Parochial histories supply the facts necessary for the confirmation of the tradition. Brand cites the case of a burying-ground in Edinburgh, where the North was reserved for the unbaptized and suicides. The graveyard belonged to the Quakers, and thus is of especial interest[906]. Another record tells how, a century ago, the body of a murderer who had been executed at Lincoln was carried to Swine, over the Yorkshire boundary, and was there interred on the North side “as the proper place in which to bury a felon[907].” To the Irish peasantry, the North is the “wrong side,” and we have a contemporary account of a murder in the year 1786, which incidentally states that the malefactor was buried on the “wrong side” of Turlagh churchyard[908]. Miss Gordon-Cumming found that, among the Hebrideans, the belief was full of vitality. A young Englishman, who had committed suicide, was carried head foremost to a grave on the North side of Portree church, and was there buried, with his head towards the East, instead of towards the West. Even this qualified reception into consecrated ground sometimes meets with opposition, from fear that a suicide so buried will cause the herrings to desert the coast. The suspicious fishermen have been known to dig up a corpse from the kirkyard, secretly, by night, and to re-inter the accursed thing either on the shore, at low-water mark, or on the summit of a high mountain. Burials of this kind have taken place on the top of Aird Dhubh, and also on a mountain on the border of Inverness and Ross-shire, two years after the original sepulture[909].

Still bearing on this question, it has been suggested that a part of the churchyard, presumably the Northern, was formerly left unconsecrated for the burial of such persons as have been enumerated. Burn, in his History of Parish Registers, expressly states this as a fact, and gives, as an example, “the single woman’s churchyard,” in Southwark, where the dead bodies of the inmates of the licensed stews were buried[910]. This part of the graveyard was frequently known as the “back side[911].” The West of England tradition taught that this area was designedly left unconsecrated to serve as a playground for the village children. To speak more generally, the North was reserved for the village sports during the period when these were permitted in the churchyard. And, although there seems no clear proof that butts for the use of archers were set up in the churchyard itself, the ground immediately adjoining the North boundary was so used. Such a strip of land, of some length, known as “the Butts,” lies to the North of the churchyard at Beeston-next-Mileham, in Norfolk[912], and at Coleshill, in Warwick. The theory of non-consecration, though not for the purposes just named, receives some support from Durandus, who observes that to be buried on the North side is to be buried “out of sanctuary[913].” And through all the centuries which have rolled away since the date of this learned ecclesiastic, the country folk have shunned the North side, which lies “benighted in the midday sun.” There was always a dislike of lying alone in death. The accustomed path, leading to the South door, was trodden by the assembling worshippers[914]. Under the shadow of the graveyard cross or the sombre yew the country folk could stop to whisper a prayer. In far-away times, Gregory the Great had taught that it is more profitable to be buried in the churchyard than in the distant cemetery, because, in the former case, the survivors may frequently behold the sepulchres as they enter the sacred building, and may put forth their petitions. (Cf. p. 262 supra.)

The distant cemetery, mentioned by Gregory, seems oftentimes to have formed an incentive to church-building in its neighbourhood. It would appear that the earliest Christian graveyards, like the cemeteries of the heathen, were often unenclosed. Being hallowed spots, a preaching cross would be erected near the graves. The setting up of a cross, the “truly precious rood,” must precede the actual building of the church, according to the decree of the Emperor Justinian (A.D. 530). This act of consecration was the work of the bishop of the diocese. Durandus notices the claim of some churchmen that a space of thirty feet around the church ought to be set apart for burial, while others contended that the space actually enclosed by the circuit of the bishop was sufficient[915]. Though the cross may at first have been portable and adapted only for temporary use, yet a permanent symbol was frequently employed. The heathen Saxons are said to have had a rooted dread of entering an enclosed place of worship, lest they should be the victims of supposed magical rites[916]. An enclosed graveyard was also a decided innovation. So late as the reign of Canute, one class of building, the “feld-cirice” (= field-church), was unprovided with a graveyard. As time passed away, however, boundary hedges were planted, or walls were built around to form a burial-ground. The sacred garth, as well as the building, became a sanctuary, with its “benefit of adjuration,” and its right of appeal to trial by ordeal. The actual enclosure of spaces around the churches dates from about the year A.D. 750. (Cf. remarks on the early cemeteries in Chap. VI.) The practice must have been loosely observed, for we find, down to the year A.D. 1603, statutes and canons repeatedly enforcing the law[917].

