[bare! She entered in the cottage. None were there! Were there any thing like art in the effusions of L. E. L., we should praise the contrasts of this affecting poem, and the dramatic art of its conclusion; but we praise her for nothing but pure nature and true genius. The gay and sombre scenery spring alike from the same untutored perceptions of what is appropriate; and the affecting turns in the conduct of the catastrophe are simply transcribed from the vivid feelings of the writer. But admire as we may, even our pleasant duties must have an end; and we come now to bid our youthful bard farewell, and wish the utmost prosperity to her bark's onward From the storms of criticism it can have nothing to fear; but the sea of literature is not altogether like a child in slumber; and now she has fairly un course. 23 furled her sails, she must abide by the From the minor pieces we have now THE VIOLET, Violets!-deep-blue Violets! There are no flowers grow in the vale, With this we conclude, rejoicing that so far the public opinion has coincided with ours upon the genius of the author and the merits of this volume; for on the first day of its appearance nearly the whole of a large impression was rapidly disposed of, and other editions, we have not the slightest doubt, will follow in quick succession. THE ARCHER OF ULVESCROFT. IN In the time of the Edwards, the 4 ATHENEUM VOL. 2. new series. The forest in which this edifice was erected, though still abounding in bold and beautiful yet somewhat barren scenery, at the period alluded to bore no want of vegetation; it was covered with foliage, so thick and verdant as to exhibit one ample grove of stately oaks, softened and variegated by the birch, the beech, The vicinity and the clustering ash. of Ulvescroft still preserves a large portion of this interesting foliage, partly, we will hope, from a respect to the ruined pile which graces its valley, and partly from the rocky surface, that bids defiance to all agricultural improvements. Whichever motive may have actuated its owners, the dell in which the priory stands is of itself sufficiently picturesque to attract the notice of every lover of woodland scenery. Retired and solitary, it is enclosed on almost every side by high and rocky eminences, about whose sides the twisted and knotty oaks assume a thousand grotesque forms, according as their roots have found the means of penetrating their granite beds. A gentle brook waters this lovely spot-a brook so fair, so romantic in its course, that Leland in his writings has taken occasion to mention it. As it approaches the little town of Newtown Linford, it assumes a bolder surface; but here, it murmurs softly and peacefully over its rocky beds. The ruins of Ulvescroft priory stand in solemn grandeur, betwixt this stream and the adjoining eminence, rather to the west. One tower and a considerable portion of one side of the building yet remain, and scem in tolerable preservation, at least as far as regards its pointed arched door-way and windows. The tower may even yet be ascended nearly to its summit, although some of its steps are in a precarious condition. Two stone niches which seem to have contained benches, are likewise perceptible within the interior of the building, probably belonging to the chancel. Although this ruin is neither so extensive in its dimensions, nor in such high preservation as many others, it exhibits so chaste and solemn an appearance, in the midst of its lonely situation, that it is impossible to look upon it without the mind reverting to what it must have been in former ages. About the middle of the fifteenth century, the priory of Ulvescroft was in its glory; it was rich in lands and high in reputation, not only as regarded the piety and good conduct of its superior, but for the charity extended to the neighbouring poor. Prior Whatton was in truth a good and a pious man,-but he had one failing, if failing it might be termed, where an unbounded latitude was given; he loved the pleasures of the chace, and he entered into them with an avidity hardly to be looked for even in those more connected, with the world. Yet, although this might be termed a failing on the part of Whatton, it was not considered incompatible with his situation as Prior, such diversions being allowable in the heads of monastic institutions at that period; but Whatton followed his privilege to its extent. The red deer of Charnwode were in high estimation, not only on account of their superior flavour, but for the superior sport they yielded in the field; and the Earls Ferrers and Leicester, as well as the Lord Hastings, at that time the possessor of Witwicke, looked with no small jealousy upon the encroachments made by the Superior on this their favourite breed. But Whatton cared little for the rebuffs of these noblemen; he held his right of chacing the deer by grants from his sovereign. It was immaterial to him who winced under these privileges, and he spared neither the red nor the fallow, when it suited him to indulge in the recreation. Indeed, so freely and so frequently did he hunt, that it became proverbial in the mouths of his enemies:. Seeke the deere in his lair, In hunting, hawking, or netting, Prior Whatton was indeed an adept. Every corner of the forest rang at intervals with the notes of his bugle. The swift-footed animals started at the sound of it; they left their leafy beds, and shook the dew from their haunches, with the terror and the fleetness of those who fly for freedom! The very trice cock fluttered his plumage, and fled fearfully from the branch on which he was reposing, as its lengthened tones were echoed through the vallies. Yet expert as the friar was at his favourite diversion, he could not always boast of success; there were seasons when the wary animal, despite of the most active exertions of his enemies, would keep long at bay, and finally baffle