That I absent myself from the town for a while，without feeling at a loss the moment I am left by myself．Instead of a friend in a post—chaise or in a Tilbury，to exchange good things with，and vary the same stale topics over again，for once let me have a truce with impertinence．Give me the blue sky over my head，and the green turf beneath my feet，a winding road before me，and three hours’ march to dinner-and then to thinking!It iS hard if I cannot start some game on these lone heaths．I laugh，I run，I leap，I sing for joy．From the point of yonder rolling cloud I plunge into my past being，and revel there，as the SUN—burnt Indian plunges headlong into the wave that wafts him to his native shore．Then long—forgotten things。like“sunken wrack and sumless treasuries，’’burst upon my eager sight，and I begin to feel，think，and be myself again．Instead of an awkward silence，broken by attempts at wit or dull common-places is that undisturbed silence of the heart which alone is perfect eloquence．No one likes puns，alliterations，antitheses，argument，and analysis better than I do；but I sometimes had rather be without them． “Leave，oh，leave me to my repose!”I have just now other business in hand，which would seem idle to you，but is with me“very stuff of the conscience．’’ Is not this wild rose sweet without a comment?Doesnot this daisy leap to my heart set in its coat of emerald?Yet if l were to；explain to you the circumstance that has SO endeared it to me，you wouldonly smile．Had I not better then keep it to myself,and let it serve me tobrood over，from here to yonder craggy point，and from thence onwardtO the for—distant horizon?I should be but bad company all that way，and therefore prefer being alone．I have heard it said that you may，whenthe moody fit comes on，walk or ride on by yourself,and your reveries．But this looks like a breach of manners，a neglect of others，and you arethinking all the time that you ought to rejoin your party．“Out uponsuch 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 sitstill，tO be sociable or solitary．1 was pleased with an observation of Mr．Cobbett’S，that he thought“it a bad French custom to drink our winewith our meals，and that an Englishman ought to do only one thing at atime．”So I cannot talk and think，or indulge in melancholy musing andlively conversation by fits and starts．
“Let me have a companion of my way，”says Sterne，“wereit but to remark how the shadows lengthen as the sun declines．”It iSbeautifully said；but，in my opinion，this continual comparing of notesinterferes with the involuntary impression of things upon the mind，andhuns the sentiment．If you only hint what you feel in a kind of dumbshow，it is insipid；if you have to explain it，it is making a toil of apleasure．You cannot read the book of nature wi thout being perpetuallyput to the trouble of translating it for the benefit of others．I am for thissynthetical method on a journey in preference to the analytical．I amcontent to lay in a stock of ideas then，and to examine and anatomisethem afterwards．1 want to see my vague notions；float like the down ofthe thistle before the breeze，and not to have them entangled in the briarsand thorns of controversy．For once，I like tO have it all my own way；1d this impossible unless you are alone，or in such company as I do not covet．I have no objection tO argue a point with any one for twenty miles of measured road，but not for pleasure．If you remark the scent of a bean—field crossing the road，perhaps your fellow-traveller has no smell．If you point to a distant object，perhaps he is shortsighted，and has to take out his glass to look at it．There is a feeling in the air，a tone in the colour of a cloud．which hits your fancy，but the effect of which you are unable to account for．There is then no sympathy，but an uneasy craving after it，and a dissatisfaction which pursues you on the way，and in the end probably produces ill—humour．Now I never quarrel with myself，and take all my OWn conclusions for granted till I find it necessary to defend them against objections．
It is not merely that you may not be of accord on the objects and circumstances that present themselves before you--these may recall a number of oNects，and lead tO associations too delicate and refined to be possibly communicated to others．Yet these I love to cherish，and sometimes still fondly clutch them，when I can escape from the throng to do SO．To give way to our feeling before company seems extravagance or affectation；and on the other hand，to have to unravel this mystery of our being at every turn，and to make others take an equal interest in it(otherwise the end is not answered)，is a task to which few are competent．We must“give it an understanding，but no tongue．’’My old friend Coleridge，however，could do both．He could go on in the most delightful explanatory way over hill and dale a summer’S day，and convert a landscape into a didactic poem or a Pindaric ode．“He talked far above singing．’’If I could clothe my ideas in sounding and flowing words．I might perhaps wish tO have some one with me to the swelling theme；or I could be more content，were it possible for me still tO bear his echoing voice in the woods of All—Fox～den．They had“that finemadness in them which our first poets had”；and if they could have beencaught by some rare instrument，would have breathed such strains as thefollowing：
