interested in all benevolent movements. There was also the Earl of
Albemarle, who is a colonel in the army, and has served many years
under Wellington, a particularly cheerful, entertaining, conversable
man, full of anecdote. He told several very characteristic and comical
stories about the Duke of Wellington.

At dinner, among other things, the conversation turned upon hunting.
It always seemed to me a curious thing, that in the height of English
civilization this vestige of the savage state should still remain. I
told Lord Albemarle that I thought the idea of a whole concourse of
strong men turning out to hunt a poor fox or hare, creatures so feeble
and insignificant, and who can do nothing to defend themselves, was
hardly consistent with manliness; that if they had some of our
American buffaloes, or a Bengal tiger, the affair would be something
more dignified and generous. Thereupon they only laughed, and told
stories about fox hunters. It seems that killing a fox, except in the
way of hunting, is deemed among hunters an unpardonable offence, and a
man who has the misfortune to do it would be almost as unwilling to
let it be known as if he had killed a man.

They also told about deer stalking in the highlands, in which exercise
I inferred Lord John had been a proficient. The conversation reminded
me of the hunting stories I had heard in the log cabins in Indiana,
and I amused myself with thinking how some of the narrators would
appear among my high-bred friends. There is such a quaint vivacity and
droll-cry about that half-savage western life, as always gives it a
charm in my recollection. I thought of the jolly old hunter who always
concluded the operations of the day by discharging his rifle at his
candle after he had snugly ensconced himself in bed; and of the
celebrated scene in which Henry Clay won an old hunter's vote in an