CHAPTER LIX

ANOTHER SPORTING LECTOR

R. JORROCKS now began sorting and righting his hunting clothes, seeing what boots and things would patch and come out again, and what might be condemned as no use keeping. Among the condemned were the memorable old customer whites, which, independently of the tear they got on that day, were in a somewhat perishing state from their over frequent visits to the washing tub. Two pair of shags he thought would do again, and he would give a pair of old moleskins the benefit of a doubt. One pair of boots—the Pinch-me-near Forest ones—were a good deal gone at the toe, but he would consult Welts, the cobbler, before he cast them. Then as he sat in judgment on his coats, folding up No. 1 with the care and respect due to the best one, regarding No. 2 as werry good when not beside a better, and saying that No. 3 would do “werry well for a wet day,” Betsey came to say that some gents wanted to see him.

It was a deputation from the Handley Cross Infirmary, come to ask him to give a sporting lecture in aid of their funds, which, as usual, were very low.

Mr. Jorrocks hesitated at first, for he wanted to ease the steam of his hunting enthusiasm down to business-like pitch before he returned to Great Coram Street and the City. However, as they were very pressing, and flattered him agreeably, he at length consented, and the lecture was duly announced, as well by placards and hand-bills as by sending the bell-man about. Our Master resuscitated his “Beckford” for inspiration, thinking to dwell on the delights of the chase. The Infirmary scheme answered, and tickets were in great demand, many parties coming up from the country to hear our worthy Master hold forth.

Precisely at eight o’clock on the appointed night Mr. Jorrocks entered the lecture-room (the long room of the Dragon) by the president’s door, and ascended the raised platform immediately on the left. He was dressed in the full evening costume of the hunt—sky-blue coat, lined with pink silk, canary-coloured shorts, white waistcoat, and white silk stockings, and looked uncommonly spruce—his pumps shone with French polish. Several members of the hunt, some in morning dress, others in evening, followed; and James Pigg and Benjamin, in scarlet coats, black caps, and top-boots, brought up the rear. The room at this time was as full as it could possibly hold, not less than three hundred and fifty persons being assembled; among whom, of course, “we observed” several elegantly-dressed females. Mrs. Jorrocks, we are sorry to say, had the tooth-ache, and could not come; neither were Belinda nor Mr. Stobbs there, it being supposed they were availing themselves of Mrs. Jorrocks’s indisposition. Immediately as Mr. Jorrocks entered, the whole company rose and greeted our hero with a volley of most enthusiastic cheers, which continued for some minutes, and appeared greatly to affect the worthy gentleman, who stood bowing and grinning like a Chinese monster on a mantelpiece. Silence being at length obtained, and all the attendants having settled themselves into their places on the platform, and the company having resumed their seats, he advanced to the front, and spoke as follows:—

“Beloved ’earers, behold your old frind John (cheers). John! old in years, but young in mind and body, and dewoted—oh, dewoted, to the noble cause of ’unting. Oh, my beloved ’earers! I repeats, for the ’underd and fifty-fust time, that ’unting is the sport of kings, the image of war without its guilt, and only five-and-twenty per cent. of its dangers (cheers). Do not think I say so for the sake of gainin’ your most sweet applause, for, believe me werry sincere when I declare I’d rayther ’ear the cry of ’ounds, or even the lowest whimper whatever owned the scent, than have all the cheerin’ your woices can bestow (laughter, with slight hissing).

“Great ’eavens!” continued Mr. Jorrocks, with upturned eyes, “wot a many things are wantin’ to ’unt a country plisantly—things that would never enter the ’ead of a sailor!

“First and foremost, there should be the means o’ praise—all labour’s lost if the world’s not well told. The finest runs are lost, the largest leaps over-looked, the ’ardest falls forgot, if an efficient record’s not preserved. Every ’unt should have its trumpeter as well as its ’unts-man—some nice easy-writin’ cove to exhibit its bright pints; butterin’ without bedaubin’ — praisin’ without besmearin’—jest as a barber hoils a customer arter a sixpenny clip. Oh, gen’lemen, gen’lemen,” continued our Master, “I’ve been sufferin’ severely from the effects o’ clumsy soapin’ (cheers and laughter) — hawkward hoilin’—havin’ things told that I wanted kept snug, and havin’ things kept snug that I wanted told. Gen’lemen, take my adwice, and never employ a reg’lar butterer. Do it yourselves, or get a kind frind what knows your likin’s and weak pints to do it.

