Among your books and your lectures, you must have observed that there
are several well-defined and widely distinct kinds of traveller. One is
the professional tourist, who formally and statedly "sets out," in his
own deliberate way, packed, marked, and paid through; he is shipped
like preserved meats, hermetically sealed to foreign impressions, and
warranted to keep in any climate,--the same snug, well-arranged
"commercial traveller" who went abroad for materials, for which you are
to pay; and when he has laid in the necessary stock,--the identical
stock as per original advices,--he comes back again, and that is
all,--the very same as to himself and his baggage, except that the
latter is heavier by the addition of a corpulent carpet-bag bloated
with facts and figures, the aspect of the country, the dimensions of
monuments, the customs of the people, their productions and
manufactures; he might as well have done his tour around his own
library, with a copy of Bayard Taylor's Cyclopaedia of Travel, and an
assortment of stereoscopic views, for all the freshness of impression
or originality of narrative you'll get from him,--from whom preserve
us! Give us, rather, that truer traveller who goes by the
accommodation-train of Whim, and whom, in the language of conductors,
you may take up or put down anywhere, because he is no "dead-head," nor
"ticketed through.
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