THE GRAVE OF ROBIN HOOD.. We are indebted to an old and esteemed friend and correspondent, Hon. WILLIAM W. CAMPBELL, for the following interesting local account of the Priory of Kirklees, near Huddersfield, England, and one of its most distinguished attractions, the Grave of Robin Hood. The engraving which accomcompanies this is from a drawing by a young southerner, made at the request of Mr. CAMPBELL, expressly for the KNICKERBOCKER:

AT the distance of about six miles from the town of Huddersfield, in the very centre of a densely-populated manufacturing district, is to be found all that remains of the Priory of Kirklees, famous as the burial place of the most renowned of the heroes of English Historical Romance, ROBIN HOOD; and truly, if sylvan seclusion and scenery of the most romantic beauty can give fitness to a tradition time-worn and honored, then is that which marks out Kirklees as the resting-place of the gentle ROBIN indeed an apt and happy one; for notwithstanding its proximity to those leviathan establishments in which is manufactured clothing for a world, it would seem as if the very genius of progress had paused in respect before the outlaw's grave, having forborne to brush away the dew-drops from the grass, or to disturb the sylvan solitude where the darkening elms and sombre yews wave their branches like funeral plumes over his tomb. This interesting relic occupies an elevated situation at the western extremity of a noble terrace, winding rouffd the brow of a hill overlooking the beautiful vale of Calder, where the long and broad avenues of oak and elm still stretch away into solitudes so unbroken that were it not for the evident care taken to fence out man, the destroyer, one might be disposed to question whether human feet had trod those glades since the bereaved band returned with sad looks and solemn tread from depositing the body of their beloved leader in its lonely resting-place; and although

the shrill whistle of the locomotive does occasionally awaken the echoes of the valley, the iron monster preserves a respectful distance from the hallowed spot.

The grave is guarded by an iron-railing, and although the stone which originally covered it was removed in consequence of portions having been broken and carried off as relics by visitors, the inscription upon it is copied on the present stone: it is as follows:

'HEAR undernead dis laitl stain

Laz ROBERD, Earl of HUNTINGTON;

Ner arcir yer az hie sa geud,

An pipl Kauld im ROBIN HEUD,

Sic Utlawz as hi an iz men

Vil England never si agen.'- Obiit 24 Kal. Dekembris,1247.

'From the commanding height of the terrace is seen the silvery Calder sweeping in mazy majesty through umbrageous woods, pleasant meadows, and fair pastures, while in the extreme distance the horizon is bounded by the dark fissured sides of the hills of Blackstone Edge, stupendous walls of nature's rearing, to guard an amphitheatre of verdant beauty. Seen at sunrise from hence, those hills are crested by a coronal of golden rays; at noontide the day-god appears to be bathing in a sea of glory as his face is reflected in the waters of the Calder; while at eventide he appears to retreat behind the hills, through his palace of clouds, clothed in a mantle of rosy light. But who can describe the soft beauty of a moonlit scene from this eminence, as seen and felt in the balmy air of an English autumn evening, with the soft feeling of repose which it induces in the spectator, to catch glimpses of the distant landscape through the trees with their embrowned foliage; to mark the flashing lines of silver which ever and anon light up the quiet flowing river; to list to the voices of night as they sound in the rising breeze, sweeping through the avenues and joining in concert with the louder roar of the rushing weirs in the river below. These are indeed enjoyments full of rapturous feeling for the poetic mind.

'Leaving the grave by the path over the park, the traveller finds himself at the side of a bubbling brook which meanders complainingly through the grounds from west to east, and finally empties itself into the river Calder. Crowning the slope which descends somewhat abruptly to this stream, which still retains the name of 'Nun's Brook,' there is a fine avenue of beeches, which was no doubt intended to give shelter and shade to those sisters of the house who should seek in its long-drawn vista a place of meditation; and there is no question that the margin of the brook was frequently trod by them for a similarly holy purpose. There is a narrow bridge that crosses the stream, which gives access to what was once the gate-way of the Priory, although it now leads only to certain farm buildings and offices attached to the modern Hall, which was built in the reign of JAMES the First out of the materials of the old Priory, and stands in the Park above.

'An engraving of the Priory ruins in STUKELY's Itinerary shows that at that time a large gate-way, with corner turrets, of fine character was still standing; but this has disappeared, and nothing of the kind is now left standing except a low postern with its moulded stone jambs and door of oak studded with large headed nails.

"The lodge or gate-house is in excellent preservation, and is on several accounts one of the most interesting portions of the buildings. It is not of large dimensions, but the thickness of its walls, its windows of extremely narrow lights, divided by mullions, and two timber gables, one of them well carved, and both in excellent preservation, give unmistakeable evidence of its having formed an original portion of the Priory.

'It is in a chamber closet of this gate-house that tradition declares ROBIN HOOD to have expired. The chamber in which it is said the Outlaw drew his last breath is of small dimensions, and the window is still pointed out through which his trusty friend and follower LITTLEJOHN, at his master's request, shot an arrow, to mark by its fall the place of his grave; and verily it was no unnerved arm that drew the bowstring which could send an arrow that distance, for but few in these days could so shoot.

