: if a fit of indolence overtakes him, he can linger for a day or a
week in any spot that pleases him. He is not whirled past a beautiful
view almost before he has seen it. He is not tantalized by the idea that
from this or that point he could see something still finer, if he could
but reach it. He can reach almost every point his wishes wander to. The
pleasure is indescribable of saying to one's self, "I will go
there,"--"I will rest yonder,"--and forthwith accomplishing it. He can
sit on a rock in the midst of a rushing stream as often in a day as he
likes. He can hunt a waterfall by its sound; a sound which the
carriage-wheels prevent other travellers from hearing. He can follow out
any tempting glade in any wood. There is no cushion of moss at the foot
of an old tree that he may not sit down on if he pleases. He can read
for an hour without fear of passing by something unnoticed while his
eyes are fixed upon his book. His food is welcome, be its quality what
it may, while he eats it under the alders in some recess of a brook. He
is secure of his sleep, be his chamber ever so sordid; and when his
waking eyes rest upon his knapsack, his heart leaps with pleasure as he
remembers where he is, and what a day is before him. Even the weather
seems to be of less consequence to the pedestrian than to other
travellers. A pedestrian journey presupposes abundance of time, so that
the traveller can rest in villages on rainy days, and in the shade of a
wood during the hours when the sun is too powerful. And if he prefers
not waiting for the rain, it is not the evil to him that it would be in
cities and in the pursuit of business. The only evil of rain that I know
of, to healthy persons in exercise, is that it spoils the clothes; and
the clothes of a pedestrian traveller are not usually of a spoilable
quality. Rain does not deform the face of things everywhere as it does
in a city. It adds a new aspect of beauty occasionally to a wood, to
mountains, to lake and ocean scenery. I remember a hale, cheerful
pedestrian tourist whom we met frequently among the White Mountains of
New Hampshire, and whom we remarked as being always the briskest of the
company at the hotel table in the evening, and the merriest at
breakfast. He had the best of it one day, when we passed him in
Franconia Defile, after a heavy rain had set in. We were packed in a
waggon which seemed likely to fill with water before we got to our
destination; and miserable enou