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 Shakspere’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 grey Parish Church, which has for ages been the last resting-place of the Byrons, and where repose the ashes of the Poet, marked only by a neat marble slab, bearing the date of the poet’s birth, death, and the fact that the tablet was placed there by his sister.  This closed my visit to the interesting scenes associated with Byron’s strange 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.

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May 10.

It was on a lovely morning that I found myself on board the little steamer Wye, passing out of Bristol harbour.  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 believer, like the poet Dryden, that certain information might be obtained from the above science, he caused the child’s horoscope to be drawn, and found, to his dismay, that in his third, sixteenth, or twenty-first year, he would be in danger of meeting with some fearful calamity or sudden death, to avert which he caused the turret to be constructed, and the child placed therein.  Secure, as he vainly thought, there he lived, attended by a faithful servant, their food and fuel being conveyed to them by means of a pully-basket, until he was old enough to wait upon himself.  On the eve of his twenty-first year, his parent’s hopes rose high, and great were the rejoicings prepared to welcome the young heir to his home.  But, alas! no human skill could avert the dark fate which clung to him.  The last night he had to pass alone in the turret, a bundle of faggots was conveyed to him as usual, in which lay concealed a viper, which clung to his hand.  The bite was fatal; and, instead of being borne in triumph, the dead body of his only son was the sad spectacle which met the sight of his father.”