SECTION I.

WE concluded the laſt book with a catalogue (for it was little more) of the principal foreſts, which for⯑merly overſpread the iſland of Britain. None of them at this day poſſeſſes it's original grandeur. A few have preſerved ſome little appearance of ſcenery: but the greater part are waſtes. New-foreſt in Hamp⯑ſhire is among the few, which have retained any ideas of their ancient conſequence.— At leaſt it is ſuperior to the reſt, on account of the extent of it's boundaries; the variety of it's contents; and the grandeur of it's ſcenes.

[2]With theſe ſcenes I propoſe, in the fol⯑lowing book, to illuſtrate the obſervations, which have been made in the two preceding books; and ſhall in ſeveral excurſions, through the different parts of this woody country, endeavour to point out it's peculiar beauties. But tho I ſhall chiefly conſider it in a pic⯑tureſque light, I ſhall vary my ſubject by giving a general idea of the ancient hiſ⯑tory, and preſent ſtate, of this celebrated foreſt.

This tract of wood-land was originally made a foreſt by William I in the year 1079. about thirteen years after the battle of Haſtings; and is indeed the only foreſt in England, whoſe origin can be traced. It took the denomination of New-foreſt from it's being an addition to the many foreſts, which the crown already poſſeſſed; and which had formerly been appropriated in feudal times. The original name of this tract of country was Ytene.

As ſeveral foreſts were more commodiouſly ſituated for royal diverſion than New-foreſt, the hiſtorian hath been ſometimes led to [3] conceive, that William muſt have had other ends, than amuſement, in making this ad⯑dition to them: and obſerving farther, it's vicinity to the coaſt of Normandy, he hath from this circumſtance drawn a ſurmiſe, that under the idea of a foreſt, William meant to preſerve an unobſerved communication with the continent; which would enable him to embark his troops, on either ſide, without giving alarm.

But this ſurmiſe depends on no hiſtorical evidence; neither indeed is it probable. The coaſts of Kent, and Suſſex were more com⯑modious for the embarkation of troops, than any part of New-foreſt. And it is abſurd to ſuppoſe an army could be embarked any where without obſervation. Southampton in⯑deed was commodious enough: but this port neither lies in New-foreſt; nor does the foreſt in any degree, ſkreen it's avenues.—Beſides, the affairs of William were never in ſo per⯑plexed a ſituation, as to require privacy; eſpecially at the time when he made this foreſt; which was after he had defeated all his enemies, and was of courſe in the height of his power.—Nor indeed was it agreeable to the general character of this prince to do [4] things ſecretly. He rather choſe, on all occaſions, to ſway the ſceptre with a lofty hand.—The judicious Rapin ſeems to cloſe the whole debate very juſtly, by obſerving, that this ſurmiſe ſeems to have ariſen merely from an opinion, that ſo politic a prince as William, could do nothing without a political end: whereas the moſt politic princes, no doubt, are ſwayed where their pleaſures are concerned, by paſſions, and caprice, like other men^*.

The means, which William uſed in af⯑foreſting theſe extenſive wood-lands, create another queſtion among hiſtorians. The ge⯑neral opinion is, that he deſtroyed a number of villages, and churches; drove out the in⯑habitants; laid their lands waſte; and formed New-foreſt in their room.

This opinion has appeared to ſome ill ſounded; and Voltaire in particular, has ſtood up in defence of the humanity, or rather the policy of William. It is abſurd, he thinks, to ſuppoſe that a prince ſo noted for prudent and intereſted conduct, ſhould [5] lay waſte ſo much cultivated ground; plant it with foreſt trees, which would be many years in coming to perfection; and for the ſake of a few deer, turn adrift ſo large a body of his induſtrious ſubjects, who might have contributed ſo much to the increaſe of his revenues^*.

Voltaire's concluſion may be juſt; but his reaſoning is certainly ill-founded. It proceeds on the improbability of ſo wide a deſolation; whereas it might have proceeded better on the impoſſibility of it. For how could William have ſpread ſuch depopulation in a country, which, from the nature of it, muſt have been from the firſt very thinly inhabited? The ancient Ytene was undoubtedly a woody tract long before the times of William. Voltaire's idea therefore of planting a foreſt is abſurd, and is founded on a total ignorance of the country. He took his ideas merely from a French foreſt, which is artificially planted, and laid out in viſtas, and alleys. It is probable, that William rather opened his chaſes by cutting down wood; than that [6] he had occaſion to plant more.—Beſides, tho the internal ſtrata of the ſoil of New-foreſt are admirably adapted to produce timber; yet the ſurface of it, is in general, poor; and could never have admitted, even if the times had allowed, any high degree of cul⯑tivation. —Upon the whole therefore, it does not ſeem poſſible, that William could have ſpread ſo wide a depopulation through this country, as he is repreſented to have done.

On the other hand, there is no contending againſt the ſtream of hiſtory: and tho we may allow that William could not make any great depopulation; we are not to ſuppoſe he made none at all. Many writers, who lived about his time, unite in lamentable complaints of his devaſtations. According to them, at leaſt thirty miles of cultivated lands were laid waſte; above fifty pariſh churches, and many villages deſtroyed; and all the inhabitants extirpated^*. But it is to be conſidered, that [7] theſe writers were monks, who had taken high offence at William for his exactions on their monaſteries; and were neither, as it appears, informed themſelves; nor diſpoſed through their prejudices, to inform others. Many things they ſay, are palpably falſe.

In this dearth therefore of hiſtorical evidence, we are ſtill at a loſs To ſuppoſe that William made no devaſtation, and to ſuppoſe that he made all, which theſe prejudiced [8] monks lay to his charge, ſeem to be ſup⯑poſitions equally unſupported. On the whole therefore, the truth of this matter, as of moſt others, lies probably between the two opi⯑nions.

With regard to the ſituation, and boundaries of this extenſive foreſt, it occupies the ſouth⯑weſt extremity of Hampſhire; and in it's earlier form was a kind of peninſula, bounded by the bay of Southampton on the eaſt— by the river Avon on the weſt—and on the ſouth; by the channel of the iſle of Wight, as far as the Needles; and to the weſt of thoſe rocks by the ocean. Thus the boundaries of New-foreſt were determined by the natural lines of the country.

It does not however appear, that William I extended the bounds of New-foreſt thus far. They are ſuppoſed rather to have been inlarged by ſucceeding princes; particularly by Henry I, who was probably tempted by the natural limits of the country. By this prince, or at leaſt by ſome of the early ſuc⯑ceſſors of William, the whole peninſula was taken in; and the bounds of the foreſt were [9] fairly extended, as I have deſcribed them, to the bay of Southampton, the river Avon, and the ſea.

In thoſe days it was a matter of little ceremony either to make, or to inlarge a foreſt. Thus ſaith the law: "It is allowed to our ſovereign lord the king, in reſpect of his continual care, and labour, for the pre⯑ſervation of the whole realm, among other privileges, this prerogative, to have his places of recreation, and paſtime, whereſoever he will appoint. For as it is at the liberty, and pleaſure of his grace to reſerve the wild beaſts, and the game to himſelf, for his only delight and pleaſure, ſo he may alſo at his will and pleaſure, make a foreſt for them to abide in^*."

Agreeable to this ſpirit of deſpotiſm, the royal foreſts were regulated. Each had it's laws, and government; and as theſe differed from each other in very few particulars, all were equally grievous to the ſubject. Foreſt-law indeed was one of the greateſt incroach⯑ments that ever was made upon the natural [10] rights of mankind; and conſidering the diſ⯑parity of the object, one of the greateſt inſults of tyranny.

The Romans had no idea of appropriating game. Under their government the foreſts of England, like thoſe of America, were common hunting-grounds. The northern barbarians firſt pretended to the right of making private pro⯑perty of what, being naturally wild, belonged equally to all.

The idea of foreſt-law, and foreſt-rights obtained early indeed in Saxon times. But the Saxon princes were in general a mild race; and there were ſome traces of liberal ſentiment in their inſtitutions. Under them, untenanted waſtes only were afforeſted—the penalties of foreſt-laws were gentle—and the execution of them never rigid. So that, in thoſe equitable times, foreſt-law was hardly eſteemed a burthen upon the people.

The Norman princes were a different race. They were fierce, haughty, violent, and de⯑ſpotic. Under them the language of Engliſh law in general aſſumed a new tone; and of foreſt-law in particular. For as the Norman princes were all mighty hunters, this part of juriſprudence engaged their peculiar attention. [11] It was conceived in the higheſt ſpirit of deſpotiſm; and executed with the utmoſt rigour of vindictive tyranny^*.

[12]It is true indeed the principal object of foreſt-law was the preſervation of game, which the offender killed at his own peril. But when we recollect how extenſive the royal foreſts were, including little leſs than an eighth part of the kingdom—when we con⯑ſider the miſchievous nature of every ſpecies of game, and particularly of foreſt-deer in cultivated lands—when we obſerve farther, that many of the royal foreſts were blended [13] with private property—that the limits of others were very undefined—and laſtly, when we reflect, how eaſy a matter it was, by a ſtretch of royal authority, to fix the locality of a treſpaſs in a foreſt, tho it was never committed there; we may eaſily conclude, from the whole, how fertile a ſource of vexation foreſt-law might be made, tho it merely reſpected game.

But other grievances accrued. Many in⯑croachments were made on private property. Extravagant claims were pretended by foreſt-officers; and heavy tolls were levied on ſuch merchandize, as paſſed through the king's foreſts, tho in fact, it could paſs in no other direction^*. Sometimes alſo needy prin⯑ces, (and moſt of them were needy) with a view to raiſe money, would ſend commiſſioners purpoſely to examine into foreſt-treſpaſſes; and on theſe occaſions, we may be ſure, there was always exaggeration enough.

This accumulation of hardſhip was at all times deeply felt, and reſented; and whenever the reins of government ſlackened in the hands of a weak prince, the ſpirit of the nation aroſe, [14] and endeavoured to reſume its native rights. Succeſs at laſt attended theſe repeated ſtruggles. Foreſt-law was aboliſhed; at leaſt its miſchie⯑vous effects were repreſſed.

But if the people imagined this victory would reinſtate them in their native rights over the foreſt, they were miſtaken. A new ſpecies of law, under the denomination of game-law, aroſe upon the ruins of foreſt-law. This law had from it's inſtitution an ariſ⯑tocratic caſt. For the barons and great men, who had wreſted the rigour of foreſt-law from the prince, did not mean to free the people from the impoſition; but only to adminiſter it themſelves: and thus a thouſand tyrants ſtarted up inſtead of one. Some of the ſeverer penalties indeed were aboliſhed. A man pre⯑ſerved his eyes, or his hands, tho he killed a pheaſant, or a partridge: but he was fined— he was impriſoned—his dog was ſhot—his arms were taken from him—and he was conti⯑nually teaſed with vexatious ſuits. Beſides, as game-law was more extenſive than foreſt-law, it involved greater numbers within it's influence.

[15]At the time, when foreſt-law was aboliſhed, all the incroachments, which the crown had made on the confines of foreſts, were given back. Then it was that New-foreſt was reduced within it's ancient bounds; and all thoſe lands, which bordered on the bay of Southampton, the river Avon, and the ſea, were reſtored to their old poſſeſſors. Theſe lands were then diſtinguiſhed by the name of the purlieus of the foreſt; and their owners, at leaſt ſome of them, by way of indemnifi⯑cation for injuries received, enjoyed ſeveral privileges, particularly the right of commoning in the foreſt; and of killing treſpaſſing deer, provided they were killed before they entered the foreſt, which was always eſteemed their ſanctuary^*.

The ſhape of New-foreſt is a kind of irre⯑gular triangle, wide at the ſouth, and drawing to a point towards the north; contained within a circumference of about fifty miles. It's limits on every ſide are very accurately known, and deſcribed: but, in a work of this kind, [16] it will anſwer no end, either of amuſement, or of utility, to walk it's bounds.—So far indeed am I from intending to be accurate in this matter, that I propoſe in the following deſcriptive view of New-foreſt, to take very great liberties with it's boundaries; and to conſider the foreſt in it's ancient, and moſt extended ſtate, limited by the bay of South⯑ampton on the eaſt; by the river Avon on the weſt; and by the ſea on the ſouth. Without taking this liberty, I ſhould loſe the deſcription of ſome of the moſt beautiful ſcenery, that formerly belonged to it.

But before I enter on the pictureſque part of my work, it remains, as I have already given a ſhort account of the ancient ſtate of New-foreſt, to add a ſhort account alſo of it's preſent ſtate; it's government, demeiſns, and inhabitants.

SECT. II.

THE government of New-foreſt is, at this time, nearly what it originally was, excepting only that the abolition of foreſt-law hath reſtrained the power of it's officers^*.

The chief officer belonging to it, is the lord-warden, who is generally ſome perſon of great diſtinction. The preſent lord-warden is the duke of Gloceſter.—Under him are two diſtinct appointments of officers; the one to preſerve the veniſon of the foreſt; and the [18] other to preſerve it's vert. The former term, in the language of foreſt-law, includes all ſpecies of game: the latter reſpects the woods, and lawns, which harbour, and feed them.

Of thoſe officers who ſuperintend the game, are firſt the two rangers. But the office of ranger; as well as that of bow-bearer, and a few others, have been long in diſuſe: at leaſt they ſeem to be delegated to the keepers: of theſe there are fifteen; who preſide over as many walks, into which the foreſt is divided. In each walk is erected a lodge. A few of theſe lodges are elegant manſions; and are the habitations of the keepers, who are generally men of faſhion, or fortune. Prince William of Gloceſter has one; the duke of Bolton another; and lord Delawar a third; but in general, the lodges are but moderate buildings; and are inhabited by the under-keepers, or groom-keepers, as they are called; on whom the executive part of the keeper's office devolves.

The under-keeper feeds the deer in winter— browzes them in ſummer—knows where to find a fat buck—executes the king's warrants for veniſon—preſents offences in the foreſt-courts— and prevents the deſtruction of game. [19] In this laſt article his virtue is chiefly ſhown; and to this purpoſe the memory of every ſound keeper ſhould be furniſhed with this cabaliſtic verſe.

It implies the ſeveral circumſtances, in which offenders may be taken with the manner, as it is phraſed. If a man be found armed, and ſtationed in ſome ſuſpicious part of the foreſt— or if he be found with a dog purſuing a ſtricken deer—or if he be found carrying a dead deer on his back—or laſtly, if he be found bloody in the foreſt; he is, in all theſe caſes, ſeizable; tho the fact of killing a deer cannot be proved upon him. The under-keeper alſo drives the foreſt; that is, he annually impounds all the cattle, that paſture in his walk; and ſees them examined, and properly marked.

With regard to the woods of the foreſt, which were originally conſidered only as they reſpected game, the firſt officer, under the [20] lord-warden, is the woodward. It is his buſineſs, as his title denotes, to inſpect the woods. He prevents waſte—he ſees that young trees are properly fenced—and he aſſigns timber for the payment of foreſt-officers. This timber is ſold by auction at the court at Lyndhurſt; and annually amounts to about ſeven hundred pounds; which is the ſum required.

Under the woodward are twelve regarders; and to theſe indeed chiefly is delegated the executive part of his office. The regarders ſeize the hedge-bills, and axes of treſpaſſers; preſent offences in the foreſt-courts; and aſſign ſuch timber as is claimed by the inhabitants, and borderers of the foreſt, for fuel, and repairs. Of this inferior wood, there are great quantities aſſigned, on every ſide of the foreſt. I can only ſpeak of my own aſſign⯑ment, as vicar of Boldre; which is annually twelve load.

Beſides theſe officers, who are in effect the officers of the crown, as they are appointed by the lord-warden; there are four others, called verderors, who are commonly gentlemen of property and intereſt in the neighbourhood, and are elected, like the knights of the ſhire, by [21] the freeholders of the county. Theſe officers, ſince the juſticiary-in-eyre has been a ſinecure, are the only judges of the foreſt-courts. The verderor is an ancient foreſt-officer. His name occurs in the earlieſt account of foreſt-law. But tho his appointment has at preſent a democratical caſt, it is probable, that he was formerly a royal officer; and that his election by the free-holders of the county was extorted from the crown in ſome period favourable to liberty. As New-foreſt was always conſidered as the great magazine of navy timber, the verderors were impowered by an act of par⯑liament in king William's time, to fine delinquents to the amount of five pounds in their attachment-courts: whereas in all the other foreſts of England, the fine does not amount to more than a few pence, which was the original amerſement. The ver⯑deror is an officer without ſalary: but by ancient cuſtom he was entitled to courſe, and take what deer he pleaſed, in his way to the foreſt-court: but this privilege is now com⯑pounded by an annual fee of a buck, and a doe.

Beſides theſe ancient officers of the foreſt, there is one of later inſtitution, ſince timber became valuable as a material. He is called [22] the purveyor, and is appointed by the com⯑miſſioner of the dock at Portſmouth. His buſineſs is to aſſign timber for the uſe of the navy. The origin of the purveyor is not earlier than the reign of Charles II. in whoſe time five hundred oaks, and fifty beeches were annually aſſigned for the king's yards; and this officer was appointed to aſſign them. But it being found, that the foreſt could ill ſupply ſo large a quantity of oak; inſtead of five hundred, the number was afterwards reduced to ſixty; which together with fifty beeches, are ſtill annually aſſigned^*. The purveyor has a ſalary of fifty pounds a year; and ſix and eight-pence a day, when on duty.

I ſhall conclude this account of the officers of the foreſt with the ſingular character of one of them, who lived in the times of James, and Charles I. It is preſerved in Hutchin's hiſtory of Dorſetſhire^†.

The name of this memorable ſportſman, for in that character alone he was conſpicuous, was Henry Haſtings. He was ſecond ſon to the earl of Huntingdon; and inherited a good [23] eſtate in Dorſetſhire from his mother. He was one of the keepers of New-foreſt; and reſided in his lodge there, during a part of every hunting-ſeaſon. But his principal reſi⯑dence was at Woodlands, in Dorſetſhire, where he had a capital manſion. One of his neareſt neighbours, was the lord chancellor Cooper, firſt earl of Shaftſbury. Two men could not be more oppoſite in their diſpoſitions, and purſuits. They had little communication therefore; and their occaſional meetings were rendered more diſagreeable to both, from their oppoſite ſentiments in politics. Lord Shaft⯑ſbury, who was the younger man, was the ſurvivor; and the following account of Mr. Haſtings, which I have ſomewhat abridged, is ſaid to have been the production of his pen.

Mr. Haſtings was low of ſtature, but very ſtrong, and very active; of a ruddy com⯑plexion, with flaxen hair. His cloaths were always of green cloth. His houſe was of the old faſhion; in the midſt of a large park, well ſtocked with deer, rabbits, and fiſh-ponds. He had a long narrow bowling-green, in it; and uſed to play with round ſand-bowls. Here too he had a banquetting-room built, [24] like a ſtand, in a large tree. He kept all ſorts of hounds, that ran buck, fox, hare, otter, and badger; and had hawks of all kinds, both long, and ſhort winged. His great hall was commonly ſtrewed with marrow-bones; and full of hawk-perches, hounds, ſpaniels, and terriers. The upper end of it was hung with fox-ſkins of this, and the laſt year's killing. Here, and there a pole-cat was intermixed; and hunter's poles in great abun⯑dance. The parlour was a large room, compleatly furniſhed in the ſame ſtile. On a broad hearth, paved with brick, lay ſome of the choiceſt terriers, hounds, and ſpaniels. One or two of the great chairs, had litters of cats in them, which were not to be diſ⯑turbed. Of theſe three or four always attended him at dinner; and a little white wand lay by his trencher; to defend it, if they were too troubleſome. In the windows, which were very large, lay his arrows, croſs-bows, and other accoutrements. The corners of the room were filled with his beſt hunting, and hawking poles. His oiſter-table ſtood at the lower end of the room, which was in conſtant uſe twice a day, all the year round; for he never failed to eat oiſters both at dinner, [25] and ſupper; with which the neighbouring town of Pool ſupplied him. At the upper end of the room ſtood a ſmall table with a double deſk; one ſide of which held a church-bible; the other, the book of martyrs. On different tables in the room lay hawk's-hoods; bells; old hats, with their crowns thruſt in, full of pheaſant eggs; tables; dice; cards; and ſtore of tobacco-pipes. At one end of this room was a door, which opened into a cloſet; where ſtood bottles of ſtrong beer, and wine; which never came out but in ſingle glaſſes, which was the rule of the houſe; for he never exceeded himſelf; nor permitted others to exceed. Anſwering to this cloſet, was a door into an old chapel; which had been long diſuſed for devotion; but in the pulpit, as the ſafeſt place, was always to be found a cold chine of beef, a veniſon-paſty, a gammon of bacon, or a great apple-pye, with thick cruſt, well-baked. His table coſt him not much, tho it was good to eat at. His ſports ſupplied all, but beef and mutton; except on fridays, when he had the beſt of fiſh. He never wanted a London pudding; and he always ſang it in with, "My part lies therein-a." He drank a glaſs [26] or two of wine at meals; put ſyrup of gilly-flowers into his ſack; and had always a tun-glaſs of ſmall-beer ſtanding by him, which he often ſtirred about with roſemary. He lived to be an hundred; and never loſt his eye-ſight, nor uſed ſpectacles. He got on horſe-back without help; and rode to the death of the ſtag, till he was paſt fourſcore.

SECT. III.

HAVING given an account of the go⯑vernment, and officers of New-foreſt in the laſt ſection, I ſhall now examine the ſtate of it's demeiſns^*, and inhabitants.

[28]The ſoil of New-foreſt, which is in general a ſandy loam, is well adapted to the production of oak-timber. This tract of woody country therefore hath long been conſidered, as one of the great magazines for the navy. It was formerly thought to be inexhauſtible; but by degrees it was obſerved, that it began to fail. So early as in queen Elizabeth's reign, Manwood tells us, that "the ſlender, and negligent execution of the foreſt-law hath been the decay, and deſtruction (in almoſt all places within this realm) of great wood and timber; the want whereof, as well in this preſent time, as in time to come, ſhall ap⯑pear in the navy of this realm^*."

In queen Elizabeth's reign Manwood's remark was ſpeculation; but in the reign of Charles II, it took the air of prediction. The decay of timber; which had long been gradually coming on, began then to be felt. [29] It's ſources failed, as the demand increaſed. In moſt commodities the demands of a market immediately produce a ſupply; but timber requires ages to make it marketable. It may be added, that the navy magazines had not then thoſe reſources, which they have ſince found. Timber was with difficulty brought from the inland parts of the country, on account of the badneſs of the roads—little foreign timber was imported—and what ren⯑dered the evil more conſpicuous, in Charles's time, the nation was on the eve of a naval war. Such preſſing neceſſity urged ſtrongly the propriety of making proviſion for a future ſupply. Charles, who had a ſort of turn for ſhip-building, and had on that account, a kind of affection for the navy, was eaſily induced to iſſue an order, under his ſign manual, to ſir John Norton, woodward of New-foreſt, to incloſe three hundred acres of waſte, as a nurſery for young oak^*; the expence of which was to be defrayed by the ſale of decayed wood. This order bears date december 13th, 1669.

[30]But tho the incloſure, here ſpecified, was trifling in itſelf, yet it had the merit of a new project, and led to farther improvements. A few years afterwards the ſame idea was taken up, on a more enlarged ſcale. In the 10th of king William▪ an act paſſed, im⯑powering certain commiſſioners to incloſe two thouſand acres in New-foreſt for the growth of timber; and two hundred more, every year; for the ſpace of twenty years after⯑wards.

This provident act was as well executed, as it had been projected. A very conſiderable part of the quantity preſcribed, at leaſt four thouſand acres, were incloſed, and planted^†, and the timber of theſe incloſures is now ſecure from all danger; and is thrown out again into the foreſt. None of it hath yet been felled, as it is not yet in a ſtate of perfection; but it is in a very flouriſhing con⯑dition; [31] and is at this day the glory of the foreſt.

In the reigns of queen Ann, and George I, I believe, no new plantations were made; which is the more to be wondered at, as the ſevere hurricane in the november of the year 1703 did great injury in New-foreſt. Not fewer than four thouſand of it's beſt oaks were deſtroyed^*, together with great quantities of growing timber.

In the reign of George II, three incloſures were made: but they were injudiciouſly, or diſhoneſtly managed; and Mr. Coleman, who undertook the buſineſs, was fined in the foreſt-court at Lyndhurſt, by the verderors, for his neglect^†. Some attempts have been made in the preſent reign: but for want of being properly planned, or honeſtly managed, very little advantage hath accrued^‡.

[32]The great defect indeed here, as in other national matters, is the want of honeſty. Public affairs become private jobs. Large incloſures have been made merely to inrich the undertakers by the profits of incloſing; or the plunder of the underwood. It is ſaid, that altho the flouriſhing plantations made by king William, are at this time, receiving injury from growing too cloſe; they are rather ſuffered to continue as they are, than to run the hazard of being diſhoneſtly thinned. For it has ſometimes been found, that in thin⯑ning trees, the beſt, inſtead of the worſt, have been removed: nor can any thing prevent ſuch miſchief, but the care, and honeſty of foreſt-officers, and the perſons they employ.

What a general rapacity reigns in foreſts, may be conceived from the devaſtation, which even inferior officers have been able to com⯑mit. Not many years ago, two men, of the name of Batten, father and ſon, ſuc⯑ceeded each other, in the office of under-keeper, in one of the foreſt-walks. The under-keeper is ſuppoſed to cut holm, and [33] other under-wood of little value, to browze his deer; and when the rind, and ſpray are eaten off, he faggots the dry ſticks for his own uſe. But theſe fellows cut down the young timber of the foreſt, without diſ⯑tinction, and without meaſure, which they made up into faggots, and ſold: and for this paltry gain I have been informed, they com⯑mitted waſte in the foreſt eſtimated at fifty thouſand pounds damage. The calculation ſeems large: but we may well imagine, that in the unremitted courſe of ſixty or ſeventy years, great miſchief might be done. For tho a young ſapling may not intrinſically be worth more than half a crown; yet the great difficulty of getting another thriving plant to occupy it's room in the foreſt, raiſes it's con⯑ſequence to the public much beyond it's mere ſpecific value.

But the decay of foreſts is not owing ſolely either to the legal conſumer, or the rapa⯑cious treſpaſſer. The oak of the foreſt will ſometimes naturally fail. Mr. Evelin re⯑marks^*, that every foreſt, in which oak, [34] and beech grow promiſcuouſly, will in a courſe of ages become intirely beechen. If this be a juſt remark, the oak, we are to ſuppoſe, has not ſo ſtrong a vegetative power, as the beech; which, in time prevails over the whole.—Whatever truth there may be in the obſervation, certain it is, that this appearance of decay is found in many of the wood-lands of New-foreſt, which conſiſt chiefly of beech, and unthriving oak.

Beſides theſe ſources of miſchief, the woods of the foreſt are ſubject to another, that of fire. In ſultry weather, it's furzy heaths are very combuſtible; and the neighbouring cottagers are ſuppoſed ſometimes to ſet them purpoſely on fire to make paſturage more plentiful. The danger ariſes from the dif⯑ficulty of ſtopping theſe fires, which will ſometimes continue burning, more or leſs, at the mercy of the wind, during ſeveral days. In the early part of the ſummer 1785, which was remarkably dry, many of theſe fires were lighted, particularly one near Fri⯑tham, which did great damage^†.

[35]From theſe, and other cauſes, many parts of this extenſive foreſt are now in a ſtate of extreme decay; being overſpread merely with holmes, underwood, and ſtunted trees, which in the memory of man were full of excellent oak^*.

In planting oak, it hath been a doubt, whether it is more judicious to ſow the acorn, after incloſing, and grubbing the ground— [36] or to ſow it, without either operation, in the wild parts of the foreſt, in the midſt of thorn-buſhes, and hollies, which will defend the ſapling from cattle, till it be able to ſtand alone; and will draw it in it's early ſtate to much quicker maturity, than it can arrive at without ſuch ſhelter. The latter way of ſowing acorns, in the wild parts of the foreſt, is not ſo ſure, but much larger quan⯑tities may be ſown at a much leſs expence; and if one tenth part of the acorns ſucceed, the ſaving is great on an equal quantity of timber. I cannot however help doubting the efficacy of this mode of raiſing timber; tho I have often heard ſenſible people, who have lived in the neighbourhood of the foreſt, ſpeak favourably of it: and it is certain that timber is often raiſed fortuitouſly in this manner. We ſee in the wild parts of the foreſt, trees, which have attained the growth of ten, twenty, or thirty years, as far as we can judge, without any aid: and we are at a loſs to know, how nature manages a work of this kind, and rears this ex⯑poſed part of her offspring, amidſt deer, and cattle. And yet we ſee the ſame kind pro⯑vidence in a higher part of the creation. [37] We ſee the children of the cottage, expoſed to miſchief on every ſide, and continually running riſks, which delicate mothers would tremble at: yet befriended by a gracious protector, they get forward in life, and attain maturity, like the wildings of the foreſt, in a manner, which they who ſpeculate only on human means, cannot eaſily conceive.

In planting the foreſt, ſome again have been advocates for uniting the two modes I have ſpecified. The ground is incloſed, but not grubbed, and the acorns ſown at random. The late duke of Bedford, when he was lord warden, was very intent on raiſing timber in this fortuitous manner. He merely incloſed and left it to chance to fill his incloſures. But I do not find that any of them have ſucceeded.—If the ground were incloſed, and a ſpot here and there, grubbed, in which two or three acorns were ſown; and ſome little care taken afterwards of the infant-wood, it might be of all others, per⯑haps, the moſt certain, and the leaſt expenſive, way of raiſing timber.

[38]But the woods of the foreſt have not alone been the objects of devaſtation; it's lands alſo have ſuffered. After the foreſt had loſt it's great legal ſupport, and reaſons of ſtate obliged the monarch to ſeek his amuſements nearer home, the extent of theſe royal de⯑meiſns began inſenſibly to diminiſh. New-foreſt, among others, was greatly curtailed. Large portions of it were given away in grants by the crown. Many gentlemen have houſes in it's interior parts; and their te⯑nants are in poſſeſſion of well cultivated farms. For tho the ſoil of New-foreſt is, in general, poor; yet there are ſome parts of it, which very happily admit culture. Thus the foreſt has ſuffered in many places, what it's ancient laws conſidered as the greateſt of all miſchiefs, under the name of an aſſart ^*; a word, which ſignifies grubbing up it's coverts, and copſes, and turning the harbours of deer into arable land. A ſtop however is now put to all grants from the [39] crown. The crown-lands became public property under the care of the treaſury, when the civil liſt was ſettled. The king can only grant leaſes for thirty years; and the parliament ſeldom interferes in a longer ex⯑tenſion, except on particular occaſions.

Beſides theſe defalcations ariſing from the bounty of the crown, the foreſt is continually preyed on by the incroachments of inferior people. There are multitudes of treſpaſſers, on every ſide of it, who build their little huts, and incloſe their little gardens, and patches of ground, without leave, or cere⯑mony of any kind. The under-keepers, who have conſtant orders to deſtroy all theſe in⯑cloſures, now and then aſſert the rights of the foreſt by throwing down a fence; but it requires a legal proceſs to throw down a houſe, of which poſſeſſion has been taken. The treſpaſſer therefore here, as on other waſtes, is careful to rear his cottage, and get into it as quickly as poſſible. I have known all the materials of one of theſe ha⯑bitations brought together—the houſe built —covered in—the goods removed—a fire kindled—and the family in poſſeſſion, during the courſe of a moon-light night. Some⯑times [40] indeed, where the treſpaſs is incon⯑ſiderable, the poſſeſſor has been allowed to pay a fine for his land in the court of Lynd⯑hurſt. But theſe treſpaſſes are generally in the outſkirts of the foreſt; or in the neigh⯑bourhood of ſome little hamlet. They are never ſuffered in the interior parts; where no lands are alienated from the crown, except in regular grants.

The many advantages, which the borderers on foreſts enjoy, ſuch as rearing cattle, and hogs, obtaining fuel at an eaſy rate, and procuring little patches of land for the trouble of incloſing it, would add much, one ſhould imagine, to the comfort of their lives. But in fact it is otherwiſe. Theſe advantages procure them not half the enjoyments of common day-labourers. In general, they are an indolent race; poor and wretched in the extreme. Inſtead of having the regular re⯑turns of a week's labour to ſubſiſt on, too many of them depend on the precarious ſupply of foreſt pilfer. Their oſtenſible buſineſs is commonly to cut furze, and carry it to the neighbouring brick-kilns; for which purpoſe they keep a team of two or three foreſt-horſes: while their collateral ſupport is deer-ſtealing, [41] poaching, or purloining timber. In this laſt occupation they are ſaid to have been ſo expert, that, in a night's time, they would have cut down, carried off, and lodged ſafely in the hands of ſome receiver, one of the largeſt oaks of the foreſt. But the depredations, which have been made in timber, along all the ſkirts of the foreſt, have rendered this ſpecies of theft, at preſent, but an unprofitable employment. In poaching, and deer-ſtealing they often find their beſt account; in all the arts of which many of them are well pactiſed. From their ealieſt youth they learn to ſet the trap, and the gin for hares, and pheaſants; to inſnare deer by hanging hooks, baited with apples, from the boughs of trees; and (as they became bolder proficients,) to watch the herd with fire-arms, and ſingle out a fat buck, as he paſſes the place of their con⯑cealment.

