was doubtless a frequent visitor of the castle, his vigour in putting down the mosstroopers being a special advantage to the city, which before his time was constantly suffering from their depredations. He was in reality a good and worthy man, possessing even in the midst of his stern work, many of the fine tastes of his renowned ancestor, Sir Philip Sidney; he himself, as my reader should note, being a son of that Duke of Norfolk who lost his life for his tender attachment to Mary Queen of Scots.
Whatever we have missed of all the scenes and story of this really interesting relic of antiquity, we feel that for our purpose it is enough to know that here is a spot which, for nearly eighteen lasting centuries of night and day has really been the focus of a great share of all the events and histories of our brave England; and that where we stand to-day, many of all the bravest and noblest men of those centuries have stood also. This we know is true, and hence the inspiration and instruction these many-centuried walls afford. The shout of warders and guards is all silent now; but those old ages have left stern witnesses of their strength in these twelve feet thick walls; and these are at the same time witnesses also of the persistent courage and practical wisdom of the antagonists of this city. The castle is in fact a condensed history of the past–of all the jealousies and criminal ambitions of rival nations, and all the evils and miseries which spring from unchristianized might; and its dim walls and dark dungeons, with their now darkened grating, to which sad hungering eyes once looked so anxiously and enviously, coveting the blessed
