"
To Merstham seven miles, the road winds through a bleak valley called
Smithem Bottom, till recently the favourite resort of the cockney
gunners for rabbit-shooting; but whether from the noise of their
harmless double-barrel _Nocks_, or the more dreadful carnage of the
Croydon poachers, these animals are now exceedingly scarce in this
neighbourhood. Just as we came in sight of Merstham, the distant view
halloo of the huntsman broke upon our ears, when the near-leader rising
upon his haunches and neighing with delight at the inspiring sound, gave
us to understand that he had not always been used to a life of drudgery,
but in earlier times had most likely carried some daring Nimrod to the
field, and bounded with fiery courage o'er hedge and gate, through dell
and brake, outstripping the fleeting wind to gain the honour of _the
brush_. Ere we had gained the village, reynard and the whole field broke
over the road in their scarlet frocks, and dogs and horses made a dash
away for a steeple chase across the country, led by the worthy-hearted
owner of the pack, the jolly fox-hunting Colonel, Hilton Jolliffe, whose
residence caps the summit of the hill. From hence to Reigate, four miles
farther, there was no circumstance or object of interest, if I except a
very romantic tale coachee ~283~~narrated of his hunting leader, who had
of course been bred in the stud of royalty itself, and had since been
the property of two or three sporting peers, when, having put out a
_spavin_, during the last hunting season, he was sold for a __machiner;
but being since fired and turned out, he had come up all right, and
was now, according to coachee's disinterested opinion, one of the best
hunters in the kingdom.
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