ld think: you have not forgot
the art of quizzing; eh, old fellow?"

"Even if I had," said Mr. Russelton, speaking very slowly, "the sight of
Sir Willoughby Townshend would be quite sufficient to refresh my memory.
Yes," continued the venerable wreck, after a short pause,--"yes, I like
my residence pretty well; I enjoy a calm conscience, and a clean shirt:
what more can man desire? I have made acquaintance with a tame parrot,
and I have taught it to say, whenever an English fool with a stiff neck
and a loose swagger passes him--'True Briton--true Briton.' I take care
of my health, and reflect upon old age. I have read Gil Blas, and the
Whole Duty of Man; and, in short, what with instructing my parrot, and
improving myself, I think I pass my time as creditably and decorously
as the Bishop of Winchester, or my Lord of A--v--ly himself. So you have
just come from Paris, I presume, Mr. Pelham?"

"I left it yesterday!"

"Full of those horrid English, I suppose; thrusting their broad hats
and narrow minds into every shop in the Palais Royal--winking their dull
eyes at the damsels of the counter, and manufacturing their notions
of French into a higgle for sous. Oh! the monsters!--they bring on
a bilious attack whenever I think of them: the other day one of them
accosted me, and talked me into a nervous fever about patriotism and
roast pigs: luckily I was near my own house, and reached it before the
thing became fatal; but only think, had I wandered too far when he met
me! at my time of life, the shock would have been too great; I should
certainly have perished in a fit. I hope, at least, they would have
put the cause of my death in my epitaph--'Died, of an Englishman, John
Russelton, Esq., aged,' Pah! You are not engaged, Mr. Pelham; dine with
me to-day; Willoughby and his umbrella are coming."

"Volontiers," said I, "though I was going to make observations on men
and manners at the table d'hote of my hotel."

"I am most truly grieved," replied Mr. Russelton, "at depriving you of
so much amusement. With me you will only find some tolerable Lafitte,
and an anomalous dish my cuisiniere calls a mutton chop. It will be
curious to see what variation in the monotony of mutton she will
adopt to-day. The first time I ordered 'a chop,' I thought I had amply
explained every necessary particular; a certain portion of flesh, and a
gridiron: at seven o'clock, up came a cotelette panee, faute de mieux.
I swallowed the composition, drow