In wild rugged countries, the mountane [...] forms a very different character from the foreſter. He leads a life of labour: he pro⯑cures nothing without it. He has neither time for idleneſs, and diſhoneſt arts; nor meets with any thing to allure him into them. But the foreſter, who has the temptation of [42] plunder on every ſide, finds it eaſier to treſ⯑paſs, than to work. Hence, the one becomes often a rough, manly ingenuous peaſant; the other a ſupple, crafty, pilfering knave. Even the very practice of following a night-oc⯑cupation leads to miſchief. The nightly wanderer, unleſs his mind be engaged in ſome neceſſary buſineſs, will find many temp⯑tations to take the advantage of the incautious ſecurity of thoſe who are aſleep.—From theſe conſiderations Mr. St. John draws an argument for the ſale of foreſt-lands. "Poverty, ſays he, will be changed into affluence—the cottager will become a farmer—the wilderneſs will be converted into rich paſtures, and fertile fields; furniſhing proviſions for the country, and employment for the poor. The borders, and confines of foreſts will ceaſe to be nur⯑ſeries for county-goals; the treſpaſſer will no longer prey upon the vert; nor the vagabond, and out-law on the veniſon. Nay the very ſoil itſelf will not then be gradually loſt, and ſtolen, by purpreſturès, and aſſarts. Thus foreſts, which were formerly the haunts of robbers, and the ſcenes of violence, and [43] rapine, may be converted into the receptacles of honeſt induſtry."^*

I had once ſome occaſional intercourſe with a foreſt-borderer, who had formerly been a noted deer-ſtealer. He had often (like the deer-ſtealer in the play)

Indeed he had been at the head of his pro⯑feſſion; and during a reign of five years, aſſured me, he had killed, on an average, not fewer than an hundred bucks a year. At length he was obliged to abſcond; but compoſing his affairs, he abjured his trade, and would ſpeak of his former arts without reſerve. He has oftener than once confeſſed the ſins of his youth to me; from which an idea may be formed of the myſtery of deer-ſtealing, in it's higheſt mode of perfection. In his excurſions in the foreſt he carried with him a gun, which ſcrewed into three parts, and which he could eaſily conceal in the lining of his coat. Thus armed he would [44] drink with the under-keepers without ſuſ⯑picion; and when he knew them engaged, would ſecurely take his ſtand in ſome diſtant part, and mark his buck. When he had killed him, he would draw him aſide into the buſhes, and ſpend the remaining part of the day in a neighbouring tree, that he might be ſure no ſpies were in the way. At night he ſecreted his plunder. He had boarded off a part of his cottage, (forming a rough door into it, like the reſt of the partition, ſtruck full of falſe nail-heads,) with ſuch artifice, that the keepers, on an information, have ſearched his houſe again and again, and have gone off ſatisfied of his innocence; tho his ſecret larder perhaps at that very time con⯑tained a brace of bucks. He had always, he ſaid, a quick market for his veniſon; for the country is as ready to purchaſe it, as theſe fellows are to procure it. It is a foreſt-adage of ancient date, non eſt inquirendum unde venit veniſon.

The incroachments of treſpaſſers, and the houſes, and fences thus raiſed on the borders of the foreſt, tho, at this time, in a degree connived at, were heretofore conſidered as great nuiſances by the old foreſt-law, and [45] were very ſeverely puniſhed under the name of purpreſtures, ^* as tending ad terrorem fera⯑rum —ad nocumentum foreſtae—and, as might be added, at this time, by the neighbouring pariſhes, ad incrementum pauperum. When a ſtranger therefore rears one of theſe ſudden fabricks, the pariſh-officers make him provide a certificate from his own pariſh, or they remove him. But the miſchief commonly ariſes from a pariſhioner's raiſing his cottage, and afterwards ſelling it to a ſtranger, which may give him pariſh-rights. Theſe incroach⯑ments however are evils of ſo long ſtanding; that at this day they hardly admit a remedy. Many of theſe little tenements have been ſo long occupied, and have paſſed through ſo many hands, that the occupiers are now in ſecure poſſeſſion.

Where the manor of Beaulieu-abbey is railed from the foreſt, a large ſettlement of this kind runs in ſcattered cottages, at leaſt a mile along the rails. This neſt of in⯑croachers the late duke of Bedford, when lord-warden of the foreſt, reſolved to root [46] out. But he met with ſuch ſturdy, and determined oppoſition from the foreſters of the hamlet, who amounted to more than two hundred men, that he was obliged to deſiſt^†—whether he took improper meaſures, as he was a man of violent temper,—or whether no meaſures, which he could have taken, would have been effectual in repreſſing ſo inveterate an evil.—And yet in ſome circumſtances, theſe little tenements (incroach⯑ments as they are, and often the nurſeries of idleneſs) give pleaſure to a benevolent breaſt. When we ſee them, as we ſometimes do, the habitations of innocence, and induſtry; and the means of providing for a large family with eaſe, and comfort, we are pleaſed at the idea of ſo much utility and happineſs, ariſing from a petty treſpaſs on a waſte, which cannot in itſelf be conſidered as an injury.

I once found, in a tenement of this kind, an ancient widow, whoſe little ſtory pleaſed me.—Her ſolitary dwelling ſtood ſweetly in a dell, on the edge of the foreſt. Her huſband had himſelf reared it, and led her to it, as the [47] habitation of her life. He had made a garden in the front, planted an orchard at one end, and a few trees at the other, which in forty years had now ſhielded the cottage, and almoſt concealed it. In her early youth ſhe had been left a widow with two ſons, and a daughter, whoſe ſlender education (only what ſhe herſelf could give them) was almoſt her whole em⯑ployment: and the time of their youth, ſhe ſaid, was the pleaſanteſt time of her life. As they grew up, and the cares of the world ſubſided, a ſettled piety took poſſeſſion of her mind. Her age was oppreſſed with infirmity, ſickneſs, and various afflictions in her family. In theſe diſtreſſes, her bible was her great comfort. I viſited her frequently in her laſt illneſs, and found her very intelligent in ſcripture, and well verſed in all the goſpel-topics of conſolation. For many years ſhe every day read a portion of her bible, ſeldom any other book;

When ſhe met with paſſages, ſhe did not underſtand, at one time, or other, ſhe ſaid, ſhe often heard them explained at church.— [48] The ſtory ſeems to evince how very ſufficient plain ſcripture is, unaſſiſted with other helps, except ſuch as are publicly provided, to admi⯑niſter both the knowledge, and the comforts of religion even to the loweſt claſſes of people.

The dialect of Hampſhire has a particular tendency to the corruption of pronouns, by confounding their caſes. This corruption prevails through the country; but it ſeems to increaſe as we approach the ſea. About the neighbourhood of New-foreſt this Doric hath attained it's perfection. I have oftener than once met with the following tender elegiac in church-yards.

Having thus given a ſhort account of the preſent ſtate of New-foreſt, and it's inhabitants, I haſten to the more agreeable part of my work, the deſcription of it's ſcenery. I have already apprized the reader^*, that I propoſe [49] to conſider it's boundaries in their wideſt extent, as advancing to the bay of Southamp⯑ton on the eaſt; to the river Avon on the weſt; and to the ſea on the ſouth.—Within equal limits perhaps few parts of England afford a greater variety of beautiful landſcape. It's woody ſcenes, it's extended lawns, and vaſt ſweeps of wild country, unlimited by artificial boundaries, together with it's river-views, and diſtant coaſts; are all in a great degree magnificent. It muſt ſtill however be remembered, that it's chief characteriſtic, and what it reſts on for diſtinction, is not ſublimity, but ſylvan beauty.

But before I enter on a particular deſcription of the ſcenery of New-foreſt, in a pictureſque light, it may not be improper to give the reader a kind of table of contents of what he is to expect.

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SECT. IV.

ON looking into a map of New-foreſt, and drawing an imaginary line from Ringwood on the Avon, to Dibden on the bay of Southampton, the whole foreſt eaſily divides itſelf into four parts. That diſtrict, which lies north of this imaginary line, we may call one part. The river Avon, and Lymington-river make the boundaries of a ſecond: Lymington-river, and Beaulieu-river of a third: and the country between this laſt river, and the bay of Southampton, may be conſidered as a fourth.

When I ſpoke of foreſts in general, as conſiſting of large tracts of heathy-land, and carpet-lawns, interſperſed with woods^*, [52] I had a particular view to the ſcenery of New-foreſt, which is preciſely of this kind. It's lawns and woods are every where divided by large diſtricts of heath. Many of theſe woods have formerly been, as many of the heaths at preſent are, of vaſt extent; run⯑ning ſeveral miles without interruption. Dif⯑ferent parts too both of the open, and of the woody country, are ſo high, as to command extenſive diſtances, tho no part can in any degree aſſume the title of mountainous.

Along the banks of the Avon, from Ringwood to the ſea, the whole ſurface is flat, incloſed, and cultivated. There is little beauty in this part. Eaſtward from Chriſt-church, along the coaſt, as far as to the eſtuary of Lymington-river we have alſo a continued flat. Much heathy ground is in⯑terſperſed; but no woody ſcenery, except in ſome narrow glen, through which a ri⯑vulet happens to find it's way to the ſea. In two or three of theſe there is ſome beauty. —Here the coaſt, which is expoſed to the ocean, and formed by the violence of ſtorms, is edged by a broken cliff, from [53] which are preſented grand ſea-views, ſome⯑times embelliſhed with winding ſhores. As we leave the coaſt, and aſcend more into the mid-land parts of this diviſion, the ſcenery improves. The ground is more varied; woods and lawns are interſperſed: and many of them are among the moſt beautiful exhibitions of this kind, which the foreſt preſents.

In the next diviſion, which is contained between the rivers of Lymington, and Beaulieu, we have alſo great variety of beautiful country. The coaſt indeed is flat, and unedged with cliff; as it lies oppoſite to the iſle of Wight, which defends it from the violence of the ocean: but the views it preſents, are ſometimes intereſting. It is wooded in many parts almoſt to the water's edge; and the iſland appearing like a diſtant range of mountains, gives the channel the form of a grand lake. —As we leave the ſea, the ground riſes, and the woods take more poſſeſſion of it, eſpecially along the banks of the two rivers I have juſt mentioned, which afford on each ſide for a conſiderable ſpace, many beautiful ſcenes. There are heathy grounds in this [54] diſtrict alſo; but they occupy chiefly the middle parts between theſe two tracts of wood-land.

In that diviſion of New-foreſt, which is confined by Beaulieu-river, and the bay of Southampton, the mid-land parts are heathy as in the laſt; but the banks, and vicinity both of the river, and the bay, are woody, and full of beautiful ſcenery. This diviſion is perhaps, on the whole, the moſt intereſting of the foreſt. For beſides it's woods, there is greater variety of ground, than in any other part. Here alſo are grander water-views, than are exhibited any where elſe. The views along the banks of Beaulieu-river, it has in common with the laſt diviſion; but thoſe over the bay of Southampton, are wholly it's own.—One diſagreeable cir⯑cumſtance attends all the ſea-views, which are oppoſite to the iſle of Wight, and that is, the ouzineſs of the beach, when the ſea retires. A pebbly, or a ſandy ſhore, has as good an effect often when the ſea ebbs, as when it is full—ſometimes perhaps a better: but an ouzy one has an unpleaſant hue. However this ſhore is one of the beſt of [55] the kind; for the ouze here is generally covered with green ſea-weed, which as the tide retires, gives it the appearance of level land deſerted by the ſea, and turned into meadow. But theſe lands are meadows only in ſurface; for they have no paſtoral accompaniments.

The northern diviſion of New-foreſt contains all thoſe parts, which lie north of Ringwood and Dibden. As this diſtrict is at a diſtance from the ſea, and not interſected by any river, whch deſerves more than the name of a brook, it is adorned by no water-views, except near Dibden, where the foreſt is bounded by the extremity of the bay of Southampton. The want of water however is recompenſed by grand woody ſcenes, in which this part of the foreſt equals, if not exceeds, any other part.—In noble diſtances alſo it excels; for here the ground ſwells higher, than in the more maritime parts; and the diſtances, which theſe heights com⯑mand, conſiſt often of vaſt extenſive foreſt-ſcenes.

[56]Beſides the heaths, lawns, and woods, of which the foreſt is compoſed, there is another kind of ſurface found in many parts, which comes under none of theſe denominations, and that is the bog. Many parts of the foreſt abound in ſprings; and as theſe lands have ever been in a ſtate of nature, and of courſe undrained, the moiſture drains itſelf into the low grounds, where, as uſual in other rude countries, it becomes ſoft, and ſpongy, and generates bogs. Theſe in ſome places are very extenſive. In the road between Brokenhurſt, and Ringwood, at a place called Longſlade bottom; one of theſe bogs extends three miles, without in⯑terruption, and is the common drain of all thoſe parts of the foreſt. In landſcape indeed the bog is of little prejudice. It has in general the appearance of common verdure. But the traveller muſt be on his guard. Theſe tracts of deceitful ground are often dangerous to ſuch as leave the beaten roads; and traverſe the paths of foreſt. A horſe-track is not always the clue of ſecurity. It is perhaps only beaten by the little foreſt-horſe, which will venture into a bog in queſt of better herbage; and his [57] lightneſs ſecures him in a place, where a larger horſe, under the weight of a rider, would flounder. If the traveller therefore meet with a horſe-path, pointing into a ſwamp, even tho he ſhould obſerve it to emerge on the other ſide, he had better relinquiſh it. The only track he can prudently follow, is that of wheels.

Having thus preſented the reader with a general view of New-foreſt, I ſhall now en⯑deavour to give him a more intimate acquain⯑tance with it, and ſhall lead him into ſome of it's moſt beautiful ſcenes.—Nor was the beauty of the foreſt a matter of no concern, even at a time, when we might have ſuppoſed the pleaſures of the chaſe ingroſſed men's whole attention. "There are three ſpecial cauſes, ſays Manwood, why the foreſt-laws have ſo carefully provided for the preſervation of the vert of the foreſt. The firſt is for the ſake of cover for the deer. The ſecond for the ſake of the acorns, maſt, &c. which feed them. The third is, propter decorem, for the comelineſs and beauty of the ſame in a foreſt. For the very ſight, and beholding of the [58] goodly green, and pleaſant woods in a foreſt, is no leſs pleaſant, and delightful in the eye of a prince, than the view of the wild beaſts of chaſe; and therefore the grace of a foreſt is to be decked and trimmed up with ſtore of pleaſant green coverts^*."—One ſhould ſcarce have expected ſuch a paſſage as this in a law-book. On ſuch authority however, I hope, I may conſider the ſcenery of the foreſt as eſſential to the very exiſtence of it; and ſhall proceed with more confidence, in the deſcription of thoſe goodly green, and pleaſant woods, the ſight and beholding whereof is ſo comely and delightful.

In this detail I ſhall rarely go in queſt of views into the intricacies, and receſſes of the foreſt. Theſe ſweet retreats would often fur⯑niſh a great variety of pleaſing ſcenes; but it would be difficult to aſcertain, and point them out to the obſervation of others. I ſhall ſatisfy myſelf therefore with following the great roads, or, at leaſt, ſuch as are commonly known, where views may eaſily be aſcertained; reſerving only the liberty of ſtepping a little [59] aſide, when any thing of peculiar excellence deſerves attention.—I ſhould in this detail alſo purſue my rout through the foreſt, with a careful eye to the arbitrary diviſion I have made of it, into four parts^*; but as the roads will not always admit ſuch exactneſs, I muſt be content to follow the rout preſcribed by the ſurveyors of the high-ways; keeping within the diviſion I have preſcribed, as nearly as I can.

SECT. V.

FROM Vicar's-hill, we paſſed Boldre-bridge, and aſcending the oppoſite bank, called Rope-hill, to Battramſly, we had a beautiful view of the eſtuary of Lymington river; which when filled with the tide, forms a grand ſweep to the ſea. It is ſeen to moſt advantage from the top of the hill, a few yards out of the road on the right. The valley, through which the river flows, is broad; it's ſcreens are not lofty, but well varied, and woody. The curves of the river are marked by long projections of low land, and on one or two of them ſome little ſaltern, [62] or other building is erected, which breaks the lines. The diſtance is formed by the ſea, and the iſle of Wight. All together the view is pictureſque. It is what the painter properly calls a whole. There is a fore-ground, a middle-ground, and diſtance—all harmoniouſly united.—We have the ſame view, only varied by poſition, from many high grounds in the neighbourhood; but I know not, that it appears to ſuch advantage any where as from this hill.—At Battramſly we join the London-road.

From hence to Brokenhurſt, the foreſt exhibits little more than a wild heath, ſkirted here and there with diſtant wood.

Brokenhurſt is a pleaſant foreſt-village, lying in a bottom, adorned with lawns, groves, and rivulets, and ſurrounded on the higher grounds by vaſt woods.—From the church-yard an expanded view opens over the whole. On the left riſe the woods of Hin⯑chelſea, and adjoining to theſe, the woods of Rhinville. The centre is occupied by the high grounds of Boldre-wood. The little ſpeck juſt ſeen among them, is a ſummer-houſe, built by lord Delawar to command a foreſt-view. The houſe among the woods on the [63] right is Cuffnel's, the ſeat of Mr. Roſe; and ſtill more to the right, are the woods of Lyndhurſt.

At the entrance of Brokenhurſt, a little to the right, Mr. Morant's houſe commands a very grand, and pictureſque foreſt-view. Both the fore-ground, and the diſtance, are com⯑plete.

The former is an elevated park-ſcene, conſiſting of great variety of ground; well-planted; and deſcending gently into the plain below. Among the trees, which adorn it, are a few of the oldeſt, and moſt venerable oaks of the foreſt. I doubt not but they chronicle on their furrowed trunks ages before the conqueſt.

From this grand fore-ground is preſented an extenſive foreſt-view. It conſiſts of a wide range of flat paſturage (one of the ſpreading lawns of the foreſt^*) garniſhed with tufted clumps and woody promontories ſhooting into it; and contraſted by immenſe woods, which occupy all the riſing grounds above it, and [64] circle the horizon. The contraſt between the open, and woody parts of the diſtance, and the grandeur of each part, are in the higheſt ſtile of pictureſque beauty.

This grand view is diſplayed to moſt advan⯑tage from the front of the houſe: but it is ſeen alſo very advantageouſly through other openings among the trees of the fore-ground.

As you leave the village of Brokenhurſt, the woods receive you in a noble riſing viſta, in which form the road is cut through the foreſt. This viſta is exceedingly grand. A winding road through a wood, has undoubtedly more beauty than a viſta; and in a ſmaller ſcene we always wiſh to find it; and even reprobate the viſta, wherever it occurs. But through a vaſt foreſt the viſta is in better taſte; tho I do not in the leaſt apprehend we are under obligations, on this ſcore, to the ſurveyor of the high-ways. He took the direct road; which happened, on this occaſion, to be the line of beauty. On other occaſions, under the ſame principle, he has miſſed it: but here it ſuits the greatneſs of the ſcene; and ſhews the depth of the foreſt, and the [65] vaſtneſs of the woods, to more advantage. Regular forms are certainly unpictureſque; but from their ſimplicity, they are often allied to greatneſs. So eſſential is ſimplicity to greatneſs, that we often ſee inſtances, in which the ſtillneſs of ſymmetry hath added to gran⯑deur, if not produced it; while on the other hand, we as often ſee a ſublime effect injured by the meretricious charms of pictureſque forms, and arrangements.

We are not however to conceive of the foreſt-viſta, as we do of the tame viſtas formed by the hand of art. As it is cut through a tract of woody country, there is firſt, of courſe, no formality in the diſpoſition of the trees. In the artificial viſta, the trees are all of one age, and planted in regular growth. The whole plan is the offspring of formality; and the more formal it is, the nearer it ap⯑proaches that idea of perfection, at which it aims. But in the foreſt-viſta the trees are caſually large, or ſmall; growing in clumps, or ſtanding ſingle; crouding upon the fore⯑ground, or receding from it; as the wild hand of nature hath ſcattered them. And it is curious to ſee with what richneſs of inven⯑tion, if I may ſo ſpeak, nature mixes, and [66] intermixes her trees; and ſhapes them into ſuch a wonderful variety of groups, and beautiful forms. Art may admire, and at⯑tempt to plant, and form combinations, and clumps like hers: but whoever examines the wild combinations of a foreſt (which is a delightful ſtudy to a pictureſque eye) and compares them with the attempts of art, has little taſte, if he do not acknowledge with aſtoniſhment, the ſuperiority of nature's work⯑manſhip.

The artificial viſta again is rarely compoſed of more than one ſpecies. It is the fir, the lime, or the elm. But in the foreſt-viſta you have not only different kinds of trees in⯑termixed; but buſhes alſo, and underwood, and wild plants of all kinds, which are continually producing new varieties in every part.

Open groves too make another variety in the foreſt-viſta. In the woods between Bro⯑kenhurſt, and Lyndhurſt, an open grove is continued on the right, with little interrup⯑tion, between the ſeventh and eighth ſtones. The woods on the left are chiefly cloſe.

Beſides, theſe grand viſtas are not only varied with ſuch ſmaller openings, and receſſes, [67] as are formed by the irregular growth of trees; they are broken alſo by lawns, and tracts of paſturage, which often ſhoot athwart them. One of this kind, and a very beautiful one, occurs at the ſixth ſtone, and another, tho of inferior ſize and beauty, at the ſeventh.

Added to this intermixture of lawn and wood, the riſing and falling of the ground in various parts of this viſta produce another ſpecies of variety. The elevation is no where conſiderable; but it is ſufficient to occaſion breaks in the convergency of the great per⯑ſpective lines. It creates alſo new beauties in the ſcenery; particularly in ſome parts on the left, where you look down from the road, among trees retiring, and ſinking from the eye, till the ſtems of the moſt diſtant are loſt in the deep ſhadows of the deſcending receſſes.

All theſe circumſtances, tho the laſt is more general, give the foreſt-viſta a very different air from the artificial one, diver⯑ſifying the parts, of which it is compoſed, ſo much, that the eye is never fatigued with ſurveying them; while the whole together preſents one vaſt, ſublime object. Like a grand gallery of exquiſite pictures, it fills the eye with all it's greatneſs; while the objects, [68] on each ſide, continually changing, afford at every ſtep a new entertainment.

A late traveller through Ruſſia does not ſee theſe beauties in a foreſt-viſta. "The country, ſays he, through which we paſſed, was ill-calculated to alleviate our ſufferings by transferring our attention from ourſelves to the objects around us. The road ran, as ſtrait as an arrow, through a perpetual foreſt. Through the dreary extent of a hundred and ten miles, the gloomy uniformity was only broken by a few ſolitary villages^*."—No doubt the continuation of a hundred and ten miles in any one mode of ſcenery may be rather fatiguing: but I ſhould have thought, that few modes of ſcenery were better calculated to transfer the attention from a diſagreeable ſubject. I know not indeed what the nature of a viſta through a Ruſſian foreſt may be: but if it partake of the circumſtances that I have juſt been deſcribing, in this viſta through New-foreſt, it muſt conſiſt of varieties, which could not eaſily be exhauſted.

[69]The account I have here given of the foreſt-viſta is the ſober reſult of frequent examination. A tranſcript of the firſt feelings would have been rhapſody; which no deſcription ſhould indulge. The deſcriber imagines that his own feelings of a natural ſcene can be conveyed by warm expreſſions. Whereas nothing but the ſcene itſelf can convey his feelings. Looſe ideas (not truth, but veriſimilitude) is all that verbal deſcription pretends to convey; and this is not to be done by high colouring; but to be aimed at by plain, appropriate, intelli⯑gible terms.

I ſhould add, before I leave this pleaſing viſta, that to ſee it in perfection, a ſtrong ſun-ſhine is neceſſary. Even a meridian ſun, which has a better effect on the woods of the foreſt, than on any other ſpecies of landſcape^*, is not perhaps too ſtrong for ſuch a ſcene as this. It will rarely happen, but that one ſide, or the other of the viſta will be in ſhadow; and this circumſtance alone will produce contraſts, which will be highly agreeable.—I may add alſo, that this viſta [70] appears to much greater advantage, as we riſe through it to Lyndhurſt, than as we deſcend to Brokenhurſt.

As we paſſed this viſta, we ſaw, in many parts through the trees, on the left, the pales of New-park, juſt removed from the road. This park, which is the only one in the whole diſtrict of New-foreſt, is about four miles in circumference. It was firſt uſed to ſecure ſtray cattle forfeited to the lord-warden: but in the year 1670, it was ſtrongly fenced by Charles II. for the reception of a particular breed of red-deer, which he procured from France^*. It is now converted into a farm; having been granted in the laſt reign to the duke of Bedford, for the term of thirty years.

In all the grand ſcenery of the foreſt, which we have juſt examined, we ſee little appearance [71] of fine timber. Moſt of the beſt trees have been felled. The landſcape however is not much injured. On a fore-ground indeed, when we have a ſingle tree, we wiſh it to be of the nobleſt kind; and it muſt be confeſſed that in our paſſage through this viſta, which in every part as we paſs along becomes a fore-ground, there is a great de⯑ficiency of noble trees. Many of the oaks are ſcathed, and ragged; and tho in com⯑poſition trees of this kind have frequently their effect^*; yet in a rich foreſt-ſcene, if they preſent themſelves too often, offend. For all the other purpoſes of ſcenery, in⯑ferior trees, if they be full grown, anſwer tolerably well; and when intermixed with ſtunted trees, and bruſh-wood, as they are in all the wild parts of the foreſt, they are more beautiful, than if the whole ſcene was compoſed of trees of the ſtatelieſt order. Interſtices are better filled; and a more uni⯑form whole is produced.—Conſidered in this light a foreſt is a picture of the world. We find trees of all ages, kinds, and degrees [72] —the old, and the young—the rich, and the poor—the ſtately, and the depreſſed— the healthy, and the infirm. The order of nature is thus preſerved in the world; and the beauty of nature is thus preſerved in the foreſt.

A gentleman once conſulted his friend, who pretended to a degree of taſte, about the propriety of cutting down ſome trees, which ſhaded a winding avenue to his back-front, where his offices were placed. His friend adviſed him by all means to leave them untouched. They are beautiful, ſaid he, in themſelves; and, you ſee, they ſkreen that part of your houſe, which you would wiſh to have ſkreened. The gentleman ſeemed convinced, and the next time he met his friend, I have taken your advice, ſaid he, and have left the trees ſtanding. And ſo indeed he had; but all the ſtunted wood, and under-growth, which he conſidered as offenſive rubbiſh, he had rooted up; over-looking their uſe in compoſition. The con⯑ſequence was, he laid all the offenſive part of his houſe open; let in the light, and intirely deſtroyed the ſcene.

[73]In the firſt book I mentioned the different effects of ſoil, and climate on trees^*. In New-foreſt theſe obſervations are well illuſ⯑trated. The oaks there ſeem to have a cha⯑racter peculiar to themſelves. They are the moſt pictureſque trees of the kind, we meet with. They ſeldom riſe into lofty ſtems, as oaks uſually do in richer ſoils: but their branches, which are more adapted to what the ſhip-builders call knees and elbows ^†, are commonly twiſted into the moſt pictureſque forms. In general I believe, the poorer the ſoil, the more pictureſque the tree—that is, it forms a more beautiful ramification.

Beſides, the New-foreſt oak is not ſo much loaded with foliage, as the trees of richer ſoils. An over-loaded foliage deſtroys all form. On the other hand, when the leaf is too thinly ſcattered, the tree looks blighted, ſhrivelled, and meagre. The point of pic⯑tureſque perfection is when the tree has foliage enough to form a maſs; and yet not ſo [74] much as to hide the branches. One of the great ornaments of a tree, is it's ramification, which ought to appear, here and there, un⯑der the foliage, even when it is in full leaf. It is the want of this ſpecies of ramifi⯑cation, which gives a heavineſs to the beech^*.

The great avenue from Brokenhurſt leads through the ſpace of five or ſix miles. After we have mounted the ſummit of the hill, the cloſe views in the deſcent on the other ſide, are very beautiful, conſiſting of little woody receſſes, open groves, or open glades, varied as they were before, in different forms.

As we approach Lyndhurſt, we paſs Foxlees on the left. The ſituation here is juſt the reverſe of Mr. Morant's. The one ſtands high, and commands the foreſt at a diſtance; the other, in a bottom, is ſurrounded by [75] it. Both modes of ſituation have their beauty; but an extenſive foreſt-view before the houſe, with a few noble trees on the fore-ground, is not only, at all times, a better picture; but it is alſo more agreeably varied by the occaſional incidents of light and weather, of which the other is not capable.

In a part of the ſkreen, which divides theſe grounds from the road, we have an opportunity of remarking the diſagreeable effect of trees planted alternately. The eye is diſguſted with looking firſt on a fir, ſecondly on an elm; thirdly on a fir; fourthly on an elm again, and ſo on. And yet this tire⯑ſome monotony, under the name of variety, is one of the commoneſt modes of planting. In planting, we ſhould certainly endeavour at leaſt to plant like nature, which gives us the beſt criterion of beauty. This alter⯑nacy is a direct, and ſtudied oppoſition to all her pleaſing forms of compoſition. It not only ſhews the hand of art; but of the moſt taſtleſs art. How much more beautiful would ſuch a ſkreen appear, made up of different kinds of trees in maſſes of each; or in an indiſcriminate mixture of all together?

[76]The town of Lyndhurſt makes a pictureſque appearance, as we approach it; but inſtead of entering it, we left it on the right; and turned abruptly into the road to Minſted. The ground here is much varied. It is hilly, broken, and wooded in clumps; with cot⯑tages here and there, interſperſed. Nothing in the paſtoral ſtile can be more pictureſque. —We have alſo extenſive views through the woods; particularly a grand retroſpect towards Southampton. But as we approach Minſted, the woods fail: all becomes cul⯑tivation; and the idea of a foreſt is in a great degree loſt. Soon after we enter the weſtern road to Ringwood, over a ſpacious heath.

At the eighty-ſecond ſtone, about a quarter of a mile down the hill on the right from the road, we are ſhewn the ſcene of the celebrated event of Rufus's death. When I mentioned the tree ^*, on which the arrow Tyrrel glanced, I offered ſome reaſons for [77] ſuppoſing it might be admitted, as evidence in identifying the place. The ſcene alſo in ſome degree bears the ſame teſtimony. For hiſtory informs us, the diverſion of the day was now over, the ſun was declining, and William, diſmounting his horſe, was enjoying a moment's reſt after the fatigue of the chace^*, when a ſtag darted ſuddenly acroſs the heath. The king turning towards it, and lifting his hand to ſkreen his eyes from the ſun^†, at that moment received the arrow. The ſcene is a ſweet ſequeſtred bottom, open to the weſt, where the corner of a heath ſinks gently into it; but ſheltered on the eaſt by a beechen grove, and on every other ſide by clumps of trees, forming an irregular ſkreen around it; among which are ſeveral winding avenues of greenſward.—It is the very place, where a perſon heated with toil, might be allured to ſtop for a moment's repoſe. But the chief circumſtance of evidence is, that as the place is open only to the weſt, where the heath [78] was never probably covered with wood, the king could there only have been incommoded by an evening-ſun.

Having taken a view of this ſcene, which in itſelf, unconnected with the hiſtory it records, is a pleaſing one, we aſcended again into the great road, and purſued the heath, over which it led.—It is a wild expanſe, unadorned with wood; but bounded on every ſide, by very extenſive diſtances. In front you diſcover the high grounds of the iſle of Purbeck. On the left, you have a large range over the iſle of Wight. In the retro⯑ſpect you over-look the bay, and town of Southampton; and on the right is ſpread before you a vaſt ſtretch of diſtant country, bounded by the hills of Wiltſhire, and Dor⯑ſetſhire. This laſt is the only part of theſe diſtances, which hath any pictureſque value. About the eighty-ſixth ſtone, the parts of it are beſt diſpoſed; but it is the richeſt about the eighty-ninth, where it is ſeen over a woody bottom, which makes a middle ground.

[79]In this part of the foreſt the paling of one of the new incloſures to ſecure timber, which ran a conſiderable way in a ſtrait line, deformed our views. Sometimes indeed the paling of parks, and foreſts is pictureſque, where it runs winding round a hill, and appears again perhaps in ſome oppoſite direction; but in general, it is an unpleaſing object; and what in adorned ſcenery we ſhould wiſh to hide. Indeed all diviſions of property are great nuiſances to the pictureſque eye, which loves to range at large; and it adds peculiar beauty to the foreſt, that in general the grand lines of nature, and various ſwelling of the ground, are unbroken by theſe intruſions, and have their full play, and undulation. In remote diſtances, hedge-rows, pales, and other objects, offen⯑ſive on the ſpot, become one rich blended ſurface.—And yet, even on the ſpot, winding lanes, with full-grown hedges on each ſide, are often beautiful. It is clipping, and making, as they phraſe it, which ruin the pictureſque idea. Utility is always counteracting beauty. [80] No ſooner is the hedge in perfection, than it is deſtroyed^*.

The approach to Ringwood, as we leave the wild heath, which gave occaſion to this digreſſion, is woody and pleaſant.—Ring⯑wood was formerly the boundary of the foreſt in this part; and in times of ſtill more remote antiquity, was a place of great note. I know not whether in Saxon times, it did not claim the honours of regal reſidence. At preſent it is a cheerful village, ſeated in a flat country, on the banks of the Avon, which ſpreads, near the town, into a large piece of water, full of little iſlands, and frequented by ſwans.

[81]Somewhere near this part of the river the duke of Monmouth is ſaid to have been taken, on the eighth of july 1685, after his defeat at Sedgmore, near Bridgwater. Thus far he had travelled in diſguiſe, and generally by night; feeding on pulſe, and green corn, which he found growing in the fields. But I think the account more probable, that he was taken near Woodlands in Dorſetſhire^*. It was thought however, that he intended to have ſecured himſelf in the woods of New-foreſt, with which he was well acquainted from having frequently hunted in them. I have heard a tradition, that his body after his execution, was ſent down into the foreſt, and buried privately in Boldre-church-yard; but I cannot find any ground for the ſurmiſe. The regiſter of the year is yet extant, in which no notice is taken of any ſuch burial; unleſs he were buried, as might poſſibly have been the caſe, under a fictitious name.

[82]From Ringwood to Chriſt-church the country is flat, and the lanes cloſe, and woody. Scarce any diſtant view is admitted, except here and there, among the meadows on the right. On the left, Mr. Compton's park at Biſtern affords ſome variety, running a con⯑ſiderable way along the road, and grazed with herds of large ſpeckled cattle, without horns.

As we leave the village of Sopley, the meadows on the right, form a better landſcape, than we had yet had. The parts are large, tho flat; and the whole is bounded with wood; in which the tower of Chriſt-church appears as a principal object. The church, to which it belongs, was formerly monaſtic. It is a grand pile, partly Saxon, and partly Gothic. Some of it's Gothic members are beautiful; particularly a ſmall chapel, near the altar, dedicated to the virgin Mary; which for proportion and beauty of workmanſhip, is a very elegant piece of Gothic architecture. The church is now parochial.

