in the middle of the last century, is an evidence that art was not overlooked by its wealthy and public-spirited projectors. The façade is Roman, very highly ornamented; and that portion of it which forms the merchants' walk, is a spacious open square, surrounded on all sides by arcades. The business transacted here, however, is now confined to the corn-trade: the mass of merchants resort to the Commercial Rooms, on the opposite side of the road. At the back of the Exchange runs the chief market of the city, occupying a great space of ground in a very irregular manner: the supply from the fruitful counties of Somersetshire and Gloucestershire is excellent and abundant. A feature which strikes the stranger as he passes through is the singular costume of the Kingswood market-women.

Returning to Clare-street again, we must not omit to mention, as a sign of Bristol's care even in the middle ages, for literature as well as for commerce, that there anciently stood, beside All Saints' Church, now close upon us, the House of Kalenders, which belonged to a fraternity half laic, half religious, founded here long before the Conquest, and whose duty was to convert Jews, instruct youth, and keep the archives of the city. In this house, as long ago as the middle of the fifteenth century, lectures were delivered twice a week, and a valuable library stood open to the public; so that, as regards Bristol at least, yesterday's Mechanics' Institutes need not fling'dark ages' contemptuously in the teeth of the past.

Still more churches greet us as we procced down Clare-street-St. Werburg's, with the west face of its tower washed with the storms of four or five centuries into a bright and most artistic tone, arrests our attention. On a sunny day, when the lights and shades are particularly strong, we question if a more picturesque combination can be afforded in any city than the view of the buildings here congregated. Looking towards the top of the street, St. Werburg's tower, with the bright sun upon it, stands out against the gloom in which the Exchange is buried. Then again the elegant Italian dome of All Saints' repeats the light, and carries the eye on to where the old Dutch-built Bank, with its many galleries and projecting angles, forms a complete picture in itself. Near the bottom of Clare-street we come to what, after St. Mary Redcliffe, might be considered the pride of Bristol, as regards ecclesiastical architecture -the tower of St. Stephen's Church. It is about 130 feet in height; but the delicate tracery, which the eye follows from its base to the beautiful open-work of its pinnacles, makes it look much higher, rising as it does above the gloomy warehouses which surround it on all sides but the one on which it is viewed. Time has added to its effect by washing bright and clear here and there the projecting ornaments, which show against the sable dress with which the smoke has enveloped it. The church is much older than the tower, which was built about 1472, by John Shipward, one of the many merchant-princes Bristol boasted in that early time. It ought to be mentioned, to the honour of the fine old merchants of Bristol, that three of the churches-and these the most costly and splendid—were built at the sole cost of individual merchants: St. Mary Redcliffe, by William Canynges; St. John's, by Walter Frampton; and St. Werburg's, by Walter Derby.

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Water, again: well may Andrew de Chesne, who wrote in the time of King Stephen, say of Bristol, that it seems to swim in the water, and wholly to be set on the river banks.' It is not the Avon we are now coming to, however; but a canal, cut in the thirteenth century, to afford berths for great ships, which before that time often received damage by grounding on the mud in the river; it was also constructed to turn the course of the Frome, a small tributary to the Avon, which the citizens have been at some pains to hide from view, as not a vestige of it is to be seen, although it meanders through the centre of the town. It is worth while pausing for a moment

on the swing-bridge we are passing over. To the right of us lie moored the picturesquelooking Severn trows, ranged side by side, each one with its bright brown mast, little red flag, and black pall-like tarpaulins, covering the cargo piled high upon the deck, and the bargy, who is always seen there stretched out at length fast asleep. They form a picture which contrasts strangely with the vessels seen on the other side of the bridge, keen little clippers, with masts raking at a very sharp angle. These vessels are mostly Guernsey and Jersey traders, or luggers bringing fruit from Spain and Portugal. Still further down, the great chimneys of the Irish steamers lean over the quay while they discharge their cargoes. And beyond these, towering over a confusion of West Indiamen, with top-sails struck, the light tracery of an American or a Chinaman is painted against the sky, its long pennant floating languidly in the wind. In showery weather, when the sails of the ships are unclewed to dry, and shadows run over them as they belly to the breeze, the scene here is exceedingly picturesque; and, to make the whole perfect, half way down the quay a great sun-dial, raised high upon a pillar, flashes intelligence from its golden face.

