Table of Contents

 

THE NEW FOREST: ITS
History and its Scenery.

BY JOHN R. WISE.

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Old Oak in Boldrewood

With Illustrations drawn by Walter Crane, engraved by W. J. Linton, And Two Maps.

PREFACE.

Under the title of the New Forest I have thought it best to include the whole district lying between the Southampton Water and the Avon, which, in the beginning of Edward I.’s reign, formed its boundaries. To have restricted myself to its present limits would have deprived the reader of all the scenery along the coast, and that contrast which a Forest requires to bring out all its beauties.

The maps are drawn from those of the Ordnance Survey, reduced to the scale of half an inch to the mile, with the additions of the names of the woods taken from the Government Map of the Forest, and my own notes.

The illustrations have been made upon the principle that they shall represent the scene as it looked at the time it was taken. Nothing has since been added, nothing left out. The views appear as they were on the day they were drawn. Two exceptions occur. The ugly modern windows of Calshot Castle, and the clock-face on the tower of the Priory Church of Christchurch, have been omitted.

Further, the views have been chosen rather to show the less-known beauties of the Forest than the more-known scenes. For this reason the avenue between Brockenhurst and Lyndhurst—the village of Minestead, nestling half amongst the Forest oaks and half in its own orchards—the view from Stoney Cross, stretching over wood and vale to the Wiltshire downs, have been omitted. Every one who comes to the Forest must see these, and every one with the least love for Nature must feel their beauty.

In their places are given the quiet scenes in the heart of the great woods, where few people have the leisure, and some not the strength to go—quiet brooks flowing down deep valleys, and woodland paths trod only by the cattle and the Forest workmen.

For the same reason, sunrise, and not sunset, has been chosen for the frontispiece.

To the kind help of friends I am indebted for much special aid and information—to the deputy surveyor, L. H. Cumberbatch, Esq., for permission to open various barrows and banks, for the use of the Government maps, as also for the Forest statistics—to the Rev. H. M. Wilkinson, and T. B. Rake, Esq., for great assistance in the botany and ornithology of the district; as also to Mr. Baker, of Brockenhurst, for the list of the Forest Lepidoptera.

London, November, 1862.

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.

Some slight alterations have been made in Chapter III. in the arguments from Domesday, which, as also those upon the former condition of the district, have been strengthened.

In all other respects, with the exception of some few additions and corrections, the text is unaltered.

London, February, 1863.

THE NEW FOREST:
ITS
History and its Scenery.

 

“Game of hondes he loued y nou, and of wÿlde best,

And hÿs forest and hÿs wodes, and mest þe nÿwe forest.”

Robert of Gloucester’s Chronicle

(concerning William the Conqueror)

Ed: Hearne, vol. ii. p. 375.

 

THE NEW FOREST.

 

CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTORY.

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View in Bushey Bratley.

No person, I suppose, would now give any attention to, much less approve of, Lord Burleigh’s advice to his son—“Not to pass the Alps.” We have, on the contrary, in these days gone into an opposite extreme. We race off to explore the Rhine before we know the Thames. We have Alpine clubs, and Norway fishing, and Iceland exploring societies, but most of us are beyond measure ignorant of our own hills and valleys. Every inch of Mont Blanc has been traversed by Englishmen, but who dreams of exploring the Cotswolds; or how many can tell in what county are the Seven Springs, and their purple anemones? We rush to and fro, looking at everything, and remembering nothing. We see places only that we may be seen there, or else be known to have seen them.

Yet to Englishmen, surely the scenes of their own land should possess a greater interest than any other. Go where we will throughout England, there is no spot which is not bound up with our history. Nameless barrows, ruined castles, battlefields now reaped by the sickle instead of the sword, all proclaim the changes our country has undergone. Each invasion which we have suffered, each revolution through which we have passed, are written down for us in unmistakeable characters. The phases of our Religion, the rise or fall of our Art, are alike told us by the grey mouldings and arches of the humblest parish Church as by our Abbeys and Cathedrals. The faces, too, and gait, and dialect, and accent, of our peasantry declare to us our common ancestry from Kelt, and Old-English, and Norseman. A whole history lies hid in the name of some obscure village.

I am not, for one moment, decrying travelling elsewhere. All I say is, that those who do not know their own country, can know nothing rightly of any other. To understand the scenery of our neighbours, we must first see something of the beauties of our own; so that when we are abroad, we may be able to make some comparisons,—to carry with us, when we look upon the valleys of the Seine and the Rhine, some impression of our own landscapes and our own rivers—some recollection of our own cathedrals, when we stand by those of Milan and Rouen.