Chance excavations sometimes attest the early laxity of custom. Outside the churchyard wall of Kirby Grindalythe, in the East Riding, stretching towards the West, are many ancient interments. This fact seems to indicate, either that the Norman church originally stood in an unfenced portion of the hillside, a part of the cemetery being excluded when the wall was built, or that the open wold had been used for burials, Christian or pagan, before the church was erected[918]. Gilbert White was of opinion that the churchyard of Selborne was once larger, and had extended to what was, in his day, the vicarage garden[919]. Maplescombe church, the ruins of which were referred to on p. 38, seems to have never been properly fenced in from the fields. The retired churchyard of Branxton, in Northumberland, which lies within a bowshot of Flodden Field, has at least two features which are illustrative of our subject. The present churchwarden, Mr John Rankin, the representative of a family which has long held that office, informs me that the graveyard was formerly unfenced, save on the South side, where a thorn hedge separated it from the road. On this side, also, there is a narrow strip of land which contains no graves, and which, Mr Rankin asserts, has, through an oversight, never been consecrated. (Cf. p. 343 supra.) The churchyard at Norton, near Evesham, was unenclosed, except on the Eastern side, down to the year 1844. It stood in a grass field which formed part of the church glebe, thus illustrating Wordsworth’s lines, descriptive of an Oxfordshire parsonage:

The sonnet from which these lines are taken seems to show clearly that the poet was writing of a churchyard which was open on one side. Again, one often discovers churches of ancient foundation standing apart in the fields, and having a fence composed of wooden rails or iron hurdles of such modern date that one is forced to believe that the area has only been shut in for a few generations. The church of Little Washbourne, Gloucestershire, already ruinous when I saw it in 1888, is an instance which comes to mind. The tiny church of Woldingham (Fig. 68), which is situated near the escarpment of the North Downs, lay in the open fields, and the ground was apparently unenclosed down to the year 1852. The building, which measured only 30 feet by 17 feet, was rudely constructed of flints and “firestone” (from the Upper Greensand), but has since been restored more than once. The old structure was “desolate [and] dilapidated” so far back as the time of Evelyn[921]. The illustration shows the restored church of a century ago. To-day the building is approached by a short road. The visitor will notice how small a strip of ground was left on the North side when the boundaries were marked out. Seeking examples elsewhere, we observe that, in the marshland of East Lincolnshire, churches must have been built before the district was effectively drained, and therefore, before the existing boundary ditches or dykes were cut[922].

The prejudice against burial on the North side can be traced beyond the advent of Christianity. It is one of those “clinging faiths and fears” which beset the early folk of these islands. As a result of the examination of several hundred British barrows, Canon Greenwell found that, in secondary burials, bodies were rarely deposited on the North side of the mound, the most favoured positions being towards the South and East[923]. Mr J. R. Mortimer, after quoting Canon Greenwell’s observations, confirms them by the testimony of the mounds of Yorkshire. Canon Atkinson’s experiences yielded similar results. During the course of many years, he opened some eighty “houes” or grave-mounds in his own district of Danby-in-Cleveland, and found one interment only in which the body “lay a little, and but a little, North of the magnetic East-and-West line[924]” (i.e. the median line). The evidence derived from megalithic monuments and prehistoric dwellings and settlements tends the same way. The chilly North was shunned; the brilliant East and the gracious South were courted. These ancient preferences were emphasized in the building of temples and Christian places of worship. Egregious among these old-world superstitions stands the hatred of the North. All the inherited antipathies of primeval folk were long retained by their civilized successors, and hence the Northern portion of the graveyard was allotted to those who were deemed spiritually undeveloped or spiritually lost.

Another fact which tends to prove the continuity of the superstition is that, during the Romano-British period, the bodies of persons who had committed suicide were not allowed to be burnt. The prohibition was afterwards extended to those who had died in their infancy[925].

Surveying the general question of suicide, one or two intermediate stages of folk-custom may be noted. In the early days of English history, suicides and murderers were buried at crossroads. It has been argued that this procedure was not altogether intended to heap indignity on the corpse, but that the intersecting roads were emblematic of the Cross, for which reason such spots were therefore deemed self-consecrated[926]. That this idea was prevalent two or three hundred years ago, one would not care to deny; nevertheless it was a late accretion. Else, why was a stake driven through the body of the person so interred? Dishonour to the dead may not, indeed, have been the primary motive which impelled the survivors to behave in this manner, although a desire to prevent the ghost walking was doubtless a strong constituent[927]. The living would naturally object to the burial of a criminal or murderer near an inhabited house[928]; the ghost, angry at being disembodied, according to the elementary notions of our forefathers, might walk abroad, and wreak vengeance or disaster on whomsoever it would. This fear was common among priscan folk, and is widespread even at the present day. Professor Frazer has shown how the natives of Uganda bury still-born babes, and children born feet foremost, at cross-roads. Women, passing by, throw dust or grass on the mound to prevent the spirit entering themselves and being reborn. The bodies of suicides are also burned at cross-roads. Westermarck has collected and collated many analogous practices and beliefs from such far-sundered countries as India and Servia, Japan and Morocco[929]. If, following this high authority, we are disposed to agree that the crossways were believed to disperse such energy as might be ascribed to the deceased person[930], that this mode of interment diverted diseases, and warded off all evil influences from the living, we shall the more readily perceive why the superstition retained its vitality in later times. When the Cross became the symbol of the new religion, the old belief about suicides was reinforced so far as the idea of protection was concerned, though the superstition might be weakened in respect of any supposed indignity to the dead. Even here, however, there is room for further investigation, and writers like Mr Andrew Lang have questioned whether the supposed efficacy of the Cross is a sufficient explanation[931]. The idea of abandonment, as it appears to the present writer, must have been an essential portion of the ceremony, and this was the natural consequence of the theory that the soul of the suicide was self-doomed to perish.