At this spot one of the features which tend to render the city so picturesque is observable-the suddenness with which the hills to the north of it dip down into the busy mart of men. Several of the quaint old streets in this quarter of the town seem terminated by sloping banks of verdure, clothed with waving trees, and terraced and dotted with houses. The abruptness with which nature meets and refreshes the eye, wearied with dull ranges of warehouses and dingy streets of brick, reminds one of similar transitions in towns of Switzerland or Savoy, where the perspectives of streets are terminated by wall-like mountain sides, or gigantic peaks. St. Michael's and Spring Hills are those which, in the present instance, lie before us; the former covered with a fringe of trees. As we proceed along St. Augustine's Parade, we note that gradually the plate glass in the windows grows larger, the shop fronts more imposing, and the goods exposed more costly, the people wear more the air of loungers, and trade is evidently shaking off the coarser look of barter. The reason is simple-we are on the high road to Clifton, the genteel sister, who looks down upon hard-working Bristol with the most profound hauteur.

College Green might be considered the debateable land between commerce and fashion: here all the characteristic features of the city may be said to meet. As we stand in the centre, surrounded on all sides by avenues of lime-trees of tenderest green, to the left, in complete quiet and deep monastic gloom, lies the Cathedral, looking much as it did five centuries ago; this side of the Green seems quite given up to the solemn spirit of religion, and is the representative, together with the Church of the Gaunts and that of St. Augustine the Less, of the spiritual life of the city. On the other hand is the thoroughfare which leads to Clifton; here trade speaks in the busy throng, which forms a line of ever-moving life. If we turn for a moment, we perceive, through the entrance to the Green, the masts of ships, the flapping sails, and the burning reflections of the setting sun-light, cast by their pitchy hulls upon the water. Thus commerce contributes to the scene. And not alone to the eye speaks this singular concentration in one spot of so many different features of the city. He who muses with closed eyes beneath the cool shadows of the limes, becomes aware of the strange medley of sounds which pour into his car. Mingled with the busy hum of men and the rush of carriage-wheels comes the 'heave-yo!' of the sailors, as they warp some ship to its berth; or the swift run of the crane-chain, as it drops the cumbrous bale into the gaping hold; and above all, the Te Deum in sudden swells of the organ, and voices of the singing boys,' booming through the open doors of the Cathedral.

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The associations connected with this Green are of the deepest interest. Here, under

a great oak, St. Augustine held a conference with the bishops of the Anglican church; and here, some centuries later, the preaching friars and priests denounced the 'heresy' which was so soon to overturn their creed. The cemeteries of the Abbey and of the Church of the Gaunts once stood here, and the deposit of human remains has raised the soil several feet above the original level. The mutilated pile which occupies almost the entire south side of College Green, is nearly all that remains of the great and wealthy monastery of St. Augustine, founded in the twelfth century by Robert Fitzhardinge (said to be of the royal family of Denmark), a great merchant of Bristol, and first of the noble family of Berkeley, many succeeding members of which have enriched it from time to time. Very little of the original building is now, however, to be seen, the Abbey having been rebuilt in the fourteenth century. At the dissolution of these houses at the Reformation, Bristol was erected into a bishopric, and this edifice then became the Cathedral of St. Augustine.

