It is not my province nor my intention to describe minutely the Castle-Cropper hounds. All the world knows that the Earl of Castle-Cropper is a thorough sportsman; that you might hunt with him from year’s end to year’s end, and, except to beg you civilly to “hold hard,” never hear him open his lips; and that he is supposed to be as facetious and agreeable in private life as he is reserved and silent in his public capacity. The same world knows, too, that Will Hawk, who was with his father, the old Earl, in the famous days of Musters and Tom Smith, a sort of heroic period “_ante Agamemnona_” is the prince of huntsmen, and the flower of veterans; that the horses are undeniable, the servants respectable, well dressed, and trustworthy, though scarcely so quick as they might be; the whole thing goes like clockwork, and the hounds are beyond all praise. Well they may be; they have had that advantage which is so indispensable to the perfection of a pack, and, in these days of change, so often denied it, viz., time. In the best part of a century, a uniform height, an equal excellence, and a family likeness are to be attained, with constant perseverance and unlimited expense. From generation to generation the Earls of Castle-Cropper have devoted their leisure, their money, and their attention, to this favourite hobby. The present successor may well be satisfied with the result.
They are rather large, solemn-looking hounds, extremely rich in colour; the dark and tan, both in dogs and bitches, predominating. They have a strong family likeness in the depth of their girth, the width of their loins, and the quality of the timber on which they stand. You might seek through the kennels at the Castle for a summer’s day without finding a pair of legs that were not as straight and square as a dray-horse’s, with feet as round as a cat’s. In hunting they run well together, without flashing to the front; and although other hounds may seem to make their way quicker across a field, the Castle-Croppers keep continuously on, over a country, seldom _hovering_, as it is called, for a moment, and carrying the scent with them, as it were, in defiance of all obstacles. Old Hawk assists them but little, and holloas to them not at all. These hounds are never seen with ears erect and heads up, waiting for information. If they want to know where their fox is gone, they put their noses down, and find out for themselves. Also, they come home with their sterns waving over their backs; and finally, I cannot describe their uniformity of appearance and general strength and efficiency better than by saying, that the bitches are so like the dogs, you can hardly tell the one pack from the other, but by the shriller music of its tones.