The New Forest is, perhaps, as good an example as could be wished of what has been said of English scenery, and its connection with our history. It remains after some eight hundred years still the New Forest. True, its boundaries are smaller, but the main features are the same as on the day when first afforested by the Conqueror. The names of its woods and streams and plains are the same. It is almost the last, too, of the old forests with which England was formerly so densely clothed. Charnwood is now without its trees: Wychwood is enclosed: the great Forest of Arden—Shakspeare’s Arden—is no more, and Sherwood is only known by the fame of Robin Hood. But the New Forest still stands full of old associations with, and memories of, the past. To the historian it tells of the Forest Laws, and the death of one of the worst, and the weakness of the most foolish, of English kings. To the ecclesiologist it can show, close to it, the Priory Church of Christchurch, with all its glories of Norman architecture, built by the Red King’s evil counsellor, Flambard; and just outside, too, its boundaries, the Conventual Church of Romsey, with its lovely Romanesque triforium, in whose nunnery Edith, beloved by the English, their “good Maud,” “beatissima regina,” as the Chroniclers love to call her, was educated.

At its feet lies Southampton, with its Late Norman arcaded town-wall, and gates, and God’s House, with memories of Sir Bevis and his wife Josyan the Brighte, and his horse Arundel—the port for the Roman triremes, and afterwards for the galleys of Venice and Bayonne—where our own Henry V. built

“the grete dromons,

The Trinité, the Grace-Dieu.”[1]

Within it, once in the very heart, stand the Abbot’s house and the cloister walls of Beaulieu, the one abbey, with the exception of Hales-Owen, in Shropshire, founded by John. It can point, too, to the Roman camp at Buckland Rings, to the ruins of the Norman castle at Christchurch, to Henry VIII.’s forts at Hurst and Calshot, built with the stones of the ruined monastery of Beaulieu; can show, too, bosomed amongst its trees, quiet village churches, most of them Norman and Early English, old manor-houses, as at Ellingham, famous in story, grey roadside crosses, sites of Roman potteries, and Keltic and West-Saxon battlefields and barrows scattered over its plains.

For the ornithologist its woods, and rivers, and seaboard attract more birds than most counties. For the geologist the Middle-Eocene beds are always open in the Hordle and Barton Cliffs inlaid with shell and bone. For the botanist and entomologist, its marshes, moors, and woodlands, possess equal treasures.

But in its wild scenery lies its greatest charm. From every hill-top gleam the blue waters of the English Channel, broken in the foreground by the long line of the Isle of Wight downs and the white chalk walls of the Needles. Nowhere, in extent at least, spread such stretches of heath and moor, golden in the spring with the blaze of furze, and in the autumn purple with heather, and bronzed with the fading fern. Nowhere in England rise such oak-woods, their boughs rimed with the frostwork of lichens, and dark beech-groves with their floor of red brown leaves, on which the branches weave their own warp and woof of light and shade.

Especially to its scenery I would call attention. This, above all, I wish to impress on the reader, seeing that beauty is one of the chief ends and aims of nature: and that the ground beneath our feet is decked with flowers, and the sky above our heads is painted, with a thousand colours, to cheer man as he goes to his work in the morning, and to fill his heart with thankfulness as he returns at evening.

Now, neither are scarcely ever seen. The flowers cannot grow in our stony streets: the glory of the morning and evening is blotted out by the fog of smoke which broods over our cities.

As the population grows, our commons and waste lands disappear. Our large towns have swollen into provinces. Fashion sways the rich. Necessity compels the poor to live in them. As our wealth increases, our love for nature contracts. One, therefore, of the chief objects of this book is to show how much quiet beauty and how much interest lie beside our doors—to, point out to the reader who may be jaded by the toils of Fashion or Labour where in England there are still some thirty miles of moorland and woodland left uncultivated, over which he can wander as he pleases.

And here, if this book should induce any readers to visit the Forest, let me earnestly advise them to do so, as far as possible, on foot. I see but this main difference between rich and poor—that the poor work to get money, the rich spend money to get work. And I know no better way for Englishmen to use their superfluous energies than in learning their own country by walking over its best scenes.

I will only ask any one to make the experiment between walking and driving over the same ground; and see how much he will learn by the one, how much lose by the other method. In the one case, he simply hurries or stops, at the discretion of some ignorant driver, who regards him of less importance than his horses; in the other, he can pause to sketch many a scene before invisible, can at his leisure search each heath or quarry for flowers or fossils, can turn aside across the field-paths to any village church, or wander through any wood which may invite him to its solitude, and, above all, know the pleasure of being tired, and the sweetness of rest in the noontide shade.

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The Entrance from Barrow’s Moor to Mark Ash.

 

 

CHAPTER II.
ITS SCENERY.

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The Stream in the Queen’s Bower Wood.

As I said in the last chapter, one of the main objects of this book is to dwell upon the beauty of the Forest scenery. I chose the New Forest as a subject, because, although in some points it may not be more beautiful than many other parts of England—and I am glad to think so,—it gives, more than any other place, a far greater range of subject, in sea, and moor, and valley; because too, the traveller can here go where he pleases, without any of those lets and hindrances which take away so much pleasure; and, lastly, because here can best be seen Nature’s crown of glory—her woods.

