CHAPTEK XVII I. 



THE SOUTHDOWN FOXHOUNDS. 



ITH hey ho the wind and the rain, for the 

 rain it raineth every day," I muttered 

 discontentedly to myself, as I splashed 

 through the mud and slush on a fearfully 

 foggy morning, on my way to London Bridge to take 

 the train to Brighton, so as to have a look at the 

 far-famed Southdown Foxhounds, which hunt the 

 country contiguous to that pleasant place. It is said 

 that there is a silver lining to every cloud, and the 

 proverb was not belied on this occasion. 



Leaving the elements to war with one another, 

 and bidding dull care begone for a while, I entered 

 the portals of the celebrated Old Ship Hotel, and 

 soon found myself in congenial society. Having 

 been invited by Mr. Dewe, the Master of the Brighton 

 Harriers, to attend the sumptuous banquet given to 

 the owners and occupiers of the land over which they 

 hunt, by the subscribers and gentlemen riding with 

 this clever pack, I found a brilliantly lighted room, 

 an excellent dinner, first-rate wines, and some forty 

 agreeable companions, sportsmen, and friends to the 

 manliest of all amusements, hunting. As a proof of 

 the liberality of the tenant farmers of the locality 



