he was murdered in Howe Castle; and I recollect about forty years since, that there was a report that, in cleaning the drawwell of that ruinous fortress, the workmen found a skeleton wrapt in a bull's hide, and having a belt of iron round the waist. There was, however, no truth in this rumour. It was the absence of this belt of iron which the Scots founded upon to prove that the body of James could not have fallen into the hands of the English, since they either had not that token to show, or did not produce it. But it is not unlikely that he would lay aside such a cambrous article of penance on a day of battle; or the English, when they despoiled his person, may have thrown it aside as of no value. The body which the English affirm to have been that of James, was found on the field by Lord Dacre, and carried by him to Berwick, and presented to Surrey. Both of these lords knew James's person too well to be mistaken. The body was also acknowledged by his two favourite attendants, Sir William Scott and Sir James Forman, who wept at beholding it."

The singular history of these remains, Stow, in his "Survey of London." 4to, p. 539, thus furnishes from his own knowledge. What a strange end for so proud and chivalrous a king, and what treatment from the hands of a brother-inlaw—Henry VIII.—who certainly refused the body Christian burial!

"After the battle, the bodie of the same king being found, was closed in lead, and conveyed from thence to London, and to the monasterie of Sheyne in Surrey, where it remained for a

time, in what order I am not certaine; but since the dissolution of that house, in the reygne of Edward the Sixt, Henry Grey, Duke of Suffolke, being lodged, and keeping house there, I have been shewed the same bodie so lapped in lead, close to the head and bodie, throwne into a waste room amongst the old timber, lead, and other rubble. Since the which time, workmen there for their foolish pleasure, hewed off his head; and Lancelot Young, master glazier to Queen Elizabeth, feelinge a sweet savour to come from thence, and yet the form remaining, with the hair of the head and beard red, brought it to London to his house in Wood-street, where (for a time) he kept it for the sweetness; but, in the end, caused the sexton of that church to bury it amongst other bones, taken out of their charnel."

LINDISFARNE.

VISIT TO BOLTON PRIORY.

THE man of genius is often looked upon as a being that shuts himself up, and knows little of what is going on in the real world around him. He is supposed to live in a fairyland of his own creation-often a very barren and profitless one-full of all manner of enchantments and magical delusions. In reference to him, men of arts and sciences, the men of spinning-jennies and steam-engines-nay, the naturalists, and many other writers -talk of themselves as practical men. They often smile at the

poet and the romance-writer, as men of the world affect to do,

and say "O! a very clever, a very clever fellow indeed; but say—“O! as ignorant of actual life as a child." But the poets and romancers of late have proved themselves both to be profitable fellows and practical ones. To say nothing of vast sums coined from the brain of Scott and of Byron; look at the comfortable nest which Moore has feathered for himself. Very pretty sums he has fobbed now and then. See old George Crabbe going down to his parsonage with 30007. in his saddle-bags at one time. Look at the poet's house at Keswick: it has a library in it which has cost a fortune; and the poet and historian sits there now, what with salaries, pensions, Quarterly Review articles, and residuary legateeships, as no inconsiderable man of substance. There is that "old man eloquent" too, his neighbour at Rydal Mount, who, if he have not amassed a mount of gold on which to build his palace, has got a poet's bower on one of the most delicious little knolls in Europe, warmed by as much affection and domestic peace as ever crowned one man's hearth; and having no mark or stamp of poverty about it. Yes, and spite of Edinburgh and Quarterly, and a host of lower critics who echoed their owl-notes, his poetry is become fashionable! Only think of that—" The Idiot Boy" and "Betty Foy,” “The Old Wanderer" in his worsted stockings, and "Michael" and "The Wagoner," become fashionable, so that every critic who knows no more of poetry than he did ten years ago, now cries "glorious! divine! inimitable!" at every new edition of his poems. Yes, and so they shall cry--for such is the ultimate

triumph of general sense and taste over professional stupidity. His poetry is become golden in all senses; and if Government only act in the matter of copyright as a British government ought to act, it will flow on in a golden stream to his children's children, to the third and fourth-ay, to the fortieth and fourhundredth generation.

These are your dreamers and thriftless poets of the present days! But they are not merely the profitable, they are the really practical men too. We ask, where would your Watts and Boltons be, if it were not for them? Why, it is they-it is the men of poetical genius-who build your steam-boats and steamcoaches. The man of genius is not now merely a scrawler on paper, a writer of poems or of tales; but his pen is become a magician's wand-the most potent one that was ever wielded: and while other men think that he is merely inditing some pleasant lay, or matter for a winter evening's fireside, they who see farther into a millstone know that he is actually building ships and boats, steam-engines and steam-carriages; launching new and splendid packets; laying down railroads, and carrying them through mountain and forest; erecting inns, furnishing them with hosts, and guests, and waiters; spreading tables with every delicacy of the season—as witness, ye grouse on many a heathery hill, ye herrings of Loch Fine, and salmon of countless lochs, and rivers running like silver from the mountains-spreading them for thousands who run to and fro in the earth; not

Not, however, by passing Mr. Serjeant Talfourd's present bill, with its retrospective clause, to smooth the bristled manes of the booksellers.