On Going a Journey by William Hazlitt Analysis
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 criticizing 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 incumbrances. 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.
The writer, William Hazlitt, expresses his deep love for traveling and going on journeys. However, he strongly prefers to travel alone rather than in the company of others. He believes that while socializing indoors is enjoyable, the outdoors is best experienced in solitude, where nature itself provides companionship. He feels that when he is alone in nature, he is never truly lonely; instead, he feels most alive and connected to the world.
Hazlitt quotes a line, “The fields his study, nature was his book,” to emphasize his belief that nature is full of wisdom and offers endless learning opportunities, just like a book.
He dislikes the idea of walking and talking at the same time, as he believes that nature should be experienced peacefully and without distractions. He does not travel to analyze or criticize the countryside, such as examining the details of fields or cattle. Instead, he travels to escape the hustle of city life and leave behind all thoughts of the town and its routines.
He points out that some people claim to seek an escape but still bring the city with them when they visit crowded resorts or “watering-places.” These people fail to fully embrace solitude and freedom. Hazlitt, on the other hand, enjoys traveling alone purely for the sake of solitude, without feeling the need to share the experience with a companion. He rejects the idea of having a friend to whom he can whisper that “solitude is sweet,” because that would defeat the purpose of being alone.
For Hazlitt, the true essence of travel is complete freedom—the freedom to think, feel, and act exactly as one pleases. He sees journeys as a chance to break away from restrictions, responsibilities, and even one’s own identity. More than just escaping other people, he enjoys escaping himself and his usual worries.
He describes how travel gives him the space to reflect on random thoughts and let his mind wander freely. He compares this mental freedom to a bird spreading its wings and taking flight—something that is difficult to achieve in the busy and crowded environment of daily life.
In conclusion, Hazlitt leaves the town behind without feeling lost or lonely. Instead, he finds joy in being alone, free from obligations, and completely immersed in nature and his own thoughts.
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 clear blue sky over my head, and the green turf beneath my feet, a winding road 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 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, mine 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? Does not this daisy leap to my heart set in its coat of emerald? Yet if I were to explain to you the circumstance that has so endeared it to me, you would only smile. Had I not better then keep it to myself, 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 yourself, and indulge your reveries. 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 Englishman 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 starts. “Let me have a companion of my way,” says Sterne, “were it but to remark how the shadows lengthen as the sun declines.” It is beautifully said; but, in my opinion, this continual comparing of notes interferes with the involuntary impression of things upon the mind, and hurts the sentiment. If you only hint what you feel in a kind of dumb show, it is insipid: if you have to explain it, it is making a toil of a pleasure. You cannot read the book of nature without being perpetually put to the trouble of translating it for the benefit of others. I am for this synthetical method on a journey in preference to the analytical. I am content to lay in a stock of ideas then, and to examine and anatomise them afterwards. I want to see my vague notions float like the down of the thistle before the breeze, and not to have them entangled in the briars and thorns of controversy. For once, I like to have it all my own way; and this is 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 short-sighted, 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. 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 feelings 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 C[oleridge], 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-Foxden.1 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 strains 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 flow’rs as many
As the young spring gives, and as choice as any;
Here be all new delights, cool streams 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 thy 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.”
Fletcher’s Faithful Shepherdess.
William Hazlitt argues that traveling alone is the best way to experience a journey. He does not want a traveling companion in a carriage (post-chaise) or a light vehicle (Tilbury) because it would mean repeating the same old conversations and exchanging trivial remarks. Instead, he wants pure freedom—to enjoy the blue sky, green grass, winding roads, and the pleasure of walking alone for hours.
Hazlitt describes how being alone in nature excites his mind. He laughs, runs, sings, and lets his thoughts wander freely. He compares his experience to a sunburnt Indian diving into the sea, suggesting that solitude allows him to immerse himself in his memories and emotions. When alone, his past comes alive, and forgotten thoughts rise to the surface like hidden treasures.
Unlike the forced and dull conversations of social travel, solitude gives him a silent joy that feels more eloquent than words. He enjoys witty discussions, jokes, and arguments, but at times, he prefers complete silence. He asks to be left alone because he is busy with thoughts and emotions that others might see as meaningless, but which feel deeply important to him.
He points out that even small, simple things like a wild rose or a daisy bring him great joy. However, if he were to explain why they mean so much to him, others might not understand. So, he prefers to keep these feelings to himself and enjoy them in solitude.
Hazlitt dislikes the idea of “halfway solitude”, where someone in a group momentarily wanders off to reflect but feels obligated to return. To him, this is not true solitude, but rather an awkward balance between socializing and being alone. He either wants to fully immerse himself in solitude or be completely engaged in social interaction, without switching between the two.
He agrees with Mr. Cobbett, who believed that an Englishman should do one thing at a time—whether thinking deeply or engaging in conversation. He criticizes the idea that a travel companion is necessary just to observe the changing shadows as the sun sets. While this is beautifully said by Sterne, Hazlitt argues that describing every experience aloud diminishes its natural beauty.
