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Secure from Rash Assault Sustaining the Victorian Environment

  • by James Winter (Author)
  • February 2002
  • First Edition
  • Paperback
    $33.95,  £27.00
  • Title Details

    Rights: Available worldwide
    Pages: 353
    ISBN: 9780520229303
    Trim Size: 6 x 9
    Illustrations: 12 b/w figures

Read Chapter 5
Chapter 5. Woods and Trees

In England ... arboriculture, the planting and nursing of trees, has, until recently, been better understood than silviculture, the sowing and training of the forest. George Perkins Marsh, Man and Nature, 1864

Extranatural power, iron machinery, artifice, railway speed, innovation, precision, synchronization, professionalism, rationalization, calculation, utility, abstractness, efficiency—these phenomena, values, and processes were what Victorians had in mind when they described their age, as they frequently did, as the age of steam. That humans could, at last, free themselves from the confines of nature—refashion environments, control climates, redirect rivers, calm torrents, adjust soil chemistry, make deserts flower, grow food out of season—prospects such as these could be exhilarating, as they obviously were to the duke of Sutherland when he sent his steam plows to transform the stony wastes of Lairg. But nature proved to be resilient there and on most high-country places. On fertile plow lands, nature submitted, agreed to form a bond with humankind, but only on the condition that her ways of life should be respected.

As for Britain's woods and copses, forests, and hedgerow trees—these felt the effect of the huge increase in demand for wood products, powerfully stimulated by iron and steam technologies. Professionals called for steam-era methods and attitudes. But no forest industry developed. Amateurism was tested but prevailed. The landscapes of open heather hillsides and patchwork fields, softened with borders of scattered hardwood trees and rounded off with hilltop copses, survived largely intact during the time when steam power became the great moving force in manufacturing and transport.

Why that should have been so is partly revealed in the history of Savernake Forest. Leased since 1938 to the Forestry Commission, this splendid preserve, which lies between the Wiltshire towns of Marlborough and Hungerford, has been the property of one family—whether named Esturmy, Brudenell, or Bruce—since the latter part of the eleventh century. Perhaps the happiest period in this long family wardenship was between 1748 and 1814 when Lord Bruce, Thomas Bruce Brudenell, set out purposefully to shape the forest so that "utility and beauty should be harmoniously wedded." 1 He planted a grand avenue of trees leading to his mansion, Tottenham Park, designed by Lord Burlington, and he created a deer park where these animals—so destructive to young shoots and forest management—could be concentrated.

In this shaping and planting he had the assistance of Lancelot "Capability" Brown who suggested that the same aesthetic principles that governed the laying out of park and garden be applied to the estate as a whole. He worked out a strategy for linking coppices with oak plantings, lining forest trails with beech trees, and providing vistas with "proper objects" on which the eye might rest. The forest would be made part of the parkland. The scattered coppices, meadows, scrub, and heath that Brudenell inherited should be united, Brown advised, into "one great whole." 2

Attracted though he was by this vision of unity, Brudenell was not comfortable with the idea that the landowner and his seat should be focal points around which avenues and vistas were made to radiate. That would call attention to the landowner's capacity to command the estate and all its surrounds rather than to express his function as steward and conservator. Brudenell preferred the less assertive statement. He was determined to set his generation an example of the "improving landlord," one intent on demonstrating that responsible landlordship served the interests of a wider community. Consequently, he wished his extensive plantations to blur rather than accentuate the boundaries between "working" parts of the estate and parts set aside for enjoyment and display. Neither beauty nor utility should dictate which trees to plant or how to group, arrange, and manage them: the aim instead should be to paint a picture of gentle concord between the two principles. Paradoxically, notes Stephen Daniels, this determination, shared by many aristocrats of the period, to be discreet in the use of political iconography, "both softened the impression of property and, by composing the countryside as a whole as a picture, strengthened it." 3

When Thomas Bruce Brudenell died, wrote his descendant, the sixth marquess of Ailesbury, "the great planting impulse of the eighteenth century" perished with him. 4 But that is to suggest a linear development, when, in fact, tastes, iconography, as well as the planting urge fluctuated throughout the Victorian years and after. For example, uninhibited Brownian display of pomp and power had something of a resurgence when the second marquess, George Frederick Brudenell-Bruce, took over the wardenship of Savernake in 1856. This ambitious, vainglorious aristocrat had little interest in forest management. He was indifferent to the fact that no new planting of any consequence had taken place since 1814. What he did care about was prestige through conspicuous consumption. There was much rearranging of copses and vistas and setting aside of grass rides so that visitors could see the woods as a whole and be impressed. In carrying this out, George Frederick finally managed completely to do away with the distinction between park and forest. He ordered that the entire estate be fenced and palings be placed around individual trees. That way, the deer might roam freely with a minimum of damage. 5 Visitors were attracted by the reputation of the forest as a sylvan paradise and to the prospect of being, like the deer, free to walk for miles under great trees and along arboreal colonnades. 6 On display was the owner's pride and his ambitions to advance in the hierarchy of nobility.

Then in 1886 the second marquess's grandson inherited. Fate decided that he should demonstrate that the hereditary principle, which in theory and sometimes in practice builds links of responsibility between generations and also makes certain that those links are sometimes severed. To pay his gambling debts, the twenty-three-year-old Willie, openly acknowledged by the family to be "a notorious ne'er-do-well," 7 tried to break the entail and sell the great trees. "I'll make those damned squirrels jump further!" was his only memorable remark.

But, as it turned out, the squirrels were left in peace. An uncle managed to discourage a prospective buyer, Lord Iveagh, the brewer of Guinness, by entangling the sale in legal challenges. Shortly thereafter, the feckless Willie retired from the wardenship by drinking himself to death. It had been a near thing. By the time he expired in 1894, the family exchequer was much depleted and the forest along with it. 8

Good fortune then intervened and gave the estate two enthusiastic planters, determined, like the earlier Thomas Brudenell, to marry beauty to utility. The fifth marquess recognized that the woodlands needed to be made commercially viable. Included among the 778,000 trees he planted were a high proportion of softwoods, placed outside the forest's core. Too deeply imbued with tradition to contemplate industrialized forestry, he was, nevertheless, the first of his family to introduce a measure of systematic management. He planted quick-growing larch and spruce. On the other hand, he also let loose in the forest a herd of Highland cattle, thinking that these beasts would add a picturesque touch. 9

His successor in 1911, Chandos Bruce, the sixth marquess, did everything possible to carry on with this combination of systematic management and concern for amenity and symbolic representation. Eventually, however, he found the burden too heavy, what with increasing costs, Lloyd George's taxes on inherited wealth, and the impossibility of hiring enough labor during and after the First World War. In 1930 he approached the government Forestry Commission but drew back when he recognized that surrendering control would probably bring on an invasion by ranks of straight-backed conifers. Eight years later the commission became more open to the suggestion that recreational uses might be as legitimate as commercial ones and agreed to the special conditions the sixth marquess had stubbornly laid down. 10 As a result, after 800 years of wardenship, the family surrendered control and the public, because of Lord Ailesbury's dedication, gained a handsome amenity.

