There is great wailing and lamentation at Market Harboro'. King Frost
holds the ground in an iron grip. Fresh snow falling almost daily
spreads yet another and another layer, and all is encrusted hard and
fast, but far around it sparkles like a sea of diamonds, emitting the
colours of a rainbow in the radiant sunshine. Horses are eating their
heads off and are ready to jump out of their skins; hounds are getting
fat and lazy; the majority of the sportsmen have long ago taken
themselves off to London, Monte Carlo, and elsewhere, and the few who
remain spend their days in skating, toboganning, and curling.
While the barometer averages nightly ten to twenty degrees of frost,
perhaps the most favourable moment has arrived to find one's hunting
friends freed from the daily labour they so cheerfully undergo for the
sake of sport. As in ordinary weather a protracted hunt with Mr.
Fernie's hounds, or a long day with the Pytchley, would at this season
have kept Mrs. Edward Kennard to a late hour in the saddle, you gladly
seize the opportunity afforded, and accept a kind invitation to visit
her at "The Barn." A two-hours' run from St. Pancras to Leicestershire,
with a change at Kettering, lands you at Market Harboro' station,
where a neat brougham, drawn by a pair of handsome brown horses (with no
bearing reins), waits to convey you to Mr. Edward Kennard's hunting box,
which stands back between two fields of ridge and furrow in the main
road from Kettering to Market Harboro'. A straight avenue, bordered on
either side by lime and fir trees, breaks into a circular grass front,
where the drive divides, the right road leading to a substantial,
comfortable-looking red-brick house, with sloping roof, tall gable over
the entrance-hall, and sides picturesquely covered with ivy, whilst the
left turns to the stables (that essential part of a sporting
establishment), which, with the kitchen gardens and paddocks, are in the
rear. In usual circumstances a fine vista of undulating pasture, and
extensive views of the happy hunting-fields of Northamptonshire and
Leicestershire, can be seen, in which are several historical
fox-coverts; but now, in the snow-bound condition of the earth,
everything is white, save for the line of dark intersecting hedgerows,
and the delicate tracery of leafless trees standing in black silhouette
against the sky. As the afternoon advances, a grey haze creeps over the
far-famed Harboro' Vale, shrouding alike "bullfinches" and
"double-oxers," into which sinks a golden sun behind a bank of crimson
and purple clouds.
But the carriage stops. The broad stone steps lead into the entrance
hall, where, facing you, stands a black, long-haired, stuffed sloth
bear, hugging the sticks and umbrellas, and an oak case, full of English
game-birds. Glass doors open into the broad, lofty, central hall, giving
outlet to numerous rooms, which are all draped with heavy _portieres_
on each side. The first to the right opens, and Mrs. Edward Kennard
comes out to bid you welcome to "The Barn," and leads the way into the
drawing-room, which is bright with a huge, blazing fire and tall lamps.
She is above the middle height, and her slight, well-built figure shows
to as much advantage in the neatly-fitting brown homespun costume as it
does in her well-cut "Busvine" habit. She has a small head, well set on,
with dark hair curling over her brow, and dark eyes which, owing to her
being short-sighted, have somewhat of a searching expression as she
looks at you, and the kindest of smiles. A woman of peculiar grace,
gentleness, and refinement, her pluck and skill which are so prominent
in the chase and lead her to delight in all field sports, in no way
detract from her womanly characteristics in the home circle and other
relations in life.
Mrs. Edward Kennard is the second daughter and fourth child of a
well-known public man, Mr. Samuel Laing, late member for the counties of
Orkney and Shetland, and formerly Finance Minister of India.
"I believe," says your hostess, as you sit at tea, "that I took to
scribbling principally through finding time hang heavy on my hands and
seeking occupation. I fancy that any small love of literature which I
may possess is hereditary, since my father, who is now chairman of the
Brighton Railway, has written several important works, notably, "Modern
Science and Modern Thoughts," "Problems of the Future," etc., whilst my
grandfather, Mr. S. Laing, was also well known as an author in his day,
and wrote a famous book of Norwegian travel, still considered one of
the best extant. In the schoolroom (we lived at Hordle, Hants, then) I
was regarded as the dunce, and my childish recollections are always
embittered by thoughts of scoldings, punishments, and admonitions from
our various governesses.
