The Avon at Ibbesley.
Tyrrel’s Ford.
After we leave Ringwood the road for a mile or two is less attractive in its scenery. Still, here, as in every part of England, there is something to be seen and learnt. The Avon flows close by, famous for a peculiar eel, locally called the “sniggle” (Anguilla mediorostris), which differs from its common congener (acutirostris) in its slender form and elongated under-jaw, and its habits of roving and feeding by day.[153] The river has, also, like some of the Norwegian streams, the peculiarity of forming ground ice.[154] For the botanist, along the hedge banks, the blue and slate-coloured soapwort is growing throughout the summer and autumn, with purple cat-mint and wild clary. In the waste places the thorn-apple shows its white blossoms; whilst red stacks of fern and black turf ricks stand by every cottage door to remind us how close we are to the Forest.
After we pass Bisterne,[155] the road becomes more interesting. To our right rises the range of St. Catherine’s Hills, that is, the fortified height, where remain the four mounds of the watch-towers and the traces of the camp. Presently we come to Avon-Tyrrel and the blacksmith’s forge, built on the spot where Tiril’s horse is said to have been shod, and which pays a yearly fine of three pounds and ten shillings to Government.
The actual Ford itself is some little way from the road. Round it stretch meadows, with strong coarse grass and sedgy weeds, branches of the Avon winding here and there, fringed by willows, the main stream flowing out broad and strong, with islands of osiers and rushes, where still breed wild duck and teal, the whole backed by the gloom of St. Catherine’s Hills crested by their darker pines. The old road, used now only by the turf-cutters, crossing the former mill-brook, follows the bed of one of the many streams, till, reaching the river at its widest part, it bends across, gaining a lane on the opposite side, which leads away past Ramsdown into Dorsetshire, and along which tradition says the knight rode to Poole.
The next village we reach is Sopley, that is the soc leag, land with the liberty of holding a court of socmen; just as the neighbouring village is called Boghamton (bócland), the village of the charter-land, or, as we should now say, freehold. Its interesting little cruciform church, Early-English and Perpendicular, is dedicated to St. Michael. The Avon flows below, and the old manor-house, now a mere cottage, stands in an adjoining meadow. On the deep north porch rests the archangel, on a corbel head. The fine old oak roof of the nave was covered up some sixty or seventy years ago by a plastered ceiling; but the corbel figures, playing the double pipe and viol, are still standing. In the north aisle are the heads of Edward III. and his queen. Two brackets for images project from the window in the north transept, whose jambs, now whitewashed over, were once painted with frescoes of the mystical vine, in green and red. Here, in the north wall, too, is an aumbrie, whilst the broken stone stairs to the rood-loft still remain. In the south transept a hagioscope, now walled up, looked into the chancel, where, on the floor, lie two Early Decorated figures, formerly placed in tombs under the rood-loft, and traditionally said to have been brought from a church at Ripley. In the east window burns the fiery beacon of the Comptons.
Here, too, the whole of the church has been most impartially, and, I may add, successfully defaced. Everywhere has a snowstorm of whitewash fallen. I know not why we in these days should think that God delights in ugliness. Our forefathers at least thought not so. It would be well if for a moment we would consider how He adorns his own house, leads the green arabesque of ivy over its walls, and brightens the roof with the silver rays of mosses, and crowns each buttress with the aureole of the lichen.
Leaving Sopley, we come to Winkton, the Weringetone of Domesday, where stood two mills, which were rented, as we have seen was often the case, by a payment of eels.
The views here are full of quiet beauty; the river winding along between its green walls of rushes, set with white and purple comfrey and yellow loosestrife, flowing into the darkness of the trees, and then again coming out by meadows, across which rises the Priory Church of Christchurch, standing out clear and sharp against the dark mass of Hengistbury Head.
The Avon at Winkton.
The Priory Church from the Castle Keep.
I have determined to give a chapter to Christchurch, not because it contains more than many another town, but because it is a fair representative of the generality of small English boroughs. There is not a town in England, dating from even the Middle Ages, which is not full of interest peculiarly its own, and which does not possess memorials of the past which no other place can show. It has been proposed, by a no mean authority, to teach history by paintings and cartoons. But history is already painted for us on our city walls, and written for us upon our gates and crumbling castles. Our towns are in themselves the best texts upon history. For what we have seen with our eyes, and touched with our hands, leaves a more vivid and more lasting impression than the closest study of libraries of histories.
Further, the picture of a mediæval town, as given in its own archives, with its own legislation, its peculiar manufacture, or import, forms, to some extent, the true social picture of the times. Its history reflects—and not faintly—the history of the day. Christchurch was never a town of sufficient importance to show all this in its municipal records. Yet, too, we shall see that they in another way are, like the town itself, full of interest. From a modern point of view there is nothing to be seen beyond three or four straggling streets and its manufactory of fusee watch-chains—the only one in England. All its interest and associations lie with the past. The country round it, too, is equally bound up with that same past. To the north rises St. Catherine’s Hill, which we saw from the valley of the Avon, with its oval and square camps, and rampart and double vallum, crested with the mounds of its Roman watch-towers. The river Stour winds along between rows of barrows. Hengistbury Head is still fortified by its vast earthworks, and entrenched by deep ditches from the Avon to the sea.[156] Here the Britons saw the first swarm of fugitive Belgæ land and spread themselves along the rich valleys of Dorsetshire.[157] Here, centuries afterwards, the West-Saxons watched the raven—standard of the Danes scouring down the Channel, and knew their course along the coast, at night, by the blaze of burning villages, and, in the day, by the black trail of smoke.[158]
But to return to the town. Its Old-English names, Tweonea and Twinham-burn, were given to it from its situation between the rivers Avon and Stour. They were afterwards corrupted into the Norman Thuinam; which was lost in the name of its Priory, overshadowing the town with its magnificence.
