Foremost amongst these are the twin marble monuments in St. Anne's Chapel, which figure in the foreground of our sketch. Here lie buried several distinguished members of that famous family, the Whites of Tenby, which has given many worthy citizens to the town.

Beneath the right-hand tomb rests Thomas White, merchant and sometime Alderman of Tenby; whose recumbent effigy, habited in the distinctive costume of his calling, adorns the monument. He it was who enabled Henry, Earl of Richmond, to escape after the battle of Tewkesbury, by concealing him in his house at Tenby until such time as he could ship him safely off in one of his own vessels to France. In gratitude for this yeoman service the Earl, upon his accession to the throne, presented his trusty friend with the lease of all the Crown lands around the town.

The adjacent monument, which closely resembles its neighbour, records another member of the White family. Both these tombs are enriched with figures, in panels of bold relief, with a running inscription in mediæval character carved upon the margin.

Our attention is next attracted by the gaily-tinted effigy of William Risam, who, clad in aldermanic robes, kneels beneath a canopy built into the chapel wall. The figure is coloured in such a life-like manner that, as the story goes, a Parliamentarian soldier fired at the supposed enemy; in witness whereof a bullet-hole may be discerned above the head of the effigy.

Near at hand lies the last of that ancient family the Vaughans, of Dunraven in South Wales; a man who, having run through his patrimony at breakneck pace, allowed the ancestral mansion to fall into ruin, and betook himself to a lonely turret upon the seaward cliffs. Here he is said to have spent his time in showing false lights along the coast, in order to lure passing vessels ashore and enrich himself by the plunder of their cargoes. One stormy night, during one of these sinister exploits, the body of his only son was washed ashore at his feet; when, overcome by this ominous catastrophe, he quitted the neighbourhood, withdrew from all intercourse with his fellow-creatures, and ended his days in seclusion at Tenby.

Standing upon the chapel floor hard by, we espy a fine old fifteenth-century church bell bearing in black-letter characters the words sancta anna, with the initials R. T. This is the ancient sanctus-bell of this same chapel of St. Anne, which has descended to its present lowly position from the exterior of the tower, having been hung there, as is supposed, long years ago by Thomas ap Rhys, of Scotsborough, a descendant of the famous Rhys ap Thomas who played so important a part in the establishment of Henry VII. upon the throne. The memory of this worthy knight is kept evergreen by the gaudy and rather pretentious-looking monument seen on the farther wall. There he kneels, with folded hands, arrayed in ruffles and trunk-hose; his 'better half,' who is represented as of gigantic proportions, reposing uncomfortably upon her side; while in panels beneath appear the sons and daughters, arranged in symmetrical gradation. A glance at the sketch will show the pretty contrast afforded by the diversified forms of the arches; while the lofty flight of steps ascending to the chancel, and the dark timbers of the roof supported by well-carved angels upon massive brackets, enhance the effect of the handsome interior.

Quitting the church by its massive south porch, we pause beneath the spreading elms that adorn the churchyard to admire a singular group of arches, set in a crumbling fragment of ruined wall, whose gray, time-worn stones are abloom with bright tufts of pink valerian. These appear to be the sole remains of a house of Carmelite nuns, established a.d. 1399 by one John de Swynemore; and so graceful are these richly-moulded arches that we can but regret that more of the structure has not been spared to us. It is probable that these ruins are of coëval date with the adjacent western doorway of the church, which has a peculiar ogee arch surmounted with the following inscription in Gothic characters: benedictus deus in donis suis.

Rambling haphazard around the little town, such names as Frog Street, Crackwell Street and the like, tickle our fancy as a quaint relief to modern street nomenclature, which, usually devoid of originality, too often supplants local names racy of the soil.

At a secluded corner of these by-lanes a gray and weather-beaten old house stands, forsaken and neglected, amid the meaner dwellings that encompass it. The well-proportioned windows and pointed doorway which adorn the massive front lend a certain air of faded dignity, as though the old place had once 'seen better days'; while above the high-pitched roof peers one of those curious, rounded erections called hereabouts 'Flemish' chimneys.

