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 assiduous grubber. True it is that occasionally space
is found between mouthfuls to vociferate "WAITER!" in a tone that
requires not repetition; and most sonorously do the throats of the
assembled eaters re-echo the sound; but this is all--no useless
exuberance of speech--no, the knife or fork is directed towards what
is wanted, nor needs there any more expressive intimation of the
applicant's wants.

[Footnote 1: The date of this description, it must be remembered, is put
many years back.]

At length the hour of ten approaches; bills are paid, pocket-pistols
filled, sandwiches stowed away, horses accoutred, and our bevy straddle
forth into the town, to the infinite gratification of troops of
dirty-nosed urchins, who, for the last hour, have been peeping in at the
windows, impatiently watching for the _exeunt_ of our worthies.--They
mount, and away--trot, trot--bump, bump--trot, trot--bump, bump--over
Addington Heath, through the village, and up the hill to Hayes Common,
which having gained, spurs are applied, and any slight degree of
pursiness that the good steeds may have acquired by standing at livery
in Cripplegate, or elsewhere, is speedily pumped out of them by a
smart brush over the turf, to the "Fox," at Keston, where a numerous
assemblage of true sportsmen patiently await the usual hour for throwing