Though my preconceived ideas were overthrown 

 by the presenre of so much that was beautiful and 

 interesting close to London, yet in course of time 

 I came to understand what was at first a dim sense 

 of something wanting. In the shadiest lane, in the 

 still pinewoods, on the hills of purple heath, after 

 brief contemplation there arose a restlessness, a 

 feeling that it was essential to be moving. In no 

 grassy mead was there a nook where I could stretch 

 myself in slumberous ease and watch the swallows 

 ever wheeling, wheeling in the sky. This was the 

 unseen influence of mighty London. The strong 

 life of the vast city magnetized me, and I felt it 

 under the calm oaks. The something wanting in 

 the fields was the absolute quiet, peace, and rest 

 which dwells in the meadows and under the trees 

 and on the hilltops in the country. Under its 

 power the mind gradually yields itself to the green 

 earth, the wind among the trees, the song of birds, 

 and comes to have an understanding with them all. 

 For this it is still necessary to seek the far-away 

 glades and hollow coombes, or to sit alone beside 

 the sea. That such a sense of quiet might not be 

 lacking I have added a chapter or so on those 

 lovely downs that overlook the south coast. 



R.J. 



viii 



