footsteps behind him, and turning at the sound, beheld a Franciscan friar, for so his habit of the coarsest grey cloth, tied with a cord round the waist, proclaimed him. The friar's cowl was drawn over his face so as to conceal his features. What would you, brother?" inquired the canon, halting. "I have a request to make of you, reverend sir," replied the friar, with a lowly inclination of the head. "I have just arrived from Chertsey Abbey, whither I have been tarrying for the last three days, and while conversing with the guard at the gate, I saw a prisoner brought into the castle, charged with heinous offences, and amongst others, with dealings with the fiend." "You have been rightly informed, brother," rejoined the canon. "And have I, also, been rightly informed that you desire a priest to pass the night with him, reverend sir,' returned the friar; "for if so, I would crave permission to undertake the office? Two souls, as deeply laden as that of this poor wretch, have I snatched from the jaws of Satan, and I do not despair of success now.' "Since you are so confident, brother," said the canon, "I commit him readily to your hands. I was about to seek other aid, but your offer comes opportunely. With Heaven's help, I doubt not you will achieve a victory over the evil one." As the latter words were uttered, a sudden pain seemed to seize the friar. Staggering slightly, he caught at the railing of the cloisters for support, but he instantly recovered himself. "It is nothing, reverend sir," he said, seeing that the good canon regarded him anxiously. "Long vigils and fasting have made me liable to frequent attacks of giddiness, but they pass as quickly as they come. Will it please you to go with me, and direct the guard to admit me to the prisoner?" The canon assented; and crossing the quadrangle, they returned to the gateway. Meanwhile, the prisoner had been removed to Garter Tower. Conducted to a low vaulted chamber in this tower, the prisoner was cast upon its floor-for he was still bound hand and foot-and left alone and in darkness. But he was not destined to continue in this state long. The door of the dungeon opened, and the guard ushered in the tall Franciscan friar. "What ho! dog of a prisoner," he cried, "here is a holy man come to pass the night with you in prayer." "I want him not," replied Fenwolf, moodily. "You would prefer my bringing Herne the hunter, no doubt," rejoined the guard, laughing at his own jest; "but this is a physician for your soul. The saints help you in your good work, father. You will have no light task." "Set down the light, my son, cried the friar, harshly, "and leave us. My task will be easily accomplished." Placing the lamp on the stone floor of the dungeon, the guard withdrew, and locked the door after him. "Do you repent, my son?" demanded the friar, as soon as they were alone." "Certes, I repent having put faith in a treach Fenwolf started at the words, which were pronounced in a different voice from that previously adopted by the speaker, and raised himself as much as his bonds would permit him. The friar had thrown back his cowl, and disclosed features of appalling hideousness, lighted up by a diabolical grin. You here!" cried Fenwolf. "You doubted me," rejoined Herne: "but I never desert a follower. Besides, I wish to shew the royal Harry that my power is as great as his own." "But how are we to get out of this dungeon?" asked Fenwolf, gazing round apprehensively. "My way out will be easy enough," replied Herne; "but your escape is attended with more difficulty. You remember how we went to the vaulted chamber, in the Curfew Tower, on the night when Mark Fytton, the butcher, was confined within it." "But I can think "I do," replied Fenwolf. of nothing while I am tied thus." Herne instantly drew forth a hunting-knife. and cutting asunder his bonds, Fenwolf started to his feet. "If that bull-headed butcher would have joined me I would have liberated him, as I am about to liberate you," pursued Herne; "but you recollect the secret passage we then tracked. There is such another staircase in this tower." And stepping to the further side of the chamber, he touched a small knob in the wall, a stone flew back, disclosing an aperture just large enough to allow a man to pass through it. There is your road to freedom," said Herne, pointing to the hole; "enter it, and creep along the narrow passage to which it leads, and which will bring you to a small loophole in the wall, not many feet from the ground. The loophole is guarded by a bar of iron, but it is moved by a spring in the upper part of the stone in which it appears to be morticed. This impediment removed, you will easily force your way through the loophole, which