[Illustration: CLIPSTONE PALACE]

Ruins of Clipstone Palace.

Where have ye gone, ye statesmen great,

That have left your home so desolate?

Where have ye vanished, king and peer,

And left what ye liv'd for, lying here?

Sin can follow where gold may not,

Pictures and books the damp may rot;

And creepers may hang frail lines of flowers

Down the crevices of ancient towers:

But what hath passed from the soul of mortal,

Be it thought or word of pride,

Hath gone with him through the dim, low portal,

And waiteth by his side.--F. W. FABER.

Little now remains of the old palace where King John and Edward I.

resided. Creeping ivy covers the once strong walls, and large elder bushes

springing from out the rents which time has made, afford a shelter to such

birds as like to build their nests in solitary places. The goatsucker is

one of these; you may hear her mournful voice at night, as if she bewailed

and lamented the downfall of the once stately building; the gray owl is

also there; the jackdaw and carrion-crow; they are never seen beside the

cottage door, or in cheerful apple-orchards, covered with blossoms, where

the goldfinch and linnet, the joyous throstle and the bullfinch, love to

nestle. All is lonely here, the long grass which grows wild and high,

around and within the ruin, is rarely trodden on, and so damp and chill is

the feeling of the place, that the sheep and cattle that graze upon the

common rarely seek it, unless in the hottest summer-day, when they cannot

find shelter elsewhere. Yet this lone and melancholy spot was not always

thus deserted: the broken-down walls encircled a spacious area, within

which was all the life and business, the gladness and festivity of a

palace; there was the great hall and the refectory, the chapel, where

prayer was duly offered, the rooms of state, and apartments of various

descriptions. Men-at-arms guarded the strong gate by night and by day, and

when its ample doors were opened by the king's command, a troop of horse

might freely pass, and large companies did come and go, for great

hospitality was occasionally exercised in Clipstone palace.

Fancy, that nimble fairy, who calls up the images of bygone days, who

causes men to live again, and re-people the fair scenes in which they once

rejoiced or suffered; who builds up the ruined wall, and removes the

unsightly branches which keep off the pleasant sunbeams, bids the stately

palace of Clipstone to stand forth in all its majesty. Touched by her

wand, the mists of ages have rolled away, and surely a more goodly

building rarely meets the eye.

The walls are thick, and the embattled parapets present a range of towers,

each of which are firmly guarded. The knight or palmer, he who comes in

peace or war, has to pass over a strong drawbridge, and through the

barbican or watch-tower by which the castle is further strengthened. He

sees over his head a portcullis armed with iron spikes like a harrow, and

as he passes through the long stone passage, he hears the heavy tread of

the guard going their rounds along the high wall, by which the entrance is

flanked on either side. The deep moat with its heavy and sluggish waters,

the inner and outer ballia, the guard and the portcullis, all and each

betoken that the country is in an unsettled state; but within the area on

which the castle stands all is bustle and animation, its ample space

contains barracks and residences for the workmen attached to the palace,

together with a well and chapel, and in the centre stands the keep, where

the king presides, and where his great officers have their abode. A

terrace walk extends around the keep, and appended to it is a straight

bowling-green, where amusements of various kinds are going on. The old

castle looks gloomy to him who passes by; it stands an isolated object,

stern and lonely, as if nothing within or around it, held communion with

any living thing. But such is not the case, for the monarch holds his

court here; King John, who has lately come to the throne, and with him is

that kind and gentle lady, his fair queen, who tries to soften the rugged

temper of her husband. Lords of high degree are invited guests; with them

are a large company of knights and squires, and while tilts and

tournaments are going on within the walls, the retainers of the castle are

seen coming with provisions, or else driving both sheep and cattle, for

the demand for them is great. Alms are duly given by the express desire of

the queen, and those who seek for shelter are hospitably entertained.

In winter, the banquet room is lighted up with large torches, and a band

of minstrels make the castle resound with their songs and roundelays. You

may hear occasionally the trampling of horses, even when the company are

set at table, and see a number of young gallants, of knights, too, and

minstrels, coming through the great stone entrance, mounted on steeds

richly caparisoned, and clad in fantastic vestments of green and gold,

with high caps and ribands. Thus accoutred, they ride round the hall, and

pay their respects to the assembled guests with such speeches as best

please them. But, torches are not needed now, for summer is at its height.

Some converse in the great halls, others mount to the top of the high

keep, where they amuse themselves with observing the comers and goers from

the castle, and in watching whether any knights or ladies, mounted on

their palfreys, are coming from afar; others go forth to hunt over the

wild moor, or to chase the deer in his forest haunts. Others, again, amuse

themselves with tennis, or foot-ball, or in feats of arms. Knights and

squires are seen going to and fro, conversing on foreign news, or on the

valorous achievements of those with whom they are acquainted.

The queen thinks well of such proceedings, and she endeavours to promote

the kindly intercourse that subsists within the walls. But now they are

put aside. The king is weary of them. The jest and laugh, the discoursing

of the old, and the amusements of the young, suit not with his turn of

mind or the sad condition of the country. He has other thoughts than those

of gladness and festivity, and growing weary of the hospitable life which

he is constrained to lead at Clipstone palace, he has suddenly withdrawn

from thence and gone to London.

