I was feeling in fine fettle — 
 
 "Oh, our manhood's prime vigor! 
 
 No spirit feels waste, 
 Not a muscle is stopped in its playing, 
 
 Nor sinew unbraced" 
 
 or was it really a region of such marvellous 
 beauty as I felt then and as my fancy pictures 
 
 21
 
 AFOOT A\D LIGMTIIKARTKI) 
 
 it in recalling the scene to-day? However it may 
 be, I trode lightly that afternoon and felt that 
 North Wales could scarcely be surpassed. The 
 road takes the traveller in a northerly direction to 
 Pen-y-Gwryd and then almost due east to Capel 
 Curig and Bettws-y-Coed. What a picture Capel 
 Curig presented! It is partly hidden among a 
 thick grove of trees. The trails lead out on either 
 side and curl up into the hills. All the houses 
 have a look of settled content and some are pic- 
 turesque in the extreme. Two small lakes and a 
 swift and business-like river give diversity to the 
 scene. When I try to conceive of a paradise of 
 beauty, I recall the region from Capel Curig to 
 Bettw^s-y-Coed and I need no choicer example. 
 
 At seven o'clock or thereabouts I passed a 
 building set back from the road and surrounded 
 by some acres of slightly wooded grounds. "Dol 
 Gam Private Hotel" read the sign. "Now, just 
 what is a private hotel?" quoth I to myself. "Is 
 it for the likes of me to have supper there?" 
 "You might try," says myself to me. So up I 
 went, real bold like. And I was met by a demure 
 sixteen-year-old lass, as nice looking as a young 
 girl need be, and was told that supper could be 
 had, and would I wait in the parlor. 
 
 22
 
 IN WALES 
 
 So it was here that I met up with Hazlitt and 
 paralleled his experience described so luxuriously 
 a few pages back. At the end of the room was 
 an old-fashioned bookcase containing a scattered 
 regiment of books and magazines and surmounted 
 by a set of antlers. Across was a curio cabinet 
 and a framed Red Riding Hood picture above it. 
 In the center of the room was a long table at one 
 end of which a cover was presently laid by my 
 young hostess. Where I sat I could look out on 
 the long road and muse over the day's happen- 
 ings. The gods never experienced greater peace 
 of mind than I felt at that moment. 
 
 And then came the supper — a steaming bowl 
 of soup, tender lamb chops, tomatoes fried with 
 cracker crumbs, new potatoes in cream, and to 
 cap it all, a delicious gooseberry pudding. "One 
 and six," the demure lass said demurely as I 
 finished; but I had not the heart to leave less 
 than two shillings. Blessings on you, young 
 maiden of the Dol Gam ! You will never serve 
 a more appreciative wayfarer. 
 
 Then on, as the shadows lengthened, to Bettws- 
 y-Coed, passing Swallow Falls and Fairy Glen 
 made memorable by "Aylwin." Generally at the 
 close of the day the pedestrian insensibly in- 
 
 23
 
 AFOOT AND LIGI ITi lEARTKI) 
 
 creases his pace with the prospect of a haven and 
 a night's rest after a fatiguing tramp. But in this 
 instance I loitered, and, as did Rousseau on the 
 evening he describes so vividly, walked "in a sort 
 of ecstasy." The beauty of the scene, the soft 
 breeze, the sweet country odors, the murmuring 
 streams, the plashing waterfalls — all wTought 
 upon me to such an extent that I hated to have 
 the experience terminate and with each turning of 
 the road rejoiced that I was still spared the sight 
 of the first houses of the town. But at about 
 nine o'clock I finished at length my twenty-three- 
 mile jaunt. Though I had a numerous group of 
 hostelries to pick from, I promptly chose the 
 Craig-y-Don, which promised from its appearance 
 to be cheap and good, as indeed it proved. The 
 landlady surveyed me critically while I stood 
 humbly awaiting her verdict. Finally she judged 
 me at least respectable and a safe risk in a fman- 
 cial way, and flung wide the portal. 
 
