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; 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 St. Vincent's
promontory, and presented by Nelson to the old capital of the much-loved
land of his birth. Yes, the proud Spaniard's sword is to be seen in
yonder guildhouse, in the glass case affixed to the wall; many other
relics has the good old town, but none prouder than the Spaniard's sword.

Such was the place to which, when the war was over, my father retired: it
wa