LII
I found myself the other day in the neighbourhood of Wells. I had
hitherto rather deliberately avoided going there, because so many
people whose taste and judgment are wholly unreliable have told me that
I ought to see it. The instinct to disagree with the majority is a
noble one, and has perhaps effected more for humanity than any other
instinct; but it must be cautiously indulged in.
In this case I resisted the instinct to abstain from visiting Wells;
and I was glad that I did so, because, in spite of the fact that most
people consider Wells to be a very beautiful place, it is undoubtedly
true that it is most beautiful. Wells and Oxford on a large scale,
Burford and Chipping Campden on a small scale, are in my experience the
four most beautiful places in England, as far as buildings go. There
are other places which are full of beautiful buildings; but there is a
harmony about these four places which is a very rare and delightful
quality.
Wells, as a matter of fact, is almost impossibly beautiful, and
incredibly romantic. It is an almost perfectly mediaeval place, with
the enormous advantage that it is also old, a quality which we are apt
to forget that mediaeval places, when first built, did not possess. I
do not think that Wells, when first built, was probably more than just
a beautiful place. But it has now all grown old together, undisturbed,
unvisited.
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