eyes of one's hero saw and rested upon. There must be
some personal aroma about it; one must be able to see the garden-paths
where he walked, the furniture which he used, and to realise the place
in some degree as it appeared to him.

And then, too, there must be some sense of a personal link, an
instinctive sympathy, between the soul of the writer and one's own
spirit. It is not enough that he should have just written famous books;
they must be books that have fed one's own heart and mind, have
whispered some delicious hope, have thrilled one with a responsive
tenderness--the writer must be one whom, unseen, we love. It is not
enough that one should recognise his genius, know him to be great; he
must be near and dear as well; one must visit the scene as one would
draw near to the grave of a father or a brother, with a sense of love
and loss and spiritual contact It should be like visiting some familiar
scene. One must be able to say: "Yes, this is the tree he loved and
wrote about; there is the writing-table by the window that gave him the
glimpse he speaks of, of lake and hill; these are the walls on which he
liked to see the firelight darting on dark winter evenings."

It is strange, if one considers carefully what houses they are that one
would thus wish to visit, to reflect how many of them are homes of
poets, and after them of novelists. It is the personal, the
imaginative, the creative touch that weaves the spell, I do not think
that one would travel far to see the house of a historian or a
philosopher, however eminent; I do not personally even desire to see
the houses of generals or statesmen or philanthropists. I would rather
visit Rydal Mount than Hughenden; I should experience a greater
exaltation of soul at Haworth than at Strathfieldsaye. I would rather
see the lane where Tennyson wrote "Break, break, break," than Mr.
Gladstone's library at Hawarden. Not that the houses of statesmen and
generals are not interesting; I would take some trouble to visit them
if I were in the neighbourhood of them; but it would be a mental rather
than a spiritual pleasure, and when one was there one would tend to ask
questions rather than contemplate the scene in silent awe. It may be a
sentimental thing to say, but I should hope to visit Brantwood and
Somerby Rectory with my heart full of prayer and my eyes full of tears,
just as I should visit some old and well-loved house that had been the
scene for me of happy days and lo