There are, perhaps, few spots richer in the “time-hallowed memories of the past” than the old town of Woodstock, near Oxford. In its immediate neighbourhood once stood a royal palace, where, as the readers of Scott will doubtless remember, many of the scenes in one of his novels are laid. The site of this ancient fabric is now occupied by the more stately pile of Blenheim, the princely residence of the Duke of Marlborough. In the park there is a spring still termed, in allusion to the legend more or less familiar to all students of English history, Rosamond's well. At the distance of a few miles only, memorials of our Celtic ancestors exist in the form of tumuli, embowered among the venerable oaks of Wychwood Forest. It is not, however, our present intention to linger amid the many historical associations of Woodstock, deeply fraught with interest as they are, but proceeding at once to our object, we invite our readers to accompany us in a geological ramble to the village of Stonesfield, situated in its vicinity, at a distance of between three and four miles. By far the most agreeable portion of our road traverses the picturesque slopes and luxuriantly wooded glades of Blenheim Park: leaving these behind, we soon arrive within sight of our destination.