Walter Johnson

The student who attempts to master the problem of the churchyard yew finds himself in danger of being bowed down by the burden of conflicting facts and theories.

With respect to the facts, there lies at hand a note-book containing the jottings of years, but so plethoric are its pages, that a mass of detail must be correlated and much matter shorn away before the case can be presented with any degree of lucidity.

Concerning the theories, folk-memory lends us little help. It does not ring true, and there is more than a suspicion that it has been influenced by ideas gathered from the printed book of the ecclesiologist and the antiquary.

“Things are as they are, and the consequences of them will be what they will be, wherefore, then, should we desire to be deceived?” Following the spirit of Butler’s philosophy, let us leave aside all hypotheses for the present, and review the facts. It will conduce to clearness if the particulars are summarized in due order.

The botanist will tell us that the yew (Taxus baccata) is a fine-grained, slow-growing tree belonging to the sub-division Taxineae of the Natural Order Coniferae, or Pinaceae. Its timber is tough, durable, and elastic, so that there is some truth in the New Forest proverb: “A post of yew will outlast a post of iron.” The trunk of the yew is deeply channelled, and its reddish-brown bark easily peels off. Looking at the narrow, leathery leaves, which are dark and glossy on the upper surface, but rather pale on the undersides, one might casually conclude that they are arranged in two rows on opposite sides of the twig. Closer inspection, however, proves that the leaves spring from all sides of the axis, but that a twist at the base of each leaf gives a false appearance of a plain double series[935]. The yew is dioecious, that is, the male and the female flowers grow on separate trees, but occasionally both kinds of inflorescence may be seen on the same tree. Over a large area of the Northern Hemisphere our familiar yew is met with, and an allied species grows in North-East America and Japan. The columnar variety (var. fastigiata), known as the Irish, or Florence Court yew, is said to have originated as a wild sport at Florence Court, in county Fermanagh, about 130 years ago[936]. Its outline looks very unlike that of the common yew, which has horizontal branches, and it has no further practical bearing on our subject.

It is important to note that the yew is demonstrably indigenous to Britain. It can be traced back not merely to the Neolithic Age[937], but even to the Glacial period[938]; hence there need be no debate concerning its possible introduction in later times.

Whether the yew be poisonous—no unimportant matter, as will shortly be seen—has been discussed frequently and at great length. The disputants often argue at cross-purposes, each side in turn misapprehending the exact point at issue. Having read all the literature which is reasonably accessible on this subject, I am convinced of the overwhelming proof that the yew has poisonous properties, though the noxiousness may be comparatively slight at certain seasons, in certain years, and with respect to certain animals. The results are most fatal when the beasts eat the leaves on a fasting stomach. When the leaves are dry and tough there is the additional evil of indigestibility. Yet there is an opposing fact. Mixed with three or four times their bulk of other food, green yew leaves are actually employed as fodder for cattle in times of scarcity. Records of this custom come from Hanover, Hesse, and other parts of the Continent. Stated in general terms, then, the poisonous principle (taxine) cannot be very intensely concentrated; it may even be inoperative until acted upon by the juices of the stomach. Again, the pulpy portion of the fruit is eaten with impunity, but the stones are considered highly injurious. Sufficient references are given in the footnote to obviate further discussion here[939], but it will be seen later that the modern theory was preceded by an empirical knowledge which harmonizes well with the ascertained facts.

The belief in the pernicious properties of the juice of the yew is, indeed, as old as Pliny, who tells us that arrows were dipped in the poison (toxicum), and that the hurtfulness might be neutralized by previously driving a brass nail into the tree[940]. He adds that some writers have asserted that toxicum was formerly taxicum, from the name of the yew (taxus). The assumption seems to be that taxus is connected not only with t????, a yew, but also with t????, a bow (t? t??a = bow and arrows, and perhaps arrows only)[941], and f??a???, poison. But even if these links be allowed, the claim is vitiated by the refusal of the lexicographers to admit such a word as taxicum.

Caesar informs us that Cativolcus, one of the rulers of the Eburones, poisoned himself with yew[942]. Since a doubt has been raised whether the Latin taxus and the Greek t???? accurately represent our word “yew,” it may be said that the latest authorities on both languages give that rendering to the respective words[943]. It must nevertheless be observed that there is an alternative word in Greek, for one of the several meanings of s??a?, or ??a?, is “yew.” Pliny’s word tristis (sad), applied to taxus, stands good therefore for the yew. It has been suggested that the Greek word is allied to t????, arrangement (from t???? = I arrange), the allusion being to the apparent double row of leaves.

Before leaving the philological section, some English equivalents of the word must be noticed. “Early Modern English” forms include yewe, yeugh, eugh, yowe, etc. These come to us from the Middle English ew or u, and these, again, represent the A.S. iw and eÓw[944]. A seventh century manuscript has a still earlier form, iuu, and this is said to be the oldest spelling in any Teutonic language[945]. There are, says the Century Dictionary, Danish, Old High German, Spanish, Old Irish, Welsh, Gaelic, and Cornish equivalents, and of these, the Celtic forms are possibly original and not derivative[946]. Professor W. W. Skeat supports the Celtic origin of the word yew, which, by the way, is quite distinct from the word ivy, although the various forms of yew and ivy suggest one another[947]. Dr Schrader says that the Old High German word iva, in the sense of “yew,” disappears as we go further East, and, in Sclavonic dialects, signifies a willow. The same holds good of the word for “beech,” and Dr Schrader believes that the change is due to the thinning out of these trees Eastwards. In Lithuania, again, the meanings of “fir” and “yew” run into each other[948]. Professor V. Hehn called attention to the same series of facts, from which he drew similar conclusions.

The etymological road leading us no further, we take counsel of the forester and the arboriculturist. We wish to ascertain the greatest age which the yew is believed to reach.

The older authorities followed implicitly the dictum of the Swiss botanist Augustin De Candolle, who, basing his conclusions upon a study of the annual rings of the yew, and upon the sizes of yews of known age, formulated the rule: An increase in diameter of one line annually. If we allow an average yearly growth of one line in diameter, we shall probably over-estimate the rate of growth for very aged trees (“il est probable qu’on est au-dessus de la vÉritÉ”), so that while we may, in practice, reckon each line of the diameter as a year, we shall, in reality, make the trees younger than they actually are[949]. De Candolle, in another place, admitted that for the first 150 years the annual growth somewhat exceeded a line in diameter, though for older trees it was less than this amount[950]. Abridging this rather involved statement, let us put the rule thus: Up to the age of 150 years the yews increase annually a line or a little more in diameter, and a little less than a line afterwards.

Since De Candolle’s day, it has been contended that his estimate makes the trees too old. Dr J. Lowe, in his interesting volume on Yew-Trees, has combated the conclusions at some length; his chapters are here freely drawn upon and compared with my own private notes. Dr Lowe’s estimate, taking young and old trees together, allows a growth of one foot in diameter for each period of 60-70 years. De Candolle’s rule would make a like growth represent 144 years at least (1 foot = 144 lines), or, supposing him to have taken the line as one-tenth of an inch—as some writers mistakenly believe[951]—120 years, or a little over. In the absence of testimony to the contrary, I think we may safely consider that De Candolle’s line was reckoned on the one-twelfth basis: indeed there appears to be no valid reason for doubting this. We note, in passing, that the calculations of Edward Jesse, the naturalist, made after measuring trees at intervals, agree closely with those of the Swiss savant[952].

