EMBROIDERED PURSE.

in the summer season.

HOWLEY HAL L.

Howley Hall, once the magnificent seat of the manor hall," he said. "It had spared this Savile family, has little left to record the former ruin and desolation, and left the building a greatness and beauty of its construction. The model ornament of what an English residence extent of the site may be easily traced. A few should be. But man has been less sparing in broken walls, that rise as if in mockery of their the work of destruction: he has levelled the former pageantry and power-some arched pas- glory of a great family, and scattered its might sages underground, choked with rubbish and and grandeur with the dust! I do not know fallen mortar-work-an ancient and crumbling whether the history of these old walls be ingateway, on which appears, in a worn and teresting to you"-here I assured him that his weather-beaten condition, the armorial bearings information was most acceptable. He then conof its former possessors, are all that now remain tinued:-"The house was built by Sir John to impress the mind of the wanderer with an Saville, the first alderman of Leeds, in the year idea of its former glory. By Camden it was 1599. For two centuries it stood the admiracalled ædes elegantissima, and is said to have tion and pride of the neighbourhood. The magbeen well deserving of the name. Standing on nificence of its ancient proprietors, the ancestral an eminence, commanding a wide and fine view dignity it sustained amid a fair and beautiful of the surrounding country, which must at one country, had rendered it distinguished among time have been singularly picturesque and in- the homes of old England. This broad and eleteresting, the ruins still retain many charms, vated site, these few scattered and crumbling and are the scene of numerous pleasure parties stones, now remain but a melancholy illustration From the ruins south- of all temporal greatness-a solemn spectacle of ward is a steep decline, terminating in a pleasant the mutability of terrestrial things-a tablet on valley, over which the eye ranges untiringly. the face of nature, over which the wild winds of The opposite height is covered by an ancient heaven sweep and bear aloud the letterless inwood, through which are many romantic walks. scription, Ad nihilum recidit! What brought The retired situation of the place-the noble about the destruction and desolation you see Leight and shade of the forest-trees-the grand around is still a mystery among those who have views, interspersing hill and dale, wood and visited the place. It was rumoured that the pasture land-the straggling ruins that are to misrepresentations of a designing steward in the be seen from almost any part of the locality, family was the primary cause; and other and would alone render it worthy of a visit. But it more gloomy insinuations have been offered. is associated with historical incidents that give Certain it is, that the place was undermined and an additional, if not a greater, interest to the reduced to the ground by means of gunpowder. place. Few who have had the gratification of The history of its fate in other respects seems loitering over these grounds have had a better wrapt in gloom and uncertainty." opportunity than myself of knowing the most notable events connected with them. It is very seldom we find an individual residing in a vicinity of this description that knows more of the place than ourselves; and if he does, the chances are that it would take a strict and persevering cross-examination to get anything from him at all interesting. In my visit to Howley I was more fortunate. As I was rambling by the old gateway, which is now converted into a cottage, and occupied by a gamekeeper, I was joined by an elderly gentleman, residing, as I afterwards learnt, in the neighbourhood. He seemed desirous of being communicative, and I showed every disposition to favour his verbosity. After volunteering some remarks on the weather, and the prospects of the approaching harvest, he ran off into a long history of the old hall, and the adjacent scenery; and as this was a subject on which I felt most nearly concerned, I lent an attentive ear. Finding that he had got a most patient auditor, my new-made acquaintance grew warm and eloquent in his descriptions, pointing out the various places he alluded to in his speech, till his gestures grew warm and eloquent as his words.

"Time had dealt more leniently with the old

From these legendary incidents my friend rather abruptly digressed, commencing a rambling history of the adjacent places, in that particular strain of conversation that betrays a readiness to communicate, with a temerity or consciousness of wearying his auditor, giving a hasty and laconic expression to his descriptions. Directing my attention southward, towards the wood skirting the angle of the opposite hill, he entered into the history of its antiquity, of its former proprietors, its extent, the quality of its timber, the beauty of its bowers and walks, its sunshine and shade, and all the anecdotes connected with it. He told me that it was called "The Babes in the Wood," in memory of the two children murdered there, so beautifully recorded in one of our old English ballads. When I smiled incredulously at his story, he assured me that it was the traditionary scene alluded to by the ancient song-writer. I remembered the legend: simple and touching, it has found a home in many an English heart. How the poor children were given by the will of their remorseless uncle into the hands of the murderers--how the assassins quarrelled, wavered in their purpose, and spared the innocent babes-how they gave them up to a more cruel death, left

N

them in the wood to starve and die-how the poor plaintive red-breast sang a dirge over their little cold lifeless bodies, and covered them with the autumn leaves: the whole story came fresh and true to my memory. Although my antiquarian friend did not get the ascendancy of my incredulity, he excited me with an interest for the place, inasmuch as I afterwards paid it a visit. I found many relics of its antiquity: ancient timber was interspersed here and thereromantic glades and walks, as they primevally stood, gave an interesting wildness to the scenery; decayed leaves, the accumulation of many an autumn, had made a soft and agreeable path. The solitude, only broken on by the rustling of the game among the underwood, had serious if not solemn impressions for the soul. It was, indeed, a pleasant place to loiter away a thoughtful half-hour; and I went away, almost convincing myself of its association with so great traditionary lore.

