2O The Confessions of a Poacher. 



have been once in London, and well re- 

 member what, as a country lad, impressed me 

 most. It was the fact that I had, during the 

 small hours of the morning, stood alone on 

 London Bridge. The great artery of life was 

 still ; the pulse of the city had ceased to beat. 

 Not a moving object was visible. Although 

 bred among the lonely hills, I felt for the 

 first time that this was to be alone ; that 

 this was solitude. I felt such a sense as 

 Macaulay's New Zealander may experience 

 when he sits upon the ruins of the same stu- 

 pendous structure ; and it was then for the 

 first time I knew whence the inspiration, and 

 felt the full force and realism of a line I had 

 heard, " O God ! the very houses seemed to 

 sleep." I could detect no definite sound, only 

 that vague and distant hum that for ever 

 haunts and hangs over a great city. Then 

 my thoughts flew homeward (to the fells and 

 upland fields, to the cold mists by the river, to 

 the deep and sombre woods). I had never ob- 

 served such a time of quiet there ; no absolute 

 and general period of repose. There was 



