On somewhat better authority,[75] it rests that the unhappy Charles I., on the 13th of November, 1647, outwitted by his enemies and deceived by his friends, entrusted himself, after his flight from Hampton Court, to Colonel Hammond, and, embarking here, returned by Hurst to atone for the past by his life.

But of greater interest is the Roman Road which connected Leap with Southampton and Winchester in one direction, and Ringwood and the west in another. Its traces may be found not only here but on the opposite side, where, still known by the Norman name of Rue Street, it passes westward of Carisbrook to the extreme south of the Island.[76] Its old appellation is preserved, too, on this side in the name of a farmhouse—King’s Rue, and Rue Copse, and Rue Common; and it is well worthy of notice that this word is even now sometimes used in the Forest, as in Sussex, for a row or hedgerow. Previous to it, however, there existed a British track, still clearly visible across the Forest, especially near Butts Ash barrows, by its deep depressions. Both roads, though, can still tell us something of the past. The opinion of late philologists and geographers, with the exception of Lappenburg and Sir G. C. Lewis, has been against the idea that the Isle of Wight was the Vectis or Ictis of the ancients. The argument, however, against the passage in Diodorus Siculus,[77] that it would be so much easier for the first traders to have exported the tin from Belerium instead of bringing it by inland transport to the Island, and then shipping it to Gaul, is founded upon ignorance. Sea carriage was then far more difficult and dangerous than land conveyance. Ancient mariners were easily frightened, and their vessels put into land every night. As Sir G. C. Lewis further remarks, foreign merchants were always regarded with jealousy and distrust, and the overland route would enable the traffic to be carried out through the whole distance by native traders.[78]

Singularly enough, however, Warner[79] states that a large mass of tin was found on the very site of this old Roman road, or, rather, as the fact of the mere shapeless mass would prove, on the older British track. Not only, too, was tin brought here from Cornwall, but also, in later times, lead from the Mendip Hills. Pigs of it have been picked up on a branch of the same Roman road running from Uphill on the Severn to Salisbury, and from thence joining the Leap road. One of them, stamped with the name of Hadrian, is now in the Bath Museum. We are thus enabled to connect Leap with the famous passage of the Greek historian.

Sir George Lewis’s theory has, too, been singularly corroborated in other directions, especially by the large quantities of bronze ornaments found during the excavations in the Swiss Lakes, 1853 and 1854, the metals of which could only have been brought there by an overland route.

Further, too, we must not reject the account of Diodorus, because he says that at low tide the tin was carried over in carts. We must remember the extremely indefinite views of the ancients on all geographical subjects. The vaguest ideas were held, especially about Britain. Erring in a different direction, the mistake is not so bad as Pliny’s, in making the Island six days’ sail from England. There seems, however, a most natural explanation, that Diodorus, not having been there, took for granted the wild traditions and rumours which reached him, and which, even in these days, with only the slightest possible variation of form, still hold their ground with the Forest peasantry, in the legend that the stone of which Beaulieu Abbey is built was brought over the dry bed of the Solent, in carts, from the Binstead Quarries.

Still the passage is not without the further difficulty, that Diodorus seems, from the context, to have supposed that the Island was situated close to where the tin was dug. This, again, must be set down to that ignorance of geography, which has involved all Greek writers in such extraordinary mistakes.

Leap itself is now nothing but a village, with a scattered agricultural population; some few, however, maintaining themselves by fishing in the summer, and in the winter by shooting the ducks and geese which flock to the creeks and harbours of the Solent. Leaving it, and still keeping westward, we come to the Beaulieu river, where, in the autumn, after the heavy floods from the Forest, the salmon leap and sport in the freshets. The road now winds past Exbury by the side of thick copses which fringe the river. At last, at Hill Top, we reach Beaulieu Heath, and, in the far distance, the green foliage of the Forest hangs cloudlike in the air, whilst down in the valley lies the village of Beaulieu.

CHAPTER VI.
BEAULIEU ABBEY.

I should trust that, on a fine day, twenty miles are not too much for any Englishman. If they are, and any one should think the walk along the coast too long, Beaulieu may be reached by going direct from Hythe, across Beaulieu Common. The moor stretches out on all sides, flushed in the summer with purple heather, northward to the Forest, southward to the cultivated fields round Leap and Exbury. Passing “The Nodes,”[80] the road runs quite straight to Hill Top, with its clump of firs, which we reached in the last chapter.