Clipstone looks lonely now. The minstrel's harp is silent, neither knights

nor ladies ride forth over the wild moor, and rarely does any one seek for

hospitality within the walls. A few men-at-arms guard the place, and you

may hear the baying of the watch-dogs at eveningtide; but this is rather

from impatience than necessity, for they miss the riders who used to pat

their shaggy heads, and speak to them as they passed.

Sad rumours are afloat, but the place is so remote that no one knows what

to believe. Some say that a civil war has broken out; others that the

country is laid under an interdict, that the church doors are to be

closed, and that no one is to be interred in consecrated ground.

A church may be seen among the trees, beside the stream where it forms a

small cascade that falls with a pleasant murmur into the vale below. It is

a church of the olden time, with its primitive-looking porch, and creeping

vine. Prayers have been offered there ever since the days of Alfred, and

beside it the villagers have been laid to rest for successive generations:

a few bells call the people to their matins and vespers, and some images

stand within the walls of the edifice.

Prayers may not be offered now, for the good old priest has received

orders to close the doors, and to take down the bells. It is sad to see

the few images that have long recalled to recollection the holy lives of

those whose memory they are designed to perpetuate, lying with the ancient

cross upon the ground, and, as if the air itself is polluted, and may

pollute them by its contact, the priest and his attendants carefully cover

them, even from their own approach and veneration. The bells, too, which

used to ring out, that all might hear and make ready for the house of

prayer, are taken down and placed beside the grey tower from whence they

had long sounded in seasons of gladness or sorrow. No one hears the

passing bell that was wont to call the neighbours to intercede for him who

lay weak and sinking upon his bed.

The living partake of no religious rite, except baptism to new-born

infants and the communion to the dying; the dead may not lay in

consecrated ground, neither are words of peace, nor any hallowed ceremony

spoken or performed at their obsequies. Graves are opened beside the

public road, on some wild common, or lone forest; those who dig them seem

filled with more than usual sadness, for they have not yet learned to

think that it is a matter of indifference where their friends are buried.

Strange it is, that in these fearful times any should think of marrying.

Yet such there are, and now a bridal company is seen passing up the narrow

pathway that leads to the small church. The sun shines as brightly as if

all on earth were happy; the trees wave in the soft summer wind, and the

butterflies and bees flit from one flower to another, or rest on the tufts

of wild thyme that skirt the path. But the old people look exceeding

sorrowful, and there are no smiles on the faces of the young. They stop at

the entrance of the churchyard, at the old stile with its thatched roof,

where part of the ceremony is wont to be performed, and the bride and

bridegroom stand there, as if they almost feared to go on. The sod which

used to be kept so nicely that a weed might not lift up its head unbidden,

has grown long and rank. It overtops the graves; and the thistle, and that

unsightly weed the great cow-parsnip, with its sickly-looking flower, has

sprung up in rank luxuriance. The bells are placed beside the church, and

near them the images, and the one old cross are lying on the ground,

covered up in a manner which cause them to look like corpses waiting for

interment.

In a moment the old church and its venerable yew--the sad bridal

company--the bells and images are gone. A new scene presents itself, for

more than eighty years have passed since these things were done, and the

aspect of everything is changed.

Clipstone Palace does not look gloomy now. Alterations have been made,

though it is difficult to say how or where. There is the keep and the

bastion, the wall and moat, but the place looks lighter, the men-at-arms

are not so heavily loaded with armour, and the knights and ladies wear a

lighter and a gayer dress. Their palfreys are elegantly caparisoned, and

they go forth with hawks upon their wrists, and hounds running by their

sides, with only a few attendants. The dwellings of the poorer classes are

more comfortable than in the days of John, and they have around them small

enclosures, in which grow pot-herbs, and fragrant flowers. The country,

too, is cultivated in many parts, and all look peaceful and contented.

He who surveys the landscape from an eminence, will observe that houses

have been built, which, although not rising to the dignity of castles,

have much of the ancient baronial style, being strongly moated, and having

the entrance guarded with a portcullis. They consist of a quadrangle, with

a large area in the centre, into which both sheep and oxen are often

driven for greater security by night. The fields around are in general

well attended to, and large gardens, stocked with fruit and vegetables,

supply not only the wants of the respective families, but also provides

abundance of such medicinal herbs, as is convenient to have within reach.

This style of building evinces a considerable improvement in society, for

during the insecure condition of the country, when Clipstone Palace was

last brought into view, every baronial residence was strongly fortified,

and scarcely any intermediate gradations existed between the vassal and

his lord, except in commercial cities. Men had consequently little

inclination to cultivate the arts of peace. The knight or squire who rode

forth fully caparisoned, and armed cap-à-pie, turned not aside his charger

into the recesses of the forest to gather such beautiful flowers as might

grow therein, when there was danger in his path; the serf, who toiled hard

to sustain his wife and children, had neither time nor inclination to seek

out, or to plant around his cabin either the wild rose or the honeysuckle.

The wild rose grew, as now it grows, fragrant and beautiful; the

honeysuckle, too, and wild flowers of all scents and hues sprung beside

the common, or skirted the thorny brake; but the outlaw often lurked among

them, and it was death to him who sought, unarmed or alone, the beautiful

solitude of nature. But now that the country is at peace, and the towns

and cities contain a class of persons who grow rich by commerce, and who

frequently obtain in their intercourse with foreign nations, curious

specimens both of art and nature, men begin to lay aside that dread of

their fellow-men which has hitherto caused them to think most of their

personal safety, and to direct their attention towards improving their own

condition.

