O'Connell honourable member-withdraw motion-late in the session-poor Ireland-bloody usurpers-hell-fire-ten thousand devilsrepeal-purgatory-limbo-Mr. Hume-second the motion-house and window-tax-ten thousand pounds-fifty-two and a fraction-eight million four thousand nine hundred and ninety-four-national debtsinecure places-tottle of the whole-honourable member-name unknown-inaudible in the gallery-Mr. Cobbett-humbug-genteel blackguards-look at America-glory-liberty-slavery-my son Williamum, um!—latest intelligence-Donna Maria-surrender of Lisbonconsols 89-" why, God bless me, this paper 's a month old! the horrid anomaly, an old newspaper;-pah! out upon it!

At this moment, honest farmer Stubble appears at the door, with a candle in one hand and a huge flagon in the other.

"Would you like to see our cellar, Mr. Swanquill? I'm just going down, and if you would

"No, dear Sir; no, thank 'e, not to-day; for, to tell you the truth, I'm a little bit tired."

"Well, some other time,-glad to see you make yourself at home, don't be afraid of the sofa,-nothing but horsehair,-soon brush off,must be tired, I know,-shan't be long."

And once again John Stubble disappears, leaving me to the silent contemplation of his little parlour. Nature abhors a vacuum: so do I therefore I shall endeavour to fill up the space with a slight sketch of the room before me.

First and foremost, there's myself, recumbent upon a black sofa studded with brass nails, "elegant reeded legs," as George Robins would say, and casters. Behind me is the door, and, behind the door, a weather-glass, a bunch of seaweed, a parasol, and an old hunting-whip. Over the chimney-piece is a choice collection of paintings, by ancient and modern masters. The biggest and best of these is an elevation of a fat ox, that was bred by our worthy host himself, and obtained the silver cup which you see on the mantelshelf below, as a reward for its obesity. On either side of the ox are likenesses-so to say-of our host and his lady, taken in fifteen seconds by an itinerant profilist. Above it, almost touching the ceiling, is a small smoke-dried print, but whether line or lithograph, mezzotinto or aquatinta, I cannot, at this distance, take upon me to determine. Beneath these is an old looking-glass in a mahogany frame, with divers letters and "small accounts" stuck in between it and the wall. The mantelshelf itself is well furnished with bijouterie. In the centre, as we have already intimated, is the silver cup from the Agricultural Club. A large cowry and half a nautilus occupy the right and left sides of the plate. A cornu-ammonis and a hawk's egg lie hard by: a piece of coralline and a glass poodle adjoin these; then comes a pair of Blue-John candlesticks; then a rice-basket and a snuff-box made out of a cow's-hoof; and beyond these, at each end of the ledge, a large China figure garnished with peacock's feathers and spun-glass. In the window (which overlooks the poultry yard) are a dusty myrtle, two geraniums, and an ice-plant, in pots of an unnatural complexion. An oak cupboard, full of china, occupies one corner of the room, and a fire-screen of worsted-work another. A bookshelf hangs against one of the walls, in which we discover nine

volumes of the "Spectator," two of the "Penny Magazine," two of the "Racing Calendar," one "Holy Bible," ditto "Domestic Cookery," (very much thumbed,) ditto "Gazetteer," ditto "Complete Vermin Killer," ditto "Moore's Vox Stellarum," and half ditto "Every Man his own Farrier;" the whole surmounted by a fox's brush, a pair of superfine spurs, and a dog-whip. Opposite to this, between the fireplace and the window

"Sorry to keep you waiting so long, but couldn't help it; the cock wouldn't run,-something in it, I believe, and the maid 's only just done churning. Come, Caroline, bring the things. I'm sure you must be hungry."

And in comes Caroline. But what a Caroline! as fat as the ox over the fireplace, and as red as the flower-pots in the window. And how the wench stares! we are not more modest than another, but positively she makes us feel ready to blush. And why all these journeys backwards and forwards? A knife one time,-a plate another, then a loaf, -then a cheese, then a piece of hung beef,-then a cold chawl,-then a salad, then a plate of butter, then the mustard, then the salt,— then the vinegar, in a huge quart bottle, then more knives,-then tumblers

st

My dear Mr. Stubble, I shan't eat half these things: pray don't make all this fuss with me. I assure you

"Oh! not at all; no fuss at all: I wish we'd something better to offer you; pot luck, that's all. Wish you'd come yesterday, we'd a beautiful leg of lamb;-or on Thursday, when we had the venison;but no use crying for shed milk, you know,-so come, draw to,--or stay, I'll bring the table to the sofa. There, now help yourself, and don't spare what there is. Let me give you a glass of ale to wash the dust out of your throat some folks say it an't well to drink fasting, but I don't think there's much in it. I always do,-never harms me ;-but, thank God, I can digest an old shoe stuffed with hobnails, as the saying is. That's right, help yourself: there, taste that. Sir, your good health, and very glad to see you."

