In the days of King John, DUNMOW PRIORY stood in a wild and secluded spot on the borders of the forest. Far and near extended the wild woods; but farm-houses are standing now where the wolf used to range, and a public road passes within sight of the ancient

building, from which it is divided by a corn-field and a burying-ground. Among the tombs of this celebrated edifice is that of the Countess of Huntingdon, known in ballad-story as Lady Marian. This lady had passed her young days in Baynard Castle, on the borders of the forest. Her father, Richard Fitzwalter, gave a tournament when his daughter attained her eighteenth year; knights and esquires assembled from all parts, ladies came attired in robes of costly silk; and during three whole days jousts and sports continued without intermission; but on the fourth, a stranger, clad in burnished mail, entered the lists and vanquished the bravest of his competitors. No one knew whence he came; but his gallant bearing and handsome countenance won the heart of the young queen of that high festival, and she trembled when she hung the golden chain around his neck. But he departed as he came, suddenly and in haste.

Prince John was at the banquet, yet he loved not the noble Fitzwalter. He had no thoughts in common with those of a true and loyal knight; and having been reproved for some evil expressions, he went away in anger, and vowed revenge. A few short months, and the brother of Richard Fitzwalter departed for the Holy Land, taking with him a considerable number of his brother's men-at-arms; when John, watching his opportunity, led a large armed band against Baynard Castle, and slew the owner. The Lady Marian was compelled to flee into the green forest rather than fall into the hands of the licentious and cruel John. There she wandered all day, and concealed herself at night among the underwood. On the following day she met the stranger knight—the victor of the games at her father's castle-no longer clothed in burnished mail, but in a simple suit of Lincoln-green. He greeted the lady right courteously, and bade her not fear, for that Robin Hood would be, with her permission, her protector and defender.

The Lady Marian became the wife of the outlaw-chief. She laid aside her whimple and her veil; and, the better to conceal herself, put on a light kind of armour, such as young men wore on days of festival. In this garb she one day encountered Prince John, who called upon her to surrender; but he who stood before her was the murderer of her father, and what will not the recollection of such a deed produce in even the gentlest bosom!

"Yield!" cried the guilty prince; for he knew not the damsel in her masculine attire.

The stranger was not thus to be subdued; and so firmly did she maintain her assumed character of a follower of Robin Hood, that the prince was obliged to withdraw. When John afterwards learned that his forest antagonist was no other than the young flower of Baynard Castle, he resolved to be avenged on her also.

When King Richard restored her husband his earldom of Huntingdon and his estates, she presided in his baronial hall with equal courtesy and magnificen ce.

John usurped the throne on his brother's death, in prejudice of his nephew Arthur; and then the vengeance which had long brooded in his sullen breast fell heavy on the earl. He was again outlawed, and for many long and weary years did his fair young wife follow his adverse fortunes. Time, and the hardships which he endured, at length weakened the strength of the bold outlaw, and he resolved to repair to a nunnery, where a cousin of his presided as prioress. He had heard much of her skill in medicine.

"Thrice welcome, cousin Robin," said she; but treachery was in

DEATH OF LADY MARIAN.

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her heart, for she bore no good-will to him who had so often despoiled churchmen and holy houses.

Robin Hood passed through the strong oaken door; but he returned not again to his forest recesses, save as a corpse.

At this sad period of her life the countess took refuge in Dunmow Priory. John heard that she was there, and he rejoiced in the thought of vengeance. Summoning, therefore, a gallant knight, Walter de Medeive, he bade him go with all speed to the priory, and present to the new inmate a valuable bracelet, as a token of amity and reconciliation.

The king's messenger received all due attention from the countess. The rough warrior gazed on her with admiration, for he had often heard of the sufferings of her young days, and of her brave spirit in meeting them. But time was not his own, for the king had commanded him, immediately he had performed his behest, to return and communicate the result.

As Walter de Medeive was hastening on his way, he could not forget the noble bearing and matron beauty of the lady to whom he had borne the pledge of amity. At length her image rose before him with such an intensity of feeling, that caused him to turn his horse's head, and to retrace the way he had come.

The day had closed in before he reached the priory; but the light of many tapers streamed through the windows of the adjoining church on the weary knight, and the dirge of death sounded solemnly through the stillness of the forest. The priory seemed deserted; there was no one to answer his impatient questions; all were either within the church or around the door; and thither he too hastened with trembling steps, for his heart sunk within him. The chancel was lighted up, and before a curiously-carved screen of dark old oak lay a corpse covered with flowers, according to the custom of the age. It was all that remained on earth of the Lady Marian!

The king's bracelet was on her wrist; the fierce poison with which it had been charged by the revengeful king had dried up her life's blood, and cankered the flesh it touched. Her face was ghastly pale, but a serene smile irradiated her still beautiful countenance; it told that all within had been at peace when death had seized her for his own-that even the last dire deed had not disturbed her thought of heaven. The veiled nuns stood around, their loud sobs were heard, even the officiating priests and brothers wept bitterly, and the Dies ira died away on their quivering lips as the warrior entered.

Walter de Medeive flung himself upon the bier, and uttered, in the wildness of his anguish, a thousand maledictions on his own head.

P

It

was long before he could be removed; and then he returned neither to camp nor court. He relinquished his mail and helmet for the cowl and gown, and became a brother of the order of St. Augustine.

NEWSTEAD ABBEY, the ancestral mansion of one of the greatest of our modern poets-Lord Byron-stands in the heart of Sherwood Forest. It is one of the finest specimens in existence of those quaint and romantic piles, half castle half convent, which remain as monuments of the olden times of England.

The priory of Newstead, or de Novo Loco, was founded about the year 1170, by Henry II., and dedicated to God and the Virgin. It was inhabited by a fraternity of canons regular of St. Augustine.

At the time of the dissolution of the convents during the reign of Henry VIII., Newstead, by a royal grant, underwent a sudden reverse, being added, with the neighbouring manor and rectory of Papelwick, to the other possessions of Sir John Byron, steward of Manchester and Rochdale, and lieutenant of Sherwood Forest. This worthy figures in the traditions of the abbey, and in the ghost-stories with which it abounds, as "Sir John Byron the Little with the Great Beard." He converted the saintly edifice into a castellated dwelling, making it his favourite residence and the seat of his forest jurisdiction.

The Byron family, being subsequently-in 1643-ennobled by a baronial title, and enriched by various possessions, maintained great style and retinue at Newstead. The proud edifice, however, partook of the vicissitudes of the times; and Lord Byron represents it as alternating the scene of lordly wassailing and of civil war.

About the middle of the last century, the abbey came into the possession of a notorious character, the grand-uncle of the poet, familiarly known among the gossiping chronicles of the abbey, as "the wicked Lord Byron." He is represented as a man of irritable passions and vindictive temper, in the indulgence of which an incident occurred which gave a turn to his whole character and life, and, in some measure, affected the fortunes of the abbey. In his neighbourhood lived his kinsman and friend, Mr. Chaworth, proprietor of Annesley Hall. Being together in London, in 1765, in a chamber of the "Star and Garter" Tavern, in Pall Mall, a dispute arose between them, whether Lord Byron, who took no care of his game, or Mr. Chaworth, who did, had most game on their manor. This foolish dispute led to a serious result, for it was determined to settle it upon the spot by single combat. They fought, without seconds, by the dim light of a candle, and Mr. Chaworth received a mortal wound. With his dying breath he related such particulars of the contest as induced the