But the word Jerusalem will strike twenty men twentyfold more poignantly: for to each it names the city familiar in spirit to his parents when they knelt, and to their fathers before them: not only the city which was his nursery and yet lay just beyond the landscape seen from its window; its connotation includes not only what the word 'Rome' has meant, and ever must mean, to thousands on thousands setting eyes for the first time on _The City_: but it holds, too, some hint of the New Jerusalem, the city of twelve gates before the vision of which St John fell prone: Ah, my sweet home, Hierusalem, Would God I were in thee! Thy Gardens and thy gallant walks Continually are green: There grows such sweet and pleasant flowers As nowhere else are seen. Quite through the streets with pleasant sound The flood of Life doth flow; Upon whose banks on every side The wood of Life doth grow.... Our Lady sings Magnificat With tones surpassing sweet: And all the virgins bear their part, Sitting about her feet. Hierusalem, my happy home, Would God I were in thee! Would God my woes were at an end, Thy joys that I might see! You cannot (I say) get away from these connotations accreted through your own memories and your fathers'; as neither can you be sure of getting free of any great literature in any tongue, once it has been written. Let me quote you a passage from Cardinal Newman [he is addressing the undergraduates of the Catholic University of Dublin]: How real a creation, how _sui generis,_ is the style of Shakespeare, or of the Protestant Bible and Prayer Book, or of Swift, or of Pope, or of Gibbon, or of Johnson! [I pause to mark how just this man can be to his great enemies. Pope was a Roman Catholic, you will remember; but Gibbon was an infidel.] Even were the subject-matter without meaning, though in truth the style cannot really be abstracted from the sense, still the style would, on _that_ supposition, remain as perfect and original a work as Euclid's "Elements" or a symphony of Beethoven.