The dwellings which arose in consequence throughout the country, and give

the traveller a feeling of security as he passes beside their gardens, or

through the pathways which lead across the fields, are inhabited by a

class of men who had no political existence in the days of John. These are

the lesser barons. They originated with the partition of the great estates

which had been given by the Norman conqueror to his immediate followers,

and which anciently conferred power on individual families. Many of these

had escheated to the crown when the heads of them, having taken part in

civil broils, either fell in battle or fled into foreign lands. The king

then generally parcelled such estates among his courtiers according to

their merits; others were divided, either to make provisions for younger

children, or partitioned among coheirs, and hence originated a number of

small estates, which required economy in the management, and caused the

proprietor to remain much at home, where he occupied himself in

cultivating his paternal or appropriated acres, and in attending to his

cattle.

It is the wise policy of Edward, who resides much at Clipstone Palace

during the pleasant months of summer, to encourage and protect the lower

orders of society. He is not ignorant concerning the transactions of other

days; though a long interval has elapsed since the crown was overawed by

the turbulent barons in the days of John; since that stern and vindictive

monarch sat sullenly brooding over his sad condition, and devising schemes

for aggrandisement or revenge in the same apartment which King Edward

enlivens with his presence; from the embattled parapets of which he can

survey the smiling and well-peopled landscape.

A fine young oak grew on the west side of Clipstone Palace in the days of

John; it was noticed at that time for its girth and height, and was much

admired by many who resided within the park. Parties were assembled

occasionally beneath its shade, and the minstrel would wake up his harp in

a fine summer evening. Those who loved his lays gathered around him, and

while they listened to the deep music that he poured forth, and to the

thrilling strains by which it was accompanied, the sun often set below the

horizon, and his beams shed a purple light on the rising ground, while the

plain country and the woods were covered with the mists of evening. Had

the tree a voice, or could its leaves form words when shaken by the wind,

how much of ancient history--how many tales of loves and woes--of human

suffering and human joys, would be unfolded! The tree looks not now as it

did then; somewhat of its grace has passed away, but there is more of

majesty; the branches are exceeding ample, and the stem is beginning to be

slightly furrowed. Knights and ladies still sit beneath its shade, as in

the days of John, and the minstrel's harp is awakened at their bidding,

while the same bright sun is setting in his glory behind the hills, on

which the inmates of the palace looked in bygone days. The same hopes and

joys--the same ties of family and of kindred, were among them as among

those of the present day. Modified, indeed, by the times in which they

lived--by the hopes or the misgivings of that eventful period, but still

the same in all their bearings, on the weal or woe of knight or lady, sire

or son.

Now there is another company sitting there; men of grave countenances and

full age. Their plaited ruffs and satin doublets, their high-crowned hats

and plumes, though reverently laid aside, the richness of their vestments

and, above all, their dignified demeanour, show that they are of high

degree. Some have broad and ample foreheads, furrowed with deep thought;

others seem worn with care; some again appear to have sustained the shock

of many battles, and among them are a few with staffs and crosiers, whose

countenances denote a life of prayer and abstraction. This goodly company

are the counsellors of the king, together with the greater and lesser

barons and knights, assembled at his bidding: they hold a parliament

beneath the noble tree, for such is the royal pleasure. The king presides

in state among them, and right and left, and immediately before him, seats

are placed for those whose rank entitles them to the pre-eminence, while

the burgesses sit apart. They are deliberating on matters of great

importance; on the affairs, perhaps, of Scotland; for the young Queen

Margaret is dead, and the king is devising schemes for obtaining

possession of the country. It is a solemn sight to see men thus

deliberating, as if eternity depended on their decision, while the very

tree beneath which they meet, and the adjacent palace, might teach that

human life is even as a vapour.

Gradually as the mist of ages were dispersed, so gradually do they return.

They gather over the assembly, and cover, as with a light transparent

mantle, the palace with its embattled parapets, and men-at-arms, the moat,

and drawbridge. Fainter and fainter grows the scene; the king may yet

dimly be discerned, and one among the rest seems speaking with great

earnestness; now the strained eye discerns them no longer. All and each

are concealed from the view. Where stood the noble oak, and those who were

assembled beneath its branches, a solitary spot of ground, with an aged,

riven, and time-worn tree, alone appears: in the place of a stately

palace, broken ruins meet the eye, and a few straggling sheep graze beside

them.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: William Rufus and the Monk of Gloucester.]

Ruined Villages in the New Forest.

"The fire from off the hearth hath fled,

The smoke in air has vanished.

The last, long, lingering look is given;

The stifled sigh, and the parting groan,

And the sufferers on their way are gone."

The memorial-tree, from which the arrow of Sir Walter Tyrrel glanced, and

beside which the king lay extended on the ground, is now exceeding old,

and scarcely a trace remains of its former greatness. It stood in this

wild spot, when the stern decree went forth, which enjoined that

throughout the whole extent of the south-western part of Hampshire,

measuring thirty miles from Salisbury to the sea, and in circumference at

least ninety miles, all trace of human habitation should be swept away.

