-I write subject to correction-no one in modern years had even guessed at this. The way in which I came to ascertain it, was what, humanly speaking, you might call an accident.

It was one of the hottest afternoons of July in the very hot summer three years ago. I had been stifled with the heat and stunned with the noise of the streets, and had stepped into St. James's Park in search of a little coolness and shade. After strolling about under the trees and admiring the gay flower-beds, then in the full pomp of their midsummer beauty, I sat down on a chair in the shade, and amused myself by watching the swans, with their arched necks, ruffled plumage, and swelling breasts, as they slowly sailed among the water-lilies. The heat made me drowsy, and perhaps I closed my eyes for a minute or two, I cannot say, but certainly when I looked about me again, the park seemed unusually still and deserted for a summer afternoon. Not a living soul was in sight. Just then I heard a sound of voices and laughter approaching, and looking in the direction from which it proceeded I saw coming along the path toward me two figures which at once attracted and riveted my attention. At first I thought they must be maskers, so rich and varied were the colours of their costume, and so quaint its cut. They wore knee-breeches and shoes with shining buckles; under their broad cocked hats long curled wigs hung down to their shoulders, and they had swords at their sides. One of them was an old man, tall and slender, who carried himself with a certain courtly grace as he turned and stooped slightly towards his companion in lively conversation. He wore a suit of dark purple velvet with gold buttons. The other, a shorter, stouter man, was clad in a suit of bright cherry-colour silk with a profusion of galloons, lace, ribbons, and frills; and as he raised his hand, with a

silver snuff-box in it, the sunbeams struck sparkles of fire from the jewelled rings on his fingers. He strutted with so jaunty an air that at first I took him for a young man; but as he drew near, I could see crow's-feet about his eyes, and I fancied I could detect wrinkles under what looked like rouge on his cheeks. They came on, laughing and talking, now in sunshine and now in shadow, till they were close up to me. Instinctively, as they passed, I stood up and raised my hat. The old gentleman, who was next me on the path, turned towards me with a pleasant smile, and as he pulled off his hat with an air of old-fashioned politeness, the sun shone full on his face, and I knew at once that it was Sir Roger de Coverley. I guessed that his companion was Will Honeycomb, and my curiosity being aroused I followed them at a little distance. They seemed to be concerting a scheme for surprising somebody, which afforded them amusement; for I heard Sir Roger say, as he pulled his watch out of his fob, " Just three o'clock. We are sure to catch him at it, if we go at once." "To be sure," replied Will Honeycomb," he always speculates at this hour. He'll addle his brains over those cursed books. It's a Christian duty to go and rout him from them." Well," said Sir Roger, "we'll call a coach in the Mall and go straight to him.”

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By this time they were come to the gate of the park, and Sir Roger hailed a hackney coach and gave the coachman a direction, which I could not hear; for he was a little way off and had his back to me. I called another coach, and bade the coachman follow the other two gentlemen closely. "The gentleman in violet and the one in rose?" he asked. I nodded, and away we drove, jolting and rattling over the paving-stones. It never struck me before, how very badly the streets of London were laid. The cobbles were such, that at every jolt I thought all

the bones of my body would come out of joint. And the streets had a strange and novel appearance. Like the park they were unusually quiet, and the few passengers I saw were dressed so oddly, the women in great hooped petticoats and bright hoods, with black patches on their faces, and the men in cocked hats, bag-wigs, knee-breeches, and coats of all the colours in the rainbow, with long rapiers dangling at their sides. Then I was surprised at the number of old black-timbered houses, which somehow I had never noticed before, though they stood out boldly enough with their tall gables projecting over the street, their wooden galleries, their casement windows with little diamond-shaped panes of glass, and their gay signboards flaunting in the sun.