The town of Chriſt-church, which takes it's name from the church, is a place of great antiquity. Here we find the ruins of a caſtle, [83] which was intended formerly to ſecure the mouth of the Avon. This river is joined by the Stour below the town; where uniting in a full ſtream, they wind together through a bleak coaſt, forming it firſt into large flat meadows, and then opening into a bay before they enter the ſea. The view, which is not very intereſting, is bounded by a ridge of high lands, called Chriſt-church head, on the right; and on the left, by the weſtern end of the iſle of Wight, which in this part, makes a remarkable appearance. It is ſeen nearly in front; and it's broken cliffs, when the noon-tide ſun in winter ſhines ſtrongly upon it, appear like the ends of two frac⯑tured walls, with a dark cavity between them.

From Chriſt-church to Lymington the country continues flat, cultivated, and incloſed. Scarce an object preſents itſelf. A little to the right of the road, you ſee a large houſe built by lord Bute for the benefit of the ſea-air. It ſtands on a cliff directly oppoſite to Cher⯑burgh, from which it is about ſixty miles diſtant; and it overlooks the ſea, juſt in that point, where Chriſt-church head, and the [84] weſtern promontory of the iſle of Wight, form an immenſe colonade before it.

The road to the houſe runs directly to the front, narrow, and contracted at the entrance, but opening by degrees. The houſe firſt appears; then the extent of the lawn; which is ample, with a pavilion at each extremity. Theſe from the ſea appear to connect it with the houſe; and give it conſequence. Beyond the lawn, the grand colonade juſt mentioned, extends; and beyond all, the expanſe of the ocean. There is ſomething very amuſing in thus contemplating an idea, which is conti⯑nually dilating, and opening itſelf from a narrow tunnel into infinite ſpace. If it were the effect of chance, or neceſſity, we have only to admire the happineſs of it.

The cliff, on which the houſe ſtands, is about fifty, or ſixty yards high. It is not perpendicular, but the ground being of a ſpongy, foundering nature, is continually falling in huge maſſes; and affords an eaſy foundation for winding ſtairs among the heaps of ruin, which occupy the ſlope. At the bottom you are received by a clean, ſandy beach, where, at the ebb of the tide, you may continue your walk many miles.

[85]The houſe is a ſumptuous pile; and contains much curioſity: but as I am in queſt only of ſcenery, my ſubject forbids me to enter houſes. Lord Bute has made an attempt to adorn the cliff around him with a plantation. But if it ſhould not thrive, I think the loſs not great. Trees, in ſo expoſed a ſituation, may perhaps juſt get hold of the ground: but I ſhould think it impoſſible for them to produce either ſhelter, or ornament. Indeed in views of this kind, I have my doubts, whether the rural idea ſhould not purpoſely be excluded, as inter⯑fering with the native grandeur of the ſcene. Flowers, and flowering ſhrubs at leaſt ſeem to be alien beauties.

As we leave lord Bute's, the country ſtill continues flat, cultivated, and incloſed. Scarce a ſingle opening preſents itſelf. We obſerved however one ſpecies of landſcape, which in ſo flat a ſurface, is ſingular—thoſe hollows, or dells mentioned in the general view of the foreſt^*, running acroſs it to the ſea. They have not indeed the conſequence of mountain-dells; yet ſome of them afford pleaſing ſcenery. The [86] moſt remarable are thoſe of Chuton, Aſhley, and Effort. In each of theſe there is a little rivulet, which the traveller, ignorant of the country, will ſometimes be ſurprized to ſee ſwoln to an extraordinary ſize, without any ap⯑parent cauſe. The caſe is, they communicate with the ſea, at a very little diſtance; but being totally ſcreened from it, and ſheltered by wood on every ſide, they have the appear⯑ance of inland brooks, tho in fact they are under the influence of a tide.

The cliff, on which lord Bute's houſe ſtands, runs two, or three miles along the coaſt towards Lymington; and is known by the name of Hordwell cliff. The ſummit of it is a fine carpet down, and is much fre⯑quented in the ſummer-ſeaſon, by company from Lymington, for the ſake of ſea-air, and ſea-views. The ſides of this cliff, as was obſerved, frequently fall in, and after one of theſe founders, as they are called, the maſſes of ruin form a bold, rough bank, againſt the ſea, which ſecures the coaſt from another founder, till that body of earth is waſhed away, and the land-ſprings have looſened the earth above, when the cliff again falls in. Within theſe [87] laſt twenty years the ſea has gained near a quarter of a mile, in ſome places on this coaſt, and the calculators of the country ſay, that lord Bute's houſe cannot poſſibly ſtand above thirty years. He has taken however great pains to ſecure it, by diverting, at a great expence, the land-ſprings: ſo that he has little to fear but the action of the ſea, which, tho a rough enemy, is a much leſs dangerous one; and againſt this he has endeavoured to guard by facing the precipice in different parts with ſtone.

In this cliff between Chriſt-church and Lymington, is found a great variety of foſſil ſhells. About a hundred and twenty different ſorts were collected by Mr. Guſtavus Brander, of Chriſt-church, and preſented to the Britiſh muſeum. Mr. Brander publiſhed alſo in 1766, deſcriptions, and very neat engravings of them, under the title of Foſſilia Hanto⯑nienſia. Theſe ſhells are found about fourteen or fifteen feet below the ſurface. The ſtratum above them is ſand and gravel. The ſoil, in which they are found, is a bluiſh clay; and runs down from the gravelly ſtratum, to a level with the ſea; and probably much deeper. In every part of this cliff theſe [88] ſhells are found; but chiefly about the vil⯑lage of Hordwell. It is difficult to get them: the collector muſt clamber up the ſides of the precipice; and then extricate them from the clay, which is very ſtiff, by a tool. Their texture too is ſo brittle, that in cleanſing them he runs a great riſque of breaking them.—What is remarkable, few of theſe ſhells belong to this coaſt, or indeed to any European coaſt; and many of them as far as is known, are found no where elſe. It is remarkable alſo, that this ſtratum of ſhells runs in a northerly direction quite through New-foreſt. Wherever the earth is opened to any depth, in digging marle, or on other occaſions, ſhells are found; tho I never ſaw them of any ſize; except upon the coaſt.

A little below Hordwell, the cliff fails, and the coaſt becoming flat between this place and Lymington, is commodiouſly formed into ſalterns; where great quantities of ex⯑cellent ſalt have been made; tho the trade has of late fallen off. The ſquare, bounded receptacles to receive the brine, are a glaring injury to the beauty of the ſhore.

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[89]About two or three miles farther along the coaſt, ſtands Hurſt-caſtle, built at the point of an extraordinary natural cauſeway, which runs two miles into the ſea; forming a narrow channel, between the caſtle, and the iſle of Wight. The cauſeway itſelf alſo is ſo narrow, that it ſcarce, at high water, exceeds two hundred yards in breadth. In high tides it is much narrower. The whole is covered with looſe pebbles. The ſide towards the iſland is a bold ſhore; beaten into ledges, or terraces of pebbles, by the violence of the waves. The other ſide, which is ſheltered, is undulating, marſhy, and un⯑determined; forming the water, when the tide flows, into a ſmooth land-locked bay.

From this little peninſula you are enter⯑tained with views on each hand. The iſland, and the Needle-rocks are objects, dreary, vaſt, and grand; and not wholly unpictureſque. But to make them objects of the pencil, they muſt be well inlightened, and the fore⯑ground adorned with a little naval furniture —an anchor, a net hanging to dry, a drifted [90] boat, or ſome other object, with which ſea-coaſts abound. When I firſt ſaw this ſcene, it was in a ſultry ſummer-noon, and all the cliffs were overſpread with that dingy in⯑diſtinct hue, which ſometimes accompanies a hot meridian ſun. The ſea, which was calm, was lighter than the land, tho darker than the ſky.—But in the evening, the white cliff at the end of the iſland, together with the Needles, were tinged with the ſet⯑ting ſun, and became very ſplendid; and the ſea glowing with equal radiance, the whole view, and every part of it, was rich and harmonious.

On the other ſide of the peninſula, the Hampſhire coaſt, extending far and wide, forms an immenſe bay, which appears flat, woody, and interſperſed with a variety of diſtant objects. The parts are here, and there, pictureſque; but the whole, tho amuſing, is too vaſt for the pencil.

Hurſt-caſtle lying level with the beech, fully commands the channel, which ſeparates the coaſt of Hampſhire from the iſle of Wight. It conſiſts of a round tower forti⯑fied by ſemi-circular baſtions; and was among the ſtrongeſt of thoſe caſtles, which were [91] built by Henry VIII. But ſince Portſ⯑mouth hath been a place of conſequence, and always guarded by a fleet, this caſtle, as well as others of the ſame intention, are now neglected.—In this caſtle the apart⯑ments are ſtill ſhewn, where Charles I was confined, when he was carried from the iſle of Wight; and very miſerable they are. —On the batteries we ſaw an inſtance of Hogarth's humour, when he was painter to the ordinance. The carriages have all crowns painted on them, with the king's initials. Below one of them, painted exactly in the vulgar ſtile of the reſt, Hogarth has formally put the initials of his name.—The form of this caſtle at a little diſtance, ſet off by the rocks of the iſland as a back ground, is unpictureſque.

The Needles, which are of the ſame tex⯑ture of rock with the neighbouring cliffs of the iſland, ſeem to have been waſhed from them by the ſea. A gradual change has been obſerved, even in the memory of man. We may eaſily imagine with what violence a ſtorm at ſea pours in among theſe piles of formidable rocks, when the ſuction and [92] eddies of tides and currents make them dan⯑gerous almoſt in the ſereneſt weather.

Beſides the curious ſituation of Hurſt-caſtle, there is another peculiarity on this coaſt, which deſerves notice. It is an iſland called the Shingles, which ſometimes riſes fifteen or twenty feet above the water; and at other times totally diſappears. It ſhifts it's ſituation alſo, rearing itſelf, at one time, nearer the iſle of Wight, and at another, nearer the coaſt of Hampſhire. The myſtery of it is this. In that part of the channel lies a vaſt bank of pebbles, ſo near the ſurface, that it is beaten up into an iſland, by the raging of the ſea, ſometimes on one ſide, and ſometimes on the other, as the tides and currents drive. From the ſame cauſes too, all the prominent parts of it are as eaſily diſperſed, and the iſland vaniſhes. When we ſaw it, it conſiſted of ſeveral acres: but it was then larger, than had been remem⯑bered for many years. The ſea however had found a paſſage through the middle of it; and it was leſſening daily.

[93]But as the country from Chriſt-church is flat, and the ſea generally excluded from the fight, all theſe views of the iſle of Wight, the Needles, and Hurſt-caſtle muſt be ob⯑tained by leaving the road, and getting a little nearer the coaſt. Other intereſting views may be ſought in the ſame way, both on the right, and left of the road. At Milford, and in the neighbourhood of it, are ſeveral good views of theſe great objects. At Rook-cliff, a little nearer the ſea, the views are again varied; the iſland, and coaſt forming the appearance of an ample bay. On the other ſide of the road, about Pennington-common, from Mr. Dixon's, and other places, the diſtant views make a new ap⯑pearance, juſt ſkirting the horizon, over a flat country, with a long ſweep of the iſland, and intervening channel. But the moſt beau⯑tiful view, on this ſide, is from Mr. Etty's drawing-room at Prieſtlands. The near grounds ſink in the middle into a ſort of wide valley, which is occupied in the diſtance by the iſland, and the channel: and as they retire from the eye on the left, and wind rather towards it on the right, the whole has the appearance of a grand lake; bounded [94] at this end, but running far into diſtance at the other. As the houſe ſtands in the centre of this view, it appears as if the houſe, and view had been adapted to each other; which is one of the happieſt circum⯑ſtances, that can attend a ſituation. A fine view is pleaſing; but a fine view adapted to the ſituation of a houſe, is more ſo.— They who are unacquainted with the country, ſhould be apprized, that in all theſe views, and wherever the iſland is ſeen from the Hamp⯑ſhire coaſt, it's inſularity is no where diſ⯑coverable. An extenſive curtain of it only appears.

A little farther to the eaſt ſtands Lyming⯑ton, juſt at the point, where the flat country we had been travelling from Chriſt-church, deſcends to the river, which takes it's name from the town. The brow, and gentle deſcent of this falling ground the town oc⯑cupies; forming one handſome ſtreet, which overlooks the high grounds on the oppoſite ſide of the river. It is a neat, well-built town, and pleaſantly ſeated. The houſes, eſpecially on the ſide of the ſtreet next the [95] coaſt, have views from the windows, and gardens, of the iſle of Wight, and the ſea.

Acroſs the eſtuary, formed at the mouth of Lymington-river, a dam with flood-gates is thrown. The intention was, to exclude the ſalt-water from the meadows above; which, it was hoped, might have become good paſturage: but the purpoſe is not anſwered. A great beauty however ariſes from the influx of the tide, which forms a handſome piece of water above the dam, with many reaches, and winding ſhores. We have already ob⯑ſerved the beauty of this eſtuary; when ſeen from the higher grounds, as it enters the ſea^*. The ſcenes are equally intereſting, which it affords, when the eye purſues it up the ſtream, into it's receſſes in the foreſt. One of the beſt of them opens from the ſtable-yard of the angel-inn in Lymington, and the parts adjacent.

The channel between the iſle of Wight, and the ſhores of Hampſhire, is ſufficiently deep, at all times, for ſhips of force, and burden, which [96] often paſs through the Needles, as it is phraſed: but if the weather be at all rough; it is thought an unſafe paſſage; and in general theſe narrow ſeas are frequented by ſmaller veſſels. The port of Lymington particularly, which is entered by a long, narrow, ſhallow river, is chiefly frequented by light ſkiffs, rigged in the cutter-form, with a jib and boom. Theſe are, of all others, the moſt beautiful veſſels, which frequent a coaſt. To make a large ſhip a beautiful object, ſome peculiar incident is ne⯑ceſſary. She muſt be fore-ſhortened; for a ſhip in profile is formal. Her ſails alſo muſt in part be furled: for the ſquare ſail without any contraſt is diſguſting. A degree of diſtance alſo is requiſite, both to leſſen the object; and to ſoften the features of it.—But the light ſkiff, with a ſingle maſt, a jib, and boom, is beautiful almoſt in any poſition. As ſhe is often undecked, the lines of her ſides are generally well contraſted; and the various turns, and ſwellings of her ſails almoſt always preſent ſome elegant form.

Of theſe veſſels great numbers frequent the channel, between the iſle of Wight, and the coaſt of Hampſhire. And what adds to the animation of the ſcene, the river forms two [97] or three bold, and beautiful curves; ſo that you ſee each little coaſting-veſſel, as ſhe tacks about, in entering the harbour, or leaving it, in every poſition in which ſhe can poſſibly preſent herſelf. A ſmall harbour therefore is much more productive of pictureſque objects, than one of larger ſize, frequented either by ſhips of war, or of burthen. A ſcene, like this, gave occaſion to thoſe very beautiful lines in Shakeſpear.

As we leave the dam, and purſue our courſe along the ſhores of the river, we are entertained, if it be full, with ſome good lake-ſcenes.

On the weſtern ſide, juſt oppoſite to Vicar's-hill, are the ruins of a Roman-camp, [98] which the country people know by the name of Buckland-ring, tho in fact it is rectangular. It gives no value to the ſcene; but if your curioſity lead you to it, you will find it a very complete work of the kind. There are many larger in England; but few more perfect. It meaſures in length about two hundred paces; in breadth not quite ſo much; and hath been defended by two ramparts, and two ditches. The whole of theſe works is intire, except the front to⯑wards the river, which is demoliſhed: but in the demolition you may trace the double ditches. The ramparts ſeem to have been about twenty feet high. In the front, the view is very extenſive over the channel, and all the environs of the river. On the oppoſite ſide the eye is carried far and wide, into the foreſt.

Below the camp, runs a creek from the river, where it is ſuppoſed the Romans uſed to land; and works have been thrown up there alſo with a view, no doubt, to ſecure their landing. Theſe works reſemble thoſe of the camp itſelf; only the area is leſs, and the rampart ſingle.

[99]There has been alſo, on the other ſide of the river, exactly oppoſite to Lymington, another ſmall fort. Nothing remains now, except the artificial mount, on which it had been erected: but it is generally ſuppoſed to have been a ſpeculatory ſtation to the grand camp of Buckland, as it commands a wide view of the channel.

SECT. VI.

HAVING thus taken a large circuit, of near fifty miles, round the weſtern parts of the foreſt; I ſhall now conduct my reader through the ſame country again, in⯑teriore gyro. The internal parts of this ex⯑tenſive circle are ſuppoſed to contain ſome of the moſt beautiful ſcenery of it's kind in the foreſt. But as we had here no turn-pike-road to guide us, and a great variety of paths to miſlead us, we were obliged to put ourſelves on horſe-back under the conduct of one of the under-keepers.

[102]Inſtead of holding the great road, as before from Battramſley to Brokenhurſt, we turned ſhort, to the left, into the open part of the foreſt, towards a noted land-mark, called Marl-pit-oak; well known to the deer-ſtealer; who on this, or ſome neighbouring tree, often takes his ſtand, in the duſk of a ſummer-evening, to watch the herd, as it leaves the woods to graze theſe open grounds.

This wild heath receives ſome beauty from it's ſwelling in various parts. The ſwells are bold, but at the ſame time eaſy: the ground, ſeldom broken, generally falls gently into little valleys.—Theſe beauties however are obvious only to the pictureſque eye, which by a little imaginary finiſhing can form theſe rough ground-plots into pictures.—As we attained the higher part of the heath, we had better landſcape. We had been mounting gradually from the great road through two or three miles, when the country giving way on the right, a grand diſplay of woody-ſcenery was opened towards Brokenhurſt, and Lynd⯑hurſt. On the left, the heath is but meagerly ſkirted with wood. To make amends how⯑ever, [103] the cliffs of the iſle of Wight range beyond it in the diſtance.

Scattered about theſe wild grounds we meet with many tumuli. Between Shirley-holms, and Setley-wood, are four or five. Two of them are raiſed in contiguous circles, which is a circumſtance rather uncommon. It ſeems to indicate, that the perſons, to whoſe memory they were conſtructed, had been nearly connected. On pacing the cir⯑cumference of each, we find they have be⯑longed to perſons of unequal dignity, in the proportion of a hundred and eight, to eighty three. But a little to the eaſt of Shirly-holms, near Peatmer-pond, ariſes a larger tumulus than either of theſe, called Shirley-barrow. It's circumference is one hundred and forty paces.—There are many other tumuli, on the great heaths of the foreſt; which I mention here, as I ſhall take no farther notice of them.

As we deſcended the gentle heights, on which we were now raiſed, a beautiful valley, [104] about a quarter of a mile in breadth, opened before us, arrayed in vivid green, and winding two or three miles round a wood. On the other ſide the grounds, wild, and unadorned, fall with an eaſy ſweep into it. Beyond theſe a grand woody ſcene ſpreads, far, and wide, into diſtance; and as it approaches the eye, unites gently with the other parts of the landſcape. The valley was no other than that vaſt bog, already mentioned, known by the name of Longſlade-bottom ^*. It's de⯑ceitful ſurface however does no injury to it's pictureſque form: only indeed it deprives it of the appendages of grazing cattle. The nimble deer trip over it in ſummer without inconvenience; but no animals of heavier bulk dare truſt themſelves upon it.—The name of the wood beyond this verdant valley, is Hinchelſea.

As we leave Longſlade-bottom on the right, the grounds, which riſe on the left, are occupied by Sethorn-wood, a ſcene of con⯑ſiderable extent. Sethorn-wood was once the [105] nobleſt of all foreſt-ſcenes. The ground it ſtood on is beautifully varied; and the gran⯑deur, and number of it's oaks were the admiration of all, who ſaw them. But it's glories are now over. During the unremitted courſe of thirty years it continued to add ſtrength to the fleets of Britain; itſelf ſuf⯑ficient to raiſe a navy. In this arduous ſervice, it's vigour was at length exhauſted; and it contains little more, at preſent, than ſhrubs, and underwood, and blaſted trees. In the midſt of this wood riſes a hill called Oak-brow, from the ſtately oaks, which once adorned it's ſummit, and ſhaggy ſides. But it's honours fell a ſacrifice, not, like thoſe of Sethorn, to it's country's good, but to the convenience of a potent neighbour. Through the influence of lord Delawar, whoſe views it obſtructed, it's oaks were felled, long before any inroads had been made among the woods, which incircled them. And if the deſtruction of theſe oaks had been partial; if a few, here and there, had been left as a fore-ground, the injury, on the ſpot at leaſt, might the leſs be re⯑gretted. For the views which are thus opened from it's brow, make great amends for the loſs [106] of it's woods. They conſiſt chiefly of two or three beautiful lawns, ſkreened with foreſt-ſcenery. Yew-tree-bottom denotes one of theſe ſcenes; and Even-water-bottom, another. The former receives it's name from the ſpecies of trees, which decorate it; the latter, from a pool, which occupies it's middle area.

In foreſt language, vallies in general are called bottoms; tho in fact, they are wide extended ſcenes. Moſt of them have their little rivulets running through them. But theſe foreſt-ſtreams are very unlike the ſtreams of a mountainous country; pouring among rocks, and fretting among pebbles. Theirs is a tamer nature. They are ſeldom more than little ouzing rills, which drain the ſpringy ſides of riſing grounds; and wander ſlowly, unobſerved, and unobſtructed, through the vallies of the foreſt. The landſcape however, ſeldom wants their paltry aſſiſ⯑tance. The only way, in which theſe rivulets are of any uſe in a foreſt-ſcene, is, when they ſpread themſelves into little pools, in ſome part of the valley, as they do here, in Even-water-bottom, and as they frequently do in other ſcenes; and the merit of theſe [107] little pieces of water chiefly conſiſts in draw⯑ing all the cattle of the neighbourhood around their banks, which greatly animate, and in⯑rich the view.

In this part of the foreſt ſtands Wilverly-lodge commanding beautiful views of theſe ſweet wooded lawns, and vallies; which, from the high ſituation of the lodge, are ſet off with the iſle of Wight, as a back-ground.

From Wilverly, we traverſed the pales of a new timber incloſure, which is not leſs than four miles in circumference. If the wood, which it is meant to defend, ſhould ever flouriſh, it would ſoon create a ſcene. But at preſent this part of the foreſt is barren of beauty, and there is ſo very little appear⯑ance of the growth of timber, that people are apt to ſuppoſe, it has been ignorantly planted; or negligently attended.—One rea⯑ſon indeed aſſigned for the ruin of the young wood, is the quantity of rabbits, which breed in the dry, ſandy hills of theſe parts; and which it is difficult, amidſt ſuch ſhelter, to extirpate. A young oak, juſt vegetating from the acorn, is eſteemed, by theſe pernicious inmates, the moſt delicious food. Thus it [108] may be ſaid, the glory of England may be nipped in the bud by a paltry rabbit.

After we leave theſe dreary pales, the country, here and there, breaks out towards Holmſley-lodge; but nothing is very intereſt⯑ing till we arrive at the brow of Burley-hill. Here the eye is greatly regaled. From this height it ſurveys a grand ſweep of different removes of woody diſtance, ſpreading round a ſemicircular plain of ſeveral miles in extent; known by the name of Mark-way-bottom. The plain itſelf conſiſting of a well-propor⯑tioned intermixture of rich heath, and green paſturage, is ſomething between a foreſt-lawn, and a foreſt-heath; too large for the one, and yet not large enough for the other. In two or three different parts, it is adorned with thoſe attractive pools, which inrich a landſcape with the introduction of animal life.

The woods, which incircle this grand ſavan⯑nah, as we ſurvey them from the brow of the hill, are thoſe of Bury on the left: ad⯑joining to theſe, commence the woods of Burley; and ſtill more to the right, thoſe of Rhinfield. All this rich ſcenery is in one continued, tho varied and broken, ſweep; and ranges at different diſtances from one [109] mile to ten. The woods of Bury on the left, being he neareſt, and moſt elevated, intirely fill that part of the horizon, under which they ſpread: but beyond thoſe of Burley riſe, in fainter colouring, the two woody-boſomed hills of Lyndhurſt; and beyond the woods of Rhinfield, a very remote foreſt-view ſtretches into all the obſcurity of diſtance. Every ſpecies of country, cultivated, as well as uncultivated, when melted down into diſ⯑tance, has a fine effect; as we have often obſerved; but the foreſt-diſtance, is among the richeſt.—Such is the grand view, from Burley-hill; continually varying it's appearance as we deſcend.

Our road led us over Mark-way-bottom, to the duke of Bolton's at Burley; which is an excellent foreſt-lodge, tho an ordinary ducal-ſeat. The late duke having obtained a grant of it for thirty years, was at ſome ex⯑pence in adorning it. He built handſome ſtables; fitted up the houſe, and laid out a lawn before it, which is bounded by a piece of embanked water. There is but little taſte however ſhewn in the improvements; nor [110] indeed does the ſituation deſerve much at⯑tention. It is low; and except that it ſtands in the midſt of a beautiful foreſt, it is on the whole, ill-choſen.

The lawn of this lodge is adorned with ſome very grand oaks, which from the dignity of their form, and venerable appearance; as well as the number of the moſt reſpectable of them, have obtained the name of the twelve apoſtles.

In the woods around this lodge, we ſaw a breed of ſmall cattle, which the late duke of Bolton procured from Scotland. While this herd was increaſing, they were ſuffered to run wild in the foreſt; but in a courſe of years, when he wiſhed to reclaim a few of them, their habits were become ſo obſtinate, and their nature ſo ferocious, that it was attempted without ſucceſs; and they are now among the ferae naturâ of the foreſt. They are miſchie⯑vous however only when attacked. We rode, and walked among them without any moleſ⯑tation.

From Burley-lodge it is little more than two miles to Boldre-wood lodge, the ſeat of [111] lord Delawar. This houſe enjoys one of the fineſt ſituations of the foreſt. It ſtands high, with an extenſive lawn before it, from which it commands a vaſt extent of foreſt-ſcenery, ſpread around in great variety of diſtance; particularly towards Burley-lodge, where the woods ſtretch far and wide, beyond a length⯑ened ſavannah, which ſets them off to great advantage^*.—On the other ſide of the lawn, the diſtances are woody; but more broken, and not ſo remote.

Nor are the home-views around this beautiful ſpot, leſs pleaſing, than thoſe at a diſtance. We wound near a mile round the lodge, through a ſucceſſion of rich foreſt-ſcenery, compoſed chiefly of beech. The trees thmeſelves are among the moſt beautiful of their kind, having been ſecured from the ax by the protection of the houſe they adorn. But ſtill the beech, even in perfection, is inferior to the oak, the elm, and the aſh, in moſt of the characteriſtics of pictureſque beauty. It has always too much of a ſpiry pointedneſs in the extremities of its branches; which gives a littleneſs to its parts. In its moſt beautiful form it rarely ſhakes off [112] this characteriſtic imperfection. If the trees however as individuals, were leſs pleaſing, their combinations were highly beautiful; and exhibited much ſcenery from thoſe natural openings, and glades, which are ſo often found in the internal parts of foreſts.

All the woods not only around this lodge, but in its neighbourhood, abound in beech. The maſt of this tree is the moſt fattening food for deer; and gives ſuch repute to the winter-veniſon of Boldre-wood walk, that a ſtranger would have difficulty in getting a king's warrant for a doe executed in it^*.

Theſe woods alſo afford excellent feeding for hogs, which are led, in the autumn-ſeaſon, into many parts of the foreſt, but eſpecially among the oaks, and beeches of Boldre-wood, to fatten on maſt. It is among the rights of the foreſt-borderers to feed their hogs in the foreſt, during the pawnage-month, as it is called, which commences about the end of ſeptember, and laſts ſix weeks. For this [113] privilege they pay a trifling acknowledgment at the ſteward's court at Lyndhurſt. The word pawnage was the old term for the money thus collected^†.

The method of treating hogs at this ſeaſon of migration, and of reducing a large herd of theſe unmanageable brutes to perfect obedience, and good government, is curious.

The firſt ſtep the ſwine-herd takes, is to inveſtigate ſome cloſe ſheltered part of the foreſt, where there is a conveniency of water; and plenty of oak, or beech-maſt, the former of which he prefers, when he can have it in ſufficient abundance^‡. He fixes next on ſome ſpreading tree, round the bole of which he wattles a ſlight, circular fence of the dimenſions he wants; and covering it roughly with boughs, and ſods, he fills it plentifully with ſtraw, or fern.

Having made this preparation, he collects his colony among the farmers, with whom he commonly agrees for a ſhilling a head, [114] and will get together perhaps a herd of five or ſix hundred hogs. Having driven them to their deſtined habitation, he gives them a plentiful ſupper of acorns, or beech-maſt, which he had already provided, ſounding his horn; during the repaſt. He then turns them into the litter, where, after a long journey, and a hearty meal, they ſleep de⯑liciouſly.

The next morning he lets them look a little around them—ſhews them the pool, or ſtream, where they may occaſionally drink —leaves them to pick up the offals of the laſt night's meal; and as evening draws on, gives them another plentiful repaſt under the neighbouring trees, which rain acorns upon them for an hour together, at the ſound of his horn. He then ſends them again to ſleep.

The following day he is perhaps at the pains of procuring them another meal, with muſic playing as uſual. He then leaves them a little more to themſelves, having an eye however on their evening-hours. But as their bellies are full, they ſeldom wander far from home, retiring commonly very or⯑derly, and early to bed.

[115]After this, he throws his ſty open, and leaves them to cater for themſelves; and from hence-forward has little more trouble with them, during the whole time of their mi⯑gration. Now and then, in calm weather, when maſt falls ſparingly, he calls them perhaps together by the muſic of his horn to a gratuitous meal; but in general, they need little attention, returning regularly home at night, tho they often wander in the day two or three miles from their ſty. There are experienced leaders in all herds, which have ſpent this roving life before; and can inſtruct their juniors in the method of it. By this management the herd is carried home to their reſpective owners in ſuch condition, that a little dry meat will ſoon fatten them.

I would not however have it ſuppoſed, that all the ſwine-herds in the foreſt manage their colonies with this exactneſs. Bad go⯑vernments, and bad governors will every where exiſt; but I mention this as an example of ſound policy—not as a mere Platonic, or Eutopian ſcheme; but ſuch as hath been often realized, and hath as often been found productive of good order, and public utility. [116] The hog is commonly ſuppoſed to be an obſtinate, head-ſtrong, unmanageable brute: and he may perhaps have a degree of poſi⯑tiveneſs in his temper. In general, however if he be properly managed, he is an orderly, docile animal. The only difficulty is, to make your meanings, when they are fair, and friendly, intelligible to him. Effect this, and you may lead him with a ſtraw.

Nor is he without his ſocial feelings, when he is at liberty to indulge them. In theſe foreſt-migrations, it is commonly obſerved, that of whatever number the herd conſiſts, they generally ſeparate, in their daily excur⯑ſions, into ſuch little knots, and ſocieties, as have formerly had habits of intimacy together; and in theſe friendly groups they range the foreſt; returning home at night, in different parties, ſome earlier, and ſome later, as they have been more or leſs fortunate in the purſuits of the day.

It ſounds oddly to affirm the life of a hog to be enviable; and yet there is ſomething uncommonly pleaſing in the lives of theſe emigrants—ſomething at leaſt more deſirable, than is to be found in the life of a hog Epicuri de grege. They ſeem themſelves alſo, [117] to enjoy their mode of life. You ſee them perfectly happy, going about at their eaſe, and converſing with each other in ſhort, pithy, interrupted ſentences, which are no doubt, expreſſive of their own enjoyments, and of their ſocial feelings.

Beſides the hogs, thus led out in the maſt-ſeaſon to fatten, there are others, the property of foreſt-keepers, which ſpend the whole year in ſuch ſocieties. After the maſt-ſeaſon is over, the indigenous foreſt-hog depends chiefly for his livelihood on the roots of fern: and he would find this food very nouriſhing, if he could have it in abundance. But he is obliged to procure it by ſo laborious an operation, that his meals are rarely ac⯑companied with ſatiety. He continues how⯑ever, by great induſtry, to obtain a tolerable ſubſiſtence through the winter, except in froſty weather, when the ground reſiſts his delving ſnout: then he muſt periſh, if he do not in ſome degree experience his maſter's care. As ſpring advances freſh graſſes, and ſalads of different kinds, add a variety to his bill of fare; and as ſummer comes on, he finds juicy berries, and grateful ſeeds, on [118] which he lives plentifully, till autumn returns, and brings with it the extreme of abundance.

Beſides theſe ſtationary hogs, there are others in ſome of the more deſolate parts of the foreſt, which are bred wild, and left to themſelves, without any ſettled habitation. As they coſt nothing either in food, or care, their owners are content with the pre⯑carious profit of ſuch, as they are able to reclaim.

Charles I, I have heard, was at the ex⯑pence of procuring the wild boar and his mate from the foreſts of Germany, which once certainly inhabited the foreſts of England. I have heard too that they propagated greatly in New-foreſt. Certain it is, there is found in it, at this day, a breed of hogs, commonly called foreſt-pigs, which are very different from the uſual Hampſhire breed; and have about them ſeveral of the characteriſtic marks of the wild boar. The foreſt-hog has broad ſhoulders; a high creſt; and thick, briftly mane, which he erects on any alarm. His hinder parts are light, and thin. His ears are ſhort, and erect; and his colour either black, or darkly brindled. He is much fiercer, than the common breed; and will []

[119] turn againſt an ordinary dog. All theſe are marks of the wild boar, from whom, I have little doubt, that in part he derives his pedigree, tho his blood may be contaminated with vulgar mixtures^†.—But tho he is much more pictureſque, than the common hog, he is in much leſs repute among farmers. The lightneſs of his hind quarters, and the thin⯑neſs of his flanks appear to great diſadvantage in the ham, and the flitch.

On leaving the beechen groves of Boldre-wood we were received by a large, open, ſwampy, heath, called No Man's walk, being under the peculiar juriſdiction of none of the keepers.—The woods ſoon after commenced again, in which we paſſed a large foreſt-viſta, cut through them, from Lyndhurſt to Bur⯑ley-lodge; but it wanted the turnpike road which we found in the other viſta^*. I could not have ſuppoſed how much it loſt, from the want of this accompaniment. Without a road, there ſeemed to be no reaſon for a [120] viſta. In other reſpects alſo it wanted the variety of the Lyndhurſt-viſta.

Along the confines of theſe woods, we ſkirted a foreſt-lawn, called Warwickſted; which wheeled around us in the form of a creſcent, near two miles in circuit. It was a beautiful ſcene, hung with wood on every ſide.

