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.

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.