(_For the Mirror_.)
This celebrated eminence is situated in the north range of chalk hills,
beginning near Farnham, in Surrey, and extending from thence to
Folkstone, in Kent. Camden calls it _White Hill_, from its chalky soil;
but Box Hill is its true and ancient name. The box-tree is, in all
probability, the natural produce of the soil; but a generally received
story is, that the box was planted there by Thomas, Earl of Arundel,
between two and three centuries ago. There is, however, authentic
evidence of its being here long before his time, for Henry de Buxeto
(i.e. Henry of Box Hill) and Adam de Buxeto were witnesses to deeds in
the reign of King John.
John Evelyn, who wrote about the middle of the seventeenth century,
says, "Box-trees rise naturally at Kent in Bexley; and in Surrey, giving
name to Box Hill. He that in winter should behold some of our highest
hills in Surrey, clad with whole woods of them, might easily fancy
himself transported into some new or enchanted country."
In Aubrey's posthumous work on Surrey, published in 1718, the northern
part of the hill is described as thickly covered with yew-trees, and the
southern part with "thick boscages of box-trees," which "yielded a
convenient privacy for lovers, who frequently meet here, so that it is
an English Daphne." He also tells us that the gentry often resorted here
from Ebbesham (_Epsom_), then in high fashion. Philip Luckombe, in his
"England's Gazetteer," says, on Box Hill "there is a large warren, but
no houses; only arbours cut out in the box-wood on the top of the hill,
where are sold refreshments of all sorts, for the ladies and gentlemen
who come hither to divert themselves in its labyrinths; for which reason
a certain author has thought fit to call it the Palace of Venus, and the
Temple of Nature; there being an enchanting prospect from it of a fine
country, which is scarce to be equalled for affording so surprising and
magnificent an idea both of earth and sky."
But these delightful retreats, like Arcadia of old, have long since
vanished. The _yews_ were cut down in the year 1780; and their
successors fall very short of the luxuriant descriptions of old
topographers. The _box_ has also at various times produced the
proprietors of the estate great profit. In 1608, the receipt for
box-trees cut down upon the sheepwalk on the hill was 50_l_.; in an
account taken in 1712, it is supposed that as much had been cut down,
within a few years before, as amounted to 3,000_l_.; and in 1759, a Mr.
Miller lamented that "the trees on Box Hill had been pretty much
destroyed; though many remained of considerable bigness."
An immense quantity of box is annually consumed in this country, in the
revived art of engraving on wood. The English is esteemed inferior to
that which comes from the Levant; and the American box is said to be
preferable to ours. But the ships from the Levant brought such
quantities of it in ballast, that the wood on Box Hill could not find a
purchaser, and not having been cut for sixty-five years, was growing
cankered. The war diminished the influx from the Mediterranean; several
purchasers offered; and in 1795 it was put up to auction at 12,000_l_.
The depredations made on Box Hill, in consequence of this sale, did not
injure its picturesque beauty, as twelve years were allowed for cutting,
which gave each portion a reasonable time to renew. In 1802, forty tons
were cut, but the market being overstocked, it fell in value more than
fifty per cent.; and the foreign wood is now universally preferred for
engravings. The trees on Box Hill are, however, again flourishing,
although their value is rather problematical.
For the information of the home tourist, perhaps, I ought to mention
that Box Hill stands about 22 miles on the left of the road from London
to Worthing, Brighton, and Bognor, and about 2 miles N.E. of the town of
Dorking. The road from Leatherhead hence is a constant succession of
hill and dale, richly clothed with wood, interspersed with elegant
villas in all tastes--from the pillared and plastered mansion, to the
borrowed charm of the _cottage orne_. The whole of this district is
called the Vale of _Norbury_, from the romantic domain of that name,
which extends over a great portion of the hills on the right of the
road. Shortly before you reach Box Hill, stands _Mickleham_, a little
village with an ivy-mantled church, rich in Saxon architecture and other
antiquities. You then descend into a valley, passing some delightful
meadow scenery, and the showy mansion of Sir Lucas Pepys, which rises
from a flourishing plantation on the left. In the valley stands Juniper
Hall, late the seat of Mr. Thomas Broadwood, the piano-forte
manufacturer. In the park are some of the finest cedars in England. On
again ascending, you catch a fine view of Box Hill, and the
amphitheatrical range of opposite hills, with one of the most
magnificent _parterres_ in nature. This is called, by old writers, the
_Garden of Surrey_.
