Ruins and Old Trees, Associated with Memorable Events in English History Part 7

The sun had scarcely risen over the plains of Rouen, and scarcely had his beams lighted the lofty pinnacles of the church and abbey, when the conqueror was roused from his stupor by the sound of the church bell.

Eagerly inquiring what the sound meant, he was answered that they were tolling the hour of prime, in the church of St. Mary. On hearing this, he seemed to revive for a few moments, and then suddenly lifting up his hands, he cried aloud, "I recommend my soul to my Lady Mary, the holy mother of our Lord!" having thus said, he sunk back and expired.

What busy meddling thoughts had power To haunt him e'er that solemn hour, What broken thoughts of by-gone days, Visions of youth, and welcome lays, Lays, that the harp could soothly sound, When merry steps went pranking round.

And then his father's castle hall, And sooth and bland the cheerful call, Of voices lov'd in distant clime, Were seen and heard at that sad time; Lov'd forms did round his pillow bend, And gentle hands his bidding tend, The wife and mother by his side, In bloom of youth and beauty's pride, His own dear child, Gundreda fair, With gentle step and smile was there; But soon the fitful dream was gone, The dying man was all alone, Save that stern men were waiting round, With cowl and casque, and helm unbound.--M. R.

His last sigh was a signal for a general flight and scramble. The knights buckled on their spurs, the priests and doctors, who had pa.s.sed the night by his bed-side, made no delay in leaving their wearisome occupation. "To horse! to horse!" resounded through the monastery, and each one galloped off to his own home, in order to secure his interests or his property. A few of the king's servants, and some va.s.sals of minor rank staid behind, but not to do honour to the poor remains of him who had been their king.

They spoke loudly and trod heavily, where but a short time before men would scarcely have dared to whisper; where the noiseless step and hushed sound, told the rank and sufferings of him, whom now the voice of seven thunders would not wake. They proceeded without remorse to rifle the apartment both of arms and silver vessels; they even took away the linen and royal vestments, and having hastily packed them in bundles, each man threw the one, which he secured, upon his steed, and galloped away like the rest. From six till nine the corpse of the mighty conqueror lay on the bare boards, with scarcely a sheet to cover him. One son was gone, the other was looking to his pelf, his officers and men-at-arms, priests and doctors had deserted him; the queen, who would have watched beside his dying couch, and soothed his restless pillow, who clearly loved him whilst living, and would not have forsaken him when dead, was herself in the still grave. His favourite and youngest daughter, had likewise been laid to rest, and Eleanor, Margaret, Alela, Constance, and Cecilia were far distant. Here, then, lay the corpse of William in the dismantled apartment, while the men of Rouen, who were thrown into the greatest consternation by the event of the king's death, hurried about the streets, asking news of one another, or advice concerning the present emergency, or else busied themselves in hiding such things as were most valuable. At length the monks and clergy recollected the condition of the deceased monarch, and forming a procession, they went with a crucifix and lighted tapers to pray over the dishonoured body. The Archbishop of Rouen wished that the interment should take place at Caen, in preference to his own city, it being thought most proper that the church of St. Stephen, which the king had built, and royally endowed, should be honoured with his sepulchre. But there was no one to give orders concerning the obsequies of him who had been so great on earth; his sons and brothers, every relation, and all the chiefs who had shared his favours were away. Not one was found even to make inquiry respecting the interment, excepting a poor knight who lived in the neighbourhood, and who charged himself with the trouble and expense of the funeral, "out of his natural good nature, and love of the Most High." Arrangements were made accordingly, and the corpse being carried by water to Caen, was received by the abbots and monks of St.

Stephen, while the inhabitants of the city, having formed a procession, headed by the neighbouring ecclesiastics, proceeded towards the abbey.

