Outside London 



He had pitched his easel where two hedges formed 

 an angle, and one of them was full of oak-trees. 

 The hedge was singularly full of " bits " bryony, 

 tangles of grasses, berries, boughs half -tinted and 

 boughs green, hung as it were with pictures like the 

 wall of a room. Standing as near as I could without 

 disturbing him, I found that the subject of his canvas 

 was none of these. It was that old stale and dull 

 device of a rustic bridge spanning a shallow stream 

 crossing a lane. Some figure stood on the bridge 

 the old, old trick. He was filling up the hedge of the 

 lane with trees from the hedge, and they were cleverly 

 executed. But why drag them into this fusty scheme, 

 which has appeared in every child's sketch-book for 

 fifty years ? Why not have simply painted the beau- 

 tiful hedge at hand, purely and simply, a hedge hung 

 with pictures for any one to copy ? The field in which 

 he had pitched his easel is full of fine trees and good 

 " effects." But no; we must have the ancient and 

 effete old story. This is not all the artist's fault, 

 because he must in many cases paint what he can sell; 

 and if his public will only buy effete old stories, he 

 cannot help it. Still, I think if a painter did paint 

 that hedge in its fulness of beauty, just simply as it 

 stands in the mellow autumn light, it would win 

 approval of the best people, and that ultimately, a 

 succession of such work would pay. 



The clover was dying down, and the plough would 

 soon be among it the earth was visible in patches. 

 Out in one of these bare patches there was a young 

 mouse, so chilled by the past night that his dull senses 

 did not appear conscious of my presence. He had crept 

 out on the bare earth evidently to feel the warmth 

 of the sun, almost the last hour he would enjoy. 

 He looked about for food, but found none; his short 

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