ats find
secure refuge in the thatch; the masses of clinging vines make it damp
and earwiggy; but what a lovely bit it is in the landscape!--the neutral
tints, the patches of color, the picturesque outlines, the pitch and
curved border of its roof, the yellow ricks in the background, the
little garden gorgeous with marigolds, wallflowers, stocks, pinks,
balsams, or white and pure with stately ranks of the beautiful Virgin
lily. For the interior, away with it! but can we get no hint from all
the external beauty?

Of Carisbrooke too much might be said for the scope and limits of this
paper: brief mention must suffice. It is the old capital of the island.
The remains of a Roman villa were discovered about a dozen years since;
the old church dates from the time of William the Conqueror; and the
grand old castle, connected with almost every era of English history,
had for its nucleus a Saxon stronghold, which succeeded a Roman
fortress, as that in turn succeeded a Celtic camp. The ruin covers a
large space of ground on a hill overlooking the old town. There is no
majesty of beetling crags, no girdle of turbulent sea, but the dignity
of its size, its age, its story, is all-satisfying. It is a good, a
fitting spot for an American to make a pilgrimage to. A noble, eloquent,
peaceful sadness pervades it, and generations shrink to dots. And Nature
herself has had pity on these stones for the mirth, the heroism, the
misery they have encompassed: she has propped up the tottering ramparts
with forests of tall trees in the courts, balustraded the dizzy heights
with a sturdy, bushy growth of ivy, and firmly bound together all the
crumbling decay with a centuries-old cording of vine-stems.

A mile from Carisbrooke village lies Newport, the modern capital of the
island--modern in its relation to Carisbrooke, but possessing some
traces that it was formerly of Roman occupation also. It is pleasantly
situated in a gentle valley, the temperature mild and damp like that of
Devonshire, but is chiefly interesting to visitors for the attractions
of the lovely region round about--stately Carisbrooke; Osborne, the
royal manor of Her Majesty, and not far from thence the birthplace of
Dr. Arnold; Godshill, a hamlet so beautiful one would like to wave over
it an enchanter's wand that should fix for ever just the charm one sees
in it to-day. The name of the village is accounted for by a tradition
that is not uncommon. The builders of the church prop