Would that I had a little cot Beside a little hill, In some romantic English spot Where summer's not so very hot And winter not too chill. The writer of these simple lines, now unhappily dead, was a man of the soil, whose sweet native note had never been troubled by the sinister depravities, the heartless affectations of urban existence; and I believe myself that his pathetic and modest ideal could have been actually realized had he inhabited, as perhaps he did, the peaceful village of Blaindon. This secluded hamlet lies some ten miles from the sea, in an undulating, but not terrible, country--a land of woodland and meadow, of buttercup and daisy, of tiny streams and verdant dells. At eveni…
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