Here, in 901, came Æthelwald the Ætheling, son of Æthered, in his rebellion against his cousin Edward the Elder, and seized the place. From Christchurch he fell back upon Wimborne, which he fortified, exclaiming he would do one of two things, “Either there live, or there lie.” That same night he fled to Northumberland.[159]
From Domesday we find that its manor was held in demesne by the Conqueror, as also by Edward the Confessor, with a mill renting for 5s., whilst another, belonging to the Church, was worth but 30d., and that thirty-one tenements in the borough paid a rent of 16d. Its woods, only, were inclosed in the Forest.
The manor remained in the hands of the Crown till Henry I. bestowed it on his friend and kinsman Richard de Redvers, Earl of Devon, the ruins of whose castle still overlook the Avon. Here his son Baldwin de Redvers in vain fortified himself against Stephen. Here, too, lived his grandson William de Vernon, who helped to bear the canopy at Richard’s second coronation at Winchester. Afterwards, the manor passed into the hands of Isabella de Fortibus, who, on her death-bed, sold it, with all her possessions, to Edward I., who well knew the value of such a stronghold. Though Edward II. bestowed the estate on Sir William Montacute, yet the castle still remained in the hands of the Crown.
It was standing, though no longer a fortification, in the Commonwealth period. Nothing, however, now remains but the mere shell of the keep, whose walls are in places four yards thick.[160]
Below it stands what was, perhaps, the house of Baldwin de Redvers, also in ruins, and roofless, but still a capital specimen of what is so rarely seen, the true domestic architecture of the twelfth century. Like all the other remaining houses of this period, it is a simple oblong, seventy-one feet by twenty-four broad, and only two stories high, placed for defence on a branch of the Avon, which serves as a moat. On the south-east it is flanked by a small attached tower, now in ruins, under which the stream flows. The ground floor was divided in half by a wall, whilst the outer walls, thicker on the east and south sides, where more exposed to attacks than on the north and west, are pierced with deeply-splayed loopholes looking out on the stream. On this side was the hall, where lord, and guest, and serf, alike ate and drank, and slept on the floor. The other western half was divided into chambers and cellars, the kitchen probably standing in the courtyard.
The Norman House.
Above, approached by two stone staircases from within, and not, as in most cases, from without, was the principal dwelling-room, the solar, lighted on each side by three double lights, carved on their outer arches with zig-zag and billet mouldings, and on the south by a circular, and on the north by a fine double window, once richly ornamented, but now nearly destroyed. The fire-place, the only one in the house, is set nearly in the centre of the east wall; and above it still stands, in the place of the old smoke-vent, the beautiful round chimney, one of the earliest in England, like the fire-place, hid in ivy.
There seems, however, as in the case of the still older Norman house at Southampton, to have been no wall-passage connecting the building, as we might have expected, with the castle; but like it, its entrances, of which there were three, one opening out upon the stream, were on the ground floor.[161]
Coming down to later times, the great Lord Clarendon here possessed large property, and one of his favourite schemes was to make the Avon navigable to Salisbury. For this purpose it was surveyed by Yarranton, the hydrographer, who not only reported favourably of the idea, but proposed to make the harbour an anchorage for men-of-war, bringing forward the great natural advantages of Hengistbury Head, as also the facilities of procuring iron in the district, and wood from the New Forest.[162] All, however, fell to the ground with Clarendon’s exile, and the harbour is now silted up with sand and choked with weeds.
Nothing else is there to be mentioned, except the visit by Edward VI. to the town, from whence he wrote a letter to his friend Barnaby Fitz-Patrick, far superior to most royal letters. The lazar-house, which stood in the Bargates, has long since been destroyed. The old market-place has been lately taken down; but in the main street, not far from the castle keep, remains, lately-restored, one of those timbered houses so common in the Midland counties and the Weald of Kent, with their dormer windows and richly-carved bressumers and barge-boards, but rarer in the West of England.[163] The glory, however, of the town, the Priory Church, still stands. Before describing it let us give some account of its history. Its earliest buildings were founded by some of the secular canons of the order of St. Augustine, probably on a spot used for worship by the Romans.[164] Mention of it is made in Domesday as existing in Edward the Confessor’s reign, and as possessing five hydes and one yardland in Thuinam, as also its tithes, and the third of those of Holdenhurst.[165] The present building, however, dates only from the time of Flambard, who rebuilt the church, pulling down the earlier building with its nine cells.[166] And in Henry I.’s reign, Baldwin de Redvers brought in the regular instead of the secular canons, and placed them under the first prior, Reginald.