Near this place ſtands Rhinfield-lodge; the ſituation of which is perhaps as pleaſing, tho not ſo grand, as that of Boldre-wood. It ſtands on a ſpreading hill, incircled with groves of oak, among which indeed greater deſtruction hath been made, for the ſake of the view, than ſeems to have been neceſſary. As the ground falls on every ſide from the hill, on which the houſe ſtands, ſo on every ſide, it ſoon begins to riſe again, tho very gently, expanding by degrees into a vaſt circle of foreſt-ſcenery of every ſpecies— extenſive woods—ſkirted heaths—intermixtures of wood and lawn—and all this landſcape exhibited through the various removes of diſtance. When we were ſated with theſe grand ſcenes, we had them afterwards pre⯑ſented more pictureſquely in parts, as we deſcended the hill, on which the lodge ſtands. [121] In this deſcent we caught them every where to great advantage, through the boles, and branches of the ſtately oaks, which ſurrounded us. As the ground, which immediately in⯑circled this hill at the bottom, is ſwampy, and watered with rivulets, the ſituation is ſometimes in the winter, rather uncomfortable. When the rains are abundant, the waters ſtagnate ſo much around the hill, that it is almoſt completely inſulated.

The next ſcene we viſited was a foreſt-lawn of grand dimenſions. It ſeemed not leſs than nine or ten miles in circumference; bounded on every ſide, at leaſt in appearance, with woods, ſome of which were on a level with it, and others on grounds elevated above it. Among theſe latter were the woods of Brokenhurſt, adorned with the ſpire of the church ſhooting above them.—The pecu⯑liarity of this lawn is, that it's vaſt area is a perfect flat—a form, which tho leſs beau⯑tiful than a playing ſurface, exceeds it in ſim⯑plicity, and grandeur. A ſmall flat is trivial. It is a mere bowling-green. It has neither beauty in it's parts to ſet it off; nor greatneſs [122] in the whole, to make it intereſting. A ſmall piece of ground therefore ſhould always be varied. But an extenſive flat like this we are now examining, gives one grand, uniform idea, which fills the imagination. The grandeſt idea of this kind, is that of the ocean; the greatneſs of which conſiſts in it's being a continued flat. But the ocean preſents gran⯑deur without beauty. In a view of this kind at land, the idea of beauty is, more or leſs, impreſſed by the character of the ſcenery around it. I remember being exceedingly ſtruck with the grandeur of an immenſe ſcene of this kind, on the borders of Scotland, called Brough-marſh ^*. It is infinitely larger indeed than this, and is invironed, not with woods, which would loſe their effect round ſo vaſt an area; but with mountains. Rom⯑ney-marſh in Kent, is a ſcene alſo of the ſame kind; but it is cut in peices, and de⯑formed by parallel lines, hedges, and canals. Nor are it's boundaries good. Inſtead of woods, or mountains, it is bounded by the [123] ſea; and where the ſea appears in conjunc⯑tion with a level ſurface, the effect is bad: it joins one flat to another, and produces confuſion.

The extenſive foreſt-lawn, which gave oc⯑caſion to theſe remarks, is known by the name of Ober-green. It is chiefly paſturage, patched here and there with heath; and is eſteemed one of the beſt feeding grounds, both for deer, and cattle in the foreſt.

Ober-green was the laſt of thoſe beautiful lawns, with which our ride through theſe parts of the foreſt was inlivened; and I imagine few counties in England could fur⯑niſh ſo many pleaſing woodland-ſcenes in ſo ſmall a compaſs. He who delights in ſuch ſcenery will find it in much greater perfection in the wildneſs of a foreſt, than among the moſt admired improvements of art. He will find it grander, more varied, and every where more replete with thoſe wild, inchanting paſſages, which the hand of art cannot give. What are the lawns of Hagley^*, or any other [124] place celebrated for this ſpecies of artificial landſcape, but paltry imitations of the genuine works of nature?

Hinchelſea-wood^*, which we left on the right in the morning, now again ſkirted our right, as we traverſed Ober-green. Here it was as great an ornament, as it was on the other ſide, at Longſlade-bottom. That vaſt bog, which we had ſeen in the morning winding ſo beautifully round Hinchelſea-wood, now preſented it's deceitful furface directly in our way. An inexperienced traveller might have ventured to paſs it without ſcruple. But our ſteps were better guided. We were care⯑fully led through the ſkirts of the wood to a place where a mole is thrown acroſs this vaſt bog, with two or▪ three wooden bridges to tranſmit the moiſture.

Having paſſed this obſtruction, we roſe Blackamſley-hill, from whence, as in a table of contents, we had a view of all the country, the woods, and the lawns we had paſſed, extending at leaſt nine, or ten miles in length.

[125]From Blackamſley-hill, we came to Set⯑ley-wood, near which we met again the great road, we had left in the morning. But inſtead of continuing in it, we croſſed it at a gate oppoſite to a gravel-pit, as we leave Brokenhurſt; and entered a wild heath called Burnt-hill, where ſome beautiful woody ſcenes immediately opened.—On the left along the declivities, hung incloſures of cultivated meadow-land, and likewiſe of rough grounds, both equally adorned with wood; and as theſe two ſpecies of landſcape were here con⯑tiguous, and exactly ſimilar, excepting only the article of cultivation, they afforded a good opportunity of illuſtrating the doctrine of gradation; one of thoſe great principles in landſcape, which contributes more than any other, towards the production of effect. —The force of gradation is moſt ſhewn in the management of light and colours: but it is ſhewn alſo in the union of objects. Abruptneſs, it is true, and ſtrong oppoſitions, are often great ſources of pictureſque beauty; when properly, and ſparingly introduced. In profuſion, they are affected. But the great principle of gradation has univerſal influence, and enters more or leſs into every compoſition. [126] —The inſtance we ſaw of it here reſpected the union of objects.

On examining a piece of natural ground, we ſee, at a ſingle glance, how gradually, and beautifully nature commonly unites one part with another—the tree with the ſhrub —the ſhrub with the brake—that again with the weed—and laſtly, theſe loweſt decora⯑tions with the level ground; which is here, and there, ſtill farther ſoftened into them by patches of more luxuriant herbage^*. But in the cultured field, however beautiful in it's kind, you ſee no tranſition, no connection, or gradation among contiguous parts. Even if the hedges introduce no formality of lineal boundary, yet the ſmooth uniform ſurface, whether of graſs, or of corn, joins abruptly with the wood. This in a pictureſque light is diſpleaſing.

But you admire the artificial lawn, bounded only with wood? You then talk of con⯑traſt, rather than gradation, as a ſource of beauty?

[127]We do: and ſcenes of this kind are often beautiful. But one of their great beauties ariſes ſtill from gradation. When we talk of contraſt, we do not mean ſimple oppoſition. Two contiguous ſtripes of black, and white produce no effect. Strong oppoſitions we ſome⯑times allow, but they muſt only appear in tranſient touches: gradation enters into the idea even of contraſt. It is true, in the arti⯑ficial lawn we commonly require neatneſs; ſo that the rude connections of nature are ex⯑cluded: but ſtill a lawn, bounded with re⯑gular wood, gives us little pleaſure. It is the planter's care to obtain what gradation he can, by bringing ſome of his clumps forward, and thus connecting his lawn with his woods. Yet with all his art he can never do it in ſo nobly wild, and pictureſque a manner, as nature in her moſt beautiful works.

The two different kinds of hanging grounds, bounded with woods, which occaſioned theſe remarks, occupied our left. In front was an extended ſkirting of woody ſcenery, which opening itſelf more and more, as we pro⯑ceeded, ſpread into a noble ſkreen. This [128] ſcenery conſiſted of thoſe vaſt woods, which ſtretch from Heathy-Dilton, to Boldre-church.

Theſe woods hang over the moſt pleaſing meadows about Roydon, and along all the valley to Brokenhurſt, that ever adorned a landſcape. It is a landſcape indeed of the cultured kind, and therefore little accommo⯑dated to the pencil; but of it's kind it is the moſt lovely. Through this valley, con⯑ſiſting of hanging meadows, variouſly bounded, and adorned with wood, the river of Lyming⯑ton, while it is yet rural, and only a foreſt-ſtream, forms many a devious curve. But this pleaſing ſcenery can only be traverſed by the foot-paſſenger, or the angler with his rod. Even on horſe-back you cannot paſs the many wooden bridges made of ſingle planks, which are thrown athwart the ſeveral windings of the ſtream.

Leaving theſe ſcenes behind us, we entered the lanes of Roydon, broad, winding, and adorned in one part with an open grove, in others, with an intermixture of beech, and oak; which ſtretching acroſs, form a canopy above the head. Theſe lanes open upon a heath, called Sandy-down, which is ſuppoſed to enjoy the beſt air in it's neighbourhoood. [129] Here the woods, which had before ſkreened our front, now winding round, appear with equal magnificence on the left. The ſummit is crowned with Boldre-church, which diſ⯑covering only it's imbattled tower among the trees, takes the form of a lofty caſtle.

Having croſſed the river near the ruins of Haywood-houſe, once a manſion of conſide⯑rable note, we mounted the hill to the church, from whence we had beautiful views, on the north, to the foreſt, and on the ſouth, to⯑wards the white cliffs of the iſle of Wight, which are ſet off by intermediate woods.— Indeed all the churches of the foreſt are loftily ſeated. For when the whole country was covered with woods, and before roads were cut through them; it was neceſſary to place the church in a lofty ſituation, that the in⯑habitants might the more eaſily find their way to it, through the devious paths of the foreſt.

SECT. VII.

DIRECTING our courſe firſt towards Beaulieu, we paſſed the plantations of ſir Harry Burrard at Walhampton, which extend round his houſe, and are compoſed chiefly of ſir. His gardens command ex⯑tenſive views of the iſle of Wight, and the intervening channel: but they are views, which may rather be called amuſing, than pictureſque. They are too extenſive for the uſe of the pencil. The diſtant coaſt exhibits too long a curtain; the hills are too ſmooth; and the water-line is too parrallel with the coaſt of Hampſhire. The only way to obtain that ſpecies of beauty, which we call pic⯑tureſque, [132] from ſo lengthened a view of diſtant coaſt, is to break it, here and there, with plantations, ſometimes immediately on the fore-ground, and ſometimes in the ſecond diſtance. And indeed in many parts of the gardens, where ſuch portions are intercepted by the woods, good pictures are obtained.— After all however we muſt allow, that nine perſons in ten would be better pleaſed with theſe extended views in their preſent amuſing ſtate, than if they had been more generally broken in a form to pleaſe the pictureſque eye. Few people can diſtinguiſh between the ideas of beautiful, and pictureſque: but every eye is pleaſed with an amuſing view.

To theſe ſheltered receſſes, which extend even to my garden-gate, I am ſo much in⯑debted, through the indulgence of their be⯑nevolent owner, for the quiet pleaſures of many a ſtudious hour, that I ſhould gladly enter more minutely into a deſcription of them; did not my ſubject, which holds me cloſely to the wild ſcenes of nature, forbid. Yet there is one ſcene, which I cannot forbear mentioning: it is ſo nearly allied to nature, that it is cloſely allied alſo to to my ſubject. The ſcene I mean, is a ſmall lake, containing about a dozen acres, which [133] has been formed out of a ſwamp. It is wooded on both ſides; and the view of the whole together is very pleaſing, when you ſtand in the open part, towards Portmere⯑common, from whence the head, which con⯑fines the water, is concealed; and the woods on each ſide, are united at the bottom, with thoſe of the garden. The walks, on both ſides, are well managed; and contain many little pleaſing receſſes, and openings to the water.

Sir John D'Oyly, and Mr. Robbins, whoſe houſes we paſs in ſucceſſion, have the ſame views towards the iſle of Wight, and the channel, which are preſented from the gar⯑dens at Walhampton; but they are ſeen under different circumſtances.

Sir John D'Oyly's capital view is from a circular room at the top of his houſe, which commands a very great extent both of ſea, and land. On the land-ſide the diverſified woods of the foreſt appear ſtretching far and wide around his houſe, with all the inter⯑vening cultivation—houſes—cottages—and farms. On the other ſide, the ſight extends along the channel of the iſle of Wight in both directions—to the weſt, as far as the open ſea; and to the eaſt, as far as Spithead, [134] where every motion of the fleet, which is ſtationed there, may be obſerved. His lawn has lately been new-modelled, and is now only in a ſtate of improvement; ſo that it's effect cannot yet be ſeen.

At Pilewell Mr. Robbins's views towards the ſea, are nearly the ſame as thoſe from D'Oyly-park; only ſeen from a lower ſtand. Mr. Robbins's lawn is a very extenſive one. It is flat indeed; but ſo much quiet ſpace forms an excellent contraſt with the buſy ſcene of navigation, which is ſpread beyond it. Still however theſe views are of the amuſing kind. I ſhould adviſe the pictureſque eye therefore to ſeek the ſcenery of the iſland, as he will find it more broken, in many parts of the walk, which circles the lawn. The beſt view of the whole together is from the dreſſing-room windows.

About a mile and a half from Baddeſly we paſs the edge of a piece of freſh-water, above three miles in circumference, known by the name of Souley-pond. In an inland-country it would have been thought a con⯑ſiderable lake: but it's cloſe neighbourhood [135] to the ſea diminiſhes the idea. It is not indeed ſkreened by ſuch noble limits, as dignify the lakes of Weſtmorland and Cumberland; rocks, mountains, and craggy promontories; yet it is marked by an elegant irregular line; it's banks ariſe in gentle ſwells from the water; in ſome places the ſkirts of Beaulieu woods run down to it's edge; and in others low points of level land ſhoot into it, which are always beautiful, eſpecially when adorned with groups of figures, or of cattle. On the whole it is a pleaſing ſcene. It produces great plenty of fiſh; and often affords a ſummer-day's amuſement to the gentlemen of the neigh⯑bourhood.

From Souley-pond the road leads towards the banks of Beaulieu-river, which are rather high in this part, and much wooded; ſo that of courſe the water is ſkreened from the eye. The road however is very beautiful, paſſing through woody lanes, and open groves: and the woods of Beaulieu are the more beau⯑tiful, as they are almoſt univerſally left untouched. You ſcarce ſee a maimed tree among them.

[136]About two miles from Souley, a ſtrange ruin attracts the eye, on the left. It appears like the two ends of a barn, the roof of which has fallen in. But the curioſity of it is, it's amazing ſize. From one gavel-end to the other it extends eighty-one paces. The name it is known by, is St. Leonard's; and it is commonly ſuppoſed to have been a barn belonging to the monks of Beaulieu, who placed here a little eſtabliſhment of their fra⯑ternity, to gather the fruits of the country in theſe parts. The veſtiges of different build⯑ings, and the walls of a ſmall chapel, ſtill remain.—In a pictureſque light this ruin is of no conſequence. We walked round it, and tried it in every mode of perſpective, if poſſible to make a drawing from it, but the two vaſt gavel-ends would enter into no kind of compoſition.

Large barns were the common appendages of abbeys; and the veſtiges of ſome of them ſtill remain. There is a grand building of this kind at Battle-abbey in Suſſex; tho I ſhould think is is more ornamented, than was requiſite for a barn. There is another very large one at Cerne in Dorſetſhire. But the nobleſt edifice, I believe, in England, under [137] the denomination of a barn, is to be ſeen at Choulſey in Berkſhire, about two miles from Wallingford. This barn is ſtill larger than that we are now ſurveying. It is ſome⯑what above a hundred yards in length; and eighteen yards broad. It contains four threſh⯑ing-floors; and is ſuppoſed to have belonged to the rich abbey of Reading. Tho carrying upon it the date of 1101, it is in good con⯑dition; and ſtill performs the functions of a barn. Mighty caſtles, and churches in three or four centuries have given way to time: but here is a barn, which has continued doing it's offices to ſociety, through the ſpace of ſeven hundred years.

From the ruins of St. Leonard's, the ſame woody road brought us ſoon to Buckler's-hard, a beautiful ſemi-circular valley, or rather a dip of the bank to the edge of the river, which forms before it one of it's grandeſt ſweeps.— In this pleaſing retreat the duke of Montague, predeceſſor to the late duke, proprietor of all this part of the country, propoſed to build a town, which was to bear his name. He was at that time proprietor alſo of the iſland of St. Lucia in the weſt-Indies; and as he enjoyed all the privileges on the river, of the [138] abbey of Beaulieu, which were great, and would have enabled him to inveſt his colony with many immunities, he expected to derive much advantage from a ſugar trade; as ſugars might thus be imported, and from the plenty of fuel, refined, at a much cheaper rate here, than they could be any where elſe. And indeed the ſcheme had the approbation of many men of ſounder judgment, than the duke's. The limits of a town were accordingly planned—the ſtreets were marked out—and the building-grounds adjuſted. But at the peace of 1748, St. Lucia was declared a neutral iſland, by which the duke's property in it was loſt; and ſoon after, his only ſon dying, he dropped all farther intention with regard to his new town.

Buckler's-hard was however deſtined to re⯑ceive a town, tho of a different kind. The ſituation was commodious for ſhip-building, as well as ſugar-boiling; and was taken for that purpoſe, by Mr. Adams, who made large contracts with government for building ſhips of war. Several very fine frigates have been built here, and ſome ſhips of more force^*. [139] The great number of workmen, whom this buſineſs brought together, have given birth by degrees to a populous village.

From this buſy ſcene, we purſued our way to Beaulieu-abbey; which is about two miles beyond it. The road is ſtill cloſe, and beau⯑tifully wooded. Within half a mile of it you look down from the higher grounds, into the circular valley, in which the ruins of the abbey ſtand.

The valley itſelf is extenſive, and conſiſts of great variety of ground; and the whole ſcene, but eſpecially the hills, which ſurround it, are woody. Through the middle of it runs the river, which, about two miles above Beaulieu, is a mere foreſt-ſtream, and has no conſe⯑quence, but what it receives from the beautiful [140] ſcenes, through which it wanders. Under the walls of the abbey it meets the tide, which immediately gives it form, and dignity. Here a bridge is thrown over it; on each ſide of which, it ſpreads into a lake, when the tide flows, ſhaping it's ample ſweeps around rich wooded ſhores. Both theſe grand baſons might eaſily be kept conſtantly full, if a head were conſtructed, as I have heard it might be, acroſs the river, at the ſecond reach below the abbey. The tide, in all probability would not obſtruct a work of this kind; as it flows here with little force, ſcarce at the rate of four miles an hour.

The precincts of the abbey, which ſtands on the eaſtern ſide of the river, are, in circum⯑ference, about a mile and a half. The boun⯑dary-wall is intire in ſeveral parts; and viſible almoſt in all. The area, within the boundary, is nearly flat; and might eaſily be made a very beautiful ſcene. Along the banks of the river the ground is a little varied, where a pleaſant walk has been laid out, which is now pictu⯑reſquely marked by the ruins of time. The bank is here ſomewhat higher than the river; and was formerly, in this part, the foundation of the boundary-wall of the abbey; which, [141] when the wall was intire, compleatly hid the river, and all it's beautiful appendages from the walk. Time has now reſtored them. Tho the wall yet holds out in ſome places, it has in general failed. Large portions of it are gone; and in other parts there are chaſms, and fractures, through which the river, and the ſurrounding woods appear often to great advantage from the walk. Old oaks likewiſe, coeval with the abbey itſelf, are ſcattered pro⯑fuſely around the ruins of the wall; ſometimes ſupporting it, and ſometimes ſupported by it. They are every where beautiful appendages; and in many places unite with the ruins of the wall into the moſt pleaſing fore-grounds; while the river, ſpread here into a lake, and the woods beyond it, form a diſtance.

Among theſe ruins, I remember, ſome years ago, to have ſeen a very extraordi⯑nary inſtance of vegetation. The main ſtem of an oak aroſe in contact with a part of the wall, which was intire; and extended one of it's principal limbs along the ſummit of it. This limb, at the diſtance of a few yards from the parent-tree finding a fiſſure in the wall, in which there might probably be ſome depoſit of ſoil, ſhot a root through it into the earth. [142] From hence, ſhooting up again through ano⯑ther part of the wall, it formed a new ſtem, as large as the original tree; and from this again proceeded another horizontal branch like the former. In a great ſtorm, which hap⯑pened on the 27th of february 1781, both the wall, and the tree were blown down together.

Great part of the area between this beautiful walk, and the abbey, is occupied by an open grove; part of which is beautiful, and part deformed. The reaſon of the difference is, that one part is planted careleſly by the hand of nature; the other regularly by that of art.

Of the buildings of the abbey conſi⯑derable parts remain; enough to ſhew, that it has formerly been conſtructed in a rich Gothic ſtile: tho it's dimenſions were never large. The parts ſtill in being of moſt conſequence, are what is ſuppoſed to have been the refectory, and the abbot's lodge. The refectory is now turned into a pariſh-church, and forms a handſome aile, which is worth looking into. The abbot's lodge is known by the name of the palace, and was fitted up by the predeceſſor of the laſt duke of Montague, as a manſion; tho he made little addition to it. The old hall ſtill remains, and [143] ſome of the other apartments. What he added, is ill-done; and what he did in the way of taſte, is whimſical, and ill-managed. He did nothing indeed that adorns this beau⯑tiful ſcene; many things which deform it; and ſome things ſo ſtrangely abſurd, that no genius but his own, could have conceived them. Inſtead of calling in ſome man of taſte to aſſiſt him in making Beaulieu-abbey one of the moſt pleaſing ſcenes in England, which it might have been; he employed an engineer, by whoſe help he drew a ditch around it; filled it with water; threw two or three draw-bridges over it; ſecured all the avenues; and thus, by a wonderful ſtroke of art, converted an abbey into a caſtle. This atchievement was performed about the time of a French war, and a rebellion; when the duke had been raiſing a regiment, and his ideas had taken a military turn. It is ſaid too, that he made this ſtrange metamorphoſis under an appre⯑henſion, leſt ſome adventrous French privateer, taking the advantage of a full-tide, might ſail up the river, and endeavour to carry him off.— Men of taſte cannot enough lament, that a ſituation, ſo well adapted to receive the beauties of art, ſhould have fallen ſo unhappily into [144] ſuch wretched hands; and that more money had been ſpent in deforming it, than might have made it a ſcene of uncommon beauty.

Of the other parts of the abbey little re⯑mains. There is a court about ſixty or ſeventy feet ſquare, formerly perhaps a cloiſter, which is now converted into a garden. In the inner walls remain ſeveral arches, now cloſed, two or three of which are of beautiful Gothic. Near this court alſo ſtands a ſmall room, roughly arched. The arches are of ſtone, centering in a point at the top: but it does not eaſily appear for what purpoſe ſo ſmall an apart⯑ment was intended. The kitchen is ſtill very intire; as this edifice often is among the ruins of abbeys. It was a ſtructure commonly of great ſtrength.

But tho the ſituation of Beaulieu-abbey is very pleaſing; and perhaps more monkiſh, than could eaſily have been found in the neigh⯑bourhood; yet if a noble family-manſion ſhould be intended, a much grander ſituation might be choſen in many parts of this beau⯑tiful country; particularly on the high grounds, a little to the north of Buckler's-hard, nearly about the point, where the road from thence [145] unites with that from Lymington. This ſituation commands a grand ſweep over the river, together with it's eſtuary—the woods on both ſides of it, which are rich, and ample in a high degree—and in the diſtance the channel, and the high grounds of the iſle of Wight, from Cowes' point to the Needles.

The privileges of the manor of Beaulieu, which were granted by king John, were very extenſive; and are ſtill preſerved. No debtor can be arreſted within it's precincts, unleſs the lord's leave be obtained. The lords of Beaulieu alſo enjoy the liberties of the Cinque⯑ports; and the ſame exemption from duties; which was the duke's principal reaſon, as was obſerved^*, for building a town at Buckler's-hard. They hunt alſo, and deſtroy the king's deer, if they ſtray within the purlieus of the abbey. On the day we were at Beaulieu, we found the hedges every where beſet with armed men. There were not fewer than twenty, or thirty. It appeared as if ſome invaſion was expected. On inquiry we were [146] informed, a ſtag had been ſeen that morning in the manor; and all the village of Beaulieu was in arms to prevent his eſcape back into the foreſt. The fortunate man, who ſhot him, had a gratuity from the lord.

Beaulieu-manor is an extenſive ſcene, being not leſs than twenty-eight miles in circum⯑ference. It conſiſts chiefly of woodlands; and beſides the deer, which accidentally ſtray into it from the foreſt, contains a great number of deer in it's own domains. Among theſe rough grounds are intermixed many valuable farms; and the whole yields annually about £. 4000.

As we leave Beaulieu-abbey, along the Lyndhurſt road, we ſkirt the upper lake, which is formed by the tide above the bridge. It is a beautiful ſheet of water, about a mile in circumference, ſurrounded, on every ſide with woods, which in many parts fall into it from the riſing grounds. As the view opens, we look full up the lake. On the right the abbey appears among the woods to great advantage. On the left, a winding road runs along it's margin; except where [147] in ſome parts it is intercepted by clumps of trees. In front, the woods recede a little from the water, and leave a ſpace of flat meadow, which has a good effect in contraſt with the riſing grounds, and woods on each ſide.—The whole ſcene is pleaſing. Soon after we leave the lake, the river dwindles into a ſluggiſh, little, bull-ruſh ſtream. The meadow, however through which it winds, are adorned with wood, and ſtill continue beautiful.

At a place called the Fighting-cocks, well known to the lurking poacher, the manor of Beaulieu ends; and we entered the wild ſcenes of the foreſt. Deep woods received us. Through theſe we rode near two miles, riſing gently from the river; and then emerged into an open ſcene, called Culverly-heath— one of thoſe beautiful woody-ſkirted lawns, of which we had ſeen ſo many in the weſtern parts of the foreſt; and yet the features of this were different from them all.—We ſtood on a rough knoll, decorated with a few full-grown oaks, deſcending in front into a lawn, which appeared to ſtretch about a [148] mile in front; and a league on each ſide. It was ſkirted in every part with woods, ſhooting out, and retiring in ſkreens on each ſide; and folding over each other. The whole was a pleaſing piece of foreſt-perſpective, and the lawn one of the moſt pictureſque compoſitions we had met with, in this mode of landſcape.

Soon after we left Culverly-heath, we en⯑tered another ſcene of the ſame kind—larger, but leſs varied. In Culverly-heath the ma⯑terials of landſcape were brought together in ſo perfect a manner, as to produce a pic⯑tureſque whole. Here, through an awkward⯑neſs in the compoſition, there was but an indifferent whole, tho many of the parts in themſelves were beautiful.

From this heath we entered a large wood, called Denny. It has once been a noble ſcene, but it is now ſtripped of it's princi⯑pal honours, and conſiſts chiefly of beech, with a few decrepid oaks ſtragling among them. Every where we ſaw noble ſtools, as they call the ſtumps of ſuch trees as have been cut down; and could form an idea of their grandeur, by the reſpectful ſpace they have formerly occupied. None of [149] the trees in the neighbourhood ſeem to have approached within a conſiderable diſtance of them.

In this wood, which makes a part of Denny-walk, the lodge belonging to it, is ſeated. Here we left the Lyndhurſt road, which we had thus far purſued from Beaulieu; and turning to the left, directed our courſe to Whitley-ridge-lodge. In the neighbourhood of this place we found ſome beautiful ſcenes. One of them has peculiar merit.—It is a ſmall foreſt-lawn, containing about ſeven or eight acres ſomewhat circular, and ſkirted with oaks, thickets, and open groves; but they are diſpoſed in ſo happy a manner, and ſo much broken by clumps ſtanding out from the other woods, that all the regularity of it's form is removed. This lawn is the favourite haunt of deer in ſummer-evenings; and their conſtant feeding upon it, has given the fineſt texture to it's turf. It is rough enough to ſhew it's alliance with the foreſt; but, like ſome of nature's faireſt forms, it has ſo poliſhed an appearance, that with the ſmalleſt improvement it might accompany the moſt cultivated ſcene.

[150]From hence we continued our rout through woods, like thoſe of Denny, as far as Lady-croſs-lodge. Theſe ravaged parts of the foreſt, tho they ſtill afford many pleaſing ſcenes, yet deprived of their nobleſt trees, are de⯑prived alſo of their principal beauty. Tho inferior wood, as we had frequent opportunity to obſerve, might produce diſtant ſcenery, yet when we enter the internal parts of a foreſt, we wiſh for objects of grandeur. In foreſt-glades eſpecially, where the ſcenes are ſmall, large trees on the fore-ground are almoſt neceſſary.

From the woods of Lady-croſs, we entered the weſtern ſide of that vaſt heath, which occupies all the middle ground between the rivers of Lymington, and Beaulieu.—It is not a ſcene, like that of Culverly, and others, in which the woods, and open country bear a proportion to each other; it is diffuſe, and unadorned. The circumambient woods are too inconſiderable; and yet it is every where ſurrounded with them. Thoſe of [151] Heathy-Dilton occupied the right; and in⯑troduced, as we ſkirted this ſide of the heath, ſome little ſcenery: but all other parts were naked. In front indeed ranged a meagre ſkirting of wood; beyond which the high grounds of the iſle of Wight formed a diſ⯑tance.

As we proceeded farther on this heath, Norley-wood aroſe at ſome diſtance on the left. Towards this, acroſs the heath, we bent our courſe, as we were told it afforded ſome of the moſt beautiful internal ſcenery of any part of the foreſt.—Norley-wood ſtretches about two miles in length; and taking a ſemicircular turn, forms ſome heathy grounds, which hang to the ſouth, into a bay.—As a diſtant object however, it's woods poſſeſs only common beauties. To ſee it's oaks in their glory, we muſt enter it's receſſes. Their forms are remarkably pictureſque; and their combinations are as pleaſing as their forms. Theſe combinations are greatly aſſiſted by a profuſion of holly, and other humble plants, which are interſperſed among the trees.—This delightful ſcenery alſo is happily opened. Several roads winding in different directions, through the wood, form [152] a variety of little receſſes. Sometimes we were preſented with a longer reach; ſome⯑times with a ſudden turn: and the beauty generally aroſe from ſeeing little removed clumps of wood, in Waterlo's ſtile, variouſly riſing behind one or two ſtately trees on the fore-ground, whoſe dark branches gave their inlightened foliage effect. Other varieties are introduced by the interſections of roads; and others by the graſs running among full-grown trees, or clumps of underwood;

In ſhort, we found inſtances here, in great perfection, of every mode of ſcenery, which I have already deſcribed in the internal parts of a foreſt^*.

There is alſo a circumſtance connected with this wood, which is rarely found in thoſe woods, which occupy the middle regions of the foreſt; and that is a hamlet of thoſe little treſpaſſing cottages ſcattered about it, which have already been mentioned^†. They [153] commonly ſtand detached, and one or other of them meets the eye in various parts, and adds much to the ſcene. I have already ex⯑plained, how far ſuch circumſtances affect both natural, and artificial landſcape^*.

In a few years however, all the beautiful ſcenery of Norley-wood will vaniſh. It's deſtruction has long been expected; and was lately determined. In the beginning of the year 1781, a band of wood-cutters entered it, with orders from the ſurveyor of the foreſt to cut a hundred of the beſt trees, which he had previouſly marked for the uſe of the navy. Theſe trees were ſet apart for building ſhips of the firſt and ſecond rates. The next year another fall of the ſame kind of timber was ordered: and in three or four years, when all the noble trees are gone, the refuſe will be deſtined to ſhips of inferior ſize, frigates, ſloops, and cutters. During ſeven years it is ſuppoſed this wood will yield a conſiderable ſupply to the yards of Portſmouth. At preſent however a reſpite is given it; and the de⯑predations, which have been made, have not yet greatly injured it's beauty. In ſome parts [154] they may have improved it^*, by ſeveral open⯑ings, which the wood-cutters have made; tho the ſcenes of Norley-wood admit improve⯑ments of this kind, leſs than almoſt any other ſcenes in the foreſt; as they naturally abound in openings, and receſſes. If a few more attacks however be made upon it, it's glory will be extinct; and Norley-wood like other ravaged woods, will ſuggeſt only the remem⯑brance of a ſcene.

And yet the various appendages of wood-cutting—piles of bark, and ſcattered boughs, and timber-wains, are not unpleaſing objects^†. The deep, hollow tone alſo of the wood-man's axe, or of axes reſponſive to each other, in different parts of the wood, are notes in full harmony with the ſcene, tho their muſic is a knell.

The fallen tree alſo, lying with it's white, peeled branches on the ground, is not only beautiful in itſelf; but if it be not ſcattered in too great profuſion (for white is an unac⯑commodating hue) it forms an agreeable con⯑traſt with the living trees. But when we ſee it deprived of it's beautiful ramification, ſquared, [155] and ſawn in lengths, as it ſometimes continues long to lie about the foreſt, it becomes an object of deformity; and we lament what it once was, without receiving any equivalent from it's preſent ſtate.

It may here alſo be remarked, that the king's timber is much more pictureſque, than ſuch timber, as is bought, and cut by the mer⯑chant. He, with cautious, and diſcerning eye, ſtands at the bottom of the tree, while it is yet alive; and having examined every twiſting limb, and deſtined every part to it's proper ſervice, lops them off, one by one; and then fells the tree, a deformed and mutilated trunk. The royal wood-cutter is leſs nice. He fells the tree as it grows; and leaves the dock-men to aſcertain the uſes of it's ſeveral parts. Two or three of the main limbs are generally reft, and ſplintered in the fall; but that is not his concern: in the mean time, the ruin of the whole, with all it's ſpreading parts about it, retains ſtill a degree of pictureſque beauty.

SECT. VIII.

THE river Avon is the boundary of the foreſt on the weſt; and the bay of Southampton on the eaſt. Neither of theſe rivers therefore properly belongs to the foreſt. The only rivers, which may juſtly be called foreſt-rivers, are thoſe of Lymington, and Beaulieu. The former of theſe we have already examined in various parts; the latter only about the abbey of Beaulieu. We deter⯑mined therefore to inveſtigate the whole by a voyage.

We took boat in Lymington-river; which at low-water winds beautifully, before it enter the ſea^*. Its banks indeed are mud, but of the beſt ſpecies; for they are covered, like the other mud-lands of this country, with [158] ſea-graſs, which gives them the air of mea⯑dows when the tide retires. The returning water over-runs all the boundaries of the river, and makes it neceſſary, for the uſe of veſſels of any burden, to mark its channel with ſtakes.—The mouth of the river is diſtinguiſhed by a larger poſt, known among fiſhermen, by the name of Jack in the baſket. It ſtands about three miles from Lymington-harbour.