Immediately apparent in this account of Savernake's changing fortunes is the spirit of amateurism. That spirit had fashioned and preserved many ornaments like Savernake and had a part to play in forming a beautiful landscape, one where hilltop copses and lines of wooded hedgerows supplied contrast and definition. Throughout the century, however, a steady flow of criticism came from those who believed that the country had been forced to pay heavily for such embellishments. Forestry reformers believed that romanticism, sentimental attachment to trees as individuals, excessive concern for aesthetics, and a wasteful obsession with hunting had prevented the development of a national forest policy and had made Britain dangerously dependent on foreign suppliers. Worst of all, such irrationalities had given the world yet another lesson in how much more efficient Germans were at promoting new technologies.

Some of these critics were willing to concede that the energetic but haphazard practices of the estate planters might once have served the needs of the immediate countryside well or well enough. Thin planting encouraged the growth of side branches: these could be used for char-coal, domestic fuel, and manufactured implements. The right to graze cattle, pigs, and sheep on the forest floor made efficient forest management impossible, but it did provide commoners with a margin for survival. In addition, the coppice-with-standards system, 11 as well as the practice of mixing species, produced materials suited to local needs. Standardization was not essential to craft work and early mechanical industry, especially since shipbuilders, wagon makers, and furniture craftsmen required "bends" and "knees," as well as other eccentrically shaped pieces. Local needs of this kind provided the only markets many forest owners could profitably fill. Where heavy logs could be transported at reasonable costs to river, canal, or seaport, it did make economic sense to maximize timber production for sale in distant markets—but nowhere else.

Nevertheless, as the forestry experts from the later nineteenth century insisted, times had changed. They agreed that forestry practices had made some adjustments to new technologies, especially in Scotland, where there was still enough wasteland and rough grazing land to allow landlords to try out new methods and experiment with new species. Still, even there, uncoordinated free enterprise (not to speak of aristocratic insouciance) had failed to create anything resembling a large-scale forest industry equipped with the latest tools and methods. Expanding national and international markets for wood products, improvements made in rail and steamship transport, a growing demand for cheap construction materials created by urban expansion, and continued population growth—these developments had, some claimed, turned sentiment and amateurism into national liabilities.

Hearts of oak were no longer required for the defense of home and empire; the duel in 1861 between the Confederate ironclad, Merrimac, and the Union iron gunship, Monitor, meant that oaks planted during the early years of the century in the Crown Forests, as well as on private estates, would no longer be required in large quantities by naval shipyards. 12

On top of that, the steady substitution of coal and coke for charcoal in almost every industry and the importation of cheap bark and artificial tanning materials had undermined many of the traditional markets for hardwoods. A chorus of voices declared that the age of amateurism and arboriculture (the care and feeding of trees so as to bring them efficiently to maturity) had ended and that the time had come to replace it with the age of professionalism and silviculture (the "scientific" management of the plantation unit so as to extract the maximum utility from it as a whole). 13

Accompanying all these calls for "national efficiency" to meet growing international competition was the complaint that British estate owners and politicians had slumbered while their German, French, Belgian, and Austro-Hungarian counterparts, upon identifying these trends early in the century, had acted promptly and appropriately. Specialists, trained in forestry schools and forestry departments of Continental universities and in the Indian and other colonial forest services, had by midcentury helped to establish a new "science" based on the principle of sustained yield. At home, by contrast, the response had been "sluggish" to the point of "near stagnation." 14 On the occasion of the Report of a Royal Commission on the State of British Forestry, issued in 1909, the Times commented that it would have been nearly impossible at the end of the previous century to find a woodland, other than a coppice, managed in regular rotation and according to a fixed working plan. 15

A few years earlier, a professional forester, Arthur Forbes, had delivered the same message. He equated amateurism with mindlessness: "The general idea which permeates planting operations is that of covering the ground with trees which will ultimately develop into a wood." He thought that negligence of this kind had dotted the landscape with a stunted, distorted, unhealthy, unprofitable commodity. 16 Other experts developed this theme. John Croumbie Brown, who had made a reputation as a conservationist in South Africa, commented that in Britain game was the object of preservation, arboriculture the method, the tree the unit, and amenity the priority; whereas, across the Channel, the woods were the object of preservation, silviculture the means, the forest collective the unit, and the national economic good the priority. It was time, Brown wrote in the 1880s, to abandon tradition and do as others do. 17

Usually observations of this kind tended to come from experienced foresters, most of them Scots or German-trained academics and administrators like William Schlich. It was only rational, they argued, that foresters learn to use tables for calculating yields, to adjust species to soil and topography, and to manage plantings of uniform species, selected according to soil capabilities and laid out in staggered units, so as to balance planting with harvesting. Some of these experts—especially those who depended on great landlords for their livelihood—hoped that it might be possible to reconcile this rationality with the existing estate system.

One of these was James Brown, head forester at an experimental forest at Arniston, the Midlothian seat of Robert Dundas, a Scottish grandee. Brown's book The Forester, first published in 1847, became the manual consulted by almost every progressive British planter for the next three decades or more. 18 Its purpose was to persuade landlords that trees, managed according to the principles of silviculture technology, could be made into a profitable crop. Brown claimed that in sixty years, a rationally designed plantation should give proprietors an income three times greater than any alternative land use, even on barren hills in the Scottish Highlands. 19 He believed landlords had become skeptical about investing in tree farming because they had, in the past, planted indiscriminately without bothering to study the characteristic growing properties, soil requirements, and life cycles of each species; without consulting mathematical guidelines about spacing, thinning, and draining; without making sure what mixtures of species complemented one another; and without first assessing the conditions of the market and the cost of transporting logs of various dimensions. Agriculture and horticulture had long been the subjects of scientific investigation and had responded to such systematic methods—and with revolutionary effect. Now, he though, it was silviculture's turn. 20

The difficulty with this kind of reasoning was that rich landowners, no matter how open to suggestions about ways to increase estate profits, were disinclined to treat their trees simply as commodities. They wanted their woodlands to fulfill a variety of functions, providing opportunities for blood sports being prominent among them. But hunting and silviculture had proved all but incompatible. As the Savernake experience demonstrated, "vert and venison" were uncomfortable partners. Far more compatible was the relationship between greenery and pheasants. These creatures did not destroy new growth; but they did require undergrowth, suitable nesting places, and the right kinds of seeds and berries. The ideal was a mixture of oak, beech, chestnut, with a few conifers for roosting. This was a planting regime certain to conflict with commercial woodland uses. 21