Down in the valley, hid from us by a turn in the road, lies Beaulieu. But a little farther on we reach part of the old Abbey walls, broken here and there, clustered with ivy, and grass, and yellow mullein, and white yarrow, whilst vine-clad cottages stand against its sides. The village is situated on a bend of the Exe, where, spanned by a bridge, the stream falls over the weir, formerly turning the old mill-wheel of the monks, and then, broadening with the tide, winds through meadows and thick oak copses down to the Solent.

Although far more beautifully situated, the Abbey is not nearly so well known as its own filial house at Netley, simply because more out of the way. For a moment let us give some account of its foundation, illustrating as it does both King John’s cruelty and superstition. The story, as told by the monks, is that John, after various oppressions of the Cistercian Order, in the year 1204, convened their abbots to his Parliament at Lincoln. As soon as they came, he ordered his retainers to charge them on horseback. No one was found to obey such a command. The monks fled to their lodgings. That night the King dreamt he was led before a judge, who ordered him to be scourged by these very monks. The next morning John narrated his dream, which was so vivid that he declared he felt the blows when he awoke, to a priest of his court, who told him that God had been most merciful in thus simply chastising him in this world, and revealing the secrets of His will. He advised him at once to send for the abbots, whom he had so ill-treated, and to implore their pardon.[81]

Some truth, doubtless, underlies this story. Certain it is that in the same year, or the next, John founded the Abbey at Beaulieu, then Bellus Locus, so called from its beauty, placing there thirty monks from St. Mary’s, at Citeaux, endowing it with land in the New Forest, and manors, and villages, and churches in Berkshire; exempting it from various services and taxes and tolls; giving further, out of his own treasury, a hundred marks; and ordering all other Cistercian Houses to assist in the work. Not only did he do this, but he revoked his gift of the manor of Farendon, which, in the previous year, he had conditionally bestowed on some other Cistercian monks, and now transferred it to Beaulieu, making the House at Faringdon a mere offshoot from the larger building.[82] And the abbot designate repaid him in his life-time by accusing his enemy, Stephen of Canterbury, before the Pope, for treason, and causing him to be suspended.[83]

John died, and Henry III. not only confirmed the privileges, but granted several more in consideration of the great expense of the building, and Innocent III. gave it the right of a sanctuary. So the work proceeded. The stone was quarried principally from the opposite limestone-beds in the Isle of Wight; and was brought over, says tradition, curiously illustrating the vague notions of ancient geography, which we have seen in Diodorus Siculus,[84] in carts. Not, however, till 1249, some forty-five years after its foundation, was the monastery finished. Henry himself, and his Queen, and Richard, Earl of Cornwall, and a long train of nobles and prelates, came to its dedication on the feast of St. John; Hugh, the first abbot, spending no less than five hundred marks on the entertainment.[85]

So, at last, the good work was accomplished, and men came here and lived, taking for their pattern the holy St. Benedict, and finding the problem of life solved by daily prayer to heaven and labour on earth.[86]

Here, to its sanctuary, in 1471, after she had landed at Southampton on Easter Day, the very day of the battle of Barnet, fled the Countess of Warwick, wife of the King-maker, slain on that bloody field.[87] Here, too, in 1497, after having raised the siege of Exeter, and deserted his troops at Taunton, fled the worthless Perkin Warbeck, not only an impostor, but a coward, closely pursued by Lord Daubeny and five hundred men. Persuaded, however, by Henry VII.’s promises, he left his shelter only to become a prisoner in the Tower, and finally to expiate his deceit at Tyburn.

So years passed at the Abbey, the monks happy in saying their daily prayers, content to see the corn grow, and their vineyards ripen, and their flocks increase, knowing little of the troubles which raged in the outer world, save when some forlorn fugitive arrived. But even what is best becomes the worst. Time brought a change of spirit on all the monasteries. Long before the middle of the sixteenth century the stern earnestness of a former age had dwindled into effeminacy and sensuality. Piety had sunk into gross idolatry; and faith, amongst the laity, had been corrupted into credulity, and, with the priests, into hypocrisy. The greatest blessings had festered into curses. It was so, we know, through all England. And Beaulieu must suffer with the rest of the monasteries.