For Hazlitt, nature is like a book, and when traveling, he prefers to take in the experience as a whole (“synthetical method”) rather than constantly analyzing it (“analytical method”). He enjoys absorbing ideas freely while traveling and only later, when alone, reflecting deeply on them. He compares his thoughts to thistle seeds floating on the wind—they should drift freely rather than be trapped in argument or conversation.
He dislikes pointless disagreements on a journey. For example, if he notices the fragrance of a bean field, his companion might lack a sense of smell and not appreciate it. If he points out a beautiful distant view, his companion might be short-sighted and struggle to see it. This lack of shared perception makes him feel frustrated and misunderstood, leading to irritation rather than enjoyment.
When traveling alone, he never argues with himself and does not have to justify or defend his emotions. Many personal experiences and memories cannot be fully shared or explained to others, so he prefers to treasure them in solitude.
He reflects on his friend Coleridge, who had the rare gift of turning landscapes into poetry and philosophy. Hazlitt admires Coleridge’s ability to express deep thoughts in beautiful language, something he himself struggles to do spontaneously. If he could speak so eloquently, he might enjoy having a companion to share and admire his thoughts. However, since he cannot, he is content to keep his reflections to himself.
The passage ends with a poetic excerpt from Fletcher’s Faithful Shepherdess, describing the beauty of nature, love, and mythological romance. The verses reflect Hazlitt’s belief that nature is best experienced not through words but through silent contemplation and personal emotions.
Had I words and images at command like these, I would attempt to wake the thoughts that lie slumbering on golden ridges in the evening clouds: but at the sight of nature my fancy, poor as it is, droops and closes up its leaves, like flowers at sunset. I can make nothing out on the spot: — I must have time to collect myself.
In general, a good thing spoils out-of-door prospects: it should be reserved for Table-talk. L[amb] is for this reason, I take it, the worst company in the world out of doors; because he is the best within. I grant, there is one subject on which it is pleasant to talk on a journey; and that is, what one shall have for supper when we get to our inn at night. The open air improves this sort of conversation or friendly altercation, by setting a keener edge on appetite. Every mile of the road heightens the flavour of the viands we expect at the end of it. How fine it is to enter some old town, walled and turreted, just at approach of nightfall, or to come to some straggling village, with the lights streaming through the surrounding gloom; and then, after inquiring for the best entertainment that the place affords, to “take one’s ease at one’s inn”! These eventful moments in our lives’ history are too precious, too full of solid, heart-felt happiness to be frittered and dribbled away in imperfect sympathy. I would have them all to myself, and drain them to the last drop: they will do to talk of or to write about afterwards. What a delicate speculation it is, after drinking whole goblets of tea —
“The cups that cheer, but not inebriate,”
William Hazlitt expresses admiration for poetic and expressive writing, particularly in describing nature. He wishes he had the ability to capture the beauty of the evening sky and the emotions it stirs, but he admits that his mind struggles to process beauty in the moment. Instead, he needs time to reflect and gather his thoughts before he can properly express them. He compares his mind to a flower that closes at sunset—suggesting that his creativity does not immediately respond to natural beauty but needs time to bloom later.
Hazlitt then makes an interesting observation: talking too much can ruin the experience of nature. He believes that deep discussions should be saved for indoor settings (like a dinner table conversation). He humorously mentions his friend Charles Lamb, saying that Lamb is the worst companion outdoors because he is so good at conversation indoors. In other words, Lamb’s talent for discussion makes him distracting during a journey, when silence and reflection are preferable.
However, Hazlitt admits that there is one enjoyable topic for conversation while traveling: discussing what to eat for supper at the inn. He argues that the fresh air and physical exertion of travel make the anticipation of food even more enjoyable. As the journey progresses, every mile adds to the excitement of the upcoming meal, making the food taste better in the imagination.
He then describes the pleasure of arriving at an old town or village just as night falls, with lights glowing through the darkness, creating an inviting and cozy atmosphere. The moment of finding a good inn and settling in for the night is a deeply satisfying experience, filled with simple but profound joy. He insists that such precious moments should not be wasted on empty conversation but should be fully experienced and later remembered or written about.
Finally, Hazlitt praises the pleasure of drinking tea after a long journey, quoting the famous line:
“The cups that cheer, but not inebriate.”