 I remember well the room I had in the Craig- 
 y-Don at Bettws-y-Coed. It was small and 
 scrupulously clean and seemed like the guest room 
 in a private home. The bed had an old-fashioned 
 canopy; the stretching space was. alas, only about 
 five feet eight inches long. On the wall at the 
 
 24
 
 IN WALES 
 
 foot was a motto in Welsh, neatly framed. Only 
 a few hundred yards distant was a waterfall in 
 the Conway River. Its subdued roar lulled me to 
 sleep. 
 
 25
 
 I saw also in my Dream, that when the 
 Shepherds perceived that they were way- 
 faring men, they also put questions to them 
 ( to which they made answer as in other 
 places) as, Whence came you? and, How 
 got you into the way? and. By what means 
 have you so persevered therein ? For but 
 few of them that begin to come hither do 
 show their faces on these Mountains. But 
 when the Shepherds heard their answers, 
 being pleased therewith, they looked very 
 lovingly upon them, and said, Welcome to 
 the Delectable Mountains. 
 
 Pilgrim's Progress 
 
 26
 
 IN SWITZERLAND 
 
 THE Delectable Mountains — how pleasing 
 a name they bear ! Whatever they signi- 
 fied in Christian's travels, in my own ex- 
 perience the Delectable Mountains consist 
 of the Eiger, the Monch and the Jungfrau, those 
 giant peaks in the Bernese Oberland. 
 
 My first glimpse of them came in June, 1908, 
 when, in company with a life-long friend, I spent 
 four never-to-be-forgotten days afoot in the 
 higher Alps. We had been delayed by rain and 
 foul weather for three days at Gunten on Lake 
 Thun, but finally resolved to get under way ; so 
 at 6:30 o'clock on the succeeding morning we 
 strapped on our packs, caught the boat at the 
 Gunten dock and the train at Spiez and in two 
 hours and a half were at Interlaken ready for our 
 day's labors. Our tramp was to take us up from 
 Lauterbrunnen (2620 feet) to Wengen (4190), 
 to Wengern Alp (6160), to Kleine Scheidegg 
 (6770), to the Eiger Glacier (7640), back to 
 Kleine Scheidegg and down into the Grindelwald 
 valley (3402), and finally uphill again to Grosse 
 Scheidegg (6434), where we were to spend the 
 night. To the uninitiated these names may mean 
 
 27
 
 AFOOT AND LIGHT! lEARTKD 
 
 nothing, but their mere enumeration quickens the 
 blood of those whose eyes have seen God's handi- 
 work in this marvellous region. 
 
 At the outset nature was unkind. All ahead 
 was mist and obscurity, only a rod or so of path, 
 rocky, and wet with the rain, stretching on and 
 upward ; while back in the Lauterbrunnen valley 
 were dimly to be seen the houses of the town and 
 the Staubbach falls, dropping from the clifiFs 980 
 feet into the valley. Above our heads were the 
 mountains, completely shrouded by the mist. We 
 entered the cloud line with forebodings. Wengen 
 was passed, then the station of Wengern Alp. 
 and still there was no change. We knew that 
 the great mountains were close at hand but they 
 were hidden by a pall which we were powerless 
 to remove. 
 
 Suddenly, as by a miracle, the curtain was mar- 
 vellously rolled away. Those who walked in 
 darkness saw a great light. We actually lifted 
 our heads out of the clouds, and there were our 
 Delectable Mountains ! At our feet a mass of 
 cloud and mist, so dense that it seemed possible 
 to walk across it ; above us the blue sky and the 
 brilliant sunlight ; and across the valley the snow 
 white peaks of the Eiger, the Monch, the Jung- 
 
 28
 
 f^""" ^B 
 
 

 
 IN SWITZERLAND 
 
 frau and the Silberhorn, dazzlingly beautiful in 
 the full glare of the sun. For almost two hours 
 in our upward climb we feasted our eyes on this 
 view. The mist occasionally rose from the valley 
 and covered the heights, but not for long; the 
 shifting scene only accentuated its beauty. At 
 Eiger Glacier, our highest point, a great snow 
 and ice field was spread all about us. 
 