At the age of fifteen the young girl was sent to a private establishment
at St. Germains, when, under a different system of tuition, she began to
take an interest in her studies, and to work in earnest. Two or three
years later she returned to England, and shortly after married Mr.
Edward Kennard, Deputy-Lieutenant and Magistrate for the counties of
Monmouthshire and Northamptonshire, son of the late Mr. R. W. Kennard,
M.P. He, too, has literary as well as sporting tastes, and is the author
of "Fishing in Strange Waters" and "Sixty Days in America," besides
being a contributor to the _Illustrated London News_, _Graphic_, and
_The Chase_. He is also an artist, and every part of the house is
decorated with his clever, spirited sketches in oils and water-colours.
Mrs. Edward Kennard's first literary efforts were a series of short
stories, which she wrote for her two boys. These were afterwards
collected and published in one volume called "Twilight Tales."
Subsequently, when the little fellows had to be sent to school, and she
describes herself as "having felt lost without them," during a long
period of indifferent health, she turned her attention to authorship.
Her first novel, "The Right Sort," was produced in 1888, and was
followed by "Straight as a Die," "Twilight Tales," and "Killed in the
Open." Next came "The Girl in the Brown Habit," "A Real Good Thing," "A
Glorious Gallop," "A Crack County," "Our Friends in the Hunting Field,"
"Matron or Maid," etc., etc. These are all sporting novels, as most of
their names indicate, and contain the graphic account of many a stirring
and exciting run depicted with the vividness and fidelity born of
accurate knowledge of hounds, horses, and huntsmen, and long experience
in the field. All these works are very popular at home and in the
colonies, and most of them have passed into many editions. "Landing a
Prize" is the result of several seasons spent in Norway on the Sandem,
Stryn, Etne, Aurland, Gule, Foerde, and Aaero rivers. This book relates to
quite another kind of sport, for the author who can so successfully
negotiate a real Leicestershire flyer--a high blackthorn fence with a
ditch on either side of it--with such ease and grace, and has ridden
first flight in this county and in Northamptonshire since her marriage,
is equally at home in salmon-fishing, and last year, with considerable
dexterity and skill, wielded her seventeen-foot rod of split cane to
such good purpose that she landed a thirty-six pounder, a feat of which
her husband and sons are justly proud; but you must go to Mr. Kennard to
get details of his wife's prowess, for she says, modestly, "It is so
very difficult to say anything much of oneself. I like hunting, of
course, but look upon it purely as an agreeable physical amusement, and
not the _one_ business of life, as it is considered in this
neighbourhood, a thing to which all other interests must be sacrificed.
Marrying very young, it has since been my fate to reside in a hunting
county, and therefore I have had few opportunities for gratifying my
love for travel and seeing fresh scenes. For the last few years,
however, we have spent our summers in Norway, and I have become almost
as fond of salmon-fishing as of riding."
The scene of the author's late work is laid in Germany, and in "A
Homburg Beauty" she gives a vigorous narrative of a steeplechase which
she witnessed in that place. The last two novels she produced are
entitled "That Pretty Little Horse-Breaker," and "Wedded to Sport."
Mrs. Edward Kennard is as clever with her needle as is her husband with
his paint-brush, and many are the evidences of her capacity in this
feminine accomplishment in the room. The curtains, cornices,
mantel-cloths, together with several screens and cushions--even the
window blinds--are all exquisitely embroidered by her industrious
fingers. There are many priceless pieces of very old Japanese bronze,
china, and ancient lacquer work scattered about the room. On one table
is a perfect model in soapstone of an Indian burying-ground, and above
the dado is a narrow terry velvet ledge on which are strewn lovely bits
of Japanese ivories and other ornaments. The walls are hung with
water-colour paintings of scenes in Egypt, by Mr. Kennard, and the whole
room looks cosy and comfortable in the slow of warm firelight and
coloured lamp-shades.
