membering that he will reap the reward of
diligence in satisfaction when he gets home. He may assure himself that
no lines that he can write can ever be more valuable than those in which
he hives his treasures of travel. If he turns away from the task, he
will have uneasy feelings connected with his journey as often as he
looks back upon it;--feelings of remorse for his idleness, and of regret
for irretrievable loss. If, on the other hand, he perseveres in the
daily duty, he will go forward each morning with a disburthened mind,
and will find, in future years, that he loves the very blots and
weather-stains on the pages which are so many remembrancers of his
satisfactory labours and profitable pleasures.

Besides the journal, the traveller should have a note-book,--always at
hand,--not to be pulled out before people's eyes, for the entry of facts
related, but to be used for securing the transient appearances which,
though revealing so much to an observing mind, cannot be recalled with
entire precision. In all the countries of the world, groups by the
wayside are the most eloquent of pictures. The traveller who lets
himself be whirled past them, unobservant or unrecording, loses more
than any devices of inquiry at his inn can repair. If he can sketch, he
should rarely allow a characteristic group of persons, or nook of
scenery, to escape his pencil. If he cannot use the pencil, a few
written words will do. Two lines may preserve for him an exemplification
which may be of great future value.--The farmers' wives of New England,
talking over the snake-fence at sunset, are in themselves an
illustration of many things: so is the stern Indian in his
blanket-cloak, standing on a mound on the prairie; so is the chamois
hunter on his pinnacle, and the pedestrian student in the valleys of the
Hartz, and the pine-cutters on the steeps of Norway, and the travelling
merchant on the dyke in Holland, and the vine-dressers in Alsace, and
the beggars in the streets of Spanish cities, and all the children of
all countries at their play. The traveller does not dream of passing
unnoticed the cross in the wilderness, beneath which some brother
pilgrim lies murdered; or the group of brigands seen in the shadow of
the wood; or a company of Sisters of Charity, going forth to their deeds
of mercy; or a pair of inquisitors, busy on the errands of the Holy
Office; or anything else which strongly appeals to his imagination or
his personal feelings.