In the London correspondence of a provincial paper it is stated that "Lord HOTHFIELD, who recently gave up the errors and heresies of Liberalism to seek security in Conservatism, has been elected a member of the Carlton. His characteristic exclamation on entering the club the first time after his election was, 'Thank God, I can now have a quiet game of whist,' meaning I suppose, that his mind was now at rest." This explanation of Lord HOTHFIELD'S meaning does credit to the ingenuity of the correspondent. It is a sublime spectacle, that of a Radical peer forswearing his errors merely that he may have a quiet game of whist at the Carlton. Such a coruscating specimen of the wit and wisdom of our hereditary peerage should go far to reconcile even Mr. LABOUCHERE to the existence of the House of Lords. * * * * * Confusion on your programmes, your turbulence, your din: Your tattered mob of Radicals, how blind they are and lame. Lord HOTHFIELD proudly leaves your ranks, the Carlton takes him in; Behold him in the whist-saloon enjoying of his game. Some men are led by blighted hopes to leave the ancient fold, And some by mere conviction, and some by thirst for fame; And some because the Government were far too fond of gold; Lord HOTHFIELD quits the Radicals because he wants a game. A quiet game his Lordship loves; ex-Radical and peer, With what a wealth of irony he puts his foes to shame; And LABBY'S self amazed forbears the customary sneer, When HOTHFIELD in the Carlton sits enjoying of his game. * * * * * I have been reading about the harvest festivals with which the country has been lately teeming. They are all made on one pattern. The interior of the building is very tastefully adorned with fruit and foliage, supplied by friends connected with the church and others. The subject of one reverend gentleman's discourse in the morning is, "Put in the sickle." In the afternoon another reverend gentleman discourses on "A stroll through a corn-field," and in the evening a third clergyman poses his congregation with the question, "What shall be done with the tares?" Thank-offerings in aid of the church funds are then taken, the choir sings special harvest hymns, and somebody invariably "presides" at the organ. [Illustration] * * * * * The temptations of the fruit are sometimes, I am sorry to say, irresistible. I have seen an absent-minded landed proprietor steadily pluck and eat his way through a whole bunch of grapes, while the preacher held forth on the symbolic meaning attached to fruit. The attention of the congregation, I need hardly say, was breathlessly concentrated not on the preacher, but on the devourer of the grapes. At a festival I attended last year, the fruits of the earth were represented by dead rabbits on the window-sills of the church. * * * * *