no care, and who were like the reft of England's fons-merry. From the earliest of our national ballads, to the latest jovial fong, "I am a Friar of Orders Grey," unbroken testimony is borne to the merry life and fubftantial cheer of the inmates of Bolton and other abbeys. The eafy life, and exceedingly "well-to-do" condition of the merry abbot of Canterbury, forms the fubject of one humorous old ballad :

:

I'll tell you a story-a story so merry,
Concerning the abbot of Canterbury;
How for his housekeeping, and high renown,
They rode post for him to fair London town.

An hundred men, the king did hear say,
The abbot kept in his house every day;
And fifty gold chains, without any doubt,
In velvet coats waited the abbot about.

How now! Father Abbot, I hear it of thee,
Thou keepest a far better house than me:
And for thy housekeeping, and high renown,
I fear thou work'st treason against my crown.

My liege, quoth the abbot, I would it were known,

I never spend nothing but what is my own;
And I trust your grace will do me no deere,
For spending my own true-gotten gear.

Yes, yes,-quoth he,-Abbot, thy fault is high,
And now for the same thou needest must die;
For except thou canst answer me questions three,
Thy head shall be smitten from thy body.

At first, quo' the king,-when I'm in this stead,
With my crown of gold so fair on my head;
Among all my liegemen of noble birth,

Thou must tell me, to one penny, what I am worth.

Secondly, tell me, without any doubt,

How soon I may ride the world about;

And at the third question thou must not shrink,

But tell me here truly, what I do think.

O, these are hard questions for my shallow wit,
Nor I cannot answer your Grace as yet;

But if you will give me three weeks' space,

I'll do my endeavour to answer your grace.

And our fathers loved to hear how the great abbot, forely diftreffed to answer these queries, was affifted out of his difficulty by his poor fhepherd, who, perfonating the abbot, appeared before the king, and having answered two of the questions, was told by his majesty,

Now from the third question thou must not shrink,
But tell me here truly what I do think.

And the merry answer was,

Yea that shall I do, and make your grace merry;
You think I'm the abbot of Canterbury;

But I'm his poor shepherd, as plain you may see,
That am come to beg pardon for him and for me.

And "the merry King John," as the story goes, wanted to make the shepherd a "lord abbot;" but as the witty fellow could neither read nor write, the monarch rewarded the merry jest with

a penfion of "four nobles a week," and a pardon for the old abbot. The good things of this life were not only enjoyed by the jovial churchmen at Canterbury and elsewhere, but prelates and abbots loved to engage in manly sports and pastimes; and it is probable that Chaucer was not far wrong in his estimate of their qualifications, when he hints on more than one occafion that they were more skilled in riding and hunting than in divinity.

The Archdeacon of Richmond, we are told, on his initiation to the priory of Bridlington, in Yorkshire, in 1216, came attended by ninety-seven horses, twenty-one dogs, and three hawks. In 1256, Walter de Suffield, Bishop of Norwich, bequeathed by will his pack of hounds to the king; whilft the abbot of Tavistock, who had also a pack, was commanded by his bishop in 1348 to break it up. A famous hunter, contemporary with Chaucer, was William de Clowne, abbot of Leicester, who died in 1377. His reputation for skill in the sport of hare-hunting was fo great, that the king himself, his fon Edward, and certain noblemen, paid him an annual penfion that they might hunt with him.

Peace to their afhes! Thofe fine old abbeys, and rare old monks, we shall never look upon the like again!

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THE OLD CASTLES OF ENGLAND.

LORIOUS were the barons of England! they live in fong and ftory, and their heroic deeds are recorded on the brightest pages of our hiftory! They were bold men, and from their caftle homes they defied the tyranny which fought to enslave a brave people; or, iffuing from their fortreffes, they upheld in the battle-field the honour of their country; but when the ftern demands of war, or the promptings of chivalrous ardour, did not summon them to the tented plain, their lordly caftles were the scene of feftive mirth, and profufe hofpitality, rude perhaps in display, but genuine, high-fouled, and hearty in their character. In foreign lands, as on England's foil, the barons of England won victory from powerful hands :

Witness the field of Cressy, on that day

When volleying thunders roll'd unheard on high,
For in that memorable fray,

Broken, confused, and scatter'd in dismay,

France had ears only for the conqueror's cry,

"St. George, St. George for England! St. George and victory!"

Bear witness, Poictiers! where again the foe
From that same hand received his overthrow.
In vain essay'd Mont Joye, "St. Denis" rung
From many a boastful tongue

And many a hopeful heart in onset brave;

Their courage in the shock of battle quail'd,
His dread response when sable Edward gave,
And England and St. George again prevail'd.

Bear witness, Agincourt, where once again
The banner'd lilies on the ensanguined plain
Were trampled by the fierce pursuer's feet;
And France, doom'd ever to defeat
Against that foe, beheld her myriads fly

Before the withering cry,

"St. George, St. George for England! St. George and victory!"

Pleasant indeed are the feelings with which, when travelling over the plains and valleys of our dear old England, we see amid the charming varieties of English landscape fome noble tower and battlements "bofom'd high in tufted trees." They are the picturesque ruins of the old caftles of the barons-there was a time when there were eleven hundred of thefe homes of feudal lords in England. Those crumbling walls are the filent chroniclers of bygone years:

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