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 objects，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 so clothe my ideas in sounding and flowing words，I might perhaps wish to have some one with me to admire the swelling theme；or I could be more content，were it possible for me still to hear his echoing voice in the woods of All-Fox-den.They had“that fine madness in them which our first poets had”；and if they could have been caught by some rare instrument，would have breathed such stains as the following：“Here be woods as green As any，air likewise as fresh and sweet As when smooth Zephyrus 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 stream and wells，Arbours o’ergrown with woodbine，caves and dells；Choose where thou wilt，whilst I sit by and sing，Or gather rushes to make many a ring，For the 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 fire that never dies；How she convey’d 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.”…
I have no objection to go to see ruins，aqueducts，pictures，in company with a friend or a party，but rather the contrary，for the former reason reserved.They are intelligible matters，and will bear talking about.The sentiment here is not tacit，but communicable and overt.Salisbury Plain is barren of criticism，but Stonehengewill bear a discussion antiquarian，picturesque，and philosophical.In setting out on a party of pleasure，the first consideration always is where we shall go to，in taking a solitary ramble，the question is what we shall meet with by the way.“The mind is its own place”；nor are we anxious to arrive at the end of our journey.I can myself do the honours indifferently well to works of art and curiosity.I once took a party to Oxford with no meanéclat-showed them that seat of the Muses at a distance，“With glistering spires and pinnacles adorn’d-”descanted on the learned air that breathes from the grassy quadrangles and stone walls of halls and collegeswas at home in the Bodleian；And at Blenheim quite superseded the powdered Cicerone that attended us，and that pointed in vain with his wand to commonplace beauties in matchless pictures.As another exception to the above reasoning，I should not feel confident in venturing on a journey in a foreign country without a companion.I should want at intervals to hear the sound of my own language.There is an involuntary antipathy in the mind of an Englishman to foreign manners and notions that requires the assistance of social sympathy to carry it off.As the distance from home increases，this relief，which was at first a luxury，becomes a passion and an appetite.A person would almost feel stifled to find himself in the deserts of Arabia without friends and countrymen there must be allowed to be something in the view of Athens or old Rome that claims the utterance of speech；and I own that the Pyramids are too mighty for any single contemplation.In such situations，so opposite to all one’s ordinary train of ideas，one seems a species by one’s self，a limb torn off from society，unless one can meet with instant fellowship and support.-Yet I did not feel this want or craving very pressing once，when I firstset my foot on the laughing shores of France.Calais was peopled with novelty and delight.The confuse，busy murmur of the place was like oil and wine poured into my ears；nor did the mariners’hymn，which was sung from the top of an old crazy vessel in the harbour，as the sun went down，send an alien sound into my soul.I only breathed the air of general humanity.I walked over“the vine-covered hills and gay regions of France，”erect and satisfied；for the image of man was not cast down and chained to the foot of arbitrary thrones：I was at no loss for language，for that of all the great schools of painting was open to me.The whole is vanished like a shade.Pictures，heroes，glory，freedoms，all are fled，nothing remains but the Bourbons and the French people！-There is undoubtedly a sensation in travelling into foreign parts that is to be had nowhere else，but it is more pleasing at the time than lasting.It is too remote from our habitual associations to be a common topic of discourse or reference，and，like a dream or another state of existence，does not piece into our daily modes of life.It is an animated but a momentary hallucination.It demands an effort to exchange our actual for our ideal identity；and to feel the pulse of our old transports revive very keenly，we must“jump”all our present comforts and connexions.Our romantic and itinerant character is not to be domesticated.Dr.Johnson remarked how little foreign travel added to the facilities of conversation in those who had been abroad.In fact，the time we have spent there is both delightful，and in one sense instructive；but it appears to be cut out of our substantial downright existence，and never to join kindly on to it.We are not the same，but another，and perhaps more enviable individual，all the time we are out of our own country.We are lost to ourselves，as well as our friend.Sothe poet somewhat quaintly sings，“Out of my country and myself I go.”Those who wish to forget painful thoughts，do well to absent themselves for a while from the ties and objects that recall them；but we can be said only to fulfill our destiny in the place that gave us birth.I should on this account like well enough to spend the whole of my life in traveling abroad，if I could anywhere borrow another life to spend afterwards at home！
