A Hind in Richmond Park

A Hind in Richmond Park

A Hind in Richmond Park

A Hind in Richmond Park

Excerpt

When after Hudson's death I looked down upon his face as he lay on his bed in the shadowed room, I saw before me the calm death mask of a strong chieftain. All the chiselled, wavy lines of his wide brow, the brooding mournfulness and glowing fire of his face had been smoothed out. He was lying like some old chief of the Bronze Age, who, through long years of good and ill, had led his tribe. And now for him only remained the ancient rites, the purging fire, the cairn on the hillside, and the eternity of the stars, the wind, the sun.

Yes, Hudson was a chief among his fellows, but the tribes over whom he threw the mantle of his understanding, of his passionate love, for whom he had spoken and fought all his life, were not human, but the vast tribes of Nature's wild creatures, especially of the bird kingdom, the tribes preyed on, destroyed and extirpated by man.

Yet though all wild Nature's life was Hudson's province and his passion, though he often professed scant interest in the "petty interests" of his fellows, his heart was the most deeply human of all the men I have known.

The very source and centre of Hudson's genius was the inner fire of lurking passion, of emotions of love . . .

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