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．