Suddenly a fire broke out, and each one, whether priest or layman, running to his home or monastery to prevent the spreading of the flames, the brothers of St. Stephen alone remained with the bier. Onward, then, they went, and there was somewhat of funereal solemnity in the last sad act, for mitred abbots in their robes, with bishops and ecclesiastics in their gowns and cowls, stood within the abbey walls, in order to receive the corpse. Ma.s.s was then performed, the Bishop of Evreux p.r.o.nounced a panegyric on him who had borne the name of Conqueror while living, and who had done great deeds among his fellow-men, and the bier on which lay the body of the king, attired in royal robes, and being in no respect concealed from the view, was about to be lowered into the grave, when a stern voice forbade the interment. "Bishop," it said, "the man whom you have praised was a robber. The very ground on which we are standing is mine; and this is the site of my father's house. He took it from me by violence to build this church upon its ruins. I reclaim it as my right, and in the name of the Most High I forbid you to bury him there, or to cover him with my glebe." The man who spoke thus boldly, was a.s.seline Fitz-Arthur. He had vainly sought for justice from the king while living, and he loudly proclaimed the fact of his injustice and oppression, before his face, when dead. It seemed fearful to the bystanders, that the funeral should thus be strangely hindered; that as at first no one had cared to bury him, whose pale, shrunk countenance and lifeless form was still upheld above the grave; when some at length were gathered, who thought to do him honour, the most were hurried off by an alarm of fire, and that at the very moment of his interment, even the solemn act could not proceed in peace. Many who were present well remembered the pulling down of Fitz-Arthur's house, and the distress which it occasioned, and the bishop being a.s.sured of the fact, gave his son, sixty s.h.i.+llings for the grave alone, and engaged to procure the full value of his land. One moment more, and the corpse remained among living men; another, and it disappeared in the darkness of the tomb, and the remainder of the ceremony being hurried over, the a.s.sembly broke up in haste.

"The red king lies in Malwood Keep.

To drive the deer o'er lawn and steep, He's bound him with the morn; His steeds are swift, his hounds are good, The like in covert or high wood, Were never cheered with horn."--W. STEWART ROSE.

Barons and men-at-arms were a.s.sembled in Malwood-Keep, at the invitation of William Rufus, who proposed to hold a chase, and to follow the red-deer over the wide hunting-grounds, where once stood the pleasant homes, which his father had rendered desolate. Prince Henry was there also, and he who pa.s.sed at nightfall might have heard loud shouts of revelry resounding from the castle, while the bright light which streamed from the windows, gave a strange effect to the giant shadows, which the tall trees of the dark forest cast on the greensward. A loud cry was heard that night which awakened all who slept, and caused them to start in terror from their beds; it came from the king's chamber, whose voice resounding through the castle, loudly invoked the blessed Virgin, and called in great fear for lights to be brought immediately. He told those who hastened to his a.s.sistance that he had seen a hideous vision, and he enjoined them to pa.s.s the night at his bed-side, and to divert him with pleasant converse, lest being left alone, the vision should appear again. At length the morning began to dawn, and the forest which had looked so gloomy at nightfall was gloriously lighted up with the bright beams of an August sun; no strange mysterious-looking shadows caused the pa.s.ser-by to feel afraid; but instead of these, waving branches gently rustled in the morning breeze, and the cheerful songs of early birds resounded from the thickets. William began to prepare for the chase, and while he was thus employed, an artizan brought him six new arrows. He praised their workmans.h.i.+p, and putting aside four for himself, he gave the other two to Sir Walter Tyrrel, or, as he was often called, Sir Walter de Poix, from his estates in France, saying, as he presented them, "Good weapons are due to him, who knows how to make a right use of them." The breakfast-tables were plentifully supplied, and those who sat around them, talked of the expected pleasures of the chase, while the red king ate and drank even more than he was wont.

Perhaps the fearful vision of the night still troubled him, and he sought to put aside the recollection; for it was observed that his spirits rose at length to the highest pitch. Malwood-Keep resounded with merriment as it had done the night before, and the horses were seen standing ready saddled, with hounds in leashes, and grooms and huntsmen preparing for the chase. Many of the younger barons were already mounted, and their horses were curvetting on the gra.s.s, as though they partook of the impatience of their riders, while every now and then the blast of the hunter's horn, in the hand of some young squire, gave notice to those within, that the sun was already high. All was gaiety and animation, and boisterous mirth within and around Malwood-Keep, when a stranger was seen approaching through the forest, grave, and yet in haste. He spoke as one who had business of moment to communicate, and which admitted of no delay, but his look and voice sufficed to check the eagerness of those who sought to know whence, and why, he came. He told the king, when admitted to his presence, that he had travelled both far and fast; that the Norman abbot of St.

Peter's at Gloucester had sent to inform his majesty how greatly he was troubled on his account, for that one of his monks had dreamed a dream which foreboded a sudden and awful death to him.--"To horse!" hastily exclaimed the king, "Walter de Poix, do you think that I am one of those fools who give up their pleasure, or their business, for such matters? the man is a true monk, he dreameth for the sake of money; give him an hundred pence, and bid him dream of better fortune to our person."

