MELLOW ENGLAND. 165 



paused on my way to France. The prospect of hear- 

 ing one or two of the classical birds of the old world 

 had not been the least of the attractions of my visit, 

 though I knew the chances were against me so late in 

 the season, and I have to thank my good genius for 

 guiding me to the right place at the right time. To 

 get out of London was delight enough, and then to 

 find myself quite unexpectedly on these soft rolling 

 hills, of a mild October day, in full sight of the sea, 

 with the larks pouring out their gladness overhead, was 

 to me good fortune indeed. 



The South Downs form a very remarkable feature 

 of this part of England, and are totally unlike any 

 other landscape I ever saw. I believe it is Huxley 

 who applies to them the epithet of muttony », which they 

 certainly deserve, for they are like the backs of im- 

 mense sheep, smooth, and round, and fat — so smooth 

 indeed, that the eye can hardly find a place to take 

 hold of, not a tree, or bush, or fence, or house, or rock, 

 or stone, or other object, for miles and miles, save here 

 and there a group of straw-capped stacks, or a flock of 

 sheep crawling slowly over them, attended by a shep- 

 herd and dog, and the only lines visible, those which 

 bound the squares where different crops had been 

 gathered. The soil was rich and mellow, like a gar- 

 den — hills of chalk with a pellicle of black loam. 



These hills stretch a great distance along the coast, 

 and are cut squarely off by the sea, presenting on this 

 side a chain of white chalk cliffs suggesting the old 

 Latin name of this land, Albion. 



