The outsider usually imagines that great cities afford unusual
opportunities of social intercourse, and when I first became a citizen
I found this prospect enchanting. I scanned the horizon eagerly for
these troops of friends which a city was supposed to furnish: quested
here and there for a responsive pair of eyes; made timid approaches
which were repulsed; and, finally, after much experiment, had to admit
that the whole idea was a delusion. No doubt it is true enough that,
with a settled and considerable income, and the power of entertaining,
friends are to be found in plenty. But Grosvenor Square and Kentish
Town do not so much as share a common atmosphere. In the one it is a
pleasant tradition that the house door should be set wide to all comers
who can contribute anything to the common social stock; in the other,
the house door is jealously locked and barred. The London clerk does
not care to reveal the shifts and the bareness of his domestic life.
He will reside in one locality for years without so much as seeking to
know his next-door neighbour. He will live on cordial terms with his
comrade in the office, but will never dream of inviting him to his
home. His instinct of privacy is so abnormal that it becomes mere
churlishness. His wife, if he have one, usually fosters this spirit
for reasons of her own. Her interests end with the clothing and
education of her children. She does not wish for friends, does not
cultivate the grace of hospitality, and is indifferent to social
intercourse. In short, the barbaric legend that an Englishman's house
is his castle, is nowhere so much respected as in London.

The exhausting character of life in London, and the mere vastness of
its geographical area, do something to produce this result. Men who
leave home early in the morning, sit for many hours in an office, and
reach home late at night, soon lose both the instinct and desire for