our usual hour being from one to two, and our
usual food steaks or chops, which we like to see
"done" on the gridiron in the various places of
refreshment which we patronise. In business
hours we attend to business and to nothing
else; therefore it is that our midday repasts are
hurried and not over satisfactory. As a
universal rule, our wives dine early; the olive
branches of our households "restoring"
themselves at the same time. The heads of families
go in for supper, and a jolly repast we make
at this old-fashioned meal, to which we sit down
about nine o'clock. The cold joint, a stewed
steak. a couple of soles, some hashed mutton,
or a bit of game, are the dishes we like best
for supper. Occasionally we ask one another
to supper, a compliment which is always
quickly returned and heartily accepted.

Sunday is truly a day of rest in our suburban
village. We lie late in bed, and breakfast just
in time to go to church: which we all do. At
our church the pews are high and comfortable,
very well adapted for a half-hour's sleep during
sermon. We have slept in church from about
a quarter-past twelve until five minutes to one,
every Sunday of our personal life for the last ten
years, and we hope to do so for as many more.
In fact, we look upon this as part of our Sunday
rest, and we don't think we could by any
possibility do without it. At two o'clock on Sunday
we all dine—it is the universal custom of our
suburban village—and after dinner we generally
snooze off in our chairs by the fireside. Sunday
is by no means a cheerful day with us. We
do not visit each other on that day, nor is it
the custom among us to have suppers on Sunday
evening except cold meat. In short, Sunday
is a day on which we eat and sleep, but do little
else.

Not that we need complain of a want of
preachers, or of teachers in divine matters, in our
suburban village, for there is hardly a church
or sect that has not its place of worship in the
place. To begin with the Establishment, we
have high, low, and broad, churches; the
Presbyterians, Independents, Roman Catholics,
Quakers, and Baptists, have also their own
chapels and ministers of religion. Our vicar is a
comely urbane gentleman, who is on good terms
with everybody, and adopts broad and liberal
views in matters theological; and yet, as a
religious pastor, neither is he popular, nor is his
church much frequented. Somehow or other,
the aristocracy of our suburban village like
their sermons, as they do their brandy-and-water,
hot and strong. This must be the reason why
the "low church" clergyman, the Reverend Mr.
MacSnorter, has his church so well filled.
MacSnorter is an Irishman, and much given
to denounce popery, high churchmen, and all
who differ from his particular school; he
preaches long sermons, and is strong upon the
doctrine of election. Well to do in this world's
goods is MacSnorter, for, having married a lady
with some means, and letting the seats in his
church at a good figure, he has a comfortable
income, and can invest of his savings something
handsome every year. In our suburban village
he is extremely popular, and it is to his
denunciations of the slightest pleasure on Sunday that
we attribute the dulness of the first day of the
week at our suburban village. He is on bowing
terms—nothing more—with the vicar; for he
looks upon, and speaks of, that clergyman, as a
shepherd careless of his flock.

When he meets the clergyman—or "priest,"
as he delights to call himself—of our "high
church," Mr. MacSnorter turns away his head
for he denounces Mr. Chasuble, the high-church
incumbent, as a Papist in the Protestant camp.
But, after all, Mr. Chasuble is a very worthy
man; he may be a little too much given to
wearing long frock-coats which reach nearly to
his heels, and he puts great faith in church
decorations, vestments, incense, and the like;
but, with all this, he is a good man, very
charitable to the poor, and always ready to do
a kindness to a neighbour. But, in our
suburban village, he is far from popular. At his
church are only to be seen half a dozen families,
nearly all of whom come from some distance to
worship, the rest of the congregation being
composed of working men and their families. The
seats at St. Oriel's are all free, low-made, and
open. We, the aristocracy of our suburban
village, don't like this; we hold that a man's
pew is his castle, just as much as his house is,
provided always that he pays his pew-rents. If
seats be free and open, what is to prevent
Smithers, the journeyman gardener, from sitting
down by a gentleman's side in church? And if
seats are made so low in the back, how is a man
to get his sleep during sermon? Not that there
is time to get anything like a comfortable nap
during one of Mr. Chasuble's sermons, for they
don't last more than fifteen minutes, and no one
can get any good out of a discourse which is so
short.

There is another minister of religion in our
suburban village, whose fate it is to be very
much and very often denounced by Mr.
MacSnorter. This is Father Lomax, the Catholic
priest. He is a little dark man, closely shaved, and
looks like a foreigner. His congregation
consists almost entirely of poor Irish, the few
exceptions being a French teacher with his wife
and children, a Belgian wine-merchant, one or
two old maiden ladies, and a retired officer: a
widower, with three grown-up daughters. But
of Father Lomax and his congregation we see
and know little. His chapel is almost hidden
behind some very poor houses, and to get at it
you have to pass through a stable-yard.

The most eloquent preacher in our suburban
village is the Independent minister; but neither
his sermons nor his services are much liked
among the aristocracy of the place. The former
are too noisy, too trying for our nerves. The
latter are not according to the Established
Church, and are therefore not deemed respectable.
We go to hear him. sometimes, but not
often.

Nor are we ill off with respect to medical
men, in our suburban village. There are three