Meet Yourself on the Road
不论你身处何地，
也不论你是什么人，
此刻，以及我们生命中的每时每刻，
有一件事对你我来说是相同的：
我们不是在休憩，
而是在旅途中。
徒步旅行
Walking Tours
罗伯特·路易斯·史蒂文森 / Robert Louis Stevenson
罗伯特·路易斯·史蒂文森(1850—1894)，英国新浪漫主义小说家兼小品文作家，生于爱丁堡，毕业于爱丁堡大学法律系，但他最大的志向是在文学方面。他的第一部散文著作《内陆航行》于1878年出版。他一生被肺病困扰，周游各地养病，其间发表了大量短篇小说和游记。
It must not be imagined that a walking tour， as some would have us fancy， is merely a better or worse way of seeing the country. There are many ways of seeing landscape quite as good； and none more vivid， in spite of canting dilettantes， than from a railway train. But landscape on a walking tour is quite accessory. He who is indeed of the brotherhood does not voyage inquest of the picturesque， but of certain jolly humors of the hope and spirit with which the march begins at morning， and the peace and spiritual repletion of the evening’ s rest. He cannot tell whether he puts his knapsack on， or takes it off， with more delight. The excitement of the departure puts him in key for that of the arrival. Whatever he does is not only a reward in itself， but will be further rewarded in the sequel； and so pleasure leads to pleasure in an endless chain. It is this that so few can understand； they will either be always lounging or always at five miles an hour； they do not play off the one against the other， prepare all day for the evening， and all evening for the next day. And， above all， it is here that your overwalker fails of comprehension. His heart rises against those who drink their curacoa in liqueur glasses， when he himself can swill it in a brown John. He will not believe that the flavour is more delicate in the smaller dose. He will not believe that to walk this unconscionable distance is merely to stupefy and brutalize himself， and come to his inn， at night， with a sort of frost on his five wits， and a starless night of darkness in his spirit. Not for him the mild luminous evening of the temperate walker！ He has nothing left of man but a physical need for bedtime and a double nightcap； and even his pipe， if he be a smoker， will be savorless and disenchanted. It is the fate of such a one to take twice as much trouble as is needed to obtain happiness， and miss the happiness in the end； he is the man of the proverb， in short， who goes farther and fares worse.
Now， to be properly enjoyed， a walking tour should be gone upon alone. If you go in a company， or even in pairs， it is no longer a walking tour in anything but name； it is something else and more in the nature of a picnic. A walking tour should be gone upon alone， because freedom is of the essence； because you should be able to stop and go on， and follow this way or that， as the freak takes you； and because you must have your own pace， and neither trot alongside a champion walker， nor mince in time with a girl. And then you must be open to all impressions and let your thoughts take colour from what you see. You should be as a pipe for any wind to play upon. “I cannot see the wit，” says Hazlitt， “of walking and talking at the same time. When I am in the country I wish to vegetate like the country， ” which is the gist of all that can be said upon the matter. There should be no cackle of voices at your elbow， to jar on the meditative silence of the morning. And so long as a man is reasoning he cannot surrender himself to that fine intoxication that comes of much motion in the open air， that begins in a sort of dazzle and sluggishness of the brain， and ends in a peace that passes comprehension.
