BOLTON PRIORY. [PRICE 14d. old-fashioned, rose-covered hedges, are of the last century's model. The cottages, up which the woodbine and honeysuckle creep, covering them with golden bloom, are as old-fashioned as are the antique matrons, and even the blooming girls that peep from the cottage doors and trellised windows, as you pass. Hill, dale, and river, are all as old-fashioned as Nature herself. Indeed this valley, that grows gradually narrower as you advance, seems to be a world's end, beyond which you cannot pierce. THE priory of Bolton and the neighbourhood has been "Where deep and low the hamlets lie, But now, at a turn of the road, from a lofty overhanging bank, a few straggling old houses are observed, a bridge, and, in the distance, seemingly cooped in the very extreme of the valley, the projecting gable of an ivy-covered ruin. We question our guide, and are informed that "this to t right is Bolton Bridge, and that theear is t' Abby." There is the brown heath or bounding fell, and the barren rock above; and along the bottom of each valley a narrow strip of the richest grassy land, watered by its beck or rivulet, on the banks of which there is sometimes planted a little village, and a church, with its taper spire pointing heavenwards, or, as in the present case, the ruins of an old priory. "Ah! what a beautiful specimen of the Old Country have we here!" was the exclamation of an enthusiastic young American, on stepping through the wide fissure in the old grey wall which separates the grounds from the highway, and obtaining his first glimpse of Bolton Priory from the Holme Terrace. You see it almost embowered in trees of ash, lime, and oak, picturesquely grouped in the bottom of the valley, through which the Wharfe flows windingly; and it is on the platform of land, formed by one of its most beautiful curvatures, that the old priory stands, slightly elevated above the river, the green turf sloping away from the eastern gable down to the very water's edge. But little of the building is visible from the Holme Terrace, only the roof of the repaired priory, which forms the present village church, and a few projecting parts of the ruin. Between you and the priory you discern the parsonage, an antique-looking structure, erected out of the ruins of the old building, its garden in The usual drive to Bolton, from the pleasant little front crimson with roses. It nestles amid green, and in watering-place of Ilkley, is up the lovely valley of the the hot sun looks cool and fresh. The low wall which Wharfe. The river runs sparkling and flashing in the sun, surrounds it is covered with drooping masses of flowers through rich pasture-lands; sometimes under the shade and foliage. Over against the eastern window of the of leafy trees, rapid and noisy; and again expanding into priory, on the further bank of the river, a lofty and pools, it creeps along by reedy banks, scarce seeming to almost perpendicular cliff, of a deep purple hue, shoots flow, save for the trout that leap up to catch the flies play-up; and from its very summit, there leaps forth a silver ing along its surface, the bubbles floating on after the prey stream, which dances down from rock to rock into the has been secured. In some places, you pass along be- river below. tween hedges so thick and close that you can almost pluck the wild roses and geraniums, on either side, with which they are filled. Now you are passing along a high bank, and a noble reach of the river lies before you, the far distance shut in by bounding fells and heaths; and again you are skirting its grassy banks, where a fisher, with his rod and line, is busily engaged in trapping the unsuspecting skimmers of the waters. Everything has an old-fashioned look in this out-ofthe-way district. The railway steam-pace of modern times has not yet penetrated this valley, so well protected by its mountains. The ploughs lying idle behind the The sun is out in all s power: the rich green grassthe wild flowers-the old gnarled trees-the sparkling waters-all are bathed in the spirit of beauty. The honeysuckles pending from the old grey walls behind you, are laden with odour. The song of the birds is "so sweet, that joy is almost pain;" the lark carols in midheaven; the linnet pipes from the hawthorn-bush; the blackbird and thrush shoot, singing, from tree to tree; and anon, you hear the boom of the bee, winging past laden with sweets. The old ruin, the trees, the water, the grass, the flowers, contribute together to form a picture of the most perfect and enchanting beauty. "It is a spot under these northern skies Casting your eyes up the river, beyond the priory, a finely wooded valley, almost shut in by hills on either side, lies before you. Grey crags jut out here and there amid the verdure; a dense copse lines the valley on one side, and an old oak wood on the other. Between these the river winds its way, as if lingering amid the beauties of the scene; and along the bottom