With this change new privileges and grants were made. Riches flowed in on every side. Not only were the Redvers benefactors, but the Courtenays, and Wests, and Salisburys, into whose hands the manor of Christchurch came.[167]
Like most other ecclesiastical buildings, we hear but little of it till its dissolution. From its state we may be able to judge of the general condition of the monasteries, and how imperative was the change.
Leland[168] tells us that the Priory possessed but one volume—a small work on the Old-English laws. Their own accounts show us that the rules of St. Augustine had long been forgotten. Drunkenness had taken the place of fasting; and instead of giving they now owed.[169] Tradition, too, adds that the brethren were known in the town as the “Priory Lubbers.” To this had the Austin Canons sank. So it was throughout England. Abbot and poorest brother were alike steeped in sensuality, and benighted in ignorance.
Of the last prior, John Draper, we catch some faint glimpse in a letter from Robert Southwell and four other commissioners to Cromwell, dated from Christchurch, the 2nd of December. He appears to have been a man who trimmed his course with the breath of authority, utterly selfish, utterly despicable. Not one word does he appear to have raised on behalf of his priory. Not one sigh did he utter for the old, nor one aspiration after the new religion. Thus the commissioners write:—“Our humble dewties observyd unto yr gudde Lordeschippe. It may lyke the same to be advertised that we have taken the surrender of the late priorye of Christ Churche twynhm̄, wher we founde the prior a very honest, conformable p̄son, And the howse well furnysshede wt Jewellys and plate, whereof som be mete for the Kings majestie is use as A litill chalys of golde, a gudly lardge crosse doble gylt, wt the foote garnyshyd wt stone and perle, two gudly basuns doble gylt having the Kings armys well inamyld, a gudly great pyxe for the sacramēt doble gylt, And ther be also other things of sylv̄, right honest and of gudde valewe as well for the churche use as for the table resyvyd, and kept to the Kings use.”[170] Before the Dissolution came, whilst matters still trembled in the balance—whilst still there was hope that Protection would, for a little time longer, be given to hypocrisy, and Authority to sloth, he pleaded with Henry.[171] Now, when all hope was lost, when the end had arrived, the commissioners compliment him as the “very honest, conformable person.” Had he previously been in earnest they must have written very differently. By his conformity he purchased his peace. And so, after giving up his priory, he was allowed to depart with a pension, to finish his life as he pleased, at the Prior’s Lodgings at Sumerford Grange. There he died; and was buried in front of what had been his own choir; and his chantry still remains in the south choir aisle. Of the conventual buildings, which stood on the south side of the church, nothing remains except the fragments of the outer wall and the entrance lodge, built by Draper, with his initials still carved on the window label. A modern house stands on the site of the Refectory; and in digging its foundations, some tombs of the fourth century were found.[172] Other traces remain only in the names of the places, as Paradise Walk, by the side of the mill stream, and the Convent meadows, where, in an adjoining field, are the sites of the fishponds of the brethren.
The church stands at the south-west of the town, on a rising ground between the two rivers, its tower alike a seamark to the ships and a landmark to the Valley. But the first thing which strikes the visitor is not so much the tower, as the deep, massive north porch, standing right out from the main building, reaching to its roof, with its high-recessed arch, and its rich doorways dimly seen, set between clusters of black Purbeck marble pillars, and ornamented above with a quatrefoiled niche.
Standing here, and looking along the north aisle, the eye rests on the Norman work of the transept, the low round arches interlacing one another, their spandrels rich with billet and fishscale mouldings; whilst beyond rises the Norman turret, banded with its three string-courses, and enriched with its arcades, the space between them netted over with coils of twisted cables.
This is true Norman work, such as you can see scarcely anywhere else in England. And imagine what the church once was—a massive lantern-tower springing up from the midst, the crown of all this beauty.
Beyond all this lovely Romanesque work, rises the north choir aisle, with its quatrefoiled parapet, whilst above gleam the traceried windows of the choir, with their flying buttresses; and beyond them again stands the Lady Chapel, surmounted by St. Michael’s loft, ugly and vile.
Entering, and standing at the extreme south-west end, we shall see the massive Norman piers rise in long lines, lightened by their columns, and relieved by their capitals, the spaces above each arch moulded with the tooth ornament. Above springs the triforium with its double arches, some of their pillars wreathed with foliage, the central shafts chequered in places with network, and woven over with tracery. Above that again runs the clerestory, now spoilt, whilst an open oak roof, hid by a ceiling, but once rich with bosses and carved work, encloses all.
To go into details. The porch and north aisle are Early-English, whilst a Norman arcade runs the whole length of the south aisle. The tower, and choir, and Lady Chapel, are Perpendicular, and the nave, as far as the clerestory windows, Norman.
