distance between the two cities.

This stream,

however, excites in us, as it "flows mournfully muddily on," none of those poetical ideas which seem to be necessarily connected with a river synonymous to that on whose banks the immortal Shakespeare "warbled his native wood-notes wild." But though it do not feed the imagination, the Avon has more substantial claims to our regard, since it enriches with its sluggish waters a long tract of meadows that let for 51. an acre, and carries on its patient bosom the heavy traffic which passes betwixt the two towns. From this flat road all distant prospect is precluded, the scene being confined to the acclivities of Lansdown which rise to the right, the vale which shoots forward in front, and the ascending lands of Newton and Corston parishes to the left.

A little diversion from the turnpike on this side introduced us to Newton-Park, the seat of William Gore Langton, esq; member for the county, the noble woods of which, crowning the summit of the higher grounds in the demesne, have a particularly grand effect in a country not remarkable for massiveness of shade. The house, handsome and substantial, of modern architecture, is placed with judgment on a spot at once sheltered and commanding, taking in from one of its fronts a beau

tiful home-scene (in which the factitious piece of water and its banks make elegant ornaments) and a diversified distant prospect. It rose, phoenix-like, from the ruins of a more ancient edifice, begun probably by its original lords, the Norman family of St. Lo, or De Sancto Laudo, who in the latter end of Henry IIId.'s reign numbered this manor on the list of their possessions.

Amongst the other instances of royal oppression which the Pipe-Rolls of John's reign afford, (a prince as wicked as he was weak, and as extortionate as avaricious) is a fine mentioned to have been levied on Roger de Sancto Laudo as a heriot, on the demise of his ancestor, for the manors of Newton and Publow, to the amount of one hundred pounds and two palfries, a sum of considerable importance in the twelfth century. Justly irritated by the extravagant levy, Roger joined the association of the Barons who rose in arms against the tyrannical John, and had the satisfaction, if tradition may be believed, of keeping him for some time as a captive in one of the towers of his castellated mansion at Newton, the scene of the monarch's rapacity. All vestiges of this edifice, the prison of a king, have long since disappeared; but an embattled gateway of a later date is preserved, as a memorial of the venerable edifice which frowned

over the park of Newton St. Lo in the fourteenth century. The estate continued in the family of St. Lo till the reign of Richard II. and then passed, through female branches, by marriage, successively into those of Lords Botreaux, Hungerford, and Huntingdon. It became vested in the present possessor in right of his wife, the daughter of the late William Langton, esq; who added, on that occasion, the family name of his lady to his own.

As we passed the handsome Gothic church of this agreeably-situated village, we looked (according to my accustomed practice) into the holy structure, in order to survey the memorials of the more noble dead, who here enjoy the last distinctions which rank and riches can command-interment within the fane, and costly monuments spread upon its walls. On casting our eyes over these memorials of extinguished consequence, we were struck forcibly with the absurdity of Latin epitaphs, which occur here in a greater number than usual. Nothing, indeed, can be more inconsistent than enveloping those communications, which are intended for the information of the many, in a language understood only by the few. Commodore Trunnion's dying request has always struck me not only as admirably characteristic of this celebrated commander, but also as a

good satire on the affectation of clothing epitaphs in execrable modern Latinity. "I do desire that "it may not be engraved in the Greek or Latin

lingos, and much less in the French, which I “abominate, but in plain English, that when the "angel comes to pipe all hands at the great day, " he may know that I am a British man, and speak "to me in my mother tongue." Little less absurd is the formulary, or set of phrases, with which these precious morceaux sometimes commence --such as Siste iterum, Viator; Audi, Viator-both occurring on a monument in the church of which we are speaking; apostrophes highly appropriate on the Roman sepulchral altars from which they were adopted, these being placed by the side of the common highways, and consequently seen by every viator, or traveller, who passed along them; but altogether incongruous in a place of worship, whither people go for other purposes than to read the puerilities of vanity, or nonsense of pedantry.

Newton church stands upon a bed of white lyas, in which are imbedded astonishing quantities of the casts or impressions of that singular fossil the Cornu Ammonis. These accompany our road through Corston and Keynsham, exhibiting themselves of all sizes, from the dimensions of a halfcrown to a diameter of twenty inches, forming a

striking feature in the geology of this curious county. When we see around us such abundant marks of the former presence of an animal in these parts, that is not now found in a live state throughout the known world, curiosity is awakened, and we naturally enquire. the cause of their presentdisappearance. Was their race extinguished when the continents were raised from the bosom of the great deep? or do they still reside, far removed out of the reach of human vision, at the bottom of the present world of waters? or has the whole race been extinguished by the increasing power of their enemies? or is it the nature of some animals to transmigrate into other forms, and in time to become new genera? These questions instinctively occur to the mind, with such a phænomenon before us; but it ought to humble the pride of human knowledge, to reflect that, deep and extensive as we proudly boast it to be, it is unable to give a satisfactory answer to any one of them.

Dropping again into the great road, we passed through the village of Keynsham, seven miles from Bath, famous formerly for its abbey, and afterwards for its woollen manufactory; both of which have fulfilled the doom of all sublunary things, and are now no more. Its name is said to have been connected with a miracle, which, if allowed to