which is near. We are not readily susceptible to the impressions of the particular place in which we live, because habit has so accustomed us to the sights that surround us that we have ceased to ask ourselves any questions about their meaning. I remember hearing Mr. Ruskin say that he supposed that there was not one in every thousand of those who passed by the banqueting hall of Whitehall, who saw that its style of architecture was different from that of the buildings which surrounded it. I presume that this is absolutely true, that of the masses of people who pass along the streets very few notice what is about them, unless it be the falling of a cab-horse or some other similar incident; they feel little curiosity with regard to the buildings they pass.
People are constantly declaring that they are worn out and in need of a holiday; they speak in rhapsodical language of the delights of going abroad, because they feel that, when they travel, one of the conditions under which they have taken their tourist tickets is that they should begin to open their eyes. But the question I would ask them is: "Why do you not begin to open your eyes at home?" There is far more to be seen in London than in Paris, and yet how many Londoners there are who could not pass an examination on London, but who would succeed if Paris were the subject. How many people will rave about Swiss scenery or Italian scenery, because it is the right thing to do; and how very few are aware of the beauties of English scenery. And so in every other way. It seems as if our minds somehow or other became stupefied by our immediate surround-
