ALAS, for Ingoldsby Abbey!—Alas that one should have to say
    Periêrunt etiam Ruinae!
Its very Ruins now are tiny!

    There is a something in the very sight of an old Abbey—family associations apart—as Ossian says (or Mac Pherson for him), "pleasing yet mournful to the soul!" nor could I ever yet gaze on the roofless walls and ivy-clad towers of one of these venerable monuments of the piety of bygone days without something very like an unbidden tear rising to dim the prospect. Something of this, I think, I have already hinted in recording our pic-nic with the Seaforths at Bolsover. Since then I have paid a visit to the beautiful remains of what once was Netley, and never experienced the sensation to which I have alluded in a stronger degree;—if its character was somewhat changed before we parted—it is not my fault. Still, be the drawbacks what they may, I shall ever mark with a white stone the day on which I for the first time beheld the time-worn cloisters of



I SAW thee, Netley, as the sun
Across the western wave
        Was sinking slow,
        And a golden glow
To thy roofless towers he gave;
        And the ivy sheen,
        With its mantle of green,
That wrapt thy walls around,
        Shone lovelily bright
        In that glorious light,
And I felt 'twas holy ground.

        Then I thought of the ancient time—
        The days of thy Monks of old,—
When to Matin, and Vesper, and Compline chime,
The loud Hosanna roll'd,
        And, thy courts and "long-drawn aisles" among,
        Swell'd the full tide of sacred song.

And then a vision pass'd
Across my mental eye;*
        And silver shrines, and shaven crowns,
        And delicate Ladies, in bombazeen gowns,
And long white veils, went by;
        Stiff, and staid, and solemn, and sad,—
—But one, methought, wink'd at the Gardener-lad!

    * In my mind's eye, Horatio!—HAMLET.

Then came the Abbot, with mitre and ring,
And pastoral staff, and all that sort of thing,
And a Monk with a book, and a Monk with a bell,
And "dear little souls,"
In clean linen stoles,
        Swinging their censers, and making a smell.—
And see where the Choir-master walks in the rear,
With front severe,
And brow austere,
Now and then pinching a little boy's ear
When he chaunts the responses too late, or too soon,
Or his Do, Re, Mi, Fa, Sol, La's not quite in tune.
(Then you know,
They'd a "moveable Do,"
Not a fix'd one as now—and of course never knew
How to set up a musical Hullah-baloo.)
It was, in sooth, a comely sight,
And I welcom'd the vision with pure delight.

But then "a change came o'er"
My spirit—a change of fear—
        That gorgeous scene I beheld no more,
        But deep beneath the basement floor
A dungeon dark and drear!
And there was an ugly hole in the wall—
For an oven too big,—for a cellar too small!
And mortar and bricks
All ready to fix,
And I said, "Here's a Nun has been playing some

That horrible hole!—it seems to say,
'I'm a grave that gapes for a living prey!'"
And my heart grew sick, and my brow grew sad—
And I thought of that wink at the Gardener-lad.
        Ah me! ah me!—'tis sad to think
        That Maiden's eye, which was made to wink,
        Should here be compelled to grow blear, and blink,
Or be closed for aye
In this kind of way,
        Shut out for ever from wholesome day,
        Wall'd up in a hole with never a chink,
        No light,—no air,—no victuals,—no drink!—
And that Maiden's lip,
Which was made to sip,
        Should here grow wither'd and dry as a chip!
        —That wandering glance and furtive kiss,
        Exceedingly naughty, and wrong, I wis,
        Should yet be considered so much amiss
        As to call for a sentence severe as this!—
        And I said to myself, as I heard with a sigh,
        The poor lone victim's stifled cry,*
"Well, I can't understand
How any man's hand
Could wall up that hole in a Christian land!
Why, a Mussulman Turk
Would recoil from the work,
And though, when his Ladies run after the fellows, he
Stands not on trifles, if madden'd by jealousy,
Its objects, I'm sure, would declare, could they speak,
In their Georgian, Circassian, or Turkish, or Greek,
'When all's said and done, far better it was for us,
Tied back to back,
And sewn up in a sack,
To be pitch'd neck-and-heels from a boat in the Bosphorus!
—Oh! a Saint 'twould vex
To think that the sex
Should be treated no better than Combe's double X!
Sure some one might run to the Abbess, and tell her
A much better method of stocking her cellar."

