idolized repository of sprawling monsters and painted vases, the China closet; there descending through a yawning aperture to the kitchen; and, in another corner by voluminous brick steps, tapestried with Virginia creeper and jasmine, to the arbours and flowerplots of the garden. Here, too, was the great staircase with its heavy and shining balustrade, which you climbed, not by the graceful sweep of modern times, but straight as a ladder, close to the wall; and, near its summit, a landing like a closet, with a tall diamond latticed window, which afforded a muffled light to the long narrow matted gallery, in which the staircase terminated. From this gallery opened numberless chambers; but we will, at present, tap at Grandmama's room,' as it was called. No-not that 'tis the nursery a little further on, and to the left that is it. But hark! 'tis an old ballad! who is singing "Stella, darling of the Muses;"'tis the old lady herself, and her constant practice when alone; not in the wanderings of imbecility, (for though nearly ninety, she is in the full enjoyment of health in mind and body,) but in the happy vacation of a cheerful mind. blazing fireside, was wont to utter that interminable series of legends, histories, and anecdotes, to which the looming of the wind in the chimney, or the clattering of the hail against the rattling, but thickly curtained lattice, bore such appropriate burthen. Methinks I see, even now, the ruddy firelight flashing over the old bed, and flinging varied shapes and shadows over the distant recesses of that ample chamber, which my cowering glance feared to investigate. On one side of the fireplace, my grandmother, in her high stiff cap, rich laced apron, and fine flowered gown of chintz, with hanging sleeves and vast embroidered ruffles, her snuff-box (an Egyptian pebble set in gold) on the table before her; and, leaning against the mantel-piece at her side, her tall ebony cane, with a head of inlaid silver and ivory. On the other side of the hearth, and nestled close to its cheering flame, sate old Margaret Dean, my grandmother's attendant, in a snow-white coif and pinners, (from which straggled many a tuft of silvery hair,) a sober suit of rusty black (for she was a widow) and a check apron. My sister and myself on little stools, used to sit opposite the A long apartment, tolerably lofty, fire, making out, in the red phantasmathough somewhat disproportionately goria of the grate, the castles-the narrow, lighted by a high latticed win-woods-the wilds-the spectres--the dow at one end, and with a wide fireplace at the other, storied with Dutch tiles, presents itself. murderers-the dragons, &c. which, to our infinite contentment, we poured into either ear, old Dame Margaret taking up the legendary thread on the right, when my grandmother had spun it out on the left. Old Father Redcap-Marshal Saxe and the Coiners-The House with the Haunted Chimney-The Skeleton Lady The Story of Mr. Fox and his murdered Wives, with its fearful distich that saluted the lady as she explored his chambers,— In the day time, there was an air of inalienable solemnity about the small green window panes, the faded hangings, and the massively wrought cabinets. The colossal bed, with its shadowy tester, gave a mysterious air to the whole; it was all in such admirable keeping of ancientry; not one step had modern improvement adventured within its venerable walls. And when a drowsy sky of wind and rainBe bold, be bold, but not too bold, looked in through the long solitary Lest that your heart's blood should run cold.' casement, and the old quaint furniture stood grouped in the ghastly light, its aspect of dreariment made a deep impression on my young mind. Indeed, in my romance-reading days, I never poured over a deed of blood; never followed, in imagination, the gliding phantom; and never trembled at the sorcerer's incantation, without picturing the scene to have been some such awful, dismal place, as Grandmama's room. It was my favourite haunt, however, in the long winter nights, when the old lady, in her chair of state, by the The immense treasure found by a poor labourer, from the inscription over an old mansion, "Where this once stood, Stands another twice as good.' The murder discovered by a toad-The gentleman preserved, by his dog, from assassination, in a lone hostel on the woody skirts of a moor, together with the most approved feats of Mother Shipton, and a thousand and one tales of good and bad fairies, contributed to weave the many coloured yarns of Midnight Lore. This was, nevertheless, a pleasant chamber in summer, for it was always cool; and the western sun streamed kindly in, as if in compassion to its gloom; and, when the casement was open, it admitted a delicious odour from the jessamine that trailed up the high wall side from the garden below. But winter was its season, and night its hour. One more feature of the Old House I will venture to describe, before I tear myself from recollections, which, though fascinating to me, may be dull to my readers. There was a long beetle-browed vault, penetrating under the entire north-front of the house, and forming the approach to the offices and the garden. We used to call it The Gateway-it had a brick pave ment, was wide enough for a carriage to turn, and extended nearly fifty feet. I know nothing it resembled, except some old monastic crypt, such as one sees at Fountain's Abbey or Kirkstal, saving only that it wanted the green treillage of summer wildings, or the broad foliage of elm and oak, to overshadow its gloomy hollows. On one side, a rude arcade of recesses, or rather caverns, for such our youthful fancy termed them, yawned pitchy dark as the black dog's