This phrase, from poet William Cowper, highlights tea’s ability to refresh and comfort without intoxicating, making it the perfect symbol of relaxation at the end of a fulfilling journey.
and letting the fumes ascend into the brain, to sit considering what we shall have for supper — eggs and a rasher, a rabbit smothered in onions, or an excellent veal-cutlet! Sancho in such a situation once fixed upon cow-heel; and his choice, though he could not help it, is not to be disparaged. Then, in the intervals of pictured scenery and Shandean contemplation, to catch the preparation and the stir in the kitchen [getting ready for the gentleman in the parlour].2 Procul, O procul este profani! These hours are sacred to silence and to musing, to be treasured up in the memory, and to feed the source of smiling thoughts hereafter. I would not waste them in idle talk; or if I must have the integrity of fancy broken in upon, I would rather it were by a stranger than a friend. A stranger takes his hue and character from the time and place; he is a part of the furniture and costume of an inn. If he is a Quaker, or from the West Riding of Yorkshire, so much the better. I do not even try to sympathise with him, and he breaks no squares. [How I love to see the camps of the gypsies, and to sigh my soul into that sort of life. If I express this feeling to another, he may qualify and spoil it with some objection.]2 I associate nothing with my travelling companion but present objects and passing events. In his ignorance of me and my affairs, I in a manner forget myself. But a friend reminds one of other things, rips up old grievances, and destroys the abstraction of the scene. He comes in ungraciously between us and our imaginary character. Something is dropped in the course of conversation that gives a hint of your profession and pursuits; or from having some one with you that knows the less sublime portions of your history, it seems that other people do. You are no longer a citizen of the world; but your “unhoused free condition is put into circumscription and confine.” The incognito of an inn is one of its striking privileges — “lord of one’s self, uncumber’d with a name.” Oh! it is great to shake off the trammels of the world and of public opinion — to lose our importunate, tormenting, everlasting personal identity in the elements of nature, and become the creature of the moment, clear of all ties — to hold to the universe only by a dish of sweet-breads, and to owe nothing but the score of the evening — and no longer seeking for applause and meeting with contempt, to be known by no other title than the Gentleman in the parlour! One may take one’s choice of all characters in this romantic state of uncertainty as to one’s real pretensions, and become indefinitely respectable and negatively right-worshipful. We baffle prejudice and disappoint conjecture; and from being so to others, begin to be objects of curiosity and wonder even to ourselves. We are no more those hackneyed common-places that we appear in the world; an inn restores us to the level of nature, and quits scores with society! I have certainly spent some enviable hours at inns — sometimes when I have been left entirely to myself, and have tried to solve some metaphysical problem, as once at Witham-common, where I found out the proof that likeness is not a case of the association of ideas — at other times, when there have been pictures in the room, as at St. Neot’s (I think it was), where I first met with Gribelin’s engravings of the Cartoons, into which I entered at once, and at a little inn on the borders of Wales, where there happened to be hanging some of Westall’s drawings, which I compared triumphantly (for a theory that I had, not for the admired artist) with the figure of a girl who had ferried me over the Severn, standing up in the boat between me and the twilight — at other times I might mention luxuriating in books, with a peculiar interest in this way, as I remember sitting up half the night to read Paul and Virginia, which I picked up at an inn at Bridgewater, after being drenched in the rain all day; and at the same place I got through two volumes of Madame D’Arblay’s Camilla. It was on the tenth of April, 1798, that I sat down to a volume of the New Eloise, at the inn at Llangollen, over a bottle of sherry and a cold chicken. The letter I chose was that in which St. Preux describes his feelings as he first caught a glimpse from the heights of the Jura of the Pays de Vaud, which I had brought with me as a bon bouche to crown the evening with. It was my birth-day, and I had for the first time come from a place in the neighbourhood to visit this delightful spot. The road to Llangollen turns off between Chirk and Wrexham; and on passing a certain point you come all at once upon the valley, which opens like an amphitheatre, broad, barren hills rising in majestic state on either side, with “green upland swells that echo to the bleat of flocks” below, and the river Dee babbling over its stony bed in the midst of them. The valley at this time “glittered green with sunny showers,” and a budding ash-tree dipped its tender branches in the chiding stream. How proud, how glad I was to walk along the high road that overlooks the delicious prospect, repeating the lines which I have just quoted from Mr. Coleridge’s poems! But besides the prospect which opened beneath my feet, another also opened to my inward sight, a heavenly vision, on which were written, in letters large as Hope could make them, these four words, LIBERTY, GENIUS, LOVE, VIRTUE; which have since faded into the light of common day, or mock my idle gaze.
“The beautiful is vanished, and returns not.”
William Hazlitt continues his reflection on the joys of solitude, travel, and the simple pleasures of life, particularly those found in inns.
Anticipation of Food and the Joy of Inns
He describes the simple yet profound pleasure of thinking about what to eat for supper at the end of a journey. Hazlitt lists eggs, bacon (a rasher), rabbit with onions, or veal cutlet as tempting options. He humorously mentions Sancho Panza (from Don Quixote), who once chose cow-heel for supper—not an ideal choice, but still enjoyable in its own way.
He also enjoys the atmosphere of an inn, where he can observe the bustle of the kitchen, anticipating a delicious meal. This experience, he argues, should be savored in silence, rather than spoiled by unnecessary conversation. He uses a Latin phrase “Procul, O procul este profani!” (meaning “Away, away, O profane ones!”) to emphasize that these moments of peace and reflection should not be disturbed.