“But enough of that—p’raps too much—let’s to the business of the evenin’.

“Gen’lemen, this is the werry age of balderdash and ’umbug—balderdash the grossest, and ’umbug the greatest, that the most imaginative eye of the liveliest intellect can possibly conceive (applause). There was a poet, I think his name was Brown,—John Brown, who said,

And well they may, for we do our best to merit the opinion. See ’ow we treat ’unting! Dear, delightful ’unting, the werry mention of whose name kivers me with the creeps, and thrills me all over with joy. We must now ’unt by book, forsooth: fox and ’ounds must be alike under our subjection, and if they don’t do jest wot is laid down in print, Reynard is all wrong, and the ’ounds good for nothin’ (cheers). Oh, my vig! to think I should ever live to see a fox ’unted on mathematical principles (cheers); to see the problem ‘vich vay has he gone?’ worked without the aid of ’ounds!

“But gently, old buoy, gently,” continued he, in a more subdued tone, “your wehimence has got the bit between its teeth, and with borin’ ’ead is running clean away with you—steady there, steady. Now, my beloved ’earers, I’ve brought you here to tell you all about the chass—to teach you to enjoy that sport.

Aye, too costly for the poor, and more’s the pity that it is too costly, for there is more real genuine fox-’untitiveness, more of the innate genuine hardour and dewoted affection for the chass in the poor man wot sacrifices a day’s pay for the sake of a ’unt, than in all your wauntin’ cover-canterin’ swells wot ride forty miles to the meet for the sake of the boast, and the plisure o’ ridin’ forty miles back. But that’s beside the question, or another pair of shoes, as we say in France. The chass!—the chass! or the noble science, as the swells now call it, is to be the subject of my discourse; but oh, my beloved ’earers, it’s werry ’ard to turn one’s ’tention to things that are fit to brik one’s ’eart to think on—werry ’ard indeed. There was a man wrote a book, and, among other intelligent things he put in, was an obserwation that one cannot do an act not in itself morally evil for the last time without feelin’s of regret; and if that be true with regard to indifferent things, ’ow much more tellin’ must it be when applied to what may be called the liver and bacon of one’s existence! To that noblest, sublimest, grandest, best of all sports, the gallant, cheerin’ soul-stirrin’ chass” (cheers). Mr. Jorrocks paused for some seconds, as if overcome by his feelings.

At length he resumed: “Here,” said he, “we have closed a most beautiful season. Though I says it who should not, never did a pack give more universal satisfaction than mine,—satisfaction the most boundless, and gratification the most complete. No ’ounds in England can ’old a candle to mine for the sport they’ve shown. Summer is now drawin’ on, at least it did ought to do, if it is a comin’ at all, leaving us a long season of repose to contemplate the past, and spekilate on the futur’—that uncertain futur’ to which we all look forward with such presumptuous certainty. Oh, my beloved ’earers, summer is a dreadful season. Whoever talked o’ the winter of our discontent, talked like an insane man, and no sportsman. Summer is the season of our misery! Long days, short nights, and nankeen shorts. Contemptible wear!—but oh, gen’lemen, gen’lemen, top-boots delight me not now, drab shags nouther. Wot a change is comin’ o’er the spirit of our dream! I knows no more melancholic ceremony than takin’ the string out of one’s ’at at the end of a season, foldin’ hup and puttin’ away the old red rag—a rag unlike all other rags, the dearer and more waluable the older and more worthless it becomes. Every rent, every stain, every patch, every darn, has its story and ’sociation. The large black patch all down the right side was got in Swallerton Bog, which I charged like a troop of ’oss, jest as the darlin’s were viewin’ the warmint, and I thought to pick him hup on the far side. Crikey, vot a flounder I had!—old Arterxerxes bogged up to the werry tail, plungin’, and heavin’, and groanin’, and snortin’, and sweatin’, with every appearance of being ’stablished for life. Oh, my beloved ’earers, a bog is a werry rum thing to get into, and is so werry enticin’ withal, that I don’t wonder at people bein’ cotched. Quiet, sly, soft, green, omelette-soufflé-lookin’ things, so stuffed with currants as to be perfectly black below, and as holdin’ as a stick-jaw puddin’ at a charity school. I doesn’t mean to detract from the merits of other bogs, but that Swallerton Bog i’ my mind, is the biggest bog whatever was seen, and as ’ospitable as man can desire, for once in, it is in no hurry to part with you again.

