MUCHELNEY ABBEY. 109 



there was that which mocked his efforts. Hour after hour 

 rolled away, but there was no satiety, nothing of the pain 

 which too many works of modern hands inflict upon way- 

 farers; no sense of disappointment, annoyance, weariness and 

 chagrin. True, there was dilapidation of the completest 

 kind. It required the knowledge of one who had often- 

 times been a pilgrim to sacred Places where the footsteps 

 of the spoiler are less apparent, duly to appreciate many 

 of the still remaining evidences of ancient possession, and 

 even partially and imperfectly to picture the scene as it 

 was exhibited to the gaze of its olden tenants. None but 

 eyes so instructed could trace the few and usually obscure 

 indications of edifices which had been either long since 

 levelled with the ground, or altered, when still preserved, 

 for uses most widely contrasting with those originally de- 

 signed. And yet, no observer could possibly be insensible 

 to the charm that so sweetly characterizes every detail of 

 the old structure, and so unmistakeably reveals the power 

 which imparted to it life. An exquisite ah - of grace 

 is over the whole that indicates the presence of a 

 master hand, the pervading influence of consummate taste, 

 and of a mind in which beauty was an inherent and ina- 

 lienable ingredient. Go where you will, it is the same 

 in every instance. There is in these edifices something 

 unapproachable, almost indescribable — something for 

 heart to revel in and for soul to kindle at, rather 

 than for tongue to discuss and for pen to delineate. 

 One cannot look at such buildings without loving them. 

 They are themselves kindly, and they elicit corresponding 

 feelings. As I bent my steps homeward on the evening of 

 the day to which I have refen*ed, I seemed to be parting with 

 an old and dearly loved friend. I turned again and again 

 to catch another and yet another look ; and, despite of the 

 VOL. VIII., 1858, BAUT II. p 



