"And what do you think of this fire?" said Egremont to the
hind.
"I think 'tis hard times for the poor, sir."
"But rick-burning will not make the times easier, my good
man."
The man made no reply, but with a dogged look led away the
horse to his stable.
About half a mile from Marney, the dale narrowed, and the
river took a winding course. It ran through meads, soft and
vivid with luxuriant vegetation, bounded on either side by
rich hanging woods, save where occasionally a quarry broke the
verdant bosom of the heights with its rugged and tawny form.
Fair stone and plenteous timber, and the current of fresh
waters, combined, with the silent and secluded scene screened
from every harsh and angry wind, to form the sacred spot that
in old days Holy Church loved to hallow with its beauteous and
enduring structures. Even the stranger therefore when he had
left the town about two miles behind him, and had heard the
farm and mill which he had since passed, called the Abbey farm
and the Abbey mill, might have been prepared for the grateful
vision of some monastic remains. As for Egremont, he had been
almost born amid the ruins of Marney Abbey; its solemn relics
were associated with his first and freshest fancies; every
footstep was as familiar to him as it could have been to one
of the old monks; yet never without emotion could he behold
these unrivalled remains of one of the greatest of the great
religious houses of the North.
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