But for some such sense of the invisible links that make the present purposes to which its limits are devoted, one with the past, there might seem to be much difficulty in connecting the picture of the felon-town now enclosed within its walls, with any associations of history; or the accumulations of red brick, slate-roofed ranges of well-lighted, well-ventilated and comfortable chambers, made dark or miserable _only_ by the spirits that tenant them, with the ideas or expectations a castle-prison could suggest. That such should be the only _cells_ to be found or seen, is to the eye and ear of mere curiosity an absolute disappointment. One feels half angry at the sudden annihilation of the vague and undefined fillings up that fancy had given to the outline of the feudal relic. The learned may know it all before-hand, but the uninitiated cannot fail to receive an unwelcome surprise, in finding the substantial and important looking keep, withal its crust of stucco, little more than a shell, whose kernel is made up of modern habitations, as fresh-looking as though they had but yesterday sprung up as pimples on the face of nature, a title not inappropriate to most red brick emanations of architectural skill. But our visit to the Castle must not be spent in such vague lamentations over what is _not_; neither would we in our regrets desire to be classed among the morbid cravers after horrors, that can find pleasure in condemned cells, gibbets, chains associated with murderers, or any such like appurtenances of a county gaol; thankfully we claim exemption from any such mental disease, nor even as the chroniclers of facts would we dwell one moment on the points of detail that would pander to such a taste in our fellow beings.