savoured of the refined taste that once reigned in this happy solitude.
It is lofty, spacious, and surrounded by oak panels; it has a charming
bow window, where are elegantly represented, in stained glass on distinct
shields, the arms of Alderman Beckford, his wife, and their eccentric
son.

The evening was most lovely. A soft haze had prevailed the whole
afternoon, and as there was still an hour's daylight I determined on
instantly visiting the ruins. Just without the sacred enclosure that
once prevented all intrusion to this mysterious solitude is the lovely
little village of Fonthill Gifford; its charming cottages, with their
neat gardens and blooming roses, are a perfect epitome of English
rusticity. A padlocked gate admits the visitor within the barrier; a
steep road, but gently winding so as to make access easy, leads you to
the hill, where once stood "the gem and the wonder of earth."

The road is broad and entirely arched by trees. Emerging suddenly from
their covert an astonishing assemblage of ruins comes into view. Before
you stands the magnificent eastern transept with its two beautiful
octangular towers, still rising to the height of 120 feet, but roofless
and desolate; the three stately windows, 60 feet high, as open to the sky
as Glastonbury Abbey; in the rooms once adorned with choicest paintings
and rarities trees are growing. Oh what a scene of desolation! What the
noble poet said of "Vathek's" residence in Portugal we may now literally
say of Fonthill.

Here grown weeds a passage scarce allow
To halls deserted, portals gaping wide.
Fresh lessons, ye thinking bosoms, how
Vain are the pleasures by earth supplied,
Swept into wrecks anon by Time's ungentle tide.

Of all desolate scenes there are none so desolate as those which we now
see as ruins, and which were lately the abode of splendour and
magnificence. Ruins that have been such for ages, whose tenants have
long since been swept away, recall ideas of persons and times so far back
that we have no sympathy with them at all; but if you wish for a sight of
all that is melancholy, all that is desolate, visit a modern ruin. We
passed through briars and brambles into the great octagon. Straight
before us stands the western doorway of the noble entrance hall; but
where is its oaken roof, with its proud heraldic emblazonments, where its
lofty painted windows, where its ponderous doors, more than 30 feet high?
The cross still rem