 We ate our lunch at the head of the path lead- 
 ing down to Grindelwald and our supper at a 
 Swiss chalet part way up the heights of Grosse 
 Scheidegg. All the events of the day are vividly 
 fixed in my memory : the steady uphill climb, 
 hour after hour, the vision of the magnificent 
 Alpine scenery, the careful return on a rocky 
 pathway and around a frowning cliff to see a 
 smiling valley suddenly disclosed and stretching 
 away for miles (walled in on all sides by huge 
 mountains), the near view of the town nestled at 
 the bottom of the valley, the final scaling of the 
 heights beyond as night approached, and the wel- 
 come sight of the lights of the hotel at Grosse 
 Scheidegg just as we were beginning to despair 
 of finding the place in the dark. We were the 
 latest arrivals and all the rooms were engaged, 
 but we were taken in none the less and given a 
 
 29
 
 Ai'"()()T .WD LiGiiTni-:.\frn:i) 
 
 room under the dining room that properly be- 
 longed to some of the serving people. We lost 
 no time in climbing into our great German feather 
 beds and wooing gentle sleep after a day of stren- 
 uous exertion. 
 
 The hotel was built on the hillside and looked 
 over the valley from whence we had come. Hence 
 it commanded one of the fairest scenes in the 
 Alps ; and indeed when I opened my eyes in the 
 morning the great peak of the Eiger presented 
 itself immediately to my gaze, framed by the 
 window sash of our humble basement room. The 
 photograph of the Eiger which I took the preced- 
 ing day (reproduced in the frontispiece) gives 
 much the same view. 
 
 Our second day's tramp took us first downhill 
 to Rosenlaui (4363 feet) and the Reichenbach 
 River, then along the river almost to Meiringen. 
 then diverging easterly to Innertkirchen (2080) 
 then steadily uphill, moving up the course of the 
 Aare River to Guttannen (3480), the Handegg 
 (4530), and Grimsel Hospice (6155), a journey 
 of twenty-three miles in all. There was wild, 
 picturesque and diversified scenery. At Rosen- 
 laui a glacier may be seen, poking its head over 
 a cleft in tlie mountains. The Reichenbach River 
 
 30
 
 N SWITZERLAND 
 
 rushes downward to its junction with the Aare 
 at Meiringen and over that town plunges into a 
 gorge and leaps over into the valley in two beau- 
 tiful falls. The hills converge at the end of the 
 Meiringen valley, but at Innertkirchen another 
 valley opens out. On the higher levels beyond 
 we passed through wooded stretches, with the 
 wild tempestuous Aare River roaring at our side. 
 When noon came we had a good dinner at a 
 pleasant inn and then sprawled out on the grass 
 for almost three hours where the sun could strike 
 us and untie our stiffened muscles. 
 
 In the afternoon our tramp proved even more 
 interesting. The scenery became wilder and 
 wilder. The plunging, twisting and foaming 
 Aare was always in sight and afforded endless 
 delight. At Handegg the river goes roaring down 
 a tremendous gorge where the rocks are worn 
 perfectly smooth by the water. From this point 
 the road winds around great bluffs in a tortuous 
 manner and leads into a desolate and rocky 
 region. The snow was not only above us in the 
 mountains but here and there patches were to be 
 seen along the roadside, the remnants of huge 
 winter avalanches. Somewhat after six o'clock 
 we made our last turn, left the Aare River for 
 
 31
 
 AFOOT AND LIGHTHEARTED 
 
 good and entered, weary and content, the sub- 
 stantial hotel known as Grimsel Hospice. 
 
 As in all those Alpine hotels we found a varied 
 assortment of people — German, French, English 
 and American — pedestrians like ourselves. An 
 hour after our arrival there came along a little 
 Englishman grunting under his heavy pack. He 
 seemed like an old friend. Early in the day we 
 had seen him on the road from Meiringen to 
 Innertkirchen and we had exchanged greetings 
 and passed ahead. At our lunching place he pre- 
 sented himself about three quarters of an hour 
 after our arrival ; and he probably started away 
 a good hour ahead of us. At five o'clock we 
 found him leaning wearily on a parapet overlook- 
 ing the Aare, and for the third time we greeted 
 him. And here he was finally at the Hospice — 
 in a state of near-exhaustion. I imagine that the 
 syrup which, as he told us, he was using to keep 
 his muscles from getting stiff, had been of little 
 efficacy. His was a curious figure. If I go back 
 to the Aare region I shall expect to see him again, 
 for he seems somehow part of the scenery. 
 
