y Norman parts of it still intact,
and incredibly strong looking, as if they meant to last another thousand
years. I was so interested in it, and wish whoever it may concern would
leave the castle to me in his will. I would fix up a room or two and
bring you there, and we'd have that exquisite view always under our
eyes. As for servants, we could employ ghosts.

The Wye is even more charming as a river and as a valley than we used to
imagine when we wanted to "do" England, before it burst upon us that
most of the wherewithal was used up. Nothing could be more dreamy and
daintily pretty than landscape and waterscape, though here and there is
a bit which might be gray and grim if the beetling rocks weren't hatted
with moss and mantled with delicate green trees. Wherever there is a
boulder in the river, the bright water laughs and plays round it, as if
forbidding it to look stern.

The real way to see the Wye isn't by motor, but by boat, I am sure, even
though that may sound treacherous to Apollo and disloyal to my petrol;
but we did the best we could, and went out of our way some miles to see
Symond's Yat, a queer, delightful, white village on a part of the river
which is particularly divine. There's a splendid rock, and the Yat is
the rock, as well as the village. Also there's a cave; but I wasn't
sorry not to stop and go in, lest Mrs. Senter might seize the
opportunity of telling me some other fearsome tale, less welcome than
the last.

In old days it used to take a week by coach from London to Monmouth.
Now, with a motor, I dare say we could do it in one long, long day, if
we tried. Only it would be silly to try, because one wouldn't see
anything, and would make oneself a nuisance as a "road hog" to everybody
one met or passed. It was Monmouth we came to next, after "digressing"
to Symond's Yat, and as it was nearly evening by that time, Sir Lionel
decided to stay the night. He meant to start again in the morning; but
Monmouth Castle, towering out of the river, was so fine that it was a
pity to leave it unvisited, particularly as Henry V., a special hero of
Sir Lionel's (mine, too!) was born there. Then we took an unplanned
eight-mile run to Raglan Castle, a magnificently impressive ruin; and
that is why we arrived so late to-day at Tintern.

This letter has grown like Jack's beanstalk, until I think I'd better
post it on my way to dinner, instead of adding rhapsodies about
moonlight in the Abbey. I won't forget to