warder, and the fastening of the draw-bridge, were of war, and entirely dispelled the previous calm. Who could have imagined that in the bosom of such beautiful vales there could be a mass of frowning rock, so huge as that on which the castle was built? or, that amongst a class of venerable patriarchs, distinguished for simplicity of manners and life, there could be the restless spirits of war to fortify and maintain it? And yet it seemed to be a castle of nature’s building, and not of art’s; for tall trees over-shadowed its turrets, and around its base the Darwen flowed over its deepest channel. It had been erected by Sir Thomas Houghton, towards the beginning of Elizabeth’s reign, and the gallant knight had always supported a garrison in it, evidently for no other purpose than to fire a salute, at every anniversary of his birth day. But he died, and so did his queen: and upon the accession of the learned James to the throne, folios became the only battlements. His descendant, Sir Gilbert, was honoured with a visit from that monarch, in his celebrated “Progress” through Lancashire; and from the tower of Houghton, the modern Solomon fired his wit from an old Latin mortar. “Our opinion” said the grave fool and the merry sage, “whilk hath been kept for some time, as our jester Horace (the oyster eater should have lived in our court) recommends, in our desk,”--and here he pointed to his brow, with his usual self-complacency--“our opinion is,” he continued, “that Houghton Tower is just like a Scotch pudding--ha!--ha!--Sir Gilbert;--your castle is a pudding, and you are chief butler, and all your men are cooks! _We_ say so.”