 On our third day we tramped from Grimsel 
 Hospice to Grimsel Pass (7103 feet) overlooking 
 the Rhone Glacier and the valley of the Rhone. 
 
 32
 
 IN SWITZERLAND 
 
 Thence into the valley (5750) and slowly up 
 again to Hotel Belvidere by the side of the sum- 
 mit of the glacier (7545) and easterly to the 
 Furka Pass (7990). After six miles or so on the 
 heights, an abrupt descent into the valley called 
 the Urseren-Tal, past the village of Realp (5060) 
 and on to Hospenthal (4870), where we spent the 
 night. In all we covered eighteen miles that day. 
 We set out immediately after breakfast, fol- 
 lowing the steep footpath to the Pass. The little 
 Englishman came along after us — we could see 
 him making his way upwards, his heavy pack on 
 his back and a singular net contrivance filled with 
 small bundles swinging from a walking stick 
 carried over his shoulder. It was our last sight 
 of him. At the Pass we had a wonderful view 
 surpassing description. Back of us was the road 
 we had taken, losing itself at a turn of the river 
 bed of the Aare, and peak after peak of the 
 mountains to the west ; before us was the great 
 valley of the Rhone, the Rhone River starting 
 at the foot of the glacier and tumbling through 
 the valley to the gorges and valleys to the south ; 
 while to the northeast and southeast were more 
 great mountains closing in the Rhone Valley, our 
 road over the Furka Pass gleaming like a piece 
 of white tape in the distance. 
 
 33
 
 Xi'OOT AXD Llf;ilTIIE.\RTF:D 
 
 On our long journey into the valley and our 
 longer journey along the winding road and steep 
 footpaths to the Hotel Relvidere we had a good 
 opportunity to inspect a glacier close at hand. 
 The Rhone Glacier stretches about six miles from 
 north to south, although not much more than its 
 front face may be seen, as the rest is embedded 
 in the mountains. From base to summit its 
 height is about 1800 feet and its width also is 
 impressive. As seen from the valley, but espe- 
 cially from the hotel at the summit, the glacier is 
 very beautiful, showing the clear green ice at a 
 thousand points. 
 
 At noon we had our faces set towards the 
 Furka Pass, a few miles beyond the glacier, and 
 before long, at a turn of the road, we gave up 
 the sight of those grand old mountains that had 
 been our companions for three days. But other 
 mountains and great jagged peaks and hills 
 beckoned us onwards. We could see many miles 
 ahead, as far as the mountains over the St. 
 Gotthard Pass. A military road starts at the 
 Furka Pass, skirts the cliffs and descends lei- 
 surely to the Rhone Valley. Our road, however, 
 took us in the other direction towards Hospen- 
 tlial. We found a sheltered spot and ate the 
 
 34
 
 IN SWITZERLAND 
 
 lunch we had brought with us, resting a good 
 two hours. We were 8000 feet above the sea. 
 
 In an hour and a half after we had resumed 
 our journey, we came to a veritable jumping-off 
 place. The hills sloped off abruptly into a wide 
 and fertile valley, girt by towering hills. The 
 road descended in great curves, but we followed 
 the footpath and jumped from rock to rock and 
 trotted in and out (while our packs bobbed up 
 and down, and my camera was a misery), until 
 after fifteen minutes of excessive exertion we 
 found ourselves on the lower levels and looked 
 back to the green summit from whence we had 
 come. On the road ahead of us were women 
 driving goats and carrying great bundles of hay, 
 and in the fields were busy Swiss harvest scenes 
 pleasant to behold. We went through Realp. a 
 small old-fashioned village, followed the perfectly 
 straight road through the valley and reached Hos- 
 penthal. our destination for the night, at a little 
 before six o'clock. In the small Gasthaus St. 
 Gotthard we were well served. Our room looked 
 out over a rushing river. 
 