Forth went the hunting train, and while some rode one way, some another, according to the manner adopted in the chase, Sir Walter de Tyrrel, the king's especial favourite, remained with him, and their dogs hunted together. They had good sport, and none thought of returning, although the sun was sinking in the west and the shadows of the forest-trees began to lengthen on the gra.s.s, at which time an hart came bounding by, between the king and his companion, who stood concealed in a thicket. The king drew his bow, but the string broke, and the arrow took no effect; the hart being startled at the sound, paused in his speed, and looked on all sides, as if doubtful which way to turn. The king, meanwhile gazing steadfastly at the creature, raised his bridle-hand above his eyes, that he might shade them from the glare of the sun, which now shone almost horizontally through the forest, and being unprovided with a second bow, he called out "Shoot Walter, shoot away!"[36] Tyrrel drew his bow, but the arrow went not forth in a straight line, it glanced against a tree, and struck the king in its side-course against his breast, which was left exposed by the raised arm. The fork-head pierced his heart, and in an instant he expired.

No words were spoken, no prayer pa.s.sed his lips; one dismal groan alone was heard, and the red king lay extended on the gra.s.s.[37] Sir Walter flew to his side, but he saw that his master was beyond all human aid, and mounting his horse he hastened to the sea-coast, from whence he embarked for Normandy. He was heard of soon after, as having fled into the dominions of the French king, and the next account of him was, that he had gone to the Holy Land.

Popular superst.i.tion had long darkened the New Forest with awful spectres; it was even said that words were heard in its deepest solitudes, of awful import, denouncing vengeance on the Norman and his evil counsellors. This was not strange, for men could still remember the driving out of the unoffending population; the traces of their dwellings might be seen at intervals, and many a broken cross denoted where a church had stood. The human mind naturally recoils from scenes of horror, and few were bold enough to visit even the outskirts of the forest, at nightfall, and alone.

A son of Duke Robert was killed while hunting in the forest by a random arrow, and now again the blood of the Conqueror was poured on the site of an Anglo-Saxon church, which the father of him who lay extended on the earth had pulled down.[38] Rufus had left the bed-side of his dying parent while life still lingered, intent only on obtaining the English crown; he even left the care of his interment to the hands of strangers, for it does not seem that he at all concerned himself about the matter. Now then was he also left alone, in the depth of the still forest. Walter Tyrrel, intent only on effecting his escape, or else bewildered by the suddenness of the calamity, did not seek for any one to a.s.sist in burying him; his companions in the chase were eagerly following their amus.e.m.e.nt, and chanced not to pa.s.s where he was lying. At length the royal corpse was discovered by a poor charcoal-burner, who put it, still bleeding, into his cart, and drove off to Winchester. The intelligence soon spread, and Henry hastened to seize the treasures that belonged to the crown, while the knights, who had rea.s.sembled at Malwood-Keep, thought only how the accident might affect themselves; no one caring to show respect to the remains of the unhappy monarch, with whom they had banquetted the evening before. It was afterwards observed by many, that as the corpse of the Conqueror lay extended on a board, with scarcely a vestment to cover him, so, by a remarkable coincidence, the body of his unnatural son, unwashed, without even a mantle, and hideous to look upon, remained in the cart of the charcoal-burner till the next day, when it was conveyed in the same condition to the cathedral church of Winchester. There, however, some faint show of respect was paid to what had been a king: it was interred in the centre of the choir, where, as wrote the chronicler of this sad history, many persons looked on, but few grieved. It was even said by some, that the fall of a high tower which covered his tomb with ruins, showed the just displeasure of Heaven against one, who having deserted his dying parent, sought not to repair the evils which he had done, who neither acting justly, nor living righteously, was undeserving of Christian burial.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

[Ill.u.s.tration]

The Old Trees in Hyde Park.

"What are the boasted palaces of man, Imperial city or triumphal arch, To the strong oak, that gathers strength from time To grapple with the storm? Time watch'd The blossom on the parent bough. Time saw The acorn loosen from the spray. Time pa.s.s'd, While springing from its swad'ling sh.e.l.l, yon oak, The cloud-crowned monarch of the woods, up sprang A royal hero from his nurse's arms.

