Just as we moved from Yarmouth station, another train moved in with a fresh supply of tourists. In this excursionists were simply wedged, standing up even in the first-class carriages, and very audibly expressing their delight in arriving-or something else. While we waited at Beccles another crowded train came up, and the behaviour of the passengers exceeded all that I have ever seen in or near the muchvilified town of Birmingham. Hooting and screaming, roaring out music-hall songs, quarrelling, and clutching like mad things at the handles of our carriage doors as we slowly moved on; these people bore through the quiet town of Beccles, that peaceful, sunny Sabbath eve, a sudden streak, if I may so say, of brutality of conduct-wrongly so named, since no brute can sink to that corruption of the best, which is the worst corruption of all.

I have no space for moralising, and I see no need for it. What I have said is no fable, and it is no such marvel but that many, even of my readers, may have unwillingly seen the like. I am sorry for those who live in Yarmouth, and who may sadly remember it as Dickens drew it. I am sorry for the quiet tourists, who may go and find the very ocean so vulgarised that a forsaken duck-pond in the corner of a quiet field might be pleasanter and afford more scope for meditative thought. And I am sorriest of all for my countrymen and countrywomen, who, amidst a crowd of so-called friends who are only too anxious to catch their votes or their money, seem to find no soul true friend enough to say one true word to them in public, and to shame them back from conduct which makes every foreigner's lip curl, and every decent Englishman's heart bleed.

ACHESPÈ.

I

Under the Greenwood Tree.

"A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was,

Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye;
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,
For ever flushing round a summer sky."

REMEMBER in my boyhood that one of the only secular books not interdicted in our family on Sundays-beyond, perhaps, such light and cheerful recreation as the perusal of "Sturm's Reflections" or "Foxe's Book of Martyrs" might afford-was one entitled "Select and Moral Anecdotes," which, from constant perusal, became only too familiar to me. Among the many pleasing and instructive stories contained in this enchanting work; of holy divines and shocking sinners; of dreadful misers and terrible murderers; of precocious young Christians, who willingly saved their weekly pence for the interesting and too

lightly-clad heathen; and eleventh-hour converts, who always made such beautiful ends; there is one which may be here mentioned.

"There was once a very rich man who had large estates and much money; he was a great traveller, and went all over the world in search of the beautiful and the majestic in nature. One day he was debating the question as to which was the most beautiful place in the world, with some other distinguished travellers; some named one, and some another spot, as being the finest they had seen, but the greatest traveller of the party mentioned a little corner of one of the rich man's own estates as the most picturesque scene of all, and which, to his surprise and confusion, he himself had never seen."

Let this be a warning to us all, my brethren, that we may lay these things to heart, and so firmly to resolve never more to wander with the buffalo on the rolling prairies of the far West, nor climb the giddy peaks of the snow-clad Alps, until we have become thoroughly acquainted with our own immediate neighbourhood. Why should we spend time and toil and money in order to read upon the spot the mysterious lessons of the Pyramids, when we may go to Sedgley or Rowley Regis for eightpence?-or why, fair ladies, should you prefer to poke your dear little noses into the dusky tombs of the Ptolemies when it is certain you do not possess the slightest knowledge of the beauties of Monmore Green, or the rural charms of Swan Village or Brierley Hill?

About the middle of summer there arises a general cry in the land. "We really must have a change" is its burden; a cry so universal that it embraces all classes, all sorts and conditions of men. And from our own town stream the desirers of change; the many, i.e. the foolish, to Birmingham or London-on-Sea, where they may see again the same old faces-Brown, Jones, and Robinson, and their families sauntering up and down the parade, or spa, or pier—just the very people whom one might have supposed them to be just a little bored with and tired of; and this is called "having a thorough change." Others, the few, ¿.e. the wise, seek for rest in some quieter place, for a while, gladly

"Hearing no voice save of the ocean flood

Which roars for ever on the restless shores;"

or "watching by the low-toned silvery streams of some fair inland spot” the fading glory of a summer's day casting its deep shadows on the purple hills; leaving all cares and troubles far behind, and listening to the sweet sounds with which the air is full-the melody of the birds singing their evening hymns; the murmur of distant bells, drowsily chiming a lullaby; or the laughter of little children at play; and all the other soft and tender voices which we know can give delight and hurt not, and which bring peace and rest to the weary soul.