 Beyond Hospenthal is another curiously inter- 
 esting German-Swiss town called Andermatt, and 
 beyond that there is wild and rugged scenery as 
 the Reuss River enters a narrow gorge and 
 
 35
 
 Al'OOT AND LIGIITIIKARTF.D 
 
 ruslics and roars along in a perfect frenzy until 
 it reaches the more level region on beyond and 
 flows through Fliiellen and into the Lake of 
 Lucerne. As a side trip we went down to Ander- 
 matt and very interesting the town and its sur- 
 roundings proved. 
 
 But our journey took us in the other direction, 
 up the hillside, above Hospenthal (4870 feet) to 
 St. Gotthard Pass (6935), and then along the 
 steep and tortuous downhill road to the Italian- 
 Swiss town of Airolo (3750), where we took the 
 train in the afternoon to the Italian Lakes. In 
 the three and a half days we covered about 73 
 miles on foot and saw some of the most mag- 
 nificent scenery in Switzerland and in the wide 
 world. 
 
 After the initial difficulty in scaling the heights 
 above Hospenthal. we pursued an even course 
 and reached the summit almost before we knew 
 it. Shortly before this we had made a short 
 detour and explored the shores of a beautiful 
 Alpine lake 6800 feet above the sea. Fifteen 
 minutes later we stood at the Pass. There is no 
 extensive view to be seen at the summit. Several 
 small lakes serve to enliven the rather cheerless 
 scenery. A kindly German tramper snapped our 
 camera ; and here you behold us therefore stand- 
 ing at the top of the world. 
 
 36
 
 IN SWITZERLAND 
 
 We had crossed the watershed. The streams 
 were now flowing southerly to the Adriatic. In 
 the morning at Hospenthal we had been only a 
 short distance from the source of the Rhine. But 
 yesterday we had seen the first streamlet of the 
 Rhone. Some days before in the Black Forest 
 in Germany, not a great many miles away, we 
 had been at the source of the Danube. The great 
 waterways of Europe begin in the same Swiss 
 mountains, but how different is their history and 
 the history of the nations along their banks ! 
 
 Beyond the Pass the road descends along an 
 abrupt hillside. Its long curves tempt the travel- 
 ler into footpaths but these are full of rocks and 
 bad places. After interminable stretches of this 
 sort we were finally rewarded by a superb view 
 of the great valley-way stretching southwards 
 into Italy. It seemed to be spread out at our very 
 feet. Airolo was the nearest town, but a half 
 dozen more might be seen along the valley. 
 
 Coming into Airolo at a little after two o'clock, 
 we found ourselves in a new world. Unaided 
 and by our own exertions, we had passed in the 
 course of a few hours from a region whose every 
 human aspect was characteristically German, to 
 a region where the signs, shops, speech and smells 
 proclaimed unmistakably the Italian. 
 
 37
 
 On a day as St. Francis was journeying 
 with Friar Masseo, the said Friar Masseo 
 went a little in front of him ; and when 
 they reached a point where three ways met 
 — one leading to Florence, another to Siena, 
 and a third to Arej:zo — Friar Masseo said, 
 "Father, which road ought we to follow?" 
 St. Francis answered, "That which God 
 willeth." Said Friar Masseo, "And how 
 shall we know the will of God?" St. 
 Francis answered, "By the token I shall 
 show thee : wherefore I command thee by 
 the merit of holy obedience that at this 
 parting of the ways, and on the spot where 
 thou now standest, thou shalt turn round 
 and round as children do, and shalt not 
 cease turning until I bid thee." Then Friar 
 Masseo began to turn round and round, 
 and continued so long that by reason of the 
 giddiness which is wont to be begotten by 
 such turning, he fell many times to the 
 ground ; but, as St. Francis did not bid him 
 stay, he rose up again, for faithfully he 
 desired to obey him. At length, when he 
 was turning lustily, St. Francis cried, "Stay; 
 stir not!" And he stayed. Then St. 
 Francis asked him, "Towards which part is 
 thy face turned?" Friar Masseo answers. 
 "Towards Siena." Said St. Francis. "That 
 is the road God wills we should go." 
 
