First, the Byrons distinguished themselves as warm adherents of royalty, and Newstead sustained the siege from the parliamentarians; thus as Lord Byron says:

"The Abbey once, a regal fortress now,
Encircled by insulting rebel powers;

War's dread machines thy threatening brow,

And dart destruction in sulphurous showers."

On the death of Charles, the Byron estate was placed under sequestration. During the civil war, in 1643, Charles the First marked his high sense of Sir John Byron's loyalty and devotion by raising him to the peerage, and immediately after the restoration Charles the Second restored Newstead to its late owner, from whom it descended to Lord Byron. In the year 1818, Colonel Wildman, the present esteemed owner, purchased it from the poet, who was compelled to dispose of it on account of pecuniary difficulties, for the sum of £100,000; and has since, by judicious alterations and im provements, proved himself a most worthy owner of a place at once the pride of the forest and the admiration of thousands who have by his courtesy been permitted to traverse its spacious galleries and venerable halls. We had the pleasure of seeing Col. Wildman, who was very kind in conducting us through the various apartments of the Abbey and explaining every thing to us. He was a class-mate and early friend of the poet, and in speaking of Lord Byron he would almost go into ecstasies.

B

From the Abbey we came to this place, which has the honor of being the last resting-place of the departed great, his remains having been removed by his sister, Augusta Maria Leigh, from Missolonghi in Western Greece. His remains are deposited in the Byron vault, in a small church and still smaller village. He should have been buried where he requested, at Newstead, between his favorite dog and faithful servant. But he needs no monument or epitaph to perpetuate his memory; it will live when all monuments shall have crumbled away.

LETTER FIVE.

STRATFORD-ON-AVON, Eng.

Visit to Birmingham-Its Manufactures, etc.-Visit to Kenilworth and Warwick CastlesThe Home of Shakspeare.

WE are now nearly in the centre of England, and in the great workshop of the kingdom, where almost every thing that the human mind can conceive of is manufactured. From a very early period Birmingham has been renowned for its manufactures in steel and . iron. This trade is now carried on to an extent elsewhere unequalled. The principal branches of it are plate and plated wares, ornamented steel goods, jewelry, japanning, papier maché, cut-glass ornaments, steel pens, buckles and buttons, cast-iron articles, guns, steam-engines, etc. We found no difficulty in gaining admission, as at Manchester, into the principal establishments. They were particularly polite in carrying us through and showing the entire process by which they manufacture their various articles. We were particularly struck with the manner of making papier maché articles, which are so beautiful, and which appear to us so difficult and intricate. The process is very simple when we look at it, and causes us to wonder why it has not been more generally used. The first thing is to cut out of common brown paper the articles to be made, which is pasted together and placed in an oven of a certain temperature to be dried. It is then taken out and varnished with a very thick black coating, the mother-of-pearl being imbedded in the varnish. The article is now complete with the exception of the finishing polish, which is nothing more than rubbing and varnishing.

Birmingham is connected with London and various places by means of canals, and forms a centre of railway communication with every part of the kingdom. There is nothing in Birmingham to attract the stranger, aside from the mills. Her public edifices and monuments are of a mean description, and deserve no particular notice.

Not far from Birmingham is the famed Castle of Kenilworth, around which linger so many historical associations and pleasing reminiscences.

"Shrine of the mighty, can it be

That this is all that remains of thee?"

Among the venerable remains of the once magnificent dwellings of princes-alternately the prisons and the "plaisance” of royalty— there cannot be one more deserving the notice of the admirers of picturesque beauty than this old castle, which, notwithstanding the corroding hand of Time, still retains such vestiges of its former extent and grandeur as are powerfully calculated to impress the mind of the beholder with a vivid idea of the magnificence of the feudal ages, and the instability of all things human. As I stood upon the bridge erected by the Earl of Leicester for Queen Elizabeth to enter the castle, and viewed its ivy-clad battlements and majestic towers, which are now fast mouldering to decay, yet still "elegant in their ruins and dignified in their disgrace," I was inspired with thrilling emotions of the deepest awe and veneration. Imagination involuntarily takes wing, and forcibly brings to remembrance the departed glory of all those mighty cities, whose renown in arts and arms filled the world with wonder and astonishment, and whose builders decreed that they should be the imperishable monuments of the genius of science and of conquest. Who, for instance, can behold the ruins. now unfolded to our view, without exclaiming, in the sublime and energetic language of the inspired writer, "How is the mighty fallen!" All who have read Sir Walter Scott are perfectly familiar with the strange and romantic history of Kenilworth. The only part of the original fortress of this once lordly structure now remaining is the keep, generally known as Cæsar's Tower, the walls of which are in some places ten feet thick. The remains of the additions made by John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, are termed Lancaster buildings. In a part of the ruins termed Leicester buildings are to be seen the relics of the great hall, a fine baronial room eighty-eight feet in length and forty-five in width. Although the erections of Leicester are of the most recent date, they have the most ancient and ruined appearance, being built of a brown, crumbling stone, not well adapted for durability. "We cannot but add," says Sir Walter Scott, "that this lordly palace, where princes feasted and where heroes fought, now in the bloody current of storm and siege, and now in the games of chivalry, where beauty dealt the prize which valor won, all is now desolate. The bed of the lake is now a rushy