Between the estimates of De Candolle and those of Dr Lowe, but far nearer to those of the latter observer, is the determination adopted by Sir R. Christison and his son, Dr D. Christison. Working on the eminently scientific method of measuring the increase of girth at a fixed point during stated periods, these observers decided that one foot for every 75 years would be more than the average rate of increase[953]. The three varying results may therefore be thus stated:

De Candolle	1 foot represents	144 years
The Christisons	”””	75 years
Dr Lowe	”””	60-70, say 65 years

Mr J. E. Bowman, making use of the trephine, came to the conclusion that young trees may add two lines per year, and if the soil be very rich, three lines, but that, after a diameter of two feet has been reached, De Candolle’s limit of one line yearly holds true. De Candolle’s formula, Bowman considered, “makes old trees too young, and young trees too old.” Commenting on Bowman’s mode of experiment, Dr Lowe asserts that it has “no utility whatever,” because the external rings of the tree—those reached by the trephine—are not concentric, and are not formed in the same manner as those of the young shoot. Further, Bowman’s experiments seem to have been performed on young trees only[954].

The true estimate, therefore, seems to lie between the determinations of De Candolle and Dr Lowe respectively. The latter writer admits that De Candolle’s rule is fairly sound when applied to young trees with undecayed centres, but he stipulates that the tree must be cut down and proved to have not more than one centre. He refers to the case of a yew in Kyre Park, Worcestershire, which possesses two huge trunks, united below, and he proceeds to argue that, if we suppose the tops to have been broken off underneath the junction, and young shoots to have sprung up from the base, the trees would have been deemed as old as our most noted specimens in the British Isles. Such a case, however, would rarely be encountered in actual experience.

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Fig. 69. Transverse section of yew, showing annual rings. Longest diameter, 5½´´; shortest, 4?´´; number of rings, 51. It will be noticed that the section is excentric; this is due to irregular growth. The light coloured, outer zone, is the alburnum, or sap-wood; the dark, inner zone, the duramen, or heart-wood. The large, radial cracks are the results of shrinkage. These cracks run along the lines of the medullary rays, though the actual rays are much too fine to be seen without a good lens. (For an excellent description of such a section, see G. S. Boulger, Wood, 2nd edition, 1908, p. 301.)

We will now examine De Candolle’s “ring method” a little more closely. First, what is the botanical theory respecting the formation of the rings in a tree? In our climate trees make little or no growth during the winter season, hence the new spring wood, with its wide, thin-walled vessels, is rather sharply defined against the narrower, compact, dense-walled vessels which were formed in the preceding autumn or late summer. The successive concentric cylinders of new wood, therefore, when seen in cross-section, appear as zones, or “annual rings.” These rings are well shown in the transverse section of yew (Fig. 69). In vertical section the rings appear as parallel strips, forming what is popularly called the “grain” of the wood (Fig. 70). It is true, in general, that one ring represents one year’s growth. The rule must, however, be applied under slight reserve. Dr D. H. Scott clamped the branch of an elm in June, thus increasing the pressure on the cells. The result was that wood was formed similar to that which is usually associated with autumn. After six weeks, during which the nutrition had been practically uniform, the clamp was removed, and another ring was produced.

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Fig. 70. Longitudinal, tangential section of yew. In this section, taken with the “grain,” the annual rings appear as alternate parallel strips of dark and light wood. The tracheids, or elongated thick-walled cells, are invisible to the unaided eye.

A branch is seen emerging on the right, forming a “pin,” which would be obnoxious to bowyers.

The conditions just described were artificial and abnormal, but varying temperatures, if extreme, might act in a similar manner. Sequoias and red-woods may naturally form several concentric wood rings in a year, a result probably due to alternations of heat and cold. Against the danger of over-calculation of age from neglecting such factors, may be set the consideration that, owing to damage by frost, or to seasonal peculiarities, no ring may be formed within the year[955]. In normal circumstances, “one ring, one year” is a trustworthy maxim. Unfortunately, to verify this rule, should its accuracy be challenged, the tree must be cut down—a most undesirable proceeding. Moreover, if the tree be aged, counting the rings is a matter of some difficulty; one must use a lens and a pair of needles, moving these “counters” as if scoring at a game of cribbage. Now Dr Lowe, while doubting whether the yew may not form more than one ring per year—a contingency that would seriously upset all computations based on this system—feels confident that in this country young trees produce one only. He is of opinion that the ring test consequently holds good for uninjured trees up to 200 or 250 years. Beyond that period, he asserts confidently that the yew sustains injuries from storm or disease sufficient to invalidate the rule. To the extent, let us say, of 250 years, Dr Lowe’s assumption runs parallel with that of De Candolle, who believed that there is practically no limit to the age of the yew, except disease. After the third century, Dr Lowe, as we shall soon see, actually claims a more rapid rate of growth, at least, intermittently.

The errors to which De Candolle’s method is liable are thus epitomized. A yew which has been maltreated by lopping or injured by the browsing of animals may thicken and form bosses, and so increase the apparent girth. Trunks may be fused together. Wounds may prevent the formation of rings. Small shoots may be enveloped by the spread of the “bark,” and thus a vast number of rings may be formed which eventually become concentric[956].

Nevertheless, since we cannot always cut a tree down, some other method of estimating the age must be followed. And if the actual circumference be not always the true measure of the normal free-growing parent stem, our observations should, by way of counterpoise, be correspondingly numerous. Whoever has attempted to measure a yew, with the object of employing De Candolle’s rule, will recognize the force of Dr Lowe’s contentions, yet one cannot but think that the risk of error has been exaggerated.

We are told, again, that there may be a difference in the number of rings on the two sides of a tree, even at the same level, in other words, a given ring may not be everywhere of the same thickness. This is noticeable in the specimen, Fig. 69. In the famous yew of Darley Dale, Derbyshire, it is asserted that the number of rings varied from 33 to 66 in an inch of radius, taken horizontally—a curiously neat ratio[957]. Michel Montaigne, so far back as 1581, pointed out that the rings were narrower on the north side of the tree. Yet these occurrences do not hopelessly affect our conclusions. The writer possesses a section of a branch of yew from Offchurch, Warwickshire, which was over-developed on one side, the result of proximity to a stream, and of a sunny aspect. The consequent curvature of the heart wood, though certainly disappointing to the bowyer, who bought the tree, did not prove very troublesome even to the amateur ring-counter. Taking the average of a long series of years, and examining a large number of specimens, the inequalities in such specimens would be found to cancel each other. In an aged tree like that of Darley Dale, the coalescence of the rings would be far more perplexing than the unsymmetrical growth.

With respect to one source of error, Dr Lowe seems to answer his own objection. “A tree may have died on one side,” says he, “or may have ceased forming, while the other side is growing vigorously.” Yes, but in that case the error would be one of under-calculation; the yew would be credited with fewer years than the measurements warranted.

Once again, it is argued that not only may a particular ring have inequalities of width, but the different rings vary among themselves in thickness. And we have seen that growth does not increase uniformly with age. An oak of 50 years had a circumference equal to another which was four times that age. Nor is the rate of growth always uniformly diminished as the tree becomes older. De Candolle found an oak, 333 years old, which showed as great an increase between the rings of 320 and 330 as between those of 90 and 100 years. Now it is not mere captiousness to remark that these figures refer to an oak, not to a steady-growing yew, though Dr Lowe claims that the observation would apply equally well to the latter tree[958]. We may repeat: while variations in rainfall, temperature, and food-supply, correspondingly affect the rate of growth, it is a matter of common knowledge that our seasons tend to follow ill-defined cycles, and that a series of such cycles may be expected to equalize each other with a fair approximation to exactitude.

