FRASER'S MAGAZINE. JANUARY, 1859. HOLMBY HOUSE: A Tale of Old Northamptonshire. BY G. J. WHYTE MELVILLE, AUTHOR OF 'DIGBY GRAND,' · THE INTERPRETER,' ETC. CHAPTER I. THE OLD OAK TREE. THE Pytchley hounds have had a run. Io triumphe! The Pytchley hounds have killed their fox. Once again, Io triumphe! Not that these are unusual events with that wellordered and efficient pack, nor that the establishment is more than commonly exhilarated by success; but that such runs as this last do not occur oftener than two or three times in the season, and deserve to be recorded accordingly. It is a curious mania, that fondness for hunting which pervades the rural population of Great Britain, from the peer to the peasant, and which we alone of all their progeny seem to have inherited from our Scandinavian ancestors-a mania that outlives love, friendship, literature, money-making, all the devices of poor human nature to squander its most priceless possession-Time; and which seems to flourish only the more vigorously when the health and bodily strength indispensable to its enjoyment have passed away for evermore. We, too, in our hot youth,' were once inoculated with the malady, and its seeds have never since been thoroughly eradicated from our constitution. There was a time when our heart used to beat thick and fast at the first whimper of a hound; when the colour mounted to our cheek,and our eye glistened brighter, as we watched the gorse shaking above the busy pack; when the life blood coursed quicker through our veins as we listened for the distant "View-holloa proclaiming him VOL. LIX. NO. CCCXLIX. revel really about to commence. 'away!' and the mad equestrian along at speed by a gallant generous Then it was ecstasy to be borne horse, himself giving and receiving the mutual pleasure enhanced by so confiding a partnership; to thread with calm dexterity the rushing cavalcade, and reach, unbalked by restive steed or undecided rider, the spot we had marked out many a stride back for our own. Large, black, and formidable, hand, seat, and eye combined to land us safely on the further side; and then, with tightened rein, head up and hands down, to speed away after the streaming pack, good friends and soul between ourselves and the true to right and left, but not a hounds! Alas, alas! 'post equitem sedet atra cura,' she can cling even to the sportsman's scarlet, she can keep her seat even over a Northamptonshire ox-fence; but though the good horse carry double, he feels not the extra load, and the rider's heart must indeed be heavy if it can ache at moments such as these. As the penitent highwayman remarked to the chaplain at the feignedly of my sins, but yet-a gallows-foot, Oh, I repent ungallop across a common! you dog, it was delicious" pilgrimage are in the 'sere and So now, though the days of our yellow leaf;' though boots and bandages and fleecy hosiery, whilst breeches have given way to flannel gout and rheumatism warn us that A wet days and 'wet nights' are equally dangerous to our physique; though our quiet cob, once the property of a Low Church bishop, is getting too much for us, and is coveted inwardly by our eldest grandson, who already considers his own Shetland pony hardly up to his weight,' we have still a hankering after the golden joys of our youth, still a sneaking kindness for the tops and the scarlet, the crack of the whip, the echo in the woodland, and all the appliances and accessories of the chase. What a hunting day!' we remarked aloud to our walking-stick, as we climbed the hill painfully towards Holmby, and stopped to admire for the hundredth time the wide expanse of beauty and verdure stretching far away beneath our feet for many a mile to east and west, dotted here and there with noble standard trees, and shut in by the dark stately woods of Althorpe that crown the rising ground to the south. 'What a hunting day!' a sky of dappled grey, a balmy breeze just wooing into existence the hundred buds and beauties of early spring-a day to have gathered the first peeping violet long, long ago.' Eheu fugaces! what's a violet with no one to give it to ?