raised his hand to strike the man, but he instantly dropped it, appalled by a look which the other threw at him. "Who the Dule are yo?" "The Dule must answer you, since you appeal to him," replied the other, with the same mocking smile; "but you are mistaken in supposing you have spoken to me before. He with whom you conversed in the other room resembles me in more respects than one, but he does not possess power equal to mine. The law will not aid you against Mother Demdike. She will escape all the snares laid for her. But she will not escape me." "Who are ye?" cried the miller, his hair erecting on his head, and cold damps breaking out upon his brow. "Yo are nah mortal, an nah good, to tawk i' this fashion." "Heed not who and what I am," replied the other, "I am known here as a reeve of the forest-that is enough. Would you have vengeance on the murtheress of your child?" "Yeigh," rejoined Baldwyn. "And you are willing to pay for it at the price of your soul?" demanded the other, advancing towards him. Baldwyn reeled. He saw at once the fearful peril in which he was placed, and averted his gaze from the scorching glance of the reeve. At this moment the door was tried without, and the voice of Bess was heard, saying, "Who ha' yo got wi' yo, Ruchot; an whoy ha' yo fastened t' door ?" "Your answer?" demanded the reeve. "Ey canna gi' it now," replied the miller. "Come in, Bess; come in." "Ey conna," she replied. "Open t' door, mon." "Your answer, I say?" said the reeve. "Gi' me an hour to think on't," said the miller. "Agreed," replied the other. "I will be with you after the funeral.” And he sprang through the window, and disappeared before Baldwyn could open the door and admit Bess. HADDON HALL; OR, CHRISTMAS IN THE OLDEN TIME. BY HENRY COOKE. Haddon, within thy silent halls, ON one of those lovely summer evenings that fill the mind with pleasurable emotions, I arrived with my knapsack and staff before the venerable walls of Haddon, the finest baronial mansion of the olden time in England, and still in an admirable state of preservation. Here, by all accounts, old English hospitality was kept up in the same princely style as at Ragland or Kenilworth, especially in Queen Elizabeth's time, when, we are told, six or seven score servants were maintained at Haddon, and that Sir George Vernon then lived there in such magnificence that he was called the King of the Peak. The noble family of the Vernons occupied Haddon for four hundred years, but on the elopement and marriage of Dorothy, the youngest daughter of Sir George Vernon, with the second son of the first Duke of Rutland, it passed into the latter family about 1567, and was their chief residence until 1641, about which time they finally quitted it for Belvoir. Queen Elizabeth is said to have been a frequent visitor at Haddon, and I see no reason to doubt why Shakspeare, the greatest man of the age, indeed of all ages, should not have been an oft-invited and an honoured guest. In visiting these old halls, which once rang with so much mirth and revelry, "where princes feasted and beauty dealt the prize which valour one is deeply impressed with the mutability of all human things, and with the sad conviction that all that's bright must fade. won, The following verses are so little known, and yet so illustrative of the past glories of Haddon, that I do not think they will be out of place here: Haddon, within thy silent halls, Deserted courts, and turrets high, A silent charm breathes all around, Of princely Vernon's banner'd hall? They slumber low and in the dust, Prostrate and fallen the warrior lies, His falchion'd blade is dim with rust, And quench'd the ray of beauty's eyes. Those arms which once blazed through the field, O'er spear and helm, and broken shield, And ye who own'd the orbs of light, In the cold sleep of endless night, Say, do the Vernon's daughters bow? No, no, they wake; a seraph guard To circle this their lov'd domain, Which time has spared, nor man has marr'd Haddon, thy chivalry is fled! The tilt and tourney's brave array, Where knights in steel from heel to head, No hunter's horn is heard to sound; Thy splendid sun has set in night, Than earth's most brilliant, dazzling light, The evening, as I have said, was lovely. There was not a sound to be heard, save the occasional chime of a distant bell, or the fitful breeze which ever and anon moaned through the deserted corridors, and seemed to sigh for the days that were gone. I enjoyed the luxury of a fragrant Havannah in the grand banquetinghall: A merrie place, 'tis said, in days of yore. A small portion of the floor at one end is a trifle higher than the rest, and was probably used at Christmas as a kind of stage, on which the mummers or maskers exhibited their antics for the amusement of the young folks. I observed also in the wall, about a foot higher than my head, an antique iron handcuff, into which, it is said, many a domestic's wrist has been fastened for being drunk and disorderly, and a quart of beer poured down his sleeve to keep him cool. Old Camden, in his "Britannia," speaks of the ale of this period as something so extraordinary, that people felt the better for it hours after they had drank it. He says, quaintly, Folk drink it thick, it leaves 'em passing thin, The dregs therefore must needs remain within. It is a thousand pities that the buttery books at Haddon are in such an illegible state that we cannot ascertain the exact quantity brewed to the bushel. The men, it seems, were, as a general rule, allowed three pints each a day of this rich beverage; the maids, I should think, dare scarcely venture upon more than one, with now and then, no doubt, a little something nice besides. The Christmas festivities at Haddon were by all accounts kept up at a bountiful old rate by Sir George Vernon, who, happily for those around him, does not appear to have taken that gloomy view of religion which makes so many weak people deem it a sin to be cheerful and happy. A bunch of mistletoe was hung up to the rafters to kiss the maids under, and, from the immense size of the establishment, there is every reason to suppose that two or three of them would be often under the bush at the same time. The huge yule log, decked with ribbons and evergreens, was placed on the hall fire on Christmas eve, and the rejoicings continued day after day, and night after night, until the log was entirely consumed. Oh! these were jovial days! It really warms one's heart to think of the gay festivities of these good old times. We pass the Christmas differently now-a-days, and instead of making it a season of rejoicing, as it ought to be, in which kindly feelings and innocent amusements predominate, it is more often one of