So humble and shabby it is you might pass it by with no more notice
than you would pass a humble and shabby wayfarer. Its age and
picturesqueness do not arrest the eye; for it isn't the sort of old
house which by quaint lines and old-world atmosphere tempt the average
artist or lure the casual poet to its praise. It is just a little old
wooden building of another day, where people of modest means were wont
to live.
The caretaker there probably does not know anything about the august
memory that with him inhabits the dilapidated rooms. He doubtless
fails to appreciate the honour of placing his hand upon the selfsame
polished mahogany stair rail which our immortal "infidel's" hand once
pressed, or the rare distinction of reading his evening paper at the
selfsame window where, with his head upon his hand, that Other was
wont to read too, once upon a time.
Ugly, dingy rooms they are in that house, but glorified by
association. There is, incidentally, a mantelpiece which anyone might
envy, though now buried in barbarian paint.
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