exceedingly skilful village architect that I think
he would be likely to succeed in any great
competition for public building, such, for
example, as the Houses of Parliament, or the New
Law Courts. He is a genius in his way. What
his peculiar style is, it would be difficult to
pronounce, though from the variety of his specimens
I cannot help agreeing with the general
opinion hereabout, that if he had been dead and
buried in time, he and his architecture would
have deserved an extra stanza in Gray's Elegy.
But this his lot forbade.

Not e'en these bones from insult to protect,
     Will frail memorial be erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,
     T' implore the passing tribute of a sigh.

He is what is called a character; and it is
remarkable how many characters I have met
with in this limited compass in a very short
space of time.

To begin with my landlord. He was a butcher,
and has withdrawn himself from the fatigues of
the Borough-market on a limited competency.
In person he is as square and stout as master-
butchers ought to be; but his squareness in front
is not now as rotundly firm as it used to be
when he was in full occupation. His
countenance is rather placid than expressive, and
so meek, that one would swear he had never
slaughtered any animal in all his life; though
it is said he was brought up to the trade, and—
when a mere child— was coaxed by his father
to be a good boy, with the promise that if he
were, he should have a lamb to kill by
himself. But be that as it may, he is now a
very mild and reputable man of somewhat over
fifty years of age; and has one female servant
to minister to his wants. They must have been
rather driven into a corner by letting the
roomier part of the small cottage to me. But
Anne has since married the butcher, and taken
the honoured and appropriate title of Mrs. Stillwell.
Mr. Stillwell is a capital shot—a perfect
Robin Hood for hitting anything he aims at. He
has one friend and inseparable companion, who is
his superior even in this accomplishment. His
name is Mills. He is a little fellow. He has
the sharp look of a ferret; and altogether, when
scanned physiologically, suggests the idea of a
weasel, or other thorough vermin, in human
metamorphosis. In a locality of game-preserving,
I should consider him competent for the
most audacious risks and surest success. But
there are no preserves near our corner, and the
two friends simply stroll about to bag what
comes across them in the sporting line, be it
fish, bird, or quadruped. It could not be called
poaching or trespassing, for Mills withal is a
sober, peaceful, well-mannered fellow, and, when
recounting his exploits, rather entertaining.
There was no show of predetermined destruction
of game, as at battues, for the two friends
have only one ostensible gun between them, to
take shot turn-about; but the butcher, besides
a pouch like a wallet, has a long pocket, and in
that pocket a long tube, and, when they walk
forth for an airing, that tube goes with them for
an airing too. My belief was, and is, that,
loaded with a pellet the size of a marrowfat pea,
it never misses. The nose of a perch, the head
of a dabchick, the leg of a rabbit, all one. The
owners came one and all into the pot pourri;
and the friends frequently make very savoury
refections, recalling to mind a chef-d'Å“uvre
of Ude, Soyer, or Francatelli. Not to tell that
there is occasionally a hare in the stew, or a
leveret, or a wild duck in winter, or a few pigeons
(wild of course), and that once a covey of
thirteen partridges having been surreptitiously
hatched in a gentleman's garden about a mile
off, the birds were so abandoned that they would
stray out of their proper bounds, and provoke
Mills to bring a brace home, "accidentally,"
until not one was left. They are open to snipes,
fieldfares, and plovers likewise, and I have
heard of an owl; but Mills assures me flatly
that he shot it on commission, for stuffing as a
specimen.

Until I came here, I had lived all my days in
town. In chambers I only knew the names of
my neighbours from their being painted on the
board of the other in-dwellers on my staircase.
In the street where I sojourned a long time I
was not aware who were my next-door respectable
ratepayers; and, on the opposite side,
the extent of my intelligence related to
several young ladies who read diligently at
the windows, and sometimes looked off their
books. But I knew nothing, and cared nothing,
about any one being among the whole
miscellaneous lot. How or why I have come to
take so much interest in my new rustic
associates, as to know all about them, I can
scarcely say, unless it is that we all watch one
another.

The Dark-mouth Arms is the inn of the
hamlet. The Dark-mouth Arms, so grandly named
after a noble earl who is lord of the surrounding
manor, and illustrated by a heraldic signboard
flamingly blazoned, is also a beer-shop, and the
tenancy is held by one Job Crawley, a remarkably
strong-built and athletic man, somewhat over
the middle age. Job was once what we used to
style a bruiser, but what is called, in later and
more refined language, a pugilist, or prize-
fighter. He, Pilgrim-of-Progress-like, fought
many a good fight, until he became tempted to
withdraw from the ring which he adorned, to
put another ring on the fat finger of the land-
lady of " the Dark-mouth."

     Sure such a pair were never seen
          So justly formed to pair by nature;

for, potential as Job looks, he cannot
compete with his wife, who is the largest lady
of colour I ever saw, and yet I once had
the honour of an interview, for which I paid
half-a-crown, with the Hottentot Venus. She
has a face broad and round as the moon
(eclipsed, to be sure), but illuminated with such
splendour of white teeth as the proudest duchess
in the land might envy, or as the greatest
living dentist might try to emulate in vain. She