FOOTPATHS 



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 neigh- 

 bour may be a stranger, but there are no strangers 

 in a vast crowd. They all seem to have some 

 relationship, or rather, perhaps, they do not rouse 

 the sense of reserve which a single unknown per- 

 son 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 Sindbad 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 be- 

 cause I must, and, arriving there, wander whither- 

 soever the hurrying throng carries me. 



