should he rejoice if, after remaining long enough to show how wildly grand hills are under rain, and clouds, and mists, the sun should again assert his supremacy, and burst forth in more than his early splendour! And such a good fortune was ours on this visit to Clent.

Between us and the hills there interposed the wood which presents so fine a portion of the view from their summits. There was no path, but into it we went; to find, if possible, our way through it. It was very thickly filled with brambles and underwood, and our progress was but slow. Still we made way, but whither we knew not. After about an hour's uncertain beating of the bush, we found that we had lost our bearings: so, mounting a favourable tree, we looked out for land, and soon found a broad path on the skirt of the wood some miles in length. We rambled along this path, and, soon after reaching the end of the wood, the beautiful old church of St. Kenelm's greeted us; and we were soon walking round its time-honoured walls. Few old churches are more ecclesiastically pleasant than venerable St. Kenelm's. With its early Norman doorway, its quaint figure of the Saint fixed on the wall, the deep rich tint with which time has beautified its walls and tower, it is one of the loveliest little gems of a church that we know. No matter how often we visit the place, St. Kenelm is one of its greatest attractions. For some time now the claims of hunger had been growing clamorous, and after two ineffectual attempts at inhospitable farm-houses to

get some food, no matter how humble, we found one whose inmates cheerfully provided us with a fine rasher of home-cured bacon, and other comestibles, which we ate as only those can eat who have for hours walked over fields, through woods, and over "lawn and lea," without a single creature comfort. For now all the bilberries had been gathered, and the blackberries were provokingly red.

The inner man refreshed, we were soon on the hills again. The sides, though not precipitous, are sufficiently steep to make their climbing just labour enough to increase the zest of the walk. So up we go, stopping at intervals to note how the prospect grows and expands; and to watch the golden cornfields, the sombre woods, or richly green meadows, lit up by the sun, or obscured by a passing cloud. Now we are at the top, and there on one side of us are the grand Malvern Hills, in appearance but a few miles distant, yet in reality some fourteen or more. Before us is Hagley Park, with its obelisk, its Temple of the Graces, its fine Hall, the residence of the learned and kind-hearted Lord Lyttelton, and the village of Hagley, which, viewed from the Temple of the Graces, is as pretty a village as one may see in a day's ramble. Close to us is the Warton Hill; and far away the well-known Bar-beacon. Turn which way you will, new objects of beauty or interest meet you; while under your feet are blooming thousands upon thousands of that most airy of flowers, the harebell. On the sides of the hills are dense beds of fern, of the brightest green, here and

there a gorse-bush, heather in full bloom, and scattered about groups of trees, whose shade is very grateful to the over-heated traveller. Beneath these, if so disposed, he may do as we did, stretch himself at length, take out his favourite poet, and there read his favourite pieces, which, beautiful everywhere, are never so beautiful as when read in such spots, amidst such surroundings, and with such accompaniments as are here to be had. In a few years another alteration will be added to this ramble; on the top of the hill a part has been enclosed, and a small plantation made. The trees are in a healthy condition, and ere long will make a not unimportant addition to the beauty of the Clent Hills.

Walking along the top of the hills, we soon reach a stile which leads to a steep field, at the bottom of which reposes the pleasant village of Clent. Let no one miss this view. As we lay on the hill-side, with the village just out of sight, the music of the church-bells was borne by a joyous breeze to our delighted ears. All things seemed to conspire to add to the pleasures of the day; and the sound of those church-bells was indeed a joy to us. We listened to them a long time, and wove all sorts of pleasant fancies, love romances, and sweet idyllic pictures truly in harmony with the place. Time at length warned us; so up and off again. Up and down the undulations of the hills we rambled at "our own sweet will," leaving scarcely a bit of the whole untrodden.

After tea we again ascended the hill; again came

round by St. Kenelm's; again skirted the wood, in the intricacies of which we had in the morning lost .our way. But ere we reached this part of our returning ramble the sun had set, and only a small "bed of a daffodil sky" graced the west. This light soon left us, and now once again it began to rain-to rain in good earnest. It pattered heavily on the trees, whose leaves sent it pattering again on us, and on the earth beneath, as we threaded our way along sombre and overshadowed lanes. Our joy was too deep for the rain to damp, and we walked on as gaily as we did in the morning with the beaming sun above our heads radiant in all his summer splendour. We declined attempting the fields on so dark a night, and so made for the village of Quinton, which we reached between eight and nine o'clock at night, drenched with wet, but joyous and light of heart as ever.

Perhaps it would be impossible to crowd into a single day a greater variety of scenes and changes than we had in this visit to the Clent Hills. Sunshine, mist, rain; sunshine again, clouds, clear skies, -skies tinted with all colours, and every shade reflecting itself on the fields, woods, and heaths, around us, the music of the wind amongst the trees and the ferns,-the sweet peal of the churchbells, and the deeper, sweeter responses of the overflowing heart,-were all ours on this day. Ours, too, the glorious song of the birds; the sweet music of the woods; the ripple of running waters; the play of the winds among the tall grass, the

wheat, and the oats; and, above all, the sympathetic strain of the poet, who was nature's arch-priest, and who had won from her her divinest secrets, and revealed them to man in the "language of the gods." Nor must we omit from our list of the good gifts of a propitious fortune the heavy rains and the dense darkness; not the least of nature's blessings to those who know how to use them, and rightly enjoy them. And thus ended our ramble over the Clent Hills.