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Fig. 71. Yew at West end of Tandridge churchyard, Surrey. Though hollow, it is one of the finest specimens in England.

A far graver indictment of De Candolle’s figures is contained in the insinuation that his selected trees were stunted and ill-grown, so that the rate of growth was made to appear too slow[959]. The supposition, if well grounded, would severely shake De Candolle’s rule, but at present it is a supposition merely, as readers of the Physiologie VÉgÉtale may learn for themselves. De Candolle did indeed believe that trees die from accident or disease rather than from old age, but how could the bias resulting from such an opinion make the age of a yew greater than it actually was? An injured tree whose development had been arrested would be credited with too few years rather than with too many. Take the case of the Tandridge yew, in Surrey (Fig. 71). Aubrey found that this tree had a girth of 30 feet at a height of five feet from the ground. Manning and Bray, about 130 years later, gave the corresponding measurement as 32 feet 9 inches. To-day the reading is only 32 feet 4 inches. Allowing for some discrepancies in the modes of measurement, the results are striking. The explanation is that, though the tree is still vigorous, it has long been hollow, and growth must have been slight, if indeed there has not been an actual arrest for the past century.

The method, adopted by the two Christisons, of measuring a tree at known intervals of time, is perhaps open to less objection than that of assuming a mean rate of growth, based on the enumeration of the rings of selected specimens. A combination of both systems would be better, if not ideal. The “interval method,” nevertheless, overlooks the objection that growth is not quite uniform. De Candolle urged, as already noticed, that the rate diminishes in aged trees, and gave several reasons. The roots are farther from the air, and they are also working in competition with those of neighbouring trees. Should the soil be rocky or otherwise uncongenial the lessened elasticity of the bark retards growth. Add to these factors the likelihood of oncoming disease, and the slackened development would be appreciable. Against these considerations, Dr Lowe boldly affirms that “there is abundant evidence to show that old trees grow, at intervals, much more rapidly than young ones”; but he makes this concession: “they do not, as I have said, grow uniformly, but have periods of comparative arrest of growth[960].” These pauses, he believes, are due to the overshadowing head of the tree. Were the head to be broken every half century or so, rapid growth would again commence. But to what degree does such a pollarding occur in nature? Does not the head continue, in the main, to overshadow the trunk and roots? (The lopping of yews for making bows, as apart from true pollarding, will be discussed later.) One reiterates, all systems are liable to error, but some systems are more accurate than others. And the “interval method,” especially if supplemented by estimating the total number of rings, according to an ascertained standard rate of increase, still awaits the coming of a better system to supersede it.

The obtruding difficulty which now meets us is, Where are we to measure the girth? Sir Robert Christison thought the ground level best, but, wherever possible, he also measured the tree at five feet from the base[961]. Yews, however, frequently thicken upwards; there may be swellings under the branches; the stem is often encumbered by bunches of young sprays; aged trees are usually deformed, and are studded with knobs and excrescences. To follow Christison’s plan with the trees at Dryburgh, Roseneath, and Sanderstead, and other yews which have protuberances at the base, would result in too liberal an estimate. The reaction of root-pressure tends to make trees “lift themselves out of the ground.” Moreover, in exposed situations, scraping animals, such as rabbits and foxes, lay bare the roots of trees, and increase the apparent girth. Rain tends to wash away the soil, and so aids in the deception.

On the other hand, the level of the soil in churchyards is gradually rising (cf. p. 90 supra), and it is primarily with churchyard yews that we are concerned. Hence it is proposed that the measurement should be taken at the base, and also at a height of three feet from the ground. De Candolle recommended a height of two feet for exogenous trees. Those who have had practical experience in measuring yews, will, while employing the tape at both these levels, recognize that there must be a slightly varied treatment for each individual tree. Perhaps, like Sir R. Christison[962], the investigator will be impelled, where the trunk is short, to take the girth at the narrowest part.

Unfortunately few actual records have been kept of measurements of yew trees taken at intervals. One or two cases may, however, be instructive. At Hurstbourne Tarrant, near Andover (Hants), there are two churchyard yews, which, the parish register informs us, were planted in 1693 and 1743 respectively. Now, if we accept Dr Lowe’s mean rate of one foot for 65 years, the first tree, when re-measured in 1896, should have been about 9´ 10´´ in circumference, and the second 7´ 6´´. The actual measurements were[963]:

1st tree. 8´ 4´´ at base; 6´ 8´´ at a height of five feet.

2nd” 7´ 3´´””; 7´ 3´´”” ””

Hence Dr Lowe’s rate of growth would be too high for these trees; in the first example, markedly, yet the trees were still only of moderate age, and growth must have been active.

Other good records refer to two yews in the churchyard of Basildon, Berkshire. Details of the measurement of the first tree were entered in the parish register in 1780, and of the second in 1834, though both trees had been planted by Lord Fane at a considerably earlier date than the year 1780. In 1889 the trees were again measured by Mr Walter Money, and the results thus compared[964]:

1st tree. From 1780-1889, an increase from 6´ 3´´ to 9´ 10´´; a gain of 3´ 7´´.

2nd”From 1834-1889, an increase from 9´ 2½´´ to 9´ 6´´; a gain of 3½´´.

Now, if it be true, as Dr Lowe’s rule supposes, that a mean period of 65 years represents a gain of one foot in diameter, the first tree should have increased 5´ 3´´ in circumference, and the second 2´ 8´´. But here, again, the postulated rate of growth is far too high; in the second example, nine times too high. Even if we grant that “old trees grow, at intervals, much more rapidly than young ones,” Dr Lowe’s main rule is not verified. For it happens that measurements of the first tree were made at two intermediate dates, 1796 and 1834. During the first period, 1780-1796, the increase was indeed three times as great as Dr Lowe’s formula would demand, but in the second, and longer period, 1796-1889, the growth was less than a quarter of the estimated amount. These measurements of yews, dealing with odd inches, truly suggest some degree of error, due to the substitution of one observer for another, nevertheless, we may assume the figures to be roughly correct. At the same time, these rather surprising results indicate the wisdom of calling in the aid of the total ring-estimate as a supplementary witness, since the increase of girth tends to be so variable.

Particulars respecting the growth of yews at Wrexham, as given by John Timbs, also show that an increase of one foot in 65 years is somewhat over the limit[965]. More records are desirable, yet the facts generally seem to favour Dr Lowe’s higher limit of 70 years for each foot of growth, or even the 75 years proposed by the Christisons. On the whole, Dr Lowe himself seems to sanction the last-named estimate, for, while he thinks that one foot in 75 years is “below the average rate of growth,” yet for purposes of calculation he prefers to adopt that scale[966].

The basis of 75 years, then, shall be taken in the present chapter. Two reservations, dependent upon what has been said previously, must, however, be borne in mind. First, seeing that young trees have, proportionately, a more extended leaf surface than old ones, larger rings are formed and the 75-years rule will make the trees too old. Secondly, and more important, there seems to come a period when aged trees are practically at a standstill; they make no more increase, but linger until disease and decay set in and slowly drain off the vitality. Of the yew at Aldworth, Berkshire, it is asserted that it has not increased in circumference since 1760[967]. I feel sure that this arrest, though not usually absolute, is very common; hence, for aged trees, additions to the age must be made after applying the 75-years rule. Much stress should be laid on this point.

