32 WINTER SUNSHINE 



ness, the emptiness, the plotting, the seeking rest 

 and finding none, that goes by in the carriages! 

 while your pedestrian is always cheerful, alert, re 

 freshed, with his heart in his hand and his hand 

 free to all. He looks down upon nobody; he is on 

 the common level. His pores are all open, his cir 

 culation is active, his digestion good. His heart is 

 not cold, nor his faculties asleep. He is the only 

 real traveler; he alone tastes the "gay, fresh senti 

 ment of the road. " He is not isolated, but one with 

 things, with the farms and industries on either 

 hand. The vital, universal currents play through 

 him. He knows the ground is alive; he feels the 

 pulses of the wind, and reads the mute language of 

 things. His sympathies are all aroused; his senses 

 are continually reporting messages to his mind. 

 Wind, frost, rain, heat, cold, are something to him. 

 He is not merely a spectator of the panorama of 

 nature, but a participator in it. He experiences 

 the country he passes through, tastes it, feels it, 

 '/. absorbs it ; the traveler in his fine carriage sees it 

 merely. This gives the fresh charm to that class 

 of books that may be called "Views Afoot," and to 

 the narratives of hunters, naturalists, exploring par 

 ties, etc. The walker does not need a large terri 

 tory. When you get into a railway car you want 

 a continent, the man in his carriage requires a town 

 ship; but a walker like Thoreau finds as much and 

 more along the shores of Walden Pond. The for 

 mer, as it were, has merely time to glance at the 

 headings of the chapters, while the latter need not 