"Thank you, good Sir; thank you. By Jove, this looks rare stuff." "Don't speak till you're dead, as the saying is. Taste it before you give your opinion."

"Your health, Mr. Stubble, and success to agriculture."

"Thank you, Sir; I'll drink that toast if I never drink another." By Jove, Mr. Stubble

Here's success to agriculture."

"By Jove, Mr. Stubble, this is prime stuff."

"An't it? My wife brewed it herself, and I grew the barley,twelve bushels to the hogshead; and no running over again, I promise you. If you want a glass of good ale, Mr. Swanquill, never let 'em make any beer*; they're sure to rob Peter to pay Paul, as the saying is. But come, Sir, cut away, or else I shall say you don't like it."

"That man must be more or less than a man that could fall out with such a table. This beef, Sir, is excellent."

*In the midland counties the terms ale and beer are not synonymous. The name of beer is applied to a wishy-washy sort of stuff, made by pouring fresh water over the malt which has already furnished the ale.

"Glad you like it, Sir; bred it myself, and fed it too: all grass and turnips; none of your oilcakes, and such unnatural stuff for me. But talk of beef, I wish you'd tasted that ox over the fire-place: that was beef, took the first prize at the Agricultural Meeting, a hundred and ten stone, fourteen pound to the stone,-all meat and no bone,—such a beast! Seen the cup, I suppose; that's it on the mantelshelf; solid silver wish my wife was at home, we'd have a jorum o' punch out of it. Come, Sir, you don't eat: now pray help to,—you don't drink nayther; let me fill up your glass."

"You speak ironically, Mr. Stubble ?"

"Exactly so; I always say what I think: no humbug in me, Mr. Swanquill. Your health again, Sir."

Being desirous of maintaining our credibility, we shall not say how much of honest John Stubble's beef, and bread, and cheese, and Bathcoss fall under our knife and fork within the next quarter of an hour: neither shall we notify the magnums of Anno Domini that are quaffed to the most patriotic toasts and social sentiments. Suffice it to say, there is no more shooting for us to-day; and when Mrs. Stubble comes home to tea at five o'clock, there are we, lolling at our ease on the horsehair sofa, with jug and glasses before us; and our worthy host smoking his pipe, and laying down the law like a second Lycurgus.

Mrs. Stubble is the model of a farmer's wife; the most notable woman in the county. Like the butterfly, she has two states; the one so entirely different from the other, that a person who has not seen her in both would have some difficulty in recognizing the identity. In her chrysalis state, which occupies from cockcrow till about three o'clock in the afternoon, the good lady is habited in a dark cotton gown, at eightpence a yard, a checked apron, and black worsted stockings; the whole surmounted by a cap, which is neither a day-cap nor a night-cap, but a sort of cross between both. During this period, Mrs. Stubble is in a continual bustle of hands, and feet, and eyes, and ears, and tongue, and thought; running here, hurrying there; commanding this, countermanding that; feeding the chickens, cramming the turkeys, rolling the butter, pressing the cheese, shelling the peas, paring the apples, scolding the maid, beating the cat, pickling walnuts, preserving pears, drawing the beer, kneading the dough, et cætera, et cætera, the particulars of which I have not power to recollect, nor time to enumerate.