And, first, for a few words of general bearing upon this point. I do not think we ever estimate the woods highly enough, ever know their real worth, until we find some favourite retreat levelled to the ground, and then feel the void and irreparable blankness which is left. Consider, too, the purposes to which Nature turns her woods, either softening the horrors of the precipice, or adorning spaces which else would be utterly without interest, or adding beauty to beauty. Consider, further, how she beguiles us when we are in them, leading us forward, each little rise appearing a hill, because we cannot see its full extent; how, too, the paths close behind us, shutting us out with their silent doorways from all noise and turmoil, whilst the soft green light fills every dim recess, and deepens each pillared aisle, the floor paved with the golden mosaic of the sunlight.

Consider not only their beauty, but their use, breaking, for the plants, the fall of winter showers, and storing for them, against summer’s drought, their wealth of springs and streams—giving to the cattle shade from the heat, and shelter from the storm. This for the plants and beasts of the field,—but for man, binding together the sandy shore, carrying off the fog and miasma from the marsh, raising the strongest bulwark against the sea, and truest shield against the pestilence.

For all these things is it that the woods have been, since the beginning of the world, the haunt of the flowers, the home of the birds, and the temple of man. The haunt of the flowers, I say, for in the early spring, before the grass is yet green in the meadows, here they all flock—white wood-anemones, sweet primroses, sweeter violets, and hyacinths encircling each stem with their blue wreaths. The home of the birds; for when the leaves at last have come, each tree is filled with song, and the underwood with the first faint chirping of the nestlings learning their earliest notes. As a temple for man, have they not been so since the world began? Taught by their tender beauty, and subdued by their solemn gloom, the imaginative Greek well consecrated each grove and wood to some Divinity. The early Christians fled to “the armour of the house of the Forest,” to escape to peace and quietness. Here the old Gothic builders first learnt how to rear their vaulted arches, and to wreathe their pillars with stone arabesques of leaves and flowers, in faint imitation of a beauty they might feel, but never reach.[2]

Consider, too, the loveliness of all tree-forms, from the birch and weeping-willow, which never know the slightest formality, even when in winter barest of leaves, to the oak with its sinewy boughs, strained and tortured as they are in this very Forest, as nowhere else in England, by the Channel winds.[3] Consider, too, Nature’s own love and tenderness for her trees,—how, when they have grown old and are going to decay, she clothes them with fresh beauty, hides their deformities with a soft green veil of moss and the grey dyes of lichens, and, not even content with this, makes them the support for still greater loveliness—drapes them with masses of ivy, and hangs upon them the tresses of the woodbine, loading them to the end of their days with sweetness and beauty.

All this, and far more than this, you may see in the commonest woods round Lyndhurst, in Sloden, in Mark Ash, or Bratley.

Then, too, there is that perpetual change which is ever going on, every shower and gleam of sunshine tinting the trees with colour from the tender tones of April and May, through the deep green of June, to the russet-red of autumn. Each season ever joins in this sweet conspiracy to oppress the woods with loveliness.

Taking, however, a more special view, and looking at the district itself, we must remember that it is situated on the Middle-Eocene, and presents some of the best features of the Tertiary formation. Its hills may not be high, but they nowhere sink into tameness, whilst round Fordingbridge, and Goreley, and Godshill, they resemble, in degree, with their treeless, rounded forms, shaggy with heath and the rough sedge of the fern, parts of the half-mountainous scenery near the Fifeshire Lomonds.[4]

On the sea-coast near Milton, rise high gravel-capped cliffs, with a basis of Barton clays, cleft by deep ravines, locally known as “bunnies.” Inland, valleys open out, dipping between low hills, whilst masses of beech and oak darken the plains. Here and there, marking the swamps, gleam white patches of cotton-grass, whilst round them, on the uplands, spread long, unbroken stretches of purple heather; and wide spaces of fern, an English Brabant, studded with hollies and yews, some of them as old as the Conquest. Here and there, too, as at Fritham, small farmsteads show their scanty crops of corn, or, as at Alum Green and Queen’s North, green lawns pierce and separate the woods, pastured by herds of cattle, with forest pools white with buckbean, and the little milkwort waving its blue heath on the banks.

These are the main characteristics of the New Forest, and, in some points at least, were the same in the days of the Red King. Nature, when left to herself, even in the course of centuries, changes little. The wild boars, and the wolves, and the red deer, are gone. But much else is the same. The sites and the names of the Forest manors and villages, with slight alterations, remain unchanged. The same barrows still uplift their rounded forms on the plains; the same banks, the same entrenchments, near which, in turn, lived Kelt, and Roman and Old-English, still run across the hills and valleys. The same churches rear their towers, and the mills still stand by the same streams.

