Seeing then, that the making of bows and arrows was, for many centuries, a leading industry both in England and on the Continent, we are led to ask to what extent Sir A. Conan Doyle’s lines express historical facts, since they are obviously not correct as they stand.
“What of the bow?
The bow was made in England:
Of true wood, of yew-wood,
The wood of English bows.
So men who are free
Love the old yew-tree
And the land where the yew-tree grows[1028].”
In the first place, it is abundantly clear that yew was the material most sought after. Roger Ascham says that yew was best for “parfite shootyng,” and that “Brasell (a hard, red, dye-wood), Elme, Wych, and Asshe” were “meane for bowes[1029].” Now the importation of foreign yew was rendered necessary, as already noticed, because the native material was not the most suitable. More than this, the supply of yew, even with the addition of cargoes from abroad, was insufficient. Thus, in 1541, to give one instance only, it was enacted that the bowyer should make four common bows of “elme, wych, brasil, ashe,” or other wood, for one of yew. Near London, the proportion might be reduced—two bows of common wood to one of yew[1030]. Our English yew was so knotty, that, as Brady sadly remarks, it was “used for bows of boys, and other weak shooters[1031].” While a bow made of the best foreign yew was to be sold for 6s. 8d., a bow of English yew was assessed at a value of 2s. only. The main point to be noticed here is that, as an historical fact, English yew was employed, at any rate, in part. And Warner, a writer of the late eighteenth century, asserts that among the “lower ranks” there was, in his time, a tradition that the churchyard yew was the source of bowstaves[1032]. Apart from the churchyard tree, there were other supplies. A general plantation of yews, we are informed, was specifically commanded in 1483[1033]; Strutt cites the remarkable yew wood on the isle of Inchconakhead, Loch Lomond, as a probable result of such afforestation[1034]. General Pitt-Rivers suggested a like date and origin for the yews of Cranborne Chase, and it is possible that several ancient copses of yew were much extended in area about this time. In the reign of Elizabeth—so we are told, but I doubt whether the assertion can be upheld—yews were actually ordered to be planted in churchyards[1035]. It is also stated that Charles VII. of France (A.D. 1422-1461) commanded that the tree should be grown in all the churchyards of Normandy expressly to provide wood for cross-bows[1036]. Incidentally, we observe that the yew was employed in making both kinds of bow. Connecting these facts with the practice of archery on the village green, and with the ordinances for the repair of the parish butts, it is a fair supposition that the churchyard yew served, though perhaps as a secondary purpose of its existence, the demands of the local bowyers.
Several objections have been raised against this last-named theory. The inferiority of English yew has been mentioned; in the face of a constant lack in the supply of yew, the objection is not weighty. Then it is pointed out that the English churchyard seldom contains more than one full-grown yew, and as a final word, Hansard affirms that “Every yew-tree growing within the united churchyards of England and Wales, admitting that they could have been renewed five times in the course of a century, would not have produced one-fiftieth of the bows required for military supplies[1037].” This is a hard saying. But, in fact, churchyards sometimes have two or three yews, and probably, as Dr Lowe hints, there may formerly have been more, though few have survived the severe periodical loppings. Again, it is not claimed that the churchyard stock of timber was more than supplementary and subsidiary. The yew avenues and yew groves of many a nobleman’s estate would give toll. To argue that the churchyard yew could not have been pruned to make bows because that supply was insufficient, would be as erroneous as if the future historian were to assert that English wheat could not have been used for bread in the year 1911, because five out of six loaves were obtained from external sources. And, as we have already seen, the plain facts prove that the combined native and Continental stores of yew were so inadequate that the laws compelled the substitution of other kinds of timber in fixed proportions.
This deficiency of raw material has led some writers to raise the question whether the artificial scarcity did not render the planting of yew trees in graveyards a strict necessity[1038]. Hansard himself admits that the inferiority of English yew has been too much insisted on[1039]. His other statement—that Henry IV. forbade the royal bowyer, Nicholas Frost, to trespass for wood on the estates of any religious order[1040]—does not finally dispose of the claim of churchyard trees, though, in its own connections, the fact has some importance. A wary controversialist, with a position to defend, might urge that the injunction implies a former practice which was now, after this order, to be discontinued. Here we are concerned, however, to test fairly all the theories. Without wresting the evidence, there seems good ground for believing that the churchyard yew supplied its quota of bowstaves to the village, and that this may have possibly been the case even in the pre-Conquest period. Not for a moment, however, do I believe that the needs of archery explain the primary purpose of the first planters.
A faint side-light on the general subject of the utilization of churchyard trees comes from Rodmell, in Sussex. During the sixteenth century the rearing of silkworms was one of the industries of this village, and a portion of the necessary supply of mulberry leaves was obtained from trees grown in the churchyard. It is stated that specimens of the trees were still standing in the eighteenth century.