Interest in bird shooting kept growing while confidence in forest investments continued to decline. Improvements made in shotgun efficiency between the 1850s and 1870s opened the sport to those without abundant leisure to refine their hunting skills. Therefore the recreational value of an estate forest kept rising. Estate owners already had a reputation for sacrificing the health of trees to ensure the health of game—or so foresters commonly complained. 22 The relative status of the gamekeeper now rose even higher. Arthur Forbes spoke for most professionals when he said, "The highest ambition of the modern planter seems to be the conversion of bare ground into something tall enough for pheasants to roost in, and that accomplished, he feels satisfied with his work." 23

The fondness these sporting gentlemen showed for "overripe" hardwood trees also distressed critics of amateurism. What, they asked, could be more symptomatic of Britain's flagging energies than the attachment felt by the landowning class, not just for game coverts, but for preserving this or that ancient tree, often known by an individual name and associated with some (usually bogus) historical event? Germans, wrote John Simpson in 1909, were not burdened by such "false sentiments and false aesthetics." The "half-military organization of the German forest system," he added, "helps considerably to promote economy and to avoid waste." 24

Campaigners for silviculture were mindful of statistics showing that the proportion of softwood being used had been rising steadily from the latter part of the eighteenth century and had reached, by the early years of the twentieth century, between eighty and ninety percent of wood products sold. Therefore they deplored this continuing prejudice in favor of hardwoods, this personal attachment to ancient symbols, this antipathy toward anything uniform, this unwillingness to regard trees as "so many cubic feet of timber." They cautioned that irrationalities like these were turning Britain into a museum. 25 What was needed was a dose of hardheaded practicality. If utility indicated that a stand of trees should be cut when it reached optimum size for the commodity market, then down should go the stand of trees, regardless of their degree of maturity. If builders, mine owners, or railway suppliers required cheap, fast-growing Scotch pine, and a particular hillside provided the right soil and drainage, then in should go the Scotch pine. A plantation should, the experts insisted, be allowed to develop only up to the point where interest on the capital that appreciated from tree growth remained marginally greater than the interest that could be realized on proceeds from the product's sale. 26 At the point where growth rates slackened, cutting should take place. Allowing trees the chance to go through a complete life cycle, had, the new foresters insisted, no utility.

Even the most progressive of the Scottish tree planters were unwilling to rationalize to this extent—or so the "modernizers" charged. In their enthusiasm for covering barren land with conifers, these great lords had neglected many of the rules of silviculture. They planted pine and spruce the same way that they planted oak and ash: far enough apart to allow each one to grow to full maturity as individuals. In doing so they ignored the different growth characteristics of various species as well as the mathematical rules of commercial management. Overlooking, for example, the fact that both Scotch pine and larch preferred dry conditions and poor soil, they planted indiscriminately and usually neglected to drain level environments. Among the consequences were devastating outbreaks of heart rot. Amateurism, it would seem, could be a barrier to fundamental change even among those landowners most open to the spirit of enterprise. And, despite the late Victorian concern about national efficiency, few seemed to share the sense of urgency felt by the small body of professional forest technicians.

These experts expressed their frustration, but few of them looked to the fact of empire for an explanation. James Brown was an exception only in that he tried to convince his readers that expanding home markets for wood products would eventually exhaust the reserves of foreign suppliers. He reasoned that these suppliers were bound to respond to the inevitable increase in prices by proceeding to exploit their forests even more brutally. They would be powerfully assisted in doing so by improvements in steam transport and forest machinery. (See Figure 5.) He thought he detected, already in the 1840s, signs that the seemingly inexhaustible North American reserves would soon be depleted. 27 But his timing was not as astute as his analysis: so long as logs, lumber, and potash from Scandinavia, the Baltic, Poland, Russia, India, Burma, and North America kept arriving at prices only a few domestic producers could meet, there was little likelihood his message would receive a serious hearing.

tree felling by machinery
Figure 5. Tree felling by machinery (1978). Gladstone, center, marveled that this saw, attached by a flexible tube to a boiler, cut in one minute what took a hand laborer an hour. That four attendants were needed to use the tool helps explain why forests continued to be logged mostly by muscle power. (The Graphic 17, 1878)

And those products did keep flowing in. Two specialists on the environmental effects of colonialism, Madhav Gadgil and Ramachandra Guha, award Britain the distinction of having become by 1860 "the world leader in deforestation," since by that date her entrepreneurs had managed to exploit ruthlessly the resources of Ireland, South Africa, and the United States. 28 Curiously, these two geographers neglect to list eastern Canada among the places where the connection between empire and land degradation was particularly conspicuous, despite the fact that vast areas of New Brunswick, Ontario, and Quebec had been cut to serve the London market.8

In 1884, R. W. Phipps, a forestry clerk for the Ontario Department of Agriculture, reported that piles of chips, tree tops, log butts, and discarded short ends left behind by gangs who logged the watershed of the Ottawa River frequently exploded into flame when they dried out. This forest litter generated heat sufficiently intense to burn the thin layer of humus from the forest floor and to lay bare the rocky undersurface. Paddling his bark canoe along the shores of Lake Nosbonsing, Phipps observed such a brûlé—"an endless array of ghostly trunks," reaching to the distant horizon. Iron and copper pyrites, mixed with silt, had eroded from this burned country into the lake and turned it brown. "No clear inland water this," he wrote, "our wake is a muddy foam." 29 Similar accounts of land degradation can be found in descriptions of logging operations along New Brunswick's Miramichi River, where the demand from Britain had first used up that area's white and red pine and then, after 1850, its white and red spruce. 30

As James Brown had foreseen in the early days of the railway, the application of steam to machinery and transport and the resulting concentration of industry in urban centers were certain to create a huge market for softwoods: to build houses, make paper, shore up pit walls in coal mines, and secure tracks for railways. The policy of free trade decided where those softwoods would come from. Home planting and cropping of conifers might make economic sense so long as Scotch pines and larches could reach domestic markets at a price competitive with shipments from New Brunswick, Scandinavia, Russia, and the Baltic. But when steamships were able to reduce long-distance transport costs significantly and when steam machinery and logging railways made it possible and economical to cut and haul trees growing at a distance from North American rivers and lakes, the decision to invest in a commodity that might take half a lifetime or more to harvest became more problematic.9

Brown was also right in predicting that a combination of increased demand and new technologies would greatly accelerate the rate of forest depletion abroad. Although steam sawing began early in the century (there were sixty-eight steam mills in Britain by 1850), 31 it was not until the 1880s that North American logging companies began to use steam locomotives and other steam-powered hauling machinery. By 1887 there were 422 logging railroads in the United States. In 1881 John Dolbeer, a redwood lumberman from Eureka, California, invented the first practical steam donkey to yard the great trees of the Pacific coast from where they were felled to collecting places. In the 1890s, those hauling and lifting operations were greatly assisted by the development of steel cable. So equipped, Canadian and American loggers could devour forest resources more voraciously than ever before. 32 At the same time, the roads and pathways they built to bring in the heavy equipment and skid the logs greatly advanced the rate of soil erosion.

