Alas! for old Sherwood Forest: it had fallen into the possession of a
noble agriculturist; a modern utilitarian, who had no feeling for
poetry or forest scenery. In a little while and this glorious woodland
will be laid low; its green glades be turned into sheep-walks; its
legendary bowers supplanted by turnip-fields; and "Merrie Sherwood"
will exist but in ballad and tradition.
"O for the poetical superstitions," thought I, "of the olden time! that
shed a sanctity over every grove; that gave to each tree its tutelar
genius or nymph, and threatened disaster to all who should molest the
hamadryads in their leafy abodes. Alas! for the sordid propensities of
modern days, when everything is coined into gold, and this once holiday
planet of ours is turned into a mere 'working-day world.'"
My cobweb fancies put to flight, and my feelings out of tune, I left
the forest in a far different mood from that in which I had entered it,
and rode silently along until, on reaching the summit of a gentle
eminence, the chime of evening bells came on the breeze across the
heath from a distant village.
I paused to listen.
"They are merely the evening bells of Mansfield," said my companion.
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