A middle stage of the belief is illustrated by the Scottish practice of burying self-murderers outside the churchyard, but close by the wall. (Cf. p. 352 supra.) This plan was afterwards modified to the extent of allowing the body to come technically within the yard, but to be placed actually beneath the wall, so that no one might walk over the grave[932]. In England, we find constant reference to the burial of suicides in the open fields. The custom of driving a stake through the bodies of persons found felo de se has been noticed. This brutal treatment, excusable in folk who, in the dawn of the world, had a real horror of ghosts and vampires, was only abolished by law in the year 1823[933]. Yet, as if to prove the unequal working of the human mind, and to exemplify the truism that like customs have not everywhere the same lease of life, we find remarkable exceptions to the rule. While the barbarous belief concerning suicide still held its sway, church discipline was, on the whole, gradually relaxing, and ordinary burials were permitted to take place within the sacred building. Then came the exception which we have examined. A certain part of the burial-ground was devoted to burials of murderers and suicides. In at least two cases, as attested by parish registers, the bodies of murderers were admitted into the church, though still on the North side of the fabric (A.D. 1616 and 1620)[934]. The fact is, that one can scarcely mention a single custom or tradition which has not been disregarded exceptionally at certain periods, though the main current has flowed on almost as strongly as ever. No doubt each particular infraction was the result of powerful local influences. For, even to this hour, as has been clearly shown, the body of the suicide or the manslayer may be interred in the churchyard, and yet remain, according to the superstition, “out of sanctuary.”

CHAPTER IX

THE CHURCHYARD YEW

The botanist will tell us that the yew (Taxus baccata) is a fine-grained, slow-growing tree belonging to the sub-division Taxineae of the Natural Order Coniferae, or Pinaceae. Its timber is tough, durable, and elastic, so that there is some truth in the New Forest proverb: “A post of yew will outlast a post of iron.” The trunk of the yew is deeply channelled, and its reddish-brown bark easily peels off. Looking at the narrow, leathery leaves, which are dark and glossy on the upper surface, but rather pale on the undersides, one might casually conclude that they are arranged in two rows on opposite sides of the twig. Closer inspection, however, proves that the leaves spring from all sides of the axis, but that a twist at the base of each leaf gives a false appearance of a plain double series[935]. The yew is dioecious, that is, the male and the female flowers grow on separate trees, but occasionally both kinds of inflorescence may be seen on the same tree. Over a large area of the Northern Hemisphere our familiar yew is met with, and an allied species grows in North-East America and Japan. The columnar variety (var. fastigiata), known as the Irish, or Florence Court yew, is said to have originated as a wild sport at Florence Court, in county Fermanagh, about 130 years ago[936]. Its outline looks very unlike that of the common yew, which has horizontal branches, and it has no further practical bearing on our subject.

It is important to note that the yew is demonstrably indigenous to Britain. It can be traced back not merely to the Neolithic Age[937], but even to the Glacial period[938]; hence there need be no debate concerning its possible introduction in later times.

Whether the yew be poisonous—no unimportant matter, as will shortly be seen—has been discussed frequently and at great length. The disputants often argue at cross-purposes, each side in turn misapprehending the exact point at issue. Having read all the literature which is reasonably accessible on this subject, I am convinced of the overwhelming proof that the yew has poisonous properties, though the noxiousness may be comparatively slight at certain seasons, in certain years, and with respect to certain animals. The results are most fatal when the beasts eat the leaves on a fasting stomach. When the leaves are dry and tough there is the additional evil of indigestibility. Yet there is an opposing fact. Mixed with three or four times their bulk of other food, green yew leaves are actually employed as fodder for cattle in times of scarcity. Records of this custom come from Hanover, Hesse, and other parts of the Continent. Stated in general terms, then, the poisonous principle (taxine) cannot be very intensely concentrated; it may even be inoperative until acted upon by the juices of the stomach. Again, the pulpy portion of the fruit is eaten with impunity, but the stones are considered highly injurious. Sufficient references are given in the footnote to obviate further discussion here[939], but it will be seen later that the modern theory was preceded by an empirical knowledge which harmonizes well with the ascertained facts.

