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ditch appear to any eye but his own. That 'this town took in the castle, which was originally Roman, but afterwards rendered impregnable by Roger, Bishop of Salisbury.' I humbly conceive, the Roman castle, here mentioned, did not formerly stand on the hill where the windmills are now placed, but in the air.

“You see the town is not only Roman, but the castle too, without the least probability or the shadow of a proof. If the town must be linked with the castle, the former had better be fixed to the true date of the latter. This, I confess, will degrade it in the eyes of all zealots of antiquity, by paring it down from a Roman to a Norman structure, yet this is the most reasonable opinion. The extent and magnificence of the castle must have furnished a number of attendants suitable to its greatness. Bread, meat, herbs, clothes, and utensils are the calls of necessity; which must be supplied by bakers, butchers, brewers, gardeners, shoemakers, taylors, manufacturers and mechanics. You see there is instantly a set of inhabitants fixed without the walls, to answer the exigencies of those within. The cloistered monks, indeed, kept arts and sciences close within their walls, which were scarce ever known to come abroad but once-at the Reformation ; but this was not the case with castles. This great one then produced the town, as naturally as a Palace begets a village; or a great Lord, villains.

"As I am just come to the town after a fatiguing pursuit, it is necessary to pull in and enter coolly. I shall take a peep over the pales at your villa, which is one of the most natural modern antiquities that has yet been seen,” &c., &c.

“...... As to your town, no doubt but it was ancient, as has been asserted above, but not quite so old as the Flood, Babel, Babylon, or Rome. The inhabitants are not the worse for not having long pedigrees, or Roman blood in their veins; they may be contented with a descent no earlier than the Normans. It is honour enough in these days to derive our blood from the French, for we are not like to draw it from them any other way. Surely that nation was the common stock of all the Europeans; who are all dwindling into beaux, dancing masters, musicians, fribbles, and gamesters. Witness the genteel pig-tail, the graceful movement, the harmonious hum, the jessamy cock of the hat, and the tradesmen's books. They seem very much like your gallipots, which are lately gilded and new lettered by order of the College of Physicians. They are all gold without—but bitterness within. The complexion of the present age you see, pleads strongly for this original, and carries this hereditary claim still farther. Not only the cut of their clothes and their diet, but their language is brought irresistibly into fashion. I hope for the sake of old England, that our acts of parliament will continue some time longer in English, though it is to be feared they may not do so, since the articles of a late peace have been penned in French; and since an able speaker at the head of the War office is fond of crowding French phrases into English parliamentary debates. You, sir, in your place, have partaken of this degeneracy, and expelled the few remains of the old honest laborious Saxons; who early submitted to, and were incorporated with the Normans. They were wool-pickers, wool-combers, weavers, clothiers, and dyers. The industry of these brought riches into your town, which were preserved under the faithful custody of frugality. But now how are you changed—into delicacy and poverty_into embroidery on one day of the week, and dirti. ness on all the rest-sacks are thin in your market-place on Thursdays, but thick in your churches on Sundays. You have turned the grating of your wool-combs into the scraping of fiddles; the skreeking loom into the tinkling harpsicord, and the thumping fulling-mills into a glittering and contentious organ. Scents of perfumes are in your churches; your houses are ornamented with Bath stone, wrought into pediments, entablatures, and pillastrades; your market-house-a

stranger to wool-packs, is metamorphosed into a theatre for balls, concertos, and oratorios. So much for the present liberties of the Town,” &c., &c.

