THERE is a pretty little "house of hospitality," called The Bush Hotel, at Southsea, near Portsmouth. It is kept by a comfortable pair, of the name of Prince. At least it was so about two years ago, when a friend of mine sojourned there for a few days previous to the sailing of a dear relative for a far distant shore. On one of those days, while walking the sea-beat shore, like poor "Poll of Plymouth;" she, watching a lover's sail departing into the blue horizon; my friend, that of as beloved a brother; even till it passed quite away from her sight, like the receding star, whose name his vessel bore, a bright

speck, into the very heavens. On her slow return homewards to her little hotel, for she might well think so of it, from the extreme respectful kindness of the host and hostess-and, on her eyes being naturally bent to the ground, they were attracted by the flickering edges of a scroll of papers, lying half open amongst the shingles. She took them up; and on examining them at her leisure, she found the following not uninteresting narrative of some objects of "almost forgotten fame," which yet remain on the Southsea Beach, and in the town of Portsmouth adjoining:

Being ashore at Portsmouth lately, during a rather tedious attendance on a court-martial, myself and two or three of my messmates in the matter, were thrown something on chance for our amusement after the business of each day was done. Luckily the weather continued favourable for rambling along the beach; and in one of our strolls on that part called Southsea Common, our attention was caught by an elderly gentleman, who, in our walks backwards and forwards, we observed to stand, quite like a fixture, opposite to an old weather-beaten mast, that appeared to have been some worn-out signal-post, with his eyes attentively regarding its shattered top.

Curiosity led us to stop to see what he was looking at. But we could discern nothing particular in the piece of timber, excepting its being stuck here and there, and mostly towards the top, with large rusty nails. On coming nearer, we saw he was actually making a drawing of this said dirty old log; which, to us at least, seemed good for nothing but to be cut down and sent in to heat the flues of the warm baths, not fifty fathoms distant from it. After my peep over his shoulder, I ventured to introduce myself with a few compliments on the pleasure of his art, and then asked him, "If there was any thing peculiar about that old mast, which had

induced him to honour it with his pencil?”

He very civilly, nay, as courteously as if we were old acquaintance, answered, " Certainly not, sir, in point of beauty; nor, perhaps, in the picturesque! But it has something interesting to an antiquarian's eye," observed he, smiling and shaking his head, "having formed the shaft of the gallowstree on which Felton the assassin was gibbeted."

One of my young companions abruptly interrupted him, by the somewhat ignorant question of "Who? I never heard of any felon being hanged hereabouts, excepting one Painter, and that was for setting fire to the dockyard. Assassin enough, Heaven knows, of many a good ship's rigging!"

"One Painter; but not a painter!" returned the good-natured old artist; "hence, neither of my kindred nor my profession. So I hope you will not suspect me of shifting the disgrace of any brother of my craft on any other man: or, at least on any effigy of my own invention." Our companion looked a little silly on this; but our informant, as if not to press his advantage, hastened to add that "Felton had been executed long before the time of Painter; indeed, more than two centuries ago; therefore it was very excusable so young a gentleman as the one he spoke to,

"But who was he? What was he?" again bluntly asked our companion. "I venture to say, your friends here, sir, can inform you as fully as I can,' was the mild reply of the stranger, bowing to us. We both declared off from calling up our historical memories; and, on our united solicitations, he with much frankness told us the following particulars; while myself, standing rather apart, and hidden from his notice by the post in question, which stood between us, took it down in shorthand upon my pocket-tablets. Some of the information he told from memory alone, and the rest he read from memoranda in his pocket-book.

"Felton," said he, " was one of those discontented personages who so often compliment themselves with the title of patriots, and because they cannot get all they want from folks in great public offices, must needs suppose they could fill such better themselves. Suffice it to say, Felton was a gentleman by birth and profession; he was in the army, and a lieutenant; but not deeming his promotion quick enough, he ran the readiest way to exalt himself with a witness; according to the liberal creed of too many like him, making no account of human life, when it stood in the way of what he called the common weal. And on this principle, he resolved on removing from his high influential post, even by the hand of assassination, his former military_commander, George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham. The act was committed in the way I shall presently describe; and the misguided perpetrator, first ending his own arbitrary career at Tyburn, was then brought here a stiffened corpse, dressed in the very clothes he wore at the time of his crime, and suspended from this identical shaft of wood; which stood his gibbet, an appalling spectacle to many succeeding generations. Alas! a vain warning of the final winding up that may await discontented persons, nourishing envy and revengeful passions in themselves and others; and the more especially when they play their horrid parts under the masks of liberal feelings, patriotism, and philanthropy."

The stranger paused for a moment, and turning to his notes in his pocket,

"It appears from old John Evelyn's account of the matter, that Felton, having made up his mind to do this desperate deed, went to a little cutler's shop on Tower-hill in London, and bought a twopenny knife-a mean instrument for the noble life he meant to take away!" The knife had a sheath, which he fastened to the lining of his pocket, to enable him to draw forth the blade at any moment with one hand alone, his other being somewhat maimed, therefore comparatively useless. Being thus cunningly equipped, he got down to Portsmouth, conveyed, it is said, some parts of the road on horseback, but mostly by foot-travel, as his purse was none of the heaviest, and so he was ready to meet his grace of Buckingham there, who was going on a matter of public service.

"It is recorded of the fatal issue of this ill-conditioned journey, that Felton, on arriving at Portsmouth, which was on Saturday, the 23d of August, in the year 1628, he freely entered the house where the duke lodged; and it being an inn, he passed without suspicion amongst the throng within: for persons were coming and going there from all quarters; presenting themselves to his grace as candidates for various employments under him. Many of these, persons of the better degrees, crowded into the room where the great man sat at breakfast in company with several noblemen, and others in his immediate service. A little before the duke rose from table, Felton, who had entered the apartment in the press, drew back more towards the doorway; meaning to watch his victim going thence, into a lobby that lay between the breakfast-room and the antechamber or hall (where yet greater multitudes of suitors were awaiting him), and there strike the blow.

"The duke moved towards this passage, which happened to be darker than the room he left: just as he set his foot in it, and turned his head from speaking with a noble knight who followed him from the breakfast-table, in the very moment the knight withdrew himself from the duke's ear, the assassin struck his blow with a back stroke into the duke's left side, leaving the