The belief in the pernicious properties of the juice of the yew is, indeed, as old as Pliny, who tells us that arrows were dipped in the poison (toxicum), and that the hurtfulness might be neutralized by previously driving a brass nail into the tree[940]. He adds that some writers have asserted that toxicum was formerly taxicum, from the name of the yew (taxus). The assumption seems to be that taxus is connected not only with τάξος, a yew, but also with τόξον, a bow (τὰ τόξα = bow and arrows, and perhaps arrows only)[941], and φάρμακον, poison. But even if these links be allowed, the claim is vitiated by the refusal of the lexicographers to admit such a word as taxicum.

Caesar informs us that Cativolcus, one of the rulers of the Eburones, poisoned himself with yew[942]. Since a doubt has been raised whether the Latin taxus and the Greek τάξος accurately represent our word “yew,” it may be said that the latest authorities on both languages give that rendering to the respective words[943]. It must nevertheless be observed that there is an alternative word in Greek, for one of the several meanings of σμῖλαξ, or μιλαξ, is “yew.” Pliny’s word tristis (sad), applied to taxus, stands good therefore for the yew. It has been suggested that the Greek word is allied to τάξις, arrangement (from τάςςω = I arrange), the allusion being to the apparent double row of leaves.

Before leaving the philological section, some English equivalents of the word must be noticed. “Early Modern English” forms include yewe, yeugh, eugh, yowe, etc. These come to us from the Middle English ew or u, and these, again, represent the A.S. īw and eów[944]. A seventh century manuscript has a still earlier form, īuu, and this is said to be the oldest spelling in any Teutonic language[945]. There are, says the Century Dictionary, Danish, Old High German, Spanish, Old Irish, Welsh, Gaelic, and Cornish equivalents, and of these, the Celtic forms are possibly original and not derivative[946]. Professor W. W. Skeat supports the Celtic origin of the word yew, which, by the way, is quite distinct from the word ivy, although the various forms of yew and ivy suggest one another[947]. Dr Schrader says that the Old High German word iva, in the sense of “yew,” disappears as we go further East, and, in Sclavonic dialects, signifies a willow. The same holds good of the word for “beech,” and Dr Schrader believes that the change is due to the thinning out of these trees Eastwards. In Lithuania, again, the meanings of “fir” and “yew” run into each other[948]. Professor V. Hehn called attention to the same series of facts, from which he drew similar conclusions.

The etymological road leading us no further, we take counsel of the forester and the arboriculturist. We wish to ascertain the greatest age which the yew is believed to reach.

The older authorities followed implicitly the dictum of the Swiss botanist Augustin De Candolle, who, basing his conclusions upon a study of the annual rings of the yew, and upon the sizes of yews of known age, formulated the rule: An increase in diameter of one line annually. If we allow an average yearly growth of one line in diameter, we shall probably over-estimate the rate of growth for very aged trees (“il est probable qu’on est au-dessus de la vérité”), so that while we may, in practice, reckon each line of the diameter as a year, we shall, in reality, make the trees younger than they actually are[949]. De Candolle, in another place, admitted that for the first 150 years the annual growth somewhat exceeded a line in diameter, though for older trees it was less than this amount[950]. Abridging this rather involved statement, let us put the rule thus: Up to the age of 150 years the yews increase annually a line or a little more in diameter, and a little less than a line afterwards.

Since De Candolle’s day, it has been contended that his estimate makes the trees too old. Dr J. Lowe, in his interesting volume on Yew-Trees, has combated the conclusions at some length; his chapters are here freely drawn upon and compared with my own private notes. Dr Lowe’s estimate, taking young and old trees together, allows a growth of one foot in diameter for each period of 60-70 years. De Candolle’s rule would make a like growth represent 144 years at least (1 foot = 144 lines), or, supposing him to have taken the line as one-tenth of an inch—as some writers mistakenly believe[951]—120 years, or a little over. In the absence of testimony to the contrary, I think we may safely consider that De Candolle’s line was reckoned on the one-twelfth basis: indeed there appears to be no valid reason for doubting this. We note, in passing, that the calculations of Edward Jesse, the naturalist, made after measuring trees at intervals, agree closely with those of the Swiss savant[952].

Between the estimates of De Candolle and those of Dr Lowe, but far nearer to those of the latter observer, is the determination adopted by Sir R. Christison and his son, Dr D. Christison. Working on the eminently scientific method of measuring the increase of girth at a fixed point during stated periods, these observers decided that one foot for every 75 years would be more than the average rate of increase[953]. The three varying results may therefore be thus stated:

Mr J. E. Bowman, making use of the trephine, came to the conclusion that young trees may add two lines per year, and if the soil be very rich, three lines, but that, after a diameter of two feet has been reached, De Candolle’s limit of one line yearly holds true. De Candolle’s formula, Bowman considered, “makes old trees too young, and young trees too old.” Commenting on Bowman’s mode of experiment, Dr Lowe asserts that it has “no utility whatever,” because the external rings of the tree—those reached by the trephine—are not concentric, and are not formed in the same manner as those of the young shoot. Further, Bowman’s experiments seem to have been performed on young trees only[954].