the skill of the pursuers. It was on an occasion of this kind, after a lengthened chase, when the stag had made good his retreat and found a secure covering in the wiles of the forest, when both men and dogs were at fault, that Whatton, disgusted by the ill success of the morning's amusement and scarcely conscious of what he was about, turned his horse's head from the party who had accompanied him, and, striking suddenly into another part of the forest, motioned as though he would be alone. No one presumed to follow him; the Prior of Ulvescroft was too exalted in situation to admit of his orders being treated with neglect; and Whatton, with that listlessness which usually attends the disappointment of our wishes, rode for some time alone. But the defeat of his morning's exertions was not the only cause for chagrin that Whatton at that moment had in his heart;-he had recently received intelligence that the owner of Witwicke, whose ample possessions, and fair park, rendered him as formidable as any nobleman on that side the county, and with whom the inhabitants of the priory were at variance, had suddenly visited his castle with a numerous company of friends, and it was a circumstance of too much import not to dwell upon the mind of the Prior. Their quarrel had its source, like many others, from a question concerning forest rights, and it had been pursued so long, and with so much acrimony on both sides, that a total estrangement had taken place between them; the monks not choosing to yield one inch of their prerogative, and the Lord Hastings, in the plenitude of his power, looking for, and exacting more than seemed consistent either with good nature or generosity. Whatton had rode over several miles of hill and dale before he became really conscious that he had left his companions-so much had his mind been engrossed by internal reflection. A brace of tired dogs paced sluggishly at his horse's heels, the one a stag-hound, the other an old blood-hound; their coats were soiled, their tails down, their heavy eyes were bent constantly upon the ground, and, though not endowed with the the gift of speech, their motions seemed to indicate that they partook largely in the chagrin of their master. When Whatton paused, which at length he did, on the summit of a small knoll, it was to fix his eyes on the mansion of his enemy. The proud walls of Witwicke were indeed before him, they towered over the trees with which they were surrounded, and seemed to frown defiance upon the Prior. The pace of Whatton unconsciously quickened; he spurred the beast that bore him, and the towers of Witwicke were soon lost in the distance. It was not, however, the disposition of the Prior to urge either man or beast to extremity; his horse had undergone much fatigue that morning; he had rode hard; and, being pretty certain that he could not now be in much danger of encountering any one, whose presence might be unpleasant to him, he once more gave a slackened rein. As he patted the neck of the high spirited animal, and smoothed his sleek mane with the butt end of his whip, his attention was arrested by one of his quadruped companions, whose eyes at that moment met his, and there seemed so much of mute expression in them, that Whatton read, or fancied he read, the creature's meaning. "Chantress," he said, "thou wert wont to do thy duty without failing, my old girl. But thou hast baulked thy master this morning. We must have more mettle another time." Accustomed to his voice, the hound fawned upon him, but while in the act of so doing, she turned round with a celerity that showed there was no want of animation, and that neither age nor fatigue had yet dulled her senses. With one ear thrown back upon her neck, and her nose to the ground, she gave the usual deep tongue when in pursuit of game, and in an instant was lost to the sight of her master. Surprised by the action of the dog, the Prior remained irresolute what course to pursue the hound had fled in the direction of the castle, and Whatton, vexed by the circumstance, felt strongly inclined to leave her to her fate. But affection for an old favourite made him hesitate; there was also another strong incitement towards his pursuing her, the propensity of the bloodhound for tracking the human foot; and Whatton, though the towers of Witwicke were so closely at hand, had a heart too much alive to humanity, to risk the mischief so dangerous a propensity might occasion.-After a few seconds given to consideration, therefore, he turned short by the way the animal had taken, not however without some internal feelings of the unpleasant encounter which must necessarily take place, should the lordly owner of the domain present himself before him. But he was not doomed to meet with him. On reaching the summit of a slight eminence that overlooked a romantic dell, he found Chantress indeed engaged, but with a youth of so slender an appearance, that the Prior trembled as he beheld them. It truth it was a boy, a fair boy, of such few years, that it seemed as if one onset alone of the enraged animal were sufficient to destroy him: but he parried her attack so adroitly, twisting round and round, as the dog bore furiously towards him; at the same time, defending himself with so much skill, and attacking Chantress in his turn with a cross-bow he held in his hand with such violence, as to send her several paces from him howling with pain. But Chantress was no coward;-as she was usually foremost in the chace, so was she in fight. She returned to the attack again and again, with redoubled energy; and was as often as successfully repelled by the dexterous boy. It was after a severe struggle, in which Chantress had been thrown to a considerable distance, that her fate must have been inevitably decided, had not the Prior at that instant arrived and saved her. "Hold, hold, brave youth, harm not the dog; spare her, I