read of the terrible deeds that have been
done there. We are prepared to shudder
in the ruins of the dungeons. We ask what
manufacture is carried on in the village;—in
reply people point to the ruins. The few
grey stones support the village folk:—the
children are learned in the relics of the battlefield.
Simpson and Pumpkinfield are the
two rallying cries of the village. Simpson is
a considerable man in his county. It is
asserted that he ought to be a baronet. A
solemn whisper travels about that he is the
rightful heir to a certain peerage. His name
is now inseparably connected with Pumpkinfield.
There is an air of antiquity about the
place, however, which we are inclined to enjoy
without hearing anything about Simpson.
The mind is forcibly carried back to the time
when Pumpkinfield was strewn with dead
warriors, and then to the period when sallow
monks cooled their shorn heads perhaps
under the very oaks that now shadow us.
We are beginning to feel that really and truly
Hume and Smollett's History is not a fiction.
We should hardly be surprised to hear the
clash of the battle-axe, and the whistle of an
arrow with death on its point.

On alighting before the great village
hostelry, we are informed that, as a
preliminary to our visit to the ruins, we must
have an interview with the postmaster.
We have no objection to an interview with
this official, if it is his ambition to see all
the strangers who come to wander about a
spot that is rife with the romance of history.
Accordingly, we make our way to the post-
office. We exchange salutations with the
man in the shop, and declare our intention of
exploring the ruins of the Abbey. We love
ruins, for they recall the past—they assure us
of the times gone by. We talk of the pleasure of
dwelling upon old historic ground; and with
pardonable vanity hint that we are intimately
acquainted with the history and fortunes of
the Abbey. Hereupon, the face of the post-
office dealer saddens, we think; at all events,
he asks abruptly the number of our party.
We conclude, that Simpson is anxious to keep
an exact account of the number of visitors to
his property. We declare our party to consist
of eight, individuals, including three children.
Forthwith two cards are placed in our hand,
together with a guide; and in a sharp decided
voice, that betrays no remorse—no twinge
of conscience—we are informed that six
shillings and sixpence is the sum required
by the noble owner of the broken Abbey
walls, before he will admit us. We may
sneak in for five shillings and sixpence, if
we refuse the guide book; but our young
friends clamour for it, and we pay the entire
sum demanded.

This payment alters the train of our reflections.
A few questions to be put to Simpson,
instantly rush to our mind. We experience an
irresistible inclination to ask him how it is
that he has not erected a high wall round the
entire battle-field, and advertised—"The Field
of the Battle of Pumpkinfield on View; entrance
half-a-crown. The Abbey Ruins one
shilling extra, including a peep at the Exhibitor's
Drawing-room. Schools half-price."
This would be making the most of the
property—or, at least, of those historical
associations which are the only attractions—
which are not the property of the noble
inhabitant of the modern Abbey, and wanting
which, excursionists would never press
the grass of Pumpkinfield. We try to
reason ourselves into a good-humour again;
but no—the romance is fled, and we feel
that we are on our way to Simpson's
Exhibition.

Armed with the tickets, we have a sense of a
critical vocation, which refuses to depart from
us. As we glance at the grey walls of the
standing structure, we involuntarily look out
for the check-taker's box. We expect to find
placards pasted over the Gothic gateway.
We speculate as to the success of the show.
We reflect that it can cost the speculator
nothing for gas, to begin with. We tap the
walls to assure ourselves that they are not
painted canvas. As we approach the doorway,
it falls back, and a portly female
attendant, with palms exquisitely made to
receive shillings, courtesies to us. We are
about to ask whether our tickets admit us to
the reserved seats—but we refrain in time.
We think we hear a cry of " Apples, oranges,
and ginger-beer!" but it is only our vexed
brain at work, after its particular fashion.
We advance into the enclosed space.

On our left is a range of buildings—grey
with the weather-beating of some hundred
years—but forming no part of the original
structure; indeed, not a stone of the hero of
Pumpkinfield's building is now to be seen.
We advance into the hall, which is remarkable
for a bad painting of the battle of Pumpkinfield,
some portraits of the Simpson family,
and a few Vandykes. Hence we are admitted
to a room with a low vaulted roof, now
carpeted and used as a drawing-room, where
our antiquarian knowledge is enriched by the
inspection of an Argand lamp at least a year
old, and the undisturbed examination of a
silver donkey with panniers. A sharp-eyed
boy follows us about, close at our elbow,
evidently to satisfy himself that our unholy
fingers touch none of the Simpson jewellery.
Under these flattering auspices, we leave the
room, take no notice of the boy's expression,
which has an unmistakeable pecuniary
tendency, and leave the building through the
door from the hall, which is opened by a second
official with an equally greedy eye. Bits of
ruins lie scattered about the grounds; and
finding that cloisters, the crypt, and the
refectory remain to be inspected, we proceed
on our way with the intention of thoroughly
examining them. We have contrived to gain
admittance to the enclosure with a six-shilling-
and-sixpenny silver key; but the ruins—all