dulness and gloom, of empty pomp and religious ostentation. But, despite these outward demonstrations of extreme piety, I am inclined to think, especially from what happened the other day, that people are not one bit better than they were formerly-I allude to Parson Sly, of Stokum-cumPogis, having been caught kissing his maid under the rose instead of the mistletoe; a man, too, who had always preached down innocent amusements, and who, like many of his tribe, was looked upon, especially by the ladies of the parish, as a perfect saint upon earth, if ever there was one. The news flew like wildfire; I had it from the butcher's boy who brought in the meat; and Mr. Coddle, one of our churchwardens, who happened about the same time to drop in with a poor's-rate, observed, in his peculiar jargon, that "them sanctified chaps were always the worst ;" an opinion in which the present state of society in England obliged me to agree to and to reflect upon. My own observation on the conduct of the different religious parties in England for some years past, has left little doubt upon my mind, as I think it must have done on the minds of all reflecting persons, that the increase of Popery, and of a sect in our own Church who are all but Papists, has been owing in a great measure to the cant and hypocrisy of another section of the Church, who now, as in the days of the Puritans, propagate and profess the necessity of ascetism and self-denial in the simple pleasures of life, which have seriously interfered with the happiness of the masses of the people, and driven numbers of them from a Church whose religious opinions they would have been faithful to. Mais revenons à nos moutons. There were, no doubt, religious impostors in old times, but they were not so much the fashion as they are at present, nor do they appear, from anything I can find in the ancient records, to have ever shown their double faces at the gay festivities at Haddon, as they have done in our days in interfering with the simple amusements of the people. Here were doubtless played hunt the slipper, hot cockles and kiss in the ring, with many another lively game now almost obsolete, the good old folks quietly looking on and encouraging the young ones. Then how gay the old hall must have looked, decked with holly green, its walls adorned with the arms and armour of the Vernon family for many generations. What lots of pretty girls, too, generally assembled on these occasions, and how merrily they tripped it, hands across, down the middle, up again, and poussette; the evening's amusement would, in all probability, terminate with a refreshing kiss under the mistletoe. This excellent game is now more generally played, as the parson played it, under the rose; and I hear that the most serious young ladies, and even Quakeresses, are not altogether opposed to it in this fashion. The following may be relied upon: An impudent young fellow, who was, however, old enough to know better, had, by some extraordinary chance, got a pretty Quakeress into a sly corner, and said he should not think of parting without giving her a kiss. Friend," said she, "thee must not do it." "I'm dd if I don't, though," said he. "Weil, friend, as thee hast sworn, thee may do it, but thee must not make a practice of it." The venerable chapel at Haddon has the following inscription :-" Pray for the souls of Richard Vernon and Benedicta his wife, who constructed this in 1427." The little door by which Dorothy effected her elopement on the night of the grand ball opens on the garden terrace. The balustrades of heavy stone-work are ornamented with broken-limbed Cupids. Venus is smiling mournfully upon them, and no wonder, for she herself had scarcely a leg to stand upon. Ascending the grand staircase, I entered a large old-fashioned drawingroom, its walls and doors covered with faded tapestry, and the deep recesses of the bow-windows, as well as the antique chimney-piece, lined with dark oak in guilt burnished mouldings of the date 1545, on which were emblazoned the armorial bearings of the Vernon family for many generations. On the other side of the staircase is the ball-room, a noble apartment, 103 feet in length, lined throughout with dark oak panels in faded burnished mouldings. Its bow-windows are of immense depth, and in their snug recesses many a charming flirtation has been carried on in days of yore. Of that interesting fact no reasonable man can possibly entertain a doubt. Immediately adjoining is the lofty tapestried state bedroom, with its finely painted ceiling. It contains the identical state bed on which Queen Elizabeth slept during her frequent visits to Haddon. I had a partial snooze in it myself. The embroidered quilt, as well as a portion of the tapestry, was worked by the fair hands of Dorothy Vernon in 1540. A pleasing drowsiness gradually stole over me as I lay musing on the singular events that must have taken place in this old mansion in those antique times on which the imaginative mind so much loves to dwell: From the hush and desolation Sweet fancies did unfold, And it seemed as I were living In my mind's eye I saw the noble ball-room once more thronged with a brilliant assemblage of the great and noble of past ages, of the youth, the beauty, and the chivalry of England-high-born dames the very flower and gallant cavaliers tripping together "the light fantastic toe" in the merry cotillion, or, peradventure, the more sombre, yet not less graceful, "Minuet de la Cour." The candles were flaring, the ball it was gay, At one end of the room was a magnificent clock, richly ornamented with buhl-work: And merry rang the chimes Of the brave, the brave old times. At the other end was a raised canopy, on which reposed the royal Elizabeth, surrounded by the beauty of the court. Her majesty, who was often Graciously pleased to be facetious, ever and anon jokes our gentle Dorothy upon her downcast looks, and vows she thinks the wench is in love. Dorothy does not admit The soft impeachment. She blushes like the red, red rose. She regards the floor attentively; it is not mosaic! She casts her eyes upon the ceiling; it is not arabesque ! Now, by my halidome, yon shrewd old woman is right in her conjecture. But, hark! The minstrel's harp pours forth its tone In praise of Maud or Margaret fair. To this succeeds once more the sprightly dance. Her majesty has commanded Sir Roger de Coverly. What a splendid tout ensemble! The company range themselves in two lines on either side this noble room. The queen leads off like a flash of lightning with Sir George Vernon, her high-heeled shoes clattering on the burnished floor like castanets to the music of the handbells. Then comes the gallant Leicester, lord of |