At this boundary we entered the channel, which divides the coaſt of Hampſhire from the iſle of Wight. The former, which ſtretches along the left, appears as a flat woody diſtance, juſt raiſed above the edge of the water; and unmarked by any object of conſequence. They who are acquainted with the country, can point out, here and there, a houſe, juſt ſeen among the trees.

On the right, the iſle of Wight makes a better appearance; and yet not a pictureſque one. It conſiſts of a double ridge of high lands; which, in almoſt every part, are ill-ſhaped, and in ſome parts the upper, and lower grounds follow each other in a diſa⯑greeable parallel. Indeed we ſeldom ſee a continuation of high grounds, through a ſpace [159] of near ten miles, forming ſo unpleaſant a delineation. At leaſt it ſeems ſuch to any eye aſſimulated to the grandeur of a moun⯑tainous country.

The water-line of the iſland appears to more advantage. Among many ſmaller in⯑dentations of the coaſt, the bays of Totland, and New-town, are conſiderable. Totland-bay is formed by the weſtern point of the iſland, called the Needle-cliffs, on one ſide; and on the other by that promontary, which ſhoots out oppoſite to Hurſt-caſtle, uſually called Sconce-point. It is a rude, wild ſcene; tho the cliffs themſelves are rather of the tame ſpecies; without any of thoſe large parts, and projections, which give a rocky coaſt its moſt pictureſque form. New-town-bay affords an opening of a different kind. It is a ſemicircular ſweep into a country highly cultivated; which at a proper diſtance, when the ſeveral objects of cultivation are maſſed together, has a good effect.

As we approached the mouth of Beaulieu-river, it's opening promiſed little. The eaſtern ſide forms a low, lineal, diſagreeable ſhore. [160] The weſtern ſide is ſtill more diſagreeable. It conſiſts of a flat tongue of land, called Needſore-point ^*, which runs out a conſiderable way; and at low-water unites with the mud-lands. When the tide flows, it is in part covered with water. We found it in this latter ſituation; and our boat made a ſhort puſh over it, inſtead of going round by the mouth of the river.

It is ſomewhat remarkable, that there is one of theſe ſpits of land, near the mouth of each of theſe foreſt-rivers; and alſo at the mouth of Southampton-bay. Hurſt-caſtle, formerly intended to guard the paſſage through the Needles, occupies one near the mouth of Lymington-river; and Calſhot-caſtle another, at the entrance of Southampton-bay. On Needſore-point, which is the middle one, a fortreſs was thought unneceſſary.—But tho theſe ſpits of land are remarkable, they are eaſily accounted for. The united force of wind and tide from the ſouth-weſt, and [161] weſt, ſo much greater and more continued, than from any other quarter, is the natural, and obvious cauſe. The ſame thing happens at the entrance of Portſmouth-harbour. Spit⯑head is the barrier of it's channel, which runs cloſe along the eaſtern ſhore under South-ſea-caſtle, and Portſmouth-wall, much in the ſame manner as the channel of Beaulieu, or rather Exbury-haven, runs cloſe under the ſhore from Leap. Wherever there is a low, or gravelly coaſt, undefended, on the ſouthern ſide of our iſland, it gives way to the fury of the Atlantic winds and tides. The rocks of Purbeck protect the gravelly coaſt about Pool, and Chriſt-church. To the eaſt of theſe places there have certainly been depre⯑dations. Wight defends Portſmouth, and the ſhores eaſtward as far as Arundel; which would probably go to ſea, if they were equally unpro⯑tected from the weſt, as from the eaſt.

We had now entered Beaulieu-river, which appears to be about half a mile broad. For ſome time Needſore-point on the left, con⯑tinued a low, winding ſhore; cloſing us in behind; tedious, and unvaried. But, on the [162] other ſide, the grounds began to form a beau⯑tiful bank.

As the reach opened, the ſkreens improved. The high grounds about Exbury formed them⯑ſelves into a point covered with wood; through which Exbury chapel juſt appeared. The other ſide-ſkreen was compoſed of ancient woods, where the axe ſeemed never to have entered. The river ſtill continued as wide as at the entrance; ſtretching in front into an ample bay, confined by woods; but the extremity of the bay was ſoftened by it's length, into a ſecond-diſ⯑tance.

By degrees we began to wind round Exbury-point; which ſtill continued a principal feature in the view. But tho it had greatly changed it's appearance; the woods and meadows, and rough grounds were ſtill very agreeably in⯑termixed. On the other ſide, the woods had taken a ſweep with the river; and were thrown into good perſpective. They mantled down almoſt to the water; which was bordered only by a narrow edging of meadow. Here the river affording eaſy acceſs to the herds of the neighbouring paſtures, they came down for refreſhment during the ſultry hours of a ſummer-noon. While they cooled themſelves in the river, the woods behind ſheltered them [163] from the ſun; and formed a good back-ground to their ſeveral pictureſque groups.—The front of this grand reach maintained long the ſame appearance, conſiſting chiefly of woody grounds ſoftened by diſtance. Nor did the ſide-ſkreens vary much. Continued woods ſtill roſe on the left; and on the right a portion of rough paſturage mingled with them.

We now came in ſight of Buckler's-hard ^* on the left, where the large timber-yards, houſes, and ſhips on the ſtocks, made a violent chaſm in the landſcape. A quantity of timber ſcattered about a yard, makes a very unpictureſque appearance.—It affords a variety of parts without a whole. And yet in a timber-yard, there are ſheds and other circumſtances, which are not wholly void of pictureſque images. In a ſhip on the ſtocks, through every ſtage as it advanes, there is a degree of beauty, which conſiſts chiefly in the variety of it's ſweeping lines.

[164]At Buckler's-hard the reach of the river is very intereſting, On the right are the woods of Beaulieu, winding round, with great richneſs, into a front-ſkreen. On the left, where wood before abounded, the grounds now run more into paſturage; tho far from being deſtitute of furniture. One decoration they have, which is not unpleaſing. Where the meadows fall down to the water, they are ſecured from the tide, by low, ſtaked banks, which follow the winding banks of the river. If they had run in a ſtraight line, they would have been a great deformity; but as they wind, inſtead of being offenſive objects, they give a ſort of rough, irregular termination to the line of the river. If we painted the ſcene, we ſhould have no objection to introduce them; both for the reaſon given, and alſo for the ſake of the reflections they form in the water.—They have ſometimes alſo the beauty of contraſt, when the other parts of the bank are without them.

From Buckler's-hard the river takes a ſweep to the right. The woods likewiſe, on that ſide, follow it's courſe; and ſpreading in great luxuriance, to the water's edge, throw a gloom over half the river. A noble bay, [165] land-locked with wood, begins ſoon to open. —As this ſcene removes, the woods take a different form, ſhaping themſelves into re⯑moved ſkreens, following each other.— Another reach brought us within fight of Beaulieu—the bridge and the abbey form⯑ing the centre of the view: the river, in the mean time, loſing very little of it's gran⯑deur, from the firſt reach to the laſt.

Thus we finiſhed our voyage up the river of Beaulieu; which in a courſe of near three leagues from the ſea, forms about five, or ſix grand ſweeps.—The ſimple idea it preſents throughout, is that of a winding tide-river flowing up a woody, and uninhabited country; which is a ſingular character for an Engliſh river to aſſume. Here and there we ſee a houſe, and a few ſpots of culti⯑vation; but ſo little, that they make no impreſſion on the general character of the ſcene. The pictureſque eye, uſed to land⯑ſcape, eaſily overlooks theſe little obſtacles; and carries on the general idea undiſturbed. —The buſy ſcene of ſhip-building at Buck⯑ler's-hard, rather aided, than injured the idea: [166] for as no one would expect a ſcene of this kind in ſo retired a place; it ſeemed as if the adventurers, who had ſailed up the river, had landed here either to refit their ſhips, or to build others for the purpoſe of purſuing their diſcoveries.

The idea of a wild country, in a natural ſtate, however pictureſque, is to the generality of people but an unpleaſing one. There are few, who do not prefer the buſy ſcenes of cultivation to the grandeſt of nature's rough productions. In general indeed, when we meet with a deſcription of a pleaſing country, we hear of hay-cocks, or waving corn-fields, or labourers at their plough, or other cir⯑cumſtances and objects, which the pictureſque eye always wiſhes to exclude. The caſe is, the ſpectator ſympathiſes in the joys of a country, which ariſe from the proſpect of plenty; and aſſociating theſe ideas with the country itſelf, he calls it pictureſque; by which he means only that it pleaſes him. —Thus too in the grand, and ſublime ſcenes of nature, if there be any mixture of [167] horror in them (which often adds greatly to the pictureſque effect) the aſſociated ideas of unhappineſs cloud the ſcene, and make it diſpleaſing.

I mean not, when a perſon is among objects, which in their remote conſequences give delight; or in the midſt of ſcenes, which are connected with diſtreſs; that he ſhould not feel the natural impreſſions they make —all I mean is, to inveſtigate the ſources of beauty; to limit the different modes of pleaſure, and pain; to ſeparate cauſes, and effects; and to evince that a ſcene, tho it abound with circumſtances of horror, may be very pictureſque; while another may be intirely the reverſe, tho replete with incidents, that produce joy and happineſs.

I have an inſtance at hand to my purpoſe. One of our voyagers^* to the northern ſeas, in ſailing up a river, thus deſcribes the ſcene.— "The country, ſays he, on each ſide, was very romantic; but unvaried; the river run⯑ning between mountains of the moſt craggy and barren aſpect; where there was nothing [168] to diverſify the ſcene, but now and then the ſight of a bear, or flights of wild-fowl. So unintereſting a paſſage leaves me nothing far⯑ther to add."

It is hardly poſſible, in ſo few words, to preſent more pictureſque ideas of the horrid, and ſavage kind. We have a river running up a country, broken on both ſides with wild, romantic rocks; which, we know nature never conſtructs in a uniform manner. We naturally therefore conclude, they ran out, in ſome parts, into vaſt diagonal ſtrata; on the ledges of which a bear or two appeared, ſitting on their hams, or howling at the boat. In other parts, the rocks would form lofty promontories, hanging over the river, and inhabited by numerous flights of ſea-fowl ſcreaming around them. This is not an imaginary picture; but copied with exactneſs from captain King's ſketch.— And yet he has no conception, that a ſcene ſo ſavage could preſent any other ideas, than ſuch as were diſguſting. He calls it an unvaried ſcene; by which expreſſion he meant nothing, I am perſuaded, but that the rocks were nei⯑ther intermixed with villages, nor with ſcenes of cultivation. Wood might probably be wanting; but in a ſcene of pictureſque horror, [169] wood is by no means a neceſſary appendage. It is rather indeed an improper one. Flouriſh⯑ing wood at leaſt is out of place: the ſcene might perhaps admit, here and there, a ſcathed, and ragged pine.

Beyond Beaulieu our boat could not paſs. Thus far only the tide flows with any force. At Beaulieu therefore we waited till the tide turned, when we again embarked.

The views in aſcending, and deſcending a river, vary conſiderably through it's ſeveral reaches. Yet the difference, tho obſervable enough, cannot eaſily be deſcribed. Language wants colours to paint ſuch nice diſtinctions. We ſhall therefore fall down the river with a quicker ſail, than we aſcended. And yet we muſt not leave it's retroſpect views entirely unobſerved.

The bay formed by the circling woods in the ſecond reach as we deſcend, is very beau⯑tiful. I know not whether it's form is not more pleaſing, than we thought it in the morning.

[170]The next reach loſes in beauty. A long ſtretch of low land ſweeping acroſs the river, like a mole, which was leſs obſervable before, now greatly interrupts the beauty of the view.

The ſucceeding bay, where the woods of Exbury open in front, is very grand, and extenſive.

From Buckler's-hard, nothing can unite more happily than the rough uncultivated grounds of Exbury on the left, with the long ſucceſſion of Beaulieu woods on the right.

After this, the river ſoon becomes an eſtuary. When we entered it, as we looked up the ſtream, we had immediately the idea of a river winding into a woodland country. In the ſame manner, when we deſcended, we had as quickly an idea of a river entering the ſea. For as the woods, in the former caſe, become at once the centre of the view; ſo does the ſea, and the iſle of Wight, in the latter. The laſt reach therefore of the river continues long to exhibit a kind of mixed ſcenery. Exbury-point, and the woody grounds about it, ſtill preſerve the idea of the beautiful woodland ſcenes we had left: while Needſore-point, tho it wind quite around, [171] and ſhut us within a land-locked bay, is yet ſo low, that the ſea, and the iſland appear beyond it.

On opening the mouth of the river, our boat-men attempted to carry us acroſs the mud-lands, as they had done in the morning; but they found it dangerous, and deſiſted: for if a boat ſhould only touch the ground, the delay of a few minutes might endanger her ſticking, till the return of the tide; ſo rapidly do the waters retreat.

As the tide was thus leaving the mud-lands, flights of ſea-gulls hovered round, watching, on that event, to pick up the little wreck that remained. Sea-fowl are the common appendages of all eſtuaries. Indeed few maſters in landſcape omit them.

On ſuch claſſical authority we admire the flights of ſea-gulls, as a proper ornament in a ſcene like this. It was amuſing to ob⯑ſerve, how quickly they diſcovered the re⯑linquiſhed ſhore, long before it was diſcoverable by us; and to ſee them running in appearance on the ſurface of the water. For tho the tide had in thoſe parts left the land; yet the mud from it's perfect flatneſs long retained it's glazed, and watry appearance.—The cormorant alſo ſat watching the ebbing tide: but he ſeemed bent on matters of greater importance. He did not, like the idle gull, wheel round the air; nor pace about the ebbing ſhore, mixing buſineſs and amuſement together. With eager attention he took his ſtand on ſome ſolitary poſt, ſet up to point the [173] channel of the river; and from that eminence obſerved from the dimpling of the waters, where ſome poor, wandering fiſh had gotten himſelf entangled in the ſhallows, whom he marked for certain deſtruction.

But theſe are not the only birds, which inliven a voyage up Beaulieu-river. In the lines I have juſt quoted from Virgil's de⯑ſcription of Aeneas's entrance into the Tyber (the whole of which might ſerve with very little alteration for a deſcription alſo of Beau⯑lieu-river) two kinds of birds are introduced. —Thoſe, which diſport themſelves in flu⯑minis alveo; and thoſe, which aethera mulcebant cantu, lucoque volabant. With the actions of the former of theſe we have already been entertained: but we have not yet liſtened to the muſic of the latter. I have been told it is extraordinary; and that all theſe woods, on both ſides of the river (ſo extenſive are they, and unmoleſted) are filled with ſuch innumerable flights of ſinging birds, that to ſail up the river in a morning, or an evening in the ſpring, affords, in Virgil's language, an avium concentus, hardly any where elſe to be found. The nightingale, the thruſh, the blackbird, and the linnet are the chief per⯑formers [174] in the concert. Some of theſe you hear continually burſting out either at hand, or from a diſtance: while the various petty chirpers of the woods join the chorus: and tho alone their little untuneable voices might be harſh; yet all together (one ſoftening the diſcordancy of another) they make a kind of melody; or at leaſt an agreeable contraſt to ſuch of the band, as are better ſkilled in their buſineſs.

I cannot leave this river-ſcene, without obſerving, that altho it is pictureſque in a high degree; yet it exhibits ſuch a ſpecimen of the pictureſque (if I may ſpeak in terms ſeemingly contradictory) as is not well cal⯑culated to make a picture. The whole is a ſucceſſion of thoſe ſofter, nameleſs beauties; which highly pleaſe; but cannot eaſily be deſcribed. Various beautiful accompaniments are exhibited: but ſtriking objects are wanting. If every reach had been adorned with a caſtle, or a pictureſque rock, ſuch as capt. King's unintereſting river would have afforded, each ſucceſſive ſcene would have been more pic⯑tureſquely [175] marked; tho the character of the river, on the whole, might have been in⯑jured. But now the whole plays upon the eye in the ſame pleaſing, tho unvaried, colours. A ſtrong and peculiar character belongs to the river in general: but the parts if I may ſo expreſs myſelf, are loſt in the whole. They are every where beautiful; but no where characteriſtic.

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SECT. IX.

AT Beaulieu we croſſed the bridge; and turning ſhort to the right, had a better view of the firſt reach of the river from the land, than we had before in our voyage, from the water. The river itſelf had more the appearance of a lake, (for it was then high-water,) and made a magnificent ſweep round a point of wooded land: while the woods, on the oppoſite ſide, following it's courſe, on an elevated bank, were as rich, as a pictureſque imagination could conceive them. The fore⯑ground indeed was not equal to a ſcene, which was in every other reſpect ſo compleat.

[178]From hence we aſcended a cloſe lane cut through a corner of Beaulieu-manor; and inriched on both ſides, but eſpecially on the left, with foreſt-ſcenery. At Hill-top-gate the lane opens into that extenſive heath, which occupies all the middle part of the peninſula, between the river of Beaulieu, and the bay of Southampton. As this peninſula ſhoots into length, rather than breadth, the heathy grounds follow it's form; and extend ſeveral miles in one direction; tho ſeldom above two, in the other. The banks of both rivers are woody; and theſe woods appeared, as we entered the heath, to ſkirt it's extremities. Through theſe extremities, containing the moſt beautiful parts of the country, we meant to travel. At Hill-top therefore, inſtead of croſſing the heath, we turned ſhort into a road on the right, which led us along the ſkirts of the woods, under the ſhade of which we travelled about a mile. Sometimes theſe woods ſhot like promontories into the heath, and we were obliged to ride round them; but oftner our road threading the clumps, and ſingle trees, which ſtood forward, carried us among them. The richneſs, and cloſeneſs of the foreſt-ſcenery on one ſide, contraſted with the [179] plainneſs, and ſimplicity of the heath on the other, ſkirted with diſtant wood, and ſeen through the openings of the clumps, were pleaſing.

From this heath we were received by lanes —but ſuch lanes, as a foreſt only can produce; in which oak, and aſh, full-grown, and plan⯑ted irregularly by the hand of nature, ſtood out in various groups, and added a new fore⯑ground, every ſtep we took, to a variety of little openings into woods, copſes, and pleaſing receſſes.

While we were admiring theſe cloſe land⯑ſcapes, the woods, on the right ſuddenly giving way, we were preſented with a view of the river—Buckler's-hard beyond it—the men of war building in the dock there—and the woody grounds which riſe in the offſkip. This exhibition was rather formally introduced like a viſta. The woods ſeemed to have been opened on purpoſe: but formality is a fault, which we ſeldom find in nature; and which in the ſcene before us, ſhe will probably cor⯑rect in a few years, by the growth of ſome intervening trees.

A mile farther brought us to the ſeat of colonel Mitford, among the woods of Exbury. [180] The houſe is no object: but the ſcenery con⯑ſiſts of a more beautiful profuſion of wood, water, and varied grounds, than is commonly to be met with. Here we propoſed to ſpend the evening; but not finding colonel Mitford at home, we took a ramble into his woods, till ſupper, where we expected to meet him.

The richneſs of the ſcenes had led us imper⯑ceptibly from one to another. We had every where inſtances of the beauty of trees as indi⯑viduals—as uniting in clumps—and as ſpreading into woods; for all here is pure nature: and as they were beginning now to put on their au⯑tumnal attire, we were entertained with the beauties of colouring, as well as of form. Among theſe unknown woods our way at length became perplexed; and the ſun was now ſet. Having no time therefore to loſe, we inquired at a lonely cottage, which we found in a ſheltered glade. Nothing could indicate peace and happineſs more, than this little ſequeſtered ſpot; and we expected to find a neat, peaceful, contented family within. But we found that a happy ſcene will not always make happy inhabitants. At the door ſtood two, or three ſqualid children with eager, famiſhed countenances ſtaring through [181] matted hair. On entering the hovel, it was ſo dark, that we could at firſt ſee nothing. By degrees a ſcene of miſery opened. We ſaw other ragged children within; and were ſoon ſtruck with a female figure, groveling at full length by the ſide of a few embers, upon the hearth. Her arms were naked to her ſhoul⯑ders; and her rags ſcarce covered her body. On our ſpeaking to her, ſhe uttered in return a mixture of obſcenity, and imprecations. We had never ſeen ſo deplorable a maniac.

We had not obſerved, when we entered, what now ſtruck us, a man ſitting in the cor⯑ner of the hovel, with his arms folded, and a look of dejection, as if loſt in deſpair. We aſked him, Who that wretched perſon was? She is my wife, ſaid he, with a compoſed melancholy; and the mother of theſe children. He ſeemed to be a man of great ſenſibility; and it ſtruck us, what diſtreſs he muſt feel, every evening, after his labour, when, inſtead of finding a little domeſtic comfort, he met the miſery, and horror of ſuch a houſe—the total neglect of his little affairs—his family without any overſeer, brought up in idleneſs, and dirt—and his wife, for whom he had no means of providing either aſſiſtance, or cure, [182] lying ſo wretched an object always before him. —We left him ſtrongly impreſſed with his calamity; which appeared to be a more ſevere viſitation, than the hand of heaven commonly inflicts.

We found afterwards, that we had been wholly miſtaken; and that we had before us a ſtrong inſtance of that ſtrange fatality, by which mankind are ſo often themſelves the miniſters of thoſe diſtreſſes, which they are ſo ready to aſcribe to heaven. On relating our adventure at ſupper, we were informed, that the man, whoſe appearance of ſenſibility had affected us ſo much, was one of the moſt har⯑dened, abandoned, miſchievous fellows in the country—that he had been detected in ſheep⯑ſtealing—and that he had killed a neighbour's horſe in an act of revenge—and that it was ſuppoſed, he had given his wife, who was infamous likewiſe, a blow in a quarrel, which had occaſioned her malady.

The next morning we took a particular view of the beautiful ſcenery around us; of which, the evening before, we had only obtained a general idea.

[183]The woods of Exbury, which are extenſive, are chiefly oak—the ſpontaneous growth of the country: but Mr. Mitford found many of the bare, and barren ſpots about his houſe planted by his father, and grandfather, with fir-groves of various kinds; tho generally, according to the faſhion of the times, in formal rows.

On a deliberate view of his grounds, he formed a general plan, reſulting from the various ſcenes they exhibited.—The boun⯑dary of his eſtate preſents a ſeries of views of three very different characters.—Towards the weſt, he has a variety of grand river-views; formed by the Ex, or, as it is commonly at this day called, Beaulieu-river, winding, as we had ſeen it in our voyage, through the woods of Beaulieu, and Exbury in it's approach to the ſea.—The ſouthern part of his boundary overlooks, what was anciently called, the Solent-ſea; but now commonly the channel of the iſle of Wight; which at it's two extre⯑mities diſcovers the open ſea, through the eaſtern paſſage by Spithead; and through the weſtern, by the Needles.—On the eaſt, and north, his boundary-views take a new form. We leave the ſhore, and wind into a woodland country; which within a hundred [184] yards aſſumes ſo new a character, that we might eaſily conceive it to be as many miles from the ſea. In theſe woody ſcenes, inter⯑mixed with open grounds, we continue about four miles; till winding round, we return to thoſe riſing grounds on the weſt, from whence we firſt had the views of the river.

This boundary-circuit carries us through the ſpace of about eight miles. Mr. Mitford has done little, beſides marking it out by cut⯑ting through the woods, as he ſhould wiſh to lead it. To compleat his plan would be very expenſive; tho an expence equal to the natural advantages of the ſcene in good hands, would make this one of the moſt varied, and pictureſque wood-land-rides perhaps in Eng⯑land.

Within this boundary-circuit Mr. Mitford has marked out an interior one, circling about a mile round his houſe. As the object of the larger circuit, is to ſhew, as much as poſſible, the extent of his views; the object of this interior one is to break thoſe diſtant views into parts—to form thoſe parts into the moſt beautiful ſcenes; and to exhibit them with woody fore-grounds to the beſt advantage. From many parts of this interior ſcenery the [185] iſle of Wight makes it's moſt pictureſque appearance. In various views of it from the Hampſhire coaſt, we have ſeen it ſpread in too lengthened a curtain, and it's hills too ſmooth, and tame. Both theſe inconveniences are here, in a degree, obviated. Seldom more than a ſmall part of the iſland is ſeen at once; and this part is about the centre, which is the loftieſt, and the rougheſt. Here riſe two conſiderable hills, Gateſcliff, and Wraxhill; and one of them affords a circumſtance of great beauty. Cariſbroke-caſtle, ſeated on an eminence, about four miles within the iſland, is ſeen very advantageouſly againſt Gateſcliff, when the ſun ſhines either on the caſtle, or on the mountain; while the other is in ſhadow.

In laying out this inner circle, Mr. Mitford had his greateſt difficulties to contend with: for here he had all his grandfather's formal groves to incounter: and it was no eaſy matter to break their formalities; to make judicious inroads through them; and unite them in one plan. He often lamented—what other improvers have lamented before him—the injudicious ſufferance of the growth of trees. Next to the cutting down of trees improperly, [186] the greateſt miſchief is to let them grow together too long. They ſoon ruin each other. He had ſuffered his woodward only to uſe his diſcretion in the diſtant woods. In the groves, about his houſe, he allowed no marking-hammer, but his own. The conſequence was, he was ſo little on the ſpot, that many of his beſt trees were injured. The fir eſpe⯑cially, if it's natural branches are once loſt, as they always are by ſtraitened quarters, never recovers them.—Theſe two circuits round his houſe, Mr. Mitford has joined by three croſs walks

In taking theſe circuits we could not help remarking the comparative virtue of taſte, and expence. The former, with very little of the latter, will always produce ſomething pleaſing: while the utmoſt efforts of the latter, unaided by the former, are ineffectual. The larger the proportion of miſguided ex⯑pence; the wider will the deformity ſpread: whereas every touch in the hand of taſte, has ſo far it's effect.

It is the ſame preciſely in working the ſcenes of nature, as in forming an artificial ſcene. Set two artiſts at work. Give one of them a bit of black-lead, and a ſcrap of paper. [187] Every touch he makes, perhaps deſerves to be treaſured in a cabinet. Give the other the coſtlieſt materials. All is a waſte of time, of labour, and expence. Add colours—they only make his deformities more glaring.

True taſte, in the firſt place, whether in nature, or on canvas, makes not a ſingle ſtroke, till the general deſign is laid out, with which, in ſome part or other, every effort coincides. The artiſt may work at his picture in this part or the other; but if his deſign, and compoſition are fixed, every effort is gradually growing into a whole. Whereas he who works without taſte, ſeldom has any idea of a whole. He tacks one part to another, as his miſguided fancy ſuggeſts: or, if he has any plan, it is ſomething as unnatural, as the parts which compoſe it, are abſurd. The deeper his pocket therefore, and the wider his ſcale, his errors are more ap⯑parent.

To an injudicious perſon, or one who delights in temples, and Chineſe bridges, very little would appear executed in the ſcenes I have deſcribed at Exbury. There is ſcarce a gravel-walk made: no pavilion raiſed; nor even a white-ſeat fixed. And yet in fact, [188] more is done, than if all theſe decorations, and a hundred others, had been added, un⯑accompanied with what has been done. The greateſt difficulty of all is ſurmounted—that of laying out a judicious plan. The reſt, tho the moſt oſtenſible, becauſe the moſt expenſive, is only a little mechanical fi⯑niſhing.

From theſe pleaſing ſcenes we purſued our journey through part of the beautiful ride we have juſt deſcribed to Leap, along lanes cloſe on the left, but opening to the right in various places, to the river, which aſſumes a mag⯑nificent form. Needſore-point makes here an appearance very different from what it made when we navigated the mouth of Beau⯑lieu-river^*. It appears now from the higher grounds, when the tide is low, to run at leaſt a league into the ſea; flat, unadorned, and ſkirted with drifted ſand; making a ſingular feature in all theſe views; and the more ſo, as every part of the ground in it's [189] neighbourhood is woody, bold, and promi⯑nent. This peninſula, of which Needſore⯑point is the termination, belongs to the manor of Beaulieu. It contains ſome good land; conſiſting chiefly of paſturage; and the whole of it is let out in a ſingle farm.

In this remote part, it is ſuppoſed, ſome⯑where near Exbury, the Dauphin, after his fruitleſs expedition to England, embarked privately on the death of king John, for France; burning the country behind him as he fled. His embarkation, from ſo obſcure a place, ſhews, in a ſtrong light, how much his hopes were humbled.

At Leap we met the ſea, where the coaſt of the iſle of Wight, as far as to Spithead on the left, makes nearly the ſame unpic⯑tureſque appearance, which it does from the other ſhores of the foreſt. It extends into length, and exhibits neither grandeur, nor variety. When it is ſeen, as we ſaw it from Mr. Mitford's, broken into parts, as it ſhould [190] always be, when ſeen to pictureſque advan⯑tage^*, it afforded ſeveral beautiful diſtances. But here, when the whole coaſt was diſplayed at once, it loſt it's pictureſque form.— Near Leap however we had one very beautiful coaſt-view. A riſing copſe on the left, adorned with a road winding through it, makes a good fore-ground. From thence a promontory, in the ſecond diſtance, with an eaſy, ſweeping ſhore, ſhoots into the ſea; and is oppoſed, on the oppoſite ſide, by a point of the iſland, leaving a proper proportion of water to occupy the middle ſpace.

Leap is one of the port-towns of the foreſt: and as it lies oppoſite to Cowes, it is the common place of embarkation, in theſe parts, to the iſland. It conſiſts of about half a dozen houſes: and ſhelters perhaps as many fiſhing-boats. All the coaſt indeed from St. Helen's to the Needles, and around the iſland is in peaceable times, a ſcene of fiſhing. In the whiting-ſeaſon eſpecially, fleets of twenty or thirty boats are often ſeen lying at anchor on the banks; or a little out at ſea.

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[191]Fowling too is practiſed, on this coaſt, as much as fiſhing. Numerous flocks of wild-fowl frequent it, in the winter; widgeons, geeſe, and ducks: and in the beginning of the ſeaſon eſpecially, as they bear a price in the country, they of courſe attract the notice of the fowler. As the coaſt between Hampſhire and the iſle of Wight is a peculiar ſpecies of coaſt, conſiſting, when the tide ebbs, of vaſt muddy flats, covered with green ſea-weed, it gives the fowler an opportunity of practiſing arts perhaps practiſed no where elſe.

Fowling and fiſhing, indeed on this coaſt, are commonly the employments of the ſame perſon. He who in ſummer, with his line, or his net, plies the ſhores, when they are overflowed by the tide; in winter, with his gun, as evening draws on, runs up, in his boat, among the little creeks, and crannies, which the tide leaves in the mud-lands; and there lies in patient expectation of his prey.

Sea-fowl commonly feed by night, when in all their multitudes they come down to graze on the ſavannahs of the ſhore. As the ſono⯑rous cloud advances, (for their noiſe in the air reſembles a pack of hounds in full cry) the attentive fowler liſtens, which way they bend [192] their courſe. Perhaps he has the mortification to hear them alight at too great a diſtance for his gun (tho of the longeſt barrel) to reach them. And if he cannot edge his boat a little round ſome winding creek, which it is not always in his power to do, he deſpairs of ſucceſs that night.—Perhaps however he is more fortunate, and has the ſatisfaction to hear the airy noiſe approach nearer; till at length, the hoſt ſettles on ſome plain, on the edge of which his little boat lies moored. He now, as ſilently as poſſible, primes both his pieces anew, (for he is generally double-armed) and liſtens with all his attention. It is ſo dark that he can take no aim: for if he could ſee the birds, they alſo could ſee him; and being ſhy, and timorous in a great degree, would ſeek ſome other paſture. Though they march with muſic, they feed in ſilence. Some indiſtinct noiſes however, if the night be ſtill, iſſue from ſo large a hoſt. He directs his piece therefore, as well as he can, towards the ſound; gives his fire at a venture; and inſtantly catching up his other gun, gives a ſecond diſcharge, where he ſuppoſes the flock to riſe on the wing.—His gains for the night are now decided; and he has only to gather his harveſt. [193] He immediately puts on his mud-pattens^*, ignorant yet of his ſucceſs, and goes groping about in the dark, happy if he have a little ſtar-light, in queſt of his booty, picking up perhaps a dozen, and perhaps not one.—So hardly does the poor fowler earn a few ſhil⯑lings; expoſed, in an open boat, during a ſolitary winter-night, to the weather as it comes, rain, hail, or ſnow, on a bleak coaſt, a league perhaps from the beach, and often in danger, without great care, of being fixed in the mud; where he would become an inevi⯑table prey to the returning tide. I have heard one of theſe poor fellows ſay, he never takes a dog with him on theſe expeditions, becauſe no dog could bear the cold, which he is obliged to ſuffer.—After all, perhaps others enjoy more from his labours, than he himſelf does; for it often happens, that the tide, next day, throws, on different parts of the ſhore, many of the birds, which he had killed, but could not find in the night.

I have heard of an unhappy fowler, whom this hazardous occupation led into a caſe of [194] ſtill greater diſtreſs. In the day time too it happened, which ſhews the double danger of ſuch expeditions in the night.—Mounted on his mud-pattens, he was traverſing one of theſe mudland-plains in queſt of ducks; and being intent only on his game, he ſuddenly found the waters, which had been brought forward with uncommon rapidity by ſome peculiar cir⯑cumſtance of tide, and current, had made an alarming progreſs around him. Incumbered as his feet were, he could not exert much expedition; but to whatever part he ran, he found himſelf compleatly inveſted by the tide. In this uncomfortable ſituation, a thought ſtruck him, as the only hope of ſafety. He retired to that part of the plain, which ſeemed the higheſt from it's being yet uncovered by water; and ſtriking the barrel of his gun, (which for the purpoſe of ſhooting wild-fowl was very long) deep into the mud, he reſolved to hold faſt by it, as a ſupport, as well as a ſecurity againſt the waves; and to wait the ebbing of the tide. A common tide, he had reaſon to believe, would not, in that place, [...]ave reached above his middle: but as this was a ſpring-tide, and brought in with ſo ſtrong a current, he durſt hardly expect ſo [195] favourable a concluſion.—In the mean time, the water making a rapid advance, had now reached him. It covered the ground, on which he ſtood—it rippled over his feet—it gained his knees—his waiſt—button after but⯑ton was ſwallowed up—till at length it advanced over his very ſhoulders. With a palpitating heart, he gave himſelf up for loſt. Still however he held faſt by his anchor. His eye was eagerly in ſearch of ſome boat, which might accidentally take it's courſe that way: but none appeared. A ſolitary head, floating on the water, and that ſometimes covered by a wave, was no object to be deſcried from the ſhore, at the diſtance of half a league: nor could he exert any ſounds of diſtreſs, that could be heard ſo far.—While he was thus making up his mind, as the exigence would allow, to the terrors of ſudden deſtruction, his attention was called to a new object. He thought he ſaw the uppermoſt button of his coat begin to appear. No mariner, floating on a wreck, could behold a cape at ſea, with greater tranſ⯑port, than he did the uppermoſt button of his coat. But the fluctuation of the water was ſuch, and the turn of the tide ſo ſlow, that it was yet ſome time before he durſt venture to [196] aſſure himſelf, that the button was fairly above the level of the flood. At length however a ſecond button appearing at intervals, his ſenſations may rather be conceived, than deſcribed; and his joy gave him ſpirits and reſolution, to ſupport his uneaſy ſituation four or five hours longer, till the waters had fully retired.

