value of old things, the high mission of old trees, the harmonious comprehensiveness of tradition, and the legitimacy of esteem for everything that is strong enough to preserve itself for ages. It seems that in England there are many such ancient trees; in nearly everything that is met with here, in the clubs, in the literature, in the homes, you can somehow feel the timber and foliage of aged, venerable, and fearfully solid trees. As a matter of fact, nothing conspicuously new can be seen here—only the Tube is new, and perhaps that is why it is so ugly. But old trees and old things contain imps, eccentric and jocular sprites: the English also contain pixies. They are enormously solemn, solid and venerable; suddenly there is a sort of rumbling within them, they make a grotesque remark, a fork of pixie-like humour flies out of them, and once more they have the solemn appearance of an old leather armchair.
I do not know why, but this sober England strikes me as the most fairylike and romantic
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