is at no great height from the ground. Drop cautiously for fear of the sentinels on the walls; then make your way to the forest, and if you 'scape the arquebusiers who are scouring it, conceal self in the cave below the beech-tree." And what of you?" asked Fenwolf. "I have more to do here," replied Herne, impatiently-away!" 66 your Thus dismissed, Fenwolf entered the aperture, which was instantly closed after him by Herne. Carefully following the instructions of his leader, the keeper passed through the loophole, let himself drop softly down, and keeping close to the side of the tower till he heard the sentinels move off, darted swiftly across the street. Meanwhile, Herne drew the cowl over his head, and stepping to the dor, knocked loudly against it. "What would you, father?" cried the guard, from without. "Enter, my son, and you shall know," replied Herne. The next moment, the door was unlocked, and the guard advanced into the dungeon. "Ha!" he exclaimed, snatching up the lamp and looking round-" where is the prisoner? "Gone!" replied Herne. "What! has the fiend flown away with him?" cried the man, in mixed astonishment and alarm. "He has been set free by Herne the hunter!" cried the demon: "tell all who question thee so, and relate what thou now seest." And as the words were uttered, a bright blue flame illumined the chamber, in the midst of which was seen the tall dark figure of Herne. His Franciscan's gown had dropped to his feet, and he appeared habited in his wild deer-skin garb. With a loud cry, the guard fell senseless on the ground A few minutes after this, as was subsequently ascertained, a tall Franciscan friar threaded the cloisters behind Saint George's Chapel, and giving the word to the sentinels, passed through the outer door communicating with the steep descent leading to the town. VIII. HOW HERNE THE HUNTER WAS HIMSELF HUNTED. On the guard's recovery, information of what had occurred was immediately conveyed to the King, who had not yet retired to rest, but was sitting in his private chamber with the Dukes of Suffolk and Norfolk. The intelligence threw him into a violent passion. He ordered the guard to be locked up in the dungeon whence the prisoner had escaped; directed the Duke of Suffolk, with a patrol, to make search in the neighbourhood of the castle for the fugitive and the friar; and bade the Duke of Norfolk get together a band of arquebusiers; and as soon as the latter were assembled, he placed himself at their head, and again rode into the forest. The cavalcade had proceeded about a mile along the great avenue, when one of the guard rode up and said that he heard some distant sounds on the right. Commanding a halt, Henry listened for a moment, and becoming convinced that the man was right, quitted the course he was pursuing, and dashed across the broad glade now versed by the avenue called Queen Ann's Ride. As he advanced, the trampling of horses was heard, accompanied by shouts, and presently afterwards, a troop of wild looking horsemen in fantastic garbs was seen galloping down the hill, pursued by Bouchier and his followers. The king immediately shaped his course so as to intercept the flying party, and being in some measure screened by the trees, he burst unexpectedly upon them at a turn of the road. tra Henry called to the fugitives to surrender, but they refused; and brandishing their long knives and spears, made a desperate resistance. But they were speedily surrounded and overpowered. Bouchier inquired from the king what should be done with the prisoners. "Hang them all upon yon trees," cried Henry, pointing to two sister oaks which stood near the scene of strife. The terrible sentence was immediately carried into execution. Cords were produced, and in less than a quarter of an hour twenty breathless bodies were swinging from the branches of the two trees indicated by the king. "This will serve to deter others from like offences," observed Henry, who had watched the whole proceedings with savage satisfaction "And now, Bouchier, how came you to let the leader of these villains escape?" "I did not know he had escaped, my liege," replied Bouchier, in astonishment. "Yea, marry, but he has escaped," rejoined Henry; "and he has had audacity to shew himself in the castle within this hour, and the cunning, moreover, to set the prisoner free." And he proceeded to relate what had occurred. "This is strange, indeed, my liege," replied Bouchier, at the close of the king's recital; "and to my thinking is proof convincing that we have to do with a supernatural being.' "Banish the idle notion," rejoined Henry, sternly. "We are all the dupes of some jugglery. The caitiff will doubtless return to the forest. Continue your