to side, a true zig-zag path. But on reaching the top, we were rewarded for our toil by the charming prospect. Emerging from the woody steep, we found ourselves on an artificial platform, safely railed in,-a place which is denominated "Bird's Eye View." And such truly it was: it was like looking down from an eagle's perch. Full five hundred feet beneath, you behold the road, winding away among the hills; and, lower still, the Wye, which just here makes a grand bend, sweeping round through three quarters of a circle, thus returning nearly to the place whence it set out; and then turning off, and winding away and away to join its sister Severn, and return again to the bosom of their old mother Ocean. On the cliff opposite, are a series of singularly shaped rocks, named the "Twelve Apostles," and a thirteenth which is called "St. Peter's Thumb." The whole scene was on a high degree wild and picturesque.

Proceeding on our way, we reached the brow of a hill, and there, in the distance, in a charming nook, just where the river sweeps round in another graceful curve, holding in its embrace a soft piece of meadow-land,-stood the gray walls of Tintern Abbey. It is charmingly situated, as indeed I found to be almost uniformly the case with these Abbeys. Their monkish founders seem certainly, in their choice of sites to have had an eye to the picturesque, as well as a regard for physical comforts and conveniences.

Tintern Abbey seemed in a better state of preservation than any other I had seen. All the four walls are standing, with their gables complete, as if

the roof had been simply lifted off. We knocked at the gate, and it was opened by an old man, the keeper of the place, whose residence was in a cottage hard by. We entered and surveyed the ruin. The west window remains in a very perfect state, with its mullions entire. But the great east window has suffered much more, having only the centre upright remaining, and that supported by iron bars. The columns of one aisle are in a state of almost complete preservation; and the four arches which form the centre of the cross, are still quite perfect and very beautiful. A few statues remain, among which is one mailed figure, lying in a broken state, which is said to be the effigy of Strongbow, the famed invader of Ireland in Henry the Second's time. Ascending a flight of steps, we reached the top of the walls, whence we had a fine view at once of the roofless Abbey within, and of the picturesque scenery without. Descending again, Descending again, we lingered for some time about the place, loath to depart; for there is a sphere of meditative quiet about these old ruins, which is very pleasing to the mind, especially in the pensive autumn days.

We at length took our departure, and ascending the hill, reached a spot, near a little old church, whence there is a fine view of the Abbey. There, as we looked, behold-not only the customary blackbirds, which seem to love these old haunts,-but, what do you think, reader?—a pair of turtle-doves, just on the top of the walls, where a little before, we had ourselves been standing;-a very pretty sight!

But I must explain about these turtle-doves. The truth is, they were a pair of lovers, or, more

probably, a new-married couple, who had ridden with us part of the way from Chepstow. They were probably on a bridal tour. They had pretended to enjoy the prospect, but the pleasantest view, evidently, was that of each other. They had got out, when about half-way, for the purpose of walking, and so, as they said, enjoying the prospect more at their leisure. They had, by this time, reached the Abbey, and now appeared on the walls. This is the mystery of the turtle-doves.

Descending the hill, we set out on our return, passing the Abbey again on our way. The finest view, we thought, is from the road itself, where it crosses the rising ground. There we stopped, and turned to take a last look. There, in the distance, stood the gray old walls, in their melancholy desolation and solitude and silence. How often, thought I, from those now roofless walls, has been heard, in times gone by, the matin-bell, in the "morning gray," or the vesper-bell at evening, sending forth its sober tones through this sweet valley! How often has the swell of the organ pealed through the still air at the midnight hour, when the silent stars were looking down from the sky above, or peeping over the tops of the surrounding hills! How many a fervent prayer has gone up from the hearts of some of the dwellers within those walls! how many a festive laugh, too, has there been heard! Here, Crime, conscience-stricken, had come to feed on the bitterness of its remorse, hoping, by ceaseless prayer and bodily mortification, to obtain the pardon of offended Heaven. Here, Grief had come to hide its tears from an unfeeling world. Here, youthful

Devotion had come, seeking time and opportunity to cherish its heavenward aspirations. And here, too, perhaps, Sloth and Sensuality had come, to revel in idle self-indulgence. But all-all have gone now: the remorse of the conscience-stricken, the tears of the heart-broken, the prayers of the devout, the boisterous mirth of the sensual-are all alike passed away from this spot and this earth. But have those individuals-I asked myself-passed out of existence? are those human beings extinct? have those different courses of life had no corresponding results?

Ah! those persons are still living, though it be in another place and state of existence; that remorse, those tears, those prayers, that sensuality, have all had their due and exact effect, and the result is doubtless, at this moment, realized by each of those individuals in the eternal world, and will continue to be felt through coming ages. There they still live, and will continue to live,-in good or in evil,-in happiness or unhappiness,-just according to their course and conduct while here on earth. Life in this world soon passes, but its impressions and effects remain eternally. This life is the balance, which weighs man's everlasting destiny: goodness and blessedness lie in the one scale, evil and wretchedness in the other. To every man is given the power to turn the scale to which side he chooses, and thus to determine his own lot and fix his own fate. But whichever way it settles, it remains: on whichsoever side the beam sinks, it rises no more. Death, with his dart, rivets it in the position he finds it in, and so it stays for ever.

ENGLISH SKIES.

From clear to cloudy tossed, from hot to cold,
From dry to moist, with inward-eating change.

THOMSON.

THE English climate is very peculiar,-in some respects disagreeable, in others admirable. In regard to wet, the skies are the most fickle in the world. Except at mid-summer, you can hardly be assured of fair weather for an hour. Nay, the rain will sometimes come upon you, without a moment's warning. The whole horizon may seem clear, and the sun or moon be shining brightly, and suddenly, without any apparent cause, a mist will gather over the face of the sky, clouds have formed, and rain begins to fall. I saw now the meaning of the old saying, which I once took for a jest,—“If it does not rain, by all means take your umbrella: if it does, you can do as you please.'

This is no climate for serenaders: it is no wonder that the practice of the guitar is not fashionable for gentlemen in England, as it is in Spain and Italy, and also in America-particularly in the west. A serenader here has three things against him: first, the chill of the atmosphere, cooling alike to his ardor and his fingers; secondly, the probable wetting of himself and his instrument, by a sudden