In conjunction with the ancient gables at the rear of the adjacent saddler's shop, this interesting old structure forms one of the most picturesque relics yet remaining of the Tenby of 'auld lang syne.'

Following hence the groups of stalwart fisher-folk as, with large air of leisure, they stroll adown the hill, we soon find ourselves upon the 'Peere made for Shyppes' which encloses the little harbour. Here stood in olden times the seamen's chapel of St. Julian, which was subsequently converted into a bath-house: thus 'cleanliness comes next to godliness'; and a pretty modern chapel now stands beside the quay.

Close at hand, in a sheltered cove, the lifeboat lies in wait beside a rudimentary iron 'peere,' which threatens to stretch its spindle shanks athwart the comely crescent of the bay, beneath the fortress-crowned islet of St. Catherine.

The adjacent Castle Hill is crowned by a lofty watch-tower, some ruined outworks of the ancient city walls, and a handsome marble statue of the late Prince Consort, of heroic size: lower down stands a small but well-arranged museum, which contains a representative collection of local natural history, besides valuable cases of shells, coins, etc.

Archæologists will notice with interest the small alabaster group of St. George and the Dragon, rescued from a cottage in course of demolition at Tenby; and a fine specimen of a quern, used for grinding corn, found near Popton. The exterior is fashioned into the form of a human face, and as it is known that only the earlier examples were ornamented, this quern is considered to be of very high antiquity.

The seaward face of the hill is laid out in winding walks, with sheltered seats at intervals, where visitors and townsfolk congregate upon the sunny slopes to indulge in a spell of dolce far niente, or to enjoy the wide panorama of land and sea that lies outspread around.

These ancient walls are still (in spite of hard treatment in bygone times from vandalistic hands) in a fair state of preservation; and form, with their boldly-projecting towers and broken battlements, the most striking and picturesque feature of the town. They are perhaps seen to the best advantage from near the north-west corner, whence a general coup d'œil is gained of their respective sides.

Sauntering under the shady trees on the site of the ancient moat, we pass beside the south-west front, to which, as by far the most complete, we now devote our attention. Here we notice how the sturdy round tower which guards the converging angle spreads boldly out at its base; anon we observe another tower of similar form, through which the easy-going authorities of some past time have actually permitted a huge opening to be hewn to admit the passage of a ropewalk!

A stone's-throw farther on rises the broad bulk of the great St. George's Bastion, marking the entrance to one of the principal town gates, and pierced with five archways, in two of which the grooves for the portcullis may still be discerned. Overhead a gangway ran around the inner face of the wall, which is provided with lancet-holes for the use of archers, and is crowned with the usual corbelled battlements. Altogether this fine old structure presents a most picturesque appearance; its ancient archways being frequently enlivened by groups of market folk passing to and fro, while the rough gray stones of its venerable walls are wreathed with masses of flowering plants. A number of shabby dwellings which encumbered the approach have recently been swept away; one dilapidated old building with curious circular chimneys (said to have been used as a lazar-house) alone being spared.

Beyond St. George's Bastion rises another ivy-mantled tower, near which we espy a stone panel let into the wall, bearing the superscription 'A^o 1588, E. R.' Being interpreted, this inscription records that Tenby walls were repaired in the thirtieth year of good Queen Bess's reign.

Farther on the wall is pierced with a wide open archway, and terminates abruptly upon the precipitous edge of the cliff in a square, battlemented turret bearing a strong family likeness to the church towers of this locality. The walls seem to have been pierced with a double row of lancet-holes for the use of archers, the upper tier being commanded by a gangway carried upon pointed arches, while the lower row is accessible from the ground.

The day waxing warm and sunny, we now make for the harbour again, and charter one of the numerous well-found pleasure-boats which lie in wait for visitors. An hour's pleasant sail over a sea blue as the Mediterranean, and we land upon the shores of Caldey Island, like the Old Man of the Sea, pick-a-back fashion astride the boatman's back.

