All the subjects in this superb Abbey, to which we have thus briefly adverted, are more or less striking in their kind; yet the effect is peculiarly enhanced or diminished according to the season and hour selected for the visit. The glare of noon, and the sober light of evening, produce effects which are scarcely credible to those who are not familiarized to such contrasts; but in no instance have we ever seen this venerable and majestic pile to such advantage as during our recent visit, when we resolved to take a view after the twilight had passed away, and the still deep shadows of night had thrown their mantle over the scene. One of our party, who is an excellent judge and an enthusiastic admirer of “Gothic grandeur,” strongly advised us to make a survey by torch-light; but to this certain objections were started, which it became necessary to respect. Reluctantly abandoning the torch, we sallied forth into the sacred precincts under the dim light of a westering moon, and, sauntering along in a silent contemplative mood, enjoyed a treat of which the noon-day visitor can form no adequate conception. It afforded what may be truly called a “night at St. Alban’s,” and seemed to address us in the words of the poet-- “Ye, whose high spirit dares to dwell Beyond the reach of earthly spell, And tread upon the dizzy verge Of unknown worlds, or downward urge, Thro’ ages dim, your steadfast sight, And trace their shapes of shadow’d light; Oh! come with meek, submitted thought, With lifted eye by rapture taught, And o’er your head the gloom shall rise Of monkish chambers, still and wide, As once they stood: and to your eyes Group after group shall slowly glide, And here again their duties ply-- As they were wont, long ages by.” The entrance to Lady-chapel from the north, of which a view has been already given at page 80, is particularly characteristic and picturesque. The massive square tower, showing at intervals its Roman materials and ancient masonry, throws a solemn and stately grandeur over the scene. It seems, while we look upon its scars, as if covered with hieroglyphics which embody the sacred and political history of a thousand years, during which it has been a cherished landmark to the pilgrim, a home to the weary, and an object of sanguinary contention between rival armies. “Here to its hospitable gate, In want or woe, the pilgrim came; For at its portal Pity sate, To dry the tears of sin and shame. And here have armies on their march, And monarchs with their chiefs of fame, Paused, as beneath that lofty arch Their lips invoked St. Alban’s name.”