Oneofthepleasantestthingsintheworldisgoingajourney;butIliketogobymyself.Icanenjoysocietyinaroom;butoutofdoors,natureiscompanyenoughforme.Iamthenneverlessalonethanwhenalone.“Thefieldshisstudy,naturewashisbook.”Icannotseethewitofwalkingandtalkingatthesametime.WhenIaminthecountry,Iwishtovegetatelikethecountry.Iamnotforcriticisinghedgerowsandblackcattle.Igooutoftowninordertoforgetthetownandallthatitisinit.Therearethosewhoforthispurposegotowatering-places,andcarrythemetropoliswiththem.Ilikemoreelbow-room,andfewerincumbrances.Ilikesolitude,whenIgivemyselfuptoit,forthesakeofsolitude;nordoIaskfor“—afriendinmyretreat,WhomImaywhispersolitudeissweet.”Thesoulofajourneyisliberty,perfectliberty,tothink,feel,dojustasonepleases.Wegoajourneychieflytobefreeofallimpedimentsandofallinconveniences;toleaveourselvesbehind,muchmoretogetridofothers.ItisbecauseIwantalittlebreathing-spacetomuseonindifferentmatters,whereContemplation“Mayplumeherfeathersandletgrowherwings,thatinthevariousbustleofresortWerealltooruffled,andsometimesimpair’d,”thatIabsentmyselffromthetownforawhile,withoutfeelingatalossthemomentIamleftbymyself.Insteadofafriendinapost-chaiseorinaTilbury,toexchangegoodthingswithandvarythesamestaletopicsoveragain,foronceletmehaveatrucewithimpertinence.Givemetheclearblueskyovermyhead,andthegreenturfbeneathmyfeet,awindingroadbeforeme,andathreehours’marchtodinner—andthentothinking!ItishardifIcannotstartsomegameontheseloneheaths.Ilaugh,Irun,Ileap,Isingforjoy.Fromthepointofyonderrollingcloud,Iplungeintomypastbeing,andrevelthere,asthesun-burntIndianplungesheadlongintothewavethatwaftshimtohisnativeshore.Thenlong-forgottenthings,like“sunkenwrackandsumlesstreasuries,”burstuponmyeagersight,andIbegintofeel,think,andbemyselfagain.Insteadofanawkwardsilence,brokenbyattemptsatwitordullcommon-places,mineisthatundisturbedsilenceoftheheartwhichaloneisperfecteloquence.Noonelikespuns,alliterations,antitheses,arguments,andanalysisbetterthanIdo;butIsometimeshadratherbewithoutthem.“Leave,oh,leavemetomyrepose!”Ihavejustnowotherbusinessinhand,whichwouldseemidletoyou,butiswithme“verystuffoftheconscience.”Isnotthiswildrosesweetwithoutacomment?Doesnotthisdaisyleaptomyheartsetinitsemerald?YetifIweretoexplaintoyouthecircumstance that has so endeared it to me, you
would only smile. Had I not better then keep it to myself, and let it serve me to brood over, from here to yonder craggy point, and from
thence onward to the far-distant horizon? I should be but bad company all that way, and therefore prefer being alone. I have heard it said
that you may, when the moody fit comes on, walk or ride on by yourself, and indulge your reveries. But this looks like a breach of
manners, a neglect of others, and you are thinking all the time that you ought to rejoin your party. “Out upon such half -faced fellowship,”
say I. I like to be either entirely to myself, or entirely at the disposal of others; to talk or be silent, to walk or sit st ill, to be sociable or
solitary. I was pleased with an observation of Mr. Cobbett’s that “he thought it a bad French custom to drink our wine with our meals, and
that an Englishman ought to do only one thing at a time.” so I cannot talk and think, or indulge in melancholy musing and lively
conversation by fits and starts. “Let me have a companion of my way,” says Sterne, “were it but to remark how the shadows lengthen as
the sun declines.” It is beautifully said：but in my opinion this continual comparing of notes interferes with the involuntary impression of
things upon the mind, and hurts the sentiment. If you only hint what you feel in a kind of dumb show, it is insipid: if you have to explain it,
it is making toil of a pleasure. You cannot read the book of nature, without being perpetually put to the trouble of translating it for the
benefit of others. I am for the synthetical method on a journey, in preference to the analytical. I am content to lay in a st ock of ideas then,
and to examine and anatomize them afterwards. I want to see my vague notions float like the down of the thistle before the breeze, and
not to have them entangled in the briars and thorns of controversy. For once, I like to have it all my own way; and this is impossible