'This island,' says George Owen, 'is verie fertile and yeldeth plentie of corne; all their plowes goe with horses, for oxen the inhabitantes dare not keepe, fearing the purveyors of the pirattes as they themselves told me, whoe often make their provisions there by theire owne comission, and comonlie to the good contentment of the inhabitantes, when conscionable theefes arrive there.'

A grassy track, winding up the sloping bank amidst gorse and bracken, now leads across a stream and beside a few quarrymen's cottages to a dejected-looking chapel. In a neglected corner of the interior we discover the object of our visit—to wit, a recumbent oblong stone inscribed with certain archaic characters, which have been rendered as follows: 'In the Name both of the Cross itself and of Him who was fixed thereon, pray for the soul of Catuoconus.' Certain lines of the character known as Ogham may also be discerned upon the sides or edges of this hoary monolith.

Within the adjoining house we are shown a fine old vaulted kitchen, with deep-browed windows, and rude stone settle along the wall. Thence we penetrate to a cool, dark chamber exhibiting traces of a gracefully proportioned window enclosed by a pointed arch, long since blocked up.

Retracing our steps beneath hedges of flowering fuchsia, we return by breezy, fern-clad commons and well-tilled fields to the landing-place; where an amphibious-looking individual is laying out lobster-pots among the weed-strewn rocks.

Caldey has ever been famed for the excellence of its oyster fisheries; not to speak of the crabs and lobsters caught around its rocky shores, which are commended by an Elizabethan writer who appears to have been an authority on such matters. 'The Lapster,' says this enthusiast, 'sett whole on the table, yieldeth Exercise, Sustenance and Contemplation; exercise in cracking his legs and Clawes, sustenance by eating the Meate thereof, and contemplation by beholding the curious Work of his complete Armour, both in hue and workmanship.'

'And the Crabbe,' continues the same writer, 'doth sensiblye feele the Course of the Moone; fillinge and emptyeing yt selfe with the encrease and decrease thereof, and therefore ys saied to be best at the full Moone.'

Once more afloat, we are speedily wafted past the cave-pierced cliffs of St. Margaret's Isle, and across the placid waters of Caldey Sound. Running beneath the fortress-crowned St. Catherine's Rock, we round the Castle Hill and disembark in Tenby's sheltered haven.

Though our rambles about its old streets have by no means exhausted the curious nooks of Tenby, yet we have all broad Pembrokeshire lying as it were at our doors, and waiting only for an 'open sesame' to disclose its most interesting features. By far the larger number of these lie within a measurable distance of Tenby, whence access is easily obtained to them by road, rail, or boat. Moreover, by taking counsel with the local time-table, the visitor may fare forth upon his way at a conscionable hour of the morning and be back again at Tenby ere nightfall supervenes.

The curious old chest figured at the foot of this chapter formed the ancient treasury of Tenby. It is enriched with sixteenth-century German ironwork of very quaint design—witness the ladies pulling the elephants' 'noses,'—and has seven bolts and two padlocks. The keys of these latter were held by the two town bailiffs, while the Mayor was responsible for those of the main lock and of the tiller inside. After having been sold as old iron some five-and-thirty years ago, this interesting relic was rescued by a Tenby resident, through whose courtesy we are enabled to show the accompanying sketch.

CHAPTER II.

ROUND ABOUT THE RIDGEWAY.

'The year's at the spring
And day's at the dawn;
Morning's at seven;
The hillside's dew-pearled;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn:
God's in the heaven—
All's right with the world!'

R. B.

Diverging to the right and plunging into a grove of aged ash-trees, we soon emerge upon an open glade where stand the crumbling walls of an ancient house called Scotsborough. This was the ancestral home of the family of Ap Rhys, who repose in Tenby Church beneath the monument we have already visited; and a ramble amidst the intricate passages and loopholed chambers of the ruined mansion, with their huge chimneys and cavernous ovens, shews that it was erected at a time when a man's house still continued to do duty, at a pinch, as his castle. Having explored this picturesque old pile, we hark back once more to the road. Trudging along a hollow, shady lane past a pretty mill, we now strike into a secluded pathway which drops steeply down beside a prattling rill, beneath overarching trees whose interlacing branches fret the greensward with a mantle of shadowy verdure.