search, therefore, for him throughout the night. If you catch him, I promise you a royal reward." And with this, he rode back to the castle, somewhat appeased by the wholesale vengeance he had taken of the offenders. In obedience to the orders he had received Bouchier with his followers continued riding about the forest the whole night, but without finding anything to reward their search, until about dawn it occurred to him to return to the trees on which the bodies were suspended. As he approached them, he fancied he beheld a black wild-looking horse standing beneath the tree, but not being quite certain of that, he ordered his followers to proceed as noiselessly as possible, and to keep under the cover of the trees. A nearer advance convinced him that his eyes had not deceived him. It was indeed a horse that he beheld, with a couple of bodies, evidently snatched from the branches, laid across its back. A glance at the trees, too, shewed Bouchier that they had been considerably lightened of their hideous spoil. Seeing this, Bouchier dashed forward. Alarmed by the noise, the wild horse neighed loudly, and a dark figure instantly dropped from the tree upon its back, and proceeded to disencumber it of its load. But before this could be accomplished, a bolt from a cross-bow, shot by one of Bouchier's followers, pierced the animal's brain. Rearing aloft, it fell backwards, in such manner as would have crushed an ordinary rider, but Herne slipped off uninjured, and with incredible swiftness darted among the trees. The others started in pursuit, and a chace commenced, in which the demon huntsman had to sustain the part of the deer nor conld any deer have afforded better sport. Away flew the pursued and pursuers over the broad glade and through tangled glenthe woods resounding with their cries. Bouchier did not lose sight of the fugitive for a moment, and urged his men to push on; but despite his alternate proffers and menaces, they gained but little on Herne, who, speeding towards the Home Park, cleared its high palings with a single bound. Over went Bouchier and his followers, and they then descried him making his way to a large oak, standing almost alone in the centre of a beautiful glade. An instant afterwards, he reached the tree, shook his arm menacingly at his pursuers, and disappeared. The next moment, Bouchier came up: flung himself from his panting steed, and, with his drawn sword in hand, forced himself through a rift in its side, into the tree, There was a hollow within large enough to allow a man to stand upright, and two funnel-like holes ran upwards into the branches. Finding nothing, Bouchier called for a hunting spear, and thrust it as far as he could into the holes above. The point encountered no obstruction except such as was offered by the wood itself. He stamped upon the ground-and sounded it on all sides with the spear, but with no better success than before. Issuing forth, he next directed his attention to the upper part of the tree, which, in the interim, had been carefully watched on all sides by his followers; and not content with viewing it from below, he mounted into the branches. But they had nothing to show, except their own leafy covering. The careful examination of the ground about the tree, at length led to the discovery of a small hole among its roots, about half a dozen yards from the trunk, and though this hole seemed scarcely large enough to serve for an entrance to the kennel of the fox, Bouchier deemed it expedient to keep a careful watch over it. His investigation completed, he despatched a sergeant of the guard to the castle, to acquaint the king with what had occurred. Disturbed by the events of the night, Henry obtained little sleep, and at an early hour, summoned an attendant, and demanded whether there were any tidings from the forest. The attendant replied that a sergeant of the guard was without, sent by Captain Bouchier, with a message for his majesty. The sergeant was immediately admitted to the royal presence, and on the close of his marvellous story, the king, who had worked himself into a tremendous fury during its relation, roared out-"What foiled again-ha! But he shall not escape, if I have to root up half the trees in the forest. Bouchier and his fellows must be bewitched. Harkye, knaves, get together a dozen of the The king's commands were executed with such alacrity, that by the time he was fully attired, the whole of the persons he had or dered to be summoned were assembled. Putting himself at their head, he rode forth to the Home Park, and found Bouchier and his followers grouped around the tree. "We are still at fault, my liege," said Bouchier. "So I see, sir," replied the king, angrily. "Hew