of Pembroke and Montgomery, whose long life of virtuous
exertion renders her well qualified to figure as the heroine of a tale of
chivalry. The anecdotes which are told of this high-spirited lady in the
three counties of York, Westmoreland, and Cumberland, are almost
innumerable, and relate to circumstances in her life, which, though some
are impossible, and others improbable, are still all full of heroic
interest and adventure. Her defence of Bromeham Castle against the
intrusion of her uncle of Cumberland,--her riding cross-legged to meet
the judges of assize, when she acted in person at Appleby as High Sheriff
by inheritance of the county of Westmoreland,--her hairbreadth escapes
and dangers during the great rebellion, are characteristics of the woman,
so striking in themselves, that they would require little adventitious
ornament from the writer, who should take them as incidents for poem or
romance. Her courage and liberality in public life were only to be
equalled by her order, economy, and devotion in private. "She was," says
Dr. Whitaker, "the oldest and most independent courtier in the kingdom,"
at the time of her death.--"She had known and admired queen Elizabeth;--
she had refused what she deemed an iniquitous award of king James,"
though urged to submit to it by her first husband, the Earl of Dorset;--
"She rebuilt her dismantled castles in defiance of Cromwell, and repelled
with disdain the interposition of a profligate minister under Charles the
Second." A woman of such dauntless spirit and conduct would be a fitting
subject, even for the pencil of the mighty magician of Abbotsford. A
journal of her life in her own hand-writing is still in existence at
Appleby Castle. I have heard, that it descends to the minutest details
about her habits and feelings, and that it is that cause alone, which
prevents its publication.

_Blackwood's Magazine._

* * * * *

A VILLAGE FUNERAL IN THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.

The sun was careering brightly in the heavens, and all nature was
rejoicing in its unclouded glory, as the funeral procession of Helen
Hartlington, and Antony Clifford, wound its toilsome and melancholy way to
Bolton Abbey. The sportive Deer were bounding lightly over the hills, and
the glad birds were warbling melodiously in the thickets, as if none but
the living were moving amongst them; and but for the wild dirge, which
mingled with the whispers of the wind, and but for