The general building of this castle (though of very remote foundation) may be considered as posterior to the Civil wars in the third Henry’s reign; when, we learn, the castle of Monmouth was taken and rased to the ground by Simon Montford, Earl of Leicester. A large mansion on the site of the castle, built with its materials, and engrafted on its ruins, is now occupied as a ladies’ boarding-school. Soon after the erection of this house, a Marchioness of Worcester went thither to lie-in of her first child, at the instance of her grandfather, Henry, first Duke of Beaufort, who was anxious that his descendant should draw his first breath “near the same spot of ground and space of air, where our great hero Henry the Fifth was born.” Near the extremity of the town, by the side of the Monnow, is the county goal, a new massive stone building, which in its plan, regulations, and superintendance, does high credit to the pubic spirit of the county. Without the town, at the foot of the Monnow-bridge, is St. Thomas’s church, a curious old structure which is supposed to have been built by the Saxons. Monmouth is supposed by Mr. Horsley to have been a Roman station, the Blestium of Antoninus. It is a borough and corporate town, governed by a mayor, and contains about six hundred houses, and two thousand six hundred inhabitants. Woollen caps were the staple manufacture of Monmouth when that article was in general use; and Shakspeare’s Fluellen alludes to this fashion: “If your Majesty is remembered of it, the Welchmen did goot service in a garden where leeks did grow, wearing leeks in their Monmouth caps.” But the town has now no manufacture, although there are some iron and tin works in the neighbourhood: its commerce depends on the navigation of the Wye, in the distribution of goods between Bristol, Hereford, and adjoining districts. Yet no small part of its thriving appearance may be attributed to the numerous gentry that are induced to fix their residence here from the pleasantness of the situation. Chippenham meadow, an agreeable plain, inclosed by the town, the Wye, and the Monnow, is the general rendezvous of Gwentonian beauty on summer (and particularly on Sunday) evenings. We had the good fortune to be in Monmouth on a Sunday, and of course did not neglect to join the promenade; where many a squire of little manors eyed us with much more inquiry than cordiality. Their dulcineas, “Healthful and strong, full as the summer rose Blown by prevailing suns,” displayed the vigour of youth and Wales, and possessed decided points of feminine attraction. But who would leave London to describe female beauty?