A select party of friends had been invited to celebrate the day. The spirits of the mother became more and more elastic as the time advanced; and when the friendly party sat down at her hospitable table, every apprehension of evil had entirely subsided, since her son was at her side in full health and unusual animation. There were only now a few hours to the conclusion of this long-dreaded day, and the almost impossibility of anything like fatality supervening, seemed so clear to her mind, that she became satisfied the Eton stranger was an impostor, and her heart was consequently entirely released from dread. Morley was the more animated at observing the unusual flow of spirits which she exhibited, as he had observed her of late frequently depressed, and his filial affection was of the most ardent kind. As he looked at her, a bright tear stole into his eye, but the tender smile which followed showed that it was neither the tear of sorrow nor of agony. It was now eight o'clock, and Morley was in full health and spirits. The cloth had been removed, and the ladies were about to retire, when his mother, no longer able to conceal the joy which had been long struggling for vent, exclaimed exultingly :

My child, has not the stranger who accosted thee on the day of the montem turned out to be a false prophet? This is your thirty-fourth birth-day; there you are, alive and well. I wish he were now present, that we might have the benefit of laughing at the charlatan's confusion."

Every drop of blood in a moment left Morley's cheeks; his eye fixed, and after a pause he murmured, “he has not yet proved himself to be a false prophet." Seeing that his mother was distressed at his manner, he rallied and affected to treat the matter with indifference. The ladies now retired; but it was evident that the mother's ill-timed observation had aroused some fearful reminiscence in the mind of her son.

He scarcely spoke after the ladies had retired. The shock occasioned by a dreadful recollection so suddenly re-awakened had, in a moment, struck like an ice-bolt through his frame, and chilled every faculty of his soul. His friends sought to divert his mind, but unavailingly. "Like a giant refreshed with wine," the thought which had now slumbered for years, arose the fresher from its long repose, and carried with it through his heart a desolation and an agony which nothing could enliven or abate. The convulsive quiver of his lip, and the strong compression of his eye-lid, showed that there

was a fearful agitation within him. He tried to appear undisturbed, but in vain; it was too evident that he was not at ease. Nine o'clock struck; it boomed slowly and solemnly from the church-tower through the silence of a cold autumnal evening, and smote sullenly upon Morley's ear like the wail of the dead. He started, his cheek grew paler, his lip quivered more rapidly, his fingers clenched, and, for a moment, he sunk back in his chair in a state of uncontrollable agitation. His friends proposed that they should repair to the drawing-room, in order to divert him from the dreadful apprehension which had evidently taken such a sudden possession of his mind. Every one present was aware of his montem adventure, and attempted to banter him upon the folly of giving way to such unreasonable fears; but the revived impression had taken too strong a hold upon his soul to be so easily dislodged. He struggled, however, to conceal his emotion, and in part succeeded.

When he joined the ladies, he appeared calm, but grave; yet there was an occasional wildness in his eye, which did not escape the perception of his anxious mother, and disquieted her exceedingly. She, however, made no allusion to his change of manner, conscious that she had unwittingly been the cause of it, and fearful lest any recurrence to the subject should only aggravate the mischief. Morley talked, and even endeavoured to appear cheerful, but it was impossible thus to baffle the scrutiny of affection; maternal anxiety was not to be so easily lulled. There was an evident restraint upon the whole party, and at an early hour for such a meeting, about eleven o'clock, they broke up. Morley took a particularly affectionate leave of all his friends; they seemed to fall in with his humour, satisfied that his present moodiness of spirit would subside with the morning, and that he would then be among the first to join in the laugh against himself. It only wanted one hour to the conclusion of the day, and he was in perfect health, though somewhat troubled in spirit. One of his friends, a medical man, who lived at some distance, was invited to remain until morning, to which he acceded, and shortly after eleven o'clock, Morley took his candle, and retired for the night. As he kissed his mother, he clung affectionately round her neck, and wept bitterly upon her bosom. She, however, at length succeeded in composing him, when he retired to his chamber. He slept near her. She was exceedingly uneasy at observing the great de

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pression by which he was overcome, and severely reprobated her own folly in having so suddenly recalled a painful recollection. She, however, did not feel any positive alarm, as the hour of midnight was fast approaching, and she flattered herself that as soon as the village clock should give warning of the commencement of another day, his apprehensions would dissipate, and his peace of mind return, without any fear of future interruption. By this time she was undressed, and about to extinguish her light, when she fancied she heard a groan; she listened; it was repeated, and appeared to come from her son's chamber. Instantly throwing on her dressinggown, she hurried to the door, and paused a

moment to listen, in order to be assured she had not been deceived. The groan was repeated, though more faintly, and there was a gurgle in the throat, as of one in the agonies of death. She opened the door with a shriek, and rushed to the bed. There lay Morley, upon the drenched counterpane, weltering in his blood. His right hand grasped a bloody razor, which told all that it could be necessary to tell of this dreadful tragedy. He had ceased to breathe. By his watch, which lay on a chair close to the bed-side, it still wanted ten minutes of twelve. He had not counted the midnight hour of his thirty-fourth birth-day. The stranger's prophecy was fulfilled.