-day of beauty and promise, a day such as George Herbert so charmingly describes: Sweet day, so cool and calm and bright, Sweet bridal of the earth and sky; Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night, For thou must die. But nevertheless, rather too muggy a day for an elderly gentleman nearly fifteen stone weight to walk up such a hill as that; so we rested on our stick, mopped our heated brows, and leaned our back against the stem of a fine old oak that stands within a stone's throw of the wall surrounding all that is now left of the ancient palace of Holmby. We own to the practice of daydreaming-mooning,' it is called by the irreverent-and we were soon lost in the long vistas of the past, threading the labyrinth by help of that delusive skein which we are pleased to term history, taking up one end at the period at which we supposed this oak to have been planted, and so winding it gently off jolly days of bluff King Hal;' confrom the Wars of the Roses to the gratulating it on its inland position, which saved it from forming part of that fleet whose thunders helped to destroy the Invincible Armada, speculating on its size and luxuriance in the peaceful time of that crowned wiseacre whom Scottish parasites thinking how fervently its beauties termed 'gentle King Jamie;' and must have been appreciated by his ill-starred son, to whose charge want of veneration could never have been laid as a fault. Here,' we thought, beneath these venerable arms, under the stately shade, how often has the unfortunate Stuart, the martyred Mon- Hulloh! what is that?-the note of a hound, as we are a living sinner and a gouty one; but gout or no gout, we haven't seen hounds for a twelvemonth; we must hobble on and have a look at 6 them once more. But stay, there's their fox-a beaten fox, by all the beauties of Diana!' and forthwith we gave vent to a prolonged and, we rather flatter ourselves, not un-musical yell, which we should despair of conveying to the reader by any other means than oral demonstration. We used to pique ourselves upon doing it rather well, and, with one finger in the ear and a rubicund well-fed physiognomy, the effect is, to say the least of it, imposing, if stealing along, his back up, his fur not harmonious. Yes, there he was draggled, tangled, and black with mire; his brush drooping, his tongue out, his long knavish countethorough physical exhaustion, his nance wobegone, and indicative of whole instincts so intent on his pursuers that he scarcely turned aside at our salutation-there he was, dead-beat, and running short for his life, not a covert or an eartlı within two miles of him, and the best pack of hounds in England running frantic for his blood in the next field. See, he has nearly reached the old oak tree! one, two, three white hounds are through the fence, the rest following, like a stream of water set free from a dam. How they strain across the ridge and furrow, their bristles erect, their sterns lowered, their hungry eyes flaring out upon him with instinctive hate! He is creeping quite slowly 1859.1 A Run with the Pytchley. now; but as Harmony and Fairplay near him he turns and shows a long, ominous, gleaming set of teeth. Over they roll, all three together. Marplot and Marygold are close upon them, hounds tumble over each other in hungry confusion, a crash is heard in the fence, and Charles Payne is off his horse in another moment and amongst them. Α faint strident noise, like that of a smothered saw, grates upon the ear above the stifled worry,' worry' of the hounds, and ere Charles, the pink of politeness, has time to touch his cap to ourselves (for he takes us for the parson, and therefore a stanch fox preserver, if not fox pursuer), he holds him high up in air, and with a loud Who-whoop' proclaims the conclusion of one of those best runs of the season which occur at least once a fortnight. Who-whoop! indeed. Three more sportsmen have by this time arrived, one over and the other two through the fence, which still hides the rest of the field from our eager gaze. Soon a gate opens, and some half a dozen more, including a couple of black coats, make their appearance. There are a good many still coming, and a large proportion of the original field that will never get here at all. No wonder; the pastures of Northamptonshire are full of them: they are scattered all over the country. Those who have arrived look wild and heated, and intensely pleased with themselves as they jump off their exhausted horses, and talk and laugh and gesticulate; the while Charles Payne throws the fox to the hounds with another encouraging Who-whoop!' and the clamorous baying of expectancy is exchanged for the worry, worry, worry' of fruition. Had a good thing?' we inquire of the first whip, who is appeasing a difference as to a tid-bit between Countess and Caroline. 'Carpital thing, sir,' replies that affable functionary, whose cap and side are plastered with mud, and who looks as pleased as if some one had given him a hundred pounds. 