Nothing can be said against the speed of these hounds, except that they have too much, which with me is a fault; but as my opinion with regard to this point has been expressed in a former article, it would be superfluous to say any thing now. Viewing the pack in the field, they have the appearance of being too highly fed, but I found, on inspecting them in the kennel, this was not the case; nor should it be: too much flesh is detrimental; and I would rather at all times be able to count four or five ribs in my hounds, than see them rolling in fat, and waddling along like an old maid's lap dog.

On inquiring what was their summer food, Captain Luttrell informed me he gave boiled potatos with some flesh seasoned with salt, and upon this they seem to thrive. The Captain told me he had taken this hint from the Sporting Magazine. Brimstone once a week mixed with the food is a good thing.

The following are the hounds I remarked from their superiority to the rest. Anxious, a two-yearold bitch-dam Duke of Beaufort's Anxious, sire the Duke's Governor-is a very promising young hound. Careless, a badger-pied bitch, now five years old, and one of the smallest, I liked much, and would have more of her stock were I Captain Luttrell. She is a splendid gallopper, and extremely quick in her changes. Harlequin, a dog nearly white, with tanned head and ears, struck my eye as running straight and well. But the cream of the pack (though young) is in my opinion Marksman, a black-tanned hound, very handsome, and good in his work, has a fine broad chest, straight leg, and good head, not

too long, and superior over the loins. His only fault is being a thought too large. His sisters, Magic, Melody, and Matchless, are most promising young ones, and wo to the fox which has these three vixens at his brush: they were got out of a bitch of Mr. Saville's, by a sire from Mr. Farquharson's kennel, and do honour to their parentage. Rattler, now five years old, brother to Careless and Caroline, is well christened, for he is a spinner. Ranter, two years old, dam a Sister to Careless, by the Duke of Grafton's Roderick, is a superior gallopper, and close hunting hound. Sparkler, one year old, out of Careless by Screamer, whose grandsire was a crack one from the Fitzwilliam Hunt, will, I think, sparkle some day most brilliantly. Bluecap (also of the same age), out of Lovely, and one of the best in the kennel by the paternal side, being descended from Dr.Troyte's (no mean blood), promises to do great things.

The Captain's stabling is very excellent and well arranged. He has a show of well-stamped prads for the country he hunts, and gives each a turn once a week; so that he is always hearty and well up for the business. He has one mare, now sixteen years old, which her owner rode eleven years, and which shews in her legs and form the care of a good master. Among the horses running in the paddock and destined for the hounds, there was one which is almost a curiosity, having been used for the purposes of husbandry over a stiff estate for raising crops; and, although old and hard-worked, is as fine in his understanders as a kitten, without a windgall or single blemish of any

sort on either of his forkals. This is a convincing proof that work is not always the cause of those external blemishes which disfigure the legs of horses: of this I have seen several instances in my travels.

To those who go to Putsam (the parish in which the kennel is situate), and have a taste for ornithology, I would recommend a visit to mine host of the village, who is very clever in the art of preserving the feather tribe, and has a good collection of British birds and animals. He produced the head of the fox I had assisted in condemning to death, which was intended to grace the hall of Mr. Webb, of St. Audries, a gentleman of whom I shall speak anon. He was a fine large fellow, and from the saffron tint of his dominoes and profusion of grey whisker, I should think

must have been one of the elders. Many a good goose, fowl, &c. had no doubt found its way down that capacious maw, and given occupation to those grinders that now shall grind no more.

Farewell, Mr. Fox,
To thy dominoe box,

It shall never more gobble my geese.
Thy labours are done,
Thy race it is run,

And my poultry may roost now in peace. On the second instant I took an carly breakfast, and mounted my horse for the purpose of taking a peep at the kennel of Dunster Castle. My ride was not a long one; but had it been fifty miles, I should have been well rewarded for the trouble of it by the beauty of the country through which I passed, and the sight of the Castle, which, I think