From interpretations based on social economy, to those which make ornament the primary purpose of the churchyard yew, the leap is not great, since the latter idea, after running parallel with, may have been ultimately superseded by the former. Thus, the churchwardens’ accounts of Bridgenorth (Salop) record the planting of a yew-tree “for reverence sake[1041].” Again, Giraldus de Barri, commonly called Giraldus Cambrensis, who visited Ireland about the year A.D. 1184, observed the yew in burial grounds and holy places. His words are: “Prae terris autem omnibus, quas intravimus, longe copiosus amara hic succo taxus abundat, maxime vero in coemiteriis antiquis, locisque sacris, sanctorum virorum manibus olim plantatas, [al. plantatis] et decorum et ornamentum [al. ornatum] quem addere poterant, arborum istarum copiam videas[1042].” The style of Giraldus is not beyond criticism, but his meaning is quite clear: “In this country more than any other which I have visited, yew-trees, having a bitter sap, abound, but you will see them principally in ancient cemeteries and sacred places, where they were formerly planted by the hands of holy men, to give what ornament and beauty they could[1043].” While offering this as an explanation of the original intention, Giraldus informs us, in another part of his work, that, when Henry II. made his expedition to Ireland, his archers went to Finglas, about two miles from Dublin, and sacrilegiously laid violent hands on a beautiful group of yews, in a most irreverent and atrocious manner (“enormiter et irreverenter desaevire coeperunt”)[1044]. This took place, it will be noted, but a few years before the Welsh antiquary’s own visit to Ireland, as secretary to Prince John (A.D. 1185). Incidentally, we may glance at a curious suggestion made by Mr C. I. Elton. Referring to the reputed introduction of hive-bees to Ireland by St Dominic of Ossory, Mr Elton supposes that there could have been little bee-culture until the yews had largely disappeared, for the tree is prejudicial to this industry[1045]. One would like to hear the opinion of bee-keepers on this question; so far, one’s own inquiries have been fruitless.
From the idea of ornament we turn to the motive force of superstition. The most curious example of this folly is given in a fantastic description by Robert Turner, a seventeenth century writer on botany. The passage merits full quotation. The yew was planted “commonly on the West side [this is an error, W. J.] because those places being fuller of putrefaction and gross oleaginous vapours exhaled out of the graves by the setting sun, and sometimes drawn into those Meteors called Ignes fatui, divers have been frightened, supposing some dead bodies to walk, others have been blasted, not that it is able to drive away Devils, as some superstitious Monks have imagined; nor yet that it was ever used to sprinkle Holy Water, as some quarrelsome Presbyters, altogether ignorant of natural Causes, as the signification of Emblems and useful Ornaments, have fondly conceived.” The writer further admits that the yew is poisonous; “yet the growing of it in the Church-yard is useful, and therefore it ought not to be cut down upon what pittiful pretence soever[1046].” Turner’s lofty disdain of “superstitious Monks” and “quarrelsome Presbyters,” coupled with his own ideas of “natural causes,” is very diverting, but discounts his claim to accuracy. Yet we notice that, while pressing his own interpretation, he alludes to others which were probably current in his day. We should remember, moreover, that Turner wrote nearly two and a half centuries ago, and that he was, to this extent, nearer the origin of the custom. Consequently, he may have caught the record of genuine folk-memory, though that might have already become confused.
In opposition to Turner’s scepticism about the power of the yew to banish devils, was the popular belief that the tree protects the graveyard from witches[1047]. Henderson says that the yew was indeed “a very upas tree to witches,” and that this accounts for its proximity to the church[1048]. Another writer, Mr W. G. Black, in an excellent paper, takes a contrary view. Witchcraft was ever most powerful when it exercised its mysterious influences through instruments usually connected with the Church. Hence the value of divination by church key and a book of Psalms; hence charms by coffin-rings and churchyard grass (cf. pp. [164], [302] supra). The yew was actually helpful to witches because it grew near the church[1049]. To harmonize these conflicting superstitions is unnecessary, yet they might perhaps be traced along converging lines to a common source. From religious consecration to sorcery is a short journey for the ignorant. Besides this, the antiquary is thoroughly accustomed to what one may call the “contradiction of localities”; the yew may have been a guardian against witches in one village, while in the next village the “midnight hag” used it as a spell. Superstitions and customs cannot be adequately represented in a unilinear series. The tree of descent throws out branches which lie in many planes, and the terminal points may often be opposed to one another.
It chances that a passage in Macbeth, easily glided over unthinkingly, bears upon this subject of the yew’s uncanny properties: “Slips of yew, sliver’d in the moon’s eclipse[1050].” (Sliver, diminutive of Earlier Mod. Eng. slive, a variant of slip = to cut off[1051].) The allusion to the balefulness of the eclipse arouses no special comment. The “fatal and perfidious barque” which proved so unfriendly to Lycidas was “built in th’ eclipse[1052].” The Venerable Bede found it necessary to forbid Christians to practise witchery by the moon. The Chinese believe that the eclipsed sun or moon is being devoured by a dragon, and the Hindoos attempt to ward off the ill-effects of an eclipse by breaking earthenware vessels and casting out the food contained therein[1053]. It was natural, then, that eclipses represented times of foreboding and of mysterious rites. But why employ a “sliver” of yew? The answer is probably supplied by Sclavonic folk-lore. The devil, or storm-spirit, claims the yew as his own. To use a beam of this tree, or even a branch broken off by the wind, that is, a picked-up portion, was unlucky. The devil would haunt the house of the sorcerer to regain his own. The witch, therefore, employs a mere insignificant slip, useless either to woodman or demon[1054]. Or was it that the three hags, being in league with the Evil One, might lawfully use his instruments?