AN OCTOBEE ABKOAD 139 



sheep in the fields, the superb husbandry, the rich 

 mellow soil, the drainage, the hedges, — in the in- 

 conspicuousness of any given feature, and the mel- 

 low tone and homely sincerity of all; now dwelling 

 fondly upon the groups of neatly modeled stacks, 

 then upon the field occupations, the gathering of 

 turnips and cabbages, or the digging of potatoes, — 

 how I longed to turn up the historic soil, into which 

 had passed the sweat and virtue of so many genera- 

 tions, with my own spade, — then upon the quaint, 

 old, thatched houses, or the cluster of tiled roofs, 

 then catching at a church spire across a meadow 

 (and it is all meadow), or at the remains of tower or 

 wall overrun with ivy. 



Here, something almost human looks out at you 

 from the landscape; Nature here has been so long 

 under the dominion of man, has been taken up and 

 laid down by him so many times, worked over and 

 over with his hands, fed and fattened by his toil 

 and industry, and, on the whole, has proved herself 

 so willing and tractable, that she has taken on some- 

 thing of his image, and seems to radiate his pres- 

 ence. She is completely domesticated, and no doubt 

 loves the titivation of the harrow and plow. The 

 fields look half conscious; and if ever the cattle 

 have "great and tranquil thoughts," as Emerson 

 suggests they do, it must be when lying upon these 

 lawns and meadows. I noticed that the trees, the 

 oaks and elms, looked like fruit-trees, or as if they 

 had felt the humanizing influences of so many gen- 

 erations of men, and were betaking themselves from 



