Can I essay to describe the array of dames and demoiselles, knights and squires and retainers, yeomen, men-at-arms, and others of low degree, who, on that ever-memorable autumn morn, trampled the green meadow in front of old Warbrok House? Many a day has passed since the shadows of the waving forest trees flecked the greensward, since the hillside resounded to horse-hoof and jingling bridle, while mirthful words and silvery laughter blended ever and anon with the unaccustomed bay of the foxhound.
Ah me! Of the manly forms and bold, eager brows of those who kept tryst that day, how many have gone down before the onset of battle, the arrow of pestilence, the thousand haps of a colonist’s life? The stark limbs are bowed, the bold eyes dimmed, the strong hearts tamed by the slow sorcery of Time—even of those o’er whom the forest tree sighs not, or the wild wave moans no requiem.
How many of that fair company have ridden away for ever into the Silent Land! What bright eyes have forgotten to shine! How many a joyous tone is heard no more!
The halls her bright smile lighted up of yore, Are lonely now!
Gone to the Valhalla, doubtless, are many brave souls of heroes; but in the good year of grace eighteen hundred and thirty-six the chances of life’s battle sat but lightly on the gallant troop that reined up at the first meet at Warbrok Chase. Many a goodly muster of the magnates of the land had been held in that home of many memories ere this; but never within the ken of the oldest chronicler had anything occurred so successful, so numerously attended, of such great and general interest to the district or neighbourhood.
Resolved that all the concomitants and accessories should be as thoroughly English as could in any way be managed, Howard Effingham had personally superintended the details of a Hunt breakfast, such as erstwhile he had often enjoyed or dispensed within the bounds of Merrie England.
North and south, and east and west, The ‘visitors’ came forth,
as though minded to give the Squire of Warbrok—a name by which Howard Effingham was commencing to be known in the neighbourhood—a substantial acknowledgment of the interest taken by the country-side in his highly commendable enterprise. The younger squatters, then, as now, the aristocracy of the land, mustered gallantly in support of the hereditary pastime of their order. A list might be attempted, were it only like the names of the ships in Homer’s _Iliad_, some day to be read to curious listening ears by one unknowing of aught save that such, in the dear past, were the names of heroes.