The Chronicler of the forthcoming “Legends” is, perhaps, more of an Antiquary, in disposition and habits, than many whose names are well known in Societies, which have been formed for objects of interesting research. He inhabits an old castellated building, which was both a fortress and a mansion, in some former age. Time has passed roughly over its proportions: he has even broken the dial, which marked out his own flight. Still, many relics of the past are left: and limbs of warlike images, and rude inscriptions, partly effaced, may yet be seen. The chisel, or even the plaster of modern art, have never approached its walls. No flower has sought shelter amidst its mantling ivy:--shelter, it should never find,--it would instantly be rooted up. Within, no partitions have been erected, to silence the sacred echoes of the spacious hall. The spirits of sound, which tenant the dwelling, would take flight upon the slightest change. No carpet of richest manufacture, has dared to cover the silent footsteps of the fair and the brave, who once to the minstrel’s harp, and the sigh of love, trod many a gallant measure in the dance. The windows on the terrace, when opened, receive no sound from the distance, save the old echo of the lover’s lute, greeting the maiden as she listened in her chamber, with fluttering heart, to the fond tale. When seen from without, her handkerchief seems to float--the signal of peace and hope. To the Chronicler, there is no silence in these deserted scenes. From him, the sixteenth century has never departed. The echoes are still of merriment and war. Knights and squires, successful in wooing or fighting, move before him. He mingles, with the delight of reality, in the banquet and the dance--and then rushes to the siege and the battle. Could the reader obtain admission to his apartment he would, as by a flash of lightning, be favoured with a glance--it might be transient to his eye, but it could never be darkened in his mind--of olden times. He would converse with one, who has never lived for modern change, and in whose white locks, and obsolete dress, he should behold a living specimen of a former century, as if it had literally descended from that time. The Chronicler must be excused for speaking of himself. Who _could_ forbid any of the followers of Cromwell, or Charles, to arise--the one to recite with solemn countenance and lengthened drawl; and the other with a dissipated air of pleasant vice--their respective achievements, whilst their manner, and costume are thoroughly scanned? What cavalier would ban the Protector, even Nol with his nose and ominous wart, from again appearing, to reveal to us those stern and inflexible features, and to discourse to us, in one of those intricate speeches, which none could understand,--for, like his own dark and wily spirit, they baffled all knowledge? Or what republican could say “nay,” as the king’s court was brought into view, with the handsome, though melancholy