 Little Flowers of St. Francis 
 
 38
 
 IN ITALY 
 
 Nihil habentes, omnia possidentes 
 
 "^ I AHERE was a man in the city of Assisi, 
 I by name Francis, whose memory is 
 
 ■*■ blessed, for that God, graciously pre- 
 venting him with the blessings of good- 
 ness, delivered him in His mercy from the perils 
 of this present life, and abundantly filled him 
 with the gifts of heavenly grace." 
 
 In the passing of the centuries few men of any 
 race or period have left us so fragrant a memory 
 as The Little Poor One, Brother Francis of 
 Assisi. He was winsome, joyous, simple, artless, 
 gentle, humble, self-effacing, superlatively kind to 
 man and beast, obedient to the heavenly vision — 
 a rich, rare, choice soul such as men instinctively 
 revere and honor. Those even of his own gen- 
 eration called him by common consent "il santo" ; 
 and no saint was more worthy of this title. 
 
 At one o'clock in the afternoon of June 10, 
 1911, I reached the town of Assisi. On the train 
 I had been reading the Fioretti, or The Little 
 Flowers of St. Francis, and had found it singu- 
 larly naive and delightful. 
 
 39
 
 AFOOT A\D lighthf-:arti:d 
 
 "Then St. Francis mounted the pulpit 
 and began to preach so wondrously of 
 the contempt of the world, of holy pen- 
 ance, of voluntary poverty, and of the 
 
 desire for the heavenly kingdom , 
 
 that all they that were present at the 
 sermon, men and women, in great multi- 
 tudes, began to weep bitterly with 
 wondrous devotion and contrition of 
 heart." 
 
 "Then St. Francis speaks to him (the 
 wolf of Gubbio) thus, 'Friar wolf, thou 
 workest much evil in these parts, and 
 hast wrought grievous ill, destroying 
 and slaying God's creatures without His 
 leave; and not only hast thou slain and 
 devoured the beasts of the field, but thou 
 hast dared to destroy and slay men made 
 in the image of God ; wherefore thou 
 art worthy of the gallows as a most 
 wicked thief and murderer: all folk cry 
 out and murmur against thee, and all 
 this city is at enmit}- with thee. But. 
 friar wolf, fain would I make peace 
 with them and thee, so that thou injure 
 them no more ; and they shall forgive 
 thee all thy past oflPenses, and neither 
 man nor dog shall pursue thee more.' 
 Now when St. Francis had spoken these 
 words, the wolf, moving his body and 
 his tail and his ears, made signs that he 
 
 40
 
 IN ITALY 
 
 accepted what had been said, and would 
 abide thereby." 
 
 Assisi is among the Apennines in the beautiful 
 Umbrian country. It is set up on a hill and has a 
 pleasing appearance and an ancient flavor. While 
 it is not so busy a place as in the days of Francis, 
 in some of its aspects it has changed little in 
 seven hundred years. Few shrines are so well 
 worth visiting. 
 
 In the open plain below the hill is an imposing 
 church — St. Mary of the Angels — on the site of 
 the original chapel where St. Francis and his 
 followers lived and worshipped. Indeed the 
 newer church encloses the old. As you enter you 
 see the diminutive building, the Portiuncula, 
 under the central dome. You may go within the 
 sacred chapel and see the original altar. As 
 Sabatier says, "This chapel, still standing at the 
 present day after escaping revolutions and earth- 
 quakes, is a true Bethel, one of those rare spots 
 in the world on which rests the mystic ladder 
 which joins heaven to earth; there were dreamed 
 some of the noblest dreams which have soothed 
 the pains of humanity." There is also preserved 
 under the dome of the newer church the original 
 cell of St. Francis. How impressive these objects 
 
 41
 
 AFOOT AND LIGUTI lEAKTKD 
 
 are ! Few can stand unmoved in their presence. 
 