mouth, containing (they say) divers mysterious posterns and passages, and particularly, a secret stair in the thick of the wall, communicating with the great hall. The large folding gates at the upper end, (through which the only daylight that illuminated this old souterrain, stole, like a pale, thin, hesitating beggar, down the cold and rugged walls,) used to stand open all day; and it is a matter of astonishment to me, that, affording as it did, places of concealment absolutely alluring to the burglar, this extraordinary gateway was never used as a means of breaking into the house. Of course, we peopled it with all the demons, spectres, and bugbears, proper to so strange and dreary a place. I know not whether this curious old Oubliette still exists; for modern improvement has now, alas! completely sacked the Old House. SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE. THE portraits of this worthy man are numerous. Vanderbane's engraving, from Sir Peter Lely's, is particularly fine. Vertue's engravings, from Sir Peter, in the folio editions of 1720 and 1740, are also fine. This same portrait is neatly engraved in the late Mr. Nichol's Collection of Poems. Houbraken has also engraved the same for Birch's Lives. Sir William Temple, after spending twenty years in negociations with foreign powers, retired in 1680 from public life, and employed his time in literary pursuits. He was ambassador for many years at the court of Holland, and there acquired his knowledge and taste in gardening. He had a garden at Sheen, and afterwards, another at Moor Park, where he died in 1700; and though his body was buried in Westminster Abbey, his heart was enclosed in a silver urn under a sun-dial in the latter garden. His Essay "Upon the Gardens of Epicurus, or of Gardening in the year 1685," is printed in all the editions of his works.* Lord Mountmorris thus speaks of him :-"The retirement of this great man has bequeathed the most invaluable legacy to posterity. Of the taste and elegance of his writings too much can never be said, illuminated as they are by that probity and candour which pervade them, and those charms which render truth irresistible. Though other writers may be more the objects of imitation to the scholar, yet his style is certainly the best adapted to the politician and the man of fashion; nor would such an opinion be given, were it not for an anecdote of Swift, which I had from the late Mr. Sheridan, who told me the dean always recommended him as the best model, and had repeatedly said the style of Sir William Temple was the easiest, the most liberal, and the most brilliant in our language. In a word, when we consider his probity, his disinterestedness, his contempt of wealth, the genuine beauty of his style, which was as brilliant, as harmonious, and as pure as his life and manners; when we reflect upon the treasures which he has In this delightful essay, he says, the most exquisite delights of sense are pursued, in the contrivance and plantation of gardens, which, with fruits, flowers, shades, fountains, and the music of birds that frequent such happy places, seem to furnish all the plea sures of the several senses.' bequeathed by his example and by his works to his country, which no man ever loved better, or esteemed more; we cannot avoid considering Sir William Temple as one of the greatest characters which has appeared upon the political stage; and he may be justly classed with the greatest names of antiquity, and with the most brilliant characters which adorn and illustrate the Grecian or Roman annals." Hume records that "he was full of honour and humanity." Sir Wiiliam thus concludes one of his philosophic essays:-"When this is done, human life is, at the greatest and the best, but like a froward child, that must be played with and humoured a little to keep it quiet till it falls asleep, and then the care is over." His garden was one of his last delights. He knew what kind of life was best fitted to make a man's last days happy. Mr. Walpole, though he censures Sir William's warm panegyric on the garden at Moor Park, yet scruples not doing him full justice in styling him an excellent man, and an admired writer, whose style, as to his garden, is animated with the colouring and glow of poetry. Sir William thus allures his readers: 66 Epicurus, whose admirable wit, felicity of expres sion, excellence of nature, sweetness of conversation, temperance of life, and constancy of death, made him so beloved by his friends, admired by his scholars, and honoured by the Athenians, passed his time wholly in his gardens; there he studied, there he exercised, there he taught his philosophy; and indeed, no other sort of abode seems to contribute so much to both the tranquillity of mind, and indolence of body, which he made his chief ends. The sweetness of air, the pleasantness of smells, the verdure of plants, the cleanness and lightness of food, the exercises of working or walking; but above all, the exemption from cares and solicitude, seem equally to favour and improve both contemplation and health, the enjoyment of sense and imagination, and thereby the quiet and ease both of the body and mind.” [From a lately published volume,' On the Portraits of English Authors on Gardening.' SYCOPHANCY.