Now, then for the sport. We quickly found our fox, and the scent being good, he soon saw it prudent to leave the cover and try his fortune in the open. The hounds got well together, and every thing seemed indicative of sport, when one of those "untoward events," to which all countries are liable, occurred, and completely changed the aspect of affairs. The fox was shamefully headed by a man at work, forced from his line, one of the best he could possibly have selected, and driven upon ground all foiled with the stain of sheep and cattle. Seeing what had occurred, I pulled up in perfect despair, and almost vowed I would never come out hunting again. How strange it is that men will hoop and holloa when they see a fox, as though their lives depended on this exercise of their lungs. I have often meditated a paper upon holloas, and the events of this day made me more resolved to execute the intention than ever. The readers of this Review may now look for its appearance. All prospect of sport being unhappily annihilated, I complacently resigned my place of leader of the front rank, and contented myself with trotting quietly on and observing the performances of others. Of those who went well, I may particularly mention a Cheshire gentleman, of large fortune, by the name of Barnaby, whose acquaintance I had the pleasure of making some years since in Oxfordshire, when the late Sir Thomas Mostyn hunted the country Mr. Drake now has, and I was happy to see that the fine hand and nerve he then possessed, had matured, with experience, into the formation of a good sportsman. Mr. Barnaby asked me to dine and stay all night at his house, which I was given to understand is the best in Handley Cross-every thing done in the most elegant style-and kindly accompanied the invitation with the offer of a mount the next day the hounds went out, but the duties of preparing this article, imperatively recalled me to my desk at Calais.. But did Mr. Barnaby do nothing else for me? I answer yes; he gave me some gingerbread-nuts. Unexampled kindness! He would seem: to have sat for the picture so felicitously hit off by the Ancient Bard. Impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis, acer!" But I fancy I hear some of your readers exclaiming " Get forward, Nimrod; get forward; or you will be having the Editor of the New Sporting Magazine flanking you again." I answer, that I do not care a sous for the Editor of the New Sporting Magazine. I will, however, dismiss this subject in a few words. After a good deal of cold and slow hunting, we at last worked up to the fox, and Mr. Jorrocks most politely presented me with the brush. The Dinner. At five o'clock precisely, for no man is more punctual than Mr. Jorrocks, I found myself comfortably seated with my legs. under his mahogany, in a delightful little party formed of my estimable host and his lady, a very Venus, and suggesting, by her complexion, the words of the Poet of Love," ut flos, &c."-Miss Belinda Jorrocks, their niece, a most lovely and fascinating young creature, the Diana of private life," rosy, with dew," as Moore says,-Mr. James Green, who I understand is a commercial gentleman, of great wealth, in Tooley Street, and who was evidently making love to Miss Belinda, and another gentleman, whose name was either Smith,* or Smyth, but which it was, I regret to say, I am unable to state. We had an excellent repast, in the old English style, of abundant profusion, which I so greatly admire,—goose at the top, goose at the bottom, and myself on one side,—sucking-pig to remove one, and a couple of hares to supplant the other. For side dishes, there were what I never saw before in any country,-a round of beef cut in two, one half placed on each side of the table; on inquiry, I found it was to get the real jucey part of the beef, without the salt. In addition to these, there were two gibblet pies. But my readers will naturally inquire, "had you, Nimrod, with all this eating, anything like drinking in proportion?" Oh, indeed, I answer yes-Oceans of Port! We drank "Fox-hunting again, and again, and again." In short, whenever my inestimable host found himself at a loss for a joke, a toast, or a sentiment, he exclaimed, "Come, Mr. Nimrod, let's drink Fox 'unting again!" Particulars I will not enter into, but I may be allowed to speak of myself. I paid such devotion to Bacchus, that I fancied I became the God myself!— Nimrod's forehead fancied the vine-crown around it! - But he trusts he never, in his moments of deepest hirality, forgot what was due to beauty and moral worth!-Yet, the wine in,-well may we say with the Augustan Classic, Cereus in vitium flecti, monitoribus asper, Sublimis, cupidusque, et amata relinquere pernix. Any particulars of the establishment of so celebrated a gentleman as Mr. Jorrocks, will, I am sure, be interesting to the readers of the "Sporting Review," I may, therefore, mention the first thing that occurred to me on returning to sensibility on the following morning. I * Being always most anxious for the accuracy of my statements, I have written twice to Mr. Jorrocks, to inquire which it was, but regret to add, that up to this time, the 25th of the month, I have not yet received an answer. Should it not arrive in time for insertion in the Review this month, my readers may rely upon ing in Bell's Life.