It is all so peaceful and soothing; as peaceful and as
soothing as the land through which you are
Gliding when once you
have left behind smoky London and its interminable environs; for
now you are in a land that was finished and plenished five hundred
years ago and since then has not been altered in any material
aspect whatsoever. Every blade of grass is in its right place;
every wayside shrub seemingly has been restrained and trained to
grow in exactly the right and the proper way. Streaming by your
car window goes a tastefully arranged succession of the thatched
cottages, the huddled little towns, the meandering brooks, the
ancient inns, the fine old country places, the high-hedged estates
of the landed gentry, with rose-covered lodges at the gates and
robust children in the doorways - just as you have always seen them
in the picture books. There are fields that are velvet lawns, and
lawns that are carpets of green cut-plush. England is the only
country I know of that lives up - exactly and precisely - to its
storybook descriptions and its storybook illustrations.
Eventually you come to your stopping point; at least you have
reason to believe it may be your stopping point. As well as you
may judge by the signs that plaster the front, the sides, and even
the top of the station, the place is either a beef extract or a
washing compound. Nor may you count on any travelers who may be
sharing your compartment with you to set you right by a timely
word or two.
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