"Now there is honest Jack Ridley, whom you did not condescend to address, I believe, for the whole day; I would bet a sovereign that you think every syllable of what I have told you fits him to a _tee_, and that I am either an idiot or a madman for having given you such an account of your favourite. The _truth_ is, that you and I may exchange our portraits, and each will then possess a good likeness, for my worthy friend Jack is all that you ascribe to Mr. Fitzallan. If he incline perhaps a little to what is _now_ called bigotry, it is in defence of his King and his Church, though he would not hurt the feelings of _any_ man, whatever be his creed. He is an excellent magistrate, one of the best of landlords, and it is worth going from this to Fort Ridley to see him in the midst of his family. When he returns to-night, the smile of welcome will greet his arrival. His son and he are probably at this moment cheerfully discussing in their way home the agreeable party at Glenalta; and will make the fire-side group partakers in every little incident or remark that has occurred during the absence of two of its members. "Were we to accompany the Fitzallans in _their_ homeward course, I promise you that your enthusiasm would be plunged in an ice-bath ere you had left this gate three perches behind you. Imagine the father and son, fitted like corner-cupboards into the extreme angles of their carriage, asleep, or feigning sleep; knees approximating, but not _touching_, towards the centre. Arrived at the _Rialta_ (foolish name), the gentlemen contrive to separate without a mutual "good night,"--no "blazing hearth," no "crackling fagot;" no beaming open countenance awaits their return. A silence dark and chill as death pervades the mansion, and morning's sunny ray has no power over the gloomy hearts that dwell within it. At the Rialta absenteeism stares you in the face whichever way you turn. Offices dilapidated, plantations overgrown, gates off their hinges, walls scolloped into gaps, weeds flourishing in the very porch, paper hanging about your ears, bell-ropes pulled down from their cranks, furniture thinly scattered, old fashioned, yet ill preserved, heavy, but not magnificent: these are the dreary indications of approach to the residence of a popular orator, who lives beyond his means, and comes annually amongst his tenants to obtain supplies which may enable him to pass another year in estrangement from their wants and their wishes.