England is a country whose every scene is in
miniature.[2] Its green valleys are not wide; its dewy hills are not
high; its forests are of no extent, or, rather, it has nothing that can
pretend to a more sounding title than that of "wood." Its champaigns are
minutely checkered into fields; we can never see far at a time; and
there is a sense of something inexpressible, except by the truly English
word "snug," in every quiet nook and sheltered lane. The English
cottage, therefore, is equally small, equally sheltered, equally
invisible at a distance.
[Footnote 2: Compare with this chapter, _Modern Painters_, vol. iv.
chap. 1.]
15. But France is a country on a large scale. Low, but long, hills sweep
away for miles into vast uninterrupted champaigns; immense forests
shadow the country for hundreds of square miles, without once letting
through the light of day; its pastures and arable land are divided on
the same scale; there are no fences; we can hardly place ourselves in
any spot where we shall not see for leagues around; and there is a kind
of comfortless sublimity in the size of every scene. The French cottage,
therefore, is on the same scale, equally large and desolate looking;
but we shall see, presently, that it can arouse feelings which, though
they cannot be said to give it sublimity, yet are of a higher order than
any which can be awakened at the sight of the English cottage.
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