The road to Cambridge is the route of John Gilpin, when he went farther than he intended: "To-morrow is our wedding-day, The "Bell," or sign of the Bell at Edmonton, is an inn. At this day, as we pass the house-I suppose it is the samewe find an addition, or change of the sign, as well as the name, and it is called "The John Gilpin." The sign is historical or descriptive. As to the truth of the history, that matter must rest entirely on the credit of the amiable and conscientious poet. But as you pass you see Gilpin depicted there, as described, all on the wing: "The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, Away went hat and wig." "The dogs did bark, the children scream'd, "At Edmonton his loving wife From the balcony espied," &c. And there is the whole picture to this day: His wife standing in "the balcony" beckoning him to stop; many heads thrust out many windows to see; the dogs around, and geese fluttering to get out of the way; the donkeys, with their carts and drivers, standing still with amazement; the turnpike open to give him passage; and Gilpin himself, with his hat in the wind some rods behind him, his hair going after his wig and scarlet cloak, which are also in the rear; the bottles dangling high and low, and pounding the ribs of his horse; while he, with most imploring looks, in spite of all his wishes to stop, and of all the help of the mob he has raised, still goes on, because his horse would go.' I would not vouch for every feature here drawn, whether it be a little more or a little less, than what is now to be seen at the sign of John Gilpin at Edmonton, as I drove by it myself, going and coming, under the auspices of old Joe Walton, at a speed scarcely less than that of Gilpin, thinking of him all the while, and making many anxious inquiries about him. 66 When one has been at Oxford, there is nothing at Cambridge that can attract his attention except King's College Chapel, and that certainly is sufficiently remarkable. There is nothing like it, nor of its kind equal to it, in Great Britain. There may be a thousand other things in the architecture of Europe that would in many respects be more commanding. But when a thing is perfect, what can we have more? When no one can say there is something that ought not to be there, or something wanting, human art seems to have made its highest attainment. The academic shades and fine walks of Cambridge are perhaps more abundant than those of Oxford. Excepting the gardens of the colleges, which are walled in, and are necessarily very contracted, and which are not commonly open to the public, the walks of Oxford are not so tastefully arranged, nor so well kept, nor so chaste and inviting in their aspects, as those of Cambridge. The sluggish and lazy Cam seems to have participated in the lassitude to which the overhanging shades, the close-sheared lawns, and Arcadian walks invite, and to have stayed his current to repose in the scene. Certainly he does not go fast enough to dissipate the vapours; he only raises and holds them suspended all around. "When I first saw this river," said Robert Hall," as I passed over King's College bridge, I could not help exclaiming-Why, the stream is standing still to see people drown themselves!.... Shocking place for the spirits, sir. It is the very focus of suicide.... The Don is a river, sir; and so is the Severn a river; but not even a poet would so designate the Cam, unless by an obvious figure he termed it the sleeping river. I say of my Cambridge friends, when I witness their contentedness in such a country, 'Herein is the faith and patience of the saints.' The place where Bacon, and Barrow, and Newton studied, and where Jeremy Taylor was born, cannot but be very interesting; but does it not strike you as very insipid, sir?" King's College Chapel, however, is a redeeming feature of Cambridge. Externally or internally, this building may be just as large as any one chooses to imagine it. It is of no use to have its dimensions; indeed, perhaps one had a great deal better be without them; and then, while surveying it from without, he may conceive it of vast magnitude, and enjoy, at least by an illusion, the properties and relations of the parts of such an edifice, on an extended and magnificent scale. Or while he stands, looking down the inward perspective, he may imagine that to be infinite, for. such in truth it seems to be, and one may easily be deceived. The length of the chapel is in fact 310 feet; its breadth 78; and the height of the wall 90. This is obviously not a great building. It combines simplicity, beauty, and grandeur, so harmoniously, that one cannot tell which to admire most. It has no tower. The remarkable external features are the frequent buttresses, so strongly built to brace the wall and support the roof; the four turrets, one at each angle; and the line of pinnacles, running from end to end and over the roof. Within, the painted windows are remarkable, as exhibiting the whole evangelical and apostolic history. The internal perspective, from almost any position, is unrivalled for the perfect unity and satisfaction of the effect. There is no wonder, nor scarcely admiration, unless it be, that the effect of such pure satisfaction could be produced, without mingling the complex emotions ordinarily excited by architectural designs. But the stone roof of this building is altogether its most remarkable feature. It is said of Sir Christopher Wren, that he used to visit Cambridge once a year merely to look at this piece of work, and that he should have said-" Show me where to place the first stone, and I will build such another." The roof is supported by a series of double arches, concentric to the buttresses, one arch passing through the whole, yet all mutually dependant on each other, and each contributing to support that weight of stone, which is laid almost flat from wall to wall. The stones, however, are thin, some say two inches, others from four to six inches thick, thus contributing to the lightness of this immense arch, which is so near to being flat that it can scarcely be called an arch. It can hardly be supposed that these stones are generally thinner than from four to six inches. In walking over