Sailing along we observed a neat and elegant, but small monument, and on enquiry found it was erected to the memory of a young gentleman, named Warre, aged 16 years, who was drowned Sept. 14, 1804. His agonized parents beheld the dying struggle from the shore; they saw his arms widely spread for aid; his eyes glaring in death; and they heard the last wild shriek of utter desperation,-yet they could not aid him; and they saw the naked corpse of their dear child dragged to their feet; the breath gone, and the light of lifequenched for ever! I could not help thinking that this was a wild world we lived in-that at every step we moved their might lie the history of a woe that was unknown-that perchance every sound of the running waves might be a dirge for some departed spirit. How sweet over such a grave would have been some simple inscription like this: The village youth unto his grave shall bring Who underneath this hallowed turf doth lay. The scenery all the way along the river here is truly beautiful, and extremely calculated for the inspiration of poetry. In certain parts the river seems entirely shut into a little Paradise of its own; the rich fringes of the trees hang down to its waters, and are reflected gracefully back again as from a mirror; the tall rocks look out from their foliage here and there like so many huge old castles; and pleasantly interspersed among the low grounds, are many lovely cottages, where one might think strife, and sin and sorrow could never come. And this is the property which was offered by the gratitude of the English nation, to the Duke of Wellington, for the glorious services he rendered this country; and which the Duke most unpoetically declined-" because it was so far from London." A little further along was the little church where "glorious" Harry of Monmouth was baptized-he of Crecy and Poictiers-the conqueror of France—the noblest king, perhaps, that ever sat on the British or any other throne. Next came we to " Symonds Yat" 66 -The rock that seems to cry Go round about me neighbour Wye." The scenery here is likewise the finest imaginableand is one of the two "grand scenes or rather it is one grand scene-for truly may Wye, so sweetly termed "Sylvan Wye," pride herself above all English streams, and rejoice in her sloping banks, her thick intertwining woods, her graceful uplands, and the constant murmur of her own crystal waves. Thus I have given a very imperfect account of the delightful objects seen during the tour between Ross and Moumouth; but if any man would feel their true beauty himself, let him put on his walking shoes, and know them personally :-well will he be repaid for the toil and trouble he may put himself to in the perusal. Monmouth is an ancient and celebrated town built on the confluence of the Monnow and the Wye; it is the birth place of Harry the fifth, and commercially carries on considerable trade with Bristol. Whatever may be its antiquity it certainly has no great pretensions to neatness, elegance, or gentility-most of the houses. being of a shabby and inferior appearance, and the streets are narrow, mean, and ill paved. On the day we entered this place there had been a Fair, and hence we had an opportunity of seeing the different varieties of persons belonging to the country. We noticed that many of the people spoke the Welch in all its perfection-and from the pugnacity displayed, towards the evening, we had reason to suppose, that the Welch were by no means so peaceable as the present state of civilization might presuppose. However, they do not like to be called Welch-though at the same time they come very near Shakspeare's description of Parson Evans in the merry wives of Windsor, and the men neither have the manliness, nor the women the loveliness, of the English nation. But we must go to Tintern-that Tintern immortalized in so many undying lays; and honoured by the adoration of such of the greatest minds this land has ever produced or neglected. Tintern is situated a few miles from Chepstow; it is completely embowered among the multitudes of forest trees that surround it; the Wye is close beside it; whilst all around and shutting it out as it were from the world, lies a range of beautifully wooded hills, that stretch to the utmost boundary of vision. The roof of the Abbey is completely gone, so that its interior is open to heaven; the floor where monks were wont to kneel in prayer, is covered with grass; the walls are now shrouded with ivy and other climbing plants, and in the hollows the birds build their nests: where the bells were wont to sond to vespers, now all is silent, save when the winds breathe among the crannies; and the altar is broken down, the statuary defaced, and the tombs of monks and martyrs shattered and past away. "Yet do we love these ancient ruins; CLEVELAND SKETCHES. LINES On the death of an old man who perished in the snow-storm of 1844. O'er Freeborough hill, and Stanghow wood, The raven hoarsely scream'd for food, Whilst whirling high, dense flakes of snow The wintry tempests wildly blow, More fiercely round his temples wan. Night came, the glimmering beams decline, There's not a star in heaven doth shine Fast onwards, like a rushing wave Poor wanderer, ere the morning sun! |