‘‘Here be woods as green As any，air likewise as fresh and sweet As when smooth zephyrs plays on the fleet Face of the curled streams，with flowers as many As the young spring gives，and as choice as any； Here be all new delights，cool streams and wells， Arbours overgrown with woodbine，caves and dells； Choose where thou wilt，whilst I sit by and sing， Or gather rushes to make many a ring， For thy long fingers；tell thee tales of love， How the pale Phoebe，hunting in a grove， First saw the boy Endymion，from whose eyes She took eternal fn"e that never dies； How she conveyed him softly in a sleep， His temples bound with poppy，tO the steep Head of old Latmos，where she stoops each night， Gilding the mountain with her brother’S light， To kiss her sweetest．’’ Had 1 words and images at command like these，1 would attempt to wake the thoughts that lie slumbering on golden ridges in the evening clouds；but at the sight of nature my fancy，poor as it is，droops and closes up its leaves，like flowers at sunset．I can make nothing out on the spo卜一I must have time to collect myself．
In general，a good thing spoiIs out—of-door prospects；it should be reserved for Table-talk，Lamb is for this reason，I take in，the worst company in the world out of doors；because he is best within．I grant，there is one subject on which it is pleasant to talk on a journey；and that is，what one shall have for supper when we get to our inn at night．The open air improves this sort of conversation or friendly altercation，by setting a keener edge on appetite．Every mile of the road heightens the flavour of the viands we expect at the end of it．How fine it is to enter some old town，walled and turreted，just at approach of night-fall，or to come to some straggling village，with the lights streaming through the surrounding gloom；and then，after inquiring for the best entertainment that the place affords，to“take one’S ease at one’S ian”!These eventful moments in our lives’history are too precious．too full of solid，heart-felt happiness to be frittered and dribbled away in imperfect sympathy．1 would have them all to myself,and drain them to the last drop：they will do to talk of or to write about afterwards．What a delicate speculation it is，after drinking whole goblets of tea．“The cups that cheer，but not inebriate，”and letting the fumes ascend into the brain。to sit considering what we shall have for supper-eggs and a rasher，a rabbit smothered in onions，or an excellent veal—cutlet!Sancho in such a situation once fixed upon cow-heel；and his choice，though he could not help it，is not to be disparaged．Then，in the intervals of pictured scenery and Shandean contemplation，to catch the preparation and the stir in the kitchen(getting ready for the gentleman in the parlour)．Procul，O procul este profani!These hours are sacred to silence and to musing，tO be treasured up in the memory，and to feed the source of smiling thoughts hereafter．1 would not waste them in idle talk；or if I must have the integrity of fancy broken in upon，1 would rather it were by a stranger than a friend．A stranger takes his hue and character from the time and place；he iS a part of the furniture and costume of an ian．If he iS a Quaker，or from the West Riding of Yorkshire，SO much the better．I do not even try to sympathize with him，and he breaks no squares．(How Ilove to see the camps of the gypsies，and to sigh my soul into that sort oflife．If I express this feeling to another．he may qualify and spoil it with some objection．)I associate nothing with my travelling companion but present objects and passing events．In his ignorance of me and my affairs，I in a manner forget myself．But a friend reminds one of other things，rips up old grievances，and destroys the abstraction of the scene．He comesin ungraciously between US and our imaginary character．Something is dropped in the course of conversation that gives a hint of your profession and pursuits；or from having some one with you，that knows the less sublime portions of your history，it seems that other people do．You areno longer a citizen of the world；but your“unhoused free condition isput into circumscription and confine．’’The incognito of an inn is one ofits striking privileges“lord of oneself,uncumbered with a name．’’Oh!it is great to shake 0ff the trammels of the world and of public 0DiniOn—to lose our importunate，tormenting，everlasting personal identity in the elements of nature，and become the creature of the moment，clear of a11ties—tO hold to the universe only by a dish of sweetbreads．and to owenothing but the score of the evening--and no longer seeking for applauseand meeting with contempt，tO be known by no other title than theGentleman in the parlour!One may take one’S choice of all charactersin this romantic state of uncertainty as to one’S real pretensions，andbecome indefinitely respectable and negatively right-worshipful．Webaffle prejudice and disappoint conjecture；and from begin SO tO others，begin to be objects of curiosity and wonder even to ourselves．We are no more those hackneyed common-places that we appear in the world；aninn restores US to the level of nature，and quits scores with society!