This slightly technical review has brought us so far as this: there was a certain proneness among earlier observers to over-estimate the age of the yew, and it is only as a result of modern observation that the tendency has been checked. Whoever has walked along the Pilgrims’ Way of the Southern counties, and has stopped to pass his tape-measure around the oldest yews, must have realized that popular notions concerning the age of these trees are not justified. Elsewhere, I have attempted to show that many of these yews are successors of earlier ones, and that they were designedly preserved by pilgrims and other wayfarers[968]. That explanation embraces the spirit of the folk-tales which point to existing yew-trees as ante-dating particular Norman or Saxon churches. The traditions cover the fact that trees have studded the Pilgrims’ Way for many centuries—a conclusion differing from the reckless guesses of guide-book antiquaries respecting the vast age of individual existing yews.

In some few instances, as we shall see, churchyard yews are extremely ancient, and it is a sound hypothesis that a replacement of dead yews has often been made, thus bridging over the period which has elapsed from the introduction of Christianity and the rearing of churches to the present day. But, in general, deductions drawn from the age of existing buildings are faulty. A caution must also be entered against over-estimating the age of particular trees in yew groves which are known to be ancient. Popular tradition says that the yews in Kingly Bottom, or Vale, near Chichester, existed when the sea-kings landed. The legend may be doubted, yet if we were to express it as Dr Lowe suggests—“yews were there” at that date—the statement would probably be accurate. Presented in this form, we may fairly assume the statement true for earlier periods. Doubtless the Neolithic flint-workers of the Vale, of whose old mines large numbers were discovered in 1910, looked upon a dusky yew grove as they went to their labours. Once more: in spite of the oft-repeated assertion that this or that yew is alluded to in Domesday Book, it is none the less a fact that no individual yew, no individual tree, in short, is mentioned therein[969].

From a long descriptive list of aged yew trees, slowly accumulated in a note-book, a few examples only need be extracted. At the head, in regard to antiquity, stands probably the yew in the graveyard of Fortingal (Fortingale, or erroneously, Fotheringhall), Perthshire. Sir R. Christison estimated this tree to be 3000 years old, and deemed it “the most venerable specimen of living European vegetation[970].” De Candolle’s determination was about the same as Christison’s. The hollow stump, which has been carefully railed in, is now the merest wreckage. The Fortingal yew was measured by Daines Barrington in 1769, when the circumference was set down as 52 feet[971]. Pennant, a few years later, gave the result as 56½ feet, so that, reckoning on the 75-year basis, the tree would at that date be about 1340 years old. Mr C. T. Ramage, basing his calculations on the observed rate of growth of a yew in Montgomeryshire, arrived at the total of 1400 years[972]. It is worthy of notice that a very old ecclesiastical establishment once existed near the Fortingal yew[973]. Loudon gives us a woodcut representing the tree as it appeared in 1837[974]; beyond this we have to rely on the figures quoted, and on oral tradition.

Competing with the Fortingal yew for the premier position, there formerly existed that of Brabourne, in Kent. It was alluded to by Evelyn in his Discourse on Forest Trees (1664), as already “supperannuated,” and it disappeared about a century ago[975]. De Candolle put its age at more than 3000 years[976], and while this was doubtless an over-estimate, yet, if the recorded circumference, 59 feet[977], be correctly stated, the tree was actually more ancient than its Scottish rival.

A third claimant, from Hensor (Bucks), must be introduced with a wavering pen. Its circumference, according to Mr J. R. Jackson, of Kew, was 81 feet[978], hence, if this measurement be accurate, the yews already mentioned are hopelessly out-ranged, for here we should have a tree 2000 years old. Unfortunately, this yew no longer remains to tell its own story, or to allow the measurement to be checked.

The celebrated churchyard yew of Darley Dale, Derbyshire, has suffered much in reputation owing to travellers’ tales. Half a century since its diameter was approximately 9½ feet[979], its age may therefore be roughly estimated as 760-770 years.

A dead yew, under-propped, and chained together so as to preserve the upright position, stands in the grounds of Kersal Cell, Lancashire. This cell was founded about the middle of the twelfth century, and Mr Arthur Mayall has suggested that the seed from which the yew sprang was brought from the Holy Land at the close of the Second Crusade (1149)[980].

The yews known as the “Seven Sisters,” which grew on a knoll near the mill at Fountains Abbey, Yorkshire, but of which only two remain, have been deemed by an able, though anonymous, authority to be “most certain relics” of the mid-twelfth century[981]. The Abbey was founded in A.D. 1135. For the sake of comparison, De Candolle’s figures—1280 years[982]—although too high, may be noted.

The Buckland yew, near Dover, which was removed from the churchyard in 1880, was one of those erroneously reputed to have been mentioned in Domesday Book. Serious historians, however, like Hasted, do not make this mistake. The tree was of vast size, though details are now lacking. At Watcombe, a lonely farm on the roadside between Wantage and Hungerford, stands a cluster of aged yews, possibly coeval with the Benedictine cell and church which were built there at the close of the eleventh century. The trees form a kind of covered way or cloister and now surround a central pond[983]. Of “Talbot’s yew,” in Tankersley Park, Yorkshire, it is said that a man on horseback could turn round inside its hollow trunk[984], and similar stories are related of other yew trees.

Our catalogue might be extended, but there is scant space to describe the yew of South Hayling (Hants), 33 feet round at its narrowest girth[985]; that of Tisbury (Wilts.), 37 feet[986]; of Crowhurst (Surrey) (Fig. 72), nearly 32¾ feet at a yard from the ground[987]; or of its namesake, the Sussex Crowhurst, 27 feet[988]. The Chipstead yew, in Surrey (Fig. 73), and the two yews of Mells, in Somerset, one of which is shown in Fig. 74, are also well-grown trees. Hambledon, in Surrey, possesses two good examples; the larger is seen in Fig. 75. A mere glimpse only can be taken of the Swallowfield yew, Berkshire, believed by Kingsley to be older than the parish church (built A.D. 1286)[989]; of Evelyn’s specimen at Scottshall (Kent), which he said was eighteen of his paces “in compasse[990]”; the huge monarch of Twyford churchyard, Hampshire; and the memorable, oft-described yew of Gilbert White’s village of Selborne[991].

Fig. 72. Crowhurst yew, Surrey. East side of churchyard. 32¾ feet in circumference at a height of 3 feet from the ground. The inside, which was artificially hollowed in the year 1820, contains a table, around which a dozen persons can be seated.

Before taking final leave of individual trees, an example given by Strutt claims passing notice. Strutt cites an original charter which refers to the building of a church at PÉrone, or PÉronne, in Picardy, in A.D. 684. In this charter, a remarkable clause was inserted, giving instructions for the preservation of a particular yew tree. The writer adds that the tree was in existence in A.D. 1799[992]. If we could be sure that the charter referred to the identical tree which survived till the latter date, we should here have a rival to the veterans of Fortingal and Brabourne.

