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138 in the whole region. This is the tower of Dudley Castle by night. So, having induced Edward Capern. R.P.P., or Rural Postman Poet, to accompany me, with the hope that the scene would stir his muse, and that I might walk in the wake of its inspiration, we took the train for Dudley about sunset, in order to be at the Castle just as "the darkness falls from the wings of night" upon its grey and broken walls. Those lofty and red-tipped wings were dropping it pretty fast as we reached the closed gates, which did not admit people at that late hour. Still, under the gentle persuasion of our importunity, commended to the janitor's heart by the silver accents of a shilling or two, the iron wicket turned inward for us. We ascended half-way up the thickly-wooded steep to a little unique cottage made out of one of the small out-buildings of the Castle, where an aged couple, with their daughter, get up teas and bread and butter for visiters, or furnish hot water for parties a la pic nic. The daughter was away when we knocked at the door, and the old people were not a little surprised at a call so late in the evening. Besides, the old lady was confined to her armchair in the chimney-corner with "rheumaticks," and other ailments, which she described in a pathetic voice, and seemed to wonder that she should be affected by such ills at only seventy-eight. To have tea in this little cottage under the