The outward appearance of the Cathedral is extremely heavy, and nearly devoid of architectural beauty: the tower, which is low and massive, forms, perhaps, its best feature. The body of the church seems to be made up of huge buttresses, in the construction of which a great many red sandstone blocks were introduced, which have decayed and worn away, during the course of centuries, without adding even the picturesque look which usually ensues when Gothic architecture becomes weather-worn. The floor of the Cathedral is several feet below the level of the Green; we are, accordingly, obliged to enter by a descent of steps. The first feature which strikes the eye in the interior, is the uniform height of the chancel, two side-aisles, cross-aisles, and the portion of the nave yet standing. This gives the feeling of unusual space, and the effect must have been magnificent when the other portion of the nave-which extended 150 feet westward-was in existence. The vaulting is light and elegant, while some of the bosses are extremely grotesque in character. The Lady's Chapel, situated at the north side of the church, is evidently the oldest portion of the building; and, doubtless, formed a part of the original abbey built by Fitzhardinge. Bristol historians seem quite uncertain when, or in what manner, the nave was destroyed; it is surmised, however, that it was pulled down by some of Henry VIII.'s commissioners, before it was decided to convert the abbey into a Cathedral. The interior suffered much damage from the iconoclasts, during the great Rebellion; many fine windows were destroyed, and several of the ancient monuments were, unfortunately, greatly injured; and those which have survived the two revolutions, religious and political, are now slowly succumbing under the hands of heedless keepers. The slovenly yellow-wash brush has been smeared over monuments as well as over walls, columns, and stone pulpit; and cross-legged crusaders-many of whom sleep here their stony sleepmitred abbots and knights, who once lay in all the splendour of coloured and gilded armour, now alike repose in garments of yellow-wash, put on one over the other, until the original figures beneath them are almost obscured. There is one little chapel in which particular havoc has been committed-the Chapel of the Newtons-containing several altar-tombs, the effigies upon some of which were entirely destroyed by the Puritans. The others, once so quaint with colour and heraldic embellishments, have now been reduced by the Vandals of the place to buff coats and hose of the commonest ochre.

There are very few monuments of modern date worthy of notice in this Cathedral, but of marble mason's grief there is a plentiful supply; indeed, the walls are dotted all over with funereal urns, weeping willows, and the usual patterns kept in stock by the statuaries, the effect of which mars the solemn repose the eye looks for in such a building. There is a monument by Baily, very beautiful in design; and a figure, emble

matical of Faith, by Chantrey, is noticeable for its purity of expression: but the finest picce of modern sculpture in the Cathedral is the monument to Mrs. Draper-Sterne's Eliza-executed by Bacon. The most interesting of the recent memorials is an excellent marble bust of Southey, by Baily, which occupies a niche in the north aisle. There are several noteworthy monuments to the Berkeley family, especially a fine altartomb, with effigies of a full-length knight, one of the earlier members of the family, and his lady upon it. As we pass into the cloisters, through a postern in the south-west corner of the church, we step upon the grave of Edward Bird, the artist. Bird came to Bristol a painter of tea-trays-executed here many famous pictures-died, and was followed to his lonely grave in this spot by four hundred of his friends and admirers. The cloisters present a melancholy ruin; the west and south sides having long since disappeared. The northern walk is therefore all that remains, and it would probably have shared a like fate with the others, but that the chapter-room opens from it, by means of a rare Anglo-Norman porch. The chapter-room is in a most perfect state of preservation, and presents a fine specimen of the same style of architecture. The dean and chapter, in restoring it some years since, however, raised a wooden floor, about five feet over the ancient pavement, in order to keep out the sepulchral dampness; but much at the expense of the proportions of the room, and completely to the obscuration of the stone benches which surround it. Through the iron palisade we gain a view of the hills and open country, and also of the blackened ruins of the bishop's palace, burnt by the mob in the Reform riots of 1831. The bishop now has an episcopal palace at Stapleton, a few miles from Bristol, as well as in Gloucester; the two sees having, within these few years, been consolidated. As we proceed by way of the cloisters to the College Green, remnants of old Gothic work lie about us on all sides; and as we puzzle over an ancient manuscript, and try to eke out the letters which time has obliterated, so we conjecture of the original proportions of this monastery, by its detached and outlying fragments.

By far the most interesting and elegant of all the remains of the Abbey, however, is the Anglo-Norman archway, the most perfect and beautiful specimen of this early style, perhaps, to be met with in England. The intersecting arches, and the zigzag mouldings, which ornament it, are almost as perfect as the day they were chiselled. Over this gateway is a dwelling-house, in the perpendicular style. It was built in the fifteenth century, and is adorned with canopied niches, in which are the statues of kings, noblemen, and abbots, and one of the Virgin Mary.

