The ways of such a road—when the June grass is high and in the sun it is invisible except for its blueness and its buttercups, and the chaffinch, the corn-bunting and yellowhammer, the sleepiest voiced birds, are most persistent—easily persuade the mind that it alone is travelling, travelling through an ideal country, belonging to itself and beyond the power of the world to destroy. The few people whom we see, the mower, the man hoeing his onion-bed in a spare half-hour at mid-day, the children playing “Jar-jar-winkle” against a wall, the women hanging out clothes,—these the very loneliness of the road has prepared us for turning into creatures of dream; it costs an effort to pass the time of day with them, and they being equally unused to strange faces are not loquacious, and so the moment they are passed, they are no more real than the men and women of pastoral:—
“He leads his Wench a Country Horn-pipe Round,
About a May-pole on a Holy-day;
Kissing his lovely Lasse (with Garlands Crownd)
With whooping heigh-ho singing Care away;
Thus doth he passe the merry month of May:
And all th’ yere after in delight and joy,
(Scorning a King) he cares for no annoy.”
The most credible inhabitants are Mertilla, Florimel, Corin, Amaryllis, Dorilus, Doron, Daphnis, Silvia and Aminta, and shepherds singing to their flocks—
“Lays of sweet love and youth’s delightful heat.”