Strangers vs. Friends While Traveling
Hazlitt says that if he must talk to someone while traveling, he would rather it be a stranger than a friend.
A stranger is part of the scene—like the furniture of the inn.
A friend, however, brings reminders of one’s personal life, responsibilities, and past, disrupting the sense of freedom that travel provides.
A friend’s presence brings up old memories and conversations, which spoil the abstract and dreamy nature of solitude.
The moment a friend mentions your profession or past life, you are no longer a free traveler but someone tied to society’s expectations.
This is why Hazlitt prefers anonymity in an inn, where he can be simply known as “the Gentleman in the parlour”—free from judgment, obligations, and societal roles. In an inn, he is neither famous nor forgotten, neither admired nor criticized—he is just himself, momentarily detached from the world.
The Freedom of Travel and Escaping One’s Identity
He finds great pleasure in escaping his usual self while traveling. When at an inn, he owes nothing to anyone except the bill for his stay.
He describes how an inn levels all social distinctions—people are not judged for their background or profession.
He finds joy in being a temporary mystery, where no one knows his history, expectations, or social rank.
In this state, one is free from prejudice and assumptions, able to redefine oneself in the moment.
Memorable Moments in Inns
Hazlitt recalls some of his best memories of solitude at inns.
Philosophical Reflection at Witham-common →
He once spent hours alone trying to solve a metaphysical question about likeness and the association of ideas.
Enjoying Art in an Inn at St. Neot’s →
He encountered Gribelin’s engravings of the Cartoons and immersed himself in the art.
Romantic Scene by the Severn River →
In an inn near Wales, he compared Westall’s drawings to the image of a girl ferrying him across the Severn at twilight.
Reading Books Late at Night →
After being drenched in the rain all day in Bridgewater, he stayed up all night reading Paul and Virginia and later read two volumes of Camilla.
A Special Birthday in Llangollen (April 10, 1798) →
On his birthday, he sat in an inn in Llangollen, drinking sherry and eating cold chicken while reading Rousseau’s The New Eloise.
The passage he chose was about St. Preux seeing the Pays de Vaud, a moment of great personal significance for Hazlitt.
A Vision of Nature and Idealism
On this birthday trip, Hazlitt describes the stunning view of the valley of Llangollen, where:
The barren hills stand majestically.
The upland swells are covered in green and echo with the bleating of flocks.
The river Dee flows beautifully through the valley.
The landscape shines with “sunny showers” and a budding ash tree dips into the stream.
Walking along the road, he felt proud and happy, reciting poetry by Coleridge. But beyond the physical scenery, he also saw a vision in his mind, with four great ideals written in “letters large as Hope could make them”:
LIBERTY
GENIUS
LOVE
VIRTUE
These were the guiding principles of his youthful idealism, but as time passed, they faded into the light of common day. The once-bright ideals now seem distant, almost like illusions.
Hazlitt concludes this reflection with a melancholic realization:
“The beautiful is vanished, and returns not.”
This final line suggests that the intense beauty, hope, and meaning of youth eventually fade, and no matter how much we long for them, they can never fully return.
Still I would return some time or other to this enchanted spot; but I would return to it alone. What other self could I find to share that influx of thoughts, of regret, and delight, the fragments of which I could hardly conjure up to myself, so much have they been broken and defaced. I could stand on some tall rock, and overlook the precipice of years that separates me from what I then was. I was at that time going shortly to visit the poet whom I have above named. Where is he now? Not only I myself have changed; the world which was then new to me, has become old and incorrigible. Yet will I turn to thee in thought, O sylvan Dee, in joy, in youth and gladness as thou then wert; and thou shalt always be to me the river of Paradise, where I will drink of the waters of life freely!
William Hazlitt expresses his desire to return to the special place he once visited, but only alone. He calls this place “enchanted,” meaning it holds deep emotional and personal significance for him. However, even if he returns, he knows that the feelings he once had there can never be fully recreated.
The Difficulty of Sharing Deep Feelings
He wonders, who could truly understand the emotions, memories, and regrets tied to this place? Even he struggles to recall those feelings fully, as time has blurred and changed them. He compares his past emotions to “fragments” that are now broken and unclear.
He imagines standing on a high rock, looking back at the vast gulf of years separating him from his younger self. This metaphor suggests that his past experiences feel distant, almost unreachable.
Reflections on Change and the Passage of Time
Hazlitt remembers that, at the time of his visit, he was about to meet a great poet (likely Coleridge). But now, he wonders:
“Where is he now?”
This question is both literal and symbolic. It reflects not only the passage of time and change in friendships but also how people, places, and ideals evolve—or disappear—over time.
He acknowledges that:
He himself has changed—he is no longer the same person he was back then.
The world has changed—what once felt fresh, exciting, and full of promise now feels old and unchangeable (“incorrigible”).
