In descending the Cotswold hills, I caught, here and there, some enchanting views; little churches perched upon the brows of hillocks, or half buried in the vales; or farm-houses and cottages not less beautifully situated; or the seats of country squires and other gentry, embosomed amid trees, or lifting their chimnies above a few lordly elms. But the charm of all was yet reserved for me; and just after sunset, as we wound around a broad hillside, I came upon a scene, at which, it seemed to me, I might have gazed all my life without weariness or satiety. ‘Stop—stop! my dear V——, where are you driving?’ said I, beseeching him to rein up, and let me look for a few minutes on as perfect a picture of English scenery as ever Gainsborough portrayed, all spread before us, without a blemish; its lights and shadows just as an artist would have them; and yet vivid with nature, beyond all that an artist could create. The time, remember, was evening, in one of its sweetest effects of sky and atmosphere, cool and calm; the lighter landscape deeply green; the shadows brown and dying into night; the water shining here like burnished steel, and there lying in shade, as darkly liquid as a dark eye in female beauty. The view was a narrow dell, just below the road, in which stood an old manor house, ivied to its chimney tops, and encircled by a moat. Smoke of the most delicate blue was floating thinly from its chimnies, into the clear air; and just at hand was peeping, from a dense growth of trees, the belfry of a very tiny Church, which seemed to be there only on purpose to complete the picture. Cattle were grazing in the meads, and under a vast and sombre yew tree, sat a group of farm-servants, shearing the largest sheep of the flock, the wool flaking off upon the green grass, like driven snow. While we gazed on this living picture, with mute pleasure, the soft notes of a bird added sweet sounds to the enchantment of sight, and I sat, as in a spell, without speaking a word. My friend V—— himself, who had been laughing at me all day, for my enjoyment of what to him were common and unsuggestive objects, fairly gave up at this point, and owned it was a sight to make one in love with life. Even now I have lying before me a letter in which he refers to this view of “the sheep-shearing,” and concludes by the pathetic announcement that the horse to which we were indebted for that day’s progress, has since been sold to a coach proprietor, and now runs leader from Evesham to Stratford. “Little thinks he,” continues the letter, “as the lash of the cruel Jehu touches his flank, of the classic ground he travels; little recks he of Harry of Winchester, Simon de Montfort, or our friend Rupert—for Rupert had a desperate struggle thereabouts—or yet of Queen Bess, as he enters Bedford, in Warwickshire, or even of the immortal Will, as he halts at Stratford.”