Forest Days: A Romance of Old Times

  Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided byGoogle Books (the Bavarian State Library)

  Transcriber's Notes: 1. Page scan source: Google Books https://books.google.com/books?id=5fZLAAAAcAAJ

  COLLECTION OF ANCIENT AND MODERN BRITISH AUTHORS. VOL. CCCLXXXVI. ================================================== FOREST DAYS A ROMANCE OF OLD TIMES.

  ----------------------------------------- PRINTED BY CRAPELET, 9, RUE DE VAUGIRARD.

  FOREST DAYS

  A ROMANCE OF OLD TIMES.

  BY G. P. R. JAMES, AUTHOR OF "MORLEY ERNSTEIN," "THE ROBBER," ETC.

  PARIS, BAUDRY'S EUROPEAN LIBRARY, 3, QUAI MALAQUAIS, NEAR THE PONT DES ARTS; AND STASSIN ET XAVIER, 9, RUE DU COQ. SOLD ALSO BY AMYOT, RUE DE LA PAIX; TRUCHY, BOULEVARD DES ITALIENS; BROCKHAUS AND AVENARIUS, RUE RICHELIEU; LEOPOLD MICHELSEN, LEIPZIG; AND BY ALL THE PRINCIPAL BOOKSELLERS ON THE CONTINENT.

  1843.

  TO JAMES MILNES HASKILL, ESQ. M P. ETC.

  MY DEAR SIR,

  In offering you a book, which I fear is little worthy of youracceptance, and a compliment which has become valueless, I cannot helpexpressing my regret at having no other means of testifying my esteemand respect for one, who has not only always shown a most kindlyfeeling towards myself and my works, but has ever advocated the trueinterests of literature. You will, nevertheless, I am sure, receive thetribute not unwillingly, however inadequate it may be to convey mythanks for many an act of kindness, or to express a feeling of highesteem founded on no light basis.

  In the volumes I send, you will find many scenes with which you arefamiliar, both in history and in nature; but one thing, perhaps, willstrike you with some surprise. We have been so much accustomed, inballad and story, to see the hero of the forest, Robin Hood, placed inthe days of Richard I., that it will seem, perhaps, somewhat bold in meto depict him as living and acting in the reign of Henry III. But Ithink, if you will turn to those old historians, with whose writingsyou are not unfamiliar, you will find that he was, as I haverepresented, an English yeoman, of a very superior mind, living in thetimes in which I have placed him, outlawed, in all probability, for hisadherence to the popular party of the day, and taking a share in theimportant struggle between the weak and tyrannical, thoughaccomplished, Henry III., and that great and extraordinary leader,Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester.

  In regard to the conduct of my story, I have nothing to say, but that Iwish it were better. I think, however, that it will be found to containsome striking scenes of those times; and I trust that the struggle offeelings, depicted in the third volume, may afford you matter of someinterest.

  Believe me to be, My Dear Sir, With the highest esteem, Your most faithful servant, G. P. R. JAMES.

  FOREST DAYS.

  CHAPTER I.

  Merry England!--Oh, merry England! What a difference has there alwaysbeen between thee and every other land! What a cheerfulness there seemsto hang about thy very name! What yeoman-like hilarity is there in allthe thoughts of the past! What a spirit of sylvan cheer and rustichardihood in all the tales of thy old times!

  When England was altogether an agricultural land--when a rude ploughproduced an abundant harvest, and a thin, but hardy and generouspeasantry, devoted themselves totally to the cultivation of theearth,--when wide forests waved their green boughs over many of therichest manufacturing districts of Great Britain, and the lair of thefawn and the burrow of the coney were found, where now appear thefabric and the mill, there stood, in a small town, or rather, I shouldcall it, village, some fourteen miles from Pontefract, a neat littleinn, well known to all the wayfarers on the road as a comfortableresting place, where they could dine on their journey to or from thelarger city.

