The English Park
THE trees are perhaps the most beautiful things in England. Of course the meadows and the policemen too, but chiefly the trees, splendidly broad shouldered, ancient, generous, free, venerable, vast trees. Trees of Hampton Court, Richmond Park, Windsor, and I know not where else besides. It is possible that these trees have a great influence on Toryism in England. I think they preserve the aristocratic instincts, the historical sense. Conservatism, tariffs, golf, the House of Lords, and other odd and antique things. I should probably be a rabid Radical if I lived in the Street of the Iron Balconies or in the Street of the Grey Bricks; but sitting under an ancient oak tree in the park at Hampton Court I was seriously tempted to acknowledge the value of old things, the high mission of old trees, the harmonious comprehensiveness of tradition, and the legitimacy of esteem for everything that is strong enough to preserve itself for ages. It seems that in England there are many such ancient trees; in nearly everything that is met with here, in the clubs, in the literature, in the homes, you can somehow feel the timber and foliage of aged, venerable, and fearfully solid trees. As a matter of fact, nothing conspicuously new can be seen here—only the Tube is new, and perhaps that is why it is so ugly. But old trees and old things contain imps, eccentric and jocular sprites: the English also contain pixies. They are enormously solemn, solid and venerable; suddenly there is a sort of rumbling within them, they make a grotesque remark, a fork of pixie-like humour flies out of them, and once more they have the solemn appearance of an old leather armchair.
I do not know why, but this sober England strikes me as the most fairylike and romantic of all countries which I have seen. Perhaps this is on account of the old trees. Or no, it is perhaps the result of the greensward. It is because you walk here across the fields instead of upon footpaths. 
We Continental people do not venture to walk except on roads and paved paths; this certainly has a huge influence upon the development of our minds. When I saw the first gentleman strolling across the greensward in the park at Hampton Court, I imagined that he was a creature from fairyland, although a top-hat; I expected that he would ride into Kingston upon a stag, or that he would begin to dance, or that the park-keeper would come up and give him a terrible wigging. Nothing happened, and at last even I ventured to make my way straight across the grass to an old oak. Nothing happened! Never have I had a feeling of such unrestricted liberty as in that moment. It is very curious; here evidently man is not regarded as an obnoxious animal. Here the dismal tradition is not current that the grass will not grow beneath his hoofs. Here he has the right to walk across the meadow as if he were a wood-nymph or a landed proprietor. I think that this has a considerable influence upon his character and view of the world. It opens up the marvellous possibility of walking elsewhere than along a road, without regarding oneself as a beast of prey, a footpad, or an anarchist.
All this I pondered about beneath an oak tree in the park at Hampton Court, but at least even old roots cause discomfort. Anyhow, I am sending you a picture of what an English park looks like. I wanted to draw a stag there as well, but I must admit that I cannot manage it from memory.