CHAPTER THREE.
BEAUTIFUL FOREST BIRDS.
In all England's territory there is no district more interesting thanthe Forest of Dean. Historically it figures in our earliest annals, asborderland and bulwark of the ancient Silures, who, with Caractacus attheir head, held the country around, defending it on many a hard-foughtfield against the legionaries of Ostorius Scapula. Centuries after, itagain became the scene of sanguinary strife between the descendants ofthese same Silures--then better known as Britons--and the Saxoninvaders; and still farther down the stream of time another invasionwasted it--Norman and Saxon arrayed on the same side against Welsh--still the same warlike stock, the sons of Siluria. This conflictagainst odds--commencing with the Norman William, and continued, orrenewed, down through the days made illustrious by the gallantLlewellyn--only came to an end with those of the equally gallantGlendower, when the fires of Welsh independence, now and then blazing upintermittently, were finally and for ever trodden out.
Many a grand historic name is associated with this same Forest of Dean--famed warriors and famous or infamous kings. The Conqueror himself washunting in it when the news reached him of the rising in Northumberland,and he swore "By the splendour of God, he would lay that land waste byfire and sword!"--a cruel oath, as cruelly kept. In its dark recessesthe wretched Edward the Second endeavoured to conceal himself, but invain--dragged thence to imprisonment in the dungeons of Berkeley Castle,there to die. And within its boundaries was born that monarch of mostromantic fame, Harry of Monmouth, hero of Agincourt.
And the day was approaching--had, in fact, come--when other names thatbrighten the page of England's history were to fling their halo ofillumination over the Forest of Dean--those of the chivalrous Waller,the brave but modest Massey, Essex, Fairfax, and greatest, most gloriousof all, that of Cromwell himself. It was to be darkened too, as by theshadow of death--ay, death itself--through many a raid of maraudingCavaliers, with the ruffian Rupert at their head.
Dropping history, and returning to its interest otherwise, the Forest ofDean claims attention from peculiarities of many kinds. Geologicallyregarded, it is an outlier of the carboniferous system of South Wales,from which it is separated by a breadth of the Devonian that has beendenuded between--so widely separated as to have similitude to an islandin the far-off ocean. An elevated island, too, rising above the "OldRed," through successive strata of shales, mountain limestone, andmillstone grit, to nearly a thousand feet higher than the general levelof the surrounding _terrain_. Towards this, on every side, and allround for miles and tens of miles, it presents a _facade_ not actuallyprecipitous, but so steep and difficult of ascent as to make horsesbreathe hard climbing it; while in loaded cart or wagon, teams have tobe doubled. Just such a "pitch" was that on whose top the bitter war ofwords between Eustace Trevor and Sir Richard Walwyn had come to blows.
But, though thus high in air, the Forest of Dean does not possess theusual characteristics of what are termed _plateaux_, or elevatedtablelands. As a rule these show a level surface, or with but gentleundulations, while that of the Forest is everywhere intersected by deepvalleys and ravines.
A very interesting geological fact is offered in the surface formationof this singular tract of country, its interior area being in mostplaces much lower than the rim around it. The peculiarity is due to thehard carboniferous limestone, which forms its periphery, having betterresisted denudation than the softer matrix of the coal measures embracedby it. The disintegrating rains, and the streams, often torrents, theirresulting sequence, have here and there cut channels of escape outward--some running west into the Wye, some eastward to espouse the Severn.
Very different is the Forest of Dean now from what it was in those daysof which this tale treats--territorially more restricted, both in itsboundaries and the area once bearing its name. Then it extended overthe whole triangular space between the two great rivers, from the townsof Ross and Gloucester down to their union in the wide sea-like estuaryof the Severn. Changed, too, in the character of its scenery. Now,here and there, a tall chimney may be seen soaring up out of itsgreenery of trees, and vomiting forth volumes of murky smoke, instriking disagreeable contrast with their verdure. Then there wasnothing of this kind;--at least nothing to jar upon the mind, or mar theharmony of nature. Then, too, it was a real forest of grand old trees,with a thick tangle of underwood, luxuriant and shady. For the Courtfavourite, Sir John Wintour, had not yet wasted it with his five hundredwoodcutters, all chopping and hacking away at the same time. It wasonly after the Restoration he did that; the robber's monopoly grantedhim by the "Martyr King" having been re-bestowed by the "Merry Monarch."
There were towns in the Forest then, notwithstanding--some of them busycentres as now; but the majority peaceful villages or hamlets; countryhouses, too, some of pretentious style--mansions, and castles. A few ofthese yet exist, if in ruins; others known only by record; and stillothers totally gone out of history--lost even to legend.
The Forest roads were then but bridle paths, or trackways for thepack-horse; no fencing on either side; the narrow list of trodden groundrunning centrally between wide borderings of grass-grown sward; so thatthe traveller, if a horseman, had the choice of soft turf for the hoofsof his roadster. Only on the main routes between the larger towns, andthose going outward, was there much traffic. The bye-roads had all thecharacter of green lanes, narrow, but now and then debouching intoglades, and openings of larger area, where the small Forest sheep--progeny of the Welsh mountaineers--browsed upon pasture, spare andclose-cropped, in the companionship of donkeys, and perchance a deer, orit might be a dozen, moving among them in amiable association. Thesheep and the donkeys are there still, but the deer, alas! are gone.Many birds that built their nests in the Forest trees, or soared above,are there no more. The eagle makes not now its eyrie in the ColdwellRocks or soars over Symonds' Yat; even the osprey is but rarely seenpursuing its finny prey in the lower waters of either Wye or Severn.Still, the _falconidae_ are to this day represented in the Forestdistrict by numerous species, by the kite and kestrel; the buzzard,Common, Rough-legged, and Honey; by the goshawk and sparrow-hawk; thehobby and harriers; and if last, not least, in estimation, the gracefuldiminutive merlin.
Birds of bright feathers, too, still flit through the Forest's trees;the noisy jay, the gaudy, green woodpecker, and the two spotted species;with the kingfisher of cerulean hue; while its glades are gladdened bythe sweet song of the thrush, the bolder lay of the blackbird; inspringtide, the matchless melody of the nightingale--the joyoustwittering of linnets and finches, mingling with the softer notes of thecushat and turtle-dove.
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On that calm summer evening, when the clinking of swords onMitcheldean-hill frightened the Forest birds, for a time stilling theirvoices, on another hill, some three miles distant from the scene ofstrife, the sweet songsters were being disturbed by intrusion upon theirwild-wood domain. Not much disturbed, however, nor could the disturbersbe justly characterised as intruders. Even the birds themselves mighthave been glad to see, and welcome among them, things of brightness andbeauty far beyond their own. Women they were, or rather girls, bothbeing under age--for there were but two of them. Sisters, moreover,though there was scarce a trait of resemblance to betray therelationship, either in features or complexion. She who seemed theelder was dark as a gipsy, the other a clear _blonde_, with hairshowering over her shoulders, of hue as the beams of the sinking sunthat shimmered upon it. For all, both were alike beautiful; in adifferent way, but unquestionably beautiful. And that they were sisterscould be learnt by listening to their conversation: their names, also,as they addressed one another--that of the older, _Sabrina_; theyounger, _Vaga_.
They could not be other than the pair of pretty birds spoken of by SirRichard Walwyn; and, verily, he had not overrated them.