World prices fell steadily. By 1914, ninety-three percent of wood products on the domestic market were imported. 33 About thirteen percent of British tonnage space was being devoted to importing timber, about equal to the space occupied by grains and larger than the space devoted to all other food imports and all imported cotton and wool combined. 34 Faced with this kind of competition, it would have required massive intervention by the central government to convert British forestry into a modern industry and, in the process, to have altered the character of upland landscapes. Protectionist policies would have placed a tax on paper, houses, railways, and coal. In the nineteenth and early years of the twentieth century, neither the government nor the economy were ready for so radical a step.

But, as the story of Savernake Forest suggests, explanations of why something did not take place—always a delicate historical enterprise—must include a consideration of sentiments as well as reasons. The sixth marquess of Ailesbury's reluctance to hand over management to the Forest Commission was based on his fear that his magnificent forest might become an industry for producing softwoods. But his resistance seems not to have been based on hostility to conifers in general. Family tradition, at least the positive side of it, had been built around the idea of "improvement," a movement identified perhaps too narrowly with Georgian England. Thomas Brudenell's use of the concept of harmonious marriage come directly out of that improvement concept: the bride, Beauty, should find in the groom, Utility, a sensitive and respectful partner—the venerable oak, the "joyful elm," the sheltering beech harmoniously wedded to the homely but hard-working and productive fir, pine, or larch.

This was an image landscape painters and garden designers of the period set out to capture. They associated the beautiful in landscape with softer contours, horizontal lines, and seasonal color modulations of the broad-leafed trees. Conifers supplied contrast. Capability Brown used pines extensively in his landscape compositions to provide variety—the cheerful yellow-green of the beech against "the gloomy pine," the "blackening pines." 35 Ruskin pointed to another kind of contrast: the pine's capacity for stoical endurance in the face of the elements, "trained to need nothing, and endure everything," compared to the "timid lowland trees," that "tremble with all their leaves" when visited by any adversity. 36 The Times, in a leading article on the subject of coniferization, spoke of "these graceful denizens of barren, sandy soil and infertile granite slopes." 37

Conifers belonged on the great estates and were admired by generations of aristocrats throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Thomas Coke's vigorous planting regimes at his Holkham estate earned him the title, "King Pine." 38 From the mid-eighteenth century the planting of larches on Scottish moors and denuded hillsides became synonymous with three generations of dukes of Atholl. This planting regime started in 1737, when James, the second duke, made the first experimental plantations near his Highland estate at Blair and Dunkeld. By 1770 the third duke had increased the count to a half million. The pace quickened when, in 1774, John, the fourth or "Planting Duke," succeeded. Before he died in 1830 (wood for his coffin was taken from a specimen 106 feet tall), he had covered some 10,000 acres of Perthshire with over 14,000,000 larches, and his nurseries were supplying seed and seedlings to other Scottish enthusiasts. What had been intended as an ornament became an important feature of Scottish estate management. The suitability of larchwood for railway sleepers and pit props for mines encouraged its plantation, until, later in the century, susceptibility to disease caused a shift toward pine, spruce, and fir. 39

Reaction against such plantations, and estate "improvement" in general, became fully articulate with the parliamentary enclosures of the eighteenth century—a reaction to be sustained by the romantic poets and conservatives of the left and right who were appalled by the spread of "machinery" and the sacrifice to "progress" of traditional ties and ways. The fast-growing, adaptable, money-making conifers became, in the language of that conservative reaction, the perfect symbol of everything parvenu, precocious, intrusive, pushing, divisive, antisocial, anticommunal, shallowly rooted, American.

"Coniferous rash," was their term for the steady spread of larch and Scotch pine. Antagonism deepened when, at midcentury, the Douglas fir, Sitka spruce, western red cedar, and other conifers arrived in large numbers from British Columbia and the northwest coast of the United States. 40 Generations of commoners who lived in or on the fringes of Royal Forests shared the resentment at the arrival of these relative newcomers. They recognized that plantations of conifers on Crown or common land would put an end to pollarding and forest grazing.

Nostalgia for an imagined gemeinschaft of communal institutions, affective ties, and local loyalties attached itself, easily and by a kind of symbolic logic, to oak, beech, elm, and chestnut woods in particular and old mature forests in general. According to Simon Schama, it is the poet who makes landscapes into carriers of memory—"things that are buried but will not stay interred"—and it is the treed parts of those landscapes that are "the truly heroic historians of the drama." 41

It could be added that this cultural phenomenon, the association of trees with man's primeval ancestry, has its own history as well. Robert Harrison has shown how the forests, especially from the sixteenth century onward, changed in metaphor from places of sinister menace to "sites of lyric nostalgia." 42 That nostalgia reached its height in the nineteenth century. Generations of Victorians had traveled in spirit with Wordsworth to the sylvan Wye and had, like the poet, felt the touch of those gentle powers of tranquil restoration. They responded ardently when Ruskin advised them to seek beauty of form in leaf and branch. Among the educated, articulate classes nostalgia for forest blended together with a rich variety of other emotions: romanticism, patriotism, preservationism, political and social conservatism, varieties of radicalism, concern about losing one's sense of place, a generalized unease about a world that seemed to be moving too fast. Self-proclaimed preservationists were not the only ones to feel these longings. One detects reservations about industrial forestry, particularly its effects on the landscape, even in the writings of many ardent crusaders for the new forestry.

A group of Canadian geographers demonstrated how the transmigration from hostility to nostalgia, effected over centuries in Britain, could be put on fast forward in colonial settings. They examined the behavior of early Victorian settlers on encountering the wilderness in a southern Ontario township. 43 Most of the immigrants were from Ireland, Lowland Scotland, and the English Midlands. They had no experience in dealing with the kind of wilderness they found in their new home—a place where "thick tangles of cedar and tamarack" grew out of the swampy ground and hemlocks and pines stood thickly on the rough sands and gravels of the higher elevations.