Passing through the rich rood-screen, which, however, sadly blocks up the way, we reach the choir, with its four traceried windows on either side, and clustered columns, from which springs its groined roof with bosses of foliage and pendants bright with gold, whilst the capitals of the shafts and the quatrefoils of the archivolts are rich with colour. The stalls are carved with grotesque heads and figures, like those in the Collegiate Church of the Holy Trinity, at Stratford-upon-Avon. Before us now stands the lovely reredos, illustrating the words of Isaiah,—“There shall come forth a rod out of the stem of Jesse, and a Branch shall grow out of his roots.” Jesse sleeps at the bottom, his hand supporting his head, whilst David, with his fingers on his harp-strings, and Solomon, sit on each side, the vine spreading upwards, bearing its leaf and full fruit in Mary, to whose Son the Wise Men are offering their presents. Such is the screen, and had the execution been equal to the design, it would have been the finest in England. The carving seems, however, never to have been finished, and certainly in parts only to have been roughly cut by some inferior hand, and never to have received the last touches of the master-artist. Even now, in its present condition, it stands before those of Winchester and St. Alban’s, inferior only to that of St. Mary’s Overie.[173]
Passing on we come to the Lady Chapel, with its traceried roof. Under the east window are the remnants of another rich screen. The high altar, too, with its slab of Purbeck marble cut with five crosses, remains, whilst two recessed altar tombs to Sir Thomas West and his mother stand in the north and south walls.
But what we should especially see, both for its beauty and its interest, is the Chantry Chapel, built for her last resting-place by Margaret, Countess of Salisbury, mother of Cardinal Pole. It stands in the north choir aisle, its roof rich with arabesque tracery and carved bosses, telling a curious story in our English history. Attainted of treason the Countess was confined two years in the Tower before she suffered. When the day of execution came, she walked out on the fatal Tower Green; and still firm—still to the last resolute—refused to lay her head on the block. “So should traitors do,” she cried, “but I am none;” and the headsman was obliged to butcher her as best he could.[174]
In the same letter before quoted from the Commissioners for the Suppression of Monasteries, dated from Christchurch, occurs this passage:—“In thys churche we founde a chaple and monumēt curiosly made of cane [Caen] stone ̄paryd by the late mother of Raynolde pole for herre buriall, wiche we have causyd to be defacyd, and all the armys and badgis clerly to be delete.”[175] To this day the vengeance of Henry’s commissioners is visible, her arms being broken, and the bosses defaced, though her motto, “Spes mea in Deo est,” can still be read.
At the end of this aisle, under the east window, lie the alabaster effigies of Sir John Chydioke and his wife. The knight, who fell in the wars of York and Lancaster, wears his coat of mail, his head resting on his helmet, and his hands clasped together in prayer. At the western end, adjoining the north transept, stand two oratories with groined roofs, enriched with foliated bosses, whilst the capitals, from which the arches spring, are carved with heads.[176]
In the south choir aisle stand more monuments, amongst them the mortuary chapel of Robert Harys, with his rebus sculptured on a shield; and the chapel of Draper, the last prior, noticeable for its rich canopied niche over the doorway.[177]
And now that the reader has seen each part, let him go back to the west end, and sweep out of sight the whole thicket of pews, and break down the rood-screen blocking up the view, and looking through and beyond it, past the long line of Norman bays, with their sculptured tables, and past the chancel, imagine the stone reredos, as it once was, shining with gold and colour, all its niches filled with statues, and the windows above blazing with crimson and purple, through which the sunlight poured, staining the carved stalls and misereres,—and then he will have some faint idea of the former glory of the church.[178]
Most interesting is it, too, from another point of view. Since the Austin canons were more especially concerned with man’s struggle in daily life, their churches assumed a parochial character. Hence we here have the spacious nave, so different to that of the old Nunnery Church of Romsey, the west tower and doorway—absent at Romsey—and the lovely north porch looking out to the town.
The whole building, I am sorry to add, is sadly out of repair. Restoration has been going on for some time past; but here, as in all similar cases, money is much needed. Surely men might give something, if from no higher motive than of keeping up a memorial of the piety of a past age. We inveigh against Cromwell and the Puritans—against the sacrilege of horses stabled in the choir, and the stalls turned into mangers;—against the sword which struck down the sculptured images, and the fire which consumed the carved woodwork. But the harm which the Puritans wrought is little compared with ours, in allowing the loveliness of our churches to rot by our negligence, and their sacredness to perish by our apathy.
The North Porch and Doorway.
Chewton Glen.
Little has been seen of the sea, except from Calshot Castle to Leap. Though, too, the sea-coast here, as there, is no longer in the Forest, yet if we miss this walk we shall lose some of the most beautiful scenery in the district.
As we leave Christchurch by the Lymington Road, Mudeford lies on the right, and Burton, with its Staple Cross, on the left. Few things are more touching than these old grey relics of the past, standing solitary in our cross-roads, the dial united with the Cross, to show both how short was man’s life, and where lay his only salvation. But we now profane them, and turn them, as here, into direction posts, or break them up, as at Burgate, to mend the road.
