beloved daughter to Henry’s great chancellor, Sir Thomas More, who had just been beheaded by the king as a traitor – though in truth as another martyr. Margaret came bearing the head of her father as a precious relic, and she settled in a house whose Tudor doorway still remains opposite St. Dunstan’s church. When she died she was buried in the family vault of the Ropers, and with her was buried her father’s head, thus making her tomb the shrine of another blissful martyr, and thus filling up elsewhere the empty space in the cathedral.
Here it was, in this little old church of St. Dunstan’s, that I felt moved by a much deeper feeling than I had been in the great cathedral. I felt that the splendour of religious faith had, like the chariot of the Lord in Ezekiel’s vision, passed from the greater building, which had become too pompous for its precious possession, to dwell in this smaller, lowlier one. The glory of God, I realized, is too great for human splendour. For its proper setting it needs a simple, homely place like this little church, which echoes not to the aimless chatter of many sight-seers but to the silent prayer of a few pilgrims.
Three English Homes
On the whole there is something homely about the Southern counties of England, no less than about the city of Canterbury. They breathe a spirit of quiet civilization in contrast to the wilder counties of the North. Those nearer London are in fact dignified by the name of “the home counties”, though London herself, that vast metropolis of the West, is anything but homely. My own conception of “home” is something in between the noisy bustle of London and the empty spaces of the North. It comes to a satisfied rest in the region South of the Thames and East of Salisbury Plain.
In this conception of mine there is, I admit, something subjective. Not that I feel a whit ashamed of it. After all, what more subjective conception can there be than that of “home”? My own home was to the South-West of London, in the suburb of Wimbledon. So whenever we wanted to go on a day’s excursion or a longer holiday in the summer, our thoughts naturally moved Southwards, especially to that beautiful range of Sussex hills called the South Downs. This is the region that was most familiar to me from the days of my boyhood, and these are accordingly the limits of what I regard as “home”.
Still, my conception isn’t entirely subjective. Or if it is subjective, it is at least shared by a large number of Englishmen, those who live, as I did in my boyhood, in and around London. They may not comprise the absolute majority of the population of England, but they are traditionally the most vocal and the most intellectual – I don’t say “the most intelligent” – part of the community. In a word, they are the mouth and the mind of England, and it is they, more than any others, who are responsible for having developed the meaning and connotations of the word “home”. So the associations they have imparted to this word, however subjective they may be, cannot be overlooked in any consideration of its objective meaning.
These “home counties” are, moreover, literally strewn with the homes of the most vocal and most intellectual – though, I repeat, not the most intelligent – members of English society, I mean the authors. For a time they may have been obliged to reside in London, in order to establish necessary business contacts and their reputation as authors. But once they have accomplished this purpose, it looks as if their dearest aim in life has been to make a home for themselves away from London, yet with reasonably convenient access to the capital. With this aim in view they have invariably turned their eyes to the “home counties”.
For example, we have the homes of Sir Harold Nicholson and his wife Victoria Sackville-West at Sissinghurst in “the garden of England”, Kent, of George Meredith at the foot of Box Hill on the North Downs, of Rudyard Kipling at Bateman’s, a fine country house in Sussex just behind the South Downs, of Henry James in the picturesque coastal town of Rye, of Hilaire Belloc near Horsham on the border of Surrey and Sussex, and of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, better known for his creation of Sherlock Holmes, near the Devil’s Punchbowl in Surrey. It is a line that stretches out, as it were, “to the crack of doom”.
Since the deaths of their owners many of these houses have been opened to the public as museums in memory of the great man or woman. Nor have the public been slow in flocking to the houses, to set eyes on the places which gave birth to such and such a poem or novel. They gaze in wonder at the desk in the great man’s study, at his favourite pipe preserved with reverent care for posterity, and at the books surrounding the desk and the pipe. They troop through his dining-room and his kitchen, his drawing-room and his bed-room, and they duly inscribe their names in the visitors’ book at the entrance. Also at the entrance they can buy postcards, transparencies, and other souvenirs on sale there, to send by mail or to show their friends and acquaintances on their return home.
Such are the pilgrims of the modern world. Gone are the religious pilgrims of Chaucer’s time, who lightened their journey with merry tales before changing to a canter and a serious mood on catching sight of Bell Harry and the West Gate of Canterbury. In their place come the more solemn visitors from America, and increasingly from Japan, in search of the culture which they find enshrined in the houses of these great authors. They come not on foot or on horseback, as did the mediaeval pilgrims, but mostly in coaches, which disgorge crowds of sight-seers at a time. The houses are alternately filled and emptied, like the beatings of a human heart, as the coaches arrive and depart one after another.
Now let me take three such houses, beginning with the refined eighteenth-century house of Henry James in Rye. Unfortunately, when I went there I didn’t have so much time at my disposal, and I had to content myself with a superficial survey of its exterior. The house stood at the top of a picturesque old cobbled street, named Mermaid Street. Halfway up there was an old Tudor inn named the Mermaid Tavern, looking even more picturesque. Not surprisingly, artists come here in great numbers, and this particular group of buildings may well be one of the most painted scenes in England. It was no doubt his own artistic instincts that drew Henry James to this place and prompted him to settle in Lamb House (nothing to do with Charles or Mary Lamb) at the top of the street.
His house is quite the most distinguished building in the whole of Rye. I have no doubt but that the interior would have proved even more distinguished, in keeping with the known temperament of its occupant. But alas, I wasn’t to enjoy the distinction of entering. I suspect it isn’t even open to the public, unlike most of the other houses I have mentioned. Just outside the door the fact that “Henry James lived here” is proclaimed to the world by a blue plaque on the red-brick wall. The same wall went on to form a high garden-wall, preventing the outside world from looking into the garden or at the summer-house where the author is said to have engaged in his literary activities – in fine weather.
A less distinguished but more hospitable home I found further to the West, in the little village of Chawton, near Winchester. Here was the home of Jane Austen for the better part of her life, and here she composed her famous novels in quiet seclusion from the busy world. But no longer, I am afraid, is her home characterized by such quiet seclusion. Unlike Lamb House, with its peaceful, artistic surroundings in old-world Rye, Jane Austen’s house – her father’s parsonage during her lifetime – stands at the bend of the busy road from London to Winchester.
This house, like that of Henry James, is an eighteenth-century building in neat red-brick with its doors and windows painted appropriately white. But it was in a plainer, less distinguished style, in keeping – though she had little say in the matter – with the plain taste of the author, who might well have given rise to the saying, “Plain Jane and no nonsense.” Inside – for here I was allowed to enter, for a fee – I found the whole house filled with the sweet air of domesticity. “Comforting smell breathed at very entering” is the way the Victorian poet Gerard Hopkins describes another such house in this part of the world.
Here was no study with its sacred desk and library of carefully arranged volumes, with which authors erect fortifications between themselves and the outside world. Only in the corner of the dining-room there was a small table on which Jane would write while the other members of the family were talking or otherwise occupying themselves. Before this table I found it easy to conjure up a charming domestic scene in my imagination. No wonder, I reflected, there is so much humanity and humour – not to mention humility as the third of what I like to call “the three hums” – in Jane