Early in the morning after my reaching Cardigan, I made an excursion in search of ST. DOGMAEL’S PRIORY, about a mile and a half distant. This fragment of antiquity is very much dilapidated, and boasts scarcely any picturesque appearance; the few parts standing are converted into barns, sheds, and habitations; but enough remains to shew the original extent of the church; which was cruciform, of no considerable dimensions, and of the early Gothic style; in the cemetery adjoining the ruin, and the village church, —“a church-yard yew, Decay’d and worn with age,” has a pleasing characteristic effect: and here the scene, finely interspersed with wood, and overlooking the Tivy, is undoubtedly picturesque. This priory was founded for Benedictine monks by Martin de Turribus, a Norman chieftain, who first conquered the surrounding territory called Kames or Kemish, and deluged it with the blood of its natives. This was a common trick for cheating the devil, practised by the organized plunderers of that day. After pillaging a country, and enslaving or massacreing the legitimate proprietors, they hoped to expiate their crime, and quell the rising qualms of conscience, by appropriating a part of their booty to a monkish foundation—to a set of idle jugglers, scarcely less inimical to the rights of society, though less ferocious, than themselves. Returning to the inn, I rejoined my fellow-tourist, who had just completed his circuit of between forty and fifty miles round the coast: of this route I learn the following particulars: