ESAR'S Tower, at Warwick Castle, is one of the spots whose name gives a false impression of its origin. This massive old building is not unworthy of having been erected by the Romans, that nation of great builders, whose works still remain with us in grand records, such as the Walls of York, and like memorials ;— but in reality Cæsar's Tower had no connexion with Julius Cæsar, or any other Roman Emperor. It was built by the Normans-a people little behind the Romans in their art of masonry. In all probability Saxon labourers were employed to help in the work, but anyhow, the result reflects infinite credit alike on masters and workmen: no 'scamping' can have been allowed, else Cæsar's Tower would not have stood unmoved for 800 years, and witnessed all the changes that time and accident have wrought upon other portions of the castle.

The earliest record of a castle at Warwick is that Ethelburga, a daughter of Alfred the Great, built a dungeon' there in 915, near the brink of the river. In Saxon times the castle was a rude and unfinished abode, but nevertheless it was the home of some highly renowned warriors. The famous Earl Guy of Warwick lived there, about whom such wonderful stories are told that it is now difficult to separate truth from fiction. He is said to have been nine feet in height, to have killed a Saracen giant in single combat, and also to have slain a wild boar, an enormous dun cow, and a green dragon! In the latter years of his life he became a hermit, and retired to Guy's Cliff, where he died in 929. One of his descendants, named Turchil, was in possession of the castle and earldom at the time of the Norman Conquest, but in spite of his submitting to the Conqueror, his rank and property were taken away and given to Henry de Newburgh, a Norman knight, and at this time Cæsar's Tower was built, and the castle was repaired and enlarged.

During the war that occurred in the reign of Henry III. between the King and the Barons, the Earl of Warwick, who was a staunch royalist, was taken prisoner, and his castle almost entirely destroyed, with the exception of Cæsar's Tower. The destruction was so complete that in 1315 the property was returned as being of no value save for the herbage in the ditches, which was valued at 6s. 8d.! The walls of the castle were rebuilt in the reign of Edward III. by Thomas de Beauchamp, a very gallant earl, who had fought bravely under the Black Prince, and having in old age taken his followers to Calais to aid the English troops he caught the pestilence there and died. After his death, owing to the disturbed state of the country, and the title becoming three times extinct, the castle was very irregularly inhabited, and fell into great disrepair. During the reign of James I. it was almost in ruins, except for the stronger parts, which were used as a county gaol; but Fulke Greville, the learned Lord Brooke, obtained the place by a grant, and spent 20,000, in restoring it. Ever since then it has been taken good care of, but in December, 1871, a disastrous fire accidentally occurred there, which is supposed to have arisen from fires on the roof used by plumbers who were mending the lead work. The conflagration took place at night, and very great damage was done before any help could be obtained: the large

baronial hall, a dining-room containing many valuable relics, and several other apartments, were entirely burnt out. Some of the finest pictures were saved by being cut out of their frames and taken into the garden. Since then the ravages have been as far as possible repaired, and the old castle remains a very interesting spot for all who love to visit the scenes of by-gone days.

Beneath Cæsar's Tower is a terrible dungeon, that is seldom shown to visitors. A long flight of stone steps leads down into this dark and gloomy hole, which it is to be feared has been the last earthly home of many unhappy prisoners. It is divided into two parts, the first being the principal prison cell, which is large in size, and has a small guard-room at the upper end, formed out of the thickness of the wall; the second part consists of a landing-place, from which the inner cell can be seen through an aperture in the wall that has been strongly guarded by iron bars. On the opposite side of this landingplace there is one round-headed window, and that is the only means by which light enters it, or the dark and gloomy cell beyond. On the walls of the large cell are many crosses, apparently carved by prisoners with the blunt links of their chains; and on those of the landing-place there are more crosses, together with rude tracings of coats-of-arms and inscriptions. One of these tells that John Smyth, Master Gunner to His Majesty, was confined here in 1642-3-4-5.' No doubt this Smyth, being a scientific artilleryman, was considered a valuable capture by the Parliamentarian Lord Brooke, who was Master of the Castle in Charles the First's time. How poor Smyth's four years of captivity ended we have no record to tell.

The most celebrated prisoner ever confined in the castle was Piers Gaveston, the haughty favourite of Edward II. There is no doubt that he helped to lead his master to pursue a reckless career of crime; but still it is difficult to excuse the Earl of Warwick for the act of treachery and lying by which he managed to betray the wretched knight into his power. After a short imprisonment Gaveston was taken to Blacklow Heath, and beheaded. A stone on the spot records the execution, and states that it was carried out by barons as lawless as himself.'

Truly, the dungeon is the saddest of all the sights in Warwick Castle; and it is, perhaps, well that few people have the opportunity of inspecting it.

H. G.

LEAVES.

EAVES are really a beautiful contrivance for increasing the surface of the plant, so as to obtain the largest space exposed to the influence of the sun and air. The leaves on a good-sized elm tree have been estimated at seven millions. They form a surface of no less than two hundred thousand square feet, or about five acres of foliage. The number of leaves on a lilac bush, standing about five feet high, has been estimated at ten thousand; these would give the bush an area of no less than two hundred and thirty feet.

A PASTORAL OF ENGLISH LIFE.

