Here stood the Oak-tree on which an arrow, shot by Sir Walter Tyrrel at a stag, glanced and struck King William the Second, surnamed Rufus, on the breast, of which he instantly died, on the second day of August, anno 1100. King William the Second, surnamed Rufus, being slain, as before related, was laid in a cart, belonging to one Purkis, and drawn from hence to Winchester, and buried in the cathedral church of that city. That the spot where an event so memorable might not hereafter be forgotten, the enclosed stone was set up by John, Lord Delaware, who had seen the tree growing in this place. This stone having been much William Sturges Bourne, Old Leland tells us there was a chapel here when he visited the spot during his famous Itinerary: a little edifice, no doubt, in which, according to the ancient custom, masses were said for the repose of the monarch's soul; but as years passed away and opinion ripened, the altar was forsaken, until at last, old, mossy, and weatherstained, the walls crumbled away and left no trace be hind. That the fatal tree was still standing two hundred years ago appears from Charles II. having ordered a fence to be set up around it. One would like to know something about the tree: was it large? or straight? or crooked? did it die of old age? or was it cut down? are questions suggested by the scene. When did Lord Delaware see it? He set up his stone in the memorable '45, and that, as we have seen, would have disappeared too, had it not been so effectually protected. The place, shut in on all sides, except towards the north, is very quiet, and favourable to a day-dream. You may recline on the turf and shape your ideas of the historic incident into a more defined form than was ever possible by merely reading about it. Pass but twenty paces within the margin of the neighbouring trees, and you are safe from all chance of intrusion; or, if not inclined for a reverie, you may remount the hill by a path slanting away on the right, to the Compton Arms, at Stony Cross. This is an inn well known to picnic parties, and to a class of visitors who spend their holidays in the New Forest. It stands well for recreation. From the garden at the back you get the same view as from the brow in coming up the hill from Minstead, but with a clearer foreground, and there you may sit and contemplate if you will for hours. Within ten minutes' distance are pleasant walks innumerable, and miles of leafy shade; and for those who require something more than scenery, there are fossils to be sought for in the clay strata that run through the district from north to south, besides living specimens of natural history sufficient to satisfy the most persevering observer. There are antiquities too: the eminence crowned by the site of Malwood Keep is not far off; at Crockhill, a few miles on the way towards Fordingbridge, are the remains of potteries, where pots and dishes made by Romans sixteen hundred years ago may still be dug out of the mounds that time has piled over their works, and with the chance of finding a stray coin of some of the Caesars among the heaps of sherds. Hurst Castle, Lymington, Christchurch, and Brockenhurst are all within a day's ride; and Boldre, that peaceful village, which few will fail to visit, for it was there that the worthy pastor Gilpin lived and laboured, where he founded schools, and wrote those works on the picturesque which have made his name familiar to a host of readers, and where you will see his tomb in the churchyard as you ascend the path to gaze on the wide-spread view seen from its highest level. Here are attractions to deprive a sojourn in the forest of all weariness. The landlord of the inn, thinking, perhaps, I was inclined to remain, told me he had three families then staying in the house, and offered to provide me with all the essentials of bed and board for thirty-five shillings a week. Mine, however, was but a passing visit. To my inquiry as to whether any of the Purkis family still lived in the neighbourhood, he replied there were many, every one claiming to come of the Purkis whose cart had formed so rude a hearse for the royal corpse; but the true descendant was keeping a publichouse in London. To go to Ringwood, either the road may be followed, which runs for the greater part of the way over a wild open country, shaggy with furze, and dotted with a few small ponds, or you may strike down to the left, and explore another route among the trees. Preferring for the time the widest prospect, I kept to the road, and found it quiet enough; for after passing the few houses at Stony Cross, there is not another for six miles-nothing but the rolling scrub, with here and there a plantation or a few trees growing close together for company's sake. At length the road, with a sudden descent, passes again between hedgerows, and fine sweeps of woodland on either side, which continue all the way to Ringwood. Here, after looking from the bridges down on the three branches of the Avon which flow through the town, and a walk to the churchyard, you will find little else to engage your attention, unless it be to study some of the phenomena of little-town-ism. The church was being rebuilt, an incident which the good woman of the house where I waited for the train made use of to justify an angry argument against churchrates. The old church would have stood a century longer, and she did not see the propriety of pulling it down until there were funds in hand for the new one; nor did she approve the heavy tax on the parishioners, nor its imposition on day-labourers. Money enough had not been collected after all; the church would, in consequence, have to wait some years for its tower, and the loquacious dame appeared to regard the delay with something like malicious satisfaction. Have I loitered too long in the New Forest? Who is there knows not the lingering interest, or species of affection with which we regard all objects on the first day of a holiday, especially when those objects are rural-when we have before us the manifold loveliness of English landscape. Emancipation surprises us with a touch of the old bygone feeling of childhood, which all too soon departs again. But I will loiter no longer. Twilight was falling when the train came up. I got my knapsack, and shortly after ten was quartered under the sign of the Antelope at Poole. |