Both villages will some day be more sought after than at present, for at Burton lived Southey, with his friend Charles Lloyd, and sang the praises of the valley in better verse than usual. At Mudeford, Stewart Rose, the author of The Red King, built Gundimore, where, in 1807, Scott stayed, writing Marmion, and riding over the Forest exploring the barrows. In the same village Coleridge lodged during the winter of 1816.[179]
A little way along the main road lies Somerford, once one of the Granges of Christchurch Priory. Its barns and stables are partly built from the prior’s lodgings, whose site may here and there be faintly traced; and the chapel, which in Grose’s time was still standing, with the initials of the last prior, John Draper, cut on the window labels.[180]
The best plan, however, is not to go along the road, but the shore as far as Chewton Glen, and there climb up the cliff. The sands are white and hard, strewed with fragments of iron-stone, and large septaria, from which cement is made, and for which, farther on, a fleet of sloops is dredging a little way from the shore. In the far distance gleam the white and black and orange-coloured bands of sand and clay scoring the Barton cliffs.[181]
The glen, or “bunny,” as it is locally called, runs right down into the sea; the high tide rushing up it, and driving back its Forest stream. Down to the very edge it is fringed with low oak copses, covered in the spring, as far as high-tide mark, with blue bells, and strewed with yellow tufts of primroses. In the summer, too, the ground is as deep a green with ferns as the oak leaves above; whilst the stream flows between banks bordered with blue skull-cap and purple helleborine.[182]
Christ Church Bay
From the Ordnance Survey.
Then, as you climb up to the down, on the opposite side, stretches a view, hard to be matched in England either for extent or beauty. On one side rolls the English Channel, indenting the shore with its deep bay as far as the land-locked harbour of Christchurch, shut in by Hengistbury Head and the white Swanage rocks; and, on the other, it sweeps away by the long beach of Hurst and its round gray castle. Opposite, glitter the coloured sands and chalk cliffs of Alum Bay, and the white Needle Rocks running wedge-shaped into the sea. Farther eastward, rise the treeless downs, and the breach opens across the Island to Freshwater Gate, and the two batteries, built into the cliff, one by one appear: the long scene ended at last by the houses of Yarmouth—the Solent still winding onward, like some great river.
An uninterrupted path runs, for some three or four miles, along the top of the cliff—the scene constantly changing in its beauty. Below hangs a broken under-cliff, shelving down to the sea, strewed here and there with blocks of gravel, the grass and furze growing on them just as they fell. On the shore stretch long reaches of yellow sand, separated by narrow strips of pebbles, and patches of dark green Barton clay, embossed with shells, and studded with sharks’ teeth.
Passing the Coastguard Station and the Gangway, we reach Becton Bunny—very different to Chewton, but equally lovely, with its bare wide gorge, and its beds of furze and heath fringing the edge of the cliff.[183] Very beautiful, too, are the summer sunsets seen from this point—the sun sinking far down the channel, lighting up the coloured sands of Alum Bay purple and gold, tinting the white chalk cliffs with rose and vermilion, the crimson of the sky floating on the waves as they break along the shore.
Still following the path along the top of the cliff, we pass the grave-yard, where stood the old cruciform church of Hordle—once in the middle of the village, but now only a hundred yards from the sea. Nothing of it remains except some blocks of Grey Wethers, used for its foundation, and too large to be removed. Very interesting are these stones, brought up from the shore, where, now and then, one or two may be seen at low tide, tumbled from the drift above—the same stones as those at Stonehenge, left on the top of the chalk. Gone, too, are its mill and its six salterns, mentioned in Domesday, and the village itself removed inland. The sailors, however, dredging for cement-stone or for fish, sometimes draw up great logs of wood, locally known as “mootes,” which may perhaps tell of the salterns, or the time when the Forest stretched to the sea. The salterns of the Normans and the Old-English have suffered very different fates. In Normandy the sea no longer reaches to their sites,[184] whilst here it has long since rolled over them.
Beyond this again is Mineway, reminding us, by its name, of the time when the iron-stone was collected on the shore and taken to the Sowley furnaces to be smelted.[185] Farther on, down in the valley made by the stream, which turns the village mill, mentioned in Domesday, lies Milford. The church spire rises up prettily amongst its trees, and the church itself is a good example of our village churches, built in three or four different styles. The tower is Early-English, surmounted by a string-course of Norman heads. In the north side stands a curious inserted doorway, with trefoil heading, whilst two Norman arches remain in the nave joined by Early-English, springing from black Purbeck marble shafts.
To the south stretches the long Hurst beach, formed, in much the same way as the more famous Chesil Bank, of the rolled pebbles brought up from the Barton Cliffs by the strong tides aided with the westerly gales, making a breakwater to the whole of the Solent. Now and then close to it appear the floating islands, known as the Shingles, sometimes rising for only a few hours above the sea, and at others remaining long enough to become green with bladderwort and samphire.
