72 EASY-CHAIR MEMORIES 



there with golden gorse and alive with springing 

 heather. " Now is the winter of my discontent 

 made glorious summer," and all the snow and 

 sludge in the deep bosom of the ocean buried 

 and forgotten. I am in fairyland, seated on 

 a great bulbous root of a venerable giant beech 

 tree, one of those whose heads were lopped off 

 in the vigour of youth by Oliver Cromwell 

 before the battle of Brentford. Hundreds of 

 the ancient brotherhood stand around, bearing 

 enormous trees on their stunted, cracked and 

 distorted old trunks. The scene is glorious, 

 well worth crossing the broad Atlantic to view 

 it as I do now. I am monarch of all I survey 

 on this fine May morning. Not a solitary 

 individual have I met in my rambles all through 

 these woods. Burnham Beeches are too near 

 to London to be known or properly appreciated 

 by Londoners. If they were a thousand miles 

 away, these lovely, solitary woods would be alive 

 with tourists and excursionists from the great city. 

 I am not particularly wishful to see this great 

 temple of gaunt and hoary giants peopled by 

 throngs of noisy citizens. Its great charm is 

 its solitude, its silence, its perfect peace, and 

 yet one could wish that every individual of 