The true estimate, therefore, seems to lie between the determinations of De Candolle and Dr Lowe respectively. The latter writer admits that De Candolle’s rule is fairly sound when applied to young trees with undecayed centres, but he stipulates that the tree must be cut down and proved to have not more than one centre. He refers to the case of a yew in Kyre Park, Worcestershire, which possesses two huge trunks, united below, and he proceeds to argue that, if we suppose the tops to have been broken off underneath the junction, and young shoots to have sprung up from the base, the trees would have been deemed as old as our most noted specimens in the British Isles. Such a case, however, would rarely be encountered in actual experience.

We will now examine De Candolle’s “ring method” a little more closely. First, what is the botanical theory respecting the formation of the rings in a tree? In our climate trees make little or no growth during the winter season, hence the new spring wood, with its wide, thin-walled vessels, is rather sharply defined against the narrower, compact, dense-walled vessels which were formed in the preceding autumn or late summer. The successive concentric cylinders of new wood, therefore, when seen in cross-section, appear as zones, or “annual rings.” These rings are well shown in the transverse section of yew (Fig. 69). In vertical section the rings appear as parallel strips, forming what is popularly called the “grain” of the wood (Fig. 70). It is true, in general, that one ring represents one year’s growth. The rule must, however, be applied under slight reserve. Dr D. H. Scott clamped the branch of an elm in June, thus increasing the pressure on the cells. The result was that wood was formed similar to that which is usually associated with autumn. After six weeks, during which the nutrition had been practically uniform, the clamp was removed, and another ring was produced.

The conditions just described were artificial and abnormal, but varying temperatures, if extreme, might act in a similar manner. Sequoias and red-woods may naturally form several concentric wood rings in a year, a result probably due to alternations of heat and cold. Against the danger of over-calculation of age from neglecting such factors, may be set the consideration that, owing to damage by frost, or to seasonal peculiarities, no ring may be formed within the year[955]. In normal circumstances, “one ring, one year” is a trustworthy maxim. Unfortunately, to verify this rule, should its accuracy be challenged, the tree must be cut down—a most undesirable proceeding. Moreover, if the tree be aged, counting the rings is a matter of some difficulty; one must use a lens and a pair of needles, moving these “counters” as if scoring at a game of cribbage. Now Dr Lowe, while doubting whether the yew may not form more than one ring per year—a contingency that would seriously upset all computations based on this system—feels confident that in this country young trees produce one only. He is of opinion that the ring test consequently holds good for uninjured trees up to 200 or 250 years. Beyond that period, he asserts confidently that the yew sustains injuries from storm or disease sufficient to invalidate the rule. To the extent, let us say, of 250 years, Dr Lowe’s assumption runs parallel with that of De Candolle, who believed that there is practically no limit to the age of the yew, except disease. After the third century, Dr Lowe, as we shall soon see, actually claims a more rapid rate of growth, at least, intermittently.

The errors to which De Candolle’s method is liable are thus epitomized. A yew which has been maltreated by lopping or injured by the browsing of animals may thicken and form bosses, and so increase the apparent girth. Trunks may be fused together. Wounds may prevent the formation of rings. Small shoots may be enveloped by the spread of the “bark,” and thus a vast number of rings may be formed which eventually become concentric[956].

Nevertheless, since we cannot always cut a tree down, some other method of estimating the age must be followed. And if the actual circumference be not always the true measure of the normal free-growing parent stem, our observations should, by way of counterpoise, be correspondingly numerous. Whoever has attempted to measure a yew, with the object of employing De Candolle’s rule, will recognize the force of Dr Lowe’s contentions, yet one cannot but think that the risk of error has been exaggerated.

We are told, again, that there may be a difference in the number of rings on the two sides of a tree, even at the same level, in other words, a given ring may not be everywhere of the same thickness. This is noticeable in the specimen, Fig. 69. In the famous yew of Darley Dale, Derbyshire, it is asserted that the number of rings varied from 33 to 66 in an inch of radius, taken horizontally—a curiously neat ratio[957]. Michel Montaigne, so far back as 1581, pointed out that the rings were narrower on the north side of the tree. Yet these occurrences do not hopelessly affect our conclusions. The writer possesses a section of a branch of yew from Offchurch, Warwickshire, which was over-developed on one side, the result of proximity to a stream, and of a sunny aspect. The consequent curvature of the heart wood, though certainly disappointing to the bowyer, who bought the tree, did not prove very troublesome even to the amateur ring-counter. Taking the average of a long series of years, and examining a large number of specimens, the inequalities in such specimens would be found to cancel each other. In an aged tree like that of Darley Dale, the coalescence of the rings would be far more perplexing than the unsymmetrical growth.

