Chancery barrister, who lives in a comfortable villa in one of our main roads. This gentleman is nearly seventy years of age, forty-five of which have been almost continuously passed-from ten A.M. to six P.M.-in chambers, poring over legal documents. The consequence of this is that Serjeant Fuzzlehead's notions of the world (derived from his contact with it from nine to ten A.M. and from nine to ten P.M., which interregnums are usually passed by him in the privacy of his home) are of the most narrow and contracted character. He is vividly under the impression that his removal to Naggington from the aristocratic purlieus of Bloomsbury, has had a most disastrous effect upon his social and professional prospects.

After Serjeant Fuzzlehead I must say something about the MacAughtys. Mrs. MacAughty is nearly related to a Scotch earl, and having persuaded, or been persuaded by her husband to settle down at Naggington, now pretends to be vastly shocked to find such superfine porcelain as herself located cheek by jowl with so much ordinary hardware, in the shape of members of the trading classes! Thanks to the high-bred air with which she sniffs at the commonality on the Mall, she is popularly considered a very great lady indeed, aud would probably be elected as the fittest representative of our "aristocratic element."

But stop, I am forgetting the Duennas altogether. General Duenna and his six sisters live together. They are all so much alike it is difficult to tell which is which. They were amongst the first settlers at Naggington, and have a weakness for believing they own a sort of proprietary right in the place, so that they almost look upon new-comers as intruders. Naggington, indeed, without the Duennas would no more be Naggington than would Martin Chuzzlewit with the part of Sairey Gamp omitted be Martin Chuzzlewit. They are amongst our most characteristic specimens.

Then among the minor lights in our firmament are the Bareboneses. Captain Barebones is a "retired officer," and appears to have selected his wife as he would a recruit-for her height. The captain, determined not to lead an idle life, devotes his time and his energy to the noble pursuit of butterfly-catching, and it is an exhilarating sight to see the gallant warrior seated on a lamp-post at night at his favourite occupation of "looking out for moths."

But I must bring my gallery of portraits to a close, though, had space permitted me, I could have extended it—for the edification of the country gentleman from Mythshire-to an almost unlimited extent. The characters of Doctor Parched Pea, the Honourable Mr. and Mrs. Borehead, Lady Crocodile, Lord Rantepoll, Sir Gretna Greenaway, Mr. Goggleeyes the great

diamond merchant, the Miss Carraways, and others, are no doubt sufficiently marked to have afforded full scope for illustration. But I forbear, and prefer rather to go on to show what are the amusements and the occupations incident to a residence in our suburbs.

I have before remarked, that trains crowded with passengers daily leave our station for London. This would naturally be the case if it be recollected that nineteen-twentieths of our male inhabitants are engaged in commercial or other professional pursuits, necessitating their daily presence in the capital. Hence, after ten A.M.-by which time the exodus has taken place, and the chimney-potted portion of the population has departed officewards-Naggington wears rather a deserted aspect. Sir Gretna Greenaway and Duenna are, probably, the sole representatives of their sex above the working class to be met with in a ramble round the place; except Golightly, by-the-bye, who is incessantly to be seen tearing about in his high phaeton on some matter of life and death; or Loggerhead, who is occasionally to be encountered, sauntering with knitted brows, on parochial cares intent. But the interregnum does not last long. About halfpast eleven o'clock the ladies turn out in great force for their morning ramble, and chignons of every description, size, and colour, pass and repass each other in the thoroughfares. The whole place assumes a feminine aspect. Aware that all male creatures have retired (for Greenaway and Duenna, unable to bear up alone against the irruption of loveliness which has set in, have long since fled away ignominiously into their domestic sanctums), the fair beings take possession, as it were, of Naggington, filling the shops, and staring in bevies into the printseller's window with the utmost abandon. The pavement reechoes with the sound of high-heeled boots. Our suburb is in its glory till one o'clock, the hour of lunch, when, ravenous with the keen air and with the exercise they have taken, a sauve qui peut ensues, and the whole troop returns homewards with the punctuality of clockwork.

Till the shades of evening commence to fall, our streets are comparatively empty. No broughams, as in London, continually pass in the afternoon, filled with ladies intent on "morning calls." Little Mrs. Eglantine, with her charming air of espièglerie, may possibly shoot by in her well-appointed barouche, or the old Shuttlecocks may roll along in their older clarence; but Naggington does not really wake up, if I may so express it, until the five o'clock train has come in.

Then, what an invasion of husbands takes place! Husbands with black bags in their right hands; husbands carrying brownpaper parcels: husbands with scowling faces and hands in their

pockets, whose day's business has been disastrous; husbands with beaming faces, who have made a good thing of it, and who bring packets of sugar-plums with them for their children; junior clerk husbands arm-in-arm smoking; senior clerk husbands reading the paper as they walk; all with one accord making their way homewards. Countless wives, flattening their noses against the window-panes of their respective drawing-rooms, stand expectantly awaiting their arrival. Legions of chubby-faced children rush madly down the front steps of their houses to welcome their fathers. Tis a touching picture of English domestic life, and from the purity of its colouring forms a strong and favourable contrast to that often afforded by experiences in the great world of London.