A little beyond Leap we were interrupted by a creek, which, when the tide flows high, runs conſiderably into the land, and forms a large piece of water. At all times it is an extenſive marſh. It's borders are edged with ruſhes, and ſedges, which grow profuſely alſo on various, little rough iſlands on it's ſur⯑face. Here the wild-duck, and the widgeon find many a delightful cover; amidſt which they breed, and rear their young, in great abundance.

Near this part of the coaſt ſtands Lutterel's tower; built as the ſtation of a view: but as it is intended for a habitable houſe like⯑wiſe, the offices, which it could not contain, [197] are conſtructed of canvas around it. It is finiſhed in the higheſt ſtile of expence; and if it were not for the oddneſs, and ſingu⯑larity of the conception, and contrivance, it is not intirely deſtitute of ſome kind of taſte. But the building is ſo whimſical, and the end ſo inadequate to the expence, that we conſidered it, on the whole, as a glaring contraſt to thoſe pleaſing ſcenes, we had juſt examined at Exbury; in which true taſte had furniſhed us with a delightful en⯑tertainment at a trifling expence^*.

The view, which this tower commands over the circumjacent country, is very exten⯑ſive; but it's ſea-view is moſt admired, ſtretching from the bay of Southampton to Portſmouth—form thence to St. Helen's— and on the other ſide, all along the range of the iſle of Wight, and beyond the Needles to the ocean. The whole together forms the appearance of a magnificent bay; of which Spithead, and St. Helen's, (where there is commonly a fleet at anchor) make the central part.

[198]But this view, like the other extenſive views we have ſeen, is by no means pictureſque. It might have been ſuppoſed, that the iſle of Wight (on ſurveying it's appearance in a map) would have made ſuch an angle at Cowes-point, which is nearly oppoſite to this tower, as would have thrown the eaſtern part of the iſland into better perſpective, than the weſtern aſſumes from any part of the Hampſhire coaſt. And ſo indeed in ſome degree it does. But the eye is at too great a diſtance to get much advantage from this circumſtance. If the ſpectator were carried nearer Cowes, the coaſt towards St. Helen's might then fall away in good perſpective. But at this diſtance all is ſea; the coaſt is a mere thread; and the whole view together is without proportion.

And yet it is not merely the diſproportion between land and water, which diſqualifies a view of this kind in a pictureſque light. A pictureſque view may conſiſt intirely of water.—Nor is it diſtance, which diſqua⯑lifies it. The moſt remote diſtances are happily introduced on canvas. But what chiefly diſqualifies it, is the want of fore-ground to balance this vaſt expanſe of diſtance. [199] Unleſs diſtances and fore-grounds are in ſome degree, balanced, no compoſition can be good. Fore-grounds are eſſential to landſcape: diſtances are not.

A pictureſque view, as was obſerved, may conſiſt chiefly, indeed intirely, of water: but then, it is ſuppoſed, that, as there cannot be a natural fore-ground, an artificial one muſt be obtained—a group of ſhips—a few boats with figures—a light-houſe—or ſome⯑thing, that will make a balance between near and diſtant objects. Such were the ſea-pieces of Vandervelt; in which veſſels of ſome kind were always introduced to make an artificial fore-ground. We ſometimes indeed meet with amuſing views, ſuch as that celebrated one at Hack-fall in Yorkſhire^*, where there is a gradual proportion among the different parts of the retiring landſcape: we can ſcarce diſ⯑tinguiſh where the fore-grounds end, and where the diſtance begins: yet ſtill there are objects nearer the eye, which, in a degree ſet off the retiring parts, tho they may not be fully proportioned to them. But the moſt [200] advanced parts of water cannot form a fore-ground, if I may ſo ſpeak. It wants, on it's neareſt parts, that variety of objects, which receiving ſtrong impreſſions of light, and ſhade, are neceſſary to give it conſequence, and ſtrength. It turns all into diſtance. Such is the view before us over the channel, and along the ſhores of the iſle of Wight. To the imagination it is the ſimple idea of gran⯑deur: to the eye, a mere exhibition of diſ⯑tance.

Beſides, there is not only a want of natural proportion and balance between the fore-ground, and the offskip; but a fore-ground here could not even artificially be obtained, becauſe of the loftineſs of the point. Take the ſame view from a lower ſtand; from the level of the ſea for inſtance, or a little higher, where you may ſtation a group of ſhips, the maſts and ſails of which riſe above the horizon; and by thus giving the view a proper, and proportioned fore-ground, you may turn it into one of Vandervelt's com⯑poſitions, and give it pictureſque beauty.

But tho the view before us is not pic⯑tureſque; it is certainly, as we obſerved of []

[201] thoſe other views over the iſland^*, in a great degree, amuſing. The whole area, conſtantly overſpread with veſſels of various kinds, is a perpetual moving ſcene: while the naked eye diſcovers, in the diſtance, a thouſand objects; and through a teleſcope a thouſand more. Tho the teleſcopic pleaſures of the eye are very little allied to the pleaſures of the painter, they ſtill aſſiſt the amuſement.— The cliff, on which this tower ſtands, is about forty or fifty feet high; and is formed into a terrace, which runs a conſiderable way along the beach.

About a mile from this whimſical building ſtands Calſhot-caſtle; ſituated like the caſtle of Hurſt^†, on a tongue of land ſhooting into the ſea. Calſhot is another of thoſe ancient coaſt-caſtles, which Henry VIII built, out of the ſpoils of the abbeys. It was origi⯑nally intended as a ſafeguard to the bay of Southampton.—The views here are of the ſame nature as thoſe at Lutterel's tower. [202] They have a leſs extenſive range to the weſt; but this is compenſated by a full view up Southampton-bay. And they are the more pictureſque, as the point of view is lower.

Near the village of Fawley, which is among the largeſt villages of the coaſt, ſtands Cadland, the ſeat of Mr. Drummond; an edifice of a very different kind from that we had juſt been ſurveying. Tho quite plain, it is one of the moſt elegant, and ſeems to be one of the moſt comfortable houſes, in the country.

It ſtands on a gentle eminence on the banks of Southampton-bay, with a great variety of ground playing beautifully around it; which is every where adorned, and in ſome places profuſely covered, with ancient wood. The whole country indeed was ſo well wooded, that no addition of wood was any where ne⯑ceſſary; in many parts it was redundant. This abundance of old timber gives the houſe, tho lately built, ſo much the air and dignity of an ancient manſion, that Mr. Brown, the ingenious improver of it, uſed to ſay, "It [203] was the oldeſt new place he knew in England." The clumps particularly he has managed with great judgment. We obſerved ſome combi⯑nations of aſh, and other trees, which were equal to any clumps we had ever ſeen. They adorned the natural ſcene, and were juſt ſuch as the pictureſque eye would wiſh to introduce in artificial landſcape. We regretted, that the great ſtorm in february 1781 had blown down nineteen of theſe ornamental trees. There ſeemed however no deficiency; tho I doubt not, if we had known the ſituation of thoſe which had fallen, we ſhould have found they filled their ſtation with great propriety. The park includes a circuit of about five miles.

Beſides the beauty of the grounds themſelves around the houſe; they command all the pleaſing diſtances in their neighbourhoood— Southampton-bay—Netly-abbey—Calſhot-caſ⯑tle—Spithead—the channel—the iſle of Wight —St. Helen's—Cowes, and all the other con⯑ſpicuous parts of the iſland: and as many of theſe views are ſeen with the advantage of grand, woody fore-grounds, they have often an admirable effect.

[204]The only thing that appeared affected about this elegant manſion, is the parade, which accompanies ſome of the appendant buildings. At the ſmall diſtance of halt a quarter of a mile from the houſe, ſtands a moſt ſplendid farm. The ſtables, the cow-ſheds, the pi⯑geon-houſe, the graneries, the barns, are all ſuperb. In another direction the ſame honour, tho in an inferior degree, is paid to poultry. This is too much, and tends only to leſſen the dignity of the principal manſion.

As the horſe is ſo nearly connected with his maſter, and contributes ſo much to his ſtate, and convenience, we allow ſo noble an aſſociate to lodge under a roof proportioned to his maſter's magnificence. As he is expec⯑ted alſo to be ready at a call, and may properly be the object of attention to perſons of any rank, we allow his magnificent lodging to ſtand near the manſion, to which it appertains. At the ſame time, if the ſtables be expenſive, they ſhould contribute to the magnificence of the whole, by making one of the wings, or ſome other proper appendage, of the pile.

But for the cow-ſheds, and pig-ſties, they have no title to ſuch notice. Let them be convenient, and neat; but let them be ſimple, [205] and unadorned. Let them ſtand in ſome ſe⯑queſtered place; where they may not preſume to vie with the manſion they depend on; but keep a reſpectful diſtance. Herds of cattle are beautiful, in a high degree, in their proper place, among lawns and woods; but pent up, as they are obliged to be in yards, amidſt filth and litter, they are no objects of beauty. Neither ſhould their habitations be conſidered as ſuch. Ornaments here ſerve only to call the attention to a nuiſance.

From Cadland we proceeded to Hethe through a variety of ſuch beautiful country, that we almoſt thought the houſe we had juſt ſeen, might have been better ſtationed elſe⯑where. In a variety of pleaſing ſituations it is difficult to ſelect the beſt. Something or other may excel in each; and the eye, divided in it's choice, is unwilling to loſe any thing. As we cannot however poſſeſs every beauty, and every convenience at once, we muſt forego that idea; and endeavour to make ſuch a ſelection, as will include the moſt; tho per⯑haps ſome ſtriking beauty, which we obſerve in other ſituations, is loſt. This probably [206] is the caſe of the elegant manſion we have been ſurveying. No ſituation perhaps, on the whole, could have excelled it.

The pleaſing landſcape we met with between Cadland and Hethe, was of a ſimilar kind to what we had already admired—great pro⯑fuſion of full-grown oak, adorning great variety of playing ground. But what parti⯑cularly recommended theſe ſcenes, were ſeveral dips, running down to Southampton-bay; wooded on each ſide, with a rich country beyond the water. They were of the ſame kind, with thoſe we admired between Chriſt-church, and Lymington^*; but much richer, and more beautiful. Two of the moſt ſtriking of theſe ſcenes, were from Stobland-common, and near Butt's-aſh-farm.

At Hethe, the whole bay of Southampton opened in one view before us; but the ſcene it offers, is far from being pictureſque. The oppoſite ſhore is long, and tedious; and the lines of the bay run parallel: for tho in fact [207] there are two or three bold openings in it, formed by the mouths of rivers; yet, in the diſtance, which is about a league, they are totally loſt.

Hethe is the ferry-port to Southampton; which lies higher up in a diagonal acroſs the bay, and upon a neck of land, which ſhoots into it. The flowing tide therefore carries the boat quickly to Southampton; and the ebbing tide returns it as expeditiouſly to Hethe.

From Hethe to Dibden, the country, if poſ⯑ſible, improves in beauty. The many inequa⯑lities of the ground—the profuſion of ſtately trees—the ſheltered incloſures, appearing every where, like beautiful little wooded lawns—the catches, here and there, of the bay—and above all, the broad green, winding lanes, adorned with clumps ſtanding out in various parts— exhibit a wonderful variety of pleaſing land⯑ſcape. I touch general features only; for as theſe woodland ſcenes are no where ſtrongly marked, it is impoſſible to give any particular detail of them by verbal deſcription. One may ſay of them, as we ſometimes ſay of a [208] well-written hiſtory, which runs into a variety of incidents, intereſting indeed, but not replete with any important events; that no juſt idea of the contents of it, can be given, without referring to the book itſelf.

From Dibden, we continued our rout northward, till we entered a beautiful foreſt lawn. We had found many of theſe ſcenes in different parts, each of which had ſome⯑thing peculiar to itſelf^*. This too had it's peculiar character. It was about two miles in diameter. To the eye it's limits appeared circular; and it's form deſcending gently to a wide centre, had ſome reſemblance to that of a diſh. Yet it was far from a regular ſcene. It's great beauty conſiſted chiefly in it's noble ſkreens of foreſt-wood; which growing every where around it with great irregularity, broke out into the ſkirts of the area, not in clumps, which in ſo large a ſcene would have had little effect, but in corners of woods, adding variety to it's limits; yet without incroaching

[209] on the ſimplicity, and grandeur of the general idea. The name of this beautiful, and extenſive foreſt-ſcene is Hound's-down; ſo named probably from the fair advantage it gives the hound in purſuit. If he can drive his chaſe, from the thickets into this open plain, it is probable he will there ſecure him.

Through the middle of this wide down the Lyndhurſt road paſſes to Southampton. The entrance into it, on the Lyndhurſt ſide, is beautiful; particularly between the ninth and tenth ſtones, where the ground is finely diverſified with thoſe woody promontories juſt mentioned. As we approach the top of the hill towards Southampton, the beauty of the ſcene is gone: the extremity is a naked, barren boundary. One advantage however we obtain from it, which is a diſtance; in foreſt-ſcenery the more valuable, as the more uncommon. Diſtances are, at all times, an agreeable part of landſcape, and unite with every mode of compoſition. Here it is intro⯑duced at firſt in it's ſimpleſt mode. A plain fore-ground, without any ornament, is joined to a removed diſtance, without the intervention of any middle ground. In a compoſition of this ſimple kind it is neceſſary to break the lines [210] of the foreground; which may eaſily be done by a tree, or a group of cattle.—As we riſe to the verge of the eminence, the view inlarges itſelf. The grounds immediately be⯑low the eye, are overſpread with wood, and become a ſecond diſtance; beyond which extends a remote one. Under a proper light this landſcape is calculated to produce a good effect. The parts are large; and if one vaſt ſhadow overſpread the woods on the nearer grounds, an inlightened diſtance would form a fine contraſt.

Hound's-down is one of the beſt paſture-grounds in the foreſt, at leaſt in patches; and is of courſe frequented with cattle, which are a great addition to it's beauty. We rarely paſs it in a ſummer-evening without ſeeing herds of deer grazing in different parts; or foreſt-mares with their colts.

One thing indeed disfigures it; and that is the ſtrait courſe of the road, which biſects it. The viſta, which leads through the foreſt from Brokenhurſt to Lyndhurſt, we obſerved^*, was both great in itſelf, and accompanied with infinite variety; and therefore it became both [211] a grand, and a beautiful object: but a ſimple ſtrait road, like this, over a plain, has a dif⯑ferent effect. Tho in fact, it is grander than a winding road, as being more ſimple, and con⯑ſiſting of fewer parts; yet as it is at beſt only a paltry object, and has not grandeur ſufficient to rouſe the imagination^†, it is, on the whole, much leſs pleaſing, than a road playing before us in two or three large ſweeps, which would at leaſt have had variety to recommend it; and might eaſily have been contrived, without lengthening the journey acroſs it, on a trotting horſe, above two minutes.—But in matters of this kind, in which ſurveyors of high-roads are concerned, we expect beauty only by chance; and when we obtain it, it is ſo much gain.

In our way to Hounds-down we rode paſt a celebrated ſpot, called the Deer-leap. Here a ſtag was once ſhot; which in the agony of death, collecting his force, gave a bound, which aſtoniſhed thoſe who ſaw it. It was immediately commemorated by two poſts, which were fixed at the two extremities of [212] the leap, where they ſtill remain. The ſpace between them is ſomewhat more than eighteen yards.

About half a mile on the right, as we leave Hounds-down, ſtands Iron's-hill lodge. It occupies a knoll in the middle of a kind of natural, irregular viſta. In front the ground continues riſing gently about two miles to Lyndhurſt. The back-front overlooks a wild, woody ſcene, into which the viſta impercep⯑tibly blends.

From Hound's-down we returned to Beau⯑lieu, along the weſtern ſide of that extenſive heath, which, as I obſerved^*, occupies the middle diſtrict between the river of Beaulieu, and the bay of Southampton. In this part it conſiſts of great variety of ground, and is adorned with little patches of wood ſcattered about it; and as it is, in general, the higheſt ground in it's neighbourhood, it is not, like [213] moſt of the heaths we have ſeen, terminated by a woody ſkreen, but by diſtances; which being commonly foreſt-ſcenes, are pictureſque, tho not extenſive. Among theſe were ſome woody bottoms, on the right, which were pleaſing.

SECT. X. A tour through the northern parts of New-foreſt.

HAVING now examined thoſe parts of the foreſt, which lie on the ſouth ſide of the inviſible line drawn from Ringwood to Dibden^*; we propoſed next to examine thoſe parts, which lie on the north ſide of it^†.—We directed our courſe firſt to Lynd⯑hurſt. This village ſtands high; and the church, ſtanding ſtill higher, is a land-mark round the country.

[216]Tho Lyndhurſt is but a ſmall place, it may be called the capital of the foreſt. Here the foreſt-courts are held; and here ſtands the principal lodge; which is known by the name of the King's-houſe, and is the reſidence of the lord warden; tho it is but an ordinary building. An aſſignment of timber was lately made to put it, and ſome other lodges, into better repair.

Behind the houſe lies a pleaſant ſloping field, containing about ſix or ſeven acres, which is planted round with ſhrubs, circled by a gravel walk; and ſecured from cattle by a railed fence. I mention this mode of incloſure only becauſe I have often thought it a very good one, eſpecially if a field, like this, conſiſt of ſloping ground: for the rails, which are in many parts hid, appear winding in others; and the eye is ſeldom offended—ſometimes pleaſed with purſuing them, and taking them up again, after they have for a while diſappeared. There is ſome⯑thing alſo not unpleaſing in the perſpective of winding rails.—I do not however men⯑tion a fence of this kind as ſuitable to a regal manſion; or ſo proper in many caſes as [217] a ſunk one: but only as a ſimple, unaffected manner of incloſing a field near a plain, com⯑mon houſe; and perhaps leſs offenſive, than chains, wires, nets, or any of thoſe ſlight, unnatural fences, which cannot be hid, and yet appear ſo diſproportioned. I ſhould wiſh my rails however to be without ornament; and either to be left with their natural colour, or to be painted of ſome dingy olive-green hue: if they are of a bright-green, of a white, or of any other glaring colour, they diſguſt. They are at beſt only diſagreeable conveniences: ornament makes them objects. But above all ornaments we are diſguſted with the Chineſe. That zig-zag work, commonly called Chineſe-railing, is very offenſive. Plain, ſimple poſts, with one, two, or three rails, according to the ſort of cattle we wiſh to exclude, make the leaſt diſguſting fence.

Oppoſite to the royal lodge ſtands a large ſquare building, with a turret at each corner, where the king's horſes, carriages, and ſtag⯑hounds are kept.

[218]I do not find, that the royal lodge of Lyndhurſt has ever been viſited by the ſovereign from the time of Charles II, till the year 1789, when George III paſſed through the foreſt in his road to Weymouth. So long a time had elapſed, that all the etiquette of receiving a royal viſitor was almoſt forgotten. When the day however of his arrival was notified, all the keepers, dreſſed in new green uniforms, met him on horſeback, at his en⯑trance into the foreſt. He travelled without guards; and was conducted by theſe foreſters to Lyndhurſt. When he alighted from his coach, ſir Charles Mills preſented him with two white grey-hounds, by which ceremony he holds certain foreſt-privileges. His majeſty, and the royal family (for the queen, and three of the princeſſes were with him) at firſt dined in public, by throwing the windows open, and admitting the croud within the railed lawn: but as the populace became rather riotous in their joy, there was a neceſſity to exclude them. The royal family however walked abroad in the foreſt every evening. The king ſpent his mornings in riding: and [219] as he rides faſt, he ſaw greateſt part of the foreſt; and ſeemed ſo much pleaſed with it, that he continued at Lyndhurſt (poorly as he was there accommodated) from thurſday the 25th of june, till the tueſday following.

Near Lyndhurſt ſtands Cuffnells, the ſeat of Mr. Roſe. It is not placed exactly as might be wiſhed. High-ground riſes imme⯑diately in front, which is always a circum⯑ſtance to be avoided. But Mr. Roſe has happily managed an inconvenience, which he found. He has laid out a very handſome approach, which winds to the houſe under the riſing ground; and makes it of much leſs conſequence, than when the road was carried abruptly down the ſlope to the houſe. His improvements he has thrown to the back-front, where he is leading a very beautiful walk, through clumps of old oak winding towards Lyndhurſt. But his improvements are yet incomplete.

[220]Mr. Ballard alſo has a houſe near Lynd⯑hurſt, which ſtands high; and commands an extenſive view. The king walked up to it, and with his glaſs continued ſome time examining the diſtant objects. He was ſo pleaſed with it, that on leaving it, he gave it the name of Mount-royal.

From Lyndhurſt along the Rumſey road, the foreſt opens beautifully, on the right, upon a lawn ſwelling in different parts, and ſupported with wood at various diſtances. This lawn is uſed as a race-ground, where the little horſes of the foreſt, of which there is a mart at Lyndhurſt, are commonly brought to try their ſtrength, and agility.

That noble viſta, which we deſcribed after we left Brokenhurſt^*, is interrupted by Lynd⯑hurſt; but commences again, on the other ſide of the town. Here however it is of little value. It is but ill adorned with wood. The [221] trees, which are rare, ſcathed, and meagre, are in general not only ugly, but ill-combined. Some formalities alſo give it a bad effect. Before, it was irregularly great, and ſimple: here the road riſes to the eye in three regular ſtages. The ſummit too is formally abrupt. The road cut through the wood, forms here a gaping chaſm, opening like a wide portal, diſcovering the naked horizon, and making, as it were, a full pauſe in the landſcape: we diſcover it plainly to be artificial; and this hurts the eye. The effect is beautiful on the other ſide of Lyndhurſt, where the chaſm of the viſta, as you approach, is filled with the tops of retiring trees, which excites the idea of ſomething beyond it; and gives it a more natural air.

This gaping chaſm appears long the ſtriking feature of the view, as we riſe the hill. In our approach to it however the eye is, here and there, agreeably drawn aſide; particularly by a foreſt-lawn, which preſents itſelf about a mile, and a half from Lyndhurſt; opening both on the right and left. It is decorated irregularly with wood—riſes before the eye— blends itſelf leiſurely with a few ſcattered trees, and clumps, which come forward from [222] the diſtant woods to meet it—and then loſes itſelf imperceptibly in the depths of the foreſt.

Somewhere in this part, between Lyndhurſt and Rumſey, a charitable ſcheme was projected in favour of a body of Palatines, who took refuge in England, in the reign of queen Anne; and engaged the humane part of the nation in endeavouring to provide means for their ſupport. Many benevolent projects were formed; and among others this of ſettling them in New-foreſt: and the matter was thought ſo practicable, that it was digeſted into a regular plan; and laid before the lord treaſurer Godolphin.

The arrangement was this. A ſquare plot of ground, containing four thouſand acres, was to be marked out, and equally divided into four parts, by two roads running through it, and croſſing at right angles, in the center. Each of theſe four parts was to be ſubdivided into five, ſo that the whole plot might be pro⯑portioned into twenty farms; each of two hundred acres. This proviſion of farms being made, twenty of the beſt, and moſt reſpectable [223] Palatine families were to be looked out, and put in poſſeſſion of them: the reſt were to be day-labourers. Each farmer was to be intruſted with a capital of two hundred pounds; to be exempted from taxes for twenty years; and to have an aſſignment of foreſt-timber, for building, and repairs.

This ſcheme, which ſeems to have been well-digeſted, is ſaid to have been firſt hinted by the famous Daniel de Foe: but got no farther than the treaſurer's board—whether the ſoil was thought incapable of being impro⯑ved; or whether it miſcarried from being the production of ſo wild a genius, which made it ſuſpected as chimerical.

We had now arrived at the ſummit of the viſta, which in proſpect had appeared ſo formal. On a cloſe approach, it's formality wore off; and we found ourſelves ſurrounded by beautiful ſcenery. The ſummit itſelf is a fine wooded-knoll, riſing, on the left, and falling, on the right, into open groves.— As we deſcended the hill, on the other ſide, the cloſe-wooded ſcenery ſtill continued beau⯑tiful, [224] and we found the grand viſta better ſupported with wood.

In wooded ſeenes, like theſe, the plano⯑convex-mirror, which was Mr. Gray's com⯑panion in all his tours^*, has a pleaſing effect. Diſtances indeed, reduced to ſo ſmall a ſurface, are loſt; it is chiefly calculated for objects at hand ^†, which it ſhews to more advantage.

When we examine nature at large, we ſtudy compoſition, and effect. We examine alſo the forms of particular objects. But from the ſize of the objects of nature, the eye cannot perform both theſe operations at once. If it be engaged in general effects, it poſtpones particular objects: and if it be fixed on parti⯑cular objects, whoſe forms, and tints it gathers up with a paſſing glance from one to another, it is not at leiſure to obſerve general effects.— [225] But in the minute exhibitions of the convex-mirror, compoſition, forms, and colours are brought cloſer together; and the eye examines the general effect, the forms of the objects, and the beauty of the tints, in one complex view. As the colours too are the very colours of nature, and equally well harmonized, they are the more brilliant, as they are the more condenſed.

In a chaiſe particularly the exhibitions of the convex-mirror are amuſing. We are rapidly carried from one object to another. A ſucceſſion of high-coloured pictures is conti⯑nually gliding before the eye. They are like the viſions of the imagination; or the bril⯑liant landſcapes of a dream. Forms, and colours, in brighteſt array, fleet before us; and if the tranſient glance of a good compo⯑ſition happen to unite with them, we ſhould give any price to fix, and appropriate the ſcene^*.

[226]After all, perhaps the chief virtue of this deception may conſiſt in exhibiting the beauties of nature in a new light. Thus when we cloſe one eye, and look through the lid of the other half-ſhut, we ſee only the general effect of objects; and the appearance is new, and pleaſing: or when we ſtoop to the ground, and ſee the landſcape around us with an inverted eye, the effect is pleaſing for the ſame reaſon. We are pleaſed alſo, when we look at objects through ſtained glaſs. It is not, that any of theſe modes of viſion is ſupe⯑rior, or even equal to the eye in it's natural ſtate; it is the novelty alone of the exhibition, that pleaſes.—If the mirror have any pecu⯑liar advantage, it conſiſts in it's not requiring the eye to alter it's focus; which it muſt do, when it ſurveys the views of nature—the diſtance requiring one focus, and the fore⯑ground another. This change of the focus, in theory at leaſt, (I doubt, whether in prac⯑tice) occaſions ſome confuſion. In the mirror, we ſurvey the whole under one focus.

On the other hand, the mirror has at leaſt one diſadvantage. Objects are not preſented with that depth, that gradation, that rotundity of diſtance, if I may ſo ſpeak, which nature [227] exhibits; but are evidently affected by the two ſurfaces of the mirror, which give them a flatneſs, ſomething like the ſcenes of a play-houſe, retiring behind each other.—The convex-mirror alſo diminiſhes diſtances beyond nature, for which the painter ſhould always make proper allowance. Or, to ſpeak per⯑haps more properly, it inlarges fore-grounds beyond their proportion. Thus, if you look at your face in a ſpeculum of this kind, you will ſee your noſe magnified. The retiring parts of your face will appear of courſe di⯑miniſhed.

About a mile beyond the woody ſummit we had paſſed, we entered another foreſt-lawn, which tho very confined, has it's beauty; as all theſe openings muſt have, however con⯑fined, if ſurrounded with ancient wood. But about half a mile farther, where the Romſey, and Saliſbury roads divide, another foreſt-lawn of much larger dimenſions, preſents itſelf. This is very ſpacious, well hung with wood, and (what in all theſe ſcenes adds greatly to their beauty) adorned in various parts with woody promontories ſhooting into it; and [228] clumps, and ſingle trees ſcattered about it. On an eminence near this lawn, ſtands a new houſe, belonging to Mr. Gilbert. It ſeems to enjoy a good ſituation; but we did not ride up to it.—In this part of the foreſt are a few ſcattered houſes, known by the name of Cadenam, remarkable for ſtanding near that celebrated oak, of which I have given an ac⯑count in the early part of this work^*.

Not far from hence lies Paulton's, the ſeat of Mr. Welbore Ellis.—Paulton's was one of the firſt works of Mr. Brown; and there⯑fore deſerves the attention of the curious; tho in itſelf indeed it is a pleaſing ſcene. The ſituation of the houſe is that of an abbey; low, ſheltered, and ſequeſtered. It is contained within a paled boundary of about five miles in circumference: but the whole is ſo woody, that the boundary is no where viſible. When Mr. Brown firſt undertook this place, it was full of ancient timber; and nothing was wanting, but to open the area judiciouſly into ample lawns, ſcreened with wood.

[229]A poliſhed ſcene, like this, in the midſt of a foreſt, addreſſes us with the air of novelty; and when natural, as this is, cannot fail to pleaſe. It will not however bear a compariſon with the wild ſcenes of the foreſt. We enter them again with pleaſure; and ſpeak of them as we do of the works of a great literary genius, which contain greater beau⯑ties, tho perhaps blended with greater defects, than the laboured works of a leſs exalted, tho more correct writer. Every thing in theſe cultered ſcenes, may be perfectly correct— nothing may offend; yet we ſeek in vain for thoſe ſtrokes of genius, which rouſe the imagi⯑nation, and are ſo frequently found among the wild ſcenes of the foreſt. Some things how⯑ever at Paulton's did offend; particularly an attempt to improve a little foreſt-ſtream (by forming a head) into a river. Attempts of this kind ſeldom anſwer: and the misfortune here is the more glaring, as a great, white, Chineſe bridge ſtands every where in ſight to remind us of it. We wiſh for ſimple orna⯑ments on all occaſions—ornaments which the eye is not obliged to notice. Here the ornament was particularly out of place; as it was not [230] only a fault itſelf; but led the eye to the detection of other faults.

From Paultons we entered an extenſive tract of riſing ground, which bounds the foreſt on the north, along the borders of Wiltſhire; and ſtretches on the left towards Fording-bridge, the river Avon, and the county of Dorſet. This ſide of the foreſt however is by much the narroweſt. It's limits hardly extend from eaſt to weſt above four miles: whereas the boundary of the foreſt, in the ſame direction near the ſea, extends at leaſt fourteen.

This lofty plain, conſiſting chiefly of furze, and heath, as far as we ſurveyed it, appeared in itſelf little adorned with any foreſt-fur⯑niture. The little wood in any part of it's area bore no proportion to it's extent. But it overlooked very grand views. In a pictureſque light therefore we conſidered it as a vaſt theatre, from whence we might view almoſt all the regions of the foreſt, which we had paſſed.—Towards the north indeed, in ſome parts, it commands views [231] into Wiltſhire; but the country is cultivated; and not removed enough to loſe it's forma⯑lities. This part therefore may be conſidered only as a foil. The grand opening is towards the ſouth. Here we found a ſtation, which commanded a very noble view. The heath, making a gentle dip, preſents a vaſt bay, which ſpreads the whole foreſt, in a manner, before the eye as far as the ſea, in one vaſt expanſe of ſcenery. Bramble-hill, one of the lodges, ſtanding on a knoll, on the left, about half a mile below the eye, occupies one ſide of the opening into this immenſe woody diſtance, and another prominence, on which ſtand the ruins of Caſtle-Malwood, occupies the other. The ſtation may eaſily be found by this direction. Between theſe two pro⯑montories, the eye is conducted from wood, to wood, over lawns and heaths, through every ſhade of perſpective, till all diſtinction at length is loſt; and the eye doubts whether it is ſtill roving over the tufted woods of the foreſt; or is landed upon the diſtant ſhores of the iſle of Wight; or is wandering among the hazy ſtreaks of the horizon. At leaſt it had that dubious appearance, when we ſaw it. But it is one of the choice [232] recommendations of theſe extenſive ſcenes, that they are ſubject to a thouſand varieties from the different modifications of the atmoſ⯑phere.

A vaſt ſcene however, like this, is un⯑manageable as we have often obſerved, tho it may be highly pictureſque.—But our obſervations on this ſubject may be car⯑ried farther, than we have yet carried them.

It is a common aſſertion among landſcape-painters, that if the picture be juſtly painted, an extenſive diſtance in miniature will have the ſame effect on the mind of the ſpectator, as if it were painted on the largeſt ſcale. Stand near a window, they tell you, and the whole may be brought within the circumference of a pane of glaſs. If then the ſame land⯑ſcape were exactly painted on the pane of glaſs, it would have the ſame effect in a picture, which it has in nature.

This reaſoning, I fear, is falſe. It depends intirely on the ſuppoſition, that we collect all our notices of external objects from the eye; agreeably to that conſtruction of it, which [233] the anatomiſt gives us. Whereas, in fact, the eye is a mere window. It is a pane of glaſs, through which the imagination is im⯑preſſed by the notices it receives of outward objects; which notices, tho ſometimes true, are often falſe, particularly with regard to the ſize of objects; and will miſlead it, unleſs corrected by experience. The mathematician talks of the angle of viſion; and demonſtrates, that the ſize of the object in the eye muſt be in exact proportion to that part of the cone of rays, which it intercepts: and it is on this ſuppoſition, the painter aſſerts, that an extenſive diſtance, exactly painted, tho in miniature, will affect the ſpectator like the natural ſcene. But many things are mathe⯑matically true; tho experimently falſe. Such is the famous puzzle of Achilles, and the tortoiſe. The mathematician demonſtrates, that the tortoiſe muſt win the race; tho not one jockey at Newmarket would bet on his ſide. Juſt ſo, the imagination revolts from the mathematical account of viſion. If I ex⯑amine, for inſtance, the height of that tree, by the ſide of a notched ſtick, it is ſcarce an inch. But no mathematical proof can per⯑ſwade me, that I ſee it under thoſe dimenſions. [234] I am well aſſured, that the tree, not only is, but appears to me much larger.

