silvery veil, occasionally lighted up by a burst of watery sunshine, which, resting on the white cottages sprinkled about, and on the city of Hereford, lying below us at a few miles distance, made them gleam brightly out by turns, and at every shift of the changing clouds, a new picture burst into life and beauty. Hereford lay to the north (look at the view from Dinedor, with the rainbow, and imagine such a scene realized); beyond, to the west, the Wye Valley, towards Hay, and the hills of Radnorshire; still west, but more southerly than these, appeared those ever-grand landscape guests, the Skyrrid, Sugarloaf, and Black Mountains: east-ward the Malvern Hills, and the ridges about Stoke Edith. The dark clouds over head cast a black shadow on the near hills, while bright sunshine lit up river, spire, town, and tower, in the green vales beyond; and the distant mountains, frowning in grandeur, wore their storm robes of dusky purple, veiled in ever-changing silvery mist, now light and airy— anon thick and dense,-now smoke, now substance,-a dreamy curtain between us and the glory of the distant They who could stand on such a spot as this, and gaze around unmoved, must have a marvellously small allowance of heart and soul in their composition.

scenes.

CHAPTER VII.

HAREWOOD-ROSS-GOODRICH COURT-GOODRICH CASTLE.

WHO hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow?
From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?

Not to the skies in useless columns tost,

Nor in proud falls magnificently lost;

But clear and artless, pouring through the plain,
Health to the sick, and solace to the swain.
Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows?
Whose seats the weary traveller repose?
Who taught that heav'n-directed spire to rise?
The MAN OF Ross, each lisping babe replies.

Pope.

THE Wye scenery between Hereford and Ross, though rich and luxuriant, presents so little of novelty or historic interest, that I preferred taking the more direct land road, which passed through a country of garden-like beauty and cultivation, sprinkled with lovely cheerful villages and park land, and bounded in the distance by the glorious ranges of blue mountains I have before alluded to. Beyond Aconbury Hill, the road gradually descends, and passes through the village of Much Birch, where a very droll, old-fashioned garden amused me exceedingly, with its infinite variety of devices in cut and clipped yew trees.