CHAPTER XIX

THE VANISHING OF ENGLISH SCENERY AND NATURAL BEAUTY

Not the least distressing of the losses which we have to mourn is the
damage that has been done to the beauty of our English landscapes and
the destruction of many scenes of sylvan loveliness. The population of
our large towns continues to increase owing to the insensate folly
that causes the rural exodus. People imagine that the streets of towns
are paved with gold, and forsake the green fields for a crowded slum,
and after many vicissitudes and much hardship wish themselves back
again in their once despised village home. I was lecturing to a crowd
of East End Londoners at Toynbee Hall on village life in ancient and
modern times, and showed them views of the old village street, the
cottages, manor-houses, water-mills, and all the charms of rural
England, and after the lecture I talked with many of the men who
remembered their country homes which they had left in the days of
their youth, and they all wished to go back there again, if only they
could find work and had not lost the power of doing it. But the rural
exodus continues. Towns increase rapidly, and cottages have to be
found for these teeming multitudes. Many a rural glade and stretch of
woodland have to be sacrificed, and soon streets are formed and rows
of unsightly cottages spring up like magic, with walls terribly thin,
that can scarcely stop the keenness of the wintry blasts, so thin that
each neighbour can hear your conversation, and if a man has a few
words with his wife all the inhabitants of the row can hear him.

Garden cities have arisen as a remedy for this evil, carefully planned
dwelling-places wherein some thought is given to beauty and
picturesque surroundings, to plots for gardens, and to the comfort of
the fortunate citizens. But some garden cities are garden only in
name. Cheap villas surrounded by unsightly fields that have been
spoilt and robbed of all beauty, with here and there unsightly heaps
of rubbish and refuse, only delude themselves and other people by
calling themselves garden cities. Too often there is no attempt at
beauty. Cheapness and speedy construction are all that their makers
strive for.

These growing cities, ever increasing, ever enclosing fresh victims in
their hideous maw, work other ills. They require much food, and they
need water. Water must be found and conveyed to them. This has been no
easy task for many corporations. For many years the city of Liverpool
drew its supply from Rivington, a range of hills near Bolton-le-Moors,
where there were lakes and where they could construct others. Little
harm was done there; but the city grew and the supply was
insufficient. Other sources had to be found and tapped. They found one
in Wales. Their eyes fell on the Lake Vyrnwy, and believed that they
found what they sought. But that, too, could not supply the millions
of gallons that Liverpool needed. They found that the whole vale of
Llanwddyn must be embraced. A gigantic dam must be made at the lower
end of the valley, and the whole vale converted into one great lake.
But there were villages in the vale, rural homes and habitations,
churches and chapels, and over five hundred people who lived therein
and must be turned out. And now the whole valley is a lake. Homes and
churches lie beneath the waves, and the graves of the "women that
sleep," of the rude forefathers of the hamlet, of bairns and dear
ones are overwhelmed by the pitiless waters. It is all very
deplorable.

And now it seems that the same thing must take place again: but this
time it is an English valley that is concerned, and the people are the
country folk of North Hampshire. There is a beautiful valley not far
from Kingsclere and Newbury, surrounded by lovely hills covered with
woodland. In this valley in a quiet little village appropriately
called Woodlands, formed about half a century ago out of the large
parish of Kingsclere, there is a little hamlet named Ashford Hill, the
modern church of St. Paul, Woodlands, pretty cottages with pleasant
gardens, a village inn, and a dissenting chapel. The churchyard is
full of graves, and a cemetery has been lately added. This pretty
valley with its homes and church and chapel is a doomed valley. In a
few years time if a former resident returns home from Australia or
America to his native village he will find his old cottage gone from
the light of the sun and buried beneath the still waters of a huge
lake. It is almost certain that such will be the case with this
secluded rural scene. The eyes of Londoners have turned upon the
doomed valley. They need water, and water must somehow be procured.
The great city has no pity. The church and the village will have to be
removed. It is all very sad. As a writer in a London paper says:
"Under the best of conditions it is impossible to think of such an
eviction without sympathy for the grief that it must surely cause to
some. The younger residents may contemplate it cheerfully enough; but
for the elder folk, who have spent lives of sunshine and shade, toil,
sorrow, joy, in this peaceful vale, it must needs be that the removal
will bring a regret not to be lightly uttered in words. The soul of
man clings to the localities that he has known and loved; perhaps, as
in Wales, there will be some broken hearts when the water flows in
upon the scenes where men and women have met and loved and wedded,
where children have been born, where the beloved dead have been laid
to rest."

