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Daplmis, and a monument raised to his memory. This original heathen custom 

 was found not inappropriate to Christianity, and is alluded to by several of the fa- 

 thers, though St. Ambrose seems to imply a disregard to, or disinclination for, the 

 practice. " / will not" he says in his funeral oration on Valentinian, " sprinkle 

 his grave with flowers, but pour on his spirit the odour of Christ ; let others scat- 

 ter baskets of flowers. Christ is our Lily ; with this I will consecrate his relics." 

 One curious circumstance struck me in this church-yard, which, whether acci- 

 dental or the work of art, affected me considerably. A wild Rose bush ( R. caninaj 

 had taken its position, as an epiphyte, upon the sole Yew in the cemetery, from 

 whence its pink flowers depended in long waving tresses in beautiful profusion. 

 It seemed to me an emblem of struggling genius and virtue, surmounting the most 

 unfavourable circumstances, and flourishing in despite of the baleful and poisonous 

 influence of the envy and malice that hoped to overshadow and destroy it. Or it 

 might be considered emblematical of those unexpected joys which often irradiate 

 the horizon of life when only clouds seem rolling around ; or here, in particular, 

 it might symbolize the delightful hours we once enjoyed in the company of those 

 endeared to our hearts, and embalmed in our recollections ; but whom we can 

 never again engage in delightful association till the mournful Yew has waved its 

 branches over us. Such thoughts and reminiscences of departed joys are truly, 

 indeed, like the fragrant Rose flowering upon the dark Yew. 



" .Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd, 

 Like the vase in which Roses have once been distiU'd ; 

 You may break, you may ruin, the vase if you will — 

 But the scent of the roses will hang round it still." 



The dark, dirty, and uninviting town of Pontypool, next presented itself to 

 view, where there is nothing to attract a naturalist, unless he pursues his course 

 to the hills and mountains beyond, which was not now my intention. The tor- 

 rent that brawls along its stony bed at this place, bears the name of the Avon 

 Lwid, or Grey river, from the circumstance of its waters, in rainy weather, pour- 

 ing down in a milk-white flood. This is rather a curious fact, and arises, as I 

 had formerly an opportunity of observing, from the soft breccia composing the 

 hills from which the springs forming the river arise. The waters pouring down 

 the declivities, disintegrate the soft white sandstone, which contains the quartzose 

 and jasperian pebbles as in a cement, and become so loaded with the comminuted 

 arenarian matter, that they appear like streams of milk murmuring amid the green 

 moss and rising copse-wood, till they mingle together amid masses of ironstone to 

 form the foaming " Grey River." 



Nothing of any interest occurred between Pontypool and Newport, which lat- 

 ter town we entered by a massive stone bridge across the Usk. The church 

 stands on an eminence out of the town, with some fine Ash trees within its pre- 



