that,

But to my adventure. It was during one of my visits to K one fine moonlight night, I sallied forth from my inn, with the intention of enjoying a walk through the churchyard I have described, which is situate some half mile from the town, and which I judged would present a pleasing picture, seen by the pale light of the moon. A large fair had been held in the place during the day, and as I passed through the streets there were the customary features displayed at the close of a countryman's gala-day. Here and there were groups of merry rustics, all more or less under the influence of the rosy god; some valiant in proffer of battle to present or imaginary foes; others resisting the persuasion and entreaties of their less inebriated companions, who were urging the homeward retreat. From the lower class of public-houses issued peals of rude merriment, or the more discordant sounds of many voices in angry quarrel. Here and there, like a vessel destitute of rudder, helm, or sail, rolled about the pavement some drunken boor, bereft of all the superior attributes of humanity which he might, in his sober moments, have possessed over the beast of the field.

How delightful was it to leave behind me the sights and sounds of such rude revelry!-the shout of inebriety, the idiotic laugh and fierce quarrel engendered by the brimming cup! How calm, how eloquent, appeared the great dome of heaven! how pure, how beautiful, the soft light of the tranquil moon! how still, how peaceful, the sleeping earth! What a change from town to country, from Man to Nature! How full of great teaching her language! how wonderful, and how solemn! The pomp, pride, and circumstance of human life, its joys, its griefs, its greatnesses, its achievements, call them from the shadowy past; from the stores and hoards of old Time, or summon them from the living present; pass them before the mind's eye, and let the scene of such review be in solitude, beneath the jewelled dome of heaven, in the stilly night; and, oh! what littleness! how shrink they into nothingness before these stupendous, and beautiful, and unfathomable mysteries, that pass not away, that fade not, die not, that seem in their beauty and their grandeur to be eternal! Let the historian in such an hour recal the mighty empires on which the stars of heaven have shed their light, dynasties which have passed away for ever, palaces, temples, and homes of men, numerous as leaves of a forest, of which are no traces left; and others, the mementos of which are crumbling away in desert spots, and deserted by men for evermore, their glories forgotten, or waning to oblivion on the page of history. Let the poet at such a time recal the bards of old; let him remember how genius hath gazed upon those bright orbs upon which he now gazes; that they, too, have felt the influence of, and struck the lyre to, those mystic fires of heaven. Let him recal their bardic fame, their glory. Where are they now? Generation hath followed generation; the tide of human life still rolls on, wave after wave breaking upon the shore of death; myriads and myriads of hearts have beat and are beating with joy, have broken and are breaking with sorrow; one common destiny, the garner of cold eatrh, awaiting all, whilst still onward moves the panorama of human life, childhood, youth, manhood, old age, and the grave. Yet those resplendent orbs on the far-spreading dome above are not burnt out; they remain unchanged in their unfathomable mystery, their solemn grandeur, and in the brilliancy of their beauty. I had never seen the churchyard of K to greater advantage.

There was just enough wind to cause the huge branches of the stately elms to wave to and fro in the bright moonlight, whilst the rustling of their leaves fell softly and sweetly on the ear. All else was still, save the sound produced by the fall of my own footsteps on the gravel path. Except at intervals, when a passing cloud partly obscured the light of the resplendent moon, it was as light as day, and I could with ease decipher the inscriptions on many of the tombstones so thickly scattered around. I was engaged in reading some tolerable lines on one of these mementos of the dead that had recently been erected, and for which purpose I had stepped from the gravel path on to the sward, when I was suddenly startled by hearing very distinctly a deep groan, issuing, as it appeared to me, from the very tomb on which I was gazing. My first impulse was to spring back to the path I had quitted, where I stood almost rooted to the spot, whilst experiencing a peculiar sensation about the region of the heart, as though the current of my blood had there experienced a sudden check. Indeed, I never had been so startled in my life; I was almost paralysed. The hour, the place, combined-it was most unaccountable. After some little hesitation I resumed my walk down the gravel path, purposing to make one round of the churchyard, and then return to the town. Reflecting, however, upon the singularity of the sound that I had heard, I paused, and, somewhat inclined to smile at the fear which I had involuntarily displayed, retraced my steps, more than half convinced that it must have been my fancy which had converted a sudden gust of wind into a groan. Fully disposed to be facetious at my own expense, and in a very philosophical spirit of reasoning upon the absurdity of fear that springeth from superstitious belief in spirits, even though in a churchyard by night, I returned to the spot where I had been so recently startled.