  The house was constructed of wood, and was but of two stories; but letit not be supposed on that account that it was devoid of ornament, formanifold were the quaint carvings and rude pieces of sculpture withwhich it was decorated, and not small had been the pains which had beenbestowed upon mouldings and cornices, and lintels and door-posts by thehand of more than one laborious artisan. Indeed, altogether, it was avery elaborate piece of work, and had probably been originally builtfor other purposes than that which it now served; for many were thechanges which had taken place in that part of the country, as well asover the rest of England, between the days I speak of, and those of acentury before.

  Any one who examined the house closely, would have seen that it musthave been constructed before the year 1180, for there was very strongproof, in the forms of the windows, and the cutting across of severalof the beams which traversed the front, that at the period of itserection the use of glazed casements in private houses was not known.At the time I speak of, however, glass had become plentiful in England,and, though cottages were seldom ornamented with anything like alattice, yet no house with the rank and dignity of an inn, wheretravellers might stop in rainy and boisterous weather, was now withoutwindows, formed of manifold small lozenge-shaped pieces of glass, likethose still frequently employed in churches, only of a smaller size.

  The inn was a gay-looking, cheerful place, either in fine weather or infoul; for, as there are some men who, clothe them as you will, have adistinguished and graceful air, so are there some dwellings which looksunshiny and bright, let the aspect of the sky be what it will. Theupper story of the house projected beyond the lower, and formed ofitself a sort of portico, giving a shelter to two long benches placedbeneath it, either from the heat of the summer sun, or the rain of thespring and autumn; and it need not be said that these benches formedthe favourite resting place of sundry old men on bright summerevenings; and that many a time, in fine weather, a table would be putout upon the green before the house, the bench offering seats on oneside, while settles and stools gave accommodation on the other, to manya merry party round the good roast beef and humming ale.

  Before the door of the inn, spread out one of those pleasant openpieces of ground, which generally found room for themselves in everycountry village in England; on which the sports of the place were held;to which the jockey brought his horse for sale, and tried his paces upand down; on which many a wrestler took a fall, and cudgel-player got abroken head. There too, in their season, were the merry maypole and thedance, the tabor and the pipe. There was many a maiden wooed and won;and there passed along all the three processions of life--the infant tothe font, the bride to the altar, the corpse to the grave.

  Various were the memories attached to that village green in the heartsof all the neighbourhood; various were the associations which it calledup in every bosom and various were the romances, probably much betterworth listening to than this that we are going to tell, which thatvillage green could have related. It had all the things pertaining toits character and profession: it had a dry, clear, sandy horse-roadrunning at one side, it had two foot-paths crossing each other in themiddle, it had a tall clump of elms on the south side, with a well, andan iron ladle underneath. It had a pond, which was kept clear by aspring at the bottom, welling constantly over at the side next theroad, and forming a little rivulet, full of pricklebacks, flowing ontowards a small river at some distance. It had its row of trees on theside next to the church, with the
priest's house at the corner. Thesurface was irregular, just sufficiently so to let some of the youngpeople, in any of their merry meetings, get out of sight of theirelders for a minute or two; and the whole was covered with that short,dry, green turf, which is only to be found upon a healthy sandy soil.In short, dear reader, it was as perfect a village green as ever wasseen, and I should like very much, if such a thing were possible, totransport you and me to the bench before the inn door on some fineafternoon in the end of the month of June, and there, with a white jugof clear Nottingham ale before us, while the sun sunk down behind theforest, and the sky began to glow with his slant rays, to tell you thetale which is about to follow, marking in your face the signs ofinterest which you would doubtless show--the hope, the fear, theexpectation, perhaps the smile of surprise, perhaps the glistening dropof sympathy--suffering you to interrupt and ask a question here andthere, but not too often--forgiving a moment's impatience when the talewas dull, and thanking you in the end for your friendship towards thegood and noble who lived and died more than five centuries ago.

  In truth, reader, you know not what a pleasure there is--when the mindis clear from care or sorrow, the heart well attuned, the object a goodone, and the tale interesting--you know not what a pleasure there is,to sit down and tell a long story to those who are worthy of hearingone.

  And now, having made a somewhat wide excursion, and finding itdifficult to get back again to the tale by any easy and gradualprocess, I will even in this place, close the first chapter, which, byyour leave, shall serve for a Preface and Introduction both.