82 THE MEYNELL HOUNDS. 



CHAPTER VIL 



THE FITZHERBERTS. 



He was no bad judge of either the goodness of land or 

 beauty of scenery, this first FitzHerbert, who chose 

 Somersal for his home in the year 1200, or thereabouts, 

 nor was he of Norbury a bad one either. As you stand 

 by Selina's elm, as the tree is called, which looks proudly 

 forth from its lofty eminence on the fair broad acres, 

 which once belonged to the lords of the manor of Somersal- 

 Herbert, and see beneath you the delightful old-world 

 Hall, nestling down in a hollow, where storms beat not 

 *'nor ever wind ])lows loudly," with the blue smoke- 

 wreaths rising amongst the immemorial elms, whither 

 the rooks are winging their homeward way, you feel 

 that your gaze rests on a " Haunt of ancient peace." 

 Just beyond the Hall are the oak -palings of its little 

 park. Higher up on the slope of the hill to the right 

 is the old oak, the fall of one of whose branches, so 

 the legend runs, heralds the death of the reigning lord ; 

 beyond that, again, are fair pastures dotted with oak, 

 elm, and ash, many a goodly tree, stretching down to 

 where the Dove, dear to old Izaak Walton's piscatorial 

 soul, winds its way through lush pastures, where cattle 

 graze contentedly on some of the richest grass of this 

 fair Derbyshire land. Against the sky-line the soft 

 outlines of the Forest Banks, with their fringe of noble 

 trees, forms a fitting framework to a scene of unsur- 

 passed pastoral loveliness. A sort of feeling of sadness 

 steals over you as you drink it all in with softening gaze. 