In 1537, the Abbey was dissolved, the last Abbot, Thomas Stephens, with twenty out of the thirty monks, signing the deed of surrender.[88] Stephens was pensioned off with a hundred marks; and some of the monks received various annuities and compensations for their losses. So fell the monastery of Beaulieu, and its stones went to build Henry VIII.’s martello tower at Hurst, and its lead to repair Calshot,[89] to fight against the very Power which had raised it to its glory.

Few abbeys have known so lovely a site. Placed close to the banks, it overlooked the Exe, formed by the tide more into a lake than a river. On every side it was sheltered: on the north by rising ground and the woods of the New Forest, and on the east again by the Forest and more hills, from whence an aqueduct brought down the water for the use of the monks; and on the south and west all was guarded by the river.

To this day the outer walls are in places standing, with the water-gate covered with ivy. And inside is the palace, placed amongst its own grounds, surrounded by elms. Above its doorway is cut a canopied niche, where stood the patron saint, the Virgin, and above runs the string-course, supported by its carved corbel-heads. But the whole building has been unfortunately defaced by a moat and turretted wall, built as a defence by one of the Montagues against French privateers, as also by the modernized windows.[90]

The entrance-hall, too, like all the other rooms, has been sadly modernized, though its fine groined roof, springing from four shafts on each side, and a lancet window in the east wall, still remain. Upstairs, also, is left some oak panelling of Henry VIII.’s time, of the linen pattern, but covered over with paint. Eastward, in the meadow adjoining, stands the guest-house, better known in the village, from its former occupants, as Burman’s House. Passing through it, we suddenly come upon the green quadrangle once surrounded with cloisters, where the three arches leading into the chapter-house still remain. The black Purbeck marble shafts, and bands, and capitals, have, however, long since become weather-worn and decayed, though the Binstead and Caen stone still stands, here and there covered with ivy, crested with wall-flowers, and white and crimson pinks, and rusted with lichens.

In the chapter-house are strewed the broken pillars which supported the groined roof, and the broken stone-seats which ran round the inside, whilst on the floor lie a stone coffin and gravestones. To the north of it stand the ruins of the sacristy.

Of the cloisters, the north alley is the most perfect, with its seven carols, where the monks sat and talked; whilst above project the corbels which carried the cloister-roof. Here and there, too, as at the two north doors leading into the church, some of the original pavement still remains.

The church, however, has long since been destroyed. Nothing, except a portion of the south transept, is left. The foundations, though, can be accurately traced, showing the nave and aisles, and the large circular apse at the east end. Scattered about, too, appear the tesselated floor, bright as on the day it was laid down, and the graves of the abbots, and of Isabella, first wife of Richard Earl of Cornwall.[91]

Out in the fields beyond stand the ruins of a building, now a mere pinfold for cattle, called by tradition the Monk’s Vine-Press, whilst the meadows beyond, lying on the slope of the hill, are still known as “the Vineyards.”[92]

But the refectory still remains on the south side of the cloisters, from which a doorway, still ornamented with iron scroll-work, used to lead. Ever since the Reformation it has served as the parish church, differing only in its appearance by its lack of orientation.[93] In 1746 it was repaired, and its original roof lowered, and its fine triplet at the south end spoilt by a buttress, and one of the lancets lighting the wall-passage on the west side also blocked up. Its walls, however, are now covered with common spleenwort, and wall-lettuce, and pellitory, whilst the narrow-leaved rue—the “herb o’ grace o’ Sundays”—with which the old churchyards used to be sown, shows its pale blue blossoms amongst the gravestones.

