Kenilworth, with the eldest daughter of the house of Vernon, whose swanlike mien, as she glides through the mazy dance, excites universal admiration; and they are followed in quick succession by a host of winsome dames, plumed knights, and gallant cavaliers. But who is yon noble-looking man, whose mantle falls so gracefully from his left shoulder, and who regards so pensively yon fair scene? He is the "observed of all observers," and how like the Chandos portrait! 'Tis the divine, the immortal Shakspeare.

On such a night as this many a heart was doubtless lost and won, and many a lover made happy by a single glance from the bright eyes of her he loved. On such a night did Dorothy effect her elopement from this gay old hall. The whole scene seemed to pass in review before my eyes. She has left the ball-room unperceived by a single person; she has passed through the little door which opens on the grand terrace. Her features, in pale and classic grace, rival those of the marble Venus against which she is reclining. The moon is shining brightly; all nature seems sunk in repose. There is nought to disturb the deep tranquillity of yon moonlight garden solitude save the gentle sighing of the breeze amidst the melancholy yews, or the more distant strains of music in the ball-room. Dorothy eagerly listens, but not to the music. The steps of one rapidly approaching are heard. A figure emerges from the deep shade of the yew-trees. 'Tis he!'-tis the possessor of her heart! She rushes into his arms involuntarily. With what rapture he presses her to his heart! With what impassioned energy he seems to exclaimDoubt that the stars are fire,

Doubt that the earth doth move,
Doubt truth to be a liar,

But never doubt I love.

She believes every word he tells her, for she loves with youthful candour, and with all the intensity of a fond girl's first attachment. Still she hesitates to fly. She thinks of her kind mother, and of the distress her absence will occasion her. She weeps like the willow she is under. There is much eager persuasion on the lover's part, much softness, tenderness, and modesty on her own. At length she yields. Her lover gently places her beside him on his fiery roan. It is done. Another moment-they are gone.

Here my pleasing allusions were abruptly dispelled by the loud banging of a door in a remote part of the establishment; then all again was still as death itself. I felt oppressed with sadness, I knew not why. The wind sighed mournfully through the empty corridors-the grim warriors on the waving tapestry seemed

To grin horribly a ghastly smile;

the rain pattered against the casements, and the melancholy yew-trees cast a still deeper tinge over the gloomy apartment. I felt it was time to go; the place might be haunted for aught I knew; so, deeming it more prudent to abide

The pelting of the pitiless storm, than incur the fearful risk of being locked up for the night with the ghosts of the Vernons, I bade adieu to Haddon, highly gratified with my visit to its interesting Hall.

THE ANTIQUARY AND HIS DAUGHTER.

BY NICHOLAS MICHELL,

AUTHOR OF THE "EVENTFUL EPOCH," &c.

THE lover of antiquities, hunting after old picturesque nooks in this our great metropolis, and desirous of feasting his eyes on walls rich in their associations with the history of the past, cannot do better than make a pilgrimage to the once distinguished, but now obscure, region called St. John's-square. If his journey be from the west, he will cross Clerkenwell-green, where now, alas! nothing green refreshes the eye, but the Sessions-house, with its six Ionic columns in front, and its heavy leaden cupola, frowns a terror to evil doers; and the spirit of mirth that once danced around the maypole, has taken refuge in the bosom of the domestic sparrow, that twitters on the eaves of the dingy houses overlooking the crowded churchyard. Passing onward, he perceives on his right hand a narrow alley; its name will not fail to arrest his attention, for it is called Jerusalem Passage, having borne the appellation very probably since the erection of the famous priory in the vicinity. He enters this strait, and presently walks into an ancient square-the square where ages ago the renowned Knights of the Hospital of St. John, with the white cross glittering on their breasts, and the sword girded on in faith and holy ardour, were wont to parade. In this square, after the priory of St. John was demolished, in the reign of Edward VI., people of condition continued to reside, and among them may be named Bishop Burnet. But fashion has long flown west, and brass-founders, seal-engravers, and vendors of cheap publications, appear, in our day, to be the principal denizens of the spot.

