1 REVOLUTION

      In the summer of 1790, William Wordsworth, then twenty years old and a commoner at St John’s College, Cambridge, together with Robert Jones, another Cambridge undergraduate, made a vacation walking tour across Europe. They set out from Calais on 14 July, the first anniversary of the fall of the Bastille. This was the climax of the week-long Fête de la Fédération, culminating in a tremendous spectacle in the capital, attended by 400,000 delegates from all over the country, and celebrated throughout France. The two undergraduates walked through towns and villages decorated with triumphal arcs and window-garlands; the whole nation seemed ‘mad with joy’.¹ Wordsworth was a self-confessedly stiff young man, proud and prickly, but even he found it hard to resist the intoxicating mood:

      …’twas a time when Europe was rejoiced,

      France standing on the top of golden hours,

      And human nature seeming born again.²

      The thoroughfares of France were crowded with fédérés returning home from the festivities in Paris. Wordsworth and his companion fell in with a ‘merry crowd’ of these; after supper on a riverbank they danced around the table, hand in hand with the celebrants:

      All hearts were open, every tongue was loud

      With amity and glee. We bore a name

      Honoured in France, the name of Englishmen,

      And hospitably did they give us hail

      As their forerunners in a glorious course;

      And round and round the Board they danced again.³

      At such a moment it was easy to assume that the Revolution had run its course, that a healthy France had purged itself, that monarch and people were united in a delightful new equilibrium. Had not the King sworn to uphold the decrees of the Assembly in front of a vast crowd at the Champ de Mars? Had he and his family not decamped from the magnificent Palace of Versailles to the Tuileries, in the very heart of Paris (albeit under duress)? Had he not appeared in public to greet the Mayor at the Hôtel de Ville, his hat adorned with the Revolutionary red-and-blue cockade?

      ‘It was a most interesting period to be in France,’ Wordsworth wrote to his sister from the shores of Lake Constance.⁴ But not that interesting: he and his friend Jones bypassed Paris, even though their route took them close to the capital, where all the most interesting events were happening. The Revolution was not their affair; they were headed for the Alps, then a sacred destination in the cult of the sublime. The young Englishmen joined in the Revolutionary festivities as guests, rather than participants. In his great autobiographical poem The Prelude, most of which was written a decade or more after the events described, Wordsworth admitted that

      … I looked upon these things

      As from a distance – heard, and saw, and felt,

      Was touched, but with no intimate concern –⁵

      (At this point a cautionary note is appropriate. On the one hand, The Prelude dramatises what Wordsworth called ‘spots in time’ – moments of special significance from his inner life. It is the principal source for the biography of his youth, particularly some obscure years of his young manhood for which the poem provides almost the only illumination. On the other hand, it cannot be wholly relied upon, and in at least some aspects is misleading. The emotional and psychological aspects of the poem may be more trustworthy than the merely factual and chronological – though perhaps not entirely so. In The Prelude, Wordsworth plots the growth of a poet’s mind’, from his infancy until he came into contact with Coleridge in his late twenties. But Wordsworth was writing in retrospect, trying to make sense of his past from the perspective of his mid-thirties. He had become a different man from the youth he was writing about. Not only was his memory fallible; there was a tendency in him, as in all of us, to manipulate the past in order to explain the present. Wordsworth’s biographers cannot avoid using The Prelude, but they need to do so cautiously, and to seek for confirmatory evidence elsewhere.)

The two undergraduates returned home in October for their final term at Cambridge, after trudging more than a thousand miles* through France, Switzerland, Italy, Germany and Belgium in just under three months (Wordsworth’s admiring sister Dorothy traced his path on the map). This was a poor man’s Grand Tour, directed towards natural rather than cultural wonders, and undertaken on foot rather than by coach. Walking holidays were then coming into vogue, particularly for undergraduates and young clergymen – though few undertook a journey as ambitious as this one. Many of Wordsworth’s Cambridge friends had thought the scheme mad and impractical, with so many difficulties as to render it impossible. Nevertheless, such tours were not completely unknown: two years before, William Frend and his old schoolmate Richard Tylden had trodden a similar route. Frend was a Cambridge Fellow, and it is possible that his example inspired Wordsworth. The poet William Lisle Bowles was another who had made a recent walking tour of the Continent. Wordsworth’s school friend Joshua Wilkinson would undertake two walking tours in Europe in the following three years, and in 1798 would publish The Wanderer, a book based on his experiences. But walking tours were still something new; indeed the Oxford English Dictionary credits Wordsworth, in speaking of this tour, as the first to use the word ‘pedestrian’ in its literal rather than its metaphorical sense. A few years later an anonymous reviewer in the Monthly Magazine noted approvingly the ‘increasing frequency of these pedestrian tours’. By 1815 the editor of the Bristol Journal could refer to ‘this age of Pedestrianism’.⁶

Most of these new walkers did not venture abroad. Boswell’s Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides, published in 1785, had helped to popularise the notion of internal tourism, exploring the wild and remote corners of the British Isles, until then generally assumed to be not worth going to see. Even before this, back in 1769, Thomas Gray had made a tour of the Lake District, and by the end of the century the Lakes had begun to attract tourists.* A succession of guidebooks to the regions of Britain appeared. Young men clad in sturdy boots and heavy coats strode up hills and along valleys, admiring landscapes previously unconsidered. Walking provided access to picturesque vistas otherwise inaccessible. Moreover, it was a form of escapism, disapproved of by the respectable. There was something intrinsically egalitarian – almost democratic – about this new habit. While the Grand Tour was available only to the very wealthy, walking tours, especially tours in Britain, could be made by anyone with the necessary leisure and modest funds to cover essential expenses. Such tours brought the middle-class walker into contact with the common people who shared the roads, while the rich rattled past in their coaches.† Dressed like tramps, the new walkers endured the same hardships and privations.

      There was camaraderie on the road, as Wordsworth and Jones had discovered. Towards the end of their journey they passed through another country in revolt; the Belgians, inspired by their French neighbours, had risen against their ruler, the Austrian Emperor.

      … a glorious time,

      A happy time that was. Triumphant looks

      Were then the common language of all eyes:

      As if awaked from sleep, the nations hailed

      Their great expectancy; the fife of war

      Was then a spirit-stirring sound indeed,