when his attention was attracted by a young gentleman who was sitting on a camp stool with a portfolio on his knee, taking a sketch of the Roman Camp, which, as has been already said, was within the enclosed domain of Mr. Crotchet. The young stranger, who had climbed over the fence, espying the portly divine, rose up, and hoped that he was not trespassing. “By no means, sir,” said the divine, “all the arts and sciences are welcome here; music, painting, and poetry; hydrostatics and political economy; meteorology, transcendentalism, and fish for breakfast.” _The Stranger_.—A pleasant association, sir, and a liberal and discriminating hospitality. This is an old British camp, I believe, sir? _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Roman, sir; Roman; undeniably Roman. The vallum is past controversy. It was not a camp, sir, a _castrum_, but a _castellum_, a little camp, or watch-station, to which was attached, on the peak of the adjacent hill, a beacon for transmitting alarms. You will find such here and there, all along the range of chalk hills, which traverses the country from north-east to south-west, and along the base of which runs the ancient Iknield road, whereof you may descry a portion in that long straight white line. _The Stranger_.—I beg your pardon, sir; do I understand this place to be your property? _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—It is not mine, sir: the more is the pity; yet is it so far well, that the owner is my good friend, and a highly respectable gentleman. _The Stranger_.—Good and respectable, sir, I take it, means rich? _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—That is their meaning, sir. _The Stranger_.—I understand the owner to be a Mr. Crotchet. He has a handsome daughter, I am told. _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—He has, sir. Her eyes are like the fish-pools of Heshbon, by the gate of Bethrabbim; and she is to have a handsome fortune, to which divers disinterested gentlemen are paying their addresses. Perhaps you design to be one of them? _The Stranger_.—No, sir; I beg pardon if my questions seem impertinent; I have no such design. There is a son too, I believe, sir, a great and successful blower of bubbles? _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—A hero, sir, in his line. Never did angler in September hook more gudgeons. _The Stranger_.—To say the truth, two very amiable young people, with whom I have some little acquaintance, Lord Bossnowl, and his sister, Lady Clarinda, are reported to be on the point of concluding a double marriage with Miss Crotchet and her brother; by way of putting a new varnish on old nobility. Lord Foolincourt, their father, is terribly poor for a lord who owns a borough. _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Well, sir, the Crotchets have plenty of money, and the old gentleman’s weak point is a hankering after high blood. I saw your acquaintance, Lord Bossnowl, this morning, but I did not see his sister. She may be there, nevertheless, and doing fashionable justice to this fine May morning, by lying in bed till noon.