The investigators noted that class resentment was part of the baggage settlers brought with them to forested Mono Township. Although trees bore memory for many of these newcomers, it was memory not of "sportive wood run wild" and other "sensations sweet" but of insult and oppression. In the homelands from which they had been displaced, these former laborers, peasants, and cottagers were unlikely to have felt any sentimental attachment to the landlord's woods. Custom had given some of them rights to gather furze or branches or graze livestock on acorns and young shoots, but these rights were often denied by a privileged class determined to assert claims to exclusive use and enjoyment. From the early eighteenth century, increasingly savage punishments awaited the poacher of the landlord's trees and branches. For the rural poor, especially those who had been compelled to leave their homes and find livings across the seas, forests represented injustice, disinheritance. As for the better-off tenant farmers, many of them had resented the hedgerow trees that sheltered pests, shaded crops, and drew nourishment from field edges. Freedom in the Ontario wilds to cut as many trees as he liked could seem to the immigrant an act of justice and revenge.

In their eagerness to tame this savage place, to turn it into familiar fields and pastures, and to overcome the loneliness of their isolated homesteads, immigrants set to work tearing up their fragile environment. They exterminated the bears and wolves, polluted the salmon streams, and, by indiscriminate cutting and burning, exposed hillsides and caused severe erosion. But, ironically, the further their slashing and burning progressed, the less "unfamiliar, implacable, and terrifying" did the retreating forest become, until settlers came to think of the shrinking woodland as a refuge, a place to hunt and explore, a thing of beauty.

Although by no means common, it is possible to find, in the nineteenth century, expressions of our own modern anxiety about the effects of forest depletion on what we (not they) would call the ecosystem. One occasion was a gathering of geographers in 1879, where Professor George Rolleston of Oxford spoke of his concern that steam technology would rapidly put at risk the earth's remaining forest cover and, in so doing, "very powerfully" modify the whole "botanical world"—with consequences that could not be easily predicted. 44 He warned that the driver of modern civilization with "a steam-engine under his foot is daily weaving" the whole globe "into a more nearly all-encompassing web." At the same time, that engine is leaving behind in the remaining wildernesses a path of destruction. Consequently, immediate steps must be taken to mark out and preserve areas of natural forests before industrial exploitation robbed them of their scientific value. Should members of the audience need convincing on this point, Rolleston said, they might want to read George Perkins Marsh's Man and Nature, a work he had found to be "highly interesting." 45

To some extent, the political and economic circumstances at the turn of the century acted to moderate the force of these cultural and scientific reservations. They also encouraged some to advocate direct state intervention to conserve resources and create a modern forest industry. One notices in almost every aspect of British life an atmosphere of introspection as well as worry about eroding power and loss of technological leadership.

Professional foresters found that the way to dramatize what they had to say was to contrast their own government's indifference with the active role adopted by foreign governments toward forestry planning and research. These specialists called attention to the fact that the Danish State Forestry Department had purchased and profitably planted large tracts of the Jutland Moors and that the French government was managing half a million acres in the Alps, Pyrenees, and Central Plateau. They pointed out that the Prussian state had, for many years, not only owned and managed extensive forest lands but had encouraged private landowners to use the latest technology for planting and managing their estates. 46 Reports of this kind deplored the indifference of British politicians. But such documents usually concluded by expressing confidence that an awakening of public interest in the subject would eventually activate central and municipal governments.

Here and there a few pieces of evidence could be found to support that hope. The Royal Arboricultural Society used effective lobbying to persuade the government in 1885 to set up a select committee to report on the advisability of establishing a national forestry policy. Although the committeemen decided that it was indeed advisable, the response was feeble and long delayed. In 1899, after much hesitation, the Office of Woods, Forests, and Land Revenues purchased and planted an estate in Merioneth and subsequently acquired other tracts in Gloucester, in Tintern in the Wye valley, and in Argyll.

A somewhat more daring experiment in state forestry occurred in Ireland, at a wind-lashed place named Knockboys, on the Connemara coast near Carna. Unfortunately, it turned out to be a prime illustration of official ignorance and confusion of aim. In 1890, Father Flannery, the local parish priest, encouraged a public-spirited local landowner to donate 490 acres of boggy hillside, fully exposed to ocean gales. Commissioners at the Irish Land Office spent \cp\2000 in 1893 and 1894 attempting to get the peat cover and the nearly sterile subsurface prepared and planted with two and a half million trees. They and the newly formed Congested Districts Board spent some \cp\10,000 before finally abandoning the experiment in 1900, even though disaster was obvious almost from the start. One critic of the project stated in 1903 that "a rockier or more wind-swept spot than Knockboys may not be found in all Ireland." 47

Experts who had been consulted beforehand warned that the odds against success were particularly great at Knockboys; but politicians, especially the chief secretary for Ireland, Arthur James Balfour, were disinclined to listen, committed as they were to finding alternatives for marginal agriculture in areas of high unemployment. So eager was Balfour that the project go ahead that he ordered a start without bothering to wait for a survey. Having no idea what might or might not grow, the commissioners put in thirty to forty species, hoping to have success with some. Since the young seedlings had no shelter, they simply blew away. 48 Cattle were subsequently kept off the hill for fear they would fall into the deep drainage ditches left behind after the experiment failed. 49

Some of the caution shown by the British government before the outbreak of war can be traced to failures of this kind. 50 Responsible officials recognized that a cadre of trained foresters and specialists needed first to be established. A faction inside the late Victorian and Edwardian Liberal Party was in favor of encouraging agricultural small holdings and would only support government afforestation to the extent that it might provide small holders with supplementary income. Socialists of various kinds, although friendly to the concept of government ownership and management of forest lands, tended to prefer that the administrative agents be municipal authorities. An Independent Labour Party publication in 1908 noted approvingly that Liverpool had acquired 22,000 acres in its Montgomeryshire water catchment and was beginning to plant trees there, as were Leeds and Manchester on their extensive holdings. 51 At a conference on afforestation in 1907, John Burns, recently recruited to the Liberal cabinet from the socialist left, pledged support from his local government board to assist municipalities in planting on wastes unfit for grazing or plowing, not a formula proponents of a profitable state forestry industry would be likely to support. He was skeptical of claims that afforestation would be a remedy for rural unemployment but did have hopes that such activities might encourage local handicrafts and industries. 52 Apparently, no constituency existed for government forestry on anything like a Continental scale.

Publicity about the deterioration of forests and the crumbling of coastlines aroused Campbell-Bannerman's Liberal ministry to appoint a Royal Commission on Afforestation and Coast Erosion. An installment of its voluminous report on forests appeared in 1909. Commissioners offered two options: that the government either acquire and plant mostly softwoods on 150,000 acres each year for the next sixty years or purchase 75,000 acres a year for the next eighty years. Unwilling to move so quickly, the government responded by setting up a development commission to overhaul the administration of Crown Forests, to encourage forestry training, and to carry on more experiments with state-managed plantations. 53

The experience of the First World War changed that mood and weaken preservationist defenses. It drove home the point "progressives" had been making for half a century: that forests were essential to national security in an increasingly bellicose world. By 1915 government planners became aware that a dangerously large proportion of available shipping was devoted to carrying heavy timbers, construction materials, and mine props. Large-scale felling of British forests was the response. Between 1915 and 1918, members of the civilian forestry corps, including 2,000 women and a contingent of imported Canadian lumberjacks, cut some half million acres. Even so, about one ton of cargo in every seven that made it through the submarine blockade consisted of pit props and other wood products essential to the war effort. By contrast, the enemy nations could rely on their domestic supply. 54

In 1917 a subcommittee of the Ministry of Reconstruction, chaired by Sir Francis Acland, proposed that the state, cooperating with the private sector, plant softwood trees over an eighty-year period, on two million acres of rough grazing land. It recommended that a central authority supervise the task. The idea was to build up a strategic reserve. In 1919 the government responded by establishing the Forestry Commission. That agency was given the authority to begin acquiring properties and supporting forestry training.

