48 



CHRONICLES OF A CLAY FARM. 



a running nest of robbers, like earth-works of the 

 enemy, through the fair fields of human skill and 

 labour, and sacrifice at once the food of man and the 

 profit of the grower. 



It is the eye of Prejudice, not of Taste that sees 

 Beauty absent from Utility. Even in the flattest 

 districts, even upon 'the Clay Farm' itself, there is 

 an undulating outline, a morsel of the varied profile 

 of our mother earth which never revealed itself to the 

 eye until those impediments were abolished, which 

 like Ignorance make us mistake for a dull straight 

 line that which is only a part of THE GREAT CIRCLE. 



".Down went the Fences, notwithstanding." 



