A V/SIT TO S EL BORNE. 103 
shows that some Hampshire man of long ago loved this spot and 
chose it for his last resting-place. 
From Hollywater I had passed only over foot-tracks and 
by-paths, the inhabitants assuring me that I should never find 
the way, and now I persuaded a reluctant postman to start me 
on another field-path leading to the higher ground, this also 
being impossible to any but a native. The forest lies quite 
below Selborne and the way ascends through a region of little 
streams suited to sticklebacks, of green wooded lanes with banks 
and mounds of briars and brambles, of pastures and meadows of 
most irregular shape and size enclosed by fantastic hedgerows, 
with here and there a stubble field and a plot of turnips or a hop 
garden. Here the game had the upper hand ; the pheasants 
seemed to inhabit the country. They resented greatly the dis- 
turbing of them in their feast on the fallen acorns, and at one 
point I almost thought they were going to dispute the passage, 
while the jays in the trees above screamed defiance. 
Coming out through the woodlands of the slope to the high 
ground, I found myself in the zone of the hop gardens. There 
was a kiln hard by where a species of locomotive engine was 
conducting the drying operations. I essayed to view them, but 
was driven back by the fumes of brimstone. Not familiar with 
the cultures of a southern country, I was inquisitive on the subject 
of hops, and the attendant of the rumbling monster, contentedly 
eating cold plum pudding, sausage-wise, with the aid of his 
pocket-knife, was there to satisfy my curiosity. “ Was the 
sulphur used to bleach the hops ? ” “ No, to make them bright 
and a good colour.” “What colour ought they to be?” “Why, 
we can make them almost any colour they want.” On this I 
resolved to pry no further into the matter, fearful lest my 
belief in genuine malt and hops should be shattered, for if our 
pleasant illusions are to be destroyed, how little will remain 
to us ! 
I was now rather above the level of Selborne, and had just 
gained the high road thitherward, but I thought there would be 
yet a footpath, nor was I mistaken. I was to go along the road 
until I came to a gate in front of me ; there, through a turnip- 
field, was a track direct to Selborne. “ Is the gate to the right 
or the left ? ” “ Neither, straight in front.” “ The gate is 
across the road then ? ” “ No, it is straight before you — the 
road twines there to your left.” It is in vain that you would 
make a country man speak out of his own tongue. This track 
led through the turnips to a stubble and began to descend ; then 
I had my first view of Selborne, “ one single straggling street, 
three-quarters of a mile in length, running parallel with the 
Hanger.” 
It is little altered since White’s time. Perhaps there are a 
few more houses, and some have been partly rebuilt or enlarged ; 
but the sites, and the gardens and enclosures remain the same. 
It is true that the population of the whole parish has nearly 
