ney-coachmen say.

Our swell, who flatters himself he can "ride a few," according to the
fashion of his country, takes up a line of his own, abreast of the
leading hounds, notwithstanding the oft vociferated cry of "Hold hard,
sir!" "Pray, hold hard, sir!" "For God's sake, hold hard, sir!" "G--d
d--n you, hold hard, sir!" "Where the h--ll are you going to, sir?" and
other familiar inquiries and benedictions, with which a stranger is
sometimes greeted, who ventures to take a look at a strange pack of
hounds.

In the meantime the fox, who has often had a game at romps with his
pursuers, being resolved this time to give them a tickler, bears
straight away for Westerham, to the infinite satisfaction of the "hill
folks," who thus have an excellent opportunity of seeing the run without
putting their horses to the trouble of "rejoicing in their strength, or
pawing in the valley." But who is so fortunate as to be near the scene
of action in this second scurry, almost as fast as the first? Our fancy
supplies us, and there not being many, we will just initialise them all,
and let he whom the cap fits put it on.

If we look to the left, nearly abreast of the three couple of hounds
that are leading by some half mile or so, we shall see "Swell"--like a
monkey on a giraffe--striding away in the true Leicestershire style; the
animal contracting its stride after every exertion in pulling its long
legs out of the deep and clayey soil, until the Bromley barber, who has
been quilting his mule along at a fearful rate, and in high dudgeon at
anyone presuming to exercise his profession upon a dumb brute, overtakes
him, and in the endeavour to pass, lays it into his mule in a style that
would insure him rotatory occupation at Brixton for his spindles, should
any member of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals
witness his proceedings; while his friend and neighbour old B----, the
tinker, plies his little mare with the Brummagems, to be ready to ride
over "Swell" the instant the barber gets him down. On the right of the
leading hounds are three crack members of the Surrey, Messrs. B--e,
S--bs, and B--l, all lads who can go; while a long way in the rear of
the body of the pack are some dozen, who, while they sat on the hills,
thought they could also, but who now find out their mistake. Down Windy
Lane, a glimpse of a few red coats may be caught passing the gaps and
weak parts of the fence, among whom we distinctly recognise the