Farwell my boke and my devocion:


when his attention was attracted by a young gentleman who was
sitting on a camp stool with a portfolio on his knee, taking a
sketch of the Roman Camp, which, as has been already said, was
within the enclosed domain of Mr. Crotchet. The young stranger,
who had climbed over the fence, espying the portly divine, rose up,
and hoped that he was not trespassing. "By no means, sir," said
the divine, "all the arts and sciences are welcome here; music,
painting, and poetry; hydrostatics and political economy;
meteorology, transcendentalism, and fish for breakfast."

THE STRANGER. A pleasant association, sir, and a liberal and
discriminating hospitality. This is an old British camp, I
believe, sir?

REV. DR. FOLLIOTT. Roman, sir; Roman; undeniably Roman. The
vallum is past controversy. It was not a camp, sir, a castrum, but
a castellum, a little camp, or watch-station, to which was
attached, on the peak of the adjacent hill, a beacon for
transmitting alarms. You will find such here and there, all along
the range of chalk hills, which traverses the country from north-
east to south-west, and along the base of which runs the ancient
Iknield road, whereof you may descry a portion in that long
straight white line.

THE STRANGER. I beg your pardon, sir; do I understand this place
to be your property?