Dickon’s ’unconscious education’—­absorbed rather than learnt in boyhood—­had not been acquired under conditions likely to lead him to admire scenery.  But, rough as he was, he was a good-natured fellow, and it was through him that I became acquainted with a very beautiful place.

The footpath to The Park went for about half a mile under the shadow of elm trees, and in spring time there was a continual noise of young rooks in the nests above.  Occasionally dead twigs, either dislodged from the nests or broken off by the motions of the old birds, came rustling down.  One or two nests that had been blown out strewed the sward with half a bushel of dead sticks.  After the rookery the path passed a lonely dairy, where the polished brazen vessels in the skilling glittered like gold in the sunshine.  Farther on came wide open meadows with numerous oak-trees scattered in the midst—­the outposts of the great wood at hand.  The elms were flourishing and vigorous; but these detached oaks were decaying, and some dead, their hoar antiquity contrasting with the green grass and flowers of the mead.

The mansion was hidden by elm and chestnut, pines and sombre cedars.  From the edge of the lawn the steep slope of the Down rose, planted with all manner of shrubs, the walks through which were inches deep in dead leaves, needles, and fir-cones.  Long neglect had permitted these to accumulate, and the yew hedges had almost grown together and covered the walk they bordered.

The woods and preserves extended along the Downs, between the hills and the meadows beneath.  There was one path through these woods that led into a narrow steep-sided coombe, one side of which was planted with firs.  On the other was a little grass, but so thin as scarcely to cover the chalk.  This side jutted out from the general line of the hills, and formed a bold bluff, whose white precipitous cliff was a landmark for many miles.  In climbing the coombe, it was sometimes necessary to grasp the bunches of grass; for it would have been impossible to recover from a slip till, bruised and shaken, you rolled to the bottom, and perhaps into the little streamlet flowing through the hollow.

The summit was of small extent, but the view beautiful.  A low fence of withy had long since decayed, nothing but a few rotten stakes remaining at the very verge of the precipice.  Steep as it was, there were some ledges that the rabbits frequented, making their homes in mid-air.  Further along, the slope, a little less perpendicular, was covered with nut-tree bushes, where you could scramble down by holding to the boughs.  There was a tradition of a fox-hunter, in the excitement of the chase, forcing his horse to descend through these bushes and actually reaching the level meadows below in safety.