The peasants, too, still value the woods, as they did in the Conqueror’s time, for the crop of mast and acorns,—still peel off the Forest turf, and cure their bacon by its smoke.[5] The charcoal-burner still builds the same round ovens as in the days of William the Red. Old-English words, to be heard nowhere else, are daily spoken. The last of the old Forest law-courts is held every forty days at Lyndhurst. The bee-master—beoceorl—still tends his hives, and brews the Old-English mead, and lives by the labours of his bees. The honey-buzzard still makes her nest in the beeches round Lyndhurst, and the hen-harrier on the moors near Bratley.

I suppose this is what strikes most persons when they first come into the New Forest,—a sense that amidst all the change which is going forward, here is one place which is little altered. This is what gives it its greatest charm,—the beauty of wildness and desolateness, broken by glimpses of cultivated fields, and the smoke of unseen homesteads among the woods.

Yet the feeling is not quite true. Like every other place in England, it has suffered some change, and moved with the times. Instead of the twang of the archer’s bow, the sunset gun at Portsmouth sounds every evening. The South-Western Railway runs through the heart of it; and in place of the curfew’s knell, the steam whistle shrieks through its woods.

We do not see the Forest of our forefathers. Go back eight centuries, and look at the sights which the Normans must have beheld,—dense underwoods of hollies on which the red deer browsed; masses of beech and chestnut, the haunts of the wolf and the boar; plains over which flocks of bustards half-ran, half-flew; swamps where the crane in the sedge laid its buff and crimson-streaked eggs; whilst above grey-headed kites swam in circles; and round the coast the sea-eagle slowly flapped its heavy bulk. Great oaks, shorn flat by the Channel winds, fringed the high Hordle cliffs, towering above the sea; and opposite, as to this day, rose the white chalk rocks of the Needles, and the Isle of Wight, where at Watchingwell stretched another forest of the King’s. And the sun would set as it now does, but upon all this further beauty, making a broad path of glory across the bay, till at last it sank down over the Priory Church of Christchurch, which Flambard was then building.

Gone, too, for ever all the scenes which they must have had of the Avon, glimpses of it caught among the trees as they galloped through the broad lawns, or under the sides of Godshill, and Castle Hill crested with yews and oaks.[6]

 

These may all be gone, but plenty of beauty is still left. The Avon still flows on with its floating gardens of flowers—lilies and arrowhead, and the loosestrife waving its crimson plumes among the green reeds. The Forest streams, too, still flow on the same, losing themselves in the woods, eddying round and round in the deep, dark, prison-pools of their own making, and then escaping over shallows and ledges of rolled pebbles, left dry in the summer, and on which the sunlight rests, and the shadows of the beeches play, but in the winter chafed by the torrent.

Across its broad expanse of moors the sun still sets the same in summer time—into some deep bank of clouds in the west, and as it plunges down, flashes of light run along their edges, and each thin band of vapour becomes a bar of fire, and the far-away Purbeck hills gleam with purple and amethyst.

The same sea, too, still heaves and tosses beneath the Hordle and Barton Cliffs, with the same dark patches, shadows of clouds, sailing over it, as its waves, along the shore, unroll their long scrolls of foam.

These great natural facts have not changed. Kelt and Roman have gone, but these are the same.

Nor must I forget the extraordinary lovely atmospheric effects, noticed also by Gilpin,[7] as seen, under certain conditions, from the Barton Cliffs on the Isle of Wight and the Needles. Far out at sea will rise a low white fog-bank gradually stealing to the land, enveloping some stray ship in its folds, and then by degrees encircling the Island, whilst the chalk cliffs melt into clouds. On it still steals with its thick mist, quenching the Needles Light which has been lit, till the whole island is capped with fog, and neither sea nor sky is seen,—nothing but a dense haze blotting everything. Then suddenly the wind lifts the great cloud westward, and its black curtains drop away, revealing a sky of the deepest blue, barred with lines of light: and the whole bay suddenly shines out clear and glittering, the Island cliffs flashing with opal and emerald, and the ship once more glides out safe from the darkness.

A few words, too, must be said about the two principal tree-forms which now make the Forest. The oaks here do not grow so high or so large as in many other parts of England, but they are far finer in their outlines, hanging in the distance as if rather suspended in the air than growing from the earth, but nearer, as especially at Bramble Hill, twisting their long arms, and interlacing each other into a thick roof. Now and then they take to straggling ways, running out, as with the famous Knyghtwood Oak, into mere awkward forks. The most striking are not, perhaps, so much those in their prime, as the old ruined trees at Boldrewood, their bark furrowed with age, their timber quite decayed, now only braced together by the clamps of ivy to which they once gave support and strength.[8]

 

The beeches are even finer, and more characteristic, though here and there a tree sometimes resembles the oaks, as if with long living amongst them, it had learnt to grow like them. The finest beech-wood is that of Mark Ash. There you may see true beech-forms, the boles spangled with silver scales of lichen, and the roots—more fangs than roots—grasping the earth, feathered with the soft green down of moss.

But not in individual trees lies the beauty of the Forest, but in the masses of wood. There, in the long aisles, settles that depth of shade which no pencil can give, and that colouring which no canvas can retain, as the sunlight pierces through the green web of leaves, flinging, as it sets, a crown of gold round each tree-trunk.