down the tree instantly, knaves," he added to the woodmen. "Fall to,-fall to." Ropes were then fastened to the tree, and the welkin resounded with the rapid strokes of the hatchets. It was a task of some diffi culty, but such zeal and energy were displayed by the woodmen, that, ere long, the giant trunk lay prostrate on the ground. Its hollows were now fully exposed to view, but they were empty. "Set fire to the accursed piece of timber!" roared the king-"burn it to dust, and scatter it to the wind." At these orders, two yeomen of the guard advanced, and throwing down a heap of fagots, straw, and other combustibles, on the roots of the tree, soon kindled a fierce fire. Meanwhile, a couple of woodmen, stripped | of their jerkins, and with their brawny arms bared to the shoulder, mounted on the trunk, and strove to split it asunder. Some of the keepers likewise got into the branches, and peered into every crack and crevice, in the hope of making some discovery. Amongst the latter was Will Sommers, who had posted himself near a great arm of the tree, which he maintained, when lopped off, would be found to contain the demon. Nor were other expedients neglected. A fierce hound had been sent into the hole near the roots of the tree, by Gabriel Lapp, but after a short absence he returned howling and terrified; nor could all the efforts of Gabriel, seconded by a severe lashing with the whip, induce him to enter it again. When the hound had come forth, a couple of yeomen advanced to enlarge the opening, while a third with a pick endeavoured to remove the root, which formed an impediment to their efforts. "They may dig, but they'll never catch him," observed Shoreditch, who stood by, to his companions. "Hunting a spirit is not the same thing as hunting a wolf or a fox." "Not so loud, duke," said Islington, "his majesty may think thy jest irreverent." "I have an arrow blessed by a priest," said Paddington, "which I shall let fly at him, if he appears." "Here he is! here he is!" cried Will Sommers, as a great white horned owl, which had been concealed in some part of the tree, flew forth. "It may be the demon in that form-shoot!" said Shoreditch. Paddington bent his bow. The arrow whistled through the air, and in another moment the owl fell fluttering to the ground; but it underwent no transformation, as was expected by the credulous archer. Meanwhile, the fire, being constantly supplied with fresh fagots, and stirred by the yeomen of the guard, burnt bravely. The lower part of the tree was already consumed, and the flames, roaring along the hollow within, with a sound like that of a furnace, promised soon to reduce it to charcoal. By this time, the mouth of the hole having been widened, another keeper, who had brought forward a couple of lurchers, sent them into it; but in a few moments they returned, as the hound had done, howling, and with scared looks. Without even facing their enraged master, they ran off with their tails between their legs, towards the castle. "I see how it is, Rufus," said Gabriel, patting his hound, who looked-wistfully and halfreproachfully in his face. "Thou wert not to blame, poor fellow. The best dog that ever was whelped can be no match for the devil." Though it had long ere this become the general opinion that it was useless to persevere further in the search, the king, with his characteristic obstinacy, would not give it up. In due time, the whole of the trunk of the enormous tree was consumed, and its branches cast into the fire. The roots were rent from the ground, and a wide and deep trench digged around. The course of the hole was traced for some distance, but it was never of any size, and was suddenly lost by the falling in of the earth. At length, after three hours' watching, Henry's patience was exhausted, and he ordered the pit to be filled up, and every crevice and fissure in the ground about to be carefully stopped. "If we cannot unkennel the fox," he said, we will at least earth him up." "For all your care, gossip Henry," muttered Will Sommers, as he rode after his master to the castle, "the fox will work his way out." THUS ENDS THE SECOND BOOK OF THE CHRONICLE OF WINDSOR CASTLE. REVIEWS OF NEW WORKS. The Recreations of Christopher North. Three vols. 8. Edinburgh: 1842. (FROM THE EDINBURGH REVIEW.) THESE are in every way remarkable volumes, whether regarded as illustrative of the character of the writer, or of the tendencies of the criticism of the time, to which his influence and example have given so general and decided a direction. It is not indeed easy to say, whether the interest which their perusal excites is chiefly to be referred to the very singular combination of moral and mental powers implied in their