32 WINTER SUKSHINE 



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 nohody; 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, hut 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 



