holding up its bleached, appealing arms to heaven, now welcomed as a
signpost rather than shunned as a bogy. A little beyond is Setthorns,
with a small, lonely keeper's lodge at the edge of it. This wood must
have been very lovely before the intrusion of the railway that now
cuts across it, and indeed still has great charm. In Mr. Gilpin's day
it had been recently cleared of its fine oaks, and bitter are his
lamentations over their disappearance and that of the grove of yews
that flourished below. But he wrote more than a century ago, and since
then the wood has been replanted--happily before the new fashion of
straight rows of young trees, like a cabbage garden, had come in. One
of the most entrancing of bridle-paths enters the road just below the
railway bridge and, passing down by a steep descent, emerges on the
Avon Water--not to be confounded with the river Avon--which here
broadens into a pool. The stream passes under Meadend Bridge, which
forms the Forest boundary at this point, and flows on to join the sea
at Keyhaven.
Sway, once the most picturesque of villages, perched on its high
common, is now nearly overwhelmed with red brick and vulgarity,
probably consequent on its possession of a railway station. It is only
partly within the Forest bounds. From here a road running by a ridge
of down leads to Shirley Holms, one of those primeval patches of oak
and holly, clear of undergrowth, that are specially beloved of the
gipsies for close overhead shelter and clear space beneath for tent
and fire. This road comes out on the main highway at Battramsley
Cross; but if the objective be Brockenhurst, a better way is to turn
at Marlpit Oak and go down by Latchmoor (or -mere), the pool of
corpses. This ill-omened name belongs to some great battle of long
ago, but a dark tradition of last century still hangs about the spot.
By Marlpit Oak, a lofty landmark on the bare heath, beloved of
deer-stealers in the old poaching days, with a dense thicket round
about its knees, good to hide in, there lurked one night three men of
the outlaw type who used to haunt the Forest. They were lying in wait
for a traveller known to be returning to his home with a large sum of
money. Though they were three to one, he showed fight; so they
murdered him and dragged his body down to Latchmoor, where they threw
it into the pool. Across the moor at Setley stood a little inn of evil
repute, called the "Three Feathers" or the "Three Pigeons", or some
such name. Here they called for drinks, threw their money about
freely, and bragged in their cups; so they were taken and hanged at
Marlpit Oak. The bodies, hanging in chains, have mouldered into dust,
the gallows tree no longer adorns the spot where now the cheery
foxhounds meet on many a winter morning; but it was some time before
the inn recovered from its evil savour. People would call it the
"Three Murderers"; so at last it had to be pulled down, rebuilt, and
rechristened as the "Oddfellows Arms", under which title it has become
a respectable wayside hostelry.
And now we find ourselves again at Setley by Brockenhurst, our brief
survey done--a few characteristic spots gleaned, yet more, I fear,
left out than included. We may be thankful for so much old-world
beauty still spared, yet are we not without a haunting sense of
menace. Though the Forest has been rescued from the utilitarian
destruction that once threatened it, it has more insidious foes. All
Forest lovers are dismayed at the advance of the Scotch fir, which
encroaches ever more and more, and bids fair to swamp the whole
woodland. There are only two valid reasons for planting a tree of such
small value. One is the need for shelter for wood better than itself
on the windy uplands; but then the firs should be weeded out as the
timber grows strong enough to hold its own. Another thing is that,
being a thirsty soul, it will quickly reclaim marshy land. But this in
itself would be matter of regret to the lovers of wild nature, for the
bogs have their special bird and plant life. It is hard to see why so
much space should be sacrificed to stiff, straight rows of firs so
densely planted that none can reach perfection or attain their one
beauty of broad, spreading heads. Perhaps small profits with quick
returns appeal to a generation that plants for itself. We no longer
plant timber for posterity, as did our forefathers.
The new fashion of excessive game-preserving, which is practised on
the manors though not in the Forest itself, is answerable for the
destruction of much wild life. The keepers wage war on jay and magpie,
owl and hawk, and even the little harmless squirrel has been so
diminished in the last year or two, that you may take many a long
ramble through the woods and never once hear his chatter or watch his
nimble spring from tree to tree. A powerful plea for a sanctuary comes
from the pen of E. W., the writer of a series of delightful articles
on "Out of Doors," in the _Hampshire Chronicle_. After deploring the
utter extinction of many bird species and increasing rarity of others,
she goes on:
"What we want is a sanctuary, and a sanctuary of great extent
near the South Coast; the New Forest is ready to our hand and
requires no making--wood and water, sea and moor, all are there.
We also need, when we have got our ideal sanctuary, an army of
keepers who shall be as anxious to keep alive, as the keepers of
the present time are anxious to kill."
But the worst enemy of the Forest is its admirer. He comes, falls in
love with it, craves a house within its borders, praises it to his
friends, and invites them down. So the fashion comes, and the fashion
creates a demand. Land rises to a fancy value, and when times are so
hard for the landowners, what can they do but relinquish their fairest
sites to the speculative builder? If this goes on, our descendants may
wonder why we cared so much for an endless firwood, diversified with
"artistic" villas--or perhaps they will like it. In the country that
lies East of the Sun and West of the Moon they would doubtless pass a
law that all manors within the Forest, coming into the market, should
be resumed by the Crown and enclosed as wood or waste for ever.
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN
_At the Villafield Press, Glasgow, Scotland_
Transcriber's Note:
Words in italics are enclosed by underscores, _thus_.
Inconsistent punctuation at the end of quotations was not changed.
Changes made from the original: Added a description to the
illustration on the title page, and capitalized 'purlieu': ... 'from
Cadnam through Dibden Purlieu' ...