vidence that is nearer. It was in the "cool of the day" that the
Almighty is pictured as walking in the garden, but I have most often met
him on the road by night.

Several times I have walked down Staten Island and across New Jersey to
Princeton "after dark," the destination being a particularly attractive
feature of this walk. But I enjoy also the journeys that are made in
strange places where one knows neither the way nor the destination, except
from a map or the advice of signboard or kilometer posts (which one reads
by the flame of a match, or, where that is wanting, sometimes by following
the letters and figures on a post with one's fingers), or the information,
usually inaccurate, of some other wayfarer. Most of these journeys have
been made of a necessity that has prevented my making them by day, but I
have in every case been grateful afterward for the necessity. In this
country they have been usually among the mountains--the Green Mountains or
the White Mountains or the Catskills. But of all my night faring, a night
on the moors of Scotland is the most impressive and memorable, though
without incident. No mountain landscape is to me more awesome than the
moorlands by night, or more alluring than the moorlands by day when the
heather is in bloom. Perhaps this is only the ancestors speaking again.

But something besides ancestry must account for the others. Indeed, in
spite of it, I was drawn one night to Assisi, where St. Francis had lived.
Late in the evening I started on to Foligno in order to take a train in to
Rome for Easter morning. I followed a white road that wound around the
hills, through silent clusters of cottages tightly shut up with only a slit
of light visible now and then, meeting not a human being along the way save
three somber figures accompanying an ox cart, a man at the head of the oxen
and a man and a woman at the tail of the cart--a theme for Millet. (I asked
in broken Italian how far it was to Foligno, and the answer was, "Una
hora"--distance in time and not in miles.) Off in the night I could see the
lights of Perugia, and some time after midnight I began to see the lights
of Foligno--of Perugia and Foligno, where Raphael had wandered and painted.
The adventure of it all was that when I reached Foligno I found it was a
walled town, that the gate was shut, and that I had neither passport nor
intelligible speech. There is an interesting walking sequel to this
journey. I carried that night a