finding neither cunning to proceed nor resolution to withdraw. It might be that I passed nearly an hour of perplexed and lonely musing, often looking toward the Lady Bride's window, when I bethought me that, as it was near the time of Complin, when the brethren would be at prayers, perchance I might be able to mount the wall of the abbey-garden, and meet with her in that even walk whereof the guest at the Tabard had told me. But upon looking at the lofty boundaries which girdled in that ancient house, I almost gave up the enterprise in despair, until I noted that on the north side, where the church of St. Mary Magdalen joined unto the abbey-wall, the same was greatly decayed and fallen away; perchance because some of the abbots, coveting rather to fill their own purses than to keep up the fence of God's fold, had let the stone boundary sink into ruin. And here I saw, that although it might prove no easy matter to scale it from within, yet might I with small labour surmount the wall from without; since, by reason of the manifold burials there, the earth of the graves and dust of the mouldering bodies had much raised the ground; and, farther, a table-tomb unto the memory of Master Geoffry Gresham, the far-famed Fletcher, had been reared by that part of the wall which was most decayed. Upon this tomb lay the rare effigy of the rich Fletcher, with his stanch hound carved at his feet, and by these I saw that I could easily mount and lower myself on the other side, by making a cord fast round the dog's head or elsewhere as I listed; ascending again unto the churchyard when I had seen the damsel, or when danger approached to bid me escape. I saw in this device such hope of success, that I did at once determine to provide me with a ladder of cord,-which I might easily get me in Southwark,--because, the good hour was now wearing fast away. When I returned unto Bermondsey, the bell had already tolled the hour of seven, the service of Complin was being sung, and the brethren were all in their church; I did therefore presently take forth my cords, which were knotted together like the shrouds of a vessel, and, making them fast unto the tomb, ascended thereon, and committed myself unto Providence. Having, as I have before noted, already been at this abbey, I well knew that the left-hand walk, south of the church, would lead me unto the Prior's maze, being a grove of lilacs and overhanging laburnum-trees, which was wont to be the Lady Bride's walk at even; wherein I might well secure me from all notice. And so mounted I the wall with cautious and silent movements, and seeing none within to oppose my passage, I forthwith descended into that tranquil spot, which, as it were, lay sleeping before me, in all the calm beauty of a spring-tide moonlight. CHAPTER VI. A NIGHT-ADVENTURE AT BERMONDSEY ABBEY BEFORE ITS DISSOLUTION. I'll tell thee, by my faithen That sometimes I have known A fair and goodly Abbey Stand here of brick and stone; And many a holy friar, As I may say to thee, Within these goodly cloisters I did full often see, BALLAD OF PLAIN TRUTH AND BLIND IGNORANCE. It were a world to tell what then I thought, What joy I saw, what pleased my listening ear, What hand I held that free consent had brought, What haste I had that constant truth did bear: * * * * * * * But lo! Alas! they were but shadow'd shows, And, storming, straight thus 'gan I make my moan: "Ah! Goddés good! why do I live again, To lose my joy, and find my former pain?" THE GARDEN-PLOT, BY HENRY GOLDINGHAM. WHEN I thus found me alone within the gardens of Bermondsey Abbey, my soul became filled with a pious and solemn feeling well befitting that holy place, though blent with doubts and hopes touching my present enterprise. These did keep me for some brief space, riveted, as it were, unto the spot whereon I stood, and intently gazing upon the scene around me; so that I do well remember how looked that abbey, ere it was resigned by its coward abbot unto the second Harry Tudor, who seized upon many a fair heritage with which good men of old had endowed the church, and gave unto others that which was in truthnot his own. They who now behold this place, I wot shall see but little of what I have here noted; because the most part of those fair buildings which were once devoted unto the service of God, have been thrown down, and the very stones thereof used to set up a vain-glorious dwelling-place for man. But I will now essay to picture it, as I beheld it nearly fifty years past, before its candlestick was moved out of its place. I have afore said that the young moon shone brightly over grange and greensward, lighting and gilding refectory and hall, church and dormitory with its lustre for upon my right hand spread out the abbot's curious maze and fair garden, with the long trim alleys and winding walks thereof. Before me arose his *It has been supposed that Robert Wharton, or Parfew, the last abbot of Bermondsey, and successor to John de Marlow, mentioned in the above narrative, was actually put into that office by the court, that he might surrender the abbey and its revenues to the crown. This he did by a voluntary instrument of resignation, dated January 1st, in the 29th year of Henry VIII., 1538, anticipating the Act for suppressing the greater Religious Houses, which passed July 29th in the next year. The abbot had been made bishop of St. Asaph in June, 1536, and on his surrender received a pension of 500 marks, 3331. 6s. 8d. Bermondsey Abbey was granted in 1541 to Sir Robert Southwell, Master of the Rolls, who sold it to Sir Thomas Pope in the same year, by whom the ancient conventual buildings were taken down, and a mansion erected with the materials as referred to in the text. stately stone lodgings, standing in the great basecourt: and behind me was the abbey-church, the windows whereof were shining with the light within, whilst the swell of the organ and slow psalm of the monks, came ever and anon upon the fresh gale of even as it passed me by. On mine other hand stood the great north gate, and the dwellings and offices of the brethren; and far out upon the south, I might discern the warren, grange, and pasture-fields of the abbot. Having thus for a brief space gazed around me, almost lost in thought, I did next turn me unto the little grove of which the pilgrim had spoken, and, forcing aside the leaves and branches thereof, presently so concealed myself in its bower, that I was assured that none, who should not part the trees as I had done, might perceive that a stranger was there hidden. The same holy silence seemed to reign around that spot, yet was not mine own breast without somewhat of disquiet, since I felt that my present act was one which I might not openly avow; for though I purposed nought but good in again seeking to behold the Lady Bride, yet did I question with myself whether I were not sinful in thus covertly. approaching a spot which was consecrated unto the service of God. Nevertheless, these thoughts were full soon put to flight, by doubts and fears that peradventure I had outstaid the Lady Bride's hour, and so should not behold her even now that I was within the walls of the very place of her sojourn. But as the moon went down the sky, and the light passed away, the rising gale swept along the leaves which formed my bower, and |