HE days are gone when massive buildings such as this were raised by monarchs doubtful of their sway to keep the people in awe,' neither do dangers from without threaten our little island so as to require fortifications from within. But though our ancient castles are now of little actual use, they have all the more risen in importance as relics of the past, and monuments of what the hand of the craftsman could do in the good old times.

Old Times, indeed, saw the rising of this splendid square of masonry. The school-boy, called up to say his dates,' and beginning with 'William the Conqueror, 1066,' has not gone far enough back to lay the foundation-stone; but, all the same, we will look no further into the dusty upper shelves of those long-past days, and rest content with the fact that our first William most likely often rested within its solid walls, when his brother Odo held the dignity he bestowed on him of Earl of Kent, and that the second William, quarrelling with his uncle Odo, and driving him from his castle and kingdom, must certainly have often cast greedy eyes upon the goodly pile. Gundulphus, Bishop of Rochester, was now allowed to occupy it for awhile, and a busy bishop or architect he proved himself, the great square tower of the keep rising under his direction at the cost of sixty good pounds, furnished from the resources of the see. Pounds were pounds in those days, and could pay for a great deal of honest work. There is a marvellous likeness between this keep and the great White Tower of the Tower of London, and few will wonder at it who hear that it is written in a fair register-book of the acts of the Bishop of Rochester, that one Gundulph was the principal overseer and surveyor of the work, coming up to the capital for the purpose, and taking lodgings in the house of one Edmere, a burgess. The clever ecclesiastic must have looked with pride on his twin towers, destined to last their eight centuries; and who knows if not eight more? It makes us nineteenthcentury people blush when we think of our miserable shams of stucco and plaster.

But, as some excuse for ourselves, let us say that these are times of peace, those were times of war and commotion. It was necessary then to set up a good screen of masonry between you and your next neighbour, and Rochester Castle saw plenty of frays. First, Odo defying his uncle, then the malcontent Barons maintaining it against John, and the Constable of Henry III. vainly struggling against the onslaughts of Simon de Montfort.

Strong without, it was yet beautiful within, with arch and pillar, sculpture and carving. Feasts as well as frays were associated with its name. That tower contained splendid banqueting-rcoms, where many a flask of red wine was drunk to the confusion of the enemy without, while the roof rang with the rough friendliness of the company within.

These were the mighty days of Rochester Castle. The last repairs ever made to the fabric were executed in the reign of Edward VI., and in the reign of James I. the castle was handed over to a Sir Anthony Welldone. Of one his descendants, Walter Welldone by name, the following account is given, by which it will be seen that he is not likely to live in the affections of antiquaries. He sold the timbers of it

'The Paths of Glory lead but to the Grave.'

(the castle) to one Gimmet, and the stone stairs and other squared and wrought stone of the windows and arches to different masons in London. He would likewise have sent the whole materials of the castle to a paviour, but on an essay made on the east side, near the postern leading to Bally Hill, the effects of which are seen in a large chasm, the mortar was found so hard that the expense of separating the stones amounted to more than their value, by which this noble pile escaped a total demolition.' So much for Mr. Welldone and his works. The property finally fell into the hands of Mr. Child, the celebrated banker, and it now belongs to the Earl of Jersey, who married an heiress of that house. H. A. F.

'THE PATHS OF GLORY LEAD BUT TO THE GRAVE.' ILLIAM the Conqueror had waited until harvest-time, that his vengeance on the French king might be more complete. He tore up the vines by the roots. He burned Mantes to ashes; but his horse, placing his feet on hot embers, plunged violently, and injured his rider fatally. For six weeks he lingered, remorsefully reviewing an ill-spent life. That he might haply obtain pardon, he rebuilt the churches he had ruined and gave liberty to captives. When he had breathed his last, his body was left to the tender mercies of a poor knight, who buried it out of his natural goodness and love of God.' Even the narrow grave of the Conqueror was claimed by one Fitz-Arthur, who loudly denounced the dead man as a robber.

The Red King's body was picked up in the New Forest, on the plat of a demolished church, and a poor charcoal-burner put it into his cart and carried it, defiled with grime and blood, to Winchester.

In the cheerless November woods the first Henry caught the cold which, deepening into a fever, carried him off. He had been cruel, and he died weary and heavy-hearted.

The comely Stephen closed his unhappy reign suddenly in a convent at Dover. The first Plantagenet, after tasting the serpent's tooth of filial ingratitude, died cursing the day of his birth, and heaping imprecations on his children.

The arrow of Bertram de Gurdun laid the lion-hearted Richard low, at the early age of forty-two, whilst a gluttonous feast in the Abbey of Swineshead hastened the death of the insolent, cruel, selfish Angevin John. The boy-king, Henry III., after living long, but as a mere shadow of power, and having had a narrow escape from death at Evesham, died quietly at Westminster.

The ruling passion of subduing Scotland was strong in the death of the first Edward. Robert Bruce had risen up, and the fruits of Edward's policy were endangered, and as he lay dying on the shore of the Solway he committed the unfinished contest to his mean-spirited How that son, the second Edward, died, we know not, for it is shrouded in mystery; but the shrieks of an agonizing king' were heard in Berkeley town, and told a tale of horror there. The third Edward died in the presence of a heartless woman, who pulled his

son.