“Let me have a companion of my way，”says Sterne，“wereit but to remark how the shadows lengthen as the sun declines．”It iSbeautifully said；but，in my opinion，this continual comparing of notesinterferes with the involuntary impression of things upon the mind，andhuns the sentiment．If you only hint what you feel in a kind of dumbshow，it is insipid；if you have to explain it，it is making a toil of apleasure．You cannot read the book of nature wi thout being perpetuallyput to the trouble of translating it for the benefit of others．I am for thissynthetical method on a journey in preference to the analytical．I amcontent to lay in a stock of ideas then，and to examine and anatomisethem afterwards．1 want to see my vague notions；float like the down ofthe thistle before the breeze，and not to have them entangled in the briarsand thorns of controversy．For once，I like tO have it all my own way；1d this 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 colour 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 craving after it，and a dissatisfaction which pursues you on the way，and in the end probably produces ill—humour．Now I never quarrel with myself，and take all my OWn conclusions for granted till I find it necessary to defend them against objections．