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Daphnis, 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. “ I will not,” he says in his funeral oration on Valentinian, “ sprinkle 
his grave ivith 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 (H. canina) 
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 distill’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 massfive stone bridge across the Usk. The church 
stands on an eminence out of the town, with some fine Ash trees within its pre- 
