impossible to walk through the mazes of such a perfect, such a glorious specimen of the olden time, without an innate, reverential, awful feeling, as if you had been born and had lived during those antique days, and were removed backward in the world many hundreds of years. You _feel_ as if you were become part and parcel of the ancient things which at every turn meet your wondering eye. Any stranger, used to a town life, might well be excused, on entering Haddon, for entertaining thoughts and feelings of a grave and sombre cast, when every article recalls the memory of those who, for so many ages, have departed for “that undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns.” It is now very many years ago, during the life of one of the dukes of Rutland, who was facetiously named “John of the Hill,” from his perpetual residence on the moors and ardor in the chase, that a large party had assembled at Haddon to enjoy the recreation of autumnal sports. Among the guests was a young lady named Chamberlain, of good birth but impoverished fortune, owing to lamentable reverses in her family. She was the companion of a lady of high rank, and as such, of course, possessed of superior accomplishments. Miss Chamberlain was mistress of extraordinary acquirements, added to an energy of mind and force of character seldom to be found in a beautiful girl of eighteen. She, with the Countess of Carlisle, whose protégé she was, arrived at the Hall on the evening previous to the night of the terrifying scenes about to be related.