With respect to one source of error, Dr Lowe seems to answer his own objection. “A tree may have died on one side,” says he, “or may have ceased forming, while the other side is growing vigorously.” Yes, but in that case the error would be one of under-calculation; the yew would be credited with fewer years than the measurements warranted.

Once again, it is argued that not only may a particular ring have inequalities of width, but the different rings vary among themselves in thickness. And we have seen that growth does not increase uniformly with age. An oak of 50 years had a circumference equal to another which was four times that age. Nor is the rate of growth always uniformly diminished as the tree becomes older. De Candolle found an oak, 333 years old, which showed as great an increase between the rings of 320 and 330 as between those of 90 and 100 years. Now it is not mere captiousness to remark that these figures refer to an oak, not to a steady-growing yew, though Dr Lowe claims that the observation would apply equally well to the latter tree[958]. We may repeat: while variations in rainfall, temperature, and food-supply, correspondingly affect the rate of growth, it is a matter of common knowledge that our seasons tend to follow ill-defined cycles, and that a series of such cycles may be expected to equalize each other with a fair approximation to exactitude.

A far graver indictment of De Candolle’s figures is contained in the insinuation that his selected trees were stunted and ill-grown, so that the rate of growth was made to appear too slow[959]. The supposition, if well grounded, would severely shake De Candolle’s rule, but at present it is a supposition merely, as readers of the Physiologie Végétale may learn for themselves. De Candolle did indeed believe that trees die from accident or disease rather than from old age, but how could the bias resulting from such an opinion make the age of a yew greater than it actually was? An injured tree whose development had been arrested would be credited with too few years rather than with too many. Take the case of the Tandridge yew, in Surrey (Fig. 71). Aubrey found that this tree had a girth of 30 feet at a height of five feet from the ground. Manning and Bray, about 130 years later, gave the corresponding measurement as 32 feet 9 inches. To-day the reading is only 32 feet 4 inches. Allowing for some discrepancies in the modes of measurement, the results are striking. The explanation is that, though the tree is still vigorous, it has long been hollow, and growth must have been slight, if indeed there has not been an actual arrest for the past century.

The method, adopted by the two Christisons, of measuring a tree at known intervals of time, is perhaps open to less objection than that of assuming a mean rate of growth, based on the enumeration of the rings of selected specimens. A combination of both systems would be better, if not ideal. The “interval method,” nevertheless, overlooks the objection that growth is not quite uniform. De Candolle urged, as already noticed, that the rate diminishes in aged trees, and gave several reasons. The roots are farther from the air, and they are also working in competition with those of neighbouring trees. Should the soil be rocky or otherwise uncongenial the lessened elasticity of the bark retards growth. Add to these factors the likelihood of oncoming disease, and the slackened development would be appreciable. Against these considerations, Dr Lowe boldly affirms that “there is abundant evidence to show that old trees grow, at intervals, much more rapidly than young ones”; but he makes this concession: “they do not, as I have said, grow uniformly, but have periods of comparative arrest of growth[960].” These pauses, he believes, are due to the overshadowing head of the tree. Were the head to be broken every half century or so, rapid growth would again commence. But to what degree does such a pollarding occur in nature? Does not the head continue, in the main, to overshadow the trunk and roots? (The lopping of yews for making bows, as apart from true pollarding, will be discussed later.) One reiterates, all systems are liable to error, but some systems are more accurate than others. And the “interval method,” especially if supplemented by estimating the total number of rings, according to an ascertained standard rate of increase, still awaits the coming of a better system to supersede it.

The obtruding difficulty which now meets us is, Where are we to measure the girth? Sir Robert Christison thought the ground level best, but, wherever possible, he also measured the tree at five feet from the base[961]. Yews, however, frequently thicken upwards; there may be swellings under the branches; the stem is often encumbered by bunches of young sprays; aged trees are usually deformed, and are studded with knobs and excrescences. To follow Christison’s plan with the trees at Dryburgh, Roseneath, and Sanderstead, and other yews which have protuberances at the base, would result in too liberal an estimate. The reaction of root-pressure tends to make trees “lift themselves out of the ground.” Moreover, in exposed situations, scraping animals, such as rabbits and foxes, lay bare the roots of trees, and increase the apparent girth. Rain tends to wash away the soil, and so aids in the deception.

On the other hand, the level of the soil in churchyards is gradually rising (cf. p. 90 supra), and it is primarily with churchyard yews that we are concerned. Hence it is proposed that the measurement should be taken at the base, and also at a height of three feet from the ground. De Candolle recommended a height of two feet for exogenous trees. Those who have had practical experience in measuring yews, will, while employing the tape at both these levels, recognize that there must be a slightly varied treatment for each individual tree. Perhaps, like Sir R. Christison[962], the investigator will be impelled, where the trunk is short, to take the girth at the narrowest part.

