night, that he might the better signalise himself in their
destruction the next day. His hunting horses were the finest and
best managed in all these parts: his tenants are still full of
the praises of a gray stone-horse that unhappily staked himself
several years since, and was buried with great solemnity in the
orchard.

Sir Roger, being at present too old for fox-hunting, to keep
himself in action, has disposed of his beagles and got a pack of
STOP-HOUNDS. What these want in speed, he endeavours to make
amends for by the deepness of their mouths and the variety of
their notes, which are suited in such manner to each other, that
the whole cry makes up a complete concert. He is so nice in this
particular, that a gentleman having made him a present of a very
fine hound the other day, the Knight returned it by the servant
with a great many expressions of civility; but desired him to
tell his master, that the dog he had sent was indeed a most
excellent BASS, but that at present he only wanted a COUNTER-
TENOR. Could I believe my friend had ever read Shakespeare, I
should certainly conclude he had taken the hint from Theseus in
the MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.

My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind,
So flu'd so sanded, and their heads are hung
With ears that sweep away the morning dew.
Crook-knee'd and dew-lap'd like Thessalian bulls,
Slow in pursuit, but match'd in mouths like bells,
Each under each: A cry more tuneable
Was never holla'd to, nor chear'd with horn.