An hour or so later you are all sitting at a large round dinner-table,
which is artistically decorated with quaint dried sea-weeds and shells
of delicate tints and shades, grouped on an arrangement of "Liberty"
silks, and the effect is as original as it is pretty. There are only
the family party present: your kind, genial hosts and their two
sons--Lionel, a handsome young Militia officer reading for a cavalry
commission; and Malcolm, a naval cadet, who has just passed out of the
_Britannia_ with eight months' sea time. Both are promising youngsters,
the pride and joy of their parents, and either can hold his own against
the "grown-ups" in the hunting field. The silver bowl yonder is a prize
gained by "Rainbow" and "Ransom," two fox-hound puppies walked by Mr.
Kennard; and a large painting hanging opposite attracting your
attention, Mrs. Kennard explains that it was executed by Bassieti, and
was exhibited amongst the Old Masters at Burlington House, and that the
original study was purchased out of the Hamilton collection by the
National Gallery, where it now hangs. Dinner over, an adjournment to the
billiard-room is proposed. The walls are hung with trophies of sport, a
forest of stags' horns, including wild fallow, wapiti, red-deer,
chamois, and roebuck. Your eye is first caught by the monster salmon,
painted on canvas and stretched over the model of the great fish on the
spot where Mrs. Kennard landed it, and above it hangs a picture of the
scene at Tower Sloholen where the feat was accomplished. The principal
painting in this room is of the author on "Rhoda," long since defunct, a
celebrated mare by Zouave, who carried her several seasons without a
fall. Near this is Lionel when a child, on his first pony, "Judy," who
is still alive, and spending a happy old age in the paddock. This pony
and the handsome fox-terrier following his mistress round the room, both
figure in "Twilight Tales." But old "Skylark" must not be forgotten,
and here hangs his portrait, representing his wonderful jump--owner
up--over water, a distance of twenty-eight feet from take-off to land. A
curious object lies on the side table, a British officer's sword, with
crest, monogram, Queen's crown, and V.R. on it, which has been turned
into a barbaric weapon, and is encased in a rude leather scabbard with
silk tassels. On the mantelpiece stands a great bronze six-armed
monster, with open mouth, and on a lighted match being secretly applied
behind its back to a tiny gas tube within, you turn round to find a long
thin flame issuing therefrom, at which the gentlemen light their cigars.
Below this is a border, beautifully embroidered in silks by Mrs.
Kennard, representing hounds in full chase after a fox. A pleasant game
of billiards finishes the evening.
On the morrow Mr. Kennard suggests a further inspection of other
interesting parts of the house, and promises that at noon, when the
horses are dressed, his wife shall act as cicerone, and do the honours
of the stables. Accordingly, first Mrs. Edward Kennard's summer study is
visited. It lies between the dining and drawing rooms, and looks bright
and cheerful, with its amply-filled bookcases, comfortable
lounging-chairs, and little tables. The writing-table stands in front of
the window, from whence there is a fine view, which in summer inspires
the author to write some of her happy bits of scenery; but the
peculiarity of this room is the extraordinarily large collection of
china ranged in tiers round the walls. It is, indeed, a complete dinner
service of fifteen dozen plates, designed and painted by Mr. Kennard,
and brought out by Mortlock, and is quite unique.
On the other side of the hall is a glass case containing a splendid
silver-grey fox, stuffed, and carrying a dead pheasant in its mouth.
This was a tame fox, reared from a cub. Just at the foot of the great
open staircase is the weighing chair and book recording the weights of
all the hunting people in these parts. The broad, lofty staircase walls
are laden with an _olla podrida_ of curiosities, notably some barbaric
necklaces and armlets studded with uncut gems, and several full-dress
suits of Arab and Nubian ladies, made of grasses and strips of leather,
which on breezy days might be considered somewhat too scanty to please
the British matron. There are fine old paintings here by Albert
Bierstadt, Maes, and Van der Helst, and higher up hangs a more modern
one of a hunt in the early days of the author's married life, when dogs
supplied the place of children. Amongst a museum of stuffed crocodiles,
catamarans, a parrot fish from the Dead Sea, sundry Egyptian warlike
implements, musical instruments, and mediaeval deities painted on glass,
there hangs a solitary broken stirrup leather which has a story. It is
the one by which the famous horsewoman was dragged at a gallop over a
ridge-and-furrow field, breaking her arm in two places, the horse she
rode failing to jump a stiff stile out of a wood. This, and another bad
fall--when she was lost to sight in a ditch beneath the heavy body of a
fifteen-stone weight-carrier--Mr. Kennard declares to be the two worst
accidents he ever witnessed in the hunting-field, "but," he adds, "they
have in no way shaken her nerve."