Hesitantly at first, then at an accelerating pace, the commission began to plant on ancient woodlands and coppices and especially on moor and heath. Because softwood had been the crucial item during the war and because the future seemed at the time to belong to fir and pine, its agents concentrated on planting conifers, including a great deal of the uninspiring Sitka spruce. These and other hardy softwood trees were about all that could be expected to grow on the thin-soil uplands, the only kind of terrain the commission, short on funds, could afford to buy. A modern landscape historian, Roger Miles, comments on the technical errors made in the early years of the commission's work and adds: "that aesthetic mistakes might also happen was not considered at the time, and there was nothing whatever in the Forestry Commission's brief about amenity." 55

Therefore Lord Ailesbury had good reason to refuse the commission's initial offer to take over the cost of managing the Savernake Forest. But by 1938, when the commission agreed to preserve the essential character of the estate, its single-minded zeal to cover as much land as possible with quick-growing timber had obviously moderated. From the start that zeal had collided with the cultural image of the landscape inherited from the previous two centuries. Essential to that image was a balance between open space and woodland, intimacy and fastness, order and spontaneity, straight-edged fields and rounded hilltop copses—landscape features that seem to meet some deep-felt need. Resistance could be expected whenever individuals or agencies proved to be conspicuously insensitive to that concept of balance.

One of the first concessions Parliament made to aroused public opinion occurred in the 1870s over the issue of "deforesting" Crown Forests. Proposals to withdraw sections of the New Forest from the jurisdiction of forest law met with angry resistance. This body of law protected to some extent commoners' rights of use, rights that were incompatible with fencing off sections and planting tree shoots. The New Forest Act of 1877 did grant permission to deforest but included a provision requiring that enclosure be carried out with "regard to the ornamental as well as the profitable use of the ground." Another clause stipulated that areas containing ancient and particularly beautiful trees be preserved and kept open to the public. 56

At the same time, preservationism was becoming organized and efficient in gaining concessions from courts and legislators. New recruits came in the early decades of the twentieth century from countryside rambling and cycling organization. Therefore concessions made by the Forestry Commission to Lord Ailesbury were concessions, not only to a generalized nostalgia for what Savernake represented, but to an increasingly powerful set of interest groups.

Then came the Second World War. In the year it ended, the philosopher C. E. M. Joad published a lament for the passing of this countryside. Fashioned in the eighteenth century and come to maturity at the end of the Victorian era:

It was, I suppose, some fifty years ago that the fruits of this loving labour of the eighteenth century reached maturity. The trees had grown to their full stature; the grass floors of the avenues were soft and velvety; the houses richly mellow. The motor was as yet unknown, and the depredations of the builder were confined to the towns. Our grandfathers knew England at its best. One could find it in one's heart to blame them for neglect, in that they did nothing to perpetuate or protect the beauty they so much admired. One could, that is to say, if it were not for one's consciousness of one's own guilt; for while the eighteenth century beautified the countryside and the nineteenth century neglected it, it has been left to the twentieth century to ruin it." 57
Had Joad been granted the opportunity to make another fifty-year retrospective, his tone would probably would have been even more bitter. Nan Fairbrother, who is impatient with this kind of blinkered nostalgia, is willing to grant that the modern amalgamated countryside lacks the sensitive balance found in the old one. 58 It is generally agreed that coniferization of upland open spaces, the bulldozing of hedgerows, the poisoning and ring barking of old forest sites, the practice of intensive, high-energy-consuming, chemical-dependent agriculture and forestry, the surrender of governments to the "logic" of cost-benefit analysis, activities so admired by many Victorian forestry reformers, has done far more during the three decades after the war to change the visual aspect of the rural landscape, especially the open upland spaces, than anything the agriculturalists, planters, industrial polluters, and urban developers managed to do during the time when Queen Victoria and Edward VII were on the throne. 59

But at our own turn of the century there are at least some signs that governments at various levels, the scholarly community, the media, and the public have become aware of the necessity, not of restoring "the world we have lost," but of finding a new balance. The 1970s saw a striking rise in the share of family income spent on transportation, especially cars, and an equally dramatic rise in the numbers of workers entitled to four weeks of paid vacation. 60 In 1957 some 50,000 people camped overnight in the New Forest and the forest parks; thirteen years later, over a million did so. 61 The connection between these increases is obvious. Recreational use of British forests, once mainly reserved for the few, had now opened to the many. Legislation aimed at facilitating public access followed this gradual, then rapidly accelerating, trend toward wider public participation. The result has been that privately and publicly owned woodlands must now search for ways of resolving tensions between a new set of factors: efficient timber production; demands that plantations respect the scale, contour, and other visual values of the site; concerns about environmental impact; problems of vehicle access; and different, often conflicting, recreational tastes and needs.

In searching for compromises, responsible planners, forestry scientists, landscape architects, owners, managers, and officials have in the rapidly advancing field of ecology a conceptual tool rarely available before. The older conservationists tended to draw almost exclusively on the language of public health, amenity, and beauty. Modern environmentalist can add to the repertoire words like diversity, complexity, sustainability, and interaction.

For example, ecological research has given another dimension to the long debate about the utility of the conifer and the beauty of the deciduous. Ecologists try to avoid emotive language as they set about charting the different chemical reaction of varieties of spruce, pine, or larch with the soil particular to one ecosystem. They measure the effect of these interactions on soil temperature, moisture, and rate of erosion and follow all of these effects and interactions into the drainage system and into the bogs, streams, and rivers. Then they attempt to understand the impact of these factors on local organisms and discover what alterations are taking place in their system of mutual dependencies. 62

An advantage of this approach is that, when nature lovers, hikers, poets, environmentalists, or economic interests contend about the advantages or disadvantages of planting a particular upland moor or grassland, their discussion can rest on some reasonably firm ground. That a stand of oaks can be shown to support a much greater variety of bird, insect, mammal, and plant life than any of its softwood rivals is now considered relevant information not just to naturalists but to forestry policy makers, planners, and managers. Today promoters of major projects aimed at controlling or harnessing natural processes know that they will be expected to answer in detail questions about long-term environmental impact. To this limited extent at least, George Perkins Marsh's expectation that people would eventually be persuaded to look at the face of the land in a new way—microscopically, subcutaneously, interactively—seems finally to have been at least partly realized.

