# The American Fugitive in Europe/Chapter 12

Kirkstall Abbey—Mary the Maid of the Inn—Newstead Abbey: Residence of Lord Byron—Parish Church of Hucknall—Burial-place of Lord Byron
CHAPTER XII.
"How changed, alas! from that revered abode, Graced by proud majesty in ancient days,
When monks recluse these sacred pavements trod, And taught the unlettered world its Maker's praise!
Keats.
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 gray 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, 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 ​a pillar, two men carrying a murdered body: they passed near the place where she stood, a heavy cloud was swept from off the face of the moon, and Mary fell senseless—one of the murderers was her intended husband! She was awakened from her swoon, but—her reason had fled forever." Mr. Southey wrote a beautiful poem founded on this story, which will be found in his published works. We spent nearly three hours in wandering through these splendid ruins. It is both curious and interesting to trace the early history of these old piles, which become the resort of thousands, nine tenths of whom are unaware either of the classic ground on which they tread, or of the peculiar interest thrown around the spot by the deeds of remote ages.
During our stay in Leeds, we had the good fortune to become acquainted with Wilson Armistead, Esq. This gentleman is well known as an able writer against slavery. His most elaborate work is "A Tribute for the Negro." This is a volume of five hundred and sixty pages, and is replete with facts refuting the charges of inferiority brought against the negro race. Few English gentlemen have done more to hasten the day of the slave's liberation than Wilson Armistead.
A few days after. I paid a visit to Newstead Abbey, the far-famed residence of Lord Byron. I posted from Hucknall over to Newstead one pleasant morning, and, being provided with a letter of introduction to Colonel Wildman, I lost no time in presenting myself at the door of the abbey, But. unfortunately for me, the colonel ​was at Mansfield, in attendance at the Assizes—he being one of the county magistrates. I did not, however, lose the object of my visit, as every attention was paid in showing me about the premises. I felt as every one must who gazes for the first time upon these walls, and remembers that it was here, even amid the comparative ruins of a building once dedicated to the sacred cause of Religion and her twin sister, Charity, that the genius of Byron was first developed; here that he paced with youthful melancholy the halls of his illustrious ancestors, and trode the walks of the long-banished monks. The housekeeper—a remarkably good-looking and polite woman—showed us through the different apartments, and explained in the most minute manner every object of interest connected with the interior of the building. We first visited the Monk's Parlor, which seemed to contain nothing of note, except a very fine-stained window—one of the figures representing St. Paul, surmounted by a cross. We passed through Lord Byron's Bed-room, the Haunted Chamber, the Library and the Eastern Corridor, and halted in the Tapestry Bed-room, which is truly a magnificent apartment, formed by the Byrons for the use of King Charles II. The ceiling is richly decorated with the Byron arms. We next visited the grand Drawing-room, probably the finest in the building. This saloon contains a large number of splendid portraits, among which is the celebrated portrait of Lord Byron, by Phillips. In this room we took into ​our hand the skull-cup, of which so much has been written, and that has on it:
"Start not—nor deem my spirit fled; In me behold the only skull
From which, unlike a living head, Whatever flows is never dull.
"I lived, I loved, I quaffed like thee; I died—let earth my bones resign:
Fill up—thou canst not injure me; The worm hath fouler lips than thine.
"Better to hold the sparkling grape, Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood;
And circle in the goblet's shape The drink of gods, than reptile's food.
"Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone, In aid of others let me shine;
And when, alas! our brains are gone, What nobler substitute than wine?
"Quaff while thou canst—another race, When thou and thine like thee are sped,
May rescue thee from earth's embrace, And rhyme and revel with the dead.
"Why not? since through life's little day Our heads such sad effects produce;
Redeemed from worms and wasting clay, This chance is theirs, to be of use."
Leaving this noble room, we descended by a few polished oak steps into the West Corridor, from which we entered the grand Dining Hall, and through several other rooms, until we reached the Chapel. Here we ​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 mullberry, 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, 1821,
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.
"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."
This closed my visit to the interesting scenes associated with Byron's strange and eventful history—scenes that 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."
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