both by sea and land, and at once removed almost entirely these and other hinderances.

So then THE PREDESTRIAN is a professional man; of a somewhat liberal education; of the middling ranks of life, and of a limited income; and withal, not only from necessity, but from choice, he aims at economy.

Gentle reader, you are right in your sagacity. The Pedestrian is, moreover, described in his passport as being tall and somewhat gaunt, with stout limbs, and strong bones rather loosely jointed, but clothed with sinews, tough, and bellied like a carrier's whip. "His nose is said to be ordinary;" and "the colour of his hair" is after his own fancy, for he bought it. For a foot or two downward from the broad straw brimmer there is a lounging sort of stoop. He has a walk that is swaggering rather, and withal far more enduring than rapid. The Pedestrian does not spring as if upon wires, but his motion is diligent and docile. In his heavy step he imitates not the prancing and pawing of the ladies' Arabian, but the untiring speed and tame composure of the elephant. He walks a thousand miles, and his feet neither blister nor bruise,

because he bathes them daily in cold water, and he

has his change of worsted socks every morning, and above all, because he wears a pair of very strong thick soled old shoes, well softened, and filled throughout with hob nails, and ironed on the heel and toe like the hoof of a cuddy. Foul day and fair day are almost the same to the Pedestrian, for he has his umbrella under his arm, and he bears a light Mackintosh cloak strapped upon the top of his knapsack; and moreover, he is rigged in a plain traveller's dress, fitted alike to endure every alternation, whether of wet, of heat, or of cold. His soldier's knapsack is well strapped round his shoulders, and although at first it looks large, and feels heavy, yet in two or three days it becomes to his accustomed eye and accumulated strength a thing of little or no moment. This knapsack contains a complete change of apparel of a rather more gentlemanly-like cut and cast, coat, waistcoat, and trowsers, a finer pair of shoes, with linens, flannels, and worsted socks, a portable dressing-case, a small piece of soap; and in fact, every article requisite to a gentleman's comfort. The Pedestrian being a hardy sort of fellow, has withal a tin for cooking, and containing his meat when cooked; but on these points he is utterly indifferent, unless it be to regulate the style of his living according to the standard of his

finances. Ever hungry, healthy, and happy, with delight he can seat himself on the bench in front of the gasthof, with a crust of brown bread in the one hand, and a crystal jugful of sweet milk or beer in the other. Such is the full length portrait of the author, with one feature more. Should the laundry maid have broken tryst with him and his changes, he may be seen of a forenoon (for there is a dash of the eccentric about him after all) with a wet handkerchief over his hat, and a pair of worsted socks slung to dry stride-legs over the shank of his umbrella. He has too, a hunter's flask hung round his shoulders by a green cord, and it is filled every morning,—but mark, it is only with wine, which is mixed with water.

And now, as to the inward furnishings and general habits of the walking gentleman. In his dispositions he is desirous to be kind and contented in the cultivation of that cool philosophy, which makes not the worst but the very best of every thing. He knowingly gives offence to nobody, and he takes offence at nothing short of an insult, which he never receives without trying to give a finisher in return. The Pedestrian is a man of so many resources that he sticks at nothing in the way of difficulties; in the prime of life, and pre-eminently active alike in body

and in mind, once started in a trip he follows his object with fire, force, and fortitude, till the sentiment be satisfied for the time. Nay, in these matters of travelling enterprise, his determination is so dogged, as to approach to an obstinate indifference as to whatever of weal or woe may befall him, short of high-way robbery, or a broken leg. When abroad, he makes it a point, as much as may be, to avoid any thing like the continued society of his countrymen. Knowing well, that if he does not, he may travel the whole of Germany, and yet never be out of England. So extremely particular is he on this point, that if he happens to be seen by half a dozen of his countrymen, speeding it along on a path so narrow that he cannot diverge, rather than be entangled in their company, and thus become harnessed to the customs he meant to leave at home, he manages to escape the annoyance, as if by putting on an invisible coat. But the German, whether he be the peasant, or the citizen, the artizan, or the aristocrat, he delights to make his companion, to talk and to walk with him from morning till night, and to pick from him all the local and legendary information he can. Nay, while others, lolling in their own carriages, behold the natives from afar, and judge of the outward forms of nature alone, the

Pedestrian delights to live among the people, to witness their fireside occupations, and to become in rustic reality one of themselves, that he may learn their vernacular tongue, study their temper, and mark their manners. He is passionately fond of ravines, and precipices, the wild and romantic pass, the tremendous Alp, and all that is sublime in natural scenery. He therefore prefers the bye-ways to the high ways, the glade, the gorge, or the glen, to the beaten military road or broad tracts, through which so many Englishmen rattle every summer in their close carriages. When he finds an opening in the thick interminable forest, he dives into it at once with his compass, as his solitary guide, and there, in the depth of it, he would rather eat his simple meal with nature, and nature only around him, to the song of the nightingale, than partake of a table d'hote dinner, with its mountains of beef, mutton, fish, venison, fruits, and pastries, with the music of a whole band, rendered still more melodious by the report of corks, and the clatter of dishes. He prefers the remote inn, with its primitive hospitality, the Alpine wirtshaus, or the Bohemian gasthof, to the gaudy glittering hotels, with all the pomp and parade of kellners and kellnerines, in which there is nothing whatever that is national. He prefers the