Overhead the fleecy clouds are swept by the breeze into graceful forms suggestive of sea-birds' wings; while the sunny air is musical with the song of birds and the distant bleating of sheep, and sweet with the scent of chestnut and elder bloom. A newly-fledged Burnet butterfly tries his smart speckled wings; whilst a passing 'Blue' out-rivals the hue of the dainty speedwell in the hedgerow; which peeps from amidst a tangle of pushing young bracken, hooded 'lords and ladies,' bluebells and wild geranium.

Passing through the inner door, some slight traces of damaged fresco which appear upon the whitewashed wall may, by a vigorous exercise of the imagination, be conjectured to represent the martyrdom of St. Lawrence, the patron saint of Gumfreston Church. Something roughly resembling a tennis-racket may pass for the martyr's gridiron; while a gigantic foot, and certain objects vaguely suggesting a pair of scissors and a comb, are faintly discernible amidst a number of other half-obliterated details.

A curious recess which bulges outwards from the same wall contains an old stone font; and the small adjacent transept is connected with the chancel by one of those singular 'squint' passages peculiar to this locality.

An unusual effect is produced by the low, simple arch—scarce more than 5 feet wide—between the chancel and the nave, which has a shallow, pointed recess on either side of it, doubtless designed to hold figures.

In one of these latter we observe the primitive-looking pewter flagon and paten which serve the purpose of church plate. Alongside them stands a queer little cracked handbell of bronze-green, rust-eaten metal; this is the Sanctus-bell which, in pre-Reformation days, was rung in the church upon the elevation of the Host, and was carried at the head of funeral processions. Anent its present damaged condition the story goes that, during some solemn rite of exorcism with bell, book and candle, a certain fallen potentate suddenly appeared in a flash of brimstone flame, and broke the bell in impotent revenge.

Passing through the chancel, we now enter a quaint little side-chapel with pretty two-light window and low, groined ceiling whose stony ribs look strong enough to carry a tower. The latter, however, is on the other side of the church, and is probably of later date; it is built in several stages, the one below the bell-chamber having pigeon-holes around inside the walls; while overhead hangs an ancient bell inscribed sancta maria ora pro nobis.

Hard by the church upon its southern side a flight of worn, stone steps leads down to three clear springs, which well up side by side in a mossy dell, and ripple away beneath lush grasses and flowering marsh plants. These wells, although in such close proximity, have been found to differ in their medicinal properties; and were resorted to as a cure for 'all the ills that flesh is heir to' by the simple folk of a bygone generation.

Near at hand is the site of an old cockpit. In days of yore this exhilarating sport was very popular with Pembrokeshire men, who usually chose Easter Monday and such-like 'times of jollitie' to indulge in their favourite pastime.

At the corner of the churchyard stands an old deserted cottage which, after many vicissitudes, has fallen upon degenerate days. Originally the rectory, and then the poor-house of the parish, it is now a neglected ruin half hidden amidst a tangle of shrubs and climbing plants.

Most visitors to Gumfreston will notice the fine old farmhouse that rises cheek-by-jowl with the carriage-road from Tenby. If we are to believe the tradition of the countryside, this is the most ancient abode in the county. Be that as it may, the place bears traces of no mean antiquity; and is an excellent specimen of a Pembrokeshire homestead of the olden times.

Out from the main structure projects a mighty porch, running up the full height of the house, and pierced with round holes by way of windows above the main doorway. Penetrating into the interior, we enter a low-browed kitchen with open raftered ceiling and roomy settle beside the cavernous fireplace; its solid old timbers worn to a fine polish by generations of rustic shoulders. A bright wood-fire burns on the open hearth, and over it a big black kettle swings in the hollow of the chimney.