“Then the great double stitched rent right across the back! ’Ow well I remembers doin’ o’ that! We were goin’ like beans over Harroway Fleets, with sich a crack scent as only comes twice a year. I viewed a fox or a dog, I couldn’t say whether, risin’ the ’ill by Hookem-Snivey Church; and wot with keepin’ my eye on him, and gallopin’ like blazes, I never saw a bullfinch that Arterxerxes was preparin’ himself for on the sly until it was too late, and he charged a thing so big and so black, that if a lanthorn had been ’eld on the far side you couldn’t have seen it; well, I say, he charged it with such wicked wigour and determination, that he left me stickin’ like a sweet little cherub aloft right atween two strong ’olders, one of which had to be sawn off afore ever I could get out; and when I did, I found I had lost one coat-lap, and the other was ’angin’ by a mere thread (laughter and applause). Delightful recollection! Shall I ever forget the joy I experienced, as, stickin’ tight in the ’edge, I saw the darlin’s take up the line on which I viewed the warmint travellin’? A delicate compliment to the brightness of my wision! Oh, never! My too sensible ’eart sickens at the thought that the joy of life is over for a season. Oh, the long summer months that are about to succeed are truly appallin’ to the ’eart of a sportsman! True, each season brings its hoccupation, but if that hoccupation is no enjoyment, wot matter does it make there bein’ such a thing? Oh,” groaned the worthy lecturer, “but we are enterin’ upon a most melancholic, sea-kaleish, buy-a-moss-rose season. ’Ow we are ever to get through it, I’m sure I don’t know. I’m thankful ’owever to think that I pivied the old customer. Blow me tight if I ’adn’t pivied the old customer, I really believe the old customer would ha’ pivied me. Never suffered so much from a fox i’ my life. He ’aunted me day and night. Seemed as if he was ’pointed to revenge the wrongs of all the foxes i’ the world. Certainly he was a saucy sinner—a werry saucy sinner—wakin’ and sleepin’, he was always at me. ’Owsomever he’s settled.” Mr. Jorrocks again made a long pause, and appeared lost in thought.

At length he resumed.

“Great Coram is a lovely street,” said he, “the trees within the rails, and the wines within the areas, flourish and expand with all the wigour of foliage and wegetable life in the purest and most salubrisome spots. But sweeter, dearer far is the wild bleak heath,

‘Where man has ne’er or rarely trod,’

with a good strong ’olding goss-cover, lyin’ on a gentle slope, catchin’ the rays of a mid-day sun, out of which one may reasonably calkilate upon findin’ old Reynard at home any hour of the day. But I can’t pursue the subject. It is too much for me—painful to a degree. Pigg, get me some brandy-and-water—strong without—for I feels all over trembulation and fear, like a maid that thinks she’s not agoin’ to be married.”

Mr. Jorrocks retired to the back of the platform, and Pigg presently brought him a stiff tumbler of brandy-and-water, which considerably revived our old friend, but still he did not feel quite equal to the resumption of his lecture. He therefore announced that his Pigg would favour the company with one of his national melodies, after which he had no doubt he should be able to go on, and Pigg after a few minutes’ confab with his Master, who wanted him to sing,

“Unrivalled the ’ounds o’er which Jorrocks presides!”

advanced to the front of the platform, and with a bob of his head and a kick of his heel, said, “Gen’l’men, wor ’ard Maister’s gettin’ the gripes, and ar’s gannin’ to sing ye a sang till he gets better.” So saying James rubbed his sleeve across his nose, and turned his quid in his mouth. “Now,” continued he, “what ar’ll sing ye ’ill be yen o’ the bonniest sangs that iver was sung, arle aboot ard Squier Lambton and his h’unds, and a grand hunt that they had fre Fox-hill, afore mast o’ ye were born; and when ar stamps wi’ my foot, ye mun all join chorus.” So saying, our huntsman struck up with the following, which we give, like the former, as it was written, and not as Pigg sung it:—

When the enthusiastic applause, produced by the fore going, had subsided, there was a general call for Mr Jorrocks, who, advancing to the front of the platform, thus addressed the company:—

“Beloved ’earers, you must ’scuse my pursuin’ the subject o’ the chass—it’s too much for my feelin’s. I meant to have enlightened you on the management of ’osses and ’ounds at ’ome and in the field, glanced at the ’ard meet and the ’ard work systems, and taken a wide range o’er the realms of sportin’ generally, but, somehow or other, I feels unequal to the task,—the excitement is too much for me. I feels as though my stomach was a biler, a throwin’ red-’ot words up into my mouth. With your permission, therefore, we’ll drop the subject till the arrival of the next ’unting season, when I will finish wot I’ve left unsung, as the tom-cat said when the brick-bat cut short his serenade. (Laughter and applause.)