Again I paused before the tomb-again I quitted the footpath and stood amidst the luxuriant grass that grew around it; all was still and silent as death itself. At that moment the gaunt shadow of a huge black cloud hurrying past the moon was thrown upon the tomb and around me, and, ere it had passed away, again a groan broke through the stillness of the night, proceeding from the earth at my feet, and rising on the still air with a fearful distinctness that almost froze my blood. In vain I endeavoured to account for this extraordinary circumstance. In vain I strove to retain my philosophy. The more I struggled to battle with the fear that was fast creeping upon me, the more futile I found it. Every tale of apparitions with which in nursery days I had been frightened-every page I had read of visitations from the other world, the appearance of the shrouded dead, and all the horrors pertaining to the charnel-house, like vivid pictures rose before me, and I must confess that it was with no little trepidation I turned from the spot to hasten from the churchyard, expecting each moment to behold some fearful shape before me.

The wind had risen considerably; black masses of clouds had gathered on the sky, obscuring the moon, and shrouding all things in darkness. As I passed through the iron gate of the churchyard, it swung back, and mingled its harsh discordant notes with the sweep of the strong blast that, rushing through the giant branches of the trees, seemed to my then excited imagination like the voices of angered spirits chasing me from their domain.

Convinced that what I had heard was no delusion, in was my intention, in quitting the churchyard, to prevail upon some person in the town to accompany me back, that my evidence as to the extraordinary fact might be attested. I had not, however, proceeded far, on recovering from the sudden effect produced upon me, mingled also with a somewhat reproachful reflection for the precipitation with which I had left the churchyard, before I came to a halt. Was it possible that I had been deceived? Could my imagination have betrayed me? I stood irresolute whether or not to return. That undefinable something was upon me which is, I apprehend, common to us all, and which, in spite of our reasoning, will at times steal over us, more particularly when alone in the presence of the dead, or in the solemn hours of night amidst the last homes of departed spirits, and when strange voices seem to speak in the wailing blast.

Whilst pausing thus undecided, the rude song of some homeward-bound rustic reveller, borne on the wind, came floating past me from the highroad which winds its way round the lower end of the churchyard. Whether this proximity to something human was the cause or not of suddenly inspiring me with the requisite daring, I will not undertake to say, but I started from my pause of irresolution, and in a few moments had flung open the discordant creaking gate, and stood again on the sward which covered the grave of the buried dead.

At this moment the moon was almost obscured by a cloud, and I approached the spot from which I had so recently and so precipitately retreated, under comparative darkness. I must confess there was something of forced courage in this proceeding, and when I once more came to a stand-still, it was with a wavering sort of inclination to retire, ere I had stood a fair ordeal.

Not long was I left to oppose or indulge that intention, for again a groan, deep and hollow, rose on the stillness of the night. Out of the very stone of the tomb on which I gazed it seemed to issue, and I stood rooted to the spot almost terror-stricken, the blood curdling in my veins, and my heart beating with a vehemence as though it would burst.

There was no longer room to doubt. It was a fearful reality. I became highly excited, scarcely knowing what impelled me to action; perhaps the daring of desperation. I drew nearer to the tomb, and again the hollow groan answered the almost inaudible sound of my footsteps on the grass. I placed my hand upon the cold slab, as though I would prove that it was real, and that I was not labouring under a horrible dream. I could not tear myself from the spot. A fascination of terror, like to that of the snake over the bird, was upon me. Gibbering sprites and ghastly skeleton-forms seemed to glide around me. Strange sounds -words from unseen lips were hissed into my ear, and the wind that rushed boisterously past seemed to bear the hollow laughter of a hundred fearful voices. Large drops of perspiration burst from my forehead, and rolled like tears of terror down my cheeks. I became frenzied with excitement. But mine was the excitement of desperation. I rushed round the tomb, determined to dare all that was to be dared ere quitting the spot. But my hurried footsteps were arrested, and I fell prostrate; and, alas! found myself in close proximity to no "ghost or goblin damned," but, bursting from a cloud, the freed light of the moon revealed to my astonished sight a smockfrocked countryman, who, in a far-gone

state of inebriety, lay half buried in the grass, and over whose helpless carcase I had fallen!

For some moments I could scarcely credit my eyes; but my astonishment soon gave way to a blush at my extreme trepidation. I endeavoured to raise the burly prostrate piece of anatomy, and my efforts were answered by one of those harrowing groans which, had I not returned to the churchyard after my first retreat, and beat the boundaries of the tomb, would have left me, probably, for the remainder of my life, a confirmed believer that all spirits rest not with death and the grave.

With some difficulty I roused the helpless villager from the grass and brought him into a sitting position, resting his head against the side of the tomb, where I left him, and, on my return to the town, apprised the night watchman, whom I met with his assistant, of the case, and I had the satisfaction of seeing the brace of guardian spirits start at once to bring the fellow back to the town, where he would be sure to receive all attention, a night's lodging, and, in due course, an interview with the sage dispensers of the law."

