THE EXHILAKATIONS OF THE ROAD 26 



trian in the public road, pioviding no escape foi 

 him but in the ditch or up the bank, is in a fair 

 way to far more serious degeneracy. 



Shakespeare makes the chief qualification of the 

 walker a merry heart: — 



"Jog on, jog on, the footpath yny, 

 And merrily hent the stile-a; 

 A merry heart goes all the day, 

 Your sad tires in a mile-a." 



The human body is a steed that goes freest and 

 longest under a light rider, and the lightest of all 

 riders is a cheerful heart. Your sad, or morose, or 

 embittered, or preoccupied heart settles heavily into 

 the saddle, and the poor beast, the body, breaks 

 down the first mile. Indeed, the heaviest thing in 

 the world is a heavy heart. Kext to that, the most 

 burdensome to the walker is a heart not in perfect 

 sympathy and accord with the body, — a reluctant 

 or unwilling heart. The horse and rider must not 

 only both be willing to go the same way, but the 

 rider must lead the way and infuse his own light- 

 ness and eagerness into the steed. Herein is no 

 doubt our trouble, and one reason of the decay of 

 the noble art in this country. We are unwilling 

 walkers. We are not innocent and simple-hearted 

 enough to enjoy a walk. We have fallen from that 

 state of grace which capacity to enjoy a walk im- 

 plies. It cannot be said that as a people we are so 

 positively sad, or morose, or melancholic as that we 

 are vacant of that sportiveness and surplusage of 

 animal spirits that characterized our ancestors, and 