Finding Comfort in Memory and Nature
Despite all these changes, Hazlitt finds solace in memory. He turns in thought to the River Dee, addressing it as if it were a living, unchanging friend. He recalls how, when he first saw the river, he was young, joyful, and full of hope.
Even though his life and the world have changed, he still imagines the River Dee as it once was—a paradise, a source of pure joy, and a place of emotional renewal. He declares:
“Thou shalt always be to me the river of Paradise, where I will drink of the waters of life freely!”
This means that, in his heart, the river remains a symbol of youthful happiness and inspiration. Whenever he thinks of it, it revives his spirit, like a refreshing drink that restores life.
There is hardly anything that shows the shortsightedness or capriciousness of the imagination more than travelling does. With change of place we change our ideas; nay, our opinions and feelings. We can by an effort indeed transport ourselves to old and long-forgotten scenes, and then the picture of the mind revives again; but we forget those that we have just left. It seems that we can think but of one place at a time. The canvas of the fancy is but of a certain extent, and if we paint one set of objects upon it, they immediately efface every other. We cannot enlarge our conceptions, we only shift our point of view. The landscape bares its bosom to the enraptured eye, we take our fill of it, and seem as if we could form no other image of beauty or grandeur. We pass on, and think no more of it: the horizon that shuts it from our sight, also blots it from our memory like a dream. In travelling through a wild barren country I can form no idea of a woody and cultivated one. It appears to me that all the world must be barren, like what I see of it. In the country we forget the town, and in town we despise the country. “Beyond Hyde Park,” says Sir Topling Flutter, “all is a desert.” All that part of the map that we do not see before us is a blank. The world in our conceit of it is not much bigger than a nutshell. It is not one prospect expanded into another, county joined to county, kingdom to kingdom, lands to seas, making an image voluminous and vast; — the mind can form no larger idea of space than the eye can take in at a single glance. The rest is a name written in a map, a calculation of arithmetic. For instance, what is the true signification of that immense mass of territory and population known by the name of China to us? An inch of pasteboard on a wooden globe, of no more account than a China orange! Things near us are seen of the size of life: things at a distance are diminished to the size of the understanding. We measure the universe by ourselves, and even comprehend the texture of our being only piece-meal. In this way, however, we remember an infinity of things and places. The mind is like a mechanical instrument that plays a great variety of tunes, but it must play them in succession. One idea recalls another, but it at the same time excludes all others. In trying to renew old recollections, we cannot as it were unfold the whole web of our existence; we must pick out the single threads. So in coming to a place where we have formerly lived, and with which we have intimate associations, every one must have found that the feeling grows more vivid the nearer we approach the spot, from the mere anticipation of the actual impression: we remember circumstances, feelings, persons, faces, names that we had not thought of for years; but for the time all the rest of the world is forgotten! — To return to the question I have quitted above:
William Hazlitt reflects on how travel affects human perception and memory. He argues that our imagination is limited and inconsistent, especially when we move from one place to another.
How Travel Alters Our Thoughts and Perception
Travel constantly shifts our perspective, making us forget previous places and focus only on the present location.
As soon as we immerse ourselves in a new place, our opinions, emotions, and even memories of past places begin to change.
Even if we try hard to recall past places, those we have just left fade from our minds.
He compares the mind to a canvas:
When we paint new images (new places and experiences), they replace old ones.
Instead of expanding our understanding, we merely shift our viewpoint, forgetting what we saw before.
How Quickly We Forget Places
When we are in a beautiful landscape, it feels like the most magnificent view we have ever seen.
However, once we leave, we quickly forget it, as if it were just a passing dream.
The moment the horizon blocks our view, the place is almost erased from memory.
For example:
If he is traveling through a barren, dry landscape, he cannot even imagine a lush, green one.
When he is in the countryside, he forgets the energy of the town.
When he is in the town, he looks down on the countryside.
He humorously references Sir Topling Flutter, who said:
“Beyond Hyde Park, all is a desert.”
This exaggeration suggests that people tend to think the world outside their familiar surroundings is empty or unimportant.
How Limited Our View of the World Is
We see only what is in front of us, and the rest of the world becomes just a name on a map.
We do not grasp the full scale of places we have never seen—they are just abstract concepts to us.
For example:
China, a vast and complex country, is nothing more than a small label on a globe to those who have never been there.
It feels as meaningless as a “China orange” (a common fruit), despite its actual importance and size.
Hazlitt argues that:
Things near us feel real and important.
Things far away shrink in our understanding.
We measure the world only in relation to ourselves, which makes our perception of it small and limited.
The Nature of Memory and Recollection
Hazlitt compares the mind to a mechanical instrument (like a music box or piano):
It can play many different tunes (memories).
However, it can only play one at a time.
This means:
Remembering one place often makes us forget another.
Our past experiences exist in fragments, and we cannot recall everything at once.
For example:
When returning to a place where we once lived, old memories suddenly become clearer.
