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From Stoneycross I crossed to Lyndhurst, and from thence by way of Brockenhurst to Beaulieu Abbey, which is, I think, as fair and picturesque a remnant of olden days as any in the land; and if (as history would have believe) King John really erected it in a fit of superstitious apprehension, he merited the absolution he gained, right royally, for in no part of his wide domains could he have fixed upon a more peaceful or suitable spot, sheltered from the cold blasts, and guarded by the Exe from surprise. Nor did the royal generosity (or fear) rest content with the building,—the endowment was in proportion, and the district for miles round bears traces of the extent of the immediate possessions. The ruins of various small chapels are still standing, built to enable the husbandmen and others to attend Divine Service, despite of wind or weather; and Cowley Pond, which lies to the eastward, and covers some ninety acres in extent, proves that when the good old fathers fasted, they took care to fast well.

It was in the reign of Henry III. that the revenues of Beaulieu were still further enriched, and that Innocent III. constituted it a sanctuary; and it was here Margaret, Countess of Warwick, the Kingmaker, fled, and that Walter Purbeck obtained a short respite. Nor is it difficult to picture to the imagination many a romance illustrating the proud days of the old Abbey, whose great gates stood between the outcast and the avenger, and where meat, raiment, and rest were open to all—the just and the unjust, the beggar and the prince.

When the suppression of the monasteries afforded Henry VIII. a little diversification from his matrimonial perplexities, Beaulieu was completely dismantled, the stones being carried away to build a martello tower, now known as Hurst Castle, leaving us a few ruined arches and windows wreathed with ivy, and crowned with wallflower and wild pink, as monuments of the past.

From Beaulieu I went to Christchurch, the latter part of the way lying along the seashore; and as I stood upon some high ground near Chewton, a picture, unsurpassed by anything I had as yet seen, lay before and round me: to the south the bright blue sea, flecked with snowy-tipped waves, with the Isle of Wight rising clothed in purple, crimson, and gold, and a veil of mist floating round her brow; below me, and stretching on in a beautiful curve, the white beach of Christchurch bay, on the other hand, the great Forest glowing in the wondrous autumnal hues, blending in with the evergreen and grey heath, until it formed a mass of colour no human skill could pourtray; and away far northward lay the purple hills, melting and uncertain in the mid-day haze.

Christchurch bells were calling to a weekly afternoon service as I entered the town, a fitting refrain to the glorious lesson which Nature had been teaching me on my way along the beach. So after a glance at the familiar sign swinging before the old posting-house, I passed on; and entering by the north porch, stood once again in the solemn Priory Church—a church which well deserves a chapter to itself, mixed up as it is with so much historical interest, to say nothing of its own peculiar beauty. Its very building is, according to tradition, marked by a miracle, our Saviour himself being said to have joined the workmen in their pious labour, while the stones themselves were carried by the angels from the place where the church was originally destined to be erected. Standing as it does upon a rising ground between the Avon and the Stour, its tower has long been a landmark, both from sea and forest.

The exterior of the building is very highly ornamented, and shows less signs of decay than the interior, the view of which is grand and melancholy, for everywhere one sees the marks not only of “Time’s defacing fingers,” but, what is still more painful, wilful mutilation and neglect. It is surely worthy of a better fate than that fast closing round it. Nor have I ever seen a place that would better repay the outlay and care of a judicious restoration. 2em

not profess to have the gift of second-sight; nor do I believe in other people possessing it. Yet, without clairvoyance, or magnetism, or the intervention of mediums, I can tell—sitting as I am now in a room looking out on a dull London court—exactly what is going on in half-a-dozen places hundreds of miles away. I must confess, however, that my power of divination is not peculiar to myself. Anybody who has once visited one of the score of German baths, where the body is cured medicinally while the purse is lightened by the pursuit of fortune under difficulties, can tell exactly what goes on day by day at Wiesbaden or Homburg, or any other gambling bath you like to mention. Everything else changes after years of absence; but you may come back to Baden after spending half your life on the other side of the Equator, and you will find the same people, or their exact counterparts, playing the same game with the same fortune. No matter at what hour of the twenty-four, supposing it to be between noon and midnight, any one of my readers who takes up this paper, may tell to a certainty what is going on within the saloons of the Spiel-Bad Kursaal. A number of men and women, all faded and jaded-looking, are sitting or standing round the long green-baize tables; the numbers marked upon the boards are covered with a goodly array of florins and thalers and five-franc pieces, a few napoleons, and, possibly, if the play be high, a bank-note or two. “Faites vo’ jeu” is the cry as the ball begins to go spinning round. No human being except a croupier could well speak in that monotonous metallic tone. Then the same voice calls out “Rien va plus,” as the ball goes wobbling down into its fated compartment.