After all it should be our first object in our autumn tourings to like the business that we have in hand. In all that we do, whether of work or play, this should be a great object with us, seeing that the comfort or discomfort—we may almost say the happiness or unhappiness—of our life depends upon it. But one would suppose that in these vacation rambles of ours, made for the recreation of our health and the delectation of our spirits, there would be no doubt on this head,—no doubt as to our taking due care that our amusement should be to our own liking, and that we so journeyed as to be able to enjoy our journeyings. But there is reason to fear that such enjoyment does not always result from the efforts made. We see, alas, too many of our countrymen struggling through the severe weeks of their annual holiday with much of the agony but with little of the patience of martyrs. We see them thwarted at every turn and cross because they are thwarted. We see them toiling as no money-reward would induce them to toil at home, and toiling with very little of that reward for which they are looking. We see them hot and dusty, ill at ease, out of their element, bored almost past their powers of endurance, so weary with work as to drag along their unhappy limbs in actual suffering, dreading what is to come, and looking back upon what they have accomplished as though to have done the thing, to have got their tour over and finished, was the only gratification of which they were susceptible. And with many tourists this final accomplishment of the imposed task is the only gratification which the task affords. To have been over the railroads of the Continent, to have touched at some of those towns whose names are known so widely, to have been told that such a summit was called by one name and such another summit by another name, to have crossed the mountains and heard the whistle of a steamer on an Italian lake,—to have done these things so that the past accomplishment of them may be garnered like a treasure, is very well;—but oh and alas, the doing of them!—the troubles, the cares, the doubts, the fears! Is it not almost a question whether it would not be better to live at home quietly and unambitiously, without the garnering of any treasure which cannot be garnered without so much discomfort and difficulty? But yet the tourists go. Though the difficulties are great, their ambition is greater. It does not do to confess that you have not seen an Alp or drunk German beer.

So much may be taken for granted. Whether we are capable of enjoying it or not, the tour has to be made. In all probability many tours have been made. Those who can be allowed to enjoy themselves quietly at home, or eat shrimps through their holiday pleasantly at Ramsgate, are becoming from year to year, not fewer in number, but lower down in the social scale: so that this imperative duty of travelling abroad,—and of doing so year after year,—becomes much extended, and embraces all of us who are considered anybody by those around us. Our wives feel that they owe it to ourselves to enforce from us the performance of so manifest a duty, even when from tenderness of heart they would fain spare us. And we, who are their husbands, cannot deny them when they put before us so plain a truth. Men there are bold enough to stay from church on Sundays, to dine at their clubs without leave, to light cigars in their own parlours, and to insist upon brandy-and-water before they go to bed; but where is the man who can tell his wife and daughters that it is quite unnecessary that they should go up the Rhine?

If this be so,—if the necessity for going be so great, and the power of enjoying the journey be so rare, it must be worth our while to inquire into the matter, with the object of seeing whether the evil may not be in some degree remedied. The necessity which presses upon the tourist is granted; but there may be a question whether the misery of those who suffer cannot be remedied. If we examine the travelling practices of those who do suffer, and see why it is that they do not enjoy their work, we may perhaps get a lesson that shall be serviceable to us.

The great trouble of those who travel and do not like it,—the overpowering parent grief,—is in the language. The unfortunate tourist cannot speak to those among whom he is going. This simply, without the composite additions to the fact which come to him from the state of his own mind upon the subject, would be a misfortune,—a want to be lamented. But the simple misfortune is light, indeed, in comparison with that to which it is increased by those composite additions of his own fabrication. The tourist in question can speak no word of German or Italian, but unfortunately he can speak a word or two of French, and hence comes all his trouble. Not to speak German or Italian is not disgraceful, but to be ignorant of French is, in his eyes, a disgrace. Shall he make his attempts and save himself by his little learning? or shall he remain mute and thus suggest the possibility of positive knowledge? Doubting between the two he vacillates, and can obtain neither the comparative safety of absolute dependence, nor the substantial power of responsible action. For the first fortnight he stumbles along with his broken words, making what effort is in his power; but it seems to himself that from day to day the phrases become more difficult rather than easier, and at last he gives himself up into the hands of some more advanced linguist, revenging himself upon his friends by a solemn and enduring melancholy, as though he were telling every one around him that, in spite of his incapacity to speak French, he had something within him surpassing show.

That this man is making a great mistake is certain enough, but it is a mistake to which he is driven by erroneous public utterances on the subject. It is not true, in fact, that he is in any way disgraced by his ignorance of French; but it is true that he has so been told by those who write and those who talk upon the matter. To speak French well is a great advantage and a charming grace. Not to speak it at all is a great disadvantage, but it is no disgrace. Circumstances with many have not given them opportunity of learning the language; and others have no aptitude for acquiring a foreign tongue. There is no disgrace in this. But there is very deep disgrace in the consciousness of deceit on the subject,—in the self-knowledge possessed by the unfortunate one that he desires to be supposed capable of doing that which he cannot do. It is from this that he becomes sore; and how terribly common are the instances of such soreness!