Historians of the land and the forests have also gained an additional perspective. The late Victorian advocates of the new forestry looked back over their century and saw either stagnation or steady decline. We are inclined to go a bit further and ask about the effects of that history on the physical environment. When the old, largely preindustrial, forestry ceased to be vital to the nation's economic and military interests, neglect, indifference, sentiment, paternalism, concern for sport, amenity, and conspicuous consumption, as well as the possibility of exploiting advantageously other people's forest reserves, combined to preserve much of the "traditional" landscape's harmony—the unity of woods, fields, pastures, ponds, and buildings, arranged so as to respect natural land forms.

But an unwillingness to apply intensive production methods can have other uses as well. We are aware now that rot, senility, and decay bring richness, complexity, and diversity to a forest ecosystem. Knowing that can, and increasingly does, influence decisions about forest uses. Even with the best of will, we may find it impossible to follow Aldo Leopold's advice in A Sand County Almanac to "think like a mountain." But we are, perhaps, more open than before to his suggestion that "the role of Homo sapiens" change "from conqueror of the land-community to plain citizen and member of it." 63


Note 1: Chandos Bruce [Marquess of Ailesbury], A History of Savernake Forest (Devizes: Charles Woodward, 1962), 82.  Back.

Note 2: Ibid., 83-86.  Back.

Note 3: Stephen Daniels, "The Political Iconography of Woodland in Later Georgian England," in The Iconography of Landscape, ed. Denis Cosgrove and Stephen Daniels (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 45.  Back.

Note 4: Bruce, History of Savernake Forest, 86.  Back.

Note 5: Ibid., 87-92; Peggy Walvin, Savernake Forest (Cheltenham: privately printed, 1976), 35-36.  Back.

Note 6: Chandos Bruce [Marquess of Ailesbury], The Wardens of Savernake Forest (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1949), 301-2.  Back.

Note 7: Bruce, History of Savernake Forest, 92.  Back.

Note 8: Ibid.; Bruce, Wardens of Savernake Forest, 315-29.  Back.

Note 9: Bruce, Wardens of Savernake Forest, 334.  Back.

Note 10: Bruce, History of Savernake Forest, 94-96; Walvin, Savernake Forest, 39.  Back.

Note 11: A coppice is a wood where mainly broad-leaved trees grow out of the stumps or "stools" left from previous cuttings. Standards are trees intended for timber and allowed to grow to maturity, planted within a coppice.  Back.

Note 12: F. T. Evans, "Wood Since the Industrial Revolution: A Strategic Retreat?" HT 7 (1982): 47, points out that armored ships until the 1890s usually had hardwood planks behind the armor.  Back.

Note 13: Victorians did not always make this distinction between the terms arboriculture and silviculture (then usually spelled sylviculture); some tended to use arboriculture for any systematic forestry aimed at maximizing utility, whether or not the plantation was conceived of as a collection of individual trees or an abstract unit. However, when comparing continental practices with their own, they usually had this distinction in mind.  Back.

Note 14: Roger Miles, Forestry in the English Landscape (London: Faber and Faber, 1967), 42.  Back.

Note 15: Reprinted in TRSAS 22 (1909): 97-103.  Back.

Note 16: A. C. Forbes, English Estate Forestry (London: Arnold, 1904), 30. Evans, "Wood," 40, notes that, according to a Forestry Commission census in 1924, fewer than half of Britain's three million acres of woodland were reasonably productive, and 27 percent produced nothing.  Back.

Note 17: John Croumbie Brown, Modern Forest Economy (Edinburgh: Oliver and Boyd, 1884), 1-2; Richard Grove, "Origins of Western Environmentalism," Scientific American 267 (July 1992): 46, comments on Brown's career.  Back.

Note 18: James Brown, The Forester (Edinburgh: Blackwood and Sons, 1847; 2d ed., 1851); subsequent page references are to the 2d ed.  Back.

Note 19: Ibid., 10.  Back.

Note 20: Ibid., 6-11.  Back.

Note 21: John Simpson, The New Forestry (Sheffield: Pawson and Brailsford, 1900), 7-13, thought that there was no chance that British forestry could be put on a rational basis unless the conflict between silviculture and game preserving could be resolved.  Back.

Note 22: H. L. Edlin, Trees, Woods, and Man, 3d revised ed. (London: Collins, 1970), 120-21; Miles, Forestry in the English Landscape, 47; Eoin Neeson, A History of Irish Forestry (Dublin: Lilliput Press, 1991), 139; William Addison, Portrait of Epping Forest (London: Hale, 1977), 43; N. D. G. James, A History of English Forestry (Oxford: Blackwell, 1981), 190-91; William Linnard, Welsh Woods and Forests: History and Utilization (Cardiff: National Museum of Wales, 1982), 141, 145; Colin Tubbs, The New Forest: An Ecological History (Newton Abbot: David and Charles, 1968), 193-96.  Back.

Note 23: Forbes, English Estate Forestry, 35.  Back.

Note 24: John Simpson, British Woods and their Owners (Sheffield: Pawson and Brailsford, 1909), 11, 32.  Back.

Note 25: A. C. Forbes, "Is British Forestry Progressive?" TRSAS 15 (1898): 44-45.  Back.

Note 26: James, History of English Forestry, 176-77.  Back.

Note 27: Brown, Forester, 1-3.  Back.

Note 28: Madhav Gadgil and Ramachandra Guha, This Fissured Land (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1993), 118-19.  Back.

Note 29: R. W. Phipps, "Across the Watershed of Eastern Ontario" [from a section of his "Report on Forestry," 1884], Journal of Forest History (9 October 1965): 4-8. Robert Bell, "The Forests of Canada," British Association for the Advancement of Science 54 (1884): 856-60, described the explosive effect ("almost incredible") of fire where gummy tops of conifers were left to accumulate and dry out; see also George Perkins Marsh, Man and Nature, ed. David Lowenthal (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1965), 233-35.  Back.

