8 FRESH FIELDS 



this fragrant Old World has so dominated the affec- 

 tions and the imaginations of our artists and poets: 

 it is saturated with human qualities; it is unctuous 

 with the ripeness of ages, the very marrowfat of 

 time. 



II 



I had come to Great Britain less to see the noted 

 sights and places than to observe the general face 

 of nature. I wanted to steep myself long and well 

 in that mellow, benign landscape, and put to further 

 tests the impressions I had got of it during a hasty 

 visit one autumn, eleven years before. Hence I 

 was mainly intent on roaming about the country, it 

 mattered little where. Like an attic stored with 

 relics and heirlooms, there is no place in England 

 where you cannot instantly turn from nature to 

 scenes and places of deep historical or legendary or 

 artistic interest. 



My journal of travel is a brief one, and keeps to 

 a few of the main lines. After spending a couple 

 of days in Glasgow, we went down to Alloway, in 

 Burns's country, and had our first taste of the 

 beauty and sweetness of rural Britain, and of the 

 privacy and comfort of a little Scotch inn. The 

 weather was exceptionally fair, and the mellow 

 Ayrshire landscape, threaded by the Doon, a per- 

 petual delight. Thence we went north on a short 

 tour through the Highlands, — up Loch Lomond, 

 down Loch Katrine, and through the Trosachs to 

 Callander, and thence to Stirling and Edinburgh. 

 After a few days in the Scotch capital we set out 