William might have indulged his passion for the chase in the many parks

and forests which Anglo-Saxon monarchs had reserved for the purpose, but

he preferred rather to have a vast hunting-ground for his "superfluous and

insatiate pleasure" in the immediate neighbourhood of Winchester, his

favourite place of residence. The wide expanse that was thus doomed to

inevitable desolation was called Ytene or Ytchtene; it comprised numerous

villages and homesteads, churches, and ancestral halls, where Saxon

families of rank resided, and where an industrious population followed the

daily routine of pasturage and husbandry.[34] A large proportion had been

consequently brought into cultivation; yet sufficient still remained to

afford a harbour for numerous wild animals. This part comprised many

sylvan spots of great beauty, with tracts of common land, covered with the

golden blossomed gorse, and tufts of ferns, or else with short herbage,

intermingled with wild thyme. Noble groups of forest-trees were seen at

intervals, with clear running streams, and masses of huge stones which

projected from among the grass. The sun rose on the morning of the fatal

day in cloudless beauty, and fresh breezes tempered the heat, which, at

harvest-time is often great; the people were already in the fields, and

the creaking of heavy-laden waggons was heard at intervals, with the

sweeping sound of the rapid sickle. In a moment the scene was changed.

Bands of Norman soldiers rushed in and drove all before them. They trod

down the standing corn, and commanded the terrified inhabitants of hall

and hut, to depart in haste. More than one hundred manors, villages, and

hamlets were depopulated, even the churches were thrown down--those

venerated places, where the voice of prayer and thanksgiving had been

heard for generations; where the young bride pledged her vows, and where

words of peace were spoken to cheer the hearts of those who laid their

friends to rest beside the walls. He who passed the next day over the

wide waste, saw only ruins black with smoke, trampled fields, and

dismantled churches. Here and there broken implements of husbandry met the

view, and beside them, not unfrequently, the corpse of him who had dared

to resist the harsh mandate of the Conqueror. Females, too, had fallen to

the earth in their terror and distress, and young children were in their

death-sleep, among the tufts of flowers where they had sported the day

before. Many stately buildings were pulled down at once; others, having

their roofs thrown open, were left to be destroyed by the weather, and

hence it not seldom happened that a stranger, in passing through a meadow

into one of those shady coverts, which still varied the aspect of the

country, forgetting, in the freshness and the loveliness of all around

him, the terrible undoings of previous days, might see through the

undulating branches of the trees, the walls or roofs of houses, which

looked as if they had escaped the general ruin. They stood, apparently, in

the midst of cultivated fields, occasionally by the road side, and their

pointed roofs were covered with the vine or honeysuckle. On a nearer

approach the illusion vanished, not a sound disturbed the silence of the

place; the houses which looked so inviting when seen at a short distance,

showed that the hand of ruin had done its work. The doors were broken

open, the windows dashed in, the roofs were open to the winds of heaven,

and the little gardens overrun with weeds. Large rents appeared in the

walls, which were generally made of wood, neatly plastered, and he who

looked through the breaches saw that tufts of rank grass, had grown up in

the spaces between the stones, with which the floors were occasionally

paved. The ruins of an antique abbey were often close at hand, with its

richly painted windows, broken through and through; or, perhaps, the

shattered walls of some hospitable dwelling, in which a Saxon thane had

resided. The open space before the house, where, in summer weather, the

family used to assemble, where the harp was heard, and the young people

amused themselves with sports of various kinds, was overrun with weeds.

There was no print of footsteps on the grass, no trace that the place had

recently been inhabited; those who once lived there had found another

home; perhaps the low and silent one which alone remains for the houseless

and the miserable.

It was said of the proud Norman, that he loved wild beasts as if he had

been their father. He enacted laws for their preservation, which tended to

render him extremely unpopular, and while the slaying of a man might be

atoned for by a moderate compensation, it was decreed, that whoever should

kill a stag or deer, a wild boar, or even a hare, should be punished with

total blindness.[35] Even the Norman chiefs, who were in general great

lovers of the chase, were prohibited from keeping sporting dogs on their

own estates unless they subjected the poor animals to such a mutilation

of their fore-paws as rendered them unfit for hunting. This enactment

pressed hard upon the Norman and English barons, for many of them depended

chiefly for subsistence on their bows and nets.

Where the labour of man has ceased, vegetation soon asserts her empire,

and fields, when left to themselves, become, according to their soil,

either wild or stony, or else covered with a dense growth of underwood,

and tall trees. Such was the case over the wide expanse which had been

rendered desolate; the spaces of common ground, with golden blossomed

gorse and wild thyme, continued such as they had been, but trees grew

thick and fast, the beautiful groves became woods in the course of a short

time, and the once cultivated country was rapidly absorbed in the

wilderness portions of Ytchtene. A vast forest darkened the land, and all

trace of ruined homes and dismantled churches disappeared in many parts,

while in others, either the line of erections might be traced by the

elevation of the soil, or else large blocks of stone, and here and there a

broken arch, or doorway, long pointed out the site of a church or castle.

Names, too, are even now retained, with the recollection of their own sad

histories. Church-place and Church-moore seems to mark the solitary spots

as the sites of ancient buildings, where the Anglo-Saxons worshipped and

dwelt in peace, before the stern decree of the unrelenting conqueror razed

the sacred edifices. Thompson's Castle recalls to mind, the cheerfulness

and hospitality that presided in an ancestral hall, while the termination

of _ham_ and _ton_, annexed to many of the woodlands, may be taken as an

evidence that where innumerable boughs are waving, a thronging population

once inhabited.

The memorial-tree, which now stands lone and seamed, was then a sapling,

for such we may conjecture to have been the case, according to the

well-known longevity of forest-trees. Three events of great interest are

associated with it--the making desolate a wide extent of country; the

death of the proud Norman, by whose command the work of ruin was achieved;

and the untimely end of his successor.

