in view as my journey's end; but I like to
linger upon the way, stopping as long as it
pleases me wherever I will, and always
bathing in the first clear stream I come to.
After that, I quite forget I am a frameworker,
and believe that my calling is to
build the finest possible castles in the air:
which I set about doing at once, very
assiduously. My final intention, however, is
generally to capture, in reality, some ruined
hall or abbey, of which there are but a few
in Coketown, and to try to people them
again with their old inhabitants. I read
about them first, for this purpose, in books,
at the Mechanics' Institute, before I start, and
then I need no help from the professional
guides about these places, whom indeed I
could not afford to pay; only I give
them twopence or so, sometimes, to let
me go in by myself, and stay within the
grand old tottering walls as long as I will.
Some ruins are quite free and open to all,
which is a boon, to such as I, greater
than the good proprietors can possibly
imagine.

There are the skeletons of two ancient
mansions, in particular, near Coketown,
which are my especial delight. The homes
of two of the fairest women of the olden
time, and I have often wondered how it
happened that Mr. Alfred Tennyson (and
long life to him!) should not have beheld one
of them at least, in his famous Dream. When
one has got off the dusty high-road, the way
to Bradgate Hall is very pleasant: through
leafy lanes, where there is scarcely room for
the market-carts to pass each other, with
gateways here and there, disclosing delicious
peeps of meadow, wood, and upland. By the
side of shady pools with islands in them, and
waterfowl that skirl over the still surface,
with strange cries, as you pass by. Small
villages quite hidden in green hollows till
one comes close upon them, whose cottages
have honeysuckle porches where women sit
and spin—I could, myself, work all the year
round in that fashion without a wish for
holiday—and old folks smoke their pipes
contentedly. And long, white, low-built
roadside inns with cool brick floors and the
large room for picnic visitors. Then, at
last comes the park itself of Bradgate,
although its tower upon the hill has stood
up well in sight of you for miles.

I take the second gateway on the right,
because the path there strays at once among
the oak-trees. These are not very tall, but
large in growth and old enough, I doubt not,
to have sheltered her. 'Tis likely that she
walked here many times in her young days
—days that were fated never to be old—
and studied her dear books amongst these
shadows. How beautiful (all chronicles
agree about her), how good she was! What
stores of learning lay in that little head
which the axe laid low! The streamlet
here is sluggish, for the long drought has
robbed it of its force, but doubtless sang the
self-same song to her, three centuries ago,
which it now sings to my mechanic ears. An
old thought, as I fancy, but a very solemn
one. She sang, herself, like any nightingale,
until her cruel father bade that sweet voice
cease, for there was no singing after greatness
was once thrust upon her. Now,
the deer crop the herbage with swift
stealthy bite, and eyes cast timidly behind
them; but they had no fear, I warrant,
when her little feet came tripping up
this path; for she was loved, they say, by
every living thing. This ruined chamber
looking to the south, was once, perhaps,
Lady Jane's—I like at least to think so; it
was from this very window that she looked
forth upon that hunting-party, starting with
hawk and hound to slay her favourites. Here,
instead of joining in their sports, she
communed with the soul of the divine Plato,
Roger Ascham says (the Phædo I have
read myself in English, but could make
nothing out of it). Here is the chapel where
her pious knees knelt often on the cold grey
stones, and I should like to fancy where they
knelt, but that the place is locked and needs
a silver key to open the door. The Tiltyard is,
however, free to all; the places where the
high-born dames did sit, the entrance for the
knights on either side; the level space where
they met lance to lance; the slopes where
the eager common people stood, these are all
plain to me; she, may be, was forced to sit
there with the rest and hear the shock of
arms, and see both horse and man go down;
but I can scarce imagine that. Sometimes,
perhaps, she had to give away the prize as
queen of the tourney; the duke and the
duchess on either side quick to find fault,
and old Northumberland appraising her,
how much the girl was worth to him and
his. I eat my bread and cheese upon this
spot, and conjure in my mind these noble
personages of the far back time to life again,
whether they will or no. I dare say, Guildford
Dudley tilted here, the handsome weak
young lord; she must have been pleased
indeed, to put the conqueror's wreath upon
him and to find him safe! Did they plight
troth, I wonder, in this wood? Married
at sixteen, in three months made sovereign
lady of the realm, and in nine murdered on
the scaffold! I like to be made sad with
thinking of these things so long, long past.
She went to Heaven the quicker, and
inherited by right, I doubt not, a far better
crown; I sometimes think that she must
know I take delight to come to this fair
scene because of her. Perhaps it pleases
her, even where she is, that a poor frame-
working lad like me, who never saw her
picture, is yet gladdened by the mere
remembrance of her, in the ruins of her ancient
home; twice have I lain down and slept in
that same grassy tiltyard and dreamed of
her each time, and so in some sort I may