And it is good to take a holiday, even if it be but for a few hours, now and again; to hie to some near spot, easy of access, where we may for the moment "fleet the time carelessly as they did in the golden world,” and lie under the nodding greenwood tree and smoke the calumet of peace and contentment. Such a place is to be found in the grounds of Dudley Castle, where one can get a thorough change-and

all for nothing, except the trifling railway fare, for we know the place is free to all, rich and poor. Those who, like John Gilpin, are on pleasure bent yet possess a frugal mind, may enjoy here an economical holiday. Young gentlemen of a saving disposition will find this a most suitable place to bring the Beloved Object for a quiet "spoon." They may emulate-nay, even surpass-the amiable Jonas Chuzzlewit, who, when he took the Misses Pecksniff to see the sights of London, enquired in the first instance if they were good walkers, and then, to test the matter, "showed them as many sights, in the way of bridges, churches, streets, outsides of theatres, and other free spectacles, in that one forenoon, as most people see in a twelvemonth;" but all places where any charge was made for admission were alike detestable and meritless.

There is no mistaking the very obvious fact that Dudley Castle is not a place of fashionable resort. On bank holidays, and other popular days, those eccentric entertainments known as fêtes take place there, and are largely attended by the Black Country people. It is not, however, my intention to ask my genteel readers to accompany me to one of these uproarious merry-makings, when the stalwart colliers and their families are enjoying themselves in their own genuine fashion; but rather to take a ramble on a quiet August afternoon, when no rude sounds can shock our sensitive ears, and no common folks will throng about us, or come betwixt the wind and our nobility. Roundabouts, negro minstrels, hokey-pokey men, and fireworks would not be in harmony with contemplative natures such as we in the highest degree possess―—or think we do.

Dudley is not fashionable, I have said, partly no doubt because its position in the heart of a manufacturing district, surrounded by iron works and coal mines, and out of the way of tourists and travellers generally, is rather an isolated one; but chiefly the neglect is due to the fact that no popular novelist has ever made it the scene of an exciting romance; no great poet has ever sung its romantic charms; and, so far as I know, no eminent painter has immortalised on canvas its ancient walls and towers.* Sir Walter Scott, by his pen, made Kenilworth for ever famous, and many other castles have appeared upon the scenes of fiction over and over again; let us hope then, that some brilliant genius may arise and give to Dudley its place in romantic literature. The Bard of Avon has been silent on the subject, yet perhaps some future poet of the Rea may one day supply the inexplicable omission, and devote some of the happier stanzas of his youthful muse to the glory and praise of such a worthy object.

The ordinary travelling Yankee, to whom time is money, and whose absorbing hunt after the almighty dollar permits him but little time to 66 see any places of interest, and who considers one day an ample space of time to do Stratford, Leamington, Warwick, or Stoneleigh, and Coventry, yet gives ten minutes of his precious leisure to Kenilworth—; because he loves it best? no, but because it is fashionable for Americans

* David Cox painted a glorious picture of Dudley Castle.-ED. C.L.M.

to visit the place and then he goes on his way rejoicing, and never sees or thinks of Dudley Castle, compared with whose incomparable surroundings, Kenilworth is poor and tame, and Ludlow bare and barren.

Even local artists seem strangely to neglect the place—this charming oasis in the black wilderness around, although surely there might something be found here to their taste, if only to vary the artistic bill of fare. Instead of sitting a dozen deep round each pretty but hackneyed cascade or glen in Wales, turning out endless pot-boilers, they might discover in the castle grounds many a wonderful effect of light and shade, of tone and colour. If Dudley would not "sell," then by a harmless fraud they might entitle their works "Scene in the Ardennes," "A Midsummer Night's Dream," or other poetic and fanciful names ; and doubtless some of their patrons would never be any the wiser. Scene painters for our theatres, in search of fresh subjects for their pantomimic pictures, may in the weird fanciful glades of Dudley find "Bowers of Perennial Bliss," "Gnome Kings' Retreats," or "Wicked Witches' Caverns" without number, ready to be transferred to their broad canvases.

