r in his youth, he
was remarkable for his kindness to animals and for the facility with
which he tamed them. He kept terriers, and his pointers were first rate,
yet he never allowed his keepers to beat a dog, nor did he ever do it
himself; he said a dog once cowed was good for nothing ever after. He
trained them by tying a string to the collar and giving it a sharp pull
when the dog did wrong, and patting him kindly when he did right. In
this manner he taught some of his non-sporting dogs to play all sorts of
tricks, such as picking out the card chosen by any spectator from a
number placed in a circle on the floor, the signal being one momentary
glance at the card, &c. &c. Sir John published a pamphlet on the
subject, and sent copies of it to the sporting gentlemen and keepers in
the county, I fear with little effect; men are so apt to vent their own
bad temper on their dogs and horses.

At one of the battues at Holkham, Chantrey killed two woodcocks at one
shot. Mr. Hudson Gurney some time after saw a brace of woodcocks carved
in marble in Chantrey's studio; Chantrey told him of his shot and the
difficulty of finding a suitable inscription, and that it had been tried
in Latin and even Greek without success. Mr. Gurney said it should be
very simple, such as:--

Driven from the north, where winter starved them,
Chantrey first shot, and then he carved them.

Beechwood was one of the few places in Great Britain in which hawking
was kept up. The falcons were brought from Flanders, for, except in the
Isle of Skye, they have been extirpated in Great Britain like many other
of our fine indigenous birds. Sir John kept fancy pigeons of all
breeds. He told me he could alter the colour of their plumage in three
years by cross-breeding, but that it required fully six to alter the
shape of the bird.

* * * * *

At some house where we were dining in London, I forget with whom, Ugo
Foscolo, the poet, was one of the party. He was extremely excitable and
irritable, and when some one spoke of a translation of Dante as being
perfect, "Impossible," shouted Foscolo, starting up in great excitement,
at the same time tossing his cup full of coffee into the air, cup and
all, regardless of the china and the ladies' dresses. He died in
England, I fear in great poverty. He was a most distinguished classical
scholar as well as poet. His remains have been brought to Italy within
these few years, and interred in