I

may venture to say, is one of the loveliest places in this or any part of England. It is the pro

perty of Fownes Luttrell, Esq., who I understand enjoys the comfortable little income of 20,0001. a-year; and, much as I heard of its beauties, for once I was not disappointed in my highraised expectations. It is exceedingly ancient, a part of it having been built during the Saxon Heptarchy, and the remainder in the reign of one of our first Harry's, and is erected on an eminence embosomed in the finest woods (now glowing in all the colours of the rainbow), and sheltered by lofty hills whose high heads appear to touch the sky. Nothing can exceed the beauty of the park, with its varied scenery of hill and dale, lowing herds, murmuring stream, and peaceful deer (with which it is plentifully studded), and which ever and anon, as the admiring traveller reins in his horse to gaze upon the scene, dart forward with an inquiring eye, and then retreat with the coquettish airs of a demoiselle. In front is the Bristol Channel, whose rolling waves, extending far as eye can reach, have a magnificent appearance here in the solitude of naturevery, very different to that which the same sea has at Brighton or Margate, with its crowd of cockneys paddling about it and dipping into it till it looks just like the New River at Islington, where little boys in the dog days are wont to shock the modesty of the ladies, by an exhibition which, though it may do very well for Mr. Achilles, in Hyde Park, becomes a very serious thing when real flesh and blood are in question. From the hills at the back of the Castle may be seen on a clear day the high lands around Plymouth, the Malvern Hills, the

mountains of South Wales, and the moor-land of Somerset, extending many miles away.

The family being at home, I had not the pleasure of seeing the interior of the Castle, which would have afforded me much gratification. As I stood on the terrace-now gazing on the magnificent scenery just faintly illumined by a November sun-anon glancing towards the Castle, whose aged walls seemed frowning on the intruder-imagination (that ready vehicle which travels faster than steam) transported me back to those days when England was the prey of every spoiler, and her children slaves-I thought of the generations that had sprung up, and been cut down since first its walls were raised walls that had stood the shock of ages; whilst man, immortal man, had passed away, successively, like the leaves of autumn. thought of the hope, the joy, the anguish that had been felt by its various inhabitants; the sighs that had been breathed, the tears shed, by

"Eyes that shone,

I

to descend to the kennel, that being the motive for which I had taken my morning's ride.

In the first place then, I consider the kennel badly situateda defect which nothing but the summary process of pulling down can remedy. It is on a hill overlooking the town of Dunster, and about the coldest place I ever

saw.

The yard, instead of being paved, is rugged, which is a certain disadvantage to the young 'uns in their gambols. The pack consists of sixteen couple, and are termed harriers, but the majority are in reality dwarf foxhounds: they are unsizeable, and have not a healthy look, owing no doubt to the coldness of their habitation. The sleeping room is much too small and narrow to please me. There are several badger-pied old dogs, which should be drafted, as the tediousness of climbing the hills has made a few rainbow legs. They hunt everything, which is also against them, for a Jack-of-alltrades can be perfect in none. There were two hounds I admired -a little bitch called Giddy, and a fine slapping broad-armed dog named Ruler, between which a good get might be had. I had not time to hunt with them whilst in the neighbourhood, nor did I much regret the circumstance, though the Minehead gentry spoke well of their performances.

The stables are on a splendid scale, but not well tenanted, by which I conclude the Squire (as he is called here) is more of a statesman than hunter.

On the 3d instant I met Mr. Webb's harriers, not far from the village of Willaton, in St. Decuman's parish. The game was almost too numerous for good sport; X

however, we had two very good things of it, running up our hares. These dogs, twelve couple, are some of them the true-shaped beagle, partaking a good deal of the old Southern caste, and perform very prettily; indeed, they are as neat a kennel as I have seen in these parts. Many of them are black tans; and for harehunting I scarcely ever knew a bad one of that colour. The mellow and deep-toned music of this pack is very cheering heard from the top of the hills, and their speed sufficiently quick for any poor puss. Mr. Webb has not had them above a season, consequently there are as yet many drafts among them, and many to draft, as I saw in the neighbourhood several promising puppies, which will come in well next year. The pack will no doubt do well by and bye, if hunted with judgment, which I cannot say is the case at present; for I think the huntsman is, without exception, the most gawky know nothing sort of a chap, for the line of life he has chosen, I ever saw, and seems to think all he has to do is to sound his horn, which he is continually doing, as if his intention was to qualify himself for guard to the Royal

mail.