The old forests are not safe. The Act of 1851 caused the destruction
of miles of beautiful landscape. Peacock, in his story of _Gryll
Grange_, makes the announcement that the New Forest is now enclosed,
and that he proposes never to visit it again. Twenty-five years of
ruthless devastation followed the passing of that Act. The deer
disappeared. Stretches of open beechwood and green lawns broken by
thickets of ancient thorn and holly vanished under the official axe.
Woods and lawns were cleared and replaced by miles and miles of
rectangular fir plantations. The Act of 1876 with regard to forest
land came late, but it, happily, saved some spots of sylvan beauty.
Under the Act of 1851 all that was ancient and delightful to the eye
would have been levelled, or hidden in fir-wood. The later Act stopped
this wholesale destruction. We have still some lofty woods, still some
scenery that shows how England looked when it was a land of blowing
woodland. The New Forest is maimed and scarred, but what is left is
precious and unique. It is primeval forest land, nearly all that
remains in the country. Are these treasures safe? Under the Act of
1876 managers are told to consider beauty as well as profit, and to
abstain from destroying ancient trees; but much is left to the
decision and to the judgment of officials, and they are not always to
be depended on.

After having been threatened with demolition for a number of years,
the famous Winchmore Hill Woods are at last to be hewn down and the
land is to be built upon. These woods, which it was Hood's and Charles
Lamb's delight to stroll in, have become the property of a syndicate,
which will issue a prospectus shortly, and many of the fine old oaks,
beeches, and elms already bear the splash of white which marks them
for the axe. The woods have been one of the greatest attractions in
the neighbourhood, and public opinion is strongly against the
demolition.

One of the greatest services which the National Trust is doing for the
country is the preserving of the natural beauties of our English
scenery. It acquires, through the generosity of its supporters,
special tracts of lovely country, and says to the speculative builder
"Avaunt!" It maintains the landscape for the benefit of the public.
People can always go there and enjoy the scenery, and townsfolk can
fill their lungs with fresh air, and children play on the greensward.
These oases afford sanctuary to birds and beasts and butterflies, and
are of immense value to botanists and entomologists. Several
properties in the Lake District have come under the aegis of the Trust.
Seven hundred and fifty acres around Ullswater have been purchased,
including Gowbarrow Fell and Aira Force. By this, visitors to the
English lakes can have unrestrained access over the heights of
Gowbarrow Fell, through the glen of Aira and along a mile of Ullswater
shore, and obtain some of the loveliest views in the district. It is
possible to trespass in the region of the lakes. It is possible to
wander over hills and through dales, but private owners do not like
trespassers, and it is not pleasant to be turned back by some
officious servant. Moreover, it needs much impudence and daring to
traverse without leave another man's land, though it be bare and
barren as a northern hill. The Trust invites you to come, and you are
at peace, and know that no man will stop you if you walk over its
preserves. Moreover, it holds a delectable bit of country on Lake
Derwentwater, known as the Brandlehow Park Estate. It extends for
about a mile along the shore of the lake and reaches up the fell-side
to the unenclosed common on Catbels. It is a lovely bit of woodland
scenery. Below the lake glistens in the sunlight and far away the
giant hills Blencatha, Skiddaw, and Borrowdale rear their heads. It
cost the Trust L7000, but no one would deem the money ill-spent.
Almost the last remnant of the primeval fenland of East Anglia, called
Wicken Fen, has been acquired by the Trust, and also Burwell Fen, the
home of many rare insects and plants. Near London we see many bits of
picturesque land that have been rescued, where the teeming population
of the great city can find rest and recreation. Thus at Hindhead,
where it has been said villas seem to have broken out upon the once
majestic hill like a red skin eruption, the Hindhead Preservation
Committee and the Trust have secured 750 acres of common land on the
summit of the hill, including the Devil's Punch Bowl, a bright oasis
amid the dreary desert of villas. Moreover, the Trust is waging a
battle with the District Council of Hambledon in order to prevent the
Hindhead Commons from being disfigured by digging for stone for
mending roads, causing unsightliness and the sad disfiguring of the
commons. May it succeed in its praiseworthy endeavour. At Toy's Hill,
on a Kentish hillside, overlooking the Weald, some valuable land has
been acquired, and part of Wandle Park, Wimbledon, containing the
Merton Mill Pond and its banks, adjoining the Recreation Ground
recently provided by the Wimbledon Corporation, is now in the
possession of the Trust. It is intended for the quiet enjoyment of
rustic scenery by the people who live in the densely populated area of
mean streets of Merton and Morden, and not for the lovers of the more
strenuous forms of recreation. Ide Hill and Crockham Hill, the
properties of the Trust, can easily be reached by the dwellers in
London streets.

