ing morning, particularly on a Saturday. At an early
hour, groups of grinning cits may be seen pouring in from the London
side, some on the top of Cloud's coaches,[1] some in taxed carts, but
the greater number mounted on good serviceable-looking nags, of the
invaluable species, calculated for sport or business, "warranted free
from vice, and quiet both to ride and in harness"; some few there are,
who, with that kindness and considerate attention which peculiarly mark
this class of sportsmen, have tacked a buggy to their hunter, and given
a seat to a friend, who leaning over the back of the gig, his jocund
phiz turned towards his fidus Achates, leads his own horse behind,
listening to the discourse of "his ancient," or regaling him "with sweet
converse"; and thus they onward jog, until the sign of the "Greyhound,"
stretching quite across the main street, greets their expectant optics,
and seems to forbid their passing the open portal below. In they wend
then, and having seen their horses "sorted," and the collar marks (as
much as may be) carefully effaced by the shrewd application of a due
quantity of grease and lamp-black, speed in to "mine host" and order a
sound repast of the good things of this world; the which to discuss,
they presently apply themselves with a vigour that indicates as much a
determination to recruit fatigue endured, as to lay in stock against the
effects of future exertion. Meanwhile the bustle increases; sportsmen
arrive by the score, fresh tables are laid out, covered with "no end" of
vivers; and towards the hour of nine, may be heard to perfection, that
pleasing assemblage of sounds issuing from the masticatory organs of
a number of men steadfastly and studiously employed in the delightful
occupation of preparing their mouthfuls for deglutition. "O noctes
coenaeque Deum," said friend Flaccus. Oh, hunting breakfasts! say we.
Where are now the jocund laugh, the repartee, the oft-repeated tale, the
last debate? As our sporting contemporary, the _Quarterly_, said, when
describing the noiseless pursuit of old reynard by the Quorn: "Reader,
there is no crash now, and not much music." It is the tinker that makes
a great noise over a little work, but, at the pace these men are eating,
there is no time for babbling. So, gentle lector, there is now no
leisure for bandying compliments, 'tis your small eater alone who
chatters o'er his meals; your true-born sportsman is ever a silent and,
consequently, an ass