Time gave it seasons, and time gave it years, Ages bestow'd, and centuries grudg'd not; Time knew the sapling when gay summer's breath Shook to the roots the infant oak, which after Tempests moved not. Time hollow'd in its trunk A tomb for centuries; and buried there The epochs of the rise and fall of states, The fading generations of the world, The memory of man."

Hyde Park was covered in ancient times with a dense growth of tall trees and underwood, which extending from sea to sea, shaded a large portion of the states of the Iceni and Trin.o.bantes, the Cantii and the Regni. But the aspect of external nature has changed since; instead of n.o.ble trees and all the varied undulations of innumerable boughs, now gently waving in the breeze of summer, and now furiously wrought upon by the northern blast, great London has arisen where all was wood and swamp, and on the s.p.a.ce which still retains somewhat of the character that once it bore, are all the accompaniments of a modern park. Clumps of trees, arranged by the hand of taste, flowering shrubs, and beautifully tufted groves, delight the eye with their beauty or their fragrance; walks and carriage-drives, lead among them, and through that portion, which bears especially the name of park, winds a gentle river, which reflects on its mirror-like waters, green sloping banks, where cattle graze.

An aged tree grows on the right hand of the road, beside the river, with its trunk devoid of bark, and cracked in all directions, the effect of long exposure to the weather. Its bare and skeleton-looking branches are also without bark, and beside it stands another tree, the twin brother of its desolation. These trees are very aged, for the oldest inhabitant in the neighbourhood remembers to have seen them in the same condition when he climbed their trunks, a playful boy in search of the owl's nest; but she was too wary to confide her young to so poor a shelter.

Those who, in their haste, wish to accomplish the designs which they have projected with too precipitate haste, may derive a moral lesson from these once n.o.ble trees. Each was once enfolded within an auburn nut, a cup and ball that babes might play with, and which the joyous squirrel, when seeking her food, might have carried off with ease; and nibbled in a moment all the delicate ramifications, and the embryo vastness of the future tree. Autumnal rains mellowed the ground on which the acorns were deposited, we know not whether by the hand of man, or whether, dropping from a bough before the forest had disappeared from the moor, some skipping deer, dibbling the soft earth with his pointed hoof, prepared a receptacle in which the acorns might rest secure, till the return of spring. Here then lay the auburn nuts. Leaves reft by the winds of Autumn fell thick and fast upon the earth, and over them the snow formed a light covering; and though the wind howled in its fury, and the heavy storm raged through the forest, the acorns remained safe till the winds ceased their contention, and the storm-clouds pa.s.sed by. Then did the acorns open by virtue of that secret and mighty power which re-clothes the forest-boughs with leaves, and causes the herbless soil, to be covered with gra.s.s and flowers. Two small lobes first uprose from out the soil, formed with the exactest symmetry, and being in themselves both thick and well furnished with pores, they served not only to s.h.i.+eld the small buds that lay between them, but to yield abundant moisture for the support of their nascent life. Presently a young leaf emerged from the bud, then the leaf was pushed upwards by the supporting stem, till at length other small leaves appeared, and the character of a tree was gradually a.s.sumed.

Meanwhile the tender scions were watered with early dews, and warmed by a bright sun; the rain fell on them, and the internal heat which had preserved life within the acorns, while they lay embedded in the cold earth, did its work, and the trees advanced in their growth.

What people inhabited Britain when these things were being done? Were they the natives of the island, or were they Romans, Danes, or Saxons, Picts or Scots? Did the rude dwellings of our remotest ancestors skirt the margin of the forest on the plain country? did their woad-dyed chieftains walk beneath the parent trees; or the Druid cut with his golden knife, the hallowed misletoe from their branches? Were the gentle undulations of hill and dale varied with palaces and forums? did the Roman dwell among them, or were they trod upon by the ruthless Dane, or the proud Norman, when the trees attained to their maturity? No spirit dwells within their trunks, as the poets feigned concerning their brethren of Dodona; no voice answers to the question. The sighing of the wind alone is heard among their sapless branches.

