tall Abbey--Mary the Maid of the Inn--Newstead Abbey: Residence of
Lord Byron--Parish Church of Hucknall--Burial Place of Lord
Byron--Bristol: "Cook's Folly"--Chepstow Castle and Abbey--Tintern
Abbey--Redcliffe Church._

_January 29_.

In passing through Yorkshire, we could not resist the temptation it
offered, to pay a visit to the extensive and interesting ruin of
Kirkstall Abbey, which lies embosomed in a beautiful recess of Airedale,
about three miles from Leeds. A pleasant drive over a smooth road,
brought us abruptly in sight of the Abbey. The tranquil and pensive
beauty of the desolate Monastery, as it reposes in the lap of pastoral
luxuriance, and amidst the touching associations of seven centuries, is
almost beyond description when viewed from where we first beheld it.
After arriving at its base, we stood for some moments under the mighty
arches that lead into the great hall, gazing at its old grey walls
frowning with age. At the distance of a small field, the Aire is seen
gliding past the foot of the lawn on which the ruin stands, after it has
left those precincts, sparkling over a weir with a pleasing murmur. We
could fully enter into the feelings of the Poet when he says:--

"Beautiful fabric! even in decay
And desolation, beauty still is thine;
As the rich sunset of an autumn day,
When gorgeous clouds in glorious hues combine
To render homage to its slow decline,
Is more majestic in its parting hour:
Even so thy mouldering, venerable shrine
Possesses now a more subduing power,
Than in thine earlier sway, with pomp and pride thy dower."

The tale of "Mary, the Maid of the Inn," is supposed, and not without
foundation, to be connected with this Abbey. "Hark to Rover," the name
of the house where the key is kept, was, a century ago, a retired inn or
pot-house, and the haunt of many a desperate highwayman and poacher. The
anecdote is so well known, that it is scarcely necessary to relate it.
It, however, is briefly this:--

"One stormy night, as two travellers sat at the inn, each having
exhausted his news, the conversation was directed to the Abbey, the
boisterous night, and Mary's heroism; when a bet was at last made by one
of them, that she would not go and bring back from the nave a slip of
the alder-tree growing there. Mary, however, did go; but having nearly
reached the tree, she heard a low, indistinct dialogue; at the same
time,