We have tarried too long, we fear, in the neighbourhood of these interesting remains; yet we must not leave without drawing attention to the Chapel of the Gaunts, largely endowed, if not built, by some of the early members of the Berkeley family, the knightly effigies of many of whom are here to be seen. This chapel now goes by the name of the Mayor's Chapel, and it was superbly embellished, a few years back, for the use of the chief magistrate and corporation. It is entered over the dust of one of the greatest scoundrels of whom history takes note. Captain Bedloe, the associate of Titus Oates in the Rye House Plot' conspiracy, lies buried here, without a sign or word to denote the place of his sepulture.

We are now close upon the confines of Clifton: Park-street, handsomely and regularly built, upon a very steep hill, lies before us; and trade, as we see by the shop-blinds every here and there between the private houses, is gradually scaling the height, and making this once fashionable and quiet neighbourhood a busy thoroughfare. The street is so steep that, as we view it from College Green, it appears almost perpendicular; up it the carriages zigzag, and the people climb, almost in defiance of the laws of gravitation. Arrived at the top, however, with much labour, a new scene

opens upon us; but across the air-drawn barrier which here divides Clifton from Bristol, we are not yet inclined to step.

Returning then to Bristol for a short while, we must not forget to mention, among the great thoroughfares, Wine-street where Robert Southey was born, Castle-street, and Old Market-street, which run eastward, almost in a line, and lead to the old 'Upper Road,' to Bath. Parallel to Wine-street lies one of the most ancient, and certainly the most picturesque of Bristol's thoroughfares-Mary-le-port-street-one part of which is so narrow, and the houses so much overhang, that the sky is visible as a mere ribbon of blue, and the inhabitants can almost shake hands with each other out of their garret windows. Every house here is delightful to the painter's eye, from the great variety of its outline: in many cases, the windows-those handsome protruding structures, so prevalent in Queen Elizabeth's time-extend the whole breadth of the house, and every floor is so built as to overhang the one below it. Here and there the arms of some ancient guild might be scen moulded in the plaster-work, but well nigh obliterated by the annual supply of yellow-wash they receive. It is quite impossible for two carriages to pass each other in some parts of this street; yet we should hope that the good people of Bristol would regret to see it swept away, even for the convenience of having a more serviceable thoroughfare. Wine-street is completely modernized; but in Peter-street we again meet with the gables and huge windows of the olden time. Behind St. Peter's Church is the Mint, so called from its being the house where money was coined after the destruction of the Castle, in which this branch of the king's service was originally carried on. It is now an hospital and the Poorhouse of the city, Bristol by a Local Act having the management of its own poor. And here before this fine-looking old mansion they congregate-a wretched-looking crowd-twice a week for relief; yet within a few yards, among paupers' graves, covered with oyster-shells and rubbish, lies one who in his lifetime was still more wretched-Richard Savage, the poet-Johnson's biography of whom forms so remarkable a chapter in the Lives of the Poets. Castle-street is built upon the site of the old Castle, destroyed by Cromwell in 1665. Scarcely a vestige remains of this famous fortress, which once formed the military key of the West. Wandering, a year or two back, along Castle Green, curious to see what remnants might yet be found of a stronghold which had endured twelve sieges, and had taken a part in all the great rebellions and civil wars of our history, we were attracted by the soughing of a forge-bellows, and the glow proceeding from the open doorway. Looking in, we beheld the red light illumining a finely groined roof; and, upon making inquiries, we found this blacksmith's shop to be an ancient crypt of the Castle, and the only vestige of that building now in existence.

A fortress stood upon this spot as early as the time of the Saxons, and served as a check to Danish marauders in the neighbourhood; but it owed its importance to Robert Earl of Gloucester, son of Henry I., who had scarcely finished rebuilding the Castle, commenced in 1130, when King Stephen attacked him, but unsuccessfully. Shortly afterwards, however, Stephen entered its walls, but as a prisoner instead of a conqueror; and here he remained some time. A writer who describes this Castle in the reign of that monarch, does not give it a very bright character. He says, 'On one part of the city, where it is more exposed, and liable to be besieged, a large castle rises high, with many banks, strengthened with a wall, bulwarks, tower, and other contrivances to prevent the approach of besiegers; in which they get together such a number of vassals, both horse and foot-or rather, I might say, of robbers and freebooters--that they appear, not only great and terrible to the lookers-on, but truly horrible; and it is scarce to be credited: for, collecting out of different counties and