BEING one autumn at a friend’s house in the country (which was indeed a most delicious retreat) I took a walk one moonlight night into the park, where all my past visions came fresh into my head again, and I was well enough pleased with the meditation. At length the humour took me to leave the path, and go further into the wood: what impulse carried me to this, I know not. Whether I was moved by my good angel, or some higher power, but so it was that in half a quarter of an hour, I found myself a great way from home, and in a place where ’twas no longer night; with the pleasantest prospect round about me that ever I saw since I was born. The air was calm and temperate; and it was no small advantage to the beauty of the place, that it was both innocent and silent. On the one hand, I was entertained with the murmurs of crystal rivulets; on the other, with the whispering of the trees; the birds singing all the while either in emulation, or requital of the other harmonies. And now, to show the instability of our affections and desires, I was grown weary even of tranquillity itself, and in this most agreeable solitude began to long for company.
When in the very instant (to my great wonder) I discovered two paths, issuing from one and the same beginning but dividing themselves forwards, more and more, by degrees, as if they liked not one another’s company. That on the right hand was narrow, almost beyond imagination; and being very little frequented, it was so overgrown with thorns and brambles, and so stony withal, that a man had all the trouble in the world to get into’t. One might see, however, the prints and marks of several passengers that had rubbed through, though with exceeding difficulty; for they had left pieces of heads, arms, legs, feet, and many of them their whole skins behind them. Some we saw yet upon the way, pressing forward, without ever so much as looking back; and these were all of them pale-faced, lean, thin, and miserably mortified. There was no passing for horsemen; and I was told that St. Paul himself left his horse, when he went into’t. And indeed, there was not the footing of any beast to be seen. Neither horse nor mule, nor the track of any coach or chariot. Nor could I learn that any had passed that way in the memory of man. While I was bethinking myself of what I had seen, I spied at length a beggar that was resting himself a little to take breath; and I asked him what inns or lodgings they had upon that road. His answer was that there was no stopping there, till they came to their journey’s end. “For this,” said he, “is the way to paradise, and what should they do with inns or taverns, where there are so few passengers? Do not you know that in the course of nature, to die is to be born, to live is to travel; and the world is but a great inn, after which, it is but one stage either to pain or glory?” And with these words he marched forward, and bade me God-b’w’ye, telling me withal that it was time lost to linger in the way of virtue, and not safe to entertain such dialogues as tend rather to curiosity than instruction. And so he pursued his journey, stumbling, tearing his flesh, and sighing, and groaning at every step; and weeping as if he thought to soften the stones with his tears. This is no way for me, thought I to myself; and no company neither; for they are a sort of beggarly, morose people, and will never agree with my humour. So I drew back and struck off into the left-hand way.