Inside it is still more interesting. Here still stands the lovely stone pulpit, its panels rich with flower-tracery, approached by a wall-passage and open arcade springing from double rows of black Purbeck marble pillars. This was the old rostrum of the monks, where one of the brethren read to the rest at their meals; so that, as St. Augustine says, their mouths should not only taste, but their ears also drink in the Word of God. Here, in this very village church, the old Cistercian monks obeyed the injunction of their order[94],—“When we enter, let us bare our heads, and going to our seats bend before the cross. Let us not behave idly, lest we give offence to any one. Let not our eyes wander, lest we give occasion for bickering, or quarrelling, or laughing; but fulfilling the saying of the blessed Hugh of Lincoln, ‘let us keep our eyes upon the table, our ears with the reader, and our hearts with God.’”[95]

In the churchyard, plainly traceable by the ruined foundations, and mounds, and depressions, are the sites of the lavatory and kitchens, whilst in the fields beyond lie the fish-ponds. Everywhere, in fact, are seen the traces of the monks. Their walks still remain by the side of the Exe, overgrown with oaks, bright in the spring with blue and crimson lungwort, and sweet with violets, such as grew when Anne Beauchamp sought refuge here that dismal Easter day.

Not only do the Abbey grounds,[96] but the whole district, show the size of the monastery. Going out of Beaulieu, upon the road to Bucklershard, we come upon the ox-farm of the monks, still called Bouvery, and still famous for its grazing land. A little farther, about the centre of their various farmsteads, at St. Leonard’s, better known now as the Abbey Walls, stands part of the large barn, or spicarium, of the monastery, such as still remains in other parts of England—at Cerne Abbey, and Abbotsbury, and Sherborne, and Battle Abbey.[97] A modern barn now stands within it, partly formed by its walls, but its original size is well shown by the lofty eastern gable, locally called the Pinnacle, which, covered with ivy, overhangs the road. Close to the old farm-house, built from its ruins, stands a small roofless Decorated Chapel. The west window, and the arch of the west doorway, still remain, and at the same end still project the corbels which supported the gallery. In the east wall are canopied niches, under which stood figures; and on the south the piscina, and the broken conduit where the water ran, and two aumbries are still visible, whilst opposite to them, in the present doorway, another aumbrie is inserted with its two grooves for shelves cut in the stone.[98]

Close to St. Leonard’s lies also the sheep-farm of the monks, still called Bargery, and still famous for its sheep-land. Nearer Bucklershard is Park Farm, another grange, where fifty years ago stood a chapel, smaller even than the one we have just seen, partly Early-English and Decorated. It was divided into two compartments by a stone screen reaching to a plain roof. The piscina in the south wall was finally used by the ploughmen to mix their wheat with lime, until the whole building was pulled down to enlarge the farm-house from whose south-east end it projected.[99]

At these two granges the brethren worked in summer from chapter till tierce, and from nones till vespers. Here lived the ploughmen and artisans, the millers, and smiths, and carpenters, of the monastery. For them were these chapels built, lest either the weather or the roads might prevent them going to the Abbey Church.[100] Here they all worshipped as one family, the serf no longer a serf, but a freedman, when he entered the service of the abbey.

Farther away to the westward lies Sowley Pond, called in the Abbey Charters Colgrimesmore, and Frieswater, covering some ninety acres, formerly the boundary of the abbey estate, and used by the monks as a preserve for their fish. Here once were iron-works, whose blast-furnaces were heated with wood and charcoal from the Forest. The iron-stone was brought from Hengistbury Head and the Hordle Cliffs, and after being melted was shaped by the tilt-hammers, and finally sent off inland to Reading, or shipped at Pitt’s Deep. But like all the other ferraria of Sussex and Hampshire, these too have long since been stopped, driven out of the field by the Staffordshire iron-works. Nothing now remains to tell their former importance but a few mounds and the village Forge-Hammer Inn, and a country proverb, “There will be rain when Sowley hammer is heard,” whose meaning is fast being lost.

Returning, however, to Beaulieu, let us once more look at the old abbey and the ruins of the cloisters, and try to imagine for ourselves the time when, secluded from the world, in the midst of the New Forest, the monks from Citeaux prayed and worked, clad in their coarse white woollen robes, and slept, according to their vow, on pallets of straw, giving shelter to the fugitive, and food to the hungry.[101] It is only by seeing some such grey ruins as these, still breathing of a long past religion, placed amongst the solitude of their own green meadows and woods, by the silent lapse of some stream flowing and ebbing with every tide, that we can at all understand the meaning of a life of contemplation, and its true value. Along these cloisters paced the brethren, their eyes bent on the earth, their thoughts on heaven. Here tolled the great abbey-bell, its sound, full of solemn sweetness, borne not only over the lonely Forest, but down the river seaward to the tossing sailor. Here was that comfort, which could never fail, offered to the most desolate, and heaven itself, as a fatherland, to the exile. Here the great gate not only rolled back the noise of the world, but, to show that mercy is ever better than vengeance, stayed the hand of the law, and blunted the sword of the pursuer.

