miles of ocean, where the cable once laid will never be disturbed. The pathway to the Yankees should not be allowed to pass the Czar’s doorway, or possibly he may refuse us a key at a moment when these loving friends may fraternise as they have done before in the hour of England’s difficulty.
A DAY AT SELBOURNE.
I love a pilgrimage as I do a pic-nic. No matter whether it be to the shrine of Our Lady of Walsingham, or to the birthplace of the Bard of Avon,—to the magnificent ruins of Kenilworth, or the rich quaint Elizabethan structure of Bramhill,—whether to visit sweet Melrose by the pale moonlight, or the frowning keep of Dover Castle,—whether the goal be associated with religion or war, with revelry or love,—I enjoy to travel out of the beaten track, athwart black commons and through rutty bye-lanes. Sometimes the object of veneration combines both person and place, and then the memory of one of the world’s Worthies adds charms to a spot which merits a meed of admiration in itself.
Such was my conviction before visiting Selbourne. That conviction has since been strongly confirmed. Whether we visit that sequestered village for the sake of recreation, or wishing to pay respect to the shade of Gilbert White, we are doubly gratified; for the locality which that eminent naturalist selected for his abiding-place is eminently beautiful, and well repays a pilgrimage. Like a fair picture encadred in a graceful frame, the home of the Naturalist is set amidst exquisite scenery which stretches far and wide from the centre of his gravestone.
The village of Selbourne lies in a somewhat secluded part of Hampshire, about equally distant from the towns of Alton, Petersfield, and Alresford; but is easily approached by the South-Western Railway, either from Alton, or else from the little station of Liss, whence a pleasant walk of some five miles through shady lanes will bring you under the shadow of the Hanger, with an excellent appetite for luncheon or dinner at the Queen’s Arms, a country inn which can boast of good cheer, the best of eggs, milk, and butter, and a civil and honest host.
Of course I had read all about the natural beauties of the village. White himself is special on this topic, and his editors have thought it necessary to expatiate still more largely upon the physical virtues of the vicinity. But fortunately it does not lie within the compass of the pen to depict trees, and rising grounds, and dells, and ravines, and gentle vales, so as to convey an adequate and just idea of a landscape. The brush of the painter is far better suited to this task, and by the aid of perspective and colouring, light and shade, he may present a picture which, if not altogether so true as a photograph, nevertheless enables a spectator to realise a large conception of the characteristics and the beauties of a particular view.
I was not, therefore, I confess, disappointed in my first impressions of Selbourne. Notwithstanding the descriptions—the “word-paintings” as Carlyle would term them—which I had read, something fresh and unique broke upon my sight when, passing over the brow of the hill which slopes down to the church on the road from Alton, I first came in sight of the quiet hamlet that sleeps so peacefully close at the foot of the beechen Hanger. Long before I had arrived so far, however, the Nore and Selbourne hills—the two most conspicuous features in this landscape—had been visible, standing out in bold relief against the clear blue sky, and terminating a range of elevated down which stretches across the country in a south-easterly direction. Almost in the centre of the place stands the house in which Gilbert White resided, and from which he issued forth to study the natural curiosities of Selbourne. It is now the abode of another well-known naturalist, Mr. Thomas Bell. There is nothing striking about this quiet mansion, of which we give an illustration on the next page. It was doubtless large enough for him, and is therefore only remarkable as associated with his name. It has, however, I might state, undergone considerable changes since his death. Still there it is, and the visitor passes it by with a feeling of veneration and regret, thinking of him at whose unseen bidding he has directed his footsteps to this pleasant spot. On the opposite side of the road, and close to the church, is the Playstow or Plestor, a spot on which used to be celebrated the sports of the village. According to White, here formerly stood a magnificent oak of immense age and girth, whose branches overshadowed its whole area. But this magnificent monarch of trees was blown down in a tremendous storm in the year 1702, and although many efforts were made to restore it to its original position, it never recovered the calamity. It is curious, however, to reflect on the life which this venerable spot has witnessed. How many generations of happy hearts have recreated on its green plateau! How young and old, rich and poor—in those days when rich and poor mingled more together than they do now, and the aged condescended to join without scruple or reserve in the innocent pleasures of the young—the village sires and the village matrons, the village lads and the village lasses, joined together in the mazy dance, or the thousand merry holiday sports of the spring and summer season! Appropriately, too, was this spot placed; it adjoined the churchyard where the rude forefathers of the hamlet slept. There the tale and the moral of life were close by. If it were necessary to have a skeleton at one’s feast, here it was at hand, and with equal force administered the lesson of the vanity and fleetingness of all human enjoyment.
Selbourne, which I have been inclined to call a hamlet rather than a village, contains not many houses, and of these nine-tenths, at least, are humble cottages. It is very pretty to fancy that the eyes of the great naturalist and antiquarian had been fixed upon those low white-washed walls and those thatched roofs; but only to a few enthusiasts would it appear desirable that the state of things which existed in Gilbert White’s times should remain in ours. In fact, the case was very naïvely put by a fellow-pilgrim who accosted me