That there are defects in the church its greatest admirers would admit—the poorness of the roof, the harshness produced by the introduction of so much white, as also the bad colour of the bricks, and a heaviness which hangs over the clerestory windows of the nave. But, on the whole, it stands as a proof of the great advance during the last ten years of Art, as a cheering sign, too, that, amidst all the failures of Government, some taste and zeal are to be found amongst private persons.
There is nothing else of interest in the village. Once here busy scenes must have taken place, when the King came to hunt with his retinue of nobles; when down the street poured the train of bow-bearers, and foresters, and keepers, clad in doublets of Lincoln green, holding the dogs in leash. Then the woods rang with the notes of the bugle, and the twang of the bow-string sounded as the bolt, or the good English yard-shaft, brought down the quarry. Here, too, in the Civil War, were quartered grim Puritan soldiers, and prayers took the place of feasts.[1] Now, all is quiet. Nothing is to be seen but the Forest inviting us into its green glades.
The people of Lyndhurst ought, I always think, to be the happiest and most contented in England, for they possess a wider park and nobler trees than even Royalty. You cannot leave the place in any direction without going through the Forest. To the east lie the great woods of Denny and Ashurst; and to the north rise Cutwalk and Emery Down, looking across the vale to Minestead, and below them Kitt's Hill, and the woods stretching away towards Alum Green. On the extreme west Mark Ash, and Gibb's Hill, and Boldrewood, rise towering one after the other; whilst to the south stretch Gretnam and the
- ↑ Herbert's Memoirs of Charles I., p. 95.