Let no one, however, think they know anything of the Forest by simply keeping to the high road and the beaten tracks. They must go into it, across the fern and the heather, and, if necessary, over the swamps, into such old woods as Barrow’s Moor, Mark Ash, Bushey Bratley, and Oakley, wandering at their own will among the trees. The best advice which I can give to see the Forest is to follow the course of one of its streams, to make it your friend and companion, and go wherever it goes. It will be sure to take you through the greenest valleys, and past the thickest woods, and under the largest trees. No step along with it is ever lost, for it never goes out of its way but in search of some fresh beauty.

We see plenty of pictures in our Exhibitions from Burnham Beeches or Epping Forest, but in the New Forest the artist will find not only woodland, but sea, and moorland, and river views. There are, as I have said, when taken in details, more beautiful spots in England, but none so characteristic. Finer trees, wilder moors, higher hills, more swiftly-flowing brooks, may be found, but nowhere that quietness so typical of English scenery, yet mixed with wildness, nowhere so much combined in one.

I say, too, this, strange as it may doubtless appear, that Government, whenever it fells any timber, should spare some of the finest trees for the sake of their beauty, and for the delight they will give to future generations. Cut down, and sawn into planks, they are worth but so many pounds. Standing, their value is inappreciable. We have Government Schools of Design, and Government Picture Galleries, but they are useless without Nature to assist the student. Government, by keeping here some few old trees, will do more to foster true Art than all the grants of Parliament. The old thorns of Bratley, the beeches of Mark Ash, and the yews of Sloden, will teach more than all the schools and galleries in the world. As we have laws to preserve our partridges and pheasants, surely we might have some to protect our trees and our landscapes.

Lastly, from its very nature, the New Forest is ever beautiful, at every season of the year, even in the depth of winter. The colouring of summer is not more rich. Then the great masses of holly glisten with their brightest green; the purple light gathers round the bare oaks, and the yews stand out in their shrouds of black. Then the first budding branch of furze sparkles with gold, and the distant hill-side glows with the red layers of beech-leaves. And if a snow-storm passes up from the sea, then every bough is suddenly covered with a silver filigree of whitest moss.

This joyful tyranny of beauty is ever present, at all times and hours, changeful in form, but the same in essence. Year after year, day after day, it appears.

I know, however, it is impossible to make people see this beauty, which, after all, exists only in each beholder’s mind. No two people see the same thing, and no person ever sees it twice. But, I believe, we may all gain some idea of the glory which each season brings—some glimpses of the heaven of beauty which ever surrounds us—if we will seek for them patiently and reverently. They cannot with some be learnt at once, but, in degrees, are attainable by all; but they are attainable only upon this one condition,—that we go to Nature with a docile, loving spirit, without which nothing can be learnt. If we go with any other feeling, we had much better stay in a town amidst the congenial smoke, than profane Nature with the pride of ignorance and the insolence of condescension.

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The Charcoal Burner’s Path, Winding Shoot.

 

 

CHAPTER III.
ITS EARLY HISTORY.

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The Cattle Ford, Liney Hill Wood.

Once the New Forest occupied nearly the entire south-west angle of Hampshire, stretching, when at its largest, in the beginning of the reign of Edward I., from the Southampton Water on the east, whose waves, the legend says, reproved the courtiers of Canute, to the Avon, and even, here and there, across it, on the west; and on the north from the borders of Wiltshire to the English Channel.

These natural boundaries were, as we shall see, reduced in that same reign. Since then encroachments on all sides have still further lessened its limits; and it now stretches, here and there divided by manors and private property, on the north from the village of Bramshaw, beyond Stoney Cross, near where Rufus fell, or was supposed to fall, to Wootton on the south, some thirteen miles; and, still further, from Hardley on the east to Ringwood, the Rinwede of Domesday, on the west.

In the year 1079, just thirteen years after the battle of Hastings, William ordered its afforestation. From Turner and Lingard down to the latest compiler, our historians have represented the act as one of the worst pieces of cruelty ever committed by an English sovereign. Even Lappenberg calls the site of the Forest “the most thriving part of England,” and says that William “mercilessly caused churches and villages to be burnt down within its circuit;”[9] and, in another place, speaks of the Conqueror’s “bloody sacrifice,” and “glaring cruelty towards the numerous inhabitants.”[10] To such statements in ordinary writers we should pay no attention, but they assume a very different aspect when put forward, especially in so unqualified a way, by a historian to whom our respect and attention are due. I have no wish to defend the character of William. He was one of those men whose wills are strong enough to execute the thoughts of their minds, ordained by necessity to rule others, holding firmly to the creed that success is the best apology for crime. Yet, too, he had noble qualities. Abroad he was feared by the bad, whilst at home such order prevailed throughout England, that a man might travel in safety “with his bosom full of gold” from one end to the other.[11]

What I do here protest against is the common practice of implicitly believing every tradition, of repeating every idle story which has been foisted into the text either by credulity or rancorous hatred—of, in fact, mistaking party feeling for history. The Chroniclers had every reason to malign William. His very position was enough. He had pressed with a heavy hand on the Old-English nobles, stripped them of their lands, their civil power, and their religious honours; and failing to learn, had, like a second Attila, tried to uproot their language.

