[From the ‘Plain Englishman;’ published in 1821-2-3.]
I was once rambling in the most unfrequented parts of Windsor Forest, on
a fine evening during the season between the hay and the corn harvest.
Every thing about me was verdant and beautiful. I had passed along a
little green, skirted with cottages, on my way to an unvisited part of
the forest; and I had remarked the healthful and innocent looks of the
children, who were playing on the road-side, and had beheld, with an
equal satisfaction, many an industrious labourer either reposing at his
cottage-door, or cheerfully prolonging his exertions, to train the
beans, or weed the potatoes, of his little garden. At the porch of one
or two cottages, “the swink’d[3] hedger at his supper sate,” as Milton
has naturally expressed this characteristic of an English evening,--and
several groups of parents and children were gathered round their humble
but cheerful meal, in the neatly sanded kitchen, whose door stood open
to admit the sweet breath of the evening breeze.
My way conducted me from this scene of animated existence to one of the
deepest solitude. I struck across a field or two, which at once led me
into one of the most unfrequented parts of the forest. The sun was yet
brightly shining in the west, but his rays did not pierce the thick
gloom of the elms and beeches into which I had penetrated. The place was
singularly wild, and seemed scarcely to belong to the quiet scenery of
our inland counties. A rapid stream, which in winter must become a
torrent, had formed a deep ravine, with high and precipitous banks; the
fern grew about in the wildest profusion; the old roots of the trees
which hung over the bourn, as the people of the forest still call it,
were bared to the wind and frost; but they grasped the earth resolutely
and firmly, offering no inappropriate image of a strong mind struggling
with adversity. As I walked on, endeavouring to follow the course of the
stream, the scene became still more solitary. I could gain no eminence
to look round upon the surrounding country; I could not hear either the
tinkling of the sheep-bell, the low of cattle, or the bark of the
watch-dog; even the herds of deer had forsaken this spot of unbroken
solitude.
The course of the bourn led me on through the same wild and tangled
scenery for more than a mile. I at length arrived at a spot where my
attention was powerfully excited by traces of human industry, which had
something extraordinary in their appearance. On a large beech-tree was
rudely carved the letters T. C., and beneath the figures 1787. My
attention was drawn to the contradiction which the freshness of the
carving presented to the remoteness of the date. Near the tree the grass
and fern sprung up with a rank luxuriance; no cattle ever seemed to
pasture in this secluded spot. Where the grass grew highest there was a
remarkable appearance, which could not have been the effect of accident.
For about eight feet in length and two in width the grass had been
carefully cut away; indeed, the small surface was as closely trimmed as
a newly-mown meadow, while the long grass grew around it as if the
scythe had never violated its useless luxuriance. I was forcibly struck
by these appearances, and I determined to return to the village for the
purpose of seeking an explanation.
I inquired at several cottages without obtaining any satisfactory
solution. There were few who knew the spot to which my questions
referred. I at last addressed myself to one whose garb bespoke the
occupation of a woodman. He was old, and had evidently borne much
fatigue and hardship. He said that he could explain all that I wanted to
know, for that he every year cut afresh the bark of the beech-tree, and
removed the high grass with his sickle as fast as it grew. It was to
commemorate an awful event that happened on that spot. His narrative had
many pauses and breaks; but it was in substance as follows:--
“It was in the year 1787 that a fellow-woodman met his death in that
lonely place. It was on a fine summer evening, as it may be now, that a
dozen of us were sitting down beneath that beech-tree to refresh
ourselves after our day’s labour. We had been felling some trees close
at hand, and a hard day’s work we had of it. The bailiff ordered us some
beer, and as we were returning home we met the boy coming with it, and
we sat ourselves down in that high grass to enjoy it. We were tired and
hot, and we drank freely. We got to talk about our own great doings, and
one boasted how much money he could earn, and another bragged how much
beer he could drink. There was a quarrelsome chap amongst us--his name
was Joe D⸻, and he bullied and hectored poor Tom C⸻ in a strange way.
Tom bore it all patiently for some time, for he was a quiet, harmless
fellow, and he perhaps bethought him that a quarrel would not do any
good to his wife and children. At last Joe, who was filling out the mugs
of beer, instead of handing Tom his allowance, threw it in his face. The
poor fellow could not bear this--for, though goodnatured, he did not
want spirit. He resented the insult. The other grew more saucy and
savage, and at last he hit Tom a blow in the face. I am ashamed of
myself, and of all the set, when I recollect how, for the love of
mischief, we encouraged the quarrel, and got up to make a ring for two
fellow-creatures to strive against each other like brute beasts. To it
they went; in five minutes poor Tom received a blow in the stomach, and
he never spoke afterwards. He fell down where the grass is cut away, and
he breathed his last under the beech-tree where the letters are carved.
We carried him in our arms to the cottage;--oh, that was a scene for his
poor wife which I never, never shall forget! Joe fled the country;--I
saw him many years after, but he slunk along like a ghost, and I would
much rather have died in my youth, like my poor fellow-woodman, than
have borne about the fire which that man must have had in his heart. I
do what I can to preserve the remembrance of poor Tom, as you see, for I
am the last left of all who saw his frightful death. I have told my boys
never to let the grass grow there when I am gone; maybe the sight of
that lonely token of him may lead some to ask about it, as you have
done; and the knowledge of the fatal effect of sudden quarrels may teach
our children to live in peace with all about them.”
-----
Footnote 3:
Tired.
⁂ We have the Author’s permission, in this and other extracts from
‘The Plain Englishman,’ to make such alterations of the original as
may be deemed advisable.
---------------------