“Let us turn to matters more seasonable, though less plisant, and consider the summer department of our lives. We are now about to disperse, some to the north, some to the south, some to the heast, and some to the west. Many on you, I makes no doubt, will think it necessary to go to town, though I cannot but say that you are great fools for your pains. There are more people punish themselves annually once a year, by goin’ to London, than the unthinkin’ portion of the community would credit. If a man has plenty of blunt, it’s all werry well. London is an undeniable place for gettin’ rid of it in. Frinds abound there for rich men. The kindest, the accommodatingest frinds, wot will do anything to serve you as long as your money lasts. To London let the rich man go. Whatever is gay, or grand, or expensive, will be his; he will mount his thoroughbred, with a bang-tail down to the ’ocks, put his grum on another, in a dark frock-coat, leather-breeches, and a belt round his waist, to strap on his master in case he tumbles off; they will hamble down Bond Street and hup Regent Street, ‘prowokin’ the caper wot they seem to chide’—master pretendin’ to be short-sighted, with a quizzin’-glass stuck in his eye.” Here Mr. Jorrocks put a half-crown piece over his, and, suiting the action to the word, proceeded amidst universal laughter and applause,—“Meets an acquaintance. ‘’Ow do?’ ‘Been long i’ town?’ ‘When do you leave?’ For, gen’lemen,” continued Mr. Jorrocks, “I’ll lay a guinea ’at to a gooseberry, when two men meet with little to say, that that is the conversation wot passes. Six o’clock comes and he’s in the Park. Wot a crowd about the gate! It’s to see Wictoria pass. Carriage and four—out-riders—equerring dust-catching—Wictoria smilin’—Prince Halbert ditto, and touchin’ his ’at to the cheerers—whisk, and they are out o’ sight. Carriages break hup and scatter over the Park. The band plays at the gardens—up our rich man canters, without knowin’ why he breaks from a walk, throws the rein to his grum, and lounges in to lisp to the ladies. ‘Oh! ’pon honour—exquisite—delightful band—Second Life Guards—Star and Garter—Crown and Sceptre—Charmin’ weather—Looks like rain—’Ow’s your mother? Sister better!—So, Lady ——’s eloped at last.’ Back then he goes by the Serpentine. Kid gloves are kissed to him, feathers nod, eyes ogle, and Johns and Jehus touched their lace-daubed ’ats. Now he reins hup at the foot of the Achilles, and, as the late accomplished Mr. Truefit, the Harcadian ’air-dresser, or some other talented gen’leman sung—

Dinner time comes, and Lord Cut and Shuffle has the rich man on the box of his drag—four spankin’ bays, tigers be’ind, frinds on the roof, gals inside. Away they bowl to Greenwich—best room, dinner two guineas a-’ead, iced fizzey—fish of all sorts—Yarrell done up in dishes—every sort but the one you went down for—should have ten stomachs ’stead of one—back at eleven. Hopera—Time for ballet—squizzin’-glass—gauze petticoats—or hup Windmill Street to the sparklin’ French Casino, or down heast to the British ’bomination of a dingy underground kidney-shop. These at length bein’ swept out and closed, away they go to some sham billiard room of a fortified gambling ’ouse, with scouts on the watch, where they have some cureasore to digest the kidney—iced champagne to correct the cureasore—lobster salad to keep the iced champagne company. Then lounge into the gamblin’ apartment—large round table—strong light. Man with a green shade over his eyes and a hoe in his hand! Old rakes all round him. Fathers sittin’ hopposite sons—the famine of play ragin’—then sudden noise—clean sweep—down the pipe—rush o’ pollis—seize the party—away to the lock-up—in wi’ false names—hup i’ the mornin’—discharged for want o’ gamblin’-tool hevidence, and all that sort o’ gammon. All this may be called plissur, &c., but some’ow it never lasts. It’s the pace that kills the finances as well as the fox. It’s all nonsense men spendin’ wots to keep them a lifetime in a single night’s lark (applause). Ax any old member o’ Crocky’s if it isn’t.