But, in the afternoon, how different a person is Mrs. Stubble! The very maids perceive and acknowledge the alteration; and those who were hail-fellow-well-met with her in the morning are now pénétrées with deference. She is the butterfly that was the pupa-the Columbine that was the Cinderella. Her cotton gown has given place to a silk dress, fitted up with patent bustle, buckram sleeves, and all those other little elegancies with which the ladies know so well how to beautify nature. Her black worsted stockings have been exchanged for white cotton, or perhaps silk ones, and are tastefully criss-crossed with black silk riband at twopence a yard. A halo of lace encircles her neck, scallop over scallop, vandyke over vandyke, eyelet-hole over eyelet-hole, wonderful to behold! Her cap, but who shall describe that cap? Who shall attempt to picture in verbs and adjectives, nouns and participles, those towers of blond lace, those labyrinths of bobbin net, those rouleaux and nœuds

of white satin or rose de Parnasse; those brides (brides, Mrs. Stubble calls them) of gauze riband, bobbing into all the tea-cups, and the gravy at supper, and furnishing Mr. Stubble with many a boisterous joke; those roses, and lilies, and major-convolvuluses, and ears of barley, interspersed with leaves of silver and green? Not we indeed; let Mrs. Bell's poet laureate undertake the task if he will: our pen is dumb.

A kind creature, after all, is Mrs. Stubble, and we won't hear a word said against her. What tea she makes! black as Phlegethon, and strong as aqua-fortis. It takes the breath of one like a glass of Glenlivet, and makes one's hand shake for a month after. And what cream! Cream! it an't cream: it's oyster sauce: that will never amalgamate with our Twankay;-blob, blob,-you can't pour it, you are obliged to jerk it out. Won't mix, eh? Only stir it, and you'll see ;-whirr, whirr,-how, after a turn or two, every luscious blot melts in the foaming cordial," making the black one white!" Taste it now. My eyes! this is tea, (pardon the lapsus ;) never knew what tea was till now. "Stubble, my dear fellow, this beats your ale hollow. Mrs. Stubble, upon my word, you're a phoenix.”

Stubble, however, sticks to the ale; he never takes tea; considers it horrid slop, mere baby-lap, I know, only won't say so because we are drinking it. Mrs. Stubble, of course, is not proof against our praise. Takes a fancy to us, in fact; gives us the strongest tea; offers us the thinnest bits of bread and butter; wishes she'd got something better; begs we'll make free, and kindly intimates that she'll show us the cheeseroom, and the dairy, and the young peafowls, and the Guinea-pigs, as soon as ever" the things are took away."

We shall not insist on our reader's making this tour with us, as he has not partaken of Mr. Stubble's hospitality. For us there is no escape. Not a cheese but what is told over; not a milkpan but what is overhauled; not a peafowl but is made to peck in our presence; not a Guinea-pig that is suffered to lie perdue among the straw while our head is in the pen. God forgive us the unfelt ecstasies we assume for our hostess' gratification! the "beautifuls!" and "charmings!" and "no, reallys!" and " you don't say sos!" and "dear little things!" that we pour forth into her too, too credulous ears! But no; we are not to be forgiven: punishment follows quickly on the heels of trangression. Mrs. Stubble insists on our accepting a couple of the peafowls, and the whole litter of Guinea-pigs, to keep for her sake.

Such was our last FIRST OF SEPTEMBER.

SEASONABLE DITTIES.

BY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

NO. I. DON'T TALK OF SEPTEMBER!

1.

DON'T talk of September!-a lady

Must think it of all months the worst ; The men are preparing already

To take themselves off on the first: I try to arrange a small party,

The girls dance together,-how tame! I'd get up my game of ecarte,

But they go to bring down their game!

II.

Last month, their attention to quicken,
A supper I knew was the thing;
But now from my turkey and chicken
They 're tempted by birds on the wing!
They shoulder their terrible rifles,

(It's really too much for my nerves!) And slighting my sweets and my trifles, Prefer my Lord Harry's preserves!

III.

Miss Lovemore, with great consternation,
Now hears of the horrible plan,
And fears that her little flirtation
Was only a flash in the pan!
Oh! marriage is hard of digestion,
The men are all sparing of words;
And now 'stead of popping the question,
They set off to pop at the birds.

IV.

Go, false ones, your aim is so horrid,
That love at the sight of you dies:
You care not for locks on the forehead,-
The locks made by MANTON you prize!
All thoughts sentimental exploding,
Like flints I behold you depart;

You heed not, when priming and loading,
The load you have left on my heart.

V.

They talk about patent percussions,
And all preparations for sport;
And these double barrel discussions
Exhaust double bottles of port!
The dearest is deaf to my summons
As off on his pony he jogs;
A doleful condition is woman's;

The men are all gone to the dogs!