He was a wretched carver. He talked and laughed, and hacked the meat at the same time, cutting here, there and anywhere, in search of the tenderest pieces for his guests. “One day that we went over to call on him unexpectedly,” says a friend, “he made us stay for lunch. He was in the greatest excitement and delight at our visit, and in the flurry decanted a bottle of brandy and filled our wine-glasses with it, mistaking it for sherry. The joint was a fore-quarter of lamb. It puzzled him extremely. At last, losing all patience, he grasped the leg-bone with one hand, the shoulder with the fork driven up to the hilt through it, and tore it by main force asunder.” Another friend describes a “high tea” at his house. A whole covey of partridges was brought on table. He drove his fork into the breast of each, then severed the legs by cutting through the back, and so helped each person to the whole breast and wings. The birds had not been cooked by an experienced hand, and properly trussed. The whole covey lay on their backs with their legs in the air, presenting the drollest appearance when the cover—large enough for a sirloin of beef—was removed from the dish. “When you steal your own cream, my dear,” was a saying of his to ladies, “don’t take just a spoonful on a bit of bread, but clear the whole pan with a great ladle and no bread.” One story about a breakdown when driving has been told: another incident of the same description shall be given in his own words:— Nov. 4, 1856. _My dear Sir_,—When I relate the history of our recent transit through Poughill by night, I think you will allow that I am not nervous beyond measure when I say that I am obliged through fear to deny myself the pleasure of joining your hospitable board on Thursday next. Before we had crossed Summerleaze one lamp went out; another languished. My clumsy servant John had broken both springs. A lantern, which we borrowed at Lake Cottage of a woman called Barrett, held aloft by our boy, just enabled us to creep along amid a thorough flood of cold rain, until we arrived at Stowe. There we succeeded in negotiating a loan of another piece of candle, and moved on, a rare and rending headache meanwhile throbbing under my hat. Half-way down Stowe hill, the drag-chain broke suddenly, and but for extreme good behaviour on the part of the horses—shall I add good driving on mine?—we must have gone over in a heap, to the great delight of the Dissenters in this district. We did at last arrive home, but it was in a very disconsolate condition. Still, good came of our journey; for Mrs. Hawker cannot deny that I drove in a masterly manner, and therefore is bound to travel anywhere with me by _day_. We mean, with your leave, to come down to you early one day soon, and depart so as to be at home before dark. Tell your son that on Saturday night last, at eight o’clock, tidings came in that