-NIMROD. its appear. was lying toping and tumbling about in a very nice French bed, with white furniture, with a splitting head-ache, from my over-night's Anacreonism, as Moore elegantly calls it, when a gentle tap at my door first drew my attention to the fact that I was not, as I fancied, in the Calais packet, off Dover.-" Come in!" at length I cried, after the knock had been more than once repeated, and in obedience to the order, little Benjamin, Mr. Jorrocks's "buoy" of all work, presented himself at my bed-side. His whole person was enveloped in an old faded green baize apron, but there was no mistaking the rogueish ginnified countenance that appeared above it, even if he had suffered his tongue to lie dormant, which was not the case. 66 I say, governor!" exclaimed he, in that slangy, saucy dialect, peculiar to the lower orders in London," Betsey complains!" "Sirrah! Remember what the Latian said!" "Vot business have I here? I'll tell you vot business I have here,” said he. "The ould'un," (meaning Mr. Jorrocks) "bid me say, if your coppers were 'ot, you might have one of his Sizeley (Seidletz) powders," producing a box as he spoke. Mr. Jorrocks, however, I suppose, gets Benjamin on such terms as makes it convenient for him to put up with his impudence, as on no other score can I reconcile the idea of his keeping such a scoundrel. One word more relative to Mr. Jorrocks, and, for the present, I take leave of my most respected friend. It may not, perhaps, be generally known, that prior to Mr. Jorrocks becoming master of the Handley Cross Fox Hounds, his amiable lady and he did not live upon the most amiable terms, and frequent feuds disturbed the serenity of Great Coram Street. Since he got them, everything has gone on smoothly and well. Mrs. Jorrocks identifies herself with the sports of her husband, and not unfrequently graces the field in a fly. Is not this a compliment to hunting; and may not I, the chosen, the only real historian of the Chase, take some little credit to myself for the accomplishment of so desirable an object? I think I may ! Calais. NIMROD. MY HUNTER. Bluebell to wit; one of the staunchest bits of horseflesh that ever Who now, o'er heath or plashy meads, Or mountain side the swiftest speeds, Who, where the five-barr'd gate appears, Or wattled hedge its barrier rears, Th' unyielding fence like greyhound clears? My Hunter. Who, where the bullfinch, thick and tall, Stands in our path like garden wall, My Hunter. Crushes all thro', like bird or ball? My Hunter. Still" holds his own?"-My own Blue-bell. My Hunter. Who, when the fox now runs in view, And when at length, on far-off heath, NO. XCIV.-VOL. XVI. My Hunter. My Hunter. MODESTY. ૨ THE LATE CAPTAIN MORRIS. * And auld Rob Morris is the man ye maun lo'e." Old Song preserved by Allan Ramsay. How quietly has the death of Captain Morris been permitted to be passed over, by thousands, to whom his exquisite songs have contributed hours upon hours of harmony and joy! The sin of ingratitude lies at the door of all those who are bon-vivants in the highest and most refined sense, who thirst after the prosperity of pure English lyric poetry,—and who feel an honouring respect for departed genius. Why sleeps the name and fame of this extraordinary man ?-Connected as he was so long, from his vast, refined, and social powers, with royal, and noble circles-relished as his charming songs are by the hearts of " all circles." How is it that "silence wraps the suffering clay," and that relatives are apathetic-publishers dull and quiescent-and the lovers of the claret-jug-the mahogany and the sweet verses "married to immortal time," silent and uncomplaining. English Literature-particularly English Poetical Literature-has a sound right to demand the publication of the lyrical compositions of Captain Morris; and it is an imperative duty on his descendants or representatives towards the living and the dead, to comply at once with the demand. There is nothing so simple, yet so polished,-nothing so utterly melodious, yet so sweetly sensible, as Morris's verses, to be found in the whole range of English Song writing. And the painted pathos and glittering conceits of Moore, and all the tawdry affectations of his host of imitators, would indeed " sink in the repute" of those whose approbation, like that of Sir Herbert Stanley, is "praise indeed!" There ought to be a race amongst the publishers of the day, as important and as fleet, as that for the Derby or St. Leger,-to secure the invaluable prize of the M.S. Murray should make play at the start and lead them up the hill with Bentley close at his heels, and Colburn in a GOOD PLACE. The ruck should keep well together until the cross-roads-when Saunders and Otley should draw upon the leading rank; Colburn, and Bentley should then die away at the stand; and Murray after a short struggle with Churton and that "little Red Rover," Tilt, should win easy by a length-Moxon, a good second. But seriously and earnestly to speak, we envy that publisher, whose name is destined to live upon the titlepage of so precious an addition to our literature, as the works of Captain Morris. |