116 ENGLISH BOTANY. 
ened by hunger or the omnivorous capacities of a schoolboy, that would choose to take 
a second berry. The old poet calls them— 
“ Sloes austere, 
Hard fare, but such as boyish appetite disdains not.” 
When tempered with sugar, they are not so uneatable, and in some districts in the 
North of Europe a very tolerable conserve is made from them. The juice of the Sloe 
expressed is said to enter largely into the manufacture of British port wine. In France 
a beverage is made by fermenting the fruit with a certain quantity of water; it is acid 
and astringent, more especially if the fruit has been gathered before it is quite ripe. 
The habitual use of this drink is said to be injurious to health. The inspissated juice 
of the Sloe forms a nearly indelible ink used for marking linen in Germany. The 
leaves of this shrub dried have been made into a substitute for Chinese tea, and some 
years ago an extensive manufactory of this Sloe-leaf tea was carried on in this country, 
upwards of four millions of pounds of this substance having found its way into the market. 
It was discovered, however, that the chief use of this tea was for purposes of adultera- 
tion, and its manufacture was consequently speedily suppressed by the excise autho- 
rities. In France the unripe fruit is pickled in salt and vinegar as a substitute for 
olives, and in Germany and Russia the fruit is crushed, mixed with water, and a spirit 
distilled from it. Medicinally, the bark is considered to be a febrifuge, and the leaves 
an agreeable and useful astringent. The flowers, like all those of the native plums, are 
mildly aperient, and are recommended in infusion by some people as a safe and useful 
medicine. The wood is very hard, and in colour resembles that of the peach, though 
without its beauty. On account of its hard, tough nature, it is sometimes used for the 
teeth of rakes and such-like purposes, but it never attains size sufficient to be applied 
to many other uses, 
The Blackthorn or Sloe has formed a subject for many of our British song-writers, 
and we must always associate it with the lines of the Suffulk poet Bloomfield, in which 
he so touchingly describes the disappointment of the poor bird-boy over his feast of 
roasted sloes :— 
“‘ Keen blows the blast, or ceaseless rains descend, 
The half-stript hedge a sorry shelter lends. 
Oh for a hovel, e’er so small or low, 
Whose roof, repelling winds and early snow, 
Might bring home comforts fresh before his eyes ! 
On whitethorns towering and the leafless rose 
A frost-nipped feast in bright vermilion glows 
Where clustering Sloes in glossy order rise. 
He crops the loaded branch, a cumbrous prize, 
And o’er the flame the sputtering fruit he rests, 
Placing green sods to seat his coming guests ; 
His guests by promise, playmates young and gay ; 
But ah! fresh pastimes lure their steps away. 
He sweeps his hearth, and homeward looks in vain, 
Till, feeling disappointment’s cruel pain, 
His fairy revels ‘are exchanged for rage ; 
His banquet marred, grown dull his hermitage. 
The fields become his prison till on high 
Benighted birds to shadiest coverts fly. 