SEE where they come with furious speed,
Along the wild and lonely vale!
No voice, no sound of man or steed-
They sweep as sweeps the rushing gale.
No shadows on the ground they cast,

Their's is no tardy mortal band;
Tidings they bear, with eager haste,

To the glittering realm of Fairy-land! Their plumes are streaming on the breeze, A white rose on their helms I see, As darting through the yielding trees They gleam between the light and me. Be fix'd my eyes-close not awhile,

Nor let the pageant fade away, That seeks my senses to beguile

With all its seeming brave array.
Ha! still 'tis here, and nearer now

The gallant horsemen spur amain;
But on each cheek, and on each brow,
Are traces as of mortal pain.
Even thus, amidst the gloomy wood,

The phantom knight pursues his way, Onward through brake, and dell, and flood, His train their restless lord obey;

Even thus their brows are stamp'd with care,
Even such their features of despair! *
Their swords-what stains bedim each blade!
Can those be drops of fairy dew?
Their scarfs-alas! the tartan plaid,

Soil'd, torn, and dyed a crimson hue!
Hide, hide my eyes, the dreadful sight,
No dream, no vision ye behold;
But warriors, urged to desp'rate flight,
How vainly true-how vainly bold!
The fatal truth I see-I know;

'Tis he, fair Scotland's cherish'd flower, Who pass'd this vale not long ago

In all the pride of youth and power.
Upon his crest sat honour crown'd,
Beauty and joy were on his brow;
Not yet the year has mark'd its round-
Where are his glittering prospects now?
All vanish'd in Culloden's fight,

All scatter'd by a whirlwind's blast,
All fled, as from my straining sight
He and his band like shades are past!

L. S. C.

BEFORE we proceed with our description of Chatsworth Hall, it will be interesting to our readers to have a few particulars laid before them of the celebrated family of Cavendish, by whom that splendid edifice was erected, and to whom it has ever since belonged.

It is well known that, after the custom of the Normans, surnames were generally taken from towns, offices, &c., and were not often assumed till the reign of Edward II. This family, accordingly, acquired its name from the lordship of Cavendish in Suffolk, obtained in marriage, by Roger, a younger son of the ancient family of the Gernons; whose son took the name of Cavendish.

It were not uninteresting, did our space permit, to take a retrospective view of the Gernons, a family of great note in Norfolk and Essex, descended from Robert de Gernon, a famous Norman, who assisted William the Conqueror in his invasion of this kingdom. John Cavendish, the eldest son of the above Roger de Gernon, arrived to the dignity of Lord Chief Justice of the King's Bench, in the reign of Edward III.; and in the succeeding reign of Richard II., was made Treasurer of England, and commissioned to suppress the insurrection at York. During this year a rising took place in many parts of England, but particularly in Suffolk; the mob, consisting of fifty thousand, being chiefly incensed against the Chief Justice Cavendish, (his son, John Cavendish, having given the finishing stroke to Wat Tyler, in Smithfield,) dragged him to the market-place in Bury, and there murdered him.

The achievement of John Cavendish is thus related by an old historian. "For William Walworth, mayor of London, having arrested him, he furiously struck the mayor with his dagger, but, being armed, hurt him not; whereupon the mayor, drawing his basclard, grievously wounded Wat in the neck; in which conflict, an esquire of the king's house, called John Cavendish, drew his sword and wounded him twice or thrice, even unto death."

We trace from this period, to the reign of Henry VIII., the family of the Cavendishes employed in various important offices, and severally distinguished in all.

Sir William Cavendish, who may be appropriately termed the founder of the now

VOL. II.NO. I.

noble houses of Newcastle and Devonshire, was the son of Thomas Cavendish, who held an official situation in the court of exchequer. From him it is probable he attained that knowledge which enabled him to assist so ably and meritoriously in the great work of the Reformation. Indeed, the eminent talents displayed by him, and the zeal which he exhibited upon that occasion, obtained for him the favour of his sovereign, Henry VIII. In addition to some valuable grants of abbey lands, and his preferment to offices of less honour and dignity, he was, in 1546, made Treasurer of the Chamber, knighted, and admitted of the privy council.

The widow of Sir William Cavendish, Elizabeth, the heiress of Hardwicke, who afterwards married George Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, amassed the greater portion of the Cavendish wealth. She gave, during her lifetime, immense estates to her three sons-Henry Cavendish -William, afterwards created Earl of Devonshire-and Sir Charles Cavendish, the father of William, Duke of Newcastle. But an enormous accession was made to the Devonshire rental, by the Burlington property got in Ireland by the great Earl of Cork, during the reign of James I., and by the remnants of the Clifford family in Yorkshire.

In 1694, William, the fourth earl, was created Marquis of Hartington and Duke of Devonshire. This nobleman and his successors have respectively held important offices in the state, and have been successively lords lieutenant of the county of Derby.

Chatsworth is now the property of his great grandson, William Spencer, the sixth duke and ninth earl of Devonshire.

Chatsworth, or, as it is called in the Domesday survey, Chetesworde, doubtless takes its name from Chetel, one of its Saxon owners mentioned in that survey. William Peveril, "of the Peak," whose family has been immortalised by our great Novelist, held it for the king when the survey was taken.

The manor of Chatsworth belonged, for several generations, to the family of Leche. Chatsworth was sold by Francis Leche, the then representative of that family (which has long become extinct) to the family of Agard, of whom it was purchased by Sir William Cavendish. Soon after his purchase of the

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