The chimney stacks cropping boldly out, haphazard as it were, lean independently this way or that in the quaintest way imaginable; and the broad gable ends are pierced with many pigeon-holes. The place is built as though intended to last for all time, and is enveloped in the customary coating of weather-stained whitewash.

We now push merrily on beneath a cloudless sky; meeting an exhilarating sea-breeze as the road mounts upwards. Luxuriant hedgerows (a rare sight hereabouts) presently give place to open downland, affording widespreading views across rich, rolling woodlands cropped close by the strong salt breezes. Upon the broad slopes of the Ridgeway groups of white farm-buildings sparkle amidst ruddy ploughfields; while far beyond them are Caldey Island and the pale blue line of the sea.

Once more a pleasant field-path beguiles our errant footsteps. Leading across an open common, it presently drops into a narrow by-lane, which winds among hazel copses and undergrowth beside the marshy course of the Ritec, where cattle are browsing leisurely, half hidden amidst lusty water-plants.

Anon our lane degenerates into a hollow watercourse fringed with the greenest of mosses and wineglass ferns; insomuch that, like Agag, we are compelled to walk delicately across the rough stepping-stones that here do duty as a footpath; while the hedgerows fairly meet overhead in a tangle of wild roses, hawthorn and fragrant honeysuckle.

Emerging all too soon upon the dusty highway, we approach the pretty village of St. Florence. Being by this time not a little 'sharp set,' we enter a modest wayside inn, and proceed to whet our appetites upon the rations that the gute verständige Hausfrau soon sets before us. Let us unfold our simple bill of fare: New-laid eggs galore; a mighty loaf of likely-looking bread, sweet from the clean wood oven; and a draught of the 'cup that'—in moderation—'cheers, but not inebriates.'

In one corner of the low-ceiled room, the glass panels of an old-fashioned cupboard reveal a heterogeneous collection of rustic crockery-ware. The narrow mantel-board is adorned with a curious centrepiece, representing Wesley preaching to a sham china clock. This chef d'œuvre is supported on either hand by china figures, rather the worse for wear, riding to market upon a pillion; of which the rickety mirror behind renders a dull and distorted replica.

From the opposite wall the bucolic face of a former proprietor stares stonily out upon us, as he grasps his doll-like daughter's arm after the manner of a pump-handle; this interesting group being flanked by the inevitable memorial cards to lost ones long since 'buried.'

Meanwhile, as we ply the peaceful calumet, mine hostess tells of quaint old customs that, until only the other day, survived in this quiet countryside. 'I mind the time,' says she, 'when I was a girl, when there used to be a Vanity Fair in the village every Michaelmas tide. It lasted three whole days, and the men and maids would turn out in their best then, and all the housen must be smartened up and put in order; and Squire, he give every working man in the place a bran-new suit of clothes to his back. Ah, there was fine doings then, and I've a-hard tell that they'd used to run a keg of spirits, or what not, from the big cellars down Tenby way. But that was afore my time.'

A stroll around the village reveals some picturesque corners here and there; a few of the older cottages retaining the vast rounded chimneys, bulging ovens and pointed doorways of an earlier age. The church, too, contains attractive features. A peep into the little edifice reveals a curious vaulted interior, with its queer 'squint' passage set askew, and flat limestone arches of peculiar form on either side of the chancel.

The honours of the place are done by a garrulous old dame, whose russet-apple complexion, set amidst well-starched frills above a homespun 'whittle,' shows how well she has weathered her fourscore hard-working winters.

Upon the gable wall outside, we notice a memorial slab commemorating a venerable couple who attained the mellow ages of 102 and 104, respectively; and a singular epitaph on Archdeacon Rudd: while the broken shaft of an ancient cross rises amidst the well-tended monuments of this flowery God's acre.

