Trees are filled with reserve; when denuded of their neighbors, they stand in melancholy solitude until the leaves fall for the last time, until their branches wither, and their trunks ring hollow with decay.
And if we never really see or know or understand the nature which is about us, how is it possible that we should ever comprehend the people we meet?
What is the use of trying to know an Englishman or a Frenchman when we do not know an American?
What is the use of struggling with the obstacle of a foreign tongue, when our own will not suffice for the communication of thoughts?
The only light that we have is at home; travellers are men groping in the dark; they fancy they see much, but for the most part they see nothing.
No great teacher has ever been a great traveller.

Buddha, Confucius, and Mahomet never left the confines of their respective countries.

Plato lived in Athens; Shakespeare travelled between London and Stratford; these great souls found it quite sufficient to know themselves and the vast universe as reflected from the eyes of those about them.

But then they are the exceptions.
For most men--including geniuses--travel and deliberate observation are good, since most men will not observe at home.
Such is the singularity of our nature that we ignore the interesting at home to study the commonplace abroad.

We never notice a narrow and crooked street in Boston or lower New York, whereas a narrow and crooked street in London fills us with an ecstasy of delight.