the surface of this roof, the shapes and relations of every stone composing those arches-which, being concentric, together make one arch 310 feet by 78-can be as easily and as exactly traced as the flagstones of a street pavement. Architects and masons of the present time are confounded at the sight, and confess their ignorance of the rule or rules by which this framework of masonry was set up. It is not exposed to the weather, but is protected by an ordinary roof thrown over the whole, with a sufficient elevation to admit persons to walk erect on the stone roof, sufficient light being thrown in to answer all the purposes of the minutest examination. The interior face of this arch is curiously wrought out of the stone, in Gothic tracery, to correspond with the general design, and for the purpose of effect on the beholder from below. The entire edifice is pronounced to bear the marks of the point of perfection and decline in Gothic architecture. It was begun in the former part of the fifteenth, and finished in the sixteenth century. Cambridge is the second of the two great-"famous"Universities of England-though not quite willing to concede pre-eminence to its sister on the Isis. Why not say more about Cambridge and Oxford? Because I dare not touch so great a theme-unless I might have leave to write a book, RUINS OF ANCIENT ABBEYS. Kirkstall-Bolton-and Fountain's. IN approaching Leeds from London, within a distance of two and a half miles, the stranger's eye, if he looks on his left, will be arrested by an apparent heap of ruins, lying in the bosom of a beautiful vale through which himself is passing, on the bank of the river Ayre, all shrouded in a grove of forest elms, showing here and there, as if a spot of naked wall, peeping through the mantling ivy, and seeming to declare that something deep and solemn lies beneath. As he lifts his eye, his doubts will all be resolved by the half of a massive tower, peering above the tops of the trees, and ready to crumble and fall with the other half, which had gone before it. And as he rides along, new shapes of this extended mass of ancient ruin are continually forming and rising before him :-now some deep recess opens under a larger or a smaller arch-now a high, imperfect wall, with a window or two opening on the hills or sky beyond-now a range of windows-now the great eastern aspect, looking bold, challenging respect, and seeming, by its shifting forms, to assert vitality, and belie the record of its desolation. Approach this pile, and the stranger's interest increases, as he traces what must have been the abodes of menials, what the magazines of provisions, what the laboratory of the epicure-the numerous cells-the chapter-house, or place of secret and awful conclave-the great court, and chamber succeeding chamber, each partitioned from each by the most massive work of stone-elms, centuries old, planted and growing up in the midst of these apartments, spreading their arms over the broken walls, and meeting each other in every direction, so as to form a perfect grove-and the ivy running up in every form, covering and burying here and there the parts of this ancient pile, as the swarm of bees covers the limb or the tree on which they first alight, after they have gone forth in pursuit of a new place of habitation. Let the stranger enter the holy place, walk among the weeds between the great outer wall and the long range of clustered columns, under the lofty and groined arches, which still afford a partial shelter-and there he may hear the earnest chattering of the magpie, the twitter of the swallow, the plaint of the sparrow, and the petulance of the wren; there he may look up and see the vigorous, wild shrubbery of the plain and hills, the rose, and many a flower, flourishing and blooming in all their freshness, in the windows, in the walls, and even on the highest parts of the tower. There he may wander up hill and down hill, in the midst of the sanctuary, where was the altar of God, wetting himself thoroughly from the grass and bushes, as he passes along, brushing off the fresh rain, and bracing himself with care, lest he slide and fall among the fallen ruins. Where are the hands that built these walls, and where the spirits that worshipped here? "Methinks I hear the sound of time long past Who, in wandering here, would not feel that he has communion with the dead? "I do love these ancient ruins; We never tread upon them, but we set Of stormy weather, some men lie interr'd, Who loved the church so well, and gave so largely to it, They thought it should have canopied their bones Till doomsday. But all things have their end. Churches and cities, which have diseases, like men, Must have like death that we have." There are stone coffins, making parts of the solid masonry of the chapter of this ancient institution, where the walls are in good preservation; and these receptacles of the dead have been violated, from mere curiosity, and the bones stolen, one by one, till not a single relic remains. Kirkstall Abbey was built early in the twelfth century, under the auspices of Henri de Lacy, Baron of Pontefract, and, for aught that appears, was sustained so long as popery flourished in the empire. It is now an interesting and venerable ruin. To show how some things, and some of what things have been done at this place, I give a few extracts of letters from abbots of this institution. From a letter under the following style-"Brother Hugh, called Abbot of Kirkstall, to his beloved in Christ, the convent of the same house, health and blessing in the bond of peace," and written in the 13th century, the following are extracts:-"Because the king was not pleased to interfere with the debt due to Tockles, the Jew, notwithstanding we had many intercessors with him, yet, by the grace of God, obtained through the mediation of your prayers, and by our own understanding, we, reflecting, that if this debt remained undischarged, it would be productive of great inconvenience, hit at length upon a remedy which is likely to be effected." Then the reverend abbot goes on to specify this device, which perhaps is more to the credit of his cunning than of his virtue. He concludes his wily and careful epistle with |