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 empti- 

 ness, the plotting, the seeking rest and rinding none, 

 that goes by in the carriages ! while your pedestrian 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 faculties asleep. He is 

 the only real traveller; 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 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 partici- 

 pator in it. He experiences the country he passes 

 through — tastes it, feels it, absorbs it ; the traveller 

 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, nat- 

 uralists, exploring 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 re- 

 quires a township ; but a walker like Thoreau finds as 