The closer we get, the more vivid our memories become.
We begin to recall names, faces, and emotions we had forgotten for years.
However, in that moment, all other places disappear from our minds.
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 reversed. 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 Stonehenge will 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 mean éclat — 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 colleges — was 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.
William Hazlitt explains that while he usually prefers to travel alone, he makes an exception when visiting historical ruins, aqueducts, and paintings. Unlike nature, which he believes should be experienced in silence and solitude, art and history require discussion and interpretation.
These are “intelligible matters”—meaning they can be analyzed, debated, and appreciated through conversation.
Nature’s beauty is silent and personal, but historical sites and artwork invite discussion because they have meaning, history, and artistic significance.
Examples of Places That Encourage Discussion
Salisbury Plain (a vast, open landscape) is “barren of criticism” because there is nothing to analyze or debate—it is just a plain.
Stonehenge, however, is rich with meaning—it can be analyzed from historical, artistic, and philosophical perspectives.
Historical (“antiquarian”) → How old is it? Who built it?
Artistic (“picturesque”) → How does it look? What emotions does it evoke?
Philosophical → What does it say about human civilization, time, and mystery?
Thus, some places are best enjoyed alone, while others benefit from shared exploration.
Solo Travel vs. Group Travel
Hazlitt compares two types of journeys:
Group Travel (Planned) → The main concern is deciding where to go and ensuring everyone enjoys it.
Solo Travel (Spontaneous) → The excitement lies in what one might discover along the way.
He references John Milton’s quote, “The mind is its own place,” to emphasize that a journey’s value is in the experience itself, not just the destination.
When traveling alone, he enjoys letting his mind wander rather than focusing on a fixed plan.
When traveling in a group, he acknowledges that his role changes—he becomes a guide, sharing knowledge and enhancing the experience for others.
Hazlitt as a Guide in Oxford and Blenheim
He recalls a trip to Oxford, where he led a group with enthusiasm (“no mean éclat”, meaning with great success).
He showed them the grandeur of Oxford with its “glistering spires and pinnacles”, quoting poetry to capture its beauty.
He spoke at length about the scholarly atmosphere, the grassy quadrangles, and the historic stone walls of colleges.
He felt completely at home in the Bodleian Library, a place of great learning and history.
At Blenheim Palace, Hazlitt says he “superseded the powdered Cicerone”, meaning he outperformed the official tour guide, who merely pointed at the artwork without adding real depth to it.
He criticizes the shallow observations of some guides, who focus only on basic descriptions of famous paintings rather than their true artistic value.
This shows Hazlitt’s deep appreciation for art and his ability to bring it to life through discussion and insight.
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 first set my foot on the laughing shores of France. Calais was peopled with novelty and delight. The confused, 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, freedom, 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 friends. So the 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 fulfil 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 travelling abroad, if I could anywhere borrow another life to spend afterwards at home!
William Hazlitt discusses another exception to his love for solitary travel—he would not feel comfortable traveling alone in a foreign country. Unlike his preference for solitude in nature or historical sites, he admits that traveling abroad requires companionship.
Why Hazlitt Prefers a Companion in Foreign Lands
In a foreign country, he wants to hear his own language occasionally, as it brings comfort and familiarity.
He argues that Englishmen naturally feel uneasy with foreign customs and ideas.
This discomfort can only be eased by having a companion who shares the same culture.
He compares this to a growing need:
At first, the presence of a fellow countryman is just a luxury.
But as one travels farther from home, it becomes a strong craving—almost a necessity.
The Feeling of Isolation in Foreign Lands
Hazlitt imagines being in the deserts of Arabia without friends or countrymen and describes the experience as stifling—as if he were a “limb torn off from society.”
He suggests that some places, like Athens and Rome, are so rich in history and culture that they demand conversation.
Similarly, the Pyramids are too vast to be fully comprehended alone—they require shared discussion and reflection.
Thus, he argues that while solitude is valuable, there are moments in foreign travel where companionship is necessary.
Hazlitt’s Experience in France: A Rare Exception
Despite this, he recalls one foreign experience where he did not feel lonely—his first visit to France.
When he arrived in Calais, he was filled with excitement and delight.
The bustling sounds of the harbor felt rich and intoxicating, like wine and oil—not foreign or isolating.
Even when he heard French sailors singing, it did not feel “alien” to his soul.
He felt a sense of freedom in France, where “man was not chained to the foot of arbitrary thrones.”
This suggests that he admired the spirit of the French Revolution and the sense of liberty in France at the time.
He felt at home in the art and culture of France, as it spoke a universal language of beauty and creativity.
However, he laments that this feeling did not last.
He describes how the ideals of freedom, heroism, and artistic glory have faded.
All that remains now are the Bourbons (the ruling monarchy) and the ordinary French people—suggesting that the once-great revolutionary spirit is gone.