  * About the middle of the last century a human skeleton was discovered in a recess in the wall among the ruins of Netley. On examination the bones were pronounced to be those of a female. Teste James Harrison, a youthful but intelligent cab-driver of Southampton, who "well remembers to have heard his grandmother say that 'Somebody told her so.'"

        If ever on polluted walls
        Heaven's red right arm in vengeance falls,—
        If e'er its justice wraps in flame
        The black abodes of sin and shame,
        That justice, in its own good time,
        Shall visit for so foul a crime,
        Ope desolation's floodgate wide,
        And blast thee, Netley, in thy pride!

        Lo where it comes!—the tempest lours,—
        It bursts on thy devoted towers;
        Ruthless Tudor's bloated form
        Rides on the blast, and guides the storm;
        I hear the sacrilegious cry,
        "Down with the nests, and the rooks will fly!"

        Down! down they come—a fearful fall—
        Arch, and pillar, and roof-tree, and all,
        Stained pane, and sculptured stone,
        There they lie on the greensward strown—
        Mouldering walls remain alone!
Shaven crown,
Bombazeen gown,
        Mitre, and Crozier, and all are flown!

        And yet, fair Netley, as I gaze
            Upon that grey and mouldering wall,
        The glories of thy palmy days
            Its very stones recall!—
        They "come like shadows, so depart''—
        I see thee as thou wert—and art—

        Sublime in ruin!—grand in woe!
            Lone refuge of the owl and bat;
        No voice awakes thine echoes now!
            No sound—Good Gracious!—what was that?
                Was it the moan,
                The parting groan
        Of her who died forlorn and alone,
        Embedded in mortar, and bricks, and stone?—
                Full and clear
                On my listening ear
        It comes—again—near, and more near—
        Why 'zooks! it's the popping of Ginger Beer!
                —I rush to the door—
                I tread the floor,
        By Abbots and Abbesses trodden before,
        In the good old chivalric days of yore,
                And what see I there?—
                In a rush-bottom'd chair
        A hag, surrounded by crockery-ware,
        Vending, in cups, to the credulous throng
        A nasty decoction miscall'd Souchong,—
And a squeaking fiddle and "wry-necked fife"
Are screeching away, for the life!—for the life!—
Danced to by "All the World and his Wife."
Tag, Rag, and Bobtail, are capering there,
Worse scene, I ween, than Bartlemy Fair!—
Two or three Chimney-sweeps, two or three Clowns,
Playing at "pitch and toss," sport their "Browns,"
Two or three damsels, frank and free,
Are ogling, and smiling, and sipping Bohea.
Parties below, and parties above,
Some making tea, and some making love.
Then the "toot—toot—toot"
Of that vile demi-flute,—
The detestable din
Of that cracked violin,
And the odours of "Stout," and tobacco, and gin!
"—Dear me! "I exclaim'd," what a place to be in!"
And I said to the person who drove my "shay,"
(A very intelligent man, by the way,)
"This, all things considered, is rather too gay!
It don't suit my humour,—so take me away!
Dancing! and drinking!—cigar and song!
If not profanation, it's 'coming it strong,'
And I really consider it all very wrong.—
—Pray, to whom does this property now belong?"—
—He paused, and said,
Scratching his head,
"Why I really do think he's a little to blame,
But I can't say I knows the Gentleman's name!"

"Well—well!" quoth I,
As I heaved a sigh,
And a tear-drop fell from my twinkling eye,
"My vastly good man, as I scarcely doubt
That some day or other you'll find it out,
Should he come in your way,
Or ride in your 'shay,'
(As perhaps he may,)
Be so good as to say
That a Visitor, whom you drove over one day,
Was exceedingly angry, and very much scandalized,
Finding these beautiful ruins so Vandalized,
And thus of their owner to speak began,
    As he ordered you home in haste,
    But—I can't say much for his taste.' "*

    *Adieu, Monsieur Gil Blas; je vous souhaite toutes sortes de prospérités, avec un peu plus de gout!—Gil Blas.