ly, 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, vice her palaces, and that the abomination of idolatry may
never pollute her temples. Ha, idolatry! the reign of idolatry has been
over there for many a long year, never more, let us hope, to return;
brave hearts in that old town have borne witness against it, and sealed
their testimony with their hearts' blood--most precious to the Lord is
the blood of His saints! we are not far from hallowed ground. Observe ye
not yon chalky precipice, to the right of the Norman bridge? 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 t