“And I do hereby direct that my chestnut horse, commonly called the Aldenham horse, shall be shot as soon as conveniently may be after my decease by two persons, one of whom to fire first, and the other to wait in reserve and fire immediately afterwards, so that he may be put to death as expeditiously as possible, and I direct that he shall afterwards be buried with his hide on, and that a flat stone without inscription shall be placed over him. And I do hereby request my Cousin Cecil Forester and the said John Pritchard, as soon as conveniently may be after my decease, to look over and inspect the letters, papers, and writings belonging to me at the time of my decease, and such of them as they shall deem to be useless I desire them to destroy.” His wishes, we need scarcely say, were carried out to the letter. He was buried by torchlight in the family vault in Willey Church, beneath the family pew, to which the steps shown in our engraving lead. Founded and endowed by the lords of Willey at some remote period, this venerable edifice has remained, with the exception of its chancel, the same as we see it, for many generations past. It stands within the shadow of the Old Hall, and might from its appearance have formed the text of Gray’s ivy-mantled tower, where “The moping owl does to the moon complain;” being covered with a luxuriant growth of this clinging evergreen to the very top. Standing beneath, and peering through the Norman-looking windows, which admit but a sober light, glimpses are obtained of costly monuments with the names and titles of patrons whose escutcheons are visible against the wall. The Squire’s tomb remains uninscribed; but in 1821 Cecil Weld, the first Lord Forester, erected a marble tablet near, with the simple record—“To the memory of my late cousin and benefactor, George Forester, Esq., Willey Park, May 10, 1821.” THE SQUIRE’S CHESTNUT MARE. A NEW HUNTING SONG. _Written for the present Work by_ J. P. DOUGLAS, ESQ. AWAY we go! my mare and I, Over fallow and lea: She’s carried me twenty years or nigh— The best of friends are we. With steady stride she sweeps along, The old Squire on her back: While echoes far, earth’s sweetest sound, The music of the pack. Ah! how they stare, both high and low, To see the “Willey chestnut” go. Full many a time, from dewy morn Until the day was done, We’ve follow’d the huntsman’s ringing horn, Proud of a gallant run. Well in the front, my mare and I— A good ’un to lead is she; For’ard, hark for’ard! still the cry— In at the death are we. My brave old mare—when I’m laid low Shall never another master know.