We soon got out of the Avon into King Road, and there met the tide setting strongly from the Severn--a large river, which divides Monmouthshire from Gloucestershire. We then stretched across the estuary, and were in the Wye--one of the most romantic rivers in the country, the scenery of which will occupy much of this letter.

After going up the river a little way, we saw a town upon the left bank and a n.o.ble castle. This is Chepstow. It is finely ensconced in a hollow. The town is irregular, and depends for its prosperity on its commerce. The castle is really a n.o.ble ruin and crowns a high bluff which rises from the river. I do not know how any one can ask for a lovelier landscape than is opened to the view off the bridge which spans the river.

The castle was built by a relation of William the Conqueror. Its style is Norman, with more modern additions. The tide rises here to an elevation of from fifty to sixty feet. This is owing to rooks which stretch into the Severn near the mouth of the Wye, and, by hindering the tide, turn it into this small river.

On landing, we engaged a carriage and pair of horses for the excursion, and were soon off. We stopped for lunch at St. Arvan's, a village one mile off, and a beautiful place it is--a perfect gem of a country street. But the glorious scenery of the region calls off attention from the modest hamlet. How I should like, as in my boyish days, to make head-quarters here for a week, and then strike out for daily explorations.

We pa.s.sed by the fine mansion at Piercefield, and devoted our time to the glorious points of natural scenery on the banks of this most charming stream--for Americans can hardly call it a river. We walked now about two miles through an oak wood, in which is a sprinkling of ash and elm, till we came to the very edge of a cliff called the "Lover's Leap."

It overhangs an awful abyss, the depth of which is softened down by the woods which cover the neighboring rooks. A little off from this we came to the famous Wynd Cliff. Its summit is fringed with wood, and covers its declivities down to the river. To describe the scenery, my dear boy, from this spot, is quite beyond my ability. I wish that Sir Walter Scott had attempted it, and made this region the scene of one of his beautiful creations. From this spot you see all the course of the Wye, with its numerous sinuosities--in one place cutting out a few acres into a horse-shoe peninsula. As the eye follows down the river, you gaze on perpendicular, rocky cliffs, and can hardly persuade yourself that you do not look at the immense fortifications of a town. But that peaceful little peninsula at my feet; it is called Llanicut. Such a farm! such elms! all forming a landscape unrivalled. But look beyond the Wye, and, just away there, is the n.o.ble Severn. Ay, that is a river. There it rolls and foams down through the rich county of Gloucestershire, and empties into the Bristol Channel. Then away, beyond to the right are the bold, swelling hills of Somersetshire. I cannot but wish that Claude had seen the Wye and Severn; the n.o.blest of his pictures would have been ill.u.s.trative of this region.

When we had sufficiently delighted ourselves with the far-spread scene, we descended by a winding path through the woods and down the almost perpendicular rock. The road was a very zigzag. We came down three hundred and sixty steps, and, pa.s.sing a rustic bridge, entered a moss cottage, the small windows of painted gla.s.s, the table the base of a mighty oak, sawn off and polished. The walls are lined with moss. Here we got refreshments, and talked of those who had been here with us on former visits--some in America, others farther off; and yet perhaps not; for we know not how, or where, some of our best friends exist; but we know and feel that they do greatly live.

In approaching Tintern, we pa.s.sed the iron works, which at night throw a solemn glow over the entire village. The cottages around are very humble residences. The inn is a small but cosy affair, and is not dest.i.tute of much real comfort. There is the abbey at the water side, and opposite the rocky hill bank and hanging wood. The access to the abbey is poor, but this is quite forgotten as you enter this glorious sanctuary of other days. There are few ancient edifices in Great Britain, now in ruins, which attract so much attention from the curious traveller as Tintern Abbey, on the Wye.

The beauty of the river is proverbial, yet has never been adequately described; but the best idea of its diversified charms may be gathered from "Gilpin's Picturesque Scenery and Observations upon the Wye."

Tintern was a Cistercian abbey, and was founded in 1131, by Walter de Clare, and dedicated to St. Mary on its completion in 1287. The dress of the Cistercians was a white ca.s.sock, with a narrow scapulary, and over that a black gown, when they went abroad, but a white one when they went to church. They were called white monks, from the color of their habit.

The dimensions of this church are as follows: length, two hundred and twenty-eight feet, and the transept one hundred and fifty feet long; breadth of the aisles, each eighteen feet. There are in the sides ten arches; between each column fifteen feet, which is the span of the arches.

The interior of this monastery presents the best specimen of Gothic architecture in England. The east window is a most magnificent affair, sixty-four feet high, and calls forth universal admiration. The very insignificant doorway was, no question, intended by the architect to form a strong contrast with the elevation of the roof. The abbey is cruciform; its ruins are perfect as to the grand outline; and I am sure we should like to pa.s.s the entire day within this venerable fane. The walls of the tower are seventy-two feet high, and covered with ivy, moss, and lichens, but show no indications of decay.

