It was on a nasty, cold, foggy, dark, drizzling morning in the month of February, that the Yorkshireman, having been offered a “mount” by Mr. Jorrocks, found himself shivering under the Piazza in Covent Garden about seven o’clock, surrounded by cabs, cabbages, carrots, ducks, dollys, and drabs of all sorts, waiting for his horse and the appearance of the friend who had seduced him into the extraordinary predicament of attiring himself in top-boots and breeches in London.  After pacing up and down some minutes, the sound of a horse’s hoofs were heard turning down from Long Acre, and reaching the lamp-post at the corner of James Street, his astonished eyes were struck with the sight of a man in a capacious, long, full-tailed, red frock coat reaching nearly to his spurs, with mother-of-pearl buttons, with sporting devices—­which afterwards proved to be foxes, done in black—­brown shag breeches, that would have been spurned by the late worthy master of the Hurworth,[7] and boots, that looked for all the world as if they were made to tear up the very land and soil, tied round the knees with pieces of white tape, the flowing ends of which dangled over the mahogany-coloured tops.  Mr. Jorrocks—­whose dark collar, green to his coat, and tout ensemble, might have caused him to be mistaken for a mounted general postman—­was on a most becoming steed—­a great raking, raw-boned chestnut, with a twisted snaffle in his mouth, decorated with a faded yellow silk front, a nose-band, and an ivory ring under his jaws, for the double purpose of keeping the reins together and Jorrocks’s teeth in his head—­the nag having flattened the noses and otherwise damaged the countenances of his two previous owners, who had not the knack of preventing him tossing his head in their faces.  The saddle—­large and capacious—­made on the principle of the impossibility of putting a round of beef upon a pudding plate—­was “spick and span new,” as was an enormous hunting-whip, whose iron-headed hammer he clenched in a way that would make the blood curdle in one’s veins, to see such an instrument in the hands of a misguided man.

[Footnote 7:  The late Mr. Wilkinson, commonly called “Matty Wilkinson,” master of the Hurworth foxhounds, was a rigid adherent of the “d——­n-all-dandy” school of sportsmen.]

“Punctuality is the politeness of princes,” said Mr. Jorrocks, raising a broad-brimmed, lowish-crowned hat, as high as a green hunting-cord which tackled it to his yellow waistcoat by a fox’s tooth would allow, as he came upon the Yorkshireman at the corner.  “My soul’s on fire and eager for the chase!  By heavens, I declare I’ve dreamt of nothing else all night, and the worst of it is, that in a par-ox-ism of delight, when I thought I saw the darlings running into the warmint, I brought Mrs. J——­ such a dig in the side as knocked her out of bed, and she swears she’ll go to Jenner, and the court for the protection of injured ribs!  But come—­jump up—­where’s your nag?  Binjimin, you blackguard, where are you?  The fog is blinding me, I declare!  Binjimin, I say!  Binjimin! you willain, where are you?”