I wanted but little to decide my mind; the sight of an inn, some picturesque spot, a pretty face—anything, in short, would have sufficed. But somehow I suppose I must have been more fastidious than I knew of, for I continued to walk onward; and at last, leaving the little hamlet of Pepinsterre behind me, I set out with brisker pace towards Spa. The air was calm and balmy; no leaf stirred; the river beside the road did not even murmur, but crept silently along its gravelly bed, fearful to break the stillness. Gradually the shadows fell stronger and broader, and at length mingled into one broad expanse of gloom; in a few minutes more it was night.
There is something very striking, I had almost said saddening, in the sudden transition from day to darkness in those countries where no twilight exists. The gradual change by which road and mountain, rock and cliff, mellow into the hues of sunset, and grow grey in the gloaming, deepening the shadows, and by degrees losing all outline in the dimness around, prepares us for the gloom of night. We feel it like the tranquil current of years marking some happy life, where childhood and youth and manhood and age succeed in measured time. Not so the sudden and immediate change, which seems rather like the stroke of some fell misfortune, converting the cheerful hours into dark, brooding melancholy. Tears may—they do—fall lightly on some; they creep with noiseless step, and youth and age glide softly into each other without any shock to awaken the thought that says, Adieu to this! Farewell to that for ever!
Thus was I musing, when suddenly I found myself at the spot where the road branched off in two directions. No house was near, nor a living thing from whom I could ask the way. I endeavoured by the imperfect light of the stars, for there was no moon, to ascertain which road seemed most frequented and travelled, judging that Spa was the most likely resort of all journeying in these parts; but unhappily I could detect no difference to guide me. There were wheel-tracks in both, and ruts and stones tolerably equitably adjusted; each had a pathway, too—the right-hand road enjoying a slight superiority over the other in this respect, as its path was more even.
I was completely puzzled. Had I been mounted, I had left the matter to my horse; but unhappily my decision had not a particle of reason to guide it. I looked from the road to the trees, and from the trees to the stars, but they looked down as tranquilly as though either way would do—all save one, a sly little brilliant spangle in the south, that seemed to wink at my difficulty. ‘No matter,’ said I, ‘one thing is certain—neither a supper nor a bed will come to look for me here; and so now for the best pathway, as I begin to feel foot-sore.’
My momentary embarrassment about the road completely routed all my musings, and I now turned my thoughts to the comforts of the inn, and to the pleasant little supper I promised myself on reaching it. I debated as to what was in season and what was not. I spelled October twice to ascertain if oysters were in, and there came a doubt across me whether the Flemish name for the month might have an r in it, and then I laughed at my own bull; afterwards I disputed with myself as to the relative merits of Chablis and Hochheimer, and resolved to be guided by the garçon. I combated long a weakness I felt growing over me for a pint of mulled claret, as the air was now becoming fresh; but I gave in at last, and began to hammer my brain for the French words for cloves and nutmeg.
In these innocent ruminations did an hour pass by, and yet no sign of human habitation, no sound of life, could I perceive at either side of me. The night, ‘tis true, was brighter as it became later, and there were stars in thousands in the sky; but I would gladly have exchanged Venus for the chambermaid of the humblest auberge, and given the Great Bear himself for a single slice of bacon. At length, after about two hours’ walking, I remarked that the road was becoming much more steep; indeed, it had presented a continual ascent for some miles, but now the acclivity was very considerable, particularly at the close of a long day’s march. I remembered well that Spa lay in a valley, but for the life of me I could not think whether a mountain was to be crossed to arrive there. ‘That comes of travelling by post,’ said I to myself; had I walked the road, I had never forgotten so remarkable a feature.’ While I said this, I could not help confessing that I had as lief my present excursion had been also in a conveyance.
‘Forwärts! fort, und immer fort!’
hummed I, remembering Körner’s song; and taking it for my motto, on I went at a good pace. It needed all my powers as a pedestrian, however, to face the mountain, for such I could see it was that I was now ascending; the pathway, too, less trodden than below, was encumbered with loose stones, and the trees which lined the way on either side gradually became thinner and rarer, and at last ceased altogether, exposing me to the cold blast which swept from time to time across the barren heath with a chill that said October was own brother to November. Three hours and a half did I toil along, when at last the conviction came over me that I must have taken the wrong road. This could not possibly be the way to Spa; indeed, I had great doubts that it led anywhere. I mounted a little rock, and took a survey of the bleak mountain-side; but nothing could I see that indicated that the hand of man had ever laboured in that wild region. Fern and heath, clumps of gorse and misshapen rocks, diversified the barren surface on every side, and I now seemed to have gained the summit, a vast tableland spreading away for miles. I sat down to consider what was best to be done. The thought of retracing so many leagues of way was very depressing; and yet what were my chances if I went forward?
Ah, thought I, why did not some benevolent individual think of erecting lighthouses inland? What a glorious invention would it have been! Just think of the great mountain districts which lie in the very midst of civilisation, pathless, trackless, and unknown, where a benighted traveller may perish within the very sound of succour, if he but knew where to seek it. How cheering to the wayworn traveller as he plods along his weary road, to lift from time to time his eyes to the guide-star in the distance! Had the monks been in the habit of going out in the dark, there’s little doubt they’d have persuaded some good Catholics to endow some institutions like this. How well they knew how to have their chapels and convents erected! I’m not sure but I’d vow a little lighthouse myself to the Virgin, if I could only catch a glimpse of a gleam of light this moment.
Just then I thought I saw something twinkle, far away across the heath. I climbed up on the rock, and looked steadily in the direction. There was no doubt of it-there was a light; no Jack-o’-Lantern either, but a good respectable light, of domestic habits, shining steadily and brightly. It seemed far off; but there is nothing so deceptive as the view over a flat surface. In any case, I resolved to make for it; and so, seizing my staff, I once more set forward. Unhappily, however, I soon perceived that the road led off in a direction exactly the reverse of the object I sought, and I was now obliged to make my choice of quitting the path or abandoning the light; my resolve was quickly made, and I started off across the plain, with my eyes steadily fixed upon my beacon.