If indeed my imagination could be ſo far deceived, as to believe the landſcape, which is painted on a pane of glaſs, were really the landſcape tranſmitted through it; I might then ſuppoſe it of the dimenſions of nature. On no other ſuppoſition I can give it credit. But if a deceit of this kind could not eaſily be practiſed on a pane of glaſs; much leſs could it be practiſed in a picture. We could never ſo far impoſe upon ourſelves, as to con⯑ceive a little object, of the dimenſions of a foot by ſix inches, hung againſt a wall, can be a juſt repreſentation of a country, twenty or thirty miles in extent.

I mean not to debate the ſtructure of the eye with the philoſopher. All I mean to aſſert, is, that the pictureſque eye has nothing to do with tunics, iriſes, et retinas. It judges of nothing by a focus, or a cone of viſpual rays. The imagination guided by experience preſides ſolely over viſion, as far at leaſt as the bulk of objects is concerned; and it pic⯑tures them, not as painted on a mathematical point, but on an extended plain, and of their natural ſize. How nature manages this mat⯑ter, [235] is beyond the painter's power to explain. The fact is certain: let the philoſopher, if he can, account for it.

To bring the argument to the point before us: there muſt be real ſpace to intereſt the imagination; and excite ideas of grandeur. In a picture, the imagination cannot be impoſed upon. Two or three inches may give us the form of the landſcape; the proportion between the fore-ground, and the offskip; the hue of diſtance, and it's general appear⯑ance: and we may be pleaſed with theſe things even in miniature. But it is impoſſible within ſuch ſcanty limits to raiſe any of thoſe feelings, which landſcape in it's full dimenſions will excite. Try the matter experimentally: ex⯑amine ſuch a landſcape as this vaſt, extended foreſt-view before us, alternately; firſt with the naked eye, and then with a diminiſhing glaſs, (which at leaſt gives as juſt a repre⯑ſentation of the perſpective, and keeping of nature, as any artificial landſcape can do) and you will be convinced how much the idea loſes under the latter experiment. At the ſame time, if ſuch a diſtance as this, exten⯑ſive as it is, were painted on a larger ſcale than common, and properly accompanied, [236] and balanced with fore-ground; we might be tempted to forget it's under-ſize; and ſeeing ſo large a picture, might acknowledge ſome⯑thing like an equality with nature: we might be inclined to forget the deception, and might in ſome degree, feel thoſe ſublime ideas which nature itſelf excites.

Beſides this grand and extenſive diſtance, which we ſurveyed between Bramble-hill, and the ruins of Caſtle-Malwood, we found many views of the ſame kind, as we traverſed the high, and heathy grounds towards Fritham, and Fording-bridge. But the hills about Boldre-wood, and Lyndhurſt occupy the mid⯑dle ſpace between the northern, and ſouth⯑ern parts of the foreſt; and as they riſe conſiderably, and intercept our views, the more we proceed in a weſtern direction, I know not, whether, on the whole, the view we have juſt taken, is not one of the moſt extenſive, and moſt amuſing, which the whole foreſt exhibits.—I cannot therefore conclude a deſcription of New-foreſt more properly, than with this grand exhibition, which in a manner, comprehends the whole.

[237]As I have more than once however obſerved, that ſcenes of all kinds, and diſtances the moſt of all, are ſo diverſified by the circumſtances, under which they are examined, that no ſingle view can give an adequate idea of them; I wiſh, before I ſhut up theſe foreſt-ſcenes, to add a fuller illuſtration of this great pictureſque truth; which ſhould always be in the recol⯑lection of every pictureſque obſerver of nature. The example I ſhall ſelect for this purpoſe, ſhall be the ſcenery around the parſonage-houſe at Vicar's-hills; not ſo much becauſe it is a pleaſing ſcene in itſelf, as becauſe lying con⯑ſtantly before my eye, it is the beſt inſtance I can have: for no one can make remarks of this kind on a ſcene, which he has not fre⯑quently examined.—I muſt firſt deſcribe the ſcenery, before I remark the ſeveral cir⯑cumſtances, under which it is often varied.

Vicar's-hill is a knoll, falling gently, on the eaſt, to a grand woody bank, part of the wild grounds of ſir Harry Burrard—on the ſouth, towards the channel, and the iſle of Wight—and on the weſt towards Lymington-river—all which it overlooks. As it ſtands [238] on the edge of the foreſt, the ſituation of it is nearly conformable to the wiſh of the poet:

The two laſt of theſe epithets indeed belong not to it. It ſtands rather lofty, tho not high; and is ſo far from being ſolitary, that it enjoys a good neighbourhood.

From this knoll, the views are ingroſſed by two houſes, Mr. Cleavland's, and the vicar⯑age; the united plantations of which exclude the proſpect from all other parts of the hill. From both theſe houſes the views are beau⯑tiful; but they are of different kinds. Mr. Cleavland's ſtanding on the weſt ſide of the knoll, has a view of Lymington-river, which forms one of it's beſt ſweeps below his lawn. From hence the eye is carried along the river to it's opening into the channel; of which—together with the ſhores around—the iſland beyond—and the town of Lymington— the diſtant landſcape is formed. Theſe diſ⯑tances [239] are varied, as you view them from the upper, and lower parts of the lawn; and in general, as they are circumſcribed by the high lands, which bound the eſtuary, they are much more pictureſque, and in the eye of a painter more beautiful, than thoſe vaſt exten⯑ſive views of the iſland and channel, which we have ſo often ſeen from various parts of the coaſt. We have had other occaſions to remark the pictureſque beauty of this eſtuary^*.

As Mr. Cleavland's has a better view of the water, the vicarage has a better view of the woods. A houſe built, where it could command both ſcenes, would enjoy a grand ſituation. The view however is ſo good, that it will bear a diviſion; and yet each part form a whole. The vicarage ſtands in the garden; cloſed on every ſide, but the ſouth, which is the aſpect of the beſt rooms. Before it is ſpread a ſmall lawn, proportioned to it's ſize. At the end of the lawn, which is alſo the boundary of the foreſt, is a ſunk-fence; connecting it with the meadows beyond. Theſe meadows declining to the ſouth, and eaſt, form the brow of Vicar's-hill in thoſe [240] directions; and are ſcreened by the grand woody bank, above-mentioned, wheeling gent⯑ly round, which ſhapes the lower part of them into a ſort of ſemi-circular valley. To the hanging woods of this very pictureſque bank, a cloſe, deſcending walk from the houſe, fol⯑lowing the direction of the foreſt-boundary, unites the garden.

The woody bank, which is the grand circumſtance of the view, having thus circled the meadows, falls away towards the eſtuary of the river; and becomes one of it's high incloſures. On the other ſide it is interſected by a riſing ground, on which ſtands the town of Lymington at the diſtance of a mile^*. Over the dip, formed by this interſection, riſes, as if fitted for the place, a lofty part of the iſle of Wight; from which a ridge of high land continues, paſſing over the town as a back-ground. Below the iſland appears a ſmall catch of the channel: but the inter⯑vening woods of the eaſtern ſcreen have now almoſt intercepted it; interpoſing one beau⯑tiful circumſtance in the room of another.

[241]Some of the chief modes of incidental beauty, which vary theſe few parts of land⯑ſcape, are theſe.

In a morning the effect is often beautiful, when the ſun riſing over the trees of the eaſtern bank, pours his ſloping rays upon their tufted heads; while all the bottom of the valley, not yet having caught the ſplendor, is duſky, and obſcure^*.

The effect ſtill continues beautiful, as the ſun riſes higher. Some prominent part of the woody ſcreen always catches the light; while the receſſes among the trees ſtill hold the depth of the morning-ſhadow.

The diſpoſition of the landſcape is as well adapted to receive the effects of an evening, as of a morning-ſun. As all the eaſtern ſcreen is richly, and pictureſquely wooded, the illu⯑mination of the trees from the weſt is generally pleaſing; eſpecially as the meadows, de⯑ſcending to the eaſt, and ſouth, and of courſe declining from the ſummer-ſun, preſent large maſſes of ſhade.

But the effect of light is beſt ſeen in an evening-ſtorm, when it riſes from the eaſt, [242] behind the woody bank; while the ſun ſinking in the weſt, throws a ſplendor upon the trees, which ſeen to ſuch advantage againſt the darkneſs of the hemiſphere, ſhews the full effect of light, and ſhade.

In winter, the iſland is generally of an indiſtinct, grey hue: but in ſummer, when the evening-ſun gets more to the north, it's declining ray ſtrikes the diſtant cliffs, and broken grounds of the iſland-ſhores, and gives them a great reſplendency. As theſe broken grounds run behind the town, the effect of the chimnies, and houſes, when ſeen in ſhadow againſt the warm tints of the iſland-ſhores, is often very pictureſque; much more ſo, than when the ſun throws it's light upon them. And here we ſee exemplified a truth in landſcape, that the light breaks a town into parts—ſhews it's poverty—and diſ⯑ſipates it's effect: whereas all the parts of a town ſeen in ſhadow, are blended together, and it becomes one grand object. I ſpeak however chiefly of towns in the ſituation of this, placed along the ridge of an eminence, and about a mile from the eye. In remote diſtance, a ray of light thrown upon a town has often a good effect.—Theſe ſplendid [243] lights of an evening-ſun upon the cliffs and broken ſhores of the iſland, appear firſt about the beginning of april; but they grow ſtronger, as the power of the ſun increaſes. Various other tints alſo of a bluiſh, purpliſh, and yel⯑lowiſh hue, the effects of evening-ſuns in ſummer, occaſionally inveſt the iſland.

But hazineſs, and miſts are here, as in other places, the great ſources of variety. In general, they have a good effect; but ſometimes a bad one. As the remote part of the landſcape, which conſiſts of the iſle of Wight, does not immediately connect with the woods on one ſide, and the town of Lymington on the other, but is ſeparated from them by the channel, which is about two, or three leagues acroſs, it of courſe happens, that when a partial fog removes the iſland alone from the fight, a violent chaſm is left in the landſcape: there is no gradation; the riſing ground, on which Lymington ſtands, appears ſtaring againſt a foggy ſky without any ſupport of diſtance. Nothing can ſhew more ſtrongly the uſe of diſtances, in com⯑pleating the harmony of a view. When the ſeveral parts of a country melt into each other, as in the grand diſtance we have juſt been [244] ſurveying from Caſtle-Malwood, a fog, or miſt can never introduce any great miſchief. It comes gradually on; and therefore only gradually obſcures. It is the chaſm, which occaſions the blank. At the ſame time, not⯑withſtanding the iſland is not gradually connected with the other parts of the country, the land⯑ſcape loſes in no other modification of the atmoſphere. If the miſt be more general, ſo as to obſcure not only the iſland, but the town alſo, and in proportion the nearer parts of the view, the effect is often beautiful. The woods of the eaſtern bank being obſcured, the firs of the lawn ſtanding much nearer, riſe ſtrongly in oppoſition: the eye is pleaſed with the contraſt; while the imagination is pleaſed alſo with diving into the obſcurity, and forming it's own objects.

The line alſo which the high grounds of the iſland form upon the ſky, is ſometimes ſtrong, and ſometimes faint; ſometimes alſo a part of it is broken, or intercepted by clouds, which gives a contraſt to the other part.

Again, the miſt is ſometimes ſo light, that it removes the iſland ſeveral leagues farther from the eye: yet ſtill the landſcape partaking of the general effect, preſerves it's harmony.

[245]Sometimes alſo, after a heavy ſhower, when the air, as the rain goes off, becomes perfectly diaphanous, like an Italian ſky, and all the the vapours are precipitated, the iſland will advance many leagues nearer the eye: every part of it will be perfectly conſpicuous; even the little diviſions of property will appear faintly ſketched upon it: yet ſtill the clearneſs of the other parts of the landſcape according with it, all will be in place, and a general harmony preſerved.

Theſe are chiefly ſummer-effects. I have often however ſeen beautiful effects in winter of a ſimilar kind; eſpecially in a morning ſomewhat inclining to froſt; when the rays of the ſun have appeared, as it were, ſtrug⯑gling between the hazineſs of the iſland, the ſmoke of the town, and the ſplendor of the riſing ſun. In one part diſtinctneſs has pre⯑vailed; in another, obſcurity.—I have ſeen alſo ſomething of the ſame effect in a winter⯑noon; only rendered perhaps ſtill more beau⯑tiful by ſtreaks of ruddy ſun-ſet paſſing along the horizon, and joining in the conflict.

In the year 1783, when ſuch uncommon fogs prevailed over Europe, the appearances of the iſland were often very ſtrange. Earth, [246] clouds, and water, confounded together in vaſt combinations, ſeemed often to have exchanged places; the water would appear above the iſland; and the clouds below both. But theſe appearances were ſo uncommon, that they ſcarce deſerve mention; nor indeed were they often in themſelves pictureſque.

I omit mentioning here the variety, which the ſeaſons produce on this landſcape; tho as it is a woody ſcene, the effect is often ſingu⯑larly beautiful, eſpecially in autumn.

If then ſo great a variety of incidents ariſe from the few circumſtances of landſcape, which are found at this place; with what variety may we ſuppoſe landſcapes of a larger ſize, and compoſed of more complicated parts, may be attended? particularly, extenſive diſ⯑tances, which are of all others attended with the greateſt variety of incidental beauty. Every landſcape indeed hath ſomething peculiar to itſelf, which diſpoſes it more or leſs to receive the incidents of light, and weather in ſome peculiar manner. An open ſea-coaſt, one ſhould think of ſo ſimple a conſtruction, as to be little liable to receive any change; and yet I have ſtood upon a ſea-coaſt, on a ſun-ſhiny cloudy day, when the wind has been rather [247] briſk; and have in leſs than an hour, ſeen the whole picture under a dozen different forms, from the varying of the lights in the ſky, on the horizon, on the ſurface of the water, or on ſome part of the coaſt.

The concluſions from all theſe remarks are, that every landſcape is, in itſelf, a ſcene of great variety—that there are few landſcapes, which have not, at ſome time or other, their happy moments—that a landſcape of extent, and beauty will take the full period of a year, to ſhew itſelf in all the forms it is capable of receiving—and that he who does not attend to the variations of the atmoſphere, loſes half the beauty of his views.

SECT. XI. Of the animals, which frequent the foreſt.

HAVING thus taken a view of the moſt beautiful ſcenes of the foreſt, it is laſtly proper to people them. No landſcape is complete without it's figures. I ſhall make a few obſervations therefore on ſuch animals, as frequent the foreſt; which the imagination of the reader may ſcatter about, as he pleaſes, in the ſeveral ſcenes, which have been preſented to him. The human inhabitants of the foreſt have already been mentioned^*.

[250]A diminutive breed of horſes run wild in New-foreſt. In general however the horſe is private property; tho ſometimes with difficulty aſcertained. Numbers of people, who have lands in the neighbourhood of the foreſt, have a right of commoning in it; and moſt of the cottagers, who border on it, aſſume that right. Many of them have two or three mares; and ſome, who make it their buſineſs to breed colts, have droves.

The horſe is gregarious. Herds of twenty, or thirty are often ſeen feeding together; in ſummer eſpecially, when they have plenty of paſturage, and can live as they pleaſe. In winter they are obliged to ſeparate, and ſeek their food, as they can find it. In general indeed they are left, in all ſeaſons, to take their chance in the foreſt. Where there is no expence, there can be no great loſs; and what is ſaved, is ſo much gained. In marſhy parts a ſevere winter often goes hardly with them. But in dry grounds, where heath and furze abound, they pick up a tolerable win⯑ter-ſubſiſtence; eſpecially if they have learned the little arts of living, which neceſſity teaches. [251] Of theſe arts, one of the moſt uſeful is to bruiſe, and pound with their fore-feet, the prickly tops of furze. This operation, which I have often ſeen performed, prepares the rigid diet of a furze-buſh in ſome degree for maſtication; and renders it rather leſs offenſive to the palate

When ſuch colts, as have long run wild, are to be caught for ſale, their ideas of liberty are ſo unconfined, from paſturing in ſo wild a range, that it is matter of no little difficulty to take them. Sometimes they are caught by ſlight of hand, with a rope and a nooſe. But if this method fail, they are commonly hunted down by horſe-men, who relieve each other. Colt-hunting is a common prac⯑tice in the foreſt.—The colts which feed on Obergreen, are ſometimes taken by the following ſtratagem. In this part runs a long bog, deſcribed, under the name of Long⯑flade-bottom; which is croſſed by a mole, thrown over it^*. With this paſſage the colt is well acquainted; and on being purſued, is eaſily driven towards it. When he is about [252] the middle of the mole, two or three men ſtart up in front, and oblige him to leap into the bog, where he is intangled, and ſeized.

At all the neighbouring fairs, theſe horſes are a principal commodity, and are bought up for every purpoſe, to which a horſe can be applied. Diminutive as they are, you may often ſee half a dozen of them ſtraining in a waggon: and as it is faſhionable to drive them in light carriages, their price has been inhanced. It is a little fortune to a poor cottager, if he happen to poſſeſs three or four colts, that are tolerably handſome, and match well. He may probably ſell them for ten, or twelve pounds a piece.

In point of value, the New-foreſt horſe would riſe higher, if the ſame care were taken in breeding him, which was formerly taken^*; and which is ſtill in ſome degree, taken in the neighbouring foreſt of Bere; where, I have heard, the keepers are ordered to deſtroy all horſes, which, at three years of age, are [253] under thirteen hands; and all mates under twelve.

There is another evil likewiſe, which tends to injure the foreſt-colt; and that is, put⯑ting him to buſineſs at too early an age. Tho a ſmall horſe attains maturity earlier, than a large one; yet theſe horſes, bred chiefly by indigent people, and generally of little value, are introduced much ſooner to labour, than abler, and better horſes commonly are.

The fame, and exploits are ſtill remembred of a little beautiful, grey horſe, which had been ſuffered to run wild in the foreſt, till he was eight years of age; when he had at⯑tained his full ſtrength. His firſt ſenſations, on the loſs of his liberty, were like thoſe of a wild-beaſt. He flew at his keeper with his open mouth; or rearing on his hind⯑legs, darted his fore-feet at him with the moſt malicious fury. He fell however into hands, that tamed him. He became by de⯑grees patient of the bit, and at length ſuffered a rider. From this time his life was a ſcene of glory. He was well known on every road in the county; was the favorite of every groom; and the conſtant theme of every [254] oſtler. But in the chaſe his proweſs was moſt ſhewn. There he carried his maſter, with ſo much ſwiftneſs, eaſe, and firmneſs, that he always attracted the eyes of the company, more than the game they pur⯑ſued.

The New-foreſt horſe is often ſuppoſed to be of Spaniſh extraction; from anceſtors, imagined to have been ſhip-wrecked on the coaſt of Hampſhire, in the time of the armada. But I look on this as a ſpecies of the ancient vaunt, genus a Jove ſummo; and to deſerve as little attention. Some of them have a form, which would not diſgrace ſo noble a lineage. The grey horſe repreſented in the annexed plate, is among the moſt beautiful. But in general, the croup of the foreſt-horſe is low; and his head ill-ſet on, having what the jockies call a ſtiff jaw. Of this defect a reſemblance is given in the horſe on the left, whoſe head is ſet on, as thoſe of the foreſt-horſes commonly are. Their claim therefore to high lineage muſt in general reſt more on their good qualities, than on their beauty—on the hardineſs of their nature— on their uncommon ſtrength—on their agility, []

[255] and ſureneſs of foot, which they probably acquire by conſtantly lifting their legs among furze.

But tho the form of the New-foreſt horſe is ſeldom beautiful; yet as the ornament of a foreſt ſcene, he is very pictureſque. The horſe, in his natural ſtate, rough with all his mane about him, and his tail waving in the wind, as he feeds, is always beautiful; but particularly in ſo wild a ſcene as this, which he graces exceedingly.

On this ſubject I cannot forbear digreſſing a little, (and I hope the critical reader will not be too faſtidious,) on the great indignity the horſe ſuffers from the mutilation of his tail, and ears. Within this century, I believe, the barbarous cuſtom of docking horſes came in uſe; and hath paſſed through various mo⯑difications, like all other cuſtoms, which are not founded in nature, and truth. A few years ago the ſhort dock was the only tail (if it may be called ſuch) in faſhion, both in the army, and in carriages. The abſurdity how⯑ever of this total amputation began to appear. The gentlemen of the army led the way. [256] They acknowledged the beauty, and uſe of the tail, as nature made it. The ſhort dock every where diſappeared; and all dragoon-horſes paraded with long tails.

The nag-tail however ſtill continued in uſe. Of this there are ſeveral ſpecies, all more or leſs mutilated. The moſt deformed one is nicked-tail; ſo named from a cruel operation uſed in forming it. The under ſinews of the dock being divided, the tail ſtarts upwards, directly contrary to the poſition, which nature intended. The nag-tail is ſtill ſeen in all genteel carriages. Nor will any perſon of faſhion ride a horſe without one. Even the gentlemen of the army, who have ſhewn the moſt ſenſe in the affair of horſe-tails, have been ſo miſled, as to introduce the nag-tail into the light-horſe; tho it would be as dif⯑ficult to give a reaſon now for the nag-tail, as formerly for the ſhort-dock.

Two things are urged in defence of this cruel mutilation—the utility, and the beauty of it. Let us briefly as poſſible, examine both.

To make an animal uſeful is, no doubt, the firſt conſideration: and to make a horſe ſo, we muſt neceſſarily make him ſuffer ſome []

[257] things, which are unnatural, becauſe we take him out of a ſtate of nature. He muſt be fed with hay, and corn in the winter, which he cannot get in his open paſtures: for if he have exerciſe beyond nature, he muſt have ſuch food, as will enable him to bear it. As it is neceſſary likewiſe to make our roads hard, and durable, it is neceſſary alſo to give the horſe an iron hoof, that he may travel over them without injuring his feet.—But all this has nothing to do with his tail, from which no incumbrance ariſes.

Yes, ſays the advocate for docking; as it is neceſſary for the horſe to travel, to hunt, and to race, it is uſeful to lighten him of of every incumbrance. And as it is neceſſary for him to travel through dirty roads; it is uſeful to rid him of an inſtrument, which is continually collecting dirt, and laſhing it over himſelf, and his rider.

To eaſe your horſe of every incumbrance in travelling, is certainly right. You ſhould ſee that his bridle, and ſaddle, (which are his great incumbrances) are as eaſy as poſſible: and that the weight he carries, or draws, be proportioned to his ſtrength. But depend upon it, he receives no incumbrance from nature. [258] It is a maxim among all true philoſophers, that nature has given nothing in vain: and there can be no reaſonable doubt, but that nature has given the horſe his tail to balance, and aſſiſt his motions. That this is the caſe, ſeems plain from the uſe he makes of it. When the animal is at reſt, his tail is pendent: but when he is in violent action; he raiſes, and ſpreads it, as a bird does in the ſame ſituation. Would the ſwallow, or the dove be aſſiſted in their flight by the loſs of their tails? or the greyhound in his ſpeed by dock⯑ing him? For myſelf, I have no doubt, but if the experiment were tried at New⯑market, which I ſuppoſe it never was, the horſe with his long tail, however the literati there might laugh at him, would not be in the leaſt injured in his ſpeed; and would certainly anſwer better, in all his ſudden turns, to the intention of his rider. He would ex⯑tend, and ſpread his helm: it would ſteer his way; and we ſhould ſeldom hear of his running out of his courſe, or on the wrong ſide of the poſt.

Beſides, his tail probably aſſiſts him even in his common exertions; and balances his body, when he trots, and prevents his ſtum⯑bling. [259] I have heard a gentleman, who had travelled much in the eaſt, remark, that the Turkiſh, and Arabian horſes rarely ſtumble; which he attributed, and with much appear⯑ance of truth, to their long tails.

But whatever uſe the tail may be to the norſe in action, it is acknowledged on all hands to be of infinite uſe to him, at reſt. Whoever ſees the horſe grazing in ſummer, and obſerves the conſtant uſe he makes of his long tail in laſhing the flies from his ſides, muſt be perſuaded, that it is a moſt uſeful inſtrument: and muſt be hurt to ſee him fidget a ſhort dock, back, and forward, with ineffectual attempts to rid himſelf of ſome plague, which he cannot reach.

As to the objection againſt the tail, as an inſtrument, which is continually gathering dirt, and laſhing it around, if there be any truth in what I have already obſerved, this little objection diſſolves itſelf; eſpecially as the inconvenience may with great eaſe be remedied, when the road is dirty, either by knotting up the tail, or by tying it with a leathern-ſtrap.

[260]But whatever becomes of utility, the horſe is certainly more beautiful, we are told, without his dangling tail. What a handſome figure he makes, when he carries both his ends well! This is the conſtant language of horſe-dealers, ſtable-keepers, and grooms; and ſuch lan⯑guage, tho originating in taſtleſs ignorance, and mere prejudice, has drawn over men of ſenſe, and underſtanding.—It is inconceive⯑able, how deluſively the eye ſees, as well as the underſtanding, when it is faſcinated, and led aſide by faſhion, and cuſtom. Aſſociated ideas of various kinds give truth a different air. When we ſee a game-cock with all his ſprightly actions, and gorgeous plumes about him, we acknowledge one of the moſt beau⯑tiful birds in nature. But when we ſee him armed with ſteel, and prepared for battle; we cry, what a ſcare-crow! But a cock⯑fighter, with all the ideas of the pit about him, will conceive, that in this latter ſtate, he is in his greateſt beauty: and if his picture be drawn, it muſt be drawn in this ridiculous manner. I have often ſeen it.

[261]Let jockies, and ſtable-boys, and cock⯑fighters keep their own abſurd ideas: but let not men, who pretend to ſee, and think for themſelves, adopt ſuch ridiculous conceits.— In arts, we judge by the rules of art. In nature, we have no criterion but the forms of nature. We criticize a building by the rules of architecture: but in judging of a tree, or a mountain; we judge by the moſt beautiful forms of each, which nature hath given us. It is thus in other things. From nature alone we have the form of a horſe. Should we then ſeek for beauty in that object, in our own wild conceptions; or recur to the great original, from whence we had it? We may be aſſured, that nature's forms are always the moſt beau⯑tiful; and therefore we ſhould endeavour to correct our ideas by hers.—If however we cannot give up the point, let us at leaſt be conſiſtent. If we admire a horſe without a tail, or a cock without feathers, let us not laugh at the Chineſe for admiring the diſpro⯑portioned foot of his miſtreſs; nor at the Indian, for doting on her black teeth, and tattooed cheeks. For myſelf, I cannot con⯑ceive, why it ſhould make a horſe more beautiful to take his tail from him, than it [262] would make a man to clap a tail to him^*.— With regard indeed to the natural beauty of a horſe's tail, we want little reaſoning on the ſubject. In conjunction with his mane, it gives him dignity.—It hides his ſtradling buttocks; which is a decency in nature, we ſhould admire, rather than deſtroy.—It forms a contraſt among the legs. The four equal legs of every animal are it's greateſt de⯑formity; and their ſameneſs of courſe gives the painter the moſt trouble in the management of them. In many of her forms indeed, where nature does not ſeem to aim at beauty, ſhe neglects this economy: but as if ſhe meant the horſe for one of her moſt elegant produc⯑tions, ſhe has provided for him in this reſpect alſo, by giving him a graceful flow of hair, which hiding ſometimes one leg, and ſome⯑times another, introduces a pleaſing contraſt among them all.—The accidental motion alſo of the tail gives it peculiar beauty; both when the horſe moves it himſelf; and when it waves in the wind. The beauty of it indeed to an unprejudiced eye is conſpicuous at once; [263] and in all parade, and ſtate-horſes it is acknow⯑ledged: tho even here there is an attempt made to improve nature by art: the hair muſt be adorned with ribbons; and the bottom of the tail clipped ſquare, which adds heavineſs, and is certainly ſo far a deformity.

The captain of an Engliſh man of war gave me an account ſometime ago, of his landing in one of the piratical ſtates of Barbary, while his ſhip anchored in the bay. He was received by the Dey (I think, of Tripoli) with great civi⯑lity; and among other things, ſaw his ſtables. They were lined with a very long, double row of the moſt beautiful Barb, and Arabian horſes. He was ſtruck with their beauty, to which their grand flowing tails, combed, and oiled in the niceſt manner, were no little addition. As he continued his walk through the ſtud, he came to a couple of horſes with nag-tails. On inquiring into their hiſtory, he found they were Engliſh horſes, which had been preſented to the Dey. The horſes themſelves were fit to appear any where; but the contraſt of their tails, he thought, in ſuch company, made ſo very ſtrange, and diſgraceful an appearance, that he was aſhamed of his countrymen. The caſe was, his eye having been thus accuſtomed [264] to the beautiful forms of nature, had gotten rid of it's prejudices; and being a rational man, ſaw the matter in it's proper light.

I ſhall conclude my remarks on this cruel mutilation, with an epigram by Voltaire.— That celebrated wit was in England about the time, when the babarous cuſtom of docking horſes was in high faſhion. He was ſo ſhocked at it, that he wrote the following verſes, which, it is ſaid, he gave to lord Lyttelton.

There is more indignation, than wit, I think, in theſe verſes. Voltaire ſeems to con⯑ſider docking a horſe, and killing a king, as equal crimes; which however is carrying the matter ſomewhat farther, than the pictureſque eye wiſhes to carry it.

The ſame abſurd notions, which have led men to cut off the tails of horſes, have led them alſo to cut off their ears. I ſpeak not [265] of low grooms, and jockies; we have lately ſeen the ſtuds of men of the firſt faſhion, miſled probably by grooms, and jockies, pro⯑ducing only cropt-horſes.

When a fine horſe has wide, lopping ears, as he ſometimes has, without ſpring, or motion in them; a man may be tempted to remove the deformity. But to cut a pair of fine ears out of the head of a horſe, is, if poſ⯑ſible, a ſtill greater abſurdity, than to cut off his tail. Nothing can be alledged in it's defence. The ear neither retards motion; nor flings dirt.

Much of the ſame ground may be gone over on this ſubject, which we went over on the laſt. With regard to the utility of the ear, it is not improbable, that cropping it may injure the horſe's hearing: there is certainly leſs concave ſurface to receive the vibrations of the air.—I have heard it alſo aſſerted with great confidence, that this mutilation injures his health: for when a horſe has loſt that pent-houſe, which nature has given him over his ear, it is reaſonable to believe the wind, and rain may get in, and give him cold.

But if theſe injuries are not eaſily proved, the injury he receives in point of beauty may [266] ſtrenuouſly be inſiſted on. Few of the minu⯑ter parts of animal nature are more beautiful, than the ear of a horſe, when it is neatly formed, and well ſet on.—The contraſt of the lines is pleaſing; the concavity, and the convexity, being generally ſeen together in the natural turn of the ear.—Nor is the proportion of the ear leſs pleaſing. It is contracted at the inſertion, ſwells in the middle, and tapers to a point. The ear of no animal is ſo beautifully proportioned. That of ſome beaſts, eſpecially of the ſavage kinds, as the lion, and pard, is naturally rounded, and has little form. The ears of other animals, as the fox, and cat, are pointed, ſhort, and thick. Thoſe of the cow are round, and heavy. The hare's, and aſs's ears are long, and nearly of the ſame thickneſs. The dog, and ſwine have flapping ears. The ſheep, alone has ears, that can compare with the horſe.—The ear of the horſe receives great beauty alſo from it's colour, as well as form. The ears of bay, and grey horſes are generally tipped with black, which melts into the colour of the head.—But the ear of the horſe receives it's greateſt beauty from motion. The ear of no animal has that []

[267] vibrating power. The ears of a ſpirited horſe are continually in motion; quivering, and darting their ſharp points towards every object, that preſents: and the action is ſtill more beautiful, when the ears are ſo well ſet on, that the points are drawn nearly together. Virgil, who was among the moſt accurate obſervers of nature, takes notice of this qui⯑vering motion in the ears of a horſe.

The ſame word, which he uſes here to expreſs the motion of a horſe's ears, he uſes elſewhere to expreſs the gleaming of arms; the glittering of a gem; and the vibrating motion of a ſerpent's tongue.—But it is not only the quivering motion of the horſe's ears, that we admire; we admire them alſo as the inter⯑preters of his paſſions; particularly of fear, which ſome denominate courage: and of anger, or malice. The former he expreſſes by darting them forward; the latter, by laying them back.

This digreſſion hath carried me much farther, than I intended; but the mutilation of the tail, and ears of this noble animal is ſo offenſive to reaſon, and common ſenſe, that [268] I have been imperceptibly led on by my in⯑dignation. Tho nothing I can ſay on the ſubject, I am well perſuaded, can weigh againſt the authority of grooms, and jockies, ſo as to make a general reform: yet if, here and there, a ſmall party could be raiſed in oppoſition to this ſtrange cuſtom, it might in time perhaps obtain faſhion on it's ſide.— We commonly ſuppoſe, that when mankind in general agree in a point, there is truth. I believe no nation upon earth, except the Engliſh, have the cuſtom among them, of docking, nicking, and cropping their horſes. —The wiſdom too of all antiquity decides fully againſt the practice. Inſtances perhaps might be found in the bas-reliefs of the Anto⯑nine column, and other remains of Roman antiquity, both of the cropt ear, and of the hogged-mane, (which I take for granted were never practiſed, except in caſes of defect,) but I am perſuaded, no one inſtance can be found, in all the remains of Grecian, or Roman anti⯑quity, of a ſhort dock, or a nag-tail.

Beſides the horſe, the foreſt is much fre⯑quented by another animal of his genus, []

[269] inferior indeed in dignity; but ſuperior in pictureſque beauty; I mean the aſs. Among all the tribes of animals, ſcarce one is more ornamental in landſcape. In what this pic⯑tureſque beauty conſiſts, whether in his pe⯑culiar character—in his ſtrong lines—in his colouring—in the roughneſs of his coat—or in the mixture of all—would be difficult per⯑haps to aſcertain. The obſervation however is undoudtedly true; and every pictureſque eye will acknowledge it. Berghem bears full teſtimony to it's truth. In his pictures the aſs makes often the moſt diſtinguiſhed figure: and a late excellent landſcape-painter^*, I have heard, generally kept this animal by him, that he might have it always at hand to introduce in various attitudes, into his pic⯑tures. I have heard alſo, that a plaiſter-caſt of an aſs, modelled by him, is ſold in the ſhops in London: but I never ſaw it.