Very few Americans visit this region; but I think that they can see nothing in England at all comparable to this ruin.

Among the relics that are to be seen here is the effigy of a knight in chain mail, the remains of a virgin and child, and the head of a shaven friar. Here, too, are several monkish tombstones.

We were obliged to resume our places in the carriage, and ride some twelve miles, in order to visit the finest baronial ruins in the kingdom. We reached the quiet little village of Ragland, and, putting up our horses, gave orders for dinner, and then repaired to the castle, which we found near by, crowning a slight eminence with its stately towers. We approached through a grove of truly venerable oaks and elms, and all at once we were at the warder's gate; and entering into the terrace, formerly the eastern court, a most splendid vision burst upon our sight. Here are three pentagonal towers, with machicolated battlements, and showing all the marks of war. This is the most perfect part of the ruin, and seems likely to stand for ages. The ivy cl.u.s.ters over the towers most gracefully. Off to the left, insulated by a moat, stands the remains of a tower, once the citadel. We advance through the Gothic portal into the second court, and here are shafts and arches, and grooves through which the portcullis used to present itself to the besiegers. Next is the paved court, where once were the men at arms with iron tread; now a velvet lawn is seen, and many a vigorous tree is spreading its roots. Here we get a fine view of the majestic window of the hall of state. Through an arch is the way to the kitchen. The fireplace has a span of thirteen feet, and is made of two stones. Then we come to the baron's hall, of n.o.ble dimensions. On the walls are the stone sculptured arms of the Marquis of Worcester. The chapel was a narrow room; and, nearly concealed by ivy, are two effigies. The south-west tower contained the apartments occupied by Charles I. after the battle of Naseby, in 1645. The grand terrace is in tolerable order, and you proceed to it by a bridge. We ascended the towers and gazed on majesty in ruins. We saw nothing on the continent finer than Ragland Castle. The prospect from the great tower is the finest that can be imagined, and I almost fear to tell you its extent.

You may imagine that we felt unusually interested at this place, from the fact that here the Marquis of Worcester invented the steam engine.

The castle was devastated by the parliamentary troops under Fairfax, having surrendered in 1646. The defence was gallant, but unavailing.

The warder of the castle is a very gentlemanly man. He took us into his apartments in one of the towers, and we found that he was a very respectable amateur in painting. Some of his oil paintings were very creditable. An infant girl, of great beauty, his daughter, answered to the name of Blanche Castle May, and was the first-born child under that roof since its desolation.

Here, as well as at Tintern Abbey, I obtained ivy roots for Mr. Hall, and hope to see them flourishing on the walls of his beautiful stone house in Rhode Island.

We retired slowly from this romantic ruin, and at the hotel found an excellent dinner. One dish was fit for a king--sewen, young salmon, or a species of salmon, for there is much dispute among naturalists as to the ident.i.ty of these fish. Any how, they are fine beyond any fish. They were about two and a quarter pounds each, and are so delicate that they do not well bear transportation.

We returned to Chepstow that evening, having a fine ride through a new piece of scenery, and were quite ready for a sound night's rest. In the morning we looked at the castle in Chepstow, which is remarkably fine, and is of extreme antiquity; some of the arches of the castle chapel indicating clearly a Saxon origin. One of the priestly legends is that this chapel was built by Longinus, a Jew, and father of the soldier who pierced the side of Christ. This was the belief of the ancient population of this charming region.

All around this town Roman coins are frequently turned up; and I obtained from a gentleman a very well-preserved Caesar silver coin, dug up a day or two before.

This castle was for more than twenty years the prison home of Henry Marten, one of the regicides. He is buried in the parish church, and in the north transept is the following acrostical epitaph which he composed for his monument:--

Here, September 9, 1680,

was buried

A TRUE-BORN ENGLISHMAN,

Who in Berkshire was well known To love his country's freedom 'bove his own; But being immured full twenty year, Had time to write, as doth appear.

HIS EPITAPH.

Here or elsewhere (all's one to you, to me) Earth, air, or water gripes my ghostly dust None know how soon to be by fire set free; Reader, if you an old-tried rule will trust, you will gladly do and suffer what you must.

My time was spent in serving you, and you, And death's my pay, it seems, and welcome, too; Revenge destroying but itself, while I To birds of prey leave my old cage, and fly; Examples preach t' the eye; care then, (mine says,) Not how you end, but how you spend your days.

Colonel Henry Marten was one of the n.o.ble a.s.sertors of English liberty who dared to oppose a weak, but cruel and capricious tyrant. If ever a monarch was a tyrant and despot, it was the first Charles. No American citizen who thinks that Patrick Henry, Samuel Adams, John Hanc.o.c.k, Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, and George Washington were praiseworthy for the resistance which they offered to the aggressions of George III., can for one moment fail to reverence Eliot, Hampden, Marten, Whalley, Ludlow, Pym, and Cromwell for their n.o.ble opposition to Charles and his tormentor general, that incarnation of sanctimonious cruelty, Archbishop Laud. It is one of the signs that a "good time is coming" that public opinion in England, as well as in America, is fast setting in favor of Cromwell and his n.o.ble coadjutors. They opposed measures rather than men; and what proves that they were right in expelling the Stuarts from power is the fact that when, by infatuation, "the fated race" was restored, and again played over former pranks, the people had to oust the family in 1688, and thus by another national verdict confirm the wisdom and patriotism of the men who had formerly dared to teach a tyrant the rights of freemen. Marten was a n.o.ble spirit, but his morals were not as correct as those of his political a.s.sociates.

The game now played by the advocates of high church and state notions in England and America is to represent the republican party as illiterate and narrow minded. A viler falsehood was never sworn to at the Old Bailey. The leading men of the party who opposed the royal tyrant were scholars, and ripe ones. If any man doubts it, let him read their speeches, peruse their lives, and study their writings. Prynne did not lose his acquirements nor his brains when Charles and Laud cropped his ears, and, loving the sport, came back for a second harvest, and "grubbed out the stumps" remaining from the first operation. Read his folios, quartoes, and octavoes, and from one of these men estimate the others. If you want to know the real character of Cromwell and his party, as to their knowledge and love of good letters, look at the patronage which the government gave to learning. Owen was chancellor of Oxford, Milton and Thurlow were secretaries, and their friends were called into public life. Were these men barbarians and enemies to learning? The men who were educated at Oxford and Cambridge at this period were the ornaments of learning and religion for the next forty years. The day has gone by forever when Cromwell's name can be used as synonymous with fraud, ignorance, and hypocrisy. Kings and prelates may hate him, but a liberty-loving world will enshrine his character in the sanctuary of grateful hearts and faithful memories.

After crossing the Severn at the old Pa.s.sage, or Aust, where it is two miles wide, we took carriage to Bristol. This parish of Aust gave a church living to the immortal Wickliffe, who received the appointment from Edward III.

The drive to the city was a rich enjoyment. Every acre is in the highest cultivation, and the charming villas of the merchant princes of Bristol make the eleven miles an entire garden scene.

Four miles from the city we came to Henbury, regarded by the citizens as their finest suburban spot. It is indeed beautiful. There are here about a dozen exquisite cottages, built in 1811, by Mr. Harford, who lives in Blaize Castle. The founder's object was purely benevolent--to provide a comfortable asylum for aged females, who had income enough to support them, if only relieved from house rent. The forms of these cottages are all different, but they were the earliest specimens in our times of the adoption of the old Elizabethan style. They are perfect _bijoux_, and the taste displayed in the shrubberies is very great.

Blaize Castle is a fine building, and surrounded by n.o.ble woods. The castle is a circle, flanked With three round towers.

I ought not to omit that we had on this trip the pleasure of being accompanied by a gentleman from Bristol, whose taste and perfect knowledge of the ground afforded us much gratification. I allude, to Mr.

Dix, author of "Pen and Ink Sketches," which formerly appeared in the Boston Atlas. Mr. Dix was with us at Windsor Castle, and when he heard from Weld French or George Vanderbilt that Robinson's birthday would occur shortly, he noted it, and sent James the following pretty lines, which reached him May 15th, in Paris. I think you will be pleased with them.

TO JAMES A. ROBINSON.

When wandering neath old Windsor's towers We laughed away the sunny hours, You asked me for a simple rhyme; So now accept this birthday chime.

No poet I--the "gift divine"

Ne'er was, and never will be, mine; But take these couplets, which impart The anxious wishes of my heart, In place of more aspiring lay, To greet you on your natal day.

Boy of that country of the brave, Beyond the Atlantic's western wave, I, dweller in the motherland, A welcome give with heart and hand; And on your birthday breathe a prayer That you may every blessing share; That your world journey may be blest With all that may prepare you best For the approaching eve of age-- The end of mortal pilgrimage.

Upon your brow of youthful bloom I would not cast a shade of gloom; Yet did I say that life will ever Flow onward like a placid river, With only sunshine on its breast, That ne'er 'twill be by storms distressed, I should but flatter to deceive, And but a web of falsehood weave.

Yet, checkered though life's path may seem, Life's pleasures are not _all_ a dream.

What shall I wish you? I would fain That earthly greatness you may gain; But if that guerdon is not sent, Be with some humble lot content; And let this truth be understood-- Few can be great, _all may_ be good.

Power, pomp, ambition, envy, pride, Wrecked barks adown life's stream may glide, Ruined by some fierce pa.s.sion throe, E'er, reckless, o'er Time's brink they go; But if fair virtue grasps the helm, Nor storm nor wave can overwhelm.

That many happy years be yours: Seek truth which every good insures; Press on, though clouds may intervene And for a moment veil the scene.

Think of the great ones of your land, And, like them, strive with heart and hand To leave a name, when you depart, Which shall be dear to many a heart.

Determine in life's early morn All good to prize, all ill to scorn, And aim to live and die as one Worthy the land of Washington!

Yours affectionately,

J.O.C.