bourhood was too aristocratic not to be migratory; and, thirdly, Mr. Danvers represented a borough which was very prolific in petitions, road-bills, &c. In town they remained till near August, when Mr. Danvers went to Scotland to shoot grouse; and Mrs. Danvers consoled herself, during his absence, at their seat by wondering how much the children of her parish-school and shrubs had shot up while she was away, and by superintending the house-keeper's room—where, with almost a dash of sentiment, she saw to her husband's grouse being potted, and a whole array of white jars filled with pickles as acid as Mr. Roger's temper and tongue, and with preserves as sweet as Sir Walter Scott's letter of thanks—(by the by, they say he keeps a set lithographed)—for the first copy of some young poet's first effusion. Partridges and Mr. Danvers re-appeared in September. He shot before Christmas, and hunted after; while the rest of the time was disposed of by dinners and drowsiness in the afternoon; but, we must add, with every morning given to kind and useful employment,—for their tenants might have changed landlord and lady some dozen times, and yet have changed for the worse.
