The soul of a journey is liberty，perfect liberty，to think，feel，do，just as one pleases.We go a journey chiefly to be free of all impediments and of all inconveniences;to leave ourselves behind，much more to get rid of others.It is because I want a little breathing-space to muse on indifferent matters，where Contemplation“May plume her feathers and let grow her wings，that in the various bustle of resort were all too ruffled，and sometimes impair’d，”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 clear blue sky over my head，and the green turfbeneath my feet，a winding road before me，and three hours’march to dinnerand 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 sunless 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 mine is that undisturbed silence of the heart which alone is prefect 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 Does not this daisy leap to my heart set in its coat of emerald Yet if I were to explain to you the circumstance 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 receives.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 still，to be sociable or solitary.I was pleased withan 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 a 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 this synthetical method on a journey in preference to the analytical.I am content to lay in a stock of ideas then，and to examine and anatomise 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 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 color 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 carving after it，and a dissatisfaction which pursuesyou on the way，and in the end probably produces ill-humor.Now I never quarrel with myself，and take all my own conclusions for granted till I find it necessary to defend then against objections.