"A fine old city, truly, is that, view it from whatever side you
will, but it shows best from the east, where the ground, bold and
elevated, overlooks the fair and fertile valley in which it stands.
Gazing from those heights, the eye beholds a scene which cannot fail
to awaken, even in the least sensitive bosom, feelings of pleasure
and admiration. At the foot of the heights flows a narrow and deep
river, with an antique bridge communicating with a long and narrow
suburb, flanked on either side by rich meadows of the brightest
green, beyond which spreads the city, the fine old city, perhaps the
most curious specimen at present extant of the genuine old English
town. Yes, there it spreads from north to south, with its venerable
houses, its numerous gardens, its thrice twelve churches, its mighty
mound, which, if tradition speaks true, was raised by human hands to
serve as the grave heap of an old heathen king, who sits deep within
it, with his sword in his hand and his gold and silver treasures
about him. There is a grey old castle upon the top of that mighty
mound; and yonder, rising three hundred feet above the soil, from
among those noble forest trees, behold that old Norman master-work,
that cloud encircled cathedral spire, around which a garrulous army
of rooks and choughs continually wheel their flight. Now, who can
wonder that the children of that fine old city are proud of her, and
offer up prayers for her prosperity? I, myself, who was not born
within her walls, offer up prayers for her prosperity, that want may
never visit her cottages."

"It was yonder, to the west, that the great naval hero of Britain
first saw the light; he who annihilated the sea pride of Spain and
dragged the humble banner of France in triumph at his stern. He was
born yonder to 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 the bloodiest fray off St. Vincent's promontory, and
presented by Nelson to the old capital of the much-loved land of his