The truth is, we are so swayed by our feelings that the most dispassionate writer is involuntarily biassed. We in fact pervert truth without knowing we do so. Language, by its very nature, betrays us. No historian, with the least vividness of style, can copy from another without exaggeration. The misplacement of a single word, the insertion of a single epithet, gives a different colour and tone. And, in this very matter of the New Forest, we need only take the various accounts, as they have come down, to find in them the evidences of their own untruth.[12]

 

I do not here enter into the question of William’s right to make the Forest—about this there can be no doubt—but simply into the methods which he employed in its formation.[13] The earliest Chronicler of the event, Gulielmus Gemeticensis, who has been so often quoted in evidence of William’s cruelty, both because he was a Norman, and chaplain to the King, really proves nothing. In the first place, the monk of Jumièges did not write this account, but some successor, so that the argument drawn from the writer’s position falls to the ground.[14] In the second place, his successor’s words are—“Many, however, say (ferunt autem multi) that the deaths of Rufus and his brother were a judgment from heaven, because their father had destroyed many villages and churches in enlarging (amplificandam) the New Forest.”[15] The writer offers no comment of his own, and simply passes over the matter, as not worth even refutation. His narrative, however, if it tells at all, tells against the common theory, as he states that William only extended the limits of a former chase.

 

The account of Florence of Worcester is, on the whole, equally unsatisfactory. His mention of the New Forest, like that, by the way, of most of the Chroniclers, does not occur in its proper place at the date it was made—when the wrong, we should have thought, must have been most felt—but is suggested by the death of Rufus, when popular superstition had come into play, and time had lent all the force of exaggeration to what must always have been an unpopular event. Florence,[16] however, speaks in general terms of men driven from their homes, of fields laid waste, and houses and churches destroyed: words which, as we shall see, carry their own contradiction. Vitalis,[17] too, not only declares that the district was thickly inhabited, but that it even regularly supplied the markets of Winchester, and that William laid in ruins no less than sixty parishes. Walter Mapes,[18] who flourished about the middle of the twelfth century, adds further that thirty-six mother churches were destroyed, but falls into the error of making Rufus the author of the Forest, which of course materially affects his evidence.

Knyghton,[19] however, who lived in the reign of Richard II., is doubtful whether the number of churches destroyed was twenty-two or fifty-two, an amount of difference so large that we might also reasonably suspect his narrative, whilst he also commits the mistake of attributing the formation of the Forest to Rufus.

Now, the first thing which strikes us is that as the writers are more distant in point of time, and therefore less capable of knowing, they singularly enough become more precise and specific. What Florence of Worcester speaks of in merely general terms, Vitalis, and Walter Mapes, and Knyghton, give in minute details down to the very number of the parishes and churches.[20]

As far as mere written testimony goes, we have nothing to set against their evidence, except Domesday, and the negative proof of The Chronicle. Not one word does The Chronicler, who, be it remembered, personally knew the Conqueror[21]—who has related each minute event of his reign, exposed each shortcoming, and branded each crime—say of the cruelty of the afforestation. Evidence like this, coming from such an authority, is in the highest degree important. The silence is most suggestive. It is impossible to believe, that so faithful an historian, had it been committed, should never have hinted at the devastation of so much property, and the double crime of cruelty and profanity in destroying alike the inhabitants and their churches.

But the briefest analysis of Domesday, and a comparison of its contents with those of the survey made in Edward the Confessor’s reign, will more clearly show the nature and extent of the afforestation than any of the Chroniclers. From it we find that about two-thirds of the district, including some thirty manors, was entirely afforested. But it by no means carries out the account that the villages were destroyed and the inhabitants banished, or, according to others, murdered. In some cases, as on Eling manor, it is noted that the houses are still standing and the inmates living in the King’s Forest. Further, we find that some of the manors, as at Hordle and Bashley, though considerably lessened, kept up their value. Others, as at Efford, actually doubled their former assessments. Still more remarkable, some again, as at Brockenhurst, Sway, and Eling, though reduced in size, increased one-third and two-thirds in value. One explanation can alone be given to such facts—that only the waste lands were enclosed, and the cultivated spared.

That this was the case we know for certain, for it is expressly stated that, in some instances, as at Walhampton, Lymington, and Rockford; only the woods are afforested, that in many more the pastures are exempted, as at Wootton, Batramsley, Oxley, Ossumley, Pilley, Boldreford, Vicar’s Hill, Yaldhurst, Boldre, and numerous other places.[22] The manor of Totton, though close to the Forest, was not touched, although all the neighbouring estates were in various degrees afforested, simply because it consisted of only pasture and plough-land, whose value had increased no less than one-fourth. Nothing, therefore, can be more conclusive than that the Conqueror did not mercilessly make a total wilderness of the district, but, not without some consideration, chose and took only those parts which were suitable for the purposes of the chase.

