I will take an example from my own experience, and in a manner at my own expense.
If I have a native heath it is certainly Kensington High Street, off which stands the house of my childhood.

I grew up in that thorough-fare which Mr.Max Beerbohm, with his usual easy exactitude of phrase, has described as "dapper, with a leaning to the fine arts." Dapper was never perhaps a descriptive term for myself; but it is quite true that I owe a certain taste for the arts to the sort of people among whom I was brought up.

It is also true that such a taste, in various forms and degrees, was fairly common in the world which may be symbolised as Kensington High Street.
And whether or no it is a tribute, it is certainly a truth that most people with an artistic turn in Kensington High Street would have been very much shocked, in their sense of propriety, if they had seen the popular shrines of Jerusalem; the sham gold, the garish colours, the fantastic tales and the feverish tumult.

But what I want such people to do, and what they never do, is to turn this truth round.
I want them to imagine, not a Kensington aesthete walking down David Street to the Holy Sepulchre, but a Greek monk or a Russian pilgrim walking down Kensington High Street to Kensington Gardens.
I will not insist here on all the hundred plagues of plutocracy that would really surprise such a Christian peasant; especially that curse of an irreligious society (unknown in religious societies, Moslem as well as Christian) the detestable denial of all dignity to the poor.

I am not speaking now of moral but of artistic things; of the concrete arts and crafts used in popular worship.
Well, my imaginary pilgrim would walk past Kensington Gardens till his sight was blasted by a prodigy.