To a mind of The true antiquarian temper, The sight of a noble and historic ruin, however plainly it may bear The marks of violence or of neglect, will often bring thoughts akin to pleasure, as well as feelings of pain and regret. The reflection will arise that amidst those massive walls, The very fragments of which are yet strong in Their decay, many a generation of gallant men was nurtured to do, each in his day, his fair spell of work towards The building up of The Old England we love, and to which we are so proud to belong. Weremember that Thence issued some of The wise counsellors, The firm senators, The stout soldiers, The enterprising voyagers, to whom, with God’s blessing on Their labours, it is mainly due that The name “Britain” is a word of power in The world. Despite our legion of Vandals, There are yet left to us ruins which might suggest no mean epitome of British History.

Very different are The feelings induced by The sites or The names of those mushroom palaces which mere bloated wealth, and unbridled caprice, have occasionally called into existence, to be The marvel of a day, and The proverb of Posterity. The Wansteads, The Canons’, The Fonthills, testify to nothing, but The folly, The blindness, The utter nullity, of spendthrift egotism.