From Howell Wood come, they to Stapleton go, 'Tis hard to describe all the frolic and fun, Then, first in the burst, see dashing away, Never heeding a tumble, a scratch, or a fall, And next him, on Morgan, all rattle and talk, As he'd rather ride over than open a gate. With my, &c. Then there's dashing Frank Boynton, who rides thorough-breds, Their carcases nearly as small as their heads; But he rides so d―d hard, that it makes my heart ache, From fear his long legs should be left on a stake. With my, &c. Behold Harry Mellish, as wild as the wind, That eagle-eyed sportsman, Charles Branding, behold, And close at his heels, see Bob Lascelles advance, With my, &c. Next, mounted on Pancake, see yonder comes Leu, On Methodist perch'd, in a very good station, Then those two little fellows, as light as a feather, On Ebony mounted behold my Lord Barnard, With my, &c. Then smack at a yawner falls my friend Billy Clough; He gets up, stares around him, faith! silly enough; While Pilkington near him, cries, "Pr'ythee get bled :" "Oh no, never mind, Sir, I fell on my head." With my, &c. But where's that hard rider, my friend Colonel Bell? But I see the old crop, thus the whole chase will carry, With very With my, &c. To keep their nags fresh for the end of the day, At the top of his speed, sadly beat and forlorn, The two Lecs, Harvey Hawke, Frank Soth'ron, and all, Whilst far in the rear behold Overley Cooke, Endeav'ring to scramble o'er Ample's wide brook. With my, &c. Far aloof to the right, and op'ning a gate, There's a sportsman by system who never rides straight; Safe o'er the brook-but where's Captain Dancer? If on foot you attempt it, you'll sure tumble in. On his chesnut nag mounted, and heaving in flank, See Starkey and Hopwood, so full of their jokes, With my, &c. Lost, spavin'd, and gall'd, but shewing some blood- If his name I pass'd over I fear he would cavil- And with very long coat on (a friend to his tailor), A large posse see in the valley below, Now all having pass'd, I'll to Ferrybridge go, With my, &c. Then forgive me, my friends, if you think me severe; And the hounds of old Raby for me. I arrived at home on the 10th ef April, and left it again on the 15th for the New Forest. I was to have taken up my old quarters under the hospitable roof of Sir Hussey Vivian; but he was deprived of the pleasure of receiving a large party of his friends at this time, by being obliged to attend His Majesty in London. I had received many kind invitations from Mr. Nicoll to visit him in the winter; but knowing that his table would be filled at this particular period-the grand finish to the hunting season -I intended joining the party at the inn at Lyndhurst; but his kindness over-ruled me, and I spent one of the pleasantest weeks of my life under his roof. Here, however, I must pause. Numerous would have been the jokes, countless the anecdotes-for John Warde was with us that I might have gleaned for these pages in those gay-spent festive nights;" but all must now be silent. The hand of Death has snatched away one who presided at the feast, and the house of feasting has been a house of mourning. In a few months afterwards, the wife of our kind host and the mother of his nine children died in giving birth to a tenth, and Mr. Nicoll lost what nothing can replace. "Oh! that the Omnipotent," says an Englishman, on such an occasion as this, "had formed me for a tree, an herb, a blade of grass, or a stone! Oh! that I had been an oak, a beech, a palm, or cypress of the forest, or any thing incapable of pleasure or of pain!" But there is a nobler sentiment than this from the pen of the immortal Cicero: "Were the Gods," says he, "to offer to repose us once more in the cradle of our infancy, should we accept or renounce the proffered boon?" Thousands would hesitate before they decided upon the choice-for such afflictions as these render life nearly worthless. But, why do they happen? Aye, that is a question which philosophers have asked, but which philosophy could never answer. To one question, how ever, they do reply. Where is Impatient, however, as mankind are apt to be under calamities— which, after all, are but the condition of their existence-yet contrasts give variety to life. Did we never taste what is bitter, we should know nothing of the sweets. Where, then, can there be a greater contrast than between the large rich fields of Leicestershire, and the sterile, heath-clad surface of a Hampshire forest? Notwithstanding this, there is something in a forest which calls to mind pastoral and hunting.ages long since gone by, but of course congenial to the feelings of a sportsman; and as, according to the doctrine of Aristotle, the love of the beautiful is implanted in us by Nature, every man-sportsman or no sportsman must feel instinctive pleasure in such a scene as Monday the sixteenth of April presented to us at the meeting of Mr. Nicoll's hounds. The morning was most propitious; Nature appeared in very gay attire; and, exclusive of ladies, upwards of three hundred horsemen, from all parts of England, formed the motley group. Amongst these, the following conspicuous characters composed Mr. Nicoll's party:the great John Warde; the no less celebrated John, commonly called Jack Wormwold; Mr. Spurrier; Mr. Foljambe, master of the Lincolnshire fox-hounds; Sir Harry Goodricke, and Sir Bellingham Graham. Mr. John Moore, as usual, was also in the neighbourhood (at Mr. Compton's); a considerable party of sporting men at the Inn at Lyndhurst; and Billy Butler, being his forty-second appearance. The Leicestershire Dons did not bring their own horses, but were very respectably mounted by the well-known Mr. Tilbury, who sent eight hunters to Lyndhurst for their use. To give an account of sport with hounds on this occasion will not do now, as, at any rate, it would be at least a year old; but on the first day we were saved from one of the evils attending April fox-hunting, by the keen eye and activity of Mr. Foljambe, who jumped off his horse just in time to save a vixen fox, which gave suck, from falling a prey to the pack. After the hounds were taken away by Mr. Nicoll, she was put down, and, although apparently injured by a gripe on her back, she trotted away as if nothing had happened. April fox-hunting never can be good; but this was a most scentless week, even in the New Forest, where hounds generally catch a scent by some means. To cut the matter short, we had but one pretty run out of four days' meeting; but we saw a deal of good huntingpicking it out by the inch-and we witnessed great skill in our hunts man. I remember saying to my self, the second day we were out with a very perplexing scent "Well, considering our hunts VOL. XXII. N. S.-No. 128. man told us last night, that, to make a huntsman perfect, his lips should be sewed together, I never saw hounds lifted better than these have been this day." To say he lifted them off the ground, would be too figurative an expression, even for my style; but he certainly did it to a charm, and his scream was thrilling and good. However, we might as well say Horace was a stupid fellow, and Demosthenes no spokesman, as to say Mr. Nicoll is not a huntsman; for he is one: but what cannot a master-mind like his accomplish-particularly when directed principally to one point? In the absence of sport, there is always something to amuse in the hunting field; but here, as in most other places, idleness is too often the parent, if not of vice, of mischief. My readers will recollect, that, in my last account of a trip to the Forest, I related a few anecdotes of a Mr. Wise, formerly a coachman on the Southampton road, but now living in retirement on his carnings-with a hunter or two in his stable-and by his appearance, in the full enjoyment of what all-bounteous Nature has provided for those who can afford to pay for it. It was he who so much amused Sir Francis Burdett in my presence, with a dissertation on the new and old school for the driving arthimself, as his appearance denotes, belonging to that 'yclept the Old. There is, however, something so original about Mr. Wise, something so apparently artless and ingenuous in his conversation and demeanour, that must ever tend to amuse; and he did not escape the attention of Mr. John Wormwald. "Is there a public house near?" said Mr. Wormwald, as we were all assembled around the pack in C |
