LYNDHURST.
Lyndhurst, then, exists for the moneyed visitor, and is a model of neatness and propriety. Round about it, seventeenth- and eighteenth-century mansions nestle amid thick bowers. In the centre of the village rises the tall, obtuse-pointed spire of the modern red-brick church, set conspicuously on its high mound, and below, to emphasise the eternal propinquity of Beer and Bible, stands the Crown Hotel and Tap. But the most picturesque grouping of these different estates is where the church spire rises high above the roof of the “Fox and Hounds,” as I have here endeavoured to show.
Three and a half miles down the road is Brockenhurst, a pretty place—I know it well—but this afternoon broken out into a rash of flags and flaunting bannerets in primary colours, and swarming with excursionists, who celebrated some occasion connected with a Widow and Orphan Society. These we soon left behind, crossing the railway, and so into the country again.
The London and South-Western Railway spells the place Brokenhurst, reckless of the philology of the name. “Brock” is Anglo-Saxon for badger, and in the same way “hurst” stands for “wood”; thus with the plural “brocken,” Badgers’ Wood stands revealed. But philology and the bygone natural history of places are nothing to railway companies.
A FORD IN THE NEW FOREST.
In the hot glare of noonday we came through a heathy land to a sandy ford where a stream, the Avon Water, rippled across the road, and a crazy footbridge spanned the current. Brilliant lepidoptera floated lazily in the air, blundering humble bees boomed in many cadences, and the Avon sang a happy song among the grasses and the slight timbers of the bridge; I wish I knew the secret of its joy.
XVII.
Here we rested awhile, where all was still. Only the booming of the bees disturbed the ear, and one solitary wayfarer passed in the space of two hours. This was one who toured, even as ourselves, afoot, but one who dressed up to the part, with gaiters and Norfolk jacket and great Balbriggan stockings. He was walking as if for a wager; and while we sniffed at this toil of pleasure, he eyed us as he flashed past with some amusement, as who should smile at exhausted rivals.