You pass some flint-built cottages, and quitting the road here, the
ascent to Box Hill is gradual and untiring, across a field of little
slopes, studded with a few yew-trees, relics of by-gone days. The ascent
further down the road almost amounts to a feat, assisted by the
foot-worn paces in the chalky steep. Here this portion of the hill
resembles an immense wall of _viretum_, down whose side has been poured
liquid mortar. The path winds along the verge of the hill, whilst on the
left is a valley or little ravine, whose sides are clothed with thick
dwarfish box, intermingled with the wild and trackless luxuriance of
forest scenery. Hence the road stretches away to Ashurst, the neat
residence of Mr. Strahan, the King's printer.
Returning to the verge of the hill, you soon reach the _apex_, or
highest point, being 445 feet from the level of the Mole.[1] Here you
enjoy what the French call a _coup d'oeil_, or I would rather say, _a
bird's-eye view_, of unparalleled beauty. Taking the town of Dorking for
a resting point, the long belt is about twelve miles in extent. The
outline or boundary commences from the eminence on which I am supposed
to be standing--with Brockham Hill, whose steep was planted by the late
duke of Norfolk, and whence the chain extends away towards the great
Brighton road. Next in the curve are Betchworth Castle and Park, with
majestic avenues of limes and elms, and fine old chestnut-trees.
Adjoining, is the Deepdene, the classical seat of the author of
"Anastasius," a place, says Salmon, "well calculated for the religious
rites of the Celts," and consecrated by the philosophical pursuits of
the Hon. Charles Howard, who built an oratory and laboratory, and died
here in 1714. Next are several fir-crowned ridges, which shelter Bury
Hill, the mansion of Mr. Barclay, the opulent brewer; whence you ascend
the opposite line of hills, till you reach Denbies, nearly facing the
most prominent point of Box Hill. This elegant seat is the abode of Mr.
Denison, one of the county members, and brother of the Marchioness of
Conyngham. The second range or ledge, beneath Denbies, is the celebrated
Dorking lime-works. The transition to the Norbury Hills, already
mentioned, is now very short, which completes the outline of the view.
It should, however, be remarked that the scenery within this range can
be distinctly enjoyed without the aid of art; whilst beyond it the
prospect extends, and fades away in the South Downs on one hand, and
beyond the metropolis on the other.
The little _parterre_ to be described, includes the sheltered town of
Dorking, environed with rich lawny slopes, variegated with villas in the
last taste; and little heights, from whose clustering foliage peeps the
cottage roof of humble life. But the Paradise immediately at the foot of
Box Hill is the gem of the whole scene, and is one of the most perfect
pictures of rural beauty which pen or pencil can attempt. It appears
like an assemblage of every rural charm in a few acres, in whose
disposal nature has done much, and art but little. Park, lawn, woody
walk, slope, wilderness and dell are among its varieties; and its quiet
is only broken by the sluggish stream of the Mole. Adjoining is a little
inn, more like one of the picturesque _auberges_ of the continent than
an English house of cheer. The grounds are ornamented with rustic
alcoves, boscages, and a bowery walk, all in good taste. Here hundreds
of tourists pass a portion of "the season," as in a "loop-hole of
retreat." In the front of the inn, however, the stream of life glides
fast; and a little past it, the road crosses the Mole by Burford Bridge,
and winds with geometrical accuracy through the whole of this hasty
sketch.