122 
BRAMBLES AND BAY LEAVES. 
nobler education to be gained in the land of Black¬ 
berries. And now, after having sunned our hearts in 
the green ways of Saxon poetry, after having heid com¬ 
panionship with the forests, and bugles, and green hills 
of Scott, and luxuriated among the lush and leafy coverts 
of Endymion Keats, besides many fair-spent hours over 
Bitson and Robert Herrick, how can we refrain from 
Icving Blackberries ? Blackberries, which speak so 
winningly of “ yellow-girted bees,” and “ golden honey¬ 
combs,” and “jagged trunks,” and “ unseen flowers in 
heavy peacefulness.” Love them ? aye ! and away we 
go into the thick woods, far from the roar of cities and 
the tramp of men, far from the souks prison house, into 
the free air of bosky dells, where ragworts and harebells 
tremble, and the brambles hang their clouds of fruits. 
This time to Cheshunt, fifteen miles from town, in the 
prettiest part of Hertfordshire. Through the ancient 
churchyard, glancing at the monuments of the Crom¬ 
wells and the grassy mounds of many a sturdy Puritan, 
superseding Hervey’s sickly Meditations , by thoughts 
which are always better suggested on the spot. Gather¬ 
ing as we go any precious little gem which may add to 
the herbarium, we reach Cheshunt House, and refresh 
our memories with the stories of Wolsey's pride and fall; 
thence to the shadow of a great beech in Cheshunt Park, 
to dine upon the grass, and discover a new and most 
“come again” flavour in the beef and ham, which, 
despite our worship of the Blackberries, makes us feel 
keenly for the Vegetarians. Dinner over, through the 
green lanes to Goffers Oak, gathering berries as we go, 
the first handful being offered as a libation to the earth. 
