becomes full of their fragrance. The light wooden porch breaks the flat
of the cottage face by its projection; and a branch or two of wandering
honeysuckle spread over the low hatch. A few square feet of garden and a
latched wicket, persuading the weary and dusty pedestrian, with
expressive eloquence, to lean upon it for an instant and request a drink
of water or milk, complete a picture, which, if it be far enough from
London to be unspoiled by town sophistications, is a very perfect thing
in its way.[1] The ideas it awakens are agreeable, and the architecture
is all that we want in such a situation. It is pretty and appropriate;
and if it boasted of any other perfection, it would be at the expense of
its propriety.

[Footnote 1: Compare _Lectures on Architecture and Painting_, I. § 16.]

13. Let us now cross the Channel, and endeavor to find a country cottage
on the other side, if we can; for it is a difficult matter. There are
many villages; but such a thing as an isolated cottage is extremely
rare. Let us try one or two of the green valleys among the chalk
eminences which sweep from Abbeville to Rouen. Here is a cottage at
last, and a picturesque one, which is more than we could say for the
English domicile. What then is the difference? There is a general air of
_nonchalance_ about the French peasant's habitation, which is aided by a
perfect want of everything like neatness; and rendered more conspicuous
by some points about the building which have a look of neglected beauty,
and obliterated ornament. Half of the whitewash is worn off, and the
other half colored by various mosses and wandering lichens, which have
been permitted to vegetate upon it, and which, though beautiful,
constitute a kind of beauty from which the ideas of age and decay are
inseparable. The tall roof of the garret window stands fantastically
out; and underneath it, where, in England, we had a plain double