In these days we are surrounded by noise and excitement. Everywhere is haste and its accompanying confusion. It matters not what we do, the fever of competition ever rages. We travel as though we were flying from ourselves. We write the history of things before they are accomplished, and the lives of men before they are dead. Surely there is some profit to be found in coming to a quiet village like this, if it will only give us some glimpses of a life which stands out in such strange contrast to our own.

CHAPTER VII.
THE SOUTH-WESTERN PART—BROCKENHURST, BOLDRE, SWAY, HINCHELSEA, AND BURLEY.

At present we have seen nothing of the actual Forest. It is only as we go northward that we begin to enter its woods. Instead of the old Forest track, a road now runs from Beaulieu to Brockenhurst, along which we will go. So, leaving the village, and passing a few straggling half-timbered cottages, we reach Stickland’s Hill, where, down in the valley, we can see the Exe winding round the old Abbot’s House set amongst its green elms. Farther on we come to Hatchet Gate, and the Forest then spreads before us, with Hatchet Pond on our left, and Little Wood and the Moon Hill Woods on our right; whilst, here and there on the common, rise scattered barrows.

And now, instead of keeping to the road, let the reader make right across the plain, by one of the Forest tracks, to the woods at Iron’s Hill. The stories, with which most books on the Forest abound, of persons being swamped in morasses, are much exaggerated. Mind only this simple rule—wherever you see the white cotton-grass growing, and the bog-moss particularly fine and green, to avoid that place.

And now, when you are fairly out on the moor, you will feel the fresh salt breeze blowing up from the Solent, and see the long treeless line of the Island hills in strange contrast with the masses of wood in front; whilst the moor itself, if it be August, waves with purple and crimson, except where, here and there, rise great beds of fern-green islands, in the red sea of heath.

Most of the finest timber at Iron’s Hill and Palmer’s Water has been lately cut. Keeping on, however, we shall again come out upon the road which leads down to the stream, close to a mill. Passing over the footbridge, we skirt Brockenhurst Manor, where, at Watcombe, once lived Howard the philanthropist, and so at last reach the village.

So greatly has the Forest been reduced in size, that Brockenhurst, once nearly its centre, is now only a border village. Its Old-English name (the badger’s wood), like that of Everton, the wild-boar place, on the southern side of the Forest, tells its own story. It consists of one long straggling street, and a few scattered houses, with one or two village inns. Much of its wildness has been spoilt by the railroad; and in consequence, too, of the adjoining manor of Brockenhurst, it appears even less than it really is in the Forest. Still, however, if the reader wishes to see the Forest woods and heaths towards the south, let him come here, and the village accommodation will only give an additional charm to the scenery. I, for my part, do not know that a clean English village inn, with its sanded floor, and its best parlour kept for state occasions, makes such bad quarters. It is a real pleasure to find some spots on the earth not yet disfigured by fashionable hotels.

At Brockenhurst existed one of those tenures of knight-service once so common throughout England. Here Peter Spelman, an ancestor of the antiquary, held a carucate of land by the service of finding for Edward II. an esquire clad in coat of mail for forty days in the year, and whenever the King came to the village to hunt, litter for his bed, and hay for his horse, which last clause will give us some insight into the often rough living and habits of the fourteenth century.[102] Here, too, not many years ago, droves of deer would at night, when all was still, race up the village street, and the village dogs leap out and kill them, or chase them back to the Forest.

The church, one of the only two in the Forest mentioned in Domesday,[103] is built on an artificial mound on the top of a hill, a little way out of the village, so that it might serve as a landmark in the Forest.[104] The church has been sadly mutilated. A wretched brick tower has been patched on at the west end; and on the north side a new staring red brick aisle, which surpasses even the usual standard of ugliness of a dissenting chapel. On the south side stands the Norman doorway, with plain escalloped capitals, and an outside arch ornamented with the indented and chevron mouldings. The chancel is Early-English, whilst the plain chancel arch which springs without even an impost from the wall, is very early Norman. Under one of the chancel windows rises the arch of an Easter sepulchre, whilst a square Norman font, of black Purbeck marble, stands at the south-west end of the nave.

