Part 7 (2/2)
Their roots are firmly interlaced in the earth, they clasp the blocks of stone that lie buried beneath the soil, with their stout spurs and knotted fangs, while here and there a projecting ma.s.s rises above the scanty herbage, dotted over with the yellow lichen and little nailwort which grows on dry walls and rocks. Crooked into every imaginable shape, they still hold their stems erect, memorials of past ages, revealers of what time has done;--yea, perhaps, also what the hand of man has achieved, though the old trees stand not, as many others, chroniclers connected with some of those memorable events, which give a date to history, and are waymarks, which identify the noiseless steps of time. The winds of many winters have reft off the giant branches which long since afforded a shelter from the blast; rovers of the forest--men, perhaps, with bow and shaft, have burnt them. Some have left, in breaking, a bleached and splintered stump, but concerning others there is no trace even of the branch on which they grew; rough bark has grown most probably over it, and moss and tufted lichens have taken root in the interstices. Still, life lingers in the worn-out trees, and proofs are not wanting, that its secret and mighty power is yet working, though death preponderates. The pa.s.ser-by sees with astonishment, young green leaves in the interstices of the quarried bark; he sees them, but can hardly believe that the shapeless thing which stands before him has life hidden where all seems to denote death; that her sweet force is equally available in the furrowed oak, as among the young green trees of the neighbouring coppice, which sprung, it may be, from out the earth, a thousand years later, in the lapse of time.
The old trees are well qualified by age, to teach lessons of wisdom to h.o.a.ry men. Had they a voice, they could discourse much concerning the mutability of things below; how nations have risen and waned, while they advanced to maturity, and of the gradual emerging of a mighty people from the darkness of past ages, to the highest pitch of intellectual culture.
But this may not be, for the gifts of speech and reason, of voice and memory, are not for these ancient tenants of the soil. Leaning against their mossy trunks, with no prompter, and no hearer, except the time-worn trees and the calm still scene around me, let me be myself the oracle, and discourse to mine own ear, concerning the mutations of past ages.
Here, then, in bye-gone days, stood one vast forest, with its dells and dingles, its clear prattling streams, and ceaseless murmur of wind among the branches. We know not that men dwelt within its precincts, or that the natives of the country, our remotest ancestors, built their wattled dwellings, or fed their flocks in the open s.p.a.ces; most probably not, for the wild animals that ranged here were dangerous to contend with. Years went on, and men clad in skins, and dyed blue with woad, came from the sh.o.r.es of Gaul. They established themselves in the plain country which is bounded by the British Channel, and formed at length a considerable settlement beside the river that waters this part of Britain. They also threw up bulwarks, and added to the natural strength of the place by forming ramparts and sinking fosses. The settlement was called Llyn-din, or the town on the lake, Llyn being the British term for a broad expanse of water or lake. It was appropriately given, for the low grounds on the Surrey side of the river were often overflowed, as also those that extend from Wapping marsh to the Isle of Dogs, and still further, for many miles along the Ess.e.x coast. At length, strangers from another country settled there. They saw that the land was good, and that the trees which crowded around the settlement, and shadowed on either side the current of the river, might be cleared away. They were men who soon carried into execution the schemes which they devised, and having enlarged the place, and raised within it n.o.ble buildings, for beauty and security, they gave it the name of Londinium. A fort was built, and s.h.i.+ps came from a distance, bringing with them the productions of other climes. Then began the trees of the great forest to fall beneath the axe of the woodcutter, and the marshy places were brought into cultivation. Londinium rapidly advanced to the dignity of a military station; it even became the capital of one of the great provinces, into which the Romans divided Britain.
A spirit of enterprise had ever characterised the polished people who now gained an ascendency; not only were the marshy places in the forest drained for the purpose of feeding cattle, but the low-ground which lay along the river, and which, in rainy seasons, presented an unsightly aspect, was recovered from the waters. Embankments were thrown up on either side to prevent the encroachments of the tide. They commenced in what are now St. George's Fields, and continued along the adjoining and equally shallow marshes, till they terminated in the grand sea-wall of the deep fens of Ess.e.x. Thus, in comparatively a short period, those vast tracts of land which presented, during winter, only a dreary expanse of troubled waters; in the summer, small stagnant pools, with a dry crust of mud, and here and there tufts of rushes, or rank gra.s.s, were covered with splendid villas, and a thronging population.
