Nor do I; nor does anybody.
That is where the somewhat sombre fun begins. I cannot even tell you
for certain whether it is the name of a forest or a town or a hill.
I can only say that in any case it is of the kind that floats
and is unfixed. If it is a forest, it is one of those forests
that march with a million legs, like the walking trees that were
the doom of Macbeth. If it is a town, it is one of those towns
that vanish, like a city of tents. If it is a hill, it is
a flying hill, like the mountain to which faith lends wings.
Over a vast dim region of England this dark name of Ethandune floats
like an eagle doubtful where to swoop and strike, and, indeed,
there were birds of prey enough over Ethandune, wherever it was.
But now Ethandune itself has grown as dark and drifting as the black
drifts of the birds.
And yet without this word that you cannot fit with a meaning
and hardly with a memory, you would be sitting in a very different
chair at this moment and looking at a very different tablecloth.
As a practical modern phrase I do not commend it; if my private
critics and correspondents in whom I delight should happen to
address me "G. K. Chesterton, Poste Restante, Ethandune," I fear
their letters would not come to hand. If two hurried commercial
travellers should agree to discuss a business matter at Ethandune
from 5 to 5.15, I am afraid they would grow old in the district
as white-haired wanderers.
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