72 AN AMERICAN FARMER IN ENGLAND. 



the talk is of " the weather and the crops." The maid leaves 

 the door open, so we can look into the kitchen, where a smart old 

 woman is ironing by a bright coal fire. Two little children 

 venture before us. I have just succeeded in coaxing the girl on 

 to my knee, as C. mentions that we are Americans. The old 

 woman lays down her iron and puts on her spectacles to look at 

 us. The stout man who had risen to take an observation of the 

 weather, seats himself again and calls for another mug and twist. 

 The landlord (a tall thin man, unfortunately) looks in and asks 

 how times go where we come from. Plenty of questions follow, 

 that show alike the interest and the ignorance of our companions 

 about America, it being confused apparently in 4heir minds with 

 Ireland, Guinea, and the poetical Indies. After a little straight- 

 ening out, and explanation of the distance to it, its climate and 

 civilized condition, they ask about the present crops, the price of 

 wheat, about rents, tithes, and taxes. In return, we get only 

 grumbling. "The country is ruined;" "things weren't so when 

 they were young as they be now ;" and so on, just as a company 

 of our tavern-lounging farmers would talk, except that every 

 complaint ends with blaming Free Trade. " Tree-trade hoye, 

 sirs Vree-trade be killing the varmers." 



We left them as soon as the shower slackened, but stopped 

 again immediately to look at the yew through the churchyard 

 gate. It was a very old and decrepit tree with dark and funer- 

 eal foliage the stiff trunk and branches of our red-cedar, with 

 the leaf of the hemlock, but more dark and glossy than either. 

 The walls of the church are low, but higher in one part than 

 another. The roof, which is slated, is high and steep. The 

 tower is square, with buttresses on the corners, on the tops of 

 which are quaint lions rampant. It is surmounted by a tall, 

 symmetrical spire solid stone to the ball, over which, as I am 

 the son of a Puritan, is a weather-cock, and not a cross. There 



