Our pretty little pack of Belgrave Square Harriers had their first
winter meeting on Thursday last at Lady Hurtleberry's.
It is impossible to conceive a more desirable place for the sport of
their hunting than her Ladyship's. The gorgeous rose-coloured damask
hangings give the finest possible tone to the complexion, the
purple-flowered _tapis_ sets off the foot to the greatest advantage,
whilst a grand piano by BROADWOOD, and a harp by ERARD, afford the most
convenient opportunities for the display of accomplishments.
The "meet" took place at nine o'clock precisely, and a better "room"
could not be desired.
As each member of the Hunt keeps her own harriers at "Walk," the first
Meeting is always interesting from the number of new "drafts." In
addition, therefore, to those harriers that hunted last season, with all
of whom you are well acquainted, the following new entries were made:—
Lady Browbeater's Lucy Jane; "too short in the head," to my fancy.
The Hon. Mrs. Rattletrap's Julia Rose; a lively creature, and "gives
tongue" beautifully.
Mrs. Major Fubbs's Clementina Louisa; very dumpy and dull—sure to be
"latter'd."
Mrs. General Rowdedow's Lucidora; all that heart could wish—fine nose,
capital mouth, splendid chest, and a forehand and arm of perfect
symmetry.
There were one or two others introduced during the evening, but none of
them possessed the necessary qualifications for the Belgrave Square
Harriers. "The beaters" upon this occasion had been my brother Charles,
whose Captaincy, by purchase, depends upon my being eligibly married off
papa's hands; young Musparrot, similarly circumstanced; and old Major
Muggs with four daughters, aged respectively twenty-six, twenty-eight,
twenty-nine, and thirty.
[Illustration:
THE HEIR-PRESUMPTIVE OF GREASE.
]
They had great fears at one time that our first meet would prove
"blank," as they had beat up all the clubs during September and October
without "pricking" an Heir either apparent or presumptive. Major Muggs
had the good fortune to hit upon a track at last, and a finer specimen I
never saw during my short experience. Five feet eleven, Roman nose,
D'Orsay whiskers, and said to be worth twelve thousand a year when of
age in January next. He was found lying in some elegantly furnished
apartments in the Albany, sitting on a beautiful form of velvet. As soon
as he made his appearance in the enclosure at Lady Hurtleberry's the
pack was laid on. Amelia Frog-morton "challenged" first; I, you may be
sure, was not slow in answering her.
The Heir first made for a _Polka Quadrille_, closely waited on by
Amelia, with myself for a _vis-à-vis_. Having got as far as _Pastorale_,
he "doubled" round by the piano, Mary Warbleton having "turned him" by
Jenny Lind's _Ran tan plan_, from _Il Figlia del Regimento_. He then
"took away" to the card room, but being "headed" by my brother Charles,
who was purposely stationed in the doorway, he made for the harp, where
I pressed him very hard with _Bochsa's Fancies_. He doubled again, and
ran straight to the supper-room, closely followed by the entire pack,
but the champagne coming on pretty briskly, Lady Hurtleberry thought it
right to "call us off" for the evening, the Heir being ultimately bagged
by the Major and Musparrot, and carried to the —— Club; for what purpose
I leave you to guess. The Heir has been "turned down" twice since, and
already shows symptoms of distress. I have not the least doubt that in a
short time longer, _I_, yes _I_, my dear Eliza, shall have the pleasure
(but this is _entre nous_) of introducing you to a real juggled heir.
By-the-bye, I must send you a copy of a song written by that rattlepate
Rattletraps. It is to the air of
"Bright chanticleer proclaims the morn."
Bright chandeliers the room adorn,
Each thing's arranged with care,
And gayest smiles and silks are worn
This night to catch the Heir.
With a heigho! Letty!
Hark forward, you forward Miss Betty
To-night we hunt the He-e-e-i-r—
To-night we hunt the Heir!
Poor Heir! you feel our sport a bore,
We read it in your face;
If you'll propose to one—no more,
You'll find us give you chase.
With a sigh from Letty!
Or forward, too forward Miss Betty!
No more we'll hunt the He-e-e-i-r—
No more we'll hunt the Heir!