If the church, however, has been disfigured, the approach to it fortunately remains in all its beauty. For a piece of quiet English scenery nothing can exceed this. A deep lane, its banks a garden of ferns, its hedge matted with honeysuckle, and woven together with bryony, runs, winding along a side space of green, to the latch-gate, guarded by an enormous oak, its limbs now fast decaying, its rough bark grey with the perpetual snow of lichens, and here and there burnished with soft streaks of russet-coloured moss; whilst behind it, in the churchyard, spreads the gloom of a yew, which, from the Conqueror’s day, to this hour, has darkened the graves of generations.[105]

But the charm of Brockenhurst, as of all the Forest villages, consists in the Forest itself. To the north runs the small Forest stream, blossomed over in the summer with water-lilies. On the left lies Black Knoll, with its waste of heath and gorse, running up to the young plantations of New Park. On the right, Balmor Lawn, with its short, sweet turf, where herds of cattle are pasturing, stretches away to Holland’s Wood, with old thorns scattered here and there, in the spring lighting up the Forest with their white may.

Just now though, it is the southern part of the Forest we must see. So going back again for a little way upon the Beaulieu Road, and leaving it just above the foot-bridge for Whitley Lodge, let the reader go on to Lady Cross. Suddenly he will come out upon the northern edge of Beaulieu Heath, and see again the Island Hills. To the people in the Forest, the Island is their weather-glass. If its hills look dark blue and purple, then the weather will be fine; but if they can see the houses and the chalk quarries on the hill sides, the rain is sure to come.

Keeping straight on, with Lady Cross Lodge to our left, we enter Frame Wood, with its turf and its bridle roads winding under the Forest boughs. Down in the bottom runs the railroad bending away to the north. On the other side, the thick woods of Denny rise; and the clump of solitary beeches on the top of the knoll shows the last remains of Wood Fidley, so well known as having given rise to the Forest proverb of “Wood Fidley rain,” that is, rain which lasts all the day.

Here you can wander on for miles, as far as the manor of Bishop’s Ditch, belonging to Winchester College, which the Forest peasant will tell you was a grant of land as much as the Bishop of Winchester could in a day crawl round on his hands and knees. As to losing yourself, never mind. The real plan to enjoy the Forest is to wander on, careless whether you lose yourself or not. In fact, I believe the real method is to try and lose yourself, finding your greatest pleasure in the unexpected scenes of beauty into which you are led.

There are plenty of other Forest rambles round Brockenhurst which must not be forgotten. Just at the western edge of Beaulieu Heath, about three miles off, stands Boldre Church, with its solitary churchyard surrounded by trees. On one side, it looks out upon the bare Forest; and on the other, down into the cultivated valley. Most suggestful, most peaceful is this twofold prospect, telling us alike both of work and companionship, as, too, of solitude—all of them, in religion, so needful for man. Its tower stands boldly out, almost away from the church, just between the nave and the chancel, serving formerly, like Brockenhurst steeple, as a landmark to the Forest; whilst the long outline of the nave is broken only by the south porch, and its three dormer windows. Here Southey married his second wife, Catharine Bowles. And close to the north side, under the shadow of a maple, lies one of the truest lovers of Nature—Gilpin, the author of the Scenery of the New Forest, with a quaint, simple inscription on his gravestone written by himself. In the church are tablets both to him and Bromfield, the botanist, a man like him in many ways, but who, dying abroad, was not allowed to rest beside him in this quiet graveyard.

The south aisle is the oldest part, with its three Norman arches rising from square piers, whilst the north aisle is divided from the nave by a row of Early-English arches springing from plain black Purbeck marble shafts. In the east window of this aisle were once painted the arms of the Dauphin of France—the fleurs de lis—blazoned, as they were formerly, over the whole field, telling us the story of Lewis having been invited to England and crowned king by John’s barons, and whose traditional flight at Leap has been mentioned.

