CHAPTER I

THE WAY OF THE CITIES

It was in the season of Christmas that I came out of my little garden
in that "field of the beeches" between the Chilterns and the Thames,
and began to walk backwards through history to the place from which
Christmas came. For it is often necessary to walk backwards, as a man
on the wrong road goes back to a sign-post to find the right road.
The modern man is more like a traveller who has forgotten the name
of his destination, and has to go back whence he came, even to find out
where he is going. That the world has lost its way few will now deny;
and it did seem to me that I found at last a sort of sign-post,
of a singular and significant shape, and saw for a moment in my mind
the true map of the modern wanderings; but whether I shall be able
to say anything of what I saw, this story must show.

I had said farewell to all my friends, or all those with my own limited
number of legs; and nothing living remained but a dog and a donkey.
The reader will learn with surprise that my first feeling of fellowship
went out to the dog; I am well aware that I lay open my guard to a lunge
of wit. The dog is rather like a donkey, or a small caricature of one,
with a large black head and long black ears; but in the mood of the
moment there was rather a moral contrast than a pictorial parallel.
For the dog did indeed seem to stand for home and everything I was
leaving behind me, with reluctance, especially that season of the year.
For one thing, he is named after Mr. Winkle, the Christmas guest
of Mr. Wardle; and there is indeed something Dickensian in his union
of domesticity with exuberance. He jumped about me, barking like
a small battery, under the impression that I was going for a walk;