Let us suppose then that a small and select party of ladies and gentlemen have arrived at the Castle, on a fine afternoon in August. Leaving the old town to the left, we pass through the gates, ascend the Castle hill, and enter under the massive archway with its double portcullis into the green court-yard; and, as we do so, we seem to leave in a moment the living, breathing, nineteenth century present, and are transported back into the dim historic past-to the days when the rugged old fortress was a grim reality and not as now a silent desecrated tomb, to be idly gazed at and wondered over by thoughtless sight-seers. Roofless halls, ruined windows, and gaping archways, are not in harmony with laughter and merriment; they speak of a time that is gone, and which can return no

more.

They force us, however unwillingly, to think of our own slight tenure here. Our own brief sojourn amidst scenes which vanish all too soon, and leave but happy memories behind, is, alas! only an allegory of our real passage from life to eternity.

Our castle is not without a fair share of history; quite as much as many more fashionable ones possess, indeed.

More than a thousand years ago Dodo, or Dudo, a prince of a great Mercian house, built here a castle, whence the name Dud's Ley (a home or place). Dodo died and was buried at Pershore, and his descendants are probably as extinct as the bird of the same name of which we used to read in our beloved Buffon. At the Conquest, according to Domesday-book, the castle was given to William Fitz Ausculph, who in the same county possessed no less than twenty-five Manors; and as we are told that "manners maketh man," it is not improbable that he was a very polite personage.

During the contention for the Crown between Stephen and the Empress Maud, the fortress was garrisoned and maintained in the cause of the latter by Gervase Paganell, the last Baron of Dudley of that

name. In the reign of Henry II. the place was dismantled by the order of the King, owing to the owner having taken part in an insurrection against him. Dudley came successively into the possession of the Somerys and Suttons, and then into the hands of the great Dukes of Northumberland, and finally passed by marriage to the ancestor of the present possessors-Humble Ward, a wealthy goldsmith, who was court jeweller to the Queen of Charles I. Having helped that unfortunate monarch with some timely supplies of money, when it was badly wanted, the King acknowledged his help in the only way possible-he created him a peer-Lord Ward of Birmingham.

In the ensuing civil war the castle was garrisoned for the king, and was one of the last which held out for him; and it was not until the 13th of May, 1646, that Colonel Leveson surrendered to the Parlia mentary general, Sir William Brereton.

Cannon balls have from time to time been unearthed in the park and about the ruins, showing that some hard knocks were given and received in that gallant resistance. The Lords Ward inhabited the castle after the Restoration, but during the last century the family deserted it, probably for Himley, or Witley Court. Abandoned by its owners, the old castle fell into bad ways, and became the abode of a gang of coiners; these rascals on the eve of St. James, 1790, set fire to the place whether accidentally or otherwise is not known—and totally destroyed the interior.

The view from the top of the keep is a very extended one; beneath at our feet lies the quaint old town, with its spires and towers, and irregular gables and winding streets, and but for the clouds of smoke that hover like a mantle over the horizon, one might fancy it was an old quiet cathedral town; the busy hum of the passing traffic is not heard from our elevated perch; the din that a thousand Cyclops and ten thousands of the sons of Vulcan are making far below and around is hushed. Perched on their several hills on either hand the seats of many an industry appear, where iron has been pounded, and kneaded, and made into many loaves of diverse shapes, almost since the days of yore, far back into the remoter and fabulous times

"When Vulcan forged the bolts of Jove
In Etna's roaring glow."

On the western side, beyond meadows and cornfields, rises the beautifully wooded hill known to most people as the Wren's Nest; beneath lies the Priory and its charming grounds, and beyond and all round in the distance, to be seen on a clear day, are the hills of the Malvern range, and those of Clent, Lickey, Abberley, Clee, and The Wrekin, and even the Welsh mountains; the panorama of hill and dale, woods and villages, large towns and busy centres of manufacture, reaches over the wide space of seven counties.

I will not go so far as Mark Twain does in the "Tramp Abroad,” where his imagination gets so much the better of his reason that he fancies he can see from the top of a moderate sized Swiss Alp, not only the immediate ranges, but even the Apennines, the Pyrenees, the more distant Andes, and the remote Himalayas ;-we will draw the line at Snowdon.