FOOTPATHS 23 



under the ancient pollard oak in the little mead with 

 the brook, and the wood of which I spoke just now as 

 like a glade in the enchanted Forest of Arden, this 

 would not be possible. It is the proximity of the 

 immense City which induces a mental, a nerve-rest- 

 lessness. As you sit and would dream a something 

 plucks at the mind with constant reminder ; you cannot 

 dream for long, you must up and away, and, turn in 

 which direction you please, ultimately it will lead you 

 to London. 



There is a fascination in it ; there is a magnetism 

 stronger than that of the rock which drew the nails 

 from Sindbad's ship. You are like a bird let out with 

 a string tied to the foot to flutter a little way and 

 return again. It is not business, for you may have 

 none, in the ordinary sense ; it is not " society," it 

 is not pleasure. It is the presence of man in his 

 myriads. There is something in the heart which 

 cannot be satisfied away from it. 



It is a curious thing that your next-door neighbour 

 may be a stranger, but there are no strangers in a 

 vast crowd. They all seem to have some relation- 

 ship, or rather, perhaps, they do not rouse the sense of 

 reserve which a single unknown person might. Still, 

 the impulse is not to be analysed ; these are mere notes 

 acknowledging its power. The hills and vales, and 

 meads and woods are like the ocean upon which Sind- 

 bad sailed; but coming too near the loadstone of 

 London, the ship wends thither, whether or no. 



At least it is so with me, and I often go to London 

 without any object whatever, but just because I must, 

 and, arriving there, wander whithersoever the hurrying 

 throng carries me. 



