In selecting strawberries and cream as emblems of the mixed things of life, I fancy that my choice is a particularly happy one. That cream must be mixed with other foods goes without saying; and in Shakespeare's most notable reference to strawberries it is the same peculiarity that seems to have impressed him. He has a very pleasing allusion to the facility with which the strawberry mixes with other things. The passage occurs at the beginning of _King Henry the Fifth_. The Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of Ely are discussing the new king. They are astonished at the change which has overtaken him since his accession. As a prince he was wild and dissolute, and broke his father's heart. But, as soon as he became king, he instantly sent for his boon-companions, told them that he intended by God's good grace to live an entirely new life, and begged them to follow his example. As the Archbishop of Canterbury puts it:
The breath no sooner left his father's body But that his wildness, mortified in him, Seemed to die, too. Yea, at that very moment. Consideration like an angel came, And whipped the offending Adam out of him. Leaving his body as a paradise, To envelop and contain celestial spirits.
The strawberry grows underneath the nettle, And wholesome berries thrive and ripen best, Neighboured by fruit of baser quality.
It is a suggestive passage, considered from any point of view We live mixed lives in a mixed world, and we do not come upon the strawberries by themselves or all at once. We may find strawberries to-morrow where we can discover nothing but stinging-nettles to-day 'Madcap Harry' was not the only son whose life at first yielded nothing but nettles that stung and lacerated his father's soul, and yet afterwards produced strawberries that were the delight, not only of the Church, but of the world at large.
I was strolling one still evening along a lonely New Zealand shore, when I made a grim discovery that has often set me thinking. I had been walking along the wet and crinkled sands, the tide being out, and had amused myself with the shells and the seaweed that had been left lying about by the receding waters. There is always a peculiar charm about such a stroll. It holds such infinite possibilities. One seems to be exploiting the surprise-packet of the universe. Jane Barlow, in her _Bogland Studies_, makes one of her characters say: