ter times.

From Tintern to Chepstow we followed an unsurpassed mountain road. For
three miles our car gradually climbed to the highest point, winding
along the hillside, from which the valley of the Severn, with its broad
river, spread out beneath us in all the freshness of June verdure; while
on the other hand, for hundreds of feet sheer above us, sloped the hill,
with its rich curtain of forest trees, the lighter green of the summer
foliage dashed with the somber gloom of the yew. Just at the summit we
passed the Wyndcliffe, towering five hundred feet above us, from which
one may behold one of the most famous prospects in the Island. Then our
car started down a three-mile coast over a smooth and uniform grade
until we landed at the brow of the steep hill which drops sharply into
Chepstow.

A rude, gloomy fortress Chepstow Castle must have been in its day of
might, and time has done little to soften its grim and forbidding
aspect. Situated on a high cliff which drops abruptly to the river, it
must have been well-nigh invincible in days ere castle walls crumbled
away before cannon-shot. It is of great extent, the wails enclosing an
area of about four acres, divided into four separate courts. The
best-preserved portion is the keep, or tower, in which the caretaker
makes his home; but the fine chapel and banqueting hall were complete
enough to give a good idea of their old-time state. We were able to
follow a pathway around the top of the broad wall, from which was
afforded a widely extended view over the mouth of the Severn towards the
sea. "This is Martin's Tower," said our guide, "for in the dungeon
beneath it the regicide, Henry Martin, spent the last twenty years of
his life and died." The man spoke the word "regicide" as though he felt
the stigma that it carries with it everywhere in England, even though
applied to the judge who condemned to death Charles Stuart, a man who
well deserved to die. And when Britain punished the regicides and
restored to power the perfidious race of the Stuarts, she was again
putting upon herself the yoke of misgovernment and storing up another
day of wrath and bloodshed.

[Illustration: RUINS OF RAGLAN CASTLE, SOUTH WALES.]

From Chepstow it is only a short journey to Raglan, whose ruined castle
impressed us in many ways as the most beautiful we saw in Britain. It
was far different from the rude fortress at Chepstow. In its best days
it combined a military stronghold with the conve