The great charm， however， of English scenery is the moral feeling that seems to pervade it. It is as sociated in the mind with ideas of order， of quiet， of sober， well-established principles， of hoary usage and reverend custom. Every thing seems to be the growth of ages of regular and peaceful existence. The old church of remote architecture， with its low massive portal； its Gothic tower； its windows rich with tracery and painted glass； its stately monuments of warriors and worthies of the olden time， ancestors of the present lords of the soil； its tombstones， recording successive generations of sturdy yeomanry， whose progeny still plough the same fields， and kneel at the same altar. —The parsonage， a quaint irregular pile， partly antiquated， but repaired and altered in the tastes of various ages and occupants—the stile and footpath leading from the churchyard， across pleasant fields， and along shady hedgerows， according to an immemorable right of way—the neighbouring village， with its venerable cottages， its public green sheltered by trees， under which the forefathers of the present race have sported—the antique family mansion， standing apart in some little rural domain， but looking down with a protecting air on the surrounding scene； mall these common features of English landscape evince a calm and settled security， an hereditarytransmission of home-bred virtues and local attachments， that speak deeply and touchingly for the moral character of the nation.
It is a pleasing sight on a Sunday morning， when the bell is sending its sober melody across tbe quiet fields， to behold the peasantry in their best finery， with ruddy faces and modest cheerfulness， thronging tranquilly along the green lanes to church； but it is still more pleasing to see them in the evenings， gathering about their cottage doors， and appearing to exult in the humble comforts and embellishments which their own hands have spread around them.
It is this sweet home-feeling， this settled repose of affection in the domestic scene， that is， after all， the parent of the steadiest virtues and purest enjoyments； and I cannot close these desultory remarks 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 withshade，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 scenes Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling-place： Domestic bliss， that， like a harmless dove， （Honour and sweet endearment keeping guard，） Can centre in a little quiet nestAll 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’t is looking only at the sky.”
15
Old China
古瓷器
I have an almost feminine partiality for old china. When I go to see any great house， I inquire for the chinacloset， and next for the picture gallery. I cannot defend the order of preference， but by saying， that we have all some taste or other， of too ancient a date to admit of our remembering distinctly that it was an acquired one. I can call to mind the first play， and the first exhibition， that I was taken to； but I am not conscious of a time when china jars and saucers were introduced into my imagination.
I had no repugnance then—why should I now have？ —to those little， lawless， azure-tinctured grotesques that， under the notion of men and women， float about， uncircumscribed by any element， in that world before perspective—a china teacup.
I like to see my old friends—whom distance cannot diminish—figuring up in the air （so they appear to our optics）， yet on terra firma still，—for so we must in courtesy interpret that speck of deeper blue，—which the decorous artist， to prevent absurdity， had made to spring up beneath their sandals.
I love the men with women’s faces， and the women， if possible， with still more womanish expressions.
Here is a young and courtly Mandarin， handing tea to a lady from a salver—two miles off. See how distance seems to set off respect！ And here the same lady， or another—for likeness is identity on teacups—is stepping into a little fairy boat， moored on the hither side of this calm garden river， with a dainty mincing foot， which in a right angle of incidence （as anglesgo in our world） must infallibly land her in the midst of a flowery mead— a furlong off on the other side of the same strange stream！
Farther on if far or near can be predicated of their world—see horses， trees， pagodas， dancing the hays.
Here—a cow and rabbit couchant， and coextensive， —so objects show， seen through the lucid atmosphere of fine Cathay.
I was pointing out to my cousin last evening， over our Hyson （which we are old-fashioned enough to drink unmixed stilI of an afternoon）， some of these speciosa miracula upon a set of extraordinary old blue china （a recent purchase） which we were now for the first time using； and could not help remarking， how favorable circumstances had been to us of late years， that we could afford to please the eye sometimes with trifles of this sort—when a passing sentiment seemed to overshade the brows of my compan—ion. I am quick at detecting these summer clouds in Bridget.