ty gun
ship to lie within cannon-shot of it, I apprehend it might be silenced
in half an hour; but, in all probability, there will be no vestiges of
it at the next rupture between the two crowns. It is surrounded every
day by the sea, at high water; and when it blows a fresh gale towards
the shore, the waves break over the top of it, to the terror and
astonishment of the garrison, who have been often heard crying
piteously for assistance. I am persuaded, that it will one day
disappear in the twinkling of an eye. The neighbourhood of this fort,
which is a smooth sandy beach, I have chosen for my bathing place. The
road to it is agreeable and romantic, lying through pleasant
cornfields, skirted by open downs, where there is a rabbit warren, and
great plenty of the birds so much admired at Tunbridge under the name
of wheat-ears. By the bye, this is a pleasant corruption of white-a-se,
the translation of their French name cul-blanc, taken from their colour
for they are actually white towards the tail.

Upon the top of a high rock, which overlooks the harbour, are the
remains of an old fortification, which is indiscriminately called, Tour
d'ordre, and Julius Caesar's fort. The original tower was a light-house
built by Claudius Caesar, denominated Turris ardens, from the fire
burned in it; and this the French have corrupted into Tour d'ordre; but
no vestiges of this Roman work remain; what we now see, are the ruins
of a castle built by Charlemagne. I know of no other antiquity at
Boulogne, except an old vault in the Upper Town, now used as a
magazine, which is said to be part of an antient temple dedicated to
Isis.

On the other side of the harbour, opposite to the Lower Town, there is
a house built, at a considerable expence, by a general officer, who
lost his life in the late war. Never was situation more inconvenient,
unpleasant, and unhealthy. It stands on the edge of an ugly morass
formed by the stagnant water left by the tide in its retreat: the very
walks of the garden are so moist, that, in the driest weather, no
person can make a tour of it, without danger of the rheumatism.
Besides, the house is altogether inaccessible, except at low water, and
even then the carriage must cross the harbour, the wheels up to the
axle-tree in mud: nay, the tide rushes in so fast, that unless you
seize the time to a minute, you will be in danger of perishing. The
apartments of this house are elegantly fitted up, but very small; and