The great attraction has yet to be named-a veritable and venerable relic of old London, to see which a real antiquary would not consider it too much to make a pilgrimage from the Land's-end-St. John's Gate! Yes, there it stands, as rebuilt by the Lord Prior in 1504, on the foundation of the previous edifice, erected in the twelfth century. Thrice timehonoured walls, with the stones so worn, blackened, and grim-with the fine-groined arch spanning the road-with the round-headed Norman windows, some blocked up, as though the eyes of the building were getting blind through age. Oh! yes, there it stands; the hospital is no more; the graves of the white-cross knights are even unknown, and their fame is as an echo dying away down the long vista of many years; yet there the brave gateway stands, with its massy turrets, its old stairs, and stone rooms within; from those very windows hung the gorgeous banners of the chivalrous brotherhood, and on that turret-top sounded the trumpet's stirring blast. Preserve the relic-watch and guard it well! and may no barbarous hand, intent on innovation and " utility," that cry of modern days, injure its hoary walls. True, they may be appropriated to seemingly "vile purposes;" for in the eastern turret we find a little tavern, and in the western-where Cave, in the days of Garrick and Johnson, set up his printing-press-the antiquary is shocked at beholding a coal and potato-shed; yet reverence, we repeat, St. John's old gateway, and guard it well!

At the second-floor window of a house in St. John's Square might

have been seen, not long since, a balcony of rough iron work; this unsightly projection commanded a good view of the gate on the northern side, and whenever the wayfarer in passing chose to look upward, he usually espied the figure of an old man leaning on the iron rail, or seated on a stool in the corner. It might be rain-what of that? a broad cotton umbrella, like the water-spout at the corner, carried off the torrent: the wind might blow-well? it would never blow tornado-like enough in this country to blow him out of the balcony; and as for cold, the old man didn't care anything about that. So in rain, tempest, and sleet, as well as in fine weather, there he was at his post, looking and watching, smiling, and sometimes mourning-the enthusiastic worshipper of antiquity, whose heart yearned over, as if it were some living thing, this relic of olden London-St. John's Gate.

Osborne resided in St. John's-square for no other reason but that he might be near the ancient portal; he would have lived in it, but the man with the coal-shed monopolised the entire western turret, and the Old Jerusalem Tavern, on the east side, offered accommodation far beyond his means of payment; for Osborne existed in his old years on a small annuity of some thirty pounds; his only daughter supporting herself by taking in plain-work. Stepping back from the balcony to the little front room, you were surrounded by evidences of the antiquary's passion, for the apartment was hung with rough drawings, executed by himself, and consisting of different views of the ruined gate.

This mania or enthusiasm of Osborne's did not subside by a long indulgence of his propensity, but, as a miser clings close and closer to his gold, the more his eyes gloat upon it, so the oftener Osborne walked under and about the blackened arch, and the longer he gazed at the ruin, conjuring up the glory of ages gone, the stronger his veneration and love seemed to grow; he considered the gateway as the dear precious link between the " now and the past, and esteemed it almost in the light of a friend. It was a warm summer afternoon; the air was stifling and drowsy in the dusty square beneath; the boy at the book-stall, set to watch his master's literary wares, while leaning over the musty tomes as though he would guard them to the last, had fallen asleep; the dog, squatting close by the wall, was panting in the shade; the cat was coiled up motionless on the window-sill; and even the sparrows, ranged in lines on the red tiles, or sitting on the chimney-pots, seemed too lazy to fly. The only sounds were the monotonous buzz of the steam-engine in the neighbouring factory, and the dribble of water, as it gushed far and wide from the back of the water-cart, in a vain attempt to "lay the dust."

Mr. Osborne occupied his stool in the accustomed corner of the balcony, his face being turned towards the gate. In the absence of his hat, a red cotton handkerchief was thrown over his head, by way of protection from the sun. Pleasing thoughts evidently occupied his mind, for smiles from time to time crept over his old, withered, benevolent-looking face. But even the enthusiast is affected by the dreaminess of the hour; the pictures he loves in his fancy to draw of the noble hospital in its palmy days, of armed knights in the square below, with cross-adorned banners, and all the pomp of ancient religion and the glory of chivalry, grow every moment more confused and indistinct; his eyes wink and close, stare with a long effort and close again-his dearly-beloved gate is seen no more -the old man is fast asleep.

But look through the half-open window into Osborne's little sittingroom; a girl is there by no means yielding to the influence of the hour, for she is busily at work; the fair head on which eighteen summers sit lightly bends over her task, and the hand, like a little patch of snow among the dark folds of the dress she is making, plies the needle incessantly. Catherine Osborne is one of those active, busy beings rarely found among the rougher sex, who think toil no toil, are happiest when devoted to the service of others, who never give up so long as health does not fail them, and never despond while a ray of hope lingers on their path.

Catherine, without possessing the more majestic graces, was bewitchingly pretty. Her face, which was small, fair, and delicate, had a peculiarly happy and winning expression; her figure, while pétite, was full and symmetrical, and the light brown dress, which she wore closely fitting to her neck, but with an abundance and to spare about the feet and ankles, became her well. Though a poor girl, gaining her daily bread by her needle, Catherine possessed more pride than commonly characterises her class, yet she had great warmth of disposition, and, having no mother, those affections, which nature ordained should embrace some object, were centred all in her father. Having heard no movement for a long time on the balcony, Catherine crept to the window, and, seeing the old man asleep, as softly crept back again; but she had not long resumed her work, when a slight tapping at the door arrested her attention, and the next instant a man entered the room.