-A man's sycophancy is commonly in proportion to his sense. Can a really sensible man be a sycophant? Voltaire was a sycophant. Then he was more he was base, and sinned against light and knowledge; but this is only an exception to a general rule. THE HAUNTED RIDING-HOUSE. FOR THE OLIO. THE circumstance here recorded, strange and incredible as it may appear, was related to the writer by a veteran lately deceased) who served in the regiment, and since his secession from it, entitled to the respect he received from all who knew him, and whose veracity was never doubted. We shall simply state the fact, as related to us, without embellishing it with that ridiculous interspersion of fiction, with which such narratives usually abound. It was in the autumn of the year—, that ordered to march to the town of the regiment of Light Dragoons was in the county of Suffolk; where they duly arrived, and occupied for some time its spacious barracks. Contiguous to the barracks was situated the riding-house, near which a sentinel was posted night and day. The regiment had occupied the barracks about three months, when one evening in the Autumn, remarkable for its serenity and stillness, the sentinel on duty heard an unusual noise, accompanied by the shrieks of a female, between the hours of 11 and 12, apparently proceeding from the ridinghouse. The man, though greatly alarmed, preserved sufficient firmness to proceed to the arena, and search into the hidden cause of his fear. All was silent as the grave, and discerning nothing, he resolved upon not alarming the garrison, but to resume his post, and relate the circumstance to the commanding officer in the morning. This he performed, but his tale received little credence, and was scouted as a mere chimera or fantasie, having no existence but in the distempered brain of the til it became the same soldier's turn to narrator. Thus the matter rested, unoccupy the same post. Left to himself by the relief-guard, his thoughts naturally recurred to what had passed on the former night; he, however, having been so rallied by his comrades, determined not to give further thought to what he now almost conceived to be a 'fantasie of the brain,' and became himself again, until the witching hour of midnight arrived at which his fears were so excited on the former occasion. His present alarm was not without reason, as the sequel proved; for precisely at the same time, he heard the noise as on the former night, though unaccompanied by the shrieks, repeated and proceeding from the riding-house. Petrified with fear, he stood for some minutes a motionless statue; when judge his horror upon looking up, to behold a female form glide from the riding-house, and passing near him, through a gate leading to a meadow, proceeded to a lonely spot, and, pointing to it, suddenly vanished. Overcome by his fears, he discharged his musquet, which instantly aroused the garrison, and a party, headed by a sergeant, came to ascertain the cause of the alarm. They found the soldier so overcome by fear, as to be unable to give a proper explanation, and another sentinel being posted in his stead, the poor fellow, who was presumed to be intoxicated, was marched to the guardhouse, and kept close prisoner for the night. The next morning he was brought before his commanding officer, and having become more collected, he related what had passed; when the officer, knowing him to have a good character for sobriety, attributed his fears to a nervous excitement, and restored him with a slight reprimand, to liberty. This second affair brought again upon the poor fellow the jeers of his comrades with redoubled force, one of whom, more courageous than his fellows, volunteered to take the post on the following night, bombastingly declaring that if any one passed him, and did not give the pass-word, they should carry away the contents of his carbine. This man took his post on the following night, and at the witching hour, having screwed his courage to the 'sticking-place,' he remained awaiting the appearance of what he had jeeringly termed 'the ghost.' The clock of the barracks had just tolled the midnight hour, when the figure appeared, and approaching towards him, the soldier levelled his piece and declared he would fire, if it did not surrender. The figure still came nearer to him, when he challenged it, and not receiving an answer he fired. The report of the carbine aroused the garri son, when a party rushed to his assist ance, who found him prostrate on the ground insensible, and in that state he was carried to the guard-house, where he remained several hours in a state of stupor. Upon coming to himself, his account corroborated that given by the other soldier; and all that he remembered was, that upon discharging his piece, a violent blow felled him to the earth, where he remained insensible until discovered by his comrades. The affair became the theme of con versation and alarm among the soldiers, and in the town, where it is told to this day; but the matter was never solved till some years after, when it was thus cleared up. During the late war with France, the regiment having been ordered on foreign service, greatly distinguished itself in the ever-memorable battle of Waterloo, on which field the day after the battle, was discovered among the wounded, a private of the regiment, who was conveyed to one of the French hospitals, where, to the relator of this singular narrative, he confessed to a horrid murder, committed by him, on the body of a young woman, to whom he had promised marriage; which promise he never fulfilled, but completed her ruin, and by whom she was pregnant. Deserted by her family, she had followed him to the barracks of the town of, where, to rid himself of her, he murdered her on the spot in the meadow described by the soldier, as that where the phantom pointed to, and vanished. Soon after this confession, the miserable man was a corpse ! A RAMBLE THROUGH NONE but those who have experienced the monotonous existence attendant upon a long voyage of ten weeks, can sympathize with the extravagant joy of the traveller, on first catching a glimpse of land after