This magnificent seat of princely festivity and general hospitality, for
so many years in the possession of Colonel Thornton, was on Monday,
January 6th, surrendered to his successor, the present purchaser, Lord
Stourton; but not until the Colonel who, determined never to violate the
charter, had, according to annual custom, thrown his doors open, filled
all his rooms and tables with his friends, during a whole month spent in
unremitted cheerfulness and good humour, passing the days in various
field sports, the evenings in convivial harmonious hilarity, inspired by
the natural urbanity of the Colonel’s manners, and the choicest and
oldest wines now in Great Britain. Perhaps a more splendid and brilliant
Christmas was never witnessed in this country.
On New Year’s Day, the neighbourhood were indulged with the finest
coursing possible in the park; after which a grand dinner, at which were
wines—none under thirty years old, and many at the age of sixty. On this
occasion the house and the Temple of Victory were illuminated in
grateful remembrance of the soldiers of the York Militia.
After amusing the party and the rustics in the neighbourhood with seeing
the upper lake let off, where pike from five to twenty pounds, carp from
twelve to fifteen pounds, tench from four to six pounds, perch from two
to three pounds, were discovered, to the great satisfaction of the
curious in lake fish; a few were taken and one-half sent to the present
owner, Lord Stourton.
The Colonel then, attended by his friends, proceeded to Falcover’s Hall,
carrying with him the warmest wishes of all those who have so long and
so often experienced the effects of his liberal disposition.
Thus terminated his residence at Thornville Royal, which for sixteen
years has been the scene of every species of elegant mirth, wit and
amusement, and where the prince and the peasant have been alike
gratified by that benevolence and vivacity so peculiar to the character
of Colonel Thornton.
A Farewell to a Hunter.
To no misfortune in the field
He bows, fit ending of the game;
No weight of years bids him to yield,
But swift disease that warps his frame.
So Mercy stepping in must break
The bonds that Love would fain hold fast,
And hand-in-hand we come to take
A look we know must be the last.
For ere to-morrow’s sun has died,
His keen bold spirit will have found
That refuge on the other side,
Where dwell the shades of horse and hound.
Farewell, old friend, farewell! and when
The last great leap is left behind,
And passing from the haunts of men,
By earthly limits unconfined,
You roam that strange mysterious land,
That vast beyond where travellers wait,
Where mortal foot may never stand,
Nor mortal vision penetrate,
Oh, let your thoughts drift back and dwell
On joys by memory roused from rest,
When scent was keen, when hounds ran well,
And Fortune gave us of her best.
Recall the pageant of the meet,
The snug gorse covert on the hill,
The good sound turf beneath your feet,
The glorious run, the glorious kill.
Nor think as year by year decays
In robes of russet, red, and gold,
That wanting you, November days
Can be to us as days of old.