Many a man has professed to me that his
brain never works so well as when he is swinging along the high road or
over hill and dale. This boast is not confirmed by my memory of anybody
who on a Sunday morning has forced me to partake of his adventure.
Experience teaches me that whatever a fellow-guest may have of power
to instruct or to amuse when he is sitting on a chair, or standing on
a hearth-rug, quickly leaves him when he takes one out for a walk. The
ideas that came so thick and fast to him in any room, where are they
now? where that encyclopiedic knowledge which he bore so lightly? where
the kindling fancy that played like summer lightning over any topic that
was started? The man's face that was so mobile is set now; gone is the
light from his fine eyes. He says that A. (our host) is a thoroughly
good fellow. Fifty yards further on, he adds that A. is one of the best
fellows he has ever met. We tramp another furlong or so, and he says
that Mrs. A. is a charming woman. Presently he adds that she is one
of the most charming women he has ever known. We pass an inn. He
reads vapidly aloud to me: 'The King's Arms. Licensed to sell Ales and
Spirits.' I foresee that during the rest of the walk he will read aloud
any inscription that occurs. We pass a milestone. He points at it with
his stick, and says 'Uxminster. 11 Miles.' We turn a sharp corner at the
foot of a hill. He points at the wall, and says 'Drive Slowly.' I see
far ahead, on the other side of the hedge bordering the high road, a
small notice-board. He sees it too. He keeps his eye on it. And in due
course 'Trespassers,' he says, 'Will Be Prosecuted.' Poor man!--mentally
a wreck.

Luncheon at the A's, however, salves him and floats him in full sail.
Behold him once more the life and soul of the party. Surely he will
never, after the bitter lesson of this morning, go out for another walk.
An hour later, I see him striding forth, with a new companion. I watch
him out of sight. I know what he is saying. He is saying that I am
rather a dull man to go a walk with. He will presently add that I am one
of the dullest men he ever went a walk with. Then he will devote himself
to reading out the inscriptions.

How comes it, this immediate deterioration in those who go walking for
walking's sake? Just what happens? I take it that not by his reasoning
faculties is a man urged to this enterprise. He is urged, evidently, by
something in him that transcends reason; by his so