“..... You must now give me leave to address myself to you in a more particular manner, with that old fashioned frankness that would not flatter an enemy-to make him his friend. You had always a natural taste for antiquities, especially for the English. Your honest passion has been steady to the roast beef and strong beer of old England. You love the roughness of the old innocent and hearty ages, better than the modern, gay, refined, effeminate manners. Your integrity has made you open, undisguised, and sincerely blunt; and has given an antique cast to your whole composition. You have constantly retained a veneration for the Druids of your country, and have amused yourself some years within the hollow of a tree. This is your cave of contemplation, lined with slabs, and stuccoed with moss. Your couch is covered with the same, and matted with the peelings of the bark of trees. Your table is a chopping-block, your dishes platters, your plates trenchers, and your chairs are chumps of wood. Nature having given you two hands, supplies you with knives, forks and spoons. Every noon and night, you sacrifice to your god Pan a goblet of barley wine. Your eyes every day are feasted sufficiently with a peep at the outside of three churches. Your ears are entertained with the sweetest of all musick, a natural oratorio of birds. Flowering shrubs perfume your nostrils, and you enjoy the conversation of your faithful Houyhnbnms. The gratification of all the senses lies within your reach; you live in the fruition of nature, without envy or restraint. With you I go back to distant ages two thousand years ago, and admire virtue in its original simplicity. To you, therefore, I address myself, who are formed by inclination to be an antiquary; to you I bequeath these sheets, not as a dedication, which among authors is a preamble or prelude to thinking; but as a codicil, the

result of my most mature deliberation-It is not a gift of value, but may serve as an amusement for a vacant hour, whenever you are disposed to be grave, or take a nap."

“Your friend has been an old stager in the tedious and uncomfortable tracks of antiquity, which have wanted mending ever since Batteley, the ingenious, sensible, and polite author of the Antiquitates Rhutupince, finished his Rhutupium. I whip through thick and thin, till I come to a convenient place to bait at. There I stop to refresh with proper necessaries; the conversation of the landlord, and the information of the clerk of the parish, the most conversable and intelligent person left in it; who keeps the records of it, and knows most of the antiquities in the neighbourhood. The squire, formerly a fox hunter, is now generally slinking to London to hawk off a daughter, or in strong scent of a halfpay place, or a quartered pension. The parson is so perpetually engaged with his neighbouring brethren, that his parishioners never see him, but of a Sunday; unless the squire come post from town for a week, to wreck his tenants and carry away every farthing in the parish. After the information of my learned friends, and the mug is emptied, I jog on in search of antiquities; sometimes I stop to take a view of a barrow, an old dyke, a ruined wall, or tottering steeple. If I see a camp any where, I ride full gallop, examine and carefully measure it. If it be a square I can tell you to an inch, where stood all its gates, the Ara, and Pretorium, and how many people it contained exactly 1500 years ago. In the evening before I go to bed, I recollect the important events of the day, and write down my observations in the first words that offer, for that produces an easy diction. I express my thoughts as fast as they flow, for that makes a simplicity of sentiment. I avoid all revisals and corrections, for they render a composition stiff and laboured ; in short I write just as you see, without thinking, without connexion, and without design. I make frequent bold, abrupt, eccentrical, and characteristical excursions, like my Lord Shaftsbury or a Comet. You see I am thoroughly qualified to execute on the minute and plebeian antiquaries the office of

Censor castigatorque minorum.' “These as you have seen above, think your town at least Roman, and carry its age, as the Welsh do their pedigrees, beyond the utmost stretch of human conception. We have observed that Dr. Musgrave was of this opinion, who affirms the village must have been a large one; and he advances a step farther, and calls it a very ancient little town; but he imagines the ancient name lost. He proves, from the winevessel found here with Alexander's name upon it, that one Alexander a great man certainly resided in it, attended by his household gods. But this is not to be understood to be Alexander the Great or .......... but-an Alexander-Alexander what's his name—a certain Alexander a maker of crockery-wares. These hasty steps are nothing to the large ones of Dr. Stukeley. Believe me, sir, at one progressive stride, he stalked over Dr. Musgrave's head, the line of right reason, and the extensive bounds of probability, with as much ease as Rich in the boxing match, jumped over the head of the Carman. The ancient name Musgrave had lost, Stukeley has found. Where? why where all antiquities lie concealed-in rubbish. He found it, indeed, with as much quickness, as Mrs. Squire found the longitude, and with an equal certainty. It was, you must know, the Punctuobice of Ravennas. This Ravennas, I must inform you, is an anonymous writer, and upon that account is presumed to be better acquainted with the highways than any of his predecessors. He has recorded some stages that the Romans travelled in order to let his contemporaries and their posterity know where they could be readily supplied with proper entertainment and post chaises. From Leucomagus you go to Cunetzio-alias Cunetio-alias Marlbro'; then you proceed to Punctuobice, that is, Vies-Aye, there it is, in the very two

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