“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 for ever.”  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 560 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 American slave’s liberation, than Wilson Armistead.

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We have just 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