'Carpital thing, sir. Brought him from Sulby gorse over the finest part of our country; never checked but once down by Cottesbrooke; never touched a covert the whole blessed while! It's eleven miles if it's a yard, and I make it exactly an hour and fifteen minutes from the time I 'holloed' him away till we run into him in this here grass field just atween your reverence's legs. Whoop, my darlings! Worry, worry, worry! tear him an' eat him!' Cigars are lit, congratulations are exchanged, the bay horse and the brown horse and the chesnut horse receive their due share of praise, a reflective flattery somewhat in this wise: How well he carried you, old fellow; and what a stiff line! I was close to you the whole time.' From different versions and many contradictory statements we gather a tolerably correct notion of the run; and as its glories gradually flood our still enthusiastic imagination, it is with a pang of regret that we reflect we shall never see gallops such as these again. We were there in spirit, nevertheless; we know every yard of the country, every field, and every fence -though we can practise it no longer, we think we know every move in the game. We can fancy ourselves astride of a good horse by the side of Jack Woodcock as he views the fox away from the lower corner of the gorse. What a long, wiry, tough-looking animal it is, with a white tag to that handsome brush, which, as he steals across the neighbouring pasture, he whisks in derision, as much as to say, 'Gallop away, my fine fellows! according to your wont; hurry and hustle, and jump and splutter! The harder you ride the better for me!' 'Tally-ho!' shouts our friend Jack, erect in his stirrups. Twang' goes Charles Payne's horn from the middle of the gorse. Already the owner of the covert is coming best pace round the corner. Trust him not to lose his start, and to make good use of it when he has got it. In twos and threes the hounds are pouring through the boundary fence; ten or twelve couple are settling to the scent; the rest, with ears erect, are flying to the cry. Now they stoop together with collective energy, and drive along over the grass in all the mute ecstasy of A burst such as this is pas. pace. time for the gods! It sobers our imaginary steed, 6 our pen-and-ink Pegasus; he drops quietly to his bridle, and a turn in our favour enables us to pull him into a trot, and to look about us. Seven or eight men are in the same field with the hounds; half a dozen stiff fences and a couple of miles of grass have shaken off the larger portion of the field, but they are even now coming through a bridlegate not far distant in the rear, and should a check unfortunately occur at this critical moment, they will be up in plenty of time to do lots of mischief still. But no; the pack is streaming on. Forward,' says Charles Payne, cramming his horn into its case, and gathering his horse for an " oxer. 'Forward!' echoes Mr. Villiers, doubling' it neatly on his right. Forward!' adds Mr. Cust, cracking the far-rail as he swings over the obstacle in his stride. Line!' shouts a Meltonian at an unfortunate aspirant whose horse is swerving to the thickest place in the fence. 'Serve him right!' remarks the Meltonian to himself, landing safely in the next field, while the aspirant rolls headlong to the earth. Jack Woodcock, with an amused smile, slips quietly by to the front. Three or four more men, one in a black coat, enter the field at different points; that quiet gentleman over, not through the gate. A loose horse with streaming reins gallops wildly after the chase; and the hounds, with a burning scent, are pointing straight for Naseby Field. And now every man hugs his trusty hunter by the head, and spares his energies as much as possible erę he encounters the yielding soil of that classic ground. Many a tired horse has Naseby Field to answer for, from the thundering battle-steeds of the Cavaliers, led by hot Prince Rupert, to the panting thoroughbreds of Jersey and Allix, and Cooke and Knightley, and the heroes of fifty years ago, who urged the mimic war over that eventful plain. Ay, down to our own times, when, although the plough has passed over its marshy surface, and draining and high farming have given secure foothold to man and beast, many a sobbing steed and dejected rider can still bear witness to the exhaustive pro perties of that black adhesive soil, many a dirty coat and stationary hunter rues the noble impulse that would follow the fleeting pack over such a country as this after a threedays' rain. Some of them begin to hope he may have entered the thick holding covert of Naseby Thorns, and that the conclusion of so rapid a burst may save their own and their horse's credit. But a countryman on the opposite hill is holloaing as if his throat must crack. Our fox is forward still; he has not a notion of entering the covert, warmed as he is by the merry pace of the last mile or so. 'No occasion to lift them, Charles,' observes Mr. Villiers, as he lends an ear to the far-off countryman, and points to the streaming pack wheeling with every turn of the scent, like pigeons on the wing. 