is told:--"Some years since a gentleman, of the name of
Cook, erected this tower, which has since gone by the name of 'Cook's
Folly.' A son having been born, he was desirous of ascertaining, by
means of astrology, if he would live to enjoy his property. Being
himself a firm believer, like the poet Dryden, that certain information
might be obtained from the above science, he caused the child's
horoscope to be drawn, and found, to his dismay, that in his third,
sixteenth, or twenty-first year, he would be in danger of meeting with
some fearful calamity or sudden death, to avert which he caused the
turret to be constructed, and the child placed therein. Secure, as he
vainly thought, there he lived, attended by a faithful servant, their
food and fuel being conveyed to them by means of a pully-basket, until
he was old enough to wait upon himself. On the eve of his twenty-first
year, his parent's hopes rose high, and great were the rejoicings
prepared to welcome the young heir to his home. But, alas! no human
skill could avert the dark fate which clung to him. The last night he
had to pass alone in the turret, a bundle of faggots was conveyed to him
as usual, in which lay concealed a viper, which clung to his hand. The
bite was fatal; and, instead of being borne in triumph, the dead body of
his only son was the sad spectacle which met the sight of his father."

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