42 FRESH FIELDS 



remain here and there, but the country they once 



occupied is now essentially pastoral. 



It is noteworthy that there is little or no love of 



woods as such in English poetry; no fond mention 



of them, and dwelling upon them. The muse of 



Britain's rural poetry has none of the wide-eyedness 



and furtiveness of the sylvan creatures; she is 



rather a gentle, wholesome, slightly stupid divinity 



of the fields. Milton sings the praises of 



"Arched walks of twilight groves." 



But his wood is a "drear wood," 



" The nodding horror of whose shady brows 

 Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger.'* 



Again: — 



" Very desolation dwells 

 By grots and caverns shagg'd with horrid shade." 



Shakespeare refers to the "ruthless, vast, and hor- 

 rid wood," — a fit place for robbery, rapine, and 

 murder. Indeed, English poetry is pretty well 

 colored with the memory of the time when the 

 woods were the hiding-places of robbers and out- 

 laws, and were the scenes of all manner of dark 

 deeds. The only thing I recall in Shakespeare that 

 gives a faint whiff of our forest life occurs in "All 's 

 Well That Ends Well," where the clowA says to 

 Lafeu, "I am a woodland fellow, sir, that always 

 loved a great fire." That great fire is American; 

 wood is too scarce in Europe. Francis Higginson 

 wrote in 1630: "New England may boast of the 

 element of fire more than all the rest; for all 

 Europe is not able to afford to make so great fires 