lies a fine sweep of pasture land, where, near a spreading tree, you see a group of cattle lazily whisking their sides, udder-deep in grass. After gazing at this enchanting picture, you descend to the priory itself, more commonly known by the name of "Bolton Abbey." about with white and coloured paper. Such is usually deposited in the church, on the death of a young person, by the relatives of the deceased. This is said to be a practice which takes date from a period anterior to Christianity itself, and was, probably, one of the numerous pagan forms which were, at an early date, engrafted upon the new religion. In the early days of Christianity, the practice was strictly forbidden; but in these primitive dales, it has survived apostles, bishops, monasteries, priories, and the Reformation itself. One of the most curious features of this portion of the building is the tower concealing the west front, which was commenced by the last prior, and was in progress of erection, when the priory was seized by Henry the Eighth's myrmidons. It still stands in the state in which it was left; and in one corner of it, the bell had temporarily been hung, by which the modern Protestants of the valley are still called to church. On the front of the tower is this inscription, in old English characters-" In the yer of our Lord, MVXX. R. begaun this fondashon on quho sowl god have marce amen." On the corner abutments are two figures of sitting greyhounds, supposed to be intended by the prior to commemorate his uncanonical office of Master Forester to the patron of the priory. The priory is now but a mere relic of what it was; yet a most interesting relic it is of the religion of our fathers. It is a remnant of the faith which the English people cherished during many centuries; and these old ruins, which fold within their embrace the dead of many generations, speak to us of human hopes, fears, affections, and sympathies, long since stilled. Before that altar, now overgrown with hemlock and nightshade, many worshippers have knelt, and paid their devotions amid the chaunt of priests and the sound of music. In times when mailed tyranny ran riot through the land, and the church presented the only moral power to stem the torNearly opposite the west front, and standing apart from rent of oppression and crime, many hearts have there the priory about a hundred yards, is the gateway of the beaten with silent love and gratitude to their Maker; abbey-almost the only portion that escaped the general griefs have found consolation, and many tears have been wreck. The Earl of Cumberland, to whom the churchwiped away. But the altar is now desolate and defaced; lands of the Foundation were principally allotted, prethe choir and chapel are alike roofless; and the worship-served it for an occasional residence, and, in his absence, pers lie crumbled into dust beneath your feet. All that it was occupied by his bailiffs. Here, at the main entrance, remains is the ruined aroh, the dismantled sedilia, the did Landseer find the back-ground for his immortal defaced monument, and the mouldering grey walls of the old priory. Yet the stars look down on the sweet spot with their unvarying gaze; the sun shines on it as brightly and warmly now as ever; and the deep heaven is still above it, as when its earliest foundations were laid. With the exception of the nave of the priory, which has been roofed over, and is still used for the purposes of a parish church "A rural chapel neatly drest, In covert like a little nest," the rest of the building is a merc shell. In the low, rude walls that surround it, you meet here and there with the cope-stone of a column, the fluting of an arch, or the carved moulding of a pillared window. The chapterhouse, cloisters, refectory, and adjoining buildings were all destroyed at the reformation, or devastation of the monasteries, in Henry the Eighth's time, though their sites may still be traced. The choir is in a ruined state, but the walls are still standing, and enough remains to show what its fine proportions have been. Underneath the little chapels, formerly attached to each transept, were the burying vaults of the Cliffords, Claphams, Mortons, and Mauleverers, who were the great families of the neighbourhood, when the priory was in the zenith of its prosperity. The tomb of the priors was in the south transept. At the beginning of the present century, the vaults were opened, but found empty. As it was a usual practice for the spoilers of the abbeys to dig up the long-interred dead and sell their coffins for old lead, it is most probable that such has been the fate of the last depositories of the Bolton monks, as well as of their dead patrons. The nave having been preserved for the use of the "Saxon cure, at the Reformation, is, of course, in a much better state of preservation. The leaden roof, covering the oaken rafters, has been preserved, with its old colouring of red ochre. It is plainly fitted