red-haired miller, playing the bagpipes before them, and the ancient
host of the Tabbard giving them his farewell God-send to Canterbury.

When I told the Squire of the existence of this legitimate descendant
of the ancient Tabbard Inn, his eyes absolutely glistened with
delight. He determined to hunt it up the very first time he visited
London, and to eat a dinner there, and drink a cup of mine host's best
wine in memory of old Chaucer. The general, who happened to be
present, immediately begged to be of the party; for he liked to
encourage these long-established houses, as they are apt to have
choice old wines.

POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS.

Farewell rewards and fairies,
Good housewives now may say;
For now fowle sluts in dairies
Do fare as well as they;
And though they sweepe their hearths no lease
Than maids were wont to doo,
Yet who of late for cleanlinesse
Finds sixpence in her shooe?

--BISHOP CORBET.

I have mentioned the Squire's fondness for the marvellous, and his
predilection for legends and romances. His library contains a curious
collection of old works of this kind, which bear evident marks of
having been much read. In his great love for all that is antiquated,
he cherishes popular superstitions, and listens, with very grave
attention, to every tale, however strange; so that, through his
countenance, the household, and, indeed, the whole neighbourhood, is
well stocked with wonderful stories; and if ever a doubt is expressed
of any one of them, the narrator will generally observe, that "the
Squire thinks there's something in it."

The Hall of course comes in for its share, the common people having
always a propensity to furnish a great superannuated building of the
kind with supernatural inhabitants. The gloomy galleries of such old
family mansions; the stately chambers, adorned with grotesque carvings
and faded paintings; the sounds that vaguely echo about them; the
moaning of the wind; the cries of rooks and ravens from the trees and
chimney-tops; all produce a state of mind favourable to superstitious
fancies.

In one chamber of the Hall, just opposite a door which opens upon a
dusky passage, there is a full-length portrait of a warrior in armour;
when, on suddenly turning into the passage, I have caught a sight of
the portrait, thrown into strong relief by the dark pannelling against
which it hangs, I have more than once been startled, as though it were
a figur