through some broken
arches, and were lying in the shadow of the nave. This desecration of a
spot, once sacred, still beautiful and solemn, jarred on the feelings of
Egremont. He sighed and turning away, followed a path that after a
few paces led him into the cloister garden. This was a considerable
quadrangle; once surrounding the garden of the monks, but all that
remained of that fair pleasaunce was a solitary yew in its centre,
that seemed the oldest tree that could well live, and was, according
to tradition, more ancient than the most venerable walls of the Abbey.
Round this quadrangle was the refectory, the library and the kitchen,
and above them the cells and dormitory of the brethren. An imperfect
staircase, not without danger, led to these unroofed chambers; but
Egremont familiar with the way did not hesitate to pursue it, so that he
soon found himself on an elevation overlooking the garden, while
further on extended the vast cloisters of the monks, and adjoining was
a cemetery, that had once been enclosed, and communicated with the
cloister garden.

It was one of those summer days that are so still, that they seem as it
were a holiday of nature. The weary wind was sleeping in some grateful
cavern, and the sunbeams basking on some fervent knoll; the river
floated with a drowsy unconscious course: there was no wave in the
grass, no stir in the branches.

A silence so profound amid these solemn ruins, offered the perfection
of solitude; and there was that stirring in the mind of Egremont which
rendered him far from indisposed for this loneliness.

The slight words that he had exchanged with the farmer and the hind had
left him musing. Why was England not the same land as in the days of his
light-hearted youth? Why were these hard times for the poor? He stood
among the ruins that, as the farmer had well observed, had seen many
changes: changes of creeds, of dynasties, of laws, of manners. New
orders of men had arisen in the country, new sources of wealth had
opened, new dispositions of power to which that wealth had necessarily
led. His own house, his own order, had established themselves on the
ruins of that great body, the emblems of whose ancient magnificence and
strength surrounded him. And now his order was in turn menaced. And the
People--the millions of Toil, on whose unconscious energies during these
changeful centuries all rested--what changes had these centuries brought
to them? Had their advance in the