 I walked leisurely up the long hill that leads to 
 Assisi. The chief sights of the town as one 
 enters are the old Franciscan Monastery (now a 
 school) and the two churches, one built over the 
 other. In the churches are the frescoes of Giotto 
 and Cimabue, the main artistic glories of Assisi. 
 But, to the lover of Friar Francis, the crypt — 
 a barefooted Franciscan brother, candle in hand, 
 takes you down — proves the most impressive part 
 of the visit to the churches, for here is the tomb 
 of the saint and other treasures, including a 
 manuscript of St. Francis's, and strange to say, a 
 wonderfully ornamented silver clock (still tick- 
 ing) embellished by Benvenuto Cellini. To have 
 Francis, all purity and goodness, and Cellini, a 
 man fashioned from common clay, selfish, cruel 
 and passionate, thus brought into close juxtaposi- 
 tion, strikes one as a curious anomaly. 
 
 Continuing my adventures, I walked to the 
 topmost part of Assisi, by the side of the old 
 castle — now the citadel — and sat down on the 
 green slope looking at the hills beyond. Time has 
 little effect upon such a scene. Francis had gazed 
 lovingly upon this selfsame prospect. After the 
 lapse of seven hundred years he seemed still there 
 among his Umbrian hills. 
 
 42
 
 IN ITALY 
 
 Coming through the town again and threading 
 the narrow and ancient streets, I came upon the 
 church of St. Clare, where has been preserved 
 the Chapel of St. Giorgio and the body of Santa 
 Clara, a disciple of Francis and scarcely less 
 saintly than he. A relic is also placed here of the 
 old convent of St. Damian. In this convent, in 
 the plain below Assisi, Santa Clara and her fellow 
 sisters, the "poor ladies of St. Damian," lived 
 and labored. 
 
 Outside of the town gate I found another green 
 slope by the side of a little stream and in sight of 
 a fair vineyard, — a typical Italian landscape. Then 
 I returned, and chancing upon a street called Via 
 Frate Elia (named, no doubt, after Brother 
 Elias, one of the companions of Francis), I 
 ascended it to the higher levels of the town and 
 there fell in with a peddler who sold me a book 
 in Italian, which I bought for pure good will — as 
 I could not read it; and with a tiny girl whom 
 I patted on the head and to whom I presented a 
 coin in my best manner. I was in truth in an 
 idyllic frame of mind, induced by the town of 
 Assisi and the memories that clustered about it. 
 That evening I stood for a while at my window 
 in the Hotel Giotto and looked down upon the 
 
 43
 
 AFOOT AND LIGHT! IKAKTKD 
 
 plain and tried to fancy how St. Francis must 
 have felt as the same panorama was unfolded 
 before his eyes. Early in the morning I was on 
 my way to Perugia and Florence. 
 
 This was the shortest pilgrimage in my experi- 
 ence. Considered merely as a walking trip it was 
 nothing; yet in the retrospect it looms large. I 
 would fain go to Assisi again and take note of 
 the smallest detail and investigate all the sur- 
 rounding region, and thus strive to arrive at some 
 dim comprehension of the beaut}' of the life that 
 was once lived there. 
 
 I have just been re-reading Sabatier's Life of 
 St. Francis. It is one of the small group of 
 great biographies, — partly because it is put to- 
 gether with rare skill, partly because it gives an 
 intimate study of a noble human spirit, and again 
 because the writer has become so closely asso- 
 ciated with his subject that his understanding of 
 the life and motives of St. Francis is well-nigh 
 perfect. The book is full of thoughts and sug- 
 gestions that give the reader pause. 
 
 "The revelation of Francis was in his 
 heart ; the sacred fire which he was to 
 communicate to the souls of others came 
 from within his own. but the best causes 
 
 44
 
 >ii\i\i rranQois d'Assise.
 
 L\ ITALY 
 
 need a standard. Before the shabby 
 altar of the Portiuncula he had per- 
 ceived the banner of poverty, sacrifice, 
 and love ; he would carry it to the assault 
 of every fortress of sin." 
 
 "At the sight of beauty love always 
 awakes ; at the appeal of holiness the 
 divine witness within us at once re- 
 sponds ; and so we see, streaming from 
 all points of the horizon to gather 
 around those who preach in the name 
 of the inward voice, long processions of 
 souls athirst for the ideal." 
 