It has now been made clear that neither the exaggerated estimates of the earlier school of botanists, nor the under-calculations of recent writers, are quite satisfactory, and that, as of old

the middle path is safest. We next ask how the yew came to be planted in churchyards. One section of antiquaries teaches that the object was to ensure a supply of evergreens for great festivals, and to furnish, in particular, “palms” for the procession on Palm Sunday (the second Sunday in Lent). That the “yew, or palm,” served this purpose is abundantly proved by entries in churchwardens’ accounts, and by the actual evidence of living eye-witnesses. Nor is it entirely a valid objection that box, laurel, broom and willow, have been or are still used for a like purpose[993]. It is on record, too, that twigs of yew were employed by the priests for sprinkling the Holy Water, in the Asperges, before Mass[994]. This class of evidence can be extended. The Liber Festivalis, or “Directory for keeping the Festivals,” an old

black-letter volume dated 1483, states that yew is carried about on Palm Sunday, “for encheson (= cause)[995] that we have none olyve that berith greene leef algate (= always)[996].” Irish peasants were wont to carry sprays of yew in their caps during Passion Week, and to place small portions beside the crucifix at the head of the bed[997]. On St Martin’s Hill, near Marlborough, as previously noted (p. 194 supra), there is an ancient earthwork, to which, so recently as 1858, a band of villagers went in procession on Palm Sunday, carrying boughs of hazel, not of yew[998]. Although the yew was absent, the ceremony supplies an interesting link, and the connection of a Christian festival with prehistoric remains seems to indicate an early origin of the custom. Again, a well-known ecclesiastical ceremony consisted in the solemn blessing by the priest, on Palm Sunday, of branches of yew and box, which were then burnt to ashes, and these were preserved for use on the Ash Wednesday of the following year[999]. When visiting Wookey, in Somerset, during the summer of 1906, I was told that the old churchyard cross, recently restored, was known as “Yew Cross,” because it was formerly decorated with yew on Palm Sunday. It is an astonishing fact, moreover, that in the North-West Himalayas the yew is not only an object of veneration, but its twigs are carried in processions and incense is made of its timber[1000]. The enthusiastic antiquary might rashly adduce this as a proof of the Asiatic origin of the “Aryans,” let us rather suppose, without prejudicing that vexed question, that it is another instance of similarity of custom developing independently among diverse races.

Plainly, then, we have obtained at least a partial answer to our question. Further usages, of a somewhat kindred nature, suggest reasons for the presence of the tree in the churchyard. Yew branches were carried by mourners at funerals; sprigs of yew were scattered on the coffin; corpses were even rubbed with an infusion of the leaves, with a view to preservation[1001]. Dryden speaks of the “mourner yew”; in Twelfth Night the clown sings of “My shroud of white, stuck all with yew[1002]”; allusions are also found in the works of Dekker (1603), Thomas Stanley (1651), and other seventeenth century writers. The association of the yew with funerals survived until our day[1003]. Sir Thomas Browne, discussing, with sonorous eloquence, the burials of the ancient Greeks and Romans, tells us that “the funeral pyre consisted of sweet fuel, cypress, fir, larix, yew, and trees perpetually verdant,” and continues, later, “whether the planting of yew in churchyards hold not its original from ancient funeral rites, or as an emblem of resurrection, from its perpetual verdure, may also admit conjecture[1004].”

Turning to a more prosaic theory, we find it urged that yew-trees were planted in churchyards to protect the fabric from high storms and to shelter the assembling congregation before the doors were opened. The chief basis for this opinion is discoverable in the notable statute of which the date is believed to be 35 Edward I. (A.D. 1307): Ne rector prosternat arbores in cemiterio, that is, the rector must not cut down trees in the churchyard, save, as the act proceeds to specify, for the repair of the chancel[1005]. The statute was a repetition of a decree of the Synod of Exeter (A.D. 1287), which forbade the felling of churchyard trees, and expressly stated that they are often planted to prevent injury to the building during storms[1006]. A like prohibition, it is asserted, though mistakenly, had been earlier embodied in Magna Charta[1007]. It is more pertinent to the present inquiry to remark that the law is still binding. A foreign writer, whose name I cannot ascertain, is quoted as stating that the yew was planted for shade and conciones (= assemblies)[1008]. With reference to the above-mentioned decrees, it is argued that the yew would be the principal, if not the only, kind of tree which needed preservation. If, then, with Gilbert White[1009], we adopt the shelter theory as one explanation of the presence of the yew, we tacitly admit that the tree, to have been of any service, must have been planted long anterior to the date of the statutes. Was the yew, it will reasonably be asked, well adapted for a screen or shelter? On the one hand, Dr Lowe urges, as objections, the tree’s slow growth and the horizontal habit of its branches. Against this opinion we may set the more plausible view of Daines Barrington, that the thick foliage of the yew renders it better for the purpose than other trees[1010]. While not admitting that the shelter theory accounts for the original intention of the earliest planters, it seems obvious that even one yew would be effective in breaking the force of the wind from a particular quarter. Moreover, two or three trees were often grown in the churchyard. Slowness in reaching maturity would not be an absolute bar, if, indeed, the tree were not already well advanced in growth ere the church fabric was actually reared. As a matter of history, a case cited by Barrington shows that the felling of yews caused the roof of the church to suffer.

Other trees besides the yew would, without doubt, be also employed; whether this was the case in primitive times may, however, be questioned. The “rugged elm” of the Elegy would come into favour in due course. Examples of magnificent elms are to be seen at North Mimms (Herts), Iford (Sussex), East Bedfont (Middlesex), and in many Essex villages. Alfriston, in Sussex, has an immense elm, hollow with age. Somewhat later, the sycamore, as at Plumpton (Sussex), and the horse chestnut, as at Thursley (Surrey), were also utilized. This brings us probably to the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, though the precise dates are usually not ascertainable. Cedars occasionally replace the yew[1011], for example, in the churchyard of Lullingstone (Kent), or they supplement it, as at Ashtead (Surrey). Rodmell, in Sussex has a magnificent holm oak, besides a large horse-chestnut and numerous elms. Walnuts are not uncommon; Mitcham and Great Bookham (Surrey), Clee and Great Coates (Lincs.), furnish good examples. Boldre churchyard (Hants) contains a maple which was considered by Gilpin and Strutt to be the largest in England. A huge ash borders the Eastern yard at Westmeston (Sussex), but the ash, especially the “weeping” variety, is a feature of churchyards in the Northern counties. “They, too, had once their office, they handed on the fire.” Of these miscellaneous trees I have compiled, from observation, a goodly list, but always one meets the yew, either sporadically, or in each successive churchyard. Whatever may have been the case with our indigenous trees, such as the oak, and beech, or the common elm—a tree now acknowledged to be endemic—at the date referred to in the ordinances for protection, we do know that the yew then existed as a churchyard tree. Its most common position—on the South side of the building—is also that which is exposed to the prevailing winds and rainstorms.

A very popular theory, and one which merits close examination, is that yews were grown in the churchyard so as to ensure a ready supply of material for the manufacture of bows. Even should anyone audaciously deny that the yew is poisonous, he cannot dispute the existence of an old-standing belief to that effect. A tree dangerous to cattle, it was therefore argued, must be grown in an enclosed area. In Mediaeval times, though perhaps not so commonly in the early Saxon period, such a space was already furnished by the conveniently fenced churchyard. While we cannot allow the claim that the fact of the tree’s being poisonous will account for the felling of yew groves, while, rather, we must believe that the needs of archery would demand the actual plantation of thickets and woodlands, there is no reason for doubting that, where an additional tree was preserved for the village bowyers, the husbandman would desire to have it railed in. The yew groves, at least those artificially planted, would usually have their own fences, and would be inaccessible to cattle. Partly, the bow theory goes against the shelter theory, since constant lopping would impair the tree’s usefulness as a curtain. The bow theory, however, is not quite inconsistent with the employment of sprays of the tree on festal occasions.