LIZZIE'S TROUBLES.

T was Lizzie Ridley, the blacksmith's daughter, who stood at the cottage-door. She was a tall, slight girl, of about sixteen, with somewhat of an untidy look about her dress, and the thick coils of dark hair, which were loosely twisted up at the back of her head. She had evidently been busy scrubbing the brick floor, and seemed hot and tired with her work. There might be some excuse, indeed, for her want of neatness; for poor Lizzie had rather a hard time of it,' as she often said. Since she had been quite a small child the whole care of the household had devolved upon her, after her mother's death. With the precocious womanliness so often found in the class where people have to wait upon themselves, the little girl had accepted her position at once, and willingly taken the whole burden of domestic care upon her small shoulders. It is true that the neighbours had been very kind, and willing to help the motherless child; but when they found her so handy, and at the same time so independent, they soon left her to manage for herself. And Lizzie bravely did her best, but it was perhaps no wonder that the constant strain and sense of responsibility on one so young had made her sharp-tempered, and apt to feel jealous of others who seemed to her more fortunate. There was so much to do and think of all day long!

Of

First, there was the care and attention which her father required, for he, poor man! had met with a bad accident about two years before, which had crippled his right arm and left him almost helpless. In one moment the kick of a horse, which he was shoeing, had changed the whole course of Eliab Ridley's life, and from a strong athletic man, proud of his skill and muscle, he had become a querulous invalid, who could do little more than sit by his fireside, or lean over the half-door of the forge to watch his son at work; for it was now Amos, a young fellow, scarcely twenty-one, on whom all the business rested. the change which that day's accident had made in the young man's future prospects we must speak another time. And then, last, not least, of Lizzie's duties, was the charge of her youngest brother, little blind Peter; for the same fever which had carried off her mother had spared the boy, only to deprive him of sight. But all this time, while we have been introducing Lizzie Ridley and her family, Dinah has been left with her errand unfinished. As she saw the cottagedoor opened, she had crossed the road quickly.

Is Amos busy, do you know, Lizzie?' she asked.

The girl started at the approach of her visitor, who was evidently by no means welcome. With a pardonable feeling of pride, she was not pleased to be thus caught in the middle of her house-cleaningdirty work, for which she had put on her oldest gown and apron. While there was Dinah Yeatman, the object of her chief envy, looking the picture of sweet, dainty cleanliness and order. And it was especially hard too, she thought, to have her thus come asking for Amos, her own favourite brother, of whom some jealous instinct had told her that he worshipped the very ground Dinah trod upon.

'Oh, yes! Amos is sure to be busy,' replied poor, angry Lizzie. 'We all have to work hard down here, and can't go to spare time for gallivanting about a week-a-day morning.'

Dinah felt herself turn red and hot at the girl's rudeness; but nothing was farther from her wish than a quarrel, so she said, gently,— 'I'm so sorry, Lizzie; but I didn't know what else to do, for our bees have swarmed, and there's ne'er a soul in Stoke Melford can take them so well as Amos.'

'Oh! it's the bees is it?' asked Lizzie, slightly mollified by the praise of her brother, and also knowing that she dared not hide this. visit from him.

'Well, then,' she continued, maybe you'd best step down to the forge and tell him.'

But this was not at all what Dinah wished to do, and as she hesitated for a moment, a loud, fretful voice, called out from inside the cottage,

'What's it all about, Lizzie? Can't thee keep yon door shut, but ye must stand gossiping all morning with folks as go by?'

It was now her turn to flush up with shame and indignation at this 'undeserved rebuke; but a stranger would have wondered at her self-control, to see the sudden change of manner with which she turned at once and gently answered her father. Whoever else might feel the sharp edge of her tongue, he at least, was safe from anything but the tenderest respect.

"It only Dinah Yeatman, father; and she do want our Amos to take a swarm of bees for her,' she replied.

'Oh, that's it?' said he, in a softer tone. 'Come in, Dinah, lass; it's many a long day since I've set eyes on thee, and I be main glad to see thee again.'

Meantime his visitor had entered the cottage, holding up her gown carefully, to be out of the way of the pail and scrubbing-brush, which were left in the doorway. Lizzie saw the unconscious movement, and resented it, and her quick eyes also noticed the pleasure with which her father greeted his young friend, and then glanced from one girl to the other, as though comparing them. She could scarcely restrain herself, and her thoughts were very bitter.

"Why, there's even father likes Dinah better than me!' she said to herself. Ah, deary me! it's no hard matter to look smart, and smiling, and pretty, when you've got nothing else to do. I may slave away all day long, without so much as getting a thank'ee for it, but she's only got to show her dimples, and she may have what she pleases.'

Lizzie felt that she must do something to work off her irritation, and she was down on her knees vigorously scrubbing away at the doorstep, when her father's voice roused her,

Can't'ee run down and call your brother, child? If the bees have a-settled, maybe they wont hang long this hot morning. Ah!' he added, complacently, he do take after me, do Amos. I were always a great hand at bees, and folks would come to me from all the villages round. I minds once down to Chitwell,' and he calmly

continued to tell once more an oft-told tale of his exploits, little dreaming of the effect which his first words had had upon poor Lizzie, who at this moment dashed out of the room to hide her burning tears.