superfine republicans, and vent their hatred of England in our newspapers, which are then quoted by the writers in the _London Times_, as proof of American feelings towards the mother country. The country we were now traversing had once been scoured by the troopers of the fiery Rupert, and my friend, whom I will call Mr. V——, finding my enthusiasm rising at the mention of his clarion and jack-boots, began to play upon me by suggesting that some mounds which we saw in the distance were the remains of one of his encampments. This was a very fine idea, but, resolved to hunt up the local traditions with respect to it, I asked a passing boor if he could tell me anything about the barrows. Oh, for a page of “the Antiquary,” to give my reader some conception of the effect produced by the reply! “Prætorian here—Prætorian there,” said old Edie Ochiltree, “I mind the bigging o’t;” and with equal bathos responded my boor—“Them there be some old brick-yards!” “Alas!” cried I—“it is Monkbarns and castrametation, over again;” and a laugh arose from the Oxford pilgrims, at which the boor startled, and fled away, no doubt with strong persuasion that we were a pair of madmen, just broke loose from the deserted settlement aforesaid, of which, I should have mentioned, the neighbouring peasantry seemed to entertain a very wholesome fear. Commend me to Burford, our next halting-place, as a village of most exemplary independence of this nineteenth century. Some old houses, which struck me as I entered it, bore an inscription by which I learned that a good burgess built them for a charitable use in the time of Queen Elizabeth. I should think no house had been built in Burford since that date, so entirely unlike a modern town is its chief street, with all its lanes and by-ways. Here, now, was England—the England we read of! None of your Manchesters and Liverpools, but an innocent, sleepy old village that was of vast repute when those snobbish places were unknown. Here met a Church Synod, A. D., 685, to settle the question about the British Easter usages, and here worthy Peter Heylin was born in 1600. The little river Windrush runs through the place, and on its banks stands the ancient Church of St. John the Baptist, to which we repaired forthwith. Here we found an unexpected treat, in the exceeding richness of its Norman architecture, and in the many delicate traces of its former perfection, which had escaped the ravages of time. The tower and spire, the south porch and the windows, afforded a most entertaining and instructive study. Some old inscriptions remained, entreating the passer-by to pray for the departed soul of such and such benefactors. The interior enchanted me. Here was a “Silvester aisle,” in which, for generation after generation, certain worthies of that name have been buried under costly monuments, most curious to behold. But what pleased me most was one of those huge monuments, like an ancient state-bed, with