To review briefly the subject of British archery let us start fairly at the Norman Conquest. It is known that the Normans were acquainted with the cross-bow[1012] or arbalest (prob. from arcus = a bow; ballista = a military engine: the later spelling

“arrowblest” is discredited), a somewhat complicated weapon, having a handle or stock, to which was attached a bowstave of yew or steel (Figs. 76, 77). The cross-bow was drawn by means of a stirrup fixed at the end of the stock, or it was slowly and laboriously wound up by cords and windlass, and then drawn by means of a lever. Besides this cumbrous weapon, the Normans, as we learn from the Bayeux “tapestry,” were accustomed to use the simpler long-bow[1013], a plain arched weapon—a “self” bow made of a single yew stave. These bows were employed at the Battle of Hastings, and some writers have hastily assumed that the long-bow “came over with the Conqueror.” This conclusion cannot be accepted in silence.

Able authorities state that the long-bow (Figs. 78, 79) was peculiarly the weapon of Northern races in general[1014]. The Danes and the Saxons used it in warfare[1015], and it is noteworthy that we inherit the Anglo-Saxon words, boga, boge (bow), and arwe (arrow), the last term having been in use so early as A.D. 835[1016]. There is also evidence, based on examples of decorative ornament and on runes, that archery was practised in England about the year A.D. 750. By some authorities the Romans are supposed to have introduced the bow, presumably the cross-bow, which is really a kind of portable ballista, into the country[1017]. Sir John Evans, while admitting that the cross-bow was in use during the Roman period, believes that it was not known in the Neolithic

Age, when long-bows made of yew were probably employed[1018]. Between these two periods vast centuries roll, and we may fairly assume that the cross-bow does not belong to pre-Roman Britain. But what impresses us is the conviction that the plain long-bow had never been entirely superseded. A yew bow, made of indifferent material, consisting of a single stave about five feet long, was dug out of deep peat near Cambridge in 1885, and was judged to be prehistoric[1019]. Switzerland has also yielded a few specimens, but bows of undoubted Neolithic Age are rare. Reasoning from the unnumbered arrowheads of stone which have come down to us and which are now preserved in collections, we may infer that the long-bow was in common use during the Later Stone Age, even supposing that many “arrow-heads” were really tips for shafts thrown by hand. We may peer yet further into a darker past, when, as Pitt-Rivers suggests, primeval man fastened his lance to the stem of a young forest tree, which he improvised as a spring-trap or an elastic throwing stick[1020].

This slight digression carries us thus far: the cross-bow may possibly reach back to the Roman period, but the long-bow is certainly of prehistoric origin. These conclusions have some bearing on the artificial planting of yews, and are important to the upholders of the “bow theory.” It may be advisable, too, to notice the discovery of a spearhead of yew in the peat of the Fenland[1021].

Now we may return to the Norman Conquest, and the Norman cross-bow. To wind up and discharge this weapon was obviously a difficult and tardy process. For every bolt shot by the cross-bowman, the archer could deliver six arrows[1022]. Mr C. F. Longman and Col. H. Walrond consider this ratio much too favourable to the clumsier engine[1023]. Be that as it may, the long-bow, swift and deadly, won for us CreÇy and Poitiers. Aided by their field entrenchments, the English were able to give the national arm free scope, and the “quarrels” discharged by the Genoese cross-bowmen were more than answered by the English arrows[1024]. The scene makes us remember Gilpin’s apposite observation, that the Frenchman drew a bow, while the English bent a bow. For, in England, the cross-bow had given the first place to its lightsome competitor in the thirteenth century[1025]. But the bolt and cross-bow lingered for two more centuries, until the long-bow itself was struggling for supremacy with the hand-gun or hand-cannon, which had been introduced about the year A.D. 1446. A statute, passed in A.D. 1515, increased the property qualification for using a cross-bow or hand-gun to 300 marks a year, and this sum was again raised a few years later. At the same time the use of the long-bow was enforced[1026].

We will now deal exclusively with the long-bow. Statutes relating to archery are very numerous, and range from the time of Edward I. to that of Charles II., during whose reign the long-bow practically died out as a weapon, in spite of many patriotic attempts at resuscitation. Very pleasant reading is afforded by some of these old ordinances. The first statute, 13 Edward I. (A.D. 1285), known as the Statute of Winchester, ordered all males of a certain rank to shoot from the age of seven, and this act was not repealed until A.D. 1557. Statutes passed during the reign of Edward III. commanded that bows and arrows should be provided by the local authorities, and archery should be encouraged. Under Richard II. all servants were to practise at the target, and Sunday was specially nominated for the purpose. Henry IV. (A.D. 1405) regulated the manufacture of arrow-heads, which were to have a steel point, and to bear the mark of the maker. Most important legislation was passed under 5 Edward IV. c. 4 (Irish Statutes): “Every Englishman, and every Irishman dwelling with Englishmen, shall have a bow of his own height.” Later, came laws regulating the importation of bowstaves. Here it should be explained that the timber of the yew, dense and elastic, was considered to form the ideal raw material, but modern bowyers have largely abandoned “self-yew” bows, and seem to prefer a combination of two kinds of wood, yew for the inner, and hickory for the outer layer. Since English yew was inferior to that of Spain, Portugal and Italy, because it suffered from an excess of “pins”—spots from which branches had been trimmed (Fig. 70, p. 367 supra)—importation was necessary. First, then, bowstaves were ordered to be brought over with other merchandise, and marked accordingly. Next, they were to be imported with every butt of wine. The price was fixed, and soon the scale of charges became complicated. In A.D. 1504, good bowstaves were admitted free of duty. And so the story might be continued. There are commands to practise the sport on feast-days, and on every possible occasion; the quality of the bowstaves and arrows is to be improved; butts are to be erected or repaired. Entries under this last head are found in parish accounts extending well into the seventeenth century. The churchwardens’ accounts of Ashburton (Devon) for instance, refer (A.D. 1558-9) to “lopping the yew-tree” and to payments “to the Bowyer.” So late as A.D. 1772, several thousand bowstaves came to England, chiefly from the Baltic ports and from Rhineland[1027].

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.

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?

In German folk-lore, there was a belief that the wood of the yew, ground to powder, made into paste, and baked in an oven, was a sovereign remedy against the bite of a mad dog[1055]. Alternatively, a die was made of yew and letters and signs were cut in the block. Cakes stamped with this charm (Toll-holz) were given to the mad animal. These instances show that the yew, while feared as of ill-omen, brought its measure of luck to him who could obtain and use it aright.

The foregoing beliefs seem to form part of a tangled skein, which, if temporarily dropped, must be picked up again shortly. In the interval, material of a like nature may be examined.

The dense, heavy tree, “standing single in the midst of its own darkness,” has been considered a just emblem of sin, death, and mortality. Being, perhaps, our most deadly indigenous tree, it materializes the adverse spirit of evil and destruction[1056]. In partial conflict with this idea, the vitality of the tree, its longevity, its durable timber, and its evergreen leaves, have suggested to some minds the Resurrection and the eternal life. This latter fancy may have been strengthened by the sight of young shoots springing out of the old, apparently dead, wood, even from a decaying stump, or a hole entirely hollow, and charred perchance by fire. Whether these symbolisms are altogether adventitious and derivative, and whether they can be quite reconciled, are difficult questions. The ideas have a Mediaeval tinge, but none the less they may be relics of an older mysticism.

