To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society may also beattributed the rural feeling that runs through British literature; thefrequent use of illustrations from rural life; those incomparabledescriptions of nature that abound in the British poets, that havecontinued down from "the Flower and the Leaf" of Chaucer, and havebrought into our closets all the freshness and fragrance of the dewylandscape. The pastoral writers of other countries appear as if theyhad paid nature an occasional visit, and become acquainted with hergeneral charms; but the British poets have lived and revelled withher- they have wooed her in her most secret haunts- they havewatched her minutest caprices. A spray could not tremble in thebreeze- a leaf could not rustle to the ground- a diamond drop couldnot patter in the stream- a fragrance could not exhale from the humbleviolet, nor a daisy unfold its crimson tints to the morning, but ithas been noticed by these impassioned and delicate observers, andwrought up into some beautiful morality.
The effect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural occupationshas been wonderful on the face of the country. A great part of theisland is rather level, and would be monotonous, were it not for thecharms of culture: but it is studded and gemmed, as it were, withcastles and palaces, and embroidered with parks and gardens. It doesnot abound in grand and sublime prospects, but rather in little homescenes of rural repose and sheltered quiet. Every antique farm-houseand moss-grown cottage is a picture: and as the roads arecontinually winding, and the view is shut in by groves and hedges, theeye is delighted by a continual succession of small landscapes ofcaptivating loveliness.
The great charm, however, of English scenery is the moral feelingthat seems to pervade it. It is associated in the mind with ideas oforder, of quiet, of sober well-established principles, of hoaryusage and reverend custom. Every thing seems to be the growth ofages of regular and peaceful existence. The old church of remotearchitecture, with its low massive portal; its gothic tower; itswindows rich with tracery and painted glass, in scrupulouspreservation; its stately monuments of warriors and worthies of theolden time, ancestors of the present lords of the soil its tombstones,recording successive generations of sturdy yeomanry, whose progenystill plough the same fields, and kneel at the same altar- theparsonage, a quaint irregular pile, partly antiquated, but repairedand altered in the tastes of various ages and occupants- the stile andfootpath leading from the church-yard, across pleasant fields, andalong shady hedge-rows, according to an immemorial right of way- theneighboring village, with its venerable cottages, its public greensheltered by trees, under which the forefathers of the present racehave sported- the antique family mansion, standing apart in somelittle rural domain, but looking down with a protecting air on thesurrounding scene: all these common features of English landscapeevince a calm and settled security, and hereditary transmission ofhomebred virtues and local attachments, that speak deeply andtouchingly for the moral character of the nation.
It is a pleasing sight of a Sunday morning, when the bell is sendingits sober melody across the quiet fields, to behold the peasantry intheir best finery, with ruddy faces and modest cheerfulness, throngingtranquilly along the green lanes to church; but it is still morepleasing to see them in the evenings, gathering about their cottagedoors, and appearing to exult in the humble comforts andembellishments which their own hands have spread around them.
It is this sweet home-feeling, this settled repose of affection inthe domestic scene, that is, after all, the parent of the steadiestvirtues and purest enjoyments; and I cannot close these desultoryremarks better, than by quoting the words of a modern English poet,who has depicted it with remarkable felicity:
Through each gradation, from the castled hall,The city dome, the villa crown'd with shade,But chief from modest mansions numberless,In town or hamlet, shelt'ring middle life,Down to the cottaged vale, and straw roof'd shed;This western isle hath long been famed for scenesWhere bliss domestic finds a dwelling-place;Domestic bliss, that, like a harmless dove,(Honor and sweet endearment keeping guard,)Can centre in a little quiet nest
All that desire would fly for through the earth;That can, the world eluding, be itselfA world enjoy'd; that wants no witnesses
But its own sharers, and approving heaven;That, like a flower deep hid in rocky cleft,Smiles, though 'tis looking only at the sky.** From a Poem on the death of the Princess Charlotte, by theReverend Rann Kennedy, A.M.
THE END
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1819-20