In the woods which were afforested people were allowed to live;[23] though, probably, they voluntarily left them, as labour could not there be so well obtained as in the unafforested parts.[24] In all other respects there seems to have been no disarrangement. Both on the outskirts and in the heart of the Forest, the villains and borderers still worked as before, carrying on their former occupations.[25] The mills at Bashley, and Milford, and Burgate, all in the Forest, went on the same. The fisheries at Holdenhurst and Dibden were undisturbed. The salterns at Eling and Hordle still continued at work, showing that the people still, as before, sowed and reaped their corn, and pastured and killed their cattle.

 

Again, in other ways, Domesday still more clearly contradicts the Chroniclers, as to the inhabitants being driven out of their homes. Canterton was held by Chenna of Edward, and still in Domesday, in part, remains in his possession. Ulviet, the huntsman, who had rented Ripley manor under Edward, still rents the unafforested portion. His son, Cola, also a huntsman, holds, as his sub-tenant, land at Langley, which he had rented of Edward; whilst his other son, Alwin, holds land at Marchwood, which, also, he had rented. Saulf, a West-Saxon thane, who had held land at Durley of Edward, now holds it at Batramsley, and his wife at Hubborn, which he had also rented of Edward.[26]

Ulgar, a West-Saxon, holds the fourth of a hyde at Milford, just as he had held it of Edward; with this difference, that it was now assessed at three-fourths of a rood, on account of the loss sustained by the woods being taken into the Forest. The sons of Godric Malf, another West-Saxon thane, hold the same lands which their father had held of Edward, at Ashley and Crow, as also the manors of Bisterne and Minstead, these last being rated considerably less than their real values, on account of the afforestations, and what we should now call severance. The West-Saxon Aluric rents property at Oxley, Efford, and Brockenhurst, which his father and uncle rented under Edward, and not only receives lands at Milford in exchange for some taken into the Forest, but actually buys estates at Whitefields from other West-Saxons.[27]

 

Such facts must be stronger than any mere history compiled by writers who were not only not near the spot, but the majority of whom lived a long time after the events they venture so minutely to describe.

But we have not yet exhausted the valuable evidence of Domesday. The land in the Forest district is rented at much less than in other parts of Hampshire, showing that it was therefore poorer, and not only the land, but the mills. Further—and this is of great importance, as so thoroughly overthrowing the common account—we find in that portion of the survey which comes under the title, “In Novâ Forestâ et circa eam,” only two churches mentioned, one at Milford, and another at Brockenhurst, in the very heart of the Forest. Both stand to this hour, and prove plainly by their Norman work that William allowed them to remain.

Such is the evidence which The Chronicle and the short examination of Domesday yield. The country itself, however, still more plainly proves the bias of the Chroniclers. The slightest acquaintance with geology will show that the Forest was never fertile, as it must have been to have maintained the population which filled so many churches.[28] Nearly the whole of it is covered with sand, or capped with a thick bed of drift, with a surface-soil only a few inches deep, capable of naturally bearing little, except in a few places, besides heath and furze. On a geological map we can pretty accurately trace the limits of the Forest by the formation. Of course, in so large a space, there will be some spots, and some valleys, where the streams have left a richer glebe and a deeper tilth.[29]

But the Chroniclers, by their very exaggeration, have defeated their own purpose. There is in their narration an inconsistency, which, as we dwell upon it, becomes more apparent. We would simply ask, where are the ruins of any of the thirty or fifty churches, and the towns of the people who filled them? Why, too, did not the Chroniclers mention them specifically? Why, further, if William pulled down all the churches, are the only two, at Brockenhurst and Milford, recorded in Domesday,[30] still standing with their contemporary workmanship? Why, too, is Fawley church, with its Norman doorway, and pillars, and arches, formerly, as we know from another portion of Domesday, in the Forest, remaining, if all were destroyed? And why, last of all, if the inhabitants were exterminated, was a church built at Boldre, in the very wildest part of the Forest, immediately after the afforestation, and another at Hordle?[31]

Had there been any buildings destroyed, all ruins of them would not have been quite effaced, even in the course of eight centuries. The country has been undisturbed. Nature has not here, as in so many places, helped man in his work of destruction. They cannot, we know, have been built on, or ploughed over, or silted with sand, or choked with mud, or washed away by water. The slightest artificial bank, though ever so old, can be here instantly detected. The Keltic and West-Saxon barrows still remain. The sites of the dwellings of the Britons are still plainly visible. The Roman potteries are untouched, and their vessels and cups, though lying but a few inches under the ground, unbroken. We can only very fairly conclude that, had there been houses, or villages, or churches destroyed, all traces of them would not be gone, nor entirely lost in the preserving record of local names.