Across to the Isle of Wight, at the narrowest point, it is only a mile; and so fast does the Solent tide,[186] when once the ebb is felt, pour itself along the narrow gorge, that it fills up Christchurch Bay, higher than at the flood, thus making, in fact, a double high-water. At the extreme end stands Hurst Castle, built by Henry VIII., from the ruins of Beaulieu Abbey. Whatever opinion we may have of Henry’s private character, there can be but one as to his foresight and energy in defending the country. Much for this may be forgiven. Hall wrote in no exaggerated strain when he said:—“The King’s highness never ceases to study and take pains both for the advancement of the commonwealth of this his realm of England, and for the defence of the same.... Wherefore, his Majesty in his own personne took very laborious and painful journeys towards the sea-coasts. Also, he sent dyvers of his nobles and counsellors to view and search all the portes and dangers in the coastes, ... and in all soche doubtful places his Highness caused dyvers and many bulwarks and fortifications to be made.”[187] And of them, Hurst Castle, like Calshot, which we have seen, was one, and still stands, additionally fortified by guns, and guarded by the far better defences of lighthouses, and beacons, and telegraph stations.[188]
Here it was, on the 1st December, 1642, Charles I. was brought, after holding his mock court at Newport, by Colonel Cobbit, who had seized him in the name of the army. Here, too, he still showed all the foolish childishness which Laud had taught him, putting faith in the omen of his candle burning brightly or dimly,[189] which detracts so much from any interest we might otherwise feel for him in his days of care and sorrow. A closet is shown where he is said to have been confined, and where his Golden Rules are said to have hung; but from Herbert’s memoirs, evidently neither the room where he lived or slept.[190] Herbert’s account of Hurst is so graphic that I give it nearly in full:—“The wind and tide favouring, the King and his attendants crossed the narrow sea in three hours,[191] and landed at Hurst Castle, or Block House rather, erected by order of King Henry VIII., upon a spot of earth a good way into the sea, and joined to the firm land by a narrow neck of sand, which is covered over with small loose stones and pebbles; and upon both sides the sea beats, so as at spring tides and stormy weather the land passage is formidable and hazardous. The castle has very thick stone walls, and the platforms are regular, and both have several culverines and sakers mounted.... The captain of this wretched place was not unsuitable; for, at the King’s going ashore, he stood ready to receive him with small observance. His look was stern. His hair and large beard were black and bushy. He held a partizan in his hand; and, Switz-like, had a great basket-hilt sword on his side. Hardly could one see a man of more grim aspect, and no less robust and rude was his behaviour.”[192] The account is very life-like, though some allowance must be made for Herbert’s prejudices against this gaunt Puritan captain, who, we learn, by-and-by became more civil. Colonel Cobbit, in whose charge the King was, seems to have treated him with uniform respect and kindness. Charles stayed here six-and-twenty days, walking along the beach, watching the ships passing up and down the Solent, and receiving the cavaliers of Hampshire, who came for the last time to pay their respects. Then, at last, he was suddenly taken away to show at Whitehall a better courage and wisdom in death than in life.
About three miles from Milford, on the mouth of the Boldre Water, lies the port of Lymington, the Mark of the Limingas, as the neighbouring hamlet of Pennington is that of the Penningas.[193] Its manor, like that of Christchurch, once belonged to Isabella de Fortibus, and was given, with some other possessions, by Edward I., to her rightful heir, the Earl of Devon, whose arms are still quartered with those of the Corporation. It is another of those towns, which, like Christchurch, though in a very different way, is associated with the past. It has no monastic buildings, no ruins of any kind, no church worth even a glance. Yet, too, it can tell of departed greatness.
From the coins which have been dug up in the town, and the camp at Buckland Rings,[194] it was evidently well known to the Romans. In Domesday, the famous Roger de Yvery held one hyde here; but its woods were thrown into the Forest, and for this reason the manor was only rated at one half. No mention is made of its salt-works, though we know, from a grant of Richard de Redvers, in 1147, confirming his father’s bequest of the tithe of them to Quarr Abbey, that they were then probably in existence.[195] Larger than Portsmouth, in 1345, it contributed nearly double the number of ships and men to Edward III.’s fleet for the invasion of France. We must not, however, conclude that it has decreased.[196] Larger now than ever, like so many other old towns, it has not increased in a relative proportion with younger rivals favoured by the accidents of position or commerce. Like, too, all other similar ports, it has its tales to tell of French invasions, and, like similar boroughs, of the Civil War; but they are merely traditional, and, therefore, vague and unsatisfactory. Loyal from first to last, it is said to have at its own cost supplied with provisions the ships of Prince Charles, when he lay in the Yarmouth Roads, hoping to rescue his father from Carisbrook. In still later times, carried away by Protestant sympathies, it espoused the cause of the imbecile Monmouth, the mayor raising some hundred men to join his standard.[197]
Most of the places round Lymington, Buckland Rings, Boldre Church, Sway Common, with its barrows, we have already seen. A little, though, to the eastward, at Baddesley, near Sowley Pond, formerly stood a Preceptory of the Knights Templar, and afterwards of those of St. John of Jerusalem. At the Dissolution it was granted to Sir Thomas Seymour, and again by Edward VI. to Sir Nicholas Throckmorton, but subsequently, under Mary, restored to the Hospitallers. Nothing of it is now left.[198]
Here, then, at Lymington, we have been the whole circumference of the Forest. I do not know that I have omitted anything of real interest. Mere idle gossip, vague stories, I have left to those who care to write, and those who like to read such things. The geology, and botany, and folk-lore of the district, to which it was impossible to do more than to make general references, will be found in the succeeding chapters. As was before said, in the wild commons and woods themselves I have myself taken the greatest interest, and wished to impress their beauty on the reader, feeling that a love for Nature is the mainspring of all that is noble in life, and all that is precious in Art. I do not know either that I have anywhere exaggerated. On the contrary, no words can paint, much more exaggerate, the loveliness of the woods. And of all walks in the district, this over the Hordle and Barton Cliffs is by no means the least beautiful, though no longer in the Forest.
Hurst Castle.
View in Mark Ash.