up as a country church, and contains many old tombs of the former inhabitants of the neighbourhood. On one of these tombs, on the occasion of a recent visit, we found deposited a curious emblem. It was a rustic offering composed of twigs, in the form of a tiara, bound picture of " Bolton Abbey, in the Olden Time," which he painted for the Duke of Devonshire, the hereditary possessor of this fine property. Considerable additions have been made to the original gateway by the Duke, during the last few years, and he occasionally uses The Lodge, as it is now called, as a shooting box in the autumn season. Before his time, the front and rear of the main arch had been merely walled up, and thus a fine vaulted chamber was obtained. The old records of the priory were preserved in an apartment over this chamber, and here Dr. Whittaker, when searching for information for his "History of Craven," discovered many highly interesting documents, relating to the past history of the priory. The lodge is now handsomely furnished with the luxurious accessories of a modern house, and contains several interesting paintings, among which is one of the boy of Egremond about to leap the Seid with his dog in a leash. Landseer's picture, however, originally painted for this house, has long since been removed, and now adorns the magnificent collection at Chatsworth Palace. But the great charm of Bolton is in the scenery of the valley, rather than in the ruin, or the buildings connected with it. The ruin gives, it is true, a historical beauty to the scenery, calling up associations of the past, and linking the scene to human feelings and passions; it serves as a historic land-mark, and excites thoughts and reflections which carry us far back into another age of England's life. Almost over against the ruined priory, a little higher up the valley, is a lofty knoll, covered with copsewood, amid which a rustic seat has been planted; and from this point, called Hartington seat, you have the finest and most pictorial view of the old ruin and the scenery towards the south. You have before you nearly the whole of the ruined choir, with its gracefullyproportioned windows, the arches of the north transept, the pinnacle of the south transept, and part of the nave, embosomed in umbrageous foliage. A double winding of the stream lies beneath you, the trees picturesquely grouped along the valley on either side; there is the steep bank, and the purple cliff crowned with trees, over against the eastern window of the priory; south wards, down the valley, all is soft and delicious; the eye reposes on rich pastures, skirted with deep woods, the river winding gracefully along-occasionally forming a broad basin, as if for the sun's rays to play in; then gliding under the arches of the bridge, it is for a time lost to sight, but reappears far in the distance, the valley | still extending before you, until the bounding fells of Craven, and the purple-crowned Romellis' Moor, close the view. Everything is grouped, as if a painter had designed it so that the most perfect picture might be produced. But no! the painter could not so have arranged it. There is, indeed, about the whole scene an undescribable beauty, which the painter has never yet been able to transfer to his canvas, far less to create. That essential spirit of the scene, which constitutes its beauty, escapes him. And yet, no mean artists have been here. The magical pencil of Turner has attempted its finest views over and over again; and when we say, that even he has failed, who is there that can succeed? Compared with the marvellous scenery itself, all imitations, however skilful and elaborate, must be pronounced tame and flat. For, in the very finest landscape, as in the most beautiful face, there is always a something that escapes the artist,—and that something is precisely what constitutes its peculiar beauty. It is nature, life, soul,-something far above art, however skilled. In the scenery of Bolton, man has furnished only a second-rate ruin; but the Great Artist has given trees, birds, green-sward, river, rock, atmosphere, and sunshine; nothing is wanting; every feature of beauty is present, and in the right place; and the result is perfection. The spot is, indeed, one of unsurpassable loveliness. To enjoy the delicious poetry of Keats, one must read it on a beautiful summer's day at Bolton. His "Endymion" is full of passages which, we imagine, can be so fully relished nowhere else. How well does his exquisite picture of rural quietude-the most beautiful ever penned -suit the atmosphere of this enchanting valley,-where it is so quiet, "That a whispering blade Of grass, a wailful gnat, a bee bustling Down in the blue-bells, or a wren, light rustling And then the successive and constantly varying views, as "Picture out the quaint and curious bending Of a fresh woodland valley never ending; "Green-tufted islands, casting their soft shades You ascend a lofty bank, and there, "In