the property of the aristocracy-dignified, easy, gracetul-followed and preceded by a train of "darling pets"-spaniels, terriers, pugs, greyhounds, blood-hounds, and every "Scotch variety"-repair to their own apartments, to indulge, for an hour or two, in their various accomplishments. The carriages are ordered after luncheon. Others, to whom Bottlebury Abbey is a novelty, wander through the galleries of pictures, statues, drawings, and miniatures. Of course there are portraits of the duke and duchess, by Lawrence; and one of his grace before he lost his hair, by Hopner; a long list of Vandykesportraits of ancestors: or the library and billiard-room are inspected.

You issue, ready for your expedition. Before the hall-door, on the gravel sweep, are groups of saddle-horses and grooms. Servants, with children (mushroom dukes and duchesses), are walking about the garden and green plot. A travelling carriage has just crossed the bridge over the beautiful piece of water, where the proud swan enjoys his state; it contains a noble family, which has just taken its departure. Some of the gentlemen, arrayed in fanciful sporting costume, are talking in groups. There are Lords Augustus Fitzosborn Fitz-Marmaduke, his grace's second son (the Marquess, with his family, is on the Continent), and Lionel Fitzmaurice Fitz-Marmaduke: the Marquess of Headalbane, son to the Duke of Boltaway; Lord Henry Fitz-Marmaduke, my lord's brother, and his son, Mr. Henry Fitz-Marmaduke: all these exalted personages, in their ordinary costume, possess an air distingué, but some of them are so disguised in sporting attire, one might fancy them the natives of an uncivilised and savage country.

After a day's pleasant sport, you return in time to hear the first dinner-bell, repair to your room, dress, and descend to the drawingroom. My lord is standing in the midst of a group, which is composed principally of "fresh arrivals: " he asks you a few questions respecting your day's sport, and recommends you to try another preserve the next day. Dinner is announced. The duke takes the lady of highest rank; and, according to this etiquette, the whole party moves towards the dining-room. The magnificent room in which you dine, and splendidly-furnished table, have no power to wean your thoughts from "the haunch." The exercise of the morning has prepared you to do justice to my lord's hospitality; and, after two or three glasses of wine, you are more at leisure to attend to conversation. Here you feel a want: there are plenty of pleasant, superficial talkers; but you would like a few men of genius whom you know, to participate in the luxuries before you—

"To share the ven'son, and partake the wine."

After the ladies have retired, you enjoy the claret, and get into free and easy conversation with all around. Suddenly, a simultaneous rising of the party seems to take place, with the exception of the duke and yourself. You are left together

A dreadful noise is heard without-the door of the dining-room is burst open with the force as of a whirlwind; a mob of servants in the duke's livery rushes in, armed with clubs, fowling-pieces, pokers, and other formidable weapons; in the rear are two figures in white caps, brandishing spits-they are the cook and confectioner. "Where is his grace?" cries the foremost of the gang, a stout, wellfed-looking, red-faced creature with powdered hair: "We are resolved, my lord, to make known our wrongs and to obtain redress. Our sufferings cannot be known to your grace, or we are sure they would have been relieved. Why, my lord, we ask-why are we fed on nothing but venison and game?-why, for these many weeks, not allowed to touch butcher's meat? We want a plain answer.

The Old Lord seems about to speak: his face has turned ashy pale with rage, but he is unable to give utterance to a word. You start up from your chair, and address the powdered rebels.

"Fat and pampered wretches! Have ye not heard, 'he is a fool who quarrels with his bread and butter?'-and what bread and butter is yours! Think of the poor wretches in workhouses-the common labourers-the manufacturers: but it is vain reasoning with you; your good living, easy work, and liberal pay, beggar your wits. I see how it is-you think my lord saves by giving you venison."

Here a cry of "No, no!"

"Well, I tell you what I will do, if you will one and all peaceably retire to your several offices. I will engage that to-morrow you shall have mutton broth and hard dumplings for dinner. I have influence with the duke, and I will guarantee you this favour."

"Thank ye, sir, thank'ee," bursts from the crowd as you conclude your harangue. The malcontents turn tail, and vanish from the room. You sink into a train of reflections, raised by this singular scene, and seem to account for the Old Lord's indifference to the beauty of his possessions. That a man should ever be tired of venison! 'Tis strange-such is human nature. After a long interval, during which you have no distinct recollection of anything happening, you find yourself at full length reclined upon an ottoman close under the window, the moon shining full upon you. You rouse yourself, and rather think you drank too much claret: you make your way to your room, slink to bed, and dream again of the OLD LORD.

I'll swell like a shirt bleaching in a high wind; and look burly as a Sunday Beadle, when he has kicked down the unt allowed stall of a profane old rpple-woman.

THE BEADLE OF THE PARISH.

BY CORNELIUS WEBBE.

He answers to the name of John Justin Bubb promptly-a name that furnished the parochial wits with much amusement on the day of his election: for, before the state of the poll was declared, those facetious persons tried often to impress upon his mind that he was not John Just-in Bubb, but John Just-out Bubb. But Bubb came in triumphantly by two casting votes-his butcher's (and Mr. Brisket wished him elected, as he had eight mouths to find in meat, inclusive of his own), and his baker's, who, for weighty wheaten reasons, came up in the nick of time and turned the scale, which descending, Bubb was duly delared beadle of the parish of St. Mary's,

John Justin Bubb answers promptly to his name when it is authoritatively pronounced by a churchwarden: or by a parish commissioner for anything that pays the commission: or by 'Squire Clark, the great man of the parish, who has the great family-pew in the church, and comes,

"With all the little Clarks,

His children, blithe as larks,"

in the great family-carriage, from his great family-mansion, five hundred yards off, to morning service; that in the evening being attended by the Clark servants only, without the great family-carriage. Mr. John Justin answers very quickly to his name when the rector calls Bubb," from the vestry-room: he can hear his "Call to the Unconverted" at any corner of the church. Nay, even at "The Red Lion" over the way, if the doctor invokes him, he pauses in the middle of his draught of ale, and wipes his mouth; or darts down his dram, half fills his mouth with caraway seeds, and, chewing them as he goes, is at the vestry-door just as the doctor is about to call "Bubb" a second time. If the doctor demands why he could not come when he first called, he answers that " He heard him, and was coming; but those boys-they will get into the churchyard, over rails and all,

L