Among the few features of agricultural England which retain an
appearance but little modified by the lapse of centuries may be
reckoned the high, grassy, and furzy downs, coombs, or eweleases,
as they are indifferently called, that fill a large area of certain
counties in the south and southwest. If any mark of human occupation
is met with hereon it usually takes the form of the solitary cottage
of some shepherd.

Fifty years ago such a lonely cottage stood on such a down, and
may possibly be standing there now. In spite of its loneliness,
however, the spot, by actual measurement, was not more than five
miles from a county town. Yet what of that? Five miles of irregular
upland, during the long, imnimical seasons, with their sleets,
snows, rains, and mists, afford withdrawing space enough to isolate
a Timon or a Nebuchadnezzar; much less, in fair weather, to please
that less repellent tribe, the poets, philosophers, artists, and
others who "conceive and meditate of pleasant things."

Some old earthen camp or barrow, some clump of trees, at least some
starved fragment of ancient hedge, is usually taken advantage of
in the execution of these forlorn dwellings; but in the present
case such a kind of shelter had been disregarded. Higher Crowstairs,
as the house was called, stood quite detached and undefended. The
only reason for its precise situation seemed to be the crossing
of two foot-paths at right angles hard by, which may have crossed
there and thus for a good five hundred years. The house was thus