allowed ground.
Observe ye not yon chalky precipice, to the right of the Norman bridge?
{133} On this side of the stream, upon its brow, is a piece of ruined
wall, the last relic of what was of old a stately pile, whilst at its
foot is a place called the Lollards' Hole; and with good reason, for many
a saint of God has breathed his last beneath that white precipice,
bearing witness against popish idolatry, midst flame and pitch; many a
grisly procession has advanced along that suburb, across the old bridge,
towards the Lollards' Hole: furious priests in front, a calm pale martyr
in the midst, a pitying multitude behind. It has had its martyrs, the
venerable old town!

Ah! there is good blood in that old city, and in the whole circumjacent
region of which it is the capital. The Angles possessed the land at an
early period, which, however, they were eventually compelled to share
with hordes of Danes and Northmen, who flocked thither across the sea to
found hearthsteads on its fertile soil. The present race, a mixture of
Angles and Danes, still preserve much which speaks strongly of their
northern ancestry; amongst them ye will find the light brown hair of the
north, the strong and burly forms of the north, many a wild superstition,
ay, and many a wild name connected with the ancient history of the north
and its sublime mythology; the warm heart, and the strong heart of the
old Danes and Saxons still beats in those regions, and there ye will
find, if anywhere, old northern hospitality and kindness of manner,
united with energy, perseverance, and dauntless intrepidity; better
soldiers or mariners never bled in their country's battles than those
nurtured in those regions, and within those old walls. It was yonder, to
the west, that the great naval hero of Britain first saw the light; {134}
he who annihilated the sea pride of Spain, and dragged the humbled banner
of France in triumph at his stern. He was born yonder, towards the west,
and of him there is a glorious relic in that old town; in its dark flint
guildhouse, the roof of which you can just descry rising above that maze
of buildings, in the upper hall of justice, is a species of glass shrine,
in which the relic is to be seen: a sword of curious workmanship, the
blade is of keen Toledan steel, the heft of ivory and mother-of-pearl.
'Tis the sword of Cordova, won in bloodiest fray off Saint Vincent's
promontory, and presented by Nelson to the old capital of the muc