ours. The stairs do not creak under my step; I am waylaid by no unkindly
draught; I can open or close a window without muscle-ache. As to such
trifles as the tint and device of wall-paper, I confess my indifference;
be the walls only unobtrusive, and I am satisfied. The first thing in
one's home is comfort; let beauty of detail be added if one has the
means, the patience, the eye.

To me, this little book-room is beautiful, and chiefly because it is
home. Through the greater part of life I was homeless. Many places have
I inhabited, some which my soul loathed, and some which pleased me well;
but never till now with that sense of security which makes a home. At
any moment I might have been driven forth by evil hap, by nagging
necessity. For all that time did I say within myself: Some day,
perchance, I shall have a home; yet the "perchance" had more and more of
emphasis as life went on, and at the moment when fate was secretly
smiling on me, I had all but abandoned hope. I have my home at last.
When I place a new volume on my shelves, I say: Stand there whilst I have
eyes to see you; and a joyous tremor thrills me. This house is mine on a
lease of a score of years. So long I certainly shall not live; but, if I
did, even so long should I have the wherewithal to pay my rent and buy my
food.

I think with compassion of the unhappy mortals for whom no such sun will
ever rise. I should like to add to the Litany a new petition: "For all
inhabitants of great towns, and especially for all such as dwell in
lodgings, boarding-houses, flats, or any other sordid substitute for Home
which need or foolishness may have contrived."

In vain I have pondered the Stoic virtues. I know that it is folly to
fret about the spot of one's abode on this little earth.

All places that the eye of heaven visits
Are to the wise man ports and happy havens.

But I have always worshipped wisdom afar off. In the sonorous period of
the philosopher, in the golden measure of the poet, I find it of all
things lovely. To its possession I shall never attain. What will it
serve me to pretend a virtue of which I am incapable? To me the place
and manner of my abode is of supreme import; let it be confessed, and
there an end of it. I am no cosmopolite. Were I to think that I should
die away from England, the thought would be dreadful to me. And in
England, this is the dwelling of my choice; this is my home.

III.

I am no bota