Bread Street would resound
to us with the tread of young Milton, and Southwark with the echoes of
Shakespeare's voice and the jolly laughter of the Pilgrims at the Tabard.
Hogarth would accompany us about Covent Garden, and out of Bolt Court we
should see the lumbering figure of Johnson emerging into his beloved Fleet
Street. We would sit by the fountain in the Temple with Tom Pinch, and take
a wherry to Westminster with Mr. Pepys. We should see London then as a
great spiritual companionship, in which it is our privilege to have a
fleeting part.
ON CATCHING THE TRAIN
Thank heaven! I have caught it.... I am in a corner seat, the compartment
is not crowded, the train is about to start, and for an hour and a half,
while we rattle towards that haven of solitude on the hill that I have
written of aforetime, I can read, or think, or smoke, or sleep, or talk, or
write as I choose. I think I will write, for I am in the humour for
writing. Do you know what it is to be in the humour for writing--to feel
that there is a head of steam somewhere that must blow off? It isn't so
much that you have something you want to say as that you must say
something.
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