composition-where qualities which are generally deemed incompatible are found to be united in harmony-or to the strong feeling of the influence which this combination, expressing itself in forms of such originality and power as to arrest the attention of literary men, and at the same time, the appeal to the ordinary tastes and sympathies of the public, by the use of instruments at once familiar and powerful, must have exercised upon the taste of the time, and the whole tone and spirit of our criticism, as well as its form. The Essays which are collected in these volumes, and which originally appeared in a scattered form in Blackwood's Magazine, are now united by a slender tie. They are announced as The Recreations of Christopher North.' We need say little, we presume, of the imaginary personage who claims their authorship, except that, notwithstanding the palpably incongruous assemblage of qualities with which he is invested, such are the vivacity and picturesque truth with which his sayings and doings have been here depicted, that few creatures of the imagination have succeeded in impressing their image on the public with more distinctness of portraiture, or a stronger sense of reality. Few indeed find any difficulty in calling up before the mind's eye, with nearly the same vividness as that of an ordinary acquaintance, the image of this venerable eidolon who unites the fire of youth with the wisdom of age, retains an equal interest in poetry, philosophy, pugilism, and political economy in short, in all the on-goings of the world around him, in which either matter or spirit have a part; and who passes from a fit of the gout to a feat of gymnastics, and carries his crutch obviously less for purposes of use than of intimidation. Most writers who felt that they possessed the power of imaginary portrait painting, have been fond of interposing such imaginary personages between themselves and the public. So Cervantes borrows the playful shafts of his kindly satire from the quiver of the sage Cid Hamet Benengeli; Swift launches his more envenomed arrows from behind the broad back of Captain Lemuel Gulliver; and Sir Walter Scott often lingers over the Clutterbucks, Dryasdusts, Tintos, and Pattisons, who were intended to be the mere heralds and pursuivants of his main pageant, till they became leading personages in the procession;-making the prologue not unfrequently threaten to banish the piece itself into a corner. These fantastic creations, in a case like the present, serve a double purpose. They give a unity to detached thoughts and scattered views, and awaken a kind of personal interest on the part of the reader; who, although he may have little difficulty in detecting the incongruity of some of the traits introduced, and easily per ceives that the portrait is not intended to be received as a daguerreotype likeness, for the fidelity of which the Sun himself is answerable, yet is satisfied that the features of the imaginary being whom he contemplates are drawn from an original existing in nature; and represent, though in a playful spirit of intentional caricature, much of the real mind and peculiar character of the writer:-While the author himself thus obtains the means of giving expression to many things which he might have otherwise hesitated to utter without such a mouthpiece. Nor need the mask for this purpose be a very close one. As Aristophanes could venture, in the wildest days of Athenian democracy, to personate and ridicule upon the stage the demagogue of the day, with merely the thin disguise of a painted face; so a few whimsical and grotesque exaggera tions superinduced upon the true features of the character, are, by a kind of tacit understanding between the author and the public, held sufficient to perplex the question of identity-to take from the imaginary representative all inconvenient resemblance to his prototype; and to entitle his caprices to that immunity which is conventionally accorded to the sallies of a masquerade. With these convenient phantasms, too, the writer can play as he pleases: bringing them prominently forward, or banishing them into the background, as occasion requires. In the present case, where some startling transition from grave to gay in contemplation-some outburst of a wild humour that haply might frighten the groves of Academe from their propriety; some feat to be described, more congenial to the wild gaiety of youth than to the gravity of Budge Doctors of the Stoic fur, 'attired in black, sage wisdom's hue'-forth steps, insolent with animal spirits, and attired in the garb of a reality, the joyous apparition. When, on the contrary, the writer is to give utterance to the lessons of wisdom, to the strains is |