martyr, at its head, surrounded as he was, unfortunately, by gilded butterflies? In like manner, the Chronicler hopes, that no one _can_ be inclined to prevent a specimen of these times from intruding himself, for a little on the attention of his readers. He is now seated, writing from an inkhorn said to have been the property of General Fairfax; and leaning on a table, once heavily laden with a feast, of which royalists and republicans alike partook, on a day of truce. Other relics of that time are around him; but there is one dearer than all besides--a lovely daughter--a descendant, by the mother’s side, of an ancient family of distinction, from whom Charles II., during his wanderings, received shelter, and subsequently, assistance to mount the throne. She sings to him the ballads of other days, and they revive again in the echo of her music. For her, as well as for her father, this is but the sixteenth century; and though only in her seventeenth summer, she rejects all the amusements of more modern times. He has resolved, out of fondness for the days that are gone, as well as affection for his daughter, that no lover fresh from the approbation of his tailor, and the flattery of his mirror, practised in bows and compliments acquired at the theatre--shall ever find admission to his beloved Jane. He would sooner give her to an ourang-outang than a fop. The favoured suitor must, indeed, be handsome, learned, and brave; he must breathe a song of love in the good old style, beneath her lattice, when the moon and stars are shedding their light over the old mansion. Nor must he be an Antiquary, in the modern sense of the word. He may enter with the long essay, which he read to the British Association, in his pocket, peeping out instead of the handkerchief of the dandy; he may drag behind his name, all the letters of the alphabet, as honorary titles; the Chronicler shall lead him to the door by a way, to detail the curiosities of which, must obtain for him additional laurels. He shall, to a certainty, likewise qualify him for describing the strength of an oak cudgel. Nor must he be a silly Poet, a thing distilled of sighs, flames, water, and earth, who should have lived in the moon to address sonnets to her, and not on earth, since the envious clouds prevent her from seeing and reading them, as well as the brown paper of a garret window. Should any such find his way here, the Chronicler promises to compliment his head with a salutation from a good round of old England’s beef. No, no, the favoured suitor must be of a different genus; and his lute, moreover, must have no resemblance to the sighing guitar of Venice, or the rude whistle of England. And the Chronicler has sometimes been of opinion, that his daughter has made the same resolution. Of late, he has caught the sound of a manly serenade, and he has observed her blush, and occasionally leave the room. Nay, he has met her rambling through the adjoining thickets, with