a deep dell below, See, through the trees, a little river go, And a little higher up, you discern far off the ruined pile "The lonely turret, shattered and outworn, For three miles of the valley, from Bolton Priory to the Strid, and from the Strid to Barden Tower, a constant and ever-varying succession of the most beautiful ! views are presented to the eye, during which you are "The song of birds, the whispering of the leaves, CHANCES, CHANGES, AND CHARACTERS, IN SECOND ARTICLE. LONG and earnest were the consultations, unceasing and every gentleman at once asking for a cream, so that in The Larix Ha dinner was long remembered by those who partook of it, and the Duke of Launceston, talking it over not more than two years ago, mentioned the circumstance of another dinner, in the same county, which bis father used to relate; as unlike the present manners, or more so than the above, and which took place not much more than sixty years ago. The then Duke and Duchess of Launceston had accepted an invitation to dine with one of their neighbours, the Laird of Redburnbrae, who accordingly made every preparation he could afford to entertain them worthily. But about an hour before the time they were expected came a messenger, bearing a note of apology, and saying that some friends having arrived unexpectedly, they must postpone the pleasure of dining at Redburnbrae till the following day. The proud old aird read the note, and ordered all to proceed as before, and everything to be placed on the table-soups, sweets, and savouries; then, turning the key, he put it in his pocket, exclaiming, "Noo! come when they like, we're ready." Next day, accordingly, the expected guests arrived, making profuse apologies. "Weel, aweel," answered bluff old Redburnbrae, "its yer ain loss, if ye had come yesterday ye wad hae had yer denner het, but as ye've come the day, ye'll hae it cauld, —we canna mak' het denners for deuks and duchesses every day in the week." It is strange to think that such manners prevailed so short a time ago; but in no country have changes taken place with the startling | rapidity they have in Scotland; the very plantations there seem to keep moving faster than elsewhere; no poet could write now of it: "Far as the eye could reach no tree was seen, Earth, clad in russet, scorned the livelier green." and Dr. Johnson, were he to look up from his grave, would be quite sad not to find anything he could abuse. Improvement goes on everywhere throughout Great Britain, but in Scotland it is more apparent than elsewhere, and in more important points than mere matters of ceremony. People are educated so differently; I do not mean by education, the mere attainment of a certain quantity of knowledge, but the attention given to a due regulation of the temper, and the softening of the manners. The standard of intellectual occupation is also much raised, and we see, in consequence of this, I am fully persuaded, that Insanity is far less common. No doubt the advance in medical science, as well as the extending family connection by inter-marrying with strangers, may have something to do with it; but nothing has had so much effect in driving "bees out of bonnets," as the Scotch call it, as crying down eccentricity, and denying peculiarity any merit. Formerly, people studied to appear original, and because many clever people were odd, fancied all odd people must be clever: each individual, therefore, tried to be a character. Now that children are taught self-control, self-denial, and attention to the feelings of others; we may meet with less amusement, derived from buffoons calling themselves originals; but we certainly see more cultivated, civil, conversible human beings. However, we are never content, we hear people incessantly regretting "the good old times," when every one had a character of his own; that is, when every one said, or did, whatever came into his or her uncultivated brain, without the slightest reference to common decency, or to the feelings of their neighbours, all the while dignifying this total want of self-restraint, by calling it originality. Then again, we find grave grandpapas finding serious fault with seven o'clock dinners, and lamenting the good old times, when four or five was the hour-forgetting that, when it was so, our respected progenitors sat down at ten or twelve to an abundant hot supper, which they washed down by plentiful potations of port and punch. Then, a person of sixty was very old, walked with a stick, and if stage representations are correct, always spoke with a squeaking voice, and flew into frightful furies when contradicted; most certainly those who attained seventy were, in those days, capable of much less exertion and enjoyment than most persons of eighty are now, in these degenerate days of temperance. "The good old times," socially as well as morally, were very bad old times in many respects, one only heard of less crime because there were fewer people