Thus much we know, that in all forest-trees the stages of vegetation are alike. But century after century must have rolled on, till the giant bulk of the n.o.ble trees were fully developed, till their stately columns, upheld an ample canopy of spreading boughs, beneath which the flocks that grazed in the open s.p.a.ces of the forest might find a shelter from the storm. Time was, when the settling of a fly upon the saplings could shake them to the root, but at this period of their history, a tempest would not disturb them. The busiest thoughts might find an ample field to range in, when comparing the small beginnings, with the matchless grandeur of these once n.o.ble trees. How, at their prime age, the smooth bark, by which they were enveloped, contained within their girth, wood sufficient to plank the deck and sides of a large vessel; how their tortuous arms would have yielded many a load of timber, which, if drawn by oxen, might have wearied the ponderous creatures, long before they reached the place of destination, at even a short distance. But, in those ages, oaks were not hewn down as they now are. Still the trees grew on, till their moss-cus.h.i.+oned roots upheaved above the earth, and their smooth trunks, becoming rugged, were embossed with globose wens. Then decay began her noiseless work; one atom, and then another, were silently disjointed from the rest, till at length a labour was achieved in the breaking down of these firm trees, which, had it been done by the hand of man, would have made the wide forest ring. Nothing now remains of the once gigantic trees, not even the semblance of their ancient selves--nothing but shapeless trunks, heavy ponderous ma.s.ses, with here and there a strip of rugged bark, in the interstices of which, tufts of moss and pendent ferns have struck their roots. There is nothing either in the trunks or branches to tempt the woodman's hatchet, and therefore, the old trees still remain.

Their roots are firmly interlaced in the earth, they clasp the blocks of stone that lie buried beneath the soil, with their stout spurs and knotted fangs, while here and there a projecting ma.s.s rises above the scanty herbage, dotted over with the yellow lichen and little nailwort which grows on dry walls and rocks. Crooked into every imaginable shape, they still hold their stems erect, memorials of past ages, revealers of what time has done;--yea, perhaps, also what the hand of man has achieved, though the old trees stand not, as many others, chroniclers connected with some of those memorable events, which give a date to history, and are waymarks, which identify the noiseless steps of time. The winds of many winters have reft off the giant branches which long since afforded a shelter from the blast; rovers of the forest--men, perhaps, with bow and shaft, have burnt them. Some have left, in breaking, a bleached and splintered stump, but concerning others there is no trace even of the branch on which they grew; rough bark has grown most probably over it, and moss and tufted lichens have taken root in the interstices. Still, life lingers in the worn-out trees, and proofs are not wanting, that its secret and mighty power is yet working, though death preponderates. The pa.s.ser-by sees with astonishment, young green leaves in the interstices of the quarried bark; he sees them, but can hardly believe that the shapeless thing which stands before him has life hidden where all seems to denote death; that her sweet force is equally available in the furrowed oak, as among the young green trees of the neighbouring coppice, which sprung, it may be, from out the earth, a thousand years later, in the lapse of time.

The old trees are well qualified by age, to teach lessons of wisdom to h.o.a.ry men. Had they a voice, they could discourse much concerning the mutability of things below; how nations have risen and waned, while they advanced to maturity, and of the gradual emerging of a mighty people from the darkness of past ages, to the highest pitch of intellectual culture.

But this may not be, for the gifts of speech and reason, of voice and memory, are not for these ancient tenants of the soil. Leaning against their mossy trunks, with no prompter, and no hearer, except the time-worn trees and the calm still scene around me, let me be myself the oracle, and discourse to mine own ear, concerning the mutations of past ages.

Here, then, in bye-gone days, stood one vast forest, with its dells and dingles, its clear prattling streams, and ceaseless murmur of wind among the branches. We know not that men dwelt within its precincts, or that the natives of the country, our remotest ancestors, built their wattled dwellings, or fed their flocks in the open s.p.a.ces; most probably not, for the wild animals that ranged here were dangerous to contend with. Years went on, and men clad in skins, and dyed blue with woad, came from the sh.o.r.es of Gaul. They established themselves in the plain country which is bounded by the British Channel, and formed at length a considerable settlement beside the river that waters this part of Britain. They also threw up bulwarks, and added to the natural strength of the place by forming ramparts and sinking fosses. The settlement was called Llyn-din, or the town on the lake, Llyn being the British term for a broad expanse of water or lake. It was appropriately given, for the low grounds on the Surrey side of the river were often overflowed, as also those that extend from Wapping marsh to the Isle of Dogs, and still further, for many miles along the Ess.e.x coast. At length, strangers from another country settled there. They saw that the land was good, and that the trees which crowded around the settlement, and shadowed on either side the current of the river, might be cleared away. They were men who soon carried into execution the schemes which they devised, and having enlarged the place, and raised within it n.o.ble buildings, for beauty and security, they gave it the name of Londinium. A fort was built, and s.h.i.+ps came from a distance, bringing with them the productions of other climes. Then began the trees of the great forest to fall beneath the axe of the woodcutter, and the marshy places were brought into cultivation. Londinium rapidly advanced to the dignity of a military station; it even became the capital of one of the great provinces, into which the Romans divided Britain.

