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66 come. Still it has its own wild beauty—a beauty self-assertative and scornful of scorn, the ever-charming green of heartsome nature, which here in common clothing beguiles the varied hour with the common, yet holy joys of morns, and eves, and glowing noons, from which, as from painted pictures, shine all the luminous or shadowy shapes of village life and labour; their noble background the sweeping fields, and fells and river, fringed with all the graceful greenery of a many-aged and many-familied population of trees. There is, in fact, plenty even at Linstock to interest an observing eye and meditative mind for a sunny summer afternoon very often, its castle crowning all its commonplace rusticities with the reverential majesty of memories of princes, and prelates, and noble knights, who once, with all their turbulent tide of attendants, made its quiet corners ring with martial music or loyal cheers. This castle stands at the far end of the village, and is now occupied as a farm-house by Mr. Martindale, who very kindly allowed us to see all, both within and without, that was likely to interest us in it. At present its height is the only thing which makes it observable or conspicuous from the other buildings of the village, as its castellated top has been—very improperly we should say—removed some time since, and replaced by a common tiling, which “improvement,” though not ill-suited to its square dimensions, has utterly destroyed any architectural beauty or antique effect it may have had. It is, as we found on coming up to it, beautifully situated for a quiet retreat or secure dwelling, being built on a slight eminence within a very short distance of the Eden, and