We feel the sharp settle of the springs at some curiously
twisted corner; after a steep ascent, the fresh air dances in our
faces as we rattle precipitately down the other side, and we find it
difficult to avoid attributing something headlong, a sort of ABANDON,
to the road itself.
The mere winding of the path is enough to enliven a long day's walk
in even a commonplace or dreary country-side. Something that we have
seen from miles back, upon an eminence, is so long hid from us, as we
wander through folded valleys or among woods, that our expectation of
seeing it again is sharpened into a violent appetite, and as we draw
nearer we impatiently quicken our steps and turn every corner with a
beating heart. It is through these prolongations of expectancy, this
succession of one hope to another, that we live out long seasons of
pleasure in a few hours' walk. It is in following these capricious
sinuosities that we learn, only bit by bit and through one coquettish
reticence after another, much as we learn the heart of a friend, the
whole loveliness of the country. This disposition always preserves
something new to be seen, and takes us, like a careful cicerone, to
many different points of distant view before it allows us finally to
approach the hoped-for destination.
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