There is just time before keeping tryst with your hostess to peep into
her second writing room, formerly the nursery, but now devoted to
literature and fine art. From the window, which looks out to the
south-east, can be seen the rifle range and tobogganing ground. The next
is the large photographing room (in which art the whole family are
deeply interested), but noticing a negative plate lying buried under two
inches of ice in a dish, you prudently and promptly beat a retreat,
though not before noticing the lovely effect of the hoar-frost on the
deep ruby-coloured windows lighted up by the sun. Noon strikes, and
descending the staircase you find your hostess in the hall (both her
hands are full of lumps of sugar for her pets), and _en passant_ pause
to examine a splendid old Italian cassone over seven feet long,
supported on two animated-looking griffins. This is one of the finest
sixteenth century walnutwood carvings, or rather sculptures in high
relief, in Europe, and is complete and uninjured.
The long passage at the back of the lower rooms of the great house opens
out into a large square red-brick courtyard, with coach-house, forge,
and two stables on the right and left, where the good stud-groom Butlin
is waiting. This faithful and trusted retainer is greatly valued by his
employers. He has been in their service for a great many years, adores
his horses, and is as proud of Mrs. Kennard's riding as are her husband
and boys. He opens the door on the left, where there are four stalls and
two loose boxes, in which stand "Roulette," a fine bay mare; "Bridget,"
a dun pony who goes in harness, and carries the younger boy to hounds;
"Leicester" and "Blackfox," who are both harness horses and hunters.
The magnificent black-brown animal yonder is "Quickstep," a gift from
Mrs. Kennard's father; she says, "He does not know what it is to refuse
or turn his head, and is one of the boldest and freest horses that ever
crossed Leicestershire. I rode him twenty-seven times last season, and
he never had a filled leg." In the stable on the right you find "Diana,"
a handsome bay mare with black points, standing 16.1, and "Grayling,"
both fine bold fencers; "Grasshopper," and "Magic," a bay mare by
"Berserker," and a marvellous hunter. Lastly, "Bobbie," by "Forerunner,"
who is a great pet, and inherits his natural jumping qualities from his
dam, Rhoda. Out of this fine collection "Bobbie" and "Quickstep" are
Mrs. Kennard's favourite mounts, though she often rides most of the
others. But you are particularly enjoined to see old "Skylark," who
occupies a summering box in the smaller yard. This grand old hunter,
though twenty years old, can still hold his own after hounds, indeed,
Butlin observes that "there is not a horse in the country who can jump
or gallop against him for a four mile run." Returning by the side of the
field, he points out old "Judy," and a promising filly, "Rosie," who
come trotting up to their mistress, in anticipation of their daily
sugar.
There is a large and merry party of frozen-out fox-hunters at luncheon,
after which everyone goes off to the tobogganing ground. Mrs. Edward
Kennard is to the fore here too. She seats herself daintily in the
little vehicle, and glides down the great hill swiftly and gracefully,
though many of the party get an awkward spill, or land ignominiously in
a hedge full of twigs. By and by comes the news that a thaw is
imminent, which sends up all the spirits of the hunting community
delightfully, and great are the preparations and arrangements. If this
state of things continue, ere many days have elapsed the brave and
fearless writer will once more be in the saddle doing three, and
occasionally four, days a week, mounted alternately on her good little
"Bobbie" or the equally gallant "Quickstep." Then, although skating and
curling may have kept the sportsmen and women, who did not forsake
Market Harboro', fairly amused, there will be great jubilation, and once
more the delights of the chase will come as a fresh sensation after a
stoppage of so many weeks. Before long the shires will again be in their
glory, hounds will race over the purified pastures, foxes will run
straight and true, in that best of all hunting months February, and it
is just possible that the end of the season may yet atone for the
disappointments, inaction, and last, but not least, the expense which
for so long characterised it, and to the "music of hound and ring of
horn" you leave the gentle and clever author.
[Illustration: Jessie Fothergill]