'Couldn't get near enough if there was. Come up, horse!' mutters Charles in reply, as he bores through a black close-cut hedge, sinking up to the hocks on the taking-off side. There is no chance of a check now; and as the professed jester of the Hunt remarks, If he don't stop at Tally-ho, he may go on to Texas!' The field, that enterprising body, whose self-dependence is so touchingly illustrated at every sign-post, are already somewhat hopelessly behindhand, and considerably puzzled by the coincidence of two safe practicable lanes, leading equally in the direction of the line of chase. It divides accordingly into two hurrying columns, neither of which will in all probability see a hound again to-day. So " on we go again,' leaving Tally-Ho Gorse' to the left, and up the hill for Hazelbeech, threading the fine old trees that tower upon its heights, and pointing ever onwards for the wide grassy vale of Cottesbrooke, spread out like a panorama before us, shut in by wooded hills, dotted with fine old standard trees, and smiling beauteous and peaceful in the chequered light of a February sun. Thank Heaven! a check at last. Pegasus was beginning to want it sadly. He struck that top-rail uncommonly hard, and has dropped. his hind legs in the two last consecutive ditches. There are still some half-dozen men with the hounds, but their horses look as if they had had nearly enough, and we are inclined to believe one or two of the riders are beginning to wish it was over. The country for miles back is dotted with equestrians of every rank and every hue. A child on a pony has turned, not headed the fox. Charles Payne opines he cannot have entered the gorse with so warm a jacket,' as he phrases it; so he holds his hounds towards the plantations on his right. Fairplay whisks her stern about her sides, and drops a note or two to her comrades as they gather to the line. 'Yo-geote, old lady!' says Charles, in the inexplicable language of a huntsman. 'She's always right, that old bitch,' remarks Mr. Villiers, who has just turned Olympian's head for an instant to the wind. 'Twang' goes the horn once more, and away score the hounds through "Pursar's Hills,' as if they were fresh out of the kennel, and over the wide grassy pastures below, and up the opposite rise, with untiring energy, leaving the foremost horseman toiling a field and a half behind them, till a pause and momentary hover in the Welford Road enables Pegasus and his comrades to reach them once more. It is labour and sorrow now, yet is it a sweet and joyous pain. Still, we can hardly call that enjoyment which we wish was over; and most devoutly now do we all hope that we may soon kill this gallant fox, before he kills our gallant horses. The best blood of Newmarket is but mortal, after all; and Pegasus is by this time going most unreservedly on his own shoulders and his rider's hands. Down the hill between Creaton and Holywell we make a tolerable fight; but though Olympian clears the brook at the bottom, the rest of us flounder through. We have no false pride now, and do not any of us turn up our noses at gates or gaps, or other friendly egress. Everything is comparative. A country doctor on his fresh hack, meeting us at this period, opines we are going quite slow, but we know better; so does Pegasus, so does old Fairplay, so does the fox. He is not travelling so straight now. Up and down yonder hedgerow the pack turn like harriers, and we think we must be very near him. But see the crows are stooping yonder over a low black object in the distance. "Tis the hunted fox, pointing straight for the coverts of Althorpe. He will never reach them, for the hounds are now close upon his track, and they run into him in the large grass field by Holmby House, under the old oak tree. * * Our dream is over. Hounds and horses and sportsmen are all gone home. The excitement has evaporated, and left its usual depression of spirits behind. We are left alone-all alone-under the old oak tree. What is life at best but a dream? What is happiness but a dream ?-fame, honour, love, ambition? Dreams all. The bitterness is in the waking. Let us put the clock back a couple of centuries or so, when the old oak was stately and vigorous as now, his branches as spreading, his stem as gnarled and knotted, his growth as majestic. What a lesson to us creatures of a day, in our short span of earthly existence, is instilled by the comparative duration of these vegetable giants! How they outlive us! How their winter of discontent,' unlike our own, is annually succeeded by a spring of promise! How they spread and tower upwards into heaven, whilst we grovel upon earth. Væ mihi! 'twere a weary world, my masters, if there were nothing beyond. A weary world! Let us put the clock back, I say, and dream again. CHAPTER II. A CAST OF HAWKS. She was hatched on a snowtopped, bluff-faced cliff towering over the ironbound coast of Iceland. The parental eyrie, hundreds of feet above the level of the sea, was strewed with bones and feathers, and all the warlike spoils of her predatory progenitors. Her infancy |