From year to year we see in our guide-books and volumes of travel the silly boastings which drive silly men and women into this difficulty. Those who inform us how we should travel continually speak to us as though German and Italian were known to most of us, and talking French was as common with us as eating and drinking. But to talk French well is not common to Englishmen; it is in truth a rare accomplishment. And then these informants, armed, let us hope, with true knowledge on their own parts, jeer most unmercifully at us poor tourists who venture to come abroad in our ignorance. We are ridiculed for our dumbness if we are dumb, and for our efforts at speech if we attempt to speak. And then we are talked at, rather than addressed. The accomplished informant who intends to guide us speaks always to some brother as accomplished as himself, and warns this learned brother against the ignorance of the masses. It is not very long since a distinguished contributor to a very distinguished newspaper advised his readers that an Englishman at Rome should never know another Englishman there; and this warning of Britons against other Britons on the Continent is so common that it has reached us all. It means nothing; or, at any rate, should be taken as meaning nothing. Not one amongst twenty of English men or English women who travel, can travel, or should attempt to travel, after the fashion which is intended to be prescribed by these counsellors. A few among us may so live abroad as to become conversant with the inner life of the people with whom they are dwelling,—to know their houses, their sons and their daughters; to see their habits, to talk with them, eat with them, and quarrel with them; but to do this is not and should not be the object of the vacation tourist; and if the vacation tourist cannot save himself from being made miserable by his guide-books and pretentious informants, because he is unable to do that which he never should have regarded as being within his power, he had certainly better remain at home.

To wander along the shores of lakes, to climb up mountains, to visit cities, to see pictures, and stand amidst the architecture of the old or of the new world, is very good, even though the man who does these things can speak no word out of his own language. To speak another language well is very good also, and to speak another language badly is much better than not to speak it at all. All that is required is that there should be no humbug, no pretence, no insincerity, either as regards self or others. Let him whose foreign vocabulary is very limited use it boldly as far as it will go; and let him acknowledge to himself that he is going to see the outside of things, and not the inside. It is not given to any of us to see the inside of many things. Why be discomforted because you cannot learn the mysteries of Italian life, seeing that in all probability you know nothing of the inner life of the man who lives next door to you at home? There is a whole world close to you which you have not inspected. What do you know of the thoughts and feelings of those who inhabit your own kitchen? But in seeing the outer world, which is open to your eye, there may be great joy, almost happiness,—if you will only look at it with sincerity.

There is another grievance, cognate with this grievance of language, which much troubles some tourists,—a grievance which indeed springs altogether from that lack of language. The money of these unlearned ones will not go so far with them as it would do if they could do their bargaining in French with a fluent tongue. The imperious guide-books have not failed to throw into the teeth of monolingual travellers their disadvantages in this respect, and to do all that lay in their power to add a further heavy misery on this head to the other miseries of tourists. No doubt my friend the Italian innkeeper would be more easily pressible—what we generally call more reasonable—in his financial arrangements if you could argue out the question of your bed and supper in good Tuscan; but in this matter, as in all others, you must pay for that which you have not got, and cut your coat according to your cloth. Are you going to be miserable because you, who have to pay your railway fares, cannot travel as cheaply as your friend who has a free ticket wherever he goes? A free ticket is a nice thing; but not having one, you must pay your fare.

But there are other sources of unhappiness, independent of those arising from language, which go far towards robbing the English tourist of the pleasure he has anticipated. He always attempts to do too much, and in his calculations as to space and time forgets that his body is human and that his powers of endurance are limited. With his Bradshaw in his hand and his map before him, he ignores the need of rest, and lays out for himself a scheme of travelling in which there is no leisure, no repose, no acknowledgment on his own part that even sleep is necessary for him. To do all that can be done for the money is the one great object which he has ever in view; to visit as many cities as may possibly be visited in the time, to have run the length of as many railways as can be brought within the compass of his short six weeks, to tick off the different places one after another on his list, as though it were a duty imperative upon him to see them all, and having seen them, to hurry on to new scenes,—this is his plan of action, and with such a plan of action is it possible that he should like his work? Must it not be a certain result of such travelling that the traveller will have but one source of comfort during his journey, and that that will spring from the blessed remembrance that his labours will have an end?

If I may venture to give two words of advice to those of my fellow-countrymen who travel frequently during their vacations, and who feel on self-examination that they have not hitherto in reality liked their tourings, in those two words I will advise them both to affect less and to perform less. What matters it who knows that you cannot speak two words of French together grammatically? All whom it in the least concerns probably do know it. Be content to speak your two words ungrammatically, or, if that be beyond you, be content not to speak them at all. The mountains and valleys will render themselves to you without French. The pictures on the walls will not twit you with your ignorance. Venus and Apollo could not come to you out of their marble, though they were as many-tongued as Mezzofanti; but they will come to you if you speak to them out of your own heart with such language as is at your ready disposal. But, above all things, take your time in discoursing with these works of nature and these works of art. To be able to be happy and at rest among the mountains is better than a capacity for talking French in saloons.

London: Printed by Smith, Elder and Co., Old Bailey, E.C.