Chapter IX: The Churchyard Yew (2)

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 6_s._ 8_d._, a bow of English yew was assessed at a value of 2_s._ 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 Rhŷs 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:

“A slender crosslet formed with care,
A cubit’s length in measure due:
The shaft and limbs were rods of yew.”

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:

“Old emperor yew, fantastic sire,
Girt with thy guard of dotard kings,--
What ages hast thou seen retire
Into the dusk of alien things?
What mighty news hath stormed thy shade,
Of armies perished, realms unmade[1084]?”