One reaſon indeed for repleniſhing the foreſt ſo much with aſſes, is the propagation of [270] mules; of which great numbers are bred in many parts of it: at leaſt the breed was much incouraged before the troubles of America, whither ſeveral were every year exported.

The mule is by no means ſo pictureſque an animal as the aſs; and is rarely introduced in landſcape; chiefly, I ſuppoſe, becauſe he has not ſo determined a character. He is neither a horſe, nor an aſs, and yet has a reſemblance to both. To make an object truly pictureſque, it ſhould be marked ſtrongly with ſome peculiar character.—Beſides, the mule varies in form, as much from himſelf, as he does either from the horſe, or the aſs. He follows his ſire. A mule bred from an Arabian, differs as much from the offspring of a foreſter, as the two ſires themſelves. This alſo injures his pictureſque character. —The mule, from which the annexed drawing was taken, was a mule of blood. The aſs alſo varies from itſelf; but not ſo much as the mule. It is here repreſented under one of it's moſt elegant forms, that it may the more juſtly be compared with a mule of the ſame deſcription.

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[271]With horned cattle of courſe, the foreſt, like all other large waſtes, abounds; and this is a ſource of great pictureſque beauty.— The incloſure preſents only a ſmall number at once, the property of ſome ſingle perſon: but in the foreſt, the cattle of all the neigh⯑bouring hamlets, and cottages, paſture to⯑gether. We ſee them often in large herds; and in ſummer, the ſeaſon of landſcape, they are drawn in numbers, to favorite ſpots, par⯑ticularly about pools, and rivulets; where the various combinations, and attitudes they form are beautiful, and pictureſque, in the higheſt degree.—Beſides, they appear in a foreſt to much more advantage, than they can poſſibly do within the formality of hedges.

But of all animals, with which the foreſt abounds, the ſtag is in a peculiar manner adapted to it's ſcenes. The wildneſs of his nature harmonizes with them; and the beauty [272] of his form adorns them.—We admire his erect front; his ſpreading horns, on which he ſometimes wears above twenty antlers; his limbs finiſhed with ſo much elegance; and his ſtately, meaſured pace.

But here perhaps the advocate for docking horſes will glory in the ſhort tail of the ſtag. He has no reaſon. There is no doubt, nature has provided for the exigences of the ſtag in his ſpeed, as well as for thoſe of the horſe. It is true, the ſhortneſs of the tail in ſo beau⯑tiful an animal, rather ſeems a defect. But as, in the language of religion, the well-ordered mind acknowledges every thing right in the works of God—ſo, in the language of painting, the pictureſque eye acknowledges every thing beautiful in the works of nature. Some objects indeed may pleaſe leſs than others; and be leſs accommodated to the rules of painting. But all objects are beſt as nature made them. Art cannot mend them. Where art interferes, beauty vaniſhes. We dreſs the poliſhed lawn: but we only remove what may there be a deformity, tho elſewhere a beauty. When we endeavour to improve the object—when we clip the holly, and trim []

[273] the box, we introduce deformity. We ſome⯑times indeed artfully remove a branch: but it is to open the landſcape; not to improve the tree.

The ſtag, during his firſt year is called a calf; and does not aſſume the name of a ſtag till his fifth; being known in the intermediate years, by certain tecknical names, which none but foreſters can remember. In his ſixth year he takes the reſpectable title of a hart. Some authors have given it to his fifth: but I follow the authority of Manwood^*.—Beſides this title, he may ſtill attain two higher degrees of honour; thoſe of a hart-royal, and of a hart-royal proclaimed.

If he be hunted by the king, and eſcape; or have his life given him for the ſport he has afforded, he becomes from thence forward, a hart-royal.—If he be hunted out of the foreſt, and there eſcape; the king hath ſometimes honoured him with a royal pro⯑clamation; the purport of which is, to for⯑bid any one to moleſt him, that he may have free liberty of returning to his foreſt. [274] From that time he becomes a hart-royal pro⯑claimed.—Manwood mentions a fact of this kind, which he found on record, in the caſtle of Nottingham. It is dated in the time of Richard the firſt, who having rouſed a hart in Sherwood-foreſt, purſued him as far as Barnſdale in Yorkſhire; where the hart foiled, and eſcaped his hounds. The king in grati⯑tude for the diverſion he had received, or⯑dered him immediately to be proclaimed at Tickill, and at all the neighbouring towns.

An affair of this kind, it is not unlikely, was the original of white-hart-ſilver, as it is called, in the foreſt of Blackmore in Dorſetſhire. Some gentlemen, in the time of Henry III, having deſtroyed a white hart, which had given the king much diverſion (and which, it is probable, had been proclaimed) the king laid a heavy fine on their lands; an acknow⯑ledgment of which was paid into the exchequer ſo late as in the reign of Elizabeth^*. Hutch⯑ings, in his hiſtory of Dorſetſhire, ſays it is paid to this day^†.

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[275]Inſtances of favourite ſtags, and of the warmth, with which mankind have eſpouſed their cauſe, when injured, occur ſo frequently, that Virgil thought a circumſtance of this kind a proper incident for the whole plot of his Aeneid to turn on:

In general, the ſtag is a harmleſs, inoffenſive animal. At one ſeaſon only, when he is en⯑gaged in his ſeraglio, he is fierce. You hear him roaring, and bellowing, at that time, about the foreſt; meditating revenge on his rival, whom he meets, head to head, and foot to foot. While he is able with his antlers to parry the attack, he ſtands his ground: and if he happen to be of equal proweſs with his rival, the conflict is obſtinate. But a weak adverſary ſoon feels the ſtrength of his opponent. He cannot reſiſt his puſh. His flanks give way; and he is preſently driven off the field.

[276]At theſe ſeaſons of riot the ſtag is ſaid to be dangerous. If therefore in paſſing through the foreſt, you ſee him at a diſtance in your path, you had better avoid him by turning a little to the right, or left. If you do not approach, he will not purſue. I have heard old foreſters however ſay, they did not re⯑member an inſtance of his ever doing vo⯑luntary miſchief at any time; and aſſert that he will always avoid the paſſenger, if he can.

But it is on all hands agreed, that he is highly dangerous, when hard preſſed by the hounds, and driven to extremity. When the chaſe is well nigh over—when that elaſtic vigour, with which at firſt he bounded along the plain, is changed into a heavy gallop— when his mouth becomes black and dry— his tongue hanging from it—and his eye marked with horror and diſmay, (cruel, ſurely, to turn ſuch agony into ſport!) his reverence for man is gone: he is driven to deſpair; and all his powers are collected into terror and undiſtinguiſhing fury.

Some years ago, a ſtag in New-foreſt, preſſed by the hunters, and juſt entering a thicket, was oppoſed by a peaſant; who [277] fooliſhly, with his arms extended, attempted to turn him. The ſtag held his courſe, and darting one of his antlers into the man, carried him off ſome paces, ſticking upon his horn. The man was immediately conveyed to Lymington, where he lay dangerouſly ill for ſome time; but at length recovered. I have heard alſo, that when the duke of Bedford was lord-warden of the foreſt, his huntſman had a horſe killed under him by a ſtag, which he croſſed in the ſame imprudent manner.

We have a beautiful deſcription in Shake⯑ſpear, which I cannot forbear introducing, both for the ſake of the picture; and for the knowledge it conveys. The ſorrows of the dying ſtag—his ſighs; his tears; and the unfriendly return his diſtreſſes find from all his former companions, are circumſtances in his hiſtory well-known to the naturaliſt, the foreſter, and the huntſman. The melancholy Jaques is introduced by the poet repoſing on the ground.

The hind alſo, in defence of her calf, is equally formidable, as far as her ſtrength allows; and her powers of exerting it. She has been known to ſtrike a dog ſo violently with the ſpring of her fore-feet, as to ſtrip his ſkin from his fleſh, and lay his ſide bare.

As it is now many years ſince New-foreſt has been a ſcene of royal-diverſion, the breed of ſtags is generally diminiſhed. It is a rare thing now to meet them in the ſouthern parts of it; tho within the memory of man, they were ſo numerous, that I have heard an old foreſter, pointing to the ſide of a hill, on Beaulieu heath, ſay, he had ſeen them lying there in herds, like cows, and horſes. There are ſtill however many in the northern parts of the foreſt, particularly about Boldre-wood, and Burley-lodges; but, in general, the fal⯑low deer are more encouraged.

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[279]The ſtag might eaſily be trained, like the rein-deer of Lapland, to draw a carriage, if we had not animals more proper for the purpoſe. The preſent earl of Orford, I have been informed, bred two, by way of experi⯑ment, which by domeſtication became mana⯑geable, were bitted, and drew a light curricle with great gentleneſs, and expedition.—The ſtag is a native of our iſland; as indeed he is found in moſt parts of the world; differing only in a few accidental varieties.

The fallow-deer is much more limited by nature in the place of his abode; and in this iſland particularly has been received only by importation. He is ſuppoſed to have but two varieties, the ſpotted, and the dark⯑brown. The former is of Indian extraction^*: the latter was brought from Denmark by James I. They are now indeed much inter⯑mixed; but in general the ſpotted race are more the inhabitants of the park; the brown, which is the hardier ſpecies, occupy the foreſt. [280] The latter is the more pictureſque animal. The uniform ſpot of the variegated deer is not ſo pleaſing, as one ſimple brown-tint, melting away by degrees into a ſofter hue, which pro⯑duces a ſort of natural light and ſhade; as indeed all colours do, which blend gently into each other.

Foreſt-deer, tho paſturing at large, ſeldom ſtray far from the walk, where they are bred: and the keeper, who is ſtudious, that his deer may not travel into the limits of their neigh⯑bours, incourages their fondneſs for home, by feeding them, in winter, with holly, and other plants, which they love; and browzing them in ſummer with the ſpray of aſh. When he diſtributes his dole, he commonly makes a hollowing noiſe to call his diſperſed family together. In calm ſummer-evenings, if you frequent any part of the foreſt near a lodge, you will hear this hollowing noiſe reſounding through the woods; and if you are not appriſed of it, you will be apt to wonder, each evening, at it's periodical exactneſs.

Deer feed generally in the night, or at early dawn, and retire in the day to the ſhelter of the woods. Their morning retreat is thus pictureſquely deſcribed.

Mr. Pennant tell us^*, that in Germany the peaſants frequently watch their corn, the whole night, to preſerve it from the depre⯑dations of deer. He needed not, on this head, to have carried ſo far from home: the bor⯑derers of New-foreſt are equally ſubject to the depredations of theſe animals; and are often obliged, when the neighbouring deer have gotten a haunt of their corn-lands, to burn fires all night to deter them. I heard a farmer ſay, that it coſt him five pounds, one ſummer, to guard eight acres of wheat. It is a remark among foreſters, that all the deer-kind are particularly offended by diſagreeable ſmells. The farmer commonly therefore ſmears the ropes with tar, which he ſets up as fences; and throws fetid ſubſtances into his nightly fires, to diſſeminate the odour in the ſmoak.

[282]We need not wonder if ſuch depredations provoke acts of violence. Tho protected by law, theſe atrocious marauders very often, and deſervedly, ſuffer death for their offences.

A farmer however, not long ago, paid dear for taking the adminiſtration of juſtice, into his own hands, on an occaſion of this kind. He had frequently lamented the depredations on his corn; and being at all events determined to retaliate, he narrowly obſerved his fields; and having found the track, along which the nightly plunderer advanced, he took his ſtation near it, as evening drew on, with a rifled barrel well loaden.—After much liſtening, and many little alarms, he at laſt heard the buſhes crackling, and giving way in earneſt. He now made himſelf ſure of his prey; and lying cloſe, he levelled his piece, ſo as juſt to take the ſtag, as he emerged from the thicket. The night was dark; but however allowed him ſufficient light to take aim at ſo large a body. He fired with effect; and had the pleaſure to ſee his enemy fall. But, on run⯑ning to him, he was ſtruck with finding he had killed one of the beſt horſes of his own team.

[283]The ſheep does not frequent the foreſt in any abundance. Here and there you find a little flock on a dry gravelly hill: but, in general, the foreſt abounds with ſwamps, and marſhy bottoms, highly pernicious to the ſheep—the only animal perhaps, except one, which purſues with the greateſt avidity, what is moſt deſtructive to it. It is the leſs how⯑ever to be lamented, that the lawns of the foreſt are not decorated with theſe animals, as they are certainly leſs adapted to a foreſt-ſcene, than deer; tho in themſelves perhaps, more pictureſque. The foreſt is wild, and they are domeſtic.

With hares and rabbits the foreſt abounds. The latter are the under-keeper's perquiſite; and of courſe well looked after. There are many dry, ſandy knolls, where colonies of theſe inmates are ſettled; which are not among the leaſt amuſing of the minute inhabitants of the foreſt.

[284]In the ſame claſs we rank the ſquirrel. He is not of conſequence to be numbered among the pictureſque ornaments of a ſcene: but his form, and manners; his activity, and feats of dexterity, are very amuſing. On extraordinary occaſions, when he is agitated by love, or anger, his muſcles acquire tenfold elaſticity. He deſcends a tree in a rapid ſpiral, as quick as thought—darts up another in an oppoſite direction—flings himſelf from tree to tree with amazing exactneſs—and purſues his mate, or his rival, among the mazy branches of an oak, with a velocity that eludes the ſight.

Pheaſants alſo greatly abound in many parts of the foreſt. In the manors of Beaulieu, Fawley, and other places, where they are protected, they multiply beyond belief. They are ſeen often in flocks feeding like poultry, in the fields; and adorning the woods, and copſes, with their elegant ſhape, and gloſſy plumage.

[285]The partridge is not ſo fond of the wild ſcenes of the foreſt, as the pheaſant. She is more the bird of cultivation. Where the plough flouriſhes, ſhe thrives; and ſeldom chuſes to inhabit a country in a ſtate of nature. The pheaſant has no objection to a field of corn; but he can procure his living without it. He can make a hearty meal of the wild berries of the woods: or content himſelf with a belly-full of acorns. To him therefore corn is a luxury; to the partridge it is a neceſſary. She is generally found gleaning the ſtubble, or baſking under a hedge; and gets into many a difficulty, which ſhe might have avoided by feeding more at large. Sometimes indeed ſhe is found in the foreſt; but it is chiefly when ſhe is hunted by men and dogs from her fa⯑vourite haunts

The black-cock, on the other hand, is more a foreſter, than even the pheaſant. He has no connection with man. He ſcorns the incloſure; and all the dainties of the ſtubble. The wild foreſt is his only delight; [286] and there, his pleaſures lie more in it's open, than in it's woody ſcenes. This bird was formerly found in great abundance in New-foreſt; but he is now much ſcarcer; tho he has the honour, which no other bird can boaſt, of being protected as royal game. To this day when the chief-juſtice-in-eyre, grants his warrants to kill game in the foreſt, he always excepts the black-cock, together with red, and fallow-deer.

The plaintive ring-dove alſo is a great ad⯑mirer of the woody ſcenes of the foreſt. Many ſuppoſe her a ſolitary bird; at leaſt, that ſhe flies only with her mate; confound⯑ing her habits perhaps with thoſe of the turtle-dove; which, I believe, is ſolitary: but the ring-dove is certainly gregarious: I have often ſeen in the foreſt large flocks of this ſpecies together, in the winter months; ſo well the poet knew their nature, by con⯑traſting them with the wood-cock:

[287]The wood-cock indeed is ſometimes ſeen in the foreſt: but the rough lawns and heaths, he finds there, do not intirely ſuit his appetite. He is curious in the choice of his haunts. He muſt have ſome ſweet woody glen, watered by little ouzing moſſy rills, into which he may eaſily thruſt his beak; and theſe he cannot every where meet with in the foreſt.

The ſnipe, leſs delicate in her haunts, is the frequent inhabitant of the wildeſt ſcenes. Any ſwamp, or marſhy ſpot will pleaſe her; and of theſe ſhe finds abundance in various parts of the foreſt.

Plover, of different kinds, are common alſo in it's heathy parts. I have ſome⯑times ſeen large flocks of the grey ſpecies; and have ſtood admiring them, as they in⯑circled the air. In their regular mode of flight, they in ſome degree reſemble water-fowl: but they are not ſo determined in their [288] courſe; wheeling about, and forming various evolutions, which are very amuſing. Some⯑times they appear all ſcattered, and ſeem in confuſion; till cloſing together, as if by the word of command, they get again into form.

With regard to all the ſongſters of the grove, the woody ſcenes of the foreſt are vocal with them. The thruſh, the black-bird, the linnet, and the nightingale, abound on every ſpray. The nightingale above all, delights in the wild ſcenes of the foreſt. The black-bird, and the thruſh are often ſeen tripping over the embelliſhed lawn, or flirting from the neat trimmed holly-hedge. But the nightingale rarely frequents theſe cultured ſpots. To her they afford little pleaſure. Her commoneſt haunts are thoſe of nature—the brake, the copſe, the rough hedge, or the foreſt, where ſhe ſings her melodious ſtrains to woods, and ſolitude; and often ‘—waſtes her ſweetneſs on the deſert air:’ only that her voice, ſo varied, clear, and full, is heard far and wide, when the evening is [289] ſtill; almoſt at hand, tho in the diſtant wood.

Among the birds of harmony, there are two, which I ſhall find it difficult perhaps to eſ⯑tabliſh in that claſs—the jay, and the wood⯑pecker. Their ſcreams, however diſcordant in themſelves, or when out of place, accord admirably with the foreſt; and produce that kind of local harmony, which one of our old poets ^* aſcribes to the ſound of a drum: it may be diſſonant in one place, tho muſical in another.

"We take muſic however here (according to a very good definition of it) in the large, and proper ſenſe of the word—as the art of variouſly affecting the mind by the power of ſounds."^†

[290]But beſides the harmony ariſing from the agreement of theſe wild notes with the ſcenes of the foreſt; there is another ſource of it in the ſympathetic feelings of the mind. Theſe wild notes excite ideas of thoſe pleaſing foreſt-ſcenes, where we have commonly heard them.—But I ſhall give my meaning in better words, than my own.

But however diſcordant the notes of theſe birds may be to the faſtidious ear; their rich, yet harmonious plumage, muſt at leaſt recom⯑mend them as highly ornamental to every ſcene, [291] which they frequent. The wood-pecker par⯑ticularly is arrayed in the richeſt plumage of any bird we have, except the king-fiſher: yet all his ſplendid tints are perfectly har⯑monious. The jay alſo is beautifully tinted on his back, and breaſt, with a light purpliſh hue, intermixed with grey; and his wing is perhaps the moſt admirable piece of work⯑manſhip in the whole feathered creation.

On the ſame ground with the jay, and the wood-pecker, I ſhould not ſcruple alſo to rank the kite—if his manners did not diſturb the harmony of the woods, as much as his voice ſupports it. Independent of his man⯑ners, he is one of the moſt harmonious ap⯑pendages of the foreſt; where Mr. Pennant makes him indigenous^*. He is too ſmall for pictureſque uſe; but highly ornamental to the natural ſcene. His motions are eaſy, and beautiful in a great degree. He does not flap his pinions, like the rook, or the mag⯑pie; and labour through the air: he ſails [292] along, with ſteady wing, as if he were lord of the element, on which he rode.—But what harmonize chiefly with the foreſt are his wild ſcreams, which ſtrike notes in pe⯑culiar uniſon with thoſe ſcenes, over which he ſails.

It is remarkable, that we ſeldom ſee more than two of this ſpecies together, the male and the female. They ſeem to divide the foreſt into provinces. Each bird hath his own; and, with more than princely caution, avoids his neighbour's. It is his great em⯑ployment to circle through the air, as the poet deſcribes him above, in various evo⯑lutions over his own woody dominions; where with keen eye, and keener talons, he ſtill preſerves the ſpirit of the old foreſt-law.

[293]Very often the eagle himſelf is found in the foreſt. Mountainous, and rocky coun⯑tries are his delight. On the ledge of ſome ſteep, prominent rock he builds his eyry, and rears his royal progeny. But when food be⯑comes ſcarce in thoſe deſolate regions, as it ſometimes does, he finds it convenient to make an excurſion into the foreſt. Here he hunts the leveret, and the fawn; and ſcreens his atrocious deeds in the cloſeſt woods. Wher⯑ever he is ſeen, the watchful foreſter endeavours to keep him in ſight, till he bring him to the ground. And yet I have heard of a pair of eagles, which took poſſeſſion of a part of the foreſt, called King's-wood, where they eluded all the arts of the keeper, and continued their annual depredations, for ſeveral years. Some time ago, an eagle was killed, after three diſcharges, near Aſhy-lodge; and was ex⯑tended, like the imperial arms, in the court⯑room of the king's-houſe at Lyndhurſt.

Of all the feathered inhabitants of the foreſt I ſhould have thought it's ſcenes, in all reſpects, the beſt adapted to the rook. Here he might build his habitation; and rear his [294] young, far from the prying eyes of men. Here alſo he might indulge his ſocial temper without limits; and inlarge his aerial town from wood to wood.—But he has no ſuch ideas. I cannot learn that he ever thought of forming a ſettlement in the foreſt; which is the more extraordinary, as he is in fact a lover of it's ſcenes; and rejoices in them at all times, but in the breeding-ſeaſon, when one ſhould ima⯑gine, he ſtood moſt in need of their ſhelter. At that time he ſeems ſedulouſly to court the faithleſs habitations of men; through what propenſity, or inſtinct of nature, the naturaliſt is wholly at a loſs to determine. After his family is reared, and he has carried off in ſafety ſuch of his progeny, as have eſcaped the arts of men, and boys, he retires every evening, at a late hour, during the autumn, and winter months, to the cloſeſt covers of the foreſt, having ſpent the day in the open fields, and incloſures, in queſt of food. His late retreat to the foreſt, is characteriſtic of the near approach of night.

And again,

But in his economy there is ſomething ſin⯑gular. Tho the foreſt is his winter-habitation (if I may call that his habitation, which, like other vagrants, he uſes only as a place to ſleep in) he generally every day viſits his nurſery; keeping up the idea of a family, which he begins to make proviſion for in earneſt very early in the ſpring.

Among all the ſounds of animal nature, ſew are more pleaſing than the cawing of rooks. The rook has but two, or three notes; and when he attempts a ſolo, we cannot praiſe his ſong. But when he performs in concert, which is his chief delight, theſe two or three notes, tho rough in themſelves, being mixed, and intermixed with the notes of a multitude, have all their ſharp edges worn off, and become very harmonious; eſpecially when ſoftened in the air, where the band chiefly exhibits. You have this muſic in perfection, when the whole colony is rouſed by the diſcharge of a gun.—The cawing of rooks however is a ſound not ſo congenial to the foreſt, as it is to the grove.

[296]Among the winged inhabitants of the foreſt we ſhould not forget the honey-bee, which every where covers the ſurface of it. Theſe wide demeiſns are in many parts ſpread with heath, which is one of the favorite vege⯑tables of this induſtrious inſect. Where this abounds, the cottager commonly carries out his hives in winter, hiding them, as he can, from obſervation; and fencing them from the annoyance of cattle. There he leaves them, till ſwarming-time, when they neceſſarily become the objects of his care; and if he is fortunate, his profits are conſiderable. I knew a cottager who made above fifteen guineas, in one year, of his foreſt-honey; tho he ſold it only at three pence a pound. Sometimes the hive is diſcovered, and ſtolen; tho in general it is a garriſon, which can defend itſelf pretty well: however as the prudent peaſant never places all his wealth in one place, he generally at worſt, ſecures enough to repay his trouble. —Hampſhire-honey is in good eſteem; but it is rather the honey produced in the northern parts of the county, than what is commonly called foreſt-honey.

[297]Another ſpecies of fly ſhould not be paſſed over, which is one of the greateſt nuiſances of the foreſt. In form it is not unlike the com⯑mon black fly, and about it's ſize; but it's colour is different. It is a bright-coated, brown inſect; well-caſed; ſtrong; and very retentive of life^*. It has a ſide-long, crawling motion, like a crab. The horſe is it's favo⯑rite quarry, tho it attacks the cow, and other animals. You may ſometimes ſee hundreds of theſe inſects neſtling under the tail, and belly of ſuch horſes, as are patient of them; as the New-foreſt horſe commonly is by long ſufferance. But to ſuch horſes, as are unaccuſtomed to theſe teaſing inſects, they are a grievous torment; tho it is doubtful, whether they are blood-ſuckers, or ſubſiſt only on ſuch juices as exude through the ſkin. In this latter caſe they offend the horſe only by tickling him; for which opera⯑tion their legs are well adapted, appearing, in a microſcope, armed with ſharp talons, like pot-hooks.

[298]Such are the inmates of the internal parts of the foreſt. Along it's ſhores, bordering on the iſle of Wight, it is furniſhed with a new ſet of inhabitants—thoſe various tribes of ſea-fowl, which frequent the brackiſh waters of an eſtuary.

Among the moſt common, as well as the moſt beautiful, is the gull. Water-fowl, in a particular manner, diſcover in their flight ſome determined aim. They eagerly coaſt the river, or return to the ſea; bent on ſome purpoſe, of which they never loſe ſight. But the evo⯑lutions of the gull appear capricious, and un⯑directed, both when ſhe flies alone, and, as ſhe often does, in large companies.—The more however her character ſuffers as a loiterer, the more it is raiſed in pictureſque value, by her continuing longer before the eye; and diſplaying, in her elegant ſweeps along the air, her ſharp-pointed wings, and bright ſilvery hue.—She is beautiful alſo, not only on the wing, but when ſhe floats, in numerous aſſem⯑blies, on the water; or when ſhe reſts on the ſhore, dotting either one, or the other with white ſpots; which, minute as they are, are [299] very pictureſque; and may properly be intro⯑duced in landſcape; giving life and ſpirit to a view. Sea-painters particularly make great uſe of this bird, and often with good effect. The younger Vandervelt was fond of intro⯑ducing it: he knew the value of a ſingle bright touch in heightening his ſtorms.

As the wheeling motion of the gull is beau⯑tiful, ſo alſo is the figured flight of the gooſe, the duck, and the widgeon; all of which are highly ornamental to coaſt-views, bays and eſtuaries. We often ſee innumerable bodies of theſe, and other ſea-fowl, congregated in cloſe array, and filling the air with their re⯑ſounding cries^*. They are not hyperbolically deſcribed as

In a pictureſque light theſe living clouds are of little value; unleſs indeed ſome wild, for⯑lorn, and rocky coaſt is preſented, where theſe [300] ſea-fowls commonly breed; and where in great bodies they are characteriſtic.

Among the ſolitary birds, which frequent the eſtuaries of rivers, the hern, and the cormorant are of too much conſequence to be omitted.

The form, in which the hern contracts his long neck in flying—his out-ſtretched legs— the ſolemn flapping of his wings—his eaſy deliberation in taking the ground—the blueiſh tint of his plumes, ſoftening into white—and his patient, and attentive poſture, as he ſtands fiſhing on the ſhore—are all, circumſtances as far as they go, pictureſque. His hoarſe note too, at pauſing intervals, as he paſſes through the air, tho harſh and diſcordant when un⯑aided by it's proper accompaniments, like other notes of the ſame kind, when the ſcenes of nature act in concert with it, hath it's full energy, and effect.—I call the hern a ſolitary bird, becauſe his common habits, and manner of ſeeking his food, are ſolitary: we ſeldom ſee more than two in company; tho, like the rook, he breeds in large ſocieties.

[301]Nor is the cormorant without his beauty. His eager, ſteady, determined flight—his plunging into the waters—his wild look, as if conſcious of guilt—his buſtle on being alarmed; ſhaking the moiſture from his fea⯑thers, and daſhing about, till he get fairly diſ⯑engaged, are all amuſing circumſtances in his hiſtory. But he is a mercileſs villain; ſup⯑poſed by naturaliſts to be furniſhed with a greater variety of predatory arts, than any bird that inhabits the waters. When the tide re⯑tires, he wings his ardent flight with ſtrong pinions, and out-ſtretched neck, along the ſhores of the deſerted river; with all the chan⯑nels, and currents of which he is better ac⯑quainted, than the mariner with his chart. Here he commits infinite ſpoil. Or, if he find his prey leſs plentiful in the ſhallows, he is at no loſs in deeper water. He dives to the bot⯑tom, and viſits the eel in her retirement, of all others his favourite morſel^*.—In vain the fowler eyes him from the bank; and takes his ſtand behind the buſh. The cormorant, [302] quicker-ſighted, knows his danger; and parries it with a glance of his eye. If he chuſe not to truſt his pinions, in a moment he is un⯑der water—riſes again in ſome diſtant part— inſtantly ſinks a ſecond time; and eludes the poſſibility of taking aim. Even if a random⯑ſhot ſhould touch him, unleſs it carry a weight of metal, his ſides are ſo well caſed, and his muſcular frame ſo robuſt, that he eſcapes miſchief.—If the weather ſuit, he fiſhes alſo dexterouſly at ſea. Or perhaps he only varies his food between ſea-fiſh, and river-fiſh, as his palate prompts.—When he has filled his maw, he retires to the ledge of ſome pro⯑jecting rock; where he liſtens to the ſurges below in doſing contemplation, till hunger again awaken his powers of rapine.

SECT. XII.

THUS I have carried my reader through all the varieties I know, of wood⯑land ſcenes. I conſidered firſt the ſingle tree as the origin, and foundation of all. I con⯑ſidered next the various combinations of trees, under the ſeveral beautiful forms of ſcenery, which they compoſe: and as the foreſt is of all others, the grandeſt, and moſt intereſting combination of trees, I dwelt the longeſt on this part of my ſubject; ſelecting New-foreſt in Hampſhire as an example to illuſtrate the ſeveral obſervations I had made. Through this pictureſque country I have led my reader geographically; and have preſented him with a great variety of beautiful ſcenes—woods—lawns —heaths—foreſt-diſtances—and ſea-coaſt [304] views. I have adorned theſe ſcenes alſo with their proper appendages, wild horſes, deer, and other pictureſque inhabitants.—I might greatly have multiplied both my general and particular remaks; but I fear I ought rather to apologize for my redundances, than my omiſſions.

I now cloſe my obſervations with a ſigh over the tranſitory ſtate of the ſeveral ſcenes, I have deſcribed. I mean not, with unphi⯑loſophic weakneſs, to bemoan the periſhable condition of ſublunary things; but to lament only, that, of all ſublunary things, the wood-land-ſcene, which is among the moſt beautiful, ſhould be among the moſt periſhable.

Some ſpecies of landſcape are of permanent nature; ſuch particularly as depend on rocks, mountains, lakes, and rivers. The ornamen⯑tal appendages indeed of theſe ſcenes, the oaks, and elms, that adorn them, are of a more tranſient kind. But the grand con⯑ſtituent parts of them may be ſuppoſed coeval with nature itſelf. Nothing leſs than ſome general convulſion can injure them.

Such landſcape again as depends for beauty on old caſtles, abbeys, and other ruins, ge⯑nerally eſcapes for ages the depredations of [305] time. If the woody appendages of theſe ſcenes, like thoſe of lakes, and mountains, are open to injury, yet a quick vegetation reſtores them ſpeedily to nature—unleſs indeed the perſever⯑ing hand of improvement intervene.

But the landſcape, which depends chiefly on wood-land ſcenery, is always open to in⯑jury. Every graceleſs, hand can fell a tree. The value of timber is it's misfortune. It is rarely ſuffered to ſtand, when it is fit for uſe; and in a cultivated country, woods are con⯑ſidered only as large corn-fields; cut, as ſoon as ripe: and when they are cut for the uſes, to which they are properly deſigned, tho we may lament, we ſhould not repine. But when they are cut, as they often are, yet imma⯑ture, to make up a matrimonial purſe, or to carry the profits of them to race-grounds, and gaming-houſes, we cannot help wiſhing the profligate poſſeſſors had been placed, like lunatics, and idiots, under the care of guardians, who might have prevented ſuch ruinous, and unwarrantable waſte.

The depredations, which we have ſeen made in every part of New-foreſt; and the vaſt quantities of timber, which are felled, every year, for the navy; and regularly aſſigned for [306] various other purpoſes, cannot but make a conſiderable change in it's ſcenery. The de⯑ſcription therefore, which I have given of it, is not the deſcription of what it was in the laſt century, nor of what it will be in the next. Many alterations in particular ſcenes have taken place, even ſince this work was begun. In a fore-ground, the cutting down of two or three ſtately trees makes an eſſential al⯑teration; and much change of this kind hath been made in many places. In theſe inſtances therefore the remarks here offered muſt be conſidered as hiſtory, rather than as deſcription. They attempt to chronicle ſcenes, which once exiſted, and are now gone. That grand viſta, which hath been deſcribed between Brokenhurſt, and Lyndhurſt, hath, ſince theſe remarks were made, undergone much change. Many of the nobler trees, which adorned it, have been felled: and many of the old decaying trees, and others which had been ſtunted under the ſhade of thoſe, that had been felled, are now grown ſtill more decayed, and ragged. They are ill-clad and thin; and their withered branches every where ſtare out, unadorned, and naked through their meagre foliage. From theſe cauſes, and the deformed gaps, which the felling of good trees hath oc⯑caſioned, [307] this avenue hath loſt much of it's beauty.—The reader will ſtill remember, that when in the early part of the work^*, I conſidered the maladies of trees as a ſource of pictureſque beauty, I meant it only with regard to individuals placed in particular circumſtances. Here, where we are contemplating the beauties of what ſhould be a rich foreſt-ſcene, they are out of place.—It muſt however be added, that altho theſe changes are continually hap⯑pening among the ancient oaks of the foreſt; yet as young trees are growing old, nature is alſo continually working up new fore-grounds to her landſcapes; tho it is a much eaſier buſineſs to deform, than to reſtore.

In the diſtant ſcenery of the foreſt indeed, where effect depends on vaſt combinations of trees, and may be produced even from the inferior kinds, the inroads of the axe are leſs obſerved. Tho the choiceſt oaks therefore may be removed; yet if a ſufficiency of meaner trees is left, no conſiderable change will happen, for many years, in the diſtant landſcapes of the foreſt. The lawns, and heaths, in which it's [308] greateſt beauty conſiſts, will preſerve their or⯑naments: and, unleſs where their dimenſions are ſmall (in which caſe ſtately trees are re⯑quired as fore-grounds,) they may long remain the objects of admiration.