FAMED-long famed-in the page of the picturesque-a locality in which artist and author love to linger, and apostrophized by the poet of nature, "O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer through the woods," the associations of the river are, unquestionably, heightened by the graceful memorials of the past which stud its banks. Among these, the ruins of Chepstow castle occupy an extensive area, adjoining the port and market town of Chepstow, on the Wye, about two miles and a half from where it falls into the estuary of the Severn. The advantageous situation of the town, near the mouth of the Wye, is supposed to have rendered it a powerful position, both in Roman and Saxon times. However, the assemblage of natural and artificial beauties is of the most enchanting character; for the tourist, having passed the fantastic majesty of the Piercefield cliffs, capped with magnificent woods, finds himself in Piercefield Bay. "To the right, a line of perpendicular cliffs is still seen, but crowned instead of trees with an embattled fortress; which, for a moment, might seem to have been cut out of the rocks. The view is closed by a range of red cliffs, with the magnificent iron bridge of Chepstow spanning the river. This is the last of the great views on the Wye, and, if seen under favourable circumstances of time and tide, it is one of the finest." ("The Wye and its Associations," by Leitch Ritchie.) Another tourist describes the beauties as so uncommonly excellent, that the most exact critic in landscape would scarcely wish to alter a position in the assemblage of woods, cliffs, ruins, and water." Among these VOL. III. 66 features, the Wye and its banks are conspicuous. The ridge of cliff on the left bank below the bridge is remarkable both for its form and variety of colouring; while, on the opposite bank above, the gigantic remains of the castle, stretching along the brink of the precipice, give an air of romance to the picture, not frequently found in one of the crowded haunts of men. From different points, the views are exceedingly beautiful-the scenery not being surpassed, perhaps, by anything similar in Britain. The bridge is a noble structure of cast iron, erected in 1816. It has five arches resting upon stone piers; but although, in reality, a massive structure, it has, when viewed from the river, that air of lightness which iron bridges usually possess. The old bridge was composed of a level floor, carried upon wooden piers, except in the centre, where a pillar of stone, dividing Gloucester and Monmouth, was the support. Afterwards, however, stone piers were substituted for those on the Monmouth side, before the two counties joined in the erection of the present handsome structure. The castle of Chepstow is commonly stated to have been built originally by Julius Cæsar, a common paternity for old structures; in this case, ascribed only upon unauthorized assumption, fostered, though, perchance, by some idle or ill-informed topographer. For it is tolerably certain that Cæsar never was at Chepstow; and that Roman relics, although abundant in the neighbourhood, have never been discovered in the town. The plan and architecture of the castle, too, are of a much later date than the Roman dominion in Britain. 306 However, the name by which the town is at present | She virtue of her descent; the king himself, Henry III, There is little worthy of record in the several changes "To Chepstowe yet, my pen agarne must passe, When Strongbow once (an Earle of rare renowne), Early in the civil wars, Chepstow was garrisoned for The ground plan was divided into four courts. The first, which was entered by a Norman gateway, contained the great baronial hall, the vast kitchen, and apartments on a scale of considerable grandeur. At the south-eastern verge of this court is the keep, or citadel, now called Harry Marten's tower. The second court contains no architectural remains, except the walls; but in the third is a remarkable building usually designated "the chapel," and seeming to have formed one magnifi-pelled the governor, Colonel Fitzmorris. to surrender cent galleried apartment. The fourth court was separated from the rest by a moat, which was crossed by a drawbridge. The building of the castle is ascribed, in Domesday Book, to William Fitzosborn, Earl of Hereford. It was inherited by his third son, Roger de Bristolio, who was deprived of his estates, and condemned to perpetual imprisonment for rebellion. Of this fierce Norman baron, Dugdale has preserved the following characteristic anecdote: "Though he frequently used many scornful and In the reign of Henry I., Chepstow Castle passed into By the marriage of Strongbow's daughter, he having the Royalists, under Sir Nicholas Hemys, who, in the In 1645, the castle, with the other estates belonging to the Marquis of Worcester, were settled upon Oliver Cromwell; but were given back to the Worcester family at the Restoration. Next comes a tale of captivity in the castle, which for a long period was regarded as a political martyrdom. The sufferer was Henry Marten, one of the judges the Restoration. of Charles I., who was confined here twenty years after Marten appears to have been one of the most zealous opponents of royalty. He does not seem to have been himself of irreproachable character, if we may credit Anthony Wood, who relates that, "being authorized by Parliament, about 1642, Marten forced open a great iron the crown, robes, sword, and sceptre, belonging anciently chest within the