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to London! Mournfully would these words be spoken, were there no hope of revisiting it. On the time-worn turrets of that Abbey where sleep the mighty dead; on the broad and breezy parks; on the fair mansions of friends, I looked, and said, mentally,—not for the last time: no, if it please God, not for the last time.

Smiles and tears were contending on the face of an April morning, as we took our departure. Much fine scenery was admired during our journey of more than a hundred miles, through a variegated country. Bath, with its noble buildings, drawn from its own rich quarry of cream-colored stone, made an elegant appearance.

Bristol, and its lofty cathedral, pointing back to monastic times and to the usurper Stephen, and, also, the beautiful Church of St. Mary Redcliffe, attracted our admiration. Yet neither these imposing objects, nor its resemblance to ancient Rome, by being seated on seven hills, so strongly impressed us as the