A spirit of enterprise had ever characterised the polished people who now gained an ascendency; not only were the marshy places in the forest drained for the purpose of feeding cattle, but the low-ground which lay along the river, and which, in rainy seasons, presented an unsightly aspect, was recovered from the waters. Embankments were thrown up on either side to prevent the encroachments of the tide. They commenced in what are now St. George's Fields, and continued along the adjoining and equally shallow marshes, till they terminated in the grand sea-wall of the deep fens of Ess.e.x. Thus, in comparatively a short period, those vast tracts of land which presented, during winter, only a dreary expanse of troubled waters; in the summer, small stagnant pools, with a dry crust of mud, and here and there tufts of rushes, or rank gra.s.s, were covered with splendid villas, and a thronging population.

The giant work of embanking the river was succeeded by making one of those great military roads which opened a communication from one end of the island to the other. This was the old Watling or Gathelin Street: it led from London to Dover, and was much travelled on by those who were going to embark for the Imperial city. The making of the road broke up the quiet of the forest, through an extent of which it had to pa.s.s; nothing was heard but the cras.h.i.+ng of n.o.ble trees, and the rattling of cars, heavily laden with stone and lime; it was carried within sight of the old trees, and, having crossed what is now the Oxford road, at c.u.mberland-gate, it ran to the west of Westminster, over the river Thames, and onward into Kent. This was its broad outline, and the country through which it lay had been reclaimed either from the forest or the river. It was exceedingly frequented, and carriages of all descriptions continually pa.s.sed and repa.s.sed, either in going to, or else returning from the city.

Londinium was next surrounded with a wall, and a considerable extent of forest-land was cleared for the purpose of being enclosed within its ample range. It was said that the mother of Constantine, who liked much to reside in the rising city, greatly favoured this great work, and that she urged her son to promote the grandeur and security of the place. The wall encompa.s.sed the city from right to left. It began at the fort, which occupied a portion of what is now the Tower, and made a circuit of nearly two miles, and one furlong. Another wall, strongly defended with towers and bastions, extended along the banks of the river, to the distance of one mile, and one hundred and twenty yards. The height of the wall was twenty two feet, that of the towers forty feet, and the s.p.a.ce of ground enclosed within the circ.u.mference of both walls, was computed at three hundred and eighty acres.

Thus stood Londinium. Patricians and military officers, merchants and artificers, resorted thither from all parts, and there Constantine held his court, with the splendour of Imperial Rome. A few more years, and the power of the Romans began to wane, and with it waned also, the prosperity of the sea-girt isle. Stranger barks came from the sh.o.r.es of Saxony, and in them armed men of fierce countenances, who knew little of the arts of civilized life. What they saw, they conquered, and the n.o.ble city with its palaces and forums, its schools, of eloquence, and temples for Pagan wors.h.i.+p, fell into their hands. Then might be seen from the old trees the red glare of the burning city; but it was again rebuilt, and though, in after years, the Danes sorely oppressed its inhabitants, it resumed its high standing as the metropolis of Britain; the seat of arts and commerce; kings reigned within its walls, and merchants came from all parts of the known world, bringing with them the productions of other countries, and exciting a spirit of enquiry and enterprise, throughout all cla.s.ses of society.

The old trees remained as they were, and London, for so the city was called at length, increased in might and power; the swarming population could no longer be contained within its walls, and the walls were broken down in consequence. Villages were built in places where, but a few years before, was a dense growth of underwood, with high trees that cast their lengthened shadows on the ground. Gradually the city enlarged her bounds, and those groups of houses which had been called villages, and which stood in the midst of pleasant fields, well-watered and reclaimed from the forest, were reached by lines of streets, and so encroaching were they, that it was thought advisable to retain some portion of the ancient forest as a royal park, both for exercise and ornament. If the trees of the forest could have spoken, they would have rejoiced at this, but none more than the old trees, my own memorial trees, these relics of past ages; though now beginning to decay, long tufts of lichens having struck their roots into the rough bark, and many of their n.o.blest branches having been long since broken by fierce winds, or rovers of the forest. They nearly stood alone, for very few remained of those which had grown here, when all around was one wide forest, one intermingling of shadowing boughs from sea to sea, or s.p.a.ces of waste land, untilled and tenantless. The old Roman road, which had been raised with so much cost and care, soon fell to decay; its materials were carried off, and the green sward rapidly extended over that portion of it which pa.s.sed through Hyde Park and St.

