The Vicar was not popular; the villagers disliked what they called "his airs and graces," and they detested his dinner-bell. After sittings from the Vicar, he and I took occasional walks together, and one day, as we were passing a cobbler's shop, the proprietor of it, "a detestable little Radical Methodist," as the Vicar called him, appeared at his door with a huge bell in his hand; he stepped into the middle of the road, and, affecting not to see us, he rang it furiously. "Man! man!" cried the Vicar, "stop that! What are you making that dreadful noise for?" "Well, ye see," replied the cobbler, in the language of the county, "it's ma dinner-time, and aase joust ringin' mysen in, to a bit of berry pudden." I was so vividly reminded by the _Month's_ "Dinner-Bell Nuisance" of my early experience, that I could not resist my inclination to introduce it into what purports to be the life of John Leech, in which it has no business whatever to appear. Once more I apologize, and hope I may not be tempted to "do it again." Of all the Belles of the Month, the belle of the month November is perhaps the most lovable. There she stands on Brighton Pier--stands, that is to say, as well as she can on those pretty feet of hers, against a wind that is so boisterously rude to her and to her mother, whose figure, blown out of shape, makes a striking contrast to her daughter's. The little dog declines to face the gale, which seems likely to carry him away altogether, as well as the struggling child behind. The touches of cloud and sea, together with the screaming gulls, are indicated with the facile skill peculiar to Leech. [Illustration: THE BELLE OF THE MONTH NOVEMBER "IN DISTRESS OFF A LEE-SHORE--BRIGHTON PIER."] In a paper headed "Hotels," Mr. Smith expatiates somewhat tediously on the "old-established house" of the "old coaching days." He says "the inmates of the coffee-room were mostly commercial travellers." Those gentlemen may have been permitted to use the coffee-room; but my recollection of such places tells me that the commercials always had a room of their own, specially provided for them. The writer goes on to tell us that "the commercial gents," on the occasion of his discovery of them in the coffee-room, "pulled off their boots--not a very delicate performance--before everybody; and then, after sitting over the fire, and drinking hot brown brandy and water until they were nearly at red heat, ordered 'a pan of coals,' and went to bed." Yes; and provided an excellent subject for Leech, worthy of being reproduced here, or anywhere, if only for that inimitable old chambermaid, who has lighted commercial gents to bed any time these forty years. Judging from the twist of the commercial's necktie as he follows, or rather staggers, after the ancient maid, the brown brandy has done its work; and it is ten to one against his carrying that box of patterns safely upstairs.