On an exquisite morning in June I found myself climbing the long chalk
hills that lie northward of the Thames valley. At every step the air
became more pure and sparkling; and while in the hazy lowlands not a
leaf stirred, here a brisk and gusty breeze was blowing. The road ran
through high chalk banks, like a railway cutting, and I have since
found that Roman soldiers used it in the days of Caesar. At the height
of three hundred feet authentic forest scenery began. Here the elms
ceased, and enormous woods of beech took their place. The turf was of
the greenest, the solitude intense, the air exhilarating; and never had
I so admired the lace-like delicacy of foliage which distinguishes the
beech, for never had I seen it in such mass or such perfection. The
house I sought stood at fully eight hundred feet above sea-level, on a
carpet of soft turf, round which the forest rose like a wall. Never
did place look so sweetly habitable; it was a kind of green hermitage
in the woods, inimitably quiet, warmed by clearest sunlight, cooled by
freshest winds. Here, said I, at last is my much sought El Dorado; nor
did the cottage, when I came to it, belie my hopes. It was a true
woodland cottage, an intimate part and parcel of the scenery. It had
been recently inhabited by a man of letters, a poet and a dreamer; and
a fitter spot to dream in eye never rested on.

My enthusiasm rose as I drew nearer to it, There was a warm, homely
compactness about it, as of a nest among the trees. The forest turf
came to the very gate; a young orchard of five hundred trees lay to the
southward of the house, a green paddock to the northward; and, as my
advertisement informed me, the entire price of this eligible freehold
property was five hundred pounds! Why, then, was its possessor so
eager to be quit of it? I walked round the house, went through its
rooms, took the view from various windows, already treating it as mine,