Many people have a vague notion that the gipsies constitute the most important element of the population of the New Forest, whereas, of course, they are mere cyphers. An amusing enough French author, in a work upon England, has devoted a special chapter to the New Forest, and there paid more attention to the gipsies than any one else, and entirely forgets the West-Saxon, whose impress is indelibly marked, not only in the language, but in the names of every town, village, and field.
As, however, every one takes a romantic interest in these nomads, we must not entirely pass over them. Here and there still linger a few in whose veins run Indian blood, against whom Henry VIII. made bad laws, and Skelton worse rhymes. The principal tribes round Lyndhurst are the Stanleys, the Lees, and Burtons; and near Fordingbridge, the Snells. They live chiefly in the various droves and rides of the Forest, driven from place to place by the policeman, for to this complexion have things come. One of their favourite halting-places is amongst the low woods near Wootton, where a dozen or more brown tents are always fluttering in the wind, and as the night comes on the camp-fires redden the dark fir-stems.
The kingly title formerly held by the Stanleys is now in the possession of the Lees. They all still, to a certain extent, keep up their old dignity, and must by no means be confounded with the strolling outcasts and itinerant beggars who also dwell in the Forest. Their marriages, too, are still observed with strictness, and any man or woman who marries out of the caste, as recently in the case of one of the Lees, who wedded a blacksmith, is instantly disowned. The proverb, too, of honour among thieves is also still kept, and formal meetings are every now and then convened to expel any member who is guilty of cheating his kinsman.
Since the deer have been destroyed in the Forest, life is not to them what it was. They are now content to live upon a stray fowl, or hedgehog, or squirrel, baked whole in a coat of clay, and to gain a livelihood by weaving the heather into mats, and brooms, and beehives.
They are, however, mere wanderers, and have nothing to do with the soil. It is with the West-Saxon that we are most concerned. And in the New Forest he will be found just such another man as his forefather in the days of William the Red, putting the same faith in visions and omens which made the King exclaim, on the morning of his death, upon the news of the monk of Gloucester’s dream, “Do you take me for an Englishman?” believing firmly in groaning ash-trees, and oaks which bud on Christmas-eve, and witches who can turn themselves into hares, and that the marl which he digs is still red with the blood of his ancient foes the Danes.[199]
Here, as we have seen in Hampshire, at Calshot, on the borders of the Forest, Cerdic landed. Here he defeated the Britons, and established the kingdom of the West-Saxons. Here the West-Saxon Alfred rallied his countrymen and crowned defeat with victory. Here, too, stood the capital of Wessex, Winchester, in whose cathedral lie the old West-Saxon kings. Here, then, if anywhere, we should expect to find West-Saxon characteristics and a West-Saxon population.
As is well known, after the battle of Hastings, the West-Saxons, with one or two exceptions, succumbed willingly enough to the Conqueror, who lived amongst them; whilst the Northmen across the Humber bid him defiance. Every one must to this day notice the extreme deference, almost amounting to a painful obsequiousness, of the lower classes in the southern, compared with their independent manner in the northern, parts of England. We find, too, mingled, however, with characteristics from other sources, the West-Saxon element not only in the appearance of the long-limbed Forest peasantry, with their narrow head and shoulders, and loose, shambling gait, but also in their slowness of perception. They betray, too, to this hour that worst Teutonic trait of fatalism, observable in all their epitaphs, and in their daily expression, “It was not to be,” applied to anything which does not take place. Notwithstanding, too, their apparent servility, an amount of cunningness and craft peeps out, which in a different age compelled the Conqueror to make special laws against assassination.[200]
Much must be set against these drawbacks. Enslaved to an extent which no modern historian has dared to reveal, and can only be fully conceived by the dreadful story of The Chronicle,—treated as beasts rather than even slaves,—the West-Saxons showed, under the Normans, a spirit of obedience and an adaptability to changed circumstances which are above praise. Let us give the West-Saxon labourer credit for it both then and to this day, that though the most ill-paid and ill-fed in England, he bears his heavy yoke of poverty without a murmur.
Turning to another side of his character, we find him loving the same old sports as in the days of Alfred. He still follows the hounds on foot, and when there were deer in the Forest, naturally killed them. Wrestling and cudgel-playing have been continued till the last few years close to the northern boundaries of the Forest. The old Hock-tide games were till a late period kept up in the northern parts, and “Hock-tide money” was not so very long ago paid as an acknowledgment for certain Forest privileges. Heartiness and roughness still go hand in hand with him as with his forefathers. But a heaviness of intellect is always visible, and, as with all his race, a sadness oppresses his mirth. His dress to this day, too, bespeaks his nationality. He still wears what is locally called the “smicket,” and sometimes the “surplice,” the Old-English smoc, named also the tunece. It is still, too, as formerly, tied round the waist with a leathern band. His legs are still cased, as we see the Old-English in their drawings, with gaiters, known as “vamplets,” or “strogs,” equivalent to the “cockers” of the Midland Counties, which do not reach quite so high as the former, and “mokins,” which are merely made of coarse sacking.