Down below, in the valley of the Brockenhurst Water, lies Boldre, the Bovre of Domesday, with its meadows and cornfields. It is worth while to pause for a moment, and notice the corruption of Boldre into Bovre by the Norman clerks. The word is from the Keltic, and signifies the full stream (“y Byldwr”), and has nothing to do with oxen. We must, too, bear in mind that the various Oxenfords and Oxfords are themselves corruptions, and really come not from oxen at all, but Usk, literally meaning the stream-ford or stream-road, and are in no way connected with the various Old-English Rodfords to be found in different parts of the kingdom. This corruption of language we see daily going on in our own Colonies, but it is well to pause and remember that the same process has taken place in our own country.

Passing over the bridge, and up the village, and under the railway arch, we once more reach the Forest at Shirley Holms, coming out on Shirley and Sway Commons. Here again, as on Beaulieu Heath, there is not a single tree, nothing but one vast stretch of heather, which late in the summer covers the ground with its crimson and amethyst. There is only one fault to be found with it, that when its glory is past it leaves so great a blank behind: its grey withered flowers and its grey scanty foliage forming such a contrast with its previous brightness and cheerfulness.

But these two commons will at all times be interesting to the archæologist and historian. On the north-east side lies the Roydon, that is, the rough ground, a word which we find in other parts of the Forest; and not far from it is Lichmore or Latchmore Pond—the place of corpses—which is confirmed by the various adjoining barrows.[106]

After this point, there is nothing to attract the traveller, unless he is a botanist, to the south. Wootton, and Wilverley, and Setthorns, and Holmsley, are all young plantations, whilst at Wootton the Forest now entirely ceases, though once stretching five miles farther, as far as the sea. So let him make his way to Longslade, or Hinchelsea Bottom, as it is indifferently called, where about the middle of June blossoms the lesser bladderwort (Utricularia minor), and about the same time, or rather later, the floating bur-reed (Sparganeum natans).

Above, rises Hinchelsea Knoll, with its old hollies and beeches; and still farther to the north the high lands round Lyndhurst and Stony Cross crowned with woods. Westward, the heather stretches over plain and hill till it reaches Burley. Making right through Hinchelsea, and then skirting the north side of Wilverley plantations, we shall come to the valley of Holmsley, so beloved by Scott, and which put him in mind of his native moors, without seeing which once a year, he so pathetically said, he felt as if he should die. Its wild beauty, however, is in a great measure spoilt by the railroad, and the large trees which grew in Scott’s time have all been felled.

Burley itself, which now lies just before us, is one of the most primitive of Forest hamlets, the village suddenly losing itself amongst the holms and hollies, and then reforming itself again in some open space. So thoroughly a Forest village, it is proverbially said to be dependent upon the yearly crop of acorns and mast, or “akermast,” as they are collectively called. To the south-west stands Burley Beacon, where some entrenchments are still visible, and the fields lying round it are still called “Greater” and “Lesser Castle Fields,” and “Barrows,” and “Coffins,” showing that the whole district has once been one vast battle-field.

Close to the village are the Burley quarries, where the so-called Burley rock, a mere conglomerate of gravel, the “ferrels,” or “verrels,” of North Hampshire, is dug, formerly used for the foundations of the old Forest churches, as at Brockenhurst, and Minestead, and Sopley in the Vale of the Avon. The great woods round Burley have all been cut, except a few beech-woods, but here and there “merry orchards” mingle themselves with the holms and hollies, wandering, half-wild, amongst the Forest.[107]

Turning away from the village, and going north-east, before us rise great woods—Old Burley, with its yews and oaks, where the raven used to build; Vinney Ridge, with its heronry at one extremity, and the Eagle Tree at the other; whilst behind us are the young Burley plantations. Here, near the Lodge, scattered in some fields, stand the remains of the “Twelve Apostles,” once enormous oaks, reduced both in number and size, with

And now, if the reader does not mind the swamps—and if he really wishes to know the Forest, and to see its best scenes, it is useless to mind them—let him make his way across to Mark Ash, the finest beechwood in the Forest, which even on a summer’s day is dark at noon. Thence the wood-cutter’s track will take him by Barrow’s Moor and Knyghtwood, where grows the well-known oak. Here a different scene opens out with broad spaces of heath and fern, where the gladiolus shows its red blossoms among the green leaves of the brake; whilst on the hill, distinguished by its poplars, stands Rhinefield, with its nursery, and, below, the two woods of Birchen Hat, where the common buzzard yearly breeds.