We may journey in several directions and find traces of the good work
of the Trust. At Barmouth a beautiful cliff known as Dinas-o-lea,
Llanlleiana Head, Anglesey, the fifteen acres of cliff land at
Tintagel, called Barras Head, looking on to the magnificent pile of
rocks on which stand the ruins of King Arthur's Castle, and the summit
of Kymin, near Monmouth, whence you can see a charming view of the Wye
Valley, are all owned and protected by the Trust. Every one knows the
curious appearance of Sarsen stones, often called Grey Wethers from
their likeness to a flock of sheep lying down amidst the long grass of
a Berkshire or Wiltshire down. These stones are often useful for
building purposes and for road-mending. There is a fine collection of
these curious stones, which were used in prehistoric times for
building Stonehenge, at Pickle Dean and Lockeridge Dean. These are
adjacent to high roads and would soon have fallen a prey to the road
surveyor or local builder. Hence the authorities of this Trust stepped
in; they secured for the nation these characteristic examples of a
unique geological phenomenon, and preserved for all time a curious and
picturesque feature of the country traversed by the old Bath Road. All
that the Trust requires is "more force to its elbow," increased funds
for the preservation of the natural beauty of our English scenery, and
the increased appreciation on the part of the public and of the owners
of unspoilt rural scenes to extend its good work throughout the
counties of England.

A curious feature of vanished or vanishing England is the decay of our
canals, which here and there with their unused locks, broken towpaths,
and stagnant waters covered with weeds form a pathetic and melancholy
part of the landscape. If you look at the map of England you will see,
besides the blue curvings that mark the rivers, other threads of blue
that show the canals. Much was expected of them. They were built just
before the railway era. The whole country was covered by a network of
canals. Millions were spent upon their construction. For a brief space
they were prosperous. Some places, like our Berkshire Newbury, became
the centres of considerable traffic and had little harbours filled
with barges. Barge-building was a profitable industry. Fly-boats sped
along the surface of the canals conveying passengers to towns or
watering-places, and the company were very bright and enjoyed
themselves. But all are dead highways now, strangled by steam and by
the railways. The promoters of canals opposed the railways with might
and main, and tried to protect their properties. Hence the railways
were obliged to buy them up, and then left them lone and neglected.
The change was tragic. You can, even now, travel all over the country
by the means of these silent waterways. You start from London along
the Regent's Canal, which joins the Grand Junction Canal, and this
spreads forth northwards and joins other canals that ramify to the
Wash, to Manchester and Liverpool and Leeds. You can go to every great
town in England as far as York if you have patience and endless time.
There are four thousand miles of canals in England. They were not well
constructed; we built them just as we do many other things, without
any regular system, with no uniform depth or width or carrying
capacity, or size of locks or height of bridges. Canals bearing barges
of forty tons connect with those capable of bearing ninety tons. And
now most of them are derelict, with dilapidated banks, foul bottoms,
and shallow horse haulage. The bargemen have taken to other callings,
but occasionally you may see a barge looking gay and bright drawn by
an unconcerned horse on the towpath, with a man lazily smoking his
pipe at the helm and his family of water gipsies, who pass an
open-air, nomadic existence, tranquil, and entirely innocent of
schooling. He is a survival of an almost vanished race which the
railways have caused to disappear.

Much destruction of beautiful scenery is, alas! inevitable. Trade and
commerce, mills and factories, must work their wicked will on the
landscapes of our country. Mr. Ruskin's experiment on the painting of
Turner, quoted in our opening chapter, finds its realisation in many
places. There was a time, I suppose, when the Mersey was a pure river
that laved the banks carpeted with foliage and primroses on which the
old Collegiate Church of Manchester reared its tower. It is now, and
has been for years, an inky-black stream or drain running between
stone walls, where it does not hide its foul waters for very shame
beneath an arched culvert. There was a time when many a Yorkshire
village basked in the sunlight. Now they are great overgrown towns
usually enveloped in black smoke. The only day when you can see the
few surviving beauties of a northern manufacturing town or village is
Sunday, when the tall factory chimneys cease to vomit their clouds of
smoke which kills the trees, or covers the struggling leaves with
black soot. We pay dearly for our commercial progress in this
sacrifice of Nature's beauties.