There Is Something That Distinguishes The Rugged From The Gracious In
Landscape, And In Our Europe This Something Corresponds To The Use And
Presence Of Men, Especially In Mountainous Places.
For men's habits
and civilization fill the valleys and wash up the base of the hills,
making, as it were, a tide mark.
Into this zone I had already passed.
The turf was trodden fine, and was set firm as it can only become by
thousands of years of pasturing. The moisture that oozed out of the
earth was not the random bog of the high places but a human spring,
caught in a stone trough. Attention had been given to the trees.
Below me stood a wall, which, though rough, was not the haphazard
thing men pile up in the last recesses of the hills, but formed of
chosen stones, and these bound together with mortar. On my right was
a deep little dale with children playing in it - and this' I afterwards
learned was called a 'combe': delightful memory! All our deeper
hollows are called the same at home, and even the Welsh have the word,
but they spell it _cwm_; it is their mountain way. Well, as I was
saying, everything surrounding me was domestic and grateful, and I was
therefore in a mood for charity and companionship when I came down the
last dip and entered Glovelier. But Glovelier is a place of no
excellence whatever, and if the thought did not seem extravagant I
should be for putting it to the sword and burning it all down.
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