Note 30: Three works focus on the impact of resource exploitation on New Brunswick's political, social, and economic institutions: Graeme Wynn, Timber Colony, A Historical Geography of Early Nineteenth Century New Brunswick (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1981); Arthur Lower, Great Britain's Woodyard: British North America and the Timber Trade, 1763-1867 (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen's University Press, 1973); R. Peter Gillis and Thomas Roach, Lost Initiatives (New York: Greenwood Press, 1986). For the ecological effects of resource exploitation on the eastern United States, see William Cronon's pioneering work, Changes in the Land: Indians, Colonists, and the Ecology of New England (New York: Hill and Wang, 1983), including the bibliographical essay, and Jamie Eves, "Shrunk to a Comparative Rivulet: Deforestation, Stream Flow, and Rural Milling in Nineteenth Century Maine," Technology and Culture 33 (1992):38-65. Alfred Crosby, Ecological Imperialism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), provides a broad survey of the effects of European biological imperialism from 900-1900; see also the articles in Richard Tucker and John Richards, eds., Global Deforestation and the Nineteenth-Century World Economy (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press Policy Studies, 1983).  Back.

Note 31: Barrie Trinder, ed., Industrial Archaeology (Oxford: Blackwell, 1992), 668.  Back.

Note 32: Richard C. Davis, ed., Encyclopedia of American Forest and Conservation History, vol. 1 (New York: Macmillan, 1983), 350-61; Peter Rutledge, "Steam Power for Loggers," Journal of Forest History 14 (April 1970): 18-29; Ken Drushka, Working in the Woods (Madeira Park, B.C.: Harbour Publishing, 1992), 61-73.  Back.

Note 33: Miles, Forestry in the English Landscape, 59.  Back.

Note 34: Or so Lord Lovat, Chairman of the Forestry Commission, maintained: Times (8 July 1920), 11.  Back.

Note 35: Christopher Hussey, The Picturesque (London: Putnam's Sons, 1927), 36, 141.  Back.

Note 36: John Ruskin, "The Poetry of Architecture," (1837-38), in The Works of John Ruskin, vol. 1, ed. E. T. Cook and Alexander Wedderburn (London: Allen, 1903), 102-3.  Back.

Note 37: Times (17 September 1920), 9.  Back.

Note 38: Daniels, "Political," 51; anyone familiar with Daniel's work will notice how much this section owes to his discussion of woodland as political iconography.  Back.

Note 39: John Grigor, Arboriculture, 2d ed. (Edinburgh: Oliphant, Anderson and Ferrier, 1881), 208-10; Edlin, Trees Woods, and Man, 119; Mark Anderson, A History of Scottish Forestry, vol. 1 (London: Nelson, 1967), 585-94; A. C. O'Dell and K. Walton, The Highlands and Islands of Scotland (Edinburgh: Nelson, 1962), 148-49; R. N. Millman, The Making of the Scottish Landscape (London: Batsford, 1975), 142-44.  Back.

Note 40: L. Dudley Stamp, Man and the Land (London: Collins, 1955), 193.  Back.

Note 41: Simon Schama, Landscape and Memory (Toronto: Random House, 1995), 56.  Back.

Note 42: Robert Pogue Harrison, Forests: The Shadow of Civilization (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992), 93; see also Schama, Landscape and Memory, chapter 3, "The Liberties of the Greenwood."  Back.

Note 43: R. Cole Harris, P. Roulston and C. D. Freitas, "The Settlement of Mono Township," Canadian Geographer 14 (1975): 1-17.  Back.

Note 44: George Rolleston, "The Modification of the External Aspects of Organic Nature Produced by Man's Interference," Journal of the Royal Geographical Society 49 (1879): 336.  Back.

Note 45: Ibid., 320-33, 391-92.  Back.

Note 46: See for example, "Afforestation of Waste Lands in Denmark, Holland, France, and Germany," TRSAS 22 (1909): 207-211.  Back.

Note 47: Quoted in Neeson, History of Irish Forestry, 112; Peter Anderson Graham, Reclaiming the Waste (London: Country Life, 1916), 120-21; see also the comment of William Schlich, BPP, Coast Erosion and Afforestation, 2d Report (on Afforestation) of the RC on Coast Erosion, and the Reclamation of Tidal Lands, and Afforestation, 14 (1909): q. 19112. [Sometimes the s is added to Knockboy, sometimes not.]  Back.

Note 48: Sheila Pim, The Wood and the Trees (Kilkenny: Boethius Press, 1984), 135-36; Neeson, History of Irish Forestry, 110-14, 119-21.  Back.

Note 49: Testimony of J. P. Pye, BPP, Report of Departmental Committee on Irish Forestry 23 (1908): qq. 1771-1810.  Back.

Note 50: Ibid., q. 1771.  Back.

Note 51: T. Summerbell, Afforestation: The Unemployed and the Land (London: I. L. P. Publication, 1908), 3-13.  Back.

Note 52: "Afforestation Conference in London," Quarterly Journal of Forestry I (1907): 373-74.  Back.

Note 53: BPP, RC on Coast Erosion, 14 (1909); Miles, Forestry in the English Landscape, 50-51.  Back.

Note 54: Miles, Forestry in the English Landscape, 138-41.  Back.

Note 55: Ibid., 61; Tubbs, New Forest, 86-87.  Back.

Note 56: Miles, Forestry in the English Landscape, 72.  Back.

Note 57: C. E. M. Joad, The Untutored Townsman's Invasion of the Country (London: Faber and Faber, 1945), 136-37.  Back.

Note 58: Nan Fairbrother, New Lives, New Landscapes (New York: Knopf, 1970), 23, 122-27, 232, 250, 335-36.  Back.

Note 59: Oliver Rackham, Trees and Woodlands in the British Landscape, rev. ed. (London: Dent, 1990), 104-5, 190-92; M. E. D. Poore, "Agriculture, Forestry and the Future of the Landscape," in The English Landscape, ed. S. R. Woodell (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1985), 191-201.  Back.

Note 60: D. O. Baylis, "Recreational Potential of Welsh Forests," in Environmental Aspects of Plantation Forestry in Wales, ed. J. E. Good (Grange-Over-Sands, Cumbria: Institute of Terrestrial Ecology, 1987), 52.  Back.

Note 61: Robert Arvill, Man and Environment, 3d ed. (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1973), 56.  Back.

Note 62: Literature on this subject is steadily expanding; the following is only a sample: essays in Good, ed., Environmental Aspects of Plantation Forestry; essays, especially those by S. J. Essex and T. G. Williams, C. Watkins, G. F. Peterken, C. Lavers and R. Haines-Young, N. Allott, M. Brennen, P. Mills, and A. Eacrett in Ecological Effects of Afforestation, ed. Charles Watkins (Wallingford: C. A. B. International, 1993); H. L. Wallace, J. E. Good, and T. G. Williams, "The Effects of Afforestation on Upland Plant Communities: An Application of the British National Vegetation Classification." Journal of Applied Ecology 29 (1992): 180-94; Charles Watkins, Nature Conservation and the New Lowland Forests (Peterborough: Nature Conservancy Council, 1991).  Back.

Note 63: Aldo Leopold, A Sand County Almanac (1949; reprint, New York: Ballentine Books, 1970), 240.  Back.