 "Francis was one of those who strug- 
 gle, and to use one of the noblest 
 expressions of the Bible, of those who 
 by their perseverance conquer their 
 souls." 
 
 "St. Francis renounced everything 
 only that he might the better possess 
 everything. The lives of the immense 
 majority of our contemporaries are 
 ruled by the fatal error that the more 
 one possesses the more one enjoys. Our 
 exterior, civil liberties continually in- 
 crease, but at the same time our inward 
 freedom is taking flight." 
 
 "How shall one be melancholy who 
 has in his heart an inexhaustible treas- 
 ure of life and truth which only in- 
 creases as one draws upon it? How be 
 
 45
 
 A I- (JOT AND LIGHTilEARTKD 
 
 sad when in spite of falls one never 
 ceases to make progress?" 
 
 There are many charming incidents that crowd 
 the pages of this biography. Such, for example, 
 the occasion when Francis, as he was going 
 through the forest singing at the top of his 
 voice, was met by some ruffians who demanded. 
 "Who are you?" "I am the herald of the great 
 King," he replied. — Or, again, the occasion when, 
 about to set sail for Egypt and embarrassed by 
 the number of his companions, he told them that 
 he had not the courage to signify those who 
 should be left behind ; and forthwith determined 
 what was the will of God by calling a child who 
 was playing close at hand and asking him to 
 point out the eleven friars who were to sail on the 
 expedition. — Or again, on the well-known occa- 
 sion when he preached a sermon to the birds : 
 "Brother birds, you ought to praise and love 
 your Creator very much. He has given you 
 feathers for clothing, wings for flying, and all 
 that is needful for you. He has made you the 
 noblest of His creatures ; He permits you to live 
 in the pure air ; you have neither to sow nor to 
 reap, and yet He takes care of you. watches over 
 you and guides you." No wonder that the birds 
 
 46
 
 IN ITALY 
 
 showed no fear and allowed him to move amongst 
 them freely and to stroke them with his tunic. 
 
 In his last illness Francis composed The Can- 
 ticle of the Sun. It was within a year of the 
 time when, at the age of forty-four he, as Thomas 
 of Celano beautifully expressed it, "welcomed 
 death with a song." Matthew Arnold's transla- 
 tion of this artless yet noble hymn may fittingly 
 close our picture of Assisi and Assisi's Saint. 
 
 "O most high, almighty, good Lord 
 God, to thee belong praise, glory, honor, 
 and all blessing! 
 
 "Praised be my Lord God with all 
 his creatures, and specially our brother 
 the sun, who brings us the day and who 
 brings us the light; fair is he and 
 shines with a very great splendor: O 
 Lord, he signifies to us thee! 
 
 "Praised be my Lord for our sister 
 the moon, and for the stars, the which 
 he has set clear and lovely in heaven. 
 
 "Praised by my Lord for our brother 
 the wind, and for air and cloud, calms 
 and all weather by the which thou up- 
 holdest life in all creatures. 
 
 "Praised be my Lord for our sister 
 water, who is very serviceable unto us 
 and humble and precious and clean. 
 
 "Praised be my Lord for our brother 
 
 47
 
 AFOOT y\ND LIGUTIIEARTED 
 
 fire, through whom thou givest us light 
 in the darkness ; and he is bright and 
 pleasant and very mighty and strong. 
 
 "Praised be my Lord for our motlier 
 the earth, the which does sustain us and 
 keep us, and bringeth forth divers fruits 
 and flowers of many colors, and grass. 
 
 "Praised be my Lord for all those 
 who pardon one another for his love's 
 sake, and who endure weakness and 
 tribulation; blessed are they who peac- 
 ably shall endure, for thou. O most 
 Highest, shalt give them a crown 
 
 "Praise ye and bless the Lord, and 
 give thanks unto him and serve him with 
 great humility." 
 
 48
 
 D921 R/ 
 
 Richardson, William Lee, 
 
 18 74- 
 Afoot and lighthearted; 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 AA 001 310 317 1 
 
 3 1210 00277 3321