In all England's territory there is no district more interesting than
the Forest of Dean. Historically it figures in our earliest annals, as
borderland and bulwark of the ancient Silures, who, with Caractacus at
their head, held the country around, defending it on many a hard-fought
field against the legionaries of Ostorius Scapula. Centuries after, it
again became the scene of sanguinary strife between the descendants of
these same Silures--then better known as Britons--and the Saxon
invaders; and still farther down the stream of time another invasion
wasted it--Norman and Saxon arrayed on the same side against Welsh--
still the same warlike stock, the sons of Siluria. This conflict
against odds--commencing with the Norman William, and continued, or
renewed, down through the days made illustrious by the gallant
Llewellyn--only came to an end with those of the equally gallant
Glendower, when the fires of Welsh independence, now and then blazing up
intermittently, were finally and for ever trodden out.
Many a grand historic name is associated with this same Forest of Dean--
famed warriors and famous or infamous kings. The Conqueror himself was
hunting in it when the news reached him of the rising in Northumberland,
and he swore "By the splendour of God, he would lay that land waste by
fire and sword!"--a cruel oath, as cruelly kept. In its dark recesses
the wretched Edward the Second endeavoured to conceal himself, but in
vain--dragged thence to imprisonment in the dungeons of Berkeley Castle,
there to die. And within its boundaries was born that monarch of most
romantic fame, Harry of Monmouth, hero of Agincourt.
And the day was approaching--had, in fact, come--when other names that
brighten the page of England's history were to fling their halo of
illumination over the Forest of Dean--those of the chivalrous Waller,
the brave but modest Massey, Essex, Fairfax, and greatest, most glorious
of all, that of Cromwell himself. It was to be darkened too, as by the
shadow of death--ay, death itself--through many a raid of marauding
Cavaliers, with the ruffian Rupert at their head.
Dropping history, and returning to its interest otherwise, the Forest of
Dean claims attention from peculiarities of many kinds. Geologically
regarded, it is an outlier of the carboniferous system of South Wales,
from which it is separated by a breadth of the Devonian that has been
denuded between--so widely separated as to have similitude to an island
in the far-off ocean. An elevated island, too, rising above the "Old
Red," through successive strata of shales, mountain limestone, and
millstone grit, to nearly a thousand feet higher than the general level
of the surrounding _terrain_. Towards this, on every side, and all
round for miles and tens of miles, it presents a _facade_ not actually
precipitous, but so steep and difficult of ascent as to make horses
breathe hard climbing it; while in loaded cart or wagon, teams have to
be doubled. Just such a "pitch" was that on whose top the bitter war of
words between Eustace Trevor and Sir Richard Walwyn had come to blows.
But, though thus high in air, the Forest of Dean does not possess the
usual characteristics of what are termed _plateaux_, or elevated
tablelands. As a rule these show a level surface, or with but gentle
undulations, while that of the Forest is everywhere intersected by deep
valleys and ravines.
A very interesting geological fact is offered in the surface formation
of this singular tract of country, its interior area being in most
places much lower than the rim around it. The peculiarity is due to the
hard carboniferous limestone, which forms its periphery, having better
resisted denudation than the softer matrix of the coal measures embraced
by it. The disintegrating rains, and the streams, often torrents, their
resulting sequence, have here and there cut channels of escape outward--
some running west into the Wye, some eastward to espouse the Severn.
Very different is the Forest of Dean now from what it was in those days
of which this tale treats--territorially more restricted, both in its
boundaries and the area once bearing its name. Then it extended over
the whole triangular space between the two great rivers, from the towns
of Ross and Gloucester down to their union in the wide sea-like estuary
of the Severn. Changed, too, in the character of its scenery. Now,
here and there, a tall chimney may be seen soaring up out of its
greenery of trees, and vomiting forth volumes of murky smoke, in
striking disagreeable contrast with their verdure. Then there was
nothing of this kind;--at least nothing to jar upon the mind, or mar the
harmony of nature. Then, too, it was a real forest of grand old trees,
with a thick tangle of underwood, luxuriant and shady. For the Court
favourite, Sir John Wintour, had not yet wasted it with his five hundred
woodcutters, all chopping and hacking away at the same time. It was
only after the Restoration he did that; the robber's monopoly granted
him by the "Martyr King" having been re-bestowed by the "Merry Monarch."
There were towns in the Forest then, notwithstanding--some of them busy
centres as now; but the majority peaceful villages or hamlets; country
houses, too, some of pretentious style--mansions, and castles. A few of
these yet exist, if in ruins; others known only by record; and still
others totally gone out of history--lost even to legend.
The Forest roads were then but bridle paths, or trackways for the
pack-horse; no fencing on either side; the narrow list of trodden ground
running centrally between wide borderings of grass-grown sward; so that
the traveller, if a horseman, had the choice of soft turf for the hoofs
of his roadster. Only on the main routes between the larger towns, and
those going outward, was there much traffic. The bye-roads had all the
character of green lanes, narrow, but now and then debouching into
glades, and openings of larger area, where the small Forest sheep--
progeny of the Welsh mountaineers--browsed upon pasture, spare and
close-cropped, in the companionship of donkeys, and perchance a deer, or
it might be a dozen, moving among them in amiable association. The
sheep and the donkeys are there still, but the deer, alas! are gone.
Many birds that built their nests in the Forest trees, or soared above,
are there no more. The eagle makes not now its eyrie in the Coldwell
Rocks or soars over Symonds' Yat; even the osprey is but rarely seen
pursuing its finny prey in the lower waters of either Wye or Severn.
Still, the _falconidae_ are to this day represented in the Forest
district by numerous species, by the kite and kestrel; the buzzard,
Common, Rough-legged, and Honey; by the goshawk and sparrow-hawk; the
hobby and harriers; and if last, not least, in estimation, the graceful
diminutive merlin.
Birds of bright feathers, too, still flit through the Forest's trees;
the noisy jay, the gaudy, green woodpecker, and the two spotted species;
with the kingfisher of cerulean hue; while its glades are gladdened by
the sweet song of the thrush, the bolder lay of the blackbird; in
springtide, the matchless melody of the nightingale--the joyous
twittering of linnets and finches, mingling with the softer notes of the
cushat and turtle-dove.
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On that calm summer evening, when the clinking of swords on
Mitcheldean-hill frightened the Forest birds, for a time stilling their
voices, on another hill, some three miles distant from the scene of
strife, the sweet songsters were being disturbed by intrusion upon their
wild-wood domain. Not much disturbed, however, nor could the disturbers
be justly characterised as intruders. Even the birds themselves might
have been glad to see, and welcome among them, things of brightness and
beauty far beyond their own. Women they were, or rather girls, both
being under age--for there were but two of them. Sisters, moreover,
though there was scarce a trait of resemblance to betray the
relationship, either in features or complexion. She who seemed the
elder was dark as a gipsy, the other a clear _blonde_, with hair
showering over her shoulders, of hue as the beams of the sinking sun
that shimmered upon it. For all, both were alike beautiful; in a
different way, but unquestionably beautiful. And that they were sisters
could be learnt by listening to their conversation: their names, also,
as they addressed one another--that of the older, _Sabrina_; the
younger, _Vaga_.
They could not be other than the pair of pretty birds spoken of by Sir
Richard Walwyn; and, verily, he had not overrated them.