At present we have seen nothing of the actual Forest. It is only as we go northward that we begin to enter its woods. Instead of the old Forest track, a road now runs from Beaulieu to Brockenhurst, along which we will go. So, leaving the village, and passing a few straggling half-timbered cottages, we reach Stickland’s Hill, where, down in the valley, we can see the Exe winding round the old Abbot’s House set amongst its green elms. Farther on we come to Hatchet Gate, and the Forest then spreads before us, with Hatchet Pond on our left, and Little Wood and the Moon Hill Woods on our right; whilst, here and there on the common, rise scattered barrows. And now, instead of keeping to the road, let the reader make right across the plain, by one of the Forest tracks, to the woods at Iron’s Hill. The stories, with which most books on the Forest abound, of persons being swamped in morasses, are much exaggerated. Mind only this simple rule—wherever you see the white cotton-grass growing, and the bog-moss particularly fine and green, to avoid that place. And now, when you are fairly out on the moor, you will feel the fresh salt breeze blowing up from the Solent, and see the long treeless line of the Island hills in strange contrast with the masses of wood in front; whilst the moor itself, if it be August, waves with purple and crimson, except where, here and there, rise great beds of fern-green islands, in the red sea of heath. Most of the finest timber at Iron’s Hill and Palmer’s Water has been lately cut. Keeping on, however, we shall again come out upon the road which leads down to the stream, close to a mill. Passing over the footbridge, we skirt Brockenhurst Manor, where, at Watcombe, once lived Howard the philanthropist, and so at last reach the village. So greatly has the Forest been reduced in size, that Brockenhurst, once nearly its centre, is now only a border village. Its Old-English name (the badger’s wood), like that of Everton, the wild-boar place, on the southern side of the Forest, tells its own story. It consists of one long straggling street, and a few scattered houses, with one or two village inns. Much of its wildness has been spoilt by the railroad; and in consequence, too, of the adjoining manor of Brockenhurst, it appears even less than it really is in the Forest. Still, however, if the reader wishes to see the Forest woods and heaths towards the south, let him come here, and the village accommodation will only give an additional charm to the scenery. I, for my part, do not know that a clean English village inn, with its sanded floor, and its best parlour kept for state occasions, makes such bad quarters. It is a real pleasure to find some spots on the earth not yet disfigured by fashionable hotels.