50 FRESH FIELDS 



tinkling of the brook, or the voices of innocent, 

 primeval things." "I have had days as clear as 

 Italy (as in this Irving case) ; days moist and drip- 

 ping, overhung with the infinite of silent gray, 

 and perhaps the latter were the preferable, in cer- 

 tain moods. You had the world and its waste 

 imbroglios of joy and woe, of light and darkness, 

 to yourself alone. You could strip barefoot, if it 

 suited better; carry shoes and socks over shoulder, 

 hung on your stick; clean shirt and comb were in 

 your pocket; omnia mea mecum porto. You lodged 

 with shepherds, who had clean, solid cottages; 

 wholesome eggs, milk, oatmeal porridge, clean blan- 

 kets to their beds, and a great deal of human sense 

 and unadulterated natural politeness." 



But how can one walk a hundred miles in cool 

 blood without a companion, especially when the 

 trains run every hour, and he has a surplus sover- 

 eign in his pocket? One saves time and consults 

 his ease by riding, but he thereby misses the real 

 savor of the land. And the roads of this compact 

 little kingdom are so inviting, like a hard, smooth 

 surface covered with sand-paper! How easily the 

 foot puts them behind it! And the summer wea- 

 ther, what a fresh under-stratum the air has even 

 on the warmest days! Every breath one draws has 

 a cool, invigorating core to it, as if there might be 

 some unmelted, or just melted, frost not far off. 



But as we did not walk, there was satisfaction in 

 knowing that the engine which took our train down 

 from Edinburgh was named Thomas Carlyle. The 



