'Twere almost needless to inform our readers, that such portion of a
county as is hunted by any one pack of hounds is technically denominated
their country; and of all countries under the sun, that of the Surrey
subscription foxhounds undoubtedly bears the bell. This superiority
arises from the peculiar nature of the soil--wretched starvation stuff
most profusely studded with huge sharp flints--the abundance of large
woods, particularly on the Kent side, and the range of mountainous hills
that run directly through the centre, which afford accommodation to the
timid, and are unknown in most counties and unequalled in any.

One of the most striking features in the aspect of this chosen region of
fox-hunting, is the quiet easy manner in which the sportsmen take the
thing. On they go--now trotting gently over the flints--now softly
ambling along the grassy ridge of some stupendous hill--now quietly
following each other in long-drawn files, like geese, through some
close and deep ravine, or interminable wood, which re-echoes to their
never-ceasing holloas--every man shouting in proportion to the amount of
his subscription, until day is made horrible with their yelling. There
is no pushing, jostling, rushing, cramming, or riding over one another;
no jealousy, discord, or daring; no ridiculous foolhardy feats; but each
man cranes and rides, and rides and cranes in a style that would gladden
the eye of a director of an insurance office.

The members of the Surrey are the people that combine business with
pleasure, and even in the severest run can find time for sweet
discourse, and talk about the price of stocks or stockings. "Yooi wind
him there, good dog, yooi wind him."--"Cottons is fell."--"Hark to
Cottager! Hark!"--"Take your bill at three months, or give you three
and a half discount for cash." "Eu in there, eu in, Cheapside, good