Keeping along the main road, which is just before us, nearly as far as the New Forest Gate, we will turn in at Liney Hill Wood, going through the woods of Brinken, and the Queen’s Mead, and the Queen’s Bower, following the course of the stream.

Very beautiful is this walk, with its paths which stray down to the water’s edge, where the cattle come to drink; the stream pausing round some oak roots, which pleach the banks, lingering in the darkness of the shade, and at last going away with reluctance.

Few things, of their sort, can equal these lowland Forest streams, the water tinged with the iron of the district, flashing into amber in the sunlight, and deepening into rich browns in the shade, making the pebbles hazel as it ripples over them.

All the way along grow oaks and beeches, each guarded with its green fence of kneeholm, and furred with moss, which the setting sun paints with bands of light. And so, in turn, passing Burley and Rhinefield Fords, and Cammel Green, and the Buckpen, where the deer used to be fed in winter, the path suddenly comes out by a lonely grass-field, known as the Queen’s Mead, and immediately after enters the Queen’s Bower Wood. At the farther end, a bridge crosses the brook by the side of one of the many Boldrefords in the Forest; and in the distance, across Black Knoll, shine the white houses of Brockenhurst.

CHAPTER VIII.
THE CENTRAL PART—LYNDHURST.

As we leave Brockenhurst we find ourselves more and more in the Forest. The road to Lyndhurst is one long avenue of trees—beeches with their smooth trunks, oaks growing in groups, with here and there long lawns stretching far away into distant woods. Most beautiful is this road in the spring. Stand on the top of Clay Hill, about the beginning or end of May, and you shall see wood after wood, masses of colour, the birches hung with the softest green, and the oak boughs breaking into amber and olive, made doubly bright by the dark gloom of firs, the blackthorn giving place to the sweeter may, and the marigold on the stream to the brighter lily.

On our left lies New Park, now turned into a farm, where in 1670 Charles II. kept a herd of red deer, brought from France, but previously used as a pound for stray cattle. Passing on by a roadside inn with the strange sign of the “Crown and Stirrup,” referring to a pseudo-relic of Rufus’s, preserved at the King’s House, but which is nothing more than a stirrup-iron of the sixteenth century, we reach Lyndhurst—the lime wood,[108] the capital of the Forest, the Linhest of Domesday.

William the Conqueror at one time held the manor, in his own hands, dependent on that of Amesbury. Here, after the afforestation, Herbert the Forester held one yardland, on which only two borderers lived, the rest of the manor, which was only two hydes, being thrown into the Forest.[109] Here, also, as at Brockenhurst, was another of the old feudal tenures; for, in the time of Edward I., William-le-Moyne held probably these same two hydes of land, which had been disafforested, by the sergeantry of keeping the door of the King’s larder.[110]

In the village stands the Queen’s House, built in Charles II.’s time, and adjoining it is the Hall where the Courts of Attachment, or Woodmote, the last remnant of the terrible Forest Laws, are regularly held by the verderers, to try all cases of stealing fern and timber.

Close by is the new, half-finished, church, standing in the old churchyard made famous by Mr. Kingsley’s ballad. It is not fair at present to pass a final judgment. When the tower is added, and time shall have touched the walls with a soberer tone, its two great defects will have disappeared, though nothing can remedy the heavy and poverty-stricken window of the north transept with its flattened mullions, and a wretched chimney near the choir utterly spoiling the effect of the beautiful chancel windows.

Inside, the red brick pillars of the arches of the aisles are clustered with black slate shafts, and banded with scroll-work of white Caen stone, the capitals carved with lilies, and primroses, and violets.[111] And above hangs a Perpendicular timbered roof, resting on the corbel heads of the martyrs and reformers of the Church—of Melancthon and Cranmer, and Luther and Latimer,—and the carved emblems of the Evangelists at the four corners.

In the choir and chancel the wall-colouring is more harmonious than in the nave, where there is a certain coldness and hardness, whilst the shafts are here wrought of rich Cornish marble. Over the communion-table is Mr. Leighton’s fresco, a small piece of it now only completed—an angel standing with outstretched hands, keeping back those virgins who have come too late to the bridegroom’s feast, the despair and anguish of their faces further typified by the rent wall, and the melancholy dreariness of the owl.[112]