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, something black fell and rolled towards her, which afterwards proved to be a hat. Directing her attention to the place whence the conversation proceeded, she saw, from behind
