It begins with wearing away
the soles of the shoes, and making the feet sore, and erelong it
will wear a man clean up, after making his heart sore into the
bargain.
I have observed that the after-life of those who have
travelled much is very pathetic. True and sincere travelling is
no pastime, but it is as serious as the grave, or any part of the
human journey, and it requires a long probation to be broken into
it. I do not speak of those that travel sitting, the sedentary
travellers whose legs hang dangling the while, mere idle symbols
of the fact, any more than when we speak of sitting hens we mean
those that sit standing, but I mean those to whom travelling is
life for the legs, and death too, at last. The traveller must be
born again on the road, and earn a passport from the elements,
the principal powers that be for him. He shall experience at
last that old threat of his mother fulfilled, that he shall be
skinned alive. His sores shall gradually deepen themselves that
they may heal inwardly, while he gives no rest to the sole of his
foot, and at night weariness must be his pillow, that so he may
acquire experience against his rainy days. - So was it with us.
Sometimes we lodged at an inn in the woods, where trout-fishers
from distant cities had arrived before us, and where, to our
astonishment, the settlers dropped in at nightfall to have a chat
and hear the news, though there was but one road, and no other
house was visible, - as if they had come out of the earth.
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