I was still wondering at it all when the coach suddenly drew up, and putting my head out of the window I saw that we were in Holborn, just opposite to Staple's Inn. Sir Roger and Will Honeycomb were already on the pavement. They had dismissed their coach and were turning into the Inn. I dismissed my coach also and followed. They passed under the archway with its massive doors, and entered a little cobbled court shaded by tall plane trees. There they sat down on a bench under a tree, seemingly to concert their plans for the intended surprise. I hung back in the shadow of the archway, where I could watch them without being observed. As they sat there chatting in the dappled shade, a fountain plashed hard by with a drowsy murmur, doves were cooing and fluttering, and on the far side of the court, under the thick foliage of the planes, I could see the hall, its black old walls half mantled in vines and creepers, the sunlight shining softly through the crimson and blue and purple panes of its great oriel.

They were not long of coming to a decision, for Sir Roger soon rose briskly from the bench and led the way across the

court to a vaulted passage beside the hall. I followed them, still unnoticed, and passing under the vault emerged on a second court with a small garden, a stretch of greensward, and gay flower-beds, all sleeping peacefully in the heat of the summer afternoon. A flight of stone steps, just opposite us, led up to a terrace overlooking the garden, but instead of ascending them Sir Roger turned sharply to the left, and entering a low doorway mounted a steep wooden staircase with a heavy balustrade of black oak. He led the way on tiptoe, looking back now and then with a smile and a finger on his lip, as if to enjoin silence on his companion. Mr. Honeycomb was by no means so careful, for he coughed and hemmed distinctly twice or thrice, and his sword clattered on the treads of the steps. I noticed, too, that the jaunty air with which he walked on the flat quite deserted him in climbing the staircase; he puffed and wheezed, and, if I am not mistaken, I heard him swear at those damned steps" under his

breath.

On the first landing there were several doors, all of them, like the balustrade, made of massive black oak. Sir Roger turned to the right, and tapped lightly at one of them. A voice from within answered, in what seemed a peevish tone, "Come in!" so he pushed the door open and entered, followed by Will Honeycomb. Then I heard him say in his high quavering voice, "Still speculating, my dear philosopher? We've come to carry you off to Squire's to drink a dish of coffee with us." "Come along, old cock," I could hear Will Honeycomb adding in his gruffer voice, "the Dutch mail is just there's great news from Flanders. paper for to-morrow, you say? to finish; he'll scribble it off fast enough, I warrant you. Come along." They had left the door ajar behind them,

come in, and they say You haven't finished the Curse it, give it to Dicky

so I peeped in and got a clear view of the apartment without being perceived, for they all had their backs to me. It was a low but fairly spacious room, wainscoted with some dark wood, perhaps walnut. On the far side was a huge fire-place with a great mantelpiece of carved stone over it. To the left a single window, in a deep embrasure, let in a stream of dusty sunshine, which fell on a writingtable drawn up close to the window. At the table was seated a man plainly dressed in drab with his back to me. He had been writing, for he had just pushed a sheet of paper from him, and I could see that the ink on it was still wet. Sir Roger was standing behind him, with one hand lightly laid on the writer's shoulder, looking down at him and smiling. The writer had turned half round toward his interlocutors, and from the expression of his face, and the way in which he drummed on the table with his fingers, I judged that he was somewhat impatient of the interruption. At last, as if about to remonstrate with the intruders, he turned full round on them, and, by the broad face, the snub nose, the square jowls, and the settled gravity of his countenance I knew that he could be no other than the Spectator. I was so overjoyed at having tracked him to his den at last, and found him in the very heat of composition, that I could restrain myself no longer, but tapped on the door to announce my presence and introduce myself to their society. But they seemed not to hear me, for they continued their conversation, or, to speak more correctly, Sir Roger and Will Honeycomb continued to talk, while the Spectator sat silent with an air of rather sullen resignation. So I rapped louder, but still they paid no heed. And now the room began to grow dim, and their figures to fade, and their voices to sound very far off. I rubbed my eyes to clear my vision, and when I opened them I found myself again on the chair