the ruins, as they are closely connected with
the History of England, and the charge is
twopence to pass the gateway. Who would
wish to remain in ignorance of the plans of
this "tremendous fortress of old," while
ginger-beer may be bought in the ruins of its
hall, and biscuits are kept in the remains of
its keep? Built firmly upon a commanding
rock, it is not difficult to imagine that hence
the sturdy warrior of old hurled dreadful
stones upon the foe beneath: that hence the
skilful archer winged his deadly shaft; that
through these chinks the clumsy firelock of
old thundered hot iron to the surrounding
plain. But now it is difficult to trace the
plan of the fortifications: a heap of severed
walls, tottering corners, and thickly plastered
bits of gateways, are all that remain. These,
however, would be welcome pictures to the
mind of any contemplative creatures, were
they true ruins—did they lie here mouldering
under the picturesque hand of Time, and
marking fairly their centuries of existence in
the long and various processes of their
decay.

They are not the ruins of Time,
however: but those of a town council. Turn
to any one of them, and you will find the
meddling, unseemly mortar of the corporation.
You expect to tread here upon the
mouldering dust of bygone greatness; but you
are upon a fine grass-plot, primly decorated
with flowers. The lichen, the scrambling
mosses, and the sober dark ivy, are the
vegetation in. keeping with the place; not
marigolds at a penny a root, and a pinch of
ten-week stocks scattered by the porter's
daughter. Some eight or nine months back we
ventured a few remarks on ruins with silver
keys; but here we have ruins with copper
keys as systematically laid out for exhibition
as the Chamber of Horrors in Baker Street.
These ruins are not in the possession of a
heavily mortgaged county family: yet are
they patched up and apparelled in holiday
guise to catch the halfpence of passing
Londoners. In truth, this habit of "showing"
the historic relics of the country, threatens to
destroy the many grand wrecks of the
centuries that have rolled by; and to substitute
the vulgar patchwork of old stones adapted
"to meet the taste of the age." This threat
is woefully apparent in Our Ruins. Stones of
the fourteenth century have been piled up
with the plaster and taste of the nineteenth;
and the meddling fingers of living showmen
have toyed with the handiwork of the old
Norman. Hence we have here a pile we may
strictly call our ruins. Little enough of the
castle, as Time undisturbed would have dealt
with it, remains; but the mind of the visitor
may be here elevated, for twopence, to the level
of the taste at the command of a modern
town council. Our builder deserves more
credit for our ruins as they stand, than the
old Normans can fairly claim. There is yet
a little here which reminds the visitor of old
barbaric pomp; but more that calls to mind
the trowel of Stokes of our High Street.
With this experience before us, we are not
certain that a Board charged by Government
with the guardianship of the historic relics
of the country, would not be welcomed by
a host of enlightened countrymen; and
with these observations we resign the ruins
of a Norman castle to the custody of a
porter to cultivate therein his marigolds,
and to roll away the relics that disturb the
order of his parterres.

THE ROVING ENGLISHMAN.
A RAMBLE TO REHBURG.

REHBURG is a regular German watering
place of the old school. The gambling tables
have been wisely abolished since 1848, and, as
far as I could judge, there may hardly be a
quieter spot in Europe. It is situated,
however, in the midst of remarkably pretty
scenery, and the whole aspect of the place is
pleasant and friendly. A more agreeable
picture than this little village, as I rode in the
rich light of the summer afternoon along the
woody road which passes through it, never
soothed the spirits of a traveller. The trees
threw a checkered varying shadow over
garden and cottage as they sported about with
my friend the breeze. Under doorways and
in summer-houses sat the wives of the
patriarchs of the neighbourhood, making
stockings against the winter, or a band of coffee-
sisters (Cafe-Schwestern) with their clean
white cups before them, sat talking of their
lovers, or singing gently some ballad of
Schubert. The cows and the goats came lowing
homewards along the road, a boy was bringing
home his wearied team from the hay-field
and cracking his noisy whip by the way, and
two of those travelling workmen, who are to
be found on every highway in Germany, were
winding down a little hill which leads to the
inn; with their long beards and picturesque
hats, their staffs and their knapsacks, they
looked but little like the journeymen
watchmakers they were. I pulled up for awhile to
enjoy the scene: to drink as it were my fill
of that pure light air, and graven so pleasant
a picture on my memory for ever, ere I went
upon my way.

I dined simply but substantially at the
village inn, and then, while my horse was
resting, loitered to the little "Kurhaus" to
see the company that assembled there twice
a day to drink the "Molke," or goats' milk,
which is said to work miracles. A band of
eight rather unwashed-looking musicians
were playing some not very lively airs as the
people walked about, but rny landlord said it
was hardly to be expected they could be
gayer upon a hundred thalers a year between
them, and conscience obliged me to agree
with him. The visitors to the bath were for
the most part the usual collection of bewigged