The Temporary Magic of Foreign Travel
Hazlitt acknowledges that traveling to foreign lands gives a sensation unlike anything else. However, he believes:
Foreign travel is exciting in the moment but does not have a lasting impact on daily life.
It feels like a “dream” or a “hallucination”—real while it lasts, but disconnected from normal existence.
He compares it to stepping into another identity, as if the person he is abroad is not the same person he is at home.
Dr. Johnson once observed that foreign travel does not improve conversation skills, which Hazlitt agrees with.
The reason is that the experiences of foreign lands do not blend well with ordinary life back home.
One cannot easily talk about their foreign adventures because they seem detached from their real identity.
Travel as an Escape vs. Home as Destiny
Hazlitt then shifts his reflection to the idea of travel as an escape.
He acknowledges that traveling is a great way to forget painful thoughts, as it takes people far away from familiar reminders of their troubles.
However, a person’s true purpose (or destiny) is ultimately tied to their homeland.
No matter how much one travels, they will eventually feel the pull of home.
He concludes with a wistful and humorous thought:
“I should like well enough to spend the whole of my life in travelling abroad, if I could anywhere borrow another life to spend afterwards at home!”
This means that he would love to travel endlessly, but he also values home too much to leave it forever.
Since life is too short to do both fully, he jokingly wishes he could have two lives—one for travel, and one for home.
Key Points
Author: William Hazlitt (1778–1830)
William Hazlitt was a 19th-century English essayist, critic, and philosopher known for his brilliant prose and insightful observations on literature, society, and human nature. He wrote extensively on art, politics, and personal experiences, and is considered one of the greatest English essayists of all time. Hazlitt was deeply influenced by the Romantic movement, particularly by Wordsworth and Coleridge, with whom he shared an appreciation for nature and individual experience. His writing is often conversational, reflective, and full of vivid imagery.
Introduction to the Essay
“On Going a Journey” was first published in 1822 in Hazlitt’s collection Table-Talk. It is a personal and philosophical reflection on the joys of traveling alone. Hazlitt explores solitude, the freedom of thought, the contrast between social and solitary travel, and the fleeting nature of memories and experiences.
He argues that traveling alone offers the greatest pleasure because it allows one to fully immerse in nature, reflect deeply, and escape from societal pressures. He also examines exceptions to this preference, such as visiting historical sites or traveling to foreign lands, where companionship might be necessary.
Structure of the Essay
The essay is structured in a free-flowing, reflective manner rather than in a rigid academic format. It follows a conversational and personal approach, moving between observations, personal anecdotes, and philosophical musings.
Opening Statement → Hazlitt immediately states that traveling alone is the best way to experience a journey.
Reasons for Preferring Solitude → He explains how solitude enhances contemplation, freedom, and immersion in nature.
Criticism of Social Travel → He argues that talking while traveling ruins the experience and that companions bring distractions.
Exceptions to Solitary Travel → He acknowledges that historical sites, foreign travel, and deep discussions sometimes require company.
The Fleeting Nature of Travel Experiences → He reflects on how travel reshapes memory and perception, making past places fade from the mind.
Conclusion → He humorously wishes he could live two lives—one for endless travel, and another for the comfort of home.
Setting of the Essay
The essay does not focus on a single physical location but instead moves through various imaginary and real places that reflect Hazlitt’s experiences. Some key settings include:
The Countryside → Hazlitt enjoys wandering alone in fields, forests, and along winding roads, where nature provides solitude and inspiration.
Old Towns and Inns → He describes the joy of arriving in a small village at nightfall, finding an inn, and savoring a meal in peace.
Oxford and Blenheim Palace → As an example of an exception to solitary travel, he describes how he enjoyed guiding a group through these historical and artistic landmarks.
France and Foreign Travel → He recalls his first visit to Calais, feeling the excitement of stepping into a new culture.
Philosophical Reflections on Travel → The essay often moves into a mental landscape, where Hazlitt explores the effect of travel on memory, perception, and personal identity.
Themes of the Essay
The Joy of Solitary Travel → Hazlitt argues that traveling alone provides freedom, deep reflection, and pure enjoyment of nature.
The Distraction of Companions → Conversations disrupt the mind’s ability to appreciate scenery and personal thoughts.
The Role of Memory and Perception → Travel constantly reshapes our thoughts and memories, making past experiences fade.
The Fleeting Nature of Beauty and Idealism → He mourns how youthful ideals (Liberty, Genius, Love, Virtue) eventually fade over time.
The Contrast Between Home and Travel → While travel is exciting, home is where true belonging and identity exist.
Exceptions to Solitude → He acknowledges that some experiences (historical sites, foreign travel, and intellectual discussions) are best shared with others.
Style of the Essay
Hazlitt’s style is conversational, poetic, and reflective, blending philosophy, personal experience, and humor. Key elements of his style include:
Rich Imagery and Metaphors →
He describes nature as “a book” and the mind as “a canvas” where travel paints new memories.