'No one can contemplate the situation of this ancient Priory, nestling in a sheltered hollow upon the margin of a fair brook, in whose clear waters its turrets were reflected, and surrounded by forest-clothed hills, without acknowledging the truth of the traditionary axiom which attributed to the clerical fathers of England an exquisite taste and fine appreciation of the beautiful in their choice of conventual sites.'

From our boyhood the career of ROBIN HOOD, and the deeds of his trusty LITTLEJOHN and his merry men,' have possessed for us a wonderful attraction, which was not a little heightened by the introduction by SCOTT of the account of the exploits of the outlaws in Sherwood Forest, in 'Ivanhoe,' one of the most delightful sylvan pictures ever painted by the hand of that great master.

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS.

Mayhap the following 'Scattered

Leaves from the Journal of an Office-Seeker at Washington,' which were picked up by a friend on Pennsylvania Avenue, will convey an useful lesson to some one of our readers:

MONDAY.-Dressed in my sable suit, I walked up to the Department; found at least thirty promising and promised; old, middle-aged, and young men, walking, sitting, or standing in the hopeful expectation of beholding the countenance of the Secretary, and receiving their immediate appointments. Was told by the messenger that my chance for seeing that august personage was worse than uncertain; was advised to call again, and then I might, perhaps, stand a better chance. Left the Department somewhat wiser than I had entered it.

'MONDAY, P. M.- While walking leisurely homeward, I was accosted by a fellow-pedestrian, and invited to take a glass of wine with him. Accepted his polite offer, and stepped in with him at's hotel. At the door he met several of his acquaintances, whom he included in his invitation. Went to the bar-room and took a glass of wine. Was asked to take another- - declined; not so, however, the remaining invited guests. When all had finished, my new friend put his hand in his pocket for some money to settle the publican's account. After feeling in every corner, he pulled out his-long fingers, with the exclamation: 'By GEORGE! I have left my money in my other trowser's pocket!' And, addressing himself to each of his companions for a loan, he was told by them, individually and collectively, that they had nothing about their persons but large bills.' Bills 'to pay,' thought I; but what I said was nothing to nobody.' I found that I was in for it; and so, to bring the matter to a close, I pulled out a gold piece and paid for the whole. I did not quite relish this mode of 'treat'-ment, and called them (sotto voce, of course,) knights of the golden fleece; and without re-treating, left them.

'MONDAY EVENING.-Dined: after which I retired to my room and examined the state of my finances. Found that owing to several bill-ious attacks, they had become very much reduced. Consoled myself with the hope of presently getting some nourishing pap from our dear and common uncle SAMUEL, at whose table many a weak fellow has been sumptuously fed.

"TUESDAY. -Made up my mind to move into a boarding-house. Went in quest of one. Found one at last, which I thought might suit for the present. Agreed to pay five dollars a week, and although an attic room, it was understood that it should not be at-TICK.'

TUESDAY NIGHT.-Supped and went to bed. Had a frightful dream. Methought that some scores of spirits were dancing around my bed, and playing a species of shuttlecock with their heads

which they carried in their hands. Their eyes were all fixed on me, with such an unnatural glare that cold perspiration oozed from every pore of my shivering body. In this amusement they had indulged for some time, when one of them approached my bed and held his head close to my face. I could see that there was an inscription on its brow; and curiosity getting the better of my fears, I looked at it more attentively, and read:

'Fourteen hundred dollar clerk!'

'No sooner had I gazed on these words than the spirit drew suddenly back, pitched his head into my face, and I awoke !

'It was some time before I recovered from the astonishment and terror into which this strange dream had thrown me; but when 1 began to reflect on its application, I thought that the whole was nothing but a spiritual intimation that I should obtain a fourteen hundred dollar clerkship. 'Nihil scriptum miraculi causä.'

P. S. No clerkship yet: money almost gone.'

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, who touches nothing that he does not ornament, was called upon by Ex-President TYLER, at the recent anniversary meeting of the Pittsfield (Mass.) Young Ladies' Institute,' to address the pupils, and after a few characteristically felicitous remarks, took from his pocket a scrap of paper, which he had 'kept artfully concealed upon his person,' and read a brief but admirable little poem, from which we take these charming lines:

'O, MY sweet sisters! (let me steal the name
Nearest to love and most remote from blame,)
How brief an hour of fellowship ensures
The heart's best homage at a shrine like yours!
As o'er your band our kindling glances fall,
It seems a life-time that we 've known you all.