Though young and rather dashing in the style of his dress, his appearance was by no means prepossessing. An air of negligence, a heavy sottish eye, and a worn, rakish look about him, announced the debaucheethe debauchee in low life. He had great assurance in his manner, but it bordered on effrontery, and seemed low familiarity rather than manly confidence, and his speech, while he aimed at phrases which the ignorant might consider seasoned with wit, was always coarse. No one knew how Miles Sanford lived; he followed no trade, his father had left him no property, and yet by some unaccountable means he had always gold at his command. Many such individuals exist in London, never driven for money, yet having no ostensible method of gaining it-dressing, going to theatres, gaming, drinking, coin coming out of their pockets, but never seen to go in; the fanciful well might insinuate that either they have surpassed the old alchymists and discovered the philosopher's stone, or they have bartered their souls for cash to the Principle of Evil.

"Ah! sweet one, I saw the old governor asleep there in his iron cradle, so thought I would just peep in upon you. How do?-rather melting though; the sun is doing his business in the hot sky like a brick; or better, like a great baker, he is roasting and doing us all brown."

The would-be wit lounged towards the pretty sempstress, and stared at her ardently; in truth, the man had long admired Catherine, and by one of those anomalies, so frequent in human character, vice had conceived a passion for virtue, and the evil was enamoured of the gentle and good.

"Now, don't turn away; I'm not going to harm you, little one; and those sweet cheeks of thine needn't burn so fiery red, Kate, my dear," added Sanford, endeavouring to take her hand, which the girl quickly withdrew; "I've something to say to you."

“Then, Mr. Sanford, I would rather you should say it when my father is present-I shall wake him."

"Not for worlds!" exclaimed the flash gentleman, placing himself between Catherine and the window. "Our talk, for a minute at least, must be private. Kate, pretty tantaliser, sweet cherry-lip, I hate to see you working like this, your fingers to the bone. I love you-truly, deeply, and would make you a rich woman; never mind how, I have money, and you should share it. Dear one, accept me-my heart you have long possessed; Catherine Osborne, consent to be my wife!"

"You have received my answer already," said Catherine, in a low voice, as she averted her head. "Mr. Sanford, our dispositions are ill-suited, your mode of life is distasteful to me; I must not, I cannot accept the-the honour you propose, and I hope you will never repeat your solicitations."

"But I shall repeat them; shame on the general who retires from the attack because the enemy shows a bold front. I hope my little citadel is not ball-proof, eh? We will carry the fortress by perseverance and a steady fire. In plain language, Catherine, say what you will, I am resolved you shall be my wife.'

Womanly pride was roused by this dictatorial language, and Catherine Osborne elevated her head with something like scorn and defiance on her pretty face.

"Sir, then I will be firm, and speak plainly once for all. So assured am I that utter wretchedness would be my lot were I to become your wife, that nothing-persecution, threats-nothing you may have power to do, shall prevail on me to listen to you. Now leave me, Mr. Sanford, and never repeat this visit."

The countenance of the man underwent a change, and took a bitter savage expression. He remained silent for a minute, and Catherine, as she glanced at him, though scarcely knowing wherefore, shuddered.

66

You are not in earnest," he said at length; "you do not decidedly reject me."

"I do, Mr. Sanford-leave me, I beseech you."

"Catherine Osborne does not brave me;" he said in a husky tone, drawing nearer to her; the girl, influenced by a feeling like terror, sprang on one side, uttering an involuntary cry; her voice had the effect of awaking Mr. Osborne, and creeping from the balcony he came into the

room.

"Ah! you here again, Mr. Sanford? I thought you paid us your last visit the other day. Catherine," he added, glancing inquiringly at her, "do you give Mr. Sanford encouragement, my dear child?"

"Certainly not, father."

"You hear, sir, my daughter rejects your suit. I am a poor man, and, as far as I know, you are better off in the world than myself; but excuse me if I again say I disapprove of your principles and manner of life, and therefore I think my daughter quite right in not trusting her happiness to your keeping. I hope, Mr. Sanford, you will now relieve us of your presence. I harbour no ill-will towards you, but I think you had better not again, under any circumstances, visit my apartments."

"Man!" exclaimed the coarse and bitter-hearted profligate, his worn face flushing with anger. "Paltry enthusiast! proud canting fool! Is this the way I am to be treated by both of you, when I condescend-ay, con