He compares his emotions to a sunburnt Indian diving into the ocean.
Quotations and Literary References →
He quotes John Milton, Laurence Sterne, and Coleridge to support his points.
Uses poetic lines to add beauty and depth to his reflections.
Philosophical Reflection →
Hazlitt deeply explores how travel changes identity, perception, and memory.
He examines human nature—why we desire freedom yet crave companionship.
Humor and Irony →
He jokingly wishes for two lives—one for endless travel and another for home.
He criticizes shallow travel companions and bad tour guides in a lighthearted way.
Personal Anecdotes →
He shares his experiences in Oxford, France, and at old inns to illustrate his ideas.
Message of the Essay
Hazlitt’s central message is that solitary travel offers the purest form of freedom, self-discovery, and appreciation of nature.
However, he also acknowledges that:
Some experiences require companionship, such as visiting historic sites or traveling in foreign lands.
Travel shapes our memories and perception, making past experiences fade.
The excitement of travel is temporary, but home is where we truly belong.
His final thought is a bittersweet reflection on life’s limitations:
He loves the idea of endless travel, but he also values the comfort of home.
Since life is too short for both, he humorously wishes he could live two lives—one as a traveler, and another as a settled man.
Conclusion
“On Going a Journey” is a masterpiece of Romantic-era travel writing, blending philosophy, personal experience, and poetic reflection. Hazlitt captures the beauty of solitude, the power of memory, and the paradox of human desire—our longing for both freedom and belonging. His essay remains timeless, as it speaks to anyone who has ever wandered alone and found joy in the journey itself.
William Hazlitt
Introduction
William Hazlitt was one of the greatest English essayists, critics, and philosophers of the 19th century. He was known for his sharp intellect, eloquent prose, and deep insights into human nature, literature, and art. His writings covered a wide range of topics, including politics, philosophy, travel, and literary criticism. Hazlitt was a key figure of the Romantic period, alongside writers such as Samuel Taylor Coleridge, William Wordsworth, and Lord Byron.
Early Life and Education
Born on April 10, 1778, in Maidstone, Kent, England.
His father was a Unitarian minister, and his family moved frequently due to his father’s preaching work.
He initially studied to become a minister, but he lost interest in theology and turned to philosophy and literature.
He attended the New College at Hackney, where he was exposed to radical political ideas that influenced his later writings.
Career and Major Works
Hazlitt started his career as a painter, but after struggling to establish himself, he shifted to writing. Over time, he became one of the most influential essayists and literary critics in England.
A. Literary and Art Criticism
He wrote extensively about Shakespeare and other great literary figures.
His appreciation for art and his deep understanding of human emotions made him one of the best critics of his time.
Some of his most famous critical works include:
Characters of Shakespeare’s Plays (1817) → Analyzes Shakespeare’s genius in character creation.
Lectures on the English Poets (1818) → Discusses Milton, Dryden, Pope, and other major poets.
Lectures on the English Comic Writers (1819) → Explores humor and satire in literature.
B. Personal and Philosophical Essays
Hazlitt was a pioneer of the personal essay, where he reflected on his own emotions, thoughts, and observations on life.
His most famous essay collections include:
Table-Talk (1821–1822) → A collection of essays on various topics, including travel, human nature, and art.
The Spirit of the Age (1825) → A series of portraits of famous contemporary figures, including Byron, Coleridge, and Wordsworth.
On the Pleasure of Hating (1826) → Explores the darker side of human emotions.
C. Political Writings
Hazlitt was a strong supporter of the French Revolution and an advocate for liberty and democracy.
He criticized monarchy and conservative politics, which made him controversial during his time.
He wrote political essays for various newspapers and magazines, often attacking the government and defending the rights of ordinary people.
Writing Style and Influence
Hazlitt’s style is known for being:
Conversational and Personal → He writes as if he is having a discussion with the reader.
Rich in Imagery and Metaphors → His essays are full of poetic descriptions.
Sharp and Critical → He did not hesitate to criticize writers, politicians, or society.
Philosophical and Reflective → His works explore deep questions about human nature, emotions, and society.
Influence
Hazlitt influenced later essayists such as George Orwell and Virginia Woolf.
His writing style laid the foundation for modern literary criticism.
Many of his ideas about freedom, individuality, and the power of art remain relevant today.
Personal Life and Struggles
Hazlitt had a troubled personal life and suffered from financial difficulties throughout his career.
He had a failed marriage and fell in love with a woman who did not return his affection, which deeply affected him.
Despite his talent, he often faced criticism and rejection from society due to his radical views.
He spent his final years in poverty and ill health, dying on September 18, 1830, at the age of 52.
Legacy
Today, Hazlitt is regarded as one of the greatest essayists and literary critics in the English language.
His essays continue to be studied and admired for their insight, wit, and beautiful prose.
His ability to combine philosophy, literature, and personal experience makes his work timeless and deeply relatable.
