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SPAINS HALL.

ROMANTIC as this name may sound, it is really and truly the proper designation of a fine old Gothic mansion, still existing in the county of Essex.

It was so called from a certain Hervey de Ispania, who held the manor under Count Alan Fergent, second son of Eudo, Earl of Bretagne, and who, as his name imports, was of Spanish origin. Our tradition, however, relates to a much more recent possessor of the estate, although from its romantic nature-bordering, indeed, upon the improbable-it might well have belonged to the time of Hervey the Spaniard.

Spains Hall had, by marriage with a sole surviving heiress, passed into the family of the Kempes; and about the year 1589, the date of our story, was held by William Kempe, the loving and loved husband of a very beautiful wife. In fact, he doted upon her, not with the dotage of a

weak mind that is yet further debilitated and made ridiculous by its passion, but with the ardour of one of those firm, and almost iron tempers, which, having once taken up either a liking or a hatred, cling to their adoption with irremovable pertinacity. With him, to talk of a thing was to do it, and although not often led away by hasty ebullitions of temper, still this firmness—if we may call it firmness-would at times lead him into unpleasant straits that never could have befallen any one who held less tenaciously by his purposes. Such was the case in the present instance.

William Kempe had not long been married, and like most ardent lovers had a more than reasonable share of jealousy. It so happened that in the neighbourhood there resided a young man of sufficient external attractions to win any female heart that was not otherwise engaged, and therefore, a very fit subject for the suspicions of a husband. Of him, though without the least cause, it pleased our William to be jealous in the extreme of that amiable disease, so much so that one day

"Passion having his best judgment collied,"

he bestowed upon her that word which sounded so offensively to the ears that she did not choose to repeat it; neither do we; enough, the word

was spoken, and as immediately repented of, with the same degree of fury that had attended its utterance. Before the lady could recover sufficiently from her astonishment to make a reply, he had darted off like a maniac into the near woods, and thither we must follow him, leaving the offended party to take counsel with herself at leisure.

The cool evening ought in all reason to have brought down our hero's self-indignation to a more decent temperature, but though he had continued roaming through the woods till nightfall, the fiery crater within his bosom was still boiling over and sending forth both flame and smoke. To drop all metaphor, which, perhaps, does not make the matter much clearer, he could not reconcile himself to himself; the fatal monosyllable which he had dropt in his fury, continued to hunt him like a spectre, and sundry were the terms of invective, that, in consequence, he launched against his own head.

"I wonder," he at length exclaimed, "I wonder why man is cursed with that unruly member, the tongue. The brute-beasts are ten times happier in their dumbness; with them the tongue serves only for good and useful purposes, and not to do mischief to themselves or others. They talk no slander, they make no enemies by angry words, they poison none by flattery. Had my lucky stars

made a dog of me, I had never been able to give utterance to my idle jealousy,-had never breathed that filthy imputation-never struck to the heart the best, the kindest, the purest! 'Sdeath! I could tear my tongue out by the roots, and fling it to the swine that are picking up the acorns and the beech-nuts. Speech! by Heavens, I'll not speak again for the next seven years! For so long I'll be dumb as the brute-beast, in sickness and in health, in sorrow and in joy, in passion and in calm; and if I break the vow, may canker root out my lying tongue, and prevent the sin's repetition at the same time that it punishes it!"

He had scarcely said this, when forth stepped from the bushes a man of the next village, well known to him, as to every one in the neighbourhood, under the name of Raven Foster. And what sort of being was he who rejoiced in this singular baptism? According to the best informed opinions he was an impostor and a vagabond, who pretended to astrology and necromantic arts, only because he was too idle to work, and found it less labour to cheat the credulous than to put his hand to any useful occupation; according to the popular belief he could read the stars, converse with the birds-each in its own peculiar dialect, and charm away diseases that all the doctors in the neighbourhood could not cure. These gifts,

it was said, he derived from the circumstances of his birth, being the seventh son of a seventh son, for his ancestors during seven generations were noted for large families-seldom less than nine in number-and for long lives, as any one might, and still may, convince himself by studying the tombstones in their parish church-yard. From these indisputable witnesses it appears that in no case had any of them, male or female, died under the unusual age of ninety, while some had actually passed their hundredth year. But, in addition to all this, there was a peculiar circumstance attending the birth of this seventh son of a seventh son, which in the popular opinion invested him with a supernatural halo, and plainly indicated that he was not a man like other men, but one who, if not actually a spirit, was, at least, akin to spirits. During the whole night of his mother's pains, three ravens had perched themselves upon a tree that spread its branches close to the groaning woman's bed-room, where, contrary to the wont of such birds, they kept up a continual croaking until day-break. Hence the new-born child, when taken to the font, received the somewhat ominous name for a Christian, of Raven-Raven Fosterthough he was generally known in popular parlance as the Raven.

This doubtful personage now stood before