Unfortunately few actual records have been kept of measurements of yew trees taken at intervals. One or two cases may, however, be instructive. At Hurstbourne Tarrant, near Andover (Hants), there are two churchyard yews, which, the parish register informs us, were planted in 1693 and 1743 respectively. Now, if we accept Dr Lowe’s mean rate of one foot for 65 years, the first tree, when re-measured in 1896, should have been about 9´ 10´´ in circumference, and the second 7´ 6´´. The actual measurements were[963]:

Hence Dr Lowe’s rate of growth would be too high for these trees; in the first example, markedly, yet the trees were still only of moderate age, and growth must have been active.

Other good records refer to two yews in the churchyard of Basildon, Berkshire. Details of the measurement of the first tree were entered in the parish register in 1780, and of the second in 1834, though both trees had been planted by Lord Fane at a considerably earlier date than the year 1780. In 1889 the trees were again measured by Mr Walter Money, and the results thus compared[964]:

Now, if it be true, as Dr Lowe’s rule supposes, that a mean period of 65 years represents a gain of one foot in diameter, the first tree should have increased 5´ 3´´ in circumference, and the second 2´ 8´´. But here, again, the postulated rate of growth is far too high; in the second example, nine times too high. Even if we grant that “old trees grow, at intervals, much more rapidly than young ones,” Dr Lowe’s main rule is not verified. For it happens that measurements of the first tree were made at two intermediate dates, 1796 and 1834. During the first period, 1780-1796, the increase was indeed three times as great as Dr Lowe’s formula would demand, but in the second, and longer period, 1796-1889, the growth was less than a quarter of the estimated amount. These measurements of yews, dealing with odd inches, truly suggest some degree of error, due to the substitution of one observer for another, nevertheless, we may assume the figures to be roughly correct. At the same time, these rather surprising results indicate the wisdom of calling in the aid of the total ring-estimate as a supplementary witness, since the increase of girth tends to be so variable.

Particulars respecting the growth of yews at Wrexham, as given by John Timbs, also show that an increase of one foot in 65 years is somewhat over the limit[965]. More records are desirable, yet the facts generally seem to favour Dr Lowe’s higher limit of 70 years for each foot of growth, or even the 75 years proposed by the Christisons. On the whole, Dr Lowe himself seems to sanction the last-named estimate, for, while he thinks that one foot in 75 years is “below the average rate of growth,” yet for purposes of calculation he prefers to adopt that scale[966].

The basis of 75 years, then, shall be taken in the present chapter. Two reservations, dependent upon what has been said previously, must, however, be borne in mind. First, seeing that young trees have, proportionately, a more extended leaf surface than old ones, larger rings are formed and the 75-years rule will make the trees too old. Secondly, and more important, there seems to come a period when aged trees are practically at a standstill; they make no more increase, but linger until disease and decay set in and slowly drain off the vitality. Of the yew at Aldworth, Berkshire, it is asserted that it has not increased in circumference since 1760[967]. I feel sure that this arrest, though not usually absolute, is very common; hence, for aged trees, additions to the age must be made after applying the 75-years rule. Much stress should be laid on this point.

This slightly technical review has brought us so far as this: there was a certain proneness among earlier observers to over-estimate the age of the yew, and it is only as a result of modern observation that the tendency has been checked. Whoever has walked along the Pilgrims’ Way of the Southern counties, and has stopped to pass his tape-measure around the oldest yews, must have realized that popular notions concerning the age of these trees are not justified. Elsewhere, I have attempted to show that many of these yews are successors of earlier ones, and that they were designedly preserved by pilgrims and other wayfarers[968]. That explanation embraces the spirit of the folk-tales which point to existing yew-trees as ante-dating particular Norman or Saxon churches. The traditions cover the fact that trees have studded the Pilgrims’ Way for many centuries—a conclusion differing from the reckless guesses of guide-book antiquaries respecting the vast age of individual existing yews.

In some few instances, as we shall see, churchyard yews are extremely ancient, and it is a sound hypothesis that a replacement of dead yews has often been made, thus bridging over the period which has elapsed from the introduction of Christianity and the rearing of churches to the present day. But, in general, deductions drawn from the age of existing buildings are faulty. A caution must also be entered against over-estimating the age of particular trees in yew groves which are known to be ancient. Popular tradition says that the yews in Kingly Bottom, or Vale, near Chichester, existed when the sea-kings landed. The legend may be doubted, yet if we were to express it as Dr Lowe suggests—“yews were there” at that date—the statement would probably be accurate. Presented in this form, we may fairly assume the statement true for earlier periods. Doubtless the Neolithic flint-workers of the Vale, of whose old mines large numbers were discovered in 1910, looked upon a dusky yew grove as they went to their labours. Once more: in spite of the oft-repeated assertion that this or that yew is alluded to in Domesday Book, it is none the less a fact that no individual yew, no individual tree, in short, is mentioned therein[969].