The inquiry may be pushed back further, because there are a few miscellaneous fragments of evidence to be collected. Dr Daniel Rock, whose volumes show wide research and carefulness in sifting ecclesiological details, casts aside the bow theory, and proceeds to say that many of our yews were planted by Anglo-Saxons, and not a few by British Christians. The hardy evergreen yew is the analogue of the cypress of hotter climes. The converted Britons, he believes, “often, if not always, sought to build their churches near to some fine yew-tree—even then, maybe, a few hundred years old[1057].” Dr Rock gives the grand yew of Aldworth, Berkshire, as an example of this early planting, but we can scarcely accept his opinion. Although, by actual measurement, it was found, as already mentioned, that this tree has not increased in girth since the year 1760, yet this girth is but 27 feet, and will not satisfy the claim of so great an antiquity. Undoubtedly the yew-tree was reverenced in the early times. Two churches, alluded to by an ancient Welsh bard, were renowned for their prodigious trees: the minsters of Esgor and HeÛllan, “of celebrity for sheltering yews[1058].” Boswell Syme, the authority for this statement, adds that HeÛllan signifies an old grove. We read, too, of consecrated yews. In the old Welsh laws, a consecrated yew was assessed at £1, a specimen of ordinary yew at 15 pence only. With these prices we may compare those of a mistletoe branch and an oak branch, which were threescore pence and sixscore pence respectively[1059].

In the North of Scotland the yew was credited with a peculiar property. A branch of graveyard yew would enable one chief to denounce another, in such a manner that, while the clansmen standing by could hear the threats, the intended victim could not hear a word[1060].

Accumulated testimony shows that the yew was an object of veneration in pre-Christian times. Mr H. C. Coote has dragged forth evidence on this subject, as on many kindred questions, which had previously lain unnoticed. “But of these old-world superstitions,” he writes, “that connected with the yew-tree is the most interesting. For, as of old, it was associated with the passage of the soul to its new abode,—so ever since the introduction of Christianity into this country it has continued to adorn the last resting place of the body which the soul had left[1061].” He then quotes the poet Statius, who flourished about A.D. 81: “Necdum illum [i.e. Amphiaraum] aut trunca lustraverat obvia taxa Eumenis[1062],” that is, Amphiaraus had descended into Hades so quickly that the Eumenides, or Furies, had no time to purify him by a touch of the holy yew branch[1063]. The Furies are also fabled to have made torches of yew[1064]. In connection with the superstition mentioned by Statius, a discovery described by Wright is of interest. In a Roman cinerary urn there was found a dark incrustation of vegetable matter, believed to be caused by the decay of a branch of yew[1065].

Since, then, the yew called forth tributary respect in pagan times, we are led nearer the centre of mystery, and the Cimmerian shades close in rapidly. Can we be sure of the primary cause of the veneration? The tree has been popularly associated with that much misunderstood priestly caste, which embraced the Druids of classical writers. Dr Lowe contends that there is no evidence to show that the Britons held the yew in reverence; to disprove the notion, he adds, “I have been unable to discover a single instance of a Druidical stone being associated with a Christian church[1066].” If, as is fairly evident, “Druidical stone” is to be interpreted as “prehistoric megalith,” a reference to Chapter I. will show that such cases were probably not uncommon. Concerning the Druids and their sacred trees our direct knowledge is scanty, but absence of allusions to the yew in connection with Druidical rites is not completely conclusive against the ceremonial virtues of the tree. Besides, there are some half hints which are not quite negligible.

To speak of the worship of sacred trees would carry us far from our bearings. Those who desire to study this subject would do well to read Professor J. G. Frazer’s Golden Bough, and the famous seventh chapter of Mr Grant Allen’s Evolution of the Idea of God. From these writers we learn not only the significance of tree-worship and tree-spirits, but we understand the inspiring motive of ceremonial tree-planting. The first trees which grew on barrows may have become rooted there by accident, such as the chance visits of birds, or the scraping together of the material of the mound. The trees would receive the more encouragement from the fact that the soil had been turned over and laboured. Again, is it too fanciful to suggest that a sacred grave-stake, freshly trimmed, might occasionally put forth leaves and take root? Whatever the origin of the practice, direct planting, with a fixed purpose, would eventually come into vogue. Shrubs, especially evergreens, would be placed on the graves of dead tribesmen (cf. p. 323 supra). Like practices have been recorded the world over. Greeks, Arabs, Etruscans, Phoenicians, Hindoos, Chinese, and various American peoples furnish examples. A survival is seen in the English custom of thrusting slips of bay and yew into the green turf of Christian graves[1067].

Frequently the round or Bronze Age barrows of the South of England are topped by the Scotch pine, a tree which is not indigenous to that region. In Southern Europe the cypress is the favoured evergreen of tombs and cemeteries, but in Italy and Provence the holm-oak is equally a conventional graveyard tree. In Northern Europe it is the yew which receives the place of honour[1068]. Branches of cypress and yew were employed in ancient Greece and Rome as signals that a household was in mourning[1069]. No great stress can be laid on the passage from Macpherson’s Ossian, “The yew was a funereal tree, the companion of the grave among the Celtic tribes. Here rests their dust, Cuthullen! These lonely yews sprang from their tomb and shaded them from the storm[1070].” Without daring to re-open the Ossian controversy, one may, however, hazard the opinion that the passage enshrines a genuine tradition.

At Knowlton, Dorset, as stated on p. 13 supra, the church, which is now utterly ruined, and which is of Norman, or, as some have supposed, perhaps even Saxon foundation, stood within a round British earthwork, one of a small group. The earthworks, which were first carefully described by Warne, are themselves now nearly obliterated, but a group of storm-swept yews, it will be recollected, marks the site[1071]. It is perhaps justifiable to suppose that our early ancestors, like the churchmen of Mediaeval days, replaced dead or uprooted yews by fresh saplings. The group of yews at Kingly Vale, to which we have already paid some attention, stands in the neighbourhood of four barrows, and numerous excavations, probably prehistoric, dot the turfy slopes of the hillside.

Folk-lore lends a little help in attaching the yew to prehistoric observances. Sir John Rhys relates a story of an Irish hero, who, by the aid of his druid or magician, defied the fairies, dug into the heart of their underground home, and recovered his lost wife. To accomplish this, the druid used “powerful ogams” written on rods of yew[1072]. O’Curry records a saga wherein the druids employ divination wands made of yew[1073]. Sir G. L. Gomme thinks that the change from oak or mistletoe to yew was the result of Christian influence, and that Druidism continued to exist long after it was officially dead[1074]. This may be so, but, theory for theory, there is a little more reason for supposing that the early Church diplomatically accepted a settled custom. Moreover, though the yew was planted in the graveyard, and though it was pressed into service on Palm Sunday, it is only in modern times that its branches have been admitted into the sacred building as a portion of the Christmas decorations. Even to-day an East Anglian superstition says that if anyone accidentally brings yew into the house along with the other Christmas evergreens, a death will occur in his family within a twelvemonth[1075]. This refusal of a place of honour during the great period of joyousness and festivity seems to indicate that the tree was originally adopted by the Christians, not from choice, but from policy; in other words, a pagan emblem was adopted, but not unreservedly. Yew twigs were appropriate only to the more solemn services of the Church. Again, the branches were doubtless proper decorations for a maypole, as one may learn to-day from outlying districts like the Aland Isles; but for centuries the yew was not recognized at the great Christian anniversary.

In a legend related to the king of Tara by Finntann, the cultivator and craftsman of the yew, it is said that the first household vessels were made of the timber of this tree[1076]. In the British Museum, London, as well as in the Science and Art Museum of Dublin, many early implements made of yew are exhibited. Ossian speaks of the war chariot thus: “Of polished yew is its beam; its seat of the smoothest bone.” This tradition may point to a former abundance of the tree, or it may denote a slackening of ceremonial, followed by the employment of yew wood for economic purposes.