college of Westminster, and thence took to King Edward the Confessor, and used by all our kings at their inaugurations." With these regalia, Marten, in the recklessness of scornful humour, invested George Wither, the Puritan satirist, who, thus crowned and Yet Marten wis a member of the High Court of Jusroyally arraved, exhibited himself to the bystanders. tice, regularly attended the trial of Charles, was present A shameful story is also related of when the sentence was pronounced, and signed the death-warrant. Cromwell and Marten, when about to sign, spattering ink over each other! However, these two worthies quarrelled at last; Marten opposing Cromwell's ambi tion to become king, saying, "if they must have a king | he had rather have had the last than any gentleman in England; he found no fault in his person, but in his office." the garden picked some rich, dark wall-flowers as he passed them. "Hester," he said, as he stood beside the old woman's chair; "you do not recollect me?" "No, indeed, sir, I don't," she replied, after stedfastly surveying him. Neville smiled, but it was mournfully. "Bless me !" cried the old woman, resting her hands on her knees, and gazing up in his face; "there certainly is something in your smile that I ought to know.” "Indeed there is, Hester; and my name you cannot have forgotton,-it is Neville." After the Restoration, Marten surrendered, with other regicides, to the king's proclamation. He was condemned to perpetual imprisonment, and was removed from the Tower to Chepstow Castle. Here he was treated with lenity; was permitted to spend his property as he pleased; to enjoy the society of his wife; to receive visits, and even to return them in the neighbourhood, accompanied by a guard. He died of apoplexy, in the twentieth year of his confinement, and seventy-eighth of his age. He was buried in the chancel of the parish church at Chepstow. Hence the follow-mistress! Ah! Mr. Edmund, how little did you or Ï ing passage is a poetical exaggeration : "For thirty years, secluded from mankind, Here Marten lingered. Often have these walls He paced around his prison. Not to him He never saw the sun's delightful beams, The thirty years must be diminished to twenty; and the seclusion from mankind must be understood to be as easy as captivity would permit. This explanation may abate the tourist's anxiety to read Marten's epitaph, written by himself, and freshened, by order of the churchwardens, in 1812; but, magna est veritas, et prevalebit. The castle remains are now, as our engraving shows, a picturesque but crumbling group; intermixed with foliage and clustering evergreens, mantling the decay of art with the luxuriance of nature. In June last, the Chepstow Horticultural and Floricultural Show was held in the courts of the Castle, in which were raily decorated tents and brilliant displays of flowers. "The effect," says a report of the fête, "was enchanting and magical. Indeed, the foregone associations connected with the spot chosen by the committee, viz. the castle, for the exhibition; the contrast of its modern uses to its primitive intentions, when each massive tower bade defiance to its hostile intruder; when the eastern portal was defended by two massive latticed gates, iron bolted and bound, and by two ponderous portcullises; as a whole, the gay scene could not be contrasted with the past but with reflections of the most pleasurable nature." This, in truth, were a much fitter subject for the muse than Marten's captivity! THE MERCHANT.1 "Neville-Is it possible?-You are Mr. Edmund, then. That ever I should live to see it! My poor young think that you would come back to find this poor old withered body, and not to find her!" And she raised her bony hands to her face, and was for a while overpowered with the painful recollections which his presence awakened in her. Neville was silent. His companion never was so for many minutes together, so she now recommenced: : "When you stopped at my gate, I felt, I don't know why nor wherefore, for you are altogether changed, Mr. Edmund, that it was no stranger that was there. Now, if Miss Juliet had come down to me, as she often does, and said, 'Mr. Edmund is coming home, Nurse,' I might have fancied that old times were come back again,-for she is just my young lady to my eyes." Neville started. How chanced it that his own wild thoughts were the first that found utterance from the lips of her whem he sought that he might learn the history of the past? He conquered his agitation, and replied: 'Hester, I should think that you could tell me as much of what passed after my departure as any one can." Now perhaps it may seem strange that Neville thus sought the side of this aged rustic to listen to facts and comments,-nay, more, to give utterance to feelings, all of which he would hush to silence in the intercourse between himself and Markham. Why does he feel it more endurable to listen to her unhesitating rehearsal, in her common phraseology, of circumstances which Markham would tremble to make known in the most guarded terms? There is something in the simplicity with which the poor mention the most startling and heart-breaking truths, which has a less painful effect than the timid allusions made to them by the more educated. Again and again the old woman touched on the likeness which his friend's daughter bore to her who should have been his bride, and declared that the likeness was borne out in her sweet and gentle temper; and Neville felt, that again and again could he return