were shown a stone coffin which had been found near the high altar, when the workmen were excavating the vault intended by Lord Byron for himself and his dog. The coffin contained the skeleton of an abbot, and also the identical skull from which the cup of which I have made mention was made. We then left the building, and took a stroll through the grounds. After passing a pond of cold crystal water, we came to a dark wood, in which are two leaden statues of Pan, and a female satyr

very fine specimens as works of art. We here inspected the tree whereon Byron carved his own name and that of his sister, with the date, all of which are still legible. However, the tree is now dead, and we were informed that Colonel Wildman intended to have it cut down, so as to preserve the part containing the inscription. After crossing an interesting and picturesque part of the gardens, we arrived within the precincts of the ancient chapel, near which we observed a neat marble monument, and which we supposed to have been erected to the memory of some of the Byrons; but, on drawing near to it, we read the following inscription :

"Near this spot are deposited the Remains of one who possessed Beauty without Vanity, Strength without Insolence, Courage without Ferocity, and all the Virtues of Man without his Vices. This Praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery if inscribed over human ashes, is but a just tribute to the Memory of BOATSWAIN, a Dog, who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803, and died at Newstead Abbey, Nov. 18, 1808.

"When some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,

The sculptured art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And storied urns record who rests below;

When all is done, upon the tomb is seen

Not what he was, but what he should have been.
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his master's own,
Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonored falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth;
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole, exclusive heaven.

O, man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,

Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust;

Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,

Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit !

By nature vile, ennobled but by name,

Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye, who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on- - it honors none you wish to mourn :
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one,- and here he lies."

By a will which his lordship executed in 1811, he directed that his own body should be buried in a vault in the garden, near his faithful dog. This feeling of affection to his dumb and faithful follower, commendable in itself, seems here to have been carried beyond the bounds of reason and propriety.

In another part of the grounds we saw the oak-tree planted by the poet himself. It has now attained a goodly size, considering the growth of the oak, and bids fair to become a lasting memento to the noble bard, and to be a shrine to which thousands of pilgrims will resort

in future ages, to do homage to his mighty genius. This tree promises to share in after times the celebrity of Shakspeare's mulberry, and Pope's willow. Near by, and in the tall trees, the rooks were keeping up a tremendous noise. After seeing everything of interest connected with the great poet, we entered our chaise, and left the premises. As we were leaving, I turned to take a farewell look at the abbey, standing in solemn grandeur, the long ivy clinging fondly to the rich tracery of a former age. Proceeding to the little town of Hucknall, we entered the old gray parish church, which has for ages been the last resting-place of the Byrons, and where repose the ashes of the poet, marked by a neat marble slab, bearing the following inscription :

In the vault beneath,

where many of his Ancestors and his Mother are

Buried,

lie the remains of

GEORGE GORDON NOEL BYRON,

Lord Byron, of Rochdale,

in the County of Lancaster,

the author of " Childe Harold's Pilgrimage."

He was born in London, on the

22nd of January, 1788.

He died at Missolonghi, in Western Greece, on the

19th of April, 1824,

Engaged in the glorious attempt to restore that
country to her ancient grandeur and renown.

His Sister, the Honorable

Augusta Maria Leigh,

placed this Tablet to his Memory.

From an Album that is kept for visitors to register their names in, I copied the following lines, composed by William Howitt, immediately after the interment:

"Rest in thy tomb, young heir of glory, rest!
Rest in thy rustic tomb, which thou shalt make

A spot of light upon thy country's breast,
Known, honored, haunted ever for thy sake.

Thither romantic pilgrims shall betake

Themselves from distant lands. When we are still

In centuries of sleep, thy fame shall wake,

And thy great memory with deep feelings fill

These scenes which thou hast trod, and hallow every hill."

scenes that

This closed my visit to the interesting scenes associated with Byron's strange and eventful history ever acquire a growing charm as the lapse of years softens the errors of the man, and confirms the genius of the poet.

The following lines, written by Byron in early life, were realized in his death in a foreign land:

"When Time or soon or late shall bring

The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead,
Oblivion may thy languid limb

Wave gently o'er my dying bed!

"No band of friends or heirs be there,
To weep, or wish the coming blow:
No maiden, with dishevelled hair,
To feel, or feign, decorous woe.

"But silent let me sink to Earth,

With no officious mourners near;
I would not mar one hour of mirth,
Nor startle friendship with a tear."

CHAPTER XIII.

"Now, this once gorgeous edifice, if reared
By piety, which sought with honest aim

The glory of the Lord, should be revered

Even for that cause, by those who seek the same.
Perchance the builders erred; but who shall blame

Error, nor feel that they partake it too?

Then judge with charity, whate'er thy name,

Be thou a Pagan, Protestant, or Jew;

Nor with a scornful glance these Papal reliques view."

BARTON.

Ir was on a lovely morning that I found myself on board the little steamer Wye, passing out of Bristol harbor. In going down the river, we saw on our right the stupendous rocks of St. Vincent towering some four or five hundred feet above our heads. By the swiftness of our fairy steamer, we were soon abreast of Cook's Folly, a singular tower, built by a man from whom it takes its name, and of which the following romantic story is told "Some years since a gentleman, of the name of Cook, erected this tower, which has since gone by the name of Cook's Folly.' A son having been born, he was desirous of ascertaining, by means of astrology, if he would live to enjoy his property. Being himself a firm

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