Had the history of William I. been written with reference to his private

actions, it might be noticed that a tissue of domestic sorrows succeeded

to the laying desolate of Ytchtene. His wife Matilda died a few years

after, and his fair daughter Gundreda, the cherished one in her father's

house, was cut off in the flower of her youth. He saw with grief the

jealousy that subsisted between his sons William and Henry, and during the

time that Duke Robert, his first-born, continued an exile and a fugitive,

Richard, his second son, was gored to death by a stag, as he was hunting

over the wide expanse which his father had depopulated. Men spoke of the

sad event as a just punishment on him who had respected neither the lives

nor feelings of those who once had dwelt there. Some said, this is but

one; we shall see others of his family to whom the forest will prove

fatal, and they spoke true.

War was declared with France, and a gathering of the bandit chiefs who had

accompanied the king from Normandy, with their sons, and all who held of

him a fief, was convened at Sarum. Thither, accordingly, they came, barons

and men-at-arms, abbots and their vassals, to the number of six thousand,

all bound to do service to the king, and having oaths of homage and

allegiance tended to them in the place of their assembling, that both

those who went, and such as remained behind, might afresh remember to do

his bidding. Sarum was well suited for the purpose, both on account of its

accommodations, and the fine downs by which it was surrounded. It was

anciently a place of considerable note, at first a Roman station,

afterwards the residence of the Emperor Severus.

When the assembly which had met at Sarum was dissolved, the king returned

to London, whence he shortly afterwards departed for the continent, taking

with him his two sons, and a "mighty mass of money," as wrote one who

lived at the time, "piled together for some great attempt," and followed

by the execrations of his Saxon subjects. The object of the expedition was

expressly to take possession of the city of Mantes, with a rich territory

situated between the Epte and the Oise. It is needless to speak of the

negociations with which the French king endeavoured to amuse his rival,

while he secretly authorized his barons to make excursions on the

frontiers of Normandy; or of the deadly hatred which induced William to

delay his attack on Maine till the approach of autumn made his vengeance

more dreadful to the country. The corn was nearly ready for the sickle,

and the grapes hung in ripening clusters on the vines, when the fierce

king ordered his men to advance on the devoted territory; when in the

bitterness of his spirit he marched his cavalry through the corn-fields,

and caused his soldiers to tear up the vines and cut down the pleasant

trees. Mantes could offer but a weak resistance, and the town was set on

fire. This was the last scene of the tragedy in which the Norman conqueror

had acted a conspicuous part; which commenced on the battle-field of

Hastings, and ended in the monastery of St. Gervas. Riding beside the

ruined town, to view the misery which he had wrought, his horse trod on

some hot cinders; the frightened creature plunged violently, and the king

being unable to retain his seat, fell to the ground. The injury which he

sustained caused him to be carried in a litter to a religious house, in

the neighbourhood of Rouen, where his army was encamped, for he could not

bear, he said, the noise of the great city. It was told by those who were

present at the time, that although he at first preserved much apparent

dignity, and conversed calmly on the events of his past life, and

concerning the vanity of human greatness; when death drew near, the case

was otherwise. He then spoke and felt as a dying man, who was shortly to

appear before the tribunal of his Maker, there to render an account of all

the deeds which he had done, of all the gifts committed to his care, of

his riches and his power. His hard heart softened then, and he bitterly

bewailed the cruelties which he had committed. He thought of the fair city

which he had ordered to be set in flames, and though he could not bring to

life the many who had fallen in the dreadful day of its undoing, nor

soothe the mental anguish which that day had caused, he sent a messenger

in haste with a large sum for the rebuilding of the monasteries and

churches. The noble patrimony which he had wrested from ill-fated Harold,

was considered with other thoughts than those with which he left the

shores of England. A large sum was also remitted to the religious houses,

that he might obtain remission for the robberies which he had committed

there. Some who waited beside his couch suggested that whoever sought for

mercy at the hand of the Most High, must show mercy to his fellow-men, and

they entreated him to remember the unhappy persons who had pined for many

years in their lone prison-houses, shut out from all the privileges of

social life. The fierce king felt that it was easier to give money for

rebuilding churches than pardon to an enemy; and it was not till he

apprehended his last hour to be close at hand, that he gave orders for

releasing the state-prisoners. The Earls of Moriar, of Beron, and Ulnot,

the brother of Harold, were accordingly set at liberty; and the Norman,

Roger Fitz Osborn, formerly Earl of Hereford, with Odo, the turbulent

Bishop of Bayeux, also received permission to leave their respective

prisons, although the king remarked with reference to the latter, that by

so doing he was letting loose a firebrand, that might desolate both

England and Normandy.