The giant work of embanking the river was succeeded by making one of those great military roads which opened a communication from one end of the island to the other. This was the old Watling or Gathelin Street: it led from London to Dover, and was much travelled on by those who were going to embark for the Imperial city. The making of the road broke up the quiet of the forest, through an extent of which it had to pa.s.s; nothing was heard but the cras.h.i.+ng of n.o.ble trees, and the rattling of cars, heavily laden with stone and lime; it was carried within sight of the old trees, and, having crossed what is now the Oxford road, at c.u.mberland-gate, it ran to the west of Westminster, over the river Thames, and onward into Kent. This was its broad outline, and the country through which it lay had been reclaimed either from the forest or the river. It was exceedingly frequented, and carriages of all descriptions continually pa.s.sed and repa.s.sed, either in going to, or else returning from the city.
Londinium was next surrounded with a wall, and a considerable extent of forest-land was cleared for the purpose of being enclosed within its ample range. It was said that the mother of Constantine, who liked much to reside in the rising city, greatly favoured this great work, and that she urged her son to promote the grandeur and security of the place. The wall encompa.s.sed the city from right to left. It began at the fort, which occupied a portion of what is now the Tower, and made a circuit of nearly two miles, and one furlong. Another wall, strongly defended with towers and bastions, extended along the banks of the river, to the distance of one mile, and one hundred and twenty yards. The height of the wall was twenty two feet, that of the towers forty feet, and the s.p.a.ce of ground enclosed within the circ.u.mference of both walls, was computed at three hundred and eighty acres.
Thus stood Londinium. Patricians and military officers, merchants and artificers, resorted thither from all parts, and there Constantine held his court, with the splendour of Imperial Rome. A few more years, and the power of the Romans began to wane, and with it waned also, the prosperity of the sea-girt isle. Stranger barks came from the sh.o.r.es of Saxony, and in them armed men of fierce countenances, who knew little of the arts of civilized life. What they saw, they conquered, and the n.o.ble city with its palaces and forums, its schools, of eloquence, and temples for Pagan wors.h.i.+p, fell into their hands. Then might be seen from the old trees the red glare of the burning city; but it was again rebuilt, and though, in after years, the Danes sorely oppressed its inhabitants, it resumed its high standing as the metropolis of Britain; the seat of arts and commerce; kings reigned within its walls, and merchants came from all parts of the known world, bringing with them the productions of other countries, and exciting a spirit of enquiry and enterprise, throughout all cla.s.ses of society.
The old trees remained as they were, and London, for so the city was called at length, increased in might and power; the swarming population could no longer be contained within its walls, and the walls were broken down in consequence. Villages were built in places where, but a few years before, was a dense growth of underwood, with high trees that cast their lengthened shadows on the ground. Gradually the city enlarged her bounds, and those groups of houses which had been called villages, and which stood in the midst of pleasant fields, well-watered and reclaimed from the forest, were reached by lines of streets, and so encroaching were they, that it was thought advisable to retain some portion of the ancient forest as a royal park, both for exercise and ornament. If the trees of the forest could have spoken, they would have rejoiced at this, but none more than the old trees, my own memorial trees, these relics of past ages; though now beginning to decay, long tufts of lichens having struck their roots into the rough bark, and many of their n.o.blest branches having been long since broken by fierce winds, or rovers of the forest. They nearly stood alone, for very few remained of those which had grown here, when all around was one wide forest, one intermingling of shadowing boughs from sea to sea, or s.p.a.ces of waste land, untilled and tenantless. The old Roman road, which had been raised with so much cost and care, soon fell to decay; its materials were carried off, and the green sward rapidly extended over that portion of it which pa.s.sed through Hyde Park and St.
