ITS EARLY HISTORY.
[Illustration: 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_ we find, too, a keeper
of the king’s house holding the mill at Efford; also implying, at least,
in a very different part of the Forest, a neighbourhood which could not
have been quite destitute and deserted.[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,[43] by finding provisions for the king
and fodder for his horse. But more than all, _Domesday_, 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.
Some wrong, though, was doubtless committed: some hardships undergone.
Lands, however useless, cannot be afforested without the feelings of the
neighbourhood being outraged. And the story, gathering strength in
proportion as the Conqueror and his son William the Red were hated by
the conquered, at last assumed the tragical form which the Chroniclers
have handed down to us, and modern historians repeated.
William’s cruelty, however, lay not certainly in afforesting the
district: it consisted rather in the systematic way in which he strove
to reduce the English into abject slavery; in the fresh tortures with
which he loaded the Danish Forest Laws; and in making it far better to
kill a man than a deer. For these exactions was it that his family paid
the penalty of their lives; and the retribution befel them there, where
the superstitious West-Saxon would, above all others, have marked out as
the spot fitted for their deaths.
[Illustration: View in Gibb’s Hill Wood.]