to commit, and fewer newspapers to record it. Justice was not so evenly dispensed; cruelty was more common, and ignorance in all grades more universal. The humbler classes were servile or uncivil to their superiors, and even the most kind-hearted, among the higher classes, spoke to those below them, with far less suavity than is the prac tice now; but the manners attempted to be described in these sketches are quite gone by; some live to attest their truth, but the greater part of the descendants of those here introduced under different names, may be met with in the world, looking, and speaking, and behaving, like those they associate with. Some who, in the times I treat of, were never seen beyond the servants' hall, at present occupy places which entitle them to be considered on an equality with their former masters as we may almost call them; and where integrity, as well as talent, helped them to rise, and good sense prevents their being ashamed of their origin, they are as much respected as a vulgar purse-proud parvenu is despised; and the following true tale will show that it is so : About a mile from the kirk of Birkenbrae, just above the old lint mill, then the only mill on the red burn, so named from its running over red sandstone, lived Sandie Lorimer, a wheelwright; with a bonnie wife, and bien house, possessing not only a but-an'ben, but a cosy cockloft into the bargain; his family, however, increased so fast, that he was forced to send out the elder ones to the adjacent farm-houses as herds, from sheer want of room to hold them. It was a wild spot, and so hemmed round by bleak, but not sublime, or picturesque hills; that one wonders the Lorimers, even with all the attachment we naturally feel for the place we remember from childhood, should persist in thinking, "there was not in the wide world a valley so sweet," and when viewing the loveliest scenes in Switzerland and Italy, say "I wod give all this ten times over for one look at Todlowrie, as it used to be langsyne." Heather, broom, and whin, growing among grey rocks, or rather stones, a bit of ragged thorn hedge, one shabby ash tree, the last to gain, and the first to lose the few leaves it boasted of, (for it brought forth more abundantly than leaves, that fungus of which the French make their amadou,) a stunted birch, and two as stunted elders, were all that was to be seen in regard to timber. Their kailyard indeed, besides producing kail and potatos, had two bushes of thyme, a York and Lancaster rose, and several plants of appleringie (southernwood,) from which Mrs. Lorimer made a bouquet to take to church, in the same hand that carried her bible, wrapt up in a clean cotton pocket handkerchief, just to hinder her "frae sleepin' afore the minister, honest man!" They kept bees, and one oury looking beast they called a cow, not much larger than a well-grown donkey; but they had good air, good water, good fires, good beds, and plenty of meal: what wonder then that the thirteen Lorimers all grew up into strong, hearty, handsome men and women. They were all taught to read and write, and cast accounts, and yet Sandie's income averaged just 11s. a week, bees and cow included. Those of the family not herding, or at school, spent their time "paidlin in the burn," or catching wild bees to suck the honey-the favourite occupation of our hero, who has yet to be introduced to the reader. One day a violent thunder-storm came on suddenly, and Sir Harry Eaglescroft, of Doocotside, begged permission to take shelter until it passed over. As Peggy Lorimer was "just at the doonlying," it was certainly a most inconvenient time to admit visitors; but when was a Scotchman ever known to be inhospitable? Sir H. was welcomed to the kitchen by Sandie, who, looking as pleased as if it added to his means instead of taking from them, as soon as the gude wife gave birth to this thirteenth child, brought it "ben to the laird," and besought permission to name it after him. Sir Harry readily assented, saying he would pay for his schooling, and give him a suit of clothes, as soon as he was old enough to wear them; and in the meantime a guinea towards the "blythe meat," brought smiles into the cross old Howdie's face, having the same effect upon it as the sun, which just then broke out, had upon the hitherto scowling skies, making both look cheerful; and, under these united bright influences, Sir Harry rode off. This gentleman possessed a large, but encumbered estate, and had a family as large as his nominal income, to which was added the orphan daughter of his sister Mary, whose fortune, when her father's debts were paid, amounted to just £400. Sir Harry had a tutor for his boys, and a governess for his girls, as being cheaper than sending them to school, and one more he said did not signify, He had never any money for anything, but he lived hospitably, and, upon the whole, comfortably enough, in rather a coarse way. They had a carriage and horses, splended