“London’s a grand place, to be sure,” continued the worthy lecturer; but oh, my beloved ’earers, there is no misery like that of solitude in a crowd, or inconwenience like that of livin’ with men without being able to afford to partake o’ their plissurs. London’s the rich man’s paradise, the poor man’s puggatory! yet how many fools, who can ill afford it, think it necessary to make a hannual pilgrimage once a-year to the shrine of her monstrosity. Hup they come, leavin’ their quiet country ’omes just as their sparrowgrass is ready for heatin’ and their roses begin to blow—neglectin’ their farms—maybe their families—leavin’ bulls to bail themselves, cattle to get out of the pound, and wagrants into the stocks, as they can; hup, I say, they come to town, to get stuck in garrets at inns with the use of filthy, cigar-smokin’, spitty, sandy-floored, saw-dusty coffee-rooms, a ’underd and seventy-five steps below, at a price that’s perfectly appalin’. Vot misery is theirs! Down they come of a mornin’, arter a restless, tumblin’, heated, noisy night, to the day den of the establishment, with little happetite for breakfast, but feelin’ the necessity of havin’ some in order to kill time. A greasy-collared, jerkin’, lank-aired waiter, casts a second-’and badly washed web over a slip of table, in a stewy, red-curtained box, into which the sun beats with unmitigated wengeance. A Brittania-metal tea-pot, a cup, a plate, a knife, and a japanned tea-caddie, make their appearance. Then comes a sugar-bason, followed by a swarm of flies, that ’unt it as the ’ounds would a fox, and a small jug of ‘sky-blue,’ which the flies use as a bath durin’ their repast on the sugar. A half-buttered muffin mounts a waterless slop-bason; a dirty egg accompanies some toasted wedges of bread; the waiter points to a lump of carrion wot he calls beef, on a dusty sideboard, and promises the ‘Post’ as soon as it is out of ’and. Sixteen gents sit at sixteen slips of table, lookin’ at each other with curiosity or suspicion, but never a word is exchanged by any on them. Prisently they begin to wacate their slips of wood. One paces hup and down the coffee-room, with his thumbs in the harm-’oles of his veskit; another takes a coat-lap over each arm, and lounges against the fireless fire-place; a third looks at his watch, and lays his legs along the bench for a nap; while a fourth flattens his nose against the winder, or reads the witticisms of former town captives, or the hamorous contributions of jaded waiters to buxom chambermaids on the panes. Carriages begin to roll; lords, dukes, captains, cockneys, jostle together, and the coffee-room is gradually emptied into the crowded streets.

“Vot a sight! All the world compressed into Bond Street! carriages blocked, cabs locked, ’ossmen driven on to the footway, and the foot-people driven into the shops. But wot boots it to ingenuous Spoony if there were twice as many? He doesn’t know one carriage from another, and hasn’t got nobody to tell him whose they are. There he stands gapin’ like a stuck pig, now starin’ his eye-balls out at a carriage, now bringin’ his body to bear upon a printshop window, now fancyin’ a lady in feathers on the footway to be a duchess that has taken a fancy to him, who he follows up to the suberbs, and comes away under the impression that it is their country willer. But what a relief to have some one to whom he can speak! Talk of dull dogs! Live in London for a week without an acquaintance, and the stupidest lump of lead that ever was moulded into the shape of a man will be a perfect god-send at the end of the time. Well, hup and down the street poor ingenuous Spoony goes, round squares, into crescents, through parks, until his feet are swelled double their size, and the toes of his boots look up into his face, as much as to say, ‘Wot has come over us now?’ Still no one greets him, and Squire Spoony, who is a werry great man, and knows every body at once, is ’stonished that no one ’ails him in London.

“Now for a chop-house or coffee-room dinner! Oh, the ’orrible smell that greets you at the door! Compound of cabbage, pickled salmon, boiled beef, saw-dust, and anchovy sarce. ‘Wot will you take, sir?’ inquires the frowsy waiter, smoothin’ the filthy, mustardy, cabbagey cloth, ‘soles, macrel, vitin’s—werry good boiled beef—nice cut, cabbage, cold ’am and weal, cold lamb and sallard.’—Bah! The den’s ’to to suffocation— the kitchen’s below—a trap-door womits up dinners in return for bellows down the pipe to the cook. Flies settle on your face—swarm on your head; a wasp travels round; everything tastes flat, stale, and unprofitable. As a climax, he gets the third of a bottle of warm port as a pint, and, to prevent jealousy between body and mind, gives the latter a repast on second-hand news, by goin’ through the columns of an evenin’ paper. This, too, from a man wot can hardly manage a three-days-a-week one in the country.