a tedious passage,-the keen excitement of anticipated pleasure on shore-the bustle of the seamen-the preparation for departure-the anxious faces peering through glasses to view that which in appearance, presents nothing but a distant and indented cloud, all give a life and animation to the scene, that almost repays the wanderer for his previous confinement. It was on a glorious morning in March 1827, that our ship, under the influence of a fresh breeze, as if participating in the lightness of heart it was bearing, seemed to dance on the bosom of the blue waters, as she threw the white foam from her bows, leaving behind her a long dazzling line of light, as transient, and evanescent, as our former cares and sorrows, when St. Helena, the "Isle of Rock and Water," the prison, and the grave, of him who "left a name at which the world grew pale," arose in sullen majesty before us.-Its harsh, and rugged outline, clearly attenuated on the light and feathery clouds at its back-its dun, and sombre mantle, unrelieved by any sign of life or motion, except where an occasional exhalation hung like a fleece half way up the mountain, struggling to gain an eminence which, when attained, would consign it to the pure ether. The tremendous surf dashing against its rocky base-the wild song of the seamen, as she flitted before our bowsprit-all presented a scene, which even the sublime genius of a Salvator would have failed to inspire with interest. The first sign of the hand of man in this strong hold of waters, displayed itself on the apex of a rock, perhaps 1000 feet high, called from its great resemblance, "Sugar-loaf Point," on the dizzy height of which, the British flag, diminished to an infant's toy, expanded its broad folds to the morning breeze. After rounding another abrupt promontory, we came in view of St. James's town. Nothing can present a more striking resemblance than to imagine the scene of a country village at a theatre; a long narrow street, built up a ravine, formed by two lofty mountains, on one side, the village Church on the other, the Town Hall, a barn-like-looking building, the float* displaced by a long stone battery, and the illusion is complete. The sails were scarcely furled, ere our barge was running to the piers, a long bricked embankment, stretching perhaps a quarter of a mile along the base of the mountain; at every boat's length, the rocks assumed a more blackened and scorched appearance, clearly indicating their volcanic origin; whilst a cave, cast into deep shadow by the beetling cliffs above it, and into which the surf ran madly lashing its ironbound sides, added to the savage grandeur of the scene. A quarter of an hour's walk over the burning sands, and two strongly fortified drawbridges, brought us into the centre of the little village; the houses are nearly all inhabited by English, and are built in the European style; the shops presented their projecting bow-windows to the street, whilst placards of Day and Martin's Blacking, and Rowland's Macassar Oil, would almost tempt the traveller to believe, he had alighted by necromancy into some sequestered village within a few miles of London, were it not for the stern and rugged mountains overhanging his head, which by their giant height, seemed frowning *Float, the long row of lamps in front of the stage. on the pigmy attempts of man, in erecting habitations on a domain, in which nature seemed to have constituted them lords of the soil. Rough shaggy ponies, the only conveyance the island afforded, were soon procured, and our gay party in spite of the glaring sun, set out at a round trot to view the grave. The road ascending spirally soon conducted us over the town we had just left; nothing could exceed the difference of scene; upwards, the mountain reared its rugged and steril head high above us, not a tree or bush to relieve the eye from its russet livery, save where a few stunted rushes fringed the course of a tumultuous stream, which was occasionally seen, at times, broad and considerable, foaming and tumbling down the steep declivity, and again, dwindled to the fineness of a silver thread. Below at the depth of a thousand feet, lay the little town, not as would be seen in our misty isle, but every building, meadow, and plantation, shewing as distinctly through the clear atmosphere, as if traced with the minuteness of a map, and seemed not unlike a rich English landscape, viewed through the inverted end of a telescope. Our sure-footed conductors, in the meantime, as if delighting in their accuracy, and firmness of step, cantered along the extreme edge of the road, unprotected by the slightest embankment from the abyss below, so that it not unfrequently happened, there was nothing, save the blue air of Heaven, between the sole of one's shoe and the peaceful quiet village a thousand feet below. An hour and a half's ride over country, as barren as rock and sand could make it, brought us at length to an abrupt turning, down which the road as rapidly descended as it had before risen, but the whole face of the country was changed; nature, as if to make amends for the barren tract we had passed, here displayed herself in the utmost luxuriance; wild flowers skirted the path at every step, whilst perfect hedges of geraniums lined each side of the road; at the bottom of this delightful valley, lay the object of our toilsome ride, but ah! with what disappointment must the enthusiast be struck, who expects to find a tomb worthy of his career. "No sculptured urn" imarks the grave, of "him who kept the world awake," not e'en his name "spelt by the unlettered muse" records who sleeps beneath. Three oblong stones from his kitchen floor, and a part of the iron railing |