I was but ten years old when this happened:  but whether it was, that the action itself was more in unison to my nerves at that age of pity, which instantly set my whole frame into one vibration of most pleasurable sensation;—­or how far the manner and expression of it might go towards it;—­or, in what degree, or by what secret magick,—­a tone of voice and harmony of movement, attuned by mercy, might find a passage to my heart, I know not;—­this I know, that the lesson of universal good-will then taught and imprinted by my uncle Toby has never since been worn out of my mind:  And tho’ I would not depreciate what the study of the Literae humaniores, at the University, have done for me in that respect, or discredit the other helps of an expensive education bestowed upon me, both at home and abroad since;—­yet I often think that I owe one half of my philanthropy to that one accidental expression.

HOBSON’S CHOICE
[Sidenote:  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, nature is company enough for me.  I am then never less alone than when alone.

  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 criticising 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 elbow-room and fewer encumbrances.  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, 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 postchaise 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 turf beneath my feet, a winding road[8] before me and a 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