I have an idea that some men are born out of their due place. Accident has cast them amid certain surroundings, but they have always a nostalgia for a place they know not. They are strangers in their birthplace, and the leafy lanes they have known from childhood or the populous streets in which they have played, remain but a place of passage. They may spend their whole lives aliens among their kindred and remain aloof among the only scenes they have ever known.
Perhaps it is this sense of strangeness that sends men far and wide in the search for something permanent, to what they may attach themselves.
Perhaps some deep-rooted atavism urges the wanderer back to lands which his ancestors left in the dim beginings of history.
Sometimes a man hits upon a place to which he feels he misteriously belongs. Here is the home he sought, and he will settle amid scenes that he has never seen before, among men he has never known, as though they were familiar to him from his birth, here at last he finds rest.