On our return to Tenby we pass a ruined water-mill, standing in a wooded dingle beside a reed-grown stream. Lanes and field-paths lead us down the valley of the Ritec, beside a group of tumbled houses whose massive, ivy-wreathed walls, with their narrow loopholed windows, may possibly guard those big cellars of which we have lately 'a-hard tell.'

Thence through a hollow dingle, where golden Fritillary butterflies float to and fro in the dappled sunlight; and where the fast-disappearing badger may still at times be met with. Anon we diverge to Carswall, to examine a group of remarkable stone buildings with vaulted chambers, huge fireplaces and bulging chimneys—puzzling objects to the archæologist. From Carswall we strike across upland pastures, where a farm lad is 'tickling' the ruddy soil with a primitive kind of harrow, composed of a bundle of brushwood drawn behind a horse.

Erelong we turn aside to explore the recesses of Hoyle's Mouth; a vast cavern worn deep in the solid limestone of the Ridgeway, and fringed with fantastic stalactites resembling gigantic icicles. Relics of remote antiquity, discovered here, prove that the cavern has been a place of refuge in times beyond tradition; and a local fable affirms that it is connected with that 'mervellows caverne,' yclept the Wogan, far away beneath the Castle of Pembroke!

Half a mile hence, in a nook of the hill, stands the old farmhouse of Trefloyne; erstwhile the abode of a loyal family who, during Civil War times, paid the penalty of their constancy by being hunted forth by the Parliamentary soldiers; while their home was delivered over to destruction.

Another half-hour's walk takes us back to Tenby by way of Windpipe Lane; where a marble tablet by the roadside marks the site of St. John's Well, for many generations the sole water supply of the inhabitants. 'One thinge,' says Leland, 'is to be merveled at; there is no Welle yn the Towne, yt is said; whereby they be forced to fesh theyre Water from Saint Johns without ye Towne.' Nowadays, however, they have changed all that; and have provided a water supply more suited to modern requirements.

In the early days of the century, considerable ruins of the ancient Hospital of St. John still existed near this spot; of which, however, every trace has since been quite obliterated.

Another pleasant excursion from Tenby takes the visitor past the little secluded creek of Waterwinch; giving him, en route, a charming glimpse of the town, rising above the wooded shores of the north bay. Thence a steep, narrow lane leads to the village of Saundersfoot, a favourite seaside resort with a diminutive harbour, an hotel and groups of lodging-houses.

The whole of this district has been, at some remote geological period, one vast forest, of which traces still exist upon the adjacent coast; where submerged trees, and balks of timber encrusted with shells, are occasionally found. Tall chimney-shafts, rising amidst the woods, attest the presence of anthracite coal beneath our feet; this is raised from several mines in the neighbourhood, and sent down by tramway to Saundersfoot for exportation.

Pursuing a delightfully shady road that winds inland past the grounds of Hean Castle, we soon find ourselves amidst some of the loveliest sylvan scenery in all the countryside. Presently we get a peep at the church of St. Issels, almost lost to view amidst green aisles of embowering foliage.

As at Gumfreston, by footpaths only can the little edifice be approached; while the stepping-stones across the rivulet are supplemented by a rustic foot-bridge, for use in times when the stream is in flood. This church has lately been restored by some appreciative hand; it has the characteristic tall gray tower such as we have grown accustomed to in this locality, and contains a handsome font of respectable antiquity.

Hence the wayfarer may return to Tenby by way of Bonville's Court, a fortified manor-house of the Edwardian period, of which but a single dilapidated tower and stair-turret remain: or by fetching a compass round, and wandering through quiet lanes draped with hartstongue fern, ivy and convolvulus, he may explore the country away towards Jeffreyston or Redberth; returning over high ground beside the finely-timbered estate of Ivy Tower; and so home by the previously mentioned route through Gumfreston village.

Nestling in a sunny nook where the Ridgeway meets the sea, the little village of Penally, peeping coyly out from amidst embowering trees, forms a pretty feature in many a local prospect.

