embossed with pearls, candlestick and Christmas ship of silver; salver,
basin, and ewer--all are gone--the splendid sacristy hath been
despoiled.

A sad, sad change hath come over Whalley Abbey. The libraries, well
stored with reverend tomes, have been pillaged, and their contents cast
to the flames; and thus long laboured manuscript, the fruit of years of
patient industry, with gloriously illuminated missal, are irrecoverably
lost. The large infirmary no longer receiveth the sick; in the locutory
sitteth no more the guest. No longer in the mighty kitchens are prepared
the prodigious supply of meats destined for the support of the poor or
the entertainment of the traveller. No kindly porter stands at the gate,
to bid the stranger enter and partake of the munificent abbot's
hospitality, but a churlish guard bids him hie away, and menaces him if
he tarries with his halbert. Closed are the buttery-hatches and the
pantries; and the daily dole of bread hath ceased. Closed, also, to the
brethren is the refectory. The cellarer's office is ended. The strong
ale which he brewed in October, is tapped in March by roystering
troopers. The rich muscadel and malmsey, and the wines of Gascoigne and
the Rhine, are no longer quaffed by the abbot and his more honoured
guests, but drunk to his destruction by his foes. The great gallery, a
hundred and fifty feet in length, the pride of the abbot's lodging, and
a model of architecture, is filled not with white-robed ecclesiastics,
but with an armed earl and his retainers. Neglected is the little
oratory dedicated to Our Lady of Whalley, where night and morn the abbot
used to pray. All the old religious and hospitable uses of the abbey are
foregone. The reverend stillness of the cloisters, scarce broken by the
quiet tread of the monks, is now disturbed by armed heel and clank of
sword; while in its saintly courts are heard the ribald song, the
profane jest, and the angry brawl. Of the brethren, only those tenanting