nts, the fact just mentioned is sufficiently
curious, and may serve to confirm the supposition I have ventured to
make of the purity of the blood of our modern foxhound.

A volume might be written on the characteristics of these dogs, both
in the kennel and the field, and I will endeavour to illustrate this
by a few anecdotes.

It is well known to those who have lived near a kennel, that every
morning at the first gleam of light the hounds invariably salute the
glorious return of day, by joining simultaneously in a full chorus of
voices, 'a musical discord,' called by huntsmen "their morning hymn."
This concert does not consist of barking and yapping as many may
suppose, but something like the "Hullah system," yet far more sonorous
to a sportsman's ear.

Those who have witnessed the process of feeding hounds cannot but
acknowledge that it is a most pleasing sight. We see the anxiety
depicted in their countenances to detect the huntsman's eye, who calls
them singly by name in a low tone of voice, nor does one offer to stir
till his time comes. Each dog also takes every day the same position,
like children at school, except that all are obedient, and there is
no noise. His late Majesty George IV., in his younger days, was a
constant attendant at the royal kennel at feeding-time, and many of
the royal family have also been to see the hounds fed at that place.

Close to the Duke of Beaufort's kennel at Badmington a tame fox was
confined, and between it and the foxhounds a great friendship existed.
When the hounds were let out they played with the fox, who, on his
part, was equally ready to greet them. This reciprocal kindness had
continued some time, until one day a hunted fox, much exhausted, ran
for shelter into a bush close to the hutch of the tame one. The
hounds, in the eagerness of the chase, ran into the latter, mistaking
him for the other, and instantly killed him. No sooner, however, were
they aware of their having occasioned the death of their old
acquaintance, than each hound slunk away, appearing conscious and
ashamed of what had been done, nor could they be induced to touch the
dead fox when thrown amongst them.

Amongst other curious anecdotes of foxhounds, the following may be
mentioned. Some years ago, Sir John Cope had a hound called Clermont,
which was in the constant habit, when the pack killed a fox, of taking
possession of the animal's head. This he invariably carried in his
mouth, as if it was a