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. 27, 1863.] some faint knowledge of the topography. There could be no hesitation what to do, therefore, at Selbourne. No sooner had I stabled my horse and seen him fed, than I made my way to the top of the Hanger, up the zigzag path. The view amply repaid the trouble of the ascent.

I may observe here that the word Hanger is descriptive of a steep hill covered with trees. It is common throughout Hampshire, and even gives a name to the mansions of the private gentlemen—as, for example, Oakhanger, near Selbourne, and Mosshanger, near Basingstoke. The effect of these Hangers, especially when planted with beech, is exceedingly lovely, for the tree, whether individually, in groups, or forming a large wood, is graceful in the extreme. Whether clothed with leaves or bare, whether in summer or winter, in spring or autumn, the soft mass presents by its form and hues, a pleasing object in any landscape.

No wonder, then, that Selbourne attracts so many visitors, when it can boast of so magnificent a hill overlooking its quiet retreat. From the brow of this Hanger an extensive view is obtained. There are the hills to the south-west of Alton, on the road to Basingstoke; north-east are the magnificent Surrey Hills, stretching from Farnham to Guild fordGuildford [sic], of which the Hogsback is the most celebrated; and to-east the south-west are seen the Sussex Downs—that giant barrier of chalk which lines the Channel coast. Immediately beneath, to the right, is that Black Heath, commonly called Woolmer Forest, formerly a wild, uncultivated tract, the pasture of innumerable herds of deer, and there, tradition asserts. Queen Anne on her way to Portsmouth enjoyed a stately battue. It still presents a vast unbroken expanse, and is made available by our military authorities for the purpose of an encampment. In fact, the white tents of the soldiers, seen in the far distance and glittering in the sunlight, add an exceedingly picturesque feature in summer to this view. ‎On the extreme summit of the Hanger, between the Nore Hill and Selbourne Hill, is a monolith, at present of no great size, having crumbled away through the action of wind and rain, heat and frost, until it has become merely a dwarf stone. No inscription is upon it; and no one—at least of the present generation—knows by whom or when it was placed where it stands. A rustic to whom I applied for information could supply me with none, only adding enough to convince me of his gross ignorance, for his hypothesis was to the effect that it “growed” there.

The church of Selbourne is not a very modern structure, neither is it very old, though some parts of it, and especially the rude, thick, squat pillars which support the present edifice, bespeak an antiquity higher than the foundation of the priory, by Peter de la Roche, in the thirteenth century. It is a plain and simple rustic structure, with pointed windows, a quaint old porch, and square tower, coarsely stuccoed. On the south side it is overshadowed by a magnificent yew, upwards of thirty feet in girth, and whose massive bulk betokens its great age. One peculiarity about the church is, that this irregular fabric does not point to the east and west, but bears so much to the north-east that the four corners of the tower, and not the four sides, stand to the four cardinal points. Gilbert White attempts to account for this deviation by saying that the workmen, who probably were employed during the longest days, endeavoured to set the chancels to the rising of the sun.

Passing through the churchyard, a rapid descent leads into what is called the Dell of the Liths, a charming glen lined with fir and beech; at the bottom meanders a rippling rivulet, which in winter time doubtless becomes a riotous stream. At the further extremity of the Dell, a group of charcoal-burners were engaged in burning charcoal for the Farnham hop kilns, the curling smoke from the fires forming a nonot [sic] disagreeable object in the still air of the summer afternoon, although the acid and acrid odour emitted from the wood was anything but pleasant. In such quiet spots it was that Gilbert White loved to roam in search of the botanical curiosities of Selbourne, or watch the habits of the feathered tribes indigenous to the neighbourhood; and a more charming locality could scarcely be imagined. Had it no other name, it might well have been called the “Nightingale’s Valley,” or the “Cuckoo’s Walk,” for each of these birds revels in such secluded solitude as the woods of this pretty glen afford.

I have, however, yet to allude to one of the most remarkable features in the scenery of Selbourne—the deep dell-like lanes which here and