威廉·哈兹里特/William Hazlitt
One of the pleasantest things in the world is going a journey;but I like to go by myself.I can enjoy society in a room;but out of doors,n ature is company enough for me.I am then never less alone than when alo ne.
"The fields his study,nature was his book."
I cannot see the wit of walking and talking at the same time.When I am in the country I wish to vegetate like the country.I am not for crit icizing hedge-rows and black cattle.I go out of town in order to forget the town and all that is in it.There are those who for this purpose go to watering-places,and carry the metropolis with them.I like more elbo wroom and fewer incumbrance.I like solitude,when I give myself up to it,for the sake of solitude;nor do I ask for "a friend in my retreat,Whom I may whisper solitude is sweet."
The soul of a journey is liberty,perfect liberty,to think,feel,d o,just as one pleases.We go a journey chiefly to be free of all impedi ments 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 ru ffled,and sometimes impaired," 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 wi th,and vary the same stale topics over again,for once let me have a tr uce with impertinence.Give me the clear 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 sunless treasuries," burst upon my eager sight,and I begin to feel,think,and be myself again.Instead of an awkward silence,broken by att empts at wit or dull common-places mine is that undisturbed silence of t he heart which alone is prefect eloquence.No one likes puns,alliterati ons,antitheses,argument,and analysis better than I do;but I sometime s 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 wi th me "very stuff of the conscience." Is not this wild rose sweet withou t a comment?Does not this daisy leap to my heart set in its coat of eme rald?Yet if I were to explain to you the circumstance that has so endea red it to me,you would only smile.Had I not better then keep it to mys elf,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 yours elf,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 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 Englis hman 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 star ts.