SELBORNE REVISITED 



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Letters, who love the memory of Gilbert White, and 

 regard the spot where he was born, to which he was 

 so deeply attached, where his ashes lie, as almost a 

 sacred place. It is but natural that some of these, who 

 are the true and only Selbornians, albeit they may not 

 call themselves by a name which has been filched from 

 them, should have given an account of a first visit, their 

 impression of a spot familiar in description but never 



realised until seen, and of its effect on the mind. But 

 no one, so far as I know, has told of a second or of any 

 subsequent visit. There is a good reason for this, for 

 though the place is in itself beautiful and never loses its 

 charm, it is impossible for any one to recover the feeling 

 experienced on a first sight. If I, unlike others, write 

 of Selborne revisited, it is not because there is anything 



fresh to say of an old, vanished emotion, a feeling which 



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