like the more ancient earthwork, are overgrown with trees and
brambles and ivy. The trees have grown upon the wall, sending
roots deep down between the stones, through the crumbling
cement; and so fast are they anchored that never a tree falls
but it brings down huge masses of masonry with it. This slow
levelling process has been going on for centuries, and it was
doubtless in this way that the buildings within the walls were
pulled down long ages ago. Then the action of the earth-worms
began, and floors and foundations, with fallen stones and
tiles, were gradually buried in the soil, and what was once a
city was a dense thicket of oak and holly and thorn. Finally
the wood was cleared, and the city was a walled wheat field
--so far as we know, the ground has been cultivated since the
days of King John. But the entire history of this green
walled space before me--less than twenty centuries in
duration--does not seem so very long compared with that of
the huge earthen wall I am standing on, which dates back to
prehistoric times.

Standing here, knee-deep in the dead ruddy bracken, in the
"coloured shade" of the oaks, idly watching the leaves fall
fluttering to the ground, thinking in an aimless way of the
remains of the two ancient cities before me, the British and
the Roman, and of their comparative antiquity, I am struck
with the thought that the sweet sensations produced in me by
the scene differ in character from the feeling I have had in
other solitary places. The peculiar sense of satisfaction, of
restfulness, of peace, experienced here is very perfect; but
in the wilderness, where man has never been, or has at all
events left no trace of his former presence, there is ever a