James's Park. Those who like to tread where the Romans trod, may yet walk on a small portion of their ancient route, in the public road leading to Westminster Abbey, on the side nearest the turnpike.

The retaining part of the old forest was a desirable measure, for the advance of London towards this quarter, was alone restrained by the prescribed boundaries; and now the windows of her crowding houses look upon the trees and gra.s.s, and the ceaseless hum of human voices, which she sends forth from all her hundred gates, is heard continually, with the mingled sound of rolling carriages, of heavy waggons, and the trampling of horses' feet. Magnificent equipages drive along the smoothly gravelled roads, with which the modern park that extends around the old tree is intersected. Riders on steeds, such as the ancient Britons saw not, and even the polished Romans could hardly have imagined, pa.s.s and repa.s.s among the trees, and gaily attired pedestrians walk beneath their shade. Strange contrast to what has been! The mental eye, back glancing through the vista of long ages, still loves to dwell on the loneliness and the grandeur, on the gloom and depth of the wide forest: it mourns over the ages and the generations that have pa.s.sed away, since the memorial trees emerged from their cradle in the earth. Some hand might inscribe on their rough bark that all is vanity, that the glorious earth was not designed to be thus made a charnel-house; but, among those who pa.s.s the aged trees, few would stop their progress, or their discourse, to read the inscription; and, among those who read, fewer, perhaps, would desire that it should be otherwise.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Hatfield Oak.]

Hatfield Oak.

[Queen Elizabeth is said to have been seated beneath the shade of Hatfield Oak when she received intelligence of the death of her sister Mary.]

How dim and indistinct the silent scene!

O'er groves and valleys sleeping mists are spread, Like a soft silvery mantle; while the stream, Scarce heard to flow, steals on its pebbly bed; Nor e'en a ripple wakes the silence round, As if it flowed, perchance, through some enchanted ground.

But O, the gorgeous tint, the dazzling glow In the clear west; for scarce the sun is gone!

That glowing tint doth yet a radiance throw On the hill-top, while, aye, each old grey stone Glitters like diamonds 'mid the mountain heath, While fades, in deep'ning gloom, the sleeping vale beneath.

One lonely spot, which oft, in solemn mood, Men have gazed on in ages long gone by, Where stands that relic of the good green wood, The aged oak, prompting a tear or sigh; That lonely spot gleams o'er the misty scene, Catching the splendour of the dazzling sheen.

And, aye, the lichens that have fixed deep Their tiny roots within the furrowed bough; And one small flower, which still her vigils keep, The blue forget-me-not, are glowing now, In characters, methinks, of living flame, Seeming to print the old oak's ma.s.sy frame.

It looks as if a bright and sudden beam, Within that oak, broke forth with fervid ray, Tinting its old boughs with a golden gleam, Bright as the deep glow of the parting day; Tempting the pa.s.ser-by to linger still, Amid the deep'ning gloom that broods o'er dale and hill.

Ah! linger still, nor fear the chill night-wind; It comes not yet, for scarce the sun is gone!

Each living emblem, speaking to the mind, May counsel well, and cheer, if reft and lone, Thy sad thoughts, earthward bend, giving but little heed To signs of mercy near, waiting each hour of need.

Men may learn from them, be it joy or pain, That bids the heart its wonted calm forego, Sunbeams, or showers, loud wind, or driving rain, The morning h.o.a.r frost, or the dazzling snow, The small bird, journeying through the pathless skies, May win dull thought, from earthly care to rise.

It might be, that in such a glowing hour, When shone the old oak, as with living flame, While anxious thoughts within her breast had power, Forth from yon aged hall[39] a lady came To meet the freshness of the evening breeze, Viewless, yet rustling still among the trees.

Oh! there were hearts within that stately hall, Though ruined now, that beat with high alarm, And champing steeds, and warders waiting all To guard, if need might be, from gathering harm, And cautious looks, and voices speaking low, As if they feared an hour of coming woe.