old pieces of furniture, pictures, mirrors, a number of servants-such as they were, and rough plenty of all essentials; but things worn out, or broken, were never replaced, or repaired; wages and salaries accumulated, for there was no money going for any of these purposes; however, the laird pursued his sports, and the lady entertained her friends, just as their forefathers had done, Sir Harry never allowing himself to reflect that a day of reckoning must come sooner or later. In the mean time, Harry Lorimer throve apace, and was sometimes sent for to Doocotside, where the clothes the Eaglescrofts had outgrown were added to the claycoloured corduroy suit, which his god-(or as they call it in Scotland, name) father had given him according to promise. He came in, too, for sundry torn books, and broken toys, and for what, in infancy, he prized much more -permission for an hour's fruit-eating in the garden. The boys used to have him to play with them on these occasions; but they were rough, turbulent, and tyrannical, although good-natured in the main, and he much preferred weeding the little girls' gardens, which always called forth smiles and thanks. One day, while so engaged with Effie's plot, the worthy squire advanced, with anger in his eyes, and a horse-whip in his hand, "Who left the garden-gate open? the dogs have got in, and destroyed Lady Eaglescroft's flowers. Harry, if it was you, I'll flog you within an inch of your life, and I am sure it was," cried he, advancing with a threatening gesture towards the trembling child, for Harry was not endowed with much physical courage, and, moreover, looked upon the whole of the Eaglescroft family, Sir Harry especially, as something equal to, if not far above, the kings and princes of the earth. "No uncle, indeed," exclaimed Effie, "I fear I am the culprit, I forgot to shut it." "Pray miss, don't say so," cried Harry, his sense of moral rectitude overcoming his cowardice, "I'm sure it was mysel';" but Effie persisted that she was the guilty person, and her uncle giving up his flogging intentions, in consideration of her sex, sent her to bed without supper. Poor Harry was in great distress, for he felt that it was to screen him, she had said so, and ever after he felt a deep interest in the kind-hearted little girl, whom he looked up to as a sort of angel. He used to watch for her coming into church in her cottage straw bonnet tied with blue ribbon, the very colour of her eyes; and, although inferior to her cousins in personal appearance, Harry thought her superior to every one, and his imagination pictured angels like her, so fair, gentle, slight, timid, yet so courageous in taking the part of the oppressed; and he longed for the Sunday to come round, just to see her again, and hear her clear young voice joining in the psalms; but he never presumed to address any of the ladies, looking up to them from his lowliness as Princesses, and Effie, as I before observed, taking yet higher ground in his estimation as an angel. As he grew older he was sent for seldomer to Doocotside, his time was also occupied in doing little jobs for the neighbours, going to school, and beginning to learn his father's trade, which, however, he showed no great aptitude for. THE UNKNOWN DEAD. "So dense is the population of London, and so imperfect are the arrangements for identifying the persons found dead,' that they sometimes disappear, and are buried, before their friends miss them."-Newspaper paragraph. ALONE, unfriended, and unknown, The world-deserted die, With none to aid, to cheer, to bless, They close the eye, and droop the head, At the dark hour, when Anguish comes, Oh, ne'er is woman's watchful love There's none to smooth the pain-toss'd couchThe burning brow to lave To yield those tender sympathies That cheer, and bless, and save. With none but hirelings near; Far, far from home and all its loves, Come o'er him as he dies. The unknown die-their part is o'er- Yet oh, kind brother strangers, tread EVERYBODY'S BUSINESS. THERE is an old saying which everybody is sure to have heard that "what is everybody's business is nobody's business." It is a crabbed, crooked, perverse, selfish old adage, always ready to do the dirty work of excusing men for neglecting what they ought, but are not bound to do. In its application, it seems practically to mean this, that anything to be done for the common good, any opposition of wrong doing, not immediately affecting the individual, any work of charity or benevolence, all forwarding of general knowledge and happiness, in short, a very large portion of the good of action is everybody's business, while the promotion of self-interest is the real business of each of us. It seems, too, as if everybody was a corporation, and a witty orator once said that "a corporation has no soul" We presume that the necessary inference from that conclusion is, that a corporation has no conscience; and if that be so, and everybody be a corpo |