There remain a few more “half-hints.” The Fortingal yew (p. 375 supra) had its career shortened by the lighting of Beltane fires against its trunk[1077]. The origin of Beltane fires is on all hands admitted to be at least pre-Roman. Another illuminating fact is that when this aged tree had become separated into two portions, funeral processions were accustomed to pass between the limbs[1078].

Readers of Scott will remember that in the Lady of the Lake (canto iii., st. 8), the fiery cross by which clansmen were gathered to battle was made of yew, and we may assume that the poet had heard of the mystical associations of the tree. The lines run thus:

We return for a moment to the question of the association of yews with ancient remains. Professor H. Conwenz, at the meeting of the British Association in 1901, asserted that there exist some hundreds of place-names in England, Scotland and Ireland, connected with the word “yew.” Ireland was especially rich in this respect, and in some of the Irish localities fossil yew had been found. The statement, if verifiable, is of deep interest, but our English philologists, up to the present, do not seem to have dealt with this series of place-names. Near the churchyard yew of Darley Dale are traces of British dwellings[1079]. The Cranborne Chase yew grove is not far from the camp at Winkelbury, nor from the Romano-British villages of Woodcuts and Rotherly. Our churchyards, as shown in Chapters I. and II., are sometimes in close proximity to prehistoric antiquities. The allusion to assemblies—“conciones”—around the yew-tree (p. 383 supra) may carry us back to Saxon or even early British customs. At least one example of such ancient usage has been brought to light by Sir G. L. Gomme. It refers to the market and fair of Langsett, Yorkshire, which, together with the manorial court, were held under an old yew. During the eighteenth century, when the tree still flourished, tradition said that the meetings went back to time immemorial[1080]. Within these last sixty years, again, a yearly fair or wake was held on Palm Sunday—a noteworthy date—under the boughs of the old Surrey yew in Crowhurst churchyard[1081] (Fig. 72, p. 378).

One further problem remains to be noticed. Why is the yew, in a majority of instances, placed on the South side of the churchyard, or, failing the South, why on the West? For it is manifest to the careful observer that the North side is little favoured, and the East even less. In discussing the folk-lore of the cardinal points we saw that parishioners formerly shunned the North side of “God’s Acre,” and craved burial in the Southern or Western portions. The roots of this preference spread wide and deep, but even superficially there were reasons good enough. On the South side stood usually the churchyard cross (p. 328 supra). The main door and the entrance gate commonly faced the noonday sun. In Saxon times, when, as Dr Rock remarks, the simple building had often only one door, this door looked to the South[1082]. Clearly this quarter was popular. Originally, man would be guided in his selection by considerations of physical warmth; respect for solar influences on animated nature may have followed. Based on these feelings, ideas of sentiment, and later, of reverence, would be kindled in the minds of the worshippers.

For many years I have been collecting details concerning the position of yews in churchyards. Turning to the county of Surrey, I find well-grown yews tabulated for 41 churchyards—the list is not quite exhaustive. Of course, many churches lack the attendant yew. To simplify the question, we will imagine a median line passing East and West through the church, and prolonged through the churchyard. Trees standing South-East and South-West may for our present purpose be considered to be on the South side; the North-East and North-West corners are similarly reckoned as North. There remain the yews which occur roughly on the median line—East or West. On this basis, five Surrey yews were noted as being on the North side, and only six on the West. One only is recorded as standing due East. The remainder are situated due South or at intermediate positions in the sun’s track. Partial explanations may frequently be offered. In one case of a Western yew, there is a doorway at the West end only; in another, the tree is rather young, and is a doubtful claimant to be catalogued. Again, at Chipstead (Fig. 73, p. 379), a noble yew on the North overshadows a blocked-up Northern door of Transitional Norman date, so that formerly the villagers passed this tree as they entered the edifice. Still again, one North yew is perhaps accounted for by the fact that the Southern yard is a mere strip, though, to present the case fully, we must note that occasionally one finds a North yew where the Southern burial ground is spacious, and the Northern actually narrow and stinted.

In order to form a just opinion on the subject of the yew’s position, we ought to ascertain the earliest plan of the church and the original extent of the burial-ground. It would then, I think, be discovered that the space most used for interments, and the porch or door through which the worshippers generally entered the building, correspond, in the vast majority of cases, with the position of the sentinel yew. Which is cause, and which is effect, may be an open question. Did the yew obtain its place—generally, as we have seen, with the South aspect—because of the superstitious notions already given, and were the graves afterwards made in a cluster around it? Or did the accumulating burials on a particular side call forth a desire for a funereal emblem, a “warder of these buried bones,” as Tennyson sang? Again, did the yew precede the church, or the church the yew, or were they co-eval? Probably no single solution is the true one. Surveying the whole field, I think that the planting of the yew was generally an after-event, because a preference for interment on the sunny side goes back to pre-Christian times, and because the yew is not a universal feature in churchyards. In some few cases the building and the tree are apparently of equal age; in other instances, the church may have been built, one imagines, adjacent to an already existing tree.

The Surrey statistics are borne out by those of Hampshire. Out of twenty-one ancient yews which I have scheduled for that county, five only stand on the North side, two on the West, and one on the East. If a complete list were obtainable, it might tell a similar story. Here, as in dealing with Surrey, should two yews be present, the classification considers the older and more important tree; should there be more than two, the positions of the majority of old trees are taken. It frequently happens that there are several young trees, in those cases what may be called a “foundation yew” often dominates the graveyard. Two Easterly yews and one Northerly are alone recorded for those positions in Middlesex; two Northerly for Berkshire, and similarly for other counties, though in no county is the list at all complete. Again, out of nineteen Normandy villages with churchyard yews, the figures were: thirteen yews on the South, five West, one North, and none East. Hence, the preference is French as well as British. In districts where chalk and limestone are absent, the yew is comparatively scarce. On the Boulder Clay of Yorkshire and Lincolnshire, and, in fact, over the North of England as a whole, the ash, elm, and horse chestnut are the most usual trees. Frequently they are supplemented by a few pyramidal Irish yews of no great age.

A rapid co-ordination of details may now be given. The yew appears to have been held in superstitious respect during the Bronze Age[1083], and it is possible, in the preceding Neolithic period. The Romans and Greeks favoured the tree for its funereal symbolism. The earliest Christians in Britain seem to have adopted the yew as a sacred emblem, occasionally, perhaps, building their churches by its side; and, reverencing it because of its hallowed associations, they employed it for certain gloomy ceremonies. Early Mediaeval symbolists saw in the tree a type alike of death and of resurrection, and the yew actually obtained a position in ritual, and prestige in the Church Calendar. Much later, it crept into the Christmas decorations. Meanwhile, in harmony with the Mediaeval practice of combining the secular and religious life of the community, the yew seems to have been in some instances a trysting-place for open-air assemblies. It sheltered the church fabric from storms, and, at a time when “England was but a fling, But for the eugh and the grey goose wing,” it lent its aid in protecting the country itself. The “sad, unsociable plant” most likely increased numerically—in churchyards, in avenues, and on upland wastes where it had flourished in Pleistocene times but had afterwards disappeared. History tells little of all these incidents, but in the minds of most men, ignorant or learned, there is an instinctive feeling, not dissonant with reasonable probability, that this mysterious, old-world tree derives its dignity and expressiveness from the customs of ages exceedingly remote. Well might Mr William Watson, sitting—not indeed, under some aged tree in a sequestered graveyard, but beneath the shade of the monarch yew near Newlands Corner, in Surrey—sing of the exceeding longevity of these sentinels, which guard their secrets with such jealousy: