ful but now gloomy-looking edifice, on my road to the kennels, I could hardly forbear giving one sigh for the old and well-remembered glories of those times when upwards of twenty hunters stood in the stables of this well-conducted hostelry alone. The road to the Heythrop kennels is by a by-lane, or rather across fields, inconveniently intersected by some of the heaviest cleft ash-gates I ever had the pleasure of opening, and which came rather thicker than was agreeable to a man driving a fidgetty horse, and upon whose good temper he might be in some way dependent for a safe passage through the disagreeable barrier. The latter portion of the drive, after you enter the old Park, is exceedingly agreeable; and one of the best places in the world for the purpose of walking out a pack of fox-hounds. The kennels are situated upon a bank at the southern side of the park, where they are well supplied with water; in fact, rather too abundantly, as the spring, by which the reservoirs were filled, was supposed to cause a dampness and rheumatism; which has been, I am happy to say, effectually removed by merely making a new channel for the water into the building, so that it now supplies the courts of the kennel without passing in any way near to any of the lodging-rooms. The huntsman, and, in fact, all the servants connected with the Heythrop hounds, reside in the two wings of the old mansion, about a quarter of a mile from the kennel; the centre of which many of my readers may be aware was burnt to the ground some sixteen years ago, through the carelessness of a servant when airing the beds previous to the arrival of the late Duke of Beaufort, who at that time lived there during the hunting season, hunting the Badmington and Heythrop countries alternate months. The aspect of the ruin is most melancholy, though replete with grandeur; and as we gazed on the fine old Corinthian columns, as the howling tempest chaunted its Eolian anthem through the once hospitable though now deserted and mouldering galleries of Heythrop House, I could hardly help repeating the well-known and beautiful lines of the Swan of Avon, so truly-descriptive of the littleness, after all, of the mighty grandeur of man's terrestrial existence :

"The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,

The solemn temples, the great globe itself," &c.

I found my old friend Jem Hills with his whip in his hand, all ready for feeding," nine fifteen," as they term it at the terminus of the Smashington Junction Railway. However, as he knew I was about to pay him a visit, he had waited ten minutes for me, having been delayed nearly that time by having to descend from my trap to open the eight or ten gates of which I before made mention. He drew all the hounds for me, and then he walked out and fed. He never walks out after feeding, as most huntsmen do, but puts 'em over into a strawyard for a little while, and moves 'em out in about an hour-and-a-half's time. And I think he is right, as we all know some delicate hounds are apt to throw off part of their meat directly after feeding, if moved about in too hurried a manner. Lord Redesdale's are certainly a fine pack of hounds, but not exactly the stamp I admire as a model; I like them long and low, with all their points in that form which the best judges of hounds have long pronounced to be proper. However, Jem Hills says he is convinced that the description of hound which he has so long tried wo

produce is more able to race over their flying country, and top the numerous stone walls which divide the fields in a great part of Oxfordshire, especially on the Gloucestershire side. There is a great variety of blood in the kennel: a little of the Beaufort; but that is wearing out, more the pity; the Duke of Rutland's, Mr. Drake's, and the Yarborough, nine couples and a half, which he drew out and showed me, all being of one strain, viz., the Yarborough Plunder; and although I could recognize the old sorts, they were a little remodelled by Jem's new taste. Nevertheless, he says no sort in the world can be stouter in chace than they are; and that I always said myself. I had a long talk with Jem Hills about the kennel lameness or rheumatism; and he, I found, had got Charles Davis's recipe, of which I spoke before, and declared to me that it was the finest thing in the world for hounds that were stiff-in fact, a perfect cure-but admitted that real kennel lameness was caused by the situation alone of the building, and that when a pack of hounds was thoroughly attacked by that dreadful curse on dog-flesh, nothing but a removal to a more healthy locality could in any way effect a cure. I spent, to me, a very agreeable four-hours' talking about hunting matters; and I really think I could have stopped till now, had I not had an engagement which obliged me to make the best of my way to the classic city of Alma Mater. Amongst other matters, Jem Hills told me a long story about his hounds being hallooed to a dog when they were running almost into their fox, close to the town of Oxford; and the curious circumstances connected with this stupid and atrocious act must be some apology for my relating it here. At the end of the season before last the hounds found a fox at Bladon Wood; now this fox was not only well known to the farmer residing close to the cover, as a most remarkable animal with only half a brush, but also as having his ears greatly disfigured either by the knife of some cruel brute who had caught him and afterwards slit them, and then docked him and put him down again; but the huntsman himself viewed him away, and could plainly discern that he was disfigured in the manner I have described. Just as the hounds were about to finish him, not being more than a couple of fields a-head, Jack Goddard, the whipper-in, viewed him, and as the fox had made a turn towards him, rode by his side for some distance; and not much liking his appearance, never having seen "bold Reynolds" with such a masqueradish-looking countenance before, he turned back towards the hounds, and stopped them, saying to the huntsman, "Master, it's not one of our country foxes." At this moment some foot-people hallooed a red dog which was running in a different direction, to the left of the line taken by the fox, and the hounds broke away, flashed on him a little, but were instantly stopped. This dog was soon after caught in a hovel, and proved to be a red terrier bitch, so near her time that she whelped within a fortnight. There are always plenty of "d-d good natured fellows" in every hunt, formed chiefly by the tale-bearing, would-be sportsman of the chief market-town in the neighbourhood; and this was the case here. There were persons who declared that the hounds had run a dog the whole distance; but how could a dog of that size, more especially a bitch heavy in whelp, stand such a fast thing as these hounds had first across the country towards Islip, and then from that point to Oxford, a distance of ten or eleven miles? It

needs no comment; it was impossible, and that's enough. Besides, the old cropped fox was seen by the farmer to return to his quarters in the evening, and was repeatedly seen since in the same place. I can well imagine even so good a hand as Jack Goddard is, being staggered at the appearance of the fox when he rode by his side; for I very well recollect a circumstance, though not exactly like this case, very similar to it, happening in Yorkshire with the Holderness hounds, about seven years ago. The hounds brought a fox into Tibthorpe plantations after a run, and were killing him, when just after entering the cover they changed for an animal which came before them right up the middle ride, and was killed close to where I was then standing; now, if I had been forced to swear when I first viewed him whether it was a fox or not, I would much rather have sworn that it was not a fox, for I really believed at the time that it was a racoon or some such devil. But after all, it was a real Yorkshireman, with his ears and brush paired off. The master of the hounds, who hunted them himself, quickly disposed of him, and then lifted his hounds on to his hunted fox, and then killed him, after a one short ring round the cover. Jem Hills is too old a soldier to let his pack run a dog two minutes without his finding them out; and although his system of lifting and getting forwards may not be to the taste of all of us, there are few better chase-huntsmen in England than he is. The Heythrop country is a most delicate scenting country; the scent soon fleets away, and, excepting during very wet seasons, nine foxes out of ten would escape, the hounds being beaten and out-run by their fox for want of scent to kill him if the "tow low" system of some of the old school were invariably adhered to. One extraordinary instance of the difference of scent existing on the same day, in two countries not above a dozen miles apart, may be mentioned, when the Warwickshire hounds had a brilliant fifty-five minutes, and killed their first fox from Tysoe Spiney, and afterwards hunted another for an hour and a-half with a good fair scent, going at times fast, on the very day that the Heythrop were at Kiddington Gate, and were hardly able to walk after their fox during a great portion of the morning, an account of which day's sport I have given above. The Heythrop hounds are a most agreeable pack to hunt with, for those sportsmen who prefer the quiet amusement of the chace in the provincials, to the more arduous and expensive business of steering a large stud of high-priced horses in Leicestershire or the Pytchley country. The noble owner of the pack is a most affable and popular master of hounds. The huntsman is a cheery and indefatigable sportsman, and shows far more than an average number of first-rate runs in the course of a season; Jack Goddard, the first whipper-in, is a most obliging and respectful attendant, a first-rate horseman, and for a flying pack of hounds he has quite enough of the ruffian; perhaps he has hardly voice enough for a deep woodland country, but where he is, he is always in his place, turns the hounds very quick, and can help to kill a crooked fox in the open as well as any whipper-in in England. These hounds had a most extraordinary and brilliant run on the day before Christmas-day, the season before last, from the well-known cover Tar Wood, which is a neutral cover between them and the Berkshire, now under the management of Mr. Moreland; and I don't think I can do better than give a description of it in the very words of a sporting poet in that neighbourhood.

The very lightning of the chase. The fox had reached the Southrop lane;

He strove to cross, but strove in vain

The pack roll'd o'er him in his stride,

And onward struggling still-he died.

This gallant fox, in TarWood found, Had cross'd full twenty miles of ground;

Had sought no shelter for his flight In covert either left or right; + Jem Hills, the huntsman.

* Jem Hills' horse. + The huntsman's second horse.