On relating the circumstance to a friend in the town on the following day, in laughing at my adventure he informed me that the churchyard afforded a shorter cut to one of the neighbouring villages than the turnpike-road, and he had no doubt the poor fellow that I had found in such a queer resting-place would prove to belong to the said village, and doubtless, in returning from the fair, in succumbing to the potent spirits within him, had found a soft couch on mother earth in the luxuriant grass of the churchyard. I have related the circumstance exactly as it occurred, and never have I since found aught to cause me to alter my opinion, that ghosts and ghostery would become a dead letter, if all seers and believers would try a thrice ordeal, and always look behind the tombstone.

And now to turn to the story which gives its title to this paper.

It was on one cold and boisterous January night that I formed a part of a rather numerous company, who were gathered round a cheerful fire in the once well-known and comfortable hostelrie of the Crown, in the ancient town of St. Ives, in Huntingdonshire. Like Shakspeare's highminded Othello, the house's occupation is now gone. It was tenantless when I last beheld it, and fated, as I was told, like many other Crowns, Mitres, Kings, and Queens besides, to be rased to the ground before that ruthless leveller, the rail.

The Crown had enjoyed the reputation of being a first-rate, as well as the principal hotel in the town. Since its demise, the business has become divided between two of its former rivals-the Lion and the Unicorn; and it may be worth noticing, when they were all three open they were respectively situated, as in our national arms, the Crown in the centre, and the Lion and the Unicorn in the same street on each side. True, the two latter could not be well termed supporters, and in which important feature fails the parallel.

St. Ives is a remarkably built town, and, thanks to the researches of Thomas Carlyle, has of late been rendered doubly interesting, by his publication of Cromwell's letters, with his notes appended, containing much new and interesting information of the great Öliver's life and true character.

St. Ives, where Cromwell was born, is only a few miles from Huntingdon, which place he represented; and at a little distance from the former, on the banks of the river, are the lands which he cultivated when simply an English farmer. To the few who still entertain erroneous opinions as to the true character of this Englishman, of whom it is hardly too much to say, the greatest our land has produced since the days of Alfred, and who are not so bigotedly allied to old notions as to refuse to receive in evidence aught that might peril their present opinions, these letters of Oliver Cromwell claim, in justice to the memory of one so maligned, a careful perusal. A principal part of them were written to the members of his family; and the contents bear ample evidence that, unlike Pope's polished epistles, the writer never dreamt of their seeing the light, and are valuable as affording the public an insight into matters behind the scenes of public performances, revealing his private affairs and private actions, and the real incentives and influences by which that great warrior and statesman was actuated in his eventful career.

These letters, dug up as it were from oblivion, hunted, ferreted out by a diligence and perseverance which cannot be too much commended, have been brought to light by one who has studied deeply the actions of Cromwell, and who, uninfluenced by bigoted, if not ignorant, historians, gives a true estimate of a character who, from a deep depth of degradation, had elevated his country to her true position in the eyes of all nations. Carlyle knew that something more than the mere selfish ambition which was for so long-and by some still is-assigned, had been the spur to action with Cromwell. He judged that there must have been a more pure, a more sustaining, a nobler impulse in his heart. He saw that the indomitable spirit, the energy almost superhuman, the fearlessness and determination of action, could alone arise from a sense of right, and of a strong and sincere conviction of being engaged in a just and holy cause. From a perusal of Oliver Cromwell's letters thus brought to light, it seems impossible for any one to rise unconvinced of their genuineness, or to disbelieve that they emanated from the writer's heart. To one and all must they convey the impression that his, indeed, was a "oneness" of purpose, and that the true love of country was with him the mainspring of action. They show also that Cromwell, in his religion, is open to no stronger charge than that of enthusiasm, and that the opprobrious epithet of hypocrite, as far as deserving goes, is now done away with at once and for ever.

Who does not agree with Jeffrey when, in one of his reviews, he says, "Writings not meant for publication, nor prepared for purposes of vanity or contention, are the only memorials in which the true form and pressure' of the ages which produce them are ever completely preserved; and, indeed, the only documents from which the great events which are blazoned on their record can ever be satisfactorily explained. It is in such writing alone-confidential letters,-private diaries,-family anecdotes, and personal remonstrances, apologies, or explanations,-that the true springs of action are disclosed, as well as the obstructions and impediments, whether in the scruples of individuals or the general temper of society, by which their operation is so capriciously, and but for these revelations, so unaccountably contracted. They are the true key to the cipher in which public annals are most truly written; and their disclosure, after long intervals of time, is almost as good as the revocation of their