‘That which hath wings shall tell the matter’, says the Preacher. Readers of Antiquity do not need to be reminded of the fresh connotation which aerial photography has given to the text, but never before has its truth been so convincingly driven home as it is by the latest achievement of archaeological aviation. It may be said at once that this account of the Eastern frontier is one of the most important and illuminating contributions ever made to the unwritten history of the Roman Empire. Incidentally, as M. Cumont points out in his lucid and appreciative introduction, its usefulness as a guide for future explorers can hardly be over-estimated. Hundreds of miles of a terra incognita have been thoroughly reconnoitred, so that exponents of the older and less spectacular methods now know exactly where it will profit them to ply the spade and pick. And it is certain that their reward will be rich. Though the sandstorms of the desert may bury, they are in other respects far less destructive than cultivation. In course of time the wonders of Dura-Europos will be repeated or, it may be, eclipsed at other sites. Scholars will then be able to reconstruct with confidence the whole organization of the army of the East, a subject that has hitherto been well-nigh hopelessly obscure. A flood of new light will be thrown on the relations of Rome, first to the Parthians, and then to the Sassanians. At long last we shall learn something of the losing battle which Roman civilization had to fight when it was transplanted to a Semitic countryside, studded here and there with Hellenic towns, —something, that is, of the gradual process by which the legions of the West were slowly but surely transformed into a host of Orientals.

The storied name which stands at the head of this paper has an immense range of association and interest. Lest the gentle reader be frightened at the outset by too extensive a prospect let us define at once the limits we have set to our present inquiry.

There is a knowledge of Britain that is characteristic of this and the last century. It is a knowledge founded on the results of numberless excavations on surveys of roads, forts and cities, on intensive study of stratification and of the evidence hidden in broken pots and half obliterated coins. It is a knowledge that must have made up a remarkable whole in the mind of a scholar like the late Professor Haverfield; that still makes up such a whole in the minds of a handful of scholars still living today. For most of us this knowledge is only to be gained at second-hand from the summarized reports of the experts; at best we may be able to add a personal acquaintance with some small part of the subject. It is a knowledge that advances progressively and comprises most of the hope for the future.

The progress of archaeology in Britain, as elsewhere, depends on excavation. This is a commonplace; but a more leisurely approach to that final arbitrament than is usually adopted would, we think, be advantageous. Until an area is studied, its visible antiquities planned, the evidence afforded by their geographical and topographical relationships weighed, the natural environmental conditions—forest and open country—assessed, and resultant possibilities discussed, the selection of particular sites for excavation in that area is premature. The following account of a field survey of a limited area in Glamorgan is a practical expression of this point of view.

The interest of the State in the ancient monuments and civilizations of Britain is recent in origin and limited in extent. It is the purpose of this paper to trace in outline the growth of State interest, the limits of State control at the present time, and the main lacunae which appear to exist in the mechanism for the preservation of our national antiquities. Before embarking on this topic it might be well to point out the two chief reasons why, before 1882, the State undertook little or no responsibility within a sphere now generally recognized as the proper concern of any civilized state. In the first place the study of British Archaeology has only within the last fifty years reached a degree of accuracy and discipline worthy of the expenditure of public funds; it is of the utmost significance in this connexion that the first scientific British archaeologist, General Pitt-Rivers, was appointed as first Inspector of Ancient Monuments under the Act of 1882.

When I suggested, in commenting on this quotation, that an African cattle-thief would laugh at Beech Bottom dyke, Mr Crawford did not agree; and the idea that seems to prevail with regard to the stopping-power of a ditch and bank is responsible for these notes.

Cattle-defences may be considered under two heads: 1, Fences: 2, Dykes: the latter being actually of secondary importance when the object in view is to keep cattle in or out; and stockades without a ditch do occur in Britain.

In the September number of ANTIQUIT (VIII, 290–302) Dr Wheeler analysed with characteristic brilliance the topographical and archaeological evidence for the relation of Roman and Saxon in Dark-Age London. He pointed out that the 330 acres enclosed by the Roman Walls were divided almost centrally by the Walbrook into two areas of rising ground, the eastern which we may term Cornhill, and the western Ludgate Hill. He showed that there is undeniable evidence epitomized in the position of the central basilica and of London Bridge to prove that the eastern of these was the nucleus of the Roman City, and that the inclusion of the western within the walls was intended ‘to provide generously for a development which only in part materialized’. He noted further that the evidence for the earliest Saxon settlement within the walls pointed with hardly less emphasis to their preference for the western area, where the foundation of St. Paul's, the less certain suggestion of early church dedications, the traditional site of the Royal Palace, the certain position of the Folk Moot, and the more frequent occurrence of small objects of the early Saxon period combine to indicate the focus of their settlement. So far we may tread securely in his footsteps; we may agree with his summary of the contrast— ‘Roman London began on the Hill above London Bridge and spread westwards; Saxon London emerged on the western hilltop and spread eastwards’.

This is where Mr Myres and I don our cardboard armour, rattle our wooden sabres, and join battle to the death or tea-time.

Let me parry blow by blow, and, first, that one about the street-plan. I give that precedence because Mr Myres is (relatively) so serious about it. He regards the ‘chaos of curvilinear lanes’ which is the medieval street-plan of London as, above all, a ‘piece of positive evidence’ which makes any survival of Roman London through the Dark Ages ’extremely improbable’. As Mr Myres well knows, this argument goes back through William Page to Noah, and the only surprising thing about it is that Mr Myres should still find himself using it in this year of grace. The reply, in part at least, is almost equally ancient, but has never perhaps been developed as fully as the argument appears to deserve.

In recent years Ur has figured prominently and often as an important witness of the Great Flood of prehistoric times. But whatever may have been the cause and extent of that particular upheaval, it appears that the ancient city perished, paradoxically enough, for lack of water. A sudden shift in the course of the Euphrates probably doomed to desiccation the strip of land on which Ur had risen to become at length a powerful royal centre. That fitful whim of a lazy river may be placed at some period near the end of the pre-that time, however, Ur had endured for perhaps apsr leo-nCgh arsis ftiivaen m eirlale. nnBiay. Nothing short of a natural catastrophe, it would appear, could bring to a close a career of such heroic proportions.