to her cottage, to hear her pursue the same theme. At length he said :— "She seems to me more grave and silent thanthan is natural at her age." THE merchant had not yet visited all his friends, and he wandered away by himself in the direction of a little "Aye, indeed, she was blithe enough when you were thatched cottage on the borders of the common. Some here-but, Mr. Edmund, if you had come a few months yew trees, trimmed in grotesque shapes, formed an arch- ago, you would not have had occasion to complain that way over the entrance into the garden, which was in Miss Juliet wanted life;-no, indeed. It did me good perfect order. The most scrupulous cleanliness and to see her coming with her merry laugh, that I was sure to hear before she was in sight; but now I watch neatness reigned within and without this little abode, her creeping along the common; and once, I declare, and were equally remarkable in the person of its pro- she passed the very gate, not knowing it, and turned prietor, an old, attenuated, wrinkled dame, in closely-back again with a start. Oh! it is a sad thing to see crimped cap and folded kerchief, who sat in a wicker chair, so placed as to afford her a view of her garden and gate. Neville cast a look around, which was evidently not the scrutiny of a stranger, but that of one who was seeking familiar things. The old woman, whose curiosity was easily stirred, cried: "Won't you walk in, sir, and gather some flowers?" Neville silently accepted the invitation, and entering (1) Continued from p. 228. her; and enough to make your heart ache! She looks Neville gave a deep sigh. "What ails her, Nurse?-Do they not mark this change, and care for her health?" "What ails her! Ah! Mr. Edmund, what is it that ails young folk-You have not yet forgotten! But the other day she was standing just where you stand, looking so pale and sad-and I said to her: Don't let things press too heavily on your young heart; pray don't!' In a moment she was as red as that damask rose, and she cried: What do you mean, Nurse? Nothing presses on my heart.' But I know very well that there does." "Tell me all you know, Hester. I don't ask from curiosity." "But here she comes herself, sir;" and Juliet was within a few steps of the gate. Her arrival entirely changed the nature of the discourse. A few kind and cheerful words passed between her and Hester, and then she left the cottage, accompanied by Neville. "I hope Hester is a favourite with you all," he said. "She stands high in the list of the few friends England has to afford me." "Oh, yes, we all love her for her warm heart, and for a cheerfulness and merriment which one little expects to find at her age, and not often in her class. I don't think such gaiety is common among the poor; I suppose hard toil and hard fare wear down their spirits, and of the first Hester has had her share. Whenever we come to see her, however sick or weary we find her, she is always full of life before we quit her." "You," said Neville, in a low voice, "must be especially dear to her, not only for your own sake, but for the sake of one whom she sees again in you." He felt as if, in painfully uttering these words, he taught Juliet to expect from him that deep and fervent love which filled his heart, and revealed to her the necessity of its existence; and so to have done was some relief. CHAP. VI. NEVILLE, during the remainder of their walk, was as abstracted and spiritless as Juliet in her most dejected moments. She attributed his sadness to the remembrances of the past brought before him by the old domestic with whom he had been conversing, and she was deeply touched and interested when she perceived that years had not impaired his constancy, nor chilled his affections. She was inclined to muse on what seemed to her, smarting from recent disappointment, almost a phenomenon. She could not consider this faithful love without a disposition to repine, for she deemed his sufferings, bitter as they were, in nature preferable to those which she had undergone. Absorbed in these reflections, she walked sadly and silently by his side, little aware how much his thoughts were occupied by her; at length she felt that his eyes were fixed on her face, and that tears were stealing down her cheek. She turned her head away hastily. "Juliet," said Neville, kindly, "surely I am a very old friend, if a very new acquaintance. There need no preliminaries to intimacy between us. Let me speak to you henceforth always in the former character. My first visit to your home must soon end. Impatience to see my dearest friend brought me here in such haste that I must depart again with no less speed; but I would, before I go, speak to you on subjects with which no stranger intermeddleth. Why should I speak to you as a stranger, Juliet,-to you, the child of my friend, and far more to me than that alone could make you. I have returned to England, Juliet, without relations, without friends; I bring with me princely wealth, and my chief object is to advance the interests and the happiness of my friend's children. I came here hoping to find no uneasiness that I could not remove. I discover it where it grieves me most to see it. From your own lips I would learn if I can do anything to promote your happiness." - Juliet made no reply, nor raised her eyes to his. She turned very pale, and trembled violently. Neville, in some alarm, drew her arm within his, exclaiming :"I have been too abrupt where I should have spoken most guardedly. Do not try to answer