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swamp, and the massy ruins of the castle only serve to show what their splendor once was, and to impress upon the mind of the visitor the transitory value of the humble happiness of those who enjoy an humble home in virtuous contentment.'

From the castle of Kenilworth we went to Warwick, only a few miles distant, which is also one of the noblest specimens of ancient grandeur this country now possesses. Owing to the recent death of the Countess of Warwick the doors of the Castle were closed to all visitors, and we were denied the privilege of going through those ancient halls and comparing them with others. The porter, however, who was a good-natured and well-fed Englishman, was kind enough to conduct us over the grounds, and show to us some old relics that belonged to the giant Guy, Earl of Warwick. Among the many curious things I noticed was his armor, his sword weighing twenty-two pounds and about seven feet in length, and hist shield, helmet, breast-plate, walking staff and tilting pole are all of enormous size and undoubtedly very ancient; the horse armor, on which is an inscription nearly obliterated, is of a later date. A large pot, called "Guy's pot," and his flesh fork, are really curious; the pot holds one hundred and seventy gallons, and the weight with the fork eight hundred and seven pounds. Five of our party got into this pot, and there was room, like a buss, for one more. mous vessel is now used by the Warwick family for a punch-bowl, and is filled three times in succession on the day when each heir of the Castle attains his majority.

This enor

This is a place of much importance and great interest, from its being the chief seat of men whose names are intimately connected with the most prominent events of English history. The present Earl takes pride in keeping it in good repair, and it is now said to be among the most desirable country abodes in England.

We are now in the town of Stratford, the birth-place and home of the "sweet swan of Avon," the immortal Shakspeare. One always attaches to the cradle of greatness the idea of romance and beauty, for it is almost impossible to conceive that the genius of poetry could emanate from a little unpretending village such as I found this place to be. It is a clean, quiet town, pleasantly situated on the Avon, and surrounded by meadows, but its pretensions to celebrity would be small but for the magic of a name which has

penetrated into every region where civilized man has trodden. While here we visited the theatre, being rather curious to know how they would represent the characters of the great master of the drama in his native place. After groping our way through narrow streets and lanes for some time, we at last found the Adelphi of Stratford in an obscure part of the village. The door was kept by a woman, and the house was very small and plain, while the performance was miserable, reflecting no credit on the dramatic corps; it was such as would be hissed even in the theatre of Bowery.

The house in which the poet was born still stands on the north side of Henley street, as a relic of the departed. As we entered the low but honored roof from whence came forth the man whose writings are for all time, I could but smile at the extreme simplicity and primitiveness of every thing about it. The floor is paved with stones that, characteristically enough, are cut up into a host of splinters and fragments, as if really hacked by a butcher's cleaver. On one side is an old-fashioned log-cabin fireplace, with cozy sitting places on either side; for in those smoky days, with penetrating draughts coming in on all sides, happy was he who was privileged to take a chimney-corner. In the room where Shakspeare was born, are inscribed on the walls, floor, window glass, and every other part of the room, the autographs of visitors desirous of doing honor to the memory of the departed, or themselves, according to circumstances. Among the many, I saw Sir Walter Scott's name cut with a diamond on the window glass.

After seeing the birth-place, we proceeded to the village church, where Shakspeare's honored relics are entombed. The slab that covers the grave is the plainest in the church, being outside the chancel between his wife and eldest daughter, with the inscription written by himself: