118 ON THE GRAMPIAN HILLS. 



Conceive anyone desiring to destroy Burnham Beeches 

 in order to convert that hard gravelly soil into agricul- 

 tural land ! I remember when in a fit of economy 

 some zealous politicians, in their burning desire to 

 benefit the country, destroyed Hainault Forest in 

 Essex, hewed down the ancient Fairlop Oak, and con- 

 certed the once lovely glades and leafy knolls into a 

 most hungry and capital -devouring farm. This 

 beautiful range of woodland- wild was within six miles 

 of Whitechapel Corner, and, if now existing, would be 

 invaluable as one of the lungs of the vastly-increasing 

 metropolis that is so rapidly extending in every 

 direction. So much for economy at any price. But 

 a truce to such discursive reflections. We bore away 

 along quiet lanes, past many a well-kept cottage garden, 

 richly decked with the golden crocus, the modest 

 violet, the graceful snowdrop, and " daffodils that 

 come before the swallows dare, and take the winds of 

 March with beauty," by " meadows trim with daisies 

 pied," catching every now and then a glimpse of the 

 beautiful bends of the Thames until the high-road to 

 the Thicket is reached, and the "fun of the fair" 

 begins. By half -past ten Phoebus 'gan to rise, or at 

 any rate to draw the curtains, and the larks soared to 

 the sky. Up to this time the whole country was 

 enveloped in mist, a sharp white frost made the fingers 

 tingle, and the hedges were covered with rime. The 

 thrush, rejoicing in the brightness of the day, now 

 commenced pouring forth a song of thanksgiving from 

 the budding branch of the old elm-tree, believing 

 that at last the dreary winter is over, and that there is 

 a reasonable hope of sunshine and warm weather. 

 The wild violets and fresh primroses peep out amidst 