And now let us see how far he has made his presence felt on the district and in the language. But we must beware of overstraining our theory. No portion of our history is, in its details, so difficult as the English Conquest. None, to any statement which may be made, requires so many qualifications. The first faint flow of the Teutonic immigration was felt long prior to Cæsar’s invasion—centuries before the main wave burst over the country. We must, too, carefully bear in mind that in Wessex, more than in any other part, the conquerors and conquered were blended together.[201] They mixed, however, everywhere far more than is commonly allowed. Our language bears testimony to the general fact. The many Keltic household words in daily use are the best evidence.
Here in the New Forest I may mention that the form “plock” is used instead of the common block (bloc), and that we have, as, perhaps, throughout the West of England, “hob,” in the sense of potato-hob—a place where potatoes are covered over, instead of “hog” (hwg), noticed by Mr. Davies in his list of Keltic words in Lancashire. Further, we find the terms “more” (maur), for a root, “mulloch,” for dirt, and “bower-stone,” for a boundary-stone.[202] Here, too, as in other places, the Britons have left the traces of their rule on the broader natural features of the country—on the rivers, as the Exe (y [g] wysg, the current), and Avon (Afon, the river), and Avon Water, near Setthorns, and Boldre (y Byldwr, the full stream), and Stour ([G]wys-dwr, the deep water), and in the district itself, in the now almost forgotten name of Ytene. We find their influence, too, perhaps, in such local names of villages and fields as Penerley, Denny, Fritham, Cocketts, Cammel Green, and Flasket’s Lane. As might be expected, the traces of the Danes are very much less; and I hardly like even to venture on the conjecture that the various “Nashes” along the coast are corruptions of næs. Here, in the Forest, we have no Danish “thorpes” or “bys.” There are no Carlbys, as in Lincolnshire and Yorkshire, but plenty of Old-English Charltons, and Charlmoors, and Charlmeads. No Norse “forces” run here, as in the north of England, but only “rides.” No “denes” open out to the sea, as in Durham, but only “chines” and “bunnies.” No Jutish “ings” are dwelt in, as in Kent, but only “tons” and “leys.” Here, in fact, the people of Cerdic have identified themselves with the land, and have left their impress, now unchanged for more than thirteen centuries, on all the towns, and hamlets, and homesteads.
Thus we find on the eastern side of the Forest, formerly in it, Eling, the Mark of the Ealingas, Totton, the Mark of the Totingas; on the south, Lymington and Pennington, the Marks of the Limingas and Penningas; and on the west, Fordingbridge, the Mark of the Fordingas, and Ellingham, that is, Adeling’s Hamlet, Adelingeham, in Domesday, where some of the neighbouring woods are to this hour called Adlem’s Plantations.
We will not press, as a proof of descent, the number of Old-English surnames, which may easily be collected in the district. We must remember that they were not used, in our modern sense, till long after the Norman Conquest; and when adopted, people were more likely to choose them from English, than from Norman or other sources. Such evidence establishes nothing.
In other ways, however, do we find the Old-English nomenclature telling us the history of the people and the country;—in Hengistbury Head, on the south-west, reminding us of the white horse—the Hengest of the High-German,[203] and Calshot at the east, spelt as we know in Edward I.’s time, Kalkesore; on the north-west in Charford—the old Cerdices-ford of The Chronicle; on the south in Darrat (Danes-rout) and Danestream, whose waters, the peasant maintains, still run red with the blood of the conquered.
Everywhere we meet similar compounds,—in Needsore, which the Ordnance map spells Needs-oar, and thus loses the etymology, which, like the Needle Rocks, means simply the under (German nieder) shore; in the various Galley Hills, corrupted into Gallows Hills, which have nothing to do with the later, but the older instrument, which contained the signal-fires, and are connected with the words “galley,”[204] to frighten, and “galley-baggar,” a scarecrow, both still heard every day, from the Old-English gælan.
We find the same impress in Lyndhurst, Brockenhurst, Ashurst, and, as we have before said, in various other hursts,[205] in the different Holmsleys, Netleys,[206] Beckleys, Bentleys, Bratleys, Stockleys, all from the Old-English leag; in the various tons, as Wootton, Winkton, Everton, Burton, and Hinton; in Gore and Goreley, the muddy places; in Culverley, the dove lea; in the Roydons and Rowdouns, the rough places; in Rhinefield, the brook field; and in Brockis Hill, the badger’s hill.
Take only the very names of the fields and we shall meet the same element, as in the Wareham field, the fishing place field; Conygers and Coneygar,[207] the King’s ground, to be met in every village; in the linches, as Goreley Linch, that is, Goreley Headland, or literally, the dirty-field headland; in Hangerley, the corner meadow; Hayes, the enclosure, with all its compounds, as Westhayes, Powelhayes, Crithayes, and Felthayes; in such terms as Withy Eyot, that is, Withy Island; and the different Rodfords—“hryðeranford”—the cattleford, the Old-English equivalent to the Norman Bovreford.
We meet, too, in daily life, such words as hayward for the North-Country “pinder;” barton, literally the barley place, instead of the Keltic “crooyard;”—the same Old-English element in the names of the flowers, as bishop-wort (bisceop-wyrt), one of the mints, from which the peasant makes his “hum-water;” cassock (from cassuc), any kind of binding weed, and cammock (from cammec), any of the St. John’s worts, or ragworts; clivers (from clife, a bur), the heriff; and wythwind, by which name the convolvulus is still known, the Old-English “wið-winde.”