I sometimes think I will go and spend the sunny half of a twelvemonth in
wandering about the British Isles. There is so much of beauty and
interest that I have not seen, and I grudge to close my eyes on this
beloved home of ours, leaving any corner of it unvisited. Often I wander
in fancy over all the parts I know, and grow restless with desire at
familiar names which bring no picture to memory. My array of county
guide-books (they have always been irresistible to me on the stalls) sets
me roaming; the only dull pages in them are those that treat of
manufacturing towns. Yet I shall never start on that pilgrimage. I am
too old, too fixed in habits. I dislike the railway; I dislike hotels. I
should grow homesick for my library, my garden, the view from my windows.
And then--I have such a fear of dying anywhere but under my own roof.
As a rule, it is better to revisit only in imagination the places which
have greatly charmed us, or which, in the retrospect, seem to have done
so. Seem to have charmed us, I say; for the memory we form, after a
certain lapse of time, of places where we lingered, often bears but a
faint resemblance to the impression received at the time; what in truth
may have been very moderate enjoyment, or enjoyment greatly disturbed by
inner or outer circumstances, shows in the distance as a keen delight, or
as deep, still happiness. On the other hand, if memory creates no
illusion, and the name of a certain place is associated with one of the
golden moments of life, it were rash to hope that another visit would
repeat the experience of a bygone day. For it was not merely the sights
that one beheld which were the cause of joy and peace; however lovely the
spot, however gracious the sky, these things external would not have
availed, but for contributory movements of mind and heart and blood, the
essentials of the man as then he was.
Whilst I was reading this afternoon my thoughts strayed, and I found
myself recalling a hillside in Suffolk, where, after a long walk I rested
drowsily one midsummer day twenty years ago. A great longing seized me;
I was tempted to set off at once, and find again that spot under the high
elm trees, where, as I smoked a delicious pipe, I heard about me the
crack, crack, crack of broom-pods bursting in the glorious heat of the
noontide sun. Had I acted upon the impulse, what chance was there of my
enjoying such another hour as that which my memory cherished? No, no; it
is not the _place_ that I remember; it is the time of life, the
circumstances, the mood, which at that moment fell so happily together.
Can I dream that a pipe smoked on that same hillside, under the same
glowing sky, would taste as it then did, or bring me the same solace?
Would the turf be so soft beneath me? Would the great elm-branches
temper so delightfully the noontide rays beating upon them? And, when
the hour of rest was over, should I spring to my feet as then I did,
eager to put forth my strength again? No, no; what I remember is just
one moment of my earlier life, linked by accident with that picture of
the Suffolk landscape. The place no longer exists; it never existed save
for me. For it is the mind which creates the world about us, and, even
though we stand side by side in the same meadow, my eyes will never see
what is beheld by yours, my heart will never stir to the emotions with
which yours is touched.