“me sylva, cavusque
  Tutus ab insidiis tenui solabitur ervo.”

On overhearing which, Mr. Jorrocks hurries back to his brother subscribers, and informs them, very gravely, that the stranger is no less a personage than “Prince Matuchevitz, the Russian ambassador and minister plenipotentiary extraordinary,” whereupon the whole field join in wishing him safe back in Russia—­or anywhere else—­and wonder at his incredible assurance in supposing that he could cope with the Surrey hunt.

II.  THE YORKSHIREMAN AND THE SURREY

It is an axiom among fox-hunters that the hounds they individually hunt with are the best—­compared with them all others are “slow.”

Of this species of pardonable egotism, Mr. Jorrocks—­who in addition to the conspicuous place he holds in the Surrey Hunt, as shown in the preceding chapter, we should introduce to our readers as a substantial grocer in St. Botolph’s Lane, with an elegant residence in Great Coram Street, Russell Square—­has his full, if not rather more than his fair share.  Vanity, however, is never satisfied without display, and Mr. Jorrocks longed for a customer before whom he could exhibit the prowess of his[5] pack.

[Footnote 5:  Subscribers, speaking to strangers, always talk of the hounds as their own.]

Chance threw in his way a young Yorkshireman, who frequently appearing in subsequent pages, we may introduce as a loosish sort of hand, up to anything in the way of a lark, but rather deficient in cash—­a character so common in London, as to render further description needless.

Now it is well known that a Yorkshireman, like a dragoon, is nothing without his horse, and if he does understand anything better than racing—­it is hunting.  Our readers will therefore readily conceive that a Yorkshireman is more likely to be astonished at the possibility of fox-hunting from London, than captivated by the country, or style of turn-out; and in truth, looking at it calmly and dispassionately, in our easy-chair drawn to a window which overlooks the cream of the grazing grounds in the Vale of White Horse, it does strike us with astonishment, that such a thing as a fox should be found within a day’s ride of the suburbs.  The very idea seems preposterous, for one cannot but associate the charms of a “find” with the horrors of “going to ground” in an omnibus, or the fox being headed by a great Dr. Eady placard, or some such monstrosity.  Mr. Mayne,[6] to be sure, has brought racing home to every man’s door, but fox-hunting is not quite so tractable a sport.  But to our story.

[Footnote 6:  The promoter of the Hippodrome, near Bayswater—­a speculation that soon came to grief.]