From a long descriptive list of aged yew trees, slowly accumulated in a note-book, a few examples only need be extracted. At the head, in regard to antiquity, stands probably the yew in the graveyard of Fortingal (Fortingale, or erroneously, Fotheringhall), Perthshire. Sir R. Christison estimated this tree to be 3000 years old, and deemed it “the most venerable specimen of living European vegetation[970].” De Candolle’s determination was about the same as Christison’s. The hollow stump, which has been carefully railed in, is now the merest wreckage. The Fortingal yew was measured by Daines Barrington in 1769, when the circumference was set down as 52 feet[971]. Pennant, a few years later, gave the result as 56½ feet, so that, reckoning on the 75-year basis, the tree would at that date be about 1340 years old. Mr C. T. Ramage, basing his calculations on the observed rate of growth of a yew in Montgomeryshire, arrived at the total of 1400 years[972]. It is worthy of notice that a very old ecclesiastical establishment once existed near the Fortingal yew[973]. Loudon gives us a woodcut representing the tree as it appeared in 1837[974]; beyond this we have to rely on the figures quoted, and on oral tradition.

Competing with the Fortingal yew for the premier position, there formerly existed that of Brabourne, in Kent. It was alluded to by Evelyn in his Discourse on Forest Trees (1664), as already “supperannuated,” and it disappeared about a century ago[975]. De Candolle put its age at more than 3000 years[976], and while this was doubtless an over-estimate, yet, if the recorded circumference, 59 feet[977], be correctly stated, the tree was actually more ancient than its Scottish rival.

A third claimant, from Hensor (Bucks), must be introduced with a wavering pen. Its circumference, according to Mr J. R. Jackson, of Kew, was 81 feet[978], hence, if this measurement be accurate, the yews already mentioned are hopelessly out-ranged, for here we should have a tree 2000 years old. Unfortunately, this yew no longer remains to tell its own story, or to allow the measurement to be checked.

The celebrated churchyard yew of Darley Dale, Derbyshire, has suffered much in reputation owing to travellers’ tales. Half a century since its diameter was approximately 9½ feet[979], its age may therefore be roughly estimated as 760-770 years.

A dead yew, under-propped, and chained together so as to preserve the upright position, stands in the grounds of Kersal Cell, Lancashire. This cell was founded about the middle of the twelfth century, and Mr Arthur Mayall has suggested that the seed from which the yew sprang was brought from the Holy Land at the close of the Second Crusade (1149)[980].

The yews known as the “Seven Sisters,” which grew on a knoll near the mill at Fountains Abbey, Yorkshire, but of which only two remain, have been deemed by an able, though anonymous, authority to be “most certain relics” of the mid-twelfth century[981]. The Abbey was founded in A.D. 1135. For the sake of comparison, De Candolle’s figures—1280 years[982]—although too high, may be noted.

The Buckland yew, near Dover, which was removed from the churchyard in 1880, was one of those erroneously reputed to have been mentioned in Domesday Book. Serious historians, however, like Hasted, do not make this mistake. The tree was of vast size, though details are now lacking. At Watcombe, a lonely farm on the roadside between Wantage and Hungerford, stands a cluster of aged yews, possibly coeval with the Benedictine cell and church which were built there at the close of the eleventh century. The trees form a kind of covered way or cloister and now surround a central pond[983]. Of “Talbot’s yew,” in Tankersley Park, Yorkshire, it is said that a man on horseback could turn round inside its hollow trunk[984], and similar stories are related of other yew trees.

Our catalogue might be extended, but there is scant space to describe the yew of South Hayling (Hants), 33 feet round at its narrowest girth[985]; that of Tisbury (Wilts.), 37 feet[986]; of Crowhurst (Surrey) (Fig. 72), nearly 32¾ feet at a yard from the ground[987]; or of its namesake, the Sussex Crowhurst, 27 feet[988]. The Chipstead yew, in Surrey (Fig. 73), and the two yews of Mells, in Somerset, one of which is shown in Fig. 74, are also well-grown trees. Hambledon, in Surrey, possesses two good examples; the larger is seen in Fig. 75. A mere glimpse only can be taken of the Swallowfield yew, Berkshire, believed by Kingsley to be older than the parish church (built A.D. 1286)[989]; of Evelyn’s specimen at Scottshall (Kent), which he said was eighteen of his paces “in compasse[990]”; the huge monarch of Twyford churchyard, Hampshire; and the memorable, oft-described yew of Gilbert White’s village of Selborne[991].