This genius put me in mind of a fellow, who having a pretty good opinion of himself, went one morning to old Colonel Kelly, of facetious memory, to be engaged as huntsman; saying, "I hears, Zur, as how you bez in want of a huntsman, and I comed up to your Honour in hopes your Honour would have no objections to take me."- "Pray whose hounds have you hunted?" said the Colonel.—“Why, Zur, I can't say as

how I have ever been a huntsman."-"You have been whipperin then, I suppose?"-" No, Zur, not whipper-in."-" Whose kennel have you been feeder to, then?"-"Ees never been a veeder either, Zur," returned wiseacre.— "Then what the devil have you been?" says the Colonel, vexed with the clown's stupidity.— "Why, Zur, I'ze a beed out with the Werrington beagles when they comed over vather's ground, and I does dearly love the zound on 'em."-Down pops the Colonel in his chair, and, holding up his foot to the bumpkin, says, "Measure me for a pair of shoes, my man ; and when you have made them I'll take you for a huntsman, for you appear just as capable of one as the other."-So saying Clodpole was dismissed, wondering, no doubt, that a person so eminently qualified for the situation shouldn't have been instantly secured.

Mr. Webb's huntsman has no excuse for not being with his dogs, for he has a rare bit of stuff under hi-no other than the mare which so ungallantly gave My Lady Warwick a spill in Hyde Park. She is a very pretty bony prad, and does honour to her blood (the Orville).

On my noticing to Mr. Webb the ignorance of his major domo, he made this sensible reply:"The mischief is, Sir, that when you engage servants, they appear from their answers capable of doing all you want; and when you get them into your establishment, you too often find they can do nothing. It is an unpleasant thing to be continually changing servants, and you therefore escape one evil by tolerating a greater."

This old buck is a thorough sportsman, and has a beautiful

place called Saint Audries, to which he removed from Warwickshire. He told me he intended adding about five hundred acres to his park, in order to increase his head of deer, and has some thoughts of breeding red game on the hills, which will, I hope and think, answer his expectations. When I say his sporting propensities were fostered and encouraged by the huntsman of the famous Somervile, it is not surprising he should be "nothing but a good one." He told me he had been a master of hounds fifty-one years, and in that time had had many rare packs. He has in his possession some reliques of the Bard, which he treasures as religiously as ever did Roman Catholic the most sacred emblem of his creed: these are, his whip, cap, and spurs, and, better than all, the chair in which he sat when occupied in writing that delightful of all Poems, The Chase, which, for truth and nature, cannot be excelled by anything in our language. In my next, I will give you a short biography of Somervile, as communicated by my kind entertainer, which is too interesting to be compressed in this already extended letter.

Mr. Webb detailed many entertaining stories illustrative of the ruling passion. I have already remarked that he is none of your half-and-half sort of gentlemen, your dandy sportsmen, who think hounds a necessary part of their establishment, and care as little for them as they do for their poultry, but a regular Son of the Chase, and will no doubt continue so long as life vibrates in his bosom. He told me, some two years since he found himself rather ailing; and after con

sulting the Faculty in town without effect, he was advised to ride for his life. No sooner said than done away he scoured on his best hunter (his wife accompanying him in a post-chaise), and stopped not till they had accomplished 800 miles, by which time the complaint (which was most likely a touch of the blue devils) had vanished, and " Cæsar was himself again."

During his journey he saw Saint Audries, his present residence, and admiring its situation, as one just calculated for his favorite pursuits, became purchaser of the estate, containing sixteen hundred acres of the best land for game in the kingdom. His habits are quite of the Old School, and he is fond of early hours, to which he attributes the health he enjoys at his time of life; and advises the young 'uns to adopt the same good practice. He is a fine old fellow; a worthy disciple of so excellent a master as Somervile; and that he may long live to chase the wily varmint, and delight his friends, must, I am sure, be the wish of all who know him. "Longer than we have time to tell his years,

Ever belov'd and loving may his rule be; And when Old Time shall lead him to his end,

Goodness and he fill up one monument!"

And now, Mr. Editor, having, I fear, made sad inroads on the Parson's paper, your pages, and my brethren's patience, I conclude, subscribing myself ever your dutiful and loving subject,

GILBERT FORESTER.

November 16, 1831.

P. S. My next move will be towards Sir Arthur Chichester's and Sir Walter Carew's country, and of which you shall in due season be informed.