It was the England of Constable and Morland, of Miss Mitford and Miss Austen, the Brontes and George Eliot.
The land which softly rolled and clothed itself in the rich verdure of many trees, sometimes in lovely clusters, sometimes in covering copse, was Constable's; the ripe young woman with the fat-legged children and the farmyard beasts about her, as she fed the hens from the wooden piggin under her arm, was Morland's own.

The village street might be Miss Mitford's, the well-to-do house Jane Austen's own fancy, in its warm brick and comfortable decorum.

She laughed a little as she thought it.
"That is American," she said, "the habit of comparing every stick and stone and breathing thing to some literary parallel.

We almost invariably say that things remind us of pictures or books--most usually books.

It seems a little crude, but perhaps it means that we are an intensely literary and artistic people." She continued to find comparisons revealing to her their appositeness, until her journey had ended by the train's slackening speed and coming to a standstill before the rural-looking little station which had presented its quaint aspect to Lady Anstruthers on her home-coming of years before.
It had not, during the years which certainly had given time for change, altered in the least.