[Picture: Anyone] Obliged by circumstances to lead the life of a pendulum, vibrating between a certain spot distant four miles from London, and a certain spot just out of the smoke of the metropolis,—going into town daily in the morning and returning in the evening,—may be supposed, after the novelty has worn off, from the different ways by which he can shape his course, to find little interest in his monotonous movement. Indeed, I have heard many who live a short distance from town complain of this swinging backwards and forwards, or, rather, going forwards and backwards over the same ground every day, as dull and wearisome; but I cannot sympathise with them. On the contrary, I find that the more constantly any particular line of road is adhered to, the more intimate an acquaintance with it is formed, and the more interesting it becomes. In some measure, this may be accounted for by studious habits; a tolerable memory, apt to indulge in recollections of the past, and to cherish rather than despise, when not impertinent, local gossip, which re-peoples the district with its former inhabitants,— “Sweet Memory! wafted by thy gentle gale Oft up the tide of time I turn my sail, To view the fairy haunts of long-lost hours Blest with far greener shades—far fresher flowers.” “We have all by heart,” observes the author of the _Curiosities of Literature_, “the true and delightful reflection of Johnson on local associations, where the scene we tread suggests to us the men or the deeds which have left their celebrity to the spot. ‘We are in the presence of their fame, and feel its influence.’” How often have I fancied, if the walls by which thousands now daily pass without a glance of recognition or regard, if those walls could speak, and name some of their former inmates, how great would be the regret of many at having overlooked houses which they would perhaps have made a pilgrimage of miles to behold, as associated with the memory of persons whose names history, literature, or art has embalmed for posterity, or as the scene of circumstances treasured up in recollection! If the feelings could be recalled, and faithfully recorded, which the dull brick walls that I cannot help regarding with interest must have witnessed, what a romantic chapter in the history of the human mind would be preserved for study and reflection!— “Ay, beautiful the dreaming brought By valleys and green fields; But deeper feeling, higher thought, Is what the City yields.”