In the course of the last six hundred years there has not been a single village or town in England that has not found its representative in London. “All roads lead to the capital,” says an old proverb. How true this is, the London Directory shows; for at this moment it would be hard to mention a place, big or small, from John o’ Groats to Land’s End,—the Dan and Beersheba of England,—whose name is not found therein as the title of some individual whose ancestor, long generations ago, left his native home to settle in what was, even then, the big city. I was struck the other day by seeing two shops adjacent, the shopkeepers’ names on the doors being “Dearnally” and “Dennerley.” Dearnally and Dennerley! What a curious circumstance! My mind went back six centuries, and I wove a little story. Six hundred years ago, two brothers, or schoolfellows, or playmates, leave the little secluded hamlet of Dearnley. {43} One is John, the other William. John goes to Bristol. “Whence come you?” say his Bristol associates. “From Dearnley,” he replies. Henceforward he is John o’ Dearnley, by-and-by to become simple John Dearnley. “Whence come you?” says a Norwich artisan to William, who has turned his steps eastwards. “From Dearnley: I wonder shall I see it again,” responds William, sadly, who is already home-sick,—for homes were homes then as well as now. Henceforth he is William o’ Dearnley, or Will Dearnley. Each marries, has children, dies. His descendants, bearing his name, are scattered hither and thither over the broad land, like leaves before the cold keen blast of an October wind. Corruptions of the name of course ensue. The descendants of John are “Dearnally”; of William “Dennerley.” Centuries after this, in the year of grace 1877, one of John’s generation, who has found his way to a big city, sees a new house, takes it, is a grocer, and inscribes his name Dearnally above. In the meantime another stranger is eyeing a contiguous shop in the same block of buildings. “Fine opening for a butcher here,” says he to himself: “I will take these premises.” He does so. Up goes his name. What is it? Dennerley! Thus, after long years, nay, centuries, two descendants of the two playfellows, probably brothers, are to be seen dwelling together, each ignorant that when he wishes his neighbour good morning, he is rejoining links in a chain snapped, oh, so long ago! The invisible destinies of God have recovered the lost associations of twenty generations! Said I not, the London Directory is a romance?