The road, winding inland, leads us by a long causeway across a broad tract of marshland, now golden with iris and kingcups, through which the Ritec stream meanders to the sea. It is said that, in ancient times, the tidal waters extended up this hollow vale as far as the village of St. Florence; and there is an old map at Tenby in which a vessel in full sail floats upon the very spot where we now stand.

Thence up we climb again across the foot-hills of the Ridgeway, until ere long the first cottages of Penally 'heave in sight,' bowered in roses, clematis and honeysuckle, and set amidst gardens aglow with gladiolus, peonies, tulips, geraniums, fuchsias and Japan lilies. Was it not Washington Irving who remarked that we English had, in our country gardens, 'caught the coy and furtive graces of Nature, and spread them, like witchery, around these rural abodes'?

Before us lies a stretch of open greensward, shaded by groups of oak and hawthorn, whence rises the gray tower of the parish church; a building which has been restored to a semblance of newness that belies its venerable traditions.

The interior has a pair of the now familiar 'squint' passages, a few old tombs and a good stone font: and, mirabile dictu, is provided with the electric light. For this valuable innovation the village is indebted to Clement Williams, Esq., Mayor of Tenby, whose pretty country residence stands just above the church. Beneath the overshadowing trees in the churchyard stands a finely carved early Celtic cross, similar to those found in Ireland; of which we shall see an even handsomer specimen when visiting Carew.

In former days Penally was held in high veneration, from a tradition that the miracle-working bones of St. Teilo, Bishop of Llandaff, rested here during their progress through the district.

A curious incident occurred here many years ago. During a fox-hunt in the vicinity, Reynard, being hard pressed by the hounds, sought refuge upon the roofs of some old farm buildings near the church. Here he led his pursuers a lively chase, but was eventually brought to earth and captured after an unusually exciting run.

We now push on for the wild scenery of the rocky coast overlooking Caldey Sound; pursuing a rough, sandy track amidst stretches of golden gorse.

The springy turf underfoot is literally tapestried with wild thyme, herb-Robert and thrift; over which butterflies, brown and azure-blue, float to and fro in the warm, still air; while from the radiant sky the lark's bright song falls pleasantly upon our ears. Hereabouts one must needs keep one's 'weather eye' open, to elude a tumble among the countless rabbit-holes that form pitfalls on every hand, whence the startled denizens scamper briskly to cover from beneath our very noses.

Presently we approach the secluded haven of Lydstep, and obtain a glimpse of the noble headland called Proud Giltar, whose red-brown cliffs rise sheer from the blue waves, with Caldey Island lying in the middle distance.

Traversing the pebbly beach, we pass near to Lydstep Point, a picturesque headland curiously scarped by disused limestone quarries. We now strike inland beneath a grove of trees growing in a sheltered corner, and ascend a narrow lane to a lonely cottage at the head of the glen. Hence we plunge down a deep, rocky ravine, whose seaward face is honeycombed with the caverns for which the place is famous.

Before us, league upon league, an ocean of purest blue spreads to the remote horizon; its sunny plain shimmering beneath white summer cloudlets, and empurpled by a thousand transient shadows. Huge rocks crop out on every hand from amidst the tangle of luxuriant undergrowth that conceals the entrance to the Smugglers' Cave, a name we leave to tell its own wild tale of bygone times. Onward we scramble, down to the 'beached margent' of the shallow bay; whence a scene of rare beauty is beheld.

From the unsullied strand vast buttresses and pinnacles of lichen-clad limestone rise sheer and inaccessible; their solid ribs pierced with shadowy caverns wide as a cathedral vault and dark as Erebus, which tempt the wanderer to explore their deep, unknown recesses. Crystal-clear pools, fringed with dainty seaweeds and gemmed with starfish and sea-anemones, nestle in every hollow of the rocky shore; while shells of various tints encrust the untrodden sands.

Countless sea-birds wheel to and fro in the shadow of the cliffs, which echo their discordant cries as they clamour above the heads of the unwelcome intruders. Dusky cormorants scud with necks outstretched athwart the sparkling waves, while kittiwakes and guillemots crowd shoulder to shoulder upon the inaccessible ledges.

