42 THE EXHILARATIONS OF THE ROAD. 



pedestrian habits. The English grandee is not con- 

 fined to his carriage ; but if the American aristocrat 

 leaves his, he is ruined. Oh, the weariness, the emp- 

 tiness, the plotting, the seeking rest and finding 

 none, that goes by in the carriages ! while your pe- 

 destrian is always cheerful, alert, refreshed, 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 circulation is active, his 

 digestion good. His heart is not cold, nor his facul- 

 ties asleep. He is the only real traveler ; he alone 

 tastes the " gay, fresh sentiment of the road." He is 

 not isolated, but one with things, with the farms and 

 industries on either hand. The vital, universal cur- 

 rents 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 mes- 

 sages 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, explor- 

 ing parties, etc. The walker does not need a large 

 territory. When you get into a railway car you 

 want a continent, the man in his carriage requires a 

 township ; but a walker like Thoreau finds as muck 