me, Juliet! Only think on what I have said, and communicate your wishes to me in any way you like. Consult with your parents, and let your father speak with me. All that I ask from you is candour, and believe me that to serve you will be the utmost happiness I can know." Juliet strove to speak, but could not. The anguish of her countenance betrayed no common grief, and deeply distressed her companion. "I will not leave you till you reach home," he said, in tones of regret and self-reproach, and they moved slowly down the shady lane which led to the Grange. When within a short distance from the house, Juliet began in a low voice, which trembled at first, but grew firmer as she went on : Mr. Neville, I cannot part from you without saying a few words in reply to an offer of such unbounded generosity and kindness. I feel indeed that you are no stranger to us in heart, and I will show you the candour you desire. The grief which you have marked in me is one which no remedy which you can propose could possibly remove. Pray forget its existence, and never recur to it again." "I cannot bear to see you as you are, Juliet," said Neville, in a tone of deep feeling. "Nor shall you," replied Juliet, with a dignity beyond her age. "I have said that you can do nothing for me, but I can do much for myself, and with the aid of Heaven, so I will. I will not long sadden those who love me by outward dejection." "Nay, Juliet," interrupted Neville, glancing with alarm at her slight form and pallid cheek, "tax not your strength too severely." "I am much better than I have been," she said, in her former tremulous tone, and for the first time a flood of tears came to her relief. NEVILLE did not ask himself directly, whether any secret joy mingled with the pain which it cost him to see his scheme for Juliet's happiness overthrown. He soon forgot himself to think solely of her, and the compassion which such thoughts awakened led him back again to his generous projects. As he passed the evening with his friend, he could not abstain from approaching the subject, and at length he repeated to him all that had passed. Mr. Markham's eyes glistened as he heard him; joy beamed in them though they swam with tears. "She is a matchless girl!" he exclaimed, with irrepressible emotion. "She is the most high-minded, the noblest creature! She speaks truly," he continued, after a pause, with more calmness. "Juliet has a natural energy which will not allow her to remain downcast. She has many to love, and she has many duties to perform, and she does perform them with all the ardour of an affectionate heart and a high spirit. I trust confidently that there is enough around her to enable a strong mind in all the vigour of youth to rally from deeper affliction than hers has been; for, though bitter, it is not of a nature to be lasting. Still I confess that to see, as we do at present, resignation holding the place of happiness, is a spectacle which touches us deeply." "But must this be?" cried Neville. "Can nothing be effected to restore the latter?" Mr. Markham extended his confidence further, and related these facts to his friend. The former incumbent of the living now held by Mr. Villiers, (and the resident at the Rectory, so near to the Grange,) had been a man of good education and considerable abilities, who eked out a scanty stipend by preparing young men for their entrance into the Universities. These so-called pupils enjoyed, however, the main disposal of their own time, and profited as little or as much as pleased themselves by the powers of instruction certainly possessed, but not certainly exerted, by their tutor. Among those entrusted to his care, was the son of a great man, at least in his own estimation very great, for Sir Ralph Harvey was a man of very old family, and of unbounded pride, though by no means superabundantly wealthy. His son Lyttelton Harvey was handsome, impetuous, evidently headstrong, apparently resolute. His society was generally fascinating to those of his own age, it was especially so to the young and lovely girl whom he felt impelled to please by every means in his power. In a short time he was Juliet's passionate adorer. Mrs. Markham was not a very wise woman, Mr. Markham not a very prudent man-at least so Neville gathered from the details he heard. The first built castles in the air, and believed them founded on earth; the second did not recognise the danger till the evil was accomplished. Then he behaved like a man of honour and of resolution. He reminded Lyttelton of his youth; he forbade his visits to his house; he referred him to his father for a sanction of his passion, to time as a test of his earnestness. In consequence of these injunctions, he discovered that Lyttelton was rather rash than resolute. His arbitrary father had been from his earliest years the object of his fear, and he quailed in his presence, though, apart from him, he boasted of independence. Time also led him to consider that it was not wise for a man so young, and born to such hereditary honours, who might command a choice of the beauty, or rank, or wealth of England, to ally himself with one as destitute of the two more solid advantages as she was richly endowed with the first, and with "all with which Nature halloweth her daughters." He began to acquiesce in the superior wisdom which had withheld him from carrying out a rash purpose, and, though he blushed to avow the complete change, he went so far as to inculcate resignation to Juliet, and to evince that he was an