 

It has, I am aware, been urged that since the Old-English churches were chiefly built of wood, we are not likely to find any ruins. This may be so. But by no process of reasoning can the absence of a thing prove its former presence. Nor need we pay any attention to the argument drawn from such names as Castle Malwood, The Castle near Burley, Castle Hill on the banks of the Avon, Lucas Castle, and Broomy and Thompson Castles in Ashley Walk. These Castles are of the air—mere names, invented, as in other parts of England, by the popular mind. At Castle Malwood there is the simple trench of a camp, and recent excavations there showed no traces of buildings; whilst the Castle at Burley, and Castle Hill, and the others, were merely earthen fortifications and entrenchments, made by the Kelts and West-Saxons. Nor must we be led away by the few Forest names ending in ton, the Old-English tún, which, after all, means more often only a few scattered homesteads than even a village, still less a town or city, in the modern sense of the word.[32]

 

If, however, we look at the district from another point of view, we shall find further evidence against the Chroniclers. It was a part of the Natan Leaga[33]—a name still preserved in the various Netleys, Nateleys, and Nutleys, which remain—the Ytene of the British, that is, the furzy district, a title eminently characteristic of the soil.[34] Again, too, the villages and manors, such as Lyndhurst, Brockenhurst, Ashurst, and half a dozen more hursts, point to the woody nature of the place. Such names, also, as Roydon, the rough ground; Bramshaw, the bramble wood; Denny, the furzy ground; Wootton, the Odetune of Domesday; Stockeyford and Stockleigh, the woody place; Ashley, the ash ground;[35] besides Staneswood, Arnwood, and Testwood, all more or less afforested in Domesday, clearly show its character.

 

After all, the best evidence is not from such arguments, but in the simple fact that the New Forest remains still the New Forest. Had the land been in any way profitable, modern skill, and capital, and enterprise, would have certainly been attracted. But its charms lie not, and never did, in the richness of its soil, but in its deep woods and wild moors.[36]

Our view of the matter, then, is that William, like all Normans, loving the chase—loving, too, the red deer, as the Old-English Chronicler, with a sneer, remarks, as if he was their own father—converted what was before a half-wooded tract, a great part of which he held in demesne, inherited by right of being king, into a Royal Forest, giving it the name of the New Forest, in contradistinction to its former title of Ytene. To have laid waste a highly-cultivated district for the purposes of the chase, as the Chroniclers wish us to believe, would have defeated his chief object, as there would have been no shelter then, nor for many years to come, for the deer: and is contradicted, as we have seen, both by Domesday, by the very nature of the soil, and the names of the places.

The real truth is, that the stories, which fill our histories, of William devastating the country, burning the houses, murdering the people, have arisen from a totally wrong conception of an ancient forest. Until this confusion of an old forest with our modern ideas is removed, we can have no clear notions on the subject. We must remember that an ancient forest did not simply mean a space thickly covered with trees, but also wild open ground, with lawns and glades. Its derivation points out to what sort of places it was originally applied.[37] The word hurst, too, which, as we have seen, is so common a termination throughout the district, means a wood which produces fodder for cattle, answering to the Old High-German spreidach.[38] The old forests possessed, if not a large, some scattered population. For them a special code of laws was made, or rather gradually developed itself. Canute himself appointed various officers—Primarii, our Verderers; Lespegend, our Regarders; and Tinemen, our Keepers. The offences of hunting, wounding, or killing a deer, striking a verderer or regarder, cutting vert, are all minutely specified in his Forest Law, and punished, according to rank and other circumstances, with different degrees of severity.[39] The Court of Swanimote was, in a sense, counterpart to the Courts of Folkemote and Portemote in towns. A forest was, in fact, a kingdom within a kingdom, with certain, well-defined laws, suited to its requirements, and differing from the common law of the land. The inhabitants had regular occupations, enjoyed, too, rights of pasturing cattle, feeding swine, and cutting timber.[40] All this, as we have seen, went on as before, not so much, but still the same, in the New Forest. Manors, too, with the exception of being subject to Forest Law, remained in the heart of it unmolested. According to the Chroniclers themselves, some rustics living on the spot convey, with a horse and cart, the bleeding body of Rufus to Winchester. According to them[41] also the King, previous to his death, must have feasted, with his retinue of servants, and huntsmen, and priests, and guests, somewhere in the Forest, implying means in the neighbourhood to furnish, if not the luxuries, the necessities of life. In Domesday [42]At a later period, when the Forest Laws had reached their climax of oppression, persons in the Forest, as we learn from Blount and the Testa de Nevill, hold their lands at Lyndhurst and Eyeworth, , corroborated as it is by the physical characteristics of the country, by the evidence, too, of local names, by the Norman doorways, and pillars and arches at Fawley, and Brockenhurst and Milford, proves most distinctly—and most distinctly because so circumstantially—that the district was neither devastated, nor the houses burnt, nor the churches destroyed, nor the people murdered.