lves. I withdrew my
eyes immediately, fearing lest I had violated some privacy. Our
conductor said to us, "That is the upper servants' dining room."

Once in the yard again, we went to see some of the older parts of the
building. The oldest of these, Caesar's Tower, which is said to go back
to the time of the Romans, is not now shown to visitors. Beneath it is a
dark, damp dungeon, where prisoners used to be confined, the walls of
which are traced all over with inscriptions and rude drawings.

Then you are conducted to Guy's Tower, named, I suppose, after the hero
of the green dragon and dun cow. Here are five tiers of guard rooms, and
by the ascent of a hundred and thirty-three steps you reach the
battlements, where you gain a view of the whole court and grounds, as
well as of the beautiful surrounding landscape.

In coming down from this tower, we somehow or other got upon the
ramparts, which connect it with the great gate. We walked on the wall
four abreast, and played that we were knights and ladies of the olden
time, walking on the ramparts. And I picked a bough from an old pine
tree that grew over our heads; it much resembled our American yellow
pitch pine.

Then we went down and crossed the grounds to the greenhouse, to see the
famous Warwick vase. The greenhouse is built with a Gothic stone front,
situated on a fine point in the landscape. And there, on a pedestal,
surrounded by all manner of flowering shrubs, stands this celebrated
antique. It is of white marble, and was found at the bottom of a lake
near Adrian's villa, in Italy. They say that it holds a hundred and
thirty-six gallons; constructed, I suppose, in the roistering old
drinking times of the Roman emperors, when men seem to have discovered
that the grand object for which they were sent into existence was to
perform the functions of wine skins. It is beautifully sculptured with
grape leaves, and the skin and claws of the panther--these latter
certainly not an inappropriate emblem of the god of wine, beautiful, but
dangerous.

Well, now it was all done. Merodach Baladan had not a more perfect
_expose_ of the riches of Hezekiah than we had of the glories of
Warwick. One always likes to see the most perfect thing of its kind; and
probably this is the most perfect specimen of the feudal ages yet
remaining in England.

As I stood with Joseph Sturge under the old cedars of Lebanon, and
watched the multitude of tourists, and parties of pleasure, who