It will be seen that in the foregoing account there is no mention made of the small percentage of idle men who inhabit Naggington. What they do with themselves it is hard to say, for it is needless to remark that there is neither shooting nor fishing to be had anywhere in the neighbourhood. Some of these bouches inutiles spend most of their days in town, but those who do not must find their time hang rather heavy on their hands. As idleness breeds contention, it naturally follows that a considerable number of individuals fill up their spare moments by squabbling with each other. Naggington is notoriously a pugnacious place, and differences upon most trifling matters are of common occurrence. In London, where each person feels himself a unit of most insignificant dimensions, there is not much temptation for exhibitions of pride, or jealousy of one's neighbours; but in a little place like Naggington, where everybody almost thinks himself better than every one else, poor human nature has a trick of coming out disastrously strong.

But I dare say, on the other hand, there is as much real charity at Naggington as anywhere else. At all events we support a Mendicity Society, and every man, woman, or child, who can prove that they are pretty near starvation, may, on application to any of our members, receive, free gratis for nothing, a neatly printed ticket, which will entitle him or her (after a slight walk of a few miles to the office, which is benevolently provided for the purpose of putting a fresh edge upon the appetite) to two ounces of a description of bread popularly known as "Baker's refuse." The effect of this admirable arrangement has been to do away with pauperism altogether at Naggington. At least we never see any beggars in our roads, and must conclude they do not exist, since our loaves repose unmolested in their baskets at our store, and our tickets remain unsolicited in our pockets until they become unpleasantly frayed and dirty.

Let me now turn to our social amusements, and means of

getting through the evenings at Naggington. These principally consist of dinner-parties. Dinner-party is a composite word, and requires to be treated in a composite manner. Of the first or dinner portion of it, I am able to testify in the warmest terms. Never have I partaken of better dinners than at Naggington, where expense is never thought of, but every luxury of the season is. Of the second part of the word, however, I must speak with more qualification. If you do not chance, as often happens, to be introduced a second time to a person with whom, core Naggingtonianê, in consequence of a dispute, you are dead cuts (and next to whom you are, under such circumstances, sure to be seated at dinner), these meetings are decidedly agreeable; especially if you find yourself paired off with a chatty and spirituelle partner of the opposite sex, many such being, I am happy to say, to be found at Naggington. You can then indulge in your favourite occupation of pulling your neighbours to pieces at your leisure, only taking care to steer your course with great caution, lest you come to grief by falling foul of one of your companion's special cronies.

In such innocent recreations as these, our suburban evenings pass quickly, possessing as they do the inestimable advantage of not being too long. Dinner at half-past seven, and the carriage at ten, gives two hours and a half, which is just enough time for enjoyment, and not enough for boredom, a disease which I may remark, en passant, is still outrageously rampant in a few country. houses, where they persist in feeding at six, and gaping on stoically till midnight. But it will naturally be asked by my readers of the fair sex, if I possess any, "What opportunities for getting to know one another (euphuism for flirting) have you at your suburban residence?" I am afraid I must answer, "Not many." Croquet is certainly carried on to a certain extent in the summer, but I am told these happy huntinggrounds are not what they ought to be. What can you expect, indeed, when all the men are absent from the place all the day? Under such circumstances, the advantages of the game are obviously next to nil, for what is one curate among so many?

To counterbalance this last depressing statement, which may, I fear, seriously depreciate Naggington as a summer residence, I would point out that some young ladies of my acquaintance have hit upon an expedient which has had a marked success. Observing that all the gentlemen left Naggington by the ten o'clock train, and recollecting the old nursery axiom, that "The man must go to the mountain, if the mountain cannot go to the man," they applied its moral beautifully and cleverly to their own case; and having informed Paterfamilias that they had resolved to mend

their ways, and to take to early habits and music lessons in London, they forthwith proceeded to breakfast with that delighted individual at half-past eight o'clock, arrayed in the freshest and neatest of morning dresses, with their best bonnets carefully put on over their most expensive chignons.

What was the result? After only a month's music lessons, the eldest was engaged to Mr. Spindlelegs, a delightful young man, with beautiful whiskers and a large fortune, who somehow always happened to travel in the same carriage with them, and thus made the acquaintance of his future wife, without wasting a moment of his valuable time.

Such an example needs no comment here!

But I find I must break off abruptly, for we are just running into the station at Naggington, where I can see Barebones striding up and down the platform, working his arms about, according to his invariable custom, like a windmill.

CARMEN AMBÆUM.

A CONJUGAL TIFF AND MAKE-UP BETWEEN DARBY AND JOAN, FREELY ENGLISHED FROM HORACE.

DARBY.

Donec gratus eram tibi,

Whilst no lovers, fast but fibby,

Clasped that whitest of all necks,
I, beatus,

Lived in status
Happy as Persarum rex.

JOAN.

Donec alia,

Found it failure,

Tempting thy fond heart from me,
Ere her crony

Strayed from Joany,

Who so blessed as Mrs. D.?