An hour is pleasantly spent groping amidst the hollows of a resounding cavern, or peering into the jewelled depths of some rocky sea-pool; or, anon, watching the plash of the translucent waves. At length, hungry as hawks, we beat a retreat to a sheltered nook amongst the rocks, to discuss con gusto our al-fresco lunch.

Fascinated by these entrancing prospects, we linger in this wonderland until the advancing tide hints at a speedy departure, when, scrambling once again to the upper world, we strike away for the solitary hamlet of Lydstep.

Hard by the road stand two scattered groups of dilapidated buildings, sometimes called by the imposing titles of the Palace, and the Place of Arms. In the good old times—so runs the legend—Aircol Llawhir, King of Dyfed, held his royal Court at this place.

Be that as it may, the existing structures are probably not older than the fourteenth century, and may be ascribed to those yeomen proprietors, a 'peg' above the common farmer folk, who erected these stout walls to safeguard their goods and chattels.

The return journey lies along a pleasant, open road between the Ridgeway and the cliffs; affording lovely glimpses of the rugged coast-line and the land-locked sea. At Penally a return train puts in a timely appearance, and conveys us in a few minutes back to quarters, while the declining sun sets the world aflame in the glow of its lingering rays.

There is a spring-like feeling in the crisp morning air as we drive leisurely along the Ridgeway road, bound westward ho! to 'fresh woods and pastures new.'

Fairy cobwebs, gemmed with glistening dewdrops, sparkle in every hedgerow as we mount slowly up the steep, ruddy flank of the Ridgeway. Bowling merrily along the smooth, well-kept road that traverses its breezy summit, we are in all probability following the course of some primitive trackway, used from the earliest times when enemies lurked in the lowlands.

Ever wider grows the outlook as we jaunt along; the glory of the scene culminating as we clamber up the last of these steep 'pinches,' and call a halt, near a farm called the Rising Sun, to scan the summer landscape spread around.

Close at hand broad meadows, green with the promise of spring, spread away down a winding valley tufted with shadowy woodlands, whence gray old steeples peep above the clustering cottage roofs. Far away amidst the folding hills, the walls and towers of lordly Carew rise near a silvery sheet of water—an arm of Milford Haven—backed by leagues of unexplored country, o'ertopped by the faint blue line of the Precelly Mountains—a glorious scene indeed!

'Ah! world unknown! how charming is thy view,
Thy Pleasures many, and each pleasure new!'

Turning across the lane, we lean upon a neighbouring gate, and leisurely scan the fair prospect over land and sea. Yonder the snow-white cottages gleam amidst the ruddy ploughlands. Seawards, the gorse-clad downs plunge in warm red sandstone cliffs to the all-encircling ocean, that stretches in unbroken span from St. Govan's Head, past Caldey Isle, to the gray-blue line of distant Devon, with Lundy lying under its lee.

Forward again, betwixt pleasant greenswards tangled with fragrant gorse, brambles and unfurling bracken, within whose cool retreats the yellow-hammer lurks in his new spring bravery; while smart little goldfinches hunt in pairs amidst the thistle-heads under the hedgerow.

Gradually we slant away downwards, passing an ancient tumulus whence, in the old war times, a beacon fire gave warning against threatened invasion; and catching glimpses ahead of ruined towers and curtain-walls, where time-honoured old Pembroke nods over its memories of 'the days that are no more.' Soon we are clattering through the diminutive village of Lamphey. Here we dismiss our driver, and, turning across park-like meadows where cattle are grazing under the broad-limbed oaks, we soon descry the ivy-mantled ruins of Lamphey Palace.

The graceful character of the architecture, and calm, reposeful situation in this peaceful dell, combine to enhance the peculiar charm that hangs around these venerable ruins. Thanks to the timely care of their present owner, the remaining portions have been preserved from further desecration, and are freely shown to visitors who pass this way.