apt scholar in the lesson he taught. Juliet was quicksighted, and had more than a common dignity and delicacy of perception. She recognised the alteration, and, smarting under the grief and the humiliation, she made it clearly known to Mr. Lyttelton Harvey, that she fully appreciated the wisdom of her father's conduct, and the meek submission of his own. She returned some foolish tokens which were to have lived with her in life, and to have lain with her in the grave. Life is short, but we outlive many things which had a promise of durability. Mr. Lyttelton Harvey returned no more. It was almost equally fortunate for Juliet that Mr. Halifax, his tutor, departed soon afterwards, giving place to Mr. Villiers. The advantages which Juliet derived from this change were not confined to those which he conferred on her by his full and excellent discharge of all the pastor's duties. He brought with him to the rectory a sister whose whole life had been passed in his home; one who was endeared to him not only by her devoted love and excellent qualities, but by being one of those doomed to pain which admits of little alleviation from human skill,-set apart to serve in suffering, a spectacle involved in mystery, and never to be looked on but with awe. Miss Villiers became to Juliet the best and wisest of earthly friends. To a heart of peculiar tenderness she joined the most enlightened and impartial views of life. Her understanding was highly cultivated, her judgment sound, her penetration acute, and her sympathy lively. Beside her couch Juliet spent many hours, and none without learning some lesson of high import. She had already regained her calmness; for cheerfulness she was yet striving. The strength of her resolution had this day been tested, and her father rejoiced to find that it had withstood all temptation to strive to win back what he esteemed well lost. He was convinced that Juliet's happiness could not be ensured by the recall of her youthful lover. Whether this truth was equally impressed on the mind of his wife he somewhat doubted, and, though she offered no contradiction to his comments on the facts which he communicated to her that night, she fell asleep and dreamed that she saw Lyttelton Harvey repentant at the feet of her pale child; and, before it was clear whether she would spurn him from her with majestic scorn, or whether she would melt into forgiveness, she awoke again to contemplate what she considered as sober certainty, Juliet's future endowment with at least a vast portion of the merchant's wealth. FRANK FAIRLEGH; OR, OLD COMPANIONS IN NEW SCENES. By F. E. S. CHAP. X. TAMING A SHREW. "WHY did you prevent me from giving that insolent scoundrel the lesson he deserved?" was Oaklands's first observation as we left the quadrangle in which Lawless's rooms were situated; "I do not thank you for it, Frank." "My dear Harry," replied I, "you are excited at present; when you are a little more cool, you will see that I could not have acted otherwise than I did. Even supposing I could have borne such a thing myself, what would have been said of me, if I had allowed you to fight in my quarrel? no honourable man would have permitted me to associate with him afterwards." "But I don't see that the quarrel was yours at all," returned Oaklands; "your share of it was ended when the toast affair came to a conclusion; the rest of the matter was purely personal between him and myself." "How can that be, when the origin of it was his doubting, or pretending to doubt, the truth of the anecdote which I related?" inquired I. 'No; depend upon it, Harry, I have acted rightly, though I bitterly regret now having gone to the party, and so exposed myself to all this. I have always looked upon duelling with the greatest abhorrence; to run the risk of committing murder, for I can call it by no milder name, when, at the very moment in which the crime is consummated, you may fall yourself, and thus even the forlorn hope of living to repent be cut off from you, appears to me little short of madness. On one point I am resolved,—if I do go out with him, nothing shall induce me to fire at him; 1 will not die a murderer, at all events." "Should your life indeed be sacrificed," said Oaklands, and his deep voice trembled with emotion as he spoke, "I will follow this man as the avenger of blood, fix a mortal insult upon him wherever I meet him, and shoot him like a dog, convinced that I shall perform a righteous act in so doing, by ridding the world of such a monster!" I saw by his manner, that it would be useless to attempt to reason with him at that moment, his warm feelings, and the fiery, though generous, impulses of his impetuous nature, had so completely gained possession of him, that he was no longer a reasonable creature, we therefore walked in silence to my rooms, where we parted; I declining his offer to remain with me till I should learn the decision of Lawless and his friends, on the plea of wishing to be alone, (which was, indeed, a true one,) although my chief reason for so doing was to prevent the possibility of Oaklands saying anything in his present excited state of mind, which, if repeated, might in any way involve him with Wilford. My first act, when I found myself once more alone, was to sit down, and endeavour calmly to review the situation in which I was placed. In the event of their deciding that the affair might be arranged amicably, my course was clear,-I had only to avoid Wilford as much as possible during the time I should remain at |