One morning early, the chief prelates and barons received a summons to

assemble with all haste in the chamber of the king, who finding his end

approach, desired to finish the settlement of his affairs. They came

accordingly, though the day had not yet dawned, and found with him his two

sons, Henry and William, who waited impatiently for the declaration of his

will. "I bequeath the duchy of Normandy," said he, "to my eldest son

Robert. As to the crown of England, I bequeath it to no one, for I did not

receive it, like the duchy of Normandy, from my father, but acquired it by

conquest, and the shedding of blood, with mine own sword. The succession

of that kingdom, I therefore, leave to the decision of the Almighty. My

own most fervent wish is, that my son William, who has ever been dutiful

to me in all things, may obtain and prosper in it." "And what do you give

me, O my father?" impatiently cried Prince Henry, who had not been

mentioned. "Five thousand pounds weight of silver out of my treasury," was

his answer. "But what can I do with five thousand pounds of silver, if I

have neither lands nor a home?" "Be patient," rejoined the king, "and have

trust in the Lord; suffer thy elder brothers to precede thee--thy time

will come after theirs." On hearing this, Prince Henry hurried off to

secure the silver, which he weighed with great care, and then provided

himself with a strong coffer, having locks and iron bindings to keep his

treasure safe. William, also, staid no longer by the bed-side of his dying

parent; he called for his attendants, and hastened to the coast, that he

might pass over without delay to take possession of his crown. He, whose

sword had made many childless, was thus deserted in his hour of greatest

need by his unnatural sons.

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 passed 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 vassals 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. Mass was then performed, the Bishop of Evreux pronounced 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 Asseline

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 assured of the fact, gave his son, sixty shillings 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 assembly 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 assembled 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

passed 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

assistance that he had seen a hideous vision, and he enjoined them to pass

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 passer-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 workmanship, 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 grass, 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 grass, 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 passed his lips; one dismal groan alone

was heard, and the red king lay extended on the grass.[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 superstition 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 assist in burying him; his

companions in the chase were eagerly following their amusement, and

chanced not to pass 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 reassembled 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.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

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 pass'd,

While springing from its swad'ling shell, 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 Trinobantes, the Cantii and the Regni. But the

aspect of external nature has changed since; instead of noble 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 space

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 noble 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 passed 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 grass 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 shield 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 assumed.

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 noble trees were fully developed, till their stately columns,

upheld an ample canopy of spreading boughs, beneath which the flocks that

grazed in the open spaces 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 noble 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-cushioned 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 masses, 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 mass 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 passer-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

hoary 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 spaces; 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

shores 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 Essex 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 noble buildings, for beauty and security, they gave

it the name of Londinium. A fort was built, and ships 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 Essex. 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 grass, 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 pass; nothing was heard

but the crashing of noble 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 Cumberland-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 passed and

repassed, 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

encompassed 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 space of ground

enclosed within the circumference 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 shores 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 noble city with its

palaces and forums, its schools, of eloquence, and temples for Pagan

worship, 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 classes 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 noblest 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 spaces 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 passed 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 grass, 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, pass and repass 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 passed 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 pass 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.

[Illustration: 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 massy 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 passer-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 hoar 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.

Yes, life or death, eternity or time,

Waited the passing of that anxious day;

A throne, a prison, much perchance of crime,

Should statesmen battle, each in stern array;

Should death steal onward through a palace gate,

Warning his victim from her hall of state.

The mind back glancing through long ages past,

E'en to the changes in that fitful scene,

Calls forth from out the dim, the lone, the vast,

One act to gaze on, noting what hath been

In dreamy life; though all we now descry

Seems as a mournful vision sweeping by.

Look then on her, for whom no evening gleam,

Nor soft wind rustling in the young green trees,

Can soothe the wasting grief--the fever'd dream--

The wandering thought, finding but little ease;

For each fond hope from the sad heart is flown,

Like leaves by autumn winds, all sear'd and gone.

Her hall is lonely now, her throne of state

Strangers may gaze at; one lone couch of pain

Holdeth her now, and pale care seems to wait

Beside that couch, despite the weeping train

Who vainly seek, with fond officious zeal,

To soothe the rankling grief they may not heal.

Through the dim oriel streams that sunny glow

Which tints the old oak with its parting beam

And one last flush gleams on the cold, damp brow

Whence life is ebbing, like a fitful dream,--

Too soon for those whom anxious boding fill,

Her weeping train of ladies, watching still.

Why watch ye now? Seven thunders would not wake

That dreaded one--her load of life laid down.

Her sleep is sound. Her stern heart may not ache,

Nor throb the brow that wore a joyless crown;

An instant past a queen. For love or hate,

She cares not now; waiting at mercy's gate.

Hark to swift footsteps on the dewy grass,

'Mid the dim twilight, for the flush is gone

That lit yon death-couch. Hasting on they pass

To hail, as queen, the lone and captive one.

Captive, and yet a queen! one moment more

Shall give to her the crown that anxious Mary wore.

[Illustration: The Beech of the Frith Common.]

The Beech of the Frith Common.

"Thrice fifty summers have I stood

In beauteous, leafy solitude,

Since childhood in my rustling bower

First spent its sweet and sportive hour,

Since youthful lovers in my shade

Their vows of truth and honour paid;

And on my trunk's smooth, glossy frame

Carv'd many a long-forgotten name:

Oh! by the vows of gentle sound,

First breath'd upon this sacred ground;

By all that truth hath whisper'd here,

Or beauty heard with willing ear,

As love's own altar honour me,

Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree."--ROGERS.

Let him who loves to mark the changes of the seasons, and to watch the

alternations which spring and summer, autumn and winter, produce in the

vegetable kingdom, stand beside one of those magnificent columns which

spring from out the parent earth, and bear on high a canopy of branches.

Let him choose that season when the leaves are just beginning to expand,

when the swelling buds assume a reddish tint, and here and there a young

green leaf has unfolded, in all its freshness and its beauty, as yet

unsoiled by a passing atom, or unbeaten by a single rain-drop. The

clouds, how beautiful they look, and the deep blue sky above them! for

both are clearly seen through the ramified branches; the first, when

driven swiftly by soft breezes from the west; the other, in all its

grandeur and extent, as when the morning stars rejoiced together, and it

first appeared like a glorious pavilion based on the distant hills.

