WHERE is the boy to be found with a head on his shoulders, and a heart in his bosom, who does not delight to hear something about a castle? There is so much of adventure, so much of chivalry, so much of the days gone-by in the very name of a castle, that I would at any time walk twenty, or ride forty, miles before dinner to see one. In the days of my youth I drank, perhaps too deeply, into the subject of chivalry. I stored in my memory the names of all the castles, and keeps, and strong-holds of antiquity. I had a long list of valorous knights, and the venturous deeds they had performed. Before I had worn out my first pair of trousers I had many a furious onset, sword in hand, with my own shadow; and frequently mounted Pompey, our black Newfoundland dog, with a tin can on my head for a helmet, and a long toasting-fork in my hand for a lance, to tilt away at the tom-cat, whom I chose to consider a dragon with three heads, which I was bound, as a true knight, to encounter and overcome. When fourteen, I was as well acquainted with books of chivalry as the renowned Don Quixote, and could almost repeat by heart the Fairy Queen of Spenser, with the numberless chivalrous adventures it records. But I was about to describe a castle, and I choose that of Kenilworth. The castles of Austria and the Netherlands, the chateaux of France, and the strong-holds of Prussia, all have their interest; and I could amuse you an hour in describing the Magdeberg fortress, where Baron Trenck was so heavily ironed, and so many years confined. But, no! Kenilworth, standing as it now does, shall be Amid' the ravage of revolving years, A mouldering spectacle to modern times, you my theme. If have never seen it, there is a red-ink day, a sunny season, a happy hour yet to be enjoyed, and that will be when first you gaze on the mouldering masses of this first of ruins; crumbling castles there may be that some would prefer to it. Tintern Abbey may be more elaborate in its workmanship, and more tastefully decorated; Netley and Kirkstall may be more picturesque, and Melrose seen by moonlight may be more imposing; but neither the one nor the other ever so impressed my mind as the gigantic ruins of hoary Kenilworth. I have visited the ivy-covered pile when the first beam of the rising sun gilded the eastern turrets, and I have mused there when the bright moon glided peacefully along the skies, and the massy towers threw their broad shadows on the court-yard. If you would see Kenilworth to advantage, first tone your spirit aright, by passing an hour or two at Warwick Castle, at no great distance ; |