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, November 18, 1808."

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 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.

* * * * *

_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