During the first day or so of any tour there are moments of bitterness， when the traveller feels more than coldly towards his knapsack， when he is half in a mind to throw it bodily over the hedge and， like Christian on a similar occasion， “give three leaps and go on singing.” And yet it soon acquires a property of easiness. It becomes magnetic； the spirit of the journey enters into it. And no sooner have you passed the straps over your shoulder than the lees of sleep are cleared from you， you pull yourself together with a shake， and fall at once into your stride. And surely， of all possible moods， this， in which a man takes the road， is the best. Of course， if he will keep thinking of his anxieties， if he will open the merchant Abudah’ s chest and walk arm-in-arm with the hag — why， wherever he is， and whether he walks fast or slow， the chances are that he will not be happy. And so much the more shame to himself！ There are perhaps thirty men setting forth at that same hour， and I would lay a large wager there is not another dull face among the thirty. It would be a fine thing to follow， in a coat of darkness， one after another of these wayfarers， some summer morning， for the first few miles upon the road. This one， who walks fast， with a keen look in his eyes， is all concentrated on his own mind； he is up at his loom， weaving and weaving， to set the landscape to words. This one peers about， as he goes， among the grasses； he waits by the canal to watch the dragonflies； he leans on the gate of the pasture， and cannot look enough upon the complacent kine. And here comes another， talking， laughing， and gesticulating to himself. His face changes from time to time， as indignation flashes from his eyes or anger clouds his forehead. He is composing articles， delivering orations， and conducting the most impassioned interviews， by the way. A little farther on， and it is as like as not he will begin to sing. And well for him， supposing him to be no great master in that art， if he stumbles across no stolid peasant at a corner； for on such an occasion， I scarcely know which is the more troubled， or whether it is worse to suffer the confusion of your troubadour， or the unfeigned alarm of your clown. A sedentary population， accustomed， besides， to the strange mechanical bearing of the common tramp， can in no wise explain to itself the gaiety of these passersby. I knew one man who was arrested as a runaway lunatic， because although a full-grown person with a red beard， he skipped as he went like a child. And you would be astonished if I were to tell you all the grave and learned heads who have confessed to me that， when on walking tours， they sang — and sang very ill — and had a pair of red ears when， as described above， the inauspicious peasant plumped into their arms from round a corner.