beseech you." "Down, Chantress, down. Back, good lass, back with you." The youngster had found time to aim a bolt which would the next instant have been fixed in her heart, had not the voice of Whatton arrested his intention. Accustomed to the word of command, the animal slunk behind her master; and, having re duced her to obedience by the usual harsh tones of authority, the Prior turned his regards on her antagonist. The boy was standing in a low dingle or bottom, beside a thicket of evergreens. His cap was off, and a profusion of light brown hair that fell around a forehead of the most dazzling whiteness, and flowed in natural ringlets to his shoulders, formed so strong a contrast to the dark shades of the holly which grew behind him, that Whatton thought he had scarcely ever beheld so beautiful a figure. Indeed, the whole appearance of this youth exhibited a whimsical and incongruous medley. The rich colour and fantastic style of his dress, so different from any thing worn by lads of his age, excepting those attached to the court, joined to his native grace, forcibly impressed the Prior. The cross-bow he held in his hand, though its bolt had been thus hastily arrested from its purpose, was still grasped in an attitude of defiance, and as he returned the gaze of Whatton, it was with so saucy and independent an air, that the latter could scarcely suppress a smile as he observed it. The retreat of the dog, however, had the desired effect, the extended arm gradually sunk to its natural position, and, after a short interval, given as it should seem to the con sideration of who and what was the rank of the person who addressed him, the youth replied: "May I ask, Sir Friar, who it is, that so authoritatively woos me from the chastisement of an enemy ?" "One who leans to the side of mercy, good boy." "Indeed ?" said the lad tartly, "it were an act of mercy truly, to spare the life of one who would take yours in return! I hold it no sin to kill your blood-hound, Sir Monk, since doubtless she left your side for the purpose of attack. We have shown her better sport however." "Your prowess I admire, it is beyond your years. Yet it is my duty to tell you," said Whatton, "that true generosity may show itself better by sparing a fallen foe." "Cry you mercy, Sir, yonder creature exhibits no sign of foilment; an you were not here, she would as soon take me as a buck." “Well, well, you have shown your ability, and it promises fair in riper years." "A small matter, a small matter, good priest; but you are right, we hope to live to do better things." These words were accompanied by so strong a tone of superiority, joined with so contemptuous a toss of the head, and a countenance so indicative of scorn, that Whatton felt very much disposed to anger. But the haughty smile and curl of the upper lip was so mollified by the otherwise natural beauty of the face, that the anger of the Prior yielded to the contemplation of so rare a piece of Nature's workmanship. He seemed fascinated, and stood in fixed attention, silently viewing him. The boy took no notice of this astonishment, although it escaped not his observation, but continued, "I am a stranger among these wilds, and know not exactly which way to wend my steps, I seek a contentious Prior, who they tell me dwells hereabouts; a man, I hear, who loves the chace so well, that he grudges every one else a partition of it. Perhaps you could guide me to him?" "And what, if I could ?" demanded Whatton, but little pleased to hear himself so spoken of. "I have a vow against him," said the lad: "I have sworn to despoil him of one of his fattest bucks; and by the walls of St. Mary, where they say he resides, I will keep my promise." "Why thou art the veriest little varlet mine eyes ever saw !" cried Whatton, rage now overcoming every other feeling. "But let me warn thee, stripling, and see thou take it in time; desist from thy purpose, or it will cost thee dear, perhaps, for the walls of Saint Mary are strong, and dark within. Thou understandest me?" The youth bowed expressively, whilst a smile of derision again sat upon his face. "I dread neither priests nor walls: I care not, so I cure the Prior of Ulvescroft of his churlish propensities, for, like myself, I deem him worthy of better things." There was a stress on the word "better," and a laughter in the eye, as he uttered the last sentence, which were provoking enough. He drew the silken mantle that had hitherto hung carelessly behind him across one shoulder, and, snatching up his bow, which during the course of parley he had suffered to fall to the ground, turning short upon his heel, of which he made so good a use, that he was very soon out of sight. "Sayest thou so, young Swiftfoot? we shall see," said Whatton, pulling down the sleeves of his dress with the air of one who hardly knows how to "But I bevent his mortification. lieve thee capable of that, or aught else thou art bent upon. However, once more I say beware!" The words of the Prior were spent in air, the youth was past hearing, and Whatton, after a moment's pause, again pursued his way homeward. He could not, however, easily divest his thoughts of what had occurred; the figure of the boy, in all his native grace and beauty, was constantly present to his imagination. Who or what he was he could not so readily determine; noble, his whole appearance bespoke him; and Whatton suspected him to be one of the followers of Witwicke's Lord, who, having heard of the feuds subsisting between that nobleman and himself, had in the sportiveness of boyhood thus insulted him. The mind of the Prior was rather disposed to generosity than otherwise, but he could not very readily forgive this seeming fresh affront,-since he doubted not but the Lord Hastings had a share in it. And this it was, more than the pertinacious loquacity of the boy, that really mortified and displeased him. |