Such is the Beech of the Frith Common. It stands alone in the centre of a

beautiful common, covered with wild flowers and short herbage, and the

fragrant thyme, among which the industrious bee loves to nestle, and to

gather in her harvests. The nest of the skylark is among the

juniper-bushes that skirt the margin of the common; its joyous tenant is

up in air, warbling and rejoicing, and making his high home resound with

melody. And well may he rejoice, for he has no sadness to damp his song,

no earth-born cares to bring him down. But if we seek for one, albeit

assigned to earth, and being unable to soar into mid air, yet thankful and

making the best of her humble lot, list to the contented cuckoo; she bids

the valley ring with her note, it is unvaried, and some people would fain

say that it is wearisome;--no such thing, it is the very voice of spring,

telling of sweet flowers and lengthening days, of soft May showers, and of

the coming of wandering birds from far-off shores, to make glad the fields

of Britain. The Beech of the Frith Common has no voice with which to swell

the chorus that has just begun, and which increases daily, as first one

musician and then another, comes in aid. But this noble tree is to the eye

what music is to the ear. Look at the stately stem, how smooth and glossy;

time has not yet furrowed it, nor has the pendent lichen and gray moss

rooted themselves in its rough fissures. No records of human crime, nor

human care are chronicled upon its bark, no ruin stands near on which the

woes of ages have gathered and brood heavy; no associations connected with

the beautiful tree, of midnight murders and broken hearts, the tears of

orphans and the prayers of oppressed ones, for patience or for redress.

Neither is there any trace upon the common, that a circle of unhewn stones

ever stood within its precincts, where unhallowed rites were practised,

and midnight incantations uttered; nor even that the grave of Briton or of

Gaul, of Roman or of Saxon, were made there, for the turf is smooth as

velvet.

Stately stands the tree, the tree beloved of all. The oak is a majestic

tree, the chesnut one of the most umbrageous of forest trees, the elm

rises like a pyramid of verdure, the ash has its drooping branches, the

maple is celebrated for its light and quivering foliage, but the beech is

the poets' tree, the lovers' tree. Have you not heard that young men often

haunt the forest, and disfigure the even and silvery bark of beech-trees,

by making them the depositors of the names of their beloved ones? "The

bark," say they, "conveys a happy emblem," and while thus employed they

please themselves with thinking, that as the letters of the name

increase, so will their love.

Here then stands the beech-tree, in all its dignity and fair proportions,

its firm trunk based in the earth, but with no knarled roots upheaving the

soil around, and making it unsightly. When the celebrated Smeaton pondered

within himself concerning the possibility of constructing a building on

the Eddystone rock, which might resist the tremendous violence of

contending seas, which had swept away the previous erections of Winstanley

and Rudyerd, and left not a stone remaining; seas which dash at least two

hundred feet above the rock, and the sound of whose deafening surges

resemble the continuous roar of thunder, his thoughts involuntarily turned

towards the oak. He considered its large swelling base, which becomes

reduced to one third, occasionally to one half of its original dimensions,

by a gradual and upward tapering of the living shaft, and it appeared to

him that a building might be erected on the model of the oak, that would

be fully able to resist the action of external violence. Thus thinking, he

projected the light-house of Eddystone, which soon proved, amid the

tremendous fury of contending elements, that he had not erred in taking

nature for his guide. A beech or elm might have suggested the same

thought, for in the trunk of every forest-tree the material is so disposed

that the greater portion pertains to the base of the column; that part,

especially, which rises from the root is thickest, and why is this? not

only because a tapering column is far more beautiful than one of equal

girth, but because the disturbing force at the top, acts more powerfully

on the lower sections, than on the higher. It is needful that the base of

the column should be strengthened, and it is equally unnecessary that the

top should be of the same thickness as the base. Two purposes are

consequently answered. The tree is rendered stronger and more elegant, and

a certain portion of material is given to one part, without weakening the

other. A tree is, therefore, equally adapted by its construction to resist

the fury of the tempest, of that unseen, yet mighty force which comes

against it, when the fierce northern blast howls through the forest; as

also the load of snow which often presses heavily upon its topmost

branches.

There is not throughout the vegetable kingdom a more glorious object than

a tree, with its smooth and tapering trunk, and its canopy of mingling

boughs. Who can estimate correctly the majesty with which it is invested,

or the grace and grandeur of its proportions, and its bulk? The finest

trees often grow on mountainous heights, harmonizing with the illimitable

expanse of heaven, or surrounded with the wildest extent of forest

scenery. Their intrinsic bulk is therefore lessened to the eye, and it is

not till they are singled from the surrounding landscape, and subjected to

a rule and measure, that an opinion can be formed with respect to their

vast size and height. Even then, the certainty often fails to impress the

mind, for figures convey but an imperfect conception of length and

breadth, of height and girth. Some more familiar illustrations are wanting

to prove that many a majestic tree, which is admired among its sylvan

brethren, as the proudest ornament of a park or forest, is in reality an

enormous mass, which the passer-by would gaze at with awe and admiration,

if seen beside the dwellings and the palaces of men; or compared with the

moving objects which pass and repass in the streets of a great city. Our

native woods often contain noble specimens, of which the bulk is ten or

twelve feet in diameter, a width greater by three feet than the

carriage-way of Fetter lane, near Temple-bar; and oaks might be named, on

the block of which two men could thresh without incommoding one the other.

