length on the headland.
Jorrocks then pulls up.

The tragedy of George Barnwell ends with a death, and we are happy in
being able to gratify our readers with a similar entertainment. Already
have the best-mounted men in the field attained the summit of one of the
Mont Blancs of the country, when on looking down the other side of the
"mountain's brow," they, to their infinite astonishment, espy at some
distance our "Swell" dismounted and playing at "pull devil, pull
baker" with the hounds, whose discordant bickerings rend the skies.
"Whoo-hoop!" cries one; "whoo-hoop!" responds another; "whoo-hoop!"
screams a third; and the contagion spreading, and each man dismounting,
they descend the hill with due caution, whoo-hooping, hallooing, and
congratulating each other on the splendour of the run, interspersed with
divers surmises as to what mighty magic had aided the hounds in getting
on such good terms with the warmint, and exclamations at the good
fortune of the stranger, in being able (by nicking,[4] and the fox
changing his line) to get in at the finish.

[Footnote 4: A stranger never rides straight if he beats the members of
the hunt.]

And now some dozens of sportsmen quietly ambling up to the scene of
action, view with delight (alone equalled by their wonder at so unusual
and unexpected an event) the quarrels of the hounds, as they dispute
with each other the possession of their victim's remains, when suddenly
a gentleman, clad in a bright green silk-velvet shooting-coat, with
white leathers, and Hessian boots with large tassels, carrying his Joe
Manton on his shoulder, issues from an adjoining coppice, and commences
a loud complaint of the "unhandsome conduct of the gentlemen's 'ounds in
devouring the 'are (hare) which he had taken so much pains to shoot."
Scarcely are these words out of his mouth than the whole hunt, from
Jorrocks downwards, let drive such a rich torrent of abuse at our
unfortunate _chasseur_, that he is fain to betake himself to his heels,
leaving them undisputed masters of the field.

The visages of our sportsmen become dismally lengthened on finding that
their fox has been "gathered unto his fathers" by means of hot lead and
that villainous saltpetre "digged out of the bowels of the harmless
earth"; some few, indeed, there are who are bold enough to declare that
the pack has actually made a meal of a hare, and that their fox is
snugly earthed in the neighbouring cover. However, as there are n