'Yes, in each face where youthful graces blend,
Our partial memory still revives a friend;
The forms once loved, the features once adored,
In her new picture Nature has restored;
Those golden ringlets, rippling as they flow,
We wreathed with blossoms many a year ago;
Seasons have wasted, but, remembered yet,
There gleams the lily through those braids of jet;
Cheeks that have faded, worn by slow decay,
Have caught new blushes from the morning's ray;
That simple riband, crossed upon the breast,
Wakes a poor heart that throbbed itself to rest;
Ay, thus she wore it; tell me not she died,
With that fair phantom floating at my side!
"T is as of old; why ask the vision's name?
All, to the white robe's folding, is the same;
And there, unconscious of a hundred snows,
On that soft bosom burns the self-same rose.
Ah, dear illusion! how thy magic power
Works with two charms: a maiden and a flower!

Then blame me not if, lost in Memory's dream,
I cheat your hopes of some expansive theme;
When the pale star-light fills the evening dim,
A misty mantle folds our river's brim;

In those white wreaths how oft the wanderer sees
Half real shapes. the play-things of the breeze,
While every image in the darkening tide
Fades from its breast, unformed or undescried.

Thus while I stand amid your starry train,
My gathering fancies turn to mist again;
O'er time's dark wave aerial shadows play,
But all the living landscape melts away!'

Apropos of Pittsfield, that pleasant village, upon which we looked down, with some good Hancock Shaker friends, one glorious June afternoon, from the top one of the

blue mountains that environ her: they have been having a superb cattle-show and fair there, which would we had been there to see.' Dr. HOLMES, now turned to a cultivator of rich paternal acres in the neighborhood, was there, and was placed upon the committee to report on ploughs and ploughing! He felt somewhat awkward under his new honors; but let him define his own position:

THE inhabitants of our cities who frequently visit the country during the fine season, would find themselves quite at a loss if an overstrained politeness should place them in this position. Imagine a trader or a professional man from the capital of the State unexpectedly called upon to act in rural matters. Plough-shares are to him shares that pay no dividends. A coulter, he supposes, has something to do with a horse. His notions of stock were obtained in FaneuilHall market, where the cattle look funnily enough, to be sure, compared with the living origi-. nals. He knows, it is true, that there is a difference in cattle, and would tell you that he prefers the sirloin breed to all others. His children are equally unenlightened. They know no more of the poultry-yard than what they have learned by having the chicken-pox and playing on a Turkey-carpet. Their small amount of knowledge of wool-growing is lam(b)entable. The history of one of these summer visitors shows that his rural education must be very imperfect. He no sooner establishes himself than he commences a series of experiments. He tries to drain a marsh, but only succeeds in draining his own pockets; he offers to pay for having a compost heap carted off, but is informed that it consists of corn and potatoes in an unfinished state. He sows abundantly, but reaps little or nothing, except with the implement he uses in shaving; a process which is frequently performed for him by other people, though he pays no barber's bill. He builds a wire fence and paints it green, so that nobody can see it; but he forgets to order a pair of spectacles a-piece for his cows, who, taking offence at something else, take his fence in addition, and make an invisible one of it, sure enough, in no time. And finally, having bought a machine to chop fodder, which chops off a good slice of his dividends and two or three children's fingers, he concludes that, instead of cutting feed, he will cut farming, and so sells out to one of your plain, practical farmers,'

A fine poetical tribute to the plough and the labors of the husbandman preceded the awards to the successful competitors. We have space but for a single beautifu apostrophe:

'O, GRACIOUS Mother! whose benignant breast
Wakes us to life and lulls us all to rest,
How thy sweet features, kind to every clime,
Mock with their smile the wrinkled front of Time!
We stain thy flowers-they blossom o'er the dead;

We rend thy bosom, and it gives us bread;

O'er the red field that trampling strife has torn
Waves the green plumage of thy tasselled corn;
Our maddening conflicts scar thy fairest plain,
Still thy soft answer is the growing grain.'

'More of this cannot we now report.' . . . THE reader's waist-bands may have 'suffered some' under the orthographical inflictions of CHAWLS YELLOWPLUSH.' What will he say to the following bonâ-fide extract from a letter received by a Hartford flour-merchant recently from a miller in the interior?

The barls of flower ar a choiys artical-remit the proseeds to me amegiate on A rival,' Query: who is that 'rival' on whom he wishes the 'proseeds' to be remitted 'amegiate?'... THE bone of WHITFIELD's right arm, that eloquent arm, so often raised to enforce the burning thoughts of which it was the obedient minister, has recently been sent back from England to a clergyman in Newburyport, whence it was stolen many years since. Think of this for a moment, reader, as you look at your own right arm, while its 'bones are moistened with marrow. Ah! we know what we are, but not that which we shall be!'... VERY peculiar is the 'piled-up' style of far-western eloquence. Who was it, speaking from the stump not long since of Austria, and her treatment of the Hungarians, said: 'There's Austria, with her head and ears erect like a geese! The cry of Freedom, rousing the coiled-up sassengers of Bologna, encompasses her with the links of liberty! The despot of Prussia turns Prussian-blue at his fate, and Austria gapes in dismay at the howl that tells of the approaching knife that is raised to wrench her apart at the hinges! Hungary has 30

VOL. XXXIV.