We crossed the channel and soon entered the mouth of that most picturesque of rivers, the Wye.  As we neared the town of Chepstow the old Castle made its appearance, and a fine old ruin it is.  Being previously provided with a letter of introduction to a gentleman in Chepstow, I lost no time in finding him out.  This gentleman gave me a cordial reception, and did what Englishmen seldom ever do, lent me his saddle horse to ride to the Abbey.  While lunch was in preparation I took a stroll through the Castle which stood near by.  We entered the Castle through the great door-way and were soon treading the walls that had once sustained the cannon and the sentinel, but were now covered with weeds and wild flowers.  The drum and fife had once been heard within these walls—­the only music now is the cawing of the rook and daw.  We paid a hasty visit to the various apartments, remaining longest in those of most interest.  The room in which Martin the Regicide was imprisoned nearly twenty years, was pointed out to us.  The Castle of Chepstow is still a magnificent pile, towering upon the brink of a stupendous cliff, on reaching the top of which, we had a splendid view of the surrounding country.  Time, however, compelled us to retrace our steps, and after partaking of a lunch, we mounted a horse for the first time in ten years, and started for Tintern Abbey.  The distance from Chepstow to the Abbey is about five miles, and the road lies along the banks of the river.  The river is walled in on either side by hills of much beauty, clothed from base to summit with the richest verdure.  I can conceive of nothing more striking than the first appearance of the Abbey.  As we rounded a hill, all at once we saw the old ruin standing before us in all its splendour.  This celebrated ecclesiastical relic of the olden time is doubtless the finest ruin of its kind in Europe.  Embosomed amongst hills, and situated on the banks of the most fairy-like river in the world, its beauty can scarcely be surpassed.  We halted at the “Beaufort Arms,” left our horse, and sallied forth to view the Abbey.  The sun was pouring a flood of light upon the old grey walls, lighting up its dark recesses, as if to give us a better opportunity of viewing it.  I gazed with astonishment and admiration at its many beauties, and especially at the superb gothic windows over the entrance door.  The beautiful gothic pillars, with here and there a representation of a praying priest, and mailed knights, with saints and Christian martyrs, and the hundreds of Scriptural representations, all indicate that this was a place of considerable importance in its palmy days.  The once stone floor had disappeared, and we found ourselves standing on a floor of unbroken green grass, swelling back to the old walls, and looking so verdant and silken that it seemed the very floor of fancy.  There are more romantic and wilder places than this in the world, but none more beautiful.  The preservation of these old abbeys should claim the attention of those under whose charge they are, and we felt like joining with the poet and saying:—­