you're werry welcome in St. Botolph Lane, and as this is your
first wisit, why, I'll make you a present of some tea--wot do you
drink?--black or green, or perhaps both--four pounds of one and two of
t'other. Here, Joe!" summoning his foreman, "put up four pounds of that
last lot of black that came in, and two pounds of superior green, and
this gentleman will tell you where to leave it.--And when do you think
of starting?" again addressing the Yorkshireman--"egad this is fine
weather for the country--have half a mind to have a jaunt myself--makes
one quite young--feel as if I'd laid full fifty years aside, and were
again a boy--when did you say you start?" "Why, I don't know exactly,"
replied the Yorkshireman, "the weather's so fine that I'm half tempted
to go round by Newmarket." "Newmarket!" exclaimed Jorrocks, throwing
his arm in the air, while his paper cap fell from his head with the
jerk--"by Newmarket! why, what in the name of all that's impure, have
you to do at Newmarket?"

"Why, nothing in particular; only, when there's neither hunting nor
shooting going on, what is a man to do with himself?--I'm sure you'd
despise me if I were to go fishing." "True," observed Mr. Jorrocks
somewhat subdued, and jingling the silver in his breeches-pocket.
"Fox-'unting is indeed the prince of sports. The image of war, without
its guilt, and only half its danger. I confess that I'm a martyr to
it--a perfect wictim--no one knows wot I suffer from my ardour.--If ever
I'm wisited with the last infirmity of noble minds, it will be caused by
my ingovernable passion for the chase. The sight of a saddle makes me
sweat. An 'ound makes me perfectly wild. A red coat throws me into a
scarlet fever. Never throughout life have I had a good night's rest
before an 'unting morning. But werry little racing does for me; Sadler's
Wells is well enough of a fine summer evening--especially when they
plump the clown over head in the New River cut, and the ponies don't