After ascertaining that I had no great distance: to journey, and some time still at my disposal, the antiquary proposed that I should accompany him to another part of the locality, to view an interesting memorial of a different description. Leaving the ruins, we presently came in sight of two or three gloomy-looking houses, chiefly remarkable for their antiquity. The windows, and I may say the architecture in most respects, was of the style of the fifteenth century; and the interior, which I was informed did not belie the impressions gained from an exterior view, was built with walls of black oak, casting a gloom even on the brightest day. Passing through a farm-yard, we emerged into an open plain of pasture-land, over which was cut an uneven and rugged occupation road. About fifty yards forward is a small hollow, to avoid which the road has been raised. Within this hollow, buried almost in the green sward, lies a large stone. There is nothing remarkable in the stone itself, and a casual observer might pass it without bestowing any extraordinary curiosity in its discovery. My guide, however, directed my attention to it; and with some difficulty, on very minute examination, I deciphered the following characters: "Here

-

Nevison killed Fletcher, 16-." The last two figures, intended to chronicle the period of that particular event, had become so worn with age, that I could not possibly note the year. I was told that this was a favourite resort of Nevison, the notorious highwayman, a female towards whom he made some professions of courtship, residing in one of the neighbouring houses. A proclamation offering a large reward for the apprehension of the adventurous roadsman, had induced two brothers named Fletcher to engage in his capture. Having traced him to Howley, and coming to close quarters, Nevison saw at once that his only chance of escape was in the death of one of his antagonists, and without hesitation he fired his pistol on the foremost, who fell on the spot. The stone was erected some years afterwards to commemorate the event; it has, however, for a long time been levelled with the

ground, and the turf is now growing over its sides, barely leaving the almost unintelligible inscription for the curious gaze of the visitor.

Looking over the adjacent country, I descried the long chimneys of the Leeds factories, a few miles distant, sending forth their clouds of smoke over the ancient and princely estate of the Meynell family, Temple Newsome; formerly a residence of the Knights Templar. The smokebesmeared houses of Batley lay at the foot of the hill beneath me, by which the railway runs, connecting that place with Leeds. Turning away from the place, I thanked my friend for the information he had given me, and looking towards the lofty spire of Wakefield's venerable church, I retraced my steps homeward. R. H. B.

THE AUTUMN WIND.
Thou Spirit wild and lone,
Making such mournful moan-
Thy voice comes o'er my feelings with a sharp
And aching pain; and like some lone wind-harp
Stirr'd by the night-breeze, my sad, beating heart
Gives back a thrilling answer, taking part
In quivering tone.

Again that mournful strain!
Doth it not tell so plain
Of blighted hopes?-of days of youth bygone?—
Of those departed dear ones, from us torn
By death's cold hand?-of young eyes, once all bright
With love, and joy, and truth, to meet the sight
Never again?

Hark, how it idly grieves!

With rustling wail! Doth it not seem to say,
Stirring the fallen leaves,
All lovely things of earth must pass away
Into one common tomb for evermore; but I
Must still live on-alas! I cannot die-
Death ever weaves

His net for all things here.
The young, the bright, the dear
I see spring up and bloom-then fade away,
Mix'd in a mass of undistinguish'd clay,
With all vile things; and over them, in vain,
With breaking heart, I pour my mournful strain
Still year by year.

Now with a solemn sweep

Of music, low and deep,
Through the half leafless oak-wood's open doors,
Like a full anthem's sacred swell it pours,
And on the billowy sounds of sorrow surge,
And now they die away in fitful dirge-
And now like sleep,

A silence most profound
Creeps over wood and ground—
A solemn pause in Nature's holy grief-

Unutterably sad-past all belief;

As though the troubled Spirit of the air
Had breath'd a deep, unconquerable despair
On all around.

Ah, me! I cannot choose
Themselves in old remembrances of yore—
But weep! my spirits lose
Of things that once have been, to be no more—
Oh, never more! and low I lay my head
Among the yellow leaves on earth's cold bed,

And life refuse!

ALBERT TAYLOR.

HINTS TO PEDESTRIAN S.

OUR CONSERVATORY.