The famous Greendale Oak is pierced by a road, over which it forms a

triumphal arch, higher by several inches than the poets' postern at

Westminster Abbey. The celebrated table in Dudley Castle which is formed

of a single oaken plank, is longer than the wooden bridge that crosses the

lake in the Regent's park; and the roof of the great hall of Westminster,

which is spoken of with admiration on account of its vast span, being

unsupported by a single pillar, is little more than one-third the width of

the noble canopy of waving branches that are upheld by the Worksop Oak.

The massive rafters of the spacious roof rest on strong walls, but the

branches of the tree spring from one common centre. Architects can alone

estimate the excessive purchase which boughs, of at least one hundred and

eighty-nine feet, must have on the trunk into which they are inserted.

Those of the Oak of Ellerslie cover a Scotch acre of ground; and in the

Three-shire Oak, its branches drip over an extent of seven hundred and

seven square yards. The tree itself grows in a nook that is formed by the

junction of the three counties of York, Nottingham, and Derby; and as the

trunk is so constructed, being tapering and firmly rooted in the earth, in

order that it may uphold the boughs and repel the fury of the winds, so

are the boughs themselves, made with an especial reference to the purpose

for which they are designed. They are much thicker at the place of their

insertion in the trunk than at the extremity; that their tendency to break

may thus be uniform. We owe to this, the graceful waving of innumerable

boughs, here aspiring in airy lightness above the general mass, and there

gracefully feathering to the ground, the pleasing murmur of their foliage

when rustling in the warm breeze of summer, and the elegant ramifications

which are perceptible in winter. But whether seen against the clear blue

ether of a winter sky, or presenting a broad and ample breadth of shade;

whether raged against by a fierce tempest, or having the foliage gently

shaken by playful breezes; the giant resistance in one case, or the

ceaseless quiver of the other, owe their power, and their play, to the

unseen members of the mighty column which are buried deep within the

earth. These, though still, are ever working. Though they cannot move

themselves, they move others. They draw up the moisture of the earth and

send it, by means of a secret influence on an undiscoverable machinery,

which is seen in its effects, though the way in which it operates is

entirely unknown, to fill with life the smallest leaf that quivers in the

sunbeams, or the tender bud that is not yet emerged from its silken

cradle.

They serve likewise to brace the tree within the earth, and they vary

according to climate and locality. Take the beech for instance, which

flourishes alike in deep valleys, and on windy hills. When growing in a

sheltered place the roots are thrown out equally, like rays diverging from

a common centre. When standing on an eminence or on a plain, exposed to

the action of a wind that blows generally from one quarter, the roots

spread out and grapple the firm soil towards the quarter from which the

wind comes. In this country it is generally south-west, or

west-south-west; hence it happens that when other causes do not interfere,

our native trees generally incline their heads to the north-east, and

their strongest roots go forth in an opposite direction, for the evident

purpose of holding the tree firm, when the storms beat upon it. Trees are,

consequently, often uprooted by a sudden squall of wind from the east or

north-east, which have withstood the tempests of ages.

The aggregate effect produced by forest scenery is magnificent--the deep

retiring woodland, the waving of innumerable branches, the majestic

columns which uphold them, the mingled tints and hues, the dancing of the

lights and shadows on the ground, the long, long vistas which extend far

as the eye can reach, when the view of external nature is shut out, when

there is neither a green meadow nor distant hill to be seen, nor even a

fence nor railing, nothing which betokens the hand of man; but noble trees

around, and a magnificent canopy of mingled boughs; when not a sound is

heard except the rustling of the wind in the topmost branches, or

perchance the plaintive voice of the ring-dove, which loves to build her

nest in solitary places. But the tree, which like the Beech of the Frith

Common, stands alone, can best be understood. The mind can rest upon it,

and the eye can embrace its beautiful proportions. Wisdom may be gained by

him who loves to read the ample page of nature, while musing beneath its

branches, for every leaf is an open book, every tender bud tells much

concerning the goodness of that Being whose beneficence is equally

conspicuous in the smallest, as in the mightiest of created things.

This noble tree grows on a sunny hill side,

And merry birds sing round it all the day long;

Oh the joy of my childhood, at evening tide,

To sit in its shadow and list the birds' song!

No sound then was heard but the gush of the rill,

Or the woodpecker tapping some hollow beech-tree;

While the sun shed his last purple glow on the hill,

And the last hum was heard of the home-loving bee.

But now far away from that sunny hill side,

'Mid the stir and the din of the proud city's throng,

I think, is that tree standing yet in its pride?

Are the echoes still woke by the merry birds' song?

They tell me the woodcutter's hatchet was heard,

To thin the tall trees where they drooped o'er the lea;

But he marr'd not the home of the wandering bird,

The haunt of my childhood, my own beechen-tree.

May peace in the cot of that woodman abide,

And grateful birds sing to him all the day long,

May his steps long be firm on the sunny hill's side.

And echo respond to the voice of his song.

I can think of that tree, where no green trees are seen,

'Mid the city's loud din, for the spirit is free,

And dear to me still is the wild daisied green.

Where thy branches are waving, my own beechen-tree.

[Illustration: THE SALCEY OAK]