James's Park. Those who like to tread where the Romans trod, may yet walk on a small portion of their ancient route, in the public road leading to Westminster Abbey, on the side nearest the turnpike.
The retaining part of the old forest was a desirable measure, for the advance of London towards this quarter, was alone restrained by the prescribed boundaries; and now the windows of her crowding houses look upon the trees and gra.s.s, and the ceaseless hum of human voices, which she sends forth from all her hundred gates, is heard continually, with the mingled sound of rolling carriages, of heavy waggons, and the trampling of horses' feet. Magnificent equipages drive along the smoothly gravelled roads, with which the modern park that extends around the old tree is intersected. Riders on steeds, such as the ancient Britons saw not, and even the polished Romans could hardly have imagined, pa.s.s and repa.s.s among the trees, and gaily attired pedestrians walk beneath their shade. Strange contrast to what has been! The mental eye, back glancing through the vista of long ages, still loves to dwell on the loneliness and the grandeur, on the gloom and depth of the wide forest: it mourns over the ages and the generations that have pa.s.sed away, since the memorial trees emerged from their cradle in the earth. Some hand might inscribe on their rough bark that all is vanity, that the glorious earth was not designed to be thus made a charnel-house; but, among those who pa.s.s the aged trees, few would stop their progress, or their discourse, to read the inscription; and, among those who read, fewer, perhaps, would desire that it should be otherwise.
[Ill.u.s.tration: Hatfield Oak.]
Hatfield Oak.
[Queen Elizabeth is said to have been seated beneath the shade of Hatfield Oak when she received intelligence of the death of her sister Mary.]
How dim and indistinct the silent scene!
O'er groves and valleys sleeping mists are spread, Like a soft silvery mantle; while the stream, Scarce heard to flow, steals on its pebbly bed; Nor e'en a ripple wakes the silence round, As if it flowed, perchance, through some enchanted ground.
But O, the gorgeous tint, the dazzling glow In the clear west; for scarce the sun is gone!
That glowing tint doth yet a radiance throw On the hill-top, while, aye, each old grey stone Glitters like diamonds 'mid the mountain heath, While fades, in deep'ning gloom, the sleeping vale beneath.
One lonely spot, which oft, in solemn mood, Men have gazed on in ages long gone by, Where stands that relic of the good green wood, The aged oak, prompting a tear or sigh; That lonely spot gleams o'er the misty scene, Catching the splendour of the dazzling sheen.
And, aye, the lichens that have fixed deep Their tiny roots within the furrowed bough; And one small flower, which still her vigils keep, The blue forget-me-not, are glowing now, In characters, methinks, of living flame, Seeming to print the old oak's ma.s.sy frame.
It looks as if a bright and sudden beam, Within that oak, broke forth with fervid ray, Tinting its old boughs with a golden gleam, Bright as the deep glow of the parting day; Tempting the pa.s.ser-by to linger still, Amid the deep'ning gloom that broods o'er dale and hill.
Ah! linger still, nor fear the chill night-wind; It comes not yet, for scarce the sun is gone!
Each living emblem, speaking to the mind, May counsel well, and cheer, if reft and lone, Thy sad thoughts, earthward bend, giving but little heed To signs of mercy near, waiting each hour of need.
Men may learn from them, be it joy or pain, That bids the heart its wonted calm forego, Sunbeams, or showers, loud wind, or driving rain, The morning h.o.a.r frost, or the dazzling snow, The small bird, journeying through the pathless skies, May win dull thought, from earthly care to rise.
It might be, that in such a glowing hour, When shone the old oak, as with living flame, While anxious thoughts within her breast had power, Forth from yon aged hall[39] a lady came To meet the freshness of the evening breeze, Viewless, yet rustling still among the trees.
Oh! there were hearts within that stately hall, Though ruined now, that beat with high alarm, And champing steeds, and warders waiting all To guard, if need might be, from gathering harm, And cautious looks, and voices speaking low, As if they feared an hour of coming woe.
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