“Nine o’clock at length comes, and he is at the theatre; and were it not for the excessive ’eat and confounded crowd, he might enjoy himself. As it is, the curtain drops, a welcome release, and after half an hour’s solitary stroll, he finds himself smokin’ some painted Jezabel, who sits to be fumigated by all wot buys cigars at her shop. Thus he goes on day after day, week after week, in a melancholy state of existence, and all that he may have the pleasure of sayin’ when he returns to the country, that he has ‘jest come from town’—that town was werry full—werry gay or werry dull—talk of high people in a low-lived style, and pretend to have been where he never was. No captive released from gaol—no bouy let free from school—no starlin’ escaped from cage, hails with more ’eart-felt joy the arrival of that hour which restores him to wot the immortal Mr. Fieldin’ (I thinks) calls

‘Fresh fields and pastures new;’

and not all the pliability of a flexible mind can coax him into believin’ that he feels one longin’ lingerin’ pang of regret, as he turns his back upon the crowded, ’eartless, busy, bustlin’, jadin’ city. (Great applause.)

“ ‘Well, but,’ says a sportin’ reader, ‘I must see the Darby and Hoaks run for!’

“Darby and Hoaks run for!” exclaimed the worthy lecturer. “Wot matter does it make to him who wins the Darby and Hoaks! Why can’t he content ’imself wi’ readin’ on it i’ the paper, or in seein’ a neighbourly donkey race on a common? He may know summut ’bout the donkeys, but he can know nothin’ ’bout ’osses, the owners of which werry likely know nothin’ themselves. Then bother their bettin’ books, and the ’ole tribe of trickey, lynx-eyed circumwentin’ knaves wot would rob their own fathers if they could, and who set hup to bet thousands with a farthin’ capital! O that the noblest of hanimals should be soiled with the contamination of such reptiles! O that the ’ighest and the noblest should be found jostlin’ and helbowin’ for hodds ’mong the werry scum and scourins o’ the stews—fellers that no decent tradesman would touch wi’a pair o’ tongs (applause). On the turf and under the turf all men are obliged to be equal,” mused our Master. “But let us leave the gloomy subject,” continued he, “and gather hup our points for a finish. Some on you will p’raps ax wot has racin’ and livin’ i’ London to do wi’ ’unting? I say it has a great deal. There is an old sayin’ and a true one, that you carn’t eat both your cake and ’ave it, and by the same rule, or one werry like it, you carn’t both spend your money and have it. Now, if ingenuous Spoony comes to London on a gallivantin’ expedition, with nothin’ whatsomever at all to do, the chances are that he gets rooked. ‘Idleness’ has been werry well described as ‘the papa of all mischief’; and assuredly Satan, as Mrs. Barbauld beautifully expresses it in her ‘Pleasures of ’Ope,’ is always busy in London, findin’ work for ‘idle ’ands to do.’ Walk along Jermyn Street of an evenin’, and see how many beautifully illuminated doors stand ajar inwitin’ the passer-by to enter; go—and you’re done. It is not here,

‘All ye what enter abandon ’ope’;

but wot I say is, all ye wot enter, leave your pusses at home, or assuredly you will have werry little call for them when you come out. In short, if you waste your money i’ summer, you can’t expect to have it to spend i’ winter, and then wot comes of your ’unting?—ay, then wot comes of my ’ounds? That’s the question put in a familiar form (cheers). Ah, now I see you twig, and go along with me. Oh, gen’lemen, gen’lemen, there’s nothin’ so difficult as gettin’ a subscription to a pack of ’ounds. Chaps that would give a ’undred a-year to a cuk, grudge a fi’-pun note to a pack that would keep them in ’ealth, and save them all the money i’ seidlitz pooders (laughter and applause). Which then will you have? ’Unting i’ winter, or street-strollin’ i’ summer? I’ll diwide the meetin’ on the question, and take the sense of this assembly. All then who are for the sport of kings, the image of war without its guilt, with only five-and-twenty per cent. of its danger, ’old up their ’ands.”

A forest of hands were held up for hunting; on the other question being put, no one was found in favour of it, whereupon Mr. Jorrocks concluded amidst loud and long-continued applause by complimenting them on their choice, calling on every man to put his shoulder to the wheel, and do his possible in support of himself and the “Handley Cross Fox Hounds.” A large party sat down to supper after the lecture; and we are happy to add that a subscription was opened for the purpose of presenting Mr. Jorrocks with a solid token of esteem in the shape of a silver steak dish, with a model of himself on Arterxerxes on the cover. More gratifying still it is to add, that the subscription was immediately filled.