of Admiral Gell struck my fancy most. Of the rough manners but truly benevolent and humane conduct of this veteran, we heard many pleasing anecdotes; and we had the pleasure of seeing him at the little inn of the place.

From this agreeable village, we made a digression to visit the ruins of Llantony Abbey, situated in one of the deepest recesses of the Black Mountain. This pile is more remarkable for the savage wildness of its position than for the grandeur of its architecture; and on looking round me, I could not help pitying from my soul, the poor monks who were doomed to such sequestered solitude, "far from the cheerful haunts of men."

We now directed our course to Abergavenny in Monmouthshire, whose environs are rich and beautiful, and a more desirable position than the town itself occupies can. scarcely be imagined. Here the little river' Gavenny unites its waters to the Uske, in the midst of a verdant range of meadows, surrounded by bold projecting hills. Many of the houses have an elegant appearance;'

and the state of society, as we heard from respectable authority, is highly agreeable. In remote places, indeed, all ranks mix more freely with each other, because it can. be done at a comparatively small expence; while luxury and extravagance banish all real enjoyment, and substitute a fictitious pleasure for solid happiness.

The country continued to wear the same inviting aspect as we advanced towards Monmouth, but it is less mountainous and picturesque. We turned a little aside to visit the ruins of Ragland Castle, once the splendid seat of the Beaufort family, and still venerable in its decay. Here, says a tourist *, "was held what might be called the court of the modern princes of this part of the country; and at no far distant period, the youths of family in South Wales acquired the polish of improvement within these walls, with all. the imposing magnificence of feudal power." But now we beheld only

The mouldering walls
Black with the rust of age, and all within

* Mavor's British Tourists, Vol. V.

K

Silence and waste, while not a sound was heard

But the wind moaning; not a form beheld,
Save one that fancy imag'd to our mind-

The spirit of Destruction!

From this

spot, without

any occurrence

worth notice, we reached Monmouth; and as the post is just setting out, I hasten to close this long letter, with the assurance that I am ever yours.

LETTER X.

Tour from Monmouth to Cheltenham.

MY DEAR SISTER,

Cheltenham, August 16.

You ou will readily perceive that my correspondence with you is carried on by fits and starts, at every baiting and halting place, and that when I begin my letter, it is very seldom I know the exact route we are to take, or where I shall finish it. This keeps you ever present to my mind; and if I have not you as the companion of my journey, I notice every interesting object which it produces, that you may be able to trace my steps on a map, and say, "here my father

and my brother were at such a particular period of time."

We are once more drawing nearer to you; but as such wonderful benefit has been derived from this loco-motive plan to our dear parent's health, I hope, and I am certain you will join with me in the wish, that he will avail himself to the full of the present fine season, and return at last in buoyant spirits, and without an uneasy corporeal

sensation.

Monmouth, a place of considerable anti. quity, is a large, handsome, and populous town. It is pleasantly situated at the con fluence of several streams, and its environs are highly delightful. A considerable trade is carried on from hence, by means of the navigation of the Wye to Bristol. Some of the public buildings are grand, particularly the church and the county-hall.

The old Castle of Monmouth, probably built about the Conquest, is now only visible in its ruins; in it Edward V. was born.

In this vicinity, we saw that stately pile

called Troy House, one of the seats of the Duke of Beaufort. Partial as you know we are to that illustrious family, we did not pass it without breathing the fervent prayer for the prosperity of its owner.

Leaving Monmouth, we took the direction of Ross, an old town situated on the banks of the Wye, amidst a fertile and delightful country. From the church-yard is one of the most captivating landscapes I ever beheld. The navigation of the Wye, from this place to Monmouth and Chepstow, presents in its progress all the variety of the picturesque, the agreeable, the tremendous, and the sublime in nature; but we could only enjoy it in description, and thank the faithful pen and pencil of Gilpin for our entertainment.

- Ross itself has sufficient claims to regard, Every heart of sensibility will feel its best emotions excited on being told, that it was the birth place, the residence, and the place where Pope's "Man of Ross" lies buried. We slept in the house, now an inn, which formerly belonged to him, and were shewn