Turning again up the hill, we find ourselves on that peculiar charm of
English scenery, a green common, divided by the road; the right side
fringed by hedge-rows and trees, with cottages and farm-houses
irregularly placed, and terminated by a double avenue of noble oaks: the
left, prettier still, dappled by bright pools of water, and islands of
cottages and cottage-gardens, and sinking gradually down to corn-fields
and meadows, and an old farm-house with pointed roofs and clustered
chimneys looking out from its blooming orchard, and backed by woody
hills. The common itself is the prettiest part of the prospect, half
covered with low furze, whose golden blossoms reflect so intensely the
last beams of the setting sun, and alive with cows and sheep, and two
sets of cricketers: one of young men, surrounded with spectators